Hurray!

In four days this last week, I performed comedy 3 times. The first was Wednesday at Cigars and Stripes, a weirdly cool bar/restaurant here in Chicago (well, technically Berwyn) that does amateur nights every week. The next was on Thursday in Steven's Point, Wisconsin at a place called Rookie's. And the third was on Saturday in Veroqua, Wisconsin at the American Legion Hall. Three shows in four days. It was like I was back in my salad days of comedic success. In all, I logged many hours of driving, I gave up two days of working at the office (and the money that entails), and I didn't even get paid for Saturday's show yet (although a check is supposed to come in the mail). Plus, I was awakened in the hotel this morning by kids screaming and crashing into the walls outside my hotel room early this morning.

The past four days have kicked ass.

I highly recommend performing professional stand-up comedy to anyone out there who is looking for the greatest ego stroke/emotional thrill on the market today. I didn't even do that particularly well. I had crowds that really seemed to be in a laughing mood, so it made me look good and made me feel even better.

Many, many, many terrible shows and horrible performances on my part undoubtedly await me in the future, but right now, things are good.

Well, That Happened

At the first show last night, I forgot to take up a copy of my DVD so I could shill it. I remembered after the first show, though, and so I grabbed a copy of it so I could make sure to take it with me. Can't forget to offer copies for sale so that no one buys them and I leave just as poor as I arrived!

Hilariously, not one single person showed up, so the second show was cancelled. What's that sound? Things getting Daryl in here.

Plans and Stuff

So, I have a comedy show Saturday. Actually, it's two shows (8pm and 10pm) a few hours away in Illinois. There is no hotel room. So after leaving the gig around midnight or so, I'm driving home. And my wife has decided we need to go furniture shopping early on Sunday (you know, instead of football).

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "But Daryl, how will this affect the Parliamentary elections coming up in Romania?" To which I say, "It won't, but just imagine the look on the opposition leader's face when I drive up in a brand new Ford Festiva!"

That's when I realize I might need to get my furnace checked for a carbon monoxide leak.

The point is, I have a gig tomorrow. It's very exciting.

I just hope I can manage to not sell any DVDs so that I barely break even.

If you're in Bloomington, IL tomorrow, be sure and stop by the Treehouse Lounge. You'll be glad you did.

Do Over

Hello, world (and most specifically the 5 of you reading this). Good to be back. As you all know, I am freaking hilarious. If you don't believe me, just read some of my earlier blog posts. Mark Wahlberg quotes? Comedy gold! And as you probably also know, I am an award-winning comedian - that's right, I won the Funniest Person in Iowa contest (back in 1999 when that award still meant something). Many of you also know I'm a brilliant comic actor. You need evidence, you say?

Gut-splittingly hilarious, right? (Oh, by the way, I'm the fat guy eating the cake).

Sadly, as 2002 became 2003 and then 2004, I let comedy fall by the wayside. I decided to film a full-length feature movie and focus on my real estate career. Predictably, the film was crap and the real estate market collapsed in on itself like so many quantum singularities. As time passed, I heard the siren call of a life I'd let slip away. More and more I found myself longing to return to my first true love - stand-up comedy. The purest of arts, comedy pits one man against the world. Do well, and you are a god. Suck, and that's too bad amigo, you've got 30 minutes to go - and if you're lucky you'll still get paid. Through the lens of time, the horribly long drives through blizzards seemed serene; the bad motels, palatial. Many of the small, dive-y bars I've performed in could use a good coat of fire, but in my maudlin reverie, they seemed so many Shang-ri-las.

The point is, I'm Daryl, and no bad idea is bad enough to avoid. So, it's time for a stand-up comedy comeback! And this time I can't fail! I'm older, fatter, and now I have a sports coat. This blog will tell the tale, and you will be my witnesses. Buckle up, kids. It's about to get Daryl in here.

A Day in the Life

The Mission: For one whole day, to only speak in quotations from characters played by Mark Wahlberg.

The Timeframe: Yesterday.

The Result: Middling

The Details: Okay, so when an idea occurs to me, it's usually pretty hard to convince myself it's a bad idea (a bottle of Scotch on a Tuesday night? Let's do this), so once this occurred to me, how could I back down? The one upside is that I didn't have any closings scheduled, so I probably wouldn't have to try to explain mortgage documents to a borrower using lines from "The Happening." (Although that would have been interesting - Borrower: What's the interest rate on my loan? Me: It's the fucking trees, I guess. God, this movie blows.)

Rather than bore you with the details of the entire day, I'll let you experience a couple of the "scenes" I went through yesterday.

Scene - Dahl's grocery store, 10:30 am

Cashier: Will that be all?

Daryl: Jack, I was wondering if from now on, you could call me Dirk Diggler?

Cashier: Excuse me?

Daryl: You don't know what I can do!

Cashier: Are you okay, sir?

Daryl: Do you mind if I try to make it look as sexy as possible?

It was at this moment that I realized the only Mark Wahlberg movie I really know any of the lines to is Boogie Nights, and the opportunity for those lines to apply to every day life is rather rare. But never one to let reality spoil my fun, I knew I had to keep going. Obviously, after my last line to the cashier, a new scene started.

Officer Johnson (seriously): Do you have a problem?

Daryl: I know fucking karate.

Officer Johnson: On the ground!

Daryl: Are you gonna take your skates off?

Officer Johnson: I said on the ground!

Daryl: This is imported Italian nylon!

The next thing I knew, I woke up in a holding cell. As I came to, a group of interested prisoners were looking down at me, as though impressed with the disturbing number of baton strikes evident about my head and face. As I opened my one still-functioning eye, I saw one bold prisoner step forward to interrogate me.

Bold Prisoner: Who are you?

Daryl: You know my reputation. Thirteen inches of tough load. I don't treat you gently. That's right. I'm Brock Landers.

BP: Say again?

Daryl: So, you want five or ten?

BP: What the hell are you talking about?

Daryl: Well, if you just want to see me jack off, it's ten dollars. But if you just want to look at it, it's only five.

And that's the story of how I made fifteen dollars in prison.

