Every year the SF WEEKLY asks it's readers to vote on the best things in San Francisco. One of the categories is best stand-up comic. I would really like to have this honor. So please vote for me by following the link bellow.
Thanks
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Republicans are Dicks
The Republicans have forbidden schools to purchase fruit and vegetables for lunchrooms. You read that right. In the middle of the budget debates someone took the time to write out a special rider to the budget for school lunch programs. In a display of petty spitefulness, the Republicans decided to give the presidents wife a big fuck you by saying no federal money could be used to buy healthy food. Wow!
What brand of special ass-hole do you have to be to ignore the epidemic of fat kids in the country just to give a finger to Michelle Obama? While FOX has been busy planting the idea in little fear based minds that the government "...wants to tell us what to eat now!" your kids have been eating preservative laden plastic wrapped crap that comes in fifty gallon drums available at their school for purchase with their parents money. Why would anyone want to introduce a selection of fruit and vegetables? Why change the system of churning out intellectually void and physically unfit junior Americans?
Do you get what I am telling you? While the country is going through three fucking wars, the greatest economic melt down in our life times and the hijacking of one political party by crazy Jesus freaks who don't realize they are protesting for corporations best interests and not their own, the Republicans said, sure all that's happening but do you know what we really need right now? We need to send a message to the presidents wife that we don't like her at the expense of this nations kids!
Seriously? What brand of mentally deficient willfully ignorant moron decides to put in black and white language a rule that states no federal lunch program money can be spent on food? Real food, too! Not the powdered add water shit we shovel into kids mouths or the sugar and fat ka-bobs available from vending machines that are there only because schools have been so under funded that they bring in companies that split the cash with them.
Has anyone ever thought that the rise in ADD coincides with the rise of sugar in our kids diets? You know what might be good? Some fruit and vegetables. Nah!
This is what politics has come to. You don't have to like Obama or his wife but you're going to be against fruit and vegetables in schools just because the presidents wife is for it?
Sorry, I just can't wrap my head around this one at all. They put it in writing! They took time from trying to decide what our countries economic priorities should be to come out against fruit and vegetables. FRUIT and VEGETABLES!
Oh well.
What brand of special ass-hole do you have to be to ignore the epidemic of fat kids in the country just to give a finger to Michelle Obama? While FOX has been busy planting the idea in little fear based minds that the government "...wants to tell us what to eat now!" your kids have been eating preservative laden plastic wrapped crap that comes in fifty gallon drums available at their school for purchase with their parents money. Why would anyone want to introduce a selection of fruit and vegetables? Why change the system of churning out intellectually void and physically unfit junior Americans?
Do you get what I am telling you? While the country is going through three fucking wars, the greatest economic melt down in our life times and the hijacking of one political party by crazy Jesus freaks who don't realize they are protesting for corporations best interests and not their own, the Republicans said, sure all that's happening but do you know what we really need right now? We need to send a message to the presidents wife that we don't like her at the expense of this nations kids!
Seriously? What brand of mentally deficient willfully ignorant moron decides to put in black and white language a rule that states no federal lunch program money can be spent on food? Real food, too! Not the powdered add water shit we shovel into kids mouths or the sugar and fat ka-bobs available from vending machines that are there only because schools have been so under funded that they bring in companies that split the cash with them.
Has anyone ever thought that the rise in ADD coincides with the rise of sugar in our kids diets? You know what might be good? Some fruit and vegetables. Nah!
This is what politics has come to. You don't have to like Obama or his wife but you're going to be against fruit and vegetables in schools just because the presidents wife is for it?
Sorry, I just can't wrap my head around this one at all. They put it in writing! They took time from trying to decide what our countries economic priorities should be to come out against fruit and vegetables. FRUIT and VEGETABLES!
Oh well.
A link to a list of riders in the Budget. http://www.ombwatch.org/files/budget/OMB_Watch-HR1_Policy_Riders.pdf
Friday, April 08, 2011
10 Things Wrong About America Right Now
1. Taco Bell now offering a burrito made with frittos inside. Because America isn't fat or they know their stoned demographic?
2. Bottled water.
Why is it that the more expensive the water is the more they have a story about the pristine mountain lake fed by glaciers on the label? Then it has an expiration date. Also, if a can of coke is cheaper than water what does it say about your product when adding ingredients to water makes water less valuable?
3. On Facebook, where it asks, Political Views and people respond, Christian.
Christian is a religion not a political view. If you think mixing politics and religion works out, remember that's the mix that killed Jesus.
4. The dream ticket for conservatives is now Donald Trump for president with Sara Palin as VP.
That's right America, two reality TV stars are the Republican front runners.
5. We have three wars going on.
Four, if you count the war on drugs and five if you count the class war.
6. Charlie Sheen.
Enough said.
7. If being a christian means following the teachings of Jesus Christ and Jesus Christ said he was for the poor and sick and a majority of conservatives say they are some type of Christian, WHY would you be for corporations making a profit off sick people and against any sort of humane reform in health care?
8. America has 50,000 troops in Germany and 30,000 in Japan and Korea and those wars ended a while ago.
You really think we are leaving no military behind in Iraq? Get use to Iraq being the 51st. state, America.
9. The people who brought about the greatest economic collapse in world history didn't go to jail.
They went to work for Obama to "fix" the problem they created. Meanwhile, the rich are getting tax cuts as the government cuts back services for the old and sick and to make up for the budget shortfall, the rest of us will pay more taxes on lower income as the banks continue to use the bailout money they got for screwing us to pay lobbyist to stop the government from regulating the banks.
10. G.E. made 14 billion dollars in profit, paid $0 in taxes and received 3 Billion back in tax credits.
They employee 975 tax lawyers to make this happen while I struggle to make enough money from telling dick jokes to strangers for love I didn't get growing up on the road just to pay my overworked tax accounted to see that I ONLY pay some of what I owe the government now and some of it next quarter.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Friday, March 04, 2011
My Civics Lesson or, Airport Security Got to Second Base With Me!
All I have to do is say the words "airport security line" and almost everyone shakes their head in shared frustration. How is it America, to protect itself against extremist Muslim terrorists, subjects its own citizens to a humiliating degree of security? And Israel, a nation surrounded by Muslim countries that routinely vow to wipe it off the face of the Earth, doesn't?
The national airline of Israel has never had a hijacking. How do they maintain security, in what is, essentially, a 24x7 live war zone? They’re trained to pick up cues, while questioning every passenger efficiently, ushering people through security lines based on when flights leave, not the cattle call, one-size-fits-all approach we have here.
When you enter an American airport, you start hearing the taped announcements, "Homeland security places the threat level at orange." What does that mean? Does anyone remember what level orange means? It sounds like an early 80's band. Is orange good? Is that level bad? Have they poisoned our vitamin C? After awhile, all you really register is the word: “Threat.” Then there are the classic announcements, also played in a loop. “Keep your bags with you at all times.” “Report anything strange right away to the authorities.” When you boil these phrases down, the message is distilled simply to: there is something threatening here; don't trust others; people who look different are bad.
If those don't get to you, then all the books written by conservative commentators will drive the point home, too. Maintaining the fear generated by the 911 attacks has become a lucrative business, so it makes sense that people buy books claiming to fight "them." After all, you're in the airport, with that constant loop of fear-based messages filling your head. So when you see a book that claims to lay out the entire agenda of "them", asking why we aren't doing enough to fight "them", why wouldn't people’s reptilian brains make a fear-based purchase?
America, as a country, probably still suffers post traumatic stress disorder from 911. Telling people to be scared of stray luggage, and using a phrase like “threat level” over and over before we board planes, isn't exactly helping us move on.
The airport has become equal parts civics lesson, re-education camp, and just a general pain in the ass. It's a sort of no-man's land, where most of the Bill of Rights doesn’t apply. You actually leave America when entering an airport, and only return to it when you exit at your destination.
When I get to the part with the plastic bins, I get behind a guy who hasn't been to an airport for more than ten years because he is mystified by it all.
"Take off what?" he asks a TSA agent pointing to his shoes. Finally, he pushes his five individual plastic bins into the x-ray machine. Five! A solo traveler with their laptop in a plastic bin should take up no more than 3. As a pro traveler I only use 2. I have slip-off shoes, a quick release belt, and my coat is off before I even get to the bins.
