Category Archives: columns

crap I wrote, tryin’ to be funny and whatnot

Oh, Baby!

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For as long as I can remember, my parents had been asking when I was going to get married. Whenever the family would get together the conversation would always turn to marriage and the production of grandkids. I’d always reply, “well, before we start worrying about grandkids maybe I should, I don’t know, meet a woman? Preferably one that’s not completely insane, slowly draining me of my very will to live..”

20030612_bottleWell, I lucked out and to my parents delight I did get married to the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. My parents kicked the grandkids chatter up into overdrive. It got to be so annoying that whenever they would get started I would turn to my wife and shrug saying, “You guys want grandkids? ok. We’ll go make some. See ya later!” I’d grab her hand and we’d go upstairs for a while. Then we’d take showers and come back down all rejuvenated and perky. They stopped asking for grandkids.

I had my doubts that I was even ready to take care of a child. It’s a lot of responsibility.. and I’m a guy who couldn’t keep up with his wallet until I chained it to my ass. Am I ready to be in charge of every aspect of somebody’s existence? Well, I did babysit Jesse Perry for ten grueling months.. maybe I can handle it after all.

So, we conceived a child. If you’re interested, the video of the event is up in the “members-only” area of this site.

The first big milestone of the pregnancy was the twentieth week ultrasound. We went in to the doctor’s office and the very first image we see of our child.. she was throwing up gang signs. Where did she get that from? Not me.. maybe the Mtv? Damn those punks with their ringy-blingy-bling and wacky piercings!

Then we’re trying to determine the sex of the child and the angle of the shot on the monitor is a view of my baby laying spread eagle. Very disturbing. It was an uncomfortable moment, and to break the tension in the air I said, “I hope that’s the last time Daddy sees THAT on video.” The tech did not laugh. Much like you people, she did not find that amusing.

What the tech did do was take her mouse and use the pointer to show me the outline of my daughter’s.. stuff. “Here’s your daughter’s vagina,” she says. She continues to go over the outline of the organ with her pointer.. as if we missed it the first few times. She just wouldn’t move on. Here’s a tip: anytime you hear talk about somebody’s daughter’s vagina, there’s an uncomfortable, increasingly angry father somewhere. I didn’t know this, but it turns out talking about vaginas is offensive! Who would have known? So don’t do it. Don’t talk about vaginas in a public setting.

Now that we knew she would be a girl, naming the child was easier. My wife had her picks, but my suggestions were: Marilyn, Aria, Gemini.. nice names. The wife was all, “we are NOT naming our daughter after your favorite porn stars!” Isn’t that rich? I could barely reply, “Ohhh, look who rode in on her Morality High Horse to pass judgment on all! I’m glad somebody was ready to step up and be better than everybody else. Where did this even come from? What happened to the girl I love? I don’t even know you anymore! Who are you?!”

When I finished crying, somebody explained to me that we needed a birth plan. It’s basically a rundown of how you want events to go once you’re in the hospital. I suggested that once the umbilical cord was cut and tied off, I could grab the baby and run out of the hospital like Michael Jackson did. Nobody liked that idea.

“What do you want to do with the placenta?” they asked. Apparently some people keep it in a jar or plant it in the yard or even eat it! Yes, eat it. Some weirdos make stew out of it, but we were leaning toward burgers or omelets, maybe even tacos. I don’t want to tell you how to live your life, but if you get a chance to get your hands on a good placenta.. indulge yourself a little. Mmmm, that’s spicy afterbirth!

With our birth plan in place, we had to get the house ready for babies. We started stockpiling as many guns as possible to place throughout the house.. ’cause kids don’t know how to share. You don’t want them fighting over the firearms, that could get dangerous. Make sure you have enough for everybody.

You also have to have a nursery theme. Instead of Disney or WB junk, I decided our theme would be Jack Daniels. That way, we have a place for our empties and we don’t have to buy overpriced plush toys or any crap like that. Once we set up our baby cage, the nursery was done and we were ready to have our baby.

Save The Slant!

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A little background..

20030313_dOn Tuesday, March 10th, “The Satirical Newspaper Of Vanderbilt University,” The Slant, published and distributed an issue of their paper made to look like the general student newspaper, The Vanderbilt Hustler. The headline: "GEE DEAD." The cover story proclaimed that the “Death of beloved Chancellor rocks VU.”

The paper was obviously a joke.. but it fooled a lot of people. The Hustler normally publishes on Tuesdays and Fridays.. but didn’t plan an issue for that day since the previous week was Spring Break. The Slant printed up their copies of “The Vanderbilt Huslter” and dropped them on the Hustler’s racks. Wackiness ensued.

Some tight asses on campus whined that it was “sick” and not funny at all. I thought it was fantastic.

Chancellor Gee sent out an email to the Vanderbilt community:

Dear Colleagues,

Imagine my surprise when
I picked up what was purported to be the Hustler, our excellent
student newspaper, and saw the headline “Gee Dead.” After checking
my pulse, and making sure that I did, indeed, fog up the mirror,
I am relieved to tell you that the headline, the newspaper, and
in fact, the entire issue, was untrue and not produced by the
real journalists at the Hustler. As in false. As in, “Gee Lives.”
To paraphrase the great Mark Twain, reports of my demise are greatly
exaggerated.

But, if you are the skeptical, conspiracy-minded type, I suggest
you check out: http://www.vanderbilt.edu/chancellor/

With all best wishes for many more years at Vanderbilt,

Gordon Gee

20030313_cThe image of the photo of the Chancellor holding the “GEE DEAD” newspaper as if it said “Dewey Defeats Truman” just wasn’t enough irony for me, so I went over to the Chancellor’s office during my lunch break.. and I killed him! (Ha ha! See, that’s a joke too. Not a very good one, but what did you expect? I’m not witty enough to smash watermellons.)

Today, a message on The Slant’s website says, “The Vanderbilt Student Communications Board is considering on Friday afternoon an application by an editor of the Hustler for the position of Editor in Chief of The Slant…. With full knowledge of how deeply sorry we are for the harm we caused, and the recognition that we have learned from this mistake, I am asking each of you to email the Board members and let them know that the student body of this University and the world abroad accepts our apology, wants The Slant to keep going as it was before this happened, and s the current leadership.”

This is a tragedy. Regular issues of The Hustler are humorless (and therefore worthless). While The Slant isn’t the most honorable, prestigious publication ever.. it IS funny.. and they have plugged www.ChadMRiden.com for free.. so I like them.

