I Hope Yuh Comprehend—A Review of Simply Red’s “Stars”

I Hope Yuh Comprehend—A Review of Simply Red’s “Stars”

In which Jason and The Tusk’s Nate Waggoner send their future into clearer dimensions by reviewing the video for Simply Red’s Stars.


Hey Nate! I wanna fall from the stars straight into YOUR arms! Just like that Red Bull astronaut. Remember him? Felix Baumgartner literally fell 128,000 feet from the stars and he didn’t have the common courtesy to aim for the lead singer of Simply Red!

Introducing The Henchies™ Featuring Jason and Julian

Introducing The Henchies™ Featuring Jason and Julian

This essay was originally performed live at our Disney-themed variety show Scene Missing Presents WALTLANTA

Hey, Julian! I’m so glad we could finally do a Scene Missing featuring live performances based on our favorite animated characters…the Minions! Scene Minion presents Minionlanta! And I REALLY appreciate you getting your name legally changed to Jul-minion Miniondugno just for the event! People said I was crazy for hiring a Justice of the Peace to stand around in the lobby before the show. People also said I was crazy for making him dress like a Minion.

Letter from the Editor: I Can Clearly See Your Nuts

Letter from the Editor: I Can Clearly See Your Nuts

I want to start by saying that you are the greatest readers who ever lived, even better than the readers who are buried in King Tut’s Tomb. King Tut insisted on being buried with anyone who ever laughed at one of his jokes, so I guess if you laugh at one of my jokes today, and I become a pharaoh, then I’ll probably want to be buried with you in my tomb.

Scene Missing Presents “Put Aside Your Grievousances And Start Stalling”

Scene Missing Presents “Put Aside Your Grievousances And Start Stalling”

Hang up your breadsticks, folks—it’s going to be a wild ride! In this episode, Jason and guests Julian Modugno and Chris Ledford pitch movie ideas to each other! Topics include a remake of the 1981 David Cronenberg film “Scanners” starring Delta Burke, a movie about a General Grievous-like robot who punches you in the back of the head at the urinal, a Batman television show called “Arkham: Orange is The New Bat,” and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles spinoff called “Earth Rats Are Easy.”

Illustration by Sam Mitchell

Screeee Hello To My Little Friend!

Screeee Hello To My Little Friend!


[dropcap]H[/dropcap]ey, Bobbin. I am totally ready to start this essay with you, and I am definitely going to stay on topic, so if I start to ramble just give me a good solid jab with your finger! Like a witch jabbing a chubby kid that she’s thinking about putting into a cauldron.

“Well, kid, how about it? You got enough meat on your bones to make a good stew? Huh? Speak up! I don’t have all day. I’m a witch.”

The tried and true method for figuring out if kids are fat enough to make them into stew is to jab them with your bony old witch’s finger. Or your slender young witch’s finger! Who knows what kind of fingers you’d have if you were a witch? Witches is pimps too—go on brush your shoulders off (with a broom that you fly around on).

‘My, what beautiful fingers this witch is jabbing me with,’ the chunky kid might think to himself. ‘I bet she soaks them in a bowl full of lotion and rosewater everyday.’

You and I both know that this is not the secret to soft manageable hands, Bobbin, but let’s cut the kid some slack—he’s just a kid, and he’s about to get eaten by a witch. How the hell is he supposed to find the greatest skin care tips? Read them on the back of his Lunchables?

Maybe the witch will leave him a dog-eared copy of Cosmo in his cage. Read and learn, kid. I think I read an article about how some new hotshot editor at Cosmo has been sneaking quality writing amid all the sex tips and vapid stuff.

While she’s at it she should sneak in an article about escaping from a witch’s cage. Betrayed by your own Cosmo subscription, witch! Guess you should have gotten the New Yorker, which almost never features witch-escape tips.

I wish there were some kind of chart or graph or national registry of witches that let you know which witches had the softest hands. Like, softest to roughest. The Mallory-Wages Witch Hand Texture scale! I guess the government hasn’t stepped in and made this chart already because witches aren’t real. Thanks a lot, Edward Snowden!

Anyway, Bobbin, all I’m trying to say is that witch’s fingers are like space age meat thermometers that can measure body fat in an instant, delivering more accurate results than a hydrostatic weighing tank, which when you think about it is just a fancy cauldron.

