Sometimes you need an action-packed weekend.
Friday I had a beer at Bukowski with Dana J. and the elusive Rich Pellegrino (that’s three now) before stopping in at Laugh Track at IB. The lady behind the ticket counter – whose name I really ought to remember by now – waved me through and refused to take my money. So I shoved $5 in the donations box on principle.
Laugh Track follows the live taping of a popular sitcom, from the first scene being taped to the downtime between shows to the final, televised product. There were a lot of moving parts to the show: in addition to all of the above, we saw a documentary introduction, a live video feed from the show’s executive producers and TV commercials. Fortunately, all of the parts ranged from “kind of funny” to “weepingly hilarious.” The cast has a priceless sense of comic timing: Serpico’s “like the China thing, but real” got the best reaction of the night, second only to Calvin’s “after your first gig, buy a gun”. And visualizing Harry Gordon stomping down the steps at MIT, reading angrily from a book titled “LAWYER,” will sit in my bedside as a stock depression cure for years. Move over, Canadian Club!
I had declared early on Friday that I needed to dance (dance), and Sylvia, Joanna, Serpico, Kim and Trisha answered the call (EDIT and Mark who totally put his babies in Rachel by grinding up on her, I swear it’s true EDIT). Kate and Mike were killing time prior to setup at Common Ground, so we drank some beer and watched the Celtics lose to the Bobcats. Then Tim H showed up and HOLY SHIT THE ROCK WHAT YES NOW.
I found myself starting to drag a little around 12:30 or so – having been exhorted to jump around had strained my abs, still sore from 180 crunches that afternoon. So I shifted listlessly from one foot to another until “Flagpole Sitta” came on and then, well, fuck it. I went to bed hoarse at 2:30ish.
Saturday I walked to Target for milk and bread, then used them (separately) to compose a healthy lunch. I watched some Shield and some Shoot ‘Em Up, then drove to Newton to watch the game with Fraley and Melissa. Mel was wrapping up her 7th Sea game in the living room, so for once I got to be the cool kid hanging out in the kitchen with the gamer’s girlfriend, waiting for the nerds to be done so we could finally watch some football. Verdict: not as cool as it sounds; I’d rather be rolling dice.
Christine and I split a pizza from the local pizza joint, shielding our eyes from the Patriots game when we picked it up so we could watch it on DVR. She vented about her weekend navigation issues. “By the time I got to Waltham,” she said, “the Rondo cast had already vacated to a bar to watch the Pats game.”
“Was this Brian P’s house by chance?” I asked. It’s a notoriously difficult home to find.
Patriots: if there’s anything dumber than sports pundits saying the Patriots “look beatable” every game, it’s Pats fans who predict blowouts. “42-17,” I heard in the liquor store minutes before I got to Newton. Brady threw for the game of not just his life, but several quarterbacks’ lives: 26 for 28 against the porous Jags. But the Jaguars kept marching up that same old hill, bringing tears to Jack del Rio’s eyes. In the end, it was two turnovers that gave the Pats the game.
But man, did the Pats’ sloppy tackling give us all some agita. “Eat his face!” I screamed at the TV as Fred Taylor pranced for another 5 yards. “With your face!”