When Being Not-Stupid Is Not Enough*

Better read critics and theorists may have long solved this problem, but for me it’s been hard to figure out where to go in critique and creativity after going meta—which I’m here going to clunkily define as using the very aspects, techniques, or tools of some process to go out and above that process in order to make some kind of comment on it. Or what the new OAD says: “denoting something of a higher or second-order kind.”

Now: it’s no good going meta about something’s having gone meta. This is just another form of going meta. Meta-meta is not cubing the square, so to speak, it’s making a 3-D model of a tesseract.

One way to get past meta came yesterday from Josh Fadem, a comic whose incredible, unparalleled, standup work is hard to find online but whose sketch work is all over. (You might know him as Liz Lemon’s agent.) I had questions about his deliberately “shitty” timing, where pratfalls and mic-stand trouble will last upward of 4 minutes while, later, four different one-liners get sped through all in a row. I suspected that there was careful timing going on on his end, despite the timing on our end being shitty, in terms of classic comic timing.

In doing standup, Fadem told me,

I’m gonna assume the audience all knows what good timing is. So if I make them think that a joke is going to come in a particular way, but then it comes in a totally bad way or different way, that’s a whole other joke in itself. But it’s also a new laugh. It’s the same thing—like if you ever watched movies like The Room. People have … they’re laughing at these movies for a particular reason, because it’s not doing what movies are supposed to do. There’s something funny about doing everything wrong. I used to approach it from a meta place, but now I think I’m thinking of something different. It’s like: where’s the joke that’s the off joke? I’m thinking of it more from a joke place than from a “What can I do that’s meta?” place.

I didn’t press Fadem on these ideas, they only surfaced going through my notes afterward. But I take him to mean that a “meta place” is highly rational, and the aim when one operates there is to provoke the audience toward increased awareness. Sure, this kind of provocation can lead an audience to laugh, but the whole approach is didactic and marmy. A “joke place”, on the other hand, is irrational. (N.B.: irrational ≠ subrational.) And given Fadem’s chronological development, it seems that one has to consume the meta in order to reach this third-order joke place—land of new jokes, wrong jokes, off jokes—the way we consume grammar to write novels or jazz musicians consume theory to improvise.

The difference is in intent. The problem with going meta in comedy is that it’s clever, and clever ≠ funny. Clever is right. Clever is correct. It’s sometimes a kind of truth, being clever, but clever’s from a meta place, and what laughs cleverness earns are given or proffered. They’re not yanked from folks’ guts. Funny yanks laughs from folks’ guts. It’s past intellect, even as so much good humor relies on its audience’s smarts.

For my ongoing appreciation of a joke, or for retelling or writing about later, that joke ought to appeal to my intellect, but when I laugh hard and suddenly and without consequence—when I laugh the way certain women’s posters exhort me to dance—it’s from somewhere past intellect. A joke place. Then I decide whether to wield my intellect to figure out why I’m laughing and whether I’m happy about it. It’s maybe a millisecond lag, but it’s like the way we feel that a surface is burning us before we sense its smooth or ragged texture. One quality is way more urgent and important than the other.

Lesson learned: being smart, clever, meta doesn’t get them in the gut. It may even be DOA as a creative approach. Or, as Fadem also put it:

Another thing that I like to do if I’m stuck is take the approach of “Well, I’m not gonna be able to think of something that’s brilliant and so I’ll just think as dumb as I can.” I’ll just be fearless and not cute or smart. You know? Just try to be dumb.

UPDATE: It occurs to me after the fact that cinephile Fadem’s celeb impressions—which are simultaneously accurate, funny-dumb, and about the dumb way impressions have to be accurate—are a better example of what I’m trying to say here than anything.

===

* Apologies to Built to Spill for borrowing and then clunkifying their title for a very great song.

The Comedy Combine: Review of 10 August 2012’s John Oliver’s New York Standup Show

JONYSS is a great idea for a comedy showcase that’s structured a little misguidedly and aired at a time (10pm CST Fridays) to ensure few but comedy nerds and homebodies will watch. Maybe Comedy Central’s hoping for an audience older than its faithful Workaholics/Tosh.0/South Park-loving demographic, though given last night’s lineup (white guys under 40) I wouldn’t say this is the case. John Oliver makes for a X host. X = a certain value of delightful here but that’s a word I really don’t want to use.

But it works in that you can see a spark of light in his eyes when he’s doing his bits (best one from his introductory set last night involved the shitty state of our union, and seeing it as the hardscrabble underdog team going into halftime in a Hollywood football movie, POTUS as the angry coach who needs to shout his team into a turnaround victory). His mouth curls in and out of a grin that reads as pure delight in getting to deliver the material. This delight’s infectious, which is what you want a showcase host to do: infect the crowd with the energy the comics need to respond to. Is it his accent? The tone we’re used to hearing in Daily Show field reports? There’s some great mix of stern authority and giddy childishness that sets the right mood.
Continue reading The Comedy Combine: Review of 10 August 2012’s John Oliver’s New York Standup Show

NY & DC Comedy Trip Roundup

Best laid plans…. Here are the comics I ended up seeing in New York:

Elna Baker
Kevin Townley
Eliot Glazer
Kate McKinnon
Cintra Wilson
Julie Klausner
Evan Q. Franceschini
Josh Ruben
H. Jon Benjamin
George Gordon
John Roy
Adam Sokol
Kara Klenk
James Harris
Matt McCarthy
Mike Feeney
Liz Miehle
Todd Barry
Scott Sharp
Chris Difate
Andy Hendrickson
Hannibal Buress
Scotland Green
Seaton Smith
Hari Kondabolu
Dwayne Kennedy
Ari Shaffir
Kevin Avery
Louis Katz
Sharon Spell
Sara Schaefer
Christian Finnegan
Leo Allen
Anthony DeVito
Yannis Pappas
Judah Friedlander
Al Madrigal
Brendon Walsh
Aziz Ansari
Jermaine Fowler
First Comedy Cellar Guy I Couldn’t Write the Name Down Of Because NO NOTETAKING!
Second Comedy Cellar Guy
Darrell Hammond
Aziz Ansari
Dave Attell
Sixth Comedy Cellar Guy God Damn It
Greer Barnes
Max Silvestri
Mike Racine
Leo Allen
John Roberts
Brendon Walsh
Gabe Liedman
John Mulaney
Aziz Ansari
Herbie Gill
Jeff Maurer
John Mulaney
Chuck Martin
Jerry Seinfeld

That’s 60 total standup or hosting sets I watched in ten days. Eight of those were women. That’s a 13 percent showing. Poor form, NYC! Outside of the Ted Talks show I saw at Littlefield in Gowanus, I was only able to see women perform in group shows at UCB East. Not the Comedy Cellar (whose booker is a woman), nor beloved shows Whiplash and Big Terrific.

