Author: jking

Back again this week with “Stephen King High School: The Musical:”

Thursday, March 11
8pm @ The Ace of Clubs
(9 Great Jones St.)
Tickets $10

We’re producing this as part of EndTimes Productions Atomic Café, A monthly showcase of comedy, music and new work that I’ll be hosting every month at the Ace of Clubs.

This month, our lineup includes stand-up comedy by my good friends Doug Smith, Matt Wayne and George Gordon, as well as a performance by EndTimes’ own resident improv group FIT.

Also, Stephen King, if you (or your lawyers) are reading this (and how could you not be?) I’d like to thank you for not suing me (yet), offer you a complimentary ticket to the show (no guests please), and again suggest the vague possibility that we might be distantly related (my dad worked in New England for a summer…heyo!). It should go without saying that I am a great admirer of your work, which is why I thank you for allowing me to cannibalize your creations, and have included this picture of what I can only assume is you breathing magical life into a book, granting it the ability to sell one kabillion copies.

I’ve recently started a bi-weekly column for a new online publication called Tire Swing Press. The idea is that I write reviews of things that under no circumstances should ever be reviewed. The second post came out today, and I’ll be cranking them out every other tuesday until I run out of things to complain about (unlikely to ever happen). Check them out, and see why I’m like a young E-ndy Rooney!

‘Cause it’s an angry rant? But online? Get it?

I’m sorry.

Jamie King Reviews Turns of Phase: Inspirational Sayings

Jamie King Reviews Personality Traits: Self-Consciousness

Jamie King Reviews the Arts: All of Them

Shel Silverstein on Kanye West’s “The College Dropout”

It turns out that Jay Z’s producer
Is as cocky as a rooster
Dropping albums as an homage
To his dropping out of college
Rhymes are tight, Beats are brilliant
His career should be resilient
To the plagues of hip-hop fame
Like feuds with 50, or the Game
Or race-based presidential scolds
Or shutting down 19-year-olds.
I think he’ll play it safe; he sets his sights
On selling wax to whites.

Kurt Vonnegut on Sufjan Steven’s “Illinois”

Illinois is a state. It looks like this:

It is also an album by Sufjan Stevens. Sufjan Stevens is a singer and songwriter with a lot to say about Jesus. He told a bunch of people that he was going to make an album for each of the fifty states, which is a very silly thing to say. So far he has made two. This album uses a lot of bells and funny horns and sounds like winter. Listening to it is like sitting in church with mittens on. Mittens look like this:

Ernest Hemingway on Radiohead’s “Kid A”

I put the needle on and poured a drink and sat in the chair. The first song sounded mechanical. There was a keyboard and a voice but I wasn’t sure which was which and then there was another song that sounded like something you’d hear in a nursery and then a bass solo. The singer’s voice was high and the lyrics were about loneliness and the future. I turned the volume up and went to the window. It wasn’t rock and roll, but it was good.

William Shakespeare on Animal Collective’s “Merriweather Post Pavilion”

What boon is this?
Thy shim’ring cover doth contain
A wonderment of harmonies.
Why play guitar? Why drums?
Why verse or chorus?
Tis deconstructed Instruments
That speak unto my educated ear.
Tightened pants and faux hawk molded
Forth I go, beneath the speakers
Thank the stars this disc appeared
Their early stuff was way too weird

David Mamet on Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism”

TWO MEN enter.

MAN 1

This album’s fucking great.

MAN 2

What?

MAN 1

I said it’s a fucking great album.

MAN 2

The guy’s voice sounds like a little kid.

MAN 1

What?

MAN 2

A fucking kid! But the lyrics are so…

MAN 1

Fucking deep, right?

MAN 2

Fucking deep, exactly.

MAN 1

Great fucking album.

MAN 2

Fuck you.

Stephenie Meyer on Jay Z’s “The Black Album”

“I’m retiring,” the rapper sed – in what seemed to be a sinceer tone. We believed the silver-tongued-giant, but his lilting-voice hinted at something more, deeper – a re-birth. He wore a tight, black baseball hat low over his eyes and a loose-fitting, fermly pressed suit. Flows came easily to him, boasting with brovado and swagger. 99 problems were what he had. From darkness, there was to come a response: One word: “Holla,” warbled high and clear in the air that was the air of the nightime.

