The Irony of the T-Shirt

My friend Nick has a favorite t-shirt that features Kelly Clarkson across the front. Nick is a comedian and former punk musician, 31 years old, bearded and graying, not tall or thin. He jokes that he looks like E.T. doing a headstand (which I still don’t quite get), and he is a magical mix of extreme egotism and extreme self-deprecation. I would not describe him as a hipster, though he most definitely falls into the trend of the hipster Ironic T-shirt. Hipsters (in my own observation) dress badly on purpose, pronouncing their independence and societal unification through this conscious choice of poor dress.  The trend in which the wearer silently voices “Hey, look at what I’m wearing! Isn’t it ridiculous? But you know I know it’s ridiculous, so we can both appreciate the humor of my wearing it.” But… Nick really does LIKE Kelly Clarkson. He respects her as an artist, and is impressed by the production level of her albums. So what is being communicated by his wardrobe? If someone thinks the shirt is funny and ironic, Nick will laugh along and agree that the shirt is “awesome” (a code word for the hip that means everything and nothing at the same time. I use it constantly.) But he will also discuss his appreciation for her music in a separate conversation. Is he communicating two things at once, both the hip irony of wearing something that could be considered uncool, and his sincere appreciation for Kelly? Or is he communicating nothing; or possibly two lies? He respects Kelly Clarkson, but not vehemently enough to refuse humor at her expense. And he conforms to the hip trendiness of the t-shirt coded message, communicating to all in the loop that he knows how this “what’s not cool is cool” thing works, and we’re mutually “in on it”. I’m not sure. It seems like a contradiction. But maybe I’m not hip enough to get it.

Only The Crazy Man Is Sincere

Quote from Steinbeck’s Cannery Row:

“…And everywhere people asked him why he was walking through the country.

            Because he loved true things he tried to explain. He said he was nervous and besides he wanted to see the country, smell the ground and look at grass and birds and trees, to savor the country, and there was no other way then to save it on foot. And people didn’t like him for telling the truth. They scowled, or shook and tapped their heads, they laughed as though they knew it was a lie and they appreciated a liar. And some, afraid for their daughters or their pigs, told him to move on, to get going, just not to stop near their place if he knew what was good for him.

            And so he stopped trying to tell the truth. He said he was doing it on a bet- that he stood to win a hundred dollars. Everyone liked him then and believed him. They asked him in to dinner and gave him a bed and they put lunches up for him and wished him good luck and thought he was a hell of a fine fellow. Doc still loved true things but he knew it was not a general love and it could be a very dangerous mistress.”

Sincerity is a dangerous thing.  Manage expectations. Despite people’s opinions of their own desires, people do not want truth. Is it unsettling that truths can be socially unacceptable? A lie is easier, and sometimes better.

Any man who afflicts the human race with ideas must be prepared to see them misunderstood.
-H.L. Mencken

Comedians Aren't Funny

I sincerely miss sincerity.

I think sincerity was before my time, as I do not recall ever having an exchange that did not include sarcasm, irony, cynicism, and/or dry wit. And the Saharan level of dry wit has become so extreme that even the closest of friends often cannot decipher each other’s encoded meanings. (Sidenote: Is witty banter insincere? It can be, if it distracts the conversation from what really should be said, but which instead goes un-verbalized) I would like to think that the increased use of these verbal tactics is a sign of increased complexity in communication, providing a plethora of new ways to speak our thoughts. But I’ve begun to question if any of this is actually helping us communicate, or if it is merely leading to more distance, both between our words and our meaning, and between each other (Sappy? Trite? These are risks).

I spend a large amount of time with stand-up comedians, a class of folk entirely consumed with wit, sarcasm, irony, and the rest of the day’s set of tools. I have worked for a management company representing them, been to hundreds of comedy shows, filmed hours upon hours of footage of them onstage, and shared countless hours in their amusing company. During a conversation with a non-comedy-scene friend a few weeks ago, she asked me a few simple questions about some of my comedy-world associates. What were their goals? What did they do with their time other than comedy? I found I couldn’t answer for most of these people. I wouldn’t call most of these comics “close friends” or anything, but how could I know them for over a year, and not have this ever come up in conversation? What were we saying to each other, over those countless hours of hanging out, and even more countless beers (or gin & tonics, depending on their poison)?

I recently finished a 20-minute documentary about those comedians. I interviewed each of them, and asked them about their comedy, and their lives, and their aspirations. And what I discovered was… it wasn’t funny. My resulting film wasn’t a light-hearted affair. Their interviews revealed potential for failure, acknowledgement of limitations, overcoming inadequacies, finding an outlet after a parent’s death…  As I type this, I’m fighting the urge to make a joke. No, not a joke, but something to take the edge off. Not because I’ve thought of something relevant and clever, but because I feel the need to add levity to the tone of this paragraph. I feel vulnerable with this straightforward approach. I am easier to judge.

I am sincerely uncomfortable.