End of Phase 1

This past Monday night, I started an acting class with Billie Shepard at the San Jose Repertory Theatre, which is close to home. Billie gave me the first real, professional feedback I've had since I started in April. I did the California Mission Impossible sketch and I couldn't explain who the characters were or their motives. Once I get that straight, I'll be able to make the characters more lifelike and distinguishable from each other. My assignment for the week was to find their voices.

Meanwhile, from my long ago experience in music, it would be a mistake to continue practicing my mistakes at open mics until I've satisfied Billie's assignment. So, I'm taking a break from open mics maybe till late October.

Phase 1 of this adventure was discovering what performing stand up comedy and sketches meant as a writer and performer. Now, I will improve my skills off-line and start phase 2 with a much better idea about how to perform on stage. Had I not gone through 5 months of frustration, I would not have been as receptive to Billie's feedback. And I've also made a boatload of new friends outside of work. That's a new experience for me in San Jose as other than our present neighbors, just about everyone we know is from my work or Mireya's school.

Who knows how many phases I'll go through. I could live 50 more years, so...

September 3, 2013 Open Mic: Poor House Bistro & Caffe Frascati San Jose

California Mission Impossible & Downtown Arby's

Performed at two open mics tonight. Jeff Ochoa came by the Poor House to check it out, which greatly improved the audience demographic in my favor. Jeff laughed at all the right times and I didn't even have to buy him a beer or anything. :-) I performed my new sketch California Mission Impossible to great applause. Well, to some applause. Although a few people complimented me on my way back to my table. One regular said, "That's another good one!" Take notice, all you irregulars out there. :-) Nice to see Pia come by to sing.

Later, I stopped by Caffe Frascati just after 8, with Jeff coming along to help the demographics. Michael Brandon was hosting and kindly put me down at #5 so I was on about 15 minutes after arriving, which was very nice. Pia came by and it was a good thing that Jeff was there, because who the heck else was going to laugh at my new joke about the Banana Splits in my revised version of Downtown Arby's?  And Danny Allen was getting a little serious about Syria, not surprising considering he's not one to run from Iran or turn his back on Iraq.

And listen all you aspiring David Kelly's out there. I know you're out there, but you're too shy to admit it. If there's one thing I've learned about writing sketches, get to the love interest before the first 20 seconds are up, or you're toast. The second thing I've learned is that most of the other comedians couldn't care less about my sketches or my advice. Fine, then, I won't laugh or clap at your next dick or vagina joke. So there!

Jeff threatened to show up at the Poor House next Tuesday with "some of da boyz."  I'm looking forward to seeing that.

Poirot (Revised Sept 2, 2013)

NARRATOR:        Are you familiar with the old Television series, Agatha Christie’s Poirot? Basically, Hercule Poirot is a Belgian-born genius detective living in London who solves mysteries with his companion, Captain Hastings and Chief Inspector Japp the no-nonsense officer from Scotland Yard.

In this sketch, I imagine the following characters appearing on this stage.

Hercule Poirot

POIROT:          Bon soir, mes amis! <bow> Ah, mon dieu, where have I left mon French tickler?

NARRATOR:        Captain Hastings

HASTINGS:        I say, good day, good day to you all! French tickler, Poirot? Why on earth would you need a French tickler?

NARRATOR:        and Chief Inspector James Japp

JAPP:            ‘ello, ‘ello. If there’s gonna be any French tickling going on here, it had better not be on my watch.

POIROT:          This room, it is so dusty. I need my French tickler to dust the book shelves.

HASTINGS:        Surely, you mean, you need your feather duster!

POIROT:          Oui. This feather duster, is it not made of feathers?

HASTINGS:        Yes...

POIROT:          And these feathers, do they not tickle? No?

HASTINGS:        Well, yes, they can.

POIROT:          And are these feathers not from France?

HASTINGS:        Now, hold on, not necessarily, the feathers could come from anywhere. They do not have to be French feathers.

