Cult-like Follower

I just found the most amazing video on Misguided Misadventures in NYC via my friend Kristen. Who cares if he has a cult-like following? It's true - even his name feels good in the mouth! (Ahem.)

 

Rites of Passage

No, not the Indigo Girls album.  (But that shit is the shit, right?)  I've been thinking about getting a tattoo lately, or a nose piercing, or maybe both.  The summer after my grandparents died - 13 years ago - I got my nose pierced, and then a few summers later I got a tattoo.  Well, now it turns out my Dad is dead, and I feel like I need to somehow safely damage my skin in order to mark the occasion as it were.  What do you think?  Just something subtle. I was thinking maybe a full belly blue rooster on meth:

Or a green rat who drinks poison for a living and cheers for the Robert Fischer High School wrestling team:

Maybe a small nose ring:

I don't want it to be too outlandish.  After all, I am a professional.

Delight

Watching my two-year-old stare in anticipation as I printed a letter on our deskjet 5550 this morning was like watching crack sizzle in a pan. She stood there, mouth agape, tiny fingers clenched around the edge of the wooden desk. Following the paper as it was ejected a centimeter at a time toward the tray she shouted, "WOAH! IT'S COMIN' OUT!"

I wish I got that excited about... anything, anymore.

Imagine what that would be like?

OH MY GOD! I'M AWAKE! HELLLLLLLOOOOOOOOO! TODAY IS GOING TO BE AN AH-MAY-ZING DAY!

Oh, never mind. I know what that would be like.

Maybe some restraint is good once in a while.

p.s. - I wish I shaved my armpits like that.

The Agnostic and The Atheist, a play in one scene.

Starring recently departed comedian and beloved social critic George Carlin and my father, Mike Castiglia.

Setting: clouds.

GC: So, what the hell is this place?

MC: Heaven.

GC: No shit!  I didn't think this place existed!

MC: Me neither.  Guess we must be lucky, huh?

GC: Yeah.  Guess so.

MC: You know, I used to say, "You got a better chance of seein' God" when I didn't want to do somethin'.  I guess that was truer than I thought.

GC: Huh.

Pause.

MC: So, what are you in here for?

GC: Heart attack.

MC: Me too!

GC: Shit.  Did it hurt?

MC: Nah.  It was alright.

GC: Yeah.

Pause.

MC: Well, alright then.  See ya later.

GC: Yup.  Have a good one.

Guess what I did yesterday?

I'm the black girl on the left.

Jesus Brought the Pork Chops

This is a reprint of the review I did of Carlin's last special for Stage Time Magazine, a sort of webzine for comedy insiders.  Re-reading it, I have to laugh at myself, so brazenly criticizing one of the great masters.  It's true that the show did have long stretches without punchlines - but not because any of Carlin's jokes fell flat. He was the kind of artist who was more than a comedian; he never bothered to concern himself with something as arbitrary as the "laugh every 7 seconds" rule.  He was into social commentary, man - and whatever it took to get his point and his thoughts across.  You have to respect that.

UPDATE: Sean McCarthy just made me aware via this post that Carlin's last HBO special actually aired this past March.

George Carlin

"Life is Worth Losing"

By Carolyn Castiglia

Life is Worth Losing is George Carlin's 13th HBO comedy special, which is something the seasoned performer has a right to be proud of. Thirteen might be his unlucky number, though, since aside from the man himself, there is little special about this one-man manifesto. 

Carlin's signature brashness is still alive and well, even if the 69 year-old relies on the outmoded beatnik-style recitation of lists as punchlines and allows his audience to withstand long passages of socio-political left-wing rhetoric that they applaud rather than laugh at.

When Carlin steps out onto the stage of the Beacon Theatre, he appears a bit frail and taken aback by how excited the audience is to see him. He repeats the first line of his piece "A Modern Man" (the opening passage of his most recent book, "When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?") a few times, but by the end seems confident and ready to rock; the Mick Jagger of comedy there to give his fans a night of bliss. 

But much like Margaret Cho, Carlin has been criticized of late for focusing more on his message than on producing tight material. Unlike Cho, however, whose mostly gay following eats her act and her politics right up, Carlin leaves his audience in the dark multiple times, especially during his long rants about suicide, assassination, genocide, torture, human sacrifice, cannibalism, necrophilia and beheadings.

Funny stuff, huh? Well, not as funny as "Stuff," or any other of his classic routines. Most of his jokes go over as if he were telling them at a funeral, and in a way, he is, since the stage is littered with headstones. Accordingly, the audience is dead silent for much of the show.