The List of Things I Regret Has Been Augmented

For the past couple weeks, I've been very constipated. (Spoiler alert: Gross)

I've been waiting it out, hoping for things to change. My three favorite

things in life are drinking, sex, and poohing, and the order depends on how the day has gone. So clearly the past couple weeks have been bad. So today I went and bought some chocolate ExLax (TM). I checked the dosage on the back. For an adult over 12 years old, it is recommended to eat 2 pieces of chocolate.

And here's where the mistake comes in. Right away I think, "I'm a big guy. At least double that for me is like the right amount for a normal person." And then I think, "I'm really constipated. I need at least another dose. I'll have six pieces."

So, all told, I tripled the recommended dosage.

Hello, new home:

Amazing News!

As a child, my brother and I devoutly watched pro wrestling. From it I learned many valuable life lessons I still carry with me today. No matter how bad he's hurt, never count a hero out. No matter how great his advantage, a villain will almost always get what's coming to him. Rowdy Roddy Piper is the greatest wrestler/actor of all time (don't believe me? Here's the evidence). But mostly, I learned that I wanted to be part of that glorious world.

Of course, as the years passed I realized that maybe (just maybe) the world I watched through my color television screen may not have been entirely truthful in regards to the end result of throwing a man off a ladder into barbed wire. Perhaps their over the top exultations were merely for show... It was a hard realization, one that deeply depressed and scarred

me for many years. I ceased being a fan and moved through the next twenty-odd years of my life no longer enjoying the televised spectacle that is Vince McMahon's steroid-fueled athletic entertainment.

Then in November of last year, my brother introduced me to 3X Wrestling, which occurs each month at a small establishment called the Des Moines Social Club in downtown Des Moines. The atmosphere is intimate, and the room small enough that any seat is close enough to really see the action. In live format, I discovered that I enjoy watching pro wrestling again. Not in the same way I once did, but I admire people working their way up the chain, taking part in an activity they love, all the while putting on a show that is athletic and, at times, very funny.

Why bring this up? Oh, no reason. Except that there is a good chance that I may get to be a GUEST RING ANNOUNCER FOR 3X WRESTLING THIS FALL! That's right, boys and girls. Not since I was eight (and realized I would never be very tall or super-muscular and so would never make a good wrestler) have I been this close to glory. The details haven't all been worked out yet, and I'll feel like an idiot if things don't pan out, but I'm so super-stoked about this.

I am a firm believer that life is all about collecting really awesome stories. I've jumped out of a plane, I beheld the Berlin Wall before its fall, I've performed standup comedy across the country professionally, I won a fairly significant screenwriting contest, I was married wearing a Hawaiian shirt, I've become a licensed minister, and now I'll be able to say I've been part of a professional wrestling organization and worked as a ring announcer.

Now if I could just find a way to stop my unending downward financial spiral, lose some weight, and cut back on the drinking, we could all agree everything's coming up Daryl!

The New Yorker reviews my "Star Trek" Fan Novel

In 2002, I finished my epic fanfiction novel set within the "Star Trek" universe: A Soldier's Last Battle. I had been working on the novel for years, adding to its voluminous nerdosity little by little. In July of 2002, though, I moved away from my home in Iowa with my final destination as Chicago, Illinois. Along the way, I visited a friend in Texas (that's on the way to Chicago from Iowa, right?) and stayed with her for a couple weeks. I had two missions during this mini-vacation. One: drink a lot. Two: finish my novel. And by the time the two weeks were over, I owned a very tired liver and a very finished novel. Those two weeks were the greatest two weeks of my life. I had no job. I had no responsibility. I woke up every day around 9 or 10, wrote for a few hours, ate lunch, wrote for a few hours more, then showered, got dressed, and when my friend got home, we went out drinking and carousing around the Dallas/Arlington area. It was like I was a professional writer. In that two weeks, I wrote one hundred fifteen pages, finishing my novel out at three hundred seven pages of "Star Trek" goodness.

As time went by, I was impressed by the overwhelming roar of people not caring about my fan fiction novel. And who can blame them? Most of the world didn't even know it existed. So I devised a brilliant plan for getting everyone to read it. Fortunately before I implemented my plan, I realized that poisoning the water supply could be construed as a criminal act, so instead I decided to bribe the New Yorker into reviewing my glorious tome. I figured it made sense - my novel was certainly better than Star Trek Generations. So a-bribing I must go. That was eight years ago. I have been sending in successively larger amounts of bribe money, but I kept getting rejected. Until today. In my mail today, I received a letter from the editor saying they had accepted my "submission" (which I assume is snooty east-coast code for "bribe") and that a full review would be appearing in their online magazine (which I assume is snooty east-coast douche code for "website"). Attached was a link for me to preview the review. I was advised to refrain from sharing any part of the review with anyone prior to online publication, so I copied the entire thing and here it is in its entirety.

(Oh, and by the way, if you want to get a book reviewed, apparently the magic number is $17.50.)

A Soldier's Rejoinder: A Star Trek Fan Seeks Universal Truth

by Eric Sedrickson, staff writer

Upon first review, Daryl A. Moon's 2002 unpublished novel A Soldier's Last Battle: A Novel Set Within the Star Trek Universe seems nothing more than the frantic spasms of a fanboy's typewriter set upon the world like so many Egyptian plagues. Having just recently (yet again) read Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, which is this humble writer's favorite foray into mankind's darkest rabbit holes, I was in no mood to suffer fools lightly. I thumbed through the work disdainfully, impressed with the narrow margins and use of white space on the page, undoubtedly in an effort to crank the page total to just over 300. By page 20, I was secretly hurling mental javelins of fury towards my boss, who cursed me with this mindless schlock. I was remembering that as he handed it to me and I saw the title, I asked him why the hell he wanted anyone to read it, let alone write a review of it. I was pretty sure I heard him mumble something about "forgot money for lunch," but I couldn't be sure. I was just about to abandon the project and face the wrath of my overseer when a curious line of prose caught my eye. "The red alert siren wailed menacingly, and the bridge of the U.S.S. Verona lay bathed in harsh red light that made Captain Kim think of a light panel dipped in blood." As my mind played with the words like a tongue exploring the peaks and valleys of a newly chipped tooth, I saw a wider view of what had been written. Verona, of course, seemed to make reference to "Romeo and Juliet," and the scene Mr. Moon was laying out featured the long-past death of the protagonist's wife, revealed in a dream flashback. Then I realized what my mind's tongue was probing for:

"Is there no pity sitting in the clouds

That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week,
Or if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies."

