May 2007 Archives

50 Cent stands to make over $400 million after Coca-Cola bought the company that makes Vitamin Water. Maybe he'll change his name to 40 Billion Cent ha ha topical!

50 Cent might shoot me for making that terrible joke.

I guess he was rich already, but I would really enjoy it if this windfall meant 50 totally dropped his hard-edged persona and basically became Theo Huxtable. Come on, you wouldn't want to hear see him dressed in a Gordon Gartrelle shirt in the video for Justine, Justine!? He could diss Mrs. Griswald, the mean landlady from the Real World Apartments. Or, he could perform a eulogy rap for Lamont, Rudy's old goldfish. I have always thought that, given their inadequate housing and constant proximity to death, goldfish would share a certain life perspective with gangsta rappers, so this could really go places.

Ebony & Irony Presents is a brand-new monthly comedy showcase. The first evening features:

Sheng Wang (appearing on Comedy Central this summer)
Reggie Steele (recently headlined at the San Jose Improv)
Sean Keane (local favorite, dashing good looks)
Kevin Munroe (co-founder, Ebony & Irony), and
Joe Tobin (co-founder, Ebony & Irony)

Hosted by Julian Vance

Tickets are $10; call 415.398.4129 for reservations.

The SF Department of Parking & Transportation still enforces its street sweeping parking regulations on Memorial Day. If I still have to move my car across the street on the night before Memorial Day, what was the point of all those soldiers dying fighting the Nazis in the first place?

Stanford's scandal du jour is the story of Azia Kim, an 18-year-old who sucessfully pretended to be a Stanford student for nearly eight months.

This is very similar to the story of Buddy Teevens, the Florida tight ends coach who led the Stanford football team from 2002-4. Athletic Director Ted Leland was going to conduct an elaborate search for departing coach Tyrone Willingham's replacement, but when Teevens showed up in 2002, no one questioned him. Soon he was leading practices, making recruiting trips, and drawing up doomed ineffectual game plans. The athletic department tolerated this because, as one staffer said, "Buddy was so nice. No one wanted to confront him."

An anonymous SEC head football coach said, "With your assistant coaches, you know two years in advance that this guy is going to end up coaching at a Big Ten school, being regarded as being the top of the game," he said. "Buddy wasn’t one of those. I don't think anyone would say that.

Lacking a Stanford ID or key card, Teevens would enter the locker room by climbing onto a dumpster and entering through an open window. "I thought he just liked breezes," said a former player. "Breezes, and getting his ass kicked at the Big Game." Some players speculate that Teevens was homeless, and spent many nights in the trainer's room if he couldn't find an assistant coach to crash with.

Eventually, the ruse was discovered, and Teevens was relieved of his duties. Friends and colleagues speculate that it may have been peer pressure that caused Teevens to pretend to be a real football coach. He was replaced by Walt Harris, who resigned after his parents found out he'd been spending most nights at his girlfriend's house.

I'm a last-minute addition to Kevin O'Shea's "Blah Blah Blah! (a talk show)", taking place at 10 PM on Saturday, May 26th at The Dark Room.

It's a comedy talk show, meaning you'll get to hear some of your favorite local comics performing sit-down comedy for a change. There's Jason Downs, actor-comedian Greg Edwards, co-host Joe Gorman (whose mother called me an "apple-cheeked young man" after one of my shows), and me.

Check out the flyer below for more details, and see if you can guess which comedian I am replacing.

The May 2007 Sean Keane College Tour concludes tonight with a show at Leland Stanford Junior University. I'll be hosting Tuesday Comedy Night at the Stanford Comedy Club, located at The 750 Pub, 750 Escondido Rd Palo Alto, CA 94305.

The lineup features local favorite Boxcar, Buffalo native and founder of High Contrast Comedy, as a feature act, and an unprecedented triumvirate of headlining from Jeremy Whitman, Scot Shields, and Adam Hammer, as part of their Just Another Hangover Tour. Show starts at 9 PM, and should finish up about 11.

I learned a lot from going back to school this month. San Francisco State has cheap beer and an enormous video arcade. My baby face still gets me carded at campus bars. Dwinelle Hall in Berkeley still has a disorienting layout. College students everywhere enjoy jokes about inferior academic institutions and mass murders at other colleges. And, most likely, Stanford still sucks.

June brings comedy competitions, more shows with Joe Tobin, and an assortment of South Bay appearances. Watch this space for more details, or check the MySpace calendar.

For now, comments are emancipated from the minimal-registration shackles of TypeKey (but feel free to register all the same!), but Zembla is still receiving thrilling communications via Meebo. This is one of our sadder communications so far, probably in response to this post, the #2 search result for "Kristen Larson".

barbiexxface: i typed kristen larson in google
barbiexxface: kristen just died saterday
barbiexxface: and yeah
barbiexxface: im going to her wake and stuff
barbiexxface: i have to go bye.

Zembla has had an unusually large number of people visit looking for Kristen Larson recently. It's too bad this is the reason why. Condolences to Kristen Larson's friends and family. And yeah.

Amir also assured me that my comedic influence was slightly more than zero percent. I appreciate his nice comments, but fear that this may be part of the set-up for a humiliating prank. I am pretty sure the prank will not involve Amir riding a bike, because he never learned how.

Friday saw two big developments in the world of NBA coaching. The Toronto Star says Sam Mitchell is returning as coach of the Raptors, and the Rockets officially fired Jeff Van Gundy. Mitchell was widely expected to explore coaching vacancies in Indiana, Charlotte or Sacramento, but ultimately decided to stay put.

When sportswriters rank the best vacant coaching jobs available, they tend to focus on the talent on the team's roster, their draft prospects, or their salary cap situation. Rarely do they discuss what should be a huge factor, the relative livability of these cities. It's why Warriors fans should be worried when Don Nelson says he's "not sure" he's going to stay as the head coach. The Warriors aren't competing against a job with another team for Nellie's affections; they're competing against Nellie's desire to begin drinking scotch at 10 AM every day in Hawaii.

