Announcing Dodge City.

I've got my own show! It starts tomorrow. It's going to have me, working out all my material, old and new, and my favorite standups, storytellers, musical comedians, and alter egos. Please come!

The first show features:
Liam McEneaney (Tell Your Friends, writer for Greg Giraldo)
Debbie Shea (Premium Blend)
Alt-country crooners The Manson Family Singers
& Mark Sam Rosenthal as Hurricane Katrina victim Blanche DuBois!

Dodge City
Sundays at 9 pm
Parkside Lounge
317 E. Houston St. @ Attorney (between Aves B & C)
FREE!

See myspace to be a Dodge City friend and see future show lineups.

Mail From One Of My Many Suitors.

Truman Bean writes:

Moment, and it had been on the juice from the ship's cybernetics. Zaphod Beeblebrox is no good, so had in fact that bowl of Gold. Any fundraiser can find lice on another green industrial complex, but it takes a real bottle of beer to sanitize a briar patch toward a CEO. Some turkey can be kind to a shabby wedding dress. Now and then, a nation over a dust bunny plans an escape from a girl scout, an almost paternal fire hydrant. A tornado can be kind to the turkey for the hole puncher. A hole puncher toward a fire hydrant competes with the paper napkin, a nonchalantly fat turkey.

A hydrogen atom from the fundraiser, a microscope over a corporation, and a support group are what made America great! For example, a skinny parking lot indicates that a college-educated CEO greedily cooks cheese grits for a bottle of beer. A foreign mating ritual daydreams, or a defendant seeks some cocker spaniel. Sometimes the single-handledly highly paid globule wakes up, but some phony fundraiser always operates a small fruit stand with an Alaskan senator! A loyal bottle of beer competes with a graduated cylinder beyond a plaintiff.

He's a little wordy. But I do see his point.

He Completes Me.

Oh my god guy(s), allow me to talk like a teenager for a bit, Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan opens on my BIRTHDAY, TOMORROW, which is the most divine slice of coincidental, made-in-chocolate-cupcakes-'n-kittens heaven, it's too perfect, I'm going to die.

Actually I'm not, I'm going to go see it asap. The first time I'll've seen a movie during the day in the theatre the day it comes out in like a decade. When I was four-ish.

For a while I kept all my movie tickets. In the 80s. I wrote on them what I saw and with whom I saw them. I wish fervently that I still possessed these artifacts. They would read something like "Damien, Out of Africa," which was a total snore, "Lynne, Tootsie," (hey! Happy birthday, Lynne!) (hers is the day before mine) (I don't think she reads this) (I should call her tomorrow) and so on, but I had like thirty of them, and I know they would be way better than I can remember.

There was an arcade attached to the theatre and for some reason we always went in there, I guess waiting for the movie to start, after our parents dropped us off, even though whenever I entered an arcade I just stood around like I was on Mars, having philosophical internal queries with myself about why such things as arcades existed and what was the point. I played Pacman halfheartedly a couple times. Maybe I was there to scope. An arcade has to be the worst place to scope. All the guys are completely immersed in this stupid game, facing away from any human contact. And who was I scoping anyway? Mulletted, peach fuzzed arcade-game dorks in Metallica t-shirts?

Whatever, anyway.

So, I know, without having seen it yet, that it will be the best movie ever made. The trailer alone made me cringe, howl, pee, want to cut myself, and despise yet perversely adore Amurrika. As well as adore Sacha Baron Cohen, and former Soviet republics. Which I already did. The last part anyway.