Social Grace I Have Yet to Master #73G: Bar Flirtation

I suck at an astounding number of things. I can't do the mashed potato to save my life. If it doesn't come in a cardboard box with a microwave sleeve, I can't cook it. And the legless guy on the subway could kick my ass in a game of 1-on-1. But I suck at all of those things because I never do them, or at the very least, don't do them because I suck at them. But I go to bars a lot. Too much, some (or all) might say. I really should be much better at this than I am.

To Baldy McRingerTee at the bar tonight: you're an attractive fella. I enjoyed your thick, stocky physique and your neatly trimmed goatee. Your hauntingly clear eyes, wedge-shaped, with hints of melancholy could, in fact, be characterized as dreamy. Our pattern of coy eye contact, once established, was amusing. That part I have down, I suppose.

Here's the deal, though: Was I supposed to do something else after that? I mean, you were standing there with your friends, some of which you were putting your arms around and such. I was sitting there with James. Were we supposed to ditch our bar companions for each other? And if so, how does one even initiate that? Should it have been me? "I'm sorry to interrupt this huge group of men, but I'm Michael, and I'd like to talk to that one." Should it have been you? "Hey, guys. I see you're in the middle of a conversation, but see, I'm Baldy McRingerTee, and I've got some business to take care of with one of you, leaving the other one to toil in solitude."

I'd like to think that I was hanging on James' every word, but in truth, I was looking over his right shoulder and admiring the shape of your nipple ring that protruded from your perfectly tight namesake. And though your subsequent lifting of your shirt and rubbing of your furry belly, while loudly remarking to your friend that three weeks were all you'd need to get a six-pack, were lamely ham-fisted attempts to catch my eye, I will admit that said eye was, in fact, caught.

I think I deserve a modicum of props for saying "Hi" to you on my way to the restroom. Your "Hey" was not unnoticed. By the time I emerged, however, James was ready to go, and even if I wanted to stay and build upon the rock-solid foundation established by our two exchanged syllables, you were still hanging out with your friends, and then I'd look like a creepy predator. So, I'm sorry that I completely suck at bar flirtation. Though might I suggest that you may also somewhat suck at it?

It's probably not too tragic a loss; after three sentences, I may have determined that I wanted nothing to do with you, and that would be an awkward out. You could have ascertained that I'm a smug and pompous cretin, and had your posse pants me. But what if? What if the synchronicity of events had been different? What if the confluence of circumstances led us to romance, or passion, or friendship, or murder? What if Kal-El's rocketship had been found by Thomas and Martha Kent? The world will never know.

And/or care.

Michael "Dice" Hartney

By the time I was three years old, I was already reading at an elementary school level. While other kids were learning how to do normal kid stuff like throw and catch balls, play with trucks, and not be all awkward and gay, I was ooohing and aaahing at putting letters together into words. I read everything. Books? Sure. Comics? Hell yeah. Billboards? Bring 'em on. Nutrition labels? I'll show you riboflavin!

Imagine how fucking obnoxious I was.

I can't stand precocious little kids. It's like, aren't you supposed to be zoning out in front of the TV and drooling all over yourself while liberally filling your Huggies Pull-Ups? I don't need your "Wyf of Bath" quote, Tyler, or Cooper, or Porter, or whatever ridiculous first name you sport. So I shudder to think of how I must have behaved back then. And I mean shudder in that Sideshow Bob getting smacked with a garden hoe kind of way.

UPDATE: Thanks, Joe, for reminding me that it's a rake, not a garden hoe. I got...well, served. In my defense, aren't we humans only allowed to have encyclopaedic knowledge of only one (1) pop culture phenomenon? I'm just sayin' is all. Oh, and did you see this season's episode in Italy where the rake gag was called back? Awesome.

Most annoyed were probably my dad's nine (!) sisters, whose children didn't exactly take to reading and academics like I did. Even now, in their mid-twenties, they struggle with especially sophisticated billboards and nutrition labels. Yeah, Aunts 1 through 9 thought I was some kind of show-off, as if I had any clue that my cousins couldn't quite sound out what that one guy was telling Sam-I-Am he didn't like.

One of my favorite things to read was, of all things, the TV program guide channel. The one that just scrolls the programming schedule for all the stations. It combined two of my favorite things, reading and TV, and loudly reading what was being scrolled gave me a feeling I would have described as orgasmic if it wouldn't be eight or so more years before I had an inkling of what an orgasm was. After some of the listings, it would say "cont.", as in "continued", if it was a particularly long movie or was the half-hour mark listing of an hour-long show. I would read that, too.

Imagine my mother's surprise when, from three rooms away, she heard her three year-old son bellowing this: "Press Your Luck! The Great Space Coaster! Cagney and Lacey! Cunt! Slap Shot! 1977! The coach of a third-rate minor league hockey team that will do anything to win! Cunt! Sally Jessy Raphael! Cunt!"

Once my mother figured out what in the name of fuck was going on, she told me I couldn't repeat the abbreviation for the word "continued" anymore. I was stunned; why? After all, I could read it; shouldn't I say it if it's there in print, waiting to be shouted from the rooftops? That's when she explained that the forbidden syllable was another word for a pussycat (yes, that was my mother's baffling euphamism for a vagina; why she thought including a swear word synonym as part of said word is beyond me. I will, however, offer that her pet name for a penis was not cock a-doodle doo or anything). It would be years before I would say that glorious word again.

Last weekend, my mother referred to her own vagina as a "coo-coo". I love that cunt.

A Pair of Notable Events

1.) I booked my very first professional commercial. Sweet. It all begins here, folks. I lied when I said this blog was about comic books, sketch comedy, and gay sex. It's about a young man's meteoric rise to fame. Be lucky that you're in on the ground floor of it. I'm nearly 40% kidding.

2.) I sat down at a booth at the Waverly Diner whose previous occupant had been none other than...Colin Farrell. I have never seen him in a film and went, "Wow. He's remotely attractive in the slightest." But in person? Jesus Christ. I would have let him take me right then and there, right over table #17, paying for that poor lady's reuben, of course. He was ridiculously handsome, taller than I expected, and sported a tight, sexy-as-hell fade haircut. Much yummier than that reuben, I'd imagine. Oh, and have you seen that sex tape?

Out of the Loop and Hatin' It

The New York alternative comedy scene is a bitch.

Anyone who knows me from Adam knows about my obsession with SNL (more as an institution than, say, a currently consistently funny show). They also know that Mike Myers is one of my comedy idols.

My question, then, is how come I didn't know that Mike Myers is doing a one-man show, Padsana on Human Potentiality and Equipoise by His Holiness the Guru Pitka, at the Magnet Theater?!? What, I'm not in a sketch group anymore, so now I have to live vicariously through The Apiary? It's some sort of secret show that only privileged members of the community get in on? That's some bullshit.

I'm terribly sorry that I don't spend my weeknights kissing ass at improv theatres with my thick-rimmed glasses and my marginal talent. I'm also sorry that I'm not some girl who has sex with ugly improv dudes, which apparently would somehow, by carnal extension, make me an improv chick. Furthermore, I'm sorry I can't pay out of my asshole for year-round improv classes, which would keep me in with the "cool kids". What's amazing to me is that these "cool kids" are a bunch of outcasts who were teased and picked on and shunned out of cliques in high school. That's somewhat akin to me pistol-whipping a gay guy.

Mike Myers, I want to see your damn show. Did you really only tell the "cool kids" about it? That'd be so uncool.

While I'm at it, are there other things I should know about, guys? Is there some party in New York City where half-naked musclebears lay down cubbish, red-bearded Aryan dudes on piles of comic books and cater to their every whim? If so, I'd better find a "cool kid" and kiss his ass.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 4/26

Savage Dragon #125
Yippee skippie! Erik Larsen went and gave us 64 whopping pages o' story this month! This baby is a doozy; the lion's share is original material, with a couple of back-up stories from various scattered Image Comics specials thrown in for good measure. Dragon, now with a (crappy) robotic arm, continues to take on the bad guys and look for Jennifer, Angel, and Rex despite losing his healing abilities. Then a dick named The Fly puts Dragon in a coma. Oh, and Mr. Glum wishes for the ability to turn anyone to his will...and gets it. This is more like it; this issue is packed with the kind of mirth and exuberant unexpectedness that I expect from Larsen. The lead story starts off with the kind of clunky, let's-get-it-overwith artwork that has been troubling me for the last couple of issues. But once Dragon and company head back to the station, we see Larsen's incredible gift for panel composition and storytelling once again. The backup stories are a hoot, if a bit fluffy, and it's a real treat to see Larsen ape Frank Miller in the Mr. Glum Christmas story. What's most remarkable in this issue, however, is the Fly story. With one single panel of Dragon in the hospital repeated over and over again over 24 pages, Larsen relies solely on his dialogue and greatly-improved lettering to keep readers interested. Most of the time, it works. But even when it doesn't, it's wonderful to see someone take a risk and try something different and off the beaten path.

