(posted by josh golden)
36 Mafia was right: It’s hard out here for a pimp. It may be time for a career change. Something a little more stable, a little less spontaneous…
Oh shit, what is this? I just got a message on my face book.
“Join the LAPD, START TRAINING NOW!!”
The LAPD has a questionable past of making poor decisions, but they just broke their losing streak by coming to me. I am going to become a cop, it’s a perfect fit.
But Josh, you don’t have a degree in criminal justice. Being a police officer is not easy; it’s tireless work that requires an iron will and a passion for the community. Nuh-uh. The pictures from the add assure me that the days of bureaucratic red tape, standards of procedure, and strong judgment skills are dead and gone. This is not your grandfathers LAPD. This is fucking extreme!
Look, you get a Lamborghini and a license to kill; you even get a uniform straight from the set of the Fifth Element. I frequently get these damn ads for elite fighting groups and I am just waiting for Backwater to give me a call thanks to my listed interests in Nerf guns and Halo.
If you go around advertising the police force as hella-hardcore and balls-to-the-wall to men whose only real experience with justice is The Punisher, don’t be surprised when this happens.
My name is Josh and this uniform makes my ass look awesome.
Today, Los Angeles, after almost a year and a half without one, I got a car. And not just any car; a white 2003 Ford Taurus – The roomy, family-style sedan all the rappers drive! This is a game-changer!
Faraway places, I can go to them. Impromptu dinners, I can eat them. Surprise appearances by Dave Chappelle at Chuckle Huts in Boontown, I can laugh at them. Ga-ga-ga-game-changer.
But none of that’s important. This is: Wherever you are now, I can get to you. It used to be you could hollar all sorts of BULLSHIT and as long as you were outside a fat man’s walking radius you were safe from recompense. No more, shit-talker. You can get got. That’s right, $$$, I got wheels now. Game-changer!
No lie, the game is changed. Is your booty calling? I’ll answer. Extra sandwich? Be right over! Need a designated driver? Hey, who’s got a number for a taxi? C’mon y’all, some games are unchangeable.
My name is Ben and I drink and blog and drive.
(posted by t.j. peters)
“Hey, whaddya know, it’s The Ten-Thirty Shoooow!!!” So that’s not normally how Eric Moneypenny’s calling card introduction begins, but for the trip to Sketchfest it would have been more accurate. The Midnight Show had hour-and-a-half early performances on Friday and Saturday night during last weekend’s edition of the San Francisco Sketchfest, both of which I was fortunate enough to attend. Unfortunately, since the shows ended at approximately 11:30 PM as opposed to their usual 1:00 AM, I had additional time to do more and remember less in the hours leading up to the next morning. However, I did manage to come away with a few select memories, which I’ll share with you now in this extended, two-night coverage blog entry.
Part One – Tomotel!!!
Think about the Tomo Hotel like this: You know your favorite anime? Well you hate it now. Don’t like anime? Well then you just killed yourself. From the hardwood print carpet to the five foot clearance hanging lamps, every room in this Japantown paradise is like a living version of Katamari Damacy. To help put this in perspective, please take a moment to review the following mural, which was adjacent to my bed.
Why do those police officers have dogs printed on them? Are the dogs also police officers? Wait, are those even police officers? Could they be train conductors? Are the dogs also train conductors? Eh, doesn’t really matter. They live in a city of façade building fronts and are about to be destroyed by a giant robot, anyway.
Even if I didn’t stay up until 5 a.m. or later every night of the trip, I still wouldn’t have gotten any sleep because of that thing.
Part Two – Rubix Club
I will never solve a Rubix Cube and it upsets me. I will never solve a Rubix Cube blindfolded and it’s less upsetting to me. I will never solve a Rubix Cube blindfolded in a crowded, noisy bar and it definitely does not upset me. I will never solve a Rubix Cube blindfolded in a crowded, noisy bar while drinking beer and I wouldn’t expect that Jesus Christ himself could accomplish such a feat.
Notice the inverse relationship between the difficulty of the Rubix Cube scenario and my feelings towards not being able to accomplish it. Now take the inverse of that and look what you get – the two fucking guys I saw who were solving Rubix Cubes blindfolded in the crowded, noisy bar while drinking beer! What?!
I have to hand it to them, though. As far as “showing your true colors” goes, these guys absolutely pave the way (and then twist it on a pivot mechanism until each side is a solid color). I think it might serve people well if we all brought our obscure personal interests to the bar. The knitting needles, ping-pong paddles, and ball gags would help us figure out at a glance who we’re interested in. Personally, I would avoid the Rubix Cube guys, though. Despite the fact that there were two completed Cubes on their table, I never saw either of them complete one. Just like the guy who wears a fake Rolex or a shirt that’s too small to make his muscles look bigger, these two fools only brought the Cubes to scam on some bitches.
