“I live in New York, and in my neighborhood, a lot of dudes have handlebar mustaches. Which is cool if you want to have a handlebar mustache, but don’t try to have a conversation with me like you don’t have a handlebar mustache. Try to talk about regular stuff like music and politics? Nah dude, if you got a handlebar mustache, all I want to hear you talk about is Slinkys and kazoos and that’s it. Talk about kazoos for a few minutes, then hop on your unicycle and juggle, you carnival-faced motherfucker.”

-Hannibal Buress

As I’ve said before, I use Tinder. One of the many things I’ve noticed while using that site is an alarming amount of girls who think mustaches are still cool/charming/whimsical. You wouldn’t believe how many pictures girls take with one of the following:

1) A pint glass with a mustache drawn on it;
2) A pair of fake glasses, affixed to which is a plastic mustache that hangs above the wearer’s upper lip;
3) A mustache drawn on the outside of the subject’s index finger in Sharpie (which: why?), or;
4) A mustache tattooed on the inside of the subject’s index finger.

Now, the first three are slightly irritating, mostly because it’s just a fucking mustache. I don’t get the obsession with mustaches. I’ve grown one out before, and based on people’s reactions, you’d think I was the first person in the history of Earth to grow hair on their face. It’s an unwillingness to shave the entirety of my face, not sorcery. But for some reason, people always look at me and go “OMG I LIKE THE ‘STACHE!” and squeal with glee like they won’t see 60 more mustaches by the time they go to bed.

Even so, those who take pictures with fake mustaches pale in comparison to the members of that fourth category: the women who went to such lengths as to tattoo a mustache on their finger. Think about that day in their lives. They woke up, excitement and nervous anticipation gnawing at their insides. Maybe they brushed their teeth, took a shower, all that jazz. Then, they headed over to a tattoo parlor, where someone said “Would you like to look at our design book?” And they said “No no…I know exactly what I want. An 1850s-style mustache tattooed on the inside of my index finger so that, when the mood strikes, I can curl my finger over my upper lip. And in that glorious, fleeting moment, I will be more than a mere mortal. I will have a fake mustache.” Is that not the most idiotic thought process you’ve ever heard of? How do tattoo artists not look at them and go “Sure…and since you’re so interested in fads that are way past the point of being cool, you want to play Pogs while you wait?” If I were a tattoo artist, I would turn away every individual who requested a finger-mustache on the grounds that I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving a tattoo to a mentally retarded person. The first few people to get it were undoubtedly clever, there’s no denying that. But every other idiot who saw it on someone else and went “OOH I GOTTA HAVE THAT!” should be fucking ashamed of themselves. I get fad hairstyles or fad clothing, but fad tattoos? I know it sounds like an oxymoron, but that’s exactly what they are, and it needs to stop. I know some of you are thinking “BUT RYAN, #YOLO!,” and if that’s the case, please flush yourself down a toilet.

Another thought: you just know 90% of these people are going to be super pissed with themselves in, like, 10 years when they look at that tattoo. There’s no way they’re gonna look at it and go “Time for me to bring back the mustache-tat picture trend.” At best, it’ll be the kind of tattoo that they look at and go “God, I was fucking stupid when I was younger.” Don’t get me wrong, I think tattoos (when properly executed) can look very cool, but getting one so you can pretend to be Festus T. Botherington IV in pictures is the diametric opposite of cool.

This, of course, doesn’t apply to my friends who have these tattoos. Actually, yes it does. Shame on you.

Welcome to “Things I Hate,” a semi-regular installment (assuming I continue to find ways to be annoyed) in which I discuss something that bugs the shit out of me. This week’s recipient of my loathing: shitty headphones.

As I write this, my headphones are coiled in juuuuust the right way so I can continue listening to music on the train without the sound going in and out, but I know it’s just a matter of time before one of the earbuds stops working entirely, leaving me shit out of luck (and music) until I can buy another pair. And there is no worse feeling than having to acknowledge the impending death of something upon which I rely so heavily.

Imagine having a pair of glasses (or, if you have glasses, just continue to occupy your normal frame of mind,) and they work perfectly for almost two months. Then, one day, one of the lenses goes completely blurry. You hope for the best, but in the pit of your stomach you get the sinking feeling that something is hopelessly, irretrievably wrong. But just as soon as the blurriness comes, it’s gone, and they work for a little while longer, and you begin to fall prey to the delusion that “Hey, maybe it was just a one-time thing! EVERYTHING IS OKAY, PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME, GLASSES! [hysterical laughter immediately followed by uncontrollable sobbing]” And then, just when you’re coming home from a shitty day at work and you don’t think things could get much worse, the lenses of those glasses pop out, and as you search frantically for some way, ANY way to make things go back to the way they were…a homeless man runs up and spits in your mouth. That’s roughly what I’m going through right now.

