A Modest (and Indecent) Proposal

Dear Stephanie Klein,

Ah, Stephanie. It's been quite a ride, hasn't it? It seems like decades since the first time I laid eyes on you, so many months ago. I know that I might have seemed harsh at first, but I think we both know that it was just cruel flirtation, like pulling your hair on the playground (more about the hairpulling later).

But a lot has happened since then - you got a half million dollar book deal, inspired fan sites, tried to sue said sites, and so on. But we haven't spoken in months, so I thought I'd let you know - I'm about to get on a plane to New York.

That's right, you and me are going to be on the same island! So I'm just going to come out and say it. I would like to hate fuck you. Or, 'anger fcuk', as you like to call it. Whatever, basically I'm proposing that we have a roll in the hay, and take out these months of built up tension on each other's genitals. What better way to bury the hatchet than bury our bodies deep inside each other?

Just imagine the satisfaction of biting and slapping and pulling our aggression out. You could be riding me like the pony your father never bought you, saying dirty stuff like, "I hate you for trying to ruin the image I've worked so hard to construct, you punk smartass motherfucker!" And then we could switch positions and I could be all, "Fuck you, you self-obsessed neurotic fraud!"

You know it would be amazing. Think of all the daddy issues you could take out on me, in the flesh! And then, best of all, you could even blog about it! Maybe you could even put it in your forthcoming book, a really sappy chapter about the time when you had to confront - and fcuk - your demons. It makes so much sense if you think about it.

So if you think this is as good of an idea as I do, send me an e-mail. If not, please don't sue me.

New Yawk, here I come!

-Alex

I Don't Have Any Jokes

I think the worst thing about being a stand-up comedian, other than having to listen to so much shitty comedy, is when a moron I've just met finds out that I'm a comic. I've had this conversation enough times to know it by heart:

Someone: So what do you do?

Me: I'm a comedian.

Someone: What's that?

Me: Um, I write and perform comedy.

Someone: Like a stand-up comedian, like Seinfeld?

Me: Yeah, sort of.

Someone: Nuh-uh.

Me: Really. But not 'like Seinfeld'.

Someone: Oh my god! Tell me a joke!

Me: I don't do that.

Someone: Do what?

Me: Just tell people jokes.

Someone: Isn't that what a comedian does? I mean, duh!

Me: No, I mean I don't tell jokes on demand. There has to be a stage and a microphone.

Someone: Oh come on! Just one!

Me: Really, it makes me uncomfortable.

Someone: Pleeeeeease?

Me (knowing there's only one way to end this miserable exchange): Fine. Knock knock.

Someone (stupid eager grin, like a retarded person about to get candy): Who's there?

Me: A stand-up comedian.

Someone: A stand-up comedian who?

Me: A stand-up comedian who doesn't like telling stupid fucking jokes at cocktail parties.

Someone (laughing hysterically): That's great!

Me: No, its not.

Someone: So how do you do it?

Me: Do what?

Someone: Just get up on stage like that and make people laugh. I couldn't imagine doing that.

Me: What do you do?

Someone: Me?

Me: Yeah.

Someone: I sell industrial pipe-fitting to storage warehouses.

Me: Oh my God! Really!?!

Someone (confused by my enthusiasm): Yeah, really.

Me: Well sell me some fucking pipes, then. Pleeeeeease?

THE END

The Total Douchebag's Guide©: MySpace

Okay, dudes. So listen, I found this new online thingy where you can meet totally hot chicks. Its called MySpace. It sounds kinda gay, but seriously, there's all kinds of chicks on it. And its not just fat girls and dorks, either. There's like seriously hot chicks on there. I saw for myself! And they look like they want to party.

Now that I've been a MySpacer for a few months now, and have created a totally sweet profile for myself, I thought I'd share with you dudes some of the secrets to using MySpace as a tool to help you nail hot chicks off the Internet.

Step One: Creating Your Profile

Basically this is all the words and stuff that describe who you are. You have to answer all these questions like "About Me" and "General Interests" and "Music" and "Who I'd Like To Meet" and stuff. It's hard. But its really important that when chicks read your profile, they quickly see that you're a total badass, but also sensitive and sophisticated. Take a look at mine, and you'll see what I mean:

About Me: IM NOT A MEAT HEAD OKAY SO DONT ASK ME PLZ.I JUST LIVE THE FITNESS LIFE STYLE I DO MARTIAL ARTS SUCH AS BRAZILIAN JUI JITSU SUBMISSION WRESTLING I PLAY SPORTS ALL THE TIME. READING BOOKS IS AWESOME, TOO.

General Interests: I LOVE WORKING OUT,TALKING,SINGING BY THE WAY I HAVE A DEMO OUT. I LIKE TO WRITE POITRY AND SING TO CHICKS THAT ARE CLASSY.

Music: I LIKE POP/ROCK/HOUSE/TRANCE/RAP/REGGAETON/OR ANYTHING I CAN JAM TO, DAVE MATTHEWZ

Who I'd Like To Meet: VERY SEXY AND VERY INTELLIGENT GRLZ. THAT GIRL ON REAL WORLD IS SO HOT AND COOL. I HOPE WE CLIQUE TOGETHER WHEN WE MEET. MY FRIEND SORTA KNOWS HER AND IS SHOWING MY PICTURE. I WANT TO MEET COOL PEEPZ IN HOLLYWOOD AND LA.

Step Two: Your Photos


This is probably like the most important part. If you're a fatass loser, you might as well stop even reading. But if you are reading this, chances are you're totally awesome and cool. First of all, you MUST NOT be wearing a shirt in your picture. Think of it like an NRA meeting: you HAVE to show off your guns. Oil yourself liberally. The easiest thing to do is just look in a mirror, flex, and take a picture with a digital camera (see above). If you can't figure this out, see if one of your workout buddies would mind taking a pic after you lift weights and before you do the thing in the shower together that you never talk about with others.

You can also add depth and dimension to your photo catalog by including pictures of any or all of the following: Your Car (especially if its a Camaro or tricked out Honda), Chicks You've Nailed (especially if they've ever worked at Abercrombie or won a local bikini contest) or large quantities of alcoholic beverages (especially Bud Lights or fruity malt beverages).

