| Oh you journalists. |
[Sep. 25th, 2009|12:02 pm] |
I wondered how that movie Funny People did financially, so I googled "'Funny People' box office" to check the results.
"Funny People more pauper than King of Comedy"
"Funny People laughing loudest at box office"
"Funny People laughs to no. 1 at box office"
"Funny People no laughing matter: opens to lousy..."
"Funny People rib-tickles the weekend box office"
Why is the journalistic headline the last real home of the Awful Pun?
I am reminded of the incredible Alton Telegraph obituary headline we reviewed in my high school journalism class, regarding the death of pro golfer Payne Stewart:
"Golf fans suffer a Payneful loss"
Our assignment was to, as a class, write letters to get that dude in trouble. |
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| ROOOADDD TRIPPPP |
[Aug. 17th, 2009|06:31 am] |
THE SCHEDULE, HERETOFORE REFERRED TO AS "THE SCHEDJE:"
Today, around 6: Drive down to Alton. 5 hrs. Pick up Dad's car.
Tomorrow around 10: Drive 12 hours towards Montana.
Wednesday: Drive another 12 hours, arriving in Montana. Deliver dad's car to brother.
Thursday-Sunday: Go stay at a cabin inside Glacier National Park with Brother/Sister.
Today, 2:30: Clarify that Brother/Sister is not one hermaphroditic person, but rather my brother and his wife who is my sister now.
Monday: Take brother's car, drive 8 hours to Portland, arriving to the disappointment of many.
Monday-Thursday: Do stuff? Leave whenever people start dropping "hey, maybe you should go" hints more than once per hour. Probably make a podcast somewhere in there.
Friday: Drive 14-ish hours towards Alton.
Saturday: Drive whatever's left to Alton.
Sunday: Drive or take train back up to Chicago
Monday: Never drive ever again.
TOTAL TRAVEL TIME: About three solid days of driving, out of 13!
I SHOULD PROBABLY NAB A BOOK ON TAPE OR TWO. |
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| You guys. So epic, you guys. |
[Aug. 4th, 2009|12:28 pm] |
Picture a world.
Sand, everywhere. A wasteland. Geiger counters clicking away without rest on a world saturated with radiation. Food is as scarce as fossil fuel, and the desperation of men is only exceeded by their brutality.
In the cracking of this world, something was released. Something old. Some are chosen by this force to transcend the limitations of physics and science, transforming their will into reality. The force is named "majikk."
One such user of "the majikk" tried to hide away from it all and build a new world. Gathering a group of survivors, he led them into an enormous crack in the mountains where he spent his days purifying the land and making it fruitful. For years, they prospered in what came to be known as "the farm." Corn grew, and corn fed calves, and calves turned into cows.
Sadly, as with all things on this new world, it was destined to fail. Word of this utopia got out to the outside world. It was a matter of days before the savage berserker biker gangs swept in, killing all, taking all. The day was Wednesday.
One farmer lived, miraculously, by hiding in a bale of hay. He was forced to sit in silence as the screams of his daughters and wives filled the night air.
The following day, Thursday, he emerged from his hiding place to see the smoldering ashes of his life all around him. Without shedding so much as a single tear, he hoisted his knapsack onto his shoulder, turned and began walking east. Into the desert.
By the third day, he could feel it in his bones. The hunger had penetrated to his very core. Deeper than the thirst, deeper than the sadness or the heat. He was sure every step he took would be the last before his body collapsed, but somehow he pressed onward. The screams of the vultures overhead sounded more and more like the screams of his family and friends.
Finally, miraculously, he fell to his knees at the feet of the man he had traveled so far to see. The withered old man stood motionless atop a dune, eyes closed, deep in his meditation. At the farm, whispered rumors of him claimed he was one of the most powerful bearers of "majikk" in the world, and that he had focused all his attentions and willpower into mastering the flow of time. They said he was always looking back, always trying to reach farther and farther back, to before the bombs fell.