It’s totally my fault that my headphones keep falling apart, too. Not because I don’t take of care of them; my as-yet unborn first child would seethe with jealousy if they saw how lovingly I treat my headphones. It’s my fault because I continue to buy shitty headphones which, after 4 months and without fail, completely fall apart. On top of that, I never get the Best Buy insurance. You’d think I’d remember all the times I’ve had to go back to that fucking store to get a new pair of headphones when my current pair shit the bed. You would be wrong. Every time I go back, it’s the same thought process:

1) “I’m gonna get some decent headphones this time. No more fucking around. RYAN ROSS PLAYS FOR KEEPS.”
2) “Oh, that’s right- a good pair of headphones costs $150. RYAN ROSS IS NOT FINANCIALLY STABLE ENOUGH TO JUSTIFY SUCH A PURCHASE.”
3) “Well, these don’t look too bad- they’ve got the little microphone and play/pause button. Those are high-end features, right? AND they’re only $30! RYAN ROSS KNOWS A BARGAIN WHEN HE SEES ONE.”
4) “A protection package that costs $10 for $30 headphones? I’ll pass. RYAN ROSS IS A RESPONSIBLE HEADPHONE OWNER.”

[Two months pass, headphones break]

5) “RYAN ROSS IS A FUCKING IDIOT.”

I was so mad about it this last time that I actually tweeted at Skullcandy to voice my displeasure, which is just impossibly sad. Want to know the worst part? I had a daydream where someone at Skullcandy said “Uh-oh. This guy with 19 followers on Twitter and practically zero social media presence is going to blow our scheme wide open. SHUT HIM UP WITH FREE HEADPHONES.” I’m pathetic.

Next time, I’m definitely springing for the good headphones, because this shit is for the birds. But in the meantime, I’ll cradle these headphones like a dying fawn. Maybe they’ll fix themselves!

I was listening to Eminem’s “Monster” the other day (not by choice, mind you- it’s just been on repeat on the radio since its release), and a somewhat jarring thought occurred to me: Eminem is old. The guy’s in his forties now, with a daughter who just got named homecoming queen at her high school. I don’t know how you feel about that, but to me, it’s incredibly weird. And “Monster,” which will probably disappear from the radio in 2 to 3 months, is probably the closest thing to a ubiquitous song he can release nowadays. It’s the proverbial march of time, and even someone as talented as Eminem can’t escape its inexorable grasp.

I remember when I was a teenager listening to hip-hop and I always used to think “Man, it’s weird to know that I’m going to be listening to hip-hop when I’m old.” We’re really the first generation that grew up with and will grow old with that genre of music, which is kind of awesome. Imagine being 75 years old and saying “Oh man, remember when jazz came out? Those were some crazy times!” We have the opportunity to say that about hip-hop. Of course, it’s entirely possible that hip-hop will be something completely different/shitty/watered-down by the time we’re old enough to reflect upon it, but just the fact that the possibility exists is, I think, really cool.

On the other hand, though, as we grow old with hip-hop, so will the artists with whom we associate hip-hop grow old and eventually fade away. In some respects, it’s already happened; unless you’re a big fan of the genre, you’ve either never heard of or already forgotten about most old-school rappers. I don’t mean Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg or the like, either- I’m talking about Kool Moe Dee, MC Shan, Grandmaster Flash, etc. Hip-hop is unique in that there’s really no market for “classic” rappers, and no room for nostalgia. Because it’s largely driven by youth culture, you don’t get people going “Oh shit, Rakim and Eric B. are doing a show at Madison Square Garden and charging $125 for a ticket! WE HAVE TO GO!” the way they do when Journey reunites for a quick cash-grab tour. I don’t know about you, but when I hear about old-school rappers doing a show, I just kinda go “Oh…they’re still doing that? Hmm.” Maybe it’ll change once we’re a generation or two removed from the inception of hip-hop. I don’t know.

It’s also peculiar to remember that Eminem used to be a shock value machine. Everything he did or said was endlessly covered by the media, his lyrics were dissected in a way that historically hasn’t happened and, most of all, people seemed legitimately terrified by the prospect of someone like him getting through to the youth of America. I remember the first time I heard “Kim,” and it spooked the hell out of me. He was rapping about murdering his daughter’s mother, for Christ’s sake. But if he did it today? I’d be bored. There’s a law of diminishing returns that comes with being edgy- eventually everybody else catches up or outpaces you, and they can do that because the original “shocking” artist numbed his audience to what he was saying to such a degree that what was once shocking is now mundane, and what is now shocking was once abjectly terrifying. None of this is to say that Eminem isn’t immensely talented, because he’s probably more technically proficient today than he was in the earlier years of his career. But something of a paradigm shift has occurred: we’ve stopped looking at him as a talented rapper and looking at him more as a talented rapper for his age. We’re no longer impressed by the things he does, per se, but rather by the fact that he’s been able to do these things consistently well for such a long time.

The reason I invoked Kurt Cobain in the title is because I think Eminem gives us a good idea of the kind of artist Kurt Cobain would have become had he not committed suicide. I never really subscribed to the theory that Kurt Cobain would have turned out the way Billy Corgan from Smashing Pumpkins did (that is, like a total fucking space cadet); Cobain’s music was visceral, coming in largely short, violent bursts before it flamed out from sheer exhaustion. Conversely, Corgan’s was more cerebral and almost orchestral in its arrangement. Eminem is talented at nearly every type of hip-hop, but he’s at his best when he’s being absolutely insane, and it is in that regard that Cobain and Eminem are most closely related.

