Artie Lang

I, along with the rest of the comedy community, am hoping that Artie Lange gets well soon. Physically, yes. Mentally, especially. It takes a very deep-rooted hatred in one’s self to attempt suicide in the first place. To do so in such a gory fashion, a 13” butcher’s knife driven into the gut nine times, well I can only assume Artie sees an image of Hitler feasting on a baby’s heart when he looks in the mirror. Which makes no sense, considering that those exposed to his comedy usually fall in love with his personality within the first two minutes. Whether it be as Norm MacDonald’s counterpart in the hilarious Dirty Work, the generator of most of the laughter on Howard Stern’s program, or the reason to skip SNL in the late Nineties as the shining light on MADtv; Artie is a natural. A great comic with a great spirit. When an episode like this surfaces, people begin to wonder why. What is it about comedy, about creating laughter for a living, that has an adverse effect on the messenger? Why did Richard Jeni hide a fatally depressive side with a chipper stage persona? Why did Freddy Prinze blow his creative mind into chunks? Why did a promising young comedian like Steve Lubetkin end it all by attempting to land on The Comedy Store from the fourteenth floor of the neighboring Hyatt House Hotel? Surely these incidents have to implicate that being a comic, and the pressures and anxieties that come along with the territory, can be intense enough to drive a right-minded man to the brink of destruction. Well, I’m not so sure that if any type of link is legitimate.

What makes me an expert on the subject? I’ve been down that dark alley, Jack. Most comics have tried suicide at least once. As for me, I was in the bathroom, standing naked in front of the mirror. I was at the end of my wits and the plan was to slit my wrist. At the last second, I became uncontrollably nervous and my shaking kicked in. All this turned my suicide attempt into a sloppy circumcision. Now I’m like the rest of you in the pants, and it sickens me. But seriously, folks. As torturous as comedy can be, I don’t think that funny business alone has ever caused anyone to do something so drastic. I think the ability to do such a thing is hardwired in ones psyche all of their life. A chemical imbalance, if you will. A case of genetic miswiring. The same thing that might cause a person to be gay or Republican. Same difference, I know.

The onslaught of blow, pills, smack, crank, booze and whatever other chemical substance a pressure-ridden comic can get their grubby little hands on only aides in triggering such brain abnormalities. It surely isn’t an issue of material content. Feeling grossly irresponsible for the horrible things that they have shared with others. If such was the case, Rush Limbaugh would have hung himself with a rodeo lasso long ago. Glenn Beck might have an on-air epiphany and puncture his jugular with the knife that he uses to slice watermelon with (side note: I figured out why Beck eats during his broadcasts. My theory is, he wants to literally and continually increase the amount of shit that he is full of. Releasing said shit over the airwaves requires immediate replenishing.) I think some people try to over-analyze the issue. Years of not getting what they want from an audience, creative frustration, not hearing the laughter the way they needed to drove a once happy clown into a walking tragedy. It makes for good fodder in an overly-dramatic L.A. Times piece, but this is one green comedian that isn’t buying into such drivel. I’ve considered the arguments, as I do with all issues. I like to think that my mind is more open than Kurt Cobain’s. Furthermore, it isn’t like I’m sticking up for the art form that I have decided to dedicate my life to just for the sake of being comfortably oblivious. As bad as my worst night in comedy has been, intensify it a thousand times over and I still realize, it’s only comedy. Jokes. Bullshit. Nothing in this game of ours is serious enough to end your life over.

Artie is battling chemically induced “demons.” A supernatural metaphor if I’ve ever heard one. Jeni battled severe depression and psychosis for years. Factor in a steady diet of anti-depressants. Side effects may include suicide. If anything, I’m willing to bet that comedy proved to be a much needed cathartic escape for the fallen soldier. Lubetkin chose a radical extreme to prove a point that was very near and dear to his heart. Again, mark it up to psychosis. He wasn’t completely crazy, but he clearly wasn’t completely sane. Obviously are positions aren’t parallel, but if I were banished from The Store I would bitch and gripe as a form of protest, but I would do it in front of The Improv. Life in-tact. Linking the high-pressure nature of stand-up comedy to suicidal behavior is a cheap cop-out. It’s an easy, and sometimes maybe even interesting, way to dance around the core issue behind such an unfortunate occurrence. I will sum this up with one more “get well, Artie.” Mentally. Leave the poison behind and bless the attentive ears of the comedy community like only you can.