If Mitchell was choosing between living in Toronto and living in Indianapolis, is that a difficult decision at all? Even if Indiana paid him more money, is that worth the lifestyle downgrade? Indianapolis drives NBA personnel so crazy, they end up getting into altercations with "small black males with handicapped short arms".

Meanwhile, Van Gundy has got to be relieved to be departing the humid, polluted hellhole that is Houston, Texas. The man used to live in New York City, and now he's spent four years in a city with no zoning, 95-degree mornings most of the year, and a light rail system that kills people. His choice was simple this offseason:

A: Stay in Houston, sign a new contract, and try to lead the Rockets out of the first round of the playoffs, or
B: Live and work anywhere in the world that isn't Houston, Texas

Any right-thinking human being would choose B.

My favorite part of the Van Gundy story is that the Rockets offered him a front office position, as if a vice president position makes it at all worthwhile to stay among the smog, traffic, and, worst of all, Houstonians. Look, Van Gundy didn't get fired. He got paroled.

Now Houston wants to get Rick Adelman to replace Van Gundy. Adelman has a history of success, but more importantly, he used to coach in Sacramento, meaning his expectations for weather and culture are low enough to find Houston, if not actually nice, at least acceptable.

The truly significant result of Van Gundy's firing is that he could team up with his brother, former Miami Heat coach Stan Van Gundy. Stan's Wikipedia page has a truly degrading photo of Coach Stan.) Omar's Van Gundy brothers coaching plan can become a reality. His idea is that the Van Gundys would share the head coaching role, "like a two headed ugly monster coach".

Omar explains further:

Jeff can feel free to run out onto the court and grab Zo's leg during their first matchup with the Heat, and then Stan can go punch Riles in their second matchup.

This is a brilliant idea. I think they, the Mega-Gundy, should be treated as a single entity - a technical for one is a technical for both, though it yields only one free throw. Stan has to shave his head, while Jeff has to grow a mustache. They will do interviews together, and be known as Jan Van Gundy. I think they should coach the Charlotte Bobcats, so they can torment Pat Riley four times a year in divisional play and give Adam Morrison's mustache the tutelage it needs. Also, the Charlotte job guarantees that neither Van Gundy ends up in Indianapolis, Memphis, or Sacramento, and you simply cannot put a price on that.

The evening was going poorly. I had neither of my two sets of car keys, nor the means to connect with either holder of said keys. My ancient phone charger no longer works, so my lack of access to the car also meant a lack of access to the car charger, so my phone was down to its last few minutes of battery power. Technology had defeated me, and not even complicated technology at that.

Cut off from communication and filled with simmering rage, I still had stand-up comedy obligations. Yes, it was a waiting-room-shaped theater with 27-person capacity. Yes, the actual crowd would number between six and ten befuddled tourists, horrified by their surroundings and already regretting their ticket purchases. Their pained, non-laughing faces would tremble, as if to escape the mediocre comedy occurring far too close, their eyes whispering, "We could have seen Jersey Boys". But I am a performer, and a performer must constantly hone his craft.

I learned there is something more depressing than performing to a silent audience of six after the frantic host has delivered a monologue about her belief that the Queen of England should become a prostitute, a monologue that uses the word "coochie" between eight and ten times, depending on crowd reaction, then introduced me as "Jeff". Namely, traveling to the Tenderloin to find the tiny theater locked, the show cancelled without explanation.

Arriving back home, my spirit as dead as my cellular phone, I decided I could perhaps salvage the night with a workout. While 24-Hour Fitness is a misnomer on the level of The NeverEnding Story, my local branch is open until midnight. It was uncrowded at 10:45 on a Friday night, residents of my neighborhood apparently not making fitness a priority on weekends. There was only one other person on the Precors as I set to getting my elliptical on. But he was humming.

I made it through "Hey Jude" and one verse of Bob Seger's "Night Moves" before I finally snapped. Red-faced and dripping sweat, I turned and shouted, "Stop that! Right now!"

He looked chagrined, and walked over to the stationary bicycles. In retrospect, I am not sure if he thought I was telling him to stop humming, or to get off the elliptical trainer. Maybe he wasn't even consciously aware of his humming, just my crazed splotchy face, bulging eyeballs, and obvious willingness to throw down. Nevertheless, no more goddamn humming.

Denouement: Late in the evening, I got a set of keys back, then moved the car while charging up the phone. When I pulled into the new space across from my house, the car in front of me contained a couple getting it on in the front seat. I considered shouting, "Stop that! Right now!", but in fairness to the couple losing those awkward teenage blues, public sex is way less offensive than public humming. If the choice is between someone humming "Night Moves" near me, and actually working on their night moves near me, I'm going to choose the latter every time.

"This is a very unfortunate incident, but the rule is the rule. It's not a matter of fairness. It's a matter of correctness, and this is the right decision."
-Stu Jackson, on suspending Amare Stoudemire and Boris Diaw

Stu Jackson, Traffic Cop

Jaywalking

(Robert Horry runs a red light in his Humvee, collides with Steve Nash in the crosswalk, and drives off. Boris Diaw steps off the curb and is apprehended by Officer Stu Jackson.)

Officer Stu Jackson: (Blows whistle) That's jaywalking, young man.

Diaw: My friend just got hit by a car!

Officer Jackson: The law states that, between adjacent intersections controlled by traffic control signal devices or by police officers, pedestrians shall not cross the roadway at any place except in a crosswalk.

Diaw: But I didn't even cross! I just took two steps off the curb!

Officer Stu Jackson: The law doesn't give me any discretion here. I'm going to have to give you a citation.

