Hanes dumps Sheen as Spokesman (Finally!)

Hanes brands has dropped Charlie Sheen because of domestic violence charges filed against the actor. The headline should read: "Wife beater no longer to endorse wife beater."

(Somebody give that one to Leno.)

(If my mom is reading this, a "wife beater" is slang for those skin tight white tank tops you see a lot of rappers and wife beaters wearing.)

Hanes should've dumped Sheen after that one ad with him begging Michael Jordan to hang out with him. Any actor of his recognizability should never do an ad that ends with him throwing his phone into Jordan's car saying, "Call me." He should know better than to recycle a once popular and overused expression from THE LAST DECADE!

In 2010 I would like to see never said again: Call me. Check please. (Person talking about a person behind their back then they get slightly nervous and say) He/she is right behind me right? I'm sure there are many more, but it's early and my brain is not working yet.

I would like to see the end of beer commercials were the guys love their beer more than their wives. If you have never been married, like me, if you believed beer commercials-- you would think that every guy spends all weekend plotting ways to sneak away from his wife and drink beer with the guys. Is it really like that? None of my friends are like that. They wouldn’t ever dare try and sneak away from their wives.

There is one very clever and funny beer ad-- in my opinion-- the one where the girls are getting a tour of the house and see her huge closet and go nuts screaming. Only to stop because they hear louder screams coming from the guys who discover his beer closet. It’s a great ad and I still couldn’t tell you what beer it’s for.

If you can think of more hacky ad stuff-- post them here. I'm sure I will think of more. And if you disagree with me-- don't call me.

How to be upstaged by a star like Robin Williams

Orny Adams
December 10, 2007

Ornyadams.com







I should be preparing for an audition… and I haven’t slept in two nights. I just can’t seem to come down from my show Tuesday night in Mill Valley at the Throckmorton Theater (12-4-07). I stood before you all naked in heart and soul and at one point actually almost naked… but how did my show disintegrate into a male review with me disrobing onstage? (I’m just bracing for when the scandalous pictures emerge on the internet.) Let’s investigate.

The theater was jammed-- wall to wall-- people standing in the balcony on their tip toes to see the stage. It was quite an inspiring scene for ME. Definition; ME: a guy who has spent years playing to less than (and even less than less than) sold out venues. (I once did a show with NOBODY at a club in New York City, but I’ll save that story for the book.)

Pre-show: The hotel was smack across the street and I could watch the crowd filter in from the far left corner of my balcony. I would go back and forth from doing push ups, sit ups, bastardized versions of stretches and yoga, all the while looking over my notes scattered about the room, to taking breaks to eye the crowd entering the theater. Maybe five months ago I had one of my strongest shows at this place. Such a quick rebooking was soul tantalizing. I was a little bit shocked that they wanted me back so quickly. The gamble paid off-- the place was packed.

With my dark grey Target duffle bag stuffed with DVD/CDs slung over my shoulder, I made for the theater. I love walking in with that thing-- makes me feel like a folky with his guitar. No pretension. I settled into the familiar green room. As most performers do, I surveyed the food offerings (usually a sign of how much they respect us. A great spread equals great love) and then laid out my notes creating a work area for me to continue pounding thoughts into my head. The mood would shortly shift.

The green room door opens:

“What are you doing in my green room,” I thought and hopefully didn’t show on my stoic face? Barely peering over my stash of notes, I gave my best mix of coy, yet respectful, but not overly excited posture, as Robin Williams walked in. It’s hard NOT to be a little enamored by a guy who has done so much. And I had never met him before.

My mind started making millions of calculations: “Well I guess it isn’t my show anymore. But I’m the headliner, what now? Maybe he doesn’t want to go on? Maybe he had somehow heard of me and actually came down to watch my show. Oh, Orny that’s ridiculous. He’s going on. Will he go on before or after me? Maybe they knew Robin was coming and that’s why the food spread is so exceptional.”

My mind continued whizzing at tornado speed and then it started to drift into an odd conversation:

Dear Orny’s Ego,
This is your reality check. Mork from Ork is here to remind you of how little you have done. So just in case you were feeling great about yourself for headlining a sold out show and returning to a theater you played a mere five months earlier, and was excited to show off all your new routines, it’s time to remember you are a very, very, small, small creature in the entertainment world. I would like to further remind you, that the chances of you surpassing this person’s accomplishments are very slim. Now, get your shit together and get on that stage and “pretend” you are prettiest girl in the room… but you’re not.
Sincerely,
The Universe

Dear Mr. Williams,
I am a huge fan of your body of work and all that you have done. You blew me away in “Good Will Hunting.” When I was in college, I remember counting the seconds in between laughs on your record. If my recollection serves me correct, I believe you averaged a laugh once every three seconds. Amazing. But, tonight is Orny’s night. (I don’t know if they forgot to tell you that.) And it is my job to protect and delude Orny as much as possible from the truth. (The truth is just too damning.) Honestly, between us, he’s not quite as funny as he thinks he is… which is great because that means I am doing my job brilliantly. But you coming into the green room right now is an unworkable task for even me to alleviate. How do you suggest we handle this?
Sincerely,
Orny’s Ego

SNAP OUT OF IT! The reality sets in. The possibility of working with such a mega talent is somewhat intoxicating. But now I have the added pressure of HIM watching ME on stage. And it was important to ME that HIM like me.

Robin started to pillage the food. He was doing my favorite thing-- mixing carbs. I’ve caught myself dipping bread in mashed potatoes before. He was chasing a piece of pizza with some sort of pastry. I kept to my notes. We exchanged small talk. The energy in the green room felt slightly askew. So when he came out of the bathroom, I decided to break the ice, "Even your piss sounds famous." Robin immediately catapulted head first, without a safety net, into some off the wall thoughts about famous pee. And from that point on, we connected. And the rest of the night we riffed. We all riffed. Other comics there that night, like Mike Pace and Robin Cee, jumping in. Hanging out with comics and just topping each other about nonsensical subjects is a beautiful thing-- I love it.

I had gotten a call earlier in the week that Dana Carvey wanted to stop by and go on the show-- which I more than welcomed. “Do you mind if Dana Carvey stops in and does 10 minutes before you?” I said, “Not at all! And let him know he can do 12 if he is killing.” And I more than welcome a Robin Williams any day of the week too. Now, I have a huge ego (who happens to be an articulate letter writer too), but I went into this line of work because I absolutely LOVE the sound of laughter and even more the roar of a crowd. And I was quite sure Robin would get a huge roar and that would make my ears orgasm. This is why I prefer live band CDs over studio cuts-- a performer feeding off the audience and vice versa-- nothing like it. Must be the same feeling Anthony Bourdain gets when two food items like canapés of duck confit and foie gras paired with some French wine feed off each other. (Don’t think I memorized those dishes, I had to get up and reference one of his books.) I prefer simpler food.

Now, I should take a moment to address the general aura of the Throck. The theater dates way back-- Chaplin played there-- before they had air conditioning. And I played there and they still don’t have air conditioning. It’s rumored that Dylan played there. (He would love the place!) It’s an intimate community theater and it’s probably everything a traditional theater used to feel like-- before we all went global, moved away from our families, our neighborhoods, and into the anonymously cold and congested voids we call cities. For many of us, we live in places that have zero sense of community. I don’t even know my neighbors. My neighbors walk by me without even making eye contact. I try and have thus been labeled as the neighborhood crazy. “Who’s Mr. Wild Eyes?” This is not the way we are hard wired to exist. So it was refreshing to perform in an environment that felt like a home. I sent this email to Lucy, the theater’s owner, the following day, “Thanks again for providing such a wonderful environment to perform in... it is NO secret that what you do there is foster an energy that makes us all superior performers.” Of course everything will change when it gets bought by a corporation and becomes the “Head On, Apply Directly Where it Hurts Theater.”

Most joints I perform in have this assembly line mentality: get the people in, get the people two drinks, get the people’s money and exactly 90 minutes later GET THE PEOPLE OUT! And then get in a whole new set of people. Don’t feel too used. They have the same attitude towards the performers: get us in and get us out. One of the last clubs I played was filthy. Popcorn on the floor (I didn’t even see popcorn being served the entire week-- which led me to believe that the popcorn promotion was probably discontinued and the floor had not been cleaned in a while. It reminded me of this restaurant in Massachusetts called “The Ground Round,” where they encouraged people to throw popcorn on the floor. I still don’t get the encouraging part of it.) On the stage at this particular hellhole was a bottle of water-- an old bottle of water-- had that look of one that had been sitting on the desert floor for a while. My mind kept imagining a human skeleton holding a map laying next to it. The cliché brick wall behind me was crumbling and you could see hunks of drywall on the stage.

How is this supposed to make the comic feel? It is demoralizing to the performer. Would you like working in an office that was not kept clean? In general, these places DO NOT CARE. If you read the “Tipping Point,” then you understand the value of upkeep. One example cited in the book explained that a dramatic drop in crime in poor neighborhoods resulted because they had replaced broken windows in abandoned buildings; Or how New York City tipped crime on the subway in a favorable direction by enforcing and cleaning up graffiti on the cars.

