Done and Dunn.

Step aside, speed the ride.

2009-11-07T20:20:00.008-05:00

I was recently going through the "Memos" application on my phone, and I found three lists that I started a few years back. They made me smile, and I thought that I'd spend a minute and update them a little.

MY FAVORITE THINGS TO SEE ON THE SUBWAY:
1. Mariachi bands. Not those "two Mexican kids and a guitar" rackets. I'm talking old dudes, full cowboy regalia, two guitars, a violin, maybe a stand-up bass, and errant tambourines and shakers. I've only seen the real deal once or twice, but you better believe that I took my earbuds out, smiled, nodded in approval, applauded, then acted like I didn't have any money when they walked by.

2. Hot dads. With their infants kid(s). And no wife in sight. Sexy.

3. An oldie, but a goodie. The "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" gang. They were at their height when they had a large, in-charge, black lady soprano with them to do the high stuff. Man, would she nail it.

4. People who look lost. Look- I'm Midwestern. I love interrupting the terrified, confused conversations of tourists and setting them back on track. Once, a family was so far off track that I got off the subway with them and rode with them for several transfers until they were where they needed to go. I'm a nice person. GET OVER IT.

5. Adorable older couples that are dressed up really fancily. Self-explanatory, but I only love them when they're REALLY old. And the lady MUST have some garish shade of lipstick smeared all over her upper lip. LOVES.

MY LEAST FAVORITE THINGS TO SEE ON THE SUBWAY:
1. People I used to wait tables with. Ok, listen. There's nothing hard and fast about this. I've made some great friends waiting tables and bartending. I keep in touch with many of them. But I always manage to run into some dumdum on the train who used to annoy me when we waited tables together five years ago... and they always want to talk about our old times waiting tables! I don't want to talk about that! Let's just smile, say hi, and pretend that we're not standing next to eachother for the next twenty minutes.

2. The parents of casual, going-out/audition acquaintances. Yea, parents tend to not understand how New York works, socially. I may "know" your kid, we may say we're "friends," but, honestly, I only see your kid when we're both out, usually wasted. I usually know nothing about their hometown, their college, their siblings. I probably don't even know your last name. And I kinda don't care. I mean no malace or disrespect, but I don't know about your kid's book that he's writing or where he lives. So, no, I won't join you for dinner or drinks. Well, maybe drinks.

3. Panhandlers. Duh, I know, who doesn't. But here are some SUPER hates:
-The "Out-Loud Bible Reader" lady
-The guy who says he has AIDS and HEP-C
-The bald guy with the crazy fro hair who gets right in your face. It should be noted that the back of his sweatpants is ripped, too, and you can see that, in lieu of underwear, he's tied a few bandanas together and fashioned them into a thong. FML.
-The keytar/harmonica lady. She's got a few things right. "La Cucaracha" is short and sweet, as is "The Girl from Ipanema." But she can't sing. AT ALL.

4. Teenaged tourist girls in Ugg boots and sweatpants. Girls, you're talking too loud. You're in public. And, no. There's nothing "Juicy" or "Pink" about your disgusting teenaged ass.

5. Bottles of urine. Duh.

THINGS I WISH I WOULD SEE ON THE SUBWAY:
1. Bollywood performances! Shaka laka, baby! I might actually dig around in my pocket or backpack for some loose change for that shit! But probably not.

2. People who are selling really big, soft, homemade chocolate chip cookies for a DIME! THEY'RE ONLY A DIME? THAT'S A GREAT DEAL FOR A HUGE, HOMEMADE COOKIE!

3. My parents or siblings. Well, it would be a great surprise if I busted them, in town to surprise me. If I saw them and they were, like, trying to sneak in and out of New York without letting me know they were in town, I'd probably have a nervous breakdown. But that wouldn't happen. ...RIGHT???

4. Niecy Nash.

BOOM!

Hey Sesame Street! Hire me!

2009-10-28T17:09:00.009-04:00

I can smile real, real big!

I can talk slowly and wear safari outfits!

And other outfits!

I'm cartoonable!

I get along with people! And I sing!

Thanks, Universe!

These are a few of my favorite things.

2009-10-06T10:08:00.003-04:00

1. Halloween
2. Dogs
3. D'Arcy
4. Talking into a microphone
5. Costumes
6. Prizes
7. Food
8. Candy Corn/ "Treats"
9. Tompkins Square
10. Dog parks

Did your head just explode?

Do you think?

2009-09-13T23:53:00.000-04:00

Serendipity and craigslist.

2009-08-30T13:22:00.013-04:00

As it happens every few months, I found myself looking through the craigslist JOBS category one night. Amid the scams and bullshit, I found a few ads that actually sounded legit. The ads that I responded to were posted by people seeking personal assistants.

Now, first things first. In reality, I'm not sure that I really want to be someone's personal assistant. Worst case scenario, you're signing yourself up to be someone's bitch. But, you know, maybe it could be fun? Something different?

So, I only responded to ads for private people, not companies, and, of the ones I responded to, the "private people" were primarily artists, architects, and entrepreneurs who would need an assistant to help, maybe twenty hours a week. In my mind, these people would be looking for another set of hands, another brain, maybe someone younger and more current than themselves, to pitch in and help out. A different task every day. Challenges. Problem-solving. It could be fun. I convinced myself that that would be the case.

Here's one of the ads I responded to. I'll insert my inner monologue in italics:

Personal Assistant for Former Hollywood-Based Entrepreneur (Sounds wishy-washy. But, shit, I like potentially famous people.) (Union Square)

A personal assistant to work with a musical entertainment pioneer (Pocahontas) who deals with "Great American Songbook"-style material. (Shit! Is it Rod Stewart?!?!? RODDDD!!!!!)

Applicant must have excellent organizational and writing skills (spelling and grammar). (OH ROD! I got mad spelling AND grammar skillz! Pick me!) A knowledge of the 'Stage and Screen' is helpful (Why not real quotation marks? Why just apostrophes? ...and is "Stage and Screen" an actual thing, like a book? Or just plays and movies, like, in general?) but great phone skills are mandatory. (OH, BUT ROD, I'M GOOD WITH DAT PHOOOONE! Making calls, answering calls, EVERYTHING!!!!!)

BA or a 'business experience' counterpart is required. (Business in the front, BA in the back! BUT ROD, I GOT A BACHELOR OF SCIENCE! IS A "BS" OK?????? TELL MEEEE!!!)

Our standards are quite high. (Duh. You might be Rod Stewart.) The applicant will be replacing our current assistant, who was just awarded a Fulbright Scholarship. (This means almost nothing to me, but it does make me think that you're lying.)

Responsibilities will include: maintaining files, drafting business correspondence, and a bit of cold calling. (No wiping down your white leather tuxedo, Mr. Stewart? Another Diet Cherry 7-Up, Mr. Stewart? None of that?)

The applicant should also have a sense of humor that reflects ours. (Uh oh. Have I been missing all of the hidden humor in your post? Am I already just another Rachel Hunter to you, Rod?)

The job is five days a week, for approximately 5 hours a day-- to start. (--TO START! Yea, this is not Rod.)

The ad is still on craigslist, I'm sure. Check it out, if you want. Godspeed.

So, I emailed this person at, let's say, three in the morning. At eight o'clock in the morning, someone calls and starts hollering into my phone. Having "great phone skills," I turned the volume down. It sounded like an older man, very jovial, energetic, jokey... maybe a little hard of hearing. And he didn't introduce himself or where he was calling from. He just started jibber jabbering about gmail and about "the agency" and about dates and times to meet. Falling back on my "great phone skills," I slowly untangled his knot, figured out who the fuck he was, where he was calling from, and what he wanted.

Phew.

No British accent.

Not Rod Stewart.

Nuts.

I hastily agreed to a meeting the following day, and Jibber Jabber did his thing for another several minutes while I continued turning down the volume on my phone.

I didn't go to the meeting. And I didn't call.

I KNOW. Terrible. I was at another "thing" that was running long, and the more I thought about our conversation, the more I imagined myself working for my grandfather. I should've called, I should've emailed. I didn't. Bad decision. I'll own it. The end.

Imagine my delight when, this morning, I wake up to find a blank email in my inbox from "not Rod Stewart." The email, as I said, was blank. The subject line, was not.

"What a self-defeating, Irish thing to do."

LOLOLOLOLOLzernuts! Holy 1860's, Batman!

Hilarity. I mean, what is an "Irish thing," anyway? Amazing.

So, after some Lucky Charms, blood sausage, and a little famine, I emailed the idiot back:

Sir,

I sincerely apologize for missing our appointment. Regrettably, on Friday, an earlier appointment ran very long, and I found myself stuck in a meeting, unable to excuse myself as four o'clock neared and, eventually, passed. I'm not in the business of wasting people's time, and I do send my most sincere regrets for mishandling yours.

Although, now, I do find Friday's events and mishaps to be quite serendipitous. I'm not in the habit of associating with people in business who, when slighted or wronged, resort to childishly hurling passive-aggressive one-liners from behind their computer. Nor do I find it prudent to align myself with those who have an itchy trigger finger when it comes to their own racist remarks and beliefs.

Best of luck in your search for a suitable personal assistant.

Irish and Italian,
Timothy Dunn

As I was typing this, he responded to my email:

Sir,

All well and good, but a simple phone call after the fact would have sufficed. Even some communication the next day, though that would not have given me back the hour.

Regarding your racist charge, I'm Irish on my mother's side and I know whereof I speak.

Besides, I thought you're an ageist.

So there.

I can't. I. Just. Can't.

CAN YOU IMAGINE IF I WOULD'VE ACTUALLY STARTED WORKING FOR THIS OLD, ELDERLY, AGED, um, OLD and AGING, OLD, DECREPIT ROTTEN BASTARD?!?!?!? I JUST LOVE BEING SO YOUNG AND YOUTHFUL. It's, like, my everything, you guys.

FUCK OLD PEOPLE, RIGHT????????????????????????

Blame my parents.

2009-07-31T16:03:00.006-04:00

Do you ever see me in the street and wonder, "Does he know that he has an afro?" Or maybe you'll see a picture of me and think, "Does he know that he's unphotogenic?"

I WAS RAISED THIS WAY!

I enjoy sports. I played soccer my entire life. And I was good! I really do like playing and watching baseball, too. But I HATE basketball.

I WAS RAISED THIS WAY!

Fuck yourself.

wtf

2009-07-29T00:26:00.006-04:00

I was so excited.

I was heading to Brooklyn to spend the day with Blackstone, his sister Laureve, and her husband, Jason. We were going to get some food, hang out, and go see the 30th Anniversary showing of THE MUPPET MOVIE at BAM! Wheeeee!

So, there I was, sweating, sleepy, and happy to be on the 34th Street subway platform, waiting for an F train to save me from the subway heat. I was zoning out a bit, and, in my periphery, I saw some kind of commotion. I sluggishly turned to see what all the activity was, BOOM! A dreadlocked man in a wife beater came barreling into me, full speed! The guy's identical twin was close behind him, sprinting down the subway platform, with some iPod earbuds flapping behind him like a finish line ribbon.

My first thought was, "What the fuck? I almost got leveled by Milli fucking Vanilli!"

But then I saw the third party in the chase scene that was unfolding. A guy who looked just like me. Sweaty, dazed and bespectacled with giant backpack. He was sprinting after these guys, trying to find words to yell. About ten feet past me, he found some words, "Stop! They're... robbers!"

I mentioned that he found "some words." They were probably not the best words.

