4 Easy Steps to Desensitizing yourself
By Josh Goguen
The Self Esteem Movement has been a complete failure. The children who were brought up to believe that they are great and special no matter what they do, have become adults who are neither great nor special. Instead, they are people who are self-centered and lazy. Perhaps one of the worst side effects of this cuddly philosophy is the complete inability for one of these softies to accept criticism.
You shouldn’t need any more proof of this than watching the audition round of just about any of these talent competitions the television networks can’t seem to get enough of. Someone strides in and belts out some horrible screeching rendition of “I Will Survive” and then will stand there with an expectant look on his face, just knowing he’s going to get a ticket to Hollywood.
“It just wasn’t good,” is all a judge will say and it sets off crying, arguing, pleas to start again, and the ever popular “Ya’ll don’t know nothin’. Imma be famous and ya’ll be sorry.” Obviously grammar took a backseat to confidence building.
This wouldn’t be so bad if it were limited to delusional people thinking they have talent, but businesses are beginning to complain of employees who get teary eyed at even slightly negative performance evaluations. It’s gotten so bad for some employers that they’re hiring consultants on how to manage the worker bees with complaint sandwiches and pats on the back for not screwing up.
Is there an easier way? I believe so.
A typical interaction between friends who are comics and myself begins with a middle finger as a greeting and progresses something like this:
“What’s up queer?”
“Queer? Look at that shirt, you look like you won it in a cock sucking contest.”
“You’re just angry you lost your 5 year running title?”
“No, I’m angry that you don’t shave that 12 year-old boy mustache.”
If an insult is particularly good, it’s met with laughter and a “ya got me” nod. For some reason a lot of comics tend to hurl insults at one another and almost always are never bothered by them. I remember years ago when being called “stupid” could depress me. Now, it makes me smile. Why is that?
There are times I wish I had psychologist friends with access to test subjects and laboratories that loved to hear my stupid hypothesis and put them to the test. The first of which would be: Being insulted by people you know and trust will decrease your overall sensitivity to negative comments from others.
The experiment would have to follow a few guidelines:
1) Everyone involved has to be aware of and agree to the ribbing. If everyone involved knows what’s going on, it will be easier to accept what is being said is simply ball busting. You don’t want to alienate a friend simply because they didn’t know you said they were “too fat to be classified as a Homo sapien” in an attempt to help them feel better.
2) Be creative. Simply saying someone is short is just an observation. It’s also lazy and doesn’t fit the needs of this project. You want to be clever and funny. Instead, try saying something like your friend is “so short, he buys used clothes from puppets.”
3) Everything has to have at least a grain of truth. An insult doesn’t count if it’s completely made up. You couldn’t say that a white friend is “so black he looks like a 3D shadow.” The object is to desensitize ourselves; that can’t happen if there isn’t a little sting.
4) Laugh about it. Getting mad is not an option in this experiment. You’re trying to help each other build a thick skin. If something hits a little harder than you expected, you got nailed. Laugh. Remember, you are friends and think of a creative way to bash him for being cheap.
If you’re an overly sensitive person, give this a shot. It could prove to be true and you will be a stronger person for it. If nothing else, you’ll probably have fun and build stronger relationships with your moron friends.
If you’re a bible quoter, remember Proverbs 27:17, “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”
One for the Road
By Josh Goguen
A while back I did a run where I opened for a comic, who will remain nameless because I can’t remember his name. I do remember he thought he was the next Richard Pryor and repeatedly dabbed his forehead with a towel.
The week started off at an awful club in Tennessee that notoriously sucks. The audience doesn’t pay much attention, the room is too big for the amount of people there, and in general, the gig just blows. So I went up and did my act and it wasn’t horrible, but I definitely didn’t knock ‘em dead. A listening audience is an important piece of the comedy puzzle.
At the end of the night, it’s the typical thing. Say “thank you” to the people who came out, get paid, grab something horrible to eat, go to the hotel, sleep. The next day, wake up, eat something horrible, drive to the next town, check into the hotel and head out to find something to do. It sounds glamourous doesn’t it? Man, who doesn’t want to be a road comic?
I bumped into the guy I was working with at the mall, because that’s where comedians go when there isn’t anything else to do on the road. We decided to have lunch, and I was talking about how I was becoming frustrated with comedy and how I was beginning to wonder where I was going. He said it was a normal thing and everyone he knows goes through these cycles. He then offered me some advice.
“Don’t start all of your jokes off with ‘Do you ever notice...’ Lot’s of comics start of with that and it makes the audience think ‘Okay, here comes a joke’ which ruins the momentum. So just start talking about what you want to talk about because everything is relatable so you don’t have to ask them.” I sat there nodding and believing it was good advice and I thanked him for it.