So Sunday night rolls around (water bottle still on stage)-- and for reasons I will not get into or you would know what club I am talking about-- there were only 25 reservations on the books. I get to the club, expecting the show to be cancelled. What I didn’t expect to see was 25 people seated in the back along the perimeter. I asked the workers, “Why aren’t they seated upfront?” One of them chimed in, “Nobody wants to sit too close to the stage.” Well, I don’t know if you realize this-- but you kind of need people up close to have a comedy show. But they don’t care. They just want the night to go by quick, with the least amount of friction, then clock out, probably have a beer or a joint, and forget about it. They are there for a paycheck, not for the love of comedy like some of us. In my mind, I kept hearing the same thought, “Is this the first week you guys are doing comedy? How could you not know to seat people up front first?” They should be trained to walk people to a table close to the stage and say, “This is your table.” If they get any resistance from the patron, “What about back there?,” simply respond, “Oh sorry, that section is closed.” (All this and more will appear in my manual, “The correct way to seat people at a comedy club and why dropping the checks in the middle of a show ruins it for everybody.”)

Most of these comedy clubs need new tables, seats, flooring, bathrooms, mics, backdrops on stage, headshots on the wall, and in general a facelift. It’s not the type of place that feels warm to me. The customers sit there waiting for the show to start, having crappy music jammed into their senses, sitting in a shell of what was once probably a nicer club-- none of which says to me GET READY TO LAUGH. But we comics need these places. It’s where we cut our bones. I will always keep a foot in the club scene. I would not be a fifth of the performer I am today without these joints. I just wish they had more pride in their clubs. To make a living in these clubs, week after week, is a sad existence. I don’t care how impervious you are, how thick your bark is, “the club attitude” gets deep inside you. This does not apply to all the clubs. There are some wonderfully run clubs in this country. But they are rare. And I greatly look forward to working those weeks. They’re clean, the staff is professional and fun. (But all this is something I should discuss later in much greater detail.) So to be at place like the Throck is special.

The Throck is everything these places are not. The warm proprietor greets each patron and is continuously making sure the performers are comfortable. When the green room ran out of food, Lucy ordered more. When the club was way oversold, Lucy gave me a bonus. And this is why stars like Robin Williams and Dana Carvey drop in there and not places that leave old water bottles on the stage.

There is something undeniably magical about this Throckmorten Theater. It’s a comedy hungry audience that actually sits there and listens to the comics spin their words. They care. They laugh. Can you imagine that? They actually listen and respect the performer! I DID NOT SEE ONE CELL PHONE the entire time-- no servers with their arms extended, balancing flying saucer sized trays filled with drinks to make the drunk idiots… drunker drunk idiots. Sorry, but whoever thought alcohol was a necessary component to the comedy experience was WRONG. It’s there for one reason, to act as a little hand to go into your wallet and extract more of your money.

So for the first twenty minutes or so I am trying to find the proper rhythm for performing in front of a respectful audience. Sadly, I have the least amount of experience with this. And it took me that long to slow down and relax. I kept thinking, “It’s OK, they’re listening, don’t try so hard to hold their attention.” But like a rescued dog who’s previous owner abused him-- I kept flinching for twenty or so minutes. Then I trusted them.

Mark Pitta, the weekly host and organizer of the show, commented to me afterwards in the greenroom, “I thought we were having an earthquake at one point. People were stomping their feet and banging the walls.” “You ever see that before,” I asked, as I always have a need to know if my circumstances are special or not (I do this with women too)? “Never,” Pitta confirmed. I had never seen that before either. It was like a European soccer match with all that banging and stomping. It was a dream that I kept waiting to be interrupted by a riot. Minutes into my act relief set in, as I had felt the pressure of Robin watching (I could hear him laughing off to the side behind the curtain) and living up to the standing ovation my previous time at the Throck.

My goal in this type of situation is to do a mix of the old with plenty of new. I want to WOW the people seeing me for both the first and also second time. The old stuff is like a favorite pair of sweatpants-- broken in and very dependable. (By the way, in the above sentence you can substitute for sweatpants: t-shirt, sneakers, shoes, hat, ex-girlfriend, or mom’s meatloaf.) But I feel it is important to insert fresh material; it keeps me energized and satiates those returning or who have seen my DVD/CD “Path of Most Resistance.”

Sometimes a crowd is too good and they don’t even know it. They don’t realize they can’t possibly sustain this soccer stadium level fervor for an hour. This is when I make a calculated move to slow things down a bit-- get introspective-- sing a ballad. It gives me a chance to catch my breath, and in this case, realize I am over heating. Tuesday night I made the mistake of wearing a thick, black, button down shirt and jeans. I prefer t-shirts since I tend to get hot under the lights. I cant stand long sleeves. Even growing up in Boston I wore short sleeves all winter. But I wore a button down to show a modicum of respect for working in a theater. But at heart, I am a short sleever. Why am I wasting finger energy typing all this out??? Oh, that’s right, because beads of my sweat were dropping to the stage joining a puddle started by Charlie Chaplin.

The theater had a solution for this-- a fan. In the middle of my act, they actually plugged in a tornado fan and put it in the corner of the stage. I scoffed initially, but was shortly pleased at it’s effectiveness.


I take a seat on the stool and slow it down-- way down. I unbutton my shirt a bit. I was that hot and that pleased with the current state of my stomach distension. And gauging the reaction of the crowd, I feel safe about unbuttoning one more. And this leads to another, more roars, and I felt so good about myself I got down on the stage and started doing push ups. What does this have to do with comedy you ask? Not much, except for being in the moment and creating laughs for the sake of laughs and building a relationship with the audience. It’s important sometimes to just show that you are human.






Now 30 minutes into the hour, I’ve calmed the room down. I button my shirt up and start the difficult incline back to the place I had them at 10 minutes previous. I know it sounds insane to many of you that I would essentially sabotage my momentum and bring it down-- but it had to be done. Classical musicians do this all the time; they build it up and then bring it way down (bore us with a flute solo) and then go way up again. You have to texture things. I think it was either Mozart or Beethoven or possibly Captain and Tennille that would write symphonies and guess when audience members would start to dose off. And at the moment they figured people would have heavy eyelids, they guy with the cymbals would stand up and CLANG! I could watch people shocked by a good cymbals clang all day-- somebody should Youtube those moments.

Somehow I am now at 45 minutes. As it often does, time leaps on stage. I got lost in the moment, which is an important thing to do and not necessarily so easy (so many distractions). Time flies in the moment. About the only time in my life I am that close to the moment is onstage. Lately, I’ve been listening to Eckhart Tolle’s “The Power of Now.” My mind is so full of noise it’s nearly impossible for me to be in the NOW. Tolle is a German, self help spiritualist who put out these CDs. By listening to his CDs he tries to help you achieve being in the NOW, but his German accent usually puts my someplace around 1942.

I button up my shirt-- but of course am off by a button and my shirt lays lopsided. My face says it all-- I give up. There’s no hope for me.

Offstage, Mark Pitta gives me the light. For those of you that don’t know what this signifies (which means you are not in show business and I am envious that you have escaped the insanity that has plagued my entire adult life), a performer is given the light to signal that he or she has a set amount of time left in their show. You can request a 5 or 10 or even 15 minute light. I usually like a 10 minute one. But Pitta was strobing the thing, making motions like he was slitting his throat with his finger-- in other words, like he needed me off the stage immediately. I looked at him and said, “What does that mean?” Pitta took this interaction as an invitation to walk out onstage. If it isn’t about him for more than half an hour, he gets nervous and tries to redirect the attention back on him. And when I said exactly that, the place broke into applause. Pitta is fun and runs a loose show there. He is adored by the community, rightly so. But they get his character type. The show has been running for 4 years based on his likeability. And as Pitta tried to commandeer my microphone to rebut, I said, “I don’t know how you guys have put up with him for 4 years, I couldn’t even stand him for the drive from Oakland airport. Wish I had known San Francisco airport was 10 minutes closer, I would’ve paid the additional 50 bucks to fly in there.” Actually, Pitta is the exact type of guy you can’t dislike-- his personality is infectious.

Pitta, not having a mic to work with, starts to unbutton his shirt. I take this as a challenge, so I start to unbutton mine again. And as he goes lower, I go lower. He whips off his belt. So I whip off my belt… half expecting that song “Dueling Banjos” to start playing. Then my shoe comes off and I sexily throw a sock. So Pitta starts to lower his pants. I’m thinking, “Is he really gonna do it.” And then out of nowhere, Robin Williams walks out onstage in just his boxers. It was hilarious. The place roared. The audience jumped to it’s feet. It was AS LOUD as I have ever heard an audience when I was onstage. And it wasn’t for me, it was for Robin! But I still loved it. Imagine you’re sitting there and have no idea Robin Williams is even in the country and then he walks out almost naked? Now with Robin in the middle of me and Pitta, the three of us barely clad, start taking stage bows-- like we just wrapped up performing Hamlet. Man, was it a thrill to see an audience react to a star like Robin Williams.





Pretty brave of Robin to strip down to his boxers and walk out there. I wouldn’t do it and I have far less to lose. And later it hit me-- that’s why Robin is a star, he is not hindered by inhibition. Every person that knows Robin, who I’ve told this story to, has said the same thing, “That’s Robin.”

