Went to Books and Trucks yesterday with my dear, heavy friend Mike "the sofa" Parsen. That's a store that sells things like books, and also things like trucks. You can get a diesel engine V-10 duelly and pick up some Norman Mailer while you're there. I didn't buy anything. Nick got some books after saying he wasn't going to buy any books, and I was like, "Rich, you said you weren't going to buy any books!" and he was all like, "My name is so far none of the names you have mentioned in this blog." Which is weird, because I wasn't even writing the blog until this morning, and now I am afraid.
After we left the bookstore we went to Best Buy. I hate Best Buy, it always makes me feel poor and stupid. I can't afford anything in there, and on top of that, I don't even know what half that shit DOES. I see some sort of futuristic red box with blinking lights on it and I don't know if it's a washer or a TV or the White Stripes' newest album. I'm out of touch with technology. Which is why I work in tech support.
I bought a headset and mic to plug into my computer, so I can podcast. Which I'll probably never do, but in case I do, I can, so maybe I will. Or won't I? Stay tuned!
Jesus...He's the man. He's really got his shit together.
After Best Buy we went back to Allison's house, that Mick's new name, which is Mike's real name. He made me some margaritas, which sounds gay I know, but isn't. It's just homosexual. Just relax, just go with it, it's natural...Then his wife came home, and we drank some more margaritas, and we listened to weird/funny country music and some ridiculous recordings of Mick's wife talking about Inspiration! A new cologne for men! I laughed so hard I became a Unicorn, then I changed into a fireman. Tomorrow I'll be an astronaut. The end.
All of this started because I had lunch at Chilis with a 20 year old college kid who may or may not be in my newest film, called "Film", by Rogers and Hammer. (Fred Rogers and MC Hammer)
I ate the boneless buffalo wings, which made my heart cry, the celery was weak, uncrisp, warm, limp. Like old man dick, which normally I LOVE, so it was strangely disappointing. Then I called Mick and then we went to the bookstore.
I like that bookstore, it used to be on Mill ave. near the college, back in the day, but now they have a big new place near the Tempe/Chandler border next to Trader Joes. I read somewhere that they were/are the largest independent bookstore in america. And they frown on shoplifting. They don't try to stop you, they just frown at you real hard, so I don't do it anymore. I bought a cup-o-coffee in the attached cafe and strolled around, ogling the peeps. I must admit my habits have changed much when it comes to bookstores in the last few years. I used to go to them all the time with the express purpose of buying books. I bought a lot of them, most of them are now gone.
Thanks ex-roommate!!!
But I digest....I used to go inside, search, choose, peruse, purchase, read, repeat. Now it seems I'm less interested in the books and more in just walking around, sipping coffee and looking at people.
Mostly the people with tits. I like those people. Someone brought a dog into the store while I was there, and my first thought was "Oh, a blind person. Maybe I can rob her." But no, she wasn't blind, she just brought her dog into the store. And that's OK. That's the kind of place it is, a place where you can bring your dog. And maybe do yoga in the back room. This is an excellent place to work my special brand of off-color humor, as it turns out.
I was standing in the lit aisle, drinking coffee and pretending to read James Joyce, when one of the employees, a woman, said to the dog-lady, "Can I pet your pretty dog?"
Sure, why not. Step on up.
This caused me to look in the general direction of said dog, and dog's owner, a fairly attractive twenty-something. The dog and I made eye contact, and I'm not kidding you, lunged for me--but in a friendly way! He was like, "Dude! I want to play with that guy! He looks fun! I'll bet he'll throw any saliva coated object I place in his lap for my amusement!" and the dog-lady was like, "No, Eddie (or Jonie or Winnie or some kind of -ie ending name) THIS way, this nice lady wants to pet you."
But Roxie was having none of that. She saw fun in my eyes, and she was on board. Finally I just crossed the five or six feet dividing us, man from beast, knelt down and started pulling on his ears. He was in heaven.
"Dogs like me because I rub bacon all over my body every morning." I explained.
This was met with a less than enthusiastic response, which only drove me on to still greater heights of comedic ballyhoo.
"I especially rub it on and around my crotch" I explained, in what I thought was a calm and reasonable manner. "They love that area, as you can see."
The dog had his face buried in my junk. Yeah...work it.
"Sometimes I just wear meat on my underwear, too." I continued. "But not today." I added, as an afterthought.
The women were staring at me. I looked up to see hate filled eyes staring into mine--which were not filled with anything, as I am dead inside--and realized it was time to go.
"Nice dog" I concluded. "See you Thursday."
I've taken to ending all my conversations with strangers on that line, as it confuses and redirects, allowing me space to escape.
I found Mick, "are you ready to go?" I queried, somewhat in a panic.
"Yep."
"Good."
