Portrait of the artist as a young celebrity
by Tom Scocca
I was
born and raised in Mexico. You probably couldn't tell, could you? That's 'cause
it's a complete lie. I was never born or raised. I don't even know the English
word for how I got here.
I know the Mexican word.
-- "An Evening with Eugene," Saturday, July 18, 1998
Eugene is headlining, and posterity will be able to hear it. The tape is
rolling as he steps to the mic in the Comedy Studio, the part-time stage up on
the third floor of the Hong Kong Restaurant, in Harvard Square. Tonight's show
is billed as "An Evening with Eugene," in which Eugene Mirman, age 23, is
recording his first CD of standup.
Rick Jenkins, the MC and Comedy Studio proprietor, has urged the audience to
be good and enthusiastic. The crowd -- near the little room's capacity of three
or four dozen, on chairs and banquettes -- is complying as best it can. These
fans don't seem to be in the habit of whooping and guffawing. It's a younger
audience than you'd see at a bigtime club like the Comedy Connection, and
scruffier -- the hip sort of scruffy. It's a Eugene crowd.
Eugene is a bit scruffy himself. He's pale and medium-sized, slightly
barrel-shaped, dressed like anybody else in the room. His hair is very thick
and dark, close to the scalp and low on his nape, with heavy sideburns, so that
it looks as if he's got a bat clinging to the back of his head. His face is
mobile, with mournful blue eyes, and there's something immediately endearing
about it.
"I'm kind of nervous," he says, slowly, " 'cause tonight's the first
night I've ever spoken English. So you'll have to bear with me, fol, kuh, suh.
Folks." His voice is deep and merry and deliberate, and he follows up with a
strange joke about panty shields. Over the next 45 minutes, he will get
stranger. He will read a mock storybook called "Charlie and the Pelvis." He
will do an impersonation of someone dicking around with a guitar that itself
borders on dicking around with a guitar. He will turn the stage over to a
crude-mouthed Teddy Ruxpin, the talking stuffed bear. He will present the first
joke he ever wrote, and the worst joke he ever wrote.
All of this falls under the rubric of "alternative comedy," which is roughly
defined as offhand-seeming comedy that's self-aware about comic conventions.
Mirman is Boston's alternative-comedy impresario and poster boy. He didn't
pioneer the genre, any more than Gang Green invented punk rock. But since he
moved to Somerville a year and a half ago, fresh out of Hampshire College, he's
been pulling a Boston scene together: launching the absurdist newspaper the
Weekly Week, hosting an alternative-standup series at the Green Street
Grill, forming the sketch group P.S. Absurdo. Veteran Boston comedian D.J.
Hazard calls Eugene's arrival "an energy pellet in the engine" of local
alternative comedy; Rick Jenkins, introducing Eugene's act, declares that he
"literally changed the way comedy is done."
And Eugene has let people know about it. A self-described "publicity whore,"
he may not be the most famous person in Boston, but he's got to be the most
famous one who still scoops ice cream by day. His image, like a goldfish, grows
to fill its surroundings. If nobody west of Amherst has any idea who Eugene is,
no matter. He'll just make sure he's on a first-name basis with everyone in
points east.
Actually, I was born in Russia. And I came here when I was about five. So
all of the teeth that I have now are completely different from the teeth I had
before. Back in Russia. I have all-new American teeth. All of my teeth -- all
of 'em, new. I don't have any of -- I have none of the same teeth that I
had originally. Maybe I'm being unclear. The teeth that I have now, here?
[opening mouth] -- all new. And I had none of these teeth in Russia.
Eugene is explaining his background while drinking a Sprite in a Harvard
Square coffee shop. The part about emigrating from Russia is true. "The KGB at
some point came to our home to try to find a book they thought my father had,"
he says. "We weren't rebels or anything. . . . We didn't fight
the Man. But we did leave the Man."
The family ended up in Lexington, where Eugene discovered notoriety. "I was
pretty much hated till the middle of 11th grade," he says. "I was really
infamous. People would stop their cars and yell, `Hey, that's Eugene,' and
point at me." When his dog was killed by a car, he says, "this one girl told me
that it committed suicide because it didn't love me."
Meanwhile, he says, he was listening to Emo Phillips records over and over. In
11th grade, he and a friend put on a comic play, and people liked it. Then he
decided to run for senior-class president. "My campaign slogan was -- a friend
of mine had thought of this -- `It's not a change, it's a mutation,' " he
says. "I came really close, too. If 10 people had voted the other way, I'd have
to organize our reunions."
By the end of high school, he was doing standup at Catch a Rising Star and
following Boston comedians like Tony V and Frank Santorelli and D.J. Hazard.
"This stereotype of '80s comedy . . . is like a person in a sports
jacket talking about relationships," he says. "But they would take an entire
audience to see a movie and talk throughout the movie, or they would pretend
that they were taking each other hostage, [or] they would suck pizza with a
Shop-Vac."
At Hampshire, Mirman designed his own major in comedy, doing papers on Lenny
Bruce and on the sociology of humor. "I learned that nobody knows why people
laugh, in terms of physiology," he says. "I learned about setup-punch
line. . . . Basically, you say something and then you deny it. A
lot of comedy is just, `you think this, but really this!' And you
say it a little louder, and go like that" -- he beams and spreads his hands --
"and everybody laughs."
The demonstration does get a laugh. A large part of Eugene's appeal is
content-independent; it is, in fact, all in the delivery. Among his fellow
alternative comics, who opened the evening for him, Patrick Borelli might have
had more piercingly hilarious material, and Eugene's roommate, Brendon Small,
may have taken bigger comedic risks. But Eugene has the knack for selling the
jokes. Often his work has a time-release quality: he gives the punch line (or
the anti-punch line) and then stands, radiating Eugene-ness, till the laughter
kicks in like an old radio warming up.
You remember Andy Warhol? Right? Remember his famous quote, everybody gets
15 minutes of fame?
Was he talkin' about the movie? 'Cause I understood the whole thing. It's
just dancin'.
Eugene is recognized in the coffee shop where he's giving an interview.
Just inside the door, a girl in hipster glasses accosts him, saying she wants
to get his autograph on a picture because somebody told her he was going to be
famous. Upstairs, it's the waitress's turn. "Don't you work at Toscanini's?"
she asks. He confirms. "OK," she says. "I went in there one day, like a month
ago. You were so funny. You were just hilarious. Someone was standing there and
not ordering, and you were talking to him, and he wasn't talking back. I don't
remember exactly what you were saying, but it was really funny." Eugene thanks
her, and she leaves.
"I didn't plan this," he protests. "Or if I did," he adds, "it's pretty
inventive, and it seemed natural, and that's really all that counts."
This outlook -- that publicity is where preparation meets opportunity -- has
served Eugene well. Since he first cracked the Boston Globe's "Names
& Faces" column last October, his name has appeared there as many times as
(to stick within his age bracket) budding Celtics star Ron Mercer, NHL Rookie
of the Year Sergei Samsonov, and Baby Spice, combined.
Of course, he is still scooping ice cream, and looking for a better job. And
he's still working the press. "I would love to have a talk show," he says. "You
should put that I'd like to have a talk show. That should be this big headline:
EUGENE WANTS A RADIO TALK SHOW."
You can make things change. Eugene knows this. "At my high-school reunion,
people came up to me and apologized for being so mean to me," he says. "It's
not like I spent my whole life despised and now I want to build a bomb. I
eventually grew past all that and now I'm succeeding to some degree. It's not
huge, but it's my degree."
Tom Scocca can be reached at tscocca[a]phx.com.