The Stick On The Left: (A Study in modern domestics)
Scene 1: (Howard is fiddling with the string which controls the horizontal blinds covering the lone window. Karen enters.)
Howard: What's the deal with these blinds?
Karen: You picked the color, I told you I didn't like it.
Howard: No, I mean the string doesn't make them go up and down.
Karen: Yes it does.
Howard: No like I want it to make them all move at the same time, you know, like... like making the window dimmer or whatever.
Karen: Oh no you use the stick on the left for that.
Howard: The stick?
Karen: Yeah, on the left.
(Curtain)
- - - -
Watching Cricket: (A Study in international relations)
Scene 1: (Chris sits in front of his TV. Nick enters.)
Chris: (flipping through channels) Hey I just got this English channel and I think there's a cricket match on.
Nick: Don't watch cricket, cricket sucks.... oh dude, dude, The Matrix, go back.
(Curtain)
- - - -
After A Car Crash: (A gripping tale of marital tension.)
Scene 1: (Kate arrives at the scene of a car wreck. She pulls Gene from the driver's seat. He is bleeding from a cut on his forehead.)
Kate: Jesus Gene, my car what happened?
Gene: I dunno, I didn't take your car. I just got here.
- - - -
Before A Car Crash: (A 'buddy' play)
Scene 1: (Gene and Max are at a bar)
Gene: I could totally do it.
Max: Bullshit.
Gene: I totally could. Here, I have the keys, do you have the mace on you now?
Max: Yeah.
Gene: Alright lets go. This is gonna be so dope.
- - - -
Fantasy Baseball: (The Girlfriend one)
Scene 1: (Steve and Heather are cooking together.)
Steve: Honey, do you know anything about Fantasy baseball?
Heather: No.
Steve: I guess it's an online thing.
Heather: Yeah, I think you're right.
Steve: I'd really rather it be by phone.
Heather: Oh, well yeah.
(curtain)
- - - -
More of this later, I'm sure. Right now it's chip time.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Well Hello Again
Well, it's been ages since I've written anything, but here we are again, in front of our computers, me typing, you reading, perusing the Reuters "Oddly Enough" section, looking for an actual rock from the Agrocrag (GUTS), looking at that You're The Man Now Dog website (ytmnd.com) and being confused, disappointed, and confused again, whatever the hell else there is to do with the internet, porno, etc. etc.
Oh my, I have so much to say and yet I really don't want to get into it. Ever feel that way?
Well here's one thing:
I was thinking about eye contact today. Isn't eye contact bizarre? It makes me want to believe in ESP or something. Maybe I just don't fully understand the physiological nature of the ocular nerves or something, but I mean, when I look at my cat is sitting across the room, playing with some neumenon (sp? Is that even a word? Google is telling me that it isn't a word. I thought it was.) and we make eye contact, the animal responds. I guess all animals (and people) respond to subtle physical cues, but eye movement is so evocative that it's terrifying if you think about it too much.
I saw the following people at the Berklee performance center tonight:
Eugene Mirman, Sarah Vowell, Dave Eggers, Rodney Rothman, Via Audio, Mates Of State, Peter and Davy Rothbart, Kevin Barnes, and Brian Poole (BP Helium)
Eugene Mirman is hilarious. As is Flight of The Conchords (HBO), a show he is on. Sarah Vowell's book I have read (The Partly Cloudy Patriot) was also very funny. Dave Eggers was funnier this time. The last time I saw him, he was talking about Sudan, and it wasn't funny at all. Rodney Rothman invented Fresh Step, not the cat litter, the fake boy band, and I strongly suggest you find them on YouTube. Via Audio wasn't that good. Mates of State were fun, and the girl is pregnant, which was sweet, then I started thinking about the possible effects of being in the uterus of a touring rock musician. I suspect they're all awesome. Davy Rothbart edits Found Magazine, which is brilliant because he just publishes notes, funny grocery lists, postcards, receipts, and the like that people find on the street. His brother Peter plays songs about some of the things they find (one classic is about a letter from The King Of Midwestern Nissan Racing to his long lost love). Kevin Barnes and Brian Poole are in Of Montreal.
Funny story about Kevin Barnes burning the bitch three rows in front of me:
As KB and BP are tuning their guitars, Eugene Mirman (EM) comes out to stall a bit. This is what ensued:
EM: So let's have a quiz while I stall... um... Anyone know how you survive a bear attack?
(Crowd Member 1): You play dead.
EM: Actually no, the bear will just eat you.
