More than a Micro-Blog

I Got Arrested Twice In One Weekend -by Brian Farrell

To give you a framework for where my head was at, my parents got divorced when I was 12 years old.  I was living on the North Shore of Chicago in a town called Wilmette when my parents sat my sister and I down to tell us that they were getting a divorce.  I was shocked.  I thought yelling and screaming was normal in any household.  It was just what families did, they shouted at each other.  I later learned that this was not normal and that a divorce was the best thing for my parents to be happy.  They’re both happily divorced now and living their separate lives.

My 12 year old brain couldn’t really process it all though. I was already somewhat of a misfit.  I regularly hung out with my pal Keevan, who was the only black kid in our neighborhood.  Keevan was a troublemaker. Him and I used to steal those tiny liquor bottles that they sell on airplanes from the local market and sneak out of our houses late at night and drink them at the local elementary school playground.  Man was that fun.  We never got caught.  We almost did one night.  The cops pulled into the parking lot of the elementary school and the second we saw them we HIT THE DECK, like we had seen in the movies.  I think I even whispered “HIT THE DECK!” and we hid underneath the slides on the playground to avoid the cops’ spotlight that they were shining around during their routine surveillance.  Keevan and I were nothing but trouble.

Keevan was not however involved in my getting arrested twice in one weekend.  I was a naughty kid and I hung with another misfit crew made up of a miscreants, Rich Valko being one of ‘em and the other being my secret crush, Nancy.  I smoked cigarettes at the age of 12 to be cool and I was cool.  What made me cool at the time was not just because I smoked cigarettes, but also because I was a recent transplant from Atlanta, Georgia.  All the girls in this privileged North Shore of Chicago community loved my southern bad boy accent.  I was a southern boy and all the gals dug what I was cookin’. 

The first time I got arrested was when I was hangin’ out with some of my misfit friends and Nancy behind the Wilmette movie theater in the alley.  It was a cold winter night.  We were being cool smoking cigarettes and I got the bright idea to light up a bonfire to keep our little hands warm.  Bad idea. The manager of the movie theater caught wind of the fire in the alley behind his movie theater and called the cops on us.  My other misfit friends were smart enough to scurry away upon the theater manager’s arrival, but Nancy and I stubbornly stood our ground.  The manager of the movie theater grabbed me and Nancy and said “COME WITH ME!”  Busted.  The cops arrived and put Nancy and me in the same squad car and drove us to the station.  I whispered to Nancy in the back seat of the squad car, “Alright, our story is that some teenagers lit that fire and we just happened to be there.” She nodded in agreement and stuck to our story when they brought us in for questioning.  Nancy was awesome.  We got off scott free.  Our parents picked us up and all we got was a slap on the wrist.

The very next day, I go for a BMX bike ride with my misfit friend Rich Valko and I get another bright idea. “How about we fill our pockets with rocks and chuck them at garage door windows?” Rich thinks this is an awesome idea and there we are BMX biking down suburban alleyways chucking rocks through garage door windows.  I remember thinking that the sound of those garage door windows smashing was the coolest sound ever.  Cruisin’ on our BMX bikes and hucking rocks through these windows was the funnest thing ever!  But then suddenly, after I had hucked a rock through one garage door window, that garage door opens up and a white Corvette tears out of there chasing us down.  The Corvette corners us, a man gets out of his hotrod Corvette and chases me down.  This guy tackles me off of my bike, pins me to the ground, and yells to a neighbor “CALL THE COPS!”  There I am again in the police station being interrogated.  I get thrown in a jail cell and my parents, to teach me a “lesson,” leave me in there for a good 5 hours.  The “lesson” worked, with few exception.  I never wanted to pursue a life of crime after that second time of getting arrested in the same weekend.

The Red Sparrow -by Brian Farrell

My next foray into radio after Phunky Phresh Boogie was a solo project in college, because my co-host of that show Sleazy Tony D didn’t follow me out west to go to college in California.  My radio show at UC Santa Cruz was called Black Coffee & Cigarettes which I dj’d on Tuesday nights/Wednesday mornings from 3:30am to 6:30am on KZSC 88.1.  I called myself The Red Sparrow.  No, I was not a bird fanatic.  My inspiration to call myself The Red Sparrow may be obvious to some hipsters, so I’ll admit that the genesis of my dj name was inspired by one of Charles Bukowski’s publishing companies called Black Sparrow Press. I was reading a lot of Bukowski at that time.

