Archive for December, 2011

What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve? – Zooey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon-Levitt

Everything Sucks. It’s Opposite Day.

It’s been a big year.  Confession: I like ranting.  What I don’t like is complaining.  I think the difference between the two lies in intent, and any good liberal arts veteran that’s taken philosophy knows that a lot of things can be explained through intent.

"There are a lot of reasons to murder someone. Don't worry about it."

Ranting typically has a purpose or a larger message.  Yes (blank) kind of (blank) but that’s because (blank) and we can do (blank) to keep it from being so shitty.

Or something like that.

Complaining typically lacks tact.  When you complain, you’re doing it to let something out.  You can really be talking to anyone, it doesn’t much matter.  Someone with ears fit for raping can expect exactly that.

The only tips going in my ears are on my fingers.

There’s a lot to complain about.  As the ever optimistic philosopher Thomas Hobbes once said, life in its most natural state is “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”  I’m pretty sure he didn’t come up with that phrase to get chicks.  If you look at anything you have good feelings about, I can pretty much guarantee the reasons you love it so much will be the same reasons you dream about suffocating it later.

Laugh hard now, for murder is coming.

What I am actively trying to pay attention to is this tendency to complain that I think resonates in everyone of my generation.  Yes, everything sucks if you look at it hard enough.  I don’t believe in a god or a heaven or a hell, but there is so much around me that I find awesome and miraculous, it’s hard to be sad for an extended period of time.

So I hope you all have a great 2012.  I’m going to be doing some stand up regularly and getting booed.  Maybe people will clap for me.  Maybe people will call their mothers and tell her about me.  Maybe by this time next year I’ll be so jaded by adoration that I’ll have to resort to self-loathing in order to feel something.  That’s the beauty of time, friends – you never know what it brings.

So my resolutions for 2012 are few.  Just these things:

1. Don’t complain when there are so many awesome things.

2. Eat more gourmet sandwiches.

3. Make people laugh.

4. More sandwiches.

 

xo.

The Problem with Ladies

Briefly touched on lady comics last post, and figured I might want to go into a bit more detail on that topic.

Disclaimer: I do not have a favorite comic that’s a woman.  Yes, yes, I know that seems odd, especially considering that I’m currently pursuing that for myself, but part of why I am doing it is because I don’t relate to women comics.  I don’t find them funny.  And I would like to be the sort of female comic I’d like to see.  So there’s that.  But also, lady comics come in different categories, some of which I’ll outline here.

1.  The Sexpot

Examples: Whitney Cummings, Chelsea Handler

The marginally attractive female comic.  A proclivity for alcohol and slutty high jinks.  A bit of a mean girl vibe.  Clearly intelligent, but having relied on their looks for most of their lives, they lack nuance and insight.  They also do a weird thing with their face I hate.

 

Look at this face!

 

It’s the “I’m pretty but I’m making an ugly face”, er, face.  I find this type of comic annoying mainly because there’s a lot more to life than boozing it up, waxing your h00-ha, putting on a dress, and getting on stage.

I'm dead inside.

 

2.  The Abrasive Loudmouth

Examples: Margaret Cho, Kathy Griffin

We know these women in daily life.  They’re loud, they’re opinionated, love the gays, they probably play the penis game, and when they want to be heard, THEY SCREAM OVER EVERYONE.

Jokes are only funny at 100 decibels. Fact.

They’re also proud of the fact that they’re so open with themselves, and by God, they will make you know it.  They take the best parts of womanhood – grace, charm, intrigue – and they essentially do an upper decker on it.

I have the weirdest boner right now.

But what makes this female comedian the most unfortunate, at least to me, is that they lose themselves in being outrageous.  The sexpot at least knows how they got where they are, but the abrasive loudmouth spends so much time being the loudest, the most outspoken, the most unsettling, the most crass, and the most recognizable person in the room that they lose sight of what comedy does when it’s done right – it makes people laugh, it makes people see inside, it makes people sit in the moment and be entertained. 

Everything's funnier when you talk about penises.

3.  The “Were We Really That Shocked to Find Out They Were A Lesbian”

Examples: Ellen DeGeneres, Paula Poundstone

Being a female comedian is hard.  I’m sure being a lesbian is hard.  Being both of those must be tough.  Your love life isn’t one that most women will relate to, and you’re not quite hot enough for the men to get on board with your sexy lady on lady action.

Wake me up when she gets bigger boobs.

So what does a comic in that situation do?  You can’t talk about sex, you can’t talk about love, you can’t talk about home, you can’t talk about your spouse…basically, the only thing you can talk about are the most sterile topics possible.

How about those bran flakes? Anybody? Anybody?

Not that their life isn’t exciting, but judging on their limited topics of discussion, their horrible shoulder pads and non-descript bobs are pretty much the only thing they have going.  And I personally find Ellen DeGeneres to be fairly witty when she’s not focused on not acting too gay, but that’s the problem – these women can’t really be truly funny without alienating a group of people.  Now, one could say fuck those folks that get offended or don’t want to hear it, and I’m sure these comedians would agree, but if you alienate people you’re a shock comic.  And they’re just wanting to be like the comedians they grew up liking.  So vanilla it is.  (Sidenote:  Paula Poundstone will never be funny).

4.  The One That Can’t Be Bothered

Example: Janeane Garofalo

Just as this comic can’t be bothered to brush their hair or give a shit, I can’t be bothered to write something thoughtful.

Huh, figures.

 

 

 

Beirut – Elephant Gun

Why Dating Sucks: The Musical

Sorry, Les Mis fans.  No music here.

So, in my long anticipated update to my website, I’ve opted to talk about something pertinant to my current state of affairs rather than a short story.  And truth is always much more interesting than fiction.  Hell, it’s why I majored in history.

Yeah, that degree won't find you a great job, no matter how big your magnifying glass is.

 
No, the topic today is dating, just as my title suggests, and just as the latter part of my title suggests, it sucks.  Think of the largest land mammal you can think of. And then think of its penis.  Yeah, it sucks it.
 

Hey, ladies.

 
And the big reason it sucks, at least for me, is that it involves a level of scrutiny that I’m not used to and don’t care to get used to.  Everything you say, everything you do, every article of clothing you wear and every smile on your face is put into a memory chest next to a big ol’ checklist of “good” traits and “bad” traits.  Some traits carry more weight than others.  Some traits carry no weight at all.  But everything goes in there, haphazard, a game of twister with a one-legged person, a shelf a book away from crumbling, a maze of shit where good, great and awful live together.
 

Um, fuck it, we'll figure this shit out later.

 
I’m forced to judge people in ways that, let’s face it, kind of gross me out.  And men judge me in ways that, frankly, kind of gross me out even more.  So now it’s just a big gross situation for everybody involved from the start.  And what’s supposed to spring from this?  Love?  Security?  Sex?  Domestic trips to IKEA?  Most of the time, what does spring from this is a second date where you get to judge even more harshly than before.  Because now that mutual attraction is there, now you get to pick at the insides, the soft gooey bits, the sensitive things.  Nothing super personal but it changes from “would I want to have sex with this person?” to “uh, should I really have sex with this person?” and that’s just uncomfortable for everyone.
 

Your Barry Manilow record collection disgusts me.

 
For me, and I think for women in general, there are a lot of rules and a lot of things you can or can’t do.  Keeping track of rules and codes of conduct has never been a particular strength of mine, and there are a shit ton of them.  Here are a few rules I’ve managed to commit to memory:
 
1.  Don’t appear too eager. 
2.  Don’t give it up too quickly.
3.  But don’t wait too long to give it up.  Don’t be a prude about it.
4.  Don’t act too smart because men find that intimidating.
5.  Yeah, men say that they want a really smart woman, but trust me on #4.
6.  Don’t be too funny.  You’re role is the laugher, not the laugh creator.
7.  Don’t laugh too much though.
8.  Do not express interest after they practically suffocate you with compliments.
 
And hopefully you don’t meet someone you actually *gasp* like, because then you’re really fucked.  Once you like them, you get stupid.  You forget your rules.  You overthink it.  When they don’t call, you wonder why not.  If they don’t respond to you, you wonder why not.  And all of it is premature, but dammit, you actually liked them and now you’ve gone and fudged the bucket.  Of course, there are a lot more rules to remember to prevent you from doing this mistake.  It’s exhausting trying to be authentic while also being inauthentic.  It’s hard to get someone to like you without letting them know that that’s what you’re doing.  I made the great mistake of telling one date that I was an aspiring stand up comic and they proceeded to judge every statement I made thereafter – looking for the funny, I suppose – but you can’t be funny all the time.  I’m talking about my childhood, not fucking airplane food or where men hide the porno.
 

All female stand up comedians look like this, by the way.

 
So yeah, it sucks because you can’t be you.  And you can’t be someone else either.  The things that make you uniquely you are, come on, pretty fucking weird.  And there are all these chicks that have boyfriends and we recognize these women to be certifiably insane, or at least mildly schizophrenic, and we wonder, “What the hell is wrong with me?  How the hell is it that she can get a man to lose his shit over her but I can’t?”  Because I think it’s what we all want – for someone to think we’re amazing, we’re great, we’re worth spending time with, we’re worth the effort, we’re worth getting to know.
 

This crazy dial goes to 11.

 
And the answer is simple.  It’s so fucking simple.  And when I figure it out, I promise to pass it along.