Son of a Preacher Man

The 125th Street subway station on Lexington Avenue is a hotbed for hot-headed loudmouths who love to talk about the Lord. Here's an excerpt from yesterday's sermon:

"People wonder why the enemy is winning. It's because we have no rules in our society! That's why we promote homosexuality and lesbians and racism! And all you women, you all think that if you dress like sluts you'll get a guy who'll like you! No! He ain't gonna like you! He's just gonna take what he wants from you and leave you!" (It should be noted that at this point, his sidekick who was holding a bible actually grinned and snickered, "That's right.") He continued:

"And you want me to feel sorry for you after that happens. But the truth is, I really don't feel sorry for you, acting all like that."

May I just say, there is nothing like a judgemental, unsympathetic, unforgiving, wrathful, self-appointed preacher with a dirty flannel shirt on inside out who equates being gay with being a hateful race-monger to make me miss that old time religion. Why is it that we have this fearful "enemy," again? Because of God. That's right. I almost forgot.

Allah-lujah.

On a more positive note, I was handed a flyer for Dianetics in the Times Square station this week, which must mean that girl thought I should be in pictures. Yes! The haircut works! Hubbard-lujah!

In closing, there's this:

Hey there, Scientologist! How's life thetan ya? HEY-OH!

A Gift

Guys - I'm gonna have to write my face off to complete this challenge and I'm totally fine with that. I've just been performing like a certified pre-owned BMW for the past two weeks and I don't want to waste the hours away indoors today. I mean, look at it outside:

Click on that bad boy and make it your desktop background, all ye corporate hounds! See you at the park!

Love,
Carolyn

Spring Cleaning

Y'all know what I'm talkin' about. And if you don't, you need rehab.

Frozen Stiff

Well, I threw my back out at the park yesterday. It was funny - I was, um, breathing, and then all of a sudden - ah! I can't move. Yeah, you know you're out of shape when the one involuntary activity meant to keep you alive tries to kill you. I just stopped a sneeze because it hurt too much.

In case it sounds creepy that I was just alone "breathing" in the park, never fear: I was there with my little tot Adriana, who's getting more and more active by the day. I haven't really gotten a lot of exercise since she was born, and I've always sucked at sports. The only real activity I've done in the last year-and-a-half is breastfeeding, and I quit that after two months because I sucked at that, too. Well, actually, she sucked at it, but you get my drift.

I had to quit because the baby wasn't gaining enough weight, but I was really reticent to give it up since every time you breastfeed you burn 500 calories. That's an amazing workout! Just sitting there all day with your feet up, having mini-orgasms while your kid does all the work, and at the end you get rewarded with an entire pizza all to yourself?! I think I'm going to petition that breastfeeding be an Olympic sport. Because even though I've proven I'm not that great at it, I'd love a chance to participate in those time trials.

"Ah, Ms. Castiglia? You're not actually producing any milk. I'm sorry, you've been disqualified."

"Oh, that's cool man, do I still get the pizza? I still get the pizza, right?"

My Lamaze coach even suggested that breastfeeding mothers should have a beer for lunch while they're "training." Sweet! A sport that encourages you to be honest about your drug use. I love it!

"Ah, Ms. Castiglia, everyone's wondering how you filled up that bottle so fast. We've checked your pump and it seems to be industry standard. Are you taking any substances that are enhancing your performance?"

"Yeah. Guiness. I keep it on tap. I like to think of my milk as 'the original Shamrock Shake.' Except it's not green. 'Cause that would be gross."

Every Comic's Wet Dream

I just opened for Chris Rock.

Okay. Maybe "opened" isn't the right word. I mean, it's not like he booked me to go on tour with him "or some shit," as he likes to say, but I did just do a set right before him at Stand Up New York. Okay, not right before him, two people before him. But you get my drift, people! I WAS JUST IN A ROOM WITH CHRIS MUTHERFUCKING ROCK!

Now. All caps aside, it was no doubt a very cool experience, but I have to say, it was also affirming in the sense that I felt a kinship with him I might not have felt a few years ago. I felt like, "Yeah, it's totally possible that I'm on a show with Chris Rock." Not to say that I'm amazing or anywhere remotely near his level, but more to his credit, meaning that he didn't bust in like a rock star (pardon the pun) and grab the mic like some cocky old pro. He came in, very humbly, Jamba Juice in hand (calling it "an 8 ball of sugar") and entertained the medium-sized crowd. He started riffing about how "old" he was (42, the same age as my husband), saying that as a result he doesn't give an expletive about anything anymore. (Best line: I tune in to the news to see if America's been invaded. Nope? Time to watch my show!) He talked about his apathy toward the pop tarts of the day, how his tunes are now only to be found on the jukebox. He weighed having a job vs. a career and dissected friendships. He was very funny. But working out new material, like any of the rest of us. Towards the end of his 25-or-so minute set, he said, "What do you guys care about?" The audience was quiet, so I said, "Talk about kids." (Who else?) Without missing a beat he said, "Oh man, I hate kids." Now there's a man after my own heart.

He ruminated about men having daughters as some kind of cosmic payback for being rude to women in the past and divulged that he hated rich kids so much growing up he almost wants to rid his own kids of their money. ("My daughter told me, 'Daddy, I want a bike.' Who cares? How old are you? Five? Get a job! I wasn't allowed to be 5 until I was 9.) Hilarious.