And the rest of the story you know. I drove home after seven margaritas (always a wise move) and called my friend Duke, in Chicago, thinking it was 6 o'clock there, because it was 9 pm here, but that's not the way time and geography work, as it turns out, and I ended up waking his wife up at 11pm, and then apologizing profusely. Duke and I had a good chat, though.
Why do women hate me?
Yours Truly,
Scotty "meat pants" McNulty
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Goings On
I was recently cast in a short film--a thesis project for a couple of ASU students--called "How to die with dignity when no one cares and p.s my favorite show from the 80's was Cheers". (not the actual title) The kids who wrote and are producing/directing it are a real swell bunch. If you can call two a "bunch", which I believe, you cannot. I play a real Douchey McDouchebag named Harvey who is married to a super thin pseudo super model played by one of those "celery eaters" you see walking on runways in Paris. I'm sure she's nice in real life (I haven't actually met her yet, but I love the photos!) and I'm looking forward to the shooting process cuz she's like 5' 10" and I'm 5' 4". It's a real Dennis Kucinich type romance. Street! That's what I yell now when something's so cool it should obviously be used by the "kids" on the "street". I say "Street"! and then run down the hall and throw my keys at your chest and then yell "Keys"! and demand that you immediately return my keys.
I drink a lot of coffee.
I was asked by Harry and Jane (the filmmakers) to get my teeth whitened, if possible. I'm going to ask my mummy if she can get me a discount since she works for a dentist, but if no can do then I will simply apply white out to my enamel just before filming. Do you think that's safe? Street!!!!
What else is going on? What else? What's in the news? (that's my stand up intro, I ask the crowd, in this case, you, "what's in the news"?) People LOVE it!!!!
But seriously, I think it's really going to be a fun project and I'm excited because aside from jerking my shit with some friends in Chicago with a camcorder and no script, I've never really done any on camera acting before. I wish I were more attractive. Why won't you love me???
Work is sucking the life out of my veins. My house is currently filthy with a 70% chance of remaining that way through the rest of the week, I need a new bed, I'm starting to go bald, none of my pants fit, I'm behind on some bills, my car needs a wash, and all of my friends (with the exception of one) are married or coupled, so it has now become a race against time, in which I will lose. You want some of THIS? I didn't think so. No one does. At some point you have to consider, when does suicide become a viable option? Oh sure, the cynical among you would say "Right now, loser!" but the more compassionate would give me at least a month to finish the movie, then...straight off a cliff. But I would choose a small, easily climbable cliff because I'm out of shape, which would most likely result in me simply injuring myself bodily rather than causing death by blunt trauma. Then I'd have a shit load of medical bills and a bad back. Actually it's already bad, so it would be worse. Is that what you want, friend? Man, you're an ass hole. Here I am looking for a little empathy and you've got me jumping off of small, easily climbable cliffs resulting in neck and back injury and possible paralysis and bankruptcy. You are a real scum bag, essay. That shit ain't "street" at all. That's like..."dirt road" or "farm"...maybe even "sack of rusty nails". That's what that is.
Well I'm glad we had this talk! I feel better already. Remember to tell your friends and family about my upcoming movie, "The Kid who Drank the Longest Ocean", written by Jay Michael Napster and Sonia Sotomayer Kevorkian. Opens never. Rated zero.
STREET!!!
I drink a lot of coffee.
I was asked by Harry and Jane (the filmmakers) to get my teeth whitened, if possible. I'm going to ask my mummy if she can get me a discount since she works for a dentist, but if no can do then I will simply apply white out to my enamel just before filming. Do you think that's safe? Street!!!!
What else is going on? What else? What's in the news? (that's my stand up intro, I ask the crowd, in this case, you, "what's in the news"?) People LOVE it!!!!
But seriously, I think it's really going to be a fun project and I'm excited because aside from jerking my shit with some friends in Chicago with a camcorder and no script, I've never really done any on camera acting before. I wish I were more attractive. Why won't you love me???
Work is sucking the life out of my veins. My house is currently filthy with a 70% chance of remaining that way through the rest of the week, I need a new bed, I'm starting to go bald, none of my pants fit, I'm behind on some bills, my car needs a wash, and all of my friends (with the exception of one) are married or coupled, so it has now become a race against time, in which I will lose. You want some of THIS? I didn't think so. No one does. At some point you have to consider, when does suicide become a viable option? Oh sure, the cynical among you would say "Right now, loser!" but the more compassionate would give me at least a month to finish the movie, then...straight off a cliff. But I would choose a small, easily climbable cliff because I'm out of shape, which would most likely result in me simply injuring myself bodily rather than causing death by blunt trauma. Then I'd have a shit load of medical bills and a bad back. Actually it's already bad, so it would be worse. Is that what you want, friend? Man, you're an ass hole. Here I am looking for a little empathy and you've got me jumping off of small, easily climbable cliffs resulting in neck and back injury and possible paralysis and bankruptcy. You are a real scum bag, essay. That shit ain't "street" at all. That's like..."dirt road" or "farm"...maybe even "sack of rusty nails". That's what that is.
