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 guiltAfter 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.

cleaning ladies

Walking into the washroom in my towel, about to take a shower, I overheard my lessor's cleaning lady say that she's had vertigo for the past six years. Most of the entire shower was spent wondering whether, when making my coffee, I should mention something about vertigo or just the ailments of other cleaning ladies I know. (Certainly, the half-delivered "maybe you should simply stop spinning around all the time" joke didn't take. I like to believe, however, that its lack of success was a function only of her not speaking English as a first language.)

I don't know. I just always tend to see cleaning ladies as cleaning ladies; as if cleaning lady is a kind, or kind of person, unto themselves; or as if everyone else can be what they want to be, whereas a cleaning lady is born a cleaning lady. (There was actually an entire appendix to The Second Sex devoted to the clarification that while most women are not born, but rather become, women, cleaning ladies on the other hand....Thankfully, or, perhaps, regretfully, it was deemed to be a pretty terrible, arguably ruinous addition to the text. Shopped around to all sorts of publishers, no one would take on the work as it is/was/is. "But," de Beauvoir plead, "it's not that it is a ruinous addition to the text...")

It was exciting, though, to see a cleaning lady of Central American descent for the first time. I'd only ever grown up with Eastern European or Filipina cleaning ladies. Who would clean better? Who would clean cheaper? Who would have the better professional qualifications back home? (I overheard this cleaning lady say, "in my country, I was lawyer." And I thought, "me too!")

I'm never quite sure how to interact with cleaning ladies: are they a part of the house? a part of the home? do they want to be made, allowed to, partake? be left alone? How do they see us?

For who else is in the home, working on a Saturday or Sunday morning, when all you want is to be yourself, and not at all performative? Truly, the cleaning ladies have a privileged view into the lives of others, save perhaps for valets too, but then how many valets are there today and how many different homes or kinds of homes do they get around to not many I bet.

One time, when I was about ten, wanting to go downstairs, knowing full well that the family cleaning lady was there (she'd cleaned my grandmother's house, my parents' house, then my father's and mother's respective houses, my uncle's house and my sister's house and then apartment), I sat there in my room wondering whether I ought to go down and eat my cereal in my normal state of boxers-only half-undress or whether it would be more appropriate to put on a t-shirt. And I thought, "well, I do feel some sort of familial affection for her and she is sort of a part of the family and she's known me almost all of my life, so perhaps it might hurt her if I were to cover up and sort of distance myself thereby, reifying the us-them/her or whatever distinction." But, then, "would going down with no shirt on be considered a sign of disrespect, as if she's a non-person and it doesn't matter what she sees while in the/her/our house/space?"

If I recall correctly, I think that I went downstairs in my boxers only and ate half the bowl, but then returned upstairs for a t-shirt for the second half.

Years later, in a carful of comics (referred to, colloquially, and, perhaps, even technically, who knows, as a "carful of comics"), I started talking or asking about cleaning ladies and accepted cleaning lady norms of attempting to balance personal freedoms with social compact rights and obligations, etc., and then all of a sudden one of the comics piped up with a, "whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Fancy, with your 'cleaning ladies'," and I immediately came to my defence, saying that I didn't think it was such a classist thing. For don't even most cleaning ladies have cleaning ladies? (What must that interaction be like?) So I asked the one comic who hadn't said a word, "Mike, has a cleaning lady ever been in your home?" And he gave a bit of a pause and then said, "well...my mom's a cleaning lady." And then I think we all sort of shared a slow motion laugh and the credits rolled, etc. (For the record, Mike's family has a condo in Florida or something for Christ's sake. And, his mother "ha[s]"--his words, not mine--her own cleaning lady.)

Anyway, this morning's cleaning lady apparently also cleans the house of a far more successful comic who has a house and a cleaning lady apparently. (She said she would give him my card.)

