they should have sent an attorney

Sometimes you've a super lovely and beautiful, and amazing and crazy smart, and intelligent, etc. and famous sister, and they write articles about her. And then a fact checker gets in touch with you.

Hi R. Please see the answers I've inserted. (Also, I've only tried to answer honestly. Sorry if what I've written comes off as otherwise!)

Best,

David

On Tuesday, January 6, 2015, R. wrote:

Hi David,

I work for R. and am fact-checking a profile on your sister Sheila by R. I wonder if you'd be able to answer the following questions just to ensure everything is factually correct:

1.     Are you Sheila Heti’s younger brother?

 Yes.

2.     Did Sheila always have a strong artistic vision growing up?

I'm not really able to speak to what another person's vision is, or was, always. Also, I was born after Sheila. (Colloquially, sure, I guess, but, I can't give this question a straight answer.)

3.     Would you say you are comfortable presenting yourself as an unsavoury character?

I'm not sure what you mean by my "self." As a person? A comic? A comedic persona?

4.     Is Sheila also?

I would ask the same question as above. (That said, I'm not sure I'm able to speak to what Sheila feels.)

5.     Do you take pleasure in presenting yourself in this way and don’t care what others think?

 See above.

6.     Does Sheila also?

 See above.

7.     Do you have any regret about any of the content of your stand-up?

Sure.

Thanks very much,

R.

back to the steak

Over about maybe seven or eight months ago now I ran a successful Kickstarter campaign for a steak dinner. It was come up with and run and executed at a time in the midst of a slow summer of stand-up and nothing much to do, and, in all honestly, I wanted a steak.

Nothing more, nothing less than a steak dinner is what I wanted and what I asked for and what I got. I think it was $83 I asked for, and, lo and behold, within the six days or so for which the campaign was to run, I raised more than I would need for the $83 (perhaps it was $86 in the end, though I don't remember), and I just want to say that I am sorry right now for not having fulfilled my "rewards" or whatnot to those who contributed two or more dollars to the campaign, to whom I had promised to provide a written account of my experience of the steak. It just so happened to be the case that the very next morning after the steak dinner I left to go on a very long and arduous and hilariously fun and time-consuming comedy tour, nothing of which of it so much allowed me to feel too terribly about the my having failed to meet my obligation. Thankfully, none of my two-dollars-or-more steak dinner backers (enthusiasts) chose to complain to Kickstarter or demand their money back.

Also, another reason for having failed to provide the written account was because in my grand ambition I actually arranged to have the entire meal experience captured on film--which I did--but which then left me with so much goddamn footage of me eating and ordering assessing that I was effectively paralysed from taking any action in light, and in the face, of such near-infinite editing possibilities.

It's come to a time, however, that I think a part of the video ought to come out, if, for no other reason, than that it is the end of the year and it's a time to cross things off of one's thousands of lists and this one in particular has been weighing on me especially heavily over the last very long while.

n.b. I would like to make it ridiculously clear that a very good and lovely friend of mine was so kind enough to record the steak dinner herself that I felt terrible for her then having either to i) not eat at all while I was eating, or ii) pay for her fine steak dinner at a fine steak dinner-eating establishment, that I generously or respectfully or fairly paid for her dinner, which ended up costing me far more than what I'd raised online (that is, my dinner was covered by the funds, but then I ended up paying for an-other entire steak dinner entirely). Indeed, and, in fact, I ended up spending far more on that one night than I had in so many, perhaps several years prior. Still, here we are.

(Oh yeah--and, of note--this whole steak dinner thing was done long before that whole egg salad thing. The guy raised, what, $50,000 or something? I mean, fuck him, kind of; but, more importantly, contrary to whatever Morgan O'Shea might have to say, it's not that he did the same thing but more funnily (a terrible adverb, incidentally). Rather, asking for a steak dinner is a thing different altogether than asking for an egg salad. The entire spirit and hilarity and idea are other. Perhaps he did something wholly better, but, certainly we didn't do the same thing but differently. I never wanted, nor was the intention ever, to raise much money ever (in fact, at one point I asked or told people, please, to stop giving me money), but, then again, so did too maybe the other guy.)

convort

me:  hello?

anyway, you will send me something to make me feel better than all of the dep wine in the world or dep.

if we're only here to be happy, doesn't that make happiness seem a bit ridiculous? how're you supposed to enjoy happiness? 

Morty:  david, hello! trying to impersonate the uncle on seinfeld. i was going to send you an email telling you that i walked by a homeless person eating a burger in front of dick's (you loved that place!), and i guess i was staring too long, which i do sometimes, and he said, "what, you've never seen a homeless man eat his breakfast before?" anyway, i just kept walking but felt that i should tell you about it. you and i do talk about the homeless a lot

me:  good, this is nice. so it seems like it's other people or something which makes life better. (and, incidentally--yes--I in fact have seen a homeless man eating a bag of dicks)

wait! get someone else to read you that last line

it can't be read!

as in "red"

well, oh, shit.

Morty:  are you drunk? it's ok if you're drunk 

me:  I finished off last night's wine this morning, but, no, not drunk

Morty:  aww

me:  If I were drunk, would I be able to...be driving a car right now?

I took my logic 

Morty:  last night's wine is the album title

no driving!

me:  oh, I had a good title the other day! all I write down now are the next album titles

can we talk about your rape here?

Morty:  me too

me:  is that ok to put online?

