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“Rod Blagojevich, Superstar”

Whenever I’m tempted to ditch this city and go live in a yurt somewhere, I think of nights like I had last night, during which I saw history being made, and I realize that quiet and peace of mind aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Last night I was lucky enough to attend the press preview of a new show at Second City e.t.c. that was ripped out of today’s papers. “Rod Blagojevich, Superstar” was one of the funniest nights I have ever spent in the theater. When it finds its permanent slot in the schedule, you absolutely have to go see it. You will be amazed at how effortlessly one man’s life provided the grist for a ridiculous 60 minutes of lampoonery.

I don’t mean to imply that the people behind the show didn’t work their butts off to get it up on stage. Ed Furman, the book writer, is an old friend from performing days. He told me their first email with the idea was dated January 5. That was only a month after the Senate Seat Sale Scandal broke, and a couple weeks before Blago’s media blitz and impeachment. Who knows how they’ll be able to amend the show in the future?

Ed’s writing did a terrific job capturing Blago’s strange combination of Willie Stark and Astro Boy. Getting the psychology right was more important than crafting an impersonation (although Joey Bland was greatly entertaining in the role, as was his wig). My favorite line of the night was Blago shouting at Roland Burris in all sincerity, “All great leaders have criminal charges filed against them!” (Burris’ reply: “Um, no they don’t.”)

The truly amazing part of the show was how little everyone had to gin up the characters to maximize the laughs. The only character pushed really far into caricature was a toilet-mouthed Patti Blagojevich (and for all I know, it may have been an accurate portrayal). By laying out Blago’s gall, ego and blindness in very clear and simple scenes (with a few terrific songs thrown in), Furman and the cast captured perfectly the strange, pathetic, puny life of the would-be Populist Scrapper.

In the audience I saw at least three veteran reporters from the papers and TV, so there were certainly more there that I didn’t recognize. I got to see WSJ reporter Bryan Gruley, who went to my high school and has a new mystery novel coming out next month. Also in attendance was Ill Attorney General Lisa Madigan, who laughed through the whole show, even at Lauren Dowden’s pinched-mouth impersonation of her. Madigan shook hands all around and hung out with the cast and writers for a very long time, posing for pictures and the like. (There’ll probably be some pics up for that eventually at Second City’s website here.)

The whispers beforehand, though, were whether the ex-Governor was going to show up for the event. He’d been invited, of course, and everyone agreed he had the gall to attend (and nothing left to lose, obviously). He didn’t show up last night, but I’m betting he eventually shows up. His ego would allow nothing less.

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Psychic Satire

I got an email last week from a fan of my “Politically Correct” books, asking me about my Washington Insider parody of “Puss ‘N Boots.” Julie S wrote:

Do you not see any similarities between President Elect Obama’s campaign and your retelling of Puss N’ Boots? So interesting since you wrote it before his Senate run and you are from Chicago. What do you think?

So I had to go back and check the story, since I wrote it so long ago. Wow! There on page 57 of Once Upon A More Enlightened Time was the sentence:

Their optimistically simple campaign slogan–“It’s Time for a Change”–seemed to strike a chord with the optimistically simple voters.

Should I send this to my buddy at the Center for Free Inquiry-Los Angeles, who conducts all sorts of tests for people who claim psychic talents? Hardly. This was written in 1994, when Obama had only just graduated law school and was a junior lawyer in Chicago. No, it just looks like simplistic slogans don’t change much through the years. (And with a natural talent for inspiring yet vague slogans, it looks like I neglected a career that would’ve been far more lucrative.)

Although I can’t tell from the writer’s email, I think she’s angling for me to say Obama is as shallow and opportunistic as the young cat owner in “Puss N Boots”, who just keeps his mouth shut and lets surrogates drop slanders about his opponent and allows the system elevate him at the other’s expense. If this isn’t the case, I apologize, but more than 3/4 of the fan mail I ever get comes from the Right or the Extreme Right, who think they have found a kindred spirit in me. My characterization of Puss ‘N Boots as the schemer and media manipulator behind the throne was an amalgam of many real politicos, including Lee Atwater, Dick Morris, and James Carville.

And the shallow, opportunistic young master? While there are no jokes about bed spelling or deer-in-the-headlights expressions, I modeled him after J. Danforth Quayle.

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Merry Christmas to All, and to All, a Strong Back

From the snowy north side of Chicago, I’d like to wish all readers, visitors, friends, family, expats, nonpats, and spangleprats a very Merry Christmas, Happy Hannnnnukkkkkkkah (sp?), and glorious new year.

Every year around this time, I write my wife a new Christmas story (at least, when I come up with a decent idea), some of which I like to share with people. I have a nice one this time, but she gets to see it first, of course, so no posting of that right now.

Last year I posted the heart-warming story of kindly old Mr. Dickens trying to buy a hairbrush at a mega-box-store during the holidays, which you can read by clicking here.

And if you’d like to read the excerpt of my book Recut Madness that rewrites “Miracle on 34th Street” and places the story at Guantanamo Bay (no, really, it’s very festive, in a grim way), click here.

Looking through my files today, I found something that I don’t even remember writing, but I think it’s pretty funny. It resurrects a couple of old, shallow characters, The Marketeers, that my sometime-writing partner and I have had fun with over the years. In this story, our media creative team has a brainstorming session about how to connect one of their client’s products with the holiday season. I’ve never worked in the ad business, so this little portrait of ego, short attention spans, mammon and creativity is not AT ALL what the ad business is all about, as far as I know. AT ALL. And even if it were, as one character says in the story, “There’s no such thing as a bad idea.”

Please enjoy this story by clicking HERE. And I hope you enjoy whatever end-of-year activities strike your fancy.

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Go to McSweeney’s NOW….

…and check out today’s entry. It’s written by my homey (as in the guy who redesigned my home) Gary Rudoren. With his finger firmly on the pulse of today’s economic whoopsies, Gary has given us,

REVISING
AND EXTENDING
MY THANK-YOU REMARKS
TO MY WEDDING GUESTS
DURING THESE TIMES
OF ECONOMIC
CRISIS

A title which might make Maxwell Perkins a little apoplectic, but is explanatory and to the point.

Gary’s also the author of Comedy By The Numbers, a McSweeney’s book that is essential for anyone looking to impress people with their humorous abilities. Buy one (on sale now!) and be the hit of the office party.

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Mark Nutter’s Baby Shredder Song

While I never got to see Mark Nutter in his heyday with Friends of the Zoo in the 1980s, the review of his songs from their shows–“Oh My–NUTS!”–was beyond a doubt the single funniest show I’ve ever seen. Painfully funny, gasping for breath with headache funny.

Now Mark has been recording and performing more. And Western Civilization is the better for it.

He’s right about those baby lovers, you know.

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Day of Genius, Day of Boners

All but the hardest of baseball die-hards can be forgiven for forgetting that today is the 100th anniversary of “Merkle’s Boner,” one of the most infamous mistakes in the history of the sport. Today’s Tribune has a nice story by Ed Sherman about Fred Merkle, the 19-year-old rookie for the NY Giants who made a technical gaffe in baserunning during a game against the Chicago Cubs and was vilified throughout NY for years after. You know it’s bad when your name enters the lexicon as a joke (to “merkle” for a short time meant to fail to show up at an appointment). Sherman’s article says that all was forgiven when the Giants invited Merkle back to an old-timers’ game…in 1950. Yep, after 42 years, everyone was willing to forgive and forget. Way to go, New Yorkers! Who says you have no hearts?

And whether it’s a coincidence or not, the Macarthur Foundation has announced the recipients of their “Genius Awards” for 2008. If you didn’t get notification in the mail, don’t bother to call their HQ–you didn’t win, again. Among the luminaries of the fellowships this year are a geomorphologist, an optical physicist, a plant evolutionary geneticist….and a fiber artist.

Yep, that’s right, a fiber artist. According to the Macarthur website:

Mary Jackson is a fiber artist whose intricately coiled vessels preserve the centuries-old craft of sweetgrass basketry and push the tradition in stunning new directions.

So if you were in the market for some sweetgrass basketry, be warned, the price just shot up.

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Linguistic Tics

If today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day, (and it BE, bucko), then I think Monday should be National Talk Like A Veep Candidate Day.

