More scraps from the past. PASTSCRAPS!

Awhiles back, the GTN gang put up a show at Mo Pitkins that was entirely about knock-knock jokes. Yeah, I know. Anyway, here's the rough draft of the intro I wrote for Birch:

Whew! Hi I’m Dr. Knock Knock, the world’s foremost authority on the knock-knock joke. How did I become so knowledgable about this beautiful comedic artform? Well, after being stripped of my veteranarian license in 1992 , I fled the country in order to evade the deadly spies and assassins of the ASPCA. I found refuge with a small band of fellow disgraced veteranarians among the rugged peaks of the Himalayas. For twelve years I hunted cave rats, milked goats, and wove my own tunics from the coarse hair of the noble Yeti. Also, through a meditative process known as Inward Clenching for six to eight hours a day, I developed the ability to ejaculate a hologram of myself. This proved invaluable when the ASPCA’s assassins finally caught up with us in 2004. As they attacked my milky white doppleganger, I fled down the mountainside in a sled I had built from my own nail clippings and brazil nut husks. (pensively) Yes, there was one brazil nut tree atop our mountain retreat. No one knew how it came to put its roots down there. Perhaps a seed came to rest there in the feces of a Himalayan Condor migrating up from the rain forests of South America. That tree grew tall and strong, and I often practiced my Inward Clenching beneath it. After a heavy snow it loomed over us like a massive, ivory mushroom. And oh how the Yetis would dance around it during a full moon. (snaps out of it) But I digress. I rode my nail clipping and nut husk sled down the mountain to the nearest town where I killed a man for his moped, rode that to the nearest airport then killed another man and used his ticket to hop on a flight back to the states. On board that flight I found a book in the plane’s bathroom – the history of the knock knock joke. I took that book home with me, forgot about it for a year, and then last summer finally perused it. The rest, as they say, is history.

There's something more to that.

I'm looking at my last post, and it's nagging at me - there's something more to be said about that. Walking into the Sony Music Store, past their racks of CDs, and buying a CD from the Starbucks that's INSIDE The Sony Music Store. I feel like I'm looking at an MC Escher print of interlocking lizards in a house where every which way is up. Incidentally, 'Every Which Way Is Up' is the title of the nevermade Clint Eastwood fistfightflick that takes place in outer space.

Google salami + missile, and I think you'll be surprised!

The Circle of Life

Lately I've been buying my music at Starbucks and my coffee at the Sony Store. At their Starbucks. Where I buy my music.

SyphilAIDSeprousy!

You know? I mean wow.

Snooping through the vaults.

Last night at GTN, in a playful fit of faux fake pretend faux tinged-with-real-rage faux playful fake anger, I flung my hilarilog (my little notebook) at the stage, where it proceeded to burst asunder into various pagey fragments. After reassembling it, I noticed some bits of writing that I'd never blogged! God forbid! As I have an anal (Ananal is a good guy, he works in the IT India Securities Group) tendency to blog everything I write, I thought it was important transcribe said nonblogged writings for posterior purposes (snapping of latex). Okayhere:

(I hosted 'How To Kick People' a few weeks ago - the following is what I wrote as my intro after Bob & Todd gave me an outline and some details - the Karaoke 911 stuff is their's for example)

I sing a few bars of U2's 'With or Without You...

Good evening folks and welcome to the Karaoke Corral! As you know every Wednesday night is karaoke night here at Mo Pitkins, where you the audience get to choose and sing your favorite songs - where you all get a chance to be rock stars!

My name is Andres du Bouchet and tonight I will the Captain to your Tenile, the REO to your Speedwagon, the Jefferson to your Airplane , The Meat to your Loaf, the Dexy to your Midnight Runners, the Neil to your Diamond the Met to your Allica, The St to your ing, the Pri to your nce look I could spend all night separating the names of musical artists into two halves and then equating myself with one half of that musical artist’s name and you with the other half but I think you get my drift!

You want karaoke credentials, then check up the wazoo because that’s where I’ve got them – I was the head karaokesmith at Donnelly’s on 46th street, I was Sir Singsalot at the Karaoke Castle in Weehawken, and the Karaoke Dojo at a bunch of Asian characters surrounding a cartoon microphone down on 32nd street – those bastards never did tell me what the place was called. Anyway tonight I am your karaoke cowboy so let’s ride!

