Blog

There are many phrases in the American lexicon that suggest an admiration for people who overcome struggle and adversity. Only The Strong Survive! Whatever Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger! Pain Is Weakness Leaving The Body! But in the wake of this election season and the various autopsies to determine how and why America re-elected Donald Trump, one that has been stuck in my head has been Pressure Builds Diamonds.  I don’t know where I first heard this, but it sounds like something, despite being technically true, that one would find on a cheesy motivational poster in the cubicle of an energy drink salesman.  But I wanted to reflect on how this country has and is treating those under immense pressure and how it regards those who do rise from it as figurative diamonds.

I have always had an admiration for people who persevere through struggle.  And American history is full of people and groups who have done this.  In my own life, I think my aversion to quitting things, even when they cause me great frustration and distress (college basketball and comedy are the two big ones that come to mind) comes from my Mom.  If pressure builds diamonds then my Mom is double proof (as she has achieved both the results of a diamond and exerts the pressure needed to produce them).  For brief biography (as best as I remember from my mother telling me): my Mom’s grandfather came from Ireland and died young in a factory accident in Buffalo. His daughter, who was a newly born child in Buffalo, was sent back to Ireland because her mother, my Mom’s maternal grandmother, could not take care of her, given her work as a domestic.  My grandmother’s brother, my Mom’s uncle, passed away as a teen from polio. When my grandmother returned to the United States as a young adult, she married my grandfather, an Ellis Island-arriving Irishman (Northern Ireland – County Fermanagh – as my Mom tells it, he never liked that his passport said UK and not Ireland) and they had three children. My Mom was the middle child and at 9 saw her Mom pass away from an infection during gall bladder surgery and at age 21 saw her older sister pass away from Leukemia, when she was just 24.

My Mom went on to marry a Haitian immigrant, my father, and with a high school diploma went on to own a home and send her sons to Northwestern University and Williams College, allowing both of us to incur far less debt than many of our contemporaries because she had an intense and desperate belief in the American dream and that education was the most vital tool to achieving it.  But as I grew up I could see that my Mom’s American Dream was not really for her. It was almost like the tragedies dealt to her, combined with the frustrations of being a strong-willed woman in a country that still does not seem to know how to react to strong women (let alone 60 years ago) had led her to be angry and resistant to happiness for herself. Instead, she poured all that energy, mostly good, occasionally bad into her two sons. Despite whatever natural talents or skills I have, it was my Mom’s work ethic (both the lessons and material benefits of it) that laid the considerable foundation of my life.  But my Mom’s well-deserved sense of accomplishment (which she rarely acknowledges for herself, unless she feels disrespected) always manifested itself in praise or happiness through my brother and me.  I believe the loss of her mother at such an early age created in her a sense of “I’m on my own” for herself, but created a deep intensity in her as a mother to be such a devoted and indefatigable caregiver for her own kids to make up for her own experience as a child.

Why do I bring this up? Because I think the experience of seeing my mother, over the course of my life, fight for the American Dream at a cost and effort so high that it is almost like she cannot fully enjoy it, has made me appreciate and admire the different groups of Americans and immigrants who have given so much to this country, and yet are treated like everything from impediments to abominations in the story of America (current chapter included).  It is this emotion that lies dormant in me sometimes, but in the wake of the 2024 election, has stirred more angrily.

My Mother is a white woman. So this is not the liberal lamentation of an ivory tower resident who has not seen how white people can be sometimes dealt a short straw in modern America.  From outsourcing jobs to opioids to feeling like a rhetorical punching bag in comedy, culture and politics, white people are not without struggles and valid complaints.  But the struggles of white people, especially the struggles of more recent vintage affecting white men have become a crisis for this nation that simultaneously makes white male problems a code red/all hands-on-deck issue and renders the continuing addressing of more long standing issues affecting other communities as “woke”/”DEI”/out of date complaints.  Whether it is hearing Professor Scott Galloway rattle off the apocalyptic stats of less sex and motivation for young men (the same young men who might have a “pressure builds diamonds” poster featuring Joe Rogan rubbing testosterone gel on his nipples) or seeing a political campaign swing, in part, on the demonization of trans youth, it is clear that this country has a double standard when it comes to “pressure building diamonds.”  It seems like pressure builds diamonds for others and a bomb we must avoid if it’s white men.

If you want evidence that pressure builds diamonds, you can look to the Jewish community in professional fields, the Black community in arts and athletics, women outnumbering men in law school/higher education, the gay community in the arts and GOP politics to name a few. This is not to suggest stereotypes but to say when America has exerted enormous pressure on groups of people (short of genocide) these groups have often made brilliant lemonade out of the lemons they were allowed to have or forced to grow, in part because they had little other choice.  But when a person, for example a Black woman like Ketanji Brown Jackson, achieves a high honor in a field not classically thought of as a “Black job,” if I can quote a Black labor scholar named Donald Trump, then it is deemed a DEI/unqualified/Woke hire, as if the pressure of America’s racism could not produce diamonds in fields other than the ones prescribed to them by the dominant power structure?

And whether it is Justice Neil Gorsuch having a Constitutional soft spot for Native Americans, or Yellowstone allowing for very sympathetic stories of Native tribes and women, it is clear that some of what stops many white people from fully empathizing with the plight of today’s groups is proximity.  Caring about native issues has sort on academic feel to a lot of America and their remedies (the ones allowed) won’t break the bank.  But Americans’ need to be all powerful and super victim at once are much more resistant to equally valid claims for reparations, affirmative action, equality, etc.  Because rectifying those wrongs may force certain people to address their own biases, prejudices and actions in concrete ways. And so diminishing and distorting those issues and communities is both self-serving and satisfying.

In my life, I am not sure any group has had more to overcome (and is still overcoming) than the LGTBQ community.  They have made great strides but I am speaking beyond the discrimination and hate they still face.  Just as Barack Obama should have embodied, for all Americans, the true inter-generational American Dream that I believe my mother wanted for my brother and me, I believe the LGTBQ represents the greatest current spirit of perseverance that American is supposed to be about.  In my lifetime, the LGTBQ community has dealt with legal and social discrimination hate, a fu*king plague that, as I have thought, and recently read in The Great Believers (review on my Patreon – what you thought an earnest blog would not have any shameless plugs?), was akin to a war, becoming a political punching bag, and the newest shame on our already shameful Congress (the New Yorker Radio Hour interview with Sarah McBride is absolutely worth your time) in the case of trans people.  And what do they keep doing? Rocking out with their cocks out (literally in many cases). But for a group to constantly seek a deeper engagement with America, whether in arts, culture, politics or marital bliss, despite the mistreatment, is a testament to their strength and resilience, values that mean nothing if they only apply to straight Americans and are “woke” or “annoying” or “immoral” when applied to other groups.

And yet, Republicans and their voters want you to believe a deep inconsistency that Trump represents so well: straight white people are simply the best (with some token and subservient exceptions) and anyone who gets “their” stuff did not earn it or do not deserve it, but also “why is everyone making us the bad guys and why don’t people try to reach our community and help us?”  What I would say to every Trump voter who felt genuinely left behind by the country is “I hear you and I understand you and know that (some of) your concerns are real.  But do you not understand how tough it is for other communities and how they’ve been dealing with this for longer, in many cases to a degree far worse?  I am not telling you your struggle is invalid, but how can I, in good conscience, support your struggle if you disregard the longer struggles of others and support the demonizing of a small group of people who are fighting hard to just be treated as equals in 2024?”

So I guess I am writing this not to say I “support” all the identity groups that the Left is attacked for defending (not at the expense of white people, but that is how it is treated), but that I admire them. I won’t get into discussions of white privilege or “wokeness” as those terms have been so bastardized and weaponized to delegitimize real issues through oversimplified caricaturizing.   So I will simply write from a place of admiration. From centuries ago to present day I respect and admire all the groups that started on lower rungs of our society and have fought to be a part of the society and make it better, stronger and more inclusive (sorry, but the Constitution is meant to be a document of ever increasingly inclusivity – so even if you don’t like the D or the I of DEI, increased inclusivity, despite setbacks along the way, is the arc of the Constitution).  And people who fight for it and for their American dreams have my admiration.  My mother fought for the American Dream as have so many people and communities. But when Americans drain the dream of all its joy, rendering it a bitter, thankless slog, you can make people you should admire and praise feel unappreciated and unvalued.

