Being on TV Never gets Old

It really never does. Even though I frequently see friends pop up on shows and in commercials. At times, for me, watching TV feels like sifting through a yearbook.

Still, knowing that I'll be broadcasted to millions (alright, maybe hundreds of thousands in our 300 channels era) provides me with a charge of pride and slight nerves every time. TV is the culmination of work. Even if it's just doing 5 minutes on a late night talk show. That five minutes was painstakingly forged in nightclubs and bars, build up and then chiseled down to it's most potent most TV acceptable essence. Getting on TV is my reward for powering through all the nights doing comedy. The work parties, the loud bars, the drunk crowds, the tired crowds, the people paying their bill or ordering while you're performing. Powering through with material and not only snaps. Making people feel your point whether they're primed to or not.

Don't get me wrong, I love it. I'm not complaining just sharing the other side. Even NBA players begrudgingly practice but they do it to enhance what they do love doing, playing ball.

For a comic, the ultimate "playing ball" is performing on TV. It's like having a nationally televised game against your main rival. It's Monday night football. It's the playoffs.

I had a playoff game last night. And it felt good to leave it all out on the floor.

Thanks to Conan and TBS for having me. And thanks every audience member in every club for helping me work on my cross over.

My latest Conan set

I Never Get Turned Down

When I think of things that are useless, hotel turn down service is near the top of the list. So someone comes to your room and basically starts the comforter move for you but only slightly in one corner. Does anyone have this service at home? Is anyone so rich or so pampered that they need someone to put a crease in their comforter at night?

Maybe these same people pay someone to open potato chip bags for them or rub their eyes in the morning.

Hey fancy hotel: If you want to check my mini bar, just ask. Don’t enter my room under the guise of performing the most meaningless and borderline insulting task you can think of. If you must come in, how about you loosen the nazi comforter tuck at the bottom of the bed. Muay Thai champion kick boxers can’t kick those comforters loose.

Just give me free wifi and plenty of tea and I’ll put the do not disturb sign out. So the bed never gets made. Can’t turn down a mess. Are we still talking about beds or my dating life? :-)

An Inside Job

An extra big shout out and thank you to all the kind people of Belfast, Ireland. Especially all the fine folks at the comedy show at the Empire Hall last Tuesday. My comedy goes over extremely well in Ireland.

I almost didn't make it to the gig though. After spending an extra 15 minutes in screening at the Statsted Airport in London because of a large can of deodarant spray I forgot I had, I then hoped on the wrong train. Once on the train, I looked up and realized it wasn't in fact going to my gate. Okay, I still had 20 minutes before boarding. I'll just get off the train and take the next train back to the main area and get back on track, right? Right?

As it turns out there was no way back to the other gates. What?! As embarrassing as it is for a frequent traveler like myself to get on the wrong tram, it's equally unacceptable for an airport to have no provisions for a person to correct a mistake. It's not like I went to the other side of security.

I had to call the airport hotline and wait for someone to get me. I was at gate 6 and needed to get to gate 86. I thought about my deodorant debacle and now stranded at gate 6. Maybe I wasn't meant to be on the flight. Was fate pimp slapping me? After waiting another 10 minutes for my escort my flight was boarding and I had gone from having plenty of time to "we gotta haul ass...mate!"

My escort adeptly swept me thru the airport labryinth. We went thru secret passageways and locked doors. At each turn a swipe of his security card gave us entry thru another portal. Then we hoped in a small van he had waiting outside gate 20. We whizzed around the airport terminal and stopped 30 yards away from my plane. We ran into a staff elevator and came out a few feet from the boarding door. We had gone from gate 6 to 86 in 5 minutes . I felt like I had just watched a magician from behind and saw how the tricks were really done. I've seen parts of Statsted airport no other civilian has seen. Well, no one except the other people who hop on the wrong tram.

They don't put as much money into the interior design of the non-public parts of the airport btw. Although I think Stansted airport should rethink that whole having to escort people who take the wrong train thing, I still thank them for a fun little field trip and seeing to it that I made it to Belfast.

Happy New Theme

Happy Year of Our Lord two thousand and twelve. I’m never really pressed to do my resolutions on Jan 1st as my birthday and hence my new year is on March 21st. I dream of a world where people born on the same day gather throughout the year to countdown their new year, lower a dodge ball in town squares throughout the world and scream “Happy Our New Year!”

Of course it would only be a matter of time before someone pointed out that they were each born at a different time of the day. And then people born on April 3rd at 4:38am, EST would have to gather every year around 2am to party hard (probably via skype.)

