Today you can say basically anything you want in front of a microphone in the name of comedy. Sarah Silverman and other comics have torn down the last wall of taboos. We’ve run out of a diseases to poke fun of to the point that comics are going back to cured diseases like polio for fresh laughs.

But the late 50s and 60s were a different time. I’m not going to pretend that I knew what America was like then, but you couldn’t go on a stage and just say anything. Lenny Bruce helped change that and it wasn’t just his swearing and drug use. While it was what got him infamously arrested and led to his heroin overdose in 1966 (Phil Spector said he died “from an overdose of the police”), there was even more to him.

“Religions, Inc.” was originally released on Bruce’s second album, The Sick Humor of Lenny Bruce (1958, Fantasy). In 1991 it was re-released on CD in the The Lenny Bruce Originals vol. 1 collection with his first album Interviews of Our Times (Fantasy). And it was also included on the Let The Buyer Beware 6-CD set from 2004 (Shout Factory).

Richard Zoglin explains in his new book Comedy at the Edge:

Heard today, unfortunately, most of Bruce’s best-known routines aren’t great advertisements for this talent. “Religions, Inc.,” his acid re-creation of a Madison Avenue-style meeting of evangelical leaders, was a brave piece of commentary, a swipe at commercialized religion that was years ahead of its time. But as comedy, the juvenile one-liners must have seemed ham-handed even then.

Some of the references are obscure today to the point that The Lenny Bruce Originals Vol. 1 includes a glossary. “Philly Joe” was Miles Davis’ drummer and a friend of Bruce’s known for his on stage impersonations of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula. “C.C. Camps” were a string of work-camps nationwide inaugurated by FDR to combat unemployment during the Great Depression.

The middle can be confusing and it’s not quite as “tight” by today’s standards. Yet the voice and point-of-view are relevant even today. It’s been over 50 years and it’s not too often that we hear such a biting and relentless critique of a major institution of our society. Today, many jokes about religion today don’t go beyond young boys and Catholic priests.

Live stand-up comedy from Kent Haines at last Monday’s installment of Die, Actor, Die at The Khyber.

Get caught up:

- Local comic Doogie Horner reveals all that you ever wanted to know about the death of Oscar Wilde. We know the Internet has you clicking all over the place, but take a few out of your day to read this.
- And when you finally turn off the computer, but still can’t sleep: Comedy at the Edge
- Doug Benson is probably out of Philly by now and hopefully you didn’t miss him at Helium this week
- And an interview with phenom Joey Dougherty!

Have you watched The Open Mikers? Not enough people have.

This is the kind of stuff that I want to start doing more of. Not the performing so much as the filming. Anyone that has ever tried stand-up will feel a little pang in their stomach from watching this.

There’s something about stand-up comedy that constantly turns people away. Most folks will sit through dozens of crappy opening bands this year and applaud after every song, no matter if they liked the song or not. And how often do these bands get negative feedback or heckled?

A lot of people will listen to DJs “spin tracks” from their laptop this year and won’t attempt to interact with their “art” beyond asking if they would please please please play some Madonna so that the party can really get started.

But if someone were to go on stage with ideas that aren’t quite your own, well you just have to get out of there!

Of course it’s not as simple as that, but still…

Joey Dougherty is 17 and has been doing stand-up for about a year now. He’s a junior at Roman Catholic High School for Boys in Philadelphia. He’s got a joke about that: “I go to an all-boys catholic high school and there’s a zero percent of getting laid. But a one hundred percent chance of getting a high-five.”

How and why did you get into stand-up in the first place?
I’ve just been into it since I was little. I remember when I was seven or eight and looking at it and being amazed at, really enjoying it. But I always just put it out of my mind, like “oh yeah, that’s not me. How could I end up there?”. The actual thought of me being able to do it was, I don’t know, I always knew that I wanted to do it, but it was more about location than anything because I went to a school that was downtown. And during this entire time when I got into high school just daydreaming about it a lot and I started looking up open mics and since I started to know the city more and more, the world became smaller to me. So, it’s not out of my reach now.

And Philly’s not too big a city that-
Yeah, that you can’t get around. It was just like “oh, it’s right there? It’s not in a whole different world? It’s just right down the street? I guess I’ll check this out.” But I think I just for fun would write, I was writing comedy but it was just awful, like I’m sure anyone that starts.

What you do now is a lot of one-liners, were you always writing like that?
When I first started trying to write, I went for long stories or my thoughts on something. But I realized that no one wants to hear my thoughts on something because I’m 17. Nobody’s wants to hear a 17 year-old’s opinion on anything. So I’m aware of that and if you boil down comedy to anything, it’s saying silly things. So I just kind of started writing one-liners because I don’t want to have a long set-up for something that’s not going to work. I want it to go, “is it going to work, yes, is it not going to work, no.”

You want the immediate reaction.
Yes. I want it now and that’s it.

You said when you were younger you were always watching stand-up, who were you watching?
My first favorite comic, the first one where I knew the name, was Lewis Black. Which is really weird because I don’t really follow politics at all now and I’m not even political, but its just about how he can be talking about anything and he’s funny. And then I started paying attention to Dave Attell more. And when I really started to write, I saw a documentary on comedy, The Comedians of Comedy. When I saw that documentary I said, “ok, I’m going to start writing”, and I saw that when I was 15. That movie pretty much started me to think “ok, these guys sound like normal people”, they did it, why can’t I?

How do you work something new into your set?
This is a problem that I have. I always try to do one new joke every time I’m on stage. Which gets really hard. And if you’re going to do it at an open mic where they want to see improvements, it’s kind of hard, because no one’s going to notice an extra ten seconds. So if that’s how long your jokes are then they’re not gonna take the time to go “oh he did all of this, he did all of his religion stuff”, they’re not going to notice the extra 10 seconds that you worked on. And you’re pumped that that actually worked. That’s how small it is, so, don’t write one-liners.

Do your parents and friends know that you’re doing stand-up?
I tried to keep it a secret from my parents. But they knew I was coming down here, because I told them “ok, well, I’m coming down here, but I’m just going to watch” and the first couple of times that’s what I was doing. Then I went on a week before Thanksgiving, and it came up at the Thanksgiving table with my entire family. And they found out eventually. I think I was 2-3 months in before they found out.

Have they seen you?
No.

Do they want to?
I don’t care if anyone else sees me, but I don’t want my parents to.

Do you have problems getting into clubs because of your age?
Not here (Helium) because I called ahead of time and made sure it was ok, but usually if you’re just polite about it, it’s ok. I went in to it thinking I don’t want to be the kid that’s funny at the lunch table, that was my goal. I don’t want to look like that kid.

What do you want to do when you graduate from school?
I don’t know. Continue to do this. I might go to community [college] and transfer into Temple for advertising. But I’m not that good of a student, just average. So college sounds like a good idea and I definitely want to pursue learning. But I think I want my major to be advertising or writing. The only problem is I’m not good at thinking up stories, I’m only good at thinking up jokes.

Perhaps you know him from The Marijuana-Logues.

Or, from Best Week Ever.

Or on Last Comic Standing.

Or heard his podcast I Love Movies or his recent appearances on Never Not Funny and Road Stories.

And soon you’ll watch him in his documentary Super High Me.

But for now, you can see him at the Helium Comedy Club:

Wed. 8PM
Thurs. 8PM
Fri. 8 & 10:30PM
Sat. 8 & 10:30PM

Take my 1040, please!

[Thanks to Roger Weaver for posting this on a special secret Yahoo! group]

Today marks the official release of a new book on 1970s stand-up, Comedy at the Edge by Richard Zoglin. Its a very concise examination of the last time that stand-up comedy was culturally, artistically and financially relevant in America on a large scale. Like Peter Biskind’s books on different film eras, it pretty much sums up the triumphs, stories and controversies of the times.

I’m only on page 83 at this point, so I don’t have much to say about it, but topics covered include:

- Why Lenny Bruce was relevant to 70s comedy beyond his use of swear words
- The evolution of George Carlin and Richard Pryor from straight TV jokesters to counter-culture heroes
- The improv discoveries of David Steinberg and Robert Klein
- The comedy club politics of NYC’s Budd Friedman and L.A.’s Mitzi Shore (yes, that Shore) where no one got paid and an union, the Comedians for Compensation, was attempted (quick excerpt: “Gallagher’s yelling, ‘Why don’t we burn the fucking place down!’”)
- Albert Brooks’ lampooning of bad showbiz acts, the post-modern comedy of Steve Martin and of course Andy Kaufman and Tony Clifton
- The scarcity of female comedians in the 70s
- Jerry Seinfeld taking it mainstream into the 80s

Much has been reported on the joke stealing- David Brenner (Philly’s own) accusing Robin Williams of using his material on HBO- and the boozing and egos (TV detective Richard Belzer among them) but there’s a lot more to it too.

Recently L.A. comedian Jen Kirkman briefly mentioned her recent gig at Helium:

I do notice that the more right-leaning a county, the less tolerance there is for a woman to take the stage and make them laugh. In those situations, sometimes people start heckling before I take the mic. Even a very liberal and smart crowd in Philly when I was there a few months back, had six lunkheads up front who yelled, “Hillary Clinton sucks!” as I came out on stage. I turned around. Was she behind me? Was I wearing an enormous, pastel beaded necklace? Did I have bags under my eyes? I’m not Hillary. Ohhh…I get it. I’m a woman. On a stage. Talking. Yes. We all suck. Can I go on, please? Not really, becuase the loudest lunkheads are always the “winners” in an audience. So, it doesn’t matter if 200 other people are on your side, they are going to be quiet about it.

For shame, Philly! Ok, so I shouldn’t call out an entire city, but for shame to the six losers up front. I thought brainless, pent-up hecklers yell from the dark back of the house?

Comic Vs. Audience is proud to present a scintillating new bi-weekly column, Literary Adventure, written by bookish gadabout Doogie Horner. Everything written in Literary Adventure has been vigorously fact-checked by a team of ten graduate students, so don’t second guess any of the outrageous claims made within.

Greetings Faithful Literary Adventure Reader (if you are a Casual Literary Adventure Reader, you can fuck off right now): I’d like to preface this Literary Adventure with an apology. This particular adventure, unlike most of my escapades, is not funny. In fact it’s a bit depressing. Also, it’s really long. It’s a long, somber, joy-draining slog punctuated by buggery and weeping. On the plus side, it has a little more adventure than usual. As an incentive for readers to finish this bitter meal, I have devised a contest. Hidden in the story are three funny parts. If you can find them, I will buy you a shot of absinthe. Let the hunt begin!

– – –

Oscar Wilde—novelist, playwright, foppish wit, and convivial conversationalist—was one of the most famous celebrities of late Victorian England. His novels and plays won critical and popular acclaim, but his fame was due just as much to his dramatic and unconventional personal life. He cultivated a indolent, over-dressed, effeminate persona that was in stark contrast to the masculine depiction of manhood then held as the ideal.

His quips and catty remarks were wired around the world as soon as they fell from his languid lips, and his gay society escapades regularly made headlines. His renown opened exclusive, golden doors to parlors where he rubbed elbows with the highest echelons of British aristocracy. Unfortunately he also rubbed penises with some of them, which drew the ire of powerful heterosexuals in the British government. Especially incensed by his shameless buggery was the Marquess of Queensberry, whose son, Lord Alfred Douglas, had been seduced by Wilde. Based on this and other documented gay activities, Wilde was eventually put on trial and convicted of “gross indecency” for which he was sentenced to two years of hard labor in Reading Prison.

When Oscar emerged from prison his fortunes had been scattered in the wind. A penniless, unemployable pariah, he fled England and went into self-imposed exile in Paris, where he depended on the charity of friends to survive. The harsh conditions of prison had done irreparable damage to his health and three years after his release he developed meningitis and died, destitute and forgotten, in a rented hotel room.

His death was a bit of a mystery. Historians are still unsure what brought on the fatal meningitis. At the time, physicians diagnosed that it could have been caused by an ear infection he had a few months prior, but the evidence was inconclusive. Some have speculated it was a side effect of syphilis, which Oscar may or may not have had. Still another cause could have been a skull fracture he received while in prison.

All of these theories are plausible—but they are all wrong.

The truth is far more astounding.

It’s so astounding that it’s scarcely believable, and may cause you to scoff haughtily before canceling your subscription to Literary Adventure Quarterly. But let me remind you, it wasn’t too long ago that I exposed an equally shocking revelation which was eventually proven true: the fact that the Martin Lawrence film Black Knight was merely a thinly veneered rehash of Mark Twain’s novel a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.

We all know the history books are packed with lies. Only suckers think Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin without any help from the Atlantians. And if the South really lost the Civil War, then how did they end up with all the cool shit? Barbecue, NASCAR, sun tea, John Denver, and Emmett Otter’s Jug Band?

I had to dig deeper than the Encyclopedia Britannica to uncover the real story of the last few days of Oscar Wilde’s life. My search took me to Paris, London, Naxos, Tibet, and Sbarro, where I got some breadsticks (good brain food). Unfortunately no single source held the complete story.

In the catacombs beneath St. Mark’s cathedral I found Oscar Wilde’s final journal, only to discover that several crucial pages had been torn out. I caught a glimpse of a black cloaked figure running away, but after a brief cane sword fight, I lost him in the labyrinthine tunnels. Nevertheless there was useful information left in the journal. Using it along with other sources including interviews, newspaper articles, government documents, and tea leaf readings, I’ve compiled what is to date the most complete (true) picture of the final days of Oscar Wilde ever published.

The following are relevant excerpts, edited and organized to describe events in chronological order. Our story begins with an excerpt from the journal of Giuseppe Fillages, a French wallpaper designer of great renown who had a wallpaper shop in Boulogne Billancourt, a suburb of Paris.

June 6, 1896.
Abaddon spoke to me again last night in a dream. His visits become more frequent. In the dream he told me to awake. I did, and beheld in the air over my bed a burning pattern, burning in the air before my eyes. I closed my eyes in horror, but the pattern was already seared into my mind. The flames glowed green, a hideous green like oozing pus, and as the diseased flames sputtered and dropped on my bed, they burnt holes like acid. I’m ashamed to say I threw up.

Beelzebub has shown me what I must create to help Him cross over. I have seen the pattern. I do not know if I have the strength to create something so hideous, but I will try. I know of only one way to create that awful shade of green, but I don’t know if my soul (what is left) can stand it.

– – –

Footnote: Abaddon is a name for the Devil, used in the book of Revelation. It’s literal translation is “destroying angel.” Beelzebub is another name for the Devil, and also the title of a Dead Milkmen album. It’s unclear which usage Giuseppe is applying here.

We pick the thread up next with a newspaper article from Boulogne Billancourt.

August 25, 1896
A fire broke out in the Fillages wallpaper shop last night, burning the entire factory to the ground. The fire started sometime after midnight, and only the owner, Giuseppe Fillages, was inside. He was killed in the fire. The fire started quickly and was raging out of control before the fire department was notified. The entire factory burnt to the ground. The large vats of highly flammable dye inside probably contributed to the speed and ferocity with which the fire burnt, and also the strange color of the fire. The green flames were visible as far away as Paris.

The cause of the fire is unknown, and foul play has not been ruled out.

Amazingly, amongst the ashes, one thing survived the flames untouched—a single spool of wallpaper. It has been sold by the family to pay for the debts they have incurred due to their loss.

– – –

The wallpaper which miraculously survived the flames was sold to the Hotel d’Alsace in Paris, which used it to paper the room Oscar ended up moving into on his release from Reading Prison.

A few months later, as the ashes of the Fillages wallpaper shop were sifted through, large piles of bones which could have come from animals OR human babies were found inside the wallpaper dye vats. My bet is baby bones, because that’s how Satan worshippers roll.

Oscar Wilde’s journal chronicles his arrival in Paris, and his initial impression of the Hotel d’Alscace.

August 25, 1897
The Parisian air is thick with foul odors. Yet it is imbued with an energy, a creative crackle. Robert has helped me find lodgings at the Hotel d’Alscace, a towering monument on the Rue Des Beaux that rivals the Palace of Minos in the unapologetic gaudiness of it’s adornments.

Nowhere is it more disgusting though than in my very own bedroom. The bed is large and fine, made of oak with a soaring canopy. All of the appointments are very tasteful, in the same rich oak with burgundy cushions. But the walls—the walls are grotesque. The paper on them could not be more hideous if Satan himself had been flayed and his skin pasted to the walls with the blood of children. It’s shade of green is so putrid and powerful that when I close my eyes at night the pattern hangs before my eyes a moment still.

My evenings are made much more pleasant by the warm company of a number of renters [slang for male prostitutes –ed.] whose acquaintance I have made already. My favorite is but a sliver of a lad, whose slim hipped white figure droops gracefully like the bell of a lily.

When he told me his name was Aiolos, I was delighted. “Are you Greek?” He nodded shyly. Imagine my good fortune, to travel all the way to Paris to find a new Adonis to play with!

– – –

Footnote: Oscar’s favorite male prostitute in London was a beautiful young Greek lad. When the boy moved away it’s said that Oscar wept copiously, and exclusively wore violet for several weeks.

The next entry is a letter from Robert Ross to friends in London. Ross was Oscar’s oldest friend and lover, and had weathered a torrid on again off again relationship with Oscar for years. He was one of the few friends who didn’t abandon Oscar after his release from prison, and followed Oscar to Paris.

February 2, 1899

Dear Reggie,

Greetings from the City of Lights! How is dreary London? Oscar and I miss you terribly, although I can’t say we miss much else about the isles. The weather here is mild, and the people pleasantly open-minded. When I think of your sitting room on the Thames though, I admit a wistful tear wells in my eye.

[Next two paragraphs omitted by editor, because they are irrelevant. He talks about poetry for an ungodly length.]

Oscar is adjusting to his new surroundings with difficulty. He does not seem to understand that he is living in a hotel room, without the authority to change its appointments to his liking. He is obsessed with tearing down the wallpaper in his bedroom, which I agree is rather ugly.

He gave me quite a scare yesterday. When he didn’t meet me at Augusto’s for breakfast, I went up to his room and knocked. Nobody answered so I let myself in with the key. Immediately my nostrils were assaulted by a pungent odor. Pressing a kerchief to my nose, I rushed in and found him unconscious on the bedroom floor, his face white as marble. There was a tub of turpentine next to him, and fuming rags were scattered around. I could see that he had been using the solution to try to scrape off the wallpaper, which hung tattered in some spots. I threw open the windows and dragged him into the parlor, where I revived him with difficulty. He was incoherent at first, and babbled about some word that sounded like “abbadon.” His eyes were filled with terror, and he clutched at me for protection. A doctor inspected him later and said he was lucky not to have died.

The hotel was very upset and I only talked them into forgiving Oscar with great difficulty. Of course I had to pay for the repairs to the paper.

When I scolded Oscar later for the incident, he responded in a most uncharacteristic way. Terror again stole into his eyes, and he wouldn’t say a word. When I pressed him he finally apologized, and said it wouldn’t happen again.

– – –

An excerpt from Oscar Wilde’s journal:

February 10, 1899
Ron is a dear. How many times has he saved my life and soul? Yet I fear my soul is still in mortal danger. Perhaps it would have been better for me to die. I will not set another foot in that room alone. It wins. Let it be so. Let the evil within rot there.

– – –

And another:

September 10, 1900
I have tried everything. Yesterday I picked up some lovely blue fabric in the market, and hung it on the walls to cover that ghastly wallpaper. When I woke in the morning the fabric had fallen apart. It seemed to have aged a hundred years in one night, and lay in rotten shreds on the floor.

I swear I hear the walls breathing.

Have I described the pattern? I have not. I am not brave enough to stare at it for very long. It appears at first glance to be rose bush vines climbing an ornate trestle. But at night I swear the vines writhe like thorny tentacles. I must tell someone what I have seen. Robert would think I am mad, and perhaps I am. I can’t tell him. Who can I share my burden with? I must know if I am mad.

– – –

All the pages in Oscar’s journal past this date were torn from the book, and the trail turns cold. A few months later Oscar fell ill and died, supposedly from acute meningitis.

We know from Robert Ross’s letter and journals that Oscar never did tell him his fears about the possessed wallpaper. But Oscar’s journal expressed a strong desire to tell someone. Did he share his secret with anyone?

He did. The young prostitute Aiolos.

The following is a transcript of an interrogation recorded by the Russian Secret Service in 1944. Aiolos Hortis had been drafted into the Italian infantry during World War II, subsequently transferred to a German Panzer division, and was captured by the red army during the siege of Leningrad. He was interrogated fiercely, even though he knew nothing. After 48 hours of brutal questioning and torture, he was delirious with pain. He confessed to everything he had ever done, including the following:

January 2, 1944
(Transcribed)

Interrogator: We know you know!

Aiolos: I don’t know anything!

Interrogator: We know!

Aiolos: What? What?

Interrogator: It’s all written down! Your friends have abandoned you! WE KNOW EVERYTHING! Just tell us!

Aiolos: (unintelligable)

Interrogator: We will cut your cock off!

(Screams, a scuffle, tape stops, then starts again.)

Aiolos: All right, all right. I was there. I saw it all. I don’t know how you know.

Interrogator: We know everything.

Aiolos: It was awful. (sobbing)

Oscar was always good to me. I think he really loved me. Doing that, it was just for money, to get by, but Oscar, he made me feel special. He was always calling me a Greek god, that was nice.

We spent a lot of time at his hotel, but eventually I noticed we wouldn’t go into the bedroom anymore. We would stay in the parlor, or sometimes sleep in the bathtub, which was uncomfortable. When I asked him why we didn’t use the bedroom anymore, he got very nervous. I could tell he was trying to decide whether or not to tell me something.

The he got up and said “alright, let’s go in the bedroom.” There was a padlock on the door. He took a key from a chain around his neck, and I could see there was also a cross on the chain, which I thought was odd. He opened the doors and we went in. We walked into the middle of the room, which seemed unnaturally dark, darker than the drawn curtains should have made it.

He asked me to look at the wallpaper, and tell him if I saw anything. I didn’t. It just looked liked ugly wallpaper to me. Then I looked closer, and the pattern took on depth. It became three dimensional. I stared in amazement. The pattern was a rose bush climbing a trestle, and as I looked at it the vines began to twist and turn. They grew. They writhed and reached out. A stupor descended over me and I realized with sudden horror that I couldn’t move. I was transfixed. My mind sunk in green, viscous water. The vines slithered toward me, and I couldn’t move away.

Interrogator: What the fuck are you talking about?

Aiolos: Oscar was behind me, and saw what was happening. He pushed me aside. “Vile pattern!” he yelled, “Haunt my room no more!” He pulled the cross out and I saw it was surrounded by blue flames too bright to stare at. He could barely hold it, and the licking flames that fell around its hilt singed his wrists. He couldn’t move any further, it was too much for him. The vines reached out. Oscar looked down at me. I don’t know what he saw, but it leant him strength. He thrust the cross into the wallpaper, which reared back and shrieked. Every curtain in the room tore in two, and bright sunlight poured in. A shockwave burst from the wall, and I was knocked unconscious.

When I woke up the first thing I saw was the wallpaper looming over me.

Interrogator: Where is the Enigma!? Tell me the code!

Aiolos: I scurried back in fear, but immediately I could see the wallpaper was different now. It had no more power. It was just ugly.

I found Oscar laying on the floor next to me, also unconscious, but in extreme pain. Blood trickled from his ears and nose, and he was moaning. I was unable to rouse him, so I ran for the doctor. I didn’t tell anybody what I really saw, because I didn’t think they would believe me.

(Smack, a scream)

Interrogator: (unintelligable)

(More screams)

– – –

By now, all of you should be nodding your heads in silent assent: “Yes Doogie, your case is airtight. I believe unequivocally that Oscar Wilde died from injuries sustained while battling ugly wallpaper. I’m sorry I scoffed at you. Enclosed find my check for $3,000, which should keep my Literary Adventure Quarterly subscription up to date for the next 100 years. P. S. Thank you.”

“My wallpaper and I are in a fight to the death. One of the two of us must go.”
–Oscar Wilde’s last words (no really, look it up)

Doogie Horner will be performing tonight at Die, Actor, Die at The Khyber (56 S. 2nd Street), 8PM, $5.