Saw “Black Swan” this week at the AFI theater in Silver Spring. Me and what looked to be at least a half dozen Walter Matthau and Shirley MacLaine look-a-likes. I was the only man in the theater under 55 and the only man not wearing a tan corduroy blazer. I don’t wanna get too sidetracked, but this needs to be said; older people talk a LOT in movie theaters, especially middle-aged women who are out with their moms.
To be fair, “my” people talk a lot in movie theaters too, but at least it’s entertaining sometimes. Once I was watching “The Matrix: Reloaded” at one of the stadium-seated theaters at Arundel Mills, when one of my people in a wheelchair decided to ask his friends at the top of his lungs
“Hey dog, why can’t I sit up top witchoo? I wanna sit up there. What y’all watching, Matrix? Yeah I heard it was tight, looks like er’ybody got good seats, plenty of LEGroom…”
He thought it’d be funny, and to his credit it was. It was funny watching somebody eventually get up to go tell on a guy in a wheelchair. It was funny watching the usher come in and try to wheel him out of there without looking like a sadist. It was funny learning how uncomfortable a guy in a wheelchair could make a roomful of strangers, which turned out to be basically as uncomfortable as any man can make a roomful of strangers withOUT exposing his genitals. I remember being annoyed at the time, but at least the awkwardness gave my brother and I a good laugh on the ride home.
The group I was in earshot of at the AFI was not so entertaining, or I guess only about as entertaining as a middle-aged woman and her mom would be in any situation. This fun bunch did nothing but ask questions, questions about things that had JUST happened on the screen. The movie’s only been on for five minutes, how can you be so lost already? Oh I know; it’s because you spent the first four minutes asking questions about the cast.
“Is that Barbara Hershey?”
“She looks older than when she was in ‘Kung Fu’.”
“Who’s the young girl?”
“Wasn’t she in Star Wars?”
“I did not like those movies”
“You didn’t see those movies.”
“I don’t have to see them to not like them.”
“…”
“Is she Jewish?”
“I don’t know.”
“She looks Jewish”
“…”
“What’s happening now?”
“I’m not sure, I think she’s a dancer, so I guess she’s getting ready to dance.”
“I swear I can’t follow this movie… why is that black guy glaring at us?”
“I don’t know but he sure is rude…”
Chatty McChattersons aside, “Black Swan” was a beast of a film. Can’t recall the last time I saw something that disturbed and stayed with me as much as this movie. Think I have to go all the way back to Linda Blair and yeasty crucifixes. Not sure if it’s the best picture of the year, but it definitely affected me more than all the other Best Picture nominees I’ve seen so far (King’s Speech, Inception, The Fighter, True Grit, The Social Network). Lost track of the number of times I leaned back or winced in horror, covered my mouth to smother a teenybopper-grade gasp, or literally sat on the edge of my seat without breathing. Whatever the number was, it made me forget I had just paid five dollars for a microwave hot dog in the lobby.
Love ballet, ballet music and all the fine arts with the same passion that I love football, the Olympics and great movies. Seeing people push themselves to the limits of their capabilities makes even the most jaded, broken parts of the psyche believe in magic again, and strive to make a little magic in its own world, or at least I sure I’ve heard something like that at one of these Academy Award ceremonies. I do love the arts and what they do for me, but I’m not sure how or why anyone does that stuff or sports for a living. We as modern spectators don’t really respect anything that doesn’t involve massive, near-crippling amounts of pain, sacrifice and most likely a tattered excuse for a personal life, complete with an ex that hates you to the very core of your soul and kids who can’t wait to put out a sex tape. If you’re lucky, we the people will reward you for your months and years of hard work and denying yourself with a brief round of applause and the opportunity to try and entertain us again down the road. Only whatever you do next had better be even more breathtaking than the last thing you did or we’ll forget you entirely, remembering your name only long enough to pummel you until you wish you’d never been born, and then have the nerve to look perplexed and disappointed when we hear you’ve locked yourself in a room at the Plaza Hotel with a duffel bag full of uppers and an extremely frightened call girl who desperately wishes she had let the new girl Rachel pick up this gig.
If Natalie Portman ends up walking around with a duffel bag full of uppers one day, she’s certainly earned the right with “Black Swan”. If I ever do something that good, am going to retire immediately and spend the rest of my life tweeting snarky remarks about other people’s work until they lock themselves in a room at the Plaza Hotel. Fate probably knows I would do that, that’s why I’m not Natalie Portman. Too bad, but she’s probably better at being Natalie Portman anyway.
It’s cool and surreal watching people hit the next gear with the quality of their work, forces you to mature against your will. Used to like her because she was hot, now I just think she’s crazy good at acting, up there with Ian KcKellen, Audrey Hepburn, Denzel Washington and Kenneth Branagh. I think Ian McKellen is in the running for my favorite living actor right now. Was watching Lord of the Rings for the 87th time last week, because that’s what winners do on Sundays. When I was a kid, used to think it must be easy being an actor, but I don’t think I’d ever be able as a grown man to dress up as a wizard and pretend to fight a flame-engulfed dragon-thingy that wasn’t there. Especially not in front of a crew that’s all walking around in normal people clothes drinking Starbucks. If I have dress up as a wizard, everyone else on the set needs to dress up as a wizard, or at least rock out with that hobbit jheri curl. Love the way Ian McKellen commits to that dragon-thingy scene, delivers his lines with a conviction reserved for biblical epics and slam-dunk zingers in presidential debates. Watching him and Natalie Portman work make me feel extra guilty for all the Jessica Alba movies I’ve sat through. To this day I think it’s only been two so far, but that’s still probably three too many. I’m not saying she’s not a good actress but I would be surprised if any of her movies ever have the chance to get talked through by middle-aged women and their possibly anti-Semitic moms at the AFI Theater.
Go see “Black Swan” if you get a chance. Stay away from the hot dogs.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Walk Like An Egyptian
Interesting times in Cairo. Journalists are getting harassed and detained by “not-cops”, pro-government suppporters who just happen to be walking around with billy clubs, handcuffs and keys to police vans. Every photo and video clip looks like a mob scene from a Danny Boyle movie. And poor Anderson Cooper’s been beat up more than a Chicago quarterback, to the point where he seems intent on covering the rest of the protest from the curtains by his hotel bathroom. Can’t say I blame him; I would’ve been out on there on the first thing smoking, eating chicken cordon bleu on Brian Williams’ and Katie Couric’s laps.
Got mad respect for Brian Williams and Katie Couric. They’re the first prominent journalists I can recall having the sense to know when it’s time to step back and send in the interns. I don’t know why so many reporters think we need to see them bleeding, wearing a flak jacket or sitting in a rowboat to take the story seriously. Significant government buildings are engulfed in flame dude, we get that’s it’s a big deal. How bout you run those wrinkle-free Dockers back the hotel room and avoid making an orphan of the cameraman’s son?
I learned something important about myself over lunch yesterday. If I’m browsing online and see a video title featuring some famous journalist’s name, followed by the words “punched”, “attacked” or “attacked again”, I WILL click on that link. Immediately. I will watch that link and all the related videos I can find for no less than thirty minutes. CNN had a link to one video saying a reporter was “beaten like hell”; I watched that one with cookies. The next time I post a comedy set online, am going to title it “Comic gets kicked in face” and see how many shots of drain cleaner I can down in the twelve minutes it takes to go viral.
Poor Mubarak. He had a good thing going until Tunisia. And then like any jaded girlfriend or overpaid athlete, the people started getting antsy.
“Mm. I see Tunisia’s getting rights and change. America’s been had rights and are getting themselves some change. When do we get some rights and change?”
“In thirty years or so my dears, after I’ve grown bored with having all the power and not having to care about what you want.”
“Mm. You know what, we think we want to give your friend Omar a try. He listens to us.”
“Hah. That is as cute as my mustache. You want to try Omar? Over my dead body.”
“K.”
Cue large groups of angry citizens shouting and burning stuff. Cue army who referees without refereeing. Cue large group of aggressive Mubarak “supporters”, a curious number of whom seems to have access to billy clubs and handcuffs and keys to police vans. Add to that a soon-to-be burned out square, along with a seemingly limitless supply of rocks and gauze eye-patches and you’ve got a bona-fide liberation party. Except no party is a party without cocktails; Molotov, anyone? Hold the Vermouth...
Have a special admiration for the commitment to the Molotov cocktail as the weapon of choice in this transitional soiree. Gas is $3.15+ here in the States, so I know it can’t be readily available in Egypt. Sure the oil is right there, but who’s got spending money when no one’s worked for two weeks? Plus, from what I saw in the “Anderson Cooper attacked” videos, some of these Egyptians’ aim is really REALLY bad. Can’t put a number on how many flaming bottles I saw launched with a valiant Tom Brady-quality throwing motion, only to end up setting an unimportant piece of unoccupied sidewalk on fire, or better yet, already burnt grass. Whatever the number, it was embarrassing, like watching your gym teacher try to teach you how to play basketball, only to shoot brick after brick after brick, finally claiming the hoop was oblong. I’m nine man; I don’t know what oblong means. But I do know someone else should be teaching me basketball.
