This giant carousel is right outside my boss’s window. MTV’s Moonman sits atop and giant paper mache heads of different musical stars (Madonna, Britney Spears, etc.) serve as each decorative seat. Really fun to see.
The red carpet on which everyone will walk is in what normally is the Channel Gardens in Rockefeller Center. This means my lobby will serve as backstage again as it usually does for the Tree Lighting Ceremony. Incidentally, my law firm is the only tenant in our 6-story building. This means that we employees and our security guards are all on a first name basis…it’s not like working in a giant conglomerate where no one knows or cares who you are. This translates into lots of free (read: illegal) access. So, tomorrow should be a very interesting and hectic day. Pre-show red carpet coverage starts at 6:30 EST. The News circle (I’ll snap a pic tomorrow) is literally steps from my door, so for those watching the awards tonight, you’ll see my building and possibly me hovering in the background.
Oh and what’s all this talk about love and stuff from Monday’s post? I was talking pure, unadulterated public sex in bleachers! I told Christian we looked like we had our photo taken at Olan Mills, he said, “What’s Olan Mills?” ACK! I promise to show you and you will know. Feathered bangs, missing teeth, Mom’s oversized tinted glasses permanently staring back into me. I shudder at the thought.
Okay, so maybe it is not I who is Very Important, but I was with a Premium Blend alumnus which allowed me V.I.P. access to Comedy Central’s taping of the next season of P.B. The host was D.L. (Peeeee) Hughley. (get it, peee-hughley?) A bad, bad choice in hosts. He speaks as though his cheeks are chubby on the inside. There’s just too much interfering with normal speech patterns. His set during the taping of the first episode was pretty good, but when it came to reading from the teleprompter to introduce a comic he fizzled. Bad host, bad, bad.
My only other complaint was the lull in between episodes. While we waited for the band and host to change clothes, the warm-up “comic” led us with a little game of playing matchmaker. A woman in the audience would stand up, Warm Up Comic would ask a few basic questions (name, age, etc.), would hint at making a joke but would fall short, and then solicit a man to volunteer to meet her after the show. It might as well have been a horse auction. “Look at this little filly right here, boy I’d like to ride her bare back! Going once, going twice . . . YES, YOU! Meet her after the show! All right, next single woman . . .”
It was all very misogynistic and did absolutely nothing to keep the audience engaged (which is, you know, the point) as it went on way too long after the novelty of it wore off. If that’s the route they wanted to go, they should have had a guy like Ron Poole who is aces at audience interaction. He could have turned that 20 minutes into a show in and of itself.
Luckily the stand-up talent rose above D.L. Hughley’s marbles-in-his-mouth speech impediment and the Warm Up Comic’s sh*ting on the audience energy. . . there really wasn’t a dud act to be found. More importantly, Julius Sharpe did well, much to my, Christian, Eric, Jay and Bob‘s delight. His was a job well done, and I recommend you set your TiVo now.
The media produces such elaborate “specials” upon the death of a Hollywood Legend, it makes me wonder if they plan these things in advance. It would be prudent; because, even in Hollywood, no one lives forever. Sadly, not even Katherine Hepburne.
My only question is, what age is the threshold for entering the Editorial Death Pool, and is it weighted based on drug and/or alcohol abuse?
The writers of Sex and the City had better stop stalking me and my friends this instant! It was I that was in jury duty. It was I that had too much time to think about my relationship. Two weeks ago it was Greg who just wasn’t into Sam. It was I who declared her hatred for carnations. It was I role-playing the unsuspecting wife with rollers in her hair before getting…er, anyway, where was I?
After several days of voire dire, I wasn’t picked as a juror on what seemed to be a potentially dull criminal case. I didn’t mind the whole process of waiting, reading till my eyes bled, talking on the phone, sleeping in and getting home early enough to enjoy the afternoon sun. What is everyone else complaining about? The life of a potential juror was the most stress-free time I’ve had since my last trip to the Cuervo Nation.
When my duty came to an end, I felt bittersweet sadness. They didn’t want me. I wasn’t good enough. Which one dismissed me? The plaintiff? The defendant? All that time I faithfully devoted and for what? To be sent home with a letter?!The officer stressed the importance of making a copy of the letter for my file as proof of service to relieve me from serving again for the next four years. One quick flash of a Xerox to get me off the hook of any civic responsibility. If only life were that easy.
Things like Hunting for Bambi, the last few pages of a magazine (hell, any magazine front to back), earning $0.75 on a man’s $1.00, it’s enough to make me just give up – throw in the towel – say, “Screw it! It’s a man’s world, and I want a penis!”
Pensively thinking of how it all sucks, I got the sense that this handsome, well-dressed, 30-something man was keeping pace with me as I walked to work. He stayed by my side from 7th to 6th Avenue. Finally, between 6th and 5th Avenue he managed to eek out, “Thank God it’s Friday, huh?” As I instinctively do when someone addresses me, I turned my head to face the speaker. I made no response but rather raised my eyebrows as if to say, “Huh? You talking to me?” He repeated, “I said, ‘Thank God it’s Friday, huh?’” “Yeah,” I smiled, turned my head face front again and kept on walking.
I wasn’t rude, but just lost in my own thought and not interested in faking a conversation with someone I won’t see again. Having failed, he crossed the street, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic just to get away from me.
Then it dawned on me: I don’t want to be a man after all. I don’t want to be so driven by one thing, to always be hunting for Bambi only to have my bullets ricochet and shoot me down over and over again. So, I guess I’ll be keeping my vagina for the time being and the only penis I’ll have won’t be my own. Anyone know of a penis I can borrow?
Queer Eye For the Straight Guy
I have found reality television perfection. Home improvement, makeovers, food & culture tips all mixed with straight men, intent on self-improvement, forced to endure homo-erotic flirtation and humor. I’ve died and gone to heaven. More jock-strap sniffing, please.
Who Wants to Marry My Dad?
Where is this shit world headed? Seriously. Let’s trivialize marriage and relationships why don’t we? You want a reality show, then let’s start “Who Wants to Marry MY Dad” because nobody even wants to be his penpal even though I wished it for his Father’s Day gift. You selfless bastards. Oh, so, he tried to kill someone, is that any reason not to like him? Jeez, tough crowd.
Last Comic Standing
Dave Mordal is consistently funnier and more real than most people. Who are the crack fiends that think R@lphie May is funny? I want to smack them with their hot spoons till their tender veins burst open.
What is with Ralphie’s ebonics hip hop rapping?
The man is white.
He is from Texas.
That is not an accent.
My dinner consisted of a bag of “Hint of Lime” Tostitos, two vodka gimlets and a Brooklyn Lager and then I ranted about reality television. My show is destined for cancellation. I give it till December; set your watches.