Part of the reason why people still mourn Cobain is because he brought to the mainstream consciousness a genre that would come to define a generation, and one can’t help but wonder what else he might have accomplished had he not killed himself. Would he have mellowed with age? Would he have stayed with the grunge thing until he died at age 67? Or did he have something else in him that might have molded another generation? We’ll never know. I don’t mean to imply that Eminem popularized hip-hop in the same way that Cobain popularized grunge, but I think you’d be hard-pressed to name another rapper who resonated with pop culture fanatics (i.e., whites) the way that Eminem did. He was a cultural phenomenon, and it’s unlikely we’ll ever see another one quite like it within hip-hop. So whether you like him or not, I would keep an eye on his career trajectory from this point forward. He might turn out like Billy Corgan, but you can’t discount the possibility that he’ll give us the hip-hop equivalent of an older, wiser Kurt Cobain. And who knows? Maybe the next generation will be downloading his 18th album on Spotify some day (and Eminem won’t be getting paid for it. OH WELL.)

Hopefully they don’t download “Monster,” though. That song kinda blows.

Spotify might be the greatest app ever invented. For those of you who don’t use it (what the fuck is wrong with you?), a quick primer is probably in order. Spotify is essentially a mix of iTunes and Pandora, but it completely eliminates the shitty parts of both of those apps. The reason you can’t search for a specific song on Pandora is because they’ve classified it as “streaming radio,” which eliminates the need to secure licensing for every song on there. An unfortunate consequence of that, however, is that if you really want to hear one particular song and not 36 songs that they claim sound similar but really don’t, you’re shit out of luck unless you pay $1.29 for it on iTunes. Unless there’s a sale going on, in which case you might only pay $0.99 for that song, which is what iTunes used to charge. Basically, their idea of a sale is to sell you an item at their former retail price, which already cost too much. But for some reason, people go “OMG SAVINGS!1!!1!11!” and buy them. (Seriously, the brass balls on the folks at Apple are nothing short of remarkable. “We know you can get this item for free in about a million different corners of the internet, but we’re going to charge you an absurd markup anyway. Want a shitty digital booklet that you can never delete? HEREYOUGOIT’SYOURSTAKEITFUCKYOU!” Really, you have to admire the soaring levels of fuck-you arrogance they’ve achieved.)

On the other side of this increasingly lopsided scale sits Spotify, the neat little app that gives you access to almost as many songs as iTunes and Pandora, with the added bonus of being able to search for and stream any song you want, all for the incredibly reasonable price of $10/month (it’s free on the computer, but I pay the $10 because I can afford it. Take note, ladies.) With that $10/month, I can create a playlist on my phone and make it available offline, which downloads the music to my phone so I can listen to it whenever I want and eliminates the need to pay full price for a song or be reduced to searching around for bargain-bin music like a pig rooting for truffles in a French forest. In the 18 months since I started using Spotify, I’ve probably downloaded well over a thousand songs. You can do the math on how much money I’ve saved in that time frame. (Ugh, that sounded so fucking smug.)

So now that Spotify has supplanted iTunes as a method of obtaining music, you’d think they’d be content with that, right? Fucking WRONG, because then they went and added a radio feature and a “Discover” tab, which suggests music based on the artists to whom you’ve listened in the past. Were they done? NOPE. To top it all off, you know what they do when an artist I like releases a new album or song? They e-mail me! (Granted, whenever I get these e-mails I go “UGH Spotify, I’m busy!” because I’m an ingrate, but still, what an incredible feature.)

I had a hard time figuring out exactly how Spotify works, considering the sheer volume of music they let people download for a pittance, so I read some articles about it and I’m happy to report I’ve found the key cog:

They don’t pay the artists shit.

No less an authority than Thom Yorke has decried this practice, saying essentially that new artists get the short end of the stick when it comes to having their music available for streaming on Spotify. Which is categorically, undeniably true, but…I kinda don’t care. My reasoning is twofold; yes, new artists get hosed on Spotify, but how many people would discover their work otherwise? Most artists make their money touring, so wouldn’t drumming up (AH A PUN!) interest in their music from new parties benefit them when they go on tour? My second reason is far more shameful, but I’ll admit it anyway: I’m not a musician. I understand that it’s completely unfair for musicians to be treated like this and to have their work so dramatically undervalued, but my concern is having access to all the music I want at a reasonable price. And until somebody perfects this business model so that the artist is fairly compensated and the consumer isn’t paying an arm and a leg for it, I’m going to fall on whichever side costs me less money.

In summation: Spotify is horribly unfair, and I love it.

Hope you enjoy this song, even though the artist probably hates me for posting it. Whatever. BACK TO THE SOUP KITCHEN WITH YOU, LADY.