Can’t be too hard on those guys I guess, I mean who practices throwing Molotov cocktails? I’d be lucky to get one off without setting my favorite coat on fire, no man’s last words should be “Why’d I wear a fur lining?”
The prayer breaks are inspiring. I thought I loved God, but I don’t know that I’m disciplined enough to stop throwing rocks and setting strangers on fire once I’ve started. You have to admit to yourself, as long as you’re not the one getting hit, throwing rocks at people sounds like a little bit of fun. That’s a terrible thing to say, I can feel your judgmental gasp, but I think once you get past throwing the first rock, it probably gets really good to you. It has to be fun, how else did stoning mobs in biblical times get started so fast? No one ever turns down an opportunity to throw rocks. Your next-door neighbor would come by
“Hey you wanna come throw rocks at a hooker?”
“Absolutely. What did she do?”
“She’s a hooker.”
“Good enough.”
I can’t get myself revved up for some proper rock and cocktail throwing and then stop to pray. If I do pray, it’s probably going to take me at least three or four minutes to start praying for anything besides “awesome aim” and “some crazy sweet headshots”. Then I’ll start to feel guilty and apologize. Then I’ll focus and start really praying. As I’m praying, I’ll become aware of the amazing oneness I feel with everyone around me, all of us prostrate in one direction, all taking time out to take stock of our priorities. I’ll remember how no matter our differences we are all bound together by our love of life, our love for our families and our esteem for the Higher Power that put us here. As we finish, I’ll stand up feeling unspeakably grateful for the opportunity to have experienced this life-changing kinship with my fellow man and woman. And it’ll be just then, while I’m still in my spiritual euphoria, some wanker will bloody my kufi with a well thrown chunk of asphalt while his buddy sets my tunic on fire. Well played “non-cops”; next time I’ll stick to praying for crazy sweet headshots and the presence of mind to “stop, drop & roll”.
I hope this tumultuousness in Egypt works itself out soon. The situation is starting to distract from my stressing about the possibility of an NFL lockout, and that’s just not a good look for me. I hope Egypt succeeds in establishing itself a quality democracy, one that doesn’t take two-hundred-plus years to refine itself to the sometimes-stupefying-but-still-marginally-promising level of dysfunction we enjoy today. I hope the Egyptian people aren’t going through all this heroism and bloodshed just to put in power a new de-facto dictator who will eventually have to be run out of office himself a few years from now. When all’s said and done, Egypt’s going to need some time to replenish its supply of gauze and flammable landmarks, just hope everyone can stay off the cocktails long enough to finish the job.
Got mad respect for Brian Williams and Katie Couric. They’re the first prominent journalists I can recall having the sense to know when it’s time to step back and send in the interns. I don’t know why so many reporters think we need to see them bleeding, wearing a flak jacket or sitting in a rowboat to take the story seriously. Significant government buildings are engulfed in flame dude, we get that’s it’s a big deal. How bout you run those wrinkle-free Dockers back the hotel room and avoid making an orphan of the cameraman’s son?
I learned something important about myself over lunch yesterday. If I’m browsing online and see a video title featuring some famous journalist’s name, followed by the words “punched”, “attacked” or “attacked again”, I WILL click on that link. Immediately. I will watch that link and all the related videos I can find for no less than thirty minutes. CNN had a link to one video saying a reporter was “beaten like hell”; I watched that one with cookies. The next time I post a comedy set online, am going to title it “Comic gets kicked in face” and see how many shots of drain cleaner I can down in the twelve minutes it takes to go viral.
Poor Mubarak. He had a good thing going until Tunisia. And then like any jaded girlfriend or overpaid athlete, the people started getting antsy.
“Mm. I see Tunisia’s getting rights and change. America’s been had rights and are getting themselves some change. When do we get some rights and change?”
“In thirty years or so my dears, after I’ve grown bored with having all the power and not having to care about what you want.”
“Mm. You know what, we think we want to give your friend Omar a try. He listens to us.”
“Hah. That is as cute as my mustache. You want to try Omar? Over my dead body.”
“K.”
Cue large groups of angry citizens shouting and burning stuff. Cue army who referees without refereeing. Cue large group of aggressive Mubarak “supporters”, a curious number of whom seems to have access to billy clubs and handcuffs and keys to police vans. Add to that a soon-to-be burned out square, along with a seemingly limitless supply of rocks and gauze eye-patches and you’ve got a bona-fide liberation party. Except no party is a party without cocktails; Molotov, anyone? Hold the Vermouth...
Have a special admiration for the commitment to the Molotov cocktail as the weapon of choice in this transitional soiree. Gas is $3.15+ here in the States, so I know it can’t be readily available in Egypt. Sure the oil is right there, but who’s got spending money when no one’s worked for two weeks? Plus, from what I saw in the “Anderson Cooper attacked” videos, some of these Egyptians’ aim is really REALLY bad. Can’t put a number on how many flaming bottles I saw launched with a valiant Tom Brady-quality throwing motion, only to end up setting an unimportant piece of unoccupied sidewalk on fire, or better yet, already burnt grass. Whatever the number, it was embarrassing, like watching your gym teacher try to teach you how to play basketball, only to shoot brick after brick after brick, finally claiming the hoop was oblong. I’m nine man; I don’t know what oblong means. But I do know someone else should be teaching me basketball.
Can’t be too hard on those guys I guess, I mean who practices throwing Molotov cocktails? I’d be lucky to get one off without setting my favorite coat on fire, no man’s last words should be “Why’d I wear a fur lining?”
The prayer breaks are inspiring. I thought I loved God, but I don’t know that I’m disciplined enough to stop throwing rocks and setting strangers on fire once I’ve started. You have to admit to yourself, as long as you’re not the one getting hit, throwing rocks at people sounds like a little bit of fun. That’s a terrible thing to say, I can feel your judgmental gasp, but I think once you get past throwing the first rock, it probably gets really good to you. It has to be fun, how else did stoning mobs in biblical times get started so fast? No one ever turns down an opportunity to throw rocks. Your next-door neighbor would come by
“Hey you wanna come throw rocks at a hooker?”
“Absolutely. What did she do?”
“She’s a hooker.”
“Good enough.”
I can’t get myself revved up for some proper rock and cocktail throwing and then stop to pray. If I do pray, it’s probably going to take me at least three or four minutes to start praying for anything besides “awesome aim” and “some crazy sweet headshots”. Then I’ll start to feel guilty and apologize. Then I’ll focus and start really praying. As I’m praying, I’ll become aware of the amazing oneness I feel with everyone around me, all of us prostrate in one direction, all taking time out to take stock of our priorities. I’ll remember how no matter our differences we are all bound together by our love of life, our love for our families and our esteem for the Higher Power that put us here. As we finish, I’ll stand up feeling unspeakably grateful for the opportunity to have experienced this life-changing kinship with my fellow man and woman. And it’ll be just then, while I’m still in my spiritual euphoria, some wanker will bloody my kufi with a well thrown chunk of asphalt while his buddy sets my tunic on fire. Well played “non-cops”; next time I’ll stick to praying for crazy sweet headshots and the presence of mind to “stop, drop & roll”.
I hope this tumultuousness in Egypt works itself out soon. The situation is starting to distract from my stressing about the possibility of an NFL lockout, and that’s just not a good look for me. I hope Egypt succeeds in establishing itself a quality democracy, one that doesn’t take two-hundred-plus years to refine itself to the sometimes-stupefying-but-still-marginally-promising level of dysfunction we enjoy today. I hope the Egyptian people aren’t going through all this heroism and bloodshed just to put in power a new de-facto dictator who will eventually have to be run out of office himself a few years from now. When all’s said and done, Egypt’s going to need some time to replenish its supply of gauze and flammable landmarks, just hope everyone can stay off the cocktails long enough to finish the job.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
MLK 2011
He would’ve lost me with the dogs. I’d like to think I’m the kind of guy who rises to the occasion, who’s willing to grit his teeth and stand on principal when it matters most. I like being able to sit wherever I want on a bus, even though I’m always a little bitter when I find out I have to ride the bus in the first place. I like living in a country that has enough self-corrective legal devices built into it to flush out heinousness like segregation and the 3/5 compromise. I like being able to vote, even though I don’t vote most of the time. Sometimes I like not voting just to see how much it angers people who do vote. I like not going to work every third Monday in January, watching CNN or the History Channel all morning and getting to hear Tom Brokaw talk about something other than “The Greatest Generation”. I like being able to walk down the street with my Russian girlfriend without wondering if one of us is going to catch a brick to the temple or incite a lynch mob on the way to the general store. I like all those things. A lot. But I really don’t like dogs.
I don’t small dogs. I don’t like loud dogs. I don’t like friendly dogs. I don’t like dogs that greet you by shoving their face in your groin and crack. I don’t like dogs with papers. I don’t like dogs that take forty-five minutes to decide where they want to take a squat (Seriously dog, what do you care where you drop it? We gotta pick it right up anyway, and while it’s still warm too, yay.). I don’t like old dogs. I don’t like gassy dogs. I don’t like slobbering dogs. I don’t like energetic dogs. I don’t like YOUR dog. I don’t have a dog, but if I ever have kids, they’ll probably unify just long enough to coerce me into getting them a dog, and I’m pretty sure I won’t like that bitch either.