Now you may have noticed I started the show with U2’s ‘With Or Without You’, and that’s because karaoke is all about YOU the audience. WITH YOU it’s great fun, but WITHOUT YOU it’s a bunch of people staring at a drunk Andres du Bouchet while he sings, and the only time that’s supposed to happen is at my son’s little league games.

So, grab a song binder and grab a slip of paper and grab your tiny pencil and grab the music way deep down in your soul and let’s start writing down some songs! Listen. LISTEN. Here’s what I need on each of those song slips. I need your name, the song title, and the song number. Make sure you get that number right and write it nice and neat because if I can’t read your handwriting I will just pick out what I think it says and if I’m wrong you are screwed. And ladies you might think it’s cute to put your phone number on there but I’ll tell you what I will plug that number into my karaoke machine and call you up here to sing 'Safety Dance' in Portuguese if that’s what pops up, so keep it serious. Are you guys ready for some red-hot superfun Karaoke?! YEAH! I can't hear you! YEAH! YEAH! WOOOOOO!

But first, we do have to take care of some other not-so-pleasant business. Just as I arrived here tonight I learned that Mo Pitkins had already rented out the space for the evening for a funeral – for a Mr. Bob Powers and a Mr. Todd Levin [have a slip of paper, a handwritten note, to refer to] – Now rather than be a dick I agreed to officiate the funeral tonight as some of Bob and Todd’s dear friends eulogize them. Look I will do my best to officiate the funeral with as much dignity as I can only assume these two strangers might deserve. But I'll try to jam some songs in from time to time. Deal?

Now, as bummed as you people are that Bob and Todd are dead, I’m just as bummed that we have to wait to kick karaoke night into high gear - As the karaoke regulars know, tonight we are expecting a talent scout in the audience - talent scout we’re expecting is casting the new reality show, KARAOKE 911. This show is unlike the similarly named Nanny 911, in which a nanny whips children into shape. KARAOKE 911 is about people whose karaoke abilities can actually save lives and foil crimes. They are looking for people who can shine in the face of a Karaoke Emergency. Well, maybe they’ll find someone tonight as we simultaneously remember Bob and Todd and celebrate the power of song. So, to those of you who are here for that funeral my deepest condolences, and for those of you who are here to sing karaoke keep writing down those songs because we are going to rock!

(a little later)

Her name is Rio and she dances on the sands,
Just like that river twisting through the dusty lands
Oh Rio, Rio here them shout across the lands,
From mountains in the north down to the Rio Grande.
And there’s another river that twists through another dusty land – the River Styx. Let us hope that is not the river that Bob and Todd are now crossing. Um. Speaking of Styx, you’ll see in your song books that there are two versions of Mr. Roboto – please use the one that starts with a 9, the other one is the reggae version.

HERE ENDS THE NOTEBOOK DUMP!

Living in New York City for 9 years has made me:

a) More racist
b) Less racist
c) The same amount of racistness
d) I'm not racist. I'm just observant!

GROIN CREAM!

Hi there. Andres du Bouchet here, with today's post: GROIN CREAM! Rest assured, when I type GROIN CREAM in all caps, that's exacty what I mean: a cream crafted from only the choicest processed groins. Our GROIN CREAM bottling facility in Whore Creek, Virginia, receives, processes, and then bottles over 140 tons of prime groin per day, and it's been operating at this 140 PGPD pace for over 12 years now, churning out bottle after bottle of the best GROIN CREAM on the market. What is GROIN CREAM for? Where are the groins from? When I say "groin", do I mean the genitals of some animal or godforbid human, or do I mean something else? And if I do mean genitals, do I mean just the reproductive organs, or a larger area, encompassing the entire general region around the pubic bone, the intersection of the legs and whatever I don't know, I'm just sitting here blogging while more coffee brews. Coffee bruise. Toffee Cruise. Sounds fun! Okay it's Saturday bye.

Dear Giant Tuesday Night of Amazing Inventions And Also There Is A Game,

I recently purchased the Racist Toaster, as advertised on your show. It sounded like a great idea at first, but frankly, this toaster is just too racist. It ejects the toast before it even gets the slightest shade of brown. I prefer my toast more well done. Is there any way to adjust the toaster’s racism so that it’s just a bit less racist? And also, how do I get it to toast pumpernickel bread? Seriously, it just starts kicking the bread’s ass.