My God, is it possible this sophomoric "Star Trek" novel was a thinly disguised homage to the Bard himself? Or was it an unintentional stroke of genius by a failed English major unconsciously recalling a bit of actual literature from a now-dead past? There was only one way to find out: read deeper.

I don't have the space in this column to explain the plethora of gemstones I would soon discover, but they fell into my outstretched hands as if tender snowflakes on the first day of winter. I ran towards them, hands and tongue outstretched, pleased with my effort and with the results. The Harkozen fleet, a sort of bugaboo plaguing our intrepid protagonist (Captain Harry Kim, a future version of a character from one of the shows) is clearly meant to represent the "terrorist threat" facing the United States in the early part of last decade. In fact the "Harkozen Invasion" is the precipitating event in an all-out war consuming the Federation. Clearly, this all-out war (war on terror? one is tempted to ask) was a bit of precognition on Mr. Moon's part (remember, the novel was completed in mid-2002), forseeing our never-ending struggle in Afghanistan and Iraq against an "inferior" foe. At one point it is even revealed that the Federation President who "carried on the struggle against the Romulan menace" was named Steven Jones. Clearly Mr. Moon was, possibly with too heavy a hand, pointing out that an Americanized warrior mentality is to blame. (The alternative is that Mr. Moon is a terrible science fiction writer and chose a horrible name for an alien, but at this point I've seen the brilliance, so there is no reason to suspect any malfeasance on the author's part). Even Captain Kim's "sidekick," his first officer Commander Krollek, couldn't have been painted in any broader ironic strokes. His calm intelligence and clearly Native American manor leave this reptile-like "shaman" a clear indictment of shallow tale-craft. If only Mr. Moon could get John Grisham and James Patterson in a room together and teach them. Though that would probably fail because they wouldn't understand Mr. Moon's character was constructed to reflect their type of incompetent writing. They would probably just find the character a "really cool devise."

It goes without saying that the "good guys" win in the end, but are they really the good guys? Doesn't the ending just leave the military industrial complex that is the Federation's Starfleet at the helm of human destiny? Of course, in the hands of Mr. Moon, we are shown the folly of our naive hope for mankind, as the final paragraphs so potently mirror the opening page of the novel, leaving us to realize that nothing we do truly matters and that the crushing weight of destiny eventually squeezes us all. And when it does, the only sound will be a slow applause from this writer, celebrating the best abstract realization of slow-churning doom I've read in years. I see big things for Mr. Moon's future.

My First, My Last, My Everything

I told my self that I shouldn't post twice in one day. Otherwise people (both of my readers) might ignore the earlier post. But this is so perfect. If anyone out there (either of you) want to know who I am, you have two options: spend years studying my comedy, my journals, and my threatening letters to Gilbert Gottfried; or you can watch this. This explains everything I am, will be, or dream to be.

I Hate Flying (A work of mostly fiction)

I Hate Flying

I hate flying.

I mean really, really hate flying. Getting on the plane? Hate it. Taxiing down the runway? Hate it. Accelerating down the runway for takeoff? Hate it. Takeoff? Good God. The whole experience is terrible.

Throughout the entire flight, I fully expect the plane to crash. I’m not exaggerating. That shudder you feel when the plane hits a crosswind? That’s the plane about to crash. That groan when the landing gear is retracting? The plane about to crash. Turbulence? That’s the plane about to burst into flames, turn over twice, and then crash.

Because I’m morbid (or just an idiot), I’ve done some research. Not that “flying is the safest mode of travel” crap people throw at me. It may be true, but that’s just statistics. I’m talking about research of actual plane crashes. They’re horrible. Just horrible. Remember that South Korean airliner that was shot down by the Soviets in the 80’s? It took that plane twelve minutes to hit the water. Twelve minutes, knowing how totally screwed you are! Or how about that plane that crashed out of New York in December of ‘01. The tail came off. And all along I thought that piece wasn’t, you know, detachable.

The point is, flying is stupid. It doesn’t make any sense. Man can swim, so I get boats. Man can run, so trains and cars make sense. Do you know what we can’t do? Fly. So if something goes wrong on the plane, there’s a whole lot of nothing you can do about it.

And the bitch of it? I have to fly for work. I fly all the time. Why would I take this job then, you might ask? Well, I wasn’t always like this.

It was back in 2000 when I got to be like this. I was on a flight from Phoenix to St. Louis. Easy trip, one I’ve done many times. The plane hit some turbulence, which was usually no big deal, but that night was different. I knew the plane was going to crash. I just knew it, deep down inside. It was the worst feeling I’ve ever had. As the plane bounced and danced through the night sky, I knew that any second our tin can with wings was going to lose power, explode, rip in half, something. You know how in books a character knows he or she is going to die and gets all peaceful about it. Not me. It was like I’d been dipped in a bucket of terror, and I wanted out. I wanted to jump out of the plane and escape. I’ve never been so scared.

The plane landed fine (obviously, since I’m writing this). But since that day, I can’t fly without waves of absolute horror rippling through me. I should just quit my job and get one that lets me stay on the ground, but I’m in my fifties. And if you could see the size of the alimony check I have to write every month... basically I’m saying I can’t afford the pay cut I would have to take if I switched jobs. If they would legalize gay marriage so my ex-wife could remarry, maybe I could afford it, but I’m not holding my breath. And yes, I’m saying that when I die, it will be my ex-wife’s fault. Just in case she asks.

So here I am, about to board another plane. I hate this. Have I mentioned that? I wish I could stop being such a baby, but I can’t. Every time I walk down the jetway I want to fall to the ground in the fetal position and cry. Literally cry. I can barely hold it in sometimes. You should see how much antacid I go through a day, bottling all that in.

I’ve never liked how your footsteps echo as you walk down the jetway. It has a dull morbidity to it. The last steps of the condemned man as he walks up the hastily-constructed wooden steps of the gallows. Ahead of me, I can see into the plane. A stewardess is smiling at me with that professional smile that says she hates me back. I know I’m late, but I was busy throwing up and trying not to cry in the bathroom. I could never tell her that, of course. Maybe I should have just thrown up on her? Bet she’d lose the smile then.

