Insert Title Here

Hey there, ‘Redheads… Spring is over and Summer has arrived. The year is halfway over and it’s about this time I try to take stock of what I’ve accomplished so far. Well, thanks to my buddy, Chris White, I was able to accomplish something big right before the equinox. Last weekend, he recorded his new CD and I opened the show for him. Since he was gracious enough to have tape rolling during my set too, I ended up recording a new album as well. Not sure what to call it yet, but I’m hoping to have something consumable for my dozens of rabid fans soon. Ok, maybe not rabid. My slightly interested fans. Stay tuned.

The big news this week is the death of jackass of all trades, Ryan Dunn, perhaps best known for putting a toy car in his butt for our amusement. Jackass is one of my guilty pleasures. I used to pretend I was above it back in their heyday with MTV, but then my housemate sat me down and made me watch the movie and I sharted, I laughed so hard. It’s always a shock when a 34 year old is cut down in his prime, but considering his line of work, this one wasn’t that big a surprise. He got paid to reenact Wile E. Coyote cartoons with his friends. In our morbid heart of hearts, I think we all knew one of them was going to die young, but I just thought it would be on set. I guess the only thing shocking about this senseless tragedy is that it wasn’t more senseless. It was just a car wreck. A spectacular wreck, but I would’ve expected him to meet his end covered in peanut butter on a pair of rocket skates or something. There was a headline that ran on AOL today that read, “Ryan Dunn’s Cause of Death Confirmed.” That really took a medical examiner a day to figure that out? The only way this qualifies as news is if the coroner says, “Yeah, turns out it was complications from pneumonia.” And now comes news that the Westboro Baptist Church is going to picket the funeral. Good. This is the wrong group of mourners to fuck with. If they don’t get a septic tank full of angry bees dumped on them, I’ll be disappointed. Ryan, we hardly knew ye.

I’m getting back into mash-ups recently and I found two good ones for you to stick in your ear holes. You get videos too…

See you soon.

Sporting Chance

Hey there, ‘Redheads… Wow, two blogs in a row. Don’t get excited, I’m going to try to kick things back into the blogularity I spoiled you with for the first couple months of the year but, as usual, no promises. When I left you last night, the second half of Game 6 of the Mavs/Heat series was just getting started and it turns out all of the star wattage on the Heat burnt itself out. Here are some sample headlines I was hoping for in the Sports section this morning…

Heat Stroke

The Agony of the Heat

Mavs Take Talents to South Beach, Take Title

Dry Heat

Decision Made: Mavs Win

With the storyline that played out in the NBA, with the Cobra Kai of the league getting crane-kicked in the face, the schadenfreude is rampant among fans and analysts who were galled by LeBron and the pomp and circumstance of his “Decision” last summer. People are happy that the flashy superstars got taken down by the Johnny Punchclocks. Good triumphed over precieved evil. Roll end credits. Once hockey concludes, that interminable dead zone of sports will fall over the land. Normally, we’d have the happy distraction of off-season NFL speculation, but with the lockout, who knows how long we’ll have to suffer meaningless baseball and women’s soccer. What will fill the void? I’m hoping this catches on…

That’s Botaoshi, or Japanese Pole Toppling. Rugby meets Iron Chef meets a Walmart on Black Friday. And don’t act like you wouldn’t watch it, either. That’s the alchemy of ratings gold, my friends: the spirit of competition, the hint of controlled chaos, and flailing foreigners. Game on.

I was going to regale you with tales of my weekend gig in North Carolina, but my laptop crashed and I don’t feel like retyping it right now. So, maybe tomorrow. Just in case I don’t get back to the blog this week, I wanted to let you know about a great show on Saturday in the DC Improv Comedy Lounge. My buddy, Chris White is recording his new CD and I’ll be opening up the show and getting some stuff recorded too. Click here to get tickets and provide us with the necessary rousing live crowd atmosphere.

See you soon.

