Scott Capurro

I feel kind of guilty, buying so much, just for myself, but my new flat is empty and hallow, like my soul will be if I don’t stop doing shit gigs. I showed my most recent gig list to my manager, who sort of sighed and looked sympathetically at me.
“Booking those yourself?” She said, like I’m special.
“Yeah. I like it. Gives me more control.”
“As long as you know what you like. Are you OK? You look tired.”
And she looks corrupt.
BTW, does she forget I’ve got a mortgage? Until something better comes along (sugar daddy/mommy/infant; feature film lead; cancer) this skill is paying my bill. And anyway, I like the gigs I’ve booked. Mostly. They’re in nice places, most of which serve herbal tea. Sure, sometimes the staff (lesbians) stare at me like I’m satan, and sometimes the paper plate food smells like Belfast, but what could be more fun than jacking off to jesus with a 16 year old and his mum in the front row? who brings their mum to a comedy show? or even to my show? He’s either closeted or crazy or, even hotter, both? Time will tell. I’m sure I’ll see that young man again. Right before I go into my final coma. And, curtain down.
It’s dark out already. I don’t feel sad, just cheated. South Africa ignores clock changing, why can’t we? Who cares if kids have more sunlight in the morning? What about my 7 pm-ish sunset needs? Why am i rambling like this? How bored am I? and how lonely is madonna? another kid? aren’t two monsters enough? whatever happened to discretion? or singers who sing on pitch? Or salt free crackers? I can’t find any, and i’m sure my grandmother lived on those fuckers. ‘Til she died. Maybe they’re not a good idea after all.
x

On Sunday a boy I’ve been seeing briefly had a birthday. People in their 20’s still celebrate birthdays. I know, weird. Anyway, I’d emailed him supportively on the Friday, then texted him on the big day. I didn’t call because I slept in, having worked the night before, and I had to scramble to the train station for yet another gig on Sunday eve. But truly, I was looking for a lazy way out of a relationship that wasn’t right, and I thought, subconsciously, not calling is just the ticket.
I tried to explain this diplomatically today, again via email, but maybe I was lying. Maybe I just didn’t feel like talking to anybody on the phone that Sunday. I might have weakened, or wilted. This runner stumbled, and I didn’t even drop the phone, I just never even picked it up.
The following I’ve only just received, from him, as my penance. (He’s Irish.)

“Scott your so pseudo american- its beyond nauseating. your rhetoric sounds like BAD Oprah. You can justify this or that till the cows come home but you don’t have to be married to someone to pick up the fucking fone and be a decent human being on the most basic of friendship levels. It doesn’t matter how many self help tapes you listen to on your trips about the place to make yourself feel better or how many vitamins you pop or how many yogic stretchs you think your making the fact remains your still capable of being very much below par when it comes to personal relations no matter how you try to dress it up.
And the wonderful thing is your completely immune to this email because your devoid of caring about anyone but yourself…
I doubt your “me” tour will ever be over.. your behaviour sucks and its a pity you can’t nurture friendship more. Fixing your nose is one thing but man fix your attitude toward people. At this rate you’ll end up alone with your retainer and even more stds to add to your collection.
See you around!”

Now, I’m not saying that none of this is true. There’s an element of selfishness in everyone’s life. And I do sort of hate my nose. What amazes me is that he thinks, after seeing each other three times, that he knows me. it’s just so creepy. We spent so much time with him talking about how wonderful we were together, how right he was for me, that I was embarrassed and self-conscious. He talked to me like a trick, and barebacked me like one too, but when it came to intimacy, I might as well have been hanging out with Tori Spelling.
Why doesn’t anyone want to court anymore? All his anger is about something else, obviously, which is probably the fact that I wasn’t in love with him. How could I be? I DIDN’T KNOW HIM. Can’t we just have a few laughs and see what happens? Does it all have to be hectic and rushed, like it’s the first and last blow job he’ll ever give? Maybe I missed something. Maybe the world is coming to an end, and he was my final chance for happiness. Or maybe he’s nuts.
I mean, in paragraph two, he uses ‘your’ for ‘you are’. Crazy.
And sweet. Man, he must really be head over heels. Too bad I don’t feel the same. But I can get my heels over my head.