I step into the plane, right foot first (I always do that. Sometimes I think I should switch to left-foot first, and that would cure me. Or it might make the plane crash, so I stick with the right). Nodding to the stewardess with my own polite smile, I take a left into the cockpit.

I never should have become a pilot.

Diplomatic Immunity in Discoland

It was a cold night in Chicago. I walked with confidence (the only way I know how to walk, other than the crab walk - I can do that, but no one is confident enough to pull that off smoothly or confidently). The air was crisp and tense with the electric pulse of anticipation. A thin smile briefly crossed my face but was quickly replaced with a confident smirk.

As I stalked the night in my 5-inch platform heels, I took note of my surroundings from behind my gold Elvis-inspired sun glasses. Women darted to-and-fro, followed by willing men. Between them all darted a current of sexual tension that could only mean one thing - Halloween night on the north side.

Halloween is the greatest holiday ever invented, when candy abounds and women feel the need to channel their inner stripper. If I were to believe in God, Halloween would be the evidence I would cite as my reason.

Thus far, it had been a fruitful night. Despite being with my girlfriend (now wife), I had surreptitiously examined the bodies of dozens of women (and that's why I wear my sunglasses at night). Our group of wanderers were making our way to our final destination of the night - a wonderful blue-collar bar known as the Cork (back before the Cork got it's yuppie makeover). With a good amount of amber perfection coursing through our veins, we stalked in a not-necessarily-direct amble. And that's the moment it hit me. A sense of danger, foreboding, and horror so palpable, I thought I'd suddenly jumped into a Stephen King story. I stopped walking, my eyes nearly bursting out of my head.

"What is it?" I heard coming from my girlfriend's general direction.

"I'll catch up with you guys!" I screamed, turning down Wolcott towards my apartment.

"What's wrong?" a confused voice called from behind.

"I'll catch up. Just go!" I bellowed, now running. Would I make it? Was I too late? Curse my amazing fashion sense and delightful whimsey - why did I wear these shoes? My heart threatened to beat out of my chest as I careened down the darkened street. All around me, curtained, lightless windows stared at my passage. My very own Greek chorus, their voices silenced by the thickening doom.

My legs, clad in their awesome white pants, pumped unceasingly. So close. I could see the building getting closer and closer. I reached into my pocket and fumbled with my keys. As I yanked them from their resting place, I almost lost my grip on them. I nearly choked out a cry into the night. If I dropped the keys, I knew I wouldn't have time to avert disaster. At the last second, I caught onto them and continued my run.

As I reached the building, I took the front stairs two at a time. I crashed into the outer door, and it flew open as though sensing that this was not a time to bring up any of its protestations at my sloppy building management skills. I slid my key into the security door, wrenching it open as the tumblers twisted. Now I had only my apartment door to navigate, and I could prevent all the unholy pain that threatened the peaceful holiday night.

The apartment door opened and the world went into slow motion. I charged towards my destination, perspiration dotting my brow. I bit my lower lip, trying to stave off fate. There! The bathroom! My salvation at hand. I felt a new wave of abdominal cramping hit me.

Whoops. Dang. I was so close.

Dispatch From an Alternate World

As I'm sure many of you know, in a very nearby alternate universe, Sonic Hair Gel was the biggest band to come out of the late nineties/early 2000's. Their rise, their fall, and their eventual rebirth from the ashes of obscurity made them the shining phoenix of the music world. In the early part of this millennium, I set out to chronicle their story. It was an arduous journey involving many thousands of hours. Whether it was my natural cosmic empathy, my attenuation to the gateways of the multiverse, or my use of horse tranquilizers, it seemed that I was drawn to Sonic Hair Gel and their story. Of course, as any true fan of Sonic Hair Gel knows, that universe's Daryl Moon is their keyboardist (whose sexuality is constantly being brought into question, so obviously there are some major differences between our worlds), so that probably has something to do with my natural abilities.

In June of 2001, I completed The Ultimate Sonic Hair Gel Compendium: The Guide for Any True Fan. As many of you undoubtedly remember, I won the Pulitzer Prize for my effort. (You can watch my acceptance speech here.) As part of the Compendium, I wrote a chronology which gave small details of the lives of the band members for the coming years. Since my psychic abilities only range so far, I could only write up through January of 2008. Everything after that was left a mystery to the millions who read the Compendium and loved the band they would never know. Despite many pleas from fans and multi-million dollar offers from my publisher, I have refrained from publishing anything further about Sonic Hair Gel. I realized that our world needs to find its own heroes. Worshipping those in a parallel universe is counter-productive. Their problems are not our problems; their triumphs are not our triumphs. And as such, their multi-Grammy winning bands cannot be our bands. So I let Sonic Hair Gel fade into the ether.

Today, however, I received some startling news. News that shattered me and made me wish my psychic powers hadn't been permanently destroyed by my February 2002 NyQuil binge. I found out today that Sonic Hair Gel lost one of its members.

Bass player Nick was always a troubled soul. His many bouts with substance abuse and addiction, combined with his many torrid love affairs, made him fodder for both the tabloids and comedians. Meeting the love of his life in May of 2004 proved to be a calming force for him; he ceased his drug use immediately upon meeting her. Their messy divorce in March of 2008, though, sent Nick screaming down the rabbit hole. Ironically, his second solo album, I'm With the Bass Player, was released on the day his divorce was made official. (As you know, his first solo album, Stealing Third Bass, released in 2001 during Sonic Hair Gel's short-lived breakup, was a major flop.) I'm With the Bass Player, featuring Nick and a variety of celebrity musicians, was a monstrous success. The album would spend months atop the charts, and it seemed you couldn't go anywhere without hearing one of Nick's songs playing. The timing of such a cash windfall was disastrous to Nick's health.

He spiralled into a world of heroine, Southern Comfort, and women. The last couple of years of Nick's life saw him unravel the tapestry he'd built for so long. His family and friends (and especially his bandmates) tried to reach out to him. They eventually even tried getting him to enter a celebrity rehabilitation facility via a reality television show. Despite Daryl crying more than anyone in the show's history, Nick mumbled something about "thought this was the show with the briefcases full of money," and wandered away. His bandmates never saw him again.

