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Entries in Ian Belknap (13)

Monday
May162016

WRITE CLUB Podcast

This is cool - the WRITE CLUB podcast, which Lindsay Muscato, Josh Zagoren, and Annie Costakis and I have been putting out for a year just got a nice write up in the AV Club's Podmass

Check it out - give a listen. Subscribe. It's the goodness for your ear holes.

You find out all you need at the WRITE CLUB site - HERE.

Tuesday
Oct282014

WRITE CLUB Anthology Due in December!

Monday
Sep302013

Bring Me the Head of James Franco

Latest solo show, 

Bring Me the Head of James Franco, That I May Prepare a Savory Goulash in the Narrow and Misshapen Pot of His Skull

runs 10/19 ($25 - opening night) thru 11/16 ($15 rest of run)

Please to attend. Tix HERE

Good wise-assed fun HERE and HERE

Advance press for show - Chicago Reader: 1 of 8 shows to see this fall; Chicago Tribune: Theater Sneak Peek; Chicago Sun-Times feature on the show; Red Eye feature here

Saturday
Jul212012

WRITE CLUB - Belknap, Madness - 7/3/12

The year was… I wanna say like ’87.

Because when you drank as I did from like for the period between 1983 and 1994, all dates are approximate.

Because check it out – all that enriching experience you were gaining – all the international travel and internships and Peace Corps shit you were doing? I took all that focus and initiative, doused it in firewater, and poured it down my gullet.

You know the most hammered you have ever been? That hammered where you need to piece things together and wake up feeling like somebody drove a shit-covered spike through your skull? That’s how drunk I was getting all the time.

But ’87 feels pretty right, or right enough.

The scene: New York City. Early spring. A party. Cold as fuck outside. My girlfriend had a friend visiting from L.A. Naturally, he was terrified – this was not the post-Guiliani, post-9/11 everybody-play-nice New York we enjoy today.

In the 80s, New York still had the residue of its reputation for senseless violence and decay – a place where there’s packs of feral dogs roaming a hellscape right out of Bronson’s Death Wish franchise. And as in Death Wish, the feral dogs wore lots of eye makeup, and had bitchin’ mohawks.

Tell what these feral dogs did NOT do, however. They did NOT wear CBGB’s t-shirts. Cause what’re they? Fucking tourists?

So we go to this party, and I am stealing beers and turning inexplicably hostile and threatening to jump off the roof.

So then we ride the train home. 3 A.M., like you do. And this guy, this L.A. guy – who looks like an extra from a Knack video, by the way – he tells my girlfriend later that he was terrified on that train – like pants-pissingly scared. He thought – as all out-of-towners did back then – that the feral Death Wish dogs were gonna get on at the next stop and stuff his skinny tie in that pretty mouth of his and rape him like crazy. He KNEW it was gonna happen, like at any moment. You know when you get terrified and you fixate on the terrifying thing and it keeps growing in your mind until it squeezes everything else out of your skull?

That’s where he is – feral dogs, high on club drugs he’s never heard of, are gonna board the train and rape him with their glistening red penises. And all the jaded and joyless New Yorkers on the car are not gonna help him one bit.

But then he catches a glimpse of me. And it’s like a bracing wind of hope. He looked over at me, he knew. That everything. Was gonna be OK.

The next day, after we’d slept it off, he said – and I’m quoting, here:

“I was scared out of my mind, but Ian looked so fucking crazy I knew nobody would fuck with us.”

My insanity – the roiling miasmic cauldron of inarticulate hatred and arrhythmic chaos strobing behind my eyes carried with it a menace and volatility sufficient to shelter this callow and scrawny boy from Los Angeles from the menace and volatility surrounding us.

It could not be more clear: crazy can save you.

Or at least spare you the most egregious intrusions upon your fleeting peace.

I don’t drink any longer, so that madness is no longer boiling just below the skin. I need to send the bucket deeper into the well to fetch it. But it is there – like a wicker basket full of battery acid. So trust me when I tell you: crazy has its uses.

Look. Order and pleasantry have their place. No doubt about it. But there is JUST. TOO MUCH. EXASPERATING. SHIT. In this life.

So when you are able to lower over yourself a cloak of I Seriously Want to Kill You Right Now, you are granted a wide berth by the Relentless Forces of Dumbassification and Arch Criminal Dickbaggery. This does nothing, obviously, to slow the march of these forces, but it prevents their enlisting you in their dubious cause.

