Jay Mohr is a whiny bitch

Hey-0,

To the business: I've activated a comment function that'll require ye readers who wish to comment to type in some random letters that the screen prompts you to. This is to keep spam off of my precious blogspot. Although some of the spam comments are kind of fun.

I just finished reading Jay Mohr's "Gasping for Airtime" his autobiographical recollection of his two year stint as a Saturday Night Live writer/featured performer. I'm glad that I read the book because it offered me insight into a field that I am interested in pursuing, but the process of reading this thing was somewhat agonizing because of Mohr's terrible terrible bitchery. The whole book consists of him complaining about how he was treated without the respect that he deserved. Bear in mind that Mohr was 23 when he got the job. 23!!! Of course he's going to be treated like a rookie by the old hands on the show. To sum it up, Jay Mohr is a self-destructive little man with an ego problem that led unrealistic expectations.

That being said, upon reflection of my time in grad school I can find certain parallels between Mohr's journey and my own. I too expected instant rewards upon landing a position in grad school. This was not completely the case, and I am glad. It's important to learn the ropes and earn what you get. I have not had to work hard for most of the things that I've had in life - this was my parents' gift, but in a developmental sense it was also their mistake. One grows through pushing through the resistance of life, not by having the path cleared for him/her.

Going out into one's early twenties, after the achievements of high school and college, it's easy to forget that we're starting out at the bottom rung again. The heartening thing is that this rung is the rung. The beginning of adulthood.

Dear God, don't let me ever be like Jay Mohr. Nobody ever be like Jay Mohr.

Monkey fights octopus eye doctor.

M

Here's some suffering people without arms...

Woop woop woop! This is hopefully my final late-night in ACCAD. After a week of dedicated work, I have completed my 1.5 minute animated piece "The Sad Princess." This "frame" you see before you depicts the peasants in the Princess' kingdom. Their arms are assigned to a different layer of animation, and therefore are not pictured here today.

I have also discovered the magic of PowerPoint. I'mo give a presentation to my animation class in about 5 hours, and so I endeavoured to learn the PP ASAP. It's frickin' intuitive and awesome. I'm going to use PP whenever I can. Buy it today!

Johnnylongform rawked the hass tonight. We had a great audience, some guest improvers, and even my supercool buddies from undergrad trekked over to watch! It was so great to see some familiar faces and perform for a receptive audience. Oh lordly mcGordly. I'm a bit looped from the late night computer-workedness. I apporogize.

This is Merlin. He is the King's wizard and does fucked up shit. He gets so crazy that he freaks out and destroys whatevs he wants. I can't really describe it, he's so crazy.

Moo,

Me

Riddles and Tender Vittles

Xenomorphs,

Weird dreams saunter hazily through my soft, downy cranium this morning. I had one of those "I've been assigned to perform a full-length one-man show at the Riffe center, but I can neither remember my lines nor can I find my way out of this upstate New York lake house (and it's already 7:45!)." You know the type. The dread former shogun of my undergrad department made an appearance as the person who petitioned that I land this role, so by floundering about in the labyrinth of woody vacation rooms, I was also squandering the opportunity that the acting man had set before me. I'm sure that the meaning of this dream is that one must be prepared for your aspirations, otherwise when the possibility of their fulfillment surfaces you will find yourself unable to attain them. Preparation is key. Mon is also key.

I finished Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell yesterday. WOOP! Great book, I must declare. It had me in its irreversable sway very quickly and wouldna let me go until the lemon-tart conclusion. So good. nearly 800 pages and it was this author's first novel. Wowza. Who in the nerf does that? I guess that she had it all held in. Anywhich, according to the internet, a film adaptation is being concieved, so that'll be the merdre. So now that I'm free from the confining sway of that book I can do other things - like bathe.