If we could just figure out a way to convince witches to jab our nation’s schoolchildren and then NOT lock them in a cage lined with Cosmo articles for later consumption, then we could finally accomplish the goals set by Arnold Schwarzenegger and President George H.W. Bush when they formed the President’s Council on Physical Fitness and Sports in 1990!

And then you and I could join forces with Obama to form the President’s Council on Witch Hand Texture and Sports and Better Cosmo Articles. Let’s jab our way to fitness, Bobbin!

Well, kid, how about it? You got enough meat on your bones to make a good stew? Huh? Speak up! I don’t have all day. I’m a witch.


Jason, I am critical of most body composition measurement techniques and therefore thrilled about the development of a new standard such as the Witch’s Finger Poker. A bony witch’s digit probably would distinguish better between muscle and adipose tissue than the body fat calipers that textbooks cite as less precise but more efficient and therefore more popular than hydrostatic weighing tanks, the most effective measurement of all. I would allow Glinda the Good Witch to stab my abdomen with her nails, freshly coated with the classic OPI color Aphrodite’s Pink Nightie. But if the cafeteria lady masquerading as a BMI specialist at my former high school’s Wellness and Health Fair came charging toward me with a pair of mystery meat tongs she swears are state-of-the-art body fat calipers, I would click my heels and scream that there’s no body mass measurement more accurate than the Witch’s Finger Poker.

My latest BMI test occurred a decade ago in my college’s gymnasium and was performed by an Exercise Science undergraduate student. At the height of my struggle with laxative abuse and over-exercise, I finally had plummeted to the upper threshold of the Underweight category. I beamed with victory, fatigue, and constipation.

“You are so skinny!” the undergraduate exclaimed in a tone of jealousy and praise.

“Thank you!” I curtseyed.

Had Glinda the Good Witch been there, she would have floated in on a basketball and confronted me about my eating disorder instead of congratulating me on looking haggard.

“A brittle frame wields no power!” she would proclaim. “Begone to the Oz Eating Disorder Treatment Center!”

Glinda would thrust her wand up my butt, release my wizened bowels, and transport me to Oz, where staff members force patients to follow the 12-Step Yellow Brick Road Recovery Program. “If I Only Had a Healthy Body Image,” sung in unison, would kick off each morning’s group therapy session.

I was a chunky kid but still excelled during our school’s Presidential Fitness Test because I was terrified of being abducted from the playground by a pedophile and being thrown in his basement, which is pretty much the same thing as a witch’s cage littered with Cosmo sex tips promising to blow his mind, whoever “he” is. And the playground seemed like an ideal spot for both child predators and witches to snatch the students who fell behind during the various activities the Presidential Fitness Test requires. A witch lurking around the track while my class completed the one-mile run would have encountered difficulty catching me, a pleasantly plump first grader wearing a neon orange t-shirt under a neon pink t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up in order to reveal a range of blinding colors – not only to reflect early ‘90s fashion trends but also to impair my potential abductors’ vision. Plus, I could defend myself with the trio of slap bracelets curled around my thick forearm.

I would like to think my body meat would have added flavorful protein to a vat of soup, perhaps mixed with some lentils, onions, and carrots for diversity of texture and taste. But all the witches creeping around my school for food never found out how amazing I tasted because I was faster than I looked. I passed fat Georgia Ellis on my last lap and didn’t look back when I heard a witch swoop out of the woods and trap her in a cage, its iron bars rattling while she screamed. No one noticed Georgia’s disappearance as we filed back inside the building for nap time. Which is the message I believe Arnold Schwarzenegger and President George H.W. Bush intended to convey when they formed the President’s Council on Physical Fitness and Sports in 1990: manage your BMI or you will find yourself at the bottom of a hydrostatic weighing cauldron.


Bobbin, we never had any BMI tests in the cafeteria/gymnasium of my elementary school, but a bat flew into the cafeteria of my 5th grade alma mater West End Elementary during lunch period once, and it may have been conducting its own informal BMI tests with its bat sonar, but we’ll never know the results because our guidance counselor threw his Members Only jacket on the bat and hustled it out of the cafeteria. Congratulations, bat! Now YOU’RE a member!

The bat was all like “scree! scree!” from underneath the jacket, which translates in bat language to, “These children are too fat!”

Seems like this whole essay is about Halloween-type creatures figuring out how fat kids are. What’s next, a mummy whose bandages can wrap around your arm and take your blood pressure? The whole cast of the Monster Mash is working at CVS now!