Without giving too much away, I'll just say that was the best part. Watching a funny and talented guy get up onstage and share his problems with a room full of strangers. That, my friends, is comedy. Someone I worked with once defined a comedian as "a person with a problem." It was so awe-inspiring to watch Chris Rock talk about his, and so reassuring to know that even people of his stature still have them.

Many thanks to Stephanie of Crash Comedy for having me on the show!

Ubiquitous

I'm all over the internets, yo! You can hear me sing with Shawn Hollenbach in his one-man, two-woman show, "Shawn Hollenwho?" by clicking here, and you can see a quick glimpse of me freestyling with Shockwave at the Ars Nova holiday party by visiting their new website. (And scrooling down to the media player, then scrolling down to the very bottom track.) So you know, maybe that's not ubiquitous. But it's something.

Thank You, Easter Bunny

TONIGHT:


8 pm
Mo Pitkin's - 34 Ave. A (2nd/3rd)
FREE!

Featuring:

Pat Candaras (Quite Possibly the Funniest Mom in America)
Rachel Feinstein (Montreal Comedy Fest)
Jacqueline Novak (On Tour with Christian Finnegan)
Maria Shehata (Comedy Central's Motherload)
Betsy Wise (ComedyNet Sensation)

WITH MUSIC FROM: Lucia Aniello (MTVU)

Hosted by Carolyn Castiglia (VH1)

FOLLOWED IMMEDIATELY BY:



I'll be riffing about "The Easter Bunny." I hope my jokes multiply like rabbits. HEY-OH!

Matt's Party

Brought to you by The Kissing Booth:

Wait a second! I can't believe I've waited so long to ask this.

PLEASE tell me we're all on the same page about Caruso:

You fucking love him, right?

XO,
Shatner

A Thousand Words

March Madness

I owe you (well, let's face it, myself, really) 4, count 'em, FOUR Challenge posts today. I have all my topics mapped out, so hopefully I can get them done. If that's the case, just like the basketball thingy everyone's so hooped up about right now, I'll have made it to the FINAL FOUR and then I can get myself a chocolate shake! Woo-hoo!

I'm also psyched to tell you about my trip to Boston and just say that I did a shitload of shows last week that were all fun and great. I hope to have some video to show you* soon.

XO,
ckc


*And you, and you, not you, but yes, you.

Living Room, Spandex, Kissing Booth, Chuckle Hut!

FRIDAY, MARCH 23 @ 8

I'm hosting THE LIVING ROOM in Park Slope! It's a super fun, intimate coffee house show, and I'll be screening CHIPS if you haven't seen it yet.



THE LIVING ROOM @ POSTMARK CAFE
326 6th Street in Park Slope
(between 4th and 5th Aves.)


SATURDAY, MARCH 24 @ 7



Visit with Penelope Itchalot, Avon Lady.



SATURDAY, MARCH 24 @ 10:30

The Kissing Booth premiere of "Matt's Party." I'm in this little film, or at least my elbow is. But this is always a great show so come out, anyway! It's Anya and Marianne's BDAY, for Chrissakes!



THE KISSING BOOTH
D-LOUNGE
15TH ST & UNION SQUARE EAST
$5


SUNDAY, MARCH 25 @ 7



Le Chuckle Hut @ Paris Commune
99 Bank Street (Greenwich)

Featuring:

CHUCK NICE

Chuck is a panelist on VH1's "Best Week Ever" and is the resident comic on "The Radio Chick" show which airs from 3 pm – 7 pm daily on 92.3 Free FM. He has also lit up the stage at the "famed Showtime at the Apollo." (Harlem's answer to Le Chucklé Hut.)

DEAN OBEIDALLAH

Dean is starring in and co-producing a show called "The Watch List" for Comedy Central's Motherload, featuring all Middle Eastern-American performers. Most recently Dean appeared in Comedy Central's "Axis of Evil" comedy special. Dean's one-man play, "I Come in Peace," was chosen by Time Out NY (TONY) as one of the top 6 comedies to see in the New York International Fringe Festival last summer. He also appears in the Axis of Evil Comedy Tour alongside the likes of MAZ JOBRANI.

MICHAEL MUSTO

Michael Musto writes the Village's Voice's weekly "La Dolce Musto" celebrity and gossip column and is the author of several books including "Downtown," "Manhattan on the Rocks," and just-released "La Dolce Musto." [We'll be giving away a few copies at the show.] He appears regularly on "Countdown with Keith Olbermann." Some may remember Michael Musto in "Hey Now (Girls Just Want To Have Fun)," the 90's reggae remix with an all drag queen cast, which sadly did not include Norman's ex, and rubberband enthusiast, Captain Lou Albano.

CAROLYN CASTIGLIA

Carolyn Castiglia is a comedian and writer who has appeared on Vh1's "Best Night Ever", MTV2, MTVU and is a pundit for Life & Style magazine. She is the host and co-producer of the weekly showcase Chicks and Giggles. Carolyn is a regional finalist in Nick at Nite's "Funniest Mom in America" contest.

Sweet, huh? See you there, loved ones!

Wicked Pissah

I'm off to Beantown to do MORTIFIED tonight! If you live there, check out their website for all the details!

Challenge - Day 12

Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!

It's funny cuz it's true.

