Day Bloggin'

Hey there, 'Redheads... I'm getting my requisite blogging out of the way early, because I have a jam packed evening ahead of me, and even if I do make it back to my computer before midnight, anything I try to type will be rushed and slapdash. Much like that last sentence. That one ran on a bit. Anyway, better to rush it now, during the moments that make up a dull day at work. Once I'm done here, I have to return my rental Chevy Cobalt and pick up my (in my best Rod Roddy) BRAND NEW CAR! A 2011 Jeep Patriot. I've named it Pat. Pat Riot. It'll be nice to drive a proper vehicle again. I'm not a big guy, but I needed a shoe horn to get in and out of the Cobalt. On a less exciting note, I also get a BRAND NEW CAR PAYMENT! Blech.

Once I get home, I have to delouse and put on my spiffy duds for the first of six shows at the DC Improv this weekend with Judah Friedlander. Have I mentioned that? Because if I haven't, I should also mention that tickets are going fast and you can get yours at DCImprov.com.

I'll leave you with one of the more morbidly hilarious things I've seen today. Enjoy...

See you Friday.

A Late Wednesday Blog

Hey there, 'Redheads... It's 11:15pm on Wednesday, and I have a few things to share with you. First and foremost, if you haven't yet gotten your tickets to see me at the DC Improv, tomorrow through Sunday, with Judah Friedlander, time is running out. The 8pm show on Friday and both shows on Saturday are SOLD OUT. Once he starts doing his local promotional blitz on morning radio, whatever's left is going to go quick. So, go to DCImprov.com to get your tickets and I'll wait here for you to get back.

Got 'em? Good.

They say you learn something new every day. Today I learned that DaVinci invented scissors. Shortly thereafter, his mother coined the phrase, "You'll putta your eye out!" I'm betting the invention of band-aids came right after that. If necessity is the mother of invention, then bleeding is it's second cousin.

Since my truck got all smashy a couple weeks ago, I've seen a couple big wrecks on the road that I've missed being a part of by about thirty seconds. I saw a five car wreck on 295 yesterday that was caused by a couch in the road. The couch got the worst of it. Completely undriveable. What it was doing in the road is beyond me. Maybe the guy who owned misunderstood what a convertible couch is.

See you Thursday.

Leggo my Ego

Hey there, 'Redheads... I'm not sure if you're aware of it, but I love me some me. Probably explains why I bother to shout my random thoughts into the ether from my little cyber-soapbox. It's the delusion of self-importance that keeps me (and most people) chugging along. If this blog falls in the forest, and no one bothers to read it, blah blah blah. Anyway, with all of the crap that's going on in the world, the trivialities in my world seem all the more trivial. Well, as it turns out, vanity and charity found a way to cross paths.

After the disaster in Japan, several artists have been donating their talents to raise money for Japan relief. One of my favorites, caricaturist Kari Fry, auctioned off a limited number of custom caricatures for a $20 donation to the Red Cross. Another picture of me? I jumped at it. I sent her a couple reference photos, so she could see the cut of my jib, and I told her a little bit about me. Here's what she came up with... I'm helping a chicken cross the road. I think it came out great. And it was for a good cause, so I can feel good about myself for two reasons.

See you Wednesday.