They exit the stage and it’s just me up there again. Now what? “Thank you, I’ll be in the lobby selling my DVD?” It could’ve been worse, Robin could’ve walked out naked covering his phallus with his Oscar. How do you close a show like this? I’m digging deep, trying to process what just happened and how to exit the stage with decorum and dignity. No question I was upstaged, but I still deserved to wrap up my show and get my final applause. I knew I couldn’t do jokes-- any joke would sound stiff as a corpse at that point. My corpse if I did it. The first thing I said, “That was THE BEST Robin Williams impersonator I have ever seen.” At which point, Mike Pace, who had performed earlier and ripped it up, and who is admittedly anything but in shape, walks out shirtless.


And then a moment later Don McMillian, this awkwardly geeky giant, and former engineer, who had done a hilarious power point presentation on the show, walks out in his boxers and lifts me off the stage. It was chaos and the audience was loving every minute of it. And NONE of it was staged. It was all just unraveling. It was one of those nights I wished I was in the audience. (Unfortunately the house photographer was instructed to not take any pictures when Robin was onstage.)





There was no way for me to end the show, but to end it with something sentimental. Pure honesty can salvage almost any situation. (In book, insert story of how I got out of speeding ticket with pure honesty.) So I simply expressed how much I was enjoying the show before the male revue started; “What a thrill to return to the Throck to an oversold crowd. All week I had been looking forward to headlining this show, I felt on top of the world-- and then Robin Williams shows up-- like my ego needed that. I hope to see you again sometime. Good night.” And they leapt to their feet. “I did it,” I thought.

Now, how do you come down from a show like that? I went back stage and just BUZZED. One fly made the unfortunate mistake of landing on me and got zapped. Robin went on after me and did a large hunk of time. The audience ate it up. I needed a martini. And I would’ve chugged the thing in one gulp-- like you see in the movies and think, “Who ever chugs an entire martini?” Well I would’ve at that moment.

My favorite part of most nights is greeting the audience after the show and selling and signing my DVD/CD. For people to buy PATH, essentially wanting to see more of me after having just seen me for an hour-- really means a lot.

When the last of the people left, and I was again alone, packing up my duffle with what remained of what didn’t sell, I ask, “Robin leave.” “Yeah, he took off. He took one of your DVDs and a steak from the greenroom,” Pitta said. “Oh, cool, I told him to take a DVD. Did he really take the steak?,” halfheartedly joking, “I wish he had stuck around I wanted to ask him something about comedy.” (I wanted to know if he was concerned about improving something and then getting the exact wording the next time he did it.)

Pitta said, “Call him if you want,” and dialed Robin’s number on his cell. I was surprised that Robin answered, “Hello.” And I said, “Did you really take my steak? Everybody knows that the headliner gets the steak. How could you do that?” He laughed and in typical Robin fashion he went right into a routine about taking my steak, which led to us riffing about animals and other nonsensical stuff, and finally talking about mutual acquaintances.

The night ended with the rest of us hanging in the green room. We were trying to make sense of what had just happened, while I was stuffing my face with the middle act’s chicken.

Nights like this remind me precisely of why I went into comedy and not a more sensible job like Alaskan King Crab fisherman.

The end.


*** How well is your reading comprehension? TAKE THE QUIZ! ***

1. When in college, Orny claims to have counted the seconds in between laughs on Robin Williams’ album. How many seconds did Robin average between laughs?

A) 5
B) 3
C) 63
D. Robin did not get any laughs


2. What famous act was mentioned in the blog as also having appeared at the Throckmorton Theater?

A) Wayne Newton
B) The Cookie Monster opening for Bob Dylan
C) Charlie Chaplin
D) Captain and Tennille

3. Performers “Get the light” because?

A) They suck
B) They need to wrap up their show
C) They suck and need to wrap up their show
D) Performers like to see flashing lights

4. Orny had a horse growing up, what color was the horse?

A. Black
B. White
C. Magenta
D. Orny did not have a horse

5. What best defines Orny’s career?

A) He won an Oscar
B) Has been in over 50 movies
C) In 1977 was voted funniest man alive by Entertainment Weekly
D) He still drives a 2001 VW Jetta from the year he moved to Los Angeles


How did you do? Answers: 1: B, 2: C, 3: B or C and sometimes D. Anything but A. 4: D, 5:D

(Please excuse all spelling and grammatically errors-- a man who is
his own editor has a fool for a client.)


© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2007

How much bigger are sales receipts going to get?

This is a VIDEO BLOG that was inspired by a HUGE, waste of paper, sales receipt I got shopping at CVS pharmacy. I didn't even get to touch upon those ridiculous scrolls you get when you shop at an electronics store. One receipt I got was so big it had a trunk.
Oa





Ornyadams.com

Michael and Me

Orny Adams
July 27, 2007

Ornyadams.com

I would like to publicly say THANK YOU to Michael Moore who could not have been more emotionally generous to me yesterday at the taping for The Tonight Show. I was completely astonished by his gentle, unguarded, human nature. I am lucky to have met him. And I think many of you would feel the same if you had a five minute discussion with him.

There was a burning desire within me to tell Michael how important I feel his work and mission are to the world-- and I got that opportunity. Michael is an everyday man. An everyday man with incredible passion, which I have the utmost respect for. Whether or not you agree with his politics or his views, you have to admit that he is making the world a better place-- he has us talking. I don’t have the energy or the specific type of brain to attack social issues and bring them to the forefront like Moore does. I write jokes. I attack issues with punch lines. I went to Home Depot and bought those energy saving light bulbs and just doing that exhausted me.

I told Michael that after seeing “Sicko” in Boston a few weeks ago with my parents I felt incensed and confounded. I wanted to YELL. I felt powerless by the corrupt and insurmountable system. I felt disgusted that I live in a country with an abundance of resources that frequently turns away gravely sick and injured people at it’s emergency rooms. The movie made me mad. I posted on my webpage the day after I saw the film, “I saw “Sicko” last night and I feel hopeless and powerless about health care. Our system and government seems so corrupt.”

Now, I work almost every night. In fact, I would say I am working almost every minute of the day-- I even work in my sleep. I make regular TV appearances and I have deals for this and for that-- and I told Michael I don’t have health insurance. I’m not ashamed of that. It’s true. I pay a monthly premium and gawd knows what it covers. Who has the energy or time to read 30 pages of very, very small print (Is the print getting smaller?). Well NOBODY does- in fact, I would be shocked if you’ve even read this far!

After the taping, Michael came into my green room and earnestly felt bad for bumping me from the show. Now, in all fairness to Michael, I had been warned that there was a high possibility that I would be bumped. And I was given the option to not accept the booking. I did and I was prepared. He should not feel bad at all. Although, as he exited the stage, I told him, “I was one TV appearance away from qualifying for AFTRA health benefits.” And in a really Michael Moore way he laughingly said, “NOOOOOOOOOOO!” (AFTRA is the television union we all pay dues to but very few of us qualify for health benefits from. You have to earn a certain amount of money yearly. So, often you will qualify for a year and then lose benefits the next. And right now, I am in one of those gaps of non-coverage.)

Michael almost missed his plane back to Michigan as he spent a great amount of time talking to me about “Comedian”. It was amazing to get his perspective as a documentarian. He had wanted to talk to me for three years about it. He could not have been more supportive. I was blown away by how opinionated he was and how freely he discussed it. To have the respect of someone you respect is a feeling which I can only describe as indescribable. He had to dash out to the airport, but said we should get a beer sometime and talk. And then this morning, I was shocked to get an email from Moore apologizing again for bumping me and expressing further support. You get it-- he’s a special person? He cares.

I realize he is controversial and polarizing. So many forward thinking people are-- didn’t they jail Galileo for rightly declaring the that the earth circled the sun? Well maybe Galileo had it coming! Maybe people hated Galileo because they stood to lose a lot of money or their jobs if he was right.

Now, you should respect Michael Moore. Be thankful people are out there raising questions. We need and should have greater tolerance for people like Michael Moore on this planet. You can disagree with him, and here’s the good news-- in this country full of shitty health care and guns that kill people (you can’t argue with that), you are more than welcome to go out and make your own documentary countering his views. In fact, this type of discourse is good for all of us. I would like to see it. I don’t have the energy to do the work that Michael does. I barely have the energy to finish this piece. So I am thankful to have Michael Moore fighting the fight for me… and you.


© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2007

India to Outsource Outsourcing

Orny Adams
May 1, 2007

Ornyadams.com

Chris Hanson of Dateline NBC has uncovered India’s dirty little secret-- they are routing a majority of customer service calls to the small, relatively ignored, and severely underdeveloped Republic of Malawi in the densely populated southeastern part of Africa. Agriculturally thriving Malawi won the contract from India, after outbidding it’s neighbors Zambia and Mozambique.

