Friday, March 31, 2006

Tonight's show, plus Coxen and Johnson at the Brattle

Well, tonight's show was really good. An old friend of mine from high school showed up with her husband and surprised me, which was great. Every time I see Tara I feel young, primarily because she is a couple of months older than me and looks at least 6 or 7 years younger than she actually is. As long as I avoid mirrors, I convince myself for a few minutes that I am younger than she looks.

I know, it gets a bit complicated.

It was nice to be back in the ol' Comedy Studio in Harvard Square tonight. The road gigs last week went so much better than I expected, and it was a definite blast riding down with Tim McIntire, the only down note was my brief reflection at how much it blows that a guy as talented as he is has to ride with me to Manchester, Connecticut to play a VFW after kicking ass on stage for fifteen years. Tim was hosting tonight's show and releasing his new CD "Scatter Brain", which boasts some really cool artwork on the front (done by Renata, coincidentally)

A bunch of my favorites were on the show tonight, as well as some Iranian chick from New York that totally rocked. Most importantly, she was hilarious and smart, but she was so personal and unique that I just wanted to hear her talk about anything she wanted for another half hour.

The Comedy Studio format is like a buffet of delicious appetizers that leave you wanting more (on a good night). And of all the stuff on the table Negin Farsad (I pray I am spelling that correctly) was the most enticing for me.

Don't get me wrong, there was a terrific mix tonight, and I'm sure some part of the reason she knocked my socks off was that I hadn't seen her before. Everyone was great. Some new kid showed a lot of improvement since the last time I saw him, especially with stage presence. It kind of irritates me when people take stage time for granted, or comedy fr that matter, and just mail it in, doing the same crap and not really working on it, so I love to see a young person really put their ass into it and do something with the talent they have.

The Walsh Brothers were being recorded for Chronicle, and actually trotted out something that happened today. These guys just amaze me. They are being taped for a (expletive deleted) TV show, and they're trying new stuff out. Who does that???

More good news was that Coxen and Johnson, a terrific local sketch and stand up team, have a show to benefot the Brattle Theater, AT the Brattle, April 14 & 15, with a bunch of great special guests.

Coxen is on at the Studio tonight and tomorrow night (April 1) doing his own act, but these guys are terrific together. Sean Sullivan, a brilliantly calculated wack-job is in a bunch of stuff, too. I could be wrong, but I think Sullivan was in the Herald today for some comedy-ralated stuff.

If you get a chance, please check this show, and these guys out. Coxen does a myriad of character, one more absurd than the next. Tonight he did fitness guru "Ripps McCoxen"... genius.

He and Johnson will be trotting out all our favorites, I'm sure, and I believe the Walsh Brothers will be making an appearance as well on of the nights. I am 50/50 to be available to hit the show on the 14th, I have a gig of my own in Portland, Maine on the 15th. There is a tentative date for cards at my sister's house on the 14th, but we ARE awaiting confirmation. Coxen and Johnson have had like 3 or 4 big shows and I have had a gig on every one of them, which is good, I'm not complaining, but kinda stinks, too.

Well, it was nice to be on the show tonight with so many great comics. Renata Tutko, this newer chick, always cracks me up. There is a subtle genius in each of her jokes that is actually funnier after you've had ten seconds to think about what the hell she just said.

Mike Donovan's Sports Show

Monday night, April 3rd, long time Boston stand up comedian and writer Mike Donovan will stage his first "All Sports Show" at Jimmy Tingle's Off Broadway Theater in Davis Square, Somerville. Jimmy said today that the plan is to "try it for at least the monthof April" and see how it goes.

Mike has been writing about sports, talking about it on the radio and cracking people up for over two decades.

I am psyched that I was invited to perform Monday Night, as I have wanted to catch Mike's act for what seems like forever, and performing with him should be a real blast. I also have a new bit aout Tim McCarver that about six people on the planet will get, and I suspect at least three of those people will be at Tingle's Monday Night.

