Tag Archive: calarts


Over the past couple of years I’ve become acutely aware of the fact that I lack a great deal of common know how.  I’ve always excelled at school, at one point in my life I could even do Vector Calculus, but when it comes to simple tasks such as folding my clothes without getting them wrinkled, I’m about as useful as a porn magazines for Stevie Wonder.

I simply lack skills that most people don’t even think twice about.  For example, yesterday I was bartending at my school for an art event.  I was provided with 4 bottles of wine from Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman (their daughter goes to my school and was presenting some of her artwork).  Now I had these four bottles of wine to open and honestly, I don’t remember the last time I’ve ever performed this task.  I don’t know the difference between Merlot or Savignon or Grape Juice.  I’m not cultured like that.  Give me a damn long island iced tea or a Blue Moon and let me cry myself to sleep after eating about 8 bowls of cereal.

Anyway…I had my faithful bartending friend, Calvin, thoroughly demonstrate how to open open a bottle of wine, TWICE.  He handed me the wine opener and there I went, smushing the corkscrew so ineptly into the cork it began to look like it had gone through a wood chipper.  After I had finally gotten the screw into the depth of the cork, I began pulling with all of my Jewish strength away from the bottle.  I looked like a guy who got his dick stuck in a Chinese finger trap.

My other friend, Jaoquin, who wasn’t even a bartender, noticed my shining retardation and pushed me aside.  He set the small curved metal apparatus of the wine opener on the bottle’s lip, then used LEVERAGE to simply slide the cork out, all of which required the strength and ingenuity of an 8 year old.  I looked at him sheepishly and thought to myself, “Wow, Bryan, great job!”

I then poured a glass of white wine for a customer which was filled little chunks of cork floating around in her drink.

But I don’t even think she noticed, so fuck it.


I got a text message today from my mother that read, “R u sick? i saw your last tweet?”

Let me start with a little background information.  My mother knows that I am fucking crazy.  She lived with me for 18 years so she is well aware of the perversion, ridiculous humor, and self-deprecation that I am known for.  Nevertheless, I don’t need to reassure her every couple hours that I tweet, just how crazy her son is.

When she tried to friend me on Facebook, I not only rejected her, I told her to her face, “Mother, I’m sorry, I can’t be your friend on Facebook.  There is too much shit that I say that I don’t want you to see.”  I don’t need her to see me write, “I always feel awkward when I find myself sexually attracted to cartoon characters,” on my Twitter page.  That is not something a mother needs to know about a son.  She may have inklings that he may covet sexy black female cartoons, but she should never really be sure.

By the way, let’s all be honest here, I know I’m not the only one out there who would have sex with Princess Jasmine from “Aladdin.”

So I thought my problems were solved, my mother wasn’t my friend on Facebook, so she couldn’t see all the stupid shit I say.  Only today did I realize that I am absolutely retarded.  I no longer update my Facebook status, I only update my Twitter, which posts all my ‘twats’ (I mean tweets) onto Facebook and onto this blog.  I didn’t think to myself that, “wow, not only can she just look at my status updates on Twitter, I know she reads this blog, so she can just look at the sidebar where all my Twitter bullshit is recorded.”

That’s the problem with technology today, your mom can see who you really are.  But let’s forget about mom for a second.  Let’s say, hypothetically, that you reading this out there in cyberspace happen to be a comedian cellist.  Let’s say you happen to make videos with your shirt off explaining in detail how to act like a complete wiener while playing the cello?  Let’s say you are about to graduate college on May 2oth 2011, upon which you have to move back to the east coast and get a bunch of cello students to support yourself.  Let’s say those parents who recently hired you to teach their 11 year daughter how to play Bach, watch your video of your stand up comedy cello act where you talk about shaving your balls.  What do you do then?

You use it on stage and you pray to god that those parents have a sense of humor.