Jason Roeder

I didn’t get the job at The Onion. Officially. I think what torpedoed me was the actual article I was asked to edit. Looking at it now, it’s clear I did too much, manipulated certain things for display, not for the story itself. A good editor isn’t timid, of course, but the article looked vandalized by the time I was done with it. I didn’t edit it. I tagged it. However, they did ask me to test as headline writer. If I got that gig, I’d send in headlines every week and get paid for whatever they used. Headlines were actually part of the editor test and the portion I had the most confidence in. That probably means they’ll not only decline to work with me, but that they’ll also send an intern to garrote me.

Last Thursday was my first reading. It was held at Lorem Ipsum Books in Cambridge, Massachusetts. It’s a small store, but the bookcases were on wheels, which allowed us to clear up space for about 25 chairs. Bookcases-on-wheels are, well, heavy, and the hardwood floor had some ripples in it that made maneuvering a little tricky. Our biggest fear was that a shelf would tip over, avalanching the floor. Of course, I imagined worse, having to find ways to distract the audience from the bookstore employee unable to feel anything overseen by the lower third of his spinal column. My slide show just isn’t that good.

It was interesting how some of my choicest punch lines curdled in midair, while text I sort of regarded as connective tissue got big laughs. At least I kept the gibberish under control. When I’m nervous, my speech sort of decays into a kind of labored mumble, the vocal equivalent of falling up a flight of stairs, if that makes any sense. If nothing else, I managed not to sound like an opium addict.

Sorry to brag.

Next up: Word Books in Brooklyn, November 1, at 7:30.

Another Radar list, with the help of funny types Mike Sacks, Ted Travelstead, and Todd Levin.

The Arizona Wildcat was kind enough to award my book 4 stars, which I assume is not out of 9.

Notice the itals. Maybe you thought I was referring to two people of my acquaintance who remind me of Felix and Oscar and that I’m about to tell you about this comically mismatched real-life pair. After all, under what circumstances would any non-Ebert have watched the actual 1998 sequel to the 1968 film The Odd Couple? In a word: Greyhound.

Some things are beyond your control on a Greyhound bus: the person sitting next to you will somehow produce an entire rotisserie chicken from her change purse, the person in front of you will recline steeply enough for a gynecological exam, and the least important person in the western hemisphere will carry on an hourlong cell phone conversation. And, if a movie is shown, you will watch it. You have no choice. The monitors are staggered along the ceiling in such a way that you really can’t anatomically avoid a view without a Navy SEAL sneaking up behind you and wrenching your head in a semicircle. (Think of Alex in A Clockwork Orange, but swap ultraviolence for Walter Matthau.) And you have to listen to the movie, too, because it’s broadcast from each and every speaker on the bus. Earplugs are useless, and what’s worse is that the passengers aren’t nearly as outraged as you are. Consider this scene, which got a huge laugh: Felix’s and Oscar’s children are getting married (to each other), but F&O find themselves stranded in the desert because their roadtrip falls victim to a series of hack misadventures. And now, they can’t even remember the city they were headed to!

Oscar Madison: Was it San Marino?
Felix Ungar: Not San Marino, maybe San Quentino.
Oscar Madison: Not San Quentino, San Sorina.
Felix Ungar: No not San Sorina.
Oscar Madison: San Mateo. San Clemente. Roberto Clemente.
Felix Ungar: Sancho Pancho. Pancho Gonzales.
Oscar Madison: Ferrando Lamas, Ricardo Montalban.
Felix Ungar: Ricky Ricardo!

This is a partial excerpt. IMDB left out “Aunt Jemima!”

That is not a joke.

I’ll let you know what I think of Quigley Down Under, which will undoubtedly be shown on my return trip.

If you’ve been reading this blog—and you haven’t—you may be wondering where I’ve been for the past few days. Well, my parents have been married 40 years—20 times longer than the sturdiest relationship I have ever achieved—and kinfolk from all around, Europe even, have converged on New York to celebrate. The official observance was yesterday at a restaurant on the Upper West Side, an area I think owes its existence to something that can only be described as the brunch-industrial complex. Really, brunch is everywhere. Walking up Amsterdam, you’d get the impression that the NYC zoning authority is in the pocket of Big Hollandaise Sauce. Anyway, it was just fine, though there were 12 of us, and I tend to get the people sweats in groups larger than, say, four. At one point, I had to leave the table just to stand outside, let my thoughts drain. I met a basset hound named Charlie. He was cute but had no job leads or, more likely, was keeping them to himself.