We parted ways and I began to think about my set and how to apply his sage advice. I ran each bit through my head and began to realize that I rarely asked the audience if they “ever noticed” anything. I started to come to the conclusion that this guy didn’t pay attention to anything I’d said the night before and he was just doling out generic young comedian advice. I became angry with myself for nodding and agreeing without consideration to whether or not what he was saying even applied to me.
Later that night I did my set almost the same as the night before. The only difference this night is the audience was there to have fun. They had a good time and laughed a lot and in turn I had a good time. I got off the stage happy with myself again. That is until I passed by the headliner who said, “You see, wasn’t I right? Look how much better you did.” I’d already agreed with him earlier so all I could was nod my head as if he had helped and then wish him a good set.
The rest of the week, this guy was taking credit for my doing well. “Ya see? Ya see?” was the typical after show prodding. On the off chance that I one day wind up with an HBO special, Mr. Doesn’t Listen will most likely be sitting back and smile knowing that if he hadn’t lain upon me some earth shaking lesson that didn’t apply to me, I might never have entertained one audience. He truly is responsible for any success that I might have.
This led me to develop one of the rules that I now live by: Never blindly accept advice from anyone who says “booty hole”
By Josh Goguen
Somewhere on the hierarchy of needs, below food and water, but above finding the right ice cube tray, is entertainment. Most tend to escape the boredom between work and sleep by turning to television, music, movies, sports, video games and, for those who are less evolved, books
Little do many know, you are missing a valuable source of entertainment: the open mic.
I love open mics and not because they are once again a main source of stage time. I happen to be someone who will consider an evening of fun to consist of instability, pleasant and unpleasant surprises, or the looming possibility of a complete disaster. If you are one of those special people, then I urge you to check out an open mic.
For those who don’t know what an open mic is, imagine an environment where young comedians cut their teeth, veteran comics hone new material, and whack jobs come to display the inside of their delusions in hopes of acceptance. You can find one at most comedy clubs on an off night. If you live in a bigger city, New York for example, you can also find them in the basement of dingy bars or in the back room of a Thai restaurant. Those tend to be more fun because the people on stage don’t have the pressure of trying to impress a club manager.
Let’s introduce you to some of the characters you’ll likely see:
Ladies and gentlemen, your host for the evening can be seen here dressed as a man OR a woman. Tonight he will be a she, please welcome...
The evening has begun. The host can make or break any show and the open mic is no different. Here, the host isn’t only the person who warms up the crowd and introduces everyone, he, she, or he/she is the voice for the audience. If someone goes completely off the wall in what looks like a drug induced mania, the host is the person who breaks the tension with “Wow, folks. Does anyone have the number for Bellevue?” The crowd laughs and the slate is clean for the next act.
Coming to the stage, it’s his first time, please welcome the very shaky, sweaty and uncomfortable...
The first timer is a lot of fun to watch because there are so many types. You could see the office funny guy go up and wing it only to bomb horribly and repeat after each joke, “I don’t know why you guys aren’t laughing.” You could see the person who’s got her entire HBO special already written out and stride on stage only to realize she’s got one real joke and a lot of filler. Then there’s the shy and nervous, but very promising guy who will make you laugh.
Your next comic can be seen praying before eating, after going to the bathroom, and pretty much after doing anything. Please give it up for the unpredictable and very religious...
The odd ball is the one who makes your jaw drop because you can’t believe someone like this not only exists, but is willing to share it with everyone. I’ve seen an orthodox jew doing a Superman skit, a guy who legitimately thought he was two different people, a woman who must have been on 30 different medications, and a guy who went on stage with a guitar but never played it despite the numerous songs he sang.
Usually, these are the people who make your night worth while because they will give you a good story. Typically you can tell how good by the number of times you mouth “What the fuck?”
This next person is a personal favorite of mine here at the Japanese Spaghetti House. Let’s hear it for the very funny up and comer...
Usually these are working comics who just don’t have the exposure to be someone you’ve heard of. The open mics are where they go to test new material, vent about something, or just to stretch their stage legs. They’re relaxed and having fun because they aren’t going to make or break their career here.
To be honest people, I have no idea what this next guy is even doing here. He’s a national headliner and can be seen on TV, you might learn a thing or two, so pay attention to...
Though rare, it does happen that a big shot comedian will wander into an open mic to take the stage for a few minutes. The last time it happened, the comedian decided to lecture everyone there about how they should take comedy seriously and work hard. You know, things that we don’t already know. Even though it wasn’t funny, it’s still a fun surprise to see someone you’ve watched on TV speak into the same microphone that some unbalanced sorority girl just spit into.