So if that’s the fun end of the dog spectrum, how much less comfortable do you think I am with attack dogs? Attack dogs that have been trained to go to town on human forearms like a fresh milk bone, ripping through meat and splintering bone with a glee reserved for velociraptors and Eli Roth movies. Did I mention these are attack dogs under the command of belligerent Southern police officers, whose general state of under-educated, over-entitled blue-collar pissed offedness kicks into extra special high gear at the thought of a mob of meaty looking, sweat-marinated black folk asking for stuff like rights? Fire hoses don’t get anybody’s attention. You can see that on any episode of “Jackass” or “Wipeout”. Dogs, people. Angry-ass slightly malnourished German Shepherds, on a hot summer Selma sidewalk, faced with a buffet of people sporting oh-so snackable appendages and very rip-able trousers, all putting erection-inducting fear pheromones in the air. Dogs, people. That’s how you shut down a movement, or at least make sure Mike stays his unbitten buns at home and watches the march on TV.
Except for that tricksy Dr. King. Who would’ve guessed a slow-talking pacifist could be so tough? To put himself in harm’s way. To put strangers in harms way. How smooth a talker do you have to be to convince people want to put themselves in harm’s way?
“Hey you wanna come eat at this diner with me?”
“Isn’t it segregated?”
“Well we’ll just go sit down and refuse to leave until they serve us. I should tell you they’ll probably beat us up, and there’s a good chance one or both of us may end up in jail, or hanged.”
“Well that doesn’t sound like too high a price to pay for cornbread…”
“There might be dogs.”
“Oh man, I just remembered, I totally gotta stay home that day and NOT get bitten by dogs. Good luck to you though, sounds like a really great cause. Let me know if you need anything… other than help, time or money.”
So it’s 1:30 in the morning on Monday the 17th and I am grateful. Grateful that more than forty years after his death, Dr. King’s legacy is still rippling forward and gaining new forms of traction. Grateful that somebody proved it is possible to affect real change in this country by taking the high road. Grateful that even a violent death can not overshadow the power of a peaceful life. Grateful that I have the right to vote, or not vote, depending on who I want to piss off, that I’m 5/5 of a person either way, regardless of who’s irritated by my views or apparent apathy. I’m grateful that I can drink water, eat and go to the bathroom wherever I want, that I can hang out with and date whoever I want, and that I can sleep in every third Monday in January and hear Tom Brokaw talk about something other than “The Greatest Generation”. I'm grateful there are no dogs in here as I'm writing this. Most of all, I’m grateful that at least for the time being no one’s going to ask me to pretend like I’m brave, stare down an armada of angry-ass, slightly malnourished German Shepherds and/or ruin a perfectly good set of trousers. Better men and women than me have already done the hard work, I just have to concentrate on not wasting it.
I don’t small dogs. I don’t like loud dogs. I don’t like friendly dogs. I don’t like dogs that greet you by shoving their face in your groin and crack. I don’t like dogs with papers. I don’t like dogs that take forty-five minutes to decide where they want to take a squat (Seriously dog, what do you care where you drop it? We gotta pick it right up anyway, and while it’s still warm too, yay.). I don’t like old dogs. I don’t like gassy dogs. I don’t like slobbering dogs. I don’t like energetic dogs. I don’t like YOUR dog. I don’t have a dog, but if I ever have kids, they’ll probably unify just long enough to coerce me into getting them a dog, and I’m pretty sure I won’t like that bitch either.
So if that’s the fun end of the dog spectrum, how much less comfortable do you think I am with attack dogs? Attack dogs that have been trained to go to town on human forearms like a fresh milk bone, ripping through meat and splintering bone with a glee reserved for velociraptors and Eli Roth movies. Did I mention these are attack dogs under the command of belligerent Southern police officers, whose general state of under-educated, over-entitled blue-collar pissed offedness kicks into extra special high gear at the thought of a mob of meaty looking, sweat-marinated black folk asking for stuff like rights? Fire hoses don’t get anybody’s attention. You can see that on any episode of “Jackass” or “Wipeout”. Dogs, people. Angry-ass slightly malnourished German Shepherds, on a hot summer Selma sidewalk, faced with a buffet of people sporting oh-so snackable appendages and very rip-able trousers, all putting erection-inducting fear pheromones in the air. Dogs, people. That’s how you shut down a movement, or at least make sure Mike stays his unbitten buns at home and watches the march on TV.
Except for that tricksy Dr. King. Who would’ve guessed a slow-talking pacifist could be so tough? To put himself in harm’s way. To put strangers in harms way. How smooth a talker do you have to be to convince people want to put themselves in harm’s way?
“Hey you wanna come eat at this diner with me?”
“Isn’t it segregated?”
“Well we’ll just go sit down and refuse to leave until they serve us. I should tell you they’ll probably beat us up, and there’s a good chance one or both of us may end up in jail, or hanged.”
“Well that doesn’t sound like too high a price to pay for cornbread…”
“There might be dogs.”
“Oh man, I just remembered, I totally gotta stay home that day and NOT get bitten by dogs. Good luck to you though, sounds like a really great cause. Let me know if you need anything… other than help, time or money.”
So it’s 1:30 in the morning on Monday the 17th and I am grateful. Grateful that more than forty years after his death, Dr. King’s legacy is still rippling forward and gaining new forms of traction. Grateful that somebody proved it is possible to affect real change in this country by taking the high road. Grateful that even a violent death can not overshadow the power of a peaceful life. Grateful that I have the right to vote, or not vote, depending on who I want to piss off, that I’m 5/5 of a person either way, regardless of who’s irritated by my views or apparent apathy. I’m grateful that I can drink water, eat and go to the bathroom wherever I want, that I can hang out with and date whoever I want, and that I can sleep in every third Monday in January and hear Tom Brokaw talk about something other than “The Greatest Generation”. I'm grateful there are no dogs in here as I'm writing this. Most of all, I’m grateful that at least for the time being no one’s going to ask me to pretend like I’m brave, stare down an armada of angry-ass, slightly malnourished German Shepherds and/or ruin a perfectly good set of trousers. Better men and women than me have already done the hard work, I just have to concentrate on not wasting it.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Little Less Conversation
Ran some errands over lunch earlier this week. Picked up some antifreeze and motor oil for my car, then stopped by the Verizon store to buy a hands-free headset on my way back the office. This is the conversation I was lucky enough to be caught up in while I waited.
“So, I see you went to Strosnider’s.”
“…”
“That’s a good hardware store.”
“Yep”
“Whenever I need hardware I always go to Strosnider’s”
“It’s nice.”
“And they’re so helpful. Take you right to the aisle you need.”
“Good stuff.”
“I should go by there. Need to get a few supplies for Thanksgiving and the weekend.”
“Sounds like a plan, make it happen.”
“That’s a good hardware store, they’re so helpful.”
“…”
At this point I put on my iPod headphones and started facing the other direction. But even after leaving the Verizon store, I was still left with a nagging question, a nagging series of questions. Why? Why did this man have to persist in talking to me, persist in talking to me to the point where I had to be unnaturally rude to extricate myself from our unnaturally stilted excuse for repartee? What kind of person interprets a semi-queasy facial expression and soulless one-to-two word responses as a go-ahead to charge forward with more unsolicited musings about customer service in a hardware store? If this man had been able to wait in line silently without the benefit of someone to talk to before I walked in the store, why couldn’t he keep to himself after I arrived? Was the whole “don’t talk to strangers” concept I was raised on just an 80’s thing? What is the best outcome that could possibly come from our banal dialogue about supplies? Are we going to bond? Am I going to conclude our discourse with a spirited-but-manly, slightly-center-of-right-wing embrace and proclaim that he is the father I should’ve had? Seriously sir, what do you want from me? We have nothing in common except that we both use Verizon and are vaguely aware that hardware stores exist.
I don’t even know anything about hardware. I don’t know anything about software. In the interest of efficiency and being as little as I can be, I’ve made it a point not to know much of anything outside of comedy, movies, music that was made before my time, and architecture. The only reason I went to Strosnider’s was because that needy check engine light came on again, and I’m hoping against hope that if I feed the car enough fluids maybe the instrument panel will quiet down and chill out before I panic and take the car to the mechanic again, which is sure to cut into my Christmas-shopping-for-myself money.
As an aside to further prove my point on how little I know, I’m, pretty certain I put in the wrong antifreeze. Can you use RV & Marine-grade coolant on an SUV? My gut tells me that question will answer itself soon enough, when the temperature drops and my car starts spitting out pieces of radiator and hosiery along I-95.
Back to my original point, talking to strangers has been causing progressively more discomfort the older I get. If we don’t meet through work, comedy, or some properly sanctioned social setting, odds are I will use any and all countermeasures available to me to avoid ending up entangled in any extraneous exchange; up to and including pretending I just got a phone call on vibrate, feigning a minor medical emergency that may or may not involve the bathroom, and/or setting the both of us on fire.
