Listen to and love the song. Then listen again and love after the song. If she gets away with it, why can't I? Obviously, there are reasons. Note how uncomplicated is the audience response.
what went wrong with last night's show e08 cont.
This post is just one part of What Went Wrong With Last Night’s Show E08. It ought to be listened to and read after watching the video portion, found under the what went wrong. tab.
Sometimes ideas or want don’t come or content can’t be generated and so you use whatever you have nonetheless to continue putting things out for your own sake or sanity. Write what you know a friend said more or less, so what else is there but the frustration of being in his particular time and place? Again, there’s the awful intimacy of the autobiographical, which may be little or nothing more than the totally mad and in fact artless, but then people respond to honesty and god knows that no one’s the only one to have ever experienced any of their experiences. And if not for the people who attempt to live what they can only imagine is others’ lives in the face of the public eye, then whom?
If the idea is to communicate a kind of being-at-loss then how better than with just such an expressly, perhaps completely perhaps expression?
At least others before had to suffer–not in the sense of suffer–these kinds of experiences alone. But, then, who needs character?
None of this is comedy. None of this is comedy anymore.
But, then again, on the other hand, you get out of the house and things happen. Get out of the house and things happen. This is all part of at least some process, possibly.
Is comedy supposed to make people (i.e., audiences) feel better? But ought others feel better than I do?
What Went Wrong is now more than just anything else a Career Day word of warning for prospective or curious wanna-be comics.
Like the woman smoking a cigarette through that hold in her throat, this too never had to happen; this too never had to be. (And, in effect, this is a kind of a taking-a-drag-through-my-own-kind-of-sick-hole.)
Better people have felt worse. Always a consolation.
a little tweet game/joke/experiment
Whenever I get high I’m bothered to no little extent by my losing apparently quite effectively—so far as I can tell—my faculty of judgment. In particular, so much just appears to be so much funnier than I believe that I think, deep down, it must really be. (Indeed, there was one night last month when, finding myself laughing at *this?!?*terrible comic’s jokes, I just knew that I was just too far gone. It was a miserable and humiliating moment and I no longer wanted to be with myself. I stood up, walked out and went straight to bed.)
At the same time while high, however, I recognize that if it’s my capacity to judge which is brought into question, then this very questioning of my incapacity too must be brought into question, ad infinitum. And this is a terrifying understanding and/or/both misunderstanding.
So when I come up with little tweets that I think are fantastic, I’m loathe to actually tweet them on account of this self-doubt and not wanting to waste everybody’s time.* But, then, they in fact might be of value too.
Here, then, in reverse chronological order, is a collection of last night’s draft tweets while high. (I think only the one at the top of the list was actually sent out.) I think that a few are terrible, a few just appear to be terrible (and, thereby, I suppose, areterrible) and a few are great.
If you’d like, you could leave a little note or comment either below or with me listing the one(s) which you either most or least prefer, then I’ll maybe next time be better able to better identify which tiny and perhaps unfinished thoughts are of any quality in fact.
Ok, thanks!
*This too may be just a waste of everybody’s time. Yet presented in this context, it’s not the same. It’s not the same at all.
—
1. Hey, Gary #gofuckyourself
2. Tweeting about being a comic—life couldn’t be any better! [A comic actually tweeting about being a comic.]
3. Mama told me there’d be days like this threesome.
4. Nobody understands my tweets.
5. “You and Janey come back here anytime you like. You’re always welcome.” All I want to hear. Then I can die.
6. Never ask me about dipping sauce.
7. The immigrant men have all the best soups.
8. At 3:00, I will be tweeting my best joke ever.
9. I tweet to feed my baby. It’s the only way to feed my baby.
10. Let’s all start a tweet campaign to rally for the comics who didn’t get into JFL.
11. [To put on facebook] Always a pleasure trying out my tight JFL 5 at Not My Dog.
