A Younger, Less Wise Me

I've been at this three months to the day. All in all, I'm pretty happy with it. To celebrate, some self-reflection is due.

Because I'm using it as a prop in Skeeger's "Michael Hartney's Sex Club Diaries" sketch, I was going through a journal I was given by a friend of mine in college. Like the starter of things I don't finish that I have always been, maybe ten pages of it had been filled. But I came across this spirited little entry, written in July of 1999. It was before I had my first relationship. Before I had my first much of anything, really. Ironic, considering it's now mere pages away from a(n all-too) lightly embellished account of my first sex club-capade. Here it is.

The other day, I walked into a local Wendy's with my best friend Dave, and we saw an elderly gay couple sitting by the window, quietly enjoying a meal. I couldn't stop thinking to myself, "Now, why can't I have something like that?" Of course, I don't want something exactly like that. After all, I'm hardly eligible for Medicare, and I would never be caught dead in golfing pants. But there was something in the way they sat in their sun-drenched seats, leisurely muching on half-cooked fries that made me positively green with envy. It was like they didn't even notice the rude personnel, the grimy tabletops, the nosy glances, or even the barely edible beef. Frank and Harold (those probably weren't their actual names, but they looked like such a Frank and Harold) were perfectly content to just sit there and grow old together. They didn't need washboard abs, designer labels, or a fancy meal; being together was enough.

Could I possibly be the only young gay guy who wants what Frank and Harold had? I mean, I look around at the squalor that is the young gay community, and I'm sickened by what I see: shallow, glassy-eyed Ken dolls who pair off with similarly-describable himbos, making a couple with less common ground than your average Singled Out contestants, basing their loosely-defined "relationships" on empty sex, and perhaps some superficial common interest; the "You like bagels? I like bagels! Let's screw!" mentality. Sometimes I feel like the only l'il queer within a fifty-mile radius whose IQ is higher than his cosmetics bill.

I'm not saying I want to find my life partner tomorrow; I'm just saying I wish I could find someone who doesn't need to go clubbing every weekend as an excuse to roll on Ecstasy, watch themselves dance in the mirror, and parade around their latest conquest. I wish I could find someone who enjoys spending quiet moments just as much as me. Someone I could take to an art gallery without rendering them comatose. Someone to take a lazy Sunday afternoon nap with. Someone who would write me a love poem just because. A Frank to my Harold. Someday, I'm going to find this guy. He's out there somewhere. I just have to find him. And when I do, I'm taking him to Wendy's.

Silly, young, naive nineteen year-old me. I wonder how much of that was based in impassioned belief, and how much was bitterness about not being able to get laid. And that Singled Out reference kills me. Since then, I've had partners, boyfriends, and sex that would make the Marquis de Sade go "Geez. I definitely wouldn't have thought of that." Many lazy Sunday afternoon naps. Many sweet little fast food meals. I've been Frank. I've been Harold. What's funny is that, back then, I seemed to know exactly what I wanted, and now I have no clue. What's funnier is that I think that just might be progress.

My Walk From the Broadway N-Train Stop in Astoria to My Apartment, Peppered With Short Scenes

First, I always pass V. Pellegrino's Studios. Their window display is of their work, obviously, but in gorgeous, ornate frames. Weird, considering the apparent crown jewel of their photographic library is a dude in a stark white background, wearing this heinous, Express Men-style diagonal striped shirt, unbuttoned. He looks like he just got out of bed.

INT. V. PELLEGRINO'S STUDIOS.

PELLEGRINO is photographing MAN.

MAN: I'm sorry I'm so hung over for this photo shoot. I did, like, eight Jaeger bombs last night.
PELLEGRINO: No, it's fantastic! The sleep in your eyes really works for you.
MAN: ...seriously?
PELLEGRINO: Yes! It's genius! Unbutton your shirt.
MAN: What?
PELLEGRINO: C'mon! You'll look exquisitely dishheveled. (MAN unbuttons shirt.) That's it! Your curly, awkward chest hair...your atrocious choice of warbdrobe...that supremely befuddled look...hold still! (PELLEGRINO snaps the shot.) Divine. Simply divine.
MAN: I think I'm going to look like a jerk.
PELLEGRINO: Nonsense, my boy. Leave the magic to the professional, OK? I think that shot will look great in an 11 x 17 print, in a giant, hyper-detailed gold Baroque frame.
MAN: That sounds crazy.
PELLEGRINO (sipping from a water bottle filled with wombat blood): Crazy is for horses.
MAN: That retort is designed for when people say "hey", not for accusations of insanity.
PELLEGRINO: Precisely. Now, for this next shot, I want you to caress your copy of The Hogan Family Home Game while looking like you're about to fart.

Then I pass Subway, the sandwich "restaurant" I drop so much cash at I feel like I own a couple of them. This particular one fascinates me, mostly because of one dude who works there.

INT. SUBWAY

MAN is garnishing MICHAEL's delicious Chipotle Southwest Cheesesteak sub on wheat (like it matters at this point).

MAN: Mayonnaise?
MICHAEL: No, no mayonnaise. (MAN squirts an inhuman amount of mayonnaise on the sandwich. We cut to a montage of the sun rising, farmers farming, children playing, families dining, the sun setting, and couples kissing each other goodnight. We cut back to the MAN, still squirting mayonnaise.) I said I didn't want any mayonnaise.
MAN: Anything else?
MICHAEL: I didn't even want a little mayonnaise. You squirted out enough onto that sandwich to drown a small child.
MAN: Anything to drink?
MICHAEL: ...fine.

Next, I see Gibney's, the bar where Meaghan bartends. If you love being creeped out by straggly-haired dudes, but wish they had Irish accents and vague connections to terrorist activity, this is the place for you. Great. Now the FBI just pounded my door in because I typed the word "terrorist". While I get interrogated, here's a scene.

INT. GIBNEY'S, 2002.

MARTIN SCORCESE and his assistant, JENNINGS enter Gibney's.

SCORCESE: This is it, Jennings. This is where I'm getting all of my extras for Gangs of New York. These guys are perfect.
JENNINGS: And we'll save so much on wardrobe budget, sir. They're already wearing blood-soaked tatters.
SCORCESE: And they're caked in dirt! (SCORCESE approaches what seems to be their leader, O'PATRICKNESSY.) How would you and your friends like to be in a movie?
O'PATRICKNESSY: Rrrrraaaaaggggghhhhh!
JENNINGS: I think that's a "yes", sir.

CUT TO: The set of Gangs of New York. SCORCESE and JENNINGS are about to shoot the first scene with the extras.
SCORCESE: So, don't really have much direction to give you guys. Just be yourselves, OK?
O'PATRICKNESSY: Gggggrrrrraaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggghhhh!
SCORCESE: Right. (The gang heads off-screen. SCORCESE starts rolling. We hear horrified screams, and spurts of blood hit both SCORCESE and JENNINGS.) Good stuff, guys.
JENNINGS: Sir? I think Ms. Diaz is dead.

Then, just as I'm about to turn left onto my street, I pass Cold Stone Creamery. Or, as I like to call it, Cold Stone The Reason I Exist. Sweet cream ice cream? Cake batter ice cream? I've died and gone to heavenly hash. There's only one problem. It's kinda hard to maintain even a shred of a semblance of butchness with the names of their desserts and the names of their sizes.

INT. COLD STONE CREAMERY.

MICHAEL sits, enjoying some convoluted concoction. A MUSCLEBEAR enters. 6'1", 260. Looks like Goldberg's gay brother who constantly beats the crap out of him, or at least could. Two full sleeves of ink. A precariously tight black t-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots. A neck whose diameter rivals that of a redwood trunk. MICHAEL's jaw drops to the floor. We cut between MUSCLEBEAR's slow, deliberate advances toward the counter and the ever-growing trail of drool oozing out of MICHAEL's mouth. Finally, MUSCLEBEAR reaches the counter, MICHAEL approaching a state of frenzy.

MUSCLEBEAR: May I have a Gotta Have It-sized Birthday Cake Remix?

MICHAEL stares in disbelief. He consults his pelvic region, looking for a sign. When he receives none, he shrugs and returns to his dessert.

Of course, that's just when I walk home from the N or W. Sometimes I take the R or V. That's five acts in and of itself.

Big Google is Watching

I, fronting like I know jack-shit about matters electronic, downloaded Google Earth today. For those of you who aren't e-savvy (like, y'know, me), that's a program where you can basically enter a location, and it will zoom in from a satellite photo of the entire goddamned Earth to a reasonably close distance to your entry. It's amazing. I have no clue how to use it, but it's amazing. And it got me thinking: the forward-thinking homosexual sex-mongers can't be far behind utilizing this technology.

So I went to the incomparable gay sex resource Cruising For Sex (just so you know, if you click that link, you're in for a face full of filthy) to see if there were any changes. Lo and behold, there were! Where once the most specific a search could be was by neighborhood, it now allows for blocks, apartment buildings, and, hell, even unit numbers! Here what I was able to dig up under the all-too specific listing of "Michael Hartney's Apartment (well, it's also Dan McInerney's, but he's in the business of stuffing cooters)":

>>Michael Hartney's Kitchen Cabinet, Michael Hartney's Apartment (well, it's also Dan McInerney's, but he's in the business of stuffing cooters). Cruisy peanut butter jar. Second shelf. Just west of the conspicuously neat stack of tuna cans. Add Comments

New comments added October, 2005:
"Some new homo just moved in and puts his peanut butter in here. It's great for hot, piggy action. I found this lithe Asian next to the Stroganoff Lipton Pasta Sides and totally made him my bitch for the next hour and-a-half."

