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The WORD of the Week

Matthew 3:7-10

But when he saw many of the Pharisees and Sadducees coming to where he was baptizing, he said to them: "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath?

Produce fruit in keeping with repentance.

And do not think you can say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father.' I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham.

The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.

Stupid Fact of the Week

There was only one civilian casualty during the three-day Battle of Gettysburg

30 November, 2005

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part the Final)

I shot Adam a look as if to say, I told you that you shouldn't have smoked away so much of the burnt offering. Now look what you've done!

He stared back at me with much less of the panic than I expected. That had all but melted away and in it's place was almost, you could say, amusement. Apparently Adam was on much better terms than I with the gods of cruel irony. It was as if he realized he had been caught with his hand inside the cookie jar, and instead of sheepishly cowering and begging for mercy he thrust his other hand in and ran off with double the booty.

Well, we had a good run at it, his face said. 'Had to end sometime, didn't it?
Yes, I thought, A good run. Now, just sit back and accept your fate. Walk the green mile with your head held high.

I was mentally preparing myself for what was to come, when Adam busts out laughing. Naturally, this draws a peculiar glance from the ladies. And me. With no regard to his volume or brazen accent he cried out, laughingly, "Ariel! Ariel!" Repeating the name of one of the blokes from last night.

"It's like Shakespeare. Who names their kid Ariel? He's a bloke, for cryin' out loud."
"I know," says I, having a good laugh and belting it just as loudly, "it's like that girlie mermaid thing. The cartoon."
"Like Shakespeare. Like the Tempest. Like... Mercutio. Horatio. Ariel!"
He laughed hysterically.
"Which one was bloody Ariel? I don't even know. I can't remember."
"I know. Who was he?"
"Was he the button lad?"

Oh, yes. We were going down in a blaze of fire that made the Hindenburg look like a sparkler.

The ladies were laughing right along with us, but my focus was behind us. I felt a disturbance in the force. I turned slightly. She was rising from her seat.

It was about to happen. The lever was about to be pulled; the axe about to fall. It was exhilarating.

Nothing happened.

I turned. Slowly.

She was walking toward the ladies room. As she disappeared behind the corner, our waitress appeared. Bringing our check. It was like our destruction and our salvation had just brushed against one another in an alternate dimension. And our salvation had one. And it was on it's way over to our table.

"Oh, the bill," says I.

Adam slid it over to his section of the table and opened it, revealing six small, individually wrapped Andes mints.

Now you, dear reader, have no doubt seen an Andes mint. No doubt you have also eaten one. I shall not take the time, then, to describe to you what one looks or tastes like. But I will remind you of something said many a time and oft forgot: Adam Shatarsky does not always think before he speaks.

But I will add this: I wouldn't have it any other way, because sometimes it is the funniest stuff you will ever hear.

The small black pad folded open revealing the six chocolate mints sitting neatly on our quaint little bill. Adam's eyes grew wide, and in the biggest, most excitable, overblown version of his dialect he blurted out:

"Fannie's your aunt, Bob's your uncle! We've got Chocolates!"

I lost it. All of it. Whatever it was, was lost. I shall probably never get it back.

The bill was paid, the goodbyes were said, the hugs were given. The ladies headed off in their direction, and we in ours.

I breathed a great sigh of relief. For me, the game was over.

For Adam... well... let me just put it this way...

To this day, and every day, he still receives emails from the lovely Christy.

posted by Rockel @ 3:25 PM 2 comments

29 November, 2005

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 7)

Times Square, New York.

7th and Broadway. Tin Pan Alley. The Actor's Chapel. Duffy Square. TKTS. The Palace. Restaurant Row. Schubert Alley. The New Vic. Ochs Street. Rodger's & Hammerstein Row. The Imperial.

Crossroads of the World.

It unfolds before you like a real-time Hollywood Blockbuster. The lights. The sounds. The swearing. The buildings. The history. The street peddlers and merchants. The curbside artists. New York's Finest.

In no other city in America can you stand and feel... this.

And there we were. Two lonely young blokes standing outside the Olive Garden taking everything in and praying to the gods of cruel irony that some true Brit wouldn't decided to ask us for the time or some other such nonsense for the next hour and a half.

We petitioned long and hard. Adam produced a small stick of tobacco which he used as a burnt offering, testing the flavors and aromas himself so as not to upset the gods.

The ladies arrived, upset already since we did not procure a table ahead of time. How were we to know the rules of American dining etiquette?

We entered the Olive Garden through a revolving door and ascended two escalators before finally reaching a hostess and waiting section. While we waited we were introduced to, and chatted it up with, Terri, the elder and married friend.

Before you could say "Bangers and Mash," we were seated. We all ordered, mainly salads and breadsticks with waters, with a few colas here and there, and several appetizer.

The conversation lulled into a dreary silence, which I chose to fill by fiddling around with napkins and such, until I realized that made me look quite nervous. I quickly claimed to be rather tired from the night before and that succesfully set off a bit of conversation.

When the drinks came 'round, Shatarsky was quite taken with his Diet Coke, as it had a wedge of lemon in it. This set him off on a bit of a monologue, which killed an excellent slice of time, about how American's put lemons in and around everything in restaurants. It was lovely. I joined in about halfway through and we tag-teamed it like pros.

