Comedy During Tragedy

The last line of the previous post was going to read: “As far as I can tell, all’s well in America.” But it just didn’t seem right. Sure enough, shortly after the blissful day I described in the last installment, our country suffered its worst school shooting to date.

People are quick to point out the relationship between comedy and tragedy, but in practice it’s much more complex than the old formula. When we’re up in front of college students and the crowd jumps when fireworks go off a mile away, like they did tonight, you realize that there’s not even a grain of gallows humor in what has just happened.

Our approach to sensitivity is as varied as our venue list. Sometimes it comes down to a quick decision made moments before going on stage, sometimes we add lib to correct content in sensitive environments, and sometimes we spend whole van rides arguing over which vaginal synonyms objectify women and which are just funny. (“Box” and “hoo-ha,” respectively.)

We live in an age of masters like the brains behind The Daily Show and The Onion. There have been masters in the past, like Chaplin taking on Hitler, but their less complex times did not require the finesse and nuance of, say, Jon Stewart tackling Bush regarding September 11th. Bernadine Dorhn, famous for blowing up buildings as ringleader of the Weather Underground, once told me that she thinks The Onion is a powerful tool for social change. From bombs to editorials by Area Man.

Ideally, when something like Virginia Tech happens, every citizen takes a good, hard look at their own actions. How can you prevent things like this from happening, and when they do, what can you do to help? What you can you do as a student, lawyer, parent, or in our case, comedian? Our approach is twofold.

First, reach out to any audience members who don’t look like they’re part of a community. These people frequently find their way to our shows and stay longer than anyone else, and we don’t leave until they do. Second, watch what you say up there.

We always want to push, but there’s no value in making an audience feel bad in a way that is unproductive or paralyzing. So for the time being we’ve snipped out any and all references to guns or violence, and I’m making more of an effort to reach out to loners, especially at colleges.

When I look what we’re doing and how it fits into the scheme of things at this point in time, I figure the best we can do is to give people a night off from the darkness.

-A.K.

As It Should Be

The day began with a massive brunch by our gracious hosts Tom and Susan Newberry, parents to Andrew’s girlfriend and my girl friend, Sarah. The meal began with a blonde gazpacho laced with green grapes and marcona almonds, and it ended with homemade mango sorbet and satisfied moaning. To drink, Mr. Newberry’s famous margaritas, so good that the recipe must here be published: 3 parts tequila, 1 part grand marnier, fresh lime juice, a dash of almond syrup. Not a bad way to start the day, if you like pleasure.

Breakfast was followed by a quick dip in lake Minnetonka, whose ice had just melted. It was quick because I didn’t want to die.

We then cruised on to Madison, passing the rock spires and cranberry bogs by the “Wis Dells.” While HQ was being slammed with a Spring Nor’easter, we enjoyed perfect driving weather: 64 degrees, spotty cloud cover, light traffic, and for us, not too much farting.

Things were looking good for the LNP. We were full of sorbet, the sky was full of migrating cranes, and adult novelties were available at most exits.

My Stars!

We’re sharing our booth at this conference with Dennis Haskins, aka Mr. Belding from Saved by the Bell, with whom I am on hugging – nay, bear hugging - terms. LNP celebrity encounters have spiked recently thanks to our help writing for Boston’s two highest profile fundraising events. Here are some things I’ve learned about those I’ve met.

Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick now recognizes the extravagance of his travel budget, and Andrew.

Boston Mayor Tom “Mumbles” Menino is like a big, democratic teddy bear. Not so much because he’s cute, which he is, but because he can’t really speak.

Aerosmith bassist Tom Hamilton makes a bizarre Borat.

In person, the Car Guys sound, and laugh, just like they do on NPR. The former is interesting, the latter slightly awkward.

Robert Goulet’s wife finds us “intriguing,” and he himself is not only charming but also drunk.

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Aaron Kagan is currently typing this.

LNP v.s. Snakes

From the seventh floor of the Crown Plaza in St. Paul I can see twilight releasing it’s dim hold on what’s left of the skyline. To my right, the bluffs of the Mississippi catch the last bits of sun. To my left, a packed convention center teems with entertainers of all shapes and sizes, hawking their wares to unwary college students at the regional conference for the National Association of Campus Activites, or “NACA.” Or, as some students from Massachusetts inadvertently say it, “NAUWKA.”

