Monday, July 19, 2010
Ice Dream
Just got home from seeing the movie INCEPTION.
It involved dreaming, and dreaming in a dream... and so on.
A good chunk of the movie was spent in somebody's dream, and it got me to thinking.
There was a scene in the movie in which a woman is stabbed in the stomach (in a dream),and she awakes abruptly clutching her midsection. It triggered a memory for me... of a dream I had many years ago. I've told only a few people about it, so why not my blog... only a few people read it anyways.
I had this dream back when I was living in California, working as a preschool teacher. As a Christmas present from one of my preschoolers, I received a Dream Pillow. It was the size of a VCR tape, had a Native American design, and was filled with a fragrant potpourri of herbs and flowers. The smell of it, though strong, was not immediately a pleasant scent. It wrinkled the nose if you sniffed it too close, which was why it instructed you to put it beneath your actual pillow when you slept. The label claimed that your dreams were to become more lucid, if you were able to integrate the scent into your sleep. Being a skeptic, I threw the little pillow into my bed, and thought nothing more of it.
Three nights later, I had this dream:
I was at a baseball game, sitting in the stands behind home plate. It was a warm summer day and I was among friends or family, except that there was nobody specific that I remember. We were enjoying the game and at one point, I recall trying to catch a foul ball landing near us. It fell out of our range, and we laughed about it because a few people had spilled their beers. As we settled back into our seats, I noticed two men arguing about something. One man was in the row behind us and he seemed drunk and angry. The other man was in the row in front of us, a family man, there with his wife and kids. I was trying to figure out why the angry man was so upset, and unlike my friends, I had yet to sit down. The disagreement got louder and less possible to just ignore, so I turned to the angry guy and tried to calm him down. He got even more irritated and began to yell loudly, gesturing wildly. Though I could not see the man behind me, I could feel that he was not backing down, and instead he too had becoming enraged. I was in the middle of a heated quarrel, wondering what to do.
The angry man looked me in the eye as he reached for something in his back pocket. I saw a flash of metal and as I put my hands out to stop him, he surprised me, and stabbed me in the stomach with a long silver knife. I felt an incredible pain and I recall the warmness of the blood as it pored through my trembling fingers. Slumping down into my chair, there was a fading whiteness that took over the view of the baseball game and like the movies, I began moving into a tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was the light, intense like the sun, yet beckoning.
I remember thinking that I was too young to die, as the scenes of my life began to play before my eyes like a slide show. There were early visions of me as a baby (that looked suspiciously familiar, like the home movies we would watch as kids). As the dream continued, my life was projected faster and faster, and I recognized snippets of images like I was leafing through an old photo album. The last image I remember was a picture from the baseball game, with the very same view as the one from our seats.
I woke up sweating, gripping my stomach and breathing hard. Sitting up in my bed, I tried to shake myself awake. The dream pillow sat next to my pillow, near a large drool stain. I reached for it and threw it into the other room.
After a shower and a Poptart, I remember feeling surprisingly rejuvenated, and I spent that day fishing with my brother, thinking... it was good to be alive.
I lent the Dream Pillow to my sister and I never asked for it back.
When I googled Dreaming about dying, I got this:
To dream that you die in your dream, symbolizes inner changes, transformation, self-discovery and positive development that is happening within you or in your life. Although such dreams may bring about feelings of fear and anxiety, it is no cause for alarm and is often considered a positive symbol.
Maybe my dream was like a time-release capsule and it took a decade for the transformation and the positive development to take place... or maybe... it still hasn't come through to fruition.
You could be dreaming now as you read this... and if you are, you will likely wake up sweating, clutching your gut... vowing never to read my blog again.
It involved dreaming, and dreaming in a dream... and so on.
A good chunk of the movie was spent in somebody's dream, and it got me to thinking.
There was a scene in the movie in which a woman is stabbed in the stomach (in a dream),and she awakes abruptly clutching her midsection. It triggered a memory for me... of a dream I had many years ago. I've told only a few people about it, so why not my blog... only a few people read it anyways.
I had this dream back when I was living in California, working as a preschool teacher. As a Christmas present from one of my preschoolers, I received a Dream Pillow. It was the size of a VCR tape, had a Native American design, and was filled with a fragrant potpourri of herbs and flowers. The smell of it, though strong, was not immediately a pleasant scent. It wrinkled the nose if you sniffed it too close, which was why it instructed you to put it beneath your actual pillow when you slept. The label claimed that your dreams were to become more lucid, if you were able to integrate the scent into your sleep. Being a skeptic, I threw the little pillow into my bed, and thought nothing more of it.
Three nights later, I had this dream:
I was at a baseball game, sitting in the stands behind home plate. It was a warm summer day and I was among friends or family, except that there was nobody specific that I remember. We were enjoying the game and at one point, I recall trying to catch a foul ball landing near us. It fell out of our range, and we laughed about it because a few people had spilled their beers. As we settled back into our seats, I noticed two men arguing about something. One man was in the row behind us and he seemed drunk and angry. The other man was in the row in front of us, a family man, there with his wife and kids. I was trying to figure out why the angry man was so upset, and unlike my friends, I had yet to sit down. The disagreement got louder and less possible to just ignore, so I turned to the angry guy and tried to calm him down. He got even more irritated and began to yell loudly, gesturing wildly. Though I could not see the man behind me, I could feel that he was not backing down, and instead he too had becoming enraged. I was in the middle of a heated quarrel, wondering what to do.
The angry man looked me in the eye as he reached for something in his back pocket. I saw a flash of metal and as I put my hands out to stop him, he surprised me, and stabbed me in the stomach with a long silver knife. I felt an incredible pain and I recall the warmness of the blood as it pored through my trembling fingers. Slumping down into my chair, there was a fading whiteness that took over the view of the baseball game and like the movies, I began moving into a tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was the light, intense like the sun, yet beckoning.
I remember thinking that I was too young to die, as the scenes of my life began to play before my eyes like a slide show. There were early visions of me as a baby (that looked suspiciously familiar, like the home movies we would watch as kids). As the dream continued, my life was projected faster and faster, and I recognized snippets of images like I was leafing through an old photo album. The last image I remember was a picture from the baseball game, with the very same view as the one from our seats.
I woke up sweating, gripping my stomach and breathing hard. Sitting up in my bed, I tried to shake myself awake. The dream pillow sat next to my pillow, near a large drool stain. I reached for it and threw it into the other room.
After a shower and a Poptart, I remember feeling surprisingly rejuvenated, and I spent that day fishing with my brother, thinking... it was good to be alive.
I lent the Dream Pillow to my sister and I never asked for it back.
When I googled Dreaming about dying, I got this:
To dream that you die in your dream, symbolizes inner changes, transformation, self-discovery and positive development that is happening within you or in your life. Although such dreams may bring about feelings of fear and anxiety, it is no cause for alarm and is often considered a positive symbol.
Maybe my dream was like a time-release capsule and it took a decade for the transformation and the positive development to take place... or maybe... it still hasn't come through to fruition.