***
I hope that you consider checking out an open mic in the near future. Be warned though, you will be the center of attention for everyone on stage. Open mic comics crave non-comedian audience members like Tara Reid craves tequila filled cocks.
5 words we should lighten up about
By Josh Goguen
Michael Richards, Don Imus, Dog the Bounty Hunter and the list will go on of people who have been prostrated before the public, not or their actions, but for words. We must live in an incredibly cushy world if our main concern isn’t what people do, but what they say. Dog has made a career of hunting down thieves, rapists, and murderers, but he sprinkles a couple “niggers” into a private conversation and he is scum of the earth.
A few nights ago, I heard someone on television say that the “n-word” should be completely stricken from our vocabulary. What this person is neglecting to remember is that language is a tool. To quote eastern philosophy, “Words can be compared to a finger. I can use my finger to point out the moon, but my finger is not the moon.” It just so happens that some words are middle fingers; get over it.
No word should hold any more power than you allow, but in the interest of this writing, I’ve selected five words that people really do need to relax about it.
Fuck
This one is obvious. So many people use it every day to spice up their dialogues, but you’d be surprised at just how many people become uncomfortable at the f-bomb. It truly is amazing considering how old this word must be. I once saw a tiny 90 something woman with a little head and a giant nose wearing what looked like a bra on her head yell at an old man, “Go fuck yourself!”
Obviously the word has been around forever; get the fuck over it already.
Retard
This is more of preemptive choice because the word itself won’t send jolts of revulsion down the spines of most people. Still, they are still not a apt to laugh at it’s appropriate use until it is known everyone around does not have anyone close who is afflicted by autism, down-syndrome, or is a Mexican. Eventually, if we don’t act now, people will refer to it as “The R-Word”.
Faggot
This is just a fun word to say. Starting off with slow and soft “F”, hitting the hard “G” and then exploding to the “T”, it’s like an amusement park ride for the tongue. When my brother and I were kids, I would get him so angry with me that he’d scream “Faggot!” at me. It made him feel better. Not just because he was venting his anger, but he could do it in such a fun way. Next time you’re feeling bad, say “faggot” seven or eight times in a row and see if you don’t start to feel better.
Cunt
Really, only cunts get mad about this word. They’re just so cunty about it, you can’t help but wince when it’s uttered. Stop being such a cunt.
Nigger
It amazes me that this word is actually more offensive to white people than black people. Aside from Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson, and anyone else who makes money from agitating racial tension, the most vocal people against a slip of the tongue or blatant offense will be white. Its as if these crackers don’t believe the average black person can determine context or intent and will fly into a rage should the word be said.
Granted, the word “nigger” does have a history in racism, slavery, and...I should have paid more attention in history class every February. Today however, it is common to hear in popular black culture as “a term of endearment”. So when Mobb Deep does “Kill That Nigga”, it’s an expression of love and we should all be able to enjoy it.
When we were kids, there were bad words and not nice names. We’re adults now and it’s time we realized that the series of beeps and boops that come out of our mouths aren’t magical spells. So loosen up you fucking retarded nigger faggot cunts.
Starting from scratch, thanks to Jim Norton
By Josh Goguen
A little over a year ago, I worked with Jim Norton for a second time. He was and still is one of the guys I’ve looked up to I had the opportunity to ask if he had any advice to give. “You’ve got to go to New York,” was the wisdom he imparted upon me. He wasn’t saying, “oh man, you’re great, you should go,” he meant that if I wanted to make anything out of myself in this contemptible business, I’ve got to go where the industry is: New York or Los Angeles. He was right and I had a difficult decision to make.
Things were going well in North Carolina. Most of the local comics and I were familiar with one another and we got along well. The Charlotte comedy community in particular has proven to be supportive, tightly knit and growing by the week. I was working for a few national bookers who could fill out a year of shows from Florida to Oregon. I felt good in knowing that I could call myself a professional comedian.
Even though things were going well, I started to pay attention to the road comics I worked with. These are guys who’ve made a living by headlining around the country in shitty one nighters and lesser known comedy clubs for 25 years. They looked at comedy as just a paycheck; I don’t blame them. It sucks to drive everyday for hours on end, eating a diet of fast food burgers and gas station burritos, and spending half a day in a smelly hotel room, just to perform in another bar that has a Comedy Night with 17 people who’ve never heard of you and didn’t even know there would be a show. I can’t imagine doing that for decades and still having fun.