Although if a mummy is taking your blood pressure, it seems like your blood pressure would always be high, because you’re terrified of the mummy. Maybe we put the mummy inside a box and then you stick your arm in the box and you don’t know a mummy is in the box. And then put a big sticker on the side of the box that reads NO MUMMIES INSIDE or MUMMY-FREE BLOOD PRESSURE READINGS.

Anyway, Bobbin, that bat was probably just hanging around in the cafeteria hoping to inspire any nearby orphans to avenge their parents’ deaths. You think the bats want to stop at Batman? “The way I see it, if we can get one guy to dress up like a bat, why not keep it going? Why not just lurk around elementary schools looking all inspiring? Some of those kids have got to have murdered parents. In this country, you gotta inspire the orphans first. Then when you get the orphans, you get the Batmen. Then when you get the Batmen, then you get the women.”

That’s the bat from my elementary school talking, by the way, in subtitles because all you hear is “scree! scree! scree!” And it looks like he’s quoting Scarface! Or at least he was, before he got a Members Only jacket thrown over his head. To be fair, Scarface was a relatively new movie when I was in 5th grade, so everybody was probably like, “say hello to my little friend!” and it still seemed fresh. My guidance counselor might have even said it as he was releasing the bat back into the wild from his Member’s Only jacket. “Say hello to my little friend, wooded area behind the science classrooms!”

Awww! It’s so cute to think of the bat as “my little friend.” This is my little friend, everybody! He’s a cute little bat who loves Al Pacino movies.

Anyway, Bobbin, Batman’s costume is the Members Only jacket of the bat world. People used to love it, then they thought it was corny, now it’s cool again, and eventually everyone will be wearing one if an influential group of bloodsuckers have their way.

“Eeeeeee!” she screamed, followed by Flap-flap-flap-flap. Flap-flap-flap-flap, “Eeeeeee!” Flap-flap-flap-flap, “Eeeeeee!”


Jason, it’s cool that a bat flew into your school cafeteria, but a bat flew into my house when I was in junior high while watching a dance competition on TV with my sister. Because of the blaring Prodigy song that accompanied the University of Georgia Gym Dogs’ piece, we barely heard my mother stumble through the side door and drop two armfuls of groceries, the cans of chicken broth and kidney beans denting the hardwood floor. So while your bat must have been attracted to the smell of pizza crusts dipped in Ranch dressing, my bat preferred homemade meals, or the 1997 hit “Firestarter.”

Only after my mother sprinted a dozen laps around the kitchen island shouting “Eeeeeee!” followed by a series of flaps did we saunter over to check on her. We found her cowering in the corner, one foot inside the lazy Susan smashing a brand new box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as though she planned to cram herself in the cabinetry amongst the family’s cereal selection and hide.

“Eeeeeee!” she screamed, followed by Flap-flap-flap-flap.

Flap-flap-flap-flap, “Eeeeeee!” Flap-flap-flap-flap, “Eeeeeee!”

“Errr, herherher. Let’s get Deddy,” I suggested á la Beavis.

“Girls, you know I hate it when you talk like that,” Mother groaned while using a box of Cracklin’ Oat Bran as a shield.

Timber disappeared into the back of the house and returned with our father, barefoot and gripping a fly fishing net.


With one whack Daddy knocked the air out of the bat, which landed in a puddle at the foot of the refrigerator. Daddy scooped it up and meandered outside to a Christmas wreath attached to a trellis. He pulled the bat out out of the net by the tip of its left wing and placed it upside down on the wreath, partially covering a sparkly red bow.

The bat froze to death overnight.

I later learned that Daddy had intended to capture the bat unscathed and felt guilty for slaying it. Maybe he ended up using the bat’s body as a template for a suit to wear while avenging the death of his grandfather Luther, who got shot during a high-speed chase in the early 1900s. People say that killing their loved one’s murderer doesn’t ease any pain, though, because that doesn’t bring back the original victim from the dead, and it would have been preferable for the loved one not to be murdered in the first place.AMGIcon

Scene Missing Presents THE WRATHLANTA OF KHAN

Scene Missing Presents THE WRATHLANTA OF KHAN

Scene Missing: The Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the Highland Ballroom. Its one-hour mission: to explore strange new performances, to seek out new laughs and comedy observations, to boldly present the greatest writing, comedy, and music in Atlanta—all based on the Star Trek movies!