In order to get a radio show at KZSC, you had to have a twist to what your show was about. You couldn’t just say, “I want to play 80’s hair band music.” You had to play 80’s hair band that raises awareness to Free Tibet or something like that.  I just barely had enough of a twist to my show pitch to get a show.  My pitch meeting with the board members went horribly bad.  I did some song and dance about how I wanted to play jazz music, read beat poetry and call myself The Red Sparrow.  I vividly remember the board members of KZSC going “Alright, whatever…you can have the 3:30am to 6:30am Wednesday morning slot.”

I was really into beatnik culture. I loved Jack Kerouac. Allen Ginsberg & Slim Gaillard.  I didn’t know a thing about jazz music, but luckily the KZSC library had a ton of jazz on vinyl, so I’d just go in there, pick up a stack of random jazz records and spin them while I read beat poetry, drank a ton of coffee and smoked cigarettes.  Smoking was strictly prohibited in the dj booth, but it was 4am on a Wednesday morning and I was an outlaw punk college kid with an attitude problem.  I ended up reading the entire book “On the Road,” by Jack Keroauc to my listeners chapter by chapter.  I had a slew of townie tweekers calling me up regularly and freaking out saying “YOU IS A HIP CAT RED SPARROW MAN!” and “A BOOPITY-BAP ZIPPITY ZAP! YA DIG?!” What a bunch of weirdos.

By the way, my first email account that I set up for myself in college was boopityba@hotmail.com and I still use that email address.

Phunky Phresh Boogie -by Brian Farrell

When I was a senior in high school, I had a weekly all disco radio show with my co-host Sleazy Tony D called “Phunky Phresh Boogie” where all we did was play disco and goof off.  Why the “Ph?”  Because the band Phish was very popular at that time and we were satirizing their way of spelling “Fish” like everyone was.  It was a time when the letter “f” was decimated by the band Phish.  Yes, my rich kid high school on the North Shore of Chicago had a radio station…WNTH 88.1 New Trier High School radio.  Our radio show was every Wednesday night, a primetime spot.  I have been thinking about this time in my life over the weekend because of the recent passing of Donna Summer and Robin Gibb.  We played the Bee Gees and a Donna Summer song every week without fail.  RIP Donna Summer & Robin Gibb.

One of the running gags we had on our show was to have callers call in to answer dumb questions and they’d win a washer and dryer from the good people at Whirlpool.  We must be indebted washers and dryers to hundreds of our listeners.  For this, I apologize for not ever getting them their promised washers and dryers.  The honest truth is, Sleazy Tony D just enjoyed saying in his faux-announcer voice “SID KLEIN (who happened to be his favorite listener and one of the “cool kids” in our senior class) YOU’VE WON A WASHER AND A DRYER FROM WHIIIIRRRLPOOL!!!”

Our show got very popular and the senior class president, Hans Robertson, sought us out to dj the freshmen mixer dance.  We were honored to do it and I have to say, we had those little freshmen dancing up a storm to our disco tunage. Here is a vintage photo circa 1995 of myself (left) and Sleazy Tony D (right) on the night of the freshmen mixer:

It All Comes Back To Van Gogh’s Sunflowers -by Brian Farrell

When I was in third grade, my art teacher said to our class “Today we’re going to paint in the style of Van Gogh.”  She showed us some examples of his work…Starry Night, Sunflowers etc.  To this day, my version of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers is hanging on the wall in my mother’s living room, and honestly, it’s pretty damn good for a third grader if I do say so myself.

This is my painting that I painted in the third grade:

This one is Van Gogh’s:

Flash forward to me in my early twenties!

When I arrived in Amsterdam with my backpack and a piece of paper with my friend’s cousin Ryan’s apartment address, I wandered into a candy shop for directions to be greeted by a friendly beautiful blond bombshell Dutch girl who was working there.  I didn’t really look around too much at the candy selection (which was an immaculate and exotic selection of sweets), because I was too enraptured by this friendly Dutch babe.  I shyly asked her for directions to the nearest train to where my friend’s cousin Ryan lived.  She was happy to give me directions with her friendly upbeat Dutch accent and I was on my way. I wish I had made love to her right then and there on a bed of multicolored exotic candy, but it was a good omen to me that Dutch people seemed friendly. I was off to a good start.

