An Open Letter to Diora Baird

Dear Ms. Baird,

Sometimes I google myself too, but writing this letter still makes me feel a little weird. Actually finding a way to send you a physical copy scares the living daylights out of me–”facebook stalking” jokes have perpetually made me uncomfortable. Stalking is weird. I know it’s also weird to be comfortable making jokes with the vast majority of people I know and meet, but knowing more about you than what I read in interviews makes me cringe. I want nothing to do with your Twitter account or to read what you’ve Twatted. Gross.

I remember reading in Maxim that you find sarcastic men attractive. I’m all about that but since you flying out to seduce me because I wrote you a letter is about as likely as me contracting ovarian cancer, I’ve prepared a list of things you might enjoy. Well, I’m not saying you can’t drop everything, fly out to New York City, discover my supersecret identity and do everything on this list with me, but it’d probably just be easier if you just do these things if you get a chance whenever you’re in town. I haven’t thought up a supercool name for it or anything so we could go with, “Chris’ List of Funny Things to do in New York.” (Note how I did not write, “Funniest,” because there are probably funnier things to do. Probably, but that’s only because I haven’t done those things yet.)

1. Upright Citizen’s Brigade, Sunday night, 7:30PM show (ASSSSCAT 3000). Easily the best laugh-per-dollar ratio at a reasonably priced $10. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a show without crying (from laughing so hard) less than twice. Most nights there’s either an SNL alum or current cast member and this is the place they get to make all the jokes they can’t on TV. If you’re in New York and you want to laugh, this is where you go.

2. I mean, while we’re on the subject, I guess you could go to SNL, too. I’m hoping that means you’re hosting, but I’m sure sitting in the audience will probably deliver the same amount of laughs. Well, you’ll actually get to laugh when you’re in the audience, but that’s neither here nor there. You should also consider Late Night with Dave Letterman, but, again, fingers crossed for mostly as a guest. Say hi to Paul for me, I’d love to be like him except playing guitar and a little less effeminate.

3. If you’re not here on the weekend–Oh God, how’d your agent spill so much lame sauce all over your schedule?!?!–I suggest, although sort of obvious, a comedy club. Caroline’s seems to be the go-to jumpin’ joint all the kids love (I hear Robin Williams built his career there) but I’ve also heard good things about Dangerfield’s. Realistically, I don’t want to waste your time with this when you can literally google “NYC Comedy Clubs” and find more information in less time than it will take you to read this entire letter. So I guess the moral of point three is that 1) there are a lot comedy clubs in New York, 2) rumor has it humorous jokes are made in said clubs, and 3) there’s too many of these establishments for me to sort out–a good sign for someone in search of comedy.

4. Go to Times Square with a teammate, find a cafe on one of the busy streets and play Find the Tourist. They’re usually the ones pointing at things, walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk and into other people. A word of caution, though: this can easily be misinterpreted as misanthropic. What you’re looking to do is not make fun of everyone who’s lost and awed, but get a glimpse of human nature (by making fun of them). I’d recommend a teammate funnier than you and a general understanding that, yes, tourists do really stupid shit, but we all do; during their attempt to live New York in a week, they’re revealing everything that’s silly, goofy and absurd about our own lives. Look! A pointy building! Light bulbs! Dogs humping! Mullets! People paying exorbitant taxi fares!

5. Read The Clean House. The only thing this has to do with New York City is that it had its second run here, but it’s mostly just a good play that I can easily recommend to you. Dying laughing seems pretty ideal.

K bye,

Chris

Fucking Die!!!!1!

I think I have a theory that just might explain why everything is undead right now.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. True Blood is a critical success. Twilight has teenage girls fawning over men way too old for them. Cirque du Freak: The Vampire’s Assistant has previews out before quality movies like District 9 (where everyone except some of the peripheral characters and the three main characters die–no spoiler alert necessary unless you don’t understand basic story structure). You know it’s a dying trend when The CW hops on the train too; they’ll be releasing The Vampire Diaries next month.

And if you think it stops with vampires, you are horrendously mistaken. The main antagonist in the Harry Potter movies will apparently take eight movies (and already took seven books) to die. The preview for Bruce Willis’ upcoming Surrogates seems to imply that technology will one day enable us to live our lives from our couch and not die. Well, that seems to be the case until they introduce the plot and someone starts killing surrogates and, oddly, the surrogates’ controllers start dying too. The preview for Sorority Row seems to imply that the girl who gets killed comes back to kill her friends for letting her get killed. But then, it’s a horror movie–which I hate–and all my basic horror movie structure training leads me believe that the killer is the guy who was tricked into killing her or the girl’s mother. But I digress. Pandorum looks like it’s about zombies in space. Terminator: Salvation was about a dude who thought he was a dude but was really a robot. Everyone went to see Funny People because they wanted to see Adam Sandler die–then he didn’t.

There are some more prerequisites to get out of the way before we get to the theory itself. People have always loved escapism. I’ve always loved escapism. Without it, Hollywood probably wouldn’t exist. Theaters couldn’t get away with charging $13 a ticket and people wouldn’t just download them if they didn’t provide hours of entertainment. However, escapism has skyrocketed recently. Everyone remembers hearing that almost a year ago video game purchases and movie ticket sales skyrocketed. It’s a recession and it makes perfect sense that everyone would start paying to get away from the usual news of assorted cardinal sins PLUS heightened job insecurity. Yet here’s the clincher–we want not only the escapism but to imagine escaping ourselves.

In the preview for Cirque du [Piece of Shit], the protagonist’s adventure begins when he starts yelling about how bored he is. He then goes to a circus where he decides that his life will be fun if he becomes undead (yet, for some reason, the villains want to kill him. He’s fucking undead). So life for this kid can only be fun if he’s immortal. And I think that’s what we all want, too.

It’s fun to imagine we’re invulnerable. That’s why I’ve always loved First-Person Shooter video games and yet always been terrified of actual guns. Guns kill people but when my avatar gets killed in Fall Out 3 I just reload. Infinitely enjoyable without the fear of death. Also, Fall Out 3 has become uncomfortably like the map in my head. The only parts of the map that I’m comfortable going to are areas where I’ve already been. The new places require extensive research and sometimes scouting missions–because I am afraid of dying. That may be an exaggeration; what I mean is, the ultimate fear when I travel is death, but all the intermediate fears–is this the right stop (how do I get home), is this the right day (is it light out, i.e, safe to travel), will I catch the transfer (are there feral ghouls in this subway), am I going to get to eat some chocolate (radroach meat) to calm my nerves (bring my AP back up), etc–are just tiny little fragments that remind me that I’m alive.

The goal, apparently, with these movies is to remind you that you’re alive without any of the fear of death. You can witness their undead-ness and enjoy your life. I mean, you probably don’t want to live vicariously through He-who-must-not-be-named but, when it is the villain who can’t die, it makes it exciting as well because you know that he will, ultimately die. Archetypes have trained you to believe that good will triumph and that the undead will go back to what they are supposed to be: FUCKING DEAD.

However, if you are taking joy living vicariously through the undead protagonist then, although I share your enthusiasm, we should probably stop this. We both know we’re not immortal and that we will never be undead. Perhaps the only way to be undead is to write something that people read even after you’re dead. In the mean time, once we get out of the theater, let’s continue the business of life–the recession will go away and, like my grandma says, “things’ll fall into place.” Also, I kind of just want vampire movies to go away–they’re not all that cool.

(Hey grand kids! I’m FUCKING DEAD. Hahaha.)

Hardware

I guess I haven’t been around one in such a long time that I hadn’t thought about it. I called my mom yesterday and told her that I’d discovered I love every minute I spend in the Hardware Store; I don’t even have to buy anything, I just like being there. She sort of nonchalantly stopped my overt enthusiasm with a curt, “But you’ve always loved the hardware store.”