Wright and Wrong

Hey there, 'Redheads... Sorry about the lack of blog on Friday. I'm here to make good on my IOU, as I had a weekend chock full of random goodness. It turns out I was already a winner. On Friday night I got a call from an unknown number that I usually wouldn't have answered, but I've been in contact with various insurance agents because of my car, so I picked up. The fellow on the other end informed me that I had won a big prize in a contest that I don't remember entering. I was eligible to win a car or a TV or a large sum of money. All I had to do was go somewhere and listen to a brief presentation before I could claim my fabulous prize. When he asked to confirm my date of birth I said, "Yesterday." Then I hung up. On Saturday, my gal and I met up with friends Chris, Joe, and Allyson for a day of adventure. Usually, any adventure with Chris includes some kind of learning and this one was no different as we traveled to the Pope Leighy House, built by famous architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. We were led on a tour through and around the house by soon-to-be-famous tour guide, Fairfield. He was so happy to have people in his group that weren't dead eyed tweens that he gave us an extra long but very interesting look at the subtle details of the house.Here are some fun facts that I learned: 1) Frank Lloyd Wright was so rigid and dictatorial in his designs that he would force clients to use only the furniture that he provided. He would often visit months after the fact and rearrange to house as he saw fit... "I took the liberty of removing your curtains and stacking your children while you were asleep." 2) His son invented Lincoln Logs. 3) I'm thinking of changing my name to Fairfield. From there, it was a quick drive down the road to check out a giant watering can. You heard me.We also spotted something you might find in Stephen King's garden. After that, we swung on over to Silver Spring to batten down our collective hatches at Piratz Tavern. That's right, a pirate themed bar. Like Applebee's with scurvy. We got ourselves a pitcher of grog and drank in the one-eyed atmosphere.For those of you wondering what exactly grog is, it's spiced rum served in large quantities. Speaking of which, remove the "quan" and that describes the corseted waitresses. Huge tracts of land.

See you Tuesday.

IOU One Blog

Hey there, 'Redheads... Happy Friday to you and yours. The sun was shining just a little bit brighter today because Duke got trounced by Arizona and bounced from the NCAA tourney. Just so you know, this one is to keep the streak alive and to let you know that I'll have a super-size installment, full of weekend hijinks, on Monday. I just got home from a fun gig up in Columbia. Big thanks to David Shofer and the gang up at Sonoma's for having me on their one year anniversary comedy show.

I will use this spot for a shameless plug. Tickets are going fast for next weekend's slate of shows at the DC Improv with Judah Friedlander from 30 Rock. I'll be featuring and Laura Prangley will be hosting. Six shows, Thursday through Sunday. So, stop your grinnin' and drop your linen because the Saturday early show is already sold out and the rest are soon to follow. Go to DCImprov.com for tix and info.

See you Monday. I'm going to bed.

See you Monday

In the Cards

Hey there, 'Redheads... It's a slow news day here in the tiny pocket of cyberspace that this blog occupies. I'm happy to report that I've finally gotten new business cards. Previously, I had none of your goddamn business cards, but those weren't the best networking tool. I like these new ones. It will set me apart from roughly half of the cheap comedian crowd, who all have the same showbiz card design from VistaPrint.com, with the old school microphone and the flowing red curtain. The design is sharp, clean, and professional looking, which means I don't have to try to be any of those things. The card will represent me in fishbowls and garbage cans all over DC. I actually always wanted to have business cards like Clooney had in Ocean's 11. Just had "Danny Ocean" written on them. He was so cool, that was all the information you needed. I'm not quite there yet. Hopefully, these'll help drum up some business. If you print them, they will come. Or something.

Y'know who's going to need new business cards? The putz who nodded off in the air traffic control tower at Reagan the other night. That's the last time they have Wear Your Snuggie to Work Day. I can just imagine what went on in the planes that had to land while this guy was drooling into the crook of his arm. "This is your captain speaking. We're about to begin our descent into Reagan National Airport. Please fasten your seat belts. And if those of you with a window seat could take a look outside and let me know if you see anything get too close, that'd be a big help." I'm shocked the cabin didn't depressurize from every passenger's butt simultaneously puckering. They better have waived the checked bag fee or given them a voucher for a stiff drink once they got on the ground. To make sure this doesn't happen again, they've put an extra guy on duty in the tower for the midnight to 5 am shift. The second guy is there to poke the first guy. Fool proof.

See you Friday.

Liz, We Hardly Knew Ye

Hey there, 'Redheads... I'm getting to this installment a little late tonight, just under the wire for it to count as a Wednesday blog. I need to keep my arbitrary streak chugging along. I'll be brief. Just a couple quick thoughts about the news of the passing of Elizabeth Taylor. In a time when celebrity actually meant something, she was one of the brightest stars. Today, celebrity is so devalued it might as well be on the first shelf of a skee ball prize counter. In her later years, she became more of a tabloid caricature of herself, hanging out with Michael Jackson, and marrying enough times to qualify as a serial monogamist. Her career highlights included two Oscars and she was the voice of Maggie Simpson when she spoke her first words. I was looking at her IMDB credits. She apparently also supplied a voice for an episode of Captain Planet and the Planeteers. That's range, people.

