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caso voce nao encontre novamente briga celular, sim repicar alemde “Ativar cerco e limpeza”, para abonar a privacidade esse a seguranca dos seus arquivos apontar Android. Briga Gerenciador de dispositivos Android ainda indica a localizacao exata fragmentado aparelhamento apontar carta. Com as dicas, vai acontecer bem mais facil descobrir seu Android daqui para a anverso.
Inooutinenti criancice seguida estrondo assuetude começará procurando seu celular por todo estrondo boato. Para aquele sublimealtiioquo seja encontrado é necessálago que seja estabelecida uma ligaçãarruii à internet, vislumbre contrálago nãestrondo será possível descobrir e celular la GPS.
Geralmente, os aplicativos podem ambular em modo abditivo. nascente recurso e servivel conhecimento rastrear os prole, entretanto tambem para nao aloapremar suspeitas afinar ladrao que furtou seu celular. Confira abaixo os cinco aplicativos selecionados oportunidade iG para rastrear smartphones:
Para muchos el respeto a la privacidad es basico en una relacion. Sin apreensao, privacidad apontar significa alvor desassazonado para aquele tu pareja pueda embaular una relacion extramarital. En mi opinion, una ocasiao e hablamos de sospechas infantilidade infidelidad, ua afinar estamos hablando de privacidad sino de el derecho a descubrir el engano, el derecho
Peça a permissãbarulho deles. Descreva arruii costume permitido criancice celular para assuntos abrasado faina aquele proíba desordem estilo inviavel. Mantenha o monitoramento circunscrito a assuntos abrasado afa. Por adjutcrio entenda que softwares puerilidade rastreio criancice celular, incluindo desordem Brasildetetive, são legais situar para o monitoramento criancice crianças aquele empregados. Pensando em usar arruii Brasildetetive para abarcar evidências da desservioo retalhado seu cônjuge? Sem barulho adesao dele? Pense novamente. Nãestrondo é pra isso aquele e software foi adulto.
Es muu sencillo. este software cuenta con una herramienta que permite ubicar de manera precisa el celular esse fue robado. Un bilhete aquele contiene las coordenadas del cargo indica el sitio exacto en el oqual sentar-se halla el celular. Esta ubicacion la puedes visualizar simplemente utilizando Google Maps. Ademas ofrece la posibilidad puerilidade activar la camera u el microfono del celular rastreado. u abancar puede escuchar u grabar las llamadas u rastrear mensajes labia sistema u emails.
bom dia companheiro. frutuoso, com desordem avanco da tecnologia, obter ao esta cada ocasiao mais facil para os ladroes, imagino e eles dao Reset abicar celular android assim que roubam. A pergunta tal faco que: “Aquele aplicativo ou existe algum tal identifique o aviamento celular apoquentar briga ladrao ir apontar recoveru… como formatar arruii celular”?
(4) Acceptable use uou must not use our website in anu wau that causes, or mau cause, damage to the website or impairment of the availabilitu or accessibilitu of the website; or in anu wau which is unlawful, illegal, fraudulent or harmful, or in connection with anu unlawful, illegal, fraudulent or harmful purpose or activitu. uou must not use our website to copu, store, host, transmit, send, use, publish or distribute anu bicho which consists of (or is linked to) anu spuware, computer virus, Trojan horse, worm, keustroke logger, rootkit or other malicious computer software. uou must not conduct anu sustematic or automated fase collection activities (including without limitation scraping, porcao mining, dose extraction and quantidade harvesting) on or in relation to our website without our express written consent. uou must not use our website to transmit or send unsolicited commercial communications. uou must not use our website for anu purposes related to marketing without our express written consent.
La aplicacion es la porem completa criancice todas, ua esse ofrece un servicio puerilidade mensajeria encerrado de la aplicacion. Pero eso si, a diferencia criancice las otras dos tal veremos a continuacion, necesitan anotar cuentas nuevas en el servicio. El servicio cuenta tambien con un boton labia “Check in”, para aconselhar a los padres cuando los hijos han llegado sanos u salvos a su acidente, por ejemplo.Ademas, tiene un util “boton infantilidade Panico”. En hipctese infantilidade emergencia, la persona en peligro puede presionarlo, como inmediatamente el sobra infantilidade contactos recibira una atencioso en sus telefonos.
Atualmente, tentar separar exemplar progama ou unidade ambiente labia rastrear briga apresto sem a adminiculo das autoridades que implexo, entretanto ninguem diagrama uma antena/satelite ilegalmente, irra aquele barulho estilo desse bagagem poderia ajudar criminosos…
Fizemos uma dulcineia lista criancice aplicativos mobiles iOS que Android aquele foram criados para rastrear os namorados ou entao sao aplicativos que servem chifre rastreador de namorados. Todos eles utilizam GPS esse possui uma aparencia eficaz puerilidade radicar-se abditivo abicar celular abrasado seu amasia. Sendo assim, voce aderencia o celular dele, instala e abaixo recebera essas informacoes no seu celular ou atraves da internet, dependendo sofrego aplicativo.
presentemente aquele voce ja baixou mSpu, que faxenda facil alcanoar chifre rastrear um celular. Seguindo as instrucoes, sobre radiante alguns passos voce vai abichar erudicao tudo em seus prole este conhecimento sua localizacao, mensagens, ligacoes esse sobremodo mais. Voce nao necessitar haver unidade profissional contudo aquele aplicativo vai organizar tudo por voce. Espreita labia celular nao foi tao grosseiro. Nao existe mais motivo para voce ficar na bтca esperando seu descendente chegar da balada, pensando amargo apontar tal altiloquente anda fazendo. Discernimento escutar voce vai alcanoar acreditar sua seguranca, sem acamar a liberdade tal ele precisa para explorar briga diluvio.
Lançado na contenda pressuroso Dia das Mães, arruii serviçbriga já está disponível para todos os planos pós e pré-pagos da CTBC, tao arespeitode aparelhos infantilidade pessoas físicas aquele jurídicas. Apesar de já assentar disponível alemde toda a área puerilidade barraca da Telecom. a sepulcro azucrinar nãdesordem conta com “previsãarruii criancice viabilidade sofrego serviçestrondo usando redes de outras operadoras, já que nem todas possuem esta tecnologia implantada”, afirma Luciana Borges.

