Dan Kennedy Blog Thing: ReallySmallTalk.com

LAST NIGHT WE WALKED ONTO A TINY STAGE AND CELEBRATED BOB'S BOOK

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IT'S MONDAY AND I'M STILL ASLEEP IN THE VAN

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THERE'S NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT STAND-UP COMEDY: Part 4

by Harris Bloom

Read Part 1

Read Part 2

Read Part 3

Getting Heckled

A comedian getting heckled is analagous to getting called for jury duty— you know it's going to happen, but you hope it's not anytime soon.

Thanks to winning the "Best Comic of the Night" award at an open mic (to be honest, I could've urinated on the stage and still been deemed the best), I got a five minute spot at the club's Saturday Night Latino Laughter Show. If you've wondering why they'd give out a spot to a "Latino" show to comics who aren't Latino or even necessarily have "Latino-friendly" material, I can't help you there. You may as well ask me why I spent three hours at an open mic to win an 11:30 PM five-minute spot in the dead of winter at a club where I have to take three trains to get to. Anyway, it wasn't the first time I'd won - the first few times went okay...not this time.

I got to the club around 10:30 as I was told I'd go on around 11. There were about 20 people in the audience, all Latinos. I watched four or five comics go up before me, all Latinos. Some were pros, some amateurs - they all got a fairly poor response from the crowd.

Judging by the material that worked for the other comics, my best bet would've been to hit the stage and exclaim, "Where my Puerto Ricanos at!" (Applause) "Where my Dominicanos at!" (Applause) "Where my Mexicanos at!" You get the idea.

At around 11:30, I was told I was next. I was also getting "the check spot" which means they drop the checks on the table during my set - it's considered the worst time slot since everyone's busy figuring out what they owe for the bill and no one's paying attention to the comic. So before going on, I knew I was in trouble.

Just before me a comic spoke about integrating the races. A young woman in the front row shouted, "I'm okay with it as long as there are no Jews involved." And some other girl in the crowd agreed with her. The comic tried to work with them, but ended up calling them both "loco."

When I got on, I started with, "So, I'm Jewish" and looked at the segregationist. A few laughs but she indignantly responded, "That's good for you...I just don't want us all integrated and shit." And it went downhill from there.

Most of the people were discussing their bill, others were just tuning me out. One woman was watching me so looking at her, I said, "Okay, I'll talk to you. What's your name?"

"Anna."

"Uh huh. So what do you do for a living?"

"I work for the transit company."

"Uh huh," and after a pause I continued, "I got nothing." Then I tried to go into my material.

After my joke about my girlfriend's use of the word 'Hooray,'" one woman was sufficiently roused from her sleep to inquire, "Hooray? What the fuck is that?"

"Yes," I agreed, "What the fuck is that?"

"You should dump her."

"That's a little harsh, no?"

"I just think she sounds weird."

"Uh huh."

She turned to her friends to inquire, "We paid? Wanna head out?" asking loud enough that I had to chime in with something. "But you'll miss my big finale."

"That's okay," she said, as her friends all got up to walk out.

My eyes followed them out. I wish my body followed.

After another attempted joke, someone asked, "Is that supposed to be funny?"

"It was last night."

A couple of times, I aborted jokes midstream, when I realized they weren't gonna dig them.

My favorite part of my set was when I saw the light that comes on meaning my time was up. I think that was the audience's favorite part as well.

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I Believe This Is The End of My Catalog Copywriting Job

By Dan Kennedy

1. Swiss Mountaineer Cashmere Sweater

Remember the 1992 Swiss expedition to Mt. Everest? Got within 660 ft. of the summit? With a head full of Gin, no less. Yes, you are classic. Like this sweater…soft but tough, and stripped to the essentials. Everyone at the top of that mountain was missing the point, if you ask me…but you knew the value of twisting and lurching your way up and stopping 660 feet shy of a predictable conquer, never longing for planting a flag like the do-gooder stiffs. Granted, it got you where you are today: at the top of the middle, basically, far from any kind of peak, full of nervous ticks, and dodging calls from family. Oh, what the hell…it’s all good. Which is my point: it’s all good with the Swiss Mountaineer Cashmere Sweater…smooth, svelt, yet very substantial and never tired or baggy-looking.

2. Basic Black Cashmere Turtleneck

Remember when New York was still dangerous? Say, early sixties? Before the grit was pressure washed away with a steady stream of cash flow from the nouveau riche? Bank presidents are wearing shoulder holsters to work. JFK and Marilyn Monroe keeping it on the down-low. In short, a nation relaxed, but still a little dressy. Jesus, I long for the days when Presidents were men. When a star wasn’t some cable TV desperado with fifty goddamn video cameras plastered to every corner of their house. Essentially, I’m talking about an era that was warm, but not heavy, not bulky…like the Basic Black Cashmere Turtleneck. Women will ask if you're just back from Paris. You can say something wry in return and easily secure an evening of wonton abandon in the sack. This thing’s a time machine, brother. And it’s set for a time when America was still America. Step into another dimension, we got your back and chest, arms, and neck.

