the headache

promise broken

oh well.

WHERE DID YOU GO?????

I had been sucked into the world of www.photocliches.com, but I’m back. In the next few days/decades I will begin to post regularly and you’ll be happy again. Sorry for depressing you! Did you take prozac, zoloft, paxil, wellbutrin, or zantac? (That last one is only if your depression makes your stomach produce too much acid leading to a bad case of reflux.)

As much as photocliches is dear to me, I’ve been feeling hemmed in. (don’t worry, i’m not quitting www.photocliches.com) I want to write about things besides Lynndie England. I know, I know, Who gives a shit about anything that isn’t related to dear Lynndie. So now I’m promising to post here at least once a week. Sometimes the posts will be inspiring— Maybe a story about a pig dialing 911 in time to save a toddler from drowning. Other times the posts will be sad— Maybe a story about a man who couldn’t dial 911 to save his toddler from drowning the very next day. And sometimes the posts will just be informative— The man eventually ate the pig for dinner because he couldn’t look at the hog’s hooves without wondering what he did wrong. I know that one sounds sad too, but you’re forgetting how good roast pork tastes.

For now I’ll leave you with a truly original statement from a blogger: Obama!!!! YES!!!!

Racist-San

I ate at Hibachi-San for lunch today. It was mildly gross/strangely delicious. But I noticed something disturbing: The lady who scooped my over-sauced spicy honey chicken into my bowl was Asian. The lady I paid was Asian. The dude cooking the chicken? Totally Asian. I would venture a guess and say none of said Asians were Japanese, but i think for Hibachi-San corporate, they looked close enough.

As I chewed a piece of water logged broccoli I looked around at the rest of the food court (yay malls!), nobody else working at any of the other restaurants was Asian. Do you think that if you are from somewhere in Asia and you move to the United States that you feel like you need to work at a place that vaguely reminds you of an island country on one side of your continent? That makes sense, right?… Or, do you think that maybe Hibachi-San has a little bit of racist corporate policy? Do you think their corporate guide books describe the proper way an employees eyes should look? If so, do you think they use the word, “slanty?”

For me, the big insult is that Hibachi-San thinks I care about authenticity. Like if I was served by a white dude I would be like, “What a minute guys, this isn’t really authentic Asian cuisine. What’s going on here?” I wouldn’t do that. What I would do is happily eat my mildly gross/strangely delicious food and not think twice— just like I did today.

a secret encounter

Every morning when I wake up all of my sheets are on the floor and my pillow case has come off. Not only that, but I constantly wake up with my socks off. And they’re always on top of my pillow case. I really don’t get how this is happening. My girlfriend has never complained of me tossing and turning in my sleep nor sleepwalking.

After a few months of this I couldn’t take it anymore. I was tired of waking up freezing with my face in a gross uncovered pillow. The next night I set up a video camera with night vision and filmed myself sleeping. What happened next may seem like an exageration, and maybe it is— The tape clearly shows my socks creeping off my feet, slinking up the bed towards my pillowcase (who is making his way off my pillow) in a very sultry manner. The meeting of pillowcase and socks looks like something out of the Paris Hilton tape. My socks and my pillow case were fucking the pima out of each other. They say it’s not love, just pure physical attraction. And with the nasty shit they’re doing to each other, I believe them. Seriously, those socks are crawling in and out of the pillowcase, two at a time, backwards and inside out. They’re working each other so hard, my pillowcase is losing threadcount. Sick.

After a few minutes, my sad, jealous sheets and comforter got too disgusted and jumped straight off the bed, praying they got dirty enough to be thrown in the hamper away from all this debotchery. But no, I wake up every morning and throw the sheets right back on the bed. They hate me for doing this.

Anyway, I’ve solved my problem. I don’t wear socks to bed. I would recommend all readers do the same.

“I’ve got a girl for you.”

Do single guys ever set up other single guys on successful dates? I vote no. Back when I wasn’t in a relationship a few of my single friends set me up on dates with their various co-workers and friends. It was never a love connection. Actually it was never any kind of connection. It was always awful. But why?!!!!