Well I'm glad we had this talk! I feel better already. Remember to tell your friends and family about my upcoming movie, "The Kid who Drank the Longest Ocean", written by Jay Michael Napster and Sonia Sotomayer Kevorkian. Opens never. Rated zero.
STREET!!!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
In Pursuit of Trivia
Last night I met up with some friends at the British Open Pub for drinks and repartee. But unbeknownst to me, Tuesday night is Trivia Night at the BOP and against the protests and tepid attitudes of my bar mates, I gave us a team name and signed us up. The Mick Parsons' Experience held the lead for the entire second half of the game, even going so far as to name all four of the top states for shark attacks in 2007 (Florida, South Carolina, California and Hawaii). Your welcome! It all came down to one last extra credit question---that we blew. We blew it so hard and long that Jenna Jameson herself was said to have blushed. Then I got drunk on Newcastle and had to get a ride home from my ex-boss Mario. I dreamed of living in an undersea colony being overrun by overly aggressive orcas. True story. I awoke feeling like SHIIIIIIIT--plus--I had to walk half a mile to McDowell and then take the bus to Scottsdale rd. to retrieve my Neon. Did you know the friggin' bus is 2.50 now??? What the F, yo! Now I must ponder an offer to audition for ChildsPlay Arizona tomorrow....
But this was as far as we got, for I am lazy and cannot be bothered with blogging.
Part one of our series occured two weeks ago, part two occurs RIGHT NOW!
Last night I once again, only this time intentionally, attended Tuesday Night Trivia at the British Open Pub. Mick and Melissa were there, fresh from a Kentucky funeral (that's not a joke, so please keep your insensitive comments to yourself) and Mario the not-straight bus manager (he doesn't like to be called "gay") and Jose the guy who boxes and once poked me in the chest to make a point while telling a story and it actually hurt through the next day Mexican American playwright was in attendance as well. Enough chit chat, proceed:
For our team name we chose the moniker "Showering with Grandpa" and on each paper-slipped answer we handed in Melissa drew pictures of a Cock Cone, a Banana Cock, a hairy close-up portrait of a Vag, and of course, the words "Scott McNulty wants to fuck you, 480-326-XXXX". Only with real numbers instead of x's. What a glorious friend you are, Melissa! Perhaps not surprisingly, I have yet to receive a phone call from Trivia Girl.
So now it's Wednesday! Hump Day. And despite a plethora of sexually charged imagery having passed through my hands last night I can rest assured this day will be totally Hump Free. A few times last night when a particularly stirring rendition of gangsta rap or 80s pop was blasting over our heads as we furiously scribbled our answers down amidst the pints and nachos scattered about our high top table I would "Bust a Move" as the kids say. Not a full body dance so much as an upper torso arm and head weave to indicate to any who may be watching that "Yes, I ENJOY this song, and am expressing my joy through the medium of an upper torso rhythm shake". Mick would then invariably say, "And I wonder why you're single".
NOW MICK...You're good people and all, but I think you misunderestimate my influence on the female mind. As in, I have none. But! It is my conviction that somewhere out there is a young (preferably 18-20 year old) lady who is absolutely mesmerized by a man who can dance while remaining fully seated and create a wondrous array of facial expressions while doing it. Oh yes...She's out there somewhere, sir...And of course, she thinks Trivia Night at a staid British style public house with soccer games playing on the telly and statues of early 20th century golf caddies with exaggerated mustaches behind the bar is totally WHERE IT'S AT. Oh, yes...I KNOW the female mind...
To get back to an earlier point, I did in fact audition for Childsplay and was awarded with a part in their upcoming production of "Neverending Story" about a shirtless pre-teen boy who rides a flying dragon that resembles a Westie Terrier through an elaborate fantasy land of purple skies and poison distributing witches.
Oh yes, I'm very proud, thank you for asking.
However I am also chicken shit and would have to quit my job to play the role which would only last two months and then I would be jobless in the worst economy since the Great Depression. So...I repeat my endless refrain, This is Computer Support, How May I Help You? for another 10 to 20 years and hope to not die of a heart attack before I can retire and buy my own flying westie and finally SEE AMERICA!
Just kidding, I don't want to see America, I've seen it. There's a lot of fast food restaurants there. Not that into it.
I forgot to mention that Showering With Grandpa came in third place last night, we were tied for second with (and I'm not making this up) Post-Op Tranny Gang-bang and had to answer two, count'em TWO, tie breaker questions because we both got the first one wrong and according to Trivia Girl that's NEVER...HAPPENED...BEFORE.
Yes it WAS very exciting, thank you.
