Howdy – No Man is an Island features Jonathan Goldstein interviewing Patri Friedman (son of famed economist Milton Friedman) about seasteading. Unlike some of the crazies that Jonathan Goldstein interviews, Friedman is, indeed absolutely serious. In fact, I’ve actually heard of this before Wiretap. Unsurprisingly, a lot of business big wigs are very interested in the concept. I think it has something to do with Ayn Rand. Anyway, check out the blurb and listen to the mp3 after reading the summary of No Man is an Island
Howard starts his very own country within the borders of his apartment: the first nation with wall-to-wall carpeting. Plus, Gregor makes Jonathan a personalized mix-tape to help him seduce the ladies, and Patri Friedman discusses his latest project, the Seasteading Institute.
Sorry if this spoils the plot (it won’t) for you but in the end of the bit with Howard Chackowicz where Jonathan Goldstein claims that he “doesn’t beatbox” – well, that’s a damn lie! HumV Chackowicz (that’s Howard’s rapper name, in case you were wondering) makes his debut in the episode “The First Thing That Comes to Mind” way back from Season One. Jonathan Goldstein provides the backbeat for HumV’s freestylin’ in that episode as well. In fact, I think he uses the exact same beat…
Also, the monologue that opens this episode appeared in the National Post way back in May 2009. Here it is in its original form:
Thursday. I’m at a local book store doing a reading. When it’s over, I mill around. “I fall asleep listening to your radio show,” a woman says and, in case the point has been lost on me, she adds: “Your voice puts me to sleep.” People approach, either asking me to sign their books or sharing with me their thoughts. Their ruthless, brutal thoughts. “You have a face for radio,” another woman gleefully tells me. When I try to change the subject, asking her if she has a book she’d like me to sign, she tells me no, that she’s waiting to buy a used copy. When she walks away, an intense-looking mustachioed man takes her place. “Some of what you say on your show is what I would say,” he says. “But then there are other things you say that I would never say. That’s when you’re at your weakest.” “So let me get this straight,” I say. “I’m at my strongest when I’m sounding the most like you?” “Yes,” he says. The main difference between talking to the radio and talking to the person on the radio is that the person has feelings, feelings that will keep him up at night. The person on the radio will stay up worrying about the next time he’ll have to appear in public and be exposed to the casual cruelty of well-meaning strangers.
Thursday. I’m at a local book store doing a reading. When it’s over, I mill around.
“I fall asleep listening to your radio show,” a woman says and, in case the point has been lost on me, she adds: “Your voice puts me to sleep.”
People approach, either asking me to sign their books or sharing with me their thoughts. Their ruthless, brutal thoughts.
“You have a face for radio,” another woman gleefully tells me. When I try to change the subject, asking her if she has a book she’d like me to sign, she tells me no, that she’s waiting to buy a used copy.
When she walks away, an intense-looking mustachioed man takes her place.
“Some of what you say on your show is what I would say,” he says. “But then there are other things you say that I would never say. That’s when you’re at your weakest.”
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “I’m at my strongest when I’m sounding the most like you?”
“Yes,” he says.
The main difference between talking to the radio and talking to the person on the radio is that the person has feelings, feelings that will keep him up at night. The person on the radio will stay up worrying about the next time he’ll have to appear in public and be exposed to the casual cruelty of well-meaning strangers.
Hello, folks. Today’s National Post article features Jonathan and Jon at the movies watching Inglourious Basterds and A Serious Man. Be warned: spoilers ahead:
The article starts with Jonathan talking about having a bad day. He says:
“I’m not having the best day, either,” I say. In fact, I’ve been so cast down and foggy-headed that while leaving the depanneur just this morning, I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to take my leave of the clerk with a parting “man” or “buddy” and so ended up accidentally calling him “muddy.”
For my fellow non-Canadians, a depanneur is a convenience store. (The more you know!)
Tucker suggests we go out and see a movie, and I agree. “I saw Inglourious Basterds last week,” I say. “I hope we can see something better than that.” “Isn’t that the one where Brad Pitt kills Hitler?” “I don’t want to ruin World War II for you, but yes. Yes, he does.” 1:10 p. m. I meet Tucker at the movies, and we decide on going in to see the Coen brothers’ latest film, A Serious Man. “It’s supposed to be a retelling of the story of Job,” Tucker says. “It should make us feel marginally better about our own lot.” “Also,” I say, “it’s always nice to see what Fyvush Finkel is up to.” 3:15 p. m. The film turns out to be really good. So good, in fact, that we stay glued to our chairs, digesting, until the very end of the credits. In so doing, we learn that two of the rather heavy-set actors in the film shared the same stand-in. “I wonder how that made them feel,” I say. “I wonder if, at the end of the day, each actor went home to his wife and said, ‘There’s no way I’m as fat as that guy.’ “
Tucker suggests we go out and see a movie, and I agree.