You could travel to Ceti Alpha V and back and never find a night of entertainment as dazzling as this! We’re presenting you a veritable inverse Kobayashi Maru, where ALL decisions are good decisions (provided ALL decisions involve coming to Scene Missing).

You’ll feel like somebody hit you with an energy beam and sent you to the surface of Kataan, except instead of having to listen to Picard play the flute you get to listen to the best writers, comedians, puppeteers, and musicians in Atlanta pay tribute to the greatest science fiction franchiseof all time: Firefl-I mean, Star Trek!

Beam yourself up, make it so number one, live long and prosper, heghlu’meH QaQ jajvam, and all the other Star Trek catchphrases! This is definitely real life and not a malfunctioning holodeck so listen to the show, put on your fanciest Vulcan ears and your nicest unisex jumpsuit and get ready for the best Star Trek-themed entertainment you’ve ever heard in your life!

Featuring performances by:

Bobbin Wages
Rob HaZe
Ellaree Yeagley
Eliot James Bronson
Paul Gallois
Gina Rickicki

A note about the performances—you can download a PDF of Ellaree Yeagley’s slideshow here and Gina Rickicki’s photos from the performance are embedded below:

baby gina vulcan

baby gina vulcan 2

Scene Missing Presents Our Dragon Con 2014 Recap Featuring Jack Walsh!

Scene Missing Presents Our Dragon Con 2014 Recap Featuring Jack Walsh!

Scene Missing host Jason Mallory is joined by Jack Walsh of Four Days at Dragon Con and Cosplay: Crafting a Secret Identity fame to look back on the sights and sounds of Dragon Con 2014! You’ll feel like you’re crammed in a Marriott elevator with some of the most interesting people at the Con as we bring you interviews with Alan Lee Hansard from the Superhero Costuming Forum, Sandra Lagnese and Dr. Jonathan Halloway of USA Knights , Gretchen Jacobsen of the American Tea Duelling Society, Caitlin Rhyne and Mike Dickens of Contagious Costuming/Contagious Media Productions, Ann Hoevel, and Music from The Ghosts Project!!

Scene Missing Podcast: Dan Carroll and Jack Walsh

Scene Missing Podcast: Dan Carroll and Jack Walsh

Scene Missing gets ready for Dragon Con the only way we know how: by bringing DragonCon Media Relations Director Dan Carroll on the show and grilling him for an hour until he spills his Dragon Con secrets! Jason and Dan are also joined by “Cosplay! Crafting a Secret Identity” Director Jack Walsh.

Topics include 2014 guests, new additions to the convention, and some of Dan’s favorite DragonCon moments. Also discussed: squirrels, giving a mouse a cookie, and the “vertical parade.”

Scene Missing Podcast: Harry Potter and the Previews Of Atlantazkaban

Scene Missing Podcast: Harry Potter and the Previews Of Atlantazkaban

Open the window and let in that owl: have we got a message for you! After eleven long years living under its muggle aunt and uncle’s stairs, Scene Missing returns with a magical show exploring the Harry Potter movies guaranteed to leave you ROWLING in the aisles!

A Burning Shrek Of Fire

A Burning Shrek Of Fire



[dropcap]J[/dropcap]ason, I would love to start this essay, but I cannot concentrate per the bagpipes blaring outside my home office. The second Wednesday of every month, a coterie of elderly men convenes across the street at the Atlanta Burns Cottage, a historic clubhouse replicating Robert Burns’ Scottish childhood abode. Built in 1911, the cottage houses monthly Burns Club meetings, where members celebrate the life and work of this 18th century poet. Chauvinistically per tradition, though, the club only accepts male Burns enthusiasts.

I wonder what all those men are up to in the cottage. Are they smoking pot and summoning Robert Burns’ spirit with the assistance of a Ouija Board? Are they sipping Scotch and reminiscing about their trysts with some of Atlanta’s most notorious middens and hizzies? Or are they listening to a guest lecturer who specializes in the influence of Rabbie Burns on Bob Dylan’s songwriting? I cringe with jealousy at the thought of all three.

Last month I arrived home after work, just as the Burns Club meeting was about to commence. I squinted at the cars parked in front of the cottage, lining its periphery like autumn ferns. I cracked my knuckles while watching one man hobble over the gravel on a cane, snickering when his slacks got hung on a red, red rose.

