We were somewhere near Daytona on the edge of the ocean when the '70s soft rock began to take hold.
My friend Todd and I were driving to Jacksonville after another big Orlando/Gainesville meetup/reunion in Cocoa Beach. We were playing my Wussrock playlist - you know, AM Gold, Yacht Rock, the sort
of songs where they use the word 'lady' a lot. You heard it on the radio if you grew up in the
'70s. If you grew up a little later, you were probably
conceived to it.
Todd and I were roommates in Gainesville years ago. We could...well, honestly we could be pretty annoying when together. Actually, I've got a fairly large group of people like that. Everyone has in-jokes with their friends, I've managed to meet and befriend a few who could stretch those in-jokes past the point of comedy, way past annoyance, barrelling past anger, and finally into hysteria. Well, hysteria for us, anyway.
We were playing Gerry Rafferty's hit
"Baker Street" (You'll know it when you hear it) and one of us came up
with the idea of President Obama playing the sax solo in it. Here, now it's in your head:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x-Yi762sQTo
This
naturally led us into all sorts of scenarios - Obama practicing daily
in the Oval Office anxious to show his sax skills to the public, a public
address where he would announce "America, we are a strong nation. But we
are never stronger when we can share the gift of entertainment to the
world. That is why I have gathered you together tonight. Folks, I've been practicing these tasty sax licks for a year now, and here is my gift to you, the American people. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the great Gerry Rafferty."
Needless to say, our Obama impressions were flawless. Or we'd do an impression of a secret service agent seconds before the sax solo hits: "Mr. President! You're on!" This one in particular would crack us up. We then expanded our joke to having President Clinton step in for the guitar solo at about 4:45 if you're following along on Youtube. I'm pretty sure we were picturing him doing the 'guitar face' where you sort of half close your eyes and bite your lip. At least I was.
You could argue that this scenario is not funny. I probably wouldn't argue too strongly with you. It could have been the consequence of a long car ride, lots of caffeine and boredom. But it made us laugh and passed the time.
Couple weekends later I was in Atlanta. After a few drinks Todd and I couldn't stop our Obama sax routine. Predictably, our comedy was lost on the squares, who pointed out things like the fact that Clinton played the sax, not Obama, or that we were being annoying and stupid. Much like Lenny Bruce or Richard Pryor, we were just ahead of our time.
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comedy. Show all posts
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Monday, April 1, 2013
April Fools Cancelled
So I was going to make an April Fool's Facebook post in the style of all those forwards you get from your creepy family members that say stuff like, "I was standing in line at Publix and the woman in front of me had a new cell phone and fancy shoes and gold teeth and was buying steak and lobster stuffed with caviar and booze with a food stamp card and I could only afford three beans because I work for a living. Then the cashier gave her $700 cash."*
Then I thought better of it. Who needs to get into a big political thing on the internet now that it's springtime and things are blooming and the weather's nice? Plus, what if I had friends contact me saying things like, "That's right! That totally happened to me, too!"**
It'd be all unsettling and weird, like when my friend Pat owned a record store and had weird 40 year old polo shirt wearing dudes from Ocala acting all squirrely asking if he had any Skrewdriver records behind the counter.
Would I have to weed out my friends? Would my friends think I had turned all teabagger and weed me out?
Then I thought how annoying April Fool's Day is after you grow up anyway. Gullible and trusting people like myself have to be on guard against the internet or NPR trying to trick us. Again, who needs the hassle.
So instead of an April Fool's joke that probably wasn't that funny anyway and might lead to fights on the internet, here's a music video where monsters dance around.
Isn't that much better?
*And I'm not saying these things are racist, but isn't it strange how all the cultural signifiers used always point to African-American women?
**Hint. These stories did not happen to anyone. Tell your racist aunt.
Then I thought better of it. Who needs to get into a big political thing on the internet now that it's springtime and things are blooming and the weather's nice? Plus, what if I had friends contact me saying things like, "That's right! That totally happened to me, too!"**
It'd be all unsettling and weird, like when my friend Pat owned a record store and had weird 40 year old polo shirt wearing dudes from Ocala acting all squirrely asking if he had any Skrewdriver records behind the counter.
Would I have to weed out my friends? Would my friends think I had turned all teabagger and weed me out?