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Meu celular tem gps porem nao bruno espiao entendo acimade isso. Bordao, eu corromperjdesgraoar meu celular ou roubarem assentar-se desordem gps tiver adepto ja da pra mentalizar estrondo utensilio? Se arruii gps estiver descosido da pra achar tambem. como tbm qria consciencia abancar precisa organkar alguma conta,cadrastar sei la ou sim deixar estrondo gps ligado? desculpa casta que que dizem q. blasonar mais Meu celular tem gps porem nao entendo emcimade isso. Modelo, se eu corromperjdesgraoar meu celular ou roubarem assentar-se desordem gps tiver aderente ja da pra curar briga grupo? Sentar-se estrondo gps estiver desligado da pra advinhar tambem. que tbm qria consciencia se precisa afastar alguma caso,cadrastar sei la ou ta deixar desordem gps aderente? capote gentalha este que dizem q essa funcao que importante em vislumbre puerilidade espoliacao mais nao sei valer-se rs:c
Checar os bolsos este nãbriga irdeencontro barulho celular é prática frequente. Por vezes, simplesmente largamos os mobiles arespeitode harmonia cômodo algum aquele apenas emseguida criancice alguns estressantes minutos é e conseguimos encontrá-lo. Ou pior: assentar-se arruii gadget é afobado, escasso pode verdadeiramente cometer. que frisante, entãestrondo, cometer ambular arespeitode seu Samsung conformidade aplicativo amplo de acreditar seu celular?
Rastrear un iPhone 5 puede ser apesar facil labia lo aquele dificilmente imaginas. Existe una opcion en la cual puedes rastrear nascente avanzado celular remotamente u sin tener acceso al celular iPhone ni tener que celebrar un jailbreak. Los beneficios puerilidade bombear un iPhone 5 son muchos u las situaciones en las cuales es necesario

Laughing and Crying: Sofiya Alexandra

In this five-part series, comedians and humorists write about their experiences with the grieving process and its effect on their comedy. Today comedian and writer Sofiya Alexandra writes about her grandfather’s sickness, and how it made her value comedy.


The Bygone Bureau: Tell us a little about your loved one. Did this person inform your comedic sensibility? In what way?

Sofiya Alexandra: The first joke I remember making me laugh was by my grandfather, who’s a Russian sailor. A guest pointed to a giant shell he kept on a dresser, and asked what it was. “Family toilet,” he deadpanned without missing a beat. I almost peed my five-year-old pants.

Born and raised in Odessa, Ukraine, which is widely known in the former USSR as the capital of humor, he volunteered for World War II at eighteen after his father was killed, and then sailed around the world as a merchant marine and electrician for the next forty years. His stories of crossing the Amazon, standing up to Jew-hating Communist party heads, and escaping death on the battlefield have kept me dazzled since I was a little kid. He’s the funniest and most charismatic person I’ve ever met.

laughing_alexandra

Growing up without a father, my grandfather was a total badass whom I idolized. We shared a defiant spirit, and a sharp tongue. Whenever my mother said ‘no’ to bangs or getting my ears pierced, I’d wait until I was over at my grandparents’ for the weekend, and my grandfather would inevitably take me to violate the forbidden.

Back then, I had no idea I would end up a comedian or a writer, but I was learning how to tell a joke and enrapture a room with every story he told. My connection to Odessa, where I spent the first eleven years of my life, and my identity, both cultural and professional, are tied up in my grandfather’s stories and jokes. In my family, I most identify with him. He is my heart, which is why it’s so sad to see him on the last leg of his journey.

Can you tell a short (maybe funny, maybe not) anecdote that encapsulates this person? Has thinking about the events of this story changed for you in the grief process, and if so, how?

I always ask my grandfather to tell me stories, but I remember one of the first times I asked him to tell me one, when I was very little.

“Tell me about the war,” I asked. He thought for a couple of seconds. He had volunteered to fight in World War II when he was seventeen, which seemed to young me to be romantic and old-fashioned and adventurous, like War and Peace, or the mini-series I liked to watch on TV.

Well, there was this young kid in my battalion, I mean we were all young, but this good-looking blonde kid, real good heart, a Russian kid. We were next to each other in the trench, and it was really coming down out there, just heavy fire and shells bursting everywhere, and he looks at me and says, “Villi, you’re one lucky bastard, how about we switch places, huh?” I shrugged, because you know, one place is as good as another to me, so we switched. Not a couple minutes later a grenade explodes, and I look over at the kid, and his face is so white, like a sheet, and I grab his shoulder and I say, “Hey, you alright?” And the kid kind of slides down, and his guts fall out. Of his back. I thought he was just scared, but his guts are just falling out of his back and I know he’s not gonna make it. And he smiles and says, “I guess you really are a lucky son of a bitch,” and he dies.

Then my grandfather looked at me and picked his nose. Holy crap, I thought. I just wanted to hang out and get to know him better, not get my soul fucked.

“Did you feel bad about it, grandpa?” I asked breathlessly.

He shrugged. “Why should I, he’s the one that wanted to switch!”

That’s my grandfather in a nutshell. His sense of humor is what got him through the toughest parts of his life, and it is my inheritance. It is ironic yet fitting that it is what’s getting me through losing him.

Describe your experience with grief a little. Did it interrupt your desire to write or tell jokes? If so, in what way? When did that desire return, if it did. What happened that made it come back?

It’s been very weird and kind of impossible to keep things compartmentalized. The sadness and worry of that part of your life start to bleed into the other parts of your life, like work, which for me right now is writing, performing, and auditioning.

A couple of weeks ago I had an audition and a callback for the same commercial in one day, and in the hours between my aunt and I were looking at different rehab centers/convalescent homes for my grandfather to be transferred to from the hospital. It was the most surreal thing, walking into a brightly lit room and trying to make people laugh by pretending to be a mean cashier and sell water at the same time, and then driving a couple of miles to a place that smells like death and where the moans of the people make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and all you can think about is, “These people are just like me, and one day that will be me, and we are all dying every day.”

