Heres my boy

Casino Royale

This past Friday found me on a bus heading up to Connecticut with Mr and Mrs. Mike Britt to open up for him at the Mohegan Sun. It all felt surreal..getting my 25 minutes together..talking with Mike..the Indian guy sitting on the bus in front of me slamming his seat into my knees. Barely a half an hour on the road and I'm trying to hold myself back from killing this dickhead who either doesn't realize or care that he's got the knees of 6' 2" Black man directly behind him soon to be implanted in his asshole. But I don't want to mess up this trip and my money by getting arrested while still in New York, so I continue to play Grand Theft Auto while commenting on how badly I want to choke the daylights out of this guy in front of his ugly ass wife. He eventually gives up and changes seats and the rest of the trip to Connecticut is uneventful save for when the battery to my PSP eventually died.

We get to Connecticut and go through the check in process. Mohegan sun is a beautiful, opulent place made even more so by the fact that smoking is not only allowed by practically encouraged there. All around us I hear the sounds of winning and loosing, and smell the smoke of tobacco in the air..my kind of place. A lady at the concierge desk brings us into a back office where we check in. One of the staff members remembers Mike from a previous show and offers us a few glasses of sparkling champagne before we head up to our rooms. In the elevator we see a picture of Mike Britt with the information for tonight's show. It appears that Lionel Richie is also playing at the Casino that night, albeit for much more than what they are asking for the comedy show.

After dropping off our luggage we collect our meal and drink vouchers and look to get something to eat. Its only about 630, and we have almost five hours before showtime. We checked the menus at a few places including one Chinese restaurant, but when we saw that General Tso's chicken was 25 dollars and knowing we could get that in the hood for 6.95 with a soda, we decided to go cheap. We settled on a Native American themed restaurant that served Pizza, sandwiches and quasi traditional Native American food with funny names like the "Dances with Wolves" Burger. I figured they should take the names all the way and include items like a "Gin and genocide" or the "Small-pox Salad". Whatever.

We eat and then gambled for about a half-hour. I lost twenty bucks on the slots and went up to my room. I'm not a gambler at all as the whole thing felt like I should have just crumpled up a twenty and thrown it on the floor instead of being teased at the slot machine. It was 11'o clock before I knew it and time to head down to the showroom. The room was huge, seating about 300 with comfortable lounge chairs surrounding a massive stage. We went in through a side door and chilled in the backstage area where they had drinks, sandwiches and couches set up for us. A full bathroom was also included with a shower although I cant imagine why anyone would need to shower minutes before stage time.

The stage manager comes out and introduces himself to us. He asks me to write down my into which was completely unnecessary as I don't have any credits, plugs or anything else worthwhile mentioning. I went with the generic "plays clubs and colleges" bullshit and waited for the "voice of god' to introduce me.

I came out to a full room which was very diverse. I felt dwarfed by the stage and smothered under the house lights that were beaming on me. We didn't do a sound check so the Mic amplified my voice a little too much causing me to step back about 3 feet from the Microphone so as not to shatter anyone's eardrums.

"I know what some of you are thinking...wait is this the Lionel Richie show??" I got the laughs I needed and just jumped into my material. I hadn't been on stage for a few days so I didn't feel comfortable improv-ing right away. It felt strange going right into material with no MC or warm up comic before me but minutes into my set things started clicking, I got comfortable and they started dropping applause breaks. Right at the point when I started to really feel myself I look down into the front row and notice a women passed out on her table. Putting your audience to sleep is great for your ego and your crowd work so I spent a little time ragging on her before going back to the jokes. I closed strong and on a nasty joke which felt good and introduced Mike to the crowd who absolutely killed. At the end I got to sign the wall of fame in the backstage area and although I wrote something hacky and cheesy it still felt good to see my name next to the likes of Bill Burr, Tony Wood and Judah Freidlander.

We ended up chilling after the show with a group of people who caught our act and loved us. They bought us drinks the whole night, which in Connecticut means until 130 when they have last call and bring in the State Police to shut the place down. Back up to the room for two hours before catching the 5am Greyhound back to New York.

