Get your fill
of Ron Osborne at these fine outlets:
Church
of Comedy
White Eagle
826 N Russell St., 282-6810.
8:30 pm Sunday, May 14 and 28, June 4 and 18. Free.
Osborne has taped
more than 500 episodes of his cable-access show. It is one
of the most bizarre programs you'll ever stumble
across, but if you want funny, see him live.
Cable access show
11 pm Tuesdays on Channel 11; Channel 49 in the 'Couv.
ronosborne.fanspace.com
Ron Osborne and I are having a late lunch. I'm trying not
to spit grilled cheese all over the place.
I feel like I'm back in grade school, fighting to regain
control so I don't make a jackass out of myself. To make
matters worse, I'm keenly aware of the nearby quartet of
twitchy senior citizens, nervously trying not to notice
every time Osborne says "fuck." Which is often.
These are the improprieties you risk when dining with a
comedian--especially when the comedian happens to be funny.
"I've been a comedian for over 12 years now," Osborne says.
"I started for the reason I think most people become comedians--you
know, I just thought I was a funny guy, and I was." He says
it matter-of-factly, but without arrogance.
Osborne, 35, is an ex-Marine, a husband, an ordained minister
in the Universal Life Church (send in a postcard and you
can be one, too) and, as he would say, "a whore." Born and
corn-fed in Nebraska, where he got his start as a stand-up,
Osborne has lived in Vancouver, Wash., for six years. He's
been hustling on the comedy circuit since 1986, a stint
that's required just as much ass-kissing behind the curtain
as ass-kicking on stage.
To hear Osborne tell it, though, his yes-man days are over.
He's burned showbiz bridges nearly as often as he's told
his cornhusker joke. His most recent act of career arson
torched his link to the place many comics consider the only
game in Portland, Harvey's Comedy Club. Sick of the club's
focus on formula, Osborne recently told Harvey's to stick
it.
Now, capitalizing on his dubious religious credentials,
Osborne's launched a regular comedy free-for-all at the
White Eagle called The Church of Comedy. Osborne's self-proclaimed
religion may be laughs, but he's serious about the shot
at redemption his break from the mainstream offers.
"I had lost my funny," he says. "I knew the comedy tricks
and formulas to make people laugh. Some people are comedians
because they're comedians, and some people are comedians
because they're funny, and that's what I think I'm back
to again."
These days, it's not easy convincing people that a comedian
is a walking riot-a-minute, a fact of which Osborne is well
aware. "Comedy is considered stupid," he admits. "If you
watch The Simpsons, they make fun of comedians all
the time. But I really consider it an art."
Comedy clubs had their heyday in the '80s, a raunchy era
when comedians were often simply paid in cocaine, cutting
out the middleman. Then, though, times changed. Comedy went
from the so-called "new rock and roll" to safe, whitebread
and distinctly unfunny. Poetry slams and performance art
came into vogue, and standup became the stomping grounds
of guys who tell jokes with balloon animals. So when a comic
who is genuinely hilarious comes along, it's a shock.
I first saw Osborne perform about two and a half years
ago. It was a Wednesday night at a roadside bar and grill
in Beaverton with a hookah-heavy Persian theme. In an effort
to move beyond its core clientele of dirty-dancing weekenders,
the club had started a comedy night, and Osborne was one
of the first guinea pigs.
The crowd, if you could call it that, was a puzzle: a gang
of polyamorists, a stolid judge and his equally mum buddy,
a couple of bar regulars, and my date and me--about 12 people
total. Osborne knew better than to spiel memorized material
in such an intimate setting. Instead, he sized us all up
perfectly and proceeded to have a goddamned field day at
our expense.
Here was a comedian who was sharp, not cheesy. Who knew?
Unfortunately, in today's comedy scene, schmoozing with
booking agents, club owners and managers is more important
than having a razor wit. Osborne relates a story about an
industry jerkface back in Omaha.
"He goes, 'Come to my old club and I'll take a look at
you.' So I kicked ass. The next day I said, 'Well, what
do you think? I totally kicked ass!' And he goes, 'Well,
you didn't really stick around after the show.' And I say,
'Yeah, I met those girls and we went out dancing.' And he
goes, 'Well, you know, if you want to be a comedian, you
have to deal with the business side of it, and I just don't
think you take comedy seriously.'
"It was like my head exploded right then. Take comedy seriously?
It's comedy! There's nothing serious about it."
It's not that Osborne is naïve. Pro comedy, after
all, is how he earns a living. But he's been censored for
the sake of selling tickets and heard the "comedy is not
a joke" line too many times. After a long struggle to become
a headliner at Harvey's, Osborne said goodbye to his bread-and-butter.
His style--poking fun at everyone from big-name acts who
play Harvey's to the free-ticket winners who make up a decent
core of the audience--was perhaps too honest and dangerous
for the club's structured, staid format.
And that brings us to the Church of Comedy.
The format is loose: Osborne emcees, and local talent,
from very rough 18-year-old Danny Yarborough from Bend to
seasoned pro Susan Rice, add pepper. White Eagle manager
John McBarron describes the Church as "very adult humor,
completely uncensored. If it got really big, who knows what
could happen?"
I've watched Osborne perform nearly a dozen times. He was
least funny at Harvey's, when he stuck to the watered-down
gameplan. When I checked out the Church of Comedy in April,
on the other hand, the Reverend was on a roll.
At one point, he spoofed a slurring, drunk heckler in the
audience. "That speaking in tongues part?" he remembers.
"That was the coolest, but to get there [raising his hand
high], you've got to go here [motions down low]. Comedy
clubs want here [indicates a safe middle level], because
if you go there [low], they're gonna say 'You know, that
one joke...and while we're at it, you shouldn't say cunt,
because cunt's not funny. Buttfucker and cocksucker--very
funny. But cunt, noooo.'"
Even with a filthy mouth like that, Osborne is nobody's
whore any more.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Willamette Week | originally
published May 10,
2000
|