Sure: I missed some shows I needed to catch. It’s not like Janeane Garofalo wasn’t at Union Hall that one night, or Judy Gold didn’t do that all-queer show I skipped. But what does it mean that this is the lineup for the upcoming New York Comedy Festival?

Kevin Hart
Aziz Ansari
Bill Maher
Robin Williams in conversation with David Steinberg
Ricky Gervais in conversation with John Hodgman
Jim Gaffigan
Patton Oswalt
Brian Regan
Artie Lange
Rob Delaney
Marlon and Shawn Wayans

Marlon and Shawn Wayans are funnier than any one woman, clearly.

DC Comedy Trip: Jerry Seinfeld @ the Kennedy Center

My seat, dotted.
In a small club like the Comedy Cellar, laughter bubbles and percolates around the room like a backyard water feature. At the 2,400-seat Concert Hall of the Kennedy Center it breaks like waves on a nearby shore. The room swells, and the slow rush of it rises into the air and trails off, like a balloon released to fate. It’s a very soothing noise. Minus the words coming from the comic at the center of the 100-foot-wide stage you could fall warmly asleep to it.

Jerry Seinfeld looked great Saturday night. In his sharp charcoal suit and close-cropped hair, he seemed never to stop moving. He had so much stage space and he knew how to use it. It was less stand-up comedy and more leap-around comedy. It’s more energy I’ve seen out of most comics, and Seinfeld (can it be true?) is 58 years old. I’ve never been part of an audience so happy to be seeing the person it came to see (one passing reference to Newman and the whole room erupted). That Seinfeld’s opening bit was about what a pain in the ass it was for all of us to come out to see “Jerry” (so bizarre that he’d assume we’d all collectively refer to him with his first name; my telling you I saw “Jerry” Saturday night would be as disarming as if I told you I was going to see “Ciccone”) only seemed to make us love him more.

He is a pro, an expert, an artist. And his comedy is very, very broad.
Continue reading DC Comedy Trip: Jerry Seinfeld @ the Kennedy Center

DC Comedy Trip: John Mulaney @ the DC Improv

John Mulaney is 29 years old, and it’s a cuspy age for a very cuspish comic. “I don’t look older, I just look worse,” he says in a bit from his last special. “When I’m walking down the street no one’s ever like, ‘Hey, look at that man,’ I think they’re just like, ‘Hey, that tall child looks terrible!'”

The tall child lost in the adult world is Mulaney’s central concern. Or more so it’s the bad kid growing into a bad adult. These are different roles. The bad kid disobeys, obedience being the central job of being a kid. There’s plenty in his act about breaking the rules and paying the price (or not). Mulaney jokes about his kidself getting his face slapped for wanting to watch more than an hour of cartoons, being evicted from a store at age 10 just for smelling bad, shouting “McDonald’s, McDonald’s!” on a car trip and getting something far worse. And then in high school, the bad kid disobeys with drugs and drinks, inciting a whole basement of other bad kids to chant “Fuck da police!”

With each of these bits, we in the audience get to relive some disobedience of our own, or disobey vicariously through Mulaney. We like it because we’re adults now, and this incongruence of time—Mulaney’s physicality makes it happen (more on this)—is what keeps us laughing.

Also there’s a kind of relief. No longer a kid, the adult inherits the communal position of setting the rules. And adult-Mulaney wants to obey but can’t. It’s what makes him a bad adult. He’s a terrible driver. (Others on the road “expect to see a blind dog driving while texting and drinking a smoothie. Instead they see a 29-year-old healthy man trying his best.”) His girlfriend has to step in and explain how he should be treated. He seemingly can’t even order Chinese food the right way.[1] Even his outfit Friday night—jacket and slacks, button-down shirt with no tie—conveyed the unsteadiness of his place between childhood and adulthood. It was the uniform of an adult, but not quite.

About half the material was new to me. Maybe a quarter was from previous specials, and another quarter I heard two nights previous at Big Terrific in Brooklyn. And yet I laughed throughout it all, again, because the material is so strong and his delivery is such a pleasure to watch. Why? What makes it such a pleasure?

In developing the chunk about how his girlfriend takes care of him (from New in Town), he has this great bit about Delta Airlines, which I’m happy to write about after Delta Airlines fucked everything up with my travel getting back home that I hate them and will always hate them and encourage others to hate them with me. It’s a long drawn-out fantasy of abuse after Delta delays his flight. Mulaney says “O-kay!” and heads off to the bathroom, coming back to the counter later. “Any updates?” he asks. “Yeah we took off when you were in the bathroom,” the Delta people say. “Because we hate you!”

“O-kay!”

They give him a food voucher that doesn’t work, and he takes it to the “Ruby Tuesday Fuck-You Express” to buy a frozen Caesar salad with it, and they go “No!

“O-kay!”

“Wait,” they say. “You’re a little fat girl aren’t you? SAY IT!

And Mulaney says “I’m a little fat girl” in the voice of a little fat girl.

Mulaney, as I’ve said, is a tall child. At first he seems reputably adult, but as you keep looking you can see how incredibly young he looks. It’s like he was drawn as part the crowd on a picture page from Encyclopedia Brown. That he’s able in one second to play a convincing authoritarian adult (i.e., a good adult, making the rules) and in another to jump into the body of the little fat girl might be his central talent.

