It has taken me a while to do so; but I have finally creted a podcast and found a site to post it. I've called it "Table for One with Mike Cummings", and you can find it by going to: mikecummingscomedy.podbean.com.
I'm very excited about it this. I liten to comedy podcasts all the time; and I love the format. I think it's going to be a great outlet for me. I'm going to talk about my comedy life, food service, and even a little bit of recovery (if I don't think it will bore or alienate too many people). I'm also going to have guests.
I haven't been consistent with this blog; and even when I do write here, several of my posts have been old stories that I had written before. I want fresh material to spew out into the world; and I am too lazy to write on a regular basis. On the other hand, I can talk until I'm blue in the face. I do think that If I can somehow associate my blog and my podcast on my website, that I'm getting ready to start, then maybe I would write more. Whatever happens, I hope that the few of you that read this blog when it post on it will also listen to my podcast.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
John McEnroe and Robo Schmuck
I lived and worked in Waikiki, Hawaii for two years when I was young. I moved there to escape the even smaller island of Guam, where I grew up.
I met Don Ho when I first moved to Hawaii. Don Ho is the guy that wrote "Tiny Bubbles". I did not make a good first impression: Waikiki had a world famous impersonator show, with people like Michael Jackson, Madona, and Cher. And I would regularly see them wandering around town in costume. One day I bumped into Don Ho in an elevator. I recognized his face from a picture in the Beachcomber. But I thought that Don Ho was dead, and that this guy was an impersonator. So I said: "you really do look just like Don Ho." And he said "I am Don Ho, you moron." I don't think I'm the first person who thought he was dead when they met him.
I got a job handing out flyers for a watch shop in the Beachcomber Hotel. The flyers advertised a sale for "This Week Only." "Sale Ends Sunday." That sale lasted for two years.
Kalakaua Avenue is the main street of Waikiki, lined with the major hotels, all the fancy Channel-and-Versache-type shops, and cobblestone sidewalks as wide as the avenue itself. 10,000 new tourists walk down Kalakaua Avenue every day. This attracted a lot of street performers, who made five times the money I did for doing some of the dumbest acts you've ever seen. There were the usual guitarist, violinist, and plastic milk jug drummer that come in the "ACME Street Performer Variety Pack" issued to every tourist town in this country. But there were also some great musicians and magicians and grifters. And of course there were the crazies, who I would watch for hours a day, waiting for them to do something insane. I had nicknames for some of my favorites. The event I'm going to tell you about occurred between my two favorite performers.
Street performing, like any subculture, has its rules and codes. One of the more important codes is "territory". Performers spread out along Kalakaua Avenue, far enough apart as not to interfere with each other. Where a performer set up was based on three things: seniority, popularity (which did not automatically equal talent), and finally, violent aggression.
Now to tell you this story, I have to introduce the characters. Robo-Schmuck was a mime. But he wasn't the typical mime with a French barrette and white face, trapped in a glass box and tugging on his invisible rope. He was a professional statue. He was nude except for silver-painted spandex shorts, silver-painted Nikes, and silver-painted sunglasses. His body was painted silver from head to toe. Even his hair was painted silver. The paint itself was spray paint from a hardware store.
I knew this because I'd stolen a few bicycles in my youth, and would use spray-paint to disguise them, and I recognized the smell that would make me and everyone standing around hallucinate after about five minutes of his act. Who knows what it was doing to his brain day after day?
Robo-Schmuck's act was brilliant in its simplicity. Stand still. He perched himself on a wooden box, also painted silver, and would hold a pose like a statue while wave after wave of tourists rolled down Kalakaua's sidewalks crashing into the storefronts. He would stand, pointing to some object that wasn't there, always looking away into the distance, until the inevitable…people would stop.
One or two at first, then more, until eventually there was a crowd of people standing around him, half of them watching and waiting to catch him moving, while the other half didn't know what they were standing around for except that they were part of a crowd.
It reminded me of that old trick where you get a few people to stand in a line that goes nowhere, and eventually others will line up behind them for no reason other than mob mentality.
It never failed that some adorable and apprehensive little girl between the ages of four and ten would be shoved forward by her snickering father to "Give him a poke." She would waddle reluctantly forward inch by inch. Then, just as she reached out to touch what she was convinced was a real statue, he would turn his head toward her and she would jump out of her shoes. Every time, without fail, the girl would squeal and jump back, which drew a huge laugh from the crowd. He would then, very deliberately and mechanically reposition himself into a pose where he was pointing down to his silver top hat set in front of his silver box.
He would hold that pose until the little girl realized he wasn't moving again until she talked her father into giving her money to put in the hat. Dad would give her a dollar usually, and she would toss it into the hat and look up expectantly. Robo-Schmuck would then twitch and rock slightly as if he was trying to move but could not break the pose. Then other people would throw money into the hat one at a time until he decided he could shake no more out of them. Then he would twist and turn in and out of poses like the "Thinker" or "Bodybuilder" or "Karate Kid's crane kick pose", until he eventually kneeled almost to the little girl's level, put his arm around an invisible person, and smiled for an invisible photographer. Dad would motion the little girl into the pose, and she would settle into the appropriate spot and he would take a picture. Robo-Schmuck would hold the pose until everyone had a chance to get a picture. And everyone who did was sure to put money in the hat.