New Year, new post, new zany project.

Since I am quite obviously all about updating this blog, I’ve decided it’s time to start another one. In conjunction with my good friend Merredith Griffin I’ve launched a hot new entrepreneurial endeavor called “Coprocinephilia,” which literally translates as “the love of shitty movies.”

In recent years I’ve discovered a deep love and abiding affection for objectively terrible films. While there is no shortage of bad movie appreciation blogs out there, ours is the first to ask why. Why do so many people love to see movies fail at every possible level? What makes one bad movie more satisfying then another? And if we can find a way to judge them, is it possible to find the perfect bad movie?

To that end we’ve developed a scoring system largely based on feces, reasoning that:

A) Pooping, like watching bad movies, feels good while inducing shame.

B) Poop is funny.

Check out the site here. Let us know what you think and don’t hesitate to send more movies recommendations our way. In the end, there can be only one.

It gives me great pride to announce the premier of my new show, “Stephen King’s High School Musical,” this Thursday at 6PM at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theatre (307 W. 26th Street).
Danny Torrance is a talented young writer and the most popular boy at Castle Rock High. But when he meets Carrie White, a mysterious redhead with a history of heartbreak and telekinesis, he learns that sometimes the most terrifying thing in Maine…is love.
Will everybody laugh at them? Will Danny succumb to the deadly charms of Dolores, his “Number One Fan?” Will he be murdered by his Dad? And how does that creepy clown over there feel about all this? Find out December 17th!

Created by Jamie King and Sam Rosenberg
Directed by John Flynn
Book & Lyrics by Jamie King
Music by Jamie King and Sam Rosenberg

Staring:
Sam Rosenberg
Sarah Jane Marek
Kendra Treichler
Alessandro Colla
Bob Barth
Brianna Tyson
and Utkarsh Ambudkar as Dollawise the Evil Rapping Clown

Musicians:
Jamie King and Chris Montgomery

Things that are true:
The show runs 30 minutes.
It is appearing as the second of three UCB “Spank” Shows which means THE ACTUAL START TIME WILL BE CLOSER TO 6:30. But please come at 6PM if you can and support our co-workers in comedy.
Only $5 for all three shows.
Sometimes…dead is better.

For those unfamiliar, McSweeney’s is a pretty awesome and hilarious publication based in San Francisco and founded by David Eggers. After a few failures, I managed to get them to publish one of my pieces (about failure) on their website.

Please check it out here.

A few clarifications:

1) I did “South Pacific” in 12th grade. My first show was “Rhumba Tia: The Rumpelstiltskin of the South Seas” (title roll). I changed it for believability.

2) I played bass in the gay punk band. But we did most definitely have a keytar player.

3) Tristan did not smell like Chex Mix. That was a cheap joke and I regret it. Tristan, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I think you’re a good guy and am sincerely impressed by your sailboat, wife, child and the success of your life in general. I hope this won’t be awkward at the reunion.

Other than that, everything is true.

Jessica Biel – “Wesley was scary, it was intimidating, he was Blade, he did not say much to me…we did not become friends. He had parties, I did not attend.”

Ryan Reynolds – “I guess it’s the method acting things, but…I’m not sure I ever really met Wesley Snipes.”

David Goyer (Screenwriter) – “…he was Blade on and off the set.”

Dear Sexy Vampires,

You must be feeling pretty pleased with yourselves right now. While I rot in here, unjustly imprisoned, your twisted kind has infiltrated the American media, tightened your icey grip on Hollywood and stolen the hearts of pre-pubescent girls everywhere. I can’t turn on my tiny, state-issued television for 5 minutes without seeing advertisements for your latest movies, books and TV shows. You’re everywhere. You must truly think that you’ve won.

You’re wrong.

You thought you could fool the police into locking me up for “tax fraud.” Millions of dollars that you claim I “owed” to the federal government. You know as well as I do what a pathetic joke that is.

