My Computer is Pregnant

Hello, internet.

I'm now bumming you off the rehearsal hall, and desperately resisting the urge to download porn at work, because that's never really worked out well for anyone, and if I'm going to be fired for doing something involving pornography at work, I'd rather be in a participatory rather than observational role, but I digress.

My little Macbook is pregnant. Again, probably all the porn. There are many, many, many people who could be the father. I wouldn't even know where to begin to start.

Basically, my little computer has been chugging along fine since 2006 when I got a new one because my house got broken into (thought process: fuck! 3 years of work from college, toil, growth, all go...oh sweet, a webcam) without issue.

Then my svelt the battery went the way of Axel Rose.

Welcome to the Jungle

Who, as it turns out, may or may not Also be pregnant, also because of porn. Although were I you, internet, I wouldn't go looking for any videos of his impregnation. It's a little like that scene from the second Ghostbusters where Egon falls into the sewer. Here:

It's at around 5:00 in. You'll get the idea.

Anyway, my battery started swelling, maybe because of heat, or humidity, or pregnancy, now I must order a new one. Fine.

Couple of issues. While in Jackson, MI, I don't really have a mailing address, so everything is forwarded through an office, which is then usually forwarded to the actors. Not too big of a deal.

The only problem with this is I don't know how big my computer is. I'm pretty sure it's 15 inches (that's what she said) but unlike a lot of people, I don't keep a ruler sitting around near my computer.

It's just a great picture

So ordering online makes me nervous, because I can't try it out first to make sure it works, and they're not like, UBER cheap either.

My other option is to drive to Ann Arbor (which is not altogether a bad thing), and shop at one of 2, count em 2, Mac stores there.

The only problem with buying anything directly from a Mac retail location is that Mac will literally take your money, roll it up into a phallus, then RAPE YOU WITH THAT SAME MONEY.

Like this, but not in the mouth

Seriously. The batteries there cost a week's salary AND a left testicle. It's awful.

So here I sit, DESPERATELY not downloading porn, at the crux of a decision that could cause a fair amount of aggravation for at least a week or so.

But this is why we blog. To me, this is painful. To you, it's trite, and therefor funny. That's right internet, pain = humor.

Bam.

Amazon, here I come.

Cheers.

To My Loyal Fan

Hello, one dude from germany who reads my blog and keeps sending me naked pictures of himself wearing a Lion mask (you've lost weight, by the way, good work.)

I haven't been blogging a hell of a lot the past two weeks, simply because I've left the comfort of the nest and trekked to a land far north of home to do some Shakespeare for the summer.

Benefits to summerstock

A) Paid housing
B) Little responsibility other than acting
C) Lots of breweries in the area.

Detriments:

NO FUCKING INTERNET.

Right now I'm in a coffee shop downtown, and there's a dude reading this over my shoulder. Yes, I'm talking to you. Stop. It's obnoxious. Visit the fucking site. You can see the address at the top okay he left.

I fully intend to, as soon as the aforementioned internet is installed (I'm told it should be today or tomorrow, but much like Unicorns and a second term for Barack, I'll believe it when I fucking see it).

So internet, in all your sweaty, creepy, lion-faced goodness, you'll have to wait for the following topics (you can consider this my promise to you):

- The Viking Funeral / Corporate Excorcism that took place when I quit my job to do Shakespeare
- Living in Jackson, MI
- How I almost died at a travelodge
- Being without porn for 2 weeks


And many other gems, so stay tuned. I'm sorry baby, I do love you i just, i just, needs some space sometimes, that's all.

Also: FUCK COMCAST. IN THE FUCKING EAR.

Cheers,

On Cleaning

Oh, do I hate cleaning. I'm pretty sure there are 7 circles of hell:

1) You're trying to go to sleep and there's a dog barking
2) Driving behind old people
3) I'm not feeling that creative

....


7) Fucking cleaning

Now, I live alone (and I own a blog. I'm a true statistical anomaly) so I've run a swiffer over the floors once every couple of months, more often when I'm having a new lady friend over.

Now, you may be saying to yourself: once every couple of months? That's gross! I would never sleep with a guy who had such a dirty kitchen!

Yes you would. Many of you have. You don't check the kitchen until the next morning. Ha.

I'm subletting though, and don't really want to give the wrong impression to my new subletter, lest she destroy my couch, bed, and desk in my absence, so I'm truly making an effort.

