Hey!
Two things:
1) Its fucking cold out. Like space cold. And I'm home during the day and since I'm lame and live with my parents who work the heat isn't on. And I feel like a little leeching shit if I turn it on during the day even though I work from home and it's not like I don't have a job or anything. The thermostat in my house just has a picture of a middle finger on it. Also, my cats have reached the point in their lives where they piss on everything so a good number of our blankets smell like old hockey bags. And actually, as I think about it, the cats suck extra because they aren't even big enough to skin and make new blankets out of. Or even small area rug really. It would really add a lot to the decor: bear skin rug in the living room, cat skin mat in the front hall. And it would ward off intruding cats from encroaching on the property. And it would probably scare the shit out of little kids. Actually, the pros of this are greatly outmatching the cons. Something to think about for sure, especially with Christmas right around the corner.
2) I was originally going to write about the increasing tide of bizarre commercials (Old Spice, Troy Palomalu's Head and Shoulders stuff, etc.) but now I think I'll hold that off 'til after the Superbowl to see if it holds up. So to fill this space, I want to talk about how awesome 1920s style comedians were. Case in point. This originally caught my interest after watching Boardwalk Empire where they did an Eddie Cantor bit. I think I find it so funny because it is so radically out of context today. It's a dude in a porkpie hat with tons of stage makeup on just dropping bombs onstage. The weird part is that it was funny then because it was so fresh, and now it's fucking hysterical because it's so disjointed and alien. It's the kind of stuff all those absurd commercials are parodying, it's what Tim and Eric do on their show, it's definitely the essence of anti-comedy or absurdist comedy or whatever you want to call it. That said, I want to do a modern comedy show of observational comedy in the style of Eddie Cantor. Seinfeld-esque stuff, (although it seems like he's spun out of orbit too) but with that crazy cadence and with vaudeville songs and crazy powdery face makeup. I think it would be just top-notch. Get at me with donations.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
XVII
Well that worked well! Every Monday my ass.
This time I had a good excuse though. One of my compatriots and I decided to go out to a local watering hole to play some darts and steep in the local culture and things got a little carried away. I was under the impression that we were only going to take in a few beverages and watch the villagers play pool, drink, and fight in a slow orbit around our table, but I was clearly mistaken. As so often happens after a few drinks, the concept of tomorrow got more and more intangible, like trying to remember a dream at breakfast. We looked on through a haze of barley wine as men in leather jackets grabbed men in denim jackets for putting their hands on their lady's denim and leather clad asses. These same men, noticing us sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact (me especially, because I was wearing a navy blue and pink striped golf shirt in the land of flannel) came over to give us high fives and regale us with their life stories, many of which consisted of complaining about the government and arguing for the relative merit of domestic beer over imported. After about 11 o' clock most of the hardcore parlor game enthusiasts had left to make room for the creatures of the night. My friend and I, brash and brazen from inebriation, decided to make our move from the tabled fringe to barstool primacy. Still a bit wary of our surroundings we straddled the corner of the bar, our heads a'swivel. It didn't matter; out of the corner of our collective eye, we spotted a 60 something year old woman making her way for us, too late to do anything but brace for impact.
"Hey," she said, with the collected wear and tear of 52,000 cigarettes coming through, "can I buy you guys a pitcher a' beer?"
Baffled at this most recent development, my partner and I convened over the Megatouch machine.
"She's probably going to want something in return," my partner said, his voice hushed "and I don't think either of us are prepared to give her anything."
"Codswoddle!" I said, and then to her, "Thank you ma'am, we'd be much obliged."
"Call me Stella," she said with a cough and a wink.
Immediately regretting my decision, my hands started to shake as "Stella" ordered a pitcher of beer...and two tumblers of gin with lime. I don't drink gin, and I didn't plan on starting, so I politely said, "Oh no thanks, just the beer for me."
"Don't be an ass, they're both for me."
This response frightened me more than the prospect of her offering me the gin. Stella slid her stool next to me and my friend, placed her tumblers on the bar, pulled out a cigarette out of her purse and stuck in above her ear. "I'm gonna go out for a smoke, do me a favor and sneak me out this glass when the bartender isn't looking."
"A-alright ma'am, I'll try," spoke my mouth before I noticed what had happened. My friend was looking at me with mouth agape. My hand took the glass and moved it down to hip-level, my legs made a move for the door.
"Nuh uh honey, don't let Stella strongarm you like that," the female barmaid said, "she can wait 'til she gets back in." At this point, Stella stormed back in the bar.
"What? Did you get caught or something?" said Stella to me.
"You can't bring your drinks outside unless you have a plastic cup, which we don't have," answered the barmaid in my stead.
"If the owner wasn't so fucking cheap maybe you would!" said Stella, "Come on kid, come help me get some cups from my apartment!"
I looked at my friend, crossed myself, and followed this old crone into the blustery cold.