At work, it takes me an average of three aborted trips to the bathroom before I hit a lucky schedule pocket on our floor and get the facilities to myself. Don’t have any black ops planned, something just feels strange about talking to another man while I’m holding myself. Think that should be a general rule among men; if pants are unzipped, are about to be unzipped, or have been unzipped in the last 60-90 seconds, then that’s quiet time fellas, shut your face. No whistling, no humming, certainly no groaning, no 80’s a cappella bathroom jams, and under NO circumstances are you to make a leading comment about the weather, how it’s almost Friday, or the status of the Redskins.
I go to extraordinary, Crusade-level lengths to avoid talking to people on planes; that might be my misanthropic masterpiece. I take my window-seat, armed with a thick but non-interesting looking book, a fully charged iPod, a well-honed penchant for socially-induced narcolepsy, and the most unpredictable, spiritually troubling facial expression my young-ish skull can muster. The trick is to look super eager at everybody coming down the aisle, so that YOU look like the deviant who can’t keep his mouth shut. This will trick whoever into retreating into THEIR shell; they’ll be so afraid you’re going to be the crazy who won’t shut up they’ll likely leave you alone the whole flight. Don’t try that trick with old people though. Most of them lived through World War II, the aftermaths of the Kennedy and Dr. King assassinations, the turmoil of Vietnam, and all five seasons of “Blossom”, so nothing you can do is likely to scare them. When in doubt, no matter who sits next to me, I’m not above staring out the window like a five year-old for seven hours straight, talking about Jesus, attempting a mid-flight Jake-the-Snake style DDT, and/or setting the both of us on fire.
“…Golly, I sure hope that wasn’t the air marshal…”
Happy Holidays, it was nice not talking to you.
“So, I see you went to Strosnider’s.”
“…”
“That’s a good hardware store.”
“Yep”
“Whenever I need hardware I always go to Strosnider’s”
“It’s nice.”
“And they’re so helpful. Take you right to the aisle you need.”
“Good stuff.”
“I should go by there. Need to get a few supplies for Thanksgiving and the weekend.”
“Sounds like a plan, make it happen.”
“That’s a good hardware store, they’re so helpful.”
“…”
At this point I put on my iPod headphones and started facing the other direction. But even after leaving the Verizon store, I was still left with a nagging question, a nagging series of questions. Why? Why did this man have to persist in talking to me, persist in talking to me to the point where I had to be unnaturally rude to extricate myself from our unnaturally stilted excuse for repartee? What kind of person interprets a semi-queasy facial expression and soulless one-to-two word responses as a go-ahead to charge forward with more unsolicited musings about customer service in a hardware store? If this man had been able to wait in line silently without the benefit of someone to talk to before I walked in the store, why couldn’t he keep to himself after I arrived? Was the whole “don’t talk to strangers” concept I was raised on just an 80’s thing? What is the best outcome that could possibly come from our banal dialogue about supplies? Are we going to bond? Am I going to conclude our discourse with a spirited-but-manly, slightly-center-of-right-wing embrace and proclaim that he is the father I should’ve had? Seriously sir, what do you want from me? We have nothing in common except that we both use Verizon and are vaguely aware that hardware stores exist.
I don’t even know anything about hardware. I don’t know anything about software. In the interest of efficiency and being as little as I can be, I’ve made it a point not to know much of anything outside of comedy, movies, music that was made before my time, and architecture. The only reason I went to Strosnider’s was because that needy check engine light came on again, and I’m hoping against hope that if I feed the car enough fluids maybe the instrument panel will quiet down and chill out before I panic and take the car to the mechanic again, which is sure to cut into my Christmas-shopping-for-myself money.
As an aside to further prove my point on how little I know, I’m, pretty certain I put in the wrong antifreeze. Can you use RV & Marine-grade coolant on an SUV? My gut tells me that question will answer itself soon enough, when the temperature drops and my car starts spitting out pieces of radiator and hosiery along I-95.
Back to my original point, talking to strangers has been causing progressively more discomfort the older I get. If we don’t meet through work, comedy, or some properly sanctioned social setting, odds are I will use any and all countermeasures available to me to avoid ending up entangled in any extraneous exchange; up to and including pretending I just got a phone call on vibrate, feigning a minor medical emergency that may or may not involve the bathroom, and/or setting the both of us on fire.
At work, it takes me an average of three aborted trips to the bathroom before I hit a lucky schedule pocket on our floor and get the facilities to myself. Don’t have any black ops planned, something just feels strange about talking to another man while I’m holding myself. Think that should be a general rule among men; if pants are unzipped, are about to be unzipped, or have been unzipped in the last 60-90 seconds, then that’s quiet time fellas, shut your face. No whistling, no humming, certainly no groaning, no 80’s a cappella bathroom jams, and under NO circumstances are you to make a leading comment about the weather, how it’s almost Friday, or the status of the Redskins.
I go to extraordinary, Crusade-level lengths to avoid talking to people on planes; that might be my misanthropic masterpiece. I take my window-seat, armed with a thick but non-interesting looking book, a fully charged iPod, a well-honed penchant for socially-induced narcolepsy, and the most unpredictable, spiritually troubling facial expression my young-ish skull can muster. The trick is to look super eager at everybody coming down the aisle, so that YOU look like the deviant who can’t keep his mouth shut. This will trick whoever into retreating into THEIR shell; they’ll be so afraid you’re going to be the crazy who won’t shut up they’ll likely leave you alone the whole flight. Don’t try that trick with old people though. Most of them lived through World War II, the aftermaths of the Kennedy and Dr. King assassinations, the turmoil of Vietnam, and all five seasons of “Blossom”, so nothing you can do is likely to scare them. When in doubt, no matter who sits next to me, I’m not above staring out the window like a five year-old for seven hours straight, talking about Jesus, attempting a mid-flight Jake-the-Snake style DDT, and/or setting the both of us on fire.
“…Golly, I sure hope that wasn’t the air marshal…”
Happy Holidays, it was nice not talking to you.
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Mousse is Loose
Happiness comes in extremely small but potently lasting doses. Getting to make a memory with a loved one. A small bit of professional validation that reminds you the last several years of your life haven’t been a total waste and maybe it’s not time to go shopping for handguns and hemlock just yet. Just barely catching a train. Watching some self-preening-alpha-male-who-clearly-chose-his-major-for-the-money just miss the train. Finding out the person next to you on the plane takes as much joy in not talking to strangers as you do, so now you can read your Fred Astaire biography in peace without having to make hours of small talk about peanut butter crackers and tarmacs. That last one hasn’t happened for me yet, but hope springs eternal.
Guilty pleasures seem to be the ones that bring the most happiness. Supposed to steer clear of because of our gender, race, religious background, ethics, pre-existing health condition, state of perpetual brokenness, or maybe we just have a level of passion concerning this particular thing that others might (or at least should) find alarming. Try oh-so-hard to behave, but sometimes nature just has to take its course. I find guilty pleasures particularly intriguing because the stuff you enjoy with shameless enthusiasm tells a lot about who you really are, good & bad, & really really bad (translation: awesome).
Sometime I think about the kind of stuff I like on that level, makes me proud and ashamed at the same time. Deep down, I enjoy rooting for whatever team is winning in a football game, seeing that look on pitcher’s faces as they whip around to watch the ball sail out of the park, repeatedly sitting through highlights of sporting events I watched the day before, avoiding documentaries that have anything to do with poor people, important conflicts in foreign countries, education or why I need to vote, skipping the interview portion of “The Daily Show” & “The Colbert Report”, making needless biblical references in everyday conversation, art that doesn’t challenge me, jaywalking in front of children who are still being taught to obey the crosswalk light, stockpiling whatever materials I can find about Batman, Motown and standup comedy to an obsessive & financially imprudent degree, movies about felonies and criminal enterprises, watching Fred & Ginger dance numbers an insane number of times in a row, youtube clips of old presidential speeches and debates, Mystikal’s “Let’s Get Ready” album, wasting Saturday mornings with back-to-back-to-back-to-back episodes of “Law & Order”, NOT jogging ever, overpriced books about architecture, overpriced t-shirts from American Apparel, using big words in front of people I know didn’t finish high school, video footage of Kanye West acting a fool at awards shows, and the music of Antonio Carlos Jobim.
Chief and most diabolical of all my guilty pleasures is my intense, Captain Ahab-esque passion for chocolate mousse. Had it once on a date during DC’s Restaurant Week a few years back and have been on the alert for it ever since. Interesting to reflect on that particular date, on that particular girl now, with the space of a few years between us. Still easily ranks as the most tumultuous relationship I’ve ever been in; we could barely bless our dinner together without getting in a heated “discussion” about “my tone”. Once got in a shouting match in the middle of a Northern Virginia Macy’s while Christmas shopping for EACH OTHER. No surprise that since then I’ve become a strong, strong believer in the importance of a “good fit”. The bad times outweighed the good there, but a part of me will always be grateful for the way she had my back when I first started comedy (yours truly was bombing with wild abandon people. If I scored one good laugh in five minutes I thought I had a career, how the hell did that woman or any of my friends sit through so many of those sets?…). On top of that, she introduced me to the granddaddy of all desserts, mousse. Would be a hater not to acknowledge.