It’s just so goddamned practical. You want a hammer? We have those. You need to mount a picture? We have wire and nails. You need screws? Guess what? That’s our specialty. A toolbox? Of course. When you check out, we’ll give you a paper bag so the screws have a harder time escaping from your plastic bag. See you tomorrow.

Most of the time, they have things that I might not ever need but I think I just like knowing someone somewhere keeps these things in stock. For example, my hardware store sells 5-foot clamps. I have literally no idea what I’d need a 5-foot clamp for, but it’s reassuring to know that if I ever need to glue something, say, two feet thick to something two and a half feet thick, I can.

I also love that they sell sledgehammers. My new lease has a clause that specifically says I cannot renovate and thus, I get the impression that I wouldn’t be able to use my new sledgehammer for over a year. I tell everyone at work that my favorite tool in the entire stockroom is the rubber mallet because it’s the second most used and the most helpful and yet I constantly wish there was a reason to have a sledgehammer at work. It would promptly replace the rubber mallet as my favorite tool and replace the pliers as the most used. Shit, if I only needed it one day at work I would buy my own sledgehammer to bring into work that day. Then I guess I could use it to decorate my tiny apartment: “…and this wall where I keep my larger-than-life Miranda Kerr poster I got from work. As you can see, that corner right under her is where I store my my sledgehammer. It’s not practical or anything–I used it once and now I just pick it up every once in a while to remind myself of the awesome power of my inner Shiva. No, you can’t touch it.”

At any rate, I thoroughly enjoy being able to browse a store that caters to every need I might someday have.

Kinda like the Jeffersons

I done gone and moved all up out of Brooklyn. Here’s a miniature retrospective in list form:

Five things I’ll miss:
1. Street Cred. I can’t count how many times I used to say “I live in Brooklyn” and then watch eyebrows raise. If people knew Brooklyn, the “Crown Heights” specification would engender a “Holy shit, really?” Not only will I miss that but I’ll also miss affordable rent.
2. Bodegas. I haven’t seen any around my new apartment in Manhattan and I get the impression I won’t see any for a while, either. I particularly miss how some of them were open 24 hours. There’s something nice about feeling like you’ve contributed to a family’s livelihood.
3. Local Eateries. Kingston Pizza–an Italian Pizza restaurant run by a bunch of Mexicans. Surprisingly delicious culture mismatch but then again, one of my favorite Italian Restaurants in Manhattan is run by a bunch of Japanese dudes. Mendy’s–the best place to get some kosher food as well as to get cut in line for being a gentile. Seriously–I can’t count how many times I’d go in, get treated as “less than” and then enjoy some unbelievably good falafel. Oddly enough, all the people who cooked were Mexican, too. That Chinese Food Place–whatever it was called. They made some cheap and delicious chinese-style food goods that was, for some reason, not made by Mexicans.
4. How Brooklyn is close to Manhattan. I love the subway. Really, I’m that guy who takes the subway over a cab. I’ll also take the subway over the bus, but that’s just normal, right?
5. Brooklyn Public Library. This behemoth of a public library was like three stops away on the subway and was awesome. The local branch was immeasurably terrible but the central branch was plain old awesome.

Five things I won’t miss about Brooklyn:
1. Shitty Grocery Stores. The store was like three blocks away, the chicken constantly smelled funny and there were like four aisles. Now there are two grocery stores that aren’t even a block away. Both even sell beer. Eff Fine Fare, I’m going to Gristedes or Western Beef now.
2. How Brooklyn isn’t really that close to Manhattan. I mean, compared to living in Texas, Brooklyn is close to Manhattan. Try to get your friends from Manhattan to come visit you. Free food and liqour can only entice them once or maybe twice if they really like you. Apparently, not everyone else likes the subway as much as I do.
3. My inflatable bed. I used it when visitors came over but the downstairs neighbors moved in a month ago and asked to borrow it three weeks ago. I made just about no effort to get to know them and moved out without bothering to ask for it back. I have a chair-bed for visitors now. Kind of more adult-like, right?
4. How just about everything is far away. You name it, it’s far away. Trader Joe’s. The (good branch of the) library. Museums (The ones people want to see. The Brooklyn Museum, apparently, is not one of those). Concerts. My friends. Bars. Work. Only exceptions: the park, the Brooklyn Children’s Museum and the local elementary school. All were across the street, but guess how much I went to any of them.
5. How Street Cred is directly linked with survival. I made it out and now my street cred is nil. I mean, I’m still the white guy at work and people I work with still say things like, “I keep forgetting you’re white,” but now I no longer worry about stupid things like break-ins or stepping on shoes. In the old apartment, something like 4/8 apartments were hit. I don’t know, I think someone got robbed, too, but I know for sure one apartment lost all their laptops. My list of things I can’t survive without (beyond food, I guess) follows thusly: 1. a computer w/internet access 2. some means of playing and listening to music 3. access to books. How am I supposed to survive if all the most important things I own are either stolen or if I have borderline anxiety that it will be stolen? I miss my street cred but I’m not sure I miss the street.

Funny

Easily the most difficult thing about being introduced at a party as the “funniest person [the host has] ever met” is attempting to live up to it over the course of the party (or in any event wherein you are introduced as “hilarious”). Sure, I’ve had the vague idea that some of my thought processes and mannerisms can be humorous but that’s exactly the problem—it’s those thought processes and mannerisms that are funny, not a set of jokes I have and tell everywhere I go.

It’s not like I meet someone and pull them aside and tell them, “Hey man, Knock Knock.” It’s more like when I’m in a comfortable situation where I can hear things and have an honest discussion I can make a quick quip. For example, a couple of days ago a coworker said, “Did you hear about this cow that escaped its farm out in Queens?” (I know, right? You can’t make this kind of thing up. It’s just too easy.) Of course I said, “No,” and inquired, “So when do you think they’ll finally catch your mom?”

I can’t plan this shit. There’s no time when it’s appropriate to break up a discussion on the aesthetics of Radiohead compared to Jay-Z with a Knock-Knock joke about the KGB. It’s a gift and a curse. I swear.

If you look at some of the best comedians—and there’s no way I’m comparing myself to them, I’m just saying, look: funny people can’t rule the world—they all have all sorts of personal problems. I think everyone has known about that since back in 1967 when Smokey Robinson sang about clowns or even way back in the 1800s when Leoncavallo wrote Pagliacci (and, in turn, provided the inspiration for the aforementioned Robinson song). Just look at Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce, Andy Kaufman, Artie Lange, Woody Allen, Mitch Hedberg, Bill Hicks, Dennis Leary (don’t even get me started on Worcester), Rodney Dangerfield, etc. With the ability to make people laugh there seems to be some inherent inability to run your own life; it’s like you can make other people happy but you can’t make yourself happy. It’s like that, not literally the case. I pretty much find something or revisit something that makes me happy every day; I find about 95% of my life hilarious but I can’t do that without being around other people. I can’t set up my own jokes.

At any rate, the point still remains. It’s incredibly difficult to be funny when the bar is set really high for you before you get the opportunity to prove yourself. It’s much easier to surprise when no one is attempting to compare you to a bar they’ve set in their own mind. That is, it’s easier to raise the bar when no one has placed it anywhere.

Mixed Feelings

I went to a party last night where I was the only guy; obviously a good thing, even better considering it was a party with a lot of my friends from work. Thus, I knew everyone there and most everyone there was comfortable enough to give me lapdances.

And then they had three male strippers come. An event of that scale was, to say the least, terrifying. Luckily, the hostess assigned a chair for me in the kitchen with the lights off (while the stippers removed their clothes in a stripping fashion in the living room). And there I sat for all 45 disgusting minutes and listened to things like, “I think he got it in L—-’s mouth,” “Oooh, don’t bite it, girl,” “I love me some white girls,” and “They playin’ d— games. I was okay until they started playing games. No one wants to play d— games.”

But then there’s the awesome part. Things like the d— games (yeah, I know. I don’t censor myself anywhere else, why would I censor the word “dick” now? Because it’s not my d— and I was just three or four seconds away from seeing someone else’s d— thrust in my friends’ faces, which also) drove some of the girls out of the living room and into my lap. 2/3 girls that I have a crush on in that store sat on my lap while the third was the white girl that the gentleman who dances for a living likes (Dude Self-Preservation Tactics 101: crushes on multiple girls means your heart is only partially broken when one girl finally lets the bomb drop. DSPT 354: This may keep you STD-free but also just about permanently single. DSPT 355: This is why they invented pr0n).

And afterward they just had to stick around and say goodbye to everyone individually. And promote a Mother’s Day Stripfest (…really? Who told you that was a good idea? I usually just get my Mom a card). And give out their Private Numbers (“Sex Parties. Girl’s Night Out. Just Because.”) while wearing a towel. Then reverse-strip and then say goodbye more (girls get hugs again). And then congratulate the only guy at the party with multiple handshakes and by saying things like, “You’re the man, dude,” “You had a party of your own in the kitchen, didn’t you?” (Fact.) or “Awesome party, right?” And then it finally settles in: they totally used the same hands they’re giving you handshakes to lube up their d—s. Uggghhhhhhhhhhhh (Insert Vomit here).

So on the one hand, this party was extremely traumatic because I nearly saw professional dancing men in a nude setting and yet it was also partially awesome because in one night I got more lapdances (and lapsittings–not a word–) than I’ve ever had in my life. I guess that means I had an awesomely traumatic time…right? (DSPT 467 {Honors Seminar: Acceptance Through Denial}: Allow your memory to block out the dudes and reconsider all the showers you took in the following 24 hours. Now reexamine each time you spent in a chair with a girl gyrating {or sitting} near your dick and congratulate yourself for having a plain old awesome time and for not leaving dollar bills strewn across the apartment. [Editor's note: Except for those three G.Washingtons. Asshole.])

Lessons Learned

Alright, so I lost a week to Rescue Me. Things happen. Coincidentally, if you’ve never watched any Rescue Me, none of this will make any sense.

Things I apparently need to say more often: “Kiss my bony white Irish ass,” “Prick,” “Asshole,” “Tan Balls,” “Shithead,” “I’m Irish so [insert stereotype here],” “Go to Hell,” “Whiskey,” “Halligan,” “Probie (School).”

I have to be really honest, too; considering how I’m not as morally inept as Tommy, I think I could make a really good firefighter (and perhaps a great Leuitenant). So that’s of my chest. Anyway, I’m really glad they finally stopped the slow motion montages at the end of each show in the first third of the third season. I could only handle so much more Look!-Look!-Tommy-Fucked-Up-His-Life-Again! or Look!-Look!-Everyone-Fucked-Up-Their-Life-A-Little-More-This-Episode! set to really awesome music like TV on the Radio or The Afghan Whigs.

And I know Tommy’s obviously the anti-hero but that man sure knows how to save a life. I know I’m stating the obvious, but it’s pretty clear that he’s really only at his best when he’s two seconds and a wrong turn away from a face-melting. And that’s why Leuitenant Kenneth “Lou” Shea is my hero. Not only is that guy fucking hilarious but his baseball metaphor in finale of the fourth season was perhaps the most brilliant thing that’s been said the entire show. And sure, he’s not exactly the most reliable of people outside the job but his life is nowhere near as fucked as Tommy’s. There’s no guilt-for-sex-with-dead-cousin’s-wife-thing or a huge Oh-fuck-I’m-helping-raise-a-kid-sired-by-my-wife-and-brother-thing hanging over his head. Sure, after Candi stole $26,500 from him he was a collosal mess and part-time bum, but he fixed his life after that filthy whore got arrested. He’s consistenly the funniest guy in and out of the firehouse. Tommy’s funny but his life becomes more and more of a shamble every time he turns his head (N.B. any time Sheila appears, Alcoholism, Valerie, Beth, [another girl], the hardness issue with Nonna, [some other girl], etc, etc.) or when he punches someone in the face before thinking. Finally, Tommy may sleep with more girls than everybody in the show (except maybe Franco and only in the first three seasons) but that pretty obviously doesn’t make him the manliest man in the house of manly men.