So, logistics dictate that I be okay with bringing in the new year with the rest of the world, China notwithstanding. It’s not actually resolutions that I seek to have in place by my birthday but more my yearly theme. Past personal themes have included:

• Year of the Stir Fry (I stir fried once all year)
• Year of the Alliance (same year as the stir fry. I faired better on this working with 3 writing partners and shoot several shorts)
• Year of the Early Bird (so-so results but immediately followed by the....)
• Year of the Curfew
• Year of Aint No Half Steppin’ (the 1st year I started all this theme business and stand-up comedy not so coincidentally)

The themes are a neat way to keep me on message and connect my specific goals by way of a shared focus.

I was at a lost of what this year’s theme should be and then it hit me like a sack leaves (It wasn’t the most epic of revelations.) I’m happy with my overall objectives and work ethic. I just need to do the little things a bit better. So my preliminary choice was “The Year of Crossing T’s and Dotting I’s.”

Ultimately, I hope to do everything right as a matter of fact. But a key component of this is to see things through to the very end. It’s when you’re think you’re done that you need to do just a bit more. Basically in Basketball that would be the extra pass. The little effort after what seems like the logical conclusion that makes finishing so much easier. That’s what I wish to consistently do, make the proverbial extra pass. It requires a bit more mental energy but actually makes overall execution easier while also making the payoff greater. So after some consideration this year will be...

The Year Of The Extra Pass

It’s about winning while making it easier on yourself. It’s staying in the moment in all things. To see the opportunity that’s there but would be over looked if lack of focus or anxiousness got the best the of you. 2012, get ready for a lot of extra passes and plenty of slam dunks. Hello.

Do You Understand the Words Coming Out of My Mouth

Depending on the situation, language can be quite predictable. For instance, you could learn 20 words in Russian that have to deal with going to the butcher and as far as your Russian butcher is concerned, you speak Russian. The train would only go off the track if one of you didn't stick to the script.

(in Russian)
YOU: Hello, a pound of corned beef please and half a pound of potato salad.
BUTCHER: Ok, Anything else?
YOU: And a pound of smoked turkey cut very thin.
BUTCHER: Here you go. Pay at the front.
YOU: Thank you very much.
BUTCHER: You're welcome. Have you heard the news coming out of the Kremlin? Where does Putin get the gall.

And next would be the sound of the train derailing. And now your butcher knows you don't speak Russian and/or don't watch RT.* By the way in the above sketch YOU spoke exactly 20 distinct words.

So basically in certain scenarios, you can communicate without using the same language. I say all that to say I had a nice exchange with a Chinese cab driver. We laughed and agreed without understanding a word of what the other was saying. See, he was following another cab and I was sitting in the front with him. The cab we were following must have confused following for being chased. He drove like a bat on work release from hell. His driving was reckless in and of itself. The fact that he drove that way while being followed was unconscionable.

Finally his antics simultaneously got under my and my driver's skin. We literally both put a hand out in disbelief and both said "we're following this guy, why is he driving like a jackass." And then we both laughed. (I'm paraphrasing his part of course as it was in Chinese) Other than the language, our reaction and level of incredulousness was exactly the same. We exchanged a set of thoughts and bonded without digesting each other's actual words. And that is how you have a conversation with someone you don't share a language with.

The Day The Laughter Died

We have lost a comedy legend. A man who is undoubtedly on every working comics top five list. When you saw Patrice O'Neal perform you instantly knew you weren't doing enough. Patrice incited two reactions within comics, inspiration to be better or a nudge to flat out quit because compared to his, most efforts were futile.

In comedy, it's often hard to distinguish the man from the comic. As it should be. At it's best it's an incredibly personal and intimate art form. Patrice wore it on his sleeve. He lived it. He walked the walk. After you saw Patrice perform you knew him. For better or for worse you knew where he stood. Patrice tapped into the human condition unlike anyone has in the last twenty years and maybe ever.

On stage Patrice was compelling and hilarious. Off stage he was a guru and his impact on comedy extends far wider than people may know. I was in Belfast, Ireland when I got the news and the comics in the green room instantly started quoting their favorite Patrice O'Neal bits. In the early days I was Patrice's sidekick, well disciple is probably a more fitting word. Every where Patrice went comics flocked to him. His brand of truth and uncompromising defense of truth was a marvel to other comics. We wanted to tell bookers where to put it but we were scared the Chuckle Hut in West Bum wouldn't book us anymore. Patrice would tell the booker to stick it where the sun doesn't shine, then proceed to kill so hard that the booker had to bring him back anyway.

In those days bookers would ask Patrice to send them a tape of his performance. He would respond by asking them to send him a tape of their audience. Bull shit never stood a chance in Patrice's presence. If he rubbed a comic the wrong way it was probably because he wanted to make sure you were in it to give to comedy and not simply take from it. Patrice would constantly tell me to not be selfish on stage. Laughter is the comic's air but Patrice would suffocate before he got laughs that weren't inspired by the truth. Everyone else just had to be funny. Patrice had to be funny and honest. A burden he carried with the greatest of ease and skill. Patrice has stopped doing bits that other comics could make a career out of, simply because those bits had run their course in his development as a man.

