In the meantime, why not read the following over a few thousand times. It's lovely. So are you.
From Stephen Colbert's commencement address at Knox College:
"...And if you're lucky, find people who will say 'yes' back. Now will saying 'yes' get you in trouble at times? Will saying 'yes' lead you to do some foolish things? Yes it will. But don't be afraid to be a fool. Remember you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics...Cynics don't learn anything...cynicism is...a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say 'no.' But saying 'yes' begins things. Saying 'yes' is how things grow. Saying 'yes' leads to knowledge. 'Yes' is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say 'yes.' And that's the word."
Being a fall down, hopeless drunk must be a prerequisite to get a job at the Post as anyone who hangs out downtown and has had to suffer through a drunken conversation with starfucker Mandy Stadtmiller or tin-eared Mary Huhn knows all too well.
Where ever Moby is you will find these two lushes following close behind basking in his glow of mediocrity.
OK, first of all, the starfucker thing is a bit from my set. Lazy. Second of all, I wish I could fall down and be hopeless. I'd be way more interesting.
Third of all, Glow of Mediocrity is the name of my new vaginal cleanser. Not cool.
Fourth of all, based on the shitty over-thought-out writing and who was there the single night Mary and I happened to meet Moby after a show I was doing at Mo Pitkin's, it's pretty easy to figure out who wrote this spineless, anonymous comment.
And all I can say is, God bless you, lad.
As Julie and Jackie noted after Bro'in Out tonight, this is the kind of douche you kind of have to stand back and marvel at—the way you would any huggable retard.
I say! Your ears, they're made of tin, see, and the Internet, I hear it's a good place to disparage others, see, and this is how we do it, fella, with news on the march.
I would also like to point out the fact that my father has a metal plate in his head because he was shot twice in the face in Vietnam. He wishes he had tin ears. But instead he's got a metal plate in his head. So thanks for reminding me. Of how much I'd love to fuck anyone who's ever starred in or had a chief gaffer role in a Vietnam reenactment flick.
If you want to come support me at one show this year
come TONIGHT! FRIDAY! to this Montreal showcase at 10 p.m. at Stand Up New York.
Details are here. This is the biggest comedy festival in the world and I'll be doing a 6-minute audition. Would love to see you there in your best Sanjaya sweater.
IN New York, you don't have an entire evening to waste wondering if your date is The One.
But you do have a solid five minutes.
So, in the spirit of keeping painful evenings to a one-drink minimum, we've collected the top 20 cues to tell whether tonight's date is the best thing to ever happen to you - or just another great reason to get an unlisted phone number.
"You have to pay attention to everything that someone makes you feel," says psychoanalyst Bethany Marshall, whose new book, "Deal Breakers," examines personality types to handle with care. "Feeling possessed, idealized, anxious is not the same as being in love."
We also don't have that much control over what traits we're exhibiting, making it that much easier to break someone down, says Greg Hartley, a former Army interrogator and author of the new body-language tome "I Can Read You Like a Book."
"Humans are pretty primitive creatures," he says. "We want to think we're much more advanced, but we're not very different than apes. Any time a person's aroused, you can see in the face the cheeks are flushed, the lips are more full and the pupils will dilate."
Concludes our third and final five-minute dating expert, Lisa Clampitt, executive director of the Matchmaking Institute in New York: "In the caveman era, they would assess for size and skin color. We're still back in that world of assessing: Is this person friend or foe?"
Have you ever wondered, "Who is the mailing list at the top of this Web site for? Is it for people who read your stuffeven if they don't live in New York?"
The answer is you, and yes. I rarely send out emails, and while sometimes they are New York-specific, I'm trying to be better about, you know, focusing on getting a book out. So help me help you help me.
To make things even more interesting, let's make a friendly little wager.
If 50 new people sign up by Friday at midnight (it's easy: type in your email, click the button to the right), I promise to post one of my favorite stories I ever wrote in college about the death of the intelligent teen and the demise of Sassy magazine.
And if 50 people don't sign up, I will post nothing but pictures of my mother's poodle and Hanson through the end of March.
Poodles and Hanson.
Hanson and poodles.
I want you to want me.
Thanks.
UPDATE: I'll be stopping by "The Joey Reynolds Show" very late tonight—or if you want to play specifics, around 2 a.m. Friday morning.
Video store clerk: I'm going to need a driver's license to give you a rental card.