This dynamism filled his set the other night. Here’s a man we’ve seen on TV, who with the precision and wisdom of what he knows to be true (“There’s lots of places to pull over in a relationship, and what [my friend] did was he took the car and just drove it into a wall”) can presume a happily granted authority over us in the audience. So it’s so great when he shucks this authority and plays dumb. It’s like a hairy man in drag, or when we say a pet thinks it’s people. Mulaney can sound precisely like our parents at their cruelest, most furious moments (our mothers, mostly; there’s a smarminess we recognize from lunch ladies and schoolbus drivers, the gender-incongruity of which only adds to the comedy), all the while looking and playing the part of a little boy. He’s a bad tall child who’s totally getting away with it, and I’m amazed every time at the performance.[2]

Footnotes    (↵ returns to text)

  1. One of his best bits I neither want to spoil nor can figure out a way to transcribe without totally destroying. Most of the humor comes through Mulaney’s vocal work and the funny unequal relationship he’s able to paint between him and the lady he orders from. “Sorry you’re so over Chinese food, Chinese-food lady.”
  2. The night’s funniest/saddest bit was watching recent Georgetown grads boo an eighteen-year-old recent high school graduate, just for being from Arlington. This during some light crowd work. “You guys hate national cemeteries or something?” Mulaney asked. “Why do people boo Arlington so much?”

    “B&T crowd,” said some dude.

    “Oh okay,” said Mulaney. Then: “What?

    “It’s Virginia!” yelled the dude’s lady companion. “It’s like New Jersey.”

    “Except it’s not,” Mulaney said, knowing full well how ridiculous it was for little kids—likely getting money from mom and dad so they can live within the District proper—to pretend at being New Yorkers, with real B&T traffic.

NY Comedy Trip: Big Terrific at Cameo

There’s a fan front and center on the stage of Cameo, a theater in the back of the Lovin’ Cup Cafe, which blows upward at the crotch of whomever’s standing at the mic. It gave a couple comics last night something to address immediately, a nice way in to a set after the applause, something more visible and direct than “How’s everybody doin’?” It also blows upward into this strange fiberart sculpture suspended from the ceiling (see above), a wide gauzy sheet from which hang scores of yardlong threads that wavered like cilia from the breeze. The thing made a kind of frame for the comics. It’s both big and terrific, the way monsters are.

Max Silvestri is one of two hosts, and he may be the quickest comic I’ve seen all week. Not just in the speed of his delivery, but in the way some crowd work with the visiting mother of one the Brooklynite women in the audience could turn on a nickel into a sendup of his powers of deduction. I say nickel because his bravura piece from last night involved an old man trying to change a quarter for five nickels at a bar. Where Silvestri was able to take this premise involved such quick invention—before I knew it we were talking about puppets and doll laundrettes—that the comedy of his subject was like tripled by it. I mean: I couldn’t tell whether I was laughing at what the jokes were saying, or that these jokes were suddenly begin said, or that these jokes had been yanked into the bit so suddenly. I mean: it was all three, of course. Just a stunning performance.
Continue reading NY Comedy Trip: Big Terrific at Cameo

NY Comedy Trip: The Comedy Cellar

Legendary spot. You see it all over Seinfeld’s Comedian documentary, and lots of scenes from Louie have been shot inside and outside it. I was assigned a seat directly next to the kitchen and my drink order was finally taken during the introduction of the host for that night. “You can’t take notes,” my waitress told me. “Put it away or they’ll confiscate it.”

In other words, I was treated like shit. The Comedy Cellar is a great (because small and intimate) space run in such a way that your having a good time becomes a struggle you have to fight for, not a outcome of a comfortable and well managed experience. Such is the way with every comedy club I’ve been in.

Comedians must have reasons to love performing there. And comic audiences must be happy paying so much for such a shitty experience. Every great show I’ve seen this week has been free. Not cheap: free. I’ll never understand it. Maybe my book could be about how to enjoy comedy clubs.

NY Comedy Trip: Whiplash (w/ surprise guests Aziz Ansari and Judah Friedlander) at UCB

hing happens in you when someone you have seen on television appears on a stage. This is just given and not interesting. But something joyous and profound happens when someone you have seen on television appears unannounced on a stage and does standup to you. This is a common enough occurrence at not just the Upright Citizens Brigade theater but other venues around the country that it becomes part of the experience—prognosticating with friends in line pre-show about who might show up, Tweeting about it during or after the show so’s to be the first to report the news. The fun one has or does not have listening to funny people becomes tied to this level of access and intimacy.

I’ll have to come back to this tomorrow. Ditto the sets by Al Madrigal and Brendon Walsh.

Last night Judah Friedlander and Aziz Ansari did walk-on sets. The joyousness and profundity came not just from the fact of seeing live and in person what you’ve only seen distantly on TV. It comes from what you get to see, an inversion of celebrity identity that happens right before us.

On Parks and Recreation Aziz Ansari plays Tom Haverford, a goofball wanna-be lothario. There is overlap, to be sure, between Tom and what I as an audience member feel I know of Aziz, but Tom is not real. Aziz is, and when he came on stage last night I felt joy about getting access not just to his real-lifeness, but his personal authenticity, his own direct voice. Whereas Tom Haverford’s voiced by a whole team of writers. So what’s been constructed to form Ansari’s public identity gets inverted on the standup stage. The public’s made private (or privater.) It’s like the difference in feeling I get between a fictional narrator and a nonfictional one.

Judah Friedlander, though, inverts this inversion. His character on 30 Rock, Frank Rossitano, is infinitely realer and more authentic than Friedlander’s standup persona, who wears a T-shirt reading WORLD’S GREATEST and does ironic schtick about being great at karate and bedding many women. It’s flat[1] material. Nearly all crowd work. And it killed.

How did it kill? More than anyone I’ve seen, Friedlander is lightning-fast in reacting to audience’s questions, and he’s deeply committed in these quick bits to his character. In other words, he’s like a one-man improv group, maybe the best one in the country. But the joy of seeing in person the person behind what one’s seen on television is lessened by the tenacity with which Friedlander sticks to his schtick. He’d never appear on stage in a cardigan and a tote bag, for instance, half -Lemon’d from stress. He’d never speak honestly to Jenna about how phony she is and why. He’d never cow to his mother.

