Thursday, November 30, 2006
The feeling I get just before the compere calls my name
...is exactly the same feeling I get when the executioner calls my name just before I step onto the guillotine platform in a public square in 18th Century revolutionary France. The difference is that my impassioned speech in favour of the royal family and the natural heirarchy of some men over others wins me my freedom in the first scenario and doesnt in the second. It's the number one reason I chose comedian over 18th century french aristocrat in my career, even though I look great in a silly wig. So the real reward of comedy for me is the permission to live, truly. It's a mild ecstasy of relief as you release (EDIT: im leaving that in as an example of a freudian typo) you don't have to die. Last night was a classic case in point: as I realise it's my turn next, my heart starts thumping, my vision narrows and all humour drains from my body. I remind myself that this is not only natural but helpful to get a bit nervous and whats more, I've proved to myself that it doesn't matter: I can still perform and make it a memorable night. (Careful readers may notice I will be using this precise sentence in slightly different context in the next topic). The weird thing is that just as it becomes obvious that you're about to be introduced, it all falls away because your body has gone into a new mode of being - Resigned Terror and the genuine desire to show off like the class clown you always were. Personally, my problem has never been being funny per se, it's overwhelmingly about letting it out. Even to myself. At my core is this continuous stream of whispering commentary on whatever I think im seeing around me but it's buried under so many layers of shite that I find it hard to access most of the time. Rather, it bubbles up naturally and I have to either be lucky or fake it. Increasingly, it comes out for a few seconds or more when Im performing. When I can get to the stage where it comes out and stays out, then I'll call myself a proper comedian and then i'll know whether I'm really any good or not. I like that, with the exception of Dane Cook, comedians go far because they're really really good at their job. It's often the precise opposite in other professions.
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...is exactly the same feeling I get when the executioner calls my name just before I step onto the guillotine platform in a public square in 18th Century revolutionary France. The difference is that my impassioned speech in favour of the royal family and the natural heirarchy of some men over others wins me my freedom in the first scenario and doesnt in the second. It's the number one reason I chose comedian over 18th century french aristocrat in my career, even though I look great in a silly wig. So the real reward of comedy for me is the permission to live, truly. It's a mild ecstasy of relief as you release (EDIT: im leaving that in as an example of a freudian typo) you don't have to die. Last night was a classic case in point: as I realise it's my turn next, my heart starts thumping, my vision narrows and all humour drains from my body. I remind myself that this is not only natural but helpful to get a bit nervous and whats more, I've proved to myself that it doesn't matter: I can still perform and make it a memorable night. (Careful readers may notice I will be using this precise sentence in slightly different context in the next topic). The weird thing is that just as it becomes obvious that you're about to be introduced, it all falls away because your body has gone into a new mode of being - Resigned Terror and the genuine desire to show off like the class clown you always were. Personally, my problem has never been being funny per se, it's overwhelmingly about letting it out. Even to myself. At my core is this continuous stream of whispering commentary on whatever I think im seeing around me but it's buried under so many layers of shite that I find it hard to access most of the time. Rather, it bubbles up naturally and I have to either be lucky or fake it. Increasingly, it comes out for a few seconds or more when Im performing. When I can get to the stage where it comes out and stays out, then I'll call myself a proper comedian and then i'll know whether I'm really any good or not. I like that, with the exception of Dane Cook, comedians go far because they're really really good at their job. It's often the precise opposite in other professions.