Mike Britt is not only an amazing comic, but all around cool as shit guy. It meant a lot to me for him to invite me to do this and it felt good to deliver. It was one of those moments where I got to take time to slow down from all the hustling, complaining and stressing to reflect on the progress I've made over the past few years. Yeah I got a long ways to go, and lots to improve on but as of last Friday I felt things starting to click. Could just be my knees.

Birth plus 8 months

My son is getting so big. At eight months he really resembles a little boy instead of a little baby. I look at pictures taken from when he was just born in amazement of how small and fragile he looks compared to the mini-4X4 he resembles now. He does this thing now where he pulls himself up by my headboard on the bed and while holding onto it with two hands, repeatedly bangs it against the wall. Anybody who hears it probably thinks I’m having deranged, cocaine fueled sex with a hooker in the basement. He’s incredibly strong for a toddler as I’ve been bruised numerous times by the uncontrollable flailing of his little baby paws. I’m really trying to get on his good side now because I’m pretty sure sometime next decade he will clearly be able to whop my ass.

The best part of having a kid is seeing him smile. He was sick a few weeks ago and incredibly grouchy, which sucked. Not to mention he infected me with his demon baby germs and got me sick. I don’t know what it is but babies carry more germs and infections than a South African tranny. Whatever they have, you can be sure they will pass it onto you in ten-fold which was why I was hacking up my lungs and could barely swallow for about a week. But the smile is back and even though I’m really struggling right now because of this random joining of DNA, everything melts away when he looks at me with that beam of his. It took me a while, but I finally understand the whole baby thing as far as why people really get psychotic when it comes to their kids. I could never imagine my life without him at this point and if someone were to cause him harm I’d do nothing less than eat, digest and shit that person out.

I’m still not good with all the baby care like feeding, changing and clothing him. The last time I tried to put on his pajamas we broke into an all out wrestling match where I could barely pin his ass to the bed. And for those worried about hurting his little 8month body, you’d be surprised to know that babies are surprisingly durable, especially my favorite two-toothed psycho. I’d like to take a bigger role in the minutia of taking care of him, but honestly I’d rather smoke a blunt and play playstation than to deal with an underdeveloped human being. I don’t have the patience for all that is required so I usually end up with him having half the diaper off his ass, food down his chest and his clothes on backwards. Funny...thats pretty much how I look leaving the house every morning.

Whats wrong with Isreal, Lebanon and the rest of the world?

I spent the weekend hosting at Sal’s comedy hole, (http://salscomedyhole.com/) while lots of people in Gaza, Israel and Lebanon spent their weekends huddled in bomb shelters, hospitals or relief centers. It’s really easy to complain about life when you have a semblance of normalcy that allows you to bitch and moan about the small stuff we all take for granted. Friday saw me arguing with Mike Yard another comic from Brooklyn, which amused everyone around us as one usually does not witness to Black guys arguing about Israel and U.S foreign policy. I usually don't like expressing my views in public on issues of international politics because of how uninformed the average American Citizen is on these issues. Lucky for me Mike knew what he was talking about, and the few shots of Jaeger I had done did not seriously impair my ability to formulate a coherent argument.

For the record, I truly believe that peace will never come to the Middle East unless there is a partial scale nuclear war or an independence day like extra-terrestrial invasion that forces the human race to cooperate on a scale never before seen. That entire region is fucked and if the world’s economy wasn’t so dependant on oil I'd seriously advocate wiping it and nearly everyone in it off the map so as not to drag slackers like myself down into their psychotic abyss. This is not to say that I put the blame entirely on the shoulders of the Arabs and Muslims. It’s easy to condemn a people and a region when those people and the region are vastly different than us in how they look and how they pray, and far easier to sympathize with the western acting Israelis as their society closely mirrors ours. It’s the attitudes of the Israelis and the American media which sickens me just as much if not more as the legions of suicide bombers, for their one sidedness, their bias and unabashed hypocrisy.

Why is it that it’s kidnapping when Hammas or Hezbolla abducts armed soldiers who are participating in a conflict, but not when Israel locks up Arab citizens including women and children in its jails? Justified or not, calling it a kidnapping elicits images of shadowy armed thugs operating without morals or limitations, while an arrest is seen as a justified action.

