JARED STERN'S ONLINE COMEDY CUBICLE

Hey there ‘Redheads… It is my intention to be straight with you, my loyal readers. So, I have to level with you. This installment of the blog is going to be woefully thin. Look closely and you’ll be able to see its ribcage. The next blog, however, will be a blogbuster…the one year anniversary of this exercise in self-important blatherskite. It’ll be jam-packed with all manner of reminiscence about stuff that you didn’t really care about when it happened in the first place. I’m just sayin’…cut this installment some slack, because the next one is gonna knock your socks off (try to remember to wear socks when you read it…otherwise it might skin your feet).

Normally, I save the obituaries ’til the end of the blog, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the freak death of Steve Irwin. Yes, it’s time to have a moment of silence…with an Australian accent, to have a 21 boomerang salute, and to shed a tear in your bloomin’ onion for the khaki-clad croc hunter. After cheating death by cavorting with some of the most dangerous predators on the planet, he was felled by an unexpected foe. He was filming a new special to be called The World’s Most Venomous off the Great Barrier Reef, when a stingray gave love…a bad name. I need to purge the crappy jokes from my system here, so I won’t be tempted to join the chorus of hacks who’ll use this as an excuse to club the shit out of the dead horse that is his impression. Here’s how short on substance this blog is…I going to cite another blog. That of Jessica Paquin, who crystallized the comic ramifications perfectly. I’d just like to say to Jessica…get out of my head…and into my car…

Worse, and more tragic, than his actual death are all of the hack, piece of shit comics that immediately whipped out their “little journals of big laughs” and began feverishly scribbling down the comedy gold that will shoot them to stardom once they can fully implement a hokey Australian accent. So many will attempt to resurrect the poor, crazy Aussie bastard through a seemingly endless string of shitty impressions with shitty punchlines. Not unlike the comics that have the audacity to pull out the overdone hack Crocodile Hunter jokes before, now that he is dead, the “jokes” that surround him should be buried along with his body, but won’t. Let it go, kids. It wasn’t funny then and it won’t be funny now. Let him just be dead. All I’m saying is: Rest in peace Steve, and may all the shitty comics in the world allow you to do the same. I only hope they can wait for Arnold Schwarzenegger to keel over. That’s a body that will be kicked long after it has gone cold. It’s cheating comedy when you it’s something so easy. I’d rather see death cheated than comedy.

Amen, sister.

From the tragic to the sublime, I bring good tidings from the sold out The Labor Day Poonanza. Kudos to Larry Poon, Jim Marsdale, Randy Ford, Deaf Jim, Ryan Conner, Danny Rouhier, Kojo Mante (the REAL one), Seaton Smith, Jeff Maurer, Justin Schlegel, Jay Hastings, Tom Myers, and Quincy Ledbetter for putting on an inspired bit of comic gluttony. The DVD is forthcoming, and I hope a couple of the sketches make their way to YouTube or some other place where they can get exposure to the masses.
After the show the party moved over to Millie and Al’s, where we were joined by Jon Mumma…who was, oddly, nowhere to be seen during the show (yeesh…paper-thin AND full of inside jokes…stay with me, people). Man, Larry Poon knows how to party. Buxom Slovenian women on both arms, each taking turns pouring vodka and Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper down his gullet as he gargled the theme from Taxi. He is an inspiration to all of us who think that a mug of Miller Lite and whistling the end credits from The Incredible Hulk is any way to throw down. So, after my mug was empty and my lips chapped from the effort, I had to pee somethin’ fierce. As I finished up and exited the stall, the guy waiting his turn remarked to me, “I can’t believe there’re only two urinals in this place.” I shot back, in typical guy-banter fashion, “Yeah, the last thing you want is a line for the men’s room.” He zings, “Or a lion king.” Perplexed, and not wanting to violate any unwritten man-law, I simply affirmed, “You got that right,” as I walked back to the bar. I can’t imagine that women engage in this primitive haiku that guys do. The typical diagram breaks down like this: Two guys who don’t know each other engage in a brief superficial conversation that consists of no less than two, but no more than four lines, the last line of which is always, “You got that right,” or some variation thereof. The first line is typically a quip or observation that isn’t really funny or insightful, but in order to not be awkward, the respondent will force a laugh or break out the, “You got that right,” and be on his way.

We are an odd breed. If he were still alive, Steve Irwin would tag us and track our hapless mating habits. Here’s to ya, Steve.

