'Honesty' on Comedy Central

Hey everybody! There are some amazing short videos on Comedy Central's motherload website called 'Honesty.' I am starring in one called 'Black Mailman.' Now, I know that you just watched me dance as Hitler, but once again, I am NOT a racist, anti-Semitic bigot. I swear. I just play one on TV. Take a look, they are funny.

Ain't nothing but a G Thang

I overheard this on the G train this morning but didn't feel like sending to Overheard in New York. I personally thought it was adorable.

Imagine a 10 year-old hanging out with his older, flyer cousins. Here we are at the Smith and 9th Street stop and, over the intercom, the train conductor bellows: "Last Stop! Everyone off."

10 year-old: "What? But we gotta get to Coney Island."

Cousin: "This is as far as the G train goes. Now we get off and wait for the F."

10 year-old: "Yo, the G train is messed up. This train has problems. REAL PROBLEMS. This is the G-Unit train -- like 50-cent, its career is about to be over."

Bravo, little man.

Wait, but is Fitty's career over? I don't think it is. Is the G train gonna get fired? Let's hope not. At least for the sake of the Williamsburg hipster who likes to escape his drum kit loft bed to sleep at his girlfriend's much cleaner and much boozhier house in Cobble Hill. Let's hope so, for that guy.

Mid-afternoon Train to Brooklyn

Sigh, what's nicer than a long, romantic walk across the Brooklyn Bridge? The majestic East River splashing under you. The stunning New York skyline in front of -- or behind, depending on which way you are walking -- you. Local joggers, dog-walkers, young families, and couples in love traverse this bridge daily to feel at once out in the open and in the center of this urban metropolis. Which is why, after a friend's birthday brunch a week ago, feeling very full of delicious eggs benedict, my friend Chloe and I decided to walk off said brunch with a spirited trek from SoHo back to Brooklyn.

By the time we made it to Chinatown, both of us were feeling sweaty, but yet stalwart about completing our journey. And then my lovely comrade said, "hey, instead of the Brooklyn Bridge, why don't we walk over the Manhattan Bridge? No one ever walks across the Manhattan Bridge?"

I shook my head. "I don't know anyone who has."

"Let's do it!" she exclaimed.

So, we did.

My friends, there is a reason why no one walks across the Manhattan Bridge...or as I like to call it "The Poor Man's Brooklyn Bridge." It's a fine bridge for cars, stretching between the great thoroughfares of Canal Street and Flatbush Avenue. It's perfect for any cab carrying some drunken slut, who's crawled out of a seedy East Village dive, back to her home in Fort Greene. But for people to amble across, it is a 'no go.'

Some lesser reasons being that unlike the Brooklyn Bridge, where you walk above the traffic and under the impressive arches, the Manhattan Bridge, you walk alongside traffic and the scenery is marred by a graffiti and urine-covered concrete enclosure. Although, you can look through the chain fence at the vacant rotting apartments below in East Chinatown as you ascend a never-ending incline.

The main reason, however, that no one takes a date on a walk across the Manhattan Bridge, is that SEVERAL train lines also use the Manhattan Bridge as their crossing point. So, your conversation sounds like this:

Lang: So, that brunch was de...

N TRAIN:
RRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lang: licious.

Chloe: It certainly...

Q TRAIN:
RRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!

Lang: Wow, these trains sure are...

Q TRAIN in the other direction:
RRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR.... (comes to a stop) SQUEEEEEAAAKKKK... (moves again) ROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRR!!!!!!

Chloe: No I know... it's like every time we say anything, the train...

D TRAIN:
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRR!!!! HONK HONK HONK HONK!!!!

B TRAINS (in both directions) :
RRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRR!!!! HONK HONK!!! RRRRROOOOAR!!!

So, basically, you just walk and sweat in complete silence with one another. You give an occasional awkward smile, but mostly just stare straight ahead and sweat and climb. The high points are watching fit joggers sprint past you, but mostly you just avoid puddles and say "hi" during the brief silences.

