045 - A Place for My Stuff Vol. 3
Dumb Stuff with Smart Glasses + Amy Winehouse + Summer Camp Comedy
Hello. How are we? Are we good? We’ve decided to use “the collective we” from now on, to help us practice staying present and connected to the species mind.
“I” was he—and who the hell does he think he is? “I” was then—and why the hell are we talking about then? Then is over. “We” is us; “We” is now. We. Here. Now.
(We’ll see how long this lasts…)
We’ve finally gotten around to messing around with our Ray-Ban “smart glasses” gifted to us by the fine folks at Meta. We’re bed, bath, and beyond excited by the potential to make supremely idiotic content with our colleagues in the collective consciousness—aka street randos, like our new bestie, Bear, aka The Whittier Slasher…
We then wandered into a pet spa, prepared to give our dog Buscemi his first ever grooming experience. We were pleasantly surprised by the affordability…
Stay tuned for more dumb stuff with smart glasses next month! In the meantime…
SAVED IN DRAFTS
A collection of brain droppings that have yet to see the light of day… for good reason?
Isn’t It Ironic…
I’m still not over Amy Winehouse. It’ll be fourteen years this summer since she drew her final, earthly breath. What a talent… what a tragedy… and what a stark lesson for those struggling with addiction. As hard as it can be to see the forest of your dependency for the trees of your next fix, those closest to you often have a clearer, more objective perspective. If they’re urging you to seek help—if they are trying to make you go to rehab—instead of repeatedly saying “no,” consider saying yes. It just might save your life.
Also, whatever you do, please do not release a hit single in which you’re defiantly celebrating your decision to refuse help, because—God forbid your addiction gets the better of you—we simply cannot have another cursed song haunting our airwaves.
Amy’s “Rehab” is still played in public. People go crazy for it when it comes on—especially in bars and nightclubs. These people, many of whom are likely problem drinkers themselves, start dancing and singing along to the words, even!
How can anyone in their right mind enjoy this tune, knowing what happened to the poor woman? I don’t care how good Mark Ronson’s retro-soul production is!
Alanis Morissette could drop dead on stage mid-encore, and it wouldn’t be as grievously ironic as this Amy Winehouse situation…
It would be like if Bill Cosby was a one-time spokesman for Ambien—and they were still airing his commercials.
It would be like if, in the 1970s, Woody Allen made a film starring himself as a 42-year-old writer sleeping with a 17-year-old high school student… How could we possibly enjoy that movie, called Manhattan, today?
Summer Camp Comedy
On August 7, 2007, I was hired to perform stand-up comedy for the 13-15-year-olds at Camp KenWood and KenMont in Kent, CT. It did not go well.
Here is a sample of the jokes I told that day.
Funny how excited we are to leave our parents at the start of summer… only to get even more excited to see them again—on Visiting Day! That week leading up to Visiting Day is nuts. It’s like the entire camp is getting ready for a first date… a date with everyone’s parents! All the bunks are scrubbed down, the grass is manicured, the bugs are vacuumed, Manhattan caterers are hired to overhaul the lunch menu: “Deviled Pheasant Eggs and Mako Shark Filets? What happened to Sloppy Joe Saturday?”
Some people call it Visiting Day. I call it: “The Day That Candy Comes To Camp.” It’s Halloween in July! It’s actually better than Halloween, because the candy comes to you! Candy in camp is like cigarettes in prison. My camp had a strict ban on candy sent through the mail, so much so that the office staff searched all incoming packages for contraband. It became a game of trying to outsmart the camp, with parents trying to sneak candy into seemingly benign bathroom products: an empty shampoo bottle stuffed full of Twizzlers; a couple of Rolos hidden in a hollowed out bar of soap. “That may look an awful lot like Nerds Rope, but I swear it’s my new prescription floss.”
My mom is your typical health Nazi. She firmly believes in low carbs, no sugar, and a unified German state. And my dad is your typical cheapskate, so my Visiting Days were largely disappointments. While Jimmy’s parents arrived with multiple overflowing duffel bags, looking like they were preparing to open a Sweet Factory franchise next to the Ropes Course, and Pepe’s diplomat parents came towing a U-Haul packed with a General Assembly of Swedish fish, Belgian chocolate, and Turkish Delights, my parents would show up with a crumpled up pack of peanut M&M’s that my dad bought at a gas station off the Thruway—he ate half the pack on the way: “Here ya go kid, I saved a blue one for ya.”
One summer, they gave me a heart-shaped Whitman’s Sampler—from Valentine’s Day! My dad was like, “I found it in the closet, it hasn’t been opened, it’s still good!” And my mom, she would bring a picnic basket full of the kind of food you wonder aloud about when you see at supermarkets: “Who is eating that? What species of animal is that for—because it sure doesn’t appear fit for human consumption.” Wheat Germ Crackers? No one in my bunk was brave enough to try one, but we discovered they were great for throwing at squirrels. Dried pineapple cores? Couldn’t even spring for the rings? “There’s more potassium in the core,” she’d say. Candied Ginger is not candy, Mom! Can’t ya throw your kid a Kit-Kat?!
That “unified Germany” line got me.