Mister Comedy

I have mixed feelings about the internet. Specifically, hyperlinks. Used sparingly, they can amplify meaning and lead readers to interesting tangents. But I think they can be overused. I don’t always want to leave the page I’m on, interrupting the flow of what I’m reading.

It’s a weird way of reading. Imagine if books worked that way. What if every few lines, you had to flip to another page to really get the author’s meaning.

Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov (see page 22) was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov (page 24), a landowner well known in our district in his own day (pages 240-245), and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death (page 30), which happened thirteen years ago (page 78), and which I shall describe in its proper place (pages 108-110, 355).

I think hyperlinks are just enabling our attention-deficit mentality. It encourages writers to be lazy (I could explain what I mean as I write, or I could just let people click on something if they want more depth). It encourages readers to be unfocused, filling their heads with snippets and fragments instead of following the twists and turns within a piece of writing.

In general, we have too much access for our own good. One night, I was playing poker online, watching video clips on YouTube, checking the headlines on MSNBC, answering an email from a friend and posting an ad on Craigslist. I can honestly say I didn’t enjoy any of those experiences, but I was able to do them all at once. I fear I am actually losing the ability to focus on anything for longer than the time it takes to read a few sentences.

So in the spirit of altruism, as much as I want you all to visit my website, might I also suggest you start reading a classic novel. Grab a book–an actual, physical book–sit in a comfortable chair, turn off everything except a good light, and lose yourself in a well-told story. Just my little suggestion for everybody’s mental health.

I never really understood John McCain’s criticism of Barack Obama’s ‘celebrity’ status, since running for president of the United States by definition makes you a celebrity. Hard to run a national campaign for leader of the free world without a whole lot of people noticing (although Ralph Nader is trying). But even if he has a point, and for his vice-presidential choice, he wanted someone who’s not tarnished by celebrity status, shouldn’t that person at least be SOMEONE WE’VE HEARD OF? Doesn’t your choice lose some of it’s impact if all of the media reports begin with the phrase ‘Who Is Sarah Palin?’ Your VP doesn’t have to be famous, exactly, but I don’t think that person should be someone voters have to google. Jeez, in terms of name recognition he might as well have picked me.

I’m sure this wasn’t John’s idea. Karl Rove or some other RNC goon probably called him Thursday night (”Where do we reach him?” “Try him at home.” “Like that narrows it down…”) and said something like

Look, John. Obama just gave a brilliant speech that 38 million people watched. Now I know you’re leaning toward someone with solid economic credentials, and someone with a proven track record to highlight Obama’s inexperience, but we’re thinking we should go with a woman. There seems to be a lot of women in the country right now, and apparently they can vote. Pick one of them. What about that one woman in Alaska. Yeah, I know you’ve never met her, but she’s totally hot.

McCain actually acted the same as any guy would at bar closing time. The clock is running out, and he needs to hook up with a woman. And at that point in the evening, it doesn’t really matter who the woman is. Basically, he’s been set up on a political blind date, and is looking to make her his trophy vice-president.  Unfortunately for McCain, the eighteen million Hillary Clinton supporters supported Hillary Clinton because they……agreed with Hillary Clinton! They’re just not likely to suddenly decide “You know, now that McCain has chosen a woman, I don’t need equal pay for equal work, or the right to decide what to do with my own body.”

I know the religious right (which is usually neither) is thrilled. Palin is in favor of teaching creationism, and in fact believes that the world created in seven days. She believes there is no evidence to prove evolution actually happened. Of course, if you look at the Republican Party, she’s right–there’s no evidence they have evolved. Ultimately, choosing Palin makes McCain seem progressive, but not because she’s a woman–he looks progressive by comparison–next to this gun-toting, drill-happy, moose-eating, homophobic fundamentalist, he suddenly looks as harmless and inoffensive as that uncle who just keeps telling the same war stories at every family reunion.

Not that I’m thrilled with the selection of Joe Biden. This is an election in which it will be critical to lock up certain parts of the country that have traditionally been Republican strongholds. Thank God we can now count on…Delaware. And since Obama’s core message is that of change, it’s good that he chose someone who has worked in Washinton for thirty-five years. But I do like the fact that he seems a bit of a loose cannon. It just feels like at some point in the next two months, some reporter at some campaign stop will ask one wrong question, and Biden will snap. That could be entertaining.

Why not bring the vice-presidency into the twenty-first century? I say, make the choice as part of a reality show on Fox.

Tonight, on the premiere of ‘America’s Next Top Running Mate,’ fifteen average people will be competing for the chance to break ties in the U.S. Senate!

As the convention hoo-ha shifts to St. Paul with four nights of people distancing themselves from W., I have to give special special award to insufferably strident filmmaker Michael Moore. For years I have felt that Moore hurts progressive more than he helps, simply by being obsessed with being Michael Moore. His shameless self-promotion and sweaty agit-prop, though usually on the right side of the issues, probably turns off more people than it converts. A few years ago, I created the Slappy Award–an award for someone who, by virtue of a particularly bone-headed and addle-brained action, should be slapped.

So Michael Moore was on Countdown with Keith Olbermann last night, and said that the timing of Hurricane Gustav’s arrival this week coinciding with the Republican National Convention was “proof that there is a God.” Really, Michael?  God really works that way? By potentially destroying thousands of people’s lives in order to make a political point? You need to be slapped.

I haven’t had an internet connection for a few days, and the withdrawal has been brutal. I really shouldn’t be frustrated, since my wireless connection is pirated off one of my neighbors who is actually paying for internet access (but damn you, ZWIRE972, whoever you are!). But I am now so addicted to the web (what an appropriate term that is) that I become non-functional without it. Incapable of talking with friends, unless the chat takes place inside a little box. Unable to write anything unless I can instantly send it to the entire world. If my computer ever dies, I won’t even be able to compose a sentence, because I’ve been using a keyboard for so long that I’m not sure I still remember how to form the actual letters with a pen. What’s maddening is that I have internet access for a few minutes, then I don’t. It’s there and then it’s gone. Which makes it really hard to watch porn. You can’t follow the plot (’is she with the cable guy or the pizza guy?’).

I didn’t get a text message from Obama this week about his vp choice, and that’s fine. Don’t get me wrong, I would do almost anything to help him get elected, but on my cell plan, I would have had to pay ten cents to receive the message, and things are kinda tight right now. I did, however, get a telegram from John McCain.

I’m not sure how tech-savvy we want our president to be, truth be told. Take text messages for example. This kind of communication has simplified language so much, it’s become the digital equivalent of grunts, to say nothing of the fact that a generation has thrown spelling out the window (are the extra keystrokes required to spell ‘you’ instead of ‘u’ really THAT time-consuming?). I just think if world leaders start texting each other, international dialogue will lose a little depth.

Putin: ur missiles r 2 close 2 us imho

Obama: ab2 move them brb

Putin:  thx l8r

And what if Obama is as hooked on the web as I am. Missing cabinet meetings because he’s playing Scramble on Facebook (though it would be cool to get a message saying ‘Barack Obama has added you as a friend’ on Facebook), stopping press conferences because he needs to Google something before he can answer a question, deciding how to handle a crisis by checking Wikipedia. I just think there’s a slippery slope here, people.

There’s a lot of talk these days about artificial intelligence…machines that can ‘think’ like humans. I think we’ve got it backwards. We should be trying to make humans process information like computers. Specifically, we should invent a ‘delete’ key for the brain. A small chip on the side of the head that allows you to forget information you don’t need anymore. Stuff that’s just taking up space. They say we only use twenty percent of our brains, but what if there’s a limit to what we can store up there, and then it’s full.

I’ve been taught how to play backgammon more than a few times and still can’t remember the rules. I took two years of French in college, and can barely order a croissant. I believe this is because my mind has retained things like my home address in high school, and the name of that crazy waitress chick I hooked up with in college. I can name the cast of “Golden Girls”, and I still remember all the lyrics to “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero” (which I also know was recorded by Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods). I want those things out of my head! Make room for important things! I was aggravated the other day when I couldn’t remember which Star Trek crew member came out as gay, Walter Koenig or George Takei. I wasn’t angry that I didn’t remember whether Chekov or Sulu was a big old intergalactic queen, I was angry that I used to know!

It would be so helpful to delete things you don’t need to know. Your creepy uncle tells you a story with way too many details about his bladder condition–DELETE. You best friend shares with you that he always thought your mom was hot–DELETE.  And I’m not talking the ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’, wipe the hard drive clean type of erasing. Just getting rid of a few unnecessary files. Defragging your brain, so that you could access the important stuff a little more quickly.

I still remember that the longest word in the Oxford English Dictionary is pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. That’s gotta be taking up space I could be using for something else.

Yes, I know. I haven’t posted in a few days.  So, to the four people who are checking, I’m sorry.  Now on to new business.

I’m in a very transitional place right now (makes it sound like I’m in rehab). I have been quarter-heartedly looking for a new soul-sucking, mind-numbing underpaid office job with no benefits, and though I have emailed over two hundred resumes, so far–no response. Admittedly, my resume is a bit thin. I’m forty-eight, and have worked exactly three real jobs, totalling maybe five years in the real world. The kids on The Real World actually have better job prospects than I do.  Combine my scant experience with the fact that I can only take jobs I can do sitting down due to my mysterious hip/knee/leg enfeeblement, and the fact that (though I’m no expert) the economy seems to be…less than booming, making my job prospects about as good as those of a Republican running for mayor of Chicago.

Friends have suggested I pad my resume. Get creative they say, which in my case would essentially be making shit up.  So I tried to think of things that couldn’t be checked on easily.

2001-2006         Missionary Work             Ulan Bator, Mongolia

Some people have said “But what about your years of work as a comedian? There must be a way to use those skills.” Yet oddly enough, very few companies seem to really need a guy who’s good at mocking authority and insulting drunks.

Still others have said I should emphasize my life experiences. I’m just not sure that in my case that constitutes a marketable ’skill set.’

1991-1995

• watched television
• developed contacts in the marijuana industry
• gained proficiency at moving, especially on short notice

The other bit of advice I got was to not limit myself. Instead of applying for only those jobs for which I think I’m qualified, cast a wider net and apply for anything. “You can learn on the job” , they’d say. “Any job will train you if they like you.“ I must admit this was kinda fun. Just to see how far into the process I could go applying for a job as, say, a radiologist, or senior hydraulics engineer. Or, from this Chicago craigslist posting on August 19th–

“Yes, I’m interested in the position of regional osteo biologics specialist. Now I think I’m pretty familiar with with the whole osteo biologics thing–did a little googling–just wondering…what region are we dealing with here? This is some sort of bone thing, right? Hello? …Hello?”

I’ve actually seen job listings on Craigslist for doctors. How many bridges have you burned as a doctor if you’re looking for work on a free ad site? Is that the standard career path for physicians? But the problem with looking for work on Craigslist is that Craigslist has all these other categories that suck you in and you never get to the job listings. Craigslist is like this primordial soup of human randomness, neatly categorized. ‘Lost and Found’ is a great example–there are actually ads where people are saying they lost a wallet–and believe that someone will actually see the ad, and return the wallet! People who lost–other people! “Yeah, I think I found your cousin Ed–you wanna meet somewhere so I can return him?” Or if you want to get your cry on, check this one out . But my favorite is in ‘for sale,’ in the ‘free’ category. People giving away gerbils. Toilets. Yarn. A fifteen foot live birch tree. It’s the cyber equivalent of throwing shit in the alley. Someone actually posted an ad offering a goat. This begs so many questions. Why does someone in Chicago have a goat? If someone in Chicago has a goat, they obviously didn’t get it ACCIDENTALLY, so why don’t they want it anymore? What’s wrong with the goat? And if someone needed a goat, why would they look on Craigslist?

Anyway, if anyone knows some place that’s hiring middle-aged pot-heads who can type a little, let me know.

My friend Angela called me again today. She’s called every day for the past six or seven months, sometimes twice a day. She rarely leaves a message. I use the word ‘friend’ loosely, since I don’t know Angela’s last name or even what she looks like. I do know where she works though. Angela is a collections agent with Capital One.

Now you all know Capital One.The company that gives credit cards to people who can’t get credit cards because their credit sucks? Their catchphrase is “What’s in your wallet?” (what’s in my wallet? NOTHING! that’s why i need your credit card!)…anyhoo, you’d think they’d know how unlikely it is that the kind of person who actually need a Capital One card would ever have enough money to pay them back, but Angela believes in me.

You would also think that a 21st century financial company would have the technological savvy to understand cell phones and caller ID. Considering the number of companies to whom I owe money, I tend to not answer calls if the number starts with 800 or 888.  See, none of my friends have toll-free numbers. But here’s Cap One, thinking ‘Maybe this time he’ll pick up. He’s probably just busy figuring out how to pay us back.’ I can picture the supervisor saying”Angela–try him again–he’s gonna be home eventually.” As if after five hundred calls, I’m gonna pick up the phone and say “Ok, how much do I owe you Got it. I’ll send it out today.” I really should answer it one of these days, just for fun.

“Hello? Oh–hey Angie. Yeah, I guess you’ve been trying to get a hold of me for a while now. Sorry, I’ve just been really swamped. No, no it’s not you. It’s me. I just feel like you’re pressuring me. ? Ang, if this is about the money, I gotta tell ya–I just don’t have it. I know, I know. I let you down. Anyway, look–I gotta run. But call me anytime. Yeah, you can call me tomorrow. I may not be able to pick up, but just leave a message”

But my dear Angela never leaves a message. She has her friends do that. I particularly like the British chick that calls to say she’s from ‘Alliance Solutions’ (a collection agency) and would “really appreciate’ a call back. She always sounds upbeat in that kicky, Euro way, sorta like Emma Peel from the Avengers. And who wouldn’t want to call her back? I mean, she’s offering solutions. And she’s from…an alliance.

Actually last week, I accidentally answered. I didn’t have my glasses on, thought the ten digit number was a friend in Seattle calling, and I answered. It was my girl Angela. She didn’t sound very happy with me. She finally gets the chance to talk to me, and she takes this tone with me. All scolding, and judgemental. I realized in that conversation that I would be a crappy spy, because I tried to pretend that I was Michael’s roommate, and she saw right through me.

“Is this Michael?” “Uh, who’s calling for him?” “This is Angela.” “Uh, this is his roommate–let me see if he’s here…–no, sorry, he’s out.” “Do you know when he’ll be back?” At this point, Angie’s already on to me, but plays along like an expert criminal profiler. “No, sorry, he’s not very good at communicating (what?)–can I give him a message?” “It’s a personal matter.” Now for some reason, i continue the charade. “Well can I tell him what it’s about?” At this point, she’s done playing games. “Why would I tell you if you’re just his roommate? And I think I’m actually talking to Michael Dane.” I had no idea what to do. Hands sweating. Head spinning. Then, my masterful comeback. “No, this is his roommate.” Her response? “Are you sure you’re not Michael Dane?” And I hung up. She hasn’t called me in over a week. I miss her.

So I’ve finally gotten old enough to get away with being cranky. See I’ve always been cranky, but now that I’m almost fifty, I realize I’m gonna start getting cut slack for being a cranky old guy. I can now be the guy in line muttering angry shit about–anything. I can pull it off now, because I look the part. You have to age into crankiness–it’s like smoking a pipe–a twenty-five year old with a pipe just looks pretentious and–well, wrong.

And why do feel so oddly empowered? Why do I suddenly look the part? Because now I walk with a freakin’ cane! Now I’m not thrilled that my marathon-running days are over (before they could even start–tragic), but there’s a plus side. The other day I hobbled onto a train and proceeded to tell the teenager (who was, I might add, terribly unkempt) to get his feet off the seat in front of him. And he did! So testing my newfound license to scold, I strongly suggested that the kids in the back should quiet down, and they did!

But for the best example of the power of the cane–I was crossing the street last week, and noticed a couple of young guys in one of their…hot-rod jalopies. They didn’t see me, and clearly had no intention of stopping before the crosswalk. So I let them pull all the way into the crosswalk, walked to the driver’s side window, planted my cane and yelled ‘this is a crosswalk, punk!” They looked very frightened. They backed up, waited for me to cross, and then drove away (at the speed limit, I might add).  Now in that moment, they were probably cursing me, but I guarantee that they will remember the insane old dude the next time they come to a rolling stop. And that’s the beauty part, people. I call it freelance social engineering.

This is all very cool, and almost offsets the fact that my body is breaking down at an alarming rate. Yesterday I got out of the chair at my desk and thought ‘I’ve been sitting too long.’ YOU CAN’T SIT TOO LONG! Sitting isn’t an actiity! I’ve actually said ‘Oy–my hip’–trust me, when you use Yiddish AND talk aout your hip, you’re officially old. Once when I called my friend Eugene, the first ten minutes of the conversation consisted of asking each other about each other’s various ailments.

I wear reading glasses, have digestive problems, walk with a limp ,and about three years ago I woke up one morning unable to lift my right arm. I suppose that’s something I lshould ook into. Problem is, I don’t do the doctor thing. It’s not the actual doctor, it’s the time before the appointment. Combine an overactive imagination with the fact that I haven’t exactly treated my body like a temple (maybe a rec room? a VFW hall?) and I always think the worst. Throw in access to WebMD, and now I’m sure. But unlike most hypochondriacs, I don’t want to be proven right face to face. “Well, yes Mr. Dane, you do have a rare Sub-Saharan blood virus, and quite a nasty brain tumor as well.” “Well, glad I came by, doc. I’m very relieved.”

Side note about my cane–I actually wanted a walking stick–less, i don’t know, orthopedic looking. I’d seen some very stylish walking sticks, but then realized that I’d never seen a walking-stick store. Or walking-sticks in a store. I couldn’t imagine that everyone sporting a stick hand carved them out of branches on their back porches, so I did some searching on the web. Funny enough, the only sites I found for my walking-stick needs were pimp-related. Pimphats.com . Pimpcostumes.com . I found it interesting that, apparently, the demographic group propping up the walking-stick industry would be none other than our hard-working pimps. Turns out there’s a vast selection of stick options, including one that can (no lie) be filled with a pint of your favorite booze. Now that’s being at peace with being an alcoholic-when you don’t even bbother to hide the bottle, choosing instead to guzzle directly from your pimp stick.

Anyway, I should end this now. My leg’s hurting, I need to take my Benefiber, and I’m kinda tired. Besides, my stories are on now.

What if we’re wrong. And by ‘we,’ I mean people who agree with me. I think that about a lot of things. For instance–as much as I might think fundamentalist right-wing narrow-minded racist misogynistic homophobes are idiots–what if I’m wrong. What if, when I depart this plane of existence, I am greeted by the real St. Peter–at a real gate, with a real clipboard in his hands-and he’s working through a checklist.

“Okay–pro-life…that’s not good. Had sex with other men…that’s a no. Believed that Christian doctrine is –and I’m quoting here–’a feel-good myth that keeps people weak and easy to manipulate and encourages right-wing narrow-minded racist misogynistic homophobia’–that is not what we’re looking for.” And then, I’m cast into the fiery pit.

Or what if we’re wrong about the internet. What if, instead of being potentially infinite, there is actually a limit to the amount of, for lack of a better word, crap that can be posted to the web. What if, at some point, some blogger (or worse–‘Twitterer’) could post something entirely innocuous, and all of sudden, the internet is full. No more room. What if all that information basically crashed the whole thing–one nerd in his basement thinks “I should add some Flash animation to my website, then link my website to my Facebook page where people can see a link to my YouTube video–” and the whole thing goes kerflooey.

No more IMDB, no more Googling, no more email–talk about a good old-fashioned Christian apocalypse…the skies would be raining twenty-something middle-management lemmings jumping out of corner offices–the streets would be littered with Blackberries and Bluetooths (Blueteeth?). People would be forced to actually talk to each other.

Guess this was a little dark. I’m kinda moody. See ya tomorrow.

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Well, I figured this would happen. I’ve been doing this for so long (since yesterday morning, in fact) that I’m kinda tired of it. Coming up with brilliant insights into the human condition, slicing through political buffoonery with razor-sharp satire, giving the three friends who go to my page a couple of chuckles…do I need that kind of pressure? And besides, what if the 350 words I wrote yesterday are…all I’ve got? What if, given an infinite amount of space and an unlimited range of topics—I got nothin’.

I wonder about some things…like, how is this different than a homeless guy on a bench just talking to himself? Sure, with a blog people can choose to seek out my commentary, but I can choose to walk over to ‘homeless guy’ and hear what he has to say. I guess the real difference is that homeless guy isn’t worried about how much traffic he gets at his site.

I wonder why people read blogs. It almost seems like people who read blogs are using this reasoning: “I could embrace life, create art, interact with people, experience nature–but I’d much rather stare at a screen and read about someone else doing those things.”

I wonder—no, wait. I apologize. I’ve just started three consecutive paragraphs with somewhat cranky, self-referential musings. I was this close to becoming Andy Rooney. Sorry.

I think the key to this process is setting realistic goals. Now, my first post was exactly three hundred fifty words. That wasn’t so hard—I was able to do it while I played online poker and watched the Cubs lose. Talk about multi-tasking! So I’m just gonna type my three hundred fifty words and when I’m done I’m gonna post it, no matter where I’m at, whether I made my point or got to the punchline. Because if I keep writing about writing, I’ll never get any writing done. I only have to get to that magic number of three hundred fifty and I can say I accomplished something—I’m actually a writer now—and I finally finished something I

So…I’ve joined the 21st century. Now, instead of muttering to myself, I can send my random, unfocused ranting across the entire world. Lucky world.

I take this responsibility very seriously, and in that mindset, I’ll tell you why I’m doing this blog. But before that, let me just say how much I hate the word ‘blog’—it sounds like something you accidentally step in, or a bad CGI alien from the original Star Trek (“Captain—the Blog has taken control of the ship—it’s compromised the shields!”).

In truth, I’m doing this because I lost my soul-sucking, mind-numbing day job and have a lot of free time. Well—not exactly ‘lost.’ I know where it is—I just don’t get paid if I go there anymore. So I thought “Why not write something—anything—every day, and see if anyone reads it?” I also realized that I was one of only twenty or thirty people on Earth who don’t have a blog. There are seventh-graders with blogs. That’s just wrong.

Anyway, before you step in my blog, here is my pledge to you, the reader:

• I will not use this blog to tell you what I had for breakfast, what’s on my iPod, or how cool my friends are.
• I will not refer to Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan or ‘Dancing With the Stars.’
• I will not use emoticons.
• I will never use the word ‘blogosphere.’
• I will try to update this every day.
• That having been said, I won’t be able to update this every day. Get over it. If going to my blog and not seeing something new is ‘a waste of your time,’ then you didn’t really have enough time to go to my blog in the first place.
• I welcome comments. Just know that if you criticize what I write, it could send me spiraling into a dark, depressed place where I feel I have nothing of value to contribute as a human being, after which I will stop showering, sever all ties to my family and friends, and assume the fetal position under my desk. But write whatever you want.

There. I’m done. Check back tomorrow!