My first years in school were smack dab in the middle of the CB radio fad. You remember the CB radio, right? Breaker, breaker, one-nine … you got a smokey on your tail. So, my folks, who always tried to keep up with the times, installed a CB radio in each of their cars. In a day and age before the cell phone, it was pretty handy. Mom was in nursing school and didn’t leave until 7 or 8 in the evening. She could get in the car and tell Dad she was on her way.
Of course, this meant that everybody in the family had to have a CB handle. The name that would be used on the CB. Dad doled them out, we didn’t get to pick our own. My brother got "Bone Rack." He was always pretty scrawny, so the name fit and he kinda liked it. What did I get? "Fat Man." As in, "Na na na na na na na na Fat Man!" I was not a fat kid, a little chunky maybe, but I was not fat! This is just the name you get stuck with when your brother is too damn thin.
Dad liked to give us nicknames. It was something he did out of love. Y’know, the kind of love that degrades and demeans. That kind of love.
I was twelve and a half years old when my baby sister was born. Yeah, little gap there. Guess you could say she was a surprise to everyone. And from the time she was very little, I was her favorite. She loved her big brother. Loved me!
Around the time she was starting to walk pretty well, she took to calling me, "Hassle." Hassle? For weeks and weeks, I couldn’t figure it out. She would come up to me, arms outstretched, wanting to be picked up, and say, "Hassle, hassle." I had no idea where it came from. Until one Sunday afternoon …
Dad and I were watching a ball game on TV while my sister was playing with one of her puzzles on the floor. After a while, Dad turned to me. "When are you gonna take out that trash, asshole?" "Hassle, hassle!" Ah … I get it. My lovely baby sister calls her favorite big brother … asshole. Thanks Dad!
After a while, we broke her of the habit. She took to calling me "Kingie" or "Bo bo." Much better than "Asshole." She didn’t take to calling me "asshole" again for about fifteen years. She still does ...
Dad had other names for me. Shithead, SFB … which stood for "shit for brains," numbnuts. Good solid nicknames. Names that stick with you for years and years.
Passion
Well, I promised that I would keep folks up-to-date on what was going on with me in terms of this so-called-career, so here goes. I am in rehearsals for The Passion Play in Union City. I first did the show in 2003 and was invited back. Seeing as how the theatre is only ten blocks from the house, I figured this would be convienent.
I'm rotating between the roles of Pontius Pilate and Caiaphas, which means each night I find myself yelling at Jesus. I highly recommend against yelling at Jesus. Granted, I've yelled at God several times in my life, but I had never called out Jesus until this play. We open in less than two weeks ... you can get tickets and stuff here: http://www.parkpac.org/pp_pas.html.
If you come to a Caiaphas performance, you may or may not recognize me. I'll be the one buried beneath a wig, fake beard and make-up. If you make it out to a Pilate performance, it'll just be me with my hair combed down. Neither are a pretty site, but come on out anyway.
One-Man Show
Yes, so the rumors are true. I'm knee deep in preparations for my own one man show. Turns out this blog has been kind of helpful, in that it forces me to write. Some of the stuff that appears in this blog will probably find it's way into the show ... it'll be funnier in the show ... at least that's the stance I'm taking. Am working with a couple of experienced comedy writers to help clean things up and get the material in the voice I want.
I came up with this ridiculous, yet almost brilliant idea, of working some of the material in front of audiences by performing it as stand-up. After all, what is stand-up if not a one-man show? Granted, I'm keeping all the really depressing stuff out of the comedy clubs ... turns out comedy club managers get pissed off if you jump on stage and start acting out some heavy tragedy.
It's really weird writing material for the stage that is autobiographical because there are three voices trying to find their way out. The first is my voice, the voice of the guy that all this crap happened to. Next is the actor voice, the voice of the guy who knows he's the one that's gonna be saying this crap on the stage. Finally is the writer voice, who's trying to find a way to give all this crap structure. The interesting thing is that the voice I trust the most is not my own, but rather the actor voice. He's the one with the most experience ... which tells you something about how shallow I am personally.
Working on stand-up while playing in The Passion Play has created a unique and horribly inappropriate rehearsal process for me. I keep finding myself adlibbing stuff as Pontius Pilate while giving the order to crucify Jesus and punching things that shouldn't be jokes.
"Jesus laughed." Just not necessarily at me.
Mitch Hedberg
It's been almost a year since comedian Mitch Hedberg died at the age of 37. Major thanks go out to Mel for turning me on to this guy's material:
"Some songs have a special meaning for a man in regards to a special woman. But this can backfire, because maybe the song had a deeper meaning to begin with and now it has been cheapened. 'We are the world, we are the children, we are the ones who make a better life, so let's keep on giving.' Remeber that song, baby? The night I f*cked you in the pet cemetery? That's our song."
You are remembered, Mitch.
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