My mind started churning. Very slowly, but churning still. I looked around, and the ten people around me looked similarly helpless and confused. I craned my neck to see what was happening further down the platform, and I saw dreadlocks bounding up the "down" escalator, and the clumsy guy in the backpack struggling to weave through the crowds. A large woman sitting on the bench said to me, "Did those guys steal that dude's iPod or something?" It was like we were all underwater or swimming in molasses or something. My brain was slowly clunking into gear, struggling to assign familiar words to what I had just witnessed. It was 2:00 PM on a Tuesday. On a crowded 34th Street subway platform. Someone got robbed?

I was standing there, sweating, no doubt with some dumb, gawky expression streaked across my face, when, in my periphery, I saw dreadlocks and a white wife beater bouncing back towards me. Again, I turned to face the action, and, sure enough, the same guy who had barreled into me was careening, full-speed, towards me. He was fifteen feet away.

Without thinking, I stepped right into his path and stuck out my arms in front of me, the stance that Superman takes when he stops the speeding train. The guy was about six feet from me when I realized what the fuck I was doing, and I stepped aside. He was running fast. And, if his arms were any decent indication, he was built like a cement truck. Before I could think of anything to yell or, really, anything at all, he was sprinting right next to me.

And I kicked him.

I wound up, like a soccer player taking a penalty shot, and kicked him as hard as I could in his legs.

My flip flop flew off of my foot, and I lost track of it as I watched the thug flail through the air. He landed on his forearms and shoulder with a dull smack. And he slid about five feet, his legs still churning the entire time, finally crashing into one of those giant black, cylindrical subway platform trash cans.

Without missing a beat, he leapt to his feet and skirted around the trash can, barely missing an old man hobbling by with a cane. And he disappeared, behind the subway stairs. Seconds later, the backpack guy trotted by, grimacing, defeated. He, too, disappeared behind the stairs where, I'm guessing, he sat down and cried.

I retrieved my flip flop, totally dazed, and resumed my lame stance, facing the F train tracks, silently willing the train to come.

The fat lady on the bench squished out the words, "Good job, man." She was being serious.

I turned to her, frowning and confused, and said, "He got away."

She opened her palms to me and shrugged, giving me a "Who knows?"

A dude in glasses chimed in, "Yea, man. You tried, though."

I wiped the sweat from my face and starting replaying what had just happened in my head.

I had just fucking KICKED a dude, a total stranger, totally as hard as I could, on the subway platform.

The person that I had kicked was brazen enough or reckless enough or crazy enough or scary enough to rob a guy. On a crowded subway platform. In broad daylight.

What if, when he stood up, the dude had turned out to be just another guy in a wife beater who running because he was late for a meeting... and NOT because he was the thief?

What if, when he stood up, the dude turned out to be the thief, but with a gun or knife?

What if, when I had kicked a random stranger, he had fallen onto the subway tracks? And died? Fallen onto the menacing third rail?

What if...

The F train pulled up.

I stepped onto the train and grabbed the silver pole. It was freezing cold.

And I started shaking like hell.

"How Rude! Tim & D'Arcy Find the 90s!"

2009-07-23T20:01:00.004-04:00

How Rude! Tim & D'Arcy Find the 90s! on Facebook

"How Rude: Tim & D'Arcy Find the 90s!"

2009-05-29T13:48:00.005-04:00

Woo hoo!

So, I have a new sketch show premiering at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre on Thursday, June 4th at 8:00 PM!

Want a taste?

"How Rude: Tim & D'Arcy Find the 90s!" from How Rude Sketch Show on Vimeo.

And, yes, our postcards are da bomb diggity 1990!

Daria-looking, right? U-S-A! And now, the back!

Make your reservations now by simply clicking on one measly link! One measly link!
http://newyork.ucbtheatre.com/shows/2081

C'mon. Follow us on the ooooooold twitternuts. @HowRudeSketch

Need to email some life? Wanna get comps for your agent or your manager to come watch us? Are you a casting director? Do you like my perfect bodyyyyyyy?? Email us at HowRudeSketchShow@gmail.com.

You guys. This is going to be great.

Show me the ottoman!

2009-03-24T10:55:00.011-04:00

So, let's face it. If we're talking about money, I'm not a rich man.

Wealth of friends? Yup. Rich in family? Duh! Abundance of love and success in my life? You betcha. And I count myself extremely lucky to be able to say those things.

But my "wealth of friends" doesn't buy me, say, an Oak Park Compact Office from Crate & Barrel.

I love the things I've been doing in life. Like, really. I have a few great shows coming up (more on that later, don't you worry), and other really great opportunities popping up everywhere... but I don't have a Colina Breakfast/Dining table with Copper Top.

I don't have those chairs, either, but I think I'd prefer "personal fulfillment" to those ugly things.

And, for those of you noticing my affinity for Crate & Barrel furniture, know that I don't aspire to have a super extravagant lifestyle. Really. I mean, don't get me wrong, who wouldn't love homes in St. Bart and Tahiti?

But I just want nice furniture.

I'm slowly getting there. My bed is the mother effing bomb. You remember pictures of it, right?

Haha, that's not my actual room. I will never hang dried flowers from my West Elm Metal Canopy Bed. Nor will I ever hang sheer fabric over the top. I would never ruin such nice furnishings with such terrible "romantic mom" accessories. I keep it nice and clean.

I mean, I might want to hang Eleanor Frameless Mirrors on my bedroom wall.

But my bedroom walls are Pumpkin Pie colored. And those mirrors are Pottery Barn. And both of those things are super classy.

It's not like I'm some derelict who doesn't know how to handle money or who can't take care of nice things. I can! I do! I'm just at a spot in my life where I just can't fully justify spending more than my rent (or double, triple it!) on items. Any items! And, if we're being honest, I rarely purchase clothes or other "things" for myself, even small, inexpensive things. My most recent purchase for myself was a $75 backpack that I desperately needed, and, even then, I felt really guilty about it for a few days.

Maybe my priorities are screwed up, but I'd rather spend my money on dinners with friends or on tickets to a friend's show. Drinks for someone's birthday! A few of the birthday boy's drinks! Maybe it's backwards, but I can somehow justify those spendings because they're in the name of fun and friendship and building memories, or something. And, sure, if I saved two hundred vodka-soda's worth of cash, I'd have enough sitting around to buy a new armoire or flat-screen TV. If I cooked every meal at home, I could probably have a nicer apartment.

Meh.

Or I could just make the most out of the things I have right now and ensure that I'm having a great time while I'm doing it. With vodka-sodas. And, lest you start getting it twisted, I drink cheap booze.

Maybe part of the reason that I'm ok with a non-C&B desk right now is because I really feel that something is coming for me. Something big is on the way. Job-wise, career-wise. Some big BOOM that's going to catch the "moolah" column up to the "happiness" and "life awesomeness" columns.

If I didn't believe that, well, I wouldn't be living in New York anymore. I wouldn't need to be spending this much on rent. I'd move to Omaha, become a CPA or something sensible, and buy a seven bedroom house.

But, until then...

Hello!

Handsome!

This is my plea to you, wealthy internet stumbler. Why not brighten the day (and apartment!) of an optimistic New York actor? Heck, I'm not like one of those "Feed the Children" ads- I'm already pretty great! No need to spend tons of time getting me back on my feet and back from the throws of starvation! I'm well fed! I'm on my feet.

I just need this couch.

Note to all potential benefactors: There's a listing for the Oak Park Compact Office on craigslist, if you don't want to buy it full price. The Colina Breakfast/ Dining Table with Copper Top is actually on SUPER sale at the Crate and Barrel in Midtown. And the Oxford Two-Piece Sectional... well, yea.

It's a beauty, eh?

Chocoholics!

2008-12-14T13:52:00.003-05:00

Huzzah! We shot this "mixtape '98" sketch, and I'm so, so, SO thrilled with how it turned out. Check it outzzzzzzzzzzz.

Like Trainspotting. But with Chocolate. Written by Damian Chadwick. Directed by Guy Patton. Shot and Edited by John Kingman. Starring Cece Lederer, Timothy Dunn and Marcus Bishop-Wright. "Chocolate Rain" by Tay Zonday, who retains all rights, is used here under fair use.

If you like it, please "Digg" here: http://digg.com/comedy/Chocoholics. And feel free to repost!

And, because I love him and can never get enough:

www.myspace.com/timothydunncomedy!

Woodpeckers...

2008-12-10T13:19:00.006-05:00

...are endangered!

"It is against the law to kill any woodpecker without the proper permit. Woodpeckers are migratory birds and are protected by the Federal Migratory Bird Treat Act. Penalties may range as high as a $500 fine and 6 months in jail for killing a woodpecker. The red-cockaded woodpecker is a federally endangered species. Killing one of them carries an even stiffer fine and jail sentence. Before you can get a permit to destroy offending animals, you must show that you have used the preceding measures and that they have not been effective."

Um, if anyone from the government reads this (uh, if anyone period reads this), JUST KIDDING!!

+

=

Haha. I love "warm's." Glitter graphic's' people is idiot.

I'm afraid of my landlady's blood.

2008-11-20T13:19:00.008-05:00

I've lived in the same apartment for the past four years. It's a great place. Three bedrooms in a nice part of Astoria, very open, wood floors and original pressed-plaster ceilings. It's cute.

We don't have a physical lease; nothing is on paper. A little shady and a little risky, I know, but when we moved in, our Greek landlady's response to our lease request was, "What? You'll be here for a year, right? You want me to write that down or something?"

And it's been great! She stays out of our way, we stay out of hers and call her as little as possible. When I got my dog, she really didn't say much about it. Which is rare for a landlord who was 100% anti-pets. And my dog is big.

Harry loves sweaters. Nope.

But she occasionally stops by to do random "repairs." And... yea. She's not handy. At all. She brings this huge tool box and bangs on the radiators, and caulks random tiles in the bathroom, and puts towels behind the toilet. Random shit. Not real repair work.

Three years ago, she came over to "look at my radiator." (NB: I have never turned my bedroom radiator on. It's always closed. I hate being hot.) On the aforementioned afternoon, I had just put a brand new duvet on my bed and was admiring my room. The duvet was white linen with a khaki linen border. From Pottery Barn. ...yea. I know. Amazing. I know.

Dina (the Greek landlady) was in my room, clunking around, and she popped her head out my door to yell, "Timmy, do you have a band-aid? I nicked my finger." ...I gave her a band-aid. As she left, she hurriedly apologized for intruding.

You see where this is going, right? She'd bled all over my fucking brand new, mother fucking white, father fucking linen duvet! I hadn't even slept on it yet! I was so fucking angry. I called her, and she said she didn't think she'd bled on it, but if she did, she was terribly sorry. And I get wimpy with landlords and decided to just let it go. And I got the blood spots out... but it's a little discolored where the blood was. It makes me sad when I see those spots.

So, yesterday, I bought a brand NEW duvet! From Pottery Barn! MAMMA MIA!

You guys. Srsly.

That's almost my exact same bed, too. Oh, Heavenly Lord Jesus. Mamma mia. I love it so mamma mia much.

Listen- I do not dress exceptionally well, I know nothing about womens' fashions or hair, I am too poor to have nice home furnishings, and I don't like to cook. I just like to have nice bedding. That's all I want.

WHY DID MY LANDLADY CALL TODAY TO COME OVER AND "HAVE A LOOK AT MY RADIATOR" AGAIN!?!?!?

She's in there right now with her Greek old man father and some jenkie Greek repairman! They're so close to my bed(ding)! And they're talking exclusively in Greek!!

I'm at a stress level 9.9! I keep poking my head in, and I just put a roll of paper towels in there for them, in anticipation of any bloodshed.

I. Can't. Take. It.

My family is crazy/hilarious.

2008-10-27T17:38:00.006-04:00

I recently went home to my parents' house in fair Wheaton for a wedding.

While staying at Dunn Manor, my parents, Kev and Mar, informed me that they were having "a woodpecker issue." Apparently, some rogue woodpecker had been making the stucco on the back of the house his pecking grounds, causing some serious damage!