Mousse amazes me because it has all the flavor and verve of solid chocolate, but goes down so light you feel like you couldn’t possibly be doing anything wrong. I don’t know who came across that magical density & texture, lighter and drier than pudding, heavier and more substantial than whipped cream; it might’ve been a second gift from Prometheus, perhaps it was dreamt up by a French George Washington Carver or one of the critters from “Ratatouille”. Whoever’s idea it was, I lose my cool like a Justin Bieber groupie whenever I see it on the menu.
The problem is that I don’t see it on the menu. Ever. And I eat out a lot, so I notice a lot. It’s not on my mind when I first walk in, it’s not on my mind while I’m waiting to get seated, eating dinner, or trying to assess whether the waitress is into me or just wants a good tip (why oh why do I always get suckered into that mental debate? Stop looking at me like that lady, I came here for buffalo wings and a Yuengling, not for your short-shorts or your mean-spirited head games!). I get through the whole meal experience, am mentally readying myself to see the check, then the server comes to the table with that blasted question, the one that makes cardiologists so wealthy…
“Can I interest you in some dessert?”
“Why yes. Yes. You. Can.”
But it’s never that simple for yours truly. Asking for specific desserts in public can be complicated for a man. It can be kinda weird asking for mousse when you’re hanging out with a guy, because all of a sudden you two look like a couple (that’s how I know who my friends are, if I feel comfortable enough asking for mousse around them). It can be weird asking for mousse in front of a date, because guys are supposed to be “protectors” right? And how many protectors get particular about dessert? You think Randy Couture or Kimbo Slice give a f*ck about mousse? I bet when Brock Lesnar orders a bear claw he’s surprised to find it’s not an actual bear’s claw. And it can be weird asking for mousse dining by yourself, because then it looks like you’ve just given up on finding happiness with any other human beings, or maybe other human beings have given up on you, and now this little bit of whipped chocolate is the only thing keeping you from taking a blindfolded stroll down a railroad track. But having these misgiving does little to fortify any sense of restraint for me, because once that word “dessert” hits the ear, a voice starts going off in my head at the most annoying volume imaginable
“MOUSSE! MOUSSE DUDE. SEE IF THEY’VE GOT MOUSSE. I’M GOING TO CARVE YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER ON THE BACKS OF ALL YOUR DVDS WITH A SCREWDRIVER IF YOU DON’T ASK ABOUT MOUSSE. DID YOU HEAR ME, WHORE? ASK. ABOUT. THE MOUSSE!!!”
“…dessert sounds nice… hmm, I don’t see it listed here, but I don’t suppose you guys… have any… mousse?”
“No I’m afraid not. We do have a delightful mudslide you might like though. I can put an extra cherry in it for you, perhaps a candy cane…”
Great. Now ‘short-shorts’ is patronizing me even more than when I came in. Not like I had a lot of stud points to lose anyway, not sitting here with my Ghostbusters t-shirt on, you know ladies love that Egon Spengler mojo. Whatever. ‘Short-shorts’ can’t judge me. At least I get to wear pants to work.
“A mudslide sounds nice, thank you so much…”
For four years, this has been my most secret and recurring heartbreak. Searching for a dessert that never seems to be on any menu. Staking my fragile dignity on a request I know to be in vain. Cursing the cruelty of Fate for allowing me to enjoy this sweet delight once, only to deny me bitterly two hundred times and more, with no sign of relief or remorse. Better to not have a tongue than to see it so maliciously teased, taunted and deprived. If happiness comes in a teaspoon, surely misery comes in a dump truck.
Then came hope, and the renewed promise of tomorrow. Hanging out in Eastern Market, I wandered into one of those high-minded, might-as-well-be-vegan sandwich shops (where you order roast beef because it’s the only thing you recognize) to find the sweetest of sweets listed on the menu. Took all of my willpower to keep from squealing with glee as I muttered “I’ll have the mousse” in my best faux-casual voice, trying not to let the waitress see in my eyes just how bad I wanted it, how bad I needed it. Have never wanted a mirror to see my own smile before but I have to imagine I looked ridiculous eating that thing. The last time an inanimate object to made me that happy it was a Darth Vader action figure and the Redskins hadn’t won their third Super Bowl yet (twenty plus years is a good run, kudos to you Hasbro). I don’t know what kind of joy parents feel the first time they see their child, but the smart money says this is likely the closest I’ll probably get to it for a minute.
Better still, just when I thought I had reached the peak of contentment, wandered into Silver Diner to find the sweetest of sweets listed on their menu too, in pie form. That makes two mousse sightings in one week, after four years of relentless can’t-believe-it-really-bothers-you-this-much-Michael/well-it-does-so-shut-your-face-please nothingness. Not even sure how to act right now, it’s a little unsettling when things you’ve always wanted suddenly start falling in your lap. The only time I see things working out for people like that are at the beginnings of horror movies, just before people start getting cut up and/or dragged down to basements, or in war movies, where the guy always seems to get a sweet letter from his girl right before his plane gets shot down and he gets dragged to an enemy detention center for a few years of quality gruel and Geneva convention-violating tender loving care. Since I don’t seem to have a plane, military commission or any business in Hanoi, and don’t hang out with anyone who owns a secluded enough basement to execute a proper live dismemberment, appears I’ll have to give Fate the benefit of the doubt for the time being and just enjoy my dessert.
With the sweetest of sweets so readily available now, find myself simultaneously at peace with the world but also at a loss for words realizing I’ll eventually have to dredge up some new unattainable thing to obsess about. Why? Because I’m a comic and comics don’t have the slightest clue what to do with more than a few moments of happiness at a time. Besides, should probably always have a white whale in front of you, what else is there to do down here but go after stuff and sit around with your friends trading stories about how much you got manhandled while going after stuff? A man is only as good as that which he chases. I just spent the last four years on dessert; think I’m going to spend the next little while holding out for a lactose-free clam chowder.
Stay hungry my friends.
Guilty pleasures seem to be the ones that bring the most happiness. Supposed to steer clear of because of our gender, race, religious background, ethics, pre-existing health condition, state of perpetual brokenness, or maybe we just have a level of passion concerning this particular thing that others might (or at least should) find alarming. Try oh-so-hard to behave, but sometimes nature just has to take its course. I find guilty pleasures particularly intriguing because the stuff you enjoy with shameless enthusiasm tells a lot about who you really are, good & bad, & really really bad (translation: awesome).
Sometime I think about the kind of stuff I like on that level, makes me proud and ashamed at the same time. Deep down, I enjoy rooting for whatever team is winning in a football game, seeing that look on pitcher’s faces as they whip around to watch the ball sail out of the park, repeatedly sitting through highlights of sporting events I watched the day before, avoiding documentaries that have anything to do with poor people, important conflicts in foreign countries, education or why I need to vote, skipping the interview portion of “The Daily Show” & “The Colbert Report”, making needless biblical references in everyday conversation, art that doesn’t challenge me, jaywalking in front of children who are still being taught to obey the crosswalk light, stockpiling whatever materials I can find about Batman, Motown and standup comedy to an obsessive & financially imprudent degree, movies about felonies and criminal enterprises, watching Fred & Ginger dance numbers an insane number of times in a row, youtube clips of old presidential speeches and debates, Mystikal’s “Let’s Get Ready” album, wasting Saturday mornings with back-to-back-to-back-to-back episodes of “Law & Order”, NOT jogging ever, overpriced books about architecture, overpriced t-shirts from American Apparel, using big words in front of people I know didn’t finish high school, video footage of Kanye West acting a fool at awards shows, and the music of Antonio Carlos Jobim.
Chief and most diabolical of all my guilty pleasures is my intense, Captain Ahab-esque passion for chocolate mousse. Had it once on a date during DC’s Restaurant Week a few years back and have been on the alert for it ever since. Interesting to reflect on that particular date, on that particular girl now, with the space of a few years between us. Still easily ranks as the most tumultuous relationship I’ve ever been in; we could barely bless our dinner together without getting in a heated “discussion” about “my tone”. Once got in a shouting match in the middle of a Northern Virginia Macy’s while Christmas shopping for EACH OTHER. No surprise that since then I’ve become a strong, strong believer in the importance of a “good fit”. The bad times outweighed the good there, but a part of me will always be grateful for the way she had my back when I first started comedy (yours truly was bombing with wild abandon people. If I scored one good laugh in five minutes I thought I had a career, how the hell did that woman or any of my friends sit through so many of those sets?…). On top of that, she introduced me to the granddaddy of all desserts, mousse. Would be a hater not to acknowledge.