According to a Dateline producer, officials quietly built a call center and installed phone lines, internet access, and a Subway restaurant (soft drink refills are not free at this location). The construction permit, obtained by Dateline NBC, stated the intended use of the building was for “Survivor Malawi.” India has denied it illegally obtained the permit or misled the Malawian government with its intentions. “We had been out all night drinking and thought it would be funny to put ‘Survivor Malawi’ on the permit… the Malawis have quite a sense of humor,” Cultural Minister for India said, off the record. He continued, “Malawians are thrilled to have jobs. They have always looked up to India as a thriving industrial country. And to be honest, Malawians tend to be more compassionate about American problems like, ‘The air conditioner is causing my wireless printer to go slow.’”

Hanson, using hidden cameras, a plate of cookies, and a 19-year-old actress that looks 14, uncovered how far India was willing to go to cover up this multi-tiered outsourcing. Dateline reportedly paid a local Malawian the equivalent of 45 US dollars to infiltrate the outsourced outsourcing. (The value of 45 US dollars to a Malawian was estimated at 10,000 US dollars in 1974. Unfortunately, no new data has been assembled to compare it to the modern day dollar. But according to the anonymous mavens behind Wikipedia, Malawi has a GDP per capita of 596 US dollars.) “What we discovered was absolutely shocking; India was training Malawians to fake an ‘Indian trying-to-sound like an American accent,’” said Hanson, “So what we have now is a Malawian trying to sound like an Indian trying to sound like an American.”

Hanson’s titillating gotcha-investigational reporting has not gone unnoticed by competing mainstream media. Even renowned CBS commentator and all-American curmudgeon Andy Rooney griped, “I knew something fishy was going on.” Rooney’s grousing continued, “I thought I detected a slight dialect change in some of the representatives when I recently called about my broken eyebrow trimmer.”

To secure the secret, Malawians were additionally taught both American and Indian culture, pop references, and English slang. According to the voice over on the clip provided by NBC Television, “After Mugava, who’s name we changed to conceal his identity, completed training, he was fond of saying, ‘What’s up with that? That ain’t right.’”

Companies that outsource customer service calls to India felt a bit betrayed, but when called to complain were sent to a Malawi call center. Many Indians, who after a lifetime of unemployment finally found work as customer service representatives, now fear losing their jobs. “We are on needles and pins here at the center,” said one Indian worker, “We always thought Since November 2006, already over 1,700 Indians working call centers for U.S. companies have been replaced by Malawians. As a result, a chain of support has been formed by unemployed American and Indian call center employees on the newly formed website www.AForeignerTookMyJob.com. The website can be accessed in both English and Hindi.

How the hell did it come to this? “You can’t trust people from India. They suck more than people from any other country,” commented 15-year-old has-done-nothing-but-still-over-opinionated-under-qualified blogger Jim Nathenson. In actuality, India’s biggest call center made the move to Malawi in an attempt to cut costs. In the opinion of Emory university global economics professor Terry Bass, “It was simply trickle down fiscal-nomics. India found a country worse off than itself with a cheaper labor base. I wouldn’t be surprised if Malawi does the same. Remember, there are still 11 countries worse off than Malawi.” Patel Patel the 32nd (whose middle name is also Patel), CEO of “Call Me”, India’s top call center, said in a phone interview, “We just couldn’t afford to keep all the calls in India. And by using Vonage we can save up to 50% on our phone bill while only losing 75% of our calls due to bad connections.”

All of India is affected: Air India, the official airline of India, was reportedly furious to discover that Malawians had replaced Indian inmates answering their calls.

An official statement was given today by White House press secretary Tony Snow, who said, “President Bush sees no problem with India showing some business ingenuity and was proud that he could point to Malawi on a map.”

The Dateline special, “To Catch a Fake Indian,” will air this Friday on NBC and will run for 18 hours straight on MSNBC both Saturday and Sunday. Programming note: Unfortunately nobody was unnecessarily thrown on the ground by law enforcement officials during the taping of this Dateline show.



© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2007

The Secret Lives of Performers... Post Show

Orny Adams
April 28, 2007

Ornyadams.com

I’m up a ways on the coast of Oregon. Beautiful country-- trees, ocean, wineries. I have a suite right on the water: but no internet access (right now I’m in a bank parking lot stealing wireless), the tap water is caramel brown, and when I leaned on the plywood table in the living room area, the top flipped off and I fell over backwards. I sat on my ass laughing, “So this is my life?” It was a good, healthy laugh.

But it’s still a “suite” nonetheless. Suite is an example of a word that should be regulated by the government. Another word worthy of regulation would be “estate.” I see signs for “Estate Sales” all the time. Then I go by the estate and the estate looks a lot like an apartment. I know we all like to overstate our existence, but come on. An estate has to have assets, holdings, and property. It can’t be a rental. I expect to see original paintings and oriental rugs at an estate sale-- not your broken furniture from IKEA or your ripped Urban Outfitter’s beanbag.

The show last night was in a function room of an Indian casino: Basically, a stage, a spot, a mic, and a tapestry backdrop… and a cash bar in the back of the room. (That was a first. It was like a wedding.) The crowd was old… very old. It was a mix of 50% old and 30% what I would describe as NASCAR people. One table brought their own cooler. NASCAR is a word Yankees like to use to describe a certain group of people. “That is so NASCAR.” It is not derogatory, but rather very on point. Just like the words Yankee or Preppy or Northwest Liberal. Sprinkled amidst the old people that showed up for bingo, and regrettably had to see me for an hour, were the other 20%-- pony tailed, Harley t-shirt, tatted up dudes with their wives. Thank gawd! These people might actually relate to some of my stuff.

I genuinely think most topics are universal, but when I was selling my DVD/CD at the end of the night, more than a few people said they did not own a DVD or CD player. Hence the tepid response I got to my keyboard joke. I look forward to doing the keyboard joke. And as I was doing it to this non-connected crowd, I was thinking, “Did I just do this bit a few weeks ago on The Tonight Show?”

They laughed a lot at times. But maybe they were being polite. I’m sure my over-animated character was jarring to many. They seemed to live a more simple life and would not let something like a poorly positioned CAP LOCK key get them all fired up. Their problems, I would surmise, would include: A buffet with an early closing time, states that would not sell liqour on Sunday, and why is my favorite tank top dirty? I was onstage thinking, “You aren’t supposed to get me.”

After the show, I headed back to my “suite” with my bag of DVD/CDs. It was remarkably close in weight to when I left for the show. I got in the elevator and there was a guy who just looked out of place. It was his energy-- a confidence. And maybe he felt the same about me, because he just looked at me and said, “Man that crowd was old tonight.” And I immediately realized I was talking to one of the Beach Boys-- who were also at the casino performing.

I pointed to an events poster on the elevator wall, “Which one are you?” And he said, “My name’s Bruce, that’s me.” I said, “Well that’s me,” as I pointed to my name printed right under the Beach Boys picture.” “Were you funny tonight?,” he asked. “I tried. You one of the original Beach Boys?” (You’ve got to ask because some of these reunion bands have no original members… maybe a drummer, who wasn’t the original drummer, but still played with some of the original members.) But it turns out he was in the original band. How cool. And what we have here is an amazing moment in time: two performers, a musician and a comedian, heading up in an elevator to their luxurious suites, both complaining about the crowd. That’s what performers do when they are done performing. They size up the crowd. Now, I know some of you doubted me at the beginning of this piece-- maybe I was exaggerating about the part of the demographic of my audience. But if a 65-year-old Beach Boy is complaining that the crowd was old-- then THE CROWD WAS OLD!

We talked for a few moments in the hallway. This was a Beach Boy. These guys influenced the Beatles. I was talking to a Rock and Roll Hall of Famer. And I couldn’t resist, I just had to ask him, “Is the tap water a bit brown in your suite too?”

Shouldn't this guy be staying in a nicer place?


© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2007

I Almost Met a Legend Last Night

Orny Adams
March 5, 2007

Ornyadams.com

Had a really cool experience last night. I was sitting on my couch, smoking a cigar, vegging out after a day of playing basketball and hanging with friends. 9:41pm: the phone rings. I don’t recognize the number. And I have a fear of numbers I don’t recognize. But I answer it. It was the Improv comedy club manager, “Where are you? You’re going on next.” I had totally blanked that I was doing this benefit show for Animals. Three years ago, I did the event and they wanted me back. Not only that, I did press for them and I was headlining the night. And I forgot. (They don’t know that. They think I was just late.) Well, I never work on Sundays, it’s the lords day. Not my lords. But I respect all religions.

So like a fireman, I’m running around my place, getting dressed, gooping my hair up (fireman always do their hair), and before I exit, grabbing a bunch of my “Path of Most Resistance” DVD/CDs. I always told myself I would be a true comedian the day I forget I had a gig—and that day was yesterday. If I forgot I had a show, it meant I wasn’t spending all day obsessing about it and “I” was in fact controlling my life and my stand up wasn’t controlling me. So I had a bit of smile as I frantically drove to The Improv-- the whole time formulating my excuse for if the police pulled me over. “Sorry I almost plowed that bus, but it’s a comedy emergency. Did I mention it’s a benefit? You like animals right?” I almost hit a dog on the way over to a benefit to save dogs.

Fifteen minutes after that phone call, I was onstage. My shirt could’ve been on inside out— hell at one point I looked down to make sure I had pants on. I was very aware of all the people filming me with their phones and cameras. I can’t stand that. I CAN’T STAND THAT. I am so grateful that people want to film me. But I also want to feel loose, free, and jazzy onstage— not conscious about how I’m doing at all times or if I accidentally put on my house skirt. There is no growth in that mindset.