Morty:  oh that's unfair!

now i’ve been flagged

me:  I don't want to get you in trouble or nuthin

oh no!

Morty:  as long as we can talk about your rape too

me:  let's talk about each other's friend's respective rapes

Morty:  our rape

yes, yes, i agree

me:  I never agreed to share that with you

Morty:  well, you can never tell with rape

me:  is this like improv or can I just stop this now?

Morty:  can stop anytime

me:  sometimes I remember that if you stop trying it doesn't matter. then it gets bad

me:  I wrote this joke about listing things that aren't funny. Then I list things. And then I say that it was in some way a rape joke.

Morty:  i like it!

me:  oh the album title:

It's ok to enjoy yourself

enh

also, for a tour, I was thinking: Fat Love Hope

Morty:  you've no business using the word fat! but it works

me:  or love or hope, really

thanks! I think it's a weirdo title and people won't know what to take from it

Morty:  it hits all the demographics

me:  do you want a partner or do you want to be single?

Morty:  haha. what the hell kind of question is this?

is dying alone an option?

me:  first, dying alone isn't an option. we all die alone

Morty:  i know!

me:  second!

it's a question that's come up from having an apartment to myself for two weeks and no shows in this city

Morty:  did you order a wife for me for christmas?

me:  a rental. she'll only offer affection, though. it's nothing sexual

Morty:  boo

you suck at presents!

me:  I kind of had this realization that what a comic does is go out every night and look for love and confirmation and recognition, when most people just get that de facto by walking in their front door every night

so, my point is, why not just get that de facto?

Morty:  god that's a horrible thought

me:  plus, you don't even know these people

what do you care what they think? you think anyone really cares what they think? you think they care what you think?

I've got three more rhetorical questions to complete my treatise

Morty:  please stop

me:  hahaha

why exactly?

Morty:  i don't know

me:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiiyq2xrSI0

because of the truth this idea holds?

Morty:  fucking make me watch a video

me:  haha

I was typing--I think this is the new form: I think that we're bringing back the dialogue. dialectic, Socratic method, everything

I feel it

Morty:  hey, shut up! i'm trying to listen to this song

me:  can I post this on my site as some sort of -- haha -- as if it's a piece or something? I'll redact your name or change it to a similar name

Morty:  enh, this song is only ok. it works in the movie ghost, but i don't know

this conversation?

me:  It's sort of, like, giving me something to put into the world under the guise of being a comic, without having really done anything

yes

but it would be for art and David's sake

sakes

art's

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWqax9iHfRU

Morty:  i don't know, i can't have my name appearing next to word rape in google searches, not again at least

me:  look! that never went so far!

it almost looks as if Elvis is jerking off two dicks at the piano kind of

Morty:  haha. fat elvis

me:  have you seen that video where fat elvis dies on top of Lenny Bruce?

Morty:  link?

me:  uuhhh....

Morty:  let's have it!

me:  I'll type it in!

Morty:  k

me:  nah, not funny enough

Morty:  i agree

me:  oh, George Carlin comes up

not funny enough

Morty:  so predictable

me:  haha

Morty:  no accusation of rape, though

me:  and what's a chained melody, you know?

that's what they were saying about Cosby

Morty:  good point

well, carlin's dead. he's got that

me:  right, like that Jimmy Saville guy

I thought that when all those hundreds of allegations came out after his death, it was a chilling lesson for anyone who hadn't committed any sexual improprieties

you miss 100% of the shots you never take

Morty:  let me look up jimmy saville fucking hell

me:  just don't send me a link

Morty:  fucking wikipedia with their fucking fundraising

oh i remember that guy

ok

haha. to your earlier joke

me:  thanks

Morty:  99 percent of life is showing up

me:  is there tax on this?

Morty:  i don't know. ask woody, that's where i heard that line

me:  wait, but you never responded to my comment about comics are just looking for love

you just said it was a horrible thing to say and then moved on

Morty:  yes, david, i am looking for love. jesus christ

me:  hard to type you're laughing when doing that clapping laughing

but your work isn't looking for love

Morty:  yes it is!

me:  and it's not a gamble every night

Morty:  many lines of work are seeking attention, and yes it is a gamble every time, but in a different form

me:  right. I guess the idea's to have happiness elsewhere

Morty:  yes, otherwise you put too much weight on the career thing, and then if that doesn't work out, you're fucked

see: every comic who's died

me:  ergch.

Morty:  yes, well

me:  but some died with loved ones

Morty:  some

me:  but not many?

Morty:  williams did

me:  is that a terrible joke?

Morty:  even hedberg, technically. had a wife

me:  oh, you mean died prematurely?

Morty:  no, i meant he had love in his life or something, but still destroyed himself

not sure what the joke is

me:  right, right

Morty:  now that i think about, i'm not sure how love play in

me:  ?

that was half a heart

Morty:  ah! i'm lost now in this conversation. we should be on the phone

me:  I don't know. I like this

Morty:  this is fine

i'm saying that perhaps finding love doesn't always help comics survive

me:  wait--so your sort of starting out position is that comics are in terrible places?