They had a guy over to clean out the gutters, and he found a dozen or so holes in the stucco on the back of the house! Several hundred dollars and a very involved stucco patch-job later, they found the fucker still at it!

So, being the intelligent, rational, level-headed, Midwestern people that they are, they decided to try a few home remedies.

NOPE! MY MOM BOUGHT A GUN!

I almost died of laughter.

Little Marian Dunn, with her ballet slippers, purple, plastic-rimmed grannie reading glasses, American Apparel leggings, and dangle earrings! All 5'2" of her! A fucking BB gun!

She admitted proudly that she'd won a markswoman (!) badge at Girl Scout Camp (!!!) back in the day and that she was "still a pretty decent shot." Through my tears of laughter, I announced, "Mom, you will be absolutely shattered if, somehow, someway, you manage to kill that bird. You will cry your face off..." To which she replied, "Nope! I'll shoot that sucker and leave him laying in the grass for the neighbors' cats to eat."

My eyes were fully squinted and my lips pursed in cynicism, when, lo and behold, the woodpecker started pecking!

Away she flew to the deck, BBs in hand! I could not believe that this was happening. As she stood on the deck, intensely focused and firing away, I stood in the doorway, ridiculing her and voicing my disbelief in my family's white-trash-ness.

Several shots later... well...

It looked fun!

We are trash.

My other two sibs, Katie and Pat, weren't there, so, sadly, that pic won't be our Christmas card this year. But! In an amazing twist of fate, guess what turned up in our back yard a few days later.

Happy Thanksgiving, Wheaton, America.

I'm obsessed.

2008-10-19T13:00:00.004-04:00

So, I'm kinda in the process of writing/conceptualizing a (few!) sketch comedy shows right now! Fun stuffs! As a result, I've been spending a bunch of time on the internets watching funny sketches on just about every comedy site available.

And once I find ones that I like, I can't stop watching them.

Seriously. I'll watch them over and over and over again. Every. Day.

So, if I haven't been returning your calls/emails, here's why:

Papi likey the crazy!

This election is breeding family hostility on facebook.

2008-10-08T14:13:00.008-04:00

So, like it or not, the new facebook is here. Whatev, old news.

But there are certain new things about the ol' 'book that are making me nervous/happy. You can now comment on someone's "status." AND! Everyone else can read those comments, even if they're not friends with the commenter! And even if the comments are maybe meant to be private! Eeeee!

My friends have been particularly involved and vocal about this upcoming election. And good news- most of them are super informed, brilliant minds who read EVERYTHING, volunteer their time, and really believe in their candidate of choice. I'm proud of how smart my friends are.

But, New York has changed me. Somehow, God help me, I've managed to forget that most of our families aren't New York City folks. Nor are they necessarily or particularly liberal or open-minded. My recent trip to Nashville quickly reminded me that New York really is a special place where you are not only invited but expected to be just who you are, as big or small as you'd like.

Alas, I digress. Back to the meat- my super-smart friend (whose name I've obviously changed) posted the following status:

MYNEWYORKFRIEND thinks Palin didn't bomb...or deviate from her script one time. 11:29pm

Seems like something any of us could've written or said. Right? Catch what his older brother commented:

HisOlderBrotherBackHome at 9:56am October 4
You crack me up....seems like your obsessed with picking apart the opposition rather than lifting up your icon.....true liberals.

Homonyms, friends. Homonyms. Here it goes:

MYNEWYORKFRIEND at 2:35am October 6
Why do you have a 'Comrade in Chief' poster on your Myspace, then? A bit hypocritical...but then again 'true conservative' involves some level of ignorance these days, doesn't it? How exactly does pointing out the obvious mental deficiencies of a stunt candidate equate to 'true liberalism'? I don't know where you checked your brain and soul at the door, but you better have saved the ticket. Barack Obama will be the next president, so it's time to start expanding your mind.

Eeee! This is where I started really paying attention!! Continue!!

HisOlderBrotherBackHome at 9:37pm October 6
Your middle name is EDMUND, NOT Hussein. [NB: My friend changed his name on FB to include Obama's middle name.]
Wow...I should have known a healthy debate and a brotherly jab was out of the question with you. I pray for all of our sakes that your wrong about Obama being the next president (our democracy will be set back enormously)...but I truly hope that when you grow up, experience the "real world" outside of your gay N.Y. koolaid drinking bubble of "progressives", that you learn enough to stop the over compensating...to really understand a larger picture, someting greater than yourself...call me when you do...Till then, it seems that your a pompous ingrate with a exagerated god complex.
I love you non the less. Your Older Brother.

OH NO YOU DIDN'T!!

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

MYNEWYORKFRIEND at 9:59pm October 6
Did you notice that my dog died, asshole? [NB: My friend's status has been updated several, several times in those few days; he'd had to put his dog to sleep. :( ] I'll write back to your jackass homophobic rant some other day when it doesn't suck this much. In the meantime, keep desperately clinging to the old mummy and the stewardess with the rest of you rednecks and skinheads. Maybe someday I'll grow up to headbutt my little sister and get some DUI's...one can only dream.

HisOlderBrotherBackHome at 7:24pm October 7
I guess saying the word "gay" is like saying the word "black"...it can't be used by anyone but the people it pertains to or your a "homophobe and a bigot"....enlightened! Did'nt know your dog died...Sorry...hard to say through your bullshit.

PHEW!! I'm exhausted!!

Good news: I've found a ton more of these all over facebook, so stay tuned!
Best news: I adore MYNEWYORKFRIEND and his public family feud!

Something to lift us all! Where's that spunk? Where's that grit?

I'm going to Nashville, kids!

2008-09-29T15:09:00.002-04:00

So, my friend Christine Mild recently recorded a demo... and we're both going to Nashville to get her famous!

We leave tomorrow. It's going to be fantastic!

I haven't blogged since Memorial Day.

2008-09-29T12:20:00.012-04:00

Yea, whatever. It happens. I never promised to be a regular blog-guy. I thought that I might be able to be him, but, then, nope, not him. Just not him.

But I have been doing stuff since Memorial Day.

What kinda stuff, Tim?

This kinda stuff.

I've been hanging out with my dog, Harry.
He's great, and crazy as ever. A few months ago, he randomly had a seizure in the middle of the night. Scary shit! The vet said he was ok and that it was probably just some random thing. "No big deal," she said. I was a nervous wreck for a few weeks... But he's as great as ever.

I've been doing more sketch comedy! Maude Night is going grrrreat, and my team, mixtape '98, is rocking and rolling. Here are a few recent sketches:

Chocoholic Extended Version from Mixtape '98 on Vimeo.

Number 1 Dad from Mixtape '98 on Vimeo.

Trudy's Playhouse from Mixtape '98 on Vimeo.

Ummmm... yes.

I went to West Palm Beach for about two weeks!

...though I did go there to work...

...at SUNFEST 2008...

For the TV show ANDROMEDA STRAIN. Haha. It was actually awesome fun!

I've been going out in Astoria! And in other places!

Like Mackenzie's birthday!!

D'Arcy and Jason's Anniversary Night (minus Jason)!!

Sunswick Karaoke!!

Blackstone and I took a roadtrip to Conneaut Lake, PA, for the Fourth of July! We brought along Harry, the wonderdog, too. Ten minutes into the six hour drive... we were notified that Harry... gets carsick.

He proceeded to vomit every thirty minutes. It... was awesome.

Heeeeere's Connie:

That's about all I've been doing. Besides spending hours and hours on facebook everyday.

Now that we're caught up- LET'S HAVE PUMPKIN BEERS AND PUMPKIN COFFEE AND APPLEPICKING AND HALLOWEEN COSTUMES!

Memorial-ized.

2008-05-27T15:22:00.013-04:00

Wow.

So, in the blink of an eye, a peaceful, reverent, and relaxing Memorial Day Weekend turned into Boozefest Bender 2008: Drink Until You're Broke. Yikes is right, as the bender did include:

-one Astoria night out, full of Watawa sushi, Sapporo, sake, and McLoughlins for ample Blue Moons.

-something of a Northwestern reunion picnic in Central Park, complete with Conneaut Lake Beer (featured here with CORKY! RIP!).

-one Greenwich Village night out, complete with hot dogs, Marines, and something of a bar crawl/stumble.

-one afternoon/evening of burgers, brats and beer-be-que at Kelly's Bar in Astoria (which featured the mighty returns of Nana and Gus!)

-one long walk to Roosevelt Island (...with Conneaut Lake Beer.)

And, in the midst of the funnification, I realized how quickly things can get out of control around here. Not always "bad out-of-control," either. "Funny out-of-control" ran rampant, as did "ridiculous out-of-control."

When reflecting back upon a few of these OOC moments, I ~~cried and then~~ realized that it might be time to pull back on the reigns a little. For a bit, at least.

Here are a few moments that prompted said "whoaaaaa-ing":

Tim is walking on a Central Park pathway, carrying an umbrella. It is sunny. He passes a bunch of people on a bench who snicker as Tim passes.

Guy In Black Jeans and a Long Black Trenchcoat: Ha! You have an umbrella! And it's totally fucking sunny outside! Ha! Look at his umbrella!

Tim: Ha! And you have a long, black trench coat on with black jeans! And it's totally fucking hot as shit outside!

Tim snickers for one-half second, before grimacing and hastily scurrying away. End.

Yea. You don't say shit like that to scary trenchcoat wearers in the park. 'Cuz we all know what they have under their coats- rifles and huge penises to sodomize bespectacled smart asses' asses.

Now, remember the picture of Gus above? He's 100% pure genius. It was hilarious seeing him again, as it had been a while. Nana, too. They both don't beat around the bush; if they have something to say, you're gonna hear it. And it doesn't come out of anywhere malicious. More like, "I'd want someone to tell me these things, and I like you, so I'm going to tell you."

Right.

Tim is making his rounds at Kelly's Bar at the end of the night, saying goodnight to all of his favorites. He's a little sauced, feeling no pain, laughing a lot. He approaches Gus to say goodnight.

Tim: G'nite, sir. It's amazing seeing you again.
Gus: Tim, I didn't recognize you when you came in because you've gotten really big since I saw you last. Like, fat. What's up with that shit?
Tim: Haha! I dunno, Gus. Growing up?
Gus: That's some bullshit. I recognized Al, but not you, 'cuz you really look terrible.
Tim: Haha...
Gus: I'm being serious. Quit putting on this act with me. We love you for who you are, not for this act you're putting on right now. Just be yourself. We love you for who you are. But seriously, you gotta lose this shit. (He jiggles his hands in front of Tim's stomach.)
Tim: Good seeing you, Gus. Thanks for that.
Gus: I'm serious. You look terrible. Get rid of that shit.

End.

(NB: I'm now subsiding on spinach, chicken breasts, Kashi, cottage cheese, and salsa.)

So.

Yea.

There's that.

Tim, Danielle, and Blackstone sit perched at on perilously high barstools at Greenwich Village's bar, The Treehouse (??). They've all had several cocktails too many, as one of them will soon realize. In the midst of the laughter, Blackstone hunches over his drink, putting his face mere inches from his Captain and Coke. Tim and Danielle don't take notice until Blackstone begins to, in a reeeeally high-pitched, Tiny Tim falsetto, sing-song voice, point at his drink with alternating pointer fingers, while chirping at his drink.

Blackstone: I'm going to be very, very drunk after I drink you.

Danielle and Tim die. End.

So, some high points, some higher points, some medium points... and some lard points. Yikes.

What we'll be witnessing in the near future, children, is...
[Cue: Pure Moods. Aaand, go!]
A return to self. A return to innocence.

Ha! Or maybe just some healthier choices? Hello, Synergy. Hello.