I am reminded of The Prodigal Son parable told by Jesus. It boils down to one son takes his inheritance and spends it all on booze and women. When he finally returns destitute and ashamed, his father is so glad he throws a feast for him. Meanwhile, the prodigal son’s brother is pissed. He wants to know why he never got this feast despite his loyalty and service. And the father tells him, this was always yours, but your brother was lost and he is now found.  For me, America is the prodigal son. Every time the rights and privileges of this country are expanded and its promises closer to fulfillment, we should be happy.  To the MAGA voters and their ilk (the brother) who see this as not just – this country in deeper ways than mere economics, has always been yours. But now America finding itself should be viewed as something to celebrate, not as something being taken from you.

The people and groups in this country who fight for this and work for it are the proof that pressure does, in fact, make diamonds.  But if you believe that this aphorism only applies to straight white men, I’ll remind you that White Diamonds is just a perfume by Elizabeth Taylor.

This week I hit the road again for a Thursday gig in Pittsburgh (at this point, based on my three shows in Pittsburgh since 2021, my next audience may actually contain a negative number of people) and a Friday/Saturday in Chicago, with the Friday show being a live Making Podcasts Great Again and Saturday being a headlining stand-up set.  Following our great live show in NYC for MPGA and wanting to keep working out my new hour, this was a week I was looking forward to for a while.  Unfortunately, I have not been this disappointed in Pittsburgh since I heard racial slurs yelled at a Steeler game in 2009. However, I have not been this happy with Chicago since Karl Malone won game 5 of the 1998 Finals with 39 & 19 to send the series back to Utah (in Game 6 Michael Jordan shoved Bryon Russell).  So let’s get into it, as I sit in a downtown Chicago Starbucks waiting for my 6:40pm train back east.

Days 1 & 2: Pittsburgh

The toughest part of any road trip is leaving and having my dog Cookie give me a sad look (she now understands that suitcases mean the big man is going to deeply betray her for 2-5 days).  I made my way to Newark Penn Station and hopped on the Pennsylvanian which runs from NYC to Pittsburgh. It is a cozy 9 hour ride, during which I read the newspaper, the New Yorker, The Atlantic, a little bit of a book and watched a couple of episodes of a Paramount+ show (FYI – Paramount+ is the single worst streaming app and it is not close, in terms of app crashes/failures/etc).

I arrived in Pittsburgh and went and checked into the nearby Hampton Inn.  The woman checking me in was extremely hot, but something about a folksy Pittsburgh accent makes even the hottest woman both approachable and reprehensible.  I mean it isn’t a Philly/Baltimore level accent atrocity, but it is a real boner killer, which does help when you have to walk away to the elevator to go to your room.  I then walked briskly to the Capital Grille before the closed, because I eat for the ticket sales I want, not the ticket sales I have.

I got a decent night’s sleep and then in the morning, after a 2 Belgian waffle breakfast (I have told people that I was made to be in the Midwest – *Ric Flair cadence* I’m a Church-attending, flannel wearing, cheesecake factory eating, fat son of a gun and I’m having a hard time keeping this cholesterol down… WOOOOOO!”) I checked out of the hotel. Now I took a long, thorough shower late that morning because I would have to appear on TV in Chicago before I might be able to shower again. I will explain later…

The show was at Club Cafe, which is a perfect place for someone possessing my apathetic fan base.  It is small enough that 50 people would feel like a crazy party, 40 would feel like a sold out club and 30 would give a feeling of pride.  How many people did I draw? 16, which is a number that gives “Joker origin story, pre-musical.”  The fans that did show up there were great and I am appreciative of their time, money and support and I think I gave them a strong show (it was always meant as a tune up for Chicago), but all I kept thinking toward the end of my set was “the stage is a little hotter than I expected – I hope this sweat doesn’t create a funk that lingers for TV tomorrow.

I said hi to the fans after the show (my third straight show where my opener’s fixed pay was higher than my ticket sales-dependent pay. This is known in the industry as “fucked.”  I then got on the midnight train to Chicago (the Capital Limited featuring the train attendant Carlos, a railroad joy well known to my Patreon subscribers).

Day 3: Trump Arrives in Chicago

When I woke up we were in Indiana, home of gay political icon Mike Pence. And also Pete Buttigieg.  We arrived in Chicago on time and I had a few hours to kill before Windy City Weekend. Now for the promised explanation:

Since the pandemic, Ryan Chiaverini, a TV host in Chicago (think if Ryan Reynolds were the Mario Lopez of Chicago), has been a big fan of my work, but unlike my other fans and my friends, he actually backed up that verbal support with action!  When I told him about my show, he told me he would be unable to make it, but could book me for a segment on Windy City Weekend.  I said yes, of course, and then the producer told me that I would need to arrive TV ready. Well, I was sleeping on an Amtrak on my way into Chicago overnight, so I guessed I would be TV ready, if the show were “Real Homeless Housewives of Chicago.”  Now I have been told that there are shower facilities in the Amtrak first class area of Chicago Union Station and I will leave the mystery of how I cleaned up for TV as a cliffhanger until I post video clips of my set in Chicago.

I arrived at Windy City Weekend 10 minutes early and met Ryan’s co-host, the lovely Val, then Ryan and then Ryan’s friend who I had done a cameo for a year or two ago (seriously folks – I am the cameo GOAT).  My segment went great (watch HERE) and then I met film critic Richard Roeper who was there for his usual segment and we shook hands, Twitter follower a Twitter follower.  I then made my way to Oak Park, IL to check into my hotel.

I killed some time, got some BBQ with my MPGA co-host, Jay and then we went over to the club. The club is new (and the town feels very new or refurbished) and really nice.  The show went great and it will be up on podcast platforms this week.  Without giving anything away, I believe the loudest laugh in show history may have been to Trump’s answer of “Narcan” to a question that was asked.  I then went to have a beer with some fans (the trio of gentlemen Andrew, Aaron and Kevin (gents – please correct me on names if I am wrong) who I met after my St Paul shows and they said they would be at an Oak Park show. They showed up 10 or so deep!  Promises Made – Promises Kept!) before retiring to my hotel room to watch Bill Maher complain for an hour.

Day 4: ChicaGOAT

When you have God and Trauma-given talent you can always be assured of delivering a good performance.  But you aren’t always guaranteed to set a suburb of Chicago ablaze. Well, Saturday night, Oak Park, Illinois was blessed to have me at my best.  The new hour of material killed (and I finally did the huge chunk on the NHL that I have been dying to do and it crushed) and the fans were great (i.e. no one had tips for me on how to improve jokes, but they did have money to buy merch!).

Opening both nights in Chicago was my friend, comedian Nick Cobb, who I probably have not seen in somewhere between 5 and 10 years, so that was a nice added bonus to working Comedy Plex.  Sadly, weekends like this are rarer than I would prefer (meaning I am not getting the bookings I desire), but they are so great when they happen that it keeps me going on my quixotic journey for sustained comedy success.

I felt especially generous complimenting the Chicago crowd on being home to the second best basketball player of all time #KingJames

Day 5: Mass and the Midwest

After a rise n grind meal of bagel, chocolate long john (the more homoerotic, the better the Dunkin Donut – hence why my favorite is one I have only found in Boston – the “chocolate glazed stick”) and coffee from Dunkin Donuts before walking to St Edmund’s for 9:15 Mass.

I will say this about the people of Chicago. More immature J-L would often comment that downtown Chicago just felt like a land of 5’7″-5’8″ 8s (in other words, if there were a draft of men for cities, like they were sports teams, Chicago would have me high on their draft board as someone who would fit in perfectly to their system of Midwestern values and breeding nice looking power forwards and left tackles).  Now while this remains more mature J-L’s assessment of the women of Chicago, he also noticed that people just seem friendlier here than in New York and New Jersey (not a big surprise I am sure, but it is deeper than just a cliche). Strangers of all races and genders said hello (to be fair this was also the case in St Pete’s Beach, FL). A woman broke off from her husband to ask me how I liked the book I was reading and told me the author has a new one out.  And the husband did not even ask to watch while we made love! Midwest values!

That said, it was not all perfect. When I went to see Smile 2 on Saturday afternoon, the theater machines would not let me order a milkshake, so I had to settle for a popcorn and water – disgraceful.  And the man sitting next to me in the theater was eating his wings  in a manner that led me to believe he was told it is rude to close your mouth while you chew.  And he went “mmm mmm mmm” every time something suspenseful happened, which in a two hour horror movie is pretty much all the time.  He would have been the worst, but for the woman who had her baby at the hard R-violent horror movie. Naturally, the baby cried at multiple spots until she finally stepped out of the theater (its almost like a baby instinctively recognizes that a woman having her eyeball cut out with glass is a “bad boo boo”).

