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Road Comedy Recap: Trump, Triumph & Tim Hortons in…

Despite being located very close by international standards, until a few days ago I had never been to Canada.  I also grew up and lived in New York City until I was 40 and have never been to the Statue of Liberty.  But thanks to the dementia warlord that is Donald J Trump, I saw an opportunity to finally crack the Canadian Curse (I’ve emailed Canadian clubs on and off for probably a decade without a reply before last month) and bring my comedy north of the border.  It worked and I was booked to perform at Yuk Yuks in downtown Toronto on April 9th. Here is how it went:

Travelling to Toronto

I woke up at 4am on Tuesday April 8th (on purpose). I needed to eat a healthy breakfast (knowing I would be travelling 24 of the next 60 hours on Amtrak, healthy eats would be less likely) so I had my black coffee, scrambled eggs and blueberries, shaved to make my increasingly jowly face more Trump smooth, hopped in the shower and then ran with my backpack, suitcase and garment bag to the 5:33am train to Penn Station. When I arrived at Penn Station at 610am it was beautifully and gloriously empty as I stood in the Amtrak First Class Lounge surveying the station like Simba and Mufasa overseeing their kingdom.

                                                                               My Amtrak Kingdom in NYC at 6am

Then came the call for the 715am Maple Leaf from NYC to Toronto. I went into the business class car and saw the one seat empty was the first seat with about 6 feet of legroom (or as Amtrak calls it “space for handicapped passengers”). I then settled in with some magazines (The Atlantic, New Yorker, Swank), a book, and podcasts for the long haul to Toronto.

The trip was on time and uneventful until we arrived at the Canadian border. I checked for my passport for the 47th time on the trip, gathered my bags and went with everyone else to the border patrol check.

If you did not hear them speak, you could confuse Canadian border agents for January 6th looking dudes.  White, tactical gear, thick beards. And then you hear them speak and realize these guys sound far too friendly to be cruel. Of course, if you’ve heard Canadian hockey players talk after games they often sound so much like kindergarten teachers or park rangers that you forget they just committed felony assault during the game.  The way South African, Southern and Boston accents always sound presumptively racist to me, the Canadian accent sounds presumptively non-threatening.

When it was my time to get called I was called by the one woman in the crew, who just so happened to be fairly hot.  She called out my name with a perfectly pronounced “Jean-Louis” at which point I told her I was willing to move to Canada if she was unwilling to do long distance.  She asked me a bunch of questions about what I was going to do in Canada and when she did not volunteer any interest in my comedy show I told her, “I already live with a woman who is bored with my schtick, I don’t need another!”

I then reboarded the train and we made our way the final two hours or so to Toronto.  It is worth noting that although the Canadian train crew was bi-lingual, friendly and more thorough on safety instructions than the American crew, they made a point of saying that our free business class beverage perk was not honored in Canada. THANKS TRUMP!

Union Station-Union Hotel

I booked a stay at the Union Hotel seeing that it was across the street from Union Station (by the way, who was naming our train stations in North America, George Forman (RIP)? – I have been to at least 12 union stations in North America).  A cab driver called out to me as I walked the frigid streets of Toronto, “you need a taxi, friend?” and I thought,”Jeesh, Canadians are friendlier!

I arrived at the hotel and after having my name pronounced perfectly at the border I gave my passport to the hotel clerk and he said something like “jjjen lewis?” and I said “Ooof, Jean-Louis, I thought Toronto would nail it!” and he replied in his Euro accent, “Hey sorry I only speak three languages,” to which I laughed but thought “Well no French and shit English seems like a weird combo in Canada, SIR!”  I just wish my border agent side chick were there so we could laugh at him together.

I checked into my room, which was small, but slick. I then went to Chipotle for dinner (was not sure how late other places would be open) and had a donut nightcap at Tim Hortons across the street from my hotel.  My four, yes four, visits to TH over the next 34 hours would yield gold material for my show, but at the time of my first visit I just enjoyed an objectively delicious donut.  As a patriot I won’t say they’re better than Dunkin’, but as a fat fu*k headed towards an early, footless grave, I will say that Tim Hortons’ donuts are the best chain donuts I’ve had.

I went to sleep at 11pm so I would be well rested for the CBC Morning Match radio show with David Common.

Rise N Grind

I woke up at 4:30 am. Why? Because God hates me apparently.  But it was a blessing in disguise. Because my voice, like a lot of people, is so much different when I wake up, it gave me several hours to sit and talk to myself in my hotel room so that when called upon to speak like Trump on air, it would not sound super crappy.  So I went across the street to Tim Hortons, which either had a slumber party with many adults or is an early morning hang for Toronto’s unhoused population. I had one two donuts and a croissant with a coffee. I returned to my hotel room and resumed talking until I felt like the impression was about 90% there.

