Messiah Simplex

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Kramer Hates Niggers!

I, like most of you, have been witness to the uproar over Michael Richards' onstage explosion at The Laugh Factory. I've seen the footage, along with the news reports. I saw Richards' apology on Letterman last night, with Kramer's former boss, Jerry Seinfeld conveniently present on the Letterman stage.

We all know the story by now. The former Seinfeld cast member and longtime improv/sketch actor is now doing standup. He was at the LA club doing his act, and was "heckled" by a black audience member. His response was a lengthy tirade, peppered with more use of the word "nigger" than was in the movie "American History X". And now there is scandal. People are up in arms. They are outraged. It's all over the news and the Internet. How could he do such a thing? The zany Kramer, screaming "nigger".......unbelievable!

I went to YouTube and watched the entire video of the incident, which includes much more than what was shown on the tv news. You should do the same. I studied the video like Oliver Stone going over the Zapruder film, and then I studied the Letterman appearance....and I've come to some conclusions.

As you may or may not know, I worked as a Private Investigator prior to entering the glamorous world of comedy. My "bullshit detector" is in pretty good working order, as are my comedy skills, if I do say so myself. Working as a comic, learning from so many talented people, one picks up some intuition as far as things comedic. My "comedic eye" is more focused than, say, your average plumber's. But hey, I can't fix a toilet, so we're even.

As I looked at the footage of Richards' onstage breakdown, I could only think one thing: Andy Kaufman. This tirade is classic Kaufman. This is Kaufman yelling at the crowd at wrestling matches, saying that women are inferior. This is Kaufman in the deep South, screaming that southern people are ignorant. This is Kaufman refusing to do standup when he was booked to do exactly that, instead, reading "The Great Gatsby", or playing records. This is Kaufman as Tony Clifton, berating the crowd. This is performance art. A bit of history here:

In the 70s, the heavily populated LA comedy scene included 3 up and coming comics. Michael Richards, Andy Kaufman and David Letterman.

In February of 1981, Andy Kaufman, now famous, served as guest host for a "Saturday Night Live" ripoff called "Fridays". While hosting the live program, Kaufman flipped out and refused to do a sketch. This resulted in a cast member walking off stage, grabbing the cue cards, and throwing them at Kaufman. Kaufman then threw a glass of water in the face of the cast member, and a physical fight ensued, which ended up involving several members of the cast and crew. The program went to commercial, and everybody was outraged and shocked at Kaufman's unhinged behavior. Later, he made a public, very sincere apology. Years after, it was reveled that the entire incident had been staged for shock value. A social experiment, if you will. The kind of thing at which Kaufman excelled and delighted. One of the few people who was "in on" the joke was cast member Michael Richards, the one who grabbed the cue cards and got the water thrown at him.

In 1982, Andy Kaufman was involved in a very public fued with Wrestling legend Jerry Lawler. The two of them did an exhibition match where Lawler seriously injured Kaufman, and Kaufman made several public statements about his intent to sue. 3 months later, the two of them agreed to appear on Letterman's show to try to patch things up. The appearance became confrontational, with Kaufman engaging in name-calling, and Lawler ultimately smacking Kaufman out of his chair. Kaufman then stormed off the set, screaming obscenities. After Kaufman's death, Lawler revealed that the entire thing had been a carefully planned set up. It was all just a bit, and Letterman was involved.

Michael Richards' fiasco at The Laugh Factory was performance art. He was employing a touch of Lenny Bruce's technique of trying to teach us that words are only words, and they only have as much power as we allow. He was throwing that into the pot with a heavy dose of Kaufman-esque standup, where the joke is on the audience. The secret to doing this style of comedy is to never let the audience off the hook. A keen observer will be able to tell what's really going on, but the crowd will be duped everytime. Michael Richards is nowhere near as skilled at this as Kaufman was, nor as hip as Lenny was, so his execution of the concept falls short. If you watch the entire 2:49 seconds of footage from the club appearance, you will see him make 2 mistakes. Early on, in what is supposed to be an uncontrollable rage, he calmly addresses the audience and makes reference to how "shocking" his outburst is. Then he's back to rage. But the biggest error in execution (and the most significant indicator that this was a performance art piece) is at the very end. Just before walking off stage, Richards calmly says:

"You see? There's still those words. Those words. Those words".

