Gregg Gethard's Amazing Personal Journey

Fringe Festival Cabaret

2009-09-10T07:16:00.001-07:00

I did stand-up last night at the Fringe Festival Cabaret, hosted my the amazing and wonderful Doogie Horner, one of my favorite people in the Philly comedy scene.

My set last night was pretty fun. It was the first time I had done a non-open mic show in a while. And it was the first time I've done a non-open mic show at a "real" venue as opposed to someone's backyard in a while.

Since I haven't performed in front of a decent crowd, and I haven't hit up too many open mic nights the past few weeks, I was afraid of being rusty.

I have the first four part of my act down cold and don't need to look at my notes to remember the order. I flew through these parts without much of a hitch. The Fringe crowd is noticeable weird and very much into modern dance and crap like that, so I figured that my "performance art" style would work without too much hassle. I did what I felt was a good ad lib when I asked people to make The Greggulation Nation hand gesture and then "broke" from the character into the "actual" me by stammer something like "please, come on, I mean it, please make the hand gesture." It seemed like everyone also did the "Slamdancin'" call and response without much of a hitch.

From there, I did my stuff to varying degrees of success. The hypnosis part had a stumble, solely due to me messing up explaining stuff to Joey D., who was going to help me out with something. I still have to work on the logistics of that in order for that to be what I think it can live up to. I think "the hypnotist who hypnotizes himself" bit is a great idea but I still haven't gotten anyone to completely commit to it with me. And I don't want to have a plant in the crowd for that part because I really want it to be something where the bit verges completely out of control.

The end part worked really well. I really hammered the "before I begin" entrance to all of my bits. So then the "now I am going to tell a joke" part was set up very well. After that, I broke out the slingshot with fellow comic/pal Brendan Kennedy and an audience member.

After my bit, we had a "Yo Momma" joke battle. The thing I love about Doogie, and his show The Ministry of Secret Jokes, is that he really loves the absurd/silly. The "Yo Momma" battle really captures his sensibility very well, getting grown-ups to do something that they probably haven't done since they were pre-teens.

This was a really good time. I was in a previous Yo Momma battle and was the first one eliminated. This time, I wanted to make sure that I at least went on to the next round. The first time, I had to tell a "Yo Momma is so fat..." joke in which my punchline involved diabetes. But Brendan went EXACTLY before me and also used diabetes as his punchline. So I had to call an audible on the fly and it fell short.

So, my plan this time was to make my jokes as bizarre/absurd and surreal as possible. At the very least, they'd stand out. Here's an example:

"Your mother once volunteered to be my slave. I agreed to let her, as long as she begged me first. She then begged to be my slave. But then she asked me to pay her. That means she doesn’t even know what a slave is. That’s when I drowned her in a fountain next to the Willow Grove Mall food court. And no one bothered to pick up the corpse because it’s really funny in an awkward sort of way to see a dead woman where you least expect to."

I managed to make it to second place until I was finally bested by rapping overlord Roger Snair. And during my set, people were yelling "Slamdancin'" at me throughout the set. This may have been one of my friends but I don't know.

I was in the back for most of the earlier acts, but I stayed out front for the second half of the show. But continuing in the tradition of people mentioning my stuff act during their act, sketch duo Animosity Pierre said "Slamdancin'" and made the hand gesture a bunch of times.

I also got to watch Aaron Hertzog in action. The crowd was getting beat -- it was late at night and they just watched a movie where the sound was all garbled making it hard to watch. But he did an awesome job of really connecting with the audience. He's become incredibly comfortable on stage. It was great watching him up there just go right in without any qualms. Completely owned the audience, and something for me to keep in mind the next time I perform.

Prank Phone Calls w/ Dave

2009-09-04T10:30:00.000-07:00

Aside from pro wrestling, my favorite type of artform is prank phone calls. I've been making prank calls since I've been a kid and it never gets old, albeit it incredibly immature.

My friend Dave loves prank calls as much as I do. He's hosting a radio show/podcast tribute to prank phone calls in a few weeks. For his show, he asked me if I wanted to record some pranks. My answer was a resounding yes and, there is no irony in this statement, it may have been the biggest honor of my career.

We made about 20 calls to various degrees of success. I won't go into the details of our calls (don't want to ruin the surprise of what we did) but it was a lot of fun. We also both noticed a few interesting things.

1) I definitely improved my form as I went on. My timing became better and better -- I started to develop a good instinct as to when to put in a very awkward pause.

2) A lot of noted prank phone callers tend to do pranks that go on for a long time. The ones I liked the best last night were very short. I think my favorite call probably lasted for less than 30 seconds.

3) It really is like stand-up comedy where you have to develop a voice/persona. We repeated the same types of calls a few different times; the more I performed these pranks, the more I had a voice for the character I was portraying.

4) You also have to be quick on your feet and react to what your victim is doing. I think this is pretty similar in knowing how to react to an audience and change it up on the fly. You have to make a decision on your direction very quickly. Knowing how to find that is hard.

Anyways, I'm excited for this project. I think we're going to record some more in a little while.

Tritone Open Mic Night

2009-08-24T21:41:00.000-07:00

I hit up the semi-new open mic night at Tritone. I was mostly going because my good friend TJ wanted to pop his stand-up cherry tonight but he backed out at the last second. I am going to haunt him until he finally does it because he's a hilarious guy who is a huge comedy nerd. I think if he'd quickly become good and, more importantly, have a ton of fun doing so.

I went into tonight's open mic night just looking to fool around. I didn't prepare a set list like I usually do and I didn't really think too much of what I wanted to do. I'm starting to rewrite a lot of my material -- have an idea to use my current material and to make it more of a narrative -- but in the meantime, I'd just like to mess around on stage.

I did that tonight. I went first, which I've grown to actually like. A lot of times, I hate it because the crowd isn't warmed up and it makes it harder to get laughs. But tonight, I was really happy to do so; there weren't too many people there aside from other comedians, it's easier to get things done and to relax the rest of the night. And it also gives a good chance to cut out early if need be.

I decided to go to the old bag of tricks to start tonight, as opposed to going right into my baby powder toss. I asked the audience for a quarter. Someone gave it to me, and then I said I had to feed the meter. I waited about 30 seconds then came back and said that "it's after 8" which is the meter paying deadline in that part of town.

Then I did the beginning of my act. This was funny because no one bought into it aside from Luke and Aaron. The last time I saw those guys, Luke said something interesting about my "slamdancin'" catchphrase call/response. Other people have said it, too, but not as eloquently as Luke did. He said that he thinks it's even funnier when he's one of a few people to do the call/response because it's like his own private joke. I think that's really awesome -- the people in on the joke really get it, which makes it funnier when no one else has any idea what's going on.

So, since this place was dead, I decided to again do an Andy Kaufmann rip-off bit. I had this planned for a while but was hesitant to try it. I have four BoyzTown songs that I can sing. I tried out "1,000 Ft (2 Get 2 U)" tonight. The end of this song is a countdown from 1,000. So I kept on singing until the light came and made it to about 988.

The rest of the show was weird, as poorly attended open mic nights tend to be. My baby powder bit was mentioned at least 7 times by other performers, none of whom I really know all that well.

I came up with another idea when the show ended. I grabbed the mic from the host (he was in on it) and said I wanted to finish my song. So I started from where I left and kept on counting down for a few minutes.

I know a lot of comics don't like open mic nights in general. And, specifically, ones where no one pays any attention are particularly dreadful. I think I like these the most. At "real" shows where people pay money and stuff, I rehearse and "stay between the lines" with my material. But when no one gives a shit, why not really just go all out to see what I can get away with? Maybe something will stick.

Oh well. Good enough show. The two dudes who run it -- Jack and Tommy -- are really good dudes. Hope they continue it.

Bedtime Stories: The Rhythm of the Night

2009-08-20T12:20:00.000-07:00

Last night was the monthly BEDTIME STORIES, the show I started up about 2.5 years ago.

Out of the shows we've done, this may have been the weirdest. And what I mean by that is not with the material (although we, naturally, had some great, weird stuff), but with the audience reactions.

My stuff didn't seem to get over well at all. As is the case a lot of times w/ Bedtime Stories, I couldn't prepare my material until close to deadline. Usually, I at least have a good idea of what I want to do pretty early on. But then w/ work, real life, booking acts, PR, etc., my own stuff gets pushed off until later.

Thankfully, I think I have about a 75% rate w/ my stuff at Bedtime Stories. I usually like to keep my stuff as brief as possible. And, if I have a second bit I really like, then I can bust that out as well. But my theory is that, while I host/produce BS, it's not about me. People don't pay $10 to see me act a fool. They pay to see the ensemble.

But hosting means I perform first. And that puts a lot of pressure on me -- I'm starting the show off, and if I do really well, the show almost always kicks ass. But if I don't do so well, then it's already at a handicap.

Thankfully, I've developed a bit of a formula for organizing the show. I always have Jon Goff "bat second." This is because he's awesome and, quite probably, the funniest act in Philly. (Hope I don't step on any toes, but a lot of people say the same thing.) He's the PowerPoint Comedian Master. He's also super high energy and extremely likable. Then after him, I'll have a live act -- a lot of times, I like to use this space for someone fairly new to the show, since I always try to book one act who has never done the show before. (Which is hard.) Then I try to alternate between videos and live bits -- can't have two videos back to back logistically.

Another bit I've learned is that the show could always use a "breather." By that, I mean I like to have a low-key act that breaks up the more manic-y things that usually go on. For that, I usually count on the assistance of "Little Miss" Jaime Fountaine, who performs a wonderful Catholic School Girl act. She usually reads a letter/diary entry to the crowd. It's really adorable and charming -- it doesn't get the robust laughter that a lot of other things get, but it always wins the crowd over. And, almost always, I've discovered, what goes on after her has about a 100% success rate of killing. I attribute this to Jaimie's likability and understated act; right after, something more outlandish happens and it's an awesome transition for the end of the show.

I've also had really great luck in getting a great concluding act. A few times, we've been able to pull off a "SNL Ending" where the entire cast emerges on stage, which I absolutely love doing. But you always want the last act to be one of, if not the, strongest bit of the night. Somehow, just by lucky guesses, this usually happens. Case in point: Secret Pants' "Three Minute Prom" for The Prom show; they came together with it at the last minute, were worried about it, but did what might be my favorite sketch they've ever done. It left on such a high note, it was awesome.

But back to last night's show -- I certainly didn't win the crowd over to start. Jon tried to do "AV Mad Libs" last night. It's an awesome idea and I hope he does it again -- the regulars who go to the show really enjoyed it. One stand-out video that I loved was by The Feeko Brothers, who did an act that was something that really challenged the crowd, which is my favorite style of performing. I have no idea how their video didn't kill; it was incredibly well done, spot-on and hilarious.

Charles Rosen also nearly stole the show with his performance as "Ballsack," the ex-lead singer of a punk band he grew up listening to. During the week, he asked if he could literally set himself on fire on stage. I didn't think this was the best idea safety-wise, but I'm kicking myself now about that. If he did that, and we made sure that it was safe, it would have been absolutely brilliant. But I don't want Bedtime Stories to go down as "The Great White of Alternative Comedy" either. But I think I should have let him.

But still, it was just a weird crowd. Also, there were more videos than live last night, which is logistically a pain. But the last third of the show was one of my favorite stretches we've ever done. Meg and Rob kicked things off with a video that was brilliant; lately, anytime I've seen them do videos or perform, I walk away saying, "that's the best thing they've ever done." The crowd was blown away by it.

Then afterwards was a new group called Camp Woods making their second public appearance. They had a really elaborate set that I thought might take some time to set-up, so I figured they should go next-to-last. As with any new group, it's always interesting to see how they'll perform -- first sketches tend to go over wonderfully and have a great energy to them. And they followed suit with a completely unique piece. I really loved them -- their sketch had a bit of a "twee" feel to it that juxtaposed incredibly well w/ the darkness of the bit. Also, they're completely committed and two dudes made out on stage. Just an A+ debut.

Finally, the show wrapped up w/ music guest Jose El Rey. He's a friend of mine who lives in Miami who has become pretty popular in S. Florida. I knew he was going to absolutely rule. He's a complete professional and knew how to read the crowd perfectly. He hit a home run and it was quite possibly the best single act we've ever had at the show.

Overall, I'd give the show a good B+. It wasn't going so well at first, for reasons I'll never be able to figure out. But it really clicked at the end and people left on a super high note.

If I could go back and change it, I'd do the following:

A) Have a briefer personal act, or at least rehearse the shit out of what I ended up doing.

B) Have Camp Woods go right after Jon.

C) Have Meg and Rob go right after that.

Then I think everyone else would have gone on superbly well from there. And I would have loved to have the next-to-last act be Charles setting his genitalia on fire, followed by Jose El Rey.

I'm pretty convinced if all of those changes were made, it would have come off as one of the two or three best shows yet.

Filming w/ Emily and Rob

2009-08-14T12:22:00.000-07:00

I filmed a bit for Bedtime Stories last night w/ Emily and Rob. It's a piece called "Positive Heckling" that I hope to show on Wednesday. I'm not sure if that will happen yet because it's going to take time to edit, but we'll definitely use it.

I'm a huge fan of "reality comedy" like Sasha Baron Cohen, Jackass and the like. (But not that dumb shit with Ashton Kuchar or whatever his name is.)

I've done some stuff with it before but it has never worked out. The first time I tried was a few years back at "Match Day" which is when med students find out where they will do their residencies. I had to operate a camera AND ask questions. I learned right then that won't work. I also learned that, when you go into a reality type of thing, you have to go in with an outline in your mind how you want the bit to work. Obviously, you can't script it, but you definitely have to plan out a bit of a narrative. If you don't do that, then you just end up with a dumb home movie.

I filmed something a while back with my friend Laura and old 6B comrade Jason. This was for the "Hipsters" Bedtime Stories. Laura is a natural who is completely fearless and a lover of pranks. We came up with a plot/characters. I was a "TA" in TV production at a local college who was somewhat hip. Jason was the tech dork camera guy. And Laura was the on-air talent who was a suburban sorority girl. The assignment was to do a piece on a sub-culture outside of your social group, so I got Laura to go to a hipster bar to interview cool kids.

Laura was absolutely amazing. She had absolutely no shame asking people questions like "How are your pants so skinny? Are you a bike messenger or cocaine addict?" and "Are you going to vote for Obama? I think I'm going to because he reminds me of the guy from the Black Eyed Peas. Do you listen to them?"

People completely bought into her act and not one person batted an eye at her. The story arc of the piece was to basically expose hipster superficiality and superiority. These people were trying to be "open" but were so predictably condescending.

My favorite part -- these two girls, on camera, kept on saying to Laura "Oh, you're great! You should totally come hang out with us some more!" As soon as Laura's back was turned, they talked a ridiculous amount of shit on her.

Alas, the sound and lighting for the piece was screwed. It would have been an absolutely gold mine of comedy.

I can't wait until I finally get a reality piece together that's awesome. I think last night's stuff has potential (especially since I think Emily is the funniest person that I know); however, we filmed all of it from a moving vehicle.

We'll see.

Johnny Goodtimes' Back Yard Mon. Aug. 17

2009-08-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

My friend Chip sent out an e-mail talking about a spur-of-the-moment open mic show in local legend Johnny Goodtimes' back yard. This was right up my alley and I was super happy to get there.

I knew all but five of the people in attendance. But it was completely loose and awesome; everyone was trying out new material and having a great time on stage.

I got up there and had to improv some stuff because there was no mic stand and I needed Johnny to hold the mic for my intro. I also talked about the many illustrious venues I've played at through my years as a famous comic -- especially an open mic night at the TGI Friday's on City Line Ave. -- and how playing in a dude's backyard was the pinnacle.

Since I knew everyone there, the whole "Slamdancin'" part got over without any problems. I then tried the hypnosis thing again. My friend Pat volunteered for it. The set-up got a good response and Pat was super awkward (which is good) when I knelt before him under his control. He ended the bit quickly but this was actually an awesome read on his part -- the bit got laughs and he reeled it back in so I could move on to the next part while in the flow.

I ended it with the slingshot again. Obviously, I can't afford to print a t-shirt and fire it into the crowd every time. Instead, I fired a "diploma" from The Greggulation Nation Community College.

I loved messing around with my material. I didn't do the "jokes" at the end, which was fine because everyone there has heard me do it 50,000 times already. But I think that, at a real show, I might be able to actually get close to doing an okay 10 minutes. Anytime I've gone that long before, it really starts to drag about halfway into the set. And now I have the slingshot which will be a pretty good ending, I think.

Boston, Mon. Aug. 3rd

2009-08-12T10:37:00.000-07:00

I've never done my stand-up act outside of Philly. We were going up to Boston to visit our old stomping grounds. I did a show a few months back w/ some Boston folks who came to Philly. I shot one of them a Facebook message and got on his open mic schedule.

I was really eager to do this show. And, especially, I wanted to try out a new bit I've been working on in private.

I did my baby powder/intro. It didn't get the response I like and I had to yell at the audience to do the hand gesture thing. I also flubbed the timing of the "Slamdancin'" call/response part. And, since no one knew who I was there, no one knew what I was doing at all and had no trust in me.

But for some reason, I forgot to check my set-list and skipped a bunch of bits that usually work. And then I rushed too quickly into my new bit. With this, I ask an audience member to come up on stage. I talk about how hypnosis saved my life from an addiction to cough drops (which I have to work on, the set-up sucks), and I wanted to show the audience how hypnosis works. So I got someone in the crowd and, as I dangled a necklace in his face, I told the audience how I would be under HIS complete control.

I was really excited to try this out. I really like crowd participation stuff. Usually, comedy is about the comic having control over the audience. But I figured why not let the audience, at least for a few moments, have control over me? The Helium show really inspired me to see what else I could get away with on stage -- why not do something like that as a big experiment? I'm not a big fan of improv, but I really love it (and at UCB they're awesome at this) when something looks like it's completely heywire but gets reeled back in.

The set-up line got a laugh, but the guy didn't buy in at all and, in fact, was a dick on stage. The bit ended within seconds.

Also, the whole "non-stop introduction to a really anti-climactic ending" thing didn't work because of how flustered I was.

It was the worst I've performed (and not just in stand-up) in at least six months. But I still got one of the better reactions of the night. I don't think it's because my material is so insanely strong (because it certainly isn't) that if my delivery sucks it will still get laughs. A lot of the stand-ups at this night weren't so good (most likely because they're just getting started), so I think that I've performed at least a little bit and have a novelty to my act helps a lot.

I at least took some satisfaction knowing that I was about 100 times better than the asshole who did the hypnosis with me. Wow. He was horrid.

Helium, Sat. Aug. 1

2009-08-12T10:18:00.000-07:00

I entered Helium's annual Philly's Phunniest Person contest. On my night, 15 people performed. I went going in thinking I had absolutely no chance of advancing to the semi-finals; I haven't performed stand-up for that long, and I thought the crowd was going to be more into the type of comedy I don't really like -- ethnic stereotypes, shocking language/sex jokes, etc.

But I still wanted to at least stand out for the night. I rehearsed my act a ton in the weeks ahead of time in the shower and while walking my dog. And I started to think up of other ideas to stand out. I came up with the idea of my fan club ("The Greggulation Nation") holding up signs with my "Slamdancin'" catchphrase. Then, after talked with my comic friends Dave and Aaron, we came up with an idea of a t-shirt cannon firing t-shirts with my face on it to the crowd.

That got changed a little bit; my friend Bryce made a t-shirt with the phrase "Greggulation Nation" on it. And I looked into building some sort of potato gun, but it looked way too hard for me to build, since I've never really built anything before. So that got changed into a slingshot comprised of a funnel and two bungee cords that I made with my friend Mike.

I was really nervous the day of the show and had a lot of manic energy. Being that I get like that a lot, I've learned ways to counter that when I get too up. I got to downtown really early and meditated for a while in Rittenhouse. My head became really clear and I headed to the show.

I distributed my signs and recruited Jon and Rob to join me on stage to help prompt the crowd with a few of my bits. I was really worried about time, since I have no concept of it, and if you go over the six minute time limit you would be disqualified from the contest.

I think it was actually the best I've ever performed this material. I really trimmed my set down a lot. I think the baby powder bit really worked and it got the crowd really interested. They also seemed to really buy into the catchphrase call/response part which I do second.

I also nailed something I have problems with. A few months back, I did a show my friend Luke used to run at Drexel. And I stumbled into a line where I said, "Now I'm going to tell some jokes" that got a great, unexpected response, since I had no ideas of saying it. I decided to tailor a lot of my set towards that one line -- doing almost a set of introduction until I got to that line, and then afterwards I tell a really stupid joke. (In his book, Steve Martin talks about how punchlines are simply a release of the tension created by a set-up of a joke. And he wanted to know what would happen if the release of the joke was the exact opposite of how it was usually released. It worked for him, so why not just steal that?)

But once I got to that part of the act, I realize I still had some time to kill. The 4:30 light hadn't come on yet, and I kind of froze since my bit wasn't ended yet. I started to get a "Slamdancin'" chant again since it was the first thing to came to mind, but I should have told a few other corny jokes as well.

Finally the light came on. And I set up the slingshot with Jon and Rob. I got the crowd to make some "nooooissse!" and launched a t-shirt into the crowd.

My brother (a professional comedian) came to the show. He said he loved what I did and that I actually created a bit of chaos in the crowd. I loved that he said I got that kind of response -- everyone else got the usual "if it was funny, we laughed. If it wasn't, we didn't." But I think I came off as anarchic and like I was out of control, which is awesome.

I didn't make it on to the next round, however. I was later told that I may have been disqualified because baby powder ruined at least seven drinks and one plate of nachos.

My Stand-Up Act

2009-08-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

A little over a year ago, I decided to start doing stand-up comedy. As indicated on my appearance on Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? in 8th grade, I always had a dream of doing stand-up comedy. I did a few stand-up type of things in college but didn't pursue it after school since I found work in journalism, which took up nearly all of my time.

But I always wanted to do comedy. I ended up in a sketch comedy group (The Sixth Borough) and doing some storytelling/bizarre stuff at Bedtime Stories, the theme night comedy/variety show I started in Philly. But I started to meet a lot of the local stand-ups and got the bug to try that out.

I hit up a few open mic nights. I got some good reactions, but I started to like my act less and less. I was doing a really awkward act, complete with stretching routines before hand and a monotone delivery. Mostly, I was ripping off Dave Hill, who is my favorite comedian in the world.

So I started to change up my act. I wasn't sure where to go with it, but then one day while watching hoops I saw LeBron James do his traditional pre-game ritual of tossing baby powder in the air. I thought that would be a great way to start my act, since I couldn't remember anyone else doing anything like that.

I am actually one of the few people with good comedy tastes who enjoys the work of Dane Cook. His material is pretty bleh, but I love the way he moves on stage. And I also read Steve Martin's awesome "Born Standing Up," which talks about his stand-up career. I took from the book that Steve Martin wanted to try to do the exact opposite of what everyone else was doing.

I know a ton of amazing stand-up comics here in Philly. And there's no way I could do what they do in terms of observational comedy and things like that. So, I figured that for me to stand out, I'd have to try and do the exact opposite of what a lot of other people were doing.

So why not ape an act like Dane Cook's? He has catchphrases, hand gestures and crowds yelling punchlines of his jokes at him. I don't know anyone else who has any of that, so why not develop something around that?

So, I developed the persona of "The Greggulator" (my self-inflicted and unfortunate nickname in college). I thought it would be funny to see some guy no one has ever heard of at some open mic acting like he has a fan club and a popular catchphrase/hand gesture combination.

And that's where it stands.

Newsroom Confidential: Macarthur Park

2008-01-08T22:53:00.001-08:00

Curiously, I never covered sports, aside from a few freelance pick-ups here and there. This may shock you since I watch roughly 146 hours of basketball a week. Angelo Cataldi caused this. Angelo is best known for his work as the drivetime host on Philly Sports Radio 610 AM, America's Most Ignorant Sports Radio Station.

He also was an adjunct prof at La Salle. I had him in a Sportswriting class. The mission of this class: make talking about sports as painful a process as possible! Watch a big, dumb oaf brag ceaslessly about the nomination for the Pulitzer he got two decades ago! Watch your classmates mirror his every opinion on sports and sportswriting, even though just hours earlier in the Food Court they had the complete and total opposite opinion!

ASSIGNMENT: Bring in your favorite piece of sportswriting and discuss why you like it so much. (Essentially, a book report. I was a junior at a college charging nearly $30,000 a year.)
WHAT I DO: I bring in a copy of Darcy Frey's "The Last Shot," which details the lives of four high school basketball players (one of whom is a 14-year-old Stephon Marbury) from the projects in Coney Island as they try to make it despite growing up in a culture of violence, poverty and despair. A truly amazing book in every way, shape and form.
WHAT HAPPENS: Angelo Cataldi cuts me off in the middle of my presentation! He dismisses my report. The reason? Because he never heard of the book, thus, how could it be any good?

Angelo Cataldi nearly made me hate watching sports. He DEFINITELY made me give up any aspirations of sportswriting, since people like him (or Steven A. Smith or Bill Conlin or Peter Vescey) seem like the ones who are at the top of the heap.

(Side note: I almost got sweet revenge on Cataldi. At the end of that semester in college, La Salle had an auction. One of the prizes was to sit in on the 610 AM morning show with Angelo himself. I won this auction and went down to the studio. My plan was to, if I was brought on the air, to tell everyone live and in person what an idiot Cataldi was. They never let me anywhere near the air, however.)
*****

Most of the sportswriters I've worked with have been pretty awesome folks. I couldn't do their job. As much as I love sports, I have no idea how I could feign interest in a high school girl's volleyball game. At least with an incredibly boring zoning board of appeals meeting, I could pretend like someone gave a shit about what I was reading.

The sports guys at the first newsroom I worked with were pretty awesome. The captain of the team was Jim Jones, the so-called "Dean of North Jersey Sportswriting." When I started at the paper, Jonesy was in his 70's and had been covering local sports for close to 50 years. He was a great writer and more than willing to give his time to teach the ropes of different aspects of the business to a newcomer such as myself. He was also wickedly funny and great at pulling practical jokes.

Being of The Greatest Generation, Jonesy had some problems understanding computers. The Ridgewood News was filled with older folks doing random jobs -- typing in press releases and writing features, mostly. I frequently had to go to Jonesy's office and fix his computer for him.

One day, he came up to my desk and asked if I could help him with the computer. I said sure and ventured to his office (which smelled of a combination of stale beer, cigars and whiskey.) I ask him what's wrong with his computer.

"Do you know this Anna Kournikova?"

I, of course, know her intimately well.

"Can you help me find pictures of her on the computer? I don't know where to find them. I really want to find pictures of her."

I helped a 75-year-old man find pictures of a teenage Russian tennis player.

A few months later, Kournikova would play at a tennis tournament held in nearby Mahwah. Jonesy covered the event, and snapped over 100 pictures of her in action. Only her. Despite hours of tennis matches, he did not take one picture of any other competitor.

He also managed to figure out what hotel she was staying at and took a picture of her leaving her bedroom. That picture was on the front of his door the entire rest of the time he worked at the newspaper.

Jonesy was great. His assistant editor, Brian, was completely insane. When Brian was normal, he was a perfectly fine guy, very personable and nice. When Brian had a few drinks in him -- which, by 11 a.m., was the case -- he was completely insane. Brian always had a story about something going on in his life. At one point, his apartment (more like a room in a boarding house) burned to the ground. He would spend his days in the newsroom cornering folks about where they lived, asking them if they had any extra room so he didn't have to sleep in his car anymore. I don't believe anyone took him up.

I was working late with Tom, Jeff and Alex one night. We were doing our work when Brian came stumbling into our office. His eyes were completely dialated. I know this because he was staring right into my eyes. He wouldn't stop staring at me. He ended up standing two feet away from me, his eyes completely fixated on mine.

"Hey, Gregg." He said this, not even acknowledging the presence of three other people in the room.
"Uhm, hey, Brian."
"Hey, what's your favorite song?"
"Uhm... I don't know."
"Go ahead, give me your favorite song."
"'The Kids Are Allright' by The Who."
"I don't think I know it."
"Oh. It's a great song."
"Do you know what my favorite song is?"
"Uhm, no."
"Macarthur Park. Do you know how it goes?"
"Yes. I do."
"Macarthur Park is friiiiiightening in the dark.... someone left the cake out in the raaaainnnn...."

For the next five minutes, in a falsetto, boychoir alto, this grown man started to serenate me with Richard Harris' epic song. His eyes never left mine. He then left the office like nothing happened.

Newsroom Confidential: My First Murder

2008-01-08T20:43:00.000-08:00

I got into work around 9:45 on Monday morning, about 15 minutes late, which was par for the course. Maria, the editor at Suburban Trends, literally through to me a copy of The Record, the daily paper which both covered our publication zone and also owned our publication.

The bottom front page had a big headline. "BABY KILLED IN HASKELL" it read.

Suburban Trends was my second newspaper. I had been there about four months, covering the towns of Wanaque and Ringwood. I had never heard of these towns until I started my beat, and I warmed up to them fairly quickly. Ringwood is located along the New Jersey/New York border, filled with a multitude of state parks, stunning views, expensive private lake communities and a very active (and downright nasty) political climate.

Wanaque sat to the south. The part of town closer to Ringwood was very woodsy, quiet and suburban. In Haskell, the other part of town, it wouldn't be shocking to see a pickup truck with a Confederate flag parked on a front lawn. It was dusty, in need of a major paint job, and a little bit frightening.

It was a great place for a young journalist to grab a story.

By that fateful Monday morning, I had already cut my teeth. I was about a year into my career, and had established a bit of a reputation in the North Jersey Media Group company. I was seen as a very strong reporter, a very quick learning, capable of turning out a decent amount of copy. I also had a reputation as being someone who wasn't afraid to yell at an editor, a publisher or a company higher-up -- putting me in the doghouse pretty much from day one.

(To re-up this back to The Wire: I have more than just a little McNulty in me, even though I do not drink or sleep around. I have a hard time keeping my opinions to myself. I enjoy pissing off authority figures, particularly incompetent ones. It took me a long time to temper the part of my personality requiring me to serve the role of the self-righteous center-of-attention. In short, I am an asshole.)

I had no idea what to do. I had already figured out by this point that pretty much everyone in the newsroom with me was completely worthless. My editor never left her desk, except when she had to go to our corporate offices in West Paterson for some prime ass-kissing time. The assistant editor was too busy scouring goth personal webpages. Most of the other reporters were a bunch of housewives who worked about ten hours a week, writing great stories such as "Bloomingdale BOE Votes To Hire Gym Teacher."

This place was not conducive to a young reporter who dreamed of making it to a big city daily newspaper one day. It was a place where the folks thought it was "cute" to have the title of reporter, something they could tell the other soccer mom's in their cul de sac about. My editor was also in grad school and a teaching assistant at the time. She used to grade papers while at work. The sports editor at the time used to show up once every two weeks and openly talked about how he wanted to get fired.

I had no idea what to do. I had covered a handful of decent stories -- a police stand-off in Midland Park, two teachers who ended up in a fist-fight at an elementary school in Wanaque -- but I had never covered an actual murder. And I knew everyone I worked with was completely worthless. So I had to concoct a plan on my own.

(It's a bit of a cliche for people to expect newspapers to have these grizzled veterans taking cub reporters and learning them a little bit at a time. I never met those people. I, and most other journalists, had to learn everything on my own. I had to learn what to expect at a council or board of education meeting. I had to learn how to cover a court case, where to find legal briefs and what to ask attorneys. I had to learn how to get police records. Learning on your own, and learning quickly, is a definite strength for anyone in the business and has its merits. But it would have been nice to have a little bit of help for really basic questions.)

First, I scoured the article in the Record. I learned the alleged facts of the case: a 20-year-old gave birth to her newborn baby, stabbed it to death, hid it in a plastic bag and left her son in a dumpster behind her trailer. Making it even more complicated, she had recently moved to Wanaque from Mexico, staying with her brother and sister, who claimed they had no idea she was pregnant. After she killed her kid, she went to work at Burger King where she started bleeding. An ambulance took her to the hospital, where doctors immediately knew she gave birth but didn't have a child with her.

From the article, I saw most of the information was coming from the Passaic County Prosecutor's Office, who were now handling the case. I called them to get information as to what happened, and they sent me a press releasing with the basics of the crime. I had names, an address and the police version of what occurred. I now had everything The Record had already printed.

Many daily newspaper outfits own the weeklies in their same coverage area. This is who weekly reporters compete with -- someone who gets a paycheck from the same exact company. (Which I'll get into more later, because that creates many problems.) Our paper came out on Wednesday and Saturday. If something happened that made the Record on a Monday or Tuesday, I still wrote about what happened for the next issue. My strategy was to always try to put a new spin on a story or dig up new information.