I arrived at the radio station at 745am for my 820am appearance on air. I bantered with the show staff and then it was time for me to get on the air.  David Common, the host, has a voice for radio and a face for TV.  I thought, if this is the kind of face you put on your radio, it makes sense that your female border agents would be good looking.  I had a strong appearance and then celebrated with a trip to… Tim Hortons.

The Hockey Hall of Fame

After TH, I made my way to the Hockey Hall of Fame.  Fans of mine know (or should know) that I have become a big hockey enthusiast over the last few years, even if attending NY Rangers’ games sometimes feels like 10% of the audience would have cheered on the assault of Abner Louima.  I have also complained about hockey culture where players cannot seem to master the art of humility without also appearing lobotomized. That excessively performative humility hit a new level when I went to the Hockey Hall of Fame and saw that it was in the basement of a shopping mall.

Hockey hall of fame by the bathrooms and food court *eye roll*

I did enjoy my trip to the Hall (bought a fridge magnet, which I just realized I left in my hotel room), spent a few hours investigating everything and came to the conclusion that Teemu Selanne, who scored 684 career regular season goals, is aging like a guy who has not stopped scoring.  The picture I took is not perfect, but if I don’t share it with you then I’m just a guy who takes pictures of handsome hockey players. Ummmm so anyway then I left and had lunch at Shake Shack (continuing to sample the Canadian specialties). Union Station (Toronto edition) is maybe the nicest train station I’ve ever been to (Moynihan is like a side car compared to the sheer size of Toronto so it’s unfair to compare the two).

684 regular season goals and two piercing eyes

I Live For The Funk

I then went into a funk that has become a sort of regular thing for me over the last couple of years.  I begin to despair about my comedy career (justified), which then spirals to a feeling that my life is failing on every level.  I think this is because of the importance of my comedy to me and how that importance has not been validated in many of the ways I would need it to be, to have the career that I want. And when you consider I have been doing comedy almost my entire adult life, it is a difficult spiral when you think before shows (in order) – I should be doing better – but I am not – have I wasted my life? – is the rest of my life good enough to compensate for this complete failure of my main adulthood pursuit – it doesn’t feel that way – I am in a city where I need ticket sales to even give me a chance at more gigs – and even if those gigs materialize will they lead my life or career to change at all – no, of course not – well get dressed and get this fucking show over with but be sure to text your girlfriend that she needs to make you quit comedy as you have done for half of your gigs this year.

Then I realized I had been sitting on my hotel bed for two hours doing nothing but thinking these thoughts. No book. No TV. No music.  And with that happy attitude I left the Union Hotel for Yuk Yuk’s, just desperate to do the show and never do comedy again.

Yuk Yuk’s

When I got to the club I ran into three fans who told me they’d been fans of mine since 2016 (intentionally or unintentionally flexing that they were fans of mine before I gained millions of admirers for 2 months in 2020) and of course the words of praise, combined with the ambiance of a comedy club beginning to fill up with people, began to melt away the funk.  I went up to the green room to dress up like Elon Musk. I was emceeing my own show as Elon, then a local comedian, Armin Arbabi, would middle (very strongly) followed by me as Trump.

The Musk set went well and Armin did very well and then it was time for the main event. I gave probably a 20 minute speech to the attendees on why they should be honored to be the 51st state and then took questions from the crowd, which I think was close to an hour.  Part of me believes, as I write this, that there is really no purpose in relaying how my set went. It is not the first time I have done a show where I know the show deserves and deserved a 5000 seat theater. But an inevitable truth has been coming into focus for me over the last few years: those opportunities are not going to happen for me. My modest expectations on the heels of the show of a big Canadian tour have already been watered down significantly, so my feelings are not just the morose musings of a comedian experiencing the roller coaster of entertainment emotions. But with all that said, the show was a hard A+. It was beyond worthy of hot border agentess, a delicious Tim Hortons donut and Teemu Selanne’s eyes. The responses from the fans, the club owner and the video crew I hired to record the show were the sort of unmistakable, emotional reactions to deeply enjoying something. I left very proud and satisfied.

 

Now when I finally physically left the club after a mega meet and greet I looked like a guy who had just been fired from a job – limping along Toronto city streets at 1045pm on a Wednesday carrying a backpack, a pair of New Balance sneakers and a flannel shirt (did not feel like changing out of the suit until I got back to the hotel).

I went to my Tim Hortons for a celebratory donut, but they had just closed. As I was walking away disappointed, the employee cleaning up opened the door and said “Sorry about that.”  And that felt better somehow than the quick satisfaction of a donut.

