What happens when, as a comedian, you get up on stage and sit perfectly still for 5 minutes and never say a word? You get Stephen Hawking: Master Impressionist.

Digg it.

Anvil first burst onto the scene back in the early 80s with bands like Bon Jovi and Whitesnake only to be left behind on the path to rock stardom. I have to confess, being a fan of metal, I had never heard of Anvil until this movie came out. It might be that I live in the South. It might be that they are Canadian. It might be a little of both.

Besides just being the story of a real-life Spinal Tap, at it's heart there's a story of a pair of childhood friends who made a promise to each other: to be rock gods. Now at 50, we find the lead singer, Lips, and drummer Robb Reiner*, still pursuing that dream. And after a disastrous tour of Europe, they return home to record their 13th album,"Smell the Glove" "This is Thirteen." When Lips popped the carton and pulled out the CD, I would not have been surprised to see it "none more black."

While Spinal Tap stands as something of a monument to mockery, it's difficult to mock Anvil, especially as a person who knows what it means to pursue a dream that crushes your soul. I felt a horrible sadness for Lips as he talked about his depressing workaday life, only to see him become that rock god, if only for a few minutes a week. And that was when the tears came. Yes, I cried while I was watching Anvil. I found their infinite patience and positive outlook touching... in a goofy kind of way.

No, Anvil: The Story of Anvil is not a monument to mockery. It is a monument to the philosophical ideology: it's not the destination, it's the journey.

Or maybe it was "fake it till you make it." I may need to watch it again.



*Spinal Tap was directed by Rob Reiner.

I am so bummed. So horribly horribly bummed. I wanted to love Black Dynamite. I really did. I wanted it to be a movie I would be excited recommending to friends unfamiliar with Blaxploitation. Sadly though, I cannot. But, that was the bad news. The good news is that any fan of the genre will like this movie, just don't expect to be able to share it with "outsiders."

The idea is as golden as Cleopatra Jones: make a movie that pays homage to the greatest Blaxploitation films of all time. It would be written, produced, directed and acted as though it was a legitimate 1970s film.

The plot is basically lifted from a number of Rudy Ray Moore films, including Dolemite, The Human Tornado, and The Disco Godfather. Like other famous pimps who preceded him, Black Dynamite is called upon by the authorities to bring down a criminal drug syndicate after his own brother, Jimmy, ODs on smack. And through some classic Blaxploitation reasoning, Black Dynamite also uncovers the terrible secret behind Anaconda Malt Liquor. Ultimately, he must use his CIA training and kung-fu mastery to kill his way up to the top until he faces "The Man" for his final vindication.

Along the way, Black Dynamite runs into other Blaxpoitation stalwarts like Honey Bee, his bottom bitch, a streetwise penny pimp named Cream Corn, and Bullhorn, a rhyme-spitting overweight pimp who is an obvious nod to Rudy Ray Moore himself. I even counted 2 boom mic shots. After all, back then it was all about the single take.

But Blaxploitation is far too broad a genre to attempt to pay tribute to in one film. I'm Gonna Git You Sucka did a great job because it stuck to the militaristic side. But, a slick talking pimp doesn't fit in a movie like Slaughter and Fred Williamson could never have played Youngblood Priest in Superfly. So when Black Dynamite begins the film as a kung-fu pimp and ends it as Rambo, it just seemed too incongruous... even for a Blaxploitation film! But that's me being nitpicky. I suppose you can attribute some of my initial dislike to personal preference. I am partial to pimps.

Recently, I had a bit of a row with one of our neighbors. He was displeased with the amount of room that I allowed him and his cycling friends when passing them on the road. Since they were taking up most of the road, it was either that or tumble off the edge of a precipice. I jest, but that's the general truth. He rebutted with 'If I get hit, it's always the driver's fault.' Au contraire. He seemed shocked to learn that he is required by law to operate his bike in a safe, predicatable manner.

So, I gave him this extreme example: If he was drunk and riding his bike and ran it up under the front wheel of a vehicle, not only would he get a DUI, but his insurance would be required to fix his mangled legs and the other vehicle's repair costs. His response was "Homina homina homina."

