Geek. Fanboy. Comedy Rock Star.

Wuss Bot 3000 Battle Royale

2012-02-22T10:38:00.000-08:00

Okay, guys... Thanks to THIS we now find ourselves entrenched in a metaphysical debate of gargantuan proportions: which lame robot would kick all the other lame robots asses? Nothing is at stake, here. Just pure mental masturbation, so let's get to it. To answer the question, fellow comedian and geek Mike Siscoe has put together this randomly assigned bracket. Respond below (if you care) and let me know who will make it to the second round, based on these pairings, and WHY!

1. Hymie the Robot vs 16. Bubo (Clash Of The Titans)

8. Bishop vs 9. Astro Boy

4. Robbie The Robot vs 13. Vicki (Small Wonder)

5. Fembot vs 12. Johnny 5

2. R2-D2 vs. 15. Twiggy (*with* Dr. Theopolis)

7. Data vs 10. D.A.R.Y.L.

13. Kid from AI vs 14. Dot Matrix (Spaceballs)

6. WALL- E vs 11. Bender

LET'S GET IT ON!

Deliberations will end at 11:59pm EST on Friday, February 24.

Why Should You Be My Friend On Facebook?

2012-02-22T08:58:00.000-08:00

Because of conversations like THIS:

Paczki

2012-02-22T08:33:00.000-08:00

This being the day after Mardi Gras (commonly known as Ash Wednesday, in which certain religious people smear ashes on their foreheads and walk around looking like Woody at the end of toy story, but also known as “Trash Wednesday” by the people of New Orleans,) I'm going to talk a bit about Paczki.

In Detroit, Mardi Gras is known as Paczki Day, and is celebrated as the first day of availability (and in some cases the ONLY day of availability) for these Polish delights that are made to celebrate the feast of plenty before Lent begins. I learned that from reading the box (and which of life’s mysteries can’t be solved by reading the propaganda on food boxes at grocery stores?)

In Indiana, Paczki mystically appear in early February, clogging grocery store entrances and causing the uninitiated to wonder, “Why the hell are they pushing jelly doughnuts in February? Is this national jelly doughnut month? And what the hell is this word on the box?” etc… These damned (go ahead, give it 2 syllables... DAM-ned) things coagulate in the entrances of our grocery stores because Mardi Gras is coming—sometimes a month away. It’s like the first Christmas—I’m sorry—holiday trees appearing in Wal-Mart at the same time the Halloween costumes do. It’s inevitable. Its—Its—Marketing. (shudder)

I am torn when it comes to the mystical, magical Paczki.

Initially, I reviled this pastry, simply because of the name. My midwestern America-centric self wanted to pronounce it the old “hooked on phonics” way. You know… PACKZ-key. Then my overly-analytical side kicked in to say, “Well, in Tupac, the pac is pronounced POCK, so it could be POCKZ-key.” Then I ventured into the unwanted realms of dead languages, and remember how “i” is pronounced at the ends of Latin pluralities. Then the box reminds me that I am either a self-centered American, or simply mentally deficient, as it is pronounced PUNCH-key in its native tongue. Even that is misleading, as it turns out that it's pronounced more POONCH-key than PUNCH-key.

The more I think about it, the madder I get, until I realize that I shouldn’t care what the real pronunciation is, as most Americans, make a point of pronouncing foreign words incorrectly. Just ask any Hoosier where Versailles is. Pronounce it correctly (roughly VER-sigh with a very slight, almost undetectable “yuh” at the end.) They’ll scratch their heads and give you a blank stare. Show it to them on a map, and they’ll say, “Oh! You mean VER-SAILS, you dumbass!”

(On a side note, I often wonder how history would currently read if there was a Treaty of VER-SAILS. Probably many more nonfunctional Camaros on the lawns of many more mobile homes, I’d wager…)

On the plus side, they’re incredibly tasty and heartier (strange word, I know, but try one and you'll understand) than your average jelly doughnut. My personal preference leans to the powdered sugar covered raspberry filled PACKZ-key. Go ahead and buy some. Decorate your holiday tree with them. In a few months, you’ll be stuck with ordinary jelly doughnuts. They just don’t compare.

Not even in VER-SAILS…

My St. Valentine's Day Massacre

2012-02-14T08:46:00.000-08:00

Another icon has fallen. A symbol of family, unity, and togetherness has toppled unceremoniously, its scattered remnants boxed and carted away. It was a glorious pyre, sending its wondrous and shining message of hope into the darkest night. It was my Christmas tree, and it came down today.

You know, I never understood those families that put their tree up on Thanksgiving and had it down the day after Christmas. They’re so organized, so regimented. My expressions of familial love can’t be boxed in like that, dispensed on a schedule and withdrawn because the due date has passed. I’m a free thinker. I’m a harbinger of love and peace, and cannot bear to see undone any symbolic gesture of said love and peace. I’m also kind of lazy.

I had really good intentions this year, though. I planned on taking it down before New Years. Then I told myself that Chinese New Years was still New Years, right? Then came February, and I was bristling with energy to pack the tree up, but I got kind of sidetracked by reruns of Good Eats on the Food Network…

But today... Today is Valentine's Day, and to show my love for my wife, I presented her with Season One of Downton Abbey on dvd (with special features and everything) and watched her go to work. Kind of. I was still in bed when she left, and I'd given her the dvd on Sunday, just so I wouldn't forget. Today, I gave the gift of myself--no roses, no candy, just a little effort and time in the living room.

I meticulously boxed the Hallmark© ornaments (which you must admit is the hardest part, cause you’ve gotta put them all back in the boxes and put the little papers and collector’s cards back in the boxes with them and make sure the boxes are all nice and neat and don’t get torn… It’s a special kind of hell, having a mother-in-law who manages a Hallmark© store…) and began the process of unwinding the silvery, shimmery garland. What began as the orderly disassembling of the tree quickly degraded into a grudge match between me, 100 feet of electric lights, a collapsible Christmas tree, and several thousand ornament hooks littered across the floor like a minefield.

A reasonable man would learn his lesson. A reasonable man would buy a real tree next year, relying on the fact that the dead tree will quickly dry and shed to prompt him to remove it from his home. I am not a reasonable man. I understand this. Such a tree would only become a fire hazard, or perhaps country folk art in my house.

Next year, I’m going to do the most reasonable thing I can think of: drape a sheet around the tree and build a closet around it.

Steampunk Enough

2012-02-13T13:27:00.001-08:00

"There's just something 'bout a woman in a corset with a cane,

and hydraulic shoulder armor that will drive a man insane.

From her leather boots and jodhpurs to her monocle and gloves,

he'll do anything to win her steampunk love..."

The Best Comedy Advice I Ever Had

2012-02-09T13:46:00.000-08:00

The most important piece of advice I ever received about being a professional comedian didn't come from a comedian. It didn't even come when I was pursuing a career in comedy, and it wasn't even advice about comedy, necessarily.

It came from Tom Thornburg, one of my poetry professors in college. On the first day of his class, he asked why we should listen to anything he had to say about poetry. He pointed out that our styles would likely be wildly divergent and that we might not see value in his opinions because of that. He pointed out our differences in age, and political opinion, and role models in writing. He pointed out that we may just hate his course and feel there was nothing of value in it.

“Why,” he asked, “should you listen to me?”

We thought about it for a bit in silence. Someone raised their hand and he waved them down.

“That was rhetorical,” he said. Then he told us why we should listen to him, and you know what? It made sense. Total sense. Mind-blowing, amazing, incredible, ohmygod I should've already thought of this but hadn't sense. What he said was this:

“If you want to publish something, never take advice from someone who isn't currently getting published.”

Then he pulled out books of poetry he'd written, magazines he'd been published in, and current acceptance letters. Then he told us to make up our minds about whether or not we cared what he had to say. Immediately after, he began to teach and never mentioned it again. His advice was golden, though. Absolutely golden.

I made Tom's advice my comedy business mantra, albeit altered a bit. “If you want to make money at something, never take advice from someone who isn't currently making money at it.” Words to live by. Your family's opinion of your act and how you handle business? Doesn't matter. Significant other's thoughts? Nope. Best friend's innovative ideas? He's an English teacher. You're like a brother, man, but... pass.

The guy you have the chance to talk to after his second show on Saturday? Yes. Even more so if his style is what you aspire to. The woman who just blew away the crowd on Thursday? Talk to her. She obviously knows something you don't. Talk to comedians, bookers, club managers, club owners, anyone who actually makes money from the business. Their thoughts are the ones that are valuable when making money at comedy, they drive the business.

I make it a point to learn something new from everyone I work with. Usually, this is easy. Occasionally it's hard, especially when my ego wants me to think I'm a better performer or writer or comedian or whatever than them. Doubly so when I don't find their act particularly funny. But they're making money at this for a reason. They're doing something right. So I watch them and try to figure out what it is they're doing right on stage, and how I can apply that to my act. And if I can't figure it out from their act or stage work, then it becomes doubly important for me to talk with them after the show and get to know them a bit. Sometimes it's about how they handle themselves professionally, or who they know, and how they treat people.

It's a pain in the ass, but it's on the job training. And it's something that has guided me through the world of comedy. I learn from the people I work with. There's no school for comedians, no training course or seminar. And there's no consistent measure of success... In the end, we are only who we make of ourselves, and we should be using every tool at our disposal to be successful. But only if you want to make a living at it...

Class Is Now In Session...

2012-01-31T09:10:00.000-08:00

Last week a friend of mine, comic Scott Long, ran a comedy class in Muncie, IN. I asked him if I could sit in on the class, and he graciously said yes on one condition: that I tell my story of how I got into standup. I jumped at the chance.

You might wonder why I'd do that—want to attend a comedy class, that is. I'm a full-time comic, right? Don't I know everything I need to? The answer is a patent no. I knew enough to get where I'm at. That's not nearly enough for me...

I make it a point to learn something every time I go to work. While I'm not interested in teaching comedy (at least not right now) I personally know two comics who regularly write things a young comedian, or someone interested in being a comic, will absolutely benefit from reading: Scott Long and Ward Anderson.

I heard a quote in high school. Charlie Parker (the legendary jazz saxophonist) said, “You've got to learn your instrument. Then, you practice, practice, practice. And then, when you finally get up there on the bandstand, forget all that and just wail.” Now... the way I heard it initially was, “Learn your instrument. Then Learn the music. Then forget all that bullshit and just play.” Same thing, just maybe a little more punchy. And just as true.