There is something very soothing about adopting a sort of Scandinavian, Minnesotan, Yooper, Alaskan accent. It’s really hard to think badly about your lot in life when sounding out those long OOOOs and sharp EYEs, and speaking in the little lilt that you might use in front of a Sunday School class (when you weren’t asking them to pray the gay away). It’s like a lullaby. There may be something hard-wired about it in our brain’s box, like a prosaic version of a meditative Om. Remember Steve Martin’s old bit about banjo playing, and how everyone should be issued a banjo because it just makes bad news sound good to hear it mixed with that twangy sound? This is the same thing.

Hey, maybe that’s what the Treasury Department ought to do. Instead of guaranteeing a bunch of crappy mortgages and banning short-selling on financial stocks–wow, how pointy headed is that?–they should just issue banjos to everyone, domestically AND internationally. That would stop the whining, eh? Make Wall Street into the biggest hoedown outside Branson, and the markets would just overdose on optimism.

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Hockey Moms Against Sarah Palin

And this follow up, from a Minnesota mom who knows the breed:

Real Hockey moms are out of control maniacs. The kind who would poison your kid so hers could play. Would lie to you about the location of the 5:30 a.m. practice just so your kid wouldn’t get the ice time. They’d mortgage the house with a subprime lender to send the kid to hockey camp up in Bemidji. She’d instruct her kid how to best inflict lasting damage with the stick that wouldn’t be seen by the officials. Beat them senseless if they didn’t win. Bribe the officials. Trash talk the better players on the team.

Anyone who prides themselves on being a hockey mom is counting on the rest of the nation thinking like it’s a soccer mom on ice. Nothing could be further from the truth. Think Texas raving lunatic cheerleader moms – you’ll then be getting the right idea.

I shudder at the thought.

Sounds more like Dick Cheney everyday.

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Radio Silence Broken!

Didn’t you always want to say that line? I know I have. It sounds so official, and it must certainly be good news, right? Because when it isn’t broken, they find the bodies frozen in the ice a few months later.

I haven’t exactly had a radio SILENCE, but whatever you might call the interim between commentaries has effectively been terminated. An idea has been kicking around in my barren head for about three years to write an essay about uncles for Fathers Day. Sadly, no amount of coaxing could pry it from the sticky beneath-the-seat-cushion realm so that it could be worked into something worth hearing. Then this spring, for no reason, bamf, there you are sir, here’s your essay.

(Many people think that’s the wonderful part about being a writer, that ideas seemingly show up at your doorstep unexpectedly and you have to invite them in. Actually, while it’s certainly better than not getting any idea-visitors at all, this unpredictability is something that greatly taxes my nerves. I’d much rather choose my own idea, put a certain amount of hours into it, and have a finished product to show off and maybe sell. All that cal about the wonder of characters springing up and taking your stories in unexpected directions? Do accountants appreciate it when their spreadsheets take on lives of their own and write their own endings? Do carpenters like it when their crossbeams twist themselves in surprising ways? Feh. Mystically creative muses are fickle and taunting. And they leave rings on the furniture.)

The essay “Uncle-Hood” was broadcast this morning on WBEZ’s “848” Program. You can listen to it here, and follow the instructions I embedded in the text.

I’m very glad they slated my piece to go before the interview with David Sedaris, who’s in Chicago for a book tour. Now I’m his warm-up act, my White Snake to his Def Leppard. It’s certainly better than following him. I think he’s a fantastic writer, and keeps getting better. I remember 10 years ago, talking with my then-editor at my then-publisher about the humorous literature world in general. He thought Sedaris was a flash in the pan after “Santaland Diaries” and “Barrel Fever”, but I knew better. I knew he had the chops and the skills to make a good career out of a moribund genre, and his success would reflect well on all of us who try to make a living at the funny.

On the other hand, my editor thought that everything I put down on paper was golden. Maybe that’s one reason he’s not in publishing anymore.

