THE BLUE MOON

I'm afraid to be sincere with people because I'm afraid they'll doubt my sincerity. So when I want to be sincere, I restrain myself so that what I fear will happen won't happen. But since I'm not showing them any sincerity, they doubt my sincerity and what I fear will happen happens.

Oh, hello there. Glad you could join me.

I was just figuring myself out.

Did you know that I have another blog besides this one? It's true! It's available at myspace.com/willfranken and it's called "The Blue Moon". Unofficially, that is. (myspace doesn't yet have a feature where you can title your entire blog--only individual entries) It hasn't been around as long as "The House Of Knod" but there's still all sorts of different stuff in it!

"But Will," you say, "why do you have two blogs? Isn't one blog enough? Shouldn't you be trying to reduce your cyber carbon-footprint?"

"Different blogs for different reasons, Sandra." (I hope you don't mind me calling you "Sandra".)

"Like what?"

"Well, Sandra, as a postmodern woman on the go, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing only one blog!"

"As a mother of four, I still don't understand why you have two blogs."

"Sandra, as a concerned college student, I don't want to really get into the psychological underpinnings as to why I have two blogs."

"But, Will, as a breast cancer survivor myself--"

"Jesus, Sandra! Stop trying to one-up me!"

Sandra can be a real showboating cunt sometimes. Never shuts the fuck up about herself.

I've noticed that the voices have gotten much louder lately. Especially Sandra's. Strange, with so many voices running at top volume in my head, that I should feel so alone this holiday season.

Oh, hello there. Glad you could join me.

I was just dealing with the truth.

I can't really explain why it is that I have two blogs. Sometimes I write something and I say, "that one goes into 'The House Of Knod'" and sometimes I write something and I say, "that one goes up to 'The Blue Moon'".

Once in a blue moon, I'll put the same entry in both blogs. But it doesn't happen often. That's why I said "once in a blue moon".

I just don't know if anybody knows what that phrase means anymore. Does anybody understand the cultural significance of a blue moon?

A blue moon only happens once in a blue moon.

Unlike these computer-animated, techno-soundtracked moons of today. Our universe is rife with illiterate, mainstream moons. They don't think. They don't question. They just follow along, blindly making a complete orbit around the Earth every 27. 3 days. And they're all white.

But a blue moon (or "bloon") is special because it's rare.

Legend has it that the reason a blue moon is so rare is because it only shines in special places. For special people.

Have you ever noticed when you enter "The House Of Knod" there is often an otherworldly glow emanating from outside the stained-glass windows? That is because across the great void of cyberspace, "The Blue Moon" shines down upon this house.

For this is a special place. And you are special people.

Come, let us go outside. The moon brings out your beauty.


I love you all. . .


Good night. Glad you could join me.


I was just being sincere.


myspace.com/willfranken

DEATH NOTICES

DOLORES OATMEAL


"Mrs. Oatmeal", as she was called by her students, passed away at Memorial Cyanide on Thursday Evening. She was 72 years wide.

Known for her highly arched eyebrows and suspicious looking microphone-shaped earrings, Mrs. Oatmeal suffered a stroke and then another stroke and then a third stroke before a fourth stroke led to a master stroke that boldly claimed her life. En Garde!

She is survived by her five children: Whippany, Classless, Arcazio, Menundez, and Lilliputian. Mrs. Oatmeal did not believe in grandchildren.

For nearly 50 years, Mrs. Oatmeal worked as a Health and Hygiene instructor at Cedar Hills Forest Grove Pinewood Oak Academy in downtown Treetrunk.

In the late 60s, Mrs. Oatmeal received a grant from Proctor & Gamble to develop a new cleansing agent that would more efficiently remove ticks and leeches from feral children. Instead, she accidentally invented a soap that made noises like a feral child whenever used for washing.

The soap was called "Ock-Ock Soap" and it sold relatively well in adult bookstores and other novelty shops. It looked like a bar of Irish Spring, but once it was covered in lather, it would go "Ock! Ock! Ock!" Across the Midwest, a number of middle-aged women suffered heart attacks after using the soap. Sales quickly plummeted.

As a girl, Mrs. Oatmeal often played "Merchant Marine" with her brother Kinsey. After a psychological breakthrough in 1986, she realized she had actually been playing "Doctor". She chronicles her incest survival with courage, bravery, and notbeingscaredness in her 1993 memoir, A Bowl Of Oatmeal.

Her brother never forgave her for the damning expose which ultimately landed him 20 years in a McDonald's plastic ball play pit.

Services will be held this Friday at Remembrance-Mart.

DR. ALEXANDER REFLUX-DISEASE

Known as "Acid" by his friends, Alexander Reflux-Disease was a pioneer in the use of Stationary Ham Theory (SHT) to monitor the effect of pigs standing still in relation to increased slaughterhouse efficiency.

His work was highly criticized by the Seattle-based animal rights group, The Seattle-Based Animal Rights Group, as well as by the popular Vietnamese potbellied pig deejays Squeaky and Squeally, who regularly singled him out for ridicule on their morning talk show, Notes From The Underfarm.

Reflux-Disease passed away last Wednesday after receiving a gunshot wound in the mail.

He is survived by his wife of 4 months, Blondie Attaturk-Reflux-Disease, and his son from a previous fuck, Glib.

Services will be held Tuesday at Funereality in Soho. Doors open at 9pm. $15. DJ after party.

SONYA MOUNTAIN


Sonya Mountain died last Wednesday in her hometown of Hope Springs after attempting to get baptized in a frozen pond.

"She loved the Lord so much, she didn't want to wait for the ice to thaw," said Pastor Red Banger, who earlier this month had cautioned 11-year old Sonya and her parents that accepting Jesus into one's heart is a lot easier in the summertime.

"Sonya got real paranoid during the fall that she was going to die and go to hell over the winter break," her mother Amahen said on condition of publicity, "We just hope the baptism went through before her brains were bashed in all over the ice."