Solo #10
Let it never be said that Damion Scott doesn't bring da noise and/or funk. I've admired his funky work from afar for years now, hoping he'd eventually end up on a book that I was actually interested in buying. At long last, that book is here. Here, his unique hybrid of graffiti-inspired imagery with traditional comic idioms is boldly showcased; this book practically drips with style. First up, a beautifully illustrated, if thematically baffling tale of the Flash. Scott himself prefaces his tale with a disclaimer that some of his linework may be hard to decipher or interpret right away, and that is certainly true here; but one looks past the thick, uniform lineweights and studies the page a bit closer, raw and kinetic beauty begin to emerge. His reverence for Superman is told in eight pin-up pages with tag-like hidden words that describe the man of steel. Sure, this work may not belong in a conventional Superman book, but Scott's offbeat take is definitely worth a look. He takes a look back at the more traditional style he used on Batgirl with a team-up tale of her and the female Robin; though it's surely a lot of fun to see Scott revisit the type of work that first caught my eye, it's also the least interesting yarn of the bunch, both story and art-wise. The best is saved for last in a truly beautiful piece that looks at a future where Robin and Batgirl are married. Not only is Scott's work here dynamic, clear, and quirky as hell, but the story carries genuine emotional weight. I hope he lands another regular gig soon, and I also hope he's given the freedom to really cut loose like he does here.

Seven Soldiers: Frankenstein #4
This book is filled with impalings, sentient nebulae, and billion-year time jumps. It's certainly anything but boring, but it manages to be a bit befuddling as well. Grant Morrison's Seven Soldiers project has been something of a mixed bag for me; each mini-series has been filled with nice moments and flashes of outright brilliance, but along the way, it never quite gelled into a cohesive reading experience. While I understand that Morrison intended for these mini-series to stand on their own, what I feel he instead managed to do was squeeze enough detail from other series to make them not quite stand on their own, but not enough to make it feel like a complete read. Oh, well. At least J.H. Williams III is drawing the conclusion. Anyway, back to my boy Frankie. He's a bad-ass, that's for sure. What I dig in this issue are the bits with Nebula Man, the deeper connections forged between this and the DC universe proper, and, above all, Doug Mahnke's delicious, demented artwork. He runs a bit hot and cold with me, but this offering was creepily beautiful from start to finish.

Ultimate Fantastic Four #29
The "President Thor" storyline concludes here, with not quite the bang I would have hoped. Millar set an awfully high bar for himself in the first chapter, and though this is certainly an engaging and lushly drawn read, he never quite brought it back to the imaginitive exuberance that he established earlier on. Super Skrulls wicked countdown of the human population was chilling in that widescreen Authority kinda way, I loved Ben's path to victory, and the next story aims to impress, as well. Ultimately, I'm satisfied. But then I remember when I told everyone to get into their cars and buy UFF #27 ASAP. You can buy this issue, too. It's really quite good. But you can walk to the store this time, if you want.

Villains United: Infinite Crisis Special #1
This issue really does have a handful of the things that I can never quite resist in the realm of super-hero comic-bookdom: a widely-cast major global threat, an assembling of heroes, a who's who of obscure characters, and a cliffhanger ending. Gail Simone wrote the strongest Infinite Crisis prelude series, and here she writes the strongest epilogue. More than ever before, she infuses her villains with a ruthlessness and a sense of true terror, while imbuing her heroes with ingenuity and nobility in a way that's usually more often seen in the pages of a Mark Millar book or a Warren Ellis book. Soon enough, anything she has a hand in will end up in the top ten, I'm guessing. It's too bad that Dale Eaglesham's listless layouts don't complement the story better. I'm almost of the mind that I'd rather have an artist make bold choices and take risks and fail than an artist who has a firm grasp of the tenets of sequential art and does competent, predicatable work. There's nothing really wrong with his work; page 10, in fact, really deftly conveys an impending sense of dread. But there's also nothing about his work that makes me go, "Hhhhhhhooooooooaaaaa!" (that makes more sense when you hear it, incidentally). I will say this, though; despite his sloppy table manners, I would still totally do Catman.

Next week: the crisis concludes.

I Mean, They Did Invent It, After All...

Tonight, at karaoke at Splash, my soaring version of Robbie Williams' "Angels" was defeated by a lithe Asian's tepid-at-best warbling of "On the Wings of Love".

Read about all this and more in this month's issue of Stuff That I Shouldn't Reveal In A Public Forum Because It Not Only Shows What A Cheesy Loser I Am, But Also Reinforces The Fact That My Life Is A Pathetic and Empty Void Digest. Get your copy today!

...and scene.

Adventures in Outlet Mall Shopping

Mom and I headed to the Factory Outlet Mall in Niagara Falls for some dirt cheap bargoons. Little did we know that there would be a mother-and-son one-act play competition that day, right in the middle of the mall! Luckily, we both love Albee's Zoo Story and performed it with aplomb and a deliciously novel Oedipal twist. Despite stiff competition from Denise and Paulie Kenjarski's rousing rendition of Churchill's Heart's Desire and Krystal and D.J. Vandewater's inventive two-person take on Assassins, we managed to snag not only the hearts and good wishes of a mall full of Lasalle, NY born-and-bred trash, but also the title of...
Sadly, however, one of the criteria for the competition was that neither mother nor son could now nor ever have been an employee at the Factory Outlet Mall. No sooner had we received our blazing bejeweled scepters than a photo of a 20 year-old Mary Hammond (later Hartney) in an Orange Julius uniform was uncovered. Not only was our crown and title stripped from us, but we were taken to a holding facility right there at the mall and had to wait for my father to bail us out. Yes, we sure were...
Well, either that, or my mom and me decided to act like assholes at a hilariously cheesy photo booth in the middle of the mall and laugh our asses off. You decide.

I Broke A Chair

Mom pulled out all the stops tonight. New York strip steaks, corn on-the-cob, garlic mashers, and turnovers. Eating red meat, however, is a touch dangerous when you have a family as funny as mine.

She began a story about going to the outlet mall with my father and sister, mentioning that my father split off from them so that he could look around in the boring guy stores. Mom and Caitlin happened upon a kiosk with "beds you can see into".

I interrupted. "Am I going to pee my pants?"
Mom replied. "You may."

She described these beds as those ridiculous massage beds that you lay in, and water jets cascade over you. Caitlin and my mom wondered who in their right mind would climb into one of these beds in the middle of the mall floor and lay there like an idiot.

When they reteamed with my father, the first thing he said was, "Guess what I just did!"

There's a mirror in the dining room. I could see my head turning beet red as I laughed it right the hell off. Tears streamed down my face and puddled into my potatoes. Then I leaned back on my chair. It broke. The back of the chair just snapped. More laughter. Even my parents were laughing too hard to care.

We all finally managed to gain our composure. That's when my father asked my mother, "Did you seriously say 'beds you can...see...into'?" This time I was unprepared. My mouth was full of steak. I had to get up and run around a little so I wouldn't choke. It was amazing.

The Hartneys should get their own show.

My Name is Michael H., and I Enjoy a Reality Show

Mary and Michael Hartney Senior have created a monster.

It started when my father, en route to Home Depot, of all places, started talking about how much he enjoys American Idol. Then my mother told me how damn much she enjoyed Blow Out, because she loves to hate that douchebag Jonathan.

Well, then we all sat down and watched a three-hour (!) Top Chef marathon. And reduce my short rib and call me braised, if it wasn't positively engaging.

First of all, Donkey Lips from Nickelodeon's Salute Your Shorts has apparently become a deluded lunatic named Miguel.
Tiffani, or, as like to call her, Little Lez Annie.
Dave, a hot mess so tragic I caught Tara Reid rolling her eyes at him.
Stephen, a suit-and-tie clad creepzilla who will be played by Zach Braff in the eventual film about his 2013 killing spree.
Lee Anne, the token chubby, belligerent Asian.
And Harold, the cool, sensible man's man who I totally hope wins.
In addition to these folk, there's Katie Lee Joel (Billy's trophy wife), who appears to be barely capable of completing a single scripted sentence, and, saving the best for last, there's Chef Tom Colicchio. Oh, Chef Tom...I want you to be my top chef. In fact, you can even forget about the chef part.

I am deeply ashamed. Next week you may find me in the alley behind The Roxy, desperately trying to score the next episode. I may show up to work the next morning, bleary-eyed and muttering about concasses and brulees. Hopefully someday, I will get the help that I need. But probably not before the finale. Which I will be DVRing. Sigh.

