Saturday, February 28, 2004
Why do I have to pay women to not be into me? I get enough of that for free.
Friday, February 27, 2004
Here's some things to do:
Tonight, I perform at Wiggles, a strip club in my neighborhood. Okay, a comedy cb inside a strip cb in my neighborhood. Bt still, I'm going to ook ike a perv striding into my ocal strip cb not once bt twice in a night.
The nice part is that if I know anyone in the adience and I do badly, they won't really be able to say shit later.
If you want come (no, I can't get you in free), here's the info.
Saturday, my friends A Brief View of the Hudson have their CD release party. Come and hang ot with me.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
At the end of the day, our boss had to make an announcement that some of us have a "hygiene problem," and need to remember to wash before coming to work.
I think that, in a lifetime of having had all kinds of jobs, that might have been a first for me.
Did you ever meet a non-celebrity who still gets offended when you don't recognize them?
"You don't know who I am? I'm Tom. You know, the guy who dated a stripper?"
Oh, Tom, Yeah! I can't believe I didn't recognize you. Of course, "Tom the Guy Who Dated A Stripper." I was just reading a book about you. You know, the one that won a Pulitzer for non-fiction.
You know, you really need to have something extra to date a stripper, like ten grand.
"I'm the Grand Rapids Hot Dog Eating Champion!"
Oh man, you look so different from your Wheaties box.
I heard Steven Spielberg is making a movie about you, called "That Pale Creepy Guy Who Smells Like A Fart."
Can I have your autograph for my kid?
I was talking to a friend of mine about how heavy metal is no longer as popular as it used to be. My friend was saying that metal got watered down. I think that its audience just outgrew it.
I mean, when you're 18 and angry because you have a shit job scrubbing garbage cans, you're going to be an angry metal-head, banging your head to "MASTER! MASTER! Master of puppets pulling the strings!"
But when you're thirty and an investment banker, you don't have to ask, "Who's your master?" You know: It's your mortgage.
You're no longer "Breakin' the law! Breakin' the law!"
1) "Breakin' the speed limit! Breakin' the speed limit!"
2) "Breakin the law regarding hiring illegals to nanny your kids!"
Also, it's hard to be true to your metal roots when you have to be a good role model to your kids. It's kind of hard to explain yourp ast to your kids:
"Now honey, when daddy was younger, he used to spend a week's pay to see a man in makeup drink blood out of a rat. That's why you should stay in school."
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Oh, and by the way, I'm Riff Randell, ROCK AND ROLLER!
Overheard at work:
"I can't go downstairs. My pussy hurts."
"His n' Hermaphrodites"
People always find farts funny.
Yet they get angry at you when you fart.
Why must people be enraged by the same thing that gives them pleasure?
Would you frown at a rainbow? Would you wave your hand pointedly in front of your face at the sound of the laughter of children? Would you mutter "Jesus!" and leave the room during a symphony choir?
Have you no shame sir? At long last, have you no shame?
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
1) How To Write An Irish Folk Song.
2) A joke I've been writing and rewriting for the past couple of years, as a companion to my "Irish Movie Joke," but which I perform infrequently because I forget how it goes a lot. I don't think I've posted it on my blog before.
3) "My Irish Movie Joke," which gains a lot in the performance:
It's really easy. First, pick a tune. The entire Irish Folk Song catalogue has maybe six tunes, so it's real easy to find one that expresses your feelings.
Next, pretend to be nostalgic about whatever little shithole town you escaped from. I have no idea where the McEneaneys of Ireland are from, so I semi-randomly picked a small hamlet call "Aberdeen."
The First Verse
Start off by lying about how no matter how much you travel, you're always happy to return to your little shithole Irish town:
All over this world I have gandered,
And many a sight I have seen.
But never was a sight there was grander,
Than the sight of Aberdeen.
Than the sight of Aberdeen, boys,
The sight of Aberdeen.
Never was a sight there was grander,
Than the sight of Aberdeen.
(Please note the easy sing-along chorus. This allows you and your mates to swing an arm with a mug of beer, prepatory to swinging your fists at each other in a depressed alcoholic rage - The Irish Specialty.)
The Second Verse
Now lie about how, no matter how nice things are in the outside world, they're not half as good as the sights you find at home:
I've seen the snow-capped mountains,
I've seen fields of emerald green.
But no pure glacier fountains,
Could tempt me from Aberdeen.
Could tempt me from Aberdeen, boys,
Tempt me from Aberdeen.
No green pastures or glacier fountains
Could tempt me from Aberdeen.
The Third Verse
Brag about something no one should really brag about. Some brag about how everyone at home drinks a lot. Some brag that everyone at home fights too much. Some brag about drinking too much and then getting into a fight. Here's a different tack:
The cows of France give us cheese,
And England's cows give us the cream.
But the farmers let ye do what you please,
With the cows of Aberdeen.
With the cows of Aberdeen, boys,
The cows of Aberdeen.
For a farmer who don't mind his cow bein' raped,
Get a cow from Aberdeen.