Diaw: Fine. Write the ticket. Can I at least go check on my friend?

Officer Stu Jackson: I'm pretty sure your friend is dead.

Diaw: What?

Officer Stu Jackson: Say, you think Stromile Swift can still develop into a good player, right?

The Fender-Bender

(Amare Stoudemire is stopped at an intersection. Bruce Bowen crashes his battered, banged-up jalopy into the back of Stoudemire's car, while honking his horn. Stoudemire gets out to confront Bowen.)

Amare Stoudemire: What the hell, man?

Bruce Bowen: Sorry. Totally unintentional.

Stoudemire: How did you not see me there?

(Officer Stu Jackson approaches the two men.)

Officer Stu Jackson: Whoa whoa whoa. What's going on here?

Stoudemire: He rear-ended me!

Bowen: I apologized to him. Just part of driving.

Officer Stu Jackson: I'm more concerned about you leaving your vehicle, Mr. Stoudemire. Let me see your registration. Mr. Bowen, you are free to go.

Bowen: Thank you, sir.

(Bowen hits Stoudemire in the groin with the car door, and drives off.)

Officer Stu Jackson: Looks like your taillight is out, too. This is going to cost you.

Stoudemire: That's not fair at all!

Officer Stu Jackson: Can I ask you a question? You'd give up the #2 pick in the draft for a 35-year-old Otis Thorpe, right?

The Sports Book

(Officer Stu Jackson enters, places large sack of cash on the counter.)

Officer Jackson: I'd like to bet $25,000 on the San Antonio Spurs to win the NBA title.

Cashier: Of course, sir.

Officer Jackson: By the way, you'd pay Bryant "Big Country" Reeves $10 million a year, right?

Cashier: Whatever you say, sir.

The Golden State Warriors suffered a disappointing loss to the Utah Jazz Monday night. Seeing his team's spirits were down, Don Nelson decided a team-building activity was in order. And since this was Don Nelson, he decided to take them to a bar. Unfortunately, the team may have continued some of its bad habits.)

A Team-Building Night Out With the Warriors

Downtown

(The Warriors pile into the team bus, ready for a night out)

Coach Nellie: OK, what bar should we go to?

Baron Davis: Let's go downtown.

Jason Richardson: Yeah, downtown.

Stephen Jackson: We should focus on downtown.

Andris Biedrins: Sure, I guess.

Al Harrington: Definitely downtown.

Matt Barnes: Downtown is where it's at.

Jackson: I know a place that's got a full bar out on the patio. And you know what that means?

Richardson: Shots. Outside shots.

Davis: Oh hell yes.

Harrington: Outside shots are the greatest!

Barnes: I feel like taking outside shots all night!

Biedrins: Is this such a good idea? We might get cold tonight.

Nellie: What are you saying?

Biedrins: Well, maybe we should try to establish an inside presence, too?

All: Shut up, Andris! What do you know?

Open Threes

(Jason Richardson approaches the bar)

Richardson: What do you have in a bottle?

Bartender: Imports are $5, domestics are $4, and you can get Pabst Blue Ribbon for $3.

Richardson: PBR for $3? Yes! I'll take ten of those.

(Bartender uncaps the beers. Richardson tries to take all ten bottles back to his table by himself.)

Bartender: Mr. Richardson, do you want to take that many threes by yourself? Isn't that a bit ill-advised?

Richardson: Look, someone's gotta carry the load for this team.

(Richardson drops the armful of beers on the ground. Coach Nellie runs over angrily.)

Nellie: Dammit, Jason, those were open threes! We've got to drain those! Aw, just get me an import!

(Richardson waves in Mickaël Piétrus, who jogs up to the bartender.)

Piétrus: Dix Pabst Blue Ribbons, s'il vous plaît.

Rebounding

Adonal Foyle: Hey, Andris. What's happening with that cute girl you were talking to?

Andris Biedrins: I don't know.

Foyle: Come on, man. That girl was gorgeous.

Biedrins: I know. But she said she just got out of a long relationship.

Foyle: So?

Biedrins: So? She's on the rebound.

Foyle: I see what you mean. Gotta stay away from those rebounds.

Biedrins: I wouldn't even know what to do with a rebound!

Foyle: Looks like it doesn't matter, Andris. She just started making out with Paul Millsap.

Quality Shots

Monta Ellis: Stephen, what are you drinking?

Stephen Jackson: Not sure. (points to array of empty one-ounce glasses) One of them was Jägermeister, one was Wild Turkey, a couple were 151, two were tequila from this dirty unlabeled bottle, and that last one was a Cement Mixer.

Ellis: What's a Cement Mixer?

Jackson: Baileys and lime juice. You swish it around in your mouth until it gets lumpy.

Ellis: That is disgusting. How can you drink that stuff? I hate to say this, but you have to improve your shot selection, Stephen.

Jackson: Nah, these were all quality shots. Hey, bartender? Pour me one that's half-Jack-Daniels, half-Apple-Pucker.

Ellis: I need to go somewhere else now.

Jackson: You miss 100% of the shots you don't take.

Boozer

(The team returns to the bus at closing time, only to find the driver agitated and upset.)

Bus Driver: Nellie, one of the drunks from the bar wandered into the bus. He's doing a lot of damage in there.

Nellie: OK, I'm calling a cab.

Bus Driver: Aren't you even going to try to stop that alcoholic?

Nellie: Nope. Once he gets inside, that Boozer is unstoppable.

Continuing our series, here's how the Frenchmen did in Game 4 of the playoffs:

Tony Parker: 5-for-5.

Boris Diaw: 0-for-0.

Mickaël Piétrus: 0-for-3

Parker has recovered, Piétrus has fallen way off, and Diaw still isn't getting to the line much.