Why is it wrong for Iran and Syria to assist Hammas and Hezbolla? It’s repeated so often in the news along with warnings for them to stop that it’s assumed that their assistance amounts to a crime. But it goes without saying that the U.S can and does offer all types of aid to Israel including financial, material and military support. Can you imagine the news reports if Iran gave Hammas hundreds of bunker busting bombs as the US did Israel last year?

Why is the onus on Lebanon to implement the UN Security council resolution to disarm Hezbolla but Israel can completely ignore resolutions directed at them regarding the treatment of Palestinians?

These are just some of the instances of double standards and hypocrisy surrounding this story. I'm just too tired high and lazy to go into further detail. For now I'm just going to be thankful I can go to the store, eat some dead baby chickens and pork, smoke a blunt while not worrying about a missile or a suicide bomber fucking up my week. God bless America, Canada and everywhere else white people live.

Tales of a messed up existence Part IV (The final chapter?)

I had just gotten dissed by my Miami Stripper. I spent all of my money I had earned working at McDonalds on lap dances and overpriced sodas and she walked away from me because her trick told her he didn’t want all three of us hanging out together. I stumbled down 42 street towards the train-station feeling at once dejected and rejected when I bumped into a guy on the street chanting,

'Girls..Girls'.

Seeing me hesitate his eyes excitedly met mine as he turned to face me and continued "Hey you looking for some girls?"

My heavy heart still couldn’t overcome my raging hormones at the time. "Yea sure" I said.

"Ok walk this way."

We headed around the corner to 43rd street, him an older Black man in his 40's who spoke just as fast as he walked. As he scanned the streets in a hyperactive fashion he explained the rules of the operation. I buzz the hotel and ask for room 16. Once upstairs I am entitled to one drink before I choose which girl I wanted of which they had Black, Spanish and Asian. I couldn’t bring any weapons upstairs nor could I use any sexual devices on the women such as dildos, anal beads or butt plugs. I would be searched before let inside. Cost of admission was 50 dollars.

Feeling bad for wasting his time, I explained to him that I only had 17 dollars, of which a dollar fifty of that was already allocated towards my transportation back home.

"Hmmm" he said "I like you..let me see what we can work out."

He led me over to a phone booth which an associate of his had converted into an office. I watched him explain my situation to this gentlemen who nodded and grunted between sips of his coffee and peered over at me from under his Kangol hat and dark glasses. Finally he took a scrap of paper from out of his pocket, scribbled something on it and handed it back over to the first guy who then walked back over to me. I was told that everything was cool and they would let me in for 17 dollars. All I had to do was hand the hotel clerk the scrap of paper his associate wrote on. Without hesitating I forked over my money and grasped the golden-hooker-ticket he held out before me, already mesmerized with the idea of loosing my virginity.

He led me to the hotel; a seedy looking one nighter practically in the heart of Times Square. Before I could turn around to thank him he was gone. Undaunted I walked up to the door and rang the buzzer, holding the scrap of paper up at the clerk so as to validate why a 17 year old would be buzzing the bell to a short stay hotel. Once inside I eagerly and nervously shoved the slip of paper through the partitioned glass and waited for him to point me in the direction I should go. Instead he gave me a blank look and passed me back the paper.

"Umm..I was looking for room 16" I said, just in case he couldn’t read the slip of paper.

The clerk by this time had resumed reading his magazine. "I don’t know what you are talking about." he says indifferently as I slowly realize I had just been hustled.

I stormed out of the hotel swearing my revenge on those who had taken advantage of my innocence and horniness. Not only had I been embarrassed, but I was still a virgin who now didn’t have any money to take the train back home. Things only got better when I got a ticket for jumping the turnstile.

