Saturday, April 22, 2006  

From the Mailbag

My email stalker writes again:

From: YouHave NoClass
To: info@reverendtim.com
Date: Apr 22, 2006 5:15 PM
Subject: its time to consider another path

you are mean and not funny. you act as though you are a seasoned comic. there's just one problem, you haven't really done anything. so be a little nicer to people until you actually get some cred.

Always Miranda To Me

Once upon a time there was a weird little theater company in a wretched little city. Despite the fact that the city was a Republican hell-hole filled with gun-toting crazies, this theater company enjoyed fairly generous public funding and had a certain reputation for putting on top-notch children's theater in the summertime.

During one of those summers, I had the good fortune of being in that theater company (which I would go on to direct, briefly) with some incredible people. It was one of those moments in time when the right people were in the right place at the right time, and I'm not ashamed to say it was one of the most remarkable summers of my life.

Not only were the plays pretty goddamn hilarious, if I do say so myself (we all co-wrote them), but 4 of the 6 of us became inseparable, spending all day together at the theater and then all night together raising various flavors of hell around the aforementioned city. Everybody had crushes on each other, and everyone could crack everyone else up at any given moment, including, it should be said, while we were being detained by police for trespassing on a very chi-chi golf course (ostensibly, we were there for stargazing, but frankly, I thought there might be making out - note: there was no making out).

Long story short, it's been a long time since that summer, and I've only seen the other people intermittently since then, crashing in Chicago or LA or touching base via late night email, but they're all still remarkable. Matthew is directing movies out in Hollywood, and Leigh is busy making the world a better place.

And Amanda, whose email prompted me to write this post, is writing badass screenplays out in the La-La. She's having her latest script, Stray, read as part of the Slamdance OnStage series, which is what we in the business like to call a Big Damn Deal. It's on April 24 at the Open Fist Theatre, and I strongly urge all my friends in LA to go. Amanda is one of the most astounding people I've ever met, and you should go meet her so you can brag that you did.

Kick Pickler

An absolutely surreal moment at Fenway Park last night:

About the 7th inning, I had to pee (thank you, Bud Light, bawk bawk!), so I got up from my seat atop the Green Monster (just thought I'd drop that in) and went to the bathroom (note: the bathrooms up there are NICE).

On my way over, I saw about six members of the security staff huddled together, faces drawn in intense concentration. The man I took to be their leader strained to hear his walkie talkie.

I stopped, because it looked to me like something serious was about to go down, and I wanted to see it.

The leader stood up straight. "Got it!" he barked into his radio.

He looked his people dead in the eye.

"It was Ace," he said. "Ace is gone."

Wait. What? Ace...Schilling? That made no sense. Could it be...?

Inadvertantly, I made eye contact with the leader. I'm incapable of staring down authority figures, so I had to say something, and quick. My heart thudded.

"Ace?" I said. "Not Pickler? She BLEW the other night!"

His steely eyes didn't waver.

"Ace is gone," he said. "Bottom three: Chris, Ace, Paris."

I started walking to the bathroom then, because surreal or not, I still had to pee. He followed me.

"What?" I said. "Chris and Paris were really good!"

"I know," he said, opening the men's room door for me. "I thought Taylor Hicks was good, too."

Going from the outside into the bathroom, his voice seemed entirely too loud. It boomed off the walls, as half-drunk men tried to quickly piss in silence, anxious to get back out to see the game.

Then, from the far stall, another voice, "Hicks was okay, but Pickler sucked!" it said.

"Totally," said the guy at the first urinal.

"But Ace just got voted off!" the security guy yelled.

"That's bullshit!" said the guy at the sink.

"Pickler sucks every week," said a guy walking in the door. "But she's cute."

"Not cute enough," said the security guy. "And she's wicked retarded."

And then I peed.

When I left, a good half-dozen guys were still standing in the men's room at Fenway, debating the merits of Kelly Pickler, who, we all agree, is indeed wicked retarded.