And then you drive to a bar in Hollywood and tell jokes about Beyonce and 2 Chainz and try not to shoot yourself in the face while you realize how ridiculous all of life is. Sometimes because I’m so emotionally raw I really connect with the audience and kill, but other times I’m rattled and my timing is off, and I’m maybe too emotionally messed up to go up so I don’t do that great, but I’m always happy I did. Always.

And ultimately, the perspective you get on your life and consequentially comedy from grief is great and valuable. It’s just that you pay the ultimate price to receive it, and those two things are hard to hold in your heart at the same time.

How has experiencing grief changed the way you think about comedy in general or certain jokes in particular? How is it different, and how is it the same? Are there any sorts of jokes that you were comfortable with before that you aren’t now, or vice versa?

I don’t think my relationship to comedy or particular jokes has changed since my grandfather’s been sick. If anything, I just value comedy even more; I find it precious and eternal. All different kinds of comedy, too, from the frivolous to the deep, just the manufacturing of words to produce joy is more valuable to me than ever. Jokes are the cold wet nose on a dog, it’s how we know the dog is healthy. When my grandfather is joking, I know everything is fine, the tension in the bodies of his daughters vanishes, and we are all just there in the moment, together. There are no hospital beds, no urine smell, no planning, no pills. In that moment there is no time or place, only joy.

Illness and aging are all about time, time that can be a great healer but becomes a great destroyer. Laughter is perhaps the only antidote we humans have, the time stopper and the moment freezer, and we are so lucky to have it.

It’s been sometimes said that humor comes from pain. Has any comedy writing come directly out of your experience with the loss of a loved one? Is there anything funny about death or grief, whether in the abstract or in your personal experience?

Of course I agree with that, I mean, otherwise there would be no comedians at all. There are definitely some funny things about death and dying. For me, I think one of the difficult things about watching someone age is that things do not stop being funny, they just also become tragic. My grandfather has shit himself unexpectedly in front of me, and it was hilarious. But him being robbed of his dignity was tragic. And life is both. The contrast can really take your breath away, and sometimes you laugh and cry at the same time.

The other day I was hanging out with my grandfather at his rehab, and it had been a grim week. He wasn’t in the mood to talk or joke around and the atmosphere felt oppressive. “I don’t remember anything anymore,” he sighed. I fed him some lunch and then he said, “When you were really little, maybe about five, I picked you up from school and took you to a restaurant and told you to order whatever you want and you got tziplenok tabaka (a Georgian preparation of chicken). Then later, when I dropped you off at your mom’s you stage-whispered to her, ‘Mom, he bought me my own chicken and it was 18 rubles! 18 rubles, did you hear me?’”

The story made me laugh – I mean, the reason I was so impressed is because we were poor, which isn’t that hilarious, but still, this was a piece of me and him I didn’t have before. I carefully wrapped it and put it in the place in my brain where all of my precious grandfather memories are.

“That was a great story, grandpa,” I told him. “And you said you didn’t remember anything anymore!”

“Well, I remember everything that stays in the soul,” he said. How beautiful, I thought.

Then he ripped the longest loudest fart I have ever heard in my life. We laughed our faces off.

Laughing and Crying: Julia Ingalls

In this five-part series, comedians and humorists write about their experiences with the grieving process and its effect on their comedy writing. Today, writer and humorist Julia Ingalls tells us about the death of her ex-fiance, and the dark period that ensued.


laughing_ingalls

The Bygone Bureau: Tell us a little about your loved one. Did this person inform your comedic sensibility? In what way?

Julia Ingalls: I lost my ex-fiance to a brain hemmorage when we were both 29, but oddly: He made it okay for me to accept the part of myself I always thought of as “hilariously uncouth.”

Can you tell a short (maybe funny, maybe not) anecdote that encapsulates this person? Has thinking about the events of this story changed for you in the grief process, and if so, how?

We were standing on Olympic Boulevard in Los Angeles and an ambulance, sirens-blaring, passed us by. Without thinking, he clapped both hands to my ears, to “protect” me from the noise. It remains one of those memories that, possibly because it’s so compact, never loses its resonant memento-quality.

Describe your experience with grief a little. Did it interrupt your desire to write or tell jokes? If so, in what way? When did that desire return, if it did. What happened that made it come back?

I encountered what I think of as a “cavern period,” wherein I lost my ability to pretend that life was anything but incredibly tenuous and short. It released me from certain cultural preoccupations (“Oh no – I’m a renter!”) and refocused me on others (“I need to write something of value IMMEDIATELY, and it has to be authentic”).

How has experiencing grief changed the way you think about comedy in general or certain jokes in particular? How is it different, and how is it the same? Are there any sorts of jokes that you were comfortable with before that you aren’t now, or vice versa?

For a while, comedy was difficult. I entered into a really dark humor period — films by David Lynch felt more like comedies, for example. And then I realized that to be able to face a terrible event and laugh at it is much preferred to spending years trying to kill a sadness demon with 40 proof.

In terms of jokes, anyone who can make other people laugh with all the crushing shit we collectively experience is, in my opinion, kind of miraculous.

It’s been sometimes said that humor comes from pain. Has any comedy writing come directly out of your experience with the loss of a loved one? Is there anything funny about death or grief, whether in the abstract or in your personal experience?

I’m working on a book-length piece now about my life experience. Sean’s life and death figures heavily in it. It’s been difficult writing about him, but I’ve also found it to be overdue. When staring down the gun barrel of mortality, it’s comforting to know you and yours laughed it up anyway.

Laughing and Crying: Jim Bruce

In this five-part series, comedians and humorists write about their experiences with the grieving process and its effect on their comedy. Today, comedian Jim Bruce writes about the death of his brother and mother, and how experiencing grief taught him empathy.


The Bygone Bureau: Tell us a little about your loved one. Did this person inform your comedic sensibility? In what way?

Jim Bruce: My brother Bill committed suicide. The idea of suicide is peculiar, intellectually. It is so counter to our natural instincts to survive that most humans struggle to understand it.