When I was 4 I attended AM Kindergarten at Kingsford Park School. It was just a short walk from home, and I'd make it back to my grandmother's every day around noon. She'd usually have a nice bologna and American cheese on white and cup-o-soup waiting for me. But one day, I walked in the house and there was nothing on the table. I couldn't find my grandma. I called out, "Grandma, where are you?" "In here," a voice whispered. I followed the sound into the bathroom and saw my grandmother lying prone, just like Mrs. Fletcher up there.

"Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" she said. Was my grandmother's desperate genius ripped off years later by those greedy bastards at LifeCall? I'll never know. But what I do know is, my grandmother asked me to call my mother and have her come home from work to help. My mom rushed into the house, helped my grandmother up, and rushed back to work. Me, I just wanted a Twinkie. I couldn't help it that grandma had fallen, my 4-year-old body needed its fix, dammit! Okay, grandma fell, mom is here, WHERE'S MY DAMN TWINKIE?!

My grandmother spent a lot of time being sick. My mother and my aunt think she was a hypochondriac. I suppose in a way she was, but I don't know. I was too small to understand it all. I can remember walking up to my grandma in her overstuffed, light-brown armchair and asking her to play with me, only to be told, "Not now, Carolyn. I'm nervous." And I'd watch her as she'd lean back, shut her eyes, clutch her rosary and begin to pray. I thought it was kind of peaceful. I didn't know she was having an anxiety attack. Not until much later when I started to have them myself.

I think a lot of people think they've had panic attacks, but they've really only experienced mild anxiety. Anyone who has suffered from true anxiety knows that it's kind of like getting sucked up inside a vacuum cleaner, spun around and spit out. Except no one can tell that it's happening to you, because you're not in a plastic container covered in dirt. You're out in the world, trying to function in society. I had severe panic attacks for an entire summer in college, and yet I managed to hold down a job and perform in Suor Angelica with the Chautauqua Opera. Sure, I'd say things to my fellow nuns after rehearsal like, "Do you think the orange that you see is the same as the orange that I see?" or "Do you think the sky is really blue? I mean, REALLY? What is blue? What is the sky? Aaaaaaahhhh!" But while the music played, everything was fine.

I guess that's what my grandmother was missing. She was missing passion. I often marvel at the fact that I haven't been sick a day since I started doing comedy. Sure, maybe a cold or two in four years, but nothing I couldn't perform through. What did my grandmother have? The rosary, General Hospital and me. Everyone else saw her as this crazy old lady, but I just saw her as my grandma. And the truth is, when I was in Kindergarten, she was only 52 years old. David Letterman didn't become a father until he was 56. The difference between them? My grandmother fell and couldn't get up. Letterman had a quadruple bypass and was back on the air in weeks. Why? Passion.

I don't mean for this post to come off as a Tony Roberts tirade, so let me leave you with this. All I'm saying is, I feel comforted knowing that when I'm an old maid who's falling down and can't get up, chances are it'll be because there's a banana peel nearby that I purposely stepped on, without anxiety and with lots of passion.

Challenge - Day 11

Raise your hand if you've ever been broken up with over the radio!

I lost my virginity when I was 16, which isn't too young and isn't that old. 18 is probably better, but for this story, 16 will have to do, because, well, this story is my life. I was dating a boy that I loved, and I mean LOVED, who I totally thought I was going to marry. And by "marry" I mean live as a King and Queen off in some Renaissance Faire in PA where we'd listen to "Lavender Blue" by Marillion and slow-dance while crying.

Clearly I had a firm grasp on reality.

Losing your virginity is probably not a good idea when you're a troubled teen, and yet, in my hometown at least, the greater a teen's trouble, the younger the cherry popped. I swear to God I think at least two girls got pregnant in the Pizza Hut bathroom after the 8th grade dance. But that's neither pubic hair nor there. That's what they get for sitting on the toilet seat.

Anyway - my boyfriend and I made sweet, sweet love twice before my Catholic guilt set in and I flipped out. I can remember making a phone call and saying something to the effect of, "What we did was bad and now I'm going to hell!" Except, you know, a little less subtle. He and I had been through so much drama over the years of our tumultuous, note-riddled courtship, I figured this would just be one more test he'd have to pass. After all, I didn't back away when he told me that he was about to be cryogenically frozen or that he had migraines so bad he thought that meant he had superpowers. Why should a few pangs of remorse make him scamper away? We were LOVERS! We told each other secrets. We shared frozen yogurt on the road!

I can't say how many days after I made that dreadful call it was, but shortly thereafter he was DJ-ing at the college radio station. I was listening to the dulcet tones of my boon companion when suddenly I heard, "This next song is for Carolyn. I think she'll know what it means."

Ooh! Would it be Bryan Adams' anthem for soul mates, "Everything I Do I Do It For You?" Or would it be the fresh and cheeky song "Do Me" by hip-hop sensation Bell Biv DeVoe? The anticipation was mounting! The first notes played. Out of the ether arose a voice:

We crossed the line
Who pushed who over?
It doesn't matter to you
It matters to me
We're cut adrift
We're still floating
I'm only hanging on
To watch you go down
My love

I disappeared in you
You disappeared from me
I gave you everything you ever wanted
It wasn't what you wanted

The men who love you, you hate the most
They pass right through you like a ghost
They look for you, but your spirit is in the air
Baby, you're nowhere

Oh...love...
You say in love there are no rules
Oh...love...
Sweetheart,
You're so cruel.