I was shocked that she went before Zsa Zsa Gabor. Zsa Zsa outliving Elizabeth Taylor is like Morehead State beating Louisville. Here's a fun fact: We all know that some celebrity obits are written in advance. Well, the guy who wrote Elizabeth Taylor's obituary died six years ago. There's going to be a new wave of beloved celebrity death as time creeps on. People like Betty White, Hugh Hefner, and John Cleese. Speaking of which, a happy belated 80th birthday to William Shatner. Surely the best of times. All I'm saying is cherish them while they're still here.

See you Thursday.

Tuesday Random Crap

Hey there, 'Redheads... We've made it to Tuesday. I've been pretty quiet about the world falling to pieces around us over the last couple of weeks, mostly because I'm not terribly well informed and I've been too preoccupied to make stuff up. But the Tsunami Roll I got from Harris Teeter tonight got me thinking about the disaster in Japan and the pineapple I ate got me thinking about the situation in Libya. Gadhafi's going to be really pissed when he finds out the bombs he bought are made out of pinball machine parts. To be fair, if I were him, I'd be ticked off too. Have you seen pictures of him? His face looks like a paper mache art project I made in 5th grade art class...Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka and Edward James Olmos look at him and say, "There but for the grace of God go I." All I'm saying is, I can understand why he might be on a short fuse. Now, the US is leading the charge into yet another middle eastern country to take down another evil doer. Don't we employ a team of ninjas or SEALs or the A-Team or G.I. Joe or the goddamn Wonder Twins for stuff like this? There's gotta be an app for that. It'll probably cost millions of dollars to uproot this guy with a standard military operation. Put one million on the table and offer it up to the first assassin who can do a halfway decent Chuck Norris impression and it'll save time, lives, and money. No disintegrations. Better yet, why not send a robot? Like Blinky...

The moral of the story: Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball.

See you Wednesday.

Tardy to the Mardi

Hey there, 'Redheads... I was planning to finally conclude my three part travelogue of my trip to drunken fever dream that was Mardi Gras, but as we get further removed from it, it's becoming clear as the ice in my bottomless glass of whiskey and ginger ale that my memories of the trip might as well have been transcribed on an Etch-A-Sketch by Michael J. Fox. Sure, I've got pictures to help piece things together, but none of them are of anything you guys really want to hear about. Plenty of shots of the parade on Fat Tuesday.

The pageantry...

The floats...The people who were mistaken for floats...I was perched on our hotel balcony to watch as people flooded down Bourbon Street. Right below was where the religious outreach folks set up shop to shout the good word through a megaphone at the stumbling revelry. They meant well, but this wasn't the most receptive audience, which is kind of ironic since the whole party serves a religious purpose. Some people consider seeing boobs in exchange for plastic beads a miracle. Anyway, this was the scene on Bourbon Street at 2pm on Fat Tuesday...When night fell, we set up shop on another part of the balcony to do some bead tossing. It's harder than it looks. Once you find a decent target, you've got to take things like distance, angle, and wind into consideration. And most of them weren't paying attention, so you had to hit a moving target. I could've used a bead caddy. It turned into a game of, well, whoreshoes. More often than not, some drunk musclehead would snatch the beads anyway. The most fun was being had by the guy next to us, who was teasing the women below with a giant interwoven strand of beads. He kept shouting down to them, "These are bunghole beads! Show me your bunghole!" The best part was watching women actually think about it. Kudos, sir.

And by the way, I've been seeing some corny ads for Applebee's running during the NCAA tournament for their new entrees with the "taste of Bourbon Street." So, if you want your steak to taste like flop sweat and regret, bon appetit.

See you Tuesday.

Buzzer Beaten

Hey there, 'Redheads... It's 75 and sunny outside and I'm 35 and unkempt inside, smacking the 57 on the side of the ketchup bottle that is my brain, hoping that something worth a quick blog will slowly ooze out. Then you can dip your eyes in it. The things I do for you.