The guy keeps setting off the metal detector. They keep asking him "Are you sure you don't have any metal in your pockets?" He keeps shaking his head and everyone in line behind him shakes theirs, too. After the third time, they use that Jedi wand thing, and it reacts around his knee. "I have a titanium implant. Do I take that out?" He really asks this! After the backup, I’m kind of tempted to watch him try!
Taking your shoes off and removing your belt is exactly what anyone under arrest has to do during jail intake. The only difference between airline travelers and just-arrested suspects is – they read suspects their rights. I think the TSA should have someone standing there, giving you the anti-Miranda speech.
"You don't have the right to be silent. Any and all questions must be answered and must be answered free of sarcasm, frustration or sense of humor. You give up your right to have an attorney present during questioning. You give up the right to the first Amendment, which states you have a right to free speech. You don't have a right to the fourth amendment which states that the police or other government authority can only search your private property with reasonable cause that has to be demonstrated to a judge who will issue a warrant. Should you choose to exercise any of these rights spelled out in the constitution you could be delayed, subject to more intrusive security measures, and, in some cases, arrested and charged with a federal offense that carries jail time of four years and a fine up to $100,000."
I push my stuff into the machine, and in stocking feet walk over to the latest piece of equipment our tax dollars have purchased. It's a futuristic-looking, glass and plastic cylinder you step into, and in a demonstration of exactly how much of our rights we surrender, we comply when told to put out hands above our heads. There is no sound as some long bar between the walls of the cylinder rotates around and an image of you is uploaded to a computer. It sees through your body. Basically, it’s a digital strip search. It sees through your clothes. It can see a pacemaker in a chest, a tampon inside a woman, and, in theory, any hidden explosive materials inside the human body.
A properly-trained dog can sniff out the same thing, for a lot less money. In fact, a recent article suggests that dogs can smell cancer. That’s great information, because full body scans, medical exams that seem designed to find lumps (masquerading as pat-downs for bombs), and dogs that can smell cancer, might be as close as Americans will get to universal government health care.
When I step out of the machine, I’m told to wait. To make sure I know exactly where to stand, they’ve painted the shape of two yellow feet on a rubber mat. Believe me, it's not a Welcome mat. I stand there a moment as other people are allowed to move past me. The TSA agent stares at me. It's not a "I know you from somewhere" kind of stare; it’s a cop stare. Something in her eyes is predatory. It’s unsettling. I ask "What's going on?"
Nothing. No answer at all. Just her unwavering eyes. I ask again.
"Is there some sort of problem?"
Her walkie-talkie crackles at her side. I can't hear what is said into her ear or even what she says into the microphone clipped to her shirt. When she ends her transmission, she simply says in a flat monotone, "A supervisor will out in just a moment for an enhanced pat-down."
I drop my shoulders, close my eyes, and exclaim a little too loudly, "Great!"
I notice a few other TSA "blue shirts" looking at me now, from a back wall. They seem to have no other job than to do just that. All I can think is, “This day’s been hard enough, and I’m so close to making it to my gate. Why me? Why did I get picked for additional security?”
"Would it speed things along if I just took off all my clothes right here?" I say this half-jokingly. TSA doesn't respond well to jokes, I find.
"If you do that we will call the police." She says this in the same flat, bureaucratic accent that probably hasn't changed since the first time someone dutifully uttered the chilling phrase, “I’m just following orders.”
To me, this is funny. I laugh. She doesn't say a word, or blink, just cocks her head a little, in that time-honored silent way of asking, "What’s so funny?"
"If I get naked, right here in front of all these people, it's illegal; and I could be arrested for exposing myself in public. But, if I refuse to go through this imaging machine that takes a nude picture of me, I could be escorted off airport property. That's irony!"
"Threatening language to a TSA agent is a crime," she says.
It’s more than menacing now. I’ve already surrendered my fourth amendment right, and now I’m not-so-subtly being told, there are limits to my first amendment right here, too.
If all of this is to protect us from terrorists attacks, and the terrorists hate us for our freedoms, then good news: our freedoms are disappearing, so they should be cool with us soon. In fact, between America sliding faster and faster toward some Fascist state, and the Arabic world slowly moving toward more freedoms with recent protests, we should all meet somewhere in the unsatisfying middle, really soon.
As I shake my head I notice that over her shoulder I can see a series of dark plastic, half-globes in the ceiling. Just like the security cameras all over the casinos in Vegas. That's exactly what they are. I realize, somewhere, in some other room in the airport, someone is looking at a bank of monitors and I’m the current star. Did I trigger something in a facial recognition software program? I know from reading that these programs are designed to pick up "micro-expressions." These are common expressions on the face of any human under great stress. It doesn't seem like my expressions are very micro at all. I'm pissed. Besides, describing someone as being “under stress” could describe a suicide bomber, trying to fool security; but looking around, I realize it could also describe most of the faces around me in the security line.
It’s weird to see those half-globes. It’s weird to know that, in a basement somewhere, a supervisor is telling the agent in front of me to hold me. It's 2011, and we finally have the technology to live like it's 1984.
A man comes up to me, another blue-shirted TSA agent, and asks me to follow him. I walk to where there are several small rooms set up against the back wall. He asks me to step inside. I enter the room. The two plastic bins of my stuff are already sitting on a shelf. A second Agent now stands in the doorway, watching me with that same unsettling look. The first guy starts to put on blue plastic gloves. He doesn't look me in the eye, just says to me, "I need to tell you that I am going to be touching your crotch and putting my hands on you. Is that OK?"
"Do I really have a choice?"
Neither of them answer. Instead the one with the gloves simply says, "Raise your arms please." Thoroughly and efficiently, he does, indeed, pat me down from head to toe, even squeezing my pockets, gripping my ankles where my socks are, and going around my beltless waist. Then, he gets down on his knees and does to me what priests and creepy uncles have been thrown in jail for. This is an enhanced pat-down in the same way interrogations in Iraq were enhanced. He puts his palm flat against my penis and slides left than right, up and down, rubbing the front of my pockets and almost squeezing my inner thigh, looking for something their billion dollar-machine missed, I guess. I instinctively flinch. "Jesus! Shouldn't you be asking me to turn my head and cough?"
When I am uncomfortable, I tend to joke.
Still on his knees he says, "You should know the TSA takes sexual harassment very seriously."
"You're the one feeling me up, Dude!" Maybe I say this with a little too much anger. I don't know. He lets out a sigh, completes the government-sponsored groping, and stands next to his partner in the door, who finally speaks. "You don't have to like us but we're doing our job and you need to respect us."
"No, I don't." It comes out of my mouth before I can check myself. It just pours out in one sentence as I put my belt back on. "The government just detained me, felt me up under the threat of not being allowed to travel to my destination, and subjected me to humiliation. I wasn't shown respect so no, I don't respect you or your job."
I'm angry now. I feel my body flood with adrenaline. I am shaking a little. He clenches his jaw measuring his words. Before he speaks again I reach for my shoes when a sensation overtakes me.
It's fear.
I suddenly realize, this is how it happens. For the first time in my life, I actually fear my government. I'm in a windowless room with no cameras and two government agents. They have all the power, and I don't even have my most basic civil rights.
His jaw muscles flex several times in rapid succession. I do that, too, when I’m trying to decide to say out loud what I know I shouldn't say. This makes me more nervous. He just keeps looking at me. “This isn't going to end well”, I think. In a split second, his clenched jaw changes to an easy smile, as a look of recognition spreads across his face. "You were at the Punch Line a few weeks ago! You were funny, man!"
Holy shit! I'm not famous or anything. I get recognized every once in a while around town, and it's cool. I realize this is how famous people go crazy. They are caught doing something illegal and then get off the hook, free to go on snorting a line, and end up like Charlie Sheen.
When they leave, and I’m allowed to go on my merry way, I realize the President’s plane, Air Force One, is still on the ground here. That explains all the extra attitude, I guess. I get on the plane, and before it takes off, I get the special speech from the flight attendant, because as luck would have it, I'm in the exit row. They ask you if you understand English, and then essentially deputize you as emergency-door-operator in the event of an emergency.
What?
You're telling me that after going through a million dollar x-ray peeping Tom machine, a regular x-ray of my bags, security dogs, cameras, and all the built-in safeguards on a modern jet - the entire billion dollar safety and security apparatus that’s in place - if there’s a disaster, comes down to me?
Awesome! I want a blue shirt, name tag and the ability to feel up my fellow American's!
I get to the gig and tell this story. After the show the tailor in town comes up to me. "Hey, do you want me to make you some special pants so when they do that to you again something comes out?"
