Comedy, tragedy, racism...

Comedy, tragedy, racism. That is what I experienced tonight. As a worker in the TV industry I know that there are two types of programs: Lowest common denominator stuff (stuff people can zone out on) and then niche high-concept programing (stuff that requires attention and focus). I make lowest common denominator stuff - music shows. I want to make high-concept but we can't really compete with the American or British stuff because our high-concept stuff is well... standard concept next to the international stuff as we're on budgets that are ridiculously low.

The same must go for comedians. Stand-up comics. The funny people. The people whose job it is, the people we pay money to see, to entertain us with their witty, humorous, jokes. Tonight I went along to a friends 'gig'. It was in a pub, was poorly attended and competing with the alcohol. I don't think the organizers did a good job in terms of arranging tables to accommodate. So it was a 'tough' crowd. South African TV producers have the same problem: Put my show before, or after a multi-million Dollar product with international superstars and it's also going to be competing for attention. Anyway. The MC, some old bugger from Ireland starts off the show with a wonderful round of racist jokes.

Why should Afrikaans people drink Guinness beer? Because it's the only time the whites will be on top of the blacks again. He said this to a crowd of white people, with black waiters running around serving us. There was a collective plastic grin on all our faces. For the first time in my life I felt, I really felt ashamed that another human being could be so callous, and so out of touch. Sure he ripped off the Indians (rather poorly), the Brits, the gays, the blacks, the blacks... Now is it wrong that he attacked the blacks? No. Not at all. He should be free to make jokes about anyone. But to rip off the politics of black versus white and white versus black to me is just plain bad form.

Then once he'd finished putting us all on edge, another comedian came in who seemed more bored then we did. It felt like he was trying to make his mates laugh. They would laugh because they'd all be drunk. I know I wish I was. He ripped off sports commentators that I would hazard no-one knew about, because well... no one laughed. Oh we were a polite audience. We chortled politely. But like all good producers of TV, we know, it's not what you find funny, it's not what you like, it's what the audience wants that is important. This audience didn't want racist jokes, we didn't want sports commentator jokes. We wanted a few minutes of fun. Anyway, once the comedian had finished talking to his sock (and giving it to an audience member) on came my friend.

It was like switching to an American version of Boston Legal after watching the Hansie trials. Something decent. (OK so that wasn't a funny joke, it was old, tired and rather inaccurate as no one watched those trials, but I was reading in the urinal at the pub, I lingered as long as I could without drawing suspicion, not because there was some cute boy there, but because the smell of old urine, and the advert for laxatives was more interesting then the comedy, and one of the signs up above the really, really, high urinals was about Hansie and the devil or something.) Anyway, my mate goes up and he uses a self approach to humour.

Instead of attacking audience members/members of the public about their hand-bags, or their hair, or their skin-colour, he attacks himself. And the audience responded to him. As I said to a friend on the way home, he came across as a man doing his job, and doing his job with pride and dedication. His job is to make us laugh. If he takes it seriously and puts effort into it, and doesn't need to resort to one-liner rip-offs or hack jokes about gays/blacks/blondes, then he deserves to be rewarded with audience applause. And he was. He was a professional amongst hacks, and we all knew it. What did it cost him? Did he have a multi-million dollar effects budget? Nope. It just cost him some time thinking. Thinking...

So just what the fuck is the point of this post I hear you ask... although by now, if you've read most of my posts you'll have given up on looking for a point, and will only be looking for the PENIS or SPERM reference so you can skip it in case the boss catches you... the point is well. Just what is the point? Oh yes. Comedians. Comedians can teach us a lot about ourselves. The bad ones can show us our stupid, basic, cave-man side, the non-thinking side that just laughs cause our little brain when - hehehe funny noise go plop plop. Good comedians can remind us what is pure and noble about the human, insofar as creativity and performance are pure and noble. Because in order to find the joke, we as the audience have to be creative and attentive, as much as the comedian does. So we have a collaborative effort which makes us better people. And average comedians, or below par comedians can remind us to sometimes know when to just shut up and sit down.