I sent The Vanderbilt Student Communications Board the following message:

Dear Vanderbilt Student Communications Board:

I’m writing to ask that you decide to keep Brad Ploeger as Editor in Chief of The Slant, and the current staff in place just as it has been. They’re just some kids trying to have some fun.. and they publish a great paper. They have apologized saying they are “deeply sorry.. for the harm we caused” and that they “have learned from this mistake.”

I realize that a lot of people are upset about the fake Hustler
edition.. but try to put emotion aside for a moment and think
about what really happened here: it was a joke. The bottom line
is that this was a masterfully planned, well executed, already
classic college prank. Was it in poor taste? Sure. Was it a risky
move? Yes. Should they be punished for this? I don’t know.. but
should they lose their paper? No.

20030313_b

That paper was glorious. It made me wish I had the imagination
and resources to do such a thing when I was in school. It made
me wish I was a part of their team.. It made me wish I had bought
ad space.

Chancellor Gee himself had a good sense of humor about it. The
picture of him holding the paper that he put on his web page was
not done in anger. Look at the man, he’s grinning like he can’t
control his excitement. His page generally gets about 50 or 60
hits a day, but that day there were 38,385 accesses to the Chancellor
home page. Even the Drudge Report linked to it.. why? Because
it is a great story.

It should have been obvious to everyone that it was a farce.
They spelled it “Huslter” in big bold type right there on the
front page and everywhere else it appeared. The by-line said it
was “the student crossword of Vanderbilt University..” Anybody
with the perception of a blind fish should have noticed that right
off the bat. The people mad about this are mad because they were
gullible enough to fall for it.

Vanderbilt’s image was probably improved by this event. The widespread
perception of stodgy snootiness was shaken up a bit. You may not
be able to keep the students from showing up at your football
games late, wearing shirts and ties like dorks.. you may never
live down the ties with the “Confederacy” or Commodore’s railroad
baron ways.. but at least don’t tell the world that the freedoms
of speech and of the press don’t exist at your institution.

–
Thanks for putting up with my crap,

Chad M. Riden,

Lame, Nashville-based jackass comedian and regular Vanderbilt
Slant reader

http://www.ChadMRiden.com/
http://www.MangyDog.com/
http://www.NashvilleStandup.com/

20030313_aIf you’d like to send a message of for The Slant, here.

I figure us smart asses have to stick together.. otherwise the
serious, responsible citizens will prevail.

White, Fluffy Death

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It snowed seven inches in Nashville the other day. In many parts of the world this isn’t a big deal. In Tennessee, forecasts of light flurries are like air-raid sirens foretelling our unavoidable total annihilation.

20030118snowmanLaw abiding, civil citizens are reduced to chaotic maniacs without logic or the driving skills of a sixteen-year-old girl. Store shelves are emptied of all bread and milk as if this would be the last chance to go to a store until the tribulation is over. Schools close (Not the day before.. or early enough in the morning for parents to make plans.. no, no. That would make sense.) once the kids are all on campus. Therefore, business offices empty as mom and dad scramble to make arrangements. This means the roads are full of frantic parents terrified that their offspring will freeze to death if they don’t spin their tires in the snow as they fishtail their way thru the red light.

I’ve never seen driving quite like that which you find in the South when it has snowed. The majority of my youth was spent a few minutes west of Chicago in DuPage county. I wasn’t anywhere near old enough to drive when we moved, but I knew to shift into low gear; to drive slow and steady without spinning my tires; to turn the wheel and gun it when I want to turn; to counter-steer my way out of a skid; to park the car somewhere other than in the middle of the road facing the wrong direction.

While waiting about an hour for my chance to drive up an off ramp, a man actually walked down the line of cars telling people, “the Department Of Transportation guy says to try it one at a time.” Really? ‘Cause I thought maybe the best thing to do would be to pass these people waiting so I can floor it about a third of the way up the hill until I meet the car ahead. That way, I have to stop on an ice covered incline, slide to the bottom and start all over. Either that, or just sit there spinning my tires so people who know what they’re doing can’t make a run for it.

To me, the funniest sights on a snow day are the guys driving the classic big ass trucks. I’m not sure what it’s like in your town, but in Nashville we have many “cowboys” (most of whom have never, ever touched a cow) who drive monster pickups with giant lifts and enormous mud tires. Much like their SUV-driving soccer mom counterparts, their off-road vehicles never leave the pavement. I’ve seen trucks big enough to crush a hatchback spinning in circles and on their sides in ditches. How embarrassing it must be to walk home after such a disgraceful display of ineptitude. How do they face their friends and families? “Uh, you know that super-sized truck I overextended our budget for? Yeah. It snowed a few inches, and.. ehh.. I got it stuck.”

At least the kids here know what to do – sled.. make snowmen.. throw snowballs at cars. While they’re out having fun, where are their parents? Boarding up the windows.. cracking open the Y2K stockpiles.. loading up in their rear-wheel-drive piece of crap so they can slide around the road, blocking my way.

Some things never cease to amaze me.. most all of them involve stupid people. OK, I understand that it doesn’t snow here often. I realize that everybody doesn’t have much experience driving in the snow.. but common sense would tell you to either: A) practice driving in the snow in a safe parking lot, or B) stay the hell off the road. Every time it snows here it’s like it’s the first time ever.

Maybe I’m too harsh. Maybe I’m an impatient jerk. Or maybe it’s just that I’m just not a complete moron.

All Roads Lead To Nashville

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I arrived in Nashville on Sunday, July 23, 2000 with only a guitar on my back and a gleam in my eye. I got a gig singing Johnny Cash songs in one of the Honky-Tonks on Music Row – only to have my audience of four elderly women bash my face in with tire irons.

I had thought that above all else, what Music City needed was some sort of outlet for mediocre singer-songwriters. Apparently that niche had been filled. Crushed, I then decided to join a talented group of performers who really had something special going on. Once Metro shut down the smut industry, I finally turned my focus to comedy.

By then, several hours had passed and ole Chaddy was tired. All my “friends” in this town (well, I guess they’re more accurately described as “people who paid to have sex with me back during my darkest years” than as “friends”.. but in this nutty life, I just take the cards I’ve been dealt and play Circle Of Death yaknowhatimsayin?) were not answering their phones (damn the Caller ID!) so I thought I’d get a hotel room.