Me: Shoot. I don't have one.
Clerk: That's okay. What else do you have?
Me: Let's see. (Rifling.) What about a napkin with a 63-year-old anesthesiologist's phone number on it whose name is Knut but said I should call him "c--t"?
From the April 2007 issue of Esquire, letters section:
The Problem With All Women Everywhere
The February issue included a section devoted entirely to sex (The State of Sex): how we're having it, how to get it, even a quiz to see if you're getting it tonight.
You make it seem as if there is this vast, simmering smorgasboard of sexual delight waiting just behind a closed door, and all you have to do is know the secret word to get in. You say there's sex to be had everywhere, but for guys like me the door is not only closed, it's unmarked and painted black. Here's what we get: overscheduled women who are too busy for relationships; the lovely, friendly, flirtatious girls in our offices who—surprise, surprise—are living with their boyfriends; the girls with gnat clouds of chaos circling their heads, making their lives an impenetrable mess; beautiful but frosty ones who refuse to have anything to do with us; and the decidedly available ones who you'd much rather die than be caught with in public. So how about throwing us single guys a bone? Tell us something that we can benefit from so that we can join the party.
Kyle Moore Burbank, Calif.
Women love a direct, honest, vulnerable man. A man like you. Read them this letter. Every word. Except for the "gnat clouds of chaos" line. Maybe leave that part out. —Editors
No, seriously. Okay, so the playlist on my iPod that has both the Hanson and the Billy Joel also has on it Frank Sinatra's "Young at Heart," which I hadn't listened to in ages and when I did it gave me chills and yeah, it's what this is all about.
Divorce all memory you have of the song, and listen with fresh ears.
(My posts for the next week are going to be all devoted to "Sebadoh III" so just chill the hell out already.)
"For five years now I've been addicted to cold turkey. And I would tell people I'm quitting cold turkey. And they'd be like what are you quitting and I'd be like I'm quitting fucking cold turkey."
"I'm part of this great organization that I just want to talk about for a second and then I'll get back to the jokes. What we do is we train homeless people to become assistant managers at Banana Republic. It's a great organization except the name sucks. It's called Homeless Bananas."
Here are a few great clips. Never have I laughed so hard at "chicken."
There's a celebrity suicide and then you start talking about suicides and then suddenly you're reading about Christine Chubbuck and finding the footage of Budd Dwyer.
I'd also like to say what I enjoyed the most about watching an entire crowd of kids singing along to every single word of every single song at a rock concert was being reminded of a time when, almost like religion, I would come home from school every day and faithfully cue up my VHS cassette of Pearl Jam's "Unplugged" to play over and over again.
I think what it comes down to is being a kid, around 17, 18, 19, and starting to grow up and sensing that it's going to suck and then somehow seeing this spark of absolute passion—in this case, in the form of a hot musician—who makes you feel like you can live your life with total joy and pure excitement and screw all the dead-eyed old people. That's how I felt about Pearl Jam.
It also didn't help that my dad came home from his adoption group one day and said, "You like music. My friend Karen Vedder said her son is in a rock band." And then I crapped my pants.
I just watched these through again, making it the 9,010th time I've watched each performance.
Here is Pearl Jam.
Even if you skip "Black," this version of "Porch" is essential.
Greetings and happy tidings to all, in this the beautiful season to celebrate the Savior's birth. The tree is up and the Christmas Ham is awaiting my apricot glaze, so once again it's time to check in for our yearly Hanson Family update. A promise from the heart to keep this year's news-letter as brief as possible (I hear you sighing, Uncle Jack! Just kidding, I can't hear you!). It's hard to believe that a year has passed since my last correspondence. Time sure flies when Jesus is flying the plane! It's a crisp afternoon here in Sooner Country. Gary and the boys are off hunting snow rabbits so the girls and I broke out the old Smith-Corona to fill everyone in, Don't worry, Peg, there's a Pumpkin Pie waiting for my men when they return -- hopefully with a fresh kill.
We're awaiting a wonderful Christmas. As is our family tradition, no gifts are exchanged but all the children will prepare a drawing, poem or play. This year's theme is Genesis. The girls are painting a beautiful mural of God's creation of man, using only the juices of fruit they grew themselves. Isaac and Taylor are preparing a heartwarming skit on the Garden of Eden (Taylor makes a beautifully innocent Eve) and little Zach, well, let's just say shouting "Let there be light" and Clapping the Clapper on and off doesn't show great inspiration. It doesn't matter. We love all our children equally, and still believe greatly in last year's Christmas theme, "Abortion Is Murder."