“I saw Inglourious Basterds last week,” I say. “I hope we can see something better than that.”
“Isn’t that the one where Brad Pitt kills Hitler?”
“I don’t want to ruin World War II for you, but yes. Yes, he does.”
1:10 p. m. I meet Tucker at the movies, and we decide on going in to see the Coen brothers’ latest film, A Serious Man.
“It’s supposed to be a retelling of the story of Job,” Tucker says. “It should make us feel marginally better about our own lot.”
“Also,” I say, “it’s always nice to see what Fyvush Finkel is up to.”
3:15 p. m. The film turns out to be really good. So good, in fact, that we stay glued to our chairs, digesting, until the very end of the credits. In so doing, we learn that two of the rather heavy-set actors in the film shared the same stand-in.
“I wonder how that made them feel,” I say. “I wonder if, at the end of the day, each actor went home to his wife and said, ‘There’s no way I’m as fat as that guy.’ “
Anyway, overall a pretty gloomy column. I wonder what’s on the horizon for the next episode – an appearance by Tucker? Am I going to have to change my logo to include Tucker? Maybe.
Till next time.
Hey folks, back to reading up on Jonathan Goldstein’s National Post articles. The more I read these, the more I feel like I do when I watch The Office. I watched the first season of the show (and all of the British episodes) but then kind of stopped until recently, now that it’s on pretty much 24 hours a day. The whole time I’m watching, I feel like the only guy who left his hometown for college at a high school reunion. All the faces are familiar, but so much plot has gone on, it’s hard to feel in the loop. It doesn’t help that each network is playing a different season, too.
Actually, reading these Jonathan Goldstein National Post articles is nothing like that. Although I am reading them in reverse order. Plus, I’ve heard all the Wiretap episodes, too, so I don’t know what it’s like. All I’m really trying to say is that I’m out of the loop. Okay. Onward to the highlights from Jonathan Goldstein’s National Post articles.
The saddest part of my day comes now, as I eat a huge waffle cone of “Chocolate Therapy” and slowly come to realize that this is the most beneficial form of therapy I’ve had in years. I enter into a complete ice cream trance. It’s almost like there are drugs in there. This spawns an idea for a new flavour: Chunky Junky –ice cream dusted with a fine frosted layer of crack. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1906560#ixzz0UFpFdULE
The saddest part of my day comes now, as I eat a huge waffle cone of “Chocolate Therapy” and slowly come to realize that this is the most beneficial form of therapy I’ve had in years. I enter into a complete ice cream trance. It’s almost like there are drugs in there.
This spawns an idea for a new flavour: Chunky Junky –ice cream dusted with a fine frosted layer of crack.
Friday. I meet Gregor in the park for lunch. From out of his briefcase, he pulls a pink Hello Kitty thermos. “Nervous breakdown?” I ask. “I’m trying to cultivate my cuteness,” he says. “You’re a foul-mouthed balding ad exec,” I say. “What cute is there to cultivate?” “Allow me to explain,” he says. “Let us turn our attention towards the natural world.” “I don’t like turning my attention to the natural world,” I say. “It’s scratchy and people pee there.” “In the natural world,” he continues, “every young animal has some form of defence. The skunk has stink, the porcupine, quills. And what does a human child have?” “Stickiness?” “Cuteness,” he says angrily. “The only thing that keeps it safe is its ability to turn brains to mush with its cunning cuteness. But as a child grows older, out of some misguided sense that it no longer requires it, it sheds its cuteness. Well, I’ve decided to reclaim mine. I can use every defence against predators I can get. I’m even considering getting one of those little stuffed animal knapsacks.” I wonder if it’ll be large enough to carry his Lipitor pills and bifocals. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/story.html?id=1859490#ixzz0UFr90IL8
Friday. I meet Gregor in the park for lunch. From out of his briefcase, he pulls a pink Hello Kitty thermos.
“Nervous breakdown?” I ask.
“I’m trying to cultivate my cuteness,” he says.
