Found This Photo From "Run Fat Boy Run" Premiere

I meant to post this photo a long time ago because it confirms my story of meeting Jemaine from "Flight of the Conchords as referred to in this post:

The guy with the sleeve rolled up is Jemaine, and the guy standing next to him is the other guy from "Flight of the Conchords," which leads me to believe that they hang out together. When I was in the State, we all hung out together too, but there were eleven of us instead of two like those guys, so it made us a lot more conspicuous. On the other hand, we were often able to get a group rate when we went to the water park. You can probably tell by the expressions that both of them have on their faces how starstruck they were to meet me. (I realize you cannot see the expressions on their faces, but if you look carefully at the picture you can tell that Jemaine at least HAS a face, which proves that he is at least capable of having an expression that says, "I am so starstruck to meet you.") You might be thinking to yourself that I'm the one who was starstruck considering how I'm going on and on about this, and they haven't mentioned me at all in any of the Google Alerts that I received referencing "Flight of the Conchords," "Jemaine," "Other Guy," etc, but you would be wrong to think that. The fact is, I just like to share with all of you stories of the rich and famous people that I meet, and while it's doubtful that these guys are rich, they are at least famous enough to get invited to the movie premiere of a film that grossed almost nine hundred dollars. 

Now I'm In LA

If you’ve ever wondered how amazing it is to be a celebrity, let me answer your question right now – lots of amazing. As evidenced by the fact that only DAYS AGO I was in Minnesota, and now I’m in California. And when I say “in California,” I specifically mean I’m in a DoubleTree Suites Hotel. If you’ve never been to one, let me clue you in: they give you a chocolate chip cookie when you check in. FOR FREE!!! You might think it’s because I’m a celebrity. No. I specifically asked if the cookie was because I am a celebrity. They said no, that they give them to everybody. I said, “Even Mexicans?” They said, “Yes.” Wow. Now that’s a great hotel.

Now, naturally they are going to do some things for me that they aren’t going to do for you. For example, they told me I was going to get a room with a million dollar view. They weren’t kidding. Here’s the view from my window:

You see that down there? Those are official Los Angeles city buses. Not one, but several. In fact, you’re looking at literally MILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF BUSES!!! You can’t imagine how good my cookie tasted while enjoying that view. Los Angeles really is a gorgeous town.

An Old, Never Before Seen State Script

I wrote this for our never-released album. Not that it would matter if it had been released because this was never recorded. And for good reason - it's not that good - but I thought I would post it just for fun.

BUNNY STOMPING

RICK
Good afternoon, sports fans. I'm Rick Walters. Right beside me, as always, is Pat Davis- and Pat, what a beautiful day for bunny stomping.

PAT
It sure is, Rick. We've got a sunny day, good, hard, ground, and of course, plenty of baby bunnies.

RICK
Pat, why don't you explain the rules to bunny stomping?

PAT
Right on, soul brother.  It's pretty straight forward. Guys put on spiked shoes and step on bunnies.

RICK
I understand there have been some rule changes this year.

PAT
That’s right, Rick. Over the past couple years, there’s been a lot of complaining from animal rights organizations regarding what they call the "sheer brutality" of bunny stomping. So this year, in an effort to make the sport a little more evenly-matched, each bunny is being equipped with a semi-automatic assault rilfe, plus three magazines of ammo.

Here's What My Book Cover Looks Like

Is it pretty awesome? I guess so.

On my Way to the U

Here I am at the airport. Today I’m flying to Minnesota for a show at the U, which I’m told is short for “university.” I just had an experience which I feel the need to share because it was so strange that it bears reporting. On my way to the gate, I stopped at one of those concourse shops to get something to eat. Normally I do not like to eat at airports because the food is always terrible. Today I was running late leaving the house, though, and did not have time to make myself anything. So, unless I wanted to wait until I have dinner at Prince’s house tonight in Minneapolis, I figured I had to get something to eat at the airport. (Plus, if you’ve ever been to Prince’s house you know he only serves weird Cuban/Chinese fusion food which leaves me gassy.) So after carefully considering my concourse shop food options, I reluctantly decided to get a Caesar salad wrap on a spinach tortilla. It seemed to be the least offensive of my options. Here’s the surprising part: it was delicious. I have never had an airport sandwich that wasn’t either too dry or too soggy. More to the point, I have never eaten any sandwich wrapped in cellophane that didn’t taste bad. This sandwich, however, was fresh. The lettuce was crisp, the chicken nicely done, the dressing applied responsibly. In short, a terrific, terrific sandwich.