New comments added November, 2005:
"Yeah, this place is awesome! The really dirty stuff takes place on the nutrition facts side of the label. The front of the label seems to attract more stand-and-pose Chelsea types. Probably because it's Peter Pan, y'know...the whole "never grow up" thing. Anyway, last night, me and three horse-hung black dudes used this one hot little number as our bukkake slave."

New comments added December, 2005:
"It was a close call. For once, Michael didn't order Chinese food and actually opened his cupboard. Me and the Middle Eastern dude I was rimming barely zipped up and hid behind his worcestershire sauce in time. The best times to come here are when Michael isn't feeling fat." Heads Up!

New comments added January, 2006:
"This place has really gone downhill. Nothing but trolls and grandpas walking around. I tried to get something going with this hot blonde Scandinavian dude, but we couldn't get the peanut butter jar open. It's just too big. You'd think Michael would be considerate enough to buy a jar of peanut butter that's conveniently small enough for use by the virtual army of miniature homosexuals who live in his cupboard."

So there you have it. I guess you learn something new every day. And, for whatever reason, I am now positively fixin' for a sandwich!

What I Learned At Work Today

Never trust a grown man who orders not one, but two chocolate milks with his meal.

With two ribs remaining on his plate, he says "I don't know where you get your ribs from, but these ones are all fat."

"Really, sir? Your pork ribs are fatty? That's incredible. Because when I think of sinewy, streamlined, athletic animals, the pig comes to mind first. Oh, and just to let you know, our chocolate cake has a lot of chocolate in it, and our coffee is extremely coffee-y. Just so there's no confusion."

So, even after a 20% off coupon, we wants the ribs (all of which he ate but two) taken off the bill. He even lies to my manager, saying that he ate none of the ribs, and that his son ate half. When my manager suggests only charging him for half the ribs (considering his son ate half of them), he changes his story and says that his son didn't eat any. On top of that, I am rewarded with six, count them, six American dollars on his ninety-five dollar bill. Cool, man. Super-sweet. Love your sport jeans tucked into your white high-tops. That's a fuckin' cute look for you. And what lady wouldn't swoon over your very today John Davidson haircut?

I really wished I had run into him outside the restaurant after my shift. The confrontation would have been swift and merciless. That mock turtleneck would have hit the ground in seconds.

And I'm the furthest thing from a homophobe (obviously), but chocolate milk? And two of them, no less? That's just gay.

Giving Props

I've noticed that this week is pretty much "Michael reacts to the media he consumes" Week here at So I Like Superman (other than, of course, the Punctured Nut-Sack Hullaballoo), so why don't we just keep that train chuggin', huh?

Tonight I saw two sketch comedy shows that I had absolutely nothing to do with, something I don't get the chance to do nearly as often as I'd like to. In fact, to do it meant giving away my shift at work and subjecting myself to further poorness. Luckily, however, I hate having to be burdened with the shackles of adequate shelter anyway, and I just love me some Ramen Noodles.

Anyway, at 7pm tonight at The PIT I checked out the latest show from Below the Belt (those dudes should really get themselves a website), Thundercrack! Really funny stuff. For whatever reason, there was a pretty sparse house; Time Out New York apparently neglected to mention them in their listings (as they also did with Skeeger; you knew I'd get a plug in there somewhere, didn't ya?). But despite the lack of a packed house, writer/performers Joshua Callahan (a bud of mine) and David Engel kept the energy up, and the laughs came pouring in. We were treated to sketches about Marty McFly fucking his mom in the past (always a tasteful way to start), a forbidden affair between a man and a ventriloquist's dummy (forbidden only because the dummy was the man's boss), and two old dudes too tired to save themselves from catching on fire (saving the best for last).

Then I stuck around for Fearsome's closing night of their smash hit show, Fearsome...and such. I have to hand it to these guys: they pack their houses, commit to their stuff super-hard, and come up with shit that I never would have thought of in a million years. A girly drink sword fight, complete with steel-clanging sound effects. A dual-focus make-out scene. The song "The Loneliest Telepath". Katherine Bryant, Shayna Ferm, Alex Goldberg, Jaime Hayes, Chris O'Connor, and Dan Zalevsky have been selling this show out for months. And now I know why. There's a sight gag involving an unintentionally suggestive children's book that made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to pass out.

So rock on, Below the Belt and Fearsome. You guys really raised the bar. The bar that Skeeger and I will, inevitably, catapult over with next to no effort, on account of our super-wicked awesomeness and all.

So I Like Smallville

(Keep it together, Michael. You can do this. You did your grandmother's eulogy, for Chrissakes.)

Well, the hyped-to-the-point-of-near-ridiculousness 100th episode of Smallville was on tonight. Since I'm so spoiled by DVR that I can no longer stand to sit through commercials, I went to the gym while it was on so I could fast-forward through the ads for Beauty and the Geek and that retarded-looking Kate Beckinsale movie when I got home. The gym? Oh, it was great, thanks. I wailed on my pecs. Halfway through lifting, you could totally see I had my swell on.

(You're stalling, you vain homo! Get to it! You have something to tell these people.)

So anyway, for months now, it has been promised that someone close to Clark will die in the 100th episode. I'm going to tell you who it is. If you don't want to know, stop reading, because after the picture of so-not-my-type-but-still-unmistakably-hunky Tom Welling, I will reveal it. Last chance, bitches...

Lana dies. But wait! Clark uses a crystal from his fortress to go back in time and change the events leading to her death. It's too bad; it was nice to see him finally reveal his secret to her (though proposing was a bit much). Plus, him flying with her was a pretty cool fanboy moment; I will confess to audibly shouting "Whoa!" when it happened.

(Don't you have something else to confess?)

Shut up, douche! I'm getting there. Unfortunately, instead of Lana dying in this new timeline that Clark has created, Jonathan does.

(C'mon, Michael...let it out.)

I got a little misty.

(Michael...?)

I cried, OK? I totally cried a whole bunch. Tears were streaming down my face in that perfect Demi Moore in Ghost way. I thought for sure it would be Lionel. After all, he's not even a part of comic book continuity. Then again, neither is Chloe. Man, that would've been super-sad.

(Get back to Jonathan's death.)

You're a dick. So yeah, I will miss John Schneider's Jonathan Kent. Yes, frequently the scenes between him and Clark were schmaltzy and dripping with cheese. But you know something? I like cheese. I can't imagine my diet without it. And at the core of every overly sentimental father/son exchange lied the foundation for Clark's heroism. Everything that makes Superman great, he learned from his earth parents. That's something that will always resonate with me, regardless of cheese factor.

(Tell them.)

Fine. I used to cry at all of those father/son exchanges too. I hate you.

(You may think you do.)

Moving on...Dan asked if Clark said "All those things I can do...all those powers...and I couldn't even save him." He didn't. At first I was a little miffed. That would have been a wonderful homage to Superman: The Movie. But then I realized that Tom Welling couldn't even dream of getting it close to the way Christopher Reeve said it and Jeff East lip-synched it.

Oh, and I love that Annette O'Toole, and not just because of her numerous similarities to Mrs. Mary Hartney. Her scene with Clark and the necklace sent me over the edge. I wanted to give her a big hug.

So there you have it. Here's to 100 more episodes of Smallville. Luckily, with Jonathan gone, I will probably cry way less. And I want to see more flying, bitches.

(Don't you feel better?)

Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.

(Good. Now let's eat some ice cream.)

Ice cream? At 11:30 at night? I thought you were supposed to tell me to do the right thing.

(A world where ice cream at any time of day isn't the right thing is a world I want nothing to do with.)

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 1/25

Adventures of Superman #648
An issue dealing with the nuking of Bludhaven in Infinite Crisis #4. OK, look. We've seen the whole "Lois narrates the book with her news story" thing not only a million times before, but a million times better as well. Depriving the book of any dialogue serves to further separate us from both the action and the heart of the story. In what is becoming DC's gold (more like talc) standard, the art chores are shared between someone who is clearly under a deadline crunch (Karl Kerschl) and someone chomping at the bit to get work (Renato Guedes). The result leaves more than a little to be desired. I don't know about everyone else, but I'm looking forward to Busiek and Pacheco's run on this book.

JLA Classified #16
Yay! If you've ever seen licensed, mass-market images of Superman, chances are they were drawn by Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez. The irony is that I'm rarely a fan of those images of his; I prefer his peerless sequential storytelling to his actual linework. And we're treated to a whole lotta both in part one of "The Hypothetical Woman". That initial two-page spread is worth the cost of the book alone. I wouldn't have chosen Klaus Janson to be his inker, but beggars can't be choosers. Gail Simone, once again, delivers a top-notch tale. In the first half, the JLA experiences first-hand the heartbreak of diplomatic corruption. In the second half, we are introduced to a creepy and mysterious virus. So many questions are posed; I can't wait to find out the answers.