Of course it was awful. Why would I want to date someone John deemed undateable? From then on whenever a friend tried to set me up, i would always ask a variation of this question. “I’ll get sushi/go bowling/windsurf with Susanne if she’s rejected your advances in the past.”

The answer was always something like, “Dude, I work with her, I can’t be trying to do that.” Um, yes you can. Everyone tries to do that. People don’t choose to work at big coorporations for the insurance options. They work at Viacom, Microsoft and IBM for the team building workshops and the coorporate retreats AKA hookup central 08’ bitches!! No one gets laid at the reusable rubber-tissue two person start up company. (although if you did, you could wipe up the wet spot without hurting the environment).

If your friend hasn’t tried to hook up with her, he’s basically saying, “You are into less funny, dumber, uglier girls than me so give Susanne a call— She loves bowling!” If that’s true, read no further.

My sort-of-friend Stankowitz got married at twenty-three. It made sense. He was going to be a lawyer and he had found an amazing hilarious super attractive girl. (I have no idea what she sees in him)

Last year he IM’s me the following conversation:

Stankonia81: Are you single?

me: yes.

Stankonia81: perfect. I am going to set you up on the sweetest date. You’ll be so fucking happy you’ll think of me when you cum.

me: that’s gross.

Stankonia81: What’s gross is that I’ve picked you, out of all my bros, to date Silvia. You will die when you see the amazing way her ass shakes in her purple skirt.

me: Who says she’ll want to go on a date with me? And don’t call me your bro.

Stankonia81: Dude, it’s all set up. I’ve been talking you up for weeks. Just be funny and it’ll be all good. I told her you’re as funny as me.

me: I am funnier than you.

Stankonia81: you wish. So yeah, when it works out, just remember who’s getting you laid. If you seal the deal you need to call me and give me the gooey details.

me: No, that’s gross.

Stankonia81: YOU OWE ME!!!

Silvia was a cool girl (totally not my type!!!). But when I called some mutual friends of Stankowitz and mine, they all reported going on great dates that he had set up.

It makes perfect sense: Single guys set up you with girls they don’t want to be with. Guys in relationships only set you up with girls they want to fuck so they can live vicariously through you.

Maybe I’m being vulgar (ladies!), but seriously, the next time a married male co-worker tells you he wants to set you up on a date, look over your shoulder as you walk away and see if he’s checking out the “amazing way your ass shakes in your purple skirt.”

SPACEBALLS THE COMEDY LESSON

The first time I watched Spaceballs was with Zack, my younger brother, when it premiered on HBO in 1988. It appeared to be just another funny movie like Three Men and a Baby. I found Michael Winslow making Bleeps, Sweeps and Creeps to be in the same league as Tom Selleck getting pissed on by a baby. Luckily I had taped it on my parent’s new VHS player.

Every day on our walk home from school we would roll apples into the street praying a car would hit one. An apple explosion was the best thing life had to offer at the time. It’s hard to even remember if the apples were green, red or golden because we never made it back to the tree after Spaceballs entered our life. When my apple exploded the day after we had watched Spaceballs for the first time, it wasn’t joy I was feeling, it was relief. Finally, I could go home and watch Spaceballs again.

During that last day of apple tossing my brother was the one who first brought up the idea of watching the film again. At first, it made no sense, what was interesting about watching a movie I had just seen? I remembered the funny parts, and so I proved it. I looked around the ground and up into the tree and said, “I knew it, I’m surrounded by apples. Keep firing, apples.” He thought my pun was hilarious, and I wasn’t about to tell him otherwise. Instead, we raced home to re-watch it and find more jokes to borrow. My brother and I spent the following six months devouring it. Every day a new joke to recite, each one more esoteric than the last. It was no longer a film, it was a contest. We weren’t passive moviegoers sitting in the theatre with our guts hanging out half laughing and half regretting the large coke we purchased. We were active participants. Yelling out the lines we knew and taking notes on the ones we hadn’t yet committed to memory. Zack and I became professors of Spaceballs. (According to Zack’s memory, we recited the entire film, including music cues, on March Twenty-Third, 1990.) Yet, as much as we had discovered about Spaceballs, this was only the beginning of our journey.