“You’re a foul-mouthed balding ad exec,” I say. “What cute is there to cultivate?”
“Allow me to explain,” he says. “Let us turn our attention towards the natural world.”
“I don’t like turning my attention to the natural world,” I say. “It’s scratchy and people pee there.”
“In the natural world,” he continues, “every young animal has some form of defence. The skunk has stink, the porcupine, quills. And what does a human child have?”
“Stickiness?”
“Cuteness,” he says angrily. “The only thing that keeps it safe is its ability to turn brains to mush with its cunning cuteness. But as a child grows older, out of some misguided sense that it no longer requires it, it sheds its cuteness. Well, I’ve decided to reclaim mine. I can use every defence against predators I can get. I’m even considering getting one of those little stuffed animal knapsacks.”
I wonder if it’ll be large enough to carry his Lipitor pills and bifocals.
Tuesday. Howard is moving today, so I’ve agreed to baby-sit his two pugs, Desmond and Bruce. Desmond has a face like Edward G. Robinson, and Bruce has a face like Edward G. Robinson with a toothache. “Desmond likes his belly tickled and Bruce likes when you talk reassuringly while he’s going to the bathroom,” Howard tells me as he hugs them goodbye. On the walk back to my apartment, they stop in front of the depanneur at the corner of Howard’s street and refuse to go any farther. I call Howard on my cell. “I always go into that store and buy them jerky,” Howard explains. “They won’t move until they get some. They’re set in their ways — just like their old man.” Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1838511#ixzz0UFs4PWNF
Tuesday. Howard is moving today, so I’ve agreed to baby-sit his two pugs, Desmond and Bruce. Desmond has a face like Edward G. Robinson, and Bruce has a face like Edward G. Robinson with a toothache.
“Desmond likes his belly tickled and Bruce likes when you talk reassuringly while he’s going to the bathroom,” Howard tells me as he hugs them goodbye.
On the walk back to my apartment, they stop in front of the depanneur at the corner of Howard’s street and refuse to go any farther.
I call Howard on my cell.
“I always go into that store and buy them jerky,” Howard explains. “They won’t move until they get some. They’re set in their ways — just like their old man.”
Before exercising, I usually stretch by a window while making excruciating eye contact with the old man who lives across the street from the Y. He keeps a pillow on the windowsill of his third floor apartment so he can get some good leaning, spitting, and staring done. But today, rather than endure what I can’t help but feel to be his silent judgment, I watch the five-year-old campers play musical chairs in the centre of the gym. The sight of the odd man out, running around, looking for a seat and then, slowly and painfully realizing there is none to be had — that it’s all so horribly late — is too heartbreaking to watch. It’s as though through play, the children are being prepared for the cruelty and brutality of life and career to come. All to the strains of Lady Gaga. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1814483#ixzz0UFss3SUA
Before exercising, I usually stretch by a window while making excruciating eye contact with the old man who lives across the street from the Y. He keeps a pillow on the windowsill of his third floor apartment so he can get some good leaning, spitting, and staring done. But today, rather than endure what I can’t help but feel to be his silent judgment, I watch the five-year-old campers play musical chairs in the centre of the gym.
The sight of the odd man out, running around, looking for a seat and then, slowly and painfully realizing there is none to be had — that it’s all so horribly late — is too heartbreaking to watch. It’s as though through play, the children are being prepared for the cruelty and brutality of life and career to come. All to the strains of Lady Gaga.
Monday. I’m sick in bed with a cold. There’s something about being sick that always makes me feel about 10 years old. I wish I had some apple juice and Spider-Man comics, but for now I’d settle for having some Kleenex. I call up Howard to bring some over. “Use toilet paper,” he says. “That would be unseemly for a man of my social carriage,” I say. “Hey, did I tell you about my idea for a new twist on toilet paper?” Howard asks, sounding as though he’s leaning into the receiver. “It’s toilet paper that has the face of someone you hate printed on each square.” Howard goes on to explain how his invention could mean the end of school bullying, gangland violence and, possibly, even war. “Just ball up your detractors and wipe,” he says. “I believe I’ve always done my finest work behind the backs of my enemies. Now, they can do their finest work behind mine.” We get off the phone and I get some toilet paper to blow my nose. No enemies defaced. It almost feels like a waste of my effort. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1790963#ixzz0UFtCv8MQ
Monday. I’m sick in bed with a cold. There’s something about being sick that always makes me feel about 10 years old. I wish I had some apple juice and Spider-Man comics, but for now I’d settle for having some Kleenex. I call up Howard to bring some over.