Majestic #13
Once upon a time, Mr. Majestic, though heart-breakingly short-lived, was my favorite book on the stands. Joe Casey and Brian Holguin's big, bombastic run put Mr. Majestic through his cosmic paces, but never neglected to show how all of the action affected humans. Ed McGuinness' quintessential rendition of Majestros didn't hurt. I think that's what's been missing from every portrayal of the character since. Sure, the fate of the universe is always hanging in the balance, but Abnett and Lanning's take seems a little...cool. Detached, even. All that being said, this is one of their most engaging efforts yet. Majestic, as well as the near-infallible Hadrian, face a formidable opponent. Zealot meets her mother. And Majestic learns he's dying and has a daughter? Well, let it never be said that this isn't a high-stakes book. Recent DC exclusive Neil Googe's art reminds me of Michael Ryan's. Sleek character designs, slick linework, and yet layouts that lack an essential sense of dynamism or punch. I still miss the Casey/Holguin/McGuinness days, but this might be the closest it's come since.

Savage Dragon #122
He's back, baby! Savage Dragon is back on the stands. We all know how much I love this book, and Erik Larsen has quickly returned to form here, now coloring the book as well. One of my favorite things about this title is that it positively drips with a love of comics; that couldn't be clearer in this effort, packed with retro exposition pages drawn in the style of the comics of eras gone by, the heavy brushwork in the scenes with Angel, and the pitch-perfect silent splashes warning of an impending danger (that's how Doomsday should have been introduced to Superman). I could've done without the amatuerish back-up tale, but...ah, fuck it. It's all part of Larsen's charm. Buy this goddamned book.

Ultimate Fantastic Four/X-Men #1
The story set-up in Ultimate X-Men/Fantastic Four #1 concludes here. Pretty cool. Love the tension between Kitty and Sue, and the friendly rivalry between Johhny and Bobby makes perfect sense. Jokey and silly as it may be, I loved this exchange: "Wait, Ben. The stair rail is humming." "So teach it the words. What do we care?" Thanks, Mike Carey. Oh, and here's a weird phenomenon: again, two artists tackling this book. But this time, the fill-in artist is even better than the main artist! Who knew? Lenil Francis Yu's three pages are beautifully ornate and detailed. Don't get me wrong; I dig Pascual Ferry, too. His kinetic stuff flows like water. But man, check out Yu's New York skyline on the second-last page. That's the shit right there.

Ultimate Spider-Man #89
Tne conclusion of the Silver Sable storyline, and apparently the beginning of the Vulture storyline. I like that Bendis is constantly playing with his approach to telling a story; the children's book-style flashbacks were really cool (as was putting Peter's chapter in the here and now). Bagley's uninked penicls looked really good, too; in fact, much better than his work looks with Scott Hanna's inks. Though that sounds like a complaint, it really isn't; Bagley is the most dependable penciler in comics, and I'd much rather have a book that looks sorta good come out every three weeks than a gorgeous book come out every four months. Or worse, a book that's half-gorgeous, and half drawn by someone else who isn't so hot because the gorgeous pages took too long to draw. This is my Spider-Man, baby.

Next week: Seven Soldiers continues, Team Zero tries to prove to me its first two issues weren't a fluke, and we get to check in on Walker and Pilgrim.

All Writed Out

My apologies to Lisa Lisa, Cult Jam, and, for that matter, Allure and 112. Although, c'mon, your name is 112? That sucks.

I may not be all alone on a Sunday morning, but I am, in fact, all writed out. I slaved all day over my outline for my spec How I Met Your Mother episode, not to mention rewriting a highly stylized more-one-act-play-than-sketch sketch called "Tango", as well as the self-explanatory "Michael Hartney's Sex Club Diaries" for February's Skeeger show (our seventh original sketch show!), February Blizoy. Yesterday I knocked myself out rewriting a sketch that Dave had given up on, a treatise on subway graffiti called "Weed". Speaking of knocking out, "Weed"'s rewrite was promptly knocked out of the Blizoy lineup without even a read-through. A bummer, considering, had I known, I would have spent those hours working out, cleaning my apartment, and a bunch of other shit that has been repeatedly put on the back-burner. And don't worry, Dustin. I'm not pissed. Just bummed. They're different.

It's funny just how much more writing I've been doing than acting. We just finished the rewrites for Blizoy, I'm in this sitcom writing class (which is pretty awesome)...hell, even at my last acting audition, the casting director asked for writing samples. More on that if (when? No, you stupid wide-eyed idealist fuck! If!) it develops. At least I get to act on Saturday. Not that I don't have a blast writing and all, but we all have that thing where, when we're doing it, we feel as though if it never ended, that'd be perfectly fine with us. For me, that thing is standing on a stage with my partners and making people laugh their fuckin' asses off. My body never feels such pleasure. My heart never feels such pay-hee-ay-hee-ain...ohhhhhhh!

Thus, I'm all writed out. My brain is thoroughly drained of any ideas worth committing to paper or otherwise. So sorry, guys. No new post tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe tomorrow I'll draw something, scan it, and that will be my post. Ouch. An idea. That hurt. Bed.

Awwww, Nuts!

Every so often, we do things that simply cannot be justified. We tell a pointless lie. We go home with a fatty. We greenlight Yours, Mine, and Ours. We look back on our conscious choice to make that decision, and we cannot for one moment fathom what possessed us to do so. On one fateful night, in the summer of 1986, Michael (the First) and Mary Hartney exemplified this phenomenon to the fullest extent. In fact, I'm currently campaigning to have an unjustifiable decision be, from here on in, referred to as an '86 Hartney. Upon completion of this tale, I think you'll be with me on this.

That night, my parents allowed me to go to the Grizlard's cottage. A quick Grizlard primer: kind of like the crazy family in Running With Scissors, only with less college degrees and more dead kittens disposed of in the garbage can. I suppose if my son begged me to let him go to my born-again next-door neighbors' surely-as-besieged-by-squalor-as-their-house-if-not-more-so cottage enough times, I would eventually cave, even with my knowledge that the patriarch was a disgraced former state assemblyman who statutorily raped and impregnated a teen-ager. Or I wouldn't. Because that would be nuts.

And yet it happened. I was ecstatic. Who cares that I had to sit on the gooey floor of their van for an hour to get there? Or that I had to clear away a pile of scrap paper, food stuffs, and other refuse from the floor of their cottage so that I had somewhere to sleep? Or that Mr. Grizlard liked to wear a bathrobe with no underwear and sit at precarious angles and talk to me? I was in the country with fourteen of my favorite people. And it was going to be awesome.

For quite a bit of time, it was, in fact, awesome. Their cottage was on top of a hill in the sun-drenched upstate New York countryside (I would say it still is, but odds are it has collapsed by now). Not used to "roughing it", I heartily embraced the way of this strange new wild. The next morning, after a breakfast of buttermilk pancakes and real Vermont maple syrup (yes, I ate their cooking), I, with my favorite Grizlard, Gabe, set out down the hill to get into misadventures and scrapes. And did we ever.

At the bottom of the hill, we found a barrel that had been discarded (as you do) and a big plank of wood. Little Rube Goldbergs that we were, we put them together and made what we thought was a kick-ass see-saw. This provided sheer minutes of entertainment, when from the top of the hill, Mrs. Grizlard's enraged shriek echoed through the entire county. "You boys had better get in here now before you're in real trouble!" Ironically, the siren call wasn't even meant for us. She was mad at my least favorite Grizlard, Glenn, and his douchebag friend (also somehow my douchebag friend) Eric, who had gone out without permission. Not knowing this, and thinking we were in for a caning, Gabe and I elected to jump off the see-saw and report to our drill sergeant. That's when it happened.

RRRRRRRIP!

The plank of wood we were sitting on was conspicuously unsanded. I was wearing shorts. Let's see...how can I put this delicately...

I tore my scrotum open.

After the initial tsunami of pain had washed over me, I stuck my hands down my pants. They came back out bloody. Bad news. Especially for a six-year old who was still a little bit afraid of both the moon and a particular painting of John Schneider. I delicately trudged up the hill, hands ready to catch a rogue teste.

I told Mrs. Grizlard what had happened. She demanded she look at the wound. I insisted that she didn't. I was a very private first grader; I didn't even like people seeing my penis when it was in mint condition, let alone a sanguine mess. Thinking it was a matter of gender, she then sent her teen-aged son Warren into the bathroom I had barricaded myself into, as though having some high school freshman look at my goods was a much more inviting prospect. So nobody saw it. Hence, nobody saw how severe an injury this was. So after I had stopped bleeding profusely, I went back out to play. Genius, huh?

Eric's parents came that afternoon, a day early, to pick him up. I was forced to leave with him. Upon entering my house covered in Grizlard brand grime, my mother ordered me into the tub. Let me tell you: a hole in your nut sack hurts enough already. Having said nut sack hit hot water is somewhat akin to someone with a severe sunburn being fucked by an entire human leg with no lube. I made the most of it, though. I tried to distract myself with happy six-year old thoughts, like how the super-powered blond kid in Superman #384 looked just like me, or how much Mrs. Tambacas liked my handwriting, or just how darned funny that Skippy on Family Ties was.

And then my mother walked in.

You know how when you're six, your mother will just walk into the bathroom while you're in the tub and think it's fine? And, if she can't see your exposed testicle, it usually is? And if she can, she says crazy things like, "Michael, we need to go to the hospital right now"? Or is it just me?

On our way to the hospital, I made my mother promise me I wouldn't need stitches. She emphatically assured me that no, I would certainly not need stitches. Imagine both my dismay and the birth of my maternal trust issues when the doctor at the emergency room said "Oh, you're definitely going to need stitches". That lying bitch...

