Shows For You To See This Weekend
Friday, August 22
Crabby Hour @ Cha Cha's
154 1/2 Suffolk Street (bt. Stanton & Houston)
F to 2nd Ave
212-843-9131
6:30 PM
I don't know much about this show, I've never done it but I'll be playing guitar there.
It's a hat shop that has a party on Friday nights. They sell hats and then also,
there's entertainment. Sounds cool to me.
Comedy Kabob @ Level X
Williamsburg (L to Bedford -
right on N. 6th, 1.5 blocks from Bedford St.)
Showtime - 9 PM
featuring - comics, comics and more comics
brought to you by Pat and Tim
AND, later, nearby -
Galapagos Vaudeville Show
(same directions as above, but
two blocks further down)
featuring: music acts, craziness, vaudeville
Showtime - 10 PM
SATURDAY, August 23rd
AAA Comedy
@ Joyous Life Energy Center
119 W. 23rd St., Ste. 700
(hint: the F train goes right there)
Showtime - 8 PM
BRING YOUR OWN BEER!!!! (there's a deli downstairs where you can buy tallboys - awesome)
featuring the comedy of:
Travis Poston
Ahna Tessler
Chelsea Peretti
www.chelseaperetti.com
(acoustic) dirty folk rock by Jessica Delfino
www.mp3.com/Jess_Delfino_
and sketch comedy by Sketch - 22
For detailed information:
http://www.joyouslifeenergycenter.com/jlec.html
212-352-9910
We're gonna give it to you good.
You know you want it, so..., you know.
Come and get it.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
I Read Bridget Jones Diary
by Jessica Delfino
I read Bridget Jones Diary. I like all the neat words that they use in England for normal objects that somehow make them seem fancy. Like "Milk Tray" for box of chocolate, and "fag" for cigarette, which never ceases to be funny to me, and will live on forever in the list of things that will eternally make me laugh, along with someone farting and really well thought out rape jokes. (the ones with the clever twists at the end)
I don't think I'm Bridget Jones, like the back of the book told me I would think. She's much different from me. First of all, she's probably got a cockney accent. Second, she never stops counting calories. Though I admit, I've counted calories many times, I get bored after a while. She never loses her motivation. She also smokes a damn lot.
Some of you might be wondering why I am reading Bridget Jones Diary now, when every one else read it on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. I am always late in reading books that everyone else has read on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. But most of the books I read I find in the garbage while cleaning rich people's houses. So, that solves that.
In closing, to the three or so other people who haven't yet gotten to read Bridget Jones Diary, it's pretty good. I read it in a few days (while taking breaks from cleaning rich people's houses) and found it to be an easy, satisfying read. Read it while you're lounging in Central Park, sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself, or
waiting for the Jitney.
by Jessica Delfino
I read Bridget Jones Diary. I like all the neat words that they use in England for normal objects that somehow make them seem fancy. Like "Milk Tray" for box of chocolate, and "fag" for cigarette, which never ceases to be funny to me, and will live on forever in the list of things that will eternally make me laugh, along with someone farting and really well thought out rape jokes. (the ones with the clever twists at the end)
I don't think I'm Bridget Jones, like the back of the book told me I would think. She's much different from me. First of all, she's probably got a cockney accent. Second, she never stops counting calories. Though I admit, I've counted calories many times, I get bored after a while. She never loses her motivation. She also smokes a damn lot.
Some of you might be wondering why I am reading Bridget Jones Diary now, when every one else read it on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. I am always late in reading books that everyone else has read on the beach in the Hamptons three summers ago. But most of the books I read I find in the garbage while cleaning rich people's houses. So, that solves that.
In closing, to the three or so other people who haven't yet gotten to read Bridget Jones Diary, it's pretty good. I read it in a few days (while taking breaks from cleaning rich people's houses) and found it to be an easy, satisfying read. Read it while you're lounging in Central Park, sitting at home feeling sorry for yourself, or
waiting for the Jitney.
