Thursday, September 28, 2006

An Open Letter to Hugh Laurie

Dear Hugh:

For the duration of my two week trip through Alaska, I have managed to view the entire first season of “House, M.D.” and despite protests from my co-comedians, insisted upon purchasing Season 2 in the Anchorage airport. Actually, in parts of Alaska, I think the show may be known as “Ciqll'uaq” which would loosely translate to “Dr. Sod Hut”. You and the rest of the cast will entertain me for the non-Xanaxed portions of my 83 hour flight to Guam, via Houston, TX. No I did not make these arrangements myself. I’d hate for your first impression of me to be as someone who doesn’t understand geography. On the contrary…I rule at “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego”.

I have found myself intrigued by your convincing performance as Dr. Greg House. So much so that with every headache or abdominal pain, I’m convinced that I either have a nest of baby spiders in my brain or a prostate growing on my ovaries, respectively. Although a nest of baby prostates probably isn’t out of the question for your team of writers.

Hugh, it’s rare that I use this blog to dote on well-known personalities. There was my brief flirtation with John Fogerty which worked out well. We’re now friends on MySpace. Well, I’m at least friends with whichever of his hourly assistants clicks “approve” for the friend requests that pour in after each performance of “Green River”. But I digress. You’ve eclipsed both Kirk Cameron and Mr. Fogerty. Actually, Kirk Cameron fell out of the running about 15 years ago, when I had a poster of him laying in an unmade bed wearing a leather jacket and an expression that said “You’d let me get to second base and then maybe I’d steal your Kirby Puckett rookie card.” Regardless, my mother always made me take that poster down when my grandparents came to visit. I guess she thought that my Grandmother would either be offended or helpless against Kirk’s advances, showering him with Avon-colored kisses and filling the pockets of his black jeans with Werther’s Originals and coupons for a free Wendy’s Frosty. So, I turned my affections to John Fogerty, who was about 70 years older than Kirk--and married with children--but at least in his photos the only thing he was interested in touching was a guitar. And maybe a bottle of Grecian Formula.

Again, back to you. Let’s be friends, Hugh. We’ve got so much in common. We both have had to work to speak with a convincing American accent. You’re from England and I’m originally from West Virginia, two places where it’s difficult to understand the locals and the dental industry is non-existent. We both performed in our college comedy troupes, you in the prestigious Cambridge Footlights and me in the Lilting Banshees at Wake Forest. Sure, we didn’t have the name-recognition that vaulted our members to post-graduate success, but we did have a variety of long-sleeved t-shirts and I think at one point we had decals for our car windows. Yes, you had your own television program (“programme” - British spelling; “Shit, this ain’t General Hospital”- WV spelling) but I was frequently recognized on campus, sometimes when I was trying to drive away after backing into someone’s Ford Escort, into the cashier from KFC, or into a Little Tykes sandbox. A difference of scale, really.

There’s so much to like about you. And here’s the part where I refrain from using any stupid song parodies like “Hugh Got the Look” or “Hugh Make Me Feel Like Dancin”. If I wanted to write shit like that, I’d work for InStyle. Same for any other phrases like “your aquamarine eyes sparkle like a new bottle of Windex against a streak-free windowpane”. I will also refuse to call you “smoldering” because I don’t think men enjoy being described in terms more frequently used for forest fires. You seem to be pragmatic and witty, and have also refrained from turning your first and last names into a J-Lo-ish hybrid. Just for the record, you may want to tell your costar Omar Epps to avoid that as well… I’m guessing he wouldn’t want to be known as “Oops”. But, if you’re ever involved in a threesome with the Pitt family, don’t be surprised if perezhilton.com tags you as “Brangelaurie”. I’m just saying…

You’ve been described as “the thinking woman’s sex symbol”. It’s nice that this crush can be complimentary to both parties—a scenario that wouldn’t occur if I had a thing for, say, Larry the Cable Guy.

So if you think you’d like to hang out, maybe watch “The Outlaw Josie Wales” or light some fireworks on my patio or, I don’t know, carve some scrimshaw onto a whale bone just send me an email. Or a friend request…we could make it OurSpace. Until then, try to resist my grandmother’s advances. And could you send me some painkillers? My prostate is killing me.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Is That a Lump of Coal in Your Pocket?

Or are you just happy to see me?

Yesterday we visited the North Pole. Well, not the actual North Pole because I think that's floating on an iceberg or sticking out of the top of the earth like a flagstick on the 14th green. But we did go to North Pole, AK. And yes, Santa Claus' house is there. I even peed at the McDonald's on Santa Claus Lane. We saw Santa's reindeer, which the other guys tried to keep me away from... I think they were afraid I would start to gnaw on Blitzen's leg. Santa's House is right beside Santa's RV Park where the motto is "Jolly RV'ers Love Spending the Night with Santa's Elves!" Somehow, I thought Santa's property values would be a little higher. I guess with all the livestock and the elven sweatshop, it's probably zoned as a business. But still. Now I'm going to think of both a public restroom and an RV park when I hear various Christmas carols.