I couldn't hear the rest of the lyrics through the wailing and gnashing of teeth. I'd add beating of breasts, but does an A-cup really qualify? I called the station as the song still played, begged, pleaded, about what I don't remember. All I know is that when I hung up I was single for the first time in my short, pathetic dating life.

Those of you who've visited my MySpace profile know that under "Influences" I have listed "getting broken up with over the radio by the boy I lost my virginity to." And for a long time next to that in parenthesis it said something like "If you're out there, be sure to get in touch, boo-boo!" Lo and behold, I got a message from Romeo a few months ago that read simply:

Am I the boy over the radio?

Fuckin' MySpace. Who am I gonna hear from next? Tom Buske? There's a man I'd be happy to leave heartbroken on the air.

There's something to be said for not trying to be friends with your exes. I sent a message back, as did he, but when he started trying to play the "I'm engaged" bit I had to drop the ultimate trump card.

"Oh, that's cool. I have a BABY."

My vagina is so cruel.

Challenge - Day 10

So! D'ya ever hear the one about the girl who got a phone call from her biological father (who she had never met) on the day of the Junior Prom?!

Trust me. It's hilarious.

My grandfather had just pulled into the driveway when the phone rang. I was off to get my hair done for the big night when I heard that familiar *ring*ring*. I picked it up, assuming I'd have to take a message for my Dad. Well, my step-Dad, Mike. The only father I'd ever known.

"Hello?," I said.

"Hello. Is this Carolyn Katherine Castiglia?"

"Yeah, this is she."

"This is Tom Buske. I'm your father."

Um, I'm sorry. What? Let's replay that, shall we?

"I'm your father."

Well, shit, Darth Vader! That's what I thought you said!

Insert silence, for what seemed like forever, but in reality was only a nanosecond, I'm sure. I don't remember exactly what I said next, but I do remember this faceless voice recounting names and descriptions of family members and detailing relationships just to prove that he was who he said he was.

"And your Aunt Kathy, she was tall with brown hair, right? And she married this redheaded guy, uh, David, right? And your Uncle Jimmy, he married Linda, they have a couple kids..."

Should I go on about how they got divorced? About how there was a whole battle over custody? No, best not. Just listen and drool quietly.

"I've had people watch you at school. I know all about your plays and stuff."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm so proud of everything you've done. You're my little princess, you know."

Wait a minute.

"Princess? Your little princess?! I've been alive for 15 years and I've never met you once! I'm not your little princess, you bastard!"

I actually said that. He didn't have to be proud of me. No one did. Because I was oh-so-proud of myself. I dreamed for years and years that one day my "Daddy" would come and save me from the drudgery I knew on Appaloosa Drive. That he would have a big fancy black Rolls Royce and be rich like in Annie and swoop in on his helicopter with Punjab hanging from a rope who would pull me away, off into the sky. Not that he'd be selling pot to my next door neighbor, which was, naturally, how he got my number. Not that he'd drop a bomb on me the day I was going to my first prom. Not that he'd have nothing to say but, "You're my little princess, you know." Not "sorry," or "It was complicated" or "You know, I did love you and your mother." Just some bullshit line from some stupid drunk.

My REAL Dad, my only Dad, adopted me when he and my mom got married. He's kind of like Brad Pitt; he's got four kids, but only one of them is definitely his. So I guess that makes me kind of like Zahara. Out of my element, but really fucking lucky.

I don't really look like my Dad, and yet I sort of do. My last name is Italian, which has always made people raise their eyebrows. "So, who's Italian?," they'll say. "Your Dad?" I always say yes. Identity is not a birth right. I say you don't have to be from Italy to be Italian and you don't have to be someone's child to be their kid. You just have to like pasta and love. And those happen to be two of my favorite things in the world.

Challenge - Day 9

Here's a transcription I found of an actual phone conversation I had with my mother about the time I broke the soap dish in her tub off the wall, just before Christmas 2005.

CKC: Hi Mom – what’s up?

TAC: Well, Carolyn, a lot is up.

You see, your father went to put the soap dish that you broke back on and he put it on upside down. So then he had to rip it out – of course – and when he did that the whole wall caved in. So now the upstairs bathroom is no more and everyone is gonna be in the house for Christmas with one tiny bathroom. Which is okay, I guess. It’s just that now that we have to totally remodel the bathroom I won’t have any money for Christmas so you guys aren’t gonna get any presents. I mean, the baby will, and your niece Gabriella will, but you won’t. Hopefully your brothers and sister won't be mad at you because they don't get anything. It’ll just be like Christmas never came this year, that’s all. And I’ll be working every weekend so I won’t get to enjoy anything – but that’s okay – you know I don’t give two shits about Christmas – it’s just that I won’t have time to put out my '03, '04 and '05 Holiday edition Longaberger baskets and you've ruined my very passion in life, but, you know, don’t feel bad, Carolyn. It’s not your fault that you pulled the soap dish off the wall which is the reason why there’s no Santa Claus. It’s okay. I mean, you don’t have to feel guilty.

CKC: Mom – are you looking for an apology?

TAC: No, Carolyn - you don’t have to apologize to me… Is your father gonna have a few words to say about it when you’re here? Probably.

CKC: So am I supposed to apologize to Dad?

