Class Clown

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

When I was a kid I loved to listen to comedy albums. These days I get most of my comedy from cable TV. But back in olden times I spent hours memorizing comedy routines on vinyl LPs. My favorite comedy albums were by Bill Cosby (cringe) and Flip Wilson. Does anybody remember Flip Wilson? "The Devil made me do it!" Sometime around junior high I heard some albums by Cheech and Chong and Firesign Theater. Those were pretty cool. But the coolest comedy album I ever heard was definitely "Class Clown" by George Carlin.

Probably the first time I saw George Carlin was when he did his 'Hippy-Dippy Weatherman' routine on the Tonight Show. That was back when Johnny Carson was the host, by the way. George was probably the first counterculture comic to really break through to the big time. And TV friendly bits like 'Hippy-Dippy Weatherman' made him a Carson regular. "The forecast for this evening: dark!" But those late night TV appearances did not prepare me for the education I would receive when I first heard one of George's albums.

Of course the main reason that Class Clown was so cool was because it featured the infamous "Seven Words You Can Never Say On Television." Hearing George recite that list of taboo words was one of the most mindblowingly hilarious events of my adolescence. I had never even heard some of those words before. They were dirty. And George just blurted them out right in front of God and everybody. I'll never forget them...

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

Of course George wasn't saying them just to shock us or to blow our minds. He had a point. "They're just words, man." He was trying to reveal the hypocrisy of a society that seemed to be more concerned about what a person says than what they do. Go ahead and bomb Cambodia, lie to America, cheat, steal, kill and plunder to your hearts content. But Goddammit, watch what you say!

George had a way of making you laugh and think at the same time, which is kind of like walking and chewing gum for some people. He made comedy hip and smart, but also childish and goofy. He looked like a hippie, talked like a college professor and acted like a fool.

George's coolness factor skyrocketed, however, one seemingly normal day when I went over to my friend's house to listen to Class Clown for the hundredth time. When my friend pulled the album from its protective sleeve we noticed that the last cut on the second side had been totally scratched out with what must have been a ten penny nail. I mean these were some deep gouges. The scratches had been made by his mom in a fit of righteous indignation and long-suppressed hostility. Apparently she disapproved of the Seven Words.

My friend's mom was way too late, however, the damage had already been done. You can't unhear something. And we had more than heard that routine. We had committed it to memory. In fact, rather than erasing the evil words from our minds, she had made them indelible. And she elevated George to the status of a martyr. He was our hero. He was Saint George The Fool.

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

A couple of years later, George became even more hip when he appeared as the host of the premier of a new TV show called "NBC's Saturday Night." Although the show as being broadcast live, George did not take the opportunity to unleash the "Seven Words" upon the unsuspecting American airways. In fact, he didn't really do anything outrageous or mindblowing that night. It was just a treat to see him there on my TV set, live from New York, hosting the coolest show ever.

I did get to see George live and in person when he came to Louisville one year. The show was great. It was the first time I'd ever seen a comic onstage. Watching him work was amazing. He seemed so relaxed and comfortable, ambling around the stage using the microphone like a musical instrument. He performed for over an hour and did all the classic bits I knew from his records. Including the "Seven Words."

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

I didn't hear much from George in the Eighties. Steve Martin took over as the perennial host of SNL and became the new king of comedy. George moved over to HBO where he didn't have to worry so much about censorship. I never had cable TV in those days so I missed most of George's specials.

Late one night, sometime around the end of the Eighties, my friend Beck and I were passing a bar on the upper west side of Manhattan. They had a sign out front advertising the "Funniest Unemployed Comic" contest. As I happened to be unemployed at the time, Beck dared me to enter. It seemed harmless enough. Three minutes onstage telling jokes. I'd been onstage tons of times back with my old band the Charismatics and even more during my solo-folkie period. And how hard could it be to write a few jokes? I'm a funny guy. Piece of cake.

Not so fast, Monkey Boy! First of all, being onstage with a band is one thing. Going solo is a whole other deal. I had conveniently forgotten how difficult it was when I made the transition from rhythm guitarist in a rock band to singer-songwriter in a coffee house. No drummer to keep time. No bass. No lead singer. Just little old me. Those first few gigs were terrifying. But I got used to the drill and eventually I was an old hand. Why should comedy be any different?