I made my way to Jack Ashtons’ (a restaurant open until 1am), for a delicious hamburger and fries, a traditionally American meal that based on the (thousands) of Canadian flags in the restaurant felt like a trap.  For the first time in a while I slept deeply and had to be rudely awakened by my alarm.

Leaving Toronto

My assessment of Toronto is probably how jazz artists felt about Paris before WWII – leaving my country to finally sell tickets and receive a response that satisfied me is, after having a Haitian father, probably the Blackest experience I’ve ever had.  It is a nice looking city, the people appeared to be as nice as advertised and I had one of my favorite shows ever.  I got a coffee and a donut from Tim Hortons (yes, this was the 4th trip for you folks who were counting) on my way to the train and made my way back to New York.

When I got home I was greeted by Laura and Cookie, as always. I deteriorated into a foul mood, probably because of the reality that constantly hits me with my comedy career – I will not be the success I want to be, but I tasted a night of it. But there’s no Tim Hortons guy to call out “sorry about that” when the disappointing nights follow.

Thank you very much Toronto.

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Road Comedy Recap: Queen City Celebration

Two decades in stand-up comedy have provided me with plenty of joy, plenty of pain and plenty of interesting experiences travelling the United States.  Late last week was my first trip to Charlotte, North Carolina, the “Queen City” (are Cincinnati and Charlotte ever going to have a WWE-style cage match to determine who is the sole Queen City?).  I was opening for the live show of The Black Guy Who Tips podcast and everything from the show to the fans to the city gave me all the positives that make me realize why I put up with all the frustrations of being in comedy.  But my train trip home from Charlotte to New Jersey was exactly the kind of experience I love getting from travelling to different parts of the country. Ok – let’s get to the recap!

The Black Guy Who Tips – a brief history

I do not know the first time I appeared on TBGWT, but I do know that my comedy career was at a low point (legitimately, not just the way I speak of it on a monthly basis), but once I was a guest on the show I realized that Rod & Karen had a different type of fan base.  An appearance on their show would yield the same amount of feedback and new followers as a good appearance on podcasts with fan bases twenty times larger.  And when I was doing road work as a feature, post TBGT, there would be fans of TBGWT showing up. The point is that, along with Pete Dominick’s podcast community, TBGWT gave me a new supply of high quality fans and kept me going in comedy until I could grow my own independent fan base (to then learn that most of them were just bored liberals who would simply check in to tell me they couldn’t make shows, subscribe to podcasts, watch YouTube, sign up my for my newsletter, etc. – apparently my fans are all the veteran from the Metallica video “One.”).  They run a great show and have one of the best high value fan bases in the comedy world.  And they are great people.

So when asked to open for their live show in Charlotte I said yes.

Amtrak to Charlotte

I got on the Carolinian at 7:20am in Newark, NJ for the 13 hour trip to Charlotte.  I had to sit next to someone for 10 of the 13 hours (two separate people) and it was generally uncomfortable. I am well known for my nationwide train travel and have been on trains as long as 45 hours (Chicago-Seattle). On those trains, however, I usually have my own small room, versus 13 hours in a single seat next to someone whose space I am trying to respect (if I were more like Trump I would simply ooze over into their seating area and say “buy me snacks and maybe I will give you your territory back”).

A little after Durham, NC (about 2.5 hours from Charlotte on the train) I thought, “I guess this train is going to get me there on time” (I had to record a live podcast at 930pm from my hotel room, so I only had 30 minutes of late time to spare).  And then the J-L Jinx struck (which tragically began when Patrice O’Neal asked me to emcee for him and passed away sixth months after I worked with him for the second time. Now my career feels like a combination of Curb Your Enthusiasm and Final Destination). Our train had to stop for over an hour because a truck crashed into a bridge on our route and engineers had to go to the bridge and assess the integrity of the bridge before we could cross over it.  We got the OK, but by then I had already canceled the podcast taping.

I got to my downtown Charlotte hotel and was charged $11 for a 20 oz water bottle and a snickers ice cream bar. Queen City indeed!  I did not realize royal city could invoke prima nocta to charge NYC airport prices!  I then went to bed prepared for a busy Friday.

The Beige Guy Who Interviews and The Black Guy Who Tips

When I went downstairs for my continental breakfast (eating enough to make my money back from the Snickers-Water robbery) I was greeted by Morgan Wallen playing on the radio, Fox News on the TV and burly white guys in camouflage  eating. It felt like I was in a safe house/panic room for Trump loving whites in a left-leaning Black city.

After breakfast I got on a zoom interview for a job at a law firm (found out today that I did not get a second interview – a disturbing event in my life because it is showing that my charm and interview skills can no longer mask my lack of employability). After the interview I went for lunch at the Capital Grille 10 minutes away because I eat lunch for the job I think I am going to get, not the job I am not going to get 3 days later.  I was struck by how nice downtown Charlotte is and how much construction is going up. Sadly, by me even observing this, I may have cursed the city with tragedy at a near future date.