Sunday, August 17, 2003
Blogger Lies For Me
I love how blogger always lies for me and says I posted my writing at a reasonable hour, like 10:30 pm or something, like I'm a regular O.Henry, sitting in the home, putting my ideas to paper all night long, when it's actually 3 am and I'm more like Hunter S. Thompson, fresh in from a night of rabblerousing, but without all the great credits and miscellaneous broken bones and wounds that he achieved from being successful and talented and unique and fearless.
Thank you, blogger, for saving my ego one shred of dignity.
I love how blogger always lies for me and says I posted my writing at a reasonable hour, like 10:30 pm or something, like I'm a regular O.Henry, sitting in the home, putting my ideas to paper all night long, when it's actually 3 am and I'm more like Hunter S. Thompson, fresh in from a night of rabblerousing, but without all the great credits and miscellaneous broken bones and wounds that he achieved from being successful and talented and unique and fearless.
Thank you, blogger, for saving my ego one shred of dignity.
The Citywide Blackout of '03
OR Electricity, Money Problems and My Landlord's A Dick
by Jessica Delfino
We lost electricity a little after 4 pm, just around the time the youth of America is about to take a hit for the clock's sake. We live in a tiny studio apartment on the upper east side; my fiance and I. A tiny studio apartment is just what it is, no description necessary. Things haven't been so easy for us since we decided to live with wild abandon at the same time in the same field in the same apartment. Work isn't as readily available as we'd like it to be, but it pops up amazingly, right when we need it most. As one friend put it, "You guys have the amazing talent of finding money right when you need to." However, the hiding places are thinning out, and when money runs low, the importance of paying the utilities takes the rear to more necessary things, like food and entertainment. This past month, the electric bill was not high on our list of priorities.
I turned and looked at my fiance with fear and anger in my eyes. "Did you call the electric company?" I asked. "Um...." he said. He didn't have to finish. "They left a message for you on the answering machine," he said. We argued for a few seconds about how it shouldn't ever be either of our responsibilities to have to listen to messages, when we heard one of our neighbors just start howling. I opened the apartment door and realized the lights were also off in the hallway. Relieved, I picked up my cellphone to call my landlord and give her a grade A bitching out.
Our apartment, besides being small, is a piece a shit. We don't get our mail in our mailbox because the boxes don't lock and the post office refuses to leave it there because it's constitutes some kind of federal violation like mail fraud or something. The landlord refuses to fix it because it will cost $800 and she won't spend that kind of money on the rights and regulations of her tenants, who she likens to gentile trash. So we all have to walk seven blocks every day or so to pick up our mail at the big post office, or else it gets returned to sender. What a bunch of bullshit. Add that to an unreachable superintendent, 5-foot ceilings, pet-sized bugs, heat when there should be a/c and double heat when there should just be heat, and you've got a partial understanding of how we live.
I dialed my landlord's number, which I have on speed dial, three or four times before I realized my cellphone couldn't connect. I started to get a bit nervous. No electricity, no service on my cellphone - then I heard the sirens. There are always sirens but living in New York, you develop a sense - like a mother being able to recognize the difference between a child's whining cry and a child's broken limb cry, I heard a real emergency in those sirens.
"Let's go downstairs," I said. "I think something is going on." I always think something is going on. I am Italian and I grew up in a big family where some shit was always going on. People were always getting locked into laundry mats, we had that one fucked up uncle who always showed up on a motorcycle with a makeshift weapon, the cops knew more than 2/3 of my family members on a first name basis - I guess all of those things combined or any one of them was enough to help me develop an ultra-sensitive intuition to the possibility of something going on.