And the people who do this for a living are fucking saints. I should come and have them do this, so as to further their sanctification.

I just did the kitchen, and my God, let me tell you, I am disgusting. I didn't even realize. If I had checked the kitchen last night, I might not have masturbated for fear I was hooking up with someone untoward, but, I digress.

My swiffer wasn't doing it. Because fuck me, apparently, the wet things didn't want to stick to the bottom of the stick thing, so I did it the old fashion way:

This is something I swore I'd never do, and it's the lamest thing to cross of that particular list.

I cleaned the kitchen on my hands and fucking knees.

Not at all like this, unfortunately

I remember I once was rooming with a group of people for a summer, and one day I came home and Kathleen, a roommate, was cleaning the kitchen floors on her hands and knees.

Like this, but with more "Mommy" issues

I remember stopping in the doorway, afraid she might have fallen and was trying to push herself up with a sponge, or something.

Apparently, I was staring.

"What?" quothe she, wiping her brow the back of her wrist.

I shrugged, afraid to a) question the madness, lest she turn it as a weapon against me or b) step over the now immaculate half of the floor near the doorway.

"Nothing," I managed after a moment.

We stared at one another for a long while, sizing one another up like two rival lions, facing off over the psychological kitchen-cleaning territory. She knew me fairly well, and was just DARING me to say something.

She smirked, the fire of battle in her eyes. I, for fear of it, did nothing.

Sensing triumph, she said, "I'll bet no one has ever done THIS before!" and resumed her scrubbing with vigor.

I might have pointed out that unless you're on the verge of a scientific breakthrough, how often other people gauge in whatever activity you are currently engaging in is a pretty good meter of cette activity's general sanity....but, I suppose you have to pick your battles.

And now, after all these years, you've beaten me, Kathleen. Now at least 2 people have done that. Guess you're only sorta crazy after all.

Cheers.

Sparticus: Blood and Sand Review

A little late, but I just discovered this on netflix. I recently tried to write for http://www.cracked.com a humor website I both read AND enjoy, but turns out they pre-screen their topics, and you can't just write what the fuck you want, and fuck that. So, here's my review:

So, I just watched the new Starz show “Sparticus: Blood and Sand.” And, just like a grieving process, there a seven stages to the experience. Stage one is where I realize how much the fight style is suspiciously like “300”. The second stage is where we realize how much the plot is suspiciously like “Gladiator”. The third stage involves a lot of  getting fairly angry. The fourth stage involves HOLY SHIT THAT’S A LOT OF FUCKING TITS LIKE 30 FREAKING PAIRS OUR TITS CUP FLOETH OVER. The fourth stage involves lots of grunting and eventual shame.

The fifth stage is eating some hummus on the couch in our underwear. There are no sixth or seventh stages.

However, given that Sparticus is just a mixture of 300 and Gladiator with a sprinkle of boobs, we still intend to prove that, like Mac & Cheese and midget pornography, the whole may be greater than the sum of the parts.

Pictured: Synergy

Part 1:

Yah, so here’s just a couple of randomly chosen screen shots from 300 and Sparticus.

All black people with whips aside, Total. Fucking. Coincidence. Like, for SERIOUS guys.

Only difference is in Spartacus, the main dude totally looks like burly Jesus.

Yippie Christ Yay Motherfucker.

Now, one of the ONLY strengths of 300 was it's awesome stylized fight sequences.

Also the leather diapers

The whole movie was basically one big slow-mo surgery lesson with videos of a junior college freshman year acting class’s classics quarter spliced in.

Which worked. And was kind of awesome. No one knows why that guy we think might be Sean Bean talked like a pirate, but you know what? We forgave him.

Yar. I want that fucking ring.

We spent the entire 2ish hours in a boyish, blood fueled daze. Which frankly, we were fine with.

Problem was, there was not a whole lot of plot to speak of. To be fair, a good 45 % of the movie was in slow motion, so you only really had about thirty-five minutes of story to work with.

A good synopsis: Leonidas wants fight Persians. Council says no. He goes anyway. Wife gets boned. Leonidas dies. This is known as the first p0wnage in history.

Besides, Leonidas sounds like a disease where your balls turn into lions. Which is maybe the reason for the diapers.

For your protection.

So along comes:

PART 2

You know who wrote this shit?

Us neither. But we totes IMDB’d it. And it’s David Franzoni. (Still not ringin’ a bell here either.)