The Fourth Verse
This is your romantic verse, so slow it down. If you have a tenor in the group, now's a good time to break him out:
Now I'm a man of some vices,
And I've laid with many colleen.
But none have the rock-bottom prices,
Of the gals from Aberdeen.
The gals from Aberdeen, boys,
The gals From Aberdeen.
If ye can't find yerself a cow to love,
Get a gal from Aberdeen.
I would love to perform this just once at an Irish Folk Festival.
I've been raised on Irish folk music (shout out to the Clancy Brothers, can I get a what-what?). What's funny, though, is to go to a concert of traditional Irish folk music, because the guy singing the songs clearly doesn't know what they're about. The intro never matches the song, it's always:
"Ah, now here's a little ditty I learned on me mother's knee. It's a traditional tune from Dublin about eternal love undyin':
"My wife I discovered the other day,
"So I buried her six feet beneath a grave,
"Never again will she on me to stray,
That old whore of Dublin.
That old whore of Dublin,
That old whore of Dublin
(Repeat until dead)"
I love watching Irish movies. Movies by, for, and about Irish people.
One thing I've noticed is that all these Irish movies have the same scene exactly forty-two minutes in.
So here is my impression of the same exact scene forty-two minutes into every movie about Irish people ever made:
"Jimmy, ye crazy drunk bastard ya. What the fook ya think yer doin' ya? I know ye're me brother, but get the fuck out'er me pub!"
I think the funnies part of these jokes is trying to perform them in front of European Audiences who know exactly how bad my Irish accent is. Nothing delights me more than being halfway through the above and hearing, "That's Scottish! That's Scottish!"
Sunday, February 22, 2004
I probably won't post anything on this blog until Wednesday, so I've posted Monday and Tuesday's entries below. Enjoy:
PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLD, JOIN IN - ON THE LOVE TRAIN, LOVE TRAIN
Friday night, I attended a "train party," which was scads and scads of fun, I must say. A "train party," if you must know is different than "pulling a train" on a girl, which is something St. John's basketball team does. A "train party" is a party thrown on the last couple of cars of a train.
A few years ago I'd accidentally stumbled in on one of these train parties. I was coming home of a night from some comedy show, tired and discouraged. I got on the last car of the F train, and it was hung with orange streamers (if you're from out of NYC, theF train is an "orange line train," along with the B and, until this weekend, the D), There were people drinking, and a Dixieland band was playing. It was one of those delightfully random NYC experiences, and it cheered me up no end.
So when I was invited to a Diamond Q train party, I was excited. Apparently, this was a party to celebrate the Diamond Q's being taken out of commission. This is due to the end of a speedy 20 year repair job on the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn.
I know what you're thinking; "Speedy 20 year repair job? What the...?"
Considering the corrupt nature of city-contracted construction and repair, and the MTA's planning board which has been considering a plan to run a 2nd Ave. subway line since the day after the Dutch landed on the shores of New Amsterdam, 20 years is like a two day porch repair & coat of paint special.
I got to the Union Square R/N/W/Q station at the appointed hour, and was surrounded by excited aprty-goers. Including one dude drinking straight out of some big bottle on the platform. Big no-no, doing that out in the open can lead to a ticket or an arrest if you're a loud drunken douchebag, which this guy most certainly was. He was one of those guys who think that it's his duty to let the world know that he's drunk and partying, and usually communicates this through a series of loud "WHOOOOO"s.
Much like the lone coyotes of the countryside communicate by howling from mountaintop to mountaintop, so does the drunk douchebag communicate from party to party. The message is usually, "Hey! I was popular in high school! As far as I know!"
But it was exciting. I met a reporter I know. I mean, he's a reporter for the NY Sun, but I still talked to him anyway. I ran into a couple improvisor buddies. Which meant that, even though I was attending a random party, I still managed to talk away with a flyer for a show.
I think that if I attended a State Dinner at the White House, someone would end up giving me a flyer for a comedy show. And I would probably end up washing that flyer in my jeans pocket, like all the rest of them.
When the party train came, there was a huge round of applause and cheering. We got on. Now, the Q train starts at 57th street, which is where the party organizers got on. By the time they hit 14th Street, they'd hung up streamers and put a diamond with a Q in it on the subway car floor with black tape. The crowd of probably a hundred-fifty partiers crammed into the last two cars. I was in the last car.
Immediately, one guy started using the overhead bars to lie prone against the ceiling. A boombox was playing some music no one could hear. People started rinking and smoking. By the time we hit Canal St., stashes of weed were being taken out of jacket pockets.
As we rode over the bridge, a fella in a grey suit and goatee who was running the show read a eulogy for the Q train, and specifically the Q Diamond express train. My drunken improvisor friend Jon started shouting "Q DIAMOND PHILLIPS!" over and over again. I made awkward non-conversation with several women that went nowhere. It was aparty.
Fella in a grey suit reading a eulogy for the Diamond Q.
(This picture was stolen from bluejake. He has a shitload of party pictures here.)
