Paul Brownstein of the Los Angeles Times spins out one of the most insipid, most ridiculous, most hackneyed take on standup comedy that we’ve ever had the misfortune of reading.

Where do we begin?

Brownstein wasted his time (and the precious ink of the Tribune company) by writing a mean-spirited and embarassingly cliched review of Dane Cook‘s HBO special that premiered last night.

The next to last line of Brownstein’s childish tirade:

This is, for now, the Cook legacy: He signals the end of the comedian as we knew him– reclusive, angry, socially awkward, anguished, self-defeating.

All you need to know, really. Brownstein, and his compadres in the media, feel good about themselves as long as they are secure in the knowledge that us comedians are “reclusive, angry, socially awkward, anguished, self-defeating.” Take a good look, fellow comics– Tom Shales called us all “monkeys.” Brownstein’s world is rocked when a comic comes along and demonstrates that he is neither reclusive nor angry nor socially awkward, anguished or self-defeating.

Take a look at Brownstein’s shopping list when he goes a-hunting for a comedian that is to his liking:

reclusive
angry
socially awkward
anguished
self-defeating

What a narcissistic, melodramatic, drama-queen douchebag is Paul Brownstein. We hope, for his sake, that he had some regrets when he hit “send” on this particular 22 column-inches of drivel. For him to totally believe this nonsense would signal his total breakdown as a credible commenatator on the scene that is American pop culture.

Here’s the first line of this horrific shank of shit:

Comedians aren’t supposed to be happy, just the opposite, but Dane Cook is the Disneyland of comics: He’s the happiest, most uncomplicated place on Earth.

We get it now: Comedians aren’t supposed to be happy. We get it and get it clearly– Paul Brownstein has it all figured out. Comedians are supposed to be dreary, apocalyptic truth-tellers, fresh from the shooting gallery, the needle, only minutes before, snatched from our forearm, the memory of the searing pain of our stepfather’s knuckles across our cheek still fresh in our minds.

What does he want?

We get the feeling that he’s aching for a combination of Tennessee Williams, Edith Piaf and Judy Garland, spewing poignant material that makes us all wince, that makes us all look inward, that causes us vow to change the world– as soon as the waitress brings the check and we settle up.

It is telling that Mr. Brownstein, in his laughable quest to paint the comedian as some sort of heroin-fueled Pagliacci, dredges up the ghosts of Kurt Cobain, Lenny Bruce, Mitch Hedberg and Drake Sather. This is the ideal world of Paul Brownstein: The ones who make the mirth are hiding enough pain for millions. Their output is a cry for help and a wakeup call to the rest of us. They are new age messiahs… but we are too stupid, too shallow, too predictable to figure out that we should be taking our yucks with a spoonful of Ipecac. If we come away from a comedy performance feeling the least bit giddy, we should drag a razor across our veins.

Are we going overboard a bit? You’re goddamned right we are. Fight fire with fire, we say.

From all reliable accounts, Frank Fay was an insecure, melodramatic douchebag. Bob Hope learned pretty much everything from observing Fay. Hope was a rock star who enjoyed the ride, dominated the business, and made an eye-popping fortune over sixty years. Why are we still insisting on squeezing every comic into the Frank Fay mold? Is the entertainment press suffering from some sort of 80-year hardon?

Brownstein and his ilk seem unable to tap out a single coherent sentence unless their framework is a premise that relies heavily on irony. Irony rules. The preacher who diddles little girls, the hooker with a heart of gold, the comedian who cries buckets before the applause has died down. Irony is good, it’s satisfying and it’s been a sturdy armature upon which to sculpt fiction, drama, etc. But when one lets it rule one’s commentary on real events, it becomes a ludicrous crutch.

Mind you, we’re not defending Cook out of any warm and fuzzies for the man or his comedy. We’re just sticking up for Cook or any comic who doesn’t enter stage left alongside Death, Famine, Pestilence and War. And we’re sticking up for any comic who might project a carefree air onstage yet who doesn’t share an apartment with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in his off hours.

If the influential Brownstein can have such a narrow, limited, inflexible view of standup comics when it comes to Cook, what must he think of such titans as Jim Gaffigan, Brian Regan or Wanda Sykes?

Get a load of this statement, summing up Brownstein’s justification for admiring Mitch Hedberg:

It was understood, at least among his peers, that Hedberg’s act would not have existed without his demons.

Say what? We’re of the opinion that Mitch was great in spite of his “demons,” and that only an uninformed bonehead like Brownstein would make such an presumptuous and extravagant statement.

More from Brownstein, on how Cook has become a star:

He’s become huge by asserting that the comic mind does not come from alienation and restlessness but from adoration and social connection…

…and the problem is?

Alienation? Restlessness? In the bright, shining comedy utopia envisioned by comrade Brownstein, all comics will be forced to advance the cause or get out of the business, lest we hurt comedy or damage social progress.

Here’s one last gem. It’s from the section where Brownstein sticks his nose into perhaps the most heartbreaking episode in the last decade of standup, the death of Mitch Hedberg:

Hedberg’s memorial was held at the Friars Club in Beverly Hills; half a dozen comics eulogized him, and it was odd, the sight of them reduced to tears, or trying to reduce themselves, insofar as comedians can feel for one another.

Shales called us monkeys. Brownstein has an even lower opinion.

Shecksism? You decide. Read the rest here, if you must.