Sure enough, just as my magic Italian nut family senses had told me, there was something going on, alright. It was like a scene in End Of Days or something. Everyone was standing out on the street, looking around like a meteor was coming. It was like we were having a block party except we were on the upper east side, and there was no music I didn't recognize or chicken-beef hotdogs or second-hand shirts for sale on hangers. My fiance and I walked down the road, twin smoking like Marge's sisters, listening to snipets of stranger's conversation and radio broadcasts. "Fire downtown - no electricity in all of Manhattan, in major cities all over the east coast, children stuck in an elevator, terrorism?" I started farting nervously and we made our way to our closest neighbor's house to co-miserate.
Upon realizing he wasn't home, we walked up to the Comic Strip. Air conditioning, cold beer, fallout shelter in the basement - it was the logical place to try to survive, if survival was possible. Within an hour, every comic and waitress who had ever set foot in the Comic Strip wandered in, confused, misdirected, desparate for that warm, empty, comfort-like feeling that being in a place of comedy gives us all.
We gathered our bearings and decided to just start cracking open some beers. We drank to eachother, to air conditioning, to fear of death, to not working, to the sorrow related to not working, to no lights, to hope for the return of lights and to the next beer.
Together, all of us - some of whom loved eachother and some of who didn't, chain-smoked, ate comfort food, gathered around the radio like it was 1956, heckled passers-by and tried to claim dibs on pieces of conversation that might or might not become bits at some point in the near future.
Around 11 pm, after a solid 6 hours of drinking, we all found ourselves drunk and bored. My fiance and I grabbed a couple of candles and made our way back to our 4-story walk-up apartment. At that point, even the safety lights had gone off and our stairwell was completely dark. Though it was darkety dark dark outside, one thing it wasn't was quiet. The streets were littered with beer bottles and candle wax and used-up batteries, but mostly lots of drunk buffoons, screaming up at the 3/4 moon like a bunch of banshees. People carried babies, flashlights, six packs, back packs as they walked up, up, uptown to their dark abodes.
My fiance and I made it through the mess and safely into our little cave. I found a huge candle that I got for Christmas - one of those numbers that comes in a huge jar and is named after some flavor I've never tasted, like Burgleberry or something. I did it with my fiance with the lights off for once, by candle light, which was not nearly as romantic as they make it seem in porn. Immediately after, I fell asleep to the sounds of smashing bottles and a guy playing the bag pipes. Every so often a group of nomads would howl and I would wake, thinking, the power must be on. But it wasn't, they were just howling because they could, for no other reason than because they wanted to.
I woke at 9:15 am and I wasn't sure which made me more disappointed - the power not yet being turned on, or the bag pipes guy having gone home. I thought about crying, then decided against it. I thought about going back to sleep, then realized I couldn't. I thought about making some coffee, then again, realized I couldn't. Just at that moment, the whir and fizz and rumble of all the electrical appliances I'd left on filled the room and all our possessions charged back to life, ready to serve us.
I got up and took a shower with the lights on, and it was like I'd never taken a shower before. I'm not going to end this story by saying something like, I never realized how dependent we all are on power in this day and age, or how cool it was that there was no looting, or how New Yorkers really came together and high fived eachother all night. I guess I will end it with my true feelings on the whole ordeal - I wish I'd seen the bolt of lightning that made that mess, and fuck PSE & G anyway, whether it was their fault or not.
OR Electricity, Money Problems and My Landlord's A Dick
by Jessica Delfino
We lost electricity a little after 4 pm, just around the time the youth of America is about to take a hit for the clock's sake. We live in a tiny studio apartment on the upper east side; my fiance and I. A tiny studio apartment is just what it is, no description necessary. Things haven't been so easy for us since we decided to live with wild abandon at the same time in the same field in the same apartment. Work isn't as readily available as we'd like it to be, but it pops up amazingly, right when we need it most. As one friend put it, "You guys have the amazing talent of finding money right when you need to." However, the hiding places are thinning out, and when money runs low, the importance of paying the utilities takes the rear to more necessary things, like food and entertainment. This past month, the electric bill was not high on our list of priorities.