To be continued…

Hey there ‘Redheads… For those of you expecting the blog yesterday, I apologize. For those of you who don’t really give a goddamn, help those in the previous sentence lower their expectations, will ya? It’s exhausting trying to live up to your completely ficticious standards…I mean, really.
If this week’s installment were to have a theme, it would be goals. Setting them, reaching them, and kicking them. I’m happy to report that my goal of getting to the gym and following through on a regimen of walking in place, lifting and putting down heavy objects, and sweating like a hack telling an “I’m sweating like…” joke, is going just swimmingly. I’ve gone three times in the past week and, despite my muscles screaming at me like Axl Rose with a thorn in his paw on the off days, I think I’ll be able to keep it up. Long dormant muscle groups are rubbing the crust out of their eyes and asking me what year it is…my delts think Bob Hope is still alive…that’ll be tough breaking that news. Once this becomes a regular part of my weekly routine, I’m hoping the soreness will ebb slightly…praying, actually. But, no matter the minor psychological or physical obstacle, I can’t quit. I’ve found something that provides me with the against-all-odds motivation to soldier on. What is this, you ask?
I rarely impart advice to comedians in this blog. Please, take the following statement and make it a part of your daily comedic activity: Read the newspaper. Dead medium? P’shaw. For, if I wasn’t flipping through the Metro section of last Friday’s Washington Post, I wouldn’t have found this gem…

The D.C. Knights left town with a soccer ball and a dream. And when they returned to the homeless shelter where they live, one of those had been deflated.

For two months, the four men and one woman had practiced on the Mall to take part in a national soccer tournament for homeless people, held last weekend in Charlotte.

Yes, you read that correctly…homeless soccer. There are only 5 people per team, but at least one of them thinks they’re Jesus Christ, so it all evens out. This is inspirational. Think of what these homeless soccer teams have to overcome. The most obvious, EVERY game is away. Some of these guys and gals are actually pretty good. I’m sure there’s a homeless David Beckham…a homeless Mia Hamm…sorta like Bizarro World. Just like in regular soccer, after winning, they take off their shirts…but then they follow it up with a bottle shower and taking a shit on the pitch. I think this would make a great movie, don’t you? It’ll be like Cool Runnings but with nappier hair. If you’d like to find out more about these ragtag competitors, you can find more info at HomelessSoccer.org. Yes, the have a homeless page (sometimes, I amaze even myself). Oh, but I’ve left out the best part…

The best eight players were selected to attend the Homeless World Cup next month in Johannesburg.

There’s a homeless World Cup…it’s filled with soup, apparently. Y’know nothing instills national pride like knowing who has the superior indigent. You’d think the world’s homeless would try to somehow defect to the U.S. team. I think that’s exactly the kind of huddled masses the Statue of Liberty is referring to. Hopefully, the ultimate prize is something they can use…like SHELTER!! I think they’d trade in the teamwork and sense of empowerment for a fucking roof that isn’t corrugated. Oy vey.

While we’re in the vein of our society’s need to feel empowered, here’s a sample of a new Comedy Central show, Special Unit, starring Christopher Titus and local comedy great, Mike Aronin. Enjoy…

That’s just part 1 of 3. I hope this show gets greenlit…so working with Mike will seem more impressive.

Before I sign off, here’s your comedy homework…

Ride the Poon.

To be continued…

Hey there ‘Redheads… Welcome to the 71st installment of this drivel. I’ve come to find out that it is, in fact, inspirational drivel. You’ll remember that in last week’s blogisode that I took the much needed first step toward physical fitness (then I got winded and had to sit down) and joined a nearby gym. Well, apparently my initiative has spurred at least two of my regular readers to action. On Wednesday, Kat Malone let me know that, after reading the blog, she plans to start jogging. Later that night, while reading Larry Poon’s blog, I found that he too was struck by my anti-flabbular (look it up) efforts. Helping people. Changing lives. This is probably a bad time to mention that I haven’t actually been to the gym yet. I have my free initial consultation with a trainer Tuesday afternoon, so I can be shown how exercise correctly…

He’ll also recommend the best course of action, given my level of physical fitness. Here’s hoping he doesn’t recommend suicide right out of the gate (thanks Chris)…getting out of that one-year contract could be tricky. My goal is to get a weekly regimen that’ll include at least two work-out sessions, maybe taking a boxing class, and as little herniation as possible.

On Friday, took in a movie on the big inflatable screen at the Strathmore Outdoor Film Fest. The flick du jour was the classic, Monty Python and the Holy Grail. As night fell, the sprawling crowd settled in for a different kind of snake…on a plain (call me Big Pun). A good many of the gaggle assembled were young couples. These couples fell into three categories: 1) both guy and gal are fans of Monty Python … 2) guy tricked gal into seeing the movie under the guise of the outdoor film fest being a fun night out… 3) this is the litmus test date for guy/gal to see if their date likes Monty Python…hey, gals keep insisting sense of humor is important to them…put up or shut up already.
After the movie let out, I got a text from a couple friends to join them at The Barking Dog in Bethesda for libations. The night was young, and I didn’t have to work on Saturday, so I figured what the hey. Well, BD has two levels. The lower level is your basic bar. The upper level, where my friends were, had the DJ/dance floor. Ok…libations and gyrations. ‘Redheads, I can’t dance…I can’t walk…the only thing about me is the way I talk. I did my best to keep my ass firmly seated, beer in hand, but it was only a matter of time before I was coaxed out on the floor to shake my groove thang. I should mention that I was born groove thang deficient. I wish wasn’t so goddamn stiff and awkward…there were plenty of hotties out on the dancefloor…their milkshakes bringing the boys to the yard and whatnot…snapping pictures with their phones that would later end up on a MySpace slideshow. I tried what I could, but my dancing is a stumbly hybrid of the Night at the Roxbury guys and the hokey pokey. I made Napoleon Dynamite look like Fred Astaire.
The highlight of the evening was the 60 year-old guy who was shimmying all night long. I tried my best to think of who this guy looked like. This was the best I could come up with…

