by David Cross
People are often lulled into attributing blanket generalizations to people of different regions—i.e., the good folks of New England are tight-assed and prudent, people in the South are friendly and move at a slower pace, people in the Midwest are useless tweakers who don’t shower for weeks on end, etc. etc. Sometimes, of course, there are some truths to these assessments. People in the South are, indeed, on the whole, more “polite” (in the sense that they say “hello” and stuff like that) than most other masses of people. That’s not to say there aren’t any racist assholes who would shoot a hippie faggot in the back rather than hear about two of them getting married in a strange progressive land far, far away. And I’m sure there’s at least one person in the Midwest who’s not selling her 9-year-old’s pussy for another hit on the ol’ glass dick. For the most part, these generalizations exist for a reason. I am going to do my best (through my thoroughly jaded jaundiced eyes of biased bitterness) to convey what a day or lifetime spent in some of these charming hamlets of care-free nuclear families grilling their bulk-bought Mexican hot dogs and scooping potato salad from a 5-gallon plastic bucket, is like.
Let’s start with where I was born and where I return to at least a couple of times a year—Atlanta, Georgia. Now I don’t want to turn this into a memoir, as I’m a bit young for that yet. But I do have some pretty amazing stories to tell. You can turn to page 54 for a teaser of some of the stories I’ll be relating in the memoir that will be forthcoming at some point down the line. When people find out that I grew up in Atlanta, they will usually say, “Where’s your accent?” which is ridiculous, since everyone should know by now that I sold it to Larry the Cable Guy for twenty bucks and a set of “Git-R-Done” tire covers. Actually I grew up in Roswell, a sleepy (read: boring) suburb just north of the city. Now it’s all connected and pretty much part of the poorly planned sprawl of Greater Atlanta (see “The City in Mind” by James Kunstler for a sensible, well-researched essay on how and why Atlanta blew it), but back when I was a kid it wasn’t.
Not everyone acquires an accent from wherever they are from. How come Jewel doesn’t sound “Alaskan”? Why doesn’t Stephen Colbert have a thick South Carolina drawl like that retard who works at the “Lil’ Peach” on Sundays? What about Amy Sedaris? Or David Sedaris? Or Dan Rather? He’s from Texas, for chrissakes! What about James Taylor? He’s from Martha’s Vineyard. Why doesn’t he sound like some elitist, liberal Kennedy-lite asshole? And how about Marlon Brando and Johnny Carson? They were from Nebraska. How come they didn’t sound like horses? Etc. etc. But as I’ve said before on my Grammy-losing * CD Shut Up, You Fucking Baby the Southern accent, in particular the “redneck” accent, the accent of the stupid and lazy, is mysteriously the most ubiquitous regional accent in all of America. Outside of the annoying upspeak of teenage (and not so teenage, sometimes) girls—which is its own, albeit less mysterious, phenomenon—the redneck accent can be found in places as diverse as Modesto, California; Hot Springs, Arkansas; and Cumberland, Maine. I don’t know why. I’m no sociologist, so stop asking. It just is.
One of the more curious but lasting things about the South is the amount of science/blacks/Jews/fag/progessive-liberal/secular atheist/foreigner haters that particular region has a history of producing (albeit thankfully decreasing) and the corresponding cultural vacuum that exists outside of the larger cities. Is there a correlation to be made? Probably, but that would just open me up to cries of “elitist” or “condescending prick.” Hey, come to think about it, that doesn’t sound so bad to me. Who’s gonna call me a condescending prick, anyway? Jeanette Dunwoody? That Baptist home-schooling mom who will never even read one of my dirty devil words, or Cooter Dupree, that government-cheese-eating, welfare-soaking asshole alchoholic who does nothing all day but watch The A-Team and mildly torture his dog? I don’t give a shit about them, anyway. Nope, most likely I’ll be set upon by the other kind of narrow-minded, tone-deaf clown that is the biological sister to the lunacy of the well-heeled, Jello-salad-serving pride of the South—her counterpart to the northwest.
The northern Californian über PC, well-meaning but sadly feckless lover of all living colors of the rainbow, be they black, white, brown, yellow, blah blah blah. I loves me a good hippie/ “anarchy now” dialogue. While there is very little if nothing I can appreciate about the couple in Vernon, Georgia, who will stamp their feet in anger and twist and sputter about at the idea of two gay guys in San Francisco who want the right to be legally recognized as married, I do somewhat empathize with that same gay guy who is upset with my “intolerance.” But sometimes it gets out of hand. A couple of years ago I did a show in San Francisco. I usually have pretty good shows there, but quite often, and this has been true of doing shows there my entire career, I will face pockets of invariable and wholly predictable PC anger at something I’ve said. By far, most of the time the audience has my back, and if they didn’t necessarily agree with my point, at least understood the exaggerated comic intent of the bit. But sometimes sincerely well-intentioned people are so overly sensitive and myopic that any sense of irony, parody, or satire is squeezed out of the bit, leaving a bone-dry statement devoid of humor lying dead on the hot sidewalk in its wake.