Being the nutty idiot that I am, I thought I’d get the dumpiest hovel I could find. I figured I’d get some funny stories out of the experience. Turns out it really wasn’t that funny. The only thing I “got” out of that experience is a bad rash and a phantom sore-butt that I can’t explain. The “Music City Motor Lodge” was so bad I wouldn’t take a hooker there. And the sheet of guidelines on the door clearly stated, “No prostitution.” So, you know, it was against the rules anyway.

I watched some tv and worked a little on my novel until I started getting tired… I went to the bathroom and realized just a little too late that my toilet didn’t flush. So I walked down to the office and talked to the attendant. It wasn’t the guy I rented the room from, it was an Indian lady. She marveled at the notion that my crapper didn’t flush, “just fill your bucket up with water from the tub and use that to flush it.” Of course! The bucket! What an idiot I am!

“Uh, I don’t have a bucket,” I mumbled – dumbfounded as possible. She gave me the ‘hold on just a minute’ index finger and disappeared into the back room. Thank Shiva-The-Many-Handed-One, she was going to get the manager, or perhaps the maintenance guy? Either way, help was coming. After a minute she came out a different door smiling ear-to-ear with a big 5-gallon bucket in her hand. I was too tired to fight. I just said thanks and headed back to my syphilis pit.

I opened the shower curtain to fill the bucket up in the tub. There was a hole in the shower wall! Tiles were missing, and I could see the 2×4 studs since the hole in the drywall was about three feet in diameter. I didn’t see any wiring, but I think I saw something scurry away. For my own sanity, I decided that I just saw a squirrel instead of one of it’s hideous cousins. I filled the bucket and used it to flush the toilet.

By now, I was well past being ready for bed. I peeled the covers down to reveal stained sheets with holes in them. I decided to try the other bed.. this one was in the same condition, but had the bonus used condom wrapper laying next to the pillow. “Nice,” I thought.

I went out to my car and settled down for long-deserved rest. As I drifted off to sleep, I saw several “ladies of the night” come and go from a few of the rooms. Apparently somebody didn’t see the rules on their door.

All in all, it was a great time. Over two years later I can honestly say that the charm of Music City still hasn’t worn off.. it’s still just as magical as ever.

Baseball

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The World Series is over. The Denver Dingleberries beat out the Austin Egomaniacs 4 – 3.. or something. I don’t know. Honestly, I haven’t given a crap about baseball in years. It’s like wrestling – it’s something you love when you’re a kid, but eventually find better things to do with your time. I used to watch the WWF, but at some point you realize you’re staring at enormous oily men wearing really tight clothing roll around on each other. Some men are ok with this, and continue to watch. The rest of us date women.

Baseball is kind of the same way with me. When I was a young little smart ass, the only thing that kept me in school every day was the perfect attendance incentive program. I grew up in the Chicagoland area, and the school system would give you tickets to any professional baseball game in Chicago every semester as long as you didn’t miss a day. I spent most of those days in the Principal’s office, but I was in school just the same.

While other kids were learning silly things like math and science, I was learning to hate authority figures and steal clay from the supply room. I’ve kept in touch with some of my elementary school buddies, and they’re all well-educated intellectuals with important, high-paying jobs in respected fields. I’m a jackass comedian with lame mean-spirited jokes who gets thru the day by scamming free meals and drinks.

If I’d have known then what I know now.. I.. I woulda.. well, I guess I would have started performing comedy a lot sooner. Heck, by now my career could have already run its course. I could’ve done the “live fast, die young” thing and already be a legend! Then again, I could’ve done the “live fast, get old” thing and become Chevy Chase.. so maybe I should just take my time with this. I’ve digressed.

Baseball strikes me as one of those things that has forgotten why people liked it in the first place. Fat asses like Babe Ruth used to play good enough to rule the game.. now the sport is full of enormous cyborgs who, by this point, are more of a product of steroids and pampering than they are well-trained, talented athletes.

Remember jocks in high school? Dipshits, right? I recall losers who banked their futures.. their entire existence on the possibilities sports could offer. Players who were mediocre – even at the highschool level – who thought maybe they had a chance. Sad thing is.. some of them did! All it takes is a ton of highly concentrated hormone supplements and a little bit of practice, and you too could be in the next home-run-race. That is, until you take that one swing that causes all your back zits to pop simultaneously.. creating a spine-crushing blast that leaves your uniform flapping in the wind atop your vaporized, drug-riddled carcass.

I don’t know.. maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe I’m just a jealous punk who’s lashing out. Yeah, perhaps Darryl Strawberry isn’t a crack head.. maybe he’s just misunderstood. Maybe they don’t drug-test within Major League Baseball because if they did, there wouldn’t BE Major League Baseball.

I just can’t watch it. I don’t have time. If they removed all the crotch scratching, jock adjusting, and spitting.. maybe they could play a game in less than four hours (but would it be as fun?). Baseball could learn something from Basketball and Football: put a timer on the scoreboard. You’ve got 10 seconds allowed for each pitch. If the batter isn’t ready, he’s out. If the pitcher is still shaking no to a signal, it’s a run. Speed it up, keep the energy going and get John Tesh to write some riveting theme music.

Ring Of Fire

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It has been a long time since my last column. Now that I’ve typed that, I realize that any one of my columns could start with that sentence. I could lie to you and make up some lame excuse about how I was out helping orphaned chipmunks suckle their surrogate mothers’ teets.. but what would that gain? No, I’ve been really busy for several legitimate reasons.

First, I was deathly ill for five and a half weeks. I know.. “but Chad, you’re so fit and healthy looking!” True, years of beer and Italian sausage links have blessed me with the body of a Chippendale.. but even I get sick. I blame the kids. About the same time all the filthy students came back to town, I caught what must have been some sort of non-fatal strain of the West Nile Virus. The little punks came in from all across the nation, carrying disease like the filthy little rats and flies they are.

The girls all spent their summers “going wild” and the guys (I’m sure) spent at least some time passed out on a filthy floor.. so I’m not surprised that when they converge upon campus they become a melting pot of infections and viral sores. The kids.. the kids are nothing more than a fertile breeding ground for strains of inflictions unknown to modern science. Ahh.. but somehow (once again) I’ve digressed.