If you have nothing to do- and let's face it, if you claim to have something to do Monday night, you are lying, come on down to Jimmy Tingle's Off Broadway Theater in Davis Sq and check out the show.

I believe the show is ten bucks- Amercian, $13.75 Canadian or 8.50 Euro.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Email Snafu

If you have tried to email me through my website since it was updated to the flash style web page, oh say six months ago, I have not received your email.

A few people mentioned to me that they had emailed me, and I had not received them. I mentioned it to my web guy and he checked it out and found that the link works percetly well, and you can cut-and-paste the link into an email, but ther eis something wrong with the "form", though I am not sure what that means, aside from form difficulties= no emails.

I am not angry in the least, the website is great, looks great and presents me as far more talented and professional than I actually am.

What is actually washing over me is relief. I have been flooding the clubs I have worked with my postcards, complete with website info. I wondered why the emails haven't been pouring in from young single chicks and now I know. It's the damn website's fault. For a second there I thought it had something to do with me, thank heaven it was simply technical difficulties.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Boston St. Patrick's Day Breakfast

Every year in South Boston on St. Patrick's Day the local politicians have a breakfast, often inviting famous celebrities to join in on the "fun". President Bush and John Kerry showed up last year. Mitt Romney is a staple.

A few years back, a couple of young Boston comics, The Walsh Brothers, performed there to silence. Hearing them reflect on it makes me cringe. Nothin' worse than a bunch of folks with no clue how to receive comedy.

Part of the "fun" is a "roast" where the pols take shots at each other, eliciting a few nervous chuckles, but mostly silence. This year, Worcester's Sheriff Glodis threw jabs from the podium at most of the guests, including a few choice shots at Boston Mayor Tom Mennino.

This year, Mennino wasn't laughing and neither were many of the other local pols. Function coordinator and state senator Jack Hart told reporters that he felt Glodis was "way out of line" and will most likely be "banned" from attending the event next year.

Jeez, he must be devastated.

Granted, the clips of the jokes he told kinda sucked, but I think the chief problem is that while they may want to be hip, slick and cool, the main celebs taking a verbal beating is the main focus of every roast in the history of roasts. I don't think these dudes know what a "roast" is.

What baffled me further was that not one person defended the dopey, unfunny sheriff. Not ONE politician OR newscaster thought to mention that the nature of a roast is to put down the honored guests.

Mennino menioned that not many people laughed at Glodis' comments. Well, the guy isn't funny, but in all fairness, these clowns are so tight that Chris Rock would've bombed there.

What I'm proposing is this: these guys should be banned from using the word "roast" during they festivities until they understand what a roast is.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Hickey Healy

In comments on a previous post, a friend mentioned Pythian Bowling lanes, and its matriarch, Louise Hinchliffe, Richie "Zisk" Drainoni, and other characters.

But, when I think of Whitinsville, I can't help but think of William "Hickey" Healy, known as "The Mayor of Whitinsville". When I was a kid delivering newspapers around town, Hick must have been in his 60s. If you prodded him, he always had a story about the "old days" in town. Whitinsville was once a burgeoning town, sprouting up around what was once the largest textile mill in the country, of not the world, "Whitin Machine Works". My dad worked there before I was born in the office, until he annoyed his way out of employment, as did most everyones relatives at some point or another. My brother Jon worked there, my brother Tim worked there in "Crib 5". Tim, like the guy that wrote "Dilbert" about his office situation, wrote a comic strip called "Crib 5 Funnies" which was extremely popular with Tim's friends, not popular at all with my mother, and grounds for dismissal from management. I loved "Crib 5 Funnies" because they were dirty, and well...funny.

But I digress... Hickey worked at "the shop" as it was affectionately known for thirty some odd years after the war (That would be WWII) and stayed in the town that had become his home. You could always see Hickey patrolling the sidewalks, tennis ball in hand. (I never knew it as a kid, but he carried it both to toss to teenagers, yelling, "GET IN!" and to maintain his grip.) He had a million corny one-liners that he would spit out on some sort of rotating basis.

