Pop Stand II: Pop Stander

[Chris Kula]

Totally overslept this morning, and was completely aware of it from the moment I opened my eyes. The sound of no clock radio going off and bright sun streaming in the window begged not “Did I oversleep?” so much as “How much did I oversleep?” I was about an hour late getting in to the office, which will provide for good symmetry when I leave an hour early.

I suppose I was/am just wiped out from Cage last night. Conjuring up “Christopher AK” is surprisingly taxing: live a life of no regular exercise, no regular sleep, and very regular drinking, and a couple high kicks really take it out of you. Not to mention the hours of planning and replanning that went into a costume of necktie/feather boa/wizard hat.

I’d recount the events of Cagematch, but chances are, anyone who reads this was actually there last night, so no need to go into the intimate details of, say, Anthony’s spot-on impression of Carl Weathers, or how Blumenfeld broke those (actual!) bricks, or how during the voting Mullaney told us all what it was like to work on The Office.

(Nod to Shannon O’Neill – hilarious)

We realized right after the top-of-show intros that my iPod was lacking the official net-cutting-down theme “One Shining Moment” (apparently I was too busy this week uploading Let it Be…Naked and the new Britney single to get, you know, a CRUCIAL cue), so I had to run home during the first half of Dillinger’s set and Acquisition up some Teddy Pendergrass. The jogging and sweating and such were all worth it, though, to see an improv comedy group living out the dream of thousands of scholarship ballers.

Though I’d have thought that Brett Christenson, graduate of University of Arizona, home of only one of the top hoops powers in the country and national champs only a couple years removed, would know not to cut every string on the net.

Pfft. (shakes head) Pac Ten...

In keeping with the schema of competition, comedy, et al., tonight PCR faces off against complacency and the sophomore slump in week two of the sketch show. It opened so well last week, it would seem we’d be prime targets for a letdown tonight. We’ll all have to step it up, especially Lathan – it was like he didn’t even show up last week.

Sunday’s the Rogue Elephant Makeout Party. If even only two audience people show up it’ll be a packed house, as I think there’s about 74 groups performing. And with free beer and a holiday on Monday? Yeah – good times. Somebody asked me the other day what I was gonna do for it, performance-wise.

My answer was “You’ll just have to find out on Sunday,” which of course means, “I won’t know ‘til I write it on Saturday” which of course means, “I’ll probably think it up on the L train to the party” which of course means “I'm ... here for the beer.”

Party down!

 

[Chris Kula]

This whole long weekend feels like a bit of a blur, and food seems to be the only clear marker of time and date. For instance, I know that between Thursday and and Monday I saw Rogue Elephant perform as many times as I watched the Rick James Chappelle’s Show on DVR as many times as I ate chicken pad Thai (twice).

There was also ... a turkey club at McManus after PCR ... a late-night stuffed cabbage at Veselka on Saturday ... a footlong meatball from Subway that I absolutely decimated after spending much of Sunday afternoon cleaning my bedroom ... a quarter pounder with cheese to wrap up the Makeout Party ... and then the second of those pad Thai servings – along with about five eps of the Ben Stiller Show on DVD – Monday evening.

Though on Sunday evening, I pass up the chance at fried pita sticks and falafel with Appel and Wengert, who I run into at the corner of 26th and 8th, all on our respective ways to the Makeout Party. They’re hungry, so we stop at that little Pita Hut That Still Had Power during Blackout ’03, and they work through their dinners on the E train down to 14th, and then the L to Brooklyn.

I didn’t realize the third stop in Williamsburg is a huge paesan part of town, but the main drag of Graham Ave looks like the opening sequence to The Soprano’s, red/white/green-awning’d pork shop and everything. I see a sign listing the community representatives or something, and the names are like Representative Giuseppe Avieto and Vice Rep. Gepetto Fabrizio Salvatore Hammond Jr.

Fitting, then, that the proprietor of 453 is Emlyn Morinelli. The place is already packed when we get there, which I’d kind of expected, given the holiday weekend and good buzz around the show. What I didn’t expect is that the crowd would be 85% unfamiliar faces. Save Louie P., Tara from Jake’s sketch class, and the other performers, I don’t know who these people are. And as it turns out, neither do most of the Rogue Elephant guys. I guess the Graham stop’s just a hotbed for improv audiences.

I get volunteered to run lights for the show, and am led to a chair with a sign reserving it for the “Light Op.” Great – my place in history is now staked out. But I realize as the show gets going that I’ve been given a great privilege as the “Light Op” because, once I’ve seen enough of a group … annnnd blackout.

And as there's about 38 groups performing, I keep the blackouts coming hard and fast.

Big laugh 17 minutes in? Lights!
Half-connection in the group game? Take a bow!
Kula has to go to the bathroom? Organic conclusion!

It helps that 1) the first-half groups are actually all really good, Shit-Storm especially and 2) the crowd is ridiculously receptive, giving plenty of opportunities for early outs. They even get into my post-intermission bit, which amounts to a lot of me yelling, pacing, and pandering to the crowd. Hello, Edinburgh.

The rest of the show flows by faster than the 300-odd cans of beer they’ve got on ice: Gavin and Tabacco doing doppelganger-prov, and then the host group, who in the first scene of their third beats, about 20 minutes in, mention their suggestion. Ahh, thanks, guys – I’m on my way to the beer tub before the lights have gone all the way out.

It’s a great showing overall, really impressive on the part of Rogue Elephant for Doing It Themselves, and ends up making Antny and I wax nostalgic about the simpler days of Holiday Inn Siberia, that being ALMOST TEN MONTHS AGO.

I never had any improv shows quite like those when I was 23. Jesus, does anybody?

 

[Chris Kula]

Thursday morning rolls around and PCR is out one coach for the evening’s improv rehearsal when The Curtis emails that he’s gonna be bogged down in publicity meetings for the Straight Plan show. We start up the classic Harried Day-Of Scramble for a Coach, fairly dilligently since because of sketch stuff, personal conflicts, inclement weather and all the other seven plagues, we haven’t had a legit improv practice since like the first week of January. We’ve gotten very good at going, “Oh, Bobby’s gonna be 10 minutes late? Yeah, we should probably cancel.”

But I IM Dyna and she’s available and up for taking money from us, so I confirm with her, give her the details on the where and when, and email the group to let them know that we’re all set. Then I email them about two minutes later to let them know that I can’t make it to rehearsal.

I’m auditioning for the play Matt and Ben today, and right about the time that Dyna says she’s up for coaching, the casting people offer me a last-minute ticket to see Thursday night’s show. Turns out Sanders got the same invitation to audition, because he sends almost the exact same apologetic email within two minutes of mine.

I have to admit, at first glance it looks like a ruse, like both of us just really didn’t want to practice so we collaborated on a story that hinges on us doing research for in preparation for auditions for roles that had heretofore been performed by a pair of women.

But it’s the truth. After auditioning a ton of actresses, the people behind the play decided they wanted to look at guys, too, so a bunch of dudes from UCB got emails on Wednesday/Thursday about last-minute auditions. Me and Sanders. Anthony and Charlie Todd. Curtis and Gemberling. Others, I’m sure. I know there’s no chance of them casting a redheaded Matt Damon, but it’ll make for a fun extended lunch hour today.