3. Cashmere Wrap Skirt

A classic touch of style for that autumn weekend in San Sebastian, basking pensively on strolls near cliffs. And it will look just as good in Lisbon the day after tomorrow. God, it will look good in Lisbon. How did we wind up being each other’s ghosts for almost a decade? Some nights I swore I could hear you. It has been the only permanent mistake I have ever made. I can’t tell you how much life changed. And tonight feels beautiful and dangerous and improbable. Like a rainforest on fire. Both here alone…what are the chances? Fate. Skin tastes faintly of brine and port and being alive. I am broken if this can’t last again…I swear to God, I’m right back to being dead. Upper-waist of wool and cashmere blend. Trimmed with woven-fringe. Dry clean only.

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[TITLE OF POST GOES HERE, LIM. JUST EDIT + DO POST BODY]

Mr. Kennedy is busyw orking with single mothers in Paris, but you have his best financial advice for free at McSweeney's today.

PEACE-
L.N.

REALLYSMALLTALK STYLE GUIDE: BEST GADGETS AND GEAR!

The classic poly-chiffon sarong in sherbert colors, the 2001 Ford Crown Victoria, a sturdy welding mask, and a black fanny pack...ReallySmallTalk's Fashion and Style editors have gathered four of this season's best bets for putting you on top of your game!

a) Sexy Polyester/Chiffon Sarong! Kathy, Jan, Connie, and almost everyone we know has one, and as for the sherbert colors, well: "Hurumph!" (as hip hop kids might say). Kathy developed a Valium problem, which had nothing to do with this silky smooth wrap, but nonetheless, it bears mentioning that she's out of commission. The pills have attacked her calcium levels and she's bushed.

b) Kings Have Crowns! The 2001 Crown Victoria is a classic. Three of us here slept in one for a year, shoplifting meals at so-called mini markets. The radio didn't work in it.

c) Shades, please! Here's one for our degenerative optical disorder sufferers! A bright day is a bright day, right? Wrong! When you've got a mild degeneration of the cornea, being cool doesn't count. The good news is with today's advanced laser surgeries, folks battling mildly degenerated cornea situations have a future so bright, they gotta wear shades (For one week following corrective surgery. Full "welding" masks, in extreme cases)!

d) Get Packing! Fill it with diet pills, electrical tape for your nipples, a small firearm, and angry letters to a civic official in your hometown — or, just stuff it with candy, medical pamphlets, and moist towelettes...any way you pack it, this waist-anchored classic says you're ready for action!

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YOU'RE A DRUNK AND THAT'S WHY ALL OF YOUR PRANK CALLS BOMB

By Dan Kennedy

REFRIGERATOR RUNNING

Them: Hello?

You: Is your refrigerator on?

T: Well…

Y: Just answer me. Is it?

T: It’s running, yeah. It’s on.

[Long pause]

Y: Stick your refrigerator up your ass.

T: Who is this?

Y: [in drunken, high-pitched mocking voice] Who is this?

[They hang up]

PRINCE ALBERT IN A CAN

Them: Hello?

You: Do you have Prince Albert tobacco?

T: What?

Y: You heard me, asshole.

[Pause]

[They hang up]

YOU’RE ON THE AIR AND YOU’VE WON OUR CONTEST

Them: Hello?

You: Hi, this is Brock from the KEZY Morning Zoo and you’re on the air!

T: Wow!

Y: You’ve won our contest! Can you believe it! You won our contest!

T: Um, I didn’t enter any sort of contest that I can recall.

Y: I said you won it. Don't be a dick.

T: Should you really…should you be talking that way if we’re on the air?

Y: You’re not my boss. You don’t control me. You think you control me?

T: Um, okay, I’m hanging up now.

[You hang up first, then look at me like you pulled off a great prank call.]

I CAN SEE YOU

Them: Hello?

You: I can see you. You look good tonight.

T: I have your number on caller ID. I’m calling the cops.

Y: I have the wrong number! I’m sorry, I have the wrong number!

[You slam down the phone, look at me like a frightened child, and insist that I drink with you. I decline and you get angry.]

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PHOTO: STARK, LEAVING, & GRAY (Sounds like another law firm)

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THERE'S NOTHING FUNNY ABOUT STAND-UP COMEDY: PART 3

by Harris Bloom

Read Part 1

Read Part 2




Barking - The End of a (Really Short) Era


The second and third weeks were much like the first. If you're too lazy to look in the archive here - it was cold, rainy and I didn't get to perform in front of more than fifteen people at any one time. But at least I was getting stage time, a valuable commodity for an up and coming comic.

I really thought I was good at barking. I had watched others bark and couldn't help but notice they didn't have nearly the joie de vivre that I did - maybe cause they'd been doing it for years and were bored, or maybe cause I was an idiot.