I guest-blogged.

2008-05-16T23:34:00.006-04:00

Wow. Long time, no blog. Whatever, I've been busy. I'll write a real something or other soon, 'cuz I do gots LOTS to talks abouts. But, a month or so ago, my friend Mr. Patrick Garrigan was under the weather and asked me, Timothy Dunn, to guest blog for him. So, here is the posting I did for Patrick:

[Oh yea- I cut out the very first part, in which I explained to his readers what I just explained to you. My one reader. Yeesh.]

“So, wait… who exactly is this Timothy Dunn blog character? Is he qualified to blog for Patrick?” I hear you murmuring to your fake executive assistants. (…mine’s named Vicki Grubbs.) And to those murmurers, I respond thusly:

The name’s Tim. Pronounced with an ‘umpty. Maybe you know me, maybe you don’t—I’m unbothered either way. I live in Astoria. I’m an actor/improviser/sketch comedy person/bartender/all-around swell guy. I do achieve Greatness [note: Patrick's blog is called Greatness with Gumption], but sadly, simply through alcohol and a poor sense of judgment. Good to know you.

It’s actually quite serendipitous that Patty asked me to write this, as I’ve been wandering around thinking bloggy thoughts over the past few days. ‘Cuz the first real days of spring are the best days to be in New York. We can all agree on this. Everyone’s in a great mood, all anyone seems to want to talk about are delicious margaritas and the gorgeousness of the weather, boys with count-able abs (ie. more than one) go jogging shirtless—the stuff that puts a bounce in your step and a few extra s’s into the word fabulousss.

I was feeling similarly glorious one recent day…until one tiny little thing happened. It’s not important what that one thing was (…that’s a lie. We’ll get to it later.), but the important realization I came across was how fleeting good moods are in this city. One tiny, inconsequential utterance or misstep, and I am plunged into a cynical, back-talking, whiny, bitchass mood, and then I talk for the rest of the day about how [insert minorly irritating occurrence] ruined my day. I need to work on that. This blog is me working that out, I suppose. Admitting the problem is the first step, right?

That’s a long intro to a blog, I know. But I’m new here. (And I’m long-winded.) (And a terrible editor.) So, I’ve decided to compile an introductory list of things that I love, and the things that ruin those things for me. You dig? Let’s go.

I love: eating out in New York.

I hate: when the people I’m eating with annoy the waitress. If we’re eating at a restaurant together, chances are you’ve been a waiter or bartender at some point, too. Or you’ve dated several. You know better than to keep asking for shit, thing by thing. If you know you’re going to need ketchup and mayo with your burger, tell the girl when you order. If your drink is empty when your water is empty, don’t ask for them one at a time. If you asked for a burger done medium and it came medium-well, suck it up. And don’t ever leave coins as your part of the tip. Ever.

I love: walking my dog around Astoria.

I hate: when people bark or make aggressive dog sounds at him/us. Firstly, it makes my dog freak out. And then you’re gone, and I have to try and calm down my crazed, confused dog. Secondly, you just look like an idiot, grown man-on-a-bike. Why would you do that? What was your thought process? “Oh! A dog! I know dog sounds!”? What did you think as soon as you were passed us? If it wasn’t, “I’m a total fuck-tard,” I hope you get hit by a car.

I love: random musical acts on the subway. Mexican guitar/accordion duets, the Lion Sleeps Tonight gang, the random black homeless man I recently encountered who sang a flawless (!!!) operatic soprano (!!!!!!!!!).

I hate: a few things on this topic. Firstly, when the acts get aggressive about money. I’m most likely not going to tip you, know that. I already paid my admission charge for this show, I’m not buying any private dances. Don’t sit next to me and sing right at my face. I’ll ignore your ass up and down the N-line. Don’t point at me or make a comment about me not tipping you. My iPod might not be on, but the earbuds are in. Also, if you are enjoying the acts, clapping along or making requests, YOU are the one who MUST give them money. It’s you who keeps them coming back! They learned Mambo Number 5 for you, Angela, Pamela, Sandra and Rita! Give them a peso!

I love: bartending. It’s my shitty money-making job, but I do really enjoy it. I love talking to people, making introductions to peeps at the bar, general bar camaraderie. “We’re in it for the night together. Let’s have fun!” Woo!

I hate: when people don’t know that they want to drink and make it my problem. “Surprise me” is death to a bartender. Inevitably, that bar patron will continue with something asinine like, “Nothing too sweet. Or anything with a lot of juices in it. I’m allergic to pineapple and tonic. I don’t drink rum or tequila. And nothing too strong. Or in a martini glass.” My answer is always, “Beer,” and, of course, if I was to say that to you, annoying Bar Guy McGee, I’m positive that you’d say, “I don’t drink beer or wine.” All of us, as imbibing adults, should have three or four stock go-to in our brains at all times. I don’t care if it’s a vodka tonic or a Negroni (gin, sweet vermouth and Campari—siiiiick!). Just don’t make your bitchassness my problem.

I love: hugging my friends when I greet them.

I hate: when sweaty friends don’t stop the hug before it gets too involved.

I love: Astoria Park.

I hate: when Deputy Park Rangers threaten to take me (in my rollerSKATES!) and my leashed, registered, pitbull puppy “to the precinct” because I don’t have my ID on me as I skate through the park. Sure, it may be a law that you have to carry ID with you at all times, but, really Astoria Park douche bag? Don’t you have something to mow? Or inmate “volunteers” to anally pummel in the back of your awesome, white Park/Rec van? Also, awesome ‘stache. Dick.

I love: inquiring about peoples’ and friends’ well-being.

I hate: when I’m nervous or flustered or caught off guard, and I ask how people are doing one too many times. It usually happens really fast, though. And we all ignore it. Like this:

Me: Oh, hey Sweet Larry! Looking good! How are you?

Sweet Larry: I’m really, really, great, Tim! Nice sombrero! How are you?

Me: I’m good. How are you? [brain explodes]

I love: sunny days, obviously. I like being outside, ambling through the streets, taking in the day. Ahh. New Yawk Citttttttayyyy.

I hate: people who are just walking too, too slow. Walk as slow as your need, old timer. Just get the fuck out of my way! Stay to one side, please! And no, you can NOT hold hands with your five fuck-tard friends and expect everyone to walk around your little idiot Ring-Around-the-Sidewalk game. I will try and knock you off balance. And if/when you fall, I will stomp you in your plastic hip.

I love: riding the subway. It’s convenient, usually pretty quick, “green” (…gay.), and cheaper than all other alternatives.

I hate: people who don’t know the Seating Rules. If I’m the only one in a bank of three individual seats, and I’m in the left seat, no, you may absolutely not sit in the middle seat. Sit in the seat on the right. No need to be so close. If you’re alone in those three-seats, do NOT be sitting in the middle seat when I come onto the train. Don’t we all know that the middle seat is the “last chance” seat? And, on the new N trains, three people to each side of the pole on those blue benches. Do not try and squeeze in to be our fourth, Latina lady with a huge ass and seventeen Duane Reed bags. I will box you out.

I love: buybacks at bars. Nice bartender, giving me free booze!

I hate: people who don’t understand that nothing is free in life. If I say to you, “This one’s on me,” you’re welcome. Of course! I’m giving you a free drink because I either like you or I like something about you. But you still have to tip me for it. I’m still serving you that beer, and I’m not a volunteer, alkie. Sure, the bar itself is losing money on that drink, but that’s part of a bar’s operations. The bar takes the loss of a drink to ensure customers are having a good time. It’s up to the bartender to decide who gets to enjoy that perk. But the bartender is still working. He still made you that drink. Tip the guy. In fact, if your drink was, let’s say, $8 when you were paying for them, give him $4 as a tip when he gives you one on the house. You’re still saving $4. And I promise- all bartenders remember who tips and who doesn’t, whether you’re a friend or a first-timer. Good tippers get more booze and more free drinks. That’s a fact.

I love: performing sketch comedy, especially this Monday, April 14th at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre at 8:00 PM! Especially when it’s part of UCB’s Maude Night, with my sketch team mixtape ’98! What? Our myspace page is www.myspace.com/mixtape98? What? You can make reservations at http://newyork.ucbtheatre.com/shows/1425? That’s something we all can love!

I hate: when people don’t come to my shows. And when people bitch about totally arbitrary stuff.

Get well soon, Patty! God knows, I can’t crank this stuff out like you do! Don’t believe me? Check out my blog: timothydunn.blogspot.com. It’s garbage.

Incidentally- I have another sketch show THIS MONDAY, May 19th, at UCB @ 8:00 PM. You can still check out the links posted above. It's gonna be a great show!

And I promise more blogs! BLURG BLOG BURGER!!!

"I bet you think this blog is aboouuutt you..."

2008-01-21T12:29:00.002-05:00

Happy 2008, children! And muchos thanks to those of you who celebrated my birthday with me, either live in person or via e-celebration. Woot!

So, I wouldn't ever describe myself as a particularly vain person. In fact, I'd consider myself pretty low-maintenence, pretty wash-and-go. I can shower, shave and be ready for just about any kind of night in, say, ten minutes. Super.

Do you all remember hotornot.com? Of course you do. I thought that site was pretty hilarious for all of five seconds 'cuz, well, firstly, it's fun to judge other people based on their looks, and there was the understanding that, if you're putting yourself up on "Hot or Not?" you most definitely really DO believe that both yourself and the picture you're posting are HOT. You're just looking for some validation here! ...and then you kill yourself and blame people who must have obviously not understood how the site worked for your score of 2.1.

So, facebook has a similar application. "Are YOU Interested?" There's a funny twist though- 'cuz with this bugger, you can see who clicks "Yes, I'm interested" on your picture. And, in theory, you can click "YES" back on them if you'd like, and boom- internet love!

For those unfamiliar, I'm going to go on there now and pick the first, say, five or six random pictures that come up to give you an understanding of what most pictures on there look like. Oh- and it also says where the people are from.

Arhus, DK.
Dublin, IE.
London, UK.
Manchester, UK.
Melbourne, AU.
London, UK.

Ok. Six random guys, various levels of "Hot" or "Not" (Hm, I didn't know Lurch was from Denmark!). So, now I'm going to post the pictures of all of the top eight people who've clicked "YES, I'M INTERESTED" for me. I'm fully serious, too.

Manchester, UK.
Hong Kong, HI.
Canton, OH.
Singapore, SG.
Nottingham, UK.
Singapore, SG.
You guessed it.
Where else.
Brisbane, AU.

OK. Now, I suppose I should just be flattered that ANYONE is interested in me at all, right? So, for that, great! Thank you!

BUT WHAT THE FUCK?!?! It's all fat people and guys from Singapore!! And a few fat guys from Singapore?!??!

That fucking dude is pointing his box of Krispy Kremes at me!! You fucking bastard.

I am baffled. I've heard people say a million times that you attract that which you project out into the universe. I'm projecting lard and Asia.

In order to untangle this sweaty ball of noodles and nerve, I consulted a few websites that focus on the Science of Attraction.

From the BBC's website, "What Makes You Fancy Someone?"

:
Have you noticed how many married couples look quite similar? Studies have shown that more than anything we prefer somebody who looks just like we do. From a batch of individual photographs people can spot who are the couples with unnerving reliability.

Oh my fucking God.

From some New Age site called "Soul Perspectives":
We attract what we are, and we attract who we are. What we are is our personality nature, and who we are is our soul nature. We have both natures, so we need to understand how they function.

Who we are also attracts the circumstance we need. Our essence determines who we are. This essence, in a more profound sense, is soul. As soul, we are beautiful, powerful, wise and loving.

As soul we attract people and opportunities to relate in loving ways without fear of rejection. We recognize needs and respond to them courageously without fear of failure or feelings of inadequacy.

