Let Me Consult My Notes

Videotape doesn't lie. Just ask Rick Perry.  I hate to videotape my shows; it looks pretentious, it's painful to watch afterwards and there's a third reason which I can't recall. Oops!
Videotape taught me an invaluable lesson, though. For my entire life, I've been told I walk too fast and I talk too fast. My assistant at work dubbed me Speedy. I forced myself to tape a recent show which, it turns out, was not that well received. I privately blamed the lighting, the audience, the day of the week, the month, the year and my mother for giving me life. When I went home and watched the videotape, I had an epiphany --I was talking a mile a minute and not giving the audience a chance to react before bolting into the next joke. So, I tried an experiment the next time I performed; I spoke in what seemed to me to be slow motion and which, in reality, was the way that normal people communicate with each other. I also took some time to let the audience react before moving on. It worked wonders for the next show and I was glad that I forced myself to tape the previous one.  Still, there's no use kidding myself.  The positive result of any change to one's approach is ephemeral because comedy is like a golf swing: just when you think you've got it down pat, it eludes you and you throw your club in the nearest water hazard. Worse yet, the videocamera, bless its heartless soul, is useless once it hits the drink and there's no man in silly pants to fish it out.

When in China....

Is there comedy in China? I wouldn't know because when I visited Will in China last year, we were escorted like ducklings and had very little contact with Chinese people. I didn't try to be funny in China to test it because I wasn't doing stand up at the time and never even thought of cracking a joke because I didn't want to get arrested. Will, as many of you know, is working in China this year and often sends me interesting articles about Chinese culture and politics. He sent me an article this week that appeared in the Wall Street Journal last year, coincidentally at the time that I was traveling in China. It was fascinating and reinforced for me that it was good that I did not attempt any light patter with the Chinese hoi polloi; not because I would have been executed, but because the Chinese do not understand American humor. There is a Chinese scientist turned comic who has appeared on the Ellen DeGeneres show and on David Letterman to acclaimed reviews. When he performs in China, his humor goes over like a day old fart. Apparently, the Chinese don't go for self-depracation which is a mainstay of American humor. Irony is lost on them. Misdirection leads them in the wrong direction. The author of the article noted that the Chinese do not think it's funny to make fun of someone's misfortune, even though, as Will tells it, two Chinese subway riders had a major yuck making fun of his prominent nose in Chinese in his presence until he told them, to their horror, that he understood every word they were saying about his honker.
Anyway, there is a new trend in China among the younger set which is a tip of the hat to American humor while assuaging Chinese anxiety for not understanding it. The trick is to tell a joke and explain why it's funny after you tell it. I decided to play with this concept.  I sometimes tell  a joke that I suspect Bobby, my younger son, is a black man trapped inside a white man's body: he takes African studies, he's in an all-black dance troupe, he lives in Georgia and he calls me mama. I then quip, if he holds the mayo and starts using hot sauce, I'll know for sure. If I were telling that joke in China, I would have to explain that my son likes all things black and maybe I've been wrong all along thinking he's white. Then I would have to say that black people, stereotypically, don't use mayonnaise, but pour hot sauce on their food. This is an American comedian's nightmare. If you have to explain a joke to a sea of blank, staring faces, you've lost the audience and any  explanation just makes matters worse.
These are troubled times in the United States. We owe the Chinese lots of money and their economy is soaring while ours is dwindling. That's not funny and neither are the Chinese.

Half Empty

I'm taking stock of where I've been and where I'm going. I've been performing at two or three open mics a week and doing about one performance every 10 days. This is pretty sweet for a newbie, so why aren't I happier? Sometimes I pursue gigs and sometimes gigs pursues me. I love the latter; the former not so much. The latter is an ego boost, the former produces mixed results. When you ask and they say yes, it's great. When you ask and they hem and haw, tell you that their schedule is booked for months or simply don't respond, it feels awful. This is true especially when the producers you ask are other comedians who have seen you perform. This isn't good for someone who  still recalls feeling left out at the junior high lunch table.  After all, isn't a comedy performance just another way of trying to prove your worth and gain acceptance?
I have two performances in New York City this month; one is by invitation from Joe Matarese, a headlining comedian who appears on TV and the other is a "bringer" show where anyone can perform as long as he or she can convince four paying customers to attend. If I had a dog, he could do a "bringer" show, even if he wasn't that funny.  I'm very proud that Joe wants me for the first and feel neutral about the second since I didn't do anything to earn it.  Still, on the off chance that a producer is there who may want to give me a real guest spot at another time, it's worth my while.  I just have to keep from feeling bad if it doesn't happen.
I sometimes ask myself, after working in a cut-throat profession, why I picked an activity in my retirement that puts my ego on the line every time I get up to perform or ask a producer for a spot. NFI.
But I had several people come up to me last night after a successful performance at an open mic and say all the right things to me that keep me at it. Now if I could only figure out, after 40 years,  how to keep from feeling crushed about the junior high school lunch table.

Somebody Boil Water!

It's Gettin' Light in Here

Emotion Denied

Tennis Anyone?

With Apologies to Franz Kafka

When Tom Met Sally

Do You Kiss Your Mother-in-Law with that Mouth?

Make 'em Laugh

Hold Onto Your Briefs--I'm Outta Here