"I thought I could break a hole in it using her head," said Banger, "but she was softer than she looked. She had tried to act tough, but in the end, we are weak and He is strong. And that's why Sonya decided to come to the Lord. Our Lord is strong, like ice. But He gave us His Son, who was melted and became water. And who rose again as The Holy Vapor!"

Sonya had been a member of The First Church Of The Three Stages Of Water-Christ.

She is survived by no one. The entire village of Hope Springs was massacred when the Islamists took over.

CONGRATULATIONS!

CONGRATULATIONS!

You have been selected to join an elite organization called

THE FEELINGS BRIGADE!

Perhaps you've heard of us. We've heard of you.
You're disenfranchised. Nobody knows your plight. You're all alone.

NOT ANYMoRE!

THE FEELINGS BRIGADE IS A GLOBAL COMMUNITY of almost 6 billion members worldwide!

We're all united by our COMMON FEELINGS. . .!

So we're not really an elite organization after all. This letter is a mere formality. You've been a member of The Feelings Brigade since the day you were born.

You cried when the doctor spanked you.
You got nervous when you asked the girl to dance.
You were really paranoid right before opening this letter. (and still might be!)

In some way or another, you've always had feelings. There's no escaping induction into The Feelings Brigade. Everyone's a member. For life.

So now you know. . .

You're nothing special at all. . .

OR ARE YOU?

Congratulations for reading this far into the letter.

You've actually been invited to join an elite organization called The Facts Brigade

We're extremely elite, so I doubt you've heard of us. However, we had never heard of you until your recent accomplishment in the field of political sociology:

We were very impressed.

You are definitely the kind of person we like. A distinct individual of merit.

There is a fox hunt this Boxing Day. Afterwards, we will away to the sitting room and demean certain groups of people.

Sincerely,

The Big Three

New York Is Food For My Hungry Ears

I never know whether or not to say these things privately or publicly.

The concept of appropriateness has always been a bit blurry to me.

So in order to avoid confusion, I have decided to say this privately to the public:

"New York is food for my hungry ears."

My ears have always been hungry. I'm an auditory junkie. And I get my fix here. Here's how it works:

I. My Head Is Very Noisy

My head has always been very noisy. Ever since I was a child. Sometimes it gets so noisy, I think I'm hearing what I'm only thinking.

Whenever this happens, I enter a state of confusion. "How can I hear a thought? Thoughts enter the mind, not the ears."

So I attempt to rectify this disconnect by speaking out loud the thought (or thoughts) that I think I'm hearing. In other words, I talk to myself; and that's when things start to make sense again. "No wonder I'm hearing what I'm thinking! I'm speaking what I'm thinking and that's what I'm hearing!"

However, most of my life, I've mumbled and not spoken. I mumble because I have always been at least peripherally aware of other people. I mumble things under my breath and out of their hearing range. Things like--"I wish they'd get the fuck out of here so I could talk to myself."

II. New York, Like My Head, Is Also Very Noisy

Because of the continuum of head and city noise that New York enables, I've always felt comfortable here not only publicly mumbling to myself, but publicly speaking out loud to myself, publicly shouting at myself, or publicly acting out multi-character comedic vignettes with myself. Consequently, the entire city becomes a much-needed rehearsal space for new ideas.

There is so much happening here at any given moment in any given location that nobody has time to concern themselves with the ramblings of a lone madman.

And knowing this makes me comfortable. Because it allows me to fully be who I really am:

A lone madman.

III. SUMMATION: The New York Process Of Acquiring Food For My Hungry Ears

A. My head gets loud and I think I hear my thoughts
B. I speak the thoughts I think I am hearing
C. I shape what I'm speaking into a live bit, a podcast idea, a blog entry; something

And then I rest for a moment.

And then it all comes echoing back to me in the aural tidal wave that is New York.

And then my head gets noisy again.

I've always loved the sound of the ocean.

My Christmas Present To You

I am sorry if the previous blog entry was a little depressing. However, I am a comedian. This is my job--to be depressing.

But I have decided to take a short break from being a comedian. By being funny again--

And here's something really funny: I recently gave birth. To a brand-new baby podcast episode. She's really funny and her name is "Michael Krenford Is Not Alone" and you can listen to her at Things We Did Before Reality. She came into this world at around 4:03 a.m. EST on the morning of Monday, December 10th. Which would make her a Sagittarius, I think.

I'm very proud of her. She weighs just a little over 28 minutes from start to toe.

She is my Christmas present to you.

If you enjoy her as much as I do, and I mean that neither in the Biblical nor sexual sense--or any of her other 9 online siblings, please consider making a donation via the Paypal button located underneath. No amount is too small. Or too large.

As I say, I'm extremely proud of this one. During the 2-week pregnancy, I often referred to her as "a corkscrew for the human soul." For she was born of my mind, my heart, and--cigarettes and black coffee notwithstanding--even of my body; the triumvirate of which comprises my soul.

I believe it is important in the pit of despair to reach for something higher.

Thus I believe it is important in the pit of despair to have faith. Because the Unknown, (like it or not, secularists), will always be greater than the known.

I had such fun making this episode. I cracked myself up so much during the conception, the writing, the recording, and the editing, precisely because I was relying on faith.

Faith is an action. It may be the unknown, but one still leaps into it.

And so I leaped. And, man, am I glad I did.

Sometimes it's important to take a break from being a comedian and be funny instead.

Michael Krenford is not alone.

Seasonal Depression

O! God, I am praying for death.
Not for it to come swiftly or slowly,
painlessly or painfully,
but that the promise of its appearance shall never abate. . .
that the hour of its reckoning is upon some distant future fix'd. . .
and I shall no longer fear it when we two meet.

I pray for this, O God, because it is bound to happen anyway.
And by praying and beseeching for that which is destined,
I make a fact into a miracle.
"Blessed Lord, you have granted me death as I have ask'd!"
I offer in supplication before the last beat n' breath.
(If I have not You to believe in, Lord, there is only Death)

O! God, how has this happened?
I am confused, O Lord.
I was so good at being alone until I became alone.
Now even the voices in my head are silent. . .
Now nothing is funny here
where the rain and the snow no longer make me feel romantic.