On TV, Rossitano appears to us as a far realer person than Friedlander allows himself to be perceived on stage. Ansari’s act stands in contrast here—he does a lot of work on stage to separate his self from his TV character. Anxieties about dating and cohabitation, for instance, that Haverford would never have. Also lots and lots of sincere crowd work. Friedlander also works to separate himself from his character, but he does it by pushing us away from his self and toward this performed inauthenticity. Somehow it feels just as intimate.

There are more things to be said about cameos and how they operate in theatre, say, or on television. I keep coming back to rock shows, because this is what I used to stay up past 11pm on a Monday night to catch when I was the age of most of last night’s audience (which is a topic for a much longer post than I have the time for now). Bands require guitar techs and drum kits and set up time and three-to-five-minute songs to move you. It’s way easier for a beloved comic to get up for 10 minutes and put on an amazing show. It’s so cheap: all you need is a mic and a bottle of water. No wonder kids are staying up past 11pm on a Monday night to catch it.

===

[[]]Possibly outmoded, too. One joke last night was a Chuck Norris joke, but without transcribing it for those folks eager to see him I’ll say it might be the best Chuck Norris joke I’ve heard, in how by disparaging the hell out of Chuck Norris the man he’s able also to disparage Chuck Norris jokes themselves. Hence possibly.[[]]

Footnotes    (↵ returns to text)

  1. hing happens in you when someone you have seen on television appears on a stage. This is just given and not interesting. But something joyous and profound happens when someone you have seen on television appears unannounced on a stage and does standup to you. This is a common enough occurrence at not just the Upright Citizens Brigade theater but other venues around the country that it becomes part of the experience—prognosticating with friends in line pre-show about who might show up, Tweeting about it during or after the show so’s to be the first to report the news. The fun one has or does not have listening to funny people becomes tied to this level of access and intimacy.

    I’ll have to come back to this tomorrow. Ditto the sets by Al Madrigal and Brendon Walsh.

    Last night Judah Friedlander and Aziz Ansari did walk-on sets. The joyousness and profundity came not just from the fact of seeing live and in person what you’ve only seen distantly on TV. It comes from what you get to see, an inversion of celebrity identity that happens right before us.

    On Parks and Recreation Aziz Ansari plays Tom Haverford, a goofball wanna-be lothario. There is overlap, to be sure, between Tom and what I as an audience member feel I know of Aziz, but Tom is not real. Aziz is, and when he came on stage last night I felt joy about getting access not just to his real-lifeness, but his personal authenticity, his own direct voice. Whereas Tom Haverford’s voiced by a whole team of writers. So what’s been constructed to form Ansari’s public identity gets inverted on the standup stage. The public’s made private (or privater.) It’s like the difference in feeling I get between a fictional narrator and a nonfictional one.

    Judah Friedlander, though, inverts this inversion. His character on 30 Rock, Frank Rossitano, is infinitely realer and more authentic than Friedlander’s standup persona, who wears a T-shirt reading WORLD’S GREATEST and does ironic schtick about being great at karate and bedding many women. It’s flat{{1}} material. Nearly all crowd work. And it killed.

    How did it kill? More than anyone I’ve seen, Friedlander is lightning-fast in reacting to audience’s questions, and he’s deeply committed in these quick bits to his character. In other words, he’s like a one-man improv group, maybe the best one in the country. But the joy of seeing in person the person behind what one’s seen on television is lessened by the tenacity with which Friedlander sticks to his schtick. He’d never appear on stage in a cardigan and a tote bag, for instance, half -Lemon’d from stress. He’d never speak honestly to Jenna about how phony she is and why. He’d never cow to his mother.

    On TV, Rossitano appears to us as a far realer person than Friedlander allows himself to be perceived on stage. Ansari’s act stands in contrast here—he does a lot of work on stage to separate his self from his TV character. Anxieties about dating and cohabitation, for instance, that Haverford would never have. Also lots and lots of sincere crowd work. Friedlander also works to separate himself from his character, but he does it by pushing us away from his self and toward this performed inauthenticity. Somehow it feels just as intimate.

    There are more things to be said about cameos and how they operate in theatre, say, or on television. I keep coming back to rock shows, because this is what I used to stay up past 11pm on a Monday night to catch when I was the age of most of last night’s audience (which is a topic for a much longer post than I have the time for now). Bands require guitar techs and drum kits and set up time and three-to-five-minute songs to move you. It’s way easier for a beloved comic to get up for 10 minutes and put on an amazing show. It’s so cheap: all you need is a mic and a bottle of water. No wonder kids are staying up past 11pm on a Monday night to catch it.

    ===

    [[]]Possibly outmoded, too. One joke last night was a Chuck Norris joke, but without transcribing it for those folks eager to see him I’ll say it might be the best Chuck Norris joke I’ve heard, in how by disparaging the hell out of Chuck Norris the man he’s able also to disparage Chuck Norris jokes themselves. Hence possibly

NY Comedy Trip: Knitting Factory Showcase with Hannibal Buress

Huge, free night of comedy last night that I’m going to try to get at comic-by-comic.

HANNIBAL BURESS
I think a lot of what makes Buress so funny is the way his slow, laconic voice hides a sharp-as-hell intellect. Hides is the wrong word here, but he’s got the verbal timing of a stoner, and he’ll often wear this steady grin while working through a bit, but when the punchline lands what had seemed like a stoner now seems like a guru, the kind of seen-it-all hermit people hike up to caves to ask life-changing questions to. It’s like a slow wit that’s still impeccably timed.

He stood himself in great contrast to Seaton Smith, who’s got a rapid-fire delivery and a voice that’ll growl in high pitch for emphasis, like a motorbike stuck in a low gear. But also in great complement to him. In some between-acts bantering crowd work about white guys and black guys and who can run faster, Smith mentioned that there’s always one white guy in the Olympics. “He’s always from South Africa, have you noticed that shit?” Buress: “You think that’s the residual effects of Apartheid?” This didn’t kill like it would have if it were in a proper set, but what’s also great about Buress is watching him masterfully let stuff like that go.
Continue reading NY Comedy Trip: Knitting Factory Showcase with Hannibal Buress

NY Comedy Trip: Todd Barry’s Voice

“Got a great voice don’t I? A woman once said to me my voice was like butter,” Todd Barry told us at one point in his 20-minute set at the Laughing Devil Comedy Club[*] last night, and this hypothetical woman’s absolutely right. Barry’s voice is reedy and deep like a bass clarinet, and he adds at the ends of certain setups and punchlines a kind of exhaled drawl that we come to take as a signal. Here’s kind of how it works/sounds:

I don't eat right.
I see people who eat worse than me now.