Home

I flew to Buffalo today to hang out with my parents and my brother for the weekend. Here's what I missed since Christmas:

-Everyone drives a truck. Everyone. When I was waiting for my father to pick me up at the airport (in a pick-up, no less), I saw precisely one car circling the arrivals loop. One. Everything else was a huge, anti-lock four-wheel v6 turbo mega truck 3000. Y'know, for the craggy terrain that is Western New York. PS: Western New York is flat. Like Debra Messing flat.

-There is now a Jim's Steak-Out right near my parents' house. You probably don't know what Jim's Steak-Out is. Once you try their chicken finger sub, you may be hard-pressed to name what it isn't.

-Our neighbors made a sex tape. Their son uncovered it with his friends. These are two people I can't imagine having genitals, let alone manipulating each other's genitals and capturing it on video. I bet Mr. S is the bottom.

Time for bed. Shopping, the movies, and dinner with my family awaits tomorrow. Then, the casino with Phil, his mom, and his stepfather. The latter may just be so surreal, there will actually be clocks at this casino. And they'll be melting.

Don't Eat Stuff You're Allergic to, and Other Life Lessons

Lesson #1: Don't eat stuff you're allergic to. My sister Caitlin is doing a feature on grits for Eats magazine. This involves going to different restaurants around the city and letting them feed you free food and kiss your ass so that you'll say you like their grits in your grits editorial. Grits. It's the best scam going. In the midst of one of her down-home, cornmeal-chuggin' free-for-alls, Caitlin brilliantly decided to eat something with a shrimp-based sauce, knowing full well that she's allergic to it. Surprisingly enough, she had an allergic reaction to it! Newspapers were called; presses were stopped. My sister went to the emergency room, where they stuck an IV in her, shoved tubes up her nose, and shot her up with crazy amounts of medication. Scary. By the time James and I had gotten to her, she had been released, and looked weak as a kitten (yet surprisingly, also somewhat sassy and fierce). So if you guys are ever out with me, and I decide that I want to shove fistfuls of arithromycin down my throat, stop me. Thanks.

Lesson #2: If you want faggots to come in droves, make your beer dirt-cheap. Y'know, nothing follows up a visit to your recently-hospitalized sister than an East Village bar crawl. James and I hit trusty standby The Phoenix first. The bar was a chilly 110 degrees, and was stuffed to the gills with hundreds of gay boys I could never even possibly have the slightest shred of interest in fucking. Which was actually great, considering I got to chat with James without libido-fueled distractions. But one $2 pint of Bud Light was all I could stand. I'm not a fan of crowds. Don't like concerts, don't like sporting events. If U2 wants to come over and play for me, fine. If Jason Giambi wants to stop by and knock one out of my park, he's more than welcome. It's when I have to share them with thousands of people who look like they were born near the Dippin' Dots cart at a county fair that the trouble begins.

Lesson #3: Some crazy-ass shit happens in New York. After The Phoenix, James and I hopped over to another East Village bar that was having a special party that apparently attracts the type of dudes I'm into. We showed up, paid a cover, and walked into what first seemed to be a fairly normal scene. Dudes in t-shirts and polos, sipping cocktails and beers...oh, look! My friend Greg and his boyfriend. How nice to see them...oh, look! A naked person. No clothes on. Whatsoever. Greg's boyfriend likes comics. Cool! I didn't know that before. Oh look! Another naked person! Hmmmm. This Bud Light sure is tasty. Oh look! One naked person is blowing another naked person right at the bar! That sure is normal. I'm glad James' stomach is feeling better. Oh look! One naked person is eating another person's asshole, while that person is getting blown by a guy who's getting fucked by a donkey-dicked black dude, while four dudes are standing around them while jerking off and sniffing poppers. This DJ sure plays some good music. I wonder if they have Shasta here?

Lesson #4: You can't put backspin on a beanbag. I stole that one from Charles Schulz.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 4/19

Ahem.

A return to the light with a light week of comics.

Ex Machina Special #1
To give regular series artist Tony Harris a breather, Brian K. Vaughan has enlisted Chris Sprouse to draw this two-part story that introduces us to the Great Machine's nemesis, Jack Pherson. What's kind of strange about creator-owned books like this is that one rarely gets to see other visual interpretations of the book's characters by other artists. Y'know? It's always interesting to see what an artist's take on Superman or Batman is, but who, other than Erik Larsen, draws Dragon with any regularity? With that in mind, I almost think that Sprouse's style is almost too similar to Harris'. It would have been really fun to see a totally different artist take on this world. What would Gene Ha's Mitchell Hundred look like? John Paul Leon's? Humberto Ramos'? That said, Sprouse really steps up to the plate here. His work has a level of detail and dynamism not seen since his early issues of Tom Strong. Vaughan's tale, as always, balances gee-whiz superheroics with grounded, real-world issues. Pherson is a really cool character, and I can't wait to find out more about him, especially with the foreshadowing of Vaughan's framing sequence. The downside here? I really wish that this tale could have been told within the confines of the regular series. I realize that it's so Vaughan and Harris' run can be uninterrupted, but now I have to file this series away separately, and that always irks an anal-retentive dork on the cusp of OCD like me. Like me. Like me. (taps floor seven times) Like me. (crushes an entire box of saltines and puts them into three Tupperware containers, each of a different dimension, though the volume of all three is evenly divisible by three) Like me. (blinks thirty-eight times)

JLA Classified #20
Oh, Justice League. You are always so in peril. The pentultimate chapter of "The Hypothetical Woman" shows our heroes' approach to the battle against Tuzik and his superhuman army one by one. Batman plays chess. Green Lantern appeals to youth. Wonder Woman kicks some serious ass. And Superman is a bully? Hmmm. A lot is happening here; Gail Simone squeezes in fight scenes, politics, the inevitable raising of the Titanic, and a cliffhanger ending that, given the fact that the "Sacrifice" storyline practically launched the DCU into Infinite Crisis, looks like a fake-out. Jose Luis Garcia-Lopez doesn't disappoint; Sean Phillips on inks, however, may a little. The pair-up just isn't as seamless as last issue. The linework feels a little...wonkier than it needs to be.

Justice #5
Oh, Justice League. You are always so in peril. Here, Superman is rescued by Captain Marvel and is taken to the Batcave. Green Lantern is stuck in Nowheresville. Wonder Woman tries to figure out what the dilly is, yo, with Cheetah. Though this book still feels like a rehash of three or four archetypical super-team stories, Alex Ross and Doug Braithwaite's artwork takes it to another level. Cap's appearance is gorgeous, the shot of the Batcave is cool (though I'd prefer Cap and Superman to be a bit more prominent in it), and Superman slugging Batman is a classically freakin' sweet fanboy moment. Let's take another trip to Nitpickburg: Ross is clearly not using his normal life model for Superman, and is rather painting over Braithwaite's rendering of Superman's face. Not good. For the most part, I would say the collaboration is an advantageous one; the pairing has a fluidity that the artists by themselves lack. But that face...that ain't Superman. That ain't even Brandon Routh.

Did It Just Get Darker In Here?

Kevin Ray Underwood, like me, is 26. Two of his favorite movies, like mine, are Fight Club and Airplane! He likes comic books, keeps a blog, and laments his singlehood.

Like me.

Unlike me, Kevin Ray Underwood decided last week to lure his 10 year-old neighbor, Jamie Rose Bolin, into his Oklahoma apartment, where he bludgeoned and/or suffocated her to death, and allegedly planned to rape, dismember, and eat her.

I spent quite a while reading Kevin's blog. I won't link it here; if you truly want to see it, I trust you'll find it. His blog is creepy, disturbing, and scary as hell.

He does not allude to fantasies of bloodlust. He does not wax poetic about mutilation. He does not refer to himself as the devil incarnate who will lead his army of minions to armageddon. And that's what is so creepy, disturbing, and scary as hell about it.

It would be easy to call Kevin an inhuman monster. But it wouldn't be the truth. Kevin is a person who committed a monstrous, unspeakable act. He's a kid who didn't get the help he so desperately sought and needed until it was too late.

To read his blog in order is to literally witness someone's descent into madness. His first post is an unbelievably insensitive complaint about the reverence given to 9/11. It's stupid and douchebaggy, but at the end of the day seems to just be the work of someone who wants a shred of attention of any kind.

Further posts reveal his social phobias, his series of heartbreaks, and his battle with depression. He knew he was sick. He was trying to get help. One post is about how he couldn't find the prescription drug he had been on on a Canadian website. Why was he looking there? Because he couldn't afford to keep taking it here. Obviously, no excuse is to be made for what he has done, but it's yet another really sad commentary on the pathetic state of the American health care system.

After that post, Kevin stopped posted anything personal about himself. For two months, all he posted were links to other sites, mostly news stories, and pasted text from other sources. He had managed to dissociate from even his own personal outlet. His last post, April 13th, was a link to the news story about scientists finding the supposed missing link. Jamie Rose Bolin's body was in a duct-taped bin in his closet when he posted it. There are over 700 comments attached to that post, mostly wishes that Kevin will rot in hell and many a demand that he fuck himself. I suppose that makes these people feel better or something.

