{"product_id":"mustache-shenanigans-isbn-9781101985236","title":"Mustache Shenanigans","description":"\u003cb\u003eDirector, writer, and actor Jay Chandrasekhar tells the hilarious stories behind his films \u003ci\u003eSuper Troopers \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSuper Troopers 2 \u003c\/i\u003e(out on 4\/20\/2018!), the history of his comedy group, Broken Lizard, and everything in between.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJay Chandrasekhar has spent the past two decades writing, directing, and acting in film and TV. With his comedy group, Broken Lizard, he has produced and directed beloved movies such as \u003ci\u003eSuper Troopers\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBeer­fest\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eClub Dread\u003c\/i\u003e. Now, with the upcoming release of the long-awaited \u003ci\u003eSuper Troopers 2\u003c\/i\u003e, Jay is ready to tell the ridiculous, madcap, dead-honest story of how he built his career, how he formed Broken Lizard, and, ultimately, how he made \u003ci\u003eSuper Troopers\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jay grew up Indian American in the lily-white sub­urbs of Chicago, and he had an outsider’s perspective from the beginning. Instead of taking the traditional acting path, he formed his own troupe, wrote his own scripts, and made movies his own way. And he had an incredibly good time doing so as readers will learn in this hilarious story about making it in Hollywood and directing, cowriting, and costarring in one of the best-loved and most-watched comedies of all time. Part humorous memoir, part film study, this book will inform, entertain, and tell readers what drinking mul­tiple bottles of maple syrup is really like.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eMustache Shenanigans\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A fond and funny look at the process of trying to succeed in the movie business and an inspirational tool for aspiring filmmakers.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A charming story of persistence, luck, and hard work.”—\u003cb\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"[A] boisterous read that tells the truth about comedy, film, and everything in between.\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eABQ Free Press\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eMustache Shenanigans: Making Super Troopers and Other Adventures in Comedy\u003c\/i\u003e is a rare complete and honest tell-all. The book brims with revelation, comedy, and the reality of what it takes to make it in Hollywood as an outsider and on your own terms.\" —\u003cb\u003eChicago Now\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Mustache Shenanigans, [Chandrasekhar’s] wonderfully titled memoir about the creation of “Super Troopers” and other films, qualifies as more than a fans-only read.” —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Buffalo News\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJay Chandrasekhar\u003c\/b\u003e is a director, actor, writer, and comedian best known for the cult classics\u003ci\u003e Super Troopers \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eBeerfest\u003c\/i\u003e. He has also directed for numerous popular TV shows, including \u003ci\u003eArrested Development\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eCommunity\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eChuck\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Grinder\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNew Girl\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003ePsych\u003c\/i\u003e. He lives with his wife and children in Los Angeles.Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Childhood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My life as an American was not guaranteed. In fact, my existence      on this planet was the result of a cosmic fluke. My parents were      both born and raised in the town of Chennai (Madras) in South      India. Both went to Madras Medical School, though they didn't meet      there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My dad was the top student in medicine at the Madras Medical      School. Twenty to thirty students would show up each night to      observe him in the obstetrics wards. He was so good that they      nicknamed him \"the Professor.\" His plan was to stay in India and      become a doctor, but during the practical portion of the exam, he      answered a single question wrong and, to the shock of his      teachers, the external examiner failed him. So now he had a year      to kill before he could retake the test. Or . . . Because of the      Vietnam War, America had a doctor shortage and was recruiting      doctors from India. One of his friends had an extra application      for Queens General, so Dad applied and got accepted. Off he went      to New York City. A year later, he moved on to the much more      prestigious at the time Cook County Hospital in Chicago. My dad's      friend Badri (short for Badrinath, Beerfest fans) followed him      there. A year later, my mom graduated from Madras Medical School      and chose Cook County because of her friendship with Badri.