What happened? How did my airport sandwich get so good? Here’s my theory: I arrived at the airport around ten thirty in the morning, which is about half an hour or so before lunch begins. When I got to the concourse shop, I noticed that the sandwich case was fully stocked, which led me to believe that the sandwich delivery had probably just occurred. In fact, it’s possible that I was the very first sandwich customer of the day. Which leads me to believe that it’s not the sandwiches themselves that are terrible at airports, but the fact that they are sitting for hours and hours which turns them terrible. They start out as perfectly lovely sandwiches. Quite possibly, as in my case, delicious sandwiches. It is only the slow, steady march of time which beats them first into mediocrity and then to sludge. And nothing is worse than sandwich sludge.

Time will destroy us all in the end; that’s the lesson I learned today.

(Note: I took the photo before eating my sandwich)

A Small Note Regarding a Previous Post

Because I have the ability to see how people found my site vis a vis a feature that shows what site linked to mine, I often check to see how people are finding me. Normally it's because somebody is interested in me or a project in which I am involved, but once in a while somebody stumbles across my site through Googling peculiar phrases or interests. Today I noticed somebody was Googling this  and was delighted that my web site was the first hit. I love you, Internet.

Shakey's in Youngstown

If you’re wondering about the quality of the salad bar at the Youngstown, Ohio Shakey’s pizza parlor, I would ask you to wait a little while longer while I answer a more pressing question: who was “Shakey?”

Sherwood “Shakey” Johnson was born in 1925. He got his distinctive nickname in the Navy, after suffering a bout of malaria while serving in the Pacific. (No doubt the current Board of Directors would prefer its customers not think about malaria when dining at their restaurants, and a thorough examination of the Shakey’s we visited in Youngstown bore out this hypothesis. Nowhere in their literature or décor is malaria even mentioned. Hepatitis, on the other hand, is definitely hinted at, in a “read between the lines” kind of way.) Sherwood founded the first Shakey’s in 1954, and fifty years later it’s still going “strong.” I have to say “strong” in quotes because anybody who has been to a Shakey’s in the last forty seven of those fifty years knows that the franchise has fallen on some hard times. Some critics would say that it’s because Shakey’s restaurants are “disgusting,” but I think the answer lies deeper in the American psyche. Somewhere along the line, sometime between “I like Ike” and “Swift Boat Veterans for Truth,” Americans seem to have inexplicably lost their love for Dixieland themed pizza parlors. How and why this happened I can not say, but if attendance at Shakey’s the night we went is any indication, the trend may be irreversible.

On Vacation

I'm going on vacation with my family tomorrow. We'll be gone for about a week. Where are we going? Before I answer that question, let me just say it's been kind of a tough year. Sierra Mist is gone, I don't have a TV show on, the standup is going okay, but when you get done with the travel expenses (blow), there's not a lot of money left over. So I feel good that we're able to take a family vacation at all this year.

We're going to Youngstown, Ohio. Why Youngstown? For starters, it's Ohio's eighth largest city. We've been to the top seven, and it's always been a dream of our family's to round out the top eight. Also, there's lots to do in Youngstown, including the Steel Museum and a walking tour of distressed properties. If you like fine cuisine, as the wife and I do, Youngstown boasts several fine establishments. We were anxious to try Rachel's, a local steakhouse, but after reading the following review, I am rethinking that decision:

A diner     from boardman, OH         gave an overall rating of on February 19, 2008
When entering into Rachel's, you are greeted by the most immodest looking child I have ever seen. She carries herself with no class, and thinks the less clothing she wears, the better! I am shocked that this is what the owner wants at his door. The food was extremely overpriced, and my steak was overcooked! The cooks were coming out of the kitchen using fowl language and all my husband and I could hear during dinner was the the rap kitchen music! The owner was rude and the service was terrible! I'd NEVER go back!