The Letterman appearance is part of the act. Letterman, who participated in the Kaufman scam, is an active participant in this one. As is Jerry Seinfeld, Richards' former boss. Some of you will recall that several months back, Richards, during a club appearance, went off in much the same fashion about "The Jews". Seinfeld publicly condemed his comments, but the incident didn't get much play. That was the set up. This one is the punchline. Watch the entire footage of the Letterman appearance and you'll see a piece that greatly resembles Kaufman's public apologies. Right down to Michael Richards refering to blacks as "Afro-Americans", a term he's using to try to seem sensitive, but really enrage more. He's playing out of the same book. The only problem is that he's not doing it well enough. He's a little clumsy, and he's too interested in making sure we get it. Never explain the joke. Where Kaufman never did, I fear Michael Richards will have to. America doesn't have a sense of humor anymore, and we certainly aren't comfortable examining our our prejudices and preconceived notions about one another.

Controversy sells tickets and puts asses in chairs. It made Lenny and Andy legends. Sadly, Michael Richards is not in the same league. Not even the same sport.

Joke em' if they can't take a fuck,

Gull

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Sunday, November 12, 2006

Playing With Fire

So, last evening I somehow came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea to start my hand on fire. After a 10 or 12 second episode with my left extremity engulfed in flame, I was left with a rapidly blistering hand, as well as equally rapidly increasing pain. As I stood in my bathroom watching the flesh on my hand turn white and curl, I could only think one thought: I belong in an emergency room.

But I didn't go. Seeing clearly the damage that I had done, I resisted what I knew was the correct course of action. I instead looked for another way to deal with the problem. I made a phone call to my ex-wife, an RN. She of course told me to go immediately to an emergency room. I responded by getting in my car and driving directly to Walgreens, on the hunt for some sort of magical burn cream that would allow me to bypass what was needed. As I paced the aisles of the pharmacy, I spotted an older, grandmotherly fellow shopper. She, I decided, would direct me to the magical product I sought. I approached my silver-haired saviour, thrust my damaged digits in her face, and asked her what I should do.

"Go to a goddamned emergency room."

Not the response I was looking for. I explained to her that I would prefer to treat this myself, and she walked me over to the first aid section, where we selected a product. As I walked away from her, she advised me once again that what I needed was an emergency room. Once home, I applied the miracle cure to my wounds. What had previously been a 7 on the 1 to 10 pain scale immediately shot up to a 46, and I washed the crap off, now almost crying from the pain. I paced my house, holding my wounded paw, considering my options. Called the ex again and told her what had happened. She once again advised me that I was a moron who needed to be in an emergency room. I got off the phone, unsatisfied with her answer. Now I really put some thought into it. Then it came to me. I have to go to the emergency room.

As I drove myself to the nearest E.R., hand sticking out the window to cool in the frigid night air, I was sure it was now too late. Even though I had finally come to my senses, I knew I had done permanent damage to myself, and even the best efforts of the doctors would not be enough. I registered and took a seat in the waiting room next to a woman who had a javelin sticking out of her hear or something. Finally, they called my name, and I was seen by a doctor.

In remarkably short order, they had managed my pain, treated my burns and dressed the wounds.

Today, as I reflect on the events of last night, there are messages that jump out at me.

1) Don't play with fire - - - You really WILL get burned.
2) My refusal to do what needed to be done had resulted in unneccessary pain, but as soon as I committed to the needed course of action, the problem was solved. Sometimes we see what we need to do, and for reasons that only make sense to ourselves, we resist. I have to correct this in all areas of my life, and not wait until it could be too late to repair the damage done. Go with the gut. Do what needs to be done.
3) I can be a complete dumbass.

XOXO

Gull

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Tuesday, November 07, 2006

Smell My Neck

Last week, at my twice-monthly Former Child Star Support meeting, Danny Bonaduce practically begged me to kick his ass. From the moment I sat down, the chubby redheaded “Partridge Family” bastard would not stop looking at me.

As that little gay kid from “Who’s The Boss” told an emotionally-charged story about Tony Danza’s legendary flatulence, Bonaduce continued to taunt me with his icy stare. He was relentless. But I was holding strong, and was not going to be cajoled into a fight. I did my best to ignore his unblinking gaze and tried to get as much as I could out of the meeting.

You see, these regular FCSS meetings are the only things that keep me grounded and sane during the crazy times in my roller coaster life. When Scott Baio and I were doing our one-man show together and the negative reviews started pouring in, I was hitting like four meetings a week. The life of a former child star is impossible to understand unless you’ve lived it. That’s why all my friends are fellow former child stars. We get each other. When things get to be too much, I have only to recite my mantra: “What would Eddie Munster do?”

So naturally, you can see how important these meetings are to me. Bonaduce trying to bust up my healing groove could only mean one thing: he had seen my recent interview on “Access Hollywood” and was jealous. Let me just say this. I didn’t even want to do the stupid show, but given all the recent developments in my career, the media has been all over me. That’s why they call it a comeback. The media pays attention. It’s not my fault, man. I only work my craft. Plus, who can blame them for interviewing me? I am a pretty interesting guy. The interview was only supposed to be a light fluff piece, with me talking about my massive comeback and sharing cute anecdotes from my days on “The Odd Couple.” But it ended up being a Pulitzer Prize-winning, in-depth slice of journalism. And Danny Bonaduce was pissed. Not my fault if you suck, Danny Partridge!