Then came something only Shatarsky would do. The lemon bit had just died a wonderful death, as all jokes must, with the last few faint chuckles still lingering around the back alleyways of the mind. And then, right in that moment when you draw that silent breath to close the door on one story or idea or thought or event and move on to the next, he spoke. In perfect seriousness.

"And Ice." He began to look at the ice in his glass as though it were mystical, examining it carefully with his straw. "Only in America do they put ice in your drinks. I've never seen anything like this."

The table froze. There wasn't a breath, a laugh, a snicker, a scoff. Nothing.

I froze.

There is one rule in Improv: Do not block. What this essentially means is, if someone says to you, "Hey, did you hear that Uncle Louie is comin'?" You don't say, "No, he's dead." Kinda kills the flow. Leaves you nowhere to go.

But what am I supposed to do with, "You can't get ice in your drink anywhere outside America"?

As I was approaching a suitable solution to this dilemma, Adam broke my concentration by setting down his drink with a hard thud, leaning back in the booth, and saying, "No. That's all nonsense. You can get ice anywhere."

The ladies laughed. I looked at him and smiled. It was one of my patented smiles. The one that says, You're a very, very funny man... don't ever do that to me again.

I think he got the message. But just to be sure I immediately began planning a way to get him back. My opportunity arose much sooner than I thought.

"So, I must tell you," Christy began, her attempted British dialect, ironically, worse, if possible, now that she was sober, "that when I first met you... chaps... I thought that you were completely full of shit, and that you probably lived right down the street."

I glanced at Adam and chuckled. It was a British chuckle. His eyes had that sharp edge to them that they usually did, especially when we were engaged, as we most often were, in such nonesense and tomfoolery. But there was also a hint of that panic that he had managed to keep fairly well hidden since those first several moments at the St. James. I knew if I was to get him, I had to act right then.

"Well, I've got to tell you," I began, "You're a very perceptive person. You're not too far off at all."

I glanced at Adam, and held a pause for as long as I could stomach it.

"We are completely full of shit, I'll give you that much."

Adam recovered in no time.

"Yeah," says he, "One out of two's not bad."

We all had a good laugh and before you knew it, the food had arrived. We began to gorge ourselves on the delicious breadsticks and various fried appetizers.

And then I caught the panic in his eyes. Deep. Worse than before. Worse even than the previous night at the bar. He motioned ever so slightly for me to lean over towards him. I did. He leaned in close to my ear, his lips almost touching me. He whispered something so low a bat wouldn't have been able to pick it up.

"What?" I whispered back.

He attempted again, only raising his volume slightly. I couldn't make it all out, but the pieces I got caused the panic to fill into my eyes, too, I'm sure. It swept through my body so that I went completely warm and numb all over at the same time.

I cast my gaze cautiously around the table so as not to seem conspicuous, and then I turned my head slightly to get a better view of the table behind us.

A tall woman wearing a straw colored hat and wire-rimmed glasses sat facing our direction. Across from her sat a shorter woman already working on a glass of blush wine. The tall lady was telling her friend, we shall assume, a story about an encounter she had earlier that day.

She spoke in the most beautiful British accent.

posted by Rockel @ 5:47 PM 0 comments

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 6)

Adam's cell phone rang at 11:30am, waking us both. I rolled over and stuffed my face into my pillow. A loud, very amused laugh from the other room cackled forth, followed by a pause and a clearing of the throat. And then...

"'Ello, love." He spoke while I did my best to yank myself out of bed. "Do we still want to do lunch? No, that was just somethin' we told you at the time hopin' you'd never call us again."

He allowed her to respond to his sarcasm while I made my way to the kitchen tap, along the way laughing hysterically at the situation and gesturing at Adam that he was a wanker who was going to hell. He carried on with her while I guzzled down half of New York's water supply.

"Course we'd love to go to lunch. But we'll have to do... um... One o'clock. Olive Garden. That work for you? Give us time to shower up and all that." A pause. "Yeah, of course we just got up. We were out till god awful hours of the morning, being held captive by two saucy minxes... from Georgia."

He said "Georgia" with a heavy southern American drawl. It was almost too good. I was worried. Of course, I'd heard his real voice. "Why worry now?" I told myself.

By now the tap was running dry, so I made my way back to where Adam was and threw a dishrag at his face.

"Alright," he said, "we'll see you there."

Alright, I thought, just one more hour or so of this. Over a meal. Should be easy.

"Oh, hold on," Adam blurted out, "someone wants to say ''ello.'"

And with that, he held out the phone to me.

I could've killed him. But I didn't know the city well enough to know where to hide a body. I could've spoken in my regular voice and totally blown his cover. But I was hung over, and pasta from the Olive Garden sounded very good right about then. I grabbed the phone.

"'Ello," says I, "we doin' lunch, then?"
"Oy believe we ah." Again, with the accent. "Is that all-roit wiff you?"
"Totally." I'm glaring at Adam this entire time. "Alright, well we'll be seein' you in a tick, eh?"
"A tick it is."
"Alright, laters."
"Lay-tuhs."
Click.
"Bastard." I throw the phone at him.
"What? This is as much you fault as it is mine," he shoots back, laughingly.
I laugh back. "You gave them your New York cell phone number, you idiot!"
"Don't worry, I've already thought that through."

His face bore that smirk of someone who thinks they are immensely clever. It's the smirk of the brave soul who decides to step forward and courageously lead the team through the jungle. The smirk that is the last thing you see on that person's face before they disappear into the tiger trap.