I saw a poster the other day for “The Best Man Holiday,” with Taye Diggs, Terence Howard, (probably) Morris Chestnut, and a bunch of other black actors, and a thought occurred to me:

“Why?”

Nearly every comedy with an all-black ensemble cast has the same basic story: There is a major event going on (a holiday, a wedding, etc.). The men and their girlfriends/wives travel to a location, and the men and women immediately separate for almost the rest of the movie. (For reasons unexplained, the men and women never have many scenes as a group; when they do, it’s almost always near the end.) They do so begrudgingly at first, but through a series of humorous mishaps and deep conversations, they realize how much they’ve enjoyed being around each other. All problems are solved by the end of the film (the catalyst is usually one member of the group in a life-or-health-threatening situation) and there is usually some sort of group dinner scene where we can see everyone getting along. On occasion, one of the members of the group will die, but it’s never one of the bigger names. R&B music plays, end credits, everyone goes home. And it is a complete waste of time.

(I’m not including movies like “Friday” in this category, because while the leads in those films ended up being superstars in their own right, they weren’t at the time the movie was produced. I’m talking about all-black ensemble comedies with actors who have already achieved a certain level of mainstream popularity.)

Look, I totally get why a lot of people like seeing movies with all-black casts, and I don’t mean to imply that there have to be white people in the movie for it to be worthwhile. But all too often, these movies fall into the same recycled tropes we’ve seen a thousand times before, and I can’t for the life of me figure out how these movies continue to be greenlit. They have absolutely zero ambition and eschew breaking new ground in order to stick to a formula that has had success in the past.

(It also doesn’t help that most established black movie stars won’t touch these ensemble pieces of shit with a ten-foot pole. Why? Because they know the truth: these movies are horrid. If I ever see Denzel and Will Smith teaming up in a Tyler Perry flick, I’ll hang myself with my belt.)

From a business standpoint, I get it. These movies typically have a $15-20 million budget, and they usually make around $45-50 million, which is a pretty decent profit. But that guaranteed profit also handcuffs the studios, black writers and black actors into saying “Well, this formula has worked in the past, so let’s not kill the golden goose.” Thus, we’re left with a surplus of shitty, formulaic, unimaginative movies. After all, nobody’s going to take a chance on an adventurous black comedy when they can make “Madea Goes To Rehab” or whatever the fuck for $25 million and generate $40 million in profit every single time.

I asked a black coworker of mine (I KNOW BLACKS) what she thought of most black comedies, and her response was noncommittal at best. I’m paraphrasing here, but the gist of it was “Yeah, they don’t break any new ground, but they’re entertaining and they focus on things that black people see more commonly than white people.” Fine, fair point, but I still think that’s a lazy way to make a movie, just like I think black comics who only talk about “black” topics are lazy hacks. When trying to entertain people, relying solely on race is a total cop-out. Good comics and writers can make their work accessible to everybody; Bill Cosby, Richard Pryor, Louis C.K. and George Carlin are all examples of that. Earthquake, Michael Blackson, George Lopez, Dane Cook, Daniel Tosh, et al are examples of lazy comics limiting their works to a specific group of people instead of trying to broaden their horizons.

One other point: the aforementioned black coworker asked me “If ‘Knocked Up’ had an all-black cast, would you see it?” If they kept the same story, then of course I would, because it was a well-written story. If they changed it to a “black” comedy, with all the lazy jokes and stereotypes, probably not. And maybe I’m way off-base here, but it seems like all of those movies have the same jokes:

-“You’re so country!”
-“You grew up poor!”
-“You grew up rich, so now I’m gonna make fun of you for it!”
-“My aunt sure is crazy!”
-“WHITE PEOPLE ARE STRANGE!”

If that’s how the all-black version of “Knocked Up” unfolds, then I’ll be saving my money, thank you very much.

Another note: I’m fully aware of the existence of “white” comedies, like “Road Trip,” every “American Pie” movie, etc., and I detest those movies for the same reason: they’re lazy, they’re formulaic, and they don’t take any risks because they make a set amount of money as long as they follow all the beats of all the shitty comedies that have come before. And you could make the argument that I’m unfairly singling out black comedies when white comedies can be just as inaccessible to non-white people. Plus, I’m sure there’s a history of good comedic scripts written for black audiences (yet still accessible to all audiences) getting passed over in favor of mediocre-to-shitty scripts written for white audiences. I’m not saying it’s fair, because it most certainly isn’t, but I don’t think that’s a valid excuse for not writing a movie that everyone can enjoy, regardless of race or ethnicity. If the script is good enough, the movie will get made. In fact, you know what’s a good test case for this theory? The Chris Rock version of “Death At A Funeral.” It was originally a British dark comedy starring Alan Tudyk and Peter Dinklage, and Chris Rock remade it with a black cast. And you know what? It’s a good movie. It sucks that there are only a handful of black actors who have enough clout to push through a movie like that, but that doesn’t diminish my point that a script doesn’t have to be aimed solely at black audiences to be accessible to black audiences.

Also, no more Eugene Levy. In any movie. We’ve had quite enough.

