BOLIVIGUAY: Land of Extravaganchantment!

The Boliviguay Board of Tourism

In Cooperation With the Muchovision Network

From A Grant Provided By The Sumitomi Amalgamated Chemical Corporation

Is Proud To Present

BOLIVIGUAY: LAND OF EXTRAVAGANCHANTMENT!

A Visitor's Guide To The World's Only Extravaganzocracy

With Your Host

Francisco Guglioni

A husky man in a suit and tie (with a kick-ass haircut) stands on a beach addressing the camera as turquoise waves gently lap white sand in the background. Various beachcombers and swimmers populate the background as well, frolicking in the sun - and each of them also addressing small camera crews that follow them around.

FRANCISCO
(sounding vaguely Spanish) Hello, I'm Francisco Guglioni, and yes, this is a plantain in my pocket. Here in my home country, that's just our way of saying "I'm happy to see you." And let me tell you, there aren't any pockets roomy enough to accommodate all of the plantains it would take to properly convey just how happy I am to be here today. And also, there aren't any plantains small enough so that a regular-sized pocket could hold enough of them for the same metaphor. Which is to say, very. (awkward pause) Because I always consider it a treat to introduce new friends to the place where I grew up, the country affectionately known the world over as 'The Tiny Circus'. That's right, welcome to Boliviguay: Land of Extravaganchantment!

As Francisco smiles and spreads his arms wide, the camera quickly pulls back and up to give an aerial view, revealing that the entire beach is swarming with camera crews and people with microphones. Then, a quick cut back to Francisco addressing the camera at eye level.

FRANCISCO (con.)
Boliviguay is an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, polka-dot bikini of a country in South America, located smack dab in between Bolivia and Paraguay. You won't find it on any map, unless I get to the map first (holds up a Sharpie pen)!

Cut to an old, scuffed-up globe, spinning slowly and being brought to a stop by a hand. The camera pans in to South America, where it looks like someone with a black magic marker has drawn an arrow pointing at a dot in between Bolivia and Paraguay. At the end of the arrow is the word 'Boliviguay' handwritten in the same black magic marker. Cut back to Francisco.

FRANCISCO (con.)
And even then, your first reaction would most likely not be "cool, a new country", it would probably be something like "how did you get in my house, you handsome, dashing..." followed by kissing noises. But I'm not hear to fantasize about breaking into your home and making love to you, I can do that on my own time. And I will. Today, I'm here to tell you about Boliviguay: Land of Extravaganchantment!

Again, Francisco smiles and spreads his arms, and again the camera quickly pulls back to the big overhead shot. Cut back to Francisco.

FRANCISCO (con.)
Here in Boliviguay, the national language is English...but with a Spanish accent. True story.

TO BE CONTINUED...

What's this guy got up his sleeve?

Seriously, this guy looks crafty.

Step away from the briefcase...

...or face certain doom! For I have returned! Yes, it is I, The Man With Unfortunate Teeth And A Briefcase Full Of Pussy!

And this time I mean business. YES, this time, rather than appearing before you as part of some ill-defined errand, I am in possession of specific instructions to answer any questions you might have concerning...let me check my notes...ah yes: WORLD PEACE AND HOW TO ACHIEVE IT! Any questions you may have on this topic, I shall answer! This is truly your luckiest day. A dawning of a new era awaits you, my friends. Ask away.

"Did you say a briefcase full of pussy?"

What? Oh, yes. This briefcase is positively, unequivocally brimming with pussy. BUT THAT IS NOT WHY I AM HERE! Any questions concerning WORLD PEACE AND HOW TO ACHIEVE IT, no matter how esoteric or complicated or seemingly impossible to answer, I shall answer completely and truthfully and illuminatingly! World Peace, people. It is yours to grasp, provided you ask the right questions. Ask...away!

"Where can I get a briefcase like that? One that's full of pussy?"

Um. You can't, actually. The powers that surge beneath this flimsy fabric you call "reality" would never allow it. But what they HAVE allowed is for you to be given the key to WORLD PEACE!

"How come your teeth are so ugly?"

Unfortunate.

"Sorry - how come your teeth are so unfortunate?"

I believe I covered that last time!

"I wasn't here for that session."

AH! Disirregardless, the unfortunate nature of my teeth is not part of that which is being offered to you today!

"I have an idea."

What's that?

"Combine the world peace premise of this sketch, combine it with the last one about you, and perform it soon. On stage."

Hmm.

"You could even get other comics to ask the questions and stuff."

I like that.

"So are we done then?"

VERY WELL!

"You better behave yourself, Eight Degrees, or you're headed for a time out, mister."

These single digit temperatures don't know how to behave themselves.

Where are you? Who is he?

