With my stand-up now, I’ve realized there are two types of jokes. One type is me talking about miscellaneous topics and getting laughs. That would be how I feel my first two stand-up specials come off. The second type is, you get a laugh, but you also get the feeling that the audience is saying, “Thank you for saying that!” I find the second type way more satisfying.
The reason you’re not connecting might very well be you. Your boredom could indicate an inability to appreciate a particular kind of music at this moment in time. You should regret that—or take it as a (here’s that word again) “challenge”—not wear it like a badge of honor. What good is there in not being able to like a song, something that might bring you pleasure?
Amen. This reminds me of Edmund Burke’s On Taste:
Almost the only pleasure that men have in judging better than others, consists in a sort of conscious pride and superiority, which arises from thinking rightly; but then, this is an indirect pleasure, a pleasure which does not immediately result from the object which is under contemplation.
It’s a very odd thing with Hollywood, where you do stand-up, you’re good at it, then they go, “How would you like to be a horrible actor?” Then you say, “All right, that sounds good. I’ll do that.” So I’m fucking excited about not having to pretend to know what I’m doing with acting.
I love abandoning shit, because I don’t like doing shit over and over and over. I’ve thrown so many jokes away. First of all, I’m not a good enough performer to pretend that “I just thought of this,” that kind of shit. It’s saying the same word over and over again, it loses its fucking meaning. Also, generally I don’t like traveling around saying the exact same thing. I don’t think that’s a very good thing to do with your life.
I don’t really care about success or money or shit. I could give a fuck. I hate fame. I hate being recognized, because I don’t know how to talk to people. I see Sandler, man, and I’m like fuck, goddamn, I don’t know how he does it, those people are fucking everywhere he walks. If you’re walking with him, all you hear behind is people whispering. It’s almost like being fucking stoned, or a paranoid schizophrenic or something, where you think people are talking about you, but they actually are talking about you. It’s fucking surreal.
“We begin a journey through pop’s recent past by examining the bestselling, major-label NOW That’s What I Call Music compilations.”
A couple of other things that you might not have heard yet, because they’re not available: There’s a fantastic compilation of music that was recorded and released originally on 78s, and it’s called Black Mirror: Reflections In Global Musics. I would recommend it to anybody. But anyway, on that album there’s a song, and when I first heard that song, it just completely blew me away, because all the sudden I had heard the greatest note that I’d ever heard anybody make up to that point. The song is called “Smyrneiko Minore,” and it was sung by Marika Papagika, a young woman who emigrated from Greece to the United States, and she recorded it in 1919 in New York. When you listen to that song, you’re totally unprepared. At least I was. I was totally unprepared for her entrance. When she comes in, that first note, it’s unbelievable, the sense of human sorrow and the feeling of that note.