Bitch Crowd Member: You run into an Outback Steakhouse!
KB: (deathstare)
EM: (oblivious to the reference) Well, I guess maybe if you're counting on doors confusing the animal...
Now, the Outback reference I'm sure wasn't intended as an insult, but it was really insulting. For those of you who are unaware, about a year ago Of Montreal sold a song to be used in an Outback commercial ("Let's pretend we don't exist/ Let's pretend we're in Antarctica" became "Let's get Outback tonight/ something something something something something something), and KB actually wrote a letter and put it online promising to use the money from the commercial to stage an elaborate tour. I saw this tour, and it was ridiculous. At one point, Barnes climbed a ten foot ladder covered in a massive dress and sang a song. More bells and whistles than you can imagine. It was like Queen and David Bowie and Parliament Funkadelic playing for two hours and every single person on stage is on ten drugs you've never heard of. (NB: I actually made that joke when I was at the show, and I think my buddy Dave at uhaulit.blogspot.com may have already credited me with it. It was funny though, and I will milk it for all it's worth.)
Anyway, KB must have been a little bothered by the whole thing. Even if you put the cash you make into your artwork, you've got to feel like you've compromised yourself a little bit, anyone would feel that way. But no one can hold it against the guy, we've all got to make money somehow. In all honesty, my only reaction to it was "Shit, someone at Outback PR is pretty hip."
So this girl makes the comment, Mirman doesn't know what the hell is going on, Barnes is pissed. Everything gets set up, and Of Montreal gets set to play their first song:
KB: Who said that about Outback?
Bitch: (raises hand)
KB: How old are you?
Bitch: Twenty six.
KB: What do you do for a living?
Bitch: (inaudible)
KB: Oh, well good for you.
DAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMNNNNN. Someone just got BURNED. I have to find a funny picture of a cat online and write something like "I'm in ur audience calling u out as an artist who compromises his principles and ur all making me look like the bitch I am."
I mean, the girl probably just wanted to be that person in the crowd who references some obscure thing the band did, making sure everyone can hear so that everyone, including the band can say "Oh, who was that, she's a real fan. I will applaud her, she is the greatest fan ever."
Didn't work out that way.
So let that be a lesson. Don't yell things at the band. God, I know, you're thinking, "But this will be so FUNNY!" It won't, man. It really won't.
That's the end of me, I'm going to bed, but it feels good to be writing here again. I hope you've enjoyed reading it.
Oh my, I have so much to say and yet I really don't want to get into it. Ever feel that way?
Well here's one thing:
I was thinking about eye contact today. Isn't eye contact bizarre? It makes me want to believe in ESP or something. Maybe I just don't fully understand the physiological nature of the ocular nerves or something, but I mean, when I look at my cat is sitting across the room, playing with some neumenon (sp? Is that even a word? Google is telling me that it isn't a word. I thought it was.) and we make eye contact, the animal responds. I guess all animals (and people) respond to subtle physical cues, but eye movement is so evocative that it's terrifying if you think about it too much.
I saw the following people at the Berklee performance center tonight:
Eugene Mirman, Sarah Vowell, Dave Eggers, Rodney Rothman, Via Audio, Mates Of State, Peter and Davy Rothbart, Kevin Barnes, and Brian Poole (BP Helium)
Eugene Mirman is hilarious. As is Flight of The Conchords (HBO), a show he is on. Sarah Vowell's book I have read (The Partly Cloudy Patriot) was also very funny. Dave Eggers was funnier this time. The last time I saw him, he was talking about Sudan, and it wasn't funny at all. Rodney Rothman invented Fresh Step, not the cat litter, the fake boy band, and I strongly suggest you find them on YouTube. Via Audio wasn't that good. Mates of State were fun, and the girl is pregnant, which was sweet, then I started thinking about the possible effects of being in the uterus of a touring rock musician. I suspect they're all awesome. Davy Rothbart edits Found Magazine, which is brilliant because he just publishes notes, funny grocery lists, postcards, receipts, and the like that people find on the street. His brother Peter plays songs about some of the things they find (one classic is about a letter from The King Of Midwestern Nissan Racing to his long lost love). Kevin Barnes and Brian Poole are in Of Montreal.
Funny story about Kevin Barnes burning the bitch three rows in front of me:
As KB and BP are tuning their guitars, Eugene Mirman (EM) comes out to stall a bit. This is what ensued:
EM: So let's have a quiz while I stall... um... Anyone know how you survive a bear attack?
(Crowd Member 1): You play dead.