12. Always have a “Tropic of Cancer” “lying around”—panty peeler.
13. The sweet smell of success is a little like the sweet smell of poo.
14. Tonight in sports: somebody won.
15. Even if you’re looking for pants all day—*that’s* a day. [As in, every day’s precious]
16. “No more ass-to-mouth (ATM) shots—am I right ladies!!” [Female comic from that era]
17. Help, they’ve taken my wallet.
18. Being *paid* in beer is okay—being *ok* with it isn’t.
19. We’re *all* better off without forced goodbyes to our pizza-sellers.
20. When high, every thought’s like, “that’s a great tweet.” *That’s* the problem with marijuana.
21. My saved conditional tweets have explanatory notes.
22. Oh good, it’s not the employee with whom I had the misunderstanding who’s at the pizza shop.
23. Way too high to tweet.
24. Always present at the worst night of my life.
25. I am a part of the worst night of my life.
post-fiat set number one
Earlier this year I had the emotionally draining, profoundly demoralizing and just plain terrible experience of being forced to choose between my job [1] and my stand-up. Though a surprisingly long and indeed quite equally entertaining backstory, much less need really be explained here for the situating of the clip.
Essentially, several months into my contract I received a letter from high up [2] to the effect that, with respect to my obligations under the Values and Ethics Code for the Public Sector [3], I’d been found to be in a conflict of interest on account of my stand-up activities. I was told that I failed to meet the highest standards of integrity and fairness [4] and that unless I agreed to refrain from using a certain type of material—specifically, for example, sexual abuse of children, abortion, violence against women and war crimes [5]—I would leave myself open to appropriate disciplinary action, up to and including termination of employment [6].
The fact that I do stand-up, and of a particular kind, was always something about which I was entirely up front, from the time of my applying for the job. For whatever reason, however, the very same jokes which, during my interview, were appreciated for their intrinsically ethical nature, only later gave rise to significant concerns with respect to my work obligations [7].
(Much more fun, really, to read Kafka than live it [8].)
The letter came to me on a Wednesday, hours before I was scheduled to perform, and I had little idea as to what to do. In the end, as opposed to simply cancelling the set and going home; rehashing non-violence against women, etc. material; or continuing, apparently, to violate the terms of my employment, I decided to go up on stage, in quasi-bewilderment, and do the following.
Anyway, perhaps the rest of the story another time.
(As well, I believe that the emcee that night—the ridiculously hilarious Graham Kay—introduced me by saying something about how much he enjoys my writing. I add that only because I make a quick reference to the comment during the set.)
–
[1] Articling Student with the Ontario Regional Office of the Department of Justice and Public Prosecution Service of Canada.
[2] A/Assistant Deputy Minister, Management Sector.
[3] Treasury Board of Canada Secretariat, Values and Ethics Code for the Public Sector, online: Treasury Board of Canada Secretariat.
[4] As per the Department of Justice Canada Mandate, Mission and Values, online: Department of Justice Canada.
[5] Outside Employment Conflict of Interest Determination, Office for Integrity and Conflict Management in the Workplace (March 6, 2012) at 1. [But what is this type of material? Why is abortion lumped in with the rest? I asked and I asked, so as to know just what kind of speech exactly I was being asked to confirm I would cease to use during any performances, but to no avail. I thought, perhaps, it’s a jurisdiction issue? (For instance, might it be ok to speak on provincial matters?) But, apparently, after months of committee deliberation and external consultation, this was the only solution that could be envisioned. (One option considered—as explained by straight-faced senior management—was for me to submit all my prospective jokes for screening. And I would have loved that. I would have figuratively killed for that, almost. What a colossal, tremendous waste of time that would have been.) And it was flattering, in one sense, I suppose, that a colleague made the effort to google my name, watch a set of my stand-up, tell others about it, and then rustle around some complaints. (Because certainly, I mean, yes, perhaps I am a wife-beating, child-fucking, fag-hating anti-Semite. But, then, what about the Ghostbusters joke? What about the Ghostbusters joke? (Not to mention, the funny thing is, is that I really do believe in most equality rights for differentially treated, etc. groups. But, then, I guess, stand-up really is about rhetoric and language and communication and all such other sorts of things with which, apparently, one cannot expect lawyers to be accustomed.) Anyway—stage names. That’s really the moral of the footnote. Or, maybe, it isn’t? For instance, if actor-government litigator Al Pacino were to come/have come to me, hypothetically, I’d say/have said, sorry—sorry, Al—no—but we just can’t have it. Reasonable persons are going to think that you’re actually the fucking Godfather.]
