betterbooktitles

[betterbooktitles]

What makes a Jesuit boys’ school so entertaining is the irreverence in the face of certain damnation. There were adult authority figures, some imbued with the ability to forgive Mortal Sin, telling us we were going to Hell if we didn’t take our morality seriously. In response, we laughed and cracked jokes. We laughed so hard, in part, because the stakes were so high. If you could mock the Most Important Question, you could likely laugh off anything.

Humor was what opened me up to the idea that I didn’t share the values of the men teaching me to be a “good” person. Humor also taught me that I didn’t have to accept any of it.

The first time I heard shade thrown at the Theology department was during my freshman year when my favorite teacher sitting in a room in the fourth floor English department, in an entirely separate building from the Theology and History classrooms asked “what movie are they showing you over there this week?” It was true that for half the year, Theology teachers showed movies 40 minutes at a time to make important philosophical points. They screened The Matrix, Life is Beautiful (watched in tandem with our reading of Man’s Search for Meaning), and, my personal favorite The Shawshank Redemption which they showed to us in the summer before 9th grade to let us know what Jesuit school would resemble: something close to surviving solitary confinement. If you had music in your mind, you might make it out. I don’t doubt the efficacy of showing these movies to us to teach moral lessons. It was a better strategy than trying to force teenagers to read. I had never heard anyone mock the department, though, especially not another teacher.

To be clear, this scrutiny, at least of the lay teachers in the Theology department was justified. They fed us one-sided anti-intellectual drivel that had almost nothing to do with Catholic Dogma. Instead of learning about a biblical text, we spent hours listening to a guy tell us evolution was “just a theory,” that being gay was a choice, and that abortion was wrong in any instance (whatever your personal beliefs, understand that it’s kind of hard to hear both sides of that argument at an all-male school where the adult men were the authority on ethics). Then they showed us clips from Fox News of Terri Schiavo and told us the “correct” Christian response to the news.

One day, again in my freshman year when I was scared to question anything because of an inordinate fear that I could be thrown out of school at any moment, our Theology teacher pressed play on The Emperor’s Club (a 2002 Kevin Kline movie about a boy’s prep school that served in our teacher’s mind as some ethic antithesis to the more beloved (and frankly more entertaining) Dead Poets Society). A student in the back row raised his hand, and our teacher paused the movie. We sat in the dark room and rolled our eyes. Make this quick, buddy. We’ve got a movie to watch here!

“Jeff?” our teacher said, lifting his eyebrows.

“Yes, I was wondering about the prayer we read before class today,” Jeff said. He was a senior, a bit portly which was only noticeable because many kids did not bother buying new dress shirts every year. Once the stress of school forced you to eat your feelings four years in a row, you wound up with a gut putting pressure on your old shirts’ buttons. “It says in the prayer…” Jeff continued, “that Jesus descended into Hell. What’s that about?” 

“Well,” our teacher said, looking excited to finally talk about religion instead of answering some weird kid’s question about the ethics of having sex with aliens should they ever land on Earth, “according to scripture, we know the gates of Heaven were closed for a time, so when Jesus died he descended into hell first to free other righteous souls…”

“Yeah, a quick follow-up on that,” Jeff said, sounding interested, “does anyone believe this shit?” 

The cackles that erupted in the room nearly overwhelmed our teacher’s angry tirade. Jeff was sent to the Vice Principal’s office to await his judgment. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment you were allowed not only to question those teaching us about religion but you were allowed to reject the faith altogether. 

From there, every argument began to collapse, mostly through funny moments:

A teacher tried to tell us IVF was wrong because “you have to jerk off into a cup. It’s not right.” One kid announced: “I’ve done weirder!” Guffaws. Cheers.

Another teacher claimed gay sex was always wrong because the sex itself was not ‘open to creating human life,’ to which a brave gay student volunteered “Oh, I’m open to it. I’ll keep trying and let you know if there’s a miracle.” Applause. 

When a teacher said video games could be considered a sin if they distract you from work, someone, half-asleep in the front row, let out a loud “Ah, shut up!” that made us all giggle.

My fellow students weren’t playing the game, arguing with the teacher on his terms, using logic. They were dismissing the arguments flippantly, and no adult could reply unless they were funny themselves. 

Read the rest here.

[betterbooktitles]

The screen I spend the most time with these days is a black LCD monitor attached to a PC in an indie bookshop on Long Island. I spend whole days looking at point-of-sale software called Anthology which also keeps track of the store’s inventory. Often, it’s accurate. Occasionally, it says we have three copies of The Bell Jar that have simply disappeared from the face of the Earth. No one stole them. They were raptured, like socks that never make it out of the dryer.

If you’ve never worked a retail job, let me tell you what it’s like: you come in with a little spring in your step, caffeinated, and ready to greet your coworkers and update them on how terrible your last shift without them was. Though the memory of the previous shift’s slog might give you a little anxiety, and though a hangover can make your fuse a little short, you’re in a better mood at the start of the day than at the end. Tedious tasks like ordering and unboxing books (sci-fi movies did not prepare me for how much cardboard there would be in the future) seem manageable in the morning. Customers seem kind. The items you’re selling feel necessary to human happiness. Whatever is going on in your life is put on pause to manage store operations, and time flies. Then, by 3 PM, whether you had time for lunch or not, you wish you had done anything else with your day — or, better yet — your life. 

While the back-straining work of moving inventory around the store or walking the floor helping customers all day without a second to sit down might make you physically tired, the real work of retail is mental and forces employees to become part-machine. Retail workers have to ask the same three questions (“Rewards?” “Bag?” “Receipt?”) and reply to the same three questions (“Have it?” “Bathroom?” “Manager?!?!?”) for 8-10 of their most worthwhile waking hours. 

