An Early Christmas Card, Dammit

This essay will contain four-letter words.

I have learned to loathe Scrooges. I do not use that Dickensian term in it's financially, fiduciary sense. I don't hate him for his love of the free market and how it cures all ills. It's for his pure hatred and disdain of Christmas.

He hated the warmth and sweetness of humanity that bubbled to the surface every time December rolled around. He thought it was fake and phony and for the weak-minded. Scrooge believed Christmas was for children and the immature.

He thought it was all a lie. Well, fuck him.

I honest to God don't believe in anything out there. (See, I had a little wordplay there. Words are neat!) Yeah, I'm not spiritual and I don't wear ugly holiday sweaters and I don't volunteer at the mission and I don't dress up as Santa and I've never been on Christmas vacation to anywhere and I've never been on a sleigh ride. But for me, at this very moment, prepping for my thirty-sixth Christmas season, I want everyone to know this: Have a great Christmas. Seriously. Do it.

Why, you ask? When I seem so jaded and angry and I am so very frustrated with my Mondays through Fridays? I know the Santa myth and I know the true history of Christmas as a market ploy in the 1850's, and that Jesus was born in March or something. I know the economy is in shambles. I know. I'm a big boy.

But this is, for millions of bored, sad and irritated Americans, the most fun we can have all year. And its good fun. You know, family-type fun; that stuff we all say we should have more of? I know it doesn't center around spoiled rotten bitches on TV, and there aren't strippers and mixed martial arts or gritty crime dramas…but there are those stupid pointless aspects of life to consider; those little spurs in our collective boots with have to dust of from time to time. Friendship. Good spirits. Selflessness. Reflection.

This is that time when we remind ourselves of who we are and where we want to go. It's almost painful to fight deep soulful reflection. Maybe it will bum you out, but you have to do it. We all do. Just give something. It can't hurt.

It is a spiritual reset. It is a mental rest. Society alters itself briefly. This is the time for tradition and obligation and going out of your way. Things change direction for a bit. It should be like a party. Go to one. Cater one. Plan one.

Celebrate whatever. Do it your own way. Spend a lot of money at the brilliantly decorated mall or make everything by hand. Go to church or hang out with your family who probably miss you.

Just don't give me the hackneyed speech about Christmas being a scam or a sham or completely bought and packaged and sold to us in plastic containers. Shut the hell up. You and all the jack-off Scrooges like you are totally killing my mistletoe buzz.

A Film Review Roughly 74 Years Too Late

(I tried to get a writing gig a while back and submitted this movie review along with other things that didn't get me hired. While I chew on bitterness, read my by-the-numbers review.)

There is an increasing amount of people out there who flat out refuse to watch old movies. Either they believe there is no way the movie could say anything meaningful to them, or they are allergic to wool suits and women who wear skirts instead of pants. I've tried dozens of times to steer a few people toward a little 50's film noir, Hitchcock, or Casablanca. (Why would you not want to see that film?!) But I am rejected and dismissed over and over. Usually what follows is an uncomfortable scene where I have to feign interest in the unfettered excitement toward Jessica Alba and Nick Cage's latest disasters.

Now when I try this, I use a true personal story about an American classic, It Happened One Night. It works. It draws their attention away from Kate Hudson in Hi-Def long enough to get them sucked in.

I was a sophomore in college in 1998 or so. I took a Film Studies course to compliment my major, and to watch free film on a big screen. During the semester, we took in among others: Life Is Beautiful, Trois Hommes et un Couffin, Pulp Fiction and, to my delight, It Happened One Night. It was the first movie to win the Big Five at the Oscars and I've always heard great things about it.

The pain is, I was older than my classmates by six or seven years, and the bulk of them were more interested copying homework or chatting in the back of the auditorium than watching great movies. Nineteen year-olds with no serious interest in anything then sleeping off some Natural Light or having inane conversations about The Real World. I wanted to watch the film and I wanted them to shut up for ninety minutes.

Within the first ten of the movie; silence. They were riveted. Four hundred kids, born in the eighties, sat eagerly in a darkened theater watching a movie that was older than their grandparents. Hell, its three years older than John McCain.

Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert had immediate chemistry that somehow enthralled a twenty-first century crowd. The story was simple. A hapless reporter finds a missing rich girl who is supposed to marry some famous millionaire. We knew what was going to happen next. This was a romantic comedy; from which a flurry of film plot points is taken. The penniless road trip through the backwoods of the United States, the mismatched lovers who can't express their attraction, the obligatory choice between keeping the woman you love or letting her go. The film is so sexually repressed it's hilarious. Colbert's leg in stockings is used to stop a car while hitchhiking. Scandalous before WWII; sweet and silly now. But the sophomores loved it. Whispers of "Spaceballs!" could be heard toward the end of the film. Mel Brooks spoofed the entire climactic wedding scene. At least they were paying attention.

