To quote Wyclef Jean, “I got nothing but funny money.” Money is funny. You want to be tight-fisted? You have to be tight-fisted. You want to be frugal? You’ll be called out. I don’t complain. I attain beast-mode on-stage while instilling harmony. Volume & defense overlapping.
Standup is not about talent as there is no validation. It’s about muscle. Flexing your comedy muscles until you don’t have to compare yourself. Like Peter Pan chasing his shadow.
It is already taught in Pre-school as, “Show & Tell.” We’re about kindness but others eventually slay that kindness. One may think this thickens your hide. Standup should be identical to those free-styling on the city streets. Taught in junior high, high school & college as credit hours.
Why? Because jokes are not insults; there is a fine line between risqué & off color. A Priest here in California, who is family, called me & told me to erase my best work because of my use of the word: “Ghudhass” (which translates to “Communion” in Arabic). I jokingly said it “Sounds like ‘good ass’ with an American accent.” I get many idle threats for jokes on hemorrhoids. I made that up.
50 Cent said, “Get rich or die trying.” I’m not privy to the get-rich-quick gimmick but I am privy to the gimmick. Laughter lightens your heart. We call them “belly laughs” since you lose weight. Scientific research claims laughter is medicine. A drug. Let’s crash a party. Bresl some ice. Diffuse tension.
The moment I decided to hit the stage for the first time, my mom had a house-party for Christmas 2010. She made me a plate for the one-hour drive. I failed to rehearse with my sister so I did so on the highway & turnpike to the Chicago Center of Arts, eating artichoke. I met a male cousin, a female friend, her gay friend, a male comic, & my brother & sister. My 1st joke was, “My name is Mr. King. My first name is Joe. Joe King.”
It died. I sought rejuvenation. Revival. Restoration. Re-generation. To re-kindle the life of the joke.
I was always & have always been on the line. It’s a dyslexia. I was benched in gym class for throwing my baseball bat when swinging. It’s like being in a gang on the cusp of hanging up your spurs.
I am up against some in the stand-up scene revoking my status as stand-up comedian as I never repeated a single joke.
With pizzaz & translucent comfort, I chase my shadow. My dad calls it, “A one-man show.” I guess as Tarantino put, “I have character & am a character.” I’m all in like a gamble-holic. “Fearless,” my friend Matt Krause says.
Louis C.K. says his, “Some fans won’t see a show twice due to ‘spoiled’ material.” I am trying to help a brother out.
I do not aim to be the first of my kind, I volunteer because I am a machine! Like Patch Adams I yearn for a deeper take on elation. It is what makes us all tick after all; like a clock!
My fan-base views my character arc as reality TV. Others join me on my show with loud & defensive artistic expression. Others brain-storm me with spit-balls. Pun intended.
