The Carson Daily

Josh is Gonna' Try This Again. For Serious This Time

2010-05-18T14:03:00.002-05:00

Once or twice a year, I'll dust off the ol' Daily (Not a euphemism), and re-read some old entries, see if any of the jokes I stole in the past are applicable to whatever is going in my current life, enabling me to re-steal theses jokes, and tell them to hopefully not the person I originally stole the joke from.

And once or twice a year, I'll think to myself "I should really start this blogging thing up again!" because I'm a narcissistic ass that truly believes there's someone out there that isn't my Facebook friend or Twitter Follower, and is DYING to know what I thought about that weeks episode of Glee. I'm also worried about them, because when I stopped blogging, they were convinced I literally just evaporated into the ether, and now live in constant fear they might be next.

Anyhow, I'm starting this up again. For Ned. I just named that guy Ned.

Here's some stuff that I'm up to:

- Currently, I'm in mid-run of Urban Samurai's production of Bright Ideas. I play a guy named Joshua. My real name is Josh. So it's totally different. After that, I'm stepping back into the unstoppable juggernaut that is The Saved By the Bell Show with TV's real Mr. Dewey, proving once again, there's no need to create new material, because people love reruns, even in theatrical form.

- Fresh off my understudy gig in We Gotta' Bingo, I've got several understudy gigs coming up in the month of June with Nimbus Theater and Actor's Theater. Clearly, word is spreading of my incredible talent, or incredible amount of free-time enabling to jump in at a moment's notice. It's a tough-call.

- My bar-tending job at Bunker Hills Golf Course, aka My "Temporary Job" as I get back on my feet, recently turned two years old. Kids grow up so fast. This recent exchange with a former educator of mine summarizes the situation quite nicely:

FORMER TEACHER: So, how's the acting career going?
ME: Well, I'm your bartender, so exactly as planned. Fries, chips, or tots with that?

- I made a blood pact with Katie Moen, she of the Lake Chisago Moens, that if she entered the Funniest Person in the Twin Cities competition, I would follow her into battle. Therefore, Josh Carson will be attempting stand-up for the very first time on June 23rd at Acme Comedy Club. Come check it out as I wonder what aloud what is the deal with many everyday things.

So, Ned, that just about gets you caught up. Oh, and this other time I got drunk and fell down, bruised myself, but told everyone a bird flew into me. They bought it. Does that say more about me or them?

The blog is back! Will there be another? WHO KNOWS?!??!?!?

The Forthcoming

2010-01-22T22:45:00.001-06:00

Hey! Here's a trailer we shot for our sketch comedy show! Check it out:

Josh Works. Kinda'

2009-11-05T15:19:00.004-06:00

Blog.

It's been awhile.

Let's not make this awkward.

Recently, I opened an e-mail* and was promptly donkey-punched for my efforts. Not literally. That'd be weird. I mean, think about it, why would I stop to check my phone if I was involved in a situation where I could possibly be donkey punched? Also, I don't involve myself in situations where I could possibly be donkey-punched.

The e-mail informed me that Tony n' Tina would finally be able to take their honeymoon. This was surprising, as previous non-donkey punch e-mails indicated there was going to be a nice, healthy, thirty show fall extension. Which was true, if by "thirty" you meant "five," and by "extension," you meant "Desperate Hail Mary pass."

Around that same time, our rarely inhabitable state was struck with an unseasonable blizzard, enraging the passive aggressive citizens, and delighting only Eric Webster. And while Minnesotans make merry sport of bitching about the weather no matter what it's doing, I was one of the select few that had a legitimate bitch, as the cold snap cost me many a'shift at ya old Bunker Hills golf course. Apparently, the die hard golfers are so close to death, they can't risk it when the temps dip below thirty.

Essentially, I was out of both jobs in the span of twenty-four hours. And while I knew this day was coming, both were limping towards the finish line, I was positive I had another two months at both as well. God sensed my confidence, and intervened.

In the meantime, I've been scrambling to find whatever employment I could procure, the only guideline being "If I have to go back to temping, I'm going to slit my wrists and make it look like a paper cut!"

It's a widely known fact that my main motivator in life is spite. Ask any dick that's pissed me off. However, this experience has taught me that an equally powerful motivator is being out of options.

Here are some results that sprang up as I entered the "Well, Let's See if THIS Works..." phase of my life:

* The Minnesota Timberwolves called me. And they asked me if I enjoyed drinking. I answered with a positive sounding grunt, as I was quite toasted. They asked if I enjoyed hanging out with unattainable women. I sent them a twitter pic on my upper arm, which is where I cut myself, just to make sure I can still feel pain. And they said, "How would you like to essentially bar-hop before every home game, with a few of the dancers, giving out t-shirts, tickets, and generally just being the loud guy at the bar, but also getting paid for it?

So, yeah, that's how I became the Loud Guy before all 41 home games of the MN Timberwolves season. You want yourself a free t-shirt? I am so far down, I'd have to clear that with several people. WOOT!

* Creatively, I approached the BLB asking them what dates they had available. They told me. I told them I have a show. They said, "Great! Sign this legally binding contract!" I signed it. I said, "Just kidding about having the show." They shrugged and said, "Whatever, either a show or you give us money."

And that's how my upcoming sketch comedy show was born! Therefore, opening Jan. 7th, is "The Wedding Party presents 'And That's When Things Got Weird..."

The Wedding Party being myself, Andy "Ricky the Caterer" Kraft, John "Dominic, the other groomsmen" Zeiler, Emily "Connie, the preggo Maid of Honor" Hansen, and Maria "Donna, the other bridesmaid" Stukey. All of displaced interactive theatre performers, all of just a little bit off in what we think is funny. Which at every rehearsal thus far has just been body noises we think are funny, however only during intercourse.

* Another development is still kind of a secret, so I'll reveal to you what I can: Remember when [FOND MEMORY DELETED]? Well, [IDENTITY OF NOUN DELETED] enjoyed it [LEVEL OF ENJOYMENT DELETED] that [PRONOUN DELETED] said [DIALOGUE DELETED] So I should [SUGGESTED COURSE OF ACTION DELETED], and it works [IDEALIZED FORECAST OF FUTURE DELETED] until it falls off?

What do you think? [COMMENTS DISABLED]

*Which I can now do from anywhere now, as I have a new fancy phone. Cause I'm classy. Bet you didn't know that

Josh Learns the Secret to Peace

2009-07-09T09:44:00.003-05:00

4th of July at the Moen Family Cabin has become somewhat of a tradition for me. (By tradition, I mean something I happened to do twice) And even though there were no fiery acts of death defiance that would inspire a popular line of t-shirts that I would ultimately only kinda' pay for, everyone had a perfectly lovely time. Which would make a shitty t-shirt.

However, this year, a new addition was the Moen Caste System.

Your placement was dependent on which Moen you were affiliated with.

There are three:

Katie - the sassy young go-getter. A modern day Mary Tyler Moore, if Mary Tyler Moore swore and every picture of her looked as if she were Asian and/or recently punched in the face.

Jim - the recent college grad, currently employed as a mini-Robert Langdon by a lonely, rich man in Edina who pays him to hunt treasure and dance.

Susie - the oft unseen, possibly rumored, third Moen. Unseen largely because she was in high school, and Katie was all "Oh, what the, hell no!" So, she was kept hidden, not unlike Blanket Jackon or a Sexy Bigfoot. Now, she's a college sophmore, so game on holmes!

(There were also parental Moen's, but they kept to the deck and the grill, and interaction was limited to calling people by the wrong name, and telling the exact same story several times in rapid succession)

The age breakdown was as follows: The Katie Group had all the 25+, The Jim Group 21-24, and the Susie group had the 18-20's.

The age gap may appear slight, but the differences were vast.

For instance, the Jim group brought various cheap beers and lots of 'em. Busch Light, PBR, something with an umlaut. Some in the Katie group brought travel Shiraz. And virtually all in the Susie group pretended that Mike's Hard Cranberry was a real drink, and they could play grown-up like the rest of us.

Location wise, the Katie group lounged on the deck, while the Jim group took over the land. Just to be different, the Susie group set up lawn chairs in the water, cause they had to be all all conceptual. Damn kids.

The Jim Group was the rowdy group. They would yell and push each other alot. They invented some sort of game where a can of beer would be placed between the feet of a participant. Across the circle of death, a challenger would throw a dart, the objective to hit either the beer can or not-skin. If the beer can was struck, the person would have to lift up the beer can and shot-gun the rest of that beer. And then it started all over. It was not clear if there were any winners or losers in this game.

Though only in their late-twenties, the Katie group quickly became the grumpy old voice of reason, yelling at the Jim group to slow down! Stop throwing darts at each other! Get off my porch! Ironically, just after we accepted the fact that the youth of America were destined to put each other's eyes out, the only injury stuck only a member of the Katie group. She fell down while walking. That's it.

While all this was going on, the Susie group was waving, trying to get our attention, maybe one of them got hurt too, who the hell knows -- I mean, it's the third kid, right? Who cares?

Despondent over the ability of Jim's group seemingly being able to have fun with a stick they found on the ground, the Katie group decided we'd take an adults only boat trip. Sounds sexy right? "Adults Only" indicates that there'll be boobs galore and unspeakable vulgarity. In truth, there was taxes, tips for back pain relief, and a debate over which local meteorologist was the least Child Molesty. (Oddly enough, Jonathan Yuhas)

Just when it seemed all hope was lost, and there would forever be division amongst all the sexy, young white people, a wonderful game designed to make you forget the fact that you're binge drinking paved the way to peace. That game? Flippy Cup.

(Yes, Flippy Cup. It's called Flippy cup. Not Tippy Cup. You're a damn fool if you say Tippy Cup. The objective is to flip the cup. If you tip it, you lose. Why would they name a game after something that only happens in defeat? Seriously. You got a lotta' growing up to do)

Members of all groups assembled on either side of the dock for the most unevenly matched tournament of Flippy Cup in existence. What followed was pure joy. Laughter. Singing. (Seriously. I think the Jim Group made-up some sorta' spiritual that would be sung upon the winning and/or losing of a round of Flippy Cup. I'm not sure if it was an existing song, or based off of a t-shirt). Instant camaraderie.

Flippy Cup had saved us all. We didn't even care that we were drinking from a plastic cup that was previously upside down atop the grimy deck, and in some cases, plucked out of the lake water. Though, that would explain my dysentery.

I think we all learned a valuable lesson here today kids. Binge drink. For yourselves. And America.

Then light things on fire.

Josh Emerges From the June Rubble

2009-07-02T20:20:00.005-05:00

The dust has settled on a particularly active June. A June that that successfully created the illusion that I had a life. Well done June. Here's why June was busy:

1. I MOVED!

I successfully escaped the land of Perpetual 1986, aka My Apartment on 3213 S Holmes. The new apartment is 2715 S Dupont*, which is not exactly directly next door to the Green Mill like I had my heart set on, but close enough.**

I'm most proud of the fact that I lived in Perpetual 1986 for ten months, and I only did the dishes once. That was the day I left. Because they were the landlady's dishes. One of them was from September. It was covered in some sort of black goo I can only assume was alien symbiote that got on my skin and will eventually turn me into Venom, or a Gay-Emo. A Geemo.

I am least proud of the fact that I was living at the new palce for two weeks before I realized I needed more toilet paper. You needn't know how I survived. In completely unrelated news, Magers and Quinns used book policy is completely lax.

2. TONY AND TINA MOVED!

Tony n' Tina's Wedding has moved to the Mall of America for something called "The Summer or Love," despite the fact there are several gigantic yellow stand-ups declaring this summer as "The Summer of Spongebob" Don't think there won't be a war.

Fitting the show into a new space has been a lot of work, but people still seem to be having a good time, which means I'll continue to get fake drunk for the rest of the summer. Just, you know, in Camp Snoopy.

Also, when I was in seventh grade, I wrote a story about how great it would be to live inside the Mall of America. Now that I spend a majority of my time there, I can tell you that story was wrong. Of course, also in that story, I witnessed a mob hit, and Joe Pesci tried to kill me, and I ended up winning the heart of Cindy Crawford.

Just like in real life.

3. TONY WENT GAY!!

By far the most rewarding part of June was the revamping of Tony and Tina's into "Tony and Timothy's Wedding" for pride weekend*** The show was a fantastic experience through and through. The final l product ended up being hilarious, sweet, and as well brief brushes of poignancy.

I was still Barry, the best man, though this time, I'm the only straight guy at an all gay-wedding. So I got to play uncomfortable and squirmy, which the gougars found ADORABLE! Oh, what's a gougar? That's a gay cougar.

They also got my shirt off several times. Apparently, unshaven furbie-like appearance is in amongst the gays. If I ever switch teams, there'll be no shortage of dating opportunities.

But, the busy has now subsided, and once the busy goes away, I'm left with with a new apartment with no furniture. Still a hammock though.

Always the hammock.

*Devotee's of The Carson Daily (All both of yous) may recall my past admonishing the very idea of living on Dupont. Well, my words are delicious, thank you very much.

**I learned that because whilst stumbling home, I called someone to protect me from getting raped -- Rapists don't want to interrupt your phone calls. You could be paying a bill -- and the conversation went as such: "I just left the Green M-- HEY, I'M HOME ALREADY!" ::Click::

*** Pre-pride weekend actually. Trying to get gays to come to a pride-themed show on pride is like trying to get Jesus to show up to your place for Christmas dinner.

Josh Has Adventures

2009-05-11T14:32:00.003-05:00

Here are things I did last week:

Shot a Vikings commercial. More accurately, I moved a couch for six hours, and occasionally, people took pictures of it. During my time in LA, I held multiple a PA job wherein my specific duties were to move couches, because the more power you yield on a filmshoot, the less heavy shit you have to pick up. I finally get in front of the camera, and it's back to couch moving. Just goes to show you...something....I guess.

Had my teeth cleaned. Then I was convinced I should have my wisdom teeth out, because leaving them leads to Tooth Aids. I then whined and fretted and whined and cried and whined and RAGED and whined. Then, at the last possible minute, the oral surgeon was unable to see me. I then started whining about that. Next week, I'll be whining about the Tooth Aids.

In the company of Ms. Lauren Anderson (NAME DROPPED!), rode all the rides at Camp Nickelodeon. There were fairly odd coasters, a steep plunge from the top of the MOA roof (Which had footprints on it! Why!?! What possible reason could there be?!), and a broken blaster making me incapable of blasting all the ghosts. Lauren's blaster was not broken. Then, as I attempted to flip a penny into the wishing pond, it flew in every direction but the pond. That penny was broken too.

Attended my first bonfire of the year. I then met up with the boys for a movie, and I still smelled like bonfire. There should be a cologne. We'll call it BONFIRE! Or, you know, just go to a bonfire and don't shower afterwards.

Kicked off the Summer Movie Season. Here's what I thought of these movies:

WOLVERINE: You want to know what Wolverine did before we met him in X-Men? He screamed. About everything and anything. Dead girlfriend? Scream. Step-brother tries to kill him? Scream. Puts a decimal point in the wrong spot, now he has to do that all over again? Scream. And the claws looked like ass. You fail Hugh Jackman.

GHOSTS OF GIRLFRIEND'S PAST: First, shut the hell up. Secondly, romantic comedies can be fun and enjoyable. You know they are, and if you disagree with me, how do you explain that lost Sunday afternoon with back-to-back-to-back Sandra Bullock's on TBS' Movie and a Makeover? Yeah, that's right. I saw you watching it! Even Two Weeks Notice! You watched Two Weeks Notice! Sandara Bullock has never even seen Two Weeks Notice! Finally, this movie, the one where Scrooge can't stop humping everyone* - viewed with the bar set so low it was actually underground - was ass. Complete and total ass. It was an extremely well-cast final project in some godawful "Intro to Filmmaking" course at the Learning Annex. You fail Matthew McCoughnawhatever.

STAR TREK: I have never given a shit about anything Star Trek. So I had nothing riding on this movie. That being said, I enjoyed myself immensely. It was fun, funny, extremely well-cast, and a tad ingenious in it's ability to be both a prequel and sequel. You win JJ Abrams. You win.

And now it's Monday. What new adventures await me? I don't know, but I'll bet there's a dragon.

*Now THAT'S a movie!

Josh Launches Apartment Hunt '09

2009-04-29T18:51:00.002-05:00

My time in the in 1986 Apartment is nearing its end. True there was a brief flirtation with escape back in December, but then Minnesota couldn't choose a senator, which somehow effected my living situation. (Growing up, I always knew that Stuart Smalley would somehow f me over.) However, come May 31st, BatShit Crazy moves back in for two months before she dupes another poor soul into paying to house sit for her.

And thus, Apartment Hunt '09 has launched. Apartment Hunt '08 was conducted a bit hastily, hence a land-lady who lets herself in whenever she wants, suggests I sleep in a hammock instead of a bed, and makes me read her mail, so in order to remedy the next nine-months to a year of my life, I'm gonna' lay out some ground rules:

While I do love Uptown, I think my time here has come to an end. Uptown tenants thrive on either being edgy and non-conformist, or desperately pretending to be edgy and non-conformist. Ergo, they don't go to bed ever. Also, they steal my mail. I may just be basing this off of my downstairs neighbors who don't go to bed, and steal my mail. (Turns out, this was sanctioned by BatShit Crazy when she thought either I, or the post office themselves, were stealing her mail. None of this was resolved through conversation) (And don't worry, I got my revenge on the downstairs neighbors by accidentally breaking into their place twice, once while they were in their underwear. Which was probably made of hemp.) Anyhow, I like quiet. I'm old damn it. I can't take rock and rolling all night, but I like partying everyday. I just want it to stop at seven or eight. Hello St. Paul!
I think I need to have a roommate. A roommate makes me (somewhat) accountable. Because if there's no one around, I'm very happy to set shop in my own mess, and have been know to forge pillows and beanbag-ish chairs out of dirty laundry I take off and leave on the floor whenever I feel like it. You know that song "Someone to Watch Over Me?" I think while it's primarily sung by females, it's really about males. Specifically me. I think Gershwin at one point knew that Josh Carson would exist, and he'd be "Not Great" at it.
Money's a little tight. I don't know how that happened.

CUT BACK TO AUGUST OF 2008

JOSH: I know! I'll go back to acting!!!

CUT BACK TO 2009:

JOSH: What is plasma? Do you need plasma? I'm pretty sure you don't need plasma.

Mainly I'm writing this missive to ask you sexy readers a questions: What has two thumbs and needs a room for about 650-700 in the Uptown-ish area -- maybe Linden Hills, maybe Nokomis -- by June 1st? THIS GUY!

Also, if you own a building and I call you to rent in that building, I want to rent in that specific building. I don't want to live on Dupont. No one wants to live on Dupont! Ask anyone living on Dupont what's the best part about living on Dupont, and they'll say "Knowing one day I'll no longer be living on Dupont."

