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Does anyone want to see Transformers with me?

The last movie I saw was Evening. I think that explains the title of this blog. The movie is about women wondering about choices (children vs. independence, pads or tampons, those sorts of things). It is told through the memories of a dying old woman who loved a man forty years ago and has not seen him since. These movies, The Notebook is another prime example, are bad because no matter how much you believe the woman you are with is the love of your life and you hope for vice versa, you feel a little uneasy. Like in the back of your mind you fear that there was probably some guy in your lady’s past who fought fires from his private fire yacht, but only when he wasn’t playing professional tennis or buying square blocks of real estate in Manhattan. In other words these movies serve no good purpose. I would like to think there are some ladies out there reminiscing about their lost weekend of love with that awkwardly tall wannabe comedian, but they don’t exist.

My review of Evening is that like the life of the old lady in the movie, the filmmakers did not end it soon enough.

Then I spent a decent amount of the week reading, writing and watching Sex and the City with my girlfriend. This is a show that unlike many men I make no bones about having watched. It was entertaining and usually before or after another good HBO show. However, watching it with your girlfriend in 8 episode bursts is like having a real time critique of yourself as a boyfriend. With four women ranging from socialite prude to mediocre looking professional to glib writer to raging whore, every episode will say something that reminds you of how you fu-ked up somehow at some point.

So now I am watching The Departed to boost my testosterone. But I am writing a blog while watching it, which I guess sort of cancels it out. This week I will be seeing movies with explosions and stuff. Harry Potter, here I come.

because movies are bad right now

Oceans’ 13 – C (we get it you’re cool and we’re dumb for seeing it)

Fantastic Four 2 – D, (awful)

Ratatouille – A- (made me want to go to Europe and talk to animated rats).

As expected so I have nothing really to report on the movie front. In fact though the worst thing I subjected myself to this weekend was a viewing of one of my first stand up performances in DC in October 2003 (my 5th month ever doing comedy). Wow did I like my Arnold Schwarzenegger impression! I thought my girlfriend was going to dump me after we watched it. Sort of like finding out your significant other was a Dungeons and Dragons champion four years ago. But I am much better now and have been getting some interest from some people out in LA (don’t ask – I will have my people call your people).

So after embarrassing myself and, despite having a newly installed TiVo, I decided to exercise my brain a little and get back to reading.

I recently finished The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. It won last year’s Pulitzer for non fiction. You think that would give me enough credibility to read it freely on the bus and train. However, my copy had a big “Oprah’s book club” sticker on it, which opened me up to numerous catcalls of “homo” in those same locations. Fortunately my girlfriend is familiar with Oprah and her damned stickers and removed it for me. It has been a while since I read a really well regarded piece of literature, which reminded me why I don’t generally like “literature.” The book is good enough and at times had me very invested, but for the most part all I could give it was a shrug of the shoulders. Granted, it takes a lot more creativity to make a book like The Road, which is about some nondescript post-apocalypse and the journey a man and his son take looking for anything (food, shelter, meaning, hope – i.e. they are both stand up comics) in the bleak future. I think all John Grisham does is punch in a southern town, a branch of law and one crime into Microsoft’s Grisham 2007 and voila! A new novel is born. However The Road was not as great to me as I’ve heard it is. Then again I may just be uncultured swine.

Now I am reading Barack Obama’s new book. I like where the man is coming from. And that is mostly because he is quickly replacing Adam Sandler as the man I am most often compared to looks wise (in the supermarket 3 days ago a man came up to me and said, “My God you look like Barack Obama. I told him I was and got a $250 campaign contribution). However, my mother was not pleased when I visited yesterday and she saw the book. That is because my Mom has been the president, for the last 15 years of the “Please let Hilary Clinton be president so I can die in peace” club. Now she would vote for a black man for president, as long as that man was a Democrat and not my father. However after me and my brother the people my mother will defend against anything and everything are Bill and Hilary. Sorry Barack, but you won’t be getting Yosemite Anne’s vote until the general election.

I am actually still waiting for Al Gore to run, but if he does not I will be voting for either Hilary, Barack or John Edwards, although I actually like the idea of a Bloomberg independent ticket – sort of like Ross Perot, but with more Jewishness and less crazy.

I don’t know what I will have to report the rest of the week because I am on vacation this week from my day job. Probably just some more reading. Next on my list is “The N Word: who can say it, who shouldn’t and why.” Chapter 1: Half Haitian, Half Irish men who look like Adam Sandler cannot. Chapter 2: Barack Obama can. Hmmmmmmmm.