Secondly, I got married. I know.. “but Chad, you always said you weren’t getting married until you were sixty.. that you would then finally settle down with a hot little twenty year old.” True, true. I said that. Fact is, I couldn’t wait thirty something years.. On October 5th, I eloped with the hot little twenty year old I’ve been seeing for the last eight months.

She’s perfect.. It hit me the first time we met that she was everything I’d always wanted in a woman: she was beautiful.. intelligent.. actually talking to me.. it was like a dream come true. I never thought I’d meet anybody worth a damn. Most women seem to be funkless clones.. mindless lemmings.. psycho maniacs.. or insecure twits who’ve starved themselves for vanity.. but not my lady.

The day of our wedding was beautiful. First thing in the morning, she gave me a letter where she poured out her soul to me detailing her love and appreciation for me, her hopes for the future, her promises to me.. it was very touching. I felt really bad, though, because she had given me the greatest gift of all.. and I realized that all I had to offer her was bad breath and a boner.

We drove to The Little Log Chapel in Gatlinburg, and had a lovely ceremony.. just the two of us (plus the preacher and the photographer). Of course, when the news started getting out there were generally three reactions:
1) “That’s funny! Riden, you’re crazy! For real though, you didn’t get married, right?”
2) “Oh! That’s great! I knew it would happen sooner or later! Congratulations!”

3) “Thanks for the invitation, jerk. I was supposed to be there..”

Nobody believed it was real. My brother, Kirk, demanded to see the marriage license before he would acknowledge it. Once Jesse Perry realized it wasn’t just a silly hoax or a scam to get presents from people, he asked if I had gotten married so I could come up with material. Yes, of course.. that’s why I’ve pledged my life to this woman.. for comedy! It’s not the unconditional love or the vows of life-long dedication or the comforting peace that washes over me when I think about her.. no, I married her so I could be funny! (We’ll be renewing our vows this weekend.. it already seems to be wearing off.)

It is really funny to hear from the third category of people. The first thing they say is “What about me?! Me, me, ME!” That’s exactly the bullshit we were trying to avoid. Nothing brings out the pathetic drama queens quite like a wedding.

My youngest brother, Eric, got married last year.. and you should have been there to see it. When you’ve heard rumors that some redneck, welfare recipient jackass might try to bring a shotgun to the ceremony to shoot the groom.. you know it’s an East Tennessee wedding. After it was all over, my mother said to Kirk and I “When it comes time for you two to get married.. please elope!” So we did.

Be glad, too. It saves everybody from dealing with the hassle. I spent almost every weekend this summer going to watch friends of mine get married. It just seems so selfish to me.. “Mr. and Mrs. Whoever request the honor of your wedding gifts and presence for the joining in holy matrimony of Bleepity Bloop Whoever to Flippity Floop on A Saturday when you could be relaxing in the comfort of your own home, but instead have to drag your sorry ass off the couch, put on nice churchy clothes and drive hundreds of miles to watch people you barely know anymore pledge their stupid love for one another. Reception to follow. RSVP.”

No, I couldn’t put all my friends thru such an ordeal. To me, it’s just common courtesy. My lady and I are in love. Does that involve you? No, of course not. (Well, I should hope not..) Why should you have to blow a weekend just because we’ve taken a cruise on the Love Boat?

Some have said, “but you don’t get any wedding gifts this way.” That’s not what it’s about. If you got married just so your rich uncle would buy you a TiVo.. how screwed up is that? I understand, though, that people want to show you their and give you a nice keepsake. With that in mind, we’ve set up a registry on www.amazon.com so everybody who feels left out of the whole process can make themselves feel better. Not that we expect anybody to buy us anything.. but a lot of people have asked, so there it is. (It’s a service to you, see?)

Meanwhile, we’re happy and healthy and are having fun. The lesson here is: nobody can ruin your wedding for you if you don’t invite them. Now go over to Amazon and buy me a TiVo.

The Christian Cafe

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A couple years ago I wrote a bit that began with jokes about Nashville’s Nascar Cafe shutting down. With a paper thin segue flimsily in place, I suggested that it was just a matter of time until the Baptists opened their own theme restaurant. “This IS the Bible Belt.. they control everything else in town. Why not?” Well, my friends, it may not be the Baptists specifically, but today’s Tennessean reports that soon there will be a Christian-themed restaurant in downtown Nashville where Planet Hollywood used to be.

This is a fantastic idea. Not only does this mean they’ll remove that ridiculous Planet Hollywood crap from Broadway, but now I can rehash my old material and it will seem timely and fresh. Thanks, God, you’re the greatest!

“They’ll probably call it something stupid like.. The Last Supper. It’ll be the only pot-luck restaurant in town. I can just imagine the menu. I can’t wait to get a Moses burger on unleavened wheat. They’ll have all the biblical favorites: fishes, loaves, wine.. but the wine will taste suspiciously watered down. (Ahh! Miracle wine!) You can’t say anything, though.. it’s Christ’s place.. you can’t bust on Jesus! In most restaurants, the customer is always right. Not in the Christian Cafe.. here, you’re WRONG.. you’ve ALWAYS BEEN WRONG and if you don’t change your ways (and leave a good tip) you’ll burn in Hell FOREVER!”

For my dear sweet mother’s sake, let me say that I’m not anti-Christian. I don’t hate Jesus.. but I don’t trust organized religions. There’s a big difference in what God says and what men say God said when they didn’t actually hear it themselves.. but instead heard it thru a game of “Telephone” that has lasted about 2000 years. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one to mock other people’s beliefs.. oh, wait.. yes, I am.

Maybe it’s just me, but I’ll trust the visions of a native American smoking a peace pipe before I’d listen to a Latin-speaking pedophile. You lost me somewhere between the Crusades, Inquisitions, the selling of indulgences and the ex-communication of people who first thought that the world was round and revolved around the sun. If you want to hear the Catholics try to bullshit their way into heaven, see the Columbia University Augustine Club’s Catholic Church FAQ – it’s great for a laugh. Ahh, but once again I’ve digressed.

Back home in Nashville, a group of investors reportedly paid over $7 million for the old Planet Hollywood facility. Wes Lamoureux, one of the real estate developers who invested in the restaurant, says “we’re going to be aiming at the college crowd.” The Tennessean article reports that the new eatery won’t serve alcohol or allow smoking (and as we all know, college kids HATE drinking and smoking). Mr. Lamoureux explains, “our motive isn’t profit.” Well, Wes, if not turning a profit is your goal, I think your business plan is perfect!

