If you don’t have a crazy comedic pressure point, you’re probably not a real boy. It may not be a coincidence that your daddy’s name is Gepeto. Those of us without strings have certain situations, objects, and words that for some reason trigger outbursts of laughter that can’t be controlled.
One of my comedic pressure points is the sight of a really fat man in a suit. I don’t mean a mainstream overweight guy. I’m talking about a full-on, tanker-sized porkheap sporting his Sunday best. I see the buttons straining, I hear the pockets begging for mercy, I watch the tie hanging on him like a used condom, and my manners just evacuate.
One time I was headed to a meeting, and as I got in the elevator, I was joined by a well-dressed chap who was larger than life and most other things. And like this man’s belt buckle, I immediately started to come undone. I could feel the laughter rising, climbing, rising, and knew I would erupt if emergency measures weren’t taken.
I tried making myself sad by going to one of the dark places in my head, starting with the classics:
Chicks don’t like you.
People who could help your career don’t like you.
You don’t like you.
No effect. Not even the chains of self-hate could tie down this laughter revolt.
Making a bad situation worse [pregnant pause] I was headed for one of the top floors, so I had a long way to go. Plus it was mid-day--lunchtime--so the elevator was packed and stopping on almost every floor. The stars were against me.
I started bursting. Cheeks fluttering, ears popping like an airline passenger during takeoff. I’m not just shaking with suppressed laughter; I’m palseying with it. And there is nowhere to run. A few more seconds and I am going to unleash enough inappropriate giggles to get me kicked out of civilization forever.
Whatever crumbs of my brain weren’t busy indulging the spectacle kicked in just enough to give me an idea. I grabbed my cell phone and pretended I’d just gotten a hilarious text, then threw my head back in the well known “This is so funny I need to give my skull a headstart” fashion, and right as the guffaws started flowing, the elevator doors opened. It was my floor.
I jumped through the doors and lost it. It was the kind of laughter not usually heard outside asylums.
A lot of trembling. A lot of panting. More mucus than I would have liked.
Suddenly I remembered where I was and why I was there. I was there for a meeting, and needed to be on-point, or at the very least, not laughing at things no one else could see. Knowing this did not calm me at all. I'd held the laughter so long the tension of suppressing it had created a monster.
I’m not sure exactly how long it took, but the laughter eventually stopped. I looked up, and through the transparent security door, I could see I was being gawked at by the receptionist for the firm I was supposed to visit.
Awkward.
I now had to approach the security door and hope that a woman who had just watched me stand alone in a corridor laughing myself spastic didn’t deem me a security risk. I think it would have been better if I had just hit the intercom and said, “You’re not going to believe this, but I just saw a really fat guy in the elevator who was wearing a suit.”
Better to be labeled crass than a mentally unsound curiosity.
Now you’re all wondering: did she let me in?
Did Oswald shoot Kennedy?
Monday, March 21, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Practical Love Songs 3
Stephen Stills’s “Love the One You’re With” has many flaws. A forgettable melody and some ill-placed “do do dos” are just two of the things it doesn’t have going for it. However, “Love the One You’re With” packs a critical message you ignore at your peril.
If you're down and confused
And you can't remember who you're talkin' to
Concentration slips away
'Cuz your baby is so far away
And if you can't be with the one you love
Honey love the one you're with
No one ends up with the companion they want. Instead, they eventually crunch the numbers, evaluate the mate they’ve hoodwinked, and figure: ”Well this one doesn’t seem to be dumping me, and I’m not getting any younger, so why the hell not?”
And though part of their brain may recognize they are settling, most folks never seem to fully reconcile this, which is what keeps marriage counselors in Courvoisier.
This inability to accept that they have settled is why so many idealize their high school sweetheart as some magical “one that got away.” For those still attending the Church of the High School Sweetheart, listen up: You were in high school, a time when what little free will we have is sublimated by tectonic hormonal shifts. Back then, you didn’t even grasp that the prom was just another dance. You didn’t even like dancing. You hated dressing up. You couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so you could get the hell out of school. Yet you allowed yourself to be convinced that that DANCE, which involved DRESSING UP, and was held AT SCHOOL, was a life and death crisis. And in the midst of all that confusion, you think you somehow had clarity about LOVE, the most esoteric facet of human existence?
SURE YOU DID.
Don't be angry, don't be sad
Don't sit cryin' of about the good times you had
There's a girl right next to you
And she's just waiting for something to do
Something to do. That’s marriage in a nutshell. Marriage is primarily a way of avoiding spinsterdom. Being lonely is awful. Being lonely and old drives many seniors to literal insanity. When couples glorify growing old together, it isn’t because growing old together is romantic. It is because it is a relief to know you won’t grow old alone: “Whew, at least I’ll have a sidekick as I creep toward oblivion!”
Probably the biggest reason to settle down is to be saved from the embarrassment of dating in your forties. The 40-something bar scene gives new meaning to the term “last call,” and 40-something office romances either end with a lawsuit or with someone getting chased by a jilted, shotgun-wielding spouse. That leaves Internet dating, which involves the use of a technology that didn’t even exist when you were learning the ropes of courtship. Nothing says old and desperate like two grizzled singles pronouncing LOL as “lull.”
Settle down has the word settle in it for a reason. 99% of you aren’t going to be with the one you love, so devote your energy to loving the one you’re with. Life sucks. May as well have some company.
If you're down and confused
And you can't remember who you're talkin' to
Concentration slips away
'Cuz your baby is so far away
And if you can't be with the one you love
Honey love the one you're with
No one ends up with the companion they want. Instead, they eventually crunch the numbers, evaluate the mate they’ve hoodwinked, and figure: ”Well this one doesn’t seem to be dumping me, and I’m not getting any younger, so why the hell not?”
And though part of their brain may recognize they are settling, most folks never seem to fully reconcile this, which is what keeps marriage counselors in Courvoisier.
This inability to accept that they have settled is why so many idealize their high school sweetheart as some magical “one that got away.” For those still attending the Church of the High School Sweetheart, listen up: You were in high school, a time when what little free will we have is sublimated by tectonic hormonal shifts. Back then, you didn’t even grasp that the prom was just another dance. You didn’t even like dancing. You hated dressing up. You couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so you could get the hell out of school. Yet you allowed yourself to be convinced that that DANCE, which involved DRESSING UP, and was held AT SCHOOL, was a life and death crisis. And in the midst of all that confusion, you think you somehow had clarity about LOVE, the most esoteric facet of human existence?
SURE YOU DID.
Don't be angry, don't be sad
Don't sit cryin' of about the good times you had
There's a girl right next to you
And she's just waiting for something to do
Something to do. That’s marriage in a nutshell. Marriage is primarily a way of avoiding spinsterdom. Being lonely is awful. Being lonely and old drives many seniors to literal insanity. When couples glorify growing old together, it isn’t because growing old together is romantic. It is because it is a relief to know you won’t grow old alone: “Whew, at least I’ll have a sidekick as I creep toward oblivion!”
Probably the biggest reason to settle down is to be saved from the embarrassment of dating in your forties. The 40-something bar scene gives new meaning to the term “last call,” and 40-something office romances either end with a lawsuit or with someone getting chased by a jilted, shotgun-wielding spouse. That leaves Internet dating, which involves the use of a technology that didn’t even exist when you were learning the ropes of courtship. Nothing says old and desperate like two grizzled singles pronouncing LOL as “lull.”
Settle down has the word settle in it for a reason. 99% of you aren’t going to be with the one you love, so devote your energy to loving the one you’re with. Life sucks. May as well have some company.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Dust Off that Business Casebook
Borders Files Bankruptcy, Closing Up to 275 Stores
I can't help but wonder what the failure of Borders implies for other mediums. The store specialized in making you feel at home, creating a place where you could spend a quiet afternoon reading and drinking coffee. Problem is, coffee aside (and sometimes not even that), no one ever bought anything...just as though they had stayed home. It practically invited folks to use the cow indefinitely without ever ponying up for the milk. The "give all your content away and eventually maybe someone will reimburse you somehow" model may end up being another case of unsustainable groupthink. If shoppers' consciences could always be relied on to generate revenue, we wouldn't have security devices in stores.
Remember, during the tech bubble, people thought Internet companies didn't need profits. Weren't price-to-earnings supposed to be replaced by something like price-to-clicks? I don't recall that craze ending well. Eventually, potential consumers must be transformed into actual consumers, as in willing to shell out actual money for content.
My personal business model can be found at http://twitter.com/#!/greatMikePayne
I can't help but wonder what the failure of Borders implies for other mediums. The store specialized in making you feel at home, creating a place where you could spend a quiet afternoon reading and drinking coffee. Problem is, coffee aside (and sometimes not even that), no one ever bought anything...just as though they had stayed home. It practically invited folks to use the cow indefinitely without ever ponying up for the milk. The "give all your content away and eventually maybe someone will reimburse you somehow" model may end up being another case of unsustainable groupthink. If shoppers' consciences could always be relied on to generate revenue, we wouldn't have security devices in stores.
Remember, during the tech bubble, people thought Internet companies didn't need profits. Weren't price-to-earnings supposed to be replaced by something like price-to-clicks? I don't recall that craze ending well. Eventually, potential consumers must be transformed into actual consumers, as in willing to shell out actual money for content.
My personal business model can be found at http://twitter.com/#!/greatMikePayne
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Doors of Misperception
Cultural pressure and government fiat can’t hide this uncomfortable fact any longer: “Riders on the Storm” is not a good song. Longtime Doors' producer Paul Rothchild is said to have denounced early versions as “bad cocktail jazz.” Far too kind an assessment. Upgrading “Riders” to bad cocktail jazz would require full reconstructive surgery. When I think bad cocktail jazz, I think harmless background noise that at least offers some relief from the suffocating silence of our inner doubts. “Riders” can’t even give us that much.
The song tries to set an eerie mood using rain and thunder sound effects and cinematicish lyrics:
There’s a killer on the road
His brain is squirming like a toad
These lines might be acceptable if they weren’t riding the same bus with headscratchers like:
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out alone
and
Girl you gotta love your man
Take him by the hand
Make him understand
Surely you can’t be serious, Mr. Morrison?
Now contrast the words of "Riders" with the beguiling pop verite found in earlier songs like “Soul Kitchen:”
The cars crawl past all stuffed with eyes
Street lights share their hollow glow
Your brain seems bruised with numb surprise
Those are lyrics that stick to your memory like an old flame; the type that makes you grin mischievously whenever you think of her. "Riders" is more like that one night stand that was so bad it reaffirmed your atheism.
I am not a Morrison hater. When I was an adolescent, I was an obnoxious junior Lizard King. I bought Jim’s poetry books. Read the poems. Resisted the nagging suspicion that they were as tedious as the bad teen poems I was writing.
Each year when The Doors rolled out their annual FINAL BEST OF NEW UNDISCOVERED OUTTAKE DEMOS LIVE FROM MORRISON'S CRYPT!(MONEYGRAB REMIX), I was the moron who actually bought it. I didn’t stop there. I even owned An American Prayer; the posthumous album featuring Mr. Morrison reading his poems over a score played by the surviving Doors. I had it on CD and cassette. True story.
Would you still be my friend if I confessed to once hanging a Doors poster in my room?
The first two Doors albums are so good that if aliens ever land here, they should be presented as peace offerings. That being the case, maybe it's unfair to use their early work as a watermark for judging the rest of their career. Still, I wouldn't call “Riders” one of their finer hours. The song was once used in an English tire commercial, and as far as I’m concerned, it should spend the rest of its days providing the soundtrack for flattened squirrels.
Break on through with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/greatMikePayne
The song tries to set an eerie mood using rain and thunder sound effects and cinematicish lyrics:
There’s a killer on the road
His brain is squirming like a toad
These lines might be acceptable if they weren’t riding the same bus with headscratchers like:
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out alone
and
Girl you gotta love your man
Take him by the hand
Make him understand
Surely you can’t be serious, Mr. Morrison?
Now contrast the words of "Riders" with the beguiling pop verite found in earlier songs like “Soul Kitchen:”
The cars crawl past all stuffed with eyes
Street lights share their hollow glow
Your brain seems bruised with numb surprise
Those are lyrics that stick to your memory like an old flame; the type that makes you grin mischievously whenever you think of her. "Riders" is more like that one night stand that was so bad it reaffirmed your atheism.
I am not a Morrison hater. When I was an adolescent, I was an obnoxious junior Lizard King. I bought Jim’s poetry books. Read the poems. Resisted the nagging suspicion that they were as tedious as the bad teen poems I was writing.
Each year when The Doors rolled out their annual FINAL BEST OF NEW UNDISCOVERED OUTTAKE DEMOS LIVE FROM MORRISON'S CRYPT!(MONEYGRAB REMIX), I was the moron who actually bought it. I didn’t stop there. I even owned An American Prayer; the posthumous album featuring Mr. Morrison reading his poems over a score played by the surviving Doors. I had it on CD and cassette. True story.
Would you still be my friend if I confessed to once hanging a Doors poster in my room?
The first two Doors albums are so good that if aliens ever land here, they should be presented as peace offerings. That being the case, maybe it's unfair to use their early work as a watermark for judging the rest of their career. Still, I wouldn't call “Riders” one of their finer hours. The song was once used in an English tire commercial, and as far as I’m concerned, it should spend the rest of its days providing the soundtrack for flattened squirrels.
Break on through with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/greatMikePayne
Monday, February 7, 2011
Practical Love Songs Part 2
When people think about songs of hardship, a name that comes to mind is John Mellencamp. He was born in a small town, he’s going to die in that small town, and along the way, he’s going to chronicle every loose lug nut that befalls the forsaken folk who inhabit that small town.
But many neglect to learn from John Cougar’s ultimate hard luck anthem: “I Need A Lover.” I’ll let Mr. Mellencamp tell it:
I need a lover that won't drive me crazy
Some girl to thrill me and then go away
I need a lover that won't drive me crazy
Some girl that knows the meaning of a
Hey hit the highway
A very biting and perceptive lyric. One reason so many couples are a mess is because they have obscene expectations of each other. When describing what their future mate MUST BE LIKE, it seems no whim is too absurd. Tell me this doesn’t sound familiar:
I want someone who knows when I’m happy. I want someone who knows when I’m sad. I want someone who knows when I need to be hugged and when I need to be bear-hugged. I want someone who knows when the muffins are done without having to look at the timer. Someone who can whittle a chair with one hand while massaging my back with the other. Someone who knows I like to be bitten on that little bump of skin behind my right earlobe that I’ve never bothered telling him is an erogenous zone and that not even my dermatologist can find…
Gee, with such simple requests, hard to imagine why the divorce rate is so high.
Mellencamp knows that all you need and all you should dare to expect is someone to thrill you…and then go away. You have heard that distance makes the heart grow fonder. You have heard that familiarity breeds contempt. John Cougar subtly reminds us of the accuracy of these sayings and throws in a pop hook for good measure.
What I’m proposing friends is that you manage your expectations. If you expect everything from a lover, you’ll be left with nothing. That is something both Jack and Diane can agree on.
But many neglect to learn from John Cougar’s ultimate hard luck anthem: “I Need A Lover.” I’ll let Mr. Mellencamp tell it:
I need a lover that won't drive me crazy
Some girl to thrill me and then go away
I need a lover that won't drive me crazy
Some girl that knows the meaning of a
Hey hit the highway
A very biting and perceptive lyric. One reason so many couples are a mess is because they have obscene expectations of each other. When describing what their future mate MUST BE LIKE, it seems no whim is too absurd. Tell me this doesn’t sound familiar:
I want someone who knows when I’m happy. I want someone who knows when I’m sad. I want someone who knows when I need to be hugged and when I need to be bear-hugged. I want someone who knows when the muffins are done without having to look at the timer. Someone who can whittle a chair with one hand while massaging my back with the other. Someone who knows I like to be bitten on that little bump of skin behind my right earlobe that I’ve never bothered telling him is an erogenous zone and that not even my dermatologist can find…
Gee, with such simple requests, hard to imagine why the divorce rate is so high.
Mellencamp knows that all you need and all you should dare to expect is someone to thrill you…and then go away. You have heard that distance makes the heart grow fonder. You have heard that familiarity breeds contempt. John Cougar subtly reminds us of the accuracy of these sayings and throws in a pop hook for good measure.
What I’m proposing friends is that you manage your expectations. If you expect everything from a lover, you’ll be left with nothing. That is something both Jack and Diane can agree on.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Frequently Answered Questions
Those who electrify millions frequently find themselves stomped by a ceaseless march of questions. I have found the same thing happens when you electrify two people. The fans never stop sniffling about how you owe them your innermost thoughts. Like Tom and Jerry, the public and private sides of me are forever sparring for rank. Cosmo says vulnerability is a turn-on, so I’m going to answer some of the common ones:
Are you really only 5’5”?
Yes, but when you’re under 5’8”, it is best to go with centimeters, so I prefer to say I’m 165.1 cm. Fee fi fo fum. With just a slight adjustment of the measurement terms, I make Yao Ming look like a snapped dandelion. Height is in the eye of the rulerholder.
Is your height the reason you are so bitter?
“Bitter” or not, I’ve been this way all my life, even when I was 5-years-old and everyone around me was short too. Then they grew and I didn’t. Through it all, my “bitterness” never fluctuated. I never changed. I’m pretty sure there was a Springsteen song about this.
Why do you hate everything?
I have a very wide range of interests. If I wrote about them all, no one would care. Especially not me. Plus my life contains only three or four tales of triumph and they are boring enough to be comedy chloroform. Seriously, almost all triumph is boring. I admit to hating everything about triumph.
Why aren’t you famous?
Fame is mostly random, and the roulette wheel hasn’t stopped on my number. It never will. Sure, actions I could have taken to tempt that randomness, like constantly network with bookers/comics, I have not pursued with enough vigor. I couldn’t network my way into headlining a brown paper bag. I also don’t have a face that inspires long term investment.
Okay, you’re not famous, so when are you going to quit?
I’m held hostage by the psychology of previous investment. I’ll give up when it is time. Hopefully “time” is this year.
Why aren’t you writing for a show like Letterman?
Because he wanted to pay me in soiled million dollar bills and I have a thing about germs. Writing jobs like Letterman are hyper-coveted and a wee tricky to come by. You don’t just find them on Monster.com. People often spend years bouncing around with titles like “contributing writer” before they land a steady gig on a solid show. A better question would be, given all the crap on television, shouldn’t some of these guys be called “subtracting writers?”
Have you ever won any awards?
No, but I was recently nominated for the “Distinguished Achievement in Not Trying to Be Bill Hicks, Jim Norton, or Mitch Hedberg” award. It was an honor just to be nominated.
After a show I saw you standing near me and you didn’t say hi. What did that mean?
It meant you weren’t a hot chick I was trying to have sex with.
Do you get lots of chicks after shows?
No. And my chances are only slightly better before the show.
Are you really only 5’5”?
Yes, but when you’re under 5’8”, it is best to go with centimeters, so I prefer to say I’m 165.1 cm. Fee fi fo fum. With just a slight adjustment of the measurement terms, I make Yao Ming look like a snapped dandelion. Height is in the eye of the rulerholder.
Is your height the reason you are so bitter?
“Bitter” or not, I’ve been this way all my life, even when I was 5-years-old and everyone around me was short too. Then they grew and I didn’t. Through it all, my “bitterness” never fluctuated. I never changed. I’m pretty sure there was a Springsteen song about this.
Why do you hate everything?
I have a very wide range of interests. If I wrote about them all, no one would care. Especially not me. Plus my life contains only three or four tales of triumph and they are boring enough to be comedy chloroform. Seriously, almost all triumph is boring. I admit to hating everything about triumph.
Why aren’t you famous?
Fame is mostly random, and the roulette wheel hasn’t stopped on my number. It never will. Sure, actions I could have taken to tempt that randomness, like constantly network with bookers/comics, I have not pursued with enough vigor. I couldn’t network my way into headlining a brown paper bag. I also don’t have a face that inspires long term investment.
Okay, you’re not famous, so when are you going to quit?
I’m held hostage by the psychology of previous investment. I’ll give up when it is time. Hopefully “time” is this year.
Why aren’t you writing for a show like Letterman?
Because he wanted to pay me in soiled million dollar bills and I have a thing about germs. Writing jobs like Letterman are hyper-coveted and a wee tricky to come by. You don’t just find them on Monster.com. People often spend years bouncing around with titles like “contributing writer” before they land a steady gig on a solid show. A better question would be, given all the crap on television, shouldn’t some of these guys be called “subtracting writers?”
Have you ever won any awards?
No, but I was recently nominated for the “Distinguished Achievement in Not Trying to Be Bill Hicks, Jim Norton, or Mitch Hedberg” award. It was an honor just to be nominated.
After a show I saw you standing near me and you didn’t say hi. What did that mean?
It meant you weren’t a hot chick I was trying to have sex with.
Do you get lots of chicks after shows?
No. And my chances are only slightly better before the show.
Monday, January 31, 2011
He's Only Human...
The Human Torch extinguished
In the latest issue of Marvel Comics' the 'Fantastic Four,' Johnny Storm - aka the Human Torch - is doused for the last time.
Every couple years a superhero "dies" to much to-do and just a few years later...KA-POW!...the dead crime fighter is brought back to life. And each time, comic book fans wonder; will we ever see him again?!?!?! Apparently, they’re not all superstar brainiacs.
The characters in question are superheroes, as in superhuman, so why all the shock when they rise from the dead? You accept that Above Average Man can leap above average buildings in a single bound, but you expect him to say “uncle” over six feet of graveyard mulch?
In the latest issue of Marvel Comics' the 'Fantastic Four,' Johnny Storm - aka the Human Torch - is doused for the last time.
Every couple years a superhero "dies" to much to-do and just a few years later...KA-POW!...the dead crime fighter is brought back to life. And each time, comic book fans wonder; will we ever see him again?!?!?! Apparently, they’re not all superstar brainiacs.
The characters in question are superheroes, as in superhuman, so why all the shock when they rise from the dead? You accept that Above Average Man can leap above average buildings in a single bound, but you expect him to say “uncle” over six feet of graveyard mulch?
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