We won a $10 gift certificate to the pub. Later that night, a drunk and high friend of my roommates knocked on our door, I opened it half asleep and half dressed, he came yammering in about "being locked out" and needing a spare key that my roommate supposedly had, but he was out at some house party in Gilbert, the absolute fuck tool follows me into my bedroom while I get my cell phone to call my douchey mcdouchebag roomy and then the fucker asks me for a pen and paper, so I hand him a bic and the first thing my hand lands on which is--you guessed it--our hard won $10 gift certificate, which is ensconced in a white business envelope. I realize this just half way through his writing and just as I'm about to ask for the contents of said envelope back he.....
Rips it in half.
Fuckwad.
And now I sit on a glorious hump day morning, eating Cap'n Crunch and drinking Simply Orange wondering what mindless suburban adventure awaits me today.
Maybe Trivia Girl will call...
Lots of Luck,
Scotty the Would-be Luck Dragon
But this was as far as we got, for I am lazy and cannot be bothered with blogging.
Part one of our series occured two weeks ago, part two occurs RIGHT NOW!
Last night I once again, only this time intentionally, attended Tuesday Night Trivia at the British Open Pub. Mick and Melissa were there, fresh from a Kentucky funeral (that's not a joke, so please keep your insensitive comments to yourself) and Mario the not-straight bus manager (he doesn't like to be called "gay") and Jose the guy who boxes and once poked me in the chest to make a point while telling a story and it actually hurt through the next day Mexican American playwright was in attendance as well. Enough chit chat, proceed:
For our team name we chose the moniker "Showering with Grandpa" and on each paper-slipped answer we handed in Melissa drew pictures of a Cock Cone, a Banana Cock, a hairy close-up portrait of a Vag, and of course, the words "Scott McNulty wants to fuck you, 480-326-XXXX". Only with real numbers instead of x's. What a glorious friend you are, Melissa! Perhaps not surprisingly, I have yet to receive a phone call from Trivia Girl.
So now it's Wednesday! Hump Day. And despite a plethora of sexually charged imagery having passed through my hands last night I can rest assured this day will be totally Hump Free. A few times last night when a particularly stirring rendition of gangsta rap or 80s pop was blasting over our heads as we furiously scribbled our answers down amidst the pints and nachos scattered about our high top table I would "Bust a Move" as the kids say. Not a full body dance so much as an upper torso arm and head weave to indicate to any who may be watching that "Yes, I ENJOY this song, and am expressing my joy through the medium of an upper torso rhythm shake". Mick would then invariably say, "And I wonder why you're single".
NOW MICK...You're good people and all, but I think you misunderestimate my influence on the female mind. As in, I have none. But! It is my conviction that somewhere out there is a young (preferably 18-20 year old) lady who is absolutely mesmerized by a man who can dance while remaining fully seated and create a wondrous array of facial expressions while doing it. Oh yes...She's out there somewhere, sir...And of course, she thinks Trivia Night at a staid British style public house with soccer games playing on the telly and statues of early 20th century golf caddies with exaggerated mustaches behind the bar is totally WHERE IT'S AT. Oh, yes...I KNOW the female mind...
To get back to an earlier point, I did in fact audition for Childsplay and was awarded with a part in their upcoming production of "Neverending Story" about a shirtless pre-teen boy who rides a flying dragon that resembles a Westie Terrier through an elaborate fantasy land of purple skies and poison distributing witches.
Oh yes, I'm very proud, thank you for asking.
However I am also chicken shit and would have to quit my job to play the role which would only last two months and then I would be jobless in the worst economy since the Great Depression. So...I repeat my endless refrain, This is Computer Support, How May I Help You? for another 10 to 20 years and hope to not die of a heart attack before I can retire and buy my own flying westie and finally SEE AMERICA!
Just kidding, I don't want to see America, I've seen it. There's a lot of fast food restaurants there. Not that into it.
I forgot to mention that Showering With Grandpa came in third place last night, we were tied for second with (and I'm not making this up) Post-Op Tranny Gang-bang and had to answer two, count'em TWO, tie breaker questions because we both got the first one wrong and according to Trivia Girl that's NEVER...HAPPENED...BEFORE.
Yes it WAS very exciting, thank you.
We won a $10 gift certificate to the pub. Later that night, a drunk and high friend of my roommates knocked on our door, I opened it half asleep and half dressed, he came yammering in about "being locked out" and needing a spare key that my roommate supposedly had, but he was out at some house party in Gilbert, the absolute fuck tool follows me into my bedroom while I get my cell phone to call my douchey mcdouchebag roomy and then the fucker asks me for a pen and paper, so I hand him a bic and the first thing my hand lands on which is--you guessed it--our hard won $10 gift certificate, which is ensconced in a white business envelope. I realize this just half way through his writing and just as I'm about to ask for the contents of said envelope back he.....
Rips it in half.
Fuckwad.