I followed the friendly Dutch babe’s directions to the train and I got off at the right stop.  Finding my friend’s cousin Ryan’s apartment building was a cinch. This was before cell phones, and the only communication I’d had with this Ryan guy who I barely knew was through a postcard or two that I had sent him while I was hitchhiking all over France with a French dude named Vincent (please take note of the semi-weird cosmic coincidence that his name happened to be Vincent). I met Vincent in a Paris youth hostel.  He was from the south of France and was just floundering around Europe like a traveling French hobo.  Vincent didn’t speak a word of English, but I had taken French in high school and had my English to French dictionary with me.  When I needed to communicate with Vincent, I’d look up the verb and the noun and try to throw together a sentence. He’d usually laugh and say “pourquoi pas?” (Why not?) Vincent was a charmer and would chat up all the drivers who gave us rides while I would just sit in the back seat and space out. Vincent didn’t want to go to Amsterdam, so I was on my own. 

When I arrived at my friend’s cousin Ryan’s apartment, I rang his buzzer and he wasn’t home. Three Dutch college students came out of the apartment building and I asked them if they knew Ryan and they did, but didn’t know where he was.  They offered me some high-grade Amsterdam reefer and I smoked with them.  Stoned out of my mind, these three Dutch kids tell me that they are setting up for a party in the student commons area of this apartment complex and ask me if I’d like to help them set up.  I say, “sure.”  After a few hours of being stony baloney and helping these dudes set up for this party, Ryan gets home and is thrilled to see me and offers me a temporary residence on his couch.  This party that I had helped set up for turned out to be a rager of a party.  DJ’s, booze, reefer, babes, dancing, the whole nine.  I had a blast at this party and the extra bonus was, everybody loved me, because I had helped set up this party and everybody loved Ryan too whom I was associated with.  At this party, like an angel from another planet, I saw another blond bombshell Dutch babe.  The fact was that beautiful Dutch babes were everywhere at that party! Fueled by booze and Amsterdam reefer, I approach her and we hit it off right away. The one thing that I asked her that she seemed to appreciate was what Dutch people did for fun other than hang out in those marijuana coffee shops.  I didn’t want to be a typical douchebag American tourist and spend all my time doing drugs and drinking beer.  She tells me that the Dutch are famous for their licorice…LICORICE!?! I had been searching for that salty black Dutch licorice ever since I was twelve years old.  Growing up, I’d had a Dutch friend named Mark Van der Wall, who I used to skateboard around rural Georgia with and I fondly remember him rationing out his parents’ salty Dutch black licorice.  I remember staring at his kitchen cupboard and saying “Come on man! Gimme just one more piece!” To which he’d say, “But it’s my parents’ licorice! Alright, one more piece.”  I hadn’t been able to find this same salty black licorice for years and now I’m in the mecca of black licorice.  The other two things she recommended I check out in Amsterdam were ice skating and the Van Gogh museum.  I demand that she take me to a candy shop, go ice skating and then to the Van Gogh museum the next day…a date.  She says YES!.  Here I am sucking on salty black licorice as I’m ice skating hand-in-hand Hans Brinker-style with this bodacious bombshell blond Dutch babe.  I was in Heaven.  And then she takes me to the Van Gogh museum which when I saw the actual original Sunflowers painting that I had attempted to paint as a third grader, it hit me like an emotional freight train. I stood in front of that painting for what seemed like an eternity crying my eyes out.  It deeply moved me. There’s something about that painting that carries an enormous amount of emotional resonance.  She must have thought I was insane, but I didn’t care. I was a young romantic emotional man. 

I almost married this bodacious blond bombshell Dutch babe.  She made me the most delicious Dutch pancakes in the morning after long nights of wild and crazy love making.  She took me on long drives through rolling tulip fields while listening to the latest Pearl Jam album. We were on an epic romantic journey together, but for some reason I had my doubts of how real the love was.  I don’t quite know why, but I remember that she had a giant photo of Marlon Brando and this beautiful woman on the wall of her apartment and Marlon was holding this beautiful woman in his arms but he wasn’t even looking at her.  Marlon had something else on his mind and I somehow related to this sentiment.  I realized at that moment that I was still in love with a gal in California.  So that’s when I abruptly ended one of the most beautiful love affairs I’ve ever had.