But all in all, I had a great time on this trip and gave three good performances for 2.2 audiences (yes Pittsburgh – you are the 0.2).  I guess come see me in Emporia, Virginia or Princeton, New Jersey if you want to experience the same!

Last night I had a live recording of Making Podcasts Great Again in Rutherford, New Jersey.  Making Podcasts Great Again is the show I have done for 6 1/2 years every week without missing a week as Donald Trump.  In 2020 we saw exponential growth commensurate with the exponential exposure I got for my viral videos of Trump and other political figures.  Over the last couple of years I reluctantly continued the show as Trump maintained his stranglehold on American politics and culture, but I decided 2024 would be the last year of the show.  As part of the farewell me and my show co-host, Jay Nog, scheduled a few live shows around the country.  This is the recap of the New Jersey show.

I arrived at the venue in my suit at 725 (my Lyft driver took a wrong turn or I would have been there earlier) for the 745 show. Fortunately Jay had gotten everything set up and our opener and friend, Chris Lamberth, was there. He would be doing double duty as both our warm up act and our special interview guest mid show.  I had messaged a NJ celebrity who follows me to be our guest but got no reply. A prominent NJ politician spoke with me on the phone but politely declined to be our guest.  So Chris stepped up to fill the gap (and for his efforts and the lack of attendance would leave the show as its highest paid participant).

Halfway through Chris’ twenty minute warm up set I threw on my red tie and blonde wig and began meandering around the theater lobby.  An older woman working there had the following conversation with me:

Woman: You’re playing Trump?

Me: Yep.

Woman: Are you voting for him?

Me: Nope!

Woman: oh, you’re not voting?

Me: Oh I’m voting. Just not for him.

Woman: Have you read his books?

Me: Nope!

Woman: His books show you the real him. You can’t trust the media… (trails off)

Then it was time for me to enter the theater to YMCA.

Now I had conservatively hoped that for my show which had once clocked 20K listens and downloads a week, plus my status as a New Jersey Q-list celebrity since 2020, would get us a minimum of 50 sales, but was really hoping for at least 100, especially given that we are a month from a consequential election.  I clearly was not conservative enough, because I think we had 25 audience members (with an additional 5 seats bought by a big fan for us to donate to listeners of the podcast – zero listeners requested any of the 5 free tickets).  I quickly shook of my disappointment and what transpired over the next hour was the best episode in the show’s history and the best personal performance of my career in any way, with the exception of the first taping (album version) of Half-Blackface.  It was that good and I was that good.

Despite the show, I have been in a funk most of today because I have reached the undeniable conclusion that my time has come and gone.  When I asked the audience last night how many people there listened to the podcast, exactly zero said yes.  So a Trump impression that has garnered about 40 million views has led to a microscopic percentage becoming listeners of a free Trump podcast.  And of that percentage, none appeared to attend the show last night (though, from a just received email it seems one listener did attend).  I have friends, family and a lot of fans in New Jersey, but whether it is bad luck, a loss of heat (though not of talent or new content), a changing culture of entertainment or some other reason, the career I have built and the audience I have attracted are not conducive to selling tickets (St Paul, MN appeared to be an outlier earlier this month).

But last night felt different.  The tragic irony of last night was that I really did have one of the greatest shows of my life in front of that small, but appreciative audience.  The episode should be up later this week when we get the audio, but the “Black Panther endorsed me” rant which was either 2 minutes or 20 minutes long (I really lost myself in it) might be the funniest thing I have ever done.  The greatest reward was probably seeing both Jay and Chris busting up laughing during the improv.  But the frustration that has set in today is something beyond the usual “post show crash” that can happen.  My biggest fear for many years has been making good work that does not get seen or heard.  This has nothing to do with fame or money.  But when I did not make some Internet “Top 10 Trump impressions” earlier this year it dawned on me that both the consumption and recognition I admittedly crave are not coming.  And the irony is that the better the shows I have, the more disappointed I am.  And last night was an absolute masterpiece.

The show was going so well I did the thing I am often incapable of doing: held my tongue in the face of blatant disrespect. One audience member, who was with a very supportive fan (which I learned after the fact) was doing fairly loud commentary throughout the show.  It was often repeating punchlines or simply proclaiming his enjoyment loudly, and that would have only registered as annoying.  But at one point a phone went off.  I made a passing comment (always in character), but then it went off again. I then said something again, to which this audience member said, “there’s like 15 people in here.”  Now having a great show is always a challenge. But having a killer show while fighting off the deep disappointment of subpar ticket sales is an even greater victory.  Apparently this person felt that a small audience was not worthy of respectful behavior. Conversely, I think that the fans who did show up deserve even more respect because their individual presence is that much more essential and appreciated.  So I let it slide again to not ruin the show. And mind you, when not offering snide comments or echo responses he was laughing hysterically.  However, the worst was yet to come.

At the end of our live shows we do a Q&A (not for tik tok content BS, but because people want to interact with the impression(s)). The rude audience member asked a question, but then towards the end (two questions left) I heard him say “OK, this is done.”  Now everyone was laughing still, but it took everything I had not to hurl the microphone at this person and choose violence. In fact, I stayed in the green room after the show because I would rather miss fans and avoid being enraged than thank my fans and risk losing my temper.

So if any of my fans who were there read this or end up listening to the podcast, thank you for being there.  I have the type of career where I have hundreds of thousands of followers (the most passive level of fan), but far fewer real fans.  I did not have a real choice in who followed me and I am grateful for all the exposure, but I have a deep appreciation for the real fans I do have.  I just wish their support could be rewarded with a more successful comedian.

Last night’s show was like that old “if a tree falls in the forest , but no one is around, does it make a sound?” saying.  What I can say is that last night a couple dozen people saw that best Trump parody that has ever been.  I am certain of that.  So it may not make a blip on Hollywood’s radar, but it certainly made a lot of sound last night.

This weekend I returned to St Paul, MN for some shows after a 6 year absence.  The last time I was in St Paul at the same location it was the final resting place of the Joke Joint, a wonderful, welcoming club that gave comedians like me a chance at headlining.  Then the pandemic hit and since 2022 I have been trying to get booked at the club.  Thanks to a persistent fan, three very big headliners who wrote me recommendation emails (there is a formal process to be considered by the booking agent), and more persistence by my fan it only took me 20 months to appear at Laugh Camp in St Paul.  I have said many things about comedy, but one of the truest is that it is better to be a bad comedian with an agent than a great comedian with no agent.  But was the effort worth it? Absolutely – let’s get into the recap.

The Polar Express (Wednesday-Thursday)

After working out, mailing some Make Prison Great Again hats, shaving, showering and making necessary use of my bathroom before beginning a 33 hour bathroom fast, I hopped on the Amtrak from Newark to DC. When I arrived in DC I ate a salad at Chopt (the last nutrition my body would consume for 5 days) and got on the Capitol Limited (the DC to Chicago route).  The train attendant was nice, but as my Patreon fans know, the gold standard is Carlos and I did not have him.  I settled into my roomette and noticed something very odd on my train.  Exceptionally attractive women.  Normally there are only four demos on the long distance trains: the elderly, the disgusting, the Amish and the 6’7” bi-racial comedian (though I currently might be double dipping in the disgusting demo based on my current fitness).  But for some reason the woman directly across my sleeper was hot. Like adult film actress hot, but apparently she did not need a pizza, plumbing work, a desire to make her husband jealous or a desire to have a bi-racial stepson, so we never interacted. There was also a Latin woman who had an attractiveness level I refer to as “third wife of billionaire after second wife dies in mysterious accident” hot.  So the trip seemed on pace to be a great one.

I slept an uncomfortable 2.5 hours on the way to Chicago and then walked around Chicago for an hour before getting on the Borealis (the new Chicago-St Paul route that Amtrak added).  As part of that walk I walked to the Whole Foods .8 miles from Union Station (no one may be more familiar with the 1.5 mile radius around Chicago’s Union Station than me at this point) and at 10:40 am went to their deli to order a sandwich.  Whole Foods across America consistently have the worst deli service.  It is a combination of incredible slowness delivered with an enthusiasm usually reserved for informing families of a wartime death (LA, Chicago, Newark have all delivered the same level of service).  As I stood there with my sandwich order sheet they told me the deli station was closed.  Because why should someone be able to order a sandwich at 1040am on a Thursday?  I then picked up a box of pumpkin spice sandwich cookies and decided that that would be my lunch/vegetable for the day.

