the Walsh Brothers

September

2009-09-30T02:03:00.000-07:00

There is a stranger conspiring against me. He waits until nightfall to enact his various plots, schemes, and dastardly deeds. He hides like a ghoul -eagerly awaiting my descent into the land of nod. He is a fiend, he is my enemy, and he is faceless.

I live in the midst of two large schools of learning. A middle school and a high one. During daylight hours there's lots of commotion and activity but as the sun sets the neighborhood grows stark, silent.

The middle school ball field and the high school's soccer turf mirror one another across my street. The middle school field is unkempt and mostly dirt with a patch here or there of dead grass. By contrast the high school land is eternally green. Made of synthetic fibers. A lie. There are shadows of shadows that threaten the street whenever the sun sets. The sodium-vapor street lights that line N. Van Ness are of little help.

So far, he has thwarted me time and again. I am left unawares as to how he knows my rhythms.

And when I catch him, he will pay.

Mateys

2009-09-08T03:15:00.000-07:00

"Hey, my brother's gonna see if his skiff will float, today, and he's going to fail miserably. You want to go watch?" Marc said the word skiff without pretense, as if it were lingo he used every day. That's because it was.

****

Listening to him talk, you'd never guess he was a D student. C minus at best. He'd rattle off words like "Bilge," "Transom," and "Lanyard" unselfconsciously when we were still more excited about going to the Country Store at "Bearskin Neck" than checking out girls.

My young life can easily be split into several categories: the dull moments, the entertaining, and those spent causing trouble. The latter two were, quite often, one and the same and Marc was involved in every one of 'em. His parents owned a nifty little summer house in Rockport, Massachusetts. Home of my first broken heart. Wasn't a girl that did the deed, unless you consider the township of Rockport a lady. I surely do. I loved visiting with the Sawyers, whenever I got the opportunity, at their seasonal home. Some of my fondest memories involve that little city by the sea. Especially during the summer.

My mother had been friends with Marc's mom, Eleanor, long before I was born and Marc and I became best friends in the bargain. Neither one of us aware of when or how it happened. We were born a week apart and of the same temperament; both of us spaceshots. We knew it because there was no end to the teasing we'd endure. He got it a lot worse than I because he didn't have two cool, athletic older brothers. Marc had one, uncool, anti-athletic older brother who was less popular than Marc. At least Marc had brains and was exceptionally funny in spite of the derision and shit people threw at him.

The nickname "Looney" Sawyer slammed into Marc like the Engine of a locomotive in August of 1986, coinciding with the release of "Stand By Me." The parallels between Marc Sawyer and Teddy Duchamp, Corey Feldman's character, were too close for him to sidestep. He carried that shitty nickname around as if it was embroidered on every tee he owned. People can be pretty cruel everywhere, but in Charlestown -a place where people take pride in being called "Townies"- some kids seemed to be blessed with the gift of viciousness.

****

"Bah-ul-ship!" I heard him saying as I approached.

"Say it again! Battle Ship!" demanded a kid who was six years older than Marc.

"No!"

"Come-on just say it, Looney, Say it! And I'll leave you alone."

"Bah-ul-ship!"

"Haha, you're a fucking spaceshot! OH, look, it's spaceshot number two!"

To which Marc replied, "Go Fuck yourself!"

Marc shot the older kid two bobbing, trailer-park, birds - his middle fingers at full mast while the rest bent at the middle knuckle, pumping his arms up and down as the asshole in question strolled away, in a fit of laughter.

The Double trailer-trash finger was Marc's greatest weapon; His heavy guns against the cruelty. Pick a fight with him, call him "adopted" (which he was) or "Looney", talk shit about his old man's Funeral Parlor and he'd give you the double guns and throw you a "Go Fuck Yourself!" He was my hero in that way. Whatever problems people confronted him with, he always stood up for himself. I wish I stuck up for him more.

His older brother Chris used to get it so much worse than Marc ever did. Maybe because he was a much bigger kid and about five times more vocal, effectively courting disrespect. Chris was a year older and a grade above us.

I can remember one time while we were playing red rover in the schoolyard, Chris's name was called.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, calling Chris Sawyer right over."

He ran full steam, actually chugging, as he barreled across the schoolyard. I guess he didn't see the two kids he was aiming for "double-clutch" (one putting their arm under the other's armpit) on him. When he reached the other line and collided with their arms he smashed to the ground and, somehow, slammed into the wrought iron fence behind the kids. He let loose an ungodly bellow that I can still hear tonight. It was as close to an unintentional "AWOOGA!" that I've ever heard. Once he started, he couldn't stop.

"AWOOO! AWOOOO! AWOOOO! AaaaWOOOOooo!"

Chris, sounding the alarm of a broken arm. It was the only one I can remember, as a kid, happening in the winter months*. Marc and Chris got along well enough but every once in a while they'd get into a public fight that embarrassed the hell out of me, (yet was pretty hilarious to witness). They swore vigorously in public and were unafraid of authority figures: teachers, priests, the bus driver. They even once got me barred from the town barbershop, telling one of the most popular adults in town to Go Fuck Himself. (Which was a sentiment I didn't share.)

For two weeks out of the summer I got to hang out with these two maniacs while they were on vacation. Marc and I would ride bikes to the beach, hunt for crabs, buy penny candy, and get ourselves into all kinds of mischief. I remember one time a little Circus pulled into town with a big top and everything. Spending time in Rockport was like living, for a moment, in a Norman Rockwell Painting. It was Amazing.

One day, Marc informed me that his brother had bought an ancient Boston Whaler; a rusty old flat-bottomed boat, purchased with his savings. Marc and Chris were the only kids I knew of that got an allowance. Neither of them had ever helped their parents out with much. I think the allowance came from staying out of their parent's hair and not acting up during wakes. (Dust-ups during wake hours were far more common than you'd think.)

****

"It's got an outboard engine on it but it's still just a piece of shit. He paid Two Hundred Dollars for it. I told him it was a bad purchase... The thing is a Garbage Scow! He's been trying to make it sea-worthy for the past three weeks. She'll never make it out of the Harbor." said Marc.

Marc's diction got better -the pronunciation of his R's more articulate- when he moved to Rockport for the summer. I was smiling, always a fan of Marc's eloquence.

"So, you want to go down to the Yacht club and watch him try to put the piece-a-shit in the water?"

Some phrases, no matter how careful your diction, always come out Boston.

"Let's go," I said, already walking towards my GT Performer.

"Fuck yeah!"

The Yacht Club, which hunkered on one side of the wharf, had a bunch of boats up on racks and still more floating around the harbor. We could see Chris's "piece of shit" hanging above the pier on a crane as we approached. A small crowd had already gathered full of yacht club folks that were there to help. Standing close by were Chris's friends, general on-lookers, and various other yachtsmen. We were still walking towards the crane when Marc started yelling.

"THERE'S NO WAY THAT THING'LL FLOAT."

All hands turned.

"SHUT THA FUCK UP MARC!" Chris looked sideways over his shoulder.

A high-pitched cackle came from Marc as I tried to inchworm some distance between the two of us. Everyone returned their gaze to the boat as the gang swung the crane's arm over the side of the pier. Marc started a countdown.

"20 seconds to disaster! T-minus 20...19...18"

"MARC!"

"...17..."

They lowered the boat, stopping for a few moments so that Chris and a few other people could get into position on a dock below. Marc chattered nonstop, while they worked.

Once Chris was ready, the boat was lowered the last few feet into the water and he gingerly stepped aboard his vessel. It didn't take long to see that there was more than one hole in the hull. The wind was sucked out of our collective chests.

Marc flew into hysterics. His cackles soared to impossible Higher tones. Chris looked up at him, furious, the steady rise of water at his feet powerless against the flames in his eyes.

Inexplicably, Marc's brother -after a cursory glance at the outboard motor- sloshed his way to the back of the boat and tried to turn the engine over. Marc was almost crying with laughter. He recognized what was about to happen and he said, "wait, wait, wait..." He had one hand over his stomach; and the other gesturing "halt." It was as if he was pleading with his brother to draw the entertainment out to greater lengths. Asking his brother permission to dwell in this moment of hilarity, for all time.

The engine didn't turn.

Chris yanked on the engine's cord several more times, to no avail. He stopped, staring at the outboard, muttering to himself. With the water cresting the tops of his Nikes he started to bail the boat with a small pail, refusing to give in. Marc yelled, "ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP! AWWOOOOOOGA! ALL HANDS ON DECK! ABANDON SHIP!"

Chris heatedly scrambled up onto the dock, towards the ladder leading to the pier, pushing people out of his way as he went, ready to kill his brother. All the while, Marc screamed his high pitched laugh: "Aaaaaahaaahaaahaaahaaa!"

Marc saw the red in his brothers eyes and yelled, "RUN!" while his brother angrily started up the ladder. We took off towards our bikes.

Over his shoulder, Marc yelled, "Got a great deal on that submarine!"

****

A couple of years later, Marc and I got into a fight because I had called him a "Headbanger" when we were still newly teenagers. He had gotten into Metallica and bands of that nature. He'd tape "Headbanger's Ball" and lend them to me. I guess that's what clued me in.

I don't understand why he took exception to the moniker. Truth be told, he was the coolest kid I knew. Maybe it was because we lived in a town that allowed zero self expression. Maybe it was because I said it in a less joking way than I intended. Either way, we didn't talk to much after that. And I missed borrowing the tapes.

****

When we started High School I would hear things about Marc. How he had become a "Warlock" or hung out in "The Pit" in Harvard Square, a place where the freaky kids were always welcome; a safe haven for the odd, spookey, and tortured souls. I also heard once that he had, supposedly, been living in a T Station Tunnel. In one of the walls. My response to that was "if that's true that's crazy." But I wanted to know more.

During trips home from High School, on the 93 bus, the kids of Charlestown were unmerciful. They produced fresh insults at a breakneck pace. Marc received no reprieve (especially when he wore his cloak.)

I regret not being cooler to the guy. I wish I had spoken up more and laughed less. Even if it meant my undoing.

****

A couple of nights after the incident with the boat, Marc and I were out on the roof stargazing, wondering whether we'd die if we fell off. All the while we were crunching our way through a family sized bag of Lays potato chips. We climbed back through his bedroom window and discovered that Chris had fallen asleep in Marc's bed. We tried to wake his brother up by imitating Darth Vader's voice by shouting into an antique box fan.

"LUKE! Wake up, LUKE!" I said in my best James Earl Jones, my face smooshed against the fan.

Marc followed with, "WAKE UP! MOTHERFUCKER!"

He drew the sentence out like he was the hero in a slow motion action sequence. He then reached his dirty fingers into the bag, pulled out a chip, and crunched it next to the fan as we both laughed. He found an especially large chip and -just before he ate it- looked at me and paused, grinning ear to ear, then stuffed it into the back of the fan.

"Ftttttppppp!" The chopped-up chip, now dozens of tiny chips, flew out of the fan and onto his corpselike brother, still fast asleep.

We were on the verge of uncontrollable giggles but recovered quickly, recognizing the business at hand.

We popped another chip into the fan. Others followed suit: "ffffttttppp! fffftttttppppp!" One after the other, potato chips met their death, small pieces of their bodies crashing all over Marc's brother and his bed.

As is often the case with adolescent boys, we got a little out of hand. The one funny- sounding chip that quickly turned into several presently morphed into the whole bag.

Marc upended the entire crinkly goddam bag, dumping every last chip into the fan with relish. He smirked like the Grinch.

The fan, now on high, sounded like a tiny little wood chipper. In a moment his brother and bed were covered in an oily yellow blanket. We lost our hold on sanity and fell to the floor in a fit of laughter.

As we were catching our breath Marc said, "Let's go get the Doritos."

****

When his brother finally did wake up, he instantly noticed something was amiss. "Muthrrrrfuggging assholes..." he muttered in his sleep, brushing salty dust off his shirt as he stumbled back to his own bed.

Behind him, on the bed, he left behind the most perfect silhoutte.