Here's why: Because when you play a song, the most you expect is some polite applause at the end. And the fact is, getting an audience to applaud is pretty easy. They want to applaud anyway, so all you have to do is make sure they know when to do it. If you end your song in a very clear and obvious way, I guarantee half the audience will clap -- if only out of pure Pavlovian reflex.

When you tell a joke, on the other hand, there is a whole different expectation. You want them to laugh. And that means you need to be funny. And as any comic will tell you, "Dying is easy, comedy is hard."

The good thing about comedy is that the audience wants to laugh. They came there to laugh. All you have to do is provide the opportunity. And that's why my number one rule of comedy is: "Always put the punchline at the end of the joke." That way the audience will know exactly when they should laugh. Sounds simple, right? Yet you'd be surprised how many people tell jokes where the punchline gets buried somewhere in the middle and then they keep going. Meanwhile the audience is confused and suddenly the joke is over and nobody knows what to do.

The other thing about comedy is that it's really just talking. And talking is something I've been doing most of my life. I definitely know how to talk. I may not know how to sing or play the guitar, but I've got this talking thing down pat. So all I gotta do is write some funny jokes, get up there on stage and talk. Oh, except for one other thing. I have to remember the jokes. That shouldn't be so hard, since I am used to remembering the lyrics to hundreds of songs. But here's the thing: songs rhyme. That's a little trick invented several thousand years ago when nobody knew how to write. Make stuff rhyme and it's easier to remember. But my jokes didn't rhyme.

Also, I was terrified.

See, we happened to be in an election year and unemployment was a big issue. (Not like now.) So when the media found out there was going to be a contest for the Funniest Unemployed Comic, they pounced on it like a Congressman on an intern. The New York Times was there. The three major networks were there. CNN was there. The Goddamn BBC was there! There was a bank of TV cameras lined up against the wall and two or three tables full of journalists right down front. How's that for a little pressure your first time doing stand-up?

The house was packed. And some of the other comics were actually pretty damn good. A few of them were obviously pros. I may have been the only stand-up virgin in the bunch. I felt dizzy and sick and I was sweating like Nixon on acid. I couldn't remember my own name, much less my three-minute set. When we did a run-through I took the mike off the stand and prowled the stage Carlin-style. Not because I was trying to emulate my hero, but because my legs were shaking so much from unbridled fear that I literally could not stand still. But when it came time for the actual show, we were told we needed to stand directly in front of the mike so the TV cameras could keep us in frame. I was vibrating like a jackhammer. I could barely recall the words to my first joke. I somehow managed to croak it out.

And then a miracle happened. Everybody LAUGHED! It was a big, room-sized laugh too, not some polite ha-ha shit. I was transformed. I felt powerful and brilliant. I was still shaking uncontrollably, sweating buckets, reeling with nausea and straining to remember every single word. But I was loving it. What a rush. I scored with joke after joke. I killed. The TV cameras rolled. The journalists scribbled. Jaded cocktail waitresses smiled involuntarily. It was heaven.

I even got one of my jokes broadcast on CNN. It was about how hard it was to look for work and how I had finally given up trying to find a real job and decided to become a candidate for President. Trust me, at the time, with something like 19 Democrats in the race, the joke was replete with biting political satire. And it got me national exposure as a stand up comic. I even heard Jay Leno do a ripoff of the same joke a few nights later. I figured I was at the beginning of a new career. And it was so easy, you know, except for the queasiness, convulsions, dehydration and partial stroke.

I never did become a famous stand-up comic. Back in the nineties, apparently, every other misfit wannabe Seinfeld with approval issues decided to become stand-up too. The field became glutted. Jerry Seinfeld eventually became the new King of Comedy and soon every comic wanted his own sitcom. They even gave George Carlin a sitcom. But he wasn't suited to the format. Too confining.

At some point a bunch of morons started circulating emails featuring racist and right-wing type comments and attributing them to George. It pissed me off to think that most people who read them wouldn't know the difference. They didn't understand that George's humor had more to it than just making fun of annoying things or stupid people. George was out to enlighten us. Humor can be one of the most powerful mind-expanding tools around, when used by a master. And it doesn't have to be highbrow or "thinky" to do it.