"I figure, if they ask," he continued, "I just tell them it's a phone one of my mates over here is letting me borrow for the duration of the shoot."
"Oh," I say, a little stunned that for once he actually had a plan, "then I'm sure you've thought to take your name and lack of British accent off of your voice mail."
The smirk faded. Quickly.
"Shit."

As he dug around for his cell phone in a panic, I selected what I would wear to the OG that afternoon and marveled at the idea of Adam trying to pull off this stunt alone.

I chuckled.

posted by Rockel @ 10:13 AM 1 comments

28 November, 2005

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 5)

As the cab sped off, I reached out for something to steady myself as I hung on to what little sobriety remained.

The city sped by in a dizzying spell of lights and sounds.

The dialect became a song. A free-flowing melody all too easy to take part in and enjoy. The conversation inside the taxi generally focused on us and how great we thought New York was.

However, as moments emerged where our gullible guests found themselves looking out the windows at the city, Adam and I found each other staring at each other, carrying on another conversation, silently, with our eyes and less-than-subtle facial expressions, unbeknownst to our fellow travelers, about our current situation.

What the--?
I know.
How did--?
I don't know.
Can you--?
Heck, no. You?
Never.
Man.
You're an idiot.
I know.

Or at least, so the inner monologues played out in my mind.

We got to the diner, found a table, and began perusing the menus. Immediately I realized my first problem. I really wanted eggs over easy with toast and hash browns. That didn't sound very British to me.

Ah well, I thought, I'll have a go at an American breakfast. And to complete the idea, I ditched the hot tea and ordered a coffee. Black.

As we waited for the food to arrive, the first large speed bump of our little game emerged. Or, perhaps, I should say, the first large speed bump that I noticed emerged.

Christy looked directly across the table at me and said, "So how come you didn't have such a strong accent earlier at the bar and now you do?"

Gulp. I had to think quick. Especially since between the gulp and me thinking about how quick I had to think, several seconds had passed and Shatarsky had not come to my rescue. Even he was stuck. This was bad.

"Did I do that?" I bought a little bit of time. "Was I speakin' like an Irishman? I sometimes do that when I'm pissed." (Had to remember the old slang) "Or at least, so I've been told."

"I don't know. It definitely sounded different." She thought. "Yeah, that could have been it."

My God, these women were priceless.

Adam finally decided to ring in now that I had alleviated the situation, but I was thankful none the less as he turned the conversation over on them. He was a ladies' man, through and through, which is why, I imagine, he did so. Either way, I was relieved.

We talked about how they were both from Georgia, how Debbie was recently divorced, and 35-years-old (we, the sly devils we were, definitely played the charmers and told her she didn't look a day over 28, which she didn't really), and how the two of them were up on a "Ladies Weekend" that they do every year with their friend Terri who was back at the room. Terri, the married one, was apparently not the partying type. She was 42. Christy, as it turns out, was 28 (again... not a day over 24... again, not too much of a stretch).

Somehow, the women managed to work the conversation back over to the two of us and the screenplay that we were to shoot that week. Christy asked me about it, and I described it as best I could.

"Wow," she commented. "Very interesting. I'm a writer as well."
"Oh really," I said, "what do you write?"
"Novels."

She said it in a very forced, very bad British accent. She did this quite often throughout the evening. It usually caused Adam and myself to laugh, which in turn caused both of them to smile. It was little things like that that made me believe that although I was going to hell for my actions that evening, perhaps I would at least get stuck in the slow lane... the one with the beautiful view on the way down.

"Or, novel, I should say. Only one so far. But it's nearly finished. Three Hundred and Eighty Pages."
"Good Lord," Adam reeled back. "Tryin' to set a record or something?"
"Well, it's a very complicated story."
"Apparently," I said.
"What kind of book is it? One of those naughty American ones?"

He was referring to Romance novels. Adam, I may have mentioned before, does not think on many occasion, and would very often repeat a certain word if he liked the way it sounded (or, even better, if the girls liked the way it sounded) in his Cockney verbiage. "Naughty" was one such word.

"No," she said. "It's a thriller. A murder mystery."
"Ooooh. Hello."

"Hello" was another.

"Well," Adam continued, "You'll have to let me have a look at it."
"Will I?" She was trying the accent again. It was cute.
"Yes. That way I can tell you if it's a load of shite. Keep you from wasting your time."

It was starting to get thick. His smile was almost as big as hers. It was sickening.

"No. I kid," he said, pulling out a pen and scribbling on a napkin. "There's my email. You send it there, I'll have a look see, tell you what I think. Deal?"

Alright. At this point he's relinquished one item of personal information. Now, granted, it's only an email, which can change on a daily basis and have no real national ties. I did notice, however, that he gave his T-mobile (Tmail) account, rather than his America Online account. So maybe he was thinking more than I give him credit for.

We enjoy our breakfast and everyone takes turns staring at the bill as though it were a piece of modern artwork. After we finally get everything squared away, we step out into the early morning air.

We ask the ladies where they are staying, and if we can walk them back. Christy answered with the name of a hotel that I have now long since forgotten. But at the time, I recognized the name from a sign right across the street of the hotel where Miss Devon was staying.

Oh my, I thought to myself, That's right across the street from the Marriott Marquis.