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mom arrived at O'Hare Airport in the middle of the night, in      the dead of winter, wearing only a sari (an Indian dress) and a      light coat. As she waited for a cab in sub-zero weather, a      homeless guy approached, begging for money for food. A soft touch,      Mom gave him the only cash she had, a twenty-dollar bill. In a      predicament of her own making, she called Badri collect to tell      him that she had arrived and she needed cab fare. At two a.m.,      Badri and my father met my mom's cab outside the dorm and paid her      fare. For my dad it was love\/lust at first sight, because he      whispered to Badri, \"I'm going to marry that girl.\" Soon after,      they started dating, and soon after that (months), my mom was      pregnant. My parents got married in front of the justice of the      peace, and then the fun started.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With my mom six months pregnant, my dad called back to India to      tell his mother that he was \"thinking\" about getting married to a      woman he had met in Chicago. My grandmother flipped. She had plans      to arrange her doctor-son's marriage, so she told him that he was      forbidden to marry my mother. Boxed in, my dad said he was going      to marry her anyway and hung up. My grandmother was a wily woman      who was used to getting her way, so she secretly called my mother      and offered her $10,000 in diamonds to end her relationship with      my father. My grandmother had a lot of diamonds. My mom was pissed      and forced my father to tell his mom the truth. When he finally      told Grandma not only that they were married, but that Mom was      pregnant, my grandmother embraced reality, packed up, and booked a      flight to America, where she would live for the rest of her life.      She arrived in time for my sister's birth and became the full-time      babysitter, which my parents needed because they were playing the      real-life George Clooney and Julianna Margulies (yeah, I know      Julianna M. played a nurse, but you get the point), treating      gunshot wounds in Cook County's ER. Though my mother and      grandmother made up, their relationship never quite got over its      rocky start.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Two and a half years later, on April 9, 1968, my mom went into      labor again. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been shot five days      earlier, and Chicago, or, more specifically, the area around Cook      County Hospital, was on fire. My parents worried that they might      not make it through the riots, but they did, and in a cosmic      fluke, I was born. They'd been in America roughly five years at      this point, and my father, likely at my grandmother's behest,      suggested moving back to India to raise the children properly. But      my mother balked, saying there was no way she was going back to a      country where women were second-class citizens. I often wonder how      different things would have been had Mom just gone along. I'm just      guessing, but I imagine I would be skinnier and four inches      shorter (because of Indian nutrition and pollution), I'd speak      three languages (my parents both speak three), I'd have an Indian      accent, I wouldn't eat beef, I might be vegetarian, and I'd      probably be a doctor. Talk about a fuckin' fork in the road.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Three years later, we left our Oak Park apartment and moved to      Willowbrook, Illinois. There was a lake in front of my house,      along with a clubhouse, tennis courts, and a pool. I had a      phenomenally active childhood and was part of a neighborhood pack      of ten kids. In the summer, we'd fish, have raft fights, play      baseball, and throw crab apples at one another. In the fall, we      played a lot of tackle football. And in the winter, we played king      of the hill on huge plowed snow piles, played broom hockey on the      iced-up lake, and had snowball fights. In the summer we'd egg and      toilet paper houses, and in the winter we'd hide in bushes and      throw snowballs at passing cars. Punks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The adults in the community ranged from late twenties to early      forties, and, as it was the seventies, they partied. Everyone      smoked cigarettes and drank a lot of martinis. My father was a      lung disease doctor, and even he smoked half a pack a day. He      eventually quit after my sister and I saw antismoking TV ads and      bugged him into submission.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My best friend in the neighborhood, Jim, was a white kid with      blond hair. We had been friends since we were three and used to      walk around the neighborhood telling people we were twins. I was      very close to Jim's family. His mom, a former flight attendant,      treated me like one of her own, feeding me lunches of PB and J and      Chef Boyardee ravioli.