Patrice could size most people up in seconds with amazing accuracy. Sometimes he would give someone grief and only later would I see why but Patrice would know the person was a dweeb from jump. There was no pretense with Patrice. This was off putting to many but the world Patrice lived in is a lot better than the world most of us live in. He was free from living the double and sometimes triple lives most of us live. Even I could be more biting on stage given my background. Patrice was constantly helping comics around him find their truth. Even more established comics knew there was a guy out there doing something very special.

When I read the Fountainhead I casted Patrice O'Neal in my head as Howard Roark. Patrice is the only person I've met to meet the standards of quality and unrelenting ethics that the fictional Howard Roark attained.

I've only known two comics that I would give my entire catalogue of jokes to just to hear them say my words and see them do my jokes way better than I ever could. Those two comics are Dane Cook and Patrice O'Neal. I feel sorry for people who didn't know Patrice personally. However, his comedy provides a good sense of what it was like to be in the presence of his greatness. To be humbled by his kindness enveloped in truth.

I had to write this because never talking to him again and never seeing him take life's most awkward, taboo, even mundane moments and bring them to the stage with hilarious flare and poignancy, is going to be very hard to come to terms with.

Patrice didn't choose to be honest. He seemed to not have a choice in the matter. It's like he was ordained to be the kind of person most of us wish we could be. Patrice didn't achieve his industry success because of his immense talent. He attained it in spite of his uncompromising honesty.

In the past few years I lost close touch with Patrice. I was in LA. I don't think Patrice really condoned comics going to LA. Again, he was right. LA is great but the industry hustle can take away from the art form. But no one could be a friend of Patrice and not have him rub off on them. And no comic could become close to Patrice without their approach to comedy being elevated.

I tried to keep it real Bruiser. And now that you're gone you leave an unfillable void but your spirit lives on thru all the people you impacted. We know you're watching and we will champion for truth. Please don't be upset if we're not as good at it as you were. You're one of a kind. Rest in Peace brother. You left an indelible mark on Stand-up and on me as a person. Thanks.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Dear Coffee Shop,

I’m sorry to send you this by letter but I thought it would be best. Please don’t try to change my mind. We’ve had really fun times together that I will cherish always. It’s just that, well, I need more. It’s over now. I’ve found something else, an office. It’s not as spontaneous and funny as you are but I need stability and support now. The office’s wifi always works and there’s always a place for me to sit. Office is introducing me to its friends. They're all so nice and sophisticated. Even when I go away, Office has arranged places all over the world for me to sit and work. Office doesn’t play music or have a parade of beautiful women go by but office doesn’t charge me extra for tea either.

Coffee shop, we both know that you’ll never change. You’ll never really be about grown up business. Sure you’re good for occasional great conversation and awesome people watching but I need a place where I can mail things and Fedex things and print things out and have meetings and have climate control.

I think we both knew this was going to happen sooner or later. And I really appreciate all you’ve done for me. You helped me get out the house when I was watching too much TV. You helped me write sooo many blogs. We’ll always have the retired “porn star” contemplating a comeback. I know you remember the homeless woman who gave me money. And who could forget the barrista who did, ahem, “adult” foam art.

I was doing comedy in a cocktail bar, that much is true. But even then I knew I needed a more professional work environment, either with or without you, Coffee Shop. Please don’t be too sad. You’ll find someone else. A new comic/writer on the come up who likes your drinks and wants to sit in you and work. I wish you nothing but the best, Coffee Shop.

I hope that we can still be friends and maybe I can visit you every now and then. If you’re not okay with that, I totally understand.

Thanks for everything.

Love Always,

Dwayne

(written from the business lounge from a London Branch of my office space)

At The Diner On The Corner...

As I sat looking out the window in the iLost cafe in Suzhou, China, l thought to myself, “China just may have more scooters than the US has people.”

I was about go down the Google rathole of finding out just how many scooters are in China when I realized country music was playing in the cafe and had been since I walked in. I mean songs straight from the Country Music Channel. I thought that was odd but was it odder than me sitting there? I was an hour outside of Shanghai and I hadn’t seen another black person in 3 days. In fact I can count the non-chinese on one hand. Including the 3 English blokes I travelled with. The whole scene felt like a simulation created to get operatives ready for the field. Like a picture they get to see for an instant and then must tell everything that’s wrong with it...

Operative: Black guy by the window, country music playing, the cheese cake the black guy is eating, the english novels on the shelf and I think the black guy was reading “The Sayings of Confucius” but oddly enough he was writing a bunch of sayings by someone called Dwayne-Fucius...