Mousse amazes me because it has all the flavor and verve of solid chocolate, but goes down so light you feel like you couldn’t possibly be doing anything wrong. I don’t know who came across that magical density & texture, lighter and drier than pudding, heavier and more substantial than whipped cream; it might’ve been a second gift from Prometheus, perhaps it was dreamt up by a French George Washington Carver or one of the critters from “Ratatouille”. Whoever’s idea it was, I lose my cool like a Justin Bieber groupie whenever I see it on the menu.
The problem is that I don’t see it on the menu. Ever. And I eat out a lot, so I notice a lot. It’s not on my mind when I first walk in, it’s not on my mind while I’m waiting to get seated, eating dinner, or trying to assess whether the waitress is into me or just wants a good tip (why oh why do I always get suckered into that mental debate? Stop looking at me like that lady, I came here for buffalo wings and a Yuengling, not for your short-shorts or your mean-spirited head games!). I get through the whole meal experience, am mentally readying myself to see the check, then the server comes to the table with that blasted question, the one that makes cardiologists so wealthy…
“Can I interest you in some dessert?”
“Why yes. Yes. You. Can.”
But it’s never that simple for yours truly. Asking for specific desserts in public can be complicated for a man. It can be kinda weird asking for mousse when you’re hanging out with a guy, because all of a sudden you two look like a couple (that’s how I know who my friends are, if I feel comfortable enough asking for mousse around them). It can be weird asking for mousse in front of a date, because guys are supposed to be “protectors” right? And how many protectors get particular about dessert? You think Randy Couture or Kimbo Slice give a f*ck about mousse? I bet when Brock Lesnar orders a bear claw he’s surprised to find it’s not an actual bear’s claw. And it can be weird asking for mousse dining by yourself, because then it looks like you’ve just given up on finding happiness with any other human beings, or maybe other human beings have given up on you, and now this little bit of whipped chocolate is the only thing keeping you from taking a blindfolded stroll down a railroad track. But having these misgiving does little to fortify any sense of restraint for me, because once that word “dessert” hits the ear, a voice starts going off in my head at the most annoying volume imaginable
“MOUSSE! MOUSSE DUDE. SEE IF THEY’VE GOT MOUSSE. I’M GOING TO CARVE YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER ON THE BACKS OF ALL YOUR DVDS WITH A SCREWDRIVER IF YOU DON’T ASK ABOUT MOUSSE. DID YOU HEAR ME, WHORE? ASK. ABOUT. THE MOUSSE!!!”
“…dessert sounds nice… hmm, I don’t see it listed here, but I don’t suppose you guys… have any… mousse?”
“No I’m afraid not. We do have a delightful mudslide you might like though. I can put an extra cherry in it for you, perhaps a candy cane…”
Great. Now ‘short-shorts’ is patronizing me even more than when I came in. Not like I had a lot of stud points to lose anyway, not sitting here with my Ghostbusters t-shirt on, you know ladies love that Egon Spengler mojo. Whatever. ‘Short-shorts’ can’t judge me. At least I get to wear pants to work.
“A mudslide sounds nice, thank you so much…”
For four years, this has been my most secret and recurring heartbreak. Searching for a dessert that never seems to be on any menu. Staking my fragile dignity on a request I know to be in vain. Cursing the cruelty of Fate for allowing me to enjoy this sweet delight once, only to deny me bitterly two hundred times and more, with no sign of relief or remorse. Better to not have a tongue than to see it so maliciously teased, taunted and deprived. If happiness comes in a teaspoon, surely misery comes in a dump truck.
Then came hope, and the renewed promise of tomorrow. Hanging out in Eastern Market, I wandered into one of those high-minded, might-as-well-be-vegan sandwich shops (where you order roast beef because it’s the only thing you recognize) to find the sweetest of sweets listed on the menu. Took all of my willpower to keep from squealing with glee as I muttered “I’ll have the mousse” in my best faux-casual voice, trying not to let the waitress see in my eyes just how bad I wanted it, how bad I needed it. Have never wanted a mirror to see my own smile before but I have to imagine I looked ridiculous eating that thing. The last time an inanimate object to made me that happy it was a Darth Vader action figure and the Redskins hadn’t won their third Super Bowl yet (twenty plus years is a good run, kudos to you Hasbro). I don’t know what kind of joy parents feel the first time they see their child, but the smart money says this is likely the closest I’ll probably get to it for a minute.
Better still, just when I thought I had reached the peak of contentment, wandered into Silver Diner to find the sweetest of sweets listed on their menu too, in pie form. That makes two mousse sightings in one week, after four years of relentless can’t-believe-it-really-bothers-you-this-much-Michael/well-it-does-so-shut-your-face-please nothingness. Not even sure how to act right now, it’s a little unsettling when things you’ve always wanted suddenly start falling in your lap. The only time I see things working out for people like that are at the beginnings of horror movies, just before people start getting cut up and/or dragged down to basements, or in war movies, where the guy always seems to get a sweet letter from his girl right before his plane gets shot down and he gets dragged to an enemy detention center for a few years of quality gruel and Geneva convention-violating tender loving care. Since I don’t seem to have a plane, military commission or any business in Hanoi, and don’t hang out with anyone who owns a secluded enough basement to execute a proper live dismemberment, appears I’ll have to give Fate the benefit of the doubt for the time being and just enjoy my dessert.
With the sweetest of sweets so readily available now, find myself simultaneously at peace with the world but also at a loss for words realizing I’ll eventually have to dredge up some new unattainable thing to obsess about. Why? Because I’m a comic and comics don’t have the slightest clue what to do with more than a few moments of happiness at a time. Besides, should probably always have a white whale in front of you, what else is there to do down here but go after stuff and sit around with your friends trading stories about how much you got manhandled while going after stuff? A man is only as good as that which he chases. I just spent the last four years on dessert; think I’m going to spend the next little while holding out for a lactose-free clam chowder.
Stay hungry my friends.
Monday, October 4, 2010
MMA
As much as I work to live the life of a good pacifist a.k.a “pu$$y” a.k.a “environmentalist” (to quote "Thank You For Smoking"), there’s a part of me that will always nurture an irrational love of contact sports. Friends and family know better than to call me on Sundays in the fall, and I watch late-night ESPN classic reruns of old boxing matches with a glee normally reserved for the arrival of warm brownies and the conjuring of a clever facebook status.
Needless to say, mixed martial arts holds a special place in my heart. Something about watching a large, borderline psychotic beast of a man get kicked in the head by another large, borderline psychotic beast of a man… it’s rarely poetry in motion, but the world definitely does seem a little more right after every fight. Ever the hypocrite, I personally don’t subscribe to violence as a means or an end. Used to train for boxing back in college; the idea of wailing on the body of another mother’s child as hard as I can or giving somebody else a chance to wail on my mama’s baby makes me want to throw up. That being said, if two numbskulls voluntarily climb into a ring and agree to wail on each other as hard as they can for no other reason than pride, money and the chance to sleep with shallow indiscriminate women… well that’s the kind of entertainment that made America great.
I love me some UFC. I don’t even know who any of the fighters are, except maybe Kimbo Slice (little over-hyped), Randy Couture (little over-old), Ken Shamrock (also over-old, and pretty much always gets his ass beat but has the crowd on his side anyway because he used to be on WWF) and that big dude from A-Team (don’t tell me his name, I can’t spare the neurons). Still doesn’t stop me from enjoying the heck out of the fights. Fighting’s not like my other passion, classical music; you don’t need much background or time in the conservatory to enjoy a good arm bar or roundhouse kick.
My boy G. always orders the fights on pay-per-view and organizes has these awesome fight parties at his apartment. Girls show up and then promptly wonder why they showed up. Guys show up and don’t care what the girls are annoyed about because we’re all to busy acting like we’re not closing in on 30 and should be too grown for this stuff by now. Whatever maturity was left in us gets weeded out by the impromptu re-enactment that invariably takes place in G.’s garage immediately after the fight, followed by no less than twelve rounds of beer pong, followed by forty-minutes of wondering where all the girls went and why nobody got any phone numbers tonight.
Sad to say I grew out of UFC earlier this year. Still love seeing how many times somebody can bury his elbow in another guys face before the ref decides that’s enough, but I couldn’t stomach the sight of the loser’s facial expression anymore. That’s the most brutal part of the evening. Not when he’s getting knocked out. That paralyzed look of surprise is always funny. If some part of you doesn’t appreciate the sublime beauty, the bone-crushing irony of someone voluntarily agreeing to a down payment on future brain damage then having the nerve to look surprised when that down payment is due then you’re dead inside, and have been for a long time. The brutal part of mixed martial arts is after the fight is over. When old boy gets up, dazed, and sees Joe Rogan interviewing the OTHER guy. Forget what you’ve seen at the Superbowl, Presidential Elections or the World Cup. You haven’t truly seen devastated disappointment until you’ve seen the face of a man who just lost a televised fist fight.