POIROT:          Oui, but the best feathers do come from France and I seriously need to find my French tickler before Ms. Lemon gets here.

HASTINGS:        Now, see here, Poirot, all this talk of your French tickler, tickling with feathers and Ms. Lemon is starting to sound a little kinky, wouldn’t you say?

POIROT:          Au contraire, mon ami, erotic perhaps, but not kinky.

HASTINGS:        What’s the difference?

POIROT:          The difference between erotic and kinky, Hastings? Simplement. If erotic means using a feather, kinky means using the whole chicken!

JAPP:            ‘ello, ‘ello! What’s all this then about playing chicken with Ms Lemon?       

POIROT:          Ah, mon ami, Chief Inspector Japp! Hastings and I were preparing for a little meeting between the 3 of us, une ménage à trois, if you will, OVER

                 with Ms. Lemon, when I found I had misplaced my French tickler. What brings you to my office?        

JAPP:            Nasty business, nasty business about Ms. Lemon.

HASTINGS:        Gasp! What happened?

JAPP:            She has disappeared.

HASTINGS:        No! Not Ms. Lemon!

JAPP:            Unfortunately, so. Apparently, someone put the squeeze on ‘er.

POIROT:          Mon dieu! Put the squeeze on her? My poor Ms Lemon. She has such a, how do you say, zest for life! Who would do such a thing?

JAPP:            Well I was ‘oping you could ‘elp us figure that out.

HASTINGS:        Where was she seen last?

JAPP:            Far as we can tell, she was last seen leaving the local chemist’s shop.

POIROT:          Do you know if she looked OK?

JAPP:            Well, the report says, she looked pretty juiced up.

POIROT:          And then?

JAPP:            And then, the story takes a strange twist. We lost ‘er in the crowd but not before a patrol officer saw her hop into a car with her sister Lulu.

HASTINGS:        Lulu? Lulu Lemon? How revealing! That Lulu Lemon, she’s such a tart!

POIROT:          Hastings! And then what happened?

JAPP:            Well, that’s it. The Lemons dropped into a car and peeled away. Who knows where she’s gone now? Leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, it does.

HASTINGS:        Well, it is a rather juicy story.

POIROT:          Juicy, yes, but, nevertheless, we must find Ms Lemon and see that she is not in any danger.

JAPP:            Where do you suggest we look first?

POIROT:          First, my dear Chief Inspector, I must tickle my little grey cells and think about where the Ms Lemons would go to escape this squeeze.

HASTINGS:        The poor Ms Lemons. Maybe, they have gone where there are other lemons.

POIROT:          Precisement, Hastings, they are with other lemons! Chief Inspector Japp, you will find the Ms. Lemons at the local garage having their car fixed.

JAPP:            ‘ow in the world would you know that?

POIROT:          Simplement, Chief Inspector, for I sold that car to those ladies and indeed, it is a lemon!

HASTINGS:        Jolly good, Poirot, I am so relieved that we came to Ms Lemon’s assistance.

JAPP:            Well, it’s been a slice! Tell me Poirot, just how do you manage to solve these mysteries without leaving your apartment, then?

POIROT:          My dear chief inspector, it was simply a matter of tickling my grey cells without using the whole chicken! END

September 2, 2013 Open Mic, Woodham's Lounge, Santa Clara

California Mission Impossible

Big crowd of comedians at Woodham's tonight with a reasonable number of innocent bystanders or bysitters at the bar. I got there late, but Pete was generous and let me go on just after 10. I performed a new sketch that I had just written the day before called, California Mission Impossible. I didn't get the big laughs that I did the night before at my neighbor's Bud and Clare's, but afterwards a few people called out that they had listened and enjoyed it. I think I've nailed the writing format of these sketches now. Next week, I'm starting a 6 week acting course at the San Jose Reperatory Theatre to improve my performance and characterizations.