I definitely stood out but no one came up and touched me or anything like that. They get to see black guys play in the Chinese Basketball League. Since I stand at 5’10’’ and probably could stand to lose a few no one thought I was a basketball import. I remember when I lived in Boston this one white guy would be at every black club. The Chinese people who saw me must have felt the same way I did when I saw that guy.

EVERY ONE WHO SAW ME IN SUSZHO, CHINA: Hmmn that’s odd...oh well....

I felt like I could move there, if I had enough money to sustain myself, and just cruise. Even if I didn’t learn a millimeter of Chinese. (out of respect I went metric. Obviously “ounce” still works better.)

I want to learn another language but I’m simply too good at charades to be forced into arming myself with a foreign vocabulary. I could seriously walk into a restaurant and mime a request for Chicken and Broccoli and Shrimp fried rice with no onions and get it, no problem. You’re trying to picture how but trust me I could. Next time you see me ask me to act it out for you. Or, speak to anyone who’s played “Guesstures” with me. I’ve never lost. Yes, I had a get together and play board games phase. I don’t really like to talk about it too much.

I never did google “number of scooters in China”. Excuse me I’ve got some research to do.

It’s Not Over Til I Say So

I am sitting in a tea shop and just heard a song lyric from the PA system that made me whip out my Ipad and jot down a retort. The line that activated my opinion gland was in a pop song. I don't know the song but the line was, "we argue and then forget what we're fighting about." Huh?If it was worth fighting for then how could you forget it? For the sake of this blog I will take the singer’s words on face value. I assure you I have never forgotten why I was arguing with someone, while I was arguing with them. I find arguing to be unpleasant so if I’m engaged in an argument it’s for a reason. Maybe not a good reason but a memorable one at least. If I'm arguing it's to make a point, relay a sentiment. And that's it.

Romanticizing fighting is a dangerous slippery slope. People who forget what they were arguing about were probably arguing about something that didn't matter or arguing on a platform that didn't really address their true concerns. Either way it's arguing for sport and although the adrenaline rush then make-up may feel good, the scars from the fight, not to mention the unresolved real issues that still loom, don't go away.

Arguing for sport is like taking a drug. You'll need more and more just to level off. Arguing and stopping before resolution is like taking antibiotics but stopping too soon. The sickness is still present and now it's stronger, even more resilient and harder to stop.

I realize that things can escalate unintentionally. But the trend is for people to say anything to save face or hurt their "competitor". I'm sure I've had an issue or two that I was either incapable or scared to address with someone head on. I'm only human, flesh and blood, a man. But folks words were created for a reason. As someone who dabbles in words for a career I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with our wishy-washy relationship with the words we speak. Often times, people say what they don't mean to seize power. Two people forgetting the argument, during the argument, are admitting it was about power and calling a power stale mate. Kudos on them for gaining perspective but how about gaining it before the plates start flying.

Usually, if I’m in an argument, I don't stop because in most cases it was never about power with me. It was about truth. How can two people be diametrically opposed on a subject and then drop it without at least an acknowledgment? Probably because one or both of them never really cared that much about the said subject to begin with. Stress for stress sake. I'm okay with agreeing to disagree. That's an acceptable resolution because it's not saying you forgot what you were arguing about! Remember if you argue with me, it's not a game for me. I really believe everything I'm saying. Feel free to try and change my mind but know that I will try to get some form of acknowledgement from you and simply stopping is not an option.

It's not about winning it's about picking your fights and if you never have to actually fight or see your fight thru, chances are you will be quite irresponsible about how many "fights" you start.

Let's fight ‘til the end folks. Trust me, it will result in less fights.

*i'm talking about friends with issues not politics and definitely not the abortion issue. The former people know not what they speak and the latter is one side or the other and offers no middle ground.

That's Not The Spirit

I wouldn't normally speak badly of an airline with an open flight still pending but I must make an exception. If the brass at Spirit Airlines get wind of this and try to hassle me on my return flight from Chicago to LAX then so be it. I can't imagine whatever they cook up could be worse than my outgoing flight to Chicago.

I booked the ticket a few weeks back. And yes it was cheap but not alarmingly so. I paid what you could reasonably expect to pay for a 2nd tier airline but not so low an amount that I expected to get out and push or sit next to a chicken. I didn't have to help jump start the plane or suffer loud poultry but they did nickel and dime me every step of the way. $10-50 dollars to pick a seat assignment (any seat), $45 to bring a carry on, $3 for water or soda and the tiniest seats imagnable on a plane. I've ridden vintage roller coasters, constructed when people were a foot shorter, with more leg room.