There was one thing The Record didn't have with their story. And that was a quote from the family of the alleged murderer. And, having read The Record every day for that year, I knew their reporters were too lazy to try and talk to them.
*****

Now, what I said earlier about that newsroom being filled with wastes was a bit of a stretch. There were two solid people who worked there. The first was Matt, a fellow Clash fan who fits an archtype all-too familiar at a weekly newspaper: the overly talented reporter who, for whatever reason, couldn't catch a break and end up at a newspaper which paid more than $28,000 a year in salary. Matt was always quick to provide me with a phone number or lead when I was stumped on a story. For this, he gave me the phone number of a few area attorneys who could help me figure out the legal system, since the only real experience I had came from watching Law and Order reruns.

The other was Andrea, a college intern who was working with us. Andrea was originally from Peru, having moved to America with her parents only a few years earlier. She was really pretty and she seemed, at first, as very timid and shy. I initially thought she would quit in a few weeks but she wrote a few decent features at the paper which impressed me.

And, most importantly, Andrea spoke Spanish. I guessed this was needed since the family involved in this murder were illegal Mexican immigrants.

I paired up with Andrea. She also read the story and agreed immediately to give me a hand. We came up with a list of questions to ask the family and discussed how to approach them. Luckily, we found a phone number for the family and Andrea gave them a call. They were happy to talk to us.

On our way up, Andrea and I talked about what could possibly cause a woman to kill her newborn child.

"Maybe she didn't know she was pregnant," I said.

"No, you would just know you're pregnant," Andrea replied.

"Well, maybe the hospitals in Mexico aren't so great," I said. "Maybe the doctors there had no way of telling if she was pregnant."

Andrea looked shocked.

"If you think hospitals are like that in Mexico, I don't want to know what you think they're like in Peru," she said. I started laughing, realizing how completely ignorant I was to anything outside of suburban New Jersey.

We drove up to Wanaque, behind a hardware depot, down this dingy dirt road littered with garbage. There, we came across a double wide. Police tape was all over the ground. Behind the house, there was a big dumpster which was also marked with police tape. In front was a bloodied plastic bag.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, I felt nauseus. I knew the story was horrific, the latest in a long string of baby murders in North Jersey. But earlier, it was just another article in a newspaper. Now, this was something else. This was real. And this was awful.

Andrea and I approached the house. We knocked on the door. A Mexican guy in his late-20's came out in a wifebeater and jeans. Next to him was a petite woman in her 20's. They were both crying.

Andrea started talking to them in Spanish. They were talking back to her. I couldn't understand a word. Andrea was writing furiously, trying to translate to me what they were saying. But it was obvious. They had no idea their houseguest was pregnant, they had never thought she was capable of something so twisted, and they were scared shitless that they could also be arrested.

We spent about 30 minutes with them. We eventually thanked them and went back to the office. Andrea translated the notes and sat next to me and I started to write the story. It took us about two hours to finalize our copy, as we talked about how to shape every paragraph.

I then went home and started crying my eyes out.

The story had some legs, with The Record doing a few follow-up pieces. Ours ran that Wednesday. It was the only article to have a quote from the family.

Newsroom Confidential: Part One

2008-01-08T17:45:00.000-08:00

It's easiest to start at the beginning.

It's my first day of high school, third period. The class I have signed up for is journalism. How and why I ended up in this class is beyond me. I walk into the classroom. A guy with a beard, around the same age as my parents, is sitting behind the desk. I sit in the back corner. He's soft-spoken, congenial and has a very quiet sense of humor about himself. His name is Mr. Ehrlich.

He goes desk-to-desk, asking everyone their name. He finally gets to me. He says something to me and I, now semi-comfortable playing the role of class clown, crack a joke. The class laughs. And so does Mr. Ehrlich. I immediately take a liking to him. I am very into the assignments given to us -- how to write a lead paragraph, how to write in the "inverted pyramid" style, how to brainstorm story ideas. Mr. Ehrlich also takes a liking to me. A few weeks into class, he introduces me to the senior editors of the paper. He tells them that one day I'm going to be editor-in-cheif.
*****

It didn't quite happen that way. The top editor spots went to the best students in the journalism program. I certainly wan't that. But I was a loyal student of Ehrlich's for all four years of high school.

Everything I needed to learn about journalism, I learned in his class. It wasn't just writing, either. It was about how to take responsibility for what you produce. How to handle pissing off people who don't like what you write. How to completely immerse in yourself in a story and beat. What to do when you can't contact any of your sources. And, most importantly, how to deal with petty squabbles with shithead, know-it-all editors.

(The first time, but certainly not the last, I truly wanted an editor to die a fiery death came my sophomore year. Like many disaffected teens, I fell into the world of alternative music. One of my favorite bands of the era was The Lemonheads. They had released "Come On Feel The Lemonheads" which I reviewed glowingly for the paper. Our section's Entertainment editor -- an incredibly dorky immigrant from India who wore Mickey Mouse sweatpants. At the end of my review, she for some reason thought it was a good idea to write the following: "You should buy this album. It might just spit you in the eye!" She also added her by-line to my article for that one line submission. She later became one of 11 foreign-born girls from my class to achieve the status of valedictorian.)

I wrote a lot for the high school paper, most of it entertainment writing or bizarre first-person stuff. But I did learn how to write news (interviewing US Senator Frank Lautenberg when he came to our high school to trump The Brady Bill) and human interest pieces. But I, not-so-secretly, always coveted a spot on our high school TV news. I was never selected for a slot, due to my poor grades.

This decided my choice of major in college. I was a Communication major, specializing in TV/Radio/Film Production. I worked mostly at the TV station, editing sports pieces, and had a few radio shows at our decrepid radio station. Also, I was a lot more interested in drinking massive amounts of alcohol and smashing things that didn't belong to me. I didn't write much for the paper, just enough album reviews to qualify for the newspaper formal at the end of the year, one of the premier events on the La Salle social calender. Plus, I didn't really like the staff of our paper, filled largely with students from the honors program, most of whom artfully raised their hand to answer questions in class and had the fashion sense of TV's Blossom.

I learned the hard way (par for the course) that I hated Communication as a major. I had a particularly brutal TV Production class, where the final project was for our class to write and produce our own 30-minute TV show. I'll spare you the details, except we'll leave it to say I was referred to as "Little Hitler" by one of my classmates, a fraternity member I had nailed trying to plagarize old David Letterman bits for our project that he tried to pass as his own, and as a result more than a few of my classmates wanted to kick my ass.

I did have journalism classes in college. These were largely the biggest waste of time imaginable. Everything possibly taught in a journalism class I learned my freshman year in high school.

This steered me away from the thought of working in TV for a living. And then I graduated, armed with a 2.7 GPA, no marketable job skills and tens of thousands of dollars in student loan debt.
*****

I eventually moved back in with my parents, after a tenure working at a supermarket, followed by a job selling makeup at a woman's cosmetics store. My dad is incredibly sensible, to the point where it's annoying. The first thing he did every day when he arrived home from work was to ask me how many resumes I sent out that day. The answer was usually "none, but I drafted Vladimir Guerrero in the first round of my ninth fantasy baseball draft of the season." But eventually, I started getting them in the mail.

I noticed in the back of our local paper that a lot of local newspapers were hiring for reporters. I sent my resume to a few of them. And, somehow, I landed two job interviews.

(This shocked me at the time, as I had no writing clips. Or experience. Or much of anything except a pathetic resume. But later on, I figured out how I landed the interviews. This was 1999, when there were still some remnants of the dot.com economy left. I had a few friends who, right after graduating, ended up working at some computer network thing doing about 10 minutes of work a day for about $35,000. These jobs don't exist anymore, meaning there is a lot more competition for a slot at a small, weekly newspaper.)

My first interview was for the paper in Montclair, where I used to purchase both comic books and punk rock albums. I met the editor, Mark -- a middle-aged guy who came off incredibly intimidating and pretentious. He interviewed me and asked if I had any writing samples. I told him I didn't. He then gave me an assignemt to write for his review, about a new shop opening downtown, and a bunch of phone numbers to call. I did just that and in about two hours I handed him a 400-word article. He told me he would talk to me if he had any interest.

Two days later, I had another interview, this time in Ridgewood up in Bergen County. I met Ellen, a woman in her 50's who was the editor of the paper. She explained to me the duties, asked me the standard interview questions, and then gave me a paper filled with paragraphs randomly picked apart from a news story. She told me to re-arrange the paragraphs and then to also critique the story. I did just that. She looked it over for a few minutes. And then she came back outside.

"If you're interested, I'd like to offer you a position here at The Ridgewood News."

I accepted on the spot. I literally ran out of the office towards my car. I was now a reporter.

(Mark did call me the next day. He offered me a position on his staff, also. I turned him down, since I already accepted the Ridgewood job. In a few years, Mark would once again come to play a hand in the direction of my career.)

Newsroom Confidential -- Preamble

2008-01-08T17:31:00.001-08:00

If you've read my blog for a while, or you know me at all, then you know of my obsessesion with THE WIRE. THE WIRE is a show on HBO that is, without question, the greatest to have ever aired in the medium of television.

This season, The Wire's grander theme is focusing on the newsroom of The Baltimore Sun. This naturally made me happy, having spent many years as a newspaper reporter. I'm also kind of back in the business. A trade publication recently hired yours truly. I am once again a professional journalist.

This has naturally made me think about my days as a reporter. I started off at the bottom rung of the industry and, despite many attempts at sabotaging my own career, ended up realizing my dream and making it to a daily newspaper. Then I realized it wasn't what I wanted anymore and quit the business. But, honestly, it's not anything you can ever quit. No matter what I do, I'll always consider myself a reporter at heart.

Here are my stories of working in a newsroom.

If you're a journo reading this, and you feel like contributing, you can e-mail me at gregg_gethard@yahoo.com and I'll post what you want.

Thanks!

The 99

2008-01-04T20:41:00.000-08:00

The 99

A significant percentage of a journalist's day is spent on hold. Over the years in newsrooms, I was exposed to a lot of soft rock. It's an understudied hazard of the industry. The only way to cope is to joke around with your fellow reporters about what you must endure while on hold.

One of my favorite co-workers of all-time was Suzanne. We were desk neighbors at the newspaper in Plymouth. And I would frequently serenade her with whatever adult contemporary hit was playing in my ear while I was waiting to talk to somebody who didn't want to talk to me.

One day, I was covering the hard-hitting story of how The 99 Restaurant was coming to Plymouth. I called their corporate office for confirmation. I was immediately put on hold and this time was subjected to their own theme song, played on a repeating loop. It used a lot of synth guitar and was sung in the style of a middle round AmIdol reject.

"99! You'll always like it! 99! You'll always get what you want! 99!"

I started to sing this to Suzanne. Usually, she enjoyed my acapella stylings. This day, she largely ignored me until she abruptly left the desk in anger.

Later that day, I found out why. The night before, she broke up with her then-boyfriend. At a 99.

Woops.

Amtrak: America's Vaguely Depressing Form Of Travel

2008-01-01T22:13:00.000-08:00

The cold stares of people running away from haunting secrets. Staff workers who look like they are plotting to throw scalding acid in your eyes. An Andropov-era color scheme. The distant smell of urine.

This past holiday season, I had my first experience riding on Amtrak. The wife and I were staying with my parents in Lake George, NY. Lake George is a lovely vacation town which is almost completely closed down in the winter months. Thus, we decided to go visit Montreal (about 200 miles away) for a few days.

I also discovered the AMTRAK ADIRONDACK, a line transporting passengers from New York City to Montreal, with a few stops located close to where we were staying. I figured this would definitely beat driving in Canada in the winter.

In retrospect, I should have been scared off from taking the train trip while using the absolutely awful AMTRAK website, apparently designed by the same people who created "Summer Games" for the old Commodore 64.

We decided to leave from the station in Ticonderoga, NY as it was $40 cheaper than leaving from Glens Falls. In my experience, train stations usually are bustling places filled with commuters. Not Ticonderoga! Here, the train station is literally a little booth set up in the middle of the woods, a perfect place to commit a sex offense.

I struggled with the luggage once we climbed on board. The AMTRAK employee snickered and walked past me. We took our seats. The train ride itself wasn't so bad, even though it left an hour late and for some reason our train moved at a speed of about four miles-per-hour. I eventually got hungry and went to the cafe car, where I learned that they can't break more than a $20.

The train was mildly irritating, and then we hit the Canadian border. Here, we had to go through customs. Canadian customs officials (who are, oddly enough, extremely physically attractive) asked us some basic questions about our trip. Then they went to the cafe car. All of the passengers were told to sit until we could depart.

This took four hours. Not once did any AMTRAK officials make an announcement as to what was going on. In fact, no AMTRAK officials even walked into the passenger cars to discuss what was happening. At the three hour mark, I walked to the cafe car to snoop around. Here, an AMTRAK worker leapt up from his seat and told me to immediately go and sit down. Behind him, a Canadian customs official was counting -- I kid you not -- sugar packets.

We eventually made it to Montreal, which is a fantastic city. The train ride back sucked but was inconsequential. AMTRAK is so dreadful and dreary, I'm tempted to take a trip across country in a sleeping car.

My New Year's Resolution

2008-01-01T09:48:00.000-08:00

In the year 2008, I hope I can learn how to trust again.

2007-12-29T21:06:00.000-08:00

The girl in the dining hall

2007-09-24T11:51:00.000-07:00

We went to DC this weekend. On Sunday, Mrs. G and myself went to lunch with our two friends at a dining hall on the campus of American University, where they went to college.

Across the dining hall from us was a group of four nerdy girls, the type of girls who don't even realize that they have a vagina yet.

On the way out of the cafeteria, I approached one girl -- big black afro, pale, ghostlike skin -- and confessed something to her.

"Hi there we had an English class together last year boy oh wow was that class hard or what I think you look really nice and seem like a nice person and I really like you a lot okay bye."

I was staring at the floor the entire time. Then I gently walked away as I heard this table gasp and then giggle.

These Pretzels Are Making Me Thirsty

2007-09-10T17:11:00.000-07:00

My old boss, Dr. W., was a perfectly fine person to work for. However, this did not change the fact that she is a woman in her 50's and I only know about Chico's and Talbot's in passing.

This generational gap was no more evident than one afternoon a few months ago. My boss and I had to walk from our building to another on campus to drop off some boxes. I am usually fine walking in complete silence with someone I have nothing in common with. Dr. W, however, is the opposite. She feels the need to fill in empty space with empty conversation. And that lead to the following exchange:

DR. W: "So, Gregg, do you ever watch Seinfeld?"
GREGG: "Yes. I've seen Seinfeld."
(We walk for about 45 seconds.)
Dr. W: "These pretzels are making me thirsty!"

We then continued to walk in silence for the next five minutes.

The World According To Jim

2007-09-07T12:41:00.001-07:00

ABC has renewed The World According To Jim for another season.

Everyone who watches this show should be euthanized.

Pacific Northwest Lumberjack Tour: Day 1 and 2

2007-07-04T20:45:00.001-07:00

Ilana and I are on vacation in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Here is what has happened so far:

1) Our plane ride in was mildly stressful but ultimately not so bad. We sat next to a teenager who was originally born in Eritrea (African outpost located north of Ethiopia) but grew up and lives in Sweden and was making his first trip to America. He was going to Seattle to visit with his family and also participate in a longboard (long skateboard) competition. We talked with him the last half of the trip.

The trip, even more than this week's current issue of the Economist, really served to prove to me how insanely dominant America is culturally. This kid spoke fluent English, he looked like any ratty teenage skateboarder, he talked with us at length about "Supersize Me" and was well versed in American indie rock, probably because Sweden's music is their own unique take on American indie rock. It's such a big world but it's a lot smaller for us Americans.

2) After flying into Sea-Tec, we drove up nearly two hours to the town of Anacortes. Anacortes is right next to the Pacific/Pugent Sount so we took a ferry to Friday's Harbor, the big town/vacation spot in the San Juan Islands. This is one of the coolest places I've ever been in my life. Water, mountains, evergrees, seals, ice cream, whales, etc. (We didn't see whales, but were told they were there. But we did see a seal.) It's totally relaxing and nice here.

3) Took less than one hour to hear Pearl Jam on a rock station. Today, saw a motorcyclist who was BLASTING Temple of the Dog.

The Bathroom Attendant At Chickie And Pete's

2007-06-28T08:51:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law stayed with us for a few days this week. She had never been to Philly before, so we took her to as many unique Philly attractions as possible. Last night, our dinner took us to Chickie and Pete's. (The one in South Philly, not either of their two NE Philly locations.)

Chickie and Pete's is a divey sports bar/restaurant focusing on crab fries, crabs and mussels. It's the type of place where they give you water in a plastic cup and you have to ask your server for utensils which are, naturally, plastic. I thoroughly enjoy the Chickie and Pete's experience -- any restaurant that sells a T-Shirt that reads "Got Crabs?" or sells giant 6-foot towers of domestic beer is fine by me.

Before we left, I had to go to the bathroom. I walked into the bathroom and a man in the Chickie and Pete's "Got Crabs" T-Shirt was resting against the sink. We made eye contact and he gave me a head nod. This was awful enough when I looked around the bathroom and saw near the sink bottles of Listerine, breath mints, and other acoutrements.

This is when it hit me.

He is a bathroom attendant.

At Chickie and Pete's.

I was thinking about this man's job as I started to urinate. How many times in a given evening does he hear the urine stream of a stranger? What are his mornings like? How does he answer the question "What do you do for a living?" He probably answers "I work at Chickie and Pete's." But then how does he respond to "Oh, are you a waiter?" Does he then clarify that he hangs out in the bathroom all night?

I was done urinating and I washed my hands. (Something that is required when a man is staring at you.)

"Hey man, what does Shalo mean? On your shirt?"

I was wearing a goofy T-Shirt I bought at a comic book convention a few years ago featuring the image of "Shalomman," an Israeli anti-Palestinian superhero.

"Oh, it's Shalom. It's Hebrew."

"Oh, aight. I feel you."

He then handed me a paper towel.

I only had a $10 bill. It didn't look like he had any change, so I didn't tip him.

Chris Benoit

2007-06-27T07:26:00.000-07:00

Chris Benoit wasn't my favorite professional wrestler, but anyone who knew anything about the sport knew he was absolutely awesome. Most hardcore wrestling dorks consider him to have been the best wrestler in the world, some would even say of all time. Plus, in every interview ever done by him "out-of-character," he seemed like a good guy.

There is absolutely nothing anymore that can shock me with professional wrestling. The Benoit murders didn't faze me in the least. The "wrestlers who die young" list is so fucking insane, and the amount of wrestlers whom appear outright insane is nearly as long. If I were to see a headline tomorrow that read "Hulk Hogan Joins Al-Qaeda," I would not even bat an eye.

The only industry more fucked up than professional wrestling is West African diamond milling. Anyone who watches pro wrestling on television can tell how brutal and demeaning it can be. But away from the cameras, there are hundreds of non-televised matches. The wrestlers are on the road constantly, getting beat up. There's only a handful of guys at any time who aren't completely replaceable with one of the thousands of indy wrestlers out there, so the only way to keep the income flowing is by constantly performing, the only way to constantly perform is to pop dozens of Vicadin or other painkillers at a time, and the only way to get the chance to perform is to look like a superhuman freak from years of steroid abuse.

This is all disgusting enough, but making it all revolting is the WWE's business structure. They're considered as independent contractors. The WWE doesn't give them health insurance. (But office workers in the company do.) Even though they have to travel all over the world for their job, they have to pay the travel costs out of their own pockets. There's no vacation time.

Even sadder, not too many of them have the strength to step away from the "fame" of being a pro wrestler. It's completely delusional -- they aren't actually famous, but to a few nerds (such as myself) and a bunch of socially retarded people, they're next to gods. These guys are broken down wrecks physically and emotionally.

It all makes me feel like I probably won't watch wrestling for a really long time, probably ever again.

610 WIP: America's Most Introspective Sports Radio Station

2007-06-25T08:00:00.000-07:00

I have been addicted to sports radio ever since I have been a pre-teen. I wish I knew why this was, since sports radio is arguably the lowest form of human communication. I've spent hours driving in my car listen to an overweight failed sportswriter get into arguments with stimulant-addicted unemployables about Peyton Manning's legacy.

I guess I do this for the sublime moments in sports radio, such as when a caller opined on the Kobe Bryant rape allegation: "You know, sometimes when you're with a girl you just can't say no anymore, like you're past the point of no return and she wants you to stop but you just can't" only to have the host agree with his statement until after a commercial break when he came back and "clarified" his remarks. Or who in the WFAN radio market does not enjoy it when Jerone from Manhattan calls up and talks about his mother's dialysis treatments?

But this weekend, I heard the greatest conversation in sports radio history.

The WIP 610 weekend overnight show hosted by Paul "Jolly" Jolowitz is usually a night of drunks and scoial reprobates calling to yell about Phillies manager Charlie Manuel while host Paul Jolowitz argues with them with the skill of the "alternate" of a failing public high school's debate team. It's a lot like an episode of the Real World -- it's amsuing for a few minutes, then it gets depressing, and then you have to stop caring before you think about investing in a cyanide pill.

In his pre-amble on Saturday night, Jolly told the audience that he did not want to discuss sports this night. Instead, he asked his audience to answer the question "Who fascinates you the most in this world?" Jolly said the audience could also guess who HIS was, since it was someone they probably would not expect.

The first caller calls up and is asked to guess Jolly's most fascinating person. He asks for a hint. Jolly tells him he is successful in all walks of life, but most notably business. The caller immediately answers "Warren Buffett." Jolly pauses. "The first caller got it right. That NEVER happens. But isn't Warren Buffett fascinating? He's the second richest man in the country!"

Another caller said that he thought that Bono was the most fascinating person in the world, because he'll have a concert and u2 will be done playing a song and then he'll stop to talk to the audience about African debt relief. They chatted about that for a while and then Jolly asked the caller how fascinating he thought Warren Buffett was. The caller didn't know who he was.

There was a huge break between callers. Jolly said he guessed it was because his audience felt challenged, but in this day of technology -- what, with the iPod's and the Internet and everything -- people no longer thought about people. It was very introspective.

Another caller said he thought John McCain was the most fascinating person in the world. Then Jolly asked him who he thought was the second most fascinating.

"I... you know, this isn't a question you ponder all the time."

"How about Warren Buffett? How fascinating do you find him?"
**********

The next night, Jolly returned to talking about sports. His subject was the upcoming NBA Draft. I decided to chime in.

"I think the Sixers are in a good position, Jolly, with all their draft picks. But they have to be careful with them. Let me use a metaphor. In 1978, my father purchased a rare, jewel-encrusted Faberge egg for $2,000. Today, that same Faberge egg costs $48,000."

"What are you talking about?"

"You have to look at the draft like a growth stock. I think the Sixers should go after Jared Jordan from Marist."

Jolly then hung up on me and called me a moron.

Economics, Zimbabwe and Me

2007-06-23T00:34:00.000-07:00

I know my blog is usually just very goofy, but the very first efforts I undertook in this project were actually economics and international relations based. For those who don't know, I have a MA in European Studies where I largely focused on studying economics, poli sci and the international relations. My thesis was on Russia using Gazprom and its natural resources as a foreign policy tool and how it affected the emerging new EU states of Eastern Europe.

I kind of shut my brain down from studying those issues the past year. I wanted to shift away after I finished my thesis, I had some distance from my past life as a journalist, I started a new academic program in fraud investigation and forensic accounting, and I started to devote a lot of my spare time to my comedy projects.

But the past few weeks, I've once again reclaimed an interest in the world of macroeconomics and politics. The main reason is because I had nothing to read at lunch and the campus bookstore actually sold The Economist that week.

This blog was a great tool for when I was in school because it was a release from the seriousness of my schoolwork. Not that I was in this demanding, rigorous program or anything like that. But I did work hard and I spent a lot of time writing and researching. Getting away from that to write about poop, getting farted on, relationships gone awry and the usual chaos of my social life was a great escape. But now that I spend a lot of time seriously thinking about writing comedy, I'm going to shift in a new direction. I love the people I perform with to death -- they've seriously been, aside from my wife and brother, the best friends I've had this year. But it is a group dynamic and there are stressful situations which emerge. I think I need a diversion from my hobby, so maybe my blog is going to enter a new phase where I'll talk about "serious" issues which I haven't talked or written about in a long time. I'll try not to be boring about it and who knows, maybe I can actually somehow put something together like P.J. O'Rourke, who is a master at taking serious (and boring) topics and somehow mining them for comedy gold.
-------------------------------

Now that's out of the way, I want to link to a story I'm absolutely obsessed with the past two days. GUARDIAN This is The Guardian. I'm more center-right/libertarian so The Guardian isn't usually my cup of tea, but they still have great international coverage. Yesterday, their main story was on a prediction made by the US Ambassador to Zimbabwe, who said that he estimates, conservatively, that the inflation rate in Zimbabwe will approach 1,000,000% this coming year.

This number is fucking incredible to think about. Prices across the whole consumer index in Zimbabwe will rise by 1,000,000% in one year. To put that in perspective, imagine if the American inflation measures were 100% in one year and doubled, how much of a fucking burden that would be on everything in your life. Gas would be $6 a gallon. A new car would be out of question. Orange Juice would be about $8 a carton.
The American Fed freaks out if our inflation measures go over 3% for a year and fiddles with the interest rate constantly to prevent that from happening.

The article gives all of this great information about how this affects life in Zimbabwe. The currency is worthless and the Mugabe government is doing its best to keep foreign currency from entering the nation. As a result, the economy is essentially now a barter economy.

My favorite passage: "Hyperinflation is spreading poverty, as even basic goods become unaffordable. Supermarket trollies lie idle as few can afford to buy more than a handful of goods. Government regulations only permit the withdrawals from banks of Z$1.5m a day, which is not enough to buy a week's worth of groceries. Golfers pay for drinks before they set off on their round, because the price will have gone up by the time they have finished the 18th hole. One Zimbabwean was recently told by a pension company that it would no longer send him statements as his fund was worth less than the price of a stamp."

As fascinating as this is to watch, this is just absolutely brutal for the Zimbabwe nation, which already have had to endure an insane amount of hardships directly related to government misrule. The one positive from this is that no government has ever been able to withstand this kind of hyperinflation, it's probably only a matter of weeks before the Mugabe regime crumbles and hopefully, the UN or the US/UK get involved quickly to prevent the country from spiraling into a civil war in the inevitable power vaccum.

Update

2007-06-23T00:27:00.001-07:00

Hey everyone. Sorry for the lack of posts recently. I wish there was a reason for this but there really isn't any. I usually write on here while I'm at work. I'm a little busier at work but not much so.

When I first started this little experiment, I tried to come up with a story a day to write for the hell of it. This blog really took my life in an interesting new direction. If I didn't start to write these silly things down (or without my brother), I wouldn't be able to read and perform a story at the UCB Theater in New York, which got the ball rolling for me down here. One year ago, I never would have guessed that I would be a writer and an actor in a sketch comedy group, or that I'd have hosted my own comedy nights, or that I'd have done any of this stuff.

Most of my creative energies are focused towards The Sixth Borough and other related gigs. But I've put this down as a result, and that's not something that I want to do, either. Luckily, we're moving quickly towards our second show. There isn't too much writing to do for it, just a lot of rehearsing and fine tuning.

So it's time to start re-focusing on this. This, afterall, is what got the ball rolling for me. In otherwords...

I'm back, baby.

Poop Night, NYC

2007-04-30T09:19:00.000-07:00

Dave Praeger and I share at least one thing in common, and that's a love of a great poop story.

Praeger, in fact, has authored POOP CULTURE, a book about poop's impact on culture, among many other topics. I was fortunate enough to read some of an advance of the book and it is completely up my (and your) alley -- an intellectual approach about the topic with some tongue-in-cheek, so it's smart, worthy AND also maintains a sense of humor.

On May 8, Praeger is hosting a night of POOP STORIES at the Galapagos Art Center in Brooklyn, NY. I am on this panel, along with a few other comics. So come on out!

We're also putting the finishing touches on a Philadelphia version of this event. I'll let everyone know about that when we get everything cemented.

But MAY 8, Galapagos Art Center, come on out NYC to listen to me talk about poop.

I Hate New York

2007-04-23T12:56:00.000-07:00

A lot of people are befuddled as to the choice of where I live. Philadelphia is the nation's new murder capital, our civil services and local government is rotted out to the core, urban blight is plentiful, our sports teams are usually awful and people are pathologically obsessed with them and people speak in the worst accent ever heard on this planet.

But the reason I live here is because it sure beats New York.

I went up to NYC for my friend's bachelor party this weekend. It was fun and my friend had a great time. We went to The Glass Slipper (I think?) which is some burlesque house in the Lower East Side.

I ordered two shots of Jamison's. Cost? $20. Also, I had to sit behind four separate people getting at least nine lemon drops each. Most of the people getting these orders were dudes. One of the dudes getting a lemon drop asked to purchase a bottle of Absolute Citron from the bartender.

Seriously, I don't think a person has ever ordered a lemon drop at any bar ever in Philadelphia.

Important Man

2007-04-17T08:03:00.000-07:00

This was made by folks from The Sixth Borough, the comedy group I'm in. It's great!

The New House

2007-04-05T07:25:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone. We closed on the house on Friday. I spent the next two days rolling up carpet, digging up tackboard and getting rid of carpentry staples while my lovely wife painted, painted, and painted. Then we spent a lot of time moving crap from the apartment to the house. Luckily, we had enough money to get moves to move the furniture for us because if we didn't, we'd never get anything done.

Homeownership is so stressful. Every night, I lay down and just have a running checklist in my brain of things that have to get done -- replacing the molding in the back bedroom, buying a new mattress, fixing up the basement, etc. It's overwhelming. Then something strange will happen -- the furnace will make a noise or the toilet will run for no reason and thena bruptly stop -- and I have mild panic attacks where things like "Oh crap, how do I fix a hot water heater?" run through my head. It's worth it, though.

The one thing that, so far, has made it worth it more than anything else has been the move from cable to Direct TV. This was done solely so we can get the Extra Innings baseball package (aka "heaven") but the whole thing is waaaaaaay better than Comcast. (Even though something like "urinary tract cysts" is also better than Comcast.) The guy from Direct TV came, installed the dish and equipment, and away we went. I needed to call them for something yesterday, I got a woman on the phone in about one minute and she handled our issue in about 45 seconds. Pretty easy.

Verizon, on the other hand, is really starting to get Comcastic in their awful customer service issues.

Happy 100th Murder Philadelphia!

2007-03-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

We're at 99 and counting! Being that tonight is Friday and the weather is really nice, I'm guessing we get to 103 sometime around 2:15 a.m. tonight. Way to go everyone! It takes a true team effort to have that many people killed before the end of March.

BEDTIME STORIES

2007-03-27T14:02:00.000-07:00

The next edition of BEDTIME STORIES AT THE SHUBIN is this Wednesday evening.

MARCH 28
SHUBIN THEATER (4th and Bainbridge)
8 p.m. $5

This month's theme is PARTIES. Everyone has been to a party. (Or if you haven't, that's a good story.) Some parties are good. Some parties are bad. Sometimes, stupid things happen at parties that must be recorded for all of eternity. Share your party stories!

I have the panel for the first half of the show set. But the second half is an OPEN MIC NIGHT! As long as it's about parties! Our first installment, POOP STORIES, was one of the most insane, best nights I've ever had. Absolutely hilarious. This will be even better!

We will also have cake, alcohol and door prizes!

BE THERE!

The Sixth Borough

2007-03-25T10:38:00.000-07:00

EDIT: I'm rewriting this from its original post, if you saw this before. I wrote this after the show Saturday night, where I drank nearly 1/4th of a bottle of Sapphire gin straight. This resulted in me using the word "ridiculous" 98 times.

My head is spinning from this weekend's events.

In January, I signed up to take a sketch comedy writing class at this new theater in South Philadelphia that opened up and started hosting some comedy shows. The guy hosting the event was a former writer for Saturday Night Live. I wasn't sure if this thing was going to be any good, but I at least thought it would be interesting and potentially socially awkward and uncomfortable

Well, the class wasn't just good, it was great. And from there, a bunch of people in our class started e-mailing each other sketches. And then one girl from the class (Tabitha) was incredibly motivated and got as many people as she knew who were interested in doing a sketch comedy project together.

I never acted in my life. I never tried out for any plays or musicals. The only acting experience I have is limited to A) doing "Darryl: The Life And Times Of Darryl Strawberry" for my stoner friends in college and B) that ridiculous acting class available in the May archives. Any comedy writing that I've done has been limited to stuff I've put up on my blog and then performing a few (like six) times in NYC or in Philly.

I was leary to join a sketch comedy group, but after our first night together I was really happy that I did this. If you're a big baseball nerd like I am, you know that there are two schools of thought about the cliched word of "chemistry." People who are stats-oriented sabermatricians deny that "chemisty" can alter the outcome of a baseball game. Traditionalists believe that "chemistry" does indeed exist and help teams win games. I usually believe in the first -- that teams win baseball games by having the best baseball players.

Sketch comedy is completely different then a sport, naturally. But my experience the past few weeks has led me to rethink the entire concept of social chemistry.

