“Be a giant or grain of sand / Words of wisdom, “Yes, I can.”
I overslept this morning and was rewarded for it.
Shambling drowsily through my morning chores, which include unburdening Miss Mia Sopaipilla’s litter box and removing the contents to the trash bin outside, I glanced up at the banana moon — and saw a shooting star.
Wow! Bonus! A Geminid meteor putting on a show just for me. I tipped Herself to it, she brought Miss Mia outside, and we saw a couple more before the gradually swelling morning light overwhelmed the zippy little fireballs.
Could this be an omen? Is the Lizard Portal finally closing? Maybe. I haven’t seen a day coyote lately. Like my fellow Burqueño Marc Maron I’ll go mystical if I’m terrified.
That doesn’t sound like much of a rumble on the Richter scale of resistance to me. “Dang The Man?” Seriously?
A lot of us have already been sold a sizable bill of goods. And as we should’ve known, it’s not the initial cost, it’s the upkeep.
This “grass roots” call for an “economic blackout” feels like a reverse Dubya (“Don’t go shopping.”). It also reminds me of a line from Marc Maron’s 2020 Netflix special, “End Times Fun,” in which he neatly skewers us for smugly slipping our shopping fingers into the crumbling dike of environmental catastrophe:
“All of us in our hearts really know that we did everything we could. Think about it: We brought our own bags to the supermarket. Yeah, that’s about it.”
Elon Musk doesn’t care if you don’t buy a Tesla today. He’s too busy downsizing Social Security into a median and a cardboard placard on a rainy day.
And Jeff Bezos couldn’t give a shit if you skip your Friday visit to the Foods Hole. He’s launching his plastic fuck-puppet into orbit with a couple other “female celebrities.” It’s gonna be like “Sex in the City,” only in space, and with Mister Big down here on earth giving The Washington Post some pillow therapy in its bed at the nursing home.
“The Right Stuff” this isn’t. In fact, it sounds like something the Democratic National Committee would do, if it did anything, which mostly it doesn’t.
Anybody seen the DNC lately? Maybe they’re out shopping for a clue.
It was just after I stopped to take this pic that I saw the coyote.
The Double Cross and I took a break at the Kiwanis parking lot. No, I wasn’t draining my lizard.
So I’m noodling around in the Elena Gallegos Open Space on the Soma Double Cross, enjoying a fine mist of a light drizzle and temps in the low 70s, when a good-sized coyote ambles into my path on a fast, double-track descent.
In broad daylight.
I’d been dodging lizards all morning, so the coyote sighting instantly brought Marc Maron‘s 2020 Netflix standup “End Times Fun” to mind.
I couldn’t find that particular video clip online, so I’ll have to make do with a transcript from scrapsfromtheloft.com.
Here’s the weird thing about being a Jew. You know, I’m not religious, but I am prone to prophecy. Um, and I don’t mean that in an arrogant way. I’m not saying I’m a prophet, but if I’m terrified, I’ll go mystical, you know? I mean, I don’t mind. I’ll do it. And sometimes it doesn’t make sense. It makes sense to me, but, like, I’ll give you an example. [inhales sharply] Like, I was hiking and, um. … This wasn’t too long ago, and I’m looking at the ground, I realized, “Wow, a lot more lizards now.” I don’t know what that means, but … like, I think it’s deep. I think that Trump has opened the lizard portal and I … think you should share that. Why can’t that be a little thing of information that you spread around a little bit? Just walk up to somebody, like, say, “Maron said the lizard portal’s open.” And people will be like, “What the fuck are you talking about?” And you’re like, “I don’t know, but it sounds scary. Sounds real. Sounds like it’s happening.” “The lizard portal?” “Yup, the lizard portal is open. Saw a coyote out during the day. That’s not right, they’re nighttime monsters. You gonna tell me the lizard portal isn’t open, it is, and day coyotes are among us, and you’re gonna say that’s not a fucking problem? That’s not a harbinger of what’s happening?”
Lizard portal open? Check. Day coyotes? Roger. Oh, yeah, and did I mention he followed with a riff on (wait for it) fire season?
Our state is on fire right now. It’s on fire all the time. Every year, California is on fire to the point where it’s just the way it is. Two weeks ago, my friend Lynn said, “Aren’t the fires a little late this year?” How is that something you say … like it’s a season? It kinda is a season. Once a year, if you live in California, you’re like, “Ah, fuck, there are ants and shit’s burning. Must be summer.”
Maron’s a former Burqueño, so you know he wasn’t just talking about California. His dad still lives here. I’m certain he’s hiked the Elena Gallegos, seen the coyotes and lizards, smelled the smoke.
Hey, I’m Irish. Not religious. But I know a prophet when I see one.
Nope, no balloons or cylindrical objects up there. Not even a “feets ball.”
