Penn.

“‘Chris[topher Walken] is like a poem,” rhapsodizes Sean Penn, a longtime friend and admirer. ”Trying to define him is like trying to define a cloud.”

You mean a visible collection of particles of water or ice suspended in the air, usually at an elevation above the earth’s surface? That kind of cloud?

Just checking.

Dream Writer Still On Strike

Last night I stayed up way too late watching season 4 of The Wire and then somewhere around 7 a.m. decided to try and catch a nap before work (smart!). For the record, I made it in to the office just before noon.

But first I had the most insane dream in which every single plot point came straight out of The Wire. I was rehashing everything that happened in my mind and turns out, my dream writer is a total hack. There was not one part that I didn’t immediately connect with something I had just watched a few hours before. What a total disappointment.

The best part was, in the dream I met this hot cop (not one of the characters from the show – at least my sleeping brain can imagine up an attractive guy without any help from television) named Jon Paul. And after flirting with me he gave me his business card. Then later in the dream I met his captain, through some retarded coincidence, and I was like, “Hey do you know this guy Jon Paul who works for you?” And the captain asked his last name. So, my dream brain, totally on the spot to make up a last name, pulls out his business card and I read it out loud: Jon Paul Jonpauldenber.

I shit you not. That’s the best I could do.

Even in the dream I said it sounded fake. I started to wonder if I had been totally played (which happens even in my dreams!) with a fake business card. Luckily I woke up (because my brain called “bullshit” on the whole story) and never found out.

I guess the point is I should stop working on that screenplay, seeing as I can’t even dream up an original idea. What’s next? The dream me adopts an adorable black kid to boost dream ratings? Go back to dream creative writing class, man.

Crazy Islands Are So Over

The other day my friend Will and I had a conversation that led to the phrase “Insanity Peninsula” being added to my Twitter as a “that’s my new band” name.

But now I’ve decided to use it as an expression for batshit behavior. Like this article I read on Videogum.com today:

Basically, Dane Cook’s dog pooped all over the common area of his apartment complex. He denied it, but there was video evidence, and finally the owners took him to court. A judge decided to evict Dane Cook. But Dane Cook has attempted to appeal the decision with the most cramazing work of jurisprudence ever.

Cook claims he only rented the apartment in the first place because his heroes, [John] Belushi and [Steve]] Martin, used to live in the same complex back in the day, and according to the court docs filed in L.A. County Superior Court, he would suffer serious “mental and emotional” damage — and his career would crumble — if he was forced to leave. In the docs, Cook claims, “I know that the presence of those that have lived there before me affects me deeply and provides me with inspiration.”

Insanity Peninsula!

Plus, destroying Dane Cook’s career seems like the perfect reason to evict Dane Cook.

Can You Put A Rape Kit on Layaway?

Thank god for Get Your War On. That guy does everything right. Here’s the conversation I had with Franky after he sent me this video.

FP: I was skeptical about whether the animated GYWO would work, but now imagine she’s white, it totally worked!
Me: LOL. i know. i can totally imagine shes white!
FP: I just imagine Sarah Palin was white, and she’s still the worst.
Me: she is always the worst.
ME: WORST THINGS TO HAPPEN TO AMERICA
ME: 1. Sarah Palin
ME: 2. 9/11
ME: 3. Sarah Palin again
ME: 4. Norbit
ME: 5. G W Bush
ME: 6. The Chevy Chase show
ME: 7. Fried macaroni bites
FP: OBJECTION! That sounds like something i’d try
ME: yes it may be delicious but its the worst for america
ME: 8. Hammer Time
ME: 9. Sex and the City
ME: 10. Sarah Palin guest starring on Sex and the City
FP: Oh god. Yeah once you start combining things. Imagine Sarah Palin wearing Crocs and reading “Eat Pray Love”
ME: Or Sarah Palin in one of those yogurt commercials, telling you how The Secret changed her life
ME: Sarah Palin on Dr. Phil!
ME: The official Sarah Palin hacky sack
FP: ugh, Sarah Palin playing The official Sarah Palin hacky sack with Dane Cook and Carlos Mencia
ME: You know, I would pay to see Dane Cook open for Carlos Mencia live, if it would guarantee Sarah Palin would go away forever
ME: They say ask not what comedy can do for you, but what not-comedy can do for your country