A week and a half ago, Nick's pain ended. (Sorry - I haven't been checking up on that universe very much lately. It takes a lot of energy out of me, and I'm incredibly lazy.) Tears and sadness may rain down, but we have to remember his life, not the end. And it helps to know that he died as he lived - on a giant mound of cocaine and sandwiched between the Olsen twins.

At the funeral, Danny V (Sonic Hair Gel's backup "singer" and occasional tambourine player) sang/spoke the lyrics to Nick's favorite Sonic Hair Gel song - "My Women." In honor of our fallen brother, I will reprint the lyrics here:

My Women

Do you want to be one of my women?

Of course you do.

Do you want me to take you to Yemen?

Of course you do.

That's because I'm smooth like the opposite of sand paper.

And I can recite poetry like Puff the Dragon with his friend Jackie Draper.

My women all leave satisfied,

Your loneliness can be rectified.

So come to me, baby.

And be one of my women.

The Hensonic War

The tired, green-furred monster stood facing east. His once-proud eyes now betrayed the weariness plaguing his mind. In the distance, campfires burned menacingly. Campfires that belonged to enemy soldiers. Enemy soldiers who wanted only one thing - to destroy what little remained of Sesame Street. The green monster, known for years as Oscar the Grouch and now simply as "sir" to everyone around him, closed his eyes.

He tried to remember happier times before The Awakening. When he and his fellow Jim Henson creations had simply been puppets. Puppets who starred in a children's television show. Even then they had all possessed a crude self-awareness, though faint and almost distant. But then came The Awakening. Every single member of Sesame Street "awoke" one morning to discover themselves very much alive and surrounded by a real-life version of their television set. The buildings had no false fronts; no sound crews lurked behind walls. No puppet masters guided The Streeters (as they would later decide to call themselves), and the humans who had coexisted as part of the television program were gone as well. No Maria, no Gordon. The Streeters were alone.

After the initial hysteria passed, the Streeters began to explore. They discovered that their "city" contained a fully-stocked grocery store, which was good because they needed to eat. Elmo helped them all discover another interesting fact that day - they could bleed, which he discovered by falling off a window ledge. Though his skin appeared to be covered by a terry-cloth-like fur, the scratch on his face indeed bled.

Oscar smiled wryly to himself as he thought of those first few days of life. None of the Streeters knew why or how they had been brought to life. But with life came a strange curiosity. Before the first day was done, they had explored out to the edges of their city, which they discovered sat beside a large lake. As day turned to night, they also discovered they had electricity, though no power plant could be found. That night brought with it another shock: lights burned on the opposite side of the lake as well. Excitement, marbled with small currents of trepidation, rippled through the city. Who would it prove to be? The Electric Company? The Teletubbies?

They shouldn't have been surprised by the answer. Of course it was the Muppets. Who else could it have been? On the north end of Sesame Street's lakeside sat a set of docks with five motor boats, each boat large enough to hold around ten Streeters. At sunrise on Day 2, one boat left the docks headed east, with a mission to make contact with the camp on the opposite shore. Oscar was on that boat, sitting in the middle, finally free to move beyond his trash can. At the bow of the small craft, Harry Monster stood triumphantly, his blue fur rippling in the breeze. Oscar remembered thinking at the time how regal Harry had looked, his eyes locked on his target, a small smile across his lips. That determination is undoubtedly what led to Harry's being elected the first mayor of Sesame Street one short week later. For ten years he led all government (what little there was) for Sesame Street. But it wasn't an election that ended Harry's time in office. It was the blade of Kermit's dagger.

Kermit the Frog. Once a part of the Sesame Street television show, but now its greatest enemy. Whereas he once reported news to the Sesame Street faithful, he now populated the majority of the gossip which served as news for the battered Streeters. His actions, his rantings, his latest methods of attack - they filled the waking thoughts and torturous nightmares of the Streeters. With his deceptively friendly voice and his humorous mannerisms, Kermit seemed the least likely of all the newly-born Hensonians to turn to dictatorship. That was what made his betrayal all the worse.

Awash in reverie, Oscar didn't hear the approach of his second-in-command, Colonel Grover. The sound of Grover's gravely, Yoda-like voice snapped Oscar from his thoughts. "Sir," the blue Streeter said politely, "the council awaits. You have to speak , or surrender will surely prevail." Grover looked out towards the Muppets' campfires. He knew that if Muppetown prevailed in the war, he would be killed for no better reason than the man who designed him gave him blue fur. Kermit had decreed blue creatures the enemies of proper Hensonians, and he promised to kill every last blue alive, ridding the world of their evil. It ain't easy being green? Grover thought. Try being blue, asshole.

"I know, Grover. But even if we convince the officers to stay in the fight, will it be enough? What are the Muppets' numbers?" Oscar rubbed his forehead, trying to quell the tension headache that had been bothering him for... well, five years now. Since the Blue Incident, the heralding of what became The War.

"The Count puts their numbers around five hundred strong," Grover said with a sigh.

Oscar laughed softly. "And we both know he's right. If he said there were four million of them, I'd take his word for it. He's frighteningly accurate." Grover nodded solemnly. Not surprisingly, the Count lived up to his name. When troops approached, he was an invaluable intelligence source.

Grover paused a moment in deference to his commander. Without a moment's hesitation, Grover would sacrifice his life to save General Oscar. After the murder of Mayor Harry, Oscar had been the voice of reason who encouraged his fellow Streeters to fight the Muppets in their quest for blood. Had it not been for Oscar's leadership, Sesame Street would have fallen. And with it, freedom.

Oscar stared once more at the enemy. For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to believe he saw a face flicker amongst their fires. The face was one he knew painfully well - that of his beloved wife, now many years gone. Prairie Dawn, who had died at the hands of Scooter, Kermit's personal assassin, during the Bunsen Campaign. Oscar thought of the early days after The Awakening, when he and Prairie had fallen in love. That thought led inevitably to the image of their child, also killed by Scooter's blade. Too much death....

