Punches

There are things in this world that can’t be taught, and things that can’t be learned. It’s one of those lessons I had to learn before I could teach myself to learn that it couldn’t be taught.

~Me

 

The Kung Fu Chapter

A 6 year-old child sits on the couch in awe of what he sees on the TV. It’s a grainy, poorly cropped film featuring a common theme of betrayal and growth and redemption. Chop-socky, they call it. Kung fu theater. They call it typical Asian cinema. The 6 year-old child doesn’t know what to call it but, he knows that it’s beautiful. He no longer sits on the couch engaged in passive observation. What happens on the TV is what happens in the living room. What happens is monkey-style kung fu. Monkey see, monkey do. The 6 year-old child copies the movements of the actor, the movements of the kung fu hero, the movements he sees on the TV. The actor’s name is Jackie Chan. Jackie Chan, the Clown Prince of Kung Fu, the guy who is funnier than he is a badass, the opposite of Bruce Lee, is his kung fu hero.

Real-life punches don’t create a whooshing sound like in the movies. Real-life fighting isn’t beautifully choreographed and elegant. The 6 year-old child doesn’t know any of this. He continues practicing to make his punches whoosh awaiting the day where he will engage in a beautiful, elegant fight. He practices punches and kicks until he is 7, and then 8, and then 9. His movements now include not just monkey-style, but snake and crane and tiger and dragon and leopard-styles. He’s working on praying mantis. His movements are beautiful, elegant. Still, his punches do not whoosh. He practices punching and kicking until he’s 10.

There are a lot of things in life that older people encourage younger ones to do: go to school, get a job, find someone to marry, start a family.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

In physics it’s called the path of least resistance. Bottle something up, make it explode, and it will take the easiest possible way out. On a gun, it’s the opening at the end of the barrel. Firing a bullet so it exits the gun from any location, other than the barrel, is hard to do. Most people, like the bullet, obey physics, and end up taking the path of least resistance. Bullets move at several hundred feet per second and, while the initial explosion that propels them is loud, even bullets do not make a whooshing sound. The 6 year-old child, who’s now 10, and soon to be 11, doesn’t know any of this. He practices so that one day his punches will whoosh. Only punches don’t whoosh.

He practices so that one day he’ll defy physics.

The Chapter About Dance

5 years pass and that 10 year-old child, soon to be 11, is now 16. Add to his list of kung fu styles the Dance of the Eight Drunken Masters. His weapon of choice; a pair of nunchuckus. He also knows how to wield a staff. He can make the nunchuckus whoosh. The staff, he can also make it whoosh. His punches, even the Dance of the Eight Drunken Master punches, do not whoosh.

In preparation for his first, semi-formal, high school dance, the 16 year-old studies the TV. This time, it isn’t kung fu he studies. This time, it’s dancing. It’s not the same type of dancing as the Dance of the Eight Drunken Masters, but it’s dancing.

All of the movies the 16 year-old has seen up until his first, semi-formal, high school dance made it seem like everyone in high school knew how to dance. Everyone knew how to dance, except for the losers. To not be a loser, he had to know how to dance. So, instead of grainy, 1970s, kung fu movies, he watches grainy, 1990s, Playstation video game graphics. The dancers in the video game dance beautifully and elegantly. Because the dancers in the game dance beautifully and elegantly, the 16 year-old also dances beautifully and elegantly. This is how he learns.

By watching the TV, he managed to learn several forms of kung fu. By playing Playstation, he manages to learn how to dance. Along the way he also picks up the Brazilian martial art, capoeira, a fighting-style which combines fighting with dancing. He does this by playing Tekken 3 on Playstation on the TV. He learns capoeira. He learns how to dance.

When he finally goes to his first, semi-formal, high school dance, the 16 year-old is the only one who knows how to dance.

The ‘First’ Chapter

The 22 year-old is no longer a child. He lost his virginity the previous year and, for the first time, is living away from home. He is not quite a man, but he’s getting closer. However, getting closer to becoming a man does not get him any closer to making his punches whoosh. In fact, he rarely punches anymore. The previous 3 years saw a decline in kung fu and punching and kicking and gave rise to hacky sack and breakdancing and skateboarding; his 2-syllable activities replaced by 3-syllable activities. Also, for the first time, he is no longer single; his 3-syllable girlfriend replacing his 2-syllable relationship status.