I did 30 minutes: Before I left, I pitched my DVD/CDs from stage. I feel a need to explain that it is BOTH a DVD and a CD. “Understand everyone? There is both. Not one. There is a DVD in here and a CD. So please don’t come up to me after the show, ‘I don’t understand is it a DVD or a CD?’.” And even though I over-explain this, inevitably, someone will continue to be confused by this concept of duel packaging. Why, I don’t know. But I don’t understand much of what rattles in many people’s heads.

Well these Animal lovers went nuts for my DVD/CD (it’s both--- did you know that?) I sold a ton. It feels great to hand someone something that you are so damn proud of. And it feels good to do so much new material onstage and then sell something after that has totally different bits on there.

So, as I’m packing up “my box” (same one I have had since day one. It’s my office: sharpies, charge slips, money bag, promo postcards, and a bunch of PATHS), a lady approaches me, “How many do you have left?” I quickly see three hunks of 10s pre-bound by rubberbands, “Thirty something.” She says, “I’ll take all of them,” and hands me a business card. It was Richard Pryor’s wife. What a powerful moment. It was intense. And as quick as those words came out of her mouth, her assistant was writing a check. “Jennifer Pryor” printed right there on the card and check. Curious, I asked what she intended to do with 38 of them. “I’ll sell them on Richardpryor.com… you’ll be the first and only non-Richard product up there.” “Richard would’ve bought 38 and just given you the money and told you to keep them,” she told me.

Now. I don’t know if you understand how powerful Richard Pryor’s essence is to another comedian… but it’s grand. And coming this close to meeting Richard Pryor is probably like many of you meeting a president, or favorite movie star, or a NASCAR driver, or perhaps an American Idol runner up.

She said, “Richard would’ve loved you.” Now in all fairness, Richard might’ve hated me. Richard is dead. Richard might’ve hated that his wife is going around speaking on his behalf. (I’m putting a “Silence Clause” in my pre-nup. I don’t want my wife going around giving compliments I might not have given.) But I’ll take that compliment and file it away in my little head with pride. It is the closest I will get to that comedic genius we call Pryor. “He would’ve loved how quick your mind is,” she continued. And then she referred to a point in my show when I was talking about how you should “enjoy life if you’re in your twenties.” And then some lady, who clearly was NOT in her twenties, threw her hands in the air, “I’m twenty.” Everyone laughed. I looked at her. I said, “I don’t think so… maybe in dog years.” (It was an animal benefit afterall.) And I smirked, as to lighten the reality of the words I had just delivered. So don’t get mad at me as you read this. She laughed. But if you open your mouth in my show, you have given me a license to kill. Interactive comedy, is by your choice. You entered the ring. Sure some people in the crowd “Ooooooooohhhed.” People always have to “Oooooooooohhhhhhh,” at any slightness of controversy. It’s their way of saying, “I’m 100% politically correct and trendy” And so I snapped back at them, “Don’t ooohhh me when I’m donating my time for the animals. Now where was I?”

Thank you Jennifer for giving me this moment in my life that I will cherish for a long time. What a cool story—she just bought all the PATHS that I had left! (I even gave her my box! That’s right—I threw in my office. My brief case. Now I’m off to Office Depot to buy a new one. I’ll miss that old box of mine.)

This is why I do stand up comedy. This is why I suffer night after night trying to connect with certain crowds. Because every once in a while, the comedy gawds hand me a night like this; A night when I get to perform for people that GET my sensibilities full on. A night when I get to be ME. A night when I feel like a true comedian. There should be more nights like this.

I am getting closer.




© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2007

Letters: Dear Geiko.com and Starbucks

Orny Adams
February 21, 2007

Ornyadams.com


Well, I’m at it again. People have been doing it for years and with the internet, we now have instant access to these corporations. I know I have shared some of my letters with you from the stage (Campbells Soup). But here are my most recent. I will let you know when I hear back. (Be prepared for some lame responses. Usually when you send an email to customer service, immediately you get an email back saying, “We got your email and it’ll take a while for us to respond to it.” Which means it’s a form letter notifying you that you’ll be getting another more specific form letter later.)

LETTER ONE:

Dear Geico dot com,

Have your cavemen gotten angrier? I hate to see their spirit destroyed by the modern world. I would hope with all the progress they see more advantages than disadvantages and would not be ill affected by a commercial slogan such as, “So easy a caveman can do it.” I noticed over time your animated Gecko became more and more vexed too. Is it that hard to be a pitchman for your company?

And just to be clear, are these cavemen the same ones that would drag their woman around by their hair? Not so considerate of a mascot I would think. I take it these are a more latter-day parody of the caveman we come from (or don’t depending on your view of creationism your parents might be home schooling you with). I only suggest this because these cavemen appear clean, bright, and articulate (Not my words-- Joe Biden’s.)

But more urgent: in your latest commercial two cavemen are commiserating about the prejudices against their people on a deck during a swinging party. If you haven’t seen the commercial:
Geico Cavmen at Party

“Caveman A” is riding “Caveman B” for being disloyal and caving in (sorry) because he switched to Geico for lower car insurance rates. Well who could resist? As if this commercial could not get any more exciting (modern sarcasm), out of nowhere, a third caveman (we’ll call him “Caveman C”) comes out of the house to announce that he and his ex Tina are getting back together. This moment makes even less sense than the entire advertising campaign! And is almost as uncomfortable as your circus-like use of little person Verne Troyer dancing uncomfortably on a table next to a grill singing “It’s your birthday”. It is so apparent that deflated Verne is thinking solely about his paycheck the whole time. Congrats, it only took one spot to piss off that little pitchman. It actually would’ve been funnier to have a full sized person dancing on that table. A giant. An NBA star. How much lower can you go-- what’s next a bald Britney Spears, “So easy an amateur hairdresser can do it?” Here is the Verne Troyer commercial for your disgust:
Verne Troyer being humiliated

Back to the party; “Caveman A” snaps at “Caveman C” for interrupting is little anti-Geico intervention and… cut to your slogan that it’s so easy a caveman can do it. But you really blew it on this one. This commercial should’ve been tagged with, “So easy a caveman DID IT.” Did it! Now it is factual, a caveman can sign up for your insurance online. Prior to this, it was purely conjecture. Then I tried to do it and couldn’t figure it out. Now I’m angry. So easy I couldn’t do it. Insulted. You guys make everyone angry.

But how could you miss that obvious tag? This should be the zenith of the campaign-- we should all be toasting the end of the caveman campaign. But if you missed this tag, what else is your company missing? Missing little things could cost the consumer money. And I was So close to going Geico and now I have serious reservations. Your thoughts?

Pulling my own hair,
Orny Adams
www.ornyadams.com

*** If you want to write you own letter, or cut and paste and resend mine under your email, here is the link:
Geico letters

LETTER TWO:

Dear Starbucks,

I have noticed lately a higher failure rate in your cups to prevent dripping out of the seams and under the lip of the lid. Are you using cheaper materials or have you switched cup manufacturers? I would like to know. A lot of us would like to know—as we prefer our coffee in our mouths and not on our fingers. This has been a consistent problem throughout your stores, as I travel and visit many in this lovely country. (You are everywhere. I am starting to think you are a franchise?)

I am free to discuss this and other matters concerning your stores-- like your famous policy to discard drip coffee 30 minutes after it is brewed to preserve freshness of your product… but you let the milk and cream sit out all day in those thermoses building up a crusty white, Ebola residue on the black spouts? (Because of my over consumption of your product, and my fondness for cream, I have built up an immunity to cholera, bird flu, and xenophobia.) Those thermoses should have nifty timers around their necks like the drip coffee kegs. Don’t you think?

Another matter that concerns me: since introducing the “Starbucks Cards”, I have noticed a lot less tips being left for your claimed baristas. It was easier to tip or leave your change in that art deco squared glass tip container when using cash. Now, tipping involves the customer using two forms of payment and really defeats the convenience of having the card. Here is my suggestion; (Are you shocked that I have one?) since you are tying up our money and presumably using it and accruing interest or monies from investments with it, a percentage of all “Starbucks Cards” purchases should be given to the baristas as tips. I know you are very proud of the benefits you provide your employees. And then we can feel less guilty if we are not tipping a buck every time we just want a $1.50 cup of drip coffee. We can swipe with pride.

Thank you in advance. You have brightened the days of many of us by taking over every corner in this country.

By the way, loved “Akeelah and the Bee.” And shouldn’t it be Starbuck’s?

Sincerely,
Orny Adams
www.ornyadams.com

*** If you want to write you own letter, or cut and paste and resend mine under your email, here is the link:
Starbucks Letters

© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2007

I Like to Tell the World I Am Going Left

By Orny Adams
November 26, 2006
www.ornyadams.com

I am convinced people that don’t signal when turning have a deep communication problem. It is that simple.