It's pretty inane to just click with a group of strangers as well as we did -- the last time this happened to me was probably the first weekend in college, when I ended up in a dorm room in Neumann Hall with a group of degenerate weirdos who called themselves "The Crack Den," the entire group of whom I still consider to be my best friends to this day.

(In our sketch group, all of us have all of these weird connections with each other, which might explain how we connected so well. My friend Pat in the group went to college with this girl Sara I'm friends with. Tabitha and Emily both worked at Eastern State Prison with my friend Fran. Melody knows my brother really well. And Jason grew up with an ex-girlfriend of mine. I described us as the sketch comedy version of Lost.)

So we worked our asses off, writing sketches, rehearsing sketches, rewriting sketches and then eventually coming up with a completed project. None of us (to my knowledge) had any tangible experience perfecting a comedy show before. And, to be honest, my nerves were wracked from this because I didn't think I was any good.

We had two shows, one on Friday and one on Saturday. We also had no idea what to expect crowd-wise. The general consensus it that it would be limited to friends and family of everyone in the show, with 30-40 people at each show, with everyone politely telling us how good we were afterwards even though several skits had little-to-no laughter.

Friday, right before showtime, someone looked outside. Connie's Ric-Rac (this new theater that opened up at the Italian Market in South Philly that is quickly becoming the best venue for outsider music/theater/comedy in the city) was PACKED. It was Standing Room Only. We guessed that about 90 people came on out -- way more than any of us expected.

I have no idea as to how this is possible. Our publicity was limited to flyers, MySpace, e-mails, a sketch we performed at another comedy night in town and one listing in an alt-weekly. We spent no money on advertising, since we had no money to spend for anything. Backstage, we were all nervous wrecks to see if the first bit (which was really risky and the bit we rehearsed the least) worked.

Well, it killed. The crowd got super into it and by the end all of us would have fought at Iwo Jima we were so pumped. Rehearsals were difficult, especially for me since I'm naturally unsure of myself to begin with and have no experience doing these things. We'd just rehearse these bits in front of just each other and there is no way to determine if an audience will find this funny or not. Our dress rehearsal before the show, we all felt really good coming out of it. But none of us expected this.

I know I had all kinds of energy for my scenes -- I wasn't worried about flubbing a line or if I was going to look stupid or not. It was like this for everyone -- we just flew through these scenes, hit all of our lines and had these amazing reactions from the crowd. Afterwards, people gave us this huge ovation and we were like... WTF? It seriously felt like we were Van Halen circa 1984. We were debating whether or not to do an encore, but we had absolutely nothing planned or rehearsed. Who could have expected it?

Saturday night was even crazier. We were expecting the Saturday show to be our big show, with maybe 50 people coming. We had at least 120 come on out. People were sitting in the aisles, behind the bar, out near the street.Our second show was even better, because we knew it worked from start to finish so we could just really go with it.

After the show ended, I met up with my friend Sara from high school. She was the star of all the plays in high school, lives down here now and is part of The Waitstaff, which is probably Philly's most professional and best sketch group. (To my knowledge, I haven't seen everyone, but I've seen them a bunch of times and they're tremendous.) She told us how good she thought we were, etc. And then she said that being funny on stage is the best adrenaline rush a person can have.

It's completely true. I was backstage when we performed one of the sketches I originally wrote. At one point, a line was said by one of the characters that reveals the premise of the sketch and the place went nuts. I had goosebumps from that moment, something I'm always going to remember.

So we're not sure what the next step is going to be yet. Another run of this show? New sketches? Who knows. All I know is that it's not every weekend that about 200 people somehow find out about your little experiment in South Philadelphia and laugh at something you helped create.

No time to relax though -- this Wednesday is BEDTIME STORIES, the night I host at the Shubin Theater. This is where I did POOP STORIES last week. Hope to see you there.

Thanks everyone!

My favorite You Tube Clip of the Day

2007-03-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

If that works, you should be seeing make-up wearing KISS on the Jerry Lewis Telethon in 1979 as they take the fight to Muscular Dystrophy.

The Most Pathetic Mix CD of All Time

2007-03-22T08:35:00.000-07:00

Hey there. If you've been reading my blog, or if you actually know me, you know that I'm more than just a tad pathetic at times. My most pathetic moments came before I met my now-wife, when I was in the dire search for a girlfriend. I was always very clingy and gapingly lonely in my hunt for female companionship, which meant that I put every girl I had a thing for on a pedastal that no person could possibly live up to. I was a stalker with a Smiths soundtrack.

High Fidelity is one of my favorite books and movies (and I'm trying my damndest to not sound like a cliched 20-something, but you can only go so far) because it's so fucking relatable. It's like an auto-biography or something. One of my favorite things to do in pursuit of the opposite sex was to make a mix tape. I did this before I saw the movie and I did it many times after.

I've been with Ilana for over four years now. The mix CD's I've made since then have had a different take to it (including a mix CD we made for our wedding present.) So I've come up with a challenge.

I want to make a 12-song mix CD from a slightly more exaggerated version of my 22-year-old self. The loneliest, saddest, most desperate songs put on a CD in hopes to impress a girl I met at the Willowbrook Mall food court or something.

Give me your suggestions for this CD!

Here are some early sketches:

1. "God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys: The best pop song ever written. But in terms of giving this to a girl on a First Date Mix Tape, I couldn't think of anything more psychotic.

I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I'll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I'd be without you
If you should ever leave me
Though life would still go on, believe me
The world could show nothing to me
So what good would living do me?
God only knows what I'd be without you
God only knows what I'd be without you

2. "Silly Girl" by The Descendents: One of the all-time best punk bands, the first punk band to really capture teenage suburban heartbreak in all its angst and agony. This is a pretty perfect song for the pathetic 22-year-old music geek/socially awkward maniac. This is a pretty perfect song for the occassion -- the boy only hears the "I'm in love with you" line in the verse, but the girl would hear the clinginess and pleading involved. (Thanks George!)

Started on a summer Sunday
Your pink dress on the setting sun
You were going to Grandma's house, I was too scared to come

My silly girl, I'm beggin you
Tell me all the things that I want to hear
My silly girl, I'm in love with you

3. "Across The Sea" by Weezer: The definitely awkward pining song, perfect for the guy who thinks a girl is the answer to all his problems. It maquerades itself as a sweet, timeless anthem but is all about uncalled for possessiveness.

As if I could live on words and dreams and a million screams
Oh how I need a hand in mine, to feel

Why are you so far away from me?
Why are you so far away from me?

4. "Sweet Thing" by Van Morrison: Another timeless pop song, but completely misguided and inappropriate for the First Date situation. Also lets the girl recieving the tape know that the guy giving it already knows where she lives.

Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
My, my, my, my, my sweet thing
And I shall drive my chariot
Down your streets and cry
'Hey, it's me, I'm dynamite
And I don't know why'
And you shall take me strongly
In your arms again
And I will not remember
That I even felt the pain.

5. "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel I think this is the perfect song for this situation. The big song in "Say Anything" where John Cusack holds up the boom box to try and win back Diane Court. The first time anyone in the history of the world was emo. Naturally, the guy in this situation would think this is the best movie ever made. And the girl in this situation would like this movie, too, but would certainly not want some dude holding up a boom box outside of her house.

6. "Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me" by The Smiths Arguably the most pathetic song by the most pathetic songwriter who ever lived. The video down below is exactly the kind of thing I'm looking for right now.

7. "The First Cut Is The Deepest" by Cat Stevens 1. If all you've heard is the Sheryl Crow abortion of this song, you're missing out. The original (and a few other cover versions) are terrific. 2. Being that I established that I met this girl at a mall food court, I'd imagine the Sheryl Crow version has come on the radio. And I make a snarky comment about the song and how much I love the original. She's never heard it. Perfect mix tape material. 3. Whenever I was fixating on a girl I just met whom I had a first date planned with, I usually just assumed that I already messed something up (or would soon.) So this is a pre-emptive apology. 4. I'd spend the entire date depressingly talking about Stacy, the girl who broke my heard 3 summers earlier when we worked at Chuck E. Cheese.

8. "Love Song" by The Cure
whenever I'm alone with you you make me feel
like i am home again whenever i'm alone with
you you make me feel like i am whole again

whenever i'm alone with you you make me feel
like i am young again whenever i'm alone with
you you make me feel like i am fun again

however far away i will always love you however
long i stay i will always love you whatever
words i say i will always love you i will always
love you

whenever i'm alone with you you make me feel
like i am free again whenever i'm alone with
you you make me feel like i am clean again

however far away i will always love you however
long i stay i will always love you whatever
words i say i will always love you i will always
love you

9. "Everywhere I Go" by The Muffs Criminally underrated garage/punk band fronted by a girl. I always like to put a girl fronted band on a mix tape for a girl. This is really good because it's another song that sounds day dreamy but this one is written from the perspective of a girl being stalked by a loser.

It's not what I can see
It's not what I can hear
It doesn't trouble me
But still it's around

You know what I'm thinking
And when I'm celebrating
I feel your eyes on me
But I can't see you

You understand I'm not afraid
Of your complete devotion now
But if it ever gets out of hand
I'll bring you down

Everywhere I go you're there
Everywhere I go you're there
Everywhere I go you're there
Can't you see you're driving me insane?

10. "You Are The Everything" by REM Another song waaaay too deep in romantic sentiment for a first date. Title's pretty explanatory.

11. "Paper Lanters" by Green Day After a bunch of slower songs, time to break out a rock song. This is still my favorite Green Day song. It sounds kind of sweet and sentimental at first but is actually about a guy pining for an ex-flame. You think I could get over the girl from the art school who wouldn't return my phone calls that quickly?

Now I rest my head from
Such an endless dreary time
A time of hopes and happiness
That had you on my mind
Those days are gone and now it seems
As if I'll get some rest
But now and then I'll see you again
And it puts my heart to the test

So when are all my troubles going to end?
I'm understanding now that
We are only friends
To this day I'm asking why
I still think about you

12. "Am I Wrong" by Love Spit Love The dude from the Psychadellic Furs' post-Furs project. This is the song that starts the movie Angus. Really great, delicate power-pop song. The chorus is perfect for a pathetic mix tape.

Goodbye, lay the blame on love. (Repeat a bunch of times.)

Two Upcoming Comedy Shows

2007-03-21T09:41:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone. I've got two upcoming comedy gigs coming up.

1) THE SIXTH BOROUGH. This is a sketch comedy thing I've been working on since January. Think of it as watching a live taping of Saturday Night Live. Only actually funny. You'll also get to see me partially naked and cross-gendered!
FRI., MARCH 23
SAT., MARCH 24 (Both shows are the same show, so don't think you have to go to both. Or any.)
$8
Connie's Ric Rac, 9th and Ellsworth (Right smack dab in the Italian Market.)

2) BEDTIME STORIES AT THE SHUBIN. This is my own comedy night! Each month, I have a selected theme and a group of panelists to talk about said theme. Then, afterwards, the floor opens up to the general public to share stories about this theme.

This month's theme is PARTIES. Listen to funny stories about parties! Tell one yourself! Then celebrate as we have a birthday party for my lovely wife Ilana! Door prizes, BEER, cake and more! Last month's event was seriously one of the most fun nights I've ever had in my life. And you know my nickname of Mr. Fun Pants!

WHERE: Shubin Theater, 4th and Bainbridge (right near South St.)
WHEN: Wed., March 28. 8 p.m.
$5

Thanks everyone!

My Mom Enjoys Bathroom Grafitti

2007-03-20T07:56:00.000-07:00

As I stated a few days ago, my parents are a post-modern Ward and June Cleaver. My mom is very tiny, under five feet tall, and was mostly a housewife when I was growing up. She's also unfaillingly polite and never curses. If there was one rule that me and Chris knew absolutely never to break, it was the rule banning foul language in the house.

Comically, Chris enjoys sidestepping this rule. He always says things like "What the f" and "F this s" in the house, using the letters in place of the actual curse word, which drives my mom up a wall in frustration.

I've often wondered exactly how it is that I've grown up to be the way I am, since my family is like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. But every now and then, my mom says or does something that confirms that I am indeed the product of my parents seed and loin.

We used to vacation nearly every summer at Lake George, a timeless vacation destination in New York's Adirondacks. Our family was eating dinner one evening when my mom went to use the facilities. On her way back, she was cackling ilke a mad woman.

"I just saw the funniest bathroom grafitti," my mom said. "There was an eye drawn over the keyhole and underneath it someone wrote 'I saw you take that shit. Now put it back where it came from.'"

Honestly, what did I do in a previous life to lead the one I lead today?

2007-03-17T06:44:00.000-07:00

So, I have a class that meets on Saturday once a month. And all day Friday and into the wee hours of the morning, Philadelphia and its surrounding area was hit with one of the worst storms I can remember. It didn't have blizzard like snow, because that would be a bit normal. Instead, we were hit non-stop with ice and sleet. There's a few inches of just pure frozen substance on the ground.

Last night, class members and our professor were negotiating what to do because this weather is so retarded. Our professor was coming in from Harrisburg, which is like two hours west of here. He said he would call us if the school cancelled class.

My alarm wakes me up at 8. No phone call. I then confirm on my school's website that classes will be held as regularly scheduled.

I knew this was a bad day when I stepped outside and actually slid to my car. The ground is so solid with ice that it doesn't even crack underneath my body weight. It's completely, 100% solid. I reached my car and put my textbook on top of it so I could open the door. My textbook flew off the top of my car without any assistance from the wind. It slid off and then slid down our driveway even further.

I managed to clear off the car and went down our driveway, which is used by everyone on our side of the street. I zigzagged down the driveway and made it out to our road. At the end of our block, I became completely stuck. I almost got out but soon my wheels were just spinning.

I got out of my car to see if I had something in the trunk which could provide assistance -- a few years back, when my car was stuck, I diug out a copy of The Rock's autobiography and stuck it under the wheel of one of my tires and got out scott free. I put my key in the trunk and turn.

CRRICCCK.

That's the noise that is made when a key snaps in the lock of your car door.

I traipsed back home, hoping that I had an extra copy of the key made. But I knew what the answer to that was already.

My car is now stuck in the middle of an intersection at a block, where at any given second it can be totalled. A helpful red and white rag is attached to the car antennae, at the suggestion of a local Philadelphia Park Ranger (don't ask), which will mean that when my car gets sideswiped in a few hours that there will be a red and white rag amongst the wreckage.

Dad Rage

2007-03-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

I don't think I've really written too much about my parents on this thing. This is largely for two reasons: a) my parents are pretty awesome people who are pretty much the Ward and June Cleaver of their era and b) I didn't want them to know I was writing a blog, but my brother ratted me out to my mom after a certain "unintentionally caused highly public incident" we had with an athlete.

This tale is one about my dad. My dad, as stated before, is just awesome. He's a walking cliche about "putting his kids first" -- he'd do (and has done) absolutely anything for us, he's the hardest working human being alive and has managed to get two master's degrees (and currently going for his doctorate) and advanced really far up in his industry while not once missing a Little League baseball game, middle school orchestra concert or high school journalism awards night in his parental life.

My dad is consistently a very nice, straightforward guy who is completely easygoing.

But beneath all of this is a hidden, explosive rage that is absolutely terrifying to watch unfold on the rare occassions that it does.

Usually, this rage unmasks itself when one of his asshole kids does something completely stupid -- it usually came out the four times a year in high school when I got a report card (usually weeks late due to unpaid library book finds) which had nothing but D's and one C-.

Those days, I'd be forced awake by my mom who was already warning me of what awaited me. Then I'd go downstairs and for 30 minutes I'd be met with my dad sitting on his chair, looking at me like how a lion eyes up a wildebeast in a Nature Channel show, and then would just unleash on me.

"JESUSFUCKINGCHRISTWHATTHEFUCKISWRONGWITHYOUYOUFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITFUCKYOUFJLK:SFJ!!!!"

Keep in mind that my dad is also incredibly large. He's 6'3"/6'4" and weighs about 250 pounds. So on top of his towering rage is this pure physical intimidation from a man who has the build of your average NFL linebacker.

My dad's anger is usually managed by his choice of movies. His favorite two actors are Jean-Claude Van Damme and Steven Segal and he proudly boasts of owning the entire Under Seige series on DVD. He's constantly asked why he loves these movies, considering that he's a really intelligent guy who should know better. His answer is consistent: "Because they get to do what I dream of doing all day long."

One day, my dad was able to live out his dream of swift martial arts justice. I was about seven when all of this happened. (And I swear to you, all of this happened exactly as I am about to tell you. I admit to the people who've been with me since this thing started that I tend to embellish a little here and there. But honestly, this story is probably the most ridiculous sounding but it is absolutely accurate.)

At the time, my parents lived in an average house with a postage stamp front law. This was the first house they ever owned and they took a lot of pride in owning this and were really into home improvement. One of my dad's biggest accomplishments was installing, on his own, a vinyl door in the front.

One night, when we were all home, we were shocked when there was all this loud noises out front -- banging, glass breaking, etc. A group of teenage hooligans had come up our street and did a lot of petty vandalism to the houses in the neighborhood. Eggs, smashing a car window and they dented my dad's beloved vinyl door with a series of kicks. Now, it was easy for my dad to undent the vinyl door but it was still messed up looking and dissapointing to my dad, who became outraged.

The next night, the same exact teenagers came down the street and did the same exact thing to the block, including attacking our vinyl door. And this happened for a third night. Phone calls to the police did not stop this from happening. The police kind of brushed this aside and said there was nothing that could be done about this. And all of this just completely made my dad lose it.

On night four, my dad decided to take action. My dad put on an all black outfit, including a black knit ski cap. After assembling this outfit, he then went outside and lay in wait by hiding in our bushes. The entire time my dad was assembling his outfit and laying in the dirt, my mom was trying to talk some sense in to him. (My mom is nothing if not sensible and an eternal voice of reason.) She was pleading for him to come inside, to not do anything. But my dad continue to wait and wait and wait. About two hours elapsed, and then after about the 98th time my mom yelled at my dad, my old man came inside.

About three minutes elapsed when we hear WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP. The teenagers came and were trashing the block again. This sent my dad apoplectic. He sidestepped my screaming mom and stormed up the block in his outfit.

The kids had a bit of a head start and were going to Colgate Field, two blocks away, the customary home for down-the-hill beer fests. The kids (your textbook mulleted/jean-jacketed 80's burnouts) were up on the hill where all of a sudden they see this maniac clad in black come storming at them. They all started hightailing it, screaming and running at this incredibly large man filled with rage.

They were about to get away when my dad jumped and managed to shoestring tackle one kid to the ground. Then he leapt to his feet and hovered over the 15-year-old kid.

"You... motherfuckers... have... fucked... up... my door... every night... this week."

The kid started frantically apologizing.

"You... touch... my door... one more time... I... will... find you... and crush... your arm... with a lead pipe..."

The kid was now completely freaked out and was now crying and begging. My favorite part of this is the exactness of the threat -- it's not a random thing like "I will kill you." Or something generic like "crush your skull" or "beat the shit out of you." No. It was "crush your arm with a lead pipe." The specificity of this is what made it real -- I mean, you don't say that without actually thinking it through first.

My dad let the kid go and then walked home where he told us, very calmly, about this conversation. And not calmly like serial killer calm. Calm like how he was for 99.9% of his life. Like this was something he saw on an episode of Barney Miller.

But wouldn't you know it? The next day, two kids and their parents approached my dad and offered to pay for any needed repairs to the door.

My dad's dream came true.

The Mediocre School

2007-03-13T11:20:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I recieved a phone call from a very upset nursing student in a panic. She missed one of her clinical rotations. This is a huge deal and can result in termination of the program. She said she wasn't sure of the date. I asked if she had her syllabus. This drew a blank. There was a pause in the conversation.

"Man, if I knew it was going to be this hard here, I would have just gone to a real mediocre college."

The student is now sitting right near me today, talking to someone about her son who repeatedly sets fires in both the home and school.

Where You Been?

2007-03-10T20:27:00.000-08:00

* We bought a house about a month ago. So there's been all kinds of related nuisnances/turmoil/drama with that. Nothing too serious, except for a lot of negotiations and trying to come up with the down payment, etc. But every day there's something new with it. I find myself having conversations like "Yeah, that's a great armoire" or "that shade of blue will be great in the back bedroom." And these TLC shows are now much watching.

* I also am in the process of looking for a new job. It looks pretty good. I don't want to give any details about this for fear of violating some sort of anti-blogging policy. But I can say this: I hope to become in charge of security and asset protection for a big department store. You may ask yourself how the fuck this has happened in my life. I do myself. The pay is great and one of the job requirements asked of me was "Do you have the ability to secretly listen in on conversations of people as they plot shoplifting attempts?" Do I ever!

* In addition, I am in a sketch comedy group. Our show is on March 23/24. I'll plug this later on. It has been a retarded amount of fun. A few months ago, I took a sketch comedy class that I thought was going to be awful. It was the exact opposite of this and I kept in touch with a few of my classmates. We decided to take our sketch comedy class, write more sketches and now perform them. We rehearse a few times a week and it's a lot of work. but a bunch of fun.

If I have learned one thing about myself in this group, it's this: I am the worst actor in the history of the world. I am pitiful. So it's great.

* More later, particularly about the great trip I took a few weeks ago that the legendary undiscovered comic genius FROG requested that I write about via MySpace. Will do, son. Will do.

Long Distance Callers Make Long Distance Calls

2007-03-01T07:57:00.000-08:00

The usual doubt about your first college roommate was doubled through me. I had talked to my roommate on the phone twice before the movie in date. His name was Richard and before moving to Philadelphia the year before he lived in Ghana.

"You like girls man," he asked me about 15 seconds into our first phone call. I confirmed that I did, and that was pretty much all I understood the rest of the conversation due to the thickness of his West African accent.

Even though I was a pretty smart and well-read kid, I had no idea what to expect living with an African would be like. I was sure there would be no sacrificed animals or anything like that in the room. But being that I was going to a Catholic college, I had a feat that this kid was going to have been recently converted by a missionary, which meant that I'd be innundated with both slogans and pamphlets until I gave my soul to Jesus.

What I got was a normal kid who wore jeans, listened to Shaggy and Naughty By Nature and played a lot of video games. I liked Richard a lot, even though he sometimes got (justifiably) mad at me since I was a big slob and he wanted to keep the room pretty neat.

His friend Bernard, however, was a dick.

Bernard was from Kenya and attended some fancy-pants boarding school in New England. His dad had some sort of diplomatic job of dubious background which changed depending upon whom was in the room and needed to be impressed. But Bernard, and this will shock absolutely no one, fancied himself as an extra in a Dr. Dre video and tried to act like this hardcore street thug.

Bernard was constantly in my room with Richard, where he would watch "Charles In Charge" reruns and different music shows on BET. I largely ignored him, just casually walking by his room and giving him a "hey, what's up" before going about my business.

One night, I was in my room and decided to call my parents up in Jersey. To use long distance, we had to use an access number which was on a card provided by AT&T. I called and the line was busy. This made no sense to me, since my family was incredibly wealthy and had call waiting. I tried a few more times and kept on getting a busy signal. I figured there was a problem with the account, so I called AT&T.

There, I was told my account was closed as there were $632 in charges that were unpaid.

This sounded pretty insane since I stopped calling 1-900 party lines way earlier. I asked them for a detail of the charges.

I had apparently made over 75 calls to Kenya, Tanzania, South Africa and a few other nations which I don't even think exist anymore.

"Who the fuck called Africa using my phone card," I asked the operator.

And that's when Bernard started laughing harder than he ever did at one of Buddy's zany adventures. I started screaming at Bernard about him doing that to me and taking my shit. He started to blame me because I left my card out on my desk which anyone could have used. I called him a thief and he threatened to beat me up (which he could have done.)

I ended up not having to pay for any of the phone calls. But I learned an important lesson that night. Don't keep personal items on your desk if you don't want privlidged, thuggish Kenyans to call home on your dime.

UCB Theater

2007-02-25T18:17:00.000-08:00

Hey ya'll, I'm doing something at the UCB Thetear again at the one year anniversary of the fantastic NIGHTS OF OUR LIVES show my brother does. Come on out!

NIGHTS OF OUR LIVES
UCB THEATER
26th St., Chelsea, NY NY.
9:30 p.m. on WEDNESDAY!

My debut at this night was the time that I realized that I really wanted to do comedy as a hobby. It definitely got my ass in gear. From there, I started doing things here in Philly and started meeting some cool folks. And now I'm in a sketch comedy group AND am also hosting my own rip-off of Nights of Our Lives down here. Pretty kooky turn of events.

Come on out everyone!

POOP STORIES

2007-02-14T09:57:00.000-08:00

I'm hosting a night in Philly of people telling their favorite poop stories.

WED FEB. 21
SHUBIN THEATER (4th and Bainbridge)
8 p.m.
$5.

Spread the word!
gregg_gethard@yahoo.com if you have any questions or you want to participate.

White Tuesday

2007-02-13T21:20:00.000-08:00

My night class was cancelled tonight and we got sent home from work early from the snow/ice story which hit Philly today. We weren't supposed to get hit with much, but by the afternoon we already got a few inches of snow which was supposed to continue through the night. It brought to mind one of the scarier days of my high school years. (And maybe, if my friends George, Jeff or Josh read this they can put in their own testimonials if they remember it.)

As I've said countless times, West Orange is located on a hill. The high school was located on top of the hill. Half the town lived on the bottom of the hill, meaning we rode buses to school. To get up the hill, one had to drive up one of three primary roads: Northfield Avenue, Mt. Pleasant Avenue or Eagle Rock Avenue. These roads are rather steep for New Jersey, and at the apex of all three one can get a skyline view of Manhattan. Accidents galore happen on all three of these roads (and I-280, which also cuts through town.) By far, the most treacherous is Eagle Rock Avenue, which I lived right off of. Eagle Rock was probably the busiest road in town, and it also winds and twists in a series of "S" shaped curves. It's a thoroughly insane road.

The storm which rolled into town was supposed to come that Tuesday evening. But it started snowing earlier and heavier than predicted. The snow was so bad, officials decided to close the school down a few hours earlier than the usual 12:30 close time. The announcement was made over the loudspeaker and everyone celebrated and left.

We went outside to the bus line only to find... there were no school buses in sight for those of us who lived down-the-hill. None of them could make it up any of the aforementioned streets. We were ushered back inside and told to wait patiently for the buses to arrive.

We waited. And waited. And waited. Periodically, an announcement was made over the loudspeaker for us to remain in a classroom, that the buses would arrive shortly. Soon, the official end of school passed. We kept on waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Before the traditional end-of-the-day came, a Lord of the Flies type of situation was devolving in our school. There was no school, but we were forced to be in it. Kids walked around in large groups and just did whatever they wanted -- knocking over garbage cans, vandalizing anything in sight, trying to start fights, etc. Just an ugly atmosphere (that I probably contributed in by doing some petty vandalism myself.) The teachers started to leave as quickly as they could. The cafeteria was closed so there was no food. It was just as awful a situation as you could think -- being stuck at school, surrounded largely by troublemakers, with absolutely no clue when you could get home.

Eventually, I met up with my friends Kris and George, both of whom lived in my neighborhood. George's mom was working as a substitute teacher at the grammar school across the street. George found out she was still stuck at work so we beelined out of our school -- the best bet for our safety -- and found her, as she had to wait for her elementary school kids to get picked up.

We had to wait for hours, and we raided their small boxes of raising and boxed apple juice for nourishment. And then finally we could leave.

We left at 6, abot 6 hours after school was supposed to come to an end. It took us an hour to get home, when the trip would usually last about 5-10 minutes. Kids from the school were just leaving in droves to walk home in the snowstorm, down the steep hill in really awful weather. George's mom got stuck a few times driving and we had to get out and push.

Just another crazy day in West Orange.

The Worst Movie I Have Ever Seen In A Theater

2007-02-13T19:25:00.000-08:00

Stealing this from MY BROTHER.

5. I AM SAM -- Sean Penn plays a retarded guy who fucks a homeless woman and becomes a father. I am supposed to believe that he is capable of steering a child through childhood, despite his glaring mental handicap, all because he loves Beatles songs. I am also supposed to believe Sean Penn is the greatest actor who has ever lived, since he chooses "challenging" roles and transparently throws himself into these characters and guns for awards and Oscars every step of the way. Diane Wiest is completely hatable as the braindead do-gooder next door. Awful, awful, awful. (Making matters worst, I was supposed to see Gosford Park but the theater mislabelled the movie. I could have gotten a free ticket but chose to see this crap.)

4. PAY IT FORWARD -- I debated at times watching this Lifetime dreck whether or not to jab a straw through my eye socket. Haley Joel Osment should only stick to playing foster children diagnosed with AIDS on Walker, Texas Ranger.

3. MEET THE FRIEDMANS -- Technically an actually very well-done documentary. But I still hoped to get struck by lightning due to the creepiness and sliminess of this thing. I showered for hours afterwards.

2. COYOTE UGLY -- An abortion from the beginning. A cross-promotional advertisement designed to get teenage girls to act like whores at chain bars. Complete with a hit soundtrack. Just brutal.

1. LITTLE MAN -- A CGI midget pretends to be a baby who rapes the woman caring for him for one weekend.

My brother's #1 pick of Black Knight did not make the list, although I sat next to him while watching it. Just did this to be a bit of a contrarian, I think I need to Netflix it to see how brutal it is again.

Upcoming Comedy Gigs

2007-02-13T06:56:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone. I've been working on a really awesome new project the past few weeks. And it's about to see the light of day. What is this, you ask?

It is called The Sixth Borough, and it is a sketch comedy troupe that I have joined. And we'll be doing our first sketch ever in public next week.

DIE ACTOR DIE
MONDAY, FEB. 19
THE KHYBER
55 S. 2nd St. Philly. (Like you don't know.)
8:30 p.m.

Die Actor Die is, in my not-so-humble opinion, the best comedy night in Philly. It's a real loose affair. Stand-up, storytelling, bands, sketch comedy, etc. It's a whole lot of everything thrown together. So even if we suck it will still be a good time.

But that's not all!

The Sixth Borough will be having its first two official shows on March 23 and 24 at Connie's Ric Rac on 9th St. between Washington and Federal in the Italian Market. I don't think we have a time booked yet.

Our gimmick is simple. Our sketches all revolve around life in Philadelphia.

Working on this show has been a blast so far. I can't believe that I'm actually going to, gulp, act on a stage in front of people and everything. I also wrote a few skits that we're doing. I'm totally excited for all of this.

G-Regg

The French Connection

2007-02-11T21:54:00.000-08:00

How is it that I have gone 29 years as both a film nerd and as a geek for nearly all police procedural things without watching The French Connection until now?

Damn, what an awesome movie. Gene Hackman's character is great. The self-destructive obsessive cop is my favorite archtype and Doyle is the best one yet. Even better than Jimmy McNulty on The Wire, which shocks even me that I would say something that damning.

I'm going to try to get in a car chase that awesome tomorrow.

Watch The Knights Of Prosperity Tonight

2007-02-07T11:27:00.000-08:00

Hey, that's the show with Donald Logue where it's about a group of losers who decide to rob Mick Jagger. People *LOVE* that show. I haven't gotten a chance to watch it yet, but people say it's kinda like Arrested Development meets My Name Is Earl.

Anyways, my brother has a decent sized role on it tonight. Watch it! ABC, 8:30.

Cans Up: A Political Movement

2007-02-06T08:37:00.000-08:00

In recent months, an emphsasis has been placed on the detrimental impact that climate change and global warming can have on our environment. Politicians and legislators are coming up with ways to fight the effects that global warming will cause.

I have one question for people concerned about this issue: don't you realize how fucking cold it is outside?

I mean, seriously, it's six degrees today in Philadelphia. SIX DEGREES. This meants that we're just a few ticks away from not having any temperature at all. The city is literally jailing people who usually sleep outside.

And we want to reverse this? Seriously?

Not me. I am now officially launching the CANS UP pro-global warming movement. For one hour a day, I will spray an aerosol can in hopes to cause irreversible environmental harm. Because, seriously, that's a lot better than having a normal weather pattern where it's like this all winter long.

Won't you join me?

Moon Unit Zappa's Wikipedia Hilariousness

2007-02-04T23:01:00.000-08:00

NEVER FORGET!

This was inspired by my brother's last blog entry, about his hatred of some turd who was on the last episode of Real World: Denver. In this entry, my brother references how he hates this person even more than he hates Ahmet Zappa.

I, too, hate the Zappa progeny. This led me to the wiki for Moon Unit Zapa which led me to the following entry, which is absolutely classic.

She is the author of the novel America, the Beautiful, which was published by Touchstone on September 11, 2001 (ISBN 0-7432-1383-1). The semi-autobiographical novel features a protagonist named "America Throne" and was overshadowed by the events of 9/11.

Out of all of the tragedies which fell on that day of infamy, this is the greatest. Never forget.

Snow Tubing

2007-02-04T10:03:00.000-08:00

I went yesterday w/ The Wife on a class trip she was chaperoning to the Bear Mountain Ski Resort, the closest ski resort to Philly. It's probably about an hour away.