It’s just another fun chapter in the saga of the vacant buildings in downtown Nashville. Last Monday we did a comedy show at Seanachie Irish Pub across the street on 4th and Broadway. This show was so incredibly good, the owners of Seanachie’s had no idea how to follow it. We blew the roof off the joint so hard, legally they could never sell another alcoholic beverage in that space again. The surrounding businesses were jealous of that night’s success and had Seanachie’s business license revoked. The next day, Seanachie closed it’s doors forever.

I don’t know if there is a lesson to be learned, but if you have a struggling business and need somebody to put it out of it’s misery, consider booking a night of comedy. We need the stage time. Plus, once you’re closed down you can use the time to reinvent your club and come up with an entirely new doomed concept.

It’s actually a comfort to me to see businesses closing their doors downtown. I moved to Nashville from the orange and white city of Knoxville, so when I see a desolate, empty downtown it makes me feel at home. Keep it up, Nashville! We’ll turn this rugged state into a giant HoboTown housing project before you can say “lack of public !”

The City That Never Lets Me Sleep

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I went to New York again this past weekend for the second time in as many months. MaLady said her friends tell her I must have a mistress in The City. Well, I do.. and her name is Comedy. I spend the weekend taking in shows, meeting other comics, and performing a little my own self. Last time I went I said to myself, “I don’t ever want to leave!” Well, just be careful what you wish for.

Friday night I went to see the “Portable Comedy” show at the Gershwin Hotel on East 27th Street. Hosted by Julius Sharpe, the show featured standup from Chris DeLuca (Late, Late Show & SNL), Liam McEneaney (Conan, Premium Blend), and James Oakes (opens for Lewis Black) PLUS free hard liquor for anybody who wanted it. $5 at the door for hilarious funny ha-ha’s + a selection of booze = a night of fun. I love comedy.

To intro a bit, Julius asked if anybody had ever been laid-off from a job. My hand went up. “Oh yeah? Who was the employer?” “There have been several.” “Really? What’s the problem? Drugs?” “No, it turns out I’m not that employable.” “Ever thought about getting into comedy?” “I do comedy.”

After the show, the comedians gave out their fliers, I gave them mine in return. Everybody was really funny & seemed like good people. “Time Out New York” gave the show a star, and for good reason.. Where else can you go and pay five bucks for quality entertainment AND cheap booze? I mean BESIDES Jesse Perry‘s mom’s house.

Saturday I spent a long time walking around the Lower East Side, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Financial District, SoHo and TriBecca. I checked out the new Apple store in SoHo, and stumbled upon some sort of street fair thing with food, vendors with arts and crafts, massages, and a guy from the “Change of Heart” show walking around trying to break up happy, superficial couples.

An oriental lady offered to massage me for one minute for free. I told her to go for it.. she did a great job, and then asked me if I wanted a 10-minute work-over. “No.” “What?! Just ten dollar!” “No, thanks.” She pulled me in close and whispered, “Ok, ok.. for you, five dollar.” “No, thanks.. I gotta go.” She seemed shocked that I would use her for her free minute and move on, but that’s just the kinda guy I am: offer me something free, and I’ll take it without guilt.

There were a lot of artists selling paintings and photographs. One woman in particular had signs up proclaiming, “SAVE NEW YORK STREET ARTISTS!” I couldn’t resist. Her hand-drawn propaganda said, “We saved the whales (didn’t we?).. now let’s save the NYC street artists!” She had legal pads where you could sign your name in of her cause. I laughed, “save the street artists? From what? Their own pretension?” Silly artists.

I really had no interest in seeing Ground Zero, but in my meanderings I ended up walking thru that area. If you haven’t been there, let me describe the scene..

Imagine a big car wreck. Some people find an alternate route to travel and go about their business.. some slow down to watch the carnage.. some people hear about it on the scanner, and go out to get in the way. The World Trade Center site is pretty much the same thing, but on a much larger scale. It’s a lot of people standing around looking.. plus you have the street vendor vultures selling 9/11 souvenirs. The fences covered with s and t-shirts and well-wishes are still there, but they have graffiti on them.

It was weird, ’cause last time I was down in that neighborhood was about five years ago. I had the crappiest hotel room I’ve ever spent way too much money on.. PLUS the radiator was cranked up all the way with the knob ripped off (in the middle of summer). I certainly couldn’t sleep, so I was wandering around Manhattan at about 3 a.m. It’s amazingly peaceful in certain parts of the city at that hour.. the Financial District was nearly silent and I remember walking around the WTC area and being stunned by the lack of activity. It’s a strange feeling to walk down there now, no matter what time of day it is.

I met up with some friends and took the train to Brooklyn to eat at Junior’s. This place is apparently the Mecca of cheesecake. When you walk in you pass by glass cases full of all of their varieties & realize that you can’t walk out of there without at least trying one. They have all the articles written about them framed on the walls, and when going to the bathroom I noticed one headline that said something like, “Brooklyn Is Fat Because of Junior’s.” I laughed, but when I went back to the table and looked around I realized that 90% of the people in there were REALLY obese.

Chad's a drunken fool!

Chad's a drunken fool!

Even though my sandwich was enormous I had to have a slice of cheesecake. It didn’t help that I had been pounding down drinks, either. I originally ordered a white russian, but saw my friend’s strawberry daiquiri and had to get one. For a while I was double-fisting the drinks.. when someone pointed that out, I made a funny by picking up my water as well and tried to drink from three glasses at once. (And no, I’m NOT tonguing the strawberry.. that’s just an unfortunate angle.)

I was so stuffed I felt ill. What better way to top that off than by going out drinking! I met up with some old friends from my UT-Knoxville days at a little country/western-themed bar called Doc Holidays. We drank PBR and stacked the cans up in towers until they fell on us. Occasionally, the bartender girl would jump up on the bar and start clogging. Living in Nashville, I can’t stand stupid little country bars.. but for some reason it was fun to see that kinda stuff going down in the heart of New York City. In SAT exam terms: country bars are to Nashville as rats are to New York City.

Sunday was a lazy day. I watched a freaky movie about a German transsexual rock star which began weird, then got more and more bizarre until it just kind of ended. In the evening, I headed down to the East Village to check out FaceBoyz’ open mic at Surf Reality. Sign up was at 7:45, the show started at 8. I got number 32 (there were about 40 people signed up.. maybe 70 people there in all). They did the first nine, took a 10 minute break, then continued the show.. I ended up going on stage at 2:15 a.m. or so. There were three or four people left after me, then they gave away the prizes: a gay porn video tape, a copy of “Modern Woman’s Guide To Domination,” and a new cellphone.

