It gives us paws

By now, I'm sure you've all visited Cats That Look Like Hitler. But have you been to Cats That Look Like Idi Amin? If you haven't, uganda!

Ugh. I disgust myself sometimes.

As was the fashion at the time

I've had the distinct opportunity and, dare I say (dare, DARE), the pleasure to observe the clothing trends of the Upper East Side lately, and let me tell you, it's ahead of its time. Most New York neighborhoods have their specific style: the delightful dirtbags of the East Village, the frustratingly fabricated hipsters of Williamsburg, the stiflingly tasteful yentas of the Upper West Side. No single area of this metropolis, however, captures that extraordinary blend of an old folks' home mixed with a clown college like the Upper East Side.

I've often wondered where elderly mimes go when they retire, and it's somewhere around East 75th Street and 1st Avenue. Within a forty minute breakfast at a diner, I saw samples from what appeared to be the Super Mario Brothers summer wear collection as well as clothing which seemed to be the result of what happens when a middle aged woman runs crotch first into a curtain store. Seriously, everyone looked like washed up magicians' assistants (I expected someone to be walking a giant white tiger). My favorite, by far, had to be a brightly dressed gentleman who looked like Joe Pesci as an Indian chief (and, who somehow stole Pablo Picasso's shirt).

Of course, the clothes don't make the man. Except in the Upper East Side, where you might overhear things such as:

"I eat a bunch of peanut butter, then I go right to bed."
"Meh, she's on her period!"
"The way she thinks, the first bad thing I eat, BOOM, I'm dead instantly."
"Hand me that pancake make-up, I gotta go outside and scare the shit out of a child by presenting him with a balloon that looks vaguely like a poodle."

Well, maybe I didn't hear the last bit, but I felt it.

I can't get to sleep...

Colin Hay is playing the Canal Room on the 19th. I'm all up INS.

One of the most powerful speeches I've ever heard

Steroids

Daunting to say the least

When you're learning to play the guitar, it's sometimes helpful to watch professionals work. However, when that professional is Andy Mckee, it can be daunting not only because he can play the hell out of a guitar, but because he also plays what appear to be boats.

Your moment of zen

At today's audition, I was treated to an epic, Socratic dialogue between two actor degenerates involving "what's funny." I wanted to beat them both to death with the plastic chair I was sitting on.

To top it all off, one of them pulled out what I thought was the motherboard off of Deep Blue, but it turned out to be a cartoonishly big cellphone from which he had to remove a blast shield before using. Just at the peak of my fury, I was delighted to hear the following:

ASSHOLE: Hey, Debra? Yeah, it's Pete Assenfeffer. Listen, I'm a little tied up here at this callback, so I was wondering if I could swing by to your audition a little later. And you're located on 27th right? You know I'm bad with directions. (Jerk-style laugh followed by awkward silence) What? Oh...this is Pete. Assenfeffer. Pete, right.

That's right, baby. No one knows who you are. And that, my friend, is what's funny.

Art Finkelstein

Mike Sanzone is having another art opening (ooh!) on Thursday, July 5th (6 - 8PM). He'll be showing along with four other artists at the Mercer Gallery. The line-up includes:

Eileen Cubbage
Earl Barret Holloway
Ellen Letcher
Michael Sanzone
Taylor Kane Schwarzkopf

Mercer Gallery is on 55 Mercer Street. If you can't make the opening, the show runs from July 3 through July 14, so you have plenty of time to check out some masterful work.

Pennsylvania is for lovers

My sister Georgina graduated from Bangor Area High School on Friday and I was not there to hear the woeful guest bloviating of Wilford Ottey who, when I graduated from the very same high school some ten plus years ago, served as the school's superintendent. He now resides in Colorado doing Lord knows what, but whatever it is, I hope it has little to nothing to do with education. Ottey's strength lies in cutting young people down, partly because his embittered faux scholarship won't let him admit to himself that he's a fantastic failure, but mostly because he's just a dick. A sample of his wonderfully trite wit:

MY MOTHER: My son graduated with your daughter Alice. He lives in New York now.

OTTEY: Oh? Does he work in a restaurant? (followed by some tweed covered snort, no doubt)

Go fuck yourself, Ottey. No amount of pretending to fight the good fight for education will cover for the fact that people despise you. I hope you fall down a flight of stairs after tripping over that "Great American Novel" manuscript you've no doubt been working on since the late Italian Renaissance.

Anyway, I may have missed the actual graduation, but I was able to attend the party. I arrived Saturday night and sat on the trampoline watching my brother Gunner take on my youngest sister Gracey in a no-holds-barred wrestling match in which Gunner received a titty-twisted that made him scream not like a girl, surprisingly, but like a 40-something year old adult woman. The aftermath:



As is our custom during family gatherings, my siblings and I hang around each other and run away from other members of the extended family. It's like a game of sorts in which we try to entertain each other at the expense of everyone else. It makes us happy in a totally antisocial way. However, Georgina was in good spirits despite being surrounded by family:



Specifically, being around our sister Gillian:


Gillian, Gracey, Gunner, Georgina, and I then decided to suck all the helium out of the party balloons. This was hilarious only to us.

Also, I met my newest cousin who is adorable. Her name is Brynn and she loves stairs (not the stairs Wilford Ottey is supposed to fall down):


At the end of the day, it occurred to me that I will probably not ever have a need to come back to my home town again, now that my family is moving out to Arizona in a few weeks. I'll miss it. For all its faults, it had a certain simple beauty.

A Public Service Announcement from FODJ

For all New York commuters taking the A/C line to their destinations in Manhattan and Brooklyn after 11 PM, you know what? Don't bother. Don't fucking bother. It'd be easier for you to build your own train by carving it out of a solid block of marble. Actually, let me know when you're finished with that, because I would gladly take it over the MTA, which I'm convinced is a company whose sole purpose is acting as the most elaborate joke ever played on humankind ever. And the punchline is you don't get anywhere.

Have a problem with the MTA's service? Confused about why it's taking a half hour for a train to arrive? Why not ask one of the countless Cro-Magnons in blue vests who meander thoughtlessly around the platforms looking for people to annoy? You'd get a more enthusiastic and knowledgeable response from Ol' Shakin' Boots at the Gap (see post below).