The crowd was an interesting mix. Some sixteen year-old girls. There are the kind of people I call "faux-hemians"; people who think that if they hate their temp jobs, and write poetry that doesn't rhyme, and exhibit their ghastly art at some coffee shop, that they're artists. The kind of people who have to let you know repeatedly and loudly how crazy and out-of-the-mainstream they are, while covertly glancing around to make sure that what they're doing is cool with everyone else. Basically your former high-school poetry club members.
There were sullen hipsters and women in cat's eye glasses. There dedicated drinkers and spaced-out stoners. There were plenty of cameras. And there was the same sense of low-level rebellion as, say, smoking in the boy's room, or staying late after work and drinking a beer at your desk.
And of course, genuine working-class folk on their way home, with bemused-yet-amused looks on their faces. I think that every party thrown from this day forward should be allowed to shanghai confused commuters.
It was a good thing the beleagured working-class folk were there, as it meant the party crowd wasn't - how do I put this? - almost entirely lily-white. I think it's always interesting that liberal college-educated white kids who believe passionately in equality somehow seem to congregate in groups almost entirely as white as themselves. Maybe some Asians, especially Asian women, and some attractive slender model-like black folk, preferably with dreads, but that's about it.
I'm not bagging on everyone there - there were lots of genuinely cool people there. But there were just enough drunken yahoos and pretentious asses to make it a little off-putting.
My friend Vadim crowd-surfs.
(I stole this picture from Satan's Laundromat.)
I was psyched to see that people had dressed in costume, too. There was a fella in a top hat, masks, a guy with a diamond Q painted over hs eye, Clockwork Orange-style, crazy hats and party dresses, ironic t-shirts and guys in matching biker gang-style jackets (memo guys: that's less intimidating than it is gay. Way less). One woman introduced what I can only hope was her boyfriend as "Puss In Boots" - he had on a full-face cat mask, and gave me a slump-shouldered desultory thumbs-up that reminded me of the degraded guy in the bear suit from "The Shining."
Somewhere towards the end of the ride into Brooklyn, I realized that now that the novelty of partying on the train was wearing off, I was getting a little tired of it. The problem with a party on the train is that it combines all the elements of a party where you're crammed in with a lot of people you don't know and commuting during rush hour.
I was having an okay time, but when the organizers announced a dance party at the Cortelyou Road stop, I decided to take the train back into Manhattan and go home.
So we reach the end of the line: BRIGHTON BEACH. We all get off. Eventually the party moves to the Manhattan-bound platform, where there was a lone cop freaking out.
I don't know why. A huge mob of unruly drunken white dorks isn't exactly the biggest threat to law and order. Maybe he was afraid a Weezer concert would break out.
He was huge. No neck. If you ever said the phrase, "outer noroughs beat cop," he would be the guy I imagined, including the borderline Queens/Long Island accent. The kind of guy that appreciates the Brighton Beach station posting for the no-one-gives-you-no-shit duty it provides.
You could tell that when he went home to beat his wife, he was going to tell her his evening using phrases like "I didn't want no arty crap," "fruity kids," and, "these goddamn trust fund brats."
He started yelling at everyone to get on the train. I'm not sure what he thought we were going to do if he didn't yell at us. Maybe pitch tents and camp out on the platform all night.
One of these party kids said - as soon as he was in the train and the cop couldn't hear/catch him - "Go eat some donuts."
Officer Obie is not amused.
(From Satan's Laundromat.)
This was dumb. This wasn't the same Brooklyn this kid was clearly used to; Bedford Ave. Brooklyn, where the cops turn a blind eye to white kids playing bad country music on the train platform so that they could convince themselves they were having a "real" gritty New York experience.
No, this was a real Brooklyn cop in a real Brooklyn neighborhood, and he might as well have been a dumb redneck small-town sheriff for all the shit he was going to take from some "college boy punk."
Then the cop pulled one of the partiers off for "tagging" (graffiti) and arrested him. Then he started telling everyone to get off the train. I didn't, because what was he going to do? Arrest me and a hundred fifty other people? Even if he did call for back up and get fifteen paddy wagons to the station, he'd get a lot more grief than it's worth - in terms of bad press, ball-busting from his colleagues, and a shit-pile of paperwork.
After five minutes of verbal bullying, where he told anyone dumb enough to get off the train that they were going to have to "walk back to Manhattan."
So he eventually ordered everyone back on the train, as I suspected he might. They did, except the guy he'd arrested - looking drunk and lost and about-to-be abandoned. I was tempted to feel sorry for the guy, but then I thought - okay, if this kid could see that this was a cop clearly looking for an excuse to give someone some shit, and he went and started "tagging" in front of the cop anyway, then maybe a couple hours in a precinct jail might be a good learning experience.
As the train back into Manhattan pulled out, the eulogizer announced, "Just because my brother's been arrested doesn't mean I'm going to stop the party!"
Someone shouted back, "You're brother's going to get laid in jail!"
And we rode back towards Cortelyou and beyond. Several boomboxes were playing hip-hop, tango, and other music. Two couples were doing an aggressive drunken tango, slamming into people, laughing, and looking around to make sure that their spontanious drunken antics were amusing all. Suddenly felt tired and sober and sad. Sad because I realized that I was reaching an age where this kind of thing just isn't as much fun as it used to be.