You could be dreaming now as you read this... and if you are, you will likely wake up sweating, clutching your gut... vowing never to read my blog again.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Drawing with the Dead
I had this idea as I was looking at some old drawings tonite.
I've kept every piece of art I've ever made since started drawing in 1983 (See John Lennon).
Many are simple pen and ink drawings, some are roughly colored, and some were even finished and polished up a bit. They are a glimpse into my psyche, and as time moved on, so did my art. Every piece I made was signed and dated in the lower left corner.
I found this particular picture as I was leafing through and old portfolio. It was from July of 1990, twenty years ago... and I never quite completed it.
So, tonight, in the midst of a rare creative spurt of energy, I took some digital pictures of my forgotten artwork and sent them to the Photoshop.
I actually remember when I drew this "skeleton"... I was up at my friend Mark's house, and we had likely indulged in our regular vices. We had partied as usual, made some food to eat, and we were listening to music... most likely a mixture of the Beatles (from Mark) and The Grateful Dead (from me). The skeleton has his bony hands above, and behind, his head because he is dancing. The "Dead" influenced me heavily, and it came out in myriad ways.
As I was coloring it, it occurred to me that I was collaborating with my younger self, and it felt strange, but good. I plan to do more of it.
I've kept every piece of art I've ever made since started drawing in 1983 (See John Lennon).
Many are simple pen and ink drawings, some are roughly colored, and some were even finished and polished up a bit. They are a glimpse into my psyche, and as time moved on, so did my art. Every piece I made was signed and dated in the lower left corner.
I found this particular picture as I was leafing through and old portfolio. It was from July of 1990, twenty years ago... and I never quite completed it.
So, tonight, in the midst of a rare creative spurt of energy, I took some digital pictures of my forgotten artwork and sent them to the Photoshop.
I actually remember when I drew this "skeleton"... I was up at my friend Mark's house, and we had likely indulged in our regular vices. We had partied as usual, made some food to eat, and we were listening to music... most likely a mixture of the Beatles (from Mark) and The Grateful Dead (from me). The skeleton has his bony hands above, and behind, his head because he is dancing. The "Dead" influenced me heavily, and it came out in myriad ways.
As I was coloring it, it occurred to me that I was collaborating with my younger self, and it felt strange, but good. I plan to do more of it.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Bounty Hunter
I was heading back from the store on my scooter this afternoon, when I took my usual longcut. By turning off the main road, I can skirt the beach on a small side street and if nobody is parked in the no parking area, I can pull my scooter up right up above the sand, and chill for a bit. Today it was quiet and the beach was pretty empty due to the tradewinds that had picked up earlier, whipping sand around. There were no waves except for the windblown ripples, and the ocean looked like a big blue bathtub.
I propped my scooter up on the kickstand and sat back, crossed my arms, and took in the view. I never take for granted that I live in a place where people work all year to be able to come to stay for one week (on average). The sun was still warm even though it was late afternoon and I could feel it on my arms. At the base of the palm tree right in front of me, I noticed a grey bird in the short grass. Upon closer inspection, I realized that there were actually two birds, doves, and they seemed to be in the throes of passion... or they were fighting... I couldn't tell.
The doves stopped tussling and settled down, as I scanned the beach and enjoyed the cool breezes. One bird was picking at the face of the other, like a honeymooning couple, nuzzling, and generally enjoying each other's company. The male bird (I think) looked up at me with beady black eyes which conveyed several possible messages to me:
1). What the fuck are you looking at Pal? Gimme some privacy.
2). Check it out, I'm a generic grey dove and I can get a chick (pun intended) and this loser on the bike cannot... he looks lonely.
3). Dude, you got anything to eat? I'll eat anything... seriously... even chicken.
4). Where did you get those cool blue tires? Sweet...
5). Someone's coming!!! Let's get out of here!!!
A guy was coming up the path from the beach, dragging a boogie board behind him. The doves scattered into the bushes as he walked right towards me. He made eye contact with me and nodded his head.
"Howzit" he said to me, "beautiful day," he added.
"Yeah" I replied.
He looked me over as he put his stuff down near the top of the beach wall. He seemed to be trying to read the writing on my black, sleeveless t-shirt, and then my hat. It appeared he was considering asking me a question.
"Are you a bounty hunter?" He asked me, in a serious tone.
"Ummm, no," I answered.
"Sorry, you just look like one is all" he said, as he sat down next to his stuff and looked out at the ocean. As he took out a cigarette, he asked me if I had "seen that show?"
I assumed he meant Dog, The Bounty Hunter.
"Yeah," I muttered.
"That's a good show," he said as he lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
After a minute of uncomfortable silence passed, I started my scooter and pulled away.
As I drove home, I wondered to myself what had possibly made him think bounty hunter when he saw me. Was it my unshaven face, black shirt and hat, sunglasses? The menacing way I was kicking back on my chopper (okay... scooter)? Maybe it was the way my energy exuded a general toughness, and that I looked like I was trying to survey the criminality in the area, waiting to react, and jump into action. My arms, bulging with muscles, must have been the tip-offs.
Had the dove made a threatening posture to me before he had chased them off, I wouldn't even had been there.
That dove was scary.
I propped my scooter up on the kickstand and sat back, crossed my arms, and took in the view. I never take for granted that I live in a place where people work all year to be able to come to stay for one week (on average). The sun was still warm even though it was late afternoon and I could feel it on my arms. At the base of the palm tree right in front of me, I noticed a grey bird in the short grass. Upon closer inspection, I realized that there were actually two birds, doves, and they seemed to be in the throes of passion... or they were fighting... I couldn't tell.
The doves stopped tussling and settled down, as I scanned the beach and enjoyed the cool breezes. One bird was picking at the face of the other, like a honeymooning couple, nuzzling, and generally enjoying each other's company. The male bird (I think) looked up at me with beady black eyes which conveyed several possible messages to me:
1). What the fuck are you looking at Pal? Gimme some privacy.
2). Check it out, I'm a generic grey dove and I can get a chick (pun intended) and this loser on the bike cannot... he looks lonely.
3). Dude, you got anything to eat? I'll eat anything... seriously... even chicken.
4). Where did you get those cool blue tires? Sweet...
5). Someone's coming!!! Let's get out of here!!!
A guy was coming up the path from the beach, dragging a boogie board behind him. The doves scattered into the bushes as he walked right towards me. He made eye contact with me and nodded his head.
"Howzit" he said to me, "beautiful day," he added.
"Yeah" I replied.
He looked me over as he put his stuff down near the top of the beach wall. He seemed to be trying to read the writing on my black, sleeveless t-shirt, and then my hat. It appeared he was considering asking me a question.
"Are you a bounty hunter?" He asked me, in a serious tone.
"Ummm, no," I answered.
"Sorry, you just look like one is all" he said, as he sat down next to his stuff and looked out at the ocean. As he took out a cigarette, he asked me if I had "seen that show?"
I assumed he meant Dog, The Bounty Hunter.
"Yeah," I muttered.
"That's a good show," he said as he lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
After a minute of uncomfortable silence passed, I started my scooter and pulled away.