Be With You

I don't know how many YouTube fanatics there are out there, but one thing that I have noticed is the prevalence of people taping themselves lip synching to their favorite tunes. Anyway, my good friend Sara Schaefer, who' a music videonista, decided to make one of her own to Mr. Big's "Be With You." And the real treat with this one is that I get to be her back up vocals...oh, and also, I'm dressed like Hitler. (For those of you who are easily offended, please don't yell at me. I love the Jews! Ask my bestie Michelle Collins, she's as Jewish as Jesus and I love her just as much.)

Quitters Never Die

So, first off, I would like to apologize for thrice misspelling 'gynecologist' on my last post. Spelling is my worst subject...always has been. I will try to use spell check from now on. But sometimes, I just get so jazzed to post and I forget.

So I had to quit the fast. Please don't be disappointed. I'm no quitter...usually. It was just that I was so weak. I could barely get up the stairs or out of the subway and I could hardly hold a conversation. Every morning as I left my apartment, I acted like someone who had been in solitary confinement for a month and was seeing the sun for the first time. I kept waiting for this euphoric burst of energy that was supposed to be coming any day, but literally every day I just got weaker and weaker and it became harder and harder to suck down that lemon-cayenne gasoline. And so after 6 days of not eating, I began to wonder, "Am I really detoxing or am I just dying?"

And so I called my mom, who is a doctor, and asked her what she thought of my fast. She thought it was dubious. She wasn't too sure how all of these things were supposed to clean me out, not that she has anything against holistic medicine. According to her, cayenne pepper and any kind of pepper for that matter just go right through you. But she just recommends, if you want to flush out all the bad stuff, to just get a colonic and getting it over with in one fell swoop. I'll let you all know if I decide to do that. Seems a leeeeetle bit scary.


Okay, but even this talk with Dr. Mom didn't sell me totally. I weakly crawled onto my couch and breathed deeply and listened to the hollow sounds of my heart beating against my empty carcass of a body. I was sure that I was just expiring. I didn't want to give up, however, I only had 4 days to go. So, I decided for inspiration, to go weigh myself. Maybe having dropped a few unneeded toxin pounds would keep me focused. So, I step on the scale, and I kid you not...ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet the only person capable of gaining 2 pounds after living off of lemonade for 6 days. This is when I yelled, "Fuck this!" and went into my kitchen to smoke a ham.

So, the fast is over. I am a terrible detoxifier and anorexic.

But mom! I don't want a summer job!

Today, I went to visit my lady doctor -- a lovely woman...who could probably wrestle, skin, and fry up a grizzly in 10 seconds flat. She's a little terrifying, but a good doctor. Anyway, I walk up to the reception desk to check in for my appointment and behind the receptionist is a young looking girl with an unfortunate pubey, dark stache. The girl is filing away patients' folders, has a very short haircut, and is obscurely wearing a Monster Truck t-shirt. A young lesbian intern. What fun.

It wasn't until this young girl turned around awkwardly, that I got a good look at her face. She was no girl at all -- she was a teenage boy. And by the looks of those door-handle eyebrows, he was the teenage son of my gynecologist. He was just helping out the nurses and receptionists. Obviously out of school for the summer.


Now, I want to ask this question calmly...in a tone no louder than a whisper...

"what mother gives her son a summer job at the gynecologists office -- especially when she is the gynecologist?"

The poor kid. After I got my lady parts all checked out and did a roundoff back handspring out of my stirrups, I came back out to the main office and checked out. I kid you not, this poor boy was huddled in a corner, just staring...only moments away from sucking his thumb. So traumatized.

You know, and all he was trying to do this summer was to try to fill in his stache. Maybe play a little "Tomb Raider" or drink some Hawaiian Coolers at the beach with his pock-marked buds.


Before this summer, this kid was psyched when a his face accidentally brushed a gigantic black woman's 48 EE at the supermarket. But now, he is surrounded by sooooo much vagina. You should have seen his face when a salesman from Johnson and Johnson came in to sell the doctor KY, Monistat, and other feminine products. He looked like a baby being forced to try mashed peas. His pubey stache almost met up with his door-handle eyebrows. Young man, I salute you and all that you stand for.