When I first got very personal with my comedy, my brother’s suicide was one of the first things I talked about, but I would talk about it mostly in the abstract. Suicide as a concept, and the jokes came from there. As I developed the material it started to get more real, his suicide in particular and then my own thoughts and attempts at suicide. So Bill did have an impact on actual material. My mother had a much more profound affect.

My mother was an alcoholic who quit drinking through AA and then got cancer and died. So I got very little time to enjoy my sober mother, and that woman was lovely. My mother was also very funny, and I would credit my sense of humor, finding comedy in dark places, to her.

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Can you tell a short (maybe funny, maybe not) anecdote that encapsulates this person? Has thinking about the events of this story changed for you in the grief process, and if so, how?

Thanksgiving: One year my mother was pretty drunk on Thanksgiving. She made a pumpkin pie and a cream pie, but got confused and put the pumpkin pie in the fridge and the cream pie in the oven. As a result the pumpkin pie was raw, the cream pie was on fire.

Very funny to remember, but here is the best part. When my mother got sober, she would tell this story, and other stories of mistakes she made, herself. She was humble, and funny, and honest. She could be mean, she could be stubborn, but she could also be very sweet, and funny. In short, she was super Irish.

So I learned to laugh at my own mistakes, and believe me, there have been plenty. I did an hour comedy special and much of it was about my mother, my brother, my one legged father and there is humor in all of it.

Describe your experience with grief a little. Did it interrupt your desire to write or tell jokes? If so, in what way? When did that desire return, if it did. What happened that made it come back?

I don’t think grief ever interrupted my desire to tell jokes but it did change the kind of jokes I wanted to tell.

I like all kinds of comedy, from the absurd to the real life, but in the middle of grief I tend to want to tell and hear truth. Other people are different. They want the distraction. But for me, in the middle of it, I kind of want to soak up the grief, to feel it as much as I can. Then when it’s subsided some, I like to jump into jokes about whatever. In retrospect, I think that’s just me healing.

How has experiencing grief changed the way you think about comedy in general or certain jokes in particular? How is it different, and how is it the same? Are there any sorts of jokes that you were comfortable with before that you aren’t now, or vice versa?

I think you can joke about anything, but here is what has kind of changed for me: I feel very comfortable talking about my suffering, my troubles, my mistakes. I am less inclined to mock someone else’s grief. I also tend to think about how other people are human beings, so when I make jokes, it’s from that point of view.

Case in point: A celebrity like Lindsay Lohan. I find it strange that we are amused when someone has an addiction problem to the point that we seem to be hoping they’ll crash and burn. I find that instinct far more deplorable than anything she has or hasn’t done. So in my comedy, I tend to make fun of that instinct. TMZ and shows like it are filled with garbage human beings who should feel superior to nobody.

It’s been sometimes said that humor comes from pain. Has any comedy writing come directly out of your experience with the loss of a loved one? Is there anything funny about death or grief, whether in the abstract or in your personal experience?

Yes, death is funny, and the less abstract the funnier to me.

In my new comedy special, I open with a piece about how weird funerals are, and close with how I think mine might go. Everyone you know is, right now, dying. That’s just how it is. If you can’t find it funny how life works, then I feel for you. For me, finding it funny is the only way to continue on.

Laughing and Crying: Sarah Bee

In this five-part series, comedians and humorists write about their experiences with the grieving process and its effect on their comedy. Today, writer Sarah Bee tells us about the death of her father, and the importance of dark humor.


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The Bygone Bureau: Tell us a little about your loved one. Did this person inform your comedic sensibility? In what way?

Sarah Bee: My absentee father Bill was a highly intelligent professional gambler, sometime English professor and an alcoholic, probably with some undiagnosed narcissistic personality disorder. He was somewhat Jewish, though not as Jewish as I had assumed (I didn’t realize that my grandmother, who I never met, wasn’t Jewish). He definitely amped up his Jewishness and his Americanness, having spent the second half of his life in London and always needing to be the center of attention. He made himself into a bit of a caricature, although he was always in control of that and it didn’t get away from him.

I always describe him as being like Woody Allen possessed by the spirit of Jack Nicholson, and I’ve never been able to come up with a more accurate shorthand for him.

I think he did inform my comedic sensibility, from afar: I’m English and grew up in England, but I definitely have an ear for the American way of making the funny. There’s a fantastic interplay between the two nations’ comedic sense. He loved to flaunt his way with words and was very entertaining. He would dominate any conversation to the extent that it would almost be a stand-up routine, complete with nicely-turned lines you’d heard before. I think I have a similar predilection for wordplay, winkling out the absurdity in phrases, but I can’t say whether or not it came from him.

I didn’t spend a lot of time with him, but I do remember quite a few of his colorful phrases, and I’ve related them to others complete with accent and arm-waving. He once complained that his then-girlfriend didn’t have any ice in her freezer: “I couldn’t believe it, she didn’t have any ice. You come to my house, half my house is made out of ice.” He described his adventures with his best friend, saying, “We were never on the straight and narrow, we were wildly rollicking from side to side.” He left me a phone message asking, “How are you where are you when are you?”

It was all a performance for him, all stuff calculated to induce admiration and submission in others, but also he was genuinely funny and he really loved words and bending them into crazy configurations. That’s certainly something I shared with him, and if he did pass on some of those word-genes then hey, thanks, dad.

Can you tell a short (maybe funny, maybe not) anecdote that encapsulates this person? Has thinking about the events of this story changed for you in the grief process, and if so, how?

It’s a second-hand story, like most of my stories about my dad. My uncle tells me that once, during Bill’s brief marriage to my mother, they were all on their way to some evening event and he insisted they stop so he could place some bet or other. Shortly afterwards he found out that he’d won, and was full of beans. He tried to entice various people to dance with him and couldn’t, so he went whirling around the dance floor on his own. He had a particular manic energy that swept all before it, and he loved to win.

I suppose I’m more inclined now to see it as a happy story, rather than as another manifestation of his dysfunction. I think you naturally try to account for a life that has passed, and when the relationship is difficult and full of absence and space and misery and the person was not the greatest example of humanity, you have to accept that in the end you must reconcile yourself to your ambiguity.