I turned and looked at my fiance with fear and anger in my eyes. "Did you call the electric company?" I asked. "Um...." he said. He didn't have to finish. "They left a message for you on the answering machine," he said. We argued for a few seconds about how it shouldn't ever be either of our responsibilities to have to listen to messages, when we heard one of our neighbors just start howling. I opened the apartment door and realized the lights were also off in the hallway. Relieved, I picked up my cellphone to call my landlord and give her a grade A bitching out.
Our apartment, besides being small, is a piece a shit. We don't get our mail in our mailbox because the boxes don't lock and the post office refuses to leave it there because it's constitutes some kind of federal violation like mail fraud or something. The landlord refuses to fix it because it will cost $800 and she won't spend that kind of money on the rights and regulations of her tenants, who she likens to gentile trash. So we all have to walk seven blocks every day or so to pick up our mail at the big post office, or else it gets returned to sender. What a bunch of bullshit. Add that to an unreachable superintendent, 5-foot ceilings, pet-sized bugs, heat when there should be a/c and double heat when there should just be heat, and you've got a partial understanding of how we live.
I dialed my landlord's number, which I have on speed dial, three or four times before I realized my cellphone couldn't connect. I started to get a bit nervous. No electricity, no service on my cellphone - then I heard the sirens. There are always sirens but living in New York, you develop a sense - like a mother being able to recognize the difference between a child's whining cry and a child's broken limb cry, I heard a real emergency in those sirens.
"Let's go downstairs," I said. "I think something is going on." I always think something is going on. I am Italian and I grew up in a big family where some shit was always going on. People were always getting locked into laundry mats, we had that one fucked up uncle who always showed up on a motorcycle with a makeshift weapon, the cops knew more than 2/3 of my family members on a first name basis - I guess all of those things combined or any one of them was enough to help me develop an ultra-sensitive intuition to the possibility of something going on.
Sure enough, just as my magic Italian nut family senses had told me, there was something going on, alright. It was like a scene in End Of Days or something. Everyone was standing out on the street, looking around like a meteor was coming. It was like we were having a block party except we were on the upper east side, and there was no music I didn't recognize or chicken-beef hotdogs or second-hand shirts for sale on hangers. My fiance and I walked down the road, twin smoking like Marge's sisters, listening to snipets of stranger's conversation and radio broadcasts. "Fire downtown - no electricity in all of Manhattan, in major cities all over the east coast, children stuck in an elevator, terrorism?" I started farting nervously and we made our way to our closest neighbor's house to co-miserate.
Upon realizing he wasn't home, we walked up to the Comic Strip. Air conditioning, cold beer, fallout shelter in the basement - it was the logical place to try to survive, if survival was possible. Within an hour, every comic and waitress who had ever set foot in the Comic Strip wandered in, confused, misdirected, desparate for that warm, empty, comfort-like feeling that being in a place of comedy gives us all.
We gathered our bearings and decided to just start cracking open some beers. We drank to eachother, to air conditioning, to fear of death, to not working, to the sorrow related to not working, to no lights, to hope for the return of lights and to the next beer.
Together, all of us - some of whom loved eachother and some of who didn't, chain-smoked, ate comfort food, gathered around the radio like it was 1956, heckled passers-by and tried to claim dibs on pieces of conversation that might or might not become bits at some point in the near future.
Around 11 pm, after a solid 6 hours of drinking, we all found ourselves drunk and bored. My fiance and I grabbed a couple of candles and made our way back to our 4-story walk-up apartment. At that point, even the safety lights had gone off and our stairwell was completely dark. Though it was darkety dark dark outside, one thing it wasn't was quiet. The streets were littered with beer bottles and candle wax and used-up batteries, but mostly lots of drunk buffoons, screaming up at the 3/4 moon like a bunch of banshees. People carried babies, flashlights, six packs, back packs as they walked up, up, uptown to their dark abodes.