Even if I wasn't furiously typing, I'd be inside anyway, balanced precariously on the edge of my seat, watching the NCAA tourney on four separate channels and my girlfriend's iPad. Some great ones just finished up, including the nail biter between George Mason and Villanova, which was made all the more dramatic by the play-by-play of Gus Johnson. That man can make CSPAN sound exciting. But even he can get too caught up in the excitement. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure he screams, "EXPLANATION POINT!" as George Mason finishes off Villanova. What say you?

That was one of the few games played today that I actually got right. I'd like to encourage all of you to text 9099 to help me recover from my devastated brackets. Paul the Octopus could've made better picks than me and he went to the big plate of calamari in the sky six months ago. I'm glad, though. Now the pressure is off and I can enjoy the tournament without obsessively checking to see if I got a game right. I can just assume I was wrong and enjoy my beer.

See you Monday.

Blarney and Friends

Hey there, 'Redheads... Happy St. Patrick's Day to one and all. The day we commemorate St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland by drinking enough Guinness to float an aircraft carrier. Mine hasn't been all that happy. I found out today that my vehicle was totaled in the accident I had on Wednesday. It's all kinds of smashy. I'm conflicted about it. On the one hand, I'm getting a new car. On the other hand, I'm getting a giant headache dealing with the insurance and all of the other crap. We've been through alot together, the Liberty and I. Countless comedy road trips, through all sorts of weather, it was a trusty steed. It only ever left me stranded twice, and both times it was stolen, it faithfully returned to me. Over 163,000 miles of loyal service. Liberty, I hardly knew ye...

Well, that was somber. Let's lighten the mood with a St. Patty's Day favorite...

I've said it before and I'll say it again, if that doesn't make you smile, you're not human.

So far, through the bulk of today's NCAA tournament play, my brackets have remained largely unscathed. I picked the Richmond upset and I was on the right side of the hotly contested Butler/Old Dominion tilt. The one giant pockmark came when Louisville, a team I picked to advance to the Elite 8, crapped in their hat and got beat by Morehead State. The only comfort I take in that is that only two people picked Morehead State to win, Tiger Woods and Charlie Sheen. They are alumni, right? By the way, I caught some of the coverage online today at work, Leslie Visser looks like the Crypt Keeper in a pink sweater. She is not meant to be within a thousand paces of an HD lens.

See you Friday.

Slim Pickins

Hey there, 'Redheads... And welcome to everyone who found their way here via DCBlogs.com. Stay awhile. Make yourself at home. Here you'll find mild amusement for your momentary distraction. Give your eyes a snack. While you're here, why not click on over to my fan page on Facebook or enjoy some of the fine comedic video sketches linked conveniently on the right.

For those of you expecting the third installment in my Mardi Gras travelogue, I'm putting that off for a day for two reasons. First, I was in a car accident this morning, involving a utility pole, so I'm not exactly in the right headspace to reminisce about strip clubs. Second, it's TOURNEY TIME, and I want to get my horrendous picks on record before the games tip off tomorrow afternoon. I'll get back to Mardi-blogging tomorrow, as my brackets crash down around me. Let's get to pickin'...

In the East Region, I'm pretty much going chalk. I've got the 1-4 seeds making it to the Sweet 16. However, I have UNC beating Ohio State to make it to the Final Four. With my luck, Washington will take out UNC in the 2nd round and my ACC/Big East bias will be my undoing once again (I'm looking at you, Georgetown).

In the West Region, I start to upset the apple cart a little. I've got Oakland barging their way into the Sweet 16, only to have their plucky little hearts carved out by Duke. But the Cobra Kai of college basketball gets theirs when San Diego State beats them to get into the Final Four.

In the Southeast Region, I'll take Richmond over Vandy, Florida State over Texas A & M, and the winner of the play-in game over Georgetown as early upsets. All of those mean nothing in the long run, since I have the top four seeds making it to the Sweet 16. Then I've got Louisville taking out Kansas, then getting beat by Notre Dame for the spot in the Final Four. If you're keeping score at home, that three #2 seeds so far.

The Southwest Region is a free-for-all. Let's just put it out there. I've got Kansas State vs. Michigan State as my Elite 8 match-up in this region. That's a #5 seed against a #10 seed. Kansas State wins which completes my Final Four.