I was starting to feel that a long career on the road would serve to make me just as tired and bitter as those other guys. I decided that I would rather quit all together than look at stand-up as just a way to eek out a living with no real future. Besides, “unknown stand-up comedian for 15 years” doesn’t exactly shine on a resume. I started to think about Norton’s “You’ve got to go to New York” recommendation. So that’s what I did, sort of.
My wife, new born son and I packed up to move into eastern Pennsylvania where I could afford a decent home for my family and still be within striking distance of New York City. The area is often billed as “a commuters dream” where the city is only and hour and a half away. That’s not so bad considering I would drive something comparable or farther to work. Of course, that’s taking into account you’re driving to the city at 1 AM and by some act of God, the George Washington Bridge has fewer than a million cars, trucks, and busses trying to merge from 12 lanes into 3 after the toll booths. Regardless of the travel distance, it feels as though I’ve taken the next step.
So here I am. Starting my comedy career over in New York City.
Here I am. 800 miles from friends and family.
Here I am. Back to open mics.
Here I am. Fucking stupid.
My Time At LCS
Josh Goguen
I am not going to be making any excuses as to why I didn’t advance. This is not a sour grapes thing where I’m going to bitterly jab at Last Comic Standing. In all honestly, if everything were perfect in this “competition,” I still screwed up my audition and I still wouldn’t have made it in. So, let’s go ahead and get my audition out of the way before giving you the rest of the day.
I stepped on stage, said my name and where I’m from then launched into a couple of jokes. First one came out fine, but didn’t feel right. I’ve never been good at auditioning in a situation where it’s a nearly empty club with all of the house lights on. It’s even harder when the people you’re auditioning for aren’t even looking at you and don’t seem as if they are listening. As I went into my second joke, I got out the important part of punch line with no response and for some reason, I blanked on the last word and just sort of trailed off. Audition over. My fault.
“Well, you already know you’re not going to advance,” the gay one started, “but you got nervous. What happened?”
“I’m in New York City on the stage of Carolines.” I made it a point that being in one of the most famous clubs in the country was a bigger deal to me than their show and I don’t think they liked it.
“I haven’t had my say yet,” the fat one chimed in. “We’ve seen a lot of awful today and you certainly weren’t awful.”
In the end, it was a no and that probably would have been fine if the rest of the day hadn’t gone like it did. The actual Last Comic Standing audition is only a tiny piece of the entire day. If it were just being rejected, it would be so bad, but waiting in line for 13 hours breeds bitterness.
-------------------------------------------------
“Clinton. What time were you getting up? Josh? It’s 3am.” Our early morning wake up call is my buddy Clint Nohr’s grandmother who has been nice enough to let us stay in her apartment. She isn’t supposed to be waking us up; an alarm is. At least it was supposed to an hour ago. We were supposed to wake up at two after going to bed at 1am. That was the decision we made after walking by Carolines at a half past midnight and already seeing a good 60 people in line freezing their asses off.
After a quick shower Clint and I are out the door. We arrive; 3:30am at Caroline’s to meet the third of our North Carolina comedy connection, Scott Oseychik. It’s extremely cold. The cup of coffee I bought went from scalding hot to almost frozen in fifteen minutes. I’d like to sit, but the sidewalk is moist. Why is the sidewalk moist?
The line keeps piling up around the club and daylight is breaking yet strangely, the morning only makes the air colder and lights up the jackasses that are in line with us. The chick in front of us pulls out her guitar and starts to butcher some song to the point that I recognize that I should recognize it but I’ve got no idea what it is. Right behind her is a creepy guy who keeps trying to get Clint to eat chips.
“You want some chips don’t you? Come on chip boy, have some chips.”
I wish there was someone funny around us, but instead I’ve got some guy behind us who already has said “Larry David” 32 times and each time his group of friends laugh. Have I stepped into some weird world where you only have to mention the name of someone funny be considered funny?
The lunatic “want a chip” guy now has a green puppet on his hand and that puppet is an asshole. It’s yelling at us that we’re going to get in our car, not stop for snacks and just go home.
What’s that lady? You’re going to play another song?
Larry David count is now 47.
Behind us some loud redheaded waste comes up to some guys and start talking about how she is last in line. “OH MY GOD, I’M LAST IN LINE. I’M LIKE OH MY GOD!!!”
Unfortunately, my buddies and I aren’t lucky enough to avoid having an asshole of our own from the back show up and chat with us. This guy keeps doing the “thumbs up” while saying “thumbs up”.
“What time did you guys get here?”
“3:30”
“Yeah, I got here at 5. I should’ve come earlier.”
The Last Comic Standing film crew arrives and starts to set up for their big crane shots of this crowd filled doe-eyed hopefuls while the rest of the crew tells us to ignore the generous amounts of personal space we’ve given each other thus far. As we pack the line in tighter, Scott, Clint and myself realize just how horrible this experience is going to be. We also realized that the loud redhead and “thumbs up” have just used their being irritating as a means of jumping the line. They aren’t the only ones either because what started as about 80 people in front of us has now jumped to about 130.
Larry David Larry David Larry David…63.
Rich Vos walks by with a camera crew and starts interviewing a few of the women in line. He takes the guitar chick in front of us and has her play an awful song while throwing change into a hat in front of her. Vos knows what this is all about. Exploiting the dummies for good TV and I’m in line with them. What the hell were we thinking?
Anthony Clark comes by with a camera crew of his own. His way of making good TV is to interview the people who look a little different. The six foot four black guy with long dreads gets TV time. The upstanding gentleman dressed as a hillbilly gets face time and then Anthony Clark and crew are out of my sight.
Finally, the doors open and the line starts to move because finally people are being let in for their big break. Because of this, everyone starts pushing forward and the line goes from 4 people thick to about 7.
A guy from Stern 100 is here to interview a few people. “O&A PARTY ROCK!!!” He moves on.
Hey, have you ever heard of Larry David? I have, 73 times since 4am.
About two hours have passed since the door to Caroline’s first opened and only one guy has come out waving his American Idol rip-off call back sheet. The door hasn’t opened in a while. We’re guessing that they’re on a lunch break, but wouldn’t you know it, they don’t let anyone know. After all, why would we want to grab something to eat or perhaps use a bathroom with out the worry of the line moving while we’re gone?
A reporter and photographer from the New York Post have shown up. They’re taking pictures of people and getting them to tell a joke for the paper. People are rushing up to them to get their gems on tape. The crazy puppet guy with the chips is in there. So is this guy with sideburns so big I want to nestle in them for warmth. I want nothing to do with them because I can’t possibly imagine being associated with those guys would be a good thing.
The doors finally open up again about 1:30. Everyone’s starting to get restless. We’ve been here since early morning and the line has just been cut off. About 70% of the people who showed up were told to go home. It seems that if you weren’t here by 4.30am, you were wasting your time. Of course, they knew that all along because given the amount of time they have and the number of people they can go thru per hour, it would seem obvious that they would know roughly where to cut the line first thing. What the hell though, why not waste everyone’s time?
A lot of people have been yelling at line jumpers. Some guy is threatening to wipe his ass with the green puppet and the police are here saying that if the line doesn’t stay against the wall, we’ll be barricaded and we don’t want that now do we? Actually I do. It would cut back on the line jumping at least.
Larry God damned David…100.
Some guy from Connecticut has some how appeared near by and is very condescending about us being from North Carolina. He can’t believe there is a comedy scene there and if we weren’t so cold and tired, we probably would be dicks back, but at this point, we’re just trying to remain on our feet. Scott shuts his mouth though by dropping a name that the guy new who is giving Scott a showcase somewhere.
We keep inching closer and closer to the door. As we do, people start to squeeze between Clint, Scott and I to get closer to the door. One guy slipped past me like a ninja and in the door. He’s one of the guys who was in the “Larry David 115” group. I’m bitter now because all day I’ve been in line, I’ve seen guys and girls who aren’t funny, they have guitars, puppets, and ridiculous sideburns. What are they doing here? What am I doing here with them?
Finally, 13 hours after first stepping in line and one hundred twenty seven “Larry David” utterances later, the door opens to allow Clint and myself in. Sadly for my buddy Scott, we’re the last ones they’re accepting. I feel bad for him because he suffered with us all day and just missed out.
We’re handed a packet to fill out and it’s damn near impossible because my fingers are so cold and stiff I can hardly write my name. Someone involved with the show is taking a break or something and one of the rejects complains to him about how he was treated.
“What the fuck do you think this is? Do you think it’s really a talent search? It’s reality TV. They already picked who they want. They already know. All they wanted with this was a line around the fucking block.”
Whip’em Out Wednesday! Clint and I can’t believe the total honesty that we just heard. Everything this guy said rang 100% true. Including that the two producers want to be more famous than the comics.
The sad part is I’ve somehow convinced myself, hell, all of us here have, that some how everything had changed. After the huge controversy surrounding LCS 2 and the failure of LCS 3 we believed that these guys were going to put on an honest to God search for the fresh new faces of comedy. I’ve duped myself, but it’s too late. I’m next.