“Use toilet paper,” he says.
“That would be unseemly for a man of my social carriage,” I say.
“Hey, did I tell you about my idea for a new twist on toilet paper?” Howard asks, sounding as though he’s leaning into the receiver. “It’s toilet paper that has the face of someone you hate printed on each square.”
Howard goes on to explain how his invention could mean the end of school bullying, gangland violence and, possibly, even war.
“Just ball up your detractors and wipe,” he says. “I believe I’ve always done my finest work behind the backs of my enemies. Now, they can do their finest work behind mine.”
We get off the phone and I get some toilet paper to blow my nose. No enemies defaced. It almost feels like a waste of my effort.
I’ve been remiss in reading Jonathan Goldstein’s weekly National Post column, but doing so is always a delight. Because he often discusses upcoming Wiretap episodes, it makes you feel a bit like an insider once he mentions threads that originated in the National Post. Other times, his monologues come from National Post article verbatim.
Anyway, as part of my renewed dedication to the Unofficial Wiretap blog, I’m going to go through all of these and pull out some highlights. You can read them all by going to National Post and searching Jonathan Goldstein, but here are some quotables from random columns.
This one ended up in Patent Pending.
Monday. Gerard phones. He is excited. “I’ve come up with the perfect renewable resource,” he says. “Edible lizards’ tails. Cut one off and it grows back. It could mean the end of world hunger. I can’t understand why no one’s thought of it yet.” “Because it’s madness,” I say. “Just think,” he says. “The Feeding of the 5,000 would have been a lot easier if Jesus had used five loaves and two geckos. You could even mix the DNA with bovine DNA and voila! Oxtail soup for everyone!” As I listen to Gerard, it occurs to me that the perfect renewable resource might actually be the bad ideas of friends. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=2098296#ixzz0UFfGUNIT
Monday. Gerard phones. He is excited.
“I’ve come up with the perfect renewable resource,” he says. “Edible lizards’ tails. Cut one off and it grows back. It could mean the end of world hunger. I can’t understand why no one’s thought of it yet.”
“Because it’s madness,” I say.
“Just think,” he says. “The Feeding of the 5,000 would have been a lot easier if Jesus had used five loaves and two geckos. You could even mix the DNA with bovine DNA and voila! Oxtail soup for everyone!”
As I listen to Gerard, it occurs to me that the perfect renewable resource might actually be the bad ideas of friends.
Howard is over at my new place. We are eating candy when he drops a malted milk ball on the living room floor. We watch it slowly roll out the door and into the kitchen. The good thing about having an apartment that’s tilted is that when you drop round candy, it always rolls to the same corner of your home. I assume that by the end of the month, I will end up with a nice little corner stash. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=2073497#ixzz0UFgtGMNI
My go-kart driving style is like a cross between Mad Max and Ethel Merman in It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. I drive aggressively but also with hesitation, toggling between flooring the gas and slamming on the brake. This leads to my being waved over by an employee. My sense of shame at being reprimanded by a 15-year-old track attendant for not obeying the rules of go-kart road safety is only outdone by my sense of fear that I will die on a go-kart track. I can only imagine what the obituary would read like. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=2048297#ixzz0UFhhIeFw
My go-kart driving style is like a cross between Mad Max and Ethel Merman in It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. I drive aggressively but also with hesitation, toggling between flooring the gas and slamming on the brake. This leads to my being waved over by an employee.
My sense of shame at being reprimanded by a 15-year-old track attendant for not obeying the rules of go-kart road safety is only outdone by my sense of fear that I will die on a go-kart track. I can only imagine what the obituary would read like.
Wednesday. I wake up out of a dream in which Tucker makes a cameo appearance — as a raisin in my porridge.”What business is it of yours to dream about me?” he asks when I call up to tell him about it. “I have no control over what I dream,” I say. “And why would you care anyway?” “I’ve had occasion to glimpse the things that go on in your mind,” he says. “So the idea of spending any time there upsets me.” Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=2023603#ixzz0UFiJmeKB
“I have no control over what I dream,” I say. “And why would you care anyway?”
“I’ve had occasion to glimpse the things that go on in your mind,” he says. “So the idea of spending any time there upsets me.”
