While reading on the toilet, I came across an interesting passage in Uncle John’s Supremely Satisfying Bathroom Reader about comedy legend Jerry Seinfeld:
When Seinfeld went on stage for his first ever stand-up performance, he was paralyzed by stage fright and forgot his entire routine. He ran off the stage in a panic, mumbling a few lines to the crowd: “The Beach. Driving. Shopping. Parents.”
People love these anecdotes. It’s like the story of Michael Jordan getting cut from his first basketball tryout. We like to think we aren’t so different then the people we idolize.
Of course it’s flawed logic. My very first stand-up show went much better then Seinfeld’s, but it only takes a few minutes on Wikipedia to see that our careers have taken a far different trajectory since show number one.
It was only natural after this train of thought that my mind shifted to my very first show. (I made it off the toilet at some point.) When people ask me how long I’ve been doing comedy, I always say since last April, when I did a show at Mottley’s Comedy Club in Boston. That was not however the first time I ever did stand-up comedy, but it’s when I stated to pursue comedy in earnest. Before Mottley’s, comedy was a transient bedfellow; since then it has consumed my life.
My actual first attempt at stand-up comedy came years earlier in 2005, at a tiny coffeehouse open mic in Plymouth, Massachusetts. It was at the Kiskadee Café. The Kiskadee mic was dominated by slam poets and singer-songwriters, and right in the middle of them was a pudgy, bearded 19-year old telling jokes about masturbating.
Even though it was five years ago, I remember it almost exactly, and I do believe I could very accurately recall my entire set. So what the hell, I don’t actually do any of these jokes anymore (and most certainly never will again.) Why not share with you all a transcript of my very first show? Does that sound like something you might like?
(I envision only Harry and K-Fox actually saying “Yeah!” out loud while reading this.)
So if you will, join me on a journey back to the summer of 2005 and…
Gregory’s First Show.
MC: Oh wow, that was great Hubert, really meaningful stuff. Thank you for sharing that about your father.
(I’m making this up of course, but you get the idea. Pretentious poets always write poetry about their father not loving them.)
MC: Well, we have a treat for you guy’s. Let’s hear it for Greg Quinn, who is going to do some comedy for us.
[Tepid Applause]
Gregory: Hey Everybody, Hello, Thank You. Hello. So it’s 2005. It’s like, the future! And technology has gone crazy! I was in a public bathroom recently and I went to use the paper towel dispenser, and I couldn’t even figure it out how to use it! It was completely motorized! Since when do you need an engineer’s degree to wash your hands? I went to get some paper towels, and there was that Terminator Eye looking right at me. And I couldn’t get it to recognize I was there, so I had to like, Karate-chop the air in front of the Eye trying to get paper out. What is the point of this? Was anybody injuring themselves with the old pull-down method? Did someone try to push for a paper towel and pull a muscle?
(I was totally jazzed when I wrote this joke. This is what made me think I could be a comedian. I did it this one time and no one laughed, and I’ve never done it again.)
Gregory: I actually like public bathrooms. There’s no pressure. We’ve all been there. You’re at home using the toilet and you go to flush and the most horrifying thing in the world happens, the water starts to rise. And it’s like Indiana Jones and there’s a giant boulder rolling down for you. (Big laugh, go figure.) But if you’re using a public bathroom and this happens, you just look at the toilet, shrug your shoulders and hit the road.
Gregory: Anything is better then hotel bathrooms. I hate hotel bathrooms. Because every one I’ve ever been in is the same. We all know the time-tested bathroom setup: toilet, next to that the sink, behind the sink the mirror. And it’s lovely. But every hotel bathroom I’ve ever been in abandons this set-up, and they put the mirror right behind the toilet, so every time I use the bathroom, I’m treated to front-row seats to my own disgusting, flaccid penis taking a leak. It’s awful
(Also a laugh. I changed this one up a bit and actually still do it from time to time, though not in a while. So there it is, 3 minutes into my very first set and every joke is quite literally toilet humor.)
Gregory: So the poets were good, huh? (I knew how to fish for applause right from the get-go.) I don’t know though. It always sounds like they’re just making up as they go along, doesn’t it?
(Here it is, my first ever riff. I thought of this while I listened to the poets, and decided right there I would make up a poem on stage, and I figured it would be just as good as anyone elses.)
Gregory: I could just do one right here and it would sound just as good! Just shout out a word, any word. (I’ll never forget - someone said trombone.) Ok, Trombone. (This poem won’t be close to the one I actually said, but you’ll get the idea.)
Gregory: Oh, trombones
Your sound, so sweet
Yet so hard to hear
Because I never knew
What it was like
To hear my father play one
Oh trombones
Why did he drink so much?
(Epic Disaster! Not a soul laughed, and honest-to-goodness, a woman with short brown hair stood up and said: “you know, that’s not funny, some people take this very seriously,” and then walked out. I was frozen.)
Gregory: Ok, so this is a nice place here, huh? You got bagels and coffee. Can I get steak-tips here? Does anyone order steak-tips here? (Bombing.) Um... So, I have a gay walk. I do. I mean I like women and everything, but I walk like a full-on homosexual. It doesn’t matter what I’m saying before I walk, I walk like I’m gay. “Yeah, the big football game! Let’s do this, let’s kick ass!” [Walk away overtly gay-like.]
(Big laugh. I DO have a gay walk. Time for the closer.)
Gregory: So I was watching a documentary about Pandas (I was a master of transitions) and I found out that the reason they are going extinct is that they prefer eating to having sex. They would rather eat then get it on. (I never saw such a documentary.) And I thought, how weird? Who would rather eat then have sex? And then it hit me. I would rather eat then have sex. Because if I’m horny, I can masturbate. But there is no equivalent for food. I can’t stare at a box of cookies and jiggle my stomach around. I can’t watch Emeril and stroke my tounge!
Gregory: Thank you everybody.
And that was it. Now, this is clearly not verbatim what I said, but I’m positive these were the jokes and this was the order. I tried my best to fill in the rest.
I would find out a short time later that Jim Gaffigan had an almost identical bit to my last one, only funny. But I swear on my life, I didn’t know that when I did this joke.
I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did, or failing that, half as much as I did. I’m starting to think it would be a blast to do this exact set over again and some pointless open mic.
Anyway, I would do comedy maybe a dozen times over the next 4 years before going for real last year. Not bad for a first show if I can say so. What do you think, Seinfeld?
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
The Greatest Show in the Universe.
Years from now, when I am predictably famous, I will look back with fondness at the place where I got “my start.” Perhaps it will be some place ordinary; a vaunted comedy club; a hip, soon-to-be legendary underground comedy bar. Maybe my start will come via a more unorthodox route; a new Geico commercial campaign, a media-sensationalized murder trial. But I can say with certainty that my start won’t be hosting a new late night talk show on the Spike Network. Oh well.
It’s not that I wouldn’t take that start. I would love to heretofore be known as “isn’t that the dude who used to host that show on Spike?” It’s just not in the cards for me.