"Shitpissfuckcuntcocksuckermotherfuckertits!"

There aren't many folks around who know how to use humor the way George did. He was like the John Lennon of comedy. I will always carry with me the lessons I learned while laughing at the things George said. I think comedy is one of the best things in life. And George made comedy even better.So, from one class clown to another: Thanks George. See you in detention.

Wesleyland

A couple of weeks ago one of the most important political figures in American history gave a speech in my backyard. Of course when I say my backyard, I don't mean that literally, since my current backyard is an alley in West Hollywood frequented by gay hustlers, vagrants and aluminum can collectors. What I am referring to is a place where I will always feel at home no matter how long I stay away, a place I feel connected to in many different ways, a place where I have a special history and which holds strong memories. It is a magical place, a mythical place, a place like no other. It is a place I call Wesleyland.

Officially, of course the name of this mythical land is Wesleyan University. It was founded in 1831 as a Methodist school for young men, but has since become known as one of the most prestigious and progressive universities in the world. It is physically located in Middletown, Connecticut which is the main reason I have such a strong connection to the place. My great-grandfather, Emmanuel "Manny" Eastman is buried in Pine Grove Cemetery in Middletown. My grandparents, Oscar and Agnes, met in Middletown. Oscar worked at the Wilcox-Crittenden factory in Middletown making marine hardware. My father, Warren and uncle Bob attended Middletown High School and both graduated from Wesleyan. I went to Wesleyan and so did my sister Susan. My nephew Chris was born in Middletown at the same hospital where my Dad was born. Susan has lived in Middletown for almost twenty years. My nephew John grew up there.

Even when I was a kid, back in Louisville, Wesleyan held a special place in my imagination. On Thanksgiving, we ate our turkey on a set of Wesleyan china, each plate featuring a different landmark from the Wesleyan campus, like Olin Library, Memorial Chapel or South College. In the summer we visited my Dad's relatives in Middletown. I still remember walking around campus in the early 70's when revolution was in the air. I knew the names of the buildings from our Thanksgiving plates. We toured the old science buildings where my Dad studied chemistry. We saw the pool where he swam on the swim team. The Wesleyan campus was an exciting mixture of old and new, familiar and strange, fantasy and reality.

But my favorite part of campus was the large open grassy field bounded by the administration buildings on the east, Fayerweather Gymnasium on the north, Olin library on the south and Foss Hill to the west. Known as Andrus Field, to me it will always be my "backyard" and the center of Wesleyland.

Back in the day, Andrus Field held an old cinder running track, a baseball diamond, and a football field with removable wooden bleachers. Students could sit on the terraced lawn behind Olin Library and watch an intramural softball game, play Frisbee on the football field, jog a few laps on the cinder track, or maybe just sit under the shade of one of the hundred year old maple trees on Foss Hill and enjoy the scenery. Nowadays the track and baseball diamond are gone, but the field still gets plenty of use. Like hosting the commencement ceremonies

When Barack Obama stood on the marble podium that rises from center of the terraced lawn, there were over 20,000 people gathered on Andrus field and Foss Hill to hear him speak. Including my parents and my sister. The biggest crowd ever recorded prior to that was 8,000 people for Wesleyan's 175th anniversary two years ago. Although I've heard that when the Grateful Dead played a free concert on Andrus Field in 1970, the place was pretty packed.

My first two years at Wesleyan, I lived in a dorm called West College which was nestled among a grove of trees on the north slope of Foss Hill. I crossed Andrus Field hundreds of times going to and from classes or over to Fayerweather Gymnasium. I ran numerous laps on the cinder track and did many a hill sprint up Foss Hill. Our cross country races began and ended at the foot of Foss Hill. Andrus Field was the scene of many official gatherings, such as Spring Fling and of course Commencement. But it was also the site of a lot of unofficial activities, like the legendary Communal Moan. In the winter we "borrowed" trays from the dining hall and used them as makeshift snowboards to slide down Foss Hill. This was years before any of us ever saw an actual snowboard.