I told him that I we should make a deal. If he and all of his friends would obey the law, I would give them as much of the road as they wanted. Apparently, they have not kept up their end of the bargain. For you see, I heard from a local cyclist (who agrees with everything I say, by the way), and he told me that his cronies have gotten numerous traffic tickets for running stop signs in my neighborhood! Huzzah to the local authorities!

In an area where there are clearly no minimum fitness requirements for our local law enforcement, it's nice to see them getting their rightful revenge on all you toned, riding Adonises. It's clear they are just jealous.

P.S.
My original 'I hate cyclists' has become a bit of a sore spot on the internet. It has jumped to the number one Google search entry for 'I hate cyclists'. Who knew that they spent so much time surfing the internet for people who hate them.

For those of you not familiar with Asheville, NC, it's like a little taste of Haight-Ashbury on the East Coast. It wasn't always like this. I guess it was just a logical progression from poor mountain folk to dirty hippies.

It's not often I get the opportunity to do gay rape jokes in front of a crowd lesbians, so I jumped at the chance. Every good comedian knows that misogyny and liberalism are a match made in heaven. I did my five minutes and after I was chased off the stage, I decided to belly-up to the bar and have a barbecue sandwich. While I was eating, a couple of hippy girls sat next to me and one said to the other, "I need to get your deodorant recipe."

I thought, "This ought to be interesting because I have no idea where you would locate methlypolystearate at such a late hour."

As it turns out, the actual deodorant recipe consisted of Everclear (yes, the cheap-ass vodka), orange oil, and lemon oil. She went on to explain that her "recipe does nothing to prevent sweating, but it does kill the bacteria that causes the body odor."

Ewwww. But the real kicker is what she said next:

"Just remember, when you make it, be sure to add some denatured alcohol so it will taste bad. This will keep people from drinking it."

Ewwww! Really? If her deodorant recipe is so irresistibly tasty, I can't wait to try her homemade douche on a Caesar salad.

What kind of a name is Wii? You play video games on an Xbox or a Playstation. Wii is something babies do in their poopy diapers. It’s also the sound a retard makes on the Merry-Go-Round.

Back when I was in the market for a new system, I took a long look at the Wii. Then I realized that any normal adult would die of sheer embarrassment from being caught waggling their Wiimote. I’ve always had a thing about playing games that made you look like you were giving $5 handies behind the 7-Eleven. Over time, the game play falls somewhere between Space Invaders and a Speak and Spell.

But no system is complete without a good backlog to gaming titles. If you’re buying the Wii, don’t expect to play games like Call of Duty: World at War and Grand Theft Auto 4. Instead, you get Virtual Aquarium and Cooking Mama 2: Dinner with Friends. Hand to God. A real game.

When I play a video game, I don’t want to do virtual chores, I want to zip around the city in an expensive car and shoot an old woman in the face, then teabag her corpse.

It’s not that I hate Nintendo, I just haven’t been brainwashed to believe that every turd they shit into the consumer’s mouth is the greatest thing since anal bleaching.

Even back in 1986, I never thought their consoles were particularly inspiring. Sega, on the other hand, always had the raddest names for their consoles, as if buying one would make you as cool as the unit itself.

First, Sega came out with the Master System to compete with the Nintendo Entertainment System. Then they were followed by the Sega Genesis and the Super Nintendo Entertainment System.

Putting the word “Super” in front of something does not automatically qualify it as awesome in every possible way. If I decide to go around saying I have a “Super” penis will not change the fact that it’s 2 inches long and always points to the left.

I remember a day when a TV show about a family with 6 kids was considered fiction, and you thought, "Holy shit that’s a huge family!" And because it was unfeasible to think that that one woman could birth so many children, it took the merging of two separate families to make it happen.

Nowadays you have that kooky Nadya Suleman and her playground slide vagina, giving birth to the entire Brady Bunch at the same time. Her belly was so packed with fetuses that when she went for her final sonogram it looked like an MC Escher drawing.

But, I’m not being completely fair to ole Nadya. She actually had a c-section. If you can get past the Dr. Frankenstein scar and skin that looks like wet lasagna, I’m sure her vagina is absolutely delightful. You can look at the lips on her face and get a rough approximation of what you’re in for.

But can you imagine the horror show that was her c-section? I bet it looked a little like that scene from The Empire Strikes Back where Han Solo sliced open the belly of the tauntaun so Luke wouldn’t freeze to death. Except this time the entire Clone Army fell out.