I already have that. It's called every pair of pants I've ever owned.
The national airline of Israel has never had a hijacking. How do they maintain security, in what is, essentially, a 24x7 live war zone? They’re trained to pick up cues, while questioning every passenger efficiently, ushering people through security lines based on when flights leave, not the cattle call, one-size-fits-all approach we have here.
When you enter an American airport, you start hearing the taped announcements, "Homeland security places the threat level at orange." What does that mean? Does anyone remember what level orange means? It sounds like an early 80's band. Is orange good? Is that level bad? Have they poisoned our vitamin C? After awhile, all you really register is the word: “Threat.” Then there are the classic announcements, also played in a loop. “Keep your bags with you at all times.” “Report anything strange right away to the authorities.” When you boil these phrases down, the message is distilled simply to: there is something threatening here; don't trust others; people who look different are bad.
If those don't get to you, then all the books written by conservative commentators will drive the point home, too. Maintaining the fear generated by the 911 attacks has become a lucrative business, so it makes sense that people buy books claiming to fight "them." After all, you're in the airport, with that constant loop of fear-based messages filling your head. So when you see a book that claims to lay out the entire agenda of "them", asking why we aren't doing enough to fight "them", why wouldn't people’s reptilian brains make a fear-based purchase?
America, as a country, probably still suffers post traumatic stress disorder from 911. Telling people to be scared of stray luggage, and using a phrase like “threat level” over and over before we board planes, isn't exactly helping us move on.
The airport has become equal parts civics lesson, re-education camp, and just a general pain in the ass. It's a sort of no-man's land, where most of the Bill of Rights doesn’t apply. You actually leave America when entering an airport, and only return to it when you exit at your destination.
When I get to the part with the plastic bins, I get behind a guy who hasn't been to an airport for more than ten years because he is mystified by it all.
"Take off what?" he asks a TSA agent pointing to his shoes. Finally, he pushes his five individual plastic bins into the x-ray machine. Five! A solo traveler with their laptop in a plastic bin should take up no more than 3. As a pro traveler I only use 2. I have slip-off shoes, a quick release belt, and my coat is off before I even get to the bins.
The guy keeps setting off the metal detector. They keep asking him "Are you sure you don't have any metal in your pockets?" He keeps shaking his head and everyone in line behind him shakes theirs, too. After the third time, they use that Jedi wand thing, and it reacts around his knee. "I have a titanium implant. Do I take that out?" He really asks this! After the backup, I’m kind of tempted to watch him try!
Taking your shoes off and removing your belt is exactly what anyone under arrest has to do during jail intake. The only difference between airline travelers and just-arrested suspects is – they read suspects their rights. I think the TSA should have someone standing there, giving you the anti-Miranda speech.
"You don't have the right to be silent. Any and all questions must be answered and must be answered free of sarcasm, frustration or sense of humor. You give up your right to have an attorney present during questioning. You give up the right to the first Amendment, which states you have a right to free speech. You don't have a right to the fourth amendment which states that the police or other government authority can only search your private property with reasonable cause that has to be demonstrated to a judge who will issue a warrant. Should you choose to exercise any of these rights spelled out in the constitution you could be delayed, subject to more intrusive security measures, and, in some cases, arrested and charged with a federal offense that carries jail time of four years and a fine up to $100,000."
I push my stuff into the machine, and in stocking feet walk over to the latest piece of equipment our tax dollars have purchased. It's a futuristic-looking, glass and plastic cylinder you step into, and in a demonstration of exactly how much of our rights we surrender, we comply when told to put out hands above our heads. There is no sound as some long bar between the walls of the cylinder rotates around and an image of you is uploaded to a computer. It sees through your body. Basically, it’s a digital strip search. It sees through your clothes. It can see a pacemaker in a chest, a tampon inside a woman, and, in theory, any hidden explosive materials inside the human body.
A properly-trained dog can sniff out the same thing, for a lot less money. In fact, a recent article suggests that dogs can smell cancer. That’s great information, because full body scans, medical exams that seem designed to find lumps (masquerading as pat-downs for bombs), and dogs that can smell cancer, might be as close as Americans will get to universal government health care.
When I step out of the machine, I’m told to wait. To make sure I know exactly where to stand, they’ve painted the shape of two yellow feet on a rubber mat. Believe me, it's not a Welcome mat. I stand there a moment as other people are allowed to move past me. The TSA agent stares at me. It's not a "I know you from somewhere" kind of stare; it’s a cop stare. Something in her eyes is predatory. It’s unsettling. I ask "What's going on?"
Nothing. No answer at all. Just her unwavering eyes. I ask again.
"Is there some sort of problem?"
Her walkie-talkie crackles at her side. I can't hear what is said into her ear or even what she says into the microphone clipped to her shirt. When she ends her transmission, she simply says in a flat monotone, "A supervisor will out in just a moment for an enhanced pat-down."
I drop my shoulders, close my eyes, and exclaim a little too loudly, "Great!"
I notice a few other TSA "blue shirts" looking at me now, from a back wall. They seem to have no other job than to do just that. All I can think is, “This day’s been hard enough, and I’m so close to making it to my gate. Why me? Why did I get picked for additional security?”
"Would it speed things along if I just took off all my clothes right here?" I say this half-jokingly. TSA doesn't respond well to jokes, I find.
"If you do that we will call the police." She says this in the same flat, bureaucratic accent that probably hasn't changed since the first time someone dutifully uttered the chilling phrase, “I’m just following orders.”
To me, this is funny. I laugh. She doesn't say a word, or blink, just cocks her head a little, in that time-honored silent way of asking, "What’s so funny?"
"If I get naked, right here in front of all these people, it's illegal; and I could be arrested for exposing myself in public. But, if I refuse to go through this imaging machine that takes a nude picture of me, I could be escorted off airport property. That's irony!"
"Threatening language to a TSA agent is a crime," she says.
It’s more than menacing now. I’ve already surrendered my fourth amendment right, and now I’m not-so-subtly being told, there are limits to my first amendment right here, too.
If all of this is to protect us from terrorists attacks, and the terrorists hate us for our freedoms, then good news: our freedoms are disappearing, so they should be cool with us soon. In fact, between America sliding faster and faster toward some Fascist state, and the Arabic world slowly moving toward more freedoms with recent protests, we should all meet somewhere in the unsatisfying middle, really soon.
As I shake my head I notice that over her shoulder I can see a series of dark plastic, half-globes in the ceiling. Just like the security cameras all over the casinos in Vegas. That's exactly what they are. I realize, somewhere, in some other room in the airport, someone is looking at a bank of monitors and I’m the current star. Did I trigger something in a facial recognition software program? I know from reading that these programs are designed to pick up "micro-expressions." These are common expressions on the face of any human under great stress. It doesn't seem like my expressions are very micro at all. I'm pissed. Besides, describing someone as being “under stress” could describe a suicide bomber, trying to fool security; but looking around, I realize it could also describe most of the faces around me in the security line.
It’s weird to see those half-globes. It’s weird to know that, in a basement somewhere, a supervisor is telling the agent in front of me to hold me. It's 2011, and we finally have the technology to live like it's 1984.
A man comes up to me, another blue-shirted TSA agent, and asks me to follow him. I walk to where there are several small rooms set up against the back wall. He asks me to step inside. I enter the room. The two plastic bins of my stuff are already sitting on a shelf. A second Agent now stands in the doorway, watching me with that same unsettling look. The first guy starts to put on blue plastic gloves. He doesn't look me in the eye, just says to me, "I need to tell you that I am going to be touching your crotch and putting my hands on you. Is that OK?"
"Do I really have a choice?"
Neither of them answer. Instead the one with the gloves simply says, "Raise your arms please." Thoroughly and efficiently, he does, indeed, pat me down from head to toe, even squeezing my pockets, gripping my ankles where my socks are, and going around my beltless waist. Then, he gets down on his knees and does to me what priests and creepy uncles have been thrown in jail for. This is an enhanced pat-down in the same way interrogations in Iraq were enhanced. He puts his palm flat against my penis and slides left than right, up and down, rubbing the front of my pockets and almost squeezing my inner thigh, looking for something their billion dollar-machine missed, I guess. I instinctively flinch. "Jesus! Shouldn't you be asking me to turn my head and cough?"
When I am uncomfortable, I tend to joke.
Still on his knees he says, "You should know the TSA takes sexual harassment very seriously."
"You're the one feeling me up, Dude!" Maybe I say this with a little too much anger. I don't know. He lets out a sigh, completes the government-sponsored groping, and stands next to his partner in the door, who finally speaks. "You don't have to like us but we're doing our job and you need to respect us."
"No, I don't." It comes out of my mouth before I can check myself. It just pours out in one sentence as I put my belt back on. "The government just detained me, felt me up under the threat of not being allowed to travel to my destination, and subjected me to humiliation. I wasn't shown respect so no, I don't respect you or your job."
I'm angry now. I feel my body flood with adrenaline. I am shaking a little. He clenches his jaw measuring his words. Before he speaks again I reach for my shoes when a sensation overtakes me.
It's fear.
I suddenly realize, this is how it happens. For the first time in my life, I actually fear my government. I'm in a windowless room with no cameras and two government agents. They have all the power, and I don't even have my most basic civil rights.
His jaw muscles flex several times in rapid succession. I do that, too, when I’m trying to decide to say out loud what I know I shouldn't say. This makes me more nervous. He just keeps looking at me. “This isn't going to end well”, I think. In a split second, his clenched jaw changes to an easy smile, as a look of recognition spreads across his face. "You were at the Punch Line a few weeks ago! You were funny, man!"
Holy shit! I'm not famous or anything. I get recognized every once in a while around town, and it's cool. I realize this is how famous people go crazy. They are caught doing something illegal and then get off the hook, free to go on snorting a line, and end up like Charlie Sheen.
When they leave, and I’m allowed to go on my merry way, I realize the President’s plane, Air Force One, is still on the ground here. That explains all the extra attitude, I guess. I get on the plane, and before it takes off, I get the special speech from the flight attendant, because as luck would have it, I'm in the exit row. They ask you if you understand English, and then essentially deputize you as emergency-door-operator in the event of an emergency.
What?
You're telling me that after going through a million dollar x-ray peeping Tom machine, a regular x-ray of my bags, security dogs, cameras, and all the built-in safeguards on a modern jet - the entire billion dollar safety and security apparatus that’s in place - if there’s a disaster, comes down to me?
Awesome! I want a blue shirt, name tag and the ability to feel up my fellow American's!
I get to the gig and tell this story. After the show the tailor in town comes up to me. "Hey, do you want me to make you some special pants so when they do that to you again something comes out?"
I already have that. It's called every pair of pants I've ever owned.
Monday, January 31, 2011
""You People""
I was on stage at a cool little hipster bar in the gritty mission district named, The Make-Out Room. I was doing a joke about San Francisco outlawing toys in happy meals. It started out with my sister making fun of San Francisco by saying, "What's wrong with you people? You outlawed toys in happy meals!" I couldn't finish the joke because a young hispanic girl in the front said, "I hate it when people say, you people!"
I asked her "It's usually one of my people that says something like, you people to people like you isn't it?"
She smile and nodded.
I asked, "Do people say that to you when you're alone?"
"Yes!"
I think I figured out one of the causes behind racism. If someone is saying the problem is "you people" to one person, I bet they are drinking heavily and have double vision. Thats why they are freaked out. They think there are more minority people than there actually is. You see, the problem isn't racism, its alcoholism.
I asked her, "When was the last time someone yelled at you, You people?"
Without hesitation she quickly responded, "A guy fell off a roof."
The audience started laughing along with me.
She didn't just answer the question with an unexpected response, it's that she said, fell off the roof, with air quotes around it.
"Did he actually fall off the roof?" I asked.
"Yes!" she responded as if I was asking a crazy question.
"Well, if he actually fell off the roof I don't think you can use air quotes. That means he didn't actually fall off the roof. It means you're using it as a metaphor or some phrase we all know means something else so, did he fall off the roof or did he, fall off the roof?" I asked, complete with air quotes around the final, fell off the roof.
The crowd laughs, she turns a charming shade of red and meekly responds, "No, he really fell off the roof."
"And someone blamed, you people, for this even though it was just you standing there? Are you sure you didn't push him off the roof or something?"
"No, he just fell off a roof and I was standing there."
I thought for a moment and said. "So a guy falls off a roof, lands next to you and some other person looks at the guy who fell off the roof on the ground, then turns to you and yells out, what's wrong with you people?"
She nods her head yes.
"There has to be more to the story!" I say.
It quickly reminds me of a scene I witnessed in golden gate park once. Two men were sitting on a bench having a conversation. I couldn't hear what they were saying but one of them raised his arms to make air quotes around some point he was making. The reason it stuck out in my mind was, he was missing his left hand. That makes that sentence grammatically incorrect. It's a run on sentence, right? The quote is never closed. If he was telling me a story and used air quotes around something like, you people..., I could only sit there and wait.
And all of this happened with my camera sitting in the car. Damn. I broke my own rule about recording every show. You never know what will happen in a show.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
State of the Facebook Union
I just finished watching the President give his state of the union speech. I went to Facebook, our new digital town square, to see the general take on it. What caught my eye right away was a response to a friends update. It said, "I've been crying for two years with this do nothing president!"
It was all in caps, too.
I am tired of hearing conservatives complain that Obama isn't doing enough to lower the deficit. It's a deficit THEY created with two unfunded wars, Medicare part D and a massive tax break to the wealthiest 2% of Americans. Now that all the bills for what they bought have come due, they want the President to find away to pay for their bad choices.
This isn't opinion, this is math.
Maybe he could get something done but the Republicans won't allow anything to even be debated in Congress. This isn't some hyperbole comment either, this is an easy to confirm fact. Go Google how many times the filibuster has been used.
Here is a quick link.
http://thinkprogress.org/2009/03/31/republican-filibusters-skyrocket/
The Republican plan for America is simply do nothing. No exaggeration. Their plan is to simply block, slow down and bring the business of government to a grinding halt. Then, they go on TV and cite FOX news polls that suggest Americans think the government can't get anything done and surprise, just enough people fell for this to elect them back into the majority of government to try the same ideas that got America into this mess in the first place!
WTF!
Of course people think government can't get anything done. There are too many Republicans in it.
If you want to save a lot of money right away, get out of Iraq, Afghanistan and close all the military bases your tax dollars support around the planet. We are an empire. Only an empire maintains military outposts all across the globe to project its power and protect access to resources. Now days we call this "protecting our interests" but when those interests are in another country, things tend to get messy.
Expensive, too.
I don't know if you have noticed but our roads have potholes, our schools are closing, firemen are being laid off and huge cuts are being made not just to obscure social programs you think you will never need, but to basic services while taxes on the least among us are being raised.
It costs one million dollars a year to have a US soldier in Afghanistan protecting us when teachers, cops and firemen are being laid off. Does that make much sense? If this keeps up we will eventually not have to worry about terrorist attacks. Not because of our troops abroad but because there won't be anything working anymore. This is what we are protecting?
Facebook turns out to be a melting pot in real time. I got into a debate with someone I can only imagine has a giant American flag on his pick-up truck with a gun rack and a Jesus fish stuck to the bumper. I said, "Get out of Afghanistan now" and he said, "We needed to stay until there was a true victory for America."
True victory?
Nine years, more than 3,000 dead service men, more poppy fields than before we went in, rampant corruption and no clear end in site; I think we should just declare victory and get out.
His point, "We can't cut and run!" If we just leave it will be seen as a solid defeat. We have to stay till the job is done.
This went on for a few hours. We traded comments with a few other people jumping in pro or con from time to time but mostly, it was just the two of us. He ended one comment with the words, "That's it. I'm done!"
No one can really have the final word on Facebook. Simply saying I'm done doesn't mean the other person now has to sit silently at their keyboard thinking "Damn! I had such a good point to make and then he went and said, I'm done! Now I can't respond."
I responded with a fact and something sarcastic and this caused him to jump back in. This time, he ended his rant with the words, "I'M OUT!"
Yup, all in caps and an exclamation mark too.
I laughed out loud. That's right, I actually LOL'ed for the first time ever at my computer. Why? He just ended his argument on Facebook with my argument for leaving Afghanistan. You can't win an argument doing the one thing you are arguing against. He just proved my point better than I could have! When you can't win, leave.
If you can't handle a debate on the Internet maybe you shouldn't be suggesting war strategies.
All of this reminds me of another debate I had on Facebook around security and the economy. In a global economy sometimes making something cheaper goes against the conservative demand for securing our borders. You want a perfect example of this conservative oxymoron?
All the United States Border Patrol uniforms are made in Mexico.