Upon entering the room where the dreaded stitching was to take place, I ordered the small window on the door to be covered up by a piece of paper. No way was some passer-by going to get a peek at my unmentionables. At least, not for free, they weren't. After the Band-Aids had been applied to the paper to make sure it stuck, the real fun began. First, the doctor shoved a novocaine needle the size of Utah into my scrotum, which, at the time, was considerably smaller than the word Utah. Considering all of the pain I went through that day, it's all the more impressive that the injection ranked number one: in fact, it's the most excrutiating pain I've ever experienced. Then the actual stitching began, ranking a close second.

On the car ride home, I remember thinking two very specific things: I fucking hate the Grizlards, and I fucking hate my mother. Though neither ultimately ended up being true, it seemed unfair that, for the next few weeks, peeing would be a ten-minute production while they went unpunished for their near-mortal sins. At least I got the dissolvable stitches. Returning for a second butchering of my nards was unimaginable. For a long time, I could still see the scar. I can't find it anymore.

And for those of you who are curious, everything is in fine working order. Now get your head out of the gutter, pervert.

My parents probably still kick themselves to this day for letting me go off to Camp Mutilation. But I forgive them. After all, I know what it's like to pull an '86 Hartney. I've totally gone home with a fatty or two.

Am I A Bad Gay?

Before you answer with a resounding "Of course you are, you scathy fag!", allow me to set-up a bit.

Do you know what I love love love? SNL's recurring sketch "Gays in Space". It starts with a theme song as baffling as it is kitschy, usually sung by the fierce Maya Rudolph but done this past time by Will Forte (with sadly limited success) while my girl is off nursin' her new papoose. It then is just a sketch about four drippingly gay space travelers. They prance around, act like stereotypical queens, and exchange catty barbs. Oh, and they frequently go ga-ga over hunky, big-dicked alien races.

Today, as I sat there giggling, I realized that it's...well, pretty offensive in a lot of ways. It's pretty much a minstrel show. If it were called "Black Guys in Space", and showed a bunch of black dudes rapping, playing basketball, showing off their gats, and lusting after fat white chicks, there'd probably be something of an uproar (and not just the uproar of me laughing my head off, which would, sadly, probably also happen).

I love it. But I'm a little Imbrugliaed about it, meaning that I am, at once, torn, all out of faith, and lying naked on the floor. Why? I want to know what the other homogaysexyulls think of it. I make no apologies for digging the sketch; we all know how I feel about political correctness. Hell, my last argument against it was so air-tight, even this guy ended up agreeing with me. However, the potential problem here is that there's no immediately discernable point of access.

Here's what I mean: when we see a piece of comedy critical or exploitative of a marginalized group, it's usually clear that people from that group had a hand in its production, making it (at least to me) somewhat palatable. When we see a sketch on Chappelle's Show about ashy black crackheads, we know it was written and performed by black people; hence, there's a point of access to the community being satirized. When we see Bobby Lee speak pidgin (not like we ever want to, but just the same), we know it's an Asian dude laughing at an aspect of his culture.

It's not quite as cut and dry with us pillow-biters. For all I know, "Gays in Space" is a completely heterosexual creation. None of the performers are out as far as I know, though the hilarious Fred Armisen seems to be chomping at the bit to make out with every last male member of the cast (heh heh..."male member"). I don't know for sure if there's gay writers on the show; I imagine there are, but who knows? It gets a little dicey, like I say.

Again, I think it's cheeky, harmless, and a lot of fun. But I could definitely see where somebody would not quite know what to make of it (especially one of those super-girly faggoty ones...y'know...the ones who are really really gay? God, I hope everyone realizes how kidding I just was). So let me know, you Marys and Nancys out there. Should we be clutching our pearls? Or should we be doing three snaps up and an around-the-world?

God, I hope I'm right. Otherwise I just outed myself as a homophobe, somehow. Next time I stroll down Eighth Avenue, I'll have to bring nunchuku to fight off disgruntled tan people with abs and tribal armband tattoos. That'd suck.

So let me know. Until then, I'll be trying out these hilarious new AIDS jokes I just heard! Laters!

Saturday Night's All Right For...Hilarity!

Now that was a fun little day!

First, Meatballs and Mozzarella Lean Pockets and My Name Is Earl. Is that...trashy of me? If so, then call me Dawn Davenport, because it was great! A uniformly top-notch cast, a flaky golden crust, snappy dialogue, and only seven grams of fat? Somebody get me some cha-cha heels!

Then, Dan and I shot some stuff for his Channel 102 pilot. It was a beautiful day here (I'm still terrified by it; t-shirt weather in January is surely a sign of the apocalypse), and we got to do a lot of the shoot in Central Park. I've been to The Ramble in Central Park twice. And neither time was for gay sex. What do I win?

Next, Skeeger! Another sell-out show, another wonderfully raucous and appreciative audience. I mean, there was an applause break in the middle of one of the sketches. A friggin' applause break. And no one even spoke of a woman's right to choose or indicted our president for anything. Now that's comedy.

But wait! There's more! Then I went to my friend Kim's housewarming. Here's the thing: if somebody has Cheetos and beer, I'm a happy camper. Kim, however, busts out goat cheese balls, meatballs, shrimp, and (are you ready?) dates wrapped in bacon, stuffed with gorgonzola, and dipped in honey. What did we wash these delectables down with? Oh, I believe both red and white homemade sangria. Phenomenal. Kim actually might be pitching a cooking TV show. I'd watch it. And then I'd make her come over and cook for me. Maybe even without watching it.

And last, but not least, a good-night phone call from Phil. He's a little bummed right now. I wish I could be there to hold him. To cheer him up. Possibly without clothes on.

I must wake up in five hours and forty-five minutes. I hate working for a living. I should look into blogging for a living...

I Have Arrived II: The Search For Curly's Gold

Yay! Fun news! My meeting with the talent agent was today. It went well. I am now freelancing with a talent agency. Woo hoo! Even if my as-yet-unnamed hyper-awesome thing doesn't pan out, this is a fairly awesome thing.

So yeah, the agent I'm working with seems to really enjoying my face, particularly those peepers of mine. I guess she didn't manage to check out these:

And my personal favorite, my attempt at an 80's glamour shot:

So gross...I love it. And if any of them get out, I'll never work again.

Estimate This

As we probably all know, I am a waitress. I mean, I'm actually a waiter; I'm fully aware that I am vagina-free. But it's way funner to say I'm a waitress. Can't you just picture me? On roller-skates? Snapping gum? Cracking wise? That's me.

At my restaurant, we trusty waitresses have to tip out our bartenders, food runners, and bussers. At some restaurants, tipout is based on tips. At mine, it's based on restaurant sales. Which means if we got shit tips all night, we still have to tip out just as much as if we got kick-ass ones. It also, however, means, that if you get a super kick-ass tip, you don't have to tip out extra. You win some, you lose some. And if you're like me, Bert Convy, or Vicki Lawrence, you occasionally also draw some.

My point is this: we are required to round up our sales to the next hundred. And what that means is this: if my sales are $1636, I don't round up to $1650. I round up to $1700. Which I can live with. But there's slow days where my sales are, like, $601. And it is now policy for me to tip out on 99 imaginary dollars?!? You've got to be fucking kidding me.

So I don't do it. Fuck that noise. What, did they get my mother to work at corporate or something? She's always dreaming up wildly hyperbolized numbers. It'll be 9:08pm, and she'll go, "Michael, come on! It's ten o'clock!" Sorry, Mar-Bear. There's a reason we have a big hand on that pretty clock. I'll accidentally spill something on a $112 blanket; "I paid two hundred dollars for that!" That's fantastic, Mom. Did the department store pimp pocket the other 88 bucks?

I'd write more, but I had better run. After all, it's 2068 and I'm scheduled to be dead.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 1/18

If only y'all knew what I had to do to get my hands on a copy of All-Star Superman #2. Let's just say I know a bit too much about my local comic shop guy's ponytail now.

Action Comics #835
I am going to miss the hell out of Gail Simone. Finally, someone who can write Lois. Livewire, a character from Superman: The Animated Series, makes her debut in comic-book canon. But all of that takes a back-seat to the fantastic Lois/Superman rescue, the charming and hilarious scene in the alley, and the wonderful Shabbot scene. This is one for the highlight reel, folks. With all of the hooplah with regards to Superman losing his way, his speech is not only completely inspiring, but totally made me cry. Yes, I'll fully admit it. Tears streamed down my face. This is my hero. This is what it's all about. Oh, and he totally is wearing a yarmukle during the whole thing and it's adorable. I'll miss John Byrne and Nelson, too. For all of the talk of Nelson drastically altering Byrne's pencils, the issues look great. And isn't that kinda what matters?

All-Star Superman #2
I am digging me some Grant Morrison. Finally, someone else who can write Lois. This thing is just packed with fun, fresh, original ideas. Lois finally getting her suspicions confirmed, only to think Superman's bluffing? Fantastic. The half a million ton key? Perfect. The baby sun-eater, dinner on the unearthed Titanic, the mirror conversation between Superman and Clark...all delicious fanboy vittles. Quitely's work is excellent as always, though the "S" shield is frequently wonky-looking...I suspect it's because this issue was originally drawn with an updated "S" shield, and editorial had the shields redrawn. Or Frank Quitely just draws a wonky-ass "S" shield. Oh, and there's one thing here that just sticks out like a sore thumb, on account of being bizarrely jokey and not fitting into the rest of the story's tone at all: "Who...vzzt...was J-Lo?" Ick.