Part Three – Honestly, This is Not Funny
In a sketch titled “Philip Seymour Hoffman Calls in Sick for Work”, James Adomian plays the Oscar-winning actor as a pretentious, froggy-throated prima donna, hollering on the phone to his boss (or agent), Gary. At the height of his brilliantly over-acted excuse- which we find out by the end is all a lie- Hoffman screams, “I’m a truth teller, Gary!” in reference to his craft. The irony is perfect and it always gets a laugh out of me, as it did to Friday night’s crowd.
I point out this sketch to use as sort of a scientific control. The subject of the experiment, then, occurred thirty minutes earlier in John Ennis’s monologue. In what I consider to be one of the most earnest moments I’ve ever witnessed, Ennis delivered a seven minute speech about The Midnight Show that was, in a word, truthful. I don’t mean truthful in the sense that I believe his words were factual (though I do), but rather that he meant every word he said. In an annotated version, I’ll paraphrase:
It’s so exciting to work with these guys. I’ve been really lucky to host their show more than once. It’s like getting to play tuba with The Beatles. . . I’m fucking serious! These guys work so hard! They moved into a house together, so when they wake up in the morning they’re surrounded by each other! Isn’t that fucking amazing? . . . And thank you [to the audience] for doing yourself a favor and coming out to see this show because pretty soon, when they’re in the TV shows and movies you love, you’re going to look back and remember coming to The Purple Onion tonight.
Result: Some awkward laughter and lackluster applause as Ennis jubilantly leapt off stage.
Now I understand that the purpose of a monologue is to warm-up the audience and set the tone for the show, but in this instance I could have really cared less. Frankly, it pissed me off that the rest of the crowd couldn’t embrace what they were being given. Ennis riffed honestly. He was an actor shedding away the character and speaking the truth. And so, looking back to the control, here’s the question I’ve been asking myself since Friday night. Why is it funny to watch a character who’s full of shit call himself a truth-teller, but off-putting to a watch someone genuine actually tell the truth? Honestly, I have no idea.
Part Four – Straight Line to Union Square
The plan sounded simple enough. We’d grab a bite to eat, and then meet up with a couple people at Union Square. We’d heard it’s pretty cool there. Little did we know, all the 3G coverage in the world couldn’t save us.
Before I take you along on a recreation of our travels, take a moment to study the map below, tracing our route from “A” to “B” and so on.
The journey began with what I now consider to be a warm up, though at the time it felt like a cross-country trek. We walked seven blocks (which does, in fact, suck when you’re hungover and without your sunglasses) from the Tomo Hotel (“A”) to point “B”. I should have known that things weren’t going to go well when my buddy Hark translated the directions he received as, “the Doughboy on Quay,” when we were headed to The Crepevine, just past Clay Street. Somehow we made it there.
After breakfast, we officially started “moving toward” Union Square. You’ll notice that Union Square can be reached on a straight line from Sutter – the street out hotel was on – and that we blew past it and continued another six blocks to “C”. It was at this point that we actually decided to consult a map. Unfortunately, the one we looked at was not topographical. Had it been, we would have noticed that after continuing to “D” and making a left, the next twelve blocks would be an eighty degree uphill climb.
It didn’t take long for morale to get low. We started shedding travelers at the same rate as our sweaty clothes. (If it makes it sexier for you, please feel free to picture any or all of us completely naked.) The excuses for abandonment started off strong with reasoning such as “I’ve got to fix the DVD before the show,” but eventually devolved to departing statements like, “I’m gonna go pee over here.” I wish I would have been as smart. (Note: Once again, notice that after walking the first six blocks from “D” to “E” we had traveled an approximate total of twenty-seven blocks, yet were only one block away from our hotel.)
This trend continued. The next five blocks from “E” to “F” were at least downhill, so we all had the pleasure of working out a new set of muscles, especially if you (me) were wearing heels. Once at “F”, a brief period of dawdling and toying around with the idea of walking the wrong direction passed before we moved south, taking us another six blocks to “G”.
“G” brought us once again to Sutter Street, six blocks from the Tomo Hotel and eight more yet to Union Square. We had officially traveled about forty-four blocks, roughly three and a half miles, and at no point reached even the halfway point between our hotel and Union Square. So what was the next step?
“Fuck it, let’s go somewhere else.” Which we did. . . in a cab.
Part Five – A Picture is Worth About 2,000 Words
The above photo was taken outside The Purple Onion on the night of the Friday show. If you’re interested in taking a little glimpse at the rest of weekend, check out this photo gallery I put up on Flickr.
Part Six – What’s Behind the Curtain?
I watched The Midnight Show perform on two consecutive nights with different hosts and altered set lists on a small, unfamiliar stage. On night one a large contingent of the crowd was old enough to remember the first time they saw Woody Allen at The Purple Onion. Night two came with a heckler and a pony-tailed douchebag (not me) who thought his off-the-cuff zingers deserved to be part of the show. Regardless of these obstacles, The Midnight Show fucking brought it both nights. Their energy from beginning to end was relentless and it translated not only to the laughs from the audience, but to the ones coming from “backstage.”
I refer to the backstage in quotes because, really, there wasn’t one. Seeing as The Purple Onion is a room built for stand-up, the only place the dozen-or-so member cast could gather was a little alcove that led to the bathrooms. At best, four or five of them could fit back there (six or seven if anyone was on the can), so most of time the cast was spilling out into the back of the main room.