-Chris

*A Lie. Michael Christopher broke both an arm AND a leg on a ski-trip to Wildcat Mountain over Christmas break one year. Everyone on the bus had to wait for him while his cast was set. He entered the bus on crutches, to cheers of "Mogul Mike." I had to smile. The last time I had seen him was at lunch.

"Walshy come down the Double Black Diamond with us!"

I'm all for danger but I don't have a death wish.

"Yeah, let me finish this hot chocolate and I'll meet you guys at the top of the hill."

Moment to Moment

2009-01-14T02:20:00.000-08:00

I'm a big fan of gadgets. Once a friend of mine was criticizing a guy who was over excited about their iphone and I had to stop her. "I LOVE iphones..." I kind-of blurted. She was really tearing into him too. I know that technology scares a lot of people. The truth is it scares me too but iphones are Awesome. (Note the capitalization.) There are some things that shouldn't be meddled with though. Like vacuum cleaners... My mother got one a few years ago. She called it Robby. "Robby the Rowbit" is how she said it. I found it a little unsettling. I went on-line and googled robots. Oh boy. There are dancing robots and there are robots that can talk... there are also robots fighting part of our war right now. There are also robots that make it harder for me to catch my train. I can't tell you how many times I was running for a train when I was home and I had to stop, put my money into one rowbit just so it'll gimme a card to slide into another rowbit. A time-wasting tag team.

"The Kings of Leon" kick a lot of ass. I never thought I'd say or type the second half of that last phrase but... now I've gone and done it. Never before have I really listened to any album and thought, "I feel like, somehow, they're talking about my life." These guys provoke that reaction. I feel silly for the thought because I'm not 17. (I've never felt 17. Not even when I was 17.) Eternally 12 but never 17. Maybe it's because they're a band that's also a family and my job is working with my brother. If you can call it work. It's more of a calling and we're pretty lazy. Little or no work. Hopefully, this is the year all of that changes. Perhaps it's just because they rock!

There's a place, up North, called The Lakes Region. Winnipesaukee to be exact. I'm pretty sure a piece of my heart is buried there. There are always things that'll flash through my mind, out of nowhere, that mean very little to me. Mostly it's stuff from movies, or something somebody said, or a short lyric from a song... and very rarely does a place pop into my head. However there is one, randomly, that seems to jump out of nowhere. The Lakes Region in New Hampshire. Places with names like Meredith, Laconia, Winnisquam, Wolfeboro, Moltonborough, and Gilford illicit a pang deep in my soul. I feel like I'm always heading back there. On a frozen night when it'll take forever for the heat to warm up the summer house or on a hot day with all of the car windows rolled down. In both instances I'm driving, smiling, and happy but the very thought of it fills me with longing. For good times gone and memories forgotten. Besides, the Kellerhaus probably wouldn't be open when I got there anyways.

Sometimes I wish I could appreciate "the moment" more. There was one moment I completely appreciated recently. My brother and I were hanging out at an infinitely cool place called The Farmer's Market in Los Angeles. It's right next to an outdoor mall that masquerades as cool but doesn't come close, called "The Grove." Every time I go to The Farmer's Market I wonder why I don't go there more. It's got all kinds of great stuff. Especially character. The other night we were planning on seeing "Defiance" at the movie theater next door, at "The Grove", had a a couple hours to kill, and Davey wanted a treat. So, we went to peruse the stores in The Market while there we ran across a full on Country ho-down. I also spotted a creperie which always seems to go unnoticed and I don't know if I'll let that happen any more... I had to order a waffle with strawberries on it. I'm pretty sure it's my new favorite food. It was amazing. So much so that while I was eating I said, loud enough for everyone to hear "this is the best decision I've made in a while!"

There are some moments, though, that you wish you weren't in. I don't know if this qualifies but my brother and I were riding our bikes home from a show the other night on Sunset Blvd. when we were stopped at a red light, not several blocks from our house. While stopped at the light a man was crossing the street with a bandage on his head. He was dressed like a normal person. (The inverse of this would be a maniac, a crazy, or a street person.) As he got closer and eventually passed right by us we could see that he was openly bleeding while he looked at us furtively. Moving steadily and at a good clip for someone with a major head injury. Now, at this point, you may ask, "but didn't you try to help him?" And my answer to you good sir/ good mam is that he was a serious looking individual and he didn't ask for any... We watched him move past and then my brother thought aloud, "How do we know he's not filming a movie down the street? This is Hollywood."

Good Day, Good Year good people,
-Chris

A Short Winter Journey

2009-01-03T20:15:00.000-08:00

The other night, as I made my way to the local liquor store, I found myself walking solo through the streets of the town I grew up in. Strolling through the tail end of a snowstorm, the streets near desolate. I bundled up before I left my house and just as I stepped out the door I put the buds of an iPod in my ears. I guess I always feel the need to supply a soundtrack whenever I step into the outside world. But when I got outside the wind was whipping the snow up and down the streets and through my wool jacket, as if it were a sieve, I could hear the quiet susurration of the snow and I was caught. Wrapped up in the cold snowy blanket of my town.

The streets were plowed but not as well as they should have been. It's a good thing I brought home boots. It's also a good thing that it was only one week from Christmas. I was covered in new, warm gear. (Even though I spend eleven of my months in Los Angeles. Don't think I don't appreciate it.) As I made my way up the hill next to my house I thought I'll turn the iPod on later. The world was so great, perfect in fact. Later, while recounting my journey to a friend, I thought about why I love the snow. Mainly it muffles the everyday sounds I hear. The mechanical, the urban, the modern noise sound pollution.

So many nights I'd be in bed at 51 Sullivan Street, wide awake and dreaming. Wondering if someday I'd end up in another bed -in a completely different place- an alternate reality in some other universe and I'd sit and listen through my walls and windows. Opening my ears* to the night sky. Almost always the first thing I'd hear would be 93. The major highway that's about a mile from where we live, heading to points North and South. I'd lay in bed and think about the truckers on the long haul or the motorcycle guy racing through traffic. Maybe I'd hear the docks and the banging of heavy equipment. The beep, beep of something backing up near the waterfront. Farther away, closer to my imagination, people yelling about important cargo. Maybe a plane inching across the Heavens, far above my bed.

On New Years Eve as I walked up the street, on a solo quest for spirits**, I made way through a quiet night with the whipping wind as my guide. The crunching of snow my only conversation... I never did turn on my iPod.

Love,
Chris

(*My heart breaks every time I look at my eyeglass prescription and see those negative sixes but if blind people's other senses are enhanced, then my negative six has to count for something right?)

(**I certainly did get really wrecked that night, though. Had a great time doing so. Just in case you're wondering.)

The Great Charlestown Haircut Drought

2008-12-07T21:40:00.000-08:00

I come from a place called Charlestown. By all counts an extremely special place. I tend to scribble a lot of nostalgia on these here pages and for good reason. The town of my youth and upbringing is extraordinary and I can't imagine having grown up anywhere else. Charlestown was and will always be a place full of amazing history. It's one square mile full of magic and character. Kind of like The Shire. (We even have an obelisk.)

As a child growing up in C-town, the pillar of our community was Jack the Barber. (You'll receive no argument from anyone who knew him.) Jack's Barbershop, on the corner of Elm and Bunker Hill streets, was the hub of my childhood Universe. Presently, the town Barber is an able hairsmythe (and good friend) Pat Owens at the Bunker hill Barbershop but -way back when- most everyone got their hair cut by Jack. Jack was the best.

I got my very first hair cut at Jacks place and I'm sure a lot of other kids did too. He was the kind of guy that would have you run across the street to the liquor store for a six pack, then spray you with his water bottle and tell you dirty jokes upon you r return. He was responsible for more nicknames than anyone else in our town. Titmouse, Pickle, Sausage, Buckethead, his brother Pailhead... All classics. Kids used to go to Jack's Shop and hang out even when they didn't need a haircut. Sometimes, Jack would kick people out for conflicts or slights. This happened to me once and it was devastating for more than one reason.

I used to hang out with a ridiculous crew. The Sawyers: Marc* and Chris. Marc and I were almost inseparable, our birthdays were a week apart, and we were best friends. Marc was an extremely intelligent kid who never applied himself at school but had a great depth of knowledge on any subject. He'd often get teased by older kids but, then again, so did I. We were both dismissed as "space shots" which is why we were close. Together, we were a couple of real misfits. Add Marc's brother Chris into the mix, who was two years older than us, and what you had was a real fine mess.

Marc and Chris would get into fights, with each other, everywhere we went and never cared about causing scenes. On a street out in the open, the boys and girls club, a doctors office, McDonalds, Papa Gino's, Pharmacity:

"OH Yeah? I'm telling Dad!"
"FUCK YOU! Tell Dad, See if I give a flying fuck!"

Or. Randomly. To no one in particular:
"Ya Mother got a dick on her elbow... AND SHE FUCKS HERSELF LIKE THIS!" (Flapping one arm like a crazy human bird.)

Shit like that. The Sawyer's Dad, incidentally, is a saint named Jacky**. An all around awesome guy, with a great sense of humor, who happens to be a funeral home director. A trip to the movies ofttimes would involve a trip downstairs to the mortuary to ask Jacky for money. He'd have to take a break from embalming a body to throw Marc a couple of dollars. Sleepovers always made me a little jittery.

This one time I went to get my ears lowered, I was probably around 10, and the Sawyers wanted to join me. I got along great with Jack the Barber but I had no idea he had a blood feud with the Sawyers. When I arrived, Jack said the Sawyers weren't allowed into his Shop.

"Walshy, What're ya doing hangin out with a couple of no-good-niks like them?"

Before I knew it they were all screaming at each other. With Jack saying, "Get outta here you little bastards!" Swiping at them with his broom.

And the Sawyers yelling, "Go Fuck Yourself, JACK! "FUCK YOU!" throwing trailer trash middle fingers.

"I oughta kick your ass, you little Motherfuckers! Walshy, you get outta here too for bringing those bastards into my place!"

I was mortified. I couldn't believe it. I loved Jack but they were my friends. We were all standing outside of Jack's shop and he shut both the metal gate and door in our faces and pulled all his shades down. Meanwhile, the Sawyers were still yelling, "FUCK YOU JACK THE BARBER!" in the middle of Bunker Hill Street for longer than necessary. After a moment, I asked them what I was gonna do about my haircut.

The Sawyers told me, "Don't worry about that! We'll take you somewhere where you can get a good haircut, don't you worry."

And they took me to Umberto's. Umberto was a greasy old Italian guy who barely spoke English. He'd say things like "I make you look like good American boy..." and when he was done cutting your hair he'd say "Booshey, Booshey, Booshey." He was a little creepy.

That day he gave me the second most tragic haircut I've ever received. The Sawyers insisted it looked great but my mom thought otherwise. She brought me back to Jack and to his credit, he fixed it for free.

Then, we were hit with one of the most significant disasters in Charlestown History, neck and neck with Lori-Ann's donut shop closing down, slightly worse than the Colonial troops losing The Battle of Bunker Hill.

Jack The Barber retired on September 13th, 1992, the year I was a freshman in High School, and his retirement was nothing less than catastrophic for the male hairstyles of Charlestown. When he finally called it quits, people didn't know what to do with themselves. It wouldn't be for another three years and three months that we'd have a competent Barber to call our own again. Pat Owens opened his shop, not a block away from Jack's old place, with Jack's blessing and Jack's license on December 15th, 1995. In those three years the male population of Charlestown was sent scrambling for solutions to what would become the worst haircut drought since the town was settled in 1629.

There are horror stories that people tell: about where they went to get their haircuts and the terrible experiences they had. My best friends, brothers, even my dad tells bad haircut stories from that time. It wasn't uncommon to hear,

"I went to Nick, Tony's nephew, in the Post Office building and he eviscerated my head..."

Things were getting so bad, people were consulting their Thesaurus for new adjectives to describe the atrocities committed on their noggins. I even went back to Umberto, at one point, and he made up for my last visit by bestowing on me the NUMBER ONE worst haircut I've ever received. He made me look like a Hitler Youth. Replete with an Adolf stash. And I hadn't even had facial hair when I walked in. I still can't figure out how that happened.

