Here We Go Again...

Already there are banner ads everywhere to donate money for Chile earthquake relief, and Obama is promising aid. Doesn't that country have a working government and a couple banks? We haven't even fixed New Orleans yet. All they've got is a championship football team and Brad Pitt.

No country that produces wine should have a problem rebuilding its own shit, but if they really need help, let's send Bono on the condition that they keep him.

No, My Space

I finally canceled my Myspace account. Not for the trendy reason that Facebook is better, but because I don't want to spend the rest of my life logging into websites owned by millionaires who aren't me and don't invite me to parties.


I'll keep the Facebook page for a while because it has one or two useful features (like the Networked Blogs link that brought you here). It seems to be populated mostly by adults, and unlike Myspace it doesn't look like the cover of a 6th-grade girl's notebook. But my goal is to have anyone who gives a shit come here, so eventually I'll pull the trigger on that, too. 

The only reason I started any of these social-networking pages was to promote the comedy thing. There's this assumption out there that every artist, comedian, and band needs to have a huge online presence to help build a fan base. Bullshit. Fans are earned by performing live. All this networking stuff is just moving crumbs through the digital ant farm.








          

Too Fat To Fish

A friend at work slipped Artie Lange's Too Fat To Fish in my mailbox with a post-it that read "quick read," and it is. But who can put down a book about a guy who develops a cocaine habit in his 20's and still manages to get fat? 

I didn't expect much from this book, but it does have its moments. He is pretty forthright about a few of his more embarrassing drug-and-booze escapades, and I enjoyed the bit about Tom Cruise being a complete asshole. That's what makes autobiographies worth the price of admission - having your suspicions about the insanity of celebrities confirmed (not that we needed much more in Cruise's case).

If you're looking for high-quality writing on the level of George Carlin's Last Words, you won't find much of that here. In fact, the first couple chapters are kind of rough, and I almost bailed. But there was just enough lovable loser-dom to keep me skimming along to the next monumental fuck-up.

When I heard about his recent suicide attempt, I have to admit I felt bad for the guy. Not because I'm a big fan - I'm not - but because Lange is one of those creative people who is obviously wired for self-destruction in a way that makes most people's bad habits look tame. And anyone who tries to kill himself by stabbing clearly has some real problems, especially when you consider the effort required to find an organ under all that adipose tissue.

White Dopes on Punk, pt. 3

I saw The Ramones several times in the 80's, on the heels of Too Tough To Die and Animal Boy, the latter of which is still one of my favorite records. The Ramones could be counted on to play The Bayou in the Georgetown section of D.C. twice a year and never disappointed. Their set was even faster live than on record, and even though it was always only 55 minutes long, it felt like two hours - a truly exhausting experience. Too bad they weren't offered the Superbowl halftime show while they were still alive. They could have done Rocket to Russia in its entirety.

I don't recall there ever being violence at a Ramones show, but the first time I saw them I got stabbed in the eye. Not with a weapon, and not on purpose, but by hair. Before The Ramones came on, I mashed my way as close to the stage as possible and found myself right behind this guy with Sid Vicious spikes firmed up with kindergarten paste. No big deal, I thought - I could see fine. Until Dee Dee's first "1-2-3-4," at which point Pasty started head-banging and BOINK - spike in the eye. That put me on the sidelines for a couple minutes, but there was no blood or retinal tearing so, no harm no foul.

I don't know if it was the band or the booker who was responsible for the opening acts, but they were often so bad it seemed intentional, as if the aim was to rile the crowd into an angry frenzy until the opener's last song was drowned out by 300 people yelling "Hey ho, let's go!" and launching beer cups full of urine at the stage. Even The Smithereens - good band - seemed out of place in front of that kind of crowd. I remember an area act called The Wild Dream Band that was fronted by a John Mellencamp wanna-be, complete with white tank-top and mullet. They had a synthesizer, which means they were either incredibly stupid or the ballsiest awful band ever. If memory serves, they weren't on stage too long. The only act that I saw hold a Ramones crowd's attention was an outfit called Mud Helmet, who managed to rally everyone into chanting the chorus of their anthem, "Suck Suck Suck Suck Suck Suck Suck My Dick." (A Google search for mud + helmet + band yielded no results.)