My fiance and I made it through the mess and safely into our little cave. I found a huge candle that I got for Christmas - one of those numbers that comes in a huge jar and is named after some flavor I've never tasted, like Burgleberry or something. I did it with my fiance with the lights off for once, by candle light, which was not nearly as romantic as they make it seem in porn. Immediately after, I fell asleep to the sounds of smashing bottles and a guy playing the bag pipes. Every so often a group of nomads would howl and I would wake, thinking, the power must be on. But it wasn't, they were just howling because they could, for no other reason than because they wanted to.
I woke at 9:15 am and I wasn't sure which made me more disappointed - the power not yet being turned on, or the bag pipes guy having gone home. I thought about crying, then decided against it. I thought about going back to sleep, then realized I couldn't. I thought about making some coffee, then again, realized I couldn't. Just at that moment, the whir and fizz and rumble of all the electrical appliances I'd left on filled the room and all our possessions charged back to life, ready to serve us.
I got up and took a shower with the lights on, and it was like I'd never taken a shower before. I'm not going to end this story by saying something like, I never realized how dependent we all are on power in this day and age, or how cool it was that there was no looting, or how New Yorkers really came together and high fived eachother all night. I guess I will end it with my true feelings on the whole ordeal - I wish I'd seen the bolt of lightning that made that mess, and fuck PSE & G anyway, whether it was their fault or not.
Saturday, August 16, 2003
JOB SEARCH SELF-SABOTAGE
by Jessica Delfino
Reply to: cuntflap@xxxyyy.com
Date: 2003-08-13, 11:07PM
need 1 bartendress, 2 waitresses, and bus person
this will be for sunday night (aug 31), labor day weekend at a private home in easthampton, ny. hours will be 6:00PM to 3:00AM. crowd will be high end, trendy, 20's to 40's, professional and trust fund group. i will be able to provide transportation sunday afternoon to easthampton but will not be able to provide return transportation. however, there is a guest cabin dorm style set up located on the estate grounds that you can stay in sunday night and enjoy the hamptons on monday. computation of pay will include two hour commute from manhattan and one hour depart. so that would be 4:00PM to 4:00AM (12 hours) and i expect most of the work will be between 8:30PM and 1:00AM. the rest of the time will be spent just milling around or doing minor errands like moving chairs, fixing glasses, etc..I will pay $30/hr for waitresses and if i am happy with the results, i will jack that up to $45/hr. I will pay $40/hr for the bartendress and if happy will jack it up to $55. bus person will assist an inhouse staff with cleaning and overall errands - pay is $20 an hour. pay is on the spot, no waiting for a check here. references will be checked and so i will need these. attire will be supplied (pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, and pink bow/ribbon) for the waitresses and bartendress but you will have to bring your own shoes (preferably 2 inch or more heels - keep in mind that you will be standing on these for many hours). pls send a photo - because of the importance of "image" with this crowd i will give priority to attractiveness, sorry - its a shallow crowd.
Hey There
I just wanted to write to you and tell you what a load of horse shit you craigs list ad is. Though you're offering to pay a lot for the job, this is what I have to say about it:
1) First of all, this job is going to suck for whoever gets it. Standing in heels for hours while too cool for school jack asses who are oblivious to the fact that their idiots suck eachothers' dongs and tell eachother how great they think they are when they all actually suck and having to clean up after a group of people who have been cleaned up after their whole lives so they make an extra mess on purpose because they have no respect for anyone and extra little respect for hired help, well, refer again to the first line of article "1." You can guise this job as a bunch of fun for a ton of dough, but you couldn't pay enough money for this job to be fun.
2) High End? Trendy? Trust Fund? These words do not go together. As a matter of fact, they equate to weiner, if you ask anyone except another weiner.