I then went back to my hotel and read a book and prepped my set for the night.  After a nice shower it was time for the meet & greet at the Blumenthal Performing Arts Center.

The Show

Seeing Rod for the first time in person in two years and Karen for the first time in around a decade was a wonderful reminder that I do not just live in cyber space and then we greeted all of their fans.  And each time Karen would ask “would you like J-L and Justin (a regular on TBGWT and I believe Rod’s best friend), in a picture as well?”  It was nice to be included and most people clearly wanted me included, but I was always close to feeling like a tip screen at a coffee shop “fine! *taps reluctantly on ‘J-L in picture also’ option*”

Crushing it in Charlotte

I opened the show and did quite well.  When I get the video in a week or two I will post the set to my Patreon (fans leave blog immediately at mention of pay platform). I then remained as a guest on the episode. After helping Karen and Rod with some of the clean up/break down we ate a delicious meal at a restaurant nearby called Sea Level.   It was a great honor and pleasure to do the show and to see the work and fanbase that Rod and Karen have built through their talent, work and kindness. I then went to bed that night with the following thought: “I will never have that kind of fan base, but at least I am in line to get that law firm job. zzzzzzzzzzzzzz”

T-Rex arms aside, I can reach high things. I bring jokes and part-time roadie skills

Jimmy Crack Corn and the Ride Home

I woke up at 5am to make sure I did not miss my 645am train home.  I went to the Starbucks across the street from the

train station and must say – people in the South are just nicer.  After a pleasant, early morning Starbucks session I walked across the street to the train. I boarded the business class car and sat next to a very polite, and more importantly, very petite, young Black woman. And then a man who I will call Jimmy Crack Corn got on the train. He looked like a typical late 30s white guy with a factory or construction job. He got on the train with a man I assumed was his friend, but then determined was just someone he struck up a conversation.  And by struck up a conversation I mean went on a three hour monologue.

I knew it was trouble because from the beginning Jimmy was too excited to explain every feature of the train and the (almost non-existent) perks of being in business class.  But once the conversation began it became clear that Jimmy had a lot to say.  I actually left to read for an hour in the snack car and when I returned it was like he had not stopped speaking. I knew this because the Black man sitting in front of me trying to read had a wide-eyed look that I had had an hour ago that said, “I can’t believe this guy is talking so much and so loudly” (perhaps “Black reader reacts to white talker” will be the next Tik Tok trend).  But as the largely one-sided conversation continued it hit various notes and I just leaned back and listened.

  • Phase 1 was a TMI confessional that included discussions of substance abuse – “smoked crack just to get his former wife off his back” (this is when I gave him the nickname of Crack-Eyed Joe, but Jimmy Crack Corn feels better now), “had drunk drove 300 or 400 times”, his daughter has not seen his ex for 7 years because she is such an addict who doesn’t care, and he said the phrase “long story short” multiple times while telling incredibly long stories with the energy of a former addict whose new addiction was talking
  • Phase 2 (return from reading in the snack car) was a discussion of fishing (his favorite activity) and how he doesn’t need to officially marry his current lady because Kurt Russell did just fine without it
  • Phase 3 – this is when I start to realize that Jimmy Crack Corn might be the typical American white male voter and perhaps I am lucky to be forced to listen to him talk. He told his neighbor (who I realized through their conversation had been helped to the station by Jimmy, despite being strangers) that: he doesn’t like politics (though he spent 30 minutes talking about politics), thinks Trump is a scumbag, but that Tim Walz is crazy for putting tampons in the boys’ bathroom, that if you can’t rent a car as a kid you shouldn’t be able to change genders as a kid (with a token “I don’t understand it – educate me on it then”), thinks millionaires don’t care about us, thinks the Left is too sensitive, men shouldn’t play women’s sports and that he heard a true story about a kid that identified as a cat
  • Phase 4 – toward the end of his seatmate’s ride Jimmy said, “it’s been a pleasure sitting with you. you made three hours feel like 30 minutes. I spend a lot of time alone up here (presumably lives in NC but works north of DC) and I like talking and meeting new people.

I felt like this guy was exactly who politicians on the Left should speak to because he seems to be all of the things with American white males that trouble the Left, but with a desire and willingness to engage.  Why not you J-L?  Because I was still pissed at how little I was able to read for the first part of the trip. But I will admit that I felt like I got a very full picture of someone who represents something important to understanding this country. And if I had talked at all and not been forced to listen, I would not have learned what I learned. That some of these dudes might be reachable, maybe. if you can get men like him to listen for even half as long as he likes to talk.

So this trip gave me everything I like out of comedy – a nice city, a great show, good fans and learning from different people in different places. Thank you to The Black Guy Who Tips and The White Guy Who Wouldn’t Shut Up.

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The Civil Culture War: NHL vs NBA

The Four Nations Face Off, which just concluded with a thrilling win for Canada over the USA, felt like a recent high water mark for the NHL.  It showcased its stars in a premium offering of skill, competition and speed. But it also led to fairly predictable, thinly veiled attacks on the NBA. The irony of seeing a country defeat the USA at a time when Trumpism is a direct and offensive attack on their nation, while at the same time hearing hockey fans revert to notable Trump tactics of trashing someone else to make a victory feel sweeter, and making that target (a group largely comprised of) people of color.  if this last sentence made you huff, puff or roll your eyes then you should definitely keep reading, but first, some J-L sports background.

The Utah Jazz Sour Note

Basketball has almost always been my favorite sport. I have been a Utah Jazz fan for 38 years.  While it was Stockton and Malone that created my dedication to the Jazz, it was the franchise’s consistency and resilience in the face of the pressures on small market teams that kept me a fan.  I had witnessed three, organic rebuilds in those 38 years. After Malone-Stockton, came Kirilenko-Williams-Boozer. After that fizzled came the surprising Gordon Hayward-Gobert era and after that fizzled came the second best era of my life: Mitchell-Gobert.  The Jazz organization gave me a product with values that seem to be so underappreciated in our current social and sports climates: integrity, consistency, effort.  They continued to rebuild quicker than I expected each time by drafting smart, trading smart (please do not look at the 2011 draft though – one team drafted Enes Freedom Kanter (the GOAT of Fox News Summer league?) and Alec Burks, when those picks could have been Klay Thompson and Kawhi Leonard) and always giving their fans the feeling of “if we are not relevant, we will be as soon as possible.”

Now I do not want to get into the “should they have broken up the Mitchell-Gobert team?” – they should not have – but what has followed has been nearly unforgivable.  They made some big trades, hired a new coach (a fellow Williams College basketball alum, somehow bringing my connection to the Jazz even closer) and overachieved three years ago.  That Jazz team was doing what Jazz teams had almost always done – competed and performed greater than the sum of their parts.  When it was clear they were doing a forced rebuild I did not order the NBA team pass and then I saw what was happening and got it.  And then Danny Ainge decided his plans to tank were more important than the Jazz culture shining through. So he tanked the season, leading to a low lottery pick.  The same thing happened the NEXT SEASON.  Both years the team was in playoff position midway through “tank” years and both times Ainge made sure that they had the worst possible outcome – losing just enough for a low lottery pick. Creating a loser culture while not big enough losers to draft a Wembanyama.

Now for a lot of fans, the load management of basketball players and the emphasis on threes (even for teams that

Me reacting to Danny Ainge’s tenure with the Utah Jazz

cannot shoot them – hi Hornets-Bulls games) have diminished the game and I sort of agree. I love watching Steph Curry shoot, but that doesn’t mean I need to see every 7 footer do so as well.  I miss the post game and the mid range game and as a Malone-Stockton fan I am particularly fond of durable players. But none of these were enough to drive me away. It was the tanking, so shamefully and repetitively done, that forced me to look elsewhere for sports entertainment.

Jean-Louis is a Fit for Hockey

I grew up a fan of hockey because I loved hockey video games.  The same space that Madden and NBA 2K occupy in pop culture today was the terrain of NHL video games in the 90s.  Hockey was a bigger deal. I could name at least 25 NHL players without watching a game because of the games and trading cards.  Now my Uncle was a diehard Rangers fan, so my allegiance, as passive as it was, was to the Rangers.  My Uncle received calls from high school classmates that he had not seen or heard from in decades the night the Rangers won the Stanley Cup in 1994.  I have a 94 championship hat in my closet, but I did not really care beyond the video games.

But every few years I would catch some Olympic hockey, or playoff hockey and go “it really is a great game. I should watch more” and then never do so.  But once the Jazz committed a mortal sin to my sports ethics, I felt free mentally and with my time to give hockey a real chance.

I have not been disappointed with the decision.  Live hockey games are outstanding. And while all professional athletes are impressive (I was blown away by the ballet at Lincoln Center last week, which feels like sports and art fused) the combination of skills needed to be a pro hockey player feel remarkable.  It made me realize, with a name like Jean-Louis and a 6’7″ 245 lbs frame (my college dimensions), why my Uncle wished I had played hockey (after my stint as a Yankees pitcher). Other than not knowing how to skate and being a “Mary” (an old school alternative to the F word I would hear from my uncle when complaining during baseball drills with him) I would have been an all world defenseman!

Me answering confused family and friends asking, “so you’re into hockey now?”

