Upcoming Shows This Weekend 8/11

I’m doing some things in NYC this weekend I’d love for you to see:

Fri, Aug 11th, 6:00pm
A post-apocalyptic story about an ex-partying super spy who must infiltrate Florida after it’s been taken over by Jimmy Buffett and his band of Parrotheads.
UCB Theater Chelsea // 307 W. 26th St, New York, NY 10001
UCB Sketch Class Show: (no presale tickets)
Mon, Aug 14th, 6:30pm
Students completing the sketch curriculum at UCB under the tutelage of Caitlin Bitzegaio have put together a sketch revue in which I play several deep, meaty characters.
UCB Theater Chelsea // 307 W. 26th St, New York, NY 10001
Maude Night (I write for this, I’m not in it)
Mon, Aug 14th, 9:30pm
I am always and will forever be proud of the writing I’ve done for my sketch team Pretty Boys and will plug it here even if I am not performing in it. Come see some great sketches! This month I wrote one about a weird way to sing Happy Birthday and one about getting mad on reality tv!
UCB Theater Chelsea // 307 W. 26th St, New York, NY 10001
YAY! See ya soon.

REDUCTRESS LIVE!/Pretty Boys: Austin Sketch Fest 5/26

Pretty Boys will be performing at Austin Sketch Fest on Friday May 26 at the Spider House Ballroom at 8:00 PM! We open for our dear friends at Reductress! If you’ll be in Austin, Texas, you should come out. I’ll be there, assuming my flight isn’t canceled:

File_000
Nice lil’ window to take off at 5 PM 🙏🏻

I want to eat all the Austin food truck things.

Also, next NYC Pretty Boys show will be Monday, June 5th!

Okay bye!

A Word About My Graphic Tees

Uh, Blendman, a word?

Yes, it’s about that comment you made by the Keurig. Yes, that Keuirg. You see, I appreciate that you like my shirt. Why, yes, it is Earthworm Jim, the Super Nintendo game character turned short-lived Saturday morning cartoon.

You see, Blendman, I wear these shirts to express myself and make myself stand out from the crowd. I don’t wear them to have them commented on.

I’m not good at speech, Blendman. The words, I don’t find them. I frequently find myself in a sea of people more equipped in the brains to say things that make me think That There Is A Presidential Nominee or I Wish I Talked That Way. I’m not one of those people, Blendman.

I search the Internet late at night, sipping a bourbon, and sipping a coconut, and thinking to myself What could I do to make myself better known to the Presidential Candidates of Funnytown With Whom I Am Employed?

So I buy these shirts, Blendman. This one was made by a user named CaptainOverpants in Spokane and hosted on a website called GagBubble. I search deep, deep in the crevices of unlicensed merchandise so that I might wear these shirts at work and have my best friends in my whole life observe it and truly know me.

But don’t comment on them, or ask where I got them, or what does it mean, or is that a clif bar shirt. Did you see the way Ariel looked at my shirt? She deftly left the break room the moment I entered because my countenance was so individualistic that to acknowledge it further would drive her to madness and lead her to smash her daughter’s macaroni art in unbridled joy.

My art is a statement, and I need not comment further on it.

Then a bird killed us both.

my seat

This morning I get on the train at the same spot I usually do.

I know this is the spot right in front of the trash can where the doors pull right up.

And I step on first. And if there’s a seat, I get it. I need it, because my legs hurt, and it feels good to sit, and when you hurt and things feel good, well that seems like a pretty good option to me.

This morning things didn’t go as planned. This might be a long, ranty post – but after all, I’m a long, ranty guy.

I grab my seat. Unhappily nestled between two broad shouldered manspreaders. The term is accurate, because these men were spreading all over the place. You couldn’t close them to save your life.

I squeeze in like the weird Tetris piece and make it two stops before, shortly after the car has started moving, and elderly woman walks up.

Now, I’ve seen the type before. Old. And a woman. But, I guess I meant to say I’ve seen her other type before. Her eyes dart around expectantly, but it’s on my lower two-thirds that her eyes land. I can hear her thoughts:

This long, ranty man in his $1150 Armani suit and matching frog-skin fedora has had a good life – and much more to come. How young is he, 19? 20? And so successful. And so handsome, my oh my, what a handsome young man. Things have gone so well for this man, perhaps he’ll let me eat the scraps from his table.

But by table, I knew she meant “seat.” I guess at some point, you forget the difference.

“Would you like a seat?”