Morty:  not all. i always think of famous ones, but there are plenty who this doesn't apply to really, like seinfeld, gaffigan, regan, etc.

me:  right. as a side note, I don't like any of those comics

Morty:  so predictable!

i knew that

i do

me:  I think I'm just starting to see the endpoint of being single. I think the older you get the less interesting it becomes

Morty:  who is she, heti? and when is the wedding?

me:  well, we broke up ten years ago. she's getting married next week

no, I have no idea

Morty:  aww

anyway, i don't disagree with anything you said

me:  ok

I mean, humans don't make much sense, and life doesn't make much sense, but, if human life, humans like other humans

me:  it's not unethical to be in a relationship, is it?

Morty:  what? no

sillyhead

me:  but, if they make you happy

that's not selfish?

Morty:  oh stop it. like you care

but no, not selfish

me:  I think I care. (ok.) like, I'm not sure how having a kid is anything but selfish

far more selfish than actually just finding someone who's already alive and making them somehow a part of your life

Morty:  i think basically it's just nice to have someone to get meals with

me:  haha. well, kind of, yeah

you're kind of just killing time together

Morty:  yeah

me:  I don't think it's much more complex than that

otherwise you're getting together for other reasons? (e.g., the Clintons)

Morty:  i'm worried that we're both going to disappear into the next world or something

me:  another world!

no thanks

Morty:  yes, there are very few power couples in the comedy world

me:  no, but I think that's what a marriage is: just someone you want to sit around with

Morty:  look, are you going to find me a wife or not?

me:  actually that's my ok cupid tagline or whatever

I can try to find you a wife

Morty:  good

me:  do you have minimum legs requirement?

is it negotiable?

Morty:  haha. two preferably. also two arms, two ears, two vaginas, etc.

me:  because one leg these days--one leg!

Morty:  ewww

me:  you know that old song: one leg per vagina...

Morty:  who am i, paul mccartney?

good song

me:  paul once actually asked me that himself

Morty:  lucky

me:  greatest day of his life

Morty:  of course

me:  I wonder if when a celebrity gets alzheimer's, can they remember themselves as celebrity after they've forgotten themselves as self?

Morty:  na

me:  all I’m saying is, it's worth signing your headshots while you can

Morty:  haha, jesus

me:  who knows?

it's like Pascal's wager

are you looking for a person/wife/wife-person?

the funny thing is: when you want a wife, you can't look for a wife

that's the oldest Chinese wisdom in the book

Morty:  yes. i generally feel better around women

fucking chinese

me:  haha

me:  alright

Morty:  agreed

me:  last question

maybe

what should I do with the impulse not to put out things into the world? it's paralyzing, especially for someone who's basically trying to do that for a living

sometimes saying or contributing anything seems so terrible. there seems to be so much, too much shit out there

Morty:  david, a comedy career is like a shark. it has to keep moving or it dies, and what we have here is a dead shark. anyway, i don't actually feel that you have a problem with that since you put out more stuff than most people i know. people i know who actually have a problem with that don't put stuff out there. if you want to tell jokes to drunk people for money instead of telling jokes to coworkers in an office than you will have to keep putting stuff out and stop this needless introspection about it. just put good stuff out, that's what matters

me:  I guess you pare it down. I suppose needless introspection. and, yes, good stuff

ok. thanks

me:  (that last line about putting out good stuff, too, is pretty much a Woody Allen line. when the aliens come down and tell him to just tell better jokes)

Morty:  haha, didn't realize that

me:  and, honestly, though, if I cut out some stuff, could I post this conversation to my site? I'm just thinking that it might be some neat new thing. we have podcasts now, which is oftentimes just a conversation between two people. this is the same, but in text, and might have a different appeal

Morty:  ha, i love that you're concerned about putting stuff out into the world and yet you want to put up a chat which is the most narcissistic thing in existence. don't everyone think the chats they have with friends are interesting, but i guess i'm okay with it. would need to see it first, i think

supposed to say don’t forget...

me:  well, but we're objectively funny people

Morty:  you know it!

me:  I'll run it by you. plus, I can give you an old Jewish name if you lie

like

Morty:  morty

me:  I might be M F!

I was going to be morty!

Morty:  no way!

me:  totally!

we can both be morty

Morty:  deal!

me:  perfect

on some the joke and its relation to the unconscious

On doing some reading on comedy, I happened upon this passage of Freud's, which I think is quite beautiful. My posting it in no way points to any particular political, social etc. Just, jokes.

I would gladly do without all the avenues to gratification that society disapproves of, but am I certain society will reward my self-denial—even though with some postponement—by opening to me one of the permitted avenues? it is possible to say out loud what these jokes whisper: that the wishes and desires of human beings have a right to make themselves heard as much as demanding and ruthless morality, and in our times it has been said in forceful and stirring sentences that this morality is only the selfish ordinance of the rich and powerful few who are able to satisfy their wishes without postponement at any time. as long as the art of healing has not gone further in making our life more certain, and as long as social arrangements do not do more to make it more agreeable, the voice in us that rebels against the demands of morality will not be stifled. in the end every honest person will make this admission, at least to themselves. this conflict can only be decided by a roundabout route via a fresh insight. we must link our lives to that of others in such a way, we must be able to identify with others so closely, that we are able to overcome the curtailment of our own lifetime; and we may not fulfil the demands of our own needs illegitimately, but must leave them unfulfilled, because only the continued existence of so many unfulfilled demands is able to develop the power to change the social order. but not all personal needs can be postponed and transferred to others in this way, and a universal and ultimate solution to the conflict does not exist

on fiction

I think the problem with--that the problem with--stand-up is that it's all of your first-person thoughts and times presented and put forth and told to others as if your own (as your own). Unlike a story or an idea or a fiction which can be presented and represented as if of that of a character or abstracted, no one really wants to see anything other than the person the person in front of him or herself on stage, understandably. But, then, what if one doesn't always want to have to be sharing for all one's moments and thoughts and weirdo or not private experiences? Then what do you have?

comedy ain't going to write itself

Much has been going on it seems and each day is so weirdly far different from the last, but then it all fades away and you wake up again wondering what's to do. There's a returning to and back again between "wanting to kill yourself" (colloquially, hyperbolically) and "being totally accepting of death and the idea of dying at this moment" (genuinely). The former is nothing new but the latter is unusual-, uncomfortably calming. Doesn't help with sleep. I'm sure much was lost in the flood.

