This Warms My Heart...

I know, at some point, it almost makes sense for me to call this an SNL blog, as it's about the only thing keeping me afloat. At some point, I knew I would have to transition towards something with less personal substance, as my prose would need to become bottled and used to pay bills. At some point, the relationships I entered would force me to confront a level of maturity that could no longer be picked apart on these pages, with women who would not put up with that kind of cowardly assault. At some point I would grow too close to the people I ultimately admire, or detest, and write about. At some point, this could get awkward. I'm not sure I'm quite there yet, so we're not about to permanently close any pages. Right now, I'm just glad Will Ferrell is a broach enthusiast.

Laser Cats, You Will Always Have A Home Here...

This Guy Murders SNL...

So Happy...

There is nothing more for me to say. Favorite cast member ever. There's that. Holiday episode. There's that too. Okay, I'm done.

Genius...

When All Is Right In The World...

And Not To Be Outdone...

Has A Cast Ever Been This Loaded...?

And My Head Just Exploded...

Yes It's True, I Am A Big Fan Of Happiness...

Speed...

I don’t like swimming. Or, it’s not that I don’t like swimming, but more getting up early to drive across town to a dingy pool, and paddling through my laps like a caged rat, swimming with assholes, assholes telling me how terrible my stroke is and that I should call them and pay them to fix it (Except Sergio, Sergio is a stud), showering in dingy locker rooms, taking hours out of my precious life to do something I grit my teeth and power through. I don’t like any of those things.

About a week ago, I was in bed and not sleeping and thinking about how I would design this contraption that would allow me to swim in place in my apartment pool. Then I looked it up and found TYR made one. Today, minutes ago, I tried it out for the first time. Perfect. You hook it up to anything outside of the pool, then to the belt around your waist, which is absolutely comfortable. Then, you get your ass kicked. Seriously, you absolutely get your ass kicked. Once you get away from the attachment, the elastic stretches and acts as a vicious current. It’s perfect for triathlon because it’s a power builder, no doubt about it, and though you can kick without obstruction, the arms have to motor. It’s violent, it’s tough, it’s just like open water swimming. I love it.

And of course, whenever I start to take myself too seriously, I think of this...

Dear SNL...

Fallon made cameo last week in the extraordinary live action Ambiguously Gay Duo. So clearly, this is in the playbook. You don't have to say anything, but please, please tell me you're rehearsing Barry Gibb right now with JT back in the saddle for the season finale. You don't have to say anything, but please. It would make my week.

Zach G...

Can We Please Do Something Fresh...

And stop the week long celebration of ourself? I guess so. I guess you can only ring your own bell SO much. Though, I still haven't found that much satisfaction yet. But John has been listening. We're on the verge of doing something really special. I can feel it. I can feel it coming. He's just got to bring us in.

Anyway, Jim Carrey last night. Excellent, bigger than the room Jim Carrey. So he walks into the writers room at some point and drops a piece of paper on the table and says something like, so this is what I want to do for my monologue - propose to some woman before settling on a man before talking about wearing condoms in rivers of blood and the end of the world before talking about consummating my gay marriage backstage before getting on with the show. Everyone signs off and Carrey walks out happy and the room looks to one another like, was he serious. Dark as fuck monologue, right? No way written by the staff, right? The kind of thing only Carrey can walk in and get away with, right? Brilliant show, just brilliant. And I have to really tip it to Lorne for this new batch of players too - really fucking talented. I am happy.

This Won't Be Up Long...

Never seen Em use so much of a guide track before. Or a full guide track. Probably sick. But that's not why this is going up.

Wait for it...

The Return Of The Return Of Stefon!

Paul McCartney took the stage 4 times. 4 times! Special night. 3rd time up, he breaks into this Beatles/Lennon mash and I swear I could feel it in the crowd, this collective gasp like, "holy shit that's Paul McCartney and I'm here and I'm watching this and he's asking me to sing along." I'll bet they'd call it a special night too. Watch Paul Rudd's face at the goodbyes, brother could barely contain himself. Nowhere online, that third performance...like it never happened...

At Least My Apartment Is Clean...

There's an SNL marathon and that feels right. Anne Hathaway is on tonight. Saw her last night in Love And Other Drugs. Her body is very good naked and moaning. Good actress. Big eyes. I'm a mess because it's cold and raining and the world is hanging and the race I'm leaving for on Tuesday is a far, far distance away. I won't be better, not really until after it's over and I'm back here, another night thinking about how comforting Saturday Night Live is - how often I write about it, where exactly that all came from and why. Last night I went out thinking someone was going to find their way to my bed, and so I cleaned this place. I thought I was going to find someone to move gently through or not, to exact my poetry upon...or realize my mistake before falling far, far short. The lines in the cleaned carpet have dispersed, but I know they were there, and not too long ago, and for what reason. At some point, I was drifting through a bar, not because I'm telling myself okay time to drift, but because it's all I know how to do, because I'm never a calculated lost, only lost. At some point I was talking to a guy, a good friend actually, who spent the majority of the conversation telling me how terrible it was that people his whole life were trying to dictate his sexuality - before he tried to tell me I could never know mine unless I left myself open - to things - to him - to the possibility of him, essentially - before he became static, despised blind deaf selfish and incredible - before the depressing downgrade began to kick in and I was drifting again, constantly drifting. At some point I was talking to a girl about music, a pretty girl and finely equipped and lovable who was asking me if she could come back to my bed and see my clean carpets and dishes and bathroom, asking me if I would want to have my way with her before I was acting thick, like it went over my head or that I didn't hear it quite right before minutes later she offered herself again, along with her pretty friend, as a pair, seriously, as if to up the ante, before I talked about a friend I had to catch up with across the room before leaving, and that I would be back, always back. Steps away I could feel their rejection, their soon to begin accusations of my homosexuality, as often happens because I don't put my dick in things for the sake of, to battle themselves down, their confusion and potential hurt because I ridiculously give everyone credit of the sensitivity I suffer while dealing with the weight of my lately hopeless pursuits, the potential that they may for a long time be hopeless pursuits, which at this point isn't as heavy as it is expected.

Halloween To Me...

Coming home from a rainy night trick or treating somewhere in my early teens - or whatever I was doing at that time in my life for Halloween, with a group of friends from junior high. Freezing. My parents making a fire, ordering Buffo's, picking it up, being heroes as we all sat around and warmed up and ate and watched this or something like it with Ackroyd or Sandler. Is it my wishful memory, or did SNL used to run its Halloween specials the night of? Maybe we rented it.

Oh Farley you were truly something...

The Return Of Stefon!

Saturday Night On Sunday Afternoon...

Anything that cracks Bill Hader...

Hamm!