I could neither really afford, nor see the point of, having my own room in the apartment cleaned by another person. Mine is the only room in the apartment that hasn't been cleaned.

certainly at the very least the second man

Apparently it's the 100th anniversary of the birth of Albert Camus! (That is, today it is.) But what's important is that last night I did a silly five-minute set of stand-up as Camus. It was a bit haphazard and there's really only so much time one can bring oneself to devote to a set performed before a roomful of very few people a single time only. Also, it was my fourth performance of the day and there was no way I was having a fifth coffee and it was instead time for a couple of drinks in order to just deal with the feeling of the fact that the previous show had been organized so terribly.

It was really quite easy dressing up as Camus as much as I was willing to dress up as Camus. (I added a scarf to my regular jacket, with the collar turned more up.) At a bar on Halloween just one week earlier, some guy asked me if I was dressed as an intellectual. I said, "no," but then reconsidered, as perhaps I was, but just not for Halloween. Then he came up to me so as to get his buddy to take one of those terrible photos with one guy's arm the other, ridiculed. I thought it was distasteful and inappropriate, but then also what the hell, perhaps it's what you get for going out.

Anyway, it's just a silly thing. Here's to a happy death. 

I almost left my heart in Halifax

 

Thank you good people of Halifax and Halifax Pop Explosion for the incredibly fun week which I truly hope to remember. Highlights include:

  • Finding myself in the midst of some hotel after-party with a bunch of musicians who seem cooler in a way that comics are not. Is it the happiness? The being able on stage to just turn off your minds (so it seems) and go into your feelings and emote and play music?
     
  • Feeling incredible longing for another comic’s company in the hotel after-party room full of a bunch of musicians
     
  • Having an incredibly interested and thoughtful and present audience for HPX and then a half hour later at some comedy club having one audience member physically threaten me before leaving the room after the god-shoving-cocks-into-his-mouth joke
     
  • Having another audience member at some comedy club the next night yell out “boring” and then telling him that his opinion doesn’t matter and then the audience applauding and then finishing with the god-shoving-cocks-into-his-mouth joke
     
  • Having the next comic on stage tell the offending audience member to eat a dick
     
  • Almost getting laid
     
  • Standing at the back of countless pop shows thinking “jesus christ these musicians have it easy. Sure maybe they suffer for their art offstage just like everyone else but then if when onstage they don’t suffer what’s the point? And no wonder people enjoy music more and musicians get paid more because they put on this crazy spectacle which allows people to really enjoy themselves.” Wanting to sleep with them all
     
  • The ridiculously hospitable people of IOU Music providing me with free beer and a place to stay warm from 10:00 am to 10:00 pm every day. Being asked “what band are you in?” by all the musicians also hanging out and sitting down. Truly my homeless shelter away from homeless shelter
     
  • Handing out a self-promotional “I Have a Problem…” button to someone apparently quite genuinely interested in comedy and then half an hour later returning to ask whether the giving him of the pin was a bit obnoxious or it was ok
     
  • Being introduced for my set as “from New York” and then afterwards a woman with a microphone coming up to me and saying “my name is X and I’m from a television channel called the CB--” and my saying “yeah I know what the CBC is”
     
  • Just the incredibly kind and generous and open people of Halifax. The present and conscientious HPX organizers. The woman on the last night who gave me the shawarma she said she no longer wanted to eat

you see?

No! No lymphoma. No lymphoma!'s what you should've...

Nobody tell anyone this joke is here. No one will appreciate it--parents of children terribly ill or a bit dim; Bahamians; those familiar with far better jokes; people fortunate enough never to have been incredibly bored waiting to board a flight.

But do you see why this is so much richer than twitter? Being able, actually, to provide some context to what would've otherwise been simply some cheap moment, stripped of whatever attempt to distance oneself from that moment?

Anyway, I used to have a Children's Wish Foundation joke, but it just never seemed to work. Then it was revived years later, less gratuitous and more critical of Big Oil, but even that really didn't seem to warrant--actually, it's a good one to revisit.

Why the hell would the people in Business Class want to sit on a plane for an extra 20 minutes anyway? I don't know. I don't understand how that's a good thing.