It doesn’t get much more emotional than to see somebody who worked as hard as he knew how, who literally gave everything he had until he lost consciousness or a third party intervened, only to find out it wasn’t enough. Some nights it’s not even close, even the loser’s mama bet on the other guy. But the last six to ten weeks he’s been telling himself, he’s the best. That he’s coming to the ring to do business. That he’s going to be the victor, and this is but one stop on the road to the championship and his inevitable glory. Never mind the sacrifices, never mind the pain. It’ll all be worth it after tonight, when he raises his hands as the victor. Three weeks from now he’ll have his own flavor of Gatorade and be doing lines of coke off preacher’s wives’ asses. But tonight old boy is not the victor. Tonight he is the forgotten. Now he’s the one who has to be a sportsman, who has to tell Joe Rogan what went wrong and where things went out of control. He has to go back to the quiet, subdued locker room, where everyone tries to put on a happy face while making as little eye contact as possible. He has to find the strength not to let his swollen lip quiver, not to cry like the pu$$ he always feared he was in front of his trainer, all while the other joker with the fantastic elbow smash no one warned him about gets to enjoy being loud, gets to enjoy talking trash about not caring who the next opponent is while “giving glory to God”. He gets to enjoy the pride, he gets to enjoy the money, and he gets to enjoy the chance to sleep with those ever-coveted shallow, indiscriminate women, the ones who make America great.
How does one process losing with that much at stake? It started tearing me up inside to watch, so much so that I couldn’t enjoy the fights, knowing somebody would have to lose. Better to not watch than to watch a loser, better to not play than risking losing like that, right? At least that’s what I thought.
Went out to Vegas a week and a half ago for the World Series of Comedy. Didn’t get my clock cleaned, but I didn’t advance either. Which pretty much left me with the same thing as if I had gotten my clock cleaned: next to nothing. But it turns out next to nothing is still better than nothing. So what did my next to nothing come with? I know where I am in the food chain for starters. I’m “pretty good” with room to get better. “Great” is not as far off as I feared it would be when I first started. Even better, there are avenues for me to further hone my craft, people I can learn from, and people willing to give me opportunities. But more important than the knowledge of where I am in the food chain, more important than the opportunities, perhaps the most important bit of knowledge from my time in Vegas: the clock is ticking for me to make this happen.
Most comics who become headliners and really start to make waves seem to do so between about five and ten years into their career. You can live off doing this for a long time, maybe forever, but “most” of the famous comedians people have heard of appear to have started getting their breaks between five and ten years in. Same with non-famous headliners who can at least live off of comedy without a day job. After 5-10 years, looks like you have to really really bust your hump, create your own breaks to keep your trajectory on the upslope and avoid that tragic comic’s descent; the one that starts with you doing REALLY terrible gigs (comedy & karaoke anyone?) because they’re the only things you can get your hands on, to not getting any gigs at all, to selling drill bits at a Sears, to one day trying out a drill bit on your own forehead, but not before first driving a few countersunk wood screws into your floor manager’s temporal lobe (so much for that “non-violent” thing I was talking about earlier…).
Since high school I’ve been playing it pretty safe in life. Only applying to schools I knew I could get in. Picking a major that would ensure I would always be employable if and when my other pie-in-the-sky ideas didn’t work out. Not changing lanes in traffic jams until twelve other cars have passed me by. Could write a book on not taking chances, but being risk-averse I’d never have the courage to pitch it to any publishers.
I love comedy because it’s one of the only parts of my life where I feel comfortable taking chances. Not only feel comfortable, HAVE to take chances. If you aren’t taking chances and saying slightly messed-up stuff in comedy, chances are you aren’t that funny. Not to anyone but your grandma anyway, who let’s face it, doesn’t really have any idea what you’re talking about or who you are in the first place.
My roommate and I were discussing an old bit I’ve been tweaking earlier this evening. If I do it right there’s a good chance people might still remember my name by the time they get home. If I do it REALLY right, there’s a chance I could get beat up like Ken Shamrock as soon as I get offstage. You already know how I have to do the joke now, don’t you? If you see me in a full-body cast looking slightly sodomized, you’ll know there where Africans in the audience and they did NOT like the joke.
As an aside, heavens-to-betsy I hope I never meet Ken Shamrock. I really hope he doesn’t read or have friends who read. I’m 175 pounds of VERY casually toned muscle; with my luck I’ll be the one guy who CAN’T get him in a submission hold… did I mention I’m an “environmentalist”? I love trees, non-predatory woodland animals, and how lovely my jawbone and ribs look in x-rays from never having been broken before. And yes, I did start this paragraph with the expression “heavens-to-betsy”. Been waiting for two weeks to drop that one, hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
So back to my main point, if comedy thrives on taking chances, how long can an ambitious comic get by without taking risks? How long can a comic limit the risk-taking to the material and not apply that same adventurousness to his or her life? Isn’t it hypocritical not to? Probably. Of all the people I don’t want to have calling me an “environmentalist” every time they see me, “Me”, “Myself” and “I” are all at the top of the list. On top of being super-wordy and slightly obnoxious, they’re the only ones I can’t get to shut up or avoid.
What about losing? You might lose homie. Bad. Might get your emotional nose bloodied pretty good. Might get embarrassed in front of your friends and loved ones. Parents might stop making eye contact with you at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They might not invite you, because no one likes to see poor people on the holidays, especially at their dinner table. Might regret ever leaving your comfort zone homie. Might end up on the street, cooking up drugs under a bridge somewhere, working as a mule for some irascible Panamanians, who are still sore about what went down with Noriega. Might get beat up by some Africans who found the quality of your drugs AND your jokes to be irreconcilably inferior. You don’t want to end up like one of those UFC losers, do you? DO you? …do you??? You stupid stupid bastard… you do, don’t you? Maybe. Maybe the noses with the most character are the ones that have been bloodied a bit. Maybe seeing what I saw in Vegas put the taste of blood in my mouth and I’m hungry for more. Maybe I’ll lose every event I participate in and come to great financial and emotional ruin with some of the moves I’m contemplating. But maybe I won’t.
Only have to hit once, and even if I don’t hit, time at the plate is still better than time in the dugout. Even those MMA losers can take solace in having taken their shot, so they’re not really losers at all. Especially compared to clowns like me, who've spent too many Saturday nights watching. Those guys who fight and lose might not be remembered as the best, they might not be remembered at all. But once upon a time they stepped in the ring and now know where they stand. A bruised body or a bruised ego is a small price to pay for the luxury of not wondering what could’ve been. I started doing stand-up comedy at Soho Tea & Coffee House on December 19, 2005. Will hit the five year mark this December and then the clock starts ticking for real, getting tired of not knowing. Stay tuned…
Needless to say, mixed martial arts holds a special place in my heart. Something about watching a large, borderline psychotic beast of a man get kicked in the head by another large, borderline psychotic beast of a man… it’s rarely poetry in motion, but the world definitely does seem a little more right after every fight. Ever the hypocrite, I personally don’t subscribe to violence as a means or an end. Used to train for boxing back in college; the idea of wailing on the body of another mother’s child as hard as I can or giving somebody else a chance to wail on my mama’s baby makes me want to throw up. That being said, if two numbskulls voluntarily climb into a ring and agree to wail on each other as hard as they can for no other reason than pride, money and the chance to sleep with shallow indiscriminate women… well that’s the kind of entertainment that made America great.
I love me some UFC. I don’t even know who any of the fighters are, except maybe Kimbo Slice (little over-hyped), Randy Couture (little over-old), Ken Shamrock (also over-old, and pretty much always gets his ass beat but has the crowd on his side anyway because he used to be on WWF) and that big dude from A-Team (don’t tell me his name, I can’t spare the neurons). Still doesn’t stop me from enjoying the heck out of the fights. Fighting’s not like my other passion, classical music; you don’t need much background or time in the conservatory to enjoy a good arm bar or roundhouse kick.
My boy G. always orders the fights on pay-per-view and organizes has these awesome fight parties at his apartment. Girls show up and then promptly wonder why they showed up. Guys show up and don’t care what the girls are annoyed about because we’re all to busy acting like we’re not closing in on 30 and should be too grown for this stuff by now. Whatever maturity was left in us gets weeded out by the impromptu re-enactment that invariably takes place in G.’s garage immediately after the fight, followed by no less than twelve rounds of beer pong, followed by forty-minutes of wondering where all the girls went and why nobody got any phone numbers tonight.
Sad to say I grew out of UFC earlier this year. Still love seeing how many times somebody can bury his elbow in another guys face before the ref decides that’s enough, but I couldn’t stomach the sight of the loser’s facial expression anymore. That’s the most brutal part of the evening. Not when he’s getting knocked out. That paralyzed look of surprise is always funny. If some part of you doesn’t appreciate the sublime beauty, the bone-crushing irony of someone voluntarily agreeing to a down payment on future brain damage then having the nerve to look surprised when that down payment is due then you’re dead inside, and have been for a long time. The brutal part of mixed martial arts is after the fight is over. When old boy gets up, dazed, and sees Joe Rogan interviewing the OTHER guy. Forget what you’ve seen at the Superbowl, Presidential Elections or the World Cup. You haven’t truly seen devastated disappointment until you’ve seen the face of a man who just lost a televised fist fight.
