My brush with World Cup greatness

While walking to get some lunch, a Japanese cab driver pulled over in front of me and called me over.

“With that blond hair, you look just like this Japanese soccer player! For a moment there, I thought you were him, but he’s playing in Korea right now.”

I’ve just checked the profile of Team Japan. The guy who comes closest to looking like me is Kazuyuki Toda (I’ve put his family name last):

and here’s me (I’m the one on the right):

It’s a bit of a stretch, but getting mistaken for a soccer star’s always nice.

It’s a beer commercial out there

Molson has blocked off the street where the office is to shot a commercial for the Molson Indy. The official Molson pace car is parked in the middle of the street, the film crew is decorating the street with Molson Indy flags and banners, and a gaggle of uniformly surgically modified women in red Daisy Dukes and ultra-tight white Molson Canadian halter tops is milling about, waiting for the cameras to roll. With Hooters across the street, the scene seems a little redundant.

How am I supposed to work with such distractions, cheesy as they are?

Global Pop Conspiracy Social

Global Pop Conspiracy’s regular Thursday night Social is tonight. Yet another evening of great pop, cheap drinks and cool people. It’s at 593a Bloor Street West (upstairs; it’s west of Bathurst, on the south side of Bloor). Cover is a mere $5 and yes, you must be of legal drinking age in Ontario (that’s 19, my American friends).

Last Thursday was fun, what with a great crowd showing up, Rob Bolton, Sean Monkman and Kevin Siu spinning great tunes, the giant turtle showing up, and meeting Jim Munroe, who wrote such nifty books like Flyboy Action Hero Comes With Gasmask and Angry Young Spaceman, both of which hold honoured places in my book collection (along with Cory’s and Karl’s stuff, of course).

There are lots of photos from last Thursday and more info about upcoming Socials at this page.

Be there!

Otherwise known as “Smokin’ Joe deVilla”

Stand-up

Tuesday night marked my return to the stand-up comedy circuit.

I haven’t done much stand-up; I first tried it early last year at Brain Wash, a laundromat-cafe located across the street from the office in which I worked. I didn’t know many people in San Francisco, and I thought it might be a fun way to meet new people. My routine was half jokes — mostly of the musical variety — and half twisted accordion renditions of popular songs in a medley. It went over well, and by the time the company had closed the San Francisco office and sent me back to Toronto, I was getting regular offers to do sets at comedy venues and had made a handful of comedian friends. We’d even gotten together to brainstorm joke ideas, something I haven’t done since my days at the humour paper back at Queen’s.

(George and I used to write some really hilarious stuff. Hilarious meaning anything from “truly funny” to “truly legally actionable”.)

On Monday night, I got a phone call from a guy named Bert. I met Bert on that Tuesday night in April, a perfectly sunny day with unseasonably summer-like temperatures. My friends Will and “Too-Tall” Tina and I had gone to the Bovine Sex Club for some post-Tuuli-concert drinks. As usual, I had the accordion with me, slung on my back. Bert walked up to me and said that it took balls and a sense of humour to walk into the Bovine with an accordion. He then suggested that perhaps I might be funny and cojones-endowed enough to try comedy. I gave him my number, and that weekend I auditioned for him and his friends, a comedy troupe called Slap and Tickle. I left them my phone number and e-mail and didn’t hear from them until Monday night.

“I hope you like the way we had you listed,” said Bert on that Monday night phone call, “we have you down as ‘Smokin’ Joe deVilla’. Does that sound all right?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, a little surprised. Sounds a little like “Crazy Joe Davola” from Seinfeld.

I got e-mail from my friend Anne the next day, asking if I was the same person listed in the NOW and eye comedy show listings. I hit the NOW Web site and found myself:

slap & tickle get male! Slap & Tickle present comedy w/ guests Michael Black, Joe DeVilla, Paul Haywood and Jason Rouse, Jun 4 at 8:30 pm. $5. The Cameron House, 408 Queen W. 416-703-0811.

Hmmm. No “Smokin'”.

The gig went well. I went on about a third of the way through the show, told a couple of jokes and cut into a medley that concluded with a tribute to the all-male show (Slap and Tickle have a woman in the troupe, but she was away that evening), AC/DC’s Big Balls. The audience joined in on the choruses, and I got a lot of laughs. I’d like to send my thanks to the guy in the front row who couldn’t stop laughing, even during my sound check when I did Moby’s We Are All Made of Stars as my test number. You’re good people, sir. The show organizers were generous with me, what with all the beer tickets and a crisp twenty for my seven minutes’ worth of being a goof, which I normally do for free.

The other comedians were really funny; my only minor complaint is that a lot of them kept having to step away from the mic to look at their notes. Most of them kept their notes on sheets of paper, except for one guy — a very funny one, I might add — who kept his on a Palm V handheld. This is where the borscht belt meets the 21st century, I suppose.