I actually run into Bobby on my way over to the play. He’s just parked his car near the theatre, and looks absolutely miserable, says he didn’t see his email at all today, only remembered at 5 o'clock that we had practice, was stuck in traffic for two hours, his car overheated, he’s fighting a cold, and man, he doesn’t feel like practicing but now that he’s finally here, oh well, he might as well suck it up and, “(sigh) Anyway ... you heading up to practice?”

Nope – later, man!

I take the L over to 1st Ave and call Sanders, tell him I’ll meet him at PS 122. Curtis is outside the place when I get there, waiting for Gemberling. He didn’t hear about this audition thing ‘til just earlier in the day, was lucky to make time for it after doing a bushel of phone interviews with tons of college newspapers and radio stations, each one asking the exact same questions. Sanders shows up with his dinner of a donut and milk.

The show’s really enjoyable – fun to watch and, I bet, fun to perform. Sanders and I go for a slice at the pizza place across the street (they advertise in the show’s program a “Matt and Ben Special” of two slices and a drink for $3.75) and agree that on the off-off-off-off-off-off-off chance that they cast me as Matt and him as Ben, we would act like huge assholes to the rest of PCR. In other words, we wouldn’t change a thing.

We walk from the east side to McManus, some of the first to show up for Gethard’s night of well-wishing. It starts to pick up around 10, with people streaming in in that post-rehearsal migration. The rest of our team shows up, says that practice was good and that Dyna was great as a coach. Dyna just flips me off, gives me shit for the bait and switch – “I was all geared up for a night of telling you you’re not funny. And this time getting paid for it!”

At some point I look around and notice that the whole back room’s been segmented by ... team demographics. That is, people are by and large sitting with their own groups. When I make a crack about Dillinger – to the table of me, Sanders, Will, Dippold and Ang – Will hands me his phone, tells me it’s the kettle calling.

Around 11 Charlie Todd points out that I’ve made the cardinal mistake of not dropping off the Cagematch ballots earlier in the evening, meaning we’ll have to leave earlier than our planned 11:50 p.m. so that the interns have time to get them ready and distributed by the time the house opens. He and Eric start getting ready to take off around 11:30, and I give them the ballot pages, tell ‘em they can take off, that I’ll catch up as soon as I finish this beer.

That quickly turns into “As soon as I finish this NEXT beer” when I mistakenly nod my head to Natasha in response to what I thought was her asking if we wanted the check. Hindsight, 20/20, et al.

Plus, I’m in the middle of telling Dippold my new favorite anecdote about the social awkwardness of improvisors, so I don’t get out of the bar ‘til about quarter to, at this point a little tired and not really feeling like hosting. So it’s serendipitous that when I walk in to the theatre, Reynolds is backstage trying to talk his way into doing something in the show, the Lucy to Charlie and Eric’s Ricky.

Quick fix for both of us: Reynolds hosts as “Chris Kula” and I get to go home. We hit the prop stuff and I dress him for success: blue/white checkered shirt buttoned Chicano-style at the top, red satin vest, blond wig, white cowboy hat, mirrored Terminator shades, and a black pick cane.

I stick around to see the top-of-show intros, and he plays “Chris Kula” as spastic, self-referential, and borderline retarded. In other words, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

 

[Chris Kula]

The first half of Spank last night is a rehearsal for the showcase later in the week. Most all of the groups performing on Thursday – Dillinger, Rhea and Rebekka, the time-honored Log Cabin (Foley, Calhoun, Reynolds, Scott, Todd), Wendy Spero, and PCR – run through their bits in front of a packed house, because the second act of Spank, Dan Gregor’s skit group Hammerkatz, brought pretty much the entire undergrad population of NYU.

So, basically, they pay $5 to see their friends and not only do they first have to sit through a half hour of sketch, but a half hour of sketch that they could’ve seen for free on Thursday. Fine by me – I think The Student could always stand to be taken down a peg.

The karaoke bit's a blast; it’s quickly become my favorite part of our show. We worked forever on trying to write a piece that was pure Hiller, something where he can just be himself – that is, really funny. Tried this character, that set-up, this elaborate game ... finally, it was as simple as him saying, “I have ‘What a Feeling’ on karaoke.” Great, love it.

I want to stick around for Reynolds and Scott at School Night, but as soon as the rehearsal show is over ... I’m done. Earlier I’d gone for happy hour dinner in the Village, and the burger-and-beers are now taking their toll. I slip out with the Astoria contingent, offering to split a cab with them up to 29th Street.
****

This past Friday before the sketch show, I flyer a middle-aged woman who promptly asks me, “What kind of comedy is this?”

“Sketch comedy,” I say.

“No, I mean like, what’s your message, what kind of statement are you trying to make?”

“Umm … that this is funny, and you should laugh?”

“No, no – like, is your stuff political?”

I laugh. Yes, Al Franken, Jon Stewart, Police Chief Rumble: the pantheon of political wit. She explains that whenever “some crazy” in Union Square gives her a flyer it’s always some kind of radical propaganda. I say, “I don’t know about propaganda, but I would say we’re pretty ... radical.” Blank stare.

Her two teen daughters, who’d been in the Diesel store, come join her and the mother says, “Look, he’s in a comedy show.”

Teen Daughter One: Are you famous?
Me: (chuckle) No.
Teen Daughter Two: Can we have your autograph?
Me: Ha. Funny. YES.

Unfortunately none of us have a pen, so the two teens cannot get an autograph from “Chris Kula, unknown comedian on corner of 14th and Union Sq. West.” Definitely one to show the kids in Scarsdale.

Later I go to thaw out at Amore Pizza and the dude serving up slices is working some rad schtick of his own:

Me: Let me get two plain.
Him: Yeah, what airline?
Me: Hey-oh.

Him: Is this to stay or to go?
Me: To stay.
Him: It’s not “Tuesday.”

Ladies, get THIS guy’s autograph.

 

[Chris Kula]

It’s the intermission of the 9:30, and John Reynolds might be having a heart attack.

Standing in the box office, I see him go up the stairs on what I assume to be a food run or something, but then he comes back down like a minute later, his face all flushed, and comes in to the office, says he’s having chest pains. He also says that he just smoked the drug marijuana after the Van Buren show, and there’s the chance that this might just be the pot having some adverse (albeit intense, and painful) effects.

Chuck asks him whose pot it was, but isn’t familiar with the supplier’s stash. “I mean, like, if it was Jawnee’s, I could say, ‘Oh yeah, that’s natural,’ but I don’t know this stuff.”

I suggest we go upstairs, get some air. Reynolds takes probably only about a half-dozen steps towards 9th Ave before wondering if maybe he should go to the hospital. This freaks me out a bit, as Reynolds is a sturdy guy, not one quick to wince, so if he’s talking about medical aid, he must really be ailing. We grab his jacket and head out just as Monkeydick is going on.

We flag down a cab on the corner, and Reynolds tells the cabbie, “Please take us to the nearest emergency room.” The dude’s head whirls around, and the look on his face is one of “Which one y’all mothafuckas be bleedin’ in my cab?”