"Oh my," said Adam, "that's right across the street from where we're staying: at the Marriott Marquis."

I froze. You've got to be kidding me, I said to myself.

This was far beyond asking for trouble. This was schtick too good for a 1920's Vaudeville act.

Luckily they responded with merely a, "Wow, what a coincidence," and left it at that.

The walk back to their hotel was flavored with fun stories, horrible accents, pictures on cell phones, and Adam relieving himself on the side of the street. As we said our goodbyes outside their hotel, the girls mentioned that they were flying back to Atlanta the next night.

"We should do lunch tomorrow," Christy said.
"Yeah, totally," Adam responded. You could here the slight cynicism if you listened carefully. "Give us a call, here's my cell."

Never expecting to hear from them again, Adam handed over the 10 digits which were his New York cell phone.

posted by Rockel @ 2:50 PM 1 comments

27 November, 2005

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 4)

The Cellar Bar.

Barrel-vaulted ceilings, ancient chandeliers, loud system, soft lights. Women dancing behind the bar, grasping on to wrought-iron concoctions lit with neon lights. $8 bottled beers. Wines ranging in prices up to $19/glass. Leather sofas.

This was more of a club than a bar. Small, yet with ample dancing real estate, which we used. Boy, did we ever. At one point, Adam, pleading too drunk to remember later on, busted out the Robot.

The dialects went well at this point, with dancing always being an option to cutaway, and having more time to practice and more alcohol in the old system. We had to remember to use words such as "Lift," when presented with an elevator, and such... plus we threw in a few blatant stereotypical phrases to try to get a laugh out of each other.

As the night progressed further into morning, the ladies' feet, particularly Christy's, began to feel the pain of walking around NYC all day, and she permanently sidelined herself.

So, we ended up getting into our backgrounds and such. Since Adam only really knew of two locations in London, he ended up answering the "Where in London are you from?" question with none other than "Trafalgar Square."

Apparently he thought "Piccadilly Circus" was too unbelievable.

A few more dances, and a few more drinks (paid for by the ladies - a little dialect goes a long way), and the morning had wound it's way around to 4:00am.

The music stopped, the lights came on, and everyone poured out of the bar onto the sidewalks of 40th Street.

There was quite a bit of awkward standing around, before I spoke up.

"Any place around here serve tea this time of night?"
"Ooh, yeah. I could do a bit of that," Adam chimed in. "And maybe some breakfast."

Christy added her two cents, noting of a great diner around the corner from their hotel. She then proceeded to attempt to pry one of the Hyenas off of Debbie, which almost resulted in a fight. But that is an entirely different story altogether.

Suffice it to say, in two shakes of a lambs tail, or thereabouts, Adam, Christy, Debbie, and myself were in a cab heading for a local diner, with the ladies' calling out insults on the Tools an praising the likes of us Limeys.

posted by Rockel @ 7:00 PM 4 comments

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 3)

"Man, they must've been thick," Adam told me later, "both of us... from London... I mean, come on. What was I thinking?" (Remember what I told you about Adam?) He was unaware that I had alleviated that indiscretion later that evening, claiming to being born in Ireland before moving to London as a boy.

"You're British," he turns and says to me.
"What?"
"We're both from England."
"Why?"
He responded only with a shrug and a look of confusion and amazement that was fraught with much more meaning than perhaps necessary. Or at least, so it seemed at the time.

The evening progressed with thick accents, surprising football events, and me chatting it up with Debbie, the taller, skinnier, and older, we would come to find out, companion of Christy.

And of course our mere presence was not enough to shake the retards from the immediate vicinity, and so we continued to enjoy the floor show of embarrassingly deliberate sexual hopes and desires.

I laughed until I quite literally almost wet myself. I excused myself.

When I returned, Adam was pulling his hat out of his coat pocket, zipping himself up, and preparing for the night air. The ladies were already making their way towards the door, along side the hooligans. Adam looked over in my direction and his face went all panicky once again. He stepped up next to me and yelled.

"Oh my God, dude! They want us to go to a different bar."
"Serious?"
"Totally." He jumped back into the dialect even though no applicable parties were anywhere near.
"Well?"
"Dunnos."

The look on his face showed that he was still processing this entirely unbelievable turn of events. I knew I could say "No," and we would leave, and both he and I would feel immense relief to no longer have to keep up this fun little lie.

But what fun would that be?

I jumped back into the dialect myself.

"Well, we'd better hurry before they run off and leave us here twiddlin' our thumbs."
"Alright!"

His face lit up. Despite the insane amount of work it took to constantly select what you will say and how you will say it, especially in the midst of a loud, alcohol infused setting, the opportunity to be someone else for an entire evening was far too brilliant for such a young, method actor to just walk away from.

We ran out into the cold night to find the group hailing taxis.

There were 8 of us. Myself, Shatarsky, Christy, Debbie, and the four Jackals.

One taxi showed up and three of the Jackals hopped in. A taxi could usually hold four people. So this little event caused a bit of wonderment, since we now needed two more cabs instead of just one. Later we would find out that the remaining Jackal was doing everything in his power to overcome Debbie with his sexual prowess.

Another taxi was finally hailed, and after the report from the driver that he would take no more than four people, I, knowing full well what Adam would do, said that I would hang back and catch another.

For a second there was a pause. I began to question him. But then he spoke up.

"Yeah. You ladies go ahead. We'll meet you there."