The casting call for Spike’s new pilot, modestly named The Greatest Show in the Universe, made it clear it was looking for a very specific candidate. They were looking for a 20-to-30 year old “guy’s guy.” A dude who’s “into the internet, video games, beer and his friends.” They did not want someone “polished” or “hosty,” instead they were looking for someone with “inherent comedic talent,” specifically “Zach Galifianakis, Seth Rogen, Jack Black, Ricky Gervais, Bill Murray, Jonah Hill, Andy Samberg.” As far as I can tell, this means they would like the host of The Greatest Show in the Universe to be a pudgy, excessively hairy 30-to-60 year old British Jew who writes songs about “jizzing in his pants.”
The casting call also stated that it was looking for a guy who “gets laid because chicks dig his quirky personality, not because he’s hot. And not because he has the best pick-up lines. He doesn’t.” The brass at Spike wanted someone who was "unassuming, jolly when drunk (not violent)" and that people "would want to hug.”
It was starting to get convoluted; I needed to create a check list.
OK. Let’s recap.
• 20-to-30 year old? Check.
• Love the internet? Check. But I have a feeling they mean a different internet.
• Love video games? Unless they mean 20-year-old video games, then Strike.
• Love Beer? Check, for sure. But again, I think they mean drinking beer at a nightclub while scoping for chicks, not Gas-Station 40’s alone on a weekday evening. So, half-check.
• Not Polished or Hosty? I can’t even begin… um Check?
• Anything like that list of comedians? Judging my career achievements, Strike.
• Doesn’t get laid because of looks? Resounding Check.
• Does get laid because of quirky personality? Strike. (Any of the smattered instances of me “getting laid” were due almost exclusively to unbelievable luck, something akin to divine intervention.)
• Unassuming? Seeing as I have a blog, a Resounding Strike.
• Jolly when drunk (not violent)? Strike, Check. I’m not a violent person in any way, but I’m certainly not a jolly drunk. (On Friday night, in classic Gregory-drunk form, I spent my intoxication locking myself in the bathroom, then trying to “walk” to Massachusetts before passing out on a bench 4 blocks away in the wrong direction. I don’t really think this is what the casting-call had in mind.)
• Huggable? Check. Clearly.
So that’s 4 ½ definite checks, 5 definite strikes, and 2 in-betweens. This ratio satisfied me enough to give the audition a shot, although I probably would have showed up had the casting call asked for 70 year-old transsexual Asian pianists.
The audition was at Comix on West 14th street, and it took all day. I arrived just as signups began and was number 66. The open calls were going on in cities across the country. Each city had two days of auditions. The first open call in New York had around 200 hopefuls. Assuming this was the average per-day attendance and knowing how many cities were involved, I figured they were looking for one man among a couple thousand “guy’s guys.” My masculinity wouldn’t stick out amongst a group of Olympic Figure Skaters, so I knew odds were against me surrounded by beer-bellied football aficionados.
The internet call asked comics to come prepared with a 30-second routine and our best improve skill. I don’t have any jokes that clock in less than 30 seconds, so I spent the night before writing a bit specifically for this audition, and came up with one I could use. I should have known better. When I got to the audition, I was instructed to disregard the casting call and instead familiarize myself with a prewritten bit that I would be asked to perform, some routine about how people who wear Ed Hardy shirts are douche bags.
So I spent the morning trying to remember someone else’s bit and wondering why I didn’t just become a lawyer. I auditioned on the main stage, in front of couple of attractive women. They never even mentioned the Ed Hardy bit, just said hello and asked me a few questions about myself.
Hot Lady: If you had a superpower, what would it be, and why?
(I was told beforehand to be ready to answer “Coke vs. Pepsi?” and was ready to staunchly defend Pepsi; this question caught me off guard.)
Me: Um… I would like to be able to have my entire life available on VHS so I can watch any moment from my past whenever I want.
(No idea where that came from.)
Hot Lady: Why VHS?
(I wanted to say because they didn’t have DVDs when I was young and there was no way I would have the time to forward-convert my entire childhood onto DVD.)
Me: Um… I like VHS.
Hot Lady: So you tend to like older things, like retro video games?
Me: Oh yeah, I bust out the Sega all the time. (I smile, expecting her to say something like, “Oh, I just love Sonic the Hedgehog!”)
Hot Lady: Cool. Well, nice to meet you Gregory. Thank You.
And then I left.
That was it. The callback was on Thursday but I never received an email. I wasn’t surprised or disappointed. In fact, the audition accomplished nothing except giving me a topic to blog about. This has increasingly become my justification for any failure, or mistake, or terrible, terrible decision. It’s good to have that outlet. Believe me. It’s good.
It’s not that I wouldn’t take that start. I would love to heretofore be known as “isn’t that the dude who used to host that show on Spike?” It’s just not in the cards for me.
The casting call for Spike’s new pilot, modestly named The Greatest Show in the Universe, made it clear it was looking for a very specific candidate. They were looking for a 20-to-30 year old “guy’s guy.” A dude who’s “into the internet, video games, beer and his friends.” They did not want someone “polished” or “hosty,” instead they were looking for someone with “inherent comedic talent,” specifically “Zach Galifianakis, Seth Rogen, Jack Black, Ricky Gervais, Bill Murray, Jonah Hill, Andy Samberg.” As far as I can tell, this means they would like the host of The Greatest Show in the Universe to be a pudgy, excessively hairy 30-to-60 year old British Jew who writes songs about “jizzing in his pants.”
The casting call also stated that it was looking for a guy who “gets laid because chicks dig his quirky personality, not because he’s hot. And not because he has the best pick-up lines. He doesn’t.” The brass at Spike wanted someone who was "unassuming, jolly when drunk (not violent)" and that people "would want to hug.”
It was starting to get convoluted; I needed to create a check list.
OK. Let’s recap.
• 20-to-30 year old? Check.
• Love the internet? Check. But I have a feeling they mean a different internet.
• Love video games? Unless they mean 20-year-old video games, then Strike.
• Love Beer? Check, for sure. But again, I think they mean drinking beer at a nightclub while scoping for chicks, not Gas-Station 40’s alone on a weekday evening. So, half-check.
• Not Polished or Hosty? I can’t even begin… um Check?
• Anything like that list of comedians? Judging my career achievements, Strike.
• Doesn’t get laid because of looks? Resounding Check.
• Does get laid because of quirky personality? Strike. (Any of the smattered instances of me “getting laid” were due almost exclusively to unbelievable luck, something akin to divine intervention.)
• Unassuming? Seeing as I have a blog, a Resounding Strike.
• Jolly when drunk (not violent)? Strike, Check. I’m not a violent person in any way, but I’m certainly not a jolly drunk. (On Friday night, in classic Gregory-drunk form, I spent my intoxication locking myself in the bathroom, then trying to “walk” to Massachusetts before passing out on a bench 4 blocks away in the wrong direction. I don’t really think this is what the casting-call had in mind.)
• Huggable? Check. Clearly.