And now I sit on a glorious hump day morning, eating Cap'n Crunch and drinking Simply Orange wondering what mindless suburban adventure awaits me today.
Maybe Trivia Girl will call...
Lots of Luck,
Scotty the Would-be Luck Dragon
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Any Number of People
There's a place called Graham Central Station in Chandler, close to both Tempe and the town of Guadalupe. It's a "club" with music and dancing and douchebags. There are pool tables and men in cowboy hats. Security personnel with shaved heads and Secret Service style ear pieces trawl the floor like sharks in a small aquarium filled to the brim with Nothing to Eat. I went there, not of my own free will entirely, but with a little coaxing from Melissa P. The married chick I met while ACTING in the play Los Illegals last month. She designed the costumes, which is total bullshit, by the way, because I just wore my own clothes. I wore MY OWN CLOTHES, Melissa! Anyway, she and her husband Nick (pseudonym for Mick) were in the rear of the massive, Home Depot like structure when I arrived. I found them playing pool and drinking fifty cent bud lights. I acquired a bottle and settled in to watch the game.
There is nothing more boring than watching other people play billiards, except maybe actually playing billiards. I am terrible, you see, at playing billiards. Will you mind if I write the word "billiards" one more time? You will? Go fuck yourself, then. I watched them play POOL and then it became my turn. I don't how this became so but I appeared to have no choice, a long wooden stick was placed in my hand and I began shunting balls into a plastic triangle (I so rarely have the opportunity to "shunt" anything, that part was nice). Soon the slaughter would begin...
The slaughter began.
Actually it was more of slow, lung cancer type of killing, N/Mick is not much better than I at the Sport of Pimps, and in the end it came down to me scratching on the 8 ball. Like Mix Master Mike scratching on some vinyl, I suspect it left my opponent satisfied, yet strangely empty inside. A pyric victory I call it. (I learned that word in Ms. Desues 8th grade history class. 8 ball, 8th grade? Coincidence, or...THE SECRET????)
Just kidding, I don't know what the secret is but if Oprah likes it then I am against it.
But I digress...Our competition at an end we left the Country Room to scope out the rest of the sad eyed Saturday night options. Graham Central Station has four distinct "flavors" going on; A country-western room (where the pool tables are) a Karaoke room (complete with club-supplied back up dancers) the pop/rock room (DEAD. There was literally a DEAD BODY in the middle of dance floor here, people just moved around it like Depression-era drifters waiting in a bread line. Seriously (not really)) and last but certainly not the best, the 80's Room. Did somebody say, "Gary Newman"? Hells yeah...."When I go out/I go out in my car/Somethingsomehtingsomethingsomething...in CARS"
Awesome.
There was a 60 year old man wearing Wranglers, sunglasses and orthopedic shoes dancing the robot alone...I did not make that up...Melissa wanted to join him but her husband wisely objected. I think she would have caught Legionnaires disease. (Look it up). There were a decent number of mildly attractive women in the place but my sensibilities were so horrifically shocked by the sight of Robo-Wrangler I was having a hard time concentrating. It's difficult to appear witty and attractive when all you really feel like saying is, "Can you believe this place exists, and that we are now, however briefly, a part of it? Are you as afraid as I am?" I am afraid for America. Home of the free, land of the brave, country of cowboy hats dancing the robot. If George Washington could see this right now he would be over 200 years old.
Finally, as if an unspoken prayer from deep within my waiting heart had been answered, we were all thrown because of N/Mick.
In a world of cowboy-hatted urbanites, there is no room for a vaguely chauffeur-like wool early 20th century golf-caddy like affair which clung so snugly to the skull of Melissa's Alt rock/chain wallet wearing college professor husband. One of the underfed sharks had finally found some prey. That hat, you see, is not allowed. It's not offensive, or gang related, or even that noticeable, really. It's just simply....Not Allowed. You must remove it. It must be removed, or you will be.
Some choice words were delivered and we all walked out into the night. N/Mick apologized for forcing an end our "fun". I could have kissed him. Instead we all shook hands and I drove home in my White Dodge Neon with Moon Roof and Spoiler. I live in a house with two other guys. I KNOW what's cool. And that hat...was cool.
Fuck you Graham Central Station! You are filled with skanks and reek of desperation. I have never wanted to not be alive more than I was within your walls of shame. That, and I had to work early in the morning, so you know...Had to get going.
I'm out. Until next time, AMERICA!!!!
Hugs AND Drugs,
Scotty
There is nothing more boring than watching other people play billiards, except maybe actually playing billiards. I am terrible, you see, at playing billiards. Will you mind if I write the word "billiards" one more time? You will? Go fuck yourself, then. I watched them play POOL and then it became my turn. I don't how this became so but I appeared to have no choice, a long wooden stick was placed in my hand and I began shunting balls into a plastic triangle (I so rarely have the opportunity to "shunt" anything, that part was nice). Soon the slaughter would begin...