O! Lord, I once knew the difference
between a businessman and an artist.
And so did the world.
Now it's all muddled.
Your world isn't as clear as it used to be.
I'm trying to be grateful, O Lord, but it's hard
in this world where gratitude has been replaced by grievance.

O! God, I often thought as a child
how wonderful it would be to go insane.
What a colorful respite it would be from the
demystifying strains of dullness and suburban simplicity
emanating from the lips of the vacuous and obtuse,
and radiating unchalleng'd from the cathode ray tube.

But that way is the truth.
That mediocre way of sanity always triumphs.
I am on the losing end of the losers.
By Your gospel, that would make me a winner.

O! Lord, can you tell me
is this a crossroads or a dead end?
Because I don't feel much like moving.
Maybe I would if I could see once again. (or You could see for me,
looking ahead down that road You have designed)

O! Lord, how about a hint?
I promise not to cynically present Your answer
as my own clairvoyancy, but as Your gift in my hour of need.
A quick fix, a quick boost,
propelling me back into the world of the living. (or the barely living)

How much steam heat can be generated on principles alone?
And do I even have any left to stoke the fire?

O! God, teach me how to play the game
and to play it well.
And teach it to me soon
so that I may join their ranks
while I still have a pulse.

If you are going through hell, keep going.

"If you are going through hell, keep going."

"The farther backward. . ."

"The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you can see."

"The empires of the future. . ."

"The empires of the future are the empires of the mind."

"Socialism. . ."

"Socialism is a philosophy of failure, the creed of ignorance, and the gospel of envy. Its inherent virtue is the equal sharing of misery."

"Perhaps it is better. . ."

"Perhaps it is better to be irresponsible and right, than to be responsible and wrong."

"Nothing in life. . ."

"Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result."

"Kites and Crimes"

"Kites rise high AGAINST the wind--not with it."



"No crime is so great as daring to excel."

"It has been said. . ."

"It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all the others that have been tried."

"Although prepared for martyrdom. . ."

"Although prepared for martyrdom, I prefer that it be postponed."

The Down-N-Dirty Hotel

(BOUNCY, COUNTRY BEAT, SUNG WITH A LOUD BARITONE TWANG)

Let me tell you 'bout a place
I'm sure you're gonna love.
It's the prettiest place around,
but you better wear some gloves.
Ain't nobody gonna tell me
what is wrong and what is right
cause I been working hard all day
and I plan to work hard all night

At the Down-N-Dirty Hotel,
you'll just love the smell.
At the Down-N-Dirty Hotel,
where all of Satan's children dwell.

They got a lot of little Asian girls
who will do what you tell 'em to do.
They can spank you for a hundred bucks
and then tinkle in your shoes.
A hundred more and you can get a whore
who's a sadomasochistic queen.
I got a life with an ordinary wife,
but this place is supreme!


At the Down-N-Dirty Hotel,
you'll just love the smell.
At the Down-N-Dirty Hotel,
where all of Satan's children dwell.





I come at 12, then I cum at 6
when the sun begins to rise.
Then it's homeward bound from there
with the cobwebs in my eyes.
The wife's gonna kill me when she finds out
that I been to this place again
and I spent all of the paycheck
on the tasty fruits of sin

At the Down-N-Dirty Hotel,
you'll just love the smell.
At the Down-N-Dirty Hotel,
where all of Satan's children dwell.

HAPPY (BELATED) ARMISTICE DAY!!!!!!

SORRY THIS IS LATE!

I HOPE YOU GUYS ARE HAVING A WONDERFUL ARMISTICE DAY! (AND I HOPE YOU GUYS AREN'T STILL DOING WORLD WAR I! COME ON, RELAX AND CELEBRATE!) WE'RE HAVING KARAOKE AND CAPITULATION AT MY PLACE!!!!

SERIOUSLY, IF YOU GET THIS BEFORE 1919 TRY AND MAKE IT DOWN TO VERSAILLES! GERMANY'S SUPPOSED TO COME OVER AND SURRENDER A LITTLE BIT LATER! (WE BOUGHT A CAKE SHAPED LIKE A TREATY!)

(DON'T TELL THEM, IT'S A SURPRISE!)

THE FRENCH ARE GONNA BE HERE, TOO! (THEY KINDA HAVE TO--IT IS THEIR PARTY, AFTER ALL! :))

(NO, THAT ISN'T A DOUBLE-SMILE! IT'S JUST THE END PARENTHESIS!)

lol:)

AND DON'T FORGET--WOODROW WILSON LOVES CHEX MIX AND MERLOT! :)

GO GIRLFRIEND! RAISE THE ROOF! FUCK THE KAISER!

A NEW YORK HALLOWEEN!

Okay everybody, I know this is a little self-indulgent, but here's a picture of me in my Halloween costume:



I know it looks pretty graceful and effortless in the photo, but believe me--a lot of work went into my costume this year. Granted, I already had the shift dress, tights, and gold platform shoes from last Halloween. They were given to me by my father who got them from his father (who wore them when he stormed the beaches at Normandy).

But anybody can put on women's clothes. This year, I decided to go all out!

So let me tell you about my crazy day in the Big Apple!

6:30 a.m. Showered, shaved and plucked.
7:30 a.m. Another failed experiment with a curling iron--pressed for time, I decided to go natural
8:30 a.m. Scheduled an appointment with a therapist
8:45 a.m. Found time for a muffin and a latte:)
9:00a.m.-9:50a.m. Met with the therapist and got diagnosed with gender-identity disorder
10:00a.m. Skimmed through a copy of My Husband Wears My Clothes by Dr. Peggy Rudd while waiting to get my nails done on Columbus Circle
11:30a.m.-12:30p.m.Went through six months of hormone therapy in a record-breaking 60 minutes:)
12:45p.m. Found time for a salad and sparkling water:)
1:00p.m.-4:00p.m. Spent THREE HOURS waiting in line at the DMV to have my name legally changed to Sarah on my driver's license! :(
4:15p.m.-5:15p.m. Phoned my family and friends and informed them of the big decision I was about to make.
5:30p.m.-6.30p.m. Underwent sexual reassignment surgery to have my penis and testes removed in order to create a fully functional vagina:)
6:45p.m.-9:45p.m. Spent THREE HOURS at Curves For Women on 53rd Street doing Jazzercize so I could drop twenty pounds in time for the big costume competition!