So that’s 4 ½ definite checks, 5 definite strikes, and 2 in-betweens. This ratio satisfied me enough to give the audition a shot, although I probably would have showed up had the casting call asked for 70 year-old transsexual Asian pianists.
The audition was at Comix on West 14th street, and it took all day. I arrived just as signups began and was number 66. The open calls were going on in cities across the country. Each city had two days of auditions. The first open call in New York had around 200 hopefuls. Assuming this was the average per-day attendance and knowing how many cities were involved, I figured they were looking for one man among a couple thousand “guy’s guys.” My masculinity wouldn’t stick out amongst a group of Olympic Figure Skaters, so I knew odds were against me surrounded by beer-bellied football aficionados.
The internet call asked comics to come prepared with a 30-second routine and our best improve skill. I don’t have any jokes that clock in less than 30 seconds, so I spent the night before writing a bit specifically for this audition, and came up with one I could use. I should have known better. When I got to the audition, I was instructed to disregard the casting call and instead familiarize myself with a prewritten bit that I would be asked to perform, some routine about how people who wear Ed Hardy shirts are douche bags.
So I spent the morning trying to remember someone else’s bit and wondering why I didn’t just become a lawyer. I auditioned on the main stage, in front of couple of attractive women. They never even mentioned the Ed Hardy bit, just said hello and asked me a few questions about myself.
Hot Lady: If you had a superpower, what would it be, and why?
(I was told beforehand to be ready to answer “Coke vs. Pepsi?” and was ready to staunchly defend Pepsi; this question caught me off guard.)
Me: Um… I would like to be able to have my entire life available on VHS so I can watch any moment from my past whenever I want.
(No idea where that came from.)
Hot Lady: Why VHS?
(I wanted to say because they didn’t have DVDs when I was young and there was no way I would have the time to forward-convert my entire childhood onto DVD.)
Me: Um… I like VHS.
Hot Lady: So you tend to like older things, like retro video games?
Me: Oh yeah, I bust out the Sega all the time. (I smile, expecting her to say something like, “Oh, I just love Sonic the Hedgehog!”)
Hot Lady: Cool. Well, nice to meet you Gregory. Thank You.
And then I left.
That was it. The callback was on Thursday but I never received an email. I wasn’t surprised or disappointed. In fact, the audition accomplished nothing except giving me a topic to blog about. This has increasingly become my justification for any failure, or mistake, or terrible, terrible decision. It’s good to have that outlet. Believe me. It’s good.
Friday, March 12, 2010
We F'd it Up.
“And I really don’t care for the way your company left me in the middle of fucking nowhere with fucking keys to a fucking car that isn’t fucking there, and I really didn’t care to fucking walk down a fucking highway, and across a fucking runway, to get back here and have you smile at my fucking face.”
- Steve Martin.
Left in the hands of a professional such as Steve Martin, Fuck and all its derivatives can be wonderfully poetic words. The problem is Fuck isn’t only used by the masters. The amateurs have gotten their filthy hands all over it, and they have completely Fucked it up.
I consider myself an amateur; I’m certainly no master. And that’s why I have tried to keep my usage of Fuck to a minimum. I’ve written 30 posts, at an average of about 800 - 1000 words a post. That’s anywhere between 24,000 to 30,000 words I’ve written for We Could Go On and On and to the best of my knowledge, I’ve used the word Fuck in some form 5 times. Once about every 5000 words. Considering that on a typical work morning 7 of the first 10 words I speak are Fuck, I should be applauded for this restraint.
(And before you point it out to me, I am completely aware of the irony of this post. Restraint is going right out the window, or as Amy H. would say, restraint is being defenestrated)
Fuck is such a wonderful word, partially because of its versatility but mainly because of its notoriety. That’s why we have to be so careful not to overuse it and make it socially acceptable. A lot of people lament the censorship of television and radio, claiming that it is in infringement on our freedom of choice, and being a comedian you might assume I would agree, but to the contrary! I cherish the censorship! As long as the FCC deems Fuck inappropriate for the masses, it will retain an air of deviousness. Trust me, if the day ever comes where they can casually say fuck on How I Met Your Mother, our civilization will meet its demise
Fuck is like smoking. The more reviled cigarettes become in the mainstream, the more ridiculously lethal we discover they are, the more completely insane you have to be smoke, which only makes cigarettes more awesome. If I read on the internet tomorrow that cigarettes caused rabies, it would only make smokers seem more badass. Fuck is the same way.
But what would happen if Fuck became just another word. What would we do then? There is as of yet no suitable alternative. The C-word? No way. No versatility. Somehow, “Cunt the police” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
We need Fuck. And we need it to stay as badass as it currently is. We can’t let amateurs ruin it. Overuse some other curse word all you want. Overuse shit. No one gives a Fuck about shit. Shit may be distasteful, but it doesn’t have the power of Fuck. Shit is the PG-13 to Fuck’s R. Go ahead, say shit in school. You may get a terse look or two, but no one will really get angry. But say Fuck in school and the shit hits the fan! That’s a Fucking detention for sure! (School children read this blog all the time.)
Substitute other phrases for Fuck You. Suck it seems to be very fashionable these days. Tina Fey says it all the time. Why not try suck it on for size? Suck it has some of the versatility that Fuck has and even rhymes for limerick purposes. So next time you want to tell that infuriating hippie on 6th avenue trying to get you to pledge money for children to Fuck himself, tell him to suck it instead. Do it for GQ. If not for me, then do it for the children! They will need Fuck in the future!
It’s with this in mind that I try to keep Fucks to a minimum during my stand-up set. As far as I can tell, I have only one bit in which Fuck is essential for the punch-line. The rest of the time I say Fuck, I’m irresponsibly garnishing it on my bits, like it’s Fucking mustard.
I’m glad I got that off my chest. It had been bugging me. And if you disagree, please feel free to suck it.
- Steve Martin.
Left in the hands of a professional such as Steve Martin, Fuck and all its derivatives can be wonderfully poetic words. The problem is Fuck isn’t only used by the masters. The amateurs have gotten their filthy hands all over it, and they have completely Fucked it up.
I consider myself an amateur; I’m certainly no master. And that’s why I have tried to keep my usage of Fuck to a minimum. I’ve written 30 posts, at an average of about 800 - 1000 words a post. That’s anywhere between 24,000 to 30,000 words I’ve written for We Could Go On and On and to the best of my knowledge, I’ve used the word Fuck in some form 5 times. Once about every 5000 words. Considering that on a typical work morning 7 of the first 10 words I speak are Fuck, I should be applauded for this restraint.
(And before you point it out to me, I am completely aware of the irony of this post. Restraint is going right out the window, or as Amy H. would say, restraint is being defenestrated)
Fuck is such a wonderful word, partially because of its versatility but mainly because of its notoriety. That’s why we have to be so careful not to overuse it and make it socially acceptable. A lot of people lament the censorship of television and radio, claiming that it is in infringement on our freedom of choice, and being a comedian you might assume I would agree, but to the contrary! I cherish the censorship! As long as the FCC deems Fuck inappropriate for the masses, it will retain an air of deviousness. Trust me, if the day ever comes where they can casually say fuck on How I Met Your Mother, our civilization will meet its demise
Fuck is like smoking. The more reviled cigarettes become in the mainstream, the more ridiculously lethal we discover they are, the more completely insane you have to be smoke, which only makes cigarettes more awesome. If I read on the internet tomorrow that cigarettes caused rabies, it would only make smokers seem more badass. Fuck is the same way.