C-town and I went to see the midnight Rocky Horror Picture Show again. It's interesting to observe the behavior of the die-hard participants. For example, some of the live cast members had birthdays, and so the host type people brought them up in front of the screen and called for these people's "presents." The "presents" were 3 moderately attractive audience members of both sexes. The birthday boy and girls were then expected to "do something" with these "presents." What occured was about 2 minutes of awkward no-eye contact banter between the birthday people and their "presents." I felt pity for the poor youngsters (in both the cast and participants) who were faced with the option to either placate the crowd with some sort of Man Showesque act of sexual spectacle or to take no action and feel the burning pressure of 1) wasting the audience's time/attention [isn't that an alarming commentary on how valuable each moment of our attention has grown?]. In addition, through inaction the cast members wound up broadcasting the fact that they themselves do not practice the sexual freedom that they seem to preach. "Give yourself over to absolute pleasure," is what Dr. Frankenfurter tells us, but these self-conscious youngins are a product of a different era. One founded on too-cool-for-school apathy and fear of the consequences of sexual promiscuity. I'm not saying that total caution in regard to diseases is a bad thing, in fact I find our modern views on sex far more reasonable than the Sexual Revolution of the 60's that created films like Rocky Horror. My point is that when one is exposed as a charlatan in front of an audience of acolytes, it is a terrible and valuable moment that can spark the reassessment of a whole (sub)culture. Real sexual exporers, it would seem, do not go to the midnight Rocky Horror show. And I hope that I do not accidentally walk into wherever those people go. Yick, the Clap.

Essay over. Now I go eat Indian food at favourite place! This party starting heat up! Hit face so hard with pleasure! So honorable.

tsao ni.

Murgh Burglar

Televisions, U-Hauls, and other skullduggery

mmm.

Here's the skinny on my latest shinanigans(sp):

Yesternight I was in a state of mental disrupititude and so I decided to cash in on my long-awaited birthyday present: a new TV set. I went to my local grocer's/clothier/home and garden outlet/electronics boutique (Target) and demanded a new Daewoo television set. They wheeled the cumbersome lummox of cathode-ray housing to the register and I casually donned the yoke of credit card debt. I told the kind workers not to bother with sending an extra employee out to the parking lot to help me load the beast - thinking that this was the polite course of action.

When I got outside it was raining. "Better do this quick," said a little McGyver who lives in my head. So I hustled my cumbersome cardboard-clad friend out into drizzle and stopped beside my car. Just as I began to realize that my car was way too small to accomodate this package, a friendly consumer appeared out of the shadow realm and offered his help. I protested, but he insisted and so we forced that 27"TV + box into my delicate, red automachine. It snapped off the rearview mirror.

After stripping the box and styrofoam off of the set, and re-affixing my mirror, I set off for home. When I got there I couldnuh hoist the TV out of my car. It was heavier than I had imagined. Eventually, I wheedled it out of the backseat and onto the slick asphalt of the parking lot. My muscles, alas, would ferry the monstrous machine no further. I sprinted to my neighbor's place and, sweating profusely, asked for his immediate assistance. Thankfully, he helped and we schlepped the object into my home. Whew! Next time, I'm buying a projector. Who'm I kidding, there won't be a next time. I'mo sell this badboy for some coke money! Coca cola.

I helped my friend Anj move today. Mover's karma you understand. It was not that hard and I got a Diet Squirt out of it. Woop!

Zombies will eat your flesh, but they won't really appreciate the flavour.

M

Thou Shalt Not Hesitate!

Lovers of Song,

I had a weird experience yasterdei. My improv guru Col. Caleodis called me up offering me free tix to Greenday, yes that new punk-rock impersonation band with liberal hits such as, "If we were drafted, we'd be in the desert right now" and "That George Bush fellow really seems to be the president right now." So the only hitch was that I had to drive the Greek and myself to Dayton. Dayton, apparently the most dangerous city in Ohio. There's only like 5 cities in Ohio anyway. So we're on the road, eating our chicken fries [don't believe the hype, these "fries" are actually just skinny chicken fingers] and spilling "buffalo sauce" all over our crotches (ok, my crotch) when Dr. C gets a call from his radio-show-host friend. The friend said that the front man of Greenday had some sort of illness and was "turning bleu." So our trip was thwarted. Jimmy Eat World didn't even pick up the slack and put on a full concert of their opener-class material (j/k JEW is the shit lol totes!). Ding dang daka doong doong dang.