I saw a guy eating lunch he had a burger,
fries,
milkshake...
beer.

Burger-fries.
Milkshake-beer.

Underlines for when that drawl gets deployed. Like I said it works as a signal, the way certain ghosts do, the ones who are continually slipping around corners. It’s a voice that beckons: Here, follow me for a sec. I’m going to take you somewhere very interesting.

Barry’s comedy is narrative and rich with detail. His jokes involve a basic format, where some anecdote that illustrates a personal habit or interest of Barry’s is turned, through dialogue, into a kind of absurdist fantasy. One bit was about phones dropped in toilets:

I asked a friend if she ever dropped her phone in the toilet and she said, “I did but there was no pee in there.” Really, never? That’s the luckiest series of events ever.

This is all Barry needs to set up a world where the falseness his friend believed is made literal and true:

They’re installing a new toilet? Who’s first in line—you are! Mayor cuts the ribbon. Glare from the scissors blinds you. You slip you fall. Where does your phone go? Into the crystal clear waters, of an innocent virgin toilet.

In reading the above, insert laughs after every punctuation mark, laughs Barry’s won by both the slow and steady timing of each line, and also the specificity of detail. And it’s interesting how much work timing and detail do to make us laugh, because the thing about these absurdist fantasies Barry paints is that, given the way they’ve been set up, we know precisely where it’s headed. I mean: this isn’t the surprise of a punchline. There’s no turn that delights us into laughing. When Barry asks “Where does your phone go?” we know he’s going to say “the toilet.” But he says “Into the crystal clear waters,” and we laugh that he hasn’t yet said “the toilet.” And when he says “of an innocent, virgin toilet” we laugh again because he didn’t only say “the toilet.”

It’s his voice that does the jokework, but it’s the absurdism that reveals the jokestuff, if you will—the thing we’re all meant to laugh at. So many comics we like we like because they speak certain truths. Jon Stewart. Kathy Griffin. Bill Hicks. Joan Rivers. Todd Barry, too. His comedy is like a Beckett play, where all the characters say to each other what normally is never said, and often can never be said.

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Footnotes    (↵ returns to text)

  1. It’s in Long Island City, which is close, in Queens. We were told it’s the smallest comedy club in New York City, and given that the stage was about the size of a dining room table, and the room not much wider than an SUV, I don’t doubt it. It’s an incredibly intimate space to see comedy, and so it was a total shame to see it run like a big impersonal comedy club. Yes there was a two-drink minimum Yes, assigned seating. Yes, the menu pushed overpriced party cocktails named for famous comedians. (“That’s a huge drink, holy shit. Did you order the Todd Barry?” Barry asked one audience member last night. “It’s a shot of funny and another shot of funny.”) So while I got excited by the place when we first arrived, the club-style rigidity made it a drag. It’s the perfect way to ruin such an intimate venue.

NY Comedy Trip: Matt McCarthy at UCB East

I.
If standup’s effect on its audience were judged by scientists, they’d rig up people with all kind of Clockwork Orangey probes that measured vibrations in the belly and sides, constriction of the facial muscles, and the milliliters of wetness secreted by the tear ducts. If I had such data available from last night, it’d show that Matt McCarthy is the funniest comic I’ve ever seen live.

How is this possible? I wasn’t two-drink-minimumly boozed up, and owing to the mostly mediocre showcase that preceded McCarthy’s set I hadn’t been much primed to laugh. But throughout his set I couldn’t stop laughing. And now that I want to write about it, to figure out how what happened to me last night happened to me last night, I’m having a hard time. McCarthy’s comedy is nothing groundbreaking, formally daring, or even new. But he is the funniest comic I have seen in a very long time. Possibly ever?

II.
There are funny people in the world whose funniness is more of them than something that comes from them. Kevin McCarthy (no relation?) from Kids in the Hall comes to mind here. He looks funny. He has a funny hair and face. He can sit in sketch and say “And I never got my water” or “Cat on my head” and I laugh very, very hard. Matt McCarthy’s gift is a similar kind of physicality. Picture the perfect union of Bobby Moynihan’s boisterous, indignant intensity and Conan O’Brien’s mawkish clowning between monologue bits. McCarthy can look at the audience with a certain bug-eyed severity, and everyone laughs.

Okay, so why? We’re not infants who laugh at funny faces. Or maybe we are? What I need to write about here is clowning, a tool some comics use to either deliver jokes or milk certain bits for more laughs. Steven Wright’s probably never clowned in his life. Seinfeld? Louie CK? Maybe sometimes. Chris Rock does it. Jon Dore and Aziz Ansari, too. Katt Williams? God yes.[°] Clowning as I want to talk about it’s a kind of exaggerated miming as a means of illustration. So you land the punchline, and then you act out the punchline through mime, to keep the laughs going. It’s all physical. It’s often silent.

McCarthy’s clowning is sometimes illustrative and sometimes just pure clowning. And you would think that, to keep the audience laughing continually as he did, this’d have to happen at a kind of rapid pace. But no. McCarthy’s presence is so strong that he can stand behind the mic stand and look at us (or not) or mime something (or not) and still hold us in thrall. It’s clowning elevated to the sublime. We look at him as though we might certain miracles unfolding before us.

III.
Let me try to come up with examples. One bit he has is about NYC horses as actual deputized police officers (which I hope is true). This bit’s set up with McCarthy revealing that his favorite thing about New York is the horses (itself a pretty funny conceit). “Am I right?” he asks. “Anybody else?” Giggles from the room, but no vocalized agreement. “The neighs have it,” he says.

It’s a pun even a devoted pun-lover like me can’t find a way to love. So what follows are 26 seconds of McCarthy clowning increasingly large or arcane forms of weaponry he’s firing at the audience. Double-handed pistols. An old Civil War musket that needs filling and tamping. “The neighs have it,” he repeats a couple times, unloading on the crowd, over and over again killing us all.