It's not that these morbid topics are unfunny per se; all good comics know it's not what you talk about, but how you feel about it that drives a joke home. Carlin states multiple times throughout the night that he finds these morbid topics, "interesting," an emotion far too bland to garner any real belly laughs from the crowd.

The few times he does shine are when he hits on topics that truly bother him, like the under-educated, over-eating masses of middle-Americans he calls, "huge piles of redundant protoplasm," or his final imaginative monologue about natural disasters, where he brilliantly asks, "Isn't there a secret part of you that hopes everything gets worse?" 

Unfortunately, most of the topics that actually score him laughs are fairly hack, like autoerotic asphyxia, or "scarfing," an act in which an individual cuts off his air supply in order to increase orgasm, or recycling dead pussy and turning a yeast infection into a pineapple upside-down cake. Carlin gets away with this material because he was one of the first comics to bring taboos to light, but "pussyfart," "dingleberry" and "posthumous multiple cornhole entry wound" are no "Seven Dirty Words" and their impact seems trite compared to his 1972 list.

Despite his several pitfalls, Carlin remains a legendary performer with an electric personality and a fierce presence, even after almost 50 years in the business. At its best, his work has a profound simplicity to it, revealed in statements like, "It's called the American Dream 'cause you have to be asleep to believe it," or act-outs like a man fumbling with the razor blade box as he's trying to kill himself who says, "Eh, it's always something."

He just doesn't seem to care anymore if his material makes people laugh or cry. He's a man who says what he thinks, and thinks if you don't think it's funny, you can "go fuck yourself."

***

Oh. And this is, uh, brilliant:



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTyzTJTNhNk

RIP, great one.

Medicine Woman

Well, kids - I've had quite an interesting past few days, having gone to the doctor for the first time since I gave birth (and we all know how that turned out...) (Fracking awesomely, duh!) But this week was not as fortuitous for me. Here's an almost literal transcript of the conversation I had with the MD Wednesday morning:

Doc: Well, looks like you meet the requirements for obesity!

CKC: Great! Let's get pizza and celebrate!

Doc: Look. 24% body fat is mildly overweight, 27% body fat is moderately overweight, but once you reach 30%, you're obese. But you're just moderately obese. 35% is morbidly obese.

CKC: So what you're saying is that I'm not gonna die. I have to live with my fat.

Doc: Well, yeah.

CKC: So, what percentage am I?

Doc: 30.5.

CKC: Come on! .5%?! You're rounding up! That's not fair. I have very thick hair. All over.

Doc: I noticed. You remind me of my wife.

CKC: Wait, what are the categories again? A little chubby, Lane Bryant and no one wants to have sex with you?

Doc: Well, there's always some guy that's desperate.

CKC: I know. I married him.

Doc: You gotta cut the carbs. That's what's killin' ya.

CKC: So I should just eat salad.

Doc: Plain, yeah. With lemon. That's it.

CKC: A few bleu cheese crumbles? I'll add water...

Doc: No sauces. No dips.

CKC: Uh.... HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO LIVE?

Doc: They lie to you. No cereal. You can't eat cereal. That's the worst thing you could put in your face. All carbs. You add milk? Carbs. You add bananas? Carbs. Oatmeal? Forget it.

CKC: I'm just trying to make up for my husband.

Doc: I know, he's skinny as a rail, isn't he?

Fin.

Then I told him I've had some ringing in my ears, so he suggested I get an MRI to make sure I don't have Brain Cancer. (Okay, he might not have said Brain Cancer, but that's what I heard, cuz you know, I have problems with my ears.) One of the nice women working in the office overheard me talking about how I might have Brain Cancer and she said, "Oh, I know. I thought I had Brain Cancer, too - for years! They finally sent me for an MRI and it turns out I was just a little crazy! So I wouldn't worry if I were you."

Right.

I asked the doctor if the MRI machiney-thing would be open, and he said yes, sensing that I wouldn't get the scan if it were a closed tube. Of course when I showed up to the place, the machine was indeed a closed tube, and I freaked the frack out. I looked at the tech and said (ringing my hands and doing my best Sally Field), "It's a tube. He said it wouldn't be a tube." (Then I made dinner for my 5 children and that other one who is a product of my husband's affair. We drank enough wine that I forgot all about the closed tube and my gay son - who I accept fully - and my Republican daughter, who I tolerate.) I mean, at that point, why get in the machine? Obviously, I too am just a little crazy (YOU MEAN I HAVE TO GET INSIDE THAT TUBE?!) and clearly don't have Brain Cancer (THERE'S NO FARFING WAY I AM GOING TO GET IN THAT TUBE!).

