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In August of 2005, You Learned: HOW TO KICK PEOPLE: MISSED CONNECTIONS.
If you're in New York City, please come on out to our nation's greatest comedy reading series, How to Kick People, tonight. This month's theme is "Missed Connections" and performers will telling tales of unsent letters, drunk dials, awkwardly furtive glances and, in my case, I'll be reading a story about the horrible lengths I sometimes go to avoid any sort of emotional conflict whatsoever. Fun! Plus, we'll be hosting an actual Craig's List Missed Connection meet-up live onstage this evening. Here are the show details: How To Kick People: Missed Connections Tonight, August 31st, at 7:30pm [and yes, i promise i'll write some other junk that isn't all 'come to my show' stuff very soon. let a brother rest a minute, ok?]
HOW TO GET IT OVER WITH.
Thanks to anyone who was at the Premium Blend taping last night. In a word, it was CRAZY. In two words, it was CRAZY McCUCKOONUTS.
HOW TO PITCH A MOVIE.
My friend, Andres, first informed me of an upcoming Samuel Jackson film titled Snakes on a Plane. No, that's not a "working title"; it's the actual title of a film, and I'll give you exactly one guess to tell me what the movie is about. Today, some photos from the production were released, and I believe they are in serious need of some captions:
HOW TO CHIP AWAY AT YOUR OWN CONFIDENCE.
As the Premium Blend taping inches closer, I've noticed things in my behavior have changed:
HOW TO ATTEND A 'PREMIUM BLEND' TAPING.
I am taping my spot for Comedy Central's PREMIUM BLEND next Thursday, August 25th, and I finally received the full details from Comedy Central about how to get FREE tickets. If you're in or near NYC, and you'd like to go, it's pretty easy. You have two options, basically: If you're a phone person, call 888-258-0661 If you're a web person (you must be, right?), click this link and fill out all the necessary information. Make sure when you click that link you see the Aug. 25th, 6pm taping highlighted. If you mess that part up, you might have to sit through an erotic ventriloquist act and a gay, racist comic who performs stand-up in a pink Klan uniform. (Actually, that sounds pretty good.) Seeya there!
HOW TO WRITE THE SONGS.
Mac McCaughan writes pretty wonderful lyrics. Even though he's better known as part of Superchunk, I've always been more attuned to his songwriting in Portastatic, possibly because the Superchunk songs were often too loud to pick out the lyrics. And now that Mac's writing Portastatic songs in English again (Seriously, man, what was going on with that De Mel, de Melao EP?) there are some new reasons to appreciate him. I downloaded a new Portastatic song a couple weeks ago (From Catbirdseat? Don't remember, but always happy to link to that site, and I'd be even happier if he updated it more often.), and finally got around to listening today. Nice song – Mac's voice seem's less constricted than usual. Then, somewhere around the 4 minute mark I was taken by surprise with a lyric containing a Public Enemy reference: "Don’t think that you can lose me ‘cause love is like an UZI – it weighs a ton. Oh yeah, my love weighs a ton." Besides being a clever double metaphor, I liked that Mac did this because he's basically borrowing a lyrical technique from hip-hop music. Nearly every hip-hop song I've ever liked, and a few of the ones I don't like, make great use of the "like [POP CULTURAL THING], I'm [QUALITY ASSOCIATED WITH POP CULTURAL THING]" rule of simile. I'm always amazed by the capacity for hip-hop artists to remember some of the things that make their way into their songs. Here are a few examples of that wordplay in hip-hop, off the top of my head: "Like Mario Puzo, I'm The Don – W-W-I'M-THE-SHIT-DOT-COM" "Like Sam the butcher, bringing Alice the meat." "I'm like young LL, cuz I'm hard as hell/Makin' niggaz blue-faced like Gargamel" "Like Jimmie Walker, I'm DYN-O-MITE!" "Like Common and Cube I see The Bitch In Yoo" "Close like Starsky & Hutch" "Bust this, I'm kickin like Segall, Out for Justice" "They call me Jaws / my hat is like a shark's fin" (and one of my favorites) Hip-hop seems to have a ready willingness to explore universals (the same way most pop music, and even indie rock, does) while still remaining steadfastly anchored in details that are totally particular to a cultural moment. (Hip-hop artists are notorious for name-checking both themselves, and the year of their recording. In fact, on one of Missy Elliott's albums, she literally begins each and every track by announcing, "this is a Missy Elliott exclusive...") Listening to hip-hop is like staring at that crazy poster where you have to identify all of the proverbs illustrated in its surreal scene. ("Ah! There's a clock with wings. Time flies! Now pay me one licorice whip!!") I like deciphering all of the references in hip-hop lyircs. It's the closest I've ever come to subscribing to GAMES magazine, or completing a New York Times crossword puzzle. (In fact, if there were a hip-hop equivalent of the Sunday Times crossword, it would be the Beastie Boys' album Paul's Boutique, possibly the most reference-heavy album of its time. Elaborate, almost scholarly documents have been created in an attempt to collect all the samples and references.) By contrast, indie rock music tends to eschew self-referential tendencies, in favor of remaining timeless and precious. And when indie rock does actually acknowledge itself, it becomes both a novelty and source of mini-media attention. (Anyone remember how many interviewers grilled Pavement about "Range Life?" Me neither, but I'll bet it was A LOT.) I kind of wish indie rock were more like hip-hop in this respect. Here are some things I'd like to hear on some of my favorite bands' next albums: The Magnetic Fields Vic Chesnutt Interpol Arab Strap Joanna Newsom Belle & Sebastian The Fiery Furnaces Bright Eyes
HOW TO TALK LIKE PAUL HARVEY.