I was wrong in attributing the improvement in Mickaël's shooting to wine and hugs. According to the man himself, the improvement was due to not practicing his foul shots on Thursday in practice, and then playing with his puppy in Golden Gate Park. Hugs no, puppies yes, for Piétrus. Do you think Nellie will let him take his dog on the road? It may make the difference in Game 5.

Fresh on the heels of yesterday's Shrek snack exposé comes another look at Shrek snack products. On my way to watch the Warriors play like a pack of galumphing ogres versus Utah, I purchased a bag of Sour Skittles for my friend. A newly directionalized and dimensionalized blogger and Sour Skittles enthusiast, Louise introduced me to the candy on a road trip to Los Angeles last spring. As an added bonus, these were special Shrek the Third Sour Skittles. I haven't seen any of the Shrek films, and conveniently enough, Louise is also my main source for Shrek information.

A sample conversation:

Sean: So, the princess is secretly a Shrek?
Louise: Only at night.
Sean: But her parents are humans, not Shreks?
Louise: Yes.
Sean: And that donkey is having sex with the dragon?
Louise: I have to go, Sean.

There are no hilarious jokes on this particular snack product. Instead, they promise "ogre-iffic" prizes, which in my case meant a Shrek screen saver. I would quibble over whether that qualifies as ogre-iffic, but I guess I like the screen saver as much as I like any ogre-related product.

One reason there aren't any knock-knock jokes on the Skittles packaging is that the company's creative energy went into making new "enchanted" flavors. Wizard Watermelon and Apple-y Ever After replace the decidedly disenchanted flavors of orange and grape. The sorcery of M&M-Mars knows no bounds! They even bewitched anti-obesity spokesman Shrek into endorsing roughly seventy-five different candy and junk food products.

As we have seen with other Mike Myers vehicles like Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me and The Cat in the Hat, the funniness of a movie increases with every additional promotional tie-in associated with it.

How are Shrek Sour Skittles as a candy? Wizard Watermelon is pretty good, but Apple-y Ever After is clearly inferior to the classic orange. I wish Wizard Melon had been "The End" of the flavor modification. Both new and old flavors provide the requisite acidity and damage the taster's tongue fairly severely, as sourficionados have come to demand from their candy. Much like Shrek the Third aspires to be, Sour Shrek Skittles are an inoffensive retread of a tried-and-true formula.

Coincidentally, we also got a chance to sample the new Sour Mix Mentos, which were extremely disappointing and not at all sour. If I were to design a commercial for the product, I'd set it at a sold-out rock concert. A frustrated fan is turned away at the door, but then he gets an idea. He turns his jacket inside out, pulls a cap down low on his head, and pretends to be a security guard. He pops a Sour Mix Mento into his mouth, and immediately begins to choke. The real security guards laugh at him, and then everyone at the concert leaves because the band sucks so bad. At the end, a bum steals his wallet and kicks him in the crotch. Then the announcer says, "Sour Mix Mentos: The Freshmaker?!?" all freaked out and horrified, and the commercial ends. There would also be a code on the package that let you download a Sour Mix Mentos screen saver that, when installed, immediately crashes your computer. Because that's what this candy does to your mouth.

Through my Hollywood connections and my membership in a certain grocery-based "club", I managed to get my hands on an official, commemorative Shrek 3 Cheez-It box. If the picture of Shrek and Donkey together on the front weren't enough to make this a collector's item, the box is full of jokes. I haven't seen any of the Shrek films so far, but I may have to re-think my stance after reading some of these zingers.

(Most people would agree that these are funnier if you read them out loud in a Shrek voice.)

Q: What makes Dragon such a hot catch?
A: Her fiery breath!

Q: Where was Shrek born?
A: Ogre there!

G: What's "fiesty" Princess Fiona often called?
A: Belle of the Brawl!

Knock-knock...
Who's there?
Police...
Police, Who?
Police Pass Me Another Weed-Rat!

Q: What's the one party Puss in Boots would skip?
A: The Fur Ball!

Knock-Knock...
Who's There?
Olive...
Olive Who?
Olive in the Swamp, how 'bout You?

Knock-Knock...
Who's There?
Cattle...
Cattle Who?
Cattle take care of you, Shrek!

And finally, a quote from the ogre himself, though sadly without exclamation points:

"Ogres are like onions...They have layers."
-Shrek

Let's check in on how the French players fared from the free-throw line in Game 3 of the conference semi-finals.

Tony Parker: 2-for-4.

Boris Diaw: 2-for-4.

Mickaël Piétrus: 8-for-9

Clearly, Pietrus has overcome the anxieties that are still plaguing his amis. Is it his distance from the Longoria-Parker nuptials? Is it that he grew up in the Caribbean, not in France? I'm still going to go with wine and hugs.

I went out last night after my show and I drank too much. Actually, it wasn't a matter of alcoholic consumption as much as it was my lack of dinner that screwed me up, but nevertheless, I was plowed. When I woke up this morning, I didn't remember anything after leaving the party and waiting for the bus. So I decided to examine the evidence.

My ever-present notebook was no help at all. My scrawled notes are all about the Warriors-Jazz series and free-throw shooting, proving that excessive amounts of gin only increase my nerdiness. Only one note is different, and hopefully something I did not say out loud:

"'Juice' - Gatorade plastic container vs. anti-Semitic 'Jews'".

Yeah, that one is definitely going into my act. It's got a lot of promise, particularly if I ever performa in front of an audience of athletically-minded white supremacists. Also? Gatorade is not juice.

A quick perusal of my surroundings yielded further clues. I had slept under only my comforter, not the sheets. That's because I made the bed after staggering home, and apparently Drunken Sean didn't want to ruin his (admittedly excellent) bedsmanship. It's like alcohol awakened a commitment to hospital corners that I never knew I had.