It is one of the easiest things to do; as your hand is going to move the steering wheel a little to the right or a little to the left, you make this little extra effort and have a little part of your hand, even your little, little pinky, catch the arm of the blinker lever. Simple. Did I use the condescending word “Little” enough in that description? I like the fact that you can add the word “little” to any conversation and make it condescending. "Are you going out with your LITTLE friends tonight? OK, have fun at your LITTLE party and call me later. How’s that LITTLE job coming along?"

How hard is it to tell the other drivers, “I’m going this way?” The car manufacturers made it completely intuitive. They even added a cool sound effect to fool men into thinking communicating is not daytime TV mushy. The only thing that would make it easier would be for the car to just BLINK BLINK BLINK anytime the wheel is turned a certain number of degrees. (Hey, why the hell don’t they do that already?)

In fact, it’s actually difficult for people like me, the great people of the world, to NOT signal. Yes, it would take thought and restraint for me to not signal. (Applause) I am one of those people that even signals when turning into my driveway, late at night, when nobody is around. It is a habit… and a good habit. I even signal if I have a cigarette in one hand, my cell in another, and a bottle of booze in my lap… because it is a good habit.

I do it, because I like to tell the world—I am going left. I am going left and you better adjust your life right now for it. I do it because it is safer.

You don’t do it because you don’t feel like the world deserves to hear from you. You are a snob. A communication elitist. You are selfish. You don’t even deserve to read my words. Stop reading right now.

The trend today is to under communicate love and over communicate hate. (I know, it sounds like I am about to get really deep and philosophical. But hang in there, the dumb will be appeased.) The internet has become a worldwide dumping ground of drive by hatred. People cleverly slamming other people without any accountability. Most comments “people” write about other people, the “people” would not have the balls to say to their face. And I say, if you don’t have the balls to say it to their face-- then shut the hell up.

At what point did humans become so qualified at ripping apart other humans? Most of this hatred smells of self hatred. I say, “Zip it and live your own gawd damn life.” “You suck,” people love to write that on message boards. Really? And what the hell have you done to earn the merit of suck determinater? (Disclaimer: I have been personally and professionally maligned at times and may harbor ill, biased views about this topic. Let me rephrase that: I am biased and all my views on this topic should be weighted as such. Further thought… AT LEAST I AM COMMUNICATING-- I am giving you a signal.) I have always been sensitive to this, even as a kid, but in light of being in a dim spotlight for several years, I have become further aware.

Here lies another example: Let’s say I forget to signal (the one time). I am telling the cars behind me, “I don’t care about you. You see my brake light. You guess:” Is he turning? Did a ball roll out into the street? Did he see a cop? Is he one of these overbrakers? Is the car in front of him turning? (Overload, mind starts drifting.) Did I leave the lights on in the garage? Is that bumper getting closer? The result: The car behind me lays on the horn. That driver is saying, “Nice signal idiot!” He didn’t forget to communicate.

Secretly, I have longed to be deputized as an enforcer of signaling. I would like to have one of those little round police strobe lights I can put on my car’s roof at a moment’s notice. “What am I doing honey? I am enforcing the law. A long forgotten, but very important law.” I would write a ticket for the most heinous amount. The driver would cry, but would be forever reformed. I would rule the signal world. I am sick of guessing if a car is turning. Signaling means that much to me. And that little to most of you.

For now, I just honk, stick my head out the window and yell, “Signal,” like a crazy person.

Now that people are signaling less and less. We have come to expect it less and less. And sometimes when I’m going straight through an intersection, I can sense the driver in oncoming traffic thinks I’m turning left-- so they think they can turn left too-- I can see it in the body language of their car. Now, I have to speed up and put out that, “I’m going straight, don’t cut me off vibe.” And this scares the dickens out of me. When the vibe is not sufficient, I hammer it home with a Tomahawk Chop motion. Which may prevent an accident, but it is insensitive to Native Americans. Conflicted. Is it time for a “straight signal”?

People don’t give a crap about other people. Or most don’t. Or a majority that I see don’t. I see a lot of people wrapped up in themselves. How about the person that sees you on your cell phone and then right next to you starts (that means begins, wasn’t already on the phone) a louder call of their own? I shoot that person a look, and move away. The person that “signals” would read this as, “I did something wrong and in the future should amend my behavior.” The “non signaler” sees this as a victory and their behavior reinforced. Solution: Get closer and louder to that person-- invade their invasion. “What’s that noise in the background? An asshole!”

The world has become a self seeking, self absorbed, self Narcissistic (that means worse than just Narcissistic), “Get the hell out of my way—I’m coming through,” society: My kid deserves TMX Elmo more than yours. If you can’t help the self, if the self doesn’t need you, then the self doesn’t care about you. Help a lady across the street only if you anticipate a big tip. Hold the door for me and I’m not going to thank you. I am going to shove my life, my little cell phone in your face. Cancer is the least of the problems caused by these phones-- they’re not even cell phones anymore—they’re “Self Phones” with unlimited piss everyone off minutes.

Wake me up when it’s all over.





© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2006

Debut CD/DVD "Path of Most Resistance"

"Path of Most Resistance" (An introduction to Orny Adams)

I want to thank everybody for hanging in there.

Thanks for all the emails and support in the past several months—you deserve a semi-explanation.

THE STORY SO FAR:

This has been a long, long process. And I must admit, I am, I was, and I will continue to be overextended as I naively underestimate the grandness of producing a project like this. I took on way too much. And as the project progressed, I took on more and more and even more. And even as the CD/DVD is in production, I can not rest.

Now I am setting up publicity and marketing. Something I had NO time to even address in the past 6 months. I did not have the resources to hire a publicist, I don't have a manager, and recently I parted with my agents. And so I stand proudly before you all-- humbly, officially a team of one.

I chose to distribute the CD/DVD myself in light of very few other opportunities. Using whatever incredible resources are available to an artist these days-- Myspace, Youtube, the entire web-- feeling a sense of enthusiasm because technology has basically leveled the playing field. I took a gamble-- that I could get my CD/DVD into people's hands without initially getting into Walmart or Best Buy or having a marketing machine behind me to drive sales. But there's always the hope that this project will catch that type of momentum.

I am now working with YET ANOTHER set of web designers trying to get a good web page. It's not easy for people like me. I have a distinct vision and very specific desires, and finding people to carry them out on a budget is almost impossible. I will say, in the course of this CD/DVD project I did work with some incredible people. And their dedication to my project wowed me at times. But it doesn't look like that new, fresh Ornyadams.com will be up and running for the release. So please excuse me on that.

Sometime last year I decided to record a simple CD in Las Vegas in December. Not happy with my shows (Is this a shock to anybody?), I opted to eat my investment and set another date to record. I can remember sitting at the pool at Harrah's in Vegas, midway through the week, calling the Icehouse in Pasadena, CA and setting up a date for March 2006. I chose to produce and fund this project myself in order to have complete creative control. I've seen artist get hammered in the past by other's tweaking their work. Would a painter ever allow someone to guide his paintbrush? Hope not.

And then a simple CD turned into a very ambitious DVD. I have explained all this in the liner notes. It's a cool story. I pumped all my savings into The Path and assembled an incredible team of people to help carry out my exacting vision.

"Path of Most Resistance," is a 70 minute CD and DVD to match, which has gotten great reviews from GARRY SHANDLING, DENNIS MILLER, and JERRY SEINFELD to mention a few. The DVD has two extra features-- including me doing stand up in Fiji for a bunch of kids that don't speak English. It comes in a 6 panel digipack with a 16 page booklet. I am excited to share it all with you. The official release date is November 10, 2006, but will be available for fans the week before at the perpetually shitty www.Ornyadams.com.

Now I want to go back to telling jokes!

Oa

Bob Dylan is Human

“Bob Dylan is Human.”
By Orny Adams
August 29, 2006
www.ornyadams.com


Bob Dylan is human. (Insert gratuitous screeching tire sound effect here.)

I say this for two reasons: First, the hardest thing for humans to be is human. Second, most of the time, as humans we choose to believe our heroes are not human. But maybe they achieved hero status by being just that- pure human. (Super human not super hero.)

The other day, we took a break from editing my CD/DVD and headed into Studio City to try this new BBQ place. The place sold burritos. Which was a bit confusing to me, as a man who adopted the south in his college years. In other words, I am an unqualified BBQ snob now. I’ll often toss around terms like “hush puppies” to elevate my status in a BBQ discussion. Now, on my first bite, as the rib was halfway between my plate and my mouth, a glob of what gravity deemed excessive sauce, dripped onto my lap. Just missing the mere 30% of my lap the napkin covered and nailing me right on my khaki shorts. Dammit! Immediately, I excused myself from the table to go clean up in the bathroom. As I created a huge wet patch I determined would self dry by the end of the meal, I realized I was afraid to be human. I should’ve worn that stain as a badge of great human imperfection. You think I am the only person to spill food on themselves? Yet, it is hard for me to admit I am a messy eater. Too often we hide under the facade of perfection, whether we know it or not.

When I wander the cultural landscape, observing humanness, I often repeat this riddle in my head: What is the the one thing we all are, and the one thing we are all afraid of being—human. There is a fear of being human. But being human is a constant, probably the only thing you and I have in common.