You’ve heard that corny phrase, “dance like no one’s watching.” This guy was dancing like his Alzheimer’s made him forget he wasn’t supposed to. His dance style consisted of bouncing up and down to the beat and pointing with alternating fingers. I totally got served by him. This guy was the photo op of the night for groups of three or four hotties at a time to freak dance with him and snap a picture. If he was even aware of it, it was the finest scam I’ve seen in awhile. Nothing quite like pity.

Since you got last week off, here’s your comedy homework: go support the show at the Drafthouse Comedy Lounge on Wednesday night. There’s a great line up, with Dave George, Bird Knight, Larry XL, Andy Kline, and hosted by Molotov Cocktease, Jessica Paquin. You’ll be glad you did.

Before I sign off, a somber farewell to Bruno Kirby, who died of leukemia last week. You may know him from his roles in When Harry Met Sally or City Slickers. The one that resonated most with me was his role in Good Morning Vietnam, where he played the program director who tried to creatively stifle Adrian Croenhauer. He perfectly portrayed the guy who doesn’t get it. Painfully unfunny and completely oblivious to it. His great line as he’s getting the boot is, “In my heart, I know I’m funny.” Here’s to ya, Bruno. You’ll be missed.

To be continued…

Hey hey ‘Redheads… Over the weekend, I had a wake up call that forced me to take a bold step. What were my sleepy eyes awakened to? I, Jared “The Galleria of Comedy”, am a tub of goo. My cuddly, creamy nougat middle is reaching ever-widening proportions. I’ve been in denial of my growing resemblance to Alfred Hitchcock’s silhouette but, after getting an unsolicited rubbing of my jiggly midsection by Ayanna Dookie, I realized that, if I didn’t do something soon, instead of using Match.com to find a girlfriend…I’d need it to find a midwife (run on, sentence…run on). So, to begin the excavation to find my abs, I did something I should’ve done about 9 months ago…I joined a gym. I have no good excuse for not having joined sooner. The gym is walking distance from Stately Stern Manor. To give you an idea of just how close it is, I’m getting winded typing this. Once I get my free initial consultation, I can be told by a fitness professional that I’m more out of shape than a Stretch Armstrong left in a hot car. On the plus side, I should be able to see results immediately. On the bad side, those results include blacking out after attempting push-up numero dos. I’ll keep you posted on the sculpting of my doughy, E.T.-like physique.

I’m also making it a point to get off my duff and hit the ever-expanding DC open mic scene. On Wednesday, I ventured out to Adams Morgan to check out the fledgling new room at Rendezvous on 18th St. I was joined by fellow DC ne’er-do-wells, Tim Miller, Erin Jackson, Jeff Maurer, Seaton Smith, Nick Mullen, and a host of others whose names escape me for the moment. The crowd went from a mere 5 people to a packed house of 30 (it’s a very intimate setting) within the first three or four comics. Unfortunately, I went first, so I got to interact with the mere 5. Nothing quite like telling a joke and being able to tell how well it did by doing a quick head count.
On Saturday, I headed out to The Laughing Lizard Lounge for the late night showcase. As I walked down King St, I heard the sound of an angry mob rousing rabble. Sure enough, there was a good sized crowd of organized angry folk incoherently chanting against something. Come to find out that they were there to voice their displeasure with a guy who, through medical testing, killed puppies. Way to take a stand, people. You really had to waste your right to free assmbly for that? As far as universally detestable actions go, killing puppies is in the top 5. Mostly because they’re cute…it falls in the same category with clubbing baby seals. You don’t need to get the word out that it’s wrong. No catch phrases necessary.

The show itself was a fine display of what DC has to offer. Great comics like Jessica Paquin, Herbie Gill, Doug Powell, Ryan Conner, and special guest Keith Alberstadt gave the crowd something worth really assembling for…$1.50 PBR drafts. A protest against sobriety. Good times.

There’s more to get to, but it’s getting late, and I think I just pulled a hammy.