If you've never had an MRI, let me fully illustrate what it feels like to have your head braced and your body shoved inside a tunnel: remember that scene in Kill Bill Vol. 2 where Uma gets buried alive? It's like that, except you can't punch your way out.

Alright. To be fair, it's only like that for a second. I actually eased into it in stages, and that really helped me a lot. First I laid down - not so hard since that's one of my favorite things to do. Then the tech strapped my head in and wrapped a sort of plastic helmet over my face, which felt a bit like that mask Anthony Hopkins wears in Silence of the Lambs, except it covered my forehead and eyes. That was when I decided Mark needed to be in the room. He had to take all of his jewelry off (which takes European men forever - I'm surprised he found a place to hang his purse) but they let him in, Thank God. The tech suggested he keep his hand on my leg during the scanning process, and even though we couldn't talk, that was comforting. She pushed me into the tube a bit, and I thought, oh, this isn't that bad. But when she gave me the final shove and my arms touched the side walls, I said, "Okay - take me out!" She told me if I crossed my arms and placed them on top of my chest - corpse pose, if you will - I'd be more comfortable. I took a deep breath, got my shit together, and felt that moment of clarity one does when you realize you just have to buck up and take whatever is coming your way. She slid me in, Mark held my leg, and ten minutes later I was done.

I'd show you the pictures of my brain, but trust me, they're too hot for the internet. Maybe on the next Girls Gone Cerebral DVD.

Wait - did I fail to mention I got to listen to music through the noise-canceling headphones? Yeah - that was great! Very relaxing.

Hey - here's a riddle for you: What's more ironic than a hipster wearing a sweatshirt covered in puffy paint?

Answer: Listening to Tim McGraw's country classic LIVE LIKE YOU WERE DYIN' while trapped in an MRI machine in corpse pose.

Honestly, the paradox was too delicious - I wanted to laugh, but I didn't want to screw up the scan and have to sit in there any longer. The last song I heard was the 1987 Club Nouveau version of Lean on Me. I can't think of a more perfect way to end such a traumatic affair.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=2vTDjy7KLi0

Geek

Hey you, with your Blackberry Pearl!  So what I've been using this to call you:

I got a new phone today!

Yes, I know. I was a bit hesitant to invest in one of those new-fangled car phones with LOL and ROFLMAO capability given that I have dropped three of my phones in the tub - okay, only once was the baby in the bath at the time - and once it was actually the toilet. But you get the picture. I'm a louse. That's why I waited so long to get a new one, but here she is, all shiny and new:

Of course you're my faves phone, duh.  I only have one!  Who do you think I am?  This guy?

And guess what? It has MP3 player capability! Ooooh... now I can play this!

And the best part about it? TMobz sent me an envelope along with my new phone so that I can send my old phone back to them, free of charge, as part of their Huddle Up recycling and charitable initiative. Amazing! Hey - you can recycle your old phone(s), too! Here's a fun fact from the EPA's website:

"Recycling all of the 100 million cell phones ready for end of life management in the US would save enough energy to power more than 194,000 US households with electricity for one year."

And now you know.

I wanted to use a picture of Paul Harvey, but does anyone know who he is anymore? I guess I'll just have to take a bite out of crime instead.

Pics from the Final Kissing Booth

Kudos and Shout-Outs

KUDOS: To Lin-Minuel Miranda, Chris Jackson and Bill Sherman of Freestyle Love Supreme for their TONY win last night!  IN THE HEIGHTS took home Best Score and Best Musical and I am like fuh-freaking out.  I remember Billy talking about the show back in the days when he was manning the door at Mo's.  This is an awesome coup and so well-deserved.  If you watched the TONYS last night you know the scene from IN THE HEIGHTS was the most electric performance of the night.  In an era when musicals only come from movies, Lin and the crew have proven that dreams still do come true.  Hot.

UPDATE: More kudos to my best boy Gabriel Croom who appeared in the Lion King scene with Whoopie! I missed the first half hour of the show because Adriana had to watch Caillou ($&*%) but you know, I'm a good Mom and I let my kid do pretty much whatever she wants... I only noticed his shining face inside his giraffe costume in this picture from the TONY Awards website. He's on the left:


Check out this post covering the time I took Adriana to see Gabe in the show.