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these, and I think I’m well past due. It’s raining here, which always puts me in a writing mood. I think it’s because rainy days fill me with motivation to do absolutely nothing, but if I write something I feel like less of a piece of shit. It’s not the most clear-cut system, but it works for me. Anyway, off we go.

I really love music. I’ve played the bass since 5th grade, can pick out a tune here and there on a guitar, and I’m a world-class air drummer. In fact, if you see me air drumming, slide an actual drum set in front of me and guess what happens? MAGIC (I assume). I listen to all genres, am constantly searching for new music, and to me, there’s no greater feeling than when I listen to a song I haven’t heard before and it turns out to be an amazing track. I am, in no uncertain terms, a music junkie.

Which is why it bugs the shit out of me when people A) say they love music but really only like certain kinds of music, or B) tell me they don’t really like music.

I have a hard time finding words to express how that makes me feel, but if I had to come up with a descriptive phrase, I think I’d go with “puzzlement which borders on alarm.” How can you not like music? I get if someone doesn’t like a particular song, an artist or even an entire genre, but music as a whole? What the fuck is wrong with you?! I would say that that’s straight-up serial killer shit (“I don’t care for musical compositions. I prefer the warm embrace of an enveloping silence coupled with my ragged breaths. Those are all the dulcet tones I need.”), but even Buffalo Bill listened to music. Granted, it was the creepiest song ever:

Still, at least he liked something. Aside from the skin suits, of course.

I just can’t wrap my head around the idea that someone can go through a day without listening to music. Not incidentally, like when you’re at the store and they’re playing music over the speakers; I mean people who can go days or weeks at a time without looking for a cool new song or illegally downloading buying an album or a song. That’s just so fucking weird. I was talking about a song I love the other day, and the guy to whom I was talking (NO DANGLING PREPOSITIONS HERE) replied with the following:

“Eh, I don’t really like music.”

Not, “I’m not into that genre” or “I don’t really like that artist,” just “I don’t like music.” How can you not be into music?! To me, that’s like saying you’re not into breathing or electricity. Just jarring and weird.

I also don’t like people who say they love music but are completely resistant to being introduced to new artists. If you listen to a handful of artists and you really love them, but you aren’t interested in finding new songs, don’t say you “love music.” Say you love certain artists; otherwise, you’re lying. DON’T BE A FUCKING LIAR.

Fifteen minutes are up. And as long as we’re on the topic, here’s a song I’ve had on repeat for the past few days. Enjoy it, or don’t. But at least listen to it.

Enjoy your Saturday. I’ll be at goddamned work.

Note: This is, of course, completely subjective- everyone finds different things humorous, and comedians affect individuals in different ways. That being said, if you read this and go “WAIT WHAT ABOUT KATHY GRIFFIN SHE’S SO SAUCY!”, feel free to get the fuck out of here and never come back.

I was talking to a woman the other day about Chelsea Handler; more specifically, why I don’t like Chelsea Handler. She couldn’t understand for the life of her why I don’t think Chelsea Handler is funny and, filled with rage by the mere mention of her name as I was, I couldn’t properly elucidate my quarrel. Now that I’ve had time to cool down, I thought it might be good to write what qualities I think make a person funny, and why Chelsea Handler doesn’t exhibit any of those qualities. Seriously, she is just fucking terrible.

Self-deprecation

Self-deprecation is a valuable weapon in any funny person’s arsenal. It’s a defense mechanism, usually borne from childhood teasing or an abusive home environment. (Right, DAD?!) To be self-deprecating is to take away someone else’s ability to hurt your feelings; if I call myself fat before someone else does, it doesn’t have the same sting.*

*Yes, it does 😥

The thing about self-deprecation is, you have to be willing to take on the stuff that really does make you feel shitty inside. Take, for example, Louis C.K.- he talks about being fat, divorced, selfish, old, kinda ugly, etc., and it works for him because the audience can connect with that. He’s not making up flaws just so he can poke fun at himself, he’s actually analyzing himself onstage. As a result, there’s always an undercurrent of discomfort- the audience doesn’t know if Louis C.K. is going to like what he finds, so by extension, they don’t know if they’ll like it.

Meanwhile, Chelsea Handler brays about her gaping maw of a vagina, and everybody thinks it’s a hoot. But she’s not actually self-conscious about her body (and why should she be?)- she’s just pretending to be because she thinks it’s relatable and funny. It’s the same as a millionaire making jokes about the price of gasoline- you don’t hear it and go “This guy gets it!”, you go “OH, FUCK YOU.” It’s the same thing with Chelsea Handler. When Dave Attell says “I have a drinking problem,” you believe it. When Chelsea Handler says “I LOVE VODKA SO MUCH LOLOL I’M SUCH AN ALCOHOLIC,” it’s just a shameless attempt at getting people to pay attention to her.

Shutting Up.