The slaughter began.
Actually it was more of slow, lung cancer type of killing, N/Mick is not much better than I at the Sport of Pimps, and in the end it came down to me scratching on the 8 ball. Like Mix Master Mike scratching on some vinyl, I suspect it left my opponent satisfied, yet strangely empty inside. A pyric victory I call it. (I learned that word in Ms. Desues 8th grade history class. 8 ball, 8th grade? Coincidence, or...THE SECRET????)
Just kidding, I don't know what the secret is but if Oprah likes it then I am against it.
But I digress...Our competition at an end we left the Country Room to scope out the rest of the sad eyed Saturday night options. Graham Central Station has four distinct "flavors" going on; A country-western room (where the pool tables are) a Karaoke room (complete with club-supplied back up dancers) the pop/rock room (DEAD. There was literally a DEAD BODY in the middle of dance floor here, people just moved around it like Depression-era drifters waiting in a bread line. Seriously (not really)) and last but certainly not the best, the 80's Room. Did somebody say, "Gary Newman"? Hells yeah...."When I go out/I go out in my car/Somethingsomehtingsomethingsomething...in CARS"
Awesome.
There was a 60 year old man wearing Wranglers, sunglasses and orthopedic shoes dancing the robot alone...I did not make that up...Melissa wanted to join him but her husband wisely objected. I think she would have caught Legionnaires disease. (Look it up). There were a decent number of mildly attractive women in the place but my sensibilities were so horrifically shocked by the sight of Robo-Wrangler I was having a hard time concentrating. It's difficult to appear witty and attractive when all you really feel like saying is, "Can you believe this place exists, and that we are now, however briefly, a part of it? Are you as afraid as I am?" I am afraid for America. Home of the free, land of the brave, country of cowboy hats dancing the robot. If George Washington could see this right now he would be over 200 years old.
Finally, as if an unspoken prayer from deep within my waiting heart had been answered, we were all thrown because of N/Mick.
In a world of cowboy-hatted urbanites, there is no room for a vaguely chauffeur-like wool early 20th century golf-caddy like affair which clung so snugly to the skull of Melissa's Alt rock/chain wallet wearing college professor husband. One of the underfed sharks had finally found some prey. That hat, you see, is not allowed. It's not offensive, or gang related, or even that noticeable, really. It's just simply....Not Allowed. You must remove it. It must be removed, or you will be.
Some choice words were delivered and we all walked out into the night. N/Mick apologized for forcing an end our "fun". I could have kissed him. Instead we all shook hands and I drove home in my White Dodge Neon with Moon Roof and Spoiler. I live in a house with two other guys. I KNOW what's cool. And that hat...was cool.
Fuck you Graham Central Station! You are filled with skanks and reek of desperation. I have never wanted to not be alive more than I was within your walls of shame. That, and I had to work early in the morning, so you know...Had to get going.
I'm out. Until next time, AMERICA!!!!
Hugs AND Drugs,
Scotty
Sweet Holy Fuck, Where Have I Been???
Welcome back, Fans! Nice to meet you, Newbies! A little introduction:
My name is Scott, and in the past four years I've had a number of different blogs on the blogspot network, some of which were actually kind of entertaining (I'll leave you to judge). At the time that I first started blogging I was living in Chicago and "trying" to be a sketch-comedy writer/actor with the ever dimming hope (with each passing year) that I would "make it" onto the Holiest of Over Rated Holies, the Second City Mainstage.
Never happened.
In the process we had some good blogs, though. I now live in Arizona, Scottsdale, to be precise (named after me, I'm told)and I work a "regular" job and am bored out of my mind most of the time. So I thought I'd try blogging again. I can't promise you it will be like "old times" but I can promise you New Adventures in writing that I hope we'll both enjoy. In the last year or two I convinced myself that I had simply forgotten how to blog. Maybe I'm right, but I hope I'm wrong. Either way I need YOUR HELP, AMERICA! I can't write this thing if no one is reading, so please, PLEASE, send in your comments, let me know you're there, and we'll do this...TOGETHER.
God Bless Me....You'll be just fine.
End Copy.
My name is Scott, and in the past four years I've had a number of different blogs on the blogspot network, some of which were actually kind of entertaining (I'll leave you to judge). At the time that I first started blogging I was living in Chicago and "trying" to be a sketch-comedy writer/actor with the ever dimming hope (with each passing year) that I would "make it" onto the Holiest of Over Rated Holies, the Second City Mainstage.
Never happened.
In the process we had some good blogs, though. I now live in Arizona, Scottsdale, to be precise (named after me, I'm told)and I work a "regular" job and am bored out of my mind most of the time. So I thought I'd try blogging again. I can't promise you it will be like "old times" but I can promise you New Adventures in writing that I hope we'll both enjoy. In the last year or two I convinced myself that I had simply forgotten how to blog. Maybe I'm right, but I hope I'm wrong. Either way I need YOUR HELP, AMERICA! I can't write this thing if no one is reading, so please, PLEASE, send in your comments, let me know you're there, and we'll do this...TOGETHER.