On star power: Did anyone see the powerhouse line-up coming? When I started watching I was like, Wow, this show’s awesome. What’s going to happen in Season Two? And then, Holy shit, Season Two’s awesome what’s going to happen in Three? And then, mostly for both three and four, Where the fuck did all these stars come from? Susan Sarandon? Really? Good God, that’s Marissa Tomei. On basic cable. And here comes Artie Lange. Gina Gershon and Amy Sedaris in the same episode? Get the fuck out. No wonder the guy who played Johnny Gavin jumped back on board in the second season. Apparently I was not the only person who really liked Seasons One, Two and Three.

Predictions for the season premiere (or at least to be set in motion) on Tuesday: 1. Funeral scene for Dad. 2. Bob’s out of the picture and Janet sleeps with Tommy. Again. She doesn’t seem to learn, even after that whole rape thing. 3. Sheila continues to act apeshit crazy, threatens to tell everyone Tommy’s been using Jimmy’s jacket in his spare time; probably blackmail to get the baby back. Insert creative solution here and she won’t, of course (probably because he’ll get rid of the jacket to avoid Section 8 charges, which means she’ll go on meds because she’ll think she’s finally lost a bolt too many). 4. The Valerie thing becomes more serious but then collapses because her whole “No Touching” thing’s not really up Tommy’s alley. And because Tommy’s fucking Janet. 5. Ghost Tommy continues to make Real Tommy want to believe in God more. Or just do more prayers. 6. Natalie gets married to the Chicago dude and Franco retaliates by founding a brothel. Except he’s not really a pimp as much as the guy that all the brothelettes sleep with. Alicia catches a whiff, moves Keela back to France. 7. Mike (sometime “Probie”) finally goes all-straight and becomes…some sort of “Man.” 8. Tommy fucks up. Someone dies. Chaos ensues. Punches Black Sean at some point for dating his daughter. Considers retiring. Doesn’t. Relapses again. Complains about 9/11 more (but with good reason, of course). Attains new booty call. Ends said booty call. Regains role of Biggest Badass in a Fire Ever. Maintains role of Biggest Asshole off the Job. Etc. Etc.

That’s all I’ve got. Asshole.

Alumni

An alum from my school (You’ve read that correctly–only one alum) is a firefighter with the FDNY (although there are other alums spread out through the East who are also firefighters). I talked with him for about 50 minutes back on Sunday. Well, probably about that time because between calls he had to put out a fire. Awesome.

Favorite Quotes:

“No, it doesn’t hurt to be smart and be a fireman.”

“Without studying I’ve come pretty close. If I really wanted to become a Leiutenant, I’d probably have to give up my other job and actually study. In reality, I’m just too lazy.”

“You can ask any question you want. It’s not a big deal. I got 100 on my written and my physical test. I didn’t get the call for a long time because they just started that residency thing. So I had to wait 6 years while people who got 100s on their physical tests and 105s on their written tests got the call.”

“You can find a bunch of firefighters who used to be cops, but you’d be pretty hardpressed to find any cops who used to be firefighters.”

“Well, while I was waiting for the call, I was working in admissions at a college so classes were free. That’s how I got my M.B.A.”

“The test for EMTs is a promotional exam. You just have to pass it and you can get into the academy.”

“Sure the pay isn’t that great, but I love my job unconditionally. Not many of my friends can say that.”

“I’m 5′9″, too. Most of the guys on my engine are about my height. It’s not really an issue.”

“Oh yeah, I bring my work to work. That way on my days off I can spend it with my wife and kids.”

“They give you multiple calendars with your schedule for the entire year on it. I go in whenever my group is scheduled and I work with my other job so I can come in when they need me.”

“The Fire Department is completely democratic about vacations. Every nine years you rotate your vacation time. So if I have two weeks in May and March this year, next year it’ll rotate to say, June and August. I’ve been on the job for ten years so I’ve earned six weeks vacation now.”