And also sad because there was a time when I would have gone to this party and tried to get a drunk young woman to make out with me. And I just could get into that. I've been doing some soul-searching, and I realized that the random drunken makeout isn't what I want any more; it would be really nice to have someone cool I could date.
I was talking to a friend of mine recently, and he said that he had gone through the same thing right before he met his girlfriend, where he'd rather spend his evening talking to his friends than at the end of a bar seeing what action he could get going. I mean, let's just say I don't have the A #1 smoothest rap in the world in the world in the first place. In fact, my theory is that almost every woman I've ever dated has had an awkward-stammering fetish.
Not that I was any great loss to their dance party. While everyone enjoys hanging out with an awkward, sober, quietly judgmental fuck taking mental notes while they're trying to lose their minds, I'm sure they had a couple of those already in tow.
By the way, don't let my cynicism or over-analysis fool you. The Q Train party is one of those insane, random, and fun experiences that make New York City worth living in, that makes me proud to call myself a New Yorker, and pity with a certain amount of condescension anyone from anywhere else.
A note of explanation. My job is so tedious and monotonous that on Friday, I created a little joke-writing exercise. I was going to try to write the quintessential "I don't drink to forget..." joke. Don't ask me why I picked that. Below is every single thing I wrote that hours, in the order I wrote them. The only change I've made is numbering them, so I could pick out my favorites.
By the way, if you aren't a hundred percent impressed by all the entries below, remember that I was writing them on an average of one every three minutes while fielding phone calls:
SOME PEOPLE DRINK TO FORGET...
1) I don't drink to forget. I drink to shit my pants.
2) I don't just drink to forget. I drink to forget my childhood.
3) I don't drink to forget. I drink to erase my social awkwardness.
4) I drink to forget I shouldn't make out w/ someone who says she talks to aliens.
5) Some people drink to forget. Pssh! Amateurs! If you stop at forgetting, you aren't really committed to it. I only consider myself "drunk" if I've broken it off w/ someone I wasn't even engaged to.
6) I'm not a "crazy" drunk. I wish I had stories like, "Yeah, I woke up in Istanbul w/ the Maharishi. Boy did I get wasted!"
My stories are always like, "And then I sent this woman at work an e-mail asking her to marry me. Boy did I apologize!"
7) I don't drink to forget. I drink to kill myself. The problem is, at some point I reach the "forget" stage, and then forget why I'm drinking.
So I wrote a note to myself: "Don't forget to kill yourself."
By accident, I switched it w/ my roommate's "To Do" list.
Around 3 in the morning, I'm drunk in a bar. I read the note, and spend the next 2 hours trying to convince the bartender to serve me Clean Laundry and a dozen eggs.
And my roommate - well, if you know anyone looking for a place, I seem to have a room open.
8) I don't drink to forget. I snort Mr. Clean to forget. I drink to do karaoke.
9) I don't drink to forget - as far as I can recall. To be honest, after the third screwdriver it all gets a little hazy.
10) I don't drink to forget. I do, however, encourage women to drink to forget why they shouldn't date me.
11) I don't drink to forget. I drink to find football interesting.
12) I don't drink to forget. I drink to get through Thanksgiving dinner.
13) I don't drink to forget. I drink to make my date look attractive.
14) I don't drink to forget. I drink to improve my aim.
15) I don't drink to forget. I drink to drive better.
16) I don't think of it as "drinking to forget." I prefer to call it, "Using malt liquor to cleanse the palate of failure's bitter aftertaste."
17) I don't drink to forget. Although I do my damndest to try.
18) I don't drink to forget. I drink to get through work. Driving a schoolbus can be murder.
19) I don't drink to forget. I drink to work up the courage to do it - do it - DO IT NOW!
20) I don't drink to forget. I used to, but I got so good at it that when I drank I'd forget that I'd been drinking to forget and I'd do it all over again. I guess what I'm saying is, "My liver hurts."
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Last night, I read some poetry.
When I got offstage, a poet selling his CDs came over to me and said, "I really liked that," pressing a copy of his CD in my hand and saying, "Here, take this."
He then added: "It's only five bucks."
I returned the CD to him regretfully.
And then sneak into mental hospitals and hang out in a patient's room.
That way, when the nurse comes back, the patient'll be like, "You know who was just here? Liam McEneaney."
"Sure he was."
"No really, we hung out and talked."
"Of course you did. Now I'm going to have to up your dose."
Who thought of the kite?
Was there some guy in a lab like, "Behold! I shall harness the awesome natural flying power of PAPER!"
What kind of kid gets excited to get a kite as a present?
"Oh gee, two sticks and a piece of paper? What was the supply closet out of staplers?"
"Oh, and hey, it's painted like a dragon. That's almost like it's something fun!"
I don't get why wooden soldiers are considered a classic toy either.
First of all, they're always made to look like British soldiers called "Beefeaters."
"Beefeater" sounds like gay porn. What kind of enemy is scared of that?
"Look out! The Beefeaters are coming! We're all going to get blowjobs!"