He is the kind of man that gives character and appeal to small towns, full of vim and vogor and extremely unique. I would ask him what "Get in" meant, and he would shrug it off.

Hick was a little guy with a giant heart. Healy was a fixture around town, you could see him walking church street, visiting both bowling alleys, and hitting most of the establishments along the main drag. He ate breakfast or lunch at the local diner every day and sometimes quietly paid your check on his way out. He did a lot of little things for people and always kept his deeds to himself.

I remember when I was a bit older, oh say, 19 or 20, and I worked when I wasn't in the stock room at Thom McAns for a kid I played basketball with. Hick would catch a ride with me to the Auburn Mall and disappear for the three hours I was unloading stock, meeting me back at the mall later. He never said a peep, but he would go to the mall with me, take a bus to St. Vincent's Hospital and visit the elderly that had no family or friends to visit them. He would pray with them, make them laugh if he could and just be a presence for someone that needed some human contact.

Hick would sit in the back of the church at the funeral of old folks in town and pray quietly. Looking back, I guess I could always see that Healy was a spiritual man, though he never once mentioned anything about it to me, he simply embodied it in his daily life. I recall how he would find the silver linings and find ways to encourage me or point out something good that I had thought, said or done when I was down on myself.

He may have done it, but I can't recall this man talking negatively about anyone. There was an old lady, the aforementioned Louise Hinchliffe, who worked at one of the local bowling alleys. This lady was an incessant complainer, she was absolutely non-stop with gripes about everything from mustard to politics to television. Grousing was like breathing to this woman. Myself and a few of the local teen degenerates made a small living from playing pitch at that bowling alley, and had had more than a few run-ins with Louise.

Her favorite saying was "go pound sand."

I was throwing her under a bus one day to Hickey, and he said, "Louise is a very lonely lady. You've got a lot of friends... maybe she needs a friend."

This was one of the most absurd things I had ever heard, but I said "what the hell" and invited her to come to the track with me. She complained about not having money, about how bad I was probably going to drive, and wanted to know what I was up to, "why are you asking ME to go...what do you want?"

She came, and we started to go once per week together. I drove the speed limit and stayed in my lane, but Louise found a way to ramble about this that or the other thing and groused the whole ride, there and back.

When she lost a race, she would whine, when she won a race she would say "it's about time" or "is that all that paid?"

After a while, I asked Louise why she complained so much, and didn't she ever enjoy herself?

She caught me totally by surprise, "sure I do... I love to bitch. If I'm not bitching, something's wrong."

I was much impressed by her honesty, and it really let me relax and just let her be who she was, and not feel like I had to do something about it. Hick's simple kindness opened my heart to opportunity to be a friend to this old lady that really needed one. It was so easy to dismiss her as an old nut-job and avoid her. What most amazed me was that she had never really liked Hick or been nice to him at all.

It was a completely foreign idea to me that you could show kindness and love to someone that didn't like you simply because you chose to be a kind and loving person. I began to wonder if this guy was like a small town Ghandi or something, had he ever just been a jerk like I was?

When I was about 22, Hick would occasionally take a ride with me to the dog track, where he would bet $2 one several races and I would generally lose my paycheck. Driving home one time, I got distracted tuning the radio and Hickey gasped, I looked up just in time to lock up my brakes and stop just before rear-ending the car stopped in front of me. Hick was visibly shaken, but even then he composed himself.

I was apologizing all over the place and swearing to pay better attention. "I could have smashed that car and hurt us both Hick, I'm so sorry..."

"But you didn't hit him you stopped in time, right?"

I had never been spoker to that way by someone 70 years old, he gave me the benefit of the doubt. He somehow knew he didn't have to "I told ya so" me, and his simply forgiveness was incredibly effective when it came to getting me to pay attention while I was driving him around from that point on.

On one of those trips to Lincoln Greyhound Park, Hickey figured I was older enough to hear the story of "Get in!"

When Hick was a young guy, like all young guys in Whitinsville, life was well, BORING. As a teen, I was always looking to get out of town, go to other boring little towns and tell myself there was something exciting going on somewhere.