California Mission Impossible

Narrator:        Let’s go back, way back, to a time in the distant past when California’s Spanish missions from San Diego to Sonoma were in full operation. I call this sketch, California Mission Impossible.

                 Let me now introduce you to the mission leader, Father Bravo:

Bravo:           Ouch! What in the Lord’s name? Something just hit me in the head!

                 The inventor, Brother Huevos:

Huevos:          Ah, my experiment worked. You have received an instant message, Father!

                 And the assistant to Brother Huevos, Brother Cervesas:

Cervesas:        Instant message? Is that what you call getting hit in the head? All this time, I thought the colonel’s daughter was simply slapping my face for staring at her breasts. I didn’t know this was an instant message. Although, I did get her message instantly!

Huevos:          You idiot, this has nothing to do with staring at breasts, this has to do with a new form of mass communication I call texting.

Cervesas:        Brother, why do we need a new form of  mass communication when we have the good father’s sermon and the bible to guide us? Is the good father going to start slapping us now?

Bravo:           Enough! This instant message, as you call it, appears to be nothing more than a tortilla with some writing on it, wrapped around a small stone.

Huevos:          Well, let’s see what the writing says.

Cervesas:        It is from the colonel. “Bravo, tell Cervesas to stop ogling my daughter. This tortilla will self-destruct in 10 seconds. LOL”

Bravo:           LOL, Huevos?

Huevos:          Yes, Love our Lord. In order to save time and space on the tortilla, I have invented a few simple abbreviations. LOL means Love our Lord, for example.

Bravo:           Let me see that message, Cervesas.

Cervesas:        Sorry, you can’t: it has self-destructed, Father.

Bravo:           How does a tortilla self-destruct?

Cervesas:        I ate it and it is presently self-destructing in my stomach. Are you going to slap me now, Father?

Bravo:           Huevos, what’s going on here? What exactly is this experiment that you’re running?

Huevos:          Behold, this table adorned with an array of flat stone tablets! Individual pads or iPads for short.

Cervesas:        Oh, like the tablets brought down by Moses from Mt. Sinai? Although, I do not think he called those iPads. iPads don’t appear in the Bible till much later, in the book of Jobs.  OVER

Huevos:          Similar, yes, but instead of carving directly into the stone, we use something in between. We use a flat tortilla as our media.

Cervesas:        Media? Like the colonel’s daughter, Medea? There’s nothing flat about her!

Huevos:          Quiet. C! Using a hot pin as a stylus, we can write up to 140 characters on each tortilla. Then we add some fried, grated potato at the bottom.

Bravo:           Why the potato?

Huevos:          It gives the message more meaning during self-destruction. I call it the hash brown tag, Father.

Bravo:           Very interesting. How then is each of these text messages distributed, H?

Huevos:          After composing the message upon the tortilla, it is wrapped around a small stone. The format is called a tort.

Cervesas:        Wrapped with wire, brother?

Huevos:          No, these are wireless torts. We use common twine and then hand it off to a transportadora for delivery.

Cervesas:        Transporta Dora? Who’s this Dora? Does she have large breasts, brother?

Huevos:          A transportadora who then takes it to its destination address and flings it at a patch of fishing net that is connected to a clothes line. Hence, the tort is delivered on-line through a connected net.

Bravo:           But, this tort hit me in the head!

Heuvos:          Well, then, at the time, your connected net must been off-line, Father.

Bravo:           And, why do you need an iPad to tort? Why can’t I tort from my lap-top?

Huevos:          iPads are cool and tablets have been part of our religion since Moses. You’re not tablet agnostic are you, Father? Also, when the torting is done, you can play games on your iPad. 

Bravo:           Games? What kind of games?

Huevos:          Angry birds, for example.

Cervesas:        How do you play angry birds on an iPad, brother?

Huevos:          First, I connect mine to a mouse, then I take it out to the tall grass and watch the hawks fight over the mouse. Those birds become very angry indeed.