Josh Has Six Months To Live

2009-04-07T14:43:00.002-05:00

There are worse things in this world than turning thirty. Turning forty for example. However, none of those things are currently happening directly to me, though rest assured my bitching shall not be silenced when they do.

Actually, turning thirty isn't even happening directly to me. Not just yet. April 7th marks the halfway point. Or the final countdown if you will. (And that's not me being negative. As soon as someone writes a rock anthem called "Halfway Point," I will be happy to just reference that)

I have an important decision to make this day: Do I spend the next six months adultifying my life -- activities including being able to pay for bills, not using various floors in my apartment as a hamper, and having more in my fridge than a leftover piece of veggie pizza even though I consider veggie pizza the same thing as Epicac Pizza? -- or do I just enjoy the hell out of twenties and hope things will work themselves out somehow?

I think you'll see the route I went with as I present my "Six Months to Live" list:

First of all, I've spent the first six months getting back into regular acting gigs. Coincidentally, that's also when I started going broke again, but whatevs. Being a part of Tony N' Tina's Wedding has fulfilled many list items, as its been the most fun I've had doing a show since college, and at the risk of being over sentimental, become a part of a family that I know will be around long after the show suddenly closes next weekend -- an unlikely occurrence we're constantly reminded could occur at any moment.

As for the rest:

Jump out of an airplane - Either sanctioned or while making a daring get away from bad guys.
Run one or multiple 5K's - Some people say this should be a marathon, but F that. I still adults shouldn't run. Ever. Have you ever watched an adult run? It's unnatural. Like a dog playing pool.
Water Park Vacation - Water parks are the best. As I can't afford too extreme a vacation, it'll likely just be a two day trip to Noah's Ark this summer. Who's with me?
Start Writing Again - This is an ongoing quest for me, one which I will write about at greater lengths later. This is the one I'm taking the most seriously. Not that jumping out of a plane shouldn't be taken seriously.
Meet my future pet, Pug Jack Bauer.
Create a bidding war at a bachelor auction.
Save the economy - This is one is just selfish, because I'm sick of everyone blaming the hard economic times for everything, including speeding tickets and infidelity.
Crash a parade -- Actually, I can check that one off. St. Patrick's Day
Become someone's favorite person.
Lock myself out of my apartment twice. -- Again, check. Again, St. Patrick's Day.
Win the hand of an unlikely lady love in an extremely public forum, ala every Adam Sandler movie. The music of Journey will also be involved.
On a very separate occasion, be at an event, blare Journey's "Any Way You Want It" with the intent that yes, indeed, we are all gonna' get laid.
Learn to cook something other than Chef Boy R Dee and hot dogs. Apparently, you can't live off of those.
Get married on the clock tower at Universal Studios. That's really more of a life goal.

I think that's a nice healthy start. Some goals easy, some lofty, but all of them something that can only be done by a twenty-nine year old.

Unless thirty's the new twenty-five. It can't be the new twenty. Thirty was the new twenty five years ago. So, you know. Math applied.

Josh Makes the Commitment

2009-03-13T13:10:00.004-05:00

I'm always delighted to receive a phone-call from the first lady of Twin Cities comedy, Lauren Anderson. She is a great conversationalist and I most assuredly will be introduced to a new series of nonsense noises or randomly linked words that express both joy and frustration (eg. Killah Aramadillah!) The latest conversation would prove both statements to be true.

It's not uncommon for Lauren and I to start the day with a walk around Lake Calhoun (Being an actor and/or comedian means we usually have most mornings, days, and evenings free to devote time to this habit). However, we generally stick to the warmer six months out of the year. I tend to whine in the cold. And extreme heat. And when it's "too nice."

However, instead of asking "Do you want to walk around the lake in the morning?" Lauren asked, "Can you commit to walking around the lake with me in the morning?"

This was brilliant phrasing. Because here is how Josh's brain will respond to both questions:

QUESTION: Do you want to walk around the lake in the morning?

JOSH'S BRAIN: Sure. I want to. And I'm able. But, will I? It depends on the weather, how hungover I am, whether or not I wake up at my apartment. I'll say yes now, but give me some wiggle room, in case of emergency and/or laziness. I won't even have to call to cancel. That's why text messaging was invented. And, you know what else? Boobs are friggin' fantastic.

QUESTION: Can you commit to walking around the lake in the morning?

JOSH'S BRAIN: Shit. She's onto me. She knows the second I make a promise, I immediately begin to figure out a way to safely break that promise! What kind of game is playing? Who is she working for?! If I say yes, I have to to do it. If I say no, she can rightfully call me a pussy. Oh, well played Anderson. Well played. And, you know what else? Boobs are friggin' fantastic.

Lauren's phrasing adds instant accountability to your promises and actions! It also gives you instant guilt, which is second greatest motivator. (The first is spite)

And, I ended up walking around the lake. Ergo, I've decided to start phrasing my goals and to-do lists a bit differently. We'll see how long that lasts before I find a loophole.

WHY THIS WEEKEND SCARES ME:
My mom wants me to go see Last House on the Left with her this weekend. She was an avid fan of the original, watching it over something like twelve times at the Drive-In near her house (And then not remembering a thing about it thirty-seven years later). Now, I'm usually a fan of horror movies, but something about this movie makes me feel like it's not the "fun" kind of horror movie. It's the "Wow, this is overwhelmingly horrible and disturbing and just plain awful" kind of horror. And I've also been reading the reviews, and I wonder if I want to be sitting next to my mother as I watch an "uncomfortably lengthy and gratuitous rape scene."

YOU KNOW WHO NEEDS TO BE DONKEY PUNCHED?
Taylor Swift. Specifically for her song Love Story. For the following reasons:

It's the kind of "pop" song that should only exist in an eighties comedy during the end credits, in which every character becomes animated and sums up the movie we just watched, so we really hammer home the point that she was a human the entire time, so it was okay for Andrew McCarthy to have sex with the mannequin.
The first couple of times I heard the song, I thought she was saying "See the lights/See them party with ball gags." The actual lyric is "See the lights/See the party, the ball gowns." Taylor Swift either needs to enunciate or commit!
The following lyrics have not been altered: That you were Romeo/You were throwing pebbles/And my daddy said stay away from Juliet - So, okay, he is Romeo, but your dad wants you to stay away from Juliet? Who is Juliet? Is there a third person in this scenario? What's going on? Who are we talking about? Who are you talking to? If this guy is both Romeo and Juliet, maybe you should be staying away from him. And later on, when you call yourself "The Scarlet Letter" -- have you actually READ any of the things you're thinking about? You just called yourself a whore, and if you're in some kinda' sick twisted three-way with a couple of your art-house friends, I'm not entirely sure you're wrong.

Taylor Swift, you need to be donkey-punched.

Josh Plugs Tony and Tina's Wedding

2009-03-04T10:38:00.000-06:00

Josh is Introduced to Interactive Theater

2009-01-13T10:06:00.001-06:00

The past weekend was the culmination of the rehearsal process of Tony N' Tina's Wedding, which basically consisted of about six performances of the show. Which, I know, would technically mean we've already opened the show since there's paying audience, but it's more like a soft opening, with the hard opening being still on the 15th*

I've been asked if I've ever done interactive theater before this, and I've always replied with a reluctant yes. After this weekend, the reluctance can finally grow a pair and be confident with its reply. Up until that point, however, occasionally teasing an audience member or bringing some lucky (And, let's be honest, probably hot) girl in the audience for a little extremely structured comedy (And direct rejection afterward) has been audience participation, not audience interaction.

And there's no real way to rehearse that, since a rehearsal audience is a real audience.

And after my first (soft) weekend with TnT, here's what I've learned:

* We gradually began to bring the audience into the mix. Our first official preview was on Wednesday, but Monday and Tuesday before, we brought in a quaint little crowd (About 15 or so both nights). It was extremely useful, however, I feel kinda' bad for those fifteen since the audience-starved cast was so eager to interact, we essentially comedy-raped them.

* There are two types of audience members at these shows: One that is more than willing to play along with the environment (They tend to skew older. And, even then, occasionally, the eager-to-play lady is actually horribly confused why people keep calling the wedding a show) and another audience member who feels it's their personal mission in life to reveal that everything around them is pretend, like they're Laurence Fishburne uncovering The Matrix to the rest of the audiences Keanu Reeves.

* The "Mascot Rule**" firmly applies here. I can do anything with these people, and they will clap and ask for more. Hit on wives in front of their husbands, blatantly ogle, rub your face all over their mullet, challenge their masculinity via beverage choice, use a strand of their hair to make yourself a mustache with them still attached.

* Just because I'm at a pretend wedding reception, it doesn't mean I have to use wedding reception voice. Wedding reception voice doesn't lead to Voice of Tomorrow voice. (Though, an interesting vocal tidbit I picked up from my last show is that if you're able to meow, your voice is good enough to perform. I have my own way of meowing, which is an impression of my friend Loran's girlfriend, demanding that he locate her some skittles post-haste. Several of you immediately know what I'm talking about.

* And finally, my ass and junk have never been molested so much in my entire life. I was warned this might occur, and of course I made the joke that that such interaction would be no problem with me at all. That's before I met social worker Trista, whom not only snuck a flask into the ceremony, whom not only needed to lean on me to prevent the floor from moving, but when I told her it was time for her to get her dinner, she saw that as her opening to plummet her hand down my pants. Apparently, she was REALLY hungry. Hey-O! Anyhow, long story short, I'm engaged.

All that being said, I am, of course, having the most fun I've ever had in a show since college. Not to get all mushy, but this show is wall-to-wall some of the most talented performers I've had the pleasure to work with, and our only purpose is to ensure the audience has a great f-ing time.

And somehow, we end up having a great f-ing time as well.

*Soft and hard. hehhehhehheh
** Please refer to the time I got beat up by all the NHL Mascots at the All-Star game in 2004 in front of a thousand cheering patrons.

Josh's Public Service Announcement

2009-01-12T16:30:00.000-06:00

PSA Barry Wheeler & Connie Mocogni from Ben Thietje on Vimeo.

Josh Already Picks Up on the Theme of 2009, or Josh Changes the Format to his Blog Titles

2009-01-03T19:06:00.000-06:00

We're only three days deep into this 2009 bitch,* yet already, a theme has emerged:

The Date: August 8th, 2009
The event: The wedding of Andrea Carson and Peter Osswoski
The Relation to Me: I'm Andrea's cousin, haven been all my life. I was alerted to my plans for the eighth day of August in the year twenty 'aught nine a year before the day was to happen. My plans are simply this: Be the drunken cousin that attends this joyous union, drink everything that I can, hit on as many bridesmaids and/or single ladies (They'll be easy to spot, as Beyonce orders them to put their hands up) because they're twenty-three, pass out and/or puke on someone that can direct me up into my hotel room.

The Date: January 15th, 2009 ongoing through every weekend until question mark.
The event: The fictional wedding of my fictional best friend Anthony Nunzio to his fictional sweetheart Valentina Vitale.
The Relation to Me: I'm the fictional best man, Barry Wheeler, alongside my nine-month preggo maid of honor, Connie. My duties are various and entertaining and tickets to said event can be ordered at www.actorsmn.org and this wedding will forever change your life.**

The Date: October 10th, 2009
The event: The wedding of Jacob Carson and Destiny Anderson
The Relation to Me: Jake's my brother! You can tell because whenever I see him, I say "Hey brother!" Ergo, instead of being paid to a pretend best man, I'm going to be using all my pretend Best-Man money to be a real best man. Yay!
The Jokes I Plan To Use In My Toast Regarding Jake's Fiance's Name: "I knew this wedding was going to happen. I mean, after all, it was destiny." "If you guys ever have a kid, we can call it Destiny's child." "Jake and Destiny are each others density. I mean, destiny!" (I encourage you to come up with your own that I will later steal.)
The Irrational Reaction: Notice anything about that date? It's around the same time as Joshtober Fest 30, which we all know is the Joshtober Fest that's going to take us to Vegas or some exotic port of call. Has anyone seen my thunder? I have reason to believe that it's been STOLEN!

The Date: January 9th, 2009
The event: The dual weddings of former best Friends Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway, whom accidentally book their weddings on the same day at both girls dream venue. The brides are currently at war with one another, engaging with cruel pranks that are supposedly funny to everyone who isn't them. Though they hate each other now, early speculation leads us to believe they will eventually learn lessons that'll make them better people, and then dance during the credits.
The Relation to Me: None. Avoidance as if it were to give me some sort of mutant AIDS. Although, at least every teenage girl in the country is learning that the only thing that they should ever desire is to have a wedding, regardless of happiness or partner.

*Maybe by the time you read this, it's the fourth or fifth day. And instead of a bitch, maybe it's an effeminate dude.
** Better get used to me plugging this show every chance I get.

Here we go again. Again.

2009-01-02T00:02:00.000-06:00

Hello Blog. It's me.

Listen, I'm gonna' cut right to the chase here, I've been ignoring you. But not anymore. We're going to bring this bitch back to the glory days. No, screw that, the new days are gonna' make the glory days look like the last days of Pompeii!

And I realize I make this declaration at least once a month, and we're at the starting line of a new year, and everybody makes lofty, idealized goals that flat line before the hangover's lifted, but this time I mean it baby! Let's make this work again!

This is Josh at the start of 2009:

I still reside in the Perpetually 1986 apartment. There was hope of escape, but some prick named Dean Barkley ran for senate and yadda-yadda-yadda, Josh can't leave 1986 until the end of May. My landlady aka Sgt. Coo-Coo Bananas is still Coo-Coo Bananas. She's in town for the holidays, and she's been letting herself in when I'm not here and, among other things, cleaning and turning down my heat.

My show "Casting Christmas" ended its run on New Years Eve. If the show were Bruce Willis, then the final weekend was Hans Gruber shooting the glass forcing the bare-footed badass to limp his way to the finish line. A majority of the cast was stricken with SARS, rendering me the best singer in the entire ensemble. (Keep in mind on opening night, the director suggested I "forget" to turn on my mic during the songs) One-by-one, all the cast was infected, culminating in our lead child actress to puke herself out of the closing show, forcing a mid-show Bewitched switch. In the end, I was the only cast member to be uninfected. I credit my health to Airborne and excessive drinking, which kills germs AND brain cells, neither of which I need.

Tony N' Tina's Wedding opens in a week and we are currently in intensive all-day rehearsals. It's a strange process because the audience is the final and most important cast member, and they've yet to show up to rehearsal. What I do know is that in my previous show I only appeared in a fourth of the show, but this one I'm out there for the full two and a half hours, and I have a song that the mic will be turned on for. If "Cha-Cha Slide" counts as a song.

All right blog, admittedly, I brought my C+ game to this missive, but you know what? It doesn't matter. Cause I'll be updating you again soon. Still not daily, but soon.

Is there nothing sacred? Have we lost our moral center? It just makes me want to pee on someone!

2008-11-17T08:44:00.000-06:00

Here's some stuff:

I attended a wedding this weekend, and I discovered the place that's more embarrassing than being seated at the singles table. It's being the only male seated at the spouse table, as in, you're at a table compromised entirely of the girlfriends and wives* of the groomsmen. I wonder who's girlfriend people thought I was?

Speaking of groomsmen and acting like a girl, I had a thought mid-wedding. Aside from my brother, and Justin (Who is most likely whom everyone assumed I was the girlfriend of) -- I have no idea whom my groomsmen would be. Years back, I would've had a roster-full of choices, but time and many burnt bridges later, the number has dwindled. Though I've been assured this is just a natural stage of growing-up (Which we all know I hate), it still troubles me. I mean, it's not like I'm going to be able to woo them over with the promise of a grand groomsmen gift, I'll have spent all the money recreating the clock tower, and hiring Christopher Lloyd to officiate. Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. Maybe I need to find a girl who is willing to spend more than a couple of months with me.

Though, the main issue just might be getting a girl to spend more than a couple of minutes with me, of which I am seem to be subconsciously opposed to, as evidenced by this recent encounter:

SETTING: The overcrowded Green Mill bar
(Josh sidles up to the bar, in between two patrons. His body language favors the attractive female)
JOSH. Excuse me, I hope you don't mind me being awkward for a couple of minutes.
(Attractive Female looks up, and smiles)
ATTRACTIVE FEMALE. Not at all.
(Josh orders his beer)
ATTRACTIVE FEMALE. You're not being awkward, you're thirsty. Nothing wrong with that.
JOSH. Exactly! See. You get it. You know what's going on.
ATTRACTIVE FEMALE. Oh, I get it. I mean, I'm sitting at a bar all by myself.
JOSH'S BRAIN. Whoa! Josh! You fool! Hold the eff on! This girl might be dropping hints! That seemed like a hint!
JOSH'S SELF-DOUBT. Are you sure Brain? We've been burned before by more obvious hints than that.
JOSH'S BRAIN. Fine, don't believe me (Brain slips Self-Doubt a piece of paper) Say this. If she is into you at all, it'll be obvious.
JOSH'S SELF-DOUBT. Are you sure?
JOSH'S BRAIN. It's fool proof!
(Josh's beer is delivered.)
JOSH. So, thank you for letting me invade your personal space.
ATTRACTIVE FEMALE. (Smiling bigger still) Anytime.
(Noticeably long pause)
JOSH. Well...see you later!

FIN

The wedding was located in St. Paul, and there was a three-hour break between ceremony and reception. I used that time to explore St. Paul, by foot, because I refused to pay fifteen dollars for parking cause of something called "hockey" The results of my findings? St. Paul sucks. Except for Alary's.

Whenever I finish reading a book, I spike it, as if it were an adversary that I just vanquished. I'm not sure when this started, probably when it took me a couple of months to finish a Harry Potter. Anyhow, lately, I've been finishing a number of books at the gym (I credit my ability to slay a book a week to my reading while doing my forty-five on the elliptical. And yeah, yeah, haters -- not a proper work-out, well, eat me, I've lost weight and can now say I'm well-read without feeling shameful) Spiking a book in public doesn't work as well as it does in the privacy of our own home, so if I do end up finishing a book in public, I "accidentally" drop it instead. It isn't nearly as satisfying.

Quantum of Solace is not The Dark Knight to Casino Royale's Batman Begins. It also could've used more chase sequences. Cars, boats, planes, and pedestrian did not fully satisfy my chasing needs. There's still trains.

7:22 performed another set last night, and let's just say it wasn't one of our finest. Two showers later, I can still feel it on me.

Now, off to more adventures!

*And one mother.

Damn it Creed! I've been up since four!

2008-10-23T19:22:00.000-05:00

As the Halloween season approached, friends began brainstorming possible Halloween costumes, a subject I feel brings far more joy to Adult You than it ever did to Kid You. (Back then, costume choice wasn't such a make-or-break factor since your mom was just going to make you wear a jacket underneath it anyway, causing several a dickwad from the greatest generation to make some crack about not remembering the Terminator being so roly-poly.)