The thought of me skiing or snowboarding was one that was certainly unentertainable. But this ski resort also has a "snow tubing" course which looked right up my alley.

Snow tubing is a simple concept. You get a tube, get brought up a hill on a conveyor belt, and then you ride down a hill at an uncontrollably fast speed while laying face down on your tube.

Now, the half-lit teenagers who are the supervisors of the snow tubing facility were mumbling something about "using for feet as breaks." I thought this was short for "using your feet for breaks is a sign that you're a major pussy." I went down this entire course without using my feet as a break once. The hill has a few different incline/plateus on it and on both the second and third plateau, I literally flew threw the air. I mean, on the third plateau, I was a few feet above the ground and has absolutely no control over what direction my body was headed in.

I just assumed that when you got to the bottom of the hill, there'd be enough ground to come to a total stop. Well, wek now what happens when I assume anything. I slowly started coming to the end of the course, indicated by giant bundles of hay and a blue plastic fence. These were getting closer and closer, and I was not slowing down at all. Finally, I realized that, fuck, I was going to go crashing into this shit.

Right when that thought reached my brain, one of the teenagers in charge of this operation came to the same conclusion and screamed out "Holy shit."

I then went crashing into the fence and hay. my face directly hit this fence but I guess I got my hands up enough because I didn't get a cut or scrape on me. I do, however, have a series of bruises on the right side of my body, with major sore points at my knee, hip, ribs and elbow.

Of course, I went down the hill about nine more times. No more accidents, however.

ALSO:
* I had the oddest run in ever at this place, literally bumping into my friend Jason from freshman year of college before he went to Evergreen, that hippie/indie rocker school in Olympia. We've kept in touch since then. He lives in Brooklyn now, so finding him at this place was completely odd. We got lunch, caught up and babblebabble.

* I also nearly got into a fight with a pre-teen. We were inside the ski-lodge when this little brat came up to me with a little cream container in his mouth. He said "Watch this" and then smashed the cream container in his mouth. Then this kid started tormenting this grown woman.

"Yeaaaaaaah! Yeaaaaaaaah! I bet you can't do nothin' like that! Yeaaaaaaaaah!"

This woman looked at this kid like she wanted to beat him. Then he turned to me.

"Yo, man. You ski or snowboard?" I told him I do neither. "Ohhh, one of those, huh?" and he made a limp-wrist gesture. I then told him that was funny and helt my arm out like I was going to give him a fist pound. When he obliged, I took my hand away.

"Sorry, man. Can't let you touch me." He then started dancing in front of me going "Yeah man, you're real cool, dude. You can't even snowboard, man."

Then The Wife said to him "Nice snowsuit." He was wearing this ridiculous snowsuit that looked like newspapers.

"Yeah, you're cool. NOT," and then he pranced off.

Dear Ticketmaster

2007-02-02T08:10:00.000-08:00

Even though you have given me an order to do so, I think I will miss Ratdog.

Two Things

2007-02-01T22:44:00.000-08:00

1) I highly suggest that you go to yahoo and type in chiggers and then hit images. The strangest, most bizarre collection of websites pops up. All of the pictures are completely horrifying. It reminds me of "Germany's Most Terrifying Home Movies" from Sprockets.

2) Thinking some more about the Aqua Teen saga... I know a lot of people think that the city/state government in Boston overreacted, and that this is life in Bush's America... but I'd rather have a government that overreacted to a mysterious package that was actually a media prank than a government that underreacted to a media prank that was actually a mysterious package.

And as much as I love the dudes who put these things up... someone needs to get in trouble for this. Because if no one gets in a lot of trouble for this, that's a really bad precedence. A) A lot of dumbasses are going to try the same kinds of things at cities across the country, since they see the free PR these guys got. B) The next time there is a suspicious package placed on a key piece of infrastructure, the first responders who have to go to these things might not be so quick or alert, presuming it'a s joke, and a lot of reaaaaly bad shit could happen. Seriously, why wouldn't some sort of terrorist now make a bomb that looks like SpongeBob or something? Or make like 45 things that looked completely innocent except for the one that is actually a bomb that blows up a corridor Penn Station?

The Boston Globe is reporting that the dude with the dreadlocks asked the marketing company behind all of this what to do when Boston was going under lock down. And the company told him to keep what was going on on the DL and didn't disclose what they did until a few hours after the fact.

Now that makes a lot more sense. The dude who put these up starts freaking out, but he doesn't know what to do.

That also probably explains their attitude at the press conference. Their lawyer, who I initially thought was a dipshit for letting his clients hang themselves in front of a potential jury pool, probably already has someone in the works for these guys and wants them to get some free publicity out of the thing. Punishing those two proves nothing, the real people who should get in trouble are the marketing company/Turner folks who let this thing go on. And the DA knows this and a flip or whatever is only seconds away.

Plus, I doubt those two have any loyalty to the marketing company. I read somewhere (too lazy to look it up) that they only got paid $300 for all of this. My loyalty couldn't even be bought for that much.

I just hope there's a way these guys could get a few more TV appearances.

I just want to talk about hair care

2007-02-01T12:10:00.000-08:00

AQUA TEEN PRESS CONFERENCE

This is the full version of the thoroughly insane and brilliant press conference by the two art students who got arrested for the whole Aqua Teen Hunger Force Bomb Scare which pretty much shut down Boston yesterday.

Their remarks are pretty awesome, talking non-stop about hair care of previous decades. All while their attorney stands next to them. These guys are allright by me.

While I appreciate anyone who creates a public spectacle of this magnitude, that lawyer should get disbarred. I mean, these dudes are facing a shitload of serious FELONY charges. As it stands now, they're eventually going to have to stand before a trial jury. A jury made up of people who got stuck in a shitload of traffic because of a stupid marketing ploy gone awry. Doing an Andy Kaufmann stunt to this same audience isn't the best legal strategy I've ever heard of. I mean, it's hilarious to me and probably you. But probably not to my mom and dad. But it's not my life and/or freedom at risk, so I'll just sit back and enjoy. I hope they have some more media appearances.

The Best Soundtracks From The Most Anonymous Movies of the 1990's

2007-01-31T12:54:00.000-08:00

1. Angus
I feel bad saying Angus is an anonymous 90's movie, because it's actually a hidden minor classic which pops up on TNT here and there. It's a cross between an After School Special and Freaks and Geeks. The lead character is Angus, an overweight dorky kid in 8th grade who is into science and is picked on by the jocks (despite being the best offensive lineman). Kathy Bates plays his mom and does not get naked. James Vanderbeek plays the lead asshole douchebag kid and is the anti-Dawson. The big climactic dance scene prominently features "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star, the alt-rock nerd slow song du jour of the time period.

That song is not on the soundtrack. But what is on the soundtrack: the best Green Day song ("J.A.R."), two of the five best Ash songs ("Jack Names The Planets," "Kung Fu"), a very solid Dance Hall Crashers song, a freaking RIVERDALES song, the 2nd best Weezer b-side ("You Gave Your Love To Me Softly," first best is "Jamie" which is on the DGC Rarities comp), the second best Muffs song ("Funny Face," first best is "Everywhere I Go"), two solid entries by Tilt and Pansy Division and it ends with "Was I Wrong" by Love Spit Love, which was the Psychadelic Furs with a lineup change, and is one of the best little-recalled singles of the decade (and should be on par with The La's.)

Seriously, Angus is like a mix tape I'd make when I was 20 for whatever girl I stalked at the time.

Fuck, this is probably the best album I own.

2. Meet The Deedles/Scream 2
I have no idea what the fuck Meet The Deedles is about. I think maybe something with extreme sports? Scream 2 is the sequel to Scream. I didn't see either of those, but I have seen all three chapters of Cruel Intentions. But these soundtracks stand out for two elusive but stand-out Weezer b-sides/side projects. "American Girls" by Homie is some sort of Weezer/Soul Coughing combination and is one my favorite power-pop songs. It's kind of like Rivers listened to a lot of Ben Folds and said "yeah, let me try this out for that soundtrack for the extreme sports comedy the record company is making me do." It's just as good as anything on the first three Weezer albums (and I maintain The Green Album, save for "Crab", is just as great as the first two Weezer albums.)
"Rivers" by Sugar Ray is on the Scream 2 soundtrack. Mark McGrath decided to write an homage song to Rivers Cuomo and had Sugar Ray do a Weezer-type power-pop song and... fuck, he pulled it off. But is this surprising, considering that Sugar Ray was the best bubblegum singles band of their era? (Just fucking admit it already. You know every word to all of their radio hits.)
Aside from those two stand-outs, one could make a pretty decent ska-punk mix tape out of the rest of the material on the albums. Scream 2 does have an unfortunate Dave Matthews song, hence the lack of a picture.

3. The Judgment Night Soundtrack

I saw this movie one time once on HBO. It's dreadful and is some sort of dreck about Emilio Estevez<>

Comedy Night Hijinks

2007-01-29T07:14:00.000-08:00

Thanks to everyone who came out to the Shubin on Saturday night.

For those of you not in attendance who are curious as to what happened, here is a rundown. I read three stories. The first story I read was the story I read at UCB and posted on here a while back, which details in brutal honesty about how my then-girlfriend accidentally farted on my face the first time I ever "went downtown."

There is now a new chapter to that story.

Apparently a homeless guy (the dude who opens the door for folks at the Wawa at 2nd and South) was in the theater when I was recounting this tale. After this story was completed, he got up and left, getting into a discussion with Greg, the guy who booked the show. Here is what transpired:

HOMELESS GUY: "Yeah, that was tight, man. I got off to it. Real nice."
DUDE WHO PUT ON THE SHOW: "Good. Glad you liked it."
HOMELESS GUY: "Yeah. Let me ask you, you do anything with live actors?"
DUDE WHO PUT ON THE SHOW: "Yeah, uhm, it's an improv show, so we have actors doing live stuff all the rest of the night."
HOMELESS GUY: "No, I mean do they do any live sex on stage?"

So, now my story is used for this man's personal gratification. This is absolutely horrifying, but also pretty awesome.

Tag! I'm It! 5 Things You Don't Know About Me Probably

2007-01-25T21:05:00.000-08:00

These tag things are making the rounds of the world of NYC comedy and has now made its way to me via my brother. Naturally, you can read what we wrote about each other here: http://www.gethardbrothers.blogspot.com

But now I have to reveal 5 things about myself. Here goes:

1. I'm a registered Republican.
Some of you probably do know this about me, but most people who don't know me so well just assume that I'm a lefty because I have good taste in music, movies and books. And the fact that I have, at times of my life, tried to lead uprisings against various authority figures. And I was a journalist. But nuh-uh, this isn't true. I usually vote conservative/Republican, although I did vote for Nader in 2000 and I'm throwing up thinking about how I voted for Bush last go around.
And I hate the far, Christian right just as much as Jon Stewart tells you to. I just don't think a big federal government is capable of enacting social change as much as individuals or smaller, more local and direct governments can. I blame it on reading P.J. O'Rourke at an impressionable age. And from reading Milton Friedman later on.

2. I hate professional football.
I am an American male in his late-20's who is obsessed with sports. I have spent 28 years thinking I loved the NFL. But I can't lie to myself anymore. I started to wane last year and this year I came to the conclusion that the NFL is the most boring fucking thing on earth. I plan on watching a lot more of Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl that I do the Super Bowl. I would rather watch handicapped 'Nam vets play indoor wiffleball than a NFL game. Except for the Pats/Colts last week. What a thriller.

3. I was a shockingly decent Little League baseball player.
This was largely due to the fate of having a December birthday, which allowed me to play against kids much, much younger than me. Like my brother's age. But I was a very solid pull hitter with occassional power and a very fundamentally sound fielder. I once even threw out a kid trying to score from the outfield. I also got to pitch in a few games when I was on a really good team, where I threw a slow curve/knuckleball hybrid I dubbed "The Slurve." This was all for naught once I switched to an all 8th-grade team. I fucking sucked and quit the team in the middle of the season. But the last few times I went to a batting cage, I hit some ropes and regained some of my lost dignity. Some.

4. I am woefully blind in my right eye.
With both eyes open and unimpeded, I have excellent vision. But if I just look at things with my right eye alone, then I'm transformed into a tall, gangly, version of (enter in the name of famous blind black R&B singer here.) This is because I was born with a lazy eye that was corrected in 2nd grade, when I wore a patch over my left eye for the entire year. My eye no longer wandered around (thank fucking god) but still had really shitty vision. An eye doctor wanted me to wear a patch over my eye again when I was a freshman in high school. I would rather (enter in a form of graphic and degrading physical torture here.)

5. I love Sugar Ray.
And Blink 182. I had to come clean.

Someone else do this, also.

Comedy Night Correction

2007-01-24T21:34:00.000-08:00

The show starts at 8. Not 7. I am scheduled to get on at 9. But these things tend not to have the absolute tightest of schedules. There will also be beer. And you can bring some, too. If enough folks are interested, I'll buy a case for everyone.

Comedy Night

2007-01-24T13:26:00.000-08:00

Shubin Theater
4th and Bainbridge, Philadelphia. (Just south of South St.)
7 p.m.
This Saturday night.
$5

Bring a friend!

Jason Williams

2007-01-15T21:52:00.000-08:00

Up watching the Heat/Lakers game on TNT. As great as Dwyane Wade is and as spectacular as Kobe has been this season (which I begrudgingly admit), the guy who really stood out tonight way Jason Williams.

Not because he did anything special. Because he didn't. But it just got me thinking... what the fuck happened to this guy?

I mean, he was never really that good. But... damn, he was the most off-the-charts fun player in the league when he burst upon the scene on the Kings. I know he took too many horseshit shots and threw the ball away a bunch of times. And I know he has a ring. But I wish he wasn't neutered.

A primer for people reading this who don't know what the hell I'm talking about: Jason Williams was this relatively unknown point guard who got drafted by the Sacramento Kings, then a bottom feeding NBA team. Williams came out of nowhere and became a walking Sportscenter highlight -- spinning behind the neck passes, 75-foot bounce passes, etc. He was a video game player come to life. I mean, he really wasn't very good. He turned the ball over a lot. His shot sucked. But still... there was never anyone quite like him.

The Kings became a "ohmygodyouhavetoseethem" team in the late 90's, a period of the NBA which was the absolute worst to sit through. The Kings were the most (and only) aesthetically pleasing team in the era. The Kings became a good team because they had Vlade Divac and Chris Weber and Doug Christie, but Jason Williams' style was their signature and was the only interesting thing in basketball in that era. They became an elite team when they traded J-Wil, but... man, I miss them.

I have Gilbert and the Suns and the Nuggets. But it still makes me wonder whenever I watch the Heat, how someone lost all of their personality on a court.

Agent Zero Is My Hero

2007-01-09T21:33:00.000-08:00

"Everyone get drunk and make stupid decisions."

I fall in love quite easily. All it takes is some combination of athletic prowess and personality and I'm yours, forever.

Recent Gregg G. man crushes have included Ryan Howard, Adam Morrison, former La Salle University Mr. Everything Steve Smith, Allen Iverson and pretty much anyone who was on the New York Yankees from 1977-2006.

There's a new person in town, though, and his name is Gilbert Arenas.

For the uninformed, Gilbert Arenas is a guard who plays on the Washington Wizards who is the second leading scorer in the NBA. He's also known for his outrageous quirkiness -- wearing a robe like the one above on opening night, sleeping in an "altitude tent" to gain endurance, sleeping on couches as opposed to beds, throwing his jersey to the home fans every time he plays before them, sponsoring a halo team, screaming the word "hibachi" whenever he takes a shot, screaming the phrase "shot selection" whever he takes a shot, and playing online poker during halftime.

But what cemented my love were his antics this week: a crazy game winning shot, a post-game press conference afterwards where he said "My swag is phenomenal" and then throwing a birthday party where the 7500 people in attendance had to arrive holding an "Arenas Express" card where they were greeted by a giant ice sculpture of the man of the honor, seeing P-Diddy perform, and then having Gilbert Arenas end his big day by proclaiming "Everyone get drunk and make stupid decisions."

Gilbert Arenas: you are fucking amazing in every which way a person can be amazing. Thank you for being you. Your only downfall is that you play in DC and not in the city where I currently reside.

The Answering Machine

2007-01-08T11:35:00.000-08:00

This came to mind after watching The Office last week, where Michael accidentally sends a nud epicture of Jan out to the entire company. Something similar happened to me that I somehow completely forgot about.
****

I had a very boring class my junior year entitled "Women in Literature" which was taught by a professor who, no joke, is an expert in Lesbian Detective Fiction. I have no idea how I ended up in this class, and I don't remember much about it aside from how dreadful Fanny Fern was to grind through and that I didn't really hate Bastard Out Of Carolina as much as I assumed I would. (Anything else assigned in that class went dutifully unread.)

I sat next to Christina and we ended up paired in a group project together. Christina was like 68% of Diane Court from Say Anything -- not quite as pretty, not quite as smart but still very serious about her studies (to the point where she was a RA, one of those live-in students who can get you in trouble for drinking and being noisy) and easy on the eyes. I don't want to say that we were friends, or that I was super into her, but we would talk when we ran into each other on campus and if she suggested making out with me, I'd totally be into the idea.

We were supposed to meet up to go over part of our assignment. Christina called me and left a message on our answering machine about meeting up later on that night. I called Christina back right away. She wasn't in, so I left a message on her machine.

"Hey, Christina, this is Gregg. I was just wondering if you'd be around later tonight for us to finish up the project. Call me back."

I then hung up the phone. This is usually uneventful for most people. I noticed something odd when I had hung up the phone. It didn't quite feel "right." I paid it no mind.

As soon as I got off the phone, my then-roommate Mike asked me who I talked to. I told him. He knew who she was.

"What do you think of her?"

"She's pretty cute," I told him.

"Yeah, I think so... actually, I think she's pretty fucking hot."

"Yeah... she is, actually. She's real feminist, though."

"So? Girls who are all about that usually give the best head."

"I don't know... Christina doesn't seem like she's ever given anyone head."

"Oh, I bet she has man."

At this point, the annoying clang of a busy signal started eminating from the speakers of the phone. And that's when I realized...

I had accidentally put the phone on speaker.

I started to panic -- my voice cracking, my face turning pale. Mike realized what had happened, too... and started laughing right in my face. I thought I was totally screwed -- I participated in a very lewd, pretty offensive conversation about someone I had to do a group project with who I also got along with pretty well. And not only that, she was someone with a bit of authority on campus who also was pretty strongly opinionated about issues regarding the degradation of women. Which, I just unveiled to her was something I at least supported and tolerated, if not outright participated in.

I thought I had several options: 1) Run down to her room and immediately apologize, 2) Call her back and immediately apologize or 3) Avoid all phone calls, leave my apartment and get drunk with friends of mine who were even bigger boneheads.

Eventually, I had to meet Christina. I apologized and she didn't really care about what happened. And, in fact, the next year I was the first person she called when she was looking to score Ritalin.

Hey Lou

2007-01-08T11:34:00.000-08:00

e-mail me your e-mail address. I wanted to post a comment on your blog but it got rejected but it'd probably be better as an e-mail anyways.

gregg_gethard@yahoo.com

Be on the look out for a weight loss commercial

2007-01-08T07:29:00.000-08:00

There was an absolutely fantastic weight loss commercial on during the NFL playoffs.

Dan Marino is the head spokesman for this product. During the commercial, various other professional sports figures -- Don Shula, Sean Sailsbury, other NFL figures -- say real quickly about how much weight they lose. "I lost 18 pounds, Dan!"

Then they show Phillies legend and current Baseball Tonight co-host John Kruk.

"I lost 31 pounds! My wife doesn't find me disgusting anymore!"

I think this is the funniest commercial ever made. A grown man saying "My wife doesn't find me disgusting anymore."

I wish all weight loss commercials would contain this kind of banter.

"I can give my husband an erection again, I'm under 180."
"I don't feel like sitting in the garage with the car turned on after I eat a Hot Pocket anymore."

I wonder how this ranks on John Kruk's personal career moments. How does this public shaming compare with the horrors of testicular cancer? Or the time he got a single, called time out, dusted himself off, grabbed first base, ran out of the stadium and retired.

Back in PHILA

2007-01-02T06:27:00.000-08:00

Got back last night. All is well in the world.

Austin, TX is one incredible city. Awesome place, fun as hell and everyone we met in the city (and the entire state of Texas, including it's not-so-awesome places) was 1,000 times nicer than anyone I've met in the northeast. The DIY spirit in the town was really impressive and inspirational -- Austin is Austin because people there are so into doing shit on their own that it all works. Just an awesome city that I hope I can get back to again some day. Somewhat depressing to come from there and then head back to Philly, which had over 400 murders this year and a whole lot of DJ nights.

Don't Mess With Texas

2006-12-28T21:01:00.000-08:00

* Final verdict on Santa Fe: if you're a wealthy 55-year-old woman with an interest in art collection, than this is the town for you.

* We drove from Santa Fe into Texas. The landscape changes from mountain-ish nothingness to flat nothingness with farms and a few more towns.

* Nothing smells worse than a large beef farm. It smells like ammonia dipped in a tampon held about 10 feet from your nose. A lot of West Texas smells like this.

* Got lunch/dinner in Amarillo, TX. We drove through Amarillo... this place is very visually frightening. The outskirts of town looked like a sprawl suburb place... a big mall, a few strip mall places, townhouse developments. Then the closer one gets to downtown, the shadier it got. Downtown Amarillo had nothing in it except for empty office buildings and bail bonds sales places. Route 66 (the famous road which we've been on a bunch) looks like any other highway strip anywhere else in 1978 America.

* Ate at a place called "Beans'n'Stuff" which was written about in Road Food, this book my brother got for me for our trip. My BBQ stuff was absolutely delicious. Ilana, a strident vegetarian, hasn't been getting along with Texas so much.

* Everyone in the place was staring at us like we were in a people zoo. Real life conversation with another Beans'n'stuff patron who overheard us being from Philly: "You know how we all grow cotton or beef out here? What do ya'll grow in Philadelphia?" I told him it was a city and we didn't grow too much other than the Liberty Bell. Not sure if he got the joke.

* Drove to Lubbock, TX from Amarillo. Two hours of beef farms. That cliche about the sky in Texas being absolutely enormous is 100% true.

* Went to the Texas Tech basketball game. Bobby Knight did not break the all-time coaching record. Kind of dissapointing. I love Bobby Knight. One of my all time favorite personalities. The Texas Tech arena is absolutely beautiful. The fans were really into this game -- definitely on part with the Phillies in September this year.

* Sat next to a middle ages Lubbock couple. Told them about us on the honeymoon, etc. They talked to us about life in Philly, food, etc. All kinds of stuff. At the end of the game, they GAVE US $20! Serious! What the fuck? They just give you money in Texas for no reason? Huh?

More on the Road Trip

2006-12-26T22:32:00.000-08:00

We made the long drive today from the Grand Canyon to Santa Fe. I think the largeness, openness, bleakness and emptiness of America is something that I'm really going to take away from this trip and appreciate a lot more. Out here, there are counties the size of Pennsylvania and they have the total population of my neighborhood growing up.

We stopped in Gallup, NM to grab a quick snack/bathroom break. After doing some research on Gallup tonight, it's apparently one of the crummier towns in the entire SW of America. I didn't get that vibe going through the place -- downtown Gallup didn't have much to it, but it wasn't petrifying to drive through like America's inner city neighborhoods are. Crap, I've been through at least 15 small towns a lot more frightening than Gallup. I don't know if I've ever actually have met any true blue Native Americans in my life. But in Gallup, we were the only caucasoids.

We ended up getting a snack at a Sonic Drive-In. I pooped there. My phone ran out of gas, so I couldn't call my brother from a Sonic, which is a tradition he started a few years back when he was driving back east from LA.

The only things breaking up the New Mexico moonscape is an occassional Indian casino. Then, about 10 miles outside of town, a sign on I-40 reads "Albuquerque: Next 17 Exits" and in the shadow of a large mountain is non-stop sprawl as far as the eye can see. Just everywhere you turn, there are houses and buildings dotting the landscape.

We went to ABQ to see their Old City. Old City is a few blocks of a couple of tourist trap shops and restaurants. The type of place my mom and mother-in-law would love to go to. I didn't just poop here, but had a major IBS outbreak which caused me to get to experience a tourist trap bathroom better than I had planned. From there, we drove to downtown at around 7 p.m. A complete and total ghost town and then eventually found the University of New Mexico neighborhood. This was your typical college neighborhood, except it was lined up along the side of one main strip of road in a series of strip malls.

By all accounts, the entire city of Albuquerque -- the 62nd biggest in America, and one of the fastest growing cities and metropolitan areas in the country, by all accounts I read online -- is just a never ending series of hodgepodge development without much thought being given as to what goes where. But then it hit me... a decent (and possible majority) of American residents live in places like this. The Sun Belt has grown exponentially over the past few decades and all kinds of cities -- from Jacksonville, Florida to Phoenix -- are all built in this same kind of pattern, where things just exploded onto an area which became a city overnight. Mesa, Arizona has more residents than a place like St. Louis or Atlanta and three decades ago it had less residents than my high school. Things like planning and zoning, we really don't appreciate or think about those things and how they shape the lives of where we chose to live. (I only say that from having covered planning board meetings. Especially when I was reporting for the paper in Plymouth, Mass., which despite being one of the oldest established towns on this continent has the growth patterns of a place like Glendale, AZ.)

After Ilana ate a burrito, we made the drive up to Santa Fe, which is where we are now. Downtown Santa Fe is really nice with a lot of high-end shops and restaurants. This is apparently the rich asshole capital of the American Southwest. One of the in-room magazines in our hotel is dedicated to houses for sale in Santa Fe, all of which sell for a few million. But it's still a really walkable place. Didn't get to see too much of anything yet, but it seems like a really nice town, although one that seems a bit pretentious.

See ya'll later.

Road Trip So Far

2006-12-25T19:49:00.000-08:00

* The plane ride over sucked. We left late and hit a lot of turbulence, so much so that I spent the entire flight trying not to vomit. I did manage to read "King Dork" by Frank Portman (the lead singer of the Mr. T Experience) and I give it a solid B+. Then we finally landed where I threw up in a plastic bag. I had no idea what to do in this situation -- do I bring the bag with me, do I leave it there, do I give it to a stewardess? I just threw it under a seat.

* I did not like Las Vegas at first. I don't like gambling (more accurately, I don't like giving my money away and not getting a tangible product or service in return) and my stomach wasn't in the mood to drink a lot of alcohol. We stayed at the Luxor, which has posters of Carrot Top up everywhere. I did gamble $10 on La Salle to cover and $10 for their game against Villanova to go over. Got creamed on the over and the spread was right on the money, thanks largely due to some dubious calls. We ended up seeing the Second City Las Vegas comedy show, which was one of the best things I've ever seen live. Overall, Vegas grew on me and I want to go back for a bachelor party.

* I pooped at the Hoover Dam.

* The drive from Vegas to the Grand Canyon area was breathtaking. It doesn't hit you until you actually drive in a place like the American southwest how big and empty our country is. Especially if you've spent probably 98% of every waking moment in your life in the megapolis between D.C. and Boston. I couldn't believe the landscapes, the barrenness, the never-ending horizon. And this was in a desert and wasn't in a national park. I couldn't imagine how the Grand Canyon was going to look like if this was just throwaway land.

* Had dinner in Flagstaff, Arizona. Flagstaff is one rather cool small city/college town located near the Grand Canyon -- Steve Malkmus is playing there shortly, there's a bunch of cool things downtown, etc.

* The Grand Canyon... there's nothing that can be said about it in our language to accurately describe it. I couldn't believe it was real when I was there. I hope I get another chance to come back at some point in my life. Spending one day at The Grand Canyon isn't nearly enough.

* I also pooped at The Grand Canyon.

Road Trip

2006-12-22T08:59:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone. Me and the missus are flying out today for our honeymoon. We're flying into Vegas and then from there are driving to the Grand Canyon, Santa Fe, Lubbock and then to Austin/San Antonio. It should rule. I've never been to any of these places.

We'll have a camera and a laptop with us, so I'm going to try and put up some stuff when I can.

Also, you may look at the above destinations and say "Lubbock?" There a good reasons for this. 1) Santa Fe to Austin is a far fucking drive. 2) Lubbock is Buddy Holly's hometown. 3) Lubbock is also home to Texas Tech University, and their head basketball coach is Bobby Knight, and we have tickets to see the game against UNLV where he will most likely break the all-time coaching record. I'm trying to see if I can sneak into the press conference after the game somehow just to see the spectacle of it all. And, yes, I did have to fib a little bit to convince my wife to set this into motion.

See ya'll on the flip side.

Doing Stuff: Day 17, A Meetup.com Event for Japanese Rock Afficianados, FINAL CHAPTER

2006-12-18T16:47:00.000-08:00

I admit that I was initially interested in attending the J-Rock meetup.com event for the potential of ridiculousness. My familiarity of Japanese rock music is limited largely to the one time my friends dragged me to see Melt Banana a few years ago. The profiles of the people going to the meeting had a lot of potential -- many said they enjoyed "cosplay," a popular hobby for Japanese teens who enjoy dressing up in elaborate costumes based off of anime or other Japanese pop figures.

The meeting group was scheduled for 2 p.m. at the Starbucks tucked away inside The Phoenix, a mixed-use apartment/office complex located at 16th and Market, right across the street from city hall. I arrived expecting to see a few girls dressed in neon colors and spiky hair and guys who looked like the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers.

Instead, I found Tim, an ordinary looking 18-year-old whose fashion sense combined the comic book shop with a skate rat and Lisa, a Tina Fey-ish 25-year-old dressed in a normal T-shirt and jeans.

The two of them were drinking coffee, sitting on a couch outside the Starbucks, with a big laptop computer in front of them. They told me to sit down next to them, I did. And then we watched Japanese rock videos.

I could probably say a lot about how interesting Japanese rock music is -- how it takes an American art form and transforms it into its own, with a greater importance of a visual aesthetic, how a lot of the stuff sounded exactly like the pop-punk I listened to in high school and college, and how much The Pillows rocked. Tim and Lisa both had dressed up in cosplay before ("because it's what you do at concerts," Lisa said) and both had hundreds of J-Rock MP3's.

And why did the group start?

"Because it's hard to find people who like it," Tim said.

This makes sense -- you can't casually be into something like J-Rock or swordfighting or chasing ghosts. You either embrace it fully or you don't embrace it at all. And if you embrace it fully, it becomes a large part of your life, but it's not something you can easily share with your friends and family. There's lonliness to being into something like this, but there's also optimist that you can find others who are into these things just as much as you are.

I've never had an obsessive hobby with this sense of ennui to it. I've also spent my years being a cynical, heartless person willing to cut down anything and everyone. I've never had something like this in my life, something that I could completely call my own, without caring what anyone else thinks about it.

So the three of just sat down on a couch, watched these videos, drank Starbucks and talked.During this whole project, I met plenty of people who were trying to be someone else, at least for a little bit of time. But with Tim and Lisa, I met people who knew who they were.

Top 75 Albums of 2006

2006-12-18T13:50:00.000-08:00

1) The Hold Steady, Boys and Girls in America. This is good rock music made perfect by a lead singer who incorporates things like "imagery" and "rhythm" in his lyrics. Great stuff.

That's the only album I bought in 2006 that came out in 2006.

Doing Stuff: Day 16, Soul Line

2006-12-17T10:09:00.000-08:00

"Okay, step forward, then back. Then bigforward, then bigback. Now cross. Then shake for three counts and then woooooooo," said one woman guiding me and two other newcomers through a brief introduction on the dance step done to Marvin Gaye songs.
*****

Soul Line is one of those low-budget, locally-produced television shows that you somehow inexplicably watch for hours at a time.

The show's premise steals from classic music shows like Soul Train or Solid Gold, except it focuses on line dancing, where hundreds of people take to the dance floor and perform the same steps all at once.

The Soul Line's Christmas episode was taped at the ballroom of the Radisson Hotel near the Philadelphia International Airport. The crowd was festive, with nearly everyone decked out in red. After the MC/host of the TV show sermonized ("Philadelphia is the line dancing capital, but nwo we're bringing it to places like Vineland, Bridgeton, Reading!"), the music geared up and the Soul Line fans took to the dance floor.

Everyone knows every dance step, everyone knows every turn and everyone knows every word to every song. It's very hypnotic to watch -- like watching video footage of Kim Jong Il's birthday celebration at a Pyongyang soccer stadium.

"It's almost like a cult, but a good cult," said Carlos, a Delaware resident who started taking line dancing lessons four months ago. "You meet so many people and go to so many different locations. It's exhilarating."

The exhilaration and exuberance at Soul Line was made evident in the handful of interviews I performed. On three separate occasions, my interviews were cut off by the change of a song.

"Oooooh, this is my jam," or "ohhh, I love this song" would be the closing line, while the person I was talking to would head to the dance floor.