Also, DAY 4 on my FAST. Okay, so I am less hungry, but am also less strong. I feel like I am wasted. I have started to walk at a geriatric pace and this afternoon I had the runs. Everyone feel updated? 6 more days y'all!!!!

Master and Commander

Okay, how boozhy is this? I have started the Master Cleanse, otherwise known as the Lemonade Diet. I don't think I will make it the whole 10 days, but I love the idea of having my whole system flushed out. I decided to jump on the fasting wagon, when I caught myself inhaling lines of mac n' cheese while bathing in Svedka vodka. I said to myself, "Lang, you are not doing your body any favors...and are actually harming it intensely." Sooooooo, I am flushing all of the toxins out and letting only good stuff in. Basically, this means no food and only special lemonade.

Today is Day 3. AND I AM STARVING!!!! I AM SO HUNGRY!!! I want a perogie, and a candy, and a hamburger, and a beer, and a dumpling.... The list goes on. Yesterday and today are supposed to be the hardest days. Their only advice for your hunger is to drink more of the lemonade...let me tell you what I don't want any more of -- the lemonade. But I would love paella or one tic tac.

By the way, this is no normal lemonade. This lemonade is made with syrup and cayenne pepper and it is ALL you get. For 10 DAYS! It tastes like Heartburn flavored Gatorade.


I can't stop sweating. And I feel like I am embarking on a visionquest. Sometimes I hear voices. Sometimes my dreams don't stop when I wake up. (I'm being dramatic, cuz I hungy.)

Consequently, anywhere else in the country/world, people would think that this kind of starvation madness is a ridiculous form of self torture. However, in NYC, so many people have tried it, ask around, you'll be surprised. People love the Master Cleanse.

So sweaty.

Awww...aaaahhhhhh!

I was just reading my daily dose of Wikipedia and did you know that in addition to werewolves, many countries' mythology around the world also includes werefoxes, werelynxes, werecats, and my favorite of them all...

the werebear!

This is my next Halloween costume. I will come to the party normally dressed and at midnight, under the moon, my tummy will become a rainbow...and then I will attack and kill all of the virgins. Yay!

Take My Breath Away

Last night, I was on the phone with my mother having a normal conversation and she giggled at something and then she paused and said, "I've lost my breath." And then the phone went dead.

What? Mom?

She's thousands of miles away in California and the phone has gone dead. What did she mean she lost her breath? We weren't jogging. Mom?

And thusly, I panic. Will I now, as the oldest, raise my younger brothers...one of whom has yet to get to high school?

Yes, I will.

But wait!!! She may still be alive. Call back, Lang! CALL BACK!!!

I do. The line is busy. I call again. Still busy. And again. Busy, busy, busy.

At what point after your mother says that she has "lost her breath," do you call an ambulance? So, I sat there, potentially motherless, eating a cheese and pepperoni hot pocket, anxiety-ridden, wondering if I should call the Santa Cruz police department.

I should try the house again. Just one more time. If no one picks up, then I call the authorities and buy a red eye ticket to the West Coast.

I call once more...busy. Jesus! Is she literally lying on the floor, where her organic juicer lays in shreds as she had tried to grab something before she went down? Oh, the thought!

As precious seconds passed, I was packing my suitcase, filled with everything including the jelly jar of nickels I had earned on my early morning Brooklyn paper route.


Authorities had yet to be alerted. Call again. BUSY!

Washing my hot pocket dish was the most poignant moment of my life. My mother was dead and now I was the mother of my young brothers. Where would everyone sleep? My Brooklyn apartment was too small. Had she left us any money to get by? Would we all work in the mines? Would I have to sell my hair or the wedding ring that no one has given me?

One last call..."Lang? Heyyyy! Sorry 'bout that."

The thick Southern accent slaps me in the face like an insolent newborn. "You're alive?" I whisper as I heat up another Hot Pocket. "But I thought you lost your breath? The phone? The phone was dead? I thought you too were..."

"Oh no, sweetie, I lawst mah BARRETTE. MAH BARRETTE! And I gayess I leeyunned on the phooone to git it."

Hmm. Well, at least my response time was good.