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Top 10 Summer Movies – 2011

For anyone who reads my blog because they enjoy my movie reviews here’s my top ten from this Summer.  Sorry fans of Bridesmaids – I gave it a decent review, but I liked these 10 movies better.  So get out to a theater or re-order your Netflix queue for these:

  1. Rise of the Planet of The Apes – Tea Party’s idea of Evolution, which I assume is why they oppose it
  2. Crazy Stupid Love – Best romantic comedy since 500 Days of Summer
  3. X Men: First Class – washed away the stain from X Men 3 and X Men Origins-Wolverine
  4. Warrior – a thoughtful, emotional movie about MMA, which is presumably why MMA fans did not see it
  5. The Help – lesson I took away: White women are horrible racists, except for the white woman with big breasts
  6. The Trip – I may be biased because I am a comedian, but I loved this road tripping movie about two comics
  7. Captain America – Benefited greatly from not being Thor (which was not terrible) or having Ryan Reynolds in it
  8. Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows Part 2 – bye bye Potter.
  9. The Debt (3rd two-word “The” movie on the list) – brought a little high class to the Summer season
  10. Midnight in Paris – I prefer Woody Allen being cynical and depressing, but this fairly positive movie was pleasant

The biggest loser of the Summer – Ryan Reynolds.  Had the worst movie of the Summer, Green Lantern, and received such bad reviews for The Change Up that he actually broke my streak of seeing movies with Jason Bateman.

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Baton Rouge Journal Part 3: The Fedora & The…

So Saturday night seemed like it would be a tough night, following a very strong Friday night of shows. LSU had their first home game of the season Saturday night, which I feared would mean that the only crowd we would get would be disgruntled LSU fans, sort of resembling.  It turned out that the 8pm crowd was fantastic.  The material killed and the incredibly high percentage of plus size women (they were so plus-sized I thought about referring to them as multiplication sized women) were very forgiving of me mocking them.

So after three shows, which I was very proud of under my belt, all I had to do was get through the 10pm show unscathed and I would have
a perfect weekend.  I think you know where this is heading.

The 10pm crowd rolled in and did not look any different from the other crowds.  Decent size and just one drunk big girl who was trying to make the emcee’s set about her.  So I got on stage and felt pretty sure it would go well.

First two jokes – barely a response (admittedly I forgot to try a new one, with local flavor, about how I cannot eat catfish because it feels weird eating something with a mustache that isn’t an Italian woman).  I think one woman laughed really hard at one of the jokes so I said, “Hey everybody, she’s right, just to let you know.  That joke is awesome.”  Then The Bitch In The Fedora started talking (sounds like a companion play to The Motherfu*ker With The Hat) and so did the table which seemed captained by the aforementioned drunk big girl.  At that point it became sort of a war.  The Bitch In The Fedora kept saying things and stepping on punchlines like I actually wanted her opinion.

I should note that women in fedoras are a particular pet peeve of mine.  All women who wear fedoras should be forced to marry all men who wear sunglasses indoors and they should be forced, with all of their offspring, to move to an island which will be called Douchebag Island where their collective delusional sense of cool cannot infect normal people.  When I worked at the Bronx DA’s office if I were receiving a domestic violence complaint I would ask the woman one question: “This is awful, but before we proceed I need to know one thing, were you wearing a fedora when your husband punched you?  Oh you weren’t?  Phew – great to hear!  We will nail that son of a bitch!”

So when you take a dumb and rude southern woman and place a fedora on her head it is as if you have just made me an awful sundae and it now has its cherry.  So the set went on and I won constant laughs from about three tables and stares like I was speaking Arabic to the rest of the crowd (actually if I was speaking Arabic I probably would have at least gotten booed which would have been a reaction of some kind).  I did get one boo from another woman when I mentioned Obama even though I specifically requested no one boo or cheer.

So after my set I went out to the bar connected to the club and watched the locals.  I have said this before, but there is a real degradation of our culture going on.  We are rotting at the core.  Hollywood exports so many ideas and cultural trends to the rest of the country, which now lacks any kind of identity.   The small towns and cities of America truly feel like testing grounds for reality show fashions and trends.  Like instead of testing makeup on monkeys, we now market test the power of The Real Housewives, the Kardashians and Jersey Shore on ignorant small town folk, who are all too eager to adopt someone else’s identity.  I was particularly disturbed by a woman who appeared to be grinding her daughter on the dance floor, apparently trying to entice her daughter’s friends to get with her.  She was very surgically enhanced and appeared physically fit so to me she was just another cougar a/k/a awful parent.  Then the emcee told me something remarkable.  This woman was not the mother.  She was a friend.  She was 31 and her younger friend was 26.  I honestly thought the woman was 50. So on one hand I was happy that she was
not the girl’s mother, but on the other hand I was looking at a 31 year old woman who had literally tanned, implanted and hair-dyed her way to looking like a mash-up of Pamela Anderson and Richard Harris.

