If You Hurt My Feelings, I Get the Remote

So, the other day, my best friend says to me, "You complain all the time, and you act like they're not complaints but observations, and they don't help anybody." And it bugged me for two whole days. A lot. So then, we were gonna have some food, and he turns on Cops. I was all "We are NOT watching this." And then I felt better, even though the alternative was some bullshit on Vh1.

Things I'm enjoying: Beverly Hills, by Weezer; searching the internet for news on the new Superman and Batman movies; polo shirts; going for runs and then making sure everyone knows I went for a run.

James Brolin and the Devil

Last Wednesday night (actually Thursday morning, around 2), I watched The Amityville Horror, which scared me as a child and stars James Brolin. The opening is still really creepy and shocking. As in, if you're thinking at all while watching, you might not want to watch the rest of the movie because it's not so much that it's scary, but it's...upsetting. And then, as soon as it's settled in with the awful and the afraid and the based-on-a-true-story of it all, it gets insanely cheesy. And boring. How sad that this horrifying memory from my childhood is ultimately hard to watch because it's bad and not much else. The main part of the story, really, is about James Brolin trying to be a good dad to his new wife's family. At one point, Margot Kidder wears one leg-warmer, or maybe a tight, and does ballet moves topless with a flower in her hair. Weird.

So then, the next night (actually Friday morning circa 3a.m.), on the Sci-Fi Channel, I watched The Car, which is another 1970s horror film starring Mr. James Brolin. The Car is about a you-know-what that drives around--empty--mowing people down. The effects are primitive, to put it kindly, so no one actually ever gets hit by the car or even rolls up over the hood. They just sort of spring up into the air, followed by a shot of either the grill or the hubcabs passing by. That car is pissed. James Brolin is the local law, and he's gonna get to the bottom of it. The weird part is that there's all this character stuff between killings, with Brolin being a single dad and trying to warm his daughters up to his new girlfriend. Like maybe the satanic car part of the script was secondary, just like the satanic house was before, and James Brolin spent the 1970s thinking he was making family movies.

Good scary movies: Sisters; Rear Window; Alien; The Vanishing (Dutch); the first fifteen minutes of Scream

Flying

At least once a day, at work, I imagine myself flying. It’s not intentional, I just find myself walking, and glancing up at the white cork tiles, and I can almost feel them against the top of my head, one after another, each one popping up for just a second as I skim along the ceiling. When I picture myself flying, it’s never like Superman, with arms out front and body horizontal. It’s more like the Mario Bros where he has a raccoon tail, and he can fly by spinning it around. He stays upright, and just rises and rises until he bumps his head on something. If you really get him going, he sort of vibrates against the ceiling. Once in a while, there’s no ceiling and you can fly him all the way up off the screen. I remember flying Mario off the screen, and worrying that he was gone forever, so I’d let my thumb off the control for just a second, just long enough for him to drop back into view. I have yet to have a moment on the job where I imagine flying with no ceiling, just up and up and off the screen for a second. I always know my limit, even when imaginary. Flying, sure, but flying above the ceiling? Come on, let’s not get crazy. Once in a while, Mario could shoot fireballs, but you had to choose. Fireballs, or flying-tail. It’s a tough choice I made for Mario a hundred times. Sometimes he needs fire. For myself? It’d be the tail, every time. I don’t wanna burn anything down; I just need, once in a while, to float up out of view.

Favorite toys from childhood: Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle; Star Wars figures; Etch-a-Sketch; Jeans Beans; Atari 2600; Hot Wheels Thundershift 500; Ghost Gun

Mitch Hedberg, Comedian, RIP

Mitch Hedberg was not given the last rites. There will be no vigils, no processions, no elaborate or controversial selection process to find and anoint Mitch Hedberg the second. Mitch Hedberg had no robes or giant hats or decisions to make in regard to world issues. Mitch Hedberg did not have his own city. No one ever asked what he thought of abortion or gay marriage or war or even Like a Prayer. Laura Bush will get no Botox for Mitch Hedberg’s funeral. The President won’t read any statements. But you know what? The Pope, despite helping end communism, despite loving the world’s children, despite traveling via Popemobile, didn’t make me laugh a single time. Mitch Hedberg, on the other hand…I’ve lost count. He had a heart condition, and he did drugs, and in a statement I had to search the internet for, his mom seemed not one bit surprised to have lost him so young. The Pope was big, sure, but he wasn’t funny. Mitch was funny, and that was huge. All due respect to the Pope, but I’ve had a lump in my throat for three days now, and the Pope has barely crossed my mind. I guess I’m shallow. Mitch, a blog is not a eulogy; it’s not a vigil. We never met, but someone’s got to give you respect, and here’s mine. If it’s true that celebrities die in groups, you’re in pretty awesome company, from a comedy standpoint. Imagine the look on the Pope’s face when he sees you rockin’ the aviator shades and 1970s haircut; his new roommate, in a Heaven where laughter equals love, hearts never wear out, the next Lifesaver flavor is always pineapple, and the Pope gets all your jokes. And Mitch, I bet Johnny invites you over to the couch on your very first try.

Listening to: Green Day, American Idiot; Mitch Hedberg, Mitch All Together; Beck, Guero; Le Tigre, TKO (from a Best Buy freebie sampler, over and over)