It’s the holiday season and boy am I glad that I live in a society that isn’t obsessed with money. If I
did, all the ads for Christmas and other gift giving would be about good prices and not about good
people. Fortunately for me, I don’t have any money, but I have a vault full of artistic integrity.
That’s more valuable right?
Artistic integrity is a high-falutin term that we undiscovered artistic types think of to comfort ourselves
when we ask our friend Joe for money. In an alternate universe, where baseball players don’t make $25
million a year, there’s some poor fellow wondering how he’s going to buy gifts with his athletic integrity.
Just the other day, I went to buy some groceries and didn’t have enough money. After I explained to the
clerk at the register that I never do material that I haven’t written myself and never use that hack Pakistani
gas station attendant voice on stage; he just bagged my things and told me that was payment enough and
to have a nice day. I could have also told him about my work with indigent children but I wasn’t that
hungry.
I was at one of those all natural grocery stores. I guess it’s just a coincidence that organic food is both
healthier and way more expensive. I’m glad all the organic growers just want our kids to live a life free of
pesticides and man-made fertilizer. Bullshit, clearly, is the key ingredient in all facets of the organic food
boom.
I do prefer to eat organic food and I believe in alternative medicines. I just realize that a lot of times the
best medicine is one cooked up in a lab by really smart researchers. Only in America would we turn down
a proven antibiotic to dissolve a bunch of feel-good herbs under our tongues. Try suggesting that in Chad.
Kwame, the local doctor serving an entire village racked by Cholera, will tell you to screw the herbs and
send over a hard core, man made, scorched earth, biotech remedy.
To be fair, a lot of companies do donate all sorts of drugs to third world areas—strangely enough, right
before their expiration date. I’m sure that when you’re dying of hemorrhagic fever, it’s a comfort to know
that you have plenty of cough syrup and hemorrhoid sticks at your disposal before you bleed out.
Now we all know I was kidding about paying for groceries with my comedic integrity. Everybody needs
money and needs the things that money can buy. If you lose everything in a fire and the people at work
have a donation box for you, you’d rather look in and find a warm cable knit sweater than some “eating at
the Y” jokes from the guys on the loading dock. Not that both gifts wouldn’t be given with equal empathy.
And I’m sure all of you realize that the burr under my saddle about money is completely hypocritical. I’m
just pissed that I don’t have money and this time of year makes me really think about it. I’m not a
communist. I’m just broke.
When I make it big, I promise that I’ll be practical. Of course, a little—-no a big—-part of me wants to be
the guy blowing thousands with Axle Rose in an upscale strip joint. More Cristal! That way I can help
other people who don’t have money or artistic integrity to spend.
There’s the trickle down economy in action. I tip for the lap dance that pays for the Gucci bag that’s
manufactured by the poorly educated textile worker, which is shipped by the fatigued and reckless
trucker, and finally sold by the clerk who buys the groceries to feed her loving family. Happy holidays!
It happened again last night. I was tardy by 30 seconds. I thought of a snappy smart ass comeback
just half a minute too late. I was out for a couple of beers when a yuppie woman, surrounded by her
self-important boring friends, said to me, “you’re so loud, I can hear your whole conversation.” You
know what my answer was? My lame, can you believe this guy is a comedian, answer. I said,
“yeah?”
That’s it. Just, “yeah.” And 30 seconds later, a perfectly smug response came to me. “Good for you. I’m
sure my conversation is a lot more interesting than yours.” I choked. What other judgement can I make?
It’s not the end of the world. Magic Johnson once threw away a pass to lose the NBA Finals and he went
on to have a moderately successful career. But, I’m a professional communicator. I’m supposed to be
better than that. I may not be able to work a lathe, but I can usually work a room.
My powers failed me. What can we rely on in this world? I could tell you I was tired and that I’d just
gotten out of bed but that’s no excuse. We’ll ignore the fact that I got out of bed to go drinking. That’s a
topic for another A Dog’s Lunch. Or maybe for a court ordered after-care program.
A few years ago, I worked part-time in Rothman’s Men’s Store in New York City. Because I’m the type of
jerk who craves arguments and perceives the slightest insults, I got into a pretty salty discussion with a
customer. Two grown men, staring at each other, saying, “you got a problem with something?” “No. You
got a problem with something?” Over ties!
My maturity took over at that point and I walked away. It sounds good that way, but actually my co-
worker Ralph separated us, and after hearing the other guy mumble something, I fired off this grand
parting shot: “you better just relax—and shop!” Fortunately I caught myself before I embarrassed myself
even further. “Don’t make me come from behind the fragrance counter, because I will kick your ass back
to men’s hosiery!”
In Passenger 57 Wesley Snipes defiantly said, “always bet on black,” and in a pinch, I came up with,
“relax and shop!” And the whole time I was trying to look cool. Trying to look cool while accidentally
coming up with the perfect slogan for working mothers on the weekend. Actually the guy said to me
before my weak parting comment, “you better take it easy cause I’m half-Italian.” That’s wussier than
what I said. I should have told the guy to go complain to his local mob capo that the clerk at the men’s
store wasn’t being nice to him. I’d be fine. He’d be the one getting whacked.
That’s one of the things I love about stand up comedy. It’s the do-over 2nd chance of the monologist. You
think of something after a show on Wednesday, you insert it on Thursday, and you’re a hero. No one
needs to know that the great line wasn’t born on stage, but in your car, at the late night Wendy’s drive-
through.
In writing, you don’t really get a second chance. You’re supposed to have edited all the second and third
and fourth chances into the final draft. You can put it down, have a knish, and come up with something
better later. Perfect. When you hear Pat Buchanon speak and you find his speech well written but really
insulting. He meant it that way. Of course, I don’t know if Pat ever took a knish break.
The publishing industry is trying to capitalize on the success of dead authors by putting out what they call
“working notes” of these writers. Words that the writer was noodling around with, and never intended for
people to see, are being sold. Here’s a message to my sister. If something dreadful happens to me, make
sure you get to my apartment. Don’t worry about the pornography. Just get rid of all the bad jokes you
find lying around.