To be continued…

Hey there ‘Redheads… Welcome to August. Please join me in congratulating my good friends, Seth and Alison, on the birth of their baby girl, the end of sleep as they know it, Hannah Gwen…

If you’ve never held a newborn, I highly recommend it. The aura of adorability at 4 days old is more than enough to offset the constant screaming and the unannounced liquid poo. It’s that aura that is a baby’s natural defense mechanism. The nastiest of predators is reduced to a dumbstruck ball of cooing goo by the overwhelming cute. The only creature that is immune to this is, of course, the dingo.
When I went to visit the new proud parents, I brought gifts for the little poop machine. It took me awhile to figure out what to write on the card. What do you write to a 4-day-old? Finally, it came to me:

Dear Hannah,

Happy Belated Birthday.

–Jared

On Tuesday, after a year-and-a-half hiatus, I made my triumphant return to the Nanny O’Briens stage. Ok…remove the -umph…and the -ant…I tried. After the subpar set I had in Fredericksburg, it was nice to bounce back in front a responsive crowd. Kudos to Jay Hastings for keeping that room top notch. I had the pleasure of sharing the stage with Jeff Maurer, Brandon Ivey, Zach Toczynski, Larry Poon, and Ryan Conner. Jay fought off a misguided shot to the nuts, that became a microphone in the teeth, to close out the show…that’s a man’s man…or a wasted man.

I’d like to address a story out of Hollywood that’ll have over-arching ramifications in the world of dorkdom and comedy…

LOS ANGELES, California (Hollywood Reporter) — Batman is heading into a sequel, titled “The Dark Knight,” and he will face off against the Joker, this time played by Heath Ledger.

I had heard through the grapevine that comedian, Eddie Izzard was going to take on the purple pinstriped mantle of the Clown Prince of Crime. That would’ve been a fine bit of casting. I’ll reserve judgement on Mr. Ledger until I see him on the screen. My real concern is that his casting will resurrect the dead horse that is the shitty Brokeback Mountain joke. It’ll only be a matter of time before I hear some hack muse that the Joker will say to Batman, “I wish I could quit you” (watch for Carlos Mencia to do it and declare it as “edgy”). Or maybe…

For the love of all things holy…make a ROAR reference instead. The world will be better for it.

Speaking of movies, if you like a good creature flick, do yourself a favor and check out The Descent. This is from the same guy who directed the great zombie opus, 28 Days Later. He’s got a good head on his shoulders when it comes to…ripping heads off of other people’s shoulders. My good buddy, Chris White wrote a great review of the movie in his blog (conveniently linked to your right).
The next movie on my list is the Samuel L. Jackson “Muthafucka”-fest, Snakes on a Plane. If you wanna have some fun, please to be clicking here to check out a fantastic example of promotional genius.

Finally, it is with a heavy heart that I bid a somber farewell to…a fish. Jaws, my parents’ pet fish, who’s care I was entrusted with this weekend, went to the big aquarium in the sky yesterday. I did what I could, but fish CPR is a delicate art, and I was not able to spit water into his gills fast enough. So, in tribute…Jaws, this is for you…

To be continued…

Hey there ‘Redheads… Welcome to the final post of July. The blog has turned into pretty much a weekly endeavor this month, focusing on sheer blog density rather than frequency. Here’s hoping I’m able to come up with just as much pointless filler for August. Before I get things started, a quick shout out to one of my bestest digital pals, and fellow blogger, Mary. Mary is expecting a bouncing baby any time now…and hopefully soon. At last check, Mary has winced her way through 14 DAYS of contractions as the feng shui of her insides readjusts for the forthcoming vacancy. In the words of the late great Dennis Wolfberg, she’s seen more labor than Jimmy Hoffa. You can read all about it in her blog, Tales From the Dork Side. Onto things that are more me-centric…

Big ups to Adam Dodd for putting on a fine show at the Colonial Tavern in Fredericksburg, Va. last night. I was lucky enough to be on the bill with some of the funnier folk the DC/Baltimore/VA has to offer, including Brian Kerns, Danny Rouhier, Larry Poon, and Justin Schlegel. Powerhouses all. As Danny mentioned in his blog (conveniently linked on your right), the show ran long and hot…and the crowd grew weary. I blame comedy dynamo, Justin Schlegel (arrogant prick…inside joke…way inside…like for 5 people inside). I’ll explain. Due to his extra-long drive home, instead of headlining the show, he was put smack dab in the middle of the line-up. And, of course, he tore the roof off the mothersucker…irretrievably raising the bar to heights that the rest of us did not possess the rocket boots to reach. As a result, the next three comics, myself included, split a bowl of turd a la mode trying to follow him. It was like trying to get someone’s attention in Hiroshima with a sparkler on August 7th, 1945. If not for the soft shoe of Larry Poon, the Minnow would be lost…the Minnow would be lost. Glad to see Larry back in action. Seriously, the great thing about Justin is he has that rare combination of talent and humility that makes him great on and off stage.
My set was spotty, at best. I got frazzled in the beginning trying to engage the audience off-the-cuff. I ad-lib about as well as a Speak n’ Spell. It was an uphill battle from the get go. I managed to squeeze in a couple laughs between the awkward silences, but I was a stammering mess for the most part. This stunk mostly because I was eating it in front of my peers. Or, so I thought. After my set, I was approached by 5 different people who shook my hand and said, “great set” and “thank you”. This means one of two things. Either I have the worst case of stage ears (when you’re doing well and only hear the negative feedback or when you’re bombing and translate a chuckle/polite cough into a standing O) or I’m only funny to individuals and not a whole collective…