I Have No Legitimate Advice On Sex

Years ago, I wrote this little article for Black Table called UH, LOOK, DUDE, IT’S NOT ENTIRELY IMPOSSIBLE FOR YOU TO GET LAID.‏ In part, it was a response to an article they had posted a week earlier. But in a bigger sense, it was a response to all the “5 Ways to Meet Women” type articles written, by men and women, which are generally bullshit, in my opinion.

Additionally, my article was meant to be funny. Sure, it’s got some not wholly invalid points in it, but let’s face facts: it’s a joke. I mean, shit – I don’t have a degree in interpersonal relationships. I don’t even have interpersonal relationships. So, regardless of whatever claims of knowledge were made, taking advice from a humor article on the internet should be done with a grain of salt. Or a pound of salt. Or a ton of no salt whatsoever.

Unless you want advice on how to meet me, or how not to meet me, which I know a shitload about. I am fully qualified to tell you how to not meet me, which is this: send me an email detailing all your sexual frustration, and somehow blame me and my article for further confusing you in your quest to put your dick into ladies.

For example, this letter I received recently:

You hold it against us guys for having to learn how to speak to the majority of women out there and then you expect us to just instinctually know when to turn it on and off? Not only that but then you assume someone is feeding you lines when they might be just trying to make an icebreaker and introduction. Like there is a better way you know of to break the ice with a guy. Like you ever tried?

Women have no perspective. They judge us men by a meter stick that if they held it to themselves they would look just as bad if not much worse. The worst of it is that women can use traditionalism and liberation from moment-to-moment and it is fucking bullshit! To cherry pick which aspects of both ideologies you want to use when and where makes women look like spoiled little bitches who want their cake and the ability to eat it to. To be comfortable with paying for yourself and then be like “It’s a man’s job to make the first move” is talking out of both sides of your mouth. Pick a side ya flip-flopper flakes and don’t accuse men of being cowardly if you are also incapable of making the first move. It’s the pot calling the kettle black kind of a thing.

Umm… Did I publish this in Missing The Point Magazine? I never said women are incapable of making the first move, I only suggested you make one. By your logic, if you (the guy) pay for a woman’s meal, you are obligated to feel her up. But if she pays for her own, she might as well offer to blow you, too. Am I getting that right?

Also, I don’t care what other girls do with their cakes. And I do expect you to know that “instinctually” is not a real word.

Then there was this from another reader:

I liked your article on getting laid.  It was pretty strong.  But I think you discount proper game too much… Women have two slightly contradictory desires:  they want a strong alpha man and they want a stable provider.  Best way to get those checked off:  be successful and be relaxed.

Also, women totally want their needs reduced to two vague concepts. We’re surprisingly vapid and uncomplicated. And we carry checklists in our purses (next to our tampons). That’s why we have to go to the bathroom so goddamn often — to fill out our checklists.

I’m in headhunting now, which is a lot like sales in many respects. Before that I was a trial lawyer. In both realms, the best practice and study human psychology, motivation, and interaction. In both realms, there are some stock and rehearsed “lines” to move to an authentic, free-flowing conversation. There are a lot of hard-workers in both fields and very few naturals. It’s true, some could never do either thing. But once you have the raw material you must study, practice, and let the best techniques become intertwined with your being. Otherwise, you will be a lonely loser who is hen-pecked by a sub-standard wife or girlfriend that he’s scared shitless of leaving.

Are those the only two options? Either “let the best techniques become intertwined with your being” or be Andy Capp?

(Oh, and also, new rule: to get laid, don’t be “in headhunting.” Or if you are, don’t say you are. Or if you say you are, don’t not live in a 1980s movie about climbing the corporate ladder.)

Again, the point is to stop looking for some formula, and just hang out and talk to people like a real human. Then when you get laid, you get laid, not some alternate universe version of you that you’ve crafted using dog-eared copies of Maxim articles and a 20-sided die.