“I literally can’t give away my belongings,” I say, staring out the uncurtained window. “No one’s even taking my red checkered shirt.” “You had a red-checkered shirt?” “Don’t you remember? You said it made me look like a picnic table. Just think, if you took it you could lie down on the floor while wearing it and eat a bowl of potato salad off yourself with the whole meal feeling alfresco.” “When I want alfresco, I eat hot dogs while leaning against a mail box.” Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1998047#ixzz0UFjkaCMq
“I literally can’t give away my belongings,” I say, staring out the uncurtained window. “No one’s even taking my red checkered shirt.”
“You had a red-checkered shirt?”
“Don’t you remember? You said it made me look like a picnic table. Just think, if you took it you could lie down on the floor while wearing it and eat a bowl of potato salad off yourself with the whole meal feeling alfresco.”
“When I want alfresco, I eat hot dogs while leaning against a mail box.”
Tuesday. For my radio show, I interview a man named Bart who promises to take care of your pet after the rapture. His business is called Eternal Earth-Bound Pets, USA. Bart charges US$110 for the service, and assures his clients that their pet will be cared for by someone who stands no chance of being transported to heaven. “How can you be so sure?” I ask. “I make certain of it,” he says. “Before I agree to hire someone, they have to send me an email in which they blaspheme.” Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1973726#ixzz0UFjvrXPF
Tuesday. For my radio show, I interview a man named Bart who promises to take care of your pet after the rapture. His business is called Eternal Earth-Bound Pets, USA. Bart charges US$110 for the service, and assures his clients that their pet will be cared for by someone who stands no chance of being transported to heaven.
“How can you be so sure?” I ask.
“I make certain of it,” he says. “Before I agree to hire someone, they have to send me an email in which they blaspheme.”
10:10 p. m. Lately Howard’s been writing riddles and jokes. I’d always thought such a vocation was strictly reserved for prison inmates and asylum dwellers. Apparently not. Most of the jokes Howard comes up with involve bears and forest rangers, penguins in bars, and chickens. He decides to favour a group of us with one of his new pearls. “A chicken is trying to cross the road,” he says. “Cars swerve all around him, honking their horns. ‘Get out of the way, you stupid chicken,’ they scream. Finally, the poor chicken, having had enough, stops in the middle of the road, looks into the sky and says, ‘Why am I doing this?’ ” No reaction, but then Howard adds, “I think we’ve all felt at some point in our lives like that chicken.” And this gets the laughs he was after. Sunday, 1:15 a. m. I fall asleep to the sound of my friends in the other room, still going strong. At the moment they’re swapping stories about the first time they ever heard Stairway to Heaven. All in all, it feels like a pretty good night. Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1954044#ixzz0UFlEJhJu
10:10 p. m. Lately Howard’s been writing riddles and jokes. I’d always thought such a vocation was strictly reserved for prison inmates and asylum dwellers. Apparently not. Most of the jokes Howard comes up with involve bears and forest rangers, penguins in bars, and chickens. He decides to favour a group of us with one of his new pearls.
“A chicken is trying to cross the road,” he says. “Cars swerve all around him, honking their horns. ‘Get out of the way, you stupid chicken,’ they scream. Finally, the poor chicken, having had enough, stops in the middle of the road, looks into the sky and says, ‘Why am I doing this?’ ”
No reaction, but then Howard adds, “I think we’ve all felt at some point in our lives like that chicken.”
And this gets the laughs he was after.
Sunday, 1:15 a. m. I fall asleep to the sound of my friends in the other room, still going strong. At the moment they’re swapping stories about the first time they ever heard Stairway to Heaven. All in all, it feels like a pretty good night.
6:10 p. m. I take the plunge and approach a dad with his three young sons. I ask him which of the three has to sit in the middle, and he points to his eldest. “I have no choice,” the boy says, motioning to each of his brothers. “They’ll kill each other without me between them.” “They can probably use a guy like you in the Middle East,” I say. “Have you ever considered becoming a diplomat someday?” “I thought about it,” he says, treating the question with great seriousness, “but I think I’d rather become a clown.” Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/arts/story.html?id=1929642#ixzz0UFloraGf
6:10 p. m. I take the plunge and approach a dad with his three young sons. I ask him which of the three has to sit in the middle, and he points to his eldest.
“I have no choice,” the boy says, motioning to each of his brothers. “They’ll kill each other without me between them.”
“They can probably use a guy like you in the Middle East,” I say. “Have you ever considered becoming a diplomat someday?”
“I thought about it,” he says, treating the question with great seriousness, “but I think I’d rather become a clown.”