This has shaken me. I can't believe a person like him lives here in our world. I can't believe how much he hurt. I can't believe he couldn't find anyone to be his friend. I can't believe that he can read 450 words a minute. I can't believe that he's just as confused about the seemingly endless attempts to stick Batman in an animated series as me. I can't believe anyone could do something like that to a little girl.

Kevin Ray Underwood will likely either spend the rest of his life in jail or be executed. The thousands of people who have sent him hate mail may think that he will spend that time plotting new heinous things to do to innocent people. Writing manifestos. Proudly marvelling at his handiwork. Those things may be true. The thing I've never thought about before is what has been consuming my mind since I began looking into this. He will probably also continue to pine after the lost love of his pathetic life. Continue to have the thoughts and feelings of a real, live human being. And, perhaps scariest of all, continue to be intelligent, well-read, and funny.

Like me.

I Didn't Get It

So my agent called me this morning and told me that I had been "released" from my first refusal for the commercial. Quel bummer.

The pros: I don't have to get rid of my beard, and by "my beard", I mean "the only thing keeping me somewhat sexy". I made a kick-ass impression on my agent and the casting directors and will be seen more easily for more stuff. I get to hang out with my friend Vinny tomorrow at Big Lug.

The cons: I don't get to go to Philadelphia (where I have inexplicably never been). I don't get to hang out in front of a green screen all day and shoot a fun, Blue's Clues-esque commercial that I would be perfect for. I don't get me a phatty boomalatty paycheck.

Oh well. Saw Inside Man today. Aside from a wildly unneccessary and reductive last ten seconds, it's a really engaging little thriller. Saw United 93's trailer. My heart raced and my eyes filled with tears. I'm not sure yet whether that was a good or bad thing. Ate at 718, the winner of Time Out NY's Best Queens Restaurant this year. 'Twas yummy.

Fuckin' commercial...

Mary Hartney's Crazy-Ass Greeting Cards Part 1: Easter

My wonderful mother is out of her mind. It's part of her charm. Her inspired lunacy is never more evident than when I receive a card from her. Apparently borrowing a page from her paranoid schizophrenic aunt (who, to to this day, insists that my Great Aunt Anne gave birth to me and that my mother is an impostor...no joke), my mother's cards are filled with bizarre stream-of-consicousness thoughts and daffy non-sequitirs. Here's the latest, relatively coherent offering, a cut-out card of three bunnies sleeping together in a basket. My comments are italicized, but that should be obvious to anyone who doesn't suck at everything.

Dear Michael,
I could not resist this card. It reminded me of Home for a Bunny!
Home for a Bunny, incidentally, is the Little Golden Book by Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Garth Williams that became the first book I ever read. It's really adorable, and, I've discovered on later re-readings, refreshingly gay-positive. The last page features two bunnies sleeping together and the line, "And that was his home." We need to move on. I'm getting a touch misty.
How I miss those days.
You were piss poor while supporting your husband in dental school and a snot-nosed loudmouth who demanded a toy be bought for him daily. I'd miss 'em too.
We would sit for literally hours (not, in fact, literally) before (it took me several minutes to figure out what this word was, with confirmation by my sister and cousin) you would go to sleep and read your favorite stories over and over again. I could not skip pages because you knew when I did - It really isn't very easy raising brilliant children like I had too.
Too? C'mon, Mom.
But one thing is - it was never boring.
Yeah. 'Member that time I tore the encyclopedia you bought me the previous week in half and threw it in the fireplace, and then, with brain throbbing and blood trickling out of my ears, I grabbed you by your throat and screamed "MUST...HAVE...MORE...KNOWLEDGE!"? That probably wasn't the least bit boring.
I asked your father if he had anything to add...he said..."Hi Mike! Happy Easter! Don't be a Silly Bunny!" ? OK we are done with him.
Good call, Mare. Although you can tell Dad that I took his advice and was a stern, laconic bunny this year. I didn't even thump.
Have a good day! Enjoy your brunch. It's my treat. Let me know how much I owe you. I am looking forward to you coming home! We are very proud of you. You work very hard!
OK. My sister said, and I agree, that this last part sounds like an elementary school report, full of declarative sentences with a total lack of flow. "New York is large. Its capital is Albany. The Erie Canal is long. There was a prison riot at Attica. I like seltzer." My hunch is that my father was trying to rush my mother out of the house for their 4:30pm old people dinner while she was trying to finish up the card. The entire last paragraph was probably written while shouting, "I'm coming, honey! Just a minute!"
Love,
Mom

I love that crazy, flame-haired vixen more than life. Happy Easter.

But Then She Learned That, While Good Girls go to Heaven, Bad Girls go Everywhere

Summer 2001: The phone rang. Was it Ben, begging to have me back? Was it Dave, looking to grab a cocktail and look at boys while I look at men? No. It was Karla, out of the blue. Hadn't heard from her in a long, long time. She was calling because, as part of her recovery in AA, she wanted to apologize for everything she had done to me. In a small but signifiant way, I appreciated it. She wanted to buy me coffee and talk about this more in depth. I, with no shortage of hesitation, agreed.

In seventh grade, I played percussion in my middle school's band and orchestra. On a song we played for our fall concert, my sole role was to crash two giant cymbals together at its dramatic climax. Feeling fairly ridiculous, I would do it every time in overjoyed, histrionic mocking. It was pretty much for the amusement of myself and the other percussionists (and by percussionists, I mean those with a musical aptitude so low that they had no other choice than to be stuck banging on shit). But soon enough, my display caught the approving eye of a flutist named Karla.

Karla was also in seventh grade. She had just transferred from a Catholic middle school. She, like me, excelled in academics and was obsessed with pop culture. She was basically a giant fag. A giant fag with an enormous crush on me. Sadly, I was already fully aware that I would only be able to return a crush on a giant fag with an actual penis. We seemingly moved past the awkwardness of unrequited whatever and became friends. I had never met a funnier and more intelligent goody two-shoes in my life. I clearly remember her looking her nose down on someone because he was involved in what she called the three S's: smoking, stealing, and swearing. I couldn't make that up. We liked the same music. We obsessively watched and monitored awards shows. We would spend all day with each other in school, and then still talk on the phone for three or four hours at night. We'd sit in her room and type up absurd stories like this one:

A STORY
I really like to rub my hands all over urinals. So does my principal. And darn it, he always gets dibs on the ones where the urine team has just been.
THE END

We entered high school and things changed. She started hanging out with a new crowd. You know the one: "Oh my god, nobody understands me. I'm so unique. Wait, you too? Oh, I know! We should dress alike, speak alike, and be into all the same stuff. Awesome. I love how one-in-a-million we are. Let's go buy purple hair dye!" Soon enough, she was partaking in each of the three S's, and making up some new ones on her own. We remained friends, but Karla was changing at a clip I could hardly keep up with.

She got...meaner. One day, waiting for math class to begin, there was a misunderstanding that led someone to ask a heavier girl if she was pregnant. Karla's two cents? "That'd explain the gut." We'd fight about her abrupt change in attitude. Eventually, she threatened to put rat poison into a Twinkie and throw it over my fence so that my chocolate lab, Malcolm, would eat it. We stopped speaking.

At first, a Karla-free life seemed sweet and stress-free. Then I realized there were so many things I talked about with her that I couldn't with my other peers. Jokes only we would understand. Ideas only we would conceive of. Feelings only we would have. We reconnected in 11th grade while working on the spring musical. Soon enough, the hours-long phone calls resumed. She became the third person I ever came out to. After I told her, there was a long silence on the other end. Then sobbing. She told me she had always been in love with me. That it had always been me. That somehow made sense.

Unfortunately, our reconciliation was short-lived. Her heavy drinking and drug use was taking its toll on her relationships with everyone. During senior year, we were both Student Council officers. One of our prestigious duties was to count the votes for Homecoming King and Queen. Since Karla's study hall came earlier in the day than mine, she counted all the votes herself. In our Regents English class (yeah, we were "slumming it" as an elective in addition to our AP English class...how obnoxious is that?), I prodded her for the results. She petulantly refused. I hurled some meaningless insult at her. Her response, out loud and in front of the entire class, including my perennial crush Bobby, was "You know what, faggot? I hope you get AIDS and die."

That seemed unnecessary.

My last straw with Karla (as if the aforementioned incident shouldn't have been) was freshman year of college, when she forwarded James a private e-mail I sent her with the express intent of damaging James and mine's friendship. She nearly succeeded. I ran into her sporadically in Buffalo when she'd be home on break, notably when I ran into her at Club Marcella, and in a drunken stupor she told me she had fixed Homecoming because she didn't like who actually won. This was hilarious to me because the supposed winner went on to put the word "queen" in her e-mail address and other similar nonsense. It was sad to me because...man, was Karla ever a giant cunt.