Here, a college might book the Late Night Players, a giant, a giant chair, a mechanical bull, or actual reptiles. I don’t like to think of it as a competition, but I also don’t like it when the chair does more business than us. When the reptiles do, I don’t mind -- if something can kill me, it’s fair for it to do better on the college market.

If you’re ever in the twin cities, I have one strong dining recommendation. The astronaut ice cream at the Science Museum is literally out of this world, and if you can identify the species of the “bird on the buoy” statue in the foyer, you get a sticker. The sticker cannot be traded for more astronaut ice cream.

How to Have the Flu and Tour

Option 1: Don’t.

Option 2: No need to be a hero and drive all the way from Vermont to Detroit. Let Zach do it. You sit shotgun, moaning.

When you get to the Ramada in Buffalo, specify a non smoking room since you’re already in pretty bad shape and don’t need any extra carcinogens. When they still give you a smoking room, complain. While they’re getting your new room ready, shiver.

The next day, let Zach drive again.

When you get to the Howard Johnson in Pennsylvania, turn the heat on in your room, because it hasn’t been turned on yet that winter. When you notice that all of the heat is just being blown behind the curtain, hallucinate that it’s Marilyn Monroe over the sewer grate. Once you’re thinking clearly again, redirect the hot air by blocking off the curtain with a clock radio on top of a lamp. Crawl into bed already in your sleeping bag, still wearing your winter jacket and ski cap. Want to die. Hear the clock radio fall.

For breakfast, eat a saltine. Feel nauseous. Don’t eat again that day.

Take Dayquil. Wish it was stronger.

Drink lots of fluids. Wish it did jack shit.

Suffer.

Wait.

See Option 1.

Aaron Kagan is so funny, it's sick.

Freedom Bread

A hearty “hag sameach” to my fellow descendants of escaped Hebrew slaves celebrating Passover this week.

I celebrated Passover this year by making matzoh. I figured it couldn’t be that hard, and certainly shouldn’t take too long. And not to brag, but it was practically shmurah.

I also spent some q.t. with my cousins and long time LNP hosts, the Steinbergs. We usually show up at their place well after our gigs in the city, eat their hummus, and take off again in the morning. This time I was able to hang out and catch up at their cozy home in Westchester county; possibly the nicest place in the world if you don’t think about all that other stuff.

Nina’s macaroons were breathtaking, and the homemade chopped liver was to die for. Eventually... The twins just played Carnegie Hall, Zack got signed to URI for baseball, and Adam already produced an international hit; apparently “Chicka Chad” is huge in Italy.

So sorry, Nazi’s. We’re only eating the bread of affliction because we want to. And we dip it in chocolate.

Pain in the Neck

I’m coming to you from a stiff, upright position in a Holiday Inn Express in Easton, PA. Why, besides early man’s desire to hold tools and look for jaguars, am I standing upright?

Because I screwed up my neck and it hurts to… do things. Even to sit, or turn my head. Regardless, tomorrow I shall sit indeed: for six hours as I drive, alone, for the show must go on. But I’m not changing lanes.

Did I hurt my neck performing? (Obviously not.) Or by foolishly answering Seth’s dad’s bizarre sit-up challenge at the gym this morning? Hint: Seth’s dad is about twice my age, but he’s twice as good at doing weird sit-ups.

Thanks to the Sit-Up Challenge, I finally understand why some stomach exercises are called “crunches.” I actually heard and felt my vertebrae "crunch" as I gripped the bars behind my head, lofted the lower half of my body straight up into the air, and jammed my neck and shoulders against the padding. All to prove myself to a paternal figure, and to fail.

Besides my intense pain and the Williamson Wedding, this hotel also has a Bar Mitzvah party tonight. We had an easy time picking out which people in the lobby were here for which event, thanks to a new game I’ll call “Blonde Hair or Crazy Nose.”
Ouch! Sorry - my neck, not the joke.

Aaron Kagan has been called "The Calvin Trillin of Writing About Touring as a Sketch Comic."