Some haircuts were bad and some were terrible but you can't always blame the Barber. I made some bad decisions myself. For example: the idea to get a shamrock, a V, and the word "IRISH" cut into my head for the first day of Freshman year in High School. Then there was "Fantastic Sams" which was probably the best of the worst but still far from decent. Their version of a Barber was a flamboyant guy, he looked like a poor man's Fabio, who cared more about socializing than cutting hair. One day I was heading down to "Fantastic Sams" and asked my dad for some money to get a cut. He said, "where ya goin?"

I said, "'Fantastic Sams'."

My dad paused a moment then said, "Oh, YEAH? When you see Sam. You tell him, I'm gonna kill him..."

And I nearly fell to the ground laughing because I knew that he was talking about the social flamboyant guy who had been ruining every one's hair. And my dad, without previously having mentioned it, had gotten a terrible cut from the guy. Luckily, Charlestown would be saved by a young upstart who had risen through the ranks to open his own Barbershop just in the nick of time. (Pardon the pun.)

Pat Owens had been cutting Townie hair since he was a kid. I got a haircut from him at the Bunker Hill Park when I was little. He'd bring his rechargeable clippers up and give everyone haircuts for free. I remember he had to stop in the middle of cutting my head to go and recharge the batteries. Now, he's got his own shop and he's even got some memorabilia from Jack's. He's got Jack's old sign and the poster of the monkey "taking a dump" that used to be in Jack's bathroom. Pat's shop has since moved to where Rosie's Convenience store used to be, across from the Training Field. (But that's another story for another time.) The reason I bring up his shop and the paraphernalia is because one of the last times I was in his place I saw something rather great.

It was a flyer for the Grand Re-opening of "Fantastic Sams" Pat had been given in his travels. On the flyer it said,

"Come to the Grand Re-opening of 'Fantastic Sams' and receive a FREE HAIRCUT!"

Underneath it Pat had written in magic marker: "And we'll fix it for just 15 dollars!"

-Chris

(* One of my favorite Marc stories involves one of the kids that Jack had given a nickname to and I mentioned in the story above: Pickle. Pickle was an older kid, my oldest brother's age, about six years older than us. About 17 when we were 11. One day Marc was walking up the stairs in-front of my house and about to enter when he spotted Pickle walking down the street. With the front door barely open I heard Marc yell, "Yo, Pickle... Dill out man!" To this day, one of the funniest things I've heard anyone say unprovoked.)
(** Jacky was also the first person I remember telling, before I reached double digits, that I was going to be a comedian when I grew up. He responded by saying, "That's Great.")

Ballooning* (*A lesson in Humility)

2008-11-12T01:56:00.000-08:00

Once, on my twelfth or thirteenth birthday I got one of the best presents I've ever received. For a long time I had expected something extraordinary. The knowledge of Kings? A visit from the Gods? Perhaps my coming of age would activate latent superpowers... no matter. Because birthdays, at that age, are always good. And this one was no different. It was one for the ages.

There wasn't a large group of kids like -my favorite visit to the movies -when I got my Mom to take us and The Sawyers to see Friday the 13th V. And there weren't a clown or a pink Gorilla like: never. As I recall it was just me by my lonesome, playing out behind our house, waiting for some cake. (Vanilla w/ vanilla. Oh, I can gobble a whole chocolate cake. Alone. With all of the lights out. But V and V is my favorite.)

So there I am playing my own game. Doing my own thing. Abiding. When my aunt arrives. "Christa-fa! Look what I braught YA!" And trailing behind, I'm sure were the rest of the Walls -my cousins- but all that I saw was the biggest, hugest, most large, blue balloon in the History of Balloons. So Big, in fact, that I was scared to hold it as I thought I would leave my deck. Come to think of it I don't know why that would be a fear for me. Her family carried it onto the deck and somehow we tethered it to a chair. Just after trying and failing to tie it down to a weighted HP Hood milk crate. I'm surprised that the chair didn't pull "a Danny." I was convinced that that balloon would pull my house into the sky, if the knot were tied right. It was Huge. You wouldn't believe me if I told ya.

There I was. Staring, eyes wide, mouth agape, and wondering how best to utilize this balloon. (See: above.) When the perfect thought hit me like an intercontinental thought missile launched from another brain. A thought so good it couldn't have come from my own head and yet there it was. "I'll go and get my friends." It was still early and I knew exactly where they'd be.

Without warning I jumped onto my huffy and sped off. Leaving tiny rubber tire marks all the way up Sullivan street. I flew two blocks and hung a right on Russell. The instant I turned the corner a kickball game came into view. The yelling intensified as a play reached it's peak. Kids were screaming "RUN, RUN... RUN!" and "THROW IT. GET HIM."

Teeth gritted, head bowed low, and bike swaying side to side I peddled as hard as possible to reach the game with a quickness. Time stood still. The game seemed forever out of my reach, as it remains to this day. I yelled, "Guys, you're never gonna believe this..." A head turned, then another, and another... everyone looked at me. One kid, Michael Lynch, happened to be tying his shoe as I yelled. When he looked up he must've had a greater field of vision than the rest of us because he pointed. Everyone else was facing my direction. And from my crouched position, on my bike -looking straight ahead at the neighborhood kids- I was the first to see his finger touch the sky.

Not yet at a complete stop, I followed Michaels index finger. My head turning back and up. With my mouth wide open I was hoping for a Wonkavator or a UFO or Cuckoo Man from "The Mighty Heroes." What I got instead was a GIANT. BLUE. BALLOON... the rest of the kids followed my gaze and started to let out exclamations, "LOOK at the size of that balloon... WHOA... WOW... HOLY SHIT." I bellowed, "My Balloon!" Letting it out as if the Balloon were a Blue Monster I had created, in my room, after years of studying alchemy and dark sciences forgotten for centuries.

I tried to tell them about my balloon and how it had been purchased for my birthday. How it was the reason I came to be standing in-front of them. They didn't believe me. After a little pleading that went nowhere they began to return to their game, not caring about the ownership of a balloon. Little or no sympathy. "Well, there it goes," was all that was said. "Happy Birthday." What else could they say? Other than, "that sucks man." I was being ridiculous in the first place. I came to brag and left a liar.

A good lesson to start my year: Losing a Balloon to the sky. That was my first real big dose of humility. And I needed it. Sooner or later (I like to think it was sooner) I came to a realization that I can't make a big deal over stuff like that. It's in a balloon's nature to fly. Sometimes, I'd have to let 'em go.

Every year on June 2nd I release a Big Blue Balloon into the atmosphere. At some point it'll pop and send my dreams into outer space. Eventually, those dreams'll come back for me in a rocketship.
-Doogie Howser M.D.

New Beginnings

2008-10-01T02:22:00.000-07:00

Got a haircut today. Before it happened...I came damn near close to a mullet. Almost there. Something inside of me said, "gotta go get haircut. Now." Then, as the woman with the scissors ruffled my hair, deciding an appropriate course of action, another voice -deeper down- said, "don't you let her doit!"

"Gaul-dang-it, don't you be a pussy! Not this time!"

This other voice likes to speak in exclamation. Round these parts we call him the Rebel. He protested the entire time. Although, he had more profound/ relevant arguments than he regularly does. Ya see, normally his arguments involve a Shlitzy lisp with arms flailing in wide arks. And usually, not always, he wants to prove to you why institutions like the Government "don't want anybody to have anyfun anymore." Or "they don't want me to get no pussy either..."

He's right. Most of the time. He lives on his terms. It's too bad I'm not him. I live in wonder at how it all "could be?" My imagination occupies the what-if dimension. A necessity for creativity. And today, as I was sitting in the mullet-butcher's chair, I spent most of my time listening instead of arguing.

Mullets equal character. A definition people enjoy reading over and over again. True comedians should be making statements: of silliness. People should always be laughing. The mullet wave has come and gone and right now it's on the uncool/ perfect side again. Two of your favorite people have mullets: Kurt Russell and Bruce Lee. You'd probably get more work... Also, guess what, David Lee Roth Pussy!

OK, OK. Point taken. But at the time there was nothing I could do. The lady was already well into taking down the "Fisher Price My First Mullet" atop my skull with a pleasurable look on her face. I couldn't tell her to stop. I'd have walked out of Floyd's Barbershop looking like a redneck version of the sophisticated man/ elegant lady.

I let her cut. And cut and cut. Now I have the same-old high and tight haircut that I've been getting since I was a kid. Back when I lived in Stephen King's story "The Body." Instead, I've decided to view this day as the first in the life of my new mullet. Bruce and Kurt had to start somewhere, right? I think so. Besides, the winter is coming up... and the rear part of my neck gets might-tee cold.
-Chris

The Unposted II

2008-09-11T01:40:00.000-07:00

I've been having a tough time writing much of anything lately and all I'd really like to do is get through this block. So, as I've done once before, I'd like to post all of the blogs I've been trying to start over the last few weeks or months or so. Personally, I think most of these are lame but, in the very least, maybe I can convey where I was coming from or how frustrated I've been. I'm also hoping that one or two might inspire further introspection. There is one I'm definitely going to try to continue working on.

And. As before. Comments are in italics. Titles are in bold.

So, this one. I don't even know why I'm posting this one. No reason, really. Just wanted to show you how sometimes I have a hankering to write, then sit down, and nothing ah-t'all comes about. I guess I just moved on.

Animals (4/3/08)
Quick Post on driving across the country and looking for animals w/ pictures

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well this started out with me sitting and staring at a computer for entirely to long. Then I figured I'd try to give a little writing exercise a try. It's kind of lame. I'm afraid that most of these posts are going to be kind of lame. Sorry. That's probably why they didn't get posted in the first place.

I promise at least a few passable lines somewhere in this doggerel. O.K. maybe a good word... One or two alright letters?

One good thing came of this, though. This post eventually turned into my story about rubbing Cologne on my genitals as a kid. Score one for the good guys. One of my major goals, in life, is a decent story, told decently. I'm usually able to manage one of the two.

No Title (6/7/08)
He sat poised at his lap-top, hunched over, wondering what to write and where to begin. A lifetime of laziness can't be cured in one evening, even if he knew where to start. Looking down, gaze drawn right, to that mysterious dry-spot on the inside thumb pad. What is that? Scratch it away. To no avail... wipe invisible/fake dust off of the keyboard for a second to gain time. What? What is he looking to gain? Time? For what? He's got all the time in the world but every time there's work that needs doin' he thinks to himself: Monday -or- after I get back. Well no more. Even if you've got nothing to write about... Write. Something.

One time when I was a kid I put Cologne all over my body. Every inch of it. Just after I had gotten out of the shower. Oooh! Eeeeh! Let's just say it ranks up there. As one of the dumbest and funniest things I've ever done.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I really liked the idea of this one. Sometimes, I give up to easily. I love the imagery of L.A. as Castlevania II. And I really wish that I was playing that game right now...

No Title (6/11/08)
Somehow time slips by out here. In L.A. I don't know how it happens. I've heard people mention it and it is weird. Don't get me wrong. Time slips by Everywhere. But here, each day is the same. Like (and I don't often use similes but) a game of Castlevania II. Each day you walk around and talk to the local Transylvanians and ask them about strange things they may have seen or heard, maybe chat with them about the Count and the next thing you know you're outside and... IT IS DARK! Somehow time slips right on by.

Overall, I'm happy to be here. I forget that. I've had moments where it strikes me

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I think I lost my mind on this one. You know what I wish? I wish that when I lost my mind it were a lot funnier. All of the story stuff is true, though.

No Title (Also 6/11/08)
Sometimes, when you're blocked, it's best not to put words in a place where everyone can see. I say, fuck that. I live life on the edge and ya know what? I'm there right now. When you see me out on that edge and you say, "Hey man! Hey, Chris, Man... I don't think this is a good idea. Maybe we shouldn't be doin' this... I gotta baaaaaaaaddddd feelin' bout this one." Well, that's when I step over the edge. I live over. A couple times I died over... So, unless you're willing to follow me there, stop readin'.