It’s so sunny and pretty here, and apparently it’s gonna be nice till, i dunno, Thanks-fucking-giving. On Sunday, I did 2 hours of yogay, took a long walk, read books in stores and drank enough free trade coffee to caffinate a lesbian softball team. Then I had a vegan lunch, got so stoned on AIDS pot that I forgot how old I was and wound up in a club where men meet men in only the way that men can. And I met a lot of men. Later, I ate two chicken enchiladas with fresh avocado and organic salsa, at the cost of $6, and I thought, vaguely lucidly, why the Hell am I going to London? What the fuck am I playing at?
On Thursday I go back to the coldest place on Earth, where my neighborhood, Bethnal Green, smells like all sorts of things that correspond to nothing in nature. I will play the chicken-in-a-basket-with-comedy game for two months, dreaming of a day when I’ll be set free from this servitude. Don’t pity me, I’ve chosen stand up as a profession, but I never chose babysitting. And one can only imagine how charming in their childishness an angry, drunken English office party can be on a friday night.
Why didn’t I fuck the right people? It’s just that Jimmy Kimmel is too much of a flabby, crashing, sloppy bottom. If only I were less discerning, I could’ve moved in with Edward Albee when I was 20. Or so he implied.
Instead I play Cape Town where queers stare at me like I’ve just shit on their doorstep. South Africa is lovely, the producer is cool and I admire his efforts, and really, their constitution is very post modern, giving queers all sorts of rights. And all that. But the culture is sluggishly dragging along, which means the queers claim to be ‘bi, which is a red flag of any fledgling gay community. When the cocksuckers claim they like the ladies, there’s still so much work to do.
Add to this those Muslim cunts who scare everybody, and lets not even mention gay Christians, and brother, you’ve got a steamy, surly stew. If I was a gay jesus lover, or some closeted nasty orthodox muslim cunt, I myself would avoid a comedy show, especially a gay one, unless of course I wanted to cut myself or walk out on some tall queer from the US while he rattles on about his gay cock. By the way christians, if you’re reading this, you got it all wrong: The Bible is a fucking metaphor!
Cape Town was gorgeous, if you can ignore the grinding poverty and aggressive hookers. Oh well, one out of two ain’t bad. And the coffee is good, but then they get the first pick on all the hottest beans. Hello, they’re grown there! But the three weeks visitng dirty book stores and sucking black cock was like a mini Edinburgh, except for the black cock, but complete with amazing reviews (posted) and disappointing houses. I’m exhausted, and I’ve just done a really fun week in San Fran at the Punchline. Hence the pot and the sauna and the whinging. I want to lie down for two months and maybe write some new jokes. That would be good. I’m inspired to write a new play for Edinburgh 2007, most of which is done, it needs more layers and an ending. And that takes time here, in SF, in the quiet, on my own, with few distractions. And cheap enchiladas.
xxx

Stage
Queer comedy festival a scream
September 08, 2006 Edition 1
QUEERCOM. With Julian Clary, The Wet Spots, Trevor Boris, Jason Wood, Scott Capurro and Poppy Champlin. At the BMW theatre@thepavilion at the V&A Waterfront until September 23.
Review: PETER TROMP

What a pleasure it is to announce that this continent’s first queer comedy festival is a resounding success. Not a dull moment in all its two hours, Queercom has all the wit, flamboyance and cheeky raunch one could have hoped for.
Featuring a dazzling array of international acts, it makes a mockery of the phrase “value for money”.
Laughs of this calibre are a priceless commodity, and it is your privilege, dear reader, to pounce on attending the funniest show by the funniest, cleverest people I have ever seen assembled in one place before somebody cottons on to the idea that they could charge gold bars for this show.
Standing like a colossus at the centre of attention is master of ceremonies Julian Clary, who is worth 10 times the price of admission on his own. The word hasn’t been invented to describe the suavity of Clary’s persona and his cutting-edge wit. He immediately makes one feel at home with his supremely relaxed stage persona, but his charisma and daring never makes one feel too comfortable. After all, what would a comedy festival of this nature be if it didn’t challenge you in unexpected ways?
Speaking of the latter, Scott Capurro, a San Franciscan comic, will have you clutching on to your seat while at the same time racking your body with uncontrollable barrages of laughter. He unleashes the most sophisticated brand of crude humour like it was a sceptre imbued him at birth.
Throughout his set, he had audience members on the knife’s edge that separates revulsion and cathartic bellyaching.
He had me sweating and he only grew funnier throughout his segment, especially because of his devil-may-care nonchalance. He could be the great divider of the festival, but if he does turn out to be your cup of tea, he will be your favourite afternoon roast.
The Wet Spots are a song-and-dance duo from Canada who will have you singing to some of the most provocatively and niftily catchy tunes while self-confessed baby of the festival and fellow Canuck, Trevor Boris (he is only 27), has a kind of playground cheeky wit that is thoroughly addictive.
He is perhaps the closest thing Queercom has to a typical punchline comic, but what delicious punchlines they are.
A big hit of the evening was Jason Wood, and understandably so. Having been to South Africa before, he knew exactly how to work the audience, but his biggest attribute is his feel-good charisma.
He completely flooded the theatre@thepavilion auditorium with his boundless persona and when he found time to belt out a couple of songs, the audience was his completely.
All the while the performers were working their magic and strutting their stuff to the accompaniment of Frankie Nassimbeni’s irreverent set, and I say “accompaniment” because the designer’s decor has as one of its features constantly looping graphics of the most heart-tugging whimsy that complements the generous goodwill of the festival perfectly.
All in all, gangbusters entertainment. Don’t miss it, whether you are gay or straight or still deciding.