As the older of the two of us, it was only natural that I came to the inevitable conclusion first: Spaceballs was no longer funny. Zack jumped up and down on my parents’ bed, screaming our favorite lines. He refused to believe that I would forsake this film in the same way we had ditched the apple tree. I put my finger to mouth, shhhing him. His world was upside down. There was only one way he could express his shock, “my brains are going into my feet!”

If I was older at the time of my six-month obsession, I might have jumped right into a meta-appreciation, but instead, it took years. “Prepare to fast-forward.”

In Seventh and Eighth grade my friends Brian, Dave and I rediscovered an edited-for-content Spaceballs playing on either TNT or The Superstation, I don’t remember which one. It was especially hilarious to watch my favorite scene, “I’m surrounded by assholes” transformed into “I’m surrounded by bleeps.”
After we were done, I couldn’t help wondering, was this censored version better than the original? We popped in my worn tape. Yes, the original, curses and all, felt hollow compared to this new piece of pop art. Months afterwards Dave called me freaking out, he had just watched a different edited-for-content Spaceballs which replaced the curses with tamer words instead of beeps. Like the boyscout he was, he recorded the second half of the film. There was no “asshole” scene, it was edited out entirely, but we debated about which “safe” word would have replaced asshole for weeks. I believe the winner was “I’m surrounded by ski poles.” Although I always liked the idea that Dark Helmet got really dark and said “I knew it I’m surrounded by dead souls.”

What was so funny about these mangled versions? We no longer found Spaceballs funny, and these edited versions helped bring us to a meta-place we might not have reached until high school: Spaceballs is funny only because it’s not funny. See, “Funny, she doesn’t look Drewish” as an example. Heavy shit, but only the beginning. In actuality, we had reached the third level of The Spaceballs’ Scale of Comedic Appreciation and Criticism; we just didn’t know it yet. That is to say we had passed the first level, we thought it was funny; we had soldiered through the second level, we thought it wasn’t funny; and now we were just about to pass the third level. But, where were we going?

We didn’t reach the fourth level of Spaceballs appreciation until high school. This was where I can point to comedic minds being born. (Not mine! the other guys.) In tenth grade the film was popped back in the machine as a nostalgic joke, it faired okay, but one level stood out that had never occurred to me before: Spaceballs is funny only when it is not trying to be funny. Which is to say, “I knew it, I’m surrounded by assholes,” is definitely not funny. But Bill Pullman delivering a purely plot driven line like, “A million? That’s unfair,” is hilarious. The lack of a joke becomes the joke. In fact, the words sometimes lose meaning and the timbre of a voice along with the meter of the delivery is enough to send someone into hysterics. Admittedly, it is impossible to get to the forth level of humor on the first viewing.

I didn’t develop the fifth and final level. It was my brother, who, after swearing off the film for a decade, came up with the concept: Spaceballs is hilarious because the film consistently misses the best possible joke, but only by inches. Thus, the humor of Spaceballs is actually in the alternate jokes your brain creates. A highly subjective level of humor, I was weary on this concept when Zack presented it to me a while I was in college, but I think it works. Take, “Irreversible! Just like my raincoat!” The joke can get sexual and depressing if instead of “raincoat” he said “vasectomy.” Or maybe get scientific by replacing it with “thermodynamics” or maybe get a little Wall Street by replacing it with “sunk costs.” Sunk costs! “Neal you truly are the master of economic references.” Yeah… They all work and while watching they can enhance the film. Admittedly, sometimes the simplest joke is the best joke. But, once again, my brain was an active participant in the creation of something more than the film.