Also, a wooden soldier just isn't that intimidating.
Today's GI Joes have bombs and guns and stuff. Meanwhile, a toy soldier can be taken down by a power tool.
All I'm saying is, "Oh no, they have the ultimate weapon - a HAMMER!"
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
And title it "Shit-Stained Fuck Fiesta."
Just to see the look on the Nobel Committee's faces when they have to give me the Literature Award for my work, Shit-Stained Fuck Fiesta.
There have been so many lawsuits that manufacturers have gotten very specific about the instructions they put on products. Which is fine, but sometimes they go specific it's insulting.
Like on Jell-O, the instructions now say, " Pour in one cup of boiling water. Stir one cup of cold water. Before chilling, LIAM YOU DUMBASS, remember to take out the spoon. You almost lost an eye that way."
Or on my hairdrier: "Turn switch to on position. PRODUCT WILL NOT WORK IF NOT PLUGGED IN. And LIAM YOU DUMBASS, do NOT look into the nozzle to 'see if it's getting hot yet.' God, you're such a fucking idiot."
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Go here and wish her a happy one.
I gave her the best gift you can give your roommate: That horrible cold/flu that kept me pretty much bedridden for three days. SURPRISE!
I was on a date a few weeks ago, and we were in that Danger Zone where we had run our of intelligent conversation.
Of course, someone has to say something dumb, and surprisingly I didn't step in.
She said, "when I'm buried, I want to be buried with my jewels. What do you want to be buried with?"
I don't know. A shovel. Just in case.
And also a ladder, because nothing's more embarassing than digging your way out, and then being too out of shape to climb six feet.
Die once, you're a tragedy. Die twice, you're a douchebag.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
I was writing and thinking when I felt a strain,
I heard a pop! I had broken my brain.
When I moved my head, it rattled in its case,
I felt through my hair to get it back into place.
And I prayed to God, "Let me just fix it, please!"
But in the next moment, I felt myself sneeze.
And there went my brain, flying out of my nose,
Down my shirt - I had just cleaned my clothes -
I thought I might catch it, but it fell to the floor,
And now with no brain, I can't think no more,
I can't sleep or talk, and to make matters worse,
I now write nothing better than this simple light verse.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Thursday, February 12, 2004
The holiday is named, of course, after Valentinus, the Patron Saint of Making Ugly Guys Aware How Lonely They Are.
With that in mind, and seeing as how I'm going to spend the next few days keeping the suicide hotline volunteers hopping, I have enough blog entries for the next few days. Enjoy:
I have a date for Valentine's Day.
Admittedly, it's with a lesbian friend of mine. We decided that since were both sans girlfriend this year, we'd do something together.
She isn't the first lesbian I've dated, although she may be the first I've known about beforehand.
For the holidays, here's a site we created for those who can't get enough of jokes about Valentines Day, no matter what time of year it is.
I wrote a lot more of that shit than I'd ever feel comfortable admitting.
You'll notice I don't start a lot of stuff on this blog with the phrase, "I dated a woman once who..."
That's because it seems that every woman I've ever dated, even once, reads this blog.
But screw it: Here's a couple stories from my dating life I hope you enjoy reading more than I enjoyed living them:
1) There was the woman who, on our first date, went into detail on how much she loved tall, skinny, artsy guys. I think we may have talked for about ten minutes on this topic. First I was wondering if, hey, maybe I was the only one noticing how awkward this conversation was?
Then I just figured that we were not actually on a date after all.
To her credit, she did call a couple of days later and apologize.
2) A few years ago, I was going on a second date with a young lady I liked very much. I was nervous; I had showed up to the first date late, and she'd been pissed and told me that she was a minute from leaving and telling me "Forget it."
So I got to the restaurant about forty-five minutes early, and decided that if I went anywhere else to hang out, I would probably get held up and then she'd see I was late, get pissed and leave.
So I sat down and ate dinner. About forty-five minutes before our date.
The nI realized that it would look a little odd if she showed up for our date and I was done, so I then told the waiter to clear the table and reset it, and that I was going to hang out.
He gave me a really odd look, and did it. She showed up (five minutes late) and then we ordered dinner - I ordered another entree and proceeded to pick through it. She kept giving me these odd looks, because I'd gone on and on about how great the restaurant was.
I knew I was in trouble when the check came. I grabbed it before she oculd get her hands on it, and we had a long, long argument over whether or not she sould be allowed to pay her half. She finally took the check from my hand to see what she owed, and saw we'd been charged for the extra entree.
She got up to say something to the waiter, but I convinced her that I should take care of it. I went over and tried to explain things to the waiter, but at that point he had tired of my sitcom-style shenanigans and lapsed into pretending not to understand English (it was a Thai restaurant).
I had to sit down and explain to this woman what had happened.
At first I was relieved that she found it funny. Then I found it a little insulting that she wouldn't stop laughing.
Is all the hot platonic sex.
I got my hair cut recently, and the barber cut it a bit shorter than I like.
I think it's partly my fault, I may not have been 100% clear about what I wanted.
I told him, "Make me huggable."