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Bread
...is the main staple of my diet. Always has been, except these days I dont eat as much rice, pasta, potatoes, couscous and other wheaty, carby, grainy things. It comes from living alone, cooking alone and eating alone. It's hard to care that much about what you eat, or more to the point about how much effort you're going to put into a meal. I'm also indulging my long-unsated passion for the Bagel, a masterpiece of Jewish ingenuity up there with The Theory of Relativity, Psychoanalysis and the Raid on Entebbe. So I may have intimated that I've put my cock in one or two since i've been here. I'm not saying I have and I'm not saying I havent. The beautiful thing about fucking a savoury doughnut is that it's so easy destroy the evidence (I imagine). I also imagine a preference for sesame seeds over poppy seeds, if going for toppings (unless you have the heroin addict who lives in the car park round the back of your apartments suck your cock for a dollar fifty every lunchtime, which I also don't). All the weight I lost going through a horrible breakup has started to creep back due to this rather boring diet, supplemented only by eating out between 3 and 7 nights a week - because I can, things are damn cheap here. I joined a gym yesterday and will try and blog how astonishingly ridiculous my induction was if I can later.
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...is the main staple of my diet. Always has been, except these days I dont eat as much rice, pasta, potatoes, couscous and other wheaty, carby, grainy things. It comes from living alone, cooking alone and eating alone. It's hard to care that much about what you eat, or more to the point about how much effort you're going to put into a meal. I'm also indulging my long-unsated passion for the Bagel, a masterpiece of Jewish ingenuity up there with The Theory of Relativity, Psychoanalysis and the Raid on Entebbe. So I may have intimated that I've put my cock in one or two since i've been here. I'm not saying I have and I'm not saying I havent. The beautiful thing about fucking a savoury doughnut is that it's so easy destroy the evidence (I imagine). I also imagine a preference for sesame seeds over poppy seeds, if going for toppings (unless you have the heroin addict who lives in the car park round the back of your apartments suck your cock for a dollar fifty every lunchtime, which I also don't). All the weight I lost going through a horrible breakup has started to creep back due to this rather boring diet, supplemented only by eating out between 3 and 7 nights a week - because I can, things are damn cheap here. I joined a gym yesterday and will try and blog how astonishingly ridiculous my induction was if I can later.
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What should I write about?
Bears?
The feeling immediately before the compere calls your name out?
Canadian women?
Bread?
JonnyB
Well, 3 out of 4 of these I now have an intimate knowledge of - the Bearess was particularly good, but i dont kiss and tell so you'll have to read her blog if you want to know the grizzly details. The other three have all done their best to do my head in recently...
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Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
For those people who simply refuse to opt out of Commercemas this twenty-filth of deceasember let me urgently recommend this clever list of fad gadgets from my erstwhilth partner in lies...
Freyer Coucou
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Freyer Coucou
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Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Well that WAS weird. It went seriously well. I'd been avoiding even looking in the listings of the local papers to find out when i was on. I'd hoped the promoter would forget to email me closer to the time to confirm. I'd hoped to have written some new material by now. I'd hoped to have been deported by now. I found out i had the gig on friday so devoted the whole weekend to procrastinating, prevaricating and avoiding doing any preparation. I finally wrote some gags at 4 o'clock this morning and resolved to not give a shit. i woke up at 8, giving a shit. Yet I spent the day working and running round sorting out some legal issues, not having time to give a shit. Got back in to my apartment early evening and whilst making supper I remembered that I gave a shit. Went to the club for 9 and really really started giving a shit. As I walked out on stage, as luck decided to have it, I stopped giving a shit. Had a real laugh, they all enjoyed it - turns out anything said in an english accent is funny, even my ramblings. Of course, I still dont have much material that works here so the new stuff was untried but it went down really well. I filled in the remaining minutes with a song which started great and ended badly, as the guitar detuned and the shock impact unravelled a bit. I'll cut a verse or two next time. And I forgot to do my other song, a not exactly Weird Al parody of a popular tune from the nowies. But fair play to audience for sticking with me and thanks especially to the member who saw me miss my streetcar and gave me a ride home because 'i was funny'. Now im home and desperately want to give a shit. To my toilet. But it's blocked, again! I cant stop blocking canadian bogs. And it overflows dangerously whenever i pull the chain. Have to go down to Honest Ed's and by more industrial poo solvent, almost $5 a p(l)op. Either I start doing smaller poos or im going to have to revolutionise Canada's toilet system. And I dont do smaller poos.