[6] Ibid at 2.
[7] Ibid at 1. (This was the Department of Justice for which I withdrew from my Masters of Ethics Programme?)
[8] The worst part is the constantly feeling as if you’re about to throw up.
if it’s your birthday today, Happy Birthday!
“Every time I share with you something, a little piece of me dies.”
It’s not really from anywhere, so far as I know, but when in quotation marks it’s often thought that there’s something more there. I mean, it could be from Buddenbrooks or something (e.g., Death in Venice), but it’s just a bunch of words put together, much like other words, up and out, for others’ consumption, for one’s own personal reasons, including probable, possible gain.
The point of this, though, is simply to put something, or do something, as it’s been a while since I’ve made a record of any kind of thought, for anyone (i.e., other than myself, explicitly). But it’s hard to go on like this, it really is. Oftentimes, the idea of just any thing and its imperfection and non-essentiality and immediate self-interestedness make it difficult to do anything but wonder why others do what they do. (Sitting in a park can do wonders for the apparent merits of sitting in a park.)
For instance, here’s a first draft of an untested joke, along with attendant note to self:
Oh, for fuck’s sake make yourselves laugh. [Opener?]
And, why not:
Christmas came a little bit early all over my face this year but I was like, “that’s ok, it’s Christmas!”
But is the world now a better place? Whose interests have been served? And, if, in certain domains, there’s no such thing as perfection, then how can there be imperfection? And yet it does seem undeniable that there exists pretty damn fucking terrible.
It just seems to be some movement—*there*, self-replicating—of which each moment is just a manifestation of the whole, no? Each subsequent roommate as necessary as the preceding one; one’s being age two-ness no more essential than one’s being age ten-ness than etc.; etc. I’m tired of editing, obviously, maybe, but it would just come out as something. It’s just an exercise—an exercise. No one’s shoving anything in anyone’s face here to the point at which the person in whose face anything’s being shoved can’t prevent further shoving.
This is more relevant than silence? Less?
I think that if women were not at all selective about whomever they slept with, there would be no culture. (This is stated.)
(This is an excuse.)
below
Seemingly each and every time the inclination to quit everything comedy comes about and presents itself even more uncomfortably, the universe intervenes and provides me with even less of an anything to which to devote myself. And, then, faced with this even vaster, if possibly differently unfulfilling void, it seems most natural to again turn inward.
For instance, the other Sunday, looking for a belt, damn near the entire goddman day was spent wandering around in search of a belt. And it wasn’t the entire day, but maybe too much of it nonetheless. It had been a long while since the belt with which I’d grown comfortable over the years had come apart in a way irreparable, and I figured that it was time to no longer think about it as my last (i.e. ultimate) belt.
But it started coming to about 5:00 and it was Sunday, and the stores, so I imagined, were about coming to their close, and it wasn’t even the thought of likely going home without a belt, so much as the end of the search itself that was most unsettling. Because—and this may end up being a terrible sentence fragment—throughout the day—though, granted, any prospective new belt wasn’t essential, given my already being able to walk through the city in pants—I had the very strong sense that if my entire life consisted of nothing but this looking for a belt, that would be ok.
Could there really be/have been a belt with which I’d be happy? Possibly, sure. But, would it be/have been likely? No, absolutely not. Plus, though I can now remember where and on which trip I’d purchased the last belt, I couldn’t, on the day of the searching discussed, remember how I’d felt at that previous purchase.
Certainly, the love of a belt is something that grows over time.
Anyway, I ended up happening upon an in-the-end quite disappointingly cheap place selling things leather—which I was hoping to refer to as a leathery but which apparently really isn’t called that—and purchased just some ridiculous piece of belt because it was there, the talking down to $35 of which shouldn’t have mattered at all.