45 dollars to bring a carry on?! I can't dream up too many scenarios where you'd need to travel from LA to Chicago and also only need to bring just a fanny pack. This tactic is called price discrimination. They're trying to breakdown the airline experience into smaller fragments and identifying who will pay what for certain "services" in the process. I think some things are implicit to an experience. Can Starbucks start charging more if you want a cup or a napkin? And if they did, what price should they list given the fact that most people will need a cup? Obviously they should quote the "coffee with a cup price." (just figured I'd spell it out for a folks too sleepy or hung over to connect the dots :-) Maybe there should be a surcharge for sitting down at a table. It's a slippery slope and soon you'll be charged per breath or per heartbeat. Poor people will be forced to keep their life functions at a bare minimum.

Ultimately, this becomes yet another oppressive experience for the have nots. A company that hides a dozen charges can not have super friendly service. Even if they try the whole exchange is an oxymoron and the disdain they have for their customers is clear whether accompanied by a smile or not. Everyone doesn't need plush accomodations but no one is really being spared anything, except a bit of dignity, when they signed up for a cheap service that then tries to gorge you every step of the way reminding you every step of the way of your financial situation and institutionalizing you in the process. Slowly making you okay with the inferior treatment.

How about you tell me how much it costs to fly on Spirit air from the beginning? A carry-on isn't a premium service it's mustard on a sandwich, doorknobs in an apartment, laces with a pair of shoes. To strip certain services is to do a disservice. I promise not to cry foul ball if I ever fly from LAX to Chicago with no bags and I pay the same as someone who does have a carry on. That's okay. I don't want 5 cents knocked off my sandwich if I don't get mayonnaise.

3 weeks ago I traveled 14 hours on KLM in World Business Class. And yes that was over the top in terms of offerings but the respect and friendliness was right on and free and something that can be afforded to everyone. Spirit air will now be known to me as "Only In an Absolute Bind"...Airlines.

Our Song Reclaimed

A while ago I wrote a blog about being at a family outing. The proceedings were a love fest but the ghost of lost promise seemed to haunt our collective psyche. This was highlighted and perhaps facilitated by the song “Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now” being played. The song is a black anthem, my favorite song, but also a reminder of the promise 1979 held. Promise that the tumultuous and drug riddled 80’s and 90’s denied urban folk all throughout our great nation. Many of my oldest and most faithful readers say it’s my best blog to date. I guess what I’m trying to say is…read it!

On another note: I felt bad that I had a bitter sweet connection to my favorite song of all time. Alas, a song is not a destination but a journey and “Ain’t no stopping us now” is a battle cry for all people for all generations. I didn’t envision that not even 4 years later a new context would be forged to and by my favorite song. An association that provides a new promise and a new more pleasant and less ironic mental imagery that my favorite song will conjure up in my mind.

I am truly my mother’s child in that I share her aversion to sharing certain bits of information, especially anything pending. I barely told people about my pilot I shot for Comedy Central last year. (I’m getting better ;-) I also told few people that my little brother was in Medical school. A fact that warms my cockles way more that my very own pilot could, even if it had been picked up.

So, last Friday, my brother graduated from Medical school and he starts his residency in a month. We don’t come from the type of family that produces doctors but now because of my brother’s ability to conceive it and will to achieve it, we do. You couldn’t measure how proud I am of my brother or how grateful I am to him, my family and God with all the rulers in Staples and Office Depot combined. (or all the tea in China for that matter J)

The graduation was almost anti-climatic given the gravity of their accomplishment. We took pictures of the dignified ceremony, ate at Pio Pio and went home. We partied Brooklyn style the next day. We topped off the music and starch-a-thon with a slide show of pictures from the graduation and our families’ “journey.” Windows Media Center provided the snazzy transitions and Youtube provided the background music…”Ain’t No Stopping Us Now.” Thirty years later and the song was right…. And now it looks like things are finally coming around.

Please Don’t Pass Me By…

While cruising down Queensway in the Bayswater section of London, I was handed a flyer buy a guy dressed like a court jester or maybe a flying trapeze artist. Either way, he was dressed to get your attention for the purpose of handing you a restaurant flyer.

This kind of folly is common place in the US but I was a bit surprised to see it in England. And I wasn’t in a high tourist area where you could kind of understand it. I also wasn’t in a theme park, where this sort of spectacle should be confined to. I guess that’s my issue. These flyer businesses are trying to bring out the little kid in grown-ups. But I refuse to be excited by a drunk guy in a Statue of Liberty suit giving out flyers for a check cashing place that offers barely legal payday loans.

The amount of vomit you encounter near any English bar row on any Saturday night should have been proof enough that England isn’t too proud or dignified to make people dress up in 2^nd rate mascot outfits to push lunch specials.