As soul we are aware of the need in others to be authentically themselves, so we support and empower them to follow their inner light.

I'm kinda starting to hate the internet.

Actually, truth be told, I'm a little relieved. I'm glad that everyone now knows that my soul needs to be authentically myself. I need support in finding my inner light. I need to smell sweaty t-shirts and see sick x-rays of Asian people's brains. Maybe my path to enlightenment really is paved with Krispy Kremes and double- nay!- TRIPLE chins! MORE CHINS THAN THE CHINESE PHONEBOOK!

'Cuz let's be honest. You all have seen the birthday invitation things I've made for my past two birthdays.

Domo arigato, Mr. Backfat.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Crenshaw!

2007-12-27T23:56:00.000-05:00

Dear myself,

I'm not really sure why you insist on booking really early flights for me. I mean, let's look at the past: I blatantly missed my 7:00 AM flight home to Chicago for Thanksgiving ('cuz I'd had... one too many... egg... nogs the night before), I was completely miserable my first day and a half in LA (thanks to a flight that left New York at 6:00 AM), and these are just the flights you've booked for me in the past month!! My flight home for Christmas was booked for 7:00 AM.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

I know you think that "The earlier I get there, the earlier I can start enjoying lovely[insert town name here]." That's just not the case. You spend the entire first day cranky and miserable, placating yourself by torturing your dad by ~~blatantly~~ accidentally dropping the f-bomb hundreds of times.

No more early flights. There. I'm glad we had this talk.

You sure are handsome,
me
...

Dear Skycap guy at LaGuardia,

We both knew that that bag was over 50 lbs. Thanks for not pissing me off that early in the morning by weighing it or, even worse, charging me $50. I'm glad I tipped you like a real Big Spender. Merry Christmas!

Thanks!
Timothy Dunn
...

Dear Daniel Tammet, author of Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant, the book I bought at Hudson News,

You are a horrible author. I should've guessed by the title, what with it featuring the words "autistic" and "savant," but I was thrown off by the colon and the words "extraordinary" and "blue," which happens to be my favorite color.

I read your book in about three hours, mainly because I skipped around. Although I liked the parts about where you described seeing numbers as visual images and where you talked about finding your Christian, gay lover (!!!) on the interweb (!!!!!!!), the rest of the book read like a really dull journal of man with Aspergers.

Oh. It was? Great. I want my money back. I'll give you the book back. "Gently used."

Not yours,
Timothy Dunn
...

Hey obnoxious girl on my flight!

You were killing me! I'm sorry that we were delayed and that you thought you were going to miss your connection! But when we landed, you had to notice that everyone else on the plane was DEAD silent when you called your mom and proceeded to have the WORLD'S WORST/LOUDEST conversation known to man. Since you couldn't hear yourself, here's what we heard.

You: We landed... Yea. We're landed... But we're still on the pla-- yea, we've landed. And I'm fucking starrrrrving... American Airlines... Yea, no food, so I'm starving... No, I said I'm starving... Starving... Like, I-need-food starving... I'm probably going to have to run to the plane, mom... I'm starving... I'm famished... I'm seriously starving... Yea, that would be great... No, I don't want fries... No, I said, "No fries,"... No. No-to-fries... I mean, I guess I'll have fries if there's nothing else... Maybe a muffin? But not one of those plastic-wrapped ones... No, if it's in plastic, I don't want it... Too many preservatives... Like, the chemicals in them... Yea, they taste really chemically because of the preservatives... Maybe you could see if they have Light And Fit yogurt?... Light and Fit?... Yogurt?... No, not a parfait... The granola on top gets too soggy... Too soggy... No, like, soggy... Like, wet and soggy... No, not if the granola is soggy... Check if it's soggy... I mean, fries would be ok, I guess... Or I'll just eat when I get to Dallas...

If I had a poison blow-dart, you'd have been down, sister.

Watch yo'self,
TD
...

Dear Rylee Elizabeth Dunn, my 2 month-old niece/Goddaughter,

You are a peanut. A perfect little legume!

Love,
Uncle Tim
...

Dear Wayne, karaoke host at Mullin's Sports Bar, Wheaton:

You're so obnoxious, I'm tempted to set you up with this starving girl I met on the flight in. It's cool, though, 'cuz we all hold the following truths to be self-evident:

1) No one "requested" that you sing that Styx song or that Bryan Adams song. You just wanted to sing them but didn't want anyone to think you're the kind of tool that would host karaoke just so you can sing whenever you want. It's cool. Own it.
2) You're barely 5' tall. And bald. Again- just own 'em.
3) You provided a platform from which amazing video footage was shot of my sister Meg and I singing "Bossy" by Kelis. It's on facebook. Hi Meg!

So, Wayne, I suggest you just let it go. Let that Japanese guy sing "New York, New York" as many times as he wants! Quit tacking on sick-sounding, alliterative adjectives to every woman's name (although I was secretly giggling every time "Delicious Denise" sang).

Do Mi So Mi Do,
Timonel Richie

PS- What the...???
LOL My cousin Chris (not pictured) spilled his beer at the end of this night onto Martise's pants. And while my cousins Corey (left) and Tommy posed with Martise, I added an element of surprise. Thanks Wayne!
...

Dear My Own Chef Catering Company employees, Naperville, Illinois:

Two of you recently worked the Dunn Family's Annual Christmas soiree in fair Wheaton, Illinois, for over 100 people.

I literally ate fifty+ shrimp that night. The cocktail sauce was delicious. But I was very careful to do so only when no one was around.

Just thought you should know, in case your bosses were wondering.

Skrump skrampie!
Timothy R. Dunn
...

To Anonymous party guest,

I understand that you were one of the first people to arrive at the soiree, and I understand you've had a rough year. Even though you arrived before I'd started drinking, it was nice to see you.

I appreciated your first two questions of the night, as they were quite expected and gave me a chance to showcase my standard, canned answers that I'd be repeating hundreds of times that night. This year, I really focused my answers into concise-yet-telling responses. So, I was pleased to be asked, "How's New York?" and even more tickled with your follow-up, "What are you working on now?"

Your third question, however, was really shitty. It wasn't so much of a question as a tacky, rude observation, couched in slime and question-marked insinuation. So, the next time you think about looking someone up and down and asking, "Gaining weight?"... yea. DON'T!

FU.
td
...

Dear Catholic Church,

Right. So, I wrote a letter questioning several key points in "The Christmas Story" as told at midnight Mass this past Christmas Eve, and then I deleted the letter. In lieu of that letter, here are some random words that have nothing to do with anything religious:

Mary, Joseph, premarital sex, ghost sperm.

Yours in faith,
Timothy Reagan Sebastian (Confirmation name!) Dunn
...

Dear Tila Tequila, bowling, Apples to Apples, bricks of cheese, and spicy summer sausage logs,

You are perfect. Never change!

Love in Christ,
Tim "Yule Log" Dunn
...

Dear Yorktown Mall, Lombard, Illinois,

Enough with the fucking heat! It's, like, fifty degrees outside! Who are you kidding! These kids in the mall are greasy and sweaty enough!

And what's up with Hot Topic and Spencers? They're still open? Close that shit already. Everyone who's going to buy a Fart Machine or a leather face stud already owns one.

Also, thanks for the Caribou Coffee kiosk!

Loves ya!
Tim
...

Dear Skycap guy at O'Hare,

Fuck you and the scale you weighed my bag on.

And, no! I don't care that "if a plane's too overweight the brakes won't work when we land."

And, no! I don't care if my bag IS "twenty-eight pounds over the fifty-pound limit" or if someone who's hauling baggage hurts themselves.

It's Christmas, you ass! Give me my $50 back!

I tipped you like shit,
Tim Dunn, Disgruntled Customer
...

Dear Paramore, the band,

Your song Misery Business is the answer to every question I've ever had. My brand new iPod would've been nothing without you, and you better believe that I made a playlist of that song a million times so I could hear it over and over again with no interruptions the entire flight home.

Avril who?
Tim Dunn, Superfan
...

Hello man looking over my shoulder while I type.

Yes, you. 29F. I see you peeking at my laptop. It's bad enough that I'm in the middle seat. I was half-tempted to fake some sort of claustrophobic fit to get the window, but you were too busy reading your Pook & Pook Catalog (HAHA! Now you KNOW I'm talking about you, munch!).

You deplane behind me, and I plan on farting when I stand up.

Happy breathing!
29E
...

Dear myself,

Great Christmas vacation, yo! It flew by, right? Cousins, aunts, uncles, baby, Baptism, Christmas party, Christmas, hangovers and boom- Astoria.

Let's get it together in 2K8. Once you're famous, no one will ask what you're doing at the Christmas party. And- almost more importantly- you can hire someone to poison blow-dart people who ask ignorant "questions."

Big ups to the Dunn fam for a hot Christmas! Can't wait to come home for another visit and/or for you all to come visit.

Happy New Year!
Love,
me

PS- Ummm... just saying...

I just want one day of Christmas. Maybe.

2007-11-29T14:02:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! I hope you all enjoyed yourselves; I was lucky enough to be able to go home to good old Chicago for turkey and excess with my family. Delightful!

After Chicago, I went to Nashville to see/make out with Blackstone for a few days and to see/live for the Radio City Christmas Spectacular- Nashville Edition. I saw it twice, bringing the tally of "Times Tim Has Seen Various Incarnations of the Radio City Show This Year" to... FOUR!! Twice in New York, and twice in Nashville. Hello, I love Christmas.

The shows were all great and beautiful and hilarious (Blackstone + giant bear costume = Yuletide cheer!), but one glaring oversight caught my attention somewhere during show number three.

Has anyone really EVER listened to The Twelve Days of Christmas??? I mean, we all sung it, ad nausium, in grade school and shit.

But that's the stupidest, most ridiculous song I've ever heard!

First things first, I've never heard of anyone getting presents for twelve days in a row around Christmastime. Lies. But they're called Jews and the holiday isn't called Christmas. Who's with me?

Now, onto the gifts. For those of you who aren't from America (or whatever), here is a list of the "gifts" given on these twelve days, from the final verse of the song:

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me
Twelve drummers drumming,
Eleven pipers piping,
Ten lords a-leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight maids a-milking,
Seven swans a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
Five golden rings,
Four calling birds,
Three French hens,
Two turtle doves,
And a partridge in a pear tree!

Let's call out the obvious shit-- it's mostly birds! What horrible gifts! Birds are dirty and annoying, and you can't even play with them! They just sit in their cages and make messes and require you to spend money on them. No payoffs! No fetch, no tricks, no sleeping in your bed with you. I had two parakeets as a kid (Tweety and Sylvester... I know- gay.), and I was secretly a little glad when my mom "accidentally" let them go, although she claims that it really WAS an accident. "They learned how to open their cage door whenever she put their cage outside on the deck to wash the floors." Awesome, mom. Awesome.

But really, you'd need a big-ass apartment for all of those birds. The partridge and doves, I mean, toss 'em in a cage in your room, fine. Probably the same with the four "calling birds," assuming that they're, say, canaries. I've never heard of "calling birds" outside of this song though, so I remain suspicious. And I'd get a pear tree, which wouldn't be all bad. I mean, free pears.

But c'mon. Three hens?? THREE CHICKENS?? You're going to give me fucking farm animals for Christmas? I'd need a fucking coop! I don't have a coop! So, I'm going to have to find an apartment with a backyard large enough for this coop. You're making me move! And I have to buy a coop. That sounds expensive. And the hens are FRENCH to top off this shit sundae. Three asshole chickens. Nice.

