litterbox

Last laugh

By John O'Neill

EXACTLY WHEN THINGS went completely and undeniably wrong I cannot say, but it was long before the day suicide planes duped a lazy nation into proclaiming some fool a king. I like to think I can spot a bad actor – like that time Reagan was capped. I was in the checkout line at Caldor with a copy of AC/DC's Back in Black under my arm when the news of the shooting hit, and I remember a distinct sense of relief that the guy was probably dead. Part of this ghoulish (heartless?) behavior can be attributed to my family, a bunch of table-thumping Boston Irish Democrats. To vote Republican would be tantamount to taking a squirt on the eternal flame that marks Jack Kennedy's tomb. But even at that young age I'm sure my inner voice told me that Reagan was a gold-plated fink – and though getting shot on national television was in some ways a tough break, in my mind he had it coming because he was a no-good rat. And all rats have to suck the pipe eventually.

Over the years bad acting has become a widespread vocation and a standard business practice. The Catholic Church, professional athletes, radio conglomerates, politicians on every level, and pretty much any business that has gone public – these represent just the short list of folks who need a good boot in the ass. But nobody is around to deliver it. What's more, nobody is truly outraged by what's going on around us – we are momentarily disgusted by the newest scandal, but then maybe the Dolphins are playing the Bills with that wild-card spot up for grabs. Or those evil fuckers who are running the country are able to spin should-be disasters into their patriotic quilt and folks figure they have to be with them or the terrorists win. Forget the moral outrage, what happened to all the Democrats? Isn't anyone going to say something? Doesn't anyone smell a rat?

And this is why David Cross's new disc, Shut Up You Fucking Baby! (Sub Pop), is such a gigantic relief. Not only has he spotted the bad actors, and not only is he going after them, but he's also taking the baseball bat of integrity to the noggins of the offending parties. On the album Cross (cocreator of HBO's Mr. Show) runs through a long list of absolute truths that the majority of Americans seem unwilling or uninspired to talk about. Ashcroft, rednecks, Atlanta, morning DJs, the bullshit war on terrorism, the church, living in post-Sept. 11 New York City, Rickey Henderson, even the audience he's performing for all take a pounding. While Cross's list of grievances might seem to be made up of obvious targets, he uses facts and keen personal observation to create the best comedy album since Bill Hicks roamed the earth. Like Hicks, George Carlin, and Lenny Bruce before him, Cross excels at exposing the absurdity of mainstream America. It may be a sad state of affairs – Cross and Tom Tomorrow most likely qualify as America's leading voices of dissent and social commentary – but at least now there's someone willing to revel in our idiocy.

E-mail John O'Neill at litterbox@sfbg.com.