As I drove home, I wondered to myself what had possibly made him think bounty hunter when he saw me. Was it my unshaven face, black shirt and hat, sunglasses? The menacing way I was kicking back on my chopper (okay... scooter)? Maybe it was the way my energy exuded a general toughness, and that I looked like I was trying to survey the criminality in the area, waiting to react, and jump into action. My arms, bulging with muscles, must have been the tip-offs.
Had the dove made a threatening posture to me before he had chased them off, I wouldn't even had been there.
That dove was scary.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Funny Guy ( A Short Story)
The Funny Guy
There is a certain satisfaction that comes from making another person laugh. Some folks are born funny, and they consume and enjoy at least a little bit of humor every day. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted, and often tried, to get laughs. Growing up in my family, it came pretty easy to me, as there were several easy marks. My brothers and I, when we were very young, would crack each other up, mostly just with stupid noises, and general kid weirdness. To say that we were goofy kids would be a fair assessment. We played many games, and even went so far as to make up a few of our own. All bodily noises, smells and functions elicited laughter from us, when we were young. When all else failed, there was always tickling, which most consider cheating, when it comes to getting laughs. For the most part, I had a happy childhood.
I recall playing a particular board game with my younger brother, Jeff, which sparked an episode of near fatal hilarity. It was one of those flimsy paper games that we pulled out of a Dragon Magazine. We had spent over an hour cutting up the tiny paper pieces in order to prepare to actually play the game. As was customary during most of our games, Jeff would read and absorb the rules, and explain them to me as we began play. This particular game involved many little explorers, crudely drawn and given humorous names. It was, in fact, an elephant hunt. We laughed for a while over the Liam token, whose picture made him look special, and we fought over the rights to be him. Eventually, we got the game set up with all the little paper tokens where they needed to be, found the right dice and began to play the game. Jeff went first, since I was Liam. Throughout the first few turns, Jeff consulted the rulebook many times. At one point, he started giggling as he read. Then, he composed himself enough to explain the all-important Hurricane George rule. It stated that the person who laughed too forcefully during a game of Elephant Hunt risked causing the hurricane-like effects to the games paper tokens, thus triggering an early end to the game, and subsequently, a loss to the offending Hurricane George. Unfortunately, I was sitting way too close to the tabletop when Jeff read me the rule, and I laughed… forcefully, setting into motion a comedic Mobius strip of mirth. The little square pieces went flying. We hooted and snorted until we realized how long it was going to take to set up the game again. That is, of course, if we were even able to find all the pieces. Not surprisingly, we never totally finished a game of Elephant Hunt, but to this day, Jeff still calls me Liam every now and then.
In school, I was a covert class clown, due to the fact that I was very selective with my material. I was not like most of the other attention-seeking jesters in my class, who could effortlessly rally a mass laugh with a well-timed fart. That was too easy; cheap laughs with small payoffs. Nor, was I akin to the kids, who when they read aloud to the class, would add words and use goofy voices. I was always too self-conscious when I read aloud, unable to adlib on the fly. I thought out my lines in advance, sometimes while lying in bed at night. Patiently, I waited for those golden opportunities to arrive. I spent hours listening to George Carlin’s album Class Clown, and I could appreciate the art of good comic timing. Carlin had a comeback for everything; he has done his research, and earned my respect. Secretly, I wished for the day when one of my parents would threaten to wash out my mouth with soap, just so that I could reply with George’s gem “I’ll blow bubbles out my ass.” I was at a friend’s house one day when I overheard an actual line that begged for a Carlinesque reply. My friend’s mother had said, “I have tried to be both a mother and a father to you.” Under my breath, I pleaded with my friend, who had also listened to those albums with me.
“Tell her… do it.” I said. He just shook his head, sad because he knew he might never get the chance again.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said softly to the air that remained in the room, after his mom had left. George would not have been proud. It was an opportunity missed.
My tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Charles, was a kind, motherly woman. She was also practically round. Her students liked her a lot and saw her class as an easy A, as long as you showed up and participated every so often. I was quiet most of the time, and a little uncomfortable reading in front of the class, so I rarely volunteered. One day we were discussing metaphors and similes and, unexpectedly, she called on me, asking me to describe her in “colorful” detail. I was caught off guard, so I looked at her and had to think quickly. She was a little over five foot tall, wearing a bright purple jumpsuit, leaning against her desk with her arms crossed. She was stocky woman and I did not want to hurt her feelings, but I replied with the inspiration as it came into my head.
“Today, I could say… that maybe, you kind of look like the grape guy on the Fruit Of The Loom commercial”. I said with a shaky voice.
“OK,” she replied with a smile.
The classroom exploded into laughter, and I raised my hands as if I had just caught a winning touchdown pass. I soaked in the adulation of the moment. Mrs. Charles called on me less frequently after that, and I was pleased to receive a B for English that year.
The next year I had a French teacher who I did not like. He was a smarmy little guy that most kids hated for his tough, no-nonsense teaching style. Mr. Casorio gave quizzes every day, forcing us to recall vocabulary from the previous day. This seemed redundant to us, and we resented having to learn the same work twice. Even though it seemed successful with those students who chose to apply themselves, I often found myself, along with others, ill prepared for the daily quiz. To make matters worse, if you forgot to bring a pencil you would be humiliated further. Mr. Casorio did not accept the use of pens. He would ask if anyone needed a pencil, forcing you to slowly raise your hand in shame. His standard question was “Who put your pants on in the morning?” which was closely followed by his punch line... “Your mother?” In his nasally French accent, it was difficult to take, and the snickers of the other kids made him smile as he handed out little golf pencils with no erasers. Much to my dismay, I would forget to bring a pencil at least once a week, and have to suffer the consequences.
One day, as I walked into French class, I was particularly nervous because I realized that I did not have a pencil. When I became aware that none of my friends had an extra to lend me, I started to think that this could be an opportunity to seize. This could be the day. I was mentally prepared to throw down, and I was suddenly hopeful that I was going to get the chance. I took my seat and waited for the quiz paper passing to begin. As the class settled in, we got our papers while waiting for the question to come.
“Does anyone need a pencil?” asked Mr. Casorio. I raised my hand high.
As he came walking towards me, I looked around at my classmates noticing that most eyes focused on me. We all knew what was coming.
“Who put your pants on this morning?” asked Mr. Casorio, with a pronounced sneer.
“Your wife!” I nearly yelled in response, before he could say anything more. I was sure that everyone had heard me.
I waited for the laugh to come, but we sat there in total silence, for what seemed like forever. I looked up at Casorio’s face, which was exploding red with rage. He pointed at the door and took a deep breath, shaking visibly. I got up, grabbed my backpack and headed for the door as the surrounding silence sustained.
“Let’s go have a chat with the principal,” he said as we left the classroom and entered the hall. As we walked, his heels clicked on the linoleum floors with military precision. Right before we got to the top of the steps, I heard the sound I had been waiting for. My French class had erupted in glorious laughter, spilling music to my ears. It grew louder into a roar, and then tapered off with some applause and a few whoops. Mr. Casorio now appeared even more infuriated, seemingly split between continuing my march to doom, and a possible hasty retreat back to admonish the now elated class.