“Sure, we have the proper training and equipment and everything, but it always gets to that point where you just have to hope God will protect you. Every day I’m not sure I’ll be coming home.”

“We have assigned seats because of 9/11. Sometimes they couldn’t identify bodies or even equipment so if you’re not in your seat they can hopefully figure out who’s missing.”

“I always tell people to just take the test. You don’t have to commit until you put your right hand on that bible.”

“Hey, listen, whenever you’re done with the test, call me, we’ll get together or something.”

So, in summary, the guy’s a total badass. If I heard him right, his wife just raises the kids. Thus saving lives and literature could be feasible, particularly considering how most freelancers don’t get healthcare.  I could edit between fires/accidents/elevator jams/etc. and still be able to afford checkups and all my stupid allergy meds. Just gotta keep running and get out of retail. And more into Rescue Me I guess. Episodes 1 and 3 of Season 1 were pretty awesome. We’ll see how the rest of it goes.

Quote of the Day

“Dis Dat Brooklyn Bullshit.”

I mean, this lady was being an utter asshole but this sentence (although it’s technically not a sentence because it doesn’t have a verb) pretty much made my day. She was at the end of the line at Victoria’s Secret and she was pissed that there weren’t two lines. So the managers finally split up the lines after she yelled other ignorant things I don’t really want to type and she was still at the end. She asserted that she wasn’t an idiot and that not splitting up the lines the kind of Male Bovine Feces indicated above. I guess she’s not an idiot but she’s definitely an inconsiderate dickhead. That’s right; I called her an Asshole Dickhead.

Anyway, I absolutely love what she’s done with that sentence. She’s got alliteration with the first two words and then with the last two too. She’s even gotten in some assonance with the first word and the last. With the implied verb, “is,” she has assonance with three words and plain old rhyming with the first two words (“This [is]“). Somehow I kind of expect this to show up in poetry since this is something that authors who love to write about real life could sneak in and could actually get away with. It’s something that people obviously really say and yet it has all the word play of rap, spoken word, and some modern poetry. That lady may have been a multitude of body parts but what she said was absolutely awesome.

Bobby Moynihan

…was fucking hilarious at Assscat last night. Lutz was like the silent-set-up guy in a bunch of the sketches (Jon Lutz is a writer for SNL and a plays “Lutz” on 30 Rock. How awesome is that? I would die happy if I got to play me on a comedy show with as many Emmys as 30 Rock. Or just on be on 30 Rock, I guess). I get the impression that it’s much easier to be hilarious when you’re working with a bunch of really funny people saying really funny things instead of sitting around and crafting a situation that can make the host look funny. What I mean is, I really think SNL should go back to the good old days where the show was improvised and the people who hosted were hilarious instead of visiting in order to promote the movie they’re in next week.

I mean, seriously. Moynihan provided at least three running jokes throughout the entire show. I cried after one his punchlines and continued to laugh at markedly un-funny things in the next sketch when I thought about the punchline again. And yet, when he’s on SNL, he gets to be the supporting actor and say two to three lines–most of which aren’t the funniest lines that have been written. After last night it’s become clear it’s not him and it’s not Lutz. It can’t be anything but the medium.

SNL has the potential to be, according to my calculations, at least 5 times funnier if they would just take it old school but get a censor and broadcast it with a seven second delay because these people are absolutely filthy. But in a good way.

The saddest thing about coming to understand all this is that I know it won’t happen. SNL needs their hosts to be highly recognizable actors to ring in adoring fans and the entertainment industry wants big names on the show because they know it’s “free” advertising. It’s a vicious cycle where we keep tuning in even though we know we’re really only getting mediocre comedy. Perhaps we compromise because we know the host or hostess won’t be totally repellant–they have to have some sort of talent to get there, right? Right?–and that it beats crying yourself to sleep on a Saturday. Or we’re just there for the bands. (Shout out to my boys who rule the lands of Leon. Also, cheer up and cut your hair, Louis Vuitton Don of Emo.)

Oh, Adulthood. You smell of compromise and kind-of-giggle-worthy jokes.