Sure, there's track work (I'm sorry, "necessary track work," as opposed to the track work where the contractors bang on a rail with a crowbar for no reason). Sure, this track work is causing delays. You'd think when you ask one of the TWENTY contractors waiting on the platform the simple question "What in the fuck is going on?" at least one of them would know. No. No no no. No, they've made a solemn pact never to read the company memo beyond "TO ALL EMPLOYEES." If company memos even EXIST at the MTA. And what are these contractor's contracting? I hope they're contracting fucking trenchfoot because they certainly deserve it, and God knows they stand around idly long enough to let the sick shine in.

Seriously, if you're a company with a virtual monopoly on transportation, I understand the strong urge to fuck with your customers. I mean, what are you going to do? Ride a bike? Not at 11 PM, Lance Armstrong. In fact, let me know how that pans out when you get jumped and viciously beaten with your own handle bars. But come on, there are simple customer relation techniques that even CHILDREN SELLING LEMONADE ON THE ROADSIDE have a better grasp on than the MTA. For instance, when the kid runs out of lemonade, she puts up a sign that reads "NO LEMONADE." We, as customers, appreciate that. It saves time when you're not waiting for a product that's never going to come. So, when the ridiculous "track work" is causing major delays, why not mention that? Why not put up a few signs or say something, ANYTHING? Maybe your customers would like to plan an alternate route, most likely on another train WHICH YOU ALSO HAPPEN TO OWN. Maybe your customers will start a rebellion and throw their own shit at the token booths.

It's funny how certain topics can render one inelegant. But the MTA is a not-to-delicately constructed pack of retards.

(It took two hours for me to get home a couple of nights ago. It takes less than two hours for me to get home to Pennsylvania. I'm sorry for the trite post, but I get upset...)

Can that be enough with Catherine Hepburn already?

I'll preface this post by writing that I'm all for equal opportunity employment. Regardless of how much of a lie that is, I feel it needs to be stated for obscure legal purposes. Still, it is a nice, warm feeling to know that somewhere in this country, a below average citizen is making his/her mark in either the food service or retail industry. Provided, of course, that their level of involvement is kept to doling out pleasantries, making sure all the antifreeze is facing front, and staying away from the normals. It's when this last task is ignored that problems arise. When I go shopping, which is rare, I don't like being nagged by the staff. To extrapolate from there, I don't like being nagged by retarded staff. It's bad enough to have some disinterested teen who just flunked Earth Science recommend a cute blazer for the summer, but to have someone with a crippling disease encouraging you to try on a pair of slacks while they're in the throes of whatever havoc their horrible flesh-eating hair cancer is inflicting on their bodies does NOT make me want to buy things.

Just before I traveled to Munich, I went to the Gap on the corner near where I work to stock up on clothes because I dress like an Irish potato farmer. They had recently hired a woman who clearly has Parkinson's Disease. Well, initially I suspected she was just excited about clothes. Who wouldn't be? But her quaking continued to the point where I started to feel uncomfortable. Now, here's where most people argue "well, that's your problem, sir. You have an issue with her terrifying disease." And my response is yes, you're goddamned right. I do, in fact, recognize that it's entirely in my head that the situation is uncomfortable. And as I see it, the Gap has done this to me. I spent $250 that day because I couldn't say no to this quivering old woman, admittedly because I am chock full of guilt and fear. Did I think she'd have a major episode if I didn't buy the blazer? No. But I did suspect that her manager privately beats her with the ol' switch in the employee break room when she's not playing up her malady to sell Polos. "Make it shake, Suzy. Or no bonus."

All I'm saying is when have you EVER heard of ANYONE talk about wanting or needing store staff to assist them in a clothing purchase? Besides specialty places like sporting goods shops or dildo emporiums? Never. People like to be left alone. In fact, I can't imagine asking an employee at the Gap anything that could possibly help me decide on a garment. Except maybe:

"Can this shirt be used to strangle a medium-sized person, roughly your weight and build?"

"Do these pants come in a size you?"

"I like snuff films. Will these t-shirts go with that?"

"I'd like to wear what you're wearing right now."

"What are a 'clothes?'"

"Why don't you drop dead?"

And even when someone has been helpful, they dissolve the entire illusion by bringing you up to the counter, like a freshly caught salmon, in order to mark you as their commission. The friendship's over, baby. I want my money. In fact, I'll be damned if I didn't see the Parkinson's lady get eerily still after the sale was made. I suppose it could be a trick of the light. Or a conspiracy. In the Gap. What am I talking about?

Jump to the jam boogy woogy jam slam...

...bust the dialect I'm the man in command.

Sorry I haven't posted in some time, but I've come over all queer. I got myself involved with a li'l play. If you like New York in June, how about me? What the fuck am I even talking about?



The play is:

Carlo Goldoni's "The Liar" (a commedia dell'arte farce)

Where: SEA (Society for the Educational Arts), 107 Suffolk Street (bet. Delancey and Rivington), 2nd Floor

When: Thursdays and Fridays 8pm, June 7th through June 29th
Contact: 212-591-0358 for reservations

I'm told there are additional matinees on Saturdays at 1pm. I'd call, because I have my head way up my ass.

I like the melody but you can't dance to it

Insane, hate-mongering religious fanatics are hilarious. So is bashing Canada. So is co-opting a popular benefit song from the eighties in order to spread paranoid, delusional notions of shit-eating ignorance and Armageddon. I give you "God Hates the World:"

I'd hate to point out the more glaring contradictions in this chart-topper, but the biggest question I have is, if God in fact hates the world and it's "too late to change His mind," (in re: the hellish and violent destruction of said world), then why do these vicious sinners, who are from what I can tell limited to homosexuals (and BELIEVE me, I live in constant and sweaty fear of homosexuals, ESPECIALLY in Washington Heights. They'll steal your sneakers, man), need to repent at all? Isn't their ship pretty much already sunk? And if it is, don't they essentially win because they've brought the Apocalypse to your door with their actions? If I were one of the "sinners" mentioned, I'd be laughing in the streets. Sure, I'd be going to Hell, but I'd take a little pride in the fact that I had a hand (or a penis in a man's ass) in ending the ridiculous bullshit the mortal world has in it by the truckloads. And you know what I'm talking about. Football, Hot Pockets, Axe Body Spray, obesity treated as a disease, the word "resilient," Tyra Banks, parent/teacher conferences, competitive consumerism, Tucker Carlson, guys named "Chad," the FCC, morally irresponsible spiritualists who post superstitious garbage on Youtube. It would all go away in a giant ball of fire. And let me tell you, if heaven had some of the earthly delights of this world waiting for its true believers, like heavenly Starbucks or heavenly McDonalds, I'd opt for Hell any day. Especially if Dane Cook's going to heaven.