When I got on the Borealis I was a sweaty mess.  I was in a long sleeve t shirt and sweatpants, my travel uniform which is not too warm, but can provide some comfort in the unlikely event of overpowering air conditioning.  But Chicago was about 80 degrees so I looked like a finalist on The Biggest Loser by the time I boarded.  But the AC was glorious in business class and I sat down and quickly cooled off. And then an hour into the trip my nipples could cut diamonds – we had now become the Polar Express and for the next 5 hours I shivered on my way to St Paul.

Food Truck Party & Springhill Suites (Thursday Night)

When I got to St Paul the hotel and club were only a 9 minute walk and as I walked I saw a massive concert and food truck assembly. So I said once I get to my hotel and greet the toilet like a troop reunited with his family I will come back and sample the food truck fare.  Well when I got back around 745 the lines were super long for all the trucks. So I decided to walk to the closest Chipotle, which I learned as I got to the door at 8:03pm, closed at 8pm.  Always an ominous sign for attendance at comedy shows when the town’s food shuts down at 8pm on a Thursday.  So I made my way back to the food trucks where the lines were much shorter. I had a pulled pork sandwich (satisfactory) and then decided to wash it down with a milkshake from a truck called “The Cake Shake.”  The Cake Shake’s product was a soft serve milkshake layered with pieces of cake and then blended together into a crack-like delivery system for diabetes.  I got chocolate (they give you a very girthy straw to make sure you get the cake through the straw) and it was a delight after every gulp of chocolate shake to be greeted with a heavily frosted piece of chocolate cake.  I finished the night with one of the longest showers of my life as the funk of Amtrak washed down the drain.

Friday Fun

When I woke up Friday it was J-L media day in St Paul. I started the day by looking at my hotel gym (excellent) and then skipping it because.  I did the Tom Barnard Show in the morning (crushed it) and then appeared on Brittany & Kendall in the afternoon (crushed it).  Then it was time for the show.

As I walked to the club I saw someone walking in front of me wearing a Making Podcasts Great Again t-shirt. So that felt good.  The crowd at Friday’s show, while not packed, was more people than I had at the 2 shows I did in 2018, combined.  The show went great and I chatted with TC, the fan who began the journey to get me there (It Takes a Village, a fan, multiple headliners and persistence to get J-L booked).  I also met three guys who live near the club I am performing at in Chicago who will be at the Trump show October 18th.  Locking in that future business is key – it sustains the delusion that one might have a viable path to comedy success.  I went back to the hotel and had a nightcap of a Snickers ice cream bar to celebrate before falling asleep.

Saturday: Packed and Productive

I woke up Saturday on a mission. And that mission was to do something other than eat junk food. After my hotel breakfast of Belgian waffle, banana, yogurt and coffee I proceeded to re-write my entire part in a Trump musical show  (no singing for me, but a lot of talking) that films in 3 weeks.  It is amazing when you turn off your Wi-Fi and phone how productive you can be.  I then went to Mass nearby for the 5pm vigil. I passed various unhoused, drug-owning gentlemen on the way to Church and then felt weird with an armed security guard at the service. After Mass, feeling comedically and spiritually productive I decided to go to the building gym.  I had a great workout while children in the hotel pool gawked at the NBA player/The Rock struggling through a workout.  Obviously, the camera removes 60 lbs of fat and adds muscle kids.

The Saturday Show was packed. There were Pete Dominick fans, a Black Guy Who Tips fan and a lot of people who for sone reason were fans of me. But as I explained to them – they were producing more laughs than Friday’s crowd, but their laughs per person average was way down.  Some bits really crushed, but some fell flat after doing great the night before.  But all in all it was another fun and rewarding night and the kind of weekend I thought I was going to have 40 times a year after the pandemic.  Sadly, it has not been in the cards, but it felt great to have good shows and a majority of the audiences specifically coming out to see me.  Hopefully some St Paul fans see this and know that I appreciate their support.  And check out this nice gift from Lisa (a fan):

Epilogue

I am now on the Pennsylvanian, the last leg of the three trains to get home. I slept 45 minutes last night so hopefully tonight I crash and sleep well before getting a dental implant tomorrow morning. I look forward to Cookie greeting me enthusiastically this afternoon, assuming she has not heard the news about Haitians eating their pets.

I have gone from a non-observer of women’s basketball to a minimal observer of women’s basketball (which is still an infinite increase) because of one player: Caitlin Clark.  I discovered Caitlin Clark (yes, me) during a Sports Center episode on ESPN after the 2023 women’s elite 8.  I saw a woman playing basketball in a way that I, in my limited experience, had never seen. It was like a white woman had been possessed by the spirit of Steph Curry.  In the span of ten seconds before I could change the channel I asked, “who is that?!” So I tuned in part of the final four game, where Clark torched the favored South Carolina team. And then I made a point to watch a decent part of the finals, where Iowa and Clark lost to LSU and Angel Reese.

Now that finals became best known for the reciprocated trash talk from Angel Reece at the end of the game when LSU won.  She served the same taunts at the conclusion of the game that Clark had been dishing out throughout the tournament.  I have attempted to make my position clear in my reaction to it. I thought it was unpsports-personlike to taunt at the conclusion of a championship game.  For every person that accused me of having everything from a double standard to a the soul of a Klansman, they could not offer me one other example of this kind of taunting in a championship game. Because we would remember the fist fight that would have ensued after it.

However, I found myself, unfortunately, in the company of some very crude folks on the Internet who unleashed verbal bombs on Reese (and seem to have not stopped).  But I did not concede the point because no matter how bigoted or crude someone else is, I don’t have to disavow my thoughts based on how others came to a somewhat related opinion.

Fast forward a year and a half later and Clark and Reese are in the WNBA.  The target has been on Clark since the college tournament earlier this year when WNBA legend Diana Taurasi was already staking the “she’s in for a wake up call” territory (probably knowing the Clark is coming for any and all records she holds) and Clark has responded by putting together what is certainly going to be the greatest rookie season in WNBA history.  Reese has also made history in terms of double doubles, but those double doubles have had, at times the aesthetic appeal of a middle schooler who has matured faster than everyone else and is playing catch with themselves off the backboard, and the shooting percentage of a person who is in their first few months of learning the game.  Reese is shooting a lower percentage as an interior player than Clark is as the league’s prominent long-distance shooter, if not its best, yet.  Reese has proven to be an elite rebounder, but Clark is 9th in the league in scoring, first in 3 pointers made, 1st in assists and her team has improved from last in the league to middle of the pack, whereas Reese’s team appears on track to have a worse record.

Now as Clark’s rise began many people justifiably brought up the sudden prominence of a great white hope.  I think that played into it a little, but the WNBA has been littered with superstar white players.  I think it was the style of play that Clark showed that made her the star that she is.  No matter how skilled, bigs in women’s basketball will never compare to the explosiveness and strength of NBA players (Britney Griner at her peak seemed closest that I can recall and she was not close).  But Clark seemed to me to be the first (this is wrong – I will get to that) woman to play a style that really resembled a man, namely Steph Curry.  This made her much more compelling because her game did not feel like it had to be judged on the relative scale of “women’s basketball” but instead, could provide a direct comparison to men’s basketball, and the greatest shooter of all time as a bonus.

When the racial rivalry hit its apex I saw and heard several on-line narratives suggesting that it was Angel Reese who made Caitlin Clark famous, but in my case I tuned in to a game before the LSU final in 2023 solely because the clips of Clark were crazy.  I only saw Angel Reese go toe to toe with Clark because of Clark and I think that might be true for the vast majority watching with new interest.

The last thing I want to do is make common cause with a-holes like outlets like Outkick, but it is clear that Caitlin Clark, despite her skill set, her star power and her record breaking career, has been getting sold short by jealous legends and Twitter warriors for a lot of this season.  I am not referring to her omission from the Olympics, by the way.  But the fact that we are still being handed an “Angel Reese vs Caitlin Clark for rookie of the year” narrative is pretty insulting at this point in the season.  I saw a clip on Tik Tok from Joe Budden (once you like one funny WNBA commentary video you get 400 WNBA opinion tik toks) where he said “No one ever looked at Dennis Rodman or Ben Wallace and put them in the same conversation as Michael Jordan.”  I thought that sort of succinctly summarized the point.  In the reasonable-at-first, but now purely hater-motivated desire to check Clark’s rise, there seems to be this desire by some to deny the obvious.

