My Funny Quarantine

It’s been funny to be

So thankful to see

Eggs on a shelf

And a palpable shift

As we all nod our heads knowingly

All though it may be

From six feet away

Just to be safe

No offense taken

Because it’s a human thing

And we all get it

If not, we’ll all get it

But I hope what really spreads

Is a look at 

How we’ve been bred

Taught to knock heads

Just trying to get ahead

But now, instead…

May we break bread

See we’re all a piece of the thread

In this blanket of universe

That we can fill with

whatever we choose!

We all got the blues

Done with tyrants and coups

Hissing and boos

Can’t win for losing

Til…

A shift of wind for the win

Reset button - begin

Two weeks to rethink and rescind 

All the harm, all the sins

Recognize one another as kin

And sit around years from now 

Talking about what might have been

Recalling the days 

Where we ran for the money

But how we came together

when the waters got muddy

And cleared the air

Wasn’t that funny? 

That time,

My funny quarantine

Praise the Board

I turned down the volume, so as to not let Paul Simon’s Graceland overshadow the rant I was about to unleash on my co-pilot, Sean, who was dozing peacefully in the passenger seat. I began with a low grumble, akin to a radiator warming up, my pipes releasing the rusted groan of, “You gotta be kidding me. I cannot believe how bad these are. Who wrote this?”

We were about 20 miles outside of Lafayette, Louisiana and I was referring to, yet another, gigantic billboard with vague proclamations about God. Just some random, one-liners. Catchy numbers like, “Jesus Is Real” or, “Without a doubt, There is a God”, paired with the picture of a newborn.

I was getting really miffed at this point. Not about the “in-your-face-I-know-best-not telling-you twice-heathen-pagan-if-you-don’t-believe-that-I-know-all-because-God-saves”, but the complete lack of creativity on their part. Pffft. More like bill-bored. Amiright?

“Couldn’t they find ONE creative person in the congregation?” I blurted out, my exasperation finally rousing Sean, and landing us right back to where our conversation had left off after the last Yesus yawnfest, somewhere deep in the heart of Texas (at times, it seemed like we were never gonna get out of Texas). Since we’d left Arizona, we’d encountered around twenty plus, roadside advertisements for The Lord.

“I mean, put a little effort into it!” Sean shouted, now wide-awake (or should I say woke), waving his arms towards what could only be considered a blight-board on the otherwise picturesque landscape. And that's when this little radiator blew her gasket, in the way in which only a week long road trip can break you with its mutated strain of road rage,cabin fever, traffic jam, hotel hopping delirium.

“Who is that sign going to attract?! Where’s the draw? The enticement? I could do better than that! I will do better than that!”

So, it was in this frenzied state in which I swore that instead of becoming yet another notch on America’s Bible Belt, I would now be MRS (Making Religious Signs) for “The Big Mister”. And maybe jazz things up a bit with a little something, I like to call:

Lord Boards (Billboards for The Lord)

1. Jesus puts the US in God.
2. The only ties that bind are baptize.
3. Tired and feeling shotty? Come and eat of my body.
4. Join our flock. We are animals of pray.
5. It’s your first time around, but there’s a Second Coming.
6. Feeling bored? Praise the Lord!
7. Life stinks? Sit in a pew.
8. No muss. No fuss. Jesus!

Amen! Hallelujah! God Bless America! And Praise the Board!

Why So Blue?

Working blue. I’m not talking about the collar, but the humor. Almost every comic is guilty of it. Even if your act isn’t dirty, there’s usually a “shit” or “fuck” thrown in there for extra emphasis or at least slipped in as an alternative to “umm”. So when someone wants you to do a clean set, is that cramping the creative process or just forcing the comic to work a little harder on broadening their material/ audience?

Blue’s clues: I once saw a female comic go on stage and just start screaming “fuck” over and over...is that your act? Shock value is like a verbal pratfall - it gets real old, real fast. But when a foul-mouthed friend of mine was forced to get clean, he had some of his funniest bits because they were based on more than the profane…the pen was mightier than the swear.