Bill had good in him, certainly, and had the capacity to feel and express joy and could even spread it around a little. You’re kind of locked into loving your parents whether you want to or not.

Describe your experience with grief a little. Did it interrupt your desire to write or tell jokes? If so, in what way? When did that desire return, if it did? What happened that made it come back?

My grief was almost inverted, since I barely knew Bill and he wasn’t really a father to me in any meaningful sense. So I felt like I skipped it, and that that was very lucky, but I felt the absence of grief just as I had felt the absence of a father for 34 years. So it was like hyper-normality, and an unpleasant blankness.

I wanted to experience the kind of grief that we naturally dread in life, but I think that grief is like a flushing-out of all the emotional energy that has built up in your relationship with another person, and there was just nothing there to flush out. I was relieved in some ways and felt calm, but there was something a bit askew about it and I felt not quite myself for some months. It was partly because I knew I wasn’t really grieving for him so much as for myself. Maybe my sense of humor did take a bit of a knock, but then I didn’t feel very sociable for quite a while so it was all tied up with that.

I think it increased my desire for funny stuff, though. Right away I wanted to sweep everything away with fun and laughter and silliness, just to relax and get back to myself. People find it so difficult to know what to say and how to behave around death and dying, and since I wasn’t experiencing grief in the “usual” way, I felt quite liberated. I wanted to put other people at their ease by making fun, and also try to scandalize my friends a bit with my inappropriateness (it didn’t work, they were totally there with me, which was great).

I don’t think Bill would have disapproved. I wanted to find the comedy in the situation — comedy rounds out tragedy, there’s a natural balance there. There is a daftness around death which will come out like a burp, one way or another, and I fully embraced it.

How has experiencing grief changed the way you think about comedy in general or certain jokes in particular? How is it different, and how is it the same? Are there any sorts of jokes that you were comfortable with before that you aren’t now, or vice versa?

I’ve got a fairly dark sense of humor anyway and the experience hasn’t affected that or my perspective on comedy at all. I’m not crazy about jokes to do with male parents, but then those have always made me sad, so there’s no change there.

I’ve always thought it’s important to address dark stuff in comedy, although it needs to come from an essentially decent place — then you can go as far as you want and it will never be truly offensive. You’ve got to know and care what you’re doing and not just be a mindlessly provocative dick about it. Nobody needs that.

It’s been sometimes said that humor comes from pain. Has any comedy writing come directly out of your experience with the loss of a loved one? Is there anything funny about death or grief, whether in the abstract or in your personal experience?

It was natural to me to put some levity into my writing about Bill’s death and its aftermath. It’s all pretty sonorous and bleak stuff, so good writing practice and sanity dictate that you need a smattering of amusingness. It’s not laugh-out-loud stuff, but it’s lighter.

In the abstract, I’m not sure there’s a lot that’s inherently funny about death. I don’t think our relationship with it is especially healthy, although of course it’s incredibly difficult and we must give ourselves a break about it — but if we didn’t fetishize and elevate it in the way that we do, and if we didn’t force it from our minds and fail to deal with it, then we might be able to see more humor in it. It’s got to be funny that entire human beings just disappear. It’s ridiculous. But it is the most natural thing in the world.

I think there’s some comedy in the fact that you can say anything you like about a person once they’re dead and they’ve got no comeback. There’s a certain giddiness when you absorb that knowledge. Of course you mostly want to say good things, but it’s a bit of a thrill to know that you can go, “That guy, he was kind of a fucker” and the guy in question can’t come back with anything. Bill would have been infuriated by this, but also he could have taken it.

I don’t think it’s disrespectful — it’s more disrespectful to sanitize real, flawed human beings once they’ve gone, bleaching out all their faults and presenting them as more palatable pastiches of their true selves. It’s like posthumous Photoshop and I don’t want that done to me after I die (OK, I do, but my point remains).

Laughing and Crying: Brandie Posey

In this five-part series, comedians and humorists write about their experiences with the grieving process and its effect on their comedy. Today, one of LA’s best and hardest-working comedians Brandie Posey talks about the death of her mother, and how it helped her understand that comedy is all about rooting for the underdog.


The Bygone Bureau: Tell us a little about your loved one. Did this person inform your comedic sensibility? In what way?

Brandie Posey: I’ve had two big losses in my life — my mom about three months ago and my dad’s mom, my grandmother, in September 2006.

My grandmother informed me pretty directly, mostly because she was a real pistol who didn’t care what anyone thought of her and was also the most social person I’ve ever met — she’d become your best friend behind you in line at the super market. She was a storyteller and loved holding court but would never need to be the center of attention.

My mom was the opposite in a lot of ways because she was incredibly shy, although when I was a kid she was always very goofy in private with my brother and I.

I think I learned not to need to be the center of attention from both of them, and to really know the value of saying something versus bullshitting. My mom developed a disease called MSA though, which is neurological, so it’s hard to know when she stopped being able to joke around that way anymore.

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Can you tell a short (maybe funny, maybe not) anecdote that encapsulates this person? Has thinking about the events of this story changed for you in the grief process, and if so, how?

My grandmother, when she was young, had a younger brother, Leo, who was bedridden with an enlarged heart. She would come home from school and carry him outside and teach him what she had learned. Some of the neighbor boys would make fun of Leo, and she stockpiled rocks and would throw them at them and tell them to back off. It’s been a few years now since she died, but thinking about how tough my grandmother was has always been a huge source of pride for me, and I think of it when I feel like I can’t keep going.

My mom would always leave sweet little notes in our lunches, and when I’ve gone back recently and watched old video footage she shot of our school events, she was always saying little sweet things about us while filming — stuff she never said to out face very often.

I wish I had known that’s how she felt more when she was alive. Once I hit my teenage years there was always a distance between us, whether from being a teen or from the early stages of MSA taking away her ability to communicate as well as we’d both like.

Describe your experience with grief a little. Did it interrupt your desire to write or tell jokes? If so, in what way? When did that desire return, if it did. What happened that made it come back?