Sincerely,
Lee Pinkowitz
Washington, D.C.

P.S. My toaster just told my daughter she’s not allowed to date Rasheed anymore! This toaster is much more racist than I bargained for.

I Shouldn't Be Alive!

Has anyone seen this show yet? I think it's on The Discovery Channel, or National Geographic, or Travel Disaster Family, or Mal Tiburon Deportes Dos* or something. Anyway, the premise of the show is simple: I SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE! People recount true, incredibly harrowing stories of how they were in some situation out of which they never, ever should have realistically emerged alive. Yet they did. Their conclusion? "I shouldn't be alive!" Por ejemplo:

I was stranded at the top of a mountain in a blizzard for six days...I shouldn't be alive!

I fell into the tiger habitat at the zoo after just having bathed with my new Origins Essence of Panicking Antelope Shower Gel...I shouldn't be alive!

I can't believe I ate all those Clorox ToiletWands, the revolutionary new toilet bowl cleaner that outcleans traditional toilet brushes thanks to it's patented "Scrubby Heads"...wow. At any rate, yeah, I really should NOT be alive.

etc.

I think they should have a show called YOU SHOULDN'T BE ALIVE! Which would be either about mastermind criminals confronting heros they thought they had dispatched - "Batman, you shouldn't be alive! The piranha grenades..." etc.

or it would be a show about terrible, terrible mothers. "You know what son? You shouldn't be alive. We were using protection! I had so much to live for. My career...ah well, your arrival ruined all of it. You shouldn't be alive. Would I have aborted you knowing what I know now? Yes. Absolutely. You shouldn't be alive."

Speaking of uplifting, yesterday my Starbucks cup had a bit of an inspirational message on it:

"What you look like isn't important. What is important is who you are inside and the choices you are making in your life."
- Tiana Tozer, 1996 Bronze Medal Winner, Women's Wheelchair Basketball.

and then underneath it...

"This is the author's opinion, not necessarily that of Starbucks."

Ah life.

*Does this mean 'Bad Shark Sports Two'? My inate Terrible Spanish Sense tells me Si!

Welcome to the Testoster-Zone!

Hi. Boutique Wilson here, Chief Manchitect over at ManMan Couture. Let me tell you, I've learned a lot during my time here at ManMan, whether it's through the arduous hem-wrangling process I endured when designing the Manscendance line of parkas, or the hyperkinetic Slap Cocktail(redbull + vodka + cocaine + grapefruit juice + splash of Rose's lime)-fueled schedule I roared through in order to make waves at Acura Cuff Week, I feel like my experiences as a Manchitect have brought me closer than ever to the essence of what is man. And what is man? Well, if I told you I'd be giving away years of hard-earned knowledge! Let's just say this. If you want to get an inkling of what I think man is, then it's time you stepped into the Testoster-Zone!

THE TESTOSTER-ZONE is where you'll find my new line of man-centric scents from ManMan! Each odor lovingly crafted from the finest of masculine ingredients in order to truly bring out the man in any man. Or woman. Look for the Testoster-Zone display in your local cordoned-off 'ManMan Couture Oasis of Fashion' at your local Duane Reade or Rickles*. And now to the scents!

Last year ManMan asked the question Am I Inside You? It was the cologne for the man lacking self-confidence. It was a major flop. This year, we've recognized that the real man lacking self-confidence doesn't want a cologne that reinforces that feeling of inadequacy, he wants a cologne that helps him feel better about himself! And that's why the first cologne in the Testoster-Zone collection that we're introducing is I Am Inside You(?). Same scent, much more confident name. But with that parenthetical question mark to remind the unconfident man that no mere cologne can heal his emotional wounds! We're not patronizing our customers here at ManMan.

Our surveys indicate that men want a scent that conveys not just power, but a self-actualized, all-natural type of power. A power that comes from within, not from external trickery. And what conveys all-natural power more than...49 Homeruns. That's an impressive, though not overly so, number of homeruns. It won't lead the league nowadays, but prior to the steroid-bloated 1990s, it sure would have. 49 Homeruns is a number of homeruns that a man can hit and still say "Yes, all 49 of those homeruns are a direct result of my natural talent and hard work...nothing else." Unless he plays in Denver. 49 Homeruns tells the woman at your side that your moderately well-sculpted arms, somewhat toned physique and slight beer belly come complete with normal-sized testicles and a fully-functioning penis. And without fits of rage! Let 49 Homeruns bring out the Mike Schmidt in you.