Woonsocket, for kids from Whitinsville, was a big town, with lots of crazy stuff going on it the likes of which Whitinsville had never seen. There was a particular area of Woonsocket where prostitutes congregated, and the lads from the small town would go chat them up, heckle and usually run away.

There was one particular lady of the evening named Rosie. Rosie was built like a linebacker and worked her profession like one, too. Rosie was best known for being out in all kinds of inclement weather. Pouring rain, sleet, and even snow would not keep Rosie off her street corner.

These guys would rive 30 minutes in a driving rain storm just to see if Rosie was working her block. She was almost always there, and they would simply yell at her to go home and get out of the rain, "Get in Rosie, GET IN!" Then they would drive home.

Man... was Whitinsville dull.

I appreciated him telling me that story for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it was funny as hell at the time, secondly; it meant he trusted me, I was a grownup, I could handle it. I also had thought that he was saintly, and he was willing to show me that he was once a stupid kid like me.

I can honestly say that this man walked through his life undaunted the entire time I knew him, at least as far as I could see.

When Hick was about 72, he got throat cancer. They did what they could, but in the end, he wasn't going to make it, and he knew it. He would still walk Church street, but now he would occasionally accept a ride instead of enjoying the walk. He would also have to wear a sweater all the time, even in July, to keep warm. He walked around carrying "Ricola" drops in his pocket and would give them out, and say, "these things are great". He would sit at the diner with a bowl of soup in front of him that he couldn't eat. I would ask him he was every time I saw him, ask him what I could do for him, and he would without fail smile and say, "oh I can't complain" and he never did.

Bill Healy died the death of the just. He was content, peaceful and had no regrets.

I sat in the back of the church, right where William "Hickey" Healy had sat for so many funerals, and sobbed. Even then I knew I was really crying for myself. I wish I could say they were tears of gratitude for having known Bill, but they weren't. I was struck by the deepest sadness I had felt since my mother died when I was ten years old.

As a kid, my heros were football players and rock stars, people everyone loved. I though that the key to happiness had to be getting as many people as possible to adore you. This small town man who lived humbly and quietly showed me a wonderful way to live. It took decades to sink in, but my heros today look a lot less like Robert Plant and a lot more like Bill Healy. Hick's simple daily lessons have hopefully taken root. It appears the key to happiness is not so much about acquiring admirers, but learning how to love people.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Deluxe Town Diner

My new favorite eastern Mass. diner is by far the Deluxe Town Diner in Watertown. You'll come for the food and stay for the tunes. I was working tonight with my autistic buddy, Jack, and he happens to love their meatloaf, which is all meat, baby. I mean these cats put the "meat" in meatloaf. You won't find so much as a stray breadcrumb in that meatloaf, I swear to you.

The beauty of tonight was the tunage, an eclectic mix reminiscent of this breakfast joint we used to stumble into Sunday mornings when I went to school at Westfield State College called "The Good Table". Stevie Wonder, The Pixies, Violent Femmes, Randi Newman and Weezer come to mind- in a row. It was kind of like 93.7 MIKE FM in Boston, without the Kajagoogoo and Poison.

There is a new waitress there that is really good to Jack, too. She remembered that he likes coffee with ice on the aide and brought it right over before we even asked for it. She is also cute, and had some bizarrio skirt on with tights or something. It was a crazy look, but kind of endearing. I briefly entertained an idea that she dug me as she waited on us hand and foot and smiled a lot. She asked if Jack was my brother, when I said no, I take care of him, her interest seemed to wane.

It could have been in my head.

Admittedly, I use to think women would see me with Jack and think, "WOW! Look at how kind and gentle and patient he is with this autistic lad, why I'll bet he'd make a great dad!"

And of course they would envision me playing catch inside our white picket-fenced yard and see me doing homework with our future children. As it turns out, when they find out Jack isn't my brother but technically my employer and that I actually work in human services, they have visions all right, but nit of the sexy variety- they actually envision the used Ford Escort they'll be driving to get to their second job so Billy can get braces... not sexy.