Or, once again, I’m just making a big deal out of nothing…in any case, it was a fun night and I’m glad I got off my duff and onto a stage. I don’t usually schlep out the Fredericksburg, especially with a tank of gas costing about as much as an XBox. Luckily, I was able to offset the cost with poker money.
The night before, I made my way up to Fredneck, MD for my buddy Steve’s 30th b-day bbq. A keg was kicked. Many racks of ribs were consumed. I ate more pork than Kermit the Frog (hey-oooooooooooo). As the night wore on, a bunch of us sat down to a seven handed game of Texas Hold ‘Em. I won’t bore you with the details (completely going against the blog’s sole purpose), but I won.

I wish that money wasn’t needed for necessities like gas, food, or hookers, because I could use some DVD money. One of my favorite TV shows from my youth is out on DVD…The Incredible Hulk. When I was 5, I was all about turning green and kicking imaginary ass. I had the inflatable Hulk muscles that you wore under your t-shirt and pumped up to rip through it.

In the last installment, I gave you a glimpse of the Muay Thai dynamo, Tony Jaa. Turns out, the movie I saw the preview for was released in Thailand in 2005. So, thanks to Amazon.com, I have the import DVD in my hot little hands. Let me tell you, it is seven kinds of amazing. Better yet, I’ll show you…

Not since The Bride turned the Crazy 88 into fresh sashimi with her Hanzo sword in Kill Bill Vol. 1 have I seen such a brutal ballet. Check this movie out. It’s called Tom Yum Goong. A wholesome story about a boy and his elephant…I shit you not.

Your next comedy homework assignment is due Tuesday night. Go check out the free showcase at Nanny O’Briens. Zach Toczynski, Brandon Ivey, Jeff Maurer, Larry Poon, and yours truly are on the bill. Hopefully, I can make up for the Saturday night debacle. We thank you for your support.

To be continued…

Hey there ‘Redheads… Greetings from beyond all the Newport News that’s fit to print. Just got back from a great weekend at Cozzy’s, one of my favorite clubs. Before I get this blog a rollin’, I realize that July has been a below-par month as far as blog frequency. I’ve been trying to offset that by making the blog as meaty as possible. This week is no exception.

First and foremost, thanks to Lorain, Corry, Karen, and the rest of the Cozzy’s staff for an amazing weekend. All three shows were packed to the rafters with folk that were ready to laugh. I wish I could take credit for the sell-out crowds. I suffer from many delusions, but “being a draw” is not yet one of them. The capacity crowd was all thanks to a DC legend, the Fat Doctor. For those of you who don’t know, the good doctor has mentored guys like Martin Lawrence and Dave Chappelle. He’s a favorite down in Newport News, and it was very cool to watch him work. Another thing you may not know about Doc is that he was a contemporary of the late great Richard Pryor. It’s one thing to work with a cool headliner, but getting a chance to work with a font of comedy wisdom…that’s the icing on the gravy.

This was my third time at Cozzy’s, and this was my most consistent weekend there so far. This was best crystallized by Chris, a patron of the club who’s seen me all three times. “Dude,” he started, “The first time I saw you, you seemed to lose the crowd about halfway through. The second time, I was like ‘This guy is funny.’ Tonight, I was like ‘This guy has a point.’ ” The several pitchers of beer he’d thrown back aside, I found his observation encouraging. Someone out there thinks I have a point. Now, all I have to do is…find a point. I’ll be taking suggestions.

Speaking of nebulous points, you probably read the title of the blog and are wondering what the hell it has to do with my weekend adventures (but, I assume too much). Well, much of my weekend was spent mainlining junk into my peepers. It started after my set on Friday night. It turns out the town of Newport News was named for the cigarette, because these people smoked like cancer is a prize. There was a thick haze that you could see in the stage lights. Usually, I don’t mind the smoke…I have a second hand smoking habit, but that night the nicotine cloud formed two fingers that poked me right in the eyes. I got all teary, like Matt Lauer just asked me if the papparazzi had gone too far.
The assault on my eyes continued the next morning (ok, it was closer to noon…the sun was shining, anyway), as I went about killing my Saturday. My usual routine is to catch a matinee at the local multiplex. The showing of Clerks 2 didn’t start for another couple hours, so I had some thumb-twiddling time. I usually find a bookstore or a DVD store to pass the time, but this time I wandered in what I thought was a video game store, called Gamer’s Haven. Turns out, it was a place to play video games. Roughly 15 PCs all set up to run networked games. You pay by the hour and log on to all sorts of retina-burning fun. I chose Doom 3 so I could kill both time and demons with one stone. I bought this game for my home computer, but apparently the graphics are too vivid for it, because when I attempted to play it, it looked like I was reading an apocalyptic flip book. So, being able to play the game on a high-performance machine was a plus. They supply you with headphones and a flatscreen monitor…very immersive. Midway through the game, I felt like Bill Paxton in Aliens. Oddly enough, that was around the time that my hour ran out…game over, man…game over.