Summer 2001: I honked in Karla's driveway, anticipating an intense but sweet reconciliation. I was proud of her. Having my father begin his recovery made me look at the whole thing from a different angle. Karla was making a decisive, positive step, and I'd be there to support her. I hoped making amends with me would mark a major step in her battle with alcoholism. Karla stepped out of her house and got into my car. She positively reeked of booze.

A STORY
I spent truly formative years with an amazing girl who never quite learned to use her powers for good. Sometimes I wonder how she is, and what she's doing. But most of the time, I don't.
THE END

Obsolete Sketch-A-Ma-Doo Feeva!

In February of 2003, I wrote a sketch for the American Comedy Institute, a commercial parody for Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch. It was never produced, because the producer/director objected to its content. At the time, it had re-emerged as something of a hot topic. But now that it's about as topical as the John and Lorena Bobbitt fiasco, it's pretty much useless. I always thought it was pretty funny anyway. This is it.

INT. A FAMILY'S KITCHEN

MOM and DAD are sitting at the table.

TIMMY
Daddy, Daddy!

TIMMY runs in, carrying a gun.

DAD
What is it, Timmy?

TIMMY
I found this loaded gun in my toybox! I wanted to give it to a responsible grown-up so nothing bad happened!

TIMMY hands DAD the gun.

DAD
Damn it all to hell!

MOM
And I left the safety off and everything!

DAD
What's it going to take?

ANNOUNCER (VO)
Having trouble trying to damage your children?

DAD
Hell, yes! Timmy won't touch any of the heroin I offer him!

MOM
And Cindy just laughs off my emotional abuse!

CINDY enters.

CINDY
Did someone mention my name?

MOM
Oh, shut up, you fat, ugly mistake!

CINDY
Ha ha ha ha ha! Oh, Mom...

MOM (to ANNOUNCER)
See?

ANNOUNCER (VO)
Well, Mom and Dad, I think you're forgetting a sure-fire way to traumatize and scar your kinder for life!

DAD
Of course! Why didn't we think of it before? Kids, we're going to Neverland Ranch!

TIMMY AND CINDY
Yay!

ANNOUNCER
That's right, folks! Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch! The land where dreams come true, including those that involve the sadistic endangerment of pre-teens by their parents!

TIMMY
Swell! Mom! Dad! Kenny Thompson went there last year and told me all about it! Right before he started cutting himself with razor blades and they took him away!

CINDY
That lucky duck!

ANNOUNCER (VO)
Yes, Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch. Featuring a hot little handful of new attractions, including the Oops, Where'd My Pants Go? Coaster, the Great Baby Dangle at Age of Consent Canyon, and a sensational variation on bumper cars that'll have your kids walking funny for a week!

CINDY
Mommy, when we go, can we stop at the Negro-Be-Gone Face Painting Station?

MOM
Oh, Cindy, honey, that's for coloreds who need to be cleansed.

TIMMY
Daddy, when I go to the Unnecessary Plastic Surgery A-Go-Go Kiosk, can I stay until my nose looks like a vagina?

DAD
Timmy, if it means your adulthood will be filled with depression, failed relationships, and chemical dependence, we'll stay until you have a vagina!

ANNOUNCER (VO)
Ha ha ha! Vagina indeed! Neverland Ranch is fun for the whole family! As long as you're under the age of fifteen...and you don't have a whole lot of baby fat...but rather a nice, tight little hairless body...Asians are always a plus...

MOM
After all, if someone's going to molest our kids, I'd rather have it be by someone famous like Michael Jackson than just plain ol' Uncle Hank!

UNCLE HANK enters from right. Stops center. Waves creepily. Exits left.

DAD
C'mon, kids! Grab your creepy, face-obscuring veils! We're going to Neverland!

TIMMY AND CINDY
Yay!

TIMMY and CINDY exit.

ANNOUNCER (VO)
Horrid parenting has never been so appallingly sexy! Make your reservations before Michael gets booked! Come to the ranch at Neverland, where the raunch will never end!

END.

FYI, I wrote that before Mario Cantone did the whole Michael-Jackson's-nose-looks-like-a-vag bit in Laugh Whore, so nyeah.

God, I Hope I Get It, I Hope I Get It!

11:47am: Bathed in the glow of sunlight, I at last arise from much-needed slumber. Call it laziness. Call it sloth. Call it the euphoria of having the CSI of blogs make a strong push for my All of Us of blogs. I was loving me some life. Some life in bed.

1:52pm: While at Kinko's, frantically stapling headshots to resumes, Katie calls. She's about to pop a human being out of her lady-parts any minute now. That is some crazy-ass shit. The baby's name? Mary Grace. James has already taken to calling her Sister, because her name sounds like a nun's. I think it's more than appropriate, considering her mother's hasty conception and shotgun wedding. Whore.

2:50pm: I have a commercial audition. Since getting the audition yesterday, I've been putting myself in a near-meditative frame of mind to set myself up for success. I arrive at the appointment with the confidence and the knowledge that I am exactly what they're looking for. When I actually audition, I pepper the copy with ad-libbed jokes. Everybody's laughing. After the first take, one guy turns to the other and says, "What did I tell ya? The next guy that walks in..." I do two more takes. Both go just as well as the first. I am asked if I am willing to shave. I say, "Of course!" while thinking, "D'oh!" I leave fully convinced that I got the job.

3:19pm: Mmmmm....Chipotle....

5:48pm: While catering a party for some dumb-ass school orchestra with a staggering percentage of Asians, some kid makes the 1,000th ridiculous demand of the night. My way-too-loud response? "Blow me." Co-worker Jessica nearly has a stroke from laughing so hard.

8:08pm: Work's over. I check my voice mail. It's my agent. I have a first refusal for the commercial. Meaning, it's between me and maybe one other person right now, but they want me to clear my schedule for Tuesday and be ready to go to Philly to shoot the commercial. Even if I don't get it, my agent is going to be way more excited about sending me out, and the casting directors will totally remember me for when they're casting other things. I jump up and down and exclaim "Yes!" A lot. Did I knock up Katie Holmes?

9:36pm: I pick up a heavy thing. Then I put it down. Then I pick it up again. Then I put it down again. Et cetera. This will help my sex life down the line, I'm told.

10:34pm: Train ride home. I finish Steinbeck's Cannery Row. One sentence in the pentultimate chapter strikes me funny, and I kick myself for giggling about it like a 12 year-old. "The mallows filtered green light down on him and the first rays of the rising sun shone into his hole and warmed it so that he lay there very content and very comfortable." Heh heh. He said, "hole".

11:17pm: I arrive home and check my e-mail, finding my inbox stuffed with irate and impatient requests for skin. Look, guys. My new posts happen at the end of the day, like Doogie Howser, OK? What, do you want me to post before I learn the current day's important life lesson? I didn't think so. That's just how I roll. Don't hate, playas.

11:49pm: Today's post is nearly complete. There's just one last order of business to tend to.
Gosh, it looks like I was really up to no good here, huh? If there's a look that says, "I've got an ankle stump up my butt", this is it. Or, I could be about to enjoy a cucumber sandwich at a garden party. I guess you'll never know.

Oh, and how's that for a non-repost, Circle in A Square? You presumptuous, demanding, yet unmistakably wooftronic motherfucker, you...

11:57pm: I click "Publish Post", and my reputation as a no-good harlot is all but notarized.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 4/12

Um...first of all, let me say this: yesterday, my blog got 149 hits. That's a pretty high number, considering that the weekly average usually manages to be less than 100 hits a day. Today, Joe put a really sweet and cool post about me and my blog on his blog, one which I have raved about before and surely will again. Today, my blog is at 1,998 hits and counting. Thanks, Joe. And welcome, everybody. I'm Michael. And this is what I do on Wednesdays.

Desolation Jones #6
Well, this fucker doesn't come out as often as it ought to, now does it? Warren Ellis wraps up his first storyline, "Made in England", with bloody, breathtaking bravado. Our main man Jones has been searching for homemade porn featuring Hitler (eerily reminiscent of one of the best sketches I ever did with Skeeger, "Shitler"), and, in true Ellis style, uncovers even more disturbing shit along the way. And then a truckload of people die. One might be inclined to call it "gnarly". J.H. Williams III is my current sequential art god. Sure, he can't do a monthly book, and his work is filled with gimmicks and tricks that may come off a little precious in that hipster, Dave Eggers-y way. But God, if it doesn't work like a charm. The last line: "Let's go home now, Arthur. The night is young and sweet, we live in Los Angeles, and there's more pornography to watch than can ever be seen." You can eat the nihilism with a spoon. If another Ellis, Bret Easton, wrote a comic book, this'd be it.