P.S. NESN

So I just found out that beautiful motherfucker Mike Baker is taking me to the Sox game tonight, because he has MONSTER SEATS. In order to commemorate this blessed event, I made a sign that I hope will get me on TV:

Super Me Me

Ho-hum. Another day, another mention in a newspaper.

"It's easy: 'Super Bon Bon' by Soul Coughing," wrote Tim McIntire. "Not only does it have part of Papelbon's name in it, but the chorus says it all: 'Move aside, and let the man roll through...let the man roll through.' Combine that with a sick bass line - it's the perfect song."

Seriously. It's perfect.

(And P.S. the guy who suggested "Monster Mash" needs to be picked up by police and returned to the retirement community IMMEDIATELY)

You Can't Stop The (Radio Friendly) Rock!

Congrats to Scamper, who are en route to the finals of the WBCN Rumble after mowing down the competition like they've got cheat codes and health packs. I expect an easy win on Friday night, and then I expect the heroin-fuelled destruction to start on Saturday morning. They don't strike me as drug fiends or hotel wreckers, but Brendan has certain tendencies, and he is a proven bad influence on others. I just ask them, nay, beg them, to bide their time and keep it cool until the opportunity to punch the bass player from Fallout Boy right in his toothy little smile presents itself.

Cool? Cool.

Let's ride the rock theme a little longer. The BOC show in New Hampshire kicked enormous quantities of ass, as the pictures below demonstrate. The venue left a little to be desired - I mean, who plans a rock show with symmetrically-arranged banquet tables? - and the crowd had some douchey dead spots (a symptom of free ticket giveaways, methinks), but none of that stopped the boys from New York from putting on a hell of a show for nearly 2 hours.

There was a surreal moment when one scorchingly suburban-looking couple got up and left in the middle of Godzilla, I guess to beat the traffic. Huh? Who leaves a rock show just before the big boffo finish? How retarded to you have to be not to realize the obvious: we were at the Godzilla-Reaper-and-Out! portion of the show. I personally like to think that maybe they just looked like suburban free-ticket leeches but were instead superfans who were leaving in a huff because the band hadn't played She's As Beautiful As a Foot. And there were some hardcore fans there - I saw one woman with gorgeous long grey hair and surprisingly buff shoulders clutching a seriously beat-up copy of Secret Treaties on vinyl. A more beautiful sight I cannot imagine.

But I got my shirt, and I got Buck Dharma's guitar pick because the couple sitting across from us (again, at a fucking banquet table) was so cool. She caught it but gave it to me because it was obvious I was more into the band than she was. Kinda sad, really...I was sitting there clutching my Mirrors t-shirt and singing along to all the songs like a lovestruck junior high girl. But fuck it, I had a hell of a night, and may I just say how nice it is to see the band now that I'm old enough to drink beer FROM A CUP FROM THE BAR rather than out of a shitty sixer in someone's backpack?

And a quick shoutout to the "youth movement" of the band, namely Jules Radino, who plays angry, angry drums, and Richie Castellano, the bassist who is equal parts rock, funk, and straw-that-stirs-the-drink. They really drove the show, and the conspicuous lack of cowbell was duly noted.

All in all, a topnotch night of rock and roll, tables and all. I spent Easter Sunday playing the first few notes of Don't Fear the Reaper with Mr. Dharma's pick, and I think Jesus would have wanted it that way.

The Hampshire Hills Have Eyes

Great show at Hampshire Hills last night - for ME. My friend and opening act, Pat Napoli, had a much, well, stranger time of it.

Dig the blond in the foreground of this picture. She's Pat's date. She has just started HECKLING HIM MERCILESSLY.



And here she is, ten minutes later - ON HER FEET AND HECKLING HIM HARDER:



I suspect that mister Napoli will be spending Easter trying to hide a blonde corpse.