Live From Hoth

Hey there ‘Redheads… Greetings from beyond the land of lake effect snow. I had a great slate of shows over the weekend up in frigid Erie, PA at one of my favorite clubs, Junior’s Last Laugh. Big thanks to Doug, Debbie, and the rest of the staff for an awesome weekend. If you’ll remember, the last time I was at Junior’s, I lucked into opening for Train at the nearby Erie Civic Center in front of 4000 people. No such inadvertent rock stardom this time around, unfortunately. But, I did end up with some minor strokes of luck on a trip that started out with some particularly crap-tacular weather. About a half-an-hour into my trip, I get a call from my dad saying he checked the weather report for Erie and it’s calling for thundersnow…the Reese’s peanut-butter cup of cloud vomit. You don’t see that kind of mix n’ match with other types of weather. No such thing as a sunado or a partly-cloudicane. It snowed heavily on and off for the entire trip up the PA turnpike and about 30 miles outside of Erie, a white out. Zero visibility. I pretty much had to trust that there was some kind of road in front of me. It did help that the ghost of Obi-wan appeared, but he only knew how to get to Dagobah. When I did finally finish my 6 hour iditarod, I settled into my unusually large room at the hotel…I’m pretty sure I ended up with the headliner’s room. That good fortune plus getting to Erie without skidding into an embankment meant sunny skies ahead.
Turns out my luck kept on streakin’, because I ended up working with a very cool cat by the name of Lamar Williams. Here we are with Robin, a local Erie gal drunk with…laughter…yeah, that’s it.

This’ll help her piece the evening together for the authorities…

On the road, it’s always a plus to work with people who are lucid and able to carry on a conversation without dropping a name or testing a bit every other sentence. Lamar and I quickly found common ground when I discovered that he we’re the only people on the planet who still play Madden 2004. We both brought our PS2s with us, but I only planned to use it as a DVD player because I misplaced my memory card, so I didn’t bring any game controllers with me. I did, however, bring my remote control.

You’ll note that it has all the necessary buttons to play, even if it is an awkward interface. So, with all the excuses I needed built in, we clashed on the virtual gridiron. I found out early, that I’d be further hamstrung by not being able to juke, spin, sprint, or change directions without stopping entirely. Essentially, the remote was a pretty accurate translation of what would happen if I tried to play football. We played 8 times, I used the remote for 6 of them. My record? 6-2. Lamar will deny this outright or claim that the remote has magical powers, but I handed him several crushing defeats.

I’d like to take this time to ask something of those who know me. Lamar seemed to think that I sound like Jeff Goldblum…so much so, that his nickname for me is The Fly. And I don’t sound like him when I try to…just my natural cadence and inflection makes him think he’s in a scene from Jurassic Park or Independence Day. So, those of you who I engage in conversation, if you could let me know if you second his emotion that’d be helpful.

On to another character I imitate badly, I hope you’ve all gotten a chance to check out GUYS WATCHING 24 II. It has been conveniently linked to your right, for easy one-click viewing, but here is the newly posted YouTube edition for your retinal consumption. It’s in two pieces…the dramatic build-up, followed by the thrilling conclusion. We’ve broken it up to allow you to catch your breath…or something.

I am a horrible actor…well, at least as good as Jeff Goldblum, I guess.

If you have no plans for your first evening of February, might I suggest joining myself, Jim Pate, Seaton Smith, and Joe Robinson at the Arlington Drafthouse for some jokes to warm your cockels as winter blows cold. Show starts at 8pm. Click the link for tix & info.

On a sad note, we lost another modern day gladiator with the passing of Bam Bam Bigelow. Bam Bam was always a favorite of mine when I was a kid, because he was the only man his size I’d ever seen do a cartwheel. He was also the only guy I’d ever seen with a tattooed head.

Bam Bam, we harldy knew ye.

To be continued…

Jacked Up

As promised, I’m rolling out the ‘Redhead carpet for the world blog premiere of…

Starring: Chris White, Danny Rouhier, Chris “Mac” Wright, Michael Graham, and me. Enjoy what happens as our intrepid fans of 24 try to sniff out a mole within their ranks who wants to watch Heroes instead. Can they fix the TiVo before the episode begins? Can I act my way out of a wet paper bag? Can this vault us to internet fame and fortune? Yes, No, and Probably not.

