THE MUSIC OF RD MAUZY
To this day, nobody has died from a single joke
The internet gives everybody the illusion of power. Everyone’s a commentator, everyone’s a writer, everyone’s a movie critic, everyone’s a moral activist. And as a result, everyone is a fucking idiot.
Comedy clubs aren’t the safe havens they once were. It used to be, if you went to a club, there was an expectation that anything could happen. It might be an evening of inoffensive comedy. Or a comic might make a joke about gang-raping an audience member. … Nobody complained to the manager or screamed for apologies. If you want good taste, stay at home and watch PBS.
Imagine if the most brilliant comedians in history were working today. They’d never stop apologizing. Charlie Chaplin would have to apologize to all the homeless people he belittled with his Little Tramp character. W.C. Fields and Dean Martin would both have to apologize to alcoholics. The Marx brothers would have to apologize to Italians, mutes and uptight British ladies. … You went up there as a comic and joked about it all and nothing was off-limits.
The next time you hear a joke that offends your gentle sensibilities, I want you to ask yourself this simple question: What would Pamela Anderson do? Do you have the same emotional maturity as somebody with gigantic fake breasts whose main cultural contribution is running in slow motion on the beach? Can you take a joke better than, or at least as well as, Pamela Anderson?
I apologize to my gay brethren for the fact that the above article is linked to the Playboy website. I’m actually so desensitize to boobs appearing all over websites, that I had gotten through half the article before recognizing that the boobs and the website were connected.
With the illusion of power, I grant my commentary onto the internet:
I’ve been self-validating my own philosophical waxings by noting that comedy and music share a lot of roots in their approach to art. There’s a dogmatic divestment that allows the curator to stand on the shoulders of giants and simultaneously disregard any other input than the intuition of the sense itself.
In the process of learning how to get out of one’s own way, being able to confront whatever face comes out to greet you on the other side of that shield - a fat bulbus demonic crazed face yelling, “Keep your eye on the ball, fag. What a queer!” - is the bread and butter of what makes art great, and what gives it value outside of the scope of club owners who say “why were you masturbating on my stage?”
Don’t call it a rock club if that’s your line.
I can even get exaggeratedly dramatic and alarmist to say - the environments that don’t encourage people to discover the language that describes that process - in them exist a kind of silent genocide - a death of art - a systematic ignoring of the sense that says “what if everything’s just a joke? What would Pamela Anderson do?”
Tragedy plus time equals comedy.
+ meter = music.
A letter from Kurt Vonnegut to high schoolers: Grow your soul
Dear Xavier High School, and Ms. Lockwood, and Messrs Perin, McFeely, Batten, Maurer and Congiusta:
I thank you for your friendly letters. You sure know how to cheer up a really old geezer (84) in his sunset years. I don’t make public appearances any more because I now resemble nothing so much as an iguana.
What I had to say to you, moreover, would not take long, to wit: Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what’s inside you, to make your soul grow.
Seriously! I mean starting right now, do art and do it for the rest of your lives. Draw a funny or nice picture of Ms. Lockwood, and give it to her. Dance home after school, and sing in the shower and on and on. Make a face in your mashed potatoes. Pretend you’re Count Dracula.
Here’s an assignment for tonight, and I hope Ms. Lockwood will flunk you if you don’t do it: Write a six line poem, about anything, but rhymed. No fair tennis without a net. Make it as good as you possibly can. But don’t tell anybody what you’re doing. Don’t show it or recite it to anybody, not even your girlfriend or parents or whatever, or Ms. Lockwood. OK?
Tear it up into teeny-weeny pieces, and discard them into widely separated trash recepticals [sic]. You will find that you have already been gloriously rewarded for your poem. You have experienced becoming, learned a lot more about what’s inside you, and you have made your soul grow.
God bless you all!