Fourth of July

Reasons why Al-Qaeda can't enjoy the 4th? 1. Brats 2. Brews. 3. Broads in bikinis. Reasons why America rules? SAME DAMN LIST.

New jokes (that'll be old soon)

The pope is asking catholic priests to only drive "humble" cars, not flashy new ones. To put his case, he quoted the Bible's least known book, "The Gospel According to a 2003 Toyota Camry." Eliot Spitzer is back. Most men caught with a hooker get a felony. Spitzer got two talk shows and will walk into a job paying $185k. So here's my question: who's got two thumbs and wants to be caught with a hooker?

Eloit Spitzer is the Rosa Parks of men who pay for sex. He's breaking that mirrored ceiling for all of us.

Spitzer is running as New York's fiscal watchdog. His campaign slogan? "You're money's on the table."

With Spitzer and Weiner back, it's perfect timing for Christine Quinn's new campaign slogan - "Quinn: No dick moves."

New jokes (that'll be old soon)

Cops have arrested a senior Tiffany's executive for stealing from the company. Told them those jewel-encrusted staplers were a bad idea. Governor Chris Christie has made a playlist for music website Spotify. He says it's eclectic: perfect for a jog, the gym, and hanging with paramedics afterwards.

A key part of Obamacare will be delayed for one year, says the White House, but then we'll definitely get it. Definitely next year. Isn't it great when the President sounds like a coach who missed the playoffs?

Shame of normal things

Why are human beings ashamed of completely natural things? My bowels work and I have a sex drive. I shit, and I pleasure myself. But I do it in extreme private, usually in tiny little rooms with locked doors. So do you. Why? Shitting is the same as eating. They’re two equally important steps in a process with many parts: nourishing our physical bodies. But when we eat, it’s a party. Come over and eat with us! Even better, we’ll go out! Some special people will make special eating things, JUST FOR US! We eat together, like a big family. But we shit very separately, one-by-one, in a little box, far from of sight.

Maybe it’s a deep symbolic thing. Eating is the beginning of a process, shitting is the end. I guess our species likes beginnings. Weddings are about lives beginning, and are big joyous occasions: literally everyone you care about is in the room. Divorce is different. You get divorced in absolute privacy, like your relationship taking a shit. It happens in a tiny room. Only you two are there. Maybe there’s a guy handing you paper, but you’re both pretending he’s invisible.

Beginnings are hopeful. Ends are depressing. We call everything that ends “a new beginning”, because we just don’t want to deal with that fear and shame of an ending. We lie to ourselves.

We shit and we jerk off in private because of fear and shame and taboo. Maybe it’s the root of our symbolic vocabulary. Other animals don’t have it. They do whatever they like with their bodies, completely in the open, whenever they want. But then no orangutan ever wrote a novel. Maybe our urge to do symbolically “dirty” things in private is linked to that creative urge. We hide some things. And they end up coming out in other ways.  It’s odd to think Shakespeare wouldn’t have written Hamlet if he could just take a good, non-self-conscious shit in front of everyone, but maybe it’s true.

New jokes (that'll be old soon)

A judge in California ruled that schools can teach yoga. He said yoga isn't always a religious practice, and doesn't threaten the separation of church and state. Although like church, you should go once a week, but don't. A would-be bank robber in New York was arrested with a to-do list in his pocket, which included the words: "rob bank". In his defense, he said he rarely gets to everything on those lists.

A university in England has built a talking cigarette pack that tells you to quit. Users wish they could turn it off, because nothing kills the mood after sex like a robot voice saying "big mistake."

A maid in China faces jail after urinating in her boss' tea. The boss was furious, telling reporters "if I want the taste of pee in my mouth, I buy Mountain Dew."

New jokes (that'll be old soon)

Obama visited Nelson Mandela's former prison cell yesterday. "Most fun I've had in months," he said. An airport screener at JFK accidentally emailed a picture of his genitals to his co-workers. He won't be fired, because bosses feel bad  the tube was small enough to take in his carry-on.

A woman has found a cache of anti-tank missiles while cleaning an old shed in Virginia. She said she was clueless how they got there, but it explains why she's never had a tank problem.

Monsters University will be followed by "Monsters Grad School", where Mike and Sulley tell freshmen they're poets and give them chlamydia.

The E.U. is outraged America hacked into its network. But they should have picked a better password than "welovecheese".

The Gay Pride parade took place in New York yesterday, followed by the lesser known "Asexual Quiet Satisfaction of a Good Book Stroll".