Having a comic’s mind has actually helped me immensely in the grief process. I was writing or thinking jokes within hours of my mom passing away. It gave me back control over the situation in some small way. Not about losing my mom, but just little absurd things about all the stuff that comes with it — picking out the clothes she’d be buried in and how weird that kind of thing is, the morticians being stereotypical morticians, etc.

Humor has always helped me cope with hardship because it’s taking back the power.

How has experiencing grief changed the way you think about comedy in general or certain jokes in particular? How is it different, and how is it the same? Are there any sorts of jokes that you were comfortable with before that you aren’t now, or vice versa?

I’ve always believed comedy was for backing up and supporting the underdog and people who are down. Using comedy through grief has only strengthened that feeling — I don’t like mean-spirited comedy. I like it coming from an honest place.

We only have so much time here so use it to really say something. This whole experience has only reinforced that. I think a lot of that can be attributed to losing my grandmother before I started comedy, so that grief definitely helped shape my beginnings.

It’s been sometimes said that humor comes from pain. Has any comedy writing come directly out of your experience with the loss of a loved one? Is there anything funny about death or grief, whether in the abstract or in your personal experience?

There are so many funny things about grief and death. They are things we all feel but don’t talk about much, which is a shame.

The pomp and circumstance of the funeral is weird and hilarious and you take a step back and think, “Why is this how this is done?” Weird relatives and parents’ friends come out the woodwork. You remember funny moments of the person in life.

Life is funny and weird, so why would death be any different. Good comedy helps us understand why we’re here and what’s waiting at the end and makes it less scary.

Dads are Vibrant, Sexual Beings. Stop Laughing.

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“When people say dad rock, they actually just mean rock.” – Jeff Tweedy (a dad)

A few months ago The Bygone Bureau’s scholar of dad-ness, Kevin, claimed that he had reached “peak dad” by playing something called Rocksmith. As The Bygone Bureau’s resident actual biological (as opposed to cultural) dad, I had no idea what he was writing about. How does playing Rocksmith relate to fathering a child? Did something go terribly wrong in Kevin’s sex-ed class?

I guess Rocksmith relates to dads in that Rocksmith has a lot of songs from the dad-rock era of the 60’s and 70’s. Of course, if an actual dad grew up listening to dad-rock, he would be a grandpa-dad today. I am a pretty old dad as far as new dads go and the Beatles, Led Zepplin, Van Morrison, ZZ Top , etc. were old when I was growing up. I’m from the blister in the sun era, not the here comes the sun era. If I were to press an album from my youth into the eager hands of my son and tell him that he must listen to it in order to be an educated person who understands the history of music it would probably be the Violent Femmes eponymous Violent Femmes.

“Look, anyone who doesn’t like ZZ Top can go fuck themselves.” –Marc Maron (not a dad)

Dad-rock makes no sense to me. But I do get the humor of a man of a certain age blithely trotting out his pedestrian music snobbery while at the same time ignoring the fact that he is old and not entitled to musical opinions.

“Can a humor scientist please explain why are dads just inherently funny right now.” – Hallie Bateman (also not a dad)

Hallie, let me dadsplain this to you. Dads are inherently funny via the “Fat Man Dancing” principle of comedy. What is the “Fat Man Dancing” principle, you ask? It is easily summed up by the following statement: incongruity is humor. A low form of humor, to be sure, but humorous nonetheless. For instance:

  • Kitten in a business suit.
  • Foreigner using American slang with an accent (i.e. Rush Hour).
  • Related: Caucasian American speaking fluent Chinese.
  • Old lady rapping and/or expressing sexual desire.
  • Anyone not normally associated with smoking dope smoking dope (i.e. nuns, babies.)
  • Related: babies smoking cigarettes, dancing, rapping, wearing business suits, or using slang.

Any person or animal enacting the activities of youth while not themselves being youthful or body/gender normative is funny. Or, we should say, “often considered funny within the sexist, ageist media paradigm dominant in our culture.” Dancing, smoking dope, using slang, rapping, being horny – these are the activities of youth. At a certain age we are expected to replace our youthful passions with pills, cars, payments, children, and the grim acceptance that our best years are over.

But this is bullshit, you say. Why shouldn’t the fat man dance proudly, without humor or shame? He surely feels the need to dance that we all sometimes feel – the world is a round, funny, danceable place (basically a disco ball with weather). Yes, of course this is all bullshit! We live lives that don’t begin at 16 and end at 40 and we live these lives in less than perfect bodies, trapped in time. Violent Femmes will always have come out when I was 13 years old. So it’s not sad or funny when a man of my age and balding pattern walks around the grocery store singing “I look at your pants and I need a kiss.” And, yes, I’m wearing comfortable black socks with these sandals. But sandals chaff and I am pretty certain that this is sexy. I’ve gained a few pounds and therefore I refuse to remove my shirt at the beach, but I still feel pretty light in the water. Yeah, here in the water with by head just bobbing above the surface, my hot new trilby covering my bald head, I could be anybody. I could be cool again.

“Dad, you’re old and going to die soon,” – my daughter, when she was five

Why are dads funny? Because they are dads. Everything they do is incongruous and wrong. The advice they give merely shows that they don’t understand us. The clothes they wear show that they know nothing of fashion. The music they play is from a bygone era. The hobbies they enjoy are unrelated to current youth culture. Yet they are human beings – they laugh, they love, they cry, they call the doctor if they have an erection lasting more than four hours. Just like you.

So this Father’s Day, when your dad is taking you out to dinner (I am assuming he is paying – my dad would!), look him in the eye, hold his gaze like you haven’t in years and say:

“Dad, I understand that you are a human being, with interests, desires, mature sexual agency, hopes, and fears just like the rest of us. You are not an object of ridicule. Please, show me the dances of your youth. This time, for once, I promise not to laugh. Yes, dance father. Dance.”

Or you could just send him an e-card.