Now, as I admitted earlier, I was wrong about Clark in one respect. There have been players who have played an exceptionally exciting style of play and one in particular is Mya Moore (who happens to be Clark’s favorite player). Moore accomplished all there is to accomplish as an individual and as a member of a team and then walked away in her prime to free a man from prison (who she later married).  Her career is basically like if Colin Kaepernick had won the Heisman in college, won 2 Super Bowls and an MVP and then left the NFL for social justice. Or if Patrick Mahomes quit the NFL tomorrow to work for the Innocence Project. Truly one of the most amazing athletes and people in all of sports in the last 50 years.  But for the purposes of this blog, I only saw clips of her playing recently and thought, this is the case people could be making for Clark’s perceived preferential treatment. Mya Moore’s game was electrifying and enjoyable.  The fact that society, or the WNBA, or both could not find a way to make Mya Moore a Clark-level celebrity is a much more damning case than trying to manufacture a competition between Reese and Clark (in a savvy, but cynical attempt to cultivate a Magic-Bird type rivalry, but Clark-Reese is closer to a Magic-Robert Parrish rivalry).  Moore shows what Clark might have been if she were Black: talented, exciting and not nearly as well known to the wider/whiter public.

From what I have seen and read, anything less than a unanimous ROY for Clark is insulting.  And while Mya Moore provides a good example of how perhaps similar Black talent did not receive the same social explosion as Clark, imagine if a player with a plodding game, poor shooting percentages and a team that intentionally lets her pad stats at the end of losing games were white and getting hailed as a neck and neck rival with a Black woman setting the world on fire and breaking rookie records (insert Matthew McConnaughey gif from the end of A Time To Kill). It would be outrageous and in this case, force-feeding a narrative that is so obviously false on its face should be trashed. The thing the WNBA should be focused on is highlighting Clark and doing the same thing when the next Mya Moore shows up (or realizing, which perhaps they have, that A’ja Wilson has not received the star treatment and spotlight level she has deserved). Like Reese, the WNBA will have an opportunity to rebound their past misses, but shouldn’t do so at the expense of Clark.

On Thursday I had my show in Philadelphia, at what I hope will become my new Philadelphia home for stand-up, Punchline Comedy Club.  I have performed in Philadelphia for 13 years, with over a dozen appearances featuring, headlining, recording 2 albums and doing a corporate event for Comcast (now Xfininty?) at Helium, then a nearly packed show at City Winery last year (but my paltry ticket sales at their Pittsburgh venue a few months later appeared to bury me for future shows with the chain – but thank you to my fans who wrote after that they should have gone…).  So I then went to the other club in Philly (thanks to comedian Chip Chantry for making the introduction).  Last week I was told that I had sold 14 tickets.  Not that day last week. In total.  So I proceeded to make every social media post I could in the remaining 6 days before the show and turned to God, the only agent I need (or apparently can get).  So here is how my one-nighter played out in Philadelphia.

Rise n Grind n Stress

I woke up at 5:30am because I have not slept well in over a decade.  That combined with being 6’7″, overweight and filled with an ever-present rage should make the next 5-40 years a real Russian Roulette for survival.  I ate breakfast, read the New York Times and then began my day job work (when you sell 45 tickets WITH a co-headliner in Pittsburgh leading to a $37 cut after City Winery’s costs are taken out, you need another stream of income.  I took a break to have an intense workout in my building gym during my lunch break (every workout tends to be intense when you are 65 lbs overweight – who needs deadlifts when you need to get up from the couch?) and then caught the 2:10 NJ transit to Newark Broad Street.

in pants and a long sleeve shirt I trudged through downtown Newark to Penn Station with a brief stop at Starbucks for tea, a cookie and an AC break.  I then arrived at Newark Penn Station (its motto is “we’re here to make New York Penn Station look safe and clean by comparison”) and went to Track 3 for my Amtrak to Philly. I discovered for the first time that the platform for Amtrak has an air conditioned seating area which helped dry the Patrick Ewing-at-the-foul-line amount of sweat pouring from me. Then my train arrived and I headed for the business class car (I have so many upgrades that I am going to be using them on every trip for the next year). Me below entering the car:

My seat was next to a nice looking woman who appeared in her late 50s (sadly, despite that being my prime demo from YouTube, she did not seem to recognize me.  When I arrived in Philly I had 3 hours before showtime so I decided to head to the Cheesecake Factory, a mile away. Begin sweaty walk 2.

I finalized my set list over a salmon dinner and then, to calm my nerves which were frayed to say the least (new club always stresses me and 14 tickets sales were making me stressed and embarrassed – a place I did not expect or want to be in at 45 years old), I dug into a coconut cream piece cheesecake slice.  As the cheesecake high washed over me I felt calm and prepared for my set so I headed to the train to make my way to the Punchline.

I got on the Market-Frankford line and I had 7 stops to go. I quickly noticed that the Philly subway is very different than New York’s. New York’s subway has plenty of unsavory types on it, but usually they are outnumbered 40 to 1 in a typical NYC subway.  As I looked around the Philly train car I was in I thought, “hey, where are all the normal people?” I arrived at my station safe and walked about 7 minutes to the club, which for a while I thought was a trick, like Tommy DeVito getting made in Goodfellas, because it seemed to be an abandoned area of Philadelphia, until like a gentrification oasis in the Philly desert, a collection of new, hip buildings emerged in view.

You Can Find Me in The Club (Can you find my fans?)

I made my way into the club about 40 minutes before showtime and saw less than ten people in the crowd.  Anxiety level 10.  I chatted with the emcee and the feature before the show where we discussed how terrible the stand up world is and how I should definitely not ride the subway back to 30th street station after dark.  The staff at the club treated me really well and that was nice – so what if you draw worse than a 4 year old in art class, you are the headliner and will be accorded that respect.  But then a miracle happened about 20 minutes before I went on stage. The manager, who told me “Welcome to Live Nation” (the club is a live nation venue), which made me feel like Sean Connery has just said “Welcome to the Rock!” asked me if I did any media the day of the show. I said no (despite me begging every club I work to go on the radio). He said, “well you sold 30 tickets today, which is a bump that usually only happens with a media appearance.”  Anxiety level 5.

Now to be clear, I have given myself the nickname “league minimum,” because no matter how good my comedy and how large my social media following, most venues I perform at end up paying me the minimum agreed upon terms and the Punchline would be no different (if I had sold 3 more tickets I would have moved into the additional payment level, but I think it would have been more embarrassing to have to be paid an additional 13 dollars on my check).  In fact the last time I did an August weekday show in Philadelphia it was 2018 and I sold 70 tickets at the venue (with 30 additional comps) for a very respectable Wednesday showing.  But after multiplying my following by 40x since then I was not able to reach that number.  Seems to defy logic that a comedian could become 40x more popular and sell fewer tickets, but here we are.

That said, those thirty clutch purchasers (which is at least as much the work of the Punchline who do a commendable job promoting shows, which I cannot say for all venues) bolstered an audience that were great laughers and good merchandise purchasers.  I left The Punchline exhausted, sweaty and satisfied (and hope The Punchline at least gives my stage and box office results a passing grade).  I opted to take a Lyft to 30th street station, which got me there with minutes to spare. I got on the train, sat in my leather business class seat and exhaled.

Heading and Sweating Home

We arrived at Newark Penn 8 minutes early (I could tell the Amtrak was going “opening scene of Unbreakable” level fast but I exited the train before I had my superhero powers put to the test.  But with no light rail headed to Newark Broad and no bus leaving until midnight I decided to walk the 25 minutes through Newark at 11:30 pm.  The last time I did this walk was leaving an Elton John concert at Prudential and it did not feel safe (if you recall that blog – the lack of police presence was clear from the drug users and homeless in the street (not sidewalk, the street) and the fights over drugs we witnessed, until we saw two police cars guarding… a film set.  This time I felt safe and like I had finally burned off half of the coconut cheesecake.

I got home at 12:15 am and ate a piece of my girlfriend’s Fudgie The Whale birthday cake (she’s in her 40s, but is 8 in cake choice years) to make sure I added those walk and sweat calories back.  I took a quick shower to get the day’s work off of me and crawled into bed thankful for a good show and those 30 late comers who helped make it so.