Are you wearing mittens? Is it snowing? Can you see your breath? I'm okay. All of you, get back here. I can't let go. Nah, I'm fine. Hey - your friends were assholes, by the way. My friends, on the other hand - in a FRIEND-OFF, well, I'm afraid they would simply outfriend yours. So let 'em know that. In the meantime, are you wearing mittens? I'd hold your hands and rub them if it weren't so AFTER us. Alright, so you're all gone, who's next? Where are you hiding? And you'd better be wearing mittens.

Helium: The Noblest Gas!

Here's a bit that I probably won't be doing anymore - I think it's on my old blog, but here ya go anyway:

Helium: The Noblest Gas!
Last performed on October 1st, 2004 as part of "Olsen, du Bouchet & Maher"

I walk out wearing a lab coat and bow tie. I hold up a red balloon. I speak with a high voice.

Helium. One of our most useful, but also one of our least understood gases. What is helium? To most of us, it is nothing more than the substance we use to inflate party balloons. But helium is so much more. Come with me now, won’t you, and together, thanks to a grant provided by the American Helium Advisory Council, we shall discover the wonders of Helium, The Noblest Gas!

I release the balloon upwards, expecting it to float away – instead, it sinks to the ground.

This particular balloon is not filled with helium. Let’s move on.

The year is 1868. Venezuela has just begun its long, tumultuous relationship with that sultry lady known as Civil War. The good people of Japan are waking up to the dawn of the Meiji Restoration. The United States Congress says “yay” to impeaching President Andrew Johnson, “nay” to actually removing him from office, and “Howdy, you big cowpoke, welcome to the Union” to the brand new state of Wyoming. In a bittersweet turn of the Great Wheel of Life, the whole world celebrates the birth of Scott Joplin, the future King of Ragtime Music, and then mourns the death of David Brewster, the inventor of the kaleidoscope.

And on the dark and mysterious subcontinent known as "India", French astronomer Pierre-Jules-César Janssen discovers the first evidence of a brand new element! While observing an eclipse through his telescope, he notices a heretofore undocumented yellow line in the solar spectrum. This would prove to be one of the most startling encounters with a yellow line in young Pierre’s life, second only to the time just a few days earlier, when his brother, Francois, had gotten completely loaded up on Beaujolais and then relieved himself in the snow on Pierre’s front porch before passing out. There in the snow next to Francois’ unconscious body, in fine, yellow script it read – and I’m translating from the French here:

“My dearest brother Pierre, best of luck to you on your upcoming trip to India to study the solar eclipse. I am so proud that you have the talent and drive to pursue your lifelong passion of becoming a truly great astronomer. Do you remember the times I teased you about your dreams when we were children? I said you had stardust in your brain, and I always gave you horrible wedgies. Well, now it is I who deserves the wedgies. You are now a great man of science, whereas I am nothing but a drunkard with an extraordinarily large bladder and incredible penile dexterity. Sincerely, your devoted brother, Francois-Guy-Henri Janssen.”

And Francois did indeed have incredible penile dexterity, for there, beneath the many loops and flourishes of his signature, was a perfect, yellow rendering of the family crest. Two unicorns crossing horns in front of a shield emblazoned with a perfect map of France, detailed down to the county lines, and shaded according to each region’s population density.

Incidentally, Francois would go on to reap quite a fortune touring the globe, displaying his prodigious skills as a urinary maestro until passing away tragically from an infection that he contracted in the Amazon river. An infection brought about by the Candiru, a very tiny species of catfish that, when sensing warm urine in the water, follows the urine stream up into the human urethra and then, using tiny spines on its head, lodges there, causing excruciating pain, then infection, then ultimately, death.

They called this new element helium!

Helium is colorless, odorless, tasteless, nontoxic and nonflammable, making it virtually undetectable, much like Dick Cheney. It is continually being produced in the Earth’s crust by the radioactive decay of uranium and other elements, and then gradually works its way into the atmosphere, much the way Danny Devito must gradually work his way into Rhea Perlman.

Is that a Danny Devito has a big penis joke or a Rhea Perlman is incredibly tiny joke or a Danny Devito is so ugly that Rhea Perlman is as dry as a bone joke or a Rhea Perlman is so ugly that Danny Devito can’t get it up joke? Let’s move on.

By now you may have noticed that I have an unusually high voice. It is no coincidence that the American Helium Advisory Council chose me to be their spokesman, as helium is indirectly responsible for my voice. By which I mean that helium is directly responsible for my voice. The story of how my voice became this way is a fascinating one.