You know what I love about Louis C.K.’s, Richard Pryor’s, George Carlin’s, Patton Oswalt’s and David Cross’ standup? Not everything they say is a joke. They’ve mastered the slow build, where the beginning of the joke and the punch line can be 10 minutes apart. You can hear it in the audience, too- there’s a slight chuckle at the beginning, then it increases, finally cresting with an explosion of laughter at the end. And the best comedians know how to keep the audience laughing throughout the entire joke, even if what they’re saying isn’t technically a punch line. Chelsea Handler might do this too, but I can’t hear her jokes over the sound of the wind passing through her vagina.

Now THAT’s a Chelsea Handler joke.

Conversely, shitty comedians like Handler and Robin Williams (yes, I said it) never seem to shut the fuck up. They could tell 10 funny jokes in an act, but instead they choose to tell 100 mediocre ones. The best comedians know how to budget and hone their jokes; the shitty ones just dump them in your lap and say “ENJOY THIS, YOU FUCKING PLEBE.”

This isn’t really a comprehensive list, but if you want to be a comedian, it’s a good jumping-off point. And for God’s sake, nobody watch Chelsea Handler anymore.

Side note: I know I haven’t been posting a lot, but that’s largely because I’ve started writing a book, so most of my writing lately has been related to that. I’m going to try to balance both, but I figured it’d be fair to warn you first.

I was a little hesitant to write this, since I don’t want my employer to find out that I’m looking for another job. After some further consideration, however, I think it’s worth writing. Besides, there are only like 6 people who read these, so the odds of word getting back to my bosses are pretty slim. (Don’t tell anyone, BILL.)

Anyway, off we go.

I honestly have no idea how someone finds a job these days. I’m not saying I don’t know how to look for a job- I’m fully aware of the means at my disposal [CareerBuilder, Monster, Indeed, LinkedIn, Craigslist (if you’re looking for an axe-murderer position), The Ladders, etc.]. Also, I like how I just listed a bunch of different sites to apparently prove to you that I know how to look for a job. Like you care but YOU DON’T AND YOU NEVER DID THIS IS WHY I WANT FULL CUSTODY OF THE CHILDREN. And though these are all very useful methods for seeing what jobs are available, in my experience they have almost zero value when it comes to actually applying to those positions. Any job that’s posted online is likely to have hundreds if not thousands of qualified applicants, and I know for goddamned sure these companies aren’t employing someone to sift through all those applications. As a matter of fact, every time I’ve gotten a call from a company on CareerBuilder, it’s because they found my résumé and reached out, not the other way around.

Honestly, I prefer using Craigslist. A lot of the job postings on there are bullshit, but at least when I apply to one of those, I know my résumé is actually going to someone’s e-mail. Which is more than I can say for CareerBuilder; whenever I apply, I just picture my résumé turning into paper and landing on the desk of some overworked, grizzled old man wearing thick glasses and an accountant’s visor, sitting in an empty office, weeping and gnashing his teeth in frustration as paper piles up around him. And he occasionally looks to the heavens and, in a quavering voice weakened by years of howls of despair, cries out in vain: “Please stop. I just want to eat my sandwich and read my periodical!” But they never stop, and soon that man will be dead, and nobody will attend his funeral. Hey, maybe I could get THAT job!

I also strongly dislike any job application that makes me write an essay. I know that doesn’t make a lot of sense, since I love writing, but I love writing about the stuff that I love writing about. One application had me write what it means to be a member of a tribe, which, GUHHHHHH. And it wasn’t even for a writing position! Since when is a blue-book essay required to apply for an operations job? Why can’t I just send my résumé and my shitty, stock cover letter and be done with it? You’re not gonna read it anyway, so why make me waste my time?

It’s becoming more and more apparent to me that any company putting a listing on one of the aforementioned sites is doing so mainly to make you aware that they’re hiring, not to actually accept your application. If they like your résumé, they typically reach out to you, so there’s really no reason to spend your time applying for jobs on those sites. In actuality, your application really does nothing except get your hopes up that “This will be the company that calls back!” But they never do, and it’s awful. In the end, I keep coming back to that old adage that “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know,” and that couldn’t be more true. Every company that’s hired me has either reached out to me because they found my résumé online or because I know someone who got me an interview. That’s pretty much it.

But in the end, I’m still going to keep applying for new jobs, because I need to leave this one. So if you know of anything (not you, BILL), let me know. Will work for free cheap money.

Oh, also, a belated RIP to Lou Reed. “Don’t touch him, don’t touch him, stay away from him, he’s got a gun.” I was never a big Velvet Underground fan, but “The Gun” is such an awesome song. Plus, the album cover for “The Blue Mask” makes him look like a member of the Baseball Furies from “The Warriors,” and that’s just fantastic.

A quick disclaimer: I didn’t go to a gay bar just so I could go “DURR HURR LOOK AT ALL THESE GAYS LOL THEY HAVE A DIFFERENT SEXUAL ORIENTATION ROFLMAO”- that would be fucking stupid. Nor is the recounting of my experience meant to be mocking; it was just a really weird series of events, and I think it’s a worthwhile story.

Here’s what happened.