Not sexy at all.

Anyway, next time you're in Watertown, check out the Deluxe Town Diner, and make sure you try the meatloaf.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Some things never change... like jerks in your home town

I take my dad to a movie Wednesdays, which gives me the chance to cruise through my old home town every week, a place I avoided like the plague for years. I used to remember only the stuff I hated about Whitinsville (which just so happens to be the cultural and economic epicenter of Northbridge). Most of the bad vibe I had was probably related to the state of mind I was in during the period of time I lived there, basically the first twenty-one years of my life.

As I cruised down Church Street, I noticed a sign spray painted in block letters on the side of a building. "NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION WE HAVE FORGOTTEN THE PAST" or something quite similar. Another message on the bricks complained "NO SAFETY OR PARKING" due to a beautifying "architectural project" that has been going on in the downtown area for the last year or so. The ironic thing was that the brick building boasted a parking lot which was completely empty.

Some things never change in a small town. A tinge of resentment washed through me as I recalled working pumping gas for the owner of the building as a teenager. It seemed everyone in town was somehow after this guy's money, a conspiracy, if you will. He wasn't making friends in local government, and when he was denied a liquor license for one of his businesses, he responded by boarding one of is buildings in the downtown area, making the buiding as much of an eyesore as possible and placing stones in the openings of his usually empty parking lot so that patrons of open businesses could not use his vacant lot. Ken was always a real communtiy-minded chap.

As I viewed the block letters, I wondered what the town had done to Kenny this time? I bristled a bit as I remembered a particularly irritating incident that happened when I worked at the gas station he once owned and operated.

We had a drop safe, and every time we would get one hundred dollars, we would bundle it up and drop it in, registering the drop on a sheet cleverly titled "the drop sheet". Ken asked me one day what I would do if I got robbed, and I said dutifully, "give them every dime and free fill up."

I wasn't interested in being a hero for four dollars an hour.

Kenny said, "Nah man, get to the drop safe. Don't give them the satisfaction. When you've seen their faces, they're going to shoot you anyway... twice, and probably in the head. They can't afford to be identified."

I was cool as I could be. in spite of the fact that my head was close to exploding right then, without the aid of a bullet.

"I want $4.25 an hour, Ken... and I'm still giving them every dime. And if they're going to shoot me, I may even suggest a complimentary fill-up."

One time the money I had dropped wasn't there when Kenny went to take it out and make a bank deposit. I had absolutely no explanation for this. I made the drops and wrote it down. Made a drop, wrote it down, made a drop, wrote it down.

I didn't like the drop system in the first place, now I hated it. Why couldn't I just bundle the money up at the end and put in the big envelope like we used to?

Two hundred dollars had gone missing. Most of my drops were there, but two were not, and I couldn't explain it. Then I remembered that Ken's wife had access to the safe and frequently came in and grabbed a bundle or two for the purpose of grocery shopping, jotting down how much she had taken. I suggested that this could possibly be the reason for the missing deposits, but Ken insisted that his wife hadn't been in the safe this time. I agonized over what could have happened to the money. I swore I hadn't taken it, that I really had dropped it. Kenny thought and thought, finally deciding he believed me, but that I would have to pay back the money, "work it off" he said.

Still angry and skeptical, (and still needing my job,) I agreed, but not until a thorough insistence that he or his wife had to have "borrowed" and forgotten to write it down.

Ken's mantra was consistently, "that doesn't make any sense, why would I steal my own money?"

He used it similarly to George Bush saying "Iraq" when asked about prescription drugs or the economy.

Ken, I made the drops, where do you think it could have gone? Only you and your wife have access to the safe.

"Why would I take my own money?"

I felt like I was teaching economics to a pre-schooler.

"You see Ken... if I have to pay it back, then it kinda becomes MY money?"

"You're not making sense, Korte... I wouldn't steal my own money."