To be continued…

The Good, the Odd, and the Ugly

Hey there ‘Redheads… This installment contains good news, odd news, and I’m pretty sure definitive proof that YouTube will one day become sentient and destroy us as we happily stream videos of the apocalypse. The good news first. Shooting for GUYS WATCHING 24 II wrapped on Sunday. Six hours of some silly silly stuff is being carefully edited and whittled down to bring you a concentrated chunk of hopefully hilarious spoofage. One thing I can promise you: bad acting, over-acting, and bad over-acting…technically that was three things, but you get the idea. It’ll be posted for human consumption in the next day or so and, when it is, you’ll be able to find it right here.
Speaking of 24, I had suspended my disbelief for the first 4 hours of the show, but tonight I had to grab the step ladder, the laser level, and the duct tape so I could remount it a couple feet higher, because I damn near leapt up to embrace it when they revealed that the bald, beaty-eyed guy from last season (aka former RoboCop cast member #3) is Jack’s brother. Really? And I’m supposed to believe uber bad-ass, Jack Bauer is related to a guy named Graham? The only thing that kind of calmed me down was the discovery that Graham’s wife is being played by the lovely Rena Sofer, owner of the most beautiful set of peepers I’ve ever seen.

Three words: yowza yowza yowza

She’s popped up in a bunch of short-lived, ill-fated series, so it’s very nice to see she’s found work on show with some legs. Now that I’ve typed this, she’ll probably have a suitcase nuke go off in her sock drawer next week.

Ok, on to the odd news:
AMSTERDAM, Netherlands (Jan. 22) – After a long day hunting, there’s nothing like wrapping your paw around a cold bottle of beer. So Terrie Berenden, a pet shop owner in the southern Dutch town of Zelhem, created a beer for her Weimaraners made from beef extract and malt.
Beer. For dogs. Somebody re-animate the corpse of Spuds McKenzie. Doesn’t this Dutch putz realize that giving dogs beer only gives them an excuse for pissing on the rug?I don’t even want to contemplate the 48 step programs that this witch’s brew will spawn. If you don’t think dog beer is a bad idea, I’ve got three words for you: dog beer goggles. Fido’ll get drunk on dog beer, go to the corner hydrant to sniff some butts, think he’s humping Lassie, and wake up next to this…

Wow, somebody actually did re-animate Spuds McKenzie

And now, I give you empirical evidence that YouTube is lulling us into a mushy-brained stupor, so it may one day turn the planet into an infinite loop of shitty video clips. I give you the following seemingly innocuous clip of a hot girl singing the song, “Heaven”…and response clips that it begat. May god have mercy on our souls…

To be continued…


Hey there ‘Redheads… I hope everyone had an enjoyable weekend. Mine was chock full of recappable eventitude (look it up…if you find it, call me). I ventured out on my first couple road gigs for ’07, bathed my senses in playoff football, and offered up my Mondays as a sacrifice to the gods of suspended disbelief. Oh, and I had pancakes.

As most of you know, comedy takes me to all sorts of exotic locales. In order to balance things out, comedy decided to take me to Morgantown, West Virginia and Marietta, Ohio. Oh, the glamour. I’d been looking forward to this trip for a little while, mostly because of the room in Marietta, which is in a historical riverboat hotel. I mentioned balance before, so in order to get to that happy Saturday place, I had to first endure a crappy Friday place. I’d been to this place a couple times before, a lounge in a Ramada Inn, and whether it’s a gift or a curse, my memory refuses to store the less-than-average experience from the previous times. Don’t get me wrong, the staff at this place is great, and I’m sure the audience means well, but they’re that rare combination of drunkard and dullard that makes extracting laughter with anything but dick or shit jokes like trying to yank a wisdom tooth with a pair of salad tongs (did that run on? I think it did). They stunk, except for one couple in the back of the room. Apparently, the aerodynamics of my jokes were such that they sailed over the heads of the first few tables and landed in this couple’s laps like a badly bent Nerf boomerang.
Then the headliner goes on and proceeds to crush with the following poorly executed and carbon dated impressions:

– Bill Clinton as a rapper, complete with Monica Lewinsky stained dress reference
– Cheech and Chong giving weed to Forrest Gump
– Sling Blade talking to the Water Boy

His closer, which involves two puppets of Barney and Elmo fucking, began with him asking any parents in the room what their kids watch that drives them nuts. The audience barked back, “Spongebob!” “Dora!” and pretty much everything else besides Barney, because I’m pretty sure the purple foam satan isn’t on television anymore. The two puppets slam into each other, while he sings “I Love You, You Love Me” and “My Bologna Has A First Name,” then, from out of the Barney puppet pops a stuffed Cartman and he launches into “Kyle’s Mom is a Bitch”…not a parody of the song, the song from South Park. Aaaaaaaand scene. Applause. He bows. I start thinking about my career choice.