God Bless Me....You'll be just fine.
End Copy.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
My New Show
Did you ever watch 'Fight Quest'? It's a show on the Discovery Channel about two guys who travel around the world and learn different fighting styles, like Krav Maga and Karate.
Did you ever watch 'Human Weapon'? It's a show on the History Channel about two guys who travel around the world learning different fighting styles like Muay Thai and Savate.
I'm going to create a show called 'Weapon Quest' about one guy (me) who stays in the same general vicinity pretty much all the time and doesn't learn anything about fighting or, for that matter, anything else. It's gonna be on Cartoon Network, because I'm very cartoon-like.
Did you ever watch 'Human Weapon'? It's a show on the History Channel about two guys who travel around the world learning different fighting styles like Muay Thai and Savate.
I'm going to create a show called 'Weapon Quest' about one guy (me) who stays in the same general vicinity pretty much all the time and doesn't learn anything about fighting or, for that matter, anything else. It's gonna be on Cartoon Network, because I'm very cartoon-like.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Your Mother's Pussy
About two months ago I signed up for this voice over class, eight weeks long, to be held in downtown Scottsdale in the office of some modeling agency. I knew from experience that any privately run "how-to-be-creative-and-make-money" class is usually a waste of hard earned and, in my case, limited currency.
But what the hell, I wasn't doing anything important, so...
Four weeks into it I'm enjoying the class itself, which is to say I enjoy myself during the time that the class is happening because I set out to go ahead and enjoy myself being that I'm paying all this money to sit there once a week surrounded by pictures of beautiful (mostly male) models. I'm not even going to tell you how much the class costs, because you would shit, but I had to pay a significant fee up front, and then you're still required to pay a certain sum every week when you show up. Plus she (the instructor) had us all sign a little bitty contract that says, in effect, even if I DON'T show up for class I STILL have to pay. So, fuck you very much. Basically.
Anyway like I say I'm having a good time but mainly because the class is filled with middle aged lawyers and corporate types who had always said to themselves, "I bet I could do stuff on the radio and television! You know? Like SAY things, for money? I bet I could DO that!"
Nobody told them that "stuff" is actually "acting" and that it's actually more difficult to act with your voice alone than it would be to act on stage or on camera and most of these fuck tools couldn't act their way out of a paper bag. Course they drive nicer cars than me and live in bigger houses and wear better clothes, so...
You take what you can get.
I don't want to sound like an ass hole. They're mostly good people. I mean I like chatting with them and they seem to like me, I have once again resumed my ever-present role of "class clown" and the yuks have been flowing like menses in a convent. Everybody's doing it. But I worry...
The teacher seems to have labeled me as "Hilarious" no matter what now, which is a dangerous position to be in when it comes to a class/learning environment. I know this from experience. Whenever I get up to read copy into the mic, she says "That was great! You're perfect"
I usually say: "Can I do one more? I think I could do it better, especially that last line."
She: "Why?! That was PERFECT!"
I reluctantly sit down. It's nice to be well thought of, but shit, I'm PAYING for this class, and it's not like when I eventually send out my demos the various producers and casting directors are going to know that I'm "the funny guy". All I'm gonna have is what's in my voice, so it better be GOOD. I worry I'm not getting the full benefit of the education.
Now before you accuse me of WHINING let me back up here. This isn't even what I wanted to talk about, I had a whole OTHER THING going on in my mind when I started this post...ah, let's see...yes, the Older Woman.
There's a lady named K --we'll call her K-- in the class who actually has a good deal of talent. She was (is?) a professional singer. And she appears to have some real acting chops. She is probably the best in the class at doing this voice-over shit. She reads copy for Clorox bleach and you WANT to buy some fucking bleach, go home and mop your floors and clean the tub. Shit like that. An advertisers dream girl.
She's older than me by...I don't know...ten years? I really don't know, it's hard to tell. She has no wedding ring and she dresses pretty "hip" so it's difficult to say. But she's definitely older than me AND older than any girl/woman I've ever dated or considered dating before.
And I've considered dating HER. I considered the hell out of it last night when she grabbed me and kissed me in the parking lot as we walked out of class together. That was unexpected. But damn if it didn't make me happy.
I won't see her again for a week, and we have not exchanged any type of contact info. I have a week to brood on this, which usually leads to disaster. I'll show up next Wednesday looking totally self-conscience and nervous. I'm like a middle-school kid when it comes to relationships. I got no game. PLUS she's....you know, like old(er). But it's not like she's UGLY. On the contrary, she's definitely an attractive older woman, as opposed to just "older woman".