EM: Actually no, the bear will just eat you.
Bitch Crowd Member: You run into an Outback Steakhouse!
KB: (deathstare)
EM: (oblivious to the reference) Well, I guess maybe if you're counting on doors confusing the animal...
Now, the Outback reference I'm sure wasn't intended as an insult, but it was really insulting. For those of you who are unaware, about a year ago Of Montreal sold a song to be used in an Outback commercial ("Let's pretend we don't exist/ Let's pretend we're in Antarctica" became "Let's get Outback tonight/ something something something something something something), and KB actually wrote a letter and put it online promising to use the money from the commercial to stage an elaborate tour. I saw this tour, and it was ridiculous. At one point, Barnes climbed a ten foot ladder covered in a massive dress and sang a song. More bells and whistles than you can imagine. It was like Queen and David Bowie and Parliament Funkadelic playing for two hours and every single person on stage is on ten drugs you've never heard of. (NB: I actually made that joke when I was at the show, and I think my buddy Dave at uhaulit.blogspot.com may have already credited me with it. It was funny though, and I will milk it for all it's worth.)
Anyway, KB must have been a little bothered by the whole thing. Even if you put the cash you make into your artwork, you've got to feel like you've compromised yourself a little bit, anyone would feel that way. But no one can hold it against the guy, we've all got to make money somehow. In all honesty, my only reaction to it was "Shit, someone at Outback PR is pretty hip."
So this girl makes the comment, Mirman doesn't know what the hell is going on, Barnes is pissed. Everything gets set up, and Of Montreal gets set to play their first song:
KB: Who said that about Outback?
Bitch: (raises hand)
KB: How old are you?
Bitch: Twenty six.
KB: What do you do for a living?
Bitch: (inaudible)
KB: Oh, well good for you.
DAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMNNNNN. Someone just got BURNED. I have to find a funny picture of a cat online and write something like "I'm in ur audience calling u out as an artist who compromises his principles and ur all making me look like the bitch I am."
I mean, the girl probably just wanted to be that person in the crowd who references some obscure thing the band did, making sure everyone can hear so that everyone, including the band can say "Oh, who was that, she's a real fan. I will applaud her, she is the greatest fan ever."
Didn't work out that way.
So let that be a lesson. Don't yell things at the band. God, I know, you're thinking, "But this will be so FUNNY!" It won't, man. It really won't.
That's the end of me, I'm going to bed, but it feels good to be writing here again. I hope you've enjoyed reading it.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Rough Day
I'm not going to get into the hairy details of my bad day because I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing that I'd complained about administrative paperwork and Mass Ave traffic and creative quandries. I might as well be a sixth grade girl bitching about the price of Mudd Jeans. Or whatever it is they care about.
For once, I do have to say something relatively serious, and it kind of sucks, but here it is.
I won't be putting anything that I write seriously on here anymore. I have a couple of stories that I've finished up, a lot of poems, and honestly, I like tossing those sorts of things around, and I think my friends enjoy reading them, but the bottom line is that you can't put anything on the internet that you don't want to be ripped off or stolen, and for the second time, that's happened to me.
It's a really weird feeling, I must say, regardless of the context and the details, I always just feel hurt. I'd like to try and tell myself that imitation is the highest form of flattery, but I can't escape the notion that someone just wants to have a laugh at me for whatever reason.
I dunno, if anyone has ever stolen something from you and taken credit in any sense, you know it's really enraging. It's like whispering an answer in class only to have the girl in front of you shout it out. Petty, yeah, and we need to let these things go, but nonetheless, you feel nothing but malice towards that person.
It could be worse. Some asshole stole Dave's entire computer last year and the poor guy lost a novel. I guess that's kind of different though.
Anyway, I'm no longer giving anyone the chance to steal my stuff. I do have a portfolio of a lot of things I have written that is accessible via the Lesley College System, so if you want to look at my serious stuff, just let me know and I'll give you access. Somehow. There will be an intense screening process.
But all that's here from now on is Red Sox banter, funny stories, dreams, and lame jokes.
That's really all anyone likes anyway, so it's not a huge loss.
Cheers.
For once, I do have to say something relatively serious, and it kind of sucks, but here it is.
I won't be putting anything that I write seriously on here anymore. I have a couple of stories that I've finished up, a lot of poems, and honestly, I like tossing those sorts of things around, and I think my friends enjoy reading them, but the bottom line is that you can't put anything on the internet that you don't want to be ripped off or stolen, and for the second time, that's happened to me.