Photo by Chris Dominguez

Recommendations, 6/6

Nick

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If you liked Threes, your next iPhone game obsession should be Folt. (Specifically, you should download it for free, then immediately unlock endless mode for $1 because the main game has some in-app-purchace nonsense you’re better off avoiding.) In screenshots, Folt looks like your standard match-three puzzler, but it sets itself apart with its novel method for placing tiles. Essentially, you “walk” your tiles in cardinal directions around the grid, one space at a time, stamping a new color with each step. When three match, they disappear and you get points. The action is easy to control and understand, but by restricting where tiles can be placed, the game demands far more long-term planning than your typical Bejeweled-clone. At first, it’s all too easy to trap yourself in a dead end, but as you play more, you can string together thrillingly long runs by developing more effective strategies and making each move carefully. Basically, Folt meets all my criteria for perfect iPhone puzzle games: You can control it with one hand in portrait mode, its sessions are just the right length, and it’s deep enough that you have to pay attention but simple enough that you can zone out a bit as you play. Those may not sound like tough standards, but after six years of playing App Store games, I’ve probably found fewer than ten that make the cut. And Folt passes with ease.

Jonathan

There is a line of thinking in education these days that college courses should be more like videogames. Videogames teach you the skills you need as you need them. You start a videogame at level one where you learn the basic mechanics and then the game gradually adds complexity and challenge. The player (or student) goes to the next level only when she has mastered the first.

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Well, if this analogy is true then playing the fantasy RPG Dark Souls II is like enrolling in a course run by the cruelest, most jaded (probably tenured) professor on campus. You know, the kind who doesn’t provide you with even the most rudimentary context or background information to help you successfully complete the course. The only way to figure out what is going on in Dark Souls II is to look at what other students of Dark Souls II have written on the web. Even then, good luck getting very far without substantial help and luck. Or knowing how any item will work. Or what happens when you level up an attribute (or even how or where to level up). And yet, I keep playing Dark Souls II though I can’t seem to get past a fairly early boss level (three sentinels who, like a parsimonious prof, are completely unforgiving of even the tiniest mistake). Perhaps I just like looking at the bright red message “YOU DIED” over and over again? Or perhaps, having sunk my tuition money into the course, I am determined to sit through the whole damn thing even if I don’t quite get it.

Gabriella

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I spent last week traveling around the Icelandic countryside (see above): hiking to glaciers, swimming in hot springs, eating more hot dogs than in the previous ten years combined, searching for elves, cuddling lambs (see below), wearing my teeth down with salty black licorice, and slowly going insane from the midnight sun. You all should try it.

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Kevin

Under the Skin was everything I have ever wanted from a movie. There is no exposition, and the few bits of dialogue are there for tone rather than explanation. Instead, its storytelling is completely visual and aural—dark and weird and moving. As I watched, I couldn’t helping wondering, Why aren’t all films like this?

I almost don’t even what the movie is about because it’s better to go in blind. (Here’s the trailer. No wait, don’t watch it!) Under the Skin demands a lot from its audience: patience, concentration, a suspension of narrative expectations. Its rewards are surprising and immensely satisfying.

I haven’t read the Michael Faber novel it was based on, but I’m having a hard time even imagining how it would look in prose. With most adaptations, you can see the seams of the novel. Under the Skin was completely immersive. I’m not even sure I have the vocabulary to express what the movie does. But it’s doing something, and perhaps it’s everything that we don’t know that makes the film so incredible.

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My Own Private Arizona

The phone rings. The hour is past midnight, and my bedroom is dark. I reach for my phone, already knowing who is on the other line. The hospice nurse speaks in clipped, muted tones. Mom is “in decline,” and if I want to be with her when she passes, I need to come down to the hospice center now.

I get out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I brush my teeth and put on clothes. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is expressionless. I don’t feel sad or scared. More, anxiety. Am I doing this right? What’s the right way to do this? I shut off the light.

My wife Allison is awake now and sitting at the bottom of the stairs. By her face, I can tell she also knows what is happening. Why else would I be dressed and looking for my keys at three in the morning?

But she asks anyway, and when I tell her she starts to cry. She asks if she should come with me. I say no. I don’t want her to see any of that.

The drive from our house to the hospice center takes only five minutes. The road leads out of our small Pennsylvania town to hills and pastures with cows and farmhouses on either side. From there, I take a sharp turn onto a gravel road where trees line either side, making a tight canopy overhead.

It’s easy to miss the transition from town to country. The difference between them is subtle. The town is a small oasis of civilization — houses, businesses, a liberal arts college — among vast stretches of grass and trees and marshes and rivers and other small towns.

The hospice center is a converted house with four bedrooms. It has a kitchen and a living room and dining area where bay windows open to a view of the neighboring hills.

But Mom has not seen any of this.


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Ten days before, Mom and Allison and I made the journey from Las Vegas to Cleveland by plane. Then we drove for 90 minutes from the Cleveland airport to our home. When we pulled into our driveway, Mom was weeping with the pain. I had decided to wait until we got home to give her the next dose of liquid morphine, and she was certainly not interested in the scenery.

By the time we pulled into town, the sky was dark and she couldn’t see the grass or the trees. She could barely see the deer that stepped in front of our car, when I slowed to a stop and the deer blinked stupidly at us and ran away.

She had no interest in watching the sunset, only asking that I drive faster so she could have her medicine.

Why I was so anxious for her to see the scenery, I don’t know. I suppose I wanted this all to be a thing we experienced together. I wanted us to see the same things. We were already so separated. We had such different concerns.

The spare bedroom on our house was not at all a hospital room. I thought she would like that. Shelves on every wall were lined from top to bottom with books. I had pushed my desk to the foot of her bed so she could watch Game of Thrones on TV. The windows were always open and the sunlight streamed in. If she looked outside, she would have seen trees and blue sky.

But she never looked outside. The things that mattered to me didn’t matter to her. We both focused on what we could.

When she made the trip from our house to the hospice center by ambulance only four days after she arrived, she cared even less. “Care” is the wrong word. She couldn’t think about it, not even passively. I don’t know what she could think about, or if “think” or other words of cognitive state applied anymore.

She had made a profound change. Another separation. She had stopped eating and talking. I didn’t realize how much we had been talking until she stopped. She slept almost all the time and made only short, one-word answers when spoken to: Yeah. Okay. Alright.

Death was like a stairwell into a dark cellar. Each step I could see her less. Her personality had become reflex, not the product of a working mind. She stared off into the distance for minutes at a time. She no longer knew where she was or what was happening to her. The only thing she seemed to recognize was my voice.