Sunday Bloggy Sunday

Hey there, ‘Redheads… I’m back from whatever arbitrary hiatus I imposed on myself. Thanks for pretending to care. I’m sitting on the couch, watching the Heat/Mavericks game. I’m not usually a big NBA guy, but it doesn’t take much to get me interested in a potential championship-clinching tilt. Besides, I’d be lying if I told you I haven’t gotten caught up in the manufactured villainy of the Miami Heat. LeBron took his talents to South Beach, now the heat are the Legion of Doom. It’s halftime right now and Dirk Nowitzki is apparently trying to rebuild the Berlin Wall with all of the bricks he’s putting up. I’ll give you my favorite stat in situations like this: Dirk has only made one more shot than me. If the Mavs end up winning, I want a ring. Y’know who else should get a ring? Ted Leonsis. There are three former Wizards on this Mavs team. Washington knows how to build a championship team, just not theirs.

I’m torn about who I want to win. It’s mostly a question of which NBA fossil I’d like to see win a championship before they retire. I always root for professional athletes who are older than I am. Juwon Howard was drafted when I graduated from high school. His defensive technique is mostly just yelling at the younger players to get off his lawn.

Just to see a Game 7, I’m rooting for the Heat to win this thing. Ok, back to game. I’ll have another blog tomorrow to recount my weekend getting laughed at. Again, thanks for pretending to care.

Post Apocalypse

Hey there, ‘Redheads… It’s Monday and the world is still spinning. Instead of literal hell on Earth, we just have to deal with the figurative purgatory of punching the clock and spending the day in a tiny cube. Us reasonable people were proved right and those kooks were mindless morons. They were sheep and the fire they should’ve been warned about was the one inside the kiln that the crackpot they were following was baked in (stay with me). But let’s hold our four horses for a second. Allow me to play devil’s advocate for a moment. What proof do we have that the Rapture didn’t happen? We’re still here? That’s pretty arrogant to think that any of us would be worthy enough to make the cut. I’m no theological scholar, but I’d have to think that the standards are pretty strict. Think about it, sure, our society has advanced in it’s values and technology over however many thousands of years since biblical times, but for God, that time has been the blink of an eye. He probably still goes by the ten commandments he gave to Charlton Heston. And everyone has broken one of ’em. Even the big one, “Thou shalt not kill.” Everyone has swatted a fly, stepped on an ant, killed a hooker… These are all God’s creatures, people. Commandments aside, there’s also the seven deadly sins. Trust me, Facebook alone violates the vanity clause for everyone on it.

If anyone was vaporized by Jesus, it was probably a conclave of nuns, closed off from the outside world, who gave up all of their worldly possessions and eat one crumb of bread a day. Who’s to say Jesus didn’t return on Saturday? He might’ve just appeared in Detroit and thought, “Wow, somebody beat me to it.” And this was just supposed to be the beginning of the end. We’ve got six months before a giant marshmallow man crushes us under his fluffy heel. Just sayin’, is all.

Enough of that claptrap. As I mentioned in the last blog, I spent the weekend bringing mild amusement to dozens of people at the Comedy Zone in Myrtle Beach, located in the Hilton Resort. This was the view from my hotel room…

I’m not usually a beach guy, but I figured I shouldn’t let such a prime lounging opportunity escape me. I stretched out poolside and sipped an Arnold Palmer made with sweet tea vodka while I charged up the pasty solar panel I call a chest. The sun and I have an understanding. If I promise not to take my shirt off more than an hour at a time, it won’t use me for kindling. The last time I soaked in too many rays, I got burnt so bad I should’ve gotten super powers. Overall, good times.