Ken was kind enough to work out a deal where I would get an extra two bucks an hour for doing work outside of my job description. (Attached to the garage was a mechanical repair shop that he also owned. Admittedly, I was a pansy about helping with the repairs. Aside from being generally lazy, I didn't know what I was doing and usually wound up injuries that never seemed to heal and grease that settled several inches below skin level. Finally, Ken had his assistant.

This went on for about a week and a half, until Ken generously decided to forgive the rest of my "debt" to him.

It wasn't until that moment that I realized that I had been scammed. This guy never gave anybody anything that I ever saw. I had worked a few jobs before this one, and I once wondered out loud how much of a Christmas bonus we might be getting. Kenny got quite a chuckle out of that, I'll tell ya. I guess this question was a bit naive in light of the fact that were working Christmas and New Year's Day for straight pay.

As I look back, I wish I had demanded to either be believed or fired, a move akin to an "all in" bet in Texas Hold 'Em. A move that said, "I'm done. My chips are in the middle of the table... now what're YOU gonna do?"

These kinds of memories flood my head every time I cruise through the town. Maybe the town is just a town, like any place else, and it's the lens I look through that makes it suck.

There sure were a lot of cool things about Northbridge, like the old Gulf station on the corner of Park and Church. When I was a little kid, we would get a bottle, a real glass bottle of Coke and sit and listen to the guys shoot the shit. There was this one heavy guy that liked to tell stories. One time he was telling this story about how he had been to Worcester the previous week and heard this guy running for senate talk, and boy was he good. In fact, this guy agreed with every damn word he had heard.

Some of the other guys on the stoop thought this was curious, because he had beensmoking butts on the stoop with them the night of the rally.

The old Gulf station has been gone for years. Now it is the site of a Unibank, which has also taken over the spot where Woolworth's was (later Flagg Pharmacy, another place I worked). Unibank also bought out Colonial Stationery and put in a parking lot. (I wonder if Kenny is excited about the additional parking.)

I do remember a few things fondly. The town diner is as great as it ever was, and sits in much the same shape it was in when I first started going there as a little boy.

The town plaza is still in tact, though no longer a local hangout. It sits right in the middle of town, and kids used to go and just hang out for hours at night, and especially on weekends. Almost like in "American Graffiti"... kids would show up in their cars and get a pizza, go into "Friendly's" for a fribble or a sundae and talk smack. When I was in my early 20s some genius decided it was a bad idea to let kids loiter there and they passed laws that you couldn;t sit around there anymore.

It makes so much more sense to have kids driving around than to have them out in the open where you can see them.

The plaza's main attraction, "Harry's Pizza" is in a new, bigger and nicer location, but the food is every bit as good as it ever was when I was growing up and I still occasionally make the hour drive to the plaza for a "special grinder" or my signature pizza- mushroom, sausage and green pepper.

Roger's Bakery is gone, closing a few years ago when Roger retired and no one wanted to take the business over, but there is a new "old style" bakery opening a few doors down, and I can';t wait to try it out.

Funny that I never really appreciated all the cool small town stuff in Whitinsville until it was mostly gone.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Ultra Violet/16 Blocks

I can best describe Ultraviolet as 80 minutes that felt like 120. This film, is in and of itself that CGI alone does not a movie make. It was a like one long chase scene that you prayed would soon end with the death of every character in the film.

This snoozer was so dull that I actually dozed off during one the plethora of explosion sequences, so lame that even Mila Jovovich (who did her best to maintain a level of oakenness previously only attained in an action film by Keanu Reeves) even Mila Jovovich running around in leathers and a veritable rainbow of tights couldn't save it.

How many ways can one say lame, oh let me count the ways...

On the other hand 16 Blocks, or as I like to call it "The Gauntlet II" was much better than I expected. I lined up, lemming style, to see yet another lame-o-rama action movie, cuz that's what dad likes and you know the rules... Dad=82, therefore we see what dad wants to see.

What I got was typical Bruce Willis, always entertaining, a good performance from Mos Def and a terrific outing from a guy I've always thought was underrated, David Morse. Granted, there was nothing terribly new, and they sort of cribbed a good chunk of Willis' character from his Sin City role, but it was still good entertainment.

