Love On The Rocks

By Tyler Moore

There comes a time in some relationships when you realize that you should have just moved on a long time ago. Dangling from a rock face thirty feet above a jagged reef in nothing but your boxer shorts, I believe is one of those. But, hey, that’s just me. At this point somebody else might still hang onto the idea of true love and the idea that forgiveness is the corner stone of any loving relationship, but right now I kind of have my hands full, literally.

There were so many red flags. I should have seen it coming. She ate in bed, she left wet towels on the floor, she drugged me and left me for dead in the middle of the jungle. Minor things, really. But they all add up. It’s funny how running for your life half naked through dense foliage can bring about clarity. Personally, I would rather have just seen a shrink or read a self-help book, but hey, better to find out now than ten years from now. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? I’ll have to thank her for that once I get off this cliff and wring her neck.

In all fairness, we did have some good times. I mean, before the whole drugging thing, and being dragged behind a jeep at a high rate of speed and being left sans pants in an abandoned guerilla detention center. So it wasn’t a complete loss. I guess I’m maturing. Before, I would have blamed her for everything, cut all of my ties with her, and bad-mouthed her in front of our mutual friends. Basically I would not have taken any responsibility for my actions and deflected all of the issues that I had onto her. But now I feel that I can truly own my faults. I know where I have gone wrong. I know where I could have been a better friend and companion. I still don’t think that having my passport torn up and drugs planted on me before attempting to cross the border into Panama was a fair response to me forgetting to pack her hair dryer, but some people just handle things differently. Who am I to judge? In her defense she did take the bullets out of the gun so that when they found me, and I had to make a run for it, I couldn’t hurt anybody. I still don’t know how she got a gun, we were only in Colombia a week, but hey, she always was resourceful.

What am I thinking? I need to start thinking about the bad stuff, like the leeches she planted in our hotel bathtub, or the glaring fact that my forearms are getting tired and I have the police hunting me for supposedly robbing a church for the blind.

Still, I think back to when we first met. She was beautiful. We were at a cocktail party, a political fundraiser for The Tundric Newt. I bought her a Mojito and as I handed it to her I intentionally pronounced it Mo-gy-to. That was the extent of my ability to be clever at that point. Apparently it had worked. During the senator’s speech we snuck away and made sweet romantic love in the handicaped stall of the men’s room at the Biltmore. Later that night she went home with one of the busboys, but she called me a week later. I remember the phone call. She thought I was the “guy from the elevator.” She had been cleaning out her purse and found my phone number. I set up a date for coffee and the rest is history.

We had come to Colombia to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I had wanted to go to Hawaii or Fiji, but she had insisted on Bogota. Another red flag. I think that when it comes to compatibility in relationships where you want to spend your vacations should say a lot. For example, do you want to go someplace where you can scuba dive and drink Mai Tai’s? Or would you rather go someplace where kidnapping is a government sanctioned sport? On the same token, would you rather buy papayas and coconuts from flower laden street vendors, or dodge rocks and beer bottles from ether sniffing street urchins? To me it just makes sense. But hey, she is strong willed and I respect her for that. I want you to know I have nothing against Bogota or the people of Colombia. Colombia is a beautiful country, as I can attest from running through it all night, and it may seem like a relatively safe place to a guy from, let’s say, Calcutta, India. It’s just not the safest place for a guy from Calcutta, Ohio. But I have to say that Bogota and my hometown do share some similarities that have made it a little easier to adjust. For example, Colombia has over 400 different species of poisonous snakes. Ohio has three. Colombia exports about 550 metric tons of cocaine to the US a year. I’ve seen cocaine. Colombia is the home of FARC-EP, the Revolutionary Armed forces of Colombia, a Marxist-Leninist guerilla organization which employees such tactics as bombings, assassination, extortion, and hijacking to intimidate the Colombian government. Last year our volunteer fire department beat the chamber of commerce in a charity softball tournament. So as you can see, we are not all that different.

It’s funny, one time she drove a bus for the Special Olympics, and I thought, “wow” this girl is perfect. But then I found out she had been drinking Robitussin and popping Quaaludes for the past four days and had kicked the blind shot-puter off the bus and made him hitchhike to the venue. Not appropriate, right? That’s what I thought, but…in her defense it was St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t get a little rowdy on the “Mighty 17th?” I mean she is Ukrainian, but everybody is Irish on that day. I know I’m Mexican on Cinco de Mayo.

Anyway, she had left me in a Papillion-esque cell in the middle of the jungle. So, meanwhile, I had made friends with a tarantula named “Action” and a pack of noncommittal roaches, “The Sharks,” who seemed to respond whenever I whistled or snapped. I messed with my duct tapped wrists and I got free. I was hungry but my plate of Medellin dung beetles made me puke on my feet. I didn’t think about the cushy sensation between my toes as I jumped for the bars overhead that offered the only light into my cell. They gave way like a guilt ridden Hassid against a blond haired Shiksa. I used my anti-posturepedic bed to launch myself up into the windowsill and worm my way out.