Moving further into the apartment, I saw more damning evidence of my drunken tomfoolery. The dish drainer was full of clean pots and pans, which I must have washed around 2:30. I left them to air dry, like a true rebel. There was also a pile of empty plastic bags and a receipt. Yes, in my drunken stupor, I'd gone to Safeway. And what did I buy? Apples, zucchini, carrots, and bananas. And microwave popcorn, but it was the light kind. I even used a coupon that saved me $4.

I don't feel good about drinking to such excess, but at the same time, I'm pleased to have gotten so much done. Perhaps sobriety is what's been holding me back all these years. I'll be spending the rest of the afternoon at Harrington's, downing Irish car bombs while balancing my checkbook, studying linguistics, and making a shoebox diorama of the Eschaton scene from Infinite Jest.

I've got a last-minute feature gig tonight (May 11th) at the SF Comedy Club at 50 Mason. The show begins at 8, and admission is $10. Headlining the Friday Night Showcase this week is one of my favorite comics, the wiry and wily Joe Tobin. Here's a clip of Mr. Tobin in action:

Courtesy of my friends at the Grammar Rodeo, this is a photo from the official Kenny Rogers web page. I'm already fond of Oscar Rodeos and the album Sweetheart of the Rodeo, so the Grammar Rodeo should be a nice addition.

This photo appears to be a child dressed up as Sonny Crockett, Don Johnson's character from Miami Vice. He's got the stubble, the oversized sunglasses, and even a handgun. The smoke behind him hints at a dramatic miniature crime scene just out of the camera's range, perhaps a tiny, fiery boat crash.

In short, this is an accomplished photograph. The production value is high, so high that I find it hard to imagine that this is the only one of its kind in the Kenny Rogers portfolio. I would even venture that it is not the only child-as-Miami-Vice-character photograph in the portfolio. Hanging on a wall in stately Rogers Manor, there's a little Ricardo Tubbs in a small pastel suit, a little Cuban boy dressed as drug dealer Calderone, and a black-suited boy done up to look like an eight-year-old Edward James Olmos, complete with pockmarks. The Sonny Crockett portrait may be the finest result from this project, but it's clearly not the first one.

Kenny may not have stopped at Vice, either. Who knows how many children have been forced to dress as 80's TV cops to satisfy Kenny's inexplicable obsession? Right now, standing under hot lights as perfectionist Kenny gets the Hill Street Blues backdrop just right, there's a frightened eight-year-old clad in a police officer's uniform, waiting for a lunch break and some long-promised fried chicken. The only sound is quiet weeping and Kenny's muttered mantra, "You got to know when to pose 'em, know when to expose 'em, know when to add fake facial hair, know when to get sunglasses." Kenny can calibrate his light meter when he's sitting at the table, but will there truly be time enough to count the psychological damage, even after the photography is done?

That being said, I bet the 21 Jump Street series is adorable.

More Kenny Rogers on Zembla:

What I Learned on Thanksgiving
On a Warm Summer's Evening In a Compact Car Bound For Nowhere

And some posts about the other Kenny Rogers

In Game 2 of the two Western Conference semi-finals, French players combined to make only three foul shots, out of nine attempts. Tony Parker was 3-6, Mickaël Piétrus was 0-for-3, and Boris Diaw did not attempt a foul shot. Before this, French players had shot extremely well from the line in the playoffs. Piétrus was 16-19, Diaw was 7-9, and Parker was 18-21. In addition, Frenchman Ronny Turiaf of the eliminated Los Angeles Lakers shot 7-10 in the first-round loss to the Suns.

So what changed? I have three theories:

1. Anxiety over election returns:

Conservative Nicolas Sarkozy won the presidency of France, distressing these athletes. Footballer Lillian Thuram has been an outspoken opponent of Sarkozy, claiming that he is "awakening the hidden racism" of the French people. Thuram also took issue with Sarkozy's comments blaming blacks and Arabs for suburban riots, and calling urban immigrant youths "scum".

Perhaps the basketball players are distracted. During the frantic up-and-down of the game, they can put aside their political fears about France's right-wing, racialized future, but at the moment of contemplation just before a lancer-franc, the fears come back. Also, it would not surprise me if the players were unconsciously aiming slightly left of the cylinder, to counter-balance the political shift.

2. After notable headbutts, French players miss important penalty shots:

In last summer's World Cup, David Trezeguet missed his penalty shot just minutes after Zinedine Zidane was sent off for headbutting Marco Materazzi. Since Tony Parker split open Steve Nash's nose, French free throw shooting has gone into le toilette. Maybe Boris Diaw could sense this, and thus settled for jump shots throughout Game 2.

3. Sympathy for Tony Parker

Eva Longoria told Jimmy Kimmel that she was not having sex with Tony Parker until their wedding day in June. It is possible that the sympathetic Frenchmen feel that putting it in the hole so easily is essentially taunting poor Tony.

I'll be watching to see if the trend continues when the Suns and Spurs resume hostilities tonight in San Antonio. As far was the Warriors are concerned, there's a simple way to get Piétrus back on track: Wine-tasting with Nellie.

Or maybe Mickaël just needs a hug.

Many years ago, I used to teach a writing class at UC Berkeley. One of my former students has since gone on to a very bright future in the world of comedy writing, a future that is roughly...zero percent due to my tutelage. Amir Blumenfeld writes for College Humor, created Drew Bledsoe's brilliant blog, and is a gifted impressionist, but I feel his great accomplishment comes via his prank war with co-worker Streeter Seidell.

It all began with a doctored mp3 of "Stacy's Mom", by Fountains of Wayne, and a video of Amir unwittingly singing along. After that, things escalated. Lucky for all of us, the complete prank war is documented on Vimeo.

Prank 1: Don't Look At My Face

Amir unwittingly sings along to an mp3 of "Stacy's Mom", into which Streeter has secretly spliced an audio recording of himself having sex.