[Fridays are lazy days at tremble!] I received two separate injuries last night, as the result of a poorly timed stage fall. (the other result of my stage fall: tepid laughter.) Bruised my arm, near the elbow, and pulled a muscle in my chest. These two injuries, combined with the deep burn in my thighs and calves after being physically tortured by a personal trainer (brag), a one-time complimentary service accompanying my new gym membership (purposeffully diminished brag due to an immediate swelling of shame associated with the nature of the earlier brag), I am left nearly crippled from the waist up and groin down. It's hard to have the detachment necessary to be write creatively about your life when all you can think about is how much your arms, legs, chest, shoulders, and wiener-bone hurt. (When will I be able to resist tagging things with "wiener-bone?" Answer: absolutely never wiener-bone.) So, as a salve, I'm going to remind myself of things I'm really excited about right now, for reasons both good and bad: ITEM! Mark Ecko's "Getting Up Block Party" ITEM! Donald Rumsfeld's 4th Anniversary of 9/11 Super-Party Crazyvaganza and Freedom Walk FUNNY ITEM! Andy Kindler [on the subject of the made-for-tv movie about Mork & Mindy] [on Will and Grace] PERHAPS UNNECESSARILY CRITICAL ITEM! Bloggers who keep talking about the new (NOT YET RELEASED!) Death Cab For Cutie album (a nice round-up can be found here.) MILD - a very subtle mention. It's usually someone merely stating a fact, without indicating that the book/record/film at the center of their discussion is not actually available for public consumption. Of course, the author is completely aware of this truth, but there's something sly in the decision to write about with an air of oblivion: "Oh wait. You mean not EVERYONE has a copy of the uncorrected proof for the new Jonathan Franzen book? But I do? Hmm...that's so weird." (Incidentally, this is probably the kind of brag I'm most personally susceptible to, as both a reader and writer.) MEDIUM - here, the person explains, sometimes at great length, how he or she came into possession of the first-looks privilege. And yes, it's always an excellent, gripping story. This kind of brag usually includes links to many other people who shared the same experience, because what would an account of attending advance screening of Must Love Dogs be without a laundry list of links to A NEARLY IDENTICAL ACCOUNT of the exact same event, written by the people sitting directly to your left or right? EL DIABLO! - this is where it gets tricky. In the ordinary world, an extra-intense brag would be accompanied by thousands of exclamation points and digital photographs. However, the collective voice of the online world is knowingly self-deprecating; kind of a little-man-against-the-big-world outsider. In other words, we're kind of through the looking glass, which means you have to apply inverse standards. El Diablo brags are those in which the author anticipates criticism (hi!) and pre-emptively apologizes for having access to whatever form of media is up for discussion. Here's a good example, and one I've seen quite often, "Of course, by now everyone with an AOL account and LimeWire has heard the new Beck track, so I'm sorry to bore you but...IT'S DECK!!!!!!!!! TOTES." DELICIOUSLY SOUR ITEM! LifeSavers® Gummies® Sours NO GROWTH HORMONES ITEM! The veggie burger at Tiny's Sandwich Shop MUSICAL ITEM! "Bailando" by Crazy Frog UNINTENTIONALLY HILARIOUS ITEM! Four Brothers
HOW TO DO YOUR THING.