Majestic #16
...and if the sci-fi geeks of New York's improv scene wrote a comic book, this'd be it. Not, by the way, a compliment. Majestic, Zealot, and Savant (who learns that the previous two are her parents) battle a bunch of douchebags from other planets who want to reform the Earth into some sort of engine. Then there's this weird part where L. Ron Hubbard strolls in and squats onto JohnTravolta's face, dreadlocks strewn all over the cold linoleum floor...or not. Anyway, this book's got just one issue to go. And it puts the "lame" back into "lame duck". The story is too cosmic and detached from humanity, and hindered by extremely tiny and stylized lettering for one of its main characters. The fill-in art is the epitome of fill-inny. Its possible saving grace? The Earth explodes at the end. That's right. Earth pulls a Krypton and just blows the fuck up. If this remains so for the final issue, that's balls. I'll give them that. That is quite a pair.

Superman #651
Part 3 of "Up, Up, and Away!" I am fully digging this. What made me happy? Clark with a power ring. The return of Oswald Loomis. Busiek and Johns riffing on the bat-shit insane pedestrian lights from Superman III. Lois being portrayed as smart, sophisticated, and non-bitchy. John Corben on the Operation game table. Pete Woods' art. What made me sad? The fact that Clark's power ring manifestation was not of Superman. Luthor's sure-to-be-trouble warehouse full o' green K. Pete Woods' apparent non-ownership of a straight edge. Will Superman be super next week? Christ, I hope so.

Ultimate Extinction #4
Congratulations, Mr. Warren Ellis. You're two for two this week. Here, the countdown to the coming of Gah Lak Tus looms upon our intrepid heroes. Xavier and Jean are prepping a super-Cerebro. Captains Marvel and America are taking down those pesky silver motherfuckers that almost look designed to...oh, I don't know...surf. And Reed Richards is building some kind of awesome science-y big word machine that does stuff with lots of syllables and things that do stuff that's awesome. Plus, Ellis really hones in on basic truths about the human condition: like, don't you hate it when an army of bald, tattooed women cloned from a long-dead killer infiltrates your floating superhero headquarters. That shit pisses me off every time. Oh, and I'm officially a convert to Brando's art-style here. This book looks terrific.

Ultimate Spider-Man #93
Brian Michael Bendis, mensch that he is, must've really taken my notes about last issue to heart. When he read my gripe about the conspicuous lack of any trademark Bendis "narrative sleight-of-hand", he figured, "Dammit, I'd better give Michael Hartney what he wants!" And here it is. This issue, about Spidey and the X-Men's battle with Deadpool and the Reavers, is told from the perspective of a Running Man-esque TV show about capturing and killing rogue mutants. And whaddaya know? It works like a charm! Not only is plenty of room devoted to character development, particularly with Deadpool himself and the Spidey/Kitty relationship, but it also opens up other pages for the most expolosive action this book has seen. Bagley's inked here by Danny Miki, which made me nervous, because their Ultimate Iron Man pages were ridiculously overrendered. Here, though, the combo is nearly Cheddar Cheese/Cracker in its perfection. Nobody inks explosions like Miki. And there's tons of 'em here. Thanks for taking my notes, Brian. If next issue is even better, I'll give you a smooch on your big, bald head. Deal, Kitten?

Wildcats: Nemesis #8
Much like Team Zero, another Wildstorm mini-series that has further developed and textured the word "suck", Nemesis incorporates tons of really cool and interesting characters from Wildstorm's much cooler and buttloads more interesting past. Also like Team Zero (readers left), Nemesis treats these characters as little more than bodies to draw in some lame battle scene. Reno Bryce, Priscilla Kitaen, Jeremy Stone, and, hell, Cole Cash are great characters that we haven't heard from since Joe Casey's criminally under-appreciated Wildcats 3.0 (other than Cole, who is permitted to smolder and crack wise just about everywhere). And we learn absolutely nothing about them here! They say a line, throw a punch, and they're out! Boo, Robbie Morrison! Boo! Nobody cares about Nemesis. We get it! She's the Kherubim Forrest Gump. So clever. I hope in next issue's finale, we learn that she was the mastermind behind the "Where's the beef?" campaign. That'd be killer. Talent Caldwell's art? Actually kind of cool, I have to admit. Horacio Domingues' art? They'd have been better off asking me, I'm afraid. Like Majestic, there's one more issue. I think I'll be safe if I don't make it to the hanky store this week.

Next week: Ex Machina Special #1 and Justice #5. If Aquaman's wearing a ball-gag this issue, I'm gonna be a touch on the skeeved side.

Tomorrow: If you newbies stick with me, I may just show a little skin. Not that I'm shameless on anything. When it comes to lovin' you...

Growing Concern...(sigh) of Steel

OK. I'm officially getting worried. Behold.

When Christopher Reeve was photographed in flight, he looked like he was flying. He didn't look like he was thinking, "Boy, this harness is really uncomfortable!" Brandon Routh, however, does. I don't blame him; I know a thing or two about uncomfortable harnesses. But if you're gonna be Superman, you've got to suck it up a bit. And don't get me started on the brown (read: not black), overly parted hair and ridiculously unnatural spitcurl.

The inside is worse. There are two huge, full-page shots of Routh's face. One as Clark, one as Superman. Both retouch Routh's eye color to make them blue; both jobs make his eyes look really, really creepy. We don't need Shroud of Turin blue; regular ol' blue is just fine, OK guys? His hair as Clark makes Clark look less like a mild-mannered reporter and more like someone whose caretaker slept in that morning. And his neck is just not Superman thick; it's barely Jimmy Olsen thick.

I realize that these are bizarre, nit-picky things that no one cares about but butt-picking bag-and-boarding losers like me. But when devotees of the House of El such as myself aren't comparing the way John Byrne draws the "S" shield to Kerry Gammill's rendition or checking our Alex Ross-drawn Superman Forever t-shirts for cum stains, we're plunking down hard-earned cash to see our hero faithfully translated into other media.

Despite all that, I still have faith that, on June 29th, as midnight approaches, as I'm sitting with hundreds of other losers in an IMAX theater, clad in what I hope is a clean t-shirt, the greatest hero in the world will once again fly high...and not look somewhat constipated while doing it.

C'mon, Brandon and Bryan...you're my boys. Make me proud.

Sort of Like My Left Foot, Except Backward

This one isn't for the gay sex squeamish. You've been warned...Mom.

Saturday night. The restaurant where I work. My phone, which I illegally have on me, rings. I check the number. It's a 212. Yay! We bridge-and-tunnel trash always get excited when a new 212 number shows up on our cell phones.

Could it be a callback for the sketch comedy pilot I auditioned for this week? Some other casting director, telling me how amazing I am and how they're dying to work with me? Amy Sedaris?

I dash to the break room to find out.

Michael: Hello?

(silence) I guess it's not that callback...

Michael: Hello?

Caller: Hey, this is ____. I'm just letting you know I'm having a muscle fuck party at my hotel room tonight starting at 10pm.

Michael: Um, how did you get my num-

Caller: -It's going to be in Room 304. Make sure you mention the name ____ _______ at the front desk if you're going to show up later, because they might give you shit.

Michael: Actually, I'm at work, so-

Caller: -Basically it's just going to be an attitude-free fuck and suck muscle fest. Oh, and feel free to bring any musclebuds with you.

Did he just actually say the word "musclebuds" out loud? I've seen it in print, but to hear it...wow. I had no idea humans actually spoke this way. It's like he's from a country that teaches all their children English by showing them gay porn.

Michael: Um...fantastic.

Caller: Remember: Room 304.

Michael: OK. Room 304 where?

Caller: I TOLD YOU! THE PARAMOUNT HOTEL! 46TH AND 8TH! Make sure you mention my name.

Was I just unnecessarily yelled at by a crazy anonymous man who is inviting me to a "muscle fuck party"? Because he defintely just said a room number, as if I'm supposed to just walk into any building and hope it's the right one. Is he 'roid raging? I suppose that's what one does with one's "musclebuds", when one isn't, of course, having orgies with them.

Michael: OK. Sorry.

Caller: So, you think you're going to come?

He sounds so creepy. Can one actually contract syphillis over the phone?

Caller: Just a head's up. I'm a good-looking, in-shape guy. I got into a bad car accident last year, and...well, my foot's been amputated from the ankle down. I just thought I'd let you know, so you wouldn't get freaked.

Oh my God. That is amazing. I need to rent Bruce LaBruce's Hustler White again. Also, I need to stop giving my phone number out while in a drunken haze.

Michael: Thank you. I appreciate that.

Caller: OK. See you later. Muscle fuck. (I might have added that last thing.)

I hang up and return to the fun-filled world of waitressing.