Also, check out how they're flying the Canadian flag upside down in the background. Nothing worse than CANADIAN homos.

I don't know much about art, but I know what I like

My familiarity with Glenn Beck is limited, but his opening monologue here about the freedom of speech and its endangerment is one of the more concise digests of the subject I've seen. This is important. Believe me, I understand the fight against bigotry and hatred, but taking away one's ability to TALK about that bigotry and hatred doesn't make it go away. In fact, the less bigots are able to opine on ideas prejudicial, the more likely they'll strap a crude collection of M-80s and newspaper to a Baptist church. Like it or not, certain groups will ALWAYS hate other groups. However, those groups should be allowed to speak their minds.

Humor, however, is a different story. Humor, for some, is the only thing that makes life remotely livable. To mistakenly observe that our modern humor has become crass and insensitive is to ignore thousands of years of comedy. You're different, I'm different, we laugh about it. That's the way it's been for centuries. It's these very observations of how different we are that bring us together, whether it be flaws, quirks, generalizations, idiosycrosies, trends, desires, dreams. Jesus Christ, even those nauseating videos about the comedic power of pets are only funny because animals AREN'T humans. Are we going to have a fucking special interest group protecting the defamation of cats now?

Anyway, here's the clip. It's the first few minutes that are worth the viewing. After that, we get analysis. And we all know how shitty analysis can be.

In Kalamazoo zoo zoo zoo zoo

In lieu of recording my popular travelogue series in which I ridicule the Midwest in my own particularly embittered way, I will be ridiculing the Midwest in a simple, angry prose because I forgot my microphone.

My trip to Kalamazoo started with my arrival at LaGuardia in a gypsy cab that I'm still convinced was the automobile equivalent of a ghost ship. It had all the charm of my grandmother's living room, each pleather seat protected by an additional plastic covering that looked as if they'd been applied with a tape gun. After Spooky Cabberson and I parted ways, I proceeded to check-in. Now, there's something wonderfully horrifying about learning your driver's license has expired by way of an airport security guard telling you so. Airport security guards have similar senses of humor as former concentration camp prisoners, so my easy charm and lopsided smile only seemed to have an inverse effect on her increasingly sagging face. I'm not sure if it's possible for someone to achieve a "gravelly" face, an adjective usually reserved for a person's vocal tone, but our special guard gave me the ol' Stonepuss. After producing a health care card (apparently this is a suitable alternative, though it doesn't have a picture on it), I was allowed to proceed to the x-ray zone where one is required to take all his clothes off.

It only occurred to me once seated in a hulking mass of plastic and metal several thousand feet in the air that because I had an expired driver's license, I am an expired driver, and I would not be able to rent a car as was arranged by the gods of Pfizer. My initial panic was followed by heart palpitations and imagined cardiac arrest.

The most poignant difference between Kalamazoo and New York City is not how hilarious the name Kalamazoo is (just say "York" over and over again and bask in its silliness). What sets the people of Kalamazoo apart from New Yorkers is that they're all robots. Robots programmed to be pleasant, regardless of how rude or dismissive a guest to their fair town is behaving. An actual exchange:

ME (exhausted and irritable): I'd like to get a wake-up call tomorrow morning.

DESK WOMAN: I'm sorry, sir?

ME (semi-sarcastically): I would love a wake-up call tomorrow morning. 6:30 AM.

DESK WOMAN (no sense of sarcasm whatsoever): Well, I'd love to set that up for ya!

This happened at the coffee bodega the next morning as well:

COFFEE GIRL: That'll be $3.20. Would you like a receipt?

ME: I would love one.

COFFEE GIRL: Well, I'd love to give you one!

I bet you would. What the fuck is going on here? And speaking of "fuck," no one swears in Michigan. Well, at least on a normal day. It turns out that, under stressful circumstances, Midwesterners lose their cool and go batshit insane. While awaiting the flight back to Detroit, a certain nuclear family was a little late for their plane. The father was a little uptight:

WIFE: Dale, we don't have a lot of time.

DALE (face red and enraged): NO SHIT!

Huh. Now, the Kalamazoo airport isn't big. They have two gates. But, I couldn't help but laugh at the father who, following his family's somewhat awkward passage through security, yelled "RUN!" at his children. Now, I'm no sociologist, but I'm pretty sure screaming "RUN" in an airport (that kept playing a terror alert announcement over the intercom, by the by) isn't the best tactic to ensure one's seat on a plane. Who knows what happened to that family. I'd like to think they made their place. I'd also like to think they were shot execution style in a pasture adjacent to the airfield.

What I'm trying to say here is that it isn't all that shocking that most serial killers come out of the Midwest, frothing at the mouth and carrying a sack full of baby torsos. They put a lot of time into being affable, however, for the most part, it's all an elaborate hoax. In New York, sure, we have a great deal of crime and murder, but it's pretty straightforward crime and murder. We wear our hearts on our sleeves. Midwesterners let that shit seep into the very deepest crevasses of their souls and after awhile, whattya know, they have to meticulously peel the skin off of a seventh grader. It's nature's law.

Anyway, I'm glad to be back. This weekend, I'll be going home to Pennsylvania and its subtle racism. God bless the USA.

Now go getcha shine box!

Notice the slightly eerie sense of enlightenment at the end:

...the hell...?

Imbued Within's masterblogger Matt forwarded me this link to Grapples, a fruity Frankenstein's monster of apples and grapes brought to us by the wonders of science. These delightful mutations "Look like an apple. Taste like a grape." What other ungodly olios does modern technology have in store for us?

1. Waterfelon: a robust, juicy sex offender. Filled with seeds.

2. Brezeer: from the German "brezel," this is a hodgepodge of pretzels and beer. It's already ready already! And shaped like a breast! To eat! To drink! To dreat!

3. Chanties: chocolate panties. Exciting? Sure.

4. Corn on the Bob: the freshest sweet corn poured over my Uncle Bob.

5. Zoudini: magic and produce.

TO THE COMMENTS!!!!

Your Definitive Source for Douchebaggery

Someone from Bowling Green, Ohio reached my site by Googling "commercial work in new york." Now, I'll let everyone wallow in that delicious irony for a second. There...uncomfortable yet? Good.