As I get older, I realize I'm just one blip in the endless cycle that is earthly existence. I've always lived with a deep sense of dread, knowing that when my time is done, I will be forgotten like so many anonymous people. So everywhere that I've spent my time, I tried my best to make a mark. To leave something behind that people will remember.

I have had minor success, especially during my high school years. Only now, almost 20 years later, do I realize that I wasn't quite as invisible as I thought. It's amazing how many people remember me. But that was piddly high school crap. I wanted more.

I remember sitting in Government and Economics class attempting to write observational comedy like, "Why do birds get run over by cars? They have the whole sky, but when they need to cross the road they insist on flying 3 feet off the ground." It's no Seinfeld, but it's pretty snappy for a 16 year old.

That's pretty much where it ended. As with everything in adolescence, it was forgotten as flight of fancy. Not until this past year did the urge come back, and with a vengeance. My wife picked up Steve Martin's "Born Standin Up" for me and it sat on the bookshelf for months. When I finally cracked the cover I was consumed by it. How could a man who made me laugh so much growing up have been so unhappy doing it? Inconceivable!

So, right then and there, I made a decision. By the end of 2008 I would be on stage. Somewhere. Somehow.

I set to writing two to three jokes in a notebook everyday (a habit I have yet to stop). I crafted a full 15 minutes then threw it away. They were okay, but they weren't traditional stand-up material. It was more stories and funny observations, which is comedy suicide for a first timer. People will only listen to stories if they have some sort of vested interest in the parties involved. So, I rewrote the whole thing using the "attitude -> setup -> act-out -> punchline" method. After all, you need to understand the rules before you can break them.

After writing and rewriting for the next month, I was ready to go on stage. And I've been there ever since.

What keeps bringing me back is the laughter. It sounds corny, but when you can make a group of people laugh in unison at the same joke, you've done something special. The laughter is what makes a comedian's job easy. You get swept up and the jokes flow effortlessly. The high is indescribable.

It's when that laughter is gone that it becomes one of the most difficult jobs in the world (I know from experience). It's enough to make you put the notebook down and say "Fuck it all."

But not until I've made my mark.

Christmas is the National Championship of religious holidays.

Thanksgiving has come and gone. The anticipation begins for the big day that you've spent months preparing for. Everyone is talking about it and you can't turn on the television or radio without hearing about it. Everyone knows who is involved and is familiar with it even if they don't participate because you don't have to be affiliated with the teams to enjoy the action.

Hanukkah is the Gator Bowl. Some people know what it is and might even know what's at stake, but you don't necessarily tune in unless you're associated with the teams in some way.

Kwanzaa is the MPC Computers Bowl. No one but a select few know who's in it, where it's held, or even where it came from.

Regardless of your party lines, in November, vote out every single incumbent politician. What we have now is clearly not working so it's time for a wholesale change.

Today the DOW dropped 700 points and I cannot find a drop of gas anywhere within 250 miles of my home. I'm done with them all. They all have got to go. You hear me, you fuckups? Start packing your shit.

Write in Rudy Ray Moore for President!

I have completely given up on My Name is Earl because of the huge Scientology connection. (Well, that's not entirely true, last season sucked ass.) They hide it cleverly with the whole 'karma' angle, but it is actually Scientology's "overt-motivator sequence." According to the "doctrine," when you do something bad then subconsciously it causes something bad to happen to you. They say it right on their own site:

"When one has received something bad, he also may tend to feel he must have done something to deserve it."

So, every time Earl crosses something off of his list, he's one step closer to being "clear." Think I'm kidding? Don't fool yourself. Here's a list of the Scientologists working on My Name is Earl:

Greg Garcia
Jason Lee
Ethan Suplee
Bill Suplee
Giovanni Rubisi
Juliette Lewis
Jenna Elfman

And those are just the ones I can confirm.

At least Christian themed TV shows are upfront about it. It's even obvious by their names: Seventh Heaven, Highway to Heaven, Touched by an Angel, Amen, etc.

Here's the understatement of the year: Dell sucks.