Well FYI: he wrote freaking Amistad. Also King Arthur.

We'll just call it even.

And do you know who directed Gladiator? Do You?

Ridley. Shitting. Scott.

That's Who.

So Gladiator has story coming out the freaking BALLS.

That's right. Right there out the balls.

Which is maybe why the plot summaries of Gladiator and Sparticus are about as distinguishable as Mary Kate and Ashely Olsen (though we’d totally be down for a three-way).

However, where the Gladiator fight scenes were awesome at the time… nowadays, with everything augmented digitally, they don’t stand out in a crowd.

Cluster-fuck fu.

On a related note:

Fact: Russell Crowe once straight punched a Bengal tiger in the face because it resembled a paparazzi holding a camera.

Pictured: I totally see it.

So you gotta imagine the Producers’ conversation went something like this:

Bob: Hey, know what made a lot of money? Gladiator.

Steve: Yeah. That’d be nice if we’d made it. We’d have so much Coke.

Bob: Coke out the BALLS.

Steve: Right out the Balls.

Bob: Hey, know what was cool? 300’s fights.

Steve: Hell yeah! I’m wearing my replica leather diaper right now!

Bob: I’m wearing one too, for totally unrelated reasons!

Steve: Hell yeah!

Bob: Hell FUCK yeah!

(They high five. There’s a pause)

Steve: HEY!!! I Know what would be awesome!!!!

Bob: HELL YEAH!! Let’s MIX IT UP BITCHES! It just needs one extra thing!!!!

Jesus, bitches.

Steve: Yeah! Well, maybe two things…

Which brings us to:

Part Three: 

It's not like this is my desktop or anything.

Seriously: There are like a good forty boobs in the first hour of this show. The Show should be called Sparticus: Blood and Tits. Actually no. That sounds like everyone ran a marathon without Vaseline.

Pictured: Health

So, the verdict:

Plot: +8 for awesomeness, -10 for the ripoff: overall, -2

Visuals: +9 for awesomeness, -10 for more leather diapers: overall, -1

Tits: +like, a billion, -1 for lack of more tits.

The verdict: Watchable (for the tits).

Cheers.

So I got hit on by a high schooler

Or at least a recent graduate, hard to tell.

Hello internet, I've been ignoring you recently. It's not that you're not in nearly as good of shape as you were, or that I've been secretly seeing other forms of media behind your back (you know about our arrangement with netflix, and there's no takesies backsies) it's more I've been buried up to my imaginary tits in work to prepare for my leaving for Michigan to do some shakespeare in the woods, so I think I'll reward you with 2 posts: some front and back door action, to stretch a poor metaphor (and some unpleasant imagery).

First: I got hit on by a high schooler. A GIRL high schooler. On facebook.

See, that's the thing about being an actor who doesn't really pay attention to the friend requests he accepts, simply because he's afraid of alienating someone he drunkenly slept with.

Also, your name and picture is out there as a marketing tool, and that plus the internet makes bad things happen, which means I'm 2 steps away from being Roman Polanski

Too soon?

I think if someone "friends" you, you should be able to look at their profile before you accept them, just to make sure they don't kill small animals and wear them around as hats, or anything, but I digress.

This is the girl who hit on me:

You'll notice I've taken some liberties. She's actually quite cute, and her face doesn't actually contain great leaps forward for mankind, as defined by Stanley Kubric, but I figure my using her for blog material is punishment enough.

I've edited things to shorten it up to the best parts, as well as make my self appear wittier (of course), but here's primarily how it went:

HER: At the severe risk of coming across like a creeper, please ignore the fact that this message lacks context 

Actually, what I was really wondering was, where did you get your boots for the Romeo and Juliet thing? I need to costume a Renfaire music group, and I'm having a ridiculously hard time finding suitable footwear.

ME: (not knowing who the fuck this person is, or which R&J thing they're talking about) No, no big deal. Which r&j boots do you mean? I'm drawing a blank.

Don't worry about out of context facebook messages, by the way, I'm pretty sure what the whole things' for in the first place.

HER: Well, I'm looking for something pirate-y, and those thigh high boots were fantastic (and who doesn't want to see full grown men in thigh high pirate boots?)


Oh, fuck. Who is this person? She seems to know me- I did accept a lot of friend requests from Michigan people without looking at them thoroughly.  Good thing like the Lion's mane or the Sperm Whale's sperm, I have a defense mechanism: verbosity.