But there wasn't time for such indulgence. Oscar stepped away from the wall. With a grim determination he looked over to his trusted friend and fellow warrior. "Let's go," he said and began walking towards headquarters. With Grover in tow, Oscar strode defiantly, stopping to speak with groups of soldiers as he did.

With thoughts of his slain wife and child assaulting his senses, Oscar allowed himself the luxury of directing a piercing thought towards his greatest enemy. One he was sure no one but himself would hear, but he felt better for thinking it. I hope you can hear me, Kermit. Your days are numbered. With the Henson as my witness, your days are numbered.

Frankly, Dr. Atkins, I Don't Give a Damn

Back in February, my wife and I started on a low-carbohydrate diet, in an attempt to deny the inevitable. Megan did the proper research, discovering all the different vegetables (quite a few) and fruits (basically, none) that can be consumed on a low-carb diet. We noticed that most people who go on low-carb just eat cheese, bacon, and steaks until they feel unhealthy and then quit. So we decided we would make sure we were getting plenty of veggies, thus defeating being fat. Hooray!

To my surprise, it really worked. Within the first ten days I lost ten pounds. Additionally, I felt better than I've felt in years - less weighed down, more energy, generally healthier. And fortunately, hard liquors have no carbs, so whiskey, scotch, and vodka are all cool. (You want to mix that vodka with orange juice? Not on my watch, mister. This is a diet.) Nothing could possibly derail my journey of weight loss and my inevitable arrival on the Island of the Beautiful People.

Oh, right. Turns out I'm hopelessly addicted to carbohydrates. For breakfast, I like breakfast cereal. For a snack in the morning, a sleeve of Townhouse crackers will do just fine (I couldn't find a good picture of Townhouse Crackers on the Internets.) For lunch, a sandwich with chips or a Spicy Chicken Sandwich with Fries will fit the bill nicely, thank you very much. For dinner, pizza or anything with rice of potatoes is what I'm craving. And for an evening snack, I like to grind wheat into a paste which I shovel into my mouth with my hand while I watch television commercials for more crackers.

The point is I love carbs. And for me the Atkins diet was akin to kicking heroine. I've never actually tried heroine, let alone found myself addicted and needing to stop using, but I've read about it (the second "Dark Tower" book by Stephen King was my source material), and it sounds pretty similar. I got chills, fevers, the shakes, lots of quality time on the toilet as my butt was busy throwing up, anger, sadness, dizziness, vertigo, confusion, and massive amount of sweating. I would go to the cupboard and look longingly at the unopened box of Townhouse crackers left in there, but then I would eat a string cheese, hoping it would stop up the mass evacuation plan recently instituted in my bowels.

After about a week, the physical symptoms of my withdrawals ended. My body was purged of the massive amount of sugars coursing through my veins. I was losing weight and generally feeling pretty damned good. One little problem - I couldn't stop thinking about crackers.

I can live without almost every other carbohydrate, whether simple or complex, starched or natural. Pizza? I can be happy without it. Bread? Despite my love of the fresh-baked bread from Trader Joe's, I really didn't miss bread too much. I honestly did miss orange and apple juices, but it wasn't critical. But slap me in the face and call me a serving wench, but I can't live without crackers. I'm sure my parents and my upbringing are to blame (I tell them so as often as possible), but I'm a cracker addict. The day before I finally went off the diet, I was so bad that if someone stopped me on the street and offered me a handful of Town House crackers in exchange for a blowjob, I would have had a hell of a decision to make (and sadly, I really, really like crackers).

So I did what I always do when times get tough - I quit. On that fateful day (day ten), I ate an entire box of Townhouse crackers, threw down half of a pizza from Fong's (the pizza place across the street), drank most of a bottle of whiskey, and later threw it all up with a smile on my face.

I rule.

The Manner in Which I Live My Life is Identical to Vanilla Ice's Vandal-Like Microphone Rocking

When I was ten years old, I had my own apartment.

It wasn't fancy. One bedroom at the end of a hallway. I lived upstairs from my parents. I wasn't allowed to have girls over. But it was mine. At the time, my family was living in Germany in military housing. We lived in an apartment building where each stairwell had six apartments (two per floor), and on the top floor, there were old maids' quarters, from back when being an American serviceman overseas was akin to being a Chicago alderman today - swimming in bitches and money. The maids' quarters consisted of a locked hallway that contained three small bedrooms and a bathroom. Tradition dictated that the three families in the stairwell who had been there the longest got the rooms, and then when one of them got reassigned and moved, the senior of the newest three families got that room, ad infinitum. When our family's turn came to pass, I asked my parents if I could use our room as my bedroom. It wasn't a (completely) unreasonable request: my family's apartment was directly beneath the small room, so I would be close to family. Plus, our room was directly over my parents' bedroom, so they would hear if I was up to shenanigans of the female kind. And before anyone asks, to my everlasting shame, I never got freaky with a girl in my bachelor pad. I guess it just never occurred to me. ...Or something? Man, I suck.

Anyway, the room. My mother, of course, was against it, but my dad, having been a bit of a player himself, saw a chance for me to seek some independence and stop sharing a room with my little brother. So I got the room. It was sweet as hell. Room for my twin bed, a small dresser, and a little desk. On that dresser? A 9" black and white television. So, to recap, at ten years old I had my own apartment with a TV. If it would have had a little fridge, I would have been elected king of the elementary school. I even had my own keys - one key for the door at the end of the hallway, which all three families had, and a key for my room, which only myself and my parents had. I was living the life.

Time for an aside. When I was five, my father came into the living room and found me holding a kitten over my head. Our cat (Kinky) had recently had a litter of kittens which my parents hadn't managed to yet give away. My father asked me what I was doing. I told him that I heard at school that if you drop a cat it will land on its feet. My dad confirmed that to me. I told him I had to find out for myself. He told me that by doing so I could hurt the cat and I should just take his word for it. I reiterated that I had to know for myself. He told me that if I dropped the kitten, I was grounded for two weeks. As he tells it, I looked between him and the kitten for a good minute before finally whispering, "Dad, I gotta know." So I dropped the cat, it landed on its feet and was fine, and without being prompted, I headed for my room, knowing full well what grounded meant. As I was leaving the room and my father was dealing with the realization that I would either become a Nobel-winning scientist or a genocidal dictator, I stopped and said, "I wish I hadn't done that." Then I went to my room to serve my time. But I had to know for myself.