I was suspended for three days, and as I walked home from school, I became seriously concerned as to how I might sell this tale to my father. I figured that if I was completely honest, and able to enlighten him of my latent comedic skills, then even he could understand my motivation, and acknowledge my bravery and cleverness. I do not remember taking a beating for it, and I managed get a passing grade in French in order to avoid future thrashing. Kids, in French class, talked about it for years (or so I imagined).
As a college student, my friends and I would occasionally go to the comedy club. There was a small cover charge, and from time to time, depending on the waitress, we could even order a beer. I thrilled at the bravery of each comic, even the bad ones. They were willing to reveal themselves and banter with the audience comfortably. Between comedians, the host would always ask volunteers to tell a good joke on stage. The winner, as judged by the spectators, would win tickets to the next weeks show. It took a while for me to build up the courage and find the right joke, but I found myself one night at the Funnybone with my hand in the air. When the host chose me, my friends were all shocked as I stood up shakily. Walking between tables, as I approached the stage, I felt my heart quicken, and by the time I got on stage, it felt as though it may burst from my chest. It beat so loudly that I feared the microphone would pick it up. I took long deep breaths as I waited for my turn to come. A cute, drunk chick told the first joke. It was a corny joke but got appreciable applause, mainly because it was told by a cute, drunk chick. An older gentleman in a suit and a tie, told the next joke and it was a doozy, except that nobody really got it. There was light round of polite, golf type applause and more than a few puzzled looks in the crowd. I knew I was next, and I gulped for air as the spotlight turned and blinded me. I looked out into the audience but could not see much, so I squinted and began to tell my joke.
“OK… there was this little kid who had an older sister,” I spoke into the microphone. The silence was thick as my whiny voice echoed through the room.
“One night, as he was passing his sister’s room on his way to bed, he noticed her door opened a crack. He peered in and saw his sister, naked from the chest up, sitting in front of her mirror. She was rubbing her breasts saying, “I need a man… I need a man.” I pantomimed rubbing my chest with my left hand as my right hand quivered holding the mic. There were a few giggles from the crowd, and I took another breath and went on.
“So… The little boy ran up to his room confused, and went to bed. But… (dramatic pause) it happened again the next night. He did not want to look, but he did, and there she was, once again… ‘I need a man, I need a man.’ Once more, the boy got flustered and ran up to his room.” I paused as I stopped rubbing my chest awkwardly for the second time.
“It happened a few more times, and the boy got used to seeing it. Until one night, (overdramatic pause), he looked into her room and saw her in bed… with a man! The boy was stunned and he turned and ran up the steps, as he heard his sister moan.”
The audience was rapt and I knew, even though I could not see them, that I had their attention now. I did not want to mess up the punch line so I gathered my guts and I tried to focus. I pushed the imaginary door in front of me.
“He burst into his room and ripped off his shirt,” I said, as I pretended to rip off my own shirt. [Looking back, my biggest regret is not actually doing so.]
“He ran to his mirror, and began to rub his chest… vigorously!” I rubbed my chest with enthusiasm, as I delivered the punch.
“’I need a bike… I need a bike’, said the little boy.”
The crowd burst into ovation, as I swelled with pride, somewhat faint.
Needless to say, I won the tickets to the following week. I also won tickets the next week, and defended my crown for a third straight week after that. I remember one of the other jokes that prevailed, which was about nuns. I was gaining confidence and moving on to hard-hitting topics as I honed my comedy act.
“There was a flasher walking down the street in a trench coat. There were three nuns walking towards him single file. He passed the first nun and could not help it. He flashed her… and she had a stroke.” I put my hand to my heart, in an all too familiar pose.
“He passed the second nun, flashed her (I pretend to flash the crowd)… and she had a stroke.” Again, I put my hand to my chest for effect. There were some moans in the crowd.
“ He passes the third nun and flashes her as well.” I flash the audience and wait. Wait for it. Wait for it.
“She doesn’t even touch him.” I say softly and clearly.
I will admit there was a delay, but when the laughter came, it was thunderous. A second laugh came, I noticed, when those who did not get it were explained the joke by their smarter friends.
Each time, as I left the stage and sat back down with my friends, I felt exhilarated. My heart would beat quickly for the next half hour, and my face would remain flush for a long time. Who knew, the telling of one joke could take so much effort? I felt drained, as if I had played tackle football. It was to be the highlight, and end, to my professional comedy career.
I taught preschool for several years, and I toned my act down for kids. I became adept at doing amusing puppet shows. They usually involved the voice of Grover or Elmo, depending on which puppet I had on hand (pun intended). Admittedly, potty humor was rife, and the mention of toilets and/or diapers was varied but predictable. I could get a class of three year-olds fired up, until eventually, I ran into my usual problem. Being authentically silly in front of other adults was difficult for me. My co-teacher would often hover about in the background pretending not to watch the show, but if I noticed her attention, the farce would suffer. The same happened if a parent would show up mid-show, causing me to fluster. Usually, I would seek volunteers from the class to be part of the routine, thereby deflecting some of the glare of the spectators. I knew what made kids laugh and I knew that it did not always connect to adults (especially moms). Over those years, I honed my irreverent humor, which would grow and fester into my adulthood.
Every job I have ever had involved some element of humor. I drove a cab for a few years and joked with my fares. A good pertinent joke could ensure a decent tip. Back when the Steelers quarterback of the day was going through accuracy issues, I would ask people in my cab if they had heard about Bubby Brister’s suicide attempt, to which most would reply in alarm. “What? Are you serious? Brister tried to commit suicide?”
“Yeah,” I would reply. “He tried to shoot himself. But don’t worry, he didn’t succeed. Somebody intercepted the bullet.” Ice broken, tip earned.
I worked in a psychiatric hospital, on a toddler unit, as a developmental therapist. The psychiatrist, who headed up the treatment team, was one of the least funny people I had ever met. She approached everything with a serious, sensible flair. It sucked the fun out of the environment, and my work suffered. As humor went, these were the lean years, and I learned over time (four long years), that I needed to work in a sunnier setting.
Fast forward to the present, where I find myself employed at a resort on Maui. I work at the pool, as an attendant (which is what you call a lifeguard that has no legal life guarding skills). However, every day I get to use my comedic skills, if I feel like it. Throughout the day, I rotate positions around the activity pool. There are seven connecting slides, a water elevator and a Tarzan swing. Depending on the time of the day, (since I am not at all funny before noon), my jokes and banter could start anywhere. At the top of a slide, I am the one holding the walkie-talkie, who says “OK… you can go now.” Or, sometimes I liven things up and say “Now… don’t go!” which usually makes them go, and I yell, “I’m telling!” as they slide away. Kids get a kick out of it if you say something funny as they leave, such as “Go if you like to spend money” (the kid goes)… then I add “on Teletubbie toys!” Other gems, such as “Go if you like to drink (the kid goes)… from the toilet” and “Go if you’re married” always come off well. Those kids have a propensity to get back in line and taunt me for more verbal abuse. Every now and then, I bring rubber animals such as lizards and snakes, which I throw behind, or in front of, a kid as they go down the waterslide. I make them promise to bring back the toy, but inevitably, they all tend to get lost (or stolen). I have thrown a little Dora the Explorer plastic toy (that I found while cleaning the beach) down the slide about a hundred times. Kids try to catch her on the way down, but she sinks to the bottom if they do not catch up, and it becomes a challenge, and a new game, for the older kids with goggles.