I want to learn as much about how other people do comedy as I can, and I don't want to waste my time on armchair comedians or wannabes. The most important thing I ever learned in college was from my poetry teacher Tom Thornburg, who said (and I brutally paraphrase, here): “If you want to make money at doing something, don't take advice from someone who doesn't make money doing it.” And then he showed us the poetry books he'd published and talked about the ones coming up. He walked the walk.

Scott makes money doing comedy. He writes sketches for Frank Caliendo for FOX's NFL pregame shows. Take a second and check out his credentials. He's not fabulously wealthy, or even famous for it. But he's a dynamic stage presence and a class act, and he knows his shit.

Here's the link to the first blog I ever read from Scott. It resonated with me, and helped set the tone for my future trips. It's not advice on being funny; it's advice on how to survive on the road and still make a profit. Read this one, and then go back and read the rest. You will learn something.

Ward has a different comedy pedigree, being a best-selling author and award-winning director in addition to being a comedian. Naturally, his blog takes a different approach. He writes a lot of entertaining stuff, occasionally dropping an entry on the business, but is nonetheless worth reading and learning from. In this entry, he discusses 5 things every young comedian should know.

And (because I'd probably get lynched by flaming comments if I didn't mention this, and at the least would be negligent) you should listen to the WTF podcast by comedian Marc Maron. While I've never met or worked with Mr. Maron, interspersed in his conversations with famous and/or talented comedians, in between the flippant jokes, reminiscences, and occasional vitriol, you'll gain a definitive insight on the business and craft of comedy. This is probably the most valuable resource for insight into the workings of the comedy world...

There. I've officially passed the buck (and definitely for the better.) Class dismissed.

Kermit the Frog's Dalek Predecessor?

2012-01-28T09:55:00.000-08:00

AT&T released a very cool video on YouTube: one of Jim Henson's earliest films...

The film, titled "Robot," was written and shot for use in communications seminars by the The Bell System, and features a machine-supremecist robot that looks like a muppet-y version of early BBC Dr. Who baddies, spewing anti-human propaganda such as: "While mere mortals wallow in a sea of emotionalism, the machine is busy digesting vast oceans of information in a single, all-encompassing gulp."

Give Kermit a scarf and a TARDIS, and prepare for battle, baby!

Reviewed by Born For Geekdom

2012-01-27T14:36:00.000-08:00

Audrey at Born For Geekdom gave the Impotent Nerd Rage album a listen. It was weighed, measured, and (apparently) NOT found wanting--which is awesome!

Check the review out here.

Mario vs. the Hipsters

2012-01-23T09:26:00.000-08:00

I heart Dorkly. You should watch this, then click on their ads or throw money at them or something.

Two Words: Robot. Porn. (NSFW)

2012-01-18T22:37:00.000-08:00

Debbie Does Metropolis?

Three more words: Sundance. Film. Festival.

I kid you not.

Steampunky clockwork automatons getting freaky a la Team America World Police.

You're welcome.

A Fun Bit Of Fiction: "Meat"

2012-01-18T07:49:00.001-08:00

I was introduced to this piece by the delightful filk artist and author (though not of this piece) Danny Birt while at MarsCon over the weekend. Really fun stuff... Check it out here:
http://www.terrybisson.com/page6/page6.html

FDR: American Badass? F**k Polio!

2012-01-17T14:58:00.000-08:00

The brilliant minds over at NerdBastards.com turned me on to this trailer for the (alleged) upcoming movie starring Barry Bostwick as FDR: American Badass. "Shit Goblins," indeed!

I'm a what, now...?!?

2012-01-17T09:40:00.000-08:00

So I got back from MarsCon 2012 (the one in Williamsburg, VA, if you're wondering—there are two) and slept and then went and gamed some more (gaming night takes priority...) and then slept and now I'm ready to discuss Marscon in long, meandering, run-on sentences. Buckle up.

It was a genuinely wonderful time. Less gaming than I'm used to at a con, but a very nice dealers' room, panels, and events. The Con Suite was excellent and incredibly well run, providing sustenance and beverages to all attendees, and even having their own programming. I performed a song during the opening ceremonies, then more songs during the “Filk Off” immediately following them. Later that night, I did my geek comedy set (no restrictions...) and had a great time. Sunday I performed an hour long concert to a bar that was considerably more filled than I expected for 11am (checkout time) on a Sunday in a hotel bar at a con. I ended up doing (mostly) requests during this show, performing some material I'd rarely done live, and even getting it all on video, thanks to my new friend Robert!

I got to see great bands and performers like Poisoned Dwarf, Coyote Run, the Boogie Knights, Danny Birt, and Jonah Knight. The last one--Jonah--caught me completely off guard. To be honest, I expected that, best case scenario, I'd gain some fans (at least one or two.) I never expected that I'd become one.

Jonah performs supernatural, ghost, and steampunk themed songs acoustically—all original material, with the sole exception of an incredibly creepy cover of Bad Moon Rising—no parodies. I know parodies are at the center of the filk movement, and they certainly have their place, but I'm drawn more to original material. I watched every single one of Jonah's shows (I missed part of one because I was performing, but that was my only excuse.) I bought his cds. I bought an extra copy of one, just to give to my friend Sean. Jonah is the real deal, and while the cd's are great, they are no substitute for watching him perform live.

He stomps in time, and sways, and emotes, and sometimes stalks the microphone, his eyes emotive, his face and posture conveying the subtle, wry humor underlying his music that might be overlooked on cd, simply because you're caught up in the musicianship. His voice wanders from Mike Mills to Peter Lorre to David Gilmour and back. He quips with the audience, and genuinely enjoys himself and his creations, and you do, too. You can't help it. It's contagious. So go listen to his music at http://www.jonahofthesea.com/ or at http://jonahknight.bandcamp.com/. Then buy it. And then get your ass to a con and see him perform. Totally worth it.

So, to sum up: Made friends, performed shows, saw shows, became a fan. Never expected it. MarsCon 2012 was an awesome, awesome time. I truly hope to do it again.

Star Wars Porn? Seriously?

2012-01-07T19:51:00.000-08:00

Guess so...

Star Wars XXX trailer on Youtube. Other glimpses, too...

Huh... Why? Rule 34, that's why. No other explanation required.

Video links below. Check 'em out (maybe NSFW. Depends on where you work, I guess...)

KISS, Rock, And Rubik's Cubes

2012-01-07T07:02:00.000-08:00

What can I say? I'm a KISS geek, too. And when Paul Stanley says something like, "It's not a Rubik's Cube, it's a song, you know?" when talking about the upcoming KISS album, Monster, I get excited...

Read more about what to expect from at least 6 tracks on the album here: http://heavyrocktheplaylist.blogspot.com/2012/01/kiss-paul-stanley-breaks-down-6-monster.html

Batman: Death Wish

2012-01-05T18:29:00.000-08:00

Batman: Death Wish is a fan film that's set to drop online on Jan 8. I love fan films, and this looks pretty cool... I'll watch it.

Check out http://www.batmandeathwish.com/ for more info...

Mutant Rights? Comics+Toys+Politics=Win

2012-01-05T10:15:00.000-08:00

I'm an NPR junkie, and I completely dig Radiolab. If you like comics books, toys, and politics, this may just be the best 16 minutes of digital audio you've heard all year (even though it came out last year...)

http://www.radiolab.org/blogs/radiolab-blog/2011/dec/22/mutant-rights/

And don't forget to donate to such programs if you listen regularly (or even if you find them valuable.) Bandwidth costs these guys... Show your support!

What “I Can't Listen To My Own Music” Means

2012-01-04T10:28:00.000-08:00

When a musician uses the phrase, “I cant stand to listen to my own recordings,” I tend to dismiss them. I'm only about as modest as the next guy, to be honest, but I figure most people don't care for attention whores. I do—or at least I respect what they're trying to do, if they've got the chops to back it up.

I treat a musician who says they don't listen to their own music as one of three things:

A really bad musician. I want to treat these people like a skinny cook: either they don't like what they do enough to enjoy it themselves, or they don't actually enjoy what they do. Either way, I'm not interested.
Dishonest. If they're being falsely modest and saying they don't listen to their own music—when in fact they do—then they're liars. I have no problem with modesty, but true modesty would be to say, “Well, I like it. I don't know if you would.” In this craft, we're all salesmen, and if you're lying to me about yourself so that I'll listen to your music, you're a dishonest salesman. And you can go fuck yourself. If they're telling the truth, though, and they're not a bad musician, then they're probably...
A tortured soul. They'll probably self-destruct. Has nothing to do with the material, or whether it's good or bad, but more to do with the kind of person who is genuinely dissatisfied with everything they do, in this case probably unhealthily so. The music might be good. Might be killer. If I heard it before I read the interview with the artist who can't stand to listen to themselves, I might even keep enjoying it right up until they put a shotgun in their mouth, or overdose, or ask Lynyrd Skynyrd's pilot for a lift... In any case, this is the least likely of the three options.
I know this is something most people don't want to hear from a musician, but I love the music I make. I write music that I like. If that's not what you're doing as a musician, then you're doing it wrong... It sounds stupid and simplistic, but it's true.

And do I write songs that I'm not thrilled with? Sure. I don't record those. I don't play those. I don't share those or want people to hear them. I don't think of them as unrecorded gems... If they were gems, they'd have been recorded, and I'd listen to them.

It seems immodest, I know. But it's not as if I don't listen to other artists—I do. A lot. But sometimes I wanna hear those songs that I wrote, songs that started as idle thoughts and grabbed me so hard I had to make them happen. I was moved by those ideas enough to set them down, and I remain moved by them when I listen. So I proselytize them. I'm not saying they're masterpieces, or amazing work. I'm not putting down people who don't like them. I'm simply saying that I like what I do, and I think people with similar tastes will, too.

If you're a geek who likes rock music and Firefly and/or Roleplaying Games and/or Comic Books and/or Science Fiction and/or Fantasy, I'll say you should listen to my Impotent Nerd Rage album. You might like it. I do. If you like dirty jokes and guitar comedy, or even just rednecky/white trash humor that is self-aware and tries to reveal the ignorance and misogyny inherent in the stereotype, I'll say you might enjoy my Comedy Rock Star stuff. I do.

But what I won't say is this: I never listen to it. 'Cause that's a lie. And even if I am a bad musician, I'm an honest bad musician who enjoys the music he makes and doesn't pretend to be anything else.