Some Hanson Highlights: Gary's working on a book about our methods of teaching the children called All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, at Home with My Parents; Who Taught Me Better Than Any Government-Run Public School That Denies Prayer Could. The girls once again won the yearly Hanson Home School Science Fair. They devised a method for testing the bacterial content of foods using only Litmus Paper, Paper Clips and a homemade Centrifuge. These girls are going places! The boys did well too. They built a mobile depicting the fallacy of evolution. As for Zach, well, let's just say sneaking some-thing into our dinner and waiting to see if anyone would eat it and become ill didn't impress these judges. But we love all our children equally and hope one day Zach will tell us what it was, and why I can no longer hold down solid foods. In Hanson Sports News, it was a very good year. The Hansons played a very strong schedule, going head to head with the only other Home School Team in the area, the Jurgensons. It was great fun.
Oh, before I forget, the boys continue with their little music project. They recently played the Devlin County Pan-Asian Wet and Wild Jamboree for Vietnamese Exiles. I don't want to go into too much detail, in this, the season of good tidings, but the crafty little Asian gentleman who organized the fair tried to cheat the boys out of their $50 performance fee. We nearly came to blows over the matter, but eased off when both parties quoted the same piece of foreboding scripture at the same time. I can't say I condone the boys' interest in this pursuit of popular music, but as I always say, "Encouragement is next to Charity, which is next to Faith, which is next to Cleanliness... and we all know what that's next to."
Jesus loves you,
Eileen and Gary Hanson and the Hanson Family
P.S. Any donations to the charity to help that poor boy in our neighborhood with the cleft lip would be greatly appreciated. We've raised some money, but he still looks odd when he eats in public, which is often. Remember, Charity begins at home, which, as you know, is where we have our school.
December 25,1997
Dear Hanson Super Fan Friends and Family,
Hey everybody! It's that time of year again! And what an amazing year it's been. I apologize for the Fan Club stationery, but it's all I could find. Normally I would just ask Carmen where she put the newsletter paper, but I gave her the day off. Most of her family is somewhere in South America, but bless her heart, she still seemed set on not working the holiday. Although I'm sure you could make a case that that's when I would need her most.
I feel bad about the stationery even though I'll bet none of you care. I'll bet you're just impressed that with all the amazing things happening to our family I still make a point of personally sending out the yearly holiday update. I agree! That is exactly what I told Gary, who was of the mind that if you all really need information, you can visit our official Web site like everybody else. But that's crazy. Being stars doesn't mean we can't take the time to stay in touch with our friends and family. By the way, the unofficial sites are not sanctioned and contain a great deal of fabricated information. I can't stress that enough. Our official site has received over two million hits to date!!
You're probably saying to yourself "Wow, that must be making them a fortune!" You would thinkAlthough perhaps you are not taking into consideration a poorly negotiated contract that paid a one-time up-front fee and neglected any back end or merchandising considerations.
But you know our Gary. I think when the Lord was passing out business acumen, Gary was downstairs getting good hair. Of course you can't tell that to Gary. I guess he figures his year and a half of technical school and previous work experience selling homemade knickknacks at mall art fairs qualifies him to manage a world-famous band.
A big "I'm sorry" on behalf of Gary, the boys and myself for not being at Ned and Irenens annual family reunion picnic. The girls told Carmen it was a hoot. Unfortunately that was the weekend before the Grammys and as you might imagine we were swamped. While the boys were sad to miss Irene's annual mock apple pie, their dinner with Fiona Apple softened the blow. I had heard through the grapevine that Irene was a little bent out of shape. I'm sure that's not true because Irene and Ned are God-fearing people and very aware that envy is a sin.
Ooops! Please excuse the sloppy penmanship. I'm jotting this update from the back of a Limousine the boys bought me for Christmas, and the slick leather interior doesn't offer great stability. Lincoln, my driver, and I have developed a very funny joke where he calls me Miss Daisy and I pretend that's my real name.
Well, enough chatter, I better have Lincoln take me home. The boys and Gary are in Dnsseldorf, but Zach still likes me to spend at least six hours a day in his room, cleaning the shag carpet, strand by strand, with my teeth. Anything for my little angel, because, as I always say, I love all my three boys equally.