The air crackled, thick with power around them, and yet the farmer could not help but notice that the old man looked even hungrier than he felt. With a smile, he whipped off his knapsack and placed it on the ground between them. Undoing its straps, he threw off the cover and reached deep inside to produce its treasure.
A single, glistening hamburger. The last hamburger in the entire world. He stared at it briefly, considered how delicious it would be, before forcing himself to look away. This hamburger was not for him. This hamburger was salvation.
He thought back to Wednesday, when it all went wrong. Wednesday, when the screaming savages roared in and butchered everyone and everything good left in the world.
The farmer looked up at the starving god and said the words that he had rehearsed over and over in his head all these long days in the desert.
"I'll gladly pay you hamburger for a Tuesday today." |
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| In which I quote the A-Team intro at the end. |
[Jun. 17th, 2009|02:25 am] |
I have a new idea stuck in my brain.
Victor Miles: Ronin Concierge.
I have the same feeling about concierges that I do about bicycle messengers. This is an unappreciated class of badass-- a person whose job it is to get the job done.
Victor was New York's greatest hotel concierge. Every maître d' in the city owed him a favor. Every concert promoter knew to set aside their best seats for his inevitable phonecall. He could acquire just the right prostitute for any occasion, and nobody ever got VD. He knew which politicians to blackmail, which to bribe and which ones would have you killed. Above all else, his clients always got what they wanted. No exceptions. He was the best at what he did, and he was paid well for it.
However, under mysterious circumstances, he became abruptly blacklisted from Les Clefs d'Or, the professional association of hotel concierges. No hotel would dare hire him, fearing the wrath of thousands of well-connected men.
In the span of a day, this Blackberry-Samurai was stripped of his position, cast out of his plush comped suite and left to fend for himself on the streets. Yet, he was not forgotten. The rich still knew who to contact when something needed to get done right. When discretion was paramount. When money was no object.
If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire... Victor Miles: Ronin Concierge. |
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| Why didn't you save me, Barack Obama?! |
[Jan. 26th, 2009|10:16 pm] |
So yesterday I got laid off from my job.
After getting back from lunch, I got a call from one of my supervisors telling me Ken (the owner) wanted to see me in his office. Seeing as this has never happened before in the eight months of my employment, I was immediately aware that I was about to be let go.
Ken is an extremely nice guy and looked genuinely upset, so I did my best to keep a smile on my face and crack a couple of jokes to ease the tension. He told me I did a great job and was a pleasure to work with and that it was entirely a financial decision, not anything to do with performance. The two drivers, though important, are not directly linked to making more money, which is all they can afford to pay for right now.
As I walked around the office to say my goodbyes, I got the same reaction from everyone "Aw that sucks man, you will be missed" followed by "Holy shit we're firing more people, I have a mortgage I am terrified."
I really just feel bad for all the folks I'm leaving behind. There were a few small hiccups, but those were rare exceptions at what was an excellent job with great people. I said this to Ken several times, and I meant it-- I really just hope that this will help keep the company going.
THE PLAN:
Exercise daily, maintain a reasonable sleep schedule, keep apartment spotless, avoid video games -- to avoid The Depression.
Get a solid resume put together, spend equal time pounding the pavement and pounding the internet -- to escape The Unemployment.
Do not time travel -- to avoid The Dinosaurs. |
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| Ladyscience. |
[Jan. 8th, 2009|08:14 am] |
Okay, females, are tights actually warm? Or are they one of many discomforts endured in the struggle for cuteness?
I have been out walking on some bitter, painfully cold days only to see some lady walk by in a hip little skirt and fancy tights looking cozy as a pancake in butter. I DON'T UNDERSTAND |
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| My Xii |
[Nov. 20th, 2008|10:48 pm] |
I do own/wear those clothes. I guess that's something.
Eh. |
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| WARNING, MOVIE NEGATIVITY |
[Nov. 15th, 2008|12:09 am] |
I bet I'm going to have some spoilers in here. (Maybe a lot.) About James Bond Quantum of Retarded. So, you're warned. Further warning: I am so tired right now.
