Wittyism

The 10 Commandments of Comedy
1-10) Be Funny

Friday

Going to the aquarium later. Taking a shower in a bit. Reading Internet right now.

"New York is always full of fresh young things, so it’s always really sexy, but I’m very grateful that I lived through a time when I didn’t have to wear a condom. That was pretty special." - Stephen Petronio

Wed 29 April 2009

Ben's car got towed yesterday. And again today. Yeah.

Gold

Cower and weep: I am 23.

I make an annual effort around this time of year to express anticipation for my impending Golden Birthday (in hopes that my friends will get the hint). Impending no longer: it is April 23rd. 5:12 AM and no surprise party yet...

I'm actually spending this birthday in a car for 11 hours. Driving to Charlotte. Fun times.

Stace, Tiff and I had dinner with Jimmy. He lives right next door to me. I will pay him many more visits.

More from the Veil Of Decrepitude as it happens...

"Eyebrow" is redundant. Unless we invent a new kind of brow. Perhaps tits can become "abdomen brows."

Yesterday

Yesterday was 78F and gorgeous.

• Adam and I had a brunch special and people-watched.
• Then we met Ian and Brittany in Central Park for some Frisbee.
• After the sun set, Alex joined all of us for a guac party and we put on Helvetica.
• Then Ben, Alex and I did a poetry reading.
• And after everyone left, Ben and I did some writing together.

"It's the real thing. Period. Coke. Period. In Helvetica. Period. Any questions? Of course not. Drink Coke. PERIOD!"

Bye Bye Mommy

My mom just visited me. She and my godmother took me to dinner Wednesday, then Mom took Ben and me to dinner and Hair on Thursday. She also brought me Girl Scout cookies, a computer and a hand-made hat. I love my mom.

18

It all began with a casual after-dinner philosophical chat. Ben and I chewed the fat about culture and art and shit like that. The hours wore on and the debate turned inevitably toward Ben's and my favorite topic: the nature of morality.

After a long and deep exchange, we retired to a dénouementic ease of conversation on various miscellaneous matters. Enter stage left the 20-sided die.

The theory goes as follows: at any given time, there are a number of things we want to do and an associated likelihood that we should do any of those things. For example, at 3am in the morning, 8 hours before my job interview, Ben and I might:

1. Go to sleep
2. Watch part 2 of the Battlestar Galactica miniseries
3. Smoke weed and read/write poetry
4. Go out to a bar and talk with a stranger

These choices represent a spread of probability. There is a 60% chance of doing option 1, a 20% chance of doing option 2, a 10% chance of doing option 3, and a 5% chance of doing option 4 (the remaining 5% is left for "re-roll").

If we randomly selected our course of action, we would make the "responsible" choice most of the time, the "irresponsible" choice some of the time, and the "interesting" choice every now and again.

But left to our own devices, we will not choose randomly. We will never actually elect the most interesting option. We will select from the 80th percentile 100% of the time. This means that we will never experience the "long tail" of life: the unlikely but very interesting choices.

Cue 20-die.

• 1 = Re-roll
• 2-13 = Go to bed
• 14-17 = BSG
• 18-19 = Weed & poetry
• 20 = Bar
  

The poem we wrote together is entitled 18:

My, oh my. Maybe it’s just telling you something that it’s not telling me?! Like a secret??! >:0

redeye

redpants

redburp

these are the bytes that [man, the 20-sided die was so right. Don’t cha think > ] , are [[beep]] being scanned,

[[beep]] being shot out.

[[beep]] being scanned,

[[beep]] being shot out.

and for a moment I believed that you actually said something that you didn’t say.

a spot um it’s really intence to explain the experience of looking at a hand. Bam – fist. It’s really intence.

put some vomit noises into the poem.

My Lady's Smile

My Lady fills with pregnant pause
And viciously her nostrils sigh.
She sideways-glances at the cause
And gives to me her best shit-eye.

My Lady does not care for farts
Or joke with words unfit for church
Or any talk of body parts
That might her lily ears besmirch.

My Lady smiles at everything,
Politely pleased is her disguise.
Her gnashing teeth are all hiding
'Neith crescent lips and sideways eyes.

Trash TV

I am addicted to Queer as Folk. I am hoping that by posting about it, I can shame myself into stopping. It is the trashiest show not on TV anymore. I love it.

Jesus loves you. But Jesus doesn't really have standards.

YEAH!

WE WILL OVERRIDE!

Hahaha

Hahahaha. HAHAHAHA!

HA!
HA!
HA!

Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 10

Ben. He is not a "thing" so much as a "person," but I love him none the less.

Annabelle's House

It is commonly known that when Annabelle leaves
The house is invaded by arsonous thieves
The preclusion of which no precaution achieves.

And the innocent, well-bred and handsome young guys
Who would live in this house under Annabelle's eyes
Are most certainly felons in handsome disguise.

