It’s that time of the week where we all join hands and sing. Just like the Whos in Whoville. As usual, we’ll do a newer music video and an old one…something that reminds you of the good ol’ days, and something that makes you feel old.

Let’s not proscrastinate…let’s get right to rocking. This first music video, I have to admit, is a guilty pleasure. This was a personal favorite of mine in college, and is still to this day one of my favorite videos to pregame to. Something about a balding man in a peacoat that just makes me want to drink.

I mean, who else can play the drums and sing? And more importantly, who can make singing into their drumsticks look so cool?

Genesis - “Invisible Touch”

Man. One things for certain: Phil makes it fun. I mean, he’s got the first Balding Mullet ever pulled off in rock and roll. And the sense of style of a homeless person. That coat is straight off of a hobo. But he makes it work. Nay, makes it COOL.

And who needs a real drum set, when you could just bang on rubber. (That’s what she said). (more…)

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I usually try to keep my work and PMPcomedy separate, but this was an event worth scribbling about. Not just because it was loaded with celebrities, free booze, and all that red carpet doodycakes, but because it was freakin sweet (coming from a guy that doesn’t really get into the whole “Hollywood” scene)…

Now, people ask me quite frequently, “Do you, like, become jaded by all the celebrities that you see?” Now first of all, I don’t see that many celebrities–at least not many that are worth noting. Secondly, I’m already jaded. And I’d prefer if you stay out of my business. And thirdest, and I’ve said this before–I don’t care much for celebrities. They’re just people, and most of the time, very screwed up, boring people. Plus, I’m probably the worst person in the world with recognizing/naming celebrities. I don’t read Star Magazine or give a shit about whether some stupid B-list actress has stretch marks. Unless it’s from an alien baby. Then I’m there.

But I was lucky enough to go to the Cloverfield Premiere last week, which was the tits. Sweet as buttermilk. We’ve worked very hard on that movie, so it was really cool to see it all come together with all the glitz and glammor and shitz.

Lets start from the red carpet. Now, I’ve been to a couple big parties for TV shows and other stuff Ive worked on, but I’ve never seen anything like this before. It was legit. E! News was there, as well as a few other big camera crews. So there’s a red carpet and lined all around it – and I mean PACKED IN, every square inch around it – was paparazzi, media, and photographers. All screaming at the top of their lungs “Hey!! Lindsay! Look to your left! To your left! Lindsey!! Oh, your beautif—Wait!! Wait! Look–Look to the right!! To the RIGHT!” Now imagine literally 200 people all screaming the same thing at these people. At the same time. All trying to get the perfect shot. It was like waving a banana in front of a cage of rabid monkeys, and hearing them all scream and hurl feces. (more…)

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Everyone knows the standard clichés for bad luck. Black cats crossing in front of you. Breaking the mirror. Walking under a ladder. Everyone knows them. Even if your not superstitious, you try and avoid these things. And come on…everyone knows at least one Mother who had her back broken because some careless idiot stepped on a crack.

So here are a few experiences where the caution flag waved right in my face. Stuff that comes up in everyday life—but slaps you across the face saying “something isn’t right”. Here’s a couple notable ones:

The PooPo Platter

I was eating at a Chinese Buffet with my family—a delicious place, one I’ve been to many times before. And as I’m stuffing some seasame chicken down my throat…I see the flashing of red lights. Faint at first, but then glowing brighter and brighter. And in a minute, an ambulance pulls up silently outside the window. I say to my Parents, “There’s no f****in way. This can’t possibly be real.”

But yes, I watched as the Paramedics slowly, and very quietly, brought in a stretcher—right into the restaurant—and proceeded to put an old woman on the stretcher. Not a word to any customers. All business. All stretcher.

Lets be honest, the last thing you want to see when you’re eating at a Chinese buffet is the vision of impending doom. The clear picture of apocalyptic kung pow, waved right in your face.

It was surreal. While everyone is eating god-knows-what deep-fried cat meat, we are watching someone getting taken away in a stretcher. And it’s worth saying again—man, these Paramedics were quiet. It’s almost as if the owners bribed them unlimited buffet trips if they could keep it on the DL. If it weren’t for the flashing red lights blinking through the window, you would have never heard them tip-toeing around. And never seen an old Asian lady being loaded into an ambulance.

But I did see it. I saw her clinging for life—desperately trying to hold on—while a piece of low mein was desperately clinging onto her shirt. And the whole time, I’m thinking to myself, “What the hell did that lady eat?!!”

And praying to the big man above that it wasn’t the sesame chicken.

The Airplane Talker

So I was taking a red eye flight back home (more…)

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You’re wondering what delicious treats I have in store for you ears today. Well, they will be deliciously rewarded with a “Pixie Stix”-style candy today. It will be a tad bitter sweet, and I warn you, it’s possible you may start crying from your ears. But they will be tears of joy. Sweet, delicious candy tears.

Now, if anyone doesn’t understand what I just wrote above…well, I don’t either. So back off. But what I do know for certain is that I have some tasty-ass ear candy for you.

As usual, we’ll do the something old, something new routine…and I’ll throw in a little bonus after we have our fun. Since I’m such a fine connoisseur of 90s rock, we’ll start with that first.

Now, here’s a guarantee: When you hear this song, you will say “Damn, I remember that song” and you will f*cking love it. Then, you’ll wonder why you haven’t heard it in about 15 years. Why? A little guy named The Man.

Goldfinger - “Here in Your Bedroom”

That was fun. I hope it’s still cool to bleach your hair, because I just poured a bunch of bleach onto my hair during the chorus.