Upon reflection I have decided to respond to the Burns Club’s myopia with maturity and grace, and to form the Plath Club in the carriage house on my property, aptly nicknamed the Atlanta Plath Cottage. The gas oven in the kitchen bears uncanny resemblance to the oven in which Sylvia Plath placed her head, and died of carbon monoxide poisoning the morning of February 11, 1963.

Because Plath’s fans hail from both genders and because male perspectives only would enrich our monthly discussions, I will allow men to apply for membership to the Sylvia Plath Club. I will not accept paper applications; instead prospective male members must pass a test. Per tradition, they must place their heads in the oven in the Atlanta Plath Cottage and withstand a moderate amount of carbon monoxide poisoning. At that point I will welcome them with open arms.

Well now I feel bad because my neighbors have congregated around the Atlanta Burns Cottage, and the bagpipe player is taking requests. If he covers “Over the Hills and Far Away,” I’ll abandon the Plath Club and offer Band-Aids to the seniors who maim themselves on the aforementioned unruly rose bush.


Bobbin, the last time I was invited to a Burns supper, my ex-girlfriend recited the following poem during the “Toast to the Laddies” portion of the supper:

“Here’s to Honor!
If you can’t come in her,
Come on her!”

This was an especially helpful limerick, as Robert Burns himself never wrote any poems on when and where to ejaculate, if not inside a vagina. Most of us men just have to wing it whenever we have an orgasm. Whatever direction we point our penis at is our best guess.

We don’t have a handwritten guide by Robert Burns to guide us, you know? We don’t have a copy of “The Robert Burns Guide to Busting a Nut” just sitting on our bookshelves, Bobbin—with a winking cartoon of Robert Burns on the cover giving a thumbs-up saying, “Let Ol’ Burnsy show you where to skeet!”

Nobody ever gave us a big book full of diagrams and schematics of Robert Burns pointing at different objects and parts of the body saying “YES, LADS!” or “NO! ACCHH, ANYWHERE BUT THERE!”

Most of the “NO!” diagrams would feature paintings of Scotland, or kilts, or plates of haggis—you know, Scottish stuff. Also not acceptable to come in or on or around: anything featuring a picture of Shrek. Even graven images of Shrek! It just feels wrong, you know? Shrek would never let you finish on his face. He’d make you do it onto a towel or something.

“Here’s to Shrek!
If you can’t come in him,
come on his towel.”

That would be my “Toast to the Lassies.”

Anyway, I hope I’m not ruining your notion of the Burns Supper with my filthy talk, Bobbin! Not everybody can honor the national poet of Scotland with a poem that’s NOT about ejaculating. As for my ex-girlfriend, everyone at the table laughed at her instructional semen-based toast and then we all had shepherd’s pie, which falls into the same category as Shrek’s face on the list of places you should never, ever come in “The Robert Burns Guide to Busting a Nut.”


In addition to “The Robert Burns Guide to Busting a Nut,” I wish “The Robert Burns Guide to Sex for Beginners (G-rated edition)” had been available during my tweenhood. Because I felt uncomfortable asking my mother about the mechanics of sex, and because my father hid his copy of The Joy of Sex after he caught me ogling its illustrations, I resorted to grilling my friend Amanda’s twenty-something stepmother about coitus’ ins and outs.

We sat in the Arby’s parking lot, packed in Amanda’s father’s rickety Dodge Ram truck, while he went inside to order some curly fries.

“Tammy?” I turned to Amanda’s stepmother. “When yer havin’ sex with someone, how long’re you s’posed to hold the penis in there?”

“Oh Lord,” Amanda sighed.

“Well the penis has to ejaculate first,” Tammy answered.

Tammy’s advice advocated for ejaculation inside the vagina, clearly demonstrating a market need for “The Robert Burns Guide to Sex for Beginners (G-rated edition).” The manual would help prevent teenage pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases, and elevate towels, shoulder blades, and fists as socially acceptable places to deposit one’s semen.

Strangely, speaking of Shrek, my college boyfriend demanded that I give him a hand job during Shrek 2 in a movie theatre in Rome, Georgia. Luckily we attended the matinee, and the only other patrons in the second row on the opposite end of the room heard nothing. So my then-boyfriend didn’t come on Shrek’s face but achieved orgasm because of Shrek’s face.