One day, with a girlfriend in his hand, he almost walks past a flyer. He might have missed the flyer entirely if he did not have a girlfriend in his hand, but her walk affects his walk and because her walk affected his walk, he did not walk past the flyer. He almost did, though. Holding her in his hand, he reads the flyer. He reads the flyer and he thinks it’s a good idea.

Later that night, with a girlfriend in his hand, the 22 year-old is suddenly part of an audience. What he read on the flyer was, “Amateur Comedy Night.” This was the first time he has ever attended a show due to a flyer. He has never seen live stand-up comedy before. That Night, the show was heavy on Amateur, but light on Comedy. When the show is over, he has still never seen live stand-up comedy. Amateur Night usually means a show comprised of people who don’t know what they’re doing. So, that night, the 22 year-old becomes an amateur. 2 weeks later he is introduced, for the first time, as a stand-up comedian; his 6-syllable activity replacing his 3-syllable activities.

For the first time in his life, the 22-year old does not learn a new skill by watching TV. Although his previous skills; kung fu, dance, skateboarding, he learned from watching TV and copying what he saw, doing the same in comedy is forbidden. The word they use is, Hack. The 22 year-old does not want to be Hack. He does not learn from watching TV. He only learns from being a stand-up comedian.

This is a first.

 

Chapter 11

8 years go by and the 22 year-old, now 30, continues to learn by simply being a stand-up comedian. His quest to learn stand-up has never Ceased. Instead of attending comedy classes or Boot Camps, he only learns stand-up in the 5, 10, 15, 20, 25 and 30 minute allotments of time he is given from night to night. He learns by being on stage and by watching others on stage. In between sets, he learns by talking about comedy and by listening to others talk about comedy.

Somewhere, during his 8 years of being a stand-up comedian, he also learns how to write jokes. The formula he learns is simple; lead the audience down one path, then yank them down another. The shorthand for this formula is called, set-up/punch. For 8 years, the 22 year-old spends his time leading up to being a 30 year-old by, once again, practicing punches. He is not yet a man, but he is getting closer and his original goal of defying physics has yet to be accomplished. However, every now and then in front of audience, one of his punches manages to whoosh.

The Departing Voice and the Cockroach

If anything can be said about this weekend it is, “I am speechless.” Metaphorically this is somewhat true for the events that have conspired to aid and abet me into this situation seem far too convenient in context for me to ignore. Literally I am entirely speechless. It appears the author of the screenplay of my life has recently received a sudden jolt of creativity. Well, at least someone close to me is producing something new. I, unfortunately (or maybe procrastinatingly) have not.

Nothing.
No jokes, poems, stories. At least I have the pull up bar.

So, yes, creatively my voice has been but an inaudible whisper behind a deaf ear and if life truly does imitate art than my speaking voice has followed suit. Laryngitis. It’s name speaks death to those whose livelihood depends on the use of vocals as the primary means of self-expression: the singer, the orator, the stand-up comedian. And although I am in some ways a culmination of all those things, it is with the latter that I most identify.

Call it a compulsion, or an addiction, this constant need for the joker to be herded onto a stage and displayed before a hundred snarling critics while only armed with his wits and the complex goal of eliciting their laughter. And as frightening as that might sound to some of you it is the driving force behind my otherwise drab existence. To be onstage is to be alive. To be onstage in one of the top comedy clubs in the country for an entire weekend and opening for a man who could possibly place me on national television; why that would call for a celebration.

If only I had a voice. Where is the Wonderful Wizard when you need him?