Rolling Stone put Dylan on the cover of this week’s issue to coincide with the release of his new album. So there’s a 65 year old Dylan staring at me with his intense blue eyes. The same eyes, same stare he’s been giving us for over 45 years. Longer than I have been alive. Those eyes remain static in time. But now they are encased by signs of aging—wrinkles, graying eyebrows, sideburns and even gray ear hair. The picture is so tight you can see how poor Dylan is at shaving. About the most interesting thing I learned about Bob from this Rolling Stone interview. The picture is classic Dylan; a cautious glare with a slight squint, as if an unimpeded view of the world is too much to bear.

To the left of his picture are these words: “The Genius of Dylan. An Intimate Conversation.” I get uncomfortable anytime someone refers to anybody as genius. Especially in the arts, where genius is unquantifiable. Even in the case of Bob Dylan, who I consider a genius. But that is my business, my opinion, and quite debatable. My awe and adoration of Dylan is no secret. I credit him as one of my greatest influences. I even dressed like him for a while. When I need career guidance, I study his moves. He is as pure of an artist as I can think of. And yet he is human.

The myth of Dylan is even too big for Dylan. He helped chisel his pubic persona and he has done much to sandblast it. Yes, he is a contradiction. At times denying he is the voice of the 60s. But in this article claiming he owns the 60s. Not Civil Rights, not Vietnam, not free love and drugs, Bob Dylan has spiked his flag down and claimed the 60s his very own. And this reporter let this comment just drip off Dylan’s tongue uncontested. Shame on him.

I respect Dylan more when he downplays his role. It takes a strong man to deny his own myth, I’m not too sure I could do it. We all want to part of a myth. For some of us, it’s a small town myth—the guy who chugs the most beer. For others, they want to be up on the pantheon of myths. I’m not too sure when you get to Dylan’s place you even have enough clarity to know what is your myth and what is your nonfiction. A man like Dylan has basically donated his life to listeners like me. He is a soldier who sacrificed normalcy for the good of the state. Although, I don’t think he had a choice.

Stop tiptoeing! Can somebody please give Bob an honest interview? He deserves just that. Somebody who hasn’t memorized his every lyric, knows what song is on what album, what year he wore eyeliner, or who has read every interview.

Most interviews of Dylan, I won’t read. They seem overly gracious and submissive. Most people don’t know how to interview Bob. Now, in all fairness, I have never been in the room with Bob. Would probably never want to be. It’s dangerous to meet your heroes. And maybe he is masterfully adept at dodging questions and controlling an interview. But most of Dylan’s answers are brilliantly disguised mockery. He’s laughing at you. “Go ahead and print this,” he must be thinking the whole time. I base this on his early radio interviews where he would claim to have run away as a teenager and worked in a traveling circus. Bob went to college and was in a fraternity. Which is a far cry from his salt of the earth roots he wants you to buy into.

On 60 minutes a few years ago, Dylan made one his most important statements in modern times. Something about knowing he had something important inside him to share, but if he announced it, people would try to squash it. I heard this a few years too late. I think one of the missteps I took early on in my career was to point into the seats in right field and then pop out.

It seems to be a game that Dylan plays with reporters when he is bored. Something I have adopted. He told us what he expects of reporters in “Don’t Look Back.” A great glimpse into an insecure Dylan who is enviously and scornfully taping articles of his chief rival Donovan on the walls of his hotel room. In a great scene, Dylan rips into a reporter from Time magazine. (I believe it is Time, I am on a plane right now to Richmond, VA, so I can’t fact check that.) Through the lens eye of documentarian D.A. Pennebaker, we get a must see look at an artist. And I know a lot of my readers like documentaries.

I just did an interview for the paper in Richmond and the guy asked me to describe my comic voice. I said, “It’s about the unbelievable state of human unconsciousness.” I was bored. I guess those words mean something to me. They aren’t that far off from a clear, honest answer. I guess I was dodging a question I didn’t think there was a proper answer for-- that was fair to me and the readers. What I really was saying was, “My voice is what it is.” It may be one thing to you and another thing to an ex girlfriend. It’s indefinable and should be just that. Maybe we’re putting too much emphasis where we shouldn’t. It’s not about, “The voice of Orny Adams.” The guy sort of questioned the line. Asked me to repeat it. “The unbelievable what?” More than I expected of him. But he’ll print it—you’ll see. And I’m sure it’ll say something like, “The unbelievableness of the world.”

Dylan understands the value of ambiguity. He won’t just let you in. And a good artist understands that being misunderstood is a good thing. I was surprised he claimed the 60s. I bet on another day he would greatly refute such a claim. He doesn’t need to make such grandiose statements, he’s got plenty people out there to do it for him.

So once again, I read another Dylan interview and I feel I am no closer to him as a human. Dylan writes songs. Some great songs. Some brilliant songs. Some shitty ones too. But once you achieve genius status, those shitty songs are channeled into a part of most brains under a banner, “I must not be smart enough to understand this part of his genius.” Nope—they are shitty. A $100 bottle wine doesn’t have to taste good to you.

Dylan should interview himself. Did you read Chronicles? It reads as one beautiful, cohesive song. The man can write. The man has insight. He is truly gifted. It’s as if he was born enlightened. As if his struggle was in the womb.

I would like to see Dylan interviewed by a non-Bob fan. Someone who admirers the artist, but is not afraid to really ask him the questions. Someone willing to trade an honest question for an honest answer. Someone willing to go in there unprepared and let the interview take on a life of it’s own.

What makes Dylan cry? Can someone ask a simple question like that?

As I am preparing to release my first comedy CD/DVD, I’d be remiss if I didn’t let you know I am quite scared. Tediously fine combing every second of the 68 minutes for the past five months. Micromanaging every step of the way, it has become my life. It’s not easy to share this much of oneself with a mass collection of strangers. Believe me, I’ve thought about scrapping the project a dozen times. I’ve threatened myself. But that’s my own insecurity. My own unwillingness to be 100% human. My unwillingness to show my ear hair on the cover of Rolling Stone. There are moments on the DVD that my hair is all I can focus on. It is so out of sorts. I don’t hear the jokes, or see the camera work. I just see my hair. A legacy of bad hair. I purposely didn’t get a haircut because I wanted to treat this night like any other. In other moments, I didn’t nail a line exactly as I had in the past. But can anybody else really tell? That show was absolutely magical and I was fortunate to catch it on tape. And any comedian who has ever tried to make a tape, will know exactly what I am talking about. There are a host of things that can go wrong. (See my special features.)

In the end, I can only hope the project represents me. The me I see inside me. Time will tell. And if I don’t, I’ll get it right the next time. The subjectiveness of it all frightens me. The CD/DVD is supposed to represent thirteen years of hard work—if that is possible. The CD/DVD is named, but I will not share that with you at this time. The name is deeply personal. It represents self struggle and I am still unsure how to depict this in a snapshot on the cover. To be human is to make mistakes. To be human is to not repeat mistakes. To be a comedian is to celebrate and announce your own mistakes. This is nothing new. To err is human, right? When I was a kid I stuck my finger in a socket once. ONCE!

I poured all my heart into this project. Nobody on the project has slept much since we taped in March. We are conscious of it every waking second. I produced the project. I wanted to own it. I wanted to paint the exact picture I had in my head onto the canvas. And current technology allows me this freedom. I can even self distribute on the web if I choose. Originally it was going to be a simple CD. At the last minute, I threw cameras into the mix. It’s an interesting story. A story I will share with you in the liner notes. But the DVD is special to me because it was shot in an intimate club. These clubs have been my home on the road for the past decade. It is the way comedy is supposed to be seen. No crane shots, like an overproduced comedy special. The audience was there to see me, not some paid TV audience. And most special, it was all my savings could afford.

Since you made it this far, and in this day and age, I like to reward anybody willing to read, I will make a confession. No I won’t tell you the name of my CD/DVD, but I will tell you “The unbelievable state of human unconsciousness,” is something deep inside of all of us. Something so simple. Something if accepted, there would be no war, no starvation, it is the key to eradicating most human suffering. Sometimes I think I have a grasp on it, and other times it slips through my fingers. But they are not just words.

And so once again, I turn to Bob for answers-- To a man who helped me be a little bit more human. Today his new album comes out. I’ll post this, then run out and get it. Maybe it is exactly the inspiration I need to finish my project. I can obsess on a song. One time I listened to a single Leonard Cohen song over and over again from New York City, over most of this beautiful country of ours, right into Los Angeles. (Closing Time.)



*** Orny Adams is a stand-up comedian who is usually a lot funnier than what you just read.



© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2006

I Can't Get Away From It

I was at the gym earlier today, where they force me to watch the news for the forty five minutes as I’m doing cardio. I guess it’s supposed to make me run faster. I would run a lot faster if they put the TV behind me and I could pretend I'm running away from the world.

The big story this morning, of course, is the conflict in the Middle East. Hezbollah was celebrating the cease fire by firing off their guns. Does that say it all? It’s like an impulse for them. They fire when they’re happy or angry or bored or anti-Semitic. You know, they hate the West too, but they’re very Americanized. They have a Gap in Iran… that sells the coolest suicide bomber belts. Blow yourself up in fashion, that’s the slogan.