We get to St. Vincent’s, and Reynolds is admitted into the triage area pretty quickly. I’m left in the waiting area with last week’s NYPress, a tv blaring the local ABC news review of The Passion of the Christ, and a guy who keeps getting yelled at by the security guard for taking his shoes off (his own shoes, not the security guard's).

About 15 minutes in, a guy rushes in with his hand wrapped in a towel, screaming to see a hand surgeon because he’s “losing nerve endings” and when told to fill out the same form as everyone else, he yells “This is bullshit!” like only a wealthy white guy can and tries to push his way into the triage room. Security restrains him and I turn my attention to the news’ interview with the latest cut from America’s Top Model.

A little bit later Eric Scott rushes in. Right after Monkeydick finished up, he’d called Reynolds to see if he’d gone out to the bar, and Reynolds actually answered in the triage area and told Eric what was happening, forgetting, however, to tell him that I was down there, too. So Eric busts down to the hospital, thinking Reynolds has suffered cardiac arrest while all alone, and walks in to find me, eating mints and watching NBA scores.

Around 11:30 or so we’re allowed to go back into main holding room and see Reynolds. He looks TERRIBLE. Not really, that’s just what we tell him. He’s comfortably propped up in a bed and hooked up to a heart monitor – it’s a race, first one to make a Flatliners reference, and I win.

He's already had an EKG, blood drawn, and is now waiting for an x-ray. He's in good spirits, though that could be BECAUSE HE'S STILL HIGH. We ask if he told the doctors that he’d been smoking earlier. Reynolds: “I told them I was ‘around’ marijuana tonight.”

We end up waiting back there with him for three hours. The chest pains subside all on their own, his heart rate goes from an excessively unhealthy pace back to its normal unhealthy pace. Reynolds feels fine and wants to get out of there, but we’re still waiting on all of his tests to come back. We become enamored with this one bit of Eric demanding “answers” from the doctors, to questions like, “Why didn’t I get into Mississippi State?”

We have more than ample time to dissect and redissect Van Buren’s Harold, which turns out to be the only show I see. Violet: on fire. Gethard, Birch: missed. Will Hines: greatly appreciated as a coach. Then we get around to sketch stuff: the showcase, their Spank in April, how this whole “heart attack” was just an elaborate ruse to steal an authentic white lab coat for use in scenes.

Around 2 a.m. the cute young nurse who's been attending to Reynolds all night clues us in that his tests look perfectly normal, that it's just a matter of waiting for the doctor to okay his discharge. Even before this news we're actually having a pretty good time, old friends just hanging out, demanding answers. There’s even a nice tender moment when Reynolds offers us use of his bedside urine receptacle.

He’s finally discharged with a clean bill of health at 2:45 a.m., and we cab it up to Venus. The dude who was just under observation for heart problems opts for a bacon cheeseburger, and I win big with a waffle, bacon and eggs.

“Hey, guys?” Eric never actually says, not putting his arms around us. “We should do this more often.”

 

[Chris Kula]

My uncle the banker calls me up the other day, says he’ll be in town for business and wants to do dinner with me on Wednesday. When he asks if I know of any “good restaurants,” I laugh. Ten minutes later, as I finish laughing, I say yeah, I can probably figure something out. He then heightens nicely by saying, “Oh, and maybe something near my hotel – in the Financial District.”

I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve been down in the FiDi, as evidenced by my use of “FiDi.” Lucky for me, Susannah works down in that area and is able to get me a list of some places her company considered for their last business lunch. The recommendations are “helpful,” as they “come directly” from a “recent Zagat” guide”!”

So I have plenty of options when I head downtown. However, “having options” should not also denote the ability to then “find” said options. I take it as a very bad sign when, on my way to my uncle’s hotel, I can’t locate what was to be my first choice, a place called 55 Wall ... which is at 55 Wall Street. Just apparently not when I’m looking for it.

So rather than take him on a potentially fruitless walking tour of decidedly-NOT-my-New York, I say, “You know, Uncle Joe, I’ve heard really good things about (looks at marquee of restaurant adjacent to hotel) … Bull Run? Yes ... Bull Run.”

Turns out Bull Run IS quite good, but then, you should season any Chris Kula restaurant review with a grain of salt – I think the Tick Tock Diner is quite good, too. The place is all businessmen, in every direction I overhear merger chit chat, so I roll with it when it comes time for our drink orders:

Waiter: Would you gentlemen care to start with something to drink?
Me: (confident, bordering on smug) Make mine ... a Samuel Adams.

My uncle the VP nods in approval, then orders himself a strawberry margarita. Touche.

(It should be noted Joe is not the gay uncle that’s a staple in every family. That would be my Uncle Dave. He lives in Denver with Aunt Ron.)

Over drinks Joe explains the details of his company’s upcoming merger (naturally), which is as relevant to me as the details of the March schedule are to him. Still, he’s a good guy, and takes to heart all the stuff I tell him about my different skits, pranks, and gag routines. He even suggests maybe I should consider getting a writing job. Thanks, I’ll do that.

Joe orders a tuna steak. I opt for an appetizer of crabcake salad, an entrée of the roasted Florida red snapper with asparagus and shitake mushrooms in a parsley risotto, and then, for dessert, a sampler of chocolate, pistachio, and vanilla crème brulees.

After reading this account, I know what you, the simple, simple people of the IRC, must be thinking, and yes, the meal WAS delicious, and yes, I AM a tremendous asshole.

And also yes, later on I DID catch American Idol on TiVo.

 

[Chris Kula]

This morning I flat out lied to my supervisor at the Day Job about having completed something and, when he later called me on it, all I could muster up in response was, “Oh. Yeah, I guess I didn’t do that.” You’d think with several years training as an improvisational ac-tor I could have come up with a better excuse, but that’s just how badly my work ethic has deteriorated: I can’t even make the effort to LIE anymore.

My company got bought up by a larger Day Job just about a year ago, but the ensuing merger is going painfully slowly, keeping my dreams of layoffs and days-free unemployment just out of reach. Now there’s talk that there might be some downsizing coming in the summer, but frankly, I don’t know if I can last that long.

I pretty much cashed it in back in November, just wanted to get past the holidays, use up all my vacation time and take advantage of all the pricey holiday meals we were being treated to by other client Day Jobs. Plus, I was a “paid employee” without really doing the “employee” part. I figured the ax would probably drop on this routine come ’04, but oh well, it was time for a change anyway.

Yet, we’re two months down in the new year and I’m … still … here. Unbelievable. Even I would have fired me by now. So now it’s to the point where it's almost like a personal challenge, an experiment, plotting the time in which I’m still picking up checks against the actual amount of work I’m doing for them.

It’s like driving on an empty tank and that sick obsession with how far you can push the needle past E.

Adding a catalyst, I took a sick day yesterday, with the intentions of using it to interview at some other places I’d hit up via Craigslist. One of them called to rescheduled for later in the week, and another one I blew off because they turned out to be located on E.83rd which for me would be like commuting daily to Portland, Mai- no, wait ... Oregon.

I did get over to register at this one temp agency, where they didn’t quite know what to make of me, a dude who already possesses full-time employment and yet is seeking day-to-day assignments and, when asked which industry he’d like to work in, laughs and says, “I don’t think you’re gonna have any openings in that.”