But what would happen if Fuck became just another word. What would we do then? There is as of yet no suitable alternative. The C-word? No way. No versatility. Somehow, “Cunt the police” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
We need Fuck. And we need it to stay as badass as it currently is. We can’t let amateurs ruin it. Overuse some other curse word all you want. Overuse shit. No one gives a Fuck about shit. Shit may be distasteful, but it doesn’t have the power of Fuck. Shit is the PG-13 to Fuck’s R. Go ahead, say shit in school. You may get a terse look or two, but no one will really get angry. But say Fuck in school and the shit hits the fan! That’s a Fucking detention for sure! (School children read this blog all the time.)
Substitute other phrases for Fuck You. Suck it seems to be very fashionable these days. Tina Fey says it all the time. Why not try suck it on for size? Suck it has some of the versatility that Fuck has and even rhymes for limerick purposes. So next time you want to tell that infuriating hippie on 6th avenue trying to get you to pledge money for children to Fuck himself, tell him to suck it instead. Do it for GQ. If not for me, then do it for the children! They will need Fuck in the future!
It’s with this in mind that I try to keep Fucks to a minimum during my stand-up set. As far as I can tell, I have only one bit in which Fuck is essential for the punch-line. The rest of the time I say Fuck, I’m irresponsibly garnishing it on my bits, like it’s Fucking mustard.
I’m glad I got that off my chest. It had been bugging me. And if you disagree, please feel free to suck it.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
If I Had a Nickel...
One of my favorite personal routines is to take the hypothetic saying “If I had a nickel for every time…” and compute it literally.
You hear it all the time: If I had a nickel for every time Tina was a bitch, I’d be a millionaire.
Now this person – let’s call him Walter - can’t possibly mean this literally. In order for Walter to actually become a millionaire exclusively through Tina’s bitchiness, Tina would have to be a bitch to Walter 20 million times. If Tina has known Walter for 50 years, she would have to be a bitch to him 1095 times every single day. I’ve known some mean ladies, but there is no way Tina could keep that up.
I’ve always found the cliché far more effective when you take the math seriously. Had Walter said “If I had a nickel for every time Tina was a bitch, I’d have 500 dollars” or if Tina said “If I had a nickel for every time Walt was impotent, I’d could take a trip to Hawaii,” well, those would be completely plausible, especially if they were married. Hell, an all-inclusive trip to Hawaii will put you out about 700 bucks, or in Tina’s terms, 14 thousand times Walter’s dick doesm’t work. That could happen over 50 years. Easily.
Lately I’ve been wondering how much I would actually have if I were to put a nickel in a jar for every time something has happened to me. So I did out all the math, and thought it only fair to share the results with you all – my bffs They are separated into categories based on what I could afford had I accumulated a nickel for every occurrence, so if you’re looking for all the juicy sex stuff (which is where I always head straight to) head to the bottom first, in the penny-candy section.
- An unlimited monthly MetroCard ($90, 1800 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Couldn’t decide if I wanted to respond with “Cool” or “Nice” and ended up saying “Nool.”
• Answered “What’s up?” with “Good, you?”
• Been walking toward a stranger on the street and couldn’t decide which way to evade, resulting in a terribly awkward dance in which they get very angry.
• Pretended to no longer enjoy Professional Wrestling.
• Became winded rising from the sofa too briskly.
• Ate an entire package of Kraft Cheese Singles in one sitting.
• Wrote on someone’s wall with the sole intent of them writing on mine, thus making me seem more popular.
• Claimed to hate New York City and couldn’t live here a month longer.
• Claimed to love New York City and quoted “Empire State of Mind.”
- A beer for myself and my lady-friend at a typical Manhattan Bar ($12, 240 Nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Drank way too much and vowed to quit drinking in the morning.
• Got drunk again that very same night.
• Took an alternate subway train because I was convinced I could figure it out only to end up in the South Bronx.
• Bragged about loving some deviant activity I’ve never even considered doing.
• Quit a job or responsibility to “focus on comedy” only to watch DVDs at 10 in the morning.
• Exaggerated a story from College.
• Attempted to begin regular flossing routine, abandoned plan three days later.
• Claimed to just “not really be into porn.”
- A McChicken Sandwich ($1, 20 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time…
• Started to update this blog but spent 3 hours on IMDB instead.
• Really tried to love College Basketball.
• Compulsively moved because I didn’t want to “grow old in this two-bit town” only to be hopelessly homesick 4 weeks later.
• Ran three miles, felt entitled to eat pizza every meal for next 6 days.
• Rinsed and repeated.
• Semi-seriously considered responding to a Craigslist personal.
• Understood a poem.
- A game of pinball (.50, 10 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Wore a Hawaiian shirt on a blind date.
• Talked to a woman without the assistance of alcohol.
• Danced without the assistance of alcohol.
• Convinced myself I am living “The Truman Show.”
• Hit a three-point shot.
• Have been paid to do Stand-up comedy.
-A gumball (.25, 5 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Um… how do I put this… engaged a lady in coitus.
-Postage in 1978 (.15, 3 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Engaged in aforementioned Coitus in which either party had an orgasm and/or was sober. (Estimated.)
-A Nickel (0.05, 1 nickel)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Vomited all over the house from too much Tequila.
• Drank Tequila.
• Looked forward to visiting Nebraska.
• Have been paid to do Stand-up comedy in New York.
• Accidentally visited another country.
• Inadvertently told my family how many women I’ve slept with (see above.)
• Kissed a man. (It was in college, during an improv show, OK? No need to start texting your friends “I told you so!”)
• Maintained for any amount of time something I’m proud of (you’re reading it.)
I think that’s good for now. Forgive me for the few TMI (too much information) moments. But come on, those are PG-rated when compared to my stand-up act. If anyone would like to know anything else I could afford using this nickel scale, feel free to ask me in the comment section or on good old Facebook.
I’m a weirdo.
You hear it all the time: If I had a nickel for every time Tina was a bitch, I’d be a millionaire.
Now this person – let’s call him Walter - can’t possibly mean this literally. In order for Walter to actually become a millionaire exclusively through Tina’s bitchiness, Tina would have to be a bitch to Walter 20 million times. If Tina has known Walter for 50 years, she would have to be a bitch to him 1095 times every single day. I’ve known some mean ladies, but there is no way Tina could keep that up.
I’ve always found the cliché far more effective when you take the math seriously. Had Walter said “If I had a nickel for every time Tina was a bitch, I’d have 500 dollars” or if Tina said “If I had a nickel for every time Walt was impotent, I’d could take a trip to Hawaii,” well, those would be completely plausible, especially if they were married. Hell, an all-inclusive trip to Hawaii will put you out about 700 bucks, or in Tina’s terms, 14 thousand times Walter’s dick doesm’t work. That could happen over 50 years. Easily.