Step Three: Leaving Comments/Sending Messages

Once you've put in the work and put together a profile as sweet as the one I've displayed above, the next thing you have to do is make yourself noticed. You could have the most amazing shirtless MySpace photos in history, but if you don't get out there and work it, the hot honeys are never even gonna know. Even though we're picking up sluts online instead of in a bar, there is still a courtship process, which I will lay out below.

Hunting - You must use the "browse" feature to peruse all the whores who live nearby you (if they live on the other side of the country, don't even mess with them - phone sex ain't worth it). If you see one who's smokin', click on her profile and check it out. Use her profile to find something she likes that you know something about, then:

Leaving a comment -- This is your chance to introduce yourself, like your favorite pick-up line at a nightclub. You've got to break the ice. The best thing is to, once again, try to convey both your Alpha Male Superiority and your deep capability for sensitive emotions. Try something like:

Sup, girl. Yo, how much a polar bear weigh? Enough to break tha ice! HAHAHAHA. Ferreals, if you like ice, I gots it. I wants to get to know you girl, you feel me? Hit me up some time.

Sending a Message -- If your comment does what its supposed to, you will have gotten this hot little piece of action's attention within 24 hours. She will respond by doing one or all of the following: a) adding you as a friend (if she does this, you MUST leave another comment thanking her for the 'add') b) leaving you a comment in return, or 3) sending you a private message. No matter what her response, your next step is sending her a private message. (If she doesn't respond at all, you might want to think about taking some more shirtless photos).

Step Four: Closing the Deal

Your job is nearly done, but don't get comfortable just yet. This is the most crucial part of the process. Once you have engaged the target in an ongoing series of private messages, you must take the initiative and control the game. Just like getting laid in the real world, you must use your judgment. Remain in control, but follow her leads. If she's a total slut and keeps sending you pictures of her tits and ass, tell her to meet you at some nearby motel you can rent by the hour (okay, the half). If she's acting all mushy like she wants a relationship, suggest getting drunk together. The key thing to remember is, you MUST make the leap from the realm of cyberspace to the real world, and you must do this delicately. She might be nervous about meeting you in person, especially if you look like an over-testosteroned date rapist, which you probably do. So you've got to be smooth.

If you follow these instructions, and you have huge muscles that you don't mind photographing, you'll soon be drowning in dirty little MySpace sluts who want nothing more than a minute or two of your underwhelming loving. If you're still wondering whether this approach is right for you, think of it this way: its an easier way to meet chicks than going to the club and wasting a bunch a cash on buying them hoes drinks and shit. You know how much 4 Smirnoff Ices can cost! You're a straight-up pimp, but that don't make you rich!

Two Thousand Words

These might be the greatest photographs I have ever seen. A friend of mine took them over the weekend at the Bristol 500 NASCAR Race in Bristol, Tennessee.



If only the terrorists could see THAT!

Friday's Lazy Linking

(Brought to you by Bushmill's Irish Whiskey and lack of sleep.)


--See that girl in the picture, the one in red and gold? That's Jillian Iva, lead singer of the band Von Iva. I am in love with her. Imagine if Karen O were actually as sexy/talented/interesting as people pretend she is, and you'd still be a long way from the beauty of Ms. Iva. Von Iva is pure foot-stomping rock, and Jillian leads the band with the zeal of a drunken preacher at a big tent revival. (photo by that rapscallion Merkley???, who also happened to produce Von Iva's last record)

--Stephanie Klein continues to plumb the depths of pathetic narcissistic insanity, now trying to SUE A BLOG FOR PARODYING HER (read Blogger's e-mail here). Why she didn't get all Johnnie Cochrane on me months ago, I have no idea. She's seriously sad and pathetic, and I'm pretty sure at least indirectly responsible for this moronic comment, which is possibly the dumbest I've ever received, and around here that's saying something. Don't be afraid to tell Stephie how much you like "Tale of Two Sisters", and how desperate her legal actions make her look. And be sure to get the t-shirt.

UPDATE: After reading this, I came across a bit of legalese about filing the kind of complaint ToTS received: 6. Include the following statement: "I swear, under penalty of perjury, that the information in the notification is accurate and that I am the copyright owner or am authorized to act on behalf of the owner of an exclusive right that is allegedly infringed." Basically, that's proof that Stephanie herself (or her lawyers) went through the trouble of filing a WRITTEN (they don't accept fax) complaint against a blog for making fun of her. Wow. So very, very sad. I hate to see how she's gonna handle all the negative book reviews she's got coming in the mail.

--I guess Tony Pierce checks his referrals. He responded to my "Tony Theory" by outing me as "a maddox wannabe who loves coldplay and starbucks and lived in frisco ten years too late". Now THAT'S how to blog, motherfuckers.

--If you didn't see the premiere last weekend, be sure to look out for comedian Louis CK's half hour comedy special on HBO. Louie is possibly the best comedian working right now, and his special is hysterical. I think it might be "On Demand" if you're a Comcast subscriber - don't miss it!

--One week till NYC, bitches. Be prepared.

Tony! Toni! Tone! (a scientific theory)

I have this incredibly scientific theory that all people named "Tony" are douchebags. I began developing my revolutionary hypothesis years ago, in grade school, when this acne-festering trashcan named Tony Dinelli sucker-punched me in the face in the middle of the cafeteria. Ever since, I've quietly suspected that everyone in the world named Tony is a complete douche. Over ten years later, I have yet to be proven wrong, and have now decided to finally go public with my findings, which you will find (heh) below:


Tony Robbins -- He's like Tom Cruise without the fame, acting ability, good looks or charm. If you just took all the, "I've seen the reports!" Scientology wackiness out of Cruise, gave it a couple catchphrases, and it sent it out on the road for a national tour catered to tiny-brained morons who need someone to tell them they're not pathetic, you would have Tony Robbins. If you go to his website, dude actually encourages you to use his "Life Plan Tool". Tony, there's only room for one tool on your site, and you've got that real estate nailed down tight. I mean, just look at his teeth. Only a Tony would have teeth like that. Total douche.


Tony Danza -- Once you get past your nostalgic (and probably ironic) fondness of "Who's the Boss?", what you're left with is a vast ocean of Douche. This guy has managed to surpass twenty years worth of Daytime TV Titans of Terrible to become the definitive authority on how to have a boring and shitty daytime talk show. Being the guy with the worst daytime talk show in the history of TV is no small task, and only a douche of Danza proportion could spearhead this sort of challenge.