Onto something new… My favorite CD of the month, Death Cab for Cutie’s “Plans”. (more…)

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This entry comes from a buddy of mine in Maine, who wrote me this email early one morning. He’s a construction manager–a good job, but one that lacks many of the amenities we all take for granted.

Now…I live in California, so sometimes I forget how cold it gets in certain places. Let this serve as horrifying reminder. It’s cold in Maine.

“Basically, I always try to shit at home before i get to work because i hate shitting in port-a-potties. I dunno, there’s just something about sitting in a 5×5 plastic coffin that turns me off. Maybe the names have something to do with it–“Port-o-John” or “Shitter For Hire”—they’re just not inviting. Well, that…plus the herpes and urine that covers the walls…

As you can imagine, I drank one or two beers last night and despite my best effort to shit my brains out at home, apparently i was not running on empty yet. And let me tell you, I pushed like a 9 month pregnant woman to get that turd loose. But it wasn’t coming out, and a C-section wasn’t an available option.

So I go into work. Of course, as soon as I get there, I had to shit. Its like 3 degrees here to by the way. (more…)

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If you’ve never been down to New Orleans (or “N’Arlins” as it pronounced), especially down to the French Quarter which holds Burboun Street, then you truly haven’t lived. And by “haven’t lived”, I mean—you haven’t seen the streets overflow with a beautiful mix of booze, pee, trash, and throw up–only to be trounced upon by a horde of drunk people so thick, you can barely move.

The police need horses to get around, and even they shed a naughty smile at the flashing of flesh. Beads are as good as currency. There are no open container laws, no real closing times for bars, and certainly no carding IDs at the door. I mean, the place is like Outback Steak House—No rules. (And their Bloomin Onion is off the charts!)

And I must say, I was a tad skeptical of how crowded Bourbon Street would be post-Katrina, but I was pleasantly surprised to see it chaotically full. Fuller than I honestly ever imagined. People hanging like monkeys from every railing, and freaks of all sorts out to enjoy the fresh, tainted air.

So here are some highlights:

- We were walking on Bourbon Street, beads around are neck. And there’s a crowd around some rather attractive ladies—which means one thing—they are trading visions of their funbags for some beads. We, of course, go to see. And do.

And upon turning around, we slam right into this drunk older woman, an ugly late 40s, and of course yell “Show us your tits!” (that’s the anthem of the street). We weren’t serious…but she was. And she lifted up her shirt and held it there. It was a sight for saggy eyes. And as I tried to shove beads at her to get her to put her shirt back down, she pushed the beads away and scalded me:

“I’m just a French Quarter girl in a French Quarter world” . She would take no payment–as the horror on my face was apparently payment enough.

And after she said this, she released the shirt (thank god) and started to walk away. Now, she clearly didn’t care, but her right tit was still just hanging out of the sweater. Just bobbing out of her shirt. Walking down Burboun Street, one boob fully out and swaying. People scattered at the sight, babies started to cry in distant houses. One of the police horses fearfully shit at the site, and galloped off.

- I’m told that there is “topless bullriding” by the Duke. When I get there, all I see is drunk Southern frat boys hootin’ and hollarin’. No topless anything. Just drunk dudes yellin, “’Ey! Skeeter! Ride that bull like granpappy taught ya!” So I step up, and ride the bull. And I think I got a concussion on my second go. (more…)

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I never really get days off from work. My job isn’t one of those 9-5, three weeks vacation-type jobs that all you fatcats enjoy. You topfeeders know what I’m talking about–exhuberant trips with you caviar buffets and rainbow parties. High class call girls, chess, and champagne. But me… I basically get time off for holidays, and that’s it. So that’s why I had this brilliant idea over my holiday vacation…

I’m going down to New Orleans!!! The Big Easy. Bourbon Street. Jazz Junction. Titties in my face. You know, the good stuff. And what better time than New Years??!! It’s gonna be rowdy—fun, crazy, drunk—all that debauchery you see in movies, only realer. Tities actually IN my face. Hitting it. Brushing up against it. Whispering in my ear “Hello. Can you feel me?”

And best of all, my best friend from growing up lives down there now. I love this kid. His name is Adam (aka “Ad Dukes” aka “The Duke of Earl” aka “Balls over Baghdad”). And what’s better than free lodging and good times with the MF Dukes?

So I book the trip, and head there on Dec. 30th. Down to New Orleans to stay with the Duke. I am so pumped. I mean, I haven’t gone on a trip in like a year and a half. This was it. He had booked a balcony on Bourbon Street with an open bar for New Years Eve. So pumped.

Now I must note here, that my friend Dukes is a notorious party-pooper. Well, let me correct that–HE’S not so much a party-pooper, but he brings this curse of party-pooperness with him. When you go on a trip with him, you expect something very critical to go wrong. Something that ruins everyone’s time. This has been going on since high school. So much that we deemed a term for it long ago: “Adam Weekend”. (note: its pronounced “Aaaaaaddam Weeeekend” with a very depressed, drawn-out delivery. Usually while shaking your head)

Now, you must be thinking to yourself, “Come on. Cut the Duke some slack!!” Sure. But a few quick examples should set your mind in the right mood. We went on a ski trip with him—He had rented a HUGE condo ON the mountain! There was like 15 of us going, a real great group….and we get there, and they had no records of him renting the condo. Or anything. There was no place for us to stay. So we crammed in a 2-bedroom—all 15 of us.

Or in college…I had (more…)

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