I'm about to start the second script featuring the characters of Deuce Neutron and the Funk Bombs. For the two or three of you who've read that script and care, it's somewhat obvious that The Blues Brothers (movie and band) were something of an inspiration for the characters and the movie, so here's this little tidbit:
I was watching this thing last night about the movie The Blues Brothers, and how the act was taking off so Universal wanted to make a movie, and this was Dan Aykroyd's response:
"I need 20,000 dollars in cash, a used California police cruiser, and three months on the road. Then you'll have your movie."
Three months later, he threw copies of the 325 page script- each copy bearing the covers of a different city's phone book- onto the property of the producers, the director, and John Belushi. In the middle of the night, mind you.
Dan Aykroyd, by the way? My new hero.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
2/24/2004- They're Not My Favorite Band Anymore, But This Was Still Cool
Tom, Dan, Michelle and I saw Barenaked Ladies at Continental Airlines (nee Brendan Byrne) Arena in Jersey the other night. So I'm sitting there, watching these pudgy Canadian pop-music guys do their goofy little dance number, and laughing at their goofy little show, and having a grand old time, and I started to wonder if I'd lost my edge, at which point I started to wonder if I had an edge to lose in the first place. Then I wrote off that line of thinking as stupid, punched the guy in front of me, and continued enjoying the show.
But in all seriousness, those guys put on a good show. Edge or no edge, they're my favorite band (though only because I think of the E Street Band as "Bruce's band" and not really an entity unto themselves, but that's another entry altogether), and it was one of the more unique concerts I've been to. Most of the other concerts I've been to have been these venerable old acts like Aerosmith or Elton John or Billy Joel or Bruce, and in a way, being at those shows was sort of like being in Church. There were just certain points where people would go "Shut up, shut up, Bruce is gonna say something before they sing 'The River'"
or
"Oh, wow, he's doing Piano Man, he never does that anymore,"
or
"Oh, they're gonna play 'Big Ten Inch,' everyone pipe down!"
This show was more like everyone was just out to have a good time, including the band, and the only time it got like serious or anything was really unexpected and effective, so that was cool.
They have this one song called "War On Drugs," which is about a bridge in Toronto off of which people jump to kill themselves all the time, and it's sort of like a serious, sometimes-depressing song about suicide and stuff, and before he sings it, the singer (Steven Page) starts talking about how they put a fence up to keep people from jumping, which is all well and good till they go down the road to the next bridge and jump off that, and how society and government doesn't really understand mental illness or depression or suicide and it's up to individual people to help other individual people. Then near the end of the song, they turn all the stage lights onto the audience so everyone could see everyone else, and from where I was sitting there was just this sea of people. I was looking all around and best I could tell, that's what everyone in the arena was doing too. It was just really striking and effective.
That's all I've got to say on that topic.
But in all seriousness, those guys put on a good show. Edge or no edge, they're my favorite band (though only because I think of the E Street Band as "Bruce's band" and not really an entity unto themselves, but that's another entry altogether), and it was one of the more unique concerts I've been to. Most of the other concerts I've been to have been these venerable old acts like Aerosmith or Elton John or Billy Joel or Bruce, and in a way, being at those shows was sort of like being in Church. There were just certain points where people would go "Shut up, shut up, Bruce is gonna say something before they sing 'The River'"
or
"Oh, wow, he's doing Piano Man, he never does that anymore,"
or
"Oh, they're gonna play 'Big Ten Inch,' everyone pipe down!"
This show was more like everyone was just out to have a good time, including the band, and the only time it got like serious or anything was really unexpected and effective, so that was cool.
They have this one song called "War On Drugs," which is about a bridge in Toronto off of which people jump to kill themselves all the time, and it's sort of like a serious, sometimes-depressing song about suicide and stuff, and before he sings it, the singer (Steven Page) starts talking about how they put a fence up to keep people from jumping, which is all well and good till they go down the road to the next bridge and jump off that, and how society and government doesn't really understand mental illness or depression or suicide and it's up to individual people to help other individual people. Then near the end of the song, they turn all the stage lights onto the audience so everyone could see everyone else, and from where I was sitting there was just this sea of people. I was looking all around and best I could tell, that's what everyone in the arena was doing too. It was just really striking and effective.
That's all I've got to say on that topic.
3/12/2004 The Obligatory Blog Post About Hating My Job
Close to five years ago, I wrote a short play and a short story that were so good the College of Mount Saint Vincent was going to let me go there for free. Then I went crazy. So I went to Saint John's. I graduated with honors with a minimum of effort. For two years, I and a few of my friends pretty much ran the Stagers Society, and I acted in several plays in addition to doing some sketch comedy writing. In my senior year of college, I wrote a play which was produced at Manhattan College under the direction of my oldest friend.
I have to be at work in two hours. You know what I do at work? I sell suits, sometimes. Shirts. Pants. Jackets. Whatever. At least that's what I'm supposed to do. More often than not I just stand around, listening to the stereo or one of my co-workers.