TAC: No, you don’t have to apologize, but I think it’s good that you feel sorry that it happened…

CKC: Well, of course I feel sorry that it happened – I told you that when it happened. But I don’t need to bear the brunt of having ruined Christmas because of the Nazi lifestyle you guys keep in your house – that just because one thing breaks you have to tear the whole house down to fix it.

TAC: Well, now you sound like you feel a little bit guilty.

CKC: Well, it sounds like you’re asking me to feel guilty.

TAC: No, Carolyn – if you feel guilty because you ripped the soap dish off the wall that’s your issue. But I’m not asking you to feel guilty because you ripped the soap dish off the wall. Those are your feelings about ripping the soap dish off the wall. But you’ve always been weird like that, anyway…

CKC: Yeah, mom – it’s weird having feelings. You should try it sometime.

[pause]

TAC: Well, Carolyn, I have a lot of feelings.

CKC: Okay, mom. Well, maybe I shouldn’t come home for Christmas then so I won’t ruin anything else.

TAC: Oh – that’s nice. You’re not gonna come home for Christmas. Oh, what’s better, to be there in New York for Christmas or to hear your father say a few words about you ripping the soap dish off the wall?

CKC: Whatever, Mom.

TAC: Not coming home for Christmas – nice. You ripped the soap dish off the wall, and now I can’t see my baby for Christmas.

CKC: No, Mom, you can see me. Of course I’m coming home for Christmas.

TAC: I know I can see you! I don’t care about that, I’m talking about the baby. My baby!

CKC: Oh, you mean my daughter?

TAC: Yes – my baby!

CKC: Okay, Mom – I gotta go.

TAC: Okay – you kiss that baby for me.

CKC: Okay, I will.

TAC: Okay.

CKC: I love you.

TAC: Yeah, okay. Bye.

The moral of the story: Just don't bathe when you're visiting family. It's better to be dirty than responsible for the fall of Western society. Or a wall of tile. (Which in my parents' house is the same thing.)

Happy Paddy

We're off to drink Shamrock Shakes with the fam. I'll be back with 2 Challenge posts tonight. Don't do who I wouldn't do!

1,000th Post!

This is my 1,000th post, so I'm celebrating by creating a To Do List.

TO DO:

1. Stop smoking. Because after all, it's not very "social" if it's just you pushing your baby, is it?
2. Lose 10 (okay, 20) pounds.
3. Win a million dollars.

I should be done by about 5 pm tomorrow.

Holy Shoot

Ever wonder how you might react if you were nearby when something terrible, like say, a shooting, happened? Here's what comedian Hassan Madry did when he heard 30 shots go off during his performance at the Village Lantern last night:

From the New York Times:

“I was in the middle of my set and I heard a series of pops and someone came running downstairs and said, ‘A person is being shot outside,’ ” said Hassan Madry, 28, who was performing on stage at the Village Lantern. “I tried to calm everybody down. I told some of my jokes. You know, you got to go on with it.”

Really? Do you got to go on with it? Because I think you could actually stop the show for a minute. I mean, I understand where he was coming from, but come on. Sure you want to keep everybody calm, keep them indoors so more people don't get hurt, but to tell jokes? Really? What's your go-to material in that situation? The Pet Goat?

Guys! Why did the goat cross the road? To avoid being shot! HEY!

I'm well aware that everyone reacts differently to danger or stress, and that comics are known for cracking jokes at inappropriate times. (I got jabbed in the ribs a few times myself for commenting during my gram Castiglia's funeral. She was 86 when she died! Why should anybody be sad?) Just look at the way Becky Yamamoto reacted when I showed her this quote:

"It was unclear last night what lay behind the first shooting at the pizzeria, DeMarco’s at 146 Macdougal Street. The police said the gunman, wearing a fake beard, walked into the restaurant and was given a menu by Mr. Romero. When Mr. Romero turned away, the authorities said, the gunman shot him 15 times in the back."

Becky: oh god
a fake beard?
that man gives fake beards a bad name

Now, I thought she'd be more surprised by the 15 shots than the fake beard, but her reaction is understandable once you examine this photograph:

Nobody wants to be accidentally fingered in a lineup. Especially not a lady.

Becky and I both agreed that were we faced with the same situation we'd have gotten ourselves offstage somehow. But still, that didn't stop us from taking a few stabs (ooh, too soon?) at recreating the final moments of the show:

Becky: that comic's reaction?
hey
someone just got killed
but listen
i got one about psoriasis

you guys what's up with cialis
my dick for 4 hours
i call that a marathon

me: see your doctor - if my dick is hard for 4 hours i'm gonna see a prostitue!
HEY OH!

Becky: "we were all scared and then hassan really calmed us with his humor"
"and proved that humor heals all"
"and then he was shot"

me: we thought it was just a gag
like the whole pauly shore thing
but turns out he was really dead

That's one way to end the show with a bang.

Don't misunderestimate me. I don't think this kid deserves to be shot. I just don't think he should be slinging rimshots in earshot of gunshots.

Please, don't insert your own Richard Jeni joke here.

The NERVE of that girl!

The lovely and talented Sara Benincasa interviewed me about pregnancy and motherhood in relation to "doin' it" for her Nerve.com blog (now with pics of her hot boobs!). Since there's no permalink, click today so it's still the top post. But in case you miss it, here are a few of my favorite quotes:

SJ1000: When you found out you were pregnant, did you celebrate by humping?