For a fun clip from the show (and a lot more bonus material) head to www.Patreon.com/JLCauvin (or the tab above).

I just finished a great biography on Jim Henson called… Jim Henson: A Biography and I was reminded of many things from my childhood, including the Kermit song “It’s Not Easy Being Green.”  At the risk of sounding too much like the worst of Tom Friedman, for VP Kamala Harris, it’s not easy being bi-racial.

As a bi-racial, former prosecutor who has had Jewish significant others, I have particular credibility to speak on all things Kamala Harris (disclaimer: this is a joke. Facts, but a joke).  In the bi-racial word there are many different shades and types (I will be focusing on the Black and a +1 in terms of bi-racial identity).  You have your Barack Obamas, your Tiger Woodses, your Lenny Kravitzes on one end and then you have Rashida Jones, Halsey and myself on the other end (Amber Rose is not invited, though she did find me funny at a comedy club last year).

Side note – if I were a woman I think I would have made a good “beige, sports thirst trap to sit in between two men arguing sports for millions of dollars” woman.

Now one of the things about being bi-racial is navigating your identity within the reactions from both sides.  In someone like Barack Obama’s case there is less difficulty and pushback in identifying him as, or him identifying as, a Black man.  For me, I have been more inclined to identify as bi-racial/check all boxes that apply because of the skepticism I have gotten throughout my life from both sides (much more from white people, but not exclusively) and because I own mirrors.  For more on this please check out the hilarious special Half-Blackface on Amazon Prime (the link is on the homepage of this site).

But for someone like Kamala Harris, both visually and culturally she has embraced her identity as a Black woman.  This does not mean that she is disavowing or ignoring her Indian heritage. But in a country that is steeped historically in valuing (in a negative way) Blackness, even when partial (the 1896, Clarence Thomas favorite Plessy v Ferguson was about keeping a man who was 1/8th Black out of the white train car) it is as if some segments of America, now recognizing the cultural cache and (relative) political power of Blackness in our society want to penalize people who are not “fully” Black.  Not out of solidarity, but for political exploitation.

So Donald Trump, without an agenda or a clue at this point, has decided that his line of attack on Harris will be the favorite of the small, but social media saturating, demographic of Black men and women who do not consider Kamala Harris Black.  Now, some of this occurred with Barack Obama, but he won over white people early, which made his electability seem more possible and a bandwagon you don’t want to miss. But he was also a man, and that gap of pro-Black and pro-Straight Black Men is the place that social media grifters and Donald Trump have found common cause.

To be clear who I am talking about by way of example – if you had a Black friend or acquaintance whose response to Bill Cosby going to jail was “What about Harvey Weinstein?” and then that person did not care to know or value the fact that Harvey Weinstein also went to jail – it’s him (or less likely, her).  And Donald Trump, knowing that his best way to take Black voters from the Democrats is to pander to loud, ignorant social media voices who might just do enough (so the theory goes) to depress Black turnout on the margins, where the election will possibly be won.  This is a man and a movement that believed him being justly convicted for crimes would endear him to Black people because, crime (while in the next sentence saying Blue Lives Matter, Back The Blue, don’t be nice to people you arrest, etc).

As transparent and disgusting their approach is in showing their ignorance of Black and bi-racial people, it’s the way they are doing it that is somehow even worse. The seem to think they have the standing to test or validate Kamala Harris’ Black credentials.  Whether it’s (in jest I assume, but still) that she say the N word and let people decide how they feel about it, or questioning why she could not (or did not want to) name her favorite rapper, it shows you how the millions of people in MAGA simplistically view Black people in this country.  I would not put it past them to want a dance or sprinting component to prove this as well. Because there are only two types of Black people MAGA comprehends. The first is any stereotype, good or bad.  A muscular rapper, a talented athlete, a scary criminal, a poor, single mom on drugs with several children, etc.  And the other is “the good one” like Tim Scott – a man who practically reaches back to antebellum United States to reassure, placate and serve white people – both their feelings and their wishes.

I remember standing in the back of the Toledo Funny Bone 14 years ago and the emcee was participating in a dance portion of the headliner’s set.  I was standing next to a blonde white woman who was enjoying the show in the back and I said to her “He’s pretty good!” And her response was “Well yeah, he’s Black.”  I could fill a medium sized book with all of these things I have heard in my life, but this is how they view Black people. No nuance, no humanity, no diversity. Some of this ignorance is a product of our segregation in society (largely a result of racist laws, policies and customs), but some of it is a result of being a bad person.

Donald Trump has repeatedly, for decades shown himself to be a stone cold racist.  But for any Black, bi-racial or simply decent human being who gets down with the MAGA movement, you are joining the most base and simple group of people in our country.  And to quote Joe Biden (feign outrage, but you know he’s right), “If you vote for Trump, you ain’t Black.”  And however, Kamala Harris identifies, the very last people with the intellectual or moral authority to put her identity to any test are the ones who are dumb enough, racist enough or self-hating enough to support Trump.

When I began doing stand-up in 2003 I had no idea whether I would be good, whether I would enjoy it and how long I would do it.  It has now been 21 years since my first open mic and I am proud of what I have produced and how good I have become.  However, I am somewhat regretful of having spent so much of my adult life working, striving and stressing over an art form that has changed so much over that time that I’m not sure it’s an art anymore.  I actually believe getting into comedy when I did was the worst possible time – just enough exposure to how comedy used to be to somewhat resist the marketplace of content mercenaries it has become.

I have lamented with some comedians in my generation about how bad our timing was.  To sum it up, we emerged when stand up was the only form of comedic expression for stand-up comedians, Comedy Central played tons of stand-up comedy, podcasts and social media did not exist and YouTube was in its embryonic stage.  The only advice a veteran comedian would give to a new comedian would be, “write a lot and get on stage as much as you can.” And that was good advice because the assumption was that you wanted to become good at stand-up comedy, to then become a successful stand-up comedian.  But every generation that entered after us was born into a new framework that did not require them to de-program themselves of the romantic notion that being good at stand-up was not only the priority, but the sole focus of a stand-up comedian.  YouTube, Podcasts, Social Media and then Tik Tok (the Apollo Moon Landing to YouTube’s Wright Brothers) have grounded aspiring comedians content creators in more useful ways to gain success, but decreasing the means and motivations to become good. And if the desire, focus and talent of each successive comedy generation becomes more attached to algorithms and less attached to the art, eventually the art will cease to progress and will eventually become nothing but an app on people’s phone to distract them (i.e. I think we might already be there).

Friends and fans of mine know that I am a huge Bo Burnham fan.  Like Eddie Murphy I think Burnham is a singular, generational talent and the best argument for the Internet launching great artists.  But I think Bo Bunham is not just an immense talent, I think he is also an aberration or an anomaly.  I think he began so young on YouTube (the term wunderkind certainly applies) because he had work he wanted to share, not because he had unlocked some code guaranteeing success.  And all his future work from his early YouTube days, has shown an artist critiquing, rather than embcracing, the degradation of art and culture in society (In 2015, during a special, he said of Celebrity Lip Sync, “So I guess culture is dead.”  And yet that dead horse is being kicked for immense profit to this day.

Even someone like Dane Cook, who occupies that same space as Amy Schumer where, because of his immense success, was an acceptable target of many comedians and comedy fans’ groupthink of unjustified personal and artistic hate (whereas mocking Louis CK in 2013 was a very divisive choice), was much more of an original than what we see today.  Cook used social media, not as a lemming, but as a pioneer. In the desire to expose his art to more people he used the tool of MySpace in ways no one else had.  In other words, he used the tools of the Internet to share his original (you don’t have to like it, but Dane Cook was an original) work. He did not shape his work to fit the tools of the Internet.

Keeping the Boston theme going, one of my favorite comedians, and someone I consider a friend, is Gary Gulman.  Before Sirius XM got wise to it and required a minimum length for tracks, there was a period recently when comedians were creating albums with 30+ tracks for an album under an hour to get more streams (and money) from satellite radio.  As someone who is sometimes prone to longer tracks (not to sound like a pretentious jazz artist, but the tracks are as long as the tracks are – I have some tracks that barely reach a minute and I have a track on an album that exceeded 15 minutes).  But I wrote years ago that I was thankful that a comedian like Gary Gulman would continue to write Homeric poems (or Jim Steinman-Meat Loaf epics if you prefer rock analogies to English Lit ones) on fruit, cookies, mental health, abbreviating states and whatever popped into his head because he was enough of an artist (and perhaps secure and safe in his career – this cannot be entirely discounted and must be at least acknowledged as something that does vex us lesser known and less successful comedians) to continue to make his art.