And then I arrived in the East Village just in time to sign up.

And when it was all said and done, guess who won first place? That's right. This guy (again!)



I mean, please! This cocksucker has won two times in a row now! Anybody can be a president!

Oh, well, at least I got second place. That really made me feel like a woman.

Now I have to get all this shit off so I can get some sleep. Let's see--what did I do with my penis? Maybe it's in my purse. . .

To An Audience Upon Leaving

My darling,

I will have to say goodbye to San Francisco very soon.

And to you. . .

For I am leaving on the morning of October 28th to seek my fame and fortune in New York City.

I cannot say for sure how long I will be gone. I cannot even say if I will meet with any success. Only a few shows await me in the immediate future, alongside an all-too-familiar promise of "industry people" coming to see me perform.

However, I can say for sure that this move saddens me greatly. I have said this many times before, but it always bears repeating: San Francisco has been extremely good to me. What success I have had in the comedic world I can attribute almost solely to the fact that five years ago, Providence deemed I should find my way out here to this City By The Bay.

And I should like very much to eventually come back and once more call this place home after I have completed this vocational rite of passage. That is, if you will still have me.

My dear, I am much like a child at times. Not a sweet and adorable child, but a childish adult. And not a lovable man-child like Lenny from Of Mice And Men or the helpful Boo Radley of To Kill A Mockingbird, but a neurotic, temperamental and overly-demanding narcissist who attempts at times to shield his unseemly behaviors from criticism by hiding under the banner of "artist".

There were instances in the early months of my career in the Bay Area, when people wouldn't buy one of my CDs or I wouldn't fill up a venue or I didn't get the laughs I felt I deserved, when I would decree in a huff over the microphone: "Fuck this. I'm moving to New York."

These were all bluffs, of course. My artistic ego had been wounded and so I lashed out in return. Sweetheart, if you were unfortunate enough to have witnessed any of those early tantrums, I apologize. I never meant to hurt you. I only meant to hurt myself.

For that is what an artist does best. He denies himself pleasure in this life so that he may attain immortality in the next. To paraphrase William Blake: those with the biggest egos have the greatest fear of death.

Do you remember me telling you how earlier this year my wife was accepted into NYU? At that point, it seemed definite we were finally heading to New York; no longer propelled by my reactive and inflated pride, but by her academic good fortune. Following the debut of my last one-man show, I delivered a heartfelt goodbye to you at curtain call and surprised even myself with the sincerity of my words.

And then, two days later (on Friday the 13th, no less), a mere half-hour after she had conveniently procured my signature for our joint tax return, she told me she wanted a divorce.

This is why you may have noticed a slight streak of misogyny in my most recent writings. It's not you, my love. And it's not me, either. It's her.

Just joking. It's nobody, actually. It's just something that happens. I know that now.

Nothing soothes a broken heart more than spontaneously uprooting and disappearing from one's immediate locale. Admittedly, there is some truth to the cliche, "no matter where you go, there you are." However, if you can move quickly enough, there's a chance you may beat yourself to wherever you're going . It could take up to six months to find yourself again. And when that happens, it's simply a matter of running away once more. Such is the story of my life; a picaresque series of short-lived geographical reprieves.

This is perhaps one of the reasons why I am simultaneously the worst AND the best client for psychotherapists.

The worst--because I can intellectualize and romanticize my way out of any personal growth or major breakthrough (although I still insist I have never been molested!)

The best--because the continued absence of psychological resolution keeps me and the co-payments returning indefinitely for another crack at change; something I've never even truly desired. I merely want to eradicate the symptoms and not the disease, for I do not wish to gamble on the chance that any projected healing of the psyche will be met with a concurrent dissipation of artistic stamina.

The first three months following the split-up, I told anyone who would listen to my embittered ramblings that I was determined more than ever to get the hell out of San Francisco. I found an outward personification for an inner turmoil by scapegoating the very city that has been nothing but good to me.

Forgive me, my love, forgive me.

Yet instead of immediately disappearing to the East--as I had indicated week after week I would do--I became addicted to marijuana and convinced myself I would sleep with any attractive woman who told me I was funny. In three months, I managed to scrape together five or six kisses devoid of tongue. So I am obviously not where I need to be in my career at this moment.

No matter. As you well know, my precious, I have always believed the kiss is of greater significance than the fuck. It is romance that begets sex and not vice/versa. The absence of that rudimentary hierarchy is one of the things that you and I have often quarreled about in this town.

And now it seems as if the dust has finally settled and the emotional funnel cloud has shed its forbidding form, fanning itself neatly across the vast gray sky above. I am no longer angry. I am no longer impatient. We have often come to loggerheads over politics and religion, you and I--but as of this day, no more. Bitterness has given way to a calm that is at once pleasant and yet troubling. There is no reason to burn any bridges. Golden Gate or Brooklyn, you and I will always be inseparably linked. For everything I have achieved in terms of career, I owe to the City of San Francisco. And to you, my love.

Besides, I am emotionally spent. Soon I will depart from here for that Great Unknown that awaits me in the East. I am torn between a faint hope for something more and a blinding fear of losing everything I've accrued. Yes, this business is a bittersweet affair. I feel a great loss looming in the foreground, taking the place of an excitement I had so long anticipated I would feel.

For I have lived in New York before. Way, way before.

Before I was anybody.