In bookstores, there is the added expectation that while you’re participating in this mind-numbing routine, you’re at least able to pretend to like and engage with literature. I'm not arguing that people working at Old Navy aren’t eloquent or as over-educated for their job as I am. If they aren’t teenagers, most retail employees I’ve encountered have, by virtue of talking to coworkers and customers all day, the same high emotional intelligence as the smartest people I know who chain smoke outside bars. Still, my guess is that it’s rare for a customer to see a clothing store employee folding clothes, and think “I wonder what their opinion is of the latest Ann Patchett book” or “I wonder if they read Knausgård and run a book club when they’re not helping me find jeans in my size.” People see booksellers doing the same tedious tasks as any other retail employee and assume they not only possess unlimited knowledge about the state of publishing but also have unlimited hours to read while in the store. Customers hold booksellers to an impossible intellectual standard. When they fail to live up to said standard, they’re subjected to conversations like this:

“You haven’t read the latest Kingsolver?” a customer will ask, “Why not? What about this one? Or that one? It’s so good though! I thought you would have read all of these!” 

What’s a shame is that they think they’re being kind when they half-recommend, half-admonish bookstore employees. Worse are the people who are flat-out rude. Case in point, a man came into the store at hour six of my shift, and without any preamble, treating me like I was a human Google search bar, said the name of an author, then started spelling the name. When I asked for a second to look up what I assumed he was asking for, he rolled his eyes and began spelling slowly and loudly: “PAUL. P…A…U…” 

Sadly, I’m too old to be treated that way and without thinking I raised my hand and said sternly “Don’t do that.” Now some oblivious retired banker is walking around Long Island asking himself why indie booksellers are so mean. My Midwestern niceness has disappeared, my helpful attitude is now nonexistent. I have been worn down by the people I’m paid to be kind to.

Read the rest here.

[betterbooktitles]

I had a system for writing papers in college: 1 page = 1 hour. It takes a half hour or twenty minutes per page to spew out all your thoughts, and 30-40 minutes to edit. “Editing” meant proofreading it once. No need to go overboard with those secondary drafts. These were undergrad college papers, not high criticism I was hoping to have reviewed by the Pulitzer committee.

My English Lit III professor was one of the many Humanities and Literature department faculty members who drew me away from my original major at Bard College: Film. I wanted, more than anything else, to impress this woman. I was interviewed by the Bard Free Press and was quoted insisting that I would marry the professor one day. In retrospect, her seeing that in print might have tipped her off to the fact that my ideas weren’t always grounded in reality.

I felt a tingling on my cheeks as she passed back our 8-page midterm papers on George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda. Sitting at the wide wooden table, I watched her serenely slide each stack of stapled paper to my fellow students. I watched several of my peers sheepishly collect their papers and grimace at the notes. My first paper on Wordsworth received an ‘A.’ The only note appeared on the last page and pontificated on how hard it is to “relate the sonic values of a poem” while writing about the language in an academic essay. Less a critique and more an observation. She was simply sharing her thoughts! It is hard to mimic the sonic implications of words when people are reading those words silently. My writing was near-perfect save for the fact I couldn’t quite express the mouthfeel of Wordsworth’s poetry while analyzing it. That first paper was enough for this professor to ask me to walk her to her office so I could talk about my goals, my high school education, my life up to that point. We walked in the orange glow of the evening sun past boisterous students excitedly marching in big groups to the cafeteria for dinner. 

In that first office meeting, I felt like she was trying to adopt me. I never in my life had someone show such a keen interest in my mind. Until then, my teachers had a vague sense that I was going to squander whatever potential they saw in me. It felt like they were preemptively disappointed. This professor wanted to talk to me. She liked hearing my thoughts, and we had a great rapport in those office meetings. It didn’t hurt that she was a gorgeous 20-something woman with thick black curly hair, a slight lisp that made me look at her lips whenever she was speaking, and she wrote poetry about her bike seat inadvertently making her come when she rode it. I know I wasn’t the only person on campus who found her ethereally sexy because a male faculty member came up to me in the cafeteria holding the student newspaper in his hand, pointed at my quote, and said “she’s a force of nature” which is a smart adult’s way of saying “this lady fucks” or “I wish I could say more but I’d get fired.” I was smitten and ready to give up my film degree if it meant visiting this office every week to stare at her Velma glasses and the bright orange baubles she wore around her neck that called attention to where the neckline on her sweaters ended.

Read the rest here.

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The first time I ever saw someone answer a cell phone in a movie theater was in the middle of a midnight screening of Mel Gibson’s The Passion Of The Christ. A blood-drenched Jim Caviezel was being whipped when I heard “Hello? Yeah, what’s good? I’m in the movie.” My stomach started to bounce as I tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh. My friend Jeremy elbowed me to either egg me on or stop me, knowing the laughter would catch on with the rest of our group: ten other Saint Ignatius High School students who chose to go on an “Urban Immersion” retreat our senior year.

I saw Mr. Grady’s tear-stained face turn in the darkness. He was sitting a row in front of us, and he appeared to be livid. He let out a sharp “shhh!” then looked over to let us know he’d do far worse if we did anything further to disrupt his viewing experience. Disciplinary actions would be taken if we giggled again. Our trip would be cut short. A teacher threatening to send us all home to our parents that week, however, would have been welcomed.

Most Ignatius students went on “Kairos” retreats (Greek: “God’s Time”) that featured three days of camping and praying, followed by a “witness” portion where students arrived back on campus to share, at the center of St. Mary’s chapel, what they’d learned during their period of reflection. Typically, they said “I love you, Dad!” while fighting back tears before running back to their pews. They also wrote letters about their newfound or newly confirmed love of Jesus Christ. I received one of these letters from my best friend who was a year ahead of me. His words moved and excited me. I anticipated my trip all year.