There are details, details, but they slip away. I think that perhaps it's best simply to do another interesting day as opposed to attempt to remember what happened; but, when you're an old man in a bed in an old folks' home (if that happens), what will you do (i.e., with your time)? Reading old letters makes me small.

Though unrelated, again in January and February I'll be teaching a course in comedy writing at McGill. The first time 'round the course went apparently quite swimmingly and hence this time it is happening again. Students kept returning to lecture each week, they said they learned something, I was offered places to crash in different cities, we had lunch.

my bagel for a bagel

Well, I often take a lot of time and thinking and rethinking, actually, when writing these such things, but it's been a ridiculously crazy time the past couple of weeks, driving most days--Montreal-Halifax-NYC-Toronto, places in-between--and I'm just tired. So, I'm just going to put out here more or less as is a couple of bagel-related pieces--one written and one spoken--about what I think and feel about bagel.

Basically, I wrote a piece saying why Montreal bagels are superior to NYC bagels, and then some in fact quite kind hoo-ha wrote some junk arguing the opposite. Then we had a little debate-cum-argument over the radio*, as I was in a car and in traffic, about nine hours into a drive. We arrived, though, to the show on time, and did a good show. Then we went to sleep and drove again. But, now, bagels:

1) New York Bagels Suck (article) and

2) Joshua David Stein Variety Hour...Half Hour (radio)

*My mother writes that Joshua "kept interrupting you, and had too many objections. No wonder Helen couldn't give you justice."

lots of and too much

Lots of and too much has gone on and it seems or appears to be a shame to let it have all gone to waste so perhaps it need not at this time. Just little things, which, it sometimes seems, are what will make up a life and then you're ok to forget because you think that the idea is not to remember but live such that each you get more of this anew. For instance, there's a joke about having all of my mementos from my 20s thrown out accidentally and being upset by this on account of now no longer having anything to put around my room when in an old folks home so as to communicate to the nurses that I am or in fact was a real person and that I should be turned over because bed sores are terrible. Even as an invalid you can feel bed sores most likely.

Yesterday evening a man in the locker room of the place where I go swimming said hello and struck up a conversation as we undressed. It turns out he knew my name and that he was a listener of I Have a Problem and that he might have a problem already, stemming simply from what he'd heard on the episodes he'd listened to. Anyway, the point is that it's a nice thing to have formed some sort of a human relationship by way of little things put out into the world. Similarly, it kind of shocked me one evening to realize that this guy wanted to come to a performance but couldn't see any dates listed and so didn't. It had almost literally never occurred to me that people who actually enjoy comedy would want to refer to a Dates or Shows section of a site and so go to some shows. I'd only thought that all of this web presentation was for the sake of promoters and optics and festival programmers trying to get a sense of where you were and what you were doing in your weeks. So, anyway, there'll be some changes made today. Now there'll be a more of a genuine attempt to be genuine. (It's all performance, though, too.)

another email from mom

Where are you David? In Toronto? At dad's place?

I have some discount coupons to McDonald's. Do you want them?

Love,

Mom

a magyar nép zivataros századaiból

Below is a translation of the Hungarian national anthem. This is what I have to deal with. Wonderful soups.

O Lord, bless the nation of Hungary

With your grace and bounty

Extend over it your guarding arm

During strife with its enemies

Long torn by ill fate

Bring upon it a time of relief

This nation has suffered for all sins

Of the past and of the future!

You brought our ancestors up

Over the Carpathians' holy peaks

By You was won a beautiful homeland

For Bendeguz's sons

And wherever flow the rivers of

The Tisza and the Danube

Árpád our hero's descendants

Will root and bloom

For us on the plains of the Kuns

You ripened the wheat

In the grape fields of Tokaj

You dripped sweet nectar

Our flag you often planted

On the wild Turk's earthworks

And under Mátyás' grave army whimpered

Vienna's "proud fort."

Ah, but for our sins

Anger gathered in Your bosom

And You struck with Your lightning

From Your thundering clouds

Now the plundering Mongols' arrows

You swamped over us

Then the Turks' slave yoke

We took upon our shoulders.

How often came from the mouths

Of Osman's barbarian nation

Over the corpses of our defeated army

A victory song!

How often did your own son agress

My homeland, upon your breast,

And you became because of your own sons

Your own sons' funeral urn!

The fugitive hid, and towards him

The sword reached into his cave

Looking everywhere he could not find

His home in his homeland

Climbs the mountain, descends the valley

Sadness and despair his companions

Sea of blood beneath his feet

Ocean of flame above.

Castle stood, now a heap of stones

Happiness and joy fluttered,

Groans of death, weeping

Now sound in their place.