Then, when it was all over, he would return to his original pose, pointing off into the distance, and hold it again. The crowd would slowly retreat and disperse, only to be replaced in just a few minutes by a whole new mob represented again by their reluctant five year-old leader. This continued for hours. The guy made a lot of money, and I imagined that he had his own suite at the Royal Kalani Hotel, Waikiki's most expensive beachfront hotel.
Robo-Schmuck was one of my two favorites because he was the most successful of the street performers, and it was obvious that he'd been doing it a long time because he had the best spot on the Ave. John McEnroe was my other favorite. And though his career was short, he was unforgettable.
John McEnroe was an impressionist. He used props to assist him, and carried them with him in a duffle bag. He was a "prop-impressionist"; the best I'd ever seen; possibly because he was the only one I'd ever seen. John McEnroe was also a homeless, fifty year-old black crack-addict from Detroit (at least he told me he was from Detroit). John McEnroe was a newcomer to Kalakaua's street performance scene. His costume was casual. He wore baggy shorts, usually camo khakis. He wore an aloha print t-shirt, after all, it was Hawaii. And he wore flip-flops. The key to John McEnroe's performance costume, what made him so noticeable among the throngs of tourists, was the unmistakable smell of fifty year-old, unwashed ass. John McEnroe's stench radiated like a campfire.
His act…
First of all, John McEnroe needed no little girls to prompt his routine. In fact, he didn't need an audience at all. He had a hat, but it was obvious that he was less interested in money than in the performance itself. Like I said earlier, John McEnroe was a prop-impressionist. The show started when he would announce to a tourist walking by, and not paying attention to him: "And now…Michael Jackson!" He would dig around in his duffle bag and pull out a single dingy white glove, put it on his hand and become Michael Jackson. He would pop-lock and hoot and squeal and do the worst moonwalk you've ever seen. He would grab his dirty nuts and jump up to his tip-toes and kick his foot out. He made sure everyone remembered that he was Michael Jackson by constantly barking out "I'm Michael Jackson! Look at me! I'm Michael Jackson!" When he was done being Michael Jackson, he would dig around in his duffle bag for a pair of sunglasses. He would put them on and announce, again to the unsuspecting, "And now…Stevie Wonder!" Then he would rock back and forth, wrenching his head to the left then the right, barking "I'm Stevie Wonder! Look at me! I'm Stevie Wonder!" Then he would produce a football from the bag, tuck it into his stomach tightly with both hands, and announce "And now…Walter Payton!"
You may have noticed that I did not mention him putting the glove and the glasses back into the duffle bag. That is because he didn't. Apparently, Walter Payton played football while wearing a single white glove and a pair of Ray-ban sunglasses. In fact, all the characters for the remainder of the performance wore the glove and shades.
The Walter Payton character was the most unpredictable of the show because the character would charge at the tourists as they wandered unsuspectingly in range, then at the last moment, plant his feet and spin around them like he was avoiding a tackle. Often, because they didn't even know there was a performance going on, the tourist would try to duck or slide out of his way, only to collide with him, which, by the way, did not discourage Walter Payton from charging another would-be tackler. After Walter Payton came a few other characters like Muhammad Ali, where he would shadow box. And Tiger Woods, where he would hit an imaginary ball with an imaginary golf club with perfect form and follow-through.
The glove sometimes made sense for the Tiger Woods character, depending on which hand he had it on.
I know that by now you have recognized the parade of "Black" characters. So why John McEnroe? Right? Because, one, it was the only "White" character he did, and two, it was the grand finale. It was the most genius piece in his show. He did one after another of African American icons and heroes, building up to what: Martin Luther King Jr. maybe, or Malcolm X, or Jesse Jackson? No! John McEnroe. And his John McEnroe was exquisite.
He pulled a tennis racket out of his bag and held it up to the sky with both hands like He-Man, and triumphantly announced "And finally…ladies and gentle men…(dramatic pause)…John McEnroe!" Then he would fiercely serve an imaginary ball to an imaginary opponent. He would run back and forth in a final-round Wimbledon Championship match-point volley: forehand, backhand; one hand swinging the racket, and one hand making popping sounds with a finger in the cheek. Back and forth until he made a dramatic final swing and paused panting and looking up to an imaginary judge perched on his imaginary lifeguard tower. Then he would drop to his knees and scream at the top of his lungs "You fucking idiot! That was in, and you know it. You stupid, blind mother fucker! That was in!" He would flop around on the ground like a two year-old throwing a temper tantrum, screaming obscenities and gibberish until it looked like he was having convulsions. And then he would go completely still as if the performance had finally killed him. He'd lay there holding his racket against his chest like an open-casket Tennis Funeral for thirty seconds or so for dramatic effect, and from this position he would announce "THE END!"
John McEnroe worked nights and started out on the edge of the strip where the new guys always started. But he quickly moved closer and closer to the center of the action, not because he was talented or hygienic or even friendly, but because he possessed the most important of the three keys to street performance: Violent Aggression. His strategy was impossible to defend. He would roam up and down Kalakaua until he felt inspired, and if the space was occupied, he would walk up to the performer and politely suggest "get out of my spot." It usually didn't need repeating. The common Waikiki street performer was very passive in nature. And they always packed up quietly and slithered away with very little dignity.
Eventually, John McEnroe settled into the same spot that Robo-Schmuck worked during the day, but they never ran into each other. Robo-Schmuck never worked very late. He made all his money off of the curiosity of children, and Kalakaua Avenue became very grown up after dark. The shops closed and a different kind of business opened its doors.