ME: Fair enough. Not surprisingly, and fairly embarrassingly, I can recommend a few internet places to obtain Piratey-boots. I was about to say thigh-high boots, but caught myself, so as not to insinuate the un-toward thing I just insinuated. Damn, foiled again.

Any other requirements besides tall boots? And which Romeo and Juliet thing are we talking about? Jog my memory- because I haven't been in Romeo and Juliet for a while, and if you think I"m someone else entirely, that makes this whole conversation much stranger, because then I"m just some random internet guy recommending where you can buy men's thigh-high boots, and I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that.

Anyway, let me know if you'd like me to be more specific, and I'll gladly send you one, if not two places to get piratey boots, if you like. Cheers.

HER: Haa. Well. That would be awkward. Luckily, I have no shame, as seeing as you're remotely attractive, it's all well. 

Sooo. Michigan Shakespeare fest? I'm hoping so, or else I've become a creeper


Okay, she's a festival person. Good thing I was nice. And a cute and fearless one at that. Good stuff.

ME: Oh, cool, what part are you playing? Btw, no shame, and you think I"m cute? Wow, look forward to meeting you. I mean, I can't really be too sure you don't go around asking other men on the internet where they get their thigh-high boots...that might be kind of a deal breaker : (.

Try this on for size: http://www.museumreplicas.com

HER;Actually, I'm a mere audience member. In which case, I am a creeper.  And I can honestly say you're the first I've asked. Haa.


WOOPS. Haa indeed. At this point, there are 3 options. She's either:


A) 12
B) Crazy
C) Going to ask my for my bank account information.


Because girls don't act like this on the internet. I'm not saying I don't get hit on, it's just generally in person, after they've, you know, met me, and I've convinced them I'm a baseball player from out of town or something.


Bear in mind I have no idea how old she is. On the, like, 1 in 10 billion chance she's actually my age and just crazy...well...crazy is as crazy does. You can't tell by the picture.


Then this gem drops:


HER: And, if you happen to be around this summer, you may find me at multiple renaissance festivals.  WOW. I'm just making myself look so much creepier.


Uh oh. We've crossed into crazy town. But now I'm curious.


ME: I wouldn't worry about it. Do you go to school in Michigan?


HER: Yep. Emphasis in French and Theatre  I'm way cool. You?


ME: Graduated 3 years ago from Northwestern. Where do you go?


Translation: How old are you?


HER: Currently? UM Flint. I'm getting my gen ed out of the way, then heading over to WMU.


ME: Nice. Well, always good to meet another shakespeare fan. Do you perform at renfair?


HER: Not as a music act. This year I'm doing court, and I'm premiering as a peasant dancer. Should be fun. 


ME: I've always thought about doing fights or something for one of those. I had a theater buddy who did them alot, I was always a little afraid


HER:  Haa. I feel like I'm ranting. And like I'm coming off entirely egotisticall. Sooooo. If'n you wanna continue this conversation, you can jump in with something about yourself. Never be afraid of stage combat. It's an attractive quality.


Not gonna lie, internet, my heart went out a little. Wait....not my heart. Dick. That's it. Dick went out a little. It's so hard to tell the difference sometimes.


I mean, a cute college girl who is clearly interested in me? Fuck- she's a shakespeare groupie AND she does RENFAIR? SUPER UN-HARD TO IMPRESS.


I resolved to continue this enjoyable line of fantasy right up until she asked for my credit card information.


ME: You're not ranting. If you're up in Jackson, you should stop by the festival and say "hi." 


Oh, no, not of the combat part. I actually tend to do silly things like boxing and krav maga in my spare time. More of showing my friends how dorky I really am, because I would enjoy it way too much.


I'm not proud.


HER:  Oh, I probably will be. What's wrong with being dorky?


ME:  Nothing! Dorky is awesome! I'm an uber-dork, I'm being serious. I think dorky is attractive, actually.


HER:  Nothing wrong with that. I can't sit Mercutio's mono without fuming that I can do it better.  (I'm a huge Shakespeare dork. And, well, theatre in general. If you hadn't noticed.) Haa, then... You must think I'm stunning! 


ME: Jury's still out on that one.


HER:  Hold on, I'm going to go grab some food. Well, you don't have to wait, but you could...


Okay, a little too good to be true. I tapped out.