However, it soon became clear to me that my friends weren't brain-storming as much as they were pitching me their ideas to see my reaction. When I asked one of them why my reaction factors into anything, they told me they figured I was one of those who came up with really ingenious costume ideas.

This couldn't be further from the truth.

I guess since I'm generally a creative person, it's assumed that I apply extra amounts of that creativity to the holiday that greatly encourages it. Nope. Not at all.

When it comes to Halloween, I'm just in it for the booze and erections. (As opposed to my childhood days, when I was just in it for the candy...and erections.)

I'm ninety percent lazy when it comes to Halloween, which is why I was Austin Powers for three years, Dr. Evil for two, and Shaun of the Dead for three as well. (And the Shaun of the Dead costume was born out of a desire to get more creative on Halloween. Then nobody knew who I was. Essentially wearing a bloody business-casual look, the most popular guess was Scott Peterson)

This year, I decided, like countless others, that I was gonna' be the Joker. But, not regular Joker. I was Nurse Joker. That was my twist...as well as countless others.

I didn't care that I wasn't being original, my shit was off the chain as the kids say.

However, dressing up in drag did give me a better understanding on the plight of the female:

Much of their wardrobe is uncomfortable and inhibiting. I've never worn a skirt before, but it didn't occur me just how much pants I wasn't wearing until I wore a skirt for the first time. I had to don a pair of purple tights just so I felt I had something going on down there. (It also served the much more important job of Junk Containment)

The skirt being so short, I had to adjust my swagger, as I was never completely sure how much of my ass was showing at any particular time.

Speaking of my ass, it was groped by a man at the bar. Leaning over the bar, I felt a hand caress my booty, thinking it was a friend doing a round of Gay Chicken, I turned to see a man I had never met before. Once he realized I was a man, he shrieked, "Whoa! Not what I was expecting!"

Which -- what if I had been what he was expecting? Was I supposed to turn around and tell him that I've been waiting for this moment all my life, now let's away to the bathroom stall for hand jobs? At least buy me a drink.

He had to have known I was a dude, right? I mean, we don't live in a world where that's the ice-breaker?! Seriously? Ladies, is that what I'm competing against? If so, single women at my age are probably grading on a curve, which is going to be hugely advantageous for moi.

All in all, the costume was well executed and well received. I made children and grown women, who are probably legally children, cry. I had fratties tell me I was "awesome." And Justin, whom incessantly mocks my lack of Halloween originality, gave me high marks for authenticity.

Justin, by the by, went with my joke suggestion of the Domino's Pizza Noid, whom you should avoid.

It was hilarious -- if you were born before 1982. Everybody else didn't know what the hell that thing was.

Even when Justin barged into a Domino's Pizza and shouted, "GIVE ME ALL YOUR PIZZA'S!"

He was instead given total fucking silence until a fifty-plus employee in the bank quietly remarked, "Is that supposed to be the Noid?"

We slowly backed out of the Domino's, not bathed in laughter.

See. Too creative and you lose mass-audience appeal. So says me.

And, obviously, Hollywood.

Up there, there is so much room; where baby's burp and flowers bloom; Everyone dreams I can dream too...up there!

2008-10-15T18:58:00.000-05:00

I haven't heard the sentence, "Oh, you're in the play?" so much since high school.

The setting of this oft-repeated question, occasionally paired with an exclamation point, is Seasons Restaurant at Bunker Hills. The play is Casting Christmas - the first show in the twenty-first season of the Seasons Dinner Theatre, of which, I have just had my first rehearsal.

The phrase, also much like high school, is said in one of three tones:

An astonished, borderline marvel at the foreign, perhaps even mythical creature they see before them. Sadly, this is not the awe-inspiring that causes admiration or warm feelings in the pants, but the kind of awe that's inspired when you see a three-legged dog, or platypus.
"Oh, he's one those." This is probably the most accurate of the reactions.
By just being in a play, admitting I'm in this play, doing so in front of this particular person, now places them in direct vicinity of an about-to-explode gay bomb. (Oddly enough, the older the person that says it, the more prone they are to this option)

The show itself is pretty much what I thought it was going to be. Family friendly. G-rated. Lotsa' Minneso-tah accents. Thankfully, none of which will be delivered by me. In fact, in a play dominated with over-the-top, extra hilarious characters, I am playing the straight man to all of them. Particularly, I am the romantic antagonist. Think Zach from Wedding Crashers, but with significantly less f-bombs.

The great news about this part is that I don't have to sing (seriously), but there are several references to her only being with me cause I was hot and successful. There's even a couple of references to my having a good body, though don't get me wrong, I've more of a man's body now than has ever been. I know because I watch myself in the mirror as I slowly remove my shirt in the morning.

As for the job that led to this job -- things aren't great.

As winter rapidly approaches, golf course attendance naturally drops off. Which means that currently, the only business that frequents the bar are the hardest of the hardcore golfers, which is to say the biggest blankholes (I'm trying to cut back on swears. There be kids in the show and shit. Oh, damn! Aw, hell! Ah, bitchcake!). This means significantly less tips. Monday, for an eight hour shift, I got three whole dollars. And that's just because Bo felt bad for me.

And, with such little revenue, cutbacks in staff are to be expected. So, in the places where servers and bussers would usually be, there's just Josh now. Essentially, the money has vanished in the same amount that the work load has tripled.

Contrary to what people may believe, the single reward in being the service industry. in any way, is completely monetary. I know there's a lotta' bull-honkey about bartenders meeting lots of people, and hearing out their troubles. It's not true. I don't want to hear about your shit any more than you want to hear about mine. And, there's not actually as much character inspiration as you'd think.*

Add this to the anticipation of my upcoming productions, my morale has been rapidly diminishing. Truth be told, I think I'm just getting sick of it, and it's starting to show, despite my best efforts, which I stopped about a week ago. Case in point, I actually said to a customer, in a sarcastic-but-if-I-stop-and-think-about-it-maybe-he-wasn't-being-sarcastic voice, "Hey, let's play a game. It's called 'How Many of Me Are There?' "

And here's the thing: I know I'm being whiny, and bitchy, and selfish, and that my sudden curmudgeonness will only get me scheduled even less than I am now. That's the angel shoulder talking. The one that's saying, "Suck it up Pee-Pants, six more weeks, and you get to be an actor again. Stop trying to chop off the hand that's fed and boozed ya' up."

However, Devil Shoulder, he makes some solid points as well. Everytime I ask someone want fries or tater tots, he wipes his ass with my college degree. He then sheepishly makes eye contact with me and says, "What? You're doing it."

This afternoon, before my shift ended, I was taken aside and properly admonished for my attitude in a nearly word-for-word exhange with Angel Shoulder. Thankfully, I think they realize what's going on, and they're understanding. (Though, my manager did say something to the effect of 'things are going very well for you, it doesn't seem like the usual Josh to want to ruin that.' She was partly right, that's not usual Josh. That's Classic Josh.)

See! Look! Prove I'm growing, cause now I know when I'm being stupid!

For instance, right now, Devil Shoulder just told me "Really Josh? You're okay with being reprimanded by a younger superior who can't stop giggling when they hear the word 'floater?"

But, Angel Shoulder has rightly countered with: "But, Josh -- you're the one that chose to say the word floater, specifically with the intent to make everying giggle."

Okay. Maybe growing up isn't the best way to desribe it.

* Though, there is the occasional gem, such as a couple I overheard at the bar a few weeks back:
GIRLFRIEND. Remember when you used to give me things? You never give me anything anymore.
BOYFRIEND. I could give you a pearl necklace.
GIRLFRIEND. Why would I want a pearl necklace? It wouldn't go with anything.
BOYFRIEND. (Deep sigh) Nevermind.

Remember where you are - this is Thunderdome, and death is listening, and will take the first man that screams.

2008-10-08T14:54:00.000-05:00

The Joshtober Fest aftermath usually begins with the first apology tour of my new year. However, my gravest sin this year was calling someone named Andrea Katie. Though, to be fair, the first three people to arrive at Joshtober Fest were Kat, Katie, and Catherine, so I just figured that was the thing now.

All in all, it was arguably the best non-roller coaster laden Joshtober Fest in the entire fictional holiday's history. My reasoning behind that doesn't go much beyond "Nothing blew up.*"

Perhaps it's a sign that I'm growing up that I decided to go the low-key route. The day was spent dicking around the MOA with the lovely Lauren Anderson, who must have been wearing her Angry-Gay-Men-Who-Work-At-Failing-Lotion-Kiosks Axe body spray.

We dined at the tackiest restaurant in the entire enclosure. It's called Kokomo's and it attempts to make you feel as if you're at a Hawaiian resort instead of across the street from the food court. It is so over-the-top, I've decided that I want to make it my break-up bar. You know, if I ever get to initiate a break-up.

I then bought myself some grown-up clothes, because let's face it, the performance fleece ain't getting me laid much these days. Also, Ashlee Simpson finally talked me into getting a pair of Sketchers. Now get off my back, bitch.

Later that night was Joshtober Fest proper at The Independent, so chosen specifically for the proximity of the 1986 apartment, despite the fact that being two blocks from my apartment didn't help too much during Joshtober Fest '05. It was a great time, and when all was said and done, I ended up walking down Hennepin at two in the morning with a giant stuffed Pug named Jack Bauer.**

The most feared guest at any Joshtober Fest, my own personal Mr. Hyde, Honest Josh actually didn't seem as if he was going to show. Then he caught the red eye in the form of a marathon of shots placed in front of me in the final hours of the Fest. However, he didn't cause much trouble, because in all honesty, he doesn't have much to say. I think it may have something to do with my being happy and content, which is something I didn't even realize I was. Happiness snuck up on me, the prick.

And now, I have to live life as a twenty-nine year old, which if the first couple of days are any indication, will be a year of constantly defending that you are actually twenty-nine, and occasionally looking behind you, to see if the thirty-sized boulder is getting any closer.

I've decided not to fear that boulder. Which is how I ended up at the Tina Turner concert last night. Well that, and the free ticket Katie Moen had.

And the best advice I can give anyone who is depressed over aging is to attend a Tina Turner concert. Though the bombardment or Aquanet and leopard print that shouldn't be seen the light of day, especially from that angle, watching a woman who's nearly three quarters of a century, spryly bound about the stage kicking the collective asses of her four twenty-something back-up dancers makes you feel like a complete jack-ass for thinking that somehow still being in your twenties is the time when you start calling yourself old.

Also, whenever possible, you should be someones private dancer, their dancer for money. It's not much, but we don't need another hero. I have a friend named Mary who does that, and she's quite proud -- Mary is. Says it's simply the best.

Be thankful you weren't at the concert with me, because I played that game before, after, and during.

*Metaphorically and, in one case, literally.
** Seriously. He has a personalized collar. It's for the real dog, when he starts existing.

If you can't hold it, you take your ass to the men's room and cry in private on the toilet… like a man!

2008-10-03T08:56:00.000-05:00

I love Fall. It's the greatest.

I love the wearing of layers, I love leaves on the ground, I love that I get to use words like crisp and brisk. There's something about a brisk fall sunset that makes me want to attend a fall football game, do my homework, and go Halloween shopping. (Incidentally, anyone know where a fella' can get him an old-fashioned nurses uniform? Probably one that previously hung from a woman that would be politely described as husky.)

In other news, I've told Crazytown that I don't intend to dwell in her Coo-Coo cave past December. That apparently was the key to stopping the constant phone-calls and e-mails. This somewhat rashly made decision once again finds me homeless during my busiest month in a great long while, but as luck would have it, the fates found me a new place nearly the same night. I don't want to get into great detail, as that tends to jinx things, but I'll just say that I'll be living with my favorite politician, ever. Speculate away.

I was shopping in Magers and Quinn the other day. I was in the middle of reading The Road and looking for something a little more light-hearted for my next literary adventure. I knew I was in trouble when the clerk asked if I meant funny, putting the emphasis on both syllables. He proceeded to recommend several books he had heard were good that he didn't read himself, however, I've already read. At which point, the exasperated clerk said, "Dude, you read too much." So, essentially, the independent bookstore clerk called me a dork.

Reading too much doesn't make me a dork! What makes me a dork is that immediately after getting a new book, I check to see how many pages are in it, divide that number by four, so I can correctly gauge when I am 1/4th, 1/2, and 3/4th's of the way through that book.

If you're not watching Chuck or Pushing Daisies, your life is all the more empty for it.

Since my schedule is going to be working my bar-tending job, rehearsing the dinner theatre show, and then rehearsing Tony and Tina's, while bartending and performing the dinner theatre show, it is unlikely that I'll be able to acquire pug-puppy Jack Bauer until January, when Tony and Tina opens. Or, you know, Christmas. Just in case any of you want to know what to get a guy that has virtually nothing.

Besides a nurses uniform.

More later!

"You're about to experience the hard knocks of a free market, bitch. Get ready to feel it where it hurts." "Your dick!""No, not his dick. His--wallet.

2008-09-24T18:36:00.000-05:00

Stuff be happening. Here are some reactions to that stuff:

It took four years and some change, but I finally made my triumphant return to the Brave New Workshop stage. Granted, as an understudy, and an understudy chosen in the same manner in which Harry T. Stone was appointed the judge of Night Court. ("I was home.") With four days notice, I jumped in for Fotis -- and the results were very well received indeed. Just look at this printed and spoken praise:

"[CARSON] absolutely killed. It was darned impressive. " - Joe Bozic

"Virtually seamless!" - Lauren Anderson

"Fuck off, Josh." - Mike Fotis*

Highlights included my impression of an overzealous pirate doing an impression of Jesse Ventura, performing fake wrestling all too realistically, and spending a good twenty minutes of the show hitting on a smoking hot girl that normally wouldn't give me the time of day.

All in all, it felt good to be onstage. Really good. Like I was finally back home.

And where I'm very much feeling not at home is my apartment.

Sure, the neighbors have stopped stealing my magazine since I labeled my mailbox, and their fights often contain better dialogue ("You barely respect me!" "I respect the shit out of you, retard!"), but I'm afraid 1986 Landlady has plummeted off the deep end of being a fucking nutbar.

It's the entire mail issue. As you may recall, she wants to me to call her, tell her what she's received in the mail, and she will tell me which mail she would me to send on to her current location.

I flat-out told her that I didn't feel comfortable, sorting through someone elses mail -- which is most definitely illegal even with her so-called permission -- and I inquired as to why, if she valued her mail so much, she didn't just forward it to her current location. You know. Like a human.

Well, forwarding your mail simply does not work.

Oh. Okay.

After several voice mails, one of them completely unrelated to the topic of her mail and in which she addressed me as Michael and spoke to me of issues I've never heard of because my voicemail that clearly told the caller you've reached Josh's number was not enough of a hint, she finally laid on the guilt trip about how she was expecting checks and such, and I was now interfering with finances and personal life.

So, I e-mailed her a list of the mail. She said, "Hmmmm, I may need you to open some of these letters so I can find out if they're important or not, and from there, we'll decide what you need to send to me." And she was very adamant about me getting all of this accomplished by Sept. 30th, when she leaves the country. Another place where mail can't reach her.

I told her I wasn't doing that, and I was just going to send her the mail, so I don't have to deal with it. So, Tuesday afternoon, I sent her her mail. I left her a message indicating that I did as such, and late last night, I received the following, word-for-word voicemail:

1986 LANDLADY. [LOUD WHISPER] What the fuck!? [NORMAL VOICE] Josh, I just got your e-mail. I'm stunned. I'm REALLY stunned. I'm leaving town on Tuesday, as you know, and we don't know for sure if it's even going to get here. And I think you sent it to the address I left you, but I just don't know for sure. It would be really nice to know! Sorry if I sound aggravated, but, by all means, I am just being driven crazy by this kind of thing. It's a minor request I made. I have asked you many times. I'm really sorry if you think this is too much. It is too much. I HAVE to know what you're doing. I need you to communicate with me. And this last e-mail is just too late, you know? And I'm not asking you to send me my mail regularly until NEXT January. So, please, LET ME KNOW via e-mail where you sent it, and there better be a tracking number. For all you know, there's six-hundred checks in there! And believe me, the post office is not reliable at all! I don't care what they've told you, they are NOT reliable! So, excuse me if I sound exasperated. I'm very tired. I have a lot of issues. People telling me they wanted a dog. They don't want a dog in my unit! ETC!"

And she goes on to further elaborate how to send an e-mail, and how every e-mail I receive from her, should be replied with another e-mail indicating that I received the initial e-mail, which I will now review and reply to.

....

1986 Landlady's name has officially changed to Crazytown. Because of this, and various other reasons:

A. I sleep in a sofa-bed.
B. With an air-mattress that just popped.
C. While my downstairs neighbors are no longer stealing my mail, they are looking at it, and placing it directing inside my door, I think at the behest of Crazytown.
D. When December rolls around, Crazytown wants to be admitted into the apartment regularly to work in her Forbidden Cave of Mystery.
E. The simple fact that I'm not house-sitting, and I'm paying rent

And rest assured, that's an F through Z as well.

When I signed the initial lease, I was given out in December. Apparently, she's had a history of tenants who suddenly want to be as far as away from the apartment as possible. Not knowing I'm color-blind due to this obvious red flag, I'm sure as hell going to act on it now, maybe sooner if I get the chance.

It's a shame, because I love the neighborhood, and everything would be great, if I was allowed to have a bed, and not deal with a mentally unbalanced AARP member.

So, if anybody knows of anything, drop me a line. Given my future Tony and Tina-ness, as well as my equal love of partying but only until I want to go to bed, I've-- I've-- I've been thinking about looking in St. Paul.

I feel shameful. And a little AARP-ish myself.

*That's an unrelated "Fuck off," but in this context it takes on a different meaning. That's marketing kids!

"You're a very handsome man." "Thank you Mr. President" "Just get rid of the grin; you look like a schmuck."

2008-09-18T07:54:00.000-05:00

Tonight I understudy for the hilarious and bear-like Mike Fotis in the Brave New Workshop's election show "The Lion, The Witch, and the War Hero, or is McCain Able?"

Understudying is a strange beast, because you're stepping into an already established show. When I'm an understudy, I feel as though my job is to re-create the performance as is. This probably goes against all the actor-y rules of "making the role your own," but that's simply not a luxury an understudy has. After all, it's not my role, words, or anything -- it's their show, their performance, and I have to do my best to emulate that (Even more so in this case, given the proximity between getting my script and places). It's not the time for me to rub my Josh stank all over it, there'll be plenty of time for Josh stank in the coming months.

That's why I've spent the last four days researching and truly understanding the importance of being Fotis, which is why I've decided that today's blog will be done in the style of Mike Fotis:

Holy Thursday everybody! We made it!