There were a variety of businesses there, including North Pole Chinese which seemed wrong. Although if FaLaLa were my waiter, I'd probably go. No 'Santa's Little Strip Club'...and they're missing out on a marketing bonanza. "Home of the Original Ho-Ho-Hos!" could so be on the sign. North Pole Dances, Santa's Lap Dances...seriously, why hasn't someone done this? I'm writing a letter to the Chamber of Commerce. And once again, an Elementary School Sing-a-Long has been ruined. "Here Comes Santa Claus"? Gross.

Also went to downtown Fairbanks which made me wonder why Alaska has so many meth users. I couldn't imagine wanting to stay awake any longer than I had to up here. Anchorage, though, was super fun. But of Alaska's 620,000 population, pretty much half of them live in Anchorage. The others are scattered about, one to a town. I can't wait to see the guy who lives in Sitka.

We just missed seeing the Aurora Borealis last night. We set a "Northern Lights" call at the front desk but by the time we got downstairs they'd faded. So we just stood in the field feeling stupid and looking like Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin. I'm sure the front desk staff just do this to visitors. "Hey Josh, yeah, room 342's standing outside like a schmuck. Let's go get a cigarette."

Headed to Clear Air Force Station today. Traveling by van, which for some reason always makes me feel like a kidnapped child.

It is beautiful in Fairbanks. The landscapes, the river, the sunsets. All I need is a unicorn to scamper through a field and it would be perfect. Wonder if they taste like reindeer?

Monday, September 18, 2006

_L_SK_ or I'd like to buy an "A" please.

So I'm currently in Alaska, four days into a 3 week comedy tour of military bases in Alaska, Guam, and the Marshall Islands. The last two I had to look up on a map. Neither are off the coast of Idaho like I thought. On top of that, Idaho's not beside an ocean. Go figure. That's the last time I learn geography from a jigsaw puzzle because apparently I didn't put that shit together just right.

Anyway, we were in Anchorage for a few days to perform at Fort Richardson and Elmendorf AFB and are now in Fairbanks. Tonight we played Fort Wainwright and I have to say that I went bananas on a Gwen Stefani scale when I saw that my name was scrolling on the marquee outside the club. And it was even spelled correctly. The show was great, talking to the soldiers is amazing, and I continued my four-day streak of eating chickenfingers for dinner. No, I'm not even going to consider how the hell they get chickens to Alaska. In fact, 'chickenfingers' is an Inuit word meaning 'the only part of the moose we don't eat'.

They'll eat anything up here. A woman the other night tried to convince us that the best meat ever was porcupine, followed by moose, caribou, reindeer, bear, bat, duck, Power Ranger, Shirt Tales, raccoon, manimal, snakes on a plane, Furby, and filet of Alf. I did give in yesterday and ate a reindeer sausage. Reindeer tastes a lot like chicken, if chickens were made of reindeer meat.

OK, it's bedtime for me. More updates and perhaps some pictures tomorrow. And, seriously, God bless our soldiers. I know that's not particularly snarky, sarcastic, or funny, but it should be said. They're doing a great thing and the men and women currently in uniform and those who came before them are the reason that I can maintain this blog, speak my mind, and pursue a career in which I talk about my crotch in front of strangers.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Love Is An Effing Battlefield

So I had a date the other night. I mean, it shouldn’t be so noteworthy. I’ve had plenty of dates lately…of course those “dates” consisted of me following attractive men around Harris Teeter until they feel uncomfortable enough to put down the bag of Totino’s Pizza Rolls and walk out of the store, VIC card savings be damned.

Yes, my four loyal readers, I had a date. One. And it’s yet to be seen if there will be another. (With the same guy, I mean. Obviously, I'll have the chance to offend or alienate additional men in the future.) The date ended with a cliffhanger, not unlike the series finale of ALF where he’s standing in the tractor beam of the spaceship, wondering if he should get back in the Tanner family station wagon or return home to Melmac. My date was ALF and I’m hoping that my Willie Tanner was enough to lure him back into my garage, tempted by the lure of my cat, Lucky.

OK, I just re-read that last sentence and that just proves on several levels why it’s remarkable if someone of the opposite sex talks to me anywhere outside of a tollbooth window.

Regardless, as a service to you, I’d like to provide a list of things not to mention on a first date. Or any date, really. Feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments section.

-- “My nickname in high school was ‘The Yeast Beast’.”
-- “Did I tell you about that time an AIDS patient bled in my mouth?”
-- “Why don’t they use rectal thermometers anymore? They're so much more comfortable.”
-- “Lifetime is making a movie about my childhood. It's called "Uncle Pete and the No-No Place”
-- “And that was my first miscarriage.”
-- “I never clean. In my culture, maggots are a sign of prosperity.”
-- “One of these days I’m going to finish my degree from the University of Phoenix-Online.”
-- “Sure I could eat another person if I was hungry enough. You look like you’d have tasty marrow.”
-- “Would you like to see the parts that my bathing suit covers?”

Thank me later. Or just buy me a bag of Pizza Rolls.