But we are in a different era now, pretty much unrecognizable from when I got into stand-up comedy.  People used to say “it takes ten years to find your voice” as a comedian.  Today they might as well say “who gives a shit about your voice – if you haven’t got 100K Tik Tok followers by year 3 it might be time to get out.”  Crowd work videos, from comedians who still can’t put together a strong feature set, are becoming Internet superstars (not who you are thinking of – calm down).  Comedians who should be solid features are selling out arenas (exactly who you are thinking of).  Rather than give a list of all the individual injustices occurring in stand-up, I will give an example that truly shows the core of how algorithms define stand-up comedy content creation today.

Everyone puts captions on their videos now.  This began as a way to help hearing impaired people appreciate the work (though I did have to tell someone one time that reading the dialogue of my impersonations really was borderline useless, no matter how funny my dialogue is).  But it was “the algorithm likes the flashing and changing of text to engage eyeballs” that made text in videos omnipresent.  In other words, it has nothing to do with its original purpose anymore (who cares about the hearing impaired!?).  If Tik Tok’s algorithm wanted comedians content creators to kick old ladies down stairwells for content/channel engagement, probably 1/3 of comedians would invite their grandmothers over to their homes that afternoon.

But comedians are not the only ones at fault.  Comedy audiences have gotten dumber. As younger generations grow up in informational and content silos of their own (sometimes unintentional) making, general knowledge seems to be diminishing, as are cultural references, which people used to know collectively.  I had a younger club employee tell me last year that I was like Dennis Miller.  That says a lot more about us then me and Dennis Miller.  Dennis Miller used to confuse me with references to things that only my philosophy major friends in college could reference.  Me discussing The Godfather and Mary Magdalene should not evoke similar bouts of confusion among the general population.  But alas here we are.

So comedians obey the algorithm as their master, micro-target their material for that algorithm and sell tickets to at best, a charismatic, empty performance, and at worse to an hour of desecrating what a comedy club used to stand for.  And soulless content creators and a navel gazing, cell phone zombie audience are only 2/3 of the equation.  Clubs have become sanctuaries for the Trojan Horse that is the content creator who does not care about stand up comedy.  I used to post jokes when I would be performing at a club and see a pro wrestler or a Real Housewife performing appearing the next week. But now it’s every week, everywhere.  At this point, I see the direction we are in and I understand the need to sell tickets, but then we should just start calling comedy clubs “event spaces.”

Some reading this may be saying, “but J-L, you made it big on social media so what gives?”  That is true. I was doing impersonations since before I got into stand-up.  As my stand up skills matured and I found my voice and became a prolific writer I put my impressions into sketches and kept my stand-up mostly free of them.  And the parallel paths served me well. But during the pandemic, it was my Trump impersonation, which had been toiling in obscurity, with the rest of my catalogue, that brought me more money and prominence than the previous 16 years of my comedy career combined.  But in my naive belief, born in 2003 when I began doing stand-up, I thought that if they like the humor behind my impressions then they will really enjoy my stand-up, which is overdue for a mainstream discovery. And now these millions who’ve seen my impressions and hundreds of thousands who have chosen to follow me, will certainly care about this great and funny catalogue of mine.

Not really.

I remember a somewhat recent conversation I had with a comedian who was much more successful than me. And I said. “it’s like nobody cares about the art.” And he said, “We do.”  Without doubting the sincerity of what he said, when you are in a position where you’ve built up your fan base pre-social media and especially pre-Tik Tok, you are sort of grandfathered in. Real comedy fans will appreciate and newer, fairweather fans will at least respect your clout and reach as a major player.  But the art of stand-up comedy will not continue if younger comedians and younger generations don’t put originality and the art on at least an equal footing as the algorithm (baby steps). The business of comedy is booming. The art feels like it’s dying.  I have always said stand up could never have a guild or a union because the default mindset of a comedian is already that of a scab.  And I said that well before Tik Tok opened up the gates of virality-chasing Hell.

I do not know how much longer I can do stand-up. The writing on the wall appears to be clear that my talent and work is really best described as a pleasant distraction to the vast majority of my fans.  I am now 45, but sometimes I feel physically and mentally like I am 65, and I might as well be with my antiquated wishes for the art of stand-up comedy.  I often ask myself a question my mother used ask me during the darkest days of my comedy career.  “Who are you doing this for?”  I was spending half of my very low pay at the time on video edits and making sketches all while trying to get booked as a middle act and self-producing my albums, not to get famous or to win over an algorithm or because streaming and YouTube were lucrative (which at the time I was making $0 from both), but because I had lots of funny stuff to share and held out belief that something would catch on, leading people to a vast library of comedy work.  And that was what I told my Mom at the time.  And I am of the belief that if that is not your motivation for being in comedy, then you shouldn’t do it.

Last year, after sales of my album Tall Boy were far less than even my measured/pessimistic expectations (in 2020 my 2nd album as Trump debuted at 34 on the entire iTunes charts, right behind the Frozen II soundtrack and sat atop the comedy charts of iTunes and Amazon for two weeks) it was a rude awakening.  I then decided for the final year of my podcast as Trump (Making Podcasts Great Again) I would charge $1 a month for access to full audio and video of weekly episodes.  Many fans (though only about 5% of our audience) signed up.  But at least a dozen fans chose this time to vent hostility at me with comments like “See ya!” and “Welp, won’t be listening anymore” despite the singular nature of the show that I had put out for free since 2018 with my partner Jay.  I see the irony of complaining about the art, but feeling disrespected for fans not paying for it, but unless the Medici show up to patronize me, the only way to make good art at the volume I do is for some folks to pay for it. There are some realities I cannot avoid, not matter how many realities I try to avoid in this blog.

So to answer, my Mom’s question, at this point I still “do this” for me, hoping that the audience I need finds me.  But that audience may no longer exist.

I have been a huge fan of The Boys on Amazon Prime since season 1.  I was completely unfamiliar with it when I first checked it out in 2019 and have loved the first three seasons.  The acting, especially from Antony Starr (who I’ve been saying deserves an Emmy nomination since season 1 and telling my friends to watch Banshee), is great. The violence is startling, but often with the intention to startle or produce dark laughter. The show’s sex and nudity are often the same.  And the tone, just beneath the surface of the show, has been that of a healthy skepticism of heroes, patriotism and other virtues that are often only skin deep.  And then season 4 happened.

Season 4 of The Boys has seen a lot of on-line outrage from the MAGA bros who, unsurprisingly made up a percentage of the viewers.  I think I may have heard dark comedian Anthony Jeselnik once say in an interview (apologies if it was a different comedian) expressing some contempt for his fans in that some seemed to appreciate the darkness or edginess of the jokes, but not the actually craftsmanship of the humor.  So the on-line chatter during and after season 3 was how many bros did not seem to appreciate that Homelander, played by Starr, was a real evil presence.  He was not an anti-hero. He was the villain. Engaging and terrifying to behold, but a clear villain.  It seemed that much like the Jeselnik fans mentioned before, many men were not getting the nuance(?) of Homelander and were just gravitating to his American flag and his strength.  They liked the edge, but did not see or understand the substance.

Well it seems that the creators of The Boys took the bait and to paraphrase Kirk Lazarus in Tropic Thunder: You never go full MAGA bait.

I have made this analogy before, but it is one of my favorite to make so here it is again.  In the early 2000s as Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera battled for Disney-Teen-Bait-Grown-Up-Pop-Star supremacy, Spears released I’m A Slave For You where she danced with a snake and showed off her sweaty, flat stomach, which intrigued a lot men, including her dance choreographer (but that led to Timberlake’s Timbaland’s Cry Me A River (ft. Justin Timberlake) so net positive!).  This left Aguilera in a bind. She had the better voice by a factor of 50, but sex sells and Britney had walked up to the line so many times, first the age of consent with her schoolgirl debut then to the edge of decency with Slave.  So Aguilera came out with Dirty, which I loved as a song and a video, but grinding and boxing in assless chaps was too far and it was more mocked more than masturbated.  Victory was Britney’s.