Or at least are the dimmest among short-bus stocks
Who cannot be trusted to understand locks
By virtue of their vulgarly having cocks.

They Were The Best of Pants, They Were The Worst of Pants

Aaron Bockover no longer has my pants! This is an important development.

I am an uno-pantalones kind of muchacho. I own many pairs but I wear only one: The Chosen Trousers. I know exactly what I want from a pair of jeans and I usually don't find it. An entire day of shopping may only yield two "good enough" purchases, of which, only one will grace my ass day in and day out.

Just before going to that place I've been for 9 months, I assembled a task force of trusted friends and embarked on a mission: find Scott a New Pair of Pants. No establishment was spared, no jean unmolested. Every 30-32 in the Mall of America had my butt in it.

After a wearying blur of denim, two victors emerged: the Lucky Jeans that I really, really liked and they're not perfect but they're about as close to perfect as any jeans I've ever tried on, and the other pair which I also liked and they would make a great backup pair. Damn good work, people, I told my task force. Damn good work.

I was all set to live happily ever after with my nearly-perfect jeans, but AARON BOCKOVER had other designs!!1!!1 I was at his place getting ready to leave the country forever when my pretty-perfect pants mysteriously forgot to get back into my luggage. A LIKELY STORY! Of course, you and I both know what really happened, don't we? Baby-faced Bockover, wild with jealousy, took 'em! I have reports that he was soon there after seen around Boston in a fabulous new pair of Lucky Jeans, and that they made his ass look GREAT!

Meanwhile, I was half a world away stuck with the fucking backups. If any one thing can be blamed for the failure of my business... it would probably be the GLOBAL ECONOMIC CLUSTERFUCK. But a close second is that pair of pants. Attempts were made to emancipate the pants from Bockover's belt, all of which met with suspicious failure.

Well friend, the veil of tears is lifted at last. Last Saturday I popped by Boston and was reunited with my fairly flawless slacks. JOY! Aaron then proceeded to treat me to dinner with Miguel. He hid it well, but I caught that solitary tear silently rolling down his baby-faced cheek as he gazed mournfully at the fine, fine denim clinging tightly to another man's cheeks. Au revoir mon ami, glistened the tear. He then wiped it away under the pretence of adjusting his glasses and ordered another quesadilla.

Bonjour à nouveau, mon ami!

The Kindness of Strangers

Traveling takes the blog out of me. I am well, I am in New York, I don't have a job, I am staying with friends.

All kinds of stuff has happened that you would know about if I had blogged it, but I'm just going to catch you up on the best part.

Leins Barthe is my hero. Chances are, you don't know him. Leins is from Haiti. Leins drives a cab. Leins saved my ass.

I realized, about three hours before leaving for Auckland International Airport, that I had no place to stay in New York, no money for anything, and no phone with which to call people in the Northern Hemisphere. I would arrive in New York at 9pm on Friday with nowhere to go, nothing to do and no one to call, holding two huge bags and my total personal worth of $400 cash. Unless I lined something up in three hours.

I sounded the Facebook Distress Call and, praise be, was heard. A friend who shall remain nameless set me up with his or her phone number, address and invitation to stay a spell. Two and a half hours later, I was on my way.

My air travel experience was something of a tragedy of errors, but I will skip ahead to the arrival at John F. Kennedy International Airport. Luggage in hand, I stood before that eternal riddle which has plagued the minds of men from Socrates to Sartre to Scott: do I lug my bags on the subway to some godawful part of Brooklyn where I've never been and it's the middle of the night by now and godonlyknows how much walking I'll have to do BUT it's only $7, or do I get a cab?

So I'm in the cab telling my cabbie, one Mr. Leins Barthe, all about my life and such and how I don't have a phone yadayada and Leins offers me his for to call my anonymous generous friend, which I do, only to get a "number not available" message. Hrmm. Must have written it down wrong, I think aloud to Leins Barthe. Little did I know, it was actually the number for FORESHADOWING!!!

After circumnavigating the entire burrow of Brooklyn, Leins and I arrive at my destination. I hop out and buzz 1C. It does not buzz but my friend had told me that the buzzer did not work so I am comforted. I buzz other apartments until I get somebody and I explain that I am trying to get to 1C and their buzzer doesn't work so could you please come let me in or something. 1C, the other apartment person tells me, is vacant - the people who lived there just moved out.