Lately I’ve been wondering how much I would actually have if I were to put a nickel in a jar for every time something has happened to me. So I did out all the math, and thought it only fair to share the results with you all – my bffs They are separated into categories based on what I could afford had I accumulated a nickel for every occurrence, so if you’re looking for all the juicy sex stuff (which is where I always head straight to) head to the bottom first, in the penny-candy section.
- An unlimited monthly MetroCard ($90, 1800 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Couldn’t decide if I wanted to respond with “Cool” or “Nice” and ended up saying “Nool.”
• Answered “What’s up?” with “Good, you?”
• Been walking toward a stranger on the street and couldn’t decide which way to evade, resulting in a terribly awkward dance in which they get very angry.
• Pretended to no longer enjoy Professional Wrestling.
• Became winded rising from the sofa too briskly.
• Ate an entire package of Kraft Cheese Singles in one sitting.
• Wrote on someone’s wall with the sole intent of them writing on mine, thus making me seem more popular.
• Claimed to hate New York City and couldn’t live here a month longer.
• Claimed to love New York City and quoted “Empire State of Mind.”
- A beer for myself and my lady-friend at a typical Manhattan Bar ($12, 240 Nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Drank way too much and vowed to quit drinking in the morning.
• Got drunk again that very same night.
• Took an alternate subway train because I was convinced I could figure it out only to end up in the South Bronx.
• Bragged about loving some deviant activity I’ve never even considered doing.
• Quit a job or responsibility to “focus on comedy” only to watch DVDs at 10 in the morning.
• Exaggerated a story from College.
• Attempted to begin regular flossing routine, abandoned plan three days later.
• Claimed to just “not really be into porn.”
- A McChicken Sandwich ($1, 20 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time…
• Started to update this blog but spent 3 hours on IMDB instead.
• Really tried to love College Basketball.
• Compulsively moved because I didn’t want to “grow old in this two-bit town” only to be hopelessly homesick 4 weeks later.
• Ran three miles, felt entitled to eat pizza every meal for next 6 days.
• Rinsed and repeated.
• Semi-seriously considered responding to a Craigslist personal.
• Understood a poem.
- A game of pinball (.50, 10 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Wore a Hawaiian shirt on a blind date.
• Talked to a woman without the assistance of alcohol.
• Danced without the assistance of alcohol.
• Convinced myself I am living “The Truman Show.”
• Hit a three-point shot.
• Have been paid to do Stand-up comedy.
-A gumball (.25, 5 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Um… how do I put this… engaged a lady in coitus.
-Postage in 1978 (.15, 3 nickels)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Engaged in aforementioned Coitus in which either party had an orgasm and/or was sober. (Estimated.)
-A Nickel (0.05, 1 nickel)
If I had a Nickel for every time I…
• Vomited all over the house from too much Tequila.
• Drank Tequila.
• Looked forward to visiting Nebraska.
• Have been paid to do Stand-up comedy in New York.
• Accidentally visited another country.
• Inadvertently told my family how many women I’ve slept with (see above.)
• Kissed a man. (It was in college, during an improv show, OK? No need to start texting your friends “I told you so!”)
• Maintained for any amount of time something I’m proud of (you’re reading it.)
I think that’s good for now. Forgive me for the few TMI (too much information) moments. But come on, those are PG-rated when compared to my stand-up act. If anyone would like to know anything else I could afford using this nickel scale, feel free to ask me in the comment section or on good old Facebook.
I’m a weirdo.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Quitter.
I quit my job yesterday.
I was going to say I resigned yesterday. Resignation has an air of authority about it, like I’m relinquishing a throne. But considering I was an office-supply salesman and I only worked there two weeks, it would be absurd to say I resigned. Truth is I quit, cold turkey and without any notice. Took all of five minutes.
Funny thing: I’ve never considered myself a quitter despite a lifetime of behavior to the contrary. Take for example New York City. I’ve lived here for 4 months and I’ve had and lost 4 jobs. Only one of them was not of my own volition. I had a job as a food demonstrator (stopped answering my supervisor’s calls because I deemed the position too “beneath me” to give her that courtesy. I assume she eventually got the idea.) I had a job driving old people to their rec. hall on Long Island (they told me to call back and let them know my availability. I never called back.) I had my temp job in TriBeCa (I intended to ride this job for several years, but they made me leave after two months.) And I had a job door-to-door office supply selling which I did for 12 days, got quite good at it, then had somewhat of an epiphany in the middle of the day and realized I couldn’t do it a moment longer. So here I am in the middle of the day in Brooklyn, unemployed again.
And this is a tradition I’ve maintained through my life. I got my first job when I was 14, ten years ago this spring to be exact. Here is a short list of some of the jobs I’ve had over those ten years:
Bus Boy
General Store Cashier
Janitor at an old person’s home.
A summer cleaning up department store parking lots.
Whale Watch deckhand
After School tutor
Substitute Teacher
Yogurt Salesman
Target
Video Game Store Cashier
Radio Station Road Crew
Trail builder
Americorps Corps Member
Case Manager
The list goes on. And none of those jobs I was fired from. Many people spend a decade at a single job, but in less then ten years I managed to get sick of all those. A couple of them ended and I had to leave (Americorps) but for the most part I just decided that I had enough. I even walked out on Target, which has made me ineligible to work there ever again, and in the very-likely scenario Target takes over the world, yours truly is screwed.
So maybe I am a quitter. I do have very particular taste when in comes to my employment. Money has never been much of a motivating factor for me, so it’s hard for me to do anything just to make money. I’d rather do something I like for little to no pay then something I hate but could bankroll in. This probably explains why I could volunteer ad nauseum for two years but couldn’t sell office supplies for more then two weeks. But in New York, I have to make a lot of money to live here and pursue comedy at night. And if I’m looking for a job just to collect a check while I do comedy at night, door-to-door sales ain’t it.
Because I couldn’t do both. I tried to convince myself I could, but it was clear I couldn’t. Sure, I got to an open mic every now and then, but I wasn’t writing, I wasn’t practicing. There was one too many nights where I rushed out of work only to get to a mic and realize I had missed the signup. I didn’t move to New York for that. I was stressed. I was up late thinking about how to work up the nerve to cold-pitch somebody who wanted to murder me with their eyes. I virtually forgot about advancing my comedy career. So after a cold, rainy day in the South Bronx, where I was told to get a real job, told I should be ashamed of myself, told I should watch my back in this neighborhood because people in suits seem suspicious, I realized it wasn’t worth it. Not when I agreed with every word they said. It’s not that the grass was greener in the neighbor’s yard, it was that I felt like I didn’t have a fucking lawn.
I’ll get a job, I always do. I wager that it won’t even take me long. I’ll go into that interview and they’ll ask me where I see myself in five years. And I’ll look them straight in the eye and lie. I’ll give them some bullshit office line. Because telling them I plan on living in semi-squalor, skipping from job to job and still barking at the comedy moon doesn’t have the best ring to it.