Flash forward ten years and I’m waiting tables at a restaurant in Santa Monica wearing a yellow tie with the Sunflowers painting imprinted on it.  A customer I wait on all the time with a smarmy tone asks me, “Do you know who the artist who painted those sunflowers on your tie is?” I humored him and said I didn’t know.  He then said informatively, “That’s Van Gogh.”  AS IF I didn’t know who Van Gogh was and I was just some dumb waiter who didn’t have a deep felt history with the Sunflowers.  Why I didn’t just tell him this story that I’m writing now, I’ll never know, but I was a frustrated bitter actor/comedian feeling condemned to wait tables.

Flash forward to the present. I’m back to waiting tables at this same Santa Monica restaurant and I don’t have to wear a tie, but a regular customer politely asks me about my art.  I tell him that I’m a frustrated actor/comedian and I then give him a piece of paper with my youtube channel on it that has some of my stand up on it.  The next day, him and his wife say that they loved my work. This guy then tells me that he is an artist and that his sculptures are on display near where I live in Hollywood.  Charles Ray is the artist and his work deeply moved me.  One of his metal sculptures is of none other than, you guessed it: sunflowers.

And so it goes, it all comes back to the Sunflowers.

If you’re in Los Angeles, I highly recommend going to see Charles Ray’s work which is on display at the Matthew Marks Gallery. See for yourself…

http://www.matthewmarks.com/los-angeles/

I’ve Only Ever Wanted To Be Johnny Utah -by Brian Farrell

There are a few films that really shaped my identity growing up in the eighties and nineties. Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Hoosiers, The Lost Boys & most importantly, Point Break.  In hindsight, I mostly attribute my choice to attend the University of California at Santa Cruz to Point Break.  The Lost Boys had some influence on that decision as well, because that movie was filmed in Santa Cruz and that was just too cool to deny, but I saw UC Santa Cruz as an opportunity to live my dream of becoming Keanu Reeves’ character in Point Break, Johnny Utah. 

I was from the Midwest, just like Johnny Utah.  I was athletic, just like Johnny Utah…well, he was an allstar quarterback on the football team and I was a foil fencer, which counts just as much, because much like being an allstar quarterback, you’ve got to be in tip top shape to make it to the Junior Olympics in foil fencing, which I did, and I took 32nd place.  I also, like Johnny Utah, didn’t know how to surf before I moved out to California, but the first thing on my agenda as a first year student at UC Santa Cruz was to learn to surf and infiltrate the surfer community, just like Johnny Utah. 

I took the surfing class at UC Santa Cruz twice where I befriended the surfing instructor, who was a short little mustache-sporting towny who loved teaching people to surf.  He liked to stand on his head on his longboard and everybody in the class would think that was the funniest thing ever.  This friendly dude shaped me my own custom-made board, which he sold to me for $200. That was a hugely generous friend discount. It was a big wave riding board, a “gun,” as they’re called in surfer lingo, which means it’s somewhere in between a longboard and a shortboard in size.  Whenever I would catch a wave, it would make this really loud humming sound, which I thought was weirdly cool, but years later, I found out that the right fin needed to be adjusted, which was why it was making that noise, but I had my moment, where, just like in the movie, I was cruisin’ on a fairly big wave and yelling like Keanu “I’M SURFING! I’M SURFING!!!!!”

Early on in my surfing career, like in Point Break, I went to some local surf breaks where there were some dangerous folk out in the water.  They called themselves the “East Side Locals,” a gang of surfers.  Judging by how these guys were such territorial assholes with zero tolerance of beginner surfers, they may as well have been the Ex-Presidents, which was Patrick Swayze’s character Bodhi’s posse of free-wheelin’ criminal surfer dudes.  I had the exact same experience that happened in the movie where I naively dropped in on the wrong guy’s wave and he had knife in his wetsuit.  My leash got cut and my board was sent flailing into the rocks as this gangster surfer shouted at me “STAY OFF MY WAVE!” I couldn’t believe it.  I thought it was awesome and I wasn’t that scared because I felt like I was in the movie Point Break.  I felt like Johnny Utah.  I managed to recover my board, swim back to the shore and as I was walking back to my truck I heard those gangster surfers in the distance yelling “EAST SIDE LOCALS ONLY!”  I wouldn’t go back to that break for a long while, or at least until I got a little better at surfing.

