"How many songs can it hold?"

was my first question upon seeing my friend's new baby boy. I guess I'm not exactly father material yet. Seriously though, how many gigs do you think a three week old baby has?

Cheap Seats

Today I'm shooting what should be a pretty funny segment for the ESPN Classic show "Cheap Seats". I play a car dealer who keeps popping up on the set of the show - it's funny stuff. I'll keep you posted! And by you, I mean YOU Stan Zlrczisak of Pal Umbro, Rhode Island!

Yeah, I really stopped trying with the whole "made up names" thing ages ago.

UPDATE: It's going to air on Monday, November 28th at 10pm on ESPN Classic. I think it went well, so tune in!

Holy Cow, I'm In Love!

Holy cow, I'm in love!
Golly wow, I'm in love!
Kaboom Kapow, I'm in love!
The world is one big tickle!
Oh all the babies and the puppies and the cookies agree
that you're the cutesy wootsie tootsie smoochy lady for me...

---

Tonight I'm doing my vampire audition bit for a Comedy Central thingy (that's industry speak for you non-industry...thingies) and since I can't sing "I Love To Cry At Weddings" for rights reasons, I made up the above song. Hooray! Wish me luck, you might see me covered in fake blood on the internet.

My back is fucking killing me ow my fucking back ow.

Seriously, I thought I'd had back aches before, but this is ridiculous. I'm positively stooped! I'm steeped in stoopedness! I'm grimace wincing and my steps are mincing dammit! NO I AM NOT PASSING GAS - my face is contorted in Advil mocking pain! PAIN!!! My back hurts.

And now a poem about how much my back hurts:

Holy fucking ow
my back. Wow.
My Goddamn fucking back.
Here's the FAQ:
Q: Ow your what?
A: Ow my back.

And now a one-act play about how much my back hurts:

Andres sits in a chair, smiling broadly but with a disturbing lack of life in his eyes.

OFFSTAGE VOICE
Hey Andres, catch!

A football whizzes just past Andres' face. He makes no attempt to catch the football or even move at all. After a beat...

ANDRES
Nnnnnnnngh.

And now here's a picture that illustrates just how much my back hurts:



Ow my F'ing back.

Here's an Insider tip for Pat O'Brien...

YOU ARE ALLOWED TO SHAVE A MUSTACHE. They're not mandatory and/or permanent! I hope this helped, Pat.

Do you like my scent?

It's called 'Extreme Rendezvous' by Man Man.

I think God is getting bored.

Did you ever play Sim City? Did you ever get really bored, and force disasters to occur? Fire! Flood! Tornado! Heck, you could even summon a giant lizard to do some stompin'. I think that might be what God is up to this year. He probably initially thought that long term problems like global warming and nuclear proliferation, or even rogue comets and asteroids, would provide him with some entertainment, but the fact is that the wait is getting to him. He's shaking the etch-a-sketch, so to speak. Shaking the ant farm. Peeing in the sea monkeys. You know what I mean. Focusing the magnifying glass on us in the hot sun. Rolling up the big free copy of Men's Journal he found in the Giant Motel Six In The Sky and giving us all a good whack. You know. He's jockin' us. We're the hamster and he's the firecracker suppository. We're Mikey and he's poprocks and soda. 'VOLCANO-NADO-QUAKE-NAMI'! Is something he's contemplating inventing. Just to F with us. Maybe tomorrow he'll yawn, stretch, and mutter to himself - "Alright. Let's just give North Korea a Voltron and see what happens. One of those giant robots the Japanese are so fond of making cartoons about. Let's just give North Korea a friggin' Voltron and I'll sit back with some God Chips and watch the wackiness unfold. (muttering even more quietly) Why do I preface every food I eat with my own name? And why do I bother eating? Ugh, the mysteries of life. People have it easy."

WERELOAF!

Every full moon, he turns into the singer Meatloaf. Or an actual meatloaf. Or a loaf of bread. I haven't decided. I just thought WERELOAF sounded funny.

beer beer beer

beer beer beer

Oh I'm suds suckin'
taste buds fucked
by suds
beer froth
north to south
mouth
to gullet
my mullet
spiked and tailed
my night entails
baseball

Oh hello! Andres du Bouchet here, on my nth beer, listening to the Yankee game in the next room as I slappity tap away at the keyboard of my crapslop laptop. Slumped again, first time in a while. With a smile this time, as loneliness has past. I'm with THE ONE at last. She's great. I'm grinning like a bastard. Anyway

dot dot dot

There is a postcard of a painting

posted above my desk in my dingy room - the one of a roadside gas station at dusk by Edward Hopper, I believe. Just a postcard. The colors true. I've seen the original at the MOMA. My single favorite painting there. I would stand too, bent over the pump wondering why I was there, no car in sight. "Perhaps I'm scraping off a wad of gum some indigent splotched upon my pump" I'd think, and then, catching my own pompous tone I'd laugh. "HA HA!" I'd belt into the dusk. A road beginning and ending off canvas, like life. My time but brief upon the fabric, bent over the pump.

ROCKgasm!

Pretty much my two favorite singers of all time, singing into the same microphone. Aw yeah. I wonder what they're singing?

EDDIE
(low, droning) karma karma karma karma karma chameleon...

BONO
(high, soaring) you come and gooooooo!

TOGETHER
(harmonizing) you come and gooooo oh ho whoahhhhhh....

Or maybe they're just belching in unison right here. That would suck.

More is more!

So, my infamous bj story is in the current issue of Time Out New York, in severely truncated form. After reading it, I can honestly say that more is more - I think my unabridged, intentionally awkard and wordy version is just funnier and more "me", so to speak. So check it out in the Favorite Posts section on the right. I think you'll be able to figure out which post it is.