Now I’ve seen TMS plenty of times at this point and I’ve always been able to feel their energy, but this time was different. When the lights went down and the opening began with the blaring punk rock of The Bronx, the audience would have been better served turning their seats around. Like a college football team getting ready to charge out of the tunnel, The Midnight Show jumped, thrashed, and stared each other in the eyes with a confidence that only comes from being truly talented. The only thing missing was a sign for them to tap that read “Perform Like a Champion Today.” And the beauty of it was, the energy didn’t die after the introduction. As members went to and from the stage, it was as if they were passing a torch that carried that energy, and this went on throughout the entirety of their show. By the end, the audience was holding the torch.
The Midnight Show comes ready to work, but they also understand that it takes more than simply showing up to make some noise; they bring heart. It’s this dynamic that sets them apart from other comedy groups. What they’ve created is both professional and sacred. They do it for themselves, they do it for each other, and they do it with a purpose. Because of this, as they grow in strength and popularity, it will only be a matter of time before they are widely known, and people will say about their talent in a plain, almost obvious tone, “Hey, whaddya know, it’s The Midnight Show.”
My name is t.j and I road blogged this.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Book your tickets for The Midnight Show’s monthly performances at UCB-LA by clicking here.
And check out the rest of San Francisco Sketchfest’s schedule by clicking here.
posted by t.j. peters
Economic strain affects us all, but perhaps no one more interestingly than landlords and building owners. Over the last week or so, I’ve been looking for a new place to reside here in L.A. During this time, I’ve noticed a trend—all landlords in the greater L.A. area are either suffering from, or in the developing stages of, a chronic ailment I’m referring to as RENTAL Disorder (Randomly Exhibited Neuroses Triggered [by] Apartment Listings). RENTAL takes on many forms, which include, but are not limited to, the following states of bat-shit-craziness.
The Desperate Landlord – This is probably the saddest, but fortunately the least frightening, form of RENTAL. This landlord typically has an average-sized, semi-attractive 1970s apartment building with anywhere between fifty and seventy percent vacancy. As a result, he’s lowered the rent by $400, waived the security deposit, sacrificed his first born son to the Craigslist gods, and pledged to perform explicit, demeaning sexual acts on the new tenant if so much as a leaky faucet should arise. He’s also a certified electrician.
The Given Up on All Standards Landlord – This strain of RENTAL is more confusing than anything. In this case, the landlord will simply take whatever she can get, much like the lonely pervert whose mantra is “any snatch will do”. Do you have bad credit? Have you been evicted from an apartment for failure to pay rent? Have you been evicted from an apartment for systematically murdering all the other tenants in the building? Do you have just so-so credit and a history of breaking and entering? If so (or not. . . whatever’s cool) then move into this landlord’s place whenever you feel like it, or something. See if she fucking cares. . .
Frantic, Possibly Psychotic Landlord – Long-standing RENTAL has driven this landlord to the brink of insanity. She speaks with the speed of an auctioneer and punctuates her thoughts with brief, non-sequitur asides that often touch on a racial stereotype. Rent’s due after the new moon and not a moment later. No dogs or beasts allowed and I won’t budge a budget on that one. . .Chinese making donuts. . . Fresh paint and new carpet make it mine! Her rent is set five times higher than it should, the security deposit is equal to a down payment on a house, and she’s sprayed in nearly every room to mark her territory. The bottom line: no one is getting this apartment.
For now, I search on in the hope of finding a landlord who has not yet developed this severely debilitating mental disorder. Unfortunately, unless we find a cure, I may become homeless, which oddly enough is another condition that can lead to RENTAL.
My name is t.j. and I blogged this for Ben.
LA, you’re perfect right now. Never motherfucking change. You got these people in your ear telling you they feel you at 90, 95, 100 even. They’re lying. They never loved you, kid. 65, cloudy, slim chance of meatballs: Bitch, you’re perfect. You want to keep these fat Jews happy, never motherfucking change from the way you are right now. Nobody came here for the schvitzing. We’re here to ruin godddamn movies! That’s a cold weather sport!
My favorite band The Fat Jewy Beatles get “it” and they put “it” to music so exquisitely:
If it gets colder, chill in your air,
Everyday from now,
I will still be sending you a valentine
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine.
If it’s under 65 at quarter to three
I won’t close the door,
LA I love you, no place above you
When it’s sixty-four
I’m wearing a jacket inside, y’all. Deal with me!
Also, my friend Scott Davis and his friends with different names are presenting their show SUPER FUN TIME LEARNING ZONE at UCBTLA tonight at 8PM. I got my ticket and I bet there’s one with your name on it too if you just go here and reserve one! I’ve heard good things about the show and I’ve said good things about Scott so if you don’t already have plans and simultaneously enjoy goodness you should probably make a reservation. If you need further prodding, it features this puppet:
And don’t worry, Jeff Dunham won’t be there. Man comedy people hate that guy and his puppets.
My name is Ben and I blogged this.