Two or three years ago, when MySpace was still a viable timewaster and not the graveyard of inactivity and spam messages it is now, I found the social network home of my favorite comedian, Paul F. Tompkins. Since I had the time to waste, I looked through his profile, but noticed that one part of his page was missing. Rather, there was no comments section. At all. I read a bit further and saw that PFT had turned his comments off. This seemed weird to me. I thought that was the point of having a MySpace page; gathering notes and comments from people you added. Sure, a lot of them are spam messages, or links to other sites, or glitter pictures, or animated gifs, or gross photos, or insincere notes, and oh my god I finally get it.

I never really worried about recieving that kind of junk, but I was never really putting myself out for comment or criticism. As a regular person, you don’t attract any attention unless you fuck up a playoff game for the Chicago Cubs or get hit by a meteorite. But in the last 2 years, I have been trying to practice and study comedy (like all great comedy minds who are afraid of stand-up do). Once in a while you want to put yourself out there and see if your material flies. You watch your friends work hard on things they’ve written, rehearsed, and polished.

Then when it hits YouTube, or a few blogs, or people’s Facebook groups, it’s met by the Impossibly Stupid or the Impossibly Arrogant. The never-did-nothings of the world who somehow manage to operate the greatest advancement of communications technology ever (EVER!) and don’t get jokes in a YouTube video. That’s if they bother to watch. A lot of the times, they will point out who is fat and gross and which chick they’d like to bang. Or they just want to chime in and add nothing to anything. Poorly constructed, thoughtless flecks of digital drool.

The blog revolution in the 90’s made it a goal of the internet for everyone to have their own voice. When you do that, though, you open up the floodgates for a whole mess of nothing. Cognitive Surplus. Too much thought. A lot of downtime. But people feel the need to be participatory. They have to get involved. They have to tell you that they don’t think you are funny, they don’t think you are talented, they don’t think you are pretty. No alternative offered. You suck, that’s all.

I know it’s a bit hypocritical for me to denounce this idea from my blog. To at least defend myself on this point, I am trying my hardest not to make any grammatical or spelling errors.

Also, I know this comment culture is nothing new. It’s one of the things I continue to hate about the internet. Comments. Comments. Comments. It’s never comments. It’s Abuse. Empty Greetings. Ignorant Sputterings. Confessions of Confusion. Slow down, everyone. Read, comprehend, take a breath. Do you absolutely have to comment on everything?

I can’t read Yelp. it makes my blood boil.

What finally got to me is that a video that three really funny people I know and (sometimes) work with was linked to from a few media blogs. Naturally, these A+ pricks wrote a few scathing bon mots about redoing the video to “add some funny” or how they won’t deign to even click the play button. A few thinking it was an advertisement and got mad about watching an ad. And a sprinkling of unhelpful spout-offs.

In the past, I would take the time to do some self-assessment. “Am I biased because I know these people? Does this color my whole outlook? Could they be right, and I am just lying to myself?” No. Not this time. I know when my friends are funny and when they aren’t. I know when they deserve all the “LOL” notices.

I know I can’t expect everyone to like everything, but that doesn’t mean negativity has to seep through the holes of a good time. This comment culture is populated by the people who ask you what your favorite show is then tell you it sucks. It’s peopled by the self-congratulatory sports fan who shits on you hometown because his team doesn’t like your hometown’s team. It’s numbers are filled with the one-upper storyteller who’s drank more than you have, beat up a more famous person than you, and has way more warrants out for his arrest than you ever will, bro.

Lighten up, be nice, and leave each other alone for 5 seconds, huh?

Editor’s note: I’d turn off comments for the whole blog, but then my mommy would get mad at me.

My trusted roommate, Leland has taken a New York sabbatical for the month of June, spending time with family and with the Jersey Shore. Instead of leaving his room fallow, he did the upstanding and economical thing and found a subletter.

And I get nervous, because that is what I am good at. I get weird about strangers sleeping where I keep my video games and checkbook. But, that doesn’t show much of a trust in my fellow man, I thought. So, I calmed myself. I trust Leland to find an upstanding, experienced subletter. And he found Todor. Todor Todorov. Of Bulgaria.

Todor moved in while I was still on vacation, and when I got back, he wasn’t around. He wasn’t there the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Mike, my other roommate, hadn’t met him either. We would sometimes hear him come in and night and saunter into his temporary room. It was like living with a ghost.