This week’s National Post article has quite a lot of Howard’s pug in it. Check it out:
“Have I introduced you to my grandmother Mitzy from Romania?” Howard asks, wrapping a handkerchief around Desmond’s head and tying it into an old country babushka. “I was quite a looker when I was a girl,” says Mitzy. “I once danced a polonaise before Nicholas II.” Mitzy goes on to detail the infidelities of her third husband, Irwin, and caps off her storytelling by jumping onto the table and sticking her face into a bowl of hummus. I’ve always felt that the tone of any dinner party is established within the first 30 seconds. This is why it is no surprise to me that by the time the soup is served, Howard is on all-fours rattling the legs of the table while yelling “earthquake.”
“Have I introduced you to my grandmother Mitzy from Romania?” Howard asks, wrapping a handkerchief around Desmond’s head and tying it into an old country babushka.
“I was quite a looker when I was a girl,” says Mitzy. “I once danced a polonaise before Nicholas II.” Mitzy goes on to detail the infidelities of her third husband, Irwin, and caps off her storytelling by jumping onto the table and sticking her face into a bowl of hummus.
I’ve always felt that the tone of any dinner party is established within the first 30 seconds. This is why it is no surprise to me that by the time the soup is served, Howard is on all-fours rattling the legs of the table while yelling “earthquake.”
Interested in another dinner party “shaken up” by Howard? Listen to the episode: The Dinner Party, featuring some sound advice from Mireille Silcoff and Gregor Ehrlich.
Goldstein shaved his head, I guess. From the National Post article “Why no one’s laughing at my hair”:
In celebration of spring, I’ve shaved my head. So far the comments I’ve received have ranged from “you look older and more tired” to “I guess you don’t have to worry about bed head now.” After work, I meet up with Gregor for a drink. “What have you done?!” he cries at the sight of me. “You used to have funny hair –hair that a person could laugh at. You might as well kiss your comedy career goodbye.” “First of all,” I say. “I’m not a comedian. I’ma humorist.” “What’s the difference?” “A humorist is a comedian who doesn’t necessarily make you laugh.” “Well, anyone who is even adjacent to the comedy biz, be it rodeo clown or wisecracking waitress, needs to look funny. You, on the other hand, look aerodynamic–like you’re about to be shot out of a cannon.”
In celebration of spring, I’ve shaved my head. So far the comments I’ve received have ranged from “you look older and more tired” to “I guess you don’t have to worry about bed head now.”
After work, I meet up with Gregor for a drink.
“What have you done?!” he cries at the sight of me. “You used to have funny hair –hair that a person could laugh at. You might as well kiss your comedy career goodbye.”
“First of all,” I say. “I’m not a comedian. I’ma humorist.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A humorist is a comedian who doesn’t necessarily make you laugh.”
“Well, anyone who is even adjacent to the comedy biz, be it rodeo clown or wisecracking waitress, needs to look funny. You, on the other hand, look aerodynamic–like you’re about to be shot out of a cannon.”
And from Twitter:
A fellow bald man gave me a nod of acknowledgment on the way to work today. I think a baby did as well but I’m not certain.
Also, Adam and Eve is up on the archive (you can click on it on the feed to the right). Haven’t given it a listen yet – but will make a summary when I’s do’s.
So, here’s a recent Goldstein Twitter tirade:
And then the morning after (i.e. afternoon after) remorse:
And then Jorge checks in:
And Goldstein:
All of this is eerily similar to a recent David Rakoff drunken tirade on the Wiretap episode “The Hangover.”
Anyway, this week’s National Post article includes a bit about another one of Jonathan’s foray’s into today’s technology:
Thursday. My friend Arthur texts me to say that he’s around the corner. I text him back that I’m on my way over. Texting is something I’ve recently discovered. Each message takes me about 20 minutes to write and no one can ever decipher what I’ve written; still, it makes me feel “with it.” I know that having it make me feel “with it” is proof positive that I am absolutely not “with it” and probably never will be “with it.”
Enjoy.
Also, this week’s Wiretap episode is “Adam and Eve.” It’s not up on the archive just yet, but you can listen to Goldstein read it on This American Life. Also, this week’s episode features John K Samson currently of The Weakerthans and formerly of Propagandhi. (Should be neat.)
Here’s a new Jonathan Goldstein drinking game: every time a death-inducing fatty food is mentioned in a National Post article, drink. Every time this food is being eaten in the company of Tucker, drink twice.
