I haven’t posted in a while: 2010 was a bad, bad year, and this blog was a minor casualty.
It all went downhill after my 50th birthday in April—which as actually pretty cool. I suffered from minor but persistent health problems, as well as major but persistent professional problems, and I had to say goodbye to a couple of people I really wasn’t ready to say goodbye to.
Anyway, despite the implication in Hamlet’s soliloquy (and my own dim memories of 11th grade English) ‘quietus’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘goodbye’ or ‘exit’. It also means “a final settlement” or “the end of an argument.” To wit:
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Ray Bradbury, SF author par excellence tells the following story:
“A horrible little boy came up to me one day and said: ‘You know your book The Martian Chronicles?’
I said: ‘Yes’?
He said, ‘You know where you have Deimos [one of the Martian moons] rising in the East?’
I said, ‘Yes.’
He said, ‘Nope.’
So I hit him.
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Now THAT, friends, is quietus.
The cutting remark that leaves no room for a snappy comeback. The sharp observation that completely ends the argument. The conversational climax that leaves no room for a coda. These bring quietus.
Quietus is the sort of thing that leaves no room for response. And, of course, that results in an Awkward Silence.
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Lawyers are lectured at some length on the importance of recognizing WHEN an argument is over…that is, when to stop asking questions. She Whom It Would Be Well Advised to Consult Before Making Any Major Decisions tells the following story about a lawyer who should have realized when to shut up:
The defense attorney had the witness on the ropes: “So you claim that my client grabbed the victim, shook him violently, and bit his nose clean off?”
“That’s right,” said the witness.
“Did you actually see my client grab the victim?” demanded the attorney.
“No,” said the witness.
“Did you see my client shake the victim?” roared the attorney.
“No, I didn’t” said the witness.
“Did you in fact see my client bite of the victim’s nose?” shrieked the attorney.
“No, I did not,” said the witness.
Now a smart attorney would have known to stop there. Quietus. End of argument. But the attorney pressed his luck:
“If all that is true,” demanded the attorney, “then how do you know my client bit the victim’s nose off at all?”
“Because,” snapped the witness, “I saw him spit it out!”
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And then there is the following. It was voted the funniest joke in the world (no, really) as part of the LaughLab project and appears to have been created in a slightly different form by Spike Milligan for The Goon Show.
Two hunters are out in the woods, when suddenly one of them grabs his chest, groans, and collapses. His buddy whips out his cell phone and dials 9-1-1.
“Hello,” says a crisp, competent voice on the other end.
“Listen,” says the hunter. “It’s my friend. He’s dead! What can I do?”
“Calm down,” says the operator. “I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s really dead.”
There is a pause. Then a gunshot is heard. The hunter comes back to the phone.
“Okay,” he says. “Now what?”
Showing posts with label actoor jokes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label actoor jokes. Show all posts
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
C is for California
(This is the third entry of 26 I’ll be writing in August. It’s a challenge to myself: to see if I can actually keep a daily deadline anymore. It’s been a long time since the old CSN days! )
I hate California.
I’ve only been there twice, but I hate California.
The people there are so smug and self-important. They act as though California was the only place that mattered, that the opinion of California people is the only thing that matters, that California is the most important place on earth.
Everybody KNOWS it’s New York.
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A Nevadan, a Texan and a Californian are out riding on the range. The Texan pulls out a bottle of whiskey, takes a couple of gulps, throws the bottle in the air and shoots it.
“What are you doing?” demands the Californian. “That was a perfectly good bottle of whiskey!”
“Hell,” says the Texan. “In Texas there’s plenty of whiskey and bottles are cheap.”
The trio rides on for a bit, and then the Californian opens a bottle of champagne. He takes a couple of swallows, throws the bottle up in the air and shoots it.
“What was that about?” says the Nevadan.
“Hell,” says the Californian. “In California there’s plenty of champagne and bottles are cheap.”
They ride on a bit further and the Nevadan pulls out a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. He takes a couple of swallows and throws it up in the air. He catches the bottle, finishes the beer and shoots the Californian.
“What’s going on?” demands the Texan.
“Hell,” says the Nevadan. “In Nevada we’ve got lots of Californians, but bottles cost a nickel!”
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I’ve never quite understood why anyone would want to live in California—between the man-made pollution and the nature-made earthquakes, residents take their lives in their hands every day—and that’s without even getting on the highway.
I guess it’s true what Will Rogers said: When, during the Great Depression, hordes of Okies deserted Oklahoma for California, the average intelligence of both states went up.
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Q: Why does California have so many actors, and New Jersey have so many toxic waste dumps?
A: New Jersey got first pick.
I hate California.
I’ve only been there twice, but I hate California.
The people there are so smug and self-important. They act as though California was the only place that mattered, that the opinion of California people is the only thing that matters, that California is the most important place on earth.
Everybody KNOWS it’s New York.
____________________________________________
A Nevadan, a Texan and a Californian are out riding on the range. The Texan pulls out a bottle of whiskey, takes a couple of gulps, throws the bottle in the air and shoots it.
“What are you doing?” demands the Californian. “That was a perfectly good bottle of whiskey!”
“Hell,” says the Texan. “In Texas there’s plenty of whiskey and bottles are cheap.”