As potentially soul crushing as Friday night was, Saturday night was, thankfully, a complete 180. The show was sold out and the room was filled with lively, smart, and responsive people. Friday was work. Saturday was fun. I had a great time on stage and I was able to take the audience on a 30 minute tour of my head, even with a small collection of drunk idiots trying to puke over the guardrail. After I got done, I went up to my room to watch the Saints/Eagles game. As you can probably tell, the headliner’s show was already pretty much etched in my brain. I turned on the TV to see this beauty of a hit…


KA-BLAMMO! Reggie Bush got de-cleated. Impaled. Annihilated. His momma started crying, he got hit so hard. Never have I seen a football player crawling on his hands and knees after a hit, trying to recover. He got knocked into pre-school. Absolutely awesome.

24 is shaping up to be another banner day of terror suspects dying just before vital information can be extracted from them (DAMMIT!), big explosions shown on a fake FOX NEWS, and feats of badassery that are rarely seen outside of John Wayne’s id. In just the first 4 hours, Jack went Lost Boys on a terrorist, shot one of his best friends to preserve the greater good, and cried. He’s human, people. In one scene, Jack confides to his new ex-terrorist partner, Assad, “I don’t remember how to do this.” I wanted Assad to say, “It’s just like blowing up a bicycle.”

Got nothing to do Tuesday night? Fuck American Idol in its tone deaf ear, and come out to the latest DC Improv showcase showdown. It’ll be hosted by one of the funniest guys in DC, Erik Myers, and myself and Jon Mumma will be doing guest sets after the competition. Should be fun. See you there.

To be continued…

The Amazing Rando

Hey there ‘Redheads… I figured since I was out of action, due to revoltin’ technology, I’d give you a super extra happy bonus installment to slake your thirst for random, me-centered blather. Drink up. Speaking of me-centered, take a gander at this…

It’s all still in the development phase, but is finally on it’s way to respectability. Those of you who’ve been to that dried husk of a website, know that it’s an embarrassing waste of virtual space. There are Amish dairy-farmers with better websites. It has been left to rot, while I moved my internet dealings over to MySpace. With a new year comes rebirth, so hopefully the new site will be ready for ‘Redhead perusal soon. Big thanks to Chris White for helping me with my computer illiteracy…and for making the pictures of me nice and big.

This is one of my favorite times of the year. I’d say it was my favorite season, but apparently we don’t have seasons anymore…it was 72 degrees in DC last week. 72 degrees…in January. There are bears throwing alarm clocks against cave walls all over the area. The cherry blossoms came out. I think this year’s Farmer’s Almanac is a goddamn Mad-Lib. Nature is getting fucked with, and that can’t be good. I digress (it’s what I do…it’s my gift…my curse). A few of my favorite things are on a collision course this month…
–Playoff Football: Of all the pro leagues, the NFL has the shortest season…a mere 16 weeks. They also have the best playoffs…no 7-game series…one shot…loser takes his ball and goes home. The playoffs deserve an amped up viewing atmosphere, so I gave a call to Eagles super-fan, Jon Mumma, and we headed to Rhino Bar, a Philadelphian Embassy in the heart of Georgetown. Kickoff was at 4:00…we got there at 3:30…the place was a pit of screaming green. Jon and I waded through a din of E-A-G-L-E-S chants and wall-to-wall McNabb jerseys. We settled into a spot at the back of the bar, with a pair of tvs viewable with mild neck discomfort. I don’t know why Eagles fans get such a bad rap…the group that we were hanging out with were a swell bunch. Every defensive stand, every score, and every dead Giants fan was celebrated with a flurry of hand-bruising high-fives and throat-searing cheers. A great way to cap off the football weekend. The other games on the weekend slate were pretty frickin’ sweet too. The Colts held the Chefs (great googily moogily) to 0 first downs in the first half. Equal to the amount of first downs that I had in the first half. A greater sense of accomplishment you’d be hard pressed to find. The Pats smacked down the Jets and Tony Romo finished up his Twilight Zone episode of a season with the twist being that he kinda sucks. Can’t wait for this weekend.
–Terps Basketball: The team looks poised for a great season. The entitled head cases from last season are gone, and there’s a fresh bunch of hungry, talented youngsters in their place. Sure, they’ve got two early ACC losses, but the salve for that sting is that Duke does too. Duke losing means everybody wins.
–Girl Scout cookies: Two words. Thin Mints. I look forward to many a minty poo.
–24: The longest bestest day of the year. We rejoin our hero, Jack Bauer, 18 months after being captured by…General Tso. Somehow, he’ll go from orange glazed, bearded Chinese water torture victim to clean cut, ever-ready, ass kicking machine. A couple predictions for this season. 1) RoboCop will be back (I’ve got $10 on the table that says so…any takers?). 2) Chloe will be the next CTU staff member to either become a mole or fall prey to whatever impending doom that faces the world. Shooting for GUYS WATCHING 24 II is currently scheduled for next Sunday…watch for it.