What? You're gonna keep on readin', huh? Gonna follow me into the abyss? Ok, then but before we move forward you're going to need to know a couple things. 1. This ain't no James Cameroon's "abyss." Noooo No. Naw, this shit here is closer to the real "Cameroon."

We're out on the edge of Nigeria, man. 2. I suppose that just by reading, yer thinkin' I'm gonna take it easy on ya. Well I ain't. I ain't no chickenshit. And the fact that your still readin' says you ain't either. I like that... Shows me you got balls. So, at this point I hear you sayin' to yourself, "what're this guys qualifications?" Here's what they are: I crashed a car when I was only 3, I brained a teenager (who was attacking our house with eggs) with a D-cell battery in that same year, I once set fire- by accident- to a hillside when I was 12, and

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My bike is probably the number one topic that I want to write about. Maybe because I spend so much time on it. The only problem is that whenever I try to write about it the results are G.A.Y. gay.

Cutters (8/6/08)
I think I broke the land speed record tonight... on my bike. I've been riding my bike pretty steadily now since last October. I find that it's one of my favorite things to do. Let's reminisce (just for a second). Remember when we were kids and you got your bike? And a friend inevitably would ask, "ya wanna ride bikes?" Music to my ears. What a great idea. Now, I'm grown-up. And I live in a town, nay a city, NOOOOO nay, nay I say a County. A County called Los Angeles. One of the most widely spread (weird) cities on the planet. A place where everyone gets their car valeted and refuses to walk two blocks. Where you get a weird look for saying, "let's walk" and yet nobody looks cross-eyed at the guy in a fur hat on a 90 degree day. (I actually love fur hats. If my dog hadn't eaten my babushka I'd probably wear mine every day too.)

David and I moved to Los Angeles last fall and before we drove across the country, for the third time, we got a bike rack. The smartest idea my brother ever had. And once we moved into our new apartment and started going out to comedy shows on our bikes I found a wonderful thing happened. I loved riding my bike as much as, if not more, than going to the shows. (Except for when we got to perform.) When I left our apartment I'd say to myself, "AWESOME! I get to ride my bike now." And I'd feel the same thing when I left the show. I wasn't all crazy, sitting in a show, thinking about my bike the whole time but it was almost like I'd forgotten that this was my new transportation.

There have been some minor incidents. In November I got into a nasty wreck and smashed in muh face, cracked my front Beaver teeth, and still have some minor scars. I've also been hit, lightly, by a girl in an old volvo. She hit me with her front bumper, didn't look at me and kept driving... as though nothing happened. Yeah, just, "aaahhh, nothing... I didn't hit that guy." I got pissed, chased her to a light and said, out loud, "Fuck it." Then I got my rear wheel taken. It happens. I got a new one. It cost a lot of money.

Anyway, before I bore you completely all to hell let me

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This one I actually like. I was trying to write it as a short story and it'll eventually get finished. I also wanted to get it up as a tribute/ late extra wedding gift to my best friend Jamie Carroll. I was home for his wedding and we got to hang out a bunch but most of the time it was all drunken lunacy. I wanted to show him that my head can be full of tender thoughts to. To much? Whatever I like the topic... and I never quite got to it in this small piece. But it will get finished. Oh, It will get finished.

Father Coyne (Also 8/6/08)
St. Catherine of Siena Church was built in the late Eighteen Eighties. I imagine it's as beautiful today is it was when it was first erected. The Ceiling seems to reach up to Heaven, with graceful arcs crossing in symmetrical patterns. The gaze is immediately drawn skyward to God's Ceiling. It was a hot day and the church itself was no reprieve. (Have a piece in here about never being allowed to look up in Church, as a kid. Also add how I always look up in Churches now.)
Outside, as we were all exchanging pleasantries, old friends got reacquainted and new faces beamed in the hot sun. It's not often you gather for a best friend's wedding or even a rehearsal. nobody wants to screw up that "special day." Not on purpose anyway. Suffice to say everyone was looking their best in, not exactly keep-me-cool gear. As people were milling about on the sidewalk -waiting for a hunchback with a bottle opener to unlock the giant doors and let us into God's house- I glanced over and saw Father Coyne. Wow. It had been a long time since I had seen Father Coyne.
On one of the last occasions of seeing him my best friend Jamie's father, Jimmy, pantsed me at the front of a fishing boat as I was waving to another boat passing by. I was standing on a bench at the bow waving, smilingly when Jimmy decided he'd pull my pants down. Little did he know I was free-balling

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This one just seemed like bragging to me. I've never had a tan and I actually got one for a couple of days there in late August (what would be a couple of weeks ago.) I got excited. It was pretty nice. And it was gone in a day.

I can't believe it either... (8/26/08)
I've been swimming a couple of times a week for about a month now. Other than a scary little mole that I have on my back I've been experimenting with not wearing any sunblock. Dangerous. I know. I was once on a cruise ship, making my way to the pool with my shirt off, when I was stopped randomly by a woman who said, "for the love of God please tell me you have sunblock on..." What a horrible thing to say to a person. Of course I was wearing sunblock.

Recently, I've been heading down to the pool. It's been going really well, since you've asked. For some reason I've decided to see what happens without the block. And damned if I didn't go and get myself a tan. All over my back. Sure, there are a lot of freckles but for all of those people who gave me grief over the years: my back is giving you double white trash middle fingers right now... It's tan for me. Extremely tan for me. I do believe that's all you need to know.

-Chris

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reminiscing about August. This was going to be completely sappy and a little overboard about how much I miss home and the feelings that I get at the end of August. Even though I live in a land where the weather is always the same and nothing ever seems to change I was still getting that old feeling that something different is in the air. Like Barack Obama. Coincidentally, I'd like to write a blog about how stupid you are if you don't vote for him. That'll probably end up in The Unposted III. I don't do politics well.

August (8/27/08)
There's always been something special about this month. Particularly at the end of the month. You can feel it. The air feels different. There's always something in the bittersweet embrace of the rapidly diminishing heat

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Are you kidding me?

Ain't No Stopping (9/6/08)
This is what I've been up to...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm still trying to get over that last one. Whew! Huh! Am I right? I mean, am I right? Unbelievable. Anyway, This is the post I tried to write tonight. Eh! I just want to get back into form. I've learned in the last couple of months that you can do almost anything (well as long as anything is: running, swimming, and biking long distances) if you start slowly.

There was also a bunch of other stuff that I erased. For the most part it was about Marriage (my brother's), getting passed at The Comedy Store (three Cheers), and what else is happening in the World of The Walsh Boys. Hopefully, this'll help me gain steam.

News (Tonight)
OK. So, I haven't put finger to keypad in a while and it's killing me. I have tried to write, it's just been a chore... This may be a fight but let's both see it through. (Although, I do hope there is more than one person reading.) Where to begin?

First off, I'm competing in a triathlon in almost a week and hope that I'm amply prepared. I get to the pool once or twice a week and I'm starting to become a decent swimmer. Some mornings, I ride my bike eleven miles to work. I make good time by competing with cars and drafting buses. If it weren't for red lights I'd make great time but as it is the count stands at about forty seven minutes. I sleep with my helmet on.

-Chris

Eggs

2008-08-13T23:12:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago both myself and James Patterson were egged, respectively. I was coming out of the Hollywood Improv after a Great & Secret Show meeting and as I was strolling through a crowd of people I felt something hit my rib-cage. I turned, looked around at the people standing outside, recognized a comedian I love (Patrice O'neil), and everyone had a look on their faces that said, "what the fuck was that?" As I looked down at my shirt I notice- EGG!

Patrice then said, "That sucks... but it's about time WE caught a break..." (In reference to the majority of black comedians hanging around outside for the Bernie Mack Tribute Show.) and I cut him off with "I know, it must be Bernie Mack smiling down from Heaven, right?"

I then rode home, with egg all over me, thinking "what goes around comes around" because I have thrown a few eggs in my time. I just can't believe the arm on that assassin. 9 times out of 10 I never would've landed that shot. As I was traveling I was anticipating telling my roommate, James, about the incident even though he had left right before me. But when we ran into each other he said, "you aren't going to believe what just happened to me."

What are the chances they got us both?

And I said, "HOLY SHIT you too?" He then said, "I was riding my bike and I got nailed by and egg!" And with a huge smile on his face said, "and it was a good shot too."

The funny thing is that in each instance both of us had thought we'd been shot. With a bullet. Thank God that wasn't the case... It sucks to get hit by an egg but at least we appreciate good hijinx and someone who's a dead-eye with an egg.
-Chris

P.S. A full coverage Bigfoot blog is on it's way. I'm just waiting to see what happens at the press conference on Friday. This could change everything...

Early Onset Alzheimers

2008-08-10T23:47:00.001-07:00

Lately, while riding my bicycle I've been listening to "The Dark Knight" soundtrack. Originally, I just thought it'd be cool but now I feel like The Batman on a mountain bike...

...and when I stopped off at Blockbuster I felt like The Batman renting a movie. Also, I love how in "The Dark Knight" all of the citizens of Gotham call him "The Batman" as though the city is populated by my parents.

One time, when I was a kid, I actually wrote a girl a poem... well, I copied a poem from an Encyclopedia but I attempted to pass it off as my own work and she caught me. Somehow. I don't know how she did it. I looked it up under P. I thought I was being slick but I got nailed... I also have that very same girls soccer card. Still. At one point I thought I was going to marry her but we were only twelve. It ended badly. She was uncool.

I'd like to be less judgmental and more dedicated.

Tonight is one of those nights where I could probably do anything. Pick one, of any number of paths to take, and still feel bored. If I ever felt this way growing up I'd have gone down to my cellar and made-pretend build something. I never actually built anything. One time my dad and I built a bookshelf. My dad did all of the work. When he finished he wrote "Chris 1987" on the back. He used the same fire-engine red paint for the front of it. Now that I think of it, that bookshelf is my favorite possession. It makes me wish I built more stuff with my dad when I had the chance... Really, he should have signed it "Dad 1987." And It's impossible for me to tell him how much I love him.

Sleep calls. But the call for comedy resounds in the hallowed halls of my head. I don't have call waiting.

I once said the same thing about God.

Personal quirk: I need to wash my hands pretty regularly. Mostly only before meals but sometimes I get scared that it'll slip into some O.C.D. It won't but the fear is there. It doesn't match up to my biggest fear: blindness. So, please everybody, don't throw bleach in my eyes.

I believe that the life you lead is based only on the decisions you make. Kinda like a choose your own adventure book...

I once wrote a paper that, I'm pretty sure, was in 14 point font and like quadruple spaced. There were three words per line and it was for a 400 level English class on sublime poetry... I got a C.

I wish I had super powers. Really good ones. I'd make a great superhero. I'd help everyone, especially the people who need it most. I'd use my powers to take out bank loans for folks who don't have a lot of cash that the banks, otherwise, wouldn't even bat an eyelash at. My only downfall would be my mouth. Much like in real life, I'm loquacious. (Word of the day.) I talk a lot. You could say that I have the gift of gab but it's more of a curse... such is the life of a superhero.

I'm stocking up on reams of paper, pens, notebooks, note-cards, reading materials, and ideas.

There's something on my back that I definitely need looked at and probably need removed. But I'm wondering why I can't just do it myself. There's gotta be a DIY video on youtube for mole removal. A little self surgery would save me time AND money.

While typing that last blurb I was reminded of how a nun once told me that you can't start a sentence with because. Yes you can. How bout this? Because of the Earthquake, my life was never the same. Or how bout just: "Because."

(If that's incorrect just remember: Mistakes are O.K.)

I bought a tube of Pillsbury cookie dough tonight. It's sitting in my fridge and I have no real intention of eating it.

Regularly, I hear noises from various open windows of my apartment and I imagine criminals climbing in through the screens but the fantasy doesn't stop there. Upon entering my house they have to deal with me and my newly, in the moment, discovered Jason Bourne-Kali fighting skills.

The noises are just my hamsters... and they're too small for a street fight.