I used to make my living performing as a clown at children’s parties. Aside from the regular clown tricks such as self-ridicule and comedic tumbling, part of my act was to delight the children by sucking helium and talking in a high voice. Day after day, I inhaled deep of the cool breath of helium from the portable helium tank. I would sometimes become a bit dizzy. Sometimes my voice would stay high for a little bit longer than expected. But little did I know the harm I was setting myself up for. One day, during a little boy’s birthday party, the boy’s single mother and I hit it off over some coffee and poundcake. One thing led to another, and in a dizzy, helium haze we began consummating our passion right there on the gift table. Her son saw us, and, in a fit of Freudian rage, the six year old sliced off my testicles with my one of my own props – a pair of novelty oversized toenail clippers. As I screamed in pain and blood shot from my groin like a lawn sprinkler, the child calmly fed my manhood to the family dog, a Pomeranian named Fritzy.

Helium also plays an integral role in the process of nuclear fusion!

Well, we’ve learned a lot about helium tonight. Next time, I will tell you the story of a man with such a low voice that he needed to inhale helium on a daily basis just to be heard, otherwise his voice would be nothing more than an inaudible rumble. Despite this handicap, he would go on to be a very successful man. His name? James Earl Jones!

Good night!

Stop Pretending That I Have Bad Breath, Cate Blanchett!

I'm sick of it! My mouth is positively afroth with minty Listerine Breath Strips now, you cannot possibly think that I have bad breath! STOP IT! Ah, curses. Each time I dare approach you for some brief glimpse of your luminous beauty, or to compliment you on your performance in the Lord of the Rings films, or The Life Aquatic (your skin in that film - BY ZEUS YOUR SKIN!) you giggle and twitter and cover your face as if to indicate that my breath is rancid. At first I took heed of this social cue, and immediately repaired to a Duane Reade where I procured some Scope for gargling purposes. But upon my second approach, you again veiled your mouth and nose and tee-heed at me. I can only conclude at this point that you, for some diabolical reason, have vowed to invoke this faux reaction regardless of what my breath smells like! Absurd and callous, I say! I am so mad at you, Ms. Blanchett, that I have resolved to NOT ask you to sign my poop hat.

I want to sing in the subway.

I want to sing in the subway.

I want to be the smile on her face before her morning coffee.

I want my voice to fill the underground and echo up to the streets, louder than anyone has a right to expect.

I won't need a microphone.

I want to stand next to a hat.

I Am The Commander Of A Glacier Expedition Circa 1912

Through a combination of late night drunken bar photobooth tomfoolery, a poor scanner, shoddy photo manipulation and my own ineptitude with computers, my attempts to add a new photo strip to this blog have instead resulted in this giant, unwieldy, grainy, goopy image:



McGovern, prime the ice rudder! Flenz, space the pick shifters at thrice a horizon! We're not going to break this flow without a few beams cracking, gentlemen, so get the brace joints ready! Here we go!

Yeah, I could've been a glacier expedition commander in 1912. Not 1914 though. That would be fucked up.

I Specialize In Gourmet Bagel Spreads

Hello. I'm Sal Glanzbo, of Glanzbo Bagels & Spreads gourmet food shop on 112th and Broadway. For the past 42 years, I've been catering to the Columbia University area out of this small shop - boiling and baking my own bagels, and concocting a wild variety of delicious bagel spreads in my own little "Flavorboratory". Here. Try the pine chive tofu. I know, you wouldn't think but it is, eh? I know! It's a big seller. You put some of that on a lightly toasted salt bagel with a slice of tomato? Through the roof. Anyhow, people say I look great for a man in his late 70s, and I'm inclined to agree. Here's a picture of me at my grandson's christening:



My daughter-in-law insisted on using an awards show theme. I tell ya, good old Sal still has a way with the ladies, too! My dear Rose, bless her soul, passed six years ago, so since then I've been wooing and wowing some of the more elegant seniors on my block. I'm proud to say I had a date with a 56 year old last week! I'm smooth, just like my organic fennel butter. Put some of that on an egg bagel BEFORE you toast it? Through the roof. Anyhow, I am very old and man don't I look old.

Hey ensign!

Howzitgoin. Cleaning the bulkhead, eh? Neat. Hey - do you keep a log? I know that as the captain, it's part of my job to "log" all the stuff we encounter, but do you guys keep logs too? You should try it if you don't. I get a lot off my chest through logging. Maybe too much. Central Space Command has been riding my space ass about all of the "daddy" bullshit I've been logging lately. Well you know what I say? Space fuck 'em. Anyhoo-way, I'm logging about last space week's encounter with the...the...well there's the problem. What would you call it? Ooh, I like that. UNFRIENDLY ENTITY, CATEGORY SIX. I like that - it's very mysterious! Did you come up...what? What guidelines? Oh. So there are guidelines about...so that thing falls into category six, huh? Hey ensign. Do you mind telling me how many categories of unfriendly entities there are? Holy douche! Wow. Well, these next six space years are sure to be fraught with all sorts of shit hitting all sorts of fans! Um, to answer your questions, yes to both. Drunk and quoting 20th century stuff. Ensign, what kind of a situation would be necessary in order for some shit to actually HIT a fan? How the heck did our ancestors come up with that saying? Ah yes -- fecal spray imagery. Nasty. Well I'll let you get back to cleaning the bulkhead while I go LOG. Category six...is that because of the tentacles or the toothed anus? Ah, the mysteries of the universe!