Then one night, I finally ran into him. A youngish-looking man, tall and skinny. His accent is thick, and he is still learning the language, but he does well. Although, he does refer to Leland as “Leonard.”

While Leonard is out, I become the go-to guy to take care of household problems. Mike just moved in two months ago, so he doesn’t quite have the lay of the land. On Saturday, the internet went out. Sunday, the cable went out. And Todor kept asking me what’s wrong with the internet. So, it fell to me to take the day off to wait for the repairman. It also fell to me to look like an asshole when the repairman inspected the coax and found someone unplugged it. Someone also rearranged the wires on the back of the TV, seemingly trying to get the original Nintendo to work.

While waiting for the repairman, I ran downstairs to get my mail and saw two men in repairman-like garb come into the building and go downstairs to the basement. Men from National Grid.

I would come to find out that the men from National Grid were there to shut off the hot water. I found that out this morning when I tried to take a shower. Cold showers are always angry experiences for me. It just ruins the entire day, giving you contraction headaches and curving your spine.

With a quick phone call, I let the management company know that my life was in ruins. Later on in the day, I heard back, and it turns out the building’s gas bill is also in ruins. One resident has been racking up a huge debt, enough to end up in court and cause the shut down of our hot water.

Long story short, hot water should return tomorrow.

It’s amazing how all this home infrastructure breakdown can drive you a bit crazy. It also makes me feel self-conscious about my abilities to host someone from another country. I can only imagine how Todor thinks of us here, in this roach-filled apartment without hot water, phone service, or any means of communication to the outside world.

I wish Leonard was here. I hate being in charge.

I have been busy lately, which is why this blog has gone largely ignored.

So, some lazy weekend, I am going to make some changes to this place. Might be the last of the blog as we know it in it’s current form. (i.e. changing it over to Tumblr)

We shall see.

When I was home recently, I was out to dinner with a lot of old friends. I was sat next to Peter, Greg, and Eric; all three of which I lived with for my junior year of college at WIU. We were talking about what life was like in that house; the failed plan to host volleyball parties, the ceiling painted brown, the constant traps we would set for each other that were legitimately dangerous. One thing I had forgot was ironically the scariest thing to happen to me in that house.

It was sometime in the spring semester, when the weather was turning nice and the college kids were roaming the streets again looking for boozy good times and all the open-door house parties. Our house was on Calhoun, a block away from Party Central, Adams Street. Adams Street in Macomb, IL has a half-mile stretch of rental housing and fraternity living that seems ideal for giant parties. As a freshman, I wandered up and down that street every Friday and Saturday night. In the dark, the houses were only illuminated by the dim streetlights and the glowing blacklights inside. Apparently, it’s some sort of college house rule that you have to have your real lights off and colored lights on. They houses were also decorated with rope lights and spare Christmas lights to add a touch of pizazz. For a 19-year-old goof, Adams Street was a magical, sparkly wonderland where there was no curfew.

In real life, this binge-drinking utopia was the roughest looking part of Macomb. The houses were falling apart, suffering from peeling paint, and littered with the foulest of garbages. The first time I drove down Adams Street during the day, I was genuinely shocked that I had not been Shanghai’d and sold into white slavery during any of these parties.

So, during my junior year, I lived next to a constant parade of sloven irresponsibility. Needless to say, I locked the door a great deal. It’s a habit I have picked up from my mother, who would freak out whenever the doors would be left unlocked. Unlocked doors led to axe murderers walking into your home and axe murdering you. A locked door could kept all axe murderers at bay. Although, if this were any axe murderer worth his salt, he would just axe down the door anyway, but I digress.

In the house I lived in, there were two bathrooms. I lived on the top floor, where there was a bathroom, but I had to walk through Greg’s bedroom to get to it. We had it worked out that I would use the downstairs bathroom, and share it with Peter. So, in the middle of the night, I climbed down the creaky steps, being sure to avoid the one broken step that would trip me up and send me hurtling into the floor below. I took care of business, and as I am about to go upstairs I hear the front door open.

Now, at this point, it’s about 3 or 4 o’clock in the AM. I’m here, Greg’s upstairs sleeping, Peter never goes anywhere, and Eric had moved out after graduating. And I hear a dude’s voice that I had never heard before. He was whispering to other people. I heard some girls giggling as things in my kitchen were being moved around. I heard a door or cabinet open. Oh God, someone’s in our house! What do I do? What do I do? Should I open the door and scare them? I can’t tell how many people are out there, and I know I can’t take them with my wiry arms and pudgy torso. What is they have a weapon? Like a knife! I don’t want to get stabbed! Is there a weapon in here? A pipe or something? A plunger stick? A towel? Oh god, I hope Peter wakes up cause he could karate all of them. Why can’t he wake up and save me!