He had already infested her head. I was afraid of that. "I'll wait around with you," Christy said. And with that the taxi sped off, leaving Christy alone with the British likes of Shatarsky and Me.

"Oh, no!" Christy exclaimed as soon as they were out of sight, and as we were failing miserably at trying to flag a cab. "I just let my friend get into a cab alone with someone I don't even know!"

You're about to do the same, I thought to myself. And just like that, a cab pulled up and in we went.

"To the Cellar Bar, please, mate!"

posted by Rockel @ 3:48 PM 2 comments

Tales from NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 2)

I stared up at the massive, dark skyline. Adam finished his cigarette and flicked it out across the busy Avenue. We turned to head inside. The large doorman stood with arms folded across his chest while we presented him our ID's. He wore a scowl which made you think you'd already done something terribly wrong.

The scowl melted into a warming smile, as his voice boomed, "How are we, Gentlemen? Welcome."

He ushered us inside, and we began snaking our way through the dangerously crowded idiots' breeding ground.

We took up a position within comfortable ordering distance from the bar and tolerable viewing distance from the large screen televisions at the far end of the bar beaming forth the USC game (Cal, not Cocks), and ordered a round of drinks.

After enjoying the game and our beers for several minutes, and after a trip to the luxurious bathroom each, we took note of two females beginning to draw a rather, how you say, dull crowd.

As they were standing and sitting directly next to us, or rather, to be more specific, directly next to Adam, we enjoyed our front row seats to the mating dance. Whatever price we paid for this show, which I believe was the price of two beers ($10 plus tip), was well worth it, as there was no shortage of cliches, horrible "dancing," and the unbuttoning of one's shirt in an effort to heighten the throw of one's machismo.

Finally, my partner in perversion could no longer contain himself and let out an unstoppable laugh. The female directly beside him, named Christy, as we would soon find out, took notice of his overt delight in the spectacle, and pulled him to the side, asking, "Are you with these guys?"

To which Adam replied, "No. I don't even know them."

Now, let me tell you a little something about Adam Shatarsky. He is one of the most brilliant actors I know. But the man does not think before he speaks. I do not say this to be mean, but merely to point out a fact. He, himself, will admit to this fault, if one could even call it that in today's society.

But I tell you all of that so you will understand, at least to the degree that he and I understood after discussing this occasion at great length after the fact, that when he said "No. I don't even know them," he did so in a perfect lower-class, East End British dialect.

"Oh my," Christy replied, "Where are you from?"
"From London."

A few days later Adam confided in me, "Right then she should have known I was full of it. Nobody's from London."

"Wow. What are you doing here?" She queried.
"Shootin' a film that my mate wrote," he replied gesturing to me, who at the time was completely unaware of these happenings due to the noise level inside the bar.
"Oh. Where's he from?"
"He's from London, too."

posted by Rockel @ 7:44 AM 0 comments

26 November, 2005

Whore I Am

Do not worry... I shall return to the cliff from which you are hanging momentarily...

But first, this update:
I was checking out someone's blog... forget who now... and there was posted a list of some 237 movies which you were supposed to (x) if you had seen...

70 or more (x)'s meant you are a movie whore...

Might not seem like a lot... especially considering such flicks as Harry Potter's 1, 2, and 3 (none of which I've seen) were on the list... however quite a lot of the names on the list were deliberately obscure in an effort to drop your score (i.e. - Killer Klowns From Outer Space, which I have seen).

Would anyone like to guess this whore's score?...

201.

Finally, the Quote of the Day:

"I think that's the one we stole from Church."

posted by Rockel @ 5:49 PM 6 comments

25 November, 2005

Tales From NYC: Went To Hell's Kitchen, Going To Hell (Part 1)

I arrived on Saturday. 11:00pm. 527 West 46th Street. Between 10th and 11th. Apartment 11. Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York, New York, United States of America.

I was greeted by the incomparable Adam Shatarsky (actor, friend, wanker, soon-to-be SAG member), his sister-in-law's friend, Devon (19, hairdresser, model, paris hilton meets jessica simpson), and his roomie, Matt (actor and fellow circle in square).

We four decided to hit the town, stopping first at a local watering hole just down the street from the old apartment (aka, Fustercluck), and each consuming some lovely barley beverages.

Note: Fat Angel - odd name, great beer.

After having far too much of a good time, and with the evening progressing on as it is wont to do when such merriment is pursued, the roomie and the hairdresser decided to retire, as they both had early wake up calls in mind, an affliction with which, thankfully, Mr. Shatarsky and I were not stricken.

And so, we allowed the large, burly man to see himself home, and Adam and I escorted Miss Devon back to her Hotel.

In all actuality, Adam was escorting the lady... and I was merely tagging along to be sure he didn't get himself into too much trouble, as he is terribly wont to do.

And so... we, the remaining duo, having successfully escorted the model back to her room where the very pregnant sister-in-law waited, began to make our way to the lovely Kevin St. James bar on 8th Avenue.

Perchance 'twas chance. Chances are it was. For as much as it seemed unknown and unpredictable, it also felt controlled by an exterior force. But whatever it was that caused us to gravitate to this particular location... and whatever it was that saw fit that we meet a certain two individuals... it cannot be denied that a chance was provided... and it was jumped at.

posted by Rockel @ 12:23 PM 0 comments

19 November, 2005

Back in a Week

I'm off, peeps... don't burn the place down while I'm away...