At least not to an interviewer. To me it sounds just fine.
I was going to say I resigned yesterday. Resignation has an air of authority about it, like I’m relinquishing a throne. But considering I was an office-supply salesman and I only worked there two weeks, it would be absurd to say I resigned. Truth is I quit, cold turkey and without any notice. Took all of five minutes.
Funny thing: I’ve never considered myself a quitter despite a lifetime of behavior to the contrary. Take for example New York City. I’ve lived here for 4 months and I’ve had and lost 4 jobs. Only one of them was not of my own volition. I had a job as a food demonstrator (stopped answering my supervisor’s calls because I deemed the position too “beneath me” to give her that courtesy. I assume she eventually got the idea.) I had a job driving old people to their rec. hall on Long Island (they told me to call back and let them know my availability. I never called back.) I had my temp job in TriBeCa (I intended to ride this job for several years, but they made me leave after two months.) And I had a job door-to-door office supply selling which I did for 12 days, got quite good at it, then had somewhat of an epiphany in the middle of the day and realized I couldn’t do it a moment longer. So here I am in the middle of the day in Brooklyn, unemployed again.
And this is a tradition I’ve maintained through my life. I got my first job when I was 14, ten years ago this spring to be exact. Here is a short list of some of the jobs I’ve had over those ten years:
Bus Boy
General Store Cashier
Janitor at an old person’s home.
A summer cleaning up department store parking lots.
Whale Watch deckhand
After School tutor
Substitute Teacher
Yogurt Salesman
Target
Video Game Store Cashier
Radio Station Road Crew
Trail builder
Americorps Corps Member
Case Manager
The list goes on. And none of those jobs I was fired from. Many people spend a decade at a single job, but in less then ten years I managed to get sick of all those. A couple of them ended and I had to leave (Americorps) but for the most part I just decided that I had enough. I even walked out on Target, which has made me ineligible to work there ever again, and in the very-likely scenario Target takes over the world, yours truly is screwed.
So maybe I am a quitter. I do have very particular taste when in comes to my employment. Money has never been much of a motivating factor for me, so it’s hard for me to do anything just to make money. I’d rather do something I like for little to no pay then something I hate but could bankroll in. This probably explains why I could volunteer ad nauseum for two years but couldn’t sell office supplies for more then two weeks. But in New York, I have to make a lot of money to live here and pursue comedy at night. And if I’m looking for a job just to collect a check while I do comedy at night, door-to-door sales ain’t it.
Because I couldn’t do both. I tried to convince myself I could, but it was clear I couldn’t. Sure, I got to an open mic every now and then, but I wasn’t writing, I wasn’t practicing. There was one too many nights where I rushed out of work only to get to a mic and realize I had missed the signup. I didn’t move to New York for that. I was stressed. I was up late thinking about how to work up the nerve to cold-pitch somebody who wanted to murder me with their eyes. I virtually forgot about advancing my comedy career. So after a cold, rainy day in the South Bronx, where I was told to get a real job, told I should be ashamed of myself, told I should watch my back in this neighborhood because people in suits seem suspicious, I realized it wasn’t worth it. Not when I agreed with every word they said. It’s not that the grass was greener in the neighbor’s yard, it was that I felt like I didn’t have a fucking lawn.
I’ll get a job, I always do. I wager that it won’t even take me long. I’ll go into that interview and they’ll ask me where I see myself in five years. And I’ll look them straight in the eye and lie. I’ll give them some bullshit office line. Because telling them I plan on living in semi-squalor, skipping from job to job and still barking at the comedy moon doesn’t have the best ring to it.
At least not to an interviewer. To me it sounds just fine.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
A Pro at Work.
When you think about it, 40 dollars for 15 minutes of work is pretty darn good. I took some time this past week to do the math and discovered that works out to 160 dollars per hour. Now only if they’d let me do an 8-hour set.
Alas, they only needed me for 15 minutes at The Spectator’s in New Rochelle. I could have (forgive me) gone on and on.
So that’s 110 unpaid days in New York City for a 40-dollar pay-check on day 111. It took exactly 112 days to get paid for joke-telling in Boston last year. So I’m one day ahead of schedule. The big test however, will be how long it takes to get to payday number 2. Last year it took a mere 14 days. Not going to happen in New York City.
Still, no reason to complain. I’ve had a rather fantastic couple of days. Yesterday, New York was buried in unyielding snow, and there was no sense in going door-to-door office-supply selling. So I got myself an unexpected three-day weekend. I took my second drunken walk through Prospect Park in the snow early in the day (there is nothing quite like having a good buzz on while watching The Price is Right) and it was far more successful, as I was accompanied by my also-drunk roommates.
Where the hell was I?
Oh yes, The Spectator’s. My first paying gig in New York. It wasn’t in New York City, but to the north in the City of New Rochelle. New Rochelle is the seventh largest city in New York, and the home of Dick Van Dyke.
I was offered the show a month ago by friend and fellow comic Amy, who long-time readers of this blog will remember as AC, the host of the See You Next Tuesday mic. She grew up in New Rochelle and still lives there, in the very apartment she lived as a child, indeed the very room in which she was born. AC was born without medical assistance in her mother’s bed. As she puts it: “my mom thought she had to take a shit and instead I started coming out.” This no-nonsense, get-out-of-my-way attitude AC displayed during her birth is still evident today.
Once I got a look at AC’s apartment, I realized why no one would want to leave. The place is a veritable palace; it makes my already ragged apartment in Brooklyn look like a Confederate prison. I guess that’s the benefit of living outside the five boroughs.
AC lived only a few blocks from The Spectator’s, a fairly typical sports bar with the exception of its size. It’s gigantic. Perhaps my judgment was warped by the always-cramped quarters of New York City, but I couldn’t get over the cavernous interior at the Specs. There was a large square bar in the front center, surrounded on all sides by booths for sit-down dining. In the back was a stage at least 6 feet off the ground, making it first set I’ve done with a legitimate chance I would fall to my death before getting to my closer.
The Specs was hoping, but the majority of the clientele were loitering around the square bar, seemingly hundreds of yards from the stage. I did a little barking before the show, trying to convince people to move closer without letting them know I was actually performing. I’m not sure this actually convinced anyone. I opened the show and did a solid 15. I love doing 15 minutes, just enough time to roll out all my “hits.” The comic after me entered stage to sci-fi music and smoke machines dressed up in a Snuggie and Elton John sunglasses. I forgot the name of this character. The crowd seemed befuddled, but I appreciated it. I’ve seen hundreds upon hundreds of comics with the same old schtick; (myself certainly included) it’s refreshing to see someone in a dollar-store costume claiming to be from space and talking about interplanetary intercourse. And stand-up comedy is just about the only profession in the world where you can claim that. It’s what makes it so great.
I thought I did all right. Wasn’t among my best, but I didn’t seem overwhelmed. It was odd to do a show so high up, I was literally staring down at people in the front row. I had a maddening impulse to check my fly the entire set.