You read that last sentence correctly.
Gee, how are people from Mexico sneaking in do you suppose?
You can't demonize Mexican people for wanting to leave sweat shops and come here for better pay. The only reason America makes border patrol uniforms in Mexico is because the company we gave the contract to outsourced it there to save money. What's to stop someone from stealing one of the uniforms? How committed to security and legal immigration do conservatives look when they fight to preserve a companies right to make official US government uniforms for the branch that watches the border in the same country they blame the most for illegal immigration?
If they were true patriots those uniforms would be made in the right country.
China.
As I finish writing this I keep checking in on a Youtube debate. I posted a short clip of my "confederate flag story."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54PKxGdB7Y4
A day later a white guy from Mississippi sent me a very long explanation on why that flag is no more racist than the American flag and anyone who sees otherwise is wrong.
My response?
As two white guys I don't think it's our place to tell African-Americans which flag is and is not offensive to them.
I would of thought it was over right there but no. Just because I'm white that means I can't have an opinion, he asked? Of course you can. You can say any stupid thing you want. This is America, damn it!
His next response is the one that made me LOL for the second time. If you talk about a controversial issue like this you have to expect the other side to respond.
WOW. This is still controversial?
I didn't realize there was another side in what is widely considered a symbol of racism to people way smarter than him or I who happen to be black, white and brown. Did you? I thought we kind of settled this argument a while back. That flag represents slavery to a whole lot of people. But, just for the sake of peace, I will no longer say it is a flag representing racism. From now on I will say the Confederate flag is the flag of the losers.
Better?
Friday, January 07, 2011
Classes
I've done OK for a comic who doesn't want to leave the Bay Area. A few years ago, I started getting lots of people asking me for advice on Riffing. It's the one thing I do better than most everyone else. It’s taken me some years to proudly and honestly state that, without following it up with some sarcastic, self-deprecating comment. The truth is I am a damn good comic, who has a great skill. I also believe that in a field where a lot of people charge a lot of money for something they aren't doing themselves, I charge a fair price for imparting my accumulated knowledge.
I started teaching classes on riffing, with the understanding that I couldn't make anyone funnier; I just gave them a basic understanding of what happens when a comic is flying without a net. Those went over really well. I also learned I’m a pretty good teacher. In fact, it’s something I’ve come to enjoy as much as performing. I can also say that with a degree of sincere humility, and mean it.
I think if you're going to learn to do anything - car repair, computer work, or comedy – you’ll learn more from someone who’s not only already working in that field, but thriving in it. If you want to lean the tools for riffing, I can explain them to you. I’m a working stand-up, who’s known for riffing. I can't think of a better sales pitch than that. If you want more proof, check out this video clip.
http://www.youtube.com/joeklocek
My riffing class is happening at Rooster T. Feathers on Saturday, January, 29th from 1-4PM.
It costs $80 per person. Click here for more details.
http://www.roostertfeathers.blogspot.com
Doing anything for eighteen years not only means you pick up a lot of information, it also means that, like any relationship, you’ll go through periods where you’re just not feeling it. If I had to describe my comedy style, it would be storytelling. The bit that got me on Comedy Central’s, “Live at Gotham” was a story about a homeless man and a pigeon.
There are plenty of standups who crave more expression, and they usually go into solo performance, one-person shows. I still love standup, but I saw the limitations of what could be expressed on stage, in a comedy club. I wanted to tell the backstories of how jokes evolved and were formed. Early in my comedy career, when I was on the road constantly, I hit a cow in the Utah desert. It is, I think, an amazing story that’s become the central story of who I am as a comic. I told it on stage one night when I was feeling cocky, and wanted to impress a girl in the audience. It destroyed. That’s when I decided I had to try something that sounded simple: storytelling.
http://www.previouslysecretinformation.com
Somewhere between the plastic, used-car-salesman delivery of dick jokes, and the over-emotional, over-choreographed blocking of a solo performance, there’s the middle ground: Storytelling. Along with a friend, I created a show called “Previously Secret Information”. Right from the start, it did well. The next time we put up PSI, it also did well; and the time after that, and the time after that one, too. At this point, it’s safe to say this isn't a fluke. We’re onto something audiences are hungry for. It’s bare and raw, hilarious, and starkly poignant at times; simply great stories, told well, by people and performers who know how to tell a story. People started asking about classes. At first I thought, “I’m not qualified to teach something I’m relatively new at.” Once again, friends reminded me that I’ve been a storyteller for as long as I’ve been a comic. Not to mention, I started a new show, from scratch, in San Francisco – that’s succeeded more quickly than any show anyone’s seen in a long time. The press likes us, and each person who comes walks away wanting to help promote, create or contribute to it in some way. Another sign that we’re onto something!
Long story short, I’m starting a three-week class in the art and performance of storytelling. Let me be clear about what this isn't. There will be no writing exercises or endless improv games, or a lot of discussion about what your feelings really mean, man. A great story has all those components, and I can help people uncover those, but instead of working along the edges of something I want to jump right in and work to get all those things out of your story, with your story. It just makes sense. I’ve learned, and I think you will, too, that telling a great story is not telling it, but performing it. Memorizing words off a page doesn't make it come alive; it only makes you sound like you're reciting what may have been an amazing personal tale. My storytelling class is all about the mechanics of being on stage. You won't be telling your story. You’ll be performing it. That’s what a live audience wants, and that’s’ what you’ll learn to give them.
Here are the details on my storytelling class.
Saturday afternoons 12-3PM
March 19th, March 26th & April 2nd.
$300 Per Person
More details on the class? Click the link bellow.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
"The End 2.0"
Have you heard that the world will start to end on May 21? Yup. Some Christian with radio stations is letting people know that, after studying the Bible for most of his life, he’s found the exact date that Jesus will return, and the end will start. Awesome. Maybe now I’ll stop getting ads for those Christian dating sites. After all, if the end is only five months away, why get married?
Here’s the thing: he already said the end was coming, back in the 90's. And was wrong. Surprise, the world is still here. Can you imagine being in that room at the end of that day?
"Does that mean I have to pay for all the stuff I put on my credit cards, now?"
In a testament to how badly people need something to reach for in these difficult times, his radio empire of Christian messages has grown. That’s right, he set a date for the end of the world; was wrong; and now has five times the followers he had, since being wrong and looking stupid!
His excuse: “I must of gotten the math wrong.”
If you haven't read anything but the Bible for fifty years, you might want to pick up a book on math, I guess. Either that, or you're just wrong. What’s truly amazing are the people he’s inspired to drive around in motor homes, warning other people that the end is coming. I bet that’s a real joyride!
Instead of driving around helping people (like Jesus might have done) they’re letting people know the end is coming. Sort of the spiritual equivalent of throwing all your pants away, then just walking around in sweats. Why bother? Jesus is coming back. Screw the diet!
Two things come to mind right away when I hear this.
First, Jesus isn't coming. I’ll grant you, there most likely was a man born in the Middle East, who preached a message of love rather than a vengeful God’s wrath; and, he was likely put to death for rousing the local population. But that’s it. If you want me to believe Jesus was the actual son of God, then I still don't think he’s coming back. And here’s why: I'm still mad at my Dad for making me shovel the neighbors’ driveways during winter. Do you really think Jesus is over his issues with his Dad, after being sent to die on a cross? There must be some really awkward holiday dinner moments, in Heaven.
It’s funny to me that Christians put such a huge emphasis on the family, when Jesus comes from not just a broken home, but an abusive, messed-up, white-trash-sounding home. Where’s Mom in all of this? What kind of a control-freak Dad tells his only son that he has a special job for him - like being put to death for ALL the sins of mankind. All the sins? When I was growing up, we were told in Catholic school that even thinking about committing a sin, was a sin. You're telling me that three days was enough to cover the summer when I found those Playboy magazines in my friend’s backyard? I'm pretty sure those thoughts were blueprints for sins.
Anyway, the second reason the world isn't ending is that everyone who ever predicted the end of the world, has always been wrong. Always. We are, after all, still here. The latest craze was the Mayan calendar prediction. The Mayan prediction didn't even say it was an end, it just said, “Hey, this is when you start the calendar over.” But since we seem obsessed with the world coming to an end, people spread the message that the world is ending. It seems a little silly to give the Mayans that much power to predict the end of the entire world, when they couldn't see the end of their own culture coming.
Don't fall for yet another end-of-the-world story. I’m still going through bottled water and canned food from my Y2K emergency kit.
