You were born in the States, then moved to your father's home country of Mexico at age one, where you lived until you were six or seven. In America we have people that are poor and middle-class and rich people – we have about 50 levels of rich; it's like the Eskimos having a lot of words for snow.You said onstage that one of the differences in America was, "The policemen were awake! In Mexico, you have really, really rich people, and then you have peasants.
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I was a little kid, so all I had to do was completely reject my Spanish and my Mexican past, so I just became an American kid, which is a whole lot easier because I'm white with red hair.
I had the help of a whole nation of people just accepting that I'm white.
It's got to be an uphill battle to try to assimilate when everyone just keeps pointing at you and calling you a Mexican.
"It fills time, that's all it does," says Louis C. This will be his last stand-up special until at least 2015. is wearing stylish, thick-framed glasses and a cashmere sweater, which he removes (modestly, in the next room) in favor of a crispy-new model of his standard black T-shirt.
K., staring down his toughest audience in a dressing-room mirror set against a brick wall. Beginning next month, after he finishes shooting a David O. He looks way worse in his stage outfit than in his street clothes, which seems about right. has become the defining comic hero of his age, except instead of Establishment hypocrisy, he savages his audience's narcissism and entitlement. But his best stuff comes from his arias of self-loathing, the true confessions of a sad-eyed shady dude of the emotional lowlands.
He's backstage in a New Brunswick, New Jersey, theater, running through the parts of his act he does plan to perform: "It gets better. Russell movie (he's also in Woody Allen's new one), C. is devoting a full year of his time to the fourth season of , his FX show, which he expects to debut next May. His red hair and goatee are more untamed than usual; from some angles onstage, he's starting to bear an unexpected resemblance to one of his idols, fellow black-tee-wearer George Carlin. The inventor of the term "white-people problems," C. tells us exactly why we're the worst ("You hate Verizon? Tonight, the first performance is similar to the HBO special – but despite his best efforts, he gets lost and finds the "fucking cat story" coming out of his mouth. He begins with nearly 20 minutes of brand-new material – some of which he e-mailed to himself under the subject line "joke" (a bit about God's ex-wife) and others that are pure improvisation (a protracted, uproarious riff on anal sex). Lined up on the table in front of the mirror are the modest fruits of his tour rider: five cold waters, one beer, tea with honey, a tin of Planters nuts, a pot of the strong coffee that he gulps out of a Red Sox mug like it's a sports drink. But his set is always in flux, even in its final days: He's been working on his current act for a year, and per his self-imposed rules, will abandon it forever after the special airs April 13th. That's the set." As usual, he has nothing written down, taking cues only from a quick review of his last performance, as self-bootlegged on his i Phone. Oh, yeah, OK, then going to the movie high, then I use my phone, then the phone with the kids, then we're home."The idea is to stay away from the material I have as long as I can," he says. Defining yourself is a really strange thing to do – to me, that's just not any fun."That energy pulls all sorts of stuff out of you." ] Fuck, I don't know, I doubt it. John Lennon was the greatest, I love him, but I wouldn't call myself any of those things. My grandfather was a doctor who invented medical machinery, so he had a nice house and then everybody else was poor.