Bravo:           OK, but then, what if we want to reach across to different Catholic sects? We’re Franciscans and the Colonel and his family are Jesuits, what then?

Huevos:          For that, I’ve invented sect-sting!

Cervesas:        Sect-sting! Let me try that! “Dear Medea, I yearn to do you missionary style. Your iPad or mine? LOL hash brown tag: hubba hubba.

Huevos:          Cervesas, you are nothing but impossible!

END

Open Mic, August 27, 2013, Poor House Bistro, San Jose

Downtown Arby's

Some fine musicians this evening and Jeff let them take 12 minute sets which pushed my set out till 9:00. No matter. I persevered and performed a new sketch, Downtown Arby's, which is a spoof of the hit TV series on PBS, Downton Abbey. I feel like I read well, but the audience found it too subtle. Previously, it had gone over well in testing with friends, so I will chalk this off as a successful sketch that should be retired in favor of more obvious humor.

Dowtown Arby's (Revised Sept 3, 2013)

Narrator:        I’m sure you’ve all heard of Downton Abbey. Recently, I was wondering what the American remake would look like.

                 I submit to you the following suggestion, “Downtown Arby’s.”

                 Here I imagine these characters appearing on this stage.

                 Lord Grantham, the head of the family

Grantham:        Yes, my mother and I would like to be seated in the first class section, please.

Narrator:        Charles Carson the cashier

Carson:          Glad to oblige you, folks, we have a table ready for you right over here.

Narrator:        Violet Crawley, the lord’s mother

Crawley:         Are you sure this is first class?

Carson:          Yes, this table is usually occupied by Old Bob. He never got past his first class at High School, y’know. There he is sleeping under the table again. Bob, bob, wake up, we have company.

Crawley:         Where are we anyway? I thought we were going to a European restaurant. That Scottish place that serves German sandwiches and French style potatoes.

Grantham:        A Scottish place that serves German sandwiches and French style potatoes? Mother, whatever are you talking about?

Crawley:         McDonald’s of course! Sigh!

Grantham:        Mother, tomorrow, I will take you to McDonald’s. Today, we are dining at Arby’s.

Crawley:         Oh damn. And I wore my best pearls hoping we’d run in to that handsome Mayor McCheese. He’s a little greasey, but does raise my blood pressure so.

Grantham:        Right, then, to luncheon. What do you have here?

Carson:          Sir, what we’s got is sandwiches. Now, would you have, say, a Roast Beef sandwich, or an ultimate Angus?

Crawley:         Sandwiches, how horrid, I haven’t touched a sandwich since the Earl of Sandwich took me to see that awful Burger King. He told me we’d be dining with royalty, then he showed me his whopper.

Carson:          Well, ma’am, we do have other sandwiches like the reuben.

Grantham:        I suppose a reuben will have to do. Tell you what, we’ll share a rueben and a chopped salad. And be quick about it before mother starts going on about the Dairy Queen and her fivesome with the Banana Splits.

Crawley:         Ah yes, Fleegle, Bingo, Drooper and Snork. Those were the days.

Carson:          And to drink?

OVER

Grantham:        Oh, give us Dr. Peppers, I’ll tell mother that it’s head ache medicine.

Carson:          So, how long you folks in town for?

Crawley:         I heard something speaking, was that directed at us? I never know how to speak back to these savages while we’re out in the colonies.

Grantham:        Mother! These are civilized people and America has been independent since the reign of crazy Great Uncle George.

Crawley:         You mean your crazy, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great, Great Uncle George. Your dad’s family thought they were so great, yet they were all crazy inbreeders!

Grantham:        Now, stop picking on dad’s family. What did your family ever do that was ever so damned great?

Crawley:         As you well know, we were the first to have nooners and afternoon tea.

Grantham:        Does it really matter so much who or what came first?

Crawley:         Well, it did if you wanted your nooner to last till tea time.