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My uncle was a neuroradiologist at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and      had a new baby, so my grandmother moved there to live with them.      Meanwhile, Mom hired a Lithuanian woman, Irene, to look after us.      Irene was friendly and strict, and she made us potato knishes. I      still had a lot of freedom, including a house key, which I wore on      a shoelace around my neck. After school, I came and went as I      pleased, which was fine as long as I was home around the time my      mom got back from work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mine weren't the typical hard-charging, grade-grinding Indian      parents you hear about. They were warm, loving, philosophical      people, and they were clearly influenced by the freedom vibe of      their new country. It was a permissive environment and we took      advantage of it. We dumpster-dived to collect knickknacks to      decorate our basement forts. We played in an under-construction      apartment building, leaping over the open fifth-floor elevator      shaft. In the summer, we'd stop by our neighbor Mrs. Canfield's      house for Popsicles. Afterward, Mr. Canfield would take us      upstairs to show us his extensive handgun collection. Mr. Canfield      was an ex-Chicago cop, and he'd let us hold guns while we peppered      him with questions about how many guys he had killed. He never      told us, though. He just smiled and laughed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My friend Ted's dad took us skeet shooting, which was his family's      obsession. His dad had huge bins of gunpowder and four      shotgun-shell-making machines in his basement, and he put us to      work making hundreds of shells for him. Ted's brothers were a few      years older and introduced us to Monty Python, Animal House, Steve      Martin's Let's Get Small, and Led Zeppelin. At my friend Mike's      house, his older brothers taught us how to air-band and introduced      us to the Beatles and the legend of Paul McCartney's death hoax.      They showed us all of the clues, including how to play \"Revolution      Nine\" backward to hear John Lennon say, \"Turn me on, dead man,      turn me on, dead man, turn me on, dead man . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We watched The Exorcist and then held a sŽance using a Ouija board      to raise the ghost of Ted's deceased sister. In the middle of the      sŽance, Ted freaked out and started crying. And then my mom walked      in and shut us down. Though Mom is a scientist, she felt strongly      that we shouldn't mess around with the occult. She has a little of      the Old World in her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We played kick the can, spin the bottle, and truth or dare. And at      age ten, we drank for the first time. A little context . . . Jim      had a massive beer can collection in his basement. I'm talking      floor-to-ceiling beer cans from all over the world. His father      took us to beer can conventions, where he'd buy us rare cans. When      we were ten, my friend Tom's parents took us on an overnight trip      to Milwaukee to tour the Pabst Brewery. I got a red Pabst beer      T-shirt, which I wore all the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I mention all of this to give you an idea of how much alcohol was      part of the culture. All of the adults we knew drank, and no one      ever spoke publicly about addiction. The funniest commercial on TV      was for Miller Lite beer (\"Taste great!\" \"Less filling!\"). Smokey      and the Bandit, a Burt Reynolds film about two guys who illegally      drive Coors beer across state lines, was the biggest movie in      America, and we loved it-lived for it. People drove drunk      routinely and it was considered just fine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We had tried sips of beer from stray cans at parents' parties, but      what I proposed to my friends one day was about to take it to a      whole new level. We had a full bar in the basement, and my idea      was to take a plastic pitcher, fill it with ice, and then, to      avoid detection, put a small amount of alcohol from each bottle      into the pitcher. We poured in a little gin, vodka, whiskey,      tequila, scotch, white wine, red wine, port, peach schnapps, and      crme de menthe. Then we shook it up and walked around the      neighborhood, drinking. Since it was from my basement, and I was      out to impress, I drank the most, taking big guzzles. The next      thing I remember, I was led, stumbling drunk, by my two pals to my      doorstep. They rang the doorbell and left. They were ten and had      curfews. I remember my mother opening the door. Then I remember      being in the bathroom, throwing up as my mom comforted me. The      next thing I remember, it was five p.m. the next day, and I woke      up nursing my first, brutal hangover.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My parents filled in the rest the next day. Apparently, I threw up      for about four hours. My mom was with me the whole time, taking      care of me. She says I called her a \"fucking bitch\" a number of      times. Yipes. My mom and I were close. We fought every morning,      but only because she had to wake me up to go to school. I always      woke up angry at being disturbed and lashed out. What a prick.      