Eight years later, I'm partying at the new China Club on 47th street and 8th avenue. It was a Thursday after work party and I had been there since 6pm sucking down half price margaritas and full price Long Island Ice Teas. I stumbled out of the club after midnight completely intoxicated, almost on the verge of getting the spins and emptying the content of my stomach. As I headed down 8th avenue towards the train with the cool air sobering me up slightly, I heard a voice from my past seemingly out of nowhere;

'Girls..Girls'

I drunkenly turned towards the voice and saw what appeared to be a disheveled 65 year old black man smoking a cigarette and looking at me like the mark he thought that I was. I had swore since getting ripped off years back that given the chance to confront the people that hustle unsuspecting Johns out of their hard earned prostitution funds, I would do so and make amends. It didn't matter that he wasn't the original guy that took advantage of me years before.

"Yea sure..where they at?" I replied.

He asked me to follow him towards 9th avenue while he repeated the spiel I had heard 8 years and lots of innocence prior. I nodded and grunted while we turned left and right on the chilly midtown streets while in my head I plotted what I would do once he tried to complete the ruse and ask me for money. In my drunken state though, I had no real plan nor an inkling of an idea as to what I was going to do. Part of me envisioned that when confronted with someone who revealed that he knew the scheme, he would beg for my forgiveness, hand over whatever monies I had been swindled out of and confess to harboring a lifetime of guilt for his unscrupulous ways.

We reached a townhouse on 10th avenue and walked in, heading up two darkened flights of stairs. On the second floor he asked me for the agreed upon money for access to the Brothel which he implied was in one of the apartments in the building.

At that point, my non plan swung into action. "Wheeeres mah money yo??" I slurred as I turned to confront him.

"You stole mah monnnney!" I continued while I attempted to grab him by the shoulders.

The man, probably a life time criminal who spent more time in Jail and on the streets than I had been alive seemed surprised at first. I really didn’t expect the old man to fight back though. With the pen that he used to write up the phony entrance ticket he began fending me off with several moves to my face and neck. I was grazed twice with the pen-point which startled and offered me the first inebriated realization of the night:

'He's not intimidated by me'

With my hand, I felt the side of my neck which was scratched and slightly bleeding. I was lucky my windpipe wasn’t punctured by this elderly pen wielding thug. As I'm feeling my abrasion and just about to come to my senses I was hit with my second inebriated realization of the night:

'This old man has a pretty good right hook'

He struck me flush in the side of my face which knocked me back against the wall and nearly put me on my ass. With surprising agility he took off downstairs while I struggled to gain my senses and follow him. I tripped my way down two flights and burst through the door holding the side of my face just as a police van pulled up outside of the apartment.

"Heeey..gett him" I yelled at the cops. "He stole mah monney when I wassss 17" I slurred.

The officer took one look at me with ink covering both my neck and swollen face, in a wrinkled suit stinking of alcohol and said "Get out of here before we arrest YOU."

Feeling defeated I slowly walked to the train station still rubbing my face from the shot I took from this senior citizen. I realized how dangerous my actions were becoming and how lucky I was that all I received was a swollen ink stained cheek and a bruised ego. Turning the corner I was about to enter the train station when I heard that all familiar cry;

'Girls..Girls'

Just trying to kill time before I leave work

I'm really hoping that my son is not a dummy. He seems very alert for a month old, but I don't think alertness is the best barometer of how much intelligence a baby possesses. I'm not looking for nor do I expect a genius. Just please don't be an idiot.

I was lucky enough to be born with an average amount of intelligence. I'm smart enough to know that I'm stupid in relation to the people out there with real brains. I was bussed to white schools up until the 7th grade and was in the top class during my Caucasian tenure. In the 8th grade I went to school in the 'hood' where again I was placed in the top class there. I was feeling pretty confident about my scholastic abilities until I was completely blown out the water by those kids who had been preparing to be engineers, doctors and scientists since the 4th grade. But Math was never my thing and this class was primarily focused on Math and Science. We had back-to-back-back periods of science twice a week with the portly, bespectacled Mr. Holler. He was the only geek teacher that I know of to have 13 year old groupies fighting over who would get to carry his bunsen burners after class.

I was an English fan, probably because my mother taught me to read when I was three. She enrolled me in this program at Queens college for pre-schoolers who were early learners. We played games that involved reading and spelling, made rock-candy and learned how to count. An ongoing project that we had involved writing letters to a "buddy" in the class, and leaving them in his or her cubby. Every day I would get a letter from my buddy which was filled with kiddie affirmations about how "nice" I was or how good a friend I had become.