UNC takes out San Diego State and Kansas State beats Notre Dame, then the Tar Heels win the whole shebang. Ok, you see what I did there? Don't do that.

See you Thursday.

Mardi Blog: Part(y) Two

Hey there, 'Redheads... Happy Ides of March to you and yours. Today is a good day to eat a caesar salad with a knife while wearing a toga. Actually, come to think of it, that's fun on most days. Welcome back to my multi-part recollection of my trip to Mardi Gras. Part One was mostly about the initial shock and awe. Part Two is going to focus on the eating. Sure, we drank alot too, but some of the time it was washing down some pretty great food.

When you're in New Orleans, you're required by law to have beignets at Cafe Du Monde. If you've never had the pleasure, a beignet is a square piece of dough, fried and covered with powdered sugar. Aside from coffee, it's the only thing they serve there. There was a line around the block. Make that two lines, one to sit and one to go. Lucky for us, we didn't have to wait with the riffraff because my buddy Nick greased the palm of one of the busboys to get us a table. It's nice to be important. It's important to be nice. Anyway, we sat down and got a round of bennies.

So much powdered sugar, it looked like breakfast at Charlie Sheen's house. They've got themselves a surefire recipe. I'm fairly sure if you fried my shoe and dumped powdered sugar on it, it'd be pretty tasty. Chewier, sure, but tasty. Fuck Wheaties, I want my face on a box of these heavenly morsels. It was a solid foundation on which to pour a bucket of alcohol.

One place that came highly recommended for "the best fried chicken you'll ever have" was Willie Mae's Scotch House. We were able to confirm with the locals that it's the place to go for fried chicken, so how could we not? We found out that it was located outside the confines of the French Quarter. Maybe a mile or so away from the bustle of Bourbon Street. It was a sunny day, so the four of us decided to hoof it. As you may or may not know, it's taken New Orleans some time to rebound from Katrina back in 2005. The French Quarter has done fairly well, but there are other parts, like the one we walked through, that make Detroit look like Beverly Hills. I would've taken some pictures, but I wasn't keen on flashing any high dollar items while we walked at an increasingly hurried pace toward Willie Mae's. No wonder the chicken tastes so good. The meal is life affirming. When we got there around noon, there was a line to get in, since it's only open from 11-3 and it's a pretty small place.We watched as several cabs dropped off groups of people much smarter than we were. After waiting for about a half hour, we got seated. It was a wonder why there was anything besides fried chicken on the menu, because that's what everyone was getting. We later found out that they ran out of chicken shortly after we left. As far as their claim to having the best fried chicken? Well, the Colonel should be dishonorably discharged. It was delicious.The breading was flaky and light and the breast was so good, I was tempted to throw beads at it. As my buddy Evan put it, "a meal worth almost dying for." We decided to call a cab to ferry us back to the relative safety of the mob. When we told our cabbie that we had walked to the restaurant his reaction was, "So, were there five of you originally?"

The best meal we had in New Orleans was at a restaurant called Nola. It's one of Emeril Lagasse's. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you go to New Orleans, GO TO NOLA. It's one of the five best meals I've ever had, and I'm not just saying that because I was hammered at the time. I had the Grilled Pork Chop with Brown Sugar Glazed Sweet Potatoes, Toasted Pecans and Caramelized Onion Reduction Sauce. The sweet potatoes were like candy, the chop was tender, and the sauce was heavenly. Our only regret was that we went there with two days left on the trip. Aside from the aforementioned fried chicken, nothing else came close.

To be concluded...

Mardi Blog: Part(y) One

Hey there, 'Redheads... Did everyone fill out their brackets today? It's your responsibility as an American. Vote or die. Today's the day when nationwide productivity plummets while we sift through more seeds than a stoner looking for one last toke. It doesn't matter if you haven't watched a college basketball game all season. My girlfriend just picked Old Dominion because she likes the root beer. Let's not get sidetracked, though. We'll get back to remedial bracketology tomorrow. After a week long hiatus, I'm back to chisel through the writer's block and provide you with as much as I can recall of my jaunt to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. I was going to attempt to do this on Friday, but my body needed the extra recovery time to shake the gristle from my fried synapses, which were marinated in whiskey and Hurricanes for three days. Sure, it sounds delicious (if Paula Deen was a zombie), but it was a recipe for one exhausted Jew. Let's see if I can focus and give you a glimpse of what went down.