DUCK! HE'S GOT A LASER CAVITY!

I went to the dentist this evening, for the first time in what seems like years. Well, two years. Is what. Anyway, at one point during the oral-investigatory proceedings, Dr. Goldstein (interestingly enough, that is his actual name, but it would also have been the fictional name I'd have chosen) started poking a little light pen thingy in my mouth. He said "this is a laser cavity detector". I said "Oh, it uses a laser to detect cavities?" And he responded "No, it uses a plain red light to detect LASER CAVITIES!" He went on to point out the many scorch marks on the walls and ceiling of the room, and shook his head chucklingly. "If you eat too much laser candy, you might develop a laser cavity, and that would be trouble." You know, this blog has gotten too bloggy - I gotta get back to writing actual pieces of entertainment. But first,

Current mood: bathrobe
Current music: Snow Patrol, track 8
Current haircut: awesome

"Tell that fat spelling bee kid to stop chasing the pelican!"

That's all you need to know about my one Tonight Show appearance.

I can finally say the following sentence while watching Leno stink up late night tv:

"Jesus, Carson must be rolling in his grave."

Drunken Fact-Check Etiquette

Late last night I found myself, as I often do, having a pint(s) at a bar. Drunken late night conversations are never exactly 100% "factual" or "interesting" or "worth anyone's actual time and effort at all ever", but there we were, a gaggle of tipsy dimwits talking about METALLICA(!).

Anyhoo, my tottering associate assured me that at some point in the early 90s, Metallica performed a concert in Russia at which 250,000 people died. Yep. 250,000. Now, when presented with such an assertion, what is the proper late night drunken retort? In my mind, I was certain he was wrong, but how best to politely deal with the situation? Here are the basic categories of possible responses, as far as I'm concerned:

A. "Wow! 250,000 people! Died! At a Metallica concert! That's...wow. I am woefully underinformed about what must certainly be an historically famous ACT OF GENOCIDE. At a concert. Gosh."

B. "Somebody get Retard-o-tron another drink! This is awesome!"

C. "Oh my God. That's terrible. All those people. SO MANY people. A REALLY HARD-TO-BELIEVELY LARGE NUMBER OF PEOPLE."

D. "You're wrong. Either completely, or by a factor of at least 1,000. My guess is you're wrong by a factor of 10,000. Which is really boner dumb."

E. "I love you, man."

F. "Pfffffft!"

G. "AND THE EARTH BECOMES MY THROOOOONE! YEAH HEEYEAH HOOOOO WHOAH!"

I chose a combination of D and G, minus the "boner dumb" part.

The Golden Globs

Would be a good name for a honey and honey-related products awards show.

The du Bouchet Index Of Completely Fake Companies That Are Fun To Work For

Fortune magazine recently released their list of the 100 BEST COMPANIES TO WORK FOR 2005, and I must say, they left off a few stellar corporations that I would like to praise here:

Hamsterlook International
When visitors first tour Hamsterlook's Pasadena-based campus, it's not the thousands of free-roaming hamsters that catch their eye, it's the free soda. According to Hamsterlook's Corporate VP of "HLATH"* Steve Turducken, it's small perks like free soda and Afternoon Kite Time that make working at Hamsterlook a pleasure. "Not to mention," adds Steve, "the fact that our employees' jobs consist of nothing more than enthusiastically watching hamsters - which is pretty easy and fun."

BJ Machine Testing Co.
It was difficult to find an employee of BJ Machine Testing Co. who wasn't either testing a BJ machine at that moment or napping with a smile on his face, but those I spoke to either raved about the company or shoved me aside saying "Get outta my way so I can go test another BJ machine!"

Bickle's Pickle Bin
Apparently, this upstate roadside pickle stand with a Taxi Driver theme is a great place to work. At least according to its sole employee it is: "Are you looking at my delicious pickles? Are you looking at my delicious pickles? Well, the only delicious pickles here are MY delicious pickles so well, you get the point," says Harnard 'Travis' Feldswatch. And fyi - the pickles ARE delicious.