Then I thought how annoying April Fool's Day is after you grow up anyway. Gullible and trusting people like myself have to be on guard against the internet or NPR trying to trick us. Again, who needs the hassle.
So instead of an April Fool's joke that probably wasn't that funny anyway and might lead to fights on the internet, here's a music video where monsters dance around.
Isn't that much better?
*And I'm not saying these things are racist, but isn't it strange how all the cultural signifiers used always point to African-American women?
**Hint. These stories did not happen to anyone. Tell your racist aunt.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
An Artistic Catastrophe
Remember in school when you'd hear about people rioting when they first heard "The Rite of Spring" or went all crazy over some Picasso paintings or beat up Ornette Coleman? And then you'd go experience the art that got everyone so pissed off and you'd just sort of shrug and wonder why people were so much more excitable back in the old days?
Maybe you even thought that those reactions you heard about years later were exaggerated; I mean nobody really goes that crazy over art that you could just as easily ignore, you know?
I am here to tell you that some art is still so ahead of its time, so revolutionary, that the masses erupt in rioting and poor behavior when confronted by it.
I speak, of course, of the cat circus.
Years ago, my ex-wife (who was my wife at the time) called me at work and informed me that there was a cat circus that weekend, and we were going.
I might have put up a bit of a fight just to keep things interesting, but I was intrigued. Plus, it was only five bucks and in a hot sauce store, so how bad could it be?
The hot sauce store was very small. Probably about twice the size of my living room. When we arrived with our friend Keith and his daughter, the place was packed. I guess they underestimated Jacksonville's love of art and culture.
They had to schedule a second show because there were so many art lovers. It was tight, but we were able to squeeze our way up front. As we made our way up there, we could hear people loudly complaining trying to get their money back because of the poor conditions.
The complaining would only grow louder.
So we watched the cat circus. It was pretty much what I wanted to see. From what I remember, some cats walked on a little tightrope. A rooster did...something or other, and I think there were some rats doing some stuff. It was hard to see. I think they rang some bells or something.
And yeah, some of the tricks were a little rusty, like when the lady sort of had to coax the cat onto the tightrope, but still, she got a cat to walk across a tightrope. That's more than I've ever done. And I wasn't really expecting to see cats flying out of cannons or catching each other on trapezes, you know?
But the cat circus was just a warm up to the main event. The cat band.
I've seen a lot of bands in my time. I've seen bands at house parties where condensation was dripping off walls and the floorboards creaked as people danced. I've seen amazing, cathartic sets at the Hardback, when it seemed like the whole crowd and band was one pulsating organism. I saw The Who finish up "Love Reign O'er Me" as a rainstorm started in Tampa Stadium. I saw the Jesus Lizard and Fugazi in their prime, multiple times.
But none of these bands could hold a candle to The Rock Cats. Never have I felt such primal energy combined with musical talent as I did from those three kitty cats that night in the hot sauce store.
OK, not really. It was three cats playing instruments. What did people expect it to sound like? Beethoven? King Crimson? It actually reminded me of that post-college time when people started playing "sound sculptures" or "experimental music" or "noise" instead of playing music that was all full of fun and rock and roll. That stuff is a lot more tolerable coming from little kitties than from arty musicians.
I guess the band rubbed people the wrong way, too. People were going crazy, demanding refunds (a whole five dollars!) because the show wasn't "professional" enough.
Me, I got my five dollars of entertainment out of the thing.
I felt sorry for the hot sauce store owners, having to put up with people angrily shouting, complaining about the poor conditions and lack of professionalism in the cat circus and band. I also felt sorry for the cat circus woman, who was only trying to expose our fair city to some art.
But most of all I felt sorry for the crowd. These people were experiencing some of the greatest, most groundbreaking art of the 21st century and all they could do was complain about the temperature in the room or the fact that three cats couldn't play "Eruption" or "A Love Supreme."
I wept as I started the car and we drove home. I wept that our city could not appreciate the power, the art, and the majesty that was the cat circus. I wept that years from now, children would not understand that the cat circus was ahead of its time. Would they judge us harshly? I hoped not. There were some of us who got it, some of us who were hip.
I pray that history remembers us.