Monday I strolled thru Central Park and read a book in the spot where I once camped out for three days. Later I wandered down to the Ed Sullivan Theater to bother Letterman’s staff before taking a cab to the airport. Here’s where the story turns ugly.

Arriving at the airport early, I checked in at my gate at 6 p.m. The lady at the counter said my flight was on-time and scheduled to depart at 6:50, so I headed for the bar. The bar area was about 30 yards away from the gate. I had a couple beers and talked to a few people, then paid my tab and headed down toward the gate at about 6:30. I heard my name on the intercom and began to run. I got to the gate within 20 seconds of hearing my name, but the airplane was gone.

I asked the snotty girl behind the counter why the plane left 20 minutes early, and she said, “We PAGED you.” “Yeah, and I ran.. but it’s already gone!” A lady ran up to the counter and asked why the plane left so early. “We PAGED you,” said The Snot. As if that covers it. “Oh, you paged us? Ok. We’re not mad now. Cool.” Suck it, USair.

“Well, when’s the next flight out?” I ask. “Tomorrow morning at 7 a.m.” She said it with this look on her face like she was teaching me a lesson. I would have liked to roast her fat ass on a spit, but didn’t give her the pleasure of seeing me visibly pissed off. I had heard that wacky juggler Scot Nery was in New York, so I called him to see what he was doing. You know you’re in trouble when you call a guy who juggles knives for help.

Scot heroically came to my assistance. We took a cab to the nearest train stop in Queens, then took the train to the Upper West Side. Scot was staying at a youth hostel up around 104th Street and thought maybe he could sneak me in. First, we went over to the Underground Lounge to see if their open mic night was still going.. and watched a really drunk guy stumble all over the bar before challenging the bouncers to a fight. Seeing no opportunity for stage time, we headed back to the Hostel.

We asked the security guy about the cheapest ways to get to LaGuardia and with him distracted, snuck in. Each room in the place had six bunk beds.. that’s 12 dudes per room. Luckily, Scot’s room had an extra empty bed. I set my alarm for 5 a.m. and laid down to try to sleep a few hours. Scot says, “If someone comes and throws you out of their bed, well… I dunno.” I figured I’d just head back to the airport.

It didn’t happen, though. Not much of anything happened.. except it felt weird trying to sleep in a room with strange dudes all around (and in bunk beds, nonetheless). It took me about an hour or so before I passed out. It just seemed like this situation would probably be pretty close to the plot on that tape of gay porn they gave away at Surf Reality.

I got up and caught a bus back to Queens, via Harlem. It was my first time thru that neighborhood, and all I could think of was, “So this is where Willis and Arnold were from?” I also learned something about the New York Metro bus system: It costs $1.50 to ride, and they only accept MetroCards and change. If you don’t want to pay, just have $2 cash in your hand and offer it to the driver saying “it’s all I’ve got.” They don’t accept cash, and don’t have time to argue so they’ll just get disgusted and tell you to sit down on the bus.. you ride for free! I’ll bet it doesn’t work twice with the same driver, though.

It was a fun trip up until USair went out of their way to piss people off. I’ve tried very hard not to have any airline jokes, but I’m afraid I’ll fall to the Dark Side of the Farce very soon. It’s also unfair that every time I tell this story, when people hear “..so I went to the bar” they say, “uh-huh.. there ya go.” Booze isn’t the issue here! The plane left 20 minutes early and they were bastards about it.

As much as I love New York, when it’s time to go home and see MaLady.. it’s time to go home and see MaLady. I’ll be back, though.. my mistress calls.

Mud, Blood, and Dog Crap

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Summer is in full swing, and that means people are wearing less clothing than they really should be. If you’re like most people, you’re out at the pool scopin’ out some flesh. If you’re like me, you’re sitting in front of your computer recalling a humiliating incident when you found yourself standing in your boxers covered in mud, blood, and dog crap. Go gather the kids around the monitor and let’s all relive the moment as if it had just happened…

In the early summer of 2000, I was living in a ground-level apartment in west Knoxville. The living room had a sliding glass door that opened up to a lovely wooded buffer between my crappy apartment and a deadly road. Attached to a post on my porch was a 20 foot dog leash. Whenever my best friend, Guido, wanted to go outside I would put him on the leash and return to my studies. By studies, of course, I mean watching comedy and screwing around on the computer while drinking myself into oblivion.

I was working second shift at the time, so I didn’t have to wake up until mid-afternoon.. this lent itself to many nights of drunken debauchery. I woke one morning after such a bout with fate to find Guido on my chest, licking my face. This is Dog Talk for “let me outside.” Come to think of it, it’s also Dog Talk for “I’m hungry,” “let’s play,” and “Ahh, yes. I just wanted to drag my nuts across your body.” Once again, I’ve digressed.

Stumbling out of bed, I put Guido out on his special “neglect your dog” leash, and then went right back to bed. Within a few seconds I was fast asleep and worry free. I slept about 10 minutes before being woken up by the unmistakable sounds of a vicious dog fight.

Leaping to my feet and running into the living room, I had no time to put on clothes or my glasses. I got around the corner just in time to see a giant bulldog chomp down his jaws around Guido’s neck. I ran right outside and started punching the dog in the ribs. He wouldn’t let go. I lost my mind and did the dumbest thing possible: I grabbed his jaws with my hands and pulled his mouth open. Now, kids.. don’t ever do that. Guido dropped from his grip and was free.. and then the giant, mean dog clamped his jaws down on my hands. It was a bad idea from the very beginning, and now I knew why. Ouch.

I got my hands free and screamed like a drunk Mexican hooker. The big dog got a hold of Guido again. I kicked the dog a few times, but that didn’t help. I grabbed its neck and began strangling it. This did the trick. Guido got free from the dog’s grip, dropped to the ground, and attacked the dog’s rear legs.

A guy walking his dog had ran up to us and asked me if I needed help. I stepped out of myself for a moment and looked around. The hot chick upstairs was on her balcony, her jaw dropped to the ground. The couple next door were looking out their window and on the phone, probably calling the police. Both the guy walking his dog and his dog were staring at me like I was insane. I was wearing only my boxers.. covered in mud, blood, and dog crap.. holding a large dog off the ground strangling him to death.. while my dog bites his ass.

We ended up calling the dog catcher and had the dog hauled off. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to kill it, but I’m sure somebody else has since then.

I’ve tried to come up with a moral to this story, but I’m not sure there is one. I’m just glad I wasn’t sleeping in the nude.

DaveCon 2002

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Greetings from New York City!

Chad in the guest chair thinking, 'Someday...'

Chad in the guest chair thinking, 'Someday...'

Once a year I meet with the rest of the biggest Letterman fans on the planet to descend upon New York City and the Late Show With David Letterman like a wild pack of ravenous dogs that feed solely on hilarious comedy. This week, the USENET newsgroup, alt.fan.letterman once again infiltrated the Ed Sullivan Theater, breeching security and defying all odds to sit at Dave’s desk, hang out backstage, appear on The Tony Mendez Show, and steal things from the fine people at Worldwide Pants.

Actually, I must admit that theft wasn’t even necessary. Cue card stud Tony Mendez, and Production Coordinator Mike McIntee went out of their way to find things to throw our way: scripts, rundowns, blue cards, cue cards.. they were very willing to let us have the paper products. Unfortunately we tested the limits of what we could pillage when somebody got greedy and tried to make off with some props. I, of course, would never do such a thing. Mr. Letterman and his people have always been very ive and kind to me when they certainly didn’t have to be. They are all fine, fine people.. who really should hire me.

My trip to New York really got started Tuesday night at The Cantina’s Comedy Night in Nashville. I treated the show like my farewell performance, because when I go to New York I am always very tempted to stay forever. There is never any promise that I will return, so I like to say my goodbye’s just in case. My supervisors at work and MaLady were in the audience… and now that I think about it, for them to hear me flippantly say “yeah, I may or may not come back home.. we’ll see how it goes..” probably confirmed their suspicions about my dedication and loyalty to them in ways that will probably come back to haunt me over the next few weeks. I ended my set by singing my version of “New York, New York” (in which I bastardized the lyrics and transformed the song into “A Dork, A Dork”) and rushed home to get a few hours sleep before hopping on a early morning flight to the City.

When I arrived in Manhattan Wednesday morning, I immediately went to 53rd and Broadway because that particular intersection is my holy Mecca. I walked over to 54th and 10th Avenue, where The Daily Show with Jon Stewart studio and offices are. They were foolish enough to let me into their building to wander around. Now, don’t start thinking I have any sort of Comedy Clout that gets me into these shows.. because I have none. At UT-Knoxville I had the great fortune to know a wonderful young lady who moved to New York to intern for TDS, and never returned. For the purposes of this column (and also due to my “try very hard not to name-drop” policy) I’ll call her “Opal.” Apparently The Daily Show realized what I knew early on: Opal is an all-around great person, a good friend, and easily the funniest woman I have ever met. She works hard producing funny ha-ha’s for TDS along with her boyfriend who is also a staffer (and a great guy in his own right).

Don & Traci

Don & Traci

I visited with my friend for a while, giving her plenty of Mangy propaganda to adorn her office with, and headed out. I had a few hours to kill before I was to meet up with some a.f.l. pals at Island Burger, so I went to the Manhattan Chili Company to swill down a few beers. My good friend Carla Rhodes has spent the last few weeks in NYC doing gigs, so I gave her a call. She met up with me and we went to join my pals for lunch (Traci, Carl, and Steve).

Afterwards we headed to the Ed Sullivan Theater to meet up with Don Giller. If you don’t know him, Don (or Donz5 on the AOL), is the biggest Letterman fan on the planet. He lives in a “Dave Cave” with more video tapes than is legally allowed in a residential dwelling, and a database of all-things-Dave. I have a lot of awe and respect for Don, because he has demonstrated that he is a bigger David Letterman fan than I am, and that’s damn hard to accomplish.

Don snuck us into the Theater’s office building entrance, past the security guard checkpoint, under the guise of talking to Walter Kim, one of the Late Show Online Producers. Walter was very kind to us and seemed to know some of our names from reading the newsgroup. We were talking to him when Late Show announcer, Alan Kaulter walked in. Alan shook each of our hands and remarked, “hey! You guys are N’Sync, aren’t you?!” Soon a few other familiar faces walked in: “Executive Directors” Barbara Gaines and Maria Pope; Dave’s lovely assistant, Stephanie; head writers, the Stangel brothers; Jude Brennen, and I’m sure I’m leaving out somebody else. Maria looked very concerned to see us, and I imagine she was wondering why security hadn’t hauled us off to be beaten and tortured. They all seemed friendly but briskly walked past us and got onto the elevator as soon as possible. We finished up talking to Walter, and left the building.

Some of us went to watch the taping of The Daily Show, and then hit China Town. Hundreds of cops on motorcycles were jamming the streets up due to some sort of event they were having. After an eel dinner at Goody’s, something happened that will change my life (and my name) forever.

Chad 'Mr. Tang' Riden

Chad 'Mr. Tang' Riden

I won’t tell the torrid story, but let it be known that from now on, I’ll be answering to “Mr. ‘Tang.” Before you start guessing on your own, let me assure you it had nothing to do with hookers or powdered, orange-like drinks from outer space.

Later I went out to a strange, eclectic open mic where the host wore a flashy, slutty dress and elf ears.. I got there in time to see Carla perform (and she killed!), but it wasn’t long before I was ready to crash out, so I took a cab up to 83rd and 2nd where Opal and Eric had a couch waiting for me. I can’t thank them enough for putting up with my crap.. they give me a set of keys and allow me to infest their apartment whenever I visit. In the past, before I got back in touch with Opal, I would sneak into Central Park after hours and camp out on a hill near Strawberry Fields… but I’ll save that story for another time.

On Thursday I woke up, showered, and met up with a friend I made amongst the Sergio Aragones’ Groo fans that are online (Larry). We had lunch at Ben’s (a wonderfully decorated deli with very good food), then Carla met up with me again. Carla and I decided to go for some cheesecake before I had to meet up with my Letterman buddies for the taping that night. We went to a place where they had what they claimed was “the world’s best cheesecake” (which seemed to be a very small, overpriced slice of standard cheesecake), but we bounced out and found another place to eat. The 2nd place didn’t claim theirs was the best, and that’s good because it certainly wasn’t. It tasted like it had been sitting there for a while.. so maybe it had been the “world’s best” at one point, many, many years ago.