But there’s times when you can’t run from a “fuck you”. When Tony Soprano is beating the shit out of someone, cursing-like-a-sailor is crucial, otherwise, it’s completely inauthentic. Same with going on stage and trying to turn a dirty joke clean, it has the possibility of sounding stilted with the awkward sentiment of an Orbit gum commercial.

Dirty Bird Shuffle: But even when f-bombs seem essential, the comics that remain timeless go deeper than the shallow end of the shock value pool. Compare the two dirty birds, Andrew Dice Clay and Red Foxx.

Andrew Dice Clay: How many times can you be amazed that “cock” rhymes with “clock”? Still, he had a good gimmick with his dirty nursery rhymes, but that narrow niche was where his talent tapped out (two words – Ford Fairlaine).

Red Foxx on the other hand, was a dirty, old coot (seriously, Ol’ Dirty Bastard could learn a thing or two from Red), but he was able to turn his crass ass into a brand that was relatable to everyone. We’re still humming the Sanford and Son tune and laughing at Red's relevance today.

Range is a key component. If you can only cook one type of food, are you truly a chef? Isn’t versatility the sign of a true professional?

But if you’re known for a particular variety of cuisine and hone your skills in that one specific arena, doesn’t that make you a true professional?

It’s a conundrum that I still can’t figure out. I guess in the end it’s what hits home with the audience and that always comes down to the comic being comfortable. Sometimes it’s worth tweaking your shit and forcing your brain to go in a different direction. Like math homework, it’s frustrating and hard, but once you figure it out, it’s oddly satisfying. In the end, it all comes down to one thing. Why did the chicken cross the road?

Fuck you.

The Death of a Joke

“We are here today to mourn the loss of someone very special to us, someone we love. Someone we’ve watched grow and develop before our eyes. We've had our laughs together. We’ve cried tears of joy together. But those times are gone now and we must put them to rest.”

***************************

I stopped by my buddy’s house to make sure I had myself in check before I hit the stage. I was headed to Winston’s that evening for my first round of the Ocean Beach Comedy Contest and I didn’t like what I was hearing.

“Do you think that’s still relevant?”

Tiff was my go-to girl when it came to constructive criticism, so when she posed this question after I finished my Jersey Shore joke, I was concerned.

“Well, it got big laughs a few months ago!” I shouted defiantly, defending my baby...and it was a birthing process. The hardest part of comedy is coming up with good material, but it’s even harder to get rid of said material once it goes stale. The “Old Joke” is like Old Yeller, the necessary death of a dear friend.

I’d been forced to let go of a few before. I’d said my goodbyes to the “Bumper sticker with Calvin peeing” and “Truth anti-smoking group” jokes. But it never stung like this, so when Tiff told me to get rid of my Jersey Shore bit, I fought for it, “But there’s a new season coming up!”

She just shook her head and said, “It’s old.”

I knew she was right. Media moved at the speed of light and any topical content was bound to have a short shelf life. Thank goodness I had some steadfast stuff (marriage, religion, sex) in my back pocket for when my topical became too typical.

First round of contest: second place…I guess Tiff was right.

*********************

“As we lay you down to rest, know you served your time here to the best of your ability. You will be remembered well and thought of fondly. As Neil Young said, ‘It’s better to burn out, than to fade away’ and we appreciate your graceful exit.”

Rule #2: Keep everything fresh and relevant. Let it go before it lets you down.

The Secret to my Success

“What is success?”

I was at my weekly business group and it was time to answer the varied question that always closed the meeting. I knew exactly what I was going to say, but the exuberant Mary Kay woman bounced up before I could, and exclaimed, “I’ll go!”

So my answer began to morph the more I thought about it, which was just long enough to turn my train of thought into a total train-wreck.

What I said: “Success is many things – in business, it’s when a muscle releases (I’m a massage therapist), in friendship it’s about making time because everybody gets busy (I used air quotes on “busy”)…”

I might have strayed a bit, but was still somewhat on track until my voice began to waver with emotion as I added, “And I hate when people say that they don’t like hospitals or funerals, because guess what? Neither do I. But you go because you have to.”

I heard the incoherent words spew from my mouth as I gazed at my colleagues and saw their questioning stares, wondering how we had come to this point.

Success = hospitals and funerals?? What the hell was I talking about?!

