Scott Capurro

Scott Capurro
GT
November 2007

Whilst heading for the last empty seat on a San Francisco bus, I stumbled over a rider’s white sneaker, and apologized.
“That’s alright,” he said, “don’t worry. I know you. You’re that man from the store.”
I wasn’t sure which store. I’m always in search of the perfect cashmere V-neck, but this guy didn’t look like a retail clerk. First off, he was missing teeth. Lots. His dental history appeared checkered. Also, he had a crew cut, which would’ve been hot were he young and slightly fascist; but he was older and a bit doughy. His blue chambray shirt was tightly tucked in and he was wearing his name on his breast pocket, like he’d been to a seminar. Only his name – Paul – was scribbled with different colored pens.
“Have we met?” I asked, shyly. The other riders looked down at their Sudoku.
“Yes. You’re that man. From the store. The big store. Do you know me? I’m Paul. From the store.”
“Oh. The store.”
“Yes. You know me.”
The dialogue was driving deep into David Mamet country, and I’m not a huge fan. I detoured.
“I don’t think I know you, but have a nice day.”
I looked down at my Vidal memoir. I could hear Paul watching me. He was throwing audible sounds my way. Sounds like “Uh huh” and “Oh” and I think I heard an “Oh no”. My palms were sweating. One never knows in America. Some psycho who seemed nice two minutes ago might whip out a rifle and open fire. There might be bodies everywhere, but at least this bus would arrive on time. Death is such a small price to pay for punctuality.
“I’m sorry.” Paul was breathing loudly. I didn’t want to look up. Don’t psychos often express regret before they gun down the innocent? “I’m really sorry.”
I looked up. He was staring at me.
“It’s alright.” I attempted the calming voice of pure middle class reason. “I’m just reading.”
“Oh. I’m retarded.”
Well that explains everything, I thought, as I stifled a laugh. I held my breath, and my eyes welled with tears. I had four stops to go. Could I hold out? I feigned a cough. That helped a bit. I released a giggle. My head was hurting.
I wasn’t not laughing at Paul, although his contrite tone over his handicap sounded almost self-parodying, the way someone who’s not retarded might claim “I’m so retarded” after doing something mildly stupid. What amused me was that, on a bus full of insular, isolated commuters who years ago traded in their brains for Madonna music or a ridiculous mortgage, Paul is the only one willing to admit his hindrance. I’ve had my head banged around a few times. After three concussions, maybe I’m the retard, still dreaming, even while 44 and on a fucking bus, that some day I’ll play Wembley, when Paul’s the only sensible dim wit in this lurching piece of metal who knows and accepts his limitations.
I actually envied Paul. He has a clinical excuse for his shortcomings. And being retarded is like surviving the Holocaust, or crying on demand. Genocide or tears wins every argument. Even Paul knows that if he mentions his impediment, the conversation ends. When I was young, if my older sister had her period, she got to ride in the front seat. I remember begging for my period. I was too little to realize I had other options. If I’d lost a few too many brain cells, I could’ve picked the movie every Friday night. Understanding the movie would’ve been challenging. Easier than being old and Jewish; and every time I tried to force tears, I pooed. And I tried, often. That’s how important winning an argument was to me, even as a child.
Later, on the morning radio show I’m co-hosting, today’s celebrity guest/fuckwit has such a piercing, relentless tone to his voice that I have to remove my headphones. He was on the American ‘Queer As Folk’, and he’s rattling on and on about how “groundbreaking” his work was.
“I’m straight, but playing a gay character, which made other straight people much more likely to watch the show.”
Since when is homophobia inventive, I ask myself. But I ask him how he stays fit. The next half hour is spent with him billowing about Karate.
“So you’re both a trained killer and a homophobe? Shouldn’t you be stationed in Iraq?” I can’t help myself. The actor stares at me, incredulously.
“Sorry,” I tell him, my head tilted, “I’m retarded.”
You can’t blame me for trying.

COMEDY

“Scott Capurro’s Dirty Gift”

Scott Capurro, a gay comedian from Daly City, probably gets his inspiration elsewhere. He is a world traveler and somehow manages to make trite subjects like mothers, hotel rooms, gangs, and being heckled seem freshly funny. When Christmas — the least funny day of the year — is two days gone, you can finally say the f-word again without checking behind you for your precociously sailor-mouthed young cousin or your selectively keen-eared great-aunt. And Capurro, a master of deadpan comedy and a professional in the fields of gut-busting hilarity and subtle wit, will let the vulgarities fly. He’ll make you feel like yourself again — your fucked-up, cynical, hedonistic, perfectly well-balanced self. (Amy Glasenapp)

And I say, hurrah!!! (that part is actually me, saying that, to myself. and to you.)

Oh, and this is lifted from Chortle.co.uk, a UK comedy website that’s favored within this biz we call show. And after some producers read this, it will be more clear why I never get work in Disney films. Enjoy. xxx

Scott Capurro is brutally uncompromising in his attitude, defiantly challenging audiences to accept him for what he is, however unpalatable that may be.

Because what he is happens to be is an intolerant, self-centred, snidey, sarcastic, arrogant venomous man, who cannot disguise his contempt for humanity. He doesn’t like the world, and makes no concession to make the world like him. He speaks as his embittered mind finds, no matter what the consequences.

Yet while these may not be admirable qualities in real life, they certainly work in his favour as a comic. He is attitude personified, spitting out the unsayable, with the almost inevitable howls of protest bouncing off his bulletproof exterior.

Be in no doubt this rancorous gay San Franciscan is a shock comic, revelling in the reaction his barbed comments receive. Nothing is off-limits, be it bad-taste asides about Madeleine McCann, crude sexual references, or the ultimate taboo: seemingly racist gags. He wants to prick at the predominantly middle-class, liberal sensibilities of comedy club audiences, and will be as confrontational as it takes to do it.

With any act that trades on offensive material, there needs to be a trust between comic and audience about the true intentions of the material, but Capurro blurs that line. There’s no obvious ironic wink, just an unrelenting tsunami of insensitive, acrimonious, unpleasantness.

Many audiences don’t take to this at all, and his unyielding stance can drive a gig into the ground, given how difficult he can be to watch, even if you do see where he’s coming from. On the other hand, if you are seeking comedy with genuine edge, he’ll give it – as long as you are prepared to accept the consequences of being bombarded with gags you probably didn’t really want to hear.

Sometimes Capurro’s desire to shock overwhelms the comedy, leaving just vicious spite and no punchlines. But when he hits is stride, with a tirade of brutally savage jokes delivered with razor-sharp timing, the effect is guiltily enjoyable. You’ll go to hell for this, but at least you’ll go down laughing.

Date of review: Dec 2007