Of course, if the world DID come to end, like Hollywood and hippies have imagined, that would be totally cool, too! Giant earthquakes, tidal waves and UFO's: Awesome!
You could talk to people from all over time, in heaven. A caveman and a Roman soldier could tell you about their deaths, "I fell off the back of a woolly mammoth onto my spear." "I got drunk and picked a fight with someone." Then they ask you, “How did you die?"
"Oh me? Just The End."
You would be totally popular.
If this guy turns out to be wrong, I want a public apology, not another ”I guess I'm bad with math” bullshit excuse. They’re a Christian group, that’s spent a lot of money on billboards, to tell people “give up”, when they could be, oh I don't know, feeding the poor. I would say, “Take away their tax-exempt status!” But they aren't a church. They are a Christian broadcasting network, run for profit. Religion run for profit is not religion. It’s a business. And business is good, because too many of these people made these times bad, by running the government into the ground with Y1K thinking.
I’d like to see their contracts. I’m curious if they expire on May 21st.
If Jesus does show up to greet this loon’s followers, I hope it’s just to slap his face in front of them, remove the Bible from his hand, and replace it with something harmless like Dr. Seuss. Then, Jesus could turn to this guy’s audience and say "Really? You listen to people like this? I hope you kept your credit card payments current this time. P.S. - my Dad is a dick!"
Sunday, December 26, 2010
T'was the Night!
Fellow comic, Jimmy Gunn helps me bring alive a holiday classic. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fRNALluidOE
Monday, December 20, 2010
Rick
A few months ago, I performed at a benefit to raise money for a scholarship. It was an incredibly fun show, with its own twists and turns. It was at the Santa Rosa Junior College. The inspiration for this scholarship was a man named Rick Edwards. I met Rick almost fifteen years ago at a gig in Santa Rosa. There was a restaurant that did comedy on Friday and Saturday nights - The Sweetriver. I was the host, and Rick was doing a guest set. I met him right before the show and didn’t exactly know what to expect. He was dressed head-to-toe in motorcycle-gang leather. His boots looked like they were issued by the Klingon high command. His hair was ZZ Top long, and he wore impossibly dark sunglasses. He was, to say the least, intimidating. I asked what he wanted me to say, and he said it didn’t matter, because he had a music cue. When the time came, I said the usual “he tours clubs and colleges” line. From the sound system blared, “Bad to the Bone.” The opening notes sounded more machine gun than guitar, and if you were standing under a speaker you went dizzy. I stood at the mic waiting for Rick. From out of the shadows he slowly walked toward the stage, never looking down or turning his head. His expression was fixed, and if you could have seen his eyes, you would have bet they were glaring. His walk was confident, relaxed and commanding. The crowd was still applauding but now he just stood behind the mic, with the music continuing to play - arms crossed, mouth a straight line, and those dark sunglasses hiding everything but the raw intimidation he was projecting. The music continued. The seconds ticked by and the crowd, mostly 20 something’s, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The music suddenly stopped and just as it did, Rick took of his sun glasses and in a voice that sounded part Bee Gee’s, part Mickey Mouse and all helium, Rick said, “Hi everyone! It’s great to be here tonight!” The place erupted with laughter. Rick laughed to. It was a brilliant opening. Without a word he established a character and then played against it. He had instant credibility with the crowd.
That was the biggest laugh he got that night.
The rest of his act was about what to do in a prison yard riot, what not to do in a prison shower and how to keep larger more persuasive inmates out of your ass. The 20-something suburbanites sat slackjawed and horrified. Like most comics watching another comic not doing well, I started laughing for the sheer bizarreness of the show. When Rick’s seven minutes were up, I returned to the microphone and said something like, “Stay in school, kids.”
I’d see Rick pop up from time to time, at various gigs around the greater Bay Area. Mostly it was open mics; little road gigs that paid almost nothing. Every time I saw him, he told me how funny I was and asked me how I was doing. The man had served time in prison for possession of drugs and his sad, hound dog like eyes told a story about his past. Rick was never comfortable talking about it at that point in his life. More than anything, Rick gave off a unique feeling of being warm and a little crazy. I was never once afraid, being with Rick. I was just terrified he was going to ask me how his set was, after a show. All the leather and all the posturing was just that, an act. Rick was, for the time I knew him, a sweet, yet troubled soul. Then, he just stopped showing up. I have to admit, I didn’t even notice at first that he wasn’t around. I would ask other comics about him, and no one seemed to know.
Cut to this summer. I get a Facebook friend request from Rick Edwards. The message he sends along with it is overflowing with poorly spelled politeness. I respond and Rick tells me he wants me to perform on a gig at the Junior College he is going to. I say, sure and asked for the date. This starts months of going back and forth, and not getting a response - before getting responses that are strange but friendly. First it will be one date, then a week later, it’s another. On and on this goes, and when I’m starting to get agitated, he just goes silent. He has also told me the amount of money he wants me to perform for, and I write back a terse reply that colleges usually have a lot more money than this for performances. Then he asks for my phone number but doesn’t call. Eventually I get a Facebook message from someone else saying, “Hey, it’s Rick. Could you please call me at this number?” At this point, I am done. No gig could possibly go well with this much drama in the planning stage. Out of the blue, Rick calls me up and I get an explanation about everything; the strangely worded emails with lots of Buddhist well-wishing in them, the long periods of silence and the confusion over dates and money. He tells me, he was in the hospital, in a coma for ten days after coughing up blood. His liver is failing and with it, other organs. He is on so many prescriptions he hardly knows what’s what. In short, his doctors tell him he is dying. Those years I didn’t see Rick are also filled in. He was back in prison for another drug charge. He was addicted to just about everything and when he was released, had that moment of clarity recovering addicts talk about and decided to clean himself up. He started going to recovery meetings, and enrolled at a junior college. It wasn’t easy. Adjusting to life without bars can be difficult. Adjusting to life on life’s terms, even more so. Now, with the doctors telling him of his disease, something else happened to Rick. He wanted to leave behind one good thing. He knew he had made bad choices and polluted the life he had. Before he died, he just wanted to do good. The comedy show would raise money not for Rick, but for a scholarship to help other people in Rick’s situation.
Wow. OK, here is what I will do, Rick. Just nail down the date for me and I refuse to take any money for this.
At one point, Rick tells me his doctor asked him, “Did you ever smoke?”
“Of course!” Rick said.
“You could probably take that back up again if you wanted.”
You know it’s bad when a doctor tells you “Go for it, have a smoke!” It’s not going to be what kills you at this point.
The month before the gig, the date changed yet again. At one point, Rick’s liver was so full of toxins, they leaked into his body, requiring him to go on an all-liquid diet. He couldn’t eat anymore, anyway. I came in to do a cable access TV show, out of Sonoma. It would be the first time seeing Rick in person since hosting that show way back when. His pants kept falling, his eyes wandered around the room, and his mouth didn’t stop talking the entire time he was there. Like some kid with extreme ADD, the medications he was taking at the moment had him flying around; still, there was that underlying sweetness. The plan was for Rick to watch but eventually his off-camera antics couldn’t be ignored and the host asked him to come on. That’s when the show changed. Rick began talking a mile a second, looking in the wrong camera and not holding the mic so we couldn’t hear him. At first it was funny. Then the host started asking him questions. Rick would suddenly pause, and say the most eloquent self-truths - before launching back into riffs that made the rest of the panel uncomfortable. He would be making some gay prison sex joke about the co-host and then say, “I know I’ve made mistakes with my life, and I want to leave behind a good deed. I have 4 to 8 months to live.” Then, he would continue spouting nonsense and 1950’s TV show references. None of us knew exactly what to do. There is no protocol for any of this. A man just told us he would be dead by spring.
The night of the show came, and with it, still more drama. The school wasn’t entirely behind the show. Not because of Rick; they just didn’t want a comic to be dirty. We had to sign contracts. Like that’s going to stop a comic from saying something outrageous. After all, we were all working for free. What were they going to do, keep our checks? The day of the show a staff member called me and reminded me that I had signed a contract not to be blue, then he asked me the strangest question anyone has asked me as a comic, “Do you have any jokes that target a specific protected minority?”
I wasn’t even sure what he said at first. I think I was being asked, in the most PC speak ever, if I was a racist. Yes, as a San Francisco comic who’s appeared on Comedy Central and regularly works every gig there is around here, I’m doing it with racist material. Do you really think I’m going to go up there and do a joke like, “You know who I hate more than women? Blacks!”
