Sunday, April 27, 2008

I Will Not Be Answering Your Call

I loathe the phone. If you have my cell phone number, I would like to congratulate you, for you are important. However, don't even think of calling me. That's why I have text messaging.

These days I've been busy crafting marketing magic, writing stuff, and maintaining a jetset-lifestyle -all of which has people wondering, "how can someone be this good?" I don't know, some say my Mom was visited by an Angel in 1979 and that is how I was conceived. I cannot confirm this because I was not there, and my mother can't because people would say she's a blasphemer and she hates it when people call her that.

In any event, these days work demands that I spend a lot of time talking on the phone to people whom I have great disdain for. Now, I can't call these people out by name because my boss occasionally reads this blog and evidently, calling clients "hateful beasts" is not nice or ethical or something. I don't really know, I went to school for musical theatre and all I learned there was how to sing a beautifully floaty A flat, do a triple pirouette, and hook up with painfully needy/easy girls. That's my background, my set of experiences.

One of the main reasons I don't like the phone is that I get bored very easily, much like this monkey here. You see, I'm a visual-literal person (which is a highly technical term that I may have just made up). I need to see you to know that you exist. In some instances you may find us chatting on the phone and you ask me, "are you even listening?"You know the gig, if you have to ask the question, the answer is likely to be, "no, no, I'm not." BUT perhaps I'm not listening because I'm not even sure that you exist, man. That could very well be too. Now, I say 'perhaps', because more than likely it's just that you're not that interesting on the phone and I got bored. I'm sorry, that's not very nice. But its... um, oh what's the word.... true. Yeah, true, that's the word I was looking for.

Additionally, as I've grown into the wildly attractive person you read before you today, I have been able to seamlessly shift from situation to situation by virtue of being sensitive to visual social cues that people give during the course of conversation, and adapt accordingly. So when I inevitably drop some ageist, fatist, or generally elitist comment, it will be certain that I can enjoy (at the very least) a well-deserved polite laugh for my efforts. How will I be able to assure this? Only through surveying your visual responses to all the shitty things that I'd said up to that point. That is not something I can do on the phone.

You're probably thinking: it's not that you hate the phone, it's really just that you're a jerk. That is indubitable, but beyond that I really have you in mind. Yes, you! For while you're talking to me on the phone, I am likely participating in a variety of undesirable activities that I would like to shield you from. Activities I would not (or at least should not) be participating in were we to be actually meeting face to face or safely, detachedly posting messages on each other's Facebook walls.

What are the activities that I'm "protecting" you from, you sarcastically ask? Well, they vary really. Top of the list is me trying to prevent myself from blurting out, "DEAR GOD! HOW DO I END THIS PAINFUL EXCHANGE!??" Yeah, usually that's the first thing I'm protecting you from.

Other activities vary in degrees of grossness, absurdity or sociopathic behavior. Whether it's attempting to mask the fact that I'm taking a dump or admiring my own physique in any readily available mirrored surface or flossing (oh, who am I kidding, I don't floss....); two things are certain: it will be unappealing to you and it will not involve me actively participating in our "conversation."

So where do we go from here? Will we ever truly connect? If I have my druthers, probably not. If we haven't spoken or I haven't returned your call, it is likely that I'm avoiding you. Who knows why I'm avoiding you, really? Maybe I owe you money, maybe I find you intolerable or maybe I just can't stop picturing that mole on your neck. Which, by the way, you really should get checked out.

What I would suggest is that you try texting or e-mailing me. While many people look down on these methods as impersonal, I endorse them for that very reason. I can get back to on my own time with as many or as few words as I deem sufficient.

So there it is. It's all out on the table. Let us proceed from this point. And if the texting/e-mailing bit doesn't work, I'll probably be at Kelly's and we can sort any other miscommunications over a Coors Light and some Barry Manilow. For that is the American Way.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Masterpiece Theatre

Hello you beautiful bloggity friends.  I'm feeling much better, thanks for asking.  Gnarly cough, but on the mend.  Thanks for your letters and well wishes and offers to donate kidneys.  I love them all and will dine on the deliciously generous organs for weeeeeeks!

This week I am in Seattle for a wedding, where I am currently hammered.   As a result, I can not present you with the magic you have become accustomed to off the cuff.  In light of this I would like to share with you a play that I wrote on Friday night when I couldn't sleep that is suitable for performance by senior centers and elementary schools entitled, "Why I Drink."