The best part of Kalakaua at night was the hookers. There was a lot of money floating around the streets of Waikiki, and a lot of horny tourists (mostly Japanese Businessmen), and that attracted a lot of beautiful hookers from all points of the Pacific Ocean.
Now John McEnroe, on the other hand, his act seemed built for the late-night crowds on Kalakaua. So he would wonder out of some back alley or another (dirty, dark alleys I never even noticed were there until he appeared from them) well after Robo-Schmuck was clocked out. To my knowledge, they never crossed paths before this night.
I don't know what he was doing out so late. Rent at the Royal Kalani Hotel must have gone up; or maybe he was working on a new, edgier routine. Whatever the reason, he was posted at his usual spot well after dark when the Avenue changed her clothes and her mood.
Enter John McEnroe.
John McEnroe sauntered out of an alley (that wasn't there a minute ago) right in front of where Robo-Schmuck was perched. Robo was just starting to attract a crowd, so there were a few people standing around. John McEnroe pushed his way past them and walked right up to Robo-Schmuck and said "Get out of my spot!" Robo-Schmuck, always the professional, did not break character. "Hey mother fucker! Did you hear me? Get out of my spot!" No reaction from Robo-Schmuck. It did, however, get a reaction from the crowd. Now remember, this is the late show, and they respond to a different type of energy than the day tourists. The yelling started to attract more people. "Mother fucker! I know you ain't deaf. I'm warning you, get the fuck out of my spot!"
I don't know why he did it. I have never been a street performer. Maybe he was trying to uphold the integrity of his show. I suspect, however, the silver spray-paint had finally caused irreversible brain damage. Whatever the reason, Robo-Schmuck finally moved. In character, he turned his head toward John McEnroe, silver shades hiding his eyes, and smiled the same fake smile he did for the photos. Then he turned and twisted his arm and fingers mechanically until they settled into a middle finger right in John McEnroe's face.
Nobody saw him reach into his duffle bag and pull out his tennis racket, or maybe they did and didn't want to ruin the surprise. Either way, without any announcement, John McEnroe bashed Robo-Schmuck in the face with it. Robo-Schmuck collapsed on the ground, holding the side of his face, screaming. I'd never heard Robo-Schmuck's voice before. He sounded a bit like a woman.
John McEnroe proceeded to beat Robo-Schmuck senseless with the strings side of the tennis racket. The racket made a kind of "boing" sound bouncing off the top of Robo-Schmuck's head. And every time the racket hit him, Robo-Schmuck squealed like a girl, begging him to stop.
"Boing!" "Eek!" "Boing!" "No!" "Boing!" "Please!" "Boing!" "Stop!"
I couldn't do anything. Not because I was incapable of pulling John McEnroe off of Robo-Schmuck, but because I was never going to see anything so magical again for the rest of my life. I could not be the one to end it. I was frozen stiff.
There was a huge crowd by now, and no one did anything to stop the beating. It was too comical watching a man smack another man around with the fun side of a tennis racket. Nobody believed it was real. What one young Japanese man did do, was throw money into Robo-Schmuck's hat. He thought the beating WAS the show. And as soon as one person threw money in the hat, they all did. In fact, by my calculations, John McEnroe and Robo-Schmuck made more from that fight than any other of their two shows combined. In fact, when it was all over, and they counted all the money in the hat, they decided to make it a nightly routine.
Night after night, Robo-Schmuck would take a beating in front of a sold-out crowd. He was finally free from his safe little daytime show. And John McEnroe was finally getting the recognition he had been dreaming of.
Admittedly, they were never able to reproduce the magic of that first amazing performance, and they lost the ability to draw a real audience once word was out that it was a fixed fight. Eventually, they just seemed to be going through the motions and not trying at all. The act died a forgettable death and they parted ways: Robo-Schmuck back to the kiddie shows, and John McEnroe back to…well…jail probably.
I've seen my fair share of street performances in my day, and I've enjoyed them all in their own special way. But never again will I see and hear anything so fantastic as a man beating another man with the playing side of his tennis racket.
I met Don Ho when I first moved to Hawaii. Don Ho is the guy that wrote "Tiny Bubbles". I did not make a good first impression: Waikiki had a world famous impersonator show, with people like Michael Jackson, Madona, and Cher. And I would regularly see them wandering around town in costume. One day I bumped into Don Ho in an elevator. I recognized his face from a picture in the Beachcomber. But I thought that Don Ho was dead, and that this guy was an impersonator. So I said: "you really do look just like Don Ho." And he said "I am Don Ho, you moron." I don't think I'm the first person who thought he was dead when they met him.
I got a job handing out flyers for a watch shop in the Beachcomber Hotel. The flyers advertised a sale for "This Week Only." "Sale Ends Sunday." That sale lasted for two years.
Kalakaua Avenue is the main street of Waikiki, lined with the major hotels, all the fancy Channel-and-Versache-type shops, and cobblestone sidewalks as wide as the avenue itself. 10,000 new tourists walk down Kalakaua Avenue every day. This attracted a lot of street performers, who made five times the money I did for doing some of the dumbest acts you've ever seen. There were the usual guitarist, violinist, and plastic milk jug drummer that come in the "ACME Street Performer Variety Pack" issued to every tourist town in this country. But there were also some great musicians and magicians and grifters. And of course there were the crazies, who I would watch for hours a day, waiting for them to do something insane. I had nicknames for some of my favorites. The event I'm going to tell you about occurred between my two favorite performers.