So I didn't go to the concert. But I did beat an xbox game that I've been renting (has been renting me) all week called Psychonauts. I highly recommend this fun and funny vid to anyone who desires to lose several days of their lives. If I was in recovery from surgery, I'd totally play it. Ok - I'm a big nerd now.

I remember doing the Tiiiiiiiiime warp. - too high in pitch to be typed in regular font.

Mount Markre (that's not a command)

Terrible Monsters invade mein blog

Hey reader,

If you happened to read my blog sometime between yesterday afternoon and right now, I appologize for the cryptic and potentially virus-laden comments left by 3 Anonymouses. I've never seen that before, being a computer novice, but to my suspicious eye it looked like those fach-machines were trying to get you peeps to click on links to their promotional and/or destructive websites. I hope that you had the horse-sense not to click on the links. Especially since one of them was for a carpentry association, or something boring like that.

I don't know how to prevent fuckos like this from leaving their shady comments, so please use discretion when reading/clicking the comments from the outside world.

That is all,

Sysop(re)

23? What 23? WHAT? FUCK! MUSTARD! FLEECE!

So I'm crashing Mr. Lee's 21st birthday party last night in my local drinkery, and I'm trying to explain the phenomenon of 21ness to an underaged undergrad. I'm like, "...see once you're 21, the fun of drinking and partying goes away, because now you're somehow a real adult and can't act in extreme or debaucherous ways because that's shady, whereas a month before your birthday it was expected. Culpability my dear Wattson." And she's like "ReeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!" and then I turned down my hearing aid.

Anywho, she's like "how old are you, Dr. S?" and I'm like "Twenty-wuh..-two.--three?! I'm twenty-three!? AH! FUCK! FUCKSHIT! AHHHMYGOD WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?! N-NOOO! NO! NO! AARRR! nuh-gaaaah. NO! AHFUCK! SHITTYSHITPASTE!" - my exact words. So old. Now I know that some of you out there, maybe even two of you, are older than 23. But still. The thing is that at this age you gotta start becoming a productive member of society. There are certain expectations placed upon an adult. And more importantly, you can't hang around with the youngsters anymore because now you're an old weirdun who should be at home working on his taxes or making a business trip. This is the beginning of the death of wackiness. No more peeing on Doane (not that I ever did or would - performance anxiety you understand). I don't want to grow up is the summation of this article. I demand that Peter Pan come visit me and save me from the march of time and responsibility. FOO!

Margle McGonkle

Amination

Whad up www?
I'm in ACCAD's computer lab again. This time in brood daylight. Instead of drawing this afternoon, I am scanning my skribbles into a computer for sequencing. My current assignment is titled "Head for Breakfast", although it is far less pornographic than one might imagine. It's a touching story about a boy, "Z", who is disappointed by his breakfast when it turns out to be a severed head on a platter. It's stupid, I know, but it's a sort of tribute to Tim Burton, who may have done something similar in his formative years. On page that is, not in life.

I don't think my hypnotism worked. I ate a bunch of pizza w/ C-town last night. Oh wells, I like pizza anyway. C-town showed me a great website on the awesomeness of ninjas. Something like realawesomepower.com. I'll find the real link and put it up in my links section. Tonight I have improv comedy time again at Kafe Kerouac, but I'm not too thrilled. I miss my Destructicon & wish that she could be around to see't. I also feel the general fear and lethargy that so often incline me to lose myself in the pages of Mr. Norrell and Johnathan Strange. That sounds pretty groovy right about now. Maybe I'll take some time after this scanning session. Monkey monkey monkey monkey. Melt-face.