Initially I never wrote any letters to my buddy. Towards the end of the semester, Jonathon tearfully approached the teacher with his mother explaining that he had never received a letter from me. The teacher pulled me aside along with my mother to ask why I hadn't completed the assignment by writing to my assigned buddy. It was at this point I had to make one of the hardest admissions in my short life. While I could read..I didn't know how to write. I was three years old...and partially illiterate. My secret would have been safe if Jonathon had not been such a cry-baby. My mother upon finding this out apologized to the teacher and Jonathans mother. When we got home we immediately got to work on a buddy letter for Jonathon to leave in his cubby. I believe it went something like this:

Dear Jonathan. You are my friend. I like you very much. From Lawrence.

Looking back if I had the chance to pen another letter, it would go something like this.

Dear Jonathan. You are a snitch. Watch your back during nap-time bitch. Pay-back is a motha. From Lawrence.

Last comic standing

So the Last Comic Standing audition is taking place in New York City at Caroline's as I write this. I debated calling out sick from work and standing online with the rest of those jackasses for a shot at national exposure and a bonified TV credit. With the birth of my son and me about to be laid off from work at the end of the month I was even more inclined to swallow what little pride I had remaining and completely expose myself and my image to the whims of the all powerful reality TV show editors. In the end I chose to take my ass to work.

I know some of the people that did choose to brave the cold and wait online and I sincerely wish them the best of luck. I think that amongst the toxic waste floating in this massive sewage system we call the NY comedy scene, there is a strong contingent of undiscovered talent that truly deserves the opportunity to take their careers to the next level. But for every gem there are scores of worthless pieces of granite taking up space and operating under the delusion that someone will be willing to pay money for what amounts to be a plain old rock. I don't know how it was in the 80's during the golden age of comedy but nowadays it seems rare to come across individuals that take comedy serious as an art, and really want to take the time to improve their craft. Instead, every open micer with 7 minutes of bullshit observations and 2 minutes of cringe like humor thinks they should be on the fast track to a development deal. Show Business has an open check book for the right people but like Todd Lynn says, when it comes to the industry they don't know shit, but they done seen everything. I've just begun to scratch the surface of who I want to be onstage and I'll be damned if I'm going to showcase my burgeoning abilities to any decision makers while I'm still in the early stage of the evolution of my comedic voice.

Comedy now has more opportunities than ever before yet that still doesn't mean we all should jump on each boat sailing out the harbor for the sake of exposure. All exposure isn't good as I'm sure no one in their right mind wishes to be exposed to HIV. I was having an discussion with a fellow comic who I think is everything you should aspire to be as a comic, funny, provocative and unique. We were debating the merits of the litany of comics appearing on VH1 commenting on pop culture on the many shows they have dedicated to dumbing down the American population.

"Dude..if you get the chance to get on 'Best Week Ever' don't be stupid..take it. Its a credit and it will get you road work" he says.

While I don't doubt that, that's not the path I want to take; appearing on some bubble-gum TV show as a brainless talking head who drops funny little quips on what Lindsey Lohans dog ate for breakfast. There have been some really funny and talented comics that have appeared on these shows and honestly every time I see one of them I want to smack my dick against the TV monitor as I'm so disgusted with what they are doing. I'm not in none of their shoes and when push comes to shove you have to pay your bills. Realistically if I was in a bad position and offered the chance I'd have to suck it up, lube my butt-hole for the rape I'm to receive and show my face on one of those shows. But what happened to being so funny, so original, so dedicated to the art of comedy that a couple of hundred bucks to quip about Trumps hair piece just doesn't seem like a viable career move? Leaving Sals Comedy hole last night a few comics and myself were walking in front of a young couple who just left the Comedy Cellar.

Says Girl to Boy: Yea I think that last guy was on Best Week Ever.

Boy to Girl: What show is that?

Girl to Boy: You know that show on VHI where they put all those dumb comics on to talk about stupid stuff you see on TV.