On the drive to Myrtle Beach, I got a call from my girlfriend telling me that Randy “Macho Man” Savage had died in a car accident. He was one of my favorite wrestlers when pro wrestling had captured my 10 year old imagination. I found a tribute on one of my go-to nerd blogs, Topless Robot, that echoed my sentiments almost exactly. Allow me to share…

I don’t know if I can really express how sad I am that Savage is gone. He’s just one of those people who have given me so much entertainment and pleasure in my life that I find myself genuinely upset now that he’s gone. I was only into wrestling a bit as a kid — a couple of years, although I was terrifyingly obsessed with it during those two years — but even after, I was always a Macho Man fan. Maybe it was just his journey from evil wrestler to good wrestler — and WWF champion — hit me at just the right time, where I was totally enraptured. Maybe it was because unlike Hulk Hogan, Macho Man was actually a genuinely great wrestler. Maybe it was because Macho Man was flawed and weird and dangerous and batshit insane and somehow just more fascinating to me than all the other wrestlers. Everyone had their one shtick, but Macho Man was only ever Macho Man. Let me put it another way: if Hulk Hogan was Superman, Randy Savage was Batman. Watching Hogan fight was fun but predictable; watching Macho Man do anything was always exciting, and always awesome.

I can’t say that Randy Savage had a direct influence on my professional or personal life, but I can say now that he’s gone, a part of my childhood is gone, too. Thanks for everything, Macho Man. Seriously.

See you soon.

And I Feel Fine…

Hey there, ‘Redheads… I wanted to squeeze in a quick blog before I hit the road tomorrow for a gig at the Comedy Zone in Myrtle Beach, SC. I’m bringing a laptop with me, but those things tend to fritz out on me when I try to connect to the interwebs. If I do manage a connection, I’ll be happy to give you a beachfront update when the ocean starts boiling and turns to blood. That’s right, folks. The end of the world begins on Saturday at around 6pm. Apparently, the Bible has a “dates to remember” section in it. Here’s an idea of what’s in store…

According to one wingnut and his band of followers, the Rapture begins on Saturday. Expect the Backpedal to begin on Sunday after absolutely nothing happens. I’d love for the world to turn into a zombie movie, but I’m betting you’ll still have to drag your ass into work come Monday instead. I’m not a very religious guy. I’m a Jew who can’t live in a world without bacon. It is my firm belief, however, that if Jesus was to return, the same thing would happen to him that happens to everyone else who claims to be him. Some nice men in white coats will have a little chat with him, then he’ll be on a thorazine drip for the rest of his life. We’re so jaded and cynical that no one would take him seriously. If Jesus wants to make his grand return, he better do it on YouTube, “Hide ya kids. Hide ya wife. Hide ya husband. Cuz everyone’s gettin’ Raptured up in here.” Seriously, Lady Gaga has 10 million followers on Twitter. Get in line, Jesus.

See you on the other side, Ray.

Catching Up

Hey there, ‘Redheads… My streak of regular bloggery is sputtering through May. If I was smarter, I would’ve taken advantage of my usual monthly stunt blogging and called it “I May Blog”, but I’m not, so I’m just going to chalk it up to a general May-laise. For now, I’ll just blog when the mood strikes. It just takes awhile for the mood to strategize. Anyway, I hope everyone had a fun weekend. I got to check out the Anti-Social Network Tour, over at Constitution Hall on Friday. The combined forces of Jim Norton, Bill Burr, Jim Breuer, and Dave Attell formed a bitter Voltron of comedy. Local comic done good, Seaton Smith, opened up for them. I was very jealous and very impressed. Top to bottom, it was a great show in front of a packed house of about 2500 people. Before the show, I got a chance to hang out backstage for a meet and greet with the guys. They spent a few minutes glad handing and posing for pictures. I always feel like a jackass asking for pictures, but I was able to get one with the most approachable of the group, Jim Breuer…

Of course, the big news that fell from the sky today, like a gift from the comedy gods, is the revelation that Arnold Schwarzenegger fathered a child with one of his house staff ten years ago. Start filling sand bags and brace yourselves for the flood of hack Sperminator jokes and shitty Ahnold impressions that’ll come from this. I wish I could take credit for it, but my favorite joke I’ve heard so far came from Marc Unger, who wrote, “And the child’s name is John Conner.” I’m not condoning his actions, but I can’t blame Arnold for straying from Maria Shriver, who’s so bony, it must be like having sex with a wire hanger. Hey, Maria, those aren’t rock hard abs…that’s your rib cage. I wouldn’t be shocked if they were sleeping in separate places, him in his bedroom and her in her sarcophagus.

That’s all for now.