Mr. X

Comfort Food and Self-Hypnosis

So here's the thing,

This summer I've had a pizza disorder. More and more frequently I seem to order pizza and watch a movie as my nighttime activity. My father once commented (listening in horror as I outlined a trip to the comic book store and Burger King as being the day's activities) that eating is not an activity. I was a fat child. I believe that going out to dinner with friends is an activity (The conversation is key in that scenario), but I tend to agree that eating alone should not be considered an activity. And yet, the delicious, doughy circlet of sauce and cheese does indeed possess supernatural powers to calm and comfort me. The pizza dinner has become a ritual. I think that it is replacing work, friends, and activities - not because it is better but simply because this summer (like many others in my past) has been stagnant and without much to do.

Problem acknowledged. Solution: the most asinine possible course of action. HYPNOSIS. I've been reading a stupid waste of money book on Hypnosis for the past week, and today I skimmed the chapter on autohypnotism - the practice of inducing yourself into a trance and then planting suggestions to your unconscious mind. To do this, one needs to record him/herself doing a monologue about envisioning one's muscles relaxing (this script was fortunately provided by my stupid book). Then, once the muscles are loose and the eyes are closed, you plant the suggestion, and wake your fucking self up. Easy.

Much to my supreez, I tried it and I think that I actually did hypnotize myself. I got super relaxed and felt swimmy. Sort of like when you are on the border of sleep, the darkness behind your eyelids seems to change and the spatial properties of the room around you can feel spinny or liquid. Anyway, the mind remains conscious the whole time that one is in a trance, so my cognitive self thinks that I wasn't hypnotized, but my irrational mind may have been.

The suggestion that I gave myself was to decline pizza in favor of a glass of water. I think I'm going to try it tonight at my Batman: Mask of the Phantasm party. Yes. I said it. It's going to be hella infantile. I only have one guest, and he regards me, no doubt, with cautious distain. Oh, I love the summertime.

If this hypnosis stuff works, I may have found my post-gradschool job! w00t!

You are getting sl.......zzzzzz.......

Svengali

Where's Waldo? Hey, is that Rob Gander? 

Back!

Just got in from the Smokies. Not the lil' ones, but the mountainous ones. ah. All day of driving has rendered me a bit loopy. Can't decide whether to go to the park tonight to see a play or stay in and work (drink bizzles). Hmms...

Here's a thought that I had upon the long car ride home: What kind of robot would you be? By this I mean, what is your primary function (in your own opinion) in your daily interactions with the world. You then take that function and apply it to a robot title. Por examplo, I would be either a analysis machine or a joke-bot. Like one of those Jamboree Bears.

I saw Buffallo on stage - live uns. THAT'S theatre!

Eat my food, food-eater.

M(pizza)arkre

Rubble Rubble

Dear intranet community,

I am once again in Tennessee, visiting my beloved and her monstrous dog. Old Shit-Storm has learned the pleasures of The Way of the Tooth, and now exercises his fighting skills on every hand, ankle, thigh, butt, and love-handle (not a sexual euphamism) that he can get his small, razor-like fangs on. There is hope, however, in that the father of Destructicon - let's just call him Destructicus Prime - advised that we kick the shit out of the dog whenever he doesn't "akrite". We have employed firm, but fair, whaps to the snout when the beastie snaps/tears at us and it has seemed to mellow the devildog considerably. Good news for us. Bad news for The Wild.

Speaking of teaching... I realized recently how tasktastic my fall schedule is going to be. It may jeopardize my ability to audition for my school's production of Rocky Horror. Why would you want to be in that sissy show, Markre (you may ask)? Um. I uh... Wool... Wrong number! Wrong number!

Been thinking about the future a bit. Destructicon was like "what happens when you complete the Second City Training Program?" And I'm like, "buh... Um. I uh... Felt.... Prank caller! Prank caller!" Because, dear readre, as you may understand: training does not equal employment. Even if I did squeeze through the wringer of an advanced improv training center's program, that does not mean that my dream of being a big, fat & juicy improv comedian would be attained. Maybe I've been naiive to not conclude this earlier, but I suppose that "Dreams" are founded on naiive desires, not sound logic. What happens Next? Is the format to our lives. I need an input (back me up here Burpees).



M. Arkre