One of my co-workers is from upstate New York. I think he graduated from high school, but I'm honestly not sure. He is, technically, my boss and, honestly, one of the stupidest people I've ever met. He's a genuinely nice guy, a good person, a real shirt-off-his-back kind of guy; a little messed-up in his stance on women, but whatever. I honestly like him as a person and wish him nothing but the best. But the fact remains that on my slowest day I am still exponentially smarter than he is.Two of the company's big guns are going to be there tonight. One of them if the wife of the nephew of the heads of Sarar. The other is the son of one of the former owners of Archie Jacobson, which was bought out by Sarar over the summer. The woman barely speaks English and admits to knowing nothing about running a business. The man is a strung-out former musician who speaks in riddles and got a job because his daddy ran the show.
I am a gifted writer. I know this about myself. "It ain't bragging if it's true." Muhammad Ali said that, back when he was a young man, back when he was Cassius Clay, before he fought too many fights and left his brain inside the ring. (Dan Bern, a Canadian folk singer whose name, coincidentally, when re-arranged, is "Brendan.) When I write, I work hard at it and do well at it. Beyond that, in my life up until this point I have done everything I was supposed to do, and then some, and was told that I would be rewarded for it once school ended. I go to Church. I give a few dollars a week to various charities. I respect my elders. I obey the speed limit. I won't let my friends ride shotgun because the seatbelt is broken and I don't want to risk them getting hurt. I don't drink, or smoke, or take drugs. I am not a homophobe, or a racist. By all modern standards, I am an exceptional person if only by virtue of my lack of vices.
And yet I work for people who can't carry on long conversations with me because I use words that are too big. And they, in turn, work for people who got well-paying, high-ranking jobs through accidents of marriage or genetics, and are in charge of my life because my best friend happens to work for them, and I came in one day to complain about the job I got through my cousin Cathleen, chasing carts like Richmond Avenue's answer to a sheepdog in the freezing cold parking lot of the Costco Wholesale. A $3.50 pay cut and half a block away, I am warm, and well-dressed, and completely and utterly disgusted with what has become my life, and the only consolation I can give myself is, "It beats Costco." Which isn't saying a great deal.
The adage, "It's know what you know, it's who you know," which I used to dismiss as jaded cynicism has come painfully true for me. And while it may be the way of the world, it doesn't make it suck any less.
I have to be at work in two hours. You know what I do at work? I sell suits, sometimes. Shirts. Pants. Jackets. Whatever. At least that's what I'm supposed to do. More often than not I just stand around, listening to the stereo or one of my co-workers.
One of my co-workers is from upstate New York. I think he graduated from high school, but I'm honestly not sure. He is, technically, my boss and, honestly, one of the stupidest people I've ever met. He's a genuinely nice guy, a good person, a real shirt-off-his-back kind of guy; a little messed-up in his stance on women, but whatever. I honestly like him as a person and wish him nothing but the best. But the fact remains that on my slowest day I am still exponentially smarter than he is.Two of the company's big guns are going to be there tonight. One of them if the wife of the nephew of the heads of Sarar. The other is the son of one of the former owners of Archie Jacobson, which was bought out by Sarar over the summer. The woman barely speaks English and admits to knowing nothing about running a business. The man is a strung-out former musician who speaks in riddles and got a job because his daddy ran the show.
I am a gifted writer. I know this about myself. "It ain't bragging if it's true." Muhammad Ali said that, back when he was a young man, back when he was Cassius Clay, before he fought too many fights and left his brain inside the ring. (Dan Bern, a Canadian folk singer whose name, coincidentally, when re-arranged, is "Brendan.) When I write, I work hard at it and do well at it. Beyond that, in my life up until this point I have done everything I was supposed to do, and then some, and was told that I would be rewarded for it once school ended. I go to Church. I give a few dollars a week to various charities. I respect my elders. I obey the speed limit. I won't let my friends ride shotgun because the seatbelt is broken and I don't want to risk them getting hurt. I don't drink, or smoke, or take drugs. I am not a homophobe, or a racist. By all modern standards, I am an exceptional person if only by virtue of my lack of vices.
And yet I work for people who can't carry on long conversations with me because I use words that are too big. And they, in turn, work for people who got well-paying, high-ranking jobs through accidents of marriage or genetics, and are in charge of my life because my best friend happens to work for them, and I came in one day to complain about the job I got through my cousin Cathleen, chasing carts like Richmond Avenue's answer to a sheepdog in the freezing cold parking lot of the Costco Wholesale. A $3.50 pay cut and half a block away, I am warm, and well-dressed, and completely and utterly disgusted with what has become my life, and the only consolation I can give myself is, "It beats Costco." Which isn't saying a great deal.
The adage, "It's know what you know, it's who you know," which I used to dismiss as jaded cynicism has come painfully true for me. And while it may be the way of the world, it doesn't make it suck any less.
3/16/2004- Final Destination III?
So I almost died last night. That was fun.