Street performing, like any subculture, has its rules and codes. One of the more important codes is "territory". Performers spread out along Kalakaua Avenue, far enough apart as not to interfere with each other. Where a performer set up was based on three things: seniority, popularity (which did not automatically equal talent), and finally, violent aggression.
Now to tell you this story, I have to introduce the characters. Robo-Schmuck was a mime. But he wasn't the typical mime with a French barrette and white face, trapped in a glass box and tugging on his invisible rope. He was a professional statue. He was nude except for silver-painted spandex shorts, silver-painted Nikes, and silver-painted sunglasses. His body was painted silver from head to toe. Even his hair was painted silver. The paint itself was spray paint from a hardware store.
I knew this because I'd stolen a few bicycles in my youth, and would use spray-paint to disguise them, and I recognized the smell that would make me and everyone standing around hallucinate after about five minutes of his act. Who knows what it was doing to his brain day after day?
Robo-Schmuck's act was brilliant in its simplicity. Stand still. He perched himself on a wooden box, also painted silver, and would hold a pose like a statue while wave after wave of tourists rolled down Kalakaua's sidewalks crashing into the storefronts. He would stand, pointing to some object that wasn't there, always looking away into the distance, until the inevitable…people would stop.
One or two at first, then more, until eventually there was a crowd of people standing around him, half of them watching and waiting to catch him moving, while the other half didn't know what they were standing around for except that they were part of a crowd.
It reminded me of that old trick where you get a few people to stand in a line that goes nowhere, and eventually others will line up behind them for no reason other than mob mentality.
It never failed that some adorable and apprehensive little girl between the ages of four and ten would be shoved forward by her snickering father to "Give him a poke." She would waddle reluctantly forward inch by inch. Then, just as she reached out to touch what she was convinced was a real statue, he would turn his head toward her and she would jump out of her shoes. Every time, without fail, the girl would squeal and jump back, which drew a huge laugh from the crowd. He would then, very deliberately and mechanically reposition himself into a pose where he was pointing down to his silver top hat set in front of his silver box.
He would hold that pose until the little girl realized he wasn't moving again until she talked her father into giving her money to put in the hat. Dad would give her a dollar usually, and she would toss it into the hat and look up expectantly. Robo-Schmuck would then twitch and rock slightly as if he was trying to move but could not break the pose. Then other people would throw money into the hat one at a time until he decided he could shake no more out of them. Then he would twist and turn in and out of poses like the "Thinker" or "Bodybuilder" or "Karate Kid's crane kick pose", until he eventually kneeled almost to the little girl's level, put his arm around an invisible person, and smiled for an invisible photographer. Dad would motion the little girl into the pose, and she would settle into the appropriate spot and he would take a picture. Robo-Schmuck would hold the pose until everyone had a chance to get a picture. And everyone who did was sure to put money in the hat.
Then, when it was all over, he would return to his original pose, pointing off into the distance, and hold it again. The crowd would slowly retreat and disperse, only to be replaced in just a few minutes by a whole new mob represented again by their reluctant five year-old leader. This continued for hours. The guy made a lot of money, and I imagined that he had his own suite at the Royal Kalani Hotel, Waikiki's most expensive beachfront hotel.
Robo-Schmuck was one of my two favorites because he was the most successful of the street performers, and it was obvious that he'd been doing it a long time because he had the best spot on the Ave. John McEnroe was my other favorite. And though his career was short, he was unforgettable.
John McEnroe was an impressionist. He used props to assist him, and carried them with him in a duffle bag. He was a "prop-impressionist"; the best I'd ever seen; possibly because he was the only one I'd ever seen. John McEnroe was also a homeless, fifty year-old black crack-addict from Detroit (at least he told me he was from Detroit). John McEnroe was a newcomer to Kalakaua's street performance scene. His costume was casual. He wore baggy shorts, usually camo khakis. He wore an aloha print t-shirt, after all, it was Hawaii. And he wore flip-flops. The key to John McEnroe's performance costume, what made him so noticeable among the throngs of tourists, was the unmistakable smell of fifty year-old, unwashed ass. John McEnroe's stench radiated like a campfire.
His act…
First of all, John McEnroe needed no little girls to prompt his routine. In fact, he didn't need an audience at all. He had a hat, but it was obvious that he was less interested in money than in the performance itself. Like I said earlier, John McEnroe was a prop-impressionist. The show started when he would announce to a tourist walking by, and not paying attention to him: "And now…Michael Jackson!" He would dig around in his duffle bag and pull out a single dingy white glove, put it on his hand and become Michael Jackson. He would pop-lock and hoot and squeal and do the worst moonwalk you've ever seen. He would grab his dirty nuts and jump up to his tip-toes and kick his foot out. He made sure everyone remembered that he was Michael Jackson by constantly barking out "I'm Michael Jackson! Look at me! I'm Michael Jackson!" When he was done being Michael Jackson, he would dig around in his duffle bag for a pair of sunglasses. He would put them on and announce, again to the unsuspecting, "And now…Stevie Wonder!" Then he would rock back and forth, wrenching his head to the left then the right, barking "I'm Stevie Wonder! Look at me! I'm Stevie Wonder!" Then he would produce a football from the bag, tuck it into his stomach tightly with both hands, and announce "And now…Walter Payton!"
You may have noticed that I did not mention him putting the glove and the glasses back into the duffle bag. That is because he didn't. Apparently, Walter Payton played football while wearing a single white glove and a pair of Ray-ban sunglasses. In fact, all the characters for the remainder of the performance wore the glove and shades.