AND NOW SIX GEESE THAT ARE LAYING EGGS?!?! Now, I'd need to get a huge coop, or at least enough land for the geese to nest. So, now I'm moving out to fucking Flushing or Corona, where I DON'T want to be. And geese are NASTY, especially when they're guarding a nest of eggs. So, then what? The eggs hatch in the spring, and I have (at least) twelve geese now?? That gift is unfair, because the workload associated with it grows exponentially. It's a bad "gift that keeps on giving." Just get me a fucking gift card to Target, for fuck's sake.

And don't forget the seven swans. That could be nice. You could probably sell them to a company that does weddings or to some exotic pet company along with the doves-- but THEY'RE A-SWIMMING WHEN YOU GET THEM!!! YOU NEED A POND!! More like a small lake- swans aren't little. So, now I have to move out of my shitty Flushing apartment and out onto Long Island or West Chester where I can have a yard big enough for my huge bird coop and a fucking Swan Lake. HOW AM I GOING TO PAY FOR ALL OF THIS?? My current rent is enough! You're causing me financial hardship with all of these birds!

Now, five golden rings could be nice. But if you're giving me five of them, I'm guessing that they're not very expensive to begin with, otherwise, you'd just get me one good ring. And even though I don't really wear rings, I guess I could pawn them or just give them to my sisters. I'll take 'em!

Here comes the part that really chaps my ass. You're gifting me PEOPLE. I'm pretty sure that this tradition of buying and selling real, live people was outlawed, but, I'll ignore that for a minute.

Eight maids. Well, I'd fucking NEED eight maids to help with all of the goddamn birds... but what? They're A-MILKING!! So, they come with baggage, 'cuz I'm guessing they're NOT milking eachother!! COWS?? GOATS?? MORE FUCKING LIVESTOCK?!?! I'm being pushed further and further upstate as this holiday goes on! I mean, we could probably sell the milk and make some money, but we'd need every penny because...

YOU GAVE ME A TWENTY-THREE PERSON BAND!!! Twelve drummers and eleven pipers!! It's gonna sound like the fucking Civil War on my farm. Just drums and pipes. And God help me if they're bagpipes, 'cuz I'll be dangling from my barn's rafters in two days. And wait- who's going to feed this band? Who's going to mend their uniforms? I have to build barracks for them to live in? Are they co-ed?? If they are, I'm having all of them fixed- I don't need any obnoxious, "music kids" running around my compound. And what is my band going to do all year long? Do I have to enter them in competitions or take them to march in parades around Thanksgiving? NOW I HAVE TO GET A BUS???!?!? I fucking hate you.

And I'm admittedly a little amused at the other nineteen gifts you're giving me. Nine ladies dancing- I kinda think this is awesome and hilarious. I'd dress them up in really stupid, probably really slutty costumes and make them do stupid routines to my Civil War band. I'd probably want them to learn how to tumble, too, so that it would be like watching the cheerleading competitions on ESPN. I do love a sensible cheerleading competition!

Ten Lords a-leaping. So... they're rich. Lords, right? And I'm guessing that they're probably ripped, too, from all of the cardio. But, I have questions. Do they ever get to stop leaping? Do they have to leap in unison? I'd probably want them to learn how to tumble along with my dancing girls, and then I have an unstoppable co-ed gymnastics/cheerleading/dance team. I'd enter them in competitions all over the country, which is fine, since I had to buy the bus for my Civil War band. And they're just going to have to double up with my neutered band in the barracks, 'cuz, so help me God, I'm NOT building another barrack. And you best believe that I'm having the co-ed gymnastics team neutered, too. Though, maybe I'll let the one most handsome Lord and the one prettiest dancer stay in tact so that they could keep our legacy going. And, the minute that they all arrived, I'd have all of my Lords name me as their sole beneficiary in their wills. Hell- I'm gonna make them ALL change their wills so that I get all of their shit when they die.

And don't front- I'm clearly going to kill everyone on the compound before the year is over. 'Cuz, knowing my "true love," they're gonna give me all of this shit again next Christmas.

So, really, I guess it's not that bad. I mean, the first year is going to be rough, this I have already accepted. Between having to relocate a bunch of times and having to spend a bunch of money up-front, it's going to be stressful as hell. But once I have the barracks, bus, coop, lake, and farm purchased, it'll be something of a lucrative gig. Hopefully, the hot Lord and dancer will have a kid before I kill them, and the band is clearly going to come with their own instruments every year, so I have a whole band worth of equipment to sell every year! And instruments (especially drums) are pricey! The milkers will come with eight new pieces of livestock every year (cha-ching!), and I'll probably have the maids start breeding the swans as soon as they get here; we could clearly sell those every year. Swans are expensive, too. Right?

Whoa-ho-ho!! And don't forget about the shit-ton I'll be getting in inheritance every year from the FIFTY PEOPLE THAT YOU GAVE ME that I'm going to kill every year.

I could potentially be set for life! I'd buy buildings in New York City every year, I'd make my babies manage the buildings for free. Maybe, one year, I'll let the band live and sell them to a Civil War Reenactment Society. Maybe, another year, I'll let the gymnastics/cheerleading team live and open a training center in Long Island- 'cuz the people out there would love that shit. And I'm sure with all of the comings and goings, a few of these people over the years will be good looking enough to make a decent living doing professional modeling. Ooh! How exciting! I can't wait to see my people on billboards!

So, on second thought, I kinda love this song. It's a song about hope, about ingenuity, about bettering one's circumstances. It's the American Dream, really. I love Christmas!

I think I'm going to name my first Lord/Dancer child Baby Jesus.

The Nicest Man in New York City.

2007-11-14T20:02:00.000-05:00

That's the title I've recently bestowed upon myself. I mean, I'm sure that both of you reading are going to say, "Sure, you ARE nice, Tim. But the nicEST?! IN NEW YORK CITY?!?!"

To you both, I suggest that you read on. To anyone else who may have found this blog on accident, oh! Hello there! Your teeth are really white.

So, it's no secret that I stopped bartending recently. In lieu of bar work, I've branched out, and somewhat accidentally, found myself in the perfect position to spread nice-ness: Promotions!

For anyone who might not know what that means or entails, it generally breaks down to being a "Brand Representative" for a product or company (ie. standing and smiling, occasionally handing out goodies, and quoting a few memorized "sound bites" to let people know what's going on), being friendly, and... well, being aggressively persistent in your unwillingness to be unfriendly. Smiling, kids. I'm amazing at it.

Two weeks ago, I worked an event for Bon Appetit Magazine. It really was an amazing event, the place was beautiful, so organized and wonderful. And it gave me a chance to work in close contact with my Arch Nemesis in Friendliness: The Corporate, Late-Thirtysomething, Single, Rich, Always-Tired, Manhattan Businesswoman. In fact, that might warrant another blog, simply because the interactions were so rich!

Alas! I digress. So, back to why I'm The Nicest Man in New York. At this event, there were five stations at which the four of us were stationed for the seven days, from ten in the morning to three in the afternoon. I rotated between three of them: Haagen-Dazs, Buick, and Ghirardelli. The crowd was generally pretty Manhattan-y, but, as this was a FREE event to the public with ADVERTISED FREE SAMPLES, it attracted a goodly showing of another few choice demographics:

-the near-homeless elderly
-the wealthy-and-don't-care-if-you-think-I'm-crazy elderly
-the I-work-close-to-here-and-have-no-friends crowd
-the actual homeless elderly

Following are a few conversations that I had with people over the course of the days. Please keep in mind that 99% of these "customers" came every single day and, rather than owning up to that, decided to act like they had no idea what was going on and/or banked on me having a shitty memory.

Midafternoon; Haagen-Dazs table. Tim is handing out Pomegranate Dark Chocolate ice cream bars. This is the only flavor, and it is advertised excessively on signage and on the pyramid of empty boxes that are artfully arranged.
Tim: Good afternoon! Would you care to try the new Haagen-Dazs POMEGRANATE DARK CHOCOLATE ice cream bar?
Lady with red lipstick spreading into the wrinkles leading from upper-lip to nose: Oh, I'll take strawberry.
Tim: We actually only have the one flavor, POMEGRANATE ice cream, dipped in dark chocolate.
Lady: Well then, what's this one on the box? (picks up a box covered in the words "Pomegranate Dark Chocolate" and begins flipping it over maniacally)
Tim: That's the POMEGRANATE. We're just offering the one flavor today.
Lady: (accepting a bar and ripping through the wrapping) The chocolate on the outside looks darrrrrk. And I don't care for dark chocolate...
Tim: Yes, it's the new POMEGRANATE DARK CHOCOLATE bar.
Lady: (biting it loudly) Ooh. (chews) This tastes off. (another bite) Hm. Red raspberry? (sour face)
(I'm so, so not joking.)
Tim: (small laugh) Nope. It's just POMEGRANATE ice cream dipped in dark chocolate.
Lady: I think I got a red raspberry one. Ooh. It tastes off. Off.
Tim: It's pomegranate.
Lady: But have you tried the red raspberry one? I think it's off.
Tim: No, no, listen. It's POMEGRANATE ice cream. We just have one flavor. The one you're eating. It's POMEGRANATE. POMEGRANATE ICE CREAM! Pomegranate. (smiles)
Lady: (leans back, exhales, squints her eyes at the ice cream) ...POM-A-what!?!? Look, I thought you said it was--
Tim: (cutting her off) RED RASPBERRY!? No. You already asked that- and it's not. No red raspberry. No. It's pomegranate. POMEGRANATE. DARK. CHOCOLATE. Enjoy! (smiles)
End.

Late afternoon, the Buick kiosk. A laptop computer has been set up with the Buick web page pulled up on the screen. The headline on the website, along with the large freestanding, framed sign next to the laptop read, "Enter for your chance to win a SupperClub in your own home!" Tim walks behind the woman at the laptop and sees the following windows open on the computer: Three Microsoft Excel spreadsheets, Hotmail, and the AOL Instant Messenger Beta website.
Tim: Pardon me, ma'am. But we can't navigate away from the Buick webpage. This computer is just for the sweepstakes.
Lady holding a sandwich in one hand: (She's not looking up.) Ok. (Keeps hunting and pecking with the other hand.)
Tim: (stands there for about five seconds, wondering what to do) Yes, hi. Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to close those windows and let me get this back to the Buick homepage.
Lady: (moves to block me from seeing the screen of the computer) K. (Keeps pecking and nibbling.)
Tim: (amused/annoyed) Like, now, please.
Lady: (She turns to face Tim and grabs his right forearm with her non-sandwich hand. He sees her full-on for the first time. She appears to be wearing the Tracy Turnblad wig from HAIRSPRAY and has a red Paddington Bear coat on.) I don't think you understand. I WON TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS LAST NIGHT! (crazy smile)
Tim: Yes, ok. (breaks free, boxes her out, closes all of the windows on the taskbar)
Lady: (a little indignant, but sandwich still in hand) I was going to close them!
Tim: Also, ma'am. I'm going to have to ask you to not eat directly over the laptop. We actually can't have any food on the computer table at all. (She's pissed.) I'd be happy to grab you a little table to sit at, if you'd like. It's just the sponsor is pretty particular about the technology.
Lady: (She's wearing a lot of foundation and eye make-up...) Huh! Well, I'm not a big, sloppy pig, you know. I KNOW how to eat...
Tim: (smiles) I never said anything to the contrary, ma'am. Enjoy your sandwich. (smiles, walks away)
End.