On campus one day, I met a tall surfer dude who, apart from being tall, resembled to a tee Patrick Swayze’s character, Bodhi. This dude had long bleach-blond hair and had a cool surfer accent. This dude said to me, “Hey bra, ever surf Three Mile?”  I had no idea what he was talking about, but like the good detective that Johnny Utah is, I inquire and need to experience “Three Mile.”  This Bodhi-esque character took me up to Three Mile, which as it turns out, is just a surf spot that is located three miles up the coast.  These were enormous waves, but I was determined to hold my own and not show any fear, as Johnny Utah would’ve. It took me about an hour to paddle out to where I could even have a chance of catching a wave.  This surfer dude who was showing me the ways had already caught 15 to 20 waves before I was even able to paddle out there.  But I finally did it and was determined to catch an enormo-wave.  My arms were cashed, worn out, but I straddled my board like a horse (as surfers do) and waited patiently for my wave.  Giant boils of water were bubbling up, which, every time that happened I thought it was a Great White shark about to devour me.  They’ve been known to turn up in those waters on occasion, but the surfer dude assured me that it was just the ocean floor farting.  Suddenly, in the distance, I see a swell of waves forming.  The surfer dude calls out to me, “OUTSIDE!” which means, the waves are going to be breaking farther out.  I start paddling out there to get in position to catch one of these enormo-waves.  The surfer dude yells to me “THIS IS YOUR WAVE BRA!!!” I turn around and start paddling in the direction of where the wave is forming.  A mountain of water is swelling up and all of a sudden, I’m looking down the face of a 15 foot wave.  I get scared and try to bail, but it was too late.  I let go of my board and the wave has me in her clutches.  I’m body-surfing down this mountain of a wave and seconds later I’m under water in a washing machine of waves for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know which way was up.  I curled up in the fetal position and got slammed on the reef like a dead fish.  I somehow protected my head and eventually surfaced without drowning or major injury.  If I had drowned, well, no blog I suppose… I managed to swim back to the shore and waited for a few more hours while this seasoned Bodhi-esque surfer dude was ripping and shredding those enormo-waves.  I was jealous, humbled, and learned to respect Mother Ocean and all her power.

I chose to surf smaller breaks after that experience.  One time, I was out there on my board waiting for a wave with my buddy Jesse and we both see a dorsal fin cruise by about twenty feet from us.  We knew it was a shark at the same moment, because if it were a dolphin, it would’ve been playfully dipping and diving, but a shark’s dorsal fin travels straight ahead like an ominous submarine.  Without blinking an eye, we both look at each other and nod in agreement that we need to take the next wave in and go home.  That experience didn’t scare me as much as almost dying up there at Three Mile. A shark sighting seemed more natural.  We were sharing the waters with predators like sharks.  That’s just how it is and all you can do is avoid them if you’re lucky enough to see ‘em when they’re around.

I spent three years of having salty hair and loving surfer student lifestyle.  I lived by the philosophy of Keanu’s character’s love interest, Tyler (played by Lori Petty), which is “Surfing’s the source.  It’ll change your life.”  It changed mine and I got to be Johnny Utah.

My 11th Annual Birthday Dinner At The Sherm -by Brian Farrell

Below is an exclusive birthday invitation that you are, unfortunately, not invited to, because I don’t know you that well and the event already happened. I sent this invitation to a select group of friends of mine, but at least you have the privilege of reading it.  Special thanks to my pals who turned out for my birthday dinner at The Sherm.  It was legendary.

Gents,

I mean, jeezus…my birthday falls on a Friday night this year, so I understand that I happen to be friends with well-to-do men about town who are on the go with places to be and business to attend to, so this year’s Sherm dinner is %100 NOT A PRIORITY and expectations of attendance are zero to nil.  So an RSVP isn’t even necessary…the Sherm doesn’t take reservations anyway.  Basically, show up if you feel like it…I mean, really, the place is DEEP in the valley and traffic getting there will be awful on the 101, as it is every year.  As much as I’d love to see all my friends enjoying Sherm steaks with me, I’m actually discouraging you from attending.  But having said that, I’ll be there regardless and will be just as content with a table for one. 

It’s, I believe, the 11th Annual Birthday Sherm dinner? Pugh is a better records keeper…Pugh? 

Wives and significant others are more than welcome as well. No children though…sorry Little GT, Lukey, and Ike. The Sherm has a strict No Persons Under 25 rule.

(Fair Warning: The Sherm is a steak and lobster joint.  Vegetarians..DL, Jim, you’re outa luck, but I’m sure they can throw some iceberg lettuce in a bowl for you guys.)