Another bit’s about an old girlfriend who’d buy sex toys but never use them, because they were worth more in their original packaging. Again, a pretty decent gag about Star-Warsian geeks. “Nerd alert!” he screams at us. “Right!? Right.” And then he holds up two split-V’d Spock hands. “Go Mork your own Ork!” he yells, scissoring the hands together. We laugh. I’m cackling like a deceiving old prospector at this point. And then he holds his palms out like antennae from the top of his head, flapping them one at a time. “Go watch DVDs of Alf!”

IV.
That I’m doing such a poor job of capturing his comedy in print is a good indicator, I think, that McCarthy’s act is so charged and incredible. The best comics can somehow create a form of intimacy with each member of the audience, such that we come to believe each joke is meant for us most of all, and what this means, then, is that the strongest and most moving comedy is going to need to be in the moment. Live and direct. McCarthy accomplishes this while maintaining a fecund, loving antagonism with his audience. His improv skills are manifest in the way he could turn interruptions, flubs, and errors into sources for more comedy.

But of course any established comic can do this. It’s called being a professional. What makes McCarthy stand out is the reckless mania behind his improvisations and recoveries. Yesterday I talked about being held somewhere uncertain by a comic. Today I used the word thrall. That’s McCarthy’s power. In his hands you feel captive. It’s the exact same feeling as being tickled, the exact same mix of agony and ecstasy. We can barely bear it, but we don’t want it to stop.

===

Footnotes    (↵ returns to text)

  1. For some reason, examples of female clowning comics are escaping me. Any help?

NY Comedy Trip: The Talent Show — TED Talks

I.
What’s the opposite of a joke? For standup comics, it might be the long-form comedic monologue.

Pick up any book on how to be a comedian, and they’ll all tell you that to be a comedian you cannot get on stage and tell jokes. There’s a great story in Patton Oswalt’s Zombie Spaceship Wasteland about getting booked at a shitty club in I want to say Oregon, where some local comic asks him where he gets his jokes, never thinking that Oswalt wrote his own. This guy got up and told a bunch of blue jokes he got from joke books and killed. Killed!

To be a successful comic these days you write your own material because the first audiences you have to impress are other comics. And if your material is “How is diarrhea like color blindness? It runs in your jeans,” nobody is going to be impressed.

So goes the popular wisdom. I’m hoping later next week to see how much this don’t-tell-jokes dictum’s across-the-board true.

II.
With this book I feel I need to avoid looking at and thinking about improv and sketch comedy. Standup on its own is so vast and uncapturable that I need as narrow a lens as I can find. Ditto monologues. Who knows where they came from (This American Life? ASSSSCAT‘s guests monologist?), but of late we’ve seen the rise of storytelling and comic monologues. Micro one-person shows. If the purest definition of standup I can find is someone getting on stage solo (or in duos) to make an audience laugh, these monologues can’t be ignored. They are standup.

And they are the opposite of joke-telling standup, a kind of full evolution away from standup’s Borscht Belt origins. Phyllis Diller has a file of 50,000 gags for any occasion. Such material is useless to the present-day comic. Useless because utterly impersonal.
Continue reading NY Comedy Trip: The Talent Show — TED Talks

NY & DC Comedy Trips Preview

I’m starting the second leg of AS-YET UNNAMED AND UNFOCUSED BOOK ON STANDUP COMEDY research tomorrow, flying to New York City for nine nights and then DC for two. Which means I’ll be seeing standup every night for the next week and a half, then writing about it as best I can figure how here, on the blog.

A preview? Fine, I can give you a preview (subject to change). I’ll be seeing and writing about the following shows/comics:

  • Eliot Glazer (one half of [the incredible] web series)
  • Jon Benjamin (voice of Archer, Ben Katz, etc.)
  • Rachel Feinstein
  • Godfrey, odds are, on one of the nights I head to the Comedy Cellar
  • Mike Birbiglia
  • Hannibal Buress, possibly
  • Sharon Spell, old Pittsburgh pal and one-time New Yinzer contributor
  • Whiplash @ UCB
  • Judy Gold, potentially, no longer spit-curl’d
  • Jackie “The Joke Man” Martling
  • Judah Friedlander
  • John Mulaney
  • Jerry Seinfeld

Naturally, nobody’s being a good comic or show and spacing themselves out among the nine nights I’m in town, so I’ll have to make some hard choices.

Will these hard choices be the conflict that forms the basis for the story I’m looking for? Not likely. Stay tuned.

My New Favorite List

  • Viagra, especially in regard to erections lasting longer than 4 hours.
  • Airplane Food.
  • Wearing Comical Clothing.
  • How the name iPad reminds one of feminine hygiene products
  • Prop Comedy
  • Why is there Braille at the drive thru.
  • The Comedian’s Personal Appearance, including;
    • The comedian’s resemblance to the probable offspring of an unlikely celebrity coupling, such as Chewbacca and Estelle Getty
    • Jokes about being bald.
  • Masturbation, specifically offering a number of slang terms for the act in rapid succession.
  • Michael Jackson
  • Outdated topical humor, such as a joke about Lorena Bobbit or the Macarena.
  • Ethnic taxi drivers.
  • Hurricane names.
  • Terror alert codes.
  • Impressions
    • Presidents.
    • Arnold Schwarzenegger.
    • Christopher Walken.
    • Tony Montana
    • Using racial slurs.
    • Racial Minorities, especially Asian, Indian, Black and Latino.
    • Ethnic Minorities, especially Italian or Jewish.
    • The Comedian’s own Mother or Father.
  • Differences Between Groups of People.
    • Men vs. Women / Boys vs. Girls.
    • Black people vs. White people vs. Latinos vs. Asians.
    • Homosexuals vs. Heterosexuals
  • Differences between cats and dogs.
  • References to Steroids use.
  • Invading Canada.
  • Midget jokes.
  • Jokes about the differences between Los Angeles or New York and another place in America.
  • Jokes about being part one race and part another, and halfway embodying stereotypical characteristics of each.
  • References to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV); the length of time spent in queues, the demographics of those lining up, etc

From Wikipedia.