I don't know if being single has something to do with that but I suspect it does. My mom is an older single woman, and she looks pretty good. Her married friends who are the same age look so much more...haggard. Why is that? You don't really see much of a difference in the overall attractiveness of single vs. married men. To me they all look the same. But why is it--and I know I'm gonna hear shit over this comment--but why is it that married women (over 40) just look...dull?
I don't know, but K is not dull. She looks like she'd be more than happy to do some really nasty things in the sack, probably more than I could handle. She frightens me a little, all that unused sexual energy, it's like leaving TNT in an abandoned warehouse for six months. But this is all speculation on my part. No basis in hard facts whatsoever.
K is too young to by my mother, but she could be just old enough to be YOUR mother, depending on just who in the hell you are.
Shall I fuck your mother?
I certainly think I'll try...
But what the hell, I wasn't doing anything important, so...
Four weeks into it I'm enjoying the class itself, which is to say I enjoy myself during the time that the class is happening because I set out to go ahead and enjoy myself being that I'm paying all this money to sit there once a week surrounded by pictures of beautiful (mostly male) models. I'm not even going to tell you how much the class costs, because you would shit, but I had to pay a significant fee up front, and then you're still required to pay a certain sum every week when you show up. Plus she (the instructor) had us all sign a little bitty contract that says, in effect, even if I DON'T show up for class I STILL have to pay. So, fuck you very much. Basically.
Anyway like I say I'm having a good time but mainly because the class is filled with middle aged lawyers and corporate types who had always said to themselves, "I bet I could do stuff on the radio and television! You know? Like SAY things, for money? I bet I could DO that!"
Nobody told them that "stuff" is actually "acting" and that it's actually more difficult to act with your voice alone than it would be to act on stage or on camera and most of these fuck tools couldn't act their way out of a paper bag. Course they drive nicer cars than me and live in bigger houses and wear better clothes, so...
You take what you can get.
I don't want to sound like an ass hole. They're mostly good people. I mean I like chatting with them and they seem to like me, I have once again resumed my ever-present role of "class clown" and the yuks have been flowing like menses in a convent. Everybody's doing it. But I worry...
The teacher seems to have labeled me as "Hilarious" no matter what now, which is a dangerous position to be in when it comes to a class/learning environment. I know this from experience. Whenever I get up to read copy into the mic, she says "That was great! You're perfect"
I usually say: "Can I do one more? I think I could do it better, especially that last line."
She: "Why?! That was PERFECT!"
I reluctantly sit down. It's nice to be well thought of, but shit, I'm PAYING for this class, and it's not like when I eventually send out my demos the various producers and casting directors are going to know that I'm "the funny guy". All I'm gonna have is what's in my voice, so it better be GOOD. I worry I'm not getting the full benefit of the education.
Now before you accuse me of WHINING let me back up here. This isn't even what I wanted to talk about, I had a whole OTHER THING going on in my mind when I started this post...ah, let's see...yes, the Older Woman.
There's a lady named K --we'll call her K-- in the class who actually has a good deal of talent. She was (is?) a professional singer. And she appears to have some real acting chops. She is probably the best in the class at doing this voice-over shit. She reads copy for Clorox bleach and you WANT to buy some fucking bleach, go home and mop your floors and clean the tub. Shit like that. An advertisers dream girl.
She's older than me by...I don't know...ten years? I really don't know, it's hard to tell. She has no wedding ring and she dresses pretty "hip" so it's difficult to say. But she's definitely older than me AND older than any girl/woman I've ever dated or considered dating before.
And I've considered dating HER. I considered the hell out of it last night when she grabbed me and kissed me in the parking lot as we walked out of class together. That was unexpected. But damn if it didn't make me happy.
I won't see her again for a week, and we have not exchanged any type of contact info. I have a week to brood on this, which usually leads to disaster. I'll show up next Wednesday looking totally self-conscience and nervous. I'm like a middle-school kid when it comes to relationships. I got no game. PLUS she's....you know, like old(er). But it's not like she's UGLY. On the contrary, she's definitely an attractive older woman, as opposed to just "older woman".
I don't know if being single has something to do with that but I suspect it does. My mom is an older single woman, and she looks pretty good. Her married friends who are the same age look so much more...haggard. Why is that? You don't really see much of a difference in the overall attractiveness of single vs. married men. To me they all look the same. But why is it--and I know I'm gonna hear shit over this comment--but why is it that married women (over 40) just look...dull?
I don't know, but K is not dull. She looks like she'd be more than happy to do some really nasty things in the sack, probably more than I could handle. She frightens me a little, all that unused sexual energy, it's like leaving TNT in an abandoned warehouse for six months. But this is all speculation on my part. No basis in hard facts whatsoever.
K is too young to by my mother, but she could be just old enough to be YOUR mother, depending on just who in the hell you are.
Shall I fuck your mother?
I certainly think I'll try...
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