They tested my typing (74 wpm) and then my proficiency on Word, Excel, and Powerpoint, on all of which I am, according to my resume, “skilled.” Turns out I wasn’t bullshitting that badly: I got 26/30 questions right on both Word and Powerpoint, and 23/30 on Excel.

I said to the lady testing me, “Funny, isn’t it, that it’s Excel at which I least ... excel.” She kissed me long and hard.

I walked from the Temp Row of the E.40s back to my place, window shopping for a new phone along the way, as I find that potential financial instability is the best time to invest in electronics. I almost threw in for a new Samsung at some place on 23rd but got too intimidated. Not by the employees, mind you – by the gaggle of teen girls who were at the counter spouting off detailed info on unlimited text messaging, polyphonic ring tones, and Bluetooth connectivity.

Me, I liked the blue one!

 

[Chris Kula]

This news blurb comes from my hometown newspaper, The Grand Rapids Press:

Amateur television producer Timothy Huffman, convicted last year of indecent exposure for broadcasting a videotape of a joke-telling penis on GRTV public access cable, has been sent to jail.

Huffman, 45, was found guilty Tuesday of violating probation for getting convicted of indecent exposure again, this time for a live act outside his Sparta mobile home. Huffman was found guilty of exposing himself during an argument with a neighbor over a barking dog.

Yes. I love the kind of argument that escalates to the point where it gets so heated and confrontational that your only remaining course of action is to whip it out.

“Fuck you, man!”
“No, fuck you!”
“No (exposes self) – fuck YOU!”

It’s also possible, knowing the readership of the GRPress, that someone could have misread the report in way that casts the “barking dog” not as the root of the argument, but as an added detail of the exposure. Hence:

“Fuck you, man!”
“No, fuck you!”
“No (exposes self over barking dog) – fuck YOU!”

And perhaps the best part of the story, to be filed under the First Unusual Thing category - THIS PENIS APPARENTLY TELLS JOKES???

The Grand Rapids Press: It's the story of our lives.*

*actual slogan

 

[Chris Kula]

Yesterday was my last at the Day Job.

Last Thursday I was given my FINAL final warning in a meeting with my boss and the HR manager, at which they asked point blank, "Chris, do you really want to be here?" I did a quick calculation of how much my next check would be vs. how much I need for headshots and said, "Yes, yes I want to be here."

Immediately after confirming with them that I was actually going to be committed to doing this job, I returned to my desk to find 1) a voicemail calling me in for an audition the next day and 2) an email from a job posting I'd responded to on Craigslist, asking if I could come in and interview Friday afternoon.

I walked back over to my boss.

"Hey, Bob, I just wanted to thank you for sticking with me, I really appreciate your patience and support, and I definitely want to make a go of it here.
(BEAT)
"Listen, I need to take tomorrow afternoon off..."

So last Friday, while using "personal hours" at the Day Job, I interviewed for and then, about an hour later, was offered a job at this other place, an engineering firm where I'd be answering phones, typing up the occasional letter and - "Oh!" said the woman I'd be replacing, "It's REALLY important that you make sure the conference room is stocked with enough coffee."

The pay is the same as I'm making now, with comparable hours, 10 times less responsibility/accountability, and best of all, it's one (1) block from my house. I will never leave 8th Avenue.

From there, I went on the audition, for an Animal Planet promo in which I'd be playing a gay Latino crocodile (even though I think the commercial's already shot, I'm still crossing my fingers for a callback), and then returned to the Day Job, where I closed out my work week by sending out my letter of resignation.

In it I cited a desire to give them the proper two weeks notice, but due to some "unfortunate personal matters," I would instead be giving three (3) days notice.

Those three days, Monday-Wednesday, then, were spent deleting all my personal files from the company server and doing something of an archeological dig on the area of my cubicle. With every layer of clutter I unearthed, I traveled further back in time: Dark Champions flyers; mix cds long since uploaded to my iPod, some level two-era sketch gems (dates are forthcoming for my staged reading of VAMPIRE JOB REVIEW).

Yesterday evening, right after not loading up my bag with office supplies, I slipped a bunch of Bullsh*t Pie flyers into the pages of some random books in the office library, so that hopefully like 10 years from now when someone is checking on reprint info in Ultra-Wideband Short Pulse Electromagnetics VI, they'll come across this makeshift bookmark, look over the cast list and say, "Hey, this guy has his own late-night show now and is incredibly successful! But what was Charlie Sanders ever doing here?"

 

[Chris Kula]

It's day two of the new Day Job, and I've alienated only about half of the 40 people who work here, so, right on par. My big highlight yesterday, next to eating lunch at home over the recorded Curb finale, was ordering this week's worth of office groceries from the deli downstairs. Couple gallons of milk, some half and half, a few tubs of cream cheese, all billed to the company account - and I'm the one who signs for it. I think in the coming weeks this order will come to include a variety of frozen pizzas and size 12 Adidas Sambas.

Bought a new phone this weekend, a Motorola camera phone with a built-in AIM feature, as I'm not online nearly enough as is. I made the switch from Sprint to T-Mobile, and I'm still in the middle of the number porting process, which, according to my friendly T-Mobile salesman "Mercury," can take up to a week and a half. So I'm carting around two phones right now, one with which to actually receive calls and, you know, communicate, and one with which to take grainy photos and … play Bejeweled?

The shopping experience was pretty quick and painless, and "Mercury" seemed on the up and up, except for that when it came time to sign some forms, brotha pulls out not your basic ballpoint pen or even a standard Bic, but a ridiculously oversized blue plastic pen that was over a foot long and had about the diameter of a soup can. It was fairly Seussical.

"Hope you don't mind the big pen," "Mercury" said. "I like it, makes people think I got that somethin' extra."

He then used that something extra to to misspell my name "Cula" on the activation forms, which, no, I don't see causing any account problems down the road.

I checked out some of the downloadable MegaTones for this phone online the other night, and I'd say of the dozens and dozens of "MP3-like personal ring tone" options, only one - Mungo Jerry's "In the Summertime" - sounds even vaguely "MP3-like" or remotely "personal." Mostly they just sound like the first projects of a seventh grader at MIDI camp.

The selection was also somewhat lacking. When I searched for my all-time favorite, I was met with an autoresponse to the effect of "Our database of ringtones is always growing, so we will take into consideration the addition of "All Night Long All Night." Come join the party, T-Mobile, see how I play.

 

[Chris Kula]

Word is slowly getting out at the new Day Job that I do UCB stuff, and people are starting to meekly approach me with questions about it:

"So, how long have you been in the Upright Citizens Brigade?"

"So, how much does it cost if I, like, wanted to join the Upright Citizens Brigade?"

"I heard their Sunday night show is like all SNL people. So, do you do that show?"

One dude, totally nice and very enthusiastic, asked me the best night to see "the AMC cellphone guy."

Me: Uhh … oh! You mean Rob Huebel?
Dude: Oh, I don't know his name, he's the one who's like, "No, it's cool, I've got a MILLION minutes!"
Me: Yeah, that's Rob Huebel.
Dude: And he's got that laugh, like [does a Huebel impression].
Me: Ha ha. Yeah. Hey, I've got a show tonight, actually, at 8 o'-
Dude: He's like, "It's pronounced 'kar-ah-tay!' Aww, man, I'd PAY to see that guy.
Me: (placid nod, while inside: [angrily shaking fist] Huebellllll!)