Hey there. I read your article… and loved to appreciate the instructive advice in there. I would like to be friends with you, and share my stories of shyness and would like to learn from you. Would you mind becoming that sort of a couch?

Yes, I would mind. Maybe there was a time when I wouldn’t have minded so much. But that time is over. I don’t care whether or not any of you ever get laid. And honestly, I never did care all that much. I don’t spend this much time on getting myself laid. But this is the kind of offer that ends all these letters.

Anyway, let me know if you want me to show you how it’s done if you’re ever in Florida.

And…

You probably don’t even give a fuck about any of this since you wrote it two years ago. Probably do not even check this email address… In case you are here then here are a few places you can check me out in case you want to make sure that the problem isn’t that I am just super ugly …

I’m sure that is not the problem.

Ladies, seriously, are we really that difficult to get into bed? Still? This isn’t the 1950s. Is it just me, or is it totally possible to hook up without some sort of master plan? That’s not a revolutionary idea. I’m not the Rosa Parks of bar sex. But maybe I am the Karen Silkwood of throwing away the rules and just being normal.

Terry McAuliffe could learn a little from Terry Schiavo

Pull the goddamn plug already.

Comedy Magic Really Happens

The other day I was driving to work and in the middle of the road there was a truck that was sitting sort of sideways, no driver in sight, as if it had been in an accident and the driver had gone to find help. And next to the truck on the street there was a banana peel.

Ta-da!

World’s oldest and still funniest joke: 1; Truck: 0

That should be the end of this post. But it reminded me of another anecdote which I will now share because I can. I have that kind of time!

In college I worked at a truck stop that had a cafe in it. And I very often worked the graveyard shift (Hello, serial murderers!!).

One night during a rainstorm, the power went out for about 10 minutes, which is a bigger deal when you’re at work. You have to secure the place and make sure people don’t steal shit (like your ass-virginity) and then make sure everything’s up and running once the lights come back on. My division manager called to make sure we were okay, and I happened to be in charge at the time, so I spoke to him and reassured him that the gas pumps were working, the customers were fine, and that everything was cool.

He then asked me, “Are the refrigerators running?” There were several industrial sized refrigerators in the back room, where we stored the food that we served in the cafe. I asked him to hang on and I put the phone down, walked into the back room, opened and closed every single refrigerator door, and verified that they were, in fact, running. I then walked back into the office, picked up the phone and answered in the affirmative, to which he replied, “You better go catch ‘em!”

I had just been totally and completely 100% duped by the oldest phone prank in history.

At the time it seemed like a totally valid question — we’d be in a real pickle if the large refrigerators full of prepared foods were somehow affected by the power outage. You don’t want to deprive a meth-fueled truck driver his nightly serving of chicken salad and curly fries. It can get ugly.

But imagine you were the guy who asked me if the refrigerators were running. You expect a simple “Yes,” or even a snort + rolled eyes + “gimme a break” response. Instead you get full on fridge inspection! That never happens! No one EVER falls for that joke. Not even little kids!!

But I did. You win, dude. You’re the henway.

Newfound Sympathy for MJF

So this morning i was running late and had to postpone my 8 Minutes in the Morning workout until I got to work. But it’s no problem — we have a gym at work. So I go to my 9:30 status meeting (at 9:36!) and then head to the gym immediately after.

Today’s workout included 2 exercises building arm muscles by pumping cans. Not “cans” like “check out my muscles,” or “check out her tits,” but soup cans. It’s a very “Hey you can work out with household items!” spirited book, which is nice, but I’m in a gym, where they have actual weights. So I decide to use the smallest ones I can find.

The smallest I can find are 8 pound weights. Zorg.

So I do one “rep” of each exercise (60 seconds each) and I can already tell there is no way my sad out-of-shape arms are going to be able to repeat this three more times. So I go to the kitchen in search of cans. Can’t find any normal size cans, but our chef (yeah, we have a chef at my office) brings me two family-size cans of chicken broth. They’re a little hard to grasp, but they only weigh three pounds, so I figure its doable. Meanwhile, my arm muscles are throbbing from the one rep using eight pound weights.