Case in point: I tried to buy a camera from Dell. It was a great deal just under $100 for a $300 camera. Certainly not out of the realm of possibility. Woot.com sells them like that all the time (I ended up buying the same camera from Woot for about $150). Yet, Dell decided that too many people were getting this great deal and pulled the plug, refusing to honor the purchase. They certainly didn't mind charging me for the memory card that I bought with it. Bravo, douchebags. It all finally got resolved but not until I raised a stink with the FTC and the BBB. The squeaky wheel always gets the grease.

Unfortunately, my aborted order has etched me permanently into their mailing list. I have tried countless times to unsubscribe and the Dell site says that I am successful after each attempt, yet the spam keeps rolling in. And don't give me that "it takes 30 days to process" bullshit. I've been trying to get removed for 6 months. Contacting customer support is fruitless. Apparently issues regarding the Dell mailing list are not in any of their pre-canned scripts. So, I just tagged every article from Dell as spam and it is quietly filtered into oblivion.

Enter a good friend of mine who is helpless as a newborn kitten when it comes to computers. He asks for me to help him select a laptop. What's the first thing I tell him? DO NOT BUY A DELL. And guess what? He didn't.

So there you have it, Dell. That's the first of many well placed thrusts towards your wanton backside.

Always one to follow internet fads, the latest one to catch my attention is people drawing themselves as a teen. There's some mighty fine examples here.

Here's mine:



'Nuff said.

I've been a fan of Squidbillies on Adult Swim for a couple of years now. For me to try to explain the premise here would be fruitless, suffice it to say it's about hillbilly squids from Georgia.

As I am want to do from time to time, I read through the credits to see who does the voices. The lead character, Early Cuyler, is played by someone with the enigmatic title, Unknown Hinson.

I've known about Unknown Hinson for a while now but never really made that connection. He's a psychobilly country and western troubadour who plays small venues primarily in the south but his website has him gigging as far away as California. He looks like a cross between Dracula's inbred cousin and Porter Waggoner, sings like one of the Louvin Brothers, and plays the guitar like Jimi Hendrix. If I had to compare his overall sound, I would say it's Southern Culture on the Skids minus the surf guitar with an extra spoonful of country and western. At least that's what it was on stage...

When I found out Unknown Hinson was coming to town, I made sure to be there. I needed to witness his glorious mutton-chops in person. I was able to sucker a friend into going with me on the promise of food and a show. I couldn't guarantee that the show would be any good and I hated for him to gamble his money on a risky musical venture. Being my idea, I took all the risk.

It began with good omens all around. We walked into the room just moments before Unknown Hinson took the stage. The next thing I knew, I was involuntarily nodding my head to the "chunk chunk" of his Reverend guitar and picking out his voice from the noise. It was dulcet tones of Early Cuyler. There was no doubt about it. I smiled. In fact I smiled so much it made my face hurt.

His band was a simple trio, honed and perfected through years of touring backwater, country bergs. It was Unknown Hinson on lead, Roger "Tiny" Kohrs on bass, and Frank "The Tank" Sorrell on drums. Tiny resembled a mustachioed polar bear stuffed in a black suit while Tank's horseshoe-bald head glistened as he pounded the skins. It was a sight to behold for sure.

The band plowed through their many "chart toppers" like I Ain't Afraid of Your Husband, Peace Love and Hard Liquor, Pregnant Again, and Your Man is Gay. Sadly though, the show had to come to an end, but not before an encore of Jimi Hendrix that set the amps on fire.

On my way out, I laid out some bread for his latest CD, Target Practice. Although my first impression was a little suspect with the ringing ears and all, I could already hear something different. The next day, I took to the task of absorbing the entire album. Turns out it wasn't my ears! It was like listening to a completely different show. There was no mistaking Unknown Hinson's familiar twang, but the chunk of his Reverend was gone, to be replaced by synthesized strings and a slide guitar. The drums were relegated to the mix while the bass was almost non-existent. I was saddened and disheartened. Yet, the more I listen, the more it grows on me.

The saddest thing is that if I had heard the CD prior to going to the show, I would have skipped it... not really my cup of tea. But I went, and now I'm a fan. I just wish there was a way to capture the energy we saw on stage that night. (Live CD anyone? Bootlegs? Hook a brutha up!)

I still can't help but wonder how the live show can be so totally different from the studio in every way. I suppose along with everything else about Unknown Hinson, it will have to remain a mystery.