Anybody, that is, other than a naive kid from the cornfields of Missouri, convinced that if he stood on the street with a cardboard box in the middle of Washington Square Park and talked in funny voices some benevolent studio executive would come by and hand him a television show on a silver platter.

It was San Francisco--and you, my darling--that made me somebody. Somebody important. Somebody worthwhile.

It was you who showed me that the voices, the faces, the characters, the sketches--that all of that was worth something. It was you who gave me the validation that trumped any a stable parent and healthy upbringing could have ever provided. It was you, my muse. Never forget that.

I've lived and loved in New York. I've broken some hearts and mine was broken in turn. And in the end, I left the city in anger. But that is not the case here. I leave San Francisco with love. And I hope to return to New York with the same. Yet with the responsibility of love comes the dual burdens of sorrow and fear.

For I remember all-too-well putting my name in a hat at Sunday night open-mikes in the Lower East Side, week after week, praying they'd call my name so I could get up there and prove my abilities to the audience, to the city, and, ultimately, to the world. And yet, as diligent as I was, it seemed as if I were never called. How I was convinced the fates were conspiring against me! I tried big slips of paper, small slips of paper, waiting till the hat was near full or slipping it in first before anyone else had arrived. And yet nothing seemed to work.

O! My love! God forbid I should be greeted with, "We don't give a fuck who you were in San Francisco. Put your name in the fucking hat." What, then, would it all have been for?

All my life, I have felt like Jimmy Stewart when he loses the $8,000 and wants to jump off the bridge. So often, in my darkest hours, I have waited for people to show up with bowls of cash, singing "Auld Lang Syne". Perhaps I will find my $8,000 in New York. Or at least a telegram from Sam Wainwright. Hee-haw!

Sweetheart, you know the options for comedians after they have attained a certain amount of name recognition in San Francisco is to head either to Los Angeles or New York. True, Los Angeles would keep us nearer to each other, but you know that would be a difficult sacrifice to make given my peculiar brand of humour.

For I rarely get laughs in Los Angeles, except at the hipper venues like the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre (I'll be playing at its sister theatre in New York on November 2nd! Click for more info!)

In the more mainstream LA venues, however, I am often forced to say the words "fuck" or "pussy" or "cock" to elicit even a mild snicker, even if they have nothing at all to do with the piece. For example:

"Tonight is the sixth-year anniversary of 9-11 and fuck (laugh) is a good time to pussy (laugh) on how far we've come as a cock" (prolonged laugh followed by applause break).

I cannot compromise. Don't misunderstand me. I often have wished for that advantageous ability. But I have always been gracelessly untethered. Without agent, without manager, sitting on a minefield of talent with no compass to guide me to safety. It is my hope that this impending journey will do something to rectify this creative, yet chaotic, aimlessness.

You know well I have always desired the paradoxical comfort of those industrial chains. Many a night, I have prayed for my Brian Epstein to make him or herself known. Were I to be fettered in my material and delivery at this point, I can conceive of no potential regrets. For I am no different than any other in this field. I, too, yearn for both fortune and recognition. I always have. And I hope I have not misled you in this regard. I am only human, after all. If you prick me, will I not bleed?

But I have found none in California who would so lovingly bind me. Perhaps that security lies in the East. Regardless, I shall not know until that venture is undertaken with maximum faith and courage. And if my search proves fruitless, let your arms open themselves once more to receive me, for then I shall accept this artistic freedom and its concurrent poverty as the unalterable will of the Divine.

And anyway, my dear, I cannot handle the excessive amount of sunshine one finds in Los Angeles. It depresses me. For I am by nature a reclusive individual who contends that smarter people are to be found in colder climates--as they are forced by the weather to stay indoors and read books or watch old movies. In warmer climates, people play topless volleyball and commit suicide bombings.

I am also cautiously anxious to return where I can witness the seasons once more. For I also believe in the aesthetic value of linear thought. This is no more clearly delineated in nature than in the seasons: the beginning of spring, the ending of autumn, et alia. We may disagree on this point as well, you and I, but I will always assert that linear thought is essential to the creation of lasting works of art. Provided, of course, one equates art with individuality and not with community. For community is eternal. The individual--reaching his pinnacle somewhere between the signposts of birth and death--is merely temporal. Yet what is eternal, though it carry the seeds of truth within its infinite nature, is not always interesting. Who is born alone and who dies alone, theirs is a singular tale to be told.

This is why one may yawn at God the Father, but never Christ the Man.

I told you about the girlfriend I had in North Carolina. She was convinced she and I would elope to Los Angeles one day. It was only natural, given my spiteful tendencies, that when we broke up, I would seek my revenge by beating her to California. Yet instead of Los Angeles, I came instead to San Francisco. And to you, the angel that awaited me at its gates.

For I had always heard it was colder up here.

But when a climate consistently remains unchanged (in accordance with the teachings of Gore the Christ) the armchair philosophy of the Far East invariably springs to mind: All we have is The Now. For yesterday was mild and foggy, today was mild and foggy, and tomorrow will be mild and foggy. Consequently, there is no yesterday, today, or tomorrow.

Yes, that is logically indisputable--the notion that all time eventually collapses into a single, mystical point. But I nevertheless believe in the preservation of the illusion: that time is sequential. As books contain prologues and epilogues, as movies contain opening and closing credits, so too do the seasons have their own particular beginnings and endings. And the termination of one is the genesis of the other. Such is the cycle of life.

For now our long and troubled autumn together is nearing its end. And I therefore brace myself for the first cold winter without you by my side.

I shall keep myself warm by keeping you always in my thoughts.

I love you all,

Will

Tompkins Square Park (After The Rave)

[Performed by Will Franken & The Jonah Kit; Lyrics by Will Franken; Music by Will Franken & Jonah Watchman]

CLICK ANYWHERE ON LYRICS TO HEAR SONG

I like to go down to Tompkins Square Park. . .
I often go there at night on a lark. . .
to watch the rats come and play after dark. . .
and chew away the flesh. . .
of every girl who won't kiss me.