So with out further adieu, GWGG proudly presents this performance of, "Why I Drink."  Enjoy.

Why I Drink

By Patrick Garrigan

 Lights up in what would be Matt’s Living Room.  This is home base for his narrations that segue into the vignettes that illustrate what is about to unfold:


Goodbye.  I love you.

[turns around to notice audience, gets the idea, takes a deep, dramatic emotional sigh and plops a couch and makes a decision to begin chugging beers quickly.  Exasperated, he stops and stares at the audience]

Welcome to my living room on this shitty night.  Actually, I’m glad you’re here because otherwise I’d be crying, getting hammered and talking to my dressing mirror, which ultimately leads to me masturbating to my own image.  So that’s good, or gross or narcissistic or whatever.

(As if posing a grand philosophical question) Why do I drink?  That is the question I pose to myself this evening and since you all told your theatre trash friends you’re going to a “reading,” you have the good fortune to hear as well.  Well, where to start?  I don’t know, maybe it comes from my inherent lack of game:

[Shifts to cocktail lounge with mixed group of friends. Matt 2 years younger, greener]


So, what do you do?

BETH: (Uptight, WASPy, Masshole):

I’m actually in my second year of law school.  I’m looking to go into corporate licensing for sports franchises.  It really matches my love of sports with my love of the law.  And you?


Actually, I’m an actor. I, um, I act.


What do you “act?”  I mean, forgive me, but can you make any money at that?


A little, I mean I just started so, we’ll-


-excuse me; I’ve got to take this.

 MATT (aside to audience as narrator):

The thing didn’t even fucking ring.


Listen, it’s been great talking to you.  My friend needs me outside right now.

 [Back to MATT’s living room – tipsy.]


You know what, fuck her, maybe being an actor doesn’t provide you with a “sustainable lifestyle” or “reliable source of income.”  Whatever.  Yeah, yeah, I’m bitter -fuck her.

 What was I saying?  No game.  But quickly I realized the more I drank, the more clever I became, which lead me down the path we find ourselves tonight.

 [Show opening night party.  Rowdy, noisy, boisterous]


Congratulations.  You were wonderful.


Yes, yes, I was wasn’t I?  (sly smile & a wink) Are you with any journalistic publication?  A newspaper, a podcast, perhaps a blaaaaagh?  Are you a blaaaagher?

 ASHLEY (giggles):

No, no.  My friend Marc is the kabuki stream from the second act.


Ahh, yes the kabuki brook.  I have always thought the Sound of Music needed a kabuki brook.  However else will they know when they have climbed every mountain and forded every stream unless there’s an actual kabuki stream to ford.  My apologies, I’m going to have the director beaten up later tonight.

[She smiles.  A beat.]

 I’m Matt, what’s your name?


Ashley Ashbury. Alright, Mr. Funnyman.  Insert your joke here.

 [MATT back in the living room – more tipsy]


To which I replied, “I got something to insert here –hey, oh!” Except not really.

Mr. Funnyman.  What a stupid thing to call a person, and yet, that’s all it took.  It’s not like we had some profound conversation.  It was the simple-ness of the thing. 

And that was just the beginning of my drinking, and it’s probably her fault.  Wait, wait, no.  It was my parents.  Isn’t that what it is supposed to be?

 [To Lazy-Boy White Trash DAD drunk, entire scene w/ cig in his mouth, it’s not lit, it just flaps.  MATT as a 4 year old boy]


Boy, I want to tell you something while All in the Family’s on a break, life ain’t all rosy and sweet smellin’ like you see on this here show.


It isn’t?


No, boy!  It’s hard.  Life’s hard! Life is like this beer kozy.  It can hold wonderful things like Milwaukee’s Best but the kozy don’t fill itself, you see.  You need to get kids so that they can get you beer from the fridge to put in your kozy and you need a supermarket that sells beer for the kozy, and you need a dishwasher that will clean the kozy without breaking it up so there’s blue kozy shit all over the good Care Bear plates.




Get me a beer.  You get you one too.  Today, boy, you are a man.

 [Back to the Living Room – morer tipsy]


What a fucking idiot.  Protective Services took me away 2 weeks later.  No.  Don’t “awww.”.  I was 4, a step up from messing my own britches and I knew he was an idiot.  Anyway, I got adopted like 5 seconds later by a nice Vietnamese couple who I think adopted me to be ironic.