I work on the water elevator about once a week and I try to add some fun to it, as it can be pretty dull. Up to fifteen people get in the basket and sit on a big, round wooden log. 18,000 gallons of water fills it up as we rise slowly to the surface. After reciting the requisite speech about it being the only water elevator in the world (to which I add “except for the one at my house”), I usually warn people about the snake problem. I look around for the person who appears the most concerned and I toss the rubber snake, hidden in my back pocket, at them. Hilarity often ensues. So far, no one has really freaked out, and the few who have come close were too embarrassed to really complain. It is all fun when you are on vacation. I remind people of the number one safety rule on the water elevator: no peeing. I inform them as they exit the elevator that it is free to get on, but that it does cost twenty dollars to get off (and that we can do a room charge). I tell them sometimes about the water escalator currently being built, from the top of the hotel to the ocean, which is estimated to cost forty-three million dollars. Hardly anyone believes me.
Most days, I do a quiz show at the Tarzan Swing, which has become my tropical, topical stage. Kids stand in line, waiting for their turn to take the rope from me, to swing out and drop into the water. At the beginning, or if they appear unaware, I coach them on the question to come. I tell them that I am going to ask them a simple question, which they have to answer by the time they land in the water. It is also implied that they must let go of the rope, on the first swing, in order to be considered correct, (and to avoid smashing back into the faux rock wall like a stuntman). I start with easy questions to build their confidence.
“What month is the Fourth of July?” I might ask.
“June… er, I mean July… SPLASH!”
“What color is the red Power Ranger?” I could ask. That is a really easy question that usually gets some answer. The same would apply to “What is the name of Spongebob’s snail?” or “What does Cookie Monster like to eat?” If they answer wrongly, it provides laughter from the line and the other poolside onlookers. Moms and dads watch with cameras and video. The more the kids’ respond, the quicker the answers come, and the questions tend to get harder and edgier as time goes by.
“Have you been married more than twice?” is a question that tends to throw off most eight year olds. Better yet, I could ask about a kid’s sibling (who is often standing in line behind them). For example, if you ask a ten year old if her six-year-old brother is potty-trained, no matter what the answer is… there will be laughter and some degree of discomfiture. When kids laugh, they loosen up, and after they loosen up a bit, they laugh even more.
My Tarzan Swing shift is about an hour long so I tend to save some of my better questions for when I know that there are many people watching, as the crowds tend to shrink and swell like the tide. When there are bunches of loud, laughing children, the line has a tendency to get even longer. I ask a lot of normal quiz questions like “What’s the capital of Hawaii?” or, “Is there a volcano on this island?” Some children are competitive as well, and they are the ones who strut up to me and make demands. “Ask me something about Star Wars,” might elicit a “What kind of creature is Chewbacca?” question. Surprisingly, there are kids who seem to know all the answers and it shocks both me and the crowd, often garnering applause. I have asked five year olds jokingly “What is the square root of 81?” only to be astonished as they yell out “Nine!” right before they hit the water. I asked a man “What is the capital of Somalia?” and he answered “Mogadishu” so assuredly that I had to go home and Google it, just to check if he was right.
About midway through the hour, the kids who are digging the quiz show have stuck around, and those who did not have fled. The swingers get more comfortable and begin to request specific question topics. Ask me about Hannah Montana. Ask me how many Webkins I have. Many times I have heard a kid say “Dude, I’m on vacation, lay off the math.” It is, of course, just what I want to hear, the familiar knock of comic opportunity. Brave, older teens will also try to steal some thunder by answering snidely. For example, if I were to ask a teen “Who is the Vice-President?” he may choose to answer “Chuck Norris!” or maybe even “Your mom!” Touché. Bring it on!
There are a few sacred questions that I wait to dole out with a certain degree of discretion. Some of my favorites have no good answers, only admissions to lesser levels of shame. “Have you gotten rid of your explosive diarrhea?” will undoubtedly draw out some form of response. Answering “Yes” admits that you, indeed, had explosive diarrhea, yet you were able somehow to get rid of it. Answering “No” implies worse, that you still have it.
“Did your Grandma shave her mustache?” is always a crowd pleaser. I regularly crack up, when some little kid standing in line doubles over laughing, as if it is the funniest thing he has ever heard. However, this question can backfire if Grandma is amongst the audience, (which has happened only twice). Ask yourself “Does your Grandma have a motorcycle?” or “…a crush on Dick Chaney” or “Spiderman pajamas?” Try to answer it in the three or four tense seconds you have, as you swing on the wet rope, while letting go to land awkwardly in the eight-foot deep water.
“Why do you like Dora the Explorer so much?” works for most boys.
“Who would you rather marry? Zach or Cody?” works for Girls.
Attractive ladies are prone to get probing questions such as “Is your boyfriend still in jail?” or “Do you think Clay Aiken is cute?” Older women get “have you ever had a dream about George Clooney? Dads are likely to be asked “Do you find Hillary Clinton attractive?” The kids are the ones who think these jokes are the funniest, as adults tend to just blush and play along.
My personal favorite question is actually a kid-friendly joke. What’s the difference between boogers and broccoli? Kids don’t eat broccoli.
By the time I am about to finish my hour at Tarzan, there are usually a core of five to ten kids who are really into it. Some ask to ask me questions, or for me to ask their brothers and sisters loaded questions. “Ask my brother if he does ballet?” “Ask my sister if she eats Play-doh?” Some days are funner than others are, depending on the players, and some days, if I have to start at Tarzan, it can be downright quiet.
As my replacement arrives, I usually slip in a few questions about him or her. “Does Braden look like Shrek to you?” “Does Earl have three grandchildren?’ “ Does this guy ask better questions than me?” With very few exceptions, my coworkers hate following me in rotation, especially Tarzan. Not only does nobody else ask questions, most of the other pool attendants just scowl at the kids. Such is my competition. I find that if you are friendly with families, they tend to follow you around during their typical weeklong stay. They begin to expect fun daily and demand it even if I am in a lax mood.
Last winter, my parents came to Maui to visit me, and they got a chance to stay at the resort for six days. They got a kick out of my Tarzan comedy show and they sat back on lounge chairs each day, sipping their Lava Flows, watching intently, like I was starring in an off-Broadway play. When I spent time with them in the evenings, we would constantly bump into other families that recognized me from the pool. Typically, a kid would whisper to a parent and then point to me. “That’s the funny guy,” they commonly say. If I am close enough to hear, I usually ask, “Do you mean funny looking or funny ha-ha?” They laugh and answer. I am not all that sure that my parents are very proud of me. I am not a doctor, a lawyer or an electrical engineer. I went to college, got a degree in Social Work and I now work at a pool.