Yikes! The overcooked steak I could handle, the immodest looking child I could tolerate, but once you throw in rap kitchen music, consider this camel's back broken.

Anyway, we're staying at the Comfort Inn & Suites. Yes, they have a pool. No, it is not filled at this time of year. The kids are disappointed, so to cheer them up I told them every day that we are there they can each pick ONE item from the vending machine. Cheez-Its and Starbursts may not be the most nutritious lunch, but if there's one precedent I don't want to set while on vacation it's "eating healthy." They get plenty of fruit roll-ups at home; we don't need to be food Nazis while on vacation, too.

Some other attractions: the Southern Park Mall, which has a JC Pennys AND a Sears AND a Dillards!!! Youngstown may be eighth in size, but when it comes to shopping, I think you'll agree with me that it's clearly number one! Also, I''ve heard rumors about a place where you can get discount smokes, so I'll be looking into that. And there's an an art museum (we're going to skip that one).

So it should be a "fun" time. My only concern is how the kids will behave on the bus ride there and back. Guess we'll find out soon enough. See you in a week!

Santa

 

Few things in my life as a parent have given me more guilt than Santa. My children believe in Santa, love Santa, think about Santa even when (like now) it is not the Christmas season. They prefer Santa to God, although in their minds the difference between the two is probably pretty negligible.

Why do they believe so fervently in this mythical, toy-distributing fat man? Because I have deliberately and repeatedly lied to them. I have looked them in their wide, trusting eyes and fed them a line of horseshit about the North Pole, the reindeer, the elves, the whole thing. And they believed me.

Moreover, I have held this lie over their heads as one might hold a sword. “If you’re not good Santa’s not going to come.” I have said these words out loud and with a straight face. “Santa is not going to come.” Which, to a child, is the same as saying, “I am going to leave you in a parking lot.” In other words, threatening them in this manner is essentially the same as threatening them with death. They are unsure whether such a thing is possible. Is it possible that their behavior is actually bad enough that Santa might bypass our house entirely? “Yes,” I assure them, “It is.”

But, of course, Santa does come. Every year at the appointed hour, he shows up with his magic happy bag of toys. Santa is fidelity itself. “Look what Santa brought!” I might say to my daughter as she rips open the doll box that still has the price tag on it bearing the name of the toy store from which I bought it. Santa brings good shit.

Why does this bother me so much? Because parents aren’t supposed to lie to their kids. But I feel peer pressure to perpetuate the Santa conspiracy because to do otherwise would be to potentially spoil Christmas for everybody else’s kids, and that guilt would be worse than the guilt I have from setting up my own kids for the eventual disappointment and betrayal they will feel when they finally come to their senses and realize Mommy and Daddy are not trustworthy, just as those other kids will feel the same about their own parents.

Of course, my mendacity is not limited to Santa. The Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny have all received their due in my house. So has Jesus, although not from me. To a child, the world must appear like a fantastic whirligig of angels, fairies, and countless other supernatural beings all coming and going just out of sight. No wonder children are terrified of the dark. There’s no telling who is going to show up.

Sometimes I Feel Bad Just Being Me

Tonight, for example, I did a show at Iowa State, which is located in the lovely town of Ames, Iowa. Great crowd, lovely manners, but then I found myself standing on stage talking about how it would be so great if we could cum hot fudge sauce and thinking to myself, "What am I doing? These people don't want to hear about ejaculating ice cream toppings. They want to hear illuminating, yet humorous insights into the human condition." 

John Oliver is going to be here on Friday, and he is no doubt going to provide just that, and not, as I did, demonstrate what my asshole looked like after eating at the Taco Palace. I'm a middle-aged man. Shouldn't there come a time in my life when such things are beneath me? Sadly, no. No, I have pantomimed my asshole opening and closing for hundreds of audiences and probably will do again hundreds more times before I finally give it up.

But then I listen to somebody like Jim Gaffigan, who is appealing to all people with his jokes about birthday presents and pancakes. Why can't I be more like him? And by "more like him," I don't mean pale and balding, but rather accessible to broad swaths of the American public. He's figured out how to be funny without talking about any orifices more offensive than the mouth. Good for him. Jim is a friend of mine and I admire him greatly. If I could figure out a way to combine his family-friendly humor with my incredible good looks, I could really have something.