White Dopes on Punk, pt. 2

The glory days of punk as some new movement were long over by the time of the McDonald's incident. Mohawks and Doc Martens were cliche (though there were still plenty of them around), and even Punk 2.0 bands like Minor Threat were done. Still, D.C. and Baltimore weren't bad places to be in the mid to late 80's music-wise. Ian MacKaye had started Fugazi, Government Issue was putting out some pretty kick-ass records, and there was always a 5 bands/5 bucks show somewhere.

One of these was at WUST Radio Hall (now the home of the 930 Club). The line-up: Descendents, GWAR, MIA, Henry Rollins, and one other I can't recall. Quite the mix. GWAR is a lot more metal than punk, but in those early days of "thrash," there was a lot of crossover both in the music and on the showbills. Henry did not show for some reason, but the show was still memorable, and not just for the performances. WUST was a gospel station, and the wall behind the pretty large stage was adorned with a massive painted mural of black farmers - quite the backdrop for a bunch of loud, obnoxious white bands playing to a few hundred loud, obnoxious, mostly white kids. And I saw two of the funniest things I have ever seen at a show.

First, GWAR. The magnitude of their depravity-based, fake-blood soaked theater is enough to make Alice Cooper look like Alicia Keyes. In a matter of about three minutes, GWAR had burst on stage through paper screens, sprayed the front row with a variety of liquids shot from giant phalluses and fake, headless sheep, whipped through 4 songs, and shot off a couple cannons, which got them promptly kicked off for breaking the fire code. The aftermath took well more than three minutes to clean up, during which time we retired to the horribly shit-stained men's room to shotgun a couple Schaefer tall-boys (ah youth).

I also saw the worst stage-diving mishap ever. It's an unwritten rule that if you're near the stage, you lend a hand, or a head if you take your eyes off the action, to catch stage-divers. Things were proceeding as expected in this regard through most of the show, until one unlucky guy leapt off the stage at precisely the moment about twenty people decided they were not catching anyone. This kid dropped about six feet and hit the concrete. Flat. You could hear it. Of course, those same twenty people immediately rushed in to pick him up. "Aw dude sorry dude you all right!?" He was not all right and had to be carried off the floor.

When you break it down, punk rock really is comedy. The hair, the clothes, the two-chord songs that last one minute and three seconds, the injuries. Some bands may be serious about what they do, but it's always been impossible for me to take in the spectacle of it all and not chuckle. I mean, you don't name your band The Dead Kennedy's because you expect to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Then again, GWAR did get nominated for a Grammy. Twice.

White Dopes on Punk, pt. 1

On a very cold, rainy, February night - in '86 or '87, can't recall - I went with a few friends to The 930 Club in Washington, D.C. to see T.S.O.L. This was when the 930 was on F Street, right around the corner from the FBI building you see in nearly every episode of The X-Files. We parked on that block and made our way to the McDonald's across from FBI. My friend Shawn had a six-pack of something, and he wanted to use the restroom to somehow hide it in his trench before heading to the show. The place was crowded, and every single person there was black. Being pretty typical suburban honky teenagers, we decided that Shawn and George would go to the men's room while I waited in the restaurant area with Brigette, who obviously could not go into the men's room and did not want to wait alone.

So Brigette and I hang and chat and try not to look petrified. I actually wasn't all that nervous. We had been to this McDonald's before, it was only about 8pm, and no one looked like they were there for a CRIPS convention. What we didn't know, however, was that about ten minutes before we walked in, a black kid in the McDonald's had gotten into a brawl with some white punker around the corner, and we were the first - and only - white punkers to walk in. A couple kids started talking some shit. Having no idea what had happened, we just stood there trying to figure out what was happening and hoping Shawn and George would hurry the fuck up. I got sucker punched - just a nick, really, didn't even knock me sideways, but it draw a drop of blood from my lower lip. Just as Shawn and George appear, with WTF looks on their faces, two older men, who had up to this point been sitting in the corner drinking coffee, intervened and convinced the crowd that we were not "the white boys" they wanted. I'm sure they knew this by the stupid looks on our faces. By now, though, about a dozen of these kids had gathered right outside the front door and were obviously waiting for us. One of the men told us about the brawl and how the crowd outside wanted to kick our asses. Then he instructed us to follow him and his friend out the door, and he'd take care of the rest. They talked the crowd down and escorted us about halfway up the block. "Now y'all head up around to yo club and maybe don't come back round here tonight."