3) If you're happy you'll jack it up? You can already tell, you won't be happy. You've probably never been happy in your life. You won't even be able to have fun at your own party, because you're going to be running around, worrying about the hired help and telling them to do dumb errands that aren't included in the job description, like load the dishwasher or run to your car and grab a book out that you want to show someone.
4) Pay better be on the spot - you talk a big game. I've never seen someone jerk themselves off so hard in my life.
5) References checked? For a job slinging drinks and running errands? You are the biggest tool I've never met. Who are you, Donald Trump? You probably are some shitty celebrity.
6) Pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, pink bow/ribbon? I bet you either hired a gay dude to pick that outfit out or you decided to try your hand at throwing together a little haute couture because your mom or aunt was a model or whatever and you always had a creative flair to you. Face it, you're gay. BTW, I know for a fact, you're either a closet gay dude or an awful rich chic with the personality of a tranny. There's no way you're as cool as an actual drag queen.
7) Image - Importance of: You are an enormous piece of shit. You give priority to attractiveness based on the crowd being shallow? Let me rewrite that line for you:
"I am a huge tool. In an unrelated sentence, I am only hiring really pretty girls because I might want to try to either bang one of you or a dick faced friend of mine might. Either way, I'm renting you for the night, like a hooker, so you might as well be hot, like a hooker, like a hot hooker, that is. By the way, I am shallow and I am using the group of friends I hang out with as a facade for why I have to hire someone pretty. In addition, my friends are shallow assholes also, but I'm the biggest loser of them all."
That about sums it up, ass for face. So, thanks for your time, pretzel dick. I hope I get the job. I charge $100 per hour, door to door limo service, and none of this cabin shit, I want my own room. And no photo, you get me as is. But for the record, I'm super hot.
Sincerely,
Fuck Off
by Jessica Delfino
Reply to: cuntflap@xxxyyy.com
Date: 2003-08-13, 11:07PM
need 1 bartendress, 2 waitresses, and bus person
this will be for sunday night (aug 31), labor day weekend at a private home in easthampton, ny. hours will be 6:00PM to 3:00AM. crowd will be high end, trendy, 20's to 40's, professional and trust fund group. i will be able to provide transportation sunday afternoon to easthampton but will not be able to provide return transportation. however, there is a guest cabin dorm style set up located on the estate grounds that you can stay in sunday night and enjoy the hamptons on monday. computation of pay will include two hour commute from manhattan and one hour depart. so that would be 4:00PM to 4:00AM (12 hours) and i expect most of the work will be between 8:30PM and 1:00AM. the rest of the time will be spent just milling around or doing minor errands like moving chairs, fixing glasses, etc..I will pay $30/hr for waitresses and if i am happy with the results, i will jack that up to $45/hr. I will pay $40/hr for the bartendress and if happy will jack it up to $55. bus person will assist an inhouse staff with cleaning and overall errands - pay is $20 an hour. pay is on the spot, no waiting for a check here. references will be checked and so i will need these. attire will be supplied (pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, and pink bow/ribbon) for the waitresses and bartendress but you will have to bring your own shoes (preferably 2 inch or more heels - keep in mind that you will be standing on these for many hours). pls send a photo - because of the importance of "image" with this crowd i will give priority to attractiveness, sorry - its a shallow crowd.
Hey There
I just wanted to write to you and tell you what a load of horse shit you craigs list ad is. Though you're offering to pay a lot for the job, this is what I have to say about it:
1) First of all, this job is going to suck for whoever gets it. Standing in heels for hours while too cool for school jack asses who are oblivious to the fact that their idiots suck eachothers' dongs and tell eachother how great they think they are when they all actually suck and having to clean up after a group of people who have been cleaned up after their whole lives so they make an extra mess on purpose because they have no respect for anyone and extra little respect for hired help, well, refer again to the first line of article "1." You can guise this job as a bunch of fun for a ton of dough, but you couldn't pay enough money for this job to be fun.