1. Last night, my family and I celebrated my being cast in Tony and Tina's Wedding with dinner at Buca di Beppo. (We celebrate thematically) At the end of the meal, the waitress arrived with the check, and an addendum that if we call a number at the bottom of the receipt and fill out a three-minute survey, we would get ten dollars knocked off the bill. I think the speed at which I had my phone out and number dialed both marveled and disgusted the waitress. Whatever. I'm never going to see her again. Until she told me if I kept filling out surveys, I'd keep getting ten dollars off. Well played Danielle.

2. I could never explain why, but I think that spiders and bees are plotting against me. I don't want to say too much, in case they also blog.

3. I don't understand why people seem to think joining a gym is a good way to meet people. Whenever I'm at a gym, and I see other people working out, all I can think is: 'Is that their sex face? Cause it's always my sex face.' And then I think by thinking that, I somehow told everyone out loud that it is, indeed, my sex face. And then I go home without working out.

4. A lot of people think that eating spray cheese directly from the can is disgusting. A lot of people are retarded.

5. I drove across the 35W bridge today for the first time in two years. YAY! Well done bridge-makers (Though I unbuckled my seat belt so swimming out would be easier). It occurred to me that this is probably the only time I will acknowledge driving across that bridge as much as I did, and I felt as though my reasons for going across the bridge should be much more prolific, like delivering a miracle tonic to a hepatitis infected village and/or compound. I was just going to my mom's to do laundry. Cause I'm a thirtysomething college freshman.

6. Is it too early to start thinking about my Fringe show? Probably. Probably not. Well, maybe. But, kinda' not. Sure. No. Okay. What?

7. Did you guys get to watch any sports last night? I did, and I feel awful about it.

8. I'm beginning to think I've bitten off more than I can chew in my home improvement projects. I think that because I still have two stories in my house, but no stairs connecting them.

9. Hey! What are you doing tonight? If your answer is any answer besides checking out the one and only night I perform in The Lion, The Witch, and The War Hero, or is McCain Able? at the Brave New Workshop, not only is your answer, it's intentionally malicious.

And that's Thursday. Sorry.

Mike/Josh

People say, You must have been the class clown. And I say, No, I wasn't. But I sat next to the class clown, and I studied him.

2008-09-15T18:24:00.000-05:00

Thursdays at Bunker Hills golf course is, by far, the most hated night of the week among every employee, no matter what the position. This is due to the combination of the three most obnoxious leagues to ever smack a ball around with a stick.

Those leagues are:

Ladies League - This is the most reviled league among all the waitress' because for some scientific reason, females have embedded in their DNA a passionate desire to destroy one another. In this instance, they choose to act hostile and extremely difficult*and spew forth complaints both ridiculous ("That man just swore. I shouldn't be forced to put up with this ear pollution!") and impossible-to-achieve threats ("I'm going to buy this entire place so I can fire you and then sell it back!")
The Summit Guys - These are some old farts who enter the bar around seven or eight, grab a pitcher of Summit, and proceed to drain and refill the same pitcher over the next three hours as they solve the worlds problems and refuse to leave at the end of the night, because apparently, they don't have their own garages to hang out it.
The Snakes - I shouldn't have to elaborate any further than the simple that they're a golf league that calls themselves "The Snakes." If you just pictured a polo-wearing, chest-bumping, Anderson account nailing, Citron Red Bull swilling douchebag parade that despite any success or talent they may have, you still pretty much get the impression they're just playing house -- you're not wrong.

The saving grace of Thursday nights is after the pro-shop closes, one of the employee's heads over for dinner with his wife. They're a pretty cool couple around my age, the kind of couple that I'd want to double with in the event of a woman deciding that she's lowered her standards so much there's just no possible way of going back. In the meantime, I spend a majority of my time talking to them, joking, and so on and so forth.

About a month or so back, I said something hilarious** and the wife laughed very hard, and afterwards she said, "Have you ever thought about being an actor? You're very funny!"

Two thoughts occurred to me that Thursday:

THOUGHT NUMBER ONE
Holy shit! I've been working here six months, and these people, whom I see pretty much everyday, barely know me! They have no idea I'm an actor/writer.

THE MORE IMPORTANT THOUGHT NUMBER TWO
Holier shit! I've been here six months! My Getting-Back-On-My-Feet job has knocked me off my feet in the other direction! I don't think I am an actor/writer anymore! I go to the BNW now, and say "Oh, another Josh." NOT "ANOTHER" JOSH! I was the first Josh! THE Josh! I kicked off the whole Josh epidemic!

That was the night I decided that it was time for me to get back in the game.

Soon after that, I had lined up three auditions for myself:

Seasons Dinner Theatre
What happens to a golf course during blizzard season? They put on self-written holiday musicals. The few co-workers who knew of my creative past kept insisting I try out, but I refused, due to the musicalness and the whole churchy feel the posters gave me. However, after being informed of the pay rate and that the majority of drinks served during the shows are Brandy Alexanders and Pink Squirrels and various other bullshit blender concoctions. Dude, fuck blenders - I'll dance your dance.
Six Ring Circus
I missed being able to perform regularly, and Six Ring has improved dramatically since I was first a member five years ago. And, on the plus side, maybe I'll accidentally learn to be a team player.
Tony and Tina's Wedding
The interactive juggernaut (Which I've never actually seen) was coming back to the Twin Cities. I had improv experience. I'd get to be the loud, obnoxious at the party and get paid for it. And this is a situation where The Mascot Rule applies, and I can pretty much get away with anything. And the last time this show was in town, it ran, every night, for twenty-eight years or something.

And then I attended the first auditions I've been too since college. I recited monologues (From my own shows. Don't let this slight ambition fool you, I'm still lazy). I sang a little ditty from The Music Man (My go-to musical theatre number, because it's basically talking fast, and they refuse to hold these auditions at a karaoke night).

I approached these auditions with my time-tested and slightly proven secrets of success:

Throw enough shit at the wall, eventually something will stick.
Double-book yourself so you're later forced to make an awkward decision that'll screw somebody over, but at least you're covered.

I found out that I was returning to Six Ring the night of the initial audition, and that's been going well, even though the number one note I receive*** is to not be onstage as much as I am, it's been going very well.

For the other two, there was a waiting game, and multiple callbacks.

First, I got into the Christmas musical. As a lead. A romantic lead. With my face. In a musical. About Christmas. Where there's singing, and I'm not playing the Mute King, or the anvil salesman whose only in the first and last ten minutes of the three-hour show.

I had to delay my acceptance, as I had a callback for Tony and Tina. Then after the first callback, I had another callback.

Then, last Thursday, I got the call telling me that I will, indeed, be spending a majority of 2009 at a wedding reception. And, given the timeline of rehearsals and openings, I didn't really double-book myself, since there was no conflict.

Starting in Mid-October, I'll either be in rehearsal for, performing, or doing both everyday until about Mid-January.

And just like that -- I'm a professional actor again.

So, hip wife, answering your question from a month and a half ago, "Yes, I've thought about it. And I'm going to do it. And I'm doing it."

Whatever game we're playing, I'm back in it.

And don't call it a comeback, I've been here for -- aw, fuck that, no I haven't, it's a comeback.

*Except for one group I call my Cougar Club. They are wonderful and can teach me any lessons they want whenever they want.
** I mean, obviously, my mouth was open.
*** And then ignore.

Let's get one thing straight, kid. The only reason you're still conscious is because I don't want to carry you.

2008-09-05T14:01:00.000-05:00

Thirty looms over my head like a gigantic ACME anvil in a not-entirely-thought-scheme in order to capture the Road Runner, but will likely backfire in my face,* crushing me through the ground and I will plummet down a sudden ravine I had no idea was directly below.

And then that dick-licking bird will eat his bird seed, and say "Beep, beep" which is asshole for "I'm also f*cking the one you let get away."

However, numerically speaking, before thirty comes the number twenty-nine, which for me, is just over thirty days away. Take a second, let the math settle in.

I have given my twenty-ninth year a theme, and that theme is "The Last Year I'll Ever Be Happy**" See, among the senior citizens I've spoken with on the wrong side of thirty, I've discovered that twenty-nine is the rough period, but they are more than prepared for thirty when the time comes.

In related research,*** a dystopian society in the not-too-distant future will manage and maintain the population and the consumption of resources in equilibrium by the simple expedient of demanding the death of everyone upon reaching the age of thirty.

To prepare for either contentment or death, I have began compiling my official "Last Year I'll Ever Be Happy" list. It's a fairly standard list of wants that you'd expect from any healthy young adult. You know, water park vacation, sky-diving, taking a punch on national news.

I believe the first item on the list however is the most attainable, and likely to provide the most happiness:

I want to get me a pug dog and name him Jack Bauer.

I know what you're thinking.

But Josh, thinks you, just last weekend you drank so much out of a whiffle ball bat that you passed out by four! And didn't you sit on a baby once?

First of all -- big people chairs are for big people. Secondly, I got this holmes, ya' dig?

I will tell you my various reasons:

COME ON!!!!!!

In LA, my first roommate Molly had an adorable pug named Chloe, whom always cheered me up and made me laugh. And she would lay on the couch with me and not judge me for watching Greek. And occasionally, I slipped her some beer, and then shit really got fun.
I'm pretty sure I have exhausted all chances of making a human relationship work.
In the event that I haven't, look at the photo above, and try saying no that it. It's impossible, and therefore, I will add ten hotness points with the ladies, and likely ascend an entire level. Seven to eight. Don't ask me how science works.

COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes pugs have trouble breathing bounding from room-to-room. I will always feel physically fit.
With a dog named Jack Bauer, I will eventually get to meet the first black President, because Jack Bauer will have saved his life and they'll go golfing together and such.
If Jack Bauer gets into trouble, I get to yell at him. I get to scream, "Damn it Jack Bauer! Get in your kennel!" And Jack Bauer will listen, which will make me the boss of Jack Bauer, and therefore, the most dangerous mother fucker on the planet.
COME!!!!! ON!!!!!!
I will finally have an excuse to make a YouTube video.
I can hop-on-board the extremely rare Dog improv trend.
I will teach Jack Bauer how to have random dance parties whenever good things happen.
It's likely to be the cutest offspring I'd ever have.
You will all get the greatest Christmas card you will have ever received.
COME THE FUCK ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!****

It has been decided. Well, seventy-five percent of it has been decided. I have to see how some upcoming jobs shake-out, and whether or not 1986 Landlady eats or uses dogs for fuel.

In the meantime, my birthday is Joshtober 7th and it is around that time I would want to meet Jack Bauer, so if anyone has any intel on where I can locate a pug puppy by the name of Jack Bauer, it would be most appreciated.

Okay, one more:

I DON'T EVEN CARE THAT HE ATE ALL THE BISCUITS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Quite literally. It's also wrapped in dynamite.
** A phrase coined by Andy, when we were trapped in the eighties cause we didn't have enough plutonium to get back. Or at a Miami Vice bar. There was whiskey.
*** Logan's Run
**** SERIOUSLY!!!!!!!!!!!!

"I need to use your bathroom." "No." "What am I supposed to do, shit outside?" "Lincoln did."

2008-09-04T12:13:00.000-05:00

The most consistently learned lesson over the past four or five years that the only time you should trust a man named Craig and his list, is when he's a well-known neighborhood maven of sorts who keeps an actual list as a hobby, and because helping people is his purpose in life. If you replace the word "man" with Internet, and conjoin the two key nouns, it's a recipe for disaster and usually the answer given where your exasperated mother asks where you find these people.

I've been in my new dwelling just over a month, and let's take a looksee in how it's going:

*I am convinced that my downstairs neighbors are stealing if not all of my mail, at least my Entertainment Weekly. I believe this because on CNN of all places, there was a story about how Harry Potter graced the cover of the EW Fall Preview, which hit news stands the exact same day it was delayed for another nine months. The reporter than informed me that anyone that has that issue is now has a collectors item. I did not have that issue.

However, one evening, I was getting home from work, and walking to my door. And you know how it, dark outside, lights on in, shades open -- you can't help but look. What if there are people having sex? Always eager to learn something new, I sneaked a peak, and lo and behold, on their floor sat the Harry Potter-tainted Fall Preview of Entertainment Weekly.

Now, take piece of information, combined with the fact that my subscription is no longer arriving at my previous mailing address, the EW website has the correct current mailing address on my account information, and the only time I've received a piece of mail here, it was in THEIR mailbox. I know it's enough for a conviction, but I've put enough Law & Orders to fall asleep to on my television to know that it'd at least get me a warrant.

Direct confrontation seems to be the best course of action, however I thought about my last encounter:

JOSH'S LAST ENCOUNTER WITH DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR

TWENTY-TWO YEAR OLD TATTOOED WOULD-BE HOTTIE IF SHE SHOWERED. Hey, why you all dressed up?
JOSH. I've got an audition for Tony and Tina's Wedding.
TTYOTWBHISS. Weird. Why would your friends make you audition for their wedding?
(Josh stares into vacant eyes, awaiting irony or sarcasm, or anything other than the stone-cold serious that greeted him)
JOSH. Yeah...I don't know.

To solve this dilemma, I've labeled my mailbox with my name, and my apartment number, and I've made all the necessary changes to my contact information.

* Speaking of mail, my landlord, hereafter referred to as 1986 Landlady, wants me to call her, and read her mail to her. She has important mail coming and would like to me to keep her adrift of what mail arrives. I looked into it, and apparently, forwarding your mail to the address you're currently at was invented in 1989, so it makes sense that 1986 Landlady has never heard of it.

Since I've refused to make contact with her via telephone, because any form of talking with her, be it conversational or voicemail, is like reading a Choose Your Own Adventure book and choosing every adventure (Her last voicemail broke the eight minute mark), I politely e-mailed her and said that I barely have time to read my own mail, should I ever receive any. Also, there's the whole illegal thing.

She replied by telling me that she's merely expecting a check, then upon arrival she would like me to take to her bank and deposit into her account. A fool-proof plan that relies solely on the linchpin that "hopefully the one teller that knows me will be working. I forget their name."

* Speaking of accounts, when I moved in, I was given a handful of deposit slips and told to go to Wells Fargo to deposit my rent when the time comes. When I went to deposit the rent, I was informed the account I tried to deposit money into was closed. That very afternoon, the inept teller accidentally informed me before telling me he wasn't supposed to tell me that.

E-mails were sent, and she replied, addressing me as Tim, that should he had to change the account, due to a problem tenant, an ever growing list I hadn't been aware of until after the lease was signed. She gave me the last four numbers of the new account, and said hopefully, I can figure the rest out.

Yup. This all happened.

* One of the main selling points of this apartment was the fact that it was fully furnished, because I have accumulated many things in my life -- debt, regret, a string of increasingly angry ex-girlfriends -- but never furniture. And I thought I could make anything work.

I thought wrong.

The couch was not so much a couch, as it was two randomly stolen pieces from a bigger, uglier, 1986-ier couch. So, to solve that, I purchased an on-sale dorm room couch. And while that solved part of the problem, I still didn't have the comfy, naptime couch and/or barca lounger.

My mom helped me solve that problem. See, every year, at the State Fair, in the grandstand, I visit the hammock outlet. I sit in the hammock, and think to myself how wonderful life would be if I had my own hammock. I always without a hammock though, knowing that 364 days later, I'll sit in a hammock one more time. Not this year. My momma' bought me a hammock, and now, I have a hammock in my living room. And oddly enough, whenever I sit in it, someone gives me a Corona.

However, the one piece of furniture that is the current bane of my existence, is the sofa-bed. 1968 Landlady sleeps on a pullout sofa bed, because she's not, and this is a direct quote "one for comfort or warmth." When asked if I could simply fold-up the sofa bed and use it as a sofa, I was told it was the one piece of furniture that was off-limits in rearranging, because it's so old, presumably at least as old as 1986, that she fears it'll be broken if moved.

In an attempt to honor her wishes, I've tried everything. The egg-carton foam stuff, an air mattress, couch cushions on the floor -- it's the most uncomfortable sleeping arrangements I've ever had. 1986 Landlady fails to realize I've got a good eighty pounds and nearly a foot on her, so the shrunken bed and couch that suit her might be up my alley.

At this point, it's effecting my sleeping patterns, and therefore health, and I'm sure I could find a lawyer that could attribute those very factors to my recent golf-cart collision*. I'm nearly twenty-nine years old -- air mattress' should no longer be a regular part of your life!**

So, somehow, someway, I'm bringing the bed back, and I'm making it work. no matter how much furniture I have to re-arrange.

Speaking of which, any award winning Tetris players out there?

*PS, I crashed at least three golf-carts the other day. Maybe four.
** Hammocks however, completely okay. Oooh, Corona!

Skip to the End.

2008-08-25T20:37:00.001-05:00

Last Tuesday evening, Jansen and I took a stroll through Uptown, awaiting to hear whether or not our big city improv training impressed the brains behind Six Ring Circus. The conversation turned to Hippie Girlfriend.

Jansen officially gave her seal of approval, and as much as she was shocked that someone this cool was dating me, she was even more surprised that I was dating her. I agreed that it was the unlikeliest of matches, but we had something that worked. More than that, I confessed that Hippie Girlfriend was hands down, the coolest and best relationship I've ever been apart of.

I wasn't aware of it at the time, but I guess due to the position of the sun, I was casting four shadows on the street below.

Thursday morning is when I got the text that said, "I have a lot on my mind, can we get a drink after you're done with work?" which is text message for "We need to talk" which is girl for "You need to stop calling."

Hippie Girlfriend is now just a hippie. (That's a term of affection, she's really not a hippie...or my girlfriend anymore for that matter)

I won't get into any detail except to say that it was sudden and unexpected, like one of those car crashes that happens three or four times every season of Lost.

I wish I could tell that there's no hard feelings between the two of us, but if I'm being honest, there are. Again, using the car accident metaphor, things are hurt, broken, smashed in, and need to be repainted. Not to mention that my eyebrows are going to start growing together again. There will come a day when there'll be no hard feelings, but that day is not Monday.

Silver linings include the finest hour my improv group 7:22 has ever seen. Partly because I told them that last week's set was so bad, Hippie Girlfriend left me. Mostly however, due to the fact that for the first time our group had been together, we were all on the same page, paragraph and word with what needed to happen. In fact, in creating our faux-sitcom scenarios, we (By which I mean, me) accidentally created a real one.

Due to the break-up, and the knowledge that my dad whisked away to the Bahama's to marry a woman with a tramp stamp, I actively made a choice not to have an angry character. I was angry enough already, so I used that energy to create someone positive, likable, and apparently Australian.

It was some of the most fun I've had improvising. The last set I was that proud of took place the night after the Joshtober-Fest that ruined my life. Katie suggested that perhaps I should have a horrible week before every set, to which I replied, "I kinda' already do."

After the set, I decided to buy a beer for everyone in the cast as we went over notes. I purchased four beers, and turned around to see Amanda, my High school, ummm, I want to say crush, but obsession is probably more accurate, and how the courts would describe it.