Most of the people in attendance at Soul Line came into the world of line dancing in a similar fashion -- by seeing the show on TV and then pursuing lessons.

"I saw it on TV about three years ago and I taught myself the dances by watching the TV shows, " said Susie Kirkland, a resident of Chester in attendance at Soul Line. "Then I started taking lessons. Then I started teaching the lessons a few months later."

The actual dancing reminded me a bit of the Germantown Country Dancers whom I met I when I started this project. Each section of the dance floor had a "den mother" of sorts who was guiding the routine for the newconers, everyone's eyes belied strong intensity and everyone was having a good time despite the pure intensity of the moment. The only difference was that this music was more 70's Tape Collection and had less harpsichord. And there were a few more black people.

Doing Stuff: Day 15, Trapeze Lessons by Matt Holmes

2006-12-15T07:07:00.000-08:00

The website said to work out for a few days before the class, push-ups and sit-ups and stretching. I did not do that, and I really wish I had. I also, unwisely, had some heavy soup for lunch and dinner that day, and I probably should've brought some bottled water. I could've drunk a whole gallon after the full-body workout in the hour and a half that seemed like a full day.

My experience with taking a trapeze class was unusual, fun, challenging, and a little intimidating. Most of the class was cute, little young women who could apparently bench press a linebacker. These women were up and down ropes, hanging and flipping around, and doing complicated maneuvers with names like Back Angel Pose and Schwarzenneger Descend. Their upper-body strength was impressive, as was the coordination to do all the cool-looking tricks. One older woman, who reminded me of a friend's mom, was half my size and had biceps bigger than I think I'll ever achieve. Everyone was so welcoming and supportive, though, which really was necessary for me to last more than ten minutes.

The first thing they had me do was climb the rope, a la gym class. I'm pretty sure I was never able to do that in gym class, and I surprised myself by struggling and getting about three-quarters of the way to the ceiling. Not only do you have to hold yourself up on the rope, you have to wrap it around your foot and stand on it. As it got more advanced, you have to do more and more complicated things with the rope, so it's like climbing a rope and then tying knots with your feet, something I couldn't do with my hands in cub scouts.

I think I used up all my strength in the first attempt to climb, so I sort of just rested and breathed heavily until it was time to start the trapeze, which was thankfully easier. I learned how to hold onto a bar hanging from ropes from the ceiling, flip my legs up, hang from my knees, climb up and sit on the bar, stand on it, lean into a one-legged pose, wrap my ankles around each side, and hang upside-down flipped around. I really can't believe I did it. It was really cool, and I wish I could've seen it.

Everyone who I mentioned this project to immediately had concern about me falling or breaking my back. I was never more than maybe ten feet off the ground, I was always over a big mat, and I never felt unsafe, even hanging upside-down just from my legs.

We ended with the hardest part of the whole thing, strength and conditioning training. This was to work the elbows and knees, and they were worked! I got back up on the trapeze and hanged from my knees while someone held one leg down and I lifted the other knee up. I was essentially hanging from one knee, and it hurt so bad that I literally was almost crying. For time constraints, we didn't do the elbows; thank God. Then we did pull-ups, with someone helping by pushing your legs up a little. I couldn't do any without help at this point. Then we did hanging-upside-down-from-your-legs-sit-ups. I can't believe I did ten.

At the end of the class, I was exhausted and sore. Everyone else chipperly left as I sweatily yearned to lie down. I left the place with my whole body twitching and a rush of endorphins or adrenaline or something in my head. I guess I'd never really ever exercised enough to get that before. Afterwards, my hands were red and burned. I went home and held cold things for a while. I slept like a log, except when I woke up in the middle of the night and peed for ten minutes. I was so thirsty afterwards.

It was pretty emasculating, but I'm used to that, and they were very accommodating to my astonishing inferiority. My foot got pretty scratched up from the rope, my pants got tugged down as I climbed and shimmied, and my shirt kept falling down as I was flipping or hanging upside-down. They recommend wearing "long leggings" but I think some kind of footie pajama outfit would be best. I guess that's why guys in Cirque du Soleil wear those tights with suspenders.

I also kind of feel like I accomplished something. Maybe next I'll find a club for running a mile in less than fourteen minutes or a peg-board association.

I got an amazing work-out and did some pretty cool tricks. I'd consider going back and maybe also trying some of the unicycle and juggling stuff that they also do there. It was pretty cool and a very professional place.

Now I'm going to go lie down.

Doing Stuff: Rittenhouse Square Allen Iverson Interlude

2006-12-15T06:31:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago, I was strolling around Rittenhouse Square area. A guy with rusty teeth in a Starter jacket ran across the street yelling at me.

"Yo my man. Yo my man. You like a Sixers fan." The drifter then started in with his spiel about Sixers tickets.

I nodded. At one point, I was a huge Sixers fan. The night before, Allen Iverson was sent home from the team after he asked for a trade request, effectively putting the final nail in professional basketball in one of the best hoops towns in the world for a while. Woman's roller derby has more buzz about the Sixers at this point, even though it was only a half-decade ago when the Sixers and AI owned this town like Jabba the Hut ruled Tatooine.

"I'd be interested, by they're getting rid of AI," I said about the tickets.

"Aww, AI's a punk-ass man."

Nearly everyone I know has a AI run-in story: from seeing his Bentley parked across four handicapped parking lanes outside the TGI Friday's on City Line Avenue (where he has apparently eaten every meal for the past 11 years) to watching posse members of his roll up blunts in downtown parking garages. It's not every decade an athlete that outrageously talented plays for one of your teams. It's even rarer when a player that good makes news headlines for flashing his handgun in a ghetto West Philly apartment complex to drag his wife back to their house after a domestic.

I can't believe this era is coming to an end.

"I got $40 tickets but I'm selling them for $20, man. You want in? You want in?"

I inquired as to the game he was selling the tickets for.

"The Knicks. "

I just shook my head. As much morbid curiosity as I have to see a Knicks/76ers basketball game, there is no way I would pay to see something like that. In fact, I don't think I would go even if I was paid. And I let the guy know that.

He started following me down Walnut Street, telling everyone within earshot that I was a punk-ass, too.

Doing Stuff: Day 15, Trapeze Lessons

2006-12-14T21:02:00.000-08:00

Tucked away in a strip mall in a not-very busy section of Germantown is a world where everyday people can soar to the air with the greatest of... well, what's the opposite of ease? Difficulty? Strenuous exertion?

Welcome to Air Play, a self-described training center for circus aerial skills, arguably the most unique fitness center anywhere in Philadelphia. (http://www.airplaytrapeze.com/)

When I started this project, this was one of the things I was looking forward to doing the most. But when I started reading up about what this would entail -- some semblance of physical strength, body coordination and mild athletic ability -- I immediately said "fuck no."

Stepping up to the plate for the actual participation part of this project was Matt Holmes, an all-around good dude who spends his nights as one of the members of Philadelphia's improv institution Rare Bird Show (http://www.rarebirdshow.com/).

We were both intimidated when we walked into Air Play. A bearded man was doing a split on a wooden bar suspended about eight feet in the air, doing flip after flip after flip. Ballerina-sized women were dangling from ropes, upside down while slightly spinning, maneuvering using only one arm as John Tesh-type music blared in the background. Imagine it as a cross between a jungle gym for adults (not in that way) mixed in with your worst memories of middle school gym class, with ropes dangling from floor-to-cieling.

Matt began warming up as I began cackling at him in the background. Even his stretches looked unbearable -- these weird bending moves that looked like something one would see in a human pyramid at Abu Ghirab.

But while the stretches looked painful to me, the people scaling the ropes and the swings looked very average. Almost all of the participants were girls in their 20's*, except for one extremely Mom-ish looking middle-aged woman. None looked super athletic, but all of them were able to do all of the movements, spins and what-not without any noticeable difficulty. How hard could it be?

The first thing Matt had to do was climb a rope. It sounded simple enough, and he managed to do so the first time without too much struggle. But then he was told to do this repeatedly, while also trying to master how to do this weird foot-knot trick with his one foot, enabling him to do more involved tricks later on. Matt had difficulty with the repeated climbing.

"I have lost all the strength in my arms," he said. "But coordination is more of an issue than strength. Figuring out where your feet are while hanging from a rope is really hard."

Meanwhile, the women in the class were working on something called the "Schwarzenegger Decent," which involves scaling a rope, wrapping it around a foot, turning upside down by going backwards and slowly decending the rope using only one leg to control your body.

This sounds dangerous, but at no point during any of this was anyone even close to getting hurt (unless you count me, when I stood on a chair to take pictures.) Shana Kennedy, the operator of Air Play, said that there have been no injuries from falls at her studio -- protective mats are everywhere, all of the participants are incredibly helpful and the instruction is so tight and detailed that noone came close to losing control at any point.

(Shana did add, however, that people have recieved some minor injuries from the repetitions of certain exercises -- stuff similar to carpal tunnel syndrome or a muscle strain. Also, rope burns and callouses can also be expected. Matt's feet and hands were bright red before too long.)

The ropes were soon replaced with trapeze swings. Matt was shown the first trick he was to do -- pulling himself up on to the swing, flipping backwards into a tuck position, and eventually configuring his body so he was hanging upside down by his knees. At one point, I thought Matt's arms were about to rip off, as he was hanging with his face towards the mat by his arms going the complete opposite direction. But by the end, he was really starting to -- and I'm honestly searching for any other phrase/cliche that fits here, but I'm stuck and I need to get to sleep -- get the hang of things.

"People can bend that way," said Marie, one of the regulars at Air Play.

The class member who seemed to be doing the best job was Alice, the aforementioned 50-ish woman. Alice had previously taken a juggling class ("They have one on Monday nights! You should look into doing that!") while also teaching and practicing painting. While involved in juggling, she saw a woman on the trapeze and was inspired.

"She was so strong and so capable," Alice said. "So I painted her. I told a friend about my painting, and then she told me about Air Play. It looked like so much fun, and I had to give up judo, so I gave it a try. And I've been here since."

Matt thought it was a blast, as sore as he was afterwards.

"I've heard that after you exercize, you get energized from the adrenaline. I am very awake right now," Matt said.

Kennedy -- who attended a circus training school in England when she was 19 (originally, she too was a juggler, but she, in her words, "fell into" doing trapeze) -- said most people come to AirPlay seeking a different but intense workout. But a lot of other people also come for bragging rights.

"People like to tell their friends that they're taking trapeze classes," she said. "I hear all the time from my students that this is what they look forward to doing all week long, that this is their therapy."

* -- Not to be a jerk, but the girls at Air Play were all on the high end of the attraction scale. Wouldn't be fair for me to write about Air Play without noting that for the article.

(EDIT: Pictures of Matt in action and Air Play in general are coming tomorrow.)

Doing Stuff; Day 14: The Social Security Admnistration Office

2006-12-13T19:36:00.000-08:00

I'm a little bit under-the-weather, so I decided to not head out to an event tonight. But this does not mean I did not find sublime entertainment elswhere in my travels.

I had to get a social security card today in order to get my driver's license renewed. The closest SS office is about five minutes down the road from me in a federal office complex guarded with alarming ferocity, as if it's the place where Dick Cheney will receive May-December oral sex during the next time we face a national crisis.

For some reason, I never expect long lines when I head out to a large bureacratic enterprise like the Social Security Administration. Modern convenience has spoiled me, but then I do something dumb like nearly let my driver's license expire and it all comes back to me that human beings are meant to live in lines and kiosks.

Luckily, the Social Security office provided its guests with a video broadcasting information about the history of the program and its many benefits. The tape loop of quotes from FDR, Reagan and Clinton eventually faded into a blue screen.

Thus began one of the great unknown movies of our lifetime, entitled "Social Security and You," featuring the turbulent tale of a high school rock band (in the vein of Glass Tiger or Lou Gramm) as they investigate the pros and cons of Social Security.

The band (Takoma) was hoping to make a demo tape, but were unable to pay for the costs. They blamed their penury on money being taken out of their paychecks due to Social Security. In response, they decided to stage a rock concert in protest of Social Security.

Band members walked around their community and high school holding up flyers and posterboard with a big red no slash over the word FICA. Along the way, they talked with many other community members. Outraged senior citizens yelled at them about social security. A kindly political sceince teacher told them the benefits. In the emotional triumph, the lead singer/ringleader of this rag-tag group of protesters had a heart-to-heart discussion with his grandfather about social security.

"It's a great system, kiddo," grandpa said. "It's actually very flexible. I can't say that about some private programs."

In one sub-plot, the band's drummer (portrayed by a bearded 40-year-old who may have been the same actor who played basketball legend Hank Gathers in Final Shot: The Hank Gathers Story) has a crush on a classmate. He gives her a flyer about social security and asks her to come to the concert. She tells him to buzz off and rips the flyer and throws the remains to the ground. The reason? Her father died and she recieves his social security benefits.

The band was now wondering if they truly were against Social Security. But despite this internal debate, they still played their rock concert.

FIN

EDIT: The band kind of sounded like this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiFpx86nWNg

Doing Stuff: Day 12, Latkepalooza/Philadelphia Paranormal and Ghost Hunters Meet-Up Group

2006-12-10T20:05:00.000-08:00

Who doesn't enjoy fried potato pancakes?

The first day began with Ilana and I headed to the Gershwin Y, the de facto headquarters of Philadelphia's Jewish community for their annual LATKEPALOOZA. Latkepalooza is an all-afternoon event where some of Philly's best restaurants line up to cook latkes in the most creative and delicious ways. I never thought that I could have a vegetarian Chinese style latke until today, but I did.

But Latkepalooza isn't just about enjoying fried pancakes dipped in sour cream, it's also about love. When I was standing in line, I noticed an older couple wearing odd matching buttons which read "I met my bashert at the 2003 Latkepalooza." I inquired as to what a "bashert" was, never hearing that term before.

"It's Hebrew for soulmate," the woman said, with her partner next to her. The couple wasn't married, nor did they live together, but both were completely, totally and pathetically in love with each other.

"We met here in 2003. I came with my friend Al. She knew Al. Al and I were in line together and she came up and started talking to him. And then we started talking. And talking. And talking. I got her number at the end of the event, I called her the next day and we hooked up. It's been that way ever since. We were just meant to be, and we come to every Latkepalooza to celebrate," the guy said.

Latkepalooza also had its annoying side. The lines were long and the event was crowded. Ilana was waiting in line behind a guy who was doing an impromptu stand up comedy routine about latkes and divorce. The woman behind Ilana kept on sighing. "You have no idea how bad this guy is," the woman told me.
*****

After Latkepalooza, I went on a solo mission to a meeting of area paranormal and metaphysical dabblers, held in the rear space of a low-rent grocery store on South Fourth Street.

I have tried hard so far to be nice and not condescending in my escapades. Some things deserve mockery -- the delusional vapidity of movie extras, the sheer lack of perspective of rich people -- but I have gone into this whole project with an open mind and an attempt to understand people and their interests. Hell, I was even pretty nice the evening I wore a suit of armor and went sword fighting with people who pretend to be knights.

But this event? I can't pretend to be nice. This was a whole new level of social retardation.

This event was planned by meetup.com, an online service where people from various interests use the Internet as a conduit for folks to get together in real life. I was one of the first to arrive to the meeting place. One guy, who closely resembled a fat, sweaty version of Hitler, was sitting next to me. On the other side of the room was a quiet woman who was also a first-timer. Conversation started talking, with fettesverschwitztes Hitler leading us into a rambling discussion about the interpersonal relationships at play in the world of Philadelphia's paranormal experts.

"Did you read our forum at all? This one woman doesn't think we do anything. But Rich, he's the leader, he doesn't do anything unless it's based in scientific fact," this guy told me.

The guy continued to tell me about how a separate paranormal group broke off from the original group, but various metaphysical-subgroups have merged. Including one where he was the "assistant leader."

The room eventually filled to about 10. Joining us next was a mustachioed 20-something guy with a hooked up laptop, who was there representing the Philadelphia-area UFO hunters.

"My girlfriend owns a pug, so she found an online pug meeting group. I then decided to check to see if there was a UFO group. There was, so I started going to their meetings. Three months leader, I was running it."

A few other maniac-looking types came in, especially this one backwoods-looking family from South Jersey who claim their house has similarities to a vortex. Also joining us was a girl who ran the reiki online group, and they just finished a meeting, so she wanted to "show support" to the meetup.com community.

Rich eventually showed up, with a 1987-style Megadeth fan haircut and a tight T-shirt with some lightning on it and the phrase "Memento Te Esse Mortalium," with a matching coffee mug.

Rich drew a spiral on a blackboard and then began a rambling lecture about wormholes, timeloops amidst references to various sci-fi television shows, throwing in every now and then a quantum physics reference that I'm sure he didn't quite grasp. During his lecture, he claimed his girlfriend was telekinetic and that she lived in a house filled with glowing orbs and other visions signifying the dead. Every so often someone, usually the UFO guy, would chime in on some sort of sci-fi type of thing and a few people would crack up laughing about something for a few minutes at a time.

My favorite bizarre comment came about the discussion about a couple who disappeared off of South Street last year, a really big news story in Philly since these people left a popular bar and were never seen nor heard from again. Most people assume it's some sort of rape/robbery thing and it ended up with these people hacked up and thrown into the ocean. These people think there could be a possibility of a vortex opening up with these two unfortunately going to The Great Beyond.

This meeting would have been interesting if the people weren't so irritating and long-winded. I've never really put too much time into thinking about ghosts or spirits from the other world, and it's not because I'm scared to believe, but it's mostly because I'm not seven. I left abruptly at the 90 minute mark of the evening.

If I disappear anytime soon, it's probably because some apparition from beyond grabbed me.

EDIT: Pictures from Latkepalooza will be up tomorrow. As will at some point the essay about Day 13, which has already been done. Day 13 is going to be terrific. Just trust me on that.

Doing Stuff: Day 11, A Grafitti Exhibit And A Trip To The DMV

2006-12-09T23:25:00.000-08:00

I returned to the Hawthorne Rec Center today (the place were two nights earlier I waged battle against fellow knights) to see a scheduled exhibit on the art of grafitti. This intrigued me because how much art remains in grafiti? A lot of grafitti does look really cool, but it doesn't look like an artform that has changed much over the years -- tags on buildings, bridges and trains still all look exactly as they did 10 years ago twhen I was briefly into all those old grafitti magazines. Is graffiti the art world's version of ska or is ska the music world's version of grafitti?

Alas, this exhibit was nowhere to be found. The Hawthorne Rec Center today was filled with parents watching some sort of dance recital while in another room young kids were making crafts. I probably seemed rather I Know My Name Is Steven-ish, hanging out by myself in such an atmosphere. I asked a custodian if he knew where the grafitti exhibit was -- he said he never heard of such a thing, but the kids inside one of the rooms were busted for vandalism and were doing some sort of community service. Then he said that every weekend afternoon, a group of folks head to the vacant lot across the street and spraypaint on the walls.

I didn't have much else to do, so I wandered into this vacant lot to take see what I could dig up. No one was over there when I was there, but I took some pictures. And now I can brag to my friends that I walked into a vacant lot at 12th and Carpenter -- not one of the better neighborhoods in the City of Brotherly Love. I know have street cred! And maybe lyme disease! The tags were pretty cool, not anything I haven't seen before, but it did make me wistful when I was 19 and would spend my money at Vintage Vinyl on TwoTone Records albums and various fanzines. Hood kids are still bombing buildings just as suburban kids are still going to see the Bouncing Souls and Mephiskaphales. I wonder of Trubo and Ozone ever had to save the rec center across the street?

I wanted to do something that wouldn't take a lot of effort because afterwards, I had to go to the DMV to get my license renewed and I prepared for this to be a draining experience. Naturally, things didn't go so well -- I can't find my social security card and in the Keystone State, this is required for a license, even though their website and printed literature at least indicates otherwise. The DMV clerk told me to take it up with a supervisor if I wanted to. I did, thinking that maybe I could convince some cold bureaucrat in a god-awful state-appointed position to see otherwise.

Needless to say, I didn't. But I did meet the most warm-hearted, fatherly Pennsylvania Department of Transit License/Photo ID Center employee in all of the state. Ken took me into his office and showed me the help desk prompt which all PennDOT customer service folks read from. Then he looked online and saw where the confusion lies and made a note to contact his superior to have that changed. Then he showed me a picture of his daughter. After that, a crooked-toothed degenerate in oversized, outdated FUBU ran into the office.

"Heeeey, Ken my man, how you doing? You remember me? I was in her a while back, you helped me out with a license question."

Ken said that he did but obviously didn't.

"I'm here with my ex-wife today. She needs help getting her license."

The man left. Ken stared at me.

"Did he just say ex-wife? Man, I loooove this job."

I asked Ken how crazy his work gets, tossing him a softball hoping for a good story. Ken said folks have stormed into his office and have knocked the belongings off his desk, have thrown his office furniture around and have made some very dire threats. Luckily, Ken and other DMV employees have access to a panic button which notifies the police, like a bank being robbed.

Do people ever get arrested and handcuffed at his place of employment?

"I'm surprised when a day goes by when someone doesn't get dragged out of here in cuffs," he said. "Best job I ever had."

Doing Stuff: Day 10, Elfreth's Alley

2006-12-08T19:38:00.000-08:00

It's not every night you get to see how people better than you live.

Elfreth's Alley is the nation's oldest residential street, housing residents since the early 1700's. In modern times, this block of road serves as both tourist attraction and as a group of houses in Old City, the only neighborhood in Philly which approaches Manhattan's rent levels. And tonight was one of two nights a year that residents of Elfreth's Alley open their houses to the general public for tours.

Ilana and I went down for their annual winter open house. This was a welcome change-of-pace for me on my project, since tonight I got to see how people actually lived as opposed to how people live in their fantasy lives. And not just any people, but the lives of rather wealthy people who live in a neighborhood literally stuck in time.

Things started off on the right foot. I paid for two tickets with my debit card. The girl at the table asked me for the expiration date of my card. I told her the date -- sometime in the next decade -- and she excitedly screamed "OH, WOW!"

The front of these houses look like ancient, colonial rowhomes. The insides are decorated with the flashy style of a "freelance designer" who married a young bank executive. Us visitors would oooh and ahh at these houses in front of their proud owners, tossing out comments like "this is a great use of space" and "I love the color scheme and angles in here." I really wish I could have a time machine so I could garrote the executive producers of Trading Spaces sometimes.

Some of the comments weren't interior design cliches. Others expressed "this debit card won't expire for a really long time"-level amazement at the religious diversity amongst wealthy residents of a block in the heart of a downtown neighborhood in a major American city.

"Wow, look! There's a Christmas tree AND a menorah AND even some dradles," one old woman said in front of everyone.

Whenever we wandered into a new house, I would immediately scan any available bookshelves or CD racks. Nearly all of the bookshelves contained various money management advice guides. And nearly all of the homeowners owned a Harry Connick, Jr. album.

Most of the residents of Elfreth's Alley were very pleasant. But some people made me wish they lived on Osage Avenue around the time of the 1985 MOVE Bombing. The two nicest houses, in fact, had the most cock/box-punch worthy habitants.

One house ws a rental property divided by six college age guys who might as well have had "ROOFIES" tatooed on their foreheads. One guest asked how much the house cost. "I dunno, man. Probably around $1 million or so," the host said, before cracking open the bottle of a high-end microbrew.

The second was a 4-story building so narrow Plastic Man would have had trouble entering. But the first-floor living room had a flat-screen wall TV with huge speakers. This was the one house where guests could go up to another floor. Up there, we met the property owners -- a man and wife with thick Long Island accents not heard since Billy Joel sang about Brenda and Eddie in "Scenes From An Italian Restaurant."

Ilana asked them how they moved into the second floor of this apartment, which had a big couch and more top-notch electronics equipment. Captain Jack started talking about how he had to remove a second floor railing and hoist the couch up.

"A place like this is a lot of work, but this place is worth it. Hell, we even have a parking space in the back. That's worth like $50,000 alone probably," he said.

Someone else asked him how long he lived in the place.

"Oh, I don't live here. We just own the place. My daughter lives here," he said, pointing to a girl who looked barely old enough to drink a microbrew with the guys around the corner.

All but one of the houses on Elfreth's Alley are currently lived in. The one that isn't serves as the official Elfreth's Alley museum. A large tent was set up behind the museum, where guests could drink hot cider and have a cookie. We went back to enjoy our snack and realized we were surrounded by historic reenactment actors, the folks hired for the evening to dress around in colonial garb and recite fun-facts about the history of each property. But instead of discussing local history, they were now debating the quality of the heating pads located inside their shoes.

This museum is open all year. The private houses are not. But that doesn't stop tourists from trying to see them anyway. Every resident I asked had a story about tourists trying to invade their property -- bringing in groceries, one guy said, was a total event since tourists just walk in. Another woman said that she learned to keep her door locked after someone just barged in while she was sitting in her living room eating her dinner.

"This woman just came right in. I told her that this was a private home. She started feeling the walls around my fireplace, asking me if this was the original wood. I kept on telling her it was a private home, but she didn't get it," she said.

Day 9 Pictures

2006-12-07T23:50:00.000-08:00

After you get done reading my adventure from Thursday night, you are probably going to ask me why there aren't any pictures, since at one point I was wearing a suit of armor.

There ARE pictures for this. It's just that I'm an idiot and I forgot a memory card and I use a card reader to upload my pictures. The pictures are stored on the hard drive of my digital camera, so I can't put them up until I find or purchase the cord to do so.

Doing Stuff: Day 9, Society for Creative Anachronism Sword Fighting Night

2006-12-07T19:37:00.000-08:00

GUY WHO LOOKS LIKE LATE 80's-ERA GEORGE CARLIN: "Are you here for the fighting?"
ME: "Yes."
GUY WHO LOOKS LIKE LATE 80's-ERA GEORGE CARLIN: "Great. What's your name?"
ME: "Lord Littlepants. You?"
GUY WHO LOOKS LIKE LATE 80's-ERA GEORGE CARLIN: "Darmon. But my mundane name is Paul."
ME: "Oh, cool. My... uhm, real name is Gregg. Good to meet you."

It's not every night that you can have this dialogue, and it's not every night you can wear a purple shroud and not stand out so much. But for most of us, it's not every night you get to hang out with the members of the Society for Creative Anachronism.

The SCA, as it is better known, is a group boasting 30,000 members internationally (if Wikipedia is to be believed), all of whom share a love of all-things Middle Ages. The members of this group dress in period costume and also give themselves and their regions names straight out of a Dungeons and Dragons fieldbook. For example, Philadelphia is referred to as The Barony of Bhakil under the leadership of Master Lorcan Dracontius.

Googling the Society for Creative Anachronism and their related sub-groups is a fantastic way to spend a day at work. I am sure the people of this group understand that their hobby and interest is a lot more intense than most people. This leads to some very interesting juxtapositions on their webpage biographies. For example, Lady Lilia de Vaux is a member of the Tadcaster Militia, a "rapier academy" located in Northeast Philadelphia which specializes in fencing. He in-character biography follows first: I am a 14th Century Frenchwoman from the Loire Valley who had to relocate to the Paris area in a hurry when my merchant father got caught reselling stolen goods... I dabble in herbcraft/gardening, archery, and brewing, and am pretty good at embroidery... I am a member of House Gryphonhaven & House Black Dog (that last is based around The Sin Pit, my Pennsic home).

And now, her real-life biography: I've been married since 1997 to William Neale , a.k.a. the Rent-a-Spouse. We produced a beautiful Pennsic baby in May 2004. I'm currently working for a pharmaceutical company as the supervisor for the report coordination group & archives in a preclinical research department.

Most of the people I've encountered in this project have been escapists -- people looking to forget about their lives for a while and trying to be something they're not. Most of this has been a lot of fun and totally relatable -- social dancing, ping-pong. Some people have been vapid and delusional in their misplaced dream of stardom and fame via being an anonymous face-in-the-crowd in a movie no one will see.

But these people tonight were something else entirely.

They're creating their own version of reality.

And tonight, for a few hours, at the Hawthorne Cultural Center in South Philly, I got to be a part of it.
*****

The SCA literature I read online made it seem like everyone who attends these events gets decked out in capes, wizard's hats and robes. So, when I got home from work, I scurried through my closet and found a purple shroud I had owned from a few Halloween parties ago, where Ilana and I went as Siegrifed and Montecore, The White Tiger That Ate Roy.

When I arrived, Darmon was there in a black jacket, regular button down shirt and jeans. We chatted for a while, and then two other people came in -- an attractive, normal looking brunette in her 20's and her boyfriend, a bearded guy roughly around the same age, carrying a ton of equipment. I again introduced myself as "Lord Littlepants." They introduced themselves to me as Josh and Laura (and Josh tried to suppress a laugh when I told him my name.)

Josh asked me to come to his car with him. There, I grabbed a green duffle bag, the kind serial killers use to dispose of headless prostitutes, which weighed about 30 pounds and lugged it inside.

I went through the bag, pulling out metal object after metal object, like I was at a car parts store. Josh started going through his belongings, pulling out large, black rods with large silver acoutrements attached.

"Here, put these on. This is your armor."

I started to get dressed. It certainly takes a lot of commitment to get involved in an organization like this -- the leg armor alone weighed 15 pounds, which caused my chronically stiff right knee to start to ache. The last piece of equipment to strap on was the head gear -- a cast iron piece which looked stolen from an antiques dealer.

I looked at myself in the mirror, now dressed like a Knight of the Roundtable.

And I looked completely ridiculous.

I'm someone who has done a lot of strange and inappropriate things in public. I've written dozens of stories here on my blog about really personal and embarrassing moments. I have a thick skin when it comes to potential public ridicule at my expense. But now I know the limits of my self-consciousness.

Because at the exact moment I had on the entire gear but had my face exposed, if someone came in and recognized me, my face probably would have melted off.

But Josh and Darman? They put on their gear with no care about any of that. They're either delusionally obsessed with their hobby or they really and truly do not give a fuck what anyone else thinks about them and how they spend their spare time.

And now we were joined by two more people. The Russians.
*****

If a movie was going to be made about Ukranian cigarette smugglers, Sergei and Greg would be two lurking henchmen standing outside the limosine door of their silver-haired mafioso patron. Sergei came in carrying a bag of equipment which included chainmail.

The Russians had apparently asked to fight in a previous week. Darmon (who carries some sort of rank in the world of Middle Ages-era re-enactment fighting) was apparently wary of doing so -- not knowing if The Russians were familiar with the fighting style of the SCA. But tonight, Sergei came equiped in proper and safe equipment.

I inquired if he had ever done this before. Greg said that they did, claiming that this time of activity is very popular in Russia.

"It's huge. It's like sport," he said.

(My MA degree is in Central and Eastern European Studies. I am now wondering how it is that this aspect of Russian life escaped me. I would have done my thesis on Middle Ages-era Russian re-enactment fighting if I had known this.)

Before the fighting began, I expressed my worries about getting hurt to Darmon and Josh. I had never seen this type of fighting before and, also, I am a huge pussy. They told me it wouldn't hurt and everyone would take it easy on me. Then Darmon decided to show me what to expect.

WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK
WHACK

Darmon swung at me with his "sword" -- a heavy plastic stick -- and struck me over the head several times with me. It didn't hurt at all, but this was still absolutely terrifying. There is no way on earth to adequately prepare for this -- someone swinging a fucking sword, plastic or not, repeatedly at your head while you're wearing a mask which looks like someone ripped apart from a broken down furnace.

Josh, nice as can be, started talking to me about his experiences as a fighter. (He's been doing this for one year.) The SCA has big festivals with tournaments and battles, some of which see two teams of 300 knights each doing battle all at once in some big field. He assured me that he's never seen an injury, except for the time someone accidentally tripped over fencing and sprained an ankle.

I managed to get him to elaborate about the battles. He started to quickly go through the hierarchy of the SCA -- there are sorts of rankings and codes in this group. He's at a low level of warrior, and two levels above him is a knight who oversees this region.

"My knight has won several tournaments," he said.

The SCA websites are filled with information on tournaments. In fact, information about any aspect of life as a SCA member -- ranging from a highly-structured list of duties for regional officers to details about how formally file a challenge in fight tournaments -- can be found. Fully understanding all of their bylaws is the equivalent of obtaining a law degree.

Fighting began with Josh and Darmon in their armor, both holding shields and swords. The object of a battle is to "kill" your opponent by striking him in the head. These two spent about five minutes whacking each other around until they had to take a breather.

Next, Sergei was up to go against Josh.

Russian fake swordfighting is a lot different than American fake swordfighting. Josh and Darmon parrying and going back and forth, like a slightly more physical form of Olympic fencing. Russian fake swordfighting involves a lot of attempted tackling and violently swinging the fist holding your sword at your opponents face, all while your friend screams advice in Russian in between fits of diabolical cackling.

Even more insane, at one point Sergei attempted to deliver a karate kick to Darmon during their battle. This caused an understandable uproar from Darmon, who started reading the SCA riot act to the confused Russian.

After the battle, Sergei threw off his helmet. His face was beat red and he was huffing and puffing like he had just ran a marathon.