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Monday, November 20, 2006
got a gig tonight. shitscared. here's my standard quality at the moment.
why did the Medium cross the road?
*drum roll*
to get to the other side! TO THE OTHER SIDE! GET IT?! GET IT?! DO YOU?!??! TO THE OTHER SIDE!!! HAHAHAHAHA!
and the ROAD was actually OUIJA BOARD!
how do you like THAT!!!!!!!???????
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why did the Medium cross the road?
*drum roll*
to get to the other side! TO THE OTHER SIDE! GET IT?! GET IT?! DO YOU?!??! TO THE OTHER SIDE!!! HAHAHAHAHA!
and the ROAD was actually OUIJA BOARD!
how do you like THAT!!!!!!!???????
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You ever milked a jellied head? It can't be easy. Id say the teats are pretty sensitive. Or is this... etc?
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It's an incredible coincidence but I was just looking for a product like this. And well I remember those heady days in Vienna, when I would sit in a seaside cafe and take a good Freudian Sip of this.
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Saturday, November 18, 2006
Ah yes, well I remember easily sipping a wee dram of this stuff back in good old Ireland, land of wine. The taste was truly indescribable.
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Tuesday, November 14, 2006
That's actually a variation of a gag i've never used on stage (and i have plenty):
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So im fucking my dad, right, in the new hole i had ripped for him, and of course i pull out to spray all over his tits and just as im about to cum he looks at me straight in the eye and says "this isn't a good idea for an intro, is it Son?"
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It's last sunday and I'm in bed shagging him and just as im about to pull out of his arse and spray my muck all over his face, he turns to me and says "make sure your blog readers know you're only joking, right?"
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Sunday, November 12, 2006
It's last Saturday and thanks to a combination of yoga, meditation and a selfish, self-imposed ignorance of the tragic, fucked-up world outside I am feeling at complete peace with myself. I will admit that it hasn't happened very often in the past. One of my earliest memories was the disappointment of dropping my frankfurter on the muddy autumn ground of a local park when I was 3 years old and realising then, in front of all my family (picnicing in a wet November like the pseudo-Brits they are), that life is shit.
On these rare moments, something strange and rather magical happens: I become mildly attractive. Now I am the first to admit i'm normally a bit of a pig. Wonky nose, misshaped head, double crown+chin, damaged lip, fat jowls, yellow teeth, zits, blackheads, yellowheads, greenheads, Abe Lincoln beard, hairy neck, sunken druggy yellow eyes - oh yes ladies, just imagine!
i am like an ugly version of Patrick Marber or with glasses and long hair, a good-looking version of Woody Allen. Double fair play to my Ex for seeing past it and dropping down a few leagues (possibly changing sports entirely). Not that she could look directly. So anyway, I'm entirely unaware of this image im projecting - i just know that for every good thing i experience, i have to counterbalance it with something deeply nasty. So I go visit my favourite chinese restaurant in Chinatown, the one that advertises 'Best BBQ Roast Pork in North America' on the billboard outside and may well be telling the truth. I'm supposed to be vegetarian, on a diet, Jewish and most important of all, a Friend of Pigs. I really don't like to eat meat that's been reared intensively. But by god do they know how to transform it. They usher me into a communal table and 5 minutes later my plate arrives, complete with the garnishes they know I like and a pot of green tea. I munch and sip without guilt when a guy sits down opposite me. He's mid-50's, local, regular looking and talking. He really looks like my old Canadian neighbour in Dublin - affluent, friendly and entirely boring. We get chatting and he's a nice guy so I stay beyond my meal and keep the conversation going. We discuss travel, best places to eat in Toronto, world economics, Comedy - the usual mundane topics I suppose. As we get up to leave, he goes:
"I don't know what I can do for you, exactly, but perhaps I can help you in some way, yknow, as a new arrival here I could help in some way"
-Thanks. I dont know either. (And I don't know... what he's talking about)
"Which way you headed?"