But, they're all happily taking flyers and swaddling me in the thin blanket of feigned interest, and really, that's all I ask for. I've long resigned myself to the fact that the two circles of daytime work and nighttime Work are as Ven as they get, with little intersection - and probably for the best. Unh, I don't need these people all up in my bidness. (snaps)

In the two and a half years I worked at my previous day gig, of all the shows I'd done in that time, only two were attended by dudes from the office: a DC show at Siberia (which the guy later admitted he'd attended just to see X Plus One through some connection with a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-girl-he-wanted-to-sleep-with) and one of my New Team shows.

The guy who attended the latter was the office's social cripple (and an aspiring crossword puzzle writer, which would seem to go hand in hand) and I think he had something of a man crush on me - and for that matter, on anyone who ever spoke a solitary word to him. He backed up his rep the day following the New Team by emailing me a "humorous" review of the show that was long and detailed to the point of poignancy. I just replied back with a polite thank you, and quietly deleted the homemade Jumble he'd attached.

 

[Chris Kula]

Cagematch Dance Party was a success, so much so that we had collected maybe only or two ballots before people started packing the stage - that Louie Prima house music was just too swingin'. The MJ track, if not the disco lights, if not the fog machine, cemented the dance party vibe. Gotta love an audience that at moment's notice will yes-and an idea and run with it - nay, dance with it.

I was happy with the handshake music of Tom Cochrane's "Life Is a Highway," too, if just for the timeliness of its usage. Walking down 8th to the theatre after PCR rehearsal, Bobby and Will Hines and I had just been rhapsodizing mid-90s rock, singing the praises/choruses of Screaming Trees, Soul Asylum, and Toad the Wet Sprocket, and we disovered that both of those dudes had taken in the hot circa-'94 double bill of Spin Doctors/Gin Blossoms - the "Spin 'n Gin Tour," as it was not commonly known, yet really should have been.

I've got the iPod stocked with all the Livin' in the '90s stuff, in preparation for the DJ'ing some of the Real Real World shows - tuneswise, I'm gonna put that house of performers squarely in the middle of Real World 3/4. So last night in the booth before Cage, while I was deliberating between the Tommy Cochrane track and "Two Princes," onlooking Rob Cacy said something to the effect of "Ah, to live inside Kula's iPod for just a day..."

I'd like to think that would be something like stepping into the Matrix, except that when you summon a room full of ammo, the shelves aren't stocked with guns so much as L.A. Guns.

I actually had a scare with the iPod last night at rehearsal: I left the headphones hanging out of my jacket pocket, where they dangled down to the floor. It was just a matter of time 'til someone stepped on them, and, as it were, that someone was me. The crunch underfoot felt and sounded just like crushing the skull of a rabbit on a Tijuana street curb - "kind of" sickening.

I'd bent the circular ear bud casing all out of shape, and the wiring of the inner phone was just hanging there exposed, flacid. Will Hines was kind enough to offer me the unused pair he had sitting at home, and I would have taken him up on the offer had I not been able to EXERT MAN'S DOMINANCE OVER MACHINE AND BEND THE GODDAMNED THING RIGHT BACK INTO PLACE.

Tragedy avoided, I was able to resume rehearsal with head held high, and Jon Spencer references even higher.

Post-Cage I went to the diner with Brister and Reynolds, where the reuben-to-omelette ratio was 2:1 and, somewhat surprisingly, given my penchant for the meats and cheeses, this time I was of the minority. They laughed at the amount I said I wanted to spend on headshots, and they laughed even harder at my 8:15 a.m. start time at the Day Job. They tried to convince me to skip out of work today to join them and Violet at an afternoon screening of Dawn of the Dead.

I declined - that's a little too scary. Violet, I mean.

 

[Chris Kula]

The plan last night was to head home and get a quick shower and clean-up shave (so as to maximize the Lorenzo Lamas six-day beard I've got going right now) before meeting Dippold at Burritoville. This plan was actualized, just in a much bigger rush, as I got stuck at the New Day Job making what I'm sure were some very important copies for a very important person at the very important hour of 5:29 p.m.

Hurrying down 8th, I passed Dag's and spied through the front window gigawatt having a nice team dinner. Naturally, I flipped them off. But they were oblivious to me out on the street, so the only ones to see my gesture were the two Asian girls walking behind me. Gasp! Cover mouths! Giggle!

Dipps was late getting to B'ville, too, so my behind-schedule entrance was actually timed perfectly. While waiting to place my order at the counter, I witnessed the following:

Burritoville Employee: Number 13, barbecue chicken burrito.
(no response - beat)
Burritoville Employee: Number 13, barbecue chicken burrito!
(no response - beat)
Burritoville Employee: Number 13, barbecue-
(bathroom door opens, head pokes out)
Guy in Bathroom: Yeah yeah - I'll be just a second. (closes door)
(employee and I share a look - beat)
Me: Normally the Mexican food comes first.
(LAUGHTER, APPLAUSE, TICKER TAPE)
****

One of my duties at the New Day Job is to stock the kitchen with coffee, so I've taken it upon myself to scrap the freeze dried Taster's Choice and order the gourmet shit. Today I unloaded a shipment of the following blends: your darker brews (Paradiso, French Roast, Sumatra, Columbia 100%), your lighter fare (French Vanilla Supreme, Belgian Chocolate Nut, Southern Pecan) and your only-for-women-and-feeble-feeble-men flavor of Swiss Chocolate Almond. The Swiss Chocolate Almond is really good.
****

The sketch class show finished up its run last night (tellingly, I just now mistyped "run" as "fun," because it was). They did a fine job with it, were all totally committed to putting in the time and work. It got good houses, too, last night's being especially loaded with their friends and such, who all milled about afterwards to ride the train of well-wishes. So much so, in fact, that I figured they deserved an after-party vibe and gave them the post-show house music of Wang Chung's "Everybody Have Fun Tonight" and Kool and the Gang's "Celebration."

Two songs in and quarter after 12 and there were still people hanging around even as the interns tried to mop around them and clean the stage of the fake coke and broken glass. So I tried to give a hint with Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over," and when they still didn't clear out, I had to take a page from the Yankees and cue up Sinatra's "New York, New York," the contrast of its big finish -> muted silence bearing the unmistakable message of "Thank you - and GOOD NIGHT."

It was great, I loved it. I'd like to try and make this an end-of-the-night UCB tradition, but that might first require finding a "New York, New York" cover by, like, The Pixies.

 

[Chris Kula]

"You're all sheep!"

-Will McLaughlin, to the Cagematch audience, upon hearing that they'd voted The Swarm over PCR.

Great note on which to end our night, and another timestone in the rich tradition that is PCR in Cagematch. We spent the final 10 minutes of the show basically referencing and playing to ourselves, and oh, how we entertain us.

Backstage during the ballot counting, Martin suggested we play it shocked - outraged, even - when the Swarm was announced as the eventual winners, so that the audience couldn't even say we'd taken the loss with dignity. Will took that idea and heightened it to abject alienation.