Currently, I'm reading Frankenstein written by Mary W. Shelley in 1817. She told me so in her preface. My book reading style is cover to cover. With no skipping. Imagine my surprise, when reading a book that traveled about Seventeen Hundred Ninety One years and finally arrived in my grubby mitts, to find that she's not the only person who's written in it. Oh, no no no... Several others have left their mark. Twelve souls to be exact. In the form of names, addresses, and telephone numbers. That makes me the Thirteenth.

Tomorrow, I have a few calls to make.

Brainstorm. I'm joining a woodworking class... next fathers day my dad gets a brand new, top o' the line, fire-engine red bookshelf. And there's plenty of time to do it.

How's YOUR brain?

Love,
-Chris

Ladies and Gentleman: The Grown Up Noise

2008-08-06T02:28:00.001-07:00

Hello out there,
I just spent a good hour and a half trying to write something that isn't a story from my childhood or incredibly boring and I failed. Miserably. So, instead of not posting anything at all I thought I'd just plug my friends "The Grown Up Noise" who're playing our show this Thursday Night at 9 p.m. If you're in L.A. and have some time please come by and see them open our show. Their music is really really good. (So, good I had to use two "reallies." I'd say they're "Amazing" but who needs to live up to those expectations. The good thing is they actually can.)

Ga' head, listen to their music, fa ya self. They are great.

They also have a set at The Mint on Saturday at 9:40 p.m. too. Come on by and check them out or go by The Mint on Saturday. (I have fliers to get you a discount if you want 'em.) You won't be disappointed. So, don't be a goon... come to one of two, or both, shows.

Love,
Chris

ANTS!

2008-07-31T03:11:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, every so often on t.v. (channel 38) they had feature movie weeks. More specifically, they had one called: "Mother Nature Strikes Back Week" which I absolutely loved. They'd show movies about insects and animals killing people. One of my favorite movies that I remember, most fondly, was the one they showed called "ANTS." "ANTS" was exactly what you think it is... A Horror Movie about a colony of killer ants.

"Mother Nature Strikes Back Week" was something else and it was perfect because I could watch it and then be in bed by around 10 p.m. Worrying about killer insects. (If you ever get the chance "Piranha II: The Spawn" is also a definite must see.) The plot of "ANTS" is roughly as follows: there's an old hotel that's under construction, or something, and these poisonous ants come out of nowhere. People keep getting bitten, hurt, and killed by them. The climax comes when a group of people are chased, floor by floor, up to the top of the Hotel. Until the whole hotel is covered in ants. It's really a difficult one to watch...

Now, here I am... living in Los Angeles. Moved nine months ago with my brother. We're in a tiny apartment. Not quite big enough for the both of us, let alone James Patterson. (Our friend, not the author.) Add into the mix: it's the height of summer. The heat. No respite. You see where I'm going with this? There have been moments, since we've moved in, where we've had minor skirmishes with the ants. There was one time when James left a bottle of honey next to the fridge and we got hundreds of them all over our counter. We almost lost that one... but this... this is War. They're everywhere.

Don't get the wrong Idea. I don't mind ants. I think they're cute. And lately I've had a little bit of a philosophical conundrum because I don't think coexistence is possible but "If I kill an ant aren't I still taking a life?" I believe so. Why not value them as highly as people? Or all living things for that matter? Maybe that's a little much but I've taken my fair share of wildlives in my time anyway. Birds, squirrels, frogs, insects... (As a boy I was a bit of a soul-collector.) I'm not entirely happy about it but there was no other way to find out that serial killing wasn't for me. People make mistakes.

Maybe the ants are a mini-plague for my sins. Perhaps grasshoppers are next. One thing I can tell you is that wherever I meet them, on whatever battle ground we collide: the bathroom sink, the wall near my computer, next to the fridge, my dresser, the kitchen sink... (sometimes I'll find an ant on my body waaay waaaay after I've left my house... so, I think they're hiding out in my shirts too) Their superior numbers overwhelm. The trick, I'm finding out, is to kill the scout and erase his scent trail so the others won't know where our delectable delights are. Also, I've imported trained spiders. Really, I've just moved the ones I think will kill the ants from one location of the house to another.

And I'm no fan of spiders. Most times I'd rather hang out with ants than spiders but in this case the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Even if he was previously my enemy. Ya follow?

Part of me knows that whatever the reason these ants have attacked, I'm going to wake up some night in the middle of being carried off from my bed and an attempt will be made to stuff me through a tiny crack in my kitchen wall. I guess this is just my goodbye letter. Hopefully, when I reach their subterranean world, I'll convince them that they can use someone like me and that my talents are an asset to the colony. In which case I open a comedy club and start booking a show.
Goodbye,
Chris

-All inquiries for stage-time should be sent through chrispywalsh@gmail.com.
P.S. There was a movie called "Deadly Eyes" which will forever haunt my memories, as well.

Inside the Mind of a Watermelon

2008-06-17T04:28:00.000-07:00

It's in the fridge, as I write this, I can hear the friendly echoes of a voice in the past. Like oars on a lonely lake when you go fishing with your sweetheart by the moonlight...

It's calling.

But the hour is late and I can't tell if it's just the oars or if a night swimmer is in trouble. Did you hear that? Is it a friendly plea for help? Or something more sinister? I know what it is. It's been slowly growing in volume for two weeks. I heard them all laugh when I said, "yeah, it only took me about an hour to hollow it out."

Someone: "ya know, if a Watermelon were actually alive, and could talk that's exactly what it would look like!" If they only knew... Yeah, it's for a sketch, but I knew. I knew when I first walked by the cardboard box holding all of the melons at El Super Mercado. I could hear it then, "Me and You, We'd MAKE a GREAT team."

Now, it's in my fridge and I hear it again. Cooing through the metal. I glance to my left and see the door and it's handles, dull white. I imagine it in there peering. Trying to catch a glimpse of me through all of the metal and butter and jam jars. It's behind the door.

Good thing fridge doors are thick. Could probably stop a bullet, if necessary. It doesn't take much to drown out the sound. Just turn on some U2. I still haven't found what I'm looking for... he'll never get a hold of me now. I really only need him for one more show and then he'll probably be too moldy to wear anyhow. I'll move on to other sketches. Other things. Maybe I can work on that Snow Vacuum I've always wanted to build. Yes sir, I'll be safe as long as I'm out here breathing in the warm -freshly polluted- California air. While he's in there...A cold vault, keeping him fresh...

What was that? Above the music? I know my U2. It's my favorite. And there's no thrashing on The Joshua Tree. No smashing of cheap metallic shelves. No babies crying. The sound, it's ungodly.

Luckily, though, there's the fridge door muffling the sound. (Muffling the violence.) As if a child thought it were a time machine on trash day. Make it stop... BUT it goes away after a while.

Maybe it grows tired? Mayhaps it's dead? Then, foolishly, after a tense and quiet time later I think to myself, "Perhaps I should check. Plus, I really could use some Orange Juice." I turn off the band and I sit for an interminable period listening.. I say out loud, "There's nothing to worry about." Afterall, I'm bigger than him. And before I can stop to think...

I...
Open...
That...
Door...

I open the door to his crypt and he's on me in a flash.

"Aaaaaaaahhhhh!" I cry. Then I'm tearing at my own head. Fingernails digging into the base of my skull.

"Get it off of me..." To no avail.

Instantly it fills me full of power and makes -me- everything, somehow better. Somewhere inside, the pain of life goes away and the joy of being a watermelon fills my mind. Everyways it's all clear now. Spread the seeds... Watch them grow. Teach them.

First, culture and see what exactly "human PEOPLE" are and all about and why?. If you want to change the world, you've got to plan, coordinate, strategize. You don't accomplish anything by going about it LIKE A MONKEY!!!! OH NO no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no... NO. This here's gonna be a whole new thing. Seedless. But with Seeds.

After a little bit of pondering, some thought, and a nice cup of Joey...

...my head is full of good ideas and I'm off to show the world.

Here I come World...
HERE I COOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMME!

LOOK OUT fer me, would'ya, Please? Do it fer yer old pal, huh? I'll be somewhere in Los Angeles, World. Somewhere in Los Angeles between La Brea and Fairfax. All day tomorrow and for the rest of my life. Most likely on Melrose Avenue. And when you find me, tell me all your secrets, please. Tell me what I have to do to show you a good time. I want to be your friend because GUESS WHAT? I'm: "a far out fan." And you sure are a fucked up place. Let's be allies.

Heh, heh, heh, heh...
(Watermelon)

B-N-E

2008-06-13T02:44:00.000-07:00

My buddy, Joe List, has a wonderful habit of saying "this is the best night ever!" He says this when a crew of good folks gather or even if there's only a couple of people having a good time. I would like to say that TONIGHT was the best night ever. Not much has to be said about it except that it was incredibly fun. The Celtics were victorious over the Lakers in Game 4 of the NBA finals to bring the series to 3-1 Celts and we had a dy-no-mite show. Camaraderie followed. There's more but, well... let's just say, "Best Night Ever!" Thanks to all who participated, (Including Will Smith for making "Hancock.")
Chris

The Mosquito

2008-06-11T01:58:00.000-07:00

I was trying to get to sleep but there was this little bug "buzz buzzing" in my ear. It was a mosquito and I hate mosquitoes. Now, "Hate'" is a strong word, which is why I'm using it... I hate mosquitoes. Mainly because they get in your ear while you're trying to sleep.... "Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzz." No matter what I did I couldn't swat him away and the anticipation of getting bitten was killing me.

Just bite me already and get on with it. So, I said, "Just go ahead and bite me..." And, as if he could hear me, he did. The Bastard bit me. And it hurt like a sonovabitch! But little did he know that I had set a trap for him. The "you bite me and I got your ass trap." Because it's easier to draw a bead on 'em when they're on the ground, on my ear....

So, I catch him but I don't squash him like most people would. I grab him in between my fingers and I turn on my bedroom lamp to get a better look... and he's stuck there in-between my fingers and he's got a look that says "Hey, I'm a mosquito. It's what I do!" And I immediately say, "Uh unh, no way, oh no you don't. Not this time motherfucker... that defense might work in court where you can get off on a technicality or some such but out here, in the world, crazy shit happens...

"Let's take, for instance, this example: YOU were just going to suck my blood! I think, in fact, I may see some of my plasma in yer little sack there. Now, you could have been anything. Anything at all. When you were a little bug you coulda decided to go to school, become a Fireman and saved lives, any number of things... You had a whole host of opportunities. The world was your oyster... but what did you decide? That's right. You had to be a Mosquito. Well not today motherfucker. Because I got you. And this... is the LAST time you suck mine or anyone else's blood. You little terrorist."

And with that I then tore him into pieces and buried him in the four corners of my bedroom. And I ate his little heart for strength... also, because I'm poor and can't afford a decent meal.

-Chris

Free Throws

2008-06-02T02:53:00.000-07:00

Well, the Celtics are in the finals again and I've been struggling through the playoffs. Nearly gnawing through every wood, stone, or space-aged material bar I've sat in-front of watching the games. The thing that troubles me most about watching any NBA game is when a player misses a free throw. It's a good thing that the Celtics are a dynamite foul shooting team. It's a joy to watch. Especially Ray Allen. Like all of us, at one time or another, I aspired to be an NBA player and strongly believed I was just as likely to reach that goal as anybody. Wasn't Michael Jordan cut from his High School Freshman squad?

In retrospect, I was terrible at basketball. My one saving grace? Foul shots. I was a decent-to-good free throw shooter. Maybe my memory is getting shoddy in my old age (as of an hour and eight minutes ago I'm 31) but I'd like to say I was above 80% at foul shots. It's probably more like 62%, though, just to be safe let's call it an even 32%.

I have proud memories of being a great foul shooter. At the end of every JV basketball practice nobody got to go home unless two players could each hit two free throws in a row. Otherwise the whole team would have to run suicides. I was always picked first and I was always ice from the line. You may see this as bragging but I also had many short comings. Butter-fingers being chief among them. For instance: I have terrible memories of dropping passes in games or missing bunny layups but in practice I was ice from the line...