The Walter Payton character was the most unpredictable of the show because the character would charge at the tourists as they wandered unsuspectingly in range, then at the last moment, plant his feet and spin around them like he was avoiding a tackle. Often, because they didn't even know there was a performance going on, the tourist would try to duck or slide out of his way, only to collide with him, which, by the way, did not discourage Walter Payton from charging another would-be tackler. After Walter Payton came a few other characters like Muhammad Ali, where he would shadow box. And Tiger Woods, where he would hit an imaginary ball with an imaginary golf club with perfect form and follow-through.
The glove sometimes made sense for the Tiger Woods character, depending on which hand he had it on.
I know that by now you have recognized the parade of "Black" characters. So why John McEnroe? Right? Because, one, it was the only "White" character he did, and two, it was the grand finale. It was the most genius piece in his show. He did one after another of African American icons and heroes, building up to what: Martin Luther King Jr. maybe, or Malcolm X, or Jesse Jackson? No! John McEnroe. And his John McEnroe was exquisite.
He pulled a tennis racket out of his bag and held it up to the sky with both hands like He-Man, and triumphantly announced "And finally…ladies and gentle men…(dramatic pause)…John McEnroe!" Then he would fiercely serve an imaginary ball to an imaginary opponent. He would run back and forth in a final-round Wimbledon Championship match-point volley: forehand, backhand; one hand swinging the racket, and one hand making popping sounds with a finger in the cheek. Back and forth until he made a dramatic final swing and paused panting and looking up to an imaginary judge perched on his imaginary lifeguard tower. Then he would drop to his knees and scream at the top of his lungs "You fucking idiot! That was in, and you know it. You stupid, blind mother fucker! That was in!" He would flop around on the ground like a two year-old throwing a temper tantrum, screaming obscenities and gibberish until it looked like he was having convulsions. And then he would go completely still as if the performance had finally killed him. He'd lay there holding his racket against his chest like an open-casket Tennis Funeral for thirty seconds or so for dramatic effect, and from this position he would announce "THE END!"
John McEnroe worked nights and started out on the edge of the strip where the new guys always started. But he quickly moved closer and closer to the center of the action, not because he was talented or hygienic or even friendly, but because he possessed the most important of the three keys to street performance: Violent Aggression. His strategy was impossible to defend. He would roam up and down Kalakaua until he felt inspired, and if the space was occupied, he would walk up to the performer and politely suggest "get out of my spot." It usually didn't need repeating. The common Waikiki street performer was very passive in nature. And they always packed up quietly and slithered away with very little dignity.
Eventually, John McEnroe settled into the same spot that Robo-Schmuck worked during the day, but they never ran into each other. Robo-Schmuck never worked very late. He made all his money off of the curiosity of children, and Kalakaua Avenue became very grown up after dark. The shops closed and a different kind of business opened its doors.
The best part of Kalakaua at night was the hookers. There was a lot of money floating around the streets of Waikiki, and a lot of horny tourists (mostly Japanese Businessmen), and that attracted a lot of beautiful hookers from all points of the Pacific Ocean.
Now John McEnroe, on the other hand, his act seemed built for the late-night crowds on Kalakaua. So he would wonder out of some back alley or another (dirty, dark alleys I never even noticed were there until he appeared from them) well after Robo-Schmuck was clocked out. To my knowledge, they never crossed paths before this night.
I don't know what he was doing out so late. Rent at the Royal Kalani Hotel must have gone up; or maybe he was working on a new, edgier routine. Whatever the reason, he was posted at his usual spot well after dark when the Avenue changed her clothes and her mood.
Enter John McEnroe.
John McEnroe sauntered out of an alley (that wasn't there a minute ago) right in front of where Robo-Schmuck was perched. Robo was just starting to attract a crowd, so there were a few people standing around. John McEnroe pushed his way past them and walked right up to Robo-Schmuck and said "Get out of my spot!" Robo-Schmuck, always the professional, did not break character. "Hey mother fucker! Did you hear me? Get out of my spot!" No reaction from Robo-Schmuck. It did, however, get a reaction from the crowd. Now remember, this is the late show, and they respond to a different type of energy than the day tourists. The yelling started to attract more people. "Mother fucker! I know you ain't deaf. I'm warning you, get the fuck out of my spot!"
I don't know why he did it. I have never been a street performer. Maybe he was trying to uphold the integrity of his show. I suspect, however, the silver spray-paint had finally caused irreversible brain damage. Whatever the reason, Robo-Schmuck finally moved. In character, he turned his head toward John McEnroe, silver shades hiding his eyes, and smiled the same fake smile he did for the photos. Then he turned and twisted his arm and fingers mechanically until they settled into a middle finger right in John McEnroe's face.
Nobody saw him reach into his duffle bag and pull out his tennis racket, or maybe they did and didn't want to ruin the surprise. Either way, without any announcement, John McEnroe bashed Robo-Schmuck in the face with it. Robo-Schmuck collapsed on the ground, holding the side of his face, screaming. I'd never heard Robo-Schmuck's voice before. He sounded a bit like a woman.
John McEnroe proceeded to beat Robo-Schmuck senseless with the strings side of the tennis racket. The racket made a kind of "boing" sound bouncing off the top of Robo-Schmuck's head. And every time the racket hit him, Robo-Schmuck squealed like a girl, begging him to stop.