Every Time Someone Farts We All Laugh No Matter What Industries
"You'd think that working for a company at which it is absolutely mandatory to oof(pause) HA HA HA HA laugh everytime someone farts no matter what would be grueling. I mean after all, farts just aren't that funny. But I'll tell you what, after a while the fact that laughing at the farts is mandatory in and of itself becomes pretty funny," says Pierre Dealtit, Regional Making Sure That Everyone Is Laughing Whenever Someone Farts No Matter What Director.

*"Hey, look at the hamsters."

Crippling introspection be damned, I'll take what's behind door number "me".

As the minutes tick down to midnight, and the temperature outside retreats, here in the twin glow of my two desk lamps I shrink, hunched at my keyboard and drowsy. There's a little water left in the glass. My gym bag, I'll pack in the morning. I've brushed my teeth. The alarm clock is set. All that stands between now and a cubicle is eight hours of fretful sleep and my infinite potential for lingering. Dwelling and doubting and in the end confident I can't do much other than accept who the fuck I am. Which actually becomes comforting.

Actually, I'm getting them ALL cut! LOL!

Prepare for the awesome return of my kick-ass haircut! It approaches! My haircut was here in all its glory just a few weeks ago, but for some odd reason it decided to gradually leave me - now it is gone, leaving an unholy thicket of manfur behind. But tonight, tonight I shall convince my haircut to return - I possess the means to persuade it. Through a clever combination of going to a certain place, sitting in a certain chair, and giving a certain Greek woman thirteen bucks, I am confident that I shall be able to entice my haircut to roost once more atop my massive skull. And then...then you shall see. YOU SHALL ALL SEE! I believe I have before addressed the issue of how much ass my haircut kicks (so much it's not even funny), but you will not truly comprehend this fact until you bask in its haircutasticness. Ah. Haircut. I would marry you if I could:

MINISTER FLOYD
Do you, Andres du Bouchet, take your haircut to be your lawfully wedded haircut?

ANDRES
I do.

MINISTER FLOYD
Do you, Andres' haircut, take Andres to be the guy whose haircut you are?

(long pause)

MINISTER FLOYD
Haircut?

(long pause)

ANDRES
Not again. NOT AGAIN, HAIRCUT! Why must you toy with my emotions so! And also, I am crazy!

Lunchtime musings.

It seems to me such a simple thing, yet so wondrous: a thin layer of cheese, when placed upon...ANYTHING...makes that thing delicious. Mmm.

What's the deal with paperclips?

I miss missing someone.

Yesterday a friend said to me: "'Usually' is a strong word."

Q: Why aren't there any seatbelts on buses?
A: Because the bus manufacturers are THAT confident that you'll be surrounded by fat people.

Last weekend while we were dining at Applebee's, my friend invented a fictional finger-food: OREGANO THRUSTERS.

THE WARM SPOT: good name for a band.

Governor Schwarzenegger on the mudslides: "I thought the mudslides were just an awesome, action-packed adventure for everyone. Full of thrills and action, really they had to be the best mudslides this state has ever seen. Adventure."

Phrase my friend and I repeated ad-infinitum last weekend: FRIGHTENED MIXED BREED CHOW CHOW. (from a local news soundbite up in Ithaca) Also a good name for a band.

Something I shouldn't have drunkenly said to a gathering of my friends on New Year's Eve: "I don't have enough fingers on my hands to count the number of my friends' girlfriends or spouses that I find attractive!"

CSI: Futon Stain Investigation Unit!

It runs in the family!

People often ask me where I think I got my sense of humor from. To put it simply, it runs in the family. Check this out - it's a very funny piece my father co-wrote back in the 1970s. Enjoy!

My bus ride back from Ithaca.

Ray Charles' vinyl voice
crackling through my shitty iPod headphones
you could make bread from his voice
or vodka

"Oooh, buh-buh-buh-Benny And The Jets!"

I was walking down the street the other day - not that day but the other one, right - and I passed a young black man with headphones on, who was very loudly, very aggressively rapping along with whatever tune was playing on his discman. As we passed we made brief eye contact, during which time he held my gaze with defiance and anger and continued rapping: yeah the human race is a disgrace and let's face it y'all crackuh motherfuckas should be WASTED. Nice. Real nice, and what timing on the lyrics! But I wasn't going to back down. I ripped his headphones off his head and belted out: YOU GOT A NICE WHITE DRESS AND A PARTY ON YOUR CONFIRMATION!

Touche!

I AM BEREFT OF STAGE PRESENCE!

Here's something I'm going to try tonight at Rififi. I've been fighting a cold for the past few days, so I haven't had the wherewithal to actually finish and memorize the bit for tonight, so I kinda reworked it so that me reading it off the script is incorporated into it. This will be a piece that will succeed (if it succeeds) more due to my sheer commitment (yelling) than the sharpness of the piece. I hope to refine it and make it better down the line, but it should be fun tonight nonetheless. Consider it a rough draft...