Prank 2: Where's My Cookie?

Streeter goes on a lunch date with a girl who doesn't actually exist.

Prank 3: Notice How He Picks a Stereotype That Isn't Even True

Amir auditions for a fake comedy/sketch pilot, set up by Streeter. He does a series of impressions and introduces himself as "Andy Bloom".

Prank 4: There Could Have Been Industry People There

Streeter performs at an open mic at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in New York City, where unbeknownst to him, the audience has been instructed not to laugh at any of his jokes. This one is very difficult to watch.

I am very torn watching these clips. For my own enjoyment, I would like the prank war to continue indefinitely, but at the same time, I share the concerns of one Vimeo commenter, who worries that, "This war is going to end in one of their deaths."

The May 2007 Sean Keane College Tour rolls to San Francisco State University today. It's a free show at 5 PM at The Depot, part of the Cesar Chavez Student Center. Here is a map. If you're on campus for any reason, or just hanging out near Daly City BART in the late afternoon, come check it out.

The other comedians are:

Joe Klocek - Punchline regular, soon to be featured on Comedy Central's Live at Gotham
Clark Taylor - Veteran SF comic
Edwin Li - SF State student and Transformers enthusiast
Kevin O'Shea - A lot like Kevin Shea, except for Irisher and soberer
Joe Gorman - Founder and star, Babyfaces of Comedy Tour, and also a Transformers enthusiast
Plus special guests!

The Pub next door also has drink specials tonight, a crucial part of enjoying comedy at 5 PM that isn't in the form of a "Three's Company" rerun. Of course, the Pub specials would make Jack Tripper a lot funnier, too. The landlord thinks he's gay, people!

On Saturday, I visited Paramount's Great America in scenic Santa Clara, California. I hadn't been to Great America since Gay & Lesbian Night, back in 2003, so I was eager to re-discover the wonders of roller coaster fun, and write down lots of observations in a yellow pocket-sized notebook. In summary: The park is pretty great, though becoming steadily less American.

The reason for this is the introduction of Boomerang Bay.

At Zembla, we've been staunch supporters of all things Australian, but is this really appropriate at Great America? It's not Great Treason or anything, but it's pretty far from Great Patriotism. I can't help but suspect that this is a symbol of the nefarious partnership between Australian PM John Howard and his BFF George W. Bush. David Hicks goes home, but is forced to agree to a one-year media ban. In return, Howard criticizes Democratic presidential candidates. And now, Great America has an entire Australian area. I don't have any proof, but I bet Paul Wolfowitz helped negotiate this expansion.

For the benefit of Zembla's Australian readers, here's a list of what's featured in Boomerang Bay (which is not, as far as I can tell, an actual body of water Down Under.) Aussies registered with TypeKey can let me know of any odd naming choices or discrepancies with authentic Australian culture.

Outback Shack: Serves freshly battered fish and shrimp, pizza, breadsticks, French fries, salads, soda and beer.

Mick's Crocodile Canteen: Pizza, hot dogs, salads, nachos, soda, beer.

Castaway Creek: Circular tube ride.

The Screamin' Wombat, Downunder Thunder, Didgeridoo Falls: Waterslides

Boomerang Lagoon: Swimming pool

Great Barrier Reef: Wave pool

Jackaroo Landing, Kookaburra Cay: Water play areas.

HMB Endeavor: Used to be called The Revolution, and informally known as "The Pirate Ship". It has now been re-named after the ship Captain Cook used on his first voyage of discovery to Australia and New Zealand, though Maori visitors might still consider it a pirate vessel.. Though the ship ran aground on the Great Barrier Reef, the historical record does not show that it ever turned upside down in a terrifying manner, as Great America's HMB Endeavor does. Park officials have also Americanized the spelling of the ship's name. South of the Equator, this ride moves in the opposite direction.

The Demon: In the past, I have compared the Demon to Big Thunder Mountain Railroad:

On Monday, April 23, a suicide bomber killed nine US soldiers in Iraq. Boris Yeltsin and David Halberstam both died. What did the San Francisco Chronicle use as their top headline?

AGGRESSIVE ELEPHANT SEAL MENACES SONOMA BEACHES

Yes, the deadly, fearsome elephant seal. 2,500 pounds of raw, harbor -seal-killing fury. The citizens of Sonoma must be warned! Away from Goat Rock Beach, or suffer the seal's wrath!

The seal has reportedly killed a dozen harbor seals, and bitten a surfer. It has also bitten a dog, not to step on anyone's area of expertise. It lunges "like a crocodile", according to witnesses.

It may be that the Chron wanted to feature the story so they could put up a video of the elephant seal doing "straight-out murder":

This film clip can be hard to watch. But it is nature primeval presented in its pure form. The size and power of the rogue elephant seal now dwelling at the mouth of the Russian River near Jenner is on display. So is his murderous intent as he overwhelms the hapless harbor seal, pummels it and twirls it like a wet rag. Meanwhile, as a backdrop, the seagulls on the sandbar flutter and land, again and again, agitated by the event but unsure of the danger to themselves. You may be sure that when the elephant seal ends his rampage, the gulls will swoop in to snatch up the gobbits of offal scattered about on the sand. Such is life in the raw. Or, as the late Kurt Vonnegut remarked, "so it goes."

They may not appeal to people who want reporting, but by God, the Chronicle is going to be #1 with Vonnegut aficionados who collect seal snuff films, or go bankrupt trying.

The best part? The murderous seal's name is "Nibbles".

Detroit 108, Chicago 87

The 108-87 blowout loss in Game 2 means the 0-2 Bulls are in a hole so deep that even shovels might be useless, except as weapons to use on Rip Hamilton's and Tayshaun Prince's knees.