Followers of Jen's journal will have already heard this heartwarming story, but here's my version. After being lost for a while in Jersey, Tony, Tom, Jen, Michelle and I had to get off the turnpike and get back on. In our attempt to do so, we encountered a three-way fork in the road. None of these forks were labeled, so I took the one that looked like an on-ramp.
It was in fact an off-ramp. And coming off the off-ramp was an enormous 18-wheeler truck.
Yeah.
So I did the only logical thing and thought: "Oh my god. I'm going to die. Right now."
Then I jumped the curb and didn't. Blew out the right front tire of the car, but there was no further damage and I and all my friends (none of whom wanted to put their SEATBELTS ON) are fine. Jen called AAA once it was decided we weren't going to be able to get the nuts off the tire, and Jen, Lou and Dan met us. The mechanic from AAA was calling me Evel Kenievel, but honestly, the guy could have called me Ratcock Assface if he'd wanted to at that point. I was just glad to get the new tire on and get the hell out of there.
It didn't occur to me until I was driving home that if I was even a slightly worse or less reflexive driver, I and several of my good friends would be quite dead right now. And that is one disconcerting motherfucker of a thought.
Of course, true to nerd form, Tony and I were trying to figure out the DC (difficulty class, for the uncool amongst us) was for making that curb jump and not dying, and what kind of penalties would have been applied to my roll: -1 for darkness, -1 for clogged ears, -1 for disorientation. When you think about it, I did pretty well. (SUCH dorks!) Joe was also comparing me to Magnum PI later on, which I guess makes him Higgins. I dunno.
I feel bad that everyone missed Raw, but I feel a lot better that we're alive. Raw didn't sound that good from what I read anyway.
Followers of Jen's journal will have already heard this heartwarming story, but here's my version. After being lost for a while in Jersey, Tony, Tom, Jen, Michelle and I had to get off the turnpike and get back on. In our attempt to do so, we encountered a three-way fork in the road. None of these forks were labeled, so I took the one that looked like an on-ramp.
It was in fact an off-ramp. And coming off the off-ramp was an enormous 18-wheeler truck.
Yeah.
So I did the only logical thing and thought: "Oh my god. I'm going to die. Right now."
Then I jumped the curb and didn't. Blew out the right front tire of the car, but there was no further damage and I and all my friends (none of whom wanted to put their SEATBELTS ON) are fine. Jen called AAA once it was decided we weren't going to be able to get the nuts off the tire, and Jen, Lou and Dan met us. The mechanic from AAA was calling me Evel Kenievel, but honestly, the guy could have called me Ratcock Assface if he'd wanted to at that point. I was just glad to get the new tire on and get the hell out of there.
It didn't occur to me until I was driving home that if I was even a slightly worse or less reflexive driver, I and several of my good friends would be quite dead right now. And that is one disconcerting motherfucker of a thought.
Of course, true to nerd form, Tony and I were trying to figure out the DC (difficulty class, for the uncool amongst us) was for making that curb jump and not dying, and what kind of penalties would have been applied to my roll: -1 for darkness, -1 for clogged ears, -1 for disorientation. When you think about it, I did pretty well. (SUCH dorks!) Joe was also comparing me to Magnum PI later on, which I guess makes him Higgins. I dunno.
I feel bad that everyone missed Raw, but I feel a lot better that we're alive. Raw didn't sound that good from what I read anyway.
4/26/2004- Home Sick
Me: There's a "Murder She Wrote/Magnum PI" crossover episode on A&E.
Me: Of all things.
Jen: There's always a reason why you're sick. This is it.
Now that's comedy.
Me: Of all things.
Jen: There's always a reason why you're sick. This is it.
Now that's comedy.
5/27/2004- You Know What's Sick?
I've watched Law & Order so much and for so long that I can actually tell simply based on Benjamin Bratt's haircut who the D.A. staff is going to be.
"Oh, he's got short hair and a lot of gel. It must be a Carey Lowell episode."
I gotta get out more.
"Oh, he's got short hair and a lot of gel. It must be a Carey Lowell episode."
I gotta get out more.
6/15/2004- A MEDAL, People!
The following exchange just took place via Instant Messenger...
Beej9181: Morning.
DiFFiGrL81: Hey.
DiFFiGrL81: Should I order French Toast or do you think it's too ricky?
Beej9181: You're right.
Beej9181: Ordering French toast is something your brother would do.
I deserve a medal for being that quick-witted so soon after getting up. Do you hear me, world? A MEDAL!
Somebody in a position of power get on that, okay?
Man... I ought to just go the hell back to bed. I'm not topping that today
Beej9181: Morning.
DiFFiGrL81: Hey.
DiFFiGrL81: Should I order French Toast or do you think it's too ricky?
Beej9181: You're right.
Beej9181: Ordering French toast is something your brother would do.
I deserve a medal for being that quick-witted so soon after getting up. Do you hear me, world? A MEDAL!
Somebody in a position of power get on that, okay?
Man... I ought to just go the hell back to bed. I'm not topping that today
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