“Oh, yes. It’s a particularly unstable train today.” This doesn’t make sense, as trains run on tracks and those tend to stay pretty still. I get up and am moving my bags, but she’s wasted no time slipping in past me, like an identical weird Tetris piece would do. “Please, don’t move your bags. I’ll watch them.” I snatch them up anyway and avoid her eyes. The bag rests at my feet as I loom over her in silence and in headphones, though I don’t listen to anything.

I don’t like that this bothers me. I try not to let it, and I tell myself I’m the sane man standing next to me, who I’m sure would happily give up his seat to anyone who asked him. Every fiber of my being is telling me what I’ve done is right, and a seat is not the end of the world, and why is it important to have a seat for about thirty minutes?

Every other fiber of my being was saying, “Hey, she beat you. She won.”

This is the curse of man. The feeling of constant injustice brought on by a cruel universe. Every moment has the potential to make a man feel that he has been wronged, mistreated, that even though the logic in his manly brain knows that an elderly woman needs a seat, the man cannot stop feeling as though the woman in the seat doesn’t know that sometimes I’d like a seat, and maybe it would benefit her to stand and deal with the unstable train. It bothers me she expectantly sought out the kindness of strangers instead of waiting around for a kind stranger to approach her as they presumably would. I look around at all the kind strangers with their faces down in their phones.

I turn on my music.

Going to work

I wake up that morning and slap the alarm clock unironically and cliched-ly.

“6:34,” it reads in red digital line numbers.

I started setting my alarm for weird times in the morning. I felt like my body wasn’t responding well to the predictable times. 7:00 AM is so predictable. 6:30, better, but half-hours are the full-hours pitiful Las Vegas impersonators. 5:15 AM. What am I, a big stupid idiot? I settle on 6:34, and if I could specify “and 12 seconds” on this infernal thing, I certainly would.

I roll out of bed.

I crawl back in bed.

“2:30” the clock says to me silently and digitally.

Welp, I’ve done it again. Slept in and missed most of my work. I don’t care – they won’t fire me there. You know it costs a company ten times as much money to hire, train, and keep a new employee than it costs to just keep the garbage one you want to hand a pink slip? I saw that in an episode of the American the Office. Or I also read it in The Atlantic. I can’t remember, but I really kind of stuck to that theory regardless.

No time for a shower, I figure. Or… all the time for a shower. I make a face to no one and wonder why I had such a dumb pretentious thought. Am I still drunk?

I pick up a sweater off the floor and dust some Doritos crumbs off it. I throw it over a white button-down, wrinkled everywhere but the collar, but the collar is still good, so why let it go to waste? I put on pants, a pair of dad Wranglers designed to carry the weight of a dozen cell phone belt clips.

I brush my teeth and look at myself in the mirror. My heart is heavy. I’m also heavy. How much weight have I gained? The scale at the gym I went to three months ago said I’d actually lost weight, but I have a feeling from the aching in my wobbly thighs that sitting at that damned computer eight hours a day was just depleting me of all muscle mass. I’m a shadow of a man. A flabby, disheveled, minty-breathed shadow.

A man shoves me to get a seat on the train. He realizes the seats are all taken and he instead stands directly in the way of the door. I ask him to move and he doesn’t hear me because he has headphones in. I’m irate and don’t want to be decapitated in the train doors so I nudge him out of my way to step into the train car.

“ExCUSE me, I pay $150 a month to ride this heap of junk to work and back, you have NO right to push me!”

“I just wanted to get past you.”

“CUCK.”

That was a big jump, but I have a Facebook feed that informs me this kind of thing happens all the time. I get off at my stop and, despite being late, go three blocks out of my way to the local Subway. Now, you may not know this, but they have some pretty phenomenal breakfast sandwiches at Subway. Did you know that? They just keep it a secret, like they want an exclusive clientele or they’re really bad at advertising or people go really upset at that Jared ordeal. Regardless, it’s good and there’s never a line.

The problem is that it’s well into the afternoon, as I’ve forgotten. Am I still drunk? I feel awkward and sweaty as the sandwich artiste stares me down, so I order a “chicken bacon ranch” which is three arbitrary words thrown together but if you say them in sequence at a Subway they actually make you a thing to eat.

I bring my sandwich to work and reach into my wallet at the door. I realize I can’t find my key card.

How in the world did I lose it? An infinitum of cards that tie me to a separate but just as important infinitum of responsibilities, and I somehow don’t place the card that helps me pay for all the other cards in my wallet?

I look at a puddle outside.

It’s me who’s the key card.

I get on a bus.