It has come to my attention that I now have a "thing" I do. It is one of those things you did once – a gesture, a phrase, an end-zone dance – that made its first appearance in a beautiful moment, free of self-consciousness. Then, later, this very same thing became an annoying affect, its innocence and charm perverted through smug repetition. Things most commonly find their way to the lips of middle-aged men, who use them to establish his role within a social circle dominated by men, or as a tool to flirt with bartenders, wait staff, or any other hourly-wage employee with whom the middle-aged man needs very desperately to make a connection. You see, this middle-aged man has somehow, over time, actively (though not necessarily consciously) stripped himself of both his masculinity and desirability. He's not even sure what those things look like anymore, but he knows they don't look like a doughy, nearly bald man dressed in hemmed denim shorts, white tennis shoes, Jansport fannypack, and a Greg Norman golf shirt with a pair of Oakleys hanging over it by way of a neon-yellow "Bud Light 2003 Bluegrass Festival" lycra neck strap. No, they don't look one bit like that. So, to distract others from this tempting buffet of lifelong compromises, Things are developed and refined. Things like beginning smalltalk with, "How's it hanging?" (Or responding to the very same question with the puzzling and unnecessarily visceral, "Down and a little to the left, my friend!") Or announcing to the room, before going off to defecate, "I just need to drop some friends off at the pool," and then, if this is met with furrowed brows, "What I'm saying is, I need to go sink the Titanic!" And finally, if met with more confused stares, "I need to make poops come out of my fudgie tube and watch them fall into a toilet machine." Or, if you're my father (whom I love very much, both in spite of and because of his Things), you'll find yourself saying the following, ad infinitum: "Yeah, people say I'm a funny guy but, you know...looks aren't everything!" As for my thing, it's something that was born at a great bar in Manhattan, Billy Mark's Tavern (thanks, Leslie), and came out effortlessly, and has since been used over and over again with mounting self-consciousness. But that night I was movie cool. I ordered a bottle of Budweiser and, when the bartender (Mark) asked if I'd like a glass with it, I rolled the bottle's neck between by thumb and forefinger and replied, "It's already in a glass." Then I took a long gulp from the bottle, until some beer escaped from the seal I'd created with my lips, and spilled out of the bottle and down my shirt. Still, for those three brief seconds, I was Lee Marvin and Ed Kennedy and Robert Mitchum all in one. And ever since then, I've been The Guy Who Annoys Waitresses. The Guy With The Smug Smile That Makes Your Skin Crawl. And The Guy Who Still Orders Zima Gold Every Time He Steps To The Bar, And Then Looks Slightly Wounded When He Is Told Zima Gold Was Taken Out Of Production Years Ago Because It Causes Stomach Spores. That's my Thing.
HOW TO LEAVE IT ALONE.
I'm coming off three hours of sleep last night. I spent the evening alternately writing/editing a story I needed to send off before sunrise; pacing my apartment; touching the dry, hairless nosetips of my sleeping cats (my only Tourrettic tic, as far as I know); desperately checking email (why?); stealing glances at fleshbot.com's "best of babelogs"; and munching on baby carrots to keep myself from munching on a fudge log or something. All of this came to an abrupt end around 4:50 this morning and, as a result, today my eyeballs are burning like damp Altoids. I don't have the energy for much, so I've found solace in the words of others... My co-worker My friend, T.
HOW TO GET PUT IN YOUR PLACE.
Last night, thanks to the L train's sudden decision to stop running without a back-up plan (like the Williamsburg residents it carries home each night, the L train has an exaggerated sense of drama), I had to take a taxi to a show in Brooklyn. [If I may take this brief aside, here's something interesting about the "alternative" comedy scene in NYC. People often ask me if I can support myself doing comedy. It's almost not worth it for me to even laugh at that question. Last night, for instance, was an unpaid set. That's not unusual at all; it's a reality all performers have grown accustomed to, and you can make what you will of that. Often, performers are granted drink tickets – doled out like Skee Ball winnings – entitling us to a couple of cocktails in lieu of compensation. However, I wasn't initially aware last night's show came with a free drink, so I purchased a sincerely-needed Stoli and soda on my own. Adding that cost to the unanticipated cost of the cab ride, I actually paid $22 to do a ten-minute set. If comedy is a profit game, I am losing, sorely. But if laughter were money, I'd still need to take a night job.] By the time I found an available, on-duty taxi, I was wild-eyed and sweaty. I threw myself into the back seat, like a pile of unclaimed luggage, and hoarse-whispered my destination. The cab driver, seeing my predicament, reached behind his head, into the back seat, and slapped on the air conditioner. (A few years ago some legislation was passed in NYC, requiring all cabs install customer-controlled AC units in the back seat.) I had forgotten all about the AC, so I was extremely grateful. "Oh, man. Thank you so much, thank you thank you," I croaked, as if I'd just crawled across the desert and this gentleman had dabbed my tongue with some juice from the center of a piece of Freshen-Up gum. Then, once my wits were about me again, I reached up and turned the AC from "lo" to "hi." As soon as I did this, without a word, the cab driver reached back again and smacked the air conditioner off. It was pretty stunning, actually. I asked, "why did you do that?" "You took advantage of me," he replied. What made this guy so mean, I wondered. Then I looked at his driver's license and saw his name: FAROUK HITLER.
