I’ve been thinking about all the internet junk we leave behind and how it amounts to digital pollution.
It’s like the garbage bags that float in the ocean or the space debris that orbits our planet. We create and leave behind so many email addresses, dating profiles and competition entries.
You know that every time you create a fake Facebook account to stalk your ex, someone out there has to switch on a server? A server that requires electricity, air conditioning and extra RAM, just because you need to see how happier she is without you?
We also forget the other possibility that with all this information we keep feeding into this beast could fill it up. What if one day we’re all signing up to a new form of social media and the Internet sends us all a message that says “insufficient space.”
And in voice we’ll all yell, “Awww fuck,” in so many languages.
Tomorrow I wouldn’t mug you for your car, I’d mug you for your email address. The government will send out messages, “please delete your unwanted Twitter accounts. For only 1 Gig free, you can provide an African child with an untapped source of self-esteem issues, and the opportunity to achieve unsustainable relationships…online.”
Ok, so it’s not quite possible for the Internet to fill up. But what if the Cloud acts exactly like a Cloud? When it gets heavy with water, it begins to rain. What will The Cloud do? Will my computer burst open and out will Coe this huge avalanche of cat videos, blog posts and dick pics hitting you in the face?
My question is would you prefer a big picture of a dickpic hitting you in the face, or a picture of a huge dick hitting you in the face?
At first, it’s awkward, then a little familiar, but if you don’t keep a close eye on it, it can tell you to move out and warn you never to try and contact it via its mother.
And like the incongruent facade of everyday courting, comedy is very match a game of cat-mouse-promoter. Can you impress a crowd of people immediately, can you keep the crowd interested, can you give them your number and they’ll call you back three days later asking when the next gig is?
I hate dating. I form relationships with people I can relate to, but if I can’t “get” someone the first time I might as well try to wrangle emotion from a cooking pot in Brazil.
So why can’t we skip to the relationship part?
You know you’re in a relationship when you can make that transition of starting your day with someone by saying, “Good day, how do you do?”, and move on to the best of speeches first thing in the morning, the eloquent yet subtle threesome-hinting, “Hey, sexy, when’s your mom coming over? She could bake a cake for us, y’know? Make the place smell nice, eh?”
When a new comedian struts onto the stage, nobody knows him and no one cares. They have no reason to, and for that 5 minutes he’s on stage, he needs to give the entire audience that beautiful emotional connection we all suffer from similarly in personal relationships… to make an entire crowd give a f*** and, for what it’s worth that evening, laugh like crack-addicted hyenas.
That’s a great start to a funky courtship.
We feel it when we get off-stage and audience members slap us on the shoulder or shake our hand afterwards. It’s an AMAZING feeling once we’ve performed a killer set, having Nancy who lives 100 kilometres away, attended the show by happenstance and approach me afterwards with the words…
“I wish you were my boyfriend.”
But, for the many and the not too few, just being likeable is our biggest hurdle we first have to overcome. Just like Wayne Rooney and his ugly face.
To explain, I bemoan this Atlas-style weight on my own persona yet love the self-imposed social exile, but I do enjoy the company of people so long as I relate to them, and therein lies my own natural flaw. If I can’t relate to everybody, everybody can’t relate to me, and so on.
And therein lies the difference between success and obscurity.
To the average I’m-not-doing-this-to-be-famous comedian who is only doing this “for a laugh”, he must be ticking all the box on the application form they handed to him at comedy school:
“You don’t know how to speak to people.” Tick.
“You’re never going to open up your vulnerability to everybody.” Tick.
“You won’t bother to search within yourself for the answers.” Tick.
“Congratulations, you’re a mediocre comedian. Please agree.” Tick.
And it’s a easy trap to fall in.
So back to the golden cow of an analogy I began with: what makes look like you’re good in the sack to one lady, a sack of opportunity to a promoter, and a laughable sack of amaze-balls to a throng of people seeking a new hero? Your eyes, nose, mouth? Torso, legs, arms? Your speech, your laugh, your witticisms and banter? Do you feel confident, or are you playing the subdued type? Is it tumultuous even for you to flourish as an excitable human being in the notion that people might be put off with your energy, or do you feel they’ll accept you as a tiny footnote in their personal history?
With all the rules we follow to learn how to make a night special, winning the popularity contest is just as important as being funny. But you don’t really have to bulk up and perform cosmetic surgery with cellotape on your nose to straighten it up. You just need a SELLING POINT, that one beautiful feature that will get the crowds coming to the show to watch you make a mockery of the English language and teaching dumb people dumber things.
And it’s the same with the opposite sex (or same sex, I can’t keep up). They need to know what makes you YOU.
Don’t try and mimic the same that walk around meandering through life with half-eaten prepositions and constant of the word, “umm”, find the true you, feel naked, stand up, be counted, and then throw away the box with the ballots in. Your uniqueness stands you above what the others make you. “Oh look, he’s another comedian.”
Yes but NEVER! You’re a f***ing FUNNY comedian with something unique with which to make people laugh!