Tony! Toni! Tone! -- I mean, I think this sort of speaks for itself. This band liked the word "Tony" so much that chose to shout it, three times, spelled differently, and then offer the result to the world as the name by which they want to forever be known. Fuck. And the worst part is, in some sort of cosmic riddle, their music achieves the seemingly impossible feat of being even MORE awful than the bands' name? I'm stunned and humbled by the level of Douche these three were able to achieve in such a brief career.


Tony Hawk -- Sorry kids, but anyone who makes a career out of skateboarding is a loser in my book. Because its a loser decision. Sure, things worked out okay for Mr. Hawk, but what about the scores of lives he indirectly wasted by giving naive suburban kids the unrealistic hope of becoming a celebrity skateboarder? I guess fast food restaurants need employees, but still. And as if his career alone wasn't misguiding enough, Hawk's personally responsible for numbing the minds of even more millions of PlayStation-addled time-and-space-wasting zombies, which means I am going to have to rule in favor of the Douche.


Tony Blair -- Bush's little bitch, totally pusses out whenever anything happens. Does as he's told, even though deep down he probably knows that, behind his back, Bush refers to him as, "That nancy-boy faggot". In my book, this guy is the Duke of Doucheingham.


Tony Bennett -- This one is probably gonna piss a couple people off, but I don't care. This glorified Barry Manilow is lame, like Sinatra with no talent, or Tom Jones with a 3-inch cock. Old school douche.


Tony the Tiger -- Holy fuck I hate this guy. Of all the breakfast cereal cartoon character mascots, Tony is without a doubt the biggest pussy. He's wearing a scarf, for chrissakes. Tigers are supposed to be scary, but this dipshit just looks like Garfield's gay cousin from Europe. Count Chocula would bite the shit out of this guy, slap him in the face, and stroll away laughing while Tony cried in his Frosted Flakes. Grrrrreat? No, Rrrrrrrrretarded.


The Tony Awards -- There are a lot of pointless award shows out there for me to not give a shit about, but I don't give a shit about this one the most. If your acting was so good, you'd be banging Lohan and getting Oscars, not hamming it up for fat Midwestern tourists in Times Square. When I first heard of "The Tony Awards", I thought, "finally, they're gonna start handing out trophies to the world's biggest douchebags". No such luck.


Tony Romas -- In case you geniuses haven't figured it out, the only food anyone named Tony can possibly prepare is Pizza. Not ribs. Ribs are prepared by black people and fat redneck Southerners. Calling a place Tony Romas and having ribs instead of Italian food is like opening a restaurant called Jorge's Taco Shack and serving sushi.


Blogger Tony Pierce -- Before writing a book called "How to Blog", try learning "How to Write".

ton-e': Marked by an elegant or exclusive manner

tony (adj.) -- Only a total jerk-off would say something like, "You should have seen this party. Very tony." It's the same people who use the word "dish" as a verb, and they're morons. Isn't it sad that even the definition of the word "Tony" has to completely suck?

So there you have it. I think I make a pretty compelling case. If you happen to be named Tony, and you're reading this thinking, "This is total bullshit, I'm not a douche", well you are and here's why. Your name is probably Anthony. But instead of Anthony, a perfectly respectable name, you have elected to be known as "Tony", which sucks, as outlined above, thereby making you a douche. Now, if your parental-given handle is actually just "Tony", you're still a douche by default, but you should probably punch your folks in the face next time you see them.

(This post is dedicated to the memory of Tony Randall. It's been all douchebags since him.)

No, I Don't Want A Fucking Fanta.

Now that I've paid $10 to see this shitty movie, there's nothing I want more than to be forced to sit through a loud, obnoxious assault on my senses, in which a bunch of bikini-clad bimbo banshees in bright colors (fuck, alliteration rules) shriek a horrible, repetitive ad jingle about some god-awful fruit beverage no one outside of a trailer park would ever drink.

I hate to break it to you, ladies, but no one wants a fucking Fanta! And there's nothing all your psychedelic fruit swirling, infuriating music and half-naked models can do about it! People who aren't poor don't usually enjoy drinks that taste like carbonated sugar water with melted Jolly Ranchers in it. So you "Wanna Shutta the Fuck Uppa?"

Oh, I know. You're being "kitschy". Cute. But there's nothing kitschy about the fact that, every time I hear your infernal Fanta song, I have to actively suppress the overwhelming desire to commit savage, cannibalistic acts of murder upon my fellow moviegoers. By the last refrain of your moronic, brain-melting song, I am clutching the padded theater arm rests in a last-ditch effort of self-restraint, so I don't freak out and get myself on the 6 o'clock news as the guy who snapped when he couldn't bear another measure of your offensive, infuriatingly hypnotic shit-beverage music.

This country needs Fanta like it needs another 78-pound bacon-double-cheese-ranch-dressing-pizza-sauce-and-pork-grease burger from fucking McDonald's. The only Fanta anyone here needs is the Food And Nutritional Technical Assistance (FANTA) project, whose job is to improve the health of children through proper nutrition, so moron parents can't destroy their kids' bodies and self-esteem as badly as they have their own. Maybe you haven't noticed, but pretty much everyone in this theater is fat as fuck so, whether they want it or not, the last thing they NEED is 89 pure sugar carbs from your shitty, nutritionless soft drink, you dumb whores.

Whoever's responsible for these putrid ads - along with the creators of ALL Old Navy's marketing messages, and that retarded BK Bacon Double Ranch commercial with Hootie - should be strapped to a chair in a dark room, surrounded by obese morons shoveling greasy buttered popcorn into their mouths, and forced to view this commercial over and over for all of eternity, while I put eyedrops into their forced-open eyeballs, like on "Clockwork Orange". Because that's how I feel every time I fucking see it.

Also, while we're at it, marketing geniuses who make the "Dove" ads: no one wants to see half-naked fat chicks. FYI.

Transcript of a Conversation Between the Average Internet Commenter and Their Shrink

DOCTOR: Let's get back to WHY you leave the angry comments.

COMMENTER: I'm not sure, doctor.

DOCTOR: I think you are.

COMMENTER (shifting in chair uncomfortably): Well, sometimes I read things on the Internet that piss me off.

DOCTOR: Why do they piss you off?

COMMENTER: Because they're about me.

DOCTOR: So you know the people whose sites you comment on?

COMMENTER: Well, no. Not exactly.

DOCTOR: Then how could they be about you?