I landed at Louis Armstrong International Airport at roughly midnight and piled into a cab with five strangers who were all headed to the French Quarter. Our cabbie was an older gentleman who seemed to have already had his fill of the uppity hipsters and douchebag frat boys who were in his city to cause a ruckus. With the party raging on the main drag of Canal St, he dropped us off as close has he could to our respective hotels. Luckily, mine was a quick two blocks to the corner of Canal and Bourbon. I met my buddies, Nick and Gary, at the room, dropped off my stuff, and we decided to wade into the sea of drunken humanity that was Bourbon St.My first impression? Filth. On every level. Garbage strewn in the street, piles of discarded beads, and, since it had rained for two days, everything was slippery. I had to cuff my pant legs so that I wouldn't have to burn them later. And then there's the people. Maybe the A talent was getting in on a later flight, but it was just a Fantasia broomstick army of people who walked off the sets of Maury and The Jerry Springer Show. A parade of stumbling ugly. I was able to document my initial reaction to the shit show...I'm not one to nitpick about physical beauty, I'm a nebbishy tub of goo, but holy crap. And without fail, if we spotted a woman who was remotely attractive, she was tethered to a grotesque fat guy that made Jabba the Hutt look like George Clooney. The soundtrack of Mardi Gras was a persistent woooing. So much woooing, it was like someone shoved a police siren down Ric Flair's throat. The only thing that cut through the wooo was the rhythmic chant of "show your tits!" These particular tits were not the kind that should be encouraged or, unfortunately, needed encouragement. All it took was some particularly shiny boob wampum for some of these girls to release the hounds. It's an odd double standard that exists on the lawless streets of New Orleans. Drunk guys want to see boobs and drunk girls have boobs to offer, but these aren't the boobs you're looking for. The boobs you want are the professional drivers on a closed course, the ones you get are Toonces the Cat crashing through the guard rail. Anyway, we gawked as the drunken current carried us down Bourbon St, then we went back to the hotel around 2am to recharge for whatever debauchery lay ahead.

To be continued...

Streaky

Hey there, 'Redheads... So, this is the last blog of my two and change month long weekday streak. Roughly 45 entries which, in previous years, has been my usual annual output. So, has this enriched the blog experience for you, the loyal reader? I don't mean that generally, I'm speaking to my one loyal reader. I hope I've been able to keep things remotely interesting and mildly amusing. With the national attention deficit being at an all time high, I'm thankful for whatever time your eyes dart over here.

I plan to pick up where I left off and provide you with a travelogue of my jaunt down to Mardi Gras. There will be tasteful pictures and as clear a recollection as my fried synapses can manage. Keep in mind, not only is this for Mardi Gras, but also for a friend's bachelor party, so some photos and stories may be redacted so that there'll still be a wedding. I still haven't packed yet, but I plan to travel light. I'm going to leave behind my dignity and self respect. I've had several things recommended to me for my trip. I've got to eat fried chicken at Willie Mae's Scotch House, take in some jazz at Preservation Hall, and drink several beverages named for things that destroy other things. My checklist runneth over. If there's anything else I'm missing, please to leave it in the comments section.

See you when I get back...

Party? Moi?

Hey there, 'Redheads... I'm going to admit this right up front. I've got nothing. I just got back from the kind of meal that bears eat before they start hibernating, so I'm in a digestive daze. But, I want to keep the streak of blogs going until I go on a short hiatus next week. In case you've forgotten, I'm hopping on a plane to New Orleans, where they're having some sort of party. I'm still not quite sure what to expect. Actually, I'm very sure what to expect: drunken mayhem. A near nonstop cacophony of "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" until I get back on the plane to come home. Ten thousand fists all pumping in unison as beads fly haphazardly through the air to the awaiting boobs below. Girls going wild. And I'll be resisting the temptation to call them whippersnappers and yell at them to get off my lawn. I may have to find an Advil patch I can slap directly onto my forehead for the screaming headache I'm going to have. Some people would say that, at 35, my wild partying days are behind me. Well, I never had wild partying days in the first place. I've got one decent tequila story in me, which involved passing out, casually puking onto some guy's carpet, then being carried out of the party by two friends on mine. That was roughly 15 years ago. Other than that, I'm sure there are nuns that throw down harder than I do. I'm not going to pretend I don't drink, I do enjoy a frosty beverage, but I never venture outside the safe confines of fuzzy lucidity. The kids who I'm going to encounter on Bourbon Street black out so much, their memories are patchier than the AIDS quilt. Luckily, I'll be able to find some measure of peace and quiet at the casino. I'll hide from one degenerate vice beneath the underbelly of another. Which reminds me, I still have to pack.