This has nothing to do with anything, it just gives you background as to why I’m getting hammered and why I’m glad you’re here.  So as you would probably guess, things developed with Ashley Ashbury.  Through our ups and downs one thing was constant: booze.

 [Series of Quick Vignettes]



Hey, toots.  Just finished my shift, wanna grab a drink?


Sounds great.  Meet me at Marseilles.



I’m so stressed out for this audition.


Cock-tail? (places a wine bottle at his crotch – hilarious over the top sitcom laughter)



Oscar party! You look lovely, kid.


Thanks daddy-o, raise your Waterfords high.



(Breahthy) When we have sex, can I stick my finger in your ass?


Whatever you say, babe, I’m just going to need another beer.

[MATT back in the living room drunk]


All I’m saying, assplay, give it a dance.  (frustrated) EEEAAAaaah!  That’s not what I meant to say.  I mean I like it, yeah, whatever.  The thing is, I fell for this girl!  She was perfect.  Beautiful.  She was smarter than I was and I liked that.  She was better than me, you know, sweeter.  Didn’t kick cats when no one was looking, that sort of thing. She was perfect and I fucked it up.   I don’t know why I drink on the –at the large, you know.  But here’s why I’m drinking tonight:

[To Living Room but ASHLEY is there, MATT is at the opposite edge of the stage.  Distance, awkwardness]


Matt, please don’t do this.


Don’t do what?  Don’t be pissed?  Ashley, how can you do this?


Matt, I have tried so hard to be there for you, but I can’t do this.  I can’t set out in my life knowing that I’m always going to have to apologize for your laziness.


That’s a fucking shitty thing to say. 


Ahh, I can’t say the right thing with you.  Matt.  I love you I really do but I can’t just sit idly by why you waste your talents drinking beer and playing XBOX.


Ashley, you know that I have taken an Assassin’s Creed, which I have to fulfill.


It’s not funny.  Not any more.  Goodbye, Matt.



[beat as he absorbs that his love is gone, slowly begins to sob.]

Goodbye.  I love you. 

[walks to the sofa as he did in the beginning back to straightfaced narrator from the beginning.]


You see that’s why I’m glad you’re here tonight.  I don’t want to be alone.  …ever.  

No, really. I don’t.  I used to make my mom talk to me while I was on the crapper.

None of that stuff ever happened.  I just get really bored when I’m by myself and I forgot to pay the cable, so I used you to entertain me until Ashley gets back with my Chicken Vindaloo.  Which, unless she got hit by a Mack truck, should be any minute. 

Why do I drink?  Because I’m thirsty and I like being hammered. Done & done. [cell phone rings] So thanks for allowing me to indulge me. (shrugs) C’mon, I get bored -hold on.

[answers phone]

Hey-Yo! This Matt. 


What?  A Mack truck?!!


Edward Albee can kiss my ass.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Special Guest Blogger,

Good evening, fair readers! It appears that Mr. Patrick Garrigan is under the weather this week and feeling deeply unbloggy. So, in his sickly state of mind, he has asked me, Timothy Dunn, to guest blog for him.

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

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

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

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

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

I love: eating out in New York.

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

I love: walking my dog around Astoria.

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

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

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

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

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

I love: hugging my friends when I greet them.

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

I love: Astoria Park.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


EDITORIAL NOTE: My sincere thanks to Mr. Dunn for sharing his views. Normally, I would say they don't necessarily reflect the views of GWGG, but um, they do. Oh, and the roller skating granny is on rollerblades and not rollerSKATES. My apologies to Mr. Dunn for the inaccuracy, but I like the visual of a cambre-ing old lady. Thanks, chief.

I've Caught The Plague

Hey there friends, I appear to have caught the plague.

As a result, I'm going to down cocktails of Airborne, Red Bull & Tropicana Extra Pulp O.J. and watch re-runs of Law & Order: SVU.

Since I'm down, I've enlisted the talents of one Timothy Dunn, blogger extraordinaire to pinch hit in my absence (post above). So now I leave you in the capable, clammy hands of Dr. Dunn.

See you next week live from rainy Seattle! kthxbai.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Private Dancer, Dancer for Money

"I'm your private dancer
A dancer for money
I'll do what you want me to do...."
-Tina Turner

As it is often documented in these tales of Greatness, I'm a huge fan of tittays. However, it may come as a surprise to the readers of my scribin' that I'm not a huge fan of strippers.