I was running late, so I took off for the Manhattan Chili Company again to meet up with my fellow Lettermaniacs. There were about 26 AFL kids in attendance for DaveCon 2002.. some of them I knew, some of them I hadn’t met before.. but they all seemed like fun, well-adjusted, non-stalker types. DaveCon t-shirts and buttons were passed out, and we boozed it up a little because as all true comedy fans know: you’ll have a much better time if you enjoy some pre-show cocktails. We all got caught up on each other’s real lives (or lack thereof) and went down to get our special vip tickets for the show. The Late Show audience coordinators hooked us up with “dot” stickers for our tickets (which means we’re sitting in front), then we returned to the restaurant for some last minute boozing.

When we were finally seated in the theater, we were in the front two rows, directly in front of Mr. Letterman. The pre-show warm-up is virtually the same each time you go to the show: Eddie Brill intros a tape of “Dave talks to the kids,” then does some material and intros the band. This time Eddie didn’t do material, and announced that Felicia Collins was in Nashville working on someone’s record. A guy was sitting in with the band in her place, and he was annoying! During Act 1′s banter between Paul and Dave, the guy wouldn’t stop strumming his instrument for some unknown reason. The rest of the show was pretty average.

I was hoping one of my letters got into CBS Mailbag.. but nope! I’d written in: “Dear Dave, I’m a struggling comedian who will be in your audience for the Friday, June 21 2002 show. Can I get some stage time? It never hurts to ask, right?” I was hoping Dave would read the letter and say, “sure, why not.. it doesn’t hurt to ask. Where’s Chad at? Come on up..” Then, I could tell one joke and a guy from the audience could jump up and shoot me in the chest a few times with a handgun saying, “I hate that guy!” Dave could remark that sometimes it does hurt to ask, and then move on.. BUT noooooooooooooo! They didn’t do it.

If you watch Act 5 closely, you’ll see me and the rest of the AFL’ers on camera, laughing and applauding while we all played “What’s in the Late Show Refrigerator?” When I watch the clip, two questions come to mind: “Did you see or touch any monkeys?” and “Was there any hanky-panky?”

Hey! Look who's in the Late Show audience!

Hey! Look who's in the Late Show audience!

After the show, Tony Mendez pulled us out of the audience onto the stage and Walter Kim taped us for The Tony Mendez Show ( on “DaveCon 2002 – 06/20/2002″ to see me!). As we filed up onto the stage, Tony remarked to the person in front of me, “The show could have been much better.” As I walked up I said something like, “Yes, it sure could have been..” Apparently, Tony didn’t remember what I look like because he started asking “Who’s Chad?” He asked me if I was the one who had sent him the magazines, people must’ve thought he meant porn, ’cause they starting laughing. I turned around and started running away in mock retreat. I came back and he asked if I’d sent in the magazines plus the stuff about Harrison Ford and me being the attention-whore that I am sarcastically said, “uh.. yeah!” and shrugged saying ‘what the hell is he talking about?’ Traci told him he that was somebody else, and Tony continued talking to us for a few minutes.

Sensing a lull, I jumped in again saying, “Tony, I’ve seen your little videos on the internet and they’re all well and good but for real sketch comedy online, you should check out w-w-w-dot-Mangy-K-9-dot-com.” My “friends” in AFL all groaned and complained for me to stop. Tony and Walter ended up cutting the footage into two ‘episodes’ of the TMS, and cut me off right after the “w-w-w” with a graphic that said, “to be continued..” The next day they “continued” right after I was done saying the web address. I would be mad, but that’s pretty damn funny. Plus, I was wearing a Mangy Dog shirt (available now in the Mangy Store!), so I got my promo in regardless.

Then we took time to take pictures behind Dave’s desk. I had a picture made last year, so I didn’t do it again, but when nobody was looking I did sit down at Dave’s desk. Back behind the view of the camera, Mr. Letterman has a few shelves on the left. There he keeps a stack of paper towels, some dental adhesive for his fake tooth, and the controls for the roof-cam. I left him a MangyK9 “LEGALIZE CRIME” sticker and a flier in the desk.

Chad and Tony Mendez in the downstairs greenroom

Chad and Tony Mendez in the downstairs greenroom

Tony took us on a tour backstage and downstairs. I was talking to Don and Libby for a minute, and we realized we were separated from the group and left alone in the bowels of the theater. We walked around a corner and saw the elevator. “All we have to do is push floor 12 and we could see Dave!” I say, “..but then of course we’d be immediately arrested if not killed.” Instead, we went up a flight of stairs to the ground level. Building engineer George Clark was there at the door of the green room. “What are you guys doing?” he asked. “Looking for Tony.” “Oh, I haven’t seen him.” Then George walked away, apparently unconcerned that we are wandering around the building alone. Either that, or we have finally gained their trust.. an equally frightening thought.

LSwDL Production Coordinator Mike McIntee

LSwDL Production Coordinator Mike McIntee

We met back up with everybody in the Control Room, where Tony yelled at us for snooping around. Production Coordinator Mike McIntee was there, riffling thru papers. He began handing out stacks of scripts, rundowns, blue cards and other stuff that we could have. I gave him a sticker in return, explaining that as an ex-cop he knows as well as anybody that prisons are over crowded, and that the only solution is to legalize crime. “It’ll put cops out of business” he says. I had no reply, although I was thinking to myself, “yeah, they’ll have to go do some real work.” Tony handed out cue cards to whoever wanted them and then it was time to go.

Tony at Martinis

Tony at Martinis

We wandered over to Manhattan’s for dinner and fun. Mike and Tony came by after work to say hello and show off a Barbie doll that was very quickly stripped naked for some reason unknown to me. A phone call told us that The Tony Mendez Show featuring us was online and that they cut me off mid-promo.. you should have heard the cheers! My so-called friends had all turned on me! Isn’t it always that way? They build you up just so they can watch you fall.

Despite that ugliness, I had a wonderful night and a very memorable trip. After spending a few nights in the greatest city in the world and realizing that New York has about 12 comedy clubs in addition to 8 to 15 different comedy shows in non-comedy club venues EVERY NIGHT.. getting up in the morning and flying back to Nashville was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Now that I’m back, I’m refreshed.. rejuvinated.. and ready to make some funny.

(Read everybody else’s DaveCon 2002 trip reports here on Helen Read’s page)