No excuuuuuses

There’s an odd sensation when someone you know, but don’t know well, reveals something about his past that makes you realize, Damn, small world. Like when my boss back at University of Texas figured out that he and my wife had gone to the same elementary school. For that matter, he was the residency classmate of my competitor down in Eureka. Small, small world.

I had that sensation many times while reading Steve Martin’s memoir, Born Standing Up. He’s driving a yellow ‘66 Mustang up to San Francisco and I’m thinking That’s my car! And there’s the dysfunctional family, and his drive to perform, and the places he did stand up that I had visited as a teenager (The Ice House, The Troubador). Martin’s about twenty years older than me, but his story felt oh, so familiar.

This is a great memoir. I haven’t touched a memoir since whatsisname the Irish bloke with the drunk father pissed me off with his whining, and his complete failure to accept responsibility for his own alcoholism and his crash-and-burn marriage. I tried reading Robert Graves’s memoir after that, but there, too, the guy couldn’t manage a little honesty when he wrote about his adolescent crushes — all the guys formed these romances with underclassmen; they were innocent flirtations, I tell you, innocent! (I much prefer T. E. Lawrence’s brand of homosexuality. Paraphrase of the opening of Seven Pillars of Wisdom: Life was rough out there in the desert. We took what pleasure we could of one another. Deal with it.)

Martin’s memoir, as the title suggests, focuses largely (but not entirely) on his development as a standup comic, his rise to superstardom, and his departure from that narrow slice of show biz. Nothing struck me as dishonest. True, there were odd moments, such as his inclusion of early romances and his complete neglect of his later and presumably more serious relationships, but give the man his privacy. That’s one of the take-homes from this book, by the way: the living contradiction of an exhibitionistic, intensely private man.

This is a funny book, both laugh-out-loud and odd funny; odd, in that he looks at his early years (working first at Disneyland, later at Knott’s) with a microscope, yet swings through his Saturday Night Live years with nary a tidbit of an “inside look,” the sort of thing most younger people would hope for when buying a book like this. I think he wrote the book he wanted to write, not the book his fans would want him to write. He didn’t pander. These are the pleasures I will share with you, he seems to say. Deal with it.

It’s also a wrenching, poignant story, since he covers his relationship with his mom, dad, and sister — and his interaction with his dad was especially tortured. As Martin picks apart this epoch of his life, he provides some self-analysis, but plenty of ambiguity remains. This felt honest to me. When it comes to parents, who among us has it all figured out?

There’s so much good stuff in Born Standing Up; it’s an amazing thing for such a slender memoir. I was struck in particular by his analysis of comedy (a very different take on the tension/release theory) and the glimpse he gives into the mindset of an habitual performer.

And that’s the stuff that really felt familiar, if only faintly and from a great distance. I think my sister will vouch for this statement: there was a time in my life when I would have chosen the very same path. (For Steve Martin belting out “America The Beautiful” to his family, think of me doing the same for “Home on the Range” at the pizza parlor — remember, Sis?) It’s in me, still. As much as I might channel it into acceptable avenues like this blog, there’s still a part of me that wants to drive down to San Francisco for some club’s open mike night and, well . . . Tell stories. Make shit up. Try to get a few laughs.

Getting back to Steve Martin, Born Standing Up made me feel like I knew him better than I did, but also made me want to get to know him better still. In the past, I’ve panned his serious films, but I don’t think I’ve given them enough of a chance. Maybe I’ll rent LA Stories.

Anyway . . . Born Standing Up. Highly recommended.

D.

Walnut, September 24, 2008. Category: Books 'n' Authors, Reviews.

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