And now it was my turn.
*****

Well, I wasn't going to be doing battle. Darmon and Josh just wanted to show me the basics of what fighting is like. I held a shield and had my sword hand behind my head, just so I could practice blocking another person's attack.

"The key thing to do is to stay alive," Darmon said. "Everyone forgets that. Just stay alive. Do what you can to don't die."

Darmon had me hold a shield, which in the back had a hockey glove for needed hand protection. He then showed me the basic move of swordfighting -- a forward attack with the sword, spinning at the wrist, hand above the shoulder, striking your opponents head. He then instructed me on how to properly block, by moving the shield upwards, at about eye level.

He swung. I blocked. He swung. I blocked again. He swong, and then clobbered me in the face with his sword. And again. And again.

Lifting the shield up was very hard, even though it probably weighed about 10 pounds. I felt my left shoulder tightening up. It felt like I had gone for 100 pitches in a baseball game. Trying to lift this shield up repeatedly, while trying to get used to wearing this heavy gear, which makes your normal body movements completely impossible to make, beat the hell out of me.

After about 5 minutes of training, I was done. My whole body was stiff.

"You know what to do," Josh said. "Get a gallon of water or milk a night and flex with that and hold that. That's what I did when I first started."

I nodded.

"Or maybe you can check out the SCA's archery section. if you don't like getting his in the head," he added. "You can shoot arrows at people instead."
*****

After my first training session, the Russians left. I decided to also call it a night.

When I left, Josh asked me eagerly if I was going to be coming back again. I told him that I was. Obviously, I'm not. I just tell this to people at their events for politeness. At the events I can join in, I'm doing my damndest to not tell people I'm actually writing about their world. Identifying myself as a reporter would put people on guard and make them not as honest. This Quantum Leap-style of participatory journalism undercuts that, but it puts me in the awkward situation every night of telling people how much I enjoyed it and how I'm definitely coming back for more.

"Are you DEFINITELY coming back next week," he asked me.

I told him that I most likely would be.

"Do you want to borrow my shield? You can practice with it," he said.

I then had to call an audible. I told him I'd rather not, because I might not be able to make it and then after that I was going away and I didn't want to have his shield for too long a period of time.

Obviously, I'm not going back. I've told people at every one of these types of events that I would be coming back, with no intention of doing so. I'm doing this to cover my bases here. I want to honestly go to these things and meet these people and see what their lives are like. If I tell people that I'm writing about what they do, then I'm afraid I won't get an accurate portaryal of what it is I'm looking for.

I felt really bad for telling Josh that I was coming back. Josh was so earnest in asking me this question. I'm sure there's not a lot of regular newcomers in the world of SCA. I'm sue there's not a lot of people who share this interest with him. And he was hoping that Lord Littlepants was somebody who did.

Doing Stuff: Day 8, Elite Level Scrabble

2006-12-06T17:28:00.000-08:00

Ilana and I have been particularly fond of Scrabble ever since we both read Stephen Fatsis' magnificent "Word Freak," which detailed the quirky world of professional Scrabble players and his own obsessive-compulsive impulses to play against the best the world has to offer in ensuring q tiles get played.

We found out about a Scrabble night in Chestnut Hill, not so far from our apartment. This event was held at the Atrios Senior Center, so I figured a few folks from the area got together to play in their rec room or something like that.

It turns out the Atrios Senior Center is actually an assisted living center, complete with its own "neighborhood" for the "memory challenged." We went to the entrance, equipped with a wheelchair lift, and rang the doorbell and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No one came, so we put the kibosh on the plans to play elite level Scrabble. I didn't have a solid backup plan lined up because I was hoping for something low-key tonight since I'm really tired from a pretty busy day at work and I didn't feel like didn't driving all the way downtown to do something that wasn't as interesting as elite-level Scrabble. And, plus, I think more than filled my quota of giving you free entertainment with the awesomeness of God's Prayer last night.

So this night crapped out. But an honest-to-goodness good faith effort at some board game fun with my wife was made. That's all I can promise.

Ilana also made with the funny after we decided to leave. Can you imagine playing Scrabble with the memory challenged? "Mrs. R, let me see what tiles you have!"

Doing Stuff: Day 7, Being An Extra In An Independent Film

2006-12-05T21:25:00.000-08:00

PROLOGUE: My friend Mike works for one of the local TV affiliates and has been sending me press releases for my project. One that came my way was from the producers of a movie entitled God's Prayer (www.godsprayerthemovie.com), which was looking for extras. After going to the website for the movie, which revealed its ridiculous premise and tagline ("If you die with your eyes open, you probably deserved it."), I decided I had to take part in this.

DISCLOSURE: This is not the first time Mike has promped me to become an extra in a movie. Mike, a huge fan of Lloyd Kaufman's cult films, found out about a casting for extras for Lloyd Kaufman's opus "Terra Firmer." I might be in a background scene.

1) Casting was scheduled for 6:30 at a place called "The New Z Bar," located on Spring Garden and Delaware Avenue. I've never spent much time in this part of Philly. There's a reason for this -- I'm not a 21-year-old bodybuilding afficianado from South Jersey who likes to drink Red Bull with Vodka whose idea of a good night is to break his girlfriend's fingers in a car door. I finally find The New Z Bar. It's located next to Delilah's Den, Philly's most infamous strip club. I start wondering about the type of movie I'm trying to be a part of.

2) A New Z Bar bouncer -- a giant ex-Arena Football defensive tackle looking dude -- tells me that my shoes (brown New Balance sneakers) aren't good enough for casting in the movie. I am now guessing that I am about to stumble into a foot fetish porm shoot. I have a pair of dressier shoes in my car. I put these on and try to head into the club. I am again told my shoes aren't dressy enough. A man introduced to me as the film's executive producer for financing -- a bald meathead wearing a suit jacket with an unbuttoned and untucked white dress shirt (which I am guessing is the unofficial dress attire for strip club Champagne Room supervisors) -- tells me to "Go to Payless or don't be in our movie" upon complaint.

3) I am starting to wonder about this project and am thinking about calling it a night. How pathetic do you have to be to get dress shoes to be an extra in a movie that will never, ever see the light of day? I then realize that these are the type of people that I need to meet. And, quickly thinking things over... I'm not too far off from being one of them. I find a Famous Footwear outlet and buy a pair of dress shoes.

4) I head back to the New Z bar. After signing some paperwork I am told to find a seat inside. The furniture is plush, the cielings and walls are at these odd obtuse angles and there are all sorts of odd lights. It looks a bit like the Peach Pit After Dark but also gives off the vibe, particularly with Delilah's next door, that I am about to watch a visiting NBA player get shot at.

5) I look at the other extras. I realize that not only is my footwear not adequate, but I am also not dressed for the occassion. My sweater/slacks "nerdy guy who doesn't know or care to know how to dress" look doesn't quite mesh well with the "girls dressed like they are about to have group sex in a Miami booty rap video" or the "guys who get their fashion advice from the Gotti Boys" style.

6) Two other extras join me on the couch. Next to me is another fish-out-of-water. She's a 55-year-old woman with a Jewfro and fingernails painted firetruck red. I am trying to figure out my way to get her talking, since there has to be a story about this woman. Luckily, I don't have to strategize much, as she just starts talking to me.

"There's a lot of waiting at these things," she volunteers.

"Oh, you've been to these things before?" I ask?

Of course she has.

7) The woman is a secretary at an elementary school in Delaware. But she's always dreamed of being an actress. She's done stand-up comedy at The Spaghetti Warehouse open mic night (which sounds like something I have to take part in, stand-up comedy night at Philly's ass version of Olive Garden) as well as a hotel bar's comedy room in the far suburbs. I ask her about if she does comedy about her job. She says no.

"My comedy is about my life. Just about... some... interesting parts of my life."

She leaves it hanging like that. I figure it's best to leave it to my imagination.

8) The woman later volunteers that she has had a non-speaking role on Forensic Files and has been an extra in a few other movies, including Invincible, the football movie starring Mark Wahlberg which came out a few months ago. I haven't watched it yet.

"If you see the scene where Vince and his wife are getting a hoagie together, they cut to a football practice right after that. I'm in the bleachers. For about one second."

The guy across from us, in his 30's and well dressed, pipes in.

"Oh, you were in Invincible... too?"

9) These two start swapping war stories from being extras in Invincible. Filming was at Franklin Field at UPenn, where the extras would sit in the stands for hours at a time sitting in between lifelike dummies which were set up to look like fans. Filming for Invincible was very arduous -- some nights, extras would be on set from 6:30 p.m. until 3 a.m. She took vacation days from work to have one second of background screen time. And, of course, you don't get paid for this kind of stuff.

"I wanted to kill the director that night," the woman said. "He kept on messing everything up."

10) The guy who was also in Invincible makes a phone call.

"Yeah, I'm at the shoot. I got here a little late. I know the drill with these things by now."

11) He again starts talking to the woman next to me.

"Were you an extra in Invincible or were you a featured extra," he asks her.

"I was an extra."

"Oh... I was a featured extra."

"Really? Wow!"

"Yeah. There's a scene where his wife holds up a sign. I was right behind his wife at the time."

"How did you become a featured extra?"

"I don't know. I guess someone must have really liked me."

12) More of their dialogue.

HER: "It's just very interesting to see how a movie gets made."
HIM: "Sure."
HER: "And it's also a very motivational story."
HIM: "Sure."
HER: "And... you never know. All it takes is someone to see you once. All it takes is one glimpse. And then if they see something in you, then you could really become a star."
HIM: "Sure."

13) Throughout the conversation, people involving in the making of the film were coming down and picking amongst the extras. The women who looked most likely to blow a camera guy were chosen first. Everyone else was told to remain seated.

14) Finally, we were called upstairs to the lounge area. A few cameras, sound equipment and frantic directors were in the middle of the lounge, dictating where everyone was to stand. I was told to stand next to the bar. We were given further instructions -- during the filming, we were to be absolutely silent unless we were told to talk. Then we could talk all we want. But no mater what, we were to just act like we were at a bar.

15) Standing next to me was a very attractive blonde woman who looked like Clarissa Flockheart. Did you ever meet someone who was a complete stranger to you who started talking about her friends as if you knew them? This was that person.

"I was with Sara and Roxanne and we heard about this and decided to come."

16) I asked her if she's done any film work before. She hasn't, but she did appear in an infomercial for a horse racing track based in Louisiana.

17) Within 15 seconds of talking to this woman, I realize that she is both the dumbest and most vapid human being I have ever met in my life. Anyone with a clipboard or equipment she approaches and introduces herself. I've watched the BBC show Extras. I've watched Entourage. Take the exaggerations of those movies -- anonymous figures clawing their way to the top of film -- but put it in Philadelphia for a low-budget independent film which looks as if it's being made on the fly. This is that.

18) One of the actors is standing next to me. He's a young black guy who looks oddly familiar. All of a sudden it hits me.

HOLY SHIT! IT'S THE GUY WHO PLAYS COUNCILMAN TONY GRAY IN THE WIRE!

The *ONE* thing in terms of meeting someone that could actually generate honest emotion from me is if I cuold meet someone from The Wire. And I'm meeting someone who had a fairly important role. In Season 3, he gets set up by Councilman Carcetti to run against Mayor Royce to split the black vote. He's in a few scenes in Season 4 doing campaign stuff. His character was the main plot device in the election story which allowed The Wire's version of Baltimore to have a white mayor.

19) I ask the guy -- his first name is Chris -- if he played Tony Gray on The Wire. He confirms that this is indeed him. He's about to shoot something. So real quickly I add, "Fuck Carcetti." He laughs.

20) During a break, I now completely fawn over this guy. I'm pretty sure no one has recognized him ever before, since he seems so genuinely happy at my pathetic fanboyishness. I tell him how The Wire is my favorite show of all time, that he had some great scenes, etc. He thanked me like 5,000 times. I asked him if he was back for Season 5 -- he said that he was told he'd have a few scenes, but that "other than death and taxes, nothing's guaranteed." He also, upon my questioning, told me that the girl who plays Snoop is "cool as shit" but is a thuggish on screen as she is on TV, that the dude who plays Omar is a super nice guy, and that Ed Burns and David Simon are really awesome to work for. I also told him I hope the show wins every Emmy there is to win this year, particularly for the young group of kids the show focuses on this season, who are just outstanding. He then told me the dude who played Proposition Joe is their real-life acting coach.

21) A few people ask me where he's from. I tell them The Wire. Not one person has never heard of the show. This is a human travesty that no one knows this show. For real, if you're reading this and haven't watched, get the DVD's ASAP. I can't stress that enough. I fucking love The Wire.

22) The hot blonde next to me keeps on bragging to everyone within earshot about her role as an extra. She will be walking from one side of the room to the other and will get in clear view of the camera. I decide I have to mess with this woman.

23) 3..2....1, ACTION! Filming begins. I am pretending to talk to the hot blonde. Slowly, my hand goes up and down her arm as I have a lecherous look in my eyes. I lean over into her ear and whisper to her, "I want to take you to my mom's house because that's where I live." She is trying hard not to laugh, because the big scene of her walking is coming up in 5 seconds, and walking can be difficult for a blonde this stereotypical.

24) The scene ends, and we're told to go back to her original spot. She now asks me if I've done any extra work.

"No, not before. I've been in rehab the past three months. For Sudafed."
"What?"
"Yeah. I was really congested one night, so I popped a Sudafed. One became two and then two became 43. I was snorting that shit and everything. My doctor said it was because I feel empty inside, so I've been looking for a family. I think I finally found one here."
"Wow. That's great."

25) More of our conversation:
HER: "You see how chaotic this is? Can you imagine doing a scene with children?"
ME: "I... I can't work with children."
HER: "Why not?"
ME: "I don't want to go into the details."
HER: "Okay, you're really scaring me now."
ME: "It was with a younger cousin! We were drunk!"

26) Speaking of alcohol, the bartenders at the bar behind me can't serve real alcohol. Their drinks are mostly water, orange juice or orange juice diluted with water. It's a fun night! Everyone keeps on saying the same drink when they come to the bar for their drink.

"I wish I had a drink. A real drink."

I hear this about 75 times. One of the blondes friends -- Sara or Roxanne, I'm not sure which -- came up to us and told me this joke.

I then gave her a hug.

"I wish I had cocaine. Real cocaine."

I then started rubbing my nose. She walked away from me.

27) During another take, two other girls ended up standing next to me for a scene we had to do while whispering.

GIRL: "Hi!"
ME: "Hi! Why did we come to a bar called Whispers? You know, the bar where you can only whisper?"
GIRL: "That's a good one!"
ME: "I think I like Laryngitis better. I like their jukebox."
GIRL: "Yeah. It's sexier there."
(I pause. How is laryngitis sexy?)
ME: "I like Whispers because my wife shuts up."
GIRL: "Oh, that's nice."
ME: "I still hit her when we get home, though."
DUDE STANDING NEXT TO ME: "Yo... don't joke about that."
ME: "I'm not. I hit her all the time. She'll learn though."

28) After a scene, those of us at the bar were told to go back downstairs for a few minutes. On our way down, I saw the guy from the couch. I slapped him on the back.

"Oh man, I saw what you were doing. GREAT work, man. GREAT work. I really loved it."
"Thanks!"

29) I am nearly caught taking notes while trying to evesdrop on someone's conversation. When asked what I'm doing, I come up with a rather lame excuse.

"I'm a lyricist, so whenever I think about a song I'm writing... or some kind of meditation... I write it down right away so I don't lose it, you know?"

He doesn't believe me.

30) We are asked to go back upstairs. I do, and am again placed next to the blonde. This time, my sexual harrassment of her becomes more blatant. I am now grabbing her arm.

"One day, I will have you returned to me."
"Uhm, okay, whatever."

31) Two new girls are next to me. They look like girls you'd see in the background of a Ludacris video. I walk up to them to start hitting on them.

"Hey, ladies, let me get the pin number on your ATM card?"
"What you sayin' to me fool?"
"Let me get your pin number. I got a bad credit rating. I need help."
"Get yo ass away from me now."
"Come on, let me hold a $20."
"I ain't lettin' you hold shit."

32) We were pretty much done filming, when an interesting conversation took place between a guy and a girl.

GUY: "Y'see, I know how to tell if I can get a lady when I'm out. I like to study people."
LADY: "What you mean you study people?"
GUY: "I look at them and try to figure them out, so I can see if I can find and in."
LADY: "That sounds like you be stalking people."

(The guy then opens his eyes extremely wide open, like he's looking at naked breasts for the first time.)

GUY: "I DON'T STALK NOBODY! I STUDY PEOPLE!"

After that, we were told to leave.

Doing Stuff: Day 6, The Shrine of the Miraculous Medal

2006-12-05T07:07:00.000-08:00

Chelten Avenue isn't exactly a place where you'd expect hundreds of people to flock to. It's an ugly, beat-up area of town, tucked away in a hard-to-reach corner of the city where there isn't much but Chinese restaurants, 40 stores and blight.

But every Monday, literally thousands of people flock to the Shrine of the Miraculous Medal, a large church which is one of the most visited sites for Catholics in Philadelphia.

The Miraculous Medal dates back to 1830, when a young woman studying as part of the Sisters of Charity witnessed several appearances from the Vrign Mary, the last of which ordered her to make a medal in her image which would provide blessings for those who wore it around their neck.

The church in Philadelphia is a shrine to the power of the Miraculous Medal. It's a beautiful cathedral-type of building, one of the most stunning churches I've ever been in. And inside, the atmosphere is extremely solemn and a bit intense. During the church service, folks line up for a confessional, people openly weep in the pews and kneel before the various statues dedicated to Mary, many gripping their copy of the medal like a rosary.

I'm a somewhat practicing Catholic. I've always been skeptical of this kind of True Believer stuff. But who am I to doubt it when a priest starts running down the list of miracles which people subscribe to the power of a medal? My friend George whom I work with, his aunt from Minnesota came to town after she was diagnosed with cervical cancer and only given a few weeks to live. She prayed for nine consecutive Mondays at this church and now, 12 years later, she's still alive.

Doing Stuff: Day 5, Philadelphia Phantoms Hockey

2006-12-03T17:42:00.000-08:00

A Philadelphia Phantoms minor league hockey game must feel exactly like watching a sporting event in a labor camp. The few people who actually want to be at this event are frighteningly into it. The concussive non-stop jock jams, outdated metal and sound effects drained me to the point of submission. And the only point the mostly board crowd was into it came when a Phantom and a member of the Manitoba Moose got into a fistfight -- much as how I imagine prisoners enjoy watching fellow inmates brawl over phone cards in a cafeteria.

Doing Stuff: An Update

2006-12-03T13:03:00.000-08:00

* Pictures from the previous events have been added.

* I was supposed to go on a treasure hunt today with this company called RavenChase. However, they cancelled the event. The backup plan will see me attending a minor league hockey game in Philly. A little dissapointing.

Doing Stuff: Day 4, Paul Green School of Rock Music

2006-12-02T22:58:00.000-08:00

DEATH TO FALSE METAL

"Take a look to the sky just before you die
It is the last time you will
Blackened roar massive roar fills the crumbling sky
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry"
-- Lyrics to Mettalica's "For Whom The Bell Tolls", as sung by a Harry Potter looking kid wearing a cape with black make-up painted on his face.
============

This article won't be very long, because there isn't so much to say about the Paul Green School of Rock. I'll keep it simple: it rules.

The Paul Green School of Rock Music is a noted music school that teaches kids music, with their lessons culminating in a full-fledged rock extravaganza. Tonight, Ilana and I saw their "Classic Metal 101" performance held in a church hall on the University of Pennsylvania Campus.

(And, yes, it predates the movie.)

The show had the perfect blend of irony and pure awesomeness. The kids seemed to embrace the ridiculousness of being clad in evil capes and in 1989 burnout gear, playing amongst a sea of headbanging and dry ice. But something like this has legs only if the kids surprise you with their ability. That, they did. All of their songs were tight and some blew the roof off the joint. The only way their cover of Pantera's "Walk" could have been more accurate is if a crazed gunman stormed the stage. They were as good as any of the myriad of metal cover bands floating around the area, except they still have hope and dignity.

I'm not breaking new ground here when I say that rock music, especially metal, was made for teenagers. Metal made BY teenagers reminded me of why I loved going to punk shows in high school and college, before I gave up going to shows due to the hipster posturing associated with the music I like.

"It's all about the music for us," said Michael DiCarlo, a 15-year-old drummer in the Paul Green School of Rock Music.

DiCarlo, who has been playing drums since the age of 5, listed Metallica, Slayer, Lamb of God and Mastodon amongst his favorite bands. And tonight, he got to not just play the part of a rock star, but he actually was one.

"Not everyone gets to do something like this," he said.

Ilana and I are definitely going to go to more Paul Green shows. The one I think that has the most potential is their "Killer Queen" night scheduled in January.

EDIT: Changed the spelling of Michael's last name. It's been a few while since I've interviewed people at a spot story. I forgot the general rule of asking for EVERYONE'S last name when I do an interview. Sorry about that.

Plugging Something

2006-12-01T23:56:00.000-08:00

I wanted to plug something for the kids I interviewed at the wrestling show this weekend for graciously taking themselves away from watching the action to talk to a stranger. The crew of them are wrestling soon with the Pro Wrestling Unplugged group. Here goes:

PWU/ACPW, Dec. 7th, Cabrini College in suburban Philly

PWU VS. JCW (some sort of Insane Clown Possee thing) Dec. 16th at the New Alhambra Arena

PWU Dec. 30th (they didn't write down where it was)

Doing Stuff; Day 3, Women's Extreme Wrestling

2006-12-01T22:08:00.000-08:00

"Kill that bitch! Yeah! Fuck that bitch up! Yeah!" -- some guy in a Terrell Owens jersey, tonight at the New Alhambra Area in South Philadelphia.
********

The pro wrestling capital of America is Philadelphia.

In the 1980's, Philadelphia was one of the only cities in the country that could draw huge shows for the two national rivals, the WWF and the NWA. In the early 90's, the Tri-State Wrestling Federation hosted shows for the nation's most hardcore wrestling fans. This audience soon became obsessed with Eastern Championship Wrestling, which becme Extreme Championship Wrestling, one of the most beloved and influential wrestling promotions of all time. And today, Philadelphia is home to both the Ring of Honor and Combat Zone Wrestling promotions, two of the most succesful independent wrestling companies in the nation.

Tonight, I attended the Woman's Extreme Wrestling card at the New Alhambra Arena (formerly a bingo hall which gained infamy as the ECW Arena) with my friends Steffan and Sean. Steffan is 28 and is a doctor who works at a large hospital in Center City. Sean has a Ph.D. in developmental psychology and is a professor at an area college. Neither had seen professional wrestling in person before. I, of course, have seen professional wrestling live and in person a few dozen times.

Pro wrestling was easily my favorite thing in the world from when I was a child until my mid-20's. (Not coincidentally, this is when I started to have sex regularly.) I'd be lying if the allure of going to see ECW live and in person didn't factor in my decision to go to La Salle University. I'd also be lying if I told you that, at the age of 17, I didn't harbor dreams of becoming the next Bobby "The Brain" Heenan or James E. Cornette, the two dominant bad guy wrestling managers of the era.

Steffan had at least watched wrestling in college during the industry's big boom period, mostly following the local (and truly insane) ECW. Sean had never watched wrestling and had no idea what to expect.

We arrived to the New Alhambra Arena (marvelously located underneath the I-95 trestle next to a discounted clothing store known as Forman Mills, the last store in the world where one can purchase off-the-rack Zubaz pants) a little after the show started. When we arrived, we were let right in. We didn't have to buy any tickets. A security guard just let us walk in without a second thought.

The atmosphere was magnificent. The ECW Arena, in the promotion's peak, was known for its rabid, rowdy and violent atmosphere. This crowd saw attendees largely talking amongst themselves, drinking beer, only to occasionally yell out a comment like "U-S-A! U-S-A! GO HOME YOU DUMB JAPANESE BITCH!" or "PUNCH HER TITS!"

Being a longtime wrestling fan, I can tell who is a good wrestler and who is a bad wrestler. Most of the women wrestling in this thing? They were obviously strippers, most likely from Cheerleaders located down the street. Pro wrestling is usually a combination of athleticism and really low-brow theater; this event was largely tanned girls with back tattoos rolling around on a mat, ripping at each other's clothes in front of a crowd of drunk men celebrating the violence.

This was a perfect opportunity for me to quote dialogue from the movie The Accused, an opportunity I did not let go to waste.

For one match, the WEW ring announcer told us that "Chief Jane Strong-ho" (a play off legendary Native American wrestler Cheif Jay Strongbow) would be coming to the ring to show her new rain dance. Some young looking girl then came running out in an Indian headdress obviously purchased on discount from the Halloween costume superstore up the street as the Florida State University/Atlanta Braves "Tomohawk Chop" song played. Then some big biker woman came out and beat the shit out of her. I believe this was an allegory for white Europeans stealing the land of the Native American. Only instead of using corrupt treaties or a smallpox blanket, the conquerer rubbed her vagina in her enemies face.

One match did have a very intriguing storyline. Before the match began, some woman came out flanked by two other women in matching "Sexy Cop" outfits, grinding their asses against the steel railing. The woman, wearing a homemade t-shirt which read "Bigger is Better", then told the crowd that she "changed a lot since the last time you saw me. I graduated college AND law school! And now I'm a judge!"

Right after that, some other woman clad in bondage leather came running into the ring (after possibly inhaling a Len Bias-sized amount of cocaine backstage) holding a microphone and a car air freshener.

"HAHAHAHAHAHA! DO YOU KNOW HOW I GOT HERE TONIGHT? HAHAHAHAHAHA! I STOLE (enter in her opponent's name here, I have no idea what was) CAR! IT WAS A NICE CAR, TOO! A RED SPORTSCAR, MODEL 2456XL! BUT I DON'T HAVE THE CAR! BECAUSE I WRECKED IT, BITCH! HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA! AND THIS AIR FRESHENER IS ALL THAT IS LEFT! YOU BITCH!!! HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA! YOU GOT NO WHEELS NO MORE BITCH! HAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!"

Another match pitted some goth-ish type girl (and her manager) against a Christian rock chick. How was the audience informed of her religious belief? Simply because she had ROMANS 3:05 written in tasteful magic marker down the left pant leg of her stylishly ripped jeans. The goth girl's manager grabbed the Christian chick's Bible to distract her, but -- SHOCK! -- the referee got accidentally hit and someone beat the other person.

I got bored watching the wrestling and wandered off to talk to some folks. The first guy I met looked like an extra from an AC/DC video -- jeff cap and a sleeveless jean jacket. His name was Chris Sixx, a resident of Landsdowne, located right outside the city. And he, too, was a lifelong fan of pro wrestling who estimated he has attended over a hundred shows live.

Chris said he thought about being a wrestler at one point, but didn't because of how notoriously cut-throat the wrestling industry is.

"I used to live for this," Chris said.

(Many wrestling fans today are down on the industry. The WWE, a company publicly traded on the New York Stock Exchange, is the only bigtime promotion around, succesfully purchasing or destroying any legitimate competition. Two decades ago, there were many succesful wrestling promotions which were regional based. But with the advent of cable television and the like, there's only one game in town. I'm not one to really get up in arms about the corporatization of America ruining our culture but, fuck, it absolutely destroyed something I grew up obsessing over.)

I told him a little bit about my project -- events away from the mainstream that Philadelphians attend -- and asked him why he thought pro wrestling was so popular in our city.

"Because it's such a gritty city. It's so hardcore man. That's what we're about in Philly," he said. "Wrestlers will put their body on their lines to please the fans here. And we like that."

I then wandered to another part of the arena, where I came across a group of 20-ish guys who looked a lot like I did at that age: a bit nerdy and out-of-place amongst the more blue-collar (to be politically correct) crowd in attendance. I talked to them about my project and they told me about how they were training to become professional wrestlers themselves.

This dream of becoming a wrestler has been with Ian Clair, a 22-year-old resident of Maple Shade over the river in South Jersey, since he was a kid.

"We have a sick bloodlust here," he told me. "Even the Wings (Philadelphia's fairly popular indoor lacrosse team)... ECW. CZW. ROH. We like to see people beat the crap out of each other here."

Clair knows full-well that pro wrestling is "fake." But he still wants to do it.

"It's a big act. But I want to be the guy that gets cheered. Or I want to be the guy that gets booed. I like being the guy who comes off the stage and gets cheers. I want to hold the belt that says I am the best of the best," he said.

How many people in the arena did he think had the same dream he had to become a pro wrestler?

"About 99%."

Right then, I started to think about my project. The two events I've attended previously -- one where people try to live life in a previous, simpler time by dancing in the style of the colonial era, another where grown men take a kid's game seriously -- all saw people trying to escape the here and now to be someone else, even if just for a few minutes out of the week.

Why do Philadelphians want to be someone else? Why do Americans want to be someone else?

"Life in Philly is hard," Clair said. "Life in general is hard. We're all looking for an outlet. No one wants to get stuck in the same place. They want to find something hot and stay there. They don't want to be back like Joe Schmoe, selling lunch meat at the store in the corner. They want to say that they made it."

After the show ended, the ring announcer informed the crowd that the wrestlers of the night would be performing at a bar down the street. Naturally, Steffan, Sean and I went.

While there, I asked Sean what he thought of the night, being a pro wrestling neophyte.

"I don't know how to process this yet. Or when I'm going to start processing this," he said. "It was a theatrical performance but it was like an amateur night at a strip club or a comedy club. How does someone go from being born to performing at Women's Extreme Wrestling? It's kind of sad. There's something really degrading about seeing someone have yell 'Fuck you , you crackwhore' at them. In what world is this your world?"

Doing Stuff: Day 2, The Pottsgrove Table Tennis Club

2006-11-30T19:22:00.000-08:00

http://www.speakeasy.org/~hackney/pottsgrove/

For years, my name sent terror and shockwaves throughout campgrounds, basements and rec rooms throughout the east coast. The mere whisper of my name caused folks to shudder for I was the most dominating ping pong player of my childhood.

Okay, so I'm prone to a bit of hyperbole. But in a lifetime spent playing and sucking at any athletic event, I found one sport that I was actually good at. Table tennis.

The first time I played ping pong was on a Boy Scout camping trip in elementary school. I didn't have much respect around my fellow Boy Scouts: I was a bony, scrawny nerd from another neighborhood who was in Boy Scouts largely because I thought it was expected of me; they were largely the sons of bike gang lieutenants who were in Boy Scouts because of juvenial probation cases. The ScoutMasters were largely a bunch of drunks who'd rather stay in musty cabins with pre-teens than with their own families. (I'm guessing they don't let gays in Boy Scouts as a whole transference thing.) The only merit badge I would have earned in scouting was in "DIGNITY STRIPPING" from the constant humilations I endured.

But on one camping trip, there was a ping pong table in the rec center. I waited patiently and finally got a chance to play. And play I did, beating person after person after person. (I'd like to say that I won my peers respect that night via ping pong and I soon fit in with the rest of my troop. Instead, they threw my socks into a campfire.)

I apparently had a gift born with me to dominate others on the ping pong table. I became obsessed with ping pong. My family had a RV that we used for weekend camping trips, I begged them to only go to campgrounds with active ping pong rooms. My dad bought a ping pong table for me and put in our basement. I spent hours playing my dad, brother, friends. I took on all comers and rarely lost. I even subscribed to the National Table Tennis Gazette Newsletter to find out about the table tennis scene: how the US Olympic Team trained, their strategies, how they played the game. I mastered how to use spin, how to counter spin and when to play defense and when to attack.

My ultimate ping pong moment came on a family vacation at Lake George in the Adirondacks. There was another teen playing on the table and he knew what he was doing. We soon played each other and it was a great experience. I finally met someone who also was a ping pong dork. I always wanted to be able to return balls from about 15 feet from behind the table, like I had watched the pros do on the rare times table tennis was broadcast on the Olympics or on ESPN. I had my chance to do this against this kid, since there were no steps behind me like in my parents basement. Our battles felt like epics to me, our games going into overtimes, back-and-forth affairs rivalling Connors vs. McEnroe and Sampras vs. Agassi.

(I'd like to say I met a friend via ping-pong. I didn't, the kid was a douchebag who had a temper tantrum after one heated battle and broke the leg of the table after kicking it.)

My dream of ping pong glory and a slot on the U.S. Olympic team, however, was fleeting. The bigtime table tennis players play at the New Jersey Table Tennis Club in Westfield, which was about 40 minutes from my folks house. Their membership fees were steep and my dad had to do things like work and go to grad school as opposed to shlepping his asshole son around the state so he can play weirdoes in a rec room game. I also, eventually, got a life.

After college, I decided to start playing serious table tennis. I finally joined the NJTTC. My first meeting was an odd affair -- Ben, the guy who ran the place wore a flashy tracksuit and a sneer, telling me that it would be a while before I'd get good enough to really play at the club. The regular members looked like they lived at the joint and hated Ben's guts, at one point plotting an overthrow of his rule. (One of the members was a Rutgers grad student in Poli Sci, an Asian kid with a futuristic mullet. "His type of leadership has come up several times in my coursework. He's such a top-down ruler.")