"Boing!" "Eek!" "Boing!" "No!" "Boing!" "Please!" "Boing!" "Stop!"
I couldn't do anything. Not because I was incapable of pulling John McEnroe off of Robo-Schmuck, but because I was never going to see anything so magical again for the rest of my life. I could not be the one to end it. I was frozen stiff.
There was a huge crowd by now, and no one did anything to stop the beating. It was too comical watching a man smack another man around with the fun side of a tennis racket. Nobody believed it was real. What one young Japanese man did do, was throw money into Robo-Schmuck's hat. He thought the beating WAS the show. And as soon as one person threw money in the hat, they all did. In fact, by my calculations, John McEnroe and Robo-Schmuck made more from that fight than any other of their two shows combined. In fact, when it was all over, and they counted all the money in the hat, they decided to make it a nightly routine.
Night after night, Robo-Schmuck would take a beating in front of a sold-out crowd. He was finally free from his safe little daytime show. And John McEnroe was finally getting the recognition he had been dreaming of.
Admittedly, they were never able to reproduce the magic of that first amazing performance, and they lost the ability to draw a real audience once word was out that it was a fixed fight. Eventually, they just seemed to be going through the motions and not trying at all. The act died a forgettable death and they parted ways: Robo-Schmuck back to the kiddie shows, and John McEnroe back to…well…jail probably.
I've seen my fair share of street performances in my day, and I've enjoyed them all in their own special way. But never again will I see and hear anything so fantastic as a man beating another man with the playing side of his tennis racket.
Friday, January 29, 2010
I know I'm slacking
It's been almost two weeks since I posted a blog (that I didn't take down two days later). I don't want to lose momentum. So I promise to write something before the end of this weekend.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
My new TV, and trouble with blu-ray
I don't know if anyone cares about this stuff, which is why I'm writing about it here instead of on FB.
I bought a new flat LCD HDTV (Panasonic TC-32LX14), because my old Daewoo tube TV was crapping out (I thought. There will be more on this at the end of this blog because I like to create drama and suspense). I did a lot of research before I bought it. I went to stores and researched online.
The first thing I did was go on Craigslist. I had no idea what I was looking for, or what anything meant. So I hit the stores: Video Only, Bestbuy, and Walmart, because these are the largest electronics stores I know. I saw all kinds of TVs, and they all looked great in the stores. Some looked a little better than others to me, but I couldn't really tell the difference between the brand named units and the cheaper brands. I was able to compare sizes. I decided that I liked the 32". They were big, and yet, still portable for when I move next year. What I couldn't compare in the stores was 720p and 1080p. These numbers may confuse you as much as they did me. I'll get into it later. I stood in front of two TVs of the same brand and screen size; one with 720p, and one with 1080p; and I couldn't tell the difference. I left the stores with the brands and model numbers I was interested in, and I hit the internet.
This time, when I researched online, I had at least three windows open: Craigslist, Amazon, and Google. I wouldn't suggest buying a used TV from a person on Craigslist, but there are dealers and small stores that will advertise there. That's what I looked for. Then I would research the model numbers on Amazon, looking for reviews and to compare prices. Then I would Google the model number to find other reviews and any other sellers of each TV.
There are hundreds of reviews for every model you can imagine. The first thing I learned is that you don't want to go with an unknown brand name. Every time I found a cheaper brand, it was shredded in reviews. Most of the time, it had to do with longevity. I found one site particularly helpful. At cnet.com, not only are there owner reviews, but there is an expert staff that also reviews items. In many cases of brand named items, there are even video reviews. Those were extremely helpful, since I am more of a audio learner; and having a person explaining things while pointing them out on each TV made everything more clear. I even found a couple of reviews on youtube. There is no end to the research you can do.
After all the research I did, I found that the four main competing brands are Sony, LG, Panasonic, and Samsung. Sony is all about the brand name. I found their prices the highest for every single size and resolution, and their reviews were very mixed. LG was a little better than Panasonic and Samsung, but a lot more expensive. Also, the comparable LG units were bulkier than the others. The best value was in Panasonic and Samsung. I was leaning towards Samsung, because they were slightly cheaper over all.
I did not want to buy a TV sight-unseen. So I was looking for an outlet dealer on Craigslist that carried both brands. I found more than one, but only one felt right. There was one dealer who's Craigslist ads were very shady. There was no address on any of them; and every ad ended with "All sales are final". On the other hand, HDTV Depot, in Kent, had very professional ads. Each was very simple, with a picture of the TV, a model number, the price, an address, and contact information. So I went down to Kent.
It is a little store in a tiny strip mall in the parking lot of a Home Depot (if I remember right). Inside, I was immediately greeted by a guy named Brian. I told him that I was looking for a 32" TV, and that I was torn between Panasonic and Samsung. I also told him I couldn't figure out the difference between 720p and 1080p. Brian explained to me that it's the number of lines of resolution, and that at 32", there is no recognizable difference. It is at 42" and higher, that there is a noticeable difference. Brian showed me the Panasonic 32" 720p and the same in Samsung. In this case, the Panasonic was about 10% cheaper than the Samsung. The Panasonic had a very crisp-looking picture and a sleek design. It also held it's picture perfectly at a very shallow angle. I bought it. I want to make another note that Brian at HDTV Depot was very helpful, and knew his product inside and out. I was so pleased with the experience that I posted a review on Yelp.