After the gig, we went back to one of the guys’ apartments and had a happy little after-show party. I got invited to do another show with Slap and Tickle at the Poor Alex on the 14th, so if you’re in town, you might want to drop by.

“…if it wasn’t for you meddling kids!”

The boys from the trivia game software company for which I work and I had decided to go for all-you-can-eat Indian food yesterday. We walked up John Street and rounded the corner where CityTV/MuchMusic/Space/Bravo’s studios are and were buttonholed by the host for I-forget-which-show and a cameraman. He thrust the mic in the VP of Technology’s face and asked him who the main characters on Scooby-Doo were.

“Uh, Shaggy, Scooby…uh…,” he said.

“Fred, Daphne, Velma, Shaggy and Scooby,” I replied.

The host swung the mic my way. “What was the name of their van?”

“The Mystery Machine.”

“Can you name at least three of Scooby’s relativies?”

“Scrappy-Doo, Scooby-Dum, and Scooby-Dee.”

“Can you name three celebrity guest stars who appeared in the cartoon?”

“Sonny and Cher, Don Knotts and the Harlem Globetrotters. Back when Meadowlark and Curly were part of the team. I think Davey Jones might’ve appeared on the show, too.”

“Uh, this guy’s good. Scary good,” he turned to the cameraman. “Do you have any questions for him?”

“Yeah,” said the cameraman, “do you know what it means to Jump the Shark, and when that happened to Scooby Doo?”

“Jumping the Shark is the moment when the show startes to go bad, and I’d say it was when they introduced Scrappy-Doo. Or maybe the Laff-A-Lympics.”

“Do you have any theories as to what kind of van the Mystery Machine was?”

“I’m thinking a Ford Econoline with a custom paint job and a lot of weed in the back. Shaggy and Scooby were always hungry, if you know what I mean.”

“We gonna have to bleep that out?” said the host.

“No, I think everyone knows what ‘Scooby snacks’ are by now,” replied the cameraman.

“Well, here’s your free T-shirt.”

“Well, here he is,” said the host, putting his arm around me and facing the camera to close the interview. “The Scooby Doo trivia champion — your name is –?”

“Joey.”

“Joey! And that’s Scooby-Doo, in theatres soon!”

If the clip made it to TV and you saw it, could you let me know?

Photo of the week

So long, and thanks for all the sex

We’ll file this under “so obvious it’s painful”:

WARNING! In the considerations of safety, you should NEVER let a male dolphin attempt anal sex with you.

This, and other disturbing stuff at dolphinsex.org [no photos, but explicit text about gettin’ it on with dolphins].

Other bizarro bits on the site:

Q1) How do I tell a male dolphin from a female one?

You know, I suspect that if you’re going to have sex with a dolphin, you might not have any kind of gender hang-ups. “What? You want to have a homosexual relationship with a dolphin? What kind of freak are you?”

Q6) Where can I find a dolphin to mate with?

A6) Aquariums are a bad choice, for many reasons.

Not so fast, cowboy, I’m still wrestling with why, never mind where.

(My finding that page is all MetaFilter’s fault.)

In theory, I agree

The war on terrorism has its upsides, and one of these is the war on pants. It’s probably some deep-rooted biological instinct that makes people want to couple when faced with the possibility of death.

Dawn Olsen wrote this in her blog:

In a post 9-11 world, I feel it’s my duty as a woman to wear clingier clothing, flirt more outrageously, have more orgasms, and get on top more often. In short, anything that’s taboo to the islamofascists.

Dawn Olsen’s picture, from her weblog.

Eric Raymond — geek, open source software advocate, libertarian, sex advisor to computer programmers and gun nu…er, firearms enthusiast — blogged this in reply:

Yes, we’re all Jews now, even blue-eyed Germano-Celtic goyim like me. We are going to be everything the islamofascists fear and hate, and we’re going to glory in it. We’re going to embody all the worst nightmares of those butt-ignorant ragheads in Al-Qaeda. We’re going to kill them, we’re going to subvert their children with MTV, and we’re going to teach their women to wear clingy clothing and say “fuck me” and “fuck you” to men whenever they damn well feel like it.

Eric Raymond’s picture, found with Google.

And, sister? Here’s my ha ha only serious, offered in the same spirit as yours. You are a warrior. I salute you. And if you want to commit exactly the kind of scandalous, adulterous, hedonistic, casual sex best calculated to drive fascists and patriarchs up a wall sometime, I’m your guy. You can be on top.

The sentiment I agree with wholeheartedly — his heart’s in the right place and Dawn’s pretty cute. However, the thought of Raymond sportin’ wood and lying in wait to get his swerve on damn near made me void my bowels in icy fear right at my desk. If I knew the precise set of brain cells that contained that awful, awful mental image, I’d be driving a nail into my head with a ball-peen hammer right now.