Actually, just a couple of days after I derided online job listings, I heard back from The Onion regarding the assistant editor position. Apparently dreams—or interviews for dreams contingent upon how my writing test pans out—do come true.

I’ve been fully unemployed for about three months. People have urged me to consider my joblessness as something of a vacation, but no. On vacation, you think things like, “Shall I jet ski today?” or “Hey, maybe I’ll go out and get spiral henna tattoos on my balls.” When you’re unemployed you think, “I bet I’d spend half as much on food if I ate pine cones and parking tickets.” You really do see things differently. That guy sitting outside the 7-11 in the tattered Space Jam t-shirt and snow camo cargo pants is my colleague.

I have been applying to jobs, of course, but I’m increasingly convinced that the job listings on Mediabistro, Monster, and other mondo career sites are fictional and that applications to these positions are simply skimmed and redistributed as targeted spam messages. I see no other explanation for “Jason, single asst. copyeditors in your area!” and “Many writer/editors say our Synthetik Pussy feels like real thing.” I am hoping my book opens a door somehow, but, if anything, I’m guessing it’ll just boost the prospects for a second book.

It has occurred to me that Astoria, to my knowledge, has not a single bookstore. Unless you want to buy a used copy of the novelization of “Robocop” from a sidewalk vendor, there’s really no place to go. I’ve never considered myself entrepreneurial, but if someone wants to hand me a stack of credit cards, I probably won’t say no.

Some excellence from Bill Maher on Salon.

I’ve co-contributed—along with funny guys Mike Sacks, Ted Travelstead, and Todd Levin—another Radar 100 to, of all magazines, Radar. This second list is in the November 2007 issue. I’ll link to it when it goes online. Meanwhile, here’s the list from last issue.

In 2005, I wrote a critique of my laundromat for the humor site Yankee Pot Roast. For example, I described the dryers thusly:

“Generally speaking, you can think of these as you would the porridge bowls from ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’—sometimes they’re too hot, sometimes they’re too cold, and sometimes they have food in them.”

Some people rage against the Chinese government; others, lint filters. Anyway, I recently received a solicitation from something called the Taj Mahal Review: “We would like to publish this one or such type of story in Dec. 2007 12th Issue of Taj Mahal Review, International Literary Journal. I invite you to contribute your short story so that it may be published.”

I cannot begin to imagine the how a journal that’s based in Govindpur Colony, Allahabad, India, and that stipulates in its guidelines that “Haikus can be rhyming and non-rhyming” found its way into the archives of a humor website named after a butchered, browned, and simmered cow. But if I can get the rights from Yankee Pot Roast, I’m doing it.

I’ve been taking an improv class because I’m a firm believer in—but only occasional practitioner of—confronting your anxieties before they infest you. When self-consciousness is a bit of a problemo, the last thing you want any part of is an activity that pins you to the moment.

My classmates, to a person, actually, are decent and friendly. But of the 15 people in the course, I think there are only three of us who have never studied improv before. They say you learn more from your betters, and that’s true, but you feel more secure around your inferiors. I mean, would it have been too much to ask for one person to whimper for mommy or experience a petit mal seizure?

When I’m allowed to stand perfectly still or sit side by side with someone in folding chairs, I’m very much capable of co-creating a premise and dialogue. But if I have to involve my body in any way, if my limbs have to do anything besides hang there and wait for me to stop talking, ugliness ensues. We did one exercise that was called “A Day in the Life,” which basically asked us to invent a story while going through our morning rituals in an imagined living space. People seemed skilled at negotiating their environments—the bedroom is here, the bathroom is there, there’s a window here, and so on. I think I recreated “Guernica.”

I’ve missed two classes straight, which will surprise no one familiar with my history of dropping continuing-education courses midstream. Traditionally, I’ve done so for a few reasons:

• Astonishingly, the same organization that offers courses in juggling and armchair-travel adventures to Tuscany is failing to provide the rigorous liberal-arts curriculum I expected.
• I’m not really excited about dating anyone in the class.
• The course schedule conflicts with my unwillingness to expend effort.

But I’m committed to finishing this one. Some sort of grown-up foolishness about finishing things.

My God, I just used the word “foolishness.” I’m not just a grown-up, I’m a WWII vet.

Now I have to look for work. The diner near my house is looking for a lavaplatos. That means associate editor, right?