Late Afternoon, the Haagen-Dazs table. An Asian woman, late-twenties, in a knee-length, puffy, down jacked (with the hood up) approaches. She has on large-ish glasses, is on her cell phone, and is holding a large purse and two large Duane Reed bags. She's leaning on the table, and I overhear her thanking the person on the phone for wishing her a "Happy Birthday" as she picks her braces with a stirrer straw. She hangs up.
Tim: Would you care to try the new Haagen-Dazs ice cream bar, birthday girl?
Nerd Lady: Oh! Thank you. I'm thirty today! (She shyly and apologetically awkwardly puts her arms in the air in a V-for-Victory pose.) Yay me!
Tim: (thinking she's adorable, handing her two ice cream bars) Here. Have one for now, and one for the office.
Lady: You're so sweet! I totally snuck out of the office to come to this, too! How nice!
Tim: (smiling at her) Any big birthday plans tonight?
Lady: Oh, who knows. You know? Although, I'm supposed to go to this, like, Fetish/Sex Party tonight.
Tim: (pause) ...ole! (strikes V-for-Victory pose)
End.

Midafternoon, Ghirardelli table. An elderly woman hobbles over, smiles, and reveals that none of her front teeth will be in attendance today. She's wearing a long, khaki trench-coat and carries an overflowing Duane Reed bag.
Tim: Good afternoon! Would you care to sample the new Ghirardelli Intense Dark Chocolate series today?
Aunt Gummer: (in a VERY thick, Italian accent) Oh, I only like-a dark a-chocolate!
Tim: Perfect! This is all Intense Dark Chocolate from Ghirardelli. We have the Espresso Escape, the Mint Bliss, and 72% Cacao Twilight Delight.
Gums: (puzzled) How a-much?
Tim: (charmed) They're free! And you're invited to sample one of each, if you'd like!
Gums: Ah! I a-take just three for me. For a-when I make-a my tea! (She grabs a handful, maybe seven or eight chocolates.)
Tim: (still loving it) Now, this is just meant to be a sampling. If you enjoy what you try, they ARE for sale downstairs. (smiles)
Gums: Oh! I only a-take one then. Only dark chocolate!(She grabs another handful. This time, she scoops with both hands.)
Tim: (nervous laugh) Ok, ok, ok! You're gonna clean me out! And then what will I do tomorrow, huh? (winks at her)
Gums: (her eyes magnified one-hundred times in her glasses) It's a-for free here all a-week-a?
Tim: (fucked) Until Friday! See you tomorrow! (smiles)
The next afternoon, same table. Italian Lady Cho-co-laaaaate approaches again.
Tim: (smiles and starts scooping the samples back into the box, out reach) Good afternoon! And how are we today!
Gums: (puts both hands frailly on her cheeks) I no believe it!
Tim: (puzzled) Everything ok?
Gums: (shaking her head) Last a-day, I take only a-three chocolates, only because I only a-like-a dark chocolate. I get home to make a-my tea, and, NO! Somebody had a-stolen my chocolate out-a of-a my purse!
Tim: (smiles) Reallllly? You're sure you didn't just eat them?
Gums: NO! NO! (getting mad, seriously) I put in the pocket, and then they're gone! Somebody a-took them from me!
Tim: (furrowed brow, getting concerned) Oh no. Did they get your wallet or anything else?
Gums: No! Just the chocolate. So today-a I need to get enough for today and yesterday!
End.

The truth is, I could go on and on. Some other highlights of the week include:

-the man who ate TWO HAAGEN-DAZS ice cream bars and then proceeded to scoop up a handful of chocolates into his pocket. After taking one bite out of one of the chocolates, he literally SPITS it out ONTO the white, under-lit plastic table, exclaiming, "Sorry. I'm diabetic." Me? Cleaned up his shit-spittle with a napkin. Smiling.

-the little old man who scooped five or six handfuls of chocolate into his bag, excusing his gluttony by explaining that his wife USED TO BE a substitute teacher, and that maybe she'd enjoy teaching the kids about "the beans." Me? Confused. But smiling.

-one of the other Promo Girls handing out samples and talking about Gosling Rum brand Rum Cakes. "In three flavors: Swizzle, Double Chocolate, and Indian Spice!" Only, on the last day, she realized that she'd been reading the labels wrong, and that it was actually ISLAND SPICE cake she'd been hawking and describing to people for SEVEN DAY! Laugh-out-loud to the max!

I love my life.

And I will happily retain my title as long as I still have a tongue to bite and bills to pay, America!

I RULE!

Gaudy, bawdy, naughty...

2007-09-04T14:22:00.000-04:00

My youngest sister, Katie, just started her senior in high school at Benet Academy, my sister Meg and my Alma mater. She's currently taking the Advanced Composition (creative writing) class that I took my senior year with the same teacher I had, Mr. Patrick Doyle. When I graduated, he asked me if he could hang on to my papers from the class and potentially use some of them as examples for future students. Sure! I mean, I had always loved writing and had actually entered a few creative writing contests in my junior high days. I'd won a couple of times, too. Mainly fiction, prose, whatever. Nerd alert!

So, when Katie emailed me a couple of days ago with a snippet of one of the papers I wrote for that class, I giggled mercilessly at myself.

See, Benet was an interesting mix for me: I was the junior-year transfer-student that was bitter, angry and rebellious at having been uprooted... but I was also a terrific student who was eager to learn and excited to have new, really challenging teachers and classes. Nerd alert!

My first weeks were rough ones. From the start, I didn't think I was much like any of the kids at Benet. I was/am pretty loud and opinionated, I tend to think I'm right most of the time ~~because I usually am~~, I was interested, nay, obsessed with theater and performing, and I was darn aggressive about my education. If I had to be at this new school, I was gonna milk it for all it was worth. I had little patience for kids who didn't do the reading or who didn't want to pull their weight. I placated myself by saying, "It's just two years. Work your ass off and get into whatever college you want. Then YOU can decide where you want to be..." So, I did.

No one really understood that I loved acting. People actually thought it was pretty lame. The kids in my senior class were "excited" about going off and studying "Business" or "Computer Systems," 'cuz that's what they heard you had to study to make the big bucks.

I, on the other hand, had already been out in the world... ack-TING! I'd even done some professional jobs already. I thought I had some street cred, theatrically. Yes, and hello. I was, indeed, cast in my school's production of GUYS AND DOLLS my junior year, although I declined to accept the role.

"Timothy Dunn............................. GANGSTER #9."

...WHAT THE FUCK?!?! NUMBER NINE?!?!?!?

Not a role, fine. Not a featured singer or dancer, kinda not fine. Gangster? Clearly not fine. But... NUMBER NINE?!?!?! There are eight rejects before me in the shitting line?? I was outraged. It's amazingly hysterical, in hind-sight. I remember telling my voice teacher, the head of the Opera and Voice Department at a college in our town, the news. Her jaw fell open, and, in her perpetual head-voice, she lit Benet up for a minute or two, before deciding that I'd just start doing community theater. "I had no other choice." So, I did, show-after-show, until I graduated.

It was some of the best training and times of my life, rehearsing until midnight with a bunch of forty-something alcoholic divorcees who were fed up with their twenty-year temp jobs and who were just looking for some kind of outlet. I'm sure that 99.999% of the things we were putting up was pure crap. Self-indulgent, masturbatory, puffed-up, Guffman-esque poop. But I'm not sure I've ever performed with people who wanted it more. These people actually needed to be on the stage, to be at these rehearsals. Sometimes, our performance and rehearsal hours would be the only hours that a few of these people would actually make sure to be sober for all week.

And seeing that kind of hunger can't help but stir something up inside of you. We were all doing this because we had to. Because we all might explode if we didn't get to let things out this way. It was therapy. It was self-indulgent. But it was some of the most powerful feelings I'd ever felt. None of the acting-class bullshit about laying on the ground and pretending you're a pregnant cow giving birth. This was the real deal. No need to read "Zen and The Art of Archery." We were discovering it on our own. Well, not the archery part. But zen. Balance.

And here I am, ten years later, faced with a piece of corny, way self-indulgent writing that I did during that time. About theatre!! Aack!! Not only theatre, but my first professional job I ever did!! Talk about a reference point. Or a wake-up call. Or at least a call to arms.

I started typing today with no idea about what was going to come out, and I'm ending not really knowing what did come out of all of this. But, here's the little essay I wrote my senior year of high school, complete with fully embarrassing title and everything:

"Hello? Broadway? It's me. I'm on my way."

"Come and meeeeeet those dancing feeeeeeeeet...."

The rich baritone sound filled the air as the actor playing Julian Marsh belted out the title song of 42nd Street, swaying with the swells of the music. Before his final note faded into the darkness, the air was suddenly a-buzz with the sharp, metallic clicking of a dozen tap dancers tapping their way onto the stage. As I clicked my way center stage, the thousands of people in the audience were motionless, captivated by the precision and uniformity of the brightly clad dancers on stage. Sweat jumped from my forehead as the musical's final note approached. Suddenly, with a wail from the orchestra followed by waves of thunderous applause, the show was over. The hot yellow lights beating down on us dimmed into darkness. The curtain closed, but even through the thin partition, we could hear the audience's cheers filling the hot, summer air. The curtain re-opened, exposing us- the actors, dancers, performers - to the mass of people on their feet, making noises in appreciation for our performance. I scanned the audience, feeling their energy flowing up onto the stage and invading my whole being; I beamed. And at that moment, I realized how lucky I am. Many people travel through their lives so unsure of what they want to do "when they grow up." For me, I was lucky enough to give my dream career a test- and I loved every sweet minute of it!

To making it count!

Belly up.

2007-08-22T12:31:00.000-04:00

So, children, we have reached the end of an era.

Hell's Kitchen's favorite neighborhood bartender has hung up his wine key for now. Yes, I am no longer a tender of bar at Bamboo 52 or Posh.

CAN A BROTHER GET AN AMEN FROM THE CONGREGATION!?!?!?!? JEEEEEEEEEEEEEESUS!!!! WOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! :) :) :)

It was in the stars for a while, but the trigger has finally been pulled, and now you, gentle reader, will be stranded on Friday nights, aimlessly wandering around the city, jonesing for sweet Sakejitos, New Castles, and ghetto Belinis.

But even in my hour of unemployed ~~bliss~~ horror, I am a giver. It's what I do. Enable. Pour. Divvy. ...give. So, for you and for yours, I've compiled a list of my favorite bars in New York City for you to now visit, now that Bamboo 52 and Posh are FULLY OFF LIMITS TO ALL OF MY FRIENDS. Haha. Just kidding. (No, I'm not.) (Well, I still have friends who work there, so, if you want to do your part, you're allowed to walk in the door, walk up to those kids, and stuff money into their shirts. No ordering, no food, no dancing, no lycheerita. Y'hear?!)

KELLY'S BAR
Crescent Street and 31st Avenue
Astoria, New York

Reasons that Kelly's is my favorite bar in America:

1) I did not doctor that photo AT ALL! The owner's daughter made a photo collage of the bar and it's Memorial Day decorations. American, much?

2) I address the bartenders and owner like they're my aunts. Aunt Sondra, the owner, loves Barry Manilow.
3) Beer is cheap (Bud, Coors, Amstel, sometimes Heine... no draughts), the jukebox is AMAZING (Old school doo-wop and crooners, Jimmy Buffet, old school jazz, LOTS of Frank, Ella, Dean, Barry and Rod, and some surprising gems that one might not ever think that they'd want to hear... but YOU DO!!), and the decorations are FULL OUT for every season/holiday. You'll die.

4) The people are the friendliest and most welcoming... as soon as they get to know you! It's like befriending a pineapple. Tough and menacing-looking on the outside, sweet and delicious on the inside. You gotta finesse 'em. Aunt Rita bartends on weeknights, and I love her. Quite frankly, I haven't met ANYONE there that I don't adore. True story!

5) It's a block from my house. Good evening.