So ask yourself - my audience (be it co-workers, partners, loved ones, employee's, employers, students, strangers on a bus) - are they waiting patiently for your to just die so you stop making an ass of yourself? Or are they nodding, looking at their watches/cellphones/shoes/paint job on the wall, and occasionally making 'ah, yup, huh' comments? Or, and this is the moment we should all strive for - are they watching, listening, and waiting for you to continue talking? I know I illicit (is that the right word? Or should it be ellicit?) all three reactions, often within the space of the same blog post...

If you can't sense when you're doing it, just stop talking and see what happens. That's a good test. If you stop and everyone nods and wanders off, you really need to work on your stories/jokes/small talk, and perhaps think before you start speaking. If they ask you what's wrong, it means they were actually listening and want to know more. If they go 'gosh. Well. Those annual report figures? Do you have them?' then you know they were just waiting for you to finish.(Or you're in the wrong company and should have turned left at the robot's and not right).

Are you a comedian, a tragedy, or just plain cave-man? Me... I'm sorry what was I saying? I wasn't listening.

Why old people scare me...

I love old people - plutonically of course - I really do. They are typically full of wonderful information and although sometimes yes I'll admit, a tad tedious; their ramblings can contain insight or perhaps useful information. I also find they are generally more interested in history then the younger generations, something which I sometimes find painful. Now where is this blog going you wonder? After all, it's titled 'Why old people scare me'.

Truth be told, really old people scare me. People who look like they should have died a long, long time ago. My only surviving grandmother is one of these people. She turns 93 this year, 7 days before I turn 30. She is wheelchair bound, looks haggard, and doesn't really remember things very well. Or so I'm told. I haven't spoken to her in about three years. In fact, on her 93 birthday it will be exactly three years - I last saw her at her 90th.

I didn't find her too interesting when I did see her, when she was younger. Oh she was a granny, a delightful old dear, but her stories were really just family news updates about uncle so and so and aunt Tilly, Milly, Willy or whatever. So I never bonded with her. Not like my other grandmother who shaped me, twisted me, broke me, formed me, inspired me, destroyed me, taught me. The reasons are very obvious: Living gran is from my fathers side. Dead gran is from my mothers side. I lived with Dead gran. Living gran I got to see once a year, maybe twice after my father divorced my mother, which was when I was 10. So Living gran didn't get much of a chance to make an impression.

Now it so happens that her daughter, my aunt, has had the responsibility (along with her brothers and my father) of taking care of Gran in her dotage. After all her pension and investments were never intended to go on for 33 years after her husband had finished working. And his planning didn't take into account that she'd outlive him by 28 years and counting. My father has terrible family relations. He doesn't talk to his sister or older brother. His younger brother screwed him out of a lot of money and there is no longer communication there.

So my poor mum is left having to take me and my sister to see Living Gran. We don't get on with the rest of the family - on my fathers side, or truth be told much on my mothers side. My sister and I are just not interested. Blame it on the divorce, call us horrid people... we just have our own problems to worry about and don't much care for theirs. Nonetheless my aunt has run out of money to pay for my living gran's upkeep at the frail-care facility she has to live in. So she's turned to us to help supplement the payments. My sister refuses point blank. Good for her. As she points out, although living gran is technically bonded to us via DNA, she has four children - none of whom really talk to us (and vice versa) all of whom have children who are actually close to Living Gran. Will any of them help us take care of our parents?

We doubt it. Possibly because our parents have alienated themselves from them, but the point is she feels it is our responsibility to look after our parents, and them to look after their's and so forth. I do contribute some small fee which probably covers a single day's costs. Why? Well I do it because I do feel some small measure of responsibility for Living gran... or is it guilt? Guilt that I'm not calling her once a month to chat. I don't call my own mother once a month... but the point is now that I'm a contributing member my aunt now includes me in the 'family e-mail' chain. So I get to see photo's of a family I don't know, care about, or am the slightest bit interested in.