So he made me look like Lenny from Of Mice and Men
I've had about five seperate people ask me in the past month-and-a-half if I would ever appear on Queer Eye for the Straught Guy.
First of all: Okay, I can take a hint.
Second of all: No, I wouldn't. Not because I'm too stylish, but because I'm too far gone for Queer Eye.
I think they're going to have to create a new show for me, called Oh Dear Lord, Who Let You Out of the House Like That?
I think dating's a lot like jury duty.
You spend a lot of time in a pool with a bunch of other guys, waiting to get called in. And you look around and say to yourself, "What's wrong with these losers? Heh, I bet they don't even have jobs. I mean, I'm so clearly superior to them."
And you act like you hate the process, but deep inside you're kind of excited: "Will I get picked for something exciting? Maybe even a celebrity case. God, I hope it's not one of those psycho murder/suicide things."
And of course, eventually, after what seems like an eternity, your number gets called. And you trudge into the bar if you're dating - or if you're called to jury duty in the South Bronx - and there she sits - The Judge.
Of course she's flanked by counsel; for the prosecution, Erik, her gay best friend. For the defense, Rachel, her heavy, less-attractive friend.
And suddenly you're being subjected to a ton of questions:
"Mr. McEneaney, when's the last time you served on a relationship? Uh-huh, and how did that end?"
"And what do you do for a living? Oh, a comedian? And you make money from that? Are you funny? Tell me a joke."
And then there's a sidebar in the "judge's chambers" - or the Ladies Room if you will - where it's decided if you'requalified to serve.
And if you do get picked, you suddenly find yourself serving, remembering why you enjoyed not being on jury duty.
I think the big difference between dating and jury duty is, that if dating concludes successfully, you're the one serving the life sentence.
I'm not sure I like this joke as much as I enjoyed the premise when I came up with it. The problem is that I'm really not this cynical. In fact, my problem is partly the opposite, but more on that later this week.
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Check it out.
I was walking down 42ns street and this sweet woman was saying ina demure voice, "Satan wants you to think that Hell is a party. But there is not one moment of pleasure in Hell."
First of all, if that's what Satan wants me to think, he's doing a damn bad job of PR. I've never, ever thought, "Man I'm bored. I wish I was in Hell right now."
I've never heard anyone say:
"What are you doing this weekend?"
"Oh, we're going to Hell. Yup, booked a cruise. Party at Hitler's, dude!"
Maybe Satan's tricking people into thinking Hell's a party place. Maybe it's like one of those real estate seminars, where they show you slides of golf courses and castles, and then you find out the property you bought is on an old A-bomb test site.
"As you can see, this is the senior center, located on Fairy Candy Lake."
"Aren't those burning sinners in the background?"
"A few. But...they pay for it. It's like a spa."
I don't want to go to Hell. I just hope that God isn't strict on sins.
I mean, I've gone 27 years without killing anyone, and I could even give up masturbating if I had to.
But not covet my neighbor's wife? I covet all the time. Hell, I'd covet at a nunnery. I'm a natural-born coveter.
I"ve heard prison is hell. Maybe Hell is like prison.
It's be my luck:
ME: What are you in for?
SINNER: Murder, rape, assisting in a genocide. You?
SINNER: Yo, fresh fish. You gonna be my girlfriend.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
My work has me calling CEOs of companies and asking them to take 15 minutes out of their day to answer a survey for 15 minutes.
Because when you're the CEO of, say, Radio Shack, you're just sitting around your office saying, "Man, I just don't have enough to do during the day. If only someone would call to talk to me."
I actually called CableVision's Tom Dolan and left a message on his voice mail. Tom Dolan owns the Knicks. The dude makes a hundred bucks every time someoen buys a ticket.
Anyway, here's how a typical morning briefing goes (the "S" is my Supervisor):
S: Now let's talk about honorariums. When someone asks when they're going to get their check, what do you say?
1: "You'll get it in 6 to 8 weeks."
2: "8 to ten weeks."
S: Right, you don't say "You should get it tomorrow," which is what one of you has been saying. All right, today we aren't leaving any messages.
1: What if we're put in their voice mail?
S: Don't leave a message.
2: What if the secretary answers?
S: You don't leave a message.
2: but they say, "Leave your name and number and he'll call you back."
S: Don't leave a message. Do not leave a message. Today we aren't leaving messages.
2: But if you get the CEO's voice-mail -
S: Do not -
2: That's like you're talkng directly to him.
S: Do not leave a message. Now, some of the quota groups are full. We aren't talking to CFOs, controllers -
1: How do we knwo we reached the CFO?
S: That's the first question. Question 1. We want to eliminate category 2 - CFos, controllers, treasurers -
3: But how do we know we reached the CFO?
S: You'll ask them. Now we've filled the Business Media quota, so we're not calling them any more.
4: What if we get a business media?
S: You won't. We aren't calling them any more.
4: But if we do reach them.
S: We're not calling them any more.
2: Do we leave a message?
S: No more messages.
Sunday, February 08, 2004
So, I have officially changed my comments server.
Big thrilling news, I know.