Stuff is still moving, I hear more giggling, and then the door closes. Silence. The coast is clear. I creak open the door and do a quick check of our stuff. The living room is untouched. Still have our DVD player and Gamecube. No papers or mail missing from our table. But there is something different.

Sitting in the middle of the kitchen, in one of our dinette chairs, is an open bag of potting soil. Sitting there quiet and peaceful, like a fat child taking a Thanksgiving nap. No reason, no note, no nothing. I latched the door and ran to Greg’s room.

“Greg? Greg! Wake up! Greg, someone broke into our house! Greg!” Greg lolled his head up for a second, sleepily glowering at me.
“Yeah? Meaaahhhhh,” he mumbled as his head hit his pillow.
“GREG!” Nothing.

I ran down to Peter’s room and knocked on the door.
“Peter? Peter!” Knock knock knock. Nothing. Still sleeping. I dare not open his door, or I might face a sleepy and confused Peter who will probably karate me in the face.

So, with nothing missing, and nothing broken, the only thing to do was to go back to my room and have a cardiac arrest. A strange bag of soil sat in the kitchen all night, as some sort of strange Dadaist, surreal act. Who breaks in and gives someone soil? No one’s guerrilla art is this obtuse.

The next morning, I told Greg and Peter the full story, and they promptly laughed in my face for being such a wuss. I was saying that I was relieved that nothing was stolen, and if anything, we were up a bag of soil. As I was saying that, Greg went to grab a beer from the fridge, but there wasn’t any. All of the beer Greg had bought a few nights prior was gone. I hadn’t drank it, and Peter doesn’t drink.

So, I guess I spoke too soon. We had been robbed, by one of those faceless party people who was in a pinch for beer. Such a pinch he decided to break into a house and take whatever he could find. In payment, he left us a generous helping of nitrate-rich soil. This seemingly random act was finally given some clarity. It was that sort of drunken logic that makes every impulse correct instead of a malicious home invasion.

“Dude, we are out of beer…”
“Oh man… and the bar’s closed. And the liquor store’s closed…”
“Whoa, dude… let’s just go take some beer from a house!”
“That’s straight-up stealing, dude!”
“Not if we give them something in return. That’s totally the barter system! In effect!”
“What should we give them?”
“How about this bag of dirt? I only needed it for one Biology project, and it was like 5 bucks at Farm and Home. That’s, like, enough for 7 beers!”
“Let’s do this…”

Yesterday morning, I stood in a short snakey line, waiting to use my election district booth in PS 138. I had a heavy bag and a roll of green paper slung across my back. My heavy jacket was making me sweat. I was tired. I finally got to use the voting booth. It looked like a small auto-mat wall, serving names instead of fried foods. Flipped the switches, pulled the comically huge red lever, and went to work.

Work was tense. People were tense. I told a co-worker who was working a phone bank the night before that McCain had a 1.9% chance of winning according to FiveThirtyEight.com. He told me to shut up, and told the rest of the office not to discuss the very thing we all wanted to discuss. This tension had been born out of defeat, out of being burned twice in a row. Burned badly. The level of superstition was at nearly baseball-player level, hitting a record high community-theater level at the end of the day. We dare not speak of the future or it might be taken away from us. Although polls predicted a landslide, we dare not think it to be true.

The first polls started to close nation-wide while myself and Matt Little filmed a sketch for an upcoming show. I would check return coverage during any sort of break. I sent updates to Anna, who was interning at a theater company. It was Obama 74 to McCain 33 when I got on the A train and went home.

I got home at 9:30, and Obama was up 174 to McCain’s 69. I sat and watched election coverage with my roommates, all the while checking the internet for faster updates. We watched the Daily Show’s special, which ended with Jon Stewart calling Virginia for Obama. That was big.

Then we heard some shouts and cheers. Are they cheering for Virginia? That can’t be it. I grabbed the remote and switched it back to cable news and saw the United States going ape shit. The entire west coast had come in. Obama handily won the presidency. More cheers, more shouts, car horns honking. More states started to come through as CNN was broadcasting nothing but cheers. I ran for the roof.