But just as I was deep in my analysis of the Benjamin Button of southern whores I was then approached by The Bitch In The Fedora.   She offered me the following gem (while still wearing her fedora):

“Hey, I thought you were good.  But you’re from New York right?  See that’s probably it.  People probably didn’t get you so that is why
no one was laughing.”

I said, “Oh, maybe, yeah ok, well thanks I am glad you liked it.”  That took all of my energy.  90% of my trip was fun and a success (I ate IHOP, I worked with a great headliner, Rahn Ramey, and had three excellent sets), but as comedy can do, the last note was a sour, fedora-wearing one.

I went back to the hotel after that because I had to be awake at 400 AM for my shuttle to the New Orleans train station to take The Crescent – the 30 hour train from New Orleans to New York City.  So after 2 ½ hours of great sleep I made my way to New Orleans for the longest continuous trip in my life.  But unlike my other long train rides, this one I prepared accordingly.  I reserved a roomette, which is basically a closet with two seats that convert to a small twin-width bed and a tiny toilet located in the space where a full size-width bed would end.  It may actually have been possible to take a shit and still be lying down on a majority of the bed.

Just as I thought I would be the world’s most comfortably buried alive person fate intervened.  The door to my roomette was missing a large pane of glass, which means that even with the curtain pulled over people would be able to hear me speaking to myself in different celebrity voices as well as the sound of my sh*t hitting a steel toilet.  Naturally, this was unacceptable so I asked for a different roomette.  None were available, but fortunately a room (no ette) was available.  The rooms are literally double the size and include a separate bathroom as well.  I felt like such a lucky baller that once all my stuff was in my room I immediately went to the peasants in coach and began offering women the other bed in my room (“that’s right I got a bed to spare motherfu*kers” was what I was yelling in the snack car) in exchange for favors of the flesh.  It did not pan out, but I think they at least respected me even if they didn’t outright love me.

For some of you the idea of being in a small room on a train for 30 straight hours may sound like torture, but to a comedian living in a studio apartment it just sounds like another 1.25 days.  So perhaps if comedy doesn’t work out (it’s getting there) I could have a future as a CIA operative in withstanding torture tactics.

So thank you very much to Rahn Ramey, the Baton Rouge Funny Bone, the first three crowds and small pockets of the fourth crowd, and the
people of Amtrak.  And everyone else I spoke of well in the first two parts of this Baton Rouge Journal.  God help the rest of you.

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Baton Rouge Journal Part 2: A Night of 3…

The Comedy Club

Last night were the first two of four Baton Rouge shows and to my surprise they were both great.  I felt like the crowds, which were not much bigger than the small crowds last year, were so much better.  And perhaps I am a slightly better comedian as well.  Either way, fun times on stage.  I received some kind words after the show, but my favorite compliment was after my second set (which was an A- versus an A+ for the first set):

“Hey man – this is the second time I’ve seen you here. They may not have been laughing a lot, but that is cause your wit is so dry.  But I was dying.”  Of course I then drank three gin and tonics and briefly pondered whether I was imagining laughter, like some comedic version of A Beautiful Mind.

Another exchange I enjoyed:

“Oh man – that was hilarious, but I was holding in some of my laughs, you know, cause I’m white.”  Apparently my half blackness is not enough of a validation for my racial jokes about my Dad.  Oh well – nothing like insecure, silent laughter to make a comedian feel good.

So after the show I had a pass to the strip club across the street because I have decided to pursue a WWPSD philosophy for my comedy career: What Would Pauly Shore Do?  So I went to the strip club and gave limp handshakes to people.

The Strip Club

The name of the club is the Gold Club, but apparently they are not affiliated with the closed and indicted club in Atlanta because no one seemed to know what I meant when I kept asking for “the Patrick Ewing treatment.”

I sat at the bar drinking beers watching the women dance.  One of the amazing things about drinking at a strip club in a small city or town is that the drinks are still cheaper than a regular NYC bar or lounge on a Saturday night.  But let’s discuss the main event:

  • These were the least aggressive strippers I have seen.  Granted I have only been to a strip club now three times, but in NYC and especially in Atlantic City you get bum rushed by women.  These women seemed very indifferent.  Then again it may have been my New Balance sneakers that were acting like garlic to bare-breasted vampires.
  • I had the third biggest chest in the club.  There was one stripper on stage whose breasts were so small I think they could have been shown on network television without black bars.  Perhaps the Gold Club could have been called “Great Personalities” – what a great idea for a 377-view J-L Cauvin YouTube sketch!
  • The club played “How You Like Me Now,” officially making that song inescapable –  movie trailers, video games, my iPod and strip clubs.
  • I had one conversation with a stripper (Russian ancestry, of course) who told me she was in grad school for biochemistry.  And I actually believed her (I mean she has to know that education is a turn off for men in her club, though she might have thought I was gay when I quoted and impersonated the views on education of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast to her), probably because I like the idea of being a lawyer and a comedian and still inferior to a woman who shakes her tits for a living.  And like any conversation in a strip club I then walked away and asked “What’s open for eats right now?”  She said “IHOP should be open.”  And that was the first erection I got all night.

The Pancake Club

IHOP was bumping when I walked in.  Packed with fat people of all colors and levels of sobriety.  It felt like a Millionaire Matchmaker mixer for men and women who shop at large size clothing stores.  I sat down and ordered pancakes, bacon and a milkshake.  Apparently my waitress (Michele if I recall correctly) thought I also ordered bottle service for two in a private room because her tone was the most flirtatious I had encountered all night.  She wasn’t a bad looking woman, but there is something wrong when the level of flirtation from your waitress at IHOP is much stronger than that of the women across the street who get paid to get you to put your face between their breasts.  I WANT MY COUNTRY BACK!!!  A place I used to love, where your IHOP waitress was a kindly old lady, like a nice nun in a Church of pancakes, and strippers were aggressive, STD-riddled whores with C section scars and drug addictions.  I blame Obama’s policies which are ruining and confusing these wonderful small business entrepreneurs.

I then went back to my room at the Hampton Inn and fell asleep smelling like pancakes and comedy.  Disgusting.

The third part of my journey will not be posted until September 12th because I will be on a 30 hour train ride from New Orleans to NYC with no wifi.  Yes I let the terrorists win.  And the train was cheaper because it was free with my Amtrak points.  So I guess me and the terrorists win.

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Baton Rouge Journal Part 1: Making Friends Despite Fitting…

Yesterday I arrived in Baton Rouge for a second tour of duty at the Baton Rouge Funny Bone – if you missed my first visit last year here is the link to a song inspired by my visit:

https://jlcauvin.com/?p=1950

Naturally, because they agreed to have me back and pay me money I decided to come back down here.  And I am excited to report that I left an impression on a few people, which is pretty cool considering I fit 80% of the profile of a lone wolf terrorist.

Yesterday after I watched Barack Obama channel some of the great speakers of our time (I kept thinking of Denzel Washington in Malcolm X and The Rock c.1999 to name two) I was disturbed to see a breaking news announcement on CNN that there is a credible, but unconfirmed plot for September 11th attacks on Washington DC and NYC.  First Mayor Bloomberg told everyone to go about their business, which felt awkward because I, knowing that I would be travelling on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, opted for a roomette on a 30 hour Amtrak trip from New Orleans to NYC, rather than a 2.5 hour flight back.  I am willing to concede one to the terrorists,  So with a few months of obsessive usage of bottled water immediately after 9/11 and this trip my career record post 9/11 versus the terrorists is approximately 3,565-100.  So sure, I have let them win a little, despite the fact that well-guarded presidents and mayors have explicitly told me not to do that, but all in all, not a bad record. (side note: all other long train rides that I have taken and will take because I have fear and discomfort in tiny 50 seat planes do not count towards Al Qaeda’s total, but rather towards my general lack of courage).

But one of the things they were specifically warning against was the threat of a lone-wolf terrorist, which made me nervous.  Mainly because I think I fit the profile of a lone wolf terrorist.

  • Beige
  • Foreign name
  • Distrust of women – though unlike terrorists this does not come from some lack of contact with them or some religious doctrine.  However, if you listen to my 2nd CD you will see that alot of it stems from relations with a Jew.  So sort of a wash here.
  • Underemployed in my field of choice
  • Relatively young male
  • Just a handful of friends
  • Sitting alone in a Hampton Inn in a small town in America planning on travelling on 9-11
  • Thick, angry eyebrows

I think you get the picture.  However, separating me (and as Comedian Jimmy Shubert indicated should be part of the screening process for TSA) I am funny.  At this point if someone reads a file on me – my comedy reels would be what save me from suspicion (even though I drop videos like Bin Laden did, but with far fewer hits).  I do always have this fear on the road that I will get caught like Michael Clarke Duncan in The Green Mile.  I’ll be holding some dead body after having tried to provide assistance when I came upon it during a journey in the middle of nowhere looking for a movie theater. However, I will be suspected of foul play immediately when they see the size of me and realize that my claim to be a comedian cannot be substantiated because no one has heard of me.  In other words I will be in deep sh*t unless I can heal urinary infections with my bare hands.

So of course when I visit a place like Baton Rouge I always have mixed feelings.  They have a governor of color, but who is radically conservative.  They know how to pronounce my last name, but do not understand half of my jokes.  Its a complicated place.  But I made some friends already so I, as well as the city, can’t be all that bad.

The Old Lady on The Plane

On my Southwest flight down to New Orleans yesterday I got a middle seat, which, given my bulk, is really a scenario where all three of us lose.  I was in Boarding Group C, which in historical terms is like being the guy sitting at the back of the bus that has to get off so that pre-protest Rosa Parks can have a seat.  It’s that bad.

Fortunately I was sitting next to a very nice older lady from Baton Rouge.  Of course I mentioned that my father was Haitian in the first ten minutes of conversation just to avoid any possibility of racial slurs being slipped into casual conversation.  Fortunately she kept speaking to me so I think she was down with the brown (ish).  We had a pleasant conversation and it sort of eased my general terror of flying (if I use the words fear, terror, flying and 9/11 enough in this post I am hoping the government tags my website and boosts hits – even if for a possible investigation. At least my google analytics numbers will go up).

One of her lessons for me, since she recently lost her youngest brother to random cartel violence in Mexico and she and her husband were having medical issues was to live life and not pass up any opportunities.  I then explained to her that I am taking a 30 hour train ride on Sunday out of abject fear, so don’t expect me to go sky diving or sharing needles with Magic Johnson any time soon.

Brad The Van Driver

The next leg of my trip was a 75 minute van ride from New Orleans to my hotel in Baton Rouge.  Trust me – the shuttle cost and Southwest flight to New Orleans is far cheaper than direct flights to Baton Rouge.  It turns out it was my driver from a year ago and he remembered me.  We had a great conversation on football and tennis (which in the macho south is a rare combo I suppose since tennis is mostly for queers and Europeans – hey ain’t they the same thang!!! haahahahahah).  So after that he decided to open up to me on his interracial dating problems (I also mentioned my black Dad in the first ten minutes of conversation).  He is white and the woman he is pursuing is black.  He told me a great story of how they met (at IHOP – the Interracial House of Pancakes) and how he wants to be with her, but she seems uncomfortable with being in a relationship with a white guy (it seemed to be a cultural gap, not a penis issue).  I told him he needs to lay down the law and let her know what he feels and that he cannot be shoved into that friend role that women love to have (because many women are parasitic scumbags) – the guy that gives a woman his love, which validates them, but they return vague, line-crossing friendship and pretend to not be quite sure how the guy feels about her.  I told him he needs to go for broke with her. If it works he has the woman he cares about.  If not, he has his dignity.  And if all this goes horribly wrong and violent I don’t want to say anything further without my lawyer present.

I then met up with Brad and a couple of his buddies to watch the Saints game last night at Chilis.  It really is easy to make friends in this world as long as you get out of the comedy world, which is full of ass-kissing former losers looking to socially ostracize the closest thing to a normal person they can find.  And then of course, getting involved in comedy is a great way to lose your normal friends.  What a business!

My IHOP Waiter

Even though many American towns are starting to blur into the same image for me (strip mall, gas station, fat people, teenage girls looking like strippers, rinse, repeat), I did remember correctly that there was an IHOP across the street from the Hampton Inn in Baton Rouge.  I went once, a year ago, to this establishment, but when I walked in I recognized one of the waiters.  He then recognized me while I was sitting and said, “You’ve been here, right?” “I replied “yep,” to which he replied, “You were reading, right?”  And I had been reading a book last time I was there.  So I was impressed with his memory, but also the fact that in the last year there realistically may not have been one other customer with reading material in their possession.  Amurrrrrica!!!!

But it felt good to be remembered.  So to my two friends and one person who remembered me in Baton Rouge – I dedicate the four shows this weekend to your kindness and friendliness.  Of course I don’t expect the shows to go that well (especially since Saturdays shows directly conflict with LSU’s home opener).  But at least you will be able to tell the authorities that there is no way I could be a terrorist.

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Proof of Evolution (Or Intelligent Design): Blake Griffin vs.…

Thanks to the constant reminders I have received from comedian/actor/Disney music enthusiast Chris Lamberth (@ChrisLamberth) I have learned that I have officially been replaced in comedy before I had even reached the level of replaceable.  I always believed that I would carve out a unique niche in comedy, at least demographically – a 6’7″ (241 lbs playing, 270 lbs doing comedy), bi-racial comedian seemed like a pretty safe calling card.  Unfortunately, my reign of obscurity was short lived because Blake Griffin (a 6’10”, 250 pound bi-racial dude), the Los Angeles Clippers power forward, has also proven himself quite adept at humor.  And thanks to the NBA lockout he is now working at Funny or Die, probably hanging out with Will Ferrell, workshopping new ideas, perhaps getting himself a role in Step Brothers 2, etc.  Even though Evolution usually takes a long time, much like this Summer’s Rise of the Planet of the Apes, I am seeing myself improved upon right before my eyes.

The Evolution of the Multi-Racial Humorist

I was born in 1979, 9 years and 11 months before Blake Griffin so I had a good head start on comedy.  However I started performing stand up shortly after my 24th birthday, whereas Blake Griffin made it on to comedy central shortly after his 22nd birthday.  Fairly impressive since he was also spending time being the NBA’s Rookie of the Year.

We have similar backgrounds.  We both have black fathers and white mothers.  We both played basketball in high school and college (I averaged 15 points a game senior year in a terrible private school league.  He slightly one-upped me by being a McDonald’s High School All-American).  He was Division I’s college player of the year, I was a 9th man on a Division III team.

After reading his NBA draft workout summaries the only thing I think I was his equal to was bench press, but he complemented that with a tremendous vertical leap, each inch of which represented every one of my collegiate points scored.

It was as if God had created me and then said, we can do better.  A lot better.

Before we get into comedy here are the top dunks of our basketball careers.  Both were on people.  Mine was not filmed by NBA TV.  And I only had one in my career.

Now for pure drama I would argue that mine was better.  The dunk took place with about two minutes left in my entire college career.  I had scored about fifty career points and none had come from dunks.  It was sort of like the ending of Rudy, when Rudy gets a sack, except I actually was big and strong and fairly athletic so it was a little more expected from me.  And no one was chanting my name.  But Blake Griffin’s dunk was slightly better.  So much so that I featured it in my dunk workshop spoof video.

Comedy Origins

After college I went to Georgetown Law Center, the #14 law school in the country (turning down Michigan, the #7 school at the time, in sort of a Kobe Bryant-draft style move).  After college Blake Griffin was the #1 pick in the NBA draft.  And during both experiences our professional comedy careers began.  Deeply depressed I began doing comedy in Washington D.C. as an escape from law school and the pressures of a long-distance relationship.  Blake began doing comedy sketches and making late night television appearances to escape from the pressures of having beautiful women in Los Angeles throw themselves at him.

Once again God watched my comedy career struggles and said, “I made him funny, but he is not accomplishing what I thought he would.  I can do better and easier.”  Here are our comedy debuts on television:

I wrote all my own material, but Griffin proved to have some good natural talent.  And he got on Comedy Central within his first year, and without having to grow a beard or tits.  I have yet to be on that station.

Where To Go When You Find Out Evolution Has Passed You By

Blake Griffin has now raised the bar very high for basketball playing-comedians. In fact this whole post may actually be an endorsement for Intelligent Design and not Evolution.  Either way I have been rendered completely irrelevant  (versus fairly irrelevant which was the status in comedy that I had grown comfortable with).  So perhaps I will just wait for Blake Griffin to really blow up as a comedy presence and then present myself as the “Alt Blake Griffin.”  While you ponder that, here are two pictures of us looking cool in our element for one final comparison:

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Comedy Night at Food Emporium

Last night at about 11 pm I went to Food Emporium across the street from my apartment to buy some bread.  I find Food Emporium a soothing place at that hour.  They have air conditioning going full blast, a selection of rock ballads playing on their sound system and almost no one there.  Even if I only need to buy one item I will take my time to soak up the cool, calm emptiness (possible title for my CD in November).

But last night was not an ordinary night.  When I got to the register there was only one woman in front of me in line, but nothing was happening.  She had bought only what appeared to be four items, but the cashier did not know the code for the particular vegetable she was attempting to purchase.  I looked at the woman and noticed (in order) that she had the large perky breasts of a 20 year old and the old, stretched face of Joan Rivers, but more masculine.  I had strange feelings happening because the breasts looked fantastic, but the face looked like that famous woman who looked like a cat for getting to much surgery.

She had a voice that was also ambiguous – is it a man with lots of hormone therapy or is it her lip injections and skin tightenings just manipulating her speaking style?  Fortunately confusion, revulsion and erection were all suppressed by my most reliable emotion: anger.  As my bread slid down the conveyor belt, she began to give my bread the Heisman.  Even though her items were already registered except for the vegetable, which the cashier was holding.  She must have stiff-armed my bread three times in five seconds before I could get the plastic divider down, which wasn’t even necessary because her items were done.  Of course I was slightly less combative because her rack had just enough power to stop my anger from becoming verbal and confrontational.  But right on cue to back me up, another person got on line behind me.  And it was apparent from his bloodshot eyes, his all organic purchases and his fierce gaze that he was a gay.

And after about ten seconds of waiting he was none too pleased.  Here is how the rest of the Food Emporium trip went down:

Cashier: What is the code for this? (holding up odd vegetable)

Cashier with more experience coming back from her break: 6563 (or something like that)

Cashier types in code with vegetables in bag.  Nothing happens.  Gay guy is steaming.  Seriously.  Puffs of white smoke are coming from both ears and his asshole.

Experienced Cashier: Oh that is because the bag is affecting the scale.

Experienced cashier removes vegetables from the bag and weighs them with the code.  All seems well.

Titsface: That is what I was trying to avoid.  Now they’re dirty.  I am not sure I want them.

Guy Fierce: Are you serious???  They’re perfectly fine.  Just buy them.  They have been a million disgusting places – just wash them.  God!!!

J-L inner monologue: Oh good lord.  This is what happens when you mix Glee and alcohol.  Calm down and save your voice for singing along at your next Britney Spears commercial.

Titsface:  Oh you can wash these?  You can wash them with soap?

(I assumed Titsface was being sarcastic)

Guy Fierce: Yessss!

Titsface: You can wash vegetables with soap?

Guy Fierce: Yessss, my nutritionist told me that that is the way I should prepare my food and it is perfectly ok.

J-L inner monologue: Dammit Glee!  I was on your side against this Tit monster, but you bring your nutritionist into an argument?!  Do your private yoga instructor and anal bleacher want to weigh in as well?

Titsface: You wash all of your vegetables with soap and water? (I suppose trying to catch him in some sort of lie or inconsistency about vegetable preparation)

Guy Fierce: Yeah!  (“gotcha bitch” voice)

Titsface: Even lettuce?

Guy Fierce: No

Titsface: So not all vegetables! (I rest my stupid case!)

During these last few lines the cashier cashed me out and I left to the sounds of bickering.  I had a smile on my face as I left Food Emporium, but that quickly went away as I realized that old women with too much surgery and shrill gay men with substance abuse problems are who I will need to impress if I am ever going to make it in this business.

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Two Tickets To The Gun Show – Scranton Recap

This weekend I performed at Wisecrackers in Scranton, PA.  Here’s the re-cap:

The Trip

Being only two hours, fifteen minutes from NYC it was obviously a Greyhound trip.  Fortunately, since Greyhound knows of my love for long, uncomfortable rides, they decided to leave 40 minutes late.  Other than that the bus trip was uneventful.  In fact, Greyhound buses now have nice leather seats and extra leg room, which must be nice for the people six-three and shorter who benefit from the extra leg room.  However, Greyhound continues to discriminate against the exceptionally tall.

The Hotel

The Wisecrackers in Scranton is located in a Clarion Hotel.  My warning that I was no longer in metaphorical Kansas (but much close to the mindset of Kansas) was the sign outside the hotel:

Now gun lovers and “real Amurrrricans” are big fans of saying guns don’t kill people, people kill people.  But for such inactive objects, apparently guns can still have a show and get top billing over the comedy show.  As expected I did observe several guys who looked like Larry The Cable Guy in sleeveless shirts and camouflage pants.   I was just happy none appeared to go to the comedy shows.

My hotel room was nice enough and as a bonus they didn’t even require me to use a black-light to see the stains on my comforter:

The Shows

Friday’s show was fantastic.  Overcapacity and very receptive crowd (the emcee did a great job getting them to settle down and focus on the stage – for a while it seemed like it was going to be a crowd full of people going, “Watch this I am going to make this show better by shouting things and talking” kind if crowd.”).  The show was so good I celebrated like a rock star with my favorite post show beverage:

Saturday’s show was a lot tougher.  I would rate Friday’s an A and Saturday’s a B+/A-  I did manage to get away with calling the crowd racist in four different ways without losing them so that was a definite high point (my favorite being “Everyone calls Obama a black President, but his Mom is white.  Now I know in 1950s America or 2011 Scranton he would have to use a different water fountain, but he is half-white.”).  But I will give Wisecrackers-Scranton some credit.  For the two shows there were 2 black audience members, 1 Asian man and scores of white people.   Almost always a crowd that homogeneous, my humor doesn’t hit well.  There is often a series of correlations:

  • All white crowd = all white community
  • All white community = afraid of minorities
  • Afraid of minorities = ignorant
  • Ignorant = give me simple, or goofy or unoriginal humor
  • Give me simple, or goofy or unoriginal humor = rough sets for J-L
  • Rough sets for J-L = bad few days for those around J-L

But this chain was broken.  Somehow this was a segregated, white community (some of whom did boo non-political Obama references) who had more sophisticated senses of humor than expected.  So maybe they were not afraid of minorities after all!  Or there actually were some people from the gun show at the club and their heat gave them courage.  Either way thanks Scranton!

 

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A Comedy One Hit Wonder

I realized this morning that in a few months it will have been four years since I appeared on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, my only modest claim to fame.  I think at this point I may be able to call myself a comedy one-hit wonder.  And being on Ferguson is not like having a #1 one one-hit.  It is more like I peaked at #27 on the charts back in late 2007.

Sadly, for comedians there is not the same effect of being a one-hit wonder as there is in music.  I remember being in Birmingham, Alabama back in 2009 and hanging out with some guys after one of the shows who were in a rock band.  Their claim to fame was that they were opening up for Hinder (a one hit-wonder band from the mid 2000s).  The conversation consisted of them telling stories of what their favorite threesomes were.  In other words they had had enough threesomes (and from a comedian who knew them – the women they had were quite attractive, which is not surprising since southern women only come in two varieties: women who love pastries or women who look like porn stars/beauty queens) to then rank threesomes.  And they were the opening band for a one hit wonder a few years removed from their one hit.  Meanwhile in Ferguson land, the closest I ever got to sex for fame was when a buddy of mine told a girl that I had been on TV in a bar, asked her if she wanted to see the set and then got a blow job from her in his apartment.

In all fairness I was engaged when I did Ferguson.  I remember after I did Ferguson I got several MySpace friend requests and comments (see how long ago it was) and one was from a woman who said “When will you be back in LA?” because Ferguson is filmed in LA and this woman had no reason to believe that I was a lawyer and not a full time comic at the time.  My significant other at the time told me she found the comment overly suggestive (especially when she read it back to me over the phone in a 1-900 sex hotline voice).  I replied – “I think she was just a fan – I have never met this person.”  She responded: “You don’t have fans.”

And of course I got a great response from a then-up and coming comedian who is now pretty well-established who decided to sh*t on me (behind my back of course, but overheard by a friend) about me getting Ferguson (“who watches that anyway?” I believe was the mocking statement he made).  Of course his success as a comedian should dispel any notion of karma.

So that was basically what I gained from a Ferguson appearance – a blow job for a friend, an insult from a comedian and a piece of humble pie intended to choke me to death.

If this were music I could look forward to that retro-comeback reality show bullsh*t world that exists for them, but no one is wondering, whatever happened to that guy from that one appearance on Ferguson?  And of course without management that is most likely the outcome for me.

I do have something to do with my one-hit wonder status (here is the cautionary tale part for all you newbies or people starting to get some heat).  After getting Ferguson and another regional tv spot (both of which I did well on), my manager parted company with the management agency (a big outfit well known in comedy).  Being new and nervous I decided to stick with the management company and learned too late that it had been the individual manager who had pushed for me, not the company.  So like Don Corleone after the strangling of Luca Brasi, I was left unprotected.  Without him I was worthless to them.  So after one mediocre showcase and one admittedly awful NACA audition (but I did not think that eating it in front of a few hundred college students from Montana could derail a budding career) I heard nothing for about 6 months (every 4th e-mail I would get a useless response from the person who I had been assigned to).  They then told me at the end of a fruitless six months that I should seek representation elsewhere.  I don’t know how I would have had the foresight to make the right decision there, but obviously I will be more careful in the future.

That is it folks, in those few easy steps you too can become a one-hit wonder in comedy.

So this Fall I will be making a big attempt at getting management again.  Some people may say that management is not necessary, but those people are often those who got a head start thanks to management or are just full of sh*t.  For example of the “New Faces” at Montreal, only two of the comedians were without representation.  They are the gate keepers to a lot of this industry.  Whether you like me, love me or hate me, I am objectively a much better comedian than I was 4 years ago.  Significantly better.  So it should stand that having been on television already and having had a very good set, it should not be that hard to get back on, right?  All I can say to that is I will not be looking for the television cameras at Wisecrackers Comedy Club in Scranton this weekend where I will be performing.

This may sound bitter and it some ways  it is.  But I am happy with some areas of improvement – I am a better comedian and I have gotten more gigs each year than the year before for four straight years.  I really want to get more TV credits to just increase the bookings I get because the life of the up and coming feature is not economically sustainable and not mentally healthy.  So hopefully efforts I make this Fall will pan out, but if they don’t my experience is still no less instructive to up and coming comedians.

Now let’s crank up some Hinder!

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The Last Bringer (part 17)

I needed a clean tape because I want to submit for a few TV things so I did a bringer last night at Gotham Comedy Club (this is what someone might say at their first meeting of Comedians Anonymous to treat their addiction to laughter-based approval from strangers).  To put that in civilian terms, imagine you are a married woman and you just found out your husband was in a gay gangbang porn film before you got married.  And all your friends have copies now.  That is the level of internal embarrassment I feel doing a bringer at this stage of my comedy career.  But more important that my sense of pride, which I abandoned sometime in 2009 with regards to my comedy career, is getting a a good clean tape.