It is the differences; the same reason people avoid classic films that make this movie a must-see. Clark Gable's antiquated looks and mannerisms are the predecessors of Tom Hanks' smirky jokes and the allure of pop figures like Patrick Dempsey. Gable was haggard and rough around the edges but looked good in a suit. Colbert's beauty is from the remnants of the Prohibition era. Her catty smiles and comebacks were so out of place to a 1930's audience but are commonplace today.

It Happened is a familiar story in black and white; before CGI and a pumped up R & B soundtrack. Somehow director Frank Capra, (You've at least seen It's A Wonderful Life, right? Come on!) kept a fun, fast-paced comedy without the help of Katrina and the Waves' "Walking on Sunshine". No sappy Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey stinking up the screen with insincere clichés. The zany antics were kept to a minimum and the lack of pandering was incredibly refreshing.

When the final scene came, (it’s a romantic comedy, you know the ending) applause and whistles rumbled through the crowd as the lights popped on. It was the only film that semester where everyone stayed for the end.

If you love the movies, you have to back and rummage through some classics. Your fears are unfounded. Sure It Happened One Night was released in 1934, but it collected Oscars, drew fans and pleased critics for seven decades to come.

Dad, When Did You Know You Were A Smart-Ass?

I've had two conversations in the last week about being funny. I don't mind saying it: I'm funny. Whether or not it translates into the written word is another matter; although I think I can write the funny, too. The conversations were with my son. He has a speech he has to give and there needs to be some funny in there, and the other topic was keeping funny socially during the hormonal cesspool that is high school.

But I began to wonder about Funny and all things in my life that revolve around Funny and how to try and explain that to people who appreciate funny but do not necessarily create or reproduce the Funny.

I though about it today by a duck pond, where I do all of my super important thinking these days. I have to admit it. I am obsessed with being funny. I'm also obsessed with laughing at funny things. If I am brutally honest with myself, it's the only talent I've ever practiced. Almost all of my motives have a trace amount of the yearning to make another human beings laugh behind them. This could be a very sad realization or the ray of light that beams down through the pine tree in my backyard, sidestepping the power lines and nearly missing the defunct ceiling fan to hit me square in the melon.

I was funny to meet friends and have fun with them. It's all I brought to the party. I used funny to get girls' attention. I use it to stay somewhat interesting to my wife. I use it to stay close to my kids.

But I also use it to stave off depression when life is boring and dull and uneventful. I use it to help others who are probably in the same boat and who would probably depress me if I didn't beat them to the conversational punch with a little observational ha-ha.

When my son asked me about comedy tips, I was a little stuck. It's difficult to explain how to be funny. Or, in essence, create an environment where your jokes are funny.

The truth is, if my kids weren't all that funny, I wouldn't care. Everyone knows it's just a defense. It’s a shield. I'd rather my kids be in the audience somewhere laughing and go home to a stable life and a real job. Funny people are in pain. They just want everyone around them to feel better. They constantly paint nearby walls with vibrant colors. The cans get heavy; when you walk around with them your entire life.

Man, my metaphors suck.

Here is my advice:

1) Steal. If it's just you and your friends, steal material like all the professional comedians do. References, old comedy bits, scenes from movies… I know these are tried and true, but I do suggest you dig deep. Don't quote something that just came out. Wait until the body is cold and in the ground before you dig it up.

2) Inflection. The reason you aren't funny has nothing to do with material. It's your voice and your timing. Some people have it and some people copy it. I suggest you steal again. Don't listen to what your favorite comedians say, just how they say it. They all have a rhythm and a tempo. I would also avoid straying too far from your demographic. Pasty white guys should not copy Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle, just like Latin guys would sound strange mimicking Jerry Seinfeld or Larry the Cable Guy. Although, I'm not saying that wouldn't be an interesting stage act.

3) Know your audience. I like to make people laugh. As a byproduct, I don't really care if they think I'm funny. See the difference? My goal is to get the laugh and set the other person at ease, even for five seconds. My attitude and life and personality is not the subject. The sense of humor of the other person is all that matters. You can't have the same act for everyone. That's how you get fired or divorced or arrested or your ass whipped.

Also, not everyone is in the mood for your crap all of the time. The timing of the joke is just as important as the timing of when to tell it. Use it sparingly.

4) Listen. Hey, funny guy…do you hear any laughs? Does anyone find that borderline sexist joke the least bit funny? Has the old broad with the designer eyepatch that works at the reception desk ever laughed at any of your zany comments? Comedy isn't like painting, writing or music. You can instantly tell if you've succeeded. No laffy, no funny.

For the love of God and the ghosts of Carlin and Pryor, if no one's laughing, you ain't funny. If they aren't smiling and giggling and giving you something back, you blew it. You need to regroup. Maybe abandon Funny. Try being Helpful or Kind. The world needs a lot of that, too.