Thank you, kind wise black man, sir. We headed around to the club, in the freezing rain, and the show was sold out. I had a cut lip and the next day, a cold. Punk rock, baby.

From Across The Street: A Non-Review

"So, the funny thing about child pornography... I mean, aside from the lack of credits at the end ..."

If that's the kind of joke you like to hear at the beginning of an hour of comedy then Doug Stanhope's From Across The Street is for you. I'm not going to bother reviewing it in any depth - reviews of comedy are even less useful than reviews of films and music. It will do to simply point out what you're getting into, as I think that opener does.

Taste in comedy is subjective, and there's no point in trying to convince people of a comic's genius if they're not predisposed to like a certain style or type of material. The response to a joke is immediate and visceral, and there's no intellectual argument for why someone should appreciate it if she doesn't. Anyone who thinks Larry The Cable Guy is the greatest comic ever isn't going to be turned on to Rick Shapiro in the same way as, say, someone might eventually convince me that musicals are worth watching or that reggae isn't the most tedious, monotonous form of music ever invented. There's still the possibility that, with age, the proper tutelage, and the right drugs, I could be converted to musicals or reggae, but I will never pay to see Jeff Dunham.

I recently watched 100 Greatest Stand-Up Comedians, yet another ridiculous attempt to rank funny. This production is British, so rather than George Carlin or Richard Pryor coming in at #1, it was Billy Connelly. Fair enough, but it just proves the point that you can't change people's minds about who they should laugh at more. I think Connelly is funny, at least when I can understand what's coming out of his Scottish haggis-hole, but for my money, he's no Carlin. The show did make me want to go to the UK, though, where they toss around the word "cunt" like it's a Frisbee. It's like Rivendell for comics.

Bill Hicks' Principles of Comedy

According to legend, this is something Hicks typed up and hung on the greenroom wall somewhere - maybe the Punchline in Atlanta - I'm not sure because I have no career and haven't worked there. In any case, it's as good a list of New Year's resolutions as any:

1. If you can be yourself on stage, nobody else can be you, and you have the law of supply and demand covered.

2. The act is something you fall back on if you can’t think of anything else to say.

3. Only do what you think is funny, never just what you think they will like even though it’s not that funny to you.

4. Never ask them is this funny – you tell them this is funny.

5. You are not married to any of this shit – if something happens, taking you off on a tangent, NEVER go back and finish a bit, just move on.

6. NEVER ask the audience “How You Doing?” People who do that can’t think of an opening line. They came to see you to tell them how they’re doing. Asking that stupid question up front just digs a hole. This is The Most Common Mistake made by performers. I want to leave as soon as they say that.

7. Write what entertains you. If you can’t be funny, be interesting. You haven’t lost the crowd. Have something to say and then do it in a funny way.

8. I close my eyes and walk out there and that’s where I start, Honest.

9. Listen to what you are saying and ask yourself, “Why am I saying it, and is it necessary?” (This will filter all your material and cut the unnecessary words. Economy of words.)

10. Play to the top of the intelligence of the room. There aren’t any bad crowds, just wrong choices.

11. Remember this is the hardest thing there is to do. If you can do this, you can do anything.

12. I love my cracker roots. Get to know your family. Be friends with them.

Five Years In

Today, February 9th, is the fifth anniversary of my first comedy open mike. It was at the Funny Bone in Springfield, IL. They didn't use the actual show room for Wednesdays, so the "stage" was basically the raised perimeter of the dance floor in the bar area of the entertainment-plex that housed the club. There was a TV behind me that was on. There was a brass rail between me and the dance floor, which was empty. Around the edge of the dance floor were maybe two dozen people, half of whom were the staff and other comics. I did a bit about Larry King that was a little too long. I did another about alien abductions that was way too long. I don't remember the rest of my set, and I've long since recorded over that tape. But I got laughs. Not roaring laughs, but laughs. After the show, a complete stranger walked up to me, shook my hand and said, "That shit was funny, bro."

Thanks, bro.

I eventually made my way to Crackers in Indianapolis on Tuesdays and The Jukebox in Peoria on Thursdays. The other day I got a 1099 from The Jukebox showing $600, for two weekends of feature work (for you civilians, that's the middle spot). I made another couple hundred here, another hundred there - altogether maybe $1200 - hardly the kind of money to quit my day job for. Especially when you subtract the gas it took to get to Peoria, or Kokomo, or LaCrosse, or Minneapolis... But it's a far cry from doing five minutes for a dozen people with a NASCAR race on the TV behind me, so it's all good. Hell, I've made more money per night than some bands I know. I've met some very cool folks, made some good friends, and shared the stage with some top-notch comics.

But enough sap. I'm going to celebrate the completion of my fifth year in comedy the way any self-respecting comic would -- by drinking, checking my phone every three minutes, and staring at my own website.

Heroes, Pt. 8: Who?

My WHO fan-dom didn't begin until after Keith Moon was dead. I might have been twelve when, on Christmas morning, I found a copy of Who Are You with my name on it. I think mom just wandered into the record store and asked whatever pimply geek happened to be there what she should get for her pimply geek. Whether his recommendation was genuine or he was just trying to clear out the bargain bin I have no idea, but it wasn't long before I owned every WHO recording I could find. I'm pretty sure I owned every WHO record before I bought anything by any other band. As far as "classic rock" goes, The WHO were heavier than The Beatles and more experimental than The Stones. I'll be the first to admit they did some positively goofy shit. Who Are You has a track or two that sound like the remnants of some abandoned space opera. But until my friend Doug laid a copy of X's Under The Big Black Sun on me, The WHO were the Titans of my rock and roll pantheon. Even now, I still consider them royalty.

So I'm reluctant to criticize The Two's Superbowl performance last night. Yeah, it was less than stellar. Yeah, the set list was predictable (CBS' CSI soundtrack, basically). Yeah, there was a moment when Roger looked on the verge of a stroke before Camera Control could cut away. But how many of their generation can still take the stage at all, much less manage a few screams and windmills? Not many. But that hasn't stopped the legion of comment-thread quarterbacks from eating up bandwidth with their non-rock-god opinions. The WHO is "irrelevant?" In the middle of the most hyped, testosterone-laden media event of the year, who is?

What's In A Name?

Jersey Shore? Was Guidouche! already taken? Faux-Hawk's Landing? Bad hair-do aside, the guy on the right looks almost normal next to Gay-Rod and Oompa Lou Diamond Philips here.

I know, criticizing reality television is cliche, but then again so is reality television. Seems all you need to become a minor TV celebrity now is to have a shitty job (Ice Road Truckers), be willing to eat anything (Man vs. Food), or be fat (Biggest Loser). I'll gain a hundred pounds for 5 minutes on Letterman. Where's my show?

So-called Italian Americans hate Jersey Shore even more than they hated The Sopranos. If I hear the words "Italian American Community" one more time I'm going to take out a contract on Scott Baio. Funny how there's only a racial community when someone is pissed off about something. Michael Richards goes on a tirade, and suddenly there's a "black community." Lou Dobbs goes on a tirade, and suddenly there's a "Latino community." Justin Timberlake wins an award, and suddenly there's a "gay community." Isn't saying there is such a thing as a black or Latino community the same as saying that all blacks or all Latinos have the same politics, values, tastes, and sense of humor? Isn't that stereotyping?

Answer: YES.

People are happy to be just Americans until being a hyphenated American helps them win elections, sue someone, or get a shitty reality show. My last name, Tessitore, is Italian. Do I give a shit? Not really. Tessitore is the Italian equivalent of Weaver (tessit from the Latin for textile, but you knew that already because you're a smart bunch), so I'm probably not descended from royalty. I haven't bothered to trace my lineage back to the old country, and if I did I'd probably discover that my ancestors were just another clan of wine-swilling, olive-picking sheep fuckers. Otherwise, why would any of them have come here in the first place?

Duh.

My family always pronounced the name in three syllables: TESS-i-TOR. When I got to college, and especially grad school, many of my profs and snooty-but-lovable friends insisted on going with the four-syllable version: TESS-uh-TOR-ee. I never really cared either way, so I let it ride. But I'm going with the three-syllable, Ellis Island version from now on. Because I'm an American mutt like most everyone else and don't feel the need for any ethnic street-cred. And besides, it has the same rhythm as SAM KINISON, so what could go wrong?

The only bragging rights I have are a couple of sauce and meatball recipes that any woman in her right mind would blow me for, and that's enough. Oh, and there was a great uncle back there somewhere who stepped into the ring with Joe Louis. You probably haven't heard of him. Because he probably got his Italian-American Community ass kicked.