It was a rough decision, as it meant jettisoning almost two years worth of comments from readers (sorry Don), but I feel like I"m making a new start in life, at least when it comes to my Comments server.
It features Chris Elliot, Fred Willard, Patrick Warburton, and a lot of my firends. It's still in the editing process, but you can visit his website here.
Saturday, February 07, 2004
I used to have a job writing banter for boy bands, in-between song patter, etc.
I got fired after three weeks for geting the bands booed offstage, assaulted, and set on fire. Here's some examples of my work:
* "Please don't sing along - it ruins our lip-syncing."
* "Are you there God? It's me, Joey Fatone."
* "We love all our fans, except the creepy forty year-old guy in Section 7."
* "Don't worry, we can't tell each other apart either."
* "Are you ready to rock? Then you better go to that Incubus concert next door, 'cause this is pussy music."
* "Sieg Heil!"
* "We'd like to tell y'all 'bout something that's going to rock your world. Say hello to your local AMWAY SALESMAN!"
* "Is there grass on the field, 'cause we're ready to play ball!"
* "You came to a special evening, because tonight we're finally returning to our acoustic bluegrass roots."
* "We have a special message to all the young ladies here tonight: you're too fat. Lose weight now."
* "We'd like to welcome to the stage our inspiration, or hero, Richard Simmons!"
* "If you wanna be my girl, you gotta get a neck tattoo."
* "Let's - huff - GLUE!"
* "Look for our VH1 Where Are They Now? special coming in July."
* "You may remember this next song from the movie An American Tail 2: Fievel Goes West!"
* "Some people say the Dark Hand of Ba'al is a cult . . . we say, if sacrificing babies to The Dark Lord of the 7th Pit is Wrong, we don't wanna be right!"
* "Who's got a fucking cigarette for Christ's sake?"
Friday, February 06, 2004
ironically has no reading material. Hmm.
Am I glad this week is almost over.
If you're an alcoholic and you go to AA, you get to have a sponsor who you can call whenever you're feeling weak.
I want a sponsor. I need someone to call every day around 9:15 am, when I want to quit my job.
I was so exhausted Wednesday that I was so useless at work my supervisor took me off of making phone calls and made me enter fax numbers into the computer the rest of the day.
The only thing more embarrassing than being a phone calling guy is not being physically or mentally capable of being a phone calling guy.
I have to call media people this week, and when I called Clear Channel's corporate office, the VP of Finance's outgoing message was:
CREEPY MIDDLE-AGED DUDE WHO DOESN'T KNOW HE ISN'T HIP ANY MORE: Hello. Imagine me listening to music. (thirty seconds of shitty Lite FM music) Yeah, that's right. Leave a message.
Actually, pal, I'm imagining you, a forty-five year-old guy with a clip-on ponytail and impossibly black, slicked-back hair, tight black t-shirt over your expanding gut, cancelling your morning appointments as you record that message over and over again.
ROOOARRR!!!! I HATE MY JOB!
Thursday, February 05, 2004
I tend to shoot myself straight in the foot.
NO TIME TO UPDATE
Instead, please please please visit this example of pure comedy.
Thanks Chris DeLuca for the link.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
who just "discovered" her lesbianism.
I think that's actually a better discovery than, say, Columbus discovering America.
because at least Columbus didn't have to call his parents: "Hey look guys, I don't know any easy way to tell yo uthis but . . . I'm an explorer. Don't judge me, it's the way God made me!"
Today only, I am giving the next two jokes away to all my readers.
Perhaps you are giving a speech to your local Rotary Club. Perhaps you are going to give a sermon this weekend. Or maybe you just need to impress your new in-laws with your wit and wisdom.
Whatever the occasion, relax, because you are allowed to use these next two jokes in ANY CONTEXT with no obligation to pay, or even credit, me:
#1: Some people say they like their coffee like they like their women. I like my coffee better than I like my women. At least when I stick my dick in a strange cup of coffee, the burning fades right away.
#2: I got a new punching bag today. Her name is Christine.
This is your poem
This is your poem,
I have nothing else to give you.
And maybe some day someone will
Wonder who you were,
That a base and homely poet
Sang your beauty to the sky
And grabbed this burning sphere
And put it on a pedestal.
And maybe you will too.
And I never asked you
To love me
But only accept me
With the grace
That frames every line
Of your face
From which I have fallen so many times.
And so this is your poem
This will be the poem which describes
In the richest, pulpiest terms
The sapphire jewel that burns
Behind your eyes,
And your laugh which, it seems,
Plays a song heard once
In a half-remembered dream.
I can't drop money, I can only drop hints
On your pillow like hotel mints
In your poem.
So I wrote you a poem -
To tell you that your presence in a room
Leaves me twisted and tongue-tied
My breath caught somewhere between my chest
And my voice
Until all I can do is nod.
And these words are scratches
Nothing more than lines
From a pen.
Or maybe they will work to be
A thing of eternal beauty
And maybe some day in the far future
When all we are
And all we have ever been
Will be as lost and forgotten
As that half-buried dream
There will be a yellow scrap of paper
And in a long-dead language
There will be these words:
"This is your poem,
I have nothing else to give you,
Certainly nothing as great as the gift
Every time you turn your smile to me."