I tell you that to explain the following. During the utopian period of my childhood when I had my own pad, my family was traveling through West Germany on the autobahn (which is German for paved automobile conveyance surface), and we stopped at a German truck stop. Their truck stops are very different from ours in America. First off, they're on the metric system, so they're only six feet tall. Plus, all their gas is sold in liters, so it doesn't get you nearly has high as the gas here. While there I went into the bathroom, and was amazed at the color of the water in the toilet. I remember thinking, "My God, how many times would you have to pee in a toilet without flushing for it to get that color?" Sure, I could have consulted a scientist or a book, but that wouldn't be learning, would it? Fortunately for me, I had access to a toilet that no one peed in but me.

So I started my experiment. Despite wanting to turn back on more than one occasion, I pressed on. I even made my friends refrain from flushing when they came over (not a hard sell for ten year olds), but I dutifully counted their toilet usage in my logbook. Yes, I said logbook.

Do you know how many times it takes to get that awesome shade of yellow/gold I saw that day? It's not 24. I don't know how many it actually is, but I know it's not 24. And I know that because the teenage bitch from the second floor talked her parents into letting her live up there, too. I assume the argument went, "If a ten year old boy can, why can't I?" To which I assume her parents replied, "Because that little mother fucker has mad $killz that we respect all day, son." But she eventually got her wish, and during the move-in, felt the need to pee. And that was that. She was so disgusted that she scrubbed the entire bathroom and had a lock put in. And she didn't give me a key! They said I could come down to the second floor apartment when I needed the key. I overheard her arguing with my mother and she said, "He wasn't even flushing!" I didn't want to explain why I wasn't flushing. Suddenly in retrospect, it felt silly.

Well, you science-hating harpy, I've changed my mind. Much as Einstein came up with the courage to print his 1905 essays on electrodynamics and special relativity, I'm here to reclaim peeing. That was my experiment. I'm sure you're out there somewhere right now upset because your first grandkid was born out of wedlock, wondering where you went wrong. Since I don't know you and can't exactly remember your name, I don't know for sure, but I'll bet you're to blame. You probably never encouraged your kids' desire to learn, instead ramming rote memorization, adherence to structured learning, and your dictatorial mandate that they flush the toilet. You are reaping the wretched harvest you sowed yourself. You are all that is wrong with the world. You are the earthquake that kills thousands. You are the tsunami that destroys hope. You are the network executive who chooses to cancel excellent television shows before they have a chance to thrive.

I hope you're happy with yourself. Two lives were lessened on the the day you killed science. And to think how different it could have been. If, instead of stabbing a child's dream in the face with a salad fork, you had instead trekked to the end of the hallway (because much as on a school bus, the cool kids reside in the back) and knocked on my door, we could have been so right together. I would have taken your hand, laid you on my twin bed, asked you to ignore the smell of my clothes hamper, and we could have made sweet, scientifically-driven love. Then afterwards we could have worked together to solve the great problems of our era, including that situation with the pee in the toilet.

I'll bet it was 26 times. Damn, I was so close.

The Holy Trinity

Science fiction is like crack - when you love it, you can't get enough of it and you don't want the neighbors to know you use. Also, because of its stigma and illegality (okay, it's not a perfect metaphor), the quality of production varies wildly. For every Alien, you have to sit through thirteen SyFy channel original movies starring cast members from "Stargate: SG1." It's a difficult genre to crack open. Producers want more blood, three-breasted women, and explosions. Fans demand more character development, three-breasted women, explosions, and thinly-veiled criticisms of modern fascism. Rarely do these seemingly dichotomous demands weave together in a tapestry of perfection, but when they do, life becomes a beautiful thing. Only one man seems to have perfected the art. I am speaking, of course, of Paul Verhoeven and his legendary science fiction trifecta of RoboCop, Total Recall, and Starship Troopers. I go so far as to say these are the three best science fiction films made in my lifetime.

Last night I threw down the gauntlet while spending quality time (i.e. drinking) with two good friends of mine. These fine gentlemen are movie nerds with shockingly vast and encyclopedic mental databases when it comes to movies. Needless to say, they were less than impressed with my viewpoint. As Rory began making a case, Brad simply stood, went to his DVD case, removed Aliens, handed to me, and whispered, "The defense rests." (Note: this did not actually happen, but it's a good way to sum up that three hour argument). I don't disagree with them. Aliens was a great movie. But it didn't say anything. Aside from excellent action scenes and a distaste for giant Blackwater-like corporations, it was really Die Hard starring a woman on a spaceship. If only the agents Johnson would have listened, then their helicopter wouldn't be exploding right now!

For anyone who has seen Starship Troopers, it might seem ridiculous that I'm stating Paul Verhoeven has any idea how to paint with anything but a six-mile-wide paintbrush (especially the "Do Your Part" segment with the kids stepping on cockroaches - good God, I actually left the theater feeling sorry for the roaches). It almost seems subtlety is beyond his film making abilities. That's why he's a genius. He seems to be slapping you in the face with a construction crane screaming, "Look how bad the bad guys are and how good the good guys are!" And he is. But you have to peel back the layers and look at the foundation upon which the entire film is sitting. Yes, there's a bad guy doing bad things. But why? Why is their society so mired in crime and violence? How far is their world from ours in the spinning multiverse?

That's what makes the Holy Trinity so breathtaking. In each, a dystopian quasi-fascist (and completely fascist, in Starship Troopers) government sits atop a society roiling with unrest and social disturbance. In RoboCop, old Detroit (which probably now wishes someone had come in, bulldozed, and built a weird Epcot-looking city in its place) seethes under the guns of drug-fueled criminal gangs. The police have been privatized, and a giant corporation almost seems to be trying to make things worse. In Total Recall, the world seems calm, but notice the full body scanners for anyone getting on any public conveyance. And we later learn that rebels on Mars are constantly interfering with the government's attempts to mine a precious mineral (if only the rebels had been blue and in 3-D, I guess). And then we come to Starship Troopers, the crown jewel in the treasury. The book of the same name (considered by 99.99999% of people to be better than the movie, which makes no sense to me - the book is good, but did you watch the movie, man?) paints the picture of a thriving, functioning fascist society that has achieved peace and happiness yet still allows for peaceful dissent (Rico's parents aren't super-happy with the government, but never end up in a gaol). Paul Verhoeven, who has a certain perspective on fascism after being treated to a Fascism Beginners Course by some very motivated German teachers, decided to go the other direction. Instead of painting the fascist society as totally cool with dissenters, we are given that appearance, but then 180-ed when we see the fate of "Port Joe Smith."