Carson:          All this reminds me of my aunt Irene.

Grantham:        Why, was she a great, great aunt?

Carson:          No sir, she was just crazy (3x’s)

Crawley:         There’s that voice again. It’s like that awful limousine ride from the airport. That twit of a driver kept going on about landing jumbos. What horse-less carriages have to do with elephants is completely beyond me.

Carson:          Oh you mean you got a ride with Jackson our regular limo man? Yeah, he likes to say, before he started driving limos, he piloted jumbo jets. HAHA <ring tone>

Grantham:        Good lord, what was that?

Carson:          Oh that’s my smart phone beeping at me. I got some tweets.

Grantham:        Tweets on a smart phone?

Carson:          Yes, I’m following this twitter feed about the Giants. My buddies are always twittering me.

Crawley:         Why do you need a smart phone to follow a twit? If you want to follow a twit who talks about Giants, why don’t you just follow that idiot limo driver who keeps going on about jumbos?

Grantham:        Mother, that is quite enough! Look, here’s a paper cup filled with some fine Spanish Sherry that I’d brought along with me. Now here you are, enjoy it and please be good.

Crawley:         Finally, some civilization in this god forsaken town! Now, when did you say Mayor McCheese might be stopping by? It is almost noon!

END

August 26, 2013, Open Mic, Woodham's Lounge, Santa Clara

Scripted Standup

Realized tonight what I should have realized a long time ago, that scripting my stand-up routine wasn't working. It really died tonight, although I think the script is reasonably funny and interesting. You can judge for yourself below.

Going forward, I will continue to perform scripted sketches at the Poor House Bistro and I'm looking for more venues with audiences who like more of a story than 5 minutes of 1-2 punch comedy.

As for the 1-2 punch crowd, I'm going to go off the deep end and try to riff on motifs without a script. I'll try 5 motifs and keep going till I run out of ideas or get "lighted" by the host. I don't know if I'll go over like a lead balloon or like Led Zeppelin (see, I can't stop the writing.)

Here's my routine. I enjoyed writing it and performing it.

Maybe I'm a George Burns looking for a Gracie Allen. A much older George Burns than when he met Gracie, but not as old as he was in the Sunshine Boys. We can all muse, can't we?

I’m a white guy from Canada trying to fit in to San Jose society, and you’d think that would be easy. But it isn’t.

You know, all you black folks out there have a lovely dark complexion and you asian and latin folks look like you all just got back from a pleasant day at the beach.

But for me, I’m pretty white. It’s like God pulled me out of the great cosmic toaster a minute before the timer bell went off.

<GOD:> “OK, man, that’s it. You’re done.”

“Dear Lord, I’m barely singed, couldn’t I stay a little while longer?”

“Hey sorry, man, but it’s late Saturday night and I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow.

“Well couldn’t I have a few more seconds to grow my pickle down here? If I’m going to be circumcized, at least give me a kosher dill, right now, I’m looking at a baby gherkin.”

“No”

“How ‘bout a Polski Orgoki?”

“No”

“Come on, not even a zesty spear?”

“No, sorry no, you gotta go now. You’ll be fine. People will know when you’re glad to see them. Now get yourself and your shriveled pickle outta here!”

And He had a point, He had stuff to do to get ready for Sunday and, at the same time, He was working with the new Pope, Pope Francis, to help the Pope get over his lisp.

Yeah, the Pope has developed a lisp which has become increasingly awkward when he introduces himself in social gatherings as “Pope Franthis.” It is also heartbreaking during Vespers, or “Vethperth,” as he calls it. You can read all about it on the Pope’s new social media site, Faithbook.

It isn’t easy fitting in. Often, I am shunned. Recently, I was shunned for wearing the wrong hair net to a gang meeting.

What? I was lonely, so I joined a gang. It was my mother’s idea.