I am the Daywalker.

I do not pay the taxes of man.

As a halfbreed I am subject to neither the laws of humans nor vampires. These four walls cannot hold me forever, or even for the three year minimum sentence. Soon, very soon, Kris Kristofferson will come for me and I will escape. And when I do, make no mistake…

I am going to kill each and every one of you.

Robert Pattinson, you will be first. If you want to kill a snake you must first cut off its moody, chiseled head. I will stab you in the back with my double-ended knife while you are distracted by your mixed feelings about having sex with your girlfriend. Then I will have sex with your girlfriend. I will not be conflicted about it. The other members of your terrible franchise will fall before me with equal ease. I will beat the 17-year-old werewolf into an adorable fleshy pile and then move on to the human collaborator behind this takeover: I will travel to Forks and rip Stephenie Meyer’s heart out in front of her. Then I will use her blood to pen the script for “Blade 4” while she watches. Her last thought on this earth will be to admire my competent writing ability before drowning in her blood and the shame of her terrible prose.

I’m coming for you next, cast of “True Blood.” I will find Stephen Moyer’s lair in the bright light of day. While he dreams of conquest, I will gut him unceremoniously with a throwing star before he has the chance to utter a throaty, drawling plea for mercy. I will skin him and wear his handsome face as a disguise when I go to visit Anna Paquin. Her mind-reading abilities will be unable to penetrate the mind of a Daywalker and she will believe me to be her fanged lover. “How was your day?” I will ask her and she will say “fine” and I will say “do you find the racial metaphors in our show to be preachy and condescending?” and she will say “no, I don’t think so” and then I will say “look over there, it’s the magical pig from season two” and she will say “where?” and then I will stab her. As she bleeds out I will tell her that she is a vampire loving whore, and also that I enjoyed her in “The Piano.” The remainder of the cast won’t even take the rest of the afternoon. Alexander Skarsgård, you must think you’re pretty powerful, breaking hearts with your tall, Skaddenavian good looks. We will see who swoons after I have gouged out your eyes with a staple remover. Evan Rachel Wood, you were already on my short list for doing a sex video with Marilyn Manson; now I will destroy you for good in a hail of silver bullets.

I will not stop there. The pre-teens from “The Vampire Diaries” will suffer drive-by decapitation from the seat of my motorcycle. John C. Riley, star of “The Vampire’s Assistant,” will receive a merciful shotgun blast to the head, mainly because of Boogie Nights. I will infiltrate the major networks and destroy the casts from next season’s crop of vampire shows before they even make it to the airwaves. I will do so in the middle of an impressive series of flips and then I will put on my sunglasses, even though it will most likely be dark outside. No one will hear the cool one-liner that I will utter because there will be too many screams from bereaved loved ones and misguided female fans, but rest assured, it will be awesome.

Enjoy your dominance of pop culture while you can my pale half-brothers; it won’t last. I’ve been in worse spots than this before and I still came out on top. If there’s one thing my long career as an actor and vampire hunter has taught me, it’s this:

Always bet on Blade.

Here are a few more topical monologue jokes from today’s news. Picture me in a tight suit swaying nervously in front of a studio audience. We’re both actually sitting alone under florescent lights, but let’s pretend…

Mackenzie Phillips announced on Opera today that she had a sexual relationship with her father John Phillips, leader of the 60s pop group “The Mamas and the Papas.” She also revealed that it was Mama Cass who prevented John from naming the group “The Papas and Their Sexy Kids.”

Yahoo unveiled a new marketing strategy this week. Updating its stale image, the Internet giant is testing out several new names, including “Yee-Haw!” “Whoopsie Daisy!” and “Heeeeeeeyyyy yoooooouuuuu guuuuuuuuuys!”

A recent study of car crash survivors has revealed that victims are more likely to avoid brain injury if they were drinking prior to the accident. Today, Mothers Against Drunk Driving released the statement, “Come on…really? You’re killin’ us here.”
The findings were vehemently defended by head researcher Dr. Billy Joel.