That's Sooooo 2011

2011-12-31T10:57:00.000-08:00

Someone tried to insult me this year by pointing out that I wasn't George Carlin, and that I played places like Merrillville, IN. This actually arose from a Facebook squabble that turned personal when I continually pointed out that they either couldn't or wouldn't support their assertion (whatever it was) with corroborating evidence of any kind. I let them have the last word because a) it's really not worth it to argue with someone who doesn't understand how to support an argument, and b) they were right about me not being Carlin. I also don't have a boss or a job I hate. I'm not saying that person does (neither do I know or particularly care...) The point is, though, that I'm not Carlin. In fact, I'm playing a Moose lodge in Michigan for New Years Eve. That's not very superstar comedian, now is it? Then again, George Carlin wasn't George Carlin at the beginning of his career...

So as 2011 draws to a close, I'll give it one last look back. Why? Because I don't plan on doing much looking back in the next year (aside from taxes, that is...) Here goes.

After my show tonight, I'll have spent my 2011 traveling over 50,000 miles, performing 182 shows in 73 cities in 21 states, and getting paid for it. Many of them were in comedy clubs, some in theaters (I performed on the stage of “A Christmas Carol,”) and others in bars. One was in a garage (it was a big garage filled with bikers, but a garage, nonetheless...) One was in a game store. One was between lanes four and five of a bowling alley (no kidding-- the drummer for the Gin Blossoms was there, watching, and he enjoyed the show.) I've played in front of friends and family and strangers, cowboys and cops, bikers and doctors (some were both,) lawyers, geeks, jocks, hipsters, hicks, gays, lesbians, transgenders, transvestites, breeders, and metrosexuals. Sometimes it was even fun.

I performed at benefits supporting Multiple Sclerosis research, Equality Now, Youth Homes (a division of the Children’s Home Society of North Carolina,) and Guardians Of The Children. I'm in the planning stages of a few projects, in the development stages of a couple more, and constantly thinking up new things that I think it would be cool to do.

I had somewhat of a hit this year with a She Don't Like Firefly, which led to a successful Kickstarter.com campaign, which led to the recording of my geek rock comedy album, Impotent Nerd Rage. I failed in getting that delivered to everyone who supported it before the end of the year, but have the means to do so before the end of January, 2011, and will ensure that it is done. This song—this album—made it possible for me to start the transition into playing conventions and such, as well. I did 10 geek-material-only shows (one with a full band!) and have more on the books for next year.

I started off the year sick as hell (almost deliriously so) in Appleton, WI, and will end it exactly how I spent most of the year: in a car, driving, listening to podcasts, thinking up new cool stuff to do, and lots of lame things that will thankfully never come to fruition. Sometime around 3 or 4 am, I'll pull into my driveway, skulk into my house, lay down beside my beautiful wife and try not to give this year any more (or less) consideration than it deserves.

Way back when I had a day job (not so long ago, really) I worked with a really bright guy named Mr. C, who had a poster outside his door with a Lou Holtz quote that read, “If what you did yesterday looks big, you haven't done anything today.” So I'll keep moving forward, because everything looks smaller in your rear-view mirror.

I hope everything in each of your coming years is bigger (or at least better) than the last.

Nerdtastically Reviewed!

2011-12-24T09:03:00.000-08:00

The most honorable Juliette Lewis over at NerdsRaging.com wrote a track-by-track review of my Impotent Nerd Rage album (which you can listen to online for free, or purchase the cd if you like...) What an excellent early Christmas present!

Find her review here: http://www.nerdsraging.com/2011/12/20/music-review-mikey-mason-impotent-nerd-rage/.

My favorite parts include where she refers to my imagery in Me and Alan Moore's Beard as "brilliant," and the "wordplay is genius" in Yo Brain Turns Me On. But then, I'm biased...

Thank you, Juliette!

Mikey News Roundup Dec. 5, 2011

2011-12-05T05:41:00.000-08:00

Again I've let things get in the way of witty (and not-so witty, but at least semi-regular) blog posts. I'll try to do better. Really.

In the meantime, some news tidbits and rumor-mongering about what I'm up to...

Foremost in my mind is this Friday, December 9, 2011 @ the Fickle Peach in Muncie, IN. It's a one-shot event where I have assembled a full band to perform songs from my Impotent Nerd Rage album and related material in the very pub where the "She Don't Like Firefly" video was shot. It's gonna be a lot of fun, and feels sort of like I'm getting a Make-A-Wish night of my own...

Next year is filling in nicely, with Geek Rock Comedy bookings at several conventions and regular comedy show bookings in over a dozen states and in the Bahamas, and no month is barren of bookings as of this writing. Check the schedule to see when I'll be in your neck of the woods. There are a couple of shows I'm not allowed to talk about yet, but I can't wait to be able to... (including my first 2012 CSTS appearance!)

I have several other irons in the fire, as well:

I've been in contact with the great Nerd Rock band Sci-Fried to contribute to their upcoming album "Co-Op Mode," which should also be starring some killer talent like Kirby Krackle (check them out if you haven't already.)
Music videos currently in the development stage include "Too Fat To Troop," "Kobolds Ate My Baby," and "Me and Alan Moore's Beard."
I'm also scripting a series of web shorts based on my misadventures at the role-playing game table.
Spurred by NaNoWriMo (and having completed the NaNoWriMo challenge) I've been inspired to use that creative writing degree that I have, and write a novel as well... The idea is to put it out as an audio book podcast. There are some other things in this vein that I am also not allowed to talk about right now, but am equally excited to share when the opportunity presents itself.

And that's it (for now...) I'll be back later with witticisms and groaners and semi-regular verbal douchebaggery for you to enjoy or hate or ignore as you will... Thanks for dropping by, and I hope I get the chance to see you (and make you laugh) soon!

The Dark Knight Retires...?

2011-11-14T07:07:00.000-08:00

Let’s face it: Batman’s 1^st appearance was in 1939. If he’d only appeared in one comic a month since his initial publication, he’d only have appeared in 800+ comics. But that wasn’t the case. A (very) conservative estimate would be 5000 comics appearances. If one issue only equaled one day out of his life, then he’d have 13.7 years of his life documented on paper. But that’s not the case. Some issues take place in a single night, some over a couple of days, some over weeks. Let’s be (extremely) conservative again and say that, on average, an issue is representative of 2.5 days of Batty’s life. Where does that leave us? 34.25 years of comics, published. Not counting the days we didn’t see...

So how old IS Batty, anyway? Let’s assume that his entire life past age 21 was actually shown in those comics, as represented in those (conservative) figures. He’d be 55 years old (21+34=55.) Conservatively. The formula for retirement in many corporations is this: Age + Years of service = 80. This puts Ol’ Bruce Wayne at (very conservatively) 9 years past his full retirement eligibility, and about 35 years of that time he's spent getting his body crushed and cut and battered. It's time for him to get some rest.

Now, I can hear my fellow fanboys screaming through the interwebs... “What about relaunches?” they shout, flecks of spittle flinging from the corners of their mouths whilst they roll their eyes in angry derision. “What about the alternate universes and timelines? The one-shot stories that take place out of continuity? Huh?”

And I can't argue. Technically, while the character is old as hell, the company “relaunches” him every so often (as they do with all their flagship characters, so they can keep milking the cash cow) so 'Bruce Wayne' never ages that much (unless Frank Miller touches him. Or--sometimes--Alex Ross.) And so we get to the crux of my complaint...

I'm tired of Batman. I know that's heresy amongst geeks, but how many times can the comics industry retread the same old ground with this guy? Or “re-envision“ him? Honestly, writers... If your take on the Batman is so significantly different from every other previous writer's take on the Batman, then why aren't you just writing a new character? I'll tell you why: cause fanboys don't wanna let go, comics companies are afraid to create, and you want the paycheck. So we get to hear, “But my parents are dead” for another seventy years? I hope not.

Truthfully, it's not just Batman. It's most, if not all, of the flagship characters out there from the Big Boys of the comics industry, DC and Marvel.. And I'm not even really dogging the relaunches, some of them are quite good (and some of them are John Byrne's Superman relaunch.) It's just that comics used to be the most creative medium in the world. Now, with a few exceptions, they're almost trite. Do something new, comics industry. Inspire us again. So, whether you ship Batman out to the Gotham Acres Shady Rest Retirement Home or not, make something new for us—that audience you want to keep and grow.

We keep hearing about the downturn of the comics industry, about declining sales and such. You need new readers in order for your business to survive—and I want to see it survive. But the same old characters and stories haven't been saving THAT particular day, now have they?

Mini-KISS My Ass...

2011-11-08T06:24:00.000-08:00

Is anyone else filled with an intense loathing for MiniKISS? Just wondering. I mean… I know they’re a curiosity act, and that they don’t perform often—at least not anymore. I know that, as little people, their prospects in the entertainment industry might be even more limited than those of an overweight bald man approaching middle age with an epic goatee and a guitar. But they piss me off…

These guys are getting paid to do 2 nights at a casino in Indiana. They’re supposed to be re-creating the experience of a KISS concert, but in miniature. Their costumes were initially horrible, and only got better as they bought the janky-ass low-quality KISS halloween costumes that came out. They don't put the make-up on correctly. They don't play the instruments. They don’t even update (or spellcheck) their website (which, as of this writing, still advertises their 2010 “tour” and has a flash ad describing them as a “HIGH ENGERY KISS / 80s ROCK SHOW.” High “engery” is right. This act will cause serious “engery” to your frontal lobe and self-esteem.

I'm a performer--I make my living at it. I’m even pretty good at it—really good if you believe people after my shows (but they’re often drunk or drinking, so… Grain of salt, right?) The venues and clubs I work for—comedy clubs in general—do very little to promote a non-celebrity act. But these asshat clowns have been in Rolling Stone, Spin, Guitar World, and Hustler Magazine, among others. Real performers with real talent can’t get publicity for shit, but these fuckwads get a commercial with KISS and venues pay to advertise their less than mediocre “talent.”

Jesus, this is everything wrong with entertainment. It's the musical equivalent of Hollywood remaking old movies, but doing it really badly, and then pretending that the shitty job was intentional irony. I’m not at all against people busting their asses and exploiting their assets to make a buck. Strippers, porn stars, models, actors, comedians, musicians… All of us have to do that. But these guys could at least learn to play and at least TRY to do the costumes and makeup well. And they should stop calling themselves a tribute BAND.

Shit like this is why so many people have so little respect for actual creativity.