Similarly, the creators of The Boys, seemed so outraged at the stupidity of the MAGA bros portion of the fan base that they decided to go full MAGA attack. The sweaty Britney abs of seasons 1-3 were gone and in season 4 they put on their Aguilera Assless Chaps (TM) to “own MAGA.”  “Owning the libs” was a phrase used by MAGA at first, but then used derisively by the Left whenever the GOP had something backfire (“letting your kid get killed by AR-15 to own the libs” would be an extreme, but accurate hypothetical example).  But in an effort to correct, make clear or “own” the MAGA bros this season went too obvious and too heavy handed with everything that all subtlety was lost and I even found myself rolling my eyes by the end of season 4.

Homelander is obviously a Trump-like figure and thankfully the writing and Starr’s performance maintain enough artistic distance that it’s obvious, but not heavy-handed.  But the outright references to real politicians, GOP phrases, QAnon quips and a character that is admittedly modeled on Marjorie Taylor Greene (then don’t make her so hot please!) it felt like the show abandoned its artistry for some of the season and went into obvious political attacks.

Here’s the thing – the show was and is immensely popular. And season 4 was good. it was just markedly worse than the greatness standard set by the first three seasons.  But finding out MAGA bros are dumb and don’t understand nuance in art (even if it is still a fairly clear allegory) and being surprised or angry is an odd response.  By making art like this, you clearly already know that.  But you still got goaded into laying it on so thick and spiteful that you diluted the quality of the product.  So MAGA bros lose because they realize that their favorite show is actually a “woke” attack on them, but the show also loses because by going after the folks you hate, the people who understand and love the show for the right reasons received a weaker season.

And on a smaller note, the Jeffrey Dean Morgan twist was too obvious.

Looking forward to the fifth and final season whenever it is ready, but artists shouldn’t let fans or algorithms dictate what they make. But that can be understandable. But letting the idiots who hate what you stand for alter the show is even worse.  Let them be mad and dumb. Keep The Boys great.

This weekend, 21 years after the first month I went to my first open mic in Washington, DC to begin one of the most frustrating experiences of my life, I returned to the nation’s capital for four shows at the DC Comedy Loft (ironically enough across the street from one of the first places I ever performed at).  There was classy Amtrak travel, podcasting that aged horribly 8 hours later when President Biden took the debate stage, 4 great shows in front of 3 great crowds and an 11 person meeting, 2 meals at the Cheesecake Factory, a reunion from my days as a prosecutor in the Bronx and a tremendous amount of sweat.  So let’s get into this epic!

Thursday Tired Thursday

I woke up at 5am for no reason Thursday so I went and worked out in my building, making it one consecutive days of exercise before I caught the 9:15am Acela from Newark to DC. The shows were Friday & Saturday, but a fan turned friend has a podcast called Political Shadings that he wanted me to be an in studio guest for.  And when he said, “we can get you a hotel for the night” I thought, perfect! One of my pet peeves about road comedy is arriving in a city after a day of travel and having to perform that night.  This would allow me to settle in, have dinner with a buddy and relax.  Except after the podcast (which was recorded less than a day before the Biden-Trump debate (my take is hilariously bad in hindsight) and the overruling of Chevron by the Supreme Court (solid work by me) I agreed to co-host a live zoom event with Pete Dominick, which would leave me depressed (because of President Biden) and exhausted (I went to bed at 1am). So much for a relaxing day before showtime.

Friday: Moving Day

On Friday I first woke up at 3:30am. That sucked, but since 2020 my brain has been permanently wired it seems so good sleep only really comes with complete exhaustion. I fell back asleep and went downstairs for the Residence Inn complimentary breakfast.  Shout out to Political Shadings (the episode should be available Monday – definitely listen) for the great hotel room and breakfast.  And, just to let you know why I am a Hampton Inn type hotel guy.  I am usually not a fan of the super upscale places. It’s like, “for the privilege of paying triple what you need to for a hotel room, we will also charge you for meals, internet, the gym and eye contact.” I like the “clean room, free Internet, free breakfast” places.  I will highlight that as part of my “man of the people” marketing for my Senate campaign.

I checked out of my hotel and headed to the comedy club provided hotel, which was about a mile away (in a J-L Jinx type irony, the Residence Inn was across the street from the club). I checked into that hotel, which had a “is this a niche, boutique hotel or part of the Bates Motel family of hotels?” vibe. My hotel appeared safe and well air-conditioned so I settled in to watch some CNN and continue mapping my set for Fridays shows, but the hotel did not have CNN. It had CNN Headline News. So for the next two days I was forced to read the news like my ancestors did before me.

I had an early dinner at the nearby Cheesecake Factory (as I said on stage, “when in DC I like to go where the power players dine”) where I had the salmon and skipped dessert because my girlfriend texted me and said no cheesecake. I said truthfully that I had not had cheesecake… that meal.

That night I headed out for the DC Comedy Loft. It was warm, but not as warm as I expected so I walked the mile and, of course, arrived at the club sweating like a fat fu*k. I had a half hour to cool off, which I did and then it was time for the show. Openers did a great job and then I killed it, which was a relief because the whole set, sans two jokes, is all new material from the last 6 months.  And there was extra pressure because friends and colleagues of my brother and sister-in-law showed up and even 21 years into this I am nervous to embarrass myself and have it get back to my family.  Sold a lot of merch and walked back to my hotel (only saw one giant water bug).

I arrived back in my hotel room and turned down my sheets and saw what can only be described as ,which I learned is owned by the club owners and had a wonderful night of sleep.

Saturday: Faith and Funny Conference

I woke up and headed to the nearby Starbucks to read and have some disgusting coffee (seriously, Starbucks made the right move making drinks for children and immature adults because their coffee tastes like burned motor oil). I then went to the Cheesecake Factory again, this time for lunch and had the Factory Meatloaf. The stacked Latin woman who brought it to me said “I always tell people this is my favorite” and then I said I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that” and she said “huh?” and the moment was lost.  But obviously if you know me or have followed any thing I’ve done you know that a hot Latin woman bringing me Cheesecake Factory food is pretty much the only porn category that I would subscribe to.  I went for a long walk after my meal, which I had finished off with a coconut cream pie cheesecake (low key might be a top 3 on the menu), all the way to Georgetown University Law Center to see how the institution that drove me into comedy was doing. It looked nice and I then went back to my hotel.

At 515pm I made my way to the Cathedral of St Michael the Apostle. I love this Church. It is so beautiful and it is always a safe bet for the paparazzi to catch shots of me on my trips to DC.  After the service I walked up to the Sweetgreen at Dupont Circle and ate a Kale Caesar salad while a table of young people (mid 20s?) discussed how they were going to see Taylor Tomlinson at the DC Improv. I said, “you could see me!” And they said who are you? And I said, “Ask your grandparents, they probably love my sh*t on YouTube!”

Saturday early show was my best set of the weekend.  Clips will go up on my Patreon and maybe even one or two publicly, but not too much as I obviously want to keep developing this new hour or so of material.  The second show was not quite as good, but I think that was just my energy dipping a little. A bit I’ve been struggling with working on about the history of DJs finally hit big with that late crowd, probably saving it from the trash heap of the (extremely rare) jokes I write that don’t crush.  Met up with various people from my life after Saturday shows, including a former colleague from my days as a prosecutor who is now in DC after a multi decade career working for the [Redacted].

In a reversal of the J-L Jinx, the DC Comedy Loft lost most of its air conditioning, except in the room I was performing in.  When I left at 1245am after talking to my girlfriend’s friends (she grew up in northern VA) and it was finally clear to call the escort service, I bought a vanilla milkshake and walked back to the hotel in maybe the most humidity I have ever experienced.  I saw one rat and fell asleep at about 2am.

Sunday – Time to Leave

I woke up at 8am, took a shower (was too tired to take my 2nd shower in 10 hours when I got back the night before) and eventually made my way to Union Station to take my First Class Acela trip home.  I had a 4 seater to myself and dined and read my book like the wealthy scholar that I am not.

The trip to DC was great. The shows were great. The support from fans, friends and the club was great (though I have noticed that a lot of the fair weather folk from 2021-22 have disappeared so in my delusional, Michael Jordan-bulletin board for slights-type attitude, if you are not coming to see me drop majestic new material in DC now (but seeing awful hacks with more heat) I will not acknowledge you when that heat swings back on me. Just wanted to end the fun blog on an absolutely true and menacing note!