I am so not even close to completing my goal of watching every Stephen King Movie ever made. However I have made some major discoveries along the way. The first one is this:
“The Running Man” is THE WORST MOVIE IN THE HISTORY OF FILM and you know that’s saying a lot coming from me. This is movie must be the origin of every bad Schwarzenegger cliche: the gratuitous violence, the implausible romance, the terrible, terrible acting, but most notably…the one liners. I don’t think Arnold has a single line of dialog in this film that is not a groaningly bad pun at his victim’s expense. Can you imagine how frustrating that would be in real life?

Maria Shriver: Sweetheart, the light bulb in the garage just burned out, would you go and change it please?
Arnold: No problem. Thanks for the…bright idea!
Maria Shriver: Sure. And would you mind picking up a gallon of milk on your way home tonight?
Arnold: You are like gallon of milk Maria…you do my body good!
Maria Shriver: Aw, I love you sweetheart.
Arnold: And I love you too…with my penis!
Maria Shriver: I’m leaving.
Arnold: See you later…with my penis!

As hilariously campy as this movie was it was just too contrived and badly written to hold even my interest and I soon found myself reading Jesse Ventura’s bio on my iphone while mouthing along with the predictable dialog in the background. HOWEVER, I will award bonus points for the inexplicable and overly-long 80s dance numbers sprinkled throughout the film which do nothing to further the plot but everything to lighten the pretentious mood.
While so far “The Running Man” takes the cake (of my hatred) there are a couple crucial “also rans” worthy of mention:
“Silver Bullet” is a movie involving Gary Busy and a werewolf (disappointing spoiler: they are not one and the same). The FX in this movie are a brutal reminder of the benefits we’ve gained through digital technology; for every slim CGI Yoda that fails to improve upon the puppet there are a dozen guys in crappy wolf suits with clearly visible separations around the wrists, waist and neck. How are those so hard to conceal? The thing’s covered with hair for fuck’s sake! Despite the shoddy monster’s tendency to take me out of the action, Big Man Busey, God love him, was always there to pull me back in. There’s something about watching an actor who you know deep down is clinically insane; it just makes their performance so much more believable. Even if there are seams on the suit I’m sure it’s all very real to Buse-Dog. Incidently, the Businator has amassed a B-movie resume that would make Loyd Kaufman blush. My favorite titles are “Lethal Tender,” “The Gingerdead Man” and of course “Livers Ain’t Cheap.” Non-BusBus-related bonus points go to this movie for making the werewolf fight a paraplegic Corey Haim and his rocket-launching wheelchair.
See this little guy on the left? That, my friend, is a Shit Weasel, and I’m afraid that everything you’ve just inferred about him is all too true. That’s why the Award for Making Me Afraid of My Own Asshole goes to the film “Dreamcatcher.” This relatively recent flick showcases check-cashing turns from B+ list actors like Tom Sizemore, Jason Lee and Donnie Wahlberg as well as an uncharacteristically violent and vocal Morgan Freeman. The cause of Mr. Freeman’s distress is largely related to the fact that people around him have started SHITTING OUT TOOTHY MONSTERS. Unlike most Steven King movies, the flaw in this one isn’t so much in the execution as in the premise, which is essentially, “Let’s remake ‘Alien’ but with more shitting. Also let’s replace the awesome airlock battle at the end with some confusing-ass mind-war on the astral plane.” I’ll forgive Stephen this one; he apparently wrote it as he was recovering from a near-fatal car accident and was probably on heavy pain medication. I do, however, place blame on the producers for committing his hallucinations to film. This should be a lesson to them, as it was to the characters in the movie, that just because someone might seem reliable, it doesn’t mean that everything they shit out is necessarily good news.
Perhaps I should have been a little more diligent about this movie review project. I don’t think I realized quite what I was getting into. Maybe if I had reviewed one movie a week for a year I could have been an overnight success, like that blogger in “Julie and Julia.” Then they would have made a movie pairing my life story with that of Stephen King! And while the Stephen King story line would have been much more compelling, the parallels between the two characters would have ultimately made for a very entertaining film! Man that would have been sweet! Oh well.