HOW TO REGRET YOUR LAST WORDS.
[Editorial Aside: today, my lunch was on High Stink Alert. An onion, and bacon sandwich, served in a diaper.] Went on a bike ride over the weekend, across the treacherous Williamsburg Bridge, over Devil's Neck, around Machete With Tetanus Corner, through Lake Face Exploder, beneath Non-Consensual Intercourse Hollow, and up the west side of Manhattan. It was invigorating, except for the part where I got my head cut off. I'm still very much a beginner cyclist, and I continue to make a lot of wobbly mistakes and dangerously short stops each time I take out my bike, as if I have some need to underscore my undeveloped set of bike skills. Considering some of the more deadly pedestrian and automobile traffic hazards offered by this city, the trip was mostly without incident. I'm pretty certain, to the observer, I did not look like I was having much fun as I tend to ride with a great grimace of dread jack-o-lantern-carved into my sweaty face, but anyone who knows me well would agree I wear that expression pretty much 24-7. At one point, cruising south – yes, cruising – through Hudson River Park, my attention was temporarily distracted by something amazing: a dog. I really have a difficult time walking past any dog without making certain everyone around me has been made completely aware of the fact that we're in the presence of something hilarious and furry. (They have fur nearly everywhere, all the way up to their noses. It is ridiculous.) As much as I enjoy the company of my cats, dogs are much more readily capable of making me laugh. My joy, which has no polite boundaries, is inspired by dogs falling into one of the following categories (in descending order):
Basically, I don't like medium-sized dogs. They just don't make me laugh, though even this rule is more of a guideline because a medium-sized dog wearing a plastic leprechaun's hat and drinking beer is pretty funny. Also, any kind of animal in a monocle has my complete support. And a turtle with a crucifix strapped to its back is also pretty good. BUT THAT'S IT!* So...dog. I was lagging behind when, suddenly, to my left, I saw a very classy French bulldog. French bulldog's are in my top three of dog breeds, and never fail to entertain me. This particular French bulldog was doing what it does best – waddling on short, muscular arms. It became very important that I let my girlfriend/cycling companion know about this bulldog, but she was pretty far ahead of me. So, instead of calling her name and thoughtfully describing what I'd seen, I simply shouted, "FRENCH BOODAWG! FRENCH BOODAWG!!" at screaming volume, like I was doing a cold reading for a stage production of Flowers for Algernon. And, just as the words "French Boodawg," escaped my giant, dumb mouth, I nearly collided with another cyclist. I was absolutely not paying attention, and if he'd bothered to warn me with a requisite, "on your right!" the warning would like have been drowned out by my insane screaming. So there, in an instant, our front tires darted toward each other, breaking their parallel stride for just a single perilous moment, and were it not for his deft handling, we would have probably suffered a very serious collision. Even in that quick flash of events, though, I had enough time to register that he, and not I, would help us safely avoid trouble. This was a conclusion I drew based solely on the fact that he was wearing lots of very tight-fitting cycling apparel, as well as those fancy bike shoes that latch into the pedals and make a terrific clackety-clack sound on the pavement. This man had clearly invested thousands of dollars in cycling, whereas my used, entry-level mountain bike has a horn shaped like a hippo's face, which squeaks when activated. After regaining my balance, I thought a lot about how "French Boodawg," could have been the last words I'd ever spoken, or the last words this other cyclist ever heard, and I was a little disappointed that we both didn't die right there – just for the story. *Also, I hate Corgies. They are an act of abomination against nature. End of discussion.
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