The second I hooked the TV up to my RCA home entertainment system, it started blinking and going dark, just like my old TV. I thought I'd been duped. I was ready to go burn the store down. Just in case, I disconnected and reconnected all the different wires and cable connections in the whole system. It turned out to be one loose wire between the cable box and the RCA receiver. There was nothing wrong with my old TV to begin with. It didn't bother me a bit. Why? I'm in love with this new TV. I've had it for a couple of weeks now, and it makes everything beautiful, especially football; and just in time for the playoffs (Superbowl Party at Mike's; and all of you many subscribers are invited).
This blog is getting pretty long winded. Let's take a commercial break... And, we're back.
My new TV makes all my DVDs look really good, but I knew I'd want to get a blu-ray player and some blu-ray movies. So it was back to doing research. This time was a easier, since I had a little more knowledge than before. I also knew I wouldn't have to visit a store in person, and could buy it online if it was cheaper, which it always is. I actually thought that I needed a new surround sound receiver, and almost spent $350 dollars on one before I found out through my research that I was just using the wrong connection. In case you don't know, for surround sound, you need to connect the audio by either "coaxial", "optical", or the best "HDMI". Mine is an older unit that has no HDMI connectivity. This will prevent me from utilizing 7.1 surround sound, but the difference is negligible in a living space as small as mine. I've had this surround sound system for more than five years, and I've been using it incorrectly this whole time. I might as well have bought a new system, because it sounds ten times better.
I did even more research about blu-ray players, because there are so many. In the affordable range. What I decided on was the Panasonic BD60K, because it was well-reviewed, it has an optical input for older surround sound systems like mine, and there is a networking tool called "Viera" that links Panasonic equipment.
I decided to buy "refurb" from an Amazon company called Warehouse Deals. If you don't know, "refurb" means the item has been returned or damaged, fixed, repackaged, then discounted. Refurb items are still under warranty. Many times, there is nothing wrong with a refurb item other than a damaged outer package. If you look at every specific entry on Amazon, each refurb unit has a description of what was wrong with it when it was sent back to the manufacturer. I bought one that was described as being returned undamaged, tested, and repackeged. I saved 10% (I paid $113), and it was delivered the next day.
It was easy to hook up, and linked right away to my TV via "Viear". I popped in "Cast Away", and was instantly impressed with how great it looked and sounded. The disk takes several seconds to load, but it's because of all the information on a blu-ray disk. There is actually more than 5X more bits of information on a blu-ray disk than a standard DVD. I could see and hear every little detail with crystal clarity, and that's with my one good eye. Everything was awesome until an hour into the movie, when the player froze, then shut itself off.
I tried everything to figure out what was wrong with it. I reset the player; I downloaded a new "firmware" from the internet; I tried different disks; I even took the batteries out of the remote to make sure that wasn't what was wrong. Nothing helped, and I couldn't find anything online that described the same issue. I did find a couple of very good "Owner Forums": AVForums.com, and Afterdawn.com. Finally, I called Panasonic.
I hate calling manufacturers! They never have good customer service. I know there are exceptions, but I can't afford them. The woman I talked to must have had the microphone inside her mouth, because I couldn't understand a word she said. And she didn't stop talking for at least a minute. I kept trying to interupt, but she just kept going and going. When she finally finished, I said "I'm sorry, but I didn't understand any of that. I think your microphone might be a little too close to your face. Could you please give me all that again?" She used a lot of talking to tell me that the unit needs service, and that they'd fix it if I paid to have it shipped to them. I told her I wasn't going to pay to ship something twice, and wait a month to get what I paid for in the first place. I would rather just return it. That was a wasted, and frustrating 45 minutes. So I went back to Amazon.
I had a problem when I looked for my order on Amazon. I couldn't find it. So I called them. They have a call system that asks you for your number, and tells you to keep an open phone line. Perfect! Instead of waiting on hold for thirty minutes, let the service rep call me when they're available. I actually waited less than a minute. The woman's name was Amy, and she really knew her job well. She was friendly, attentive, and had the solution immediately. She told my I must have accidentally opened more than one Amazon account, which is exactly what happened. We found both accounts, and she told me how to cancel one. She also told me exactly how long it would take to process my refund: a month. Ugh! But I would rather be told a month, than have someone bullshit me. Amy was great. So much so, that I took an extra five minutes to review the call.
In the end, I bought the unit new, and am waiting for it to be delivered on either Tuesday, or Wednesday. I'm not discouraged from "refurb". I've bought refurb before, and had things work out fine. In fact, it worked out fine this time. I returned it. And I'll be getting my money back. Besides, I'm sure that they just never noticed what was wrong when they tested the player. The problem didn't reveal itself until an hour into the movie. I'm sure their tests don't take that long.
I hope I didn't bore the three of my subscribers too much. I just thought I'd post this online to help someone else who is researching any of the topics I wrote about. I love reading other people's experience when it comes to buying electronics. I learn a lot of things I won't learn from professional reviews. Those guys are still getting paid by manufacturers; so there is a little bias. Users are more brutally honest.
I'm done now. I'm really looking forward to watching my "Top Gun" blu-ray on Tuesday or Wednesday. Until then, I'll just suffer through the NFL Playoffs in HD.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Closed out 2009
My last weekend in 2009 was spent headlining Giggles for the final time under Terry Taylor management. I have no idea if Bob Davis will book me for anything. For all I know, I'll actually start making money there when Terry leaves. I have to assume that things will stay pretty much the same.