I wonder if dressing up to give out toothpaste promo cards is a stepping stone to being a proper mascot in Disneyland or for a sports franchise. Work your way up to the big time. More likely though your local leaflet presenter is on the way down. Guys who can’t cut the mustard at Six Flags any more but miss the rush of dressing like a bug suck up their pride and find a new outlet for their shtick. Albeit one that requires them to give handouts but at least keeps them from asking for handouts.

No matter where I am in the world, no matter what their selling, I always take the flyer. The quicker that person can give out all those flyers, the quicker they can lose the outfit and rejoin society. Do unto others…

Dances for Wolves

Throughout history sociologists have tried to find barometers, tell-tale signs for how a society is doing; signs to gauge if a society is thriving or in decline, fair or corrupt, free or oppressive. Some look at economic indicators. Others say look no further than how a society treats its women.

I say the above metrics will surely give tremendous insight but I would like to throw my indicator into the judging ring. I think a society is in big trouble when full-fledged adults have no choice but to do jobs previously reserved for teens and seniors. When your ex-boss is delivering newspapers, it probably means times are hard on the boulevard. Some 45 year old, ex middle management guy giving out smiley stickers at wal-mart, time to brush up on “Living off the Land” 101.

So I’m walking with my mom on Steinway street in Queens. (Big up to Astoria, my second favorite place in nyc after the entire borough of Brooklyn) and we spied a woman dancing. She was cutting cement in front of a cell phone store. My mom told me she’s there all the time, a local favorite.

We chatted her up and it turns out she’s on contract to dance in front of the Metro PCS store. I think she used the term “contract” extremely loosely. Metro PCS: Everyone in cities with Metro PCS knows about you! And people who don’t mind spotty coverage for $50 less a month than the big boys (myself included.) will surely get with you whether there’s a dancing lady out front or not.

You know they pay her a mere pittance to dance like Queens is not watching. A job that could be done by a teen or one of those air tube doll thingies that wiggles around when there’s a slight wind. So, the economics are off balance and now grown-ups are forced to do jobs that inanimate objects could do. Probably for the same money the inanimate object would make.

The Astoria dancing queen seemed quite happy with her work and her enthusiasm was definitely infectious. All that notwithstanding though where do we go from here?

Smell You Later

I videotape or audiotape about half of my comedy sets. I listen to or watch maybe half of those. So I review a quarter of my sets. A number that should be higher but between writing a blog per week and status updates I don’t get to critique the magic as much as I would like. I also don’t love hearing myself.

To improve however, one must honestly assess where they are to determine where they must go. So for ¼ of my sets I bite the bullet and listen to my own comedy. It’s actually never as bad as I thought…or as good as I thought.

While reviewing a set I did in El Paso I was treated to a golden nugget from a heckler in the crowd. I was asking where I should go hang out afterward. Apparently the place I was heading to was a known hang out for Cholos. (Mexican Gangsters) Some in the audience discouraged me from going there. A black audience member suggested another club. Apparently, that spot is a known hang out for…black gangsters.

I told them I felt I was in a pickle. It seemed I could get shot in either place. Then came the heckle of the century. I couldn’t it make out during the show but heard it on the playback. A boisterous but supportive audience member screamed out “No one’s going to shoot you Will Smith!”

Clearly there are a few ways to take this. I choose to focus on my universal appeal that the heckler was clearly alluding to. As far as he could tell my demeanor would make me okay in both places. He wasn’t taking a jab at my street cred as much as he was succinctly and hilariously stating that those gangsters probably wouldn’t be interested in messing with me because of my disarming nature. If only that heckler ran one of the networks.

The heckler, who seemed to know his way around a street or two, had basically given me a pass to run amuck in El Paso. A pass for Juarez, Mexico however, just over the boarder, is a different thing all together. (I ain’t that universal!) El Paso is said to be the safest city in the country*, while Juarez, Mexico, just over the border is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. There’s a thin line between “shoot the breeze” and “please don’t shoot.” I was on the good side of that line so maybe that heckler was right, universal appeal notwithstanding.

By the way, heckling at my shows is still frowned upon.

* http://www.kpbs.org/news/2010/nov/22/el-paso-san-diego-among-safest-cities/

Unusual Suspect

Shout out to Jolly Old London. I come here more often now and when I’m here the blogs just fly off my net book. Now, I try to stick to my regimen, no matter where I am in the world. If I’m in Paris, Georgia or Brooklyn, Michigan or London, Ohio it’s Coffee Shop, workout, solitaire and Law and Order if available (Seinfeld goes with me everywhere.)

Back to THE London…So I did my Coffee Shop hours and was trying to get a workout in before channel surfing for Law and Order: UK (yes, it exists.) I planned on doing push-ups and pull-ups and with the pound to dollar ratio at 1.7; I wasn’t in the mood to pay a gym 25 dollars to not use any of their equipment.