That's right, we do our best heightening AFTER the buzzer. Jealous?

Earlier in the evening, I literally phoned in my attempt at an April Fool's joke. Left a message on Dippold's voicemail at 6:50 p.m., right before rehearsal: "Hey, it's Kula. I'm really sorry, I'm not gonna be able to make it to rehearsal. I just found out that Michigan is playing in the NIT title game at the Garden. This is a once in a lifetime kind of thing and because the game's only three blocks from my house, I just HAVE to watch it. Tell everybody I'm sorry and I'll catch up with you at Cage."

Then of course, I show up on time at Champs, to a chorus of angrily shaking fists. Turns out Dippold had slightly misinterpreted my message and reported back to them not that I was "going" to the game, but that I was simply watching it on tv. Again, heightening.

I now wish I'd actually lived it out, if only to have the missed-rehearsal excuse of "was watching Michigan-Rutgers. In the NIT. On ESPN 2." It'd be up there in the pantheon, but not quite at the level of McLaughlin's "I've gotta stay here at home while the exterminators fumigate my apartment." Just think about that for a sec.

Will Hines was hanging around Champs with a sign that read "Will Coach Harold for $" - I couldn't tell if it was an offer or a declaration. In any case, we took him in off the streets and he had us do an hour-long series of montages in which one person would sit out and the rest of us would do scenes "as" that person, mimicking their classic go-tos. So, six Angelikis doing nice, caring characters delivering puns in Greek accents, six Dave Martins dropping literary references and pilfering mini-fridges, and six black ladies quoting Steely Dan in the style of Chris Kula.

We even did some hyper-aggressive seven-person Sanders scenes in his absence, and it felt good to have him represented, even in our impressions. Two weeks ago Charlie's dad had a pretty severe heart attack, and he flew home right away to be with his family. It's been pretty dicey since, his dad going in and out of intensive care, Charlie not sure when he'd be coming back. Tough times.

We've been able to cover his parts in the sketch show (David Martin - who as a performer and person seems to warrant being called by first AND last name - stepped up to do two new roles, and has nailed them each time. Just really impressive, that David Martin), but it's still been sad these past couple weeks to go on without him. As much as we all love doing the show and exposing new audiences to PCR comedy/Will's ass, I think Sanders may just love it that slight bit more - and that enthusiasm is infectious.

So it was great news last night when he called while we were in the green room pre-Cage to let us know he'd be coming back to New York today. He then told us to go out and win Cage for him.

Sorry, Charlie. We tried, but they were all sheep.

 

[Chris Kula]

It was only by the grace of me being unable to disarm the alarm on my cell phone that I didn't drastically oversleep this morning. It would have been one of those scenes of "close up: eyes opening, blinking in midday sun pouring in through bedroom window. KULA freaks out for a moment, then rolls over and decides to make a day of it."

And yeah, if I'd had no backup alarm to save me, I really WOULD have made my oversleeping a full day's event - I was wiped out. Stayed late at the theatre to tech-thru with Reynolds/Scott, and that followed a meeting with Alan and Owen to go over Famewhore ideas, and THAT followed a 2-long-2-harried day at the Day Job.

Monday notwithstanding, I should have no excuse for being tired, as I spent basically the whole weekend in a prone position. No daytime ETV rehearsals meant no commitments meant no desire to "go out" or "see the sunlight" or even "walk." Susannah just got the Freaks and Geeks complete first (and only) season on DVD, and I'd never really seen the show, so Saturday/Sunday we tore through ep after ep after Thai delivery after Thai delivery.

Freaks and Geeks is utterly fantastic.

I knew people in college who were rabid about the show, who followed it from one NBC timeslot to another (to another, and another), and pretty much mourned openly when it was cancelled. I think at the time I wrote it off as another angsty teen show, or a sugary Wonder Years-style nostalgia fest, and after seeing like 12 hours of it, I can attest that, yes, it is both of these things - and wow, do they make it work.

It's cynical yet warm, funny yet touching - and I am so very gay for it, yet unapologetic. The writing is so simple and clean, and the direction is excellent. They've had some of the best instances of rock-music-as-score I've seen on tv, and since the show's set in 1980, it's classic-rock-as-score. Zeppelin. Rush. Yes - yes! And the fact that it's set in suburban Detroit is just icing ... I delighted in references to Cobo Hall, 12 Mile, and Bill Laimbeer.

My infatuation with this show has been sudden and drastic, the likes of which I haven't felt since the Larry Sanders Summer of '01. I can't get out of my head the image of tragicomic Bill Haverchuck, eating alone in front of his tv, laughing at a talk show appearance by, coincidentally enough, Garry Schandling.

(sigh) Why you gotta do me like that, Apatow?

 

[Chris Kula]

Anyone who knows me well knows that my first love is penning novelty songs, so I thought I'd give you, the people of the IRC, a glimpse into my great passion with a sneak preview of my newest tune.

It's a parody of a classic Prince number, and it deals with something that I think ALL New Yorkers can relate to - pickin' your mornin' bagel.

I call this one Let's Go Raisin. Here's a "taste":

Dearly beloved:
We are gathered here today
2 get through this thing called breakfast...

That's all I really have so far but I'm pretty sure the rest will be EVEN MORE NOVEL.
****

I left my place for Cage last night at 10:30 p.m., or, right at the point in the The Apprentice where they went to commercial prior to Trump making his decision. My roommates were taken aback.

"You're not gonna watch the decision???" they asked. I paused in the doorway, chuckled, and sighed.

"Watch it?" I said. "No way, man - I lived it."

Turns out, no, I'd been mistaking The Apprentice with the hardcore porno The Appendage. Gah-gah-gah-gooey!
****

Yesterday felt like the first day of spring to me. There was a certain charge in the air. I don't know if it was due to the long lines of last-minute tax filers streaming outside of the post office, the "Billionaires for Bush" satirically rallying outside the post office, or the people giving away free hot dogs and Rolaids outside the post office, but at least one thing's clear: I at some point walked past the post office.

The air was warm enough to convince me out to McManus following Cage, which I hadn't done in, oh, let's see ... 2004? Good post-competitive improv crowd, too - Will "Mr." Hines termed it "decidedly non-Monster Island." Porter was talking up how his hands are particularly elegant, and after he hand-modeled a bottle of Heinz 57, I had to agree. He then used those same hands to flip off Jane Borden, Eric Scott, and "Mr." Hines, and, again, I had to agree.

I only stayed for "a" beer, and was home by 2. This has shaped up to be a solid week, as second weeks of April go. Teched Reynolds & Scott's Jackpot! on Monday, performed Del Close's The Harold on Tuesday, was given a tour of the Garden's music facilities by Mark Lee on Wednesday, rehearsed long-form improvisation with PCR last night, and tonight I'll probably see Kill Bill v.2 late after the Bullsh*t Pie show.

But watch out, the party's just starting! Sunday is National Holocaust Remembrance Day, and Tuesday is the fifth anniversary of Columbine. On Monday I'm looking to experience more of an intimate, personal tragedy, so I'll probably go see a show at [insert comedy venue you'd like to see BURNED HARD.]