Several hilarious jokes sprang to mind. First would be my mysterious caller replacing Kevin Bacon in his 80's megahit, now re-titled Footless. I see him trying very hard, in vain of course, on account of his footlessness, to execute sassy dance moves. "Everybody cut, everybody cut (your foot off), everybody cut, everybody cut (your foot off)". John Lithgow would be played by a car.

When he makes a major faux pas: "Well, I've really put air in my mouth this time, huh?"

"And what did this little piggy do?"
"Nothin'."
Alternate: "Ask him yourself. He's in a jar of brine on my dresser, fool."

I tried to think of others, but I was...well, stumped.

Subway Celeb 2: The Secret of the Ooze

Well, it's official: if you're looking to ride the subway with cast members of critically-adored comedies, I'm your go-to guy. Tonight, I was returning from an afternoon of drinking that Barney Gumble would have deemed pathetic, when into the car he lumbered from the Times Square stop. Clad in a button-down shirt, jeans, and an old-school trenchcoat, was Jeff Garlin.

I glanced up at him from my seat. He looked at me. Without a word or even a gesture, it was clear to both of us that I recognized him but would stay cool about it. I had previously seen him in a private box at the Ben Folds/Guster/Rufus Wainright concert, but this was a touch more intimate. For three stops he stood right next to where I was sitting, his trenchcoat spilling onto my pant leg. I kept thinking, "I wonder when the next season of Curb Your Enthusiasm coming out?" "How is his variety show pilot coming along, and how can I convince him to be a writer on it?" "How come nobody else is recognizing him? I'm sure the non-whites at least saw him in Daddy Day Care." "Was that racist?"

He got off, as predicted, at Fifth Avenue, no doubt to retire to his palatial hotel room, gingerly sip on wicked expensive scotch, and watch Spanktrovision 'till dawn. As he stepped out of the car, I noticed his particularly fetching pair of New Balances. More than the mere aesthetics of the sneakers, however, I noticed that his feet were of a mammoth size that bordered on superhuman. He must've special-ordered those New Balances.

Following logic, I hope I see John Krasinski next.

Worst. SNL. Ever.

I know bad SNL. I watched the season with Janeane Garafolo and Chris Elliott. I've seen enough episodes during the Ebersol years to think that Robert Downey Jr. and Joan Cusack still have something to prove. But tonight...oooh, tonight. It just may have trumped them all.

The cold open showed promise. Not only was interesting commentary made about the immigration legislation debate, but it also showed that Kenan Thompson can do more than the three things he's done on the show thus far. And host Antonio Banderas didn't make a total ass of himself...yet.

Well, it all went to Shitsville from there. From the truly sucktastic monologue, to the horrifically-executed female basketball coach fashion awards, to the Latin soap opera that could have been funny but instead chose to be a one-joke cypher, to the nearly-retarded Zorro sketch, to Finesse Mitchell and Chris Kattan's cringe-worthy bits on Weekend Update, to the wine snob sketch that showed promise and then completely lost focus, this thing was epically awful.

Bad sketch comedy, like bad improv, is bad in a way much more insidious than, say, a bad movie or bad music. Because comedy operates on instant validation, it's so much more uncomfortable when it's not...valid. To watch actors try valiantly to plow through material that they know (for the most part, anyway) is beneath them is a morbidly fascinating chore. What went wrong here? What will happen next week? I don't know, but I'll be watching.

Oh, and while I'm on the subject, here's a little gossip about the series in question. First of all, a person in showbusiness who I recently befriended had hot sex with a cast member from the 90's. Hot gay sex, that is. Apparently this cast member not only swings both ways, but is generously equipped. Also, one of the new cast members is apparently stealing characters from former colleagues. Not cool. Very funny stuff, but not cool. Man, if there's ever an SNL Page Six, how hired am I?

My Gorgeous Sister

The ever-sassy Caitlin Hartney, already an accomplished sister, academic, and economical walker, can now add fashion model to her impressive cadre of titles. A couple of months ago, someone stopped her on the street and wanted to take pictures of her. And for once, it wasn't a snuff porn filmmaker! Yes, it was someone with Lucky, whose subtitle, incidentally, is "the magazine about shopping". Finally! A magazine about shopping! Anyway, here's the piece:
Isn't she fabulous? Look at those gams. For days, I tell you! Days! Anyway, I had to gloat to somebody. Although I'm a little dubious of the quotes they attribute to her: "The high waist and shimmery fabric give me a sexier, leggier effect"? Please. If I know my sister, she would never say "leggier". She'd say "more fuckable".

The Next Step

I returned to work today. And by work, I mean waitressing. All things considered (and by all things, I mean the fact that I had three American tables all night and all three of them only ordered a dessert or appetizer to SHARE), it wasn't so bad. I thought it would take me a bit longer to get into the swing of things (and by things, I mean mindless tedium).

"How's the show you were working on?"
"Are you famous yet?"
"Were you good on your show?"
"So are you a TV star?"

I wanted to issue a press release saying, "I worked as a writer's assistant on a sketch comedy pilot. No acting, performing, or, sadly, actual writing were involved. I am not famous. I am not going to be on TV. And the one thing I did have going for me in that arena, Skeeger, is over. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers. Love you all like sisters."

At 5:15pm a co-worker who also does sketch comedy suggested we team up.
At 8:47pm another co-worker who is an actor asked if he could send me writing samples to look at and give feedback on, and possibly collaborate.
At 10:20 yet another co-worker asked if I'd be interested in joining his theatre collective, a band of misfits who have been dubbed "social terrorists".

Very interesting developments. Not as interesting as at 11:28 on the train ride home though, where I thought of three separate ideas for three very different solo shows. I must say, this is a pretty exciting time for me. Absolutely nothing is certain, and absolutely anything is possible. I'd say the world is my oyster, but I'm not a huge oyster fan. Oh! I know! The world is my Oreo.

Uncle Mikey's Funnybook Round-Up - 4/5

Ex Machina #19
Yet another issue packed full of reasons why I think this is the best damned book on the stands. From Tony Harris' bold and meaningful cover, the opening glimpse into the minds of murderous bigots, the quiet tension and knowing portrayal of Arab and Jewish relations, the scene between Mitchell and Wylie so well-written and full of important and provocative ideas that I want to perform it, Hundred's haunting dream sequence, Angotti's desperate turnaround, to the devastating conclusion showing the tragic and inevitable conclusion of what happens in a city gripped with paranoia and fear, Brian K. Vaughan delivers the smartest and most relevant work in comics today. A thousand kudos.

Infinite Crisis #6
Well, that was sad. This issue sets up the ending we all saw coming because of last week's Action Comics, and the variant cover for this week's Teen Titans. Nonetheless, it was an extremely moving event. One of my favorite characters is dead...for now. Other than that, it's pretty much just multiple Earth madness here. Kudos to Batman for taking out Brother Eye, to Black Adam for goring it up, and to Klarion the Witch Boy for representing the Seven Soldiers. Now that the jam-art is a given, I'm warming up to it. Jerry Ordway's and Ivan Reis' pages looked especially good. And though Jimenez seemed to struggle at times, his money shots delivered. Don't know how this series could possibly neatly wrap up in just one more issue, and I sadly don't expect it to. If nothing else, I guess, the first issue was one of the coolest things I've ever read.

The OMAC Project: Infinite Crisis Special #1
Not half-bad, considering it spotlights a character I couldn't possibly care less about. Sasha Bordeaux is enlisted to destroy Brother Eye after it employs the Lazarus Protocol. She succeeds, all the while examining her humanity and blah blah blabbedy blah. For me, it got terminally less cool once Batman was out of the picture. Some of the exchange between Fire and Amanda Waller was pretty cool, and Jesus Saiz's art never looked better. I will not be picking up Checkmate.

Planetary #25
A harder sell every issue for me, probably because they come out with the frequency of, say, the evolution of a new species. I think the last issue came out during the Cretacious Period...yes, I definitely remember now, because I distinctly remember #24 giving me a paper cut on my vestigial wings. Anyway, despite my admitted lack of a comprehensive history of the series this far, hella coolness manages to abound. Elijah and crew beat the living shit out of their ally (in a really cool way), and then we learn exactly how The Four got their powers. As usual, John Cassaday's artwork is a treasure to behold, and Warren Ellis squeezes in not quite enough story for me. Still, with only a few issues left, I can't wait to see how this puppy ends.

Team Zero #5
If anyone has insomnia, let me know. I'll FedEx you my copy of this comic book. The downside is, you may never be revived. Because this mini-series is using young versions of established Wildstorm characters, as well as ancestors of others, I thought...oh, I don't know...that maybe the opportunity to actually explore these characters would be taken. Nope. Not here. Plot plot plot. Defeat the Russkies, kill the Krauts, plot plot plot. Even Mahnke's art this issue is something of a snooze. One more issue. Thank heavens.