 

 

 

 

Skinny fat

I’m skinny fat. I have a skinny person inside me, but he drank and ate garbage until he wasn’t. I am soft all over. Never been hard. The only hard things I have are a penis and some arteries. You know those hard guys? You always grow up with some of them. They are just hard all over. Every little muscle is popping out and demanding attention at the same time. Tight. I ran into one of the hard boys from my high school a few years ago. He’s now a very soft man. I want to say I didn’t enjoy it, but I did. I felt the 13-year-old boy inside me talking trash in an imaginary locker room. “Not so hard now, are you. It sucks not looking perfect doesn’t it? No, you’re gay. Shut up.” etc.

It is genetic? I don’t know. Both my parents are fat. But both of their parents were skinny. I’m suspicious of the genetic get-out. It feels like I’m just looking for a way to make my fat not a moral failing. I feel angry at myself for looking like this, and I know most of the things that would make me NOT look like this. I’m just too lazy to do them. But I can’t make peace with it. I make pasta. Then the cycle starts again.

Fat is a moral issue. It must be. It’s about responsibility. On a deep level, I’m fat because I don’t want to take responsibility for my life. When I think about quitting drinking, or committing to eating healthy, I hand the power to validate my choices over to other people. Quit drinking? But my cousin will tease me over Christmas. Stop eating junk food? But that means I can’t connect with my best friend, who eats no vegetables and seems eager to beat his father’s early death record of 59. Because that’ll show him.

I tried to eat healthy last week. But I went on two light benders anyway. A full bender is planned. A light bender just… happens. In a moment, you’re drunk. Like a sudden zen enlightenment, the word just comes to you: “shots.” The kind of night where you make no plans to drink heavily, but wake up in your clothes spooning a pizza crust.

This post made me hungry. I wonder if the donut shop is still serving bagels. It’s OK if they’re not. Wait, does cream cheese taste good on a donut? Let’s find out.

New jokes (that'll be old soon)

Anthony Weiner is ahead in the polls to be New York's next Mayor. Rival Christine Quinn dismissed the news, saying "there's only one poll that matters: the stiff one you tweeted everyone." New England Patriots star Aaron Hernandez is charged with one murder and is now a suspect in two more. He's now the biggest killer in the NFL, after Parkinson's.

Edward Snowden is spending a fifth day in the transit section of Moscow Airport, fleeing U.S. espionage charges. If the Americans catch him, Snowden fears they'll either water-board him, or worse, offer him more Sbarro's.

New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg is going to be a grandfather. He doesn't care if it's a boy or a girl, as long as it's healthy and under 16 ounces.

Google is developing a video game console. It's going to be called Wii... know all your secrets so buy it or else.

A New York man was thrown out of a strip club this week for wearing his Google Glasses. "It's a real threat to privacy," said one stripper, as she mashed her buttocks into Bob from sales.

Simon Cowell is making a talent show in Afghanistan. He hopes to topple its current #1 show: "Law and Order: Can We Have Some."

How to be British

There's a common misunderstanding that you must be born, or live in, Britain to be called “British.” This is wrong. Anyone can be British. It’s an identity you just pick up and wear at will. Like being a Goth, or black. Here is how you do it.

1. Secretly hate yourself, but even more secretly love yourself.

You must be self-deprecating at all times. Behave like Hugh Grant and constantly project an image of “fish out of water” charm. You are well-educated and know a few things about a few things, but golly, you’re a very silly person really and don’t deserve any of this attention and my goodness, you're a total fraud. In private, admit the truth: you are British. We invented everything. Then we ruined all of Africa and half of Asia, and people still think we’re classy and adorable. You’re one pimp motherfucker.

2. Believe all Germans are Nazis.

This is easy because it is true. All Germans are sneaky Nazis. Thank goodness for the British who single-handedly defeated them while the Americans watched in wonder. Be sure to remind all Germans that you think they are Nazis by constantly making jokes about the Second World War, Hitler, and how they love Hitler. If they get offended by this (i.e. accusing them of sympathy with the worst regime in human history), this is just another example of them having no sense of humor. Which is typical for a Nazi.

3. Polite = rude.

To be truly British, politeness must be a weapon. “I do beg your pardon” is British for “don't bump into me. Handle your business, you clumsy fuck.” Whenever you wish to display hatred or anger, be excessively polite. It’s been working for us for centuries. That’s why we ruin everything but people still think we’re admirable.

If you do these three things, you are well on your way to becoming British.