The funny thing was, no one bothered to ask the opener this question. She’s self-admittedly dirty. Oh, and we find out in the first few jokes, a bi-sexual too. The guy who called me up came running over to me and gave me the evil eye. I shrugged my shoulders; not only was the crowd laughing, but it wasn’t my job to censor other comics on the show. He looked at me nervously and said, “I have to stop this.”
He disappeared into the sound room and cut her microphone. Welcome to college, 1984 style. Words are dangerous and people’s feelings might get hurt. Hey, I think her jokes were positive; they were celebrating that often-targeted, unprotected minority, bisexuals.
I ended up doing an hour, talking about the phone call (with the administrator in the room), and making my point that comedy should get the same treatment a play or a poet would receive; after all, we were here for Rick, and I don’t think I ever heard him tell a clean joke.
That was that.
Rick and his friends and I stayed in touch via Facebook, and the show went so well Rick wanted to do another one in the spring. There was even news that Rick’s liver had started functioning again.
Cut to Reno, last Sunday. It was the day after their world famous Santa Bar Crawl. 5,000 or so people dress up like Santa and go bar to bar in down town Reno, meeting under the arch at Midnight. It was as debauch-a-riffic as your imagination thinks it was. As I exited the elevator into the lobby of the Silver Legacy, I saw a man wearing Red Santa pants and hat. His boots were black and his beard was still tied on, but he now had a Metallica Tour T-shirt on and was snoring loudly in a chair holding his room key. A family was checking in. Their five year old daughter looked nervously at the incapacitated Santa and asked her mom in a concerned voice, “Will he be alright to still bring presents?”
That’s when my phone buzzed with a text. I looked down. Rick has passed away. Americans tend to describe such emotionally-jarring moments as something out of a movie. I felt this way too. All the lights and conversation that was buzzing around me just went blank for a second, as my chest throbbed from the hammer blow. I didn’t know Rick well, but in every email and conversation, he always asked me first how I was doing. He repeatly told me how proud he was of me, for sticking with comedy and making it onto TV. To all of these things I would always mumble something like ”Thanks, but it was only Comedy Central”, or “Thanks, but it’s no big deal.” It was to Rick. To him, I had achieved every one of the things any comic thinks about when they start. Among everything else, Rick put a lot of my complaints in perspective.
Rick was sweet, crazy, imperfect and charming, off-putting, coarse, loud and beautiful. With the time he had left, he didn’t complain. Instead, he set out to do some good. I was proud to help him in that mission.
Rick Edward's Scholarship Fund
c/o Santa Rosa Junior College
1501 Mendocino Ave
Santa Rosa, CA 95401
Friday, December 17, 2010
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
December Gig's
How bad is the economy right now? Burglars in England have been using Google Earth to locate old churches with lead roofs. Once they find them, they steal the lead in the middle of the night, and sell it to scrap dealers. England has thousands of security cameras, all over the country. I guess they didn't put any on church roofs. Guess they thought God had his eye on those Turns out he didn't; but the congregations of those churches are exposed to heaven a whole lot more now, as a result. I don't know what special brand of grief awaits you in the next life, for stealing a church roof, but when historians look back on this era and ask, “What was the final indication of the economic apocalypse?”, I think they're going to say, “When people started stealing church roofs for scrap metal”. How bad are things? Did I mention, people are stealing church roofs!?!
Then again, my business is doing well. Private gigs, and small corporate events for the holidays, have made a comeback this year. Maybe it's a sign of recovery. I like to think there are no bad gigs; but at the same time, there are easy gigs - and then there’s opening for a Michael Jackson impersonator, in front of 40 cancer doctors, at 3 o’clock on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Everything’s going pretty well, until I ask a nurse, "What’s the strangest thing you've seen, as a nurse?" Without so much as a hint of hesitation, she answers, "A patient who drank his own urine."
Wow. Ok, I now know a few things: 1. It's no longer a PG show (as promised), and, 2. I’m going to make a joke about apple-juice-gone-bad, really soon. I’m going to hate myself for it, but it's going to get a laugh. I do - and they do indeed love it.
It was one of those gigs I went into thinking: “It's only half an hour.” That seems like forever, when the crowd is only mildly laughing at jokes that, usually, kill. It takes awhile for them to buy into the whole show; after all, it’s the middle of the day and we’re in a restaurant. I wasn't supposed to go on ‘till all the food was cleared; but surprise, it was getting late and I figured it was now or never. You don't really feel like an ‘artiste’, as busboys bump into you, clearing dishes; or when your best stuff falls flat. At one point, a man asks me to “quiet down” - because his baby starts to cry. Ugh. I glance at a wall clock and realize, I've still got 20 minutes to go. Still, I know I’ll get paid; and I know things are relatively good.
A few nights earlier I had a gig at an Indian casino, in Middletown. Where? Exactly. All I can tell you is: you cannot make it there from San Francisco in three hours, with traffic, and rain. At some point Red, the feature act (riding in my passenger seat), might have been praying. And I’m pretty sure he’s an atheist. We had about 15 miles to go, and needed to be there in 20 minutes. No problem. Well, that was before the rain picked up; the twisty road narrowed to one lane; the mountain closed in; and there was a complete lack of any reassuring signs that there was civilization close by. Like some character in “The Lord of the Rings”, I barreled up the side of Mt. Helena faster than I should be going - all to get there on time, and bring the good people of this Godforsaken place the gift of my wit. It was pretty clear we were going to be late. I told Red we’d pull the “girlfriend needs the bathroom now” maneuver, when we got to the gig. That's where I pull up, you go running out and find whoever’s in charge, while I park the car.
We’d already called our contact person – and been told “They’re off tonight.” Awesome. Red goes running in; a few minutes later, I come in to find him talking to a confused bar manager, who sends us in the direction of the DJ (who’s sitting at a table with speakers on both sides.) "I'm sorry were late," I tell him. He smiles, barely taking his eyes off the TV and says "We usually wait till the game ends before starting the show." Double awesome. Glad I broke more than a few laws to get here, only to have to wait around an extra half hour before starting the show.
I wonder around the casino, and like most small Indian casinos, it’s clean, but sad - in a way that’s hard to put my finger on. The places reeks of smoke; pale, overweight men, and way-too-skinny girls in tight jeans, wander through slot machines - like zombies in a mall after the apocalypse. Why does every Indian casino play a ‘Best of the 70's’ soundtrack, too? Maybe so the gamblers can fondly remember the last time they were winners? I don't know. A Boston song plays; then Dirty White Boy (Foreigner), The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (Genesis, when Peter Gabriel was still with them), and the most ironic of songs to hear, while you’re betting what’s left of the 401K at the crap table: The Logical Song (Supertramp).
When Red goes on I look at the crowd. Crowd might be overstating it a bit. There are about 20 people scattered haphazardly around a small bar, just off the casino. Their expressions are a mixture of tea party members being asked to balance their own checkbooks, and the kid who gets socks as a Christmas present. Occasionally, they laugh, but it’s nowhere what Red's jokes deserve. Eventually, it’s my turn. I take the stage, and in a few seconds I realize exactly what it’s like to perform at an ADHD Convention. Slot machine bells, calls from people, and conversations enter the place from the casino, like a wave of distraction. They’ve turned the sound off, but the TV's are still on. There’s a loud conversation at the bar between two guys, but when I think about saying something, I just figure, it isn't worth dying here; so I just let it go. I start my act, but it becomes clear almost instantly, that this show is going to a riffing adventure. Most of the audience is made up of off-the-clock employees. It’s great that they bring in comics every Thursday for employees. Ugh!
For the most part people are laughing and it’s going alright. There’s one table of three, where a woman stares at me like she’s just discovered day-old garbage in the crib where she’s left her baby – and I’m the garbage. Like most comics would, of course, I have to talk to her. I ask her name, and she drones out something I can't remember. I ask what she does for a living, and she says, “Nothing”. When I probe a bit more, she says she can't work because she’s disabled. In my head I’m wondering if it’s just her face that’s disabled - but I don't say that. Christ, this is going to be a long show. I tell some jokes that do alright, but nothing like they should, and that’s when I throw out the first ‘emergency dick joke’ - and BOOM! Damn. I wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, I’d hoped they’d go a little more highbrow; but dick jokes you want? Then dick jokes, you get. That goes pretty well for a little while, but I have an hour to cover. That’s when one of the other employees tells me to ask the security guard about "poncho."