Maybe you even thought that those reactions you heard about years later were exaggerated; I mean nobody really goes that crazy over art that you could just as easily ignore, you know?
I am here to tell you that some art is still so ahead of its time, so revolutionary, that the masses erupt in rioting and poor behavior when confronted by it.
I speak, of course, of the cat circus.
Years ago, my ex-wife (who was my wife at the time) called me at work and informed me that there was a cat circus that weekend, and we were going.
I might have put up a bit of a fight just to keep things interesting, but I was intrigued. Plus, it was only five bucks and in a hot sauce store, so how bad could it be?
The hot sauce store was very small. Probably about twice the size of my living room. When we arrived with our friend Keith and his daughter, the place was packed. I guess they underestimated Jacksonville's love of art and culture.
They had to schedule a second show because there were so many art lovers. It was tight, but we were able to squeeze our way up front. As we made our way up there, we could hear people loudly complaining trying to get their money back because of the poor conditions.
The complaining would only grow louder.
So we watched the cat circus. It was pretty much what I wanted to see. From what I remember, some cats walked on a little tightrope. A rooster did...something or other, and I think there were some rats doing some stuff. It was hard to see. I think they rang some bells or something.
And yeah, some of the tricks were a little rusty, like when the lady sort of had to coax the cat onto the tightrope, but still, she got a cat to walk across a tightrope. That's more than I've ever done. And I wasn't really expecting to see cats flying out of cannons or catching each other on trapezes, you know?
But the cat circus was just a warm up to the main event. The cat band.
 |
| Check 'em out! Cats rocking the house! |
But none of these bands could hold a candle to The Rock Cats. Never have I felt such primal energy combined with musical talent as I did from those three kitty cats that night in the hot sauce store.
OK, not really. It was three cats playing instruments. What did people expect it to sound like? Beethoven? King Crimson? It actually reminded me of that post-college time when people started playing "sound sculptures" or "experimental music" or "noise" instead of playing music that was all full of fun and rock and roll. That stuff is a lot more tolerable coming from little kitties than from arty musicians.
I guess the band rubbed people the wrong way, too. People were going crazy, demanding refunds (a whole five dollars!) because the show wasn't "professional" enough.
Me, I got my five dollars of entertainment out of the thing.
I felt sorry for the hot sauce store owners, having to put up with people angrily shouting, complaining about the poor conditions and lack of professionalism in the cat circus and band. I also felt sorry for the cat circus woman, who was only trying to expose our fair city to some art.
But most of all I felt sorry for the crowd. These people were experiencing some of the greatest, most groundbreaking art of the 21st century and all they could do was complain about the temperature in the room or the fact that three cats couldn't play "Eruption" or "A Love Supreme."
I wept as I started the car and we drove home. I wept that our city could not appreciate the power, the art, and the majesty that was the cat circus. I wept that years from now, children would not understand that the cat circus was ahead of its time. Would they judge us harshly? I hoped not. There were some of us who got it, some of us who were hip.
I pray that history remembers us.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Smashing Pumpkins
"Now hold on there just a second, boy."
"Why, it looks like that one's tryin' to get away."
"Oh, don't worry. I got him."
The late night silence of the suburbs was shattered with a sickening THWACK and the sound of two corrupt law enforcement officers descending into hysterics.
Except the two officers were me and my friend Curt. And we were in high school.
I should back up.
The night hadn't started well. My mom and I got in a fight. A huge fight that escalated quickly into probably the biggest we had ever gotten into. She grounded me, and I just picked up my keys, walked out the door and left. I had never done anything like that before.
But Curt and I had tickets to see Love and Rockets that night, and I wasn't going to miss out on that.
I vaguely remember all sorts of ridiculous plans on the way to St. Pete. I was going to run away and...well, I'd make money somehow, and I wasn't going to come back home until I had my first million. My parents would change their tune then, especially when they had some time to reflect on how shabbily they treated their now rich son.
Love and Rockets were great. Maybe not as awesome as the tour we had seen previously, but still, seeing the music that I played in my bedroom or car stereo actually coming out of three people on a stage about two feet away was incredible. Opening act Jane's Addiction were mind-blowing. All in all it was a great night of music that helped forget my problems for a little while.