Good karma

This week I did a bunch of stuff for other people, with no expectation they would help me in return. This is rare for me. I am a hardcore fan of self-absorption. It’s an addictive rush. Like a runner’s high for people who don’t run, but work hard at being selfish dicks. But this week, I helped a family member who was in a bind. And I referred a complete stranger who I met on a plane to some job opportunities (not in my ‘field’). So far, what I did seems to be panning out for both of them. I don’t think it’s a co-incidence that soon afterwards, I bumped into a very decent and generous comedian friend of mine (for his modesty I won’t name him) who in the space of 30 minutes, provided me with some of the most valuable advice and potential writing leads that I’ve ever received. This is in the same week that another comic friend referred me to a club in New York where I may be able to get regular work.

It’s tough to put this kind of serendipity into a cosmic framework when you… don’t have a cosmic framework. I don’t know how the universe works. But I know these events are connected. Am I Buddhist now? Do I need to buy some sort of holy robe? I hope not. I look fat in sheets.

The New Yorker agrees with me

In case you think I was too hard on Daft Punk, The New Yorker music critic Sasha Frere-Jones was also puzzled (although he can't bring himself to throw the book at them). Thank god for this line: "I replay parts of Random Access Memories repeatedly while simultaneously thinking it is some of the worst music I've ever heard."

One word for you, Daft Punk: “Booooooooo."

My excitement for the new Daft Punk album lasted precisely until I heard it. Because it SUCKS. It is TERRIBLE. This is why. Daft Punk have a sacred gift. They write disco-electro-funk-pop that makes the soul soar, the ass shake, and sadness run and hide. On this album, they decided to ignore that gift, and head down a road paved with shit called “Jazz-Fusion Bollocks.” Gone are the savage drum loops and taint-shaking bass. Say hello to self-indulgent piano noodling and soft cymbal fills! But don’t worry: they kept the totally incongruous robot voices. Sounds like a recipe for elevator music written by The Borg, right? It is! Congratulations. Your prize is listening to anything else.

The first track is “Give Life Back to the Music”, starting with a bullish eight-bar fanfare that makes you think, “OK, now we’re getting some.” But then it settles into some third-rate Chaka Khan knock-off boogie bullshit that even guitar great Nile Rodgers can’t save. It’s an emotional betrayal, like a lover starting to kiss your genitals, then abruptly leaving to heat up a can of soup.

The Robots start singing: “Let the music in tonight, / Just turn on the music, / Let the music of your life, / Give life back to music.” I’ll forgive most lyrical mistakes, but this is a verbal war crime. If pop music had an atrocities tribunal in The Hague, Daft Punk would be doing Life in a cage. This is how Daft Punk write lyrics: they keep a mentally handicapped boy chained in basement, teach him only a handful of words (“Music, Dance, Life, Touch, Lucky, Yeah, Love”), then savagely beat him and write down whatever comes out of his mouth. At least that’s what it sounds like.

The second track, “The Game of Love” is just excrescent. Remember that scene from every ‘80s cop movie, where the hero silently struggles with his feelings on a beach, admitting his hard cop heart is falling for the Captain’s daughter? Remember the appalling soundtrack to that? No need. Just listen to this enema of a song and shudder.

Daft Punk work with the legendary Giorgio Moroder on the imaginatively titled “Giorgio by Moroder”, as if collaborating with a legend will distract everyone from the fundamental awfulness of the record. No dice, man. You could get Shakespeare to punch-up a Jeff Dunham routine, but at the end of the day, it’s still a racist puppet show. In fact, this album is the racist puppet show of dance music.

The cringe-inducing summit of the record is “Within”. A friend of mine said it best: “I can't remember a song that gives me more secondhand embarrassment.” Words fail to express how poor it is. The tune is the kind of cheesy, plinky-plonky appeal to melancholy that will be familiar to anyone who has watched a badly-made public service film about AIDS. The lyrics are about a robot having an identity crisis, which sounds like Stephen Hawking if he was a 13-year-old girl upset that Megan has a boyfriend (what the fuck, Megan? Make time for “us”).

The rest of the album could have redeemed itself, but didn’t. There are a couple of bright-ish spots. “Get Lucky” is a B-minus Daft Punk song that the whole world convinced itself was an A. “Instant Crush” is worth a few repeat listens: who would of thought Julian Casablancas would be the only guy to escape this musical Hindenburg with any credit?

The scale of the critical con-job Daft Punk have managed to pull here is staggering. Reviews are almost all favorable, if not glowing. Popular culture was whipped into a fever pitch of excitement for this record, and critics played along, stoking the anticipation even further. It would take a set of solid brass coconuts to turn around and say :”yeah, you know that album we made you run out and buy? It’s a dud of a dildo of a record. Sorry about that.”