The Opposite of a Joke

I like thinking of objects’ opposites because they can be a form of definition. That the square root of two is an irrational number is proven by revealing the contradictions arising from its being rational. The story I wrote that’s the most hearable (because voicey and full of jokes, tellingly) at a reading is centered on a game that begins with someone asking “What’s the opposite of a gun?” I could play this game with everyone.

Years ago, DFW was interviewed for German television. The earnest lady asked him if his source of humor comes from darkness. Here’s what he said:

There are forms of humor that offer escapes from pain and there are forms of humor that transfigure pain. I know that very often humor is a response to things that are difficult. In the U.S. there’s a strange situation where in some respect humor and irony are political responses, and they’re reductive, and in another sense—particularly in popular entertainment—irony and a kind of dark humor can become a way of … pretending to protest when [one] really isn’t.

Last night I asked on Twitter what the opposite of a joke was. Responses varied from a koan or jazz to a poem or a legend. These felt close but weren’t fully satisfying. This blog post is to try to pin down what I was looking for. Now, if we’re being forthright and expansive about it, the opposite of a joke is probably what the body does through a night of fitful sleep, but I need here to keep things in the realm of utterances. Because whatever the opposite of a joke is, I want to try tweeting it.
Continue reading The Opposite of a Joke

Gay

This is a joke from Demetri Martin’s album These are Jokes:

A dreamcatcher works.

If your dream is to be gay.

Which is just a syntactically humorous way to say that dreamcatchers are gay. It’s what this blog post’s going to be about, how dreamcatchers are gay.

That I’m satisfied by Martin’s joke’s jokework without any personal offense surprised me when I thought about it long after I just laughed at the joke. Maybe it points to the newfound importance I’ve placed lately on jokework and the thinking thereon. Maybe it points to what little regard I, too, give the dreamcatcher. Stupid knot of feathers and weak hope.

Mostly why it’s funny is that it’s true, and that gay as a word means things that have shifted, historically and recently, and that are slippery and difficult to pin down. It’s not a synonym for “stupid” in that Heidi Montag isn’t gay. It’s not “lame” in that dreamcatchers aren’t lame. They are gay. And they’re not like rainbow jockstraps in this regard, or the complete Dykes to Watch Out For on your coffee table; owning a dreamcatcher would never make me assume you’re homosexual. Perhaps the opposite.

I’m reminded of two things. First is that episode of South Park where the kids called noisy Harley riders “fags” and didn’t understand why the adults in the town were so upset about their using this word. Second is this panel on “queer writers” I sat on at the Nebraska Summer Writers’ Conference earlier this month. We were two men and two women who I think were all pretty solidly homosexual, and yet we used the word “queer” more than anything else.

Queer was straight folks’ word for us, and gay was our own word for us. Right now I have this notion that our collective reappropriation of their (hateful) word for us has more power and durability than any word for us we could come up with ourselves—like how in the eighth grade I dubbed new-girl Debbie “Sasquatch” because she was tall and rumored (operative word) to be better than me at the clarinet, and how she then co-opted it as her nickname all through four years of color guard. Or maybe it’s that the in-group code of gay feels silly because no longer necessary. I’ve tweeted about how if I ever started a sentence with “As a homosexual” I’d feel like the sort of tragic hipster who waxes his moustache. It’s so old-fashioned!

Lately, gay‘s starting to feel a little gay. It’s probably for the best.

But now it occurs to me that gay is used not as a synonym for “stupid” or “lame” but for “weak”. Which is to say it works well as a way to expose a thing aiming for and trying to exhibit a presumed amount of power or significance that it clearly by any decent serious observation does not have and ought not to claim. And so is this its new(er/est) etymology, a way for straight people to co-opt our word for ourselves as a signifier of how weak it is to try to give ourselves our own name? You homosexuals/queers/faggots want to us to use the word “gay” now? Oh we’ll use “gay” all right….

This post/line of thinking has no end to it. It’s probably for the best.

L.A. Comedy Trip: @robdelaney @HollywoodImprov

Rob Delaney writes club comedy for the alt-comedy set. What this means, what these terms mean, and why it’s so ingenious I hope in this blog post to work out.

You can find distillations of the differences between club comedy and alternative comedy anywhere online (here‘s as good a place as any), but I understand the difference in audiences. Club comics work rooms of people intoxicated via both two-drink minimums and the overall thrill of Having Gone Out Tonight To See Some Comedy. It’s not that it’s easier to get laughs in clubs (perhaps the opposite) such as that easier jokes can get laughs. Overall the jokes are broader in appeal because baser and more universal. So one can expect bits about shitting and fucking.

It’s this: the club comic needs to be sure her act can kill in Los Angeles, in New York, in Atlanta, in Kansas City. Anywhere. You don’t make a living otherwise. Alt. comics don’t worry about this so much, as their shows tend to be performed in smaller DIY spaces to comic-nerd audiences who haven’t paid a lot of money or waited in line outside for an hour to ensure they get a seat. It’s a gentler and more supportive environment, and the comedy tends to take more formal risks; you’re not going to see character work like Andre Hyland or Drew Droege at the Laugh Factory. Maybe ever.

Surely Rob Delaney isn’t the only comic to succeed in both worlds. And surely plenty of alt. comics have jokes about shitting and fucking. And maybe my take on his act is coming from having seen Dane Cook perform the night previous, but Delaney on stage appears as a kind of anti-Cook, entrancing the room with the same manic energy while also delivering jokes without malice. Or no: with a more self-abasing kind of malice.

We can start with his tweets. Continue reading L.A. Comedy Trip: @robdelaney @HollywoodImprov

L.A. Comedy Trip: Dane Cook and Dane Cook’s Misogyny

This is a long one. Newcomers may want to step back and read this post, on an ever-developing approach to comic criticism.

I don’t know anything of Dane Cook the person, but Dane Cook’s persona on stage is easy enough to read. “So this girl and I were having sex,” he says at one point in his act. Then: “I was pretty good.” The emphasis here is on good, not pretty, and thus we’re made to understand: he’s a lothario. Cook acts the part of a man who through the force of his fame and lifestyle (and, I need to assume, his looks/game) beds beautiful women who are grateful for the experience. He is for the male libido what Derek Jeter is for athleticism or Bear Gryllis is for high adventure.