COMMENTER: Well, because these assholes will just make fun of people, or things, and sometimes what they're making fun of sort of applies to me.

DOCTOR: But these people don't know you.

COMMENTER: Look, it just fucking pisses me off, okay? You're a fucking talentless faggot, you fuckity fuckface!

DOCTOR: See that, you just went there again, to that place you go when leaving the comments. Why do you think that is?

COMMENTER: You fucking suck and you're a moron idiot asshole. Fuck you.

DOCTOR: Come on, I think we're getting somewhere here. Why do these words make you so angry?

COMMENTER: Because the smug assholes who write them think they're fucking better than me! They think they can make fun of me and get away with it, and someone has to stop them!

DOCTOR: Why do you think they write those words?

COMMENTER: To piss me off.

DOCTOR: You think these people would want to spend that much time, conceiving and writing these words, just to piss you off? You don't think there's any other reason they might do it?

COMMENTER: I guess some people might think they're funny.

DOCTOR: Why do you think that is?

COMMENTER: I don't know, why do people think shit is funny?

DOCTOR: Usually because they see some truth in it.

COMMENTER: That, or they're just faggots!

DOCTOR: What people find humorous is completely subjective. I'm more interested in why reading someone else's thoughts on the Internet angers you to the point of making obscene, racist or hate-filled comments.

COMMENTER: 'Cause I don't like people talking about me!

DOCTOR: Again, if these people don't even know you, their words could not possibly be about you.

COMMENTER: Well, they are insulting to me!

DOCTOR: And how does that make you feel?

COMMENTER: Fucking pissed!

DOCTOR: Why does it make you feel like that? What are those words physically doing to make you so angry?

COMMENTER: I dunno, they're just...THERE!

DOCTOR: On your computer screen?

COMMENTER: Yeah!

DOCTOR: How did they get on your computer screen?

COMMENTER: I went to the webpage, and there they were!

DOCTOR: Why did you go there?

COMMENTER: Go where?

DOCTOR: To the webpage.

COMMENTER: I dunno.

DOCTOR: Yes, I think you do.

COMMENTER: Because I wanted to see what was there.

DOCTOR: You wanted to see words that would just make you angry?
COMMENTER: Well, I...

DOCTOR: You wanted the words that make you angry to appear on your screen?

COMMENTER (hangs head): Yeah.

DOCTOR: Why?

COMMENTER: Because I'm a miserable asshole and I hate myself.

DOCTOR: Awesome, that'll be $250.

THE END

Sincerely Maximum Fun

Busy today, back tomorrow. In the meantime, check out this week's Sound of Young America podcast, which features a guest segment by yours truly. Rather, it features a guest segment by pitching legend Orel Hershiser. Thanks to host Jesse Thorn, America's Radio Sweetheart and Friend of BlaggBlogg, for having me on the show.

Sam Rhima forevs, bitches!

Carrot Top Turns Self Into Prop for Joke

--My friend Will Franken, one of the funniest comedians I've ever had the privelege of working with, got himself a great write-up in the New York Times. Sounds like his Fringe Festival shows have been well-received, which isn't surprising. Congrats, Will!

--If someone were able to capture the awful soul of Los Angeles itself, and allow it to take on a human form, it would most certainly turn out to be this fucking guy.

--Laugh your ass off while you help the environment. One of my favorite SF comedians, Arj Barker, is putting himself up for auction to benefit the environment.

--I know that I'm late to the 'stating the obvious party', but after viewing part of the Pamela Anderson Roast on Comedy Central last night, I've got to say: Courtney Love has de-railed.

--RIP, Chico.

That is all, enjoy your weekends.

The Fabulous Life of a Blogebrity

Recent estimates have indicated that there are over 60 million bloggers in the world. 60 million people who think the rest of us should be paying attention to their thoughts, ideas and opinions. From the first post they published, each of them held deep in their hearts the very same dream: "I hope this gets me rich and famous".

Well, I've been a Blogebrity for a few months now, and I'm sure many of you non-Blogebrities have been quietly wondering, "I wonder what life is really like for a Blogebrity?" I often wondered the same thing before I was plucked up from the masses, and given this enviable position of considerable power and privilege. So, in remembrance of my less blessed days, I offer you all a rare peek into the daily of life of Alex Blagg, Blogebrity:

11:00am - I drift slowly towards consciousness, from the most restful slumber you have ever imagined (but never experienced), and politely ask the three nude models from MySpace to leave my well-appointed loft, which is in the hip "Mission District" of San Francisco. For breakfast, I enjoy a fluffy two-and-a-half egg omelet prepared by Kenneth, my manservant (who was coincidentally once a star football player at my high school), as I sup Jamaica Blue Mountain coffee and chuckle heartily at the fools in the New York Times, already thinking of what blog savagery I have in store for them later in the day.

12:00 - After fielding calls from Matt Drudge, Tim Robbins and Neil Diamond, I fire up my custom-made 23-inch PowerBook G6, finally ready to begin my work by checking e-mail. Mostly fan mail. "Comes with the job," I sigh, as I cut-and-paste the standard response to each of them: "I thank you most graciously for your glowing praise of my work. May you live long enough to read it all. Cheers, Alex (Blogebrity) Blagg". I briefly imagine the delight washing over their face as they read this message from me, their hero, a Blogebrity.

1:00 to 3:00 - I surf the Internet with a nimble, cat-like agility, moving from page to page with the most effecient eye for good information. I process the latest happenings of the world, synthesizing them into the poetry some call, "a post". The words flow out of me like water from a water pitcher, my scathing wit and cynical prose the oft-most tools in my box of snark. I love the word "snark". And finally, in the glow of yet another legendary creation of words, it is finished. As I click, "publish", I am satisfied that I have once again added to my oeuvre of genius-level societal analysis.

3:15 - I have hit the first speed bump of my otherwise immaculate afternoon, briefly flummoxed by a phone call from my dear friend Uncle Grambo in Detroit, who has just alerted me to the existence of a last-minute gathering of elite bloggers, rock stars, style makers, celebrities and assorted luminaries this evening in the New City of York. While I am most honored, if not altogether surprised, to be invited to such a tete-a-tete, I am previously engaged to appear on this evening's installment of "The Jimmy Kimmel Show" to discuss my forthcoming memoir, "I Came, I Blogged, I Conquered". I phone the Kimmel people and tell them I shall grace their show on the following evening, and demand the network allow me to make use of their private jet in two hours. My needs are enthusastically met.