"THE BEER GARDEN," Bohemian Hall Beer Garden
29th Street and 24th Avenue
Astoria, New York

In a backyard-less city, the Beer Garden is everyone's favorite fakey bbq spot. There's a bar inside (but who cares about that) and an outside area about the size of a football field, but fenced in by a ten foot stone wall. Inside, wooden picnic tables sit on the gravel, and people are happy as clams (or schnitzels) to share their tables with you. And sometimes, people will share their pitchers of delicious beers, too!! Hoegaarden, Stella, Spaten and some other beers that no one orders are on tap, and pitchers are somewhere in the realm of $15. Not bad!

The key, though, is to try and score one of their old fashioned, thick-thick glass beer mugs!! They run out frequently and give out plastic cups, but keep checking back at the bar. Once you have it... TRY AND STEAL IT!! Haha!! Go ahead!! 99.999% of the time, you won't. They have security guards patrolling the bar, on the look-out for mug stealers. Yup. Take it from me.

I've gotten busted twice.

McLOUGHLIN'S
Broadway and 31st Street
Astoria, New York

Yea, admittedly, this bar kinda sucks sometimes. BUT! More often than not, it's delicious. They have Blue Moon on tap, it's RIGHT by the subway, it's cheap, their buyback policy is pretty liberal, and we just discovered that they have a back patio!!! Ahoy!! The two bartenders (Tommy- the fat one, and Jimmy- the moustached one) are off-the-boat Irish. And I usually understand about 2% of what Tommy says.

And karaoke on Tuesday nights. Not that I'm into that sort of thing... but I am.

Have you noticed that all three of these bars are in Astoria? That's what's up.

RUDY'S
9th Avenue btwn 44th and 45th Streets
Manhattan, New York

So, what if the only REAL reason that I like Rudy's is that it's close to other bars, it's retardedly cheap, and they have free hot dogs?

'Cuz for real. I've been wasted here more times than I care to admit, and have eaten even more free hot dogs. They have TONS of cheap beers on tap... and I randomly always end up with the darkest, nastiest one. Observe:

Also, please note the homeless man two to my left. Ya heard????

IRISH ROGUE
44th between 8th and 9th Avenues
Manhattan, New York

I had my birthday party here last year with Mark Fisher. It was splendid. The food is pretty outstanding also. And pool and darts and couches and Irish girls!!

Mmmm wings.

Clearly, I'm in love with 2378909873 other bars. But a man must draw the line eventually. Some noteworthy shout-outs and bars that are creeping up on my list include: Barcelona Bar ("The Shot Bar"), Crocodile Lounge (skeeball and free pizza!), Crescent Lounge (close to my house) and Broadway Station (close to my house).

Thanks for everyone's patronage for the past year at Bamboo 52 and Posh. I appreciate it. Too bad that both places will now be closing and that you aren't allowed to go there anymore.

Let's find some NEW places, eh? Eh?

Blogging is fun. Blogging is serious.

2007-06-20T14:25:00.001-04:00

If you read too many blogs, you might get delirious.

Welcome, welcome, welcome! Ah, feels nice to have a blogspot with my scent all over it, don't it?

So, I was up last night (way too late) blogstalking people, and I've finally decided to formally give 'er a go.

"But Tim! There are already two blogs posted before this one! What the...!?!?!"

Yes, see. I've blogged before. But on various social networking sites. Not on sites *just for blogs.* Feels good.

So, enjoy (or don't) some slices of my brain and my life. I'm hoping that this will keep me writing actively.

And I'm glad that there's a spellcheck. Daddy sometimes gets tahrd and can't be bothrhud with no spellin', keeyuds.

And my fucking dog drinks from water fountains. Eat it.

B'day mate!

2007-06-20T14:18:00.000-04:00

April 23, 2007

I feel like this is worth putting out there, even though I know it's a sensitive topic.

My room has a beday.

I'm not fully sure how to use one (let alone spell one), so I haven't tried it yet.

Honestly! I turned it on inquisitively, but no actual usage.

Yet.

…it's to wash your ass after you shit, right? Or is it a lady-wash thing? It really looks like a foot massager/ midget sink.

Here are my thoughts: it's right next to the toilet, so I know that it has to do with toilet business. But! There's toilet paper next to the toilet, too. Maybe you wipe (lol I'm actually typing this… lol), and then wash? Or just give the old undercarriage a squirt after the dirty business is done? Hose down the arena after the Browns go to the Superbowl? Make use of the chemistry lab's brown-eyewash station after the explosion? I could go on all day, folks.

And although I'll be home and beday-less by the time I post this, I feel like it's something I should know. Because there aren't instructions anywhere. I contemplated calling the front desk and asking, but really—the guy at the front desk was baffled when I asked where I could buy a bottle of water. This may be territory that my Spanglish is best kept out of.

So, I'm going to keep notes, 'cuz I'm not totally against giving it a shot, even knowing that I might be misusing it. People were offering me drugs and hookers at the pool, but no one was answering the tough questions. Do you use a rag? Or your hand? Or no scrubbing at all? Just let the water… rinse… stuff? It seems kinda sick to hand-scrub your shitty ass. Not kinda sick—fully sick. Not to mention unhygenic. Eek. So, if/when I use it, it's probably not going to include scrubbing. (Vacation note to self: let's set aside some time to give some serious thought to shaking hands with strangers in hotels with bedays...)

Wait. You know what. I'm most likely not going to use it… and if I do, I'm going to totally lie and say I haven't.

'Cuz I can write and write and write.

But ass-washing is private business, baby.

It's a black fly in your Capri Sun.

2007-06-20T03:10:00.000-04:00

Friday, March 30, 2007

Hi.

I've been thinking a lot lately about friends. About having them (or not), about making new ones and maintaining relationships with old ones, about having many or few. "Friends." Sounds generic, but it's not.

I was at a bar last night by myself. Kinda on purpose, kinda not. And there was a big bunch of guys in the back part, throwing darts. They were truly a motley crew; we're talking plaid flannel, braided leather belts, nylon logo jackets, facial hair creations. Preppy guys, wastoids, construction guys, a guy in a suit, a guy who looked like he was about thirteen. Basically, it was America! And there were maybe fifteen or twenty of them milling around, talking, laughing (or not laughing), buying beers. Carrying on. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how all of these random dudes got together and were hanging out. (Long story short: Darts League.) At one point, I wandered into their group and tried chatting up a guy about where they were from, etc etc. He was FULLY unbothered and kinda refused (pretty abruptly) to talk to me because I CLEARLY wasn't in their League. I still thought it was a hilarious vibe, so I stayed amongst them for a bit, taking it all in, even though it was devastatingly obvious that they wanted me to go away. It was pretty fucking ridiculous. Ridiculously delicious.

Growing up, I always felt like the kid who didn't know where to sit at lunch. Maybe it was because we moved when I was dead in the middle of middle school (4th grade) and once again when I was dead in the middle of highschool (summer between Sophomore and Junior years). Or maybe it was because that's how everyone felt growing up. I always felt very different, like I never really fit in. All puns aside, but I always felt a little off when it came to kids my own age, like I'd missed a very important meeting that keyed everyone else in to some very sacred social constructs. I was the turd floating in the punch bowl. And everyone was pointing and laughing.

I obviously did have friends growing up. I might've been more annoying (and chubbier) when I was younger, but, even then, I'd maintain I am and was pretty easy to be around, pretty reasonable to get along with. And maybe it's simply a "grass is greener" thing, but I remember always being jealous of the way my brother was with his friends.

My brother Pat played baseball for our highschool and for the American Legion, and he was pretty popular at our highschool (a Jesuit, all-boys school). And don't get me wrong- he's fucking hilarious to boot. And a great ballplayer. My brother always had this massive crew of "baseball guys" around. Guys' guys. Punch-you-in-the-face guys. Titty-fuck-some-chick-in-their-mom's-van guys. Put-on-a-liter-of-Cool-Waters-and-go-cruising guys. I was so jealous. I don't think my brother ever had a question about where he was going on a Friday or Saturday night. His wedding was enormous. His wedding reception was a huuuuge party. Three different girls went to the ER in seperate ambulances at different points in the night (broken glasses + bare feet = success). The amount of testosterone (and Cool Waters) was unbearable.

Unbearably amazing!

'Cuz, somewhere along the way, it was written that I was to sit at the lunch table with the misfits. I never really FELT like a misfit, but when push came to shove, there I was in Seventh Grade with fat Dan Walsh, creepy Ben Miller and that one kid who used to chew on balls of paper from his notebook. And after lunch, we'd all shuffle out to recess and, again, do the inbetween thing. Dan was too fat to play basketball (and everyone else at the table was too uncoordinated), Ben always ended up trying to talk to the girls (who would get him to do stupid shit like eating bugs or picking up dog shit... which he would...), the creepy kid would sit and throw rocks and shit at the field next door...

And I'd be left there thinking, "What the fuck? How did I end up with these kids?"

Haha. That's a funny picture. But true. I mean, I was never weird or awkward about talking to girls (insert the sweet smell of irony), and I am surprisingly coordinated and (even more surprisingly) athletic.

And here I am, fifteen years later, getting boxed out of a chance to hang out with A DART LEAGUE. Of course, I retreated to a clearing at the bar and trying to unscramble the Wordy Gurdy coming out of the drunk Irish guy's mouth. And along came two random drunk Fat Girls In Tops That Were Two Sizes Too Small. And who do they want to hit up? Yup. Clearly. A minute later, some goth guy came in (sporting those bangs where one side goes all the way to your chin and the other side is about an inch long) started drinking Jack and Diet Sprite (...really?), and asking me if I could introduce him to "those girls [I was] just talking to."

And I was left sitting there in my stool thinking, "What the fuck? How did I end up with these kids?"

I'm not sure if I have a point, really. I suppose I wouldn't have some of the voices and mannerisms I've collected along the way if I didn't know Kyle Brewer (who literally got a tight, spiral perm in 8th Grade and thought that no one would notice...) or Sean Hamilton (whom everyone always suspected was gay, starting in, say, fourth grade) (My brother and I still make fun of him!). I've developed a warped sense of humor from it all, about it all.

And I've always thought that my brother's baseball friends and his fraternity brothers in college were the coolest. It must've felt great knowing that plans for the weekend were already made by Tuesday for everyone. Or maybe it just felt really, really stifling. I always thought that there was something so cache about having a mob of dudes behind you, no matter what. Or maybe it's not cache at all, but just some sort of dressing-up of fear and awkwardness. Power in numbers? Group mind? Band of brothers? ...Security blanket?

Now here's the best part.

I still have that lunch table of misfits.

BUT! Ha HA!! But we're the cool kids now. Sure, we're all creeping up on thirty (some of us more than others!), and we're still looking forward to (someday!!) making $30,000 a year. Sure, some of us may drink way more than we're supposed to and worry about our shitty bar jobs more than we worry about our stocks.

But I'll never be able to say that my life is plain. I'll always have a funny story to tell. Like about how Toothless Jerry made me swing dance with him to "Mambo Number Five" this past Saturday night at my local watering hole. Or about I was cajoled into playing Beer Pong a few weeks ago at a bar called Deno's Party House USA (for real) with four eighteen year olds from Jersey who called eachother and everyone else in the bar nothing but "Fag." (Seriously, do you smell that?)

And, clearly, my friends are the finest stuff on earth. Smart, funny, generous, talented. Cream of the crop, kids. And for them, I will forever thank my lucky stars.

But some nights, when I'm going through my phone, trying to think if anyone is off tonight or if anyone might still be awake, I wonder if Nick Fisher (quarterback of my first highschool's football team) is doing the same thing.

Some nights, when I'm looking at vacation spots, envisioning sunburned debauchery on the beach and wondering if it would be fun or depressing to go on a Bahamavention by myself, I wonder if Scott Mangus (who had his ears taped back in Fifth Grade and got randomly upgraded from our lunch table) has trouble booking vacations because too many of his friends want to go.

And please. I'm not having a pity party over here.

I'm just wondering.