In other words, he’s a hero. Or, if this makes you uncomfortable, an alpha (a term with which I’m uncomfortable). Whether he’s an attractive hero or a repellant one depends far more on the beholder than on the beheld.
Continue reading L.A. Comedy Trip: Dane Cook and Dane Cook’s Misogyny

L.A. Comedy Trip: Toward a Critical Method

First, some postulates, taken from John Limon’s Stand-Up [sic] Comedy In Theory:

  1. If you think something is funny, it is.
  2. A joke is funny if and only if you laugh at it.
  3. Your laughter is the single end of stand-up [sic again…I prefer one unhyphenated word because this formulation sounds in my head too much like stand UP].

It’s a clear way to show how comedy is subjective. To agree to the above is to require in writing about comedy a kind of syntactic shift. So I can’t say, for instance, “Dane Cook? Yeah, he’s not funny,” because I was not the only you in the audience of the Laugh Factory last night, where Dane Cook demonstrably got laughs, more than any comic I’ve seen all week save for Patton Oswalt (and that’s only because the latter’s set was longer). “I don’t find Dane Cook funny,” is okay, though, but look what’s suddenly happened to the critic. What a feeble little man he’s become!

All of which is irrelevant because I laughed out loud many times during Cook’s set last night. And so Dane Cook? Yeah, he’s funny. Apparently, I find Dane Cook funny. As much as I—this week, certainly, and in this slowly developing book as well—want to keep standup in my brain and write about it analytically, there is something in the gut I can’t yet figure out how to get at. We can be impelled to laugh for reasons our brains may not appreciate. I’m reminded of Louis CK’s bit about the kinds of women he watches in pornography, and how he knows they’re wretched people in person he’d hate and never want to date. Some comedy, it must be admitted operates libidinally, outside of intellect.

With book criticism, it seems to me the job is to figure out what the book is trying to do or say, and then to assess how it works to do that thing, and finally to evaluate how well the author’s gone about it. This doesn’t work with standup. If, in Limon’s formation, the single end of standup is the audience’s laughter, then at all times what the comedian is trying to do is make people laugh. He goes about this by telling them jokes (or not; as I’ve seen and written about plenty this week, “jokes” as we traditionally understand them are not requirements for laughs). And if the audience laughs, the comic has done his job well. This is almost always how it goes. What can a comedy critic do when, outside of an open mic, he’s yet to see a single comic not get laughs?

Three tacks come to mind:

  1. Go with Aesthetics. The comedy critic can do as art critics do and use theory and history to set comics within contexts broader than their individual acts, pointing out sensibilities and noteworthy approaches with the aim of swaying audiences’ tastes and serving, perhaps, as a kind of filter or curator. This guy’s judgey.
  2. Go with Content. The comedy critic can do as movie reviewers do and focus on a comic’s stage persona, or the flavor and subject matter of his jokes, forming a kind of narrative or character summary with the aim of giving audiences a sense of what they’ll get, were they to go and see the comic’s act. This guy’s servicey.
  3. Go with Analysis. The comedy critic can do as a scholar or scientist does and use theory and rhetorical analysis to break down how jokes work, deconstructing the makings of an act with the aim of giving audiences a sense of the diversity of reasons that jokes work and people are funny. This guy’s brainy.

It’s clear that successful criticism ought to do all three. Let me take a shot at it in writing about Dane Cook. Stay tuned.

L.A. Comedy Trip: Mapping the Heavens with Dave Holmes and Rob Delaney

The Upright Citizens’ Brigade Theatre is maybe the smallest and most intimate venue I’ve been in since certain undergraduate theatre friends’ low-rent productions in South Oakland. That top-rate comics perform here seven nights a week is reason alone to move to Los Angeles. Mapping the Heavens was started a year and a half ago by Holmes and Delaney as a “kinder, gentler” night of comedy, and given that the co-hosts aired impromptu the award-winning YouTube comedy short by women in the audience, I’d say this tradition’s still going strong.

A quick word about Dave Holmes, who I first saw as Dangle’s ex-wife’s new closeted husband on Reno 911. If he doesn’t do standup he ought to, all the time. Or like stage monologues in the style of John Waters on that recent tour of his. Holmes killed with a story about making out with a guy whose tooth fell out, and another one about faking himself into (and then, terrified, out of) an inter-office basketball league. This latter story happened shortly after he came out, and what was great in his retelling of the story was how every time he quoted his younger self, he flipped into this breathy, queeny voice that sounded like the world’s worst (best?) Kathleen Turner drag queen.

But the great thing about this younger self is that he wore a backward Kangol hat and pretended to like basketball so’s to appear as classic-hetero as possible. Maybe it’s something I find funny just because I also come out late in life and tried very hard to be One of the Guys Who’s Gay But Not Gay-Gay, but the inversion here—Holmes Right Now queening up his act to impersonate the faux-butch Holmes Back Then—was a brilliant move. It felt totally instinctive but was a dreadfully precise stance of self-critique.

Levi MacDougall started the bill, and maybe his third bit went like this:

One thing I thought would be fun, I just want to share with you just a brief excerpt from my novel.

“She would stare out the window and drink mandarin vodka. I would lie there on my stomach. She never touched me.”

And that’s just a brief excerpt from my novel.

It’s from my novel, The Bad Masseuse.

This was the second time this week I heard, word for word (including the mandarin vodka), this bit. Another comedian, when retold it, was able to verify the bit as MacDougall’s and any glancing look at his (MacDougall’s) Web page would show it has his character all over it. Did I hear it at an open-mic? Another showcase in town? I’ve got so many hours of standup on tape I haven’t yet been able to find it. Joke thievery, though, it’s alive and well.

MacDougall is a comic I’m going to want to take another look at. His schtick was complete awkwardness, done to such a degree that it came across not as schtick but as genuine awkwardness, as though tiny us was the largest crowd he ever had to play to. But MacDougall’s no beginner, and so in the thoroughness with which he committed to his persona it’s like he made us (or, well, probably just me) complicit in any possible underestimations of him.
Continue reading L.A. Comedy Trip: Mapping the Heavens with Dave Holmes and Rob Delaney