2) High End? Trendy? Trust Fund? These words do not go together. As a matter of fact, they equate to weiner, if you ask anyone except another weiner.
3) If you're happy you'll jack it up? You can already tell, you won't be happy. You've probably never been happy in your life. You won't even be able to have fun at your own party, because you're going to be running around, worrying about the hired help and telling them to do dumb errands that aren't included in the job description, like load the dishwasher or run to your car and grab a book out that you want to show someone.
4) Pay better be on the spot - you talk a big game. I've never seen someone jerk themselves off so hard in my life.
5) References checked? For a job slinging drinks and running errands? You are the biggest tool I've never met. Who are you, Donald Trump? You probably are some shitty celebrity.
6) Pink checkered mini skirt, white blouse, pink bow/ribbon? I bet you either hired a gay dude to pick that outfit out or you decided to try your hand at throwing together a little haute couture because your mom or aunt was a model or whatever and you always had a creative flair to you. Face it, you're gay. BTW, I know for a fact, you're either a closet gay dude or an awful rich chic with the personality of a tranny. There's no way you're as cool as an actual drag queen.
7) Image - Importance of: You are an enormous piece of shit. You give priority to attractiveness based on the crowd being shallow? Let me rewrite that line for you:
"I am a huge tool. In an unrelated sentence, I am only hiring really pretty girls because I might want to try to either bang one of you or a dick faced friend of mine might. Either way, I'm renting you for the night, like a hooker, so you might as well be hot, like a hooker, like a hot hooker, that is. By the way, I am shallow and I am using the group of friends I hang out with as a facade for why I have to hire someone pretty. In addition, my friends are shallow assholes also, but I'm the biggest loser of them all."
That about sums it up, ass for face. So, thanks for your time, pretzel dick. I hope I get the job. I charge $100 per hour, door to door limo service, and none of this cabin shit, I want my own room. And no photo, you get me as is. But for the record, I'm super hot.
Sincerely,
Fuck Off
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
SOME SHOWS TO SEE FOR YOU THIS WEEK ON FRIDAY
BOTH SHOWS ARE ON THIS COMING FRIDAY - FRIDAY
THIS FRIDAY
Comedy Kabob
@ Level X
N. 6th and Berry - Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
9 PM - FRIDAY
The Something Something Vaudeville Show
@ Galapagos
N. 6th and Wythe - also Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
10 PM - FRIDAY
So, yeah, um, check it out, and uh, dirr, tell me I sent ya!
BOTH SHOWS ARE ON THIS COMING FRIDAY - FRIDAY
THIS FRIDAY
Comedy Kabob
@ Level X
N. 6th and Berry - Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
9 PM - FRIDAY
The Something Something Vaudeville Show
@ Galapagos
N. 6th and Wythe - also Williamsburg
(L to Bedford)
10 PM - FRIDAY
So, yeah, um, check it out, and uh, dirr, tell me I sent ya!
Sunday, August 10, 2003
NAKED APARTMENT - The Sitcom
by Jessica Delfino
SONG - Come on over, we don't care - if you're in your underwear!
The gangs all here - at Naked Apartment! (background singers - Beachboys Style - oooh oooh oooh oooh~)
JIM enters. He's naked. The crowd goes crazy. Bill and Chris are playing cards, naked.
JIM
Hey guys, whatcha doing?
BILL
Just playing a game of cards.
CHRIS
Yeah, the winner gets a blowjob from Michelle!
MICHELLE (off camera)
I heard that!
Canned Laughter.
CHRIS
Wanna play?
JIM
No thanks, I'm not in the mood for oral sex I didn't pay for.
Hey, anyone want some tea?
BILL
Yeah, I'll have some.
JIM
Where are the tea bags?
BILL
Oh I think there's some in the snack box.
Jim goes over to a box on the counter. It says nut hut.
JIM
MMMmmm, almonds. Anyone want some nuts?
CHRIS
No thanks, I already have some.
Chris holds up a bowl of almonds.