4:30 - Panic. As I settle into the otherwise lavishly-appointed aircraft, it comes to my attention that some underling has left for me "Johnny Walker" Scotch, a miserable, inferior brand to the Glenmorangie 67-year half-cask quadruple-malt whiskey to which I'm accustomed. I immediately pound on the cockpit door, demanding restitution at once. "Do you know who I am?" I shout, "I am a fucking Blogebrity!!!" The captain, after apologizing profusely and kissing my laptop case, personally fetches me three bottles of the Glenmorangie. I decide to let him live. At least for now.

8:30pm -- I arrive to the party fashionably late, reminding the doorman that I have a book deal as he checks my coat, which is made of flaxen locks of my own hair. After rousing applause as I enter the glamorous affair, I take a glass from some sycophant journalist-type standing nearby, and raise it to make a toast. A moment of crypt-like silence before I utter the words they all lust for, "A blogger is as a blogger blogs". Thunderous applause and cheers as many of the female party guests call out to me, offering their bodies for my every carnal whim. Deferring magnanimously, I survey the scene, noting the usual suspects: Lindsayism by the bar, Gawker on her cellphone, Defamer chatting up some actress wannabe, Stereogum asking if anyone's seen Britany, and of course the Thighmaster standing over by the corn table. Grambo, who invited me to this shindig in the first place, has no-showed, saying something about being too busy at work. And rumor had it Ultragrrrl was attending funerals for the next two weeks straight, due to the bad heroin that found its way to Misshapes.

10:30pm -- I'm now deep in the drink, chatting up a couple of my more favorable-looking comment groupies, considering their request to go back to their hotel room and do coke off of their nude bodies while checking my e-mail. I accidentally catch Nick Denton's eye, and he approaches, presumably to attempt to seduce me into joining his 'empire' once again, and I just don't have the energy for it, so I hurry off to the bathroom. A group of C-list actresses stumble out of the ladies' room, rubbing their noses, asking if I've seen Lisanti anywhere. I ignore them, then trip over something on the ground, nearly falling. It's Wonkette, passed out again. I mumble something, then stagger into the bathroom where I catch my reflection in the hideous truth of the lavatory mirror: "Oh, what have I become!?!"

1:00am -- My day ends much as it begun, in a heap of nubile female flesh. While I'm honestly too tired to submit to the demands of the hot, only lightly-tattooed Suicide Girl models who have followed me back to my hotel, I acquiesce, and perform for them a modest 8 times before collapsing into a deep and peaceful slumber, another day lived, another blog blogged. Such is the fabulous life of Alex Blagg, Blogebrity.

Some Things Happened Today

I woke up this morning, showered and got dressed. Then some things happened. I ran into some people. We had conversations about different subjects, some of them important, most of them not. I ate some food at different times in the day, usually mealtimes. I did some other stuff. A few telephone calls were made, and further matters of varying importance were discussed. Yet a few more phone calls were received, with similar results.

Did you hear about the thing the one celebrity said about the other celebrity? I heard that they've been doing things together. I think its because of the stuff that's been happening. This one website had some pictures of it, and said some pretty funny things. Isn't that crazy, how the celebrity has been doing that? What are they thinking?

While I was at work, I clicked on some words with my mouse. I typed keys to form sentences, sometimes preparing documents made up of a lot of sentences. This went on for about eight hours. At an acceptable time, I left. As I rode home, I had a few thoughts about things, some of which led me to other thoughts about things. And people, I thought about them some, too.

When I returned to my apartment, I relaxed by watching this show about stuff, until I got bored and watched something else, then finally one last thing before brushing my teeth and going to bed. As I slept, I had dreams about things and people doing stuff, most of which seemed pretty real, some of which didn't.

Life is so interesting sometimes. I guess that's why I blog.

(Image provided by my new favorite website, and unofficial Blagg Blogg illustrator, Toothpaste for Dinner)

Caution: Jack White Hates Balls

Last weekend, the Bay Area hosted The White Stripes for two nights at the Greek Theater in Berkeley. As they often do, local rock station (FULL DISCLOSURE: who occasionally features my comedy) Live 105 handed out promotional beachballs to the crowd.

During the encore, as White began plunking out the first few chords to his sweet ballad, "We're Going to Be Friends", one of said beachballs made its way onstage, angering Jack to the point of abruptly stopping the song, apparently no longer wanting to be friends with anyone who would let their balls get so close to him.

What the news article curiously omits is White's exiting the stage for more than ten minutes before returning to deliver a Conor Oberst-esque rant against Live 105's corporate parent, Viacom (it never gets old, listening to rich rock stars bitch about "the Man"), instructing the audience not to listen to Live 105 (who promoted these shows relentlessly, and I'm pretty sure is the only station who plays his songs), then finally - grudgingly - finishing the set.

So White Stripes fans, be warned: Even though he may dress like one, Jack White DOES NOT enjoy beachballs. Don't let your balls get anywhere near White, lest he be sent into a furious rage (Von Bondie-stizz) and give you a verbal lashing about the insidious beach ball antics of sinister corporations. He will not play his music if balls are present, and radio stations should also take note: other items such as beer koozies, umbrellas, frisbees and bumper stickers might also be a no-no to the promo-phobic rocker.

But you've been warned about the balls.

CORRECTION: Live 105 is owned by Viacom, not Clear Channel.

Tell the Papers Cold Wind, Cold Wind

No time to write a full post today. But the show on Saturday went great, thanks again to those of you who came out.

I'll be back tomorrow, but in the meantime, I will share with you the quote I coined yesterday while taking a shower:

"The tough thing about being a writer is that you're only one typo away from being a waiter."

Should be on coffee mugs, I tell you.

(Movie quote cartoon via Goldenfiddle - the cartoon says in seven words the same thing I needed about 500 to express. Gotta get better at the whole brevity thing.)

Car Alarms: Pointless...and Deadly?

--"This is what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass", Sobachek-stizz. (thanks for the link, IndyGirl)

--I'm headlining 50 Mason on Saturday night at 8pm. Good lineup of performers, including one of my favorite comics, Brent 'Boom Time' Weinbach. Show is $10, you can BYOB, call 415.398.4129 for reservations.

--Check out a couple of these amazing rock bands from Memphis: The Glass (free downloads on their site), and Augustine: here are a couple of their tracks: "The Remains" and "This Is An Expert Bomb" (rick click, save as).