This record accomplishes one thing, and one thing only. If you’ve ever wondered yourself: “25 years from now, what kind of music will McDonald’s play to make customers leave?” WONDER. NO. MORE.

Why I am furious

I am furious over nothing about 70 % of the time. These things are in my head and sucking up all my mental energy today: - I am furious at a friend who I’ve helped a lot over the last few years, but who then asked me to do a big thing for her. I said I was excited about it. I was lying. I didn’t do the thing she asked. I continued to lie that I wanted to do the thing. I lied for two years while I continued not doing it. Eventually she called me out on it. I am furious at her, despite the fact she is 100% in the right. My brain thinks that because I’ve helped her in the past, I should get a medal now, instead of feel bad for repeatedly lying and letting her down. Which I definitely did. What a bitch.

- I am furious at another friend for never calling me. Do I call him? No. But I sent the last email, so fuck him, right?

- I am furious at my parents for coming to visit me and loving me and renting a house by a lake that I get to swim in this summer while they ask how I’m doing and take a genuine interest. What a bunch of dicks.

- I am furious at my job that is very flexible, pays me fairly, and treats me with respect. Utter, utter dicks.

- I am furious that Ms. McKintee from Middle School allowed me to ignore her when she tried to teach me touch-typing, sending me into a computer-based world without a basic skill. I chose to slack off. It was my decision but it’s still 100% her fault. Are we clear?

- I am furious at me. That guy is a total asshole.

Four things to love if you're a comic starting out

If you've just started out in stand-up comedy, you need these things: 1. Matt Ruby's Sandpaper Suit blog. It calls itself a "how the sausage gets made" account of the New York comedy scene. A massive inspiration, it's my current gold standard for "inside baseball" comedy thinking on the internet. Pair it with Matt and Mark Normand's "We're All Friends Here" podcast, a disgraceful temple of comedians over-sharing their darkest moments.

2. The Connected Comedy podcast. Don't listen for the laughs. Listen for the lessons. Hosts Jordan Cooper Chelcie Rice, Josh Homer and Josh Spector are breaking down what success and failure mean on the business side of the comedy world, now that the internet and social media are changing the model for everyone, all the time. Full disclosure: the intro music sucks, and you may find yourself getting scolded a lot. Fuller disclosure: you need to be scolded. We all do.

3. Bryson Turner's Comedy Hajj blog (with contributions from Lawson Leong and Lucas Molandes). Bryson is New York City''s leading philosopher-clown. Just read him. Then watch his self-produced special here. Bryson is taking us somewhere and it's very cool.

4. Christian Polanco 's Offstage podcast. I'm a new fan of this, but it's a great podcast about relationships featuring comedians happy to cut the riffs, and dial up the honesty.

 

Why the audience is more important than you

I just watched 'Public Speaking', Martin Scorsese's 2010 documentary about Fran Lebowitz. Fran is the greatest: New Yorker, intellectual, old, Jewish, a riff machine, an opinion factory... all the best things. You should watch it. She said one thing that stayed with me for days. She was talking about the AIDS crisis in New York in the 1980s. She lost a lot of friends, many of them performers or artists of some kind. The disease killed artists, dancers, actors, writers, and all kinds of creators. Losing them was tragic, she said, but that wasn't the heaviest hurt each artistic community suffered. The worst blow from AIDS was that it KILLED THE AUDIENCE. It ripped through the tastemakers, the appreciators, the fans, the people who could recognize what was good, what was bad and what was great. The way she tells it, AIDS hit New York like an iceberg: we saw very public deaths, but below the surface were hundreds more that did the real damage. For every Keith Haring, the city lost a dozen people who could love and nurture crazy people like him. And with them, we lost the next five Keith Harings, because no one was there to see them. The audience was more important. The audience is always more important. Not in a corny, “if it wasn’t for you, there wouldn’t be a show!” way, but more “if it wasn’t for you, there wouldn’t be a me”.

The idea hit me good and hard. As a performer, it’s natural to be an ego-maniac. And ego is a useful tool. A necessary tool. But I was seeking a way to relate to audiences that didn’t make it all about me, a relationship that didn’t sweep me along in an ego rip-tide that can (frankly) make me a jerk to be around.

Fran Leibowitz gave me a mental frame to beat that back. The audience is more important. They know what’s good and what’s bad. They know the truth. They may not know exactly how to get there (that’s my job to try and find). But if I’m willing to put ego aside and really listen to what they’re giving me, we have a chance to find something that’s bigger and better than both of us.