Since we're already easing into the nostalgia a little bit, like Bugs Bunny eases into a hot bath, let's take it back. Let's take it all the way back. To the year of 1992. Let's get immersed into a time of my life where things were reaching a new depth of murkiness and growing more uncertain by the day. Let's take it to the start of my sophomore year in High School. No doubt harsh times for a fresh faced little me. I had finally had the growth spurt I'd been waiting years for. More importantly: I had just recently lost my older brother/partner/consiglieri David to a six hour drive of a University on Long Island. Possibly never to be heard from again... thus began a minor withdrawal into a cocoon of my own making.

That cocoon consisted mostly of basketball. There was a healthy heaping of comedy but mostly basketball. Basketball, basketball, and more basketball. I was a gym rat. As mentioned above, I played on my High School JV squad that year but if you were looking for me you're best bet was the Charlestown Boys and Girls Club gymnasium. One of my favorite places on Mother Earth.

I had been going to the Boys and Girls Club since the day of my seventh birthday. I had had my share of triumphs and defeats in that place over the years: Winning a Science Fair, more than a few wins at "Battle of the Brains", meeting my best friend Jamie, I once made a ship in a bottle there, Library Council trips to Washington D.C., getting blamed for an adolescent rape by Dan Frangos that I didn't commit, winning an internship at Bronner, Slosberg, Humprhies, at one point I won a structural engineering science contest, overnights, dances, woodworking, and the list goes on and on. But one of my absolute favorite moments came in the fall of my sophomore year of High School in 1992. And it came about as a result of being a gym rat at the Boys and Girls Club.

I was playing Basketball in the gymnasium when the club director, John Killoran, approached me and asked me if I wanted to enter "The Reggie Lewis Essay Contest." I was a lazy kid but the promise of a leather Celtics Jacket, an NBA game ball, and tickets to the Celtics game were motivation enough for me to sit down and write something for Reggie. I wrote about how at another point in my life, way way back in the seventh grade, I had to write an essay about somebody who inspired me and I had chosen Reggie Lewis. I then began to illustrate exactly why he was my role model at both times of my life.

Now, I always assumed -and I still do- that I was the only kid at any Boys and Girls Club of Boston that actually sat down to write Mr. Lewis an essay because somehow I won. I was informed that I'd be going to the fourth home game versus The Washington Bullets. I was also told that I could "bring a friend," we'd be sitting on the floor, and at half time we would be the entertainment. Shooting free throws. Unbelievable. On top of that: my brother, my partner in crime, the "capo de tut de capo" would be returning home from the hinterlands for Thanksgiving, or some such Holly-day, and would be able to attend the game as my buddy-friend.

So, I laced up my pair of Nike Huracchi High-tops and we made way for the Boston Gahden 1.2 miles away. The first half we were a bundle of nerves but the seats were amazing. Once the half ended we were each given a t-shirt and told that we'd be shooting free throws with a separate New England Patriots Quarterbacks. Just before the half ended they took us into the tunnel that the players used to enter and exit and we were given balls to dribble and play around with. There's nothing like an actual NBA ball, by the way. We were then told that we'd be announced once the players left the floor. We were losing our minds with nervousness. Then they had us stand aside, in a stairwell, while the players left the court. They all walked right by us and I was so nervous that I actually called Robert Parish, "Kevin Mchale." Whoa.

We were then told to wait on deck in the tunnel just beside the court while we were announced. "Ladies and Gentleman, we have in the building tonight the winners of The Boys and Girls Club Reggie Lewis Essay Contest. From Charlestown brothers Chris and David Walsh..." The crowd cheered, well... some of the crowd cheered and we ran out. Then they announced the quarterbacks. At this time of The New England Patriots storied history the two QBs were Hugh Millen and Scott Zolack. Zolack was the main guy and Millen was the backup but David really liked Millen and since David knew more about sports, or knew about sports, he chose Millen. We paired off and waited for them to start the clock on the scoreboard.

I can't remember what the actual time was. I think each of us got 30 seconds to shoot. The QBs went first and we had to rebound for them. I think there was some deal where however much we hit there'd be money donated to the Jimmy Fund. EXTRA PRESSURE! I don't really know what was happening down on David's end but I was getting a small stupid speech from Zolack. "Give me passes about chest high and make 'em quick..." Oh, I see, so you want me to give you a chest pass, huh? What's a... a chest... PASS? Goon. Maybe he was nervous too?

He took his shots for 30 seconds... a minute? I'm not sure... but then it was my turn. Normally, I'd be nervous but because I had to rebound for Zolack my blood got going and I had a good little workout. By the time I got to the line I had worked off some adrenaline and I could focus. So, when the buzzer rang and we had to switch I ran to the line, excuse me -the foul line at Boston Garden- and caught a tightly whipped chest pass from the starting quarterback of The New England Patriots and drained my first shot. I missed the second one but then I shot the lights out.

I was on fire. The absolute best part was the roar of the crowd. I could hear a few people cheer the first basket and then feel the excitement grow as I nailed more and more shots. I think I hit about seven in a row. They were losing it. What an amazing feeling. To go from a smattering of claps and cheers to people completely elated over some random kid hitting free throws at "The Garden." I remember walking back to David at center court and hearing the crowd cheering and his first words to me. "What was going on over there?" I must have had the biggest, goofiest grin on my face as I said, "I don't know. I have no idea..."
-Chris

The Mustache Transfer

2008-05-28T12:24:00.000-07:00

Here is how to execute a perfectly good Mustache Transfer:

1. Retain Old Notebook.

2. Open Old Notebook.

3. Open Newer Notebook.

4. Transfer "Escapo's Mustache."

5. Transfer "Old Timey Mustache #2."

6. Transfer "Cardsharp Stache."

7. Flawless Mustache Transfer Complete.*

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(*Technically #s 6. and 7. are the same. Next time we'll take a trip to the Mustache Farm.)

-Chris

Sappiness

2008-05-15T09:29:00.000-07:00

Well, we're back in Los Angeles and I never thought I'd think of this place as "home." Don't get me wrong, Boston will always be my real home but I guess L.A. has become where we actually live. This is where my routine resides now. So many people, back East, have been asking me how it is out here and I say the same thing to everyone. "I love it." I guess Randy Newman is right. For some reason it's always difficult to go back. The friends I miss are there, the people I love but can never spend time with are there, and all the old nostalgia wraps around my heart like a hundred and fifty pound anaconda. It can be difficult.

I don't want to be misleading because I had a great time. I got to see friends and family. Also, we had several great shows and I'm always amazed that people actually come out to see us. One show, at Improv Boston, had about a hundred people and we performed at the Somerville Theater to a crowd of eight hundred or more. (It was insane.) There are just some things that'll always make the return home tough. I guess it's always hard to move on.

I'm also astounded at how much things stay the same in a completely new city. I once read a detective fiction novel where the private eye/ protagonist talked about having hunted a man who left his wife and family behind. He said the man was unhappy with his life so he disappeared and moved a few states away to start another life. When the detective finally found him he was living the exact same life that he had been, only in a completely different place. He even had a new family. I guess we get accustomed to our routines. For me it's all comedy, all the time. Back in Boston, I used to love riding on the Train to our gigs at the Comedy Studio on Friday nights. Out here, we ride our bikes to most shows and I couldn't be happier about it. (I ride my bike everywhere, for that matter, but that's another blog.)

It was great to see everybody. Most days I've gotta try to forget about Boston so I won't be a sad goof all day. My plan, as always, is to turn things around out here. We all have little plans to be a better person or be more productive. Well, I'd like mine to start now, please. I woke up at 8:30 am today. (No credit goes to me. Eastern Standard.) Hopefully, I can keep that streak alive for a week or so. My plan is to change the routine. I've been uncomfortable with mine for a while. "What's mine?" You say... Laziness. I want to work on it and today's the day.
-Chris

Us or Them

2008-04-24T14:53:00.000-07:00

So... Here we are.

Here.
We.
Are...

...I stand here with you, men, on the eve of battle and I ask you... have you ever felt more alive? Have you ever felt more... Focused? As we stand, at the ready, I ask you to take a DEEP inhale... Now, what do you smell? That's right you smell air. You smell the perfect concentration of CO2 and carbon monoxide. It may smell foul, it may not be perfect but this is "Our" air we're breathing. I'll tell you one thing you don't smell and that's Fish.

There may be some of you out there who... wishes they smelt fish, right now... Weeeeh-heh-heh-hell, I understand what it's like... to every once in a while "have a hankering" for the smell of burnin' fish flesh. I mean, who doesn't have those cravings? If you don't have thoughts like that in your head, now and again, you're not human. You're probably some... lesser species.

I don't want to get to carried away here, boys, but it's important to take a look at the specifics. Did you know that a little over a month ago we had another casualty? A woman was head-butted by a "spotted eagle ray."

And it killed her... That... "Fish," pictured above, was responsible for the death of an entire woman... and I ask you isn't that enough? Apparently, the fish don't think so. They won't be happy until our entire species is destroyed. We've recently decoded both porpoise and whale and our intel tells us that the entire undersea wildlife community hates our guts... They want us "G" "O" "N" "E". Gone... Eradicated. They're enforcing an extinction initiative which will help put humans on pace with the Whale in the dead department.

They've been testing our defenses for years... Need I remind you of the many shark attacks throughout the ages? Perhaps you've been lazy and haven't been reading your manual. Here's a refresher: 1945. The Philippine Sea. The USS Indianapolis is torpedoed by a Japanese submarine... the rest is History.

As you can see: about 880 men went into the water and only 300 survived. The rest, eaten by sharks. THOSE BASTARDS. There's nothing new about this. There have been shark uprisings for hundreds of years. It just takes a peculiar case for people to notice. For example, the attacks along the coast of New Jersey in 1916.

Four people killed, one injured. One of those murders was actually in a river. That shark had the gall to swim up one of OUR rivers and kill a child in the comfort of his own swimming creek. I tell ye these demons must be taken care of... if they have the ability to swim up stream into a river think of the possibilities. Be careful the next time you go to the latrine... It could be the last number two you ever take. There could easily be a bull shark looking to take a bite out of yer rump.

Did you know that most of the leading "Shark Scientists" believe that sharks won't attack humans? Can you believe that? Probably the same scientists who designed this kiddie playhouse...

Desensitize the children and they won't be scared. That's their main goal. Oh and if you think that The Fish don't have agents among us, you are sorely mistaken. There are species traders out there who would have you believe that there'll be no ocean life by the year fifty something... well, one can only hope and pray that that's true. If things keep going the way that they are, these fish could have our land by that time. For all we know, at this very moment there could be fish masquerading as humans. Sound absurd? Everyone has their doubts, now and again.

The fact is that they've been taking us out left and right for years now and nobody is safe. The fish'll take whatever parts of humans they can get... They'll stop at nothing to take our lives or ruin the careers of our young surfers.

WELL. I've got news for you Sharkies. She's still surfing and she's still winning. You'll have to try harder than that if you want to beat the Human Race. The only thing that's going to kill us is US. We'll have it no other way. Right, men? I know, I know... but we have lost so many. That's true. The list of casualties it a long one: Robert Shaw, Capt. Ahab, Steve Irwin, and the list goes on and on. Be weary, men. We believe that the war is only beginning. Expect the worst. These fish fight dirty and new information says that they're learning how to fly...

That's the poster for their SECOND aquatic recruiting video. It won't be long now, men, until they mount their full scale attack. Are you ready? Will you be prepared to fight alongside your brothers and end this turmoil that's waged for centuries on and in our oceans. Join me and fight for the water that we so rightly deserve. You're either with us or against us. I've made my decision. I'll be waiting by the dock in the harbor. We leave tonight at midnight. I have a boat that's fully fueled and stocked with equipment. There's no way they can win now. With great effort and a steel mindset they'll have no course but to run aground to hide from us! But guess what.. we'll be waitin' fer 'em. There's no place left for them to swim. To arms, men, TO ARMS...
-Capt. Nathaniel J. Merriweather

Save Ayrn

2008-04-21T02:29:00.000-07:00

I haven't written a blog in a while, I think I got "the block..." I'll be trying to work through that lil' problem in the next week or so and I expect difficulty but hopefully a little education as well. In the meantime, there's something I've been trying to post for a while but due to a variety of things (mostly laziness) I haven't, as of yet. Allow me to remedy that. I don't often use my time to blug (blog/plug) stuff so I thought I'd take this opportunity to give it a whirl.

