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— that they were ‘comfortable in their old jeans’, that they liked country walks and red wine. At 63 he had a teenage son, plus he was paying maintenance for two other children from an earlier relationship.
We had nothing whatever in common, and I fled as soon as decently possible.
None seemed to have any of the extra pounds that actually counted, namely money.
I read that they were ‘mortgage slaves’ — at 60 plus! Not only did he expect me to buy my own drinks — I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that a man should pay on the first date — but it turned out he had huge baggage.
begins with the closest thing the stripped-down comedian can get to visual spectacle: the sight of him in a suit. Then, in another departure, he launches into some very prepared material. At the beginning of 2010’s , arguably the apex of his stand-up career, he takes the stage unceremoniously and opens with, “hello, everybody,” then spends two minutes deconstructing the pointlessness of the term “everybody.” In 2011’s , C. “I think you should not get an abortion unless you need one.
Throughout his stratospheric rise as a stand-up, C. has always taken the stage in a black T-shirt and jeans, a workmanlike uniform for someone who thrives on a universal (if profane and often bleak) approach to his mostly observational comedy.
If I’m looking for him, he must be looking for me, I reasoned. He takes the stage dressed formally, looking more like a funeral-home director than a blue-collar worker. has never been particularly interested in properly opening or closing his comedy sets. “So I think abortion is, um, here’s what I think,” he says to an awkward laugh from the audience. He’s underrated as an avuncular, friendly comic, a grump who still has the kind of charisma that can command an audience no matter how taboo the subject. “I think that women should be allowed to kill babies,” he says, immediately mocking the automatic cheer this gets from the audience. That investment, coupled with a lack of other distractions, seems to have emboldened C. is full of funny digressions, silly voices, and the kind of dark observational material about his life and family that C. has delved into tough topics, but in ways that are designed to bring the audience along with him. wants to start things off by making people shift in their seats nervously. But the opener is unusual in that it serves as a sort of mission statement for the rest of the special. With something that’s never been very present in his stand-up. He offers rhapsodic praise of love in a way only he can—warning, “Don’t be greedy and expect it to last.” He dissects the myth of Achilles, reframing it as a story of the impossible task every parent faces in trying to satisfy and protect their children. After his incredible run of five great specials from 2007 to 2011 (hasn’t aired a new episode since 2015 (it remains on “hiatus”), but in the last couple of years, the landscape for comedians has dramatically changed. But Netflix has now begun sinking hundreds of millions of dollars into the rights to specials from big names like Chris Rock, Dave Chappelle, John Mulaney, and others. But it’s also drilling down to deeper, more conceptual questions about life. It’s an impressive return—and a further indication that the hour-long comedy special is an art form with plenty of life left in it.In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein sexual misconduct scandal, women and men alike have been more vocal about speaking out against unwanted sexual advances and contact.The accusations have been many, and the reaction and fallout has been swift across the industry.