And Ah! Freedom does not bloom

From the blood of the dead,

Tortuous slavery's tears fall

From the burning eyes of the orphans!

Pity, O Lord, the Hungarians

Who are tossed by waves of danger

Extend over it your guarding arm

On the sea of its misery

Long torn by ill fate

Bring upon it a time of relief

They who have suffered for all sins

Of the past and of the future!

a little Elvis

Here's a piece on an Elvis Fest that I wrote for Vice. They edited some out, which is perfectly fine, sort of removing my voice just a bit and making it kinder to the people at the Festival. My Mother says that she enjoyed all of it save for the part about making the woman come. (Oh, Mom.) An ex of mine sent it to her own mother.

Upon its publication I was followed on Twitter by two Elvis groups. About a day later they left, which makes sense.

my legal clinic course experience

My Legal Clinic Course (LCC) experience with the McGill Centre for Intellectual Property Policy (CIPP), under the supervision of Professor Prie, has fallen somewhat short of my expectations. Had I better understood the nature of the work I would be assigned, I doubt I would have applied for the opening. Although I may have somewhat misunderstood the position as described in the LCC Handbook*, I feel there was no good reason to imagine that I would be acting as little more than an editor, if not, at times, a copyeditor. Though I imagine, from the simple act of painstakingly ordering words on a page, I derive more pure literary pleasure than most, I would have preferred nonetheless to have spent more time engaging with substantive legal issues.

My first assignment was to increase the readability of the Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ) section of the Canadian Public Domain Registry website: a free and publicly accessible online database of information regarding the copyright status of literary works published in Canada. For the purpose of helping uninitiated users of the website most thoroughly understand their rights and obligations in regard to inventive and creative works, my task was to articulate relatively basic copyright concepts in the most easily accessible language. Shorter sentences were best.

As most of the content had been drafted already by the time I received the FAQ, most of my work involved increasing clarity and precision, cutting extraneous material, and creating a more logical order of entries. Though I was not introduced to any copyright principles or theories different from those to which, in my Intellectual and Industrial Property course, I had been already exposed necessarily, I would say that I am now, in general, more comfortable with copyright law.

My work was assigned to me either in person or via email. From time to time, I would submit my edits and Professor Prie would give me feedback. She seemed to be quite pleased with my suggested improvements and has already forwarded my FAQ final draft to Creative Commons, which oversees the Registry website. On the several occasions Professor Prie and I met, we basically discussed how the FAQ ought to read, so as to best further Creative Commons’ goal of promoting public access to copyrighted works. In general, I was given a great degree of freedom to make those changes I thought most effective. Similarly, as the assignment was fairly straightforward, my work was essentially unsupervised.

Probably my biggest regret in regard to my Clinic placement is not having completed my hundred hours. At our very first meeting, Professor Prie told me that though I could do the work on my own time, I should be careful not to leave it all to the end of term. Though I have no one to blame but myself for being in the position of having to finish my time once the semester ends (and summer begins), I wish she, as my supervisor, had been a little less easygoing with deadlines. To my defence, there were certainly times when Professor Prie could have been a little more prompt in responding to my emails requesting the feedback necessary for me to continue my work; but, then again, when I did not hear back from her, I really should have been more persistent. All that said, depending on the week, I would do anywhere from twenty hours of work to none at all.

Having completed the FAQ edit, my second assignment, which I received several days ago, is to edit a memo announcing a call for submissions to a volume of essays on the topic of Canadian digital technology networks. Although, to be fair, the call is—at almost thirteen hundred words—quite extensive, I am not looking especially forward to what will essentially be the preparation of an advertisement. While, once again, I very much do enjoy the craft of careful writing itself, I had hoped that my Clinic experience would prove to be of somewhat more value to my principally legal, law school education.

Aside from my obvious disappointment with the subject matter of my assigned work, my first suggestion for how to improve the Legal Clinic Course would be to do away with the requirement that in order to successfully complete any placement, one must log a hundred hours of work. In my mind, there is no necessary correlation between the amount of time I put into a project and either 1) the quality of the work produced or 2) the educational value of having done the work. Furthermore, being told, at the very beginning, that all I was expected to do was “just put in the hours” made it difficult to see my efforts as much more than busy-work. If nothing else, my time with the CIPP has felt less like school, and more like a part-time job.

What I found most rewarding about my placement was the degree of autonomy I was given. I very much appreciated the fact that Professor Prie trusted me to work alone, giving me essentially free rein to make those changes I deemed necessary. Of course, with all this freedom, I ran a little astray with my scheduling, but I suppose that will just have to count as a part of what I will have learnt.

Finally, I appreciated the opportunity to gain three credits for doing work that will go out and into the world. Similarly, the further I get through law school, the more interested I am in putting my efforts towards something that is not, at least in large part, about winning a good letter grade. As insignificant as it may be, I really do hope to see my words grace the electronic pages of the Canadian Public Domain Registry website, helping people to better understand their intellectual property rights and obligations.

*The Handbook describes the nature of the work as, “Public interest research on intellectual property and development policy. Legal research and writing experience; brief/memo drafting; public information presentations; review and comment on/revision of legal documents.”

steak dinner!

Let's do this, people!

Now with steak dinner radio interview and holier-than-thou CTV News Montreal person who sits.

actual angry or indignant email series, part one

Dear Ms. D,

I am a student at the Faculty of Law, about to enter my second year of the B.C.L./LL.B. program. Ms. Q suggested I contact you regarding a concern of mine.