It's been a wild year. The Lord sure works in mysterious ways, or as I like to say, "What a long strange trip it's been!"
Jesus loves us,
Eileen, Gary, Zach, Taylor and Isaac
(collectively known as Hanson)
P.S. You can stop sending money for the gimp boy with the Cleft Lip. It turns out we had enough money left over from just one mall show to ship him and his entire family off to Nebraska.
December 28, 1999
To Whom It May Concern,
HO, HO, HO! Zach has Herpes. There. Are you Happy now? You try controlling an eleven-year-old multi-millionaire with a hard-on for strippers. For those of you wondering about last year's newsletter, there wasn't one. If you must know, I was at a retreat in Hazelden, Minnesota, and they didn't allow pens, pencils or any other sharp implements for that matter. It's been quite a ride... quite a... I sit here, alone in my Hotel suite. Pen in one hand, bottle of Glenlivet in the other. A gun at my feet. Darkness all around me...
First of all, to all you Nosy Parkers in the crowd, I did not embezzle money from my family, I don't give a rat's ass what that judge says. I am their manager... co-manager... was their co-manager. I had every right to that money. I gave birth to those boys. What did Gary do? His three minutes of dirty business? Foreplay?! Please. Whispering "The Bible says be Fruitful and Multiply" before ejaculating and passing out isn't foreplay. Seven times I allowed that man to sully me... seven times.
I'm tired ... so very tired. Someone had to have some fiscal responsibility. Christ! Do you know what Taylor and Isaac did on their big "Africa Tour"? Sat in a hotel restaurant ordering Lasagna made from 1,000-dollar bills and White Tiger's Blood. Not all the time, of course. No, sometimes they would lock themselves in their hotel rooms doing what looked and tasted like high-grade Brazilian Heroin. Where was their father, you might ask? Oh I don't know, maybe shacked up in some Backwater Indonesian Fuckee Suckee bar. Maybe it's just me, but I still believe in a thing called Statutory Rape Laws.
You think I'm bitter? You think I'm beaten? You think I might take the pills I have in my hand, wash them down with Scotch and glide off into a world of euphoria where all my pain will cease? HA! No, this old girl has some fight in her yet. Believe it!! I know things. Things that would be worth a lot of money if they got out. And not the usual bullshit, the "Taylor is fucking Naomi Campbell" shit. I could put a lot of people in jail... Think I'm bluffing? Try me... I dare you... I... I miss my angels. I just want to talk to them. To tell them Mommy loves them... to ... tell them... I could fucking kill Gary with my bare hands and not blink. I could stare into his eyes as he begged for my mercy and forgiveness and I could snuff out his life and then go back to my lunch as though nothing happened. I miss them so much. Do they care? Of course not.
Hey, some crude garage mix of the little bastards rehearsing Christmas music just went to No. I on the Holiday Charts. Think Kenny G is choking on his own cock over that one? I believe these tiny ingrates, who I gave life to, could sing into a bag of their own shit and ten million girls whose life ambition is to someday get breast implants would spend their hard-earned abortion money just to cradle it in their arms.
But hey! It was a great run, huh? Better to burn out than fade away! What do I care? I still have more money than any of you will ever have in a lifetime of being paid by the government not to grow corn. Merry Fucking Christmas, God is dead, Eileen Hanson
Rudy: Okay Lois Lane, what does a highly intelligent, six-foot-two, vivacious California blonde do when she's not writing articles for the New York Post?
Bestblogintheworld.blogspot.com, updated only seven times before throwing in the towel in early 2004, contains final entries noting, "Im a playa, im a playa," and then simply "l8r."
Myview.blogspot.com couldn't take it anymore on May 1, 2001 (R.I.P.) with a jarring final update from the front lines: "I was a little horrified to learn recently that Circuit City was no longer carrying VHS tapes."
And who could forget Importantthoughts.blogspot.com, which signed off with one last post on Feb. 18, 2004, which seemed to indicate there was essentially nothing left to say. "He's like, 'Do you know the best way to keep your youthful looks?' I'm like 'No, how?' And he's like, 'Lots of sex.' "
was the Spielberg photo MySpace joke. And I was thinking about her today, and I was thinking about how she was the first female comic to be waved over by Johnny, and I just watched this clip of her performance on the show and it almost made me cry. Look at the tenderness between her and Johnny, and fall in love with the world all over again.
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