After I got done, I went to check out the latest from Kevin Smith, Clerks 2. I’m not going to review the movie. If you liked Mallrats or Dogma or the original Clerks, then you’ll enjoy this one. What caught my eye was a preview for another flick, The Protector. This is the newest movie from Muay Thai dynamo, Tony Jaa. No digital effects. No wire stunts. Just pure badass martial artistry. If you haven’t seen the man in action, I give you the final fight from his first movie, Ong Bak: Thai Warrior. Enjoy…

Pretty flippin’ sweet, eh? Expect more of that barbaric ballet in the new one, which should hit theaters in late August.

Well, it’s getting late, so I’ll leave you with that. Your comedy homework: Go support the comedy showcase at the Arlington Cinema n’ Drafthouse on the 26th. If it sells out, good things happen.

To be continued…

Greetings from beyond North Cack-a-lackey, ‘Redheads… Just got back from a 4-day comedy vacation on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Many thanks to Ed, Leslie, and the rest of the staff of The Comedy Club for an amazing week of shows. Ed and Leslie are a rare breed of club owner, allowing 4 comics into their home EVERY WEEK. Given the off-balance nature of comedians, this is alot like giving a monkey 4 hand grenades (or, is that one hand grenade and 4 monkeys?) EVERY WEEK. Luckily, the arrangement has worked out so far without their house collapsing in on itself like in Poltergeist.
I mentioned 4 comics. They run two rooms during the week, so the headliner and feature from both rooms stay at their house, a really cool place right on the Albemarle Sound (I’m pretty sure I didn’t spell that right but, I’m still kinda in vacation mode). Along with me, was the very funny and super cool Greg Lausch and the equally cool Chad EO (I have it on good authority that he’s funny, but I never got to see him on stage…no relation to Captain EO). Ok, that’s only 3…unfortunately, the other headliner, the hilarious Sonya King, is allergic to dogs, and couldn’t cope with Buddy and Sadie, the club owner’s pooches (that was an assload of commas).
So, what do three swingin’ comics unleashed upon the beaches of Nags Head, NC do? Not a whole hell of alot. Highlights include:

-Lunch at the Nags Head H(.)(.)ters… Nothing like cracking jokes with a really hot waitress…who doesn’t understand sarcasm. She won the looks lottery, I guess it’s too much to ask that she know when someone is kidding…ever.
While we’re talking about the Maxim of restaurants, a moment of silence for Robert H. Brooks, who, as the self-styled “Worldwide Wing Commander” of Hooters restaurants, died on Sunday at his home in Myrtle Beach, S.C. He was 69(…figures). Apparently, God needed a franchise. Kudos to you, Mr. Brooks for providing the world with two things: 1) day jobs for strippers and Hawaiian Tropic models and 2) yet another forum for fat slobs to think they have a shot with hot waitresses who know better. As per his wishes, his body will be breaded, fried, and slowly lowered into a vat of bleu cheese dressing. There will also, of course, be a 21 tit salute.

-Poker. Apparently, Ed is a bit of a cardshark. He introduced us to a whole new world of poker, beyond the milquetoast Texas Hold’em. Our poker nights, which went to about 5am one night, were all about the wild cards. Variants on 7 card stud like Low Hold Wild, Night Baseball, High Chicago, and, the game that grows the pot faster than your college Ultimate Frisbee team, No Peek. Screw the World Series of Poker, ESPN needs to televise four comics shootin’ the shit over a pitcher of margaritas and freshly baked tollhouse cookies. You want drama? Here’s how one hand played out…Greg shows four-of-a-kind Jacks…Chad shows four-of-a-kind Kings…after seeing both hands, I got to say, “Well, gentlemen, that’s a damn shame,” and showed my four-of-a-kind Aces. I felt like Doc Holliday. I’m your huckleberry.

-Lunch at Five Guys. One of the greatest burger joints has extended its reach past Va. If you’ve never had a Five Guys burger, do yourself a favor. The basic burger is two patties thick. Nothing but the finest toppings. I bit into a jalapeno so green, Lex Luthor could’ve used it to take out Superman. Delicious, yes. The bathroom aftermath it caused hasn’t been seen outside of Fat Man and Little Boy (look it up).

