“Er doyyyyyeeee, heyyyyy happy pants! Cheery cheery cheeky sarcastic cheery!”

Awful. Simply awful.

Martin, who has been a stand-up [...]]]>

Steve Martin, shown here in a publicity shot for his 2010 novel wearing one of the most awful pair of eyeglass frames I have ever seen.

Last night was “A Conversation with Steve Martin” at the Palace in Albany, though for some it was more of an opportunity to clap for catchphrases and ask some of the most confounding questions this side of “if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?”

Martin, who has been a stand-up comedian, movie star, screenwriter, playwright, novelist, musician, and everything in-between, came to discuss his career as an artist and his numerous ventures and forays. He also has a new novel out, An Object of Beauty, which has been well received by most outlets (including the New York Times).

Unfortunately, if you were there last night, you would not have known this book even existed. In fact, you would not have known that Martin was a novelist at all if not for a question from a friend of mine in the audience – Sally Block – who asked him about his decision to take the role of the male lead in the film adaptation of his novella Shop Girl. Instead, the focus was placed on his early comedy (despite Martin’s repeated assertions that he’s been finished with stand-up comedy since 1983) and on his memoir of that period, Born Standing Up.

Part of the reason is that the moderator, WAMC‘s “Roundtable” host Joe Donahue, made no secret of the fact that he was an unashamed fanboy. He practically bounced onto the stage at the beginning of the evening, awkwardly stumbling through bad jokes in an attempt to establish himself as worthy of being in the presence of his image of Martin. He then shared his love of Martin’s comedy work, which made clear from the onset where Donahue would steer the rest of the conversation.

The other reason for the manner in which the evening played out likely has to do with the controversy surrounding Martin’s talk at the 92nd Street Y in Manhattan last November. Martin appeared to talk about his book and, after going into an in-depth discussion with the moderator about the New York art world (the setting of the novel), was given a note asking if talk could turn to his earlier work on shows such as “Saturday Night Live” because some members of the crowd had become restless. Martin was obviously perturbed; even more so when the Y refunded money to patrons who bought tickets to a literary discussion and complained that he didn’t walk out with a fake arrow through his head while yelling out “excuuuuuuuuuuse me!”

Such is the blessing and the curse of being Steve Martin. To call him an artist is to minimize how much work he’s put into so many different mediums. As mentioned earlier, he’s garnered acclaim for virtually every venture he’s embarked upon, which is a testament both to his natural brilliance and a work ethic that would be intimidating were he not so blaise and humble about it. A problem arises, however, when faced with a contemporary 21st Century audience that compartmentalizes its entertainment. In their minds, Martin fits into a very small pocket of their childhood memories, and if he deigns to venture outside of it they react with either sarcastic indifference or outright hostility. That’s exactly what happened at the Y, and it is unfortunately what may have happened last night at the Palace had the event taken a different course: one that it should have taken for Martin’s sake, but didn’t for the audience’s.

As a result, no books were mentioned other than Martin’s Born Standing Up; much to his chagrin, as he attempted to give Donahue numerous subtle hints to mention his other works (each time Donahue said “in your book,” Martin would reply with “which one?”). Unfortunately, subtlety doesn’t appear to be Donahue’s strong suit in this sort of environment. Martin’s work as a playwright was given even less time, as I can’t recall it given anything more than a literal brief mention during Martin’s introduction.

After less than ninety minutes, microphones were passed to the audience for a Question and Answer period. Some of the questions were appreciative enough, but some ranged from embarrassing to downright baffling. One audience member asked, verbatim, “if you could do a one man show, who would it be and why?” Martin’s response was the same as mine, as we both responded with a simultaneous “…what?” The audience member helpfully explained, after the fact, that he meant the sort of thing where someone does a one-man show in the role of another character, a la Hal Holbrook’s Mark Twain Tonight. It did provide for an amusing moment, however, when after explaining that he wouldn’t have interest in such a thing because his strength was never in doing voices or impressions, he thanked the audience member for his question “which,” Martin added, “quite frankly, was just okay.”