It was Tuesday, I believe, that I was at work with Melissa and discovered that she was overcoming an ailment that  left her fatigued and not in the best of spirits. This melancholy behavior is atypical of Melissa. However, she soon recovered regaining that bright and cheery attitude she is best known and loved for. This is very unlike myself. My attitudes can sometimes be described as sour. Sour with a smile and a tip of the hat. Some might even call me Dick, although that is not my name. Shame on them. Shame shame. Whatever I lack in pleasantries I make up for with sarcastic wit. Not a redeeming quality by any means, but quality nonetheless. Add a transferable, airborne pathogen into the mix and the results become iffy. Whether it was from Melissa or something similar, I was ill by Wednesday evening.

I was a little worried, yes. My booking at the Improv was for a one-nighter on Thursday followed by a weekend booking Friday through Sunday. This meant I had to endure a 40+ mile drive to and from Hollywood, FL four nights in a row and perform in six shows that weekend. The performing part, as nerve-racking as it is, is the easy part although the added uneasiness of disease doesn’t help much. The driving, on the other hand, can be downright brutal. Not the act of driving itself, but the sleepiness that accompanies late-night commutes. I guess this worry was in vain.

At work Wednesday Melissa seemed more her normal springy self and less like a facsimile wearing her childlike grin. Her illness passed rather quickly and I hoped it would do the same for me. Thursday was a day off and therefore allowed me to spend it at rest preparing for the show that night. Although tired, the show came and went without incident. I was ready for the weekend ahead.

Friday was a slow morning at work followed by an invitation to the beach (a place I rarely visit due to the beach sand’s overwhelming persistance to invade my personal and private space). Whether from sun, seawater, or sand I left the beach with an agitated throat that swiftly escalated towards finer shades of raspy. By mid-afternoon simple speech became manual labor and the comedic weekend ahead of me had reached its expiration date. How difficult a task is it to tell jokes without one’s voice? Under similar circumstances is it as difficult as winning the heart of a Prince Eric? What dull irony it is that a disease I picked up from my mundane day job would render my nightlife useless. My true calling erased by the irritated echoes of inflamed vocal chords. Thank you, Melissa. A friendly gift from a gifted friend. If only that were the case.

Late Saturday, another day off with nothing to do except not speak to people so I decided to go to the Wellington mall. It’s a mistake I’m bound to repeat. Fortunately my friend, Danielle,  was working and we got to share an early dinner on her break. Although I wasn’t able to talk much I did manage to repeat to her a short tale I had recited earlier when I visited my workplace to grab some tea.

After leaving Starbuck’s, the place of my employ, I went out to my car where there remained a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee from Wednesday evening. Since it had been 3 days since the purchase of said coffee, the ice had melted away leaving a pool of coffee and cream stained water. It was into this cup that I decided to empty the current remnants of infectious waste from my lungs. Removing the lid I positioned my mouth over the opening of the cup and prepared to spit out whatever one spits out when preceded by fits of coughing when I realized that something was afloat within. Something completely dissimilar to Melissa. Something small and brown and not without legs. I thought the coffee tasted better than usual.

 The truth is, I don’t know what really brought me down. A fleeting cold from a vibrant co-worker or an unwitting ingestion of la cucaracha and french vanilla. Either way it makes for amusing retelling. I just have to figure out which is more ironic; the day job ruining the night job or one national coffee chain inadvertently sabotaging the employee of another national coffee chain. I guess I’ll stick with Starbuck’s.

Fuck up

I’ve already fucked up.

2 weeks ago I wrote a promise to my readers and myself that I would put one post a week from now on whether I had something to say or not.
And I missed last week.

Imagine the millionaires of the world if procrastination were profitable. Tonight I performed at the monthly Mother Earth Comedy show that Stevie D. and I started about 6  or 7 months ago. It was a fun show and everyone who was there had a good time. All 7 of them. Of the 7 only two have never seen me perform before and of the two only one has never heard me tell a joke. Thanks for coming out Marissa and Keith! There weren’t only 7 people there, though. There were 14 people. The other 7; Patrick, Jim, Evan, Pam, Stevie, Laurie and Patti were comedians and the owner of the coffee shop respectively. Zooey the cat would be number 15, but she slept through half the show. No respect, I tell ya’.
No respect.

