n o w p l a y i n g - s c r i p t b i n - f a n c l u b - s t u d i o

make love to the camera



June 17, 2003 - 12:41 pm

Those Liberal Freaks Go Too Far

Last night, I made a woman squeal.

It wasn't Jennifer Lopez, who for some reason joined George Clooney and I in a conversational circle during my dream last night, then stood around looking pouty and bored. It wasn't by using any special bits of my anatomy, which is good, because I was driving. It also wasn't by throwing a dead bird in her hair, which I almost certainly would not have done had a dead bird been readily available, which, for once, one wasn't.

No. The squealing was caused by regurgitation.

Not the actual act of, but rather the mentioning.

I will explain.

I have a friend named Natalie. Last night, she accompanied me to a performance of mine up at the Improvolympic. The show went super-fine, surprisingly, considering the wildly varied skill levels of the people who do the Monday night show, ...my friend Rob and I closed the performance with an improvised duet. During the drive home, the conversation turned, as it so often can, to food. Specifically, we were discussing odd eating habits.

For my birthday, Natalie attempted to track down a box of the no longer produced cookies, Dinosaur Grahams. Aside from being thoughtful and nice, she did this because I once told her that, as a child, I would go into my kitchen, open a box of the tasty treats, and eat them one by one as I spread thick sheets of butter all along their prehistoric outlines.

I've mentioned here before that I was an extraordinarily fat child, yes? Yes.

I no longer do this. In fact, I'm not sure if I have a Really Weird Food Thing anymore. Well, unless you count eating so much food in one sitting that if I were a supervillian I would be called Galaxor the Insatiable.

Why Galaxor? Because no one would fear the All-Consuming Bill.

Oh, coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

Anyway, Natalie somehow found my habit disgusting. I attempted to counter by telling her that I was spreading goodness on goodness, but she would have none of it. This is especially odd considering Nat's Really Weird Food Thing:

You know those 'Nilla wafers, those little roundish cookies? Well. Natalie likes to take two of them, and lay them out in preparation, sandwich style. She then likes to take a third 'Nilla wafer, place it in her mouth, chew it up while mixing it with saliva until it is a fine paste, and spit it out between the two prepared wafers, making herself a regurgitated 'Nilla wafer sandwich.

The thought of this makes me vomit in horror, and I'm the weird one for putting butter on Graham crackers?

Nat has a birthday coming up herself. I told her that, for her birthday, I would treat her with a sweet gesture that would save her the time and shame of being a reprehensible human being herself. I would present her with a nice little plastic container full of 'Nilla wafers I had chewed up and regurgitated myself.

And that's when she squealed.

Apparently, it becomes gross when someone chews your 'Nillas for you.

At least the lines are now clear.

Friday night. Hollywood. Drunken debauchery.

My party at the bar, Cat & Fiddle, went very well and was most enjoyable. My friend Cole somehow accidentally ended up down the street at the Pig & Whistle, where he encountered 150 Mexicans and an open bar, with which I couldn't really compete, so more power to him. He's going to go there for my next party, too.

As for the people who actually attended, they seemed to have a great time. I told many things to the lovely, drunken Heather, who promptly forgot them and then made me drink tequila with her. Many of my improv classmates made the scene. When you get a whole bunch of people together who pride themselves on being funny on the fly and add liquor, the results can be transcendant or horrifying. Luckily, these people are cool enough and not the types that are always "on" that the experience was much more along the lines of the former.

In all fairness, I should mention that it was also the birthday party of one of my favorite new diaryland members and improvisation compadre, the cherubic Michael Busch. Go. Read him, add him to your favorites, and send him love.

His current entry seems to be an especially poetic recount of Friday night, but my favorite entry of his lies right here. Mikey Boy works as an assistant for a literary agent, and a 'blind submission' is when an aspiring screenwriter sends in an unsolicited, brief description of a screenplay in hopes of getting it read. Mike informs me that he has requested a copy of the script, and if the major studios do the insane thing and choose not to touch this film, we're going to bring it to theaters next summer on our own.

We believe in this project.

The magic word for today is 'productivity.' I'm out to prove that unemployment can be about more than Conan O'Brien on TiVo, double checking to make sure my bed is still made, and standing on my porch staring over at the Fox lot while trying to imagine what the hell is going on over there.

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