I am the lost comic standing.
I am the funny guy.
There is a certain satisfaction that comes from making another person laugh. Some folks are born funny, and they consume and enjoy at least a little bit of humor every day. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted, and often tried, to get laughs. Growing up in my family, it came pretty easy to me, as there were several easy marks. My brothers and I, when we were very young, would crack each other up, mostly just with stupid noises, and general kid weirdness. To say that we were goofy kids would be a fair assessment. We played many games, and even went so far as to make up a few of our own. All bodily noises, smells and functions elicited laughter from us, when we were young. When all else failed, there was always tickling, which most consider cheating, when it comes to getting laughs. For the most part, I had a happy childhood.
I recall playing a particular board game with my younger brother, Jeff, which sparked an episode of near fatal hilarity. It was one of those flimsy paper games that we pulled out of a Dragon Magazine. We had spent over an hour cutting up the tiny paper pieces in order to prepare to actually play the game. As was customary during most of our games, Jeff would read and absorb the rules, and explain them to me as we began play. This particular game involved many little explorers, crudely drawn and given humorous names. It was, in fact, an elephant hunt. We laughed for a while over the Liam token, whose picture made him look special, and we fought over the rights to be him. Eventually, we got the game set up with all the little paper tokens where they needed to be, found the right dice and began to play the game. Jeff went first, since I was Liam. Throughout the first few turns, Jeff consulted the rulebook many times. At one point, he started giggling as he read. Then, he composed himself enough to explain the all-important Hurricane George rule. It stated that the person who laughed too forcefully during a game of Elephant Hunt risked causing the hurricane-like effects to the games paper tokens, thus triggering an early end to the game, and subsequently, a loss to the offending Hurricane George. Unfortunately, I was sitting way too close to the tabletop when Jeff read me the rule, and I laughed… forcefully, setting into motion a comedic Mobius strip of mirth. The little square pieces went flying. We hooted and snorted until we realized how long it was going to take to set up the game again. That is, of course, if we were even able to find all the pieces. Not surprisingly, we never totally finished a game of Elephant Hunt, but to this day, Jeff still calls me Liam every now and then.
In school, I was a covert class clown, due to the fact that I was very selective with my material. I was not like most of the other attention-seeking jesters in my class, who could effortlessly rally a mass laugh with a well-timed fart. That was too easy; cheap laughs with small payoffs. Nor, was I akin to the kids, who when they read aloud to the class, would add words and use goofy voices. I was always too self-conscious when I read aloud, unable to adlib on the fly. I thought out my lines in advance, sometimes while lying in bed at night. Patiently, I waited for those golden opportunities to arrive. I spent hours listening to George Carlin’s album Class Clown, and I could appreciate the art of good comic timing. Carlin had a comeback for everything; he has done his research, and earned my respect. Secretly, I wished for the day when one of my parents would threaten to wash out my mouth with soap, just so that I could reply with George’s gem “I’ll blow bubbles out my ass.” I was at a friend’s house one day when I overheard an actual line that begged for a Carlinesque reply. My friend’s mother had said, “I have tried to be both a mother and a father to you.” Under my breath, I pleaded with my friend, who had also listened to those albums with me.
“Tell her… do it.” I said. He just shook his head, sad because he knew he might never get the chance again.
“Go fuck yourself,” I said softly to the air that remained in the room, after his mom had left. George would not have been proud. It was an opportunity missed.
My tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Charles, was a kind, motherly woman. She was also practically round. Her students liked her a lot and saw her class as an easy A, as long as you showed up and participated every so often. I was quiet most of the time, and a little uncomfortable reading in front of the class, so I rarely volunteered. One day we were discussing metaphors and similes and, unexpectedly, she called on me, asking me to describe her in “colorful” detail. I was caught off guard, so I looked at her and had to think quickly. She was a little over five foot tall, wearing a bright purple jumpsuit, leaning against her desk with her arms crossed. She was stocky woman and I did not want to hurt her feelings, but I replied with the inspiration as it came into my head.
“Today, I could say… that maybe, you kind of look like the grape guy on the Fruit Of The Loom commercial”. I said with a shaky voice.
“OK,” she replied with a smile.
The classroom exploded into laughter, and I raised my hands as if I had just caught a winning touchdown pass. I soaked in the adulation of the moment. Mrs. Charles called on me less frequently after that, and I was pleased to receive a B for English that year.
The next year I had a French teacher who I did not like. He was a smarmy little guy that most kids hated for his tough, no-nonsense teaching style. Mr. Casorio gave quizzes every day, forcing us to recall vocabulary from the previous day. This seemed redundant to us, and we resented having to learn the same work twice. Even though it seemed successful with those students who chose to apply themselves, I often found myself, along with others, ill prepared for the daily quiz. To make matters worse, if you forgot to bring a pencil you would be humiliated further. Mr. Casorio did not accept the use of pens. He would ask if anyone needed a pencil, forcing you to slowly raise your hand in shame. His standard question was “Who put your pants on in the morning?” which was closely followed by his punch line... “Your mother?” In his nasally French accent, it was difficult to take, and the snickers of the other kids made him smile as he handed out little golf pencils with no erasers. Much to my dismay, I would forget to bring a pencil at least once a week, and have to suffer the consequences.
One day, as I walked into French class, I was particularly nervous because I realized that I did not have a pencil. When I became aware that none of my friends had an extra to lend me, I started to think that this could be an opportunity to seize. This could be the day. I was mentally prepared to throw down, and I was suddenly hopeful that I was going to get the chance. I took my seat and waited for the quiz paper passing to begin. As the class settled in, we got our papers while waiting for the question to come.
“Does anyone need a pencil?” asked Mr. Casorio. I raised my hand high.
As he came walking towards me, I looked around at my classmates noticing that most eyes focused on me. We all knew what was coming.
“Who put your pants on this morning?” asked Mr. Casorio, with a pronounced sneer.
“Your wife!” I nearly yelled in response, before he could say anything more. I was sure that everyone had heard me.
I waited for the laugh to come, but we sat there in total silence, for what seemed like forever. I looked up at Casorio’s face, which was exploding red with rage. He pointed at the door and took a deep breath, shaking visibly. I got up, grabbed my backpack and headed for the door as the surrounding silence sustained.
“Let’s go have a chat with the principal,” he said as we left the classroom and entered the hall. As we walked, his heels clicked on the linoleum floors with military precision. Right before we got to the top of the steps, I heard the sound I had been waiting for. My French class had erupted in glorious laughter, spilling music to my ears. It grew louder into a roar, and then tapered off with some applause and a few whoops. Mr. Casorio now appeared even more infuriated, seemingly split between continuing my march to doom, and a possible hasty retreat back to admonish the now elated class.
