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thought i was a donut, ya tried to glaze me


Dying Is Hard. Comedy Is Harder.

Published: June 24, 2008
THE honest truth is, for a comedian, even death is just a premise to make jokes about. I know this because I was on the phone with George Carlin nine days ago and we were making some death jokes. We were talking about Tim Russert and Bo Diddley and George said: “I feel safe for a while. There will probably be a break before they come after the next one. I always like to fly on an airline right after they’ve had a crash. It improves your odds.”

I called him to compliment him on his most recent special on HBO. Seventy years old and he cranks out another hour of great new stuff. He was in a hotel room in Las Vegas getting ready for his show. He was a monster.

You could certainly say that George downright invented modern American stand-up comedy in many ways. Every comedian does a little George. I couldn’t even count the number of times I’ve been standing around with some comedians and someone talks about some idea for a joke and another comedian would say, “Carlin does it.” I’ve heard it my whole career: “Carlin does it,” “Carlin already did it,” “Carlin did it eight years ago.”

And he didn’t just “do” it. He worked over an idea like a diamond cutter with facets and angles and refractions of light. He made you sorry you ever thought you wanted to be a comedian. He was like a train hobo with a chicken bone. When he was done there was nothing left for anybody.

But his brilliance fathered dozens of great comedians. I personally never cared about “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television,” or “FM & AM.” To me, everything he did just had this gleaming wonderful precision and originality.

I became obsessed with him in the ’60s. As a kid it seemed like the whole world was funny because of George Carlin. His performing voice, even laced with profanity, always sounded as if he were trying to amuse a child. It was like the naughtiest, most fun grown-up you ever met was reading you a bedtime story.

I know George didn’t believe in heaven or hell. Like death, they were just more comedy premises. And it just makes me even sadder to think that when I reach my own end, whatever tumbling cataclysmic vortex of existence I’m spinning through, in that moment I will still have to think, “Carlin already did it.”

(exclusive to this blog. and the nyt, maybe).


Sex in the City

(Thanks Erica!)


The Future

Even though I came into the event--the catching of the Bouquet-- only thinking about flowers, it's left me thinking about one thing ever since: my future wedding(s). On the subway today I started planning the whole thing and I wanted to share it all with you. I promise you'll all be invited!


The wedding will be in the middle of Central Park. No church wedding for me--sorry mom and dad! (I'll still take that complimentary check, though). After a very brief outdoor ceremony (read: no mass, just one or two sweet poems being read, and vows being quickly exhchanged), the guests are lead to a giant tent, where the cocktail hour and reception are to be held. There they are treated to many fine delicacies, as well as pizza from all over New York and a Mister Softee truck. They are treated to the musical stylings of Billy Joel, who mixes up his more popular tracks with some of that dumb classical shit he still insists on recording, for ambiance.

After my grand entrance on a polar bear driven sled, even in June, the reception begins. Everyone has a totally awesome time because they are all being treated to the musical stylings of Sting, Phil Collins, Eddie Vedder, and Stevie Wonder, who play a mix of their own songs, the songs of others, and my first wedding song, "Love Train" by The O'Jays.

The guests enjoy whatever they feel like eating that night, because there is a full-service short-order cook in place of the usual chicken or beef option. Fries and gravy--just like in a diner!--coming right up! After eating, the band takes a break and makes way for Stevie Winwood, who unveils a new song he wrote just for me and my husband, ___________.

After the cutting of the cake (a giant Fudgie the Whale dressed up in a tux), the guests dine at a 300 foot long Vienesse Table and order the cooks around some more. They better stock up on food, because once the party is over, the after-party begins!

Dead body coolers, filled with Bud Light and Magic Hat #9, are carried out to the four corners of the party. Then, after the band gets off, they are replaced by everyone's favorite robots:

Daft Punk are playing at my after-party! They spin all of their hits, perform "Digital Love" live, and also play everyone's favorite fist-pumping KTU-Pulse dance hits.

The after-party lasts for days, as the guests are sustained by their love of dancing, fun, diner food, and me. I honeymoon in the Maldives (like Tom Cruise & Katie Holmes!) and Tahiti.

We break up three months later. Something about life not being as fun as the wedding was.

next in line

For those of you who weren't there, and haven't heard, I caught the bouquet at my good friends' Maria and John's wedding this past Saturday.

I am in no rush to get married (at all). And even though I just went to two weddings on two consecutive Saturdays (one I hardly remember, for which I blame the Vodka bar), I don't have the same cynical view on marriage that I once had. There is something undeniably sweet about two people standing in front of the people they love to devote themself to the one person they love the very best. And beyond the food and drinks, and the beautiful people and the dressing up, there are pretty flowers everywhere.

And on Saturday, as I lined up and crowded in with all the other un-married girls, I had only one thing in mind: the flowers. This gorgeous bouquet of orchids and peonies, with a green wrap around it and a dainty detail of white pearl pins, arranged to look like a flower. All of the other girls there might have been thinking about superstition, and about wedding bells, but I was thinking about how great those flowers would look on my dining room table. So as Maria turned her back to us and tossed those flowers in the air, and as I watched it flying towards the group of us, and as all the other girls kept their feet on the ground and lamely threw their arms up-- I leapt up into the air, jumping like I was back in the goal box or on the volleyball court, and grabbed those fucking flowers. I snatched them and held them close. Part of me wanted to jump up and down and yell, "How you like me now bitches?!" I had forgotten all about the awkward garter thing, though, which made me rethink whether or not the flowers were worth it.

You be the judge!


Classy Piranhas

CIMG3870, originally uploaded by littlecleetus.

See! The Pier 92 Piranhas can look nice off the court.


My SNY debut

Courtesy of a rain delay, the upgrading of my Upper Reserved seats magically becoming behind the dugout, and the Mets SUCKING.

I wonder if my writing has even improved?