[CELLO SOLO]

Late in the night when the children have gone,
I see the rats come, their noses so long,
rooting in the trashcans, where they belong,
chewing away the flesh. . .
of every girl who won't kiss me.

[FRENCH HORN SOLO]

Sparkling and glittering girls should beware
the rats they attract in old Tompkins Square.
Yet they laugh and flirt with nary a care
for the flesh they will lose
when the rats hear they won't kiss me.

[OCARINA SOLO]

I hope the cops know I'm just helping out.
These rats are poor and there's no food about.
Please don't arrest me, or they'll do without.
Besides, the rats in jail
aren't as nice as those in Tompkins Square

[ICE CREAM SODA]

COMPLETELY CONFIDENTIAL: The Final Chapter In The Gender-Discrepancies Blog Trilogy

INTAKE INTERVIEW WITH CLINICALLY DEPRESSED CAUCASIAN MALE SUBJECT, Wed, 03 October, 12:04.

Doctor:
(tape begins in mid-speech)--taping this session. I hope you don't mind.

Subject: I didn't catch the first part of that.

Doctor: I was just saying that I'll be taping this session. I hope you don't mind.

Subject: I thought this was completely confidential.

Doctor: It is completely confidential. I'm just taping this for research purposes. So let's start with what you were saying a few moments ago about being unlucky with the ladies.

Subject: This is completely confidential, right?

Doctor: See--I knew I shouldn't have told you I was taping this. Now you're all hung up about it.

Subject: No, I'm glad you told me. I just need your assurance that all this is completely confidential.

Doctor: It's strictly for research purposes. And I'll probably put a portion of it up on my blog. Maybe send a link to my parents. They never thought I was going to make it as a clinical psychologist, so it'd be kind of nice to show them that I actually have a real live patient.

Subject: So your parents never believed in you, huh?

Doctor: No, my dad used to say that clinical psychology was for faggots.

Subject: What did he do for a living?

Doctor: He was a licensed social worker.

Subject: What about your mother?

Doctor: Let's keep this about you. So what were you saying about being unlucky with women?

Subject: This is completely confidential?

Doctor: Trust me. It's just for research. And a blog entry with a link for my parents to read. And something to include in the "about me" section on myspace. And I may use parts of it for a craigslist singles ad for women who love sexy and outdoorsy clinical psychologists.

Subject: I suppose I'd feel better if you didn't tape this.

Doctor: Well, I've already started the tape, so--

Subject: Can't you rewind and erase it?

Doctor: It's not that kind of tape recorder.

Subject: Are you sure about that?

Doctor: Same reason I never use pencils. They encourage mistakes.

Subject: Well, I suppose I don't mind as long as I can make my own recording of this session.

Doctor: What--on your laptop there?

Subject: Yeah, I've got Garage Band on this thing. Hold on. Let me get this set up--

(tape continues in stereo. please click here to open the necessary audio supplement in a different window as you follow along with the transcript below)

Subject: --yeah, that sounds much better. I usually use Sound Studio on this thing, but Garage Band has a nicer reverb.

Doctor: So tell me about being unlucky with women.

Subject: Well, I was thinking the other day, you know, that part of the reason I'm unlucky with women is that, you know, for a long time I've been looking for a man that can make me feel like a woman.

Doctor: And you don't think you can get that with a woman?

Subject: I just think that men are better at treating men like women than women.

Doctor: Are you sure about that?

Subject: If the men that want to be treated like women are women, yeah.

Doctor: What does being treated like a woman entail?

Subject: You know, I just want somebody to recognize that, you know, yes, I'm wearing a polka-dot party dress, knee-socks and mary janes, and licking one of those huge rainbow suckers while going back and forth on a swing set in the merry, merry month of May.

Doctor: But you're wearing ripped blue jeans, a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, you have a five-o-clock shadow and you're drinking a can of Old Milwaukee.

Subject: Yeah, but in my mind, I'm jumping rope and playing hopscotch.

Doctor: That sounds more like a girl than a woman.

Subject: If you want to get to heaven, you got to raise a little hell. If you want to be a woman, you got to raise a little girl.

Doctor: But you don't actually want to become a woman?

Subject: Hell, no. I like p___y too much. I'm just saying that I got a little bit of both in my soul, you know. Kind of makes it difficult sometimes.

Doctor: This is completely confidential, right?

Subject: Oh, yeah. Absolutely, man. No, I'm probably just going to use this for like a comedy bit or something. You know, I'm not sure yet. But I definitely won't be using it for any like psycho-therapeutic purposes.

Doctor: You're not going to have any major breakthroughs with it or anything?

Subject: No. I did all my breaking through when I was born, man!

[KNOCK ON DOOR]

Doctor: Yes?

[DOOR OPENS]

Nurse: Doctor?

Doctor: [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

Nurse: Doctor?

Doctor: Yes?

Nurse: The doctor will see you now, doctor.

Doctor: Oh, great, thank you. I'll be back in about an hour. Do you mind if I keep the tape recorder running?

Subject: Yeah, if it's completely confidential.

Doctor: It is.

Subject: Hey, can I play your piano while you're gone?

Doctor: Sure. Just don't get any beer stains on it.

Subject: Cool.

[DOOR CLOSES]
[PIANO BEGINS]

Subject: Yeah, you know, I guess in the end. . .I guess I just want to belong, you know? I want to be like the rest of you all, disenfranchised...

[MUSIC AND LYRICS BY JOHN LENNON]
[PIANO & VOCALS: WILL FRANKEN, ALL OTHER INSTRUMENTS: JOHNNY SWERDAN]

FW: RE: RE: please dont talk to me ever again--

Date: Mon, 1 October, 2007 21:36:00 -08:00 [10:36:00 PM PDT]
From: Will Franken [will@willfranken.com]
To: winstonchurchill.will@gmail.com
Subject: FW: RE: RE: please dont talk to me ever again--
Headers: Show all headers

thought you guys might enjoy this--
W.

