I don't remember what year it was, only that I was an early teen. For a short stretch of years my family was regularly engaged in the operations of a church in my hometown and, despite my father's deep distrust of organized religion, we found ourselves trekking up to "Presbyterian Point" at the lake. We would spend a handful of days boating and swimming—and even, gasp, sitting around the fire singing "Kumbaya."
The year in question, we got a copy of George Carlin's Carlin on Campus LP, and I painstakingly transferred it to cassette tape so we could listen to it in the car on the way up to the lake.
Wait a minute. I also distinctly remember bringing my copy of Def Leppard's Hysteria. That means we're talking 1987-88.
So, there we were—my father at the tiller, mom in the passenger seat, fluctuating between yelling at my father for driving too fast and nodding off, me and my brother in the back seat.
Carlin brought us all together. We merrily listened to the "Incomplete List of Impolite Words" and laughed our asses off. Need I remind you that this was a family moment? Teenage boys, mom and pop, listening to tit and fart jokes. My family was not typical.
Or so I thought.
The Entertainment Weekly review for Steve Martin's Born Standing Up intrigued me and, in a post-holiday shopping trip—to Best Buy of all places—I picked up a copy. I just finished it (it's an unassuming, slender volume) and I'm really glad I had a chance to read it.
Where these two thoughts intersect: Martin opens the third chapter of his book with a comment about his family traveling back and forth between Los Angeles and Texas. "On these road trips," Martin writes, "I was introduced to comedy." True, Steve Martin's family listening to Amos and Andy is a far cry from my family listening to George Carlin, but there's a chord of deep resonance here. While my family was far from perfect, we all knew how to laugh. And while my father had little use for television or movies, when he got a hold of something he truly thought funny, his laughter could wake the neighbors.
It's no coincidence, then, that my brother and I can, with our inappropriate laughter, ruin movies for strangers. I'll add that I have also had the great fortune to find like-minded compatriots who are also artists of laughter. I still feel bad for the poor people who had to watch There's Something About Mary with me and my brother. Or the poor rednecks who sat in front of me and my friend Michael for Happy Gilmore. They kept turning around with looks that might make Don Rickles pause. Or even those in the theatre when, after three hours of special effects overload, the (arguably) most emotional scene of Peter Jackson's King Kong was defused by my friend Dana's roaring laughter.
Reading Martin's book reminded me that one of my first loves—as a burgeoning beast of a boy—was comedy. That trip brought George Carlin into my life. I spent the next few years memorizing most of Carlin's albums—from What Am I Doing In New Jersey? to Playin' With Your Head. The family even got to see him live at the War Memorial Auditorium in Greensboro (I've seen him live four times). My good friend Jeff Williams and I would trade cassettes on road trips with the Boy Scouts, later reciting the bits to each other to gales of knowing laughter.
Carlin was my gateway drug into real comedy. I have to admit, though, that I was a product of the eighties and wasn't entirely industrious or thorough in my pursuit of new, old, or relevant comedians. Like all guys my age, I laughed my ass off to Eddie Murphy's Delirious and Raw. And I have fond memories of gathering around the telly for Monty Python marathons. (I am most disappointed in my inability to mimic a British accent.)
And I can't forget SNL. My heart still aches for the loss of Phil Hartman.
But I also must admit to laughing at Gallagher and Tim Allen. Even now, too, I must shamefully confess that I know of Lenny Bruce but haven't ever actually listened to Bruce. And while my mother liked Cosby, and tolerated Murphy, she did not like Richard Pryor—and refused to let us watch or listen to him. Must have had something to do with all those references to mothers…
There again, reading Martin's book reminds me of how little I know about the history of stand-up, of performance comedy—of the influences of my influences. Such is the way of things I guess. My obsession with Carlin left little room for history lessons. I may rectify that now…
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What I really appreciate about Born Standing Up is the honesty with which Martin recounts his decades worth of struggling (and his self-consciously cursory, anti-climactic description of his "success"; he mentions Sisyphus at one point, and that one mention colors everything before and after it—it's all about the journey and the process, not the end result). In that struggling is an acceptance of his short-comings. He does not consider himself a genius. He admits to being simply a man with a passion for comedy and performance, and a determination to do something original.
I mention all of this because I find doubt and self-consciousness my constant career companions. I know what I should be doing. I know what it should take. But it's not that easy—and there's a hollowness to the notion of "overnight success." What Martin's book reminds me of is the "work" in artwork.
That word is a pisser. Work. Martin clearly worked to attain his success. And what his book makes clear is that his work didn't necessarily pay off in the traditional sense. There is a tenuousness to his success. At any moment, he could have either given up, or missed the boat.
What it ultimately boils down: Persistence and passion. Or is it passion and persistence?
In the book, Martin talks about the countless ultimatums he gave himself, most notably his decision to quit if he didn't "make it" before his thirties. He did eventually get his break (or what he allowed himself to believe was his break). That moment, that "big break," was just enough to allow himself to continue. That break, though, wasn't exactly a breakthrough. It was simply a mile marker—one that signaled he'd gone past the halfway point so he might as well continue. It was enough of an affirmation of his persistence to keep him going. It was, if you will, that moment that Camus talks about. That moment at the top of the hill when Sisyphus pauses to look back before starting his task over again. "One must imagine Sisyphus happy," Camus writes.
One must imagine Steve happy.
One cannot do that, however, if there isn't some passion in the agency. And some genius, for that matter. See, I guess this is where I'm going with this. (The point most resonant in Martin's book.) Our country has managed to sell enough of its own myths to create a culture of shoulda-coulda-woulda's. As Tyler Durden says in Fight Club, we all want to be famous. But this is just the modern dilemma, the postmodern iteration of the American Dream. And, without resorting to name calling, this is the capitalist's dream. Keep the masses convinced that the odds are better than they are and, thereby, maintain a buying public.
This is the genius of American Idol. Tens of thousands of people turn out for a chance, a lottery ticket of fame. Yes, there's talent in these masses. Yes, there's determination (in spades) in these masses. But the two aren't guarantees. And it's clear, after how many seasons?, that there's not a secret formula, no perfect blend of talent and determination—and a little trumped up drama—to guarantee success. How many Idol hopefuls have been dropped from labels, dropped from the public eye? Really, who cares?
But the circus has come around again, and we've all bought our tickets. That's the genius.
What does any of this have to do with Steve Martin? Well, the man worked hard. The man was determined. And the man had (has) talent. But that wasn't enough. The planets had to align just the right way—just in time for all those other things to coalesce—in order for him to get noticed.
This notion should terrify anyone who seeks the life of an artist. And I mean terrify in the best possible sense! This is the crux of all human existence (except for poppin' out babies, of course): Life is meaningless. By which I mean it has no inherent value. Life only has meaning if we give it meaning, or find our own meaning in it. When the world falls apart around us, our only solace can be found within (this is where we might find god; not from without but from within). External reality is a book unread. Useless without a mind to open it.
And so, in the face of our own lives (success, failure, reprieve), we have to allow for a seeming contradiction: we have no control over our external reality; we have complete control over our perception of our reality.
Bottom line: We cannot expect the world to reward us for simply being who we are. Rather, we must constantly re-evaluate our lives and be guided by our passions—hoping all the while that we can find affirmation in ourselves.
Barring that, you can always trust a fart joke.