I'd like to end the story there to interject that this was the point in the night where I thought something really interesting might happen; something worth telling a story about. Maybe I would have seen a really big dog, or Stella would have given me a briefcase full of unmarked twenties and a bottle of sour mix. I really didn't know, but I was at the point, not really drunk but definitely not sober, where I felt as though nothing bad could possibly have come out of this. It was a fact finding mission, a curious investigation into a person that I would not have normally talked to. Unfortunately, nothing really exciting happened. Thus, this big buildup was ultimately for nothing. I really wanted something exciting to happen, like that time in Canada with Ed and his band of concubines, but I got nothing. She stumbled two doors down to where she lived, yelled upstairs at someone that I didn't see, and two cups flew down the stairs. They didn't even hit her in the head. She caught them and we walked back to the bar. She lost interest in me when I put a dollar in the jukebox and played this song, and the rest of the night was uneventful. I guess this was kind of a strange way to tell a story, but I think it is the most accurate (my film noir/Sherlock Holmes style phrasing notwithstanding). Also, I'm just trying to shake the rust off these writing fingers. I don't need "smooth transitions" or "actual endings" at this point, 'cause this is a fucking blog. See, there I felt like I was yelling into the abyss like a lunatic. This post feels disappointing for some reason. Well, so did that night. But hey, free pitcher of beer!
This time I had a good excuse though. One of my compatriots and I decided to go out to a local watering hole to play some darts and steep in the local culture and things got a little carried away. I was under the impression that we were only going to take in a few beverages and watch the villagers play pool, drink, and fight in a slow orbit around our table, but I was clearly mistaken. As so often happens after a few drinks, the concept of tomorrow got more and more intangible, like trying to remember a dream at breakfast. We looked on through a haze of barley wine as men in leather jackets grabbed men in denim jackets for putting their hands on their lady's denim and leather clad asses. These same men, noticing us sitting in the corner avoiding eye contact (me especially, because I was wearing a navy blue and pink striped golf shirt in the land of flannel) came over to give us high fives and regale us with their life stories, many of which consisted of complaining about the government and arguing for the relative merit of domestic beer over imported. After about 11 o' clock most of the hardcore parlor game enthusiasts had left to make room for the creatures of the night. My friend and I, brash and brazen from inebriation, decided to make our move from the tabled fringe to barstool primacy. Still a bit wary of our surroundings we straddled the corner of the bar, our heads a'swivel. It didn't matter; out of the corner of our collective eye, we spotted a 60 something year old woman making her way for us, too late to do anything but brace for impact.
"Hey," she said, with the collected wear and tear of 52,000 cigarettes coming through, "can I buy you guys a pitcher a' beer?"
Baffled at this most recent development, my partner and I convened over the Megatouch machine.
"She's probably going to want something in return," my partner said, his voice hushed "and I don't think either of us are prepared to give her anything."
"Codswoddle!" I said, and then to her, "Thank you ma'am, we'd be much obliged."
"Call me Stella," she said with a cough and a wink.
Immediately regretting my decision, my hands started to shake as "Stella" ordered a pitcher of beer...and two tumblers of gin with lime. I don't drink gin, and I didn't plan on starting, so I politely said, "Oh no thanks, just the beer for me."
"Don't be an ass, they're both for me."
This response frightened me more than the prospect of her offering me the gin. Stella slid her stool next to me and my friend, placed her tumblers on the bar, pulled out a cigarette out of her purse and stuck in above her ear. "I'm gonna go out for a smoke, do me a favor and sneak me out this glass when the bartender isn't looking."
"A-alright ma'am, I'll try," spoke my mouth before I noticed what had happened. My friend was looking at me with mouth agape. My hand took the glass and moved it down to hip-level, my legs made a move for the door.
"Nuh uh honey, don't let Stella strongarm you like that," the female barmaid said, "she can wait 'til she gets back in." At this point, Stella stormed back in the bar.
"What? Did you get caught or something?" said Stella to me.
"You can't bring your drinks outside unless you have a plastic cup, which we don't have," answered the barmaid in my stead.
"If the owner wasn't so fucking cheap maybe you would!" said Stella, "Come on kid, come help me get some cups from my apartment!"
I looked at my friend, crossed myself, and followed this old crone into the blustery cold.
I'd like to end the story there to interject that this was the point in the night where I thought something really interesting might happen; something worth telling a story about. Maybe I would have seen a really big dog, or Stella would have given me a briefcase full of unmarked twenties and a bottle of sour mix. I really didn't know, but I was at the point, not really drunk but definitely not sober, where I felt as though nothing bad could possibly have come out of this. It was a fact finding mission, a curious investigation into a person that I would not have normally talked to. Unfortunately, nothing really exciting happened. Thus, this big buildup was ultimately for nothing. I really wanted something exciting to happen, like that time in Canada with Ed and his band of concubines, but I got nothing. She stumbled two doors down to where she lived, yelled upstairs at someone that I didn't see, and two cups flew down the stairs. They didn't even hit her in the head. She caught them and we walked back to the bar. She lost interest in me when I put a dollar in the jukebox and played this song, and the rest of the night was uneventful. I guess this was kind of a strange way to tell a story, but I think it is the most accurate (my film noir/Sherlock Holmes style phrasing notwithstanding). Also, I'm just trying to shake the rust off these writing fingers. I don't need "smooth transitions" or "actual endings" at this point, 'cause this is a fucking blog. See, there I felt like I was yelling into the abyss like a lunatic. This post feels disappointing for some reason. Well, so did that night. But hey, free pitcher of beer!
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