The Religion of Conspiracy: A Partial Transcript of a Performance
Category: Religion and Philosophy

I may be a little late on this but someone recently sent me a link to zietgeistmovie.com. They said, "you're going to like this, man. It's going to explain everything." It's one of those movies that debunk large chunks of history through valid research and some conspiratorial revisionism. You know the territory: the Jesus fallacy, the illuminati, Hitler was funded by the Bush family, the Federal Reserve Bank's control of inflation, 911. I tend to avoid this type of thing in my life right now. Not because I have any problem with people who want to do that kind of work. I'm just not in a position right now to dedicate my life to it. Which seems to be what it requires. I don't want to be the brooding guy that enters every conversation saying, "What about World Trade Center 7? Explain that."

Granted the Kennedy Assassination conspiracy buffs really solved that thing. Look what those guys who relentlessly pursued the multi gunman theory have done with the 40 some odd years of work they put in. Thank god we now know the truth.

So, I got sucked into this zeitgeist thing. It might be true it might not be true. Do I care? What's difference between believing in that and believing in Jesus? You act the same as a religious fanatic if you are a conspiracy theorist. You pick a series of unprovable "facts" that become dogmatic tenets and you commit your life to it. If anyone argues with it you say, "Well, I guess you just don't want to open your eyes to the truth. You want to live in darkness. You don't want to see the light." So, how are they any different? You just pick a different dogmatic system that explains the relatively recent killing of a very attractive president and not the killing of a very attractive Jew thousands of years ago.

So, I'm watching the film. I tried to fight it. I'm fighting it now. I used the phrase conspiracy theorist and I don't like that phrase because I know it's a right wing semantic fuck off and it denies them their place but I don't want to be one of them and I know I'm vulnerable to it. I'd rather use 'independent speculative investigator'. They are doing something. It is unclear how important it is now or if it will ever be but they are committing their life to it and certainly there are questions.

The movie starts out by proving, effectively, that Jesus didn't exist. I'm thinking, "Okay, I know that." The eloquently and cinematicaly show It was a myth constructed from Egyptian astrology and several different creation and sun god myths that were popular in the region. It was compelling, well executed, and logical. Then, BAM, planes are flying into the towers. I'm in Jerusalem and now, in a cut, I'm in smoldering downtown Manhattan. As if to say, "Now we've showed you that Jesus is a lie and your mind is open. What about this?"

I've got to say, maybe they're right. I'll give them that. Here's to the 911 Truth Movement, maybe you're right, good for you, good luck with it. God forbid you do something practical like help change legislation so we can all have health care or not have our hard drives infiltrated by the government. No, what you're doing is much more important because the truth needs to come out. Don't worry about re-legislating bankruptcy laws so were not all just two payments, a divorce or an illness away from abject poverty. No, its important to know what happened to WTC 7 because ultimately if we know that then we are winning and all problems will be solved.

The thing that these people never take into mind is if you are going to float in that dimension admit what it is. If you are going to say that Cheney is a lizard, that 911 was an inside job, that the illuminati have been managing the world since the beginning of time, that George Washington wasn't really George Washington he was deist master Adam Weishaupt and there are paintings of him wearing a satanic apron, do it, but know it is your religion. Its mystical, ornate, inconclusive, blinding, you can move history around to fit your liking, it's a belief system. I'll keep it as a hobby. I'll dabble.

If Jesus came back, and that's a long shot, and he spoke to the people of the world and one of the two things he said was, "Oswald worked alone." There would be two slightly skittish independent speculative investigators having a conversation like this"

"What does that guy know? He lives in the sky."
"Yeah, but, he seems to exist. He could've seen the grassy knoll from his viewpoint."
"So, what. Then he's part of the cover up. I've watched the Zapruder film 10, 000 times. Jesus is a patsy."

Then Jesus said, "What about World Trade Center 7?"

"Exactly."
"We've got work to do."

And another generation of smart, motivated, angry, truth seekers are derailed, lost and almost useless to the cause of real progressivism.

1:40 AM - 35 Comments - 62 Kudos - Add Comment

Sick
Category: Life

I don't know if I am a sucker, or a wuss, or both. I do know that I am sick. Not mentally sick though that is arguable. I mean I've got a cold or what they call a cold these days which is an illness that starts like a cold and then becomes sort of flu like in the head and body and then turns into a deep bronchial nightmare that reveals our inner greenness that might or might not turn into pneumonia and then turns back into a cold again and trails off with a little flu-ishness and in the worst case just turns into cancer and kills you. Whatever it does it seems to linger for weeks and maybe even come back after you think you got rid of it. All I know is that this isn't like the colds I remember from childhood. These new viruses and bacteria mean business. We think we're evolving? Well, they're keeping pace and they are in it to win it. This is the new Ubercold. Antibiotics? Bring it, bitch.

When I get sick I get sick. I hate people that say they've got a cold and it was gone in two days. I hate them for lying and I hate them if they are not. My wife is one of these people and yes I hate her for it. I hate people who cough in crowded places. There was a guy hacking next to me at a movie theater last week and I felt like slamming my elbow into his runny face. i should've because he probably gave it to me. These people have no respect for the rest of us. They just trot their sick asses out into public places and do the job the virus expects them to do-spread it. They are subcontracted by the bug to be viral dispensers and they do it because god forbid they stay at home a couple days and watch videos. Bacterial stooges the lot of them.

When I get sick I stay at home and whine and bitch to my wife like I was seven and dying. Not a proud time. There is nothing less sexy than laying on a couch with a stack of used Kleenexes beside you sniffling, "Honey, will you make me some soup." Something you never here as a response to that is, "Yeah, only if you fuck me right now."

I do what many people do when the feel a cold coming on. I think I can stop it with folk remedies and vitamin treatment i.e. bullshit that costs. As much as I think this stuff is a crock I do it every time. There's is Echinacea, which some studies say does absolutely nothing but it's got the good name and it tastes like it should do something. I still use it. Emergen-C packets which you empty into water and watch them fizz and that somehow makes us feel like they are doing real work. Garlic, of course, is another remedy that actually makes you stink like garlic but it's worth it because you feel like you're winning. I just went out and bought some Oregano oil because some guy who works at a fish market told me it was the answer and who knows better than a guy who works at a fish market. Between the garlic and Oregano If I pace my intake properly and wear a cheese hat I can look and smell like an Italian entre. Yesterday I actually went to Erewhon and did a shot of an herbal tonic with oregano oil, garlic oil and some other liquid that the guy told me was so potent I couldn't let it touch my lips. I slammed it back and it burned my throat for an hour. I thought I had won until this morning when I woke up to the superbug's big move into my chest and the painful hacking that comes with failure to kick it. As if the virus was mocking me. Which it clearly is. Oh, I forgot to mention Oscillococcinum the French homeopathic remedy that comes from the distilled extract of pancreas and looks and tastes like sugar pellets Which I guess is better than looking and tasting like pancreas pellets. The last remedy I was told about was snorting salt water and taking elderberry syrup and zinc lozenges. I did it. I'd certainly whiffed more questionable shit up my nose then salt water. Though it did make me wonder whether or not some people just make shit up because they know you'll do it and they get a kick out of it. "Yeah, do you have a cat? If you smear some cat shit on your forehead and sing Neil Diamond's I am I said twice it will stop a cold. It works for me." Wow, really, I do have cats. I'll try that.

What am I? Retarded. Yes, but I am a hopeful retard in the quest to cure the common cold with snake oil and folk wisdom.

The bottom line is the bottom line. I spent about a hundred bucks between all this crap and I don't want to give out an itemized list because I'd be ashamed of myself and I'm still hanging on to the dream that it will cure me.

I just ate a zinc lozenge, had a teaspoon of Elderberry syrup, snorted some saline, rolled some Oscillococcinum pellets under my tongue, swished four drops of oregano oil and I'm headed for the cat box. I'm two days in and I'm gonna win.

7:45 PM - 75 Comments - 89 Kudos - Add Comment

Animal Person
Category: Pets and Animals

I guess I'm an animal person. I'm not a crazy animal person though that is arguable. You could see me as a person with an above average love of animals or you could see me as a person with a mild animal problem. I have four cats, but I can quit anytime.

Over the course of my childhood I had five Old English sheepdogs and three cats. I grew up covered in hair. It would generally take my mother three to four names to get to anyone she was calling. To her, animals, husband, children, didn't matter. If she were calling me it would go something like this, "Rags, Gimpy, Marc." The first two, of course, were animals. My brother and father weren't pirates. It's still unclear to me, which she likes more. She used to say, "I like animals because animals don't talk back." I thought if they could talk they'd say, "why the fuck can't she get the names straight. Is she retarded?" Which is what I say to this day.

My mother forced us to lie for our animals. One lie I protect to this day. My family was on a trip somewhere I can't recall where. We were on a long stretch of highway. We were probably in route to or from a dog show because the only dog in the car was Rags or Raglan or if you want to call him by his full name Cheerio Lord Raglan. He was a show dog, a champion, of the Cheerio line of Sheepdogs. My dad went through a dog show phase that we were all dragged through on emotional leashes.

Well, on this particular excursion his highness, Lord Raglan, had an episode of explosive diarrhea in the back of the Chevy Blazer that sprayed the interior with rank liquid poo. We had no towels or napkins and the only thing in the car was a windbreaker that no could identify so we used it to wipe up as much of the shit as possible. It was a windbreaker so it had more of a smearing effect than a cleaning one but it held us to the next gas station where we threw it away and cleaned up properly.

The following week when I was being carpooled to Hebrew School by Mrs. Rosenstein she asked if her son Josh had left a his favorite red windbreaker in our car last week. Making the connection in my mind in a flash stench and panic I said, "I don't know. I'll ask my mom." When I got home told my mom and she told me to say that it wasn't in our car the next time Mrs. Rosenstein, who she didn't really like, asked me about it. She told me to lie because I guess it was easier than saying. "My dad used Josh's jacket to wipe up dog diarrhea and then we threw it away." I didn't like Josh that much either. I think both my mother and me got a kick out of the whole thing. To this day Josh Rosenstein has no idea what happened to his jacket. Only you people do. Don't tell him. Actually, you can if you want.

Now, as an adult I don't have a dog, I don't miss them either. Too needy and there's a lack of self respect in that neediness that I find disconcerting. Cats are where it's at for me. As I said, I have four and that's down from six. Three of them are feral and one is a domesticated shameless fat need machine called moxie who is now on a diet. Boomer, the oldest, has to eat special food because he had a near fatal bladder infection. The other two are tough. They are from the Original Astoria Queens Dumpster crew. Hardcore.

Heres the deal on the crew. I was living in Astoria Queens, alone. My wife was here. I was hosting a radio show. I was on weird hours that made me volatile, delirious and hypersensitive. I was throwing out my garbage one day behind the building and there were five kittens eating in the cans. They would scurry as soon as I got to close. I thought to myself, someone has to deal with this before they start fucking each other and make a colony of genetically inferior retarded dwarf cats. Two days later I'm throwing out the garbage. Same thing. Five kittens chomping away on someone's rancid rice experiment. I'm thinking, someone really has to deal with this. A few days later, same thing, kittens in the can eating half a burrtio. I'm thinking, fuck, I'm going to be the one that deals with this.

I trapped four of the cats and brought them up into my apartment. I had no idea that when a kitten is eating on its own it is no longer cute and lovable. It just looks that way. In reality it is a viscious, crazy wild animal like a mongoose or raccoon. When I set these cats loose in my apartment one of them bolted for an open window, hit the screen, climbed up the screen and wedged itself between the screen and the window for two days. Two crammed themselves behind the stove. One got stuck on a glue trapped and flopped around screaming until I pulled it off, getting slashed in the process. All four eventually wound up behind the stove where they made a little hissing cat chorus for days. I was completely tweaked and overwhelmed. I grew to resent the cats. I realized that I didn't really care for them for the right reason. I didn't want to save them. I wanted friends.

The dumpster crew was five cats. One of those cats is now in upstate New York sleeping in a fancy closet, one in is living in Bed Sty with the sad broken lady who help me trap and fix the slut mommy of the litter, another one is working for some Yemenis in a deli in Willimasburg so the story goes and two, Monkey and LaFonda, are here in the hills of Highland Park with me and my wife. I'm here to tell you that we are friends now. I love those wild cats. I respect them so much more than the fatty moxie. You have to earn the respect of a feral cat. I like animals with personal boudries.

I had a Possum in my yard. I'd seen it maybe twice in three years. The first time you see an Possum I think everyone has the same reaction, "Holy shit. What the fuck is that? Oh, man, it's an Opossum." It was eating a banana peel out of garbage bag. They are weird, awkward animals that are nocturnal for a reason, they're ugly. When you see one in the light it's like seeing a drug addict during the day. You feel like you're intruding. They don't walk, they plod. I liked that it was out there in my yard somewhere. It was exotic to me. I looked forward to seeing it. The last time I encountered it was when I backed out of my driveway and I saw it in my headlights lumbering up the hill where my car was parked. I stopped the car and got out. I didn't feel my car hit it. I walked up to it and it was definetly hurt. It was screaming. I didn't know what to do so I immediately started crying. Do I call the animal rescue people or would they laugh at me and say, It's a possum. Then I realized that Possums play possum. That's were the term comes from. I just didn't know whether or not there was a show before hand. The Possum version of, "Ugh, you got me." I felt better. I split hoping that when I got back it will have moved along it's possum way having fooled me. I got back about three hours later and the possum was laying there motionless in the driveway. I immediately went into the house and looked up Possum on the interned and found out that they could actually play dead up to four hours. I thought, "This guy is good. He's committed." I went to sleep sure that he would be gone in the morning. I woke up, went outside and sure enough that possum was dead. Way dead. I almost cried again but I thought, No, suck it up. Shit happens. Go wake your wife up and ask her to throw it away. She's better with that stuff. The comes from German stock, practical and cold when necessary. Then I thought, no, you do it. Be a man. So I git a shovel and picked it up and put in a plastic bag and through it in the dumpster. I called animal retrieval at the sanitation department and they said they would pick it up that day. They didn't. It sat in our dumpster for almost a week. I'll be honest with you. Everyday it was out there I checked to see if it had magically come back to life and disappeared like a Possum Christ ready to lead all wayward animals injured by human stupidity into the light.

1:14 AM - 22 Comments - 33 Kudos - Add Comment

Babyhouse
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

I'd like to start by saying I'm not afraid of you people. I used to be terrified. About 95 percent of my energy as a performer went into pretending not to be afraid. Fortunately, most of that fear is gone now. Unfortunately, fear was what drove me. My creativity was fueled by panic.

I recently taped a Comedy Central Presents Special. I was prepared. I was excited. I couldn't wait to get on stage. In other words, I was in trouble. I was afraid of not being afraid. So, I immediately began to manufacture fear. It had to be deep and immediate. It couldn't just be bombing, that's nothing. It had to be spectacular.

Cut to: I'm in the wings of the Hudson Theater waiting to take the stage. There are several hundred people excited to see me. I am ready, I am a pro and I am asking myself,

" What if I get out there a just start crying?"

Those tears are never that far from the surface. Could happen. It was stretch, but it could happen. It wasn't enough.

"What if I just start crying and. . . I pee."

That was good.

In my mind, seconds away from stepping on stage, is an image of me taking the mic out of the stand, bursting into to tears and pissing my pants.

Then I thought, that might not be such a bad career move. I'm a horrible self-promoter. If I was caught on tape on stage crying and peeing and that tape got out it would be infinitely more popular than anything I would say in my act. And it would get out. It would probably get like 30 million hits on youtube and be the most downloaded clip of the day. I pictured groups of giggling teenagers worldwide huddled around held video cell phones laughing and saying, "Dude, check this out. This is that comic guy who cried and peed. It's fucking hilarious, dawg", in several different languages. I pictured AOL's homepage headline, "The Leaking Comic, comedian falls apart on stage, watch now".

That's what they're looking for now anyways. That's what show business has become. I've been doing standup twenty-five years. I've got a point of view, a lot to say, I'm funny and I've sat across from executives who say, "We need 90 second clips that can be downloaded. That's what people want. You're perfect. Don't you have any weird characters or 90 second rants?"
"Yeah, I do, how's this--are you fucking kidding me? Are you guys that stupid? Are we that disposable? Don't you know what I do? You assholes have ruined this business in the name of the bottom line and fear of losing your jobs. The gifted get pushed aside to make room for amateurs and hacks. That's what people want? 90 second clips, huh? And Talent contests full of earnest attempts of amateurs who deserve nothing? Giving record deals to American idol winners is like giving a million bucks to people who sing well in their cars. And people want Reality Shows too, right? Shocking, stupid moments of lost control, pain, embarrassment, violence and sex of the pathologically uninspired. That's what you need? 90-second bursts of unbridled, unavoidable authenticity that can make the brain dead multitudes feel like something real is happening at the cost of someone else's dignity. Fuck you! I'm not on board. Was that 90 seconds?"

So, the golden age of show business is over. Dignity seems to be dirt-cheap these days. How much was it ever worth? This is, after all, still show business.

Then I'm thinking, is that such a horrible legacy? Being that guy that cried and peed? No name, just bodily functions, secretions and excretions. How would I top it? You would hope that it would end my career. I would think I would quit out of self-respect but who knows. The siren song of the lights and the stage calling me might win out. They say you never know when your big break will come but be sure you are ready to make it when it does. I am ready to ride the wave of piss and tears into immortality.

I might take my act on the road opening with 40 minutes of political satire, observational humor and then the big close, blubbering and pissing all over myself. State to state, around the world, for as long as it plays and pays. I could endorse a line of adult diapers. "Hey, if I used them, I wouldn't have an act (Cry and uh-oh). I could be a spokesperson for Desitin. "I take it everywhere I go because everywhere I go I get a rash. . . of laughter". Cut to-long shot stage-night spot light: me crying and peeing. I could develop a cult following of infantilists. I could hold workshops for man-children. I will be applauded by French intellectuals as being the only true American comic willing to show what is at the core of American narcissistic/consumerist culture. Le infant crying to have its needs and desires met immediately and at any cost. I could be the star of the new hit reality show, Baby House. My storyline would be about me trying to bounce back from a string of appearances where people demanded their money back because I got gun shy and couldn't relieve myself to deliver the big piss closer.

Then what? I thought.

That's the real fear. I will be forgotten. To fight against that possibility I have begun to archive myself. I have digitized my 37 appearances on Conan O'Brien. I'm not bragging. I did it because I might not ever be a big enough star to garner a posthumous tribute on Television. So, I'm creating my own memorial montage, not that I'm dieing, but it's best to be prepared. I will post it on youtube, myspace and my website if I can figure out how.

That's the other fear—being abandoned and left behind by technological progress. For example, I have a cell phone. It's an old cell phone. I just call people with it. I don't want to surrender too much of my memory to the phone. I mean there was a time when we used to know our friends phone numbers. Now if you ask me what my number is I might have to check my phone. I don't have addresses on there or a schedule. For most people if you lose your cell phone or your Blackberry you're two hours away from digging through garbage saying, "What's my name? Where do I live?" I don't take pictures with my phone. I don't know if it does that. What are people doing with all these pictures of themselves? I know. They're putting them up on myspace. I can't wait until myspace becomes passé and is just a digital graveyard filled with needy ghosts. There will come a time after we've extincted ourselves and the oceans are festering filth soups filled with toxic algae and mutant jellyfish and the land will be a parched garbage heap. Aliens will come down and unearth our hard drives, find myspace and look at each other and say, "It's amazing. Every member of this species thought they were important and women lived past a hundred years old without showing any signs of aging."

I don't even know what my phone does other than call people. I only read enough of the manual to know how to do that. I know I need a new one. I know that it is only a matter of time before some kid comes up next to me hovering like two feet off the ground and I'm going to say, "Hey, how do you do that?"
The kid will say, "I don't know. My cell phone does it."
As I look at my phone, baffled, he'll say, "Hey, Aren't you that guy who pees and cries from Baby House?"
I'll say, "Yeah. That was me, Marc Maron."
"You're Hilarious, dawg." He'll say as he hovers a few seconds and pulls up the original clip of me peeing and crying on stage the first time. Then he'll fly away into the night, laughing. I'll say, "Wait, young, man. Does my phone do that? I want to fly away."

The lights go down. The announcer says, "Ladies and Gentlemen welcome to Comedy Central presents. Now, please welcome to stage with a big round of applause, Marc Maron." I didn't cry. I killed. Another missed opportunity.

1:05 AM - 18 Comments - 33 Kudos - Add Comment