Mini Sideshow Bob's Last Gleaming

I'm a very short man with long, scraggly red hair and a face like a shovel. I look like a diminutive Sideshow Bob, or a shriveled Kenny G. And I'm wearing an orange jumpsuit because I just snuck* out of prison to ask Janeane Garofalo for bail money. Because she's a bail bond agent, or used to be. We have some history, her and I. I'm standing in her studio apartment and she's lying on her bed reading a magazine.

She coolly regards my request for bail money, but somehow the conversation turns personal. She starts talking a mile a minute about how much she loves Paul McCartney, and offhandedly remarks that she wants someone to love her like "all saints." That's a strange idiom.

"What did you say?" I ask.

"I said I want someone to love me like all saints.." Her sentence trails off because I'm making out with her now. She reaches up from the bed to play her music collection on shuffle, and though I'm having sex with her within a minute or two, she's still talking about her canon of rock history.

*Blogger's spell check says the word "snuck" is wrong, so I looked it up on Dictionary.com, where I learned:

Snuck has occasionally been considered nonstandard, but it is so widely used by professional writers and educated speakers that it can no longer be so regarded.

So eat a dick, Blogger spell check!

Dis Here Dysthymia

4 a.m. in the Dahlhaus

Don't freak out or anything. We will be returning to Starboy after a brief intermission...

Nick Sportsinterviews

The NBA Finals are in full swing, and only one game remains to determine which two teams will go on to the Super Bowl, basketball's most prestigious event. I'm walking through the Utah desert to join my roommate Joe on the Atlanta Falcons' team bus. I'm not sure why we're there. Maybe we're sports writers or something. Jesus. As I walk up to the bus I see a cute red-haired player in a yellow Mary-Marvelesque basketball uniform talking to her teammate about the giant oversized shoes they just bought.

I get on the bus. Joe is chatting up female players and repeatedly getting shot down, sitcom style, but he laughs it off, perhaps just trying to fuck with with them in a figurative sense. I say something about the girls outside and one of the player dudes says that they listen to "shitty public domain hip-hop," whatever that means, and that they don't play on the main team with them. Well then.

A conversation is struck up between myself and an affable, pleasantly geeky player, and he invites me to play video games with him sometime or something. I jokingly tell him that if he's as superior to me in a recreational capacity as he is in his professional life, I'll be completely devastated. During the course of our conversation he slowly transforms into Andy Dick dressed as Steve Urkel. Unnerving.

Brisky Morning Munchen

more exciting scenes of people sitting and eating and talking

emancipation of the zombie presidents

Illustration for a short film being made by my friend James Kwan. From left: James K. Polk, Richard Nixon, Martin Van Buren and Abraham Lincoln.

Worst Waiter Ever

I've got a new job working at an unfamiliar restaurant. I've never worked in any sort of food-service job before. I get dropped off at the back door for my first day, already in uniform, and I ask a dour, middle-aged woman in the unrealistically large break room whom I'm supposed to report to for instructions. She says I should just go start waiting tables and figure it out for myself. So I wander into the dining area, which is mostly empty right now, and try to figure out where everything is. A fat lady sitting by herself immediately spots me and begins asking for things in an impenetrable accent that might be Haitian or Central American or something. I promise her that I'll figure out who can help her, and try to also glean her table number as I pass. After a couple minutes of wandering I still haven't located the kitchen, and the fat lady is becoming increasingly agitated.

Dinner with Grampa