However cynical I may be about the commercial acting world, I wouldn't want my new Ohio friend to leave my blog without first gathering at least a modicum of sagely advice. So, I offer the following hot tips that may just help the fresh, young actor in the New York commercial scene:

1. Send headshots constantly and make sure you include cute little notes along with your picture. Casting agents and directors like nothing more than sifting through mounds of airbrushed nonsense only to be greeted with an eye-catching quip like "I've got the goods" or "let's make magic together."

2. When you arrive for the audition, talk loudly and incessantly. You're sure to draw attention to yourself by bloviating like a braying jackass. Feigning friendship or interest in the lives of the casting directors is also a plus.

"Hey, how's that baby doing? She walking yet?"

"She's dead."

3. During the audition, ignore all improvisation rules and make it about you. It's important that you run this puppy, because chances are this red-cheeked asshole doesn't know how to make things up. Make sure to dominate the situation regardless of how nonsensical the words coming out of your mouth may be.

4. After the audition, make sure to say in an obnoxious, boastful voice to your fellow actors "you can all go home. I nailed it" or some other trite bullshit that EVERY SINGLE ACTOR IN THE HISTORY OF THE BUSINESS HAS EITHER THOUGHT OF OR SAID SO PLEASE STOP DOING IT...YOU'RE NOT SPECIAL.

5. On your way out, make sure everyone knows that you teach improv at some fake school somewhere so that you can lure some poor dope into dropping hundreds of dollars on learning the art of making shit up.

6. Take a long walk off a short pier.

I hope this has been entertaining, as well as informative. You could take my advice, or ignore all the above and be a real person. NOBODY'S doing that right now. Who knows? Maybe it'll catch on.

AOL? LOL!

John Ness is crazy. A few months ago, John introduced to me the idea of doing a video sports blog in association with AOL. Well, more specifically, a video baseball blog, because I find most other sports repellent. In a lot of ways, I am like baseball: lazy, boring, and occasionally gay. Needless to say, I never thought John would actually pursue working with a marginally talented lunatic. So after Dan Aykroyd turned him down, he called me again.

I sent John a few "pilot" bits, the lighting and sound for which is reminiscent of dorm-room pornos. The only thing missing is the fake and incessant moaning of a drunken sorority girl. Here's one of them:



Believe me, watching my giant, melon head float in space even for a minute is terrifying. What is more terrifying is that the site John supervises gets something in the ballpark of 15 MILLION hits a month. It's got to be good. It's got to be smart. It's got to be a minute long each spot. Quick and hilarious. Like sex with me.

Got change for a gold brick?

On Friday night, I went to see Hot Fuzz at the ol' bijou. As is required in the Jordan Barker Film Handbook, I bought a large popcorn and large soda. The cashier, a moron, fucked up the order. Here was my "change:"



And then we all laughed.

Up Molests My Ear

Matt's cat called "Up" has an ear fetish which causes him to bore into the human ear like a starved honey bear digging for that sweet sweet ear gold.

Come into my tummy? You bet!

That's him. That's the one that got me.

As promised, I humbly offer a continuation of the Munich photo jamboree. When last we left Jordan and Stupid, a certain pie-eyed dildo took in the sight of the majestic Zugspitze with a fair amount of desensitized wonderment.






On to beer. Munich has lots, and it's great. Although Jordan looks displeased in this next picture, he's actually ecstatic, as many dreams had come true for him in the form of a liter of absolutely delicious beer. Or three. After we had several, we decided that maybe there just was a god after all.


Dummy had one too (one equals three hundred in "German"):


After ending pretty much every night with what we were calling "big beers," we would walk around historic parts of Munich paying little to no attention to any of it. Except:

The Rathaus (it's the Town Hall, but it's more fun to call it the Rat House. Or Palace of the Fallen Jew)


The sight of the 1972 Olympic games, which, according to this picture, Jordan built, apparently:




Das Schloss (for Matt):


I drunkenly wrote my name on this car. I was later tried for war crimes against all humanity:


Also, (and I mean the English "also" and not the German "also" which I think means "thus" or "go fuck yourself, college boy," which has led to phrases such as "Also, and get me a beer.") it will come as no surprise that I am a schmuck:




However much fun we had at the expense of Germany and their 72 letter words, it may have been one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen, with exception of Ireland and a whore's "office," (which can be ANYWHERE!).





OK. Here's one of the two of us loaded (jerks)...

Munich 2006

At long last, I pestered Jordan enough that the pictures from the Munich trip are available for viewing. He's not talking to me anymore, but it's fun to reminisce about the short time I drove him to near suicide in a country notorious for its drinking and its penchant for violent nationalist sentiments. Let's begin at the top...OF GERMANY!!! HAHHAHAHAAA. Ugh, I fucking stink.

One of the highlights, by far, was our ascent of the Zugspitze, the highest point in Germany located in the Alps. And as we all know, the Lord Alps those who Alps themselves. In Germany, that joke was punishable by death about sixty years ago. The thought of traveling 9,000 plus feet in the air was daunting.



Upon our arrival, Jordan took to his lofty surroundings with a certain sense of rugged bravado.



I, on the other hand, was unimpressed and sought only a four letter word for "needlebox."



Nevertheless, we continued upward by cable car to the very zenith of Bavaria. All kidding aside, it was probably the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life. And that's because they had a full service bar over 9,000 feet in the air. I love Germany.



Here are several shots of Jordan and me moments before we had to talk each other out of jumping:







Here's me and a bird. Moments later, we were married.




Here's Jordan seconds after I told him that the only way back down was by one continuous cable car drop:


Once safely off of the mountain, Jordan appeared triumphant. I, still, am unimpressed.




But of course, it all wasn't fun and games. Jordan and I also made a trip out to Dachau, one of the very first concentration camps built and utilized by the Nazi regime during Word War II. On the way, Jordan jokingly asked, "Do you think there's a McDonald's in Dachau?" We laughed a little. Then we cried:





Still, it takes a pretty insensitive human to be unmoved by the sight of one of the biggest atrocities in human civilization. What's a six letter word for "From concentrate, perhaps?"



Tomorrow: Drunken Delights, I'm a Schmuck, and Olympic Gold!

The Jeff Corwin Experience

Protect this:



I laughed and laughed and laughed.

YOU DON'T BELONG HERE!