Forwarded message---
Date: Sun, 7 October, 2007 15:30:56 -0500 [01:30:56 PM PDT]
From: "C. Quill"[whatcamebefore@sequel.com]
To: will@willfranken.com
Subject: RE: RE: please dont talk to me ever again--
Headers: Show all headers

Will--

First off, I don't appreciate you telling everybody that I don't know anything about the civil rights movement. As somebody who's marched in Jena with the guy who played the dad on "Family Ties", I believe I'm a bit more qualified than you to make any kind of statement on civil rights progress in this country.

Secondly, stop trying to impress me by quoting from these "expert scientific opinions" on man's impact on the environment. If M.I.T. professors and nobel prize winning meteorologists are all that you're reading, you're only getting a small part of the story.

For example, why are BOTH the girl who played the governor's daughter on "Benson" AND the lesbian from "Facts Of Life" saying that global warming is a) real and b) happening right now? There seems to be some confusion on your end about what constitutes an "expert".

And as far as 9-11 goes--yes, I know--NOT an inside job, right? Personally, Will, I don't care what the military, NYPD, fire & safety officials, architects and demolitions personnel have to say. What about expert testimony from Charlie Sheen and the woman who played the original public defender on "Night Court"?

(No, not the neo-con Markie Post--there was another blonde woman on that show in the first season. I'd send you her imdb link if I thought you'd bother to read it)

You say radical Islam is on the rise against the west and we should "defend ourselves ideologically against cultural relativism"--I think Susan Sarandon and Alyssa Milano would disagree with you there. And they're not alone. Just check out some of the myspace blogs from the black guy who wore glasses in "What's Happening?", the father from "Full House" (not Bob Saget or the one with rocker-type hair, but the one who's supposed to be a comedian) and most recently from those muslim guys who played the terrorists on "24". The information is out there for anybody who takes the time to read it and isn't afraid to speak power to truth!

The difference between us, dear Will, is one of open-mindedness. You're so fixated on this hierarchical notion that experts need to have credentials and fields of expertise. And this is why I don't want to see you again. You have to understand--I just can't open myself up to a closed mind.

Do you remember a few weeks ago when I forwarded you the e-mail with the woman who played Thelma on "Good Times"'s essay on Katrina? Or last equinox when I sent you the link to the woman who played the woman who wasn't Loni Anderson on "WKRP in Cincinnatti"'s foreign policy speech on Iraq? You didn't even bother to read them, because my opinions just don't matter to you.

Yes, you may know the "facts" about certain things. But what about the opinions? I know that you have your opinions. But do you have MY opinions? Of course not. You only have room for yours.

And even if you do know the facts, do you know the feelings? Are you even capable of feeling? I don't think you are. Remember when I showed you that photo of the Palestinian girl standing next to Rosie O'Donnell, the guy that played the oldest daughter's husband on "The Cosby Show", and the guy who played that one doctor from "M.A.S.H." (not Alan Alda, but his friend with the mustache that he drank martinis with)? Remember you asked me what I was crying for?

I was crying, Will, because unlike you I have FEELINGS! You should try having one sometime. Seriously, Will--why are you so afraid to be like the rest of us?

So for the last time--in the words of the guy who played the effeminate next-door neighbor on "Too Close For Comfort" (Jim or James or J.J. Bullock? He also used to be on a game show, I think.)--"please dont talk to me ever again!!!"

--C.

on Mon, 1 October 2007 at 4:01pm will@willfranken.com wrote;

[hide quoted text]

Hey C.--


I just saw that the new Wes Anderson movie is out--Darjeeling Limited.


What are you doing this weekend? Give me call. Let's go see it--


Rock on,


W.

FREE POSTFEMINIST EROTICA!

"I'm really having a very nice time hanging out with you," he said as his cock slid softly and slowly in and out of her warm, inviting cunt.

She licked her lips and clamped her legs tightly across his back, thrusting him ever-deeper inside her glistening pussy. "I'm glad we didn't call this a 'date'. It's more relaxing just to hang out sometimes," she cooed gently as his balls grazed lightly against her, "and not get anchored in the weighted terminology of the past."

He picked up speed and agreed wholeheartedly, "So casual, so non-threatening." She raised her ass slightly, her pussy lips burning as he worked it. "Honestly. I don't get to talk to that many people on this sort of intellectual level," he said as his bulbous cock pushed deeper and harder into her sopping and steaming cunt, "Why complicate things emotionally?"

His teasing tongue unfurled to lick her firm tits. She quivered and her long nails dug violently and mercilessly into his broad shoulder blades. "This is so different than what I'm used to. Most of the guys I meet are dumb alpha-male jocks who are only interested in sex," she moaned as he rammed his cock all the way home, nearly collapsing from the force of the thrust.

"Oh! We should definitely hang out again! Let me. . .give you. . .my e-mail address!" he groaned right before pulling out and shooting his hot and salty load all over her alabaster cheeks.

Her face was now a cum-colored canvas. She was completely spent, her damp thighs numb and lightly spasming. She had never been ridden by a cowboy like this before.

He reached across the nightstand to grab a cigarette. "You want me to get you a towel?"

A bead of jizz trickled slowly from the tip of her nose to rest on her upper lip. Suddenly, things became awkward. Oh no, she thought, he wants to get me a towel. Why do things always have to get so serious? "I'm perfectly capable of getting a towel for myself."

"I don't mind," he said as he arose from the bed, still dripping, "I just like to be chivalrous."

Chivalry? Red Flag, she thought as she licked the cum from her lips, why is he reading things into this? I know I haven't been leading him on.

She turned her soggy face away from his oppressively sincere gaze.

"It's a bad time to fall for me," she said as she retained her long sought-after independence.

You Are Nothing

You are not the gays of the Stonewall Rebellion. You are not the fighting suffragettes of the 20s. You are not the Jews that hold sacred the memory of the Holocaust. You no longer decry the use of nuclear weapons, you care not a jot about religious bigotry, you are perfectly fine with theocratic rule.