Afterwards, I drank free beer at the Spectator’s behest. AC sat across from me at the booth and with subtle, drug-dealer precision, handed me a sweaty wad of ten dollars bills. Four of them to be exact. And with that, I became a professional New York Comedian. I may never again get another dime to tell a joke in this city, but that will always be true.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must visit the Automatic Teller and withdraw enough money to pay for admittance to the afternoon open mics this week. But I’ll hit the stage with a little more confidence this time. Step back junior, a pro is going to work.
Alas, they only needed me for 15 minutes at The Spectator’s in New Rochelle. I could have (forgive me) gone on and on.
So that’s 110 unpaid days in New York City for a 40-dollar pay-check on day 111. It took exactly 112 days to get paid for joke-telling in Boston last year. So I’m one day ahead of schedule. The big test however, will be how long it takes to get to payday number 2. Last year it took a mere 14 days. Not going to happen in New York City.
Still, no reason to complain. I’ve had a rather fantastic couple of days. Yesterday, New York was buried in unyielding snow, and there was no sense in going door-to-door office-supply selling. So I got myself an unexpected three-day weekend. I took my second drunken walk through Prospect Park in the snow early in the day (there is nothing quite like having a good buzz on while watching The Price is Right) and it was far more successful, as I was accompanied by my also-drunk roommates.
Where the hell was I?
Oh yes, The Spectator’s. My first paying gig in New York. It wasn’t in New York City, but to the north in the City of New Rochelle. New Rochelle is the seventh largest city in New York, and the home of Dick Van Dyke.
I was offered the show a month ago by friend and fellow comic Amy, who long-time readers of this blog will remember as AC, the host of the See You Next Tuesday mic. She grew up in New Rochelle and still lives there, in the very apartment she lived as a child, indeed the very room in which she was born. AC was born without medical assistance in her mother’s bed. As she puts it: “my mom thought she had to take a shit and instead I started coming out.” This no-nonsense, get-out-of-my-way attitude AC displayed during her birth is still evident today.
Once I got a look at AC’s apartment, I realized why no one would want to leave. The place is a veritable palace; it makes my already ragged apartment in Brooklyn look like a Confederate prison. I guess that’s the benefit of living outside the five boroughs.
AC lived only a few blocks from The Spectator’s, a fairly typical sports bar with the exception of its size. It’s gigantic. Perhaps my judgment was warped by the always-cramped quarters of New York City, but I couldn’t get over the cavernous interior at the Specs. There was a large square bar in the front center, surrounded on all sides by booths for sit-down dining. In the back was a stage at least 6 feet off the ground, making it first set I’ve done with a legitimate chance I would fall to my death before getting to my closer.
The Specs was hoping, but the majority of the clientele were loitering around the square bar, seemingly hundreds of yards from the stage. I did a little barking before the show, trying to convince people to move closer without letting them know I was actually performing. I’m not sure this actually convinced anyone. I opened the show and did a solid 15. I love doing 15 minutes, just enough time to roll out all my “hits.” The comic after me entered stage to sci-fi music and smoke machines dressed up in a Snuggie and Elton John sunglasses. I forgot the name of this character. The crowd seemed befuddled, but I appreciated it. I’ve seen hundreds upon hundreds of comics with the same old schtick; (myself certainly included) it’s refreshing to see someone in a dollar-store costume claiming to be from space and talking about interplanetary intercourse. And stand-up comedy is just about the only profession in the world where you can claim that. It’s what makes it so great.
I thought I did all right. Wasn’t among my best, but I didn’t seem overwhelmed. It was odd to do a show so high up, I was literally staring down at people in the front row. I had a maddening impulse to check my fly the entire set.
Afterwards, I drank free beer at the Spectator’s behest. AC sat across from me at the booth and with subtle, drug-dealer precision, handed me a sweaty wad of ten dollars bills. Four of them to be exact. And with that, I became a professional New York Comedian. I may never again get another dime to tell a joke in this city, but that will always be true.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I must visit the Automatic Teller and withdraw enough money to pay for admittance to the afternoon open mics this week. But I’ll hit the stage with a little more confidence this time. Step back junior, a pro is going to work.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Hear, Hear Roger.
You may have noticed the paucity of blog posts lately. Sorry about that. Let’s Recap:
- Lost my temp job. Complained about it all weekend.
- Had my second show at the Creek and the Cave in Long Island City
- Got a new job selling office supplies.
- Had my first paid NYC comedy show.
- Shaved my beard.
- Started new job. Complained about it all weekend.
- Got Very Drunk, danced around bar in brand new suit. Spilled hot sauce all over jacket.
- Hung-over all day. Drank again. Passed out on 4 train.
- Had my best New York City afternoon on Sunday, complained about Monday all Sunday Night.
- Went back to work, spilled Vegetarian Chili on my crotch.
So I’ve been busy. Not that the schedule justifies writing less. I was busy last month, when I kept up a steady 2 post-per-week routine. (Also please note: blogs are forthcoming concerning the shows at the Creek and the Cave, and my paid gig in New Rochelle.) I’m just having a hard time keeping things in perspective.
What’s the expression? I can’t see the forest through the trees? That’s it. I still want nothing but to be a successful comedian, but I’m preoccupied dealing with other problems, such as how I’ve been uninsured since October or how I’ve mercilessly plowed through 75% of my savings in 4 months. I obsess over these things. I scour Craigslist job-postings rather than writing jokes. I shop for business-professional interview clothes rather than updating the blog. I go to bed early to rest up for the job rather than staying up late and hitting the mics.
I realize these are all part of a process. I have to do these things. If I don’t maintain a steady influx of cash, I can’t afford to live in New York and I can’t pursue stand-up comedy. This is very simple stuff here- I knew this was part of the deal. Still, I complain so much. I’m awful. I whine like a child on Christmas who opens a Sega Genesis when he wanted a Super Nintendo (reference courtesy of 1993.) And I fully expect everyone to sympathize; to realize my life is so hard because I have to hold down a day job like every other day-dreamer.
I bitched about blowing auditions, about losing a job that was clearly a temporary position, about getting a new one so quickly. All the self-pity made me lethargic and my ambition wallowed. Then I didn’t write. Not jokes, not blogs, not letters. It’s only been about 10 days but it feels like a fucking eternity. It really does.
Then yesterday night, hours after I should have been asleep, I stumbled upon an article online. It was from Esquire Magazine and it was about movie critic Roger Ebert. Do yourself a favor and check out this link:
http://www.esquire.com/features/roger-ebert-0310
Literally, do a favor for yourself. Read this.
Roger Ebert has always been one of my favorite writers. He managed – and still does – to walk the precarious line between serious film critic and populist champion; he found a way to be regarded by snobbish film purists and appreciated by the casual movie buff. In any artform, that’s impressive. I loved the way his reviews so often rambled off the deep end, like a lecture by that teacher in high school you could oh-so-easily get off track. He loved throwing in an anecdote, or a philosophical ramble, or a simple “this movie sucks!” Ebert always says “it’s not what a movie is about, it’s how it’s about it.” He says it over and over, sometimes qualifying it with “I often like to say…” but often just saying.