On top of my building, I could see people opening their windows to cheer and shout. People bolting out of their doors and running in the street. Far off noise created this joyful murmur. Crown Heights was erupting and I could feel it rising up to meet me. People running down the street to meet each other. Stashed away fireworks were set off. Everyone was in shock. I shouted “Obama!” as loud as I could. This was triumph. This is winning something important. This was history. People shouted and screamed all night.

I’ll never forget that moment.

The noise continued as McCain gave a sigh of relief and conceded defeat. Palin looked extremely disappointed, but John seemed much happier to have this mess behind him. Obama’s speech came much later. Celebrations all over the city continued. The man had won by a landslide, and everyone was glad to have this long, expensive, stressful election over with.

But the work isn’t over. That same candidate that asked for small donations or suggested a short discussion with your parents is going to ask us for a lot more. If things are going to change, we have to change first. We have to put forth the effort as a nation, or at least the part of the nation that cast the ballot for our next president. He can’t solve all of our problems himself.

I’m as eager as anyone to see what happens.

My pumpkin has dental issues:

And is a demon of a hellfire birth in the dark:

I am doing a lot of shows this week. Come see me at any of the following:

New Team Harold

Upright Citizens Brigade Theater • 307 W. 26th Street • New York, NY
Tuesday, October 7
6:30 PM

School Night

with Four Really Good Friends
Upright Citizens Brigade Theater • 307 W. 26th Street • New York, NY
Wednesday, October 8
11:00 PM

CageMatch!

wrestling as Haystack of The Mountain Men
Upright Citizens Brigade Theater • 307 W. 26th Street • New York, NY
Thursday, October 9
11:00 PM

Bad Date with Bad Data IV: The Book of Shadows

Performing in an improvised episode of “Law and Order” as part of a special Halloween show
The Creek • 10-93 Jackson Avenue • Long Island City, NY
10:00 PM

Upcoming Events

So, 30+ people voted on my ideas for my costume this Halloween. I’m happy to announce that after counting the votes, my costume this year will be:

I know this might seem a bit of a shock since I didn’t mention this choice at all in my preliminary planning, and no one voted for it at all. I know it seems suspect, but that will happen when votes are unsolicited and I don’t feel like making a Batman costume.

I am currently in the works gathering materials. I found a great pair of fake glasses with lime-green frames, and I ordered a labcoat online for cheap. My friend Regan (or I) will dye the labcoat once it gets in. I am going to have to grab some felt to make the Gizmonic Institute patch, as well as a fake mustache, bright green socks, a grey shirt, and a pair of black pants that actually fit. I don’t know what it is about black pants, but I don’t think I’ve ever worn a pair that’s fit well.

The only thing that won’t look great is the hair, as my hairline is further forward that Trace Beaulieu’s, and I’m not sure if it’ll stick out like I need it too

At least this year, I won’t have to wear combat boots.

So, today marks the second year of living in the New York City Greater Metropolitan Area. Let’s see where I stand. Johnny, take us to the BIG BOARD!

• Full year in Crown Heights.
• Adam:Leland job ratio — 2*:4 (NY lifetime)
• Gym membership: $75/year
• 4 more classes in improv at the Upright Citizens Brigade
• Joined The Stamp and Coin Club, ImproVérité, and Four Really Good Friends
• 1 pay raise
• 1 ankle injury
• *6 months as a contributor for the Onion News Network
• Saw the following people live: Chevy Chase, David Byrne, Paul Simon, Ladysmith Black Mumbazo
• Alternative futures visited via RPG games: 1
• Maximum number of people that have crashed at my place at one time: 9
• Number of people that I know that have crashed at my place: 1
• 0 run-ins with crime
• Number of times I have dressed like Vyvyan from The Young Ones: 2
• 1 visit to Coney Island
• 1 visit to the Jersey Shore
• 1 day of deadly paintball combat
• 2 performances at the 10th Annual Del Close Marathon
• Started wrestling in a fake pro-wrestling league as a meth-addicted hillbilly
• First ComicCon attendance: purchased numerous trades, a Mike Mignola-signed “Hellboy” TPB #1, and a first edition Dungeon Masters Guide
• 1 appearance in a video sketch on YouTube. I die covered in blood.
• 2 books illustrated. 1, 2
• 1 roof leak

I think I need some time off.

Thanks, MM