Begrudgingly,

-beans [my pen name/nickname]

Friday, May 11th
8pm
The Sherm
16916 Sherman Way
Van Nuys, CA 91406

http://www.yelp.com/biz/sherman-room-van-nuys

My Worst Break-up -by Brian Farrell

I had been dating a Ferrari of a woman.  This chick was HOT! A smokin’ hot asian chick…well, she was half asian, half silicone. One night, she says she’s going out to have drinks with a talent agent.  She was an actress seeking representation, so it was a business meeting.  This business meeting lasted ‘til the wee hours of the morning.  I stayed up waiting for her in her apartment like a worried mother waiting for her lost children to come home.  This chick finally gets home at 3am with her hair and dress all disheveled.  I confront her and say,  “Did you cheat on me?”  She says yes, and that she was just having fun with this agent fella.  That’s when I lost it and shouted at her like a douchebag as I stormed out of her apartment “YOU COULD’VE BEEN WITH BRIAN FARRELL!”  I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth.  That’s perhaps the silliest thing you can say when you break up with someone, or rather, they force you to break up with them.

I lost my viginity in an Aerostar mini-van. -by Brian Farrell

I was fifteen years old.  She was sixteen and had a drivers license.   Miss X and I had been dating and fooling around with each other for a few months. We were both virgins and after a lot of discussion, we decided that it was high time we do the deed we’d both been longing to do: have sex. Her mother drove an Aerostar mini-van and her father drove a Chevy Monte Carlo.  I thought it would’ve been classier to do it in the Monte Carlo, but the Aerostar mini-van provided more privacy for us.  So we decided that at sundown on a designated school night, we’d drive the Aerostar mini-van to a secluded suburban street and make whoopie.  We executed our plan to a tee. We took out the back passenger seats and laid down sheets and blankets where the sacred ceremony would take place..  We drove to our remote suburban street & parked the Aerostar. I brought condoms with me and really regretted not practicing putting those things on, because I remember it being really difficult to slap that sucker on my wiener. That was the least of my problems.  I didn’t know where to stick my wiener when I had the rubber on.  I knew it was in between her legs somewhere, but I couldn’t seem to slip it in that warm moist area.  I think my penis was really small and limp too.  She was trying her best to help, but she didn’t know what she was doing either.  She was grabbing my penis and trying to insert it into her love muff.  It was sloppy and awkward and I don’t think I even came.  That was my first time having sex. 

However, this marked the beginning of her and I having sex ALL the time.  It was beautiful.  We were sex hounds and we got really good at it.  We were Olympic caliber sex fiends and you can bet your ass we did it in her father’s Monte Carlo on numerous occasion.  We played hooky from school, just to do it.  We made a pact with each other that whenever we heard the Bad Company song “Feel Like Makin’ Love,” we would do it and we listened to the classic rock radio station all the time.

I Was Sent A Hot Chocolate -by Brian Farrell

I met Mandy at a coffee shop in Evanston, IL called Kafein. I was there one cold winter night with my friends drinking coffee and trying to make each other laugh, like us cool kids were want to do, and then the barista brings this giant hot chocolate with whip cream on it over to me.  I say “I didn’t order this.” The barista then gestures over to a pretty girl with big hair and a big smile and tells me that the hot chocolate was sent to me by her.  I thought it was a classy move.  Hot chocolate is not a heavily caffeinated drink, which makes it somewhat neutral. What if I didn’t want a lot of caffeine? Hot chocolate. Everybody likes hot chocolate. It’s the perfect drink to send a dude like me on a cold winter night on the North Shore of Chicago. Mandy went to a different North Shore of Chicago high school than I did. We dated for a while. She went to my high school’s prom, and I went to hers.

Coyote Comedians -by Brian Farrell

Apparently, there is a small tightly-knit community of coyotes who do comedy in the Joshua Tree National Park, because when I was on one of my hikes out there this weekend, I stumbled across an open mic where the only comedians were coyotes. These were the most mean-spirited & bitter hacky comedians I had ever seen. There were a few decent coyote comedians, but they were so self-deprecating that their talent may never be realized. Here is a coyote comedian’s joke that I thought was halfway decent: (This coyote was obviously making fun of the coyote version of The Avengers.) “Anybody see the big comic book movie blockbuster this weekend, The Scavengers?” That coyote was pretty funny, but I talked to him after his set and he was complaining about not having representation and that Wile E. (of Road Runner fame) stole his act. It was sad, really.