Last year (I’m not sure when, but during football season at some point), I was watching football at a bar with some friends and a couple of girls who had come with a friend of theirs, a gay man. We’ll call him Christian. Christian was getting kind of bored at the bar and wanted to meet up with some friends at a gay sports bar called The Locker Room. Since it was a relatively boring slate of games and we were all having a good time, my friends and I decided to tag along.

We hopped in a cab and headed for The Locker Room, but upon our arrival, I was displeased with what I saw. Not because it was a gay bar, mind you- the place was fucking packed. Anyone who knows me knows how little I enjoy being in crowded bars, so I wasn’t looking forward to this. At any rate, we’d come this far, so we figured we’d head inside.

After trying to maneuver my way through the throngs of people for about 10 minutes, one of the girls suggested we go downstairs, where it would be quieter. More intimate. (FORESHADOWING!) We headed downstairs, and she was right- the basement was much more laid-back. All the TVs were playing the Packers game (whether or not that was intentional, I’m not sure), and I settled into a chair to watch. After a few minutes, I decided I had to go to the bathroom; luckily, there was one right by the downstairs bar.

I headed for the bathroom and started to push open the door, but before I could get it open, the weight of an entire human (possibly two) slammed against the door, making entry impossible. And even if I had managed to get in, that would have been an awkward piss. “Hey,” I thought to myself, “it happens- people get it on in bars all the time.” Which is absolute insanity. Here I am in a skeevy gay bar called The Locker Room, of all stereotypes, I’ve just come within a pubic hair of walking in on two men having sex in a bar bathroom, and all I can think is “Nope, nothing to see here, just some regular folks doing regular things.” If it had happened in a non-gay-bar setting, I would have informed the bartender, called the local constabulary, and generally made a way bigger deal out of it, but because I was in a gay bar, I didn’t. I think it’s because I was trying to be progressive and liberal and all that shit, but upon further review, fuck that. Not because of who was doing it, but because of the action itself. Who the fuck has sex in a bar bathroom? And why did my reaction to something happening change because of where it occurred, turning me into the most polite, unassuming person who’s ever lived? It’s weird.

Anyway…

Realizing that those two lovebirds were probably gonna be a while (I hope! AMIRITE LADIES/FELLAS?!), I headed for the bathroom upstairs. The first thing I noticed was that the bathroom was unbelievably crowded- people were waiting for urinals 3 or 4 deep in line, like it was a fucking bathroom at Wrigley Field. I got to the front of the line and realized that the urinals (no stalls, natch) were waaaaay too close together. I’m a relatively broad-shouldered (read: fat) guy, so that was a problem. I don’t like bumping into people at regular urinals, but in a packed bathroom at a gay bar? Things could get dicey. So I shifted my weight a little bit to get better balance, and in doing so, I accidentally (ACCIDENTALLY) lightly bumped into the guy next to me.

Oh, dear.

The guy turned and gave me the creepiest look, and I saw his eyes travel from my face allllll the way down to my penis, which by then had retracted inside of my body out of sheer panic. I haven’t gotten stage fright since middle school, but it returned with a vengeance at that moment. Which was terrible timing, because then all I could think to myself was “He’s gonna think I’m just in here to look at some dicks. OH GOD NOW I HAVE TO BUY HIM A DRINK.”

I stood at the urinal for what seemed like an eternity, finally doing my business and turning to leave. I washed my hands, and look up to see that same guy leering at me; thinking he needs a paper towel to dry his hands or something, I turn around and see no paper towel holder. I turn back around and…yep, he was just leering at me. I put my head down and departed the bathroom, but not before having to shrug that same guy’s hand off my shoulder, since it had slyly made its way to my body. Soon after, we left.

I don’t think I’ll be returning.

For those of you who don’t live in a major city and aren’t constantly beset by the demands of the homeless (or “housing deficient”), here’s a quick primer on the main classes of bums:

1. The Meek
Characteristics: A shy, almost embarrassed approach- The Meek will typically speak to you quietly and in relative privacy, as though they’re ashamed to be overheard asking for money. They typically don’t have much in the way of stories or a reason for their hard times.
Risk Factor: Extremely low. Feel free to berate or roughly brush them aside; bonus points if you project your own fears and anger upon them. They’re like a stress ball made out of sinew and bone.

2. The Grizzled Veteran
Characteristics: Slightly more aggressive, but not pushy, The Grizzled Veterans are always armed with a good story or a joke designed to lower your guard. They typically have rebuttals up their sleeves for any excuses, so keep your wits about you.
Risk Factor: Low. Theirs is a volume industry, so they’re almost as willing to end the exchange as you are. Usually, a “Sorry, I don’t have anything” and a helpless shrug are enough to shake them off. Take care to avoid seeming too sympathetic, though, as the Grizzled Veteran may sense weakness and refuse to release you, their quarry, until you’ve given them money.

3. The Loudmouth
Characteristics: A raised voice, occasionally engaged in song or loudly telling their tales of woe, the better to attract multiple donations in one fell swoop. The Loudmouth is usually more visibly homeless than The Meek or The Grizzled Veteran, who tend to make themselves as presentable as possible in order to avoid being marked as panhandlers on sight.
Risk Factor: Moderate. Some Loudmouths appear to have some sort of mental imbalance, so saying “No” is a risky proposition; The Loudmouth may simply move on, or they may become angry and harass you until you give them money. Choose your course at your own peril.

