Louis C.K. as a Sacrificial Ram in a spectacle-crazed narcissistic society
I need laughter. A self-prescribed medicine that does me wonders and there are very few comics who leave me in stitches of the good kind; not unlike having “the good kind of breast cancer.” As I write here in California, my healthcare costs rise with the sun, day after day, along with my pulse rate. The expenses to treat my terminal case of incurable cancer continually rise higher as a result of the current stupid administration run by a pussy grabbing, verbally abusive, somehow illegally elected president of a society looking for sacrificial mutton chop to gnaw on publicly. And without the right to a defense by a legal system in short supply of honest practitioners.
Memory strikes at the strangest of times. Thinking back about a dozen years ago, in a corporate building in the heart of Sunnyvale, sitting in my now gone office and executive technology strategist career, I typed up an opinion piece for our blog on customer experience about Louis C.K.. The piece centered on retaining artistic freedom, one brave person at a time, thus creating room for great experiences. Louie controlled his channels of distribution for recordings of his stand up shows and I was elbow deep into intellectual property rights at the time. The days right before Net Neutrality was enacted by the FCC (recently dying a whimpering, bleat of a death in the same public works department at the bequest of our aforementioned president and deceitful grabber of pussy.)
Louis publicly, though not rudely, turned away from the Machine as the Machine continued churning out cookie cutter emoji shit piles of same sounding jokes. Mr. C.K. killed with his brand of self-deprecating humor for us to feel a bit better about our own shame and small mindedness.
This same man is temporarily finished with a career, since he got the hook off stage for masturbating in front of several women. He didn’t cower and deny it. In fact as the proof of his obscene behavior towards the victims became public, we can recall he allowed all of us to peep through a window into this behavior in nearly all of his stand up routines. Comedians absolutely need attention, or they’d pick another career. But attention to alleviate deep melancholic sadness, some with deep depression, and the loneliness of their lives splayed out for us, well…like a Skype call with a guy crying as he masturbates to porn. Our own loneliness is reflected in their very presence by our own entertainment choices; we need to laugh at someone else’s misery. I think my own mortification lies somewhere between public hypocrisy and the bullshit people believe to have come from the real deal, no questions asked. Lest we forget our “elected” POTUS, who himself is a vagina pinching bag o’ wrinkly combed over Dorito dusted testicles.
Yet my ginger headed comic handled the situation as peacefully and thoughtfully as one could, with regret and a promise to listen, not to talk uncensored, open loop and without a self correcting blue pencil, as he enjoyed doing prior to public humiliation. However, I hear no discussion taking place between the sexes, only silence and one way monologues at the bobble heads reporting the now fake media and news.
To listen after a career spent providing some of the neediest of us with soul saving laughter, Louie C.K., approached this situation without denial of his actions and an apparent understanding of his responsibility for the situation. His responsibility is that of anyone who’s viewed from the bottom of the ladder as part of the desirable star making comedy higher ups. It was in these women’s presence, in the glow of their admiration of his comedic power, to hope that by watching his testicular spectacle, it would launch their careers from the bottom of the ladder from which the man himself once hailed.
So now selfishly I, who needs laughter to heal my aching body each night, am punished for his generally unconcerning, sexually self consensual, and slightly weird actions.
Yet, as a woman, even under the influence of two knockout drugs slipped into a drink by an unnamed investment banker who tried to make off with a little of my CEO poon, I said absolutely not. And he didn’t. He wound up with a thousand dollar hotel bill, a very remorseful call to my then fiancée to tell him personally why I was there, and a very embarrassed early departure.
I say to these women – if raising several million dollars to fund a 2,500 person payroll that week wasn’t worth me allowing a disgusting troll to molest me, then you could have slapped your own douchebag and walked out of the room while blowing a whistle then and there. We are free to go, lucky for us, without a hand on us and tell someone or even get psychological help for the man who tried to jack off in your presence as a way to stop it from happening again. Strength lies with those who have courage to speak up, and even do it privately if there’s concern about the future of your own careers. I hope you all made it on your own talents and did not skate upon the frozen pond of masturbational output of a depressed yet entertaining stand up artist and comedy writer.
So many men of vastly more power than his own live in a state of Denial – I believe it may become the next territory of the United States like Puerto Rico. That’s a state where power and greed align like Venus and Mars, along side sexual abuse and the fossil-fueled decay of western civilization. With the pretense of their rights and without understanding of the depth of pain of the words they shared years later and personal corrosion by public influence upon another very insecure man and his family, including his children. Then and now I say these young women’s desires to become the next of the famous, far outweigh the currency they now feel denied of receiving by rising on the heels of the heavyweight comic. His very sad, but not very deplorable actions showed the tears of the proverbial clown. The accusers’ own greediness sits shelved, some set aside with dreams of winning a Golden Globe, a Grammy, aPalm D’Or…
I pay my attention to victims of Harvey Weinstein, Woody Allen, Bill Cosby. I pray for the broken dreams and hearts of those nameless and faceless women who were used and abused by the studio system in the 40s and 50s long forgotten and hardly acknowledged.
Louie knows his own strength, certainly. I don’t know him personally, yet his raw comedy brings up a certain kind of unknown/ known for me. Stand up comics, actors, writers, especially exceedingly talented ones, still put their pants back on just like us simple folk. They screw up, just like us. They jack off, too. Were all of the same stuff, no one better than another, known or unknown. His victims created another victim in a way, because an accuser’s word in the spectacle of public unconsciousness, wields a broad sword attacking a guilty until proven innocent person, like the popular opinion’s power of influence. Influence that provokes anger and raises the temperature of the our citizenry, sparked and already burning up by the fires of philosophical division.
We must now look for a target somewhere or we might just explode a load of our own sputum all over ourselves, rather than a depressive comedian’s T-shirt. How did the case rest without a conviction and with the sacrificial ram leaving the stage with more guilt and shame than what drove him to propose the naughty-ish script? Would anyone venture to guess or to even take his side of the court of majority rules opinion?
Please be my guest and comment below, as it occurs to me I should at least ask you, the unseen others, if I’m going to continue write such self-pleasuring masturbatory blog posts, what you really think. I think too many people are not going to say what we’ve all thought (admit it) – they could have just gotten up and left the situation. It’s not their fault by any stretch of the imagination, but they were not held down, nor were they his hostage. There I said it and I am a woman, too. Y’all thought it but you didn’t say it. I suppose we can now return to the spectacle that is our current POTUS already in progress. Lord, please help us all.
(And, by God, why can’t we all have a Nielsen presidential ratings “impeach” button on our $200 75” plasma TV sets’ remote controllers?)