What I should have said: "Success is about setting personal goals and making the effort to achieve them. Like last night, when my improv group, the Stage Monkeys, went and performed at the LA Improv Festival at the IO West.”

It was true. We had performed in Hollywood the night before (another check on the Bucket List), but the experience in its entirety ended up being one giant, cosmic game of improv. From a late night slot at 11:30pm on a Tuesday (meaning two of our six person group couldn’t make it) to a last minute absence by another member (leaving our director to perform with us), we just kept taking it as it came.

Going Green – I was nothing but green in the Green Room, not with envy (though I did covet a girl’s purse with two sunny side eggs and bacon making a happy face), but more because of my lack of experience while rubbing elbows with people I’d watched and admired at the IO West before – groups like DHT and Trophy Wife – it was pretty cool. My fellow female Monkey was also feeling green, but more because of the shot she received in her ass at the doctor’s office right before we left…like I said, our night turned to improv before we even hit the stage.

Lofty Ideals – We were performing upstairs in the Loft, where comfy couches housed an audience that was just about in our lap, so it made it all the more awkward if we messed up – the pressure! Trans Fat Orchestra went on before us, a co-ed foursome that really had their game tight. It was a little intimidating, but we didn’t have time to think about it because once the lights went down, we had to jump on stage.

Monkeys shines – What an adrenaline rush! A little crude at times, but we had consistent laughs. Because there were only four of us, I was thrown to the wolves and involved in most scenes, whether I liked it or not…and I liked it. I saw room for improvement and took personal notes on what I could have changed, but the fact was we had fun and the audience could sense that, which made them able to join in on the fun too. It’s like doing a wedding speech - people are there to have a good time, they want to laugh - you just have to give them an opportunity.

Paparazzi - As we were walking back to our car, a guy driving by stopped and called out, “What was that website again for you guys?“ We yelled back and my giddiness returned. I joked, “Can you believe the paparazzi are already stalking us?”

“If only it had been one block down,” my director nodded, “we would have been on Hollywood and Vine. Nobody gets famous at the corner of Hollywood and Ivar.”

Famous or not, the night was a success.

What is success?

Choking to Death

“Does anyone know the Heimlich maneuver?! There’s a woman choking...up there on stage!”

I stood gasping for breath, but food wasn’t the obstruction blocking my throat. It was the blinding blankness of my mind as I choked on silent words.

I had come out so strong. My first two jokes were like well-trained bullets hitting their targets, my hands twirling pistols, free of their double-holster. But then as I went to my next transition…nothingness. Everything I had ever known was gone. My mind kept reeling, “Think of something,” but all that my brain could come up with was, “words.”

Shit.

It was semi-finals of San Diego’s Funniest Person Contest at The Comedy Palace and I was blowing it. I had already made it past two rounds and knew my routine as well as my last name, but that didn’t matter in the depths of my hack attack.

The hack attack = a comedian’s kryptonite; a condtion resulting in the ridiculous, the stupid, the boring, the corny...

Was that me? I had been on such a high. My prior “comedy career” had been a handful of open mic nights that I had successfully completed to my standards (ie writing, memorizing and performing a routine.) But now the stakes were higher. I had entered the contest to get myself back on stage after almost a year hiatus and maybe I was in over my head. But it didn’t seem that way when I knocked out the first two rounds with my new material.

And the material was me. It was a true representation of who I was and that’s what made it easy to tell, but since I couldn’t even remember my own name, that didn't help me now. I stood there asking the crowd to give me, “Just a minute,” and stared at a stranger in the front row, hoping somehow she would feed me my lines.

I tormented myself as to why:

Why didn’t I go into the bathroom beforehand and practice like I always did?
Why didn’t I do more open mic nights for extra practice?
Why didn’t I pull out the piece of paper in my back pocket that had all my prompts on it??!!!

And that’s when it hit me: this was the first, and most crucial, lesson of my comedy education.

1) There is no such thing as too much practice. I had to get out there every chance I could. Practice. Practice. Practice.

I felt disappointed, but wasn’t soured by my downfall. I realized that when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. So when comedy hands you limes, you turn them into limelight.