The weekend turned out to be a lot of fun. The first of six shows, I did an hour and five minutes. It was not a brilliant set. I was afraid it would be like that all weekend. It wasn't. I did sets of twenty, thirty, and forty-five. I really enjoy doing around forty minutes; anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five. I feel comfortable that I have plenty of material to cover it, and I'm not worried that I don't have the presence to hold their attention. At the same time, it's not so short that I have to pick which of my material I have to leave out. At thirty minutes, I worry that I won't get everything done that I want to. I notice that I sometimes rush through jokes because of it. The truth is, though, that thirty is where I belong right now.
There is fat I need to trim from a lot of the newer material I've worked on, and the changes I've made to some of the older stuff. When I get done doing that, my set should settle right around thirty. I'm so worried sometimes about "headlining". I worry that I need to be working on my hour. A lot of it has to do with other comics. I read their FB posts about headlining, then I hear them talking about it in the open mics. I don't know why it bothers me that these guys are earning more money than me right now. I'll do better in the long run. The truth is, they aren't funny yet, and they're learning bad habits on these shitty road runs before they get a chance to get funny. I saw one guy play the fucking harmonica at an open mic a couple of weeks ago! It's 2010. What kind of a moron is going to learn a song on the harmonica for jokes? It's one thing if you play an instrument well, and bring that talent to the comedy stage. It's something completely different when you buy some instrument because you can't write jokes. This, by the way has nothing to do with Curt Sudden. He's been doing his thing for a long time. He's not new, and learning how to play the guitar so he can fill more stage time.
I really shouldn't compare myself to them. I need to worry about me. I need to get funnier. I don't need to have an hour right now. I'm not going to go to the Midwest and get booked as a headliner right away. I need to be a killer feature, and build killer time. Why would I want to have a mediocre hour just to get work? I'd rather be considered a great feature than a shitty headliner.
I'll continue this later.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
I have a new TV, and may never leave my lazy boy again
I bought a new TV because my old "tube" TV bit the dust. I couldn't even find a new "tube" TV. They must not make them any more. I decided to go flat and HD. My budget was $300... WAS!!! I was planning on buying a used set off Craigslist, but the more research I did, the more nervous I got about getting a set that wasn't reliable. So I went new. I went to Video Lonely, Best Butt, Rado Sack, even Wal Fart. The best legitimate dealer I found for what I wanted was HDTV Depot in Kent. I found them on Craigslist. They had the model numbers right there on the ad, so I could check out their reviews and compare prices on Amazon. When I went there, the guy even steered me towards a cheaper set. I settled on a Panasonic 32", 720p TV (model: TC-32LX14). What I always forget is that buying any electronics is going to go over budget by no less than 50%. I had to buy cables; I had to upgrade my Charter service; I had to hook it up with my laptop. I'm now $500 deep. But my "everything" looks better. The only thing I don't like is this right here. The screen is a little bit on the green side when hooked up to the laptop. I'll figure it out, but I was hoping it was just a natural fit.
Alright. Back to vegging.
Alright. Back to vegging.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
An Early Christmas Present To Myself
I was on my way to host the open mic at Laughs in Kirkland, driving 0n the 520 Bridge, when some woman in a piece of shit '90's Volvo cut me off. Then I watched helplessly as the same piece of shit '90's Volvo rode every car's ass that was in front of her until they were forced to get out of her way. It drove me nuts. She wasn't even getting that far ahead because the traffic was so bad. She didn't have to ride other cars' asses. She just wanted to be a douchebag. In fact, by the time we got to the junction of 520 and 405, we were at the same spot.
She was oblivious; riding some guys ass for no reason at all. There was plenty of room for her to pass him. She just wanted to be a douchebag. The 405 exit was about a 1/4 mile ahead, when Santa Clause came early this year.
She was in the far left lane, and I was in the far right exit lane. Of course, this moron wanted to merge three lanes of traffic in a quarter mile. She shot across the two lanes, cutting yet another person off, and was right next to me.
Life is almost always against me. The coin lands on heads five times in a row. It rains on my one day off in two weeks. My section at the restaurant is full of old people and Canadians. Even the world itself spins around trying to sling me into the dark vacuum of outer space. But every once in a while, the coin bounces off an ashtray; or the clouds open up, and the sun comes out; maybe a couple of lawyers who served their way through law school come in to celebrate winning a big case. What I mean is, sometimes, very rarely, I get lucky. This was one of those times.
Douchebag Volvo sped up to pass me; so I sped up. Even my little Civic has better get up than a piece of shit '90's Volvo. So she slowed down to get behind me. I slowed down to box her out. That's right! I boxed her out! I decided that I was going to deliver a little bit of freeway justice for all of us; that this douchebag wasn't going to make this exit. She slowed down to 35 mph in a 60 mph zone trying to get behind me, but I stayed right with her. It didn't take much, because the douchebag hadn't given herself much time to get over in the first place. I boxed her out like a professional, and she missed the exit. She waled on her horn and flipped me off; and I just stared blankly back at her, as if I didn't know what was going on. I watched her screaming at me through her window, as she faded away in a beautifully sloping diagonal.
I felt vindicated. I felt righteous, like only the most inbred, brainwashed religious nuts can feel. I felt satisfied for one sparkling instant during this miserable and hopeless existence.
Judge me any way you want. Give me some excuse for her: that she was late for work; that she didn't know any better; hat she was on her way to visit sick orphans. I don't care. She was a selfish douchebag, and she got what she had coming to her, thanks to me.
You are welcome.
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