Sunday presented Washington Heights with its first Spring-ish day. The ominous drug-wielding parkas were cast aside for parkas wielding more drugs due to the lessened need of insulation. So, your hero, Superman, did something in a comic somewhere. This blog's hero, me, cried a little, then took a long walk through his neighborhood, an activity touted by both enterprising hookers and bored homosexuals.

Early Cathars believed that humans are essentially evil, and no argument here. However, sometimes on a not-quite-spring day, when the air is still crisp, yet devoid of winter's death-like embrace, one may sense that, despite our inherent evil, humanity might just have a chance.

So, I embarked north-ish-ward. Now, if you've ever been to Washington Heights, chances are, you don't want to come back. The best parts of this derelict nightmare are laced with animal entrails and refuse, aggressive garbage (no one litters as thoughtfully and as much as a denizen of Washington Heights), and buildings where the rats and cockroaches may be the most conscientious inhabitants.

If one follows Fort Washington north to about 180th Street, he gets gang-raped. Just beyond that, there are a series of beautiful Tudor-style apartment buildings on Pinehurst Avenue that look like they belong in a another city, quite frankly. Most likely in England, about a couple hundred years ago.



The people who live here are a lot like the Gelflings in the Dark Crystal. They are largely oblivious to the fact that great danger lurks everywhere around them and that they, in fact, have butterfly wings (at least the females do).

North of that lay Fort Tryon Park. During the Revolutionary War, British run imperial spaceships docked here in order to infiltrate Inwood. When all they could find was Chimichurri trucks, their fucking heads exploded. However, one can still see the naval advantage of a route up the Hudson River, securing that last bastion of American pride and beauty, New Jersey.



As I stared at the majesty of the Hudson and the flowing, living history of it, I happened to glance down at the stone barrier before me.



Yeah...truer words have never been spoken.

Yeesh...

OK already! There are two changes to the FODJ link bar:

Kath's blog URL is now ihatemusicals.blogspot.com

Anju's blog URL is now foxinthecity.net

Your mom's face's URL is olbutterface.org

These changes have been made to the hyperlinks to the right. Please make a note of it.

-The Management

Small observation

It occurs to me that part of the reason most people react to cockroaches as if confronting a anthropomorphic turd is that, in terms of evolution, our hysteric human reactions convince the cockroach that it needn't develop the ability to bite. Everybody wins.

(Listen, asshole, I know that on rare occasions, cockroaches bite humans. But it's largely harmless. What I'm saying here is if we were to not freak out when a giant golf ball-sized insect shoots across the bathroom floor like the light cycles in Tron, the cockroach may, as a species, decide it is no longer getting things done and needs to develop flesh-melting super venom. Bitch.)

We'd rather you say "axe wound"

America's battle with language continues. Not only is a comedy club (A COMEDY CLUB, PEOPLE!) banning use of the word "nigger" in its establishment, an act which is both cowardly and ineffective, a Westchester high school has suspended three honors students for their inclusion of the word "vagina" in a reading of (AND HERE'S WHERE IT GETS REALLY FUNNY! NOT FUNNY AS IN "THAT'S HILARIOUS," BUT FUNNY IN A "LET'S PUT A SHOTGUN IN THE MOUTH OF EDUCATORS EVERYWHERE" KIND OF WAY) The Vagina Monologues. The. Vagina. Monologues.

Now, John Jay High School principal Richard Leprine, who in this case is most certainly no one's "pal," claims he suspended the girls simply because they agreed not to say the word before the event. Sort of a breach of contract kind of deal. What he neglected to say was that he is a sniveling coward who censored a reading in order to protect his cowardly ass. Against the word vagina, no less.

His rationale, reportedly, is that young people (presumably grade school level children or retarded teenagers) attend these events. Young people who neither own a vagina (I own twelve) nor know what one is. Well sir, the Himalayan Vaginas are a Fascist sect occupying a stronghold just outside of Tibet. These Vaginas tend to be unkempt and odorous, maintaining a diet based largely on wild cockerel and salt water. Most Vaginas are violent and assail potential threats by trapping them in a suffocating embrace with promises of eternal love and devotion, only to later expel their victims as amorphous masses of bone and flesh. The heart is almost always entirely consumed.

Got off on a tangent. Sorry.

The fact that America's paranoia about language has spread from traditionally "offensive" words to actual biological terminology is actually pretty interesting. In some ways, it goes hand in hand with the increasing distrust of science and the deepening foothold of archaic Christian values, which have always included censorship in not only form but content (the Bible is one of the most butchered texts in history depending on who was controlling the edits at the time). In fact, any institution's pedagogy relies on the power of words to herd their constituents. It's important for America's government that the word "nigger" has weight in order so that they can trust that it still has the ability to disable people. It's important that stupid school officials THINK that the word "vagina" is going to cause a stink (ho ho) because as long as we keep fighting amongst ourselves and trying not to offend one another, our freedoms can be continually taken away from us.

They're turning language against us. As George Carlin (and probably countless linguists) has said in the past, words have no meaning in and of themselves. It's the intention with which they're used and the context in which they're deployed. How fucked up is it that a principal of a high school, a man who I can only guess went to college and did a bit of reading, is afraid of a single word? To what end? What purpose? Is he seriously shielding female children from knowing the biological term for what's between their legs, and saving male children from knowing what one is? Part of me (read: all of me) hopes that the children of Westchester never get the skinny on the word "vagina" and that their whole community dies out because couples are unable to procreate due to the assumption that what goes in a lady's pee hole is a fucking pine cone. Not only that, I hope Principal Richard "No Vaginas Here" Leprine's daughter is the first to experience it. Stupid, stupid Americans and their dumb company-endorsed education systems. How about we let McDonalds pick the socially appropriate word for womens' genitalia? "It was so hot, dude. She let me finger her Egg McMuffin."

This country sucks. (Well why don't you move, SOURPUSS!)

Finally, a decent news day

A sack of baby skeletons and a TV-watching corpse? It's not my birthday!

You never write anymore...

Here at Friends of Davey Jones, we strive to bring you the best content available on a semi-monthly to never basis. Our recent unscheduled outage has yielded faster service, more reliable jargon, and improved masturbatory cycles. We've been working around the clock to remove trite or predictable language and/or phrases, like this sentence, in order to maintain the level of mediocrity you've come to expect and almost want. We'd like to thank our twos of fives of readers for their casual (some might say passive) support.