SHOUT-OUTS: To Tim Russert in the great beyond.  Russert was a "native son of Buffalo" as the reporters keep saying, but it's well worth the mention since I think his Meat and Potatoes vibe made him the great political reporter he was.  His son spoke so eloquently and with such great humor and fondness about his father this morning on the TODAY show; I could tell the loss hadn't really set in.  A friend of mine whose mother passed away asked me how I was doing shortly after my father died and I said, "Oh, fine, you know."  She said, "Ah, you're still in shock."  I didn't realize it at the time of course, but now 5 months later I see how right she was.

Yesterday was my first Father's Day without my Dad, and I want to thank a few girlfriends for sending me notes and texts and anybody else who thought about me but was like, "Should I say something?  Is that weird?"  There's no weird way to deal with death cuz there's no non-weird way to deal with death.  It's awkward.  It's awkward for me, too.  I mean, one day that person you love is there and the next day they're not.  It's too cliched to say, "Live every day like it's your last" - and besides, you can't.  And not in a hacky joke set-up way, like, "I couldn't get wasted and bang 10 hookers every day - that would kill me!"  Wah-wah.  I mean, you can't live your life thinking about the end.  I think the best way to live your life is to always look for new beginnings.

Which brings me to my final shout-out, to Brandy and Sara of the now laid-to-rest Kissing Booth.  I am honored to have appeared in these videos shown at the final show this past Thursday night.  (Kudos to Drink at Work for makin' 'em and doing such a great job with the editing.)

Somewhere Over the Rainbow... I Had the Best Gaycation Ever.

I spent last weekend in the beautiful Pocono Mountains with my best fag Shawn Hollenbach performing at a lovely resort called Rainbow Mountain. Now, I realize a place called Rainbow Mountain really needs no further explanation, but let me just give it a photo review so you get the picture. (Photo... picture... I'm on a roll... of film! Hey-oh!)

The Cabins:



The Nightstand:



The Main House:



The Lobby:





I think the only thing gayer than a Sex and the City watercolor is this:



I love it when a joke comes to life.

Everyone at the place was so sweet and so fun, especially our new BFFs Trey and Brian who are such inspirations. They're both dancers (of course). Trey cuts hair and opens orphanages in Africa (for real!) and Brian is a choreographer, his most recent piece "Cake" having just played at the Joyce. (Here's the NYT review with a great pic!) There was much debauchery and good timeation. Here are pics of it getting retarded in there:



At a gay resort, even the trees have personality:





After all, nobody wants to deal with dead wood.



Jealous?

Thank you, Shawn*!


*If you don't use this as your debut album cover, we're breaking up.

United

"So today, I am standing with Senator Obama to say: Yes we can."

Thank you, Hillary.

And thank you to Rachel Sklar, whose Eat the Press analysis on HuffPo is incredible. Rachel's insight is so valuable because it is nuanced, heartfelt, intelligent and accessible all at the same time.

If you care about this historic primary and election season and/or feminism and/or a fair media, you must read:

What Does Hillary Want? That's Easy: Respect - commentary about Hill's New York "conciliatory speech" and why she deserved that moment. Gave me some new perspective about her achievements, though I still think she could have thrown Barack a bigger bone that night.

A Dream Deferred - coverage of Hillary's concession speech. This made me cry:

More young men than I would have expected — and all of them seemed to want
a photo with Terry McAuliffe, who threaded beaming through the crowd, stopping
to shake hands and pose with anyone who asked. "I love you, man," said one young
man. "I love you too," said Terry. "Keep fighting, everybody!"

And this brilliant/hilarious piece, Obama Fist-Bump Rocks The Nation! (There are a few typos in the piece, but it's very comprehensive. I can't believe how much coverage the bump got! Shit.)

WORD.

Dana, Dana, Dana!

Dude, I know you have what is considered to be a feminine name, but that doesn't mean you should let that influence your hairstyle. It's just not prudent:

I mean, I look at that cut and I think, "Wooooooaaaaaah!"

All I'm saying is, I have pretty much the exact same photo on my Driver's License. Is someone trying to play a trick on you, D? Cuz if the shadows on your shirt were any higher, the breasts they'd demarkate would make me think this show was starring Kate Clinton. And also - that smile? I gotta say, it looks a little demonic. We need the Church Lady, stat. And someone much better at Photoshop.