-Rick Telander

Bill Swerski's Superfans, Game 3 Edition

Bob Swerski: Good evening, my friends, and welcome to "Bill Swerski's Super Fans"! I'm Bob Swerski, filling in for my brother Bill, who had a heart attack during the first quarter of Game 2. With me, as always, are the Super Fans: Pat Arnold...

Pat Arnold: Hey, Bob.

Bob: ...Carl Wollarski...

Carl Wollarski: Good to see ya, Bob.

Bob: ...and Todd O'Connor.

Todd O'Connor: How ya' doing, Bob?

Bob: Real good, Todd. We're here, live from Mike Ditka's restaurant in the heart of Chicago, Illinois, the city of broad shoulders, hog butcher for the world, the Windy City. A town that is also the home of a certain team, that finished third in a certain Central Division, a team that is presumably still trying to win this semifinal series against Detroit, a team that is known as, Da Bulls!

All: Da Bulls!

Bob: Any predictions for Game 3, gentleman?

Carl: Pistons 104, Bulls 85. I feel confident that the Bulls stay within twenty points of the Pistons at home.

Bob: A bold prediction, Carl. Todd?

Todd: A United Center security guard locks the Pistons in their locker room for the first six minutes of the second half. Pistons 82, Bulls, 66.

Bob: Expecting a real nail-biter, eh, Todd?

Todd: My cousin is a security guard down there - say no more.

Pat: Pistons 125, Bulls 72. But Chris Duhon only craps his pants once while trying to guard Chauncey Billups.

Bob: The additional playoff experience gives Duhon greater control of...da bowels.

All: Da Bowels!

Bob: Since the season is pretty much at an end, who do you like the Bulls to take in this year's draft?

Pat: In the first round, you gotta go with Durant. In the second round, they need another shooting guard, so I like the guy from Ohio State, Daequan Cook.

Todd: Dae Quan!

Carl: Dae Quan!

Bob: Sounds like there's a consensus. Is there any chance this series could turn around?

Pat: What if the Pistons bus crashed on the way to the arena?

Bob: Who's left to compete in the game?

Pat: It's just Antonio McDyess, Kid Rock, the team trainer, and Hooper the mascot.

Todd: Bulls 78, Pistons 73.

Carl: Is Scott Skiles still coaching the Bulls?

Pat: Yeah.

Carl: Pistons 67, Bulls 62.

Bob: It's tough to look back at what might have been. If only the Bulls had used P.J. Brown's expiring contract and some of their many young players to trade for a certain Spanish power forward, who plays for a certain Tennessee team, and provides a certain low-post scoring threat that Chicago lacks. I'm speaking, of course, of Pau Gasol!

All: Ga-Sol!

Bob: What about this: How would the Bulls fare versus a team of Mini-Pistons?

Todd: What do you mean?

Bob: An evil wizard casts a spell on the Pistons. They have the same guys, but they're all eighteen inches tall.

Carl: What about Lindsay Hunter?

Bob: Mini-Hunter is only sixteen inches tall.

Pat: Are they wearing their normal uniforms?

Bob: No, the mini-Pistons have mini-uniforms.

Pat: I say...Bulls, 92, Mini-Pistons, 79.

Todd: Bulls 104, Mini-Pistons, 101. And Ben Gordon goes for at least 18 points on mini-Hamilton.

Carl: Mini-Rasheed gets ejected, but Mini-Pistons take it, 88-81.

Bob: Two little tiny technical fouls, eh, Carl?

Carl: That's right, Bob.

(Todd begins choking and slamming his fist into his chest.)

Bob: Todd, what's wrong?

Carl: Is he having a heart attack? (Todd shakes his head.)

Pat: He looks like Andres Nocioni there!

Bob: Oh no! Todd is choking! Quick, do the Heimlich maneuver!

(Carl jumps up and throws his pork chop off the rim of the trash can, then clutches his arm as if he was fouled.)

Bob: Not the Hinrich maneuver! The Heimlich!

(Pat administers the Heimlich, and Todd coughs up a shower of peanuts.)

Todd: Sorry, I was so upset about the team that I ate those peanuts way too fast. Gotta remember to remove...da hulls!

All: Da Hulls!

Bob: That's all the time we have for tonight. Join us for our live broadcast during Game 3, where we're going to do our best not to cry. Now, what if Game 3 was played on the surface of the moon, but only the Bulls get space suits...

Since Cementhorizon has moved to TypeKey registration, ambitious-but-unregistered commenters have had to resort to Meebo to let their virtual voices be heard. Some have been abusive-yet-inaccurate, while others have had more pleasant things to say.

Below are the comments of "musketeer freak", which I to be in response to Imagine An Iron Mask Filled With Nougat.

"hii
i love musketeers
there the best
yum yum yum
YOU KNOW IT
bye bye adios amigos
i still LOVE musketeers"

Thanks for commenting, musketeer freak, and come back soon as Zembla returns back to its important work in the field of Candynalysis. YOU KNOW IT.

Suns vs. Spurs

Nash scored 31 but missed a crucial 45 seconds in the final minute because of the bloody cut on his nose, the result of a head-on collision with Parker with 2:53 to play. The cut required six stitches after the game.

A Conversation Between Tony Parker and Zinedine Zidane

(Phone rings)

Tony Parker: Bonjour?

Zinedine Zidane: Bonjour Tony. It's Zinedine. I just wanted to congratulate you on the game today.

Parker: Merci, Z. The Suns were tough, but we were lucky to steal a game on the road. Hopefully we can go all the way.

Zidane: I hope you can as well, though I feel sorry for poor Boris. By the way, nice job knocking out Nash. I never knew you had such a talent for the headbutt.

Parker: That was an accident. I felt terrible about Steve's nose.

Zidane: But of course it was an accident. You were blind with rage. Frustrated by him tweaking your nipple, perhaps, non?

Parker: Really, Zizou. I didn't mean to hurt him. In fact, he fouled me on the play.