You prove all of this with letters to the editor:

"Ahmadinejad at Columbia

"Editor--The U.S. does not exist in an impenetrable bubble, nor are our government's opinions shared by the entire world."

So far so good. 9-11 proved this already. As 7-7 did for England and 3-11 did for Spain. Some cultures have a problem with different opinions.

"With this in mind, I applaud Columbia University for granting President Ahmadinejad a platform on which to share with us a world view that is very different than the majority of the U.S., but is not unusual in other parts of the world."

Parts of the world where corrupt regimes lord over billions of oil dollars, yet for some reason are unable to provide economic and educational opportunities for their own people? Parts of the world where globalized victimhood is a national identity? You mention "us"; are you saying that you've never experienced this world view before? Or have you always distrusted Western motives and were just waiting for a Holocaust-denying and homosexual-murdering regime to validate your postmodern liberalism?

"Although I do not agree with most of the views he shared, it is important to hear and acknowledge them nonetheless."

Which views are important to hear and acknowledge? Be specific in trying to distance yourself from real tyranny. Are you referring to the view that there are no homosexuals in Iran? That the validity of the Holocaust needs to be re-examined? That he should be allowed to have a nuclear weapon just because we have nuclear weapons? Or is it just because he also thinks that 9-11 might have been an inside job?

"Neither the U.S. nor Israel--"

First mention of Israel. I was waiting for it. You had me worried you were sleeping on the job.

"--is loved internationally, as Ahmadinejad made clear many times, and understanding this is the first step toward peaceful diplomacy in the Middle East and beyond."

Well, there's a lot of people in America and Israel that don't care for the Islamic Republic of Iran. Maybe if Ahmadinejad understood this, we could work towards peaceful diplomacy. However, the ball is in our court because Ahmadinejad has darker skin and speaks Arabic.

"I thought that I was going to hear some shocking remarks from the Iranian President's speech at Columbia University."

Without a spine, you can't feel shock. Had you one, you would have heard denials of homosexual rights, the Holocaust, 9-11, and tolerance of Western liberalism. This isn't religious morality I'm espousing. You don't need to believe in God. You just need to believe in your own eyes and ears.

"Instead, my shock and anger came from listening to Columbia's President Lee Bollinger. His rude and inappropriate speech made America look crude and base. That is not how guests are treated, no matter their personal views."

Well, I would have volunteered to suck his cock, but you can get killed that way:



Now that's what I call rude and inappropriate.Tsk! Tsk!

"The Columbia 'ambush' of Mr. Ahmadinejad will create sympathy for the Iranian president throughout the world. . ."

Especially sympathetic will be cowards like yourself who wish to avoid "rudeness" and "inappropriateness" at any price.

"Despite the abhorrent behavior of Bollinger, there was some good that came out of the event. Ahmadinejad's speech was well received by most of the young audience."

Yes, this gives me great hope for our future as a civilization. Did it ever occur to you that today's young audiences might very well be stupid?

"And in spite of all the propaganda spewed by Bollinger--"

Here's some of Bollinger's "propaganda"(which he cleverly disguised as legitimate questions in an open-debate forum): "We at this university have not been shy to challenge the failures of our own government to live by our values, and we won't be shy about criticizing yours. Let's then be clear at the beginning. Mr. President, you exhibit all the signs of a petty and cruel dictator. And so I ask you, why have women, members of the Baha'i faith, homosexuals and so many of our academic colleagues become targets of persecution in your country?"

"--the audience and the Iranian president actually connected on an intellectual level."

Is it ever possible for a speaker and an audience to connect on the level of shared stupidity? If an entire German nation threw their lot in with Hitler, would those numbers reflect intellectualism or baseness?

"The applause by the students given to Ahmadinejad shows some people were actually willing to listen and learn from the exchange."

Are you saying that every time somebody gets applause, they must have had something valid to say? Well, well. . .

Good on you, Bollinger, good on you!

When I heard the news that Ahmadinejad was invited to speak at Columbia University, I just assumed it was another exercise in the multicultural interfaith-dialogue horseshit that pawns itself off as higher education in the postmodern world of relativism.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the very guy that invited him to speak, university president Lee Bollinger, took the opportunity that he helped orchestrate to pin the slimy fucker to the mat.

Good on you, Bollinger, good on you!

I feel terribly optimistic today, for I find myself re-examining the motives for the invitation in the first place. I now imagine Bollinger being surrounded daily by spoiled college students and overpaid faculty members convinced that a) 9-11 had nothing to do with Islam, b) Americans live in a police state, and c) George Bush is the single greatest threat to worldwide freedom.

Perhaps Bollinger knew the truth behind this seemingly impenetrable layer of academic bullshit. Perhaps he knew the most efficient way to expose it to a brainwashed student body was to invite a real dictator to speak and then fire relentless hardballs on the topics of human rights and Holocaust denial. Regardless of his motive, Bollinger did the job that "60 Minutes" couldn't do--ask meaningful questions of a dark-age baboon who will quite likely obtain access to a nuclear weapon within the next few years unless we can take off our diapers and act like adults once more.

Even today's Chronicle had very few kind words left for Ahmadinejad after the bout with Bollinger in which the president of Iran claimed, among other nonsense, that there were no homosexuals in Iran (failing to mention this statistic may be true only because he had them all killed). I predict more and more people will flip in the coming months; the absurdist illusion of not being able to "tell the difference" between Bush and Ahmadinejad will be exposed as sheer cowardice masquerading as free speech.

Yes. I am optimistic today. I predict a slow awakening, a necessary migration out of relativism and into truth. Soon we will rediscover the cultural building blocks of "better" and "worse". Western self-flagellation might very well cease in the near future as continued criticism of America will come to be regarded as passe. Suddenly there will be another legitimate enemy in our sights.

We couldn't see him before because we weren't getting the news. We were getting speculation. We weren't sure who the "real enemy" was.

Here he is again:



Good on you, Bollinger, good on you!

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