I've Lost My Stage Presence!
by Andrés du Bouchet
for INVITE THEM UP
on January 12th, 2005

(one last thing - keep in mind that I'm delivering my lines in as thunderous, booming a theatrical voice as I can muster. Oh, and obviously the host and I are both reading off the page)

EUGENE
Please welcome to the stage, Andres du Bouchet!

(beat)

EUGENE
Andres?

ANDRES
(from the audience) I...

EUGENE
Andres, are you here?

ANDRES
Yes.

EUGENE
Well, come on up to the stage. Ladies and gentlemen, Andres du-

ANDRES
I'm afraid that's not possible.

EUGENE
Why not?

ANDRES
I've lost my stage presence.

EUGENE
You've what?

ANDRES
I'VE LOST MY STAGE PRESENCE, DAMMIT!

EUGENE
You've lost your stage presence.

ANDRES
I apologize for wasting your time. When I had initially booked this spot, I thought "surely, my stage presence will return to me by then..." but alas, it has not. Therefore, I cannot take the stage! I must remain here meekly in the shadows, hidden.

EUGENE
You sound like you've got stage presence.

ANDRES
Ah ha ha ha! Do not mock me. I have no stage presence. The ability to stand on a stage and command an audience's attention has left me. Like a flock of terns or herons or perhaps egrets it has migrated to some fairer land. I am without the pleasure of the company of she who walks with those who do not fear the stage. She who is known as: Lady Stage Presence. Oh where are you, milady? I AM BEREFT OF STAGE PRESENCE.

EUGENE
Andres, it really, really sounds to me like you're fine, so how about -

ANDRES
Nay! You would find more stage presence in the heart of a squirrel forced to perform in front of an audience comprised solely of sentient b.b. guns. I wilt! I flounder! I sweat and stammer! I am incapacitated with ball-shrinking fear!

EUGENE
But you've always had great stage presence, how could you just lose it?

ANDRES
I feel my spirit dwindling even now as I attempt to relate the circumstances surrounding my sudden timidity! Ah would that I had the will, the strength to tell the tale, but I am at a loss for words! Why!

EUGENE
Um. Alright, if you don't feel like performing tonight then -

ANDRES
Even now the memory haunts me! Even now, I shiver as though a blood slurpee runs through my veins. 'Twas but a fortnight ago, when I did a set at the Blattfarb briss.

EUGENE
You know the Blattfarbs?

ANDRES
I only met them at the briss, though I was familiar with their successful line of ice cube trays and ice cube tray accessories.

EUGENE
Ok, okay, we're not talking about the same Blattfarbs then.

ANDRES
Really, there's another Blattfarb family on the Upper West Side?

EUGENE
Not to my knowledge.

ANDRES
Scott and Shoshana Blattfarb, on West 96th St. And their son, Howie.

EUGENE
Oh yeah, that's them. But Howie's 13, they wouldn't be having a briss.

ANDRES
Briss. I meant Bar Mitzvah! My apologies, I am not well-versed in Jewish folklore and its related rituals.

EUGENE
It was Howie Blattfarb's Bar Mitzvah.

ANDRES
Right.

EUGENE
But the Blattfarb's don't have a company that manufactures ice cube trays and ice cube tray accessories.

ANDRES
Ice cube trays...I meant hammocks.

EUGENE
Yes, Blattfarb Hammocks, that's them. So you performed at Howie's Blattfarb's Bar Mitzvah.

ANDRES
What? OH YES, I performed at young Howie's Bar Mitzvah, as part of the post-indoctrination ceremonies.

EUGENE
The party.

ANDRES
Wrangled and cajoled to perform in the middle of a scuffed-up parquet dance floor, mere seconds after poor Mrs. Blattfarb was hoisted aloft and jostled in a chair to hyper-festive music. To a sea of staring faces I performed an ill-chosen monologue. Naked Trampoline Hamlet.

EUGENE
That’s a funny bit.

ANDRES
Funny? Yes. But perhaps not appropriate for a young man's coming-of-age.

EUGENE
True.

ANDRES
I bellowed my way through the speech – I had not yet lost my stage presence you see…and I was met with disapproving silence. A horizon of yarmulkes greeted me as they all stared down at their dinners. The initials HB stitched onto the center of each one. And around those initials, in tiny script, "December 27th, 2004: Today another Blattfarb enters manhood - mazeltov from the entire" unpronounceable name of the congregation. As a side note, I should mention that I have the eyes of an eagle who subsists on a diet of nothing but rabbits who subsist on a diet of nothing but carrots. And in that moment, Eugene, something left me. A chill wind blew through my soul. A frost gathered on my bones it seemed, and my spirit did dwindle. All semblance of fortitude drained from my blood and I was rendered but a husk. A hollow shell within which echoed nothing but whimpering murmurs of doubt. i.e. I NOW HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO STAGE PRESENCE! In the days since I have become puny. I have not even had the strength of will to memorize my own pieces. I find myself on book all the time now, and...LOOK, like a virus it has spread to you!