Translation: steroid abusing murderer

I used to watch wrestling. I enjoyed in college when I would share in Dominos pizza on a Monday night watching people like The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin flex and crack jokes. For a few years I found it entertaining, like a soap opera on steroids. I am not necessarily proud of it, but hey, we all did things we regret in college.

But last night wrestling hit a new low point. Beyond steroid scandals, beyond sexism, beyond glorifying violence, and yes, beyond grown men prancing around in body oil and latex underwear. They gave a tribute to Chris Benoit, a popular wrestler in the WWE.

What’s the problem?

Chris Benoit killed his son, his wife and himself. And he was Canadian.

I am going to go out on a limb, but I think tributes should be reserved for people who:

a) Have done something worthwhile

b) Did not murder their family

I think it is sad when people feel driven to kill themselves. However, that sadness tends to disappear when they take others with them. No one is honoring the Virginia Tech gunman. No one is honoring the Columbine kids. No one is honoring Ann Coulter (sorry wishful thinking).

But then again, those guys couldn’t jump off the top rope.

Not very funny – I just think in a 25 year history of shameful and stupid behavior the WWE has hit an all-time low. Then again, there may be a report that the shooting was all staged and just sports entertainment.

Look tomorrow for my report on the finals of the Bronx DA hoops league. I know you can’t wait.

All streaks must come to an end

Well, after all the hoopla I have finally moved out of my parents’ home. 28 years and 60 days after my birth. I now live with my girlfriend on the upper west side of Manhattan.

There are some drastic implications to my comedy career by this move. Now, jokes about living with my parents go from contemporary classic to timeless classic. And already it has been replaced by a new joke called “the DVD merge.”

So now that I have to pay rent and stuff I would like to make this an extra special plea with reputable agents and managers to sign me. Just don’t tell me you are watching and I should have a good performance.

Nothing much to report today other than that. Now that I am much closer to movie theaters expect a barrage of movie reviews over the next week. (Fantastic Four 2, Ratatouille, Die Hard 4, Oceans 13 and Sicko are all on the list + Evening for the lady).

It took 4 years for me to truly bomb.

Last night was a proud moment for me. I got a big handshake from the doorman at Gotham when I walked in congratulating me. I was about to get my first non-bringer prime time spot on a pro show at Gotham Comedy Club. Admittedly I was a little nervous. Why? I do not really know.

Before the show I was speaking with my girlfriend who asked me if I was getting paid for the spot. I told her no and she asked why the club can do that. A terrific question, but the answer is simple: because I want what the club provides – stage time in front of real audience at a reputable venue. My girlfriend then told me she didn’t get it how I wasn’t getting paid when even clowns get paid for toddler birthday parties. Another great point.

Let’s just say on this night I would barely earn my pay.

The show was very bizarre – there was a filming going on for one of the comics for a new hi-definition cable channel. it was quite annoying because they kept re-filming things and trying to force reactions from the crowd. Then Jon Fisch went up – a Gotham favorite – and did good work. Then it was time for my 8 minute set.

It started well enough with my NBA joke. Then it just started getting shi-ty. I had more “ums” in my routine than an Ed Koch speech and more “yeahs” than Little Jon. Jokes that kill routinely I was fu-king up. The only stuff that actually worked last night was the newer stuff I have been working on. So there is a silver lining – I came away with 2 new minutes of material. But it was heinous. I was embarrassed for the first time in a long time with my comedy. In four years i feel like I have made steady progress, until last night.

The quote in the title is a joke from the funniest person I know who at this point should probably telling jokes while I bring people to her shows. And it is true.

But after four years in the game I have finally realized the key to success in this business: balancing hard work and not giving a fu-k. Going to open mics 5-6 nights a week is draining and I have not been doing it lately – so I have failed the hard work portion of comedy success. The other component I have been too busy worrying about what other people think that I have not looked at comedy as hungrily as I once did. Performing comedy is almost always 100% satisfaction for me. Worrying about what club owner thinks or what manager is watching or what show I’m auditioning for is what stresses me out. Almost all of my best jokes were written without anyone else in mind, but just based on what I thought was funny. I need to get back to that. The problem is when you are 28, working a 9 to 5 and living at home you are one of only a few things:

1) handicapped,

2) extremely lazy or

3) scared to disappoint or anger people.

Whatever the case may be it is time for that change. The directions of my life and comedy have followed similar paths. Now it is time for them both to swing upwards. I do not know which must change first, but they both have to.