Hockey gave me something more than just a new sport though. It gave me, a middle-aged man (so weird writing that) a new, engaging hobby.  I had to learn the game of hockey and there is something fun, refreshing and innocent in learning something new at age 45 that doesn’t involve the words throuple or fentanyl.  But going to hockey games, in particular, NY Rangers games, has given me a glimpse of some of the off putting stereotypes of the hockey world, which some of the Four Nations Faceoff commentary confirmed.

NYPD Orgy

At NY Rangers games, much more so than the 3 other arenas I have attended hockey Games (Pittsburgh, NJ, Washington) there is a weird pro-cop vibe. While most sports have force fed the non-sequitur of saluting the flag before games, the Rangers seem to have a Police Benevolent Association sponsorship.  One of their post season awards is named for an officer who was paralyzed in the line of duty and cops seem to always present the flag before the anthem to a big cheer.  Supporting law enforcement is not necessarily a bad thing, but it is hard to remove the context of being in an arena that is overwhelmingly white, watching an overwhelmingly white sport check every box of performative MAGA patriotism and not feel like it is not mere coincidence.  Then there is the anthem.

During every Ranger game (parody video coming from me before the end of the season) the national anthem is a time to scream and shout throughout for the fans.  Many of these fans look and act like the types of people who condemned Colin Kaepernick to employment crucifixion for “not respecting the flag,” but then seem to abuse the anthem for sport, like the owner of a car who treats it like shit, but then asks you not to bring food inside the car.  The idea being that respecting the flag is for outsiders, but if it’s your anthem (conservative white Americans and their plus 1) you can scream over it.

It is with this intricate backstory that I watched what unfolded during the Four Nations Faceoff with disappointment, yet not with much surprise.

Four Nations: USA, Canada, White, Black

I had been rooting for the USA team at the beginning of the Four Nations Faceoff. They had four NY Rangers and I am American. Easy pick all around.  But then the GM of the US team made a statement before the finals that he hoped Trump would attend the finals and that (this part appears to be disputed by community notes under the Daily Beast article that reported) he said the idea of Canada as the 51st state had fired up the USA team).  Despite my disgust with Trump, I understand a national team inviting the President to attend an international competition finals.  But given the political and cultural climate right now (Trump is basically the 1936 Hitler to Conor McDavid’s Jesse Owens in Canada)  it seems that Trump has decided to extort an ally and disrespect their national identity. Good enough reasons to perhaps strike a more respectfully cautious, competitive tone.  I even see a lot of Canadians shitting on Wayne Gretzky because of his ties to Trump.  So perhaps this is bigger than just hockey for Canada, and hockey is just their best weapon to fight the USA with, other than poisoning maple syrup.

Canadian commentor and former player PK Subban did not help himself with his enthusiastic endorsement of Trump’s potential engagement. Subban as a Canadian and a Black man seemed to be doing a double sell out move to a lot of Black people and Canadians.  The response to Subban showed me that in Canada, Trump’s threat and insults were bigger than their national heroes and identity. We could possibly learn a lesson from them on that front.

But when Subban spoke of the NBA, it caught my ear (and my algorithms) more than his MAGA whisperings (whether to create buzz or not – some things are maybe not worth the clicks).  The NBA has been more popular than the NHL for decades in this country.  I think there are many reasons: lower barrier of entry for basketball, infinitely better marketing of basketball, mismanagement of TV deals by hockey, and an almost performative commitment to humility by hockey players (interviews with hockey players are mind numbingly bad to the point of intentionality). Mind you, when the NBA had a fighting problem, they legislated it out of the game because they were afraid of turning away fans. Yet fighting is still part of the culture of hockey.  When basketball players brawled it was thuggery that threatened the sport. When hockey players do it, it’s still the sweet science apparently.

In college when I would discuss which sport had better athletes, basketball or hockey, it always centered on the skills, size, athleticism. There was never that thinly coded language about “work ethic” and “character” and “passion.”  But there it was from Subban and hundreds of social media posts.  As the Four Nations showcased all the greatness of hockey, hockey commentators and fans could not help taking shots at the NBA.  Basketball gave a path out of poverty for many Black men. This is not to stereotype, but to ask, do those stories not demonstrate heart and determination and character, just as much as a grown man playing hurt?  Just because the NHL has not been able to make their game as financially successful as the NBA, does that mean NBA players do not work just as hard on their craft?  I hate the load management stuff. But I also hate the way that a lot of hockey people cannot help but showing their bitterness through code words that cannot be separated from race.  Especially because the hostility seems to be particularly heavy for Lebron James (Michael Jordan and Kobe never got that sort of hate and were specifically exempt from one of Subban’s diatribes). Is Lebron “soft” or is he the only one of the three to embrace Democratic politicians and Black rights? Or is it both?  I have been to hockey games. I see the culture. I see the fans.  Just as I cannot claim to know any one individual’s heart, I cannot, in the aggregate, pretend to see the racial bitterness posing as more “play the right way kid” crap that makes baseball so boring.

And speaking of baseball – if inflated salaries for a diminished product are what bothers hockey fans and commentators so much, how about some attacks on baseball?  What is is about baseball that makes it so immune from the NBA criticisms?

Watching the Four Nations Finals I felt compelled to root for Canada, even though I still felt myself pulling for the USA. I felt the just result happened and it was easier to feel that way while watching a bunch of bros in MAGA hats sitting behind the USA bench.  A win for the USA would be a double win for those scumbags – a gloating defeat over a wronged ally and a win for “hard working, non-showboating, play the right way” hockey bros.  So the better team won and, it would seem, the better country.

The Compromises We Make

I love basketball. I do not love the current product and I do not love what Danny Ainge has done to my favorite team.  I really enjoy hockey and enjoy seeing it live more than any other sport.  I have a quarter season plan with the Rangers and will likely upgrade to a half season next year.  I sit near respectful people and really look forward to the games (and when John Brancy sings the anthem, I feel a swell of pride that almost drowns out all the morons shouting for attention during the singing). But it still feels like a compromise at times. Sitting, hoping not to hear some ignorant stuff (the last time I went to a Steeler game was 2009 when I heard a fan refer to a Cleveland Brown star player as a ni**er, 7 years before I largely gave up on the NFL in the wake of its treatment of Colin Kaepernick) so I can enjoy the game guilt free.  But I never feel that way at basketball game (even in Utah). I don’t have a mild discomfort hoping to not hear hate speech at basketball games (not saying it cannot happen or doesn’t happen, but I don’t go into a basketball game thinking about it).

I bought a Chris Kreider jersey as my first Ranger jersey.  I had been to some games with my Uncle, but I regret that he was not alive for me to become fully immersed in the game. I feel like he would have approved of a Kreider jersey (or “sweater” as I am probably supposed to call it), and he may have called Zibanejad a “Mary” if I got his (no offense Mika – his imagined words, not mine).  Kreider is the longest tenured Ranger and I figured he was a safe purchase (he was almost traded this year, so not as safe as I thought).  He was also on the USA team during the Four Nations Faceoff.  And as the video played of the team receiving a phone call from Trump in the locker room I watched the expressions of the players. Matthew Tkachuk (he of the Morgan Wallen haircut) looked like a kid on Christmas morning.  And then I paused the TV when I could see Chris Kreider in the corner. He was just looking ahead. No enjoyment or amusement. No shame or disgust either.  Maybe he’s a Trump guy. Maybe he’s not. But I guess not knowing at all is as close as I can get in the hockey world to a win on the topic.

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Congestion Pricing Is The Least We Can(‘t) Do

As greater Los Angeles burns, undoubtedly from effects of climate change unraked leaves, on the other coast of the country, whiners, fake altruists, libertarians and people who have spent years driving throughout New York City are lamenting the worst tragedy in New York City since the towers fell: congestion pricing.

Originally an idea of then-Republican (or Independent) Mayor Mike Bloomberg, the policy that has been implemented charges a toll for cars travelling into Manhattan below 60th street. There are various exceptions, trucks and larger vehicles pay more and yellow cabs are charged a whopping 75 cents (and $1.50 for ride share cars I believe).  The real or nominal goals behind congestion pricing are: to raise billions of dollars for MTA improvements, decrease traffic and improve air quality. No matter which of these you believe, these are all laudable goals and all true if we either reduce traffic and/or raise lots of money (apologies, I technically live in NJ now, but 39 years as a NYC resident, and a never-car owning, climate change-concerned citizen makes me feel some ownership of this policy).

So in Blue NYC of course people are behind this policy, right?  Maybe, but the loudest voices seem to be the complainers, like the NY Post desperately seeking any angle to demonize the policy (“Funeral hearses will have to pass on the $9 to grieving families!” – yes because when being charged thousands of dollars by a funeral home, it is the $9 that will break the spirit of the grieving families).