Like, when I first got here, I called my mother and she said, “Whatdaya want, I’m watching Maury Povich here! What? You’re lonely? Go find a new gang of friends, find people who share a common interest!”

So, I thought, “a new gang of friends who share a common interest, hmmm?” And I kept hearing about these latin gangs who cruise the malls wearing hair nets.

Well, you know back in high school, I wore hair nets at work and I was in the school’s latin club, so I thought, what the heck, I could wear a hair net here and share my interest in latin with these guys. It would be like being back in high school.

So I joined a latin gang. And they have a latin name: They’re called the cucharachas, you know like you see on quarters, e pluribus cucharachas. With me here?

Turns out, these latin guys don’t know much more latin than I do. But they’re fun to hang out with, even though they are funny about their hair nets.

And, the other night, I was late for the gang meeting and, before heading out, I grabbed the wrong hair net out of the dryer.

Yeah, I know, like who launders their hair nets? But, what can I say? I’m a white guy from Canada.

But things are getting better. Last meeting, they made me gang secretary. And, back in high school, I had been the latin club secretary, so you know.... Actually, what they said was: I’m now the gang bitch. And, as everyone knows, bitch is latin for secretary, right?

And the way they talk about their bitches, it’s like, every day is Bitch Appreciation Day. Everyone has a bitch or a story about a bitch. Y’know, “bitch said dis, bitch did dat, bitch said up yours.” And, as we all know, “up yours” is latin for, go do some filing, right?

Back in high school, as club secretary, I’d done my share of filing, and you know I’d heard about organized gangs, but I didn’t expect these gangs to be so well organized with all these secretaries and all this filing going on.

And what do I know? I’m just a white guy trying to fit in here.

The other night, I was at the Poor House Bistro. Cajun style menu. Blackened seafood and chicken, right? ...That’s what I said to my wife when I burn the pork chops, “they’re not burnt, I blackened them Cajun style.”

Blackening... sounds like what happened to my buddy’s high school when they started bussing black kids there back in the day. ...Yes, their high school blackened up quite a bit once that started. ...Put it this way,

Overnight, they went from being a pretty new school TO Old School.

Overnight they went FROM supervised to super fly.

Overnight, they went from Hooked on Phonics to Hooked on crack. Cracked wheat for breakfast, people. What other meaning could there be for hooked on crack. Shame on you.

The theme for the Christmas pageant changed from Ho Ho Ho to pimps and ho’s. Pimpernels and Hostess ho-hos, people. What else could I possibly have meant by pimps and ho’s? Maybe you guys spend too much time hanging out at open mics.

And you know, I think people are stealing my mail. Yeah, I’ve been having some trouble there and I’m missing some magazines. Maybe some of you could lend me your copy once you’re done with it.

First, I’m missing the Boy Scout’s Journal on camping with Michael Jackson. Anybody?

How about the latest Family Circle magazine? Cover story is on safe texting with Anthony Weiner. Anyone?

This one: the Russian edition of Gay Sports Illustrated? Featuring off-track pole vaulting. Anyone seen it?

Speaking of gay Russian pole vaulting, did you hear that Justin Bieber has bid on Michael Jackson’s old property, the Neverland Ranch?

Does buying Neverland mean you get fitted for a Chimpanze to wear on your arm while at home?  

Does it mean Justin Beiber will soon be having sleep overs with much older black men?

Finally, a disturbing new trend I’ve seen in the press, yes, TSA security folks at the airports are developing a fetish for body scan images.

For some, nothing is working any more unless they see some body scans before doing it with their partners.

“Babe, how’d you likeded my new Victoria Secrets?”

“Sorry, not doing it for me, why don’t you slip into this silvery gray body suit I made for you in the basement. Mmmm mmmm mmmm, that looks fine.”

So, back at the airport, do TSA agents scan themselves doing it in the machine after hours?

Could be a porn site opportunity there.

Scanned In the Act dot Com?

Or a new porn movie, Confiscate That!