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Scenes from QofA Comedy Night

My five regular readers (hey, let’s do poker soon!) may have noticed the lack of posts for the past couple weeks. Or not. Be honest, I can take it. This time of year always gets busy with end-of-school-year events and activities. It’s easy to volunteer my time to projects when asked in January, when it’s freezing outside and the four walls are closing in, but another thing to balance writing, work and play in early May. That being said, I’ll also say that I really enjoy doing the projects I’ve volunteered for, regardless of me bitching about my schedule.

Last Friday night was the sixth annual Queen of Angels Comedy Night, a benefit to help the Technology Committee buy new computer equipment so my son can try not to look at inappropriate websites when he’s in the lab. Last year I helped out with a comedy sketch, which showed how Harry Caray would’ve called a baseball game if all performance enhancers were legalized (poorly, it turns out). It was fun, but the evening went on almost four hours, as the directors (there’s your first mistake, plural “directors”) tried to cram every type of act–parishioner talent, five pro stand-ups, and the house band–into the show. This year we streamlined things, kept a tight rein on the length of acts, and had the band play at the opening and closing instead of between every act. This elementary lesson in show pacing paid off well. Everyone has said it was the best show ever.

Our host was Leo Ford, an affable man about town, actor, and former improviser (Blue Velveeta, anyone?), who delivered a monologue about growing up Catholic in Janesville, WI, and described a nun who reminded him of Harry Dean Stanton. In the first half, Will Casey and his wife Catherine performed a droll little skit I wrote called “Robo-Nun 3000,” and to pad things out, I read one of my PC Bedtime Stories.

The professional talent we scouted and booked were nothing short of sensational. Nick Paul is a very funny man who mixes magic with a deadpan that was just killer. He also showed himself to be a big professional when we asked him to do a second act after intermission when one of our standups called to say “Friday??? I thought it was Monday!” Check out his website Magic of Nick for clips and other information.

Our standup for the evening was Sean Flannery, who absolutely killed in his 20-plus minutes. He could’ve lost the room because of some of the drunks in the back who think that any performance is a free-for-all, or that standups are really looking for a conversation when they say, “Anybody here from out of town?” He had the crowd up and down with him the whole time, and had hilarious material. We found him emceeing at Chicago Underground Comedy, and booked him immediately. Check out his stuff at WorldsDumbestMan.com.

But the biggest hit was probably $$The Money Kids$$, two young ladies who will do basically anything to make themselves laugh. These two are definitely going places. Their skits included a slumber party where the girls are making out with their stuffed animals, a couple of power-walking yuppies trying to work through bouts of narcolepsy, dancing to the “Doogie Howser MD” theme song, and a “Sex in the City” blackout that broke the “dildo right up inside you” barrier in the parish. (Thankfully, they were so funny, and the line went by so fast, that the people who might’ve been upset probably missed it.) Check out their stash at MoneyKids.net.

The shining moment for the in-house parish talent was our video. I had wanted to do a “Check, Please” take-off for our currently trendy neighborhood, highlighting some of the grungier places that generally should be avoided. The first draft of the script came out so well that 95% made it into the final product. But the script is just one step in the process. The video came out so much better than we had any right for it to, because of Dominic D’Ambrosia, who shot it and edited everything. Judge for yourself by checking out the YouTube link for “Beyond the Sausage in Lincoln Square.” (The embed was disabled by request. Apparently Dom is shy. Or is afraid of getting fired.)

Seriously, go check out the video. Then realize we did maybe two takes for every shot. The ghost of Ernie Kovacs was smiling on us that day.

After the show, we had to break everything down, fix the lock on the parish center so no one could walk in, and then close out over beers at the Sunnyside Tap (a fleeting shot of the tap is in the video). I haven’t been so exhausted over a weekend in a long time. Part of it was the beer at 2 AM, but only a small part. I think I just forgot how damn exhausting it is to put on a show. If I didn’t have my buddies to help get it up, I’d’ve been even more wiped out. And the show would’ve sucked. As it was, I was glad for the chance to perform and write some fun stuff with fun people.

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“My Groin Isn’t Where We Want It to Be”

The quote above is from White Sox player Jerry Owens, listed in this morning’s Tribune. Below, in no particular order, are the headlines I was considering for this post, which I realized were nowhere near as funny as Owens’ quote, but worth recording just for the exercise:

And that’s how I met your mother.