Ex Machina #17
Relevant political issues continue to abound here, as Hundred permits an anti-war march to the U.N., much to the chagrin of his advisors, the police force, and the National Guard. Highlights: the kick-ass chainsaw bit, the continued ambiguous sexuality subplot, the gorgeous blue-and-pink toned phone conversation between Hundred and Journal, and the atypically hunky bruiser of a priest. Oh, and Journal, sweet Journal...say it ain't so.

Infinite Crisis #4
Bludhaven is nuked by Chemo, Superboy fights Superboy, the Spectre has a new host (?), the Speed Force diappears, and Earth-2 is restored. Well, let it never be said that stuff doesn't happen in this book. Pros: the nicely concise summary of Alex and Superboy-Prime's meddling actions on Earth-1, which in turn finally shows how the prelude mini-series connect. The perversely compelling unravelling of Superboy-Prime. The helping hand from Barry Allen, Johnny Quick, and Max Mercury. The cliffhanger ending. Two worlds. Is there room in the DCU for both? We'll see. Cons: What the hell happened to Wally? And for that matter, the Speed Force? And why? And while we're on the topic, why was the only way to stop Superboy-Prime to carry him away really quickly? I must admit to a little head-scratching here. Also, I've said it before and I'll say it again. The art here is wildly inconsistent. This time out, Ivan Reis and George Perez himself lend a helping hand to the pencils. Not to mention a number of inkers that may or may not be able to all fit into the Rose Bowl at once. Despite all that, I'm still fully on board. And I can't wait for next issue. Superman vs. Superman, baby! Woo hoo!

Planetary #24
And here, ladies and gentlemen, is a textbook example of the problem with books with erratic shipping schedules: I have forgotten so much about what has gone on in prior issues that I will have to re-read most of the run to fully understand what's going on here. Nonetheless, Ellis provides some nice exposition and a revelation or two, and Cassaday gives us a little taste of wanton widescreen destruction.

Seven Soliders: Mister Miracle #3
And here, ladies and gentlemen, is a textbook example of the problem with books that are bat-shit insane: I remember everything that has happened is the two prior issues, and yet still don't understand half of what's going on here. Granted; some neat things happen here, but it all feels a bit too frantic and scattered. I wonder how much of it is intentional on Grant Morrison's part, and how much is the story-telling shortcomings of novice penciler Freddie E. Williams III. A vast improvement over last issue by Billy Dallas Patton, but would I be so lost if Pascual Ferry had completed his work on this series? I dunno.

Next week: Jose-Luis Garcia Lopez draws something! Yay! Mister Majestic has further problems with cold alien beings. Yay. And Ultimate Marvel characters surely will run around all decompressed and revisionist.

One Helluva Day

11:03am: I am awakened by not only the phone call that I have been waiting for for two weeks (I hate when I have to repeat words like that: for for? It happens with the word "that" a lot too...or maybe I have virtually no command over the English language...) but also a zit inside my nostril of legendary proportions. Ouch. Doesn't matter, though. I could have been choking on bits of my disintegrating liver and still have been thrilled to be alive. More on that phone call as it develops.

1:16: At the Associated Supermarket down the street. Ritz Chips? Two for five bucks? Sweet. Same for Healthy Choice Soups? Right on! They finally have boneless skinless chicken breast, and not just stringy, dark-meat-o-rama thighs? Fuck yeah!

2:39: This redskin potato salad isn't nearly as good as I remember. I like my potato salad to have some sourness to it...y'know? This tastes merely...milky. Like it's potato-flavored yogurt or some shit. Yuck. On the plus side, I've finally watched most of the other shows on my DVR, and now I get to catch up on the syndicated episodes of The Simpsons I always skip over. The Simpsons go to Epcot? Sign my ass up! I shudder at the comedic possibilities and promise of high-jinks.

3:13: I set up a meeting with an honest-to-G(g)od talent agent who saw More Like Two Thousand Sex on Saturday night and said I had "a wonderful face". Friday afternoon. Wow. That's too cool. I just hope the zit inside my friggin' nose is gone by then. See? I told you Skeeger's awesome.

5:41: Does Robert Verdi work out at my gym? God, it looks just like him. And he's talkin' like a big queen to some other big queen...I think Robert Verdi works out at my gym. My ex-roommate Kevin would positively flip her hair if she knew. Well...she'd probably flip her hair anyway. She's kind of into that. Oh my G(g)od...you can see the bump on my nose where the zit is underneath! You can see it! Fuck me...I look like a witch. My delts look kinda ripped, though. Nice.

6:20: How convenient is it that the two places I need to go, Starbucks and Kinko's, are right next to each other? And right around the corner from me, no less? Love it. Love Astoria. So much better than Sunnyside, where I'd have to settle for Starbourgesas and El Kinkorerio's. Nine paper-cut resumes and one grande drip later, it's time to get my eat on!

6:59: Stupid chicken thighs. This is the last day I'll ever have to eat you. Stupid potato-flavored melted ice cream. Same goes for you. These beef noodles are the shit, though. And finally, a brand of diet ginger ale that I like! Diet Schweppes, people. Diet Schweppes. And Homer, running for mayor as the Safety Salamander? Oh, Springfield, when will you learn? And is there anything ever as moving on TV as when Lisa Simpson is really sad about something? It honestly just about breaks my heart every G(g)od-blessed time.

10:11: Batting around spec-script ideas with Dan. He's writing a My Name is Earl for class. I'm going with How I Met Your Mother. It's true what they say about two heads being better than one. I fart twice on his bed from laughter. I am humiliated and quite apologetic. Dan doesn't seem to mind much. I may have to buy him a "World's Greatest Roommate" mug. Which he would then have to label somehow so that when guests come over, they don't think it's mine.

12:26: This Erik character is hilarious. I bet his plays are hilarious too. Maybe I should check them out. Time to add him to my link list. Should I be calling this a "blogroll"? That's what I keep seeing; sounds more like some gooey pastry I'd order at Tee-Jay's in Columbus. Mmm...Columbus. I'll be there in less then a month, frolicking with a big ol' pile of sweet, sweet hunky.

1:19: I should really wrap this post up and go to sleep. I've got a huge day tomorrow. Potentially the most important day of my life thus far. Wow. That didn't add any pressure at all. Sorry to keep you in suspense; I don't want to jinx this by giving away too many details. But let me say this, to paraphrase Edward R. Murrow: Good night, and wish me luck.

Recommended Reading: Savage Dragon

Most comic book series hinge on a series of givens: Superman will always fight for truth and justice, Batman will always defend Gotham, and Thor will kind of always be boring and sucky. In Savage Dragon, nothing is to be taken for granted.

Found in a burning field in Chicago in 1992, a super-strong, green skinned-and-finned man was named Dragon by Lieutenant Frank Darling, who convinced him to join the police force. Dragon was a one-man war on crime, until he left to lead a team of super-heroes in Washington, D.C. That is, of course, until he killed a time-traveling villain and unwittingly created an alternate savage world overrun by a ruthless super-villain. Well, until he defeated said villain and then was presented a choice to either return to the world he left behind or rebuild his world. And now he may just be married, retired, and perhaps recently elected president.

That's why this book kicks ass. You never know what in the name of hell is happening next. Characters don't stagnate; status quos are constantly being re-established. Kind of like life. Well, not exactly like life; after all, I have yet to sire an heir with a skunk-patched ex-hooker with electrical powers who went on to be vaporized by Darklord, but hey. I'm gay, so of course I haven't.

Writer/artist Erik Larsen has been plugging away at his uncompromising vision for almost sixteen years and 124 issues (including the introductory mini-series). He is doubtlessly one of the most dynamic artists working in comics today. His Kirby-esque layouts, funky character designs, and incredbile command over perspective have put him at the top of my list since I was a kid reading his run on Amazing Spider-Man. Though his rendering style used to be a bit more ornate and deliberate, his looser approach as of late conveys his storytelling gifts just as ably. Unlike most master sequential artists, however, he's also one hell of a writer. His no-frills plotting, natural and funny dialogue, and commitment to having the book take place in real-time make this book a can't-miss. Unfortunately, we have missed it. Savage Dragon went on hiatus last year. We haven't seen an issue in April. Its triumphant return this month, however, will be a real treat for longtime fans as well as a great jumping-on point for new readers.

There is...one other thing. As reluctant as I am to admit it. See, I don't get turned on by line drawings of super-heroes, contrary to popular belief. However, if there was one fictional character that I could have one night of passion with...well, it just might be Dragon. Yes, he's green. Yes, he has a fin on his head. Yes, he has two toes on each foot. He also has a huge, hairy, muscled body, gives John Wayne a run for his money in the butch department, and, by all accounts from his female co-stars, is hung like a...well, a dragon.

The first Savage Dragon trade paperback establishes his wild, colorful, and sexy world. The subsequent volumes build, expand, and improve it. Also, for more diehard fans, the recent Image Comics #1 reveals Dragon's long-untold origin. So check it out, guys. Dragons: they're not just for Asians anymore.

Ten Things It's Super-Fun to Say After an SNL's "Dog Show"-esque Percussion Intro

My apologies go out to the ninety percent of you who won't understand a lick of this. And now:

1. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap lake sketch!
2. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap pantsuit!
3. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap fart barf!
4. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap Mo Fleesh!
5. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap bone spur!
6. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap poop vamp!
7. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap egg nog!
8. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap Anne Heche!
9. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap softly, lovingly, even, he caressed her silken contours, turned swiftly to gooseflesh by his rough journeyman's digits.
10. Clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap sketch pitch!