Ok.

iphone-20131019101932-0.jpg

Listen to your heart

Law school was a many-splendoured thing sort of, filled with misunderstanding, poor communication and then possibly some ill will too, but who knows. As one who would normally prefer just to sit at home and alone in simple solitude, I decided that the best way to ensure some sort of an integration into Faculty life would be to run for first-year class president. It would force things.

Below is my campaign poster from the election and an email that I wrote to a friend sometime after the poster was put up. I did not win the election. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Although the blind external world in which we find ourselves does not immediately disclose the reason and meaning we most fundamentally seek, and constitutes the incontestable conditions within which we must live, there is still a place for human endeavour, on an expressly human scale.

While to say that there are no unities or truths is itself a simple assertion, it might be fair to acknowledge that existence is ambiguous. But it is by way of an engaging with the very limits of an imperfect knowledge and finite life that we can exalt this very existence, by keeping it alive, and not—in bad faith—evading it.

In this absolute, indefinite movement, the highest good can be only the movement itself, which—as its ownmost form and content—is both self-generative and sustaining. It is an open way-of-being, with this very way-of-being as its subject. And what else is being won by this ceaseless revolt, if you will, save for the perpetual re-winning of meaning for-man and its very possibility?

While what one chooses—according to the dictates of one’s simple personal sentiment—may by all means be different for each, how one chooses speaks to a shared humanity and appreciation thereof*.

*********

I hope to have the opportunity to represent our class with the unaffected honesty, openness and good will that I like to believe I try to live according to quite regularly.

As well, the other candidates rape lots of babies.

Thank you for your time.

David Heti

 

 

*While this appreciation too is grounded ultimately in personal sentiment, the implication is that without such an appreciation, one is outside the shared humanity.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So that was the poster.

After putting up my three posters at around 11:45 this past Thursday, the first day of the election, I left the law building on an errand for about 45 minutes. When I returned, someone told me that my posters weren't taped very well and that they kept falling down and that people kept re-taping them. So I went around and I reinforced them.

Then, at 4:00, when all the first-year classes had ended, I walked by the area where I'd put up one of my posters and it was nowhere to be seen. I figured, it probably fell down again and the janitor probably took it away, or someone put it by my locker, etc. But, then, I walked by the second and third poster locations, and those posters were nowhere to be seen either.

I went into the atrium, where, on Thursdays from 4:00 to 7:00, the entire Faculty has coffee house, where we drink, eat, talk, etc. I spotted one of the other candidates—R.—and asked her if she knew what had happened to my posters. She immediately replied, I didn't ask them to be taken down. At the time, I didn't think it was a strange thing to say.

I wasn't clear on who exactly had taken them down (the admin, the student council, etc.), and all I’d heard was that some had found my poster offensive. I was a little upset by the whole thing, but also kind of excited, and I decided that I'd just enjoy the coffee house, and figure things out later.

Later that night, at the Ritz-Carlton, where a bunch of us were taking advantage of a firm's offer of free drinks and food, one of my good friends, G., told me that he’d heard that R. was the one who’d gotten my posters taken down. As well, later on he would tell me that when R. had asked him who he was going to vote for, he’d said, David, and then she asked, why, because he's your friend? Because you know what the Greeks say: a man who votes for his friend is an enemy of the state.

Later that night, I received an email by some member of student council, which said, I had to take down your posters because of the remark regarding the other candidates....A notice will be posted at the voting booth regarding the violation of the campaign rule. This was not in good faith.

When I emailed her back, asking her to elaborate on how exactly my poster had not [been] in good faith and which campaign rule I’d violated, she wrote back,

Attacking the other candidates with false and criminal remarks must be considered bad faith. There is no need to make negative comments about the other candidates, simply run your campaign and emphasize what would make you a good class president. It is not in good faith to make the other candidates look bad. Also, remember, should you win a position, you will not be the sole class president. You will have to work together with one of the people that you attacked.