-North on Spadina. You?
"South. I just live down there. Been there my whole life. If you want to see a traditional old Canadian house, it's mine"
-Um. Thanks.... Tell you what, let me take your email address, i'll let you know when I've got a show on. Do you have a pen?
"No"
-Well, I'll just go and ask back in the restaurant
"Why don't you just come back to mine and type it on my computer?" (and he actually mimics keyboard typing as he does it)
-I'll go get the pen. (and I do. As Im writing his email address...)
"As I say, I don't really know but perhaps there is something I could do for you. What do you think?"
-I've got to go now. I'm really late for.... something...up there.
*whoosh*
The weird thing, apart from being propositioned in the first place by a guy who could be my dad, is that he could be my dad. There was not a trace of gay about the guy. I'm not entirely naive, i've lived in London and Paris and Dublin and known plenty of gay guys of all shapes, sizes and widths. He was your standard Canadian man and didn't, just didn't look like one.
And nor do I, ok???
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On these rare moments, something strange and rather magical happens: I become mildly attractive. Now I am the first to admit i'm normally a bit of a pig. Wonky nose, misshaped head, double crown+chin, damaged lip, fat jowls, yellow teeth, zits, blackheads, yellowheads, greenheads, Abe Lincoln beard, hairy neck, sunken druggy yellow eyes - oh yes ladies, just imagine!
i am like an ugly version of Patrick Marber or with glasses and long hair, a good-looking version of Woody Allen. Double fair play to my Ex for seeing past it and dropping down a few leagues (possibly changing sports entirely). Not that she could look directly. So anyway, I'm entirely unaware of this image im projecting - i just know that for every good thing i experience, i have to counterbalance it with something deeply nasty. So I go visit my favourite chinese restaurant in Chinatown, the one that advertises 'Best BBQ Roast Pork in North America' on the billboard outside and may well be telling the truth. I'm supposed to be vegetarian, on a diet, Jewish and most important of all, a Friend of Pigs. I really don't like to eat meat that's been reared intensively. But by god do they know how to transform it. They usher me into a communal table and 5 minutes later my plate arrives, complete with the garnishes they know I like and a pot of green tea. I munch and sip without guilt when a guy sits down opposite me. He's mid-50's, local, regular looking and talking. He really looks like my old Canadian neighbour in Dublin - affluent, friendly and entirely boring. We get chatting and he's a nice guy so I stay beyond my meal and keep the conversation going. We discuss travel, best places to eat in Toronto, world economics, Comedy - the usual mundane topics I suppose. As we get up to leave, he goes:
"I don't know what I can do for you, exactly, but perhaps I can help you in some way, yknow, as a new arrival here I could help in some way"
-Thanks. I dont know either. (And I don't know... what he's talking about)
"Which way you headed?"
-North on Spadina. You?
"South. I just live down there. Been there my whole life. If you want to see a traditional old Canadian house, it's mine"
-Um. Thanks.... Tell you what, let me take your email address, i'll let you know when I've got a show on. Do you have a pen?
"No"
-Well, I'll just go and ask back in the restaurant
"Why don't you just come back to mine and type it on my computer?" (and he actually mimics keyboard typing as he does it)
-I'll go get the pen. (and I do. As Im writing his email address...)
"As I say, I don't really know but perhaps there is something I could do for you. What do you think?"
-I've got to go now. I'm really late for.... something...up there.
*whoosh*
The weird thing, apart from being propositioned in the first place by a guy who could be my dad, is that he could be my dad. There was not a trace of gay about the guy. I'm not entirely naive, i've lived in London and Paris and Dublin and known plenty of gay guys of all shapes, sizes and widths. He was your standard Canadian man and didn't, just didn't look like one.
And nor do I, ok???
