who dat? contest.

(yo stee. i know
who dat?)

last game:

you know what? i'm not sure who it is. it's the guitarist for duran duran but i don't know if it's the original one or a new session guy or what? i was hoping you could help me out, people.

first correct answer:

guess not

left column not sure anyone understand anymore.

gangsta-ass nigg*s don't sleep

Uh, I'm more than a little fucking tired today. Oh lordy. I didn't sleep this weekend. Barely remembered to eat. Food and sleep just seemed to get in the way. Crazy rehearsals and going to the airport and night-swimming and bars and tapes of Mr. Show and music CD's made by the mentally retarded and cell phone calls and cigarettes and sweat and Weezer. (Weezer rocked, as usual. We stood at the front. Battled evil Asian girl who used deadly garlic breath and a huge backpack to slip in front of us. Suffered through very strange opening band. Watched a kid next to us read Harry Potter while waiting. Sweat and danced. Took lots of photos. Weezer rocks your ass.) It was a lovely weekend, but now I feel dead in many ways. And I was almost dead in the real way too. I drove Pamela to LAX early this morning and we didn't bother sleeping last night since it was so early and so on the way back at about 6:30am I was driving down Venice and I saw a dump truck about a block ahead of me. Suddenly, it was 10 feet away. I didn't hit it but almost. I guess I fell asleep but I more think that I just couldn't judge distance in my crazysleepy state. I pulled over and walked around the block, trying to wake up. It worked for a few blocks but then the sleep came again. I blasted air in my face and cranked the music and made it home. I heard that sleep-deprived drivers are actually more dangerous than drunk drivers, and I can kinda see that now. I slept for 5 hours today and rolled into work at 2pm.

And now it's time to go home and I've done nothing. My plate keeps filling up and I feel like I'm sort of drowning. My comedy group has a big fundraiser show on Saturday night, so I'm constantly rehearsing. I'm also writing three scripts for our regular run starting in September, and producing as well, so I have a lot of that group in my life right now. I have two directors to meet with this week, one film and one stage, and Road Rules is tonight, so I have to watch and then start recapping. All my bills are late and I just realized I'm out of checks. I have to find a way to get to Seattle in the next month to see my friend's Cirque Du Soleil show and I don't have a weekend free to do it. I've just been asked to do a digital feature film shooting in August... playing opposite M., my ex. So that should be a whole lot of heartache on top of everything.

I probably should not be writing on this little sleep, feeling how I'm feeling. Sorry about not returning email promptly lately. I shall get to it.

But first I need another Diet Coke and I should really think about eating something at some point today.

The Larry King Happy Song Corner

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why I got out of bed at all. The morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see at all. And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture on my wall, it reminds me that it's not so bad. It's not so bad. I drank too much last night, got bills to pay. My head just feels in pain. I missed the bus and there'll be hell today. I'm late for work again. And even if I'm there, they'll all imply that I might not last the day. And then you call me and it's not so bad. It's not so bad. And I want to thank you for giving me the best day of my life. Oh just to be with you is having the best day of my life. Push the door, I'm home at last and I'm soaking through and through. Then you handed me a towel and all I see is you. And even if my house falls down now, I wouldn't have a clue. Because you're near me. And I want to thank you for giving me the best day of my life. Oh just to be with you is having the best day of my life... speaking of which. I drank too much last night. See, the Shriners were having a roast for Martin Mull, and they asked me to speak. I spent all week working up ten minutes of really great material. Zingers that were sure to have Alan King and his cronies on the floor. Real primo stuff. But when I got to the roast, I realized I'd misheard and the roast was actually for Robert Wuhl, whoever that is. So I grabbed a bottle of Chivas, lit a Cuban, and drowned my sorrows. I'm telling you, these joke were pure comedy gold, baby! Pure comedy gold. In fact, that was my closing line. I'd talk about lighting a Cuban, and then I'd say, "When I said I lit a Cuban. I meant a cigar, not Elain Gonzales! Goodnight everybody! I'm Larry King! Thank you." See.
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