The weather was sunny and spectacular for the most part. Except for Thursday night. At around 6pm, I looked off into the northern sky and saw darkness. This darkness slowly got bigger as it skulked down the coast and swallowed the sky. As Greg and I drove toward the club, the stormcloud followed close behind. If you’ve seen The Neverending Story, essentially The Nothing was chasing us to the club. Once it settled over the ocean, the storm was an amazing sight. Massive lightning strokes. Rain blowing sideways. Like God was putting on a seaside Gallagher show (be careful in the front row…you will get wet).

There are some other details I’m leaving out…alcohol + heatstroke = fuzzy memories…

To be continued…

Hey there ‘Redheads… I hope everyone can still count to ten on both hands after the alcohol-fueled celebration of our nation’s independence. I got a chance to enjoy multiple fireworks displays from my friend Pam’s rooftop. Usually, the 4th of July’s combo of beer, humidity, and loud bangs are the recipe for a big ass migraine. This time, after a brain-pain free evening, my luck was ruined by a screeching five-year-old on the metro. The kid had alot in common with a certain kind of firework…the one that makes alot of noise, calls a bunch of attention to itself, but ends up fizzling and not doing much with its life.

I finally saw Superman Returns last night. I was not disappointed. I can understand why some people were. Essentially, it is a carbon copy of the original Superman: The Motion Picture. Deliberately paced, focusing more on the dramatic than the bang for the buck. So, if you went expecting an action flick, it probably left you wanting. There was no epic fight scene. What this movie did was reestablish Superman as an iconic character in the hearts and minds of movie-goers. Brandon Routh is, no pun intended, a dead ringer for Christopher Reeve in look and performance (and bears an eerie resemblance to DC comedian, Paul Schorsch). Sure, if you want to nitpick, the plot has plenty of holes, but lighten up people…it’s a comic book movie.

This blog has reached a mini-milestone: 5,000+ hits…as of a couple days ago. Now that it has reached that mark, I’ve done some calculations to give myself a rough idea just how many of you read this. Ok…as of right now, the blog counter is at 5057 (minus the hit I just used to check it). Not counting this post, there’ve been 53 posts since I installed the counter. To account for the amount of times I check the blog, let’s subtract 3 hits for every post…that’s 5057 – 159 = 4898. So, we take the remaining hits and divide by the number of posts…4898 / 53 = 92 and change. 92 hits per post. Even if that’s 46 people checking it twice, that’s still very encouraging. It ain’t an Oscar, but you like me…you really sort of like me. May this be the last time I ever use math in this blog.

It may be the last time, only because my mental faculties are slowly slipping through my fingers, like so much sand (thanks Chris). Here’s the evidence of my descent into dementia. As alot of you know, before I started doing stand-up, I spent 2 1/2 years as the associate producer of DC101’s Elliot in the Morning Show. I got a chance to meet a bunch of big names…Bobby Slayton, Jim Gaffigan, Jay Mohr once called me an idiot for my fantasy football picks, I drank Sam Adams Summer Ale with Jim Cook. Here I am with Lord Stanley’s Cup…

What I’m getting at is, I have alot of vivid memories from my short time there. So, on Saturday morning, on my drive to work, I turned on the Best Of Elliot to liven up the commute. There was an interview, live in studio, with Dave Chappelle. Pretty cool. You’ve got my attention. As the interview goes on, I hear clues that this is a vintage segment from maybe a couple years ago…pre-Chappelle’s Show. Then I hear me (yes, the trademark “HA!”). I was in studio, with Dave Chappelle (who, granted, wasn’t as famous back then…this was from roughly ’99), AND I DON’T REMEMBER IT. Not a lick of it. And I edited this interview for Best Of. I’m one step shy of being the guy from Memento. I going to have to take pictures of my friends and write footnotes in sharpie that say, “Be nice to these people, they’ve put up with you for this long.” I’ll be tattooing my closer on my chest. I need a vacation.

Luckily, comedy has come to my rescue. On Tuesday, I hit the road for four nights of sun and pun in Nags Head, NC. This’ll be the furthest south I’ve ventured to be paid for my services (I did a showcase in Charlotte and auditioned for LCS2 in Nashville). This’ll also be the most exotic locale that comedy has taken me to…although, when Buffalo and Erie are your main competition, that’s not saying much. The past two days have been spent looking for my swimtrunks, some sunscreen, and the courage to take my shirt off on a public beach. The hairy puff-pastry that is my torso isn’t exactly something I like to show off in broad daylight…especially since my gut is close to being broader than daylight. I’m looking forward to a couple days of beach bumming, then hitting the stage after being freshly stroked by the sun.

To be continued…

Hey there ‘Redheads… As promised, I’m back on track with my bloggery. This is, by no means, a guarantee that this Amtrak won’t derail again at some point (or collide with my train of thought), but for now lets head to the dining car and feast on some hearty blog meat…or, for you vegetarians out there, bloccoli (and, apparently, corn).