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Friday, November 10, 2006
you know how when an old friend comes to visit, one you havent seen or heard from in years, and it's only when they get here that you remember why you fell out of touch in the first place?
I do
Nutgroist has come to stay. Nutgroist the thing, that is, not Nutgroist the Me ie. the applumed name of the increasingly flimsy online anonymity of the writer of this and nother blogs (and breaking new ground in the grammatico-errorosphere)
For yes, i have a rash on my underside and it's secreting that same slimy petro-sebum that we all know you want to eat but cant. Wiorse still, my apartment doesnt allow dogs so i cant even get it licked at (mind you, im not far from Chinatown). I may be moved to do a list of other bodily sweet treats that we all want a bite, suck or chew at. I may also go to Pus-Eaters Anonymous.
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I do
Nutgroist has come to stay. Nutgroist the thing, that is, not Nutgroist the Me ie. the applumed name of the increasingly flimsy online anonymity of the writer of this and nother blogs (and breaking new ground in the grammatico-errorosphere)
For yes, i have a rash on my underside and it's secreting that same slimy petro-sebum that we all know you want to eat but cant. Wiorse still, my apartment doesnt allow dogs so i cant even get it licked at (mind you, im not far from Chinatown). I may be moved to do a list of other bodily sweet treats that we all want a bite, suck or chew at. I may also go to Pus-Eaters Anonymous.
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Blogger went and lost my all my profound thoughts on music, as promised yesterday. Sigh with relief for in retrospect it was all self-indulgent rubbish.
So... on with the quality comedy with no reference to my life...
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So... on with the quality comedy with no reference to my life...
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i dont understand. 9/11 passed completely without commemoration here yesterday. i, um, blame the Democrats.
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Thursday, November 09, 2006
i feel a serious post coming on. it's rare and it's indulgent - but it's about music (and much of mine is rare and indulgent) and damn you all im going to express myself with respect to it.
...later today
(it's 3AM)
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...later today
(it's 3AM)
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Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Roz, are you reading this? Are you gonna give me shit for not telling you I had a blog?
I think you are!
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I think you are!
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Saturday, November 04, 2006
PIKE FOR SALE! PIKE FOR SALE! PIKE FOR SALE! PIKE FOR SALE! PIKE FOR SALE! PIKE FOR SALE! PIKE! SALE!
PIKE FOR SALE - $80
"Donald" is a 3 year old, Male, fully bollocked and highly feisty. He likes his own space and is fiercely territorial. Eats fish, mice and small dogs. Will try to kill you if he has the chance, so handle carefully. Loves children.
TROUT FOR SALE - $20
"Nicole" is a 1 year old, Female, rainbow, good gills. She can be a bit nervous at times and will need occasional rescuing from Donald's mouth or stomach. Cannot sell separate.
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PIKE FOR SALE - $80
"Donald" is a 3 year old, Male, fully bollocked and highly feisty. He likes his own space and is fiercely territorial. Eats fish, mice and small dogs. Will try to kill you if he has the chance, so handle carefully. Loves children.
TROUT FOR SALE - $20
"Nicole" is a 1 year old, Female, rainbow, good gills. She can be a bit nervous at times and will need occasional rescuing from Donald's mouth or stomach. Cannot sell separate.
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Friday, November 03, 2006
Moved into a new flat yesterday. Bought half of Ikea and a new computer but still there's more to get. Here's my shopping list for the weekend:
A Pike - who doesn't need a 35kg, 6ft freshwater fish with a hot taste for violence? Especially in a downtown 2-bed apartment in wintry Toronto, it's an absolute necessity
A VD Player - when you're having a dinner party and the latest CD of Music (you know the one) just doesn't cut it with your oh-so-urbane guests, then trust me, only the soft sweet sounds of Contemporary Sexual Disease will do. Make sure its got up to date Anti-virus protection. Possibly the only invention ever to have come into being thanks to a fat-fingered keyboard typo*
Bottle of Fizzy Piss - for guests you didn't invite into your home. Best taken neat and in the fucking face at 100mph. Or with soda and a maraschino cherry.
