Thursday, November 17, 2011

Fuck Rape, Dude.

I’m self- involved.

That is the primary reason for me clicking on or flipping to any article I see that deals with women in comedy. It’s a subject that interests me not only for the obvious reason that I am one. I also feel a certain level of pride and gratitude for that fact that I am doing comedy at this particular moment in history, which has afforded me the luxury of having so many hilarious girls as peers and predecessors.

I was excited when I saw a posting recently of an article in the New York Times entitled, ‘Female Comedians, Breaking the Taste Taboo Ceiling.’

Honestly, I don’t generally view any comic that I respect as being a ‘female comedian.’ If you’re funny, you’re funny. You’re just a comedian. I hoped that the ‘ceiling’ in this article would be in reference to what I see as an increasingly small distinction between male and female comics, and mainstream America’s growing tendency to view funny girls as a norm, and not a mind blowing exception to the rule.

Then, I read the thing.

To synopsize the article, it casually posits that ‘Girls have gotten funnier over the last ten years, because now they can talk about rape.’

(It’s here if you’d like to check it out.)

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/16/arts/television/female-comedians-are-confidently-breaking-taste-taboos.html?_r=2&hpw&pagewanted=all

Call me an asshole, but I find this notion offensive, ignorant, and patronizing. This is also how I feel about rape jokes.

With very little exception, the premise of a rape joke is ‘Rape is the same as sex.’ I think it’s possible to write a ‘rape joke’ that is actually a comment on society’s views on rape in general, but I’ve rarely, if ever, heard such a joke. Sarah Silverman’s famous ‘I was raped by a doctor, which is very bittersweet for a Jewish girl,’ joke is a very smart one liner. It’s well constructed, and it made me laugh the first time I heard it. It’s still equating rape with sex. This is problematic to me for a number of reasons.

The first, and most obvious is that rape is only one thing: an act of violence. It is demoralizing and dehumanizing, and leaves victims feeling powerless. It is an assault on one’s sense of self and autonomy over their own being. When anyone, comedian or otherwise, holds the position that a rape victim was having sex, they imply consent, and thusly blame for the fact that they were assaulted. I have a hard time viewing this stance as anything other than cruel.

I am the last person to suggest that anyone censor themselves in their comedy. In order for comedians to write and continue to find themselves, the stage has to be a place where taboos don’t apply, and where the social filters of day to day life do not exist. That said, I think it’s wise, if not morally responsible, to think about what you are actually saying with a joke, and to decide if that is a thought that you want to broadcast in to crowds of strangers. Needless to say, there is no way to determine this without crossing your own line, and I’m sure even the best comics have jokes that may run counter to their actual beliefs.

I am not angry when I hear someone tell a joke about rape, or race, or the holocaust, that is, at it’s core, racist or misogynistic. I just think that it’s a rookie error. When you first start doing comedy, one of the most attractive things about it is the freedom you feel from social morays you’ve felt for most of your life, and those are our most easily accessible, surface level taboos. Perhaps this is why the highest concentration of rape and Hitler jokes is at open mics. I’m not saying I’m better than that. I definitely had a handful of rape jokes my first couple years.

As I continued to do comedy though, I started to feel like those jokes were working for the wrong reasons. Particularly outside of major cities, it is challenging for a girl comic to garner the attention and respect of an audience. There is still a relatively pervasive notion that girls are not funny. On top of that, you are asking a room full of men and women to shut up for a second, and let you be in charge. Not every group of people in this country is quite ready to do that. Sometimes you have to have to pull a trick out of your sleeve to get them to let you hold court. Unfortunately, one of those tricks is a rape joke. It’s saying, “It’s cool guys. I don’t like girls either.”

I do not think it’s brave to tell a rape joke. I do not think it’s edgy or smart or interesting. I think throwing a group of victimized people under the bus so that you don’t eat shit on stage is a sign of cowardice.

What I do think is brave is allowing yourself to be publically vulnerable, to speak frankly about the yourself and your point of view, regardless of whether you offend people and embarrass yourself. I lot of the comics I love take an ‘offensive’ or morally questionable stance on things, because that is actually how they feel. There is a huge difference between doing that, and adopting false mean spirited stance just for shock value.

The people who are, in my mind, masters of the craft, all know themselves and their voices so well, that when they are on stage, they are offering a view of who they really are, beneath the layers of being polite and agreeable, that we all exist under. This honesty can take so many forms: anecdotes, joke- jokes, absurdity. Dirty, clean, somewhere in the middle. Everyone’s instrument is different, but a great comedian tells an audience things they would never tell their spouse.

There are so many women who do this. By lauding the great proliferation of rape jokes over the past ten years, that Times article is relegating women to that very early phase of depending on mean spirited and false jokes. I completely agree that chicks in comedy are kicking ass and taking names. We are well past that rudimentary phase. I wish they had talked about how well Jackie Kashian or Tig Notaro can tell a story, or how fascinating it is to watch Maria Bamford explore her demons via a series of cartoon-esque voices.

Whatever. At least Bridesmaids did well this year.

Monday, June 27, 2011

My Left Ear

Just because someone wears glasses doesn’t mean they’re smart.

Or sophisticated.

Or the owner of an impressive vinyl collection.

They just have bad vision.