Anna Nicole Smith is dead. File that little chestnut under "Who gives a shit?" Have you fired up CNN.com lately? Why has someone who has contributed absolutely nothing to either society or culture been rewarded with martyrdom? One CNN.com reader claims that Anna Nicole Smith "charmed" us all. What are these fucking people talking about? ARE WE ALL LOOKING AT THE SAME PERSON? The last time a perpetually fucked up redneck moron "charmed" me, I was five years old, he was a clerk at Gymboree, and I was molested. America has gotten into some seriously dangerous habits when it begins reconstructing national jokes into fallen heroes. This trend has been floating around for some time, and it certainly isn't the first time I've complained about it. However, this single event, the passing of an EX-PLAYBOY CENTERFOLD AND STRIPPER (!), and the ensuing unified mourning has solidified America as a nation of absolute morons in every way. Celebrity is now completely synonymous with importance, and that is not only telling about our collective neglect of truly significant things, ideas, and people, but perilous. Maybe we embrace the joke because we are a joke.

I understand that we're fascinated by train wrecks. But when the death of Anna Nicole Smith is dealt with the same weight as the demise of Princess Diana (which itself was pretty silly), aren't we going a step too far?

Just wait until the Snapple lady eats it. Then you''ll see some fucking tears, my friend.

Naw, baby. You look good...

My file system is experiencing an unfortunate bout of low self-esteem. Maybe if I got her a slimming new flat screen monitor. HAHAHHAAHHAAAA!!! MY COMPUTER IS LIKE A LADY!!!

It just doesn't matter

Is there anything that God actually likes?

Make sure you see this before they rip it off, folks (it's already gone from Youtube and very difficult to find on Google Video):

The Bible Says

Add to My Profile | More Videos

There's a lot of speculation about whether or not this is a joke. Well, you know how when you're watching a parody video there's that hint of irony somewhere in the back of your consciousness? Yeah, that doesn't happen here. In fact, lead singer of Evening Service, Donnie Davies has a whole li'l page explaining that he is a "Reformed Homosexual." Isn't that a lot like saying you're a "Reformed Redhead?" It doesn't make sense.

Yub nub, indeed

This was emailed to me. I hate that I love it.

Uh...

...right.

What killed the citrus crops the ice age?

Freshly re-minted Governor of California Arnold Schwarzenegger announced that he is seeking disaster aid for his state's citrus crops after a prolonged bout with frigid weather. He then went on to say "I'm here! Kill me now! Do it!" And other movie references I'm too tired to come up with. Faithful readers?

Lip Service

A good many linguists posit that human beings enjoy a unique capacity for language that occurs innately in all of us, unless of course you were born with severe head trauma, with Shacklesburger Syndrome (no lips and a nun fetish), or born President of the United States (yes, there are those who are, in fact, born president. It is largely known that William Howard Taft was our fattest president. But, it is less widely known that Bill Clinton was our fattest baby president and had to be removed from his mother by catapult in utero, which is Latin for "up her vadge" or is somewhere around Montego Bay). Needless to say, one's consumption and understanding of language is fascinating. Even more fascinating and enraging is the phenomenon known fictitiously as Flappengummen Syndrome, or "Ol' Ghost Lips," in which a subject processing any given language is compelled to move his lips while reading. Now, I've observed TWICE within the last two days people moving their lips while reading on the subway. And I'm not talking a subtle flutter of labial excitement, like a nervous hummingbird jerking off a wasp. I'm talking a cartoonishly exaggerated labial pantomime akin to what one might do when signaling to another person across the room that their balls are on fire or that his or her grandfather is secretly a vampire.

It is not possible to look more ridiculous than when one is moving his lips while reading. Even if he were putting sound to the movements and actually READING OUT LOUD, it wouldn't be as startling or worthy of a baseball bat to the mouth. Scientists have a long list of explanations regarding this phenomenon, but I don't give a shit. I find it distracting when, out of the corner of my eye, I see what appears to be a silent, puckering asshole opening and closing in space. And when, full of hope and wonder, I turn to look only to be rewarded with some douchebag whose mouth looks like an epileptic sea anemone, I tend to get a little angry.

Or people could stop reading. But they've almost achieved that anyway.

Second wave...

Tim Gyves has posted wave two of the birthday rockathon pics. Though he says he had no time to edit them, he was somehow able to replace all photos of me with images of Tom Arnold. Here's a link, but you have to sign in:

WAVE TWO

I have also been told that I neglected to mention a few performances and this, I regret, is embarrassingly true. Fortunately, my omissions have not been overlooked and angry party-goers have flocked to mention them in the comments section.

Remember when I botched Electric Avenue? Good times...

All through the karaoke girls were squealing the hits

Saturday's birthday karaoke jamboree was a tremendous success and I thank everyone who came out to bring Chelsea to its knees with hard, hard rocking.

Initially, I was up against Stalinist-level censorship from Anna and Carla as they attempted to block the first wave of party pictures, courtesy of Mike Solomon, from being seen. As you can see, they put the screws to him and had some of the hot pix removed:

The first wave of pictures are here!

Now, regardless of what Anna will tell you, everyone looked fantastic and hot and popular. In fact, I will have to say that BY FAR the highlight of the evening was Anna's rendition of Eminem's "The Real Slim Shady," which made niggas wanna weep. John Ness's songbird turn as Jack Black in "Wonderboy" had everyone believing in God again. Amanda Nazario's velvet voice made the ladies cream and the men scream, especially when coupled with her boyfriend Dan's silver-lined tenor during "Thunder Road." Let's not forget the very metal team of Matt Gurwitz and Carrie Canada's channeling of Rush for "Tom Sawyer." Not to be outdone, Jeff and Clara Solomon brought karaoking to new heights with their version of the 80's classic "Livin' On a Prayer" and not a soul was left unrocked by this. When Paul Chaytor set forth the power and the fury of several Oasis songs, let it be said, panties were thrown. Hearts were broken.

But honestly, it was seriously the most fun ever and I am so fortunate to have such amazing friends. Next year? Arm wrestling party.