CC: Ha! I was all alone when I found out I was pregnant. I celebrated by crying. Tears of joy, of course. Then I called my mom and she cried. Hers were Tears for Fears, I think. When I told my husband, he laughed. Oh, us crazy comics! He refused to believe me until I got a test at the doctor's office. Which was fine, because it was Howard K. Stern's baby, anyway.

SJ1000: Can sex during the ninth month really help induce labor?

CC: It didn't for me. We tried sex, we tried Indian food... nothing. I got induced. I guess Adriana was just really comfortable in there. You know what they say, there's no placenta like home.

SJ1000: Has your wee daughter ever interrupted you and your man getting busy by, like, crying or flying around the room or setting her crib on fire or something changeling-esque like that?

CC: Oh my God! EVERY TIME we have sex she cries. But we don't let it bother us. It's better than listening to Barry White. She usually stops crying after a second, but it's pretty eerie. Her timing is excellent. (Which makes me wonder if she's actually mine.)

SJ1000: Sometimes you're on TV and the podcasts and stuff. Does your husband get a boner because you're a little bit famous? Do you ever make your small person watch you on the televisions or the Internets, and if so, does she recognize you?

CC: My husband is definitely my biggest cheerleader. Literally. He's 6'4" and he looks great in a pleated skirt. My daughter does occasionally see me in things and she just looks at me and laughs. I think she thinks I'm stupid. (She's so smart!)

Adriana's been to several show rehearsals and sketch shoots with me and she always loves it. She's also been in a few vids herself, including one by The Post Show that'll air on SuperDeluxe and another that you'll be able to see on The Onion's new network. She started asking me to call her Adriana with a Z, but I refuse.

Click here for the whole thing! Hurry - while supplies last.

Challenge - Day 8

Fee, Fie, Foe, Fum,
I smell the blood of a Car-o-lun!

That's what my grandfather would say every day when he came home from work. And then I'd run and scream while he chased me around the living room. The room with the orange and green shag carpet and mustard yellow furniture. With the spider plants and the 8-track player. With the TV that had the dinosaur bone antenna. You know, it was the 70's.

He'd finally catch me and put me in "jail." He'd kneel over me and say, "You can't get out! You can't get out!" I remember the way his face used to feel rubbing up against mine. Scratchy, but soft. He had kind of a bit of extra skin near his jowl. I mean, not really - I guess it just seemed that way because he was hanging over me, and gravity does take its toll with age. But I liked that little flap of skin. It was scratchy, but soft. Just like him.

A few weeks before my grandfather died, I watched him tell my cousin Matthew, who was 4 at the time, that he loved him. He said, "I love you, Matthew." He never once told me that he loved me. But he didn't have to. He was my grandpa. He held me every night in a jail full of love. He used to say things like, "Off'll go your head and on'll go a wooden one!" I still have no idea what that means. He was a mystery in certain ways. A man who practically raised himself, since after his parents died his sister moved away and his brother went off to war. He was a very practical man. He tried to give me tips all the time as a child. "Carolyn, just remember, the lake is north. Where's the lake?" "North, grandpa." I didn't know what that meant in reference to any other direction, but that was okay. When I graduated from college I moved to Chicago, still not fully understanding the implications of the lake and it's northerly location. "Fine, but where IS the lake?," I wondered. It wasn't until I lived in New York for 5 or 6 years that I became a human compass. Every time I think to myself, "Okay, I have to go east," I think of my grandfather.

You see, my grandfather wanted me to know things, like a boy. He didn't want me to be stupid and helpless. He wanted me to understand that I had to be responsible to make it through this life. I used to miss the bus a lot in high school and inevitably walk over to my grandparents' house and ask him for a ride. He took me several times, chiding me all the way to Buccaneer Boulevard. "You can't keep relying on me for stuff like this, Carolyn. Because one day I'm not gonna be here and then what are you gonna do?"

I don't know, grandpa. I don't know what I'm gonna do, for example, when I run out of toilet paper later today. Probably use coffee filters like I always do. I used to joke that I hoped they made coffee filters big enough to fit a baby, because I knew I'd run out of diapers. Fortunately it hasn't gotten that bad, but I have run out of coffee filters. Which is fine, because by that time I've usually run out of creamer as well, which is just as good since there are no clean coffee cups, anyway...

I don't know if my grandfather would be proud of who I am today, or if he would understand what I do. But I'd like to think that if he were alive, he'd at least be happy with the man I chose to marry. Because Mark is so much like my grandfather in so many ways. He's never late, he never misses a bill payment, and he never runs out of toilet paper. And that, my friends, is what unconditional love is all about. It means being with somebody who can help you keep your ass clean, but who still loves you even when you wipe it with a coffee filter. Which, by the way, feels scratchy, but soft.

Challenge - Day 7

This post officially catches me up in the 30-day Challenge. Whew! I see now how hard it is committing to writing something of "substance" every single day. As my friend Jenny Rubin says, "sometimes you gotta just throw up a picture of a kitty with a yarmulke on."

That being said, I'm a little tapped out and Adriana is sitting next to me on the floor making the same monkey noises I did in third grade to get Mrs. Fisher's attention. So, I thought a great way to cap this swell off (and tip my hat a bit toward shows like Mortified, which I'll be doing in Boston March 21) would be to share a little of my bad teenage poetry.

