Happy Fat Tuesday

It is turning out to be a great day for geeky comedy fan boys.
First, Andy Richter signs back on as Conan O'Brien's sidekick when he takes over The Tonight Show on the first of June.
Then Michael Cera - formerly the last holdout - signs on for the long rumoured Arrested Development movie.
The only way today gets any better is if Tina Fey and Alyson Hannigan show up at my door with an assortment of whisky, fireworks and pornographic films.

... and the winner for best belated Oscar blog post is ...

Wanna hear something sad?
I'm nearly forty-years-old and most of the movies of 2008 that I saw were based on comic books:
The Dark Knight, The Hulk, Hancock, Iron Man and Hellboy 2.

I did watch movies about making movies, angry, well-armed, racist senior citizens and panda's who can suddenly perform an acceptable amount of Kung Fu.

Regardless, I watched the Academy Awards.
Partly to mock them, mostly because there was nothing else on television.

As entertainment The Oscars failed.

As an excuse to invent a drinking game it fared a little better.

These were the rules going in:

Drink every time there was a standing ovation.
Drink the eleven times someone I had heard of ... including Charlton Heston over Joan's left-wing protestations ... had died in the memorial video.
Drink every time someone mentioned prominent Negro President Barack Obama.
Drink every time someone thanked God. (When Bill Maher cursed God, I threw up a little bit into my glass in recompense.)
Drink every time a movie I actually watched won anything.
Drink every time Sean Penn weeps.
Drink every time someone in the pre-show mentioned Vera Wang. (Actually, I giggled first then drank. WANG ... hehehe.)
Drink every time some Asian dude thanks his pencil and company robot.

Last year I made the mistake of drinking every time someone sounded like a pretentious twat.
I was carted off to the hospital at 9:38 pm. I had my stomach pumped at 10:19 pm.

Happy Family Day

Family Day brings back so many fuzzy memories, doesn't it? The traditional Family Day Eve dinner of one (1) bucket of chicken and water; listening to classic Family Day carols by Sister Sledge and Mike and The Mechanics; gathering around the television to watch a midnight showing of Eight Is Enough. Priceless memories.
While you casually toss your Family Day Knickers on the sofa, waiting for the Genealogy Monkey to fill it with gifts of oranges and disposable cameras - please spare a thought for those who have no-one to make them feel like a failure.
The only reward afforded these poor unfortunates is a paid day off from work.
Help make someone's Family Day complete.

Anonymously email someone and tell them they have wasted their potential.

Randomly phone people and ask why they haven't given you grandchildren.

Tell folks you've just met that they drink to much and passive aggressively mention interventions.

Start arguments with complete strangers over what you'll get in the will when their parents die.

This Family Day, bring Christian charity to those in need. It starts with you!

(please note: family is defined as one father, one mother and at least one offspring - all others need not apply)

Happy Valentine's Day

I'd like to give you all something of very high quality that takes none of your space and wastes none of your time.
A pipe bomb has been mailed in your name to Hallmark Industries Inc.

Elmo Video Watched, Not Enjoyed, By Drunken Babysitter

Apparently, Screw My Ex-Girlfriend ... Please has been my most influential post since I urged America to vote for change.
I am currently babysitting a five-year-old boy, a two-year-old girl and a twelve-year-old bottle of Scotch.
Later, I will take all three out to the car, roll up the windows and light a cigarette. We won't be going anywhere, I just enjoy all manner of criminal activity.
While I entertain her children with a rousing chorus of Cocaine Blues by Johnny Cash, Skipper is out on a date, all thanks to my blog entry.
So ... who is grossly invading your privacy and robbing you of your dignity now?
Seriously, who is it?
Whoever it is owes me a bottle of bourbon.

It Was A Good Day ...

10:15 am : Wake relatively unhungover.

10:22 am : Sit down with a coffee and smoke in front of SportsCentre.

11:24 am : Go outside to brush off the car. Discover the car does not need brushing.

11:45 am : Arrive at job I don't hate.

3:30 pm : Skip out early from job I don't hate.

4:20 pm : Finish my thrift shop excursion - from which I've obtained two Hugo Boss shirts, a pair of jeans, a silk tie and a Neil Gaiman novel for the princely sum of $12.46

5:45 pm : Eat pizza.

6:30 pm : Nap.

9:00 pm : Wake up.

9:10 pm : Pour myself a Greyhound. Repeat every twenty minutes.

I know age and experience have dulled my expectations but overall; not a bad day.
The only way it could be made better is if I had tickets for "LOST! - THE MUSICAL" starring Tom Waits as John Locke, Neko Case as Kate and Willie Nelson as The Smoke Monster.

On A Positive Note ...

Danny Michel played the same venue, later that week. I loved that show more than I -- see below -- hated the previous gig.
It was one of those times I wondered why I was being paid.
Terri, if you read this, I still expect to be paid.

Click the title to go to his website.

On his Wikipedia page, Danny Michel is described as "Tom Waits meets Cheap Trick."
I didn't find the analogy completely true ... but it sounds awesome, doesn't it?
I'm willing to cut the critic some slack. "Writing about music," as Frank Zappa said, "is like dancing about architecture."
That said ... all four of the faithful readers who take my advice about music ... and everyone else who ends up here looking for Simpsons quotes or ridiculous aircraft plans (I'm looking at you, Roger) ... should buy his music and attend his shows.
He is so good I almost feel bad for mentioning him in such an unsavoury blog.

After Careful Reconsideration, I No Longer Wish To Rock.

I have never related to the authority figure in that Twisted Sister video before Friday night.
(Click the title for those of you who forget what I'm talking about.)

I found myself running the house for five hours of hardcore metal in a hundred seat theatre. The first hour made me giggle. The second hour reduced my giggle to a smirk. After that ... only anger ... Black Hate and Anger - which I think may have been one of the band names.

Perhaps it was my inability to communicate with the 'kids' that caused the problem.
When I said, "Give me the goddamned beer NOW," I really meant "Sorry, but you are in violation of our local liquor laws. Please relinquish that warm can of Old Milwaukee."
When I asked, "Kid, are you some sort of fucking idiot?" I was saying "Son, it isn't the size of the firecracker I take umbrage with. It is the fact that you lit said firecracker indoors and five feet away from me."
When I snarled, "I am going to smack you, you twiggy, pasty-faced little prat," I meant ... well ... I meant exactly that. Except no one could hear me as the music topped out at 116 dbs.

I think the more likely problem is that the music sounded like someone repeatedly kicking the Cookie Monster in the nuts over a wall of dissonance. All is set to the choreography of eight guys in the front row who looked like heavy metal chickens.

I was young once. My first concert was Metallica at Maple Leaf Gardens. Admittedly, I find them unlistenable these days but I can recognize the artistic merit.
But Friday night was ... words fail me ... aggressively unmusical?

I feel like an old, old man. I'm pretty sure I hopped up on the bar at one point, shook my fist and yelled, "You whippersnappers -- get off my damn lawn".
In my defense, they were playing keep away with my bifocals.