Zidane: Yes, that was a nice touch when you fell down and pretended to be horribly injured after the play. The trainer even came out! Beautiful work, worthy of Ginobli himself. The perfect way to deflect suspicion.

Parker: I was stunned. I didn't even know where I was for a few minutes there.

Zidane: Of course. I understand. I know you cannot see me over the phone, but I am winking conspiratorially right now.

Parker: Listen, Zizou, I'm pretty tired after that game, so...

Zidane: A bit of advice Tony. Tell the media that Nash insulted your sister.

Parker: I don't have a sister.

Zidane: Eva Longoria, then. The key is, refuse to say what the insult was! Leave them guessing for months!

Parker: I really need to go.

Zidane: Was it an anti-Mexican remark? Did he cite the declining ratings of Desperate Houswives? A negative review of Señorita Justice? They will never know! You headbutt whomever you please!

Parker: I'm hanging up now.

Zidane: One more thing, Tony? If you get a chance, ask Steve for one of his Suns jerseys. I would like it for my sister.

Parker: (Dial tone)

For the second time this series, Stephen Jackson got an early start on his postgame shower. And again, the culprit was ... clapping...The official was standing down near the block, Jackson walked past him clapping, continued walking and continued clapping ... and at the time he got T'd up, he was looking and clapping in the opposite direction of the official.

From MJD at The Fanhouse

What Really Happened at the End of Game 5

(Stephen Jackson walks past Referee Ken Mauer while clapping.)

Referee Ken Mauer: That's a T. You're out of here, Jackson!

Golden State Fan: Let's go Warriors! (Clap-clap Clap-clap-clap) Let's go Warriors! (Clap-clap Clap-clap-clap)

Mauer: You're out of here, too, Golden State Fan!

(Security escorts Golden State Fan out of the arena.)

(Dallas fans applaud the ejection.)

Mauer: What the...I'll clear this whole arena, I swear to God!

Referee Jim Clark: Ken, there's only 8.9 seconds left. Let's just finish this game.

Mauer: I'm not going to tolerate this disrespectful crap!

Referee Bernie Fryer: Come on, game's almost over.

(Officials retire to the locker room.)

Fryer: What a game. I gotta unwind with some TV. I think Friends is on.

Clark: There's a mosquito in here.

(Fryer turns on the television. The Friends theme song plays.)

The Romantics: So no one told you life was gonna be this way (Clap-clap-clap-clap)

Mauer: That's it! You're out of here, Friends! (Mauer lunges for the remote control.)

Fryer: Whoa, Ken, calm down. I'll turn it off. Cuban set up a sound-activated system in here. (Claps off.)

Mauer: Are you disrespecting me, Bernie?!? You're out of here, Fryer!

Fryer: Ken, you can't eject me from the locker room.

Clark: This mosquito is driving me crazy!(Clark squashes the mosquito between his hands) Got him!

Mauer: Jim, you son of a bitch. How can you show me up like that? I thought we were a crew!

(Mauer lunges at Clark, hands grasping for Clark's throat. Fryer breaks up the fight.)

Fryer: What the hell are you doing, Ken? This is crazy behavior!

Mauer (sighs): I'm sorry guys. It's just...the results came back from the free clinic. I'd been getting this burning sensation when I pee. My testicles are painfully swollen. And there's a sporadic discharge from my penis.

Clark: And?

Mauer: It turns out I've got...the clap. And I guess I'm a little sensitive about it.

Clark: Oh, Ken. Why didn't you tell us?

Mauer: I was embarrassed.

Fryer: An STD is nothing to be embarrassed about. It's just part of life on the road. In fact, I applaud you for your honesty.

Clark: Uh-oh.

Mauer: You applaud me? That's it, old man! You're going down!

Demain Bulwa's reporter's notebook:

James Mosqueda: Terrorist?

Mosque + Al Qaeda = Mosqueda?

People in prison become Muslims - heroin is grown in Afghanistan - connection?

Oil tanker full of oil from... Iraq? (Investigate where oil refined)

Mosqueda from Yolo County - terrorists from Lodi County - that's only two counties away! Research further.

To Do:

Get eggs, pork rinds, at Safeway
Build shelf for Pulitzer
Character assassination

I saw a Threadless t-shirt that reminded me of a classic Squelch piece, The Gentle Jangle of Success. Ah, the days when the Squelch was printed on toilet-paper grade newsprint, stained your hands, had no color, and regularly alienated the Native American and Filipino campus communities. Not that they don't currently alienate people, but I think Filipinos have pretty much gotten a free ride since 2000.

When I was looking for the title of the key piece, I discovered another nugget of Sean Keane internet famousness in a review of Richard Grayson's And To Think That I Kissed Him On Lorimer Street. The reviewer cites the Squelch and quotes from an old Words From The Top entitled, Class of 2004: Don't Sing It, Bring It. (I don't remember why we chose that title.)

One particular letter from the editor that stands out in my mind is the one addressed to the freshman in fall 2000: "College," the editor opined, "is like a hypercolor t-shirt. It starts out with a brilliant pink burst of excitement, before slowly fading away to a blur of resentment and apathy." The editor also instructed the freshmen, "If you're one of those students who asks questions in lecture every day, just remember, there's a special circle in hell for you people."

The remainder of the Squelch piece discusses unbaptized infants, restraining orders, and the odd confluence of antique stores on the corner of Shattuck and Adeline in Berkeley. The remainder of the book review gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up to Mr. Grayson's book, noting that his "handling of his characters' sexuality is deft and never overbearing", which is how I like to think I deal with my own sexuality, albeit not in print.

What is the lesson here? Clearly, I should be making more t-shirts, and publishing a collection of semi-autobiographical short stories, possibly concerning keys. The tentative working title is, Sean M. Keane, Will You Please Go Now!