Unfortunately, my enthusiasm didn't translate into ticket sales. In both weeks I barked, I got no one to go in. The third week was even worse. How could it be worse than zero, you ask? Read this exchange:

Me: Great comedy show tonight!! Comics you've seen on TV...and Me!!! $4 Beers!! Come for the drinks...stay for the show!!! Best show on the block!!

Dude (with woman in tow): I have a question for you.

Me: Shoot.

Dude: I'm in the entertainment business and I have a client doing a showcase in the village tomorrow night and I want to make sure it's a full house. How much do you charge to do this?

Me: I do it for stage time, but I think barkers get like 6, 7 bucks an hour. You can probably get kids off Craigslist to do it.

Dude: That's a great idea!

Me: How 'bout coming to a great comedy show tonight?

Dude: (To his lady friend) - You want to?

Lady: Sure, why not.

Dude: Ok, we're in. And thanks for that idea.

Me: No problem.

I handed them discount tickets and they started to walk towards the club. After a few seconds, I had another idea...

Me: You can also post signs on lampposts and traffic lights!

Dude (stopped in tracks): Yeah, that's a great idea too! Thanks!

Me: Okay, seeya at the show!

Feeling good about getting customers, I finished my shift and almost ran to the club. There were seven people in the audience...and not the dude or his lady friend. I was worried about getting on stage since I'd heard that if you don't bring anyone in, they may cut you from the show (and I'm sure the manager wasn't in a great mood considering the "crowd" size). I felt a bit better when someone told me that I was going on fourth. Awesome.

Then Bill Burr walked in and did an unannounced spot. Then someone else walked in. Next thing I knew, I was bumped. The manager apologized but explained that when name comics walk in they bump the barkers, in order of who brought in the fewest patrons. I told him I understood, and I did. It's a business.

As I left, I wondered what happened to the entertainment dude and his friend. Turning a corner, I had my answer - they were plastering signs on lampposts advertising their protégé's gig the following evening.

The next day I quit. The only thing worse than barking for stage time is barking for nothing.

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DRUNK MEDITATING AT COMMUNITY CENTER

by Celine Schews


Part One: GUN, VICODIN, MEDITATION CLASS, LIVING IN CAR.

There is the usual smattering of people you might expect showing up to this kind of thing. And they are for the most part the people I’ve spent a lifetime thinking are the type of people you would want to get involved with on some level. But there’s one thing I’ve learned about the people whom you think you should get involved with, and that is this: they are the people who will drown you. It is their zeal that attracts you, and their excitement to see anybody including you. It is their confidence in seeming to know what is best for them. It is the broad wave and blown kiss they’ve perfected to signal friends and acquaintances alike from a distance. All of these attributes – overzealous, excited, a delusional sense of confidence, the frantic waving of arms – are not so coincidentally the same attributes that lifeguards are trained to physically distance themselves from when rescuing a distressed swimmer in danger of drowning in an undercurrent or riptide. A distress that is, also not so coincidentally, signaled with a broad wave from a distance. If I ever have kids they are going to spend one summer guarding if only to learn this life lesson: the only people saved are the sufficiently tired, surrendered, resigned, barely-confident, lucid people who are not making the grave error of reaching out to you as if you’re a life preserver. I repeat: in this life, the gregarious will lure you near and then pull you under. And so there are a few of these people sitting in front of me and to the left and right of me, since I’ve anchored myself in the very back row.

Ah, the very back row: a sound hallmark of quality in an individual, isn’t it? I am so sorry to bring my nature to this place, but my beautiful children named the Heineken Sextuplets have made a thin amber barrier between me and these everyday, happy go lucky overachievers who have what it takes to meditate. Something inside of my head (alcohol?) challenges me to make contact. Like a sobriety test that my head doesn’t think I’m suave enough to pass or something. And I take to winning this challenge. There’s a guy next to me who I imagine is named Chad and who I also imagine is not daydreaming of buying guns while killing time in his car and tricking his wife like a tenth grader cutting classes daily. We’re all mimicking some kind of warm up stretch that someone somewhere in the room started us into mimicking; a meme whose cue and origin is virtually untraceable. My brain suggests in flinches and shudders that this could be a stretch started by the muscle memory of someone who was in this room a hundred years ago. Jesus Christ, I’m like a drunk who’s read three pages of Steven Hawking. That aside, here comes my moment of social grace and form. I feel my heart speed up just a little, which always means I am about to make some social contact. I turn my stretch into broad wave hello, aimed at the guy sitting right next to me and…

“Hi, how are you?” I venture

“Shhhh.”

I am now imaging the guy sitting next to me is named Dick. I pull my neck upward in our warm up stretch and look up at the others around the room with a kind of helpless ‘can-you-believe-this-guy-is-such-a-dick?’ look on my face, and they’re all looking back at me with a ‘what-is-your-problem-have-you-been-drinking-in-your-car-all-afternnon?’ look on their faces.

Oh, I’m going to mediate so well that I make all of you disappear.

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