But I get to see pics of Living Gran. I don't want to see them. I don't want to know about it. My Aunt writes inane little passages like: "Gran's been watching the new construction of the medical wing with enthusiasm. 'I bet she knows how many screws and nails they've used!' Says the matron. My God does anyone else want to puke at this statement? Here is a woman who is 93. She's survived through one son dieing of diabetes, through a daughter-in-law dying of cancer, through two son's divorces, she's raised how many grandkids (excluding my sister and myself)? And now this old woman gets reduced to sitting and watching nails being hammered into ceiling boards?

Her photo's reveal the sad truth that that's all she seems capable of. What the FUCK is the point? She can barely remember things, her words get muddled over time, she gets tired quickly. She needs to be wheeled around. How, explain to me, how is that living? It isn't. It's waiting to die. Or in fact, avoiding death for as long as possible. My dead gran was bed-ridden. But she was active. She was engaging. She kept herself busy. Living gran isn't living. To me when I see her I feel a terrible sadness. I don't know what to do with myself. I certainly don't want to be anywhere near her. Is that terrible? I think it is. Why do I not have the ability to cherish her, and want to make her days full?

Because it seems futile? Like a waste of time. Is my time so fucking important that I can't give some to her? Would it make a difference? I don't know. Part of me says perhaps it might bring something to her to hear of how her estranged grandson is doing 500 kilometers away. But wouldn't the world be better off if she just quietly passed away? With some mental dignity retained? Instead of being treated like a 'poor old dear who watches nails being hammered into wood for fun'. That to me is the insidiousness of it all. It's that kindness, that gentle 'knowing smile and nod' that her time is near an end and we must be nice and kind and belittle her because well, she's old.

I swear now to anyone who cares or who will be around - when I am so frail that I cannot keep myself going, I will end it. In some kind of wonderful display. I'll hire some beautiful young boy off the street to take me some stage, where I'll have organized as massive blow-out function. Something filled with an amazing spectacle - bodies, art, dazzling performance, whatever. Then I'll have someone slip some lethal poison into my drink. I won't know which one, but I'll keep drinking until I fall asleep and die. I will not be some incontinent old bastard whom everyone patronizes. At the first sign of 'poor old Guy. He's had a good run you know' - that's it spectacle and death for me.

Once I'm dead my Will will be opened. It will be a map. A treasure map. It will also be a TV show. Part of the clause will be that whomever takes up my treasure hunt must be filmed. It will be spectacular. An ultra-web broadcast. At the very end the treasure will be a copy of all my blogs, a digital download of my consciousness, and the rights to my TV show - The Gay Guy, Can you solve him? It will be watched by billions of people. My family - which would have to be my gay lovers family, my sisters family (if she starts one) will not have time to morn, because my Will will be released onto the internet (ultra-web) in one of the greatest media hyped events of the 21st/22nd century.

Anyone will be able to follow the map. It will be amazing. It will be worthwhile, and for one brief moment I won't be thought of as that old has-been, the once glorious now sadly only capable of wetting himself bugger who gropes all the male nurses (and female ones on bad days). Instead of going out remembering the good old days, I'll go out knowing that someone is going to be using my death to make themselves better, and that I could only hope and dream for. It will of course be a moot point as my body will be cryogenically frozen, or temporally locked, until they find a cure for death. At which point I'll come back to life, with the rights to the show about my death... MWAHAHAHAHAAHAHA...

But to die in bed, and then as a final word spoken over my corpse before it's burned to ash being 'he had a good run, or well we expected it, or poor fellow, it was for the best', that to me is the most miserable thing that could happen. Of course it could be worse - it could be: 'Another one's gone, change the sheets and bring in the next one...' or 'For fuck sakes, finally. Jesus he just didn't ever want to leave'. Or perhaps 'Thank God, that's over...'. Actually that last one would make me laugh. Anyway the point is, if you're a better person than I am, make contact with your old ones, hug them, cherish them, and for god's sake don't fucking patronize them.