Anyway, this week’s National Post article does not feature Tucker – but it does reveal the meaning of the word “schmaltz” which, being a gentile, I was not aware of. Did you know that they make vegetarian schmaltz?
Anyway, enjoy the article, which is a rundown of Goldstein’s book launch in Manhattan:
Tuesday. 6:00 p. m. I’m in New York for the launch of my new book, and my friend Jeff comes to visit me at the hotel room. “This place is so ritzy,” he says. “I couldn’t help pretending on the elevator ride up that I was a hired assassin sent here to kill you.” [...] 7:00 p. m. The event is taking place at a fancy Manhattan nightclub. We get there too early, so Jeff suggests we go next door to this Romanian-Jewish restaurant. We kill time eating a basket of bread and chopped liver, which the waitress prepares at our table, Benihana style. “Jewish olive oil,” she says, pouring a tall glass of schmaltz — liquid animal fat — into the large basin of liver and onions. As I watch her work, I’m reminded of what Jeff said earlier about feeling like my assassin. Murder by cholesterol.
Tuesday. 6:00 p. m. I’m in New York for the launch of my new book, and my friend Jeff comes to visit me at the hotel room.
“This place is so ritzy,” he says. “I couldn’t help pretending on the elevator ride up that I was a hired assassin sent here to kill you.”
[...]
7:00 p. m. The event is taking place at a fancy Manhattan nightclub. We get there too early, so Jeff suggests we go next door to this Romanian-Jewish restaurant. We kill time eating a basket of bread and chopped liver, which the waitress prepares at our table, Benihana style.
“Jewish olive oil,” she says, pouring a tall glass of schmaltz — liquid animal fat — into the large basin of liver and onions.
As I watch her work, I’m reminded of what Jeff said earlier about feeling like my assassin. Murder by cholesterol.
Hello, I realize that I haven’t been updating regarding the National Post columns, but lately, they haven’t been very telling about future episodes. But today I’m pretty excited because Sunday’s episode is already up on the Archive! In case you’re not already subscribing to it, you should. Here’s the blurb from cbc.ca:
“How To Say Goodbye” This week on WireTap, a man confronts the minister who ruined his grandmother’s funeral. Plus, Howard outsources his friendship with Jonathan to an Indian call center.
“How To Say Goodbye”
This week on WireTap, a man confronts the minister who ruined his grandmother’s funeral. Plus, Howard outsources his friendship with Jonathan to an Indian call center.
Anyway, the National Post article today is notable for its continued discussion on beards:
After seeing a photograph of myself at the office Christmas party looking 15 years older and 65% more gnome-like, I finally decide to throw in the towel and shave my beard. While shaving, I stop at the moustache and stare at myself in the mirror. Mustachioedness. I look like a completely different style of person. I look like the kind of guy who’d sing Motown songs in the public showers at the Y– someone who’d shirtlessly open his front door to the gas man and say, “Come on in, chief.” What would my life become if I stopped right now, in mid-shave, and walked off into the world bemoustached? Is this how you become a certain kind of person? You start off just wanting to check something out for a moment, but then you keep stretching that odd, mustachioed moment out longer and longer until one day, you look in the mirror and it isn’t so odd any more — it’s simply a part of your life. Maybe that’s all a life is — an accumulation of things that are initially weird that, through time, become less so. A moustache. A facial piercing. A chair at work three inches from the ground. You bundle all of these weird things together to form this even weirder thing: who you are. I shave off the moustache feeling relieved about who I am not — which is my version of feeling good about who I am.
After seeing a photograph of myself at the office Christmas party looking 15 years older and 65% more gnome-like, I finally decide to throw in the towel and shave my beard.
While shaving, I stop at the moustache and stare at myself in the mirror. Mustachioedness. I look like a completely different style of person. I look like the kind of guy who’d sing Motown songs in the public showers at the Y– someone who’d shirtlessly open his front door to the gas man and say, “Come on in, chief.”
What would my life become if I stopped right now, in mid-shave, and walked off into the world bemoustached? Is this how you become a certain kind of person? You start off just wanting to check something out for a moment, but then you keep stretching that odd, mustachioed moment out longer and longer until one day, you look in the mirror and it isn’t so odd any more — it’s simply a part of your life. Maybe that’s all a life is — an accumulation of things that are initially weird that, through time, become less so. A moustache. A facial piercing. A chair at work three inches from the ground. You bundle all of these weird things together to form this even weirder thing: who you are.