Now to answer the burning question (would ya believe “smoldering”?) that’s been on everyone’s mind: Am I the funniest Jewish comic (of the roughly 50 that entered an arbitrary and completely bullshit NY bringer contest)? Sadly, no. I am, however, somewhere between the 4th and 15th funniest. I am happy to report that Adam Ruben is the 2nd funniest Jew on record. For this accomplishment, he was awarded a $150 gift certificate to Macy’s. If he has any sense of finance, he’ll invest that money…in a stake in the 50 foot, floating UnderDog balloon from the Thanksgiving Parade. A big thank you to my two friends who came out to support me, budding rock star, Marissa Levy and song parodist extraordinaire, David Brody.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a fun experience. Getting on the main stage in front of a packed house at the Laugh Factory, even if only for 5 minutes and for 300 old Jews, was quite a rush. This was a great example of how moody a contest can be…the judges and crowd love you in the prelims, and for some reason that connection is lost in the finals. It’s a mystery. The crowd for the finals skewed older…I know this because I could carbon date most of them. It looked like a casting call for Cocoon 3 (yes, there was a 2). Older people don’t respond to the same things that young whippersnappers do…factor in some inherent uptightness and the ambient temperature of the room being about 100 degrees, you’ve got a dangerous concoction of kvetching and shpilkiss.
This was evidenced as I was coming off stage after my set. A lady, who wasn’t old, but fit the uptight mold, waved me over to her table. Here’s what she lays on me… You should rethink that Parkinson’s joke you tell. My father is dying of Parkinson’s. It’s very offensive. I’ve never been a huge fan of this rationale. And I said to her plainly, I didn’t write the joke about him. A good friend of mine died in a rainstorm last week, should I now be offended by jokes about driving in the rain? This lady might as well have said this…You should rethink that bobblehead joke you tell. My father choked to death on a bobblehead doll. Lighten up people, they’re just jokes. If you are offended by something, it shouldn’t be up to the author to change his or her worldview because you feel snubbed. I should write a book, but that lady might burn it. Well, enough of me taking myself way too seriously…for now.
A cool highlight of the show, was its bookend special guests. The show was opened by Freddie Roman. In the green room, he regaled us with a story of how he and Henny Youngman were arguing over who headlined at the Copa Cabana. Just to give you some perspective, that story is currently being studied in the comic antiquities wing of the Smithsonian (by top men…who?…top men). The show was closed by Mickey Freeman. Mickey is the last surviving member of the cast of television’s Sgt. Bilko. They were both very entertaining. Now, when you see a headliner get on stage and tell book jokes, you roll your eyes and wonder how they’ve made it this far. Here’s the thing, though…these guys probably WROTE THE FUCKING BOOK.

Since neither of us accidentally infected ourselves with mouse malaria, or monkeypox, or hamster HIV this time, we arrived in NY with a couple hours to kill. We wandered through Times Square and found our way to the Toys R Us. Unfortunately, we were unable to recreate the scene from Big, but here are a couple things that we saw worth noting…
1) Bulk Legos. Making a three story replica of Tara Reid, but don’t have enough purple for the crotch? Fear not. They have buckets and bins of every piece you could need, sorted by color, size, and configuration.
2) The wall of Pez. Every type of Pez dispenser imaginable, from Darth Vader to Bruce Vilanch. They also had everyday heroes…a firefighter, a policeman, and my personal favorite, the nurse…which dispensed placebos.
3) A kid throwing a major league fit. No toy store visit is complete until you see a kid blow his top because his mom won’t buy him that three story replica of Tara Reid. This kid was screeching like he’d just burst out of somebody’s chest. His face was beet red, which made his blonde hair look like spaghetti noodles on a dodgeball. The mother held him like a trophy for the Most Justified Reason to Hit Your Kid and she rushed out of the store. Priceless. Remember, you too can be a winner in the game of Life.

And now it’s time to debut a new feature on the blog. After the utter failure of Joke-a-Day in June, I’ve decided to narrow my focus to bring you the best of a phenomenon I’ve always enjoyed: Gas Station Marquee Words of Wisdom. I’m sure you’ve seen them. Either motivational, uplifting, or biblical, these blurbs come straight from the Unleaded Supreme being to help you through your day. Each blog, I’ll post a new one…plus my own commentary. I dub thee John 3:16 9/10. Enjoy:

If you seek vengeance, dig two graves. That’s sound advice, because when I get revenge, it usually involves cutting somebody in at least two pieces.

Superman Returns came out last week. I’ve always been a big fan of the last son of Krypton. I’ve heard good things from my dork sources about the movie. I’ll have a full write-up, of course. In the meantime, here’s a panel from a Superman comic that I’ve always identified with…

Well, the year is half over. Time for the real procrastinating to begin. Have a safe, emergency room visit-less holiday. May the 4th be with you.

To be continued…