I am not the guy who leaves the movie theater complaining. I'm the guy who walks out and says "did you see that one part? It was all 'krrrsshhhhhBAKABOW' and then that guy said 'It's time to pay the price!'" Particularly action movies-- I mean, what's to complain about? Shit blows up, everyone wins. It's the American way.
That's why I'm so disappointed that I'm so disappointed.
James Bond: Quantum Leap contains: A car chase, a foot chase, a motorcycle chase(ish), a boat chase, a plane chase and then a huge building that blows up because someone hit it with their car. In that order. Toss in like 3 tuxedo parties, some guns and punching, a rodeo and the dumbest looking opera, and congratulations-- you just saw the entire fucking movie.
I thought Casino Royale was great. They took James Bond- traditionally a super slick dapper dan with a bat-utility-belt- and made him into an angry fucking rhinoceros who was good at poker and taking his shirt off. While past incarnations of Bond would solve a problem by jumping into a helicopter and shooting lasers out of his cufflinks, this new Bond would be more inclined to hit you until you start crying and then throw you down some stairs. I like that.
Squinting of Solstice was a huge step back. It would be like if the Batmobile in... Firefox's dictionary doesn't know the word "Batmobile?" That's awful.
Anyway, it would be like if you went to see the new Dark Knight movie, and the Batmobile had neon lights on it. The kind of thing that would make you reach out a single hand towards the movie screen and yell, "No! You're killing it! Stop it!"
Every action scene is shot a foot and a half away from what's happening, and the cameraman is Michael J. Fox. You can infer from the half-second flashes of rope and shoes that two men are engaging in wordless, physical conflict resolution and also possibly demolishing a building and that there are one or more guns present-- but you never actually have any fucking idea what is going on.
The new Bond girls are back to being Excuses For There To Be A Hot Chick, instead of the (extremely advanced) Actually Kind Of Interesting Hot Chick from the previous movie.
Oh my God, how much have I written about this? Quick conclusion!
Plot: Nigh-incomprehensible, Dialogue: Composed almost entirely of (occasionally, okay, pretty decent) one-liners, Old Women Taking Baths: Present |
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| SPX |
[Sep. 19th, 2008|09:39 pm] |
Is anyone going to the Small Press Expo? I'm considering it-- I need an excuse to take a road trip.
Pee Ess! Alison it is near you! |
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| A friend bought it for us. |
[Sep. 16th, 2008|01:29 pm] |
Selections from TWILIGHT
Transcribed (Roughly)By Stephen Heintz
==========
My name is Bella Lugosi or whatever, and I have no idea how hot I am. I live in a shitty town where it rains all the time, and I'm sad about it. Everybody has boners for me, except my dad.
---
"Hey Isabella," said some douchebag. "Can I be your friend?" He was totally stupid and had a small, shitty face.
"Um, my name is actually Bella," I said. Then I fell down.
---
Edward Cullen had like this totally perfect, chiseled white face. His features were perfect. He seriously looked like a dreamy statue carved out of a huge block of hunky rock which was in turn mined out of Mt. Fuckable. His giant muscles nearly burst out of his skin-tight fishnet tanktop when he turned to look at me.
His perfect eyes were like two gemstones under his 7-inch-long eyelashes. His cheekbones caught the light just right, and were just reflective enough to permanently blind the weinery small faced kid who was trying to give me his grandma's heirloom necklace or something.
I was startled. I dropped my pencil.
Edward walked toward me. I could feel my heart racing. He walked on his tiptoes, exactly like a ballet dancer. It was so graceful my vagina exploded.
"You dropped that," he said, looking at me with smoldering revulsion. In one smooth, impossibly-quick fluid motion, he squatted down-- exactly how a swan would squat down-- and picked up my pencil between his globular, impossibly perfect buttcheeks.