Did you know that Robert Burns impregnated his mother’s servant while in a relationship with another woman? Perhaps in the foreword of “The Robert Burns Guide to Sex for Beginners (G-rated edition),” Rabbie can explain that he, too, was once unaware of the pull-out method and thought the vagina was the only place to blow his load. I wonder if, upon honing control over his cock, Rabbie poetically splooged on symbols of his country’s arch enemy: an English flag, a plate of fish and chips, a ceramic figurine of Queen Elizabeth I. Large full-color graphics of said symbols would appear in “The Robert Burns Guide to Sex for Beginners (G-rated edition),” no doubt.

I’m going to contact the members of the Atlanta Burns Club and gauge their interest in providing monthly sex ed courses to our community’s youth — perhaps on the second Wednesday of every month since Burns Club meetings take place every fourth Wednesday. I can think of no better instructors than experienced old men to deliver a “Toast to the Tweenies”:

“Here’s to teenage sex!
Always pull out!
Come on her copy of Shrek!”


Thank you, Bobbin, I’ve always wanted to be on a government watchlist. I’ve also always wanted to be on a government Shreklist.

“But I shot a Shrek in Reno/just to watch him die.”

Sorry, I just got back from the Johnny Cash museum in Nashville and now I’m inserting different things into Johnny Cash lyrics.

“I hurt my Shrek today, to see if I still feel/I focus on the Shrek/The only thing that’s real.”

I know that’s actually a cover of a Nine Inch Nails song by Johnny Cash, but I think if Johnny Cash came back from the dead right now, he’d give his blessing. Right there on the spot in his black shirt and black pants!

:: in the gravelly voice of Johnny Cash :: “Well, you know June and I have always loved Shrek and this is the best way to honor his memory.”

Don’t tell the newly risen Johnny Cash that Shrek’s not dead, Bobbin!

You know, the thing that struck me the most about the Johnny Cash museum was that it mostly displayed different outfits he’d worn in his life. “This is the cowboy hat Johnny Cash wore when he starred opposite Andy Griffith in Murder in Coweta County.” “This is the shirt he wore at his beach house in Jamaica all the time.” “Here’s his wallet.” The actual descriptions were more elaborate, but you get the idea.

Weirdly, all the outfits were immaculately cleaned and hung on headless mannequins. First of all, if I drive all the way to Nashville to see the Johnny Cash museum to look at his clothes, I want to see his sweat stains. I want to know that sequined black tuxedo has been lived in!

Nobody needs Johnny Cash’s puffy shirt with the lace collar to wear to a job interview tomorrow—it’s okay to let us know that a human being wore it!

Second of all, if the Johnny Cash museum needs any suggestions on whose head should go on the mannequins, may I nominate a certain green ogre? Do you think it would detract from the Johnny Cash museum if if Shrek wore all the outfits? And if you pressed a button Shrek sang Johnny Cash’s greatest hits?

“I fell into a burning Shrek of fire/ I went down,down,down/ And the Shrek went higher”

Now there’s a song you can give a handjob to! In fact, the Johnny Cash museum ought to write those lyrics on the little white card by the glass case featuring Shrek in the suit Johnny Cash wore when he met President Nixon.

So come on down to the Johnny Cash Shrek Memorial Handjob Museum and live out a terrifying fever dream!AMGIcon[/fusion_text]

Scene Missing Podcast: E.T. THE EXTRA-TRAILESTRIAL

Scene Missing Podcast: E.T. THE EXTRA-TRAILESTRIAL

Transmission Intercepted! After one whole month in cryogenic space hibernation, Scene Missing is back with a show exploring the most “out there” of genres: SCI-FI!

Scene Missing San Francisco: The Films of Jeff Goldblum!

Scene Missing San Francisco: The Films of Jeff Goldblum!

This episode features live audio from our inaugural Scene Missing San Francisco show: “The Films of Jeff Goldblum!”

Join hosts Casey Childers and Lauren Traetto as they showcase six of the Bay’s greatest writers and comedians performing essays and stand-up inspired by Jeff “life, uh, finds a way” Goldblum!

Featuring performances by Alani Foxall, Sarah Griffin, Tim Toaster Henderson, Ivan Hernandez, Nate Waggoner, and Scott Simpson!

NOTE: Scott Simpson’s performance included a multimedia component,  click here to download a PDF of his presentation and follow along.