opinion: one of our biggest problems today, as a society, is that we
are too polite.
Now just hang on one second before you scoff. "What is she talking
about?" you're probably wondering, your eyes bulging from your
head as you think of countless examples of how absolutely fucking
rude the world is, how you can't walk two steps in Manhattan
without stepping in someone else's garbage, or about the time when
you forgot that it was a bad idea to put your hands underneath your
desk in high school and were treated to a sticky surprise. You're
thinking of ominous "Hey lady!" and various whistles and jeers-of
not being able to go out late at night alone, of obscene telephone
calls and the bystander effect and every other rotten thing in the
world that takes its shape in insults, direct or otherwise, toward the
very basis of your humanity.
How, then, could I possibly claim that society is too polite? Have I
been living abroad, awash in tea and crumpets and powdered
wigs? Has my soul been left permanently warm by such bastions of
manners and cardigan sweaters as Mr. Rogers, who has managed,
in memory, to keep the blustery chill of the modern world from
creeping underneath my coattails? Am I Kathie Lee Gifford or any of
the number of similarly smily blonde media bimbos who march
around to the beat of their own drummer-"Stand By Your Man"
playing in the air directly around me until my ears go numb, hosting
morning talk shows until I have to have a camera on me to remind
me that yes, I'm actually there?
No, no, no. I've been right here, I didn't really like Mr. Rogers, I've
never called a man named "Reeg" my partner in crime.
That's not what I'm talking about, though. What I'm talking about is the
idea of "too much information," of "going there," as it were. We don't
do it enough, really, not when it counts, anyway. A couple of
weeks ago, up close and personal at the Calvin Theater in
Northampton, I was treated to a night with the ultimate bad dinner
guest-the paramount purveyor of all that is rude and crude and just
wrong, none other than Margaret Cho. A comedienne par
excellence who has no less than taken the world by storm with her
patented brand of in-your-face humor and "offensive" stylings,
touring ruthlessly to come out of the wake of a "failed" TV vehicle
("All-American Girl," a painful subject which does not go untouched
in her routines), thundering across the country and the big screen
alike (Cho, in addition to a much-traded audio library of her work,
has had two major productions of her routines played out on the
silver screen in recent years.) She has carefully crafted a stage
presence that is about as subtle and recognizeable as a dump truck
sounding less like it's doing its job and more like it is about to run you
over.
She was in top form this particular evening, leaving no stone
unturned by her unflinching (not to mention absolutely hysterical),
sardonic powers of observation. "I'm like a terrible dinner guest,"
she joked, making the claim that she was, without fail, the one to
cause heads to turn, stomachs to churn and eyes to roll
accompanying the inevitable proclamation: "Okay. Too. Much.
Information."
It is important to note that this should not be mistaken for an apology.
As with all the rest of what passes her lips, Cho is just speaking the
truth. And, despite her entirely over-the-top comedic prowess and
her brilliant gift for physical comedy, this is what I find to be the most
powerful aspect of Cho as a performer-both in general, and in this
specific show. Mixing up a particularly potent concoction of serious
subject matter and out-of-this-world-bizarro anecdotes from her
personal life, Cho's performance is a tour-de-farce of epic
proportions. Using Rush Limbaugh's recent scandalous admission to
his painkiller addiction as her springboard of choice, Cho exploded
across the stage from the very beginning, her energy soaring
throughout the house. Couching her phrases in what seemed like a
relatively new "urban sensibility," as it were, Cho elicited
thunderous laughter from her very first sentences-"He's like the
original gangsta pundit," she quipped, though making sure to voice
her relief that "[all this time], he wasn't spouting political views, he
was just high."
Cho herself is no stranger to addiction and personal
troubles-something that makes up either the undercurrent or a
large part of her more famed performances. This evening's Margaret
Cho, decked out in a skimpy top and black rubber boy-short
underwear (an ensemble completed by ridiculous fishnet stockings),
was noticeably thinner than she has been in recent
past-something which one might find disconcerting, given her
history (weight, too much or too little, has always been a very public
issue for Cho). Fans found comfort when she addressed the
issue-stating that she is currently, finally, on a very wonderful "I
just don't give a shit" diet plan, something which apparently goes
very well with the "Fuck this shit" exercise program. Criticisms of
fad diets (not even the recently deceased Dr. Atkins escapes her
scathing rant) and her upbringing alike were met with chuckles of
sympathy and hoots of support from the audience. The magic of
Cho's set started to hit me during her weight loss bits-as well as
some of her more overt political moments-the notion that this
woman really was, well, something had started to settle in my
stomach. She has a knack for taking real, painful things and slapping
them down at the most conservative dinner tables. Her confidence,
her biting sarcasm, her ridiculous nature-all of it serves not only as
entertainment for the masses (and boy, is it ever fucking funny), but
as a vehicle for the world to address issues that they'd otherwise
keep stifled like good little valium-filled housewives from the 50s
should.
Punctuated by a missive on childbirth here, a ghastly tale of shitting
her pants in L.A. traffic and a masterfully timed tale of Thai sex
shows, Cho spent just the right amount of time pushing the politics
that have made her such a gay goddess, a liberal darling. Of
course, Dubya was a popular target and so were some of his latest
escapades in office-the Defense of Marriage Act being a big one.
"I'm sorry, but marriage is not that sacred," she points out, contorting
her face and gesticulating wildly as she reiterates that "Carmen
Electra and Dennis Rodman got married. Lisa Marie and Michael
Jackson got married."
Cho also tackles the concept of living as a minority, her presence as
an Asian woman in the media (some reference to one of her more
comfortable targets, her mother, is made-though the classic
impression isn't used and abused as much as it has been in
performances past-something that I found both upsetting and
refreshing, alternately), and gay adoption ("Who wouldn't want a
gay son?" she quips). Towards the end of her performance, she
brought it all back to the idea of "too much information," suddenly
changing the tone of it all from sarcasm and a giant middle finger
accompanied by the laughter of herself and others, to that of a
serious woman with a serious message. "Some might say that
silence equals death. For me, silence equals non-existence." She
suddenly becomes a more furtive, raw character-pleading with
everyone to reach beyond the comfort zone of society, beyond their
own personal comfort zones and to go there and talk about things.
To be rude. To be crude. To be a terrible dinner guest. To be gay, to
be straight, to be fat or thin, to be the child of immigrants or to be
blonde-haired and blue-eyed and flying an American flag while
watching Christopher Lowell redecorate someone's living room-it
doesn't matter. Cho summed it up best in her closing statement for
the night: "Imagine if we all went there, if we all gave too much
information. That would truly be a revolution."