The One That Brings You Back.

Finally, finally, FINALLY! It happened. After so much time and effort and disappointment, and more disappointment; after so many failed attempts and finally after heeding advice that in the end I realize now that they did know better, it fell into place.

I killed. I killed. I KILLED!

I have to write this now because the memory is fresh, and to say anything later wouldn't count; it must be documented now.

In a sense, I have lost my virginity.

I killed at the comedy club. Not just a quarter (or eighth or one) of the audience, not just varying quarters (or eighths or one) of the audience , not the dead silence of a stunned audience wondering 'How the hell you could think that is funny?' This time, they all laughed, more than a little at first, a lot at the end, raucous at times, and the applause when I said 'Thank you for your time, and don't forget to tip your bartenders and waitresses!' could not be mistaken for anything less than genuine 'Thanks for entertaining us!'

Finally, it all fell into place.

Some quick background. I've always loved stand-up comedy. Always. Ever since I was a young boy when my stepbrother Mitch brought his recorded 'Evenings at the Impov' with Jim Carey and many other new comics on VHS (the new technology at the time) . I thought myself a connoisseur when I was in college because of the hours of watching Half Hour Comedy Hour on MTV and HBO specials. And in a way, I am a connoisseur, I know when I am watching good comedy because I laugh when I hear clever jokes, even now, especially now. I have an open mind, and appreciate all angles of comedy...I will never be the Jaded Comic (I hope). I will always enjoy watching a good comic perform.

Two years ago, I went to a show at Rooster T Feathers; the local comedy club in Sunnyvale, CA. It was a good show, but the opening act was not exactly a killer. However, he did his duties. One of his duties was the announcements of comment cards on the table, and told us to fill them out. One of the questions was to rate the comics tonight according to 1) Great, 2) Good, 3) Fair, and 4) I could do better.

I was about to check 'I could do better' on the card until I asked myself, 'Could you?' Also on the table was a flyer about the Open Mic Night held on Wednesdays.

That flyer changed my life. I wrote down the website, and registered for the open mic in two weeks.

I'll be honest, I had comedy aspirations before during my college years, but Stillwater Oklahoma wasn't the best place to fulfill them. I had done some (really dark) material to friends, and had killed them in the process. I thought it would work well.

My first open mic at Roosters. Several comics showed up, one was an older guy wearing a suit. We struck up a conversation, and I told him that it was my first time up. He looked at me, and started to tell me things that comics should know. 1) Before Seinfeld did his first Letterman act, he did the exact material 50 times in clubs to get it right. 2) Always have a standby joke when you forget the next bit (his standby joke was about smoking pot and short term memory), and 3) Keep doing it. It will come.

I went up, prepared with 3 minutes of material that I thought would just kill them, because, damn it, I knew it was funny. It was dark, midnight blue material about the most awful things in human culture, but that they had to get it because I knew it was funny.

I got five laughs, maybe six. I knew that I was nervous, and justified the failure with it, but mostly I bombed. The old guy in the suit told me that the writing was real good, but so over the top that only the best can pull it off.

Then he went up, did his set, and proceeded to kill. I was dying, it seemed like pedestrian material about flying and women and sex, but it wasn't; he was brilliant. After his set, I shaked his hand, told him that I was totally impressed and that I did listen to his advice.

After that, Heather, the lady who owns the club, told me that I could be good if I work on it, and recommended that I tryout for the comedy competition that she had coming up in the next month.

Wait, on my first try, the club owner tells me I have potential? Shit, