Mister Comedy

Well, it’s official. Professor Igor Panarin, an esteemed Russian academic and former KGB analyst with the Russian Foreign Ministry, has said there is a 45-55 percent chance that the American empire will collapse by the end of 2010. This, from the Chicago Tribune:

Mr. Panarin posits, in brief, that mass immigration, economic decline, and moral degradation will trigger a civil war next fall and the collapse of the dollar. Around the end of June 2010, or early July, he says, the U.S. will break into six pieces — with Alaska reverting to Russian control.

Well there you have it. I especially like the Alaska part–now Sarah Palin will actually BE in Russia when she’s at her house. And of course, if anyone would be good at predicting the collapse of an empire, it would be the Russians. But if Comrade Panarin is right, so many questions come to mind, the first being, will Governor Blagojovich be calling Vladimir Putin to try and buy a Politburo seat? One other note from our friends in Russia–according to a national television survey, Josef Stalin was named third-greatest Russian in history, and in classic Russian fashion, he was also named second-greatest Russian and greatest Russian. Ah, memories.

Growing up, I listened to a lot of talk radio. It used to be like a neighborhood of the airwaves–just people talking over the metaphorical back fence about things that mattered to the community. I gave up on the medium when it got co-opted by fire-breathing right-wing hatemongers, but lately, since I’m not sleeping too well, I’ve started to tune in again. Sure, there are still plenty of xenophobes and reactionaries on the air, but they’re my neighbors too, and I might as well be neighborly and listen. Like Mike Gallagher, the popular host who this week explained why he believes that the Iraqi loafer-launching journalist should have been shot to death by the Secret Service. Seriously. Yeah, what better way to show Iraquis what democracy means than a little disproportionate whup-ass without due process.

One caller on Dennis Prager’s show had a more personal topic. Seems her mother-in-law wouldn’t speak to her since she named her son ‘Job.’ Now I can see Grandma’s point–what with the name ‘Job’ representing eternal suffering for most of western civilization. But it’s not like he’s gonna get teased by his schoolmates–kids don’t read enough these days to know who Job was. Now the boy in Hunterdon County, Pennsylvania whose parents named him Adolf Hitler Campbell might have a tougher go of it come yearbook time. And why am I not surprised that Wal-Mart was willing to decorate his birthday cake?

You know, Professor Panarin might be on to something as far as our moral degradation is concerned. Consider the guy who, on Christmas Day, became so angry at a father and son talking during a showing of “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” that he shot the father…with the handgun he brought with him to the theater. Now I’ll admit I have wanted to shoot at the screen during certain movies, but did this guy at least think about…’oh, getting the usher first?

One more question when you look at this guy:  If you had to guess what movie he was watching , would you have guessed “Benjamin Button”?

Saw my favorite holiday bumper sticker the other day. It said “Santa Is A Teamster,” which makes sense, since he’s fat, only works a few days a year,  and can’t lose his job.  Christmas of course brought with it my favorite meteorological phrase–’a wintry mix.’ Now there’s descriptive, verifiable hard science for you. Anyway, I realized a long time ago that weather forecasting is actually just pseudo-science, like astrology, or phrenology. Think about it–when the weatherman says there’s a fifty percent chance of rain, that’s basically saying it might rain, or it might not.

So, I’ll wrap this up by saying there’s a forty to sixty percent chance that 2009 will be better than 2008 was. But don’t hold me to that. And have a happy new year.

Here’s why I hate trying to write topical humor. Not only are there five late night talk shows with ten writers each, and SNL, and MadTV, the Onion, and eight thousand topical blogs, but most of my hipper friends have enough technology at their disposal to simply send a one-liner on Twitter (and I’m not even sure what that is)–and poof! a joke intended for this blog has been taken. Last night, I jot down a little gag about scratching off an Illinois lottery ticket and winning a senate seat, and this morning, my friend Matt does THE EXACT SAME FREAKING JOKE as his status update on Facebook. Don’t get me wrong–I’m not saying it was comedy gold, and it’s kind of an easy angle, but it’s still a little frustrating.

Loved watching the clip of the Iraqi journalist throwing his shoes at Bush. Can’t watch it often enough. Especially the part where he throws his OTHER shoe–apparently believing the first shoe didn’t effectively communicate his point. And Bush dodged the shoe like a champ (granted, he’s had eight years of experience dodging things–accountability, criticism, responsibility)–seriously, he looked like Neo in ‘The Matrix’

I wish our press conferences were a little more rough-and-tumble.  I just have the feeling that politicians would be less inclined to bullshit if they knew they might have to dodge footwear. Overall I think the Fourth Estate (and I recently learned what the other three are from a Simpsons episode, which says something culturally) has become too wimpy. That’s one the things I love about Chicago. Since we still have two competing daily newspapers, one of them gets to be more…muckraking. It may not be as intellectual as the Tribune, but when there’s local dirt to dig, I always go to the Sun-Times first.

I also think Congress is too polite. I’d rather see Congress be more like the British Parliament. Used to love watching Parliament sessions on C-Span (C-Span is like a porn channel for political junkies). In Parliament, they actually mutter insults while the Prime Minister is speaking. Our political discourse could use a little loosening up–screw ‘parliamentary procedure,’ I want to hear Barney Frank interrupt Mitch McConnell with a little “Girlfriend, please!” In an open session of Congress, a member should be allowed to take five minutes to ridicule his rival across the aisle. “I would like to use the balance of my time to point out that my colleague from the great state of West Virginia is a backwards-thinking troglodyte.” You want to get voters involved in the political process, add a little name-calling–you’d have people at the water cooler at work saying things like “Did you hear Tom Daschle lay into Saxby Chambliss yesterday? Snap!” Apropos of nothing, ‘Saxby’ is a silly name. What, were his parents playing Scrabble when he was conceived?

As the Blago scandal ratchets up, I’m reminded of another thing I like about Chicago. In cities that are a bit more smug, this kind of scandal would be cause for outrage–time for the townspeople to light torches. Here, it’s like–yeah, they’re all crooked. The average working-stiff Chicagoan just shrugs and goes back to work. When Daley was up for coronation re-election, a survey showed that somethintg like seventy-six percent of voters believed he was connected to some form of corruption. And he won the election by pretty much the same margin. It’s sort of like a Mussolini effect–the trains are running, the garbage gets picked up, who cares who’s getting paid off. We’re gonna get the Olympics, and we have tons of bike paths!

I try not to bitch about the weather here, but today is one of those ridiculous days. This afternoon, a balmy forty-eight degrees. Tonight–eight degrees. I really don’t understand how the midwest was settled. Let’s say the westbound pioneers got here in…June. Beautiful skies over the endless plains, frolicking in the lake. But a few months later, when it became butt-fucking cold (sorry about the language, but that is an actual meteorological term)…PACK UP AND KEEP GOING WEST! It’s not like the very first Chicagoans were tied to mortgages and leases–get in the wagon and find someplace warmer! Don’t just…give up! Point your wagons south! Anywhere–just build your city someplace where a suffocating blanket of cold and ice doesn’t bury you for three months!

I would have posted sooner, but I’ve been busy preparing for an appearance in front of Congress. See, I was under the impression that the country was running out of money, but apparently you just have to ask for it. Granted, the auto bailout didn’t pass the senate, but it looks like they’ll just take fourteen billion out of the seven hundred billion that was already approved to bailout Wall Street. All this will, of course, be overseen by someone they’re calling the ‘car czar,’ an unfortunate term–what with all the criticism of Obama’s supposedly ’socialist’ leanings.

We really can’t let the auto industry collapse. If that happened, Detroit would become an empty desolate wasteland–oh wait…that’s what it is now. Anyway, I figure while they’re handing out money, I should get in line. It oughta be an easy pitch, since all I really need is five, six hundred bucks. And since the auto execs got some flack for taking private jets to D.C., I would even be willing to take Greyhound.

Here in the Land of Lincoln, we know money is always the answer. I’m not surprised that our governer was willing to sell Obama’s senate seat. I am a little surprised he couldn’t close the deal. Blagojevich’s problem (which sounds like the name of some arcane mathematical excercise–I think we had to solve that in calculus class) was that he was all over the map as far as what he wanted. According to the tapes, he wanted a Cabinet post, then he’s asking about running the Red Cross, or maybe a high-ranking union job–I mean, decide what the seat’s worth, for bleep’s sake. And just pick one buyer, instead of dealing with five. C’mon, this is basic sales technique. Keep it simple.

The fact that the transcripts even exist is amazing. If your administration is the subject of a months-long federal investigation, it’s pretty likely your phone will be tapped. Might want to discuss violating the state constitution somewhere other than your own house…go to a corner bar–there’s a few of them in Chicago. And the swearing cracks me up, because it reads like he’s auditioning for a stage version of ‘Scarface.’

Norm Coleman probably wishes he could just buy the Minnesota senate seat, but unfortunately, the good folks in Minnesota are actually trying to count all the votes that were cast. Having lived in Minnesota, this is the time of year when you’re stuck indoors anyway, so you might as well take that time to count votes. Have each precinct captain make a hot dish, mull some cider and get it right. Not much else to do in Brainerd or Round Lake in December–it’s that or scrapbooking. I really hope Franken wins, simply because he would become the first elected official in history to admit to having dropped acid.

Speaking of winter, I’m looking out my window as I write this, and it’s quite lovely–if I didn’t have to actually WALK OUTSIDE. But take it from a guy with a limp and a cane–one person’s glistening city sidewalk is another person’s treacherous path to the bus stop. Winter wonderland my ass–as far as I’m concerned, it’s just a lot of places where I can slip and crack my skull on the curb. Hope you’re all having a good holiday!

I used to love Larry King’s column. He would simply string together a handful of not-very-risky opinions (usually, but not exclusively, about celebrities), introduced by some regular guy phrase like “for my money” or “if you ask me”–add some ellipses, and you’ve got a column.

For my money, you couldn’t ask for a nicer guy than Paul Newman…if you ask me, that Cristina Aguilera can really move…if you put a gun to my head, I’d have to to call cappellini my favorite noodle–not for nothing, but I love how it’s thicker than angel hair and not as thick as spaghetti…

Since I don’t really have anything that would warrant five or six hundred words, I’m gonna take a page out of Larry’s book–just a few random rants–a snarky sampler if you will.

So I’m standing in front of Davenport’s, where I’m doing my solo show “I’m A Freakin’ Mess” this Sunday, and I’m in front of one of the posters for my show. A man walks out of the club, does a double-take, and says to me ‘You’re the freakin’ mess guy!” The tragic part is that for half a second I wasn’t sure if he was referencing the title of my show or just passing judgement on my emotional stability…

Usually I have pretty accurate gaydar, but occasionally I misread things. A few nights ago, I struck up a lovely conversation with a guy I assumed was gay. When a friend of mine who knew him said he was, in fact, straight, I realized I had assumed which team he played for based on the fact that he he was well-spoken and polite. You just so rarely see a straight guy with impeccable manners. Sad…

A friend of mine told me that, as far as finding that special someone, he’s waiting for a lightning bolt. Me, I’d settle for static electricity. Just let me walk in socks on your deep pile shag, baby…

I don’t exactly run with a gang (there are three of us who ride to open mics together, but I don’t think that counts), but I thought I understood tagging. I thought that whatever was ‘tagged’ was claimed as the ‘turf’ of whoever did the tagging. So why was the little coffeehouse near me tagged? Is there a particularly literate gang out there, trying to lock up all the good spots in the poetry jam? Are there rogue members of the Latin Kings trying to get their acoustic folk on? Has there been a sudden upswing in muffin trafficking (“Yo yo yo–check this out–that’s right, that’s cranberry walnut, homeboy–you can have the first one free”)?…

True confessions time. I’m Jewish and I love Christmas. I’m sure this is because I converted  to Judaism–I was raised Christian…Well, nominally. My mother was an Episcopalian who hadbn’t been to church in so long she was afraid if she went the church would collapse on her, and my dad was a Catholic who stopped attending Mass when the church stopped speaking Latin.  Anyway, I have made peace with ‘celebrating’ Christmas–I figure, we take a day off for Abe Lincoln, and Jesus probably ranks even higher than Lincoln on the list of “People Who Did A Lot Of Good Things But Were Killed.”

But the real reason I dig Christmas is the music. Now, traditional Jewish music is beautiful–don’t get me wrong. But it’s just not as joyful as your classic Christmas tunes. It’s all minor keys, and ‘people tried to kill us and we survived.’ (Now I realize if I joke at all about Judaism, I risk being compared to the dentist in that ‘Seinfeld” episode, the guy who only converted so he could get away with making Jewish jokes). One of my favorite Christmas songs is ‘The Christmas Song,’, known to most people as ‘chestnuts roasting…’. But how cocky was the writer of that song–Mel Torme? Literally thousands of Christmas songs had been written by  that time, but he calls his ‘The Christmas Song.’ …

Everyone has their emotional touchstones with the holidays, and for me, I know it’s the holiday season by the ads I see on tv. If Santa is skiing on an electric razor, it’s that time. More importantly, if I can buy a Chia-Pet, it’s definitely that time.  Because there’s nothing that says ‘the son of God is born’ like a pig covered in shrubbery. Happy Holidays!