BAD TEENAGE POEMS
(that are really just paragraphs of big and/or illustrative/alliterative words)

by Carolyn Castiglia

1. One day, little red riding hood [sic] was walking through the forest on her way to meet the man of her dreams. Suddenly realized [sic] that she forgot to change her tampon and ran home to remedy that instead. By the time she arrived at the gorgeous man's [sic] abode, he was already entertaining Snow White and Rapunzel. Bummer - but she was never big on orgies anyway. [This poem is sic.]
   



2. Crazy stuff - the stuff that unstuffs itself from your head when you just let the damn stuff come. What a funky funky head - the one you wear above your shoulders. Too bad it doesn't work like mine. Too bad it works like hate and fear and war and not love and confidence and peace. Too bad so sad my grandpa used to say. What crazy stuff that funky stuff from your stuffy, stuffy head.



3. I hold in my hand a hammer, with which I am to shatter this glass. A panel of glass that fills a window pane. And this window with its deluge of transparency resurrects even the dreams which have been left dormant. I am transfixed upon them every moment of my life... questioning the capability of my strength to conquer my dreams. But now I'm seeing something frightening. Beautiful dreams... lost... unfilled... forgotten... storm clouds rumbling across this window in my mind. But perhaps this window which I see is really a mirror... reflecting me?

THE END

I wrote that last poem in 1991. I was 14. How 'bout that phrase "the capability of my strength to conquer my dreams?" Somebody thought she was a reader! To this day, I don't think my strength has gotten any more capable than it used to be. {sigh} You should also know that there are some visual effects in the handwritten version I couldn't recreate on the computer. You know, like the tear stains on the corner of the page, for example.

Challenge - Day 6

My parents are the type of people who like to go on Sunday drives. Yes, they're the annoying ones who observe the speed limit on state roads just so they can enjoy the view. But the vistas in Central New York are beautiful, so I can understand why. My Dad knows his way in and out of every small town in the nearest five counties. I don't know any of their names, but I can rattle off their landmarks. The apple orchard, the fish fry place, the little lake where the perch always bite. One road we used to take fairly often was flanked on the right by a big hill covered in cows.

I asked my father (at a tender age) how the cows were able to stand on the hill. He told me that they were "hill cows," that their legs were shorter on one side than the other, and that's what allowed them to stand on the hill.

This being a perfectly satisfactory answer to me, I left it at that for years.

Then one day (when I was a bit older) we drove by the same hill, covered in presumably the same cows, when I asked in a panic:

"Dad! If those cows have shorter legs on one side, what happens when they turn around?!"

I don't think he's laughed that hard since. Well, I take it back. I think he laughed that hard a few years ago when I was in college and we drove through the vineyards of Western New York. I looked out the window and said, "Guys, look at the wine fields!"

I guess I'm just utilitarian like that.

Girl Talk Drunk Brunch 2

A bunch of my sister friends got together and partied early and hard on Sunday. It was hot.


Anya and Ann, our hostess.

Eliza, showing off the tampon cake.

I should do this for a living.


Katina and Carla


Des and Becky


Michele


Livia!


This is how people look when I talk.


My new desktop wallpaper.


Did I mention that the party was hot? It was hot - and heavy. Heavy and hot.

Patterns in My Saturn

My buddy Jamie Radford has a couple new tracks up over at Last FM, a social networking music site that looks like a cross between MySpace and iTunes. Click here to see his page. I'm loving "Patterns in my Saturn," which I think would make a killer video. (Plus his cute Southern accent doesn't hurt.) Have I also mentioned that Jamie is one of the nut jobs behind "Let Me See Your Pouty Face?"

Challenge - Day 5

Well, this post is kind of like a make-up exam, since I didn't post on Friday, so I don't expect to get an A+. Given that, here's a story from my childhood about another day I didn't exactly make the grade...

There are certain days in a person's life that remain perfectly clear in the mind no matter how long ago they happened, or how small that person was at the time. For me, one of those days revolves around getting kicked out of class in 3rd grade. Petite, grey, tightly-permed Mrs. Fisher was teaching us our "times tables," and she asked the entire class if anyone knew the answer to the problem on the board. (If my mind serves me right it was 3x3, but I'm not so sure anymore. I could just be involving the trinity for dramatic effect. But I'm pretty certain that's what it was.) I threw my hand up immediately, only to find Mrs. Fisher ignoring me. Assuming naturally that she didn't see me, I stood halfway up in my chair and started doing a variation on the pee-pee dance, shouting, "Ooh! Ooh!" like an orangutan. Mrs. Fisher looked at me without saying anything, and said to the rest of the class, "Does anyone else know besides Carolyn?" Silence. I shirked down, defeated for a moment. Then Mrs. Fisher called out with desperation, "Doesn't anybody know the answer to this question?" And I blurted out, "NINE! Nine! Three times three is nine!"

I was gleeful. I knew the answer and no one else did. I couldn't believe Mrs. Fisher hadn't called on me the second my hand went up. No one answered because she had bad karma from not choosing me! Mrs. Fisher, on the other hand, felt something else. No, it wasn't glee. It was rage. Out of nowhere, she drags me by the ear to the front of the classroom and says, "I told you not to answer that question, Carolyn! No go outside and wait there until the end of class."