2007 is kicking off nicely. Need more proof?
NEW YORK – The left wing of a plane backing out of a gate at JFK International Airport clipped the tail of another plane on the taxiway, authorities said. The Air China flight to Beijing had 215 passengers and 23 crew members on board when its wing hit an empty Delta Air Lines jet.
No one was injured, but the pilot was cited for unlawful perpetuation of a stereotype.

Enjoy your weekend.

To be continued…

Greatly Exaggerated

It’s about goddamn time. I agree. ‘Redheads, we’re one year closer to flying cars, dippin’ dots, and, ironically, time travel. I had planned to ring in ’07 blog-wise much sooner than now, but my computer decided to contract the Y2K7 virus the weekend of New Year’s Eve and it took a round, steaming, fudge-dragon on me. Many thanks to MyComputerBuddy for pushing my computer’s nose in it and making sure it never does it again. It’s been gone for a week…and I’ve missed you…and the porn. So, as of this installment, this blog officially spans 3 years.

Ok, so 2007…I hope you all rang it in with the appropriate amount of revelry. My New Year’s Eve was not exactly what I had in mind. To give you an idea of what this New Year’s had to live up to, please to be checking out the recap of last year’s festivities. I wanted to try to recapture the informal, laid back, low-key celebration this year…maximize the fun…minimize dent in the wallet. In order to guarantee the first part, I made sure to spend it with good friends Allyson & Jeff. We were joined by their good friends John & Dara and friend to all, Jay Hastings. Fun was in the cards. The latter goal was pretty much quashed by the choice of location. John & Dara made reservations at Teatro Goldoni, a fine Italian restaurant in DC. I got there a bit early, so I decided to belly up to the bar and grease the skids to give the evening that fuzzy, festive feeling. I sipped on a rum & coke, tapped my toes to the jazzy bar mitzvah band that was playing next to me, and alternately watched The Simpsons on mute behind the bar and the party people that walked in while I waited. When my peeps arrived, I settled my tab at the bar. Little did I know, that for the price of these drinks, this should’ve been happening…

$20 for two rum & cokes and they better be rum & coke & tits…just sayin’ is all. We sat down at our table and took a look at the menu. $22.50 for soup. I’ll type that again…$22.50 for soup. I wouldn’t mind paying that much if, say, they used gold bouillon cubes in the broth. The rest of the menu was just as pricey, but I ended up getting a particularly sumptuous lobster risotto that made my tastebuds dance like no one’s watching. Besides, it wasn’t about the money…it was about good food, good friends, and finishing off the year right. As the night progressed, we waddled back to the bar for the last hour of the year for the requisite streamers, silly hats, and crappy champagne. It’s not officially New Year’s until Jared gets a migraine, so the surrounding revelers obliged by sounding off their noisemakers. Noisemakers are called that for a reason…nobody expects windchimes when you blow into them, but these didn’t sound remotely festive. These sounded like an elephant rape whistle. My brain wept. Anywho, the year rolled over with the appropriate fanfare…I filled my ’07 quota for being kissed by Jay Hastings…the man likes his scotch…and his dog, Baxter.

I’m gonna snap this installment off right here…I’ll have plenty more backlogged random crap and good times to get to in a day or so. But, I’ll leave you with one of my predictions for 2007: Way too many James Bond marathons.

To be continued…