To get on the show last night I had to scrounge together a bunch of friends, who literally represented every part of my life other than law school.  I had at least one representative from my family, family friends, high school, college, comedian friends, the Bronx DA’s office and Blank Rome (the firm I worked at).  Considering I was annoyed enough doing a bringer and the lengths I had to go to get people I said to myself that I could no longer do another bringer so I had to make last night’s set a good, nay, a great one (I also probably said this three years ago).  And as it turned out my set really did turn out great.  I have almost never been happy with a set, especially when taping it for a specific purpose, but last night was the exception.  Crowd was great and I felt like I stuck the landing.  In fact it took me longer than usual to fall into a post show funk.  Here is the set:

But it was as if Gotham knew that it would be my last bringer ever because on the lineup was Jim Gaffigan, Sherri Shepherd, Jeff Dye, Judah Friedlander and Louis C.K.  I have said and still believe plenty of terrible things about bringer shows, but last night was actually pretty damn impressive.   Oh well, thanks to everyone who came out and hopefully the tape can do some work for me.

Comics Unleashed HERE I COME!!!!

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Movie of the Week: Harry Potter 7.2 (Plus a…

Harry Potter was a no-brainer for the movie of the week.  The other semi-notable film opening was a Winnie The Pooh movie, providing a ton of things that children DON’T want.  First off, did anyone think Winnie The Pooh was good, even when you were a child?  Incredibly boring and stupid characters (if marketing to kids and not British adults in their 50s) – a soft spoken bear, a manic depressive donkey, a flamboyantly gay tiger, a rabbit, a kangaroo, a piglet and I think a British owl (because when I was a kid I know I was a big fan of late 1970s Brit-coms).  Take that Looney Tunes!  These guys could not even do research like Pixar so that at least the animals in the forest could conceivably co-exist in the same ecosystem (a blue whale living in a nearby lake was nixed last minute).  So we are simultaneously boring children and making them dumber as well.  And reaching back for Winnie The Pooh represents a new low (see upcoming Space Invaders and this Summer’s crop of third tier comic book-based movies) in Hollywood’s inability or refusal to come up with new ideas.  Now they are simply banking on, “Hey I heard of that.  Did I like it?  Of course not, but I heard of it, so I will see it!” level apathy among movie goers.  Next Summer – Pet Rock: The Movie.

Then WTP movie is hand drawn.  Because what kids want nowadays is boring cartoons drawn in an old fashioned-style.  Could they not make it black and white also?  Then there is the preview for Winnie The Pooh, which apparently takes itself too seriously as nostalgia.  Winnie The Pooh sucked!  Playing Keane’s “Somewhere Only We Know” does not make a piece of sh*t nostalgia just because you are slamming me in the face with a nostalgia hammer.  Then you open it the weekend of Harry Potter?  I don’t believe Harry Potter to be as great as some, but it is certainly solid and very popular, so who exactly is Winnie trying to court this weekend – evangelical Christians who protest movies abut wizardry?  Good luck with those 580 people nationwide. Your other demographic is people who are disappointed by sold out shows of Harry Potter, but cannot wait 8 minutes until the next showtime.  “Hey kids, Harry Potter is sold out, but there is a huge piece of sh*t playing right now – how’s that sound?”  I hope Winnie The Pooh is a colossal failure and that a hunter kills Winnie and molests Christopher Robbins.  That ought to end that franchise once and for all.  Just be happy Winnie – you can get married in NY, why do you need a movie as well.

If you want to vomit here is the preview for Winnie The Pooh stain:

As for Harry Potter 7.2 or as the woman purchasing tickets ahead of me said to avoid any confusion, “1 ticket for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2” (you know, to make sure there was no confusion about which Harry Potter film she was seeing), it was very good.  Now, of course, I was offended that they broke the final book (which is becoming the trend) into two parts, which yielded an exceedingly boring 7.1 last year, but this finale was action packed (and allowed Harry Potter to pass Police Academy on the all-time list of “Did we really need that many movies?” which of course is still topped by the Bill Russell/Yogi Berra of prolific shi*ty film franchises – Friday the 13th).  No one who likes this series will be disappointed, unless you were hoping Hermione would have sprouted a bigger rack by now.  My only complaint is the same complaint I have with every other film in this series, and most films in general – not enough Alan Rickman.  The dude is an acting beast.  Few people can do with an entire script what he can do with a silent stare of disdain.

But since I have read the books and seen all of the movies I will now go back to hoping that we return to the days where timeless classics required a long duration of time before we declared them “historic” or “timeless.”  I feel like Harry Potter was getting “beloved classic” thrown about halfway between the printing of the 4th of 7 books.  In our time we have no patience for the time needed to marinate a work of art into a classic because we want what we like to have more cultural relevance (ironic, given that outside of television drama I feel like most art is in a downward spiral – I am talking to you poetry slammers!).  Harry Potter will have more staying power than “sagas” (another word overused to described for modern drivel) like Twilight for sure, but we should not diminish Harry Potter or the word classic by joining the two in the same sentence.  Harry Potter was a pleasant literary and cinematic journey, but let’s not pretend it will have the staying power of other amazing works of fiction.  Like Winnie The Pooh.

Grade – B+