I was suspended for three days, and as I walked home from school, I became seriously concerned as to how I might sell this tale to my father. I figured that if I was completely honest, and able to enlighten him of my latent comedic skills, then even he could understand my motivation, and acknowledge my bravery and cleverness. I do not remember taking a beating for it, and I managed get a passing grade in French in order to avoid future thrashing. Kids, in French class, talked about it for years (or so I imagined).
As a college student, my friends and I would occasionally go to the comedy club. There was a small cover charge, and from time to time, depending on the waitress, we could even order a beer. I thrilled at the bravery of each comic, even the bad ones. They were willing to reveal themselves and banter with the audience comfortably. Between comedians, the host would always ask volunteers to tell a good joke on stage. The winner, as judged by the spectators, would win tickets to the next weeks show. It took a while for me to build up the courage and find the right joke, but I found myself one night at the Funnybone with my hand in the air. When the host chose me, my friends were all shocked as I stood up shakily. Walking between tables, as I approached the stage, I felt my heart quicken, and by the time I got on stage, it felt as though it may burst from my chest. It beat so loudly that I feared the microphone would pick it up. I took long deep breaths as I waited for my turn to come. A cute, drunk chick told the first joke. It was a corny joke but got appreciable applause, mainly because it was told by a cute, drunk chick. An older gentleman in a suit and a tie, told the next joke and it was a doozy, except that nobody really got it. There was light round of polite, golf type applause and more than a few puzzled looks in the crowd. I knew I was next, and I gulped for air as the spotlight turned and blinded me. I looked out into the audience but could not see much, so I squinted and began to tell my joke.
“OK… there was this little kid who had an older sister,” I spoke into the microphone. The silence was thick as my whiny voice echoed through the room.
“One night, as he was passing his sister’s room on his way to bed, he noticed her door opened a crack. He peered in and saw his sister, naked from the chest up, sitting in front of her mirror. She was rubbing her breasts saying, “I need a man… I need a man.” I pantomimed rubbing my chest with my left hand as my right hand quivered holding the mic. There were a few giggles from the crowd, and I took another breath and went on.
“So… The little boy ran up to his room confused, and went to bed. But… (dramatic pause) it happened again the next night. He did not want to look, but he did, and there she was, once again… ‘I need a man, I need a man.’ Once more, the boy got flustered and ran up to his room.” I paused as I stopped rubbing my chest awkwardly for the second time.
“It happened a few more times, and the boy got used to seeing it. Until one night, (overdramatic pause), he looked into her room and saw her in bed… with a man! The boy was stunned and he turned and ran up the steps, as he heard his sister moan.”
The audience was rapt and I knew, even though I could not see them, that I had their attention now. I did not want to mess up the punch line so I gathered my guts and I tried to focus. I pushed the imaginary door in front of me.
“He burst into his room and ripped off his shirt,” I said, as I pretended to rip off my own shirt. [Looking back, my biggest regret is not actually doing so.]
“He ran to his mirror, and began to rub his chest… vigorously!” I rubbed my chest with enthusiasm, as I delivered the punch.
“’I need a bike… I need a bike’, said the little boy.”
The crowd burst into ovation, as I swelled with pride, somewhat faint.
Needless to say, I won the tickets to the following week. I also won tickets the next week, and defended my crown for a third straight week after that. I remember one of the other jokes that prevailed, which was about nuns. I was gaining confidence and moving on to hard-hitting topics as I honed my comedy act.
“There was a flasher walking down the street in a trench coat. There were three nuns walking towards him single file. He passed the first nun and could not help it. He flashed her… and she had a stroke.” I put my hand to my heart, in an all too familiar pose.
“He passed the second nun, flashed her (I pretend to flash the crowd)… and she had a stroke.” Again, I put my hand to my chest for effect. There were some moans in the crowd.
“ He passes the third nun and flashes her as well.” I flash the audience and wait. Wait for it. Wait for it.
“She doesn’t even touch him.” I say softly and clearly.
I will admit there was a delay, but when the laughter came, it was thunderous. A second laugh came, I noticed, when those who did not get it were explained the joke by their smarter friends.
Each time, as I left the stage and sat back down with my friends, I felt exhilarated. My heart would beat quickly for the next half hour, and my face would remain flush for a long time. Who knew, the telling of one joke could take so much effort? I felt drained, as if I had played tackle football. It was to be the highlight, and end, to my professional comedy career.
I taught preschool for several years, and I toned my act down for kids. I became adept at doing amusing puppet shows. They usually involved the voice of Grover or Elmo, depending on which puppet I had on hand (pun intended). Admittedly, potty humor was rife, and the mention of toilets and/or diapers was varied but predictable. I could get a class of three year-olds fired up, until eventually, I ran into my usual problem. Being authentically silly in front of other adults was difficult for me. My co-teacher would often hover about in the background pretending not to watch the show, but if I noticed her attention, the farce would suffer. The same happened if a parent would show up mid-show, causing me to fluster. Usually, I would seek volunteers from the class to be part of the routine, thereby deflecting some of the glare of the spectators. I knew what made kids laugh and I knew that it did not always connect to adults (especially moms). Over those years, I honed my irreverent humor, which would grow and fester into my adulthood.
Every job I have ever had involved some element of humor. I drove a cab for a few years and joked with my fares. A good pertinent joke could ensure a decent tip. Back when the Steelers quarterback of the day was going through accuracy issues, I would ask people in my cab if they had heard about Bubby Brister’s suicide attempt, to which most would reply in alarm. “What? Are you serious? Brister tried to commit suicide?”
“Yeah,” I would reply. “He tried to shoot himself. But don’t worry, he didn’t succeed. Somebody intercepted the bullet.” Ice broken, tip earned.
I worked in a psychiatric hospital, on a toddler unit, as a developmental therapist. The psychiatrist, who headed up the treatment team, was one of the least funny people I had ever met. She approached everything with a serious, sensible flair. It sucked the fun out of the environment, and my work suffered. As humor went, these were the lean years, and I learned over time (four long years), that I needed to work in a sunnier setting.
Fast forward to the present, where I find myself employed at a resort on Maui. I work at the pool, as an attendant (which is what you call a lifeguard that has no legal life guarding skills). However, every day I get to use my comedic skills, if I feel like it. Throughout the day, I rotate positions around the activity pool. There are seven connecting slides, a water elevator and a Tarzan swing. Depending on the time of the day, (since I am not at all funny before noon), my jokes and banter could start anywhere. At the top of a slide, I am the one holding the walkie-talkie, who says “OK… you can go now.” Or, sometimes I liven things up and say “Now… don’t go!” which usually makes them go, and I yell, “I’m telling!” as they slide away. Kids get a kick out of it if you say something funny as they leave, such as “Go if you like to spend money” (the kid goes)… then I add “on Teletubbie toys!” Other gems, such as “Go if you like to drink (the kid goes)… from the toilet” and “Go if you’re married” always come off well. Those kids have a propensity to get back in line and taunt me for more verbal abuse. Every now and then, I bring rubber animals such as lizards and snakes, which I throw behind, or in front of, a kid as they go down the waterslide. I make them promise to bring back the toy, but inevitably, they all tend to get lost (or stolen). I have thrown a little Dora the Explorer plastic toy (that I found while cleaning the beach) down the slide about a hundred times. Kids try to catch her on the way down, but she sinks to the bottom if they do not catch up, and it becomes a challenge, and a new game, for the older kids with goggles.