We hugged. She praised. I pretended I didn't agree with the praise, but secretly I thought she was underselling us. She asked if my mom was at the show. She wasn't.

"What about your girlfriend? I want to meet her!"

"Yeah, we, uh, broke up this weekend."

"Oh, no," she said as looked down and saw me clutching four beers in my two hands. "Not taking it well?"

"These are for the team! We're celebrating!"

She believed that....I think.

See, look at that, getting right back on that awkward horse already.

Sigh...

Hi, I'm Martin Blank, you remember me? I'm not married, I don't have any kids, but I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough.

2008-08-18T23:54:00.001-05:00

LESSONS LEARNED AT MY TEN-YEAR REUNION:

Sure, I was dragging my feet in deciding to to check "Yes" in the well-sent in advance invite, but I had my reasons! After all, I'm a hitman completely detached from society and afraid of confronting of my last remaining shred of humanity in the form of my high-school sweetheart, whom I ditched on the night of our senior Prom. There's also the fact that the lives of my best friend and I are not as super-awesome as we thought, so we planned on purchasing business suits and epically huge mobiles and claiming one of us invented Post-Its, while the other decided to make them yellow. And on top of all that, my old high school band, The Darnells, want me to perform with them onstage, but I'm worried that everybody will make fun of how fat I've gotten. My wife Harriet has a fool-proof diet that'll help me out, but it won't get to the core of my real problem: Stage fright. Of course, I may be confusing all my problems for not wanting to go with the plots of movies and one episode of Family Matters, but all reasons are just excuses, and the real reason is that everybody is nervous about attending these things. And there you go.
Indecision leads to getting scheduled at work when you should've had the forthright to take the night off well in advance, and that ends up pissing you off. However, it all ends up being a cosmic lesson, since the wedding you're scheduled to bar tend is wall-to-wall Preggo's, and you make it to the reunion in time for dinner anyhow. So, you know, make up your mind quicker...if you have time.
While it's been ten years, fill a room with alumni of your high school and tables, they will only see the cafeteria, and place themselves accordingly. The cliques you thought long since passed will emerge once again, despite the fact that we're just a buncha' a-holes with debt now.
Much like the real-life President, our class President has no business speaking in public.
While I can speak publicly, oftentimes I shouldn't, because I'll end up joking about the many stabbings that take place at Time Out in Blaine, directly after someone just won a gift certificate to Time Out in Blaine.
Everybody vocally wondered why I wasn't famous yet. Several times. In varying degrees of awkward social situations.
While most reunions will have contests like "Who's Been Married the Longest?" They really want to be having contests like "Who's Had the Most Marriages?" Those contests are held in secret at every one's table.
Just because there's a twelve-year-old DJ, don't mean anybody gonna' bust a move.
Michael Phelps has the ability to make the world stop. Don't tell me that guy's not a supervillain. Why a villain? Have you ever seen a superhero with a male Butter Face?
Though well known in high-school, I thought it was for all the wrong reasons, and I never considered myself popular. Apparently, there were groups of people who considered me a part of the popular group. I took that as a compliment, and not a horrible judge of who the popular people were.
I was making fun of my Waterama friends for being busted on the "I bet you don't even know my name!" encounter. I mocked and told them they deserved it. Apparently, I deserved it as well.
I have no idea what the hell I was writing about in my Senior Will back in 1998. I'm sure it was fairly hilarious at the time, but the only incidents that I still had vivid memories about involved nudity. You always remember the naked people.
There are so many fucking babies now. Literal ones, not metaphorical.
Though everyone still pretty much stuck around, you can tell we all intended on partying hard in Blaine that evening, as we all called our Moms at one point asking if we could couch in our old room/couch/floor of the computer room where we would later pass out.
If getting a cab isn't an option, it's good to have a buddy who's a cop. A buddy that's an off-duty cop.
You can tell he's off-duty, because he does nothing when a man breaks a bottle over the head of another man at the table next to you. Apparently, it was too crowded at Time Out in Blaine.
Our Facebook friendship requests have sky-rocketed!
After drinking all night with your nearly thirty-year-old classmates, it's not wise to bitch about your hangover at work the next day by saying, "I feel like I'm still drunk." Because the passage that will hold resonance with your co-workers and superiors is "I'm still drunk."

All in all, the reunion was an unexpectedly great time, and I look forward to creating excuses about not going, but eventually attending at the last minute the fifteen year, with even more babies and second and third marriages.

"So what do you want to do, bonehead? Just sit around and wait to see who drops next?" "I don't know...Phonehead!"

2008-08-15T12:36:00.001-05:00

Technology has made us seventy percent more 'tarded.

Case in point: the other morning* as I was leaving Hippie Girlfriend's new apartment in yet another neighborhood where you have to walk outside using your car keys as faux adamantium claws, I realized that I left my cellular telephone on her nightstand**.

No problem, I can just call her later and inform her. Only...I have no idea what her phone number is. I have no idea what anyone's phone number is. The only phone number I know off the top of my head is my Joyce, my babysitter, and she's been in heaven for five years, and I haven't needed babysitting for three.

The Contacts feature has ruined me for phone numbers. I used to be able to recite phone numbers as if they were the alphabet, but my brain capacity can only hold whichever speed dial I assign them, and I'm pretty sure Hippie Girlfriend's number isn't really four.

Fine, Plan B. I'll e-mail her. Only...she just moved. She has no internets yet.

Holy crap, Plan C. I'll just wait until she's almost done with work, whatever that work may be, and wait outside her place. Only...I've been to the place once, and I only accidentally found my way the first time, because my new GPS seems to think getting within a three-block radius is good enough before it starts speaking Spanish or some shit.

She is officially off the grid. There is no reaching her. She could leave me that afternoon if she so chose, which is exactly the way I think she likes it. I'm gonna' have to track her by tasting dirt and surveying the broken twigs and leaves (And that's only if I were tracking her in a jungle setting)

But, before I could begin tracking her -- I had to survive the rest of my day. Forget all the important, life-altering phone calls I was inevitably receiving that afternoon, how was I going see my friends and family again?

Honestly, how the hell did people meet for dinner or drinks or golf in 1987? What did they do when they got there, and they didn't immediately see the person they wanted to see? How would they be able to find out if they were ten minutes away, or just sitting in the back corner behind the server's station? Did they just enter the meeting place and start screaming the name of their desired company? HOW DID THEY LIVE!?

In the brief instances I made contact with the outside world, being unreachable cancelled plans of both business and leisure. Setting up a specific time proved be too much, as we live in a society of "ish," as in "Let's get together about six-ish. Somewhere downtown-like. I'll twitter you the address, oh, and btw, funny status on Facebook."

I felt like that over-privileged dick in Into the Wild, only I was exiled to the stone ages, as opposed to being an ungrateful fuckwad that gets whats coming to him in the end.***

I needed to track down my phone. I'll admit it outright, I don't own the phone, the phone owns me. I had to find out what my girlfriend's phone number was.

I went with the Kevin Bacon approach, by calling a friend of hers, or the boss of her friend, or the friend of a friend that may have the phone number stored on their SIM card.

It was at this point I realized that when my cell phone rings, unless that name's already in my memory -- I screen. Why should anyone else be any different? (I don't do it cause I have some sense of importance, I just like the surprise of the voicemail. If the mystery number doesn't leave a voicemail, I will call the number and demand to know why.)

All was lost. I was never going to speak to my loved ones ever again. I would lose all jobs and opportunities, as one missed call throws me onto their "Dickhead Who's Too Good to Answer or Call Back" list. For all I knew, Hippie Girlfriend's scheme went exactly as planned, and she was well on her way to some Compost/Pot Farm, free of her underachieving shackles.

I had yet to try Plan Z. Calling my own phone. As I lay there dying, with my final gasp, I plug the only other number I have memorized into a borrowed mobile device, praying that somewhere, somehow, somebody was hearing the Sanford and Son theme, and realizing they have to answer that call, and not dance.

That's when I heard the sweet sound of Hippie-Girlfriend's voice: "Hello?"

"Oh, thank God! You answered the phone! ::slight pause:: Why the hell are you answering my phone?!?"

EPILOUGE
I did miss several calls that day, the only one of importance being my agency calling me to inform me the audition I woke up early and went to anyway was cancelld.

While I did have missed calls and texts into the double digits, most of them came from Justin, and most of them were of this variety:

"Did you see Tropic Thunder?"

"Don't you like me anymore?"

"This isn't Corey Anderson, call me back!"

"What did I do you?"

"Don't you like me anymore? God!"

"Let's talk, that's what best friends do!"

Had this been a Tennesse Wiliams play, I would've gotten home to find Justin, adorned in a torn wife-beater, screaming out my name in the rain.

*MOM APPROVED VERSION: the other day, just before dusk
** MOM APPROVED VERSION: on her chastity shrine
*** Why do you think the high school's put that book on the curriculum now?

No Mr. Connery, that's "Therapists," not "The Rapists"

2008-08-12T15:18:00.001-05:00

My internets isn't as connected as I'd like it to be these days, so the only access to the world wide webs is when I steal some precious, precious bandwith, or wander into an Uptown coffee shop for as long as I can stomach the patchouli stank, therefore I'm forced to truncate a few entries into one, so here goes:

"The Game Show"
I always used to tell people that I'd simply just win the lottery when they asked what I do for money if I were to pursue a career in the arts (Which is a question I get less and less the closer I stagger to thirty, because...I guess I'm doing what I'll do for money) Of course, winning the lottery was never really the plan, merely a flight of fancy on par with what I would do with the power of invisibility*. No, the REAL plan was to win all the money on a game show.

Which is why I sat in a three-hour line at Mystic Lake Casino for Netflix and Who Wants to be A Millionaire's special Movie Week! I felt like I was an American Idol audition, but replace "singing ability" with "goofy looking bastard-ness."

We were hauled into a room where we were given two tests, the general knowledge test and the movie knowledge test. The MC then delivered the most specific and detailed instructions on how to handle a Scantron test I've ever heard, and in one case, helped someone spell their name. My confidence soared, as I knew how to do all of this, and have only misspelled my name once in my life*.

The tests themselves struck me as easy, especially the movie one. Finally, wasting my life would pay off. The general knowledge test went better than I thought as well, and any questions I didn't know, I would talk it over with Meredith Vieria in my head. Afterwards, a gentlemen beside me consulted his Iphone for all the questions we were unsure of, and I was pleased to see I had guessed about 85% of them correctly.

Then, the list of those who passed was presented, and my number was not among them. I'm not smart enough for Who Wants to Be A Millionaire.

The noose was about five knots deep when it was brought to my attention that it's never revealed what the producer's criteria is, however, when the end-product is a million dollars, who would you want sitting in the chair? The one that got all the test answers right, or the one who thought Megatron was the bad guy in The Godfather?

Alas, my never being wrong has screwed me again.

"The Book"
I recently finished I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by self-proclaimed genius Tucker Max. I’ll let the back-flap of the book tell you what the pages within contain:

My name is Tucker Max., and I am an asshole. I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women then is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a dickhead. But, I do contribute to humanity in one very important way: I share my adventures with the world.

I hate this douchebag. I want to punch him directly in his much beloved dick. Here are a few of my reactions to a book I truly hated, yet didn’t, or couldn’t stop reading:

1. I realize that hating a writer whose intention is to be hated is falling right into his hands, but I hate him for different reasons. When a personality has such a vulgar persona, it’s usually an act. That’s the routine, the show. I realize that. Yet there’s many that don’t. He’s playing to the lowest common denominator, and those little frat fucks are gonna’ worship the dude who bangs a fat chick on a bet, and then throws her clothes out the window so she’ll leave, or upon hearing the news that he impregnated a girl who at the same was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, he had to “fuck it out” with the girl he had in the next room, while the pregnant girl cried in his living room.

2. He’s a liar. It’s human nature to deny one’s true state. If we’re hurt, we act like we’re not. If we’re an alcoholic, we vehemently deny it. So anybody that claims to be something is either a liar, or has some other agenda to tend to. A person can’t claim themselves to be creative, that’s just going out of their way to let you know they think they’re clever. When a girl says she’s complex, she’s not complex, she just wants an excuse to be a C-word. And when a guy in a bar tells hundreds of stories about how awesome he is, because of how drunk he got, or who or what he laid, or how he put some “poser” in their place, he’s really an insecure twat keeping a running tallying of how people out there like him, while at the same time being the only person who truly doesn’t like him.

3. This blog turned book, which has itself become a new bullshit phrase called “blook,” cements my theory that assholes rule the world. Not because of his exploits, but because of his exploitation of his exploits. This is some spoiled brat, who was bored by law school, and decided he had a calling in becoming a terrible writer. Now, his bullshit stories are being idolized by the drunken masses, and he got a movie deal, and he never has to worry about money again.

For all my problems with the book, I still bought it, and I still read it, so the asshole wins. I’m kinda’ worried about the influence this book will have on me, so before I go make a fat girl cry, and then use her tears as lube so I can nail her until she pukes, then rub her face in it, and somehow make her apologize to me, I decided to read something a little less hyper-misogynistic and/or depressing.

Then, in the first five pages of my next book, the girl is raped, murdered and dismembered. This is the fuel I’m putting into my brain tank.

”The Tribute”
Summer of 2008 has not been kind to comedy. Harvey Korman. George Carlin. Bernie Mac. And though, not as widely known as all those, Minnesota has suffered its own loss in that of Joe Kudla aka Snot.

Puke and Snot are a comedy team that began their little vaudeville act at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, and have become a stable of that festival ever since. Theirs was the first comedy routine that I memorized, from the lines, to the delivery, to the supposed flub that causes both actors to break into “unscripted” laughter. These guys were pros, Puke, the more suave of the two making him the mentor, and Snot, the funnier, sloppier, cruder protege.

I would also run into Snot, this time as Joe pretty regularly at Shaws Bar and Grill on the religion that was Wednesday night karaoke. Joe performed two songs, and two songs only: “To all the Women I’ve Loved Before” and Bob Marley’s “Is This Love?”

I never spoke to him, save for the occasional raise of the glass after one of our American Idol worthy performances, and in a sense I regretted it, but I always regarded it as any other celebrity encounter, even though outside of the small faction of Ren Fest attendee’s in this or some other state, he was just another guy, and I looked on it as a pleasure to receive a rare performance outside of the pirate stage.

And despite not knowing him aside from his work, I feel as though that work warrants a raise of the glass, and an acknowledgment that the Ren Fest, Minneapolis, and the world itself, just got a little less funny.

So, thanks for the laughs Joe, on and off the stage. And sorry I keep calling you Snot when your name is Joe.

*I know a lot of people say locker-room, but there are a lot of fat people at the gym. Really, I think I'd use it to spy on other people and prove that I'm not paranoid, cause they ARE plotting against me.
** YOU try filling out all those forms when you were working at the Carlson school not getting mixed up!

It's Not HBO, it's TV.

2008-08-11T12:10:00.000-05:00

MITCH! is an improvisational comedy team compromised of myself, Katie Moen, and Jim Moen. It is so named because the Moen patriarch Terry, who has met and spoken with me many times, and is well-aware of my name, greeted me one evening with an enthusiastic:

"Hey Mitch! (Short pause) You're not Mitch."

And then he walked away.

And the name of an improv group was born. Just as the group was picking up steam and gaining Go-Go fandom, I went crazy and moved to Los Angeles.

Upon my return, we had hoped to bring MITCH! back to life, but conflicting schedules, past-deadline Go-Go lotteries, and Jim Moen falling in love with a team of sled dogs and following them across Alaska in the hopes that eventually society will one day accept their inter species and interracial polygamist relationship have all suffocated MITCH! with a pillow.

That left myself, and the hotter yet less feminine Moen (Before you leap to Katie's honor, reread that and realize which Moen I'm really taking a shot at) with three MITCH! slots to fill in August, but no MITCH! to present.

Go-Go has served up some pretty incredible improv sets in the last couple of years, and there's been no shortage of improvisors daring to branch out and try something new, ala Police Cop Detective PI, Staredown (The Quentin Tarantino improvised movie) as well as pre-existing heavyweights finding new ways to reinvent themselves.

I've always been spotty with improv.

No, no -- it's true.

::ALL OF MINNEAPOLIS AND CERTAIN SECTIONS OF LOS ANGELES. Uh...., we didn't say anything.::

I'm too self-aware, too concerned with being "the funny guy," too desperate to be liked, too willing to put an entire box of DOTS in my mouth and try to carry on a conversation (On second though, that bit's pretty solid) As a result, I've never felt like I truly fit in to the improv community. (This was my own thinking. Nobody in the improv community ever made me feel unwelcome. Well, nobody but Butch.)

So, with these open slots, I wanted to aim a little higher than a buncha' scenes until they turned the lights off, or trying to take off Jim Moen's pants. I wanted to make my own contribution that could stand proudly among the quality sets that frequently pack Go-Go from Sunday to Sunday.

So that's when I called up several improvisers I was keen to work with, as well as not being showcased themselves nearly as much as they should be, and told them about a little idea I had:

An improvised sitcom. Not just sitcom, specifically late eighties, very early nineties. Think ABC in its Full House, Perfect Strangers, Growing Pains, Family Matters, Who's the Boss*, and to a lesser extent Just the Ten of Us, hey day.

The group was to be named 7:22, so named because a book on sitcom writing had an entire chapter devoted to writing towards the "22 Minute Moral." And I added the seven, because we're in central/standard time.

With the rag-tag group of improvisers assembled, we set out do the simplest of tasks; create an entirely new improv structure from the ground-up, without a common group knowledge, or even rough plan of what we wanted in the end.

The wind was set out of our sails a bit when research revealed that there's a group in Chicago that already does an improvised sitcom, or at least did perform that structure back in 1996, but Chicago Improv is to Minneapolis Improv as The Simpsons is to every other animated sitcom of the last twenty years. They did everything first.

The Chicago group sent along some literature that aided in building our foundation. Rehearsals of varying success and attendance followed, members of the group were born and perished before there was even officially a group to speak of, and rehearsal sitcoms contained everything from an affirmative action prom with guest speaker Morgan Freeman, to two-men in drag trying to lead a girl scout meeting, meanwhile, one the men's wife and daughter stole his basketball tickets and went to the game instead of them.

Eventually, all the days before August 10th were crossed out, and our debut had arrived. A form still hadn't been found, a tone hadn't been reached, and a set had yet to reach completion. We had thought it best to hold off the debut of 7:22, and appearing for one night only as Here's A Buncha' Scenes Until the Lights Go Out.

But, one of the IO mantra's is that if you're going to fail, fail huge. And if there's anything I can do, by God, I can do that!

So, 7:22 took to the stage, and who knows why, but it worked. It was possibly one of the best sets I've ever played (One of the best sets I've ever played. In all-time improv history, it's probably only in the top five.......thousand).