This weekend, I went to a bachelor party and there may or may not have been strippers involved -I can't really say. Guy Code and the fact that I woke up wearing only my tighty whiteys and a pair of dress shoes in an alley without one of my kidneys, will not permit me to comment on that aspect of the evening. The idea that strippers might've been involved though, really got me thinking as I recovered in a bath tub of ice at home.

I find that strippers are a lot like the glittery animated gifs I've decided to litter this page with, they're pretty and flashy, but at the end of the day you can't really do anything with them. I'm probably not being fair. In the spirit of full disclosure (so to speak), I really haven't had the best track record with strippers....

The date was August 12, 1997, and I had just perfected my Ricky Schroder Silver Spoons hair-flip. More importantly, I was 18 years, 2 months, and 4 days old. Finally of age to take classy draws from big cigars, buy instant lottery tickets, and most importantly, get my first glimpse at real live funbags. Yeah, funbags.

So naturally, I gathered my posse and we headed to, "the BEST Gentlemen's Club in North Central Ohio [For Left Handed, Diabetic Albinos]!" Aka'd as The Top Hat, you know, 'cause they're classy and gentlemanly-like. Upon arrival, we strolled in like we owned the joint -because the place was a trailer, the kind you can buy at Home Depot for the price of a Pinto and trailer hitch, and we totally had that kind of scratch.

We took our place at the VIP booth (which I created by writing "VIP" on a napkin with a Sharpie I had brought for this very purpose) with class and distinction: picture The Sandlot meets Reservoir Dogs. After a few minutes there, the ladies were swarming us, cooing, "hey Big Boy, you want a dance?" To which I aloofly replied, "be cool, baby Daddy's perusing the merchandise." And then I choked on my Swisher Sweet.

After taking in the landscape, I made my choice. I decided I would drop the sizable $5 for the price of a lapdance on Crystal, a stringy haired, cigarette breathing vixen with a tummy of questionable firmness. I let her know my choice by using the Special Forces sign for "I'm watching you," and knocked over my Mr. Pibb and ended up poking myself in the eyes in the process. Then the magic began.

To this day, I don't really know if what happened to me that night was legal. What I do know is, despite the fact I was still fully clothed, Crystal claimed that I had made her preggers. Not knowing anything of baby-making, we married, moved into my parents basement, and over the next nine months she used a series of tasteful throw pillows stuffed under her shirt to simulate the gestation process. At the conclusion of the nine months, upon discovering her deception -utterly crushed- I kicked Crystal out, but kept her tastefully rhinestoned thongs to wear sell in order to cover the costs of buying new sofa pillows.

Seeing strip clubs as the root of this evil, I vowed that I would never step foot in another one ever again....

Until 2007, when on a business trip to Wisconsin, a client and my good friend, Erick, decided that they wanted to head to Scores Gentleman's Club. Now, given my hardened view of strippers suffered at the hands methol-manipulating, Crystal, I had not set foot in a strip club since I had sworn it off years prior. But a client's a client. Overtaken with the shakes, the quakes, and the takes, I headed to the hotel bar where we were staying, demanded that the bartender turn on Golden Girls, and began drinking till I thought Rue Mcclanahan was hot, which surprisingly only took twenty minutes.

Then off we flew. By the time we got there, the world was a haze. All I remember was being greeted by a man with slicked back 80's hair and a Mandarin collared tux jacket. "Stupid collar," I mumbled as I headed to the pisser. When I got back to the table, after a few Sapphire & tonics, all I really remember is waking up in my clothes the next morning with my phone ringing loudly. I pick it up:

Erick: What the fuck were you doing last night?

PG: Excuse me? What time is it?

Erick: As if it wasn't bad enough that you were chatting up those girls like you were at the soda shop, you then told them to go put on sweatpants so that they were more comfortable, had them do "trust falls" from the stage to prove that people support them, and made us leave the joint so that you and the girls could get midnight manicures. [I look to my cuticles, they look incredible]

PG: Dude, I'm sorry.

Erick: Sorry doesn't put a tasty bottom on my lap does it? [SLAM]

You know what? Erick was right, my "sorry" did not put a tasty bottom on his lap!

So, that my friends is the record as of today. I think I give up when it comes to strippers. At this rate I'll probably end up naked with a ball gag, tied to a tree, covered in peach preserves, missing my other kidney, and I just don't think I could live through that. No really, physiologically, I need the other kidney to live.


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