Then a story came on about the let up of carry on restrictions at airports and I thought, “Oh good, they're allowing us to bring lipstick on planes again-- cause you want to look good going down.” Most of these things we have to do at the security check point don’t make any sense. Once again, we all have to take our shoes off and put them on the belt. This I do understand, because that dude tried to blow up a plane using his shoes. It’s a pain in my ass, wish he had tried to blow up his bra. That’s what we need—to catch a Bra Bomber.

Now they can’t just beat us down a 100% of the time with these depressing stories of violence and hate. So they do it 90% of the time. They use that other 10% to throw in a human interest story. Something most people could care less about: Boy blows biggest bubble in the world. A dog that can walk upright like a human. Some new diet for us to pin our hopes on. Stuff like that. But it was interesting to learn that the personal computer is celebrating it’s 25th anniversary. The first computer only had 17 kilobytes of memory. (That is a good fact to toss into a conversation and make myself look smarter.) Now computers are in virtually everything we touch.

In fact, washers and dryers are going to link wirelessly to your computer or cell phone so they can send us updates when a wash is done or a lint filter is clogged.

The last thing I need is a text message from my dryer. I get enough emails I don’t need from people—now I have to communicate with my electronics. I’m fine with guessing when a load is done. I’m usually plus or minus five minutes. However, I would like an email if someone in the laundry matt is taking my clothes out of the dryer and putting them on top of the machine.

But the LAST thing I need are text messages from THINGS: I’m out to dinner and my phone starts shaking, “Everything OK?”
“Yeah, my dishwasher’s mad at me. I got to run.”


© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2006
www.ornyadams.com

My Dad Found My Playboys

Originally posted: August 7, 2006


My dad found my playboys… 20 years too late.

My dad found my Playboys… twenty years too late. Technically they weren’t mine. My neighbor Sean would steal the Playboys from his dad and sneak them into the second level of my garage. We formed a club called the “Playboy Club.” I know, I was always very creative. Originally, it was the “Bubble Yum Club,” and we would only chew grape flavored gum, a pack at a time. But we outgrew that club pretty quick and quicker because of comments from people like Ted who called us gay. This was back when everything was gay. And saying gay was acceptable. “You playing basketball today? No, what are you gay?” And Ted was pretty cool, by seventh grade he had already formed a band that played mostly Rush covers. The Bubble Yum Club was in Sean’s basement, but the Playboy Club had to be in a far more inaccessible place. And my garage had this second level that was not used by anybody. Mostly because you had to climb up a ladder backwards through a small hole. Easy to get in, impossible and scary to get out. But for naked chicks, it was worth it. A philosophy that would follow me my entire life.

“What the hell were you doing up there?,” I asked my dad, partly impressed he was even able to get up there. “The person who owned the house before us came over and wanted to look around,” he told me. This was a very religious family who put up a priest in a room in the attic. Which would explain why in strange crevices in hard to reach places, between exposed pink insulation, I would find crucifixes and pictures of Jesus Christ. I also remember finding books and old medicine bottles. It spooked this young boy. And I’m sure it spooked the previous owner to find the Playboys.

But it was nice to be reunited with my Playboys. An old friend, the gift of a memory. My dad handed me a stack and on the top was an issue with Steve Martin on the cover. I guess I was doing research.

I grew up in a small town outside of Boston that seems even smaller as I get older. Everyone knows everyone and you could leave the house without your wallet and cell phone and still be safe. Under the word “STOP”, on the one stop sign in my neighborhood, somebody scribbled “Bush.” At Halloween the farm down the street places pumpkins in the middle of a rotary and nobody smashes them. It shocks me every year. We don’t lock our doors. When the mailman came to the door the other hot day, my mom offered him water. When my dad noticed a neighbor’s plants looked in need of watering, he called to remind them and offered to do it if they were out of town. It’s a real community. Quiet. Respectful. Very few get out. Houses are passed down to the next generation. Change is slow. I did notice something new downtown-- huge planters obstructing a driver’s view if taking a left out of the depot onto the main street. “That’s not safe,” I thought, “Who approved that?” You have to inch out and basically cause an accident to go left.

So when my dad found the Playboys, we did what you do in a small town, we marched right over to Sean’s house to return them. Sean was shocked, but you could tell they jarred the same memories inside him. My dad tossed them down on the whicker patio table. Sean laughed, had a look of a man who committed a crime that was well beyond the statute of limitations and no longer punishable. Shaking his head he conceded, “Jim’s Playboys.” Jim is his dad. The one who sold him his house. Jim was a bit of mystery to all of us. A bearded man who hid inside his house. And only allowed Sean and I to play in certain parts of it. But when he was not there, we would go into his closet and steal Playboys. I asked him if he thought his father ever noticed, He said, “Jim noticed everything.” I said, “Oh, then let Jim know we’re done with these.”

Sean was quite a bit older than me. Even older than my older sister. He was my smut dealer. He was also the one who taught me how to swear. I saw him get hit by a car on his bike. He was about twice my size. We would socialize in the neighborhood, but he wouldn’t be caught dead talking to me in the center of town. I understood. What was even more shocking was the moment we realized the other night, that he was only three years older than me. But back then, it felt like decades. Now a three year difference is nothing, in fact I try to convince younger women that ten years is nothing.

My dad left and Sean and I caught up. I heard names I had not heard or thought of in years. I was curious to know if my town had produced any senators or congressmen, anybody making an impact on the world. But all the while, I kept looking at those Playboys, thinking the last time I saw them I was too young to understand them sexually. I knew having them was wrong, I think that is what I liked about them best. The ads in these old issues were hilarious. Way outdated electronics and Wrangler jeans. But one thing was constant—the women. It’s been that way since the first one blessed us with her presence on this planet. The landscape of the world is in a state of constant flux, but the power of women and their hold over men will never change.

Now, I have never been a Playboy reading type of guy. I like to look at women I have a chance at. It’s very intriguing what is attractive to certain men though. My sister got married yesterday and I found myself trying to understand what drew certain couples together. Some of these girls I have known their entire lives. And I can see how they are attractive, but I never looked at them in that way. But yet to another guy, this is the girl he wants to wake up next to for the rest of his life. Fascinating.

My one contention with family functions is having to explain my story over and over again to different people. It’s nice that they care, but it’s not an easy story to tell. I have finally outgrown the need to justify my occupation, thankfully. Sometimes I wish I had a boring job so I wouldn’t have to carry so many conversations.

I enjoyed catching up with my elementary school principal. Now, I had gone to a school aptly named “Adams School,” which shut down due to budgetary reasons when I was in third grade. But my last year at Adams was an interesting one. We had this teacher, who I should probably not name, who we drove absolutely insane. You could easily describe my class as obnoxious. We had a reputation for being the worst the town had ever seen. We outnumbered the teacher and we knew it. I spent more time in the hall than in the classroom. One day, after we sang these lyrics from “America” (My Country, 'Tis of Thee)-- “Land of the pilgrims' pride, from every mountainside let freedom ring!,” I grabbed the bell off the teacher’s desk, that she used to quiet the class, and rang that bell. Man did I ring that bell. And man did she lose it. It was great. I had desecrated the sanctity of that bell. “Out into the hall!,” she screamed. You mean I have to go sit in the hall instead of in the boring class learning, what a punishment? I had that system beat. Halfway through the year, she quit. We returned after winter break-- but she didn’t. And we celebrated because we won. We had driven her out. We still celebrate when reunited with old classmates. But I was always suspicious that there was more to the story. That maybe we weren’t all that bad. She seemed off. Even as a kid, you kind of pick up on certain signals, even if you don’t know what they mean, you know things just don’t seem to add up. And in this case I was correct. I asked my principal, “Remember Mrs. X, what really happened to her?” Sure enough, Mrs. X had a whole set of problems which may have included not wanting to hear loud bells when hung over.

As I bounced from conversation to conversation I ran into a good family friend who is a town selectman. I told Norman about those planters obstructing driver’s views. I told him you could probably pull them back ten feet and it’d be fine. He assured me he’d look into it first thing Monday morning. It’s 1pm on Monday now, and I’m sure if I went downtown I would see a bunch of people dragging those dangerous planters back ten feet. How lucky these people are to live in a real community.

The day was nice. My sister got married. I gave a toast. I realized something when I was writing that toast. I realized that with all my successes and all my failures (I wanted to say a shitload of failures. But it was inappropriate, so I do this thing were I say the word in my head, but not out loud. And hopefully the audience can sense it.) I realized, all you need is love. The Beatles were right. A partner in crime. Someone to agree with you. When people ask me what I am looking for, I tell them a woman that hates the same things as me. I don’t want to hear, “Maybe you’re overreacting.”

My sister married a real sports fanatic. And we grew up in a family that only used the sports section to start a fire in the fireplace. But they say opposites attract. They met on a blind date. And the probabilities of that working are astronomically low. In fact, you have a better chance of being struck by lightning holding a winning lottery ticket than finding a mate on a blind date. And I’m not even going to tell you what the probability is of having a successful blind date the same year the Red Sox won the world series.

I got home from the wedding and I knew exactly what I needed to do—go up in that attack into some strange crevice and find that bell Mrs. X never came back to claim.



© Copyright Orny Adams, Icrushed Productions 2006
www.ornyadams.com