On July 12th, during the Student Affairs Office's clean-up of the basement lockers, a number of my belongings were taken from my locker and thrown out. Ms. Q has said that for the purposes of the cleaning, the locker had been deemed abandoned, and she accordingly discarded of its contents. However, I feel that as the SAO ought to have known that the locker was mine, the locker was incorrectly deemed abandoned, and hence my things were wrongly thrown out.

As in accordance with the SAO's own regulations, I registered my locker with the office at the beginning of May, in order to have its use throughout the summer. I was told that while the SAO prefers students to register for lockers in one area of the basement, it was perfectly fine for me to take the locker I did.

For the first month and a half of summer, I used the locker to store only my own belongings. Sometimes I would lock the locker and sometimes I would leave the locker unlocked. After feeling as though the locker's contents were sufficiently safe, I began storing University library books there as well, which I had taken out under a card issued to me under Professor T's name, as I am currently working as her research assistant. On the day the locker was cleaned out, it contained (to the best of my recollection) a towel, t-shirt, shoulder-bag, at least three DVDs, and approximately twenty library books. 

The reason I was given for why my locker was deemed abandoned was because there was no lock on it. (It was also suggested that a pink sticky-note ought to have been there as well, but I'm a little unclear on this, as well as uncertain as to how a student is supposed to be able to ensure that a sticky-note on the outside of a locker is not disrupted.) However, I strongly feel that this is no justification for throwing out the contents of the locker, as I was told that I would be given the use of a locker so long as I simply registered it with the SAO. I was never told that either leaving a locker unlocked would forfeit my use of the locker, or that the "use" of a locker meant that the locker had to be locked. Indeed, signs in the locker areas mention nothing about needing to keep one's locker locked in order to retain its use; they only indicate that one needs to register one's locker, which - according to my understanding - I did.

Had my things been stolen, I would have accepted full responsibility. Similarly, had the library books gone missing, I would have paid for their replacement, for I would have been the one at fault. However, what did happen was that the very office which granted me the use of the locker was the one which deemed it abandoned, and felt justified in discarding of its contents, without so much as sending me email, either before or after the fact. Indeed, I only found out about my locker being cleaned out through the library staff. In my mind, the situation is analogous to a professor leaving his/her office unlocked over night, only to discover the next morning that the University authority which assigns offices has cleaned out the space.

Some of the things in my locker can be easily repurchased, and some of them had a great deal of sentimental value, and simply cannot be replaced. Once again, had they been stolen, I would have no one to blame but myself.

It is an awful feeling to be unable to trust my locker to the very authority which issues and operates the lockers. I feel as though the SAO was fully wrong to have thrown-out my belongings. I have raised the issue with Ms. Q and Mr. D, and they maintain that there was no wrongdoing on the SAO's part, but that I am at fault. However, I write to you today in the hope that, from your office, I will receive both compensation for what I've lost, and an apology.

Sincerely,

David Heti 

to sir, with love

Below is a reproduction of an email. The text is presented as is, save for a lot of cleaning up of the spelling and grammar.

--

The Laugh Pack Late Show, 10:00pm

I wanted to let you know of something a group of us felt you needed to be made aware of. Myself and two friends went to the show The Laugh Pack Late Show and actually left when the comedian David Heti commented that "He would like to molest a little boy" and I even booed and he continued to talk about Fucking little boys. Now, I am sorry, there is funny and even adult-rated comedy, but this was distasteful and disgusting. We all commented about this as we left to the ticket vendor upstairs, and they said they did not hear the show. Even before the show even began the hosts commented that the audience only paid $5 for the show.

We have been to many shows, even the Nasty Just For Laughs Shows, free shows and many shows at the Comedy Nest, and must say this is the first time we felt disgusted and had to leave!

Seriously, I know The Segal Centre does not condone such filth and really does not bring them back!

Sincerely,

XX

--

The email was sent before I'd even left the stage. I was made aware of it only after show, however, when one of the theatre employees acted it out for everyone, as we all sat around outside, smoking and drinking and laughing.

If you're in Montreal this May, I encourage you to come to the Segal Centre on the 15th, when I'll be headlining the Laugh Pack Late Show.

the time is

Now is one of those times when it doesn't seem so incredibly self-involved or just plain old without effect or for no use whatsoever to put something out into the world (a recurring theme): in San Francisco, on the midst of a mini (though maybe only in my mind)-tour, at the café which I know best though perhaps no longer enjoy so much especially.

This morning I received one of those kinds of a series of emails which tend to push you back into the world of your choosing as opposed to away from it. That is, someone said that they liked something; another that it was "no worries" that the fact that I'd asked him to edit something and then said soon after that actually no, that's ok, it's no longer needed was no problem; and, perhaps, most importantly, another said that she has faith in whatever reasons there may be for such a weirdly impoverished, possibly self-sacrificing (though maybe eminently selfish, though maybe not, too, ultimately) way of life.

But is it self-sacrificing? I asked myself. Then, I realized, that I was reading the email, from within the literal closet in which I'd spent the previous night. (The fact is, sometimes you end up staying at some of the strangest of comedy flop houses, where, instead of on a broken down--and, I'm going to say, quite most likely pee-stained--couch, in a room with three others, you chose the incredible calming, and peace, and quiet, of a little closet-cum-home cocoon sleeping space.)