The students in the movie theater with me that night, however, had all signed up for a retreat in which we spent the week living as if on the streets of inner-city Cleveland. The Urban Immersion retreat was four days of sleeping in a church basement, living off the equivalent of food stamps (about $5 a day for groups of four), and eating the rest of our meals at shelters where we also volunteered our time. There was also a “scared straight” period where we sat in a circle of folding chairs at the 2100 men’s shelter my friend Luke’s dad ran and listened to grown men scream about how “crack does not discriminate!” 

Also, we got to see The Passion of The Christ opening night.

Perhaps you read about the record-setting earnings this movie made the week it premiered. The first $125 million was thanks to big groups like ours attending. Also thanks to the guy who had to answer his phone while the Romans killed Christ. I’m not sure how we as mock-poor kids on our immersion trip were supposed to be able to afford the movie ourselves in keeping with the rules, but the timing seemed right, so our teachers took us.

Read the rest here.

[betterbooktitles]

My great grandfather “Bud” Wilbur gave his son Jack an Erector Set one Christmas then took it back the same day. The Erector Set was a children’s toy made of metal pieces that allowed kids to build various model structures like bridges and poorly made bridges. Before video games, children had very few choices for entertainment: marbles, Erector Sets, or becoming a Peeping Tom. Those were the choices. My grandpa Jack was going to be an engineer like his father, and to seal his fate, great grandpa Bud bought him the tools to try his hand at building. Bud, seeing the pieces scattered on the floor must have thought “pearls before swine” while having his eureka moment. Using the toy he had bought his son, he built a model of what he called The Simultaneous Calculator, what the American papers in 1937 called “Robot-Einstein,” and what the Japanese dubbed “The Wilbur Machine.”

He didn’t build the first calculator. I believe that honor technically belongs to the Mesopotamians who made the first abacus. Nor did the calculator conceptually resemble the digital computing systems we have now that employ ones and zeros and a lot of electricity. The Wilbur Machine was an analog computing system with pulleys and brass bars that solved 9 equations simultaneously (or 9x9 systems according to an MIT grad’s thesis that I can only comprehend up to page 4). Math equations that once took a full day to solve now took roughly 1-3 hours. It sped up the production of large structures, power grids, and for one country it seems, planes. It was a big advancement in 1936-37, an advancement that was eclipsed by better smaller machines soon after. In the United States, that is. In Japan, a 3x3 system Wilbur Machine was replicated in the late 30s and a fully functioning 9x9 calculator was completed in 1944 at the Tokyo Imperial University’s Aviation Laboratory.

You read that correctly. My great-grandfather Bud Wilbur built a machine that was stolen by an Axis power right before World War II. Japan continued to use the machine until the war’s end. So, uh…sorry about that? It wasn’t Bud’s intention.

Read the rest of the essay here.

[betterbooktitles]

My great grandfather “Bud” Wilbur gave his son Jack an Erector Set one Christmas then took it back the same day. The Erector Set was a children’s toy made of metal pieces that allowed kids to build various model structures like bridges and poorly made bridges. Before video games, children had very few choices for entertainment: marbles, Erector Sets, or becoming a Peeping Tom. Those were the choices. My grandpa Jack was going to be an engineer like his father, and to seal his fate, great grandpa Bud bought him the tools to try his hand at building. Bud, seeing the pieces scattered on the floor must have thought “pearls before swine” while having his eureka moment. Using the toy he had bought his son, he built a model of what he called The Simultaneous Calculator, what the American papers in 1937 called “Robot-Einstein,” and what the Japanese dubbed “The Wilbur Machine.”

He didn’t build the first calculator. I believe that honor technically belongs to the Mesopotamians who made the first abacus. Nor did the calculator conceptually resemble the digital computing systems we have now that employ ones and zeros and a lot of electricity. The Wilbur Machine was an analog computing system with pulleys and brass bars that solved 9 equations simultaneously (or 9x9 systems according to an MIT grad’s thesis that I can only comprehend up to page 4). Math equations that once took a full day to solve now took roughly 1-3 hours. It sped up the production of large structures, power grids, and for one country it seems, planes. It was a big advancement in 1936-37, an advancement that was eclipsed by better smaller machines soon after. In the United States, that is. In Japan, a 3x3 system Wilbur Machine was replicated in the late 30s and a fully functioning 9x9 calculator was completed in 1944 at the Tokyo Imperial University’s Aviation Laboratory.

You read that correctly. My great-grandfather Bud Wilbur built a machine that was stolen by an Axis power right before World War II. Japan continued to use the machine until the war’s end. So, uh…sorry about that? It wasn’t Bud’s intention.

Read the rest of the essay here.

#essays #essay #writing #reading #personal essay #Japan #interesting #travel #science #math #MIT #Wilbur machine #dan wilbur #long reads #movies #family

[betterbooktitles]

I snore. So I’m told. I wouldn’t know for sure because I’m unconscious when it happens. I’ve never recorded myself sleeping. I’ve never recorded myself in bed for any reason, believe it or not. There is a chance that everyone who has told me I snore is gaslighting me: partners, doctors, other comedians who’ve split hotel rooms and Airbnbs with me (one of whom woke me up by saying “Are you serious?” the second I started to fade). I’m guessing they’re not all lying. Especially not the sleep doctor who made me take an at-home sleep study this month because I admitted to having one teensy bad habit that could negatively affect my health and the health of others: I fall asleep while driving. 

In fairness, I take long drives. Often on small amounts of sleep. Once, when I was ten minutes from my house, sober for at least a week, a police officer pulled me over for swerving on a suburban street outside of Cleveland at midnight.

“Where you coming from?” he said with a sigh as if my answer were a foregone conclusion.