Which isn’t to suggest that Dumbassification is what my opponent is engaging in. No. He’s reasonably bright.

It’s worth asking, however, why Bob Stockfish – a name of disreputable Scandinavian origin, by the way – has consistently failed to publicly oppose Arch Criminal Dickbaggery in all its forms.

Not ONLY, ladies and gentlemen, has he steadfastly REFUSED to denounce Arch Criminal Dickbaggery, he has sought at every turn to become the enemy of this Great and Glorious Enterprise we call WRITE CLUB.

Those of you who’ve been to the show previously will recognize him as the trollish and foul-smelling presence holding up the wall over there and issuing forth an unbroken strand of slanderous and hurtful untruths about myself, about the show, and about the many worthy and gifted persons who have donated their time and talent to appear here. But most hurtfully, and if I may say, most SHAMEFULLY, ladies and gentlemen, this bitter and wall-eyed little creature has had the TEMERITY to impugn you the audience of WRITE CLUB, which science has determined is the most fetching and whip-smart audience to be found anywhere on the planet.

That this snaggle-toothed little bastard would have the guts to show up anyplace and run people down is the very DEPTH of self-delusion, folks. If you good people have an ounce of self-respect – as I know you do – you’ll send this scurvy little grease monkey scuttling in defeat back to the shame cavern he calls home.

You must find in favor of Madness, ladies and gentlemen – if you fail in this, you will open the floodgates of unchecked criminality and dickbagishiness. Which none of us want. Except Stockfish. Because he is the absolute worst.

Tuesday
Jul172012

Sweet Christ, If Only So Caitlin Parrish Can Know Peace. Essay Fiesta, 7/16/12

The facts would seem to be these:

According to an anonymous blog post about a week and a half ago, a comic named Daniel Tosh, who has a show on Comedy Central, was doing a set at a club called The Laugh Factory.

During his act, Mr. Tosh apparently asserted that “rape jokes are always funny.” A female audience member yelled out “Actually, rape jokes are never funny.”

Mr. Tosh is then alleged to have responded:

“Wouldn’t it be funny if that girl got raped by like, 5 guys right now? Like right now? What if a bunch of guys just raped her?” 

Tosh tweeted a conditional apology.

The club’s owner Jamie Masada came to Tosh’s defense, as did other comedians on Twitter.

The Internet has settled into a froth about the wrongness of making light of rape vs. the discourtesy of interrupting a comic. All of which misses the point.

Here then, is everything wrong with this story in the order it is mentioned:

 