Jungle. Love it! Wet, open, free…snake, to my left. I held still. It passed. I made a mental note to jot this moment down in my journal so I could be cool for my kids if I had them. Then gun shots. As if I hadn’t had enough. I thought about my love. I thought about blankets on sandy beaches close to civilization, I thought about ice cream cones and late night movies. Then I thought about Garl Tannon, the tight end, and my girlfriend, (well not technically, because at the time we had only been seeing each other for four months) running “plays” in the back seat of her father’s Peugeot. So I ran.

A one-eyed jeep fixed it’s high beam on me, so I dove into a patch of mud. That’s when I thought about ditching the undies. The rain came down in wet brail. I Shawshanked it. I ran where the path lead me, like Jack T. Colton, without a machete. That’s when I slipped, grabbed with my left arm and simultaneously saved my life.

Now, I wish I had gone with Cindy Lausdenburg, the girl from middle school that had braces and a lame hip, but who ended up a reality television supermodel. I’ll bet her boyfriend hasn’t ended up on a cliff in a third world country.

The last blood that I have in my body is being diverted to my forearms and fingertips. I’m thinking right now that I might be able to pull a Greg Lougains/cliff diver maneuver and miss the rocks. I wish I had love. Love could save me. That or Pink Floyd’s flying pig.

A rope drops down next to me. I can’t look up, but I recognize the voice that comes with it. It’s the leach dropping, jeep dragging, in front of the family emasculating, Colombian sympathizing, “Goonies” hating, looks good in a dress, kisses me like I’m her king, cooks me dinner, massages my feet, does my taxes, searches out movie nights, and has the plane tickets girl.

I test the rope. It holds. I wrap it around my elbows and wrists and find footholds. I get to the top. We kiss. We embrace as if we were the only two people in the world. I take her hand in mine. We look deeply into each other’s eyes… and then I throw her off the cliff. I think I’ll find my own way home.

The Confused Writer

By Kevin Larsen

Early one October morning Jack awoke to the sound of church bells. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched with a yawn; I’m pretty sure the young boy exclaimed, “Wow, what a beautiful day.” The leaves were falling and I think the sky was grey. His mother cried to him,” Jack, it’s time for breakfast!” She had prepared something for him, I just can’t remember exactly what it was. Without hesitation Jack ran down stairs… no wait, I forgot, he did hesitate a little because he was still tired. And I think he might have changed his clothes first. Anyways, Jack went down the stairs to eat his breakfast… or was it lunch? No, it was morning time, so it had to be breakfast. Jack inhaled his food. He was eating so quickly that his mom stopped him and said, “Jack slow down!” So the boy began to pace himself. No wait… I’m sorry. She said, “Jack chew your food. You are going to choke.” not,” Jack slow down.” … or was it, “Jack, where are your manners?” It’s so hard for me to remember all the details. Let’s see… what happened next? Oh yeah! No wait, that’s not it. Man I feel stupid……………………………………Hey!!! Have you guys heard that new song by SPOON? They just did it on Saturday Night Live. Those guys have been around for a long time. I’ve never really listened to them, but that new song is awesome. I wish I could remember what it’s called. I know you guys know it. I think its crazy that a group can be around for like ten years and have nothing but an underground following, then out of nowhere release a hit song that everyone loves. AFI did that too. It must be frustrating for the loyal fans though, you know the ones who have supported them from the beginning. Because now when they go to the concerts there are all these other people there. I just think it would kind of kill the atmosphere… let’s see, what were we talking about before? I swear it’s on the tip of my tongue. I remember something about stairs… OH YEAH! Did I tell you guys about Jack coming down the stairs yet? Okay. So he did that, then he….. I just had a brain fart, you guys ever had a brain fart? I cannot remember what happens next. I’m really sorry, this is so embarrassing. I do know that Jack favorite color is blue though, if that helps. Um, so, I guess that’s the end of the story. I tell you what, give me a minute to try and remember and I’ll get back to you.

The Lost Nomads: Get Lost

BLOG #1
2/28/06

By: Josh Gad

On the evening of January 31st 2006, the members of a lost tribe of comedians found their way onto the world wide web, where they have since wandered aimlessly, searching for purpose in a world devoid of…what was I saying…I think I just found my iPod…I thought it was stolen by African Americans on the subway two weeks ago, which made me particularly bitter during Black history month, but now that I found it, I think I have some apologizing to do to the black community, so I’m sorry for scape goating, when I, as a Jew, have lived under that kind of scrutiny for my entire life, passing by Christians who think I want their money, or Islamic fundamentalists who think I want to die violently, which I am truly averse to…got sidetracked…sorry…anyways, this is their story: the story of “The Lost Nomads,” and how they lost their way…