Conveniently enough, there was a carpeted riser-like area just outside her door, and I sat on the steps quietly, stunned. I don't remember what happened after that. I assume she explained herself to me but I don't know. It was too late. The damage was done. The following year I paid so little attention in math class Mr. Mayo made me write "I will be responsible" 500 times on loose leaf paper. I still have a bump just below and to the left of my fingernail on my right middle finger from where the pencil dug into my bone. My mother was livid. She went in for a parent-teacher conference and "ripped him a new asshole," as she likes to say. I wonder if he has a bump, too?

Now, I can't say this is directly a result of the "three times" incident, but I ended up only taking the minimum amount of math required in high school, and doing only moderately well in class. Fortunately, I had a great teacher, Sarah Hill, who came in every morning before school to help anyone who needed it with their homework. She and I had coffee together every day. Well, she had coffee. I had math homework. But still, there was a bond.

Despite Sarah's best efforts, I still can't balance a checkbook or pay my bills on time. And for that, I'd like to thank Mrs. Fisher. If you would have just let me answer the question, I might be a millionaire right now. Times three.

I AM F-ING LOVING THIS DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME BULLSHIT!

I was outside today from 3:30-6:30, walking around, playing with the baby in the park, lookin' at brightly colored sneakers I can't afford... it was so awesome! I can't even begin to express to you how good I feel about losing that hour. But it's something like:

BRB!

With two Challenge posts tonight. In the meantime, enjoy this! I know I'm gonna.

For Doodle

On her mommy's birthday:



Love, Smitty and Lucky

Challenge - Day 4

My dimple is fake. Have I mentioned that here? I have a dimple in my left cheek and it's not natural. I smacked my face on the corner of my parent's bed when I was in sixth grade. They moved their bed one day and the weight of the huge oak frame caused a bump in the rug. I tripped over it when I went in to say goodnight to them. And that's what they get for not coming to tuck ME in! An ugly kid with a fake dimple.

Seriously, though. I wish I could show you the pictures right now. The left side of my face swelled up so big I looked like the cartoon guy on the Big League Chew bags. Remember him?

If he were a little more masculine and a little less confident that would totally have been me.

Dealing with my new deformity wasn't so bad, but then I burnt my eyeball with the curling iron the next year. (I just searched, and I have mentioned the burnt eyeball on here twice in over two years. As you can imagine, it was pretty traumatic.) I had braces and super-short hair by then, too, so I looked really hot. Like Ray Liotta.

Oh, did I neglect to mention that I wore homemade paisley vest and pant suits atop silk shirts all whilst tooting on a trumpet? I was a sex machine.

Cry Baby

From Gawker, in reference to the post below:

Mmm... I wish. It was more like this:

You're Not Gonna Believe This, But...

I just saw a star in New York City. Well, in the sky above New York City. I stared at it for a good long time to make sure it wasn't a plane, since I didn't want to be duped by moving aircraft. Nope! It was a star. A STAR!

This challenge thing is paying off already!

American Wine Giant Ernest Gallo Dies

Time to grab a giant wine, then, and make a toast:

Carlo Rossi (also owned by E.J. Gallo) - many a party in my life has taken place thanks to you, you big jug. Cheers, Ernie!

From The Guardian:

Ernest Gallo, the last of the two Gallo brothers to die, co-founded E&J Winery in 1933, building it into the world's second largest wine company.

Gallo was a courteous but tenacious businessman, but he and his brother both shunned publicity.

According to former business associates this was due to the violent nature of their parents' deaths.

Fresno County records say their father, Joseph, fatally shot their mother, Susie, in June 1933, then killed himself. That was two months before the founding of the Gallo winery.

Interesting. I'm sensing a theme here today...

Challenge - Day 3

Warning: These "Challenge" posts tend to be coming out more heartfelt than funny, so feel free to skip this and just watch the awesome FEARSOME video below in which my bowl full of jelly gives Santa a run for his money. Or, read this and learn something about me. Your choice!

And for those of you who don't know what the challenge is, look at my posts below and/or refer to this post by Rachael Mason. Scene.

Can you tell I'm stalling?

Why? Because THIS IS BIG, PEOPLE.

Okay - I swore I wasn't gonna do this, but... Two Can Anne over there had to go and link to this horrific article about some sick bastard who killed his daughter by crashing a plane into his former mother-in-law's house to get back at his ex-wife. I'm sorry, did you just say "Holy Shit?" I couldn't hear you because my ears were steaming.

That being said, I think it only fair to tell you that my grandparents committed double suicide when I was 18.

There.

Talk amongst yourselves.

I'll tell you more when I come up with something interesting to say about it.

In-Betweeners

I'm in this great new FEARSOME video doing some of my best stand-up:



Go see their new show at The PIT!

Happy Birthday, Shawn Hollen...who?

Cuz I am such a Hollenbach girl:

With Mz. Mindy Raf and the birthday boy himself before Shawn Hollen...who?

First Meth, Now This...

"When I first started Cafe Mom it was fun. You know, good times with friends. But then after a while, I just couldn't stop posting pictures of my baby. It got to the point where all my money was going towards my broadband bill. I was even making iMovies about her. Once, I stayed up for three whole days creating a virtual scrapbook. My baby didn't even recognize me at the end of that binge. That was when I knew I had a problem. If I can educate even one mother; prevent her from going through the hell that I did, I'll be happy. Don't be obsessed with your baby. You may think you love her, but you'll only end up hurting her in the end."