  1. Naming a place The Laugh Factory is to equate the creation of comedy with the joyless place where ambition and innovation go to die the factory – a place where you clock in to stare slack-jawed at the drill press that gives you repetitive stress injuries and eats your dreams. If you think so little of comedy, why not just call your place the Gulag of Giggles and be done with it.
  2. This is an ANONYMOUS BLOG POST. It opens with the phrase: “This is something that happened to a friend of mine in her own words,” and closes with the words “Please reblog this and spread the word.” So the original item was posted by somebody who concedes they were not there, and who is not held to any form of journalistic ethics, and who states flatly that their primary aim was for it be disseminated widely. The opening line of this piece could well have been: “This here some shit I overheard at the bus depot,” and closed with “Kim Kardashian was naked when she told me she wanted to you to put it all over the Internet.”
  3. Daniel Tosh has founded his entire career on being a smirky douche. If you were the casting director for Law & Order: SVU, and you were looking to cast the role of Trust Fund Date Rapist or Roofie-Wielding Frat Boy, you could do a lot worse than Daniel fucking Tosh. So for any of us to pretend that this non-joke about gang rape represents for him some form of stunning departure is the kind of willful ignorance that makes people like me want to move to Alaska, where the ignorance is genuine.
  4. Here’s a salient aspect of this: the fact that he includes material about rape in his act, and in his unscripted, what – banter? is NOT THE POINT. It is entirely possible to do rape bits that are funny. But if your allegiance is with the rapists, you may encounter difficulty with certain crowds. Like say a crowd containing women. You stupid pig.
  5. There is no law against being a stupid pig. In fact, if history is to be believed, being a stupid pig is one of our most cherished and consistently exercised freedoms.
  6. This does NOT mean that humorless feminists are granted license to police our speech. Hate speech is still speech. And speech – any speech – even speech that reinforces gender narratives and perpetuates the prevailing patrician power dynamic, is protected. Period, full stop.
  7. Here’s doddering club owner Jamie Masada leaping arthritically to Tosh’s defense, according to BuzzFeed: “Masada says Tosh asked the audience, "What you guys want to talk about?" After someone in the front said "rape," a woman in the audience started screaming, ‘No, rape is painful, don’t talk about it.’ Then, Masada says, ‘Daniel came in, and he said, 'Well it sounds like she’s been raped by five guys' — something like that. I really didn’t hear properly.’” He continues, "It was a comment — it wasn’t a joke at the expense of this girl." Flames, meet fan. Fan, flames.
  8. The first of Tosh’s two tweets regarding this incident: “All the out of context misquotes aside, I’d like to sincerely apologize. And he LINKS to the blog post” Beyond the pulling-teeth-style of deliberate half-assed-ness, there is the split infinitive. And linguists agree that the only – the ONLY – acceptable spot for a split infinitive is in the voiceover intro to Star Trek. Which is to say nothing of the petulant and puny atonement an apology via Twitter represents.
  9. Tosh’s second tweet, sent like a minute after the first: “the point i was making before i was heckled is there are awful things in the world but you can still make jokes about them. #deadbabies” Now, science has established that dead babies are indisputably hilarious. Come on. Baby at the bottom a staircase with his shattered femurs poking out of his fat little thighs? That is a hoot. Savor that laugh for a sec. And regarding the rest of this tweet, I think Mr. Tosh needs to curl up with a good dictionary and clarify for himself what a “point” actually is, and more importantly, what “heckled” means. Dictionary.com: “to harass (a public speaker, performer, etc.) with impertinent questions, gibes, or the like; to badger.” Look, son, if you open the can of rape-worms and then fold like a little origami bitch when somebody says ONE THING to call you out, you are not fit to be doing standup. Now sit your punk ass down and shut your smug mouth for all time, you whiny little shitbird.
  10. Other comics tweeted their supposed support of Tosh. Jim Norton, whose ouvre has a rich ribbon of rape running through it, asks “Why is is OK for an actor to play a rapist, but not for a comic to joke about it?” Which is a pretty transparent way of saying “Please. I wanna keep doing rape jokes.” Dane Cook, the platinum-selling hack, had this to say: “If you journey through this life easily offended by other peoples words I think its best for everyone if you just kill yourself.” Which gives a sense of Mr. Cook’s level of craft and capacity for nuance. Look – comics are in the business of saying outlandish things. Any curtailment of this represents a threat to their livelihood. What else are they gonna say publicly about this? It’s like telling a baker that flour and sugar are illegal – what do you EXPECT to hear from these people? They’re not defending Tosh – whom I can guarantee most of them despise him with a blazing, volcanic hatred – they’re defending their bit of turf.
  11. Footnote: Tosh is now scrambling like mad to rewrite the pilot of the cartoon show he’s doing for Comedy Central, scrubbing it free of, you guessed it, rape jokes.

 

Now. In conclusion – there are several things that bug the bejesus outta me on stories like this:

A) This is not a story. In the days since some rich white TV star said a thing in a comedy club that hurt some girl’s feelings, like 38 real live, actual children have been killed by gunfire in Chicago alone. I confess I haven’t had the heart to look up the exact number, because I don’t feel like crying bitter, bitter tears of impotent rage and perplexity.

B) Who wins in this? The rich white TV star. The stupid Internet has been talking about the rich white TV star nonstop for like 10 days. The rich white TV star’s fire is fueled by the oxygen of our regard. It is our gaze that permits him to burn. Without us, he is heatless and lightless. Without us, he is snuffed rapidly out. But we keep our gaze trained on him. We keep baying in our outrage and he, along with hundreds of others like him, smirk at what hapless dopes we are, and keep taking our money.

C) We seem hopelessly addicted to taking umbrage. I am old enough to remember a time when a grown-up could feel offended by something, and then PROCEED WITH THEIR LIVES AS THOUGH NOTHING MORE THAN A FEELING HAD TRANSPIRED. Now, too damn many of us are compelled to hit the brakes in a shower of sparks and squawk about our hurt, hurt feelings until we are paid heed by the media which should be devoting its shoe leather and moxie to the question of kids getting gunned down on public streets, but have grown so soft and dim that they would rather devote inch after column inch to the frothing feelings of some girl who heard objectionable words in a comedy club and had her friend write about it. 

And so then I, and by extension you, have gotten caught in the gears of this idiot machine.