4. The Fisher
Characteristics: Usually inert, sitting outside of storefronts with a simple sign asking for money. Oftentimes, they are reading, people-watching or even asleep, which makes avoidance much simpler. They are by far the most considerate of the panhandling homeless population. By presenting me with the option to give them money rather than a request or a demand, I give them money when I can, simply because I’m not being put on the spot to do so. Also, they tend to have creative signs, and I value creativity.
Risk Factor: Nil. The Fisher rarely verbally requests money, preferring instead to let their sign do the talking for them.

5. The Stereotype
Characteristics: Strong urine smell, erratic behavior, aggressive demeanor. The Stereotype is the embodiment of the “crazy homeless person” commonly featured in movies and television.
Risk Factor: Extremely high. Avoid at all costs, taking care to avoid eye contact, as often that is all The Stereotype needs to initiate an interaction which may or may not end in violence.

There are a few more categories (mother with child, homeless person with a pet, etc.), but you get the idea. Anyway…

I was standing in line at Dunkin’ Donuts a little while ago when a homeless man came into the…store? Restaurant? What’s the proper term for an individual Dunkin’ Donuts? I don’t know. Anyway, he came into the place and started making his rounds, quietly and politely asking people for money; just as quietly and politely, every single person he asked demurred. I was one of those people.

I immediately felt badly for saying no, especially since I had money in my wallet to give him. Plus, I was kind of a dick about it- I didn’t yell at him or anything, but I was sort of dismissive. But then I started thinking: Why do I feel badly for not giving my money to someone just because they ask politely? Where in the social contract does it state that, because I have some cash in my wallet, I should either give it to someone or feel like an asshole for not doing so? That’s some heavy bullshit.

Another thing I started to wonder was, how does that guy (or any homeless person) feel about having to beg for money? Granted, there’s no uniform thought process for all the world’s homeless, so in this case, let’s focus on the fellow at Dunkin’ Donuts. Does he feel ashamed and embarrassed to ask strangers for money? Or has a survival instinct kicked in and feeling shame is no longer an option for him? It’s the same thing I wonder when I see a homeless person walk by pay phones and parking meters and check them all for change. Obviously, the only people who would do that are the homeless (and possibly little children); is it worth the 25 cents you might find to essentially out yourself as a homeless person? Or, again, do they just reach a point where they don’t give a shit what anybody else thinks?

One night, I was getting off the train and some big black guy asked me for money. (It doesn’t matter that he was black, but…it does.) He started telling me about how he was just released from prison and needed a place to stay, but then, he didn’t ask me for any money. So I had to have this exchange:

Me: So…what do you need?
Him: [meaningful look]
Me: …Are you asking me for a place to stay?
Him (realizing that was a weird request and that this exchange is going downhill quickly): Nah, nah…do you have any money?

So I gave him a couple of bucks. If he really was just released from prison, maybe that couple of dollars would help him get back on his feet, thus reducing the odds of a repeat offense on his part. I’m just now realizing how insanely stupid that logic is. The worst part, though, was the fact that after I gave him the money, he didn’t even thank me. Look, I know $2 isn’t a princely sum, but still, man: I gave you money for doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. You didn’t tell me a joke, you weren’t playing an instrument, and you didn’t even have a particularly good story as to why you needed the money. I thought briefly about asking him for the money back because he was such an ingrate about it, but…you know, big black guy.

The one thing I usually don’t do, though, is ignore someone who’s asking for money (unless it’s a Stereotype. I’m polite, not a fucking idiot.) I think people who do that are the biggest pieces of shit on the planet. “NO I won’t look up from my phone, you fetid pile of street trash! YOU CEASED TO EXIST IN MY EYES THE DAY YOU GOT EVICTED.” Even if I don’t give them money, the fact that they’re reduced to asking should at least warrant a human interaction with them. It literally costs you nothing, and they deserve that much. (Important note: I’m not talking about the people who get accosted late at night on an abandoned street. Obviously, safety comes first. I’m talking about the people who are in absolutely zero danger and just don’t want to acknowledge someone below their social station. That could be you someday, you know. Try a little fucking empathy.)

Do I think I’m a better person for occasionally giving money to the homeless? Absolutely not. I’m giving them, like, a dollar or two, not a spot on my lease. Also, I don’t do anything else to help the homeless- I don’t volunteer at a shelter, I don’t participate in any outreach programs, I don’t buy them medicine. It’s really as much for the benefit of my own ego as it is for the benefit of the homeless. I’m just paying a dollar or two for the temporary self-satisfaction I get from doing it, and then I go right back to ignoring them. Which probably makes me more of a piece of shit than I’m willing to consider.

At any rate, I’m sure being homeless sucks, and I do wish it weren’t such an epidemic in this country. But for now, I’ll just shove a dollar or two once in a while at the problem and hope it goes away on its own.