Of course, I had the 35 minute drive home to worry about what was going to happen when I got home. Luckily, Curt had been saving something for just such an occasion.
He told me to drive about a half mile past his house. At the time this area was full of sandspurs, scrub brush and pine and Cyprus trees.
“Keep going…further…further. OK. Stop.”
“Open the trunk.”
I parked the car on the side of the road. Curt took the tire iron out of the trunk and led the way. I wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I really didn’t want to go home, and Curt had never steered me wrong, so why not take a midnight hike with a tire iron?
He walked to a little wooded area and stopped.
“Check it out,” he said, motioning with the tire iron.
He was pointing to a field of wild melons, all about the size of bowling balls, just hanging out in the moonlight.
“I’ve seen these from the bus for months,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to come out and smash them.”
As a grown man, I realize how silly this sounds (unless you are the beloved comedian Gallagher), but as teenagers, you have all this extra energy and aggression, and few ways to channel it. Sometimes massacring a bunch of fruit is exactly what you need.
And it was. The first melon smashed with a satisfying sound. We started talking in comical Southern sheriff voices, just to sort of set the scene a bit, and give the whole thing a little more flavor.
Soon our shoes were covered in melon guts, our hands ached from the vibrations off the tire iron, and I thought I was going to pass out.
Have you ever laughed so hard you actually thought you were going to die? Where your stomach hurts and you can’t breathe, but you can’t stop laughing at something that in retrospect, isn’t really that funny? It happens to me fairly regularly, probably because I’m easily amused, but this was the first time, and it still feels like last week rather than…jeez, over 20 years ago.
After we had destroyed all the melons, helping nature by distributing seeds for future growth, we probably had a 7-11 meal and skated for a while up at the middle school. Things were certainly looking better.
Mom and I eventually made up, and I have yet to make dazzle my parents with my first million. Or thousand, actually.
Now I’m not suggesting smashing up a bunch of fruit will solve all your problems, but…hey, you know what? Screw it. You’ve got problems? You’re stressed out? Go smash up some melons. Talk like Jackie Gleason in Smokey and the Bandit while you’re doing it. Seriously, you’ll feel so much better.
"Why, it looks like that one's tryin' to get away."
"Oh, don't worry. I got him."
The late night silence of the suburbs was shattered with a sickening THWACK and the sound of two corrupt law enforcement officers descending into hysterics.
Except the two officers were me and my friend Curt. And we were in high school.
I should back up.
The night hadn't started well. My mom and I got in a fight. A huge fight that escalated quickly into probably the biggest we had ever gotten into. She grounded me, and I just picked up my keys, walked out the door and left. I had never done anything like that before.
But Curt and I had tickets to see Love and Rockets that night, and I wasn't going to miss out on that.
I vaguely remember all sorts of ridiculous plans on the way to St. Pete. I was going to run away and...well, I'd make money somehow, and I wasn't going to come back home until I had my first million. My parents would change their tune then, especially when they had some time to reflect on how shabbily they treated their now rich son.
Love and Rockets were great. Maybe not as awesome as the tour we had seen previously, but still, seeing the music that I played in my bedroom or car stereo actually coming out of three people on a stage about two feet away was incredible. Opening act Jane's Addiction were mind-blowing. All in all it was a great night of music that helped forget my problems for a little while.
Of course, I had the 35 minute drive home to worry about what was going to happen when I got home. Luckily, Curt had been saving something for just such an occasion.
He told me to drive about a half mile past his house. At the time this area was full of sandspurs, scrub brush and pine and Cyprus trees.
“Keep going…further…further. OK. Stop.”
“Open the trunk.”
I parked the car on the side of the road. Curt took the tire iron out of the trunk and led the way. I wasn’t really sure what was going on, but I really didn’t want to go home, and Curt had never steered me wrong, so why not take a midnight hike with a tire iron?
He walked to a little wooded area and stopped.
“Check it out,” he said, motioning with the tire iron.
He was pointing to a field of wild melons, all about the size of bowling balls, just hanging out in the moonlight.
“I’ve seen these from the bus for months,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to come out and smash them.”
As a grown man, I realize how silly this sounds (unless you are the beloved comedian Gallagher), but as teenagers, you have all this extra energy and aggression, and few ways to channel it. Sometimes massacring a bunch of fruit is exactly what you need.