It doesn’t get much more emotional than to see somebody who worked as hard as he knew how, who literally gave everything he had until he lost consciousness or a third party intervened, only to find out it wasn’t enough. Some nights it’s not even close, even the loser’s mama bet on the other guy. But the last six to ten weeks he’s been telling himself, he’s the best. That he’s coming to the ring to do business. That he’s going to be the victor, and this is but one stop on the road to the championship and his inevitable glory. Never mind the sacrifices, never mind the pain. It’ll all be worth it after tonight, when he raises his hands as the victor. Three weeks from now he’ll have his own flavor of Gatorade and be doing lines of coke off preacher’s wives’ asses. But tonight old boy is not the victor. Tonight he is the forgotten. Now he’s the one who has to be a sportsman, who has to tell Joe Rogan what went wrong and where things went out of control. He has to go back to the quiet, subdued locker room, where everyone tries to put on a happy face while making as little eye contact as possible. He has to find the strength not to let his swollen lip quiver, not to cry like the pu$$ he always feared he was in front of his trainer, all while the other joker with the fantastic elbow smash no one warned him about gets to enjoy being loud, gets to enjoy talking trash about not caring who the next opponent is while “giving glory to God”. He gets to enjoy the pride, he gets to enjoy the money, and he gets to enjoy the chance to sleep with those ever-coveted shallow, indiscriminate women, the ones who make America great.
How does one process losing with that much at stake? It started tearing me up inside to watch, so much so that I couldn’t enjoy the fights, knowing somebody would have to lose. Better to not watch than to watch a loser, better to not play than risking losing like that, right? At least that’s what I thought.
Went out to Vegas a week and a half ago for the World Series of Comedy. Didn’t get my clock cleaned, but I didn’t advance either. Which pretty much left me with the same thing as if I had gotten my clock cleaned: next to nothing. But it turns out next to nothing is still better than nothing. So what did my next to nothing come with? I know where I am in the food chain for starters. I’m “pretty good” with room to get better. “Great” is not as far off as I feared it would be when I first started. Even better, there are avenues for me to further hone my craft, people I can learn from, and people willing to give me opportunities. But more important than the knowledge of where I am in the food chain, more important than the opportunities, perhaps the most important bit of knowledge from my time in Vegas: the clock is ticking for me to make this happen.
Most comics who become headliners and really start to make waves seem to do so between about five and ten years into their career. You can live off doing this for a long time, maybe forever, but “most” of the famous comedians people have heard of appear to have started getting their breaks between five and ten years in. Same with non-famous headliners who can at least live off of comedy without a day job. After 5-10 years, looks like you have to really really bust your hump, create your own breaks to keep your trajectory on the upslope and avoid that tragic comic’s descent; the one that starts with you doing REALLY terrible gigs (comedy & karaoke anyone?) because they’re the only things you can get your hands on, to not getting any gigs at all, to selling drill bits at a Sears, to one day trying out a drill bit on your own forehead, but not before first driving a few countersunk wood screws into your floor manager’s temporal lobe (so much for that “non-violent” thing I was talking about earlier…).
Since high school I’ve been playing it pretty safe in life. Only applying to schools I knew I could get in. Picking a major that would ensure I would always be employable if and when my other pie-in-the-sky ideas didn’t work out. Not changing lanes in traffic jams until twelve other cars have passed me by. Could write a book on not taking chances, but being risk-averse I’d never have the courage to pitch it to any publishers.
I love comedy because it’s one of the only parts of my life where I feel comfortable taking chances. Not only feel comfortable, HAVE to take chances. If you aren’t taking chances and saying slightly messed-up stuff in comedy, chances are you aren’t that funny. Not to anyone but your grandma anyway, who let’s face it, doesn’t really have any idea what you’re talking about or who you are in the first place.
My roommate and I were discussing an old bit I’ve been tweaking earlier this evening. If I do it right there’s a good chance people might still remember my name by the time they get home. If I do it REALLY right, there’s a chance I could get beat up like Ken Shamrock as soon as I get offstage. You already know how I have to do the joke now, don’t you? If you see me in a full-body cast looking slightly sodomized, you’ll know there where Africans in the audience and they did NOT like the joke.
As an aside, heavens-to-betsy I hope I never meet Ken Shamrock. I really hope he doesn’t read or have friends who read. I’m 175 pounds of VERY casually toned muscle; with my luck I’ll be the one guy who CAN’T get him in a submission hold… did I mention I’m an “environmentalist”? I love trees, non-predatory woodland animals, and how lovely my jawbone and ribs look in x-rays from never having been broken before. And yes, I did start this paragraph with the expression “heavens-to-betsy”. Been waiting for two weeks to drop that one, hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
So back to my main point, if comedy thrives on taking chances, how long can an ambitious comic get by without taking risks? How long can a comic limit the risk-taking to the material and not apply that same adventurousness to his or her life? Isn’t it hypocritical not to? Probably. Of all the people I don’t want to have calling me an “environmentalist” every time they see me, “Me”, “Myself” and “I” are all at the top of the list. On top of being super-wordy and slightly obnoxious, they’re the only ones I can’t get to shut up or avoid.
What about losing? You might lose homie. Bad. Might get your emotional nose bloodied pretty good. Might get embarrassed in front of your friends and loved ones. Parents might stop making eye contact with you at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They might not invite you, because no one likes to see poor people on the holidays, especially at their dinner table. Might regret ever leaving your comfort zone homie. Might end up on the street, cooking up drugs under a bridge somewhere, working as a mule for some irascible Panamanians, who are still sore about what went down with Noriega. Might get beat up by some Africans who found the quality of your drugs AND your jokes to be irreconcilably inferior. You don’t want to end up like one of those UFC losers, do you? DO you? …do you??? You stupid stupid bastard… you do, don’t you? Maybe. Maybe the noses with the most character are the ones that have been bloodied a bit. Maybe seeing what I saw in Vegas put the taste of blood in my mouth and I’m hungry for more. Maybe I’ll lose every event I participate in and come to great financial and emotional ruin with some of the moves I’m contemplating. But maybe I won’t.
Only have to hit once, and even if I don’t hit, time at the plate is still better than time in the dugout. Even those MMA losers can take solace in having taken their shot, so they’re not really losers at all. Especially compared to clowns like me, who've spent too many Saturday nights watching. Those guys who fight and lose might not be remembered as the best, they might not be remembered at all. But once upon a time they stepped in the ring and now know where they stand. A bruised body or a bruised ego is a small price to pay for the luxury of not wondering what could’ve been. I started doing stand-up comedy at Soho Tea & Coffee House on December 19, 2005. Will hit the five year mark this December and then the clock starts ticking for real, getting tired of not knowing. Stay tuned…
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Gridlock
It’s not that I want you to die
Your ride just can’t live any more
Maybe you’ll learn watching your wheels burn
That you drive like a contemptible whore
You chill when I’ve got places to be
Got places to be when I want to chill
Seem to take glee in inconveniencing me
Who does 15 going down a hill?
Why the left lane when you’re not going fast?
Since you’ve been there no cars have been passed
Not sure how much longer my patience will last
If only I had phasers, you’d be gone in a blast
Please say you’re kidding, that’s not how you merge
Tentative like a nerd on prom night
Wonder what the perks are of owning a smart car
When the driver is clearly not bright
Oh sweet, more roadwork, it’s my lucky day
Next five miles will be a ball
To build a thoroughfare that needs so much care
Defeats the point of building one at all
Don’t tease me bro, quit touching those brakes
There’s nothing in front of you, this light we can make
If you just keep on moving, just what will it take?
Have mercy, do the speed limit and ease this heartache
In the end this is probably my fault
A smart one would leave the Beltway alone
When the traffic report makes the world news sound short
That should be the cue to stay home
That’s about all the rhyming this drained brain can store
In the words of the Raven I ‘quoth’, “Nevermore!”
Just one quick reminder, sure I said it before
If you do one thing in life, don’t drive like a whore.
Your ride just can’t live any more
Maybe you’ll learn watching your wheels burn
That you drive like a contemptible whore
You chill when I’ve got places to be
Got places to be when I want to chill
Seem to take glee in inconveniencing me
Who does 15 going down a hill?
Why the left lane when you’re not going fast?
Since you’ve been there no cars have been passed
Not sure how much longer my patience will last
If only I had phasers, you’d be gone in a blast
Please say you’re kidding, that’s not how you merge
Tentative like a nerd on prom night
Wonder what the perks are of owning a smart car
When the driver is clearly not bright
Oh sweet, more roadwork, it’s my lucky day
Next five miles will be a ball
To build a thoroughfare that needs so much care
Defeats the point of building one at all
Don’t tease me bro, quit touching those brakes
There’s nothing in front of you, this light we can make
If you just keep on moving, just what will it take?
Have mercy, do the speed limit and ease this heartache
In the end this is probably my fault
A smart one would leave the Beltway alone
When the traffic report makes the world news sound short
That should be the cue to stay home
That’s about all the rhyming this drained brain can store
In the words of the Raven I ‘quoth’, “Nevermore!”
Just one quick reminder, sure I said it before
If you do one thing in life, don’t drive like a whore.
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