What is it with cable companies? Why do they suck universally? Is it because you are forced into their ala carte pricing structure and are unable to purchase the equipment that's in your house? Is it the ineptitude of the customer service reps and the idiotic repair technicians? Or is it both?

Recently, I had my beloved MOXI DVR die because of a bad power supply. I wasn't actually shocked by this because that thing ran hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock. It rivaled the PS3 for sheer BTUs. Still, it was a pretty decent little DVR and the best thing about it was that you could connect a drive of any size via USB and basically have limitless recording capability. A handy little feature if you watch as much HD programming as I do.

I called Charter to request a new box. As with everything they do, you can't just go to their office and get one, a "technician" has to bring it out and install it for you. This process is an utter and complete waste of time, and don't give me that bullshit about them having to use their PDAs to authenticate is on the Charter network. The technology exists for the homeowner to install it themselves. Just look at DISH and DirecTV. You go to the store, buy a box, call them up, and BAM! It's active. It's a control thing. If they can make you feel as helpless as possible, you'll be their willing pawn.

I get my appointment scheduled and a few days later some human debris shows up at my house with another MOXI box. At this point, I am happy. But alas, it was not to be for long. He was unable to get it to work on the Charter system. Amazing. The only reason he had come to my house in the first place was to hook this thing up and he failed at that. Should he have tested it out before wasting my time and his? I don't know, you tell me.

So, five hours later he returns with a new Motorola DVR, the DCH6416. It's a streamlined hunk of shit with the worst GUI in the history of mankind. Oh, but it has a 160GB hard drive. Yippee! I think my nephew's LeapFrog has more capacity than that. Try recording HD programming on a 160GB hard drive and see how quickly it fills up.

I asked the idiot who brought it, "Can I connect an external drive to it?" He replies that you can and he has seen it done. Then he's out the door without a word on how this is to be accomplished.

The back of the 6416 has three ports: USB, SATA, and Firewire. I hook up my USB drive and verify that the secret diagnostic menu shows the drive connected, but the software does not recognize or format it. I pick up the phone and ask the Charter rep somewhere in Canada. "Can I connect an external drive to it?" He replies that you can and he has seen it done. Ok. Great.

I decide to shell out $120 for a new external SATA/Firewire drive. I verify in both cases that the system recognizes the drives but will not format them. So, I call Charter again and ask, "Can I connect an external drive to it?" He replies that you can and he has seen it done. He recommends that they send another tech out to figure out what's wrong.

Two days later, a Charter technician shows up. Before he even steps foot in my house he says, "I'm not sure about these boxes. I've been talking to my supervisor trying to get an answer." This begs the question, "Why are you here then?" This is the second person they have sent to my house to perform a specific task and was unable to do so. If this was my job, I would fully expect to be fired, but these guys probably got a raise.

However, since I am a nice guy I let him in to look at the box. Maybe he'll have some revelation on the way in. My hopes are dashed when I see him cock his head like a dog listening to a silent whistle. He gets down on his ass and presses a few buttons to try to get to the diagnostic screen. When he finally finds it (a process I am able to do in about 2 seconds) he looks at all the options EXCEPT the ones regarding the port activity and HDD status. I HAD TO SHOW HIM!

Finally, he gives up. So I ask him why he bothered to come if he had no idea what he was doing. He just shrugged his shoulders, got in his van, ate some lead paint chips, and drove away. I immediately picked up the phone to ask Charter why they insist on wasting my time with these pieces of human debris and what it would take for me to get my question answered.

The rep informs me that the ability to add a drive to the 6416 is not an option. O RLY? Not necessarily the answer I wanted to hear but at least it was a definitive answer, and it only took a two weeks! The only problem is that I died a little inside during all of this.

The main problem with a large, outside company controlling the cable contract in the area is that there is no accountability for the independent contractors. If I wanted to complain about these morons, who do I call? The "customer care center" doesn't know who these people are. They're just numbers in their system that they assign these jobs to. When their job performance becomes a integral part of the terms of their employment, service is bound to improve. Until then, we're left to suffer the whims of the retarded.

Now excuse me, I'm off to try to hack my cable box.

P.S. - If there weren't so many trees around my house I could go back to DirectTV with Tivo. Until those trees fall down, I'm stuck with Charter and there shitty contractors and useless call center.