 

[Chris Kula]

I've been somewhat remiss with the journal of late, I guess because I haven't much been around a computer. Let me rephrase that: I haven't much been around a computer during long, unabated periods of time between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. In other words, I'm being kept fairly busy at the Day Job. It's strange, too, the way I'm responding, by "completing tasks" and "fulfilling duties" and "making a point to NOT shirk all manner of responsibility" ... they seem pleased with me, but I fear I might be losing my ability to craft point blank, on-demand excuses.

The nighttime hours leave little in the way for quality Powerbook time, either (though I hope to rectify this by the arrival of my newly Amazon'd FCP Apple Pro training book/dvd ... said purchase was the last in a trifecta of Apple-related self-improvements I made on Sunday, starting with new in-ear buds for my iPod from Tekserve and then a download of the new iTunes/iPod software from the Apple site). Hell, it was all I could do to clear the piles of clothes off my chair to sit down AT my Powerbook.

I finally had to relent and take a Saturday afternoon to cut a swath through the clutter. My personal décor had taken a turn for the refugee chic. Refuchic? The spring cleaning came, not uncoincidentally, around the time that Charlie Todd was scoping out the place for a possible summer move-in, and apparently it reflected well on the pad, as it looks like he's gonna be making it his home on 8th come June. If you add that to the impending apartment adventures of Spencer and Antny moving in together, Sanders and Foley shacking up, and Dippold finding someone to move into Erin's room, it seems like we should be renting a moving van for the whole community, weekend time-share style.

So this week we've reached the feverish culmination of Terry Jinn rehearsals. (Somewhere along the way, I stopped referring to the show as "Enormous Television" or even "ETV" - it's now simply "Terry Jinn." In the same way that the "Kleenex" or "Xerox" brand names now stand for entire lines of similar products, I hope that one day tavern-goers on college campuses everywhere will be entertained by the spirited, comically-inclined rock covers put out by the resident Terry Jinn band). A late-night run-through of the whole running order on Wednesday night is the final prep before Saturday's big (read: BIG) show. Twenty-four songs! I'd have to look in my calendar to be absolutely sure, but I think - think - the rehearsals for this show have lasted somewhere around SIX YEARS.

Of note in the past couple weeks: Dark Champions had its two-year anniversary, and celebrated with an absurd $180 lunch in Little Italy ... Calhoun went and got married and had us over to a swank Gramercy loft for a nice little Mexican-themed reception, complete with excellent fresh guac, Dos Equis, and empañadas, or "good biscuits" … I got called out as "John Stevens!" by some drunks exiting Yankee Stadium, remarkable in that apparently even Bronx bleacher creatures tune in to American Idol … annnd that's really, somewhat sadly, about it. I'm in something of a funk right now, and I mean that both in terms of my day-to-day and this journal entry - and I suspect the latter is more easily remedied than the former.

 

[Chris Kula]

Terry Jinn's Enormous Television 3.0
Saturday, May 8th, 2004
The Bitter End - New York City

PRESHOW

The Adam Ezra Group, a pop-rootsy combo with a sound forged seemingly in the dorm lounges of Boulder, Colorado. They feature the jamband musts of 1) a violin/mando multi-instrumentalist and 2) a chubby percussionist who, though I can't confirm it, presumingly goes by the nickname of "Snarf" or "the Snarfer."

Setting up my kit backstage, I at one point hear Adam Ezra sing out about the hardships of playing the "music that HE writes" for "audiences that only wanna hear covers." Next up on the bill ... a 30-person cover band.

SET I

For Those About To Rock (We Salute You) - AC/DC - Katty Biscone

A no-brainer as openers go. Alternate title for this evening might be, "For Those About to Rock (For Two+ Hours, to the Delight of UCB-Related Friends and the Sporadic Bemusement of Regular Bitter End Patrons (We Salute You))."

Let's Go Crazy - Prince - Mike Ludwig

In 2051, Ludwig will be the first performer named to the Enormous Television 50 All-Time Greats band. "Dearly beloved..." gets big laughs, and when the drums kick in at "Dr. everything gonna be all right," it feels like the show has officially begun.

Yankee Rose - David Lee Roth - Aaron Bergeron

Aaron Bergeron, doing David Lee Roth doing hard rock vaudeville, pronounces "beautiful" as "bee-YOU-ti-ifuhl!" Also: that guy's guitar was talking!

Fool In The Rain - Led Zeppelin - Owen Burke

Probably the audience's biggest first-note-recognition reaction the whole night, though I've got a hunch less than a quarter of them could actually put a name with a tune: (first note) "Oh shit! It's ... this one!"

Cherry Bomb - The Runaways - Julie Brister

Great performance by Brister (who in high school actually peer mentored Lita Ford), but why why why didn't we recognize in the many weeks and months leading up to the show that this tune was calling for a final, thrown-in chorus of "T-t-t-terry Bomb"?

Back On The Chain Gang - Pretenders - Betsy Stover

For some reason unbeknownst to me, the fluttery lead guitar line in this one always makes me picture a 17 year-old girl squealing "Seniors 4eva!" Also: the number three all-time pick for songs with guttural grunt backing vox, behind Lee Dorsey's "Working in a Gold Mine" and, not uncoincidentally, Sam Cooke's "Chain Gang."

Take A Chance On Me - ABBA - Sharon/Crystal

Actually, any time you cover ABBA you take a chance - with your life! Not really - it's just fun pop, and the Swedes are in fact not a violent people. ... Like the Danes.

Simple Man - Lynyrd Skynyrd - Billy Merritt

Billy welcomes the audience to "the Sugar Daddy Lounge outside of Jacksonville, Florida." A table of random blondes up front trades confused glances at each other, and, for a second, it seems they're trying to confirm whether 1) they are, in fact, in south Florida or 2) just that BILLY thinks they're in south Florida, which is actually funnier.

Peg - Steely Dan - Brian Fountain/Katty

Marc Liepis called in sick to rock, so Terry had to find someone to sing it in his stead. In a perfect rock fantasy world, Terry would have waited until we were onstage to ask for a volunteer, and this would have been the night that Donald Fagen just happened to be hangin' at the Bitter End bar. But no, in our flawed rock reality world, Fountain and Katty both volunteered and ended up doing a duet. Boo to pragmatism.

Lump - Presidents of the USA - Andy Rocco

Rocco had probably the most rehearsal time of any of the ETV3 singers; he was the 12 year-old Lil' Stevie Wonder to our Motown house band, always hangin' around the studio, asking questions, tripping on mic cords. His practice paid off, though - he nailed this tune and kept with the proud musical tradition that is ... the Presidents of the USA.

Hey Ya! - Outkast - Paul Scheer

"Now all you Pat Baers, and Andy Roccos, get on the floor..."

Bawitdaba - Kid Rock - Shannon O'Neill

A couple of showbiz rules: actors shouldn't work with children or animals, and cover bands shouldn't try to follow Shannon O'Neill-as-Bob Ritchie. Of note: Rocco is namedropped for the second time in as many songs; he should consider spinning off his name popularity into Andy Rocco's Enormous Canon XM412 Color Copier - Live in Stamford!