As it turns out, how Roger Ebert is about his life is with steadfast optimism. He has been battling cancer and its harrowing treatment since 2002. He’s been in an out of hospitals virtually ever since. In June 2006, he underwent surgery to remove cancerous tissue in his jaw, which resulted in part of his jaw being removed. Since that surgery, Roger hasn't a thing to eat, a thing to drink, or spoken a word. Almost four years, now. Doctors have taken parts of his shoulder and his legs, trying to reconstruct his jaw, but each attempt has failed. These surgeries have left the rest of his body physically ravaged, and he has trouble just sitting up long enough to watch a movie.
For a man who made his name talking about his opinions, there seems to be not one instance in writing of him complaining. Nothing. He became famous telling people their movies sucked, but has never used such a word to describe what has happened to him. I know I’m prone to hyperbole, but that it’s truly amazing.
And he never stopped writing. He never stopped doing what he loved. Roger Ebert still reviews movies daily. He habitually updates his blog. He’s followed by thousands of people on Twitter, which he also updates obsessively. And take it from a lifetime Ebert Reader, his reviews are just as good as ever. Better maybe. Here is a man with remarkable perspective.
Makes me feel lazy, guilty. It’s an age-old trick to use other people’s misfortune to feel better, and I guess that’s what I’m doing. It’s wrong, but it always seems to work. I really need to stop complaining and just do.
In the photo for the Esquire Magazine, Roger Ebert is smiling. He doesn’t have a jaw, but look at that picture. He’s smiling. There’s more to a smile then just the teeth and the lips and the jaw. A smile is in your eyes, in the wrinkles on your forehead. It’s all over your face. Look at that picture. His smile is conscious decision.
“I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. I hope to be spared as much pain as possible on the approach path. I was perfectly content before I was born, and I think of death as the same state. What I am grateful for is the gift of intelligence, and for life, love, wonder, and laughter. You can't say it wasn't interesting.”
- Roger Ebert
Hear, Hear.
- Lost my temp job. Complained about it all weekend.
- Had my second show at the Creek and the Cave in Long Island City
- Got a new job selling office supplies.
- Had my first paid NYC comedy show.
- Shaved my beard.
- Started new job. Complained about it all weekend.
- Got Very Drunk, danced around bar in brand new suit. Spilled hot sauce all over jacket.
- Hung-over all day. Drank again. Passed out on 4 train.
- Had my best New York City afternoon on Sunday, complained about Monday all Sunday Night.
- Went back to work, spilled Vegetarian Chili on my crotch.
So I’ve been busy. Not that the schedule justifies writing less. I was busy last month, when I kept up a steady 2 post-per-week routine. (Also please note: blogs are forthcoming concerning the shows at the Creek and the Cave, and my paid gig in New Rochelle.) I’m just having a hard time keeping things in perspective.
What’s the expression? I can’t see the forest through the trees? That’s it. I still want nothing but to be a successful comedian, but I’m preoccupied dealing with other problems, such as how I’ve been uninsured since October or how I’ve mercilessly plowed through 75% of my savings in 4 months. I obsess over these things. I scour Craigslist job-postings rather than writing jokes. I shop for business-professional interview clothes rather than updating the blog. I go to bed early to rest up for the job rather than staying up late and hitting the mics.
I realize these are all part of a process. I have to do these things. If I don’t maintain a steady influx of cash, I can’t afford to live in New York and I can’t pursue stand-up comedy. This is very simple stuff here- I knew this was part of the deal. Still, I complain so much. I’m awful. I whine like a child on Christmas who opens a Sega Genesis when he wanted a Super Nintendo (reference courtesy of 1993.) And I fully expect everyone to sympathize; to realize my life is so hard because I have to hold down a day job like every other day-dreamer.
I bitched about blowing auditions, about losing a job that was clearly a temporary position, about getting a new one so quickly. All the self-pity made me lethargic and my ambition wallowed. Then I didn’t write. Not jokes, not blogs, not letters. It’s only been about 10 days but it feels like a fucking eternity. It really does.
Then yesterday night, hours after I should have been asleep, I stumbled upon an article online. It was from Esquire Magazine and it was about movie critic Roger Ebert. Do yourself a favor and check out this link:
http://www.esquire.com/features/roger-ebert-0310
Literally, do a favor for yourself. Read this.
Roger Ebert has always been one of my favorite writers. He managed – and still does – to walk the precarious line between serious film critic and populist champion; he found a way to be regarded by snobbish film purists and appreciated by the casual movie buff. In any artform, that’s impressive. I loved the way his reviews so often rambled off the deep end, like a lecture by that teacher in high school you could oh-so-easily get off track. He loved throwing in an anecdote, or a philosophical ramble, or a simple “this movie sucks!” Ebert always says “it’s not what a movie is about, it’s how it’s about it.” He says it over and over, sometimes qualifying it with “I often like to say…” but often just saying.
As it turns out, how Roger Ebert is about his life is with steadfast optimism. He has been battling cancer and its harrowing treatment since 2002. He’s been in an out of hospitals virtually ever since. In June 2006, he underwent surgery to remove cancerous tissue in his jaw, which resulted in part of his jaw being removed. Since that surgery, Roger hasn't a thing to eat, a thing to drink, or spoken a word. Almost four years, now. Doctors have taken parts of his shoulder and his legs, trying to reconstruct his jaw, but each attempt has failed. These surgeries have left the rest of his body physically ravaged, and he has trouble just sitting up long enough to watch a movie.
For a man who made his name talking about his opinions, there seems to be not one instance in writing of him complaining. Nothing. He became famous telling people their movies sucked, but has never used such a word to describe what has happened to him. I know I’m prone to hyperbole, but that it’s truly amazing.
And he never stopped writing. He never stopped doing what he loved. Roger Ebert still reviews movies daily. He habitually updates his blog. He’s followed by thousands of people on Twitter, which he also updates obsessively. And take it from a lifetime Ebert Reader, his reviews are just as good as ever. Better maybe. Here is a man with remarkable perspective.
Makes me feel lazy, guilty. It’s an age-old trick to use other people’s misfortune to feel better, and I guess that’s what I’m doing. It’s wrong, but it always seems to work. I really need to stop complaining and just do.
In the photo for the Esquire Magazine, Roger Ebert is smiling. He doesn’t have a jaw, but look at that picture. He’s smiling. There’s more to a smile then just the teeth and the lips and the jaw. A smile is in your eyes, in the wrinkles on your forehead. It’s all over your face. Look at that picture. His smile is conscious decision.
“I know it is coming, and I do not fear it, because I believe there is nothing on the other side of death to fear. I hope to be spared as much pain as possible on the approach path. I was perfectly content before I was born, and I think of death as the same state. What I am grateful for is the gift of intelligence, and for life, love, wonder, and laughter. You can't say it wasn't interesting.”
- Roger Ebert
Hear, Hear.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)