--Kasper Hauser, one of the funniest sketch comedy groups I've ever seen, did a really funny Craigslist parody, which you can find here.

--Mike Capozzola, a funny Bay Area comedian and good friend of mine, also does some great cartoons.

--And finally, I'm going to be visiting NYC in a few weeks, from September 1st through the 6th. I'm just sort of going to socialize, but I'd love to do a couple stand-up gigs while I'm in town. If you can help with that, drop me an email (blaggblogg at gmail dot com). Thanks.

Have a good weekend.

Your IM Conversations Aren't Interesting

I don't usually like blogging about blogging, but I keep noticing this trend that is annoying the everloving shit out of me and it must be ceased at once. Bloggers, listen to me, and listen good: STOP POSTING YOUR FUCKING INSTANT MESSAGE CONVERSATIONS.

Like most things in life, everyone thinks what they and their friends have to say is unique and amusing. I assure you, it is not. If you manage to make some clever IM joke in the long, boring desert of banality that is your IM conversation, you really don't need to cut and paste the transcript and share it with the world. Seriously, we'll live without it. The truth is, they always sound pretty much the same:

SelfAbsorbedLoser: you ever noticed how something is a certain way?
SelfAbsorbedLoser: like how its like something else, you know?
PseudoIntellectual69: OMG, totally!
SelfAbsorbedLoser: Stupid play on words.
PseudoIntellectual69: Even more stupid pun.
SelfAbsorbedLoser: hahahhaha
PseudoIntellectual69: thats hilarious
PseudoIntellectual69: LOL!
SelfAbsorbedLoser: ROFL!
PseudoIntellectual69: OMG U R SOOOOO FUNNY!
SelfAbsorbedLoser: LOLMDKNADONGFALDAJFGDS!!!!!
SelfAbsorbedLoser: Another play on words, this time with a pop culture reference.
PseudoIntellectual69: hahahahahahaha!
SelfAbsorbedLoser: pretentiously sober summary of the premise of why the previous joke was funny.
PseudoIntellectual69: enthusiastic agreement.
PseudoIntellectual69: Anecdotal story about how this one time a similar thing happened to me in real life.
SelfAbsorbedLoser: haha
SelfAbsorbedLoser: that's hilarious.
SelfAbsorbedLoser: i mean, WTF?
PseudoIntellectual69: i know.
SelfAbsorbedLoser: Yet another play on words!
PseudoIntellectual69: hahahahahaha ROFL!!!

And so on and so on and so on. Please bloggers, if you can't think of anything to write about, just don't write anything. There is really no need to subject us all to the tedious musings of you and your Internet buddies. We don't know you. We don't get your inside jokes. Being witty online is about as difficult as showering. If I wanted to read the transcripts of conversations between boring people, I'd bring a stenographer with me to bars.

So from now on, you can only post IM conversations if your name is Bloodninja.

80's Teen Movie Parties: a Tribute

I've been on sort of a nostalgic movie kick recently, re-watching several of the flicks I loved as a child: Sixteen Candles, Teen Wolf, Weird Science, Karate Kid (actually I watch that about twice a week), etc. Anyway, something dawned on me while watching these films - I've never in my life had the experience of going to a party even half as amazingly insane as the parties found in teen movies from the 80's.

In pretty much every teen movie party sequence, there's always that establishing shot outside of the party, where the trees are covered in toilet paper, a few stoners are passed out on the lawn, a car is crashed into a nearby light pole, something is probably on fire, a couple is half-naked and making out on top of someone's father's car. The cops never seem to mind, or for that matter, even exist.

Inside the party, there are always like 10,000 people, screaming and dancing and spray-painting the walls. Foreign exchange students are fired out of cannons, empty kegs are tossed out of windows, hot nympho aliens show up to blow all the virgin boys at the party so they can "re-fuel" to get back to their home planet. People die at these parties, and the house is always destroyed beyond any possibility of repair. The character whose house is demolished never seems to mind, because they're usually too busy pulling pranks on the dorks who made the mistake of showing up to their raging celebration of popularity and hedonistic coolness.

Any of you ever go to a party like that? Most of the parties I went to involved going over to the home of some attention-craved loser whose parents were out of town and who'd decided to have a party in a sort of lame attempt to bribe his peers into social acceptance. The evening would usually be spent drinking Zimas, or whatever other shitty booze the football players could convince the homeless guy to buy for them, while I stood around trying to talk one of the chicks from the Volleyball team into giving me a 3rd rate handjob before the party's glorious and inevitable climax, when a fucking SWAT team of action-hungry suburban cops showed up in flak jackets and shit like they were storming Pablo Escobar's compound, and hauled a couple of the slower-moving kids off to jail to be picked up a few hours later by their scowling parents. Rock and roll.

If you're reading this, and you still happen to be in high school (in which case you probably shouldn't be reading this), do yourself and all your friends a favor. Next time that dorky guy with the traveling parents decides to throw a party in order to win over your friendship, get your shit together and figure out a way to turn it into an apocalyptic carnival of drinking, drugs, underage sex and foreign exchange student abuse. Get creative. Watch these movies for inspiration and make it your goal to replicate the parties down to the smallest details. Don't be afraid to burn the place down. Or if you're feeling less destructive, rent one of those "fun jumps" they have at kids' parties, cover it with booze-infused jello, and have no-holds barred naked wrestling matches with high-class hookers while your friends poor Everclear all over you and shoot Roman Candles at your neighbors' pets, until the fuzz show up and drag you all off into the night, drunk, beautiful and triumphant.

Otherwise you'll end up like me, twenty-five years old and sitting in your darkened living room watching "Sixteen Candles" with a joint in one hand and a kleenex in the other, thinking, "you blew it, man".

Current: A New TV Network for Masochists and Douchebags

This looks really fascinating.
Well, its a little over a week old, and Al Gore's brainchild TV network has overwhelmingly confirmed all of our expectations for its pandering shittiness. As I applied to work for the San Francisco-based network about 74 times, for a variety of jobs (mostly writing), I was eager to see what kind of brilliance the writers they DID hire were going to come up with. And boy, was I ever impressed.