SET II

My Sharona - The Knack - Fountain

Great way to kick off second set. Fountain's an excellent showman, and Terry's guitar solo really builds (and builds and builds and builds). One of my personal highlights, the second of which being...

Apeman - The Kinks - Curtis Gwinn

Best groove of the night, Brit rock by way of Muscle Shoals. Jake yells out at the end, "Curtis Gwinn is a professional" and I agree - a consumate rock performance.

Watching The Detectives - Elvis Costello - Erika Kern

When you think of Erika Kern, you think of reggae. And when you think of reggae you think ... of Elvis Costello. We be jammin' on the radio, radio.

Pulled Up - Talking Heads - Doug Moe

Doug drops a lyric somewhere and, in doing so, inadvertently parodies his own cover version of "Pulled Up" with "Doug Mo's Fucked Up." The blondes up front are still trying to figure out the Florida comment.

Papa Was A Rodeo - Magnetic Fields - Tony Carnevale

"Are you ready to get mournful?" Tony asks the audience. They respond back, paradoxically, with laughter and cheers.

Rebel Yell - Billy Idol - Ptolemy Slocum

Visual of the night: one of Terry's relatives, a grandmother or older aunt, standing up and pumping her fist along to the "She cried MORE MORE MORE!" Korean ladies love cool Ptolemy.

I'll Be You - The Replacements - Shannon Manning

Young indie rock bassists of today: work hard, practice your picking, and one day you too can have your name displayed by Michael Jeffrey Cohen on a homemade sign during a cover band birthday extravaganza.

Call Me - Blondie - Jessica Allen

Jess Allen: total pro. The audience was on top of the backing vocals all night, and the "call me!"s were no exception. Millicent Cho solos, and is thinking of a solo album RIGHT NOW.

You're No Rock and Roll Fun - Sleater-Kinney - Jackie Clarke

Sleater-Kinney: built on the love that exists between woman and woman and tambourine.

Celebration - Kool & the Gang - Matt Pack

You know how if you say a word enough times in repetition it will start to lose meaning in your mind and mouth? This is about the point in the show where my drum grooves started to lose meaning in my mind and hands. Though this could be that, after beating the tambourine, I had little FEELING in my hands. Luckily, the Package needed little help in his delivery.

Let's Dance - David Bowie - James Eason

Eason, too, will make the ETV 50 All-Time Greats band, and the clip they'll show in his tribute package will be him singing, "...tremble like a flower! (blows free jazz on sax)." The guitar/sax trade-offs is a nice touch, and flows right into...

Disco Inferno - The Trammps - all

Our attempt at an end-of-show payoff: the constant use of Disco Inferno as between-song interstitials all night, leading up to playing the actual tune as the last song of the night. The audience noted this clever gambit and went absolutely CRAZY, all rising to their feet, overturning tables and rushing the stage. Wait, no - I mistyped: having just sat through 23 OTHER SONGS IN TWO AND A HALF HOURS, they kind of nodded slightly and finished their drinks.

 

[Chris Kula]

I've taken to browsing the apartment listings on Craigs and Village Voice with my first cup of coffee in the morning. Not for my own purposes, thankfully; this'll be the first summer in four years that I haven't gone through a move - home on 8th, indeed. Instead I've been browsing 1BRs in Chelsea for Spencer and Antny, and westside 3BRs for Hiller and Liz Black and, maybepossiblypotentially, Dippold. I really want this migration to Manhattan - and specifically, to within walking distance of UCB - to happen for these folks.

Location, location, location. The utter convenience of being close in proximity to where you spend a good deal of your nights simply cannot be overstated. Some people highly value and are willing to pay that extra price for, you know, a "doorman" or an "eat-in-kitchen" or a "front door that isn't consistently tagged" - but for me it's all about the three-minute walk home after a late-night tech. Or the 30-second sprint home after realizing you've forgotten a novelty t-shirt around which an entire sketch has been written.

That's a feature they don't include in the apartment listings:

"Huge 3BR, floorthru, great light. Near all subways. Easy access to roof, leading alternative comedy venue."
****

This morning at work I cooked up a bunch of cds full of statistical logs and cadd drawings and other fascinating ENGINEERING DATA, and when it came up that they needed someone to deliver these discs across town on this, a sunny and beautiful May day, I was out the door, down the elevator, nodding to the doorman, cueing up "Mr. Blue Skies" and crossing 8th Ave before they could say "soil sample."

The cds were going to a construction co. on Madison, so I headed east on 34th and absolutely out-classed everyone the street. I put myself among the top 1% of pedestrians in NYC, the upper echelon - the Mike Vick of foot traffic. And today I was on my game. Blew past the fat ladies exiting Macy's, weaved in and out of the asshole execs on 5th Ave, the whole way dodging those Mr. Smoothie customers who are oblivious to all but the cones in front of their faces.

Made it from 31st and 8th to 38th and Madison in midday traffic in about 17 minutes. Walked in to the construction company, spiked my package on the receptionist desk, and autographed their sign-in sheet with a Sharpie pulled from my sock.

The walk back was a roundabout one. Sometime back I'd installed a mini-fridge in the conference room, in one of the knee-level cabinets that line the back wall, and there was enough space next to the fridge for for some kind of, like, small shelf or organizer type thing to store condiments and pretentious European snack fare.

So, from Madison it was a southernly walk, petty cash burning a hole in my pocket the whole way, down to Bed Bath and Beyond at 18th and 7th. Or at least that was my plan, until I saw The Container Store, on the corner directly across the street. The Container Store: precisely the type of product I was hoping to find at the triple B - and JUST that. I was in and out in three minutes, six transparent stackable drawers the richer.

From there it was just a leisurely traipse northwest, up Sixth to 23rd (where I got a Mr. Smoothie and for the next eight blocks was oblivious to all but the cone in front of my face), and then up 7th to 34th (where I stopped in to Wendy's only to immediately turn around when I realized the person in front of me wasn't waiting to get in the door but was actually the end of the line). I finally stopped in to a new Thai place on 8th for some vegetable pad Thai and a Snapple peach iced tea.

And now sitting back at my desk, my shirt sticking to me on all sides, my face flushed, and my Snapple long since gulped, I add another benefit to living close to the theatre: the crucial, CRUCIAL post-work, pre-Harold Night shower.

 

[Chris Kula]

INT. STAIRWELL OF AN APARTMENT BUILDING - EVENING

(KULA exits apartment, locks door behind him. He bounds down fourth flight of stairs with reckless abandon, lands on third floor and momentarily loses his footing, rights self.)

KULA
Hmm … slippery. They must have mopped in here. Gotta be careful.

(Beat. Previous thoughts of caution completely vacate brain. Kula bounds down third flight of stairs with same reckless abandon, lands on second floor, loses footing, feels self begin to fall.)

KULA
Whoops!

(Kula begins to laugh at his word choice of "Whoops!" Laugh is interrupted by impact of KULA'S BODY against LINOLEUM FLOOR of second floor stairwell.)

KULA
Ugh. Fuuuuck. (beat) "Whoops"?

(Kula picks self from stairwell, gingerly tests brunt-of-impact-bearing wrist and knee, deems self "okay, and also stupid" and continues on way to Duane Reade for purchase of St. Ives Cool Blue body wash.)

FIN.