Perhaps it was the right combination of nerves, lack of expectations, actual ability, and the two-giant Red Bulls I drank, the second I had to sneak in like some sorta' addict. (Even the Super America guy paused before he rang it up. "You're sure you wanna' do this son? This is a big drink." I slam my money on the counter: "I'm a big guy.") (Also, never drink two giant Red Bulls, which are equal to four regular Red Bulls. Lights begin to have trails, and you'll see more dragons than you ever thought possible.)

Our sitcom of the evening was called Bowl of Feathers, and I'm pretty sure it was about an excitable (Four Red Bull excitable) college professor who attempts to keep his sanity when his entire family, compromised of his over-bearing mother, her greasy new boyfriend, his inconsequential sister, and his possibly wise, possibly insane grandfather, are forced to share his tiny one bedroom apartment.

There was laughter, applause, and for the first time in my history as an improviser, I was unaware of the audience for the entire set. I played, I joked, I stuck to my guns, I probably still talked too much, but nothing short of a direct hit is going to take care of that.

In the end, we launched a new group. One that performed solidly, but has room for improvement. Which means more than getting the laugh, because it means there's a future for 7:22.

The direct future is our last two Go-Go dates of the summer - Aug. 17th and 24th. 8:00pm. One dollar. Come on by, and check it out.

We'll maybe even let Laura talk in this next one. Maybe.

*A lot of people seem to think it's boy-crazy Mona, but in truth, Danny Pintauro . Don't believe me? Go back and watch it again, and sense how much Danza's voice trembles when says "Jon-A-Ton"

I remember what the wonderful Bobby De Niro said to me. Well, not to me, I read it in an article.

2008-08-08T11:13:00.000-05:00

When not directly involved and having in my possession an artist's pass (Which I hear is now something fascist called a "Rush Pass," and it doesn't even guarantee you admission. For a supposed festival celebrating art, they do seem to get more and more creative about shafting the actual artists) my Fringe limit seems to be about five shows as I run out of Fringe gas after that.

The fifth and ultimately final show if my work schedule speaks for anything:

Shakespeare's Land of the Dead
1/3rd Shakespeare in Love, 1/3rd Shaun of the Dead, 1/3rd The Final Project That Would Make Every English Teacher in the World Simultaneously Lose Their Shit - this is an excellent, excellent play all around. Solid acting, more-than-solid writing, sleek, professional presentation. Its only fault is that, often times, it's perhaps too clever for its own good, and a lot of jokes are aimed at the 1% of people that would get it. The trouble is, true one-percenter's don't laugh out loud, they knowingly chuckle and nod approvingly. Don't think that means they're playing to a silent crowd, because the faux one-percenters roar with laughter, maybe because they got the joke, or maybe because they want everyone to know/think they got the joke.

Here are some other Fringe experiences I've had this week:

I feel as though these last five months haven't counted, and I've JUST moved back to Minneapolis, since I ran into numerous people that assumed I was just visiting Minneapolis to go to the Fringe. And after I told them I was back here, bar tending at a golf course in Blaine, they reacted as if I told them I had a brand new disease, so deadly and incurable and mutant-like they had to name it after me.
Most of the shows I attended were at my old stomping grounds at Rarig Center. I even ran into several of my former theater majors, current baristas. I haven't seen a handful of them since leaving that building, so I like to imagine they all live in the basement somewhere. Many nooks and crannies for the homeless and starving (Both artist and just plain lazy) to hide in.
I heard several rumors about myself while waiting in line at a lot of these shows. Some were spoken directly to me. A former classmate asked me how life was in Arizona. I replied, balmy I'd imagine, and then after I told them I haven't spent much time in Arizona, they asked, "Then how can you live there?" Then we just stared at each other until they let us into the show.
My second favorite is when I was asked how my little girls were. The tone implied children, and not a harem. I laughed and said, "Oh, no, I don't have any kids.......do, I? Are they in Arizona?"
I ran into my eleventh grade English teacher who was always one of my favorites. (Mr. Kuzma, for those of you in the know) I spoke with wife, son, and daughter-in-law, and I informed them it was the encouragement of Mr. Kuzma that led me to pursuing a life in writing, and, for that, I've hated him ever since. (And just in case you're wondering, Kuz is definitely a true one-percenter. Guess what show I ran into him at?) Also, while he did stop and say hi to me, having recognized me, he completely forgot my name. So, remember that one teacher that inspired you and you owe your life to? They've forgotten you. Accept that.

And finally, perhaps it's the mixture of nostalgia in the ol' theatre building, or the genuine happiness I had with theatre, or just being plain ol' Fringe drunk -- but this week has awakened the creative beast within. I'm crawling out of my cave and getting back in the game and many other cliches! Don't believe me? I've already got five auditions lined up, and a semi-completed outline for a brand-new, non-remount Mainly Me show.

Anybody know where a brother can get him a venue?

So here's us, on the raggedy edge.

2008-08-05T12:36:00.000-05:00

Like all of my human relationships, my relationship with the Fringe Festival is complicated.

It began with brief flirtation. Then intense infatuation. Then a whirlwind courting period in which everything moved so fast, but felt so right. Our benefit to one another seemed unlimited, the future was ours for the taking.

Slowly, we both realized that what you saw, was what you got, and our acts grew stale in one anothers eyes as quickly as had convinced ourselves that fate had finally brought us our other half. Then the bitter fights, both drunken and sober. The inevitable split-up, the seeing of other Fringe Festivals and venues. The jealously and anger of realizing the other was moving on faster than you.

Then the Fringe and I show up at the same party, and the Fringe has to awkwardly explain the tension, but qualify it with a "He's a great guy, and he's capable of so much. He just needs to find whatever it is he's looking for. And sure, let's make-out."

I use the word complicated, but it's a fairly open and shut case that the Fringe just hates me and wishes I would take the constantly being sent to voicemail as a hint, but I just keep on hanging around.

That was my quirky way of telling you that I've been Fringing over the weekend, and here are some of my reviews and thoughts of what I've seen thus far:

Waking in Minneapolis
This show is a symphony of maybes and almosts. It's cute, fun, oftentimes funny, but doesn't come together as a whole. The shift in tones is often jarring and whiplash inducing, as is the constant use of blackouts, or what I like to call "Momentum Cancer"

However, there's talent behind the show, and I've no doubt that a great show is in the future for the creative team involved.

When I saw this show, I sat next to St. Paul Pioneer Press critic Dominic Papatola, who seemed excited to see me, despite telling me I should have a shredder near me the next time I wanted to produce a play. I watched him as much as I watched the show, and his intense expression, furrowed brow, and feverish note-taking inspired me to warn my friends in the production to brace themselves, as those acts foreshadowed not only a bad review, but one of his "funny" ones.

Both came true.

An Intimate Evening With Fotis: Part 2
Mike Fotis is a great writer, and engaging story-teller. I hope one day to purchase a collection of these stories in novel form, though despite his skilled verbage, the power of the piece would be lost without his delivery. The book-on-tape would sell like fucking hot-cakes though.

While watching the show, I found myself thinking "Man, hanging out with this guy is probably a laugh riot 14/7." I then realised that I consistently hang out with him, and he hates attention, so usually just blends into the background. Huh.

Mortem Capiendum
Another stellar piece of work from the always consistent Four Humor's team. Their love of theatre and daring is infectious (in the good way) and only matched by their ability to crank out juggernaut-after-juggernaut that is embraced by brows both high-and-low.

Musical The Musical!
I didn't really know what to expect from this show, aside from a musical. I've long said that the surefire way to a successful Fringe show is including the word "musical" after some random noun. If that random noun is also "musical," you're either going to create the greatest success story the Fringe has ever seen, or rip a hole in the dimension, allowing all other dimensions to bleed into one another, and destroy everything.

I'm happy to report this show was one of the most delightful surprises I've ever seen at the Fringe. A brilliant script from two hilarious people, Dough Nethercott and Hannah Kuhlman, that doesn't shy away from telling all the jokes that most shows would just allude to, as well as the most, forgive the somewhat unintended pun, pitch-perfect cast I've ever seen assembled at a Fringe show.

If you don't get a chance to catch this show in it's Fringe run, no worries, there's no doubt in my mind, that it will have a long healthy life afterwards.

[SIDE NOTE: After the show, Doug was giddy with excitement, which not to sound all Nethercotty was worth the price of admission alone. Anyhow, he jokingly ran up to me and announced, "I wrote a hit play! This what you felt like!" I told him that he can ride this feeling out for the next three years, it's at that point you realize you only had the one in you, and you'll ever be chasing the dragon that is the aftermath of your first show. Then we patted each other on the back, pretended we had monocles, and repeated the names of our plays to each other.]

ACK! Look at the time, I've gotta' run. More Fringe stuff later as I'm not done Fringing yet, and I didn't even get a chance to write about all the rumors I heard about myself waiting in line for these shows.

APARTMENT UPDATE:

- I have twenty-year olds who like to move it, move it directly under my bedroom. That means they party and drink all night, not humping. Haven't heard that yet. They kept me up most of Saturday, and the only thing that prevented me from walking downstairs and asking if they had any beers to spare was opening the bar at six am.

- I bought some of that egg-cartony foam stuff and it's the most uncomfortable bed in the world into a real bed. One that lets me sleep on it now.

- 1986 Lady apparently has a policy with the cable company that cable and Internet* cannot be installed without her written consent. This would've been great news to hear from anyone other than the cable guy explaining why I wasn't minutes away from having cable or Internet. All the more frustrating is the fact that 1986 Lady specifically asked me if I planned on getting cable, to which I replied yes.

Adding another element of shady to the entire ordeal, the cable guy and I attempted to find out where the cable could be installed, and from our brief investigation, it looks as though the cable can be installed via The Forbidden Cave of Mystery and Danger.

Will Josh get his cable, or is he going to have to keep going to coffee shops, kicking off his shoes, and sprawling out on the couch like he owns the place? Stay tuned.

*I just wanted to point out that I didn't feel the need to capitalize Internet, but spell check did. The computers are not only going to take over one day, they're pretty pretentious about it.

The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude.

2008-08-02T13:47:00.000-05:00

August 1st is a dark day in the history of Minneapolis for tragedy has befallen our fair city two years in a row on this precise date.

Of course, there was the Wednesday afternoon when an-up-until-then harmless bridge killed thirteen of our citizens and inconvenienced the rest, and then there was yesterday, when I officially moved back to Minneapolis. At press-time, it's unknown which equally horrific episode will incur the most casualties.

I am officially a citizen of Uptown once again, which carries with it no significance aside from parking my ass at the Green Mill five nights out of the week instead of three.

My apartment is located two blocks away from the lake, and two or three blocks away from the fun parts of Uptown. It's fully furnished with utilities taken care of, as I'm sub-leasing from a woman who is leaving the country for nine months. There's a deck and a backyard, and a closet big enough to put a desk into, which promotes it from closet to an office where my clothes and underwear are also located.

There are problems with the apartment. For instance, it also seems to be a wormhole back to the year 1986, where it is forever trapped. The decor, the rotary-dial phones, the last time the circuits were inspected. If you attempt to smuggle something from the year 2008 into wormhole, 1986 will invade that something, and transform it into the 1986 version of that something. Which I think is the reason that all my DVDs turned into Beta-Max copies of Top Gun, and I'm updating this blog on my "new" Commodore 64.

My landlady has her own set of quirks as well. She's a shockingly serious woman, almost as if she were the result of Ben Stein and a thesaurus deciding to get drunk one night and just see what happens. I have all access to the apartment, except for a den which has been blocked off, and I am under strict orders never to invade her Forbidden Cave of Mystery and Danger. I am not anxious to break this rule, as I'm fairly certain the den would send me to 1886, and then I'd have to become a Blacksmith and fall in love with Mary Steenburgen.

And instead of a bed, she sleeps on a fold-out bed, and insists that I not try to replace with an actual bed. Does anyone have any pointers on how to make one of those more comfortable?

She also hasn't left yet. When I arrived with my first bundle of Josh-stuff*, she was still in the apartment. Despite the rent check having exchanged hands and emptied out of my account. There is an agreement that she is able to come into her Forbidden Cave of Mystery and Danger whenever she needs to, but I will be given advanced warning.

That being said, shortly ago, I received a call from Landlady, informing me that she was standing inside the apartment, making popcorn, and deciding to have a garage sale. Whether it's with mine or her stuff, that'll be a late-night surprise when I get home from work tonight.

I guess the same can be said on whether or not I have a roommate.

Thus far, it's one of the more bizarre living arrangements I've stumbled into, but even I didn't like freaky-weird risks, I wouldn't even be looking on Craigslist to begin with.

So, if you're in the neighborhood, stop on by. We can sip beer on my deck and talk about art, or whatever those pseudo-hipster Uptown douchebags are into nowadays. Or, if you want to find out what your life would've been like had you just hit that baseball in the big game, I've nearly perfected a method of sending messages to the outside world of 1986.

Oooh! We could fix the bridge before the bridge gets broke! Look at that, silver living.

*Which, I'd like to point to all friends that I made this move all by my lonesome, so file that away for the next time you move.

And in conclusion may I please remind you it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty. Thank you very much.

2008-07-30T23:19:00.000-05:00

Here's a conversation that just makes you want to push all the red buttons and release all the bombs so we can just start the F over.

So, there I was, in Borders bookstore, pretending to mock the self-help titles but secretly wondering why I can't stop sobbing in the shower, and I overhear a group of young ruffians. Roughly in the age range of fourteen to sixteen. Certainly not four to six. That's a story point you'll be calling me a liar about in a few minutes.

The Sweathogs were passing by an election display. Various gag gifts of republican and democrat jokes, and a number of books dedicated to Obama and McCain themselves (proving that the literary world has its share of hacks and sell-outs as well)

The following conversation has not been altered in anyway, it is being transcribed exactly as it happened. Only the names have been made-up.

DYLAN MCKAY. (The leader. Well, the leader of the rebel children) Hey, who won this contest? The black guy, or the white guy?

SIMON. (The smart one, with glasses and a long blue-shirt that's pretty much a dress) It hasn't happened yet idiot. [This is the smartest statement made in the entire conversation, and likely, this trio's entire day and/or month]

HERMIONE. (Hermione) I think the girl should win, because girls should be in charge of everything.

DYLAN MCKAY. She already got voted off you dumb-ass.

...

Jesus.

Just....jesus.

Shut it down.

Just shut the whole thing down.

Cage goes in the water, you go in the water. Shark's in the water. Our shark.

2008-07-28T10:12:00.000-05:00

This past weekend I made a great big to-do over taking three days off, labeling it a "vacation," and taking that vacation 128 miles west of the cities to Glenwood, MN on what the website describes as the beautiful shores of Lake Minnewaska for the life-changing event that is Waterama.

I announce to people that I'm attending Waterama, taking the required three second pause before actually saying "Waterama," which is usually responded with a dramatic pause-less "What is Waterama?" (Occasionally, the very ill-informed call it by an inaccurate moniker such as Water Days, Water Fest, Waterworld, and one time, Water Man. Seriously? Water man!?)

Again, the website tells us that Waterama is an exciting weekend with its 100-unit parade, kiddie parade, lighted pontoon parade, water shows, pageants, dances, sporting events, and running races, as well a variety, days that are crazy*, and state-of-the-art fireworks, making it the largest celebration of its kind in Western Central Minnesota.

Friends, that press release doesn't even begin to describe it.

Waterama is skipping the gym on Thursday, because you know that Friday, Saturday, and Sunday will be spent eating and drinking like an asshole, with cheap beer, corn dogs, various grilled meats, and an endless pizza buffet.

Waterama is when everyone gets back to nature. By that I mean, everyone pees in the lake, and pretends that we're not all peeing in the lake.

Waterama is drinking so much that a closet looks like a bathroom to you at three in the morning.

Waterama, for some, is a yearly high-school reunion in which the less popular feel the need to serve the once-popular their comeuppance for their teenage years by vehemently challenging them to remember their name six beers deep.

Waterama is burying the hatchet with old adversaries, only to discover a new hatchet when they can't decide who owes who a drink.

Waterama is stealing your parents boat and not wanting to, not because they told you not to, but because it's just too much work.

Waterama is stealing Shawn's Miller Chill's when he's not looking. Which is a lot.

Waterama is acquiring too much sun in either a business transaction or quite literally.

Waterama is knowing that whatever happens at this Waterama cannot be told until five Wateramas from now.

Waterama is tying all the boats together, and then discussing the chances of survival were a zombie attack to invade the mainland, failing to take into consideration the zombies can walk on the lake floor like the pirate skeletons in the Disney film, because they're already dead and can't drown. Then they'll crawl up the anchor we've stupidly kept down and eat us all.

Waterama is the realization that we've been taught how to use life-jackets wrong all of our lives. You gotta' diaper it. Much more comfortable. Less life saving though.

Waterama is refusing to let another man put sun-screen on your back for fear of how it looks while wearing a life-jacket as a diaper.

Waterama is not Torgarama, this year more than ever.

Waterama is doing at least one stupid thing, such as riding the four-wheeler through the forest from one house to another, only to realize that fences not only keep the animals in, but keep Four-Wheel riding hooligans out, and then you gotta' check yourself for ticks, and anything that ends with checking yourselves for ticks is just stupid.

Waterama is passing out by nine o'clock on the second night, because nobody goes out on the second night.

Waterama is not eating chicken at the Pizza Ranch, and being threatened with Waterama banishment for daring to skip a Waterwama stage for a previous engagement that isn't the loss of a limb.

Waterama has been known to cause seizures.

Waterama has its own, limitless energy, that enables you to swim from boat-to-boat while not sacrificing your beer.

Waterama is fun still, but not double-decker pontoon fun.

Waterama does not forget, nor does it forgive.

Basically, Waterama is Waterama, and to know Waterama is to love Waterama.

Unless you grew up in Glenwood, in which case, you're pretty f-ing sick of Waterama.

*My phrasing, not theirs.

Enough anguish, enough torment. It's time to dance.

2008-07-21T16:48:00.000-05:00

How is that I have virtually nothing going on in my life and yet there's still not enough time in the day to make this blog actually daily instead of fake daily?

Anyhow, this past weekend was ridiculously fun, and here's a few capsulated reviews for your eating enjoyment:

Chris Rock
Chris Rock told us jokes for a good hour and fifteen minutes, and as predicted, there are numerous differences between black men and white men, as well as a number of differences between black women and white women, however we're all startlingly similar in several arenas as well. Our love for pussy and money for example. Not always in that order.

I could tell you some of my favorite jokes, but it's just not the same unless I'm there to recreate the joke with my shockingly accurate and slightly racist Chris Rock voice.

And while all was hilarious in Chris Rock-land, the show did end up feeling a little long. An hour and a half is a long-time to be telling jokes. To paraphrase another legendary stand-up*, Chris Rock's show was like eating pancakes: he started off strong, but by the end you were just fucking sick of 'em.