It's a really weird feeling, I must say, regardless of the context and the details, I always just feel hurt. I'd like to try and tell myself that imitation is the highest form of flattery, but I can't escape the notion that someone just wants to have a laugh at me for whatever reason.
I dunno, if anyone has ever stolen something from you and taken credit in any sense, you know it's really enraging. It's like whispering an answer in class only to have the girl in front of you shout it out. Petty, yeah, and we need to let these things go, but nonetheless, you feel nothing but malice towards that person.
It could be worse. Some asshole stole Dave's entire computer last year and the poor guy lost a novel. I guess that's kind of different though.
Anyway, I'm no longer giving anyone the chance to steal my stuff. I do have a portfolio of a lot of things I have written that is accessible via the Lesley College System, so if you want to look at my serious stuff, just let me know and I'll give you access. Somehow. There will be an intense screening process.
But all that's here from now on is Red Sox banter, funny stories, dreams, and lame jokes.
That's really all anyone likes anyway, so it's not a huge loss.
Cheers.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
This Is Useless
Well, the semester is winding to a close and I'm running around like a crazy person.
Good news is I finished my psychology paper earlier today and I just finished a draft of a story about two friends and a cat called "Exposing Animals." That means all that's left is the poetry portfolio, the Literature paper, and a couple of finals.
And registration, which is kind of like an internet/paperwork version of the final round of Legends Of The Hidden Temple. I've been fumbling with that metaphoric monkey shrine bullshit for like three weeks now.
And I'm not going to even get into the issues I have with Residence Life.
Residence Life calls my house. My mother's house. Looking for me. The people in charge of the place I live in are calling my mother's house looking for me. I mean...
You know that old dating cliche, like, "He/She has to have a sense of humor?" I just realized today that it's like saying, "He/She has to have the body of a model."
There are a LOT of people with TERRIBLE senses of humor out there. And a lot of them seem to go to my college.
Alright, I'm getting snippy. I didn't have my nap today. Wait, yeah I did. Nathan bought me a burrito too. Things are looking up.
Good news is I finished my psychology paper earlier today and I just finished a draft of a story about two friends and a cat called "Exposing Animals." That means all that's left is the poetry portfolio, the Literature paper, and a couple of finals.
And registration, which is kind of like an internet/paperwork version of the final round of Legends Of The Hidden Temple. I've been fumbling with that metaphoric monkey shrine bullshit for like three weeks now.
And I'm not going to even get into the issues I have with Residence Life.
Residence Life calls my house. My mother's house. Looking for me. The people in charge of the place I live in are calling my mother's house looking for me. I mean...
You know that old dating cliche, like, "He/She has to have a sense of humor?" I just realized today that it's like saying, "He/She has to have the body of a model."
There are a LOT of people with TERRIBLE senses of humor out there. And a lot of them seem to go to my college.
Alright, I'm getting snippy. I didn't have my nap today. Wait, yeah I did. Nathan bought me a burrito too. Things are looking up.
Monday, April 02, 2007
This Is Hilarious With Or Without A Context
From The Boston Globe... or maybe the A.P.:
In that probe, police seized 1,653 pounds of marijuana, 128 pounds of cocaine bricks and a 2004 Cadillac XLT with "PAC-MAN" embroidered in the front seats. The car was not registered to Jones, who then bought the car at a police auction late last year.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Two Alphabet Poems
I.
A Bentley carries daughters
elegantly, forever
gregarious home-bodies
in Japanese Kimonos, laughing
maniacally, nonchalant,
over perennial quamash.
Recently, Sarah (the unrivaled virgin,
wanton
xenophobe) yawned
zealously.
- - - -
II.
Another boy can dance electric
Faraway guns have imposed justly,
kindly,
lasting months, never
offering Pax
(Qua?) Romana
Stitches too use violent ways
Xylodian yen-- zen.
A Bentley carries daughters
elegantly, forever
gregarious home-bodies
in Japanese Kimonos, laughing
maniacally, nonchalant,
over perennial quamash.
Recently, Sarah (the unrivaled virgin,
wanton
xenophobe) yawned
zealously.
- - - -
II.