The Advent

For 30 years now, people all around the world celebrate the coming of the crimson baby, Silvarado. It is said that denizens of the deepest regions of the African jungle, most notably the Pygmy or Negrito tribes, light a pair of red candles which represent the inflamed cheeks of Silvarado, whom they also call Bagganaynay ("Douchebag God"). Some children in Castillian Spain await eagerly for presents smothered in warm mashed potatoes and traditional jokebooks consisting of barely humorous stories, woefully bad puns, and blue material about baby rape. It is custom for those recognizing this holiday to greet each other with the traditional "I hate myself" followed by replies of "I hate myself too" if you're a male, or "Who are you again?" if you're a female. Depending on the region, special make-up is applied to the reveler's face in order to accentuate their embittered frowns. The remainder of the day is spent not talking to women and shying away from confrontation. Some orthodox Silvanians continue to collect action figures, comic books, and hardcore pornography. Some paint elaborate murals of Silvarado and Elvis Costello in a sultry bodily entanglement. All weep.

Fagspace

Friends of Davey Jones (me...it's just me really...so very alone) has amassed their media together in a central and accessible place. Myspace. Ever heard of it? Ever heard of the single biggest social cancer the world has seen since roller disco? Well, here's the URL:

myspace.com/fodj

Not all of the video bits are up there yet, but it's a painstaking process that leaves those wishing to promote themselves and their material wondering why anyone would fucking bother ever. Editing a Mypace Comedy page is like fingering a barely legal East Asian: frustrating with occasional exclamations of "Why are you doing that?!"

Which brings me to identity and its construction in a post Myspace world. It seems to me that the biggest irony at work today is that our very ability to fabricate our own custom identities using available technology is exactly what makes individuality almost completely unachievable and, in turn, nearly extinct. The role that the internet plays in the construction of one's identity has long been studied since its advent. Online, we can be whomever or whatever we want to be. It's, in a way, hyperexistentialism, in that not only are we essentially amorphous voids defining ourselves by association with external traits (I like baseball, I like mashed potatoes, I like deep anal penetration), but we are no longer bound to the physical world and can actively manipulate our identity online. But the irony is thickest when we consider that, honestly, the choices available to the construction of this identity are actually very limited. For the most part, the common man, unless well studied in HTML and the like, creates his online persona from what's already floating around out there, the common pool of popular culture. I can be an Elvis Costello loving, Dane Cook hating, quasi-pedophile with a Hello Kitty chat avatar, but that's just a crude combination of the bits of the popular culture with which I've chosen to associate myself. In the end, the building of one's identity becomes no more than a trite illusion. Nothing more than Disney icons and iTunes song lists.

I guess what I'm saying is that in trying to be so different from each other, we've made it impossible to be anything but woefully identical.

It's just like eating the eyeball out of a deer's face

Every holiday season brings with it the warm, simmering sense of dread and panic here at the office (sometimes, I call it the "Orifice," and we all sit around and laugh a little. Then we put the mailman's clothes back on and send him on his sobbing way, covered in our seed). A lot of this peace on hell and ill will toward men stems from the fact that every yuletide reminds my boss that he is very much old and alone. This realization manifests itself in him as irrational anger and seething cruelty (i.e. creating a load of unnecessary "busy work" to keep slaves tethered to their desks, making little to no sense, smelling like Jackie Joyner Kersee's camel toe...I suppose that one is independent of the season). Needless to say, there are a lot of tense situations all centered around trying to remedy perfectly innocuous problems with a sad, delusional old lunatic. Regardless of how much this time of year makes me want to choke him to death with the plastic needles from a singing, animatronic Christmas tree, a good deal of the holiday loathing is dissipated when a certain coworker invariably brings in a giant batch of buckeyes.



Buckeyes are spectacular in that not only are they very simple (chocolate and peanut butter), but apparently, I can eat three hundred of them due to the fact that they are delicious. They are so unbelievably good that, while I was sucking down my fifteenth of the day, a coworker mentioned that he doesn't like peanut butter with his chocolate and I almost punched him in his fucking skull. You don't like peanut butter with your chocolate? Go fuck yourself, Commie. If you don't like buckeyes, you don't like life. What kind of international terrorist doesn't like to welcome, into his mouth hole, a delightful ball of slightly fleshy chocobutter? STOP PRETENDING YOU DON'T LIKE THEM.

And speaking of stopping things, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE STOP THIS LAWYER BEHIND ME FROM SINGING? I used to love Garageband. I thought to myself, what a wonderful world we live in, that there exists a music production program that makes creating li'l ditties fun and accessible. However beautiful that idea is, in the hands of someone whose voice is reminiscent of a platypus getting raped up its bill, it gets a little tiresome after the eighth or ninth warbling rendition of Galileo, king of night vision, king of insight. All I think about doing is cracking her Macbook over her head WWE-style. "He hit her with a laptop, Mean Gene!"

In closing, Merry Christmas one and everyone. I'm not sure if the rules of capitalization were thoroughly employed there, but you get my drift. GET OFF MY BACK!

Three Vignettes

I. As I began to finally regain feeling in my right hand, the blood gingerly creeping back into its veins after having made a hasty retreat from the arctic winter air, I could finally focus my attention on the ridiculous page of copy sitting on my lap.

"WRITER: CONVERSATIONAL IN TONE"

Conversational? When has anyone in the history of humankind ever attempted an at least half-serious conversation entirely in disclaimers?

"You want another cigarette, Fred? Oh, and by the way, cigarettes increase your chances of getting cancer."

"Hey, sorry I shot my load directly into your eyeball. Use as directed."

"I'd love to go to the Dane Cook concert! Possible side effects include nausea and intense hemorrhaging."

It was at this moment in my amusing myself that the attractive woman next to me asked, "excuse me, how long have you been waiting?"

"Oh, I don't know. About ten minutes. Then again, I have a poor sense of time and space."

The weak smile that had had the audacity to appear on my lips met her blank stare with the awkwardness of two incestuous brothers offering each other hot dogs at the family reunion.

"Do you want mustard...?"

"No...no thanks..."

It reminds me why I don't often attempt to be charming and personable. And that reminds me:

II. Coming home from Germany, I caused a slight stir at the airport with my hastily packaged bundle of souvenirs. However one is supposed to prepare his trinkets, I neglected to follow suit, opting instead for the crisp, studied packing technique of a half-asleep stroke victim. As a punishment, British Airways condemned my gifts to a giant plastic bag with a zipper and floral print, the colors of which would make a gay man slap that cock right out of his mouth and never pick another one up again. This bag looked like it belonged on the floor next to P.T. Barnum while he was getting blown by a clown. Needless to say, it was designed to be ostentatious so that the Heathrow's finest could keep an eye on you.