My subway station in the Bronx growing up in a photo I took recently going home from my Mom’s apartment

This reminds me of when Mayor Bill de Blasio did not have the guts (admittedly it would have taken a lot of guts) to cap (not even ban) the number of  ride share cars  in NYC.  Like so many libertarian tech “disrupters,” Uber came to the city with private investment money which allowed them to destroy the regulated taxi industry while they racked up debt paying drivers more than was sustainable with ride prices too cheap to sustain.  But once they had decimated the value of Taxi medallions they began paying drivers a lot less (ads went from “guaranteed $5K a month to drive for Uber” to “$300 a week” to “get a side hustle you automotive slave!” marketing over the course of a year or two). But their work was done; Uber was a part of city life (more than once I’ve watched a young dummy standing in the rain for their Uber as empty yellow taxis drove by) and the app-obsessed, labor insensitive, Democrats of convenience that flood Manhattan would not hear of NYC restricting Uber!  Arguments like “but Uber services communities that cabs won’t go to!” came from people who had never spoken of urban struggles before they needed an excuse to keep their Ubers.  “There’s not enough taxis!” said the people who live in a city with the most impressive and cheap mass transit systems.  “What about the jobs!” cried the people who actually deluded themselves into believing an early-era Uber $5 cab ride across Manhattan, which did not even require a tip, was some sort of labor Godsend!  So de Blasio caved to the tech money and the loud whiners and fake heroes of NYC and allowed Uber and its ilk to flood the streets of Manhattan.

So now, with bus lanes (a great addition by Bloomberg that turned buses into an actual viable option to travel in Manhattan if you were on a schedule), bike lanes (ugh) and the addition of 100,000 ride share cars in New York City (which I assume includes beyond Manhattan) you have issues like awful travel times, and slower ambulance response times (why doesn’t anyone say “less traffic saves lives?!”?) something needed to be done to rectify the impact of the selfishness that brought this upon Manhattan. Enter congestion pricing.

The re-election of Donald Trump basically meant that egg prices were more important to voters than democracy, decency, actual data, and a whole host of other substantive things.  And I believe the anger about congestion pricing is another example of what I referred to earlier as “Democrats of convenience.”  Climate change? Who cares, I want to drive my car. Slower emergency response time? So what, I want to travel in an Uber.  Raising funds to improve the MTA which shuttles millions of people to help make NYC work? I. DON’T. CARE.

So we are at a fork in the road in American and human history and with Trump and congestion pricing animosity I think it is clear we will take the path more traveled and that will make all the difference. We have chosen and will choose selfishness. If a Blue place like NYC cannot wholeheartedly embrace this as a collective challenge to be overcome together, for a relatively small amount of money, is there any inconvenience we won’t cave to? Let alone face down major challenges?  The WWII/JFK spirit of past generations is gone.  We take inconvenience (let’s not even get to actual sacrifice) as an affront to our American entitlement. We use “poor and middle class” people as swords to be wielded against policies that make more affluent or selfish people mildly inconvenienced.  We have never built in the costs of carbon into our society.  From hamburgers to driving your own SUV around, we allow people to live without truly paying for what they impose on society and then act offended and angry when a fraction of that cost is demanded (if gas were $12/gallon and hamburgers were $35 each that would be appropriate and would also cause riots and careers to end).  Congestion pricing is almost a concession – yes we know you are selfish and want to engage less with the community in public transit. Fine – but for the impact that causes on society (below 60th street in Manhattan), you may no longer do it for free.  BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

So in a society and world that needs dramatic change, we cannot even join together for modest and needed changes.  he truth is – the American Dream that allows people to live in houses a 90 minute drive from work is bordering on an environmental crime at this point.  Of course, cost of housing in cities is the fault of a certain class of people and government, but not everyone who chooses to live far away from work or public transit is always doing so as a result of housing cost. Sometimes it is the fact that your energy usage are personal choices made easier because the true cost and responsibility are not passed on to you. And for everyone who says things like “but the Subway is so dangerous.” Yes – the solution for that is more cops getting on trains, not groups of cops texting on their phones in subway stations.  The world of “treat me like a hero as my union allows me to avoid some of the scenarios that would require a hero” culture of the NYPD needs to end.  But the truth is, if even Blue society will put egg prices above democracy and selfish convenience over the environment and improving their own communities then perhaps we should all give up on America and the future.  But don’t tell me it’s because you care about anything besides yourself.  Because those working class people you are “concerned” about? Most of them are on the bus and subway while you sit in an Uber or your car fu*king things up.

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Pressure Builds Diamonds: An American Hypocrisy

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.

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Road Comedy Recap: The Pitts-burgh and ChicaGOAT epic

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.

                                                    Ryan, Val, Amtrak Hobo

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!).

Nothing to see here – just a comedy icon taking the train like non-iconic people in Chicago

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!

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The Best Trump Comedy Hour That (almost) No One…

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.

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Road Comedy Recap: The Return to St Paul

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.

Why yes ladies, I have my own Amtrak place. It’s a rental

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.

Other than this distinctly anti-J-L signage, St Paul was very welcoming

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):

Some nice local beers!

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.

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Road Comedy Recap: Thirty Thursday in Philadelphia

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.

                                It was a long, anxiety-inducing journey to this show, but it was worth it

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).

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Comedians Are No Longer Artists. We Are Content Mercenaries.

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.