==========
The first 300 fucking pages of that book are elaborate descriptions of how hot a 17-year-old boy is.
--SPOILER ALERT--
Guess what, these are special vampires! In the sunlight, they don't explode or turn to ash or anything like that, heavens no-- they sparkle. Like beautiful prismatic diamond angels! That's their kryptonite! They're even more super beautiful when the sun shines on their perfect faces! OH NO
...And then the last hundred pages are actually pretty cool. |
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| 2nd Sitty |
[Aug. 12th, 2008|12:26 pm] |
It is done!
I officially begin Improv classes at Second City next Thursday. They run from 7:00 'til 9:30, which is sort of my bedtime? So I guess I'll just be a sleepy dude on Fridays for a while.
But I'll be a sleepy dude capable of creating an entire wacky scene out of nothing but a few audience suggestions! |
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| Goofy bastard 101 |
[Jul. 21st, 2008|09:27 pm] |
So, for my birthday, my parents decided to buy me admission to a class at Second City! Because they are great.
But! I'm torn, I can't quite decide which I want to take. Here's how I see it:
I'm very interested in writing and acting-- more than I am in the improv? But at the same time, my improv skills need the most work, and that's kind of their big nationally-renowned thing. I plan to take pretty much all the classes I can manage in due time, but if something crazy came up I'd like to start with the most enriching experience and work my way down, just in case.
Poll #1227479 Second City Action Class
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 19Which class do YOU think I should take?
Really, any of the three sounds fantastic. I SO EXCITED!!! |
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| You know what sucks? |
[Jun. 24th, 2008|07:18 pm] |
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What sucks is becoming an avid NPR listener just in time for pledge month. |
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| WE ARE THE WALKING DEAD! |
[Jun. 20th, 2008|06:22 pm] |
Hey, everybody!
The next episode of The CHK features a drooling, moaning zombie-horde! But if we're gonna have a truly vicious-sounding, groaning mob of the walking dead we'll need your help!
Send a recording, up to thirty seconds long, of you sounding like a zombie to:
zombiemoans@gmail.com
Get it in before midnight Monday night to be guaranteed a place among the horde!
This is your one chance to finally do something important with your life.
Don't fuck it up! |
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| *single tear* |
[Jun. 19th, 2008|03:56 pm] |
Y The Last Man, Volume 10:
I am satisfied. |
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| CHK! |
[Jun. 8th, 2008|05:22 pm] |
Hey, friends! The Official Launch Date is actually Monday, but I thought I'd go ahead and drop the news a little earlier here on the ol' journal.
So, here's my new website: hourofknowledge.com
The Children's Hour of Knowledge is a new podcast by myself and Sexual Dynamo, Brendan Adkins, where he plays the role of Profoctor Davey and I play Bongo McTweedlepants, his puppet pal!
The first two episodes are up already, and the third should be out Wednesday, with a new episode going live every subsequent Wednesday until we are all dead.
I'll be updating AZWP Monday through Friday next week, so I feel like less of a bastard for working on a side project and ignoring it. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 23rd, 2008|04:28 pm] |
Listening to me complain is literally the exact same experience as having somebody pee in your eyes. That being said, deepest apologies to anyone who's had to hear me fuss n' bitch this past month.
I had a magical whirlwind of depression and frustration when I first set foot on the unforgiving shores of Lake Michigan. There were problems, primarily in my head, and a lot of fussing and wasting of time.
I don't know if I just got kicked in the mandangles by a concentrated dose of Seasonal Asshole Disorder or what, but it's basically made a complete 180 in the span of under a week! The sun is shining, I'm not BLOO BLOO BLOOing to Erin anymore, I have a paycheck, my Xbox is fixed, Wii Fit is in the mail, and I just bought a DiGiorno pizza without feeling guilty about it.
My days are spent doing a job that it turns out I both like and am pretty good at, and my evenings are spent with the handsomest of my wives (and also Niko Bellic).
MEMORIAL DAY WOO |
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