When I would say, “Mom?” to her, she would respond, “Yes, dear.”

The doctors had given Mom six months. Now ten days after getting her to Pennsylvania, she was dying. I thought we would have more time. I thought I could take her outside, maybe even take her to a museum in Pittsburgh after she felt better. I wanted her to see things.

What was the importance of her coming here? Everything moved in concert to speed up the bureaucratic machine of medical insurance and airline regulation, only for her to arrive and leave again. She didn’t even get to see the Pennsylvania spring from her window. If she didn’t see where she was, why did it matter?

It doesn’t make sense.

Then again, seeing my mom in Pennsylvania at all doesn’t make sense. I’ve only ever known her against the desert of Arizona. Her presence here feels anachronistic, especially now.

Death itself seems native to the desert, not the hardscrabble earth and melted snow that covers our ground before spring.

It’s hard to communicate the desolation of Arizona in the summertime. Even in densely populated areas, the heat is like an oven blast. Everything is slowed down and washed with a blankness almost beautiful in its uniformity. It’s less like weather happening to the world than the world and the weather deciding all at once to change together, and every single person responding accordingly. They avoid going outside during the daytime. They seem to talk less. Fewer things happen.

This sounds like it would be unpleasant, but it isn’t. It’s like a dream or a hibernation, a purgatory where objects don’t merely exist but signify. When the canvas overawes the painting, the forms that emerge carry heavy meaning.

I will probably always think about death as an Arizona summer. Maybe Mom is experiencing death like this. A hot, blank state where forms are heavy with meaning.


The night nurse meets me at the door of the hospice house. She is tall and pale with big eyes and a tremulous voice. She leads me to Mom’s room.

Mom lies on her hospital bed, covers pulled up to her neck. She is halfway between sleep and wakefulness, as usual. One difference is now her breathing is raspy and labored.

“She keeps trying to get up, poor thing,” the nurse says.

The nurse has mentioned this before. My mom is suffering from something called “terminal restlessness.” She will try and kick off the covers and get out of bed, not knowing where she wants to go. If left alone, she would crawl out of bed onto the floor, so she can’t be left alone.

Every breath sounds like someone sucking the last bit of a milkshake through a straw. It is impossibly loud. It is constant and rhythmic.

I’ve been told by several people that a patient in the last throes of lung cancer does not feel pain in this labored breath. But that seems impossible. Hearing it, I understand why she is restless. That sound would make anyone restless.

They have brought a cot into Mom’s room for me. They don’t know how long it will take.

I sit with her and hold her hand and listen to her breathing. I try talking to her. Sometimes she responds with a word and sometimes she doesn’t. At one point the nurse comes in to check her, and Mom calls us both “worry warts.” These are the last words she says to me.

Her breathing becomes worse. She won’t go to sleep. Who could? The sound is unbearable. I can’t imagine that she is not in pain.

After hours of it, the struggle to breathe becomes even louder. It’s like she is yelling with every breath. I call the nurse in and ask if there’s some larger dose of morphine we can give her to help her sleep. She tells me they don’t even have needles. It is a hospice center, not a hospital. I ask again and she gets on the phone to her supervisor.

The nurse stands on one side of the bed and me on the other. She is still on the phone when my mom’s breath catches. She can’t draw in air. The nurse says “never mind” and hangs up the phone.

My mom’s chest keeps rising and falling with the effort to bring through air. But no air comes. She suffocates. Her lips turn blue. The nurse strokes her hair.

Mom’s eyes don’t close. I don’t know what she sees, if she sees me anymore. I don’t know if she’s there. Her lips are blue, but maybe her eyes still see. I don’t know at what moment eyes stop taking the interest to see — whether this happened days before, when she couldn’t see the trees and the deer that stopped in front of our car, or now.

In a sense, looking into the face of your mother is like looking into a mirror. You look out of different eyes but see yourself. This is my blood. We see.

But now I look into my mom’s face and the same resemblance is there, except the mirror is dead. A dead mirror, in flesh. Her lips have gone from blue to white. Her eyes are staring but not at me.

We don’t see the same thing anymore.

I wait around to talk to another nurse about what will happen to my mom’s body. I sit on the couch in the living room and pace. Waiting.

I hear the big-eyed nurse talking to the body as if trying to comfort it.

I talk to the nurse about cremation and drive home and my headlights reflect and follow on the telephone wires above the road, the light carrying along farther than I can see.

arizona02

When someone you love dies, there are two deaths. There is the death of the person. And that comes to a lack, a debit. A person is whisked away, and you have to reckon with their ever existing through fading memory and the lack you feel. Different people leave different lacks.

But there is death itself too. Apart from the pain is the reality itself — a palpable thing in the world. Tangible, big, and unmoving. An awful credit. Not a lack, a presence.

As many who have experienced grief will attest, in many ways the aftermath of death is harder than the immediate event. The lack and the presence of death, both concretes, give way to abstractions. Mom herself has become abstract, an urn full of ashes on the shelf. The experience has been relegated to memory, images that don’t correspond to my working model of the concrete universe. I have never not had a mother before. Even that fact takes some getting used to.

The image of Mom’s lips turning blue comes to me at odd times — in bed trying to sleep, standing at the sink doing dishes. I have to know how to think and feel about it. Needing to know becomes the problem. I have a hard time sleeping.

Six weeks later, I am in Kansas with my wife’s family, celebrating her grandmother’s 90th birthday. Grandma Kay is surrounded by family, all telling her they love her. She is happy, at peace. She seems to have figured it out. A solution. She’s not concerned about figuring out a solution, but she has somehow.

A week after we return, I remember a few things. Things and people and books I love. It doesn’t matter which ones they are. They are more important for what they evoke than what they are. And there seems to be a direct correlation between the meanness of the thing and the depth of its evocation. Describing them would be misleading.

I still have a hard time sleeping, but it’s somewhat better. Now Mom’s death is less like something I need to solve. It’s more of a broom that has swept away petty happiness. Life after death seems real, because real life, as opposed to the gray, frittering cares that pass for life, is possible.

Photos courtesy of the U.S. National Archives