That is when I become suspicious. I manage my way into the building and confront the door to 1C and give it a bit of the old knuckle. Audibly comes the scurry-shuff-shuffle of the people within. Hello? quoth I. Silence, quoth the door. It's Scott Peterson, quoth I. HubbubhubbubScottPetersonhubbub, quoth the door. Listen, I just got off a plane from New Zealand and I'm tired as shit and it's really late and I have almost no money because the fucking exchange rate fucking killed me and I have two huge bags and my cabbie is waiting outside with them and [NAME REDACTED] told me I could stay here and I literally have no place else to go because my American phone has been out of service for five months or something and this is the fucking ass-end of Brooklyn and there's no way I'm going to be able to hail another cab out here and I'm kind of freaking the fuck out because if you don't open this goddamn door I am going to be spending the night on the freezing streets, guarding my personal possessions with a nail clipper from the lusty advances of wild-eyed hobos and foaming crackheads so [NAME REDACTED], if you're in there, just open the mutherfucking door PLEASE, quoth I.

So I'm back in the cab telling Leins about the 10 minute monologue I had with the door and how the people behind it, whoever they are, refuse to acknowledge my presence. And to make a long night short, I ended up sleeping on the couch in the living room of the cabbie who picked me up from JFK, one Mr. Leins Barthe. The next day I take a shower and Leins takes me to go buy a phone and I call my friend Ross and line up space at his place and then we go back to Leins' and his daughter Lindsay makes me a papercraft flower which says "For: Scott From: Lindsay Barthe" and then Leins' cousin Reg drives me to Ross'.

God, it's good to be back.

What Have I Learned?

My southern hemispherical adventure is nearing its end and the question looms above me like ten thousand New Zealand dollars: what have I learned? Two things. One of which I will share with you now. The first lesson is: Don't start a small business two months before Global Economic Armageddon. This is just a simple matter of listening to what the damn gypsy in the Fulton St. subway station told you. If she said Rasputin's penis told her to tell you to not invest all of your personal capital in a startup, then by gosh by golly, don't do it! As for the second lesson, ask me in person and I will tell you.

See you soon. Whoever you are. And whenever soon is. And assuming I'm not blind by then.

Epistles

If I could bring back two fads, the second would be the epistolary novel. They were really big in the 18th century but I don't know what's happened to them since. I just wrote a whole bunch of quick emails and I would like to share them with you now. I'm omitting the recipients. The salient details to pick out are: John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Friday the 13th, and either 9:15 or 9:18. I was apparently a little confused.

Subject: Flight

I'm getting into JFK next Friday at 9:18pm. I have a number of bids for generously-putting-me-up, so what can you offer in the tender hugging, unsolicited smiles, and omelet skillet departments that would seal the deal? I will see you in a week my dear.

Love,
Scott


Subject: Home again, home again, jiggity jig

I'm getting into JFK at 9:15pm on the 13th. I will be staying with some friends until I something figured out. Might that something be with you? What's the latest? And how was your mom's wedding? Keep me aboob.

- Scott


Subject: Christmas is Coming Early

Ho Ho Ho, bitch! You've been a naaaaaughty girl this year, haven't you. YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID! Well, I'm just gonna have to come over there and do something about you. My flight gets into JFK Friday the 13th at 9:15pm. Meet me in Manhattan. In the alley. Behind the building. My inappropriateness and I will be waiting.

But for serious, I may not be in NY very long and I want you to visit. I don't care who you fuck. Make it happen.

And I love you.

- Scott


Subject: Get Ready

My flight gets into JFK at 9:15pm. WHUCHA GONNA DO, HUH?!


Subject: Re: Get Ready

P.S. I love you very much and want to go to dinner with you and by go to dinner I mean have you take my to dinner because I just spent the end of my money on a plane ticket and it's OK if dinner is at KFC I'll eat anything just so I can spend time with you.


Subject: I am returned

Like Jesus, I'm comin' back! My flight gets into JFK at 9:15pm on Friday the 13th. Hope your thing today goes painlessly. I'll be in touch soon.

Happy March

Oh yeah, and it's March. Let's celebrate! I'll get John Philip Sousa, you get the guac.

Sunday

• Went to the ocean. I am pleased to report it was wet.
• Had a Murder Burger.
• Watched Le Grand Bleu.
• Am working on getting myself a job.
• But I need to be careful that I don't end up playing Bejeweled. It can happen at any time without warning. I have to keep my eyes peeled. For any Bejeweled playing. By me.

Speaking of getting myself a job, you know those times when you realize, 5 years after the fact, that you had two thinly veiled blow job offers at Japanese language camp? Wasted educational opportunities. おっと.

CC

My Flickr (which I have sorely neglected) photos are licensed under Create Commons Attribution. This means anyone can use them for any purpose, provided they attribute the work. I was putzing around a while ago and stumbled across a familiar picture on the Wired blog. I then searched for links to my Flickr account and was pleased to see that a number of folks have made good use of my stuff:

• Wired Blog
• The Consumerist
• Futurismic
• Greenwich Connect
• A presentation on JavaScript libraries (PDF, page 49)
• Philadelphia Will Do

I should be taking more photos. By the way, all original content on this blog is dedicated to the public domain. Because I have a militant lack of faith in the copyright system. Bite me.