I suppose, though, what's kind of the most interesting thing that I'd like to relate is, do weird things. I mean, without being so incredibly fairly glib, it's just that sometimes you have to do things that most people wouldn't accept as right or proper but that can actually make not only sense, but, in fact, everyone happier.

For instance, for a show in another city just the other night, I was on a bus (inter-city) for a show that night. The bus broke down, however, and we were stranded maybe only forty minutes out and it was an evening bus as it was and my getting to the show on time was incredibly uncertain. It turned out that another bus came to pick us up and we would be arriving at the station just about with exactly the amount of time I would need to get to the club by 9:15, the absolute latest I would be allowed to get on, according to the super ridiculously friendly and cool (cool) comic-producer.

Should I stand up and make an announcement and ask the people on the bus if someone being met at the station with a ride might be able to rush me to the show? I thought. No, though, I figured, just let it go. Don't do that. Don't be that guy. (Don't be that guy still, again.) So, I phoned up a cab company, told them my situation, and asked them to be at the station at 8:45--no, 8:50; no, 8:55--and so on and so forth, so as not to have the driver leave before the bus' arrival on account of my not being there.

Anyway, so it turned out that the bus arrived later than the time I'd arranged to meet with the second cab I'd called for and there was no one there. Time, though, was passing, as the third cab which I'd called was presumably on its way. So, standing under the little bus station awning, trying to stay out of the rain, I ran up to one of the cars pulling away with another passenger from the bus; explained my situation in a super rushed and presumably quite endearing, if pathetically so, way; and so they said sure, jump in, we'll take you to the show.

Riding in the back with a girl about my age (home after a long trip far away) and her parents up front, we had a nice little talk about their traveling-musician brother/son and the father's past experiences of catching rides to and from ball games.

We ended up pulling up to the club; I said, if they'd like, they could come in for the rest of the show and they'd be comped; they said sure; I jumped out, raced up in the rain; showed up with two minutes to go; asked the comic-producer about the comp and he said of course; asked the comic-producer if there was time to go to the washroom and he said no, probably not, not really; and then walked up and did an admittedly quite very good set before a group of the frankly somewhat staid and insufficiently appreciative elderly (consensus opinion; not mine alone) who may never hear of me ever again, but then handed out a few promotional buttons so who knows?

No longer just some guy who would've otherwise just shown up late or even not at all and have remained forever or at least a very long time unknown, maybe; but, rather, some guy now who just did some good jokes, a group returned to some comics' home in high spirits, on our way to a strange and ridiculously enjoyable evening and night and then morning and early afternoon.

And, all this--at least in my mind--happened because of an asking the fucking people for a fucking ride to the fucking show. So, I suppose, just do these things. (Of course, who knows how the night would've turned out otherwise?) I'd like to thank my father for pushing me to do strange things when I was a child and making it perfectly clear that it really doesn't matter at all about how weird others may think you are. (That has probably held me back a lot professionally.)

And, of course, an extra-special thank you to the Giblin family.

Apologies to the Yellow Cab Company of Sacramento.

terrible! why this train ride is terrible

Oh my god. Just sat down and already this guy's breathing like that. Just shut up. Shut up. On a train for six hours and it's quiet and every four fucking seconds I have to hear you exhale. Well, It's inappropriate--it's inappropriate and it's disgusting and unbefitting and unbecoming (obviously, if you're sick or disgusting, that's different, but this is a young man). Every time you breathe I'm going to go or have to go ugh involuntarily and audibly and make my little wretch so that you know what it's like but will you know what it's like? What kind of self-awareness must this/one have who's able to go about like this for an entire life maybe? (BIg maybe.)

One time in third-year undergrad I ended up sitting beside this ex's cousin in a Philosophy of History class and it turned out that he would whistle each time he exhaled. Three hours of lecture and every exhale a whistle. But I was paying for that course and I was interested in the material and all I could experience that (Jesus--shut up) whole time was this outrage. But he was a lovely person, seemingly, otherwise and I didn't want to wrong him or even not get to know him but at a certain point (about maybe three weeks in) I told him I'm sorry, but I can't sit beside you anymore because (and this guy's phone clicks) your nose whistles when you exhale and I can't focus on the lecture. He looked a bit stunned or stupefied or dumbfounded, but I suppose I still don't known why. Perhaps because of my incredible, possibly inexcusable behaviour? Or maybe because he'd been, up to that point, unaware? I don't know. But he probably knew, that is, how he breathed.

Anyway, it turned out that years later he'd end up working at one my favourite cafés in the city (Toronto) and I would feel awkward and uncomfortable going in each time to get a coffee. But was I not to go? I was already only going to that café because of my not being able to go to another café on account of an old roommate working there who, just before storming out of the apartment for good one evening (actually, a friend of hers sort of had to come by and take her gently by the shoulders and turn her to the door and say, "come on, it's time to go now"), had gone pretty much bat shit crazy (not an expression I'm fond of, but one quite apropos), smashing plates and overturning kitchen tables and cursing a lot in the finest of the finest French. (It's a long story, but she'd come home late from a shift and I gave her an ultimatum, threatening to take her to court.)