After viewing the channel for approximately 30 minutes (which was all I could stomach), I surmised that they must've hired a couple shitty political bloggers, a jokewriter from Nickelodeon and the people responsible for Mountain Dew commercials. Because that's basically what the whole network is: a boring "news segment" with a vague underlying political message, introduced with a couple lame-ass jokes delivered by some Abercrombie-model flunkie jackoff, then a bunch of "extreme" whiz-bang graphics and techno music. Oh, and the constant commercials, whose sound and fury is almost (but not quite) as irritating as the content.

Imagine "Channel One", that TV show many of us were forced to ignore during homeroom, except now you're not at school. You're in your own living room, holding a remote control, eating chips with beer and the total freedom to watch a show that isn't uninteresting, poorly-written, pseudo-educational garbage. That's what watching Current is like.

See, the whole "Extreme Games Rebellious Youth" image the entire network is trying so hard to project is flawed at its core. Its the embodiment of the establishment's complete misunderstanding of youth culture, and what is "cool". We don't want "extreme" anything because we're not all a bunch of hyperactive crackhead morons with no attention span who like to jump out of planes on snowboards and shit.

If this channel truly understood their demographic, they would at least be marginally aware of things like irony, apathy and humor -- which are our preferred methods of communication. Nobody my age gives a shit about your "revolutionary new form of television" with youthful minorities running around with digital cameras, videotaping fucking break dancers and graffiti artists. Did you not even bother to observe the stuff that HAS connected, like the Daily Show or Best Week Ever or Ali G or even Bill fucking O'Reilly?

What is it exactly that Current thinks makes itself so "revolutionary"? The fact that viewers can submit their own videos and news stories, that the youth can "take over the media and make their voices heard"? Yeah, that sounds great, then I see Al Gore out peddling the big "viewer's content" prize winner, which was essentially 7 minutes about people who like to parachute off cliffs. Did nobody alert Mr. Gore to the existence of the Discovery Channel, ESPN 2 through 87, the local nightly news or the 76 million other places one could find a boring story like that?

Also, I know they're hard up for advertisers, but running a bunch of ads for a band like "Flipsyde" isn't doing much to help Current's cause. But in some ways, it makes certain kind of unintended sense. "Flipsyde" (with a fucking "y" - what is this, the 80's?) is basically the Current TV of the music industry - a boring and unremarkable pastiche of misunderstood trends and blatant unoriginality. It could be the soundtrack to the entire network.

Also, choosing to format the network with 5 to 7 minute "pods" instead of real full-length shows is one of the most insulting and moronic decisions of them all. Basically, they thought the "younger folks" would be incapable of paying attention to anything longer than a music video, but the result is an entire channel of incoherent, repetitive randomness broken up by commercials for bands that intentionally mis-spell their name to seem cool.

And if all this wasn't bad enough, to add insult to injury, they have that stupid little "progress meter" in the lower left hand corner of the screen to let us know, at all times, how much is left in the segment that we're watching. Let me assure you, Current - knowing when your crap is going to be over with doesn't make your crap any less crappy.

Am I just bitter because I didn't get hired? A little, yeah. But mostly because I'm tired of seeing this much money, opportunity and potential squandered on yet another depressing example of the establishment trying to appeal to youth by pretending to be anti-establishment, then looking like a total fucking baboon in the process. Bravo, guys. I might not get to write for your "revolutionary new form of television", but at least I won't be out of a job in 6 months (tops).

Stranger Than Fiction

--Nothing I write could EVER be this funny. Read the whole thing, and be sure to read the sordid afterparty details in the epilogue. I don't even know what to say. Creed. Punked. Florida kids. Denny's. Cocaine and Klonopin. It's like a recipe for joy. (link via Stereogum)

--If you're in San Francisco, please come to my show tomorrow night at the Purple Onion. Will Franken is one of the funniest human beings you'll ever see, and Sheng Wang is great, too. Show starts at 8pm, costs $15.

--I recorded three more comedy segments for Madden at Live 105. He's done an amazing job editing sound effects into them, and I can't wait to hear the latest three recordings: Whole Foods Suggestions, Movies You Shouldn't Be Quoting and President Bush's plan to fight the tsunamis. I might post one on here once I've gotten the mp3 versions.

--Luckily for all of humanity, I think Stephanie Klein might be procreating. And its twins.

--Yes, along with my friend Merkley???, I am resposible for Horse Hater. Now please stop e-mailing me.

Your Car Alarm Is Pointless

Dear Owner of the Toyota Tercel Outside My Office,

Your car alarm, which has been blaring in my ear for the last fifteen minutes, is utterly pointless. The fact that you have not yet made this infuriating sound cease to exist, or programmed the stupid alarm to turn off after a certain period of time, is making me hate you with an increasing degree of intensity. That you would even bother spending the time and money outfitting your mediocre vehicle with this useless, completely unnecessary noise-contraption tells me that you're an idiot.

First of all, nobody is going to try to steal your boring little shitbox of an automobile. Most of the drug dealers and assorted criminals who purchase their vehicles on the black market have no interest in rolling around town, conducting their business in your stupid Insurance Salesman-mobile. If the alarm was meant to protect whatever valuables were stored inside your car, again, you can rest assured that most thieves are smart enough to understand that there probably isn't going to be a whole lot of valuable shit in a '94 Tercel that Blue Books at around three grand. Even if some crackhead DOES decide to steal your ashtray full of change, your stupid alarm isn't going to stop him, unless it manages to send his hopped-up heart into cardiac arrest.

The only thing your alarm IS going to accomplish is sending me far enough over the edge to walk outside and use an office chair to beat the shit out of your windshield, Sobchack-stizz ("This is what happens when you fuck a stranger in the ass!"), until that infernal bleating ceases to make me wish I were deaf.

Sincerely,

Alex Blagg

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In other, less homocidal news:

--I am performing along with Will Franken and Sheng Wang in the "New Wave of Comedy" series at The Purple Onion this Saturday, August 6th at 8pm.

--Dane Cook's new comedy album recently debuted at #5 in the Billboard charts, the first time a comedian has debuted this high in 26 years, since Steve Martin. But is he a joke thief? (you have to read the whole thread)

--If you haven't already, check out my favorite radio show, "The Sound of Young America".

--My good friend Nick Case is helping produce "Wild Tigers I Have Known", a new film from Sundance Lab writer/director Cam Archer. Executive produced by Gus Van Sant, this should be a really great film, and they start principal photography tomorrow - here's wishing them the best of luck.