Andres here. Let's be honest. I would never have come up with the idea for this post in the first place if it weren't for the cologne scene in 'Anchorman'. Boutique here again! That's why ManMan is proud to unveil The Cologne Scene From Anchorman Cologne. It's got bits of real "The Cologne Scene From Anchorman" in it, so you know it's good! Our studies show that 60% of the time, the line "60% of the time, it works every time" works every time! Seriously, this cologne smells just like that scene (not like the cologne in that scene, but like the laughter and overall sense of joy produced by that scene I have no idea how we did it ohmy).

You're the kind of man who doesn't subscribe to societal norms of age and beauty, and who doesn't mind an outspoken, politically active or even downright frightening woman. And, you certainly don't care if there is any space between the bottom of her breasts and her waistline. That's why we crafted Sarandon for you. The cologne that says "Whatever you say dear. After all, I'm perpetually high."

Fourth Pabst is for the man who expects to still be at the bar at 4:30am, nursing his fourth Pabst (which of course were preceded by three gin and tonics and five Brooklyn Lagers) and scanning the scene for a breathing biped with at least an air of femininity about them. Fourth Pabst smells like you're NOT an ex-con with a violent streak, but ARE a guy with a comfortable futon who'll spring for an egg sandwich in the morning.

20-Sided Guy - if you need to ask who this cologne is for, prepare to be smote by my +3 fire dagger!

The smell of leather, wood, vinyl, plastic, metal, semen and a general, intangible sense of "Off-Road" intermingle to capture the essence of getting a hummer while driving a Hummer in our newest scent for playahs...Hummer Squared.

Andres here again, with another reminder that this is just a blog, so it's perfectly okay for me to fling a bunch of unedited garble on here, or even better, get tired of typing and just give up half

*And coming soon to Hess gas stations.

The Bengal Tiger: Twilight Huntress!

Andres du Bouchet stands in front of a lush forest and addresses the camera.

"Dusk. As the sun sets behind the trees of this Indian nature preserve, shooting splinters of fiery light through latticed branches, a husky roar sends shivers through the gathering gloom. Darkness descends on these woods, and the spicey, musky air is laced with fear. All falls silent, for she is near."

Close-up on Andres.

"This is the shadow-world of one of the most lethal carnivores on Earth. The most fearsome of the big cats."

The camera pulls back, revealing that the trees behind Andres do not extend very far, and give way to a lawn rather quickly. A frisbee flies across the frame and a couple can be seen drinking some wine and reading the paper on a blanket in the background. He is in Central Park.

"The Bengal Tiger!"

A 70s-style Mutual of Omaha or National Geographic musical flourish signals the title graphics...

NO BUDGET NATURE FILMS presents...

The Bengal Tiger: Twilight Huntress!

With your host

Andres du Bouchet

Cut to Andres walking down a crowded Manhattan sidewalk, still addressing the camera.

"Hi, I'm Andres du Bouchet, and tonight we once again travel the globe in search of nature's most wondrous creatures."

Andres sits at a diner, crumbling some saltines into his chicken soup.

"It is nighttime in India's Ranthambore National Park, and most of the forest's denizens have turned in for the night. But one animal is just waking up. One beast has begun prowling for dinner."

Andres flips through the discount CD rack at Virgin Megastore.

"The game wardens at Ranthambore have named her Ambika, after the Hindu Goddess of Destruction. She is a six-year old Bengal tiger, and tonight she's on the move."

Loading laundry into a drier at the laundromat.

"Like all Bengals, Ambika is a pure carnivore, and typically sates her appetite by hunting medium-sized game such as rabbits and badgers. But tonight she’s got bigger things on her mind."

Leaning in very close to the camera, filling up the frame and whispering.

"A water buffalo. This rogue male has just been ousted from his herd by a rival bull, and has decided to rest and forage for vegetation in this swamp grove for the night. Little does he know that his recent exiling is just the beginning of his troubles."

"Grande Caramel Machiatto for Andres" is yelled in the background.

Trying to flatten a dollar and re-insert it into a constantly rejecting vending machine bill feeder.