I realized I had passed a long strip of bars in Lakewood two minutes back, and he had a working theory about my answer. 

I replied meekly: “New York City.” 

“Jesus,” he said, relaxing his shoulders. “OK, then.”

I told him my address and he said he’d drive in front of me until I got home. 

Looking at the lights on the top of his squad car, and staring at my headlights reflecting off his white bumper, I felt like I was looking directly at the Sun. Still, even after the panic of being pulled over, I felt my eyelids droop.

Snoring is funny. It’s the stuff of Hanna-Babera cartoon character sleep as in “Honk shoo, mimimi…” It’s an involuntary bodily function that sounds a little gross, like burping or a loud, well-timed sneeze. Apparently, the way I do it is not funny at all. It sounds like I’m choking on my own tongue, like I’m being waterboarded by my own saliva. I know because a girlfriend in college wanted to prove to her friend how bad it sounded, and as an experiment, they both made me lie down on one of their twin beds while they worked on essays at their desks one evening. I was on my back, staring at the piece of thin green and beige fabric surrounded by Christmas lights on their wall, convinced I’d never fall asleep under these circumstances. Five minutes later, I awoke to the words “God, I thought you were joking!” I opened my eyes and saw both of them looking at each other with their eyes wide, the girlfriend pinching her lips together to say “I told you so” while the friend’s mouth hung open in awe. The girlfriend and I broke up a few weeks later, and snoring was not mentioned in our relationship exit interview, but I’ll never know for sure if it was the “constant need to be around your friends” or my sleep apnea.

Read the rest of the essay here.

#funny #lit #essays #essay #writing #better book titles #lol #humor #movies #dan wilbur

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No new essay this week but here are a few recs!

#funny #better book titles #lit #lol #humor #literature #books #reading #dan wilbur #writing

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Check out McSweeney’s today! It’s funny!

#funny #better book titles #lit #lol #humor #literature #SATs #test #wrench #haha #joke #article #books #reading #dan wilbur #writing

[betterbooktitles]

The screen I spend the most time with these days is a black LCD monitor attached to a PC in an indie bookshop on Long Island. I spend whole days looking at point-of-sale software called Anthology which also keeps track of the store’s inventory. Often, it’s accurate. Occasionally, it says we have three copies of The Bell Jar that have simply disappeared from the face of the Earth. No one stole them. They were raptured, like socks that never make it out of the dryer.

If you’ve never worked a retail job, let me tell you what it’s like: you come in with a little spring in your step, caffeinated, and ready to greet your coworkers and update them on how terrible your last shift without them was. Though the memory of the previous shift’s slog might give you a little anxiety, and though a hangover can make your fuse a little short, you’re in a better mood at the start of the day than at the end. Tedious tasks like ordering and unboxing books (sci-fi movies did not prepare me for how much cardboard there would be in the future) seem manageable in the morning. Customers seem kind. The items you’re selling feel necessary to human happiness. Whatever is going on in your life is put on pause to manage store operations, and time flies. Then, by 3 PM, whether you had time for lunch or not, you wish you had done anything else with your day — or, better yet — your life. 

While the back-straining work of moving inventory around the store or walking the floor helping customers all day without a second to sit down might make you physically tired, the real work of retail is mental and forces employees to become part-machine. Retail workers have to ask the same three questions (“Rewards?” “Bag?” “Receipt?”) and reply to the same three questions (“Have it?” “Bathroom?” “Manager?!?!?”) for 8-10 of their most worthwhile waking hours. 

In bookstores, there is the added expectation that while you’re participating in this mind-numbing routine, you’re at least able to pretend to like and engage with literature. I'm not arguing that people working at Old Navy aren’t eloquent or as over-educated for their job as I am. If they aren’t teenagers, most retail employees I’ve encountered have, by virtue of talking to coworkers and customers all day, the same high emotional intelligence as the smartest people I know who chain smoke outside bars. Still, my guess is that it’s rare for a customer to see a clothing store employee folding clothes, and think “I wonder what their opinion is of the latest Ann Patchett book” or “I wonder if they read Knausgård and run a book club when they’re not helping me find jeans in my size.” People see booksellers doing the same tedious tasks as any other retail employee and assume they not only possess unlimited knowledge about the state of publishing but also have unlimited hours to read while in the store. Customers hold booksellers to an impossible intellectual standard. When they fail to live up to said standard, they’re subjected to conversations like this:

“You haven’t read the latest Kingsolver?” a customer will ask, “Why not? What about this one? Or that one? It’s so good though! I thought you would have read all of these!” 

What’s a shame is that they think they’re being kind when they half-recommend, half-admonish bookstore employees. Worse are the people who are flat-out rude. Case in point, a man came into the store at hour six of my shift, and without any preamble, treating me like I was a human Google search bar, said the name of an author, then started spelling the name. When I asked for a second to look up what I assumed he was asking for, he rolled his eyes and began spelling slowly and loudly: “PAUL. P…A…U…” 

Sadly, I’m too old to be treated that way and without thinking I raised my hand and said sternly “Don’t do that.” Now some oblivious retired banker is walking around Long Island asking himself why indie booksellers are so mean. My Midwestern niceness has disappeared, my helpful attitude is now nonexistent. I have been worn down by the people I’m paid to be kind to.

Read the rest here.

#lit #lol #humor #funny #essay #essays #bookselling #barnes and noble #reading #writing #customers #american fiction #books #literature #better book titles #dan wilbur

[betterbooktitles]

I had a system for writing papers in college: 1 page = 1 hour. It takes a half hour or twenty minutes per page to spew out all your thoughts, and 30-40 minutes to edit. “Editing” meant proofreading it once. No need to go overboard with those secondary drafts. These were undergrad college papers, not high criticism I was hoping to have reviewed by the Pulitzer committee.