FINDING YOUR HOLY GRAIL
Seth Godin put it straight in his “Ideavirus” booklet he gave away on his website (in an interview, “At first it hit 3000 downloads, which isn’t a lot.” – shuddup). It’s selling your idea of yourself to the crowd in order for it to spread around until everyone want to knows about it. Kunt and the Gang is a prime example.
This man fills a very unique niche, if you ever get a chance to see him live. He stands up on stage, wearing a tracksuit and a ridiculous wig, has a gold tooth, bit of a geezer, plays karaoke-style background music and sings atrociously about private parts and masturbation. I like to call his work “clunge comedy”. It’s Bernard Manning for sex with shitty puppets.
And the bugger sells out rooms each and every time.
Kunt himself is a decent bloke but still a dirty git, he’s just found it ridiculously easier being himself and playing to the narcissism and backward behaviour of the crowd who feel too spoonfed by the media in terms of “what’s appropriate” and are shouting internal, “Even liberalism can get dull once in a while, you know!”
If there’s something missing from your character that you feel, should you have the courage to dig it out from deep within that dark mire of a soul that festers under the ambiguity of your existence, it’s time to stand back, look at yourself whenever you’re up there wasting people’s time and ask yourself:
“Who the hell am I?
‘Cos I tell you, if you’re going to continue down this path selling yourself short trying to woo every Martha and Stacy who walks over you like a beige coat with spare change in a pocket with a hole it, you’re going to end up what I fear to become…
While I was away in London, my mother grew up and became a savvy granny.
She’s a 71 year-old Margaret Thatcher matriarch of the Portuguese community within Cape Town’s Northern Suburbs, with fellow residents from as far afield as Paarl travelling down to get their age-old sequin dresses hemmed and stitched by her soft and wrinkled yet experienced hands. She doesn’t quite skateboard down steep hills or listen to thrash metal locked away in her bedroom but, like a teenager squabbling to her parents for the next Nokia, she seeks out new experiences with youthful aplomb. Keep Reading
Anyway, so I’ve been thinking about which movies to look forward to in the new year or next, and thinking that I’d like for people to get to know me more, I thought that not only do I forward through recommendations of trailers I like, but also what I think of them.
Colin Farrell takes over the remake reins from Arnie in what should be August’s most talked-about science fiction reworking since Metropolis director Fritz Lang thought, “Wow, wouldn’t a typewriter look cool in gold with boobs?”
After the mind-warping process instigated by a TMZ-inspired John Cho in awful but futuristic peroxide hair, Douglas Quaid is bestowed with lightning reflexes and quick-trigger tenacities while being assisted convolutedly by Jessica Biel driving a floating car, keeping the setting in line with all of Phillip K. Dick’s endless supplies of short stories.
The fact that Kate Beckinsale fills Sharon Stone’s role as the semi-demon wife wishing ill-will on his person makes the whole two-minute affair avoiding yet another episode of How I Met Your Mother on my family’s television extremely appealing and gives the “share this on Facebook” factor extremely high.
Craigslist Joe rides the Morgan Spurlock wave with a new, possibly bland, protagonist (albeit a guy that seems like he’s condoms with all three girlfriends in his life, at least) as he tries to pinpoint how social media broke down America’s sense of community by living completely off Craigslist, evil competitor to antipodean powerhouse Gumtree, for one month.
And by living off, I mean have no contact with friends or family, travelling through America asking for room and board in exchange for potential users seeking favours of any kind. In one scene, <insert cute voice> our hero <close cute voice> helps a middle-aged woman addicted to hoarding various goods with organising her hapless little junk empire, so that he may have a piece of bread and a floor to sleep on.
I can’t help but feel jealous from this ultra-scary but über-cool attempt (ok, it’s not that scary if he had a camera crew following him everywhere) at travelling hassle-free of job-searching and paying tax, while establishing the fundamental flaw of America’s sociological make-up through the beginning of the 21st Century. One brief positive note: he loses a lot of weight along the way.
Cue Hollywood sabbatical diet treatment?
There are few men in this that can do what they like and actually can claim, with absolute sincerity, that they bring joy to the world, with everyone else agreeing with those people AND without fear of violent reprisal. That excludes President al-Assad of Syria (in fact, all presidents), Lord Sebastian Coe of the London Olympics, the South African Consulat representative in London that was an absolute bastard towards me, and a Somalian child soldier.
Who is included is Family Guy creator Seth McFarlane, and for that sir, I thank you…graciously, for sending us Ted, his first motion picture that nearly almost avoided animation whatsoever if it didn’t include an animated teddy bear that humps a supermarket scan machine to impress a pretty girl.
Alongside Mark Wahlberg, sporting incredible magical powers as a little boy that wills his plush toy into existence, Ted grows up fuelled by an overactive sex-drive and a penchant for bong-smoking afternoons on the couch. But like any dirty-talking best friend, he gets ousted from the shared apartment by Mark’s needy girlfriend Mila Kunis, voice of the ever-denied, ever-hated and totally diatribed Meg Griffin.
I want to see this wonderful movie made by the world’s luckiest man (he missed boarding one of the 9/11 planes while en-route to pitch Family Guy to Fox) and, being stuck here in South Africa, I can’t wait for it to reach our boxed-in shores.