Being Funny

The tough part about being funny is the days and hours and minutes right before getting on stage. I'm not talking about a big important show in front of hundreds of people. I'm talking about open mic night. A large part of being funny is staying fresh. To constantly come up with fresh material. Not the least of reasons being because so much of it is unusable. I spend a lot of time thinking, waiting, writing and hoping that lightning strikes and I've got a pen handy. When that doesn't happen and my open mic night is upon me, I've got to push myself hard to come up with something new before I perform. Preferably something signature that can be blown out into a whole bit with tangents and everything. But sometimes it's a small joke, or a resurrected joke that failed before but still seems usable. Which reminds me of a bit that I can use for tonight's open mic session. I better go write it before I forget it. That's the only way to keep moving forward as a comedian.

Boner tubs and depression dolls

This country's real creative brainpower works for the drug companies. That's where the best and the brightest develop new illnesses for our victim-based economy. From dry eye and active bladder, to restless leg syndrome and old fashioned menstruation. It's like they've cured everything and now they're just making shit up.

But what I just don't understand is how their TV spots ever get the green light. American pharmaceutical ads are chock full of strange visuals. So much so, that sometimes I feel like I'm the ignorant one. Certainly I must be missing the obvious sexual overtones of two separate, side-by-side claw foot tubs on a hill. A man in one, his female partner in the other. The ad is for the erectile dysfunction drug Cialis. A drug for making a penis hard and erect. But why individual bathtubs? What is this - a 1958 sitcom with separate beds for husband and wife? Are they promoting good sex or secluded masturbation?

And what's going on with the Pristiq antidepressant windup dolls? Have you seen these spots? Usually a woman, with her family romping in the background, sits mesmerized by a tiny plastic windup toy that looks like her mini twin. The expressionless toy churns its feet rhythmically toward oblivion. The family gathers around and takes some mild pleasure in watching mom stare creepily as her Chinese import alter ego drones forward. This is the Pristiq version of mental health. Perhaps they want to discourage their users from original thought. Just keeeeeep taking the piiillllll. Or maybe they're alluding to the affects Pristiq delivers: numbness and ambivalence. A lobotomy in pill form. After an evening's onslaught of big pharma TV advertising, perhaps a lobotomy is just what the doctor ordered.

Less Than Seven

When the movie Seven starring Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman came out in 1995, it was a hit. More than that, really. It changed the genre. Seven was so dark, literally and figuratively. A deranged, methodical madman, played to ominous perfection by Kevin Spacy, murdered his victims to the theme of the Seven Deadly Sins. Each victim was gruesomely tortured in a unique and unthinkable manner. The camera spared the audience no details.

Every scene in Seven was dirty. As in dirt. A patina of perpetual grime clung to the walls and windows in the backgrounds. Street scenes featured old and battered cars. It was always rainy. But that mood matched the theme. Depressing. Deranged. Hopeless. I remember when I saw it in the theater, the ending shocked me. I didn't see it coming. Neither did the detective, played by Brad Pitt. The killer set him up to receive a special delivery while they were together. His lovely wife's head in a box. I left the theater with an empty feeling. A pit in my stomach. All of the violence and the unimaginable ending was too much for me to feel like I'd simply watched an entertaining movie. It bummed me out. And that's what makes it a great film. To make the viewer feel as empty as the heart of its killer is an artistic achievement.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, my wife rented several movies to show to our daughter for the first time. We thought it would be fun to watch films with her that came out of our generation. Seven was in the mix. One quarter way through the movie our sixteen-year old became restless. I assured her that the film picks up the pace in a few scenes. The pressure was on. Could Seven pull it off? Will we make it to the scene where Brad Pitt desperately screams "What's in the box?!!" Eventually, our daughter lost interest. She knew this was our pick. So she politely informed us that there was nothing in the movie that she hasn't seen on CSI. We sheepishly agreed and turned off the TV.

So there you have it. What was once the edgiest psycho-thriller of its time is now a yawnway ticket snoozeville, according to the lmao text-set. With entertainment on-demand that includes blood thirsty shows like Dexter, CSI and True Blood, a classic taught thriller from the '90s like Seven is simply analog. I can't help but wonder what will bore our grandchildren.

We Get What We Want.

I'm not special. And that's what keeps me moving forward. When I get sick of the never ending rat race at work or feel as though I'm not maximizing my personal potential, or failing to provide value-added deliverables which can be tracked through quantifiable metrics, I remember how a lot of gold comes from the Democratic Republic of Congo in Africa.

The DR Congo is where children and parents alike line up the on the side of crumbling muddy pits and toss up clumps of dirt to be sieved for tiny bits of gold. That gold moves through several layers of corrupt officials and offshore middlemen, and finally lands, among other places, in the velvet lined cases of America's malls. Those uneducated and barefoot children are lucky if they get anything for their work. The adults are usually paid with a bucketful of mud that may or may not contain any gold. A bucketful of MUD. It makes my qualms about my job seem like the fat little king in the Bugs Bunny cartoon who constantly demands hossenfeffer despite the lavish feast laid before him.

At the grocery store, I like to save money on food. When I see blueberries that cost more than three bucks a pack, I may feel indignant. Blueberries grow on bushes in Michigan. They're not rare. They should be rock bottom cheap. Then I remember the hands that picked them may have belonged to a 10-year old Mexican migrant worker. Not in Mexico. In Michigan. Working all day in the field. Living in squalor, with no sewage or hot water. In Michigan.

On the other side of the coin, it's important for growers to have access to child labor. It's more profitable for them. And that's important. Plus, I'm used to cheap fresh fruit on my table. Or as I like to call it, hossenfeffer.

Merry Christmas America

Hey Christians! It's that time of year! Christmas is all up in our grill bringing on the joy of the season. Like a Sony Bravia 46-inch LCD HDTV priced UNDER a thousand dollars! That's 1080p, not 720p, yo. Let's just say "three wise men" were spotted doing the upgrade thang at Tar-jhay.

If you're looking to honor Our Savior's birth with exotic and lavish scents, then indulge in The One by Dolce & Gabbana for $55.99 (1.7 oz). Its unexpected hints of plum and vanilla pair seamlessly with the world's greatest unexpected pregnancy. Speaking of unexpected, don't make your guests crash in the gross manger thingy. Put down some coin for your peeps and let them rest their weary heads on a Natura Latex Harmony Mattress. This tree-hugging badboy blends soy-based and latex foams, helping reduce our dependence on uncool petro-chemicals. Petro-chemicals that come from Jesus' old stomping grounds. That is if the tankers can make it past those jerk pirates trolling the coast of Somalia! LOLz!

Which brings us back to Christmas. Don't be all procrastinatey and stuff this year! Jesus is checking Santa's list. You might not be on it. So CHARGE it!

At the Movies

I'll judge a movie by its trailer all day long. This is one of the ways I decide which movies to see at the theater. I'm usually right. Sometimes I'm wrong.

The last two movies I saw at the theater were relative indies, The Road and Antichrist. The trailer for Antichrist lured me in with strange moments in slo-mo juxtaposed with anguished characters in a writhing wooded setting. The movie was the same, except more beautiful, more shockingly sexual, and more boring as hell. I mean c'mon! I get all the metaphor and statement crap, gimme some of that freaky deaky you promised in the trailer. Slooow and precious, beautiful and well-acted. I knew it! I was sucked in by the promise of Willem Dafoe, but left the theater feeling intellectually inadequate. Partially because I didn't get the talking fox part, and partially because I was totally entertained by the closeup depiction of a woman slicing off her own clitoris with a pair of rusty scissors. Art films... they're so artsy.

And The Road trailer promised a harrowing tale of grim and violent post-apocalyptic future. Viggo Mortenson is a low key bad ass and this movie's trailer underscored that. But at the same time, the trailer hinted at a fair amount of action. Not so in the actual movie. It was sloooowww... and painful and grim. As a man whose wife had bailed to her own death, Viggo played the role of the desperate father simply trying to not die. There were a few nasty marauders in the pic, but for the most part it was father and son narrowly evading lonely oblivion on a day-to-day basis. Pretty entertaining, but definitely could've used some more action.

I didn't see the trailer for Precious. Just a couple clips online here and there. That's all I needed. This movie made me a fly on the wall in the rotted suffocating heat of bleak ghetto life for one severely abused, undereducated, obese black girl. Wow. What a jaw-dropping performance by all, particularly M'onique who played the main character's ragingly abusive and equally neglectful mother. Where she pulled that performance from I can only guess. But if she doesn't win an Oscar for that, I'll be as pissed as the year Denzel won for Training Day.

AT&T the Great White Nope

There's a TV spot for AT&T Wireless that has my attention. Not because it's creative or memorable or effective. But because it's all kinds of racist. However, I do believe it is unintended. But I could be wrong.

The AT&T spot in question has garnered moderate attention for casting Tyler Hansbrough, #13 draft pick for the Indiana Pacers. Never heard of Tyler Hansbrough? Perhaps you don't belong to the target demo. I trust that Mr. Hansbrough - with more than 20k FaceBook fans - enjoys enough recognition for AT&T's purposes, which is carving out a sizable chunk of the endlessly expanding social network universe. That's where AT&T is focusing much of their marketing, and this TV spot seems to be their flagship for that endeavor.

It illustrates a pig tailed li'l black girl who ain't got a friend in the world, 'cept her scrappy white mutt who jus' ran 'way. She's obviously sad that her dog has gone missing. So what's a po black chil' s'posed to do, 'cept nail crumpled li'l signs up 'round town? Not exactly a hopeful method of reuniting with lost pets. But unbeknownst to the po li'l black chil', a very connected and benevolent white guy, played by Hansbrough, has noticed her doomed analog plea and decides he should help. With his AT&T smartphone, he snaps a pic of her sign, and sends it out to his vast social network. We then cut to a series of scenes that shows young white folk getting Twitter and FaceBook updates on their tricked out mobile devices. They spring into action!

Every person holding a mobile device in this spot is white. Each become part of the plan to help tall whitey help po li'l black chil'. Meanwhile, the black folk are relegated to analog ignorance in every scene. Sure, Mr. Hansbrough's character hangs with some brothers, but they appear to be oblivious to his charitable act. One quick scene has a white woman showing her phone display to a black woman, as if to ask if she's seen the dog. The sista cluelessly shakes her head no.

Eventually, the dog surfaces with three young people - two whites, one black. Guess who's transfixed by her mobile device? The white girl, of course. She got the Twitter update and immediately recognizes the dog! What's her black friend doing while the white girl solves the mystery? Petting the escaped dog and smiling her clueless ass off.

Finally, we see the po' li'l black chil' dejectedly walking home after a day of fruitless, primitive search. But who's waiting triumphantly on the stoop of her home? Mr. NBA himself. With whitey the dog. Po li'l black chil' is so happy she doesn't even feel endangered by the ivory stranger parked on the porch steps. And why should she? He's the perfect role model for blacks: Kind, white, and in the NBA.

Post script: I can't decide if it's clever or pedestrian, the way AT&T embedded no less than four of their signature "more bars in more places" into the scenes of this spot. Most viewers will see the architectural arches that overtly imply more bars. But three other instances are much more subtle, if not subconscious. What is this, the fifties? Subconscious advertising cues have never been proven effective and are more myth than real practice. If AT&T is trying to be a leader in 21st century communications, they can start by leaving unintended racism and Madmen-style legend behind in the last century.