I leave you with the following Political Cartoon (concept) [sorry, didn't have time to draw it out]...

At the top, the words, "White House," done up like the Fox TV show "House" logo.

George W Bush as Dr. White House, scruffy faced, casually dressed, and leaning on a cane.

Lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to all sorts of machines and looking like hell run over, a dark complexioned man with headdress labeled "Iraq."

Dr. White House speaks: "WMDs in your system would have explained all the symptoms... but the treatment only seemed to make things worse...and unfortunately you responded negatively to the liberation we injected... so now we're force feeding you democracy through that tube in your stomach... that will cure you... or kill you...that's always a possibility... but it's a risk I'm willing to take."

There ya go... if anyone knows how to draw... have at it... I'm sure you'll win some million dollar prize for it... so, I would request twenty bucks for my troubles... and, it'd be your money, so it's your call, but if it were me I'd shoot a fiver the prez's way.

And finally...

Count your blessings every day... and when counting, remember those less fortunate than you... and when remembering, keep in mind that God loves and cares for all of His children, and those things you count as blessings and fortunes, others may not.

Be good.
-Rockel

posted by Rockel @ 6:26 AM 1 comments

18 November, 2005

Start Spreadin' The News...

...I'm Leavin'.... Tomorrow...

posted by Rockel @ 1:03 PM 1 comments

16 November, 2005

So... the "topic" of Michael Jackson came up at work today...

...that eventually led to my thoughts on Mr. Jackson...

...that eventually led to the second law of the universe...

...which I assumed everyone knew, however, no one in the group seemed to have heard it before...

...so, as a public service to you, fellow humans who may, or may not be, ignorant of such laws, I present to you...

...the second law of the universe...

#2; --
.\{¥ờu =c@nnot= like ßo†h #Mi¢hąe£ Ĵaçkson# and {The¤Beatles.}●●Ж●● Either ÿou will //hate\\ the `one`√ and ««lθve≈ the ~+(four¬,◦◦◦ or ÿoµ ^will be ::devoted:;: to the *ente®tainer"" and despise the ßªnd.∫∫∫∆‡.

posted by Rockel @ 1:30 PM 4 comments

15 November, 2005

Haven't done this in a while...

(Click on it for full size)

There ya go... we'll throw it back to politics for a brief second...

Ok... that's long enough...

The script can now be accessed thru the link at right... I'll add bits and pieces as I have time...

Also... with the help of one Just Charlie, I was able to figure out how to put songs on here for you all to enjoy, in a convenient way, as I hate "background" music on blogs... so click on the link to enjoy one of my favorite Eels songs, off of their new album, "Blinking Lights and Other Revelations."

Love. Peace. Orange Juice.

-Rockel

posted by Rockel @ 5:07 PM 2 comments

14 November, 2005

Updates

Thanks for all the ideas... some of the songs I couldn't get my hands on... those that I could are now in my collection, even if they didn't make the list, which is...

THE ROCKEL MORNING COMMUTE MIX

01, Wonderboy - Tenacious D
02, Date Rape - Sublime
03, Pennies From Heaven - Louis Prima
04, Careless Whisper (Live) - Ben Folds w/ Rufus Wainwright
05, Danse Avec Moi - Kosmonova
06, Fire Coming Out Of A Monkey's Head - Gorillaz
07, Sexed Up - Robbie Williams
08, Trouble With Dreams - Eels
09, Hey Man (Now You're Really Living) - Eels
10, Mental - Eels
11, Don't Stop Me Now - Queen
12, Under Pressure - Queen
13, La Vie Boheme - RENT (Motion Picture Soundtrack)
14, Fire, Water, Burn - Bloodhound Gang
15, Oh Donna - MXPX
16, Two Princes - Spin Doctors
17, Hitchin' A Ride - Green Day
18, Jesus Of Suburbia - Green Day

Cribbage:
It's over... I lost... Again... Pops finished me off while Mom was attempting a comeback. Final score: 5-7-3. Overall Tourneys: 0-1-1 (go me!). Overall Games: 10-12-10.

Title:
Still nothing. That's not the title. I still don't have one. Suggestions still welcome.

On that note... I've decided to post a bit of the script for you all to enjoy (or despise), if you so choose.

Your first and only warning: Unedited and Rated R for language, violence, and drug content.

There ya go. Still interested? Click here to access the first scene. Note: the "@@@@" denotes a section of the script that will contain more dialogue... when I get around to writing it.

p.s. - This happens so infrequently I have to mention it: The Cobra has posted.

posted by Rockel @ 5:10 PM 3 comments

12 November, 2005

Quotes

If only you were at my house today,
the things you would've heard my mother say:

"When you’ve got a lesbian cousin, you’re good."

"Yeah... They don’t smell like balls."

And now, in honor of Mr. Bob Ross, who tragically died 10 years ago:

"I hope you’re plagued with dissatisfaction your entire life. That way you’ll get better, and better, and better. " - Mr. Happy Trees himself.

Thanks for all the script title suggestions... more are welcome... The second draft should be finished soon, so I'll hafta pick a title soon... get your suggestions in now... before it's too late.

posted by Rockel @ 5:15 PM 1 comments

11 November, 2005

Welcome to the Suck

I saw it. It was awesome.

Jake Gyllenhaal give a very worthy performance.

