I did my first storytelling show last Monday at a small venue called the Coraline Cafe, way out in Brooklyn. I’m not sure where, exactly, but at one point I was afraid that I was going to be asked for my passport. There were only five folks on the bill, and for once, one of those people was me! After a few months of writing, rewriting, and trying to get onstage at The Moth, I finally got a chance to get up and tell a tale.

I told a story about a drunk man and a drunker pit bull fighting over some cans of Old English in Richmond, VA a few years back — astute readers of this blog will remember that story from here. And I mean, I was nervous, don’t get me wrong — but once I got up there that nervousness just kinda turned into energy, and I went with it, just kinda pushing the parts that needed pushing.

Two and a half servings of bourbon didn’t hurt, either, but I had to cut myself off at a full stop by pouring the last half into a plant. There’s nothing worse than a slurred blatherer, apart from someone who used to be fat and/or geeky in high school and isn’t over that shit yet.

But yeah, it was awesome! People laughed at the parts I meant to be funny and laughed at the stuff I ad-libbed. So I’ll take that as a good sign. The compliments felt genuine. I mean, if someone was kissing my ass because of all the pull I have in showbiz, they’re just horribly misguided.

So now, just as soon as I click “post” on this post, I’m off to the train to try and get onstage at The Moth again. I’ll post the story tomorrow for you guys, but for now, I got to keep it bottled up. I’m nervous, but the good kind. The kind that means something crackly’s about to happen, one way or another. Like one story is about to turn into another. And man, I live for shit like that.

You can see a full-sized image here

I just want to roll this week around in my mouth for a while like a snooty wine snob in a white suit and an ascot to match who is swishing something something rich and complex between his teeth.

Like many wine snobs, I imagine, I am frantic to figure out what to write about the week because on the one hand there is so much to say, but on the other, it’s all so much that it could slip away into nothing but a bunch of tired old cliches.

My week has been oaky, with hints of chocolate and raspberry.

I did get possibly the most flattering e-mail ever this week. Here it is:

Hi,

I am presenting information about various nyc subway related blogs and websites for a graduate course on community. I am talking about your blog for a minute or so and wanted to tell the audience how you envision the purpose of your blog. I am specifically showing a screenshot from your photo of the marilyn monroe underground art.

If there is anything you would like the audience to know about your blog please let me know.

Well I’ll be damned. Here’s my answer, mulled over and blasted out before I think too much about it and get all self-conscious:

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I was an extra in the pilot for a zombie romantic comedy this weekend — another one of my friend Eliza’s zany schemes to dominate Internet comedy. We filmed at Planet Rose Karaoke in the East Village, a small karaoke bar painted bright red with a lot of zebra-print furniture and a leopard-print carpet filthy enough to shock John Waters.

It looked like everyone in the bar had been simultaneously kidnapped by aliens at closing time the night before. There were beer bottles everywhere, the bar was all sticky, and a lashing of vomit festooned the edge of the men’s toilet. Using my highly trained sense of party forensics, I deduced that it’s pretty fun place to be on a Saturday night.

I played the bartender in a club scene where this guy nervously navigates a rebound after a bad breakup with a nightmare woman who talks in baby talk, drinks Sprite and tequila and hates listening to music. We spent all day shooting a scene that will probably take five minutes to watch, tops. We did a lot of taking and retaking, hearing the same lines again and again. That’s how it goes when you’re shooting pretty much anything — the difference being that since everyone on camera was a really good improv comedian, each take was funny in a different, distinct way while still using the same old words.

That’s why I love doing Eliza’s shoots — I always met really cool people. Like my new friend Lou.

Lou’s one half of a comedy duo called Greg and Lou Present Lou and Greg. You might recognize ‘em from their video Office Pornwhich did pretty well on Digg a little while back.

They’re putting on a show tomorrow night at UCB, too — here’s the info:

Greg and Lou Present Lou and Greg in: The Fuck-It List
Written by Greg Burke, Lou Perez, and AJ Morales

Thursday May 8th, 6:30 PM at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre
307 West 26th street @ 8th Ave (map here)

Tickets are $5, reservations here

I’d be there my damn self if I weren’t booked solid already, for real. Lou was cracking me up all day Sunday, and he’s sure a nice young man who deserves five lousy bucks. Here’s Office Porn, just as a taste — more videos here.

He may be one of the best roommates I’ve ever had. Neither of us is home very much, so we don’t get in each others’ hair. We’re both messy, though he shows more signs of effort than I do. He told me once

Look. I live in Williamsburg and I’m an interior designer. That’s gay enough, I don’t need to be all fastidious on top of it.

Near as I can tell, we’re laissez-faire about everything. I don’t sweat it when he eats my food, he doesn’t sweat it when I eat his, as far as I know. His boyfriend comes over a lot, but I really like my roommate’s boyfriend … I love having coffee with the two of them in the kitchen after a big night out, checking in here and there. We are less roommates/significant others than friendly truckers sharing a familiar truckstop.

My roommate’s older sister is one of the best friends I have like, on this earth. we share a squalid sense of humor and a love for wild tales of rotten behavior … and my rooommate, he’s right there in the mix.

He shared his own bedroom with me last summer when we housed a couple in our 2-bedroom place. You heard it. Four grown people, two bedrooms, a Brooklyn August. It sucked, but it could have been so, so much worse. He knew I was job hunting, knew I was looking for a crib, and calmly made the offer.

That cuts a lot of ice with me.

So here he is, making that face he always makes, one part mischief and one part sarcasm and a whole lot of awesome trouble about to bust out.

Eliza Skinner’s at it again with a game of blog-tag. This time the challenge is to post six unremarkable quirks about yourself.To write down something that makes you unique is the definition of remarking on a quirk, making this an incredibly zen experience. It’s so complicated and recursive that we may all just slide into the nothingness of the idea, sliding into our laptop screens like scientists into a Hadron Collider.

But anyway — six boring weird things about me:

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I got a chance to test-drive the new Smartcar Fortwo as research for a guest blog post on Men.Style.com, GQ/Details magazine’s blog.

And yeah, if it was too rainy to ride my bike, I might drive one of these things.

After a week and several rounds of edits, here’s the post itself.

A few days later, I got a comment that said:

i know the guy who does this stuff. i can get you more info and pictures of the originals if you’re interested. these pics don’t do the originals justice. you have pics of them after they’ve been tampered with …

I got a bunch more photos out of him, and he’s right … these are way, way more fun, especially this Iron Man remix:

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I am in Southwest D.C., lying in my girlfriend’s bed, and I want this moment to freeze and stay forever. I want this feeling to stop and hover, solid but malleable, so I can stretch it out like a tarp and wrap it up tight around my entire life.

I am just waking up from a nap on fresh cotton sheets and giant fluffy pillows, a nap wrapped in fresh green air lovingly kissed out from the hundreds of trees down here.

I love the smell of New York air — of dirty metal, concrete and a distant whiff of urine — but it’s not napping air.

I started this nap by lying very still and reading Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, a perfect horror novel that bounced right off of my sleeping face shortly after I got into the good part. It’s still here in bed for me, waiting for me to pick it up. I will, in a minute.

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During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act. — George Orwell