The trio rides on for a bit, and then the Californian opens a bottle of champagne. He takes a couple of swallows, throws the bottle up in the air and shoots it.
“What was that about?” says the Nevadan.
“Hell,” says the Californian. “In California there’s plenty of champagne and bottles are cheap.”
They ride on a bit further and the Nevadan pulls out a bottle of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. He takes a couple of swallows and throws it up in the air. He catches the bottle, finishes the beer and shoots the Californian.
“What’s going on?” demands the Texan.
“Hell,” says the Nevadan. “In Nevada we’ve got lots of Californians, but bottles cost a nickel!”
_______________________________
I’ve never quite understood why anyone would want to live in California—between the man-made pollution and the nature-made earthquakes, residents take their lives in their hands every day—and that’s without even getting on the highway.
I guess it’s true what Will Rogers said: When, during the Great Depression, hordes of Okies deserted Oklahoma for California, the average intelligence of both states went up.
______________________________________________
Q: Why does California have so many actors, and New Jersey have so many toxic waste dumps?
A: New Jersey got first pick.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
A is for Actor
(This is the first entry of 26 I’ll be writing in August. It’s a challenge to myself: to see if I can actually keep a daily deadline anymore. It’s been a long time since the old CSN days!)
This story has been attributed to many people. I believe it comes from the actor Edmund Kean…but I don’t have any great evidence one way or another.
The great tragedian Kean was on his deathbed being attended by his friend and family. An old friend leaned down to Kean and said gently, “Edmund, is dying very hard?”
Kean is said to have answered his friend with a wan smile: “Dying,” he said, “is easy. Comedy is hard!”
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Several years ago, I read an article in the New York Times about Kevin Kline. (Has anybody seen that new movie of his yet?)
Kline is, as you may or may not know, married to actress Phoebe Cates. She won my unending affection when she told the interviewer that she had made it her personal mission in life to keep Mr. Kline’s hat size relatively modest.
Ms. Cates spoke of two specific strategies she employed. The first was that, whenever the couple went out to eat, she would make sure that Mr. Kline was seated with his back to any mirror in the room. If she didn’t she said, Kevin would spend the whole meal making faces at himself in the mirror.
The second strategy, she said, was to steal his Oscar periodically.
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Any stage prop that actually functions is known as a “practical” prop. If there are real flowers in a vase rather than plastic, those are “practical flowers”. If actors are really playing darts instead of just pretending, it’s a “practical dart board.” And so forth.
Two actors meet in the street. The first one says, “Say, Bill, I haven’t seen you in ages! How is everything?”
“Just great,” says Bill enthusiastically. “Thanks for asking, Jim.”
“So, are you working?” asks Jim.
“Sure am,” says Bill proudly.
“It must be a great play,” says Jim.
“Actually,” says Bill. “it’s pretty damn stupid. We get hissed almost every night.”
“Well, at least you have a good part, right?” says Jim.
“Nah,” says Bill. “I’ve only got about 10 lines and I get killed off before the third act.”
“Oh, then it must be a good cast and director, then,” says Jim.
“A bunch of talentless hacks and prima donnas, every last one of them,” says Bill.
“Well then, why are you so happy?”
“Because,” says Bill, “in scene three, there’s a practical cake!”
This story has been attributed to many people. I believe it comes from the actor Edmund Kean…but I don’t have any great evidence one way or another.
The great tragedian Kean was on his deathbed being attended by his friend and family. An old friend leaned down to Kean and said gently, “Edmund, is dying very hard?”
Kean is said to have answered his friend with a wan smile: “Dying,” he said, “is easy. Comedy is hard!”
_________________________________________
Several years ago, I read an article in the New York Times about Kevin Kline. (Has anybody seen that new movie of his yet?)
Kline is, as you may or may not know, married to actress Phoebe Cates. She won my unending affection when she told the interviewer that she had made it her personal mission in life to keep Mr. Kline’s hat size relatively modest.
Ms. Cates spoke of two specific strategies she employed. The first was that, whenever the couple went out to eat, she would make sure that Mr. Kline was seated with his back to any mirror in the room. If she didn’t she said, Kevin would spend the whole meal making faces at himself in the mirror.
The second strategy, she said, was to steal his Oscar periodically.
______________________________________________
Any stage prop that actually functions is known as a “practical” prop. If there are real flowers in a vase rather than plastic, those are “practical flowers”. If actors are really playing darts instead of just pretending, it’s a “practical dart board.” And so forth.
Two actors meet in the street. The first one says, “Say, Bill, I haven’t seen you in ages! How is everything?”
“Just great,” says Bill enthusiastically. “Thanks for asking, Jim.”
“So, are you working?” asks Jim.
“Sure am,” says Bill proudly.
“It must be a great play,” says Jim.
“Actually,” says Bill. “it’s pretty damn stupid. We get hissed almost every night.”
“Well, at least you have a good part, right?” says Jim.
“Nah,” says Bill. “I’ve only got about 10 lines and I get killed off before the third act.”
“Oh, then it must be a good cast and director, then,” says Jim.
“A bunch of talentless hacks and prima donnas, every last one of them,” says Bill.
“Well then, why are you so happy?”
“Because,” says Bill, “in scene three, there’s a practical cake!”
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