It was during those carefree days of curiosity and experimentation that I first came up with the concept of "Wesleyland". The atmosphere at Wesleyan was so conducive to learning, growth, experimentation, and discovery that I began to see the campus less as an institution of higher learning and more like a kind of intellectual theme park. There were so many amazing things to learn, do, and experience. And as students, we were free to pick and choose whatever struck our interest. And the thing I noticed about so many of my fellow students was that they all had so many different interests and abilities. You might meet someone who was a pre-med and think of them as a "squid", a term applied to boring nerds who spent all their time studying. But the next time you saw the squid he might be playing mridungam in an avant-garde jazz ensemble. And then later the same squid might be covered with mud and tearing up the rugby field. You soon learned not to take anyone, or anything at face value.

It was not long before I realized that, although my classes were excellent and the professors of the highest caliber, I was learning as much from my fellow students as I was from my courses. There were specific examples, like my sophomore roommate Terry who introduced me to jazz, showed me how to play guitar and taught me calculus. But there were also the non-specific lessons, like my friend Andy who showed me how to take a negative situation and convert it into a positive one. Or Kevin, who taught me how to think like a writer. My friend Sindi taught me how to always be myself. Mitch taught me how to live in the moment. Nancy taught me about love.

Even after I left Wesleyan, I continued to learn from the people I met there. After graduation, during my year in Pacific Beach with Bob, I learned a lot about self-confidence. Dan has always been an example of professionalism and hard work. Dave has given me hope. Mark showed me about resilience and character. Joel was my healer and guru. Jon taught me how to feel.

When we all met each other at Wesleyan, we were students. But we were also something else. We were teachers, too. I think we will always be students, just as we will always be teachers. It's the primary function in life, to learn and to teach. I think that's what I found out at Wesleyland. And that's one of the reasons I found it so fitting to see Barack Obama speaking in my backyard two weeks ago. Obama is a great student of the human condition and he inspires people to learn more about themselves and each other. And he teaches by example that we can all continue to improve ourselves and the world around us through knowledge and understanding and passion for learning. A great leader is one who serves. And to serve is to learn.

I still have so much to learn. And the whole world is my Wesleyland.

The Marathon

Probably one of the most defining events of my life is the marathon that I ran my senior year of high school. In those days running was a pretty big part of my identity. I began running not long after my ten-speed bike was stolen right out of our front yard. That was a pretty earth-shattering experience -- to think that the criminal element had penetrated our sheltered suburban bubble on the outskirts of Louisville. But in a way, having my bike stolen opened up a whole new world to me. I became a runner.

I still remember the first time I tried to run a mile. My lungs felt scorched, my muscles ached, my feet were on fire. Apparently running was not quite as easy as pedaling. My friend Mark Bush had challenged me to go out for the cross country team with him. The team held practices over the summer in preparation for the fall season. I was trying to get in shape so I could keep up with the team. I had a long way to go.

That summer Mark moved to Lexington, so when I reported to the first practice I didn't think I would know anyone. But as it turns out, one of my classmates, Lou Armstrong, was a longtime cross-country runner. He introduced me to some of the other guys. Gary Steier was another familiar face, I had met him through Mark. Another kid, named Tommy Pfau, became something of a running yoda to the rest of us. He was immersing himself in the art of distance running and would be one of the main advocates of training for the marathon the following year.

And then there was Ray. A transfer student from across town, Ray was kind of an enigma. During the early days of summer practice, Ray often seemed to be struggling at the back of the pack, clutching his glasses in one hand and complaining of "lactic acid" build-up in his massive thighs. Eventually, Ray would become one of my closest friends as well as a world-class athlete.

That year our team won the state championship, due to a stellar lineup of seniors who had been training together for years. Lou was also among the top runners. Ray, too, had made amazing 'strides' to break into the varsity squad his first season out. In cross country, a team of seven runners competes, but only the top five finishers actually score. Their place determines their individual score: first place scores one point, second place two, and so on. The top five scores are added together and the lowest team score wins.

Senior year, due to the loss of most of our best runners, I moved onto the varsity squad. Fortunately I had kept up my training and was fairly competitive by the beginning of the season. Much of that had to do with the influence of Tommy Pfau and his doctrine of distance.

Basically, according to Tommy, the best way to improve your running was to run, and to run a lot. Ten miles a day was our average, with several thirteen milers per week. Whereas during the season, we would be focusing on shorter, faster workouts, all summer long we went for distance, distance, distance. The culmination of our summer of distance was a twenty mile run that remains one of my most cherished memories, in part because it was so much fun. We were already gearing up for the marathon that was scheduled a few weeks after the end of cross-country season. But first we had a championship to defend.