Some good news. One of my best friends, David, spent his entire spring break in a hospital bed after falling off his bike and fracturing his skull. This isn’t the good news part. The good news is that he was finally discharged from the hospital today and is no longer at risk of flashing his penis to unsuspecting relatives of his lovely girlfriend, Ana. Oh the fun to be had with drug induced unconsciousness and hospital gowns. Although leaking out from his ear, David’s brain appears to be okay and undamaged from the fall. How he fell off his bicycle we’ll never know since he doesn’t remember it happening nor does he remember being Traumahawked to Delray Medical Center where he spent the next two days sleeping with the aid of heavy-duty sedatives and breathing tubes and a neck brace. Several days, balloons, a teddy bear and a Halo Legends DVD later he is home in his own bed with a badly bruised ear and his brain leaking out of it. Good to have you back, man!

It’s almost next week. Guess I’ll be back soon.

Start typing.

Let the words run from your fingertips unobstructed.

Maybe something will happen. That’s what I’m hoping at least.

The pot of coffee flashes green in the kitchen and the aromatic tinges of Mexico Chiapas roast waft around my house. My eyes grow heavy… er, heavier. Heavier because they’ve been this way all day. I’m searching for jokes within the deep crevices of my preoccupied mind and it seems that babies and being Asian are the themes of my unconscious. Maybe I’m secretly longing for the days when I was an Asian baby. I think I was able to sleep back then. Suck a thumb. Poop my pants. Dreaming my baby dreams.

I wonder if Asian baby me ever imagined this is who he’d become. I doubt it. He probably dreamed of much bigger things, things beyond serving lattes and telling jokes and playing videogames. Maybe he dreamed of an endless line up of nipples from which he could feed at will. Or squeeze. I wonder if Asian baby me was also such a pervert.

No edit

No editing. These are words as they flow. Might sound like nothing to some, but I don’t usually just write whatever comes to mind like how some most people seem to do nowadays. Nhanny picked a page of particular paragraphs. For all of you, this entry will be meaningless. This is an exercise to get words to exit my mind and wind up somewhere other than a forgotten passing of ideas. I will make it a point to revisit my ignored blog at least once a week from now on and add something, however meaningful or meaningless it might be.

I’m supposed to be studying for the GRE to apply for grad. school, but I’m really sick of school. I’m really sick of everything really. Except comedy. Comedy actually makes my life seem worthwhile, like I’m not just living to be alive, but that I’m serving some purpose I was meant to do. Wouldn’t it suck if I were wrong? Then I would just be living because that’s what’s expected of me. And, no, don’t take this the wrong way. This isn’t some badly veiled cry for help, possibly suicidal confession to the world (for the 3 of you who read this). I just feel, like most artists – yes I’m calling myself an artist – that I’m suffering from an inexplicable need to be noticed for something out of the ordinary. That if I don’t somehow leave a footprint on this planet to be fossilized and unearthed millions of years later to the wonder and speculation of the human race, that my existence would have been unnecessary.

And I must confess, I edited 3 sentences just now. Just typos here and a grammatical error or two. Hard habit to break. Like procrastination. Need to stop doing that, too. Writing here will be the first step towards my quitting of procrastination. Once a week. Once a week, I promise.

Fuck dick jokes!

Welcome, he says

Welcome, he says. This is not sleep. He is not going to pretend to know what it is because he doesn’t know. He just knows that this is not sleep. It could be a dream, but he doesn’t think so. Dreams end. Does this have an end? He doesn’t think so. Welcome, he says.

I Killed (Prologue)

This was never my intention.
Call it fate. Call it a curse. Call it whatever you want.

Imagine a spotlight. A microphone. A brick wall.

This is my office. Fully furnished it comes with a wooden stool and a plastic water bottle. The label says Evian. From my vantage point the faces in the room appear as shadows. There’s an eyebrow ridge here, a nose there, some ears, some earrings. Every now and then a prominent feature is dimly highlighted by flickering candlelight. There’s the circular glint of glassware, the muted clink of silverware on china, the rustling of moving bodies.
The dark.
All around me a backdrop of human silhouettes, the glare from three-hundred pairs of eyes.