If you don't like the word "Fuck," don't go see it.

Remember, I still need your help.

posted by Rockel @ 10:31 PM 0 comments

10 November, 2005

It Is Finished*

*phrase on loan from God.

the first draft of MY SCRIPT IS COMPLETE!!!

That's right, the first draft is finished. Well, actually, it's more of a 1.5 draft since most of the time that I spent not writing the ending was spent editing the first half. Now comes the fun part: Spending some time not writing. This is also known as letting the writing digest... stepping back from a project... and all sorts of other nonsense.

Meanwhile... the machine won again. It's getting close. 5-6-0. Everyone must pull out voodoo dolls with silver hair and goatee... and get to voodooing!

Also, while I'm asking for your help... it's time for you all to earn your place on the "peeps" list. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is. I don't make the rules, I just play by 'em...

I need some input...

Firstly... My script has an ending. Now what it lacks is a title. Any thoughts? Again... as I am not a stickler for topicality or relevance, it bothers me not that none of you have even read the thing (well... the vast majority of you)... so... have away.

Secondly... As I have now managed to figure out the ultimate time-saving route for my morning commute, I have managed to shave a 1.5 hour drive down to a little over an hour. New dilemma... this amount of time is ideal for the playing of one entire mix CD. I seek help assembling the greatest "Wake Me Up and Prepare Me for a Day of Monotony and Repetition (and Redundancy)" Music Mix. Give it your best shot, and when I complete the playlist I shall share it with you all. (As a disclaimer... though don't let this effect your input too much... at the moment I'm listening to a lot of Tenacious D, Robbie Williams, Beck, Eels [obviously], and obscure European techno/trance)

Thirdly... ummm... come up with your own dilemma and give me your input on that.

That is all, peeps.

In other news:
The Cathey will be venturing to Cha-town to spend some quality time with the Rockel, et al. Plans are few and involve relaxing, eating, and seeing Jarhead.

Finally:
Let's hear it for Veterans.

posted by Rockel @ 2:30 PM 18 comments

08 November, 2005

Happy Birthday to Me!

Let's hear it for another year.

Also, belated Birthday wishes to my good bud, Aaron! Yer the man!

Today's random quote comes from another good bud, Adam "Er-ee-ah; Capt. Dump; I'll be in my trailer getting into character" Shatarsky:

"I think my character is gonna bathe in rice pudding."

The Random Quote. Thanks be to Rockel.

Meanwhile, in the world of Cribbage: I picked up another win tonight... very close one... very intense, come from behind win... However, the Cribbage machine that is Mike also won another since I last posted and so....

5-5-0.

Today's random conversation comes courtesy of my mother (M) and me (R):

M: Do you want to vote?
R: No.
M: Can I vote for you?
R: Sure.
M: Alright... You'll have to sign it.
R: Okay.

These are the words of the Rockel and his Mahm. Amen.

Over to traffic:
In a world of 70mph speed limits, I drive a car with the 55 marked in yellow on the speedometer.

In other news:
My parents and I went out for dinner in celebration of the day I caused (at least one of) them so much pain and yet (both of them) so much joy. Animal flesh was consumed. I had a very nice Pinot Noir. We made fun of the wait staff. We gorged ourselves on a desert. I would tell you how incredibly amazing my parents are, but I know that they read this, so to do so would be rather -={random 6 dollar word of the day}=- duplicitous, so you will not get to hear about how amazingly kool (with a "k") they are, or how much support and strength I receive from them.

And now, the whether:
"Whether a person shows themselves to be a genius in science or in writing a song, the only point is, whether the thought, the discovery, or the deed, is living and can live on." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

I leave you with these happy thoughts:

A song that you can't help but sing to.
A sunset you can't help but marvel at.
A friend that you can't help but run to.
A sentence that doesn't end in a preposition.

-- Rockel

"That's telekinesis, Kyle!"

posted by Rockel @ 5:15 PM 4 comments

06 November, 2005

Pop/Rock Theology, Part 1: Jimmy Pop

That's Jimmy, not Jiffy.

This past weekend I had the opportunity of seeing a fellow Campbell alumnus speak as part of a small conference on Evangelism. One of the other speakers involved mentioned the Bloodhound gang and their infamous song, "The Bad Touch." This sparked an idea which grew into several ideas, which were the impetus for this post, the first in a new serious I am entitling "Pop/Rock Theology," where I examine the theological, philosophical, or just plain interesting (in my opinion) lyrics of modern rock/pop artists.

In honor of the band that began in me this concept, part one will focus on The Bloodhound Gang and their lead singer/songwriter, Jimmy Pop.

From, "Hell Yeah":

And when they nail my pimpled a** to the cross
I'll tell them I found Jesus that should throw them off
He goes by the name Jesus (hey-soos) and steals hubcaps from cars
Oh Jesus (hey-soos) can I borrow your crowbar?
To pry these G** d*** nails out they're beginning to hurt
Crucified and all I got was this lousy T-shirt
"I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" I'll sing as I'm flogged
Yeah that's what I would do if I were God

So vote for me for Savior and you'll go to Heaven
Your lame duck Lord is like Kevin Spacey in "Seven"
With creepy threats of H-E-Double-Hockey-Stick
You just can't teach an old God new tricks
But would I be a good Messiah with my low self-esteem?
If I don't believe in myself would that be blasphemy?
Just sport some crummy "holier than thou" facade
Yeah that's what I would do if I were God

Bloodhound Gang Theology Pop Quiz
Multiple Choice.
In one of the Bloodhound Gang's more popular songs, Jimmy Pop claims that which of the following people is the Antichrist?
a) Mark Twain
b) Lawrence Welk
c) John F. Kennedy
d) Emmanuel Lewis
e) Kurt Cobain

posted by Rockel @ 10:57 AM 2 comments

03 November, 2005

Okay... Who's got the voodoo doll?