And it was. The first melon smashed with a satisfying sound. We started talking in comical Southern sheriff voices, just to sort of set the scene a bit, and give the whole thing a little more flavor.
Soon our shoes were covered in melon guts, our hands ached from the vibrations off the tire iron, and I thought I was going to pass out.
Have you ever laughed so hard you actually thought you were going to die? Where your stomach hurts and you can’t breathe, but you can’t stop laughing at something that in retrospect, isn’t really that funny? It happens to me fairly regularly, probably because I’m easily amused, but this was the first time, and it still feels like last week rather than…jeez, over 20 years ago.
After we had destroyed all the melons, helping nature by distributing seeds for future growth, we probably had a 7-11 meal and skated for a while up at the middle school. Things were certainly looking better.
Mom and I eventually made up, and I have yet to make dazzle my parents with my first million. Or thousand, actually.
Now I’m not suggesting smashing up a bunch of fruit will solve all your problems, but…hey, you know what? Screw it. You’ve got problems? You’re stressed out? Go smash up some melons. Talk like Jackie Gleason in Smokey and the Bandit while you’re doing it. Seriously, you’ll feel so much better.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Saddest Comedy in the World
A couple weeks ago I'm at the gym wondering why the elliptical machine insists on lying about the elapsed time (you can say 3 minutes as long as you want, Mr. Running Robot, but I think we both know I had to have been on you at least 10) and glanced up at one of the closed captioned TVs the gym offers. "Everybody Loves Raymond" was starting and since I needed something to take my mind off my lying robot coach, I started watching, pretending I had just been struck deaf from some terrible accident.
It's in the beginning, before the credits. Ray and his family are in the kitchen, trading barbs and insulting each other. Without sound or a laughtrack, the show was a bleak, depressing rumination on a family that hates each other with a blinding passion and takes every opportunity to point out each others flaws, yet is somehow determined to stick together. It also helped that I was translating everything in overly dramatic 'actorly' voices with lots of pauses, so that it went sort of like:
"Raymond. (pause) You did not empty the dishwasher again."
"I know, honey. I (pause) just (pause) forgot, OK?"
Here's an actual script I found off the internet:
Ray: Take a look at your daughter.
Debra: Yeah, so? She looks happy.
Ray: She’s happy, that’s very happy.
Debra: What, shall we call a doctor, Ray?
Ray: I… look, I’m just saying, look how good it is to be five. Oh, you’re truly happy at five. You’re happiness peaks at five.
Debra: Oh, come on, I’m happy.
Ray: You’re not that happy. You can’t be. Look at her. Ally, what are you thinking of?
Ally: Candy.
Fill that full of pauses and serious voices and you can see what a depressing view the writers of "Everybody Loves Raymond" have on marriage, childhood, and the elusiveness of happiness.
I can't wait til tonight when I get to dramatize "Two and a Half Men" in this manner.
It's in the beginning, before the credits. Ray and his family are in the kitchen, trading barbs and insulting each other. Without sound or a laughtrack, the show was a bleak, depressing rumination on a family that hates each other with a blinding passion and takes every opportunity to point out each others flaws, yet is somehow determined to stick together. It also helped that I was translating everything in overly dramatic 'actorly' voices with lots of pauses, so that it went sort of like:
"Raymond. (pause) You did not empty the dishwasher again."
"I know, honey. I (pause) just (pause) forgot, OK?"
Here's an actual script I found off the internet:
Ray: Take a look at your daughter.
Debra: Yeah, so? She looks happy.
Ray: She’s happy, that’s very happy.
Debra: What, shall we call a doctor, Ray?
Ray: I… look, I’m just saying, look how good it is to be five. Oh, you’re truly happy at five. You’re happiness peaks at five.
Debra: Oh, come on, I’m happy.
Ray: You’re not that happy. You can’t be. Look at her. Ally, what are you thinking of?
Ally: Candy.
Fill that full of pauses and serious voices and you can see what a depressing view the writers of "Everybody Loves Raymond" have on marriage, childhood, and the elusiveness of happiness.
I can't wait til tonight when I get to dramatize "Two and a Half Men" in this manner.
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