The support meeting turned ugly when Tootie from “The Facts Of Life” refused to spit out her gum. All hell broke loose, and Screech started to cry so hard he was convulsing. It was at that point that I confronted Bona-douche-bag. Because I’m a calm, even-tempered chap, I quietly and politely inquired as to whether Danny would like me to punch him in his stupid face. He responded by throwing scalding hot coffee in my eyes and stabbing me in the breadbasket with his Swiss Army knife. Now, anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I really hate being stabbed. Right then, the man in the back said “Everyone Attack” and it turned into a ballroom blitz.

Chairs, coffee cups, shoes and broken dreams flew through the air as we all showed what we were made of. Gary Coleman and that other little black kid, the one from “Webster,” ran around biting people on the crotch while I held both Punky Brewster in a figure four leg lock AND Bonaduce in a sleeper hold at the same time. The Brady kids had Valerie Bertinelli trapped in a corner and were beating her without mercy. Scott Baio, who has always been my right-hand man, injected Bonaduce with Windex while I had him down.

After what seemed like hours, Danny finally stopped moving. By this time, the other fisticuffs had also died down. Todd Bridges wouldn’t stop whining about not being able to feel his legs and in all there were four fatalities, not counting Danny Bonaduce. In a panic, Baio and I carried Danny’s lifeless form to Baio’s car just as Neil Patrick Harris was arriving at the meeting – late as usual. He was muttering something about having a big announcement to make. No need, Doogie Howser… we already knew you were gay.

As Chachi and I drove around in his Ford Festiva looking for a place to dump Bonaduce’s corpse, “Blinded By The Light” came on the radio. We cranked the volume and sang every word at the top of our lungs. It was so fun!

“Mama always told me not to look into the eyes of the sun…”

Man, that Springsteen can write a song. I don’t much care for him singing that one – I much prefer the Manfred Mann version. Classic! And on the subject of classics, Bat Out Of Hell III just came out, and it kicks ass. If you loved the original Bat Out Of Hell, do go out and pick up this new one. Meat Loaf sounds great, and the songs are over the top with dramatic arrangements that definitely stay true to the Bat tradition. Cheesy, operatic rock at its best!

I love that new show, "Studio 60" (NBC, Mondays at 9:00 Central). Check it out if you get the chance. Amanda Peet is on it.

That’s all for now,

Gull

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Sunday, October 29, 2006

Stay Away From Me

Here’s a thought. If your IQ is lower than the top speed of your car, stay away from me. Yeah, that’ll work out nicely for everyone. It appears I reached my “dealing with dumbasses” quota sometime in the late 90s, and just can’t seem to muster the tolerance anymore. Sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

Where are my manners? I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Michael Gull and I’ll be occupying this space until enough of you demand my removal. I’m a 41 year-old divorced dad who performs in comedy clubs and casinos. Prior to embarking on my illustrious standup comedy career five years ago, I was a private investigator who had the pleasure of examining, up close, the worst of what we humans do to one another. I voted for Reagan twice, own a gun, and pretty much survive on coffee and cigarettes with the occasional bourbon dessert thrown in. That’s enough background for now.

Here’s another thought. If you are under the impression that you have the right to tell other people how to live, stay far away from me. If you’re heterosexual, your opinion on gay marriage is meaningless. Unless you have a uterus, you don’t have anything legitimate to say about abortion. Your religious morals do not give you the right to make the rules for anyone but you and your unfortunate children. Never forget that. Oh yeah, and stay away from me.

Others who are invited to steer clear of me include: white guys who call each other “bro;” anyone who claims to know the “truth” about 9/11; Bernie Mac; anybody who thinks Green Day is a punk band; people with that white spit thing that travels from their top to bottom lip when they speak; each and every person who claims to have a personal relationship with a guy who died 2,000 years ago; the morons who use the teachings of the aforementioned dead guy as a weapon; people who suddenly loved Christopher Reeve after he became paralyzed; and – though this in no way completes the list – anyone who can name the last three winners of American Idol, but can’t name three members of Congress.

Again, if any of the above applies to you, please stay far away from me at all times. Never engage me in conversation. Never tell me about your god. Never make eye contact with me.

Unless you have a lazy eye. I find lazy eye highly entertaining and will talk to anyone possessing one, regardless of how stupid or misguided that person may be.

Gotta go. I miss you already.

Gull

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