Imagine my surprise when, waiting in the Customs line, a fellow strolled up behind me with the same bag. I was so pleased that I wasn't the only fool to be burdened with this bulky atrocity that I eschewed my normal paranoid contempt for a genuine stab at solidarity. After turning around and lifting the hideous bag in the air, I said with a laughing smirk:

"Huh?"

The gentleman, who turned out to be German, stared into my eyes with piercing condescension and let out a curt, "yeah." After assessing that I was no better than a pile of shit, ol' Happy German Face made a big deal of ignoring me.

This, in short, is why I dislike small talk.

III. Two short conversations with my increasingly senile boss:

HIM: Cammy told me about the Xonax boxes that need to be integrated into that shipment we're sending out.

ME: Xonax? No, you're talking about that other collection we looked at. Not Xonax.

HIM: (as if this whole mistake came from me) Xonax?! Of course not!

**********

HIM: I identified those boxes and put them in order. I'm going to ask Timmy to do the labels.

ME: So Timmy's doing the labels?

HIM: No. No no no. And someone needs to put those boxes in order.

ME: I pray that you will die in your sleep.

Wasn't Bob Ross also an Afro-American?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Michael Richards lost his fucking mind and peppered the audience, Dick Cheney style, with a smattering of racial slurs. What he's paying for, here, is that his comments weren't funny. There was clearly no joke behind them, and that makes an audience, especially one with actual "tinted Americans" in it, a li'l nervous. But what offends me in the clip above is Seinfeld telling Letterman's audience to stop laughing because "it isn't funny." Isn't it? It's not funny when an entertainer, whose career has been ironically crippled by its own success, has a total breakdown and starts doing David Duke impressions only to nervously apologize for them days later (the apology, of course, getting more laughs than Michael Richards' actual routine ever would)? Isn't Larry David working on a script like this every day? Weren't the awkward repercussions from one's personal quirks, fears, and problems the building blocks for your show, Jerry? COME ON! Won't somebody at least give me the small comfort in having the only good aspect of this ridiculously oversensitive society be the depths to which its celebrities must sink in order to gain forgiveness? Can't I at least have that? Can't I be allowed to laugh at Michael Richards for screwing up so badly that he is reduced to a quivering, teary-eyed baby in front of a national audience?

In unrelated news:

As I stood in Pennsylvania Station awaiting my train to Philadelphia on Saturday, I watched as an obese woman plodded down the corridor. As she passed, a single dime sprung from her fingers and fell to the marble floor with a distant tinkle (ooh! Urine from beyond the grave!). She hunched forward slightly, heaving her weighty skull over the precipice of her bosom just enough to get a decent view of the fallen coin. In less than a second, she determined, with a sort of strange weary familiarity, that the dime was lost forever. As she wandered off, I could only imagine a small fortune scattered about the streets and sidewalks of New York that this woman had somewhat begrudgingly donated because she was simply unable to reclaim it.

05:13:24

Net time: 05:05:46

Next year: Toronto

Dirty knees, look at these

Dear Cat Fancy,

Attached please find the best thing I have ever seen. It has long been said that the Japanese sense of humor is peculiar. Most of it involves terrifying pedestrians, kissing massive insects, and screaming women (note: I have no concept of parallel structure. In fact, how'd I even make that joke?). I have long resisted the Japanese, or indeed, all Asian comic sensibilities (I was All Asian in high school) as they seemed bizarre and macabre. Fortunately, the steady string of Will Ferrell vehicles has made me doubt American comic tastes and seek out and embrace alternative comedy sources.

It's not that I don't like the King of Queens. Far from it. Situation comedies have been my passion since I was a smallish child watching I Love Lucy reruns in an abandoned warehouse (I was an orphan/dock worker). It's just that if I have to endure yet another clumsy plot line about the ignorant husband unwittingly dismantling a time-honored family event only to learn deep values that actually bring his family closer together, I'm afraid I will be forced to hunt Kevin James down and feast on his succulent flesh. Do you see? Do you see how it's easier to laugh at the heart-wrenching yelps of frightened Japanese preteens than to admit that Jerry Stiller is funny?

In closing, I love your magazine. It's written purrfectly (feel free to use that). Maybe you can do an article about the woman in the picture I've sent. Maybe I can find more interesting cat torture pics and I can write for you! It could be a column about cats in comedy! Called That's My Pussy! Or Pussy Chuckle! Or Elbow Deep in a Pile of Pussy! Think about it.

Pussy,
G. Gordon Liddy

It's a corpse on the course, of course

The very fact that I haven't been able to train for Sunday's marathon in Philadelphia has built itself in my head as a somewhat comical truth which has gone on to become a more successful and grand joke, a joke that has no doubt bought a house in the Hamptons and brand new Porsche with which to torment me (its license plate would read: "ULLNVRFNSH"). To be sure, it has gone beyond the sobering reality of "running a marathon" and has achieved the loftier ponderousness of "wrestling a pack of wolves" or "fellating a demi-god." Still, the sheer lunacy of participating in a marathon (I am loathe to use the word "competing" as I'm concerned that such a lie would make even liars blush) with very little training does have a certain charming appeal. Kind of like watching a fat man ascend stairs. You're pulling for him, but you know that he'll be ducking into the fifteenth floor elevator as soon as he becomes disgusted with his own chunky heaving.

This time around, however, I am orchestrating a bigger support team, lead by my family who will be holding signs reading "Don't Die" and "You can do it, Grabe!" and maybe even "I'm glad it's not just cancer that runs in our family." Ho Ho Ho. I hope to equip them with various elixirs, tonics, and spells to sustain me at key elements of the race, like, you know, the whole thing. I also hope that I can keep from sharting out bloody stool and vomit (that's right, ass vomit) like some hairy, red-cheeked version of Uta Pippig.

As race day approaches, I find myself torn between nervousness and almost irrational hysteria. But, I know that, on the day, I will try to have fun. As I bleed. From my eyes and skin.

That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly

Wow

Every once in awhile, a bit comes along you wish you'd written. This is one of those bits (forgive me if you've already seen this, but I don't have cable, so, you know, frankly you can go pound sand):

Oddly fitting...

You are Alison Parker, alcoholic tragedy case in heels. It's not that you're dramatic, right? It's that your life is. Work, love, the apartment ... you can't keep it all together. Know that while you can't control everything, you are responsible for own life.

Which Melrose Place Character Are You?

Thanks, Anju.