The Dark Knight
Everything you've heard is not hype. It's accurate. This movie is amazing. Opening frame to final credit, this is a masterpiece of a movie. It's beautiful, it's suspenseful, it's intense, it's dark, it's funny, it's modern-day Shakespeare.

Not only did this movie make me spooge, but I'm pretty sure it made my spooge spooge.

And you can use that on the poster Warner Bros.

Neil Diamond
Now, I understand that I've been hyping up this concert in this blog, on my Facebook, in everyday conversation, hell, I'd wake up every fifteen minutes screaming "Neil!" for a couple of weeks there, so one would assume that short of the revelation that Neil Diamond is the real-life Dark Knight, I'd walk away disappointed.

Well, I did not. I had a great time.

True, Neil's not as spry as he once was, and the cheesy showman has given way to a somber musical raconteur, but it's still Neil. He's still awesome. And you all still want to party with him.

I mean, come on! He's sixty-seven years old! My grandpa's sixty-seven and he can't turn on the TV without the garage door opening. Neil's selling out stadiums and making old ladies everywhere forget that they can't spare the moisture.

I was a little upset with Neil, because he didn't close the show with "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show," which would be a lot like Jesus doing everything he did in his life, but then opting to finish his dinner instead of dying for our sins.

I made my feelings known at that tail-end of the concert:

CUT TO X-CEL ENERGY CENTER

(Josh frantically beats on the rail in front of him, foam pouring out his mouth.)

JOSH. YOU'RE NOT DONE YET OLD MAN! YOU SING THE F-ING SONG YOU'RE MOST FAMOUS FOR! GET BACK ON THAT STAGE! DANCE MONKEY!!!!!! DANCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

CUT BACK TO THE BLOG

Turns out he did end up singing it during the Sunday show. Which is the show my mom attended. So, it begs the question, why would Neil sing that song to my mom, and not to me?

Well, the answer is obvious: Neil Diamond is trying to bang my mom.

And I could not be more okay with that.

And now, now I'm just supposed to go back to my real-life and pretend that this was just another weekend. Oh, cruel Fortuna! What fresh hell have you spun me into now!?**

Oh, if you're wracking your brain trying to figure out what movie the quote is from, don't bother. Neil said it at his show. Before he started singing a song with my mom's picture taped to the back of his guitar no doubt.

*Mitch Hedburg
** Kudos and oral sex to whomever gets that reference.

I'm going to bed before either of you can come up with another clever idea to get us all killed - or worse, expelled.

2008-07-16T11:43:00.000-05:00

I think it's possible that I may have to sort out my priorities.

I've been looking forward to this weekend since three days after I was born. The Dark Knight and Neil Diamond. Batman and Jewish Elvis. Two ass-kicking heroes who would and probably have already saved your life, even though you don't deserve it.

Since I was closing on Thursday and opening on Friday, that ruled out a midnight viewing of the darkest of knights, which is just as well, cause I can't quite handle the fanboy crowd anymore. (It's not an almost thirty thing. It's that they're almost forty.)

My work schedule allowed me ample room to attend the second coming of Jesus, cinematically speaking, on Friday night, then work another day shift on Saturday, and Saturday evening to witness the Jazz singer in all his glory, recover Sunday morning for an afternoon shift that will crushingly bring me back to the reality I hate.

HOWEVER

A Chris Rock shaped wrench was tossed into the gears when Justin offered up a ticket to see Chris Rock stand-up and tell jokes on Friday evening.

That knocked the man bat out of Friday night. Saturday was out as a back-up, because of the working, Sunday didn't allow enough time to wake up from the Neil hangover and take in a feature film and process how much those two events have changed all of our lives forever and get to work by three.

That meant a midnight showing, but Hippie Girlfriend, already iffy on the whole Batman thing (Is it possible that there those out there that aren't dying to see this movie? Yes, it's possible. They are out there. And they don't have penis') hesitated when she said 'Sure.' There was also a question mark in there somewhere. She also went as far to suggest that maybe it'd be best to wait until, and we broke up for three seconds after she suggested so, Monday or Tuesday.

A man died for this movie, the least we can do is be punctual.*

Plan C's are rarely employed, and equally rarely successful, however after a few dial-ups and called in favors, I only work half a shift on Saturday morning, off by ten in the AM, making Saturday, Dark Diamond Day. Has there ever been a case of someone OD-ing on awesome, cause there might be Sunday morning.

I was then given a slight pause. I can't figure out what I want to do with my life, to the point of midday anxiety attacks that feel like heart attacks, but the thought of not seeing Batman on opening weekend awakens a fire within me to move mountains.

See, the resources are there, I just need the proper motivation. Was this the proper motivation?

I then saw a poster letting me know that Winnie Cooper (some people also call her Danica MacKellar) will be the Rosedale Borders on August 16th, signing her new "Math is Fun, Especially the Winnie Way" books. I took this as a reward letting me know that my accomplishments for the day were indeed accomplishments of a man who was on the right path.

I'm going to have to fake an interest in Math, and hope Hippie Girlfriend is familiar with the concept of Celebrity Lists, but whatevs, those are August 16th problems.

Three days until Dark Diamond.

*And to all you people claiming that it's just a movie, I'll refer to the summer of 2002, when Justin and I backed over a little girl as we rushed to Spider-Man. Relax, she was fine, her bike wasn't, and we were there in time for the previews.

Sing it again, rookie biatch!

2008-07-11T09:20:00.000-05:00

A tale of two cities:

Coon Rapids
Josh, our intrepid, if increasingly scatter-brained, young-ish hero is about to embark on a free round of hitting a small ball with a crooked stick and then walking after said ball.

So, golf, if you didn't get that.

As he's about to fetch his tools for golf from his Why-Won't-You-Die-Already-mobile, he realized that he's locked his keys into his car. While searching for a nearby rock, Josh is alerted to the wonder that is the Coon Rapids Police Force.

A quick 911 call later*, Officer Mark has enters the scene.

He pops open the passenger door with some sort of balloon contraption I can only assumed was created in a super-secret lab. Officer Mark then advised me to make a copy of my key to avoid such a hassle again, told me to remember to follow-through on my swig and not drop my stance, and presumably, if there were an ice cream shop nearby, would've offered to buy a round.

The entire ordeal lasted no more than ten minutes, and Officer Mark heroically rode off into the sunset on his steed, which was weird for two reasons, it was the middle of the day, and if he was riding a steed, how did they radio him?

Everyone involved learned a valuable lesson, and it was the best summer of our lives.

Minneapolis
Josh, our intrepid, if increasingly scatter-brained to perhaps the point of late-twenties Alzheimer's, young-ish hero leaves the Leaning Tower of Pizza with Hippie Girlfriend to drink more at the Green Mill for the celebration of the 30th Anniversary of Andy.

Josh searches for his car keys only to have a Hippie Girlfriend point to them on my front seat.

Across the street, a boy in blue has pulled over a young punk. Josh waits for him to do his business, and as he's about to depart, Josh steps out into the street to wave him down. The officer doesn't see Josh, despite his jumping, flailing, and stopping other motorists to the point of getting honked at.

The officer turns the corner, and Josh attempts to chase him down by foot. The officer's top-notch powers of observation either fail him, or note that there's not a knife sticking out of me, so whatever problem I have will probably work its way out.

A quick call to 911 later, Josh is told to call back when there's a crying baby in the backseat that's close to death, but not yet dead.

Numerous locksmith's are then called, and while all of them are around to answer their phones, they are all booked-solid well into tomorrow for me to pay them fifty bucks for a minute of work.

One agrees to meet us in the morning, and after a quick debate of how cost effective it would be to just break the window, it's decided that's the best course of action.

Cut to the next morning in which Josh's car is no longer there.

Josh assumes his car has been towed, and starts calling around various impound lots -- none of which has his car.

(At this point, I'd like to think Officer Mark somehow sensed my entanglement, sprung up from his breakfast, cried out "My new friend's in trouble!" and began running on-foot to rescue me)

Apparently, what had happened was the car was picked up, and the two truck decided to take a leisurely jaunt across the cities before filing the paperwork.

After paying a hundred and forty to get my car back, Josh asked if they had the apparatus to gain access into my car, where my keys still lie.

"Yeah, we got that stuff."

"Can you help me?"

"Nah. Liability. We could break the car."

"You have my permission."

"Yeah, still no. We have a hammer if you want to break the window though."

After swear-words and pacing, Mom's fella' came to the rescue and retrieved my car keys.

The whole ordeal lasted twelve to fifteen hours, cost me well into two hundred dollars, and disrupted the lives of at least five or six people.

No lessons were learned, and it was the worst summer of our entire lives.

Eight days until Neil.

*I still get that same rush from calling 911 that you did when you were five. Like you were engaging in a life or death affair, or saving the world from nefarious characters.

"I ain't heard no fat lady!" "Forget about the fat lady. You're obsessed with fat lady!"

2008-07-06T23:07:00.001-05:00

I have a friend that works in the emergency room at The Hospital, and it is there he has met some of the stupidest people to result from a one night stand. By far, the stupidest individuals all have stories that begin the same way:

"So, there we were, lighting off our own fireworks..."

That being said:

So, there we were, lighting off our own fireworks...

It had already been an eventful day on South Lindstrom Lake. Katie Moen had graciously welcomed a handful us into her cabin with open arms, provided that our arms contained either beer or grindage for us to munch. The boat had died in the middle of the lake, not once, but twice, both stallings resulting from an attempt to visit a place called The Eagle's Nest (Which, much to my disappointment, anticlimactically turned out to be an actual eagle's nest, and not the lone lake club I had envisioned) and both stallings resulting in two towings from various other better boats.

The sun had set when the second towing landed us back at Moen Manor, where upon reaching dry land once more, we saw that Terry Moen, the loving patriarch that he was*, had hopped the border and returned with many illegal fireworks for us to make merry with.

And make merry we did, shooting off various rockets, cannons, and twirlies from the end of the Moen Dock. I, and another cohort called Travis (With our lovely assistant Hippie Girlfriend), fancied ourselves pyrotechnic experts, hastily concocting daring new combinations to dazzle the eye and illuminate the brain.

Some banged. Some whistled. Some fizzled. Some inspired awe in the form of "Oooooh!"

For our grand finale, Terry Moen hauled out this Big Honking MF-er, which if that isn't the brand name, it should be. Roughly the size of two beer cases, the box promised us three minutes of 220 rounds of miniature bombs.

On the surface of this kinda' death trap was the helpful advice "Aim Away From Crowds" along with a series of arrows indicating the direction in which the explosives would make their exit.

We thought.

Imagine, if you will, a box of Captain Crunch. The arrows pointed in such a direction that led us to believe the fireworks would emerge from the end that you pour the cereal out of. Travis carefully built a base, and we aimed the America-themed fun out over the lake.

What Josh and Travis didn't know, perhaps due to their over zealous approach or one of the ten beers that preceded this event**, was that they weren't about to shoot out of the cereal pouring end. They were about to tear through the Captain's face.

Our careful attempts to avoid the crowd had, in fact, aimed America's Birthday directly at the small group of spectators, which included an already significantly tweaking Chihuahua. I want to be very clear about this part, Travis aimed everything, I just lit the fuse. I don't know what that would've done for me in court, but there you go.

Our group was split into two, half on a pontoon, half on the hill by the lake. As soon as I let the fuse, with a stick of incense no less, those parked on the pontoon witnessed a grand finale they've never seen, and never will again.

The all-too-short fuse exploded, knocking me back, and mini-rockets launched past my face in various neon colors.

I tackled down Hippie Girlfriend, threw myself on-top of her, and covered us both in a towel. I'm not sure what the towel was meant to accomplish. It was either because I thought we were already on fire, or this was that one useless towel they accidentally made out of steel.

The scene played out like every way movie or CNN footage you've ever seen. Running, screaming, shielding with various objects both useful and not, whilst fire ricocheted off of trees and houses, and the Chihuahua just ran in a continuous circle, convinced I was trying to kill it.***

Some took off running faster than they ever have up the hill. Trouble was, the fireworks were labeled, and they continued to shoot up, essentially chasing those trying to make their escape.

Hippie Girlfriend and I were safe, and got to gaze into the case of beer that was now a midget with a powerful rocket launcher just how much freedom wasn't free.

220 rounds.

Three minutes.

I was never more scared than I was during those three minutes.

I was never happier than I was when I realized it was done.

After a quick of survey of checking to make sure everyone was still alive and not blowed up, never was there more THAT! WAS! AWESOME!

Those on the pontoon were laughing hysterically, emitting genuine concern every three or four laughs. They beat themselves for not taping the incident, because if they did, you'd be reading the king of YouTube's blog, and we'd all probably be booked on the Today show later this week.

Years of watching fireworks at the Coon Rapids carnival and making the same stupid "Ladies and gentlemen, we're being fired upon" joke when a plane would pass by and finally bitten me square in the ass and grazed my skull.

And it was the best Fourth of July ever.

Twelve days until Neil.

*Aside from thinking my name was Mitch even though he's clearly known me for years.
**Which my friend who works in the emergency room describes as 'job security'
*** Subconciously, I may have been. I'm still pretty pissed about this.

Baby steps to four o'clock! Baby steps to four o'clock!

2008-07-02T10:12:00.000-05:00

At my current place of employment, a calendar hangs in the office where they take me when they want to yell at me. It's one of those city distributed deals that cheap citizens throw up on their fridge, or pantry, that lists all the months of the year. When a month passes, it is crossed out, as expected. Yesterday, a sixth month had a line drawn through it. Six more remain, but the point I'm making is that the year is half over.

We're closer to twenty aught nine than twenty aught seven.

It's just the way the poet Seal foretold it during that epic epic jam that occurred in space: Time keeps on slippin', slippin' into the future.

It is for that reason I've decided to create a list of Midseason Resolutions.

What are Midseason Resolutions? Well, I'll tell you:

On the first day of three-hundred and sixty-five days* the average person creates a list of resolutions to better themselves before the next set of three-hundred and sixty-five days. And every fall season, television networks create a new series of series to distract you from all the crying in your everyday life. The same result happens with both the resolutions and the television shows: Some are better than others. Some fly to great heights, some get a bird sucked in the engine before they even get off the run-way.

Some shows are cancelled, just like some resolutions are broken. The difference is that in the middle of the year, a new set of TV shows replace their fallen brethren that came before them. So, why not have Midseason Replacement Resolutions? Sure, they might end up cancelled after two episodes, but you might end with a Grey's Anatomy or an Office.

This year, I'm keeping my midseason resolutions simple:

Sort out entire life.

This includes finding a place to live, regaining my sense of purpose, finding my lost ambition, finally learn the ability to focus, and conquer my fear of cleaning the bathroom.

Should be easy and not-at-all too lofty.

Josh's Book Review: How I Paid For College

Fuck this book in its book-hole.

I read this book because I judged another book by its cover. That book: Attack of the Theater People. I thought, "Hey, making fun of theater people is fun. That book should be enjoyable." A bit of research revealed that Attack was a sequel to How I Paid For College, so I read that one first.

It's the story of a cocky-ass fattie who's "born to act and create," particularly in musical theatre. His dream in life is to get into Julliard, which he does, but then his father refuses to pay for it because he feels his son should get a real job. He then embarks on a series of adventures trying to raise the money, including lowering himself to the "normals" and getting a job.

I found myself routing against the main character the entire time, and the too-few moments when real-life would bitch-slap his ass. However, in the end, his behavior and constant belief that he's right, and everyone else misunderstands him, doesn't change, and is rewarded (However temporarily, because the sequel is all about his expulsion from Julliard when they, the bastards, try to teach him there may be more to life than what he knows).

I just realized as I wrote that last line that the circle is complete, and I just turned into every adult that nodded politely when I said I was going to have a career in comedy.

Damn idealistic kids. Get off my lawn.

*sixty-six sometimes. Like this time.

Who is knowing how to read the mind of a robot?

2008-06-30T11:08:00.000-05:00

Technically, it's Monday and the sun has set on yet another weekend. Less than technically, I had to work on Friday and Saturday, so my weekend wasn't really weekend, until Saturday, which was actually my Friday, and since I didn't work Sunday or Monday, Sunday was my Saturday and Monday is now my Sunday.

You dig?

I need to lay down.

Anyhow, here's some stuff that I did:

Twin Cities Improv Festival
Though much of the weekend found me behind the bar*, I did manage to sneak out a few times to attend the Second Annual Twin Cities Improv Festival, and I'd like to offer a hearty congratulations to all involved, particularly Mr. Butch Roy - whom upon my second meeting with the man would tell me the tale of the infamous Minneapolis "Festival of Lies" of the late nineties, thus detailing why taking on such a thankless task of risking another festival is fool-hardy and not-out-of-the-question deadly, making it all the more impressive that the festival is in its second quite popular, quite successful, and still growing year.

The limited groups I saw, which included pimps, dachshunds, Texas ladies, pre-taped versions of my friends, and middle-aged men, were hilarious both intentionally and once-or-twice unintentionally.

I consistently had my camera on my person, yet I didn't take a single picture, however, numerous others did and fired away at random, so if you're dying to see what I look like with my mouth open in mid-conversation, hunt away.

Wall-E
I took the mom and the girlfriend to see the latest Pixar miracle and, in short, it's a great big bag of wonderful.

In less than short:

Wall-E is the most adorable thing ever. He's cuter than all your old dogs, current babies, and ET. If you deny his cuteness in any way, you have personal demons that you have to battle with, and I'll pray for you.**
Much like Austin Powers and Ace Ventura before him, everyone has their own Wall-E impression, however due to Wall-E's limited dialogue, the impression consists of just saying Wall-E's name, and due to the humans mouth inability to duplicate electronic beeps and bonks*** the impressions mostly sound like the last gurgling of a man and/or lady-man who swallowed his own tongue.
The girlfriend loved Wall-E and it's no surprise, because Wall-E pushes an extremely pro-hippie message, as well as inadvertently teaching me about art history. I'm not going to lie, I feel bit betrayed, but then I get lost in Wall-E's binocular eyes and all is forgiven. Seriously, I'll follow that precious robot into hell if he asks....through physical comedy.
I've long suspected as much, but it appears that Pixar created popular character actor Fred Willard.
Though I loved every inch of the movie, I find it a little hard to swallow Disney releasing a movie on the evils of allowing the world to be swallowed by one gigantic corporation.

And now, I plan to enjoy the rest of my Lazy Monday Sunday before my Tuesday Monday.

*Not behind bars. You'd be surprised how often that mistake is made.
** If I thought that would actually help.
*** Except for black Police Academy guy. He might be dead though. Somebody check to see if that guy's dead.

"I thought winning wasn't important." "For me winning isn't. You do." "Great grammar."

2008-06-27T10:32:00.000-05:00

Golf is a game of intense relaxation.