A Nazi War Machine - excellent security measure, if kept strictly out of Russia
A a - self explanatory
An Acoustic Razor - for the Unplugged look the sensitive bitches will dig. It's done me no harm... or good.
Home Tattoo Kit - great at parties, family reunions and always keeps the little ones occupied whenever Mummy and Daddy want to argue. Go the extra distance and buy a spare needle if you really give a shit about your guests.
A world-class Jazz Saxophonist down on his luck and a Smoke Machine - have them on permanent standby for when you bringa da ladeez home for a night and a day of romantic romance, lovely love and sexy, sexy sex. A few bars of Body and Soul, a whisper of I Loves You, Porgy and then a double-speed, split reed rendition of the complete works of Albert Ayler and the chickies will be pitta in your hand
Money - get a large amount of money and keep it in your place. Handy for all sorts of great things and accepted everywhere.
Air and Water - if utilities aren't included in the rent, you will have to sign up for these to gain the full benefits of living. Highly recommended to sort out before moving in as although you can bring water in bottles with you, it's not advised to hold your breath in a vacuum while reconstructing furniture. Besides, your eyes will boil.
Novelty Drugs - Flanagans, Special Poo & Methyldrugsichlorodrugsisothiazolidrugsinone are my favourites. Low in salt, no trans-fats, zero carbs, some fibre (at least in the Special Poo) and Kosher (except for some Special Poo. Ask your supplier)
Love - (joke)
*except for the Qwertyuiop[] - but I don't need one now I've got an automatic
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A Pike - who doesn't need a 35kg, 6ft freshwater fish with a hot taste for violence? Especially in a downtown 2-bed apartment in wintry Toronto, it's an absolute necessity
A VD Player - when you're having a dinner party and the latest CD of Music (you know the one) just doesn't cut it with your oh-so-urbane guests, then trust me, only the soft sweet sounds of Contemporary Sexual Disease will do. Make sure its got up to date Anti-virus protection. Possibly the only invention ever to have come into being thanks to a fat-fingered keyboard typo*
Bottle of Fizzy Piss - for guests you didn't invite into your home. Best taken neat and in the fucking face at 100mph. Or with soda and a maraschino cherry.
A Nazi War Machine - excellent security measure, if kept strictly out of Russia
A a - self explanatory
An Acoustic Razor - for the Unplugged look the sensitive bitches will dig. It's done me no harm... or good.
Home Tattoo Kit - great at parties, family reunions and always keeps the little ones occupied whenever Mummy and Daddy want to argue. Go the extra distance and buy a spare needle if you really give a shit about your guests.
A world-class Jazz Saxophonist down on his luck and a Smoke Machine - have them on permanent standby for when you bringa da ladeez home for a night and a day of romantic romance, lovely love and sexy, sexy sex. A few bars of Body and Soul, a whisper of I Loves You, Porgy and then a double-speed, split reed rendition of the complete works of Albert Ayler and the chickies will be pitta in your hand
Money - get a large amount of money and keep it in your place. Handy for all sorts of great things and accepted everywhere.
Air and Water - if utilities aren't included in the rent, you will have to sign up for these to gain the full benefits of living. Highly recommended to sort out before moving in as although you can bring water in bottles with you, it's not advised to hold your breath in a vacuum while reconstructing furniture. Besides, your eyes will boil.
Novelty Drugs - Flanagans, Special Poo & Methyldrugsichlorodrugsisothiazolidrugsinone are my favourites. Low in salt, no trans-fats, zero carbs, some fibre (at least in the Special Poo) and Kosher (except for some Special Poo. Ask your supplier)
Love - (joke)
*except for the Qwertyuiop[] - but I don't need one now I've got an automatic
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