So I decided to keep it old school and workout in the park. In NYC we do chin-ups using the walk sign on the corners. That’s how you get ghetto diesel…and really dirty hands (see pic.) I put on my track jacket and shorts and headed out looking for some reachable apparatus that could support my body weight. I passed some sturdy looking scaffolding but there were men at work so I didn’t break my stride. I made my way to Hyde Park. A lovely park with ponds, wide open space, trees, running and bike paths and yet I didn’t spy a vertical pole I could use to bring by biceps and back to fatigue using my own body weight against gravity.

I finally saw a playground. At the playground, ya know, that’s where I’ll do my pull-ups… It was fenced in and lined with trees but I could see a monkey bar thingy thru a space in the trees. I made my way to the entrance where an official park person stood guard. She told me that you need to be with a child to enter the playground. What? Do a google image search on “chin-ups” and I guarantee pictures of adults doing chin-ups in a park somewhere will be returned. That’s what playgrounds are, workout centers. Just I wasn’t planning on giving my workout a back story of cops and robbers or making gun sounds while pointing with my finger. Now I have to walk away looking like a suspect? Well, put an adult chin up bar right next to the playground and then if I journey into the playground, fine, paint me suspicious.

QSN: Do that search on Chin-ups not pull-ups. Pull-ups might also return babies in pampers pics and land you on some list. Which would be ironic.

Aren’t young kids in a playground with their parents? Two women tried to go in after me and were also denied. (I think because I was still close enough to witness the potential double standard.) At some point our protective measures will lead to children being put in incubators until their teenagers. We’ll call it 2nd birth.

So, I did my push-ups in the grass and my pull-ups on a tree branch I could barely wrap my hands around. Which, given the close proximity to a functional playground should’ve scared people more.

Thai a Yellow Ribbon

I’m sitting in my Bed and Breakfast in Johannesburg, South Africa and dreaming of faster internet service, and Thai food. Decent Thai food, faster internet are both a long but doable walk away. In Los Angeles is Thai food is always a notion away. In LA, the Thai food twinkle in your eye and the delivery of a bouncing bowl of Tum Yum at your table are never more than 15 minutes apart.

Los Angeles’ Thai town sports almost as many Thai restaurants as people. Before I left LA I stopped by my favorite late night Thai spot. It’s in a plaza with 3 other Thai restaurants. Think of a 7-Eleven parking lot with 3 adjacent 7-Elevens, now replace those 7-Elevens with Thai eateries. Throw in a Thai dessert place, A Thai spa and a donut shop and the picture is complete.

Breaking news: The donut shop has been replaced by….(drum roll please)…another Thai restaurant. That is so “thinking inside the box” that it’s actually “thinking outside the box.” That’s 5 restaurants if you’re keeping score. Now that’s a market place! How people choose which one to go to is beyond me. I think I simply favor the one I walked into first. Two of them are definitely more crowded. One seems to be hip and the other busy one seems to cater to Asian people. The one I go to caters to me. Never too busy and yet it seems even more “authentic” than all the others (mostly Thai patrons).

I suspect the question is moot. I haven’t done any investigative work but I wouldn’t be surprised if all 5 were owned by the same person...okay maybe 2 different owners. Either way the semblance of choice combined with great food has them laughing all the way to the spa, which they probably own too but might be turned into another restaurant if its numbers slip.

Shutter To Think

I’m always tickled by the shutter noise my digital camera and cell phone makes when I take a picture. It’s hilarious to me that the designers thought it necessary to add the analog sound. It would be like adding an engine revving sound to an electric car to give drivers the sense that there’s massive horse power cranking under the engine; As if that could completely hide the fact that they can only do 80mph and have to charge it up along with their cell phone every night.

I’m pro electric car and I’m also pro digital photography. I’m not pro adding superfluous features to make these products conform to some notion of the technology they replaced. If you’re going to go that way then why not add a “rewind” switch and a “forward” wheel. We could go all the way with the silliness and make SD memory cards in the shape of film and have people drop off their “film” to one hour photo shops. Or maybe your photo printer should come with a cardboard “one hour photo” mobile kiosk.

Facetiousness aside, pretty soon most young people won’t remember that shutter sound. To them it will be the sound that digital cameras make…for some reason. I’ll either have to explain the sound to them or pretend that I don’t know what that sound means either. While I’m at it I can pretend I don’t get the Lady Gaga-Madonna comparisons and can’t remember when rappers used to say “rahhhh!”

I wrote the preceding text and then hoped on a subway where God provided the button to this blog. I saw a guy playing Pong on his Iphone.