The day of the state meet the weather was cold and rainy. About fifty yards from the starting line there was a huge puddle about a foot deep that covered the entire width of the course for a good 20-30 yards. It was quite a rude shock to have to splash through all that frigid water at the start of a race. Not the best way to stay loose and warmed-up.

We were favored to win the meet since we had defeated every team on our schedule that year, including our arch rivals Trinity and St. Xavier. Trinity and "X" were the two all-male Catholic schools in our area and had always been our toughest competition. But we had our share of talent, including returning champs Lou Armstrong and Dale Sirrine, the indefatigable Ray Sharp, distance guru Tom Pfau and newcomer Jim Brill. Jim was the younger brother of one of our departed seniors who in a very short time had become one of our top scorers. I had managed to carve out a place for myself in the top seven, which entitled me to compete in the state meet.

Talent, however, will only get you so far. After that you need experience. And experience was something we were lacking. The harsh conditions of the race took their toll on our young team. Unfamiliar terrain, slippery wet grass, driving rain and bitter wind threw us off our game. We struggled to do our best, but the boys from Trinity and "X" were made of sterner stuff.

As I came up the final hill to round the bend for the long sprint back through the giant puddle to the finish line, I found myself closing in on Jim Brill. I was confused. Jim was usually one of our top three scorers. There was no way I should be anywhere near him. But here he was, face twisted in a painful grimace, hand clutching his side, urging me to pass him. But I couldn't. He was way better than I was. It didn't make sense.

Our team finished third that year, not a terrible showing, but we really should have won. I don't know how much difference it would have made if I had been able to break out of my self-imposed paralysis and pass Jim at the end. I might have lowered our score. Maybe we could have taken second. Maybe not.

The disappointment of our poor performance in the state meet only lasted a couple of weeks, though, because we now had another goal ahead of us: the marathon.

In a way, the entire cross country season was only a prelude to the marathon. This was to be the first marathon held in Louisville and we were psyched. We had all competed in the annual Derby-week mini marathon, but this was the real deal. However, the cross country season had also served as a diversion from training for the marathon. At least it had for me. The team had been focusing on increasingly shorter workouts at faster paces as we neared the end of the season in order for us to "peak" at the state meet. And in fact, I had "peaked" at the state meet, running one of my fastest races ever, despite the bad conditions. I had no doubt that I could run the marathon, but I hadn't been doing the kind of training that would allow me to run my best race. Still, I'd put in a couple of weeks of long runs between the state meet and the marathon and I felt ready.

The day of the big race was cool and overcast, which was actually just what we wanted. It's easy to overheat when you run 26 miles. A nice cool day is ideal. I ran with Tommy. We had done a lot of miles together and our running styles were very compatible. Plus I knew that Tommy had a race plan and I figured I would just tag along and follow his lead. In a long race you have to have plan and the discipline to stick to it. The first half of the race, when you are feeling good, you will tend to run faster than you should. You need to hold back a little to save your strength for the second half. Likewise, in the second half, you will feel tired and will tend to slow down, so you have to make sure you run a little faster than you want to. I knew Tommy would keep me on pace.

What I didn't know was that, unlike the rest of us, Tommy had been training for the marathon right through cross country season. He had been going out on his own after our team practices and putting in additional distance work. On the day of the marathon he was in peak condition for the long race. And we were just flying along.

I didn't realize just how fast we were going until the halfway mark, when I heard the the times being read out loud as we went by the checkpoint. We had covered the first thirteen miles in about an hour and twenty minutes. That's faster than I had run the same distance in the mini-marathon the previous spring.

"Whoa," I said to Tommy, "aren't we going a little fast?"

He shook his head. "Nope, right on pace."

That's when I realized that Tommy had a plan all right. He was planning on setting the national record for his age-group. He was a year younger than I was and the record was somewhere around 2:45. And at this pace he was going to break it.

I had no intention of setting any records. All I wanted to do was finish the race and try and break the three hour barrier that separates the men from the boys in marathon racing. But I felt great so I kept going alongside Tommy for another four or five miles.

Then I hit the wall.