Blah, blah. Glasses add character. They’re a fashion statement. And I think we can all [1] agree that Dr. Drew is sexy as hell.

I get it.

None of this changes the fact that for too long, we’ve placed the half blind in an elite class, obtainable by the lowly full visioned only upon purchase of faux specs from Claire’s Boutique, or some other godforsaken corner of the mall.

It’s not fair. Not to those whose face organs work just fine, and certainly not to the rest of the world’s half-handicaps, those of us who’ve lived in shadow for too long.

Yeah. I’m talking about the half-deafs.

If you don’t know any of us, or haven’t figured out how to get on our ‘good side,’ I suggest you remedy that immediately. We’re also very interesting, and have lots of valuable qualities. (We just don’t wear it all over our faces like some people.)

As children, half-deafs are the perfect people to befriend. Want to talk to us during class? Go ahead! You won’t get in trouble! Just whisper whatever you’d like into our deaf side, watch us turn in our seat, to ask you ‘What?’ and then enjoy recess as we get our name on the board (again) for talking.

Half-deafs are great listeners at any age. Stand on the right[2] side of us, and you have our undivided attention. Think we’re going to abandon you for a more interesting conversation? We can’t. We don’t even know they’re going on!

If you do happen to be on the quiet side of a half deaf, there are benefits for you as well! Have social anxiety or general insecurity? Feel free to feed them both, as you vie futilely for our attention. Convince yourself that you’re being ignored. Ah, delicious self -pity! You’re welcome. Just tip your waitress[3].

Perhaps you haven’t had a nice uncomfortable moment in a while. Find a crowded area, and stand on our quiet side. (Make sure your half-deaf can’t swap sides with you.) Then whisper something into their ornamental ear, forcing them to turn close for clarification. Then, make it abundantly clear that you’ve forgotten you’re talking to a half-deaf, and make them feel awkward, as you clearly wonder why they’re sticking their face in yours.

Snorers, early risers, and other nocturnal pariahs should absolutely seek out half-deafs as bedmates. With our convenient ‘total silence’ feature, (quiet ear up), we can sleep through sirens, sleep talking, and important alarm clocks, and will never make you feel bad about it[4]!

Give us a red eye flight, park bench, or booth at our hostessing job at Chili’s. We will sleep on it! When you’re wearing nature’s Bose headphones, the world is your Tempuredic mattress!

Look, we have a ways to go. No one’s rushing out to buy vintage hearing aid frames for the next Arcade Fire concert. No one assumes that we got this way because we blasted too many books on tape as teenagers. But we’re making strides every day[5]. Go ahead, find yourself a half-deaf. We’re waiting for you.

Smiling.

Laughing.

(We don’t really know what you’re saying.)


[1] Data compiled based on random survey of inhabitants of my apartment. Dog chose not to participate.

[2] In my case, left.

[3] Do that anyway.

[4] Might blame you for the alarm thing. Sorry. I’m a bitch without my coffee.

[5] Attempting to wrap my infantile brain around the asinine and absurd concept of adulthood.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

This Is A Real Picture Of Where This Blog Was Written


In the last week I have watched Friday Night Lights eleven times and swept my kitchen not at all. There are dust bunnies under my couch that I have known about since Halloween. The passenger window of my Volvo is completely fogged over with my dog’s saliva, as permanent a fixture as the busted door handle I never felt like fixing, but you probably won’t notice either of those things because your attention really ought to be on the cookie wrapper, In-N-Out box, and bra at your feet.

I am a slob.

And I am fucking fine with it.

I don’t know what to tell you. I have a high tolerance for dust, dirty laundry, and dishes. I’m not saying I let shit get way out of whack – I’ve seen Hoarders. I can recognize when things are about to reach a breaking point. That’s when I take care of business. Drink a little extra coffee. Throw some stuff away. But until that point, I have to be honest. Cleaning is not a real priority, and I like it that way.

You guys, there is so much stuff to do that is more fun than cleaning. Actually, think of any verb right now. I bet whatever you thought of was more fun than scrubbing mildew with Comet.

As it is, I often wonder where my days go. I start out with a litany of things I’m hoping to get done, much of which is carried over from previous days’ to-do lists. To add an additional challenge to this back log of accomplishments, I am a flighty, nap-prone, tangent-taking piece of shit, which eats away at a more than substantial portion of my time. Exactly where in this hustle and bustle is cleaning supposed to fit in?

I mean, I’m barely one person.

I have found mess complacency to be a huge weight off my shoulders. It’s lovely to let go of an entire category of your responsibilities. It opens up time for irresponsibilities, which are obviously superior in every way.

And all you have to do to enjoy this freedom is be okay with a few old receipts in your make up case, a few empty shampoo bottles in your shower.

Done.

Frankly, I think slobs are fantastic people. I look for the quality in friends and living partners. Have a bowl of milk with Cheerios in your sink? Great. That just tells me: Hey, this is someone whose visits I won’t need to prep for, and they probably will also have an extra jacket in their car if I ever need to borrow one. Slobs are people you can rely on for spontaneous living supplies and a general lack of judgement.

I know, some of you are clean. Some of you fold your clothes when you pack, and sweep in places no one sees. I still love you. I mean, your living habits make me a little uncomfortable, but I try to remember that we just have a different threshold for mess. And a different amount of time free to hike and watch Roseanne.

God, I am such a dick.