It’s as bulky today as it was then. And there’s no way they’re taking it back. And I’m not a cowboy. And it’s been just sitting there, on a shelf, the entire time.
it is what it is
Last night, after my set, an obnoxiously drunken woman from the audience accosted me at a venue different from the one where I’d performed. Stumbling up to me at the bar, slurring, “it just wasn’t funny, man, it just wasn’t funny,” I didn’t know how to respond. When interrupted similarly, during the set, earlier, when she’d slurred out, “it’s not funny, man, it’s just not funny,” it was somewhat easier to answer her, employing the direct – and which I feel is best – approach, of telling her that nobody cares what she thinks and to shut the fuck up.
It was a strange encounter, though, at the bar, as her opinions were of no less validity necessarily than those of the previous evening’s almost-overbearing drunk, who couldn’t have been any more generous in his praise. They each left me feeling differently, however, despite neither of them being really wrong, though, I thought.
The first performance was a good performance. That the only heckler that evening had her mouth held shut by her friend laughing hysterically throughout just made sense. But the second evening’s set really wasn’t funny.
There’s a terrible moment I’m often acutely aware of when talking to those whom I come to realize, only far too late into the conversation, are either drunk or mad. It’s the feeling of both i) what the hell!/why the hell, then, have I been wasting my time here already, and ii) well then what the hell does it matter if one’s drunk or mad, if all that’s been said up to now’s made a lot of sense? And then things get cold, and cold and uncomfortable.
So the very short, obnoxiously drunken woman, then, wasn’t to be dismissed out-and-out just in person. Sure, she had been disrespectful earlier, and that may have been a reason for acting disrespectfully at this point in time, but then she was just yet another person who’d had too much to drink, and was a horrible person, but with a distinctly valid or not criticism nonetheless.
“It’s possible,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean that you ought to speak out in the middle of a set. It isn’t necessarily always funny.”
“It’s my birthday,” she said again.
“Happy birthday.”
so, only one joke discussed
What’s a comic to do with those jokes most likely to be appreciated by other comics only? Introduce them to the world in some confusedly ineffectual manner with respect to whatever may be the intention, it appears. And, so, here, as equally open for public consumption in theory as without readership in fact, are some jokes otherwise far better performed than written out, notwithstanding the case of the likelihood of so few appreciating them if performed.
(All of this too, perhaps, obviously, or, actually, maybe not at all, would most likely be better experienced more fully performatively. It’s the inflection, pacing, intonation, etc. that’s lost. On the other hand, of course, is the opportunity to read over, read in and return to, etc. provided.)
Unrelatedly, most comics appear to employ such a space for the promotion of future shows. That for which it appears to be best, however, is in fact the apologizing and attempting-to-account in light of whatever earlier, perhaps previous nights’ performances.
So, though immediately, at least for me, seemingly far more interesting to carry on in this vein, these are the jokes:
Sifting through some old papers the other day, I happened to come across the first joke I ever wrote. And it was a thrill, just to see how incredibly funny…how sophisticated…was the comedic sense, even back then. Because it’s just…it was…it appears to have been a callback.
Cue slow clap.
You see, the thing is, it’s just not a joke that’s for everyone. And that’s not to say that it’s not a good joke.
There’s a difference between a joke that’s no good in itself, unconditionally, and a joke that’s no good in its time and place and people. Here, whatever elements of sufficient joke goodness there may be, if any, are present.
The problem lies in the general, non-comedian audience’s lack of familiarity, in general, with the notion of a callback. In the context of a set of stand-up comedy, acallback denotes a referencing to an earlier moment in the set. A callback will tend to take the form of a punch line that brings to the audience’s collective attention an earlier joke or punch line. The apparent intention of a comedian employing a callback, one can only assume, is the affecting, thereby, of not only a moment of pleasant surprise, but the impression, too, of incredible, pants-dropping proportions of comedic mastery.
Returning at this time to the joke, the implicit, comedic incongruence of a first joke being a callback is revealed.
The joke, then, arguably, turns in on itself, maybe, for just as the fictional joke callback must have necessarily failed as callback, so too does this admittedly pretty worthless callback joke fail as joke.
Yet, in my mind, I love them both.
ideally, none of this would be here
Perhaps the only kind of public presence I should hope to endorse would be that which does nothing more than apologize and make amends for its very being there.
Necessarily, by way of its continual failure to realize its impossible perfection, it justifies itself.
But, man must eat. By bread alone.