You hear a lot about "hitting the wall" in marathon racing. It's when you reach the point where you have completely used up every bit of energy you body has stored and you literally have nothing left to go on. But hearing about it and experiencing it are two very different things. First of all when you hit the wall, you immediately understand why they call it hitting the wall. It's as if you slammed into an invisible plane, on one side of which you are a normal healthy individual engaged in a fairly stressful, but tolerable activity. On the other side, however, there is only misery, pain, exhaustion, weakness, and insanity.

I hit the wall around mile eighteen, which is a fairly common point to do so. Apparently human bodies can handle just about anything for eighteen miles. But go one step further and WHAM! Pain City. It's like someone took a ball peen hammer and reduced every bit of your muscle fiber to useless shreds of meat. Then they inserted a spinal tap and drained you of all essential fluids and electrolytes. Without electrolytes, your brain is like a computer with zero RAM memory. You simply cannot function. Your joints have been surgically removed and replaced with jello. You lungs have been stuffed with sawdust. All you want to do is collapse and weep like a fool. But of course you cannot weep because you are completely dehydrated.

And you still have eight miles to go.

Quitting was just not an option. I had worked too hard to fulfill this dream. And what I lack in foresight, I make up for with sheer bull-headedness. I just kept running.

This was quite a lonely stretch of the race. People had gotten pretty spaced out by now and I was in a daze, running an endless loop. Occasionally I had to stop and walk, but not for too long. There were a few aid stations along the way where I gulped down water and Gatorade. But I knew all too well that these attempts at replenishment were futile. It was far too late for them to do me any good. You need to take aid at the beginning of the race for it to have any effect. Whatever I was drinking at this point would only sit in my stomach unprocessed until the race was over. But it still felt good to stop and drink something.

Meanwhile, in order to keep myself going, I had a secret weapon. Her name was Mary.

I'd had a crush on Mary since I saw her walk into English class the first day of sophomore year. But Mary was way out of my league. She was captain of the cheerleaders and dated the captain of the basketball team. I was just a nerdy cross country runner. But besides being beautiful and smart, Mary was also very cool. We eventually became buddies. I even took her to a dance once. It was one of the greatest nights of my life. She never made me feel awkward or stupid. She was the perfect woman.

As it turned out, Mary's father worked for a company that was sponsoring the marathon. Mary had said she would be working one of the aid stations along the race route. I hadn't seen her yet, so I knew she must still be up ahead. I couldn't let Mary see me hobbling along in agony and defeat, so anytime I rounded a bend I picked up my pace a little just in case she was there. Mary kept me going mile after mile. Call it pride or delusion or teenage lust, but Mary was my beacon. And I never stopped.

Nor did I ever see Mary. She never made it to the race. Something else had come up. Probably just as well, the thought of basking in the glow of her lovely smile as she handed me a cup of orange Gatorade is what kept me moving forward. Seeing her might have broken the spell.

I never did find out my official time in the marathon. My number got lost in the shuffle. My Dad was watching the clock, though, when I came across the finish and he said my time was 3:11. That's a pretty respectable time for a first marathon, but I didn't break the magic three hour barrier. If I had run a smarter race, I would have broken it easily. But it didn't matter. I had done it, I had finished. And I had overcome much greater difficulties than I could have possibly imagined. I knew a lot more about myself now. I knew that no matter how tough things get, I will never give up.

Tommy set the national record for his age group, beating the previous record by several minutes. He was on fire that day. We both ended up going to Wesleyan and running on the cross country team together. I never did run another marathon. At least not yet.

But the lesson of the marathon has always stayed with me. It has to do with believing in yourself no matter what happens. And persevering when you have a goal, despite the obstacles.

I haven't seen Mary for years. Ray and I visited her once when she was at UNC. She was as wonderful as ever. I spoke to her on the phone last year when I called my friend Gary at our high school reunion. She sounded great. That Louisville accent just melts me. I never did tell her what a big part she played in what has become one of my most important accomplishments. Maybe someday I will.

Pretty soon I will reach the ten year anniversary of my arrival in Hollywood. At times my dream of becoming a screenwriter seems a lot like running a marathon. Only with no end in sight. But I know I can keep going. And I know that I will reach my goal. Even if I hit the wall.