Teen Titans #34
It's one year later for the Titans. Cyborg has finally awakened from some much-needed cybernetic rest to find that former foes are now on the team! Wha-? Cassie has adopted the unfortunately-trendy non-costume costume. Not a fan. Besides, when was the last time jeans with an embroidered star on them was cute? We also, rather touchingly, I must say, find out what Robin's been up to since the Crisis. Oh, and Wendy and Marvin are in it! That is so awesome! I'm such a dork that I think that's awesome! But it is, dammit! OK. Now let's ge to the nitty-gritty. Who the hell is paying Tony Daniel to draw comic books? The same imbecile that's paying Ian Churchill? I need someone to please throw both of them into a DeLorean, hit the Flux Capacitor with 1.21 jigawatts of electricity, and send them back to the early 90's, when anyone gave a shit about their flashy, discipline-free style. Put Daniel on Brigade and Churchill on Bloodstrike, but definitely not the other way around. Tony clearly would draw a better Battlestone. Wow. I'm a bigger loser than anyone I know. And I know colossal losers.

Ultimate X-Men #69
I am impressed with Robert Kirkman. I didn't think he had it in him. This has been a really strong run so far. He's really got a handle on the dynamics of a team book. Everyone here gets quality screen time; obviously, my favorite bit is the date between Colossus and Northstar. Mmmm...Piotr Rasputin...Elliot looks to be a strong an interesting character as well. The art is pretty perfunctory, in my opinion, with intermittent flourishes of sass. Oliver's silhouettes, for some reason, really popped for me and looked great. Otherwise, his line work looks blobby and Jeff Johnson-esque. I just hope there's boys kissin' boys next issue.

Requiem For A Sketch Troupe

Well, that was weird.

Eight days ago, Skeeger did its biggest sketch comedy show ever at Caroline's on Broadway. To a very well-attended house, we channelled all of the best energies gathered through over two years and seven original sketch revues. It was an accomplishment I'm infinitely proud to have been a part of.

Today, Skeeger disbanded. For a variety of reasons. The latest adventure of Gunbutt will never be seen. Nor will a Boeing plane with a mowhawk-turned-Skeeger's mascot, Skeegy. Or "Meaghan Farrell: Time-Traveling Seductress". We are moving on to other things. New challenges. Other guns up other people's butts.

Dan: Thank you for being my friend and creative partner. It has been amazing to see you grow as both a performer and a writer. Sharing "The Break-Up" with you was a privilege and an honor. I can't wait to sell our first script together. A line I'll never forget: "Brains! Schedule."

Dave: Thank you for always challenging me. Because of you, I think I've become a better writer, a better actor, and a better arguer. "Gun!" was brilliant to read and joyous to perform. A line I'll never forget: "Sometimes the partner that's deadest is the partner that's most alive. Gunbutt!"

Dustin: Thank you for directing us. Having your outside eye, your technical expertise, and your support was absoltuely essential. It also helped that you were right far more often than you were wrong. Because of you, we didn't look like dicks. Or at least looked less like dicks. A line I'll never forget: "You've got a lot of pennies, man."

Meaghan: Thank you for doing the Tango with me. A Michael/Meaghan sketch was always so fun to do, and so relaxed, because there was never a doubt that it'd kill. Squeezing mustard all over your butt in "Drivin' Along in My Automobile" was one of the most dizzyingly euphoric moments I've ever had in sketch comedy. A line I'll never forget: "Just look for another big box from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania!"

For those of you who supported us over the past two years, thank you. We hope you had as good a time watching our sketches as we did performing them. For those of you who never saw a show, you really missed something. Bye, Skeeger. You were adorable sketch comedy. I will miss you dearly.

Now what do I do?

God Bless Lesbians

Amanda rules.

She lives in Connecticut with her just-as-beautiful girlfriend, Michelle, and their golden retriever puppy, Mikey. Could that possibly sound dykier? Only if they were both lumberjacks, I suppose. Sadly, only one of them is.

We met on 42nd Street to grab some luncheroo together. She was wearing her glasses, which was unusual for her. "Aren't I gorgeous?", she asks right off the bat, pointing to her bloodshot eye. Apparently, Amanda's regular contact lens solution got discontinued, and is now embroiled in an oh-so-fun-sounding taste test. Like when I try a new antibiotic, anything's possible. After a few minutes of story, she said, "Now that you know what's going on with me," waving her hand around her inflamed peeper, "what's up with you?" That's why I love Amanda.

We had really good Thai food at this joint in Hell's Kitchen. Peanut sauces and inappropriate humor were plentiful. We racked our brains trying to think of the name of an ex-co-worker that we both couldn't stand. No dice. Then we moved onto what apprently was a parallel universe Starbucks. There was a seemingly hidden door, green cup sleeves, and a bizarre fence jobby-dealy. I half-expected them to be the only Starbucks with a mascot, and have a googly-eyed Frappy Chino bound in and give me a sticker. That would've kicked ass.

After sadly dropping her off at her grad class, I began the trek through the light April mist to the subway. Then I heard "I'm the most popular gi-irl in school! I'm the most popular gi-irl in school!" Not really, I just heard my phone ring. But that's the words I sing along with the phone. It's that very basic ring that everyone has. You too can be a fag like me! Oh, and I pronounce "school" like "skewl", like Marcia Brady. For added sass.

Anyway, it was Amanda. Her class had been cancelled. Hooray! Cute afternoon could continue! We found a Starbucks that was clearly from our own dimension, and chatted almost endlessly about life and love. In the middle of Amanda opening up to me in a way she never had, mid-disarming confession, I screamed, "AUBURN!"

That was the name of the ex-co-worker we couldn't stand. It had just come to me. After we managed to stop laughing, she resumed the baring of her soul. Now that's the way to spend a day.

Catchin' Up

Soul 2 Soul, I now know what you spoke of when you said "Back to life, back to reality". It turns out that, when you are literally doing nothing but work for three weeks straight, you miss a bunch of stuff.

I missed TV. The Office from Thursday was one of the funniest half hours of episodic TV I've ever seen. No joke. 'Twas amazing. Not only did I laugh my little ass off, but I also almost cried at the end. They really know how to tug at my heartstrings with the Jim/Pam storyline. Download this episode...yesterday. And then you can tell me what your favorite joke was. My housewives weren't too shabby, either.

I missed working out. I feel like a big fat pig. At dinner tonight I almost asked for mashed apples in a trough. It's out of control. I think my belly might run for the state senate by itself. This situation needs remedying. Especially if I'm going to see Phil in a few weeks.

I missed people that care about me. Danny bought me Jonathan Safran Foer's new novel for my birthday. So excited to read it. Then we had about a zillion too many beers at The Eagle. It was awesome. If you ever see me in person, ask me to do the poppers joke. We laughed for, like, ten minutes straight. Those rooftop bears must've thought we were out of our minds.

That, by the way, is the precise order in which I missed things, from most to least. I had better go see if Soul 2 Soul wrote any more songs...

Secrets to A Successful Belated Birthday Celebration

1. Sleep in like a big, comfy hunk of trash.
2. See a kick-ass movie. In this case, Thank You For Smoking. If you haven't seen it, go. It's a near-perfect satire on the art of spin. The delicious Aaron Eckhart literally smokes in this piece. Rob Lowe and Adam Brody's short scenes are fall-down funny. And there is a tiny little scene that seemingly went unnoticed by the audience I was in that is a hundred times more subversive than any of the smoking-related bits in the movie. Can you spot it?
3. Allow a hip and trendy eatery to jump the shark by virtue of your mere presence. It's true. Once I show up at a restaurant, the party's officially over, I'm afraid. Tonight's feast was had at Freeman's, a speakeasy-esque joint at the end of an all-but-invisible alley on the Lower East Side. Good food, better company. Oh, and Jack White was sitting two tables away. Now that I've been to Freeman's, the Sex and the City Tour bus can't be too far behind.
4. Allow a once-hip and trendy lounge to even further jump the shark by virtue of your mere presence. Soho's Pravda is a really cool vodka/caviar bar. A few years ago, it was the place to be. Now it seems as though it's the place for vertical striped shirted guys and over-highlighted girls to be. However, James and I thought it'd be a fun place to take my sister Caitlin to look at boys, and it was. Her pick? The upstairs bartender. If anyone knows him, tell him a beautiful, brilliant blonde has her eye on him. And that she's got a crazy brother who will crush him like a grape if he steps out of line.
5. Feel like a star by being on a guest list. Now that I'm super-cool and work in television, my days of waiting in lines and paying cover charges are over. Well, at least at Mr. Black in the village, where a cast member of the show I'm a writer's assistant on (which, by the way, got a six-episode order from the network) throws a party on Saturday nights. Though a party stuffed with skinny, thick-rimmed glasses-wearing art fags gawking at pube-deprived go-go boys who look like their last meal was in the 1640's isn't exactly my cup of tea, drinking for free certainly is. So hooray.