My English Lit III professor was one of the many Humanities and Literature department faculty members who drew me away from my original major at Bard College: Film. I wanted, more than anything else, to impress this woman. I was interviewed by the Bard Free Press and was quoted insisting that I would marry the professor one day. In retrospect, her seeing that in print might have tipped her off to the fact that my ideas weren’t always grounded in reality.

I felt a tingling on my cheeks as she passed back our 8-page midterm papers on George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda. Sitting at the wide wooden table, I watched her serenely slide each stack of stapled paper to my fellow students. I watched several of my peers sheepishly collect their papers and grimace at the notes. My first paper on Wordsworth received an ‘A.’ The only note appeared on the last page and pontificated on how hard it is to “relate the sonic values of a poem” while writing about the language in an academic essay. Less a critique and more an observation. She was simply sharing her thoughts! It is hard to mimic the sonic implications of words when people are reading those words silently. My writing was near-perfect save for the fact I couldn’t quite express the mouthfeel of Wordsworth’s poetry while analyzing it. That first paper was enough for this professor to ask me to walk her to her office so I could talk about my goals, my high school education, my life up to that point. We walked in the orange glow of the evening sun past boisterous students excitedly marching in big groups to the cafeteria for dinner. 

In that first office meeting, I felt like she was trying to adopt me. I never in my life had someone show such a keen interest in my mind. Until then, my teachers had a vague sense that I was going to squander whatever potential they saw in me. It felt like they were preemptively disappointed. This professor wanted to talk to me. She liked hearing my thoughts, and we had a great rapport in those office meetings. It didn’t hurt that she was a gorgeous 20-something woman with thick black curly hair, a slight lisp that made me look at her lips whenever she was speaking, and she wrote poetry about her bike seat inadvertently making her come when she rode it. I know I wasn’t the only person on campus who found her ethereally sexy because a male faculty member came up to me in the cafeteria holding the student newspaper in his hand, pointed at my quote, and said “she’s a force of nature” which is a smart adult’s way of saying “this lady fucks” or “I wish I could say more but I’d get fired.” I was smitten and ready to give up my film degree if it meant visiting this office every week to stare at her Velma glasses and the bright orange baubles she wore around her neck that called attention to where the neckline on her sweaters ended.

Read the rest here.

#lit #writing #essays #essay #memoir #college #school #literature #better book titles #books #reading #dan wilbur #humor #funny

[betterbooktitles]

What makes a Jesuit boys’ school so entertaining is the irreverence in the face of certain damnation. There were adult authority figures, some imbued with the ability to forgive Mortal Sin, telling us we were going to Hell if we didn’t take our morality seriously. In response, we laughed and cracked jokes. We laughed so hard, in part, because the stakes were so high. If you could mock the Most Important Question, you could likely laugh off anything.

Humor was what opened me up to the idea that I didn’t share the values of the men teaching me to be a “good” person. Humor also taught me that I didn’t have to accept any of it.

The first time I heard shade thrown at the Theology department was during my freshman year when my favorite teacher sitting in a room in the fourth floor English department, in an entirely separate building from the Theology and History classrooms asked “what movie are they showing you over there this week?” It was true that for half the year, Theology teachers showed movies 40 minutes at a time to make important philosophical points. They screened The Matrix, Life is Beautiful (watched in tandem with our reading of Man’s Search for Meaning), and, my personal favorite The Shawshank Redemption which they showed to us in the summer before 9th grade to let us know what Jesuit school would resemble: something close to surviving solitary confinement. If you had music in your mind, you might make it out. I don’t doubt the efficacy of showing these movies to us to teach moral lessons. It was a better strategy than trying to force teenagers to read. I had never heard anyone mock the department, though, especially not another teacher.

To be clear, this scrutiny, at least of the lay teachers in the Theology department was justified. They fed us one-sided anti-intellectual drivel that had almost nothing to do with Catholic Dogma. Instead of learning about a biblical text, we spent hours listening to a guy tell us evolution was “just a theory,” that being gay was a choice, and that abortion was wrong in any instance (whatever your personal beliefs, understand that it’s kind of hard to hear both sides of that argument at an all-male school where the adult men were the authority on ethics). Then they showed us clips from Fox News of Terri Schiavo and told us the “correct” Christian response to the news.

One day, again in my freshman year when I was scared to question anything because of an inordinate fear that I could be thrown out of school at any moment, our Theology teacher pressed play on The Emperor’s Club (a 2002 Kevin Kline movie about a boy’s prep school that served in our teacher’s mind as some ethic antithesis to the more beloved (and frankly more entertaining) Dead Poets Society). A student in the back row raised his hand, and our teacher paused the movie. We sat in the dark room and rolled our eyes. Make this quick, buddy. We’ve got a movie to watch here!

“Jeff?” our teacher said, lifting his eyebrows.

“Yes, I was wondering about the prayer we read before class today,” Jeff said. He was a senior, a bit portly which was only noticeable because many kids did not bother buying new dress shirts every year. Once the stress of school forced you to eat your feelings four years in a row, you wound up with a gut putting pressure on your old shirts’ buttons. “It says in the prayer…” Jeff continued, “that Jesus descended into Hell. What’s that about?” 

“Well,” our teacher said, looking excited to finally talk about religion instead of answering some weird kid’s question about the ethics of having sex with aliens should they ever land on Earth, “according to scripture, we know the gates of Heaven were closed for a time, so when Jesus died he descended into hell first to free other righteous souls…”

“Yeah, a quick follow-up on that,” Jeff said, sounding interested, “does anyone believe this shit?” 

The cackles that erupted in the room nearly overwhelmed our teacher’s angry tirade. Jeff was sent to the Vice Principal’s office to await his judgment. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment you were allowed not only to question those teaching us about religion but you were allowed to reject the faith altogether. 

From there, every argument began to collapse, mostly through funny moments:

A teacher tried to tell us IVF was wrong because “you have to jerk off into a cup. It’s not right.” One kid announced: “I’ve done weirder!” Guffaws. Cheers.

Another teacher claimed gay sex was always wrong because the sex itself was not ‘open to creating human life,’ to which a brave gay student volunteered “Oh, I’m open to it. I’ll keep trying and let you know if there’s a miracle.” Applause. 

When a teacher said video games could be considered a sin if they distract you from work, someone, half-asleep in the front row, let out a loud “Ah, shut up!” that made us all giggle.

My fellow students weren’t playing the game, arguing with the teacher on his terms, using logic. They were dismissing the arguments flippantly, and no adult could reply unless they were funny themselves. 

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The first time I ever saw someone answer a cell phone in a movie theater was in the middle of a midnight screening of Mel Gibson’s The Passion Of The Christ. A blood-drenched Jim Caviezel was being whipped when I heard “Hello? Yeah, what’s good? I’m in the movie.” My stomach started to bounce as I tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh. My friend Jeremy elbowed me to either egg me on or stop me, knowing the laughter would catch on with the rest of our group: ten other Saint Ignatius High School students who chose to go on an “Urban Immersion” retreat our senior year.

I saw Mr. Grady’s tear-stained face turn in the darkness. He was sitting a row in front of us, and he appeared to be livid. He let out a sharp “shhh!” then looked over to let us know he’d do far worse if we did anything further to disrupt his viewing experience. Disciplinary actions would be taken if we giggled again. Our trip would be cut short. A teacher threatening to send us all home to our parents that week, however, would have been welcomed.

Most Ignatius students went on “Kairos” retreats (Greek: “God’s Time”) that featured three days of camping and praying, followed by a “witness” portion where students arrived back on campus to share, at the center of St. Mary’s chapel, what they’d learned during their period of reflection. Typically, they said “I love you, Dad!” while fighting back tears before running back to their pews. They also wrote letters about their newfound or newly confirmed love of Jesus Christ. I received one of these letters from my best friend who was a year ahead of me. His words moved and excited me. I anticipated my trip all year.

The students in the movie theater with me that night, however, had all signed up for a retreat in which we spent the week living as if on the streets of inner-city Cleveland. The Urban Immersion retreat was four days of sleeping in a church basement, living off the equivalent of food stamps (about $5 a day for groups of four), and eating the rest of our meals at shelters where we also volunteered our time. There was also a “scared straight” period where we sat in a circle of folding chairs at the 2100 men’s shelter my friend Luke’s dad ran and listened to grown men scream about how “crack does not discriminate!” 

Also, we got to see The Passion of The Christ opening night.

Perhaps you read about the record-setting earnings this movie made the week it premiered. The first $125 million was thanks to big groups like ours attending. Also thanks to the guy who had to answer his phone while the Romans killed Christ. I’m not sure how we as mock-poor kids on our immersion trip were supposed to be able to afford the movie ourselves in keeping with the rules, but the timing seemed right, so our teachers took us.

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My mother was the first famous person I ever met.

As a doctor with her own practice on the West Side of Cleveland, she couldn’t so much as go out for ice cream a half mile from the house without someone coming up to give her an update on their shallow breathing spells, the new medication they were on for chest pain, or what they might be able to do for a spastic colon. If there were ten people in line at East Coast Custard, a slab of gray concrete with two sliding glass windows on the front, three of them formed a new line to talk to my mom.

I usually rode to East Coast Custard with my brother on our bikes and hauled my cookies n’ cream back home, the cold condensation hurting my left hand as I pressed the plastic cup against one side of the handlebars while using my dominant hand on the other side to steer. I looked over to see my brother Sean, skinny, backward baseball cap, peddling his neon green Schwinn while barely looking up, both hands occupied by the ice cream and spoon floating far behind his untouched handlebars. He looked like he was sitting on the couch at home as he raced effortlessly down the street while eating. He was often already pulling a basketball out of the garage by the time I arrived home. I was left to sit on the porch alone eating a half-melted mess that was now closer to a milkshake. I would beg my brother to go with me to the ice cream spot because if I had to go with my mom, a quick trip would turn into an hour of talking to people who wanted advice, to express gratitude, or (and this was the most common) to have a quick therapy session about their deepest fears and mortality. When they were through, they’d turn to me to tell me how lucky I was to have a mom like her. Eventually, East Coast Custard added a drive-thru so we could get our food quietly without my mom’s fans interrupting.

In 2009, I was sitting with a comic who everyone in the New York comedy scene knew was destined for Marvel movie fame. We were discussing video games and how the crowd looked from our semi-private booth at the back of The Slipper Room when I heard the familiar tone of a stranger interrupting us: “I swear I’m not a stalker” a woman said (an insane way to start a conversation), “…but I love you.” (weirdly, something a stalker might say!). He graciously accepted the compliment while I stewed about how I was interrupted right as I was about to inform my friend of my struggles with Demon’s Souls, a game he’d recommended that had stolen the last few weeks of my life.

In 2018, I was eating Dippin’ Dots and taking turns playing Skee-Ball at Six Flags with a famous battle rapper. Like me, he was also too scared to get on the giant rollercoaster that our partners had decided to brave together, so we hung out in the arcade. Yes, we were regressing. We were two sugar-high 30-somethings screaming at each other about proper Skee-Ball throwing form. We were also, however, in the middle of a serious talk about which of our friends were currently in open marriages and if any relationship amounted to a hill of beans in this crazy world. In the middle of this conversation, I heard someone say, “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you, but you’re a rapper, right?” We turned to see a man holding cotton candy in one hand, and his daughter’s hand in the other. His wife stood behind him and rolled her eyes. She realized that part of a family outing was about to be ruined. The guy talked to my friend for the better part of a half hour before letting us get back to screaming about what our tickets could buy and discussing when it was necessary to try couples therapy.

The courtesy of these preambles was never extended to my mom when I was a kid. There was no “sorry to interrupt. I swear I’m not following you! I have a quick question.” All my family ever heard was “Oh, Doctor Wilbur!” and she was theirs for the next few minutes.

I have plenty of memories of my mother at soccer games undistracted as she cheered my brother on, and plenty more of her helping me with my own mental and physical health complaints. These memories of impromptu meetings with her patients don’t bother me now, and growing up, my annoyance was nothing more than the average kid gripe about when moms see each other in the mall and you have to brace yourself for five minutes of boredom while they chat. The problem was the frequency. Everyone needed my mom’s attention all the time. To be fair, the conversations were nominally about life and death, but most could probably wait until the next appointment at her office without any serious consequences. I wanted to go shopping for school supplies without my mother being stopped by anyone. I wanted to have dinner at a restaurant without hearing “Oh, Doctor Wilbur!” before the bread could hit the table. I wanted to have a movie night when my mom was on call without her suddenly leaving the room for a twenty-minute conversation about someone’s aging parent having heart palpitations.

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[betterbooktitles]

I was standing in the green room of the posh comedy club in Chelsea where I’d been hired as a publicity assistant. I was waiting to go on, taking deep breaths. The room, like the rest of the club, was unnecessarily fancy. Most green rooms are the size of broom closets. Most comedy green rooms are broom closets. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve eaten chicken strips from a red plastic basket while standing up, the basket resting at eye-level in front of me on a stack of extra chairs, next to a bucket and a mop. Why not? That’s what a comedian is. Another piece of furniture in the utility closet. The important part is that people come out to drink, not if the talent is happy. I know a comic who was asked to mop the floors at a club after a particularly bad set. What a business!

As I breathed in deeply and counted backward from ten, I was staring at the long purple padded bench along the wall with its too-tall back and its too-small seat. The only way to sit comfortably was to have perfect posture, and even then, half my ass hung off the front of the bench. So I stood and I sweat and I panicked. At 20, I was not ready to go in front of a packed room of strangers in a Manhattan nightclub that happened to employ me during the day. The feeling that I was not ready was verified a few minutes later. I didn’t bomb per se, but when I look at old tapes from this era, I not only cringe at my delivery but also at the exhausted and forced laughs from the crowd. It wasn’t bad. But I wasn’t good either. If people saw me in the bar after these sets, they’d look at me with baffled recognition like I was a character actor from a TV show they had seen years ago but couldn’t quite place, rather than the bland guy who was talking at them about “how Facebook is weird” from the stage less than an hour ago. I was forgettable.

A fancy dressing room is not required for comedy. Neither are high ceilings or good food in the showroom. Often, those flourishes are a detriment to a good comedy space. You want a cramped but air-conditioned hole in the wall. The backroom of a bar. A tiny theater. The club where I worked felt like someone had built the Titanic on land a few blocks from where it was supposed to make port at the Chelsea Piers. The mirror that covered most of one wall, the cabinet space, and the ornate but un-sittable benches all felt like Herman Melville’s description of fireplaces in bedrooms: they were “the luxurious discomforts of the rich.” It was a nice green room and a nice club by any standard, but knowing how sad and cramped the basement office space was, how much it smelled of dead mice down there, how the black seats in the showroom looked comfortable but felt spongy when you sat on them, how the show was never as electric as it should be, all added up to a feeling of unease. It all felt like money thrown at a problem that didn’t exist. Comedy was doing fine in worse venues. This place could not last. The space felt like most of what I discovered while working in Manhattan: it’s awe-inspiring, charming, and jaw-droppingly expensive, but eventually, you remember that parts were built on literal trash or a swamp. The rats are creeping in, the basement is flooding.

In the swanky green room, a toothy radio personality and sometimes-comedian was giving me unsolicited advice, holding my shoulder to relax me. I was wearing a bright red American Apparel shirt and black skinny jeans, my uniform for all of 2007. The only time I wore anything else was the day I ran out of clean laundry, so I bought a ThunderCats t-shirt on the way to work. My coworker, a perpetually hungover nightlife photographer asked me multiple times if my shirt had a Bacardi logo on it. “No, man. Much sadder. It’s a cartoon I barely remember.”

The radio DJ kept trying to talk me out of my visible nervousness. He was giving off a lot of step-dad-trying-to-earn-my-trust energy. He kept saying I was going to be great. He squeezed my shoulder and leaned in like he was about to softly tell me “I want to say one word to you, just one word: plastics!” He kept emphasizing his speech by using his other hand to tap me lightly on the chest with three fingers as he spoke.

“You need to calm down. All that matters is that crowd, man. All you need to do is listen to that crowd. They’ll tell you what’s right.” 

It took me a decade to realize that advice is bad. Crowds are notorious for having subpar ideas and executing them in terrible ways. Crowds are responsible for the Reign of Terror during The French Revolution. Crowds love public executions and storming federal buildings and silent discos. Real psychotic stuff. I’m not a big believer in the Oscar Wilde adage that “everything popular is wrong.” I love the NBA and Egg McMuffins. But anytime a big crowd is focused on something besides sports or music, I am wary. Specifically, I’ve seen a lot of comedians who are one bad breakup away from turning a stand-up show into a Men’s Rights Activist meeting, and crowds adore them.

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[betterbooktitles]

My wife and I got married in the Hamptons of Cleveland, a small gated community an hour south of Buffalo called the Chautauqua Institution. A year later, steps from where we had danced to a Beatles cover band, someone stabbed Salman Rushdie. 