Try it. It's, like I said, super-fun.

The Idiot Box Vs...Well, Idiots

I'm sure others have said this better and with a snappier turn of phrase, but I've been doing some thinking:

TV wins.

I used to be a movie junkie. I mean, if a movie had even a sliver of potential merit, I was there. Comic-book based, with special effects? Yeah, I'll go see Spawn. Adam Sandler sure was funny on SNL, so sure, I'll go see The Waterboy. Nominated for Best Picture? Yeah, let's go. I mean, how bad can The English Patient be?

Well, it is no longer every day that I have a few hours to kill. And movies are no longer cheap. And there are douchebags-a-plenty in any given moviehouse in New York City. Phil had to turn around and scold people during King Kong. And though that act of uber-butchness gave me a huge boner, it never should have had to happen.

So now it takes a lot to get me to the movies. It takes a review that insists it will make you cream your pants, quit your job, and change religions. Because otherwise, it's just not worth my time. This year, precisely two movies made stayed with me long after the projector was shut off. Two. Crash and Brokeback Mountain. There's a couple on my list I have yet to see, but that's an embarassingly low number for a former cine-o-phile like myself.

Luckily, the void has been more than filled. Has anyone been watching TV lately? It's fucking awesome. I think that TV writers, once their fates were called into question by the increasing popularity of reality TV, really stepped up to the plate and have been working at the top of their game ever since. Arrested Development. The Office. My Name is Earl. These are three genre-re-defining sitcoms. Even fairly conventional ones, like How I Met Your Mother and Everybody Hates Chris, have snappy writing and top-notch casts. Hell, Thursday's live Will and Grace had me cackling like a ninny. And don't get me started on cable. I'll take Curb Your Enthusiasm, Entourage, Extras, and Weeds over The 40 Year-Old Virgin and Wedding Crashers any day of the week.

I really would like to see a pile of movies. I've heard great things about Good Night, and Good Luck, The Constant Gardner, Syriana, and Munich. And I would really like to catch that new Harry Potter flick before it's out of theaters. But will I? Not sure. Will I be DVRing Family Guy and Desperate Housewives tonight? Definitely.

My Weekly, Obligatory "Skeeger is the Tits" Post

Last week's opening night show sold out, people. Sold out. Like, people sitting in the aisles sold out. Like, a fire breaks out and everyone dies like it was a Great White concert sold out. Of course, I've been too busy babbling about comic books, Ricardo Antonio Chavira, and Tylenol to give you the scoop...until now.

I show up at 5:30 at the Subway restaurant next door to the theater to meet the cast for a line-through before our tech rehearsal at 7 (for an 8 o'clock opening, mind you). We line-through, we take a look at the kick-ass props and costume pieces Meaghan brought, and at 7, we march over to the theatre.

Of course I write the most technically intense sketch ever. And of course I write it for the show where we have the least amount of time to perfect it. So we very quickly go over it once or twice, only to hear that the house is opening in ten minutes. Poop. Not particularly confident, we nonetheless have to call it good enough and retreat backstage.

Cubicle goes up first. They do a bang-up job. I loudly laugh on more than one occasion from backstage. It's a weird sensation, having a show begin and still having to wait around for a half hour to go on. It's like when I played Danforth in The Crucible. All dressed up, nowhere to go. Cubicle finishes, and we, skittish as kittens, go on.

Now, this is the shortest lead time we've ever had between shows. This show was being rehearsed since the beginning of December, while we were simultaneously opening our previous all-new show. The question that was on all of our minds but never escaped from our lips was: can we do this? Can we hurry up the process and still be funny? And from the opening moments of our first sketch, we had our answer:

We sure the fuck can!

The first sketch goes above and beyond expectations. The second sketch, predicted to be somewhat of a trainwreck, scores laughs. The following sketches kill with an almost eerie consistency. The pentultimate sketch nearly doubles in length because of long, loud laughter and applause breaks (!). The tech-heavy sketch we were so nervous about? Perfection. Absolute, utter perfection. Contains one of the single funniest moments in Skeeger history. So far.

So what are you waiting for? If you live in New York City, and have been reading this blog long enough to know I'm not a total douchebag (or at least to know I, in fact, am a total douchebag in the greatest sense of the word), you need to see Cubicle and Skeeger: More Like Two Thousand Sex. Saturdays at 8pm in January. At The PIT. Best eight bucks you'll ever spend. And you'll see that moment. Oooh, that great little moment. I'm moist as a towelette just thinking about it.

My New Best Friend

This is sure to cause some controversy. After all, I already have two people who occupy the title of my best friend: James and Danny. Trying to decide between the two is like trying to decide between an apple and an orange. Albeit a tall, semi-flaky apple who is into Asians and a shorter, cynical orange who watches soap operas. Both of them can step aside now, however, because I've got me a new best friend. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...

Tylenol Cough & Sore Throat Daytime!

He's a real mensch, this one. It all began last night, as I sat down at my computer to write my blog post. I had a slight irritation in my throat. By the time I published the post, the gland on the right side of my neck had swelled to the size of a plum and it was excruciating to swallow. I panicked a bit, because it was too late at night to go out and buy medicine for it. So I had to wait until this morning, when I woke up and marched down to the pharmacy on my corner. I thought I'd have to toil endlessly in there, unsure of which medicine to buy. And then I saw him.

He was hanging out on the shelf with his buddies Alka-Seltzer and Ny-Quil. So unassuming, so humble. He was so cute, but what made him even cuter was the fact that he had no idea how cute he was. Y'know? I snatched him up and read his directions. Easy to follow, not too preachy. This one looked almost too good to be true! I plunked down some cash for him and raced home. I poured a bit of him into his convenient two-tablespoon cup, and swallowed him down. He is thoughtful enough to be flavored with an instant Cool Burst sensation. Is James? No. He functions as a pain reliever and a cough suppressant. Is Danny? Please.

My throat felt considerably better within minutes. By the time it started acting up again, it was time for another swallow of my good buddy! He's so sweet. So dependable. So trustworthy. I think I'm going to tell him about my abortion.

I can't wait to meet the rest of the Tylenol Cough & Sore Throat family. His brother Nighttime would probably fuck me up good. It all makes getting a sore throat almost seem desirable.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 1/11

I just wrote extensive reviews of seven comic books, tried to publish it, got an error message, and when it returned, my entire post was gone. My throat is swollen as hell, I feel like crap, and there's no way in hell I'm re-writing all of that shit.

In short, here's what I bought and what I thought:

Danger Girl: Back in Black #3: Totally silly, trivial, and yet somehow, still a lot of fun.

Desolation Jones #5: Good recap issue, with more info about Jones' origins. JH Williams III proves once again why he's one of the most original and innovative artists in the medium.

JLA # 124: Who the hell is the green guy? Why do Tom Derenick's layouts do nothing for me?

JLA Classified: Cold Steel #2: Writer/painter Chris Moeller's overpriced, overlong excuse to dress the JLA up as Voltron ends. Practically unreadable.

Ultimate Extinction #1: Ellis' best of the three Gah Lak Tus mini-series so far. Brando's Next Men-esque duo-tone experiment is so-so, save for the Silver Surfer pages, which look amazing.

Ultimate X-Men #66: I miss Vaughan and Immonen already. However, this is a great first issue for Kirkman and Raney. I hope they can keep it up.

Wildcats: Nemesis #5: Considering the upcoming reboot by Morrison and Lee, this tale feels superfluous. Domingues' art is horrifically amateurish-looking. Caldwell fares better, but he's also illustrating the less interesting half of the story.

Sorry. My real post had way more fun jokes and stuff. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go cough up some stuff that's inevitably green.

You're Not Going To Believe Me, But...

Olive oil gelato may well be one of the greatest tastes ever to grace my palate with its presence.

Let me start at the beginning. My sister Caitlin and I went to Otto, Mario Batali's pizzeria and enoteca (which I thought meant electronic music for pussies until my sister informed me it was a shmancy way of saying "wine bar"). We just had the cutest little dinner ever.

Course 1: A heavenly white bean and balsamic bruschetta. I rap about Skeeger, Phil, and my maybe quasi-opportunity. She tells me about her awesome new intership at a food magazine, where she'll be writing restaurant capsule reviews, eating like a queen, and being a phone wench. I decide that our busser is the handsomest busser I've ever seen. Still not super-hot, but, y'know...we're talking about bussers here. At 5'8", he may also have been the tallest. Radiohead plays. As does Neil Young.

Course 2: She has a goat cheese and carmelized onion pizza. Of course I taste it. It's exquisite. I have a meatball pizza. The meatballs burst with flavor. The sauce tastes like the tomatoes were picked after we sat down. I enjoy a glass of Pinot Nero. Caitlin sticks with agua like a champ. We theorize that it's Otto's policy that all managers must have scruffy beards, glasses, and an ill-fitting striped button-down from Express Men. My busser trips on my bookbag while carrying a stack of plates so astonishingly high that it looked like the cover of Caps For Sale. He miraculously regains his footing. I apologize profusely. He couldn't be nicer...well, for a busser. Weezer is heard. So is Madonna.