Ask any that partake in the sport, and they'll tell you that it's the greatest stress reliever they've ever known. They say this as they scream, pout, swear at whatever can hear them, destroy things made by both mother nature and man, openly weep into their five or six Southern Hospitality's (That's Southern Comfort, Red Bull, and some Raspberry Schnapps), and tomorrow at 7:20 in the morning, they'll do it all over again.

Unless wind mills or a giant dinosaur were involved, I'd never been into golf. The cart driving and the drinking-while-cart-driving appealed to me, but the ball hitting kept getting in the way of my proposed cart races.

That was until a few weeks ago when one of many nineteen-year-old co-workers asked if I wanted to join them on the executive after my shift. I didn't have anything to do for the next four hours, and nothing makes me feel like young-at-heart by being the "hip" uncle that takes the kids out for an afternoon on the ol' greens.

I discovered several things about golf and myself that afternoon:

Hitting a small, immobile ball that rests atop a very accessible piece of wood in any direction is remarkably harder than I thought it would be. Making things move is the easiest thing to do in the world, and yet, that ball quickly became my white not-quite-a-whale.
If it takes you more than ten strokes, it's best to just make it a friendly unscored game, and cheating is not only acceptable, but highly encouraged.
Everybody is a better golfer than you. You can tell, because everybody has a tip on how to improve your golf game. This includes when to lock and unlock your arms, where your feet go, the right squat position (Which I've discovered is somewhere in between sitting in an invisible chair, and....well, you know, on an invisible toilet). None of these tips will help you, but you will thank the person for giving it to you.
Even though it's extremely hard, swiping the tee out from underneath the ball, getting it to hang there as if it were a Road Runner cartoon before dropping to the ground in the exact place your tee once stood, is not rewarded with bonus points. Also, rocketing the ball backwards instead of forward, another unique talent, is equally frowned upon.
Despite using expressions like "washing my ball" "Choke up on your wood" and "Oh, F Me in the A-hole!" you're honestly expected not to laugh.
You have to declare a practice swing before you even take the swing, because people don't believe it's a practice swing if you declare it after you miss the ball and unleash a litany of curse words you weren't even aware you knew.
Men and women are still very much unequal on the golf course, to the point where they can start playing from different locales. Also, if you don't make it past the women's tee from the men's position, you have to play the rest of the game with your pants around your ankles. Which, amazingly, improved my game by about ten strokes.

After taking more than four hours to complete those nine holes (Actually eight and a half), I realized I finally found something that combines drinking-while-driving-a-cart and mini-golf: Actual golf! True, there's no dinosaur or wind mill, but my own inability and lack of coordination serves as just as goofy obstacles.

I've gone from never golfing in my entire life, to going out there four times in the last week. I fully expect to be able to keep score by summer's end.

So, if you're ever up for a friendly afternoon game, and are cool with not keeping score, and have an unending amount of patience and enough imagination to pretend that I'm your small, slightly retarded five-year-old, gimmie a call.*

I'm already getting better, because I now make contact with the ball 70% of the time as opposed to 30, and my last time out, I only lost five balls, four tee's, and two sandals.

Don't ask....because I really couldn't tell you.

*Or if you just like a free shit.

Next is "Murder at My Friend Harry's" by Owen. 'Chapter one: The night was humid.'...Class dismissed. I have a terrible headache in my eye.

2008-06-24T13:49:00.000-05:00

Entertainment Weekly has compiled a list of "New Classics" (Which I'm shocked the TNT network hadn't copyrighted the term) of various mediums of the past twenty-five years. Movies, TV, Books, and to a lesser extent Movies, Fashion, and Stage.

I've tallied up my scores, and out of those lists I have:

- Seen 65 of the movies
- Watched 49 of the TV shows (I counted them if I hung in with the show for a solid two seasons) - Read 11 of the books

Of those eleven: four were an English Class in high school, two were because I liked the movie, and at least two were Harry Potters.

Sensing that a puff piece in a watered down version of the Hollywood trades was going to make me look and feel stupid sometime during the middle of the year, I proactively decided to tackle the dilemma six months early.

After receiving an extremely thoughtful and much appreciated Christmas present, I decided to make a New Year's resolution to read one book a month. Some* may scoff at setting the bar so low, however you must realize that my previous record was one boy wizard book every two years, but then the homeless British woman decided she had enough of those.

The idea behind this resolution was that perhaps it would ignite in me the desire to read, which has laid dormant since I was in middle school and the books became much heavier.

Amazingly, that resolution stuck. (Josh regretfully glances at the devoured bag of Doritos and beer bottles on the night-stand to his right, while the full bag of carrots in the fridge quietly passes the time by making friends with the undrank Powerade)

Going by my book a month count, I should read twelve books this year. I'm well on my way to breaking that and to be a full-fledged adult.

Here are mini-reviews of the books I've read, and upon completion, spiked the book, did an end-zone dance, and burned the book so it's magic spell could never harm again:

Born Standing Up - by Steve Martin
This was Steve Martin's auto-biographical account of his years as a stand-up, and given the subject matter, I was fascinated. It was also very cool to in Los Angeles at the time, and a stone's throw from all the historic places where his career began. While I lack his dedication, focus, and drive, I do have his ability to carry out a threat. At the end of his rope in Los Angeles, he packed up everything he owned, fully intending to drive home, unless he received an significant sign compelling him to stay. Martin stayed, I make twelve kiddie cocktails a day.

The Ruins by Scott Smith
For some reason, I'm a big of fan of books or television shows that contain plot elements that are perfectly acceptable when initially presented to the viewer (or reader viewer), but if attempted to explain to an outside source, it makes you sound 98% retarded. This book has one of those plots, but that not withstanding, it was spookier than a werewolf bar mitzvah while I read it. Plus, I finally got to be one of those people** who get to say the book was better than the movie.

A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby
Nick Hornby has written some of my favorite British non-wizarding books like High Fidelity and About a Boy (The movies were just as good, and in one case, even better), but he also wasted what could've been perfectly good toilet paper on How to Be Good, and A Long Way Down falls somewhere in between. It's a story about four strangers who all try to kill themselves on New Years Eve (The most popular night to commit suicide), meet on the same roof-top, form an unlikely pact and unlikelier friendships, and decide to give themselves until Valentine's Day (The second most popular night to commit suicide) to give one another reasons not to commit suicide. I just realized this the opposite problem of The Ruins in which the plot description is better than the book itself.

I Am America (And So Can You!) - by Stephen Colbert
Hilarious. Very hilarious. You will laugh out loud. Pretty much like reading a joke-book, though disguised as satire, so people think you're smart.

I Love You Beth Cooper - by Larry Doyle
This is probably my favorite book I've ever read. A simple, frequently told tale of a high-school nerd and his unrequited love of the head cheerleader, this book is funny, sweet, heartbreaking, inspiring -- all of those things. I've never been one to give books as presents, cause they used to intimidate me before I conquered so many, but this book is destined to become a part of the "Josh Carson Start-Up Pack" Read it. It makes your life better, if only during the all-too-brief time it takes you to read it.

A Dirty Job by Christopher Moore
This is the story of a sad-sack single father who discovers that he's been given the job of being death...kind-of. It's a little like the TV show Reaper, if you're familiar. It's funny enough, but almost chokes to death on its own quirkiness before copping out in the end.

The Chris Farley Show by Thomas Farley and Tanner Colby
Told by first hand accounts from friends and family (ala the Saturday Night Live book from a few years back) this is a very frank and candid story of a talented young man who do absolutely anything to be loved. It's great to relive all the moments that made us enjoy Farley, unless you're the type*** who didn't enjoy Farley. The last few chapter are very emotional and sad, and I think my occasional friend Bobby said it best (Now that I think about it, I think Bozic was making fun of him) that despite already knowing the end, the book almost convinces you that he was going to make it out okay in the end.

Word War Z by Max Brooks
This is actually told in the same style as the Chris Farley book, except entirely made-up because it's about the aftermath of a zombie war. It's very smart, satirical, and I really dug the History-esque feel of the presentation, but in the end, I had the same reaction I do of any non-Shaun of the Dead zombie movie. Individual scenes are great, often brilliant, but eventually, all those scenes on top of each other, it just becomes the same zombie noise all over again.

Now, my mad experiment has evolved so that I'm currently tackling three books at one time!

Sing it with me now:

I am so smart!
I am so smart!
S-M-R-T
I mean,
S-M-A-R-T!

* Assholes
** More Assholes.
*** Uppity Assholes

Hey Jenny Slater! Hey Jenny Slater! Hey Jenny Slater!

2008-06-24T10:01:00.001-05:00

Four Months Later...

I've been back from Los Angeles for just over four months now and every week, I still manage to bump into someone who's surprised to see me standing in front of them. I will take at least 47% of the blame for this as the past few months have seen me turn into a bit of a recluse, especially in the blog since. I, however, think the majority of blame should lie on the lack of news coverage of my every move. Shame on you liberal media!

Anyhow, I've neglected, broken-up with, secretly missed, drunk-dialed at odd hours, came crawling back to this blog in its various forms throughout the years, I don't feel the need to tell you the thoughts and feelings that went into my latest return, because it's been well-documented that A. My emotions are now and have always been the weakest part of this blog, and B. You're going to believe me anyhow, and you're not letting me unpack my metaphorical bags, cause you think I'm just gonna' grab 'em again a week later.

Let's just agree to treat this moment like the fourth season premier of Seinfeld in which Kramer announced he and Jerry were through, and he was moving to Los Angeles. And despite a friendship reconciliation (As well as a serial killer sub-plot that felt out of place), Kramer decided he was to stay in LA, and his time in New York was through. However, in the last scene, Kramer entered Jerry's apartment as if nothing had changed, and they never spoke of it again.

I can get you up to speed though:

I'm still living in the basement of my favorite aunt and uncle, so named cause theirs is the current roof over my head, though I was sat down by my uncle the other day, and politely told that while I'm not technically being evicted, I'm not NOT being evicted, and the time has come for me to move on, and for their downstairs bathroom to be clean once more. Therefore, I am on the hunt for my next living quarters, and while a few ideas are on the table right now, I am always open to more suggestions.
The bar tending job on the golf course* is going very well, despite the occasional soul-depleting rush of cranky-ass golfers not experiencing the calming effect the game is rumored to provide, or the knowledge that despite my degree** I am still in a place in my life where I have to be yelled extensively on which orange juice I should be using while making a Screwdriver. Quibbles aside, I've had no need to go to a cash machine in the last four months, and I've somehow managed to save money to the point where the above-mentioned idea of getting my own place is no longer a scary, Here-I-Come-Male-Prostitution prospect.
Being so close to a golf course as somehow turned me into a golfer. A poor golfer, but I golf now. More on that later.
Inexplicably so, I have met, began dating, and now am embroiled in a hot and heavy relationship with a beautiful, smart, funny, young women who, for some reason that remains a mystery to myself and my closest friends, has a fondness for the current fella' behind the computer, no matter how much he continues to act like himself. Her only fault at this point is her annoying desire to point my*** gray hairs, and tweeze my eyebrows while I'm not-quite-sleeping. She's also determined to make me start eating better ("No hot dogs for breakfast? What is this, communist Russia?!?!") and as gone as far as to trick me into eating tofu. Due to her love of organics eating, I have affectionately dubbed her as the Hippie, which I shall hereafter refer to her as on this blog, though she couldn't be more different than actual hippies.****

So, that's pretty much the what. I moved back from LA to discover the next phase in my life, and I'm still waiting to discover it, but the good news is I've decided to crawl out from under the rock I've placed upon myself, and the odds of discovering something while actually looking for it are much, much greater.

Before I go, I would like to acknowledge the passing of George Carlin. Always one of my favorite stand-ups, the world is a less funny place without him. On the drive back from LA, my father and I had a chance to attend a Carlin concert, which we passed up, because Father was tired, and I wanted to explore the streets of Vegas while publicly intoxicated. Please let this be a lesson to all that if you ever have the chance to attend the concert of an artist you're fond of, do so. Your lack-of-attendance will eventually contribute to your favored artists demise.

Which is why my Neil Diamond tickets are that much more important!

* How's THAT for some MFing exposition?!

** Yeah, yeah -- liberal arts degree, so I suppose I should've just said "degree"

*** VERY LIMITED AMOUNT

**** She showers.

Ray! Ray! You're chanting! Ray, unconscious chanting! I want to kill everyone. Satan is good. Satan is our pal!

2008-05-10T14:03:00.000-05:00

Daily? Weekly? It's all just words, right?

I've recently made an attempt to get a living space of my own that isn't in the basement of relatives and/or family-that-doesn't-know-I'm-living-there. I was referred to an apartment complex in glorious and scenic CR (That's the hip and much less racist way to say "Coon Rapids"). I was however denied the opportunity to live in glorious, scenic, and apparently, exclusive CR since the apartment overlords of Colonial Estates decided that I don't earn enough with my job (Though I'm earning the most I ever have at any job. Thanks a bunch Liberal Arts degree!) and I haven't been there long enough, despite my boss living in the same apartment complex, as well as serving as one of my glowing references. So, I'm still stuck in the basement. Any ideas on possible dwellings is much appreciated, cause I tend to be drawn by Craigslist ads that end up with someone being touched in the happy place in a non-happy way.

The job continues to go well, despite having lied my ass off to get it. At this point, they've either realized that I'm a fast learner, or have collectively decided to ignore my job performance as long as it doesn't put others in harms way. And you know who sucks at tipping? Teenagers and old people. Teenagers I get, most of 'em are border-line mentally ill, but old people? Come on! You've been on the planet longer than all of us! You know how this works! Also, when do you tip: Nobody thinks silver dollars, Sacajawea coins, or two-dollar bills are cool but you. Stop it.

The gym has remained a steady constant in my life as well, but I've become humble about it. I no longer feel the need to show off my new mucles, so I hide them under body fat I acquire through beer and chicken nuggets. They're there though. And they're always warm.

My book-a-month plan is working swimmingly, as it has mutated into two books a month! Already, I've blasted through this month's book I Love You, Beth Cooper (Which I can't reccomend enough. It's hilarious, great characters, great stories, solid amount of heart, moments that made me flat-out applaud, but I didn't, cause then I would've dropped the book. Read it. Read it before the movie comes out, which, if it's done right, will be spoken of by future generations, the way our generation speaks of The Breakfast Club and Adventures in Babysitting). My second book is The Chris Farley Show: A Biography in Three-Acts, which is funny, fascinating, inspiring, and heart-breaking. (I peeked to the end. He doesn't make it. Spoiler alert. Probably should've put that first.)

The summer movie season is upon us, and that's generally my favorite time of year, as I don't care about who'll win the next election as much as I do about who would win in a fight, Batman or Iron Man? (Which I think is a more realistic pairing than the oft-debated, never-resolved Superman Vs. Spider-Man) That being said, I can't bring myself to give a shit about Speed Racer, even in a "So-Bad-It's-Funny" vein, because I don't want to pay nine bucks to have a seizure. Though, for Mom's Day, I am going to pay nine bucks to see what What Happens in Vegas and end up feeling dumber.

George Bush and I are in a fight. He promised me six-hundred dollars, and he only gave me three-hundred. Douche.

This Friday night, my improv team MITCH! makes its triumphant return to the BNW stage. We are playing Punch-Out and going toe-to-toe with Sir Laffs-A-Lot, and if we lose, we are shipping Jim Moen off to Alaska that very night. (If we win, we are rewarding Jim Moen with a trip to Alaska -- that very night.) Anyhow, come see my rusty improv Friday night, 11:00pm (The sexiest time to see a show) at 2605 Hennepin Ave S. It's a fundraiser for the Twin Cities Improv Festival, so I'm sure you clever bastards could find a way to write that off.

This performance may serve as a kinda' kick-off to a comeback of sorts, as rumblings have started rumbling about the return of Mainly Me Productions, as a return of one of the original Mainly Me-ers is imminent and promises to give me the much-needed punch-in-the-nuts that'll either motivate me, or make me vomit.

Either way, you end up entertained.

By the by -- My Subject Line Movie Contest is still going strong.

Artistic integrity. Where did you come up with that? You're not artistic and you have no integrity.

2008-05-02T17:27:00.000-05:00

First, there was LiveJournal.

There were only a few of us in the beginning. Loran introduced us, therefore, it was generally accepted amongst our circle of friends that the populous would find it off-putting, condescending, and pretty gay. Proving that not everybody can be wrong all the time, LJ took off. I used it mostly to steal jokes from my friends and tell them better.

Then there was some dumbass thing called Friendster, which I still don't understand. Though it did have that cool little Friend Explosion virtual graph thing going for it.

Then, the mothership known as MySpace landed, enabling the entire world to go to one place to blog, take pictures of themselves with their shirts off and/or working out, validate their popularity, rank the people in their lives, and let every damn person they know EXACTLY how they feel about Gilmore Girls. (I was always concerned for their health, since they appeared to not take breaths between monolouges)

Everybody loved MySpace -- until we started getting too many porn requests and our parents joined up. A mass exdous occured.

Now, there's Facebook for our networking and witty status update needs, and blogspot for those of us who wish to continue to better present other people's material. And, as a true Minnesotan, if everyone else likes it, then I do too. (This is known as the Yeah, fuck the sun. I fucking hate it too theory. [And if you know the origin of that theory, we are dear friends.])

So, the Carson Daily has a new home for me not to write in it.

I'm not gonna' lie, in the past few weeks, I've started to question whether or not The Carson Daily was needed. The universe then gave me an answer.

Last night, after I discovered that ladies league night was going to be my bread and butter at the golf course since I'm witty, charismatic, and they laughed extra hard when I would pronounce it JALL-OP-AH-NOSE, the crew retired to Bebops to watch a friend-of-a-friend play punk covers of Natasha Bedingfield songs.

While pretending not to know all the words to a Natasha Bedingfield song, a drunken young twenty-something with unfortunate hair (In that she spent time trying to make it look like that) sidled up next to me at the bar. She stared at me long enough to make me wonder if a stroke occured.

"Hello," I said Rob Burgundy?-ishly.

"You look like my husband Paul."

"Well, then you marreid a good-looking man."

"He's dead."

"Oh. Well. That's not good."

"Tonight would've been his birthday."

"..."

"I miss him."

"...all right."

Enter a softball-uniformed meathead who grabs the young widower forcefully, and demanded to know what the fuck!

"What?" She said sheepishly.

"I just asked you to dance! And you didn't answer me and just walked over and started dry-humping this fucking guy!?"

"Calm down."

"No, I will not-"

Then she tounge-probed him, and they began to make-out as if the plane were going down.

Before the saliva was wiped off on his sleeve, Softball Guy said, "I live three blocks from here."

"Sure," she said and grabbed her purse. Then she touched my face, and said "Goodnight Paul."

See? If I didn't have a blog, none of you could've known that story. And you may not realize it yet, but your lives are better now.