I shave off the moustache feeling relieved about who I am not — which is my version of feeling good about who I am.
For those of you unfamiliar with how important beards are to the heart of Wiretap, please see/hear:
I’ve recently taken to wearing a beard some weeks and not others. When I first grew it, acquaintances I’d run into would say encouraging things like, “CaptainCaveman!” or “Wolfman Goldstein!” But now that I have shaved it and regrown it several times, people feel less invested in its existence and have stopped responding. All along, my goal has been to yo-yo back and forth between beardedness and non-beardedness so often that, eventually, no one would pay any notice to what I looked like. Bald. Fat. Bearded–none of it would linger in the onlooker’s mind’s eye, and eventually I would become visually fluid in the public’s memory. Like the Incredible Shmoo, if you will. To this end, I wake up this morning and shave my two weeks’ growth. Afterwards, Zouzou says I look younger, but when I see Gregor in the evening, he tells me I look older. “Your beard was patchy and youthful,” he says. “It made you look like a 14-year-old, mid-century rabbi. Plus, it covered up your wrinkles. Though I guess not the ones around your eyes, ears and forehead.” According to a copy of Film World from 1915, the secret to Fatty Arbuckle’s success — what set him apart from other morbidly obese vaudevillians who could balance on telephone wires — was that he was possessed of an ability to laugh at himself. This is another in a long, growing list of reasons why I am nothing like Fatty Arbuckle: I cannot laugh at myself. Nonetheless, as Gregor jokes, I try to laugh, and my face takes on the expression of someone trying to swallow a fistful of metal shavings. The way that people can learn so much personal information from looking at a face strikes me as unfair. Even a beard is not enough to cover up the truth of our inner selves. Maybe in the future, humans will wear hats that come down to the chin, with holes for the eyes –like the kid from the Fat Albert gang used to wear. Then no one will ever be able to see what we look like. Then, no one will ever know when we are mouthing the words, “stupid, lousy Gregor” through gritted teeth.
I’ve recently taken to wearing a beard some weeks and not others. When I first grew it, acquaintances I’d run into would say encouraging things like, “CaptainCaveman!” or “Wolfman Goldstein!” But now that I have shaved it and regrown it several times, people feel less invested in its existence and have stopped responding. All along, my goal has been to yo-yo back and forth between beardedness and non-beardedness so often that, eventually, no one would pay any notice to what I looked like. Bald. Fat. Bearded–none of it would linger in the onlooker’s mind’s eye, and eventually I would become visually fluid in the public’s memory. Like the Incredible Shmoo, if you will.
To this end, I wake up this morning and shave my two weeks’ growth. Afterwards, Zouzou says I look younger, but when I see Gregor in the evening, he tells me I look older.
“Your beard was patchy and youthful,” he says. “It made you look like a 14-year-old, mid-century rabbi. Plus, it covered up your wrinkles. Though I guess not the ones around your eyes, ears and forehead.”
According to a copy of Film World from 1915, the secret to Fatty Arbuckle’s success — what set him apart from other morbidly obese vaudevillians who could balance on telephone wires — was that he was possessed of an ability to laugh at himself. This is another in a long, growing list of reasons why I am nothing like Fatty Arbuckle: I cannot laugh at myself. Nonetheless, as Gregor jokes, I try to laugh, and my face takes on the expression of someone trying to swallow a fistful of metal shavings.
The way that people can learn so much personal information from looking at a face strikes me as unfair. Even a beard is not enough to cover up the truth of our inner selves. Maybe in the future, humans will wear hats that come down to the chin, with holes for the eyes –like the kid from the Fat Albert gang used to wear. Then no one will ever be able to see what we look like. Then, no one will ever know when we are mouthing the words, “stupid, lousy Gregor” through gritted teeth.
Okay, that’s all the beard-lore I have time to dig up for today. Bye!
Hello,
This week’s episode is a holiday special: The Two Marys, originally aired last December and also appearing on This American Life’s Holiday Spectular the year before. I also imagine that the first bit of this will appear in Goldstein’s forthcoming (exciting!) book: Ladies and Gentleman, the Bible!
You can also visit the oft-linked Wiretap Holiday Special feat. Howard and Desmond Chackowicz.
Also, the National Post article somewhat alludes to the end of last week’s episode, Meet the New Boss (finally have the summary up) and definitely discusses Cookie Crisp and clamping colons. Enjoy it: “Like the say in Plattsburg: Crapola in a box.”