Course 3: Caitlin and I both decide to get the Black and White, a luscious-sounding blend of gelato flavors mixed with fudge and whipped cream. Our server boldly nixes this idea, insisting that I instead try the olive oil gelato. This sounds preposterous to me. He then proceeds to explain to me how "badass" the olive oil gelato is and how a "badass" like me should get it. Well, that seals the deal for me. Someone could sell me a fuschia mini-van, as long as they call me badass. While we wait, I reminisce about how Caitlin gave me my two of my favorite Christmas presents this year: a photo album full of pictures from our trip to Jackson Hole this summer, and a self-consciously passionate yet hilariously inept rendition of Kelly Clarkson's "Because of You" on the car ride home from family Christmas. The desserts arrive. I tentatively take a lick of the olive oil gelato. It tastes like licking the spoon times a hundred. It's incredible. Caitlin's is OK (and by OK, I mean just not as amazingly incredible as my newfound favorite dessert). She finds it to be just as sublime as she should. Another Radiohead song plays. Another Weezer song does too.

So go to Otto. It's a great place for a date, a good friend, or a really special meal with an amazing lassie that I'm very fortunate to have as a sister. Plus they play lots of Weezer and Radiohead and have a relatively beguiling busser.

Life, Schmife

I'm officially busy to the point where I feel unofficially Jamaican.

Skeeger just chose the sketches that will comprise their next hilarious show, February Blizoy (a free So I Like Superman garment rack to the first reader who can tell me what that refers to). This show will be twice as long, with twice as many sketches. Hence, twice the lines, twice the props, twice the headaches, and, hopefully, five or six times the hilarity? I'm trying. Tomorrow I have to do some artwork that will then be incorporated into video for the show. Sorry, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I may just have to wait until DVD.

Wednesday I begin a sitcom writing class at Upright Citizens Brigade with Emmy-nominated Monk writer Daniel Dratch. The roomie and I are taking it together like the adorable little bewhiskered writing partners that we are. Something tells me that's going to be a shitload of work. All awesome, good work. But a shitload of it too.

I don't know if any of you guys know about it, but there's also this blog thing that I do. It may seem like I spend twenty minutes a night just snarkin' it up, but in fact there is a bit more at play. And no, that doesn't mean that I spend thirty minutes a night just snarkin' it up. But you're getting warmer.

I also may have something very big happening, which could conceivably be quite time-consuming. More on that as it develops (are you so intrigued or what?).

On top of all of this, it turns out that, on occasion, I need to actually go to my job to earn funds that go toward consumables and adequate shelter. And by on occasion, I mean every waking moment that I'm not working on all of this other shit.

Farewell, leisure. Sayonara, a half-way consistent gym schedule. Peace out, desire to focus on further home decorating. I just hope that, when this is all over, my dreadlocks don't turn gray from all the weed, mon.

An Open Letter To Ricardo Antonio Chavira

Dear Ricardo (or is it Ricardo Antonio? Oh, damn you Latinos and your multiple names! Who do you think you are? Zorro?),

Hola! My name is Michael Hartney. I am an avid viewer of Desperate Housewives. Each week, I beam with glee when you, as ex-con sugar daddy Carlos Solis, step into frame. Your hapless highjinks and speechless grumbles make me wish for my own white-picket fenced abode on Wisteria Lane.

I applaud you for parlaying your newfound success into raising breast cancer awareness. I'm sorry that you lost your mother to that terrible illness, but I'm sure she's proud of you, wherever she is. Also, congratulations on the birth of your son, Tomas. I'm sure he brings even more joy into your life than you do into the lives of prime-time soap-loving Americans everywhere.

That said, let's do it.

Seriously. Let's do it super-hard for a number of hours in positions that would make Edie blush. Let's make so much noise, even the Applewhites think we're weird. C'mon. It'll be fun. You, with your dark, masculine feautures, your breathtaking dimples, and nearly impenatrable goatee....me, with my boy-next-door good looks, baby blues, and other attributes hardly worth mentioning in a public forum...our limbs intertwined in sensual harmony, our loud, impassioned moans a virtual symphony of pleasure, our sweat providing the sweet nectar of...whew. Give me a minute.

Forgive my forwardness, Ricardo. But I simply can't help myself. Hell, tonight, when you and Lynette kissed, I almost wished that I was Dr. Sam Beckett, able to leap into Felicity Huffman's body and taste those sweet plantains for myself. Until, of course, Al and Ziggy decide I can move on into a retarded guy or whatever.

But I digress. I realize that you're probably straight, having a son and all. Unless you're a Scientologist. Or a Hollywood actor. Then you're fair game. In which case, I think you should sweeten your Juan Valdez coffee with a sugar substitute I like to call...me. Forget J-Lo, Ricky, and Enrique. Ricardo, you and I should start our very own Latin explosion. Also, if you're shy, you can bring along your co-stars James Denton, Richard Burgi, and Doug Savant. And if you sill talk to Jesse Metcalfe, him too. Y'know...to break the ice. And possibly my coffee table.

Hopefully yours,
Michael Hartney

An Open Letter To Phil

Dear Phil,

Please don't be jealous.

I mean, he's totally out of my league.

Hugs 'n' kisses,
Michael

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 1/7

OK. So since this, to at least some degree, is a comic book-related blog, I decided I might as well start doing comic reviews. That way, there'll be at least one day a week where I'm not stuck for something to write about. This is a little atypically late in the week to get new comics; the holiday plus my crazy week equalled me not picking up until today. If you know me, you know that the existence of comic books that I want sitting in a store unbought for any length of time is agony. So please, when you get a chance, applaud and congratulate me for my temperance.

Day of Vengeance: Infinite Crisis Special #1
For not being my favorite Infinite Crisis prelude mini-series, this was not too shabby of a follow-up special. Spectre vs. Fate was cool, Justiniano's art is probably the best I've seen from him, and it's always nice to see the Marvel family. Finally, a little peek at what effect Shazam's death will have on them. Writer Bill Willingham's gimmick of let's-guess-which-seven-deadly-sin-is-possessing-whom gets a bit repetitive and bland after a while ("Batman's no longer the this town's greatest detective, because I already deduced you're greed."), but this is nonetheless a satisfying wrap-up to Day of Vengeance. I won't be picking up Shadowpact, though. Oh, and since when is Empress white?

Seven Soldiers: Frankenstein #2
I have no idea what in the name of hell is going on here. I probably should. There's probably bits of the previous mini-series that are referenced here that I have completely forgotten. That said, this thing is pretty cool. Grant Morrison gives Frankenstein the most bizarrely eloquent interior monologue a creature of the night has ever had, and Doug Mahnke's art is creepy, weird, and all-around snazztastic. Besides, who can't relate to a flesh-eating Martian bitch-horse who snorts jets of bright turquoise natural gas?

Superman #225
Hmmm. Kinda torn on this one. First of all, Ed Benes' art is dynamite. The cover somewhat homages Superman: The Movie, and the interiors done by Benes are dynamic, polished, and sexy. The problem is that it wasn't all drawn by Benes. Elton Ramalho, no doubt one of Benes' South American studio-mates, filled in here and there on a few pages. Not pretty. His pages look more like Baby's First Comic Book than one featuring my main man. Some cool developments are made here; subplots involving Superboy, Supergirl, and John Henry makes it feel like the book is actually going somewhere (even though this Benes and Mark Verheiden's last issue), and the appearance by the society of villains adds some menace. However, the two-panel cameo by Bizarro doesn't make a lick of sense, and the appearance of good samaritan Kevin and his unnamed female companion seems shoehorned in. What really tears me on this issue, though, is the recurring theme of "What would Superman do?" On one hand, it couldn't possibly be cheesier. On the other, I must confess often asking myself that same question. God, I'm a loser. Well, at least I don't ask what Jesus would do.

Superman/Shazam: First Thunder #3
The minuses: Does this mini-series have a point? I mean, what's so special about Judd Winick's story that it warrants four issues priced at $3.50 each? I have learned nothing new about Superman. I have learned nothing new about Captain Marvel. There's nothing really wrong with it; it's engaging enough, I suppose. But unlike, say, Superman: Red Son or Superman: Secret Identity, I don't feel like this is a tale that expands or enhances the mythos. Plus, in two separate places, the characters ask a question, which the letterer has punctuated with a period, rather than a question mark. How hard is it to find an editor. I mean what the fuck. Anyway, I'm disappointed?
The pluses: Joshua Middleton's simple, iconic artwork is tons of fun. Plus, Captain Marvel actually calls someone a low-rent, demonic, force-wielding butt-troll. That's hot.

Team Zero #2
Meet-the-players set-up issues are irresistable to me. No matter how many times it's done, I always am totally on board. This is no exception. Chuck Dixon introduces us to the team that the original Deathblow has assembled, including Marc Slayton AKA Backlash. Doug Mahnke's art is even better here than on Frankenstein, but it's great to see the contrast in styles between that and this. I never get sick of a good old fashioned church execution, either. Or racism. This baby's got both.

Teen Titans #31
Guess how interested I am in Brother Blood? Answer: un. This is the second storyline in this series involving him, and, not coincidentally, it's the second storyline in this series eliciting little more than yawns from Michael Francis. Zombies were done way better not too long ago in Ultimate Fantastic Four, not to mention much better drawn. Tony Daniel, not terribly impressive of a penciler to begin with, appears here to be under a deadline crunch. Todd Nauck, who I usually enjoy and who fills in on several pages here (the worst trend in comics, in my opinion), seems similarly rushed. That said, the talk between Beast Boy and Raven was nicely integrated into the action, the "Life and Death" door gag was really quite funny, I couldn't be more stoked for next issue's Kon-El/Superboy Prime showdown, and, though it couldn't possibly make less sense or seem less out of place, the Captain Carrot pages intrigued me.