At this show I did a bit that at its core was about how an atheist running for office in America (this was in 2006 during the beginning of the primaries), no matter how viable, equitable, and universally accepted his ideas for improving the lives of all might be, will never be a major party candidate in my lifetime. Then I talked about how Mitt Romney (who was doing very well at the time) could very likely end up being the Republican nominee and then talked about what he, as a Mormon, believes. Obviously there are no jokes in the above. I just wanted to give you a synopsis of the bit, which was probably ten minutes long and wouldn’t translate all that well on the page. So I did the bit, made my point, and moved on to some hilarious abortion jokes. A couple of days later, because back then I was foolish and vain enough to have a “Google Alert” for myself, I stumbled upon a blog entry from someone named Emily who had been at the show. Here it is, quoted in its entirety from the blog SFist:
SFist was excited to hit SketchFest’s Comedy Death-Ray act last night at Cobb’s. The lineup (full of Mr. Show and I LOVE the ’80’s alums) looked promising. After the usher told us to give him $10 we landed front row seats. Which served us well for the surprise star of the night, Paul F. Tompkins—who had by far the strongest set of the night. Seriously, give that guy his own TV show! The other notable act was the vocal stylings of Hard ’n’Phirm, who ended the night with their rendition of a Latin power love ballad, which brought down the house, and which SFist is secretly hoping someone will sing to us this Valentine’s Day.
SFist, like most of the crowd, were there to see David Cross, and able openers only served to increase our anticipation for his set. Cross’s work on Mr. Show and Arrested Development are some of the funniest in contemporary comedy. Sadly, SFist was really disappointed (appalled might be the better word) by David Cross’s routine. In addition to getting the smallest laughs from the crowd, it was the most blatant public display of bigotry we’ve witnessed in person.
It’s difficult to define the difference between making fun of something and attacking it. It’s a fine line, but many comics get it right: the greatest cultural and religious satire takes the beliefs held by a group of people and spins it to show the comedy inherent in those beliefs. For example, South Park has covered the very same ground in terms of joking about Mormons by going through the Joseph Smith story (which was what Cross went through as well). South Park explicates the story to hilarious (and irreverent) effect by making it into a musical, complete with ditties about translating golden plates, angels appearing, and the plates conveniently disappearing whenever outside sources ask for evidence. Cross, on the other hand, simply laid out the story of the religion’s foundation, and at the end of major points essentially said, “Isn’t that dumb?” “Can you believe how stupid these Mormons are?” Baddum-chee! Get the jok
e? We didn’t. Showing why something is ridiculous is comedy, telling you it’s dumb is more of a soap-box lecture. People at the club paid for comedy, not a lesson in religious beliefs punctuated with statements like “How dumb is that?” The letdown here is that SFist, like a lot of fans there, were hoping for the type of awkward comedy Cross does best, not the kind of bit you’d expect from a talk radio show host.
It was surprising and a little confusing that a comedian of Cross’s stature and talent would spend so much time on pure vitriol. Cross seemed to deflate some of the exuberance of the evening (which was buoyed by a strictly enforced two-drink minimum), and the lag showed with paltry applause. Moreover, his bit seemed derivative of recent attacks on Mitt Romney’s candidacy that have appeared in Slate and elsewhere, and which are based not on his political record so much as on his Mormonism (which is the way Cross began his piece). The difference is that the Slate authors weren’t trying to be funny. Any religion, plus political aspirations on the part of one of its adherents, could equal pure comedic gold, given a proper witty treatment. Sadly, Cross fell short of the task he set himself. Cross ended his piece with “Mormons are F***ing idiots”—not one of the more socially tolerant statements we’ve ever heard. But hey, maybe nobody told him it was Martin Luther King Day.
I promptly wrote back, which I rarely do because as we all know it’s a losing situation, * but I felt obligated to clear up this issue, since it lives on forever on the Internet and I don’t like being called a bigot.
Dear Emily,
I just read your review, and I would like to address a number of things that I find to be either disingenuous or just plain wrong (sometimes mildly irresponsible, and other times so wrong it borders on libel). I won’t get into who had what kind of set and argue about quantifying laughs and then the quality of said laughs, but I take great issue with your calling me a bigot. You call me a bigot and then fail to represent truthfully what I said and ignore the context in which I said it, two very important tools in comedy. And keep in mind that the set was taped. I have it all on tape. Every word, every laugh, every pause, every quiet moment. Everything.
And Emily, if that was “the most blatant display of bigotry [you’ve] ever witnessed in person,” then you have lived a charmed life, for sure. I think you are being hyperbolic and overdramatic, to say the least. While it’s true that I made fun of Mormons and their beliefs, you completely ignored the context in which I did it. The ENTIRE premise of the piece was first prefaced (and this lasted over a minute) by saying that, should I ever choose to run for any kind of office, that, no matter how many good ideas I might have to improve the quality of everyone’s life or implement a universal health care plan etc., that I could never get elected because I am an atheist. For the simple fact that I don’t believe in God, most people wouldn’t vote for me. I then brought up that Mitt Romney, a Mormon, had just announced his candidacy. I then explained that a lot of pundits thought that his prior stance in support of gay marriage might turn voters away. Then I said, “so his support of equal rights for all Americans would be the thing that made people suspicious of him, not his belief that . . .” and here is where I described the story of Joseph Smith along with side commentary about the angels names sounding like they were members of Sha Na Na, and comments about the Freemasons etc.
