Last week I began filming a documentary about the CEO of So…It's Cancer, a young man with stage 4 stomach cancer who is intent on getting his company off the ground before he dies. We've been having a lot of fun (at the moment we're in San Francisco filming his trip to a Wide Spread Panic Show) but the notion that the guy in front of the camera is slowly deteriorating is never far from the front of my brain (or where ever your main thoughts reside, I assume the front or top). If you'd like you can watch a scene from the documentary below where Nick has something called a port put into his chest. Enjoy?
I wrote some presidential slash fiction for all the history buffs out there that The Furious Gazelle was gracious enough to post. Give it a read and please touch yourself at work.
On Tuesday, March 4th I'll be performing a short set at Flappers Comedy Club in Burbank with Stephen Thomas and Paul Laier, it's already a pretty cheap show but if you use the coupon code in the link I've provided below the show is half off. I apologize for the informative tone of this blog, it's just that I stayed up very late watching footage from Woodstock 99 with my roommate and I need to drink my weight in coffee before I return to normal. You understand.
In honor of tonight's upcoming episode of True Detective I have composed a poem.
The King In Yellow Goes To The Mall
The King in Yellow showed up to the mall. Everyone was worried that he would induce despair and madness; that the world as we know it would become a riot.
But it was fine; he just needed a new cloak from Banana Republic.
Hi! I wrote a short story about trying to write a short story and how frustrating it was to watch myself fail at writing this thing that I wanted to write. If that sentence seemed self indulgent then you ain't seen nothin yet. Thanks to Jon Paul at The Wolfhouse Journal for posting the story.
John and I drove five hours to Weatherford Texas from Austin (normally a three hour trip) the weekend before Christmas to spend the evening filming, joking and drinking with Sons of Sierra, a new roots rock band that puts more emphasis on having fun and grabbing a drink than worrying about band dynamics or what shirts to wear at their next show. If the phrase "three friends that also play music together" weren't so clumsy I would suggest that you refer to Sons of Sierra as that rather than a band. It's not that they aren't a real band, after watching them practice for a couple of hours proves that notion, it just seems like a nicer way to speak about such great guys. Anthony, Mike and Rene took the two of us in, fed us (a welcomed home cooked meal of spaghetti and meatballs to be precise) and bought us drinks all the while letting John and me get in their faces with our nosey cameras. With every shudder of our shutters they never missed a beat. If you live in the greater DFW area and have a chance to check out the gentleman sierra in the flesh I suggest you pay them a visit, you shan't leave disappointed. Until then enjoy the first in a series of featurettes concerning Sons Of Sierra.
You can find new SOS episodes at youtube.com/sonsofsierra
The lovely transatlantic human being and good friend Tom Levinge illustrated a few of my poems for his blog (www.tomlevinge.tumblr.com) and I absolutely love the drawrings. I hope against hope that I'll get a chance to work again with Tom soon but at the moment he's in England and on a figurative rocket to the moon so we'll see how that works out. Go laugh at his solo work (in a good way, not like that you urchins) and have a lovely day.
After months of looking at polaroids that needed to be scanned and digital photographs that were crying out to be uploaded my body finally gave up under the strains of travel that I've been putting it under and gave me an excuse to upload a new album of travel photos. If you're interested in how drunk and sad I was during the first month of the Krewella Get Wet tour you can now view the proof in still form. Click on that last sentence or go to the Tour Photography section of the site. If you're wondering I'm feeling slightly better. I'm supposed to record funny voices for a thing today but it's not going to happen.
Last week John and I rented a shoulder mount, then bought a gourd, and a pizza and decided to stand around in the unforgiving cold while we shot a short film about a man child stuck in his own head, trying to make sense of the passage of time and the holiday known as Thanksgiving. Although most of my day was spent getting wet (and not the fun kind where you take PCP and eat the face of your dearest loved one) I'm happy with the content that we were able to output. Bully for us.
Grant woke up in a landfill. Had he eaten so much turkey that he had another dark meat black out?
Or was this another Bogh family prank?
He had a long walk back to town to sort out his options.
Martin was the last person in North America using Alex's slang from A Clockwork Orange. "Those Malchiks'll sobirat to my way of thinky winky soon enough." Martin's VHS player finished rewinding and Henry Purcell's "Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary" boomed from his poorly set up surround sound stereo system.
Writing short Halloween poems may have been the one thing that got me through the parties I stumbled through last night. Here they are. Let's go buy a turkey.
Timothy unwrapped his "fun size" Snickers bar; full of rats, again. He could hear the Petersons cackling for the next six blocks.
In a fruitless attempt at a spooky holiday prank, Jerone slipped off of the stool and hung himself on his front porch. But he won first place in the “scariest front lawn contest” so it was worth it.
Pietro was once again stuck at home fending off trick or treaters, who were these children and why did they want his candy?
Ron was reincarnated as a jack-o-lantern, he came to life just as Alice, his ex girlfriend, began carving into his face. That is so Alice.
Reaching into the bucket marked “TAKE A HANDFUL – PLEASE!” no one expected to pull out a fist full of human teeth.
Gurren wore a t-shirt that read “THIS IS MY COSTUME.” When Gurren removed the shirt at the end of the night, as did the skin from his torso.
"Now that the jocks are in on the Samhain ritual, Halloween blows." moonbeam kicked rocks down the sidewalk, mired in existential doubt.
Glen was failing his second semester creative writing class because he refused to stop writing himself into scenes from Lost In Translation.
Mariel had never been to the beach, it was essentially grey. Entering the water she was stung by a jellyfish. Mariel never returned.
John and I filmed this a couple of weeks ago in his house, with his cats, before I left to film in North Texas. The ebullient Alisha had just finished another shoot (over achiever) and was up for whatever we had planned for her. Unfortunately she waited until after the shoot to tell us this information so we just had her hang out and read. The next short we shoot is nothing but jumping avocado unicycles over pits of attack dogs on fire, you hear that Collinsworth?
If you enjoyed Marcie and Alvin there will be more poems to come, if not; might I suggest watching Die Hard? Many consider it to be the perfect script and one of the best films ever made.