"He is being watched. Now, this male is large even by water buffalo standards, weighing in at just over a ton, with massive horns that could gore Ambika in a heartbeat if she doesn’t time her leap properly."

Making out with his girlfriend on a couch.

"But this tiger hasn’t eaten for days, and her cubs are hungry. She throws caution to the wind."

On subway.

(yelling) "The attack is swift!"

Startles fellow riders.

Getting a haircut.

"Success. This water buffalo will feed Ambika and her cubs for the whole week. This weary huntress can rest easy tonight."

Playing darts at a pub.

"Her stomach full and her cubs hungry mewling subsided, Ambika drifts asleep, just as the woods around her begin waking up. Greeting the dawn."

Emerging from a bathroom stall.

"Another day begins in this world of natural wonders."

Gesturing out at the East River.

"This world we call home!"

Playing Scrabble.

"Until next time, I’m Andres du Bouchet."

[roll credits]

Who stole my Wickerpedia?

What if I need to look up some facts about wicker? What then? There's always a chance I'll be confronted by some situation that involves wicker, and I'll need some pertinent wicker-based knowledge in order to extricate myself from said situation, but without my Wickerpedia handy, I'll be unable to deal. And also, there is a post-it within my Wickerpedia on which I've scrawled an idea for a screenplay about a woman with farting cleavage. Please return my Wickerpedia.

WHY DOES THIS CHAIR CREAK SO MUCH???

Cellphone-sized bug eludes rolled-up New Yorker, deprives comedian of a good night's sleep.

Damn. This waterbug was the size of my cellphone and I first noticed it because I could hear its footsteps. No lie. When it began plodding across my floor it made a soft, clicking, shuffling noise. It sounded like someone had tied a crumpled up piece of paper to the end of a string, and was dragging said piece of paper across the wood. Plus clicking. You know what I mean. Anyway, I calmly rolled up a New Yorker (after first scowling at the latest trio of completely unfunny cartoon caption finalists - what do they do over there, pick the ones that are almost funny? Are they so eager to make their readers feel smart that they're intentionally picking captions that THEY know WE know we could do better than? What?) and went in for the whacking (title of my autobiography), but somehow that frigging thing trundled away from me, lifted up my bed frame and crawled underneath. Never to be seen again. I slept uneasily. Twice waking up in the middle of the night to turn on the light with hopes of spying on my new prehistoric roommate. Catching him trying on my boxer shorts or flipping through my comedy scrapbook and smirking at "hilarious" fliers of comedy shows past. Nope, never saw him again. He's probably on a bus by now. Best of luck to you, cellphone-sized bug, for holy shit you are one huge bug. The end.

Don't touch the flimsy box full of angry wasps!

Don't. Just leave it. Don't try to move the flimsy box full of angry wasps please. If you jostle them, you risk a) making the wasps even angrier, and b) causing the flimsy box to open or fall apart, thereby releasing said pissed-off wasps. Man this freakin' sucks. The box was just sitting there with a little note on it reading "Don't kick around this sturdy box full of calm wasps", and then I left to get some coffee, and then I came back to find the note on the floor and some damn kids kicking the box around. Now it's flimsy and the wasps inside it are anything but calm. Fuck.

Video from the March 1st show

Holy cow - everyone and everything really is wired now. I didn't organize or request a single photographer or videographer for the March 1st show, but somehow there is a ton of stuff that's been shot. Here's some video on youtube:

Click here.

And for the record, I know the show wasn't the greatest - it was rough. I was disappointed. I think we needed more rehearsal time as an ensemble, and at least one more rehearsal in the actual theater itself. And maybe the bits needed to be in a different order. And someone other than me should have directed. Anyway, live and learn - the next "showcase" I put up will be better.

UPDATE: I think the show was better than I'm giving it credit for. But still, coulda been better. As Steve Martin said in Three Amigos: "Gonna make it..."

Photos from last night!

I am sitting here with a fever and nursing some gingerale. My stomach has been emptied many times over via both possible exits, and I ache the ache of one who aches. Anyway, last night was a mixed bag - but a fun mixed bag! Anyway here:

From the Drink at Work gang.

and from the lense of Lisa Whiteman.

I look good. I mean real good.

HEY EVERYONE! COME HERE AND SEE HOW GOOD I LOOK!

Oh and the other GTN guys look good too.