The most bizarre person who played was Joyce, an overweight middle-aged woman who would play in Spandex and frequently curse and throw her paddle around. Everyone who played was intense, but you'd think by her reactions that her victory in ping pong would have given the world a cure for Muscular Dystrophy or something.

While clicking around the Internet, I also discovered Joyce fancied herself a poet, as made evident by her work about U.S. Olympic Team Member Lily Yip.

(http://www.lilyyip.com/flowpoem.htm)

Train when you train, take a lesson or two.
It will help the sport be better for you.
Put your training INSIDE, when your keeping score.
Have fun, enjoy the game, and do nothing more.
You can be sure, it won't feel the same,
when you try to train during a game.
A single thing, you will NOT learn,
not strokes, or spins, or how to turn.
When all you think about is doing what's right,
and that you better get busy and put on a good fight.
When you go over all the errors that you make,
while checking every step you take.
Then you will notice all that's wrong
that's not really playing Ping Pong.
Neither Lily or me, learn what we need to know
But then when we play, We Must Let It Flow.

After about two weeks, I quit the New Jersey Table Tennis Club.
-------------------------------------------------------------------

While starting this adventure, I started looking for a table tennis club. I found one about 30 minutes away in Pottstown, in the shadow of the Limerick Nuclear Power Plant.

I was hoping these people would be as intense and as crazy as the folks at the New Jersey Table Tennis Club. They weren't: they were all really nice guys who just liked to play ping pong. I played two games against Shelly, a guy in his 50's who has been playing ping-pong seriously for about 20 years who has a ranking which qualifies him as an "intermediate level" player according to the United States Table Tennis Association, and one against Charlie, another long-time player.

I lost every game I played (Table Tennis games are best-of-5 sets up to scores of 11) and saw a lot of room for improvement. I reacted to what my opponents were doing (and made poor decisions while doing so) as opposed to doing anything to put them on the defensive. But each game, I felt like I improved and more than held my own considering I haven't played ping pong in several years and played against guys who've entered national tournaments.

After this experience is over, I plan on going back. Who knows? Maybe with some practice and experience, my dream of being an Olympic table tennis player could get a little closer.

(EDIT: Photos of this and the Germantown Social Dancers will be up as soon as we find the cord to hook up to the digital.)

Doing Stuff: Day 1, Germantown Country Dancers

2006-11-29T19:31:00.000-08:00

"One, two... now post! Post and corner! Now full circle left turn!"

When I started brainstorming ideas for this Doing Stuff project a few weeks back, I checked all kinds of weekly listings for events to attend. My eyes, for some reason, were drawn immediately to one event: The Germantown Country Dancers. (http://www.germantowncountrydancers.org/)

Their webpage was somewhat vague about what this group did. Their description of English Country Dancers follows: "English Country Dance is social, community dancing. Dancers take a different partner for each dance of the evening, and join a 'set' of couples. Each couple dances a series of figures with another couple, then repeats the same figures with each couple in the set. There's minimal footwork: If you can walk you can dance!"

The website also said that newcomers were always welcome, and that the only requirements were loose, baggy clothing and sturdy, flat shoes.

Well, I know how to walk! And I also own flat shoes and baggy clothing. This mysterious form of dancing seemed like a perfect way to start this project.

The weekly event of the Germantown Country Dancers is held at a Friends Meeting House (for those out of the area, these are places where Quakers go and practice their faith and they are fairly common in the Philadelphia area) in Lower Merion, not to far from my apartment. I arrived about 30 minutes early, as suggested, to get an orientation as to what to expect.

A mustachioed man in a worn, quasi-Hawaiian shirt approached me. His giant nametag read Sam.

"Have you ever done any dancing?"

"Only when I was drunk at my wedding."

"Oh... no, that's not what I meant."

Sam then explained to me what the Germantown Country Dancers do. "Have you ever seen any of the movies adapted from Jane Austen?"

I told him that I was familiar with them, which was a pretty blatant lie, unless you count Clueless. But now I knew the type of dancing these folks did... old-timey group dancing with a variety of partners.

Orientation was with Sam, a middle-aged woman named Jane and a man with a greying ponytail who kind of looked like Mick Foley. Sam led me through a variety of dances and steps, all of which involve intricate Figure 8 patterns and spinning in a circle while changing partners.

This seemed pretty simple and easy. Except for the Mick Foley lookalike. He kept on emphasizing making eye contact with your partners, especially when you're moving with them. He grabbed me and started moving across the room with me, staring me dead in the eyes with Swayze-like intensity.

This weeks event, I was told, was special. This was the last informal dance before the Predominantly Playford Ball, one of the big events on the Philadelphia English Social Dancing calendar.

The small meeting room soon became filled with about 50-60 people, most of whom were in their 50's and 60's. Some of the people were in clothing one would expect to see in a period piece from the Austen-era, others were in normal gear, and still others were so frumpy I couldn't tell if they were dressed in costume or not.

The partnering rule was simple. People just kind of approach you to dance and show you the steps. Sam would lead us through a run through of the dance, and then the music (performed live) would begin.

The dances I performed in were so complex, especially for someone as clumsy as myself. There were so many crosses, spins and movements that it was impossible for me. And because this is a group activity where one's movements effect the rest of the group (between four and 20 people, depending upon the dance being performed), I could sense people getting frustrated with me consistently messing everything up, especially since these people had a big ball coming up in a few days where they all wanted to nail their preformances.

But people's frustrations were more in a "kindly math teacher trying to teach pre-calc to a kid who can't even do long division" way. Everyone was exceptionally nice and helpful to me, despite my constant blundering.

In the middle of the dance, I recognized a familiar face. It was this lady Ann I used to work with. And fairly closely. After a few minutes, she of course recognized me. We both had a whole "why are you here" moment between us.

I hadn't even considered that I would find someone I knew at one of these events. and I never would have considered that Ann listed English Social Dancing as one of her hobbies. She seemed like an incredibly normal, average person who did stuff with her children and family.

I had no idea what to expect going into this event, and I had no idea about the types of people I'd meet. But it all makes sense. Even the most average, sensible person has a desire or a passion. Some people hide theirs. But other people enact on theirs. And dancing with other people who want to try and live out a little bit of a fantasy of life in a different era isn't just reasonable, but it's also pretty fun.

(EDIT: I'm going to put pictures up with this as soon as we can find the cord to hook up to our camera.)

Doing Stuff: An Introduction

2006-11-28T10:41:00.000-08:00

We keep having problems with Comcast. I was getting really frustrated with the shitty service when I had an epiphany: I am getting pissed off about not being able to watch television. Getting pissed off about not being able to watch television is absolutely retarded. Especially considering that the only shows I enjoy are The Wire and The Office.

This flash gave me a brainstorm. From now until Dec. 22 (the date I leave on my honeymoon), I will be doing as many "fun" things as I possibly can. Every night after work, and every weekend day, I will do something that I've never done in the city of Philadelphia and its proximity.

Here are some qualifiers:
A) Doing something like going to the movies is out. Unless it's a special film seminar on an arcane topic.
B) Going to a bar is out, unless there's a strange event at the bar.
C) I might have to miss a day because of unforseen circumstances involving household responsibilities. Or if there's really bad weather.
D) Everything I attend must happen within a one-hour ish drive from my apartment. This means I can and will consider events in South Jersey, parts of The Lehigh Valley and even Delaware. Not that there's anything interesting in Delaware.

If you're reading this and have any suggestions, let me know of your idea. The more ridiculous, the better. The more boring, the better. It really doesn't matter what it is, as long as it doesn't involve me sitting on a couch wasting away watching crap.

My Personal Jesus Is Your MVP

2006-11-20T11:39:00.000-08:00

For most of August and September, I had a creepy obsession on another human being. His name? Ryan Howard, the king of hitting 500+ foot home runs, clutch hits and the man who made my summer that much more special.

There were about seven games when I started the M-V-P chants in my section. I can at least take some of the credit for The Ryan King's award.

The best part about this, I don't think anyone in Philadelphia really cares after Donovan McNabb snapped his ACL into nineteen parts yesterday.

If I had any extra money, I'd get a season ticket plan for next year.

MVP

Philadelphia's Smoking Ban And Me: A Letter To Mayor John Street And Councilman Michael Nutter

2006-11-19T16:21:00.000-08:00

Dear Mayor Street And Councilman Nutter:

I am a lifelong Philadelphian who is writing to the two of you about the recent legislation the two of you helped pass which has eliminated smoking at bars and taverns in our fine city.

I understand your decision to do so as it allows non-smokers and bar employees to not suffer the dire ramifications of secondhand smoke. In addition, many people hate coming home from a night out reeking of cigarette smoke. Helping these people is a good thing.

But while I understand your decision, I do not applaud your decision.

You see, Mr. fancypants Mayor and Councilman, when I was nine years old, I discovered I had a unique talent. At that young age, I was at one of my uncle's poker games, and one of his buddies took down my pants and shoved a cigarette into my anus.

"DANCE" my uncles and his buddies yelled, so I did, dancing away, shaking my tender heiny as the cigarette butt whittled away in my rectum.

I have been doing this stunt for years. When I turned 21, I was finally able to do it for bar patrons throughout our great city.

Nearly 30% of last year's income came from when I would randomnly show up to bars to show off my famous trick.

"Hey, does anyone want to see me smoke a cigarette out of my asshole," I'd ask whenever I'd go into a bar. No matter what people said, I'd hop up on the bar and stick a cigarette into my ass while it puffed away, holding out an upside-down mesh hat for people to contribute money to me.

While you may have made some of your constituency happy with your decision to ban smoking, you've taken away both my livelihood and dignity in the process.

I hope you reconsider your smoking ban in Philadelphia pubs and bars. Maybe I'll go to your next council meeting and show you what Philadelphia drinkers are now missing.

Sincerely,
Gregg
Philadelphia's #1 Anus Cigarette Smoker

New project

2006-11-17T14:21:00.000-08:00

www.gethardbrothers.blogspot.com

That's an idea my brother came up with. Basically, it's a blog where me and Chris will talk about each other. Any stories I have related to my brother will now end up there. This will be fun until it ends up bloody.

I'm still working on relaunching my own page here. Probably in a week or two. I've been really busy with school and an upcoming comedy thing.

G-Late

Hey Everyone

2006-11-10T13:45:00.000-08:00

My blog is on hiatus. There's no drama behind it (although there was certainly drama this week.) I'm sick of looking at this format/template. There are a lot of stories I want to rewrite. There were a lot of things that were kinda pointless. So, I'm going to go through everything and start over. Stuff should start coming back up pretty quickly.

If you want to get a hold of me, hit me up at gregg_gethard@yahoo.com

The World's Widest Bridge

2006-05-29T21:35:00.000-07:00

This is the story I read on Sunday. Longtime readers may recognize this from one of my earliest posts. This is a rewritten version and I think it's one of my best things yet. Enjoy!
***********************

The best kinds of jobs are the ones that hire you without checking your references or making you pee in a cup. I speak from experience.

Last summer, I worked as a tour guide for The Big Bus Company, a group which specializes in taking tourists around Philadelphia's Center City on a double decker bus. This is not to be confused with Philadelphia Trolley Works, a company which specializes in taking tourists around Philadelphia's Center City on a red trolley.

"You're in a great spot," said Tony, the crooked-toothed Brit manager of The Big Bus upon my hiring. "You're working for a great company. Not like those assholes at the Trolley Works. They want to take away our livelihood. Our goal is to take away theirs!"

The other new employees were similar to me -- college/grad students looking for a summer job. Training was simple. We were handed a thich, black finder filled with pages upon pages of minutiae about Philadelphia -- information about how many steps there are in front of the Art Museum (where Rocky Balboa ran up in the first Rocky movie), about the exact date William Penn landed in Philadelphia, and how many rowhomes are located at Elphrath's Alley. We were told to memorize as many facts as possible while we sat on the bus, listening to the tour of veteran Big Bus employees, constantly looping around Center City, listening to the same tidbits of information over and over again.

Our group started out by touring with Brian, a 50-years-old PhD candidate in Early American History from Temple, complete with a greying pony tail and the wide eyes of a 'Nam vet who participated in My Lai. Which he did. Brian's tours were gritty, urban experience, as if Martin Scorcese was directing a film about Philadelphia tour guides. Brian recited the facts of various spots on the tour, but augmented this by revealing his paranoid distrust of all levels of government.

Brian loved debunking myths about American history, largely to a group of tourists who didn't even know what it was that was actually being debunked. "Everyone knows that John Hancock signed the Constitution the way he did so King George would get the message. Right? RIGHT? Well... THAT'S A MYTH," Brian said, with an angry sneer as he proceded to make eye contact with each and every single passenger on board. "Handwriting analysis reveals that John Hancock always signed his signature this way. Don't believe what they want you to."

Brian became most enthusiastic whenever the tour approach Penn's Landing, with its clear view of the USS Constitution docked across the Delaware in Camden. Again, he started to make eye contact to each and every single member of the tour, all of whom were doing their best to avoid looking at Brian in the eye: "That boat over there makes me tear up every time I see it. You see, I didn't run like some people did, like some presidents did. I served in 'Nam. And do you know where that got me? I ened up face down in a rice paddy taking fire from the Cong. They had us pinned down. Death surrounded me. My best friends were being killed. But that boat was in the distance, and it started to fire its guns, and I cried, because that meant I would live for one more day."

Ernie was another veteran tour guide. Ernie was an exceptionally off-the-cuff black guy, the Rudy Ray Moore of Philadelphia tour guides. He was completely unflappable -- one second giving us tips on how to handle conversation while stuck in city gridlock, the next being able to turn around and to get the phone number of a woman coming out of the Gallery Mall. Ernie relied less on history on his tour and more on pop culture, pointing out to bus passengers where different Philadelphia-area musicians lived and the sites of various TV and movie shoots. "You see that shop over there? Lord and Taylor? That used to be called Wannamaker's and that's where they filmed Mannequin! You see that bar? They filmed a scene in Philadelphia with Tom Hanks there. You know the scene I'm talking about! It's the scene where people make fun of AIDS. You know, the deadly HIV virus."

The passengers on the tours remind you of how big and diverse America is. This creates an interesting dichotomy. On one tour with Ernie, the tour consisted of two groups of people. Sitting in the front was a family of three from suburban Newton, Mass. -- the daughter was wearing a jacket with the insignia of her private school, Mom had a shopping bag in her hand, and Dad was wearing a cap for a country club. In the back of the bus, with their teacher, was a group of students from an "alternative education" school from the South Bronx -- inner city teenagers wearing the latest in urban fashion.

Ernie led the tour, trying to placate both audiences -- talking to the kids in the back one second about Beanie Siegel's favorite clothing store and then to the preppie Americans the next about the Federal Reserve building. The divergence between these two worlds came between our stop after the Philadelphia Zoo and our stop in West Philadelphia -- the part of the tour that took us through Mantua, one of the worst neighborhoods in Philadelphia. This part of the tour was always interesting: sneakers dangling from telephone wires, abandoned buildings, grafiti, homeless people smashing beer bottles, etc.

"Yo, it's like our neighborhood," one of the kids in the back said to laughter from his schoolmates, while the white family all had their hands cupped, staring down at the floor of the bus, the unmistakable look of white guilt. One of the kids in the bus then started yelling at a group of teenagers off the bus, until his teacher told him to sit down. "They was flashing gang signs at us," he explained. A really tough looking crew of teenagers was at a street corner, yelling threats and making gestures at us. Even Ernie, always cool under pressure, was nervous and told the driver to hightail it.

At the end of that tour, Ernie stood at the front of the bus. "Thank you all for coming out. This... this tour meant a lot to me. I hope you all learned something from me. Maybe, maybe all of you could go back to your own neighborhood and start doing tours there." Ernie then looked at the teenage daughter of the wealthy white famiy. "Even you, darling. You could even be a tour guide if you want." I had a feeling that Mom and Dad had different career plans for their daughter.

My least favorite trainer was Albert. Albert never stopped talking. It was like he had ADD, ate 55 pixie sticks and also did an 8-ball of cocaine. Albert's Asian, which he pointed out on his tour roughly 75 times, all in ways geared to make tourists as squeamish as possible. "Here is Roman Catholic High School. I didn't go there. You all must think I'm good at math. People think all Asians are good at math. This is SEPTA Headquarters. They run buses here in Philadelphia. And trains. No one likes them. You probably think I suck at driving."

After two weeks of riding around, non-stop, on the 4-mile loop, us newcomers were finally allowed to give tours. Donna went first. She was this heavyset woman with big bangs. The first day of work, before they handed us our uniform (purple sweater and yellow T-Shirt, all with The Big Bus logo), she came wearing a pair of skin-tight black Spandex leggings, paired with black socks and sandals. I'm not a fashion expert, but I recognized this as a bad choice.

There was a family of five on the tour. They sat quietly in the back, not paying any attention to the tour guides, looking out the side of the bus at the scenery of The City of Brotherly Love. We were stuck in Chinatown, parked in front of the Wawa at 10th and Arch. "That's Wawa. That's a conveeeeenience store," she said, her Philly-accent (with a "y" sound which shows up inexplicably with "oh" sounds -- so "home" is somehow "hyome") really noticeable and grating. "Wawa's pretty allright. I get cigarettes from the one up by my block. They also don't charge in the Mac machines, if you ever need to tap Mac." She then started looking around the bus and looked at Ernie. "I... I can't do this. I'm not any good at this," and she walked off the bus.

I finally got to do my first tour. I was by myself, with one woman, in her mid-50's, alone. She looked like the type of woman who would openly sob while watching Designing Women reruns she Tivo'd off of Oxygen. She sat right next to me while I spoke into a microphone, looking up at me as I told her about when the Liberty Bell was actually cracked and how the Girard Avenue Bridge was at one time the world's widest bridge. She then politely asked me stop. She had just moved to Philadelphia from Seattle, after a very painful divorce, and didn't know where anything was in the city. She asked if we would be driving past any supermarkets. Then she tenderly grabbed me on the wrist.

"Have you ever made a big change in your life?"

After spending two weeks on a bus, I came to a stunning conclusion: tour guides are complete and total whores. The veteran guys were completely shameless in their quest to recieve tips. It's one thing to say "tipping is appreciated." It's another to stand in front of the exit and say things like, "I appreciate your tips, I'm going through a really tough time right now, my daughters are going through a lot and we need to think about their future." In addition, as part of our "training fee," we had to give the veteran tour guides half of our tip money, even though they largely just slept on the back of the bus.

On my second solo tour, our bus driver rear ended a Volkswagon right outside of the Greyhound Station in Chinatown. The bus drivers were a notoriously shady group of people. The bus driver today was Charles, this toothless guy who was built like a second string high school basketball center -- 6'7" and maybe weighing 115 pounds. Charles bragged about his body frame. He stopped eating so 40's of malt liquor would "work better." After we struck the car, Charles put the bus in park and got out.

"Hey, motherfucker, hey! Watch what the fuck you're doing, motherfucker," he yelled, even though we had rear ended a car stopped for a red light, the driver of the car spoke no English and this was in full view of 15 paying customers. This exchange lasted for about 15 minutes, with a group of people watching a grown man threaten an Asian woman until the police came.

It got pretty boring reciting facts about Philadelphia. People just seemed bored when I told them about the history of art deco condominium complexes. I decided to veer course from my training. My presentations became less factually based and more about my ability to entertain myself.

I began every tour by starting out strong. Our tours had to begin with a recitation of safety procedures, warning passengers to remain seated until we came to a complete stop. I told the audience this was done to preserve their good looks. "Ladies and gentlemen, you are by far the best looking group of people I have ever encountered on a bus. Especially you, ma'am. Your eyes sparkle with the intensity of 1,001 fireflies." I sometimes changed it from fireflies to candlelabras or tire fires.

The veteran tour guides all told the same lame joke on Ben Franklin Parkway. There, next to the future home of the Barnes Foundation art museum, stand to statues, one called The Good Teacher and the other The Good Mother. "People ask me where The Good Father is. I'll tell you. He's around the corner at The Good Tavern having The Good Drink watching The Good Game."

I made my own joke. "People ask me where The Good Father is. I'll tell you. He's unsupportive of my dreams."

I also loved driving down Spruce Street, a residential block downtown. We'd drive by one rowhome, where I announced to the patrons: "At this address and 955 Spruce Street lives my ex-girlfriend, Cindy. She is one of dozens of Philadelphia-area women who have filed restraining orders against me. Don't worry, Cindy. I'm 50 feet away! And I'll be back in exactly one hour!"

Asking for tips makes me feel really squeamish. The customers pay about $30 for a ticket. I made a decent hourly wage. I just felt like a total asshole asking for tip money, especially since my job pretty much became me just fucking around with strangers for a few hours a day. I was headed to the train station after the tour one day. One of our passengers, a well-to-do guy in his 60's, he wanted directions to his hotel. I told him I would walk with him, since I was headed that way anyways. We walked to where he was staying. He reached for his wallet. "Here's something for helping me out." I told him no thanks. "No, really, you didn't have to do that." I told him that I was doing it to be nice, that it wasn't any extra effort, and I would have done it even if I wasn't a tour guide. "No, I insist. Take this. The money isn't a problem for me." He then reached into my pocket and placed in a $5 bill, like I was a stripper.

I was getting really sick of The Big Bus. The tours were entertaining, but the company sucked. Our schedules would get changed without any notification. Imagine routinely showing up to work to find out that you didn't have to work. Or not showing up to work when you were supposed to. This happened to me every day for six straight days.

Modern American cities were not designed with shoddily built double decker busses in mind. Frequently, I had to get off the bus and help the driver navigate a tight turn. Or, I had to tell passengers to duck as tree branches came flying at their head. I turned this into a game. "1-2-3 DUCK," I'd say. "Did anyone get their scalps lopped off by that rail trestle?" Sometimes, when the tree branches were too low, I'd ask the bus driver to stop, so our passengers could get onto the lower deck and not risk decapitation. They would always grumble about this. "We got a schedule to keep, I can't be stopping the bus so you can get passengers downstairs. We gotta be on time, man. Fuck them bushes," Charles told me.

One group of passengers on my bus were a group of three lunkhead 30-somethings. They liked my offbeat tour a lot. So much so that, afterwards, they wanted to go get a drink with me. We headed to The Locust Bar, where they immediately bought me a shot of Bush Mills. They were medical sales associates in from San Diego for a convention.

"You're a great tour guide," their ringleader said. "You'd be great at medical sales. You could clear $75K a year, no problem. I'll tell you what. If you're ever out my way, you look me up. I can get you a job, no problem. $75K a year."

He handed me his business card. "So, you know a place where we can score some blow?"

My favorite tourists were foreigners. All the foreigners, no matter what repressive regime they are from, always celebrate when they drive under the flag of their country on the Parkway. My favorite group was a family of seven from South Korea. They were the warmest, friendliest people, asking me about how to say things like "sandwich" or "truck." They taught me the South Korean national anthem. First, you clap your hands rhythmically. Then you chant "TAAAAY MAHHH HIIINNN GUA." Then you clap some more. Then you chant "TAAAAAY MAHHHHH HIIINNN GOOOOO."

In exchange, I taught them the closest thing we have to a national anthem in Philadelphia. "E-A-G-L-E-S EAGLES." We drove by a statue of Frank Rizzo. They asked me who he was. "He is Philadelphia's version of Kim Jong Il." After the tour, they thanked me, gave me hugs and kisses and took my photograph.

They were my last tour for the day. My friend Pat from college was having a party that night to celebrate his completion from medical school. I forgot to bring a change of clothes, so I was stuck in my Big Bus uniform. Most of the people at the party were all med school students, a lot from UPenn or other Ivy League schools. They all just nodded at me, no one wanting to introduce themselves to me.

I congratulated Pat for his getting through med school. "Thanks, man. It's great that we're all doing so well with everything." I then waited for a beat. "Pat, I'm a fucking tour guide."

I knew I had to quit. I just needed the right demeaning situation to justify walking out of another crummy job.

My salvation came at the corner of Broad and Walnut. Here, a middle-aged woman pointed something out on the sidewalk to me. It was a homeless man, laid out on the sidewalk, dead. A businessman in a suit stood over him, trying to flag down a car.

I walked downstairs. I asked Charles if he could call 9-1-1 on his cell phone or if he could contact base and tell them to do so.

"I can't do that, man. We on a schedule. He's just a homeless dude. Don't worry, someone will find him. If he's already dead, who cares?"

He then stopped at our next stop, where our ticket sales woman, the mother of his child, asleep on the lower tier of the bus, got on, and sold him a dimebag of pot. I got off the bus when we returned and left. Never again would I tell people that City Hall was 565 feet high or how many murals have been painted in Philadelphia.

Almost Famous

2005-12-18T19:37:00.000-08:00

I no longer had to work nights, meaning I actually had free time. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I certainly didn’t have any girls to date.

My younger brother, Chris, is an actor in New York City. He looks like me. He sounds like me. We’re pretty much the same person. Except he gets laid. A lot.

I put two and two together. The only seeming difference between us is that he gets up on stage and I sit in an office all day long. I was breezing through the local paper and I saw an ad for the local theater in Montclair. They offer acting classes. I immediately called them up and write them a $150 check.

I’d figure the acting class would give me something to do, to see if I had some undiscovered stage presence and also maybe help me meet some girls. Instead, I stumbled across the strangest group of people I have ever met in my life. What I took was less of an acting class and more of a live action roleplay of a Lewis Carroll novel.

WEEK 1

I had my first acting class last night and I still don’t know if this was the biggest mistake of my life or the best decision I’ve ever made.

The instructor’s name is Bob, who is more flamboyant than even Jm J. Bullock. He looks and talks like every audience member from Behind The Actor’s Studio. He introduced himself by talking in non-stop new age platitudes about “finding ourselves and each other” and “getting what we need out of this.”

We then had to go around the room and say a little something about ourselves. There are ten people in the class. Three people are about my age. One is this really cute girl who was sitting next to me. The other girl was mildly attractive but she sounded exactly life Fran Drescher, if Fran Drescher had throat cancer. The other girl who is in her 20’s looks like she’s 46 and has three kids.

These two actual older women were sitting across from me. They’re absolutely the most anonymous people one would ever meet. They look like someone who would live next door to your aunt. Housewife number one said that she was taking the class “because she didn’t want to go on with her life knowing if I could have made it or not.” The woman sitting next to her perked up when that was said. “I was thinking the same exact thing!”

Next to them was this German lady. She does not have any breasts, giving her this haunting trans-gender appearance.

Next to me was this Hindu guy in his 40’s. He’s taking the class because his son is an actor. “And if he’s a good actor, I know that I can be a better one than him.”

This grey-haired guy in his 60’s said he is a “class junkie” who constantly signs up for classes at community centers throughout North Jersey. I like the sound of that. I think I might want to take a ceramics class I head is being offered in Caldwell.

I got to know a lot about these people during our brief introduction. But here’s the thing -- none of us told each other our names.

Once introductions were over, we had to do this creepy Zen New Age bullshit. Bob told us to focus on a point across the room from us and breath. And then all of us, all at once, had to visually describe the wall. I was trying to eavesdrop on everyone else but it was too chaotic to hone in on anything. So I decided to see if I could make The Cute Girl laugh, since she was standing next to me. I started saying loud enough for her to hear that I saw an image of the Virgin Mary on the wall.

Bob then told us to picture ourselves in our bedroom, getting in a car, going to the store, purchasing an orange and then eating it. After doing this, he asked us how we felt about it. The Overly Competitive Hindu said he was really affected by this.

“I’m a real orange guy. I mean, I eat oranges allllllllllll the time,” he said with this post-orgasmic tone in his voice.

Next, we had to visualize ourselves in what Bob described as “a scary play. Your Personal Fear Zone.” Everyone had to describe it at once, but I was able to hone in on Voice Box Girl.

“I’m in a bedroom. There are a few books about Jay Leno lying around.” This caused me to laugh, wondering how Jay Leno causes panic attacks to 20-something girls. She heard me chuckle and gave me a dirty look.

We then went around the room to discuss Our Personal Fear Zones.

The Hemaphroditic German said her Personal Fear Zone consisted of a group of people laughing and playing in her driveway. Class Junkie said he couldn’t hone in on one particularly scary place, so instead he just thought about the time he had prostate cancer.

I went next. I didn’t want to say “my fear zone is being in this room with you people right now,” even though this was the truth. So I made up something about my grandfather’s house.

The Cure Girl said her Personal Fear Zone was her ex-boyfriend’s apartment. I think this is a sign that she wants to sleep with me.

Next, Bob led our class talking about our dream role.One of the Interchangeable Housewives said she loved Steel Magnolia’s. Her cohort screamed “that’s my favorite movie too!” The Hemaphroditic German said she wanted to “play a villainess, no matter what.”

The Overly Competetive Hindu said he wanted to play Samuel L. Jackson’s character in Pulp Fiction. Pulp Fiction would be a lot better with this guy debating about foot rubs.

I said I wanted to do a Vagina Monologue. No one got the joke, even though some of them had vaginas.

Bob said his dream role was to play the American James Bond.

I don’t know if I want to try and get a refund or immerse myself in this class. The Cute Girl is pretty damn cute and seems very vulnerable, fearing her ex-boyfriend and all. But at one point in class she talked about her love of musical comedies, and I don’t want to have to rent Newsies for our first date. And the whole relaxation/fixation stuff is really irritating. I could just masturbate to Telemundo soap operas if I wanted to clear my mind.

WEEK 2

We have had some defectors. Up to half the class did not show up, including The Cute Girl. This means I am now the only fabulous person in the class.

Voice Box Girl, The Hemaphroditic German, The Overly Competitive Hindu, Class Junkie and at least one Interchangeable Housewife showed up. This new woman was in class. She’s about 30 and looks like she owns every Tori Amos album. She also has horrible Sagging Boobs. In addition, this Mexican guy also showed p. He’s a really big man and he did not button the top seven buttons on his black, silk shirt. He has the sexual charisma that only a Latino Bohunk can have.

The Overly Competitive Hindu walked into class and tripped over an extension chord and fell on his face. He got up and said “I was working on that all week.” Someone watches Who’s Line Is It Anyway! He also added he was impersonating Buster Keaton or, “Johnny Depp pretending to be Buster Keaton.” No wonder the local Blockbuster didn’t have a copy of Benny and Joon.

We began by doing warm-up routines that I usually associate with pony-tailed white guys in their 50’s. We looked into walls and described what we saw, followed by laying on the ground and “relaxing” in a room with complete strangers. No thank you.

Bob then told us we had to “envision a glow capturing your body, limb by limb, allowing us to reach a state of ultimate relaxiation.” While Bob was busy hypnotizing me, I was thinking about how all of this sounded a little bit like Heaven’s Gate. And then I started thinking about how cool it would be I really WAS trapped in a glowing cage of some sort, like from something in a bad 70’s sci-fi flick. So then I started giggling again and everyone was staring me down.

Next, we stood in a circle. Bob told us the directions: two of us would stand in the middle of the circle and we would take alternating terms describing each other, slowly expanding the depth and breadth of our commentary. He gave an example, telling Voice Box Girl she was wearing glasses. Voice Box Girl then had to repeat what Bob said and then come up with a retort of her own. She told Bob he was very slender.

I went third, pairing me with The Overly Competitive Hindu. He told me I was wearing black sneakers. I repeated that and responded by telling him he had haunting eyes. He then responded my pants were baggy. I then told him he had wispy chest hair.

After a few minutes, he was replaced with an Interchangeable Housewife, clad in a day-glo fanny pack this week. She sprinted up to the middle of the circle. Immediately, she commented on something she noticed about my appearance.

“You have two verrry cute earlobes.”

I then said something generic about her hair.

“You have very well-proportioned eyes,” she said.

The Latino Bohunk went up in this drill and had to stop, since he was shaking so hard, dripping more sweat than Martin Lawrence did when he wore all those clothes and went running in 100 degree weather.

For next week, we have to think of something we do when we are alone so we can start to “block” it and perform it in future weeks. I’m tempted to show the class what I do when I’m actually alone, which is download graphic Internet porn. But I think I’ll go with something easy, like “read in bed.”

Class ended this week with Bob confiding something to us. Apparently, he’s the worst actor in the history of ever.

He asked the class if any of us came to the theater on Saturday to see his performance, but no one did. He then explained what happened. When he was on stage, he started to “incoherently babble” his lines and started breathing heavy, like he was having a heart attack. He then went off-stage and fell to the ground.

An Interchangeable Housewife asked him what happened.

“Oh, it was just a panic attack,” he said. “I get them whenever I perform.”

WEEK 3

The Cute girl was back tonight. She looks kind of like Stephanie McMahon from the WWE, except if you took of the seedy glint of wrestling trash and replaced it with the wholesome innocence of a Jewish teenager. She also passed an important test in my eyes, the footwear test. I will not date a girl if she wears retarded shoes. The Cute Girl was wearing these red suede Adidas shell-tops. Apparently, she shops at the same place Run DMC do.