Virtual Insanity

I was practicing typing while listening to the Economist magazine on line. I type blogs, scripts and jokes but I’m far from a typist. I read the Economist magazine but I’m far from an economist. I actually think the entire study of economics is a bit flawed. Technological advances along with good old fashioned human nature seem to necessitate changes in economic theory and wealth distribution that haven’t taken place yet. My support of the previous statements goes beyond the scope of my light hearted feel good blog. But I offer you this video I watched on the Economist online as snack for thought. Dr. Michio Kaku is predicting where technology will go in the next one hundred years. He describes a world much like that in the movie Terminator but thinks it will be groovy. If you have 4 minutes please watch and see if you were scared silly like I was.

Some Questions/comments for Dr. Kaku:
1) If computers can read your mind and robots can build cars then why can’t they pick up trash?! (Mr. Kaku seems to think the robots will eliminate many jobs but not trash removal. Huh?!)

2) Robots will be able to do construction. If they’re that advanced wouldn’t they be able to do anything we do?*

3) When we no longer have to work, when there’s no labor, how will resources be distributed? People either have to be paid based on a new set of criteria (funny blogs perhaps) or we slip into some weird high-tech welfare state.

4) When people can live forever and don’t have to work, will it make sense to let useless people live forever? After we eliminate all reality TV stars how will we determine who else is useless? If you think this video is scary the one before this was about the production of human-like robot eyes that can zoom. *I recently blogged about a supercomputer on Jeopardy. IBM’s Watson dominated two former Jeopardy champs. If fcomputers can dominate on Jeopardy, they can be taught to pick up trash!

Economist Interview:

Push The Little Pastries And Make'em Come up

I was recently in a Coffee Bean in Beverly Hills. Coffee Bean is the 2nd largest Coffee shop chain in Los Angeles. Of course Starbucks is the biggest. Coffee Bean is the runner up to Starbucks much like Sandisk is the 2nd top mp3 player after The Ipod. What’s Sandisk?...Exactly.* But I felt good being in number 2 on this day as the Coffee Bean was directly across from a Starbucks. Shunning a corporate giant for a smaller corporate giant isn’t exactly sticking it to the man but you have to start somewhere. Given the option at least I went with what was closer to Mom and Pop on the Mom and Pop-Evil corporate giant continuum. For the record Coffee Bean has better tea than Starbucks. Starbucks has better food, mainly because Coffee Bean doesn’t serve food. It’s a push on the pastries. QSN: Doesn’t “Push on the Pastries” sound like the name of an Indie rock group? Eventually people would just call them POP and that would be coincidental but we would call it ironic. I guess I’m all about the underdog as long as the underdog is directly across the street. A brilliant strategy when you think about it. Want to open a small independent coffee shop? Well, set up shop near Starbucks. Some traffic will be diverted your way out of pangs of guilt. Why be cliché when you can cross the street and be self righteously cliché? Others will head to get some indie brew to avoid long lines and no place to sit. Either way you’re siphoning off the man and championing small business. Who knows Starbucks may even pay you off and give you more to scram than you would’ve made in business. Sure, that’s the classic definition of selling out but…if a thousand Mom and Pops do this then… Well, I would like to say it would bring Starbucks to its knees but it’s more likely that scones will go up 5 cents. (in Robot voice) …Resistance is futile, Just go to Starbucks sip on your frap and enjoy Norah Jones on the PA system… QSN - Quick Side Note *News story on Sandisk being number 2

Close Encounters of the Crazy Kind

At this point my brushes with eccentric characters have become much like the “chicken or the egg” conundrum. Do I write about these types because I run into them or do I run into them because I write about them? I don’t think I’m seeking out these encounters but maybe the mere act of writing about them, attracts them.

Cut to me walking into a Ralph’s supermarket to ¬¬¬scoop up some Almond milk. I usually get soy milk from the ninety nine cents store but apparently soy milk has too much of the female hormone, estrogen. I don’t sob while watching Seinfeld reruns and I haven’t told anyone that it’s not what they said, but how they said it. Still, I figure I should take a break from using female hormone milk to mix my very manly protein powder after my very manly workouts. (Resistance bands are manly right?)

I walked past a guy in the parking lot and we had this exchange:

APOCALYPSE DUDE: You going in there?
ME: Yes
APOCALYPSE DUDE: You better hurry! They’re running out of food!

It took everything in me to not ask him some follow-up questions. Was it a certain section that was depleted? Were they also running out of toiletries? How about cashews?

I hope my doomsday soothsayer wasn’t offended that I didn’t speed up after his warning. It’s not that I wasn’t taking heed but no one else was heading toward the mega mart so at least I only had to contend with the mayhem already inside the store and those people already had the drop on me so keeping my leisurely pace seemed to make sense.

Of course Ralph’s was loaded. There were enough provisions to feed a city. To be fair, he didn’t say when they would run out of food. 2025 would be my guess. Almond milk is too thick for my protein powder to fully dissolve. I wish he would’ve warned me about that.