I’ve only tested the fifth level of The Spaceballs’ Scale of Comedic Appreciation and Criticism out on a select number of comedies, but Zack swears that it works with almost any comedy except for Deuce Bigalo, Male Gigolo, which he claims cannot be improved upon in any way (he’s a weird guy, what can I say?). I don’t know if he’s right, Spaceballs is something special, and when I watched it last week, I was able to experience all five levels of comedy at once. I even found the “born in the Ford Galaxie” pun funny for the first time.

A Writing Partnership is a Worthy Endeavor

By: Neal Dusedau and Nick Confalone

(or By: Nick Confalone and Neal Dusedau)

When two equally talented writers come together in a partnership, it can be a very healthy way for each to get past his individual shortcomings by combining talents. For example, if one writer works incredibly slowly, the team could alternate paragraphs to speed things up. Another example is if one writer has a healthy grasp of realistic dialogue while the other struggles to sound more human than robot, it would only make sense to allow the first writer to take care of the dialogue.

The first rule of a successful writing partnership is to not revel in each other’s specific weaknesses. If one partner does choose to revel, let’s say over a few lines of imperfect dialogue in their screenplay, then the other partner may get furious and yell, “AT THIS VERY MOMENT IN TIME I FEEL THE MAXIMUM ANGER!”

The second rule of a successful writing partnership is to have a sense of humor about your failings, as well as your partner’s failings. After all, if you can’t laugh at your partner’s inability to express believable human emotion through dialogue, you won’t get very much from the partnership.

The third rule of a successful writing partnership is to let things slide off your back. It wastes a lot of precious writing time when your partner gets hung-up on one specific issue, especially if that issue doesn’t affect the artistic integrity of the piece as a whole—like dialogue issues, those are usually worth letting go.

The forth rule of a successful writing partnership is to ensure that both partners have the same goal. One goal that usually brings people together for screenwriting is the desire for money. Unfortunately, money can be damn hard to make when your Hummingbird King’s final speech to the little chirplings sounds like a Speak And Spell.

The fifth rule is to understand that you may not always agree with your partner and that’s okay. For example, your partner may be obsessed with money while you have teamed up with him to create an artistic masterpiece.

The sixth rule of a successful writing partnership is to know that it’s ok to laugh in your partner’s face when he says something embarrassing and idealistic. That’s especially true when your partner can’t write an anthropomorphic hummingbird, much less an artistic masterpiece.

The seventh rule of a successful writing partnership is not to make fun of your partner when he says something noble.

The eighth rule of a successful writing partnership is to stop being a baby.

The ninth rule is when your writing partner goes out of town, you might spend time with his live-in girlfriend and get pretty blitzed with her at Bennigan’s and you both start making out in the parking lot and she gives you a blowjob in the back of your car because Neal leaves her lonely and unsatisfied.

The tenth rule is I’m going to kill you, Nick.

In conclusion, a partnership has its ups and downs, but it can be fulfilling and potentially amazing as long as you are never afraid to say, Neal Dusedau, you’re penis is tiny.

It’s “your,” you stupid robotic fuck.

I wear what I booze

You know what is awesome and unique about Americans? this garbage.

“I drink Molson and I want everyone to know it, you got a problem with that? No? Cool. What’s that? Out of Molson? shit I just want to get drunk.”

But maybe said dude isn’t wearing the t-shirt because he loves drinking Molson, maybe he loves it because he has a lot of stock in it and is doing his small part to increase the share price. That would make sense. I support that. Capitalism=good*. Defining your identity by the brands you buy=bad.

So I was all up in arms about how ridiculous this whole beer shirt thing is until i realized two years ago I purchased a t-shirt from awesome label Kill Rock Stars which simply says “Kill Rock Stars.” Basically I’m no different. I want people to know I purchase music from this label.

Even better though. If you check out my facebook you will see me wearing a Red Stripe t-shirt. So yeah, I hate myself.

As a sidenote, you’ll notice the website only sells Zima as a babydoll t-shirt. I only drink zima, so thanks boozingear. OFFENSE TAKEN.

*capitalism is not necessarily good. Still researching/buying shit with money I make.