Whew. Just call me Don MacPherson. Please don't get that joke. Please. For your sake.

Must...Get...Rest...

Worked like a dog tonight. Had a huge screaming match with a co-worker. Yuck.

Shooting a fake TV pilot tomorrow morning. More on that later.

Then it's off to wail on my glutes, quads, hams, and other various and sundry chunks of my gams.

Then a tech rehearsal for my show at seven....

Which opens at eight. Hope tech is pitch perfect. Which it won't be.

Wish me luck.

The Other Michael Hartneys

Google me.

I'm the one who played Captain Eaton in TOSOS II's Young Stowaways in Space. I'm also the one who wrote a review of Mars Attacks for the teen section of The Buffalo News when I was a junior in high school. That curly blond beauty pageant contestant in the 2000-2001 tab of MusicalFare Theatre's production history tab? Me.

I am not, however, a character on an early episode of Barnaby Jones. Nor am I the USA manager of orbiter and payload processing for ground operations at NASA. I don't go to Bates College, I've never written a paper called "Some Confusion Concerning Collective Rights", and I'm not an Episcopal minister, even though both of us are from Western New York.

I think this is insanely weird. I've never even met another Hartney outside of my family, let alone another Michael Hartney. And yet, they're out there, running around, being lawyers, alcoholism counselors, AIDS activists, and really, really old dudes from Ireland.

Oh, and for the record, I have not been caught making indecent photographs of children...yet.

Not His Shining Moment: Superman III

What were they thinking?

Two of the most thrilling comic book adaptations of all time (and certainly the top two, at the time), Superman: The Movie and Superman II, had made a second sequel a virtual no-brainer. Richard Lester, who had been brought on to finish Superman II, signed as director. David and Leslie Newman, who had co-written the first two screenplays, were back on board. And, of course, my hero Christopher Reeve was to return as Superman. Here's how the pitch must've gone:

"OK, guys. So, remember how awesome the first two movies were? Well, fuck 'em. Fuck 'em super-hard, right in their little movie butts. This time, instead of faithfully adhering to the tone of the comics and appeal of the character, why don't we make it more of a comedy? I think, instead of the awe-inspiring opening credits set in space, we'll do the title sequence underneath a hilarious series of slapstick vignettes. Hey, do you have any absinthe? Anyway, 'member how integral Lois Lane and Lex Luthor are to the Superman mythos? Well, let's leave Luthor out all together, and have Lois do only a cameo. Hell, half of Margot's teeth have fallen out anyway. Hmmm...this baby crap is delicious. Moving on, I think because Richard Pryor is cool and Superman is cool, we should put them together. Y'know? Two great tastes always taste great together. That's why I just made me a peanut butter-and-sports car sandwich. I also would love it if we could alienate our audience by turning Superman into a villainous douchebag halfway through the movie. That way, a good Clark Kent can emerge from a glowing diamond from evil Superman's forehead and strangle him. Y'know, as one does when they emerge from a glowing diamond emanating from one's doppelganger's forehead. Hell, I did it last week. Right before I licked a gopher. Now if we can do all that with a script that doesn't make a lick of sense, and, furthermore, defies the laws of both science and filmmaking, then I say...hey, do you think there's still some coke on that dollar bill?"

I saw it when I was three. To call it traumatizing would be something of an understatement. First of all, Superman's hair is, like, brown throughout the entire thing. Huh? Sure, it gets even more brown when he's evil, but it's never black. And it always should be. Then, drunk Superman? Geez, that freaked me out. There's a scene where he melts the mirror in the bar with his heat vision. The mirror sort of distorts and bubbles and warps. Except, when I was a kid, I didn't realize it was a mirror. I thought it was Superman's head. Nightmares for weeks much? But the most horrifying scene in Superman III, which haunts me to this day, is the scene where Vera gets sucked into the super-computer. Those silver eyes, those screams, that hair...I know I'm not alone here, people. Shit was creepy.

Phil and I watched it together this past weekend. Why? I don't know. I guess we craved a good bad movie. It was probably either that or Return to the Blue Lagoon. We actually had a blast watching it, though. It was fun to laugh at and make fun of, sure. But there's semi-redeeming qualities, too. First of all, if Superman made a cameo at the end of Gigli, I would consider it a must-see. So a whole movie about him, though terrible, is still kinda good. Richard Pryor, though wildly out of place, is pretty funny here and there. Annette O'Toole kinda reminds me of my mom. And the chemical plant fire is kind of exciting, too. Superman freezing a lake and dropping it over the fire? Sweet. But the best part of this recent viewing experience had to be the discovery of the original trailer for it on my DVD.

You have to see this thing. And I mean have to. You're not allowed to read my blog anymore if you don't. Trust me, I'm doing you a favor. This thing will change your life. Just click here. I cannot imagine one person in the world watching that trailer and saying, "Y'know, that thing doesn't look half-bad". First of all, the plot it describes is nothing like the film's plot. Second, it has the most awesome cheesy announcer ever. And third...well, you just have to see for yourself. See if you can guess the moment of the trailer that had me both laughing my homo ass off and screaming "What?!?" at the top of my lungs at the same time.

God, now I need to check out Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. That's gotta be one jacked-up trailer.

Rescued From Writer's Block

I honestly had no idea what I was going to post about until I browsed The Sean Show, one of my most favoritest blogs in the whole wide world. Thanks, Sean. I needed this.

Four jobs you’ve had in your life: Paperboy, salon receptionist, waiter, actor (by the way, these are my answers, not Sean's, in case you're an idiot)
Four movies you could watch over and over: Superman: The Movie, Dirty Dancing, Big, Adventures in Babysitting
Four places you’ve lived: My mom's uterus, Buffalo, Long Island, New York City
Four TV shows you love to watch: Saturday Night Live, The Office, Arrested Development, Smallville
Four places you’ve been on vacation: France, San Francisco, Jackson Hole, Fire Island
Four websites you visit daily: Newsarama, The Superman Homepage, The IRC, BigMuscleBear (yeah, I'll own that)
Four of your favorite foods: Lasagna, burgers, guacamole, my Mom's apple betty
Four places you’d rather be: Though I love it here, if I had to pick four other places, they'd be: Sydney, Chicago, Columbus, and the Fortress of Solitude
Four albums you can’t live without: u2's Achtung Baby, The Police's Synchronicity, Counting Crows' August and Everything After, and Robbie Williams' Escapology
Four magazines you read: Entertainment Weekly, Time Out New York, Superman, Ex Machina
Four cars you’ve owned: I've owned one. It was a 1989 Plymouth Accord. I had it for, like, five months during my senior year of college and into the following summer. The license plate read BEN 4770. Hilarious, considering I was just getting over my break-up with Ben. A crazy old bat named Margarita ran a stop sign and totalled my car as I was heading home from doing laundry at my folks'. Thanks for almost single-handedly financing my move to New York, Margarita. Oh, and have another.
Four people to do this meme: Hmmmm...Sean's out, so I guess I leave it to my other links. Dop, Dustin, Charlie, and Dan, let's hear it.

Skeeger Presents: More Like Two Thousand Sex

It opens Saturday, folks. Let's see this one, huh?

You'll meet some drivers, some passengers, some pundits, some angry lake-dwellers, some comedians, some dying kids, and a zombie vampire werewolf. How can you go wrong?

Seriously, though, guys. This show will be all kinds of fantastic. We're really proud of this one. It's got everything. A multi-media sketch, a silent sketch, and, of course, a crazy-ass sketch or two (or six).

Plus, you get two shows for the price of one! Kick-ass sketch troupe Cubicle is sharing the bill with us. Half hour of the sketch troupe hailed "The Best in NYC" at the National Comedy Theatre, and then a half hour of...well, us. Does it get any better than that?

Check the sidebar for more details. And then show your comedy-lovin' ass up. Beyotches.

All is Quiet...

Phil and I wake up at 12:30 today, free of hangovers. Plus.

Brunch at Michael's Resturant in Astoria. They have a full brunch menu with coffee and two (count them, two!) mimosas for twelve bucks. Plus plus.

Phil tells me that it's a German thing to eat sauerkraut on New Year's Day for good luck. Puzzled but delighted, we both order reubens, which end up being dynamite. Plus plus plus.

We meet Chad and his boyfriend Pete at Cup Diner, just to say hi. Phil gets to meet Pete, and I get to prove that I, in fact, have friends. Pliggity-plus.

We see King Kong. Not half-bad, I say. Phil loves it. I wince at the natives. He winces at the dizzying aerial climax. We both wince at the bug scene. We hold each other the whole time. Plus Mc-Fluss.

Groceries are bought. Phil's cooking me dinner as I type this. French onion soup, stuffed chicken breasts, salad, and garlic bread. I'm making dessert. Piggity-wiggity ponchie-ka-donchie-donch plus-a-ma-doo.

If anyone has a lead on developing beaming technology, let me know. I resent each and every one of the 572.16 miles between Phil's place and mine. Minus.

Dinner will be ready in moments. I had better go. Happy New Year, everyone. I hope your pluses outweigh your minuses, too.