The McIntire Conspiracy - Home of "The Reverend" Tim McIntire and KFJ Records

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"On Scatterbrain, McIntire addresses the ups and downs of a working comic's life. The bulk of the album is all laughs -- solid material on everything from having kids to the war on terror, killer stuff from one of Boston's most reliable comedy veterans -- but it's the bonus track, the one labeled "Nagasaki," that's getting the most attention. The nearly half-hour track is nothing short of a complete hell gig..."

Nick Zaino
The Boston Globe

"If Tim set out to reveal more about himself and be vulnerable on his new CD, Scatterbrain, he succeeded. He pulls off the delicate trick of turning inward without losing his persona. He is still The Reverend. Now, rather than pointing the finger at others, he's pointing it at himself. Instead of looking at obscure news stories and making them universal, he takes something universal, the birth of a child, and makes it his...It's smart and fearless. Mr. Hicks, this is Mr. Cosby."

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The McIntire Conspiracy
"It's better to be loved by the righteous few
than to be liked by a lukewarm many."
- Noble
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Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Drizzle

It's 6:52 am. I've been up since 5:00, which is more or less my usual time. Except instead of heading off to pilates with my usual Tuesday Amazonian ass-kicker, I'm sitting at my desk and staring at the rain. A poetic image, I'm sure, but one made much less so by the fact that I'm doing so only because I can't find my umbrella, and therefore can't leave the house.

It's one thing to stand at a bus stop in the dark and the rain; it's quite another to do so sans bumbershoot. If you're standing in the rain with an umbrella, you're dedicated. If you're standing in the rain without an umbrella, you're too stupid to come in out of the rain.

Query: what's gayer? My use of the word "bumbershoot" or the fact that I do pilates?

So instead I'm drinking instant coffee (don't ask; consider it colorful character nuance), listening to Dave Gleason's Wasted Days, and trying to figure out what's wrong with our furnace, whose "lockout" light is flashing and which is stubbornly NOT putting out any heat. I stand staring at the thing, slurping instant coffee and pushing the reset button every 45 seconds or so. This entire morning is an exercise in pathos, I guess. In about half an hour, I'll set up a service call, armed with just enough knowledge to be utterly incomprehensible.

"The lockout light is flashing," I'll say. "I've been trying to reset it, but it's not working." To myself, I'll sound competent, even masculine. To everyone else, from the furnace tech to the girl answering the phone, I'll sound like a jackass. A lesser comic might use this as a segue into a standard "men won't ask for help" missive, but not me. I honestly believe that this is my personal character flaw, and that it exists independently of my gender.

Stupidity may be a staple of hack comedy, but mine is mine alone, and it is precious. I will now go make noise that I will pretend is accidental until my wife wakes up and tells me where my umbrella is.

Precious, I say.

BOC in 10 days. Scott Biram in less than 2.

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