Later in the evening, another woman rambled for several minutes and was interrupted (wisely) by an interesting anecdote that Martin was able to pull out of the ether. After her setup came the question “what was the first song you played on the banjo?”

Yet another asked him to assist in reveling in a false sense of superiority over pop culture, a request which Martin sternly refused.

“There are plenty of critics for that,” Martin said. “I don’t think artists should be in the business of criticizing other artists.”

An appreciative portion of the crowd applauded.

There were other frustrating moments, to be sure, but on the whole it was fascinating to hear Martin talk of things like craft and creativity. His description of the difference between the process of writing films and writing novels, the nigh impossible task of writing a “funny novel” in the sense we apply to screenplays (my roommate and fellow writer Stephen Henel rightfully pointed out that only a handful of folks such as Terry Pratchett have been able to approach anything resembling an accomplishment in this area), and other forays into areas other than what was intended were enthralling.

Moreover, even in the most awkward of moments, his reactions came across as nothing less than genuine, which is why an event such as this works well with someone like Martin. With others it would have devolved into a shallow celebration of times past. Martin, on the other hand, has such an earnestness and likability to everything he does that even a subtle jab at a question came across as kindhearted and sincere. It also helps that the man is a genius, and in the way that is intended rather than the manner it is so haphazardly applied in today’s environment of instant gratification with no concern for context or artistic value.

“A Conversation with Steve Martin” simply isn’t enough. A hundred might not be. I am thankful, however, for the one hundred and twenty minutes he spent in our city, and I am glad that we showed him a greater kindness and appreciation than other locales such as the infamous 92nd Street Y.

In short: Steve Martin, you’re welcome, you magnificent bastard.

“I am not to say who reads books but judging from YOUR followers, only one so far gave feedback about an author.  Can you start a thread about awful magazines and books?”

You got it. I’ll give two examples [...]]]> A Reader Comments (ARC?) in response to Things You Hate That Everybody Else Loves:

“I am not to say who reads books but judging from YOUR followers, only one so far gave feedback about an author.  Can you start a thread about awful magazines and books?”

You got it. I’ll give two examples of each. First, magazines.

Well la dee da.

ROLLING STONE – It bothers me not because it’s a mainstream music and pop culture magazine for teenagers, but rather that at times it carries an attitude to it as if it’s not. It’s more of that boring whitebread stuff masquerading as rebellion. Admittedly, I hink a lot of that is because many of the writers on the magazine’s staff may be trying to subtly thwart editorial edicts, which can result in conflicting messages. Either way, I hate it. And all the freaking ads.

THE NEW YORKER - There’s a lot of great stuff in there, but some of it carries such an overbearing sense of self-importance at times. Which you’d think I’d love considering my own meandering and pretentious style of writing. But you’d be wrong; I’m full of Irish Catholic self-loathing. If you see someone reading The New Yorker, it’s done in a matter that almost says “look at me, I’m reading The New Yorker.” And if you read The New Yorker, you realize about the third article in that really everyone’s writing the same sentence over and over again, which reads “look at you, you’re reading The New Yorker.” Everyone whose work appears in The New Yorker are very talented folks – all of them far more so than yours truly – which is why it’s such a shame they’re so unlikable. But I guess that’s writers for you.

And now, books.

THE DAVINCI CODE. I heard so much about this book, particularly how great it was.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll be a fine mystery type pulp novel,” I’d say.

“No. It will BLOW YOUR MIND,” they’d respond. In all caps even.

And it did. It blew my mind that people I normally consider smart people with taste would actually think this was anything other than a book with elements cribbed from other books about the Catholic Church and the Knights Templar. And the characters weren’t bad, they were non-existent. They might as well have been robots running around and discovering dark secrets about the Vatican. What dreck!

Also, most of what I’ve read from Anne Rice (ex.Interview with the Vampire; The Vampire Lestat). The first book of hers I read I thought she was going for a specific stilted style of dialogue owing to immortal beings birthed out of the 19th Century. Then I just realized she’s probably just a crazy shut-in who doesn’t know how real people act around each other.

REACT: Give ‘em up, folks.

Everyone have a fun and safe weekend! I need you guys back here. For the clicks and attention, mostly, but I also care a little.