Wednesday, October 20, 2004

The Scales of Justice, Hipster Clowns, and a Half-Baked Theory

About a month ago, my upstairs neighbour informed me that she had received an eviction notice from our landlord, ostensibly because she keeps four cats in her apartment but actually because he wants to jack up the rent on her apartment by a grossly illegal amount. This news disturbed me greatly because (a) I quite like my neighbour, despite her obsessive and slightly prying tendencies, (b) I myself have two cats which could easily be used as a pretense for my own eviction at any time, and (c) my landlord is a greedy, lying, negligent bastard who deserves to be shot. (See Fall.)

My neighbour contested the eviction, and after waiting nervously for three long weeks she has just received the court’s decision: she won! Hooray! I suppose this proves that there is, very occasionally, justice in the world; that good guys sometimes do win; and that quasi-socialist separatist governments are, on balance, a good thing.

On a completely unrelated note, I went to a clown cabaret the other night which I‘m sorry to say wasn’t especially funny. Most of the performers, though thankfully not all, were young hipster types who demonstrated both an appalling lack of the physical skills that are essential to good clowning and a surprising absence of wit, which seemed not to matter very much to an audience that was largely comprised of the performers’ friends. I’ll still take bad clowning over bad theatre (or should I say, “thea-tah”), or worse yet, any performance that is unselfconsciously termed “avant-garde,” but it ain’t no barrel of monkeys.

Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about comedy of late, most recently about how similar comic tastes are to sexual ones. Unlike Art, by which I mean art in its broadest possible sense, both comedy and sex have a discernible, physical effect that is to some extent beyond the participant’s control: i.e. if you can too easily restrain your laughter, it probably wasn’t that funny. Also unlike Art, no amount of theoretical explication will make something that isn’t funny to you funny: using the parallel example, though I’ve read a fair amount on the subject, I still am not nor will I presumably ever be a foot fetishist. Further, a really good laugh, by which I mean the kind that comes up from your guts and brings tears to your eyes and catches you completely off-guard, is about as rare as a really good fuck, which, as before, I mean in its broadest possible sense.

All of which is to say that I would very much like to have sex with Jon Stewart, and even more so now that he’s called Tucker Carlson a dick to his face. Mmm. . .

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