Forget All About That Macho Sh*t, and Learn How To Play Guitar...

2011-11-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

Every so often, I find myself having some useful bit of information to pass on to future generations. I generally couch this in terms of “advice to my sons,” but it really isn’t just useful for them, it’s useful for everyone. That in mind, I’d like to take this time to talk about something that I know a little about, and that I think will be useful to my sons, some boys and girls, and some men and women. In general, it’s useful for anyone who’s ever wanted to use that guitar they have to pick up women.

First off, make sure it’s a guitar. Yeah, saxophones are sexy. But you can’t sing to a woman while playing a saxophone, and it’s really, really hard to play it softly and quietly. Pianos are sexy, too, but YOU try carrying one around. If there’s one at the party, you have a shot, but that Casio keyboard you got for Christmas when you were 15 just doesn’t hold the sexy/cool factor you want, regardless of how good the song is, or how good YOU are. Seriously, any other instrument is lacking. And don’t try a ukelele. While they might hold the attention of some women, the vast majority of women find ukeleles laughably cute (and as much as Cosmo touts that women find a sense of humor sexy, it’s a lie. Ask your favorite comic—one who doesn’t look like he’d get laid, anyway. Brian Posehn, Patton Oswalt, Louis CK, whoever… Money=aphrodisiac. Good looks=aphrodisiac. Sense of humor=“You’re such a nice guy, and any girl would be lucky to have you. Now excuse me while I go bang the rich guy with the good hair and the abs.”) Drop the jokes, get the guitar.

Second, choose your songs carefully. Find out what bands/artists they like and pick the saddest, most heartbroken songs by those artists you can find. I speak from experience here. And don’t write a woman a song, for fuck’s sake! Writing a song for a woman only works if she already likes you, in which case why are you wasting your time with the guitar? Never write a woman a song unless she’s broken your heart, and then don’t play HER the song. Play it for every other woman you want to date. One good, honest heartbreak song will pull you more action than the entire Journey catalog. And I know, many of you are too young to get the reference. It’s ok. You know what I meant.

Finally, be willing to put the guitar down. There’s a time to be the self-absorbed attention whore, and a time to focus on human interaction. Sure… If you actually listen to a woman and care about what she says and how she feels, you’re automatically putting yourself in the “nice guy” box, and that means you may have to wait while she works out her issues on hard-bodied rich guys in nice cars who treat her like shit. But if you’re just in it for the sex, you’ll still get yours, eventually, and without ever treating her like less than a person. Even if the sexual encounter is horrifically bad, she’ll look on you favorably because you treated her like a human being. And if you’re in it for the relationship, it’s worth the wait. She’ll appreciate you more.

At least, that’s what Cosmo says.

Mikey News Roundup Nov. 5, 2011

2011-11-05T10:07:00.000-07:00

Just an update on where I've been, as the blog seems to have lapsed like a Catholic High School Girl In Trouble (thank you, Kentucky Fried Movie, for the visual I get whenever I utter that phrase...)

When I last left off, Buzz and I had just returned from the 2011 Geek Media Expo in Nashville, TN (a truly excellent time. Check the previous posts for pics.) We were accompanied by my elder son, Ben, and a good time was had by all.

Following that, I appeared in Bristol, VA (where two excellent guys who'd just found out about my geek stuff online came to see me—and hopefully I'll see them again in a couple of weeks when I go to Johnson City, TN) and then in Lynchburg, VA for a couple nights before heading to...

The 2011 Geek Gala in Charlotte, NC (an annual charity event sponsored by the Charlotte Geeks.) It was a killer fun time, lots of great costumes and Games (Slay the Sparkly, Bowling For Jar-Jar, Ewok Toss, etc...) and I did two sets, getting to play some stuff I don't normally get the chance to when I'm making people laugh...

This week, I'm in Tulsa, OK, and had a friend drive 6 ½ hours from Abilene, TX to see the show and hang out last night (thanks, Terry!)

On Monday night, several excellent musician friends of mine and I will meet for the first time to rehearse material from the Impotent Nerd Rage album, to be performed live in Muncie in early December. I'll post more details as they come.

In the meantime, I'm participating in NaNoWriMo, so if you are too, add me as a writing buddy! My username is damikey.

Check the schedule regularly. I'm booking all sorts of great stuff for next year (some of which I can't yet confirm or deny) and it looks like it's gonna be a great year for geeks and white trash comedy, both!

New Adventures with Buzz @ Geek Media Expo vol. 3

2011-10-23T11:30:00.000-07:00

My faithful road manager (and tiny plastic toy) Buzz ventured with me to GMXv3 in Nashville, TN this week and met all sorts of fun people and inanimate objects. Click on the pic to live vicariously through his exploits on his Facebook page. And don't forget to "like" it!

Back By Popular Demand: Saturday Morning Cartoons

2011-10-15T09:18:00.001-07:00

Mining For (Literary) Gold

2011-10-14T08:48:00.000-07:00

There is no holier place than a good used bookstore. Even the not-so-great ones are shrines to the literary world that was, back before television and audiobooks, Netflix and Redbox, and video games. Don't get me wrong... I enjoy all of those things, and accord them their due. But my oldest and truest friends have always been books, and I seek out their temples—the used book stores—wherever I go.

I frequent them in every state I travel. I seek them out. At home, in Indiana, my temple of choice is Half-Price Books (which is a chain through many states.) In North Carolina, it's Edward McKay. But right now, I'm in Jacksonville, FL, and it is home to the holy of holies: Chamblin Bookmine.

The Chamblin Bookmine is an unassuming, single-story building, tucked away almost beneath an offramp from a bridge. But beneath its white, mostly windowless, paneled exterior, under the aging and fading letters on the roof that bear its name, lies a behemoth. This place is gargantuan. I swear it is larger on the inside than it is on the outside. It is a labyrinth of wooden shelves, some curving along the outer wall, some winding throughout, all stacked eight to ten feet high and completely filled with books. I could spend an hour trying to accurately depict this store, but I would still fail to capture the sheer glorious scope of the fire hazard it represents.

In Portland, OR there is a wonderful store called Powell's City Of Books (I think it's a multi-state chain, now) that sells new, used and rare books. It is a glorious place, and truly seems like a city of books. A modern city, though, blending the old and the new. Powell's is the New York City to Chamblin's Rome. This is the old city, the old country, still slightly shrouded by fable and and tinged with myth and history. This is Narnia. This is my favorite hunting ground.

I buy books, very occasionally, online. But it isn't nearly as satisfying. There is no hunt online, a book is either available or it isn't. And I am all about the hunt.

The hunt is when you are in your seventh bookstore in five states, on your hands and knees, sifting through either vaguely organized or completely disorganized racks, stacks, and boxes of books for that one book from an author that you haven't yet read, or maybe that you read once long ago, lost, and haven't found since, or that book you had when you were a kid, the one they just don't print anymore. The one you want you kids to read and enjoy as much as you did, hoping that it will spark a fire in their heads the same way it did yours. The hunt is about the pride and triumph you feel when that book falls under your eye, when your hand closes around it, feeling its heft as you liberate it from the stacks, and about the endorphins released when you smell the age of the paper and binding glue, and you know the search has paid off.

There is a deep satisfaction in the hunt that can never be duplicated by spending a few minutes on Amazon.com and waiting for your order to be processed.

I don't want to take away from local “new” bookstores (though those are a fading breed, quickly being done away with by the huge chains that also support the online book market...) If there's a new release you want, or something still in publication, by all means, go to your friendly local bookstore and order it! But I travel for a living, and I read mostly paperbacks. And I like to find those older editions of them. The ones without the pictures from the movie or television adaptation on the cover. And I'm always looking for old editions of Edith Wharton books for my wife, or even paperbacks of the very few Wharton books she doesn't have a copy of...

And I love the hunt.

Desperately Seeking Mr. Roboto

2011-10-13T09:02:00.000-07:00

Of all the things we lose as we grow up, the one I miss the most is this:

“Yes.”

Growing up is one long process of defining yourself, making choices about life and lifestyle and putting people and experiences and options into little hypothetical boxes and stacking them neatly into little piles marked acceptable and unacceptable. And the problem is, we start doing it without thinking. Some choices we make preclude others, and before you know it, you've started putting things into the unacceptable box without even really considering why.

You don't do that as much when you're a kid. It's something that happens as you get older. I mean, think about it... A toddler thinks nothing about putting dirt in their mouth. An 8 year old would say, “Ick” but probably want to know why you wanted to put dirt in your mouth (they're still collecting data.) A teenager probably wouldn't consider it.

It's that willingness to go along with what's happening and see if it's fun that I miss. When I was a kid, everything became a theatrical experience. One night in the early 80's, my life went from watching tv to sitting with my brother and some friends in a camper shell behind our home, faces illuminated by a flashlight as my brother dramatically read from the inner cover of the new Styx album, to a group of kids riding bikes down the streets of my neighborhood at night bellowing, “Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto! Domo! (Domo...)” over and over, and all in the span of less than an hour.

None of us even knew who Styx was. I still don't know where my brother got that album from, or why he dragged us together and made a big deal about it. I don't think *he* even knew why it seemed like a good thing to do. But that doesn't matter. What matters is that we went along with it, and it was fun. And different.

And maybe even life changing. Something about the absurd theatricality of the night, the confusion about what was going on and why we were doing it, the feelings of involvement and belonging that came along with riding with a group of friends through the streets singing an insipid pop song, the unexpected elation of the experience changed me. It helped set my path to play role-playing games, to study theatre, to write and perform for a living. It remains burned into my memory three decades later.

For most of us, that's simply something that simply won't happen anymore. We have learned to reflexively, emphatically, and authoritatively say “No” to a new experience, simply because it's not something we would normally do. It is outside the boundaries of who we think we are, or should be.

I'm not talking about something like eating poop, either, or committing a crime, or cheating on your significant other. I'm talking about going fishing. Going to a football game. Going to an amateur wrestling show. Going to an art exhibit. Going to a play or a wine tasting or a beer tasting. Trying a different type of food. Reading a different type of book. Taking a walk. Playing a game. Whatever. Instead of dismissing something out of hand, even just considering it might do us more good than we can imagine. It can change our lives. It did when we were kids.

I'm going to try and say yes a little more often. I think I'd like that back in my life again. I want to know what the adult equivalent of going from zero to “Mr. Roboto” crusader in sixty minutes is. I'll let you know in an hour.

Why I'm not as big a Weird Al fan as you probably are...

2011-10-12T07:07:00.000-07:00

This might lose me some friends, but I feel the need to say it anyway: I don't like Weird Al as much as you probably do. I know, I know... He's an incredible performer. He's a great musician. He plays a killer accordion. I can't and won't argue with any of that. But most of the world doesn't care about his best work. They just like him for his parodies. I don't. Why?

Here's where I'm about to get really unpopular (especially with a lot of my fellow comedians and performers, and this is coming from a guy who does the occasional parody, himself): Writing a parody takes considerably less skill, talent, and work than writing a catchy, popular song. It's true. I'll prove it.

Short Argument: Nobody writes a parody of a demo song by a famous musician that didn't make it to the album. They pick songs that you already know and either love or hate. Either way, you're already a little invested in the song and they don't have to do most of the work to make you pay attention. If you like the original song, you'll listen to the parody because of that. If you hate the original song, you'll listen to the parody because you want to hear it twisted. Either way, the parodist has most of the work already finished for them before they even start their work.

Long Argument: Writing a song requires arranging chord structures, creating a melody, and writing lyrics. It involves tempo, mood, pacing, instrument choice, and even a sense of the theatrical. Well-written songs stick in your head; they're ear worms. Sometimes you don't even like the song, but you can't get it out of your head, anyway. That means it was well-written (note, I purposefully avoided using the word 'good.' I'm trying to stay objective.)

Writing a parody requires that you take a song that somebody else already did all of that for and re-writing the lyrics. That's it. Done. A parody purposefully cashes in on someone else's hard work and talent and the exposure of a popular song.

“Wait,” you argue. “But Weird Al is talented and does it very well and has socially relevant lyrics and is an incredible performer and reproduces the music with an almost inhuman attention to detail and blahblahblah...”

And I'll stop you right there, because it's all beside the point. The point is that writing lyrics is only one part of writing a song.

See? Writing a song takes an incredible amount of work and skill and talent, and writing lyrics is only one part of that. When you take a song that somebody else put in all the time and effort on, and re-write the lyrics, even if you do it particularly well, you've still only done a fraction of the work. Writing a complete song is harder than just writing lyrics, if only because writing a complete song takes a wider skill set than just writing lyrics.

Leave subjective terms like "good" or "bad" out of it. I'm talking about the work and talents and skills involved, and writing a song is more work and utilizes more talents and skills (and therefore more difficult) than writing lyrics. It follows logically, then, that writing a parody is less work than writing a song, and takes less talent or skill.

Which is why Weird Al makes me a little sad. His original music (the stuff he put ALL of the work in on) is the least acclaimed of his works... “One More Minute” is a killer song (my favorite Weird Al song, actually) and is funny all the way through, catchy, and well-written. “Dare To Be Stupid” parodied a style—that of Devo—without parodying a particular song. And it's brilliant. I could go on, but for the most part I'd just be naming songs most of you probably haven't heard of (unless you're gonna go all nuclear hipster on me, in which case I'll acknowledge beforehand that you, yes YOU in particular, have a mastery of this subject matter far and above that of the average layperson, so please let it go...)

Watching Weird Al get all the acclaim he gets for rewriting the lyrics to songs other people made popular is like watching a master class painter get famous for doing paint-by-number velvet Elvises, but adding KISS make-up or Hitler mustaches or googly-eyes to them. Funny? Yes. Genius? Not so much...

I like Weird Al's original stuff A LOT. I'm just disheartened by the thought that, as talented as he is, if he hadn't piggybacked off of everyone else's material, he wouldn't be enjoying the degree of success he does today. And that is true of every parodist, regardless of how good they are.

And I worry about what that means for me as a writer and performer.

To Infinity And Beyond...

2011-10-11T10:23:00.000-07:00

Buzz and Dustin Diamond
(Saved By The Bell's Screech)

I travel a lot. Like most people who travel for a living, one of the things I fight hardest against is boredom. When you see a documentary about a performer who ends up drug addicted or alcoholic, I'd wager it's generally because they needed something to do to fill the lonely hours, so they hung around at the bar. You fill in the blanks.

One of the things I do to combat the boredom is to take pictures of a little plastic Buzz Lightyear toy at various touristy attractions and stuff... Why? Well...

In 2006, I was just starting as a standup comedian. I'd been performing or writing comedy in one form or another since 1992, but not as a standup comedian, and I hadn't been traveling all that much yet. At this time, my youngest son--Jack--was just over a year old, and was taking his first steps. Jack just *loved* to put things in shoes, especially toys. I was constantly hurting my foot on something shoved in my shoes until I consistently began to check them before I put them on.

My buddy James graduated from Air Force basic training in June of 2006, and a friend (Sean) and I flew to San Antonio to see him graduate. When we arrived, while getting dressed for the graduation ceremony, I discovered Jack's Buzz Lightyear toy tucked into my dress shoe. After the ceremony, Sean, James, Buzz, and I went to the Alamo and took pictures. Before we left, Sean and I took Buzz to a cave and to an old Spanish mission. And to Rudy's, self proclaimed home of the"Worst Bar-B-Q In Texas."

We had a ball. After that, it just made sense to take Buzz with me everywhere I went. For a short time, Buzz was lost, but upon his triumphant return, I resumed taking pictures on the road with him. It's a small way to share the interesting things I get to see with my friends and my family. It maintains a definite emotional tie to my children when I am lonely. And it beats the living hell out of being bored.

Click here to see the misadventures of Mikey and Buzz...

Buzz and the lovely Elena Fox from Food Network's "Ace of Cakes."

In case you see this, here is why I unfriended you...

2011-10-03T08:35:00.001-07:00

I don't often unfriend someone on Facebook. I did last night. This someone, who shall remain nameless, actually posted, in complete earnestness, "does any one have that fb thing that we need to copy and paste so that we do not get charged for our account?" Actually, I edited that a little. There was no punctuation, but I had to add the question mark so that mine would be a complete sentence.

I'm not terribly judgmental, at least no more so than any other quasi-anonymous-aspiring-to-be-a-public-figure-geek-on-the-internet, but I figured that if anyone could completely miss the half a million annoying posts making fun of the people that actually believe that Facebook will start charging for its services unless you post something as a status message, they'll never notice that I unfriended them.

Still, I rarely unfriend someone. Usually, I block their posts from my feed. That's right, I'm a blocker.

“Why,” you ask? Because they do things I find annoying. Here are some of the things that will get you blocked from my feed:

All your posts are the same. They're all about politics or religion or your band or whatever. Every. Single. One. It's annoying, and I don't want to see it.
You edit people's comments and wall posts because you don't like what they wrote. Guess what? If you hate what they say so much, you should unfriend them. Actually, when someone does this to something *I* wrote/posted/commented on in their feed, I'll message them about it. If they didn't have a compelling reason, I'll generally unfriend them. Friends don't censor friends unnecessarily. (What is necessary censorship? When your friends delete a post that violates the TOS or that would get you in trouble. Or keep you from drunk-dialing your ex. Or drunk posting on his/her wall at 3 am. Those are compelling reasons.)
You post a LOT of video links to YouTube. In a row. For no fucking reason. I don't care how much that Boyz 2 Men video 'takes you back,” or how the only way you can express the existential angst you feel resulting from your current change in relationship status is by posting every sad song you can think of over and over. You just got blocked.
You continually repost things that only a gullible ass would take at face value. These things were the very reason that Snopes.com was created. I don't care about that touching anecdote that reinforces your political position/religious belief/particular mindset. It's a lie. Someone made it up. You know why it's a Facebook post or an email forward in story form? Because it wasn't on the news. That's why there's no link, because there are no “facts” to back it up. Which means that using it as evidence to support a position borders on self-delusion.
You clicked on the “OMG!! You will never believe this!!!” video post that was a trojan and now it's posting that shit on your wall and my wall and trying to get me to click on the “OMG!! You will never believe this!!!” video. Come to think of it, you should never click on any link containing multiple punctuation marks in the title. Or on anything that is obviously emotion-bait or seemingly pornographic. At least not on Facebook... Let that shit spam on my wall once and I'll message you. Twice, and you're blocked...
Posting vague messages that are intended to publicly scorn or scold someone without mentioning them by name. Any post that contains the words, “you know who you are” falls into this category. Also, pity-seeking posts or any posts written to be purposefully vague (read: attention seeking) will probably get you blocked.

There are other things that get you blocked from my feed or deleted from my friends list: hate speech (the real kind, not just someone ranting about hipsters or bad drivers;) illegal things; perpetual misspellings; using the letters “u,” “r,” “b,” and the numbers 2 and 4 instead of the words “you,” “are,” “be,” “to,” and “for;” and general knee-jerk reactionism, for a start.

I'm probably forgetting a dozen or two. What am I missing?

Yard work? Her job, not mine...

2011-09-28T08:50:00.000-07:00

Our grass needs cut. I know it's getting late in the mowing season, but we're probably in danger of violating several municipal ordinances... Here's the thing, though: It's not my job. It's my wife's job to cut the grass. And before you go all “Hold on there, big misogynist!” on me, allow me to explain.

I think I'll have to start with cats. Bear with me. This goes somewhere.

I never wanted pets. My wife wanted to get a cat. I said I didn't want a pet. She asked why? I said I didn't want to have to clean up after them, feed them, care for them, take them to the vet, exercise them, and most of all—because she had explicitly stated “cat,” as opposed to “pet”--I didn't want to change the litter box. She said, “That's fine. I love cats. I'll handle all of that.” And we got cats.

A few years later, we're expecting a baby. The cat box isn't getting changed. We have three cats. She can't change the box. “Toxoplasmosis,” she says. And so I'm stuck changing the box. The baby is born, and I give a haughty, “HA!” as I approach her with the litter scoop. “Nuh-uh,” she says. “Toxoplasmosis. Can't risk it until we're done breastfeeding.”

And that's how, three months after she stopped breastfeeding the baby, I realized that I was *STILL* cleaning the litter box, presented her with the litter scoop. Since then, it has become a war of attrition, a standoff to see how long it will take before one of us gives in and changes the box. I'm winning. I didn't want pets.

What does this have to do with the lawn? Well...

I never wanted to buy a house. My wife wanted to buy a house. I wanted to rent. She asked why, and I told her that I didn't want the repair responsibility and bills, and that—most of all—I didn't want to mow the lawn. I hate mowing the lawn. “That's fine,” she said. “I love being handy around the house. I love doing yardwork. I'll mow the lawn.” And we bought a house.

Did I mention that when we moved in, she was still pregnant? Guess who had to mow the lawn? And for months after the baby was born? Yup. And now it's a war of attrition, each of us waiting to see how high the grass will grow before we mow. And that's why it's *her* job. She asked for it.

Now, there is one time when I particularly enjoy mowing the lawn. Our neighbors own a lawn service, and they are compulsive, twice a week (minimum) mowers. Sometimes, I like to wait until right after they've mowed for the second time in a week, then go out, lower the deck on the mower a half inch shorter than theirs, and mow.

And then sit back and watch, laughing, as they come out and mow their yard again, not wanting their grass to be taller than the neighbors with the slovenly lawn...

Are you still here? Why? I mean, thanks for reading!

Fandom: 0, LucasFilms: 84 (Million)

2011-09-27T09:54:00.000-07:00

George Lucas is the Gene Simmons of the Sci-Fi world. It doesn't matter to him if you love or hate him, just so long as you're talking about him, his intellectual properties, or his businesses. And you do. Oh! How you do... And you throw money at him. Repeatedly.

Never mind the hatred against Jar-Jar Binks. Never mind Hayden Christensen's cardboard portrayal of Anakin Skywalker. Think, for a second, about all the nay-saying and fan backlash against Lucas' continued tinkering with the franchise (specifically with the BIG THREE movies that spawned the heart of the fandom.) Think about the outrage surrounding the CGI additions to the first movie, Greedo being edited to shoot first (hell, to shoot at all...) or Hayden's “Ani” being edited into ROTJ. And now the controversial “NOOOOOOOOOO!” just added to ROTJ for Blu Ray.

Well... With all this outrage, Blu-Ray sales are bound to suffer a bit, right? Right?

(Sigh) Wrong. The “complete-for-now” Star Wars saga has sold over 515,000 units in North America alone since Sept. 16, and broke records for first week global sales (over $84 million, worldwide.) It is now officially the highest selling and most pre-ordered Blu-Ray offering in history.

Until he fucks with it again. Cause, let's face it here: he just got rewarded for pissing all of you Star Wars fanboys and girls off, didn't he? You screamed, you ranted, you raved. You swore he was slaying your sacred cow of fandom, but he was only betting on a cash cow, and you guys are why. You voted with your dollars, and Jar-Jar Binks is your American Idol, with Greedo as your Ryan Seacrest, shooting at Han first and dying in an endless loop, each time murdering a little tiny part of your soul. And who's our Simon? George, of course.

Enough mixing metaphors. You guys asked for the next round of edits and changes by buying in to this one. And I get to act all smug and superior about it, cause *I* may be the only Star Wars fan who hasn't bought this set.

Yet.

Delusionally Speaking

2011-09-26T08:06:00.000-07:00

I'm constantly amazed at my brain's ability to filter information and delude itself. For example, the guy I see when I look in the mirror is about 30-50 lbs. lighter than the guy I see in pictures or video footage of me. Seriously. How is this possible? Do I have special, slightly convex, funhouse mirrors in my home? I'd wonder if this is actually true, excpet there's no way there are special mirrors in every hotel room I visit.

So the problem is either with me, or with every photographic and videographic capture device ever created. Even writing that stirs a little hope. Somewhere in the back of my brain, a tiny voice is whispering, “It could be the inherent tendency of technology to fail...”

But no. I'm certain the problem is my perception. I know this because of the time I went to the doctor's office and found myself sucking in my gut as I stepped on the scale. My brain is a hypocrite.

I mean, I know I'm not the only one constantly deluding himself. Everyone who says, “I don't watch TV,” and then catches up on their favorite TV programming online, via Hulu or torrents (or even on DVD) is just hiding behind a thin veil of semantics, but still maintains that outwardly smug level of superiority that seems pervasive among people who say things like, “I don't watch TV.”

The entire women's clothing industry is built around self-delusion, banking on the thought that women would rather buy a pair of “Size 10” jeans than a pair with a 28” waist. Hell, the ENTIRE clothing industry banks on it. Buy a pair of jeans, and chances are the waist is a few inches bigger around than it's supposed to be. Really. If you buy men's jeans with a size 30” waist, chances are, a guy with a 33-34” waist could fit in them. Why? Cause they know WE want to feel thinner, and would rather buy clothing that is labeled as being smaller than it actually is. Because we delude ourselves. All of us.

It makes me question just how off my perception of reality is. How different are my versions of time and music, distance and beauty, of what is profound? Or worse... What's funny?

I'd worry about it, but who has time for negative thoughts? I have to go find a non-defective videocamera...

Taking the Geek Act on the road...

2011-09-25T20:50:00.000-07:00

Just some notes and news for fans of my geek act. I had a great time with the official debut of the geek set in Indianapolis, and rocking it out with the Charlotte Browncoats at their Can't Stop The Serenity event. I'm putting a lot of time and effort into breaking into the Con scene and developing shows and programming aimed at my fellow fanboys (and fangirls.)

I'm happy to announce that I'll be performing at Geek Media Expo in Nashville, TN Oct. 21-23

and at MarsCon in Williamsburg, VA Jan. 13-15!

Just added Mysticon in Roanoke, VA Feb 24-26!

And, of course, I'll be playing my annual show at Fear the Con in St. Louis, MO May 4-5 (sponsored by the Fear The Boot Podcast!)

Keep checking back. I'm planning at least one event at or around both GenCon and Dragon Con, one way or another. The details are fuzzy, yet, but I'll let you know when I have new dates. Thanks!

Chinese food from a gas station=a movement that "shook the pillars of heaven."

2011-09-25T10:13:00.001-07:00

White Trash Nomenclature

2011-09-23T07:52:00.000-07:00

(Disclaimer: The author will be using spelling variations of certain white trash titles and terms based solely on phonetic approximations provided by his own aural observations.)

(Translation of Disclaimer: I know YOU probably spell it Papaw, Pappa, Papa, or Poppa, but since you're pronouncing it Pawpaw [and since Hooked On Phonics probably didn't work for you] I'm spelling it Pawpaw. Get over it.)

My wife and I had a problem last Christmas, which we discovered while wrapping presents. Since it's September now, I feel relatively safe discussing it. Only relatively, mind you… You see, her stepfather is referred to by his grandkids as Pawpaw (*see disclaimers above.) No big deal. I come from a long line of White Trash. I understand the importance and relative normality of this title. I was writing the tag for the gift for her mom and stepfather, from our kids, and she told me to address it to Pawpaw and Grandma.

I refused. She didn't understand why. I proceeded to explain…

According to heirarchical White Trash nomenclature, the masculine title of Pawpaw is partnered with the feminine title of Meemaw, just as the masculine Papaw is partnered with the feminine Mamaw. Grandma goes with Grandpa, and Granny is for widows. Widower grandfathers have their choice of titles. It's a perk of not only being a white male, but a White Trash male.

To incorrectly pair Pawpaw with Grandma is a severe breach of White Trash Etiquette. Perhaps she hadn't been raised thoroughly versed in the ways of the White Trash, but I was born in Kentucky, raised in a trailer with 7 or so cats, 2 dogs, and was the youngest of 6 children from 3 different fathers. My family's Thanksgiving/Christmas dinner (we did 'em both together to save time, money, and gas) was held annually in early December at Old Country Buffet (the one in Southport in Indianapolis. I'm not exaggerating or joking here.)

Don't debate White Trashery with me. You'll lose.

My wife pointed out that my mother is known to her grandkids as Mamaw, and my father is simply called 'Pa. I explained that while this might appear to be a breach of form, there are two other factors at play here: 1) 'Pa is a NASCAR-recognized contracted form of Papaw, and 2) my mother and father are divorced, thereby freeing them of the obligation to have matching White Trash honorariums.

Pawpaw goes with Meemaw. Her mother will just have to suck it up. To call her Grandma just ain't right...

White Trash Geek

2011-09-22T18:26:00.001-07:00

Incidentally...

2011-09-22T05:48:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of my life in hotels. Today, when I checked in, I got asked (again) for my credit card “for incidentals”--even though the venue is paying for my hotel room. Even though they don't have room service. Even though they don't—you know what? I'll save that rant for another day. For today, I want to focus specifically on why I don't like hotels having my credit card on file “for incidentals.”

I stayed in a hotel in the New England region last year. It was a nice, family friendly hotel—so family friendly that they give you a key card featuring prominent cartoon characters on it. Not that it matters, though. I was hardly in the hotel. Why?

Here's what you should know about me when I'm on the road. If I'm in the hotel room, I'm working on something, I'm reading, I'm performing some hygiene function (I include masturbation under this banner,) or I'm sleeping. I find all sorts of other stuff to do on the road, from cheap tourist attractions to walking at the mall or in a park. I find hanging out in a hotel room bleak and depressing for the most part. And I almost never turn on the television—when I watch TV shows, I do it on computer or dvd, generally.

A couple weeks after checking out, there is a charge on the credit card. They had “incidentally” charged my room for an adult movie. $7.99. I called them.

The young lady who answered the phone was very polite and good natured when she answered the phone, and even as she answered my questions about the charge. She laughed politely when I said that I hadn't even turned on the television. That got me. I don't mind people laughing at my expense when I'm performing, or even when I'm the butt of a good (read: funny) joke, but her condescending little chuckle made me snap. I attacked.

“Why the hell would I pay $7.99 for your chintzy hotel porn? Have you ever watched hotel porn? Cause I have, and it makes that tepid softcore we used to stay up late to watch on Cinemax After Dark look well directed and edgy, lady. You realize that you have free internet access, right? And that I have a smart phone, right? I don't even need your internet to get good porn. I can stream it from a 3G signal, and watch the good shit. Penetration. Girl on girl on girl on girl on guy. Do the words 'anal jackhammer' mean anything to you, lady? Cause they do to me. Those words are precious to me. I covet that phrase like an Everlasting Gobstopper I'm trying to sneak out of Willy Wonka's factory. It's my one true thing, my cup of coffee in the morning--and how many coffee drinker do you know who limit themselves to one cup? So no, lady. I didn't watch your shitty hotel porn. I sure as hell didn't order it, and there's no way I'm gonna pay for it. I'm not saying I didn't whack off in the room. I probably left enough seed on your carpet to start a sperm bank, but I did it all with streaming porn over your wifi and my phone. Get it?”

She remained very polite as she told me my card would be refunded.

I said, “Have a nice day.”

Incidentally, you probably should never use the washcloths at a hotel. Or lay on the bedspread. Or walk barefoot. Or touch the remote. Ever. Just saying...

Halloween Is A-Coming...

2011-09-21T06:18:00.000-07:00

...and I know because three months ago they started selling decorations and costumes...

There was a time when Halloween was the be-all/end-all… The excitement slowly grew more and more tangible and we couldn't wait until we could put on our plastic or polyester costumes (guaranteed to melt to your skin instantly in case of fire) with those plastic faces (guaranteed to cut your lip or ear at least once on this hallowed night) held onto our heads with a little elastic band (guaranteed to pop out or break at least once.)

It was a great time to be a kid. There were little plastic Supermen and little plastic Batmen, and little plastic Star Wars characters, and little plastic KISS band members, all wandering down the street with their little paper grocery sacks or plastic pumpkins, in blissful search of sugar.

Back then, the costumes sucked. If you had a Superman costume, it would have a picture of Superman in some furious action pose on the chest, and not just the Superman symbol. Back then, they hadn't figured out that kids wanted to look like the characters, and not like walking advertisements for the characters…

Still, we knew our place in the world. We knew that, as a little plastic superhero, we were entitled to walk up to any house with a porchlight on and ritualistically beg for candy. And the ritual was important. We would actually say the words, "Trick or treat." And we almost meant it. We very nearly meant that, should these kind homeowners advertising their possession of candy by the ritual porchlight not hand over sugar upon our ritual request, we would perform some dire act of ritual retribution such as GASP! soaping their windows, or SHOCK! toilet papering their trees…

Of course we knew that these tricks were only for the kids who deemed themselves to cool or too old to trick-or-treat. We were just there to get the candy.

Now, years later, after urban myth needle-in-the-candy scares, x-raying candy bags at local Fire Departments, and the transition of Halloween from being a fun family night to Satan's Subversive Recruitment Evening, the costumes are finally cool.

And I get to see some of them, too, on the kids who aren't forced to ignore Halloween altogether, or on the kids who aren't forced to "trick-or-treat" at the mall, or go to a church-sponsored Fall Costume Party (not officially affiliated with Halloween or Satanic Recruitment…) But mostly I see pre-teen girls dressed like Britney Spears (next year they'll go as 'Unwed Teenaged Mothers') or kids in black street clothes with black and white clown makeup who swear they're ICP. Kids who don't even have the decency to say, "Trick Or Treat." One kid came as a "teenager." That's right—he wasn't wearing a costume at all. I told him my costume was "child abuser" and to get the hell off my porch. Then I told him that, thanks to his lack of effort, I knew his face, and that if anything happened to my yard, house, or cars, I'd find him and hold him personally responsible.

I wanna go back to those halcyon days of facial papercuts and crappy costumes, back to when Halloween didn't blow...

Fast Food Monogamy (An Imagined Dilemma)

2011-09-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

We're creatures of habit. When we eat fast food, we frequently go to the same place, a sort of "fast food monogamy" if you will… I'm in the car A LOT, and so I eat fast food A LOT. And I don't always get the chance to clean out the car. I feel funny saying it now, but I get all awkward if I'm going through a drive-thru with another restaurant's day-old cup in my cupholder.

I start throwing it on the floorboard while I'm ordering… Trying to push it under the seat or cover it up with a newspaper or a jacket… I wonder what the conversation would be like if the window person cared…

McDonald's Drive-Thru Window Person (MDTWP): Here's your drink and your debit card, sir—oh…

Me: That stuff on the floor, that's nothing... That's just trash…

MDTWP: Uh-huh. Sure…

Me: No, really… My wife used the car last. Maybe it was—

MDTWP: Save it. I know you've been to other restaurants. I've just been fooling myself for so long… God, I've been so STUPID!

Me: No! It's not like that.

MDTWP: I knew you'd been lying… Like when you went out with the guys and "just happened" to end up at that food court at the mall. All those hot foods out showing what they've got. No wrappers or anything. Just a sneeze guard. And you and your friends and a handful of dollar bills!

Me: It was disgusting. I thought of you the whole time. The only reason I didn't leave right then was cause I didn't drive—

MDTWP: You could've called a cab! And I saw you at the Hardee's across the street, just yesterday! I tried to tell myself it wasn't you, but there's the straw! Right there in your floorboard!

Me: Wait. Let me expl—

MDTWP: I saw! You didn't even use your debit card! There was no purchase protection or anything! God knows what you could've caught from their change…

Me: I didn't get change, it was—

MDTWP: You gave her exact change! You never give ME exact change… And is that a kid's meal toy in the back seat? That's not one of ours...!

Me: I, uh… I one of the neighbor's kids must've… Oh, fuck it! Yes! I've been to other drive-thru's alright?

MDTWP: And you took the kids! How could you!

Me: Oh, get off it! You're just not enough! I need some variety once in awhile. A little bit of strange, you know?

MDTWP: Gasp! But I've always been here for you!

Me: Yeah… You're always here. And it's always the same! Sometimes I want it a little different, you know? A little freaky. So I go to Burger King. You know—My way, right away!

MDTWP: You bastard!

Me: Sometimes I want a chalupa. Sometimes fish. Sometimes just someone else's burger, you know? Or a coney dog! Or a milkshake made with real ice cream!

MDTWP: I never want to see you again!

Me: Fine. You're not the only McDonald's in town…

MDTWP: You wouldn't!

Me: Like hell I wouldn't. Now hurry up with my ketchup before the fries get cold…

Yeah… I bet it would probably be something like that. I think I need to find a camera and a drive thru, and shoot this one...

Summer Of '83

2011-09-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

This is a clip from the show last night... The opener, actually. Enjoy (I hope!)

About Last Night...

2011-09-16T09:52:00.000-07:00

So last night was an adventure...

I did a show hosted by Isaac Landfert with Callie Burk and Matt Clemens in Indianapolis at this cool little theatre/arts bar call the White Rabbit Cabaret in Fountain Square in Indianapolis. Isaac was funny as always, as were Callie and Matt (though I'd never seen them perform before) and I learned that Callie did voices for Nintendo (when you heard Zelda moan when hurt, it was her... Yeah. Geeky hot, I know.)

And I... I was scared. I don't get scared before going up anymore, but last night I was completely out of my comfort zone. I was being me onstage last night, for the first time in any market venue, at least, and more of me than I usually am onstage.

If you've seen my comedy before (live, not just clips on YouTube) you know that my act is pretty much what I call “White Trash” humor: sure it can be cleverly written, and even cleverly executed, but the content isn't usually particularly original so much as it is presented in original ways. And I never swim too far from 'Dick Island,' as Bill Hicks is credited with saying.

Last night I did my geek act. I did it without the invisible wall of separation between me an the audience, the wall that says to my brain, “If they don't like it, it's not personal. It's the act they don't like, not you.”

Sure, I stayed grounded in my trailer park roots, last night. It's part of who I am. But I explored themes and aspects of me that I've never let out onstage before. And not all of it was magic or golden. But some of it was. And the rest... The rest was a good start. It felt like I had something to say, as opposed to simply being there to make people laugh. Don't get me wrong: I love making people laugh. But having something to say, REALLY having something to say, simply takes it to another level...

Time for a quick reality check, though: I'm not changing everything about my act. I may not change ANYTHING about my “professional stand-up comedy act” for the forseeable future. But I've started that journey towards something different, something more 'me.' And I'll keep moving towards that, slowly and deliberately.

But I still have bills to pay. And Dick Island is mighty handy, and a good provider.

Can You Hear Me Now?

2011-09-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

I hate to use my cell-phone in the store. Hate it. I always tell my wife, "Honey, I'm being the dick on the phone at the grocery store. I'll call you back..." Sometimes you have to though, right? And there's always a smart-ass, while I'm on the phone, nudging the doughy bitch beside him and pointing at me while I'm talking.

"Can you hear me now?," he snickers. Like he's a comedian. Like he's Louis C.K. or Richard Pryor. Like it's the most original punchline of the century, new and gleaming and completely novel.

"Can you hear me now?" Chortle, snort, guffaw. Like he's George fucking Carlin, master of satiric wit.

This is for you, the insipid and rude fuck at the grocery store. Read my words and heed them.

Yes, Gallagher, I can hear you. I'm on the fucking phone, you rude son-of-a-bitch. You can make fun of me all you want for being technologically up to date, Hamish, you Amish wannabe with your Pillsbury bride, but you're gonna wish you had a cell phone so you can call 911 when I'm beating you to death with a frozen loaf of garlic bread! I'm not on the phone in my car. I'm not causing a wreck. Hell, I'm not even in the checkout line. Back off.

You just made my list, pal. You know the list of people you keep in your head? The ones you're gonna go after first on the day you finally crack and buy an AK-47? Well... Maybe you don't have a list, Shecky, but I do, so maybe you shouldn't fuck with me, huh? 'Cause you just made the Top Fucking Ten! Right between the telemarketer who can't read the no-call list and my ex-wife's divorce lawyer! Howdya like them apples, huh Hamish? Can you hear ME now? Huh? Can you!?!

(ahem...)
OK. I feel better now.

Mikey vs. The Log Bomber

2011-09-14T08:30:00.000-07:00

I think I might be psychic... The other day, I was at a gas station with my son, and we both had to pee, so we went in. There was this little boy stationed outside the bathroom door who immediately said, "There's someone in there."

OK. No big deal. We'd have gone somewhere else, but a) I REALLY had to pee (and so did my son), and b) we were at least 10 minutes from the nearest other public restroom. So we waited. And waited. A few minutes later came the lonesome sound of a solitary flush. No water running in the sink, no hand dryer blowing. Just a flush.

A few seconds later, the door opened and a man, presumably the door guard's father, exited, glanced furtively at my son and me, and quietly and firmly said, "Let's go."

His tone of voice was what caught my attention. It was as if a covert operation was in full swing, like he'd planted a bomb in the embassy toilet, and there were 30 seconds til detonation. I knew that we'd be stepping into a bad situation. But we REALLY had to pee.

We gave each other the look of condemned men, resigned to their fates, and took one long, last breath of gas station air before entering the flickering fluorescent light of the unisex bathroom. My son was quicker than I, perhaps more eager to see what we were walking into, and I saw him stagger a little as he neared the lone toilet. He looked despondently back at me. The guy had left floaters.

Not just your regular dingleberry floaters, mind you, but three hulking, fibrous logs, drifting in the circular currents of rust-stained waters in the rural gas station toilet. Worse yet, not even a hint of toilet paper in the water

Part of me cried out to just pee on the logs, give the obligatory flush and get out as soon as possible. The civic-minded part of me, the intuitive side, my "psychic" side, said NO! You don't just leave floaters in the public restroom! My spider-sense was going off... The air in my lungs was running thin. My son had already given himself over to shallow breathing, his mouth and nose covered by his shirt. My son! my mind raced... I was with my son. I must teach him the right thing to do...

My eyes watery, I lifted my leg and, precariously balanced, flushed the toilet with my foot. Like hell was I going to touch it with my hands.

After the third or fourth flush, holding the handle down the entire time to allow maximum flushage, the logs had gone. I let my son pee first. I'm a good dad like that.

While we were washing our hands, there was a knock at the door. "Occupied", I muttered through my shirt (I had, by this time, joined my son in the delicate art of the t-shirt gas mask, perfected by years of sharing a back seat with a brother who took great delights in the various sounds and smells he could produce rectally.) We raced through the dryer process. Neither of us could wait much longer. We used our pants as hand towels, and, with much balancing and shifting of weight, I opened the door with my foot. Hey! The Log Bomber hadn't used toilet paper OR washed his hands. I wasn't taking chances...

Outside the door, I saw the reason for my flash of spider-sense, my psychic strobe light. Waiting outside, obviously the one who knocked on the door, was a woman who sends a lot of business to a company I do quite a bit of work for. A LOT of business. And she, obviously, had to go potty. We spent an awkward moment exchanging pleasantries as I introduced her to my son, then parted ways, she to the stink-room, and we to pay for our gas and flee.

It struck me, as we drove away, that I might be psychic. But whether it was my urge to be a good father, my civic-mindedness, or perhaps just plain psychic phenomena, I was glad I had done the right thing, difficult though it had been. I had vanquished the floaters, and although this business associate might well believe that I have the foulest intestinal odor in the tri-county area, she would not remember me as "the guy who left floaters in the restroom." You see, doing the right thing is its own reward.

Besides I'm going to need the positive karma. The next time I see her, I'm going to apologize for the odor, and explain that my son had explosive diarrhea, so she'll associate the smell with him instead of me.

I'm a good dad like that...

The Fragile Nature Of Life... And Porn...

2011-09-13T09:39:00.000-07:00

I passed a dead animal on the road yesterday, on the way home from work. It might have been a dog, a German Shepherd or coyote. It might have even been a shaggy deer, once. In its current state, it didn't resemble Bambi at all. But it did make me start thinking about the fragile nature of life. About death.

I came to a decision.

I went home, knowing that my wife wouldn't be home from work for at least an hour. I went straight to my most secret hiding places and pulled out all my best porn. What's that? Hiding places, you ask? Best porn, you ask? Well As most married men (or those who are housemates with their significant other) know, there are two kinds of porn: the stuff she knows you have, even though she may not necessarily like it, and the stuff she'd leave you over. You know. The stuff you won't talk about over the phone in case the government is listening. And just because she'd leave you over it, doesn't mean you won't keep it anymore.

Anyway, the vast majority of my "private reserve" was on DVD. I would've just pitched it, but--What's that, you ask? Pitched your best, most secret porn? But WHY, you ask? Cause that's the part about death that bugs me the most... As soon as you're gone, people start going through your crap to see what they want. I may be a total, irrepressible perv, totally unfit for human contact because of the horrendous amounts of porn I enjoy, but I only want to be remembered as the kind of perv that most wives, while outwardly critical, approve of. I want to be remembered as a wholesome perv, and the only way I can see to do that is to get rid of the evidence.

I briefly considered setting booby traps, some fatal, some simply set to maim, to defend my precious bounty, but that's too risky. She might find them before I die, and BOY! Then I'd have some 'splaining to do! To the emergency room... To the police... Possibly the FBI... And, if she lived, to her...

So, anyway, I would've just pitched it, but someone might find the stuff. And those special DVDs that we made on that one Valentine's day after a few bottles of Champagne (and half a roofie)--the ones I swore I'd thrown out years ago--were just too much to risk to dumpster divers. I picked one up and bent it nearly in half. DVD's are remarkably resilient. Little known fact #1: a snapping DVD is closely akin to a fragmentation grenade. It did not simply snap in half. It shattered, nearly impaling the cats, who were desperate to see what I was playing with, with shrapnel.

It took nearly 20 minutes to clean up the remnants of one explosive DVD, and I'm still not sure I found them all. One of these days my wife is going to pull a piece of our one-time intimate memento out of a cat's ass, but that's another story.

I took a piece of steel wool from the garage and went to town, insuring that no trace of my irredeemably perverse videography remained, marring the plasticky flesh to the point that no DVD repair kit could be of any benefit to the damaged disc, ever. Steel wool met laminated metal. One down.

Feverishly, I repeated the step, standing over an open trashcan, over and over again. Ten, twenty, thirty discs fell, their explicit cargo now destined to travel the seas of landfill, never to find port or haven in another DVD player. I was safe. I covered the discs with trash, tied the bag, and took out the garbage.

I went back in to wash my hands and discovered little known fact #2: when using steel wool, it is best to remove your wedding band first. Sigh... At least she won't leave me over this...

And honey... If you're reading this... I'm only joking.

Really.

Stop looking at me like that...

*Editor's note: the vast majority of this piece was written and originally appeared in my blog on Feb 13, 2006 (it was edited for spelling and select word choices.) Since then, a wonderful (fake) service has been introduced... Check it out!

Best. Comment. Ever?

2011-09-13T08:38:00.000-07:00

At least for now...

I received the following comment on the Best Game Ever video, from kelath5555 on YouTube:

"I showed this to my boyfriend, who is a long-time DM. This struck such a chord that he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He dropped his head into his hands when you sang "half-elf, half-orcish monk illusionist" with a noise of pain."

Thank you both, so much. That means the world to me.

Things I Have Learned On The Road...

2011-09-12T10:44:00.000-07:00

And now for an encore presentation of the first installment of my long-lost series of observational travel truisms: Things I Have Learned On The Road.

Occasionally, you will be hungry while on the road. This happens. Sometimes, when pressed for time, you will look for sustenance INSIDE the gas station at which you have innocently stopped to refuel. You may notice, from time to time, a "hot food area" in the gas station, and may be tempted to purchase a hot dog or some other heat lamp dried meat or churro concotion to sate your appetite.

Don't.

These are actually clever traps laid by hive colonies of hyper-intelligent bacteria, seeking to relocate to rest area bathrooms from where they are staging the next step in their plan to conquer the universe. Just look at the mess in any rest area bathroom and you'll agree: no human with a conscience would ever voluntarily make that kind of a mess.

Sometimes, the bacteria get even more wily, though... Sometimes they create reasonable facsimiles of pizza or sub shops in the gas stations. You can only recognize these by the lack of a nationally branded logo, although it can be tricky to spot the more intelligent versions, as they tend to very closely mimic the national chains... If you're at a Pizza Glut, a Pimpie's Subs, or a Stubway, you're likely about to get taken for a joy ride by some hyper-agressive e coli bent on world domination.

How do I know these things? Experience. The same experience that allows me to translate the following exchange. Let's say you're, oh... a touring comedian and you're asking about the pizza in one of these gas stations. When the guy who works the non-nationally-brand-named pizza/sub station in the gas station says, "The pepperoni's pretty fresh," what he means is that eating the pepperoni pizza will be the gastro-intestinal equivalent to sucking water from out of the toilet in a Guadelajaran hotel room.

I now refer to those slices as, "the pizza that broke the Ramada's bowl."

Finally, I also learned the following this weekend: no matter how cool the people you're with are, no matter how much they've had to drink, no matter how good a dancer they think they are, NO ONE looks good while dancing to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck," especially not a bar full of middle-aged white people. Not even when that one guy in the corner is dressed exactly like the guy in the Dexy's Midnight Runners video.

And that's all I've got to say about that.

Working it out backstage...

2011-09-10T14:22:00.001-07:00

...getting ready for the shows tonight at the 20 Year Abso reunion in Muncie Indiana!

Sci-Fried!

2011-09-09T11:08:00.000-07:00

Check these guys out! It's possible that we were separated at birth...

http://www.sci-friedband.com/

A Long Time Ago In A Galaxy Far, Far Away...

2011-09-09T09:10:00.000-07:00

In 1992, I started college (yeah, I'm *that* old.) At the time, a fledgling comedy group called Absolunacy was auditioning for members. They'd been around for a year already, but hadn't performed any shows, nor really written any material. I went to that audition with the guy who remains my best friend (outside of my wife, of course.) At that audition I met my wife. Seriously.

I was in Absolunacy (now Abso) for a year and a half. I learned how to write comedy because of them. I met and performed with some of the most wonderful and talented people I've ever known through them. And 19 years later, they're still around. And that... That's pretty damn cool.

We will be celebrating the 20th Anniversary of Absolunacy at Pruis Hall in Muncie Indiana tomorrow, Sept. 10, with free shows at 6 and 8pm. The 8pm show is for adults (spoiler: somebody will drop an F*Bomb. And Wash dies.) Follow the link below for more info.

Abso Celebrates 20 Years of Improv - Ball State Daily News

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes...

2011-09-08T14:33:00.000-07:00

So, I'm trying out a blog format for the website. It's not a permanent change (yet) and I haven't deleted the old site (yet.) It's just a test run, for now, but the goal is to have more frequent, perhaps daily(!?!) content. I know. I just boggled myself.

In any case, check it out. Offer a suggestion, if you have one. Thanks for dropping by...

Best. Game. Ever.

2011-08-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

I used to play D&D as a kid. Ok, I still play RPGs, just not D&D (not very often, at least.) At any rate, whatever RPG you started out playing, if you played one, you knew a George. If you couldn't pick out who George was in your gaming group, chances are... it was you.

My Next Girlfriend

2011-08-25T11:53:00.000-07:00

This is the first video from the Impotent Nerd Rage album, available as a digital download, or in cd form.

-Mikey

The Leasing Of Jack's Name

2011-08-01T14:26:00.000-07:00

As a result of the "She Don't Like Firefly" video, I ended up looking for funding for the Impotent Nerd Rage album via kickstarter.com. The project was a success, and this video shows one of the rewards backers received for backing the album.

She Don't Like Firefly

2011-03-08T14:13:00.000-08:00

My declaration of Browncoat loyalty. This song got me a lot of attention...