When she says “poncho”, almost everyone laughs. I love it when the crowd starts amusing itself with inside jokes. I ask - and of course, it’s one of those “Why didn't I get this information sooner?” moments. Oh, and a dick joke. Apparently there was a hypnotist here, and during the show he made this security guard guy think he lost his dick. He doesn't say dick, though, he just points to his groin and says, “Poncho”. This confuses me for awhile because I don't understand why this guy wants to take his dick camping. Then I think this happened to him while he was trying to stop a crime at the casino. That would be a pretty amazing thief. Once I figure it all out, I ask the crowd if he got on the Public Address System and asked people if they saw his boy. "Attention players, we're looking for a lost boy about 6 inches...I mean, 4 inches tall when happy..." This destroys with the crowd. I want a shower.
I drive to Corning, a town outside of Redding. I do an hour for a company that is somehow involved with farms; then turn around to make the three hour drive home. I have to be in Walnut Creek the next day, and Santa Cruz that night.
I’m a comic. That means I drive for a living. Telling jokes is just something I have to do before I can sleep. And yet, I love this! I love opening the door to my hotel room and seeing crisp white sheets. I love the fear and excitement of being handed the microphone, and not knowing what’s going to happen. I love the drive home, with the high of either a great show, or composing another good “I survived a gig from hell” story. I love being a comic, even when it seems that telling jokes is the smallest part of what I do. These road gigs and private shows are fun to me again, because no matter what, when I want to feel like an artist, I have my storytelling show.
And most of these other gigs? They aren't bad at all.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
14 Going On 41
There are nights - and then there are nights.
Comedy, in a small room of mostly-conservative wine drinkers, might not sound like an ideal set-up. The Wild Vine Hideaway Bar, in Danville, is just that; quaint, tiny, and filled with 40-something professionals, seeking the wine-drenched pace of a Norman Rockwell America with wifi. Danville is quiet, dipped in charm and airbrushed with an air of condescension. Basically, it looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting of the place Prozac would go, to retire. I spent some time as a teenager in Danville. Being here feels like stepping back into a life I only recently made peace with.
I've performed there three times now. Every show has been fun, interesting, and a little challenging. The first gig, you can hear as a podcast on my site, standupjoe.com. I didn't record the second gig, but it was fun, with plenty of audience interaction. This last show was by far, one of the more unique evenings in comedy that I’ve witnessed, in a long time. I thought I had seen it all, too.
Young Joey Bragg, 14 years old, fiercely funny, and on fire with his Father's support, like always, is my feature act. I like the kid. He’s wildly talented. I’m also jealous of the support his Dad gives him. He’s with him at every show. I got into standup because I didn't have a lot of family support, or desire to achieve anything in school. His Dad encourages him, drives him to gigs, and tapes him at every show - and is a school teacher! That Dude is everything I thought would have kept me from getting into comedy, and yet, there he is helping his son to be a comic.
Joey goes on stage and starts getting laughs right away. He knows what he’s doing. I can see trouble brewing when his jokes start featuring the words “retard” and “rape”. And, the front table is 7 women, all of whom, I’m guessing, are also mothers. Jokes with “rape” and “retard” in them are a tough sell for any comic, but from the mouth of a 14-year-old boy, I imagine it’s especially troubling for the women up front. It doesn’t help that at least one of them is already pretty drunk. How drunk? She gets up, obviously annoyed at the jokes, and starts toward the bathroom, in back. There’s Joey's dad, camera in hand, recording away. The women stops, and in a stunning display of callousness says to him, "Not Good!"
I’m not a father. I don't know how I’d react if some drunk know-it-all woman swaggered up to me, and told me my child wasn't good at something, while he was doing it. Joey’s Dad says what I think most people would say in that situation: “Fuck you!"
"Excuse me?" the woman asks, incredulously.
"Fuck you!" he repeats.
The women turns, shouts the owner’s name, and instantly, shit is on.
"Did you tell her ‘Fuck you’?" the owner asks.
"Yes."
"Leave! I want you to leave my place right away! You don't tell a patron of mine that!"
Joey’s Dad bolts outside.
Meanwhile, Joey is still on stage, oblivious to the drama with his dad in back. Joey has his hands full with an audience that isn’t buying it. Watching him, I realize that, because he’s young and cute, he gets away with a lot in the clubs. But here, in what feels like someone's living room, doing the most edgy stuff I'd seen him do yet, he struggles with this predominantly-female audience.
The host is trying to get him off stage, too, under the owner’s direction. This is the third time he’s worked here, so I can't imagine the owner is that surprised by his act. Then again, I have to admit to being a little surprised at his choices tonight, myself. The owner asks if I’m OK to perform; as I start up to the stage I think, “Well, at least it will be a mellow little show, now.” The weirdness has passed.
Wrong.
I make some jokes at Joey's expense: "Man that kid is jaded. If I didn't know his age, or how he looked, and I was listening to him over the phone, I would just be like, ‘how long were you in Vietnam, man?’ "
I open on stuff I don't usually open on, Halloween family stuff, but it seems the right way to go. The women up front are laughing, the rest of the house is laughing, and even though I can see a bunch of people outside, still wrangling with each other, I feel like this is going to be another great show here. I start riffing around, and that's when I meet Carol; or rather, that's when I start to deal with Carol.
"Carol, as in Christmas Carol", is how she introduces herself later on in the show.
How do I describe Carol? At one point when another audience member tells her to shut up, she stands up and stares in the general direction of the request. I say, "I think Mount Rushmore just stood up!"
That destroys.
People only laugh if your words paint a true picture, in a way they wouldn't have thought of; or, if it's just the truth.
Is it because Carol has a huge rack? Or that she seems a little like an angry penguin, holding a bolder? I don't know. She’s also loud. Maybe it’s that classic drunk-voice thing, where she thinks she’s being quieter than she actually is; or maybe it’s just that she’s an out-of-control, undiagnosed alcoholic, who’s being incredibly obnoxious, in the middle of a show a lot of other people were trying to enjoy. Any of those descriptions works for me.
At a certain point, or what for Carol was clearly a certain number of glasses, the show becomes about containing her madness. I love talking to the crowd and dealing with hecklers. This is something a little different, though. The crowd completely turns on her, to the point that when I ask the classic question: “Who came here tonight to see me?”, and the place goes nuts, she still keeps going. Actually, she stands up, comes to the stage, and raises her leg to show me that it’s real. I never thought it was fake, but - What? Then, she gives me the finger. Here’s where a flicker of contempt crosses my face. I look in her eyes, and believe I see not just a drunk, but a spiteful person so full of herself that she’s lost all concept of anyone else in the room. I can feel myself wanting to lash out at this disgusting person, but I’ve learned, in comedy, you can’t tear into a drunk, woman heckler like you can with a man. Some social convention is still in place. The crowd won't tolerate a comic being hostile to a woman, no matter how verbally disruptive or abusive the woman is. I've seen whole shows turn because the comic became harsh with a woman heckler. I tolerate her, play with her, firing snappy comeback, after comeback – and, like most drunks, she can't quit. Standing up, approaching the stage, giving me the finger, embarrassing her friends - and still the show goes on, without her being kicked out. This is the difference between a small show in a little place like this, and a club. At a club, she’d be kicked out instantly. They just don't put up with this shit. She remains, for the same reason Joey’s Dad got kicked out; she’s a regular, who goes there a lot, and spends money.
That’s the Danville I remember from my past! I was a bus boy and line cook in a few restaurants there, during the 80's. It seems that the mentality that “image is everything” was born in the day-glow, plastic 80’s. Danville was a town of VIP's, and they never let you forget it. I was the broke kid walking to work, and living with his sister. It sounds like the start of half a dozen teen-angst movies from that era, except I never won the big game, or got the girl. I went home smelling of ribs from Tony Roma's, and stayed up late eating cookie dough, reading science fiction books. When someone asked me recently why I got into stand-up, I thought about it, and explained that I was actually very shy for most of my life. I was the nerd everyone picked on - but I was always listening. Now, when I'm on stage, and blasting the crowd with socially-aware comedy, or searing heckler comebacks, it's really me pointing to them and saying, “Being 14 was hard, but now I’m making you pay for it!” Tonight I’ve seen a comic who’s only 14, blasting away at the crowd’s middle-aged, slightly-drunk psyche, and I wonder, “What is this kid going to be like when he's my age?”
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