My Amazing cousin Kaitlyn (one of my favorite people in the world) has found herself an equally Magnificent roommate by the name of Katherine. And this deadly duo introduced me to Katherine's cousin, Ayrn, who has unfortunately had some medical troubles. Anyway, the main problem is bills. Lots and lots of medical bills... Needless to say: bills suck. So, Katherine and some friends are doing all they can to help her cousin out.

"Yes, Chris, but how can I help?" Well, all I'm askin' is you go over to the website they created for Ayrn and take a look at some nice items that they'd be willing to make and mail to ye for a small fee... Definitely check out Katherine's delectable delights. I can, personally, vouch for Katherine's amazing skill in making tasty treats. Mother's Day is coming up. Get yo'self prepared. Thanks and Hopefully you'll be hearing a lot from me in the next week or so.

Love,
Chris

"Germans"

2008-04-03T02:49:00.000-07:00

Somewhere out there in Utah. On a road from Bryce Canyon...

...to Zion...

...my brother and I witnessed a peculiar occurrence.

We stopped, for some time, to collect our breath after seeing one of the most beautiful sights The World has to offer. Little did we know that we'd be heading to a place that was just as beautiful... or that we'd see something completely silly between the two. The sights we saw on that day ran the gamut. From heart stopping to ridiculous.

Ya see, as we pulled into a random gas station, in the middle of nowhere, we came upon something we'd never expected. It seems there was a gang of German tourists playing "Hells Angels" across the country. Apparently, for a sizable fee you can go on a Great American Harley tour across our wonderful nation -or perhaps even just a part of it- and take in the sites on a hog. That's exactly what a group of crazy Krauts were doing when my brother and I arrived on scene at this out of the way station.

They were nice, as nice can be, German folk. Fully clad in leather and Harley gear, inquiring about "the cappuccino" in the general store when my brother and I approached for snacks. The proprietor actually had cappuccino... and as we left I overheard a couple of Germans remark that it was "a really damn good cappuccino." We said howdy to a few as we passed, hopped into The Ghost with our Doritos, and sped off into the hills... We figured that'd be all we'd hear from The Crazy German Motocyclin' Gang and chalked it up as a minor peculiarity.

Now, very quickly, allow me to fill you in on a recurring topic that David and I shared on our trip through twenty two states. One of the major themes was animals. We wanted to see animals. Alive or Dead. Didn't much matter to us. We were psyched about any and all animals on our trip. There was so much talk of animals that I'm remiss in not having posted about this earlier... I'll put it to you this way: we spent more time talking about animals than we did in Karaoke bars, which was far too much time.

So, when we were buzzing down a Highway in Utah and we looked out the driver's side window and saw Bison... well, you know why we had to stop.

I eased The Ghost over to the shoulder and David and I hopped out to snap some photos of the mammoth beasts. My camera does the job but it does no justice to the size of these massive creatures. We were elated. I wanted to leap the fence and run into the field... even though, from our distance, each bison looked like the size of a bus. It was truly a spectacle.

Imagine our surprise when we heard the roar of a chopper convoy twenty five to thirty Germans strong ripping down the road. Everyone by the side of the highway turned to inspect the noise. The bison looked up from their pasture "eeehhhrr!?" Hay falling out of mouths. We all looked. Then, The German Bikers-in-Training slowed to a stop in the middle of the road. To regard the Bison. They all came to a complete, if not shaky, stop.

That's when I took this picture. Unfortunately, I then put my camera away. Had I kept taking pictures I'd currently have evidence as to what happened next. The motorcycle line came to a halt there on the highway. Taking up the entirety of the west bound lane. With no regard to our country's traffic laws. They're a biker gang. And they're German. "Fick You! Unce you Amelican Highvays! AUTOBAHN!" So, they pulled up and came to a halt. As they did a guy halfway down the line lost it. His bike fell to our right and hit the ground. From a good distance off we watched as he rolled onto the Highway... and into traffic. You can't see any cars in the picture but one came along and started beeping at him. He was slow to get up. He then had trouble righting the bike. They must have had a guide in the truck at the front of their convoy because someone came out to help him... I will say that it's good, when Germany unleashes it's biker gangs on our American streets, that they're being supervised. That's extremely important. We wouldn't want them to scratch their beautiful American engineered soft tails.

After that the Highway stayed two lanes until we got out of Zion Canyon. We were on those twisty roads a good long while. The whole time pursued by The Germans, a few cars behind, en mass. Usually, they were a ways behind due to traffic flow but sometimes, because of a tight pass, traffic would halt and they'd catch up. Each and every time that happened David and I would see them and yell, "GERMANS" as loud as possible in their direction.

-Chris

I'd Be Happy to Serve You

2008-03-24T05:14:00.000-07:00

Everyone has difficult periods in life. Everyone. To say that any tough period I went through is more important than anyone else's would be ridiculous... there's a lot of bad shit going on out there. BUT... during hard times it does seem like I've got it harder than anyone else on earth, even if it's not all that bad.

To tell you the truth, that whole last part could easily be edited down to about five words. Freshman Year in High School.

So, it was Freshman Year in High School and like most of us I was a loser. I don't know what it was, really. I spent the first through eighth grades tearing up classrooms like they were my own personal comedy club. Somehow, I even ended up eighth grade class president. And I was the least qualified person for the job. (Sorry Margaret Farr.) In the ninth grade everything changed. Most of the girls became women and all that anyone seemed to care about was drinking and sports. (I'm sure sex was involved to but I wasn't really privy to that.)

Here is the list of things I concerned myself with, in order of importance: Saturday Night Live. Getting on Saturday Night Live. Comic Strip Live. Trying not to embarrass myself in School i.e. not talking. Movies, particularly of the "Horror" or "Comedy" genre. And Jim Carrey...

One thing I really loved to do, though, was dance. I'd dance at any opportunity. And I tried to connect with kids in my school by going to school dances. The problem was that most kids at Matignon, where I went, thought they were to cool for the dances. I danced like a maniac anyway. There was music. I had to. Regardless of my dancing skills, by my account I had little to no friends at Matignon.

A fact that may have been remedied one bright and sunny day when our little school was visited by an unknown Danish rap star by the name of Lucas. Lucas was promoting his new album by touring High Schools throughout the U.S. There was something mentioned about how he was a smash hit in England and was poised to be HUGE in America. How he planned to do it by stopping in to entertain our little High School, I have no idea.

We filed into the auditorium and Lucas was on-stage. Now, upon first glance, most of the kids in school were unimpressed that this guy was any kind of deal, let alone a star. It took some convincing. Let's just say, Lucas was met with hesitancy. At first. After all, most of us had been caught up in that Vanilla Ice controversy that had happened a few years previously. Myself chief among them. (Check the list of casualties in the War on Vanilla Ice. I'm under W.) Here we were, filing into our little auditorium, with smirks on our faces because we were to be entertained by a "White" rapper. The gall on us. Straight up Racism. Public Enemy would be pissed... or would they?

Lucas had traveled, from the Good Lord knows where, merely for our entertainment and he was met by the icy stares of a couple of hundred spoiled, catholic teenagers. Collective arms crossed and shitty, snide remarks were loosely flying around the room. The dank smell of our old auditorium was muffled by the musky stench of our teenage superiority. The opposite of teen spirit. There were a few defectors... the rebels. How I envy them.

Lucas is introduced by a teacher -hardly a warm-up act- and after a few quick, foreign accent sounding words from Lucas about how he's happy to be in our school and thanks for having him he rips into a track... My memory is a little fuzzy on this part but he's rapping and he's got dancers on-stage with him. He had an act. Which is great. I remember a few people dancing in their seats. One kid in particular, Paul, was waving his hands in the air and hip-hop-rockin' it from his seat. I think I took his cue at some point and started to dance in my chair. Anyway, kids weren't really gettin' down to much. Some were though. But as Lucas continued and went from track to track everyone started to loosen up.

It's important to note that Lucas was dancing all over the place. His dancers could move too. They put on a great show. Everyone on-stage was working hard to entertain and their hard work was paying off because, as a whole, we had gone from "cool as ice" to "Lambada: The Forbidden Dance." I believe Lucas may have had a couple of new fans. Each song flowed nicer than the last and before Lucas reached his crescendo he started inviting kids up to the stage to dance. Waving his arms, he yelled, "Come on! Get up here and Dance." Everyone was reluctant, of course, but then he came down the stairs of the stage and dragged a girl out of her seat... and kids started to jump up. As catholics we usually need that kind of encouragement.

A few kids started to jump up out of their seats and run towards the stage. Mostly goof balls and hams... the outgoing kids... the kids I wanted to be... The kid I knew I was but always held myself back from being. And do you know what? I jumped up too. I have no idea what I was thinking. I remember being really scared. The worst kind of stage fright, all the while running towards the stage. And I had to enter by a staircase that was right in the middle of the stage too. So, everyone could see me running up this semi-steep set of stairs. There was no hiding. As I got to the stage I looked around and I immediately noticed that there were a lot less people up there than I had previously thought. I was one of only seven or eight kids. That's it. Or so it felt.

What happened was: all of the kids stood in a line towards the back of the stage. The line started with the most eager kids at center stage and went straight across the stage to where I was standing: half on-stage, half in the wing... Lucas was still trying to get people up on-stage while we were standing behind him, dancing. Well, everyone was dancing but me. I was kind of bobbing. Once Lucas was satisfied that he wasn't going to get anyone else up he spun around and started interacting with the kids he HAD coaxed up there. He bounced over to center stage and started to encourage the kids dancing there. He'd shout, "Come ON! MAN" and "YEAH!" to the music. And much to my horror he started to make his way down the line to where I was lightly bobbing my head. Seven or eight or nine people away, mostly obscured by the school's green curtain, I was doing my best not to be seen and wishing I hadn't come into school that day. This was turning into a nightmare, quick.

Lucas, as he was connecting with the kids and getting down in line, he was moving across the stage in my direction. At one point, when he was still a good five or six people away he must have caught my hesitancy in his peripheral vision. He turned and looked at me dead in the eye and said, into the microphone, "come on, man, what're you scared to dance?" And, no shit, I turned (Jason Bourne style) and headed off-stage right. I knew there was an exit door to be found and also, if necessary, a staircase down to the lunch room backstage. I was ready to be free of this terror. Fast.

As I was making my exit Lucas said, "Awww, C'mon, man... Where are you going?" And a kid at the end of the line, next to me, grabbed my arms and started to pull me towards the center of the stage. Then the kid next to him joined in and went behind me to try to push me... I started to fight the kid pulling me and get my hands free. The kids let me go but one kid got to the end of the stage and was standing in front of me. blocking my exit. The crowd was going NUTS.

I could hear people laughing and booing above the music. And the music was loud. All of this happened in a mere matter of seconds. As I tugged my arms free of one kid and made my way towards the edge of the stage, Lucas was rightfully chiding me about my exit plan. As I was facing the lone kid who wasn't going to let me leave I was struck by a crazy notion: if these people wanted dancing then I'D SHOW THEM DANCING.

So, as I made my exit toward the side of the stage... I waited for the kid to put his hands up and push me back towards the center of the stage. Once he did that I used his push to execute one of the sweetest dance moves I know. Perhaps you may have seen it. It's a real beaut. (I used his leverage like Steven Segal will use his opponent's leverage to break their own hands and then stab them in the eye with their broken finger bones.) I go into a fall where it looks like I'm going to smash a knee and then I turn it into a spin move where I come around in a whirl. It's fluid and fast. Some real "Michael Jackson level" stuff. Then I bounce up and start hammering Lucas with some amazing moves. He was completely stunned, as was the audience- my entire High School- but the music kept playing and Lucas kept dancing. So, then he tries to take it to the kid to try and show me a thing or two. I come right back at him. Now, we're pretty much housing. Going back and forth, one after the other, from our respective sides of the stage. It was out of control.