Back to the gym and I’m pumping my chicken broth cans, while people occasionally walk through and muse over my choice in weights. “Yes, hi, I’m a nerd.” And not only is it somewhat embarrassing to be lifting giant cans, but its also hard. The eight pound weights left my muscles all jiggly, so now even the three pound cans are killing me.

During my last rep, a coworker walks through the gym and points out that she had misplaced the REAL three pound weights. Oops. She finds them for me, but I still feel like a dork (“Oh, we had 3 pound weights all along…?”) — a dork that can barely hold three pound weights at this point, much less move them up and down repeatedly. But I soldier through (like the lamest soldier ever) and finish my fourth rep and move on with my day.

Its now been like 20 minutes, and I can’t lift a plastic fork. I was trying to eat half a bagel and I kept involuntarily jerking it around in my hand like an epileptic with Tourettes. Eight fucking pounds for 120 seconds + three pounds for 360 seconds = my arms are made of jelly. My boss came over and asked me to work on a headline and I couldn’t write on the piece of paper. My handwriting reminded me of the time I let one of the Special Ed kids sign my yearbook on a moving school bus. It hurts to answer the phone.

So I’m out of shape, is basically what I’m saying. I mean, I knew I needed some work. But I’ve clearly been in denial as to just how little I’m working with. I would continue, but I’m starting to lose sensation in my fingerti

If Only It Starred Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem

I was getting all giggly about the trailer for the new movie Teeth about a girl who has “vagina dentata” (a toothy hoo-ha). And then Matt and I had this conversation:

• Me: Lenny Von Dohlen is in the movie!!!!
• Matt: Yeah, great reviews out of Sundance
• Me: And also, there’s teeth in a vagina. So honestly, if you hear that and then have to ask a question like, “Well, what are the reviews like?” then you’ve already missed the point.

A Cautionary Tale?

I remembered this story today. It is totally 100% true, and awesome.

When I was in college I was in at least four classes with this guy Ben* who knew several of my close friends. He lived around the corner from me and he hung out with my roommate from time to time. And yet every time we ran into each other at a party or a show he would introduce himself. “Hi, I’m Ben,” to the point that I finally I was like, “DUDE. I FUCKING KNOW YOU!!”

Anyway, we were in a film analysis class with one of my favorite professors, Dr. Wyatt. For the final, we watched Slaves of New York and then were given a question about the film that we would answer in essay form. That was our whole final, and a big part of our grade.

So after the film, before we started writing, Dr. Wyatt allowed us to ask him questions, about the movie, and about the test. And everyone’s all serious, because we’re about to take our final exam. So Ben raises his hand and asks, “I was wondering, is that guy who played the doctor in that one scene – isn’t that the same actor who played Long Duk Dong?”

Dr. Wyatt paused for a second, I assume to consider two things:

1. Is that seriously the question you need to ask before you take this exam? I mean, is that at all relevant to your analysis of the film? Because, if so, nevermind. You’ve failed. Society has failed.

2. That actor was Indian.

So his answer to Ben was, “Um, the Indian guy?”

And Ben said, “Yeah. He played Long Duk Dong, right?”

And Dr. Wyatt says, “The actor you’re thinking of is Asian.”

And Ben still wasn’t getting it. He was like, “It looks like the same guy, right?”

So now, a visibly irritated Dr. Wyatt is all, “No. They’re not the same guy,” and moved on. You could tell Ben wasn’t totally convinced.

Anyway, Dr. Wyatt wrapped up the Q&A session and then allowed everyone to take a bathroom break before we got started. I went out to get a drink of water and as I walked back toward the classroom I saw that Ben had Dr. Wyatt cornered by the bathroom door and was pressing him: “You don’t think it was the same guy…?”

A couple years later Ben moved to New York and committed suicide. I like to think that he was on a quest to find the actor that played the doctor in Slaves of New York, and upon discovering that he was not, in fact, the same actor who played Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles, was too disappointed to go on living.

*Not his real name.