EUGENE
Well, maybe you could get your stage presence back tonight.

ANDRES
Pray tell how?

EUGENE
Get on up here and see what happens.

ANDRES
Nay, the gulf between where you and I stand is greater and more vast and also bigger than that which can be measured in physical distance. You are furlongs away. I must cower here, groveling on the ego-strewn floor of an unfathomable abyss - so deep and inaccessibly lost in the bowels of my own dysfunction that the light of self-confidence is not a glimmer, is not a glint, is not a flicker - nay, it is but a memory as I weep in the pitch black.

EUGENE
C'mon Andres. Ladies and gentlemen, let's give him a hand and get him on up here.

ANDRES
You are...inviting me up, as it were?

EUGENE
Yes. I am inviting you up.

ANDRES
And what I if I were a group of people you wished to refer to in the third person, what then?

EUGENE
I would Invite THEM Up.

ANDRES
Ah ha ha ha ha! What a view...A View To A Kill!

EUGENE
What?

ANDRES
That little exchange reminded me of when Christopher Walken's character awkwardly shoehorns the title of the film A View To A Kill right into the middle of a scene. It's always funny when films do that. And you shall be known as The Fellowship Of The Ring! Etc.

EUGENE
Aaaalright. Listen, are you going to get up here or not?

ANDRES
Dare I?

EUGENE
Well actually, at this point the bit is running long so maybe -

ANDRES
I cannot comply! For me to take the stage would be a waste of your time! A waste of all your timeses.

EUGENE
Fine, then -

ANDRES
Dare I tempt Lady Stage Presence to jilt me a second time? Or do I ferment here in the shadows? Too meek to thrust myself in front of the public eye. A wilted flower. A flacid turd.

EUGENE
Then don't -

ANDRES
No, I am too scared! I cannot take the stage!

EUGENE
Fine.

ANDRES
I can't!

EUGENE
Good, shut up.

ANDRES
I shall shut up. To the bar, I shall diminish, and remain Andres du Bouchet! Farewell!

(eh - it's all over the place - like I said, until the writing is sharpened, what shall carry this bit is sheer, bludgeoning COMMITMENT!)

Random snippet #1 from my Great American Novel

"You ever pine for her much, Earl?"
Ned flicked the tab on his can of Sprite absent-mindedly as he waited for his brother's answer.
Earl's eyes remained fixed on the map they had spread between them, and he sighed.
"Damn. I pine so much you could hang me on a rearview mirror."
They didn't speak again until Tulsa.

Mr. Nudewell

I'm sure there are some nudist colonies out there that publish their own newsletters. If so, do any of these newsletters feature a snide, snotty, year-end "10 Dressed List". Hmm?

I'm In Good Company

2004 ended with a couple of honors coming my way, both of which I'm very proud of - especially considering the other people I'm being grouped with. First of all, in Time Out New York's "Best/Worst of 2004" year-end issue, I was named one of the best comedians in New York City, along with some other really great comics. In fact, I think I'm the only person on the list who doesn't actually make their living as a comedian. If there ever was a cold, hard indictment of my business savvy and self-promotional skills, there ya go. THEN, I just found out that I'm a finalist in the 2005 Nightlife Awards for "Unique Comedy Performance". The neat thing about these awards is that they announce the winners before the actual show, so I already know I didn't win. Same thing happened last year, but I'm just honored to be honored. Anyhoo, onwards and upwards!

Poop Away The Weekend* And Other Sober Mumblings

Ah yes. It's around this hour every week that I like to settle in with a gargantuan bottle of plain seltzer and attempt to "Poop Away The Weekend." So far no luck. However, there's plenty of seltzer and Sportscenter to go, and the latest issue of The Onion is waiting for me in the commode. Patiently waiting, as most periodicals are wont to do (at least in this century - the microscopic donkey robots** that inhabit my left cochlea have informed me that in THEIR time (2138 or thereabouts, they're not sure, as the time shift scrambled their time-u-lators (I know, awkward name for a clock, right? It's not like I'm going to argue with tiny indestructible donkey robots with access to my brain, right?) when they appeared in my cochlea.) there are periodicals which follow you around and continually attempt to leap in front of your eyes I've totally lost track of the parentheses in this post so here's a few for the heck of it ))) ALRIGHT NOW IT LOOKS LIKE AQUAMAN IS TALKING! Fuck. New paragraph.