The worst part about NYC is that I have not gotten sh-t other than one guest spot in four years from NYC. On the other hand, LA has hooked me up with a comedy central audition and interest from a manager from a reputable agency in the last 8 months. The problem is I am here and they are there. To be continued…

If you remember one word tonight, remember the word “funk.”

Last night I took my girlfriend to see saxophone player (formerly lead sax for James Brown and Prince I believe) Maceo Parker at B.B. King’s in Times Square. I had never been to a jazz/funk concert so I considered it a learning experience. Here is what I learned:

-Jazz/funk is not my favorite kind of music, but I love the style of jazz musicians. Suits while playing music is how I would want to play music.

– There is always one white guy in the band and he almost always plays keyboards.

– I feel like some jazz musicians are like church goers who “talk in tongues.” I know you are “feeling” something, but are all the pained faces and shocked looks at different notes really necessary? The two best examples where one; the way Maceo (who is outstanding) would stare at his microphone after he played a note as if the microphone had stolen something and two; the way the male backup singer, who did not have a hugely active role vocally, would make up for it with a barrage of faces, finger snaps and surprised looks.

-Playing music professionally looks like an awesome experience. That is why since I only tell jokes and can’t sing or play I want to tell jokes professionally. I think it will be a similar experience.

– I saw someone at the show that I know and he told me that comedy must be going well because I was at the show with a fly ass honey. I already knew that before the show, but I asked the guy to take his vocabulary from 1991 and update it.

– Jazz songs typically have 8-10 lyrics total and in the case of Maceo Parker they all revolve around the funk and either having it or feeling it.

It was in fact a great night out so thank you to Maceo and LB.

The creepiest comedy show I have ever done

Last night I did an open mic at the Underground Lounge, a Monday open mic mainstay at 7:30. It went well; some new jokes went over well. Then I had to run because I had been booked at a hostel on 106th Street and Central Park West named Jazz On The Park.

Now there is currently a movie called Hostel II out in theaters right now, which is a series that showcases young tourists in Europe who get sucked into a game where they are tortured and killed for sport. If the hostels look anything like the place I was performing then the victims were given fair warning.

Showtime was 8:30. At the time there were 3 comics and two audience members (both friends of the emcee I believe). The mic was a small microphone plugged into a small two speaker stereo. The room policy was BYOB. In other words: thanks for stopping by, but mostly stay classy (this month’s random Anchorman quote).

At 8:50 pm the other comic left.

At 9:05 pm the show started and one more comic showed up and an Asian man who I believe was an audience member or lost.

The emcee warmed up the crowd with about 8 minutes before bringing me up. By the time that I got up a British man and a couple of women had come down. When my set began we were now at 6 or 7 audience. I began with my first joke about The Price is Right because the microphone was very thin. Halfway through (of a tried and tested joke) I asked “who has heard of The Price Is Right?” Two people raised their hands. Damn you foreigners!

I did pretty well and left just as 4 more audience came down. I exited through the lobby of the hostel, whose clientele resembled that of the Star Wars cantina.

I left, bought myself a Snickers ice cream bar and went to bed. Just happy to be alive after that show. Perhaps that could be the tagline of Hostel III. Or…

Comedians telling jokes to foreigners. But when the hostel is in America, THE JOKE’S ON THEM!

or

Comedians beware: Either kill OR BE KILLED!

or

Do Shows at Jazz on the Park and reduce your chances of living until the next day by 40%

He has already take a vow of chastity and stupidity and does not know it.

Victor M DeLeon III is nine years old. According to the New York Times he has been playing video games “professionally” since he was four years old (although technical rules of pro gaming state that one must be fifteen years old to be truly professional; i.e. until it starts stifling your puberty and social growth as a human being you cannot truly be a professional video game player).

Victor III also has a national corporate sponsor and is known to video game rivals as “L’il Poison.” His endorsement is worth $20,000, not to mention all the prizes he competes for during the year, which are worth thousands of dollars. His favorite game is Halo 2 – a game with extreme violence that is perfect for a boy between the ages of 5 and 9 looking forward to a future of paying for sex and/or shooting up his high school.

One could say that I am a little bitter or annoyed that a 3rd grader who can push buttons on an idiot box has a greater net worth than me. But in this case I read on and realized that video game prodigies, like cheaters rarely win (unless of course they are wealthy, preppy white kids at suburban private schools, but this is not about my high school).

You see, Victor III began playing video games when he was two, by mimicking his father. If you are still shi–ing in a diaper, video games should not be the next stage of your development. But Victor DeLeon Jr. (III’s Dad) began playing games relatively early too. With that life experience Deleon Jr. has passed on to III some valuable lessons:

1) He only plays two hours of video games a day. Which means he probably plays four hours a day.