Now, by late Thursday night, it was clear that many people in my class had heard something about posters being taken down and that I'd said something about raping babies, but nobody really had a clear idea of what had happened. People really wanted to hear what the offending line was. And this bothered me for two reasons. For one, to hear and consider the offending line alone is to take it in abstraction from the entire text, thereby distort its meaning; second, even if people did want to go back and read the entire poster, there’s no way that they’d be able to experience the line (and the poster in its entirety) the way that it was intended, as a part of what it is, lies in its unexpectedness.

Because of the very limited campaign rights, the only way that I really had of addressing the issue was to get permission from a prof, to address the class about the election, for a maximum of thirty seconds. The prof told me that she was extremely behind in the course and could only give me ten seconds, so I took it. I started talking quite quickly, about how there was some talk about an offending line in my poster and how I think that to judge what I wrote by that one sentence only, in isolation from the rest, is an inaccurate representation of what happened. I started to go into how the fact how that even once they hear of that line first they can never really read the poster as it was intended, but then the professor interrupted me, and said she that it didn't sound like I was really addressing the election, and basically told me to stop. So, I stopped.

Then I sent an email to the prof thanking her for giving me permission to speak, and also to clarify any potential misunderstanding, by saying that I had, in fact, addressed only the election. She emailed me back saying that she hoped she hadn't made me look bad, but that she didn't think it was appropriate to take class time away in order to clarify a miscommunication.

I really had no idea how I came off in that class, but today a girl whom I'd never even talked to before said that she’d felt bad for me. So that's pretty good.

As well, today I talked to the two students on some council who basically decided to take down my posters. What I really take issue with is that a) they're construing my poster as an attack on the other candidates and that b) they're accusing me of acting in bad faith.

The only campaign rule we were told about the posters was that before putting them up, we had to get them okayed by some office. And before I'd even made my posters, I went up to that office with my laptop and asked them to read what I was planning to put on my poster. I wanted to get it approved before going to all the trouble of actually putting it together. I asked the guy *three times* if he wanted to read what I'd written and he said no, it would be fine. So I made the posters and then returned to the office, to get them stamped. And even though a different person was behind the desk, she simply commented that she liked my photo and then stamped them.

I told this story to the student who took down the posters and told her that I don't see how I should get in trouble by some association, for passing my poster through the sole channel of authorization which they had required. It seems to be a systemic problem of theirs; not a problem with whatever content my poster may have had (even though my poster was not a genuine attack anyway).

This girl told me that I should choose my battles and so I choose to fight the quite personal and well-publicized accusations that I acted in bad faith and made negative comments about others.

(Incidentally, another candidate has been found in violation of the campaign rules as well, for wearing a shirt that had her name written on it. And, that girl R. did something which I imagine is clearly not allowed. On the blackboard of a lecture hall in which every single person in first year sat for an hour and a half, she wrote Vote R. The funny thing is, as far as I know, I'm the only one who's recognized that as a violation.)

So, that's the story up to now. Can you believe the idiocy? As well, what do you think I ought to do about R.’s breaking of the rules? I don't want to be a rat and get her a stupid citation, but I do want to raise the fact later on. But, if I lose the election, it might seem as though I'm just being a sore loser.

I just want to say one last thing. Immediately after putting up the posters, I'd felt kind of sick, and wanted to tear them down. I felt as though what I'd written had been really honest and revealing, and the idea of showing myself to others in such a public way, for something as stupid as student politics, and so soon after having met them, would somehow ruin any real relationship-forming I would otherwise have. And then, after all that worry, it turns out that the only thing a lot of people saw—and will remember—is some sentence that includes the words rape and babies, which they don't even understand. I find that really bizarre.

Although maybe, in a way, that still really is a significant and meaningful interaction with others, and it's only sped up the process of finding out whom I'd have some connection with. I actually do believe that. I mean, after all, *I did do that*, and that is, therefore, of me. After all, it certainly is developing into a situation that's not unfamiliar. And isn't that kind of beautiful? I mean, here I am, entering into what I thought would be a realm in which I'd end up putting on a show, but what it's turning out to be is a new sort of manifesting of my way, and not a sacrificing of it.

what a Blossom Dearie indeed

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.