And, um. What's weird is that I am completely sober right now. Oh, here's something - the next time you hear that Cheryl Crow / Kid Rock duet, just replace any phrase of the song with "you're a friend and a confidante", and soon you will realize that IT'S THE GOLDEN GIRLS THEME. Wake up, people! It's the theme from Golden Girls!

In fact, from now on, whenever I detect that some piece of pop culture, be it music, book, film or tv show, is merely a carbon copy of some other piece of pop culture, I'm going to blurt out "Wake up, people! Golden Girls!" I'm sure people will appreciate it.

Clitars*** have been a popular musical instrument on this island since the mid-18th century. The delicate art of harvesting the spider silk necessary to string the tiny instruments takes years to master, as does the craft of playing the instrument. Most females on this island learn to play at an early age, and to a Westerner, a Clitar recital can seem practically pornographic. Especially since the Clitarists are required to fellate male members of the tribe during songs. Oh, it's terrible, terrible music. And this was an awful paragraph.

I recently got a new pay channel: "HBO Five Minutes Ago", which is great, because I always seem to remember my favorite shows are on HBO just about five minutes too late.

Also, I got "We! Zee!" which only shows episodes of the Jeffersons.

Also, um. WHY CAN'T I POOP AWAY THE WEEKEND?!??!

*My favorite Loverboy song.
**I call them "microdonkeybots"!
***Clitoral Guitars

Million Dollar Baby

Excellent movie, despite the rather turn-on-a-dime mood shift about two thirds of the way through. And I'm not so sure "Tubthumping" was an appropriate song for the end credits.

I am typing this at the Apple Store!

Pretty sweet. Ah crap, I better get off the computer, the Apple Store guy is about to notice me. He didn't see me sneak back here into his office when he went out to the pick-up truck to unload some more Golden Delicious apples.

SERIOUSLY though, Soho ain't so crowded on crappy days like this. Nice. Sorry none of this was funny.

Math-teaser!

Q: What do these numerical sequences have in common?

1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, banana

2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, banana

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, banana

(scroll down for the answer!)
















































A: All three numerical sequences kick ass.

A: "I finally passed the bar!"

Q: What did the 500-foot tall lawyer say three days after eating an entire T.G.I. Friday's restaurant?

I want the passing traffic to scrape my nose.

You're standing on a street corner, waiting for the WALK sign. You're on the curb, where you should be. Another New Yorker approaches from behind, pauses next to you, but then takes a step into the street. He or she is now just inches closer to the traffic than you are. Another person arrives, and inches just a little further than the previous person. And so on. Trust me - no matter how far into traffic the furthest pedestrian is, someone will come along and step even FURTHER into traffic, just to be at the head of the pack. Just chomping at the bit to cross the street once the sign changes. This morning, as an experiment, I inched myself past the man in front of me so that I was the leader of the pack. He, on his cell phone, then reflexively stepped past me so that he was again in front. I inched forward again, now a little too close to the passing traffic. He inched past me. Wanting to see when his self-preservation instincts would over-ride his asshole instincts, I kept moving forward until I was really uncomfortably, perhaps even dangerously close to the passing cars. Astoundingly, without missing a beat, he passed me AGAIN, and his jaw was promptly knocked off by the rearview mirror of a passing plumbing supplies van. As blood spouted from his newly opened neckhole, and an unholy mewl of confused pain ripped forth from his now exposed larynx, I stepped back onto the curb and chuckled to myself. Then the light changed, and all of us tramped across the businessman's now dead body to cross the street. The end.

"It", I'd like to introduce you to something I call "The Next Level". That's where I'll be taking you now. Hang on.

That's right. It being 2005 and all, I figure it's about time to release "It" from the confines of this particular level, and allow "It" to take the leap to a place I like to call "The Next Level", or as some folks refer to it - "The Level After This One".

To sum up, it's time to take "It" to the "Next Level". It's also time to stop using big, flashy quotes and capitalization in this post.

Now, to be sure, since I've never exposed it to the next level, I'm not exactly sure what will happen. Great things could happen. It might really thrive there. The next level might be a place that it really likes. On the other hand, it might not be able to handle the next level, and might clamor to return to the relative safety and obscurity of this particular level. I hope not. It's explored this level pretty thoroughly, and I personally feel that it can benefit from a new level. The next level.

So, let's see what happens. It? Get in the catapult.

"You are indeed hungover, but make no mistake...I AM a talking chipmunk."

HAPPY NEW YEAR! Welcome to 2005. I'm up. I swear I'm up now. Hand me a coffee and some advil and let's get this ball rollin'.