While it's important to avoid sweeping generalizations, it's prudent to draw small, if not fully formed, conclusions from particular situations. For instance, last Friday, at the Arlington Drafthouse & Cinema (which was moonlighting as a comedy club on weekends), I learned from Todd Barry and Leo Allen that comedians are only funny when they want to be, which is to say, only when they're performing.
The interview might have started off on the wrong foot when Barry, a seasoned veteran of the late night television circuit with a Comedy Central special to his name, asked, "When's the piece gonna run?"
"Next Thursday."
"So it's not promoting the show?"
"Um…no."
He seemed a little bit peeved that a college newspaper wouldn't be publishing on a Saturday to plug his second night in Arlington. The interview soldiered on.
"So, do you like performing in D.C.?"
"It's fine. The crowds are really good."
Wait, no elaboration? No knocks at Bush or Cheney or Marion Barry? Denied. My next question might as well have been, "So...you like...stuff?" Thankfully, the sound crickets chirping or tumbleweeds rolling were covered up by the James Bond theme. That night's showing of "Casino Royale" was finishing up, and we were sitting in a room right behind the screen.
Barry seemed a little nervous. Pre-show jitters? Maybe he's never been in the mood for softball questions from a college journalist. Or maybe he saw no need to make a good impression. Likewise, when Leo Allen, a former Saturday Night Live writer, would interject from time to time, it seemed like he wanted his punch lines lobbed to him as well. I've met hipsters at GW less taciturn and disaffected.
One question inspired Allen to talk about why he enjoyed grade school so much more than his later school years. "Recess...somebody reads you a book," he said. The opening act, a local boy named John Mumma, gave a much better answer about being young while warming up the crowd:
The interview might have started off on the wrong foot when Barry, a seasoned veteran of the late night television circuit with a Comedy Central special to his name, asked, "When's the piece gonna run?"
"Next Thursday."
"So it's not promoting the show?"
"Um…no."
He seemed a little bit peeved that a college newspaper wouldn't be publishing on a Saturday to plug his second night in Arlington. The interview soldiered on.
"So, do you like performing in D.C.?"
"It's fine. The crowds are really good."
Wait, no elaboration? No knocks at Bush or Cheney or Marion Barry? Denied. My next question might as well have been, "So...you like...stuff?" Thankfully, the sound crickets chirping or tumbleweeds rolling were covered up by the James Bond theme. That night's showing of "Casino Royale" was finishing up, and we were sitting in a room right behind the screen.
Barry seemed a little nervous. Pre-show jitters? Maybe he's never been in the mood for softball questions from a college journalist. Or maybe he saw no need to make a good impression. Likewise, when Leo Allen, a former Saturday Night Live writer, would interject from time to time, it seemed like he wanted his punch lines lobbed to him as well. I've met hipsters at GW less taciturn and disaffected.
One question inspired Allen to talk about why he enjoyed grade school so much more than his later school years. "Recess...somebody reads you a book," he said. The opening act, a local boy named John Mumma, gave a much better answer about being young while warming up the crowd:
