Las Vegas: Comic Relief

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Comic Relief

Comic Pilgrimage

BY Ted Sablay

In nearly any confessional writing, the author counts on the readers knowing certain truisms, the most important being that he wouldn't play himself down if he wasn't certain he was more than tolerated in that house. Of course, such writing can occasionally smack of the author's pride in having given up his pride. Thankfully, stand-up comic Marc Maron--he of the angry, philosophical, rant-oriented variety--keeps self-congratulation and self-help schmaltz at bay in his spiritual memoir, The Jerusalem Syndrome: My Life as a Reluctant Messiah.

The title itself is a name given to a genuine psychological phenomenon that often strikes visitors to the Holy Land. They become saddled with the delusion that they're suddenly direct vessels for the voice of God. Only after a particularly manic trip to Israel does Maron conclude that he had long had Jerusalem Syndrome. After all, he's always felt special; as a child of privilege at Hebrew school in Albuquerque, he first recognized his "unique talent for driving people to the edge," moving two teachers to cry and one to quit on account of his behavior.

The book's theme, the spiritual journey of a radical materialist, provides an effective framework for Maron's fanciful recollection of his life, beginning with a college flirtation with beatnik culture. His examination of the Beat phenomenon as religion, with sacred texts, established rituals (bad poetry, mind-altering fluids), and even pilgrimages ("any car ride with music and no destination") is not only good comedy but astute criticism, while a poem about visiting Jack Kerouac's grave is excellent parody.

After graduating from Boston University, Maron moved to L.A. and worked as a doorman at the Comedy Store ("a dark temple of fear and pain"), where his obsessions with cocaine, conspiracy theories and famous self-destructive comedians convince him that the gates of hell open beneath Los Angeles. As his quest matures, the comedian reveals the religious aspects of corporate America, pontificating on the timeless beauty of the Coca-Cola logo and even taking a trip to the Philip Morris cigarette factory, where the workers puff their own products with a zealot-like fervor.

One of the book's funniest sections comes in his story involving a stand-up gig in North Carolina, where he was bombing horribly. With nothing to lose, he stopped mid-joke to tell the audience that he was a Jew. Right after he said it, a man in the front row turned to his wife and said, "I knew it," at which point Maron decided to press his luck:

"You know what? I think the Christians are getting a bad dossier on the Jews. I think there's some misinformation going around, and I want to clear some stuff up because I'm here to help. Let's start with the holidays. For instance, the Jews have Passover and you Christians have whatever it is you do with the Bunny. Oh, yeah, but we're the ones with the freaky rituals. Go find the colored eggs, kids, then you can eat a chocolate rabbit. Yeah, the Jews are the freaks. Sit on the fat guy's lap and ask him for free shit. Yeah, we're the weird ones."

The centerpiece of Jerusalem Syndrome is Maron's account of his trip to Israel, ordained, the comic says, by God, who appeared to him one night in a vision instructing him to buy a Sony camcorder. There, he comes face-to-face with his own ambiguous relationship to Judaism and reaches the brink of spiritual crisis. Despite his wife's nagging, Maron explains that he'd rather experience Israel at home on TV rather than firsthand. This plan goes awry, however, when the camera breaks, bouncing him between the safely virtual square-inch image in his viewfinder and the unmediated reality of his surroundings.

It's this disconnection from the world that Maron warns us against. In the closing chapter, written three years after the Israel trip, he reflects simply that "the cure...was essentially living life." He closes with a redemptive story about performing a benefit for his old Albuquerque synagogue: "Faith in the face of disappointment is only enhanced by laughter in the face of pain. That's my belief. That's my job."

There are some narrative gaps here, but Maron's penetrating insight and immense heart are compelling enough to transcend them. What he essentially does is confront his own New Age idiocy--the belief that any kind of selfishness, self-indulgence, triteness, exploitation and general ignorance is justifiable, perhaps even desirable, as long as it's a part of some kind of search for enlightenment. With equal parts curiosity and despair, Maron has crafted a genuine literary memoir that brings modern-day idols into focus. Whether he's a prophet or a neurotic mess is unimportant. The point here is The Jerusalem Syndrome will make you laugh as you examine the meaning of your life.

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