That’s what SHE said.

Said Gov. Spitzer to begin his press conference.

I don’t want it in my soup either!

Isn’t that an old Tony Bennett number?

Don’t tell me, pal. This is the Butterball Turkey Hotline.

If that’s your pick-up line, I think I know where the problem is.

Your additions are welcome.

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Yesterday’s Papers

This morning NPR reported that Osama Bin Laden has issued a new tape, decrying the cartoons of Mohammad that had been printed in Denmark in 2005. 2005! Such a sad development. I know he’s out of touch, but that shit is so old! Did he deliver his remarks on an 8-track? And he also said the new crusade against Islam is the handiwork of Pope Benedict. Sorry, Sammy, but if you want to sound hip by referencing The DaVinci Code, at least get the plot right.

This career trajectory has a high-pitched whistle accompanying it, literally and figuratively. What’s next? Run-ins with the paparazzi? An embarrassing dance number at the MTV Music Awards? Pictures of him getting out of cars with no underwear on? I don’t think the Islamic masses are going to be very happy with seeing Sammy’s camel. Oh, how the lowly have fallen.

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Spitzer and Blago

A wag writes,

“The difference between Governor Spitzer and Governor Blagojevich is, after arranging the price, venue and type of services rendered, Blago would show up with his parents and insist they get a free ride.”

That wag, of course, would be me, wearing a porkpie hat and bending people’s ears at the deli.

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A Christmas Pudding for You

I was all set to reprint something in the blog for the Christmas break, something people could read and enjoy at their leisure, since I won’t be updating anything til the new year. I was going to use an excerpt from my book Recut Madness, because, you know, the holidays wouldn’t be the same without shameless self-promotion. My conscience got a little bit the better of me, though, because the excerpt would be rather mean-spirited, to wit, my Red State retelling of “Miracle on 34th Street” with Santa being detained at Gauntanamo Bay for violating US airspace and carrying a mysterious list with millions of names on it.

It’s a good bit, I gotta admit. One of my favorite stories in the book. I was even going to illustrate the whole post with the picture below, from shades of Christmases past, when I was a cute, eager member of the Monkey Patrol. (Anybody else get any Monkey Patrol gear in 1963?)

But right now, a few days before Christmas, I just don’t have the heart to post it. Michael O’Donoghue would’ve done it in a heartbeat, but I’m too tired to be so provocative. Sentimentality is getting the better of me in my holiday fatigue. After a brief youthful flirtation with nihilism, I really do go for all that “do you hear what I hear?” jazz. It would leave a bad taste in my mouth to print something so black here on the eve of the eve of the eve of Christmas.

So instead, I’ve made a page that you can read sometime after Christmas, when everyone’s good mood has worn down and the “Year-In-Review” magazines remind you of how the government has failed to serve us all this year. Then you can savor the cynicism a little better. Click here for that page.

For more upbeat reading enjoyment (upbeat for me, anyway), I’m going to post a little story from two years ago. I wrote it for my wife, something I try to do every year, if inspiration is willing. It’s the story of a little unassuming man, one of those types we all know who seems to have been born in the wrong era. (Instead of changing this blog to show only excerpts, I’m going to post a page for “Mr. Dickens Goes Shopping” here. Sorry for the extra click.)

I hope you like it. I hope you’ll forgive me for not being a go-for-the-throat-type of satirist right now. And I hope you have a peaceful and joyous Christmas and a happy new year.

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Worst Holiday Movies Ever

I wrote this as part of an interview for the Scranton Times-Tribune. If there are any you’d like to add, please feel free:

“A Christmas Carol”, starring Larry the Cable Guy
.
“White Christmas,” starring David Duke
.
“A Die Hard Christmas: Yippee-Ky-Yay, Fat Man”
.
“A Christopher Hitchens Christmas”
.
“Santa Claus Conquers the Infidels”
.
“I’ll Be Cloned for Christmas”
.
“March of the Lead-Painted Toy Soldiers”
.
“Merger on 34th Street”
.
“War on Christmas in Connecticut”
.
“Hung By His Thumbs by the Chimney with Care: A Guantanamo Christmas”