Tonight’s class was more of a traditional class setting, as tradition as it can be with these people. Bob handed us these shoddy photocopied diagrams of a stage with words like “stage left” and “downstage” written on them in Bob’s serial killer-esque handwriting.

Bob began by telling us how “stage left” actually means to the right and how “stage right is actually to the left. Bob said this usually confused people, but not him. “I’m lefthanded… AND dyslexic!”

Bob then talked to us about the stage theory of “cheating” to help better communicate with the audience via positioning and playing the angles. Bob brought The Overly Competitive Hindu with him up on stage, and positioned him at an acute angle.

“You never see men talking like this -- but, honey, that’s another story altogether. But just remember, the only place where cheating is good is in theater and in gambling!”

Bob then went on to discuss the art of pantomime. He name-dropped some theater actress who was in a production of “Our Town” which had no props. Bob then imitated her pantomimes -- “She had all her eggs here and her pots and pans here.”

“It is like a kitchen came to life right in front of my eyes,” said The Hemaphroditic German.

Bob then turned to the topic of improvisational theater, a touchy subject with your truly since my brother performs at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theater. Bob began by going into a tirade railing against the tyranny that is improv.

“They act like they are just making things all up, but they really all have a lot of practice doing what they are doing. Believe you me.”

He showed happiness tearing down the oppressive walls of improv comedy, revealing the truth to us like he was The Masked Magician, speaking in hushed tones as to how the biz really works.

Bob then discussed with us about theater superstitions like “Break A Leg.” One superstition, we learned, is to wear an article of clothing from a previously successful show. This works, according to Bob.

“I was in a show in Morriston once. We had some wardrobe froma pervious show and I got to wear a jacket that was previously worn by…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“JIM DALE. You know, JIM DALE? The Broadway Actor? He had just finished a great run. And then we had a pretty good show, also. But what really surprised me… Jim Dale is the same size as me! The jacket fit perfectly!”

Bob, also, speaks at times like a vaudevillian carnival huckster. “Doesh anyong hath any quethstonth about thith shtuff?”

Bob mentioned Debbie Reynolds, whom he saidn in a 1996 performance brought her own kitchen to the set so she would feel comfortable in the role. Sagging Breasts asked Bob what Ms. Reynolds did where her kitchen was at home.

He drew a blank, and then finally told her, “Well, I guess she has doubles of everything at home.

He was then asked about how hard it is to memorize a script. Bob said some people can memorize things rote, others have to do it in stages. Bob described himself as an “organic learner.”

For next week, we have to come up with a short scene of our own. We have two options: we can either do a two-minute scene by ourselves or we can have a three-minute phone conversation by ourselves.

Voice Box Girl, wearing a Heinekin Beer t-shirt tonight, had a hard time picking up this concept. “Wait, so WHAT are we doing this week? Okay, do we have to bring anything in? How can we act without bringing anything in? Nothing? Okay. So, let me get this straight now.”

Bob also mentioned that our scenes had to have some sort of conflict. “Just don’t do ‘something,’” he said. “But you have to do… SOME THING. Act exasperated or tired or unhappy.”

Voice Box Girl again did not pick up on this concept.

“The thing I want to do is that I want to be getting ready to go out on a date. What kind of conflict thing can I have with that really?”

I was writing all of this down. Voice Box Girl saw this and started staring at me. I got nervous, thinking I was caught. She had the dead, cold eyes of a murderer. Then she apologized and stared laughing about how she had an itch on her neck.

Sagging Boobs then brought the conversation to the final week, where we have to prepare a monologue. She said she does not want to perform a play, but would rather do a “dramatic reading of a song lyric.” If you could bet on this at Vegas, I would place $500 on her performing “Edge of Seventeen.”

As for next week, I still don’t know what I’m going to do. Part of me wants to do something really bizarre, like have a three-minute conversation in Mandarin Chinese.

At the end of class, we were stacking our chairs. The Cute Girl let The Overly Competitive Hindu go first. “How chivalrous,” he said, giving her a mocking curtsey. He then took the pen he borrowed from Class Junkie -- he gave everyone in class a pen if they wanted it -- and threw it side armed at the old man, where it hit him in the throat and then fell to the ground.

WEEK 4
I walked into class during the middle of the first sketch being performed, as Class Junkie was in front of the class, doing something with a coffee filter. I could not figure what was going on, thinking I missed something. Class Junkie continued on this way for his entire sketch, on the other side of the classroom.

"That was really fantastic," said Bob. "Really, a great job. But can you do it again for us? This time, face us as you do it."

Class Junkie proceeded to do his sketch again, this time it was slightly more clear as to what he was actually doing -- preparing the morning coffee.

"I can tell from your facial expressions when you were doing this that you do this a lot," Bob said.

"Yep. Every morning. At 4:30 a.m.," Class Junkie said, existentially sighing.

But all is not bad in Class Junkie's life. Bob asked him how he felt performing in front of everything. "I'm really content with what I did," the white-haired gentleman said. "The last time I acted, I was Tiny Tim!"

Up next was Voice Box Girl. "He only had one prop. I
have a whole bunch? Is that okay, or am I going to get in trouble," sheasked. Bob assured her that
this was okay.

Voice Box Girl's sketch involved her putting on makeup, getting ready for a night out on the town-- no doubt to the local TGIFriday's. She began by combing her hair-- which made a loud noise as the brush ripped through her scalp. She continued to put on her makeup throughout the sketch. Afterwards, Bob told her to pantomime putting on her makeup this time, forsaking theprops.

"I don't know how good it will be," Voice Box Girl said. But again, Bob used his soothing carnival-barker voice to coach her through it. And guess what-- she did it!

"That was awesome," responded the Overly Competitive Hindu-- with a trace of jealousy in his voice.

"I never want to hear that word out of your mouth again. I never want you to tell me that you cannot mime ever again," said Bob.

Up next came one of the Interchangeable Housewives. I can't tell them apart, and curiously, I don't think I've ever seen them in the same place at once. So maybe they are the same person? But I don't think there are. I
could have sworn there were three Interchangeable Steel Magnolia Fans, but I've only counted two since the first week.

The Interchangeable Housewife's performance was surprisingly not anonymous and instead was really, really frightening. She had a one-sided phone conversation with a colleague by the name of
"Kim"-- apparently, she's a therapist of some sort. Her piece was a bizarre combination about someone
suffering from the dual affects of colon cancer and child molestation, with someone having to call DYFUS and a mental health professional. This was even more uncomfortable then our pre-class Yoga routines.

Bob took a break after her performance ("I've been drinking water ALL day. I gotta go GO GO!") which gave the class a chance to talk. about the last piece. Voice Box Girl asked what DYFUS was.

"It's the Department of Youth and Family Services," she explained. "That's
who gets called in case someone gets abused at home."

"Oh. So that's who you call if someone is abused at home?"

The Cute Girl (again wearing her swank red Kool Moe Dee sneakers) then informed us that she used to be a teacher. "It's really hard to get DYFUS involved with cases, I found. It's tough, especially with statute of
limitation laws."

Voice Box Girl was trying to follow. "What does that mean, Statue of Libertation?"

Sagging Breasts then chimed in with some commentary about special education. "My sister-in-law teaches special education. They were talking to all of the students about being abused and telling them about
how to say no and what to do if they were being abused at home. The next day, all the kids said that they were abused and were crying. It was really funny." I think our senses of humor differ in some ways.

After our break, The Hemaphroditic German set up for her piece. Apparently, babies play a large role in her life. A baby formula box stood prominently on a stool, with a crying baby face and center. She began by shaking out baby diapers and folding them, fidgeting with the formula box, then inexplicably went towards the back of the performing space where she needlessly ran in space. Then, she went back up towards the front of the stage and picked up a phone-- a high concept "two-in-one" of both pantomime and a phone conversation.

"Hello? Hello? I am not sure I understand," she said in her accented English to a made-up person. " I am very busy caring for my Godchild. Is that the word I am looking for? Godchild? Wait-- did you say I can get four free tickets to Hawaii? No, I don't want to go to Atlanta to pick them up. I do not want to pick up the tickets with my child. He is almost one. I do not understand, how can you give away tickets worth $3,000 dollars? Plus a free place to stay? There must be some strings. I WILL NOT MAKE AN APPOINTMENT WITH YOU. Please leave me alone. I beg you. Please leave me off this phone."

Bob then asked The Hemaphroditic German if she gets confused on the phone with telemarketers. She does. "They talk so fast. It confuses me."

Bob, omnipotent far beyond acting, gave us some advice on how to handle telemarketing phone calls. "Here's a hint. Say to the telemarketer that you would like them to be placed on their no call list. If they call again, you say to them 'You're breaking the law' and then they usually hang up."

We had one more performance left, and I edged out The Latino Bohunk and The Overly Competitive Hindu to go last.

Earlier in the day, I had gotten props for my skit-- two bottles of ketchup purchased from Foodtown and a blue fanny pack borrowed from my mom.

I arranged a very elaborate set-up compared to everyone else, arranging chairs and a bench next to each other. I then placed my ketchup bottles (one generic brand, one Heinz) on the bench and grabbed
other props-- the baby formula, pieces of garbage laying around, other stuff laying around, simulating supermarket shelves.

I then pantomined walking down the aisles of a supermarket in a bad mood, angrily purchasing my food, throwing bushels of food into a cart.

"Very good," Bob said. "But I want you to try this again."

Then he said the words that would change my acting career forever.

"This time... pretend you have diabetes."

So I did. I prepared for this new dramatic role by repeating the word "diabetes" several times as I walked through the performance area. "I now have diabetes," became my mantra. I went through the aisles, analyzing make-believe cans of food for their sugar content. I did not put the ketchup bottles in the shopping cart. Bob asked why when I was done.

"High fructose corn syrup. You have to watch out for that when you're a diabetic like me."

Then, I started to clean up my performance area as Bob told the class about what I did differently-- how I reached for the shelves with a more direct focus. I'm certain everyone now thinks that I have some issues regarding a compulsion to clean.

After class, The Cute Girl and The Voice Box Girl started talking about where they were from-- Glen Ridge and Caldwell, respectively.

They exchanged numbers and decided to get together for lunch this week.

I sensed an opportunity. I approached Cute Girl and asked her if she went to Glen Ridge High School. She said that she did. I asked her if she knew "(mutual friends name here)". She did. I then said, meekly, "I know him also." And then I walked away and left, tail tucked between my legs.

On my way to the parking lot, I managed to get in a walking group with Class Junkie and The Overly Competitive Hindu who did not have a chance to perform due to time constraints. I asked him what he would
be performing next week.

"I'm not sure yet," he said. "I'm thinking about doing something where I get out of a shower."

WEEK 5

I walk into class in the middle of an argument between Sagging Boobs and Class Junkie. Sagging Boobs had just finished her performance when I walked in, and Class Junkie-- who seems to be a very nice, affable grandfatherly type who just-so-happens to have an interest in taking various classes around Essex County for self-improvement issues-- were embroiled in an argument.

"I just think that your piece was better the first time. I liked what you did then," Class Junkie said, polite as can be.

"Well, I obviously did it that way for a reason," Sagging Boobs responded. "I only did the alteration of the scene that Bob talked about. I did it that way for a reason. I learned about doing that when I
had acting classes in college."

The tension slowly went away as one of the Interchangeable Steel Magnolia Housewives prepared their set. Two of the Interchangeable Housewives were there this week-- this aforementioned version and the lady who said that I had very cute earlobes. The one who talked about child molestation and colon cancer last week was not there-- again, furthering my belief that these three have never been in the same room together.

During a brief break, we listened in on a reading that was being done from the main stage for an upcoming musical. A lady was singing, and a discussion ensued between Bob and Sagging Boobs (who regularly attends shows at the theater) as to who was performing.

"Oh yeah, I remember her. She has a real distinctive voice," Bob said, as catty as an 8th grade girl. "A really... shrill...distinctive... voice."

The Interchangeable Housewife’s performance involved her reading Cosmo and then answering the phone. The call came from a friend of hers.

"I just studied for my GMAT's this weekend. It really sucked," she said. Then the pitch in her voice changed. "Oh, you really met him? Did you post your picture or did he? What page was it? Match dot com?"

Unfortunately, more was not heard about the perils of Internet dating from her unique perspective.

Bob ensured her that she had a "great sense of privacy" during her performance-- a compliment he has offered to pretty much every single one of us after our performance. The Overly Competitive Hindu gave a haughty golf clap after her scene was done.

The Latino Bohunk then went next. He set up an elaborate set, like mine. He brought his own phone from home, brought in towels to drape over chairs, tablecloths and a vase. In addition, he also wore a tacky orange bubble jacket, as if he was working on an Interstate.

His performance began with him walking in through a door, a little on the tired side. He meandered around, going through mail, checking his answering machine for messages. He then then took off his shoes and socks, and then unfastened his belt, dropping his black trousers to the floor, folding them,
then placing them around the chair. He then had a one-sided telephone conversation with a fictional Visa operator as his black silk shirt casually draped over his black boxer-briefs that barely concealed his considerable shamebulge, allowing his caramel thighs to glisten under the flourescent lighting. After his performance, he received a well-deserved rousing ovation from the class.

Interchangeable Steel Magnolias Fan #2 had to go after that performance of a lifetime. The Overly Competitive Hindu helped her set up and saw that clothing was a major part of her performance. "Do
you want my pants? We can go in the back room real quick," he said, trying to come off as being "zany"
and more coming across like a slimy Megan's Law violator.

She meekly folded laundry (Chicago Bulls "DYNASTY" T-Shirt, NY Giants Zubaz style tiger pants, towels) and separated the whites from the blacks.

"I don't know what it is with this class, but you all are reading my mind." Bob said. "I say 'white' and 'black' whenever I do my laundry also."

We then discussed the next two weeks of class. Next week, class begins at 7. Bob wants us to see him read at a rehearsal. "This is the embryotic, very beginning stages of how a play gets made. It's so very exciting. It's a great play. Real, real interesting," Bob said. He clearly needs to be taken down a notch.

We then discussed the week after that -- we will begin going over our monologues. "If you are feeling randy and want to memorize it, go ahead and memorize it. But don't feel like you need to memorize it. I'm used to that sort of thing," Bob said.

No Cute Girl this week. She is obviously is playing head games with me. I wonder how she would respond to threatening e-mails. No one plays games with me.

At the end of class, The Hemaphroditic German said she wanted to do something that perhaps involved two people. Bob told her to ask around next week to see if she could get someone to perform with her. I am thinking about volunteering, just to get a glimpse into her dark, childless world. I would also like to see the look on my parents face if I were to bring this she-male into my house to go over a scene from Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.

But I think I may do a monologue of my own, probably something with a movie. I have four key words about this: Planet Of The Apes.

WEEK 6

Today's acting class update will be brief. The class tonight wasn't much of a class-- we watched a reading of a play to give the playwright and prospective director feedback and criticism of the play.

I arrived a little bit early, where I saw The Overly Competitive Hindu and Interchangeable Housewife #1-- the one who performed something about DYFUS. We briefly made small talk. I asked The Overly Competitive Hindu how his piece went the week before, as I missed it due to my late arrival.

"It went well. I did the getting out of the shower bit," he said. "One take, also. I didn't have to have to do a second scene with any alterations. BAM." He then pumped his fist like Tiger Woods.

We went into the theater and took our seats to see the reading-- a play entitled "Lunchtime." It was about office politics-- a powerful woman on the go, her abused office staff, blue collar workers, etc. I now realize why most people don't go to see local productions of original plays-- because they tend to suck the life out of you.

Lunchtime, in all honesty, wasn't as bad as I had hoped. It was a really boring and pretty generic. The lead actress felt the need to enunciate her words like she was playing polo and the African-American actress needed to do her best "Oprah Winfrey in The Color Purple" imitation, which served no real purpose because she had a bit part ("WHY? WHY? What's going on in the OFFICE?). There were also Italian characters who
played the "hapless Goomba" role to fruition. It always pains me to see on paper "townie guys" that were drawn up and written by a guy who has never smelled an urban neighboorhood, unless the words "gentrified" and "Hoboken" are included in the phrase -- the playwright was wearing saddle shoes, so I don't think he could be could even locate the South Bronx on a map.

Bob, who trumped up this reading like we were going see something really special, had a 4-line speaking role. I think this is a good first step so he can get over is fear of the stage, which is certainly detrimental to an aspiring actor. I would have really liked it better if he just told us "class is cancelled this week because I have a role, so we'll just tack on another class after we were supposed to end" but I'm comfortable with being ripped off of $150.

Afterwards, we applauded while The Overly Competitive Hindu tried to start a standing ovation.

After the play, we were allowed a chance to interact with the cast and playwright in a question-and-answer format, asking for our "honest opinions."

Most of the people were friends of actors or also members of the theater, so of course Lunchtime was the greatest play ever written. I opened my big mouth and made a few pointers-- I thought the play shifted from farce to melodrama too quickly but I enjoyed the characters-- in which every person on the panel stared at me. Then, the director (acting as MC) asked if anyone else agreed with me.

Not one person raised their hands. Then, for the next ten minutes or so, everyone said that they disagreed with me about my points. "I definitely do NOT agree with the gentleman over there. Not one bit. This play is
superb."

After the q&a, class members (a small gathering tonight- no Cute Girl, Voice Box Girl or Interchangeable Housewives #2 and #3, keeping with the tradition) started to talk about their monologues. The Latino Bohunk is going to be doing Sam Sheppard's True West, which I do not believe has any nude scenes in it. I was hoping to talk to The Hemaphroditic German so she could say "I am unsure of the piece I want to do but I need a young and secret lover in it" so I could volunteer. She simply walked away from the conversation, looking down at her feet as she did.

I started to talk to Class Junkie then. In our conversation, it was revealed that one of the many classes he took was a previous offering at the theater in playwriting. He was hoping his play would be read at the theater. I asked him what it was about, expecting him to say either "my grandkids" or "my bout with prostate cancer" or perhaps even something like "Iran-Contra."

Instead, he uttered a slew of words that have never been uttered together in the English language.

"It's about a bisexual witch who consults people on real estate in a supermarket."

I could not believe that he said those words to me, so I asked him to repeat them. Others were nearby, and I could tell he was a little ashamed to say that sentence again. But he did anyway, and this time I literally fell over laughing.

I then felt bad and apologized to him. "I'm sorry... I just wasn't expecting to hear you say that."

The white-haired Class Junkie then said that it was okay. "I know I'm a lame white guy." I asked him if I could use his work as my monologue. He guffawed and said that it wasn't completely ready yet.

"I think I want it to be a musical."

WEEK 7

I timed my departure to arrive in class 15 minutes after it started, to avoid doing any stretching routines. When I got to class, I noticed that there were only four people in the room... it seems that most of the people have dropped out, unfortunately. The remaining few were Class Junkie, Voice Box Girl, The Overly Competitive Hindu and Sagging Boobs. And Bob, of course.

This meant that I had to stretch/self-actualize, so I basically stood off to the side and waited while everyone else meditated. Bob came back to the room and saw me standing there and asked why I wasn't stretching, so I told him, "I'm already centered."

During the stretching period, the Overly Competitive Hindu started leaping around like a madman, doing "extreme" style calisthenics, placing his hands against the wall and pushing with all his might to
better stretch out his calves. "I'm pumped for tonight. I drank two mochachino's before I came here."

Voice Box Girl started laughing hysterically when she was stretching. "I don't know why, but I always laugh when I do this."

This prompted Sagging Boobs to dispel some sage advice. "You have to get over that if you want to make it big."

We were performing our monologues tonight, which I wasn't aware of. Luckily for me, I stole a copy of Ibsen plays from my brother so I could half-ass something if need be. Voice Box Girl went first, doing a monologue from a book entitled "Pocket Monologues For Women: Convenient Scene-Study Pieces For Today's Demanding Acress."

Her piece involved her smoking a cigarette, talking to an imaginary person about the end of her marriage, where she was the victim of domestic abuse. "And get this... The girl he ran off with, my friend knows her from World Gym. And she has bruises on her arm... I don't think she got those from doing push-ups."

After her scene, Bob (who was wearing a baseball jersey that said the word WICKED on the front of it) lauded her with compliments. "You know this cold. I know you know these lines. These lines have become
YOUR lines." Then he told her to redo the scene, this time with another person in the class (The Overly Competitive Hindu volunteered) and they had to pretend they were in a crowded diner.

"That... THAT was a scene. That is what we call a scene," Bob said afterwards. "I felt great doing that," said Voice Box Girl. "But I want to apologize for the bad language."

The Overly Competitive Hindu went next, setting up chairs to resemble a car, using Voice Box Girl as his female compatriot.

"Alyssa... I love you." He then began quoting the monologue from Chasing Amy, with a stunning lack of
passion in his voice. "And as much as I appreciate it... I don't need a picture of birds bought at a diner to remember you."

Bob then went "interpretive" and made them redo their piece. This time, they scrapped the car and had to do it with the Overly Competitive Hindu literally chasing Voice Box Girl, saying his lines.

"Go after her!" was Bob's command, explaining how this was a “chase“ scene, thus this Indian man in his 40‘s should literally run after this girl 20 years younger than her while quoting Kevin Smith dialogue.

After their scene, Voice Box Girl asked The Overly Competitive Hindu where his scene was from. She drew blanks when he told her it was Chasing Amy. "You know... Kevin Smith. Clerks. Mallrats. Dogma." She had not scene any of them.

Sagging Boobs went next. She was reading from a book called "Womyn 2 Womyn: Monologues for the Modern Female." She needed a volunteer, and Class Junkie went up ("I don't want to hog the stage," said the Overly Competitive Hindu.) She recited a monologue about a woman seeing a psychiatrist, coming to terms with her cruel, ego-driven mother.

She was having problems at one scene and Bob encouraged her. "Don't run away from this. Run TO this. This is some deep shit here." Then he gave her advice to unlock her inner demons. "Just envision the person you hate the most in this world, the person whose relationship damaged you the most. Pretend you are talking about this person."

Sagging Boobs was enthusiastic about this, apparently knowing pain. "Oh, I so have a person like this. Ooooh, this is... wow." She redid her piece and this time was able to cry and weep while doing it. Bob raved about her. "We can really go somewhere with this. Next time, we'll try and paint this tapestry with more muted colors."

Class Junkie went next. "Time to break out Old Yeller," he said, holding up an ancient paperback copy of Hamlet. He then did a monologue of an older, bumbling gut giving advice to a younger warrior for Hamlet. (Like most Shakespeare I studied in school, I politely pretended to listen while I thought about my March Madness brackets. It beats me what the scene was, but I think that was the gist of it.) Bob then made Class Junkie redo the scene, but with a more serious tone.

"I don't do serious," Class Junkie said, apparently hoping that he will one day become known as the Cerebral Don Rickles.

"Just try it this way," Bob said. "Pretend that you are a high-profiled, high-powered manager at a securities and exchange firm in Manhattan. And you have taken a young up and coming charge. He is your project for the year, and it is your career highlight to impart your wisdom onto him."

I then began my scene (Something I randomly found in Hedda Gabbler.) and Bob
interrupted me. "We're running out of time, and I have an important thing to go over with you guys." Bob then told us that there will be more acting classes offered, but not for another month-and-a-half or so. He was asking us if we would be interested.

Everyone said yes.

After class, I was walking out with Class Junkie. I told him that I really wanted to read his play. "Ibsen is yours," he said. "The bisexual witch is mine."

WEEK 8

I think Green Day said it best. My acting class was another turning point, the proverbial fork stuck in the road. I surely did have the time of my life, even though I now know less about acting than I did before I actually took this class.

I come before you a changed man. A better man. Only a few weeks ago, I was not an actor. I did not know how to "center" myself. I did not know how to observe a grown man's shoddily grown mustache. I knew nothing about who I was and where I stood.

As I rehash the past eight weeks, I think of a lot. I think of Bob's encouragement, his "can do" attitude that I will keep with me for eternity. I think of the Hemaphroditic German's empty smile as she talks about a baby she may or may not have stolen from a Greyhound bus station. I think of the shapeliness of The Latino Bohunk's dick, Bob’s consistent performance-related anxiety attacks, the lady who enjoyed my earlobes, my bizarre fetish for the shoes of The Cute Girl, the potential lyrics of a musical about a real-estate selling bisexual witch. I also think about how fucking nuts it is to think that everyone, no matter their station in life, wants to have at least a few minutes of fame. We’re all almost famous and none of us want to die without trying.

But mostly, I think of how I went home each Monday night thinking about getting my parents to change the locks on our doors, in case any of these drifters followed me home.

Tonight's class began with Sagging Boobs handing us fliers.

"I'm in a rock band, and we're having a show around the corner next week."

She described her band (their name is c9) as sounding like Natalie Merchant or Sheryl Crow. They also have a webpage that features song clips ("When They Take You To Heaven," "Firefly," "Little Mother of Mexico"). The band describes their songs as having "sultry intensity" which I found myself
slightly disagreeing with when I listened to them when I got home-- I was thinking they were more along the lines of "boring chick rock."

Bob also handed us a flier. More acting classes are scheduled to begin in the middle of April. At the end of this one, we will have a performance where we can invite people AND also go to a post-performance reception. I'm very tempted but I also could use the $100...

No one wanted to perform first (Bob insisted that someone who missed class
last week went first) so I offered to break the ice. As I was asking, he
simply said "no" and forced the Hemaphroditic German to get up on stage.

"I did not practice this because my little boy was running around me today,"
she said. Bob told her that was okay and told her to
read.

"He showed me. He showed me a lot. That barn door is cobalt blue. That is what painters say. Then he told me they were taking the chains," she said. "He taught me lots. And I ain't ever forget any of it. I now remember that the moonlight and the snow aren't white. They are every color at once. He taught me that. All of that."

I was not sure what any of that meant. It was maybe about a farmer? Who knows. Bob made her redo the scene several times, each time I just got more and more confused.

"I think that this piece is perfect for you," Bob said. "It's a very pretty piece. I think you, as a person, are like this piece. I think you are very delicate and simple-- wait, wait. I didn't mean it like that."

The Overly Competitive Hindu asked: "You meant she was simple in a good way, right?"

"Exactly, exactly," Bob said. "You have a childlike innocence. I think you are like fine china."

The entire time this was going on, the Hemaphroditic German just smiled at these descriptions of herself that I do not think she understood.

Up next came Interchangeable Housewive #2 (#1 and #3 were not there), who carried a bizarre, minimalist Barbie Doll with her on stage.

"Okay, class. That's what sex is to you," she said, pausing. "I want you to know that sex is very, very personal. Except if it involves two people. Wait, I don't mean that. Sex is great, unless if it involves a guy."

She then continued her monologue, reading from a book called "Women '98."

"Men are here to crush all our dreams. The only thing he can do is handle a
remote control, which is his electronic phallus."

Interchangeable Steel Magnolia Fan #2 occasionally flubbed her lines, blaming it on her nerves.

"Don't be nervous. We are all here holding you up. If you fall, we will catch you. We have strong, welcoming arms," Bob said. "Just circle the scene. Become a shark."

I went next. This time, I read an excerpt of something I just wrote about the time I worked at a supermarket. Everyone seemed to like it. Bob said that I had the potential to turn the story into "b-grade Spalding Gray."

Sagging Boobs came up to me after my performance. "Do you know what your scene could use more of? Puppets. You could turn this into a really great puppet show."

The Overly Competitive Hindu and The Latino Bohunk set up a scene involving a coffee table that The Overly Competitive Hindu brought from home. They performed a scene from True West, with the Overly
Competitive Hindu typing as The Latino Bohunk's character recited what he wanted in a future movie.

They went through the scene about seven times. During each break, as Bob explained the alterations he wanted made, The Overly Competitive Hindu would continue to pantomime typing.

After their last scene, the two performers felt like they had nailed it. The Overly Competitive Hindu slapped The Latino Bohunk five.

"Great. Absolutely great," raved Bob, looking at The Latino Bohunk. "I think that would be a great piece for you. That character is so you. He's a real loose cannon type."

This marked the last scene in the class. Bob bid us adieu and told us he hoped to see us on the stage some day.

"You know what, I realized something," The Overly Competitive Hindu said. "This class has been real anonymous. I don't know any of your names."

He then looked at each and every single one of us.

"I'm Al."

------------------

Addendum
------------------

A few months later, I was at the Barnes and Noble off Route 46 in Totowa, scanning the shelves and, as always, looking at girls.

I was flipping through a fantasy football guide when I was leaving the store and bumped into someone. I looked up.

It was Al. The Overly Competitive Hindu. And he was with his son.

We made brief small talk. I asked him if he was taking the second part of the acting class -- I wanted to, but I was afraid the second part could not live up to the magic of the first.

He said he signed up for it, but they dropped the class due to poor attendance. However, he found an acting school in New York City where he was now taking classes.

“You won’t believe this. They have a whole class in mime alone!”

I then said goodbye to him. But then I turned to his son.

“By the way… your dad is one hell of an actor.”

"I Know My Clients": My first trip to New York City almost results in my sodomization

2005-07-08T15:12:00.000-07:00

As interesting as West Orange was, any suburban town could get a little bit boring. Also making life in the 'burbs a little bit meandering was the looming presence of New York City in our lives. Manhattan, a mere nine miles away, was clear and present from several dozen different locations in town -- especially at the lookout at the Eagle Rock Reservation, three blocks away from my house.

(I would go to the Res on 9/11 and would be joined by a few thousand people there. It was pretty haunting to say the least, to go to a park you've been to a few thousand times in your life to watch lower Manhattan burn. But enough with 9/11 sentimentality.)

Sophomore year, I had lunch with Mike I., who in his Eddie Haskell way, had an idea -- that Saturday, the two of us, along with his buddy Cheeze, would go to Manhattan. I immediately said yes, came up with an excuse why I would be hanging out with friends at 9:30 on a Saturday (it was October -- do early Christmas shopping), and we were on our way.

On the way over to the City, I began wondering what we were going to do in this Promised Land. Thoughts of Greenwich Village beat poets and street philosophizers were running through my uppitty 15-year-old brain. Or a trip to the Empire State Building. Or something like that. But on the way over, I was told by Mike I. of the real reason for our mission -- a quest for porn.

According to the meathead guido scumbags of our school, fake ID's in New York City were as easy to obtain as herpes from their girlfriends. By all accounts, Fake ID's cost $10. Mike I. and Cheese wanted to get two fake ID's and use these ID's to get porn. They forgot to include me in on this venture, and I did not have enough money, and a snoop mom to worry about, to get a Fake ID.

Upon leaving Port Authority, we stepped foot in the world of pre-Guliani Times Square -- which was then the worst, scummiest, filthiest area of the known universe, heavenly to horny teenage boys. We immediately went to one of the lost treasures of the urban 90's, a Starter Jacket/beeper/Fake ID emporium, operated by aggressive sales clerks of undecipherable national origin.

Mike I. and Cheese paid their $10 and had their photos taken. Within seconds, they were handed their ticket to adulthood -- a one-sided, unlaminated New York University ID. They might as well have etched their faces on a piece of plywood with a screwdriver.

But off we went. We went down 42nd street and into one of the many sketchy porn shops in the Times Square area. And once inside, we were met with an explosion of tits. Hundreds of magazines, all of which had girls showing their naked tits. And some also were showing what I think were vaginas. It was more than what my mind could handle, all of those photographed breasts in one spot.

Within seconds of entering the store, the neck-bearded creep behind the counter ordered us to leave. For some reason, Mike I. and Cheese blamed this on my not having a one-sided, non-laminated ID.

We walked six feet to the next porn/pawn shop. Mike I. and Cheese were going to go in, purchase some j/o magazines, and leave while I waited outside. As soon as they stepped foot in the store, I was surrounded by a gang of street urchins, yelling a variety of obscenities and offers at me. One man, this rather large black homeless dude reeking of gin, grabbed me by my arm and said he could "show me something" in the back alley. Luckily, before my rectum was probed by a scabby penis, Mike I. and Cheese came out and saved my anal virginity.

We decided to walk around Midtown for a little bit. On the way back to Port Authority, we ended up going back down 42nd Street. When walking, out of nowhere I felt like I needed a shower. I then caught out of the corner of my eye another shady street dude approaching us. I walked away from him, telling Mike I. and Cheese to hurry up. This man parted between them and put his arms around them.

"How you fellows doin' today? Ya'll lookin' for a little business?" They both eagerly said they were. He smiled.

"Well... I know my clients." We stopped. "What you fellows lookin' for today? A little bit of beer? Some weed? Maybe some co-cayne? Oh wait, I know what ya'll want... ya'll want some pussy! Ya'll want to get yo dicks sucked! Just follow me, I can get ya'lls dicks sucked nooooooo problem."

He turned, trying to lure us to god knows where. We started to flee in the other direction. And this guy started chasing us.

"Oh, lookit the faggots running back to Jersey! Lookit the faggots afraid to get their dicks sucked! Faggots afraid of a dick sucking!"

We then got on our bus and went back to West Orange, home of the best view of the New York City skyline.