Anyway, obviously, the worst part of this terrible breather--or, just the breathing, really--beside me is that you can't help but wonder what the hell it is that you do of which you're similarly, wholly terribly un-self-aware possibly. Or is it maybe just a case of not caring? (Is he a cruel person? Or a stupid one? That really is the question.) (One time, though, on a bus from London through to Amsterdam, this guy behind me kept fidgeting and jostling my seat and then when we all got out for a stop it turned out that he was very tall and he apologized and said he would never take a bus like that again but that he simply couldn't afford a better way to transport himself. He was the loveliest person in the world, in turned out! Then each and every jostle thereafter was just a little pleasure, a little reminder of moment of self-awareness.) (That's no typo.)

Anyway, this'll pass the time. This'll have passed the time.

golde, do you love me?

One of the great pleasures of performing stand-up comedy is the being able to tell another person to go fuck him or herself. I mean, perhaps it differs from person to person, but it’s rare that I feel that I get to say such a thing in my real life, making it just that much more interesting and enjoyable when on stage.

Of course, it’s not at all that I would ever choose to have such a drunk in the front row. Or such an interaction. But sometimes it’s Boxing Day and you jump off a train and head straight to the show and it’s in the bar of a youth hostel and some Aussie kid on his apparent quite drunken vacation has nothing better to do.

The guy had been talking through all of the comics and couldn't have given a shit about anyone else in the room. He decided to start up about 45 seconds into my own time. What follows is about maybe a quarter of the set.

Hecklers are an unusually wretched, ignorant, unpleasant bunch. Thoughtless, mostly.

a talk on comedy

Below is a recording of a talk on the subject of humour, dark comedy and Holocaust representation. The talk was given by myself and two Holocaust scholar friends on a Sunday morning in Montreal, as part of Le Mood: The Festival of Unexpected Jewish Learning, Arts & Culture. The session was advertised as,

One thoughtful comic and two hilarious academics dissect contemporary, provocative jokes on the subjects of Jews, Jewishness and the Holocaust. The presentation will begin with David recounting a number of his jokes and discussing their conception and sometimes tricky reception. Natalie and Eric will then consider David’s material, which disturbs conventional thinking on sacred subjects, within the larger fields of Jewish and Holocaust history. The aim will be to ask why these particular jokes are offensive and effective, whether their effectiveness depends on their offensiveness, and to explore the consequences of repeating history as farce. This will be funny, as well as serious.

In the audience were about 70 or so people, ranging in age from the somewhat young to the very old. They stuffed themselves into the room to listen. Only one person left early.

let god sort all of us out

Once upon a time, I used to work as a kind of a junior, sub-lawyer with the Public Prosecutions Service of Canada, speaking in courtrooms, here and there, on whatever kinds of criminal matters I so chose. Perhaps most memorably, I even got to prosecute my very own possession (i.e., of controlled substances) charge. Though a long and uncertain couple of days, in the end, the trial went perfectly fine, in the sense that we all went home with at least our health.

But what’s important is that below are two little photos I took of the actual court transcripts, which I will attempt to put into context.

Basically, the story was that two officers on patrol spotted a kid acting in a way which they alleged was suspicious, so they followed him a bit, and then eventually saw him throw away a little baggie of crack, which they recovered. The kid, in his defence, claimed that not only was the baggie not his, but that the police had unlawfully surveilled him, having had—from the moment they first started following him—no reasonable and probable grounds to believe that he had committed, or was about to commit, an indictable offence.

It was my job, then, not only to put forth the Crown’s opening arguments, present the evidence, and make a closing summation, but—most interestingly—to both examine my two officer witnesses and cross-examine the accused. And, notably, prior to the trial, I’d had no courtroom experience whatsoever. (Also, similarly notably, it’s actually in fact kind of a rare thing to cross-examine an accused. Really, it certainly doesn’t happen to most criminal lawyers until even after their first few years.)

Now, the thing is, is that underlying my realist, or possibly even cynical, exterior, is a very naïve and hopeful, if not necessarily romantic, idealist. So, this should be fairly easy, I thought, you simply ask the accused a series of simple questions, which, upon his answering them, will lead to an admission of facts that support a finding of guilt.  After all, I believed, the officers already told me what they saw, and they say saw him throw away the little package with the crack in it.

It didn’t turn out, of course, to be so simple. In particular, when I asked the accused whether he had had drugs on him that day, he said no. And I…well…I simply wasn’t prepared for that answer. As strange as it may be to say, the idea that someone could lie in court was to me kind of incomprehensible. (And that’s not to say that the accused, and not the officers, was the one lying, but certainly at least somebody must have been, and I’d already heard the officers’ side of the story.)

I suppose that I just kind of feel like it’s one thing to lie and to cheat to and steal in society, or just in general,, but then to dissemble in court? I don’t know…it’s kind of just, like, at that point, you’re really beyond the pale, for if we’ve not even the justice system, then we might as well just throw it the fuck all away: toasters, all kinds of polish, science, literature, not shitting on ourselves, everything—everything civilization has given us.

Part of me was even genuinely confused. If the officers told the truth, and the accused told the truth, then what the hell happened? I don’t know…to spend your time around people who lie to you doesn’t seem like a nice way of going about things.

I slept at work for that trial. I slept at work, and then I showered at work, and then when everyone else arrived in the morning, I felt so incredibly sick, I can’t even tell you. Have you ever seen After Hours, by Scorsese, where in the end—after a terrible, unending series of empty, meaningless ordeals—the man ends up just back where he started, as if nothing he’d gone through had been worth anything? Well, it was kind of almost my first cinematic experience. At least, I do feel as if it’s my earliest movie memory.

Anyway. Here we are.