A quick peek outside this morning found no mystery objects floating over the Sandias, but I understand that some sort of “sporting event” lurks just over the western horizon.
Something involving the “feets ball,” a televised gladiatorial spectacle designed to indulge the American appetite for mayhem, shopping, and bad noise.
We do not follow the “feets ball” here at El Rancho Pendejo. It reminds us of the Marvel nonsense, in which people are paid handsomely to put on uniforms and helmets and then butt heads like randy goats. Herself calls it “punch porn.”
Marvel’s costumed employees generally enjoy longer careers than the “feets ball” gang, because they are only pretending to stomp each other into a thin paste. The NFL’s grunts ain’t playin’, though they call their line of work a “game.”
In that “game,” the average career is just 3.3 years, thanks to injuries, retirement, or getting cut by one’s team. Robert Downey Jr. lasted 11 years as Iron Man. And the only brain damage he has was self-inflicted, before he signed on with the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Though I’ll bet his head hurts when he thinks about trying to count all the money he made playing Marvel’s souped-up Tin Man with attitude.
Anyway, instead of watching the “feets ball” or “Ant-Man and The Who: Quadrophenia” we will be checking out Marc Maron’s new HBO special, “From Bleak to Dark.”
Maron riffed on Iron Man and the MCU during his last standup special, “End Times Fun,” available on Netflix. Like Downey Jr. (and Your Humble Narrator), Maron chose the scenic route to brain damage over getting spiked nose first into the Astroturf like a lawn dart, six inches shy of the goal line.
Maron’s not for everyone. But then neither is the “feets ball.”
Many’s the swab who dreams of being the cap’n, arr.
There was something of a “these kids today” thing happening on Marc Maron’s “WTF” podcast this week, and go figure — it struck a chord with me.
Maron was getting deep into the comedy weeds with fellow comic Mark Normand, talking about their backgrounds, their neuroses, how they became comics, standups they’ve worked with and admired, differences in style, the mechanics of jokes, lines and the crossing thereof, and whether the crossing is worth the caterwauling from a vocal subset of the audience getting their knickers in a twist over the outrage du jour.
They both agreed with Harry Shearer, who once told Maron, “The reason people do comedy is to control why people are laughing at them.” They both bitched about the gatekeepers with the God complexes who had the power to decide whether they would get any stage time Back in the Day.
And they both seemed astonished that anyone might think there’s a magical short cut to where they’ve gotten by dint of hard labor, some high-speed bypass that skirts the long and winding road.
Maron said it was his podcast that saved him in his mid-40s, at what seemed to be “the end of the line,” when he had no clue about what he might do next with his hard-won skill set.
And the idea that “we live in this world where it’s like all of a sudden everyone thinks they can do this” is “fucking annoying,” he added.
“We will all be immortalized as content.” —Marc Maron, “Too Real.”
“Give me where to stand, and I will move the earth,” said Archimedes, speaking of the lever. A lot of us feel the same way. With the right tool, we think, we can do anything.
Mmm … maybe not.
In my racket — and in Maron’s, too — it was the trickling down of technology from Olympus that led to delusions of grandeur here on earth. A MacBook Pro and Microsoft Office don’t make you a writer. A smartphone camera doesn’t make you a photographer. A microphone and a Libsyn account don’t make you a podcaster. The TikTok app doesn’t make you … well, to be honest, I have no idea what TikTok does to you. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.
Some of us who came to bike magazines through newspaper work used to give the old hee, and also the haw, to what we called “fans with laptops,” wanna-bes who thought devotion to cycling and/or the sport’s celebrities outweighed the craft of asking smart questions, remaining skeptical, and writing clean copy on deadline.
All you need is love? Not even The Beatles believed that shit.
“Podcasts are like babies. They’re too easy to make, and not everybody should have one.“ —Mark Normand on “WTF,” with Marc Maron
It’s one thing to play. We have all these cool toys now. We can blog, shoot videos, record podcasts, self-publish books, and broadcast email newsletters, all with a few keystrokes. Damn the gatekeepers, full speed ahead! Hold my beer and watch this! Slap it all up on the Innertubes, the modern equivalent of Mom’s refrigerator, the gallery for all your childhood scribbles.
But gigging is something else. Chops make a difference if you want to turn pro.
What annoyed me about fans with laptops — and what probably bugs Maron and Normand about amateur comics and podcasters — is that too many of them try to skip the whole boring learning-the-trade thing and step right to the pay window.
Sorry, man. No cuts. Maron got there ahead of you. And he ‘s not about to step out of line and go back to his day job. This is his day job.
“What am I prepared to do outside of show business? Nothing!” Maron said.
Preach, brother. Preach.
• Editor’s note: Incidentally, Mark Normand is a funny dude. He has a podcast or two, and you can catch his 2020 special “Out to Lunch” on YouTube.
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