Hmmm... It did overindulge a tad with the old "most cops are crooked and most crooks have a heart of gold".

The Beauty of Anonymity/ What the hell was I thinking?

I'm in "what the hell was I thinking?" mode.

A few entries back, I blathered something to the effect a white guy's version of "keepin' it real". Of being dedicated to writing the blog as if no one were reading (insert hacky joke here), and being myself.

It's a catch-22. You want people to read, or why else write... but then I want to regulate who reads this foolish thing and whom they tell. Then I realize I did post the fucking link to the thing on my website... oops- should I really be swearing in here now...shit, I mean shoot...

So... I got a coupla flirty emails from someone I had met a while back. Okay, I know I jump around... I know I abuse the use of ellipses, but stay with me... I seem to think, speak and write stream-of-conscious-ly-ish... but anywho... ah, um...

...flirty emails, right. First off, I am so oblivious that people generally have to inform me that they are flirting with me. The news that someone has been flirting with me often comes in the form of a punch from another female friend who found it "obvious". By the way, I think "obvious" implies that everyone knows about it, especially the flirtee, but anyway I digress...

I tend to write something and immediately forget it. Which is nice in a way because I can read my own entries a week later and laugh at what a buffoon I am. Maybe I forget as part of an elaborate defense mechanism to keep my head from exploding when I stop and think about exactly what information I have put in the most public of forums.

So my acquaintance mentioned something from a previous post- the brutally honest personal post, and it hits me... this girl was recommended to the blog by my niece... so my niece reads the blog. My littlesweetinnocentadorablefantasticlittle niece, Natalie... reading blogs about her Uncle's private measurements. To quote the great Napoleon Dynamite, "IDIOT!"

Yikes, double yikes, and yikes once again.

Granted, my sweet little niece is closer to thirty then fourteen, but she's STILL my sweet little niece. I can only hope Janel (her younger sister) isn;t reading this foolish thing.

Natty-icksnay on the ogsblay.

I've really go to rethink this honesty thing. Some things are better left unsaid, er untyped.

The tickertape is beginning to roll through my skull... what have I writtten...what have I written... what have I written that's going to cost me a gig at a college or a conference. Hmmm... some of the conferences and conventions I perform at are of a spiritual nature (shocked as you may be) ... how are those folks going to enjoy the old "brutal honesty" entry?

Um... where else can I get into trouble???

I know I'm not that important, but I have visions of castigation at the hands of Tipper Gore and the FBI.

Okay, I have a little friend in Michigan that I have known about a year and a half, that, were she here, I would be dating instead of chatting with over the phone three times per week... hmmm... how is she going to enjoy the flirty email commentary...

I wonder what would happen if I poured my coffee into the keyboard... could I make this all go away!

One of the greatest attributes of blogs is anonymity.

This brings to mind a terrific website. People write their deepest confessions on a postcard and send them to this website, where they are published on the web, anonymously.

Check it out:

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

The Tight Fit

Get your minds out of the gutter.

About 18 months ago ro so, I headed down to Greenwich Village to see an L.A. early 90s punk band called "The Muffs". One of the opening bands was this crazy local bunch of kids. They had seven of them I think, three cats playing gitar, drums and keyboards, and four chicks fronting the band, wearing snazzy black dresses and dancing and singing in harmony. They were a real sugary pop band that was borrowing heavily from the 50s, but man were they ever tight. The shocker is that this was only their second gig... ever.

I was blown away.

The band had a super-cool name to boot, The Tight Fit- and the name made sense, they were tight and I dunno, it just had a ring to it.

Apparently they got sued, but that's another story. The had to change their name and what they came up with after (I'm guessing here) many disagreements and cocktails, was "Tra La La". They asked fans for suggestions, and I sent in a few, though I don't recall what they were, they had to be better than Tralala. As best as I can recall, I had a few themes trying to keep the Tight Fit vibe. I think they involved tight razor blades or something to that effect. Perhaps band-naming isn't a lightening rod for my creativity...