Tonight, I’m working a thirty minute set for $120 an hour. If you divide $120 by sixty minutes we’re looking at two dollars a minute. Awesome. I’m making phone sex money. Tonight, I’m working for sixty dollars, but really I’m working for laughter. It’s the only payment that really counts. I’ll still take the money, though.

In order to measure our success comedians have adopted the language of serial killers. I slaughtered. I destroyed. I knocked ‘em dead.
I killed.
It’s surprising just how powerful telling jokes can be. Take some words, form them into sentences, add a funny thought and you can get away with murder. Remember that time you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe? What if you couldn’t stop laughing? If hearing a joke can so drastically alter someone’s emotional state, can it also affect the physical? Imagine hundreds of people in the audience slamming their fists onto tables, slapping their knees, stomping their feet and clapping their hands in mass hysteria. And they call me a riot. A guy stands on stage with a microphone and some ideas and the world around him collapses into uncontrolled chaos. But that’s not what’s happening now. Now is not the time.
Not yet.

Imagine another show, another day. This isn’t the beginning, but it’s close.
Imagine another room.
The room isn’t big, but it’s long, narrow. The walls are sporadically adorned with colorful paintings and artwork created by local artists. Seating is a mixture of cushioned benches and bar stools and high chairs and a couple of red couches set adjacent from one another. Tables line the length of the floor in two neat rows stretching from the front door towards the bar in the back. The bar sits in the corner curved like a black S. The lights are low and occasionally a waft of hookah smoke will cast an airy shadow across the room. I smell mango.

Welcome to the Buddha, equal parts hookah bar, equal parts creative haven. It’s Wednesday, which means it’s open mic night. Open mic night means that I’m here. Tonight is a performance art free-for-all featuring poets, musicians, songwriters, singers, dancers, story tellers, rappers.
Comedians.
Other attendees range from college bound teenagers to workforce retirees and everything in between. Sign-up is open to all. Like everyone else here all I wanted was to practice my craft. Take the stage, tell my jokes, listen for the laughs and if I’m lucky, I might even kill.
Call it fate. Call it a curse. I never intended for anyone to die.

Time to Come to Terms

Every living thing is just food for something else. No matter how little or how much you accomplish in life, you are a future dinner plan.
You are being eaten as we speak.
Consider your life and ask yourself, ”Do I want go out as fillet mignon or as some organic tofu piece of shit.”

You are what you eat. We’ve all heard that. But how do you want to be eaten?

It’s Easier to Peel a Banana from the Bottom

A slight pinch and pull at the bottom of a banana causes the peel to break at the seam. None of that stem grabbing, fruit bruising, bending, twisty action at the top. Pinch and pull. Pretend it’s a baby’s cheek or a bra strap on a girl you like.
Or hate.
These are the kind of things they don’t teach you in school.

Sometimes, trying to get someone to think critically is as painstaking as trying to teach a guy with no legs to do the splits. Some are just ill-equipped.

What they try to give you in school is answers. That’s what all the tests are based on; answers.
Their answers.
A. B. C. D. E. Fill a bubble. Fill the blank. Fill your brain with their answers and forget the fact that our science and history books have been written and rewritten hundreds of times. The world used to be flat. Pluto used to be a planet. I used to be so naive.
And the religious books? Just a series of mistranslations, misinterpretations, disinformation. If I had lived a few thousand years ago and wanted to rule the world through mass mind control I’d have written my own Holy Book and watched as the future unravelled into paranoia and uncertainty. If the Bible, the Torah, or the Qur’an were replaced with the Lord of the Rings trilogy the only thing that’d change today would be the fashion.
Someone stands in front of a room full of people with a book and some lecture notes and what you’re supposed to do is believe. Here are the answers. Memorize the answers. Now put the answers on this test sheet. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It’s always easier to open a book than to open a mind. Why think for yourself when there’s a book that claims to have all the answers?

Except that no one has the answers. The wise man is the one who will admit that he knows nothing. I am not that wise, yet. But from what I remember, the people with all the answers always ended up killing the people who questioned them.

I wonder why that is.

i think…

krista is amazing