I worry Chautauqua will be known for that attack someday. When I tell a friend where we were married, will I see their face change in subtle recognition? Will it become like saying you went to Columbine High School but graduated years before the shooting?

Probably not. The Chautauqua lore is so rich that it’s unlikely to be known for any single event. It’s been praised by the New York Times for being a spiritually and intellectually satisfying retreat, and bashed in the New York Times for its Boys’ and Girls’ Club, the oldest children’s day camp in the country, one that still separates the sexes. 

“Chautauquas,” according to the first few pages of Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance once littered the United States. Intellectuals toured the country giving lectures during the Lyceum Movement, an experiment in adult education for the masses. Chautauqua, New York was the flagship community and is also one of the few Chautauquas that has survived.

An entire page of my sophomore American History textbook was devoted to Chautauqua. Writers, politicians, comedians, and essayists all traveled on the lyceum circuit to get their message out to the world. William Jennings Bryan was likely the most exciting speaker, a man who I first heard about in the play Our Town where the Stage Manager excitedly tells the audience that “Bryan once made a speech from these very steps here.” Thanks to my family’s yearly vacations in Chautauqua, I too had seen some steps where Bryan had once made a speech. Exciting stuff. I was walking through a page of my history textbook every summer.

Though I knew the place was somewhat famous, Chautauqua’s history often seemed embellished. Once, a nice white-haired lady walking past me on the road, unprompted, pointed at a patch of grass beyond the institution’s fence and said “You know, Amelia Earhart landed her plane on that golf course once.” Sure she did, lady. Then a few days later, I’d found myself in the Chautauqua library staring at a giant black-and-white photo of Amelia Earhart standing on the Chautauqua golf course. It’s near a few photos of FDR in front of the Chautauqua Opera House. 

It’s difficult to describe Chautauqua to the uninitiated. I happily let my wife describe it for others whenever the subject comes up: “It’s the set of Dirty Dancing.” Aside from the fact that it’s not in the Catskills and the spirit of the place is a little more centered on intellectual/spiritual edification, it is exactly like the set of Dirty Dancing, complete with a treelined lake, an enormous hotel, and a house full of actors and dancers at one end of the grounds who let loose, partying every night to the wee hours (10 PM) when everything in the Institution closes and strict quiet hours are enforced. Women can even take Ballroom Dance classes with young men, though I get the sense that both parties are a little more puritanical than Swayze and his students. Unfortunately, also like the movie, thanks to a few speakers from the Heritage Foundation, there are also several Chautauquans who like Ayn Rand.

For the kids who grew up going to Chautauqua every summer, it was a giant playground. We went during Week Five of the season consistently and became fast friends with anyone our age. Boys’ and Girls’ Club hours went from 9 AM to noon, and from 2 PM to 4 PM so parents could attend talks or a pottery class while the kids were playing dodgeball and rehearsing for Air Band (a lip-syncing competition for all club attendees). Because the Institution is safe compared to nearly every place people visit from, the kids roam free. They have carte blanche to do whatever they please during daylight hours. We biked, ate mountains of ice cream, or played ping pong for hours when we weren’t at club playing GaGa Ball, a game where you hunched over and used your hands to hit your opponents’ ankles with a volleyball.

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[betterbooktitles]

My college girlfriend walked out of Chautauqua’s little church-shaped movie theater with tears in her eyes. We’d seen Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night (1934). I had enjoyed the movie but wasn’t necessarily as moved as she was. She suddenly needed to tell me something. She came to visit me in Chautauqua on a Saturday. It was now Wednesday night. Wednesday was the Classic Cinema Night at the theater when they screened an old movie at 5 PM for people who couldn’t watch a movie after 7 PM without falling asleep. I was one of those people.

The sun was still bright when we walked out of the theater. We headed down a grass hill and stood on the brick walk in front of the arches of the opera house.

“Did the movie bother you?” I asked.

She was pinching her flushed face, tears rolling down her cheeks while she squeezed my hand. She would not look at me. 

“I did something.” she said.

I knew. I even knew who it was with. Not hard to guess. In a way, I was glad it was her ex-boyfriend and not some random guy she’d gotten drunk with. That I would have taken personally. This instance was mostly about them and not me. Except we’d been together for at least a year, so I felt somewhat involved.

She fucked her ex and told me about it. She wanted me to know she wasn’t rekindling anything and saw the act more as the death knell of their love for each other. She hated that it happened, though I didn’t feel like she hated herself enough for doing it. He hated that she didn’t want him back, I know that much. I know a lot I wish I didn’t. More details than I needed. He was outdoorsy and she had loved him half her life and he could do a one-handed push-up. I was some nerd she’d met at school who liked reading Updike novels, most of which were ironically about this very subject.

After our conversation, I walked the 3-mile loop of the Chautauqua Institution in the dark. I wasn’t ready to cry yet, and instead entered the manic phase of a young man in pain, making small talk with strangers in a voice I now know must have sounded too fast and high-pitched. Many of these people took the opportunity to turn down the first available side street and wave me off.

For better or worse, this was not the straw that broke the camel’s back for me and my girlfriend. That would come much later. Chautauqua, however, was ruined for an evening, perhaps a year. Why wasn’t I in New York City getting a leg up on my comedy career? Why was I wasting a summer in this pretty place made for young families and the nearly deceased? I should be using this current heartbreak to fuel my rampage of the city’s eligible dating pool. I made a plan to not come back the next year as I walked.

The flowers looked black against the moonlit surface of the lake. The cackling silhouettes of carefree teens getting drunk by the bell tower seemed like wraiths. I went home where she was waiting for me on the porch. I got some more details I didn’t want, and then we made up and dated for two more years.

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