I want to support this band, but I am afraid if I stroll around Somerville wearing a "Tralala" T-shirt I am likely to catch a shiv in the ribs- and deservedly so.

Anywho... I have waited and waited for these guys to come to Massachusetts. My fix was temporarily satisfied when I ordered their cd a few months ago, but it really only served to whet my appetite.

To make a story that didn't even need to be this long painfully longer still, well, Tralala is coming to play in Union Sq. Somerville (holy crap... Creed just popped on the radio in the other room... *&^^$(%% are these clowns horrid) back to business... Tralala plays the PA Lounge in Union Sq (I might be goofing up the name of that joint, but it's close) on Saturday, April 1.

If you want to check out the band's website and hear some free samples, its:

Yeah- it's a terrible name, but a great band- go see these guys.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

The Last Good Samaritan

All is not lost, my friends. As I lay on the sidewalk in front of my house, surrounded by three kicking hooligans, an Hispanic man emerged from his vehicle and trotted across the street, wavinf his arms and coming to my rescue.

The man's face showed grave concern, and he was willing to charge at three men, risk his own safety for some guy wearing a "baja" and torn jeans.

The frightened look on his face shifted to confusion, then annoyance as I jumped up from the ground, waving him off, informing him that we were shooting a short film, thanking him for "being there for me".

In response, he shot me a look that said, "next time it will be me kicking your ass."

I was still pretty impressed by the stranger's courage. One of my friend's stands well over six feet tall and goes about 260, sporting a swarthy look. I wouldn't go after him if I had a shot gun.

We had a good laugh about it, but ya know, it's nice to know there's a dude like that living in my neighborhood.

Now I know... the next time I assault a homeless guy myself, I'll make sure it's in another section of town.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Brutally Honest Personals

I have promised myself I would not edit or water down my posts, even though half of family is now reading this thing from half way around the world/


After my hotornot experiment, my friend Daniella sent me this link, maybe the best I have read around this nonsense.

My favorite is Rebecca.

Age: 31 Height: 5'2"
Weight: 110
Location: Southern California
Prescription-drug addiction: Prozac

When I feel bad, it helps me to call you at work. Frequently. Rushing me off the phone will just make me cry and pester you with e-mails. I have a little dog that I tend to bring everywhere, because if I leave him at home, he yips. If you plan on sleeping with me, you will not complain when I bring him on dates in a little black bag. I'm a little curious about spanking, but we can never try it at my house, because my ex-boyfriend lives on the other side of the wall and will hear us.

SEXUAL QUIRK:I will blow you, but not consistently.

I'm not even sure what that last part means, but it's damn funny.

I found this so amusing that I wrote my own ad.

AGE: 40
Location: Boston
Height: 5'9" (I mean 5'8 3/4")
Weight: 155
Occupation: Counselor/Human services & under employed/lazy Comedian, hence the human services job.

Seeking: Cool chick with a brain and some cutes about her willing to date me for my potential without expectation.

I'm a recovered alkie (9 years) and degenerate gambler, and have redefined poker as "a game of skill and therefore, technically not gambling". I am a horrible dancer, unless you want to mosh, then I would probably accidentally kidney-punch you out of instinct.

I have only enough money to enjoy my life and can't support kids. I frustrate people around me by wasting talent and obsessing over how I will find a way to fail if I take real chances. I pretend not to care about people's opinions, but I pumped 5 fake "10" votes onto my photo at "Hotornot". I am hung like a brahma bull, but have sex so infrequently that I would have to rub benzocaine onto my unit to not explode at the mere thought of even a mediocre encounter.

On a good note: I am the guy everyone wants their sister to marry (except the sister.) I spend much of my time helping others and am hilarious to be around. I have a great heart and I can hold my (small) gut in for up to an hour at the pool or beach. I also loathed Tom Cruise 10 years before doing so was popular.

There has got to be a bad reality show in this somewhere.

Free Web Site Counters
Free Web Site Counters