You can put it away.

The score is now knotted at:
4-4-0.

Damn you, Fate.

Okay, so it's only knotted between myself and pops, who, completely out of the blue, though totally in line with his normal Cribbage skills, chalked up two, count 'em, two, skunks today, successfully catapulting himself into a tie for first place in just under the time it takes for a rhino to swish his tail back and forth thrice. (that's three times) Mumsie has yet to move her scoring peg (hehe, inside joke) onto the scoreboard, or move any of her other pegs past the skunk line. Okay, that's mean. She got it past once. (I'm horrible)

In other news:
Progress is being made on the script, however, it still lacks an ending. So, if anyone knows a good ending.... give it me. I realize you know nothing about the beginning, but hey... who knows... could work out.

Incidentally, the part of the script that I have written has changed drastically since I first began. It has almost gone completely 180 on me. Don't worry, heroin is still involved. I know some of you were worried. Also, nudity is back in, and coincidentally we are still looking for actresses, so for more information about scheduling an "audition," leave a comment.

In all seriousness, the love scene that might or might not have been, is now cut. Although, only about 2/3 of the script is written, and her character does have one more scene... you never know... one word could lead to another...

Oh well... I shall have to suffer through tedious dialogue rather than tedious description.

This just in:
I finally have a job at a business that observes a Casual Friday! I feel like such a grown up. Actually, I feel like a kid about to go out for his first Halloween. I just spent the last 20 minutes looking through my closet, picking out something non-work-y yet nice, casual yet cool, to wear tomorrow.

And now the whether:
It's not whether you get knocked down, it's whether you get up.
- Vince Lombardi

Finally:
I hope you die and burn in hell
I hope that life will treat you well
I hope you never see the sun
I hope someday you find that one

I hope you hurt until you die
I hope you succeed at all you try
I hope God smites you from above
I hope He wraps you in his Love

But as for me,
I hope.
And that is good enough.
- Rockel

posted by Rockel @ 7:30 PM 8 comments

02 November, 2005

I Love Crazy People

The other day while floating around the Creek I was afforded the opportunity of venturing into Lillington and mingling with some wonderful folk in a nursing home.

Now, this was by all acounts a nursing home... there were nurses present. And it even said "Nursing Home" on the wooden sign out by the two lane highway that provided a semi-constant barrage of automobiles whisling by at speeds far too great to be so near to such an establishment.

But I would like to be sure that no one is confusing the title of this post with a possible assumption that I believe all old people to be crazy.

This place was a nuthouse.

The majority of the people at this home were younger than 60 years old.

Most were schizophrenics. Those that were not, had alzheimers.

Until you spend enough time around enough crazy people, you cannot comprehend the fragility and complexity of the human mind.

Being in the presence of such people, observing their actions, and conversing with them is an experience I will never forget. It is the most real, surreal thing you could ever encounter.

posted by Rockel @ 5:46 PM 1 comments

01 November, 2005

He's Unstoppable!!!

4-0-0!!!

That's right, folks. Another W in the books for yours truly. And that's the kind of "W" I like.

Tonight's main event was a real nail biter... neck and neck almost the entire way... however, as I was fortunate enough to count the last crib, my neck started creeping away at the end... I landed in the stink hole, with moms and pops close behind, and it all came down to pegging... after pops closed to within a couple, I finally got the one point I needed to win on the last card in my hand. Oh the joy.

And now, a public service announcement for all rednecks in the reading area:

SLOW TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT!!!

That means if you are slow, and if you are a redneck you are the definition of "slow" on many levels, get your &*$%^'n truck over to the right so I can pass you on your left.

That's "RIGHT"...
as in: the direction
as in: the opposite of "left"
as in: if Blue, your brown dog, is sitting next to you on the passenger seat of your truck (below which the shotgun is stored), he is to your RIGHT!

This public service announcement brought to you by Rockel's raging temper and the Charlotte Mecklengburg county department of transportation.

This just in:
I spent a bit of time at the Creek this past weekend. Much fun. I got to reconnect with some old friends, as well as make some new ones. To one "new friend" in particular, I would like to say this:

Dear friend,
I am so very glad to have you as a friend. You are a delight and a blessing in this world. Treasure what you have, and know that I will always be a friend that you can turn to no matter what.
Your friend,
Rockel

In other news:
I held a baby this weekend. Yes. A living, breathing, dependent human being. The parents were not dead, or psychotic. However, they were exhausted and hungry, and I was more than happy to oblige. Rachel Pamela Wade is completely adorable and her parents are wonderful, loving people. They are also being aided by very supportive family members and community/church members. The whole thing is really quite beautiful.

Alright, I better talk about sports or something manly now...

I know... FUN WITH PICTURES!!!
Today's episode: Urinals!
Enjoy...
(you may need to click on some of them to enjoy them to their full potential)

posted by Rockel @ 4:33 PM 1 comments

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