Another boy can dance electric
Faraway guns have imposed justly,
kindly,
lasting months, never
offering Pax
(Qua?) Romana
Stitches too use violent ways
Xylodian yen-- zen.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday
Every Sunday I wake up to some kind of Asian church service at the Episcopal Parish right next to my dorm. It's the most confusing thing you can possibly imagine. Hordes of asian people ( I think they're Chinese) shuffling into the church, back to their cars, speaking in a language that consists, I've come to believe, completely of vowel sounds. I drag myself out of bed and look out the window at them, past the empty wine bottles and the succulent cactus Rachael got me on my windowsill, and there they are. Bowing and muttering and carrying on. Do the Chinese bow? Maybe they're not Chinese. Or maybe they're just super polite Chinese. I don't know, my only point is that it's really weird and I'd like to find a way to make it stop.
Looking at the empty bottles of alcohol on my windowsill now, I'm realizing that as a drinker, I'm kind of bipolar. I mean, there's Domaine des Blagoeurs 2004 Syrah (whatever the hell that means) and then a $14 liter of Viking Fjord vodka. I should note that Dave bought that, I guess, but there's a pattern, and I can't blame him for the Seagrams 7 next to the Salmon Creek Chardonnay...
Wait, yeah I can.
Actually, Rachael and Dave account for like ninety percent of the booze on that windowsill. The only thing I can really claim as my own is the liter of Wild Turkey (delicious, by the way.)
I've got this bump on the inside of my middle finger that feels like an extra bit of bone, and sometimes it itches like hell. If it just hurt, I wouldn't be worried, but why would it itch? What is my body trying to tell me about that thing by making it itchy? It can't be anything good.
But there's no way I'm getting it checked out. I spent a couple of hours in the Emergency Room at Mt. Auburn yesterday with Rachael (she's fine, she just pulled a muscle in her foot or something) and I've had my fill of those places for a long time. I had to fight the urge, several times, to just say matter-of-factly, "She's late." Whenever someone asked "What seems to be the problem." It would have been hilariously inappropriate.
I don't even have a cohesive story here. I had three dreams last night:
In one, I was at my mother's house, and all of our neighbors had rented their houses out to be used to tape porno films.
In another, I was stationed on a river somewhere in the deep south with some kind of turn of the century military regiment. The porno bit kind of bled into that one... then there was a corpse floating down the river and a scorpion kept stinging the dead toe. I thought of the word "Omen."
In another I shot my brother in the face with a bow & arrow. The arrow was yellow. He didn't seem to get hurt, as I shot him several times, and he kept coming at me (there was some kind of battle involved) but I had the sense that I was hurting him.
There was that.
You know, I've been separating my recyclable bottles from my trash since I've been living here, and I sincerely doubt that the guys who take the trash out have any kind of access to recycling. I'm not going to stop separating though.
Jesus, time to take a shower.
Looking at the empty bottles of alcohol on my windowsill now, I'm realizing that as a drinker, I'm kind of bipolar. I mean, there's Domaine des Blagoeurs 2004 Syrah (whatever the hell that means) and then a $14 liter of Viking Fjord vodka. I should note that Dave bought that, I guess, but there's a pattern, and I can't blame him for the Seagrams 7 next to the Salmon Creek Chardonnay...
Wait, yeah I can.
Actually, Rachael and Dave account for like ninety percent of the booze on that windowsill. The only thing I can really claim as my own is the liter of Wild Turkey (delicious, by the way.)
I've got this bump on the inside of my middle finger that feels like an extra bit of bone, and sometimes it itches like hell. If it just hurt, I wouldn't be worried, but why would it itch? What is my body trying to tell me about that thing by making it itchy? It can't be anything good.
But there's no way I'm getting it checked out. I spent a couple of hours in the Emergency Room at Mt. Auburn yesterday with Rachael (she's fine, she just pulled a muscle in her foot or something) and I've had my fill of those places for a long time. I had to fight the urge, several times, to just say matter-of-factly, "She's late." Whenever someone asked "What seems to be the problem." It would have been hilariously inappropriate.
I don't even have a cohesive story here. I had three dreams last night:
In one, I was at my mother's house, and all of our neighbors had rented their houses out to be used to tape porno films.
In another, I was stationed on a river somewhere in the deep south with some kind of turn of the century military regiment. The porno bit kind of bled into that one... then there was a corpse floating down the river and a scorpion kept stinging the dead toe. I thought of the word "Omen."
In another I shot my brother in the face with a bow & arrow. The arrow was yellow. He didn't seem to get hurt, as I shot him several times, and he kept coming at me (there was some kind of battle involved) but I had the sense that I was hurting him.
There was that.
You know, I've been separating my recyclable bottles from my trash since I've been living here, and I sincerely doubt that the guys who take the trash out have any kind of access to recycling. I'm not going to stop separating though.
Jesus, time to take a shower.
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