2) Before every competition Jr. asks III “if he wants to do it?” Nothing like parenting by consent.

3) Jr. has told III that “You can’t jump off a building and come back to life, or reach out and stop a truck.” Things any sober 9 year old should know.

Among the positives are that III has already accumulated enough money to pay for a 4 year private college tuition. That’s nice, but what use is it going to be when he is applying to the University of Phoenix on-line?

And then there’s the genetic factor. Jr says that III passed him in video games skills when III was four years old? If you are 26 years old and your son is not named Mozart, the only things he should be better than you at are peeing his pants and playing spur of the moment games with no rules or sense. But alas, that was not to be Jr.’s fate and he became a “coach” to III. In other words Jr. is living vicariously through his son, who is experiencing life vicariously through video games.

Of course the article flaunts III’s other interests to not make him sound so one dimensional. His other “interests” include Star Wars, fried chicken, music, basketball and his hamster and dog. Not listed among the budding DaVinci’s interests were farts, cooties and cake.

Now I may seem like I am coming down hard on III and I am, but only as a warning to the thousands of kids being reared like III who will not grow up to be 6 figure video game stars named L’il Poison. Read a book (preferably not a strategy guide to the latest Grand Theft Auto). And if your Dad plays video games more than you get a paternity test. Hoping that your Mom was a slut may be the only thing that can save you at this point.

The low point.

So I found out a few weeks ago that Theory (a store that my girlfriend calls her favorite) was having its sample sale. Despite my over willingness to admit when I think a man is good looking, I did not rank high enough on the Kinsey scale to know what a sample sale was. My girlfriend informed me that the sample sale is when Theory unveils its new line of clothing to see what sells better (all at “discounted” prices).

I am sorry, keep reading. I swear I will try to make this funny.

So my girlfriend tells me yesterday that she made off like a bandit at the sale. She got a jacket and two pairs of pants for $319, whereas they would normally be $860. So she thinks that she has saved over $500! That is if you take Theory’s normal price as the objectively correct price and not something more reasonable. But that is fashion for you. I try to keep criminals off the street and tell jokes in my spare time and have the economic fortitude to live with my parents (not for much longer), while some guy can sell size 6 pants (I think that is what my girlfriend wears), made of cotton and stitched together by a child for my weekly salary.

(For the record my girlfriend oscillates between a 0 and a 2 and would be very offended by the size 6 references above – just kidding).

So as part of my new marketing strategy I am now charging $85 for my CD “Racial Chameleon,” but it is on sale on my website for $12. You guys will practically be robbing me if you buy it!

This is where I have fallen to people. Pushing government paper and not getting passed at clubs has led me to become a critic of the economics of women’s fashion. Perhaps if The Sopranos did not suck I could critique it. Or if Knocked Up was as good as everyone claimed I could talk about that. But I am left with discussing Theory.

I lied. This wasn’t funny and I didn’t even try.

In sports leagues the word potential can be a curse. It is often used to label players who look like they can be superstars. However, for some, it can become a curse, alluding to all that the player should have become, but didn’t.

I feel like I am hitting that wall in comedy.

Last night I auditioned for Gotham Comedy Club and didn’t get passed, but was told that I have great potential. I was told that with some fine tuning I could be ready to be on the next season of “Live at Gotham.” I think that is a fine compliment and I will obviously not pass up that opportunity, but I really just want a chance to do comedy without having to bring a slew of friends (a slew that I no longer have) every time I want to perform at a club.

After 4 years (which is not a lot of time in the comedy world, but is a lot of time for someone trying to figure out what to do with his life) I have exhausted my friends (some justifiably, some not) from coming to see me. I have tried to constantly write new material so that friends would not be bored and so I could amass more material. However, clubs are more interested in seeing a perfect 10 minute set than seeing versatility and breadth of writing. I understand that, but it can make for boring shows for your friends if you keep trying to get them to come and pay big covers and buy expensive drinks. Fortunately, beyond my mother and girlfriend and whoever they can bring, I no longer have to really worry about that.

So that said I will be just doing open mics in bars for the next several months, just trying to perfect a set for a Live at Gotham audition. I will also try to get more road work because there’s no pressure to bring people or audition for anything – you just perform and try to make the audience laugh.

I just hope 2-3 years from now I hope to have realized my potential. Or have the courage to say f–k it and do something else with my time.

In other news – photos from my trip to Denver are up on both MySpace and the blog photo section.