So please take this poem
For you have written it,
Through my pen,
In that moment when
My heart stopped beating
And you called my name to me.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Here's how it starts, and here's where it all starts:
I was talking to my dad a couple of weeks ago, and he told me about his new hobby:
He looks for Top 100 Movie lists on the Internet (for instance, the American Film Institute's famous Top 100 movie list, or the IMDB's Top 250 movies of all time list), and he subtracts their score from the number 250 (that's the highest number on the IMDB list) and then he averages that score in with all the other scores and he keeps it all on a spreadsheet. I think he's trying to scientifically calculate the Greatest Movie of All Time.
Yes, this is true, I have the spreadsheet. It is that foggy shadowland between "nerdy" and "crazy" that we McEneaneys live in. Certainly, I couldn't be the comedian I am if I didn't tread that dark and misty borderline.
So I told my dad that I was going to compile my top 100 list of movies.
My first idea was that I was going to do something really annoying, like look up obscure French and Iranian movies and randomly place them in any old order.
My second idea was to slip a really shitty movie in at number 82, like Wholly Moses.
Then I realized that my choice of Top 100 movies was going to annoy anyone who cares too much about movies; Matewan is in my Top 10, but Citizen Kane isn't. South Park rates as one of the all-time great movies, and To Kill A Mockingbird doesn't. There's Something About Mary is - to my mind - a movie comedy that holds up better than It Happened One Night or You Can't Take it With You.
Die Hard with a Vengeance is way above Yojimbo (DHWAV is one of the most criminally underrated movies of all time - truly the Gone With the Wind of Big Dumb Action Movies. I could watch it over and over again, unlike say, the Gone With the Wind of Gone With the Wind movies: Gone With the Wind).
I considered picking movies based on their titles, but then I Dismember Mama would be the number one movie of all time.
Although I did notice that if the title starts with the word "House," it's going to be a shitty movie. And if the title tells you that someone "Meets" someone else, it's gonna blow; Abbot & Costello met everything except laughter.
I thought about having an entry that was really obscure and at the same time nonsensical: "Anything by Jun Fukuda," for instance. (You mean you don't know who Jon fukuda was? I guess you're not a real movie buff! Okay, Jon Fukuda directed a bunch of Godzilla movies. 'Nuff said, true believers!)
In the end, I decided to write a complete and accurate list of all the movies that have stood out to me over the years. The ones that were not only well-done, but that left me thinking after they were over, haunted my dreams, or starred Audrey Tatou.
Two things: One, I couldn't have done this list without my spine which threw itself out of alignment, leaving me plenty of time last week to think about this.
And secondly, yes I know, the only thing nerdier than compiling a Top 100 Movie List is posting it on your blog. So it goes.
2. Godfather 1 & 2
3. Bridge on the River Kwai
4. Apocalypse Now
5. It's A Wonderful Life
6. 2001: A Space Odyssey
7. The Maltese Falcon
10. Raging Bull
11. A Miracle on 34th St.
12. Schindler's List
14. On the Waterfront
16. King Kong
17. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
18. The Birds
19. The Wedding Banquet
20. Dr. Strangelove
22. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
24. The Natural
25. The Producers
27. Touch of Evil
28. 12 Angry Men
30. Duck Soup
32. The Adventures of Robin Hood
33. The Music Man
34. The Outlaw Josey Wales
35. I Remember Mama
36. Inherit the Wind
37. The Big Lebowski
38. Mystery Train
39. Cinema Paradiso
40. The Manchurian Candidate
41. Spirited Away
42. Stand By Me
44. The Hudsucker Proxy
45. Stalag 17
46. Arsenic & Old Lace
47. Bringing Up Baby
48. Paradise Lost: The Child Murders of Robin Hood Hills
49. Yellow Submarine
50. Lost in Translation
51. Field of Dreams
52. Assault on Precinct 13
53. Falling Down
54. The Sixth Sense
55. The Purple Rose of Cairo
56. Donnie Darko
57. South Park: The Movie
58. American Movie
59. Office Space
60. Michael Collins
61. Die Hard with a Vengeance
62. The Hurricane
63. The Bank Dick
64. Jacob's Ladder
65. There's Something About Mary
66. Man Bites Dog
67. A Christmas Story
68. The Dirty Dozen
69. Black Robe
70. 12 Monkeys
72. In the Name of the Father
73. Dirty Harry
75. Sullivan's Travels
76. The Great Escape
78. Ed Wood
79. The World of Henry Orient
80. DOA (the original)
81. Back To The Future
82. Roger & Me
84. In Cold Blood
86. My Left Foot
88. Evil Dead 2: Dead By Dawn
92. Event Horizon
93. Bob Roberts
94. The Princess Bride
95. Raising Arizona
96. Escape from Alcatraz
97. The Great Muppet Caper
98. You Can't Cheat An Honest Man
99. Tales from the Crypt Presents: Demon Knight
100. Citizen Kane