JIM
That's cool. What did you guys do today?
BILL
What we do every day - think of new and clever
ways to try to get Michelle into the sack!
MICHELLE (from off screen)
I heard that!
Michelle walks out into the living room. She is naked.
She sniffs the air.
MICHELLE
OK, who's nuts smell?
CHRIS
You got me!
Everyone claps and laughs and Chris, Bill, Michelle
and Jim dance around.
THE END
by Jessica Delfino
SONG - Come on over, we don't care - if you're in your underwear!
The gangs all here - at Naked Apartment! (background singers - Beachboys Style - oooh oooh oooh oooh~)
JIM enters. He's naked. The crowd goes crazy. Bill and Chris are playing cards, naked.
JIM
Hey guys, whatcha doing?
BILL
Just playing a game of cards.
CHRIS
Yeah, the winner gets a blowjob from Michelle!
MICHELLE (off camera)
I heard that!
Canned Laughter.
CHRIS
Wanna play?
JIM
No thanks, I'm not in the mood for oral sex I didn't pay for.
Hey, anyone want some tea?
BILL
Yeah, I'll have some.
JIM
Where are the tea bags?
BILL
Oh I think there's some in the snack box.
Jim goes over to a box on the counter. It says nut hut.
JIM
MMMmmm, almonds. Anyone want some nuts?
CHRIS
No thanks, I already have some.
Chris holds up a bowl of almonds.
JIM
That's cool. What did you guys do today?
BILL
What we do every day - think of new and clever
ways to try to get Michelle into the sack!
MICHELLE (from off screen)
I heard that!
Michelle walks out into the living room. She is naked.
She sniffs the air.
MICHELLE
OK, who's nuts smell?
CHRIS
You got me!
Everyone claps and laughs and Chris, Bill, Michelle
and Jim dance around.
THE END
Wednesday, August 6, 2003
I AM NOT A PHAN
by Jessica Delfino
So, Dat Phan won. I fucking knew he was going to win all along. That fucking guy. Yesterday was a sad day in our country, one where asians can win prizes that surely belong to blacks, americans, jews or gays.
I think that I speak for all of America when I say, Tuesday, August 5th will ring in our minds as the next September 11th. Everyone will remember where they were and what they were doing when Dat Phan won "Last Comic Standing."
I was drinking a shot of tequila to the stillbirth of morals in the entertainment business. ("Here's to something shitty which I am involved up to my knees in," I said. "May it someday be less shitty.")
Where were you?
Jay Mohr is contemptible. If a blind person were to touch his face, the various lumps and blemishes on his skin would translate, in something similar to braille, to: "I was young and opinionated once, but now I'm a cog in the comedy dung factory."
He has the same existence, more or less, as a mexican laborer, he just gets paid more to do less work, and lives without fear of getting sent back to Mexico, where, coincidentally, stealing jokes is as legal as stealing a child's virginity.
by Jessica Delfino
So, Dat Phan won. I fucking knew he was going to win all along. That fucking guy. Yesterday was a sad day in our country, one where asians can win prizes that surely belong to blacks, americans, jews or gays.
I think that I speak for all of America when I say, Tuesday, August 5th will ring in our minds as the next September 11th. Everyone will remember where they were and what they were doing when Dat Phan won "Last Comic Standing."
I was drinking a shot of tequila to the stillbirth of morals in the entertainment business. ("Here's to something shitty which I am involved up to my knees in," I said. "May it someday be less shitty.")
Where were you?
Jay Mohr is contemptible. If a blind person were to touch his face, the various lumps and blemishes on his skin would translate, in something similar to braille, to: "I was young and opinionated once, but now I'm a cog in the comedy dung factory."
He has the same existence, more or less, as a mexican laborer, he just gets paid more to do less work, and lives without fear of getting sent back to Mexico, where, coincidentally, stealing jokes is as legal as stealing a child's virginity.
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