Feeling De-Pressed
What’s up everybody? It’s unmistakably Tuesday. Want to hear some exciting news? The Los Angeles Times ran a front-page story on the Rejection Show today. That’s pretty sweet with a capital p and probably also a capital s- even though that’s not how I just typed it.
Check it out
Don’t scour the article for my name though, unfortunately it is nowhere to be found. It’s cool though (that’s to be read unconvincingly.) What’s good for the show is good for me. Besides, it’s not as if I’m one of three people who has been with the show since its inception and has helped make it what it is today. The important thing is that I’m not bitter. On the bright side I’ve got my segment for the next rejection show figured out: I’ll just read this article. Now, I could say that I know what I’ve contributed to the show and that’s all that matters, so all of the success of the show is really success for me. But that’s about as honest as “it’s the thought that counts.” It’s as if I’d been begging my parents for a bike and they promised to get me a really special birthday present and they wind up making a contribution to the Boys and Girls club in my name. A loose analogy perhaps, but this article, like the contribution to the Boys and Girls club, is an undeniably good thing, though from a selfish perspective it fucking sucks. That’s all I’m trying to say.
I suppose I’ll continue to take fake interviews, like I did here last week, in hopes of becoming more quotable.
Yesterday while searching for jobs all day at Starbucks, I discovered that patronage isn’t a prerequisite for hanging out there for hours. Apparently you are also welcome to come in, sit in the corner, unwrap your disgustingly bloody index finger, soak up several napkins worth of blood, re-bandage it and then pass out for and hour and a half without so much as a disapproving look from any employees. However, patronage does have it perks. I purchased a mediocre turkey sandwich there at 1:30pm. A couple hours later when I tried to buy a bottle of water and a chocolate chunk cookie, the cookie was on the house. I don’t know what I did to earn this sweet treat, but if Starbucks always adheres to this every third item free policy, I might start going more often. Factor in their tolerance of in-house bloody vagrant napping and it’s easy to see how they’ve created such a winning franchise.
Exree Hipp is back at it tonight. We’re taking on the blazers. Blazers are en vogue these days but I can’t imagine they allow the full range of motion one might like to have while playing basketball. I guess they’d rather look good and lose-just like Sidney Dean. We’re playing in a gym that doesn’t have a 3-point line. I hope that at least the peach baskets have been replaced by rims with nets-no offense Dr. Naismith. After I play in my game I’m going to play two more hours of basketball, as is my Tuesday night custom. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “Adam Cole-Kelly, you’re a basketball playing fool!” I know it. I am. I can’t help it.
Hope February is everything you’d hoped it would be thus far.
posted by ACK @ 2:13 PM
5 Comments:
Cousin Adam- How about if I am bitter on your behelf?! Its kind of like having someone else brag for you. So I'll say "Damn it! My cousin Adam is the bomb! Although the article you wrote is great, and should help his career in SPITE of you not mentioning his name, you are a big doofus-head for note shouting 'Adam Cole-Kelly from the Rejection Show is not only a critical part of the show, he IS the show. Not only should you go see him, you should ask his cousin Kim out on a date (if you are fun, cool and appropriate)'" There!
I certainly understand how you feel, but as an audience member, can tell you that your contributions to the show are totally hilarious, which is why I force my suddenly shy friends to go up for rejection inspection. I will at least do my part to bring you fame, if not fortune.
This is Matty. Listen doggie, I have some connections with the sports department at the Independent. Just sign up for a Bay Area Little League team this summer, and I'll be sure to mention your name at the end of an article, like "Adam Cole-Kelly also competed." Or maybe even to start the story, like "Nine-year-old Adam Cole-Kelly made three errors and struck out to end the game in his team's 6-5 loss Saturday. How does he sleep at night?"
Adam, it's Wade
Congrats on the article.
It's a tough business boy-o. Sometimes you think you've collaborated and found a golden equation destined for the gates of comedic stardom. It sits there in your hand glimmering, with a noticeable weight, the weight of permanence. You covet it and turn it over and over in your hand amazed at what you've found and strived to create. But in the gold appears the reflection of a creepy hopping mammal. It's over your shoulder, waiting for you to shudder, hesitate. You look further into the gold facade to get a get a better look at it, because you're scared to turn around and face it. The intensity of your stare flashes the gold out of focus, like one of those goddamn 3-d posters you have to go cross-eyed to "really" see. Vision reappears and before you lies the truth of the situation, it's warmth and stench an undeniable indicator; the nugget has been snatched and a Tremendous, steaming heap Production seeps through your fingertips in its' place.
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