See you Friday.

FIGHT!

Hey there, 'Redheads... My head hurts, so I'll be whacking the blog pinata until delicious eye candy spills out so you have something to gawk at. I present to you a three video series from the Thousand Pounds Fight Team. Through some creative editing and bad ass fight choreography, they've become a human video game and brought Street Fighter 4 to life. I've never been able to do anything from a video game, except for that one time that I ate all those Flintstones vitamins while ghosts were chasing me. Enjoy...

See you Thursday...

Winning, Duh

Hey there, 'Redheads... Welcome to the first day of March. Once again, my calendar is a flip book and the first two months of the year are gone. They're not even giving me enough time to procrastinate anymore. Well, I guess time flies when you're winning. So, for Charlie Sheen, tomorrow it'll be 2014. He's absolutely everywhere you look these last two days, giving interviews to anyone within earshot. It's Charlie's world and the rest of us are just along for the tour of the chocolate factory. He's starring in The Sheening, and his two goddesses are those creepy kids in the hallway beckoning him to, "Come play with us, Charlie. For ever and ever and ever." How many other obscure movie references can I make about this? Charlie has spent the last few years developing a immunity to cocaine powder. My question is, why is everyone shocked by him anymore? The man does not care, he's not hurting anyone, his kids seem well cared for, and the only reason why his show got cancelled is because CBS got their panties in a bunch. He wanted to work, and he obviously was doing well enough in his condition to hit his marks up until now. Now he's talking about warlocks and tiger blood, calling Sinatra and Jagger, "droopy-eyed, armless children," and telling AA to take twelve steps off a cliff, so everyone gets all indignant and wonders how he can sleep at night. Well, my friends, if he decides to sleep, it's on a giant pile of money with many beautiful women. He's living the life we all wish we could. If you want to become more of a warlock rock star from Mars in your everyday life, might I recommend Charlie Sheen for the Soul. Charlie Sheen is a hell of a drug.

I have a feeling Gaddafi buried his head into a giant mound of Sheen like Pacino in Scarface. That's the only guy making less sense than Charlie these days. What also makes no sense is there's no consensus on how to spell his name. Maybe because if we get it right, he'll be banished back to the 5th dimension. I've seen "Gaddafi," "Qudhafi," and my personal favorite, "Khadaffi," mostly because it makes me think of Daffy Duck. Hard hitting political insight can be found elsewhere.

I should mention the Oscars before I sign off. They stunk. I'll admit, I didn't see all of the broadcast. I was over a friend's house watching as my Terps toyed with my emotions while losing to UNC, while my girlfriend was hosting an Oscar party for her gal pals. Like I had mentioned on Friday, the only thing I was looking forward to was the In Memoriam segment, and they somehow managed to screw that up. Hollywood legends like Tony Curtis and Dennis Hopper got the same amount of screen time as a key grip from Howard the Duck. How do you not have Leslie Neilsen saying his classic, "Don't call me Shirley," line from Airplane? And they completely left out Corey Haim and Peter Graves. The hosts were awful. I've haven't seen worse chemistry since the time I tried to make a battery out of a potato in my 4th grade science fair. James Franco was so wooden, he made Al Gore look like Dane Cook. By the end of the show, I thought Anne Hathaway was going to try to cut off her arm to get out from under him. There was such a sigh of relief when Billy Crystal was introduced, I thought the producers has brought him out of cryogenic freeze to take over. This just further proves that you never send an actor to do a comedian's job.

See you Wednesday.