That said, I loved my mom and respected her brain and was      humiliated to have cursed her out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My parents took me to dinner at an Italian restaurant that next      night, where I assumed I would be hearing about my punishment:      Grounded for life felt justified. I remember eyeing a glass of red      wine on the next table and almost losing it. When I asked if I was      being grounded, my dad said my hangover was punishment enough, and      that based on my inability to even look at alcohol, it was clear      that I wouldn't be doing it again. And I didn't, for another two      years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ten was a transition age. I was playing a lot of sports, but also      Dungeons \u0026amp; Dragons. My friends and I started using the word      \"boner,\" but I had no idea what it meant. When I asked my friend      Mike, he scoffed, \"You know, when your, uh . . . thingy is like a      stick . . . in your pants.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Ohhh yeah, stick, boner, sure, that,\" I murmured, but wait-stick?      I figured it out soon after, when I had my first (and only) wet      dream. I was starting to think about girls, but I wouldn't admit      it. I had two posters on my wall-one was of Chicago Bears great      Walter Payton, and the second was of Daisy Duke, in her tiny      short-shorts. After the wet dream, I went about trying to      accomplish that feeling again and stumbled onto masturbation. I      hadn't yet discovered lotion, so I spent my days hammering away,      dry handed and open eyed, staring at Daisy Duke's shorts. I wanted      more of a connection, so I stood near the poster, jerking and      kissing Daisy's lips. But even that wasn't enough, so I pressed      myself up against the wall and humped the poster. It was a race      between arousal and friction-generated heat, and arousal won when      I finished onto the poster. I would have been ashamed if someone      had walked in on me in the act, but it felt right at the time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My father was a great tennis player, and he and I played a lot. I      had a temper on the court, throwing my racket around like John      McEnroe. It was bratty. Dad let it slide for a while, but then he      told me he was embarrassed, so I changed my role model to Bjorn      Borg. My game became calm, stoic, emotionless. During the summer      between sixth and seventh grades, I went to John Newcombe's tennis      camp in New Braunfels, Texas, where we bunked in group cabins and      played eight hours of tennis a day. While I loved tennis, I was      twelve, so I also loved masturbating. I considered myself a      professional, finding time to work my root five to six times a      day. I was jerking off so much, my dick looked like an hourglass.      But the group cabins were cramping my schedule, so on the fifth      day, I told the counselors I was sick and made a plan to spend the      day making love to myself. I had since discovered lotion, and when      everyone left for the courts, I searched the bathroom for some.      But I couldn't find any. Shit. This was a problem. I couldn't      exactly go to the camp store for lotion. They'd see right through      that. And then I found it-a plump tube of Bengay. I was twelve. I      had never had a muscle pain in my life. I didn't know any better.      I squeezed a dollop into my left hand (I do everything else      righty, but I jerk off goofy handed), lay back on my cot, closed      my eyes, and started to disappear into my fantasy. You know, the      one where my hot, blond tennis instructor in the too-short skirt      keeps me after for special overhead lessons? Ahhh. All was good in      the world, but then it wasn't. It started slow, like the frog in      the slow-boiling pot of water. I cocked my head-What's this?      Within thirty seconds, my dick was on fire. I leapt up, buck      naked, with a hard-on, sprinting for the bathroom. I turned on the      cold shower and used an entire bar of soap as I scrubbed the      satanic cream off of my favorite stick. Relieved, I got out of the      shower, toweled down, lay back down, spat in my hand, and went      back to work . . . Nope-shooting, brutal, all-encompassing pain!      Back in the shower, more soap. I got in and out of that shower all      morning. After shower six, the pain wasn't gone, but it was      tolerable. I still hadn't accomplished my goal, but I was too sore      to touch it, so I just put on my tennis clothes and trotted out to      the courts, claiming a miraculous recovery. To this day, I won't      go near Bengay.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300758540517,"sku":"NP9781101985236","price":34.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101985236.jpg?v=1767733201","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/mustache-shenanigans-isbn-9781101985236","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}