If you're not really watching for it, it almost seems to just be a way to show the audience that bugs are bad. But we got that in the opening sequence, when Rico's unit is basically wiped out. So after the movie then flashes back to before the war even starts, we get an official government "news" feed that mentions how, quote "Mormon extremists" disregarded Federal warnings and established Port Joe Smith deep inside the Arachnid Quarantine Zone. We then see that the arachnids (the bad bugs of the movie) have wiped out all life there. Well, that was sure silly of them Mormons. Or was it? Let's say you're a fascist government who is tired of a group of people who won't worship at the alter of the Federation. So finally this group says, "Look, it's not really working out. It's not you, it's us. Why don't we just go and establish our own planet somewhere so we're not bothering you." I imagine it took a second and a half for someone to say, "Hell yes, that sounds great. We know just the planet." I mean, you can't have them leave, start their own planet and thrive. That would only encourage others to do the same, and then you have a fractioned human existence in the galaxy, and eventually a group of rivals who might decide to get froggy and jump, militarily speaking. But if they go to a planet where some bugs show up and wipe them out, you can point to the bodies and say (on the Federal computer network), "This is a tragedy. We tried to warn these religious weirdos. Sure hope no one does this again for a long, long time. Now back to a televised execution!"

So we have three universes in which to play. In RoboCop, a good man becomes a soulless killing machine, and we cheer as he cuts a swath through Detroit's crime waves. But his old partner wants him to remember who he was and embrace his humanity. As he does, he finds himself on the wrong side of his corporate masters and they attempt to destroy him, even employing the cop-killer gang who originally killed Murphy, making him in the cybernetic hero he is. Of course, the evil gang has been working with Omni Consumer Products's President, Dick Jones, the whole time. Privatization of government services wound around lawlessness, governmental neglect, a criminal culture, and a dude who totally explodes after being doused with toxic waste and hit by a speeding van.

Total Recall gives us a similar tale. A man named Quaid (wh0 in all actuality is probably having a coma dream) who's tired of his boring job, boring life, and (apparently) having sex with his smoking-hot wife, suddenly finds out he's a super spy and he alone can bring down the evil government that's oppressing the settlers on Mars. And because he turns against his one-time masters, they come down upon him with great vengeance and furious anger, sending in the greatest killing machine of modern time - Michael Ironside. Quaid must ally himself with the unwanted dregs of society so that he can bring peace and freedom to all by giving air to the people instead of letting the government control it. ...I guess. That's the point, right? I was distracted by the woman with three breasts.

And finally we get to Starship Troopers. As any of my friends who have watched this with me will tell you, I can go scene-by-scene and point out the cascading levels of awesome that is this movie. The strangest part is how much it pre-guess would happen in our second war in Iraq (I'm not making this political - I'm not saying one way or the other whether that war is a good thing. I'm just pointing out some similarities. Go with me on this). First, there is a big "terror" strike on a Federation city. Innocent civilians are dead and the government immediately mobilizes for war. So the humans decide to make a massive strike on Klendathu, the insects' home world. Okay, great, but they didn't seem to do much in the way of long-term planning or recon work. So the troops land (with their embedded reporter) and they discover they may not have done all the math necessary. Realizing he messed up big, the military's leader, Sky Marshall Dienes (Rumsfeld), resigns. Which kinda happened... eventually. So the new Sky Marshall devises her battle plan to fight the bugs, which is a longer-term plan involving more troops and actual, you know, strategy. And even though this movie clearly finds fault with the Federation government and its methods, you never get the feeling there is anything but respect for the actual men and women doing the fighting. Some fight well, some are terrible, some run scared. But it's clear they're in a shitty situation the average person can only imagine, and they're doing their best.

Oh, and somehow Doogie Howser becomes an SS Colonel, and it doesn't seem strange. Damn, this movie is crazy.

Some people may think I'm selling the writers of these films short. After all, without the written word, there is nothing upon which to build. And that's true. I'm a screenwriter, too. I know they should get paid tons of cash for their sweet screenplays, especially hilarious pirate-themed movies. (See the movie poster to the left. Note: that movie hasn't actually been made... yet). But in this case, we cannot give the credit to the screenwriters. It just can't be done. Sequels have been made, and they were terrible. (I gotta be honest here. I was certain there was a Total Recall 2 that was made as a made-for-TV movie. But when I put "Total Recall 2" into imdb.com, it took me to the page for Minority Report. So I'm counting that as the sequel, and it wasn't very good. But I'm still pretty sure about Total Recall 2). Ed Neumeier, the man responsible for Starship Troopers and RoboCop, is a good writer, but only (apparently) when Paul Verhoeven is steering the ship. I'm not trying to say he's not a good writer. I actually liked Anacondas: Hunt for the Blood Orchid (the sequel to the J-Lo, Jon Voight tour-de-force). Its directing and acting may leave something to be desired, but from a story standpoint, if you're asked to write a movie that explains how snakes are getting to be giant and fight-y, it's well done. The point is that Paul Verhoeven makes any script 150% better and makes movies that make the world happy.

[Defense Attorney: Your Honor, objection! What about Showgirls?

Daryl: I've never heard of such a film.

Judge: Me either. Objection overruled. ]

I have to stop writing now, or I will go on forever about how Paul Verhoeven's worldview, artistic visions, and force of will made these films required viewing for any would-be science fiction writer or director. I could point out how each of the films' heroes (Robo, Quaid, and Rico) would find themselves right at home on Nazi recruiting posters. I could expound upon the films' central themes mirroring each other with the power and righteousness of the individual standing above the authority of government. I could, but as I say, I need to stop.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go watch Starship Troopers in the dark while crying. After all, it's Saturday.