I work on the water elevator about once a week and I try to add some fun to it, as it can be pretty dull. Up to fifteen people get in the basket and sit on a big, round wooden log. 18,000 gallons of water fills it up as we rise slowly to the surface. After reciting the requisite speech about it being the only water elevator in the world (to which I add “except for the one at my house”), I usually warn people about the snake problem. I look around for the person who appears the most concerned and I toss the rubber snake, hidden in my back pocket, at them. Hilarity often ensues. So far, no one has really freaked out, and the few who have come close were too embarrassed to really complain. It is all fun when you are on vacation. I remind people of the number one safety rule on the water elevator: no peeing. I inform them as they exit the elevator that it is free to get on, but that it does cost twenty dollars to get off (and that we can do a room charge). I tell them sometimes about the water escalator currently being built, from the top of the hotel to the ocean, which is estimated to cost forty-three million dollars. Hardly anyone believes me.
Most days, I do a quiz show at the Tarzan Swing, which has become my tropical, topical stage. Kids stand in line, waiting for their turn to take the rope from me, to swing out and drop into the water. At the beginning, or if they appear unaware, I coach them on the question to come. I tell them that I am going to ask them a simple question, which they have to answer by the time they land in the water. It is also implied that they must let go of the rope, on the first swing, in order to be considered correct, (and to avoid smashing back into the faux rock wall like a stuntman). I start with easy questions to build their confidence.
“What month is the Fourth of July?” I might ask.
“June… er, I mean July… SPLASH!”
“What color is the red Power Ranger?” I could ask. That is a really easy question that usually gets some answer. The same would apply to “What is the name of Spongebob’s snail?” or “What does Cookie Monster like to eat?” If they answer wrongly, it provides laughter from the line and the other poolside onlookers. Moms and dads watch with cameras and video. The more the kids’ respond, the quicker the answers come, and the questions tend to get harder and edgier as time goes by.
“Have you been married more than twice?” is a question that tends to throw off most eight year olds. Better yet, I could ask about a kid’s sibling (who is often standing in line behind them). For example, if you ask a ten year old if her six-year-old brother is potty-trained, no matter what the answer is… there will be laughter and some degree of discomfiture. When kids laugh, they loosen up, and after they loosen up a bit, they laugh even more.
My Tarzan Swing shift is about an hour long so I tend to save some of my better questions for when I know that there are many people watching, as the crowds tend to shrink and swell like the tide. When there are bunches of loud, laughing children, the line has a tendency to get even longer. I ask a lot of normal quiz questions like “What’s the capital of Hawaii?” or, “Is there a volcano on this island?” Some children are competitive as well, and they are the ones who strut up to me and make demands. “Ask me something about Star Wars,” might elicit a “What kind of creature is Chewbacca?” question. Surprisingly, there are kids who seem to know all the answers and it shocks both me and the crowd, often garnering applause. I have asked five year olds jokingly “What is the square root of 81?” only to be astonished as they yell out “Nine!” right before they hit the water. I asked a man “What is the capital of Somalia?” and he answered “Mogadishu” so assuredly that I had to go home and Google it, just to check if he was right.
About midway through the hour, the kids who are digging the quiz show have stuck around, and those who did not have fled. The swingers get more comfortable and begin to request specific question topics. Ask me about Hannah Montana. Ask me how many Webkins I have. Many times I have heard a kid say “Dude, I’m on vacation, lay off the math.” It is, of course, just what I want to hear, the familiar knock of comic opportunity. Brave, older teens will also try to steal some thunder by answering snidely. For example, if I were to ask a teen “Who is the Vice-President?” he may choose to answer “Chuck Norris!” or maybe even “Your mom!” Touché. Bring it on!
There are a few sacred questions that I wait to dole out with a certain degree of discretion. Some of my favorites have no good answers, only admissions to lesser levels of shame. “Have you gotten rid of your explosive diarrhea?” will undoubtedly draw out some form of response. Answering “Yes” admits that you, indeed, had explosive diarrhea, yet you were able somehow to get rid of it. Answering “No” implies worse, that you still have it.
“Did your Grandma shave her mustache?” is always a crowd pleaser. I regularly crack up, when some little kid standing in line doubles over laughing, as if it is the funniest thing he has ever heard. However, this question can backfire if Grandma is amongst the audience, (which has happened only twice). Ask yourself “Does your Grandma have a motorcycle?” or “…a crush on Dick Chaney” or “Spiderman pajamas?” Try to answer it in the three or four tense seconds you have, as you swing on the wet rope, while letting go to land awkwardly in the eight-foot deep water.
“Why do you like Dora the Explorer so much?” works for most boys.
“Who would you rather marry? Zach or Cody?” works for Girls.
Attractive ladies are prone to get probing questions such as “Is your boyfriend still in jail?” or “Do you think Clay Aiken is cute?” Older women get “have you ever had a dream about George Clooney? Dads are likely to be asked “Do you find Hillary Clinton attractive?” The kids are the ones who think these jokes are the funniest, as adults tend to just blush and play along.
My personal favorite question is actually a kid-friendly joke. What’s the difference between boogers and broccoli? Kids don’t eat broccoli.
By the time I am about to finish my hour at Tarzan, there are usually a core of five to ten kids who are really into it. Some ask to ask me questions, or for me to ask their brothers and sisters loaded questions. “Ask my brother if he does ballet?” “Ask my sister if she eats Play-doh?” Some days are funner than others are, depending on the players, and some days, if I have to start at Tarzan, it can be downright quiet.
As my replacement arrives, I usually slip in a few questions about him or her. “Does Braden look like Shrek to you?” “Does Earl have three grandchildren?’ “ Does this guy ask better questions than me?” With very few exceptions, my coworkers hate following me in rotation, especially Tarzan. Not only does nobody else ask questions, most of the other pool attendants just scowl at the kids. Such is my competition. I find that if you are friendly with families, they tend to follow you around during their typical weeklong stay. They begin to expect fun daily and demand it even if I am in a lax mood.
Last winter, my parents came to Maui to visit me, and they got a chance to stay at the resort for six days. They got a kick out of my Tarzan comedy show and they sat back on lounge chairs each day, sipping their Lava Flows, watching intently, like I was starring in an off-Broadway play. When I spent time with them in the evenings, we would constantly bump into other families that recognized me from the pool. Typically, a kid would whisper to a parent and then point to me. “That’s the funny guy,” they commonly say. If I am close enough to hear, I usually ask, “Do you mean funny looking or funny ha-ha?” They laugh and answer. I am not all that sure that my parents are very proud of me. I am not a doctor, a lawyer or an electrical engineer. I went to college, got a degree in Social Work and I now work at a pool.
I am the lost comic standing.
I am the funny guy.
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