I appreciate your pointing out that there is a difference between making fun of something and attacking it, and that scientists have discovered a fine line between the two, but when you go on to say that “the greatest cultural and religious satire takes the beliefs held by a group of people and spins it to show the comedy inherent in those beliefs,” you imply that I didn’t “spin” it or “show” it. I disagree with you, and my tape of the set and the laughs that I was receiving are evidence that the audience (minus some, of course) disagreed with you as well. I can’t (nor should I ever) assume that each audience I ever do that bit in front of is familiar with the South Park episode, the Slate article about Romney being Mormon (which I am not familiar with, but I would imagine any good journalist might find it to be an interesting subject), or even the basic tenets and history of Mormonism itself. And looking over your review I notice that I did in fact mention everything you cite as being so integral to the South Park episode.
To represent on this website that bit the way you do is damaging, if not worse. Emily, you can’t simply reduce everything I said and its obvious (to most, at least) intent to merely a vitriolic, bigoted soap-box lecture wherein I just say, “This is what Mormons believe. Aren’t they fucking idiots?” That is being either purposefully dishonest or at the very least lazy and irresponsible. In addition, your numerous references to how poorly I was received seem put in there to bolster your position. This just wasn’t the case. Again, the set and entire evening were taped. I have the proof on tape. You have your clearly biased memory of events, which do not match reality.
Having said all that, I do think it’s astoundingly stupid and lazy to believe in Mormonism, given it and its founder’s history. I do agree with you, though, that Paul F. Tompkins had the strongest set of the night.
Love,
David Cross
Hmm, that wasn’t very much about me at all, was it? What do you want, a memoir? Well, guess what …
My Memoir-to-Be
IT’S FAR TOO EARLY FOR ME TO WRITE A MEMOIR, BUT BARRING A premature death, I most likely will. I think it’s without arrogance or ego when I say that I’ve experienced enough interesting/scary/unique/thrilling/and heartbreaking events to warrant my writing them down and you reading them. So for now I offer this sneak peak at some of the episodes, all true, that will probably be featured in my memoir covering at least the first forty years:
Losing my virginity to a black prostitute in a stairwell on 46th and 9th Avenue in Times Square when I was eighteen.
Eating nothing but candy (Boston baked beans, to be exact) and chocolate powder mixed with water with my fantastically lazy and supremely irresponsible piece of useless shit of a dad in a tiny motel room/apartment in Scottsdale, Arizona, the summer I was fifteen. Needless to say, he never once found a job while I lived with him.
Fleeing the aforementioned motel room/apartment my dad and I were staying in to skip out on several months’ worth of rent that my dad got away with because he was fucking the alcoholic wife of the owner. This was just after hocking all my stuff, which barely amounted to anything.
Arriving back at Roswell in a driveaway truck with literally one nickel left.
Angrily/pathetically jerking off into a hole on a golf course near my apartment when I was sixteen.
Tripping on acid with two Turkish kids who were into trance music in the middle of nowhere in the middle of Turkey. Getting paranoid and ending up the next morning on a small boat that I wound up being on for the next four days with a bunch of Australian kids.
Being insulted by Elvis Costello backstage at a Clash concert in NYC that I miraculously got a backstage pass to while drunk off my ass on gin when I was eighteen.
Going to the Majestic in Atlanta for some late-night drunken eats by myself, and since the place was packed and there was one table open, asking the girl ahead of me if I could sit with her at her table. She said, and I quote, “Okay, as long as you don’t talk to me.” Fair enough, I told her and took a seat across from her. Twenty minutes later we were making out in the parking lot. I found out she was a school teacher who didn’t own a TV.
Having a car screech up to me and my friend Mark while standing at the end of a gravel road in the woods in north Georgia (home of Deliverance) and the driver getting out, cocking a shotgun, and putting it to my chest saying, “What the hell y’all want?!!”
Shitting my pants while talking to Tenacious D five minutes before we were supposed to start a show that I was hosting. Literally, not figuratively. I knew them already.
All this and so much more, coming to a mom-and-pop Barnes & Noble near you soon!
A Free List of Quirks for Aspiring Independent Filmmake
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THIS IS A FREE AND PARTIAL LIST OF QUIRKY PERSONALITY TRAITS, habits, or experiences for the next Diablo Cody, or Quentin Tarantino, or Miranda July, or Wes Anderson, or Jim Jarmusch, or Jason Reitman, Tom DiCillo, or fill-in-the-blank independent filmmaker, to attribute to their characters in their next film. I believe they are all worthy of inclusion. But be warned: do NOT try to use all of them in one movie! That would be an extra-crazy mindfuck of quirkdom that would unfairly sweep the Independent Spirit Awards and possibly the Best Original Screenplay Oscar!!
Born without eyelashes
Big toe bitten off by barracuda
Can’t whistle
Conceived during rape
Lived in Antartica for two years