--The Spinto Band is playing Bottom of the Hill on Monday, August 15th. Should be a great show.

I'll Drink Starbucks If I Want, You Stupid Hippies

As if the exorbitant rent prices weren't enough, part of the price of living in San Francisco is putting up with an endless stream of hippie bullshit. Even though there are more protests here than there are ATM machines, I'm usually pretty good about blocking out the stupid signs and bullhorned babbling of a bunch of morons with nothing better to do. However, this morning, as I was walking out of Starbucks with my coffee, still bleary-eyed and half-asleep, some dumb anarchist-punk-hippie-activist" yells at me, "KEEP SUCKING THAT CORPORATE COCK!"

Once the desire to sear her face with my hot coffee finally subsided, I laughed at her and moved on, meditating on the mind-shattering stupidity of both her statement and her entire existence. See, San Francisco is full of these sneering, self-righteous assholes who think the fact that they choose to drink shitty coffee from some mom-and-pop place that can only afford to brew a fresh pot every six hours, somehow makes them some kind of anti-corporate hero.

Being anti-Starbucks is the fucking lamest thing I've ever heard of. It's a coffee shop for chrissakes, not a fascist military-industrial complex. Know why there are so many Starbucks, why they're "taking over the world"? Because they serve good fucking coffee and people tend to like things that are good! So you can sit around your favorite "local coffee house" listening to shitty spoken word open mics and plotting your meaningless protests to overthrow capitalism, but I'm still going to be drinking the fuck out of my Venti Sumatra blend long after the entrepreneurially retarded hippies who run your place finally have to close up shop to make way for another glorious green and black Starbucks, motherfuckers. And I will piss all over your stupid javahouse graves (and my pee will smell like sweet, sweet Starbucks coffee).

The fact is, most of the people who protest shit like Starbucks are only doing so because some emo band or Michael Moore or the Rainbow Coalition or whoever told them to. A few weeks ago, a group of "anarchists" marched through my neighborhood, the Mission (which is about as far from fucking gentrification as one can get in SF), protesting "corporate America". Why? Protesting corporate America in the Mission is like protesting Hitler in Jerusalem - pointless and obvious. Then, then brainiac protester-with-nothing-to-protest beat up a cop for no reason, sending him to the hospital with a major head wound, and broke the windows of several LOCAL businesses. And they have the nerve to put up an announcement on the Internet soliciting bail money for the asshole who attacked the cop. I can't believe there's anything I could hate in the world more than cops, but I've found it: hippies. I'll take the entire porky precinct over a bunch of brainless activists any day of the week.

Once her life has turned into the impoverished, directionless wreck it is destined to become, I hope that bitch who yelled at me this morning ends up working at Starbucks, because I would love nothing more than sip a delicious Starbucks coffee while I watch the "corporate cock" plant itself permanently in her stupid mouth, mercifully plugging the endless river of retarded hippie rhetoric she seems so delighted to pollute the world with. And I hope its a Venti.

An Ode to Ye Olde Hipster

Ye Olde Hipster,
Thou art an inspiration.
As the lesser of your peers
long ago abandoned their pursuit of The Cool,
in favor of jobs and families,
you remain relentlessly committed to party,
fearless and unconcerned
with trivialities like mortality
and financial stability.
A champion.

Ye Olde Hipster,
Thou carest not that your mere presence
bumeth out the younger revelers,
your generous beer gut and cigarette-wrinkled jowls
a living warning of their folly's fate,
like a sad ghost of party's future.
Buzzkilling aside, you still fucking rawk.
Your wheezing laughter at your own jokes,
rasping and resplendent.
Awesome, dude.

Ye Olde Hipster,
Your cup of Sparks runeth over,
lubricating your lascivious leering,
at the scantily clad emo girls
who weren't yet borne when you first visited this bar.
They titter and giggle at you from across the room,
which you mistake for flirtation,
but they're amused by how tight your vintage AC/DC shirt is,
your pasty white flab both appalling and enthralling.
Tattoos faded and stretched.

Ye Old Hipster,
Though dost has blacketh out a host of Pabst ago,
Your slurred dementia and pleas of afterpartying,
a delightful amusement for all to behold.
As you loudly brag about having made Vice's "Don'ts" list
that one time you passed out on top of a bag lady,
we enjoy a spirited laugh at your expense,
but you don't seem to mind, thou Hipster of Olden time,
for you have seen much with your bloodshot eyes,
even The Ramones (so you say).

Ye Olde Hipster,
this is but a small ode to your glorious nature.
May your Pabsts stay cold and your Parliaments plentiful,
as you regale the infinite river of eager youth with tales
of an entire live lived jaded, detached and really fucking cool.
Your endurance and longevity engender great respect
in the hearts of all those whom you encounter.
We see your grim reminder that the party always ends,
and we feel a deep empathy and reverence.
But mostly we laugh at you.

Holy Roller Novocaine

I'll be back later with a full post, but in the meantime:

--I was highly dismayed to discover that Beck Hansen dropped in for an impromptu mariachi set at Pancho Villa, the taqueria NEXT DOOR to my apartment, that I usually frequent 2-3 times a week, and I wasn't there! And the sad part is, I almost was, but instead decided to get pupusas at the El Salvadorean place down the street. I still can't believe Beck would be hanging around in the Mission - that's sort of like Britney Spears strolling around in the Mall of America.

--This is one of the funniest things I've recently read, and (sadly) is a pretty accurate satire of the blog malaise I've been experiencing of late. That's so pathetic.

--If you haven't seen Hustle & Flow yet, I can't recommend it enough. Craig Brewer, the writer/director, is not only an amazing talent, but he's a longtime mentor and friend to myself and many other people from the Memphis film community. 'Hustle' is anything but what you'd expect, and I can't tell you how much fun I had at this movie.

--This guy is my favorite artist ever.

--Before I went out of town, I went to see the Kings of Leon/Secret Machines/Shout Out Louds at the Fillmore. I've been a fan of the Kings' music for a couple years, but for whatever reason, never bothered to go see them live until a couple weeks ago. Holy shit, man - these guys are the sweatiest, bloodiest and booziest rock and rollers I've seen in a long time. I was SO impressed with their live show energy. The Shout Out Louds were also amazing, but I wasn't as jazzed about the Secret Machines, who were a little too pscyh-rock for my tastes (and they kept blaring these stupid strobe lights throughout the whole show. I think I might have epilepsy now.)