Everyone was completely surprised. The kids were going crazy and Lucas lost his mind. When it was finally all over he gave me a high five and a handshake before I went back to my seat. I got pats on the back all the way out of the assembly. Even after I was at my locker and quickly on my way out the door everyone was telling me how much my dancing had kicked ass... but I didn't know what to say. I was embarrassed. I couldn't take the attention. It really was an interesting day at school. I'm sure it was one of the few times people could use the phrase, "but he was so quiet" and not be referring to a serial killer. I got to show off one of the things I did best...

After that, I kept my eyes open for Lucas. Bought his albums. And a few years later he came out with a really cool song titled, "Lucas With The Lid Off." His one major hit. I put a link to his video above. The video is by Michel Gondry. I suggest you watch it. Although, it doesn't showcase his dancing any. Which is a shame because Lucas was a great dancer. He had a lot of moves. But he should have brushed up. Because on that bright and sunny day in Cambridge, Massachusetts... inside of a tiny auditorium, tucked away in a little building by the name of Matignon High School, I danced that muthafucka back to Denmark.
-Chris

The Unposted

2008-03-19T02:01:00.000-07:00

I've decided to put up all of the posts that I haven't previously posted. These are all posts that, for whatever reason, never got posted in the past. Some of them are meager. For whatever reason all have never been finished. If you happen to like one, or many, please let me know. I'd be glad to give it another whack. I'm doing this to spite myself. I could use the encouragement... or the guilt.

Titles are in bold. Comments are in italics.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'd love to do New Orleans Justice. I was really hoping that writing about New Orleans would turn me into a Hunter S. Thompson like legend. As you can see I wasn't even able to get a blog up on it's feet. this one crawls along at about three paragraphs and a shitty picture of Tom's plane landing. Some day I'll finish this one. It deserves time and effort. The short of it is: we were completely wasted the whole time and I took a ton of pictures of my awesome, drunk friend while trying to stay alive. I got my ass kicked in New Orleans. I'm, seriously, lucky to be alive after that one...

New Orleans: Old Friends, New Enemies (4/20/07)
The Following posts cover four fiendish days in New Orleans. Time well spent with one of our closest, funniest friends. A one Mr. "Big Thomas" Dustin. There are many scoundrels on this large planet but there is only one Tom Dustin.

On Monday March 9th at 4:15 AM David and I departed our parents house and quickly ran over a dog sized racoon. THUMP. David, "What was that?" Me, "Racoon... zzzzz." I quickly went to sleep. (It's a condition I have. Killing animals, for some reason, makes me sleep like a baby.) # of miles from our Parent's house in Florida to The Big Sleazy? Roughly 700. I slept most of the way. (We killed a lot of animals.)

We finally arrived in New Orleans at around 1pm and made our way to the airport because that was the, same exact, time that Big Tom was scheduled to arrive. We happened to pull into the airport just as Tom’s plane landed...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To be completely honest with you there's nothing I would rather do than blog about my experiences in Scotland last summer. I could make your eyes bleed with the tales. It would be great therapy and I imagine I've learned a lot from that trip. The problem is I've buried it deep within my soul and this post never got finished because I, no shit, started to get physically ill while trying to write about said experiences. I used to think I was well balanced... Edinburgh changed that and my sanity. "One and the same thing?" Pshaw!

There were some great things that happened there. There's a picture in this one that was part of what I love about life and someday I'll finish what I began. I do believe we came as close to seeing a person get possessed as anyone ever has on this trip and it happened shortly after I took that picture...

Enter These Haunted Halls (8/26/07)
I promised myself I'd blog when we got to Edinburgh and it's a promise I never kept. Hopefully I can disprove the old adage, "too little, too late." The time I spent in Scotland was one of the hardest months of my life and definitely the most difficult experience of my comedy career to date. As I sit here now, the recollection is difficult. My curse is having the memory of an elephant.

"Why such a bad time?" You ask. A combination of many things. Terrible shows chief among them. Don't get me wrong, there were plenty 'o great times to be had. And we had 'em. I just wish we were received better. From what I hear it's always difficult on your first visit, especially for American performers, and blah, blah, blah... Chalk it all up. The end result was one of the most grueling learning experiences one could ever hope to have.

Now, I'd like to go into great detail about everything that went on overseas but my posts have been entirely too long lately. So, this one'll be brief.

Gather round everybody and listen to these Haunted Tales.

---------------------------------------------------------

I took a trip to Vegas with my parents on Thanksgiving and I had a better time than I ever thought I would. I came to a lot of realizations. For one, I realized that I care more for slot machines than I ever thought was possible. I care an unreasonable amount for them, it turns out. I also, direly, wanted to make a comparison between Egypt's Pyramid and our Pyramid. One fact I learned in my research is that our Pyramid is the owner the most powerful light on earth, while their Pyramid is still larger than ours...

Pyramids (12/6/07)
Not long ago I took a trip with my Mom and Dad to Las Vegas. Two weeks ago to be exact. It was a great time. Much better than I expected. I'll tell you all about it but not now... I haven't the time. There was one thing, though, that caught my eye and tickled my fancy. They've got a pyramid. Can you believe that? I know that everybody knows but I love that we're still building pyramids. I think it's great.

Old Khufu the King would marvel at our pyramid...

---------------------------------------------------------

This post was supposed to be about how I won the Reggie Lewis essay contest and got to shoot free throws at half-time at a Celtics game when I was a sophomore... The problem is my description is longer than the post.

Free Throws (1/05/08)
I'm not a huge sportsfan. I guess I'd consider myself to be more of a movie guy or a

---------------------------------------------------------

Again, I think I just lost it on this one. I wanted so badly to write about my sadness but I couldn't do it. If I made a video blog of me crying about the Patriots loss I'm sure I would've gotten 2 million hits... and every comment would've been about how much of a "pussy" or "fag" I am.

Becoming A New England Patriots Fan (2/5/08)
I woke up in Phoenix with a hangover, wearing the same Patriots sweatshirt I fell asleep in the night before. The previous night a haze of mixed emotions. Mostly shades of blue. Everyone knows the Pats lost but few know that less than ten minutes after their defeat I suffered another, larger, more personal one. I lost my notebook. Probably the hardest thing to conceive of in my overly-active imagination. A most unkind fate.

I awoke with a sadness that was unexpected. I'm chalking it up to residual effects of the alcohol mind-numbing I submitted myself to. I wasn't prepared to feel so bad. In seasons past I've never been invested as much as this season. It has less to do with an unstoppable Offense than the fact that I've moved Three Thousand Miles from home. I'm not one of those "rub winning in everyone else's face" kind of fan. Watching makes me feel close to home. It's just nice. So, my brother decided we should take a drive to Arizona to spend the Super Bowl right where it was being played. It's a Historic occasion. So, that's exactly what we did.

We had some friends in from Charlestown and they were staying at a Hotel right next to University of Phoenix Stadium, where the game was going on. Theres also a third friend
who's a minor celebrity and now helps promote parties for high profile companies. So, that's how we found ourselves watching the dreams of our Patriots get crushed, in a tent, in the middle of Scotsdale, Arizona.

There was a moment where I had to give it to them, though. The Giants, the Giants' fans. The Patriots sucked. They choked. No disrespect to Brady and the gang but they didn't deserve to win and life is good that way. I'm sad that they lost. More sad than I thought I'd be. But it's good to see a victory go to a team that deserves to win sometimes. And to tell you the truth, I smiled at the reaction the Giants' fans had when they won. Don't get me wrong, I was crushed, but there's just something infectious to seeing grown A-dults cheer and hug and jump up and down. It's hard for me to be unhappy when other people are sooo Happy. That's why I do comedy.

When the thought above struck me I felt the familiar urge to draw my pen and whip out my notebook and that's when I noticed it was gone. Everything came crashing down. It's a dreadful feeling. The same as having your car stolen. (I've been there too.) I only had four six pockets and I kept checking them over and over again. To no avail. I could pull neither a notebook nor a Patirots win out of my sweatshirt...

I pushed past the initial shock, bought my friend James a round (he's a Giants fan) and wrote my thoughts down in- my new notebook- a bar knapkin. As the night wore on we drank a lot more and there was live entertainment in the tent. Some of the worst bands and rappers I've ever seen. I was prepaired to leave even though I had no idea where I was or would be going. That's exactly what happened when my buddy James' friends arrived.

Luckily, the notebook was recovered (from the Lincoln Towncar that we had taken from the Hotel our friends were staying at in Phoenix)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is the Post that made me come up with the idea to post all of the other ideas. Would you rather have me rant about how great Stephen King is? We all know that he's a National effin' Treasure... Right? Read the Dark Tower. You'll see.

Stephen King is Our Shakespeare (Tonight)
You're Fuckin A right he is! And I'll take Stephen King over Shakespeare any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Consider, for one second, what authors they made us read in High School. Who did we have to...

-Chris

Staying up Late

2008-03-10T05:01:00.000-07:00

It's 4:23 Los Angeles time or 3:23, or however you care to look at it, as I write this and who knows what time it'll be when I finish. It's been a while since I've written one of these darned things and well... you get the drill. I was just about to pack it up for the night when I was struck by a couple of things. Minor observations, some of them paradoxical thoughts...

The first is that I was talking to my mom earlier to day and she asked me if I'd been getting to bed late. I then was asked the same question, round about 12:30 am, by a friend... In my conversation with my mom she spoke about how she'd been reading my blog and remarked on how I hadn't written in a while. I mean to, mom, I really do.

Now, I was just about to hit the sack and the thought struck me. I don't like going to bed. Although, I do LOVE to dream. Now I'm hit with another remembrance of a conversation I had earlier with, yet, another friend about vivid and lucid dreams. All of these points brought up by other people.

I tend to go to bed really late and wake up really late as well. I don't, for whatever reason, like going to bed. I don't want to miss anything... the problem is that my dreams are so real. Sometimes I wake up sad because I miss my dream reality. In some dreams I can fly. Do you have any idea what it feels like to really fly and then find out that you're grounded in reality? I guess that feeling has something to do with proprioception.

So, I fly in my sleep. While sleeping, in reality: I also talk, walk, and the scary thing is that I sometimes fight in my sleep. I've woken up on top of my bed or in the middle of my room ready to fight imaginary enemies before... It's scary because when I wake up I usually feel dazed and then embarassed or ashamed for not knowing where I am. It's weird.

Needless to say but I'll say it anyway, I am not a morning person. I try to be but I'm a Grump. What a great word for how I feel sometimes. I wake up and I'm not happy. I suppose you can say that this may have had a full hand in why I chose to become a person who works at night. The morning time is the lowest part of my day. You think that'd be the inverse... but sometimes I just wake up sad and I have to spend a good deal of time fighting it off. Maybe that's what I'm trying to punch away when I awake in the middle of my room.

I blame my dreams... perhaps my sadness is just Freddy Kruger being subtle. I don't know what he wants from me. My parents weren't involved in that mess... right mom?

Sometimes, when I think of it, I view my dreams as another reality where nothing is ever the same... and when you think of it doesn't it seem as though that would be the perfect alternate reality to this one? My immediate plan is to get a notebook and keep a dream journal. Mayhaps it'll be one of those flip-top ones that reporters and detectives use so I can further investigate this other reality. If I come up with anything good I'll report back to you, here. If I don't come back with anything... well, I guess it's because I've dissappeared into that other, cooler reality. It's 5:01 now,
or then,
Chris

Before I go: I used to tell my mom, when I was little, how sleeping is like time travelling. If you stay awake the night takes longer to turn into morning but when you sleep it seems like only a few moments have passed. So by staying awake you're actually living longer... I don't know what that means but even as a youngster I sounded like a raving lunatic. It's late... I have to get to bed.