ME: Well, now might be a decent time to excuse myself anyway, other obligations call. Until next time: c'etait un plaisir de vous recontrer. until next time : )


HER: You're a doll. I hope there is a next time : ).


Again, I'm not proud. So, this night, I'm talking the whole thing over with my brother. I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but...this defied well, everything I knew about how women generally behaved, on the internet or otherwise.


Flattered, sure. Being an actor does magical things to women: like convince them that you actually make any money at it without you actually saying that, but still....


So I did a little research. Went into the "photo's" section on facebook. And there I saw the album, in bold, horrible letters:


PROM 2011.


Fuck.


FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK I need to wash out my fucking brain. Talk about feeling gross.


See? One of the 3. Happened to be she's 12, not crazy. Not really twelve, but might as fucking well be.


I felt very dirty. Like, oedipus, in reverse.

• • Fuck. I resolved to leave it at that, and never contact this person again.
    
    
    Then I get this:
    
    
    HER: Um. Hi. Haa, so I'm really sorry about this, but as it turns out, I don't know you. In fact, the person I thought you were just called me. And he turned out to be a complete prick. Which means, I just hit on a total stranger. And am really super apologetic.
    Okay, I'll stop bugging you!
    
    
    Okay, now, my pride is already slightly damaged here. I thought a cute girl was hitting on me, and turns out I was thinking things that are illegal, except in Utah.
    
    
    ME: Yah. Nice prom pictures by the way. Don't hit on boys on the internet.
    
    
    That should set her straight. Snarky? Yes. Harsh? A little. Dismissive? Absolutely. But still good advice. Then:
    
    
    HER: Gee, thanks! See my grad pictures while you were snooping too?
    
    
    Okay, kid gloves are off.
    
    
    ME: No, sorry, stopped at prom. And if it's on facebook, and a stranger contacts you, and you look through their stuff on facebook to find out what the deal is, it's not snooping. It's just facebook. And, for the record, I only did that because girls who hit on boys on the internet are A) Very young  scam artists or C) crazy, and I wanted to see which it was.
    
    I'm just saying you seem like a nice girl- my little sister graduated 2011 too. So, you probably shouldn't be hitting on boys on the internet. Definition of a bad idea. You don't need to. And there are lots of weird people on the internet. It's the internet. You can meet lots of nice people through things like ice cream parlors, and roller rinks, whatever it is you kids do these days, so while it was flattering and everything, just...something to think about in the future.
    
    Anyway, no offense intended, best of luck in your early career, and take care.
    
    
    ME: that smiley face with sunglasses in the first paragraph was supposed to be b) not 
    
    
    ME: that...came out creepier than I already feel
    • anyway, best of luck, and take care
      
      
      HER: Sorry, that was rude. But also highly offensive. I'm about to turn 19. And yes, I went to prom. As a guest with my friend who couldn't find a date. 
      Anyway, that's all.
    
    
    And I'm the queen of fucking england. Then:
    
    
    HER: And, thanks. I think.?
    
    
    Sigh of releif. I don't want to traumatize a child with my penis OR my facebook messages. That last response was what I had been hoping for.
    
    
    ME: Okay, good, yes, that's what I was going for. Anyway, you seem very nice, so best of luck with everything. Take care.
    
    
    HER: You can stop saying "take care" now, haa. I get the point. You've compared me to your little sister; it doesn't get much more final than that.
    
    
    ME: Does kinda throw a wrench in the works, doesn't it?
    
    
    Translation: Intentionally. Thanks but, I doubt a cameo on "To Catch A Predator" would do much for my career.
    
    
    HER: Um, well, it was definently an unwanted first 
    
    
    ME: Oh. Well, how about first cousin by marriage? Is that better?
    
    
    Haven't heard back. Fairly relieved.
    
    
    Anyway, to recap:
    
    
    A) If you're a girl, don't hit on boys on the internet, it makes us very nervous.
    B) Better safe than sorry.
    C) God, if you're reading this (you're not) and she really is in college like she says, then SERIOUSLY fuck you. Not cool, fair, not fair.
    
    
    So who knows? Maybe she'll show up at Michigan with a similarly hot college friend who is also improbably into shakespeare and medieval dress.
    
    
    It'll be too bad though,  because I'll have to postpone only my second three-way ever while I run out to find a kinko's so I can COPY THEIR FREAKING ID'S TO USE AS EVIDENCE IN COURT.
    
    
    
    
    
    
    
    Cheers.