In the bitter winter solstice of 2004, my hot little girlfriend Ida, saw that I was growing tired of paying money to comedy collection agencies like “The Groundlings” and “Second City,” which have become industrialized rape centers for out of work actors. So, she suggested that the two of us put together a troupe of performers made up of some of the  more talented people we knew on and some who were just really sexy that we wanted to threesome down the road. And so, after months of hard work, hours of rehearsal, rewrite upon rewrite, a group of sixteen troupe members, known as “Option C” Comedy put on a show. And in the words of the great sadist Jackson Pollack, “what a f**u*cking mess. Sixteen of the sweatiest, filthiest actors I’ve ever met all up on each other like a ritualistic orgy without the reward of orgasm; a theater meant to accommodate fifty people packed in with something like one hundred and twenty souls, as if to say “fuck you Fire Marshal, today we die for a $10.00 sketch show; and of course the show itself which offered fifty minutes of under reheased, underwritten, and underwhelming comedy sketches, which seemed funny on the page, but died faster than a French coquette with dysentery stabbing herself in an aorta while being hung by King Blah du Blah Blah of the Toga Dynasty.

So, we went back to the drawing board and this time assembled a themed show that featured sketches involving “Traveling Through Time.” Yes, in hindsight it was an atrocious idea, that was better suited for a Bar Mitzvah theme than a sketch show, but we were nevertheless amped up to perform again. This time, the show featured one of Ida and my good friends, Tyler Moore, who brought to the table a more refined sketch writing approach and taught all of us a thing or three about putting a comedy show together. For the first time, “Option C” felt like it had some cohesion to it…a sense of purpose in the sea of pointless sketch groups that litter the streets of LA. And so, in the fall of 2005, we put on our second show, which much to our surprise got rave responses, but left all of us extremely disappointed that for all the work we had put in, the only reward was two back to back shows on a Saturday night.

It was too much for too little. In the course of a year, we had worked something like sixty hours for three full performances. Ida and I were tired of it. The organization, the time commitment, the in-fighting, the creative battles, the one night shows. For all intents and purposes, “Option C,” as far as I was concerned, was dead. We had lost our way.

But like all Nomads, wander far enough and you are bound to bump into something that could knock you on your ass. A friend of Ida’s and mine, (Ty Clancey), asked the two of us to film a short for him that was part of a reel he was putting together to showcase his directorial work. And so we spent 8 hours on a cold night, pouring beer all over ourselves and running around naked while performing choreography set to Tango Music. The two of us left discussing how much fun we had and how incredible the footage we saw was. Then after the throes of passion and heat, I turned to Ida and said, “that is what I want Option C to be,” which threw her off because the sex wasn’t all that great. But, when she realized I was referring to the short we had filmed, she knew that she had found brilliance in the form of a Jew with one of the tiniest cocks you’ve ever seen. And so the next day we contacted Ty Clancey and his creative partner Mac Hedges, and said “hey, we have no money, very few ideas, time restraints, and huge egos,” and they said “let’s do it!”

The next step was finding out what “it” was. We had all of these ideas, but no real purpose or drive. What the hell were we going to do with a bunch of comedy shorts? Play them for each other over and over again and say “remember when we did that?” And then, just like that, everything fell into place. Ida and I received a phone call from Tyler Moore saying that a friend of his was producing a Public Access television show and wanted us to put together 30 minutes of material for it. We now had purpose and drive…and a deadline. So the stage was set for a major transformation. “Option C” was now in the comedy short business. But Public Access Television? We knew it was a great opportunity because it would force us to complete our goals, but public Access really isn’t what you dream of when you want your work to be seen by the masses. But how can we truly reach the audiences that we want to without the resources of a major network/studio behind us? It’s the 21st Century man! That’s how!

The net gives us all of the creative freedom and exposure that we could have ever asked for. Over the next few months/years, this nascent little troupe is, by all expectations, going to explode all over the comedy scene, and for those of you who are just joining us now at the beginning of the journey, we welcome you. The future is very exciting and we look forward to our growing fan base and our expanding content. You will be seeing a lot of new material from “The Lost Nomads” every week, so please continue to check in. We have finally found a temporary home, and we are thrilled to make the most of it, while we’ve got it.

And finally there’s the name: “The Lost Nomads.” I knew “Option C” was too sterile to be memorable, so it was only a matter of time for it to go. But when it came time to picking a new moniker, we had trouble latching onto anything, because we still didn’t know exactly what we were and what we wanted to be. And then we realized, that from the beginning that has been our journey. In the world of comedy identities, ours continues to change and that is what people love about us. We have little direction that guides our choices. We sometimes embrace the charismatic, sometimes the dangerous, often the cheap, and occasionally the obvious. We look to never repeat ourselves unless it is choice and never become tied down to one type of comedy, unless that’s what we decide to do. We are a group defined by its decisive indecisiveness. A troupe that has traveled from place to place, only to happily get lost again. We are “The Lost Nomads.” Welcome to our “home.”