Let Them Ho’s Fight

The site is live! Look at all the new things!

Now I have to run to the show because I do everything at the last damned minute all the time.

I’ve been playing guitar with my roommate Chris a lot recently. We’ve been a little reluctant to call ourselves a band though, as we haven’t had a gig, or really written anything. Until Chris came up with the name: Tyranasaurus Sex. The logo I’m envisioning is a Tyranasaurus with jet black hair cascading over his shoulders as he reclines on a satin bed. If any artists are reading this and would like to draw up a version of that or anything else involving a sexy Tyranosaur, I’d totally let you sit in on one of our rehersals. To just watch, or play, we’re pretty open. We primarilly do folk rock stuff with a sprinkle of nasty R & B thrown in.

I’m bored at work, so I just did a free writing exercise. Here it is:

Where did the phrase panty waste come from? You know? Does it mean, like “I wouldn’t waste a good pair of panties on you.” Cause if that’s the deal, who gives a shit? Or does it mean “You’re about as useful as a pair of panties. Which isn’t very useful at all, for anything other than covering vaginas. So why don’t you go cover up a vagina and stop wasting my time. You waste of space. You panty waste of space. You panty waste of Space Jam, the partially animated Michael Jordan movie. That’s how much you mean to me. As much as a crappy 90s version of Bugs Bunny, in a jersey. In space.” I bet it probably means the latter one. Pretty vicious.

Nice. Just killed a half an hour. See ya dudes!

That’s what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age.

—David Wooderson, Dazed and Confused

Happy birthday, Forest.

Love,

Your Friends

Monday night I came home from a workshop I was doing, pulled the car into the garage, and pushed the garage door closer button only to hear a loud explosion. I turned around and saw sparks falling from somewhere behind the car. Worried that I had crunched the back of the car with the garage door, I hopped out to find a pool of fire just outside… It turns out my closing the garage was the straw that broke our block’s transformer’s ass. The thing totally a’sploded. I hopped out past the fire pool (which I later found out was producing corrosive smoke ’cause of the PCB oil that transformers have in them, fuck) to look up at the transformer, which was sparking and flaming. Shortly thereafter, it a’sploded again, in an even grander fashion. At that point I was already on my phone, desperately trying to fight through the shock and figure out how to dial 911.

Continued…

I’m going to New York tomorrow for an improv festival. This festival is insane. You walk backstage and there’s a green room, usually in which Horatio Sans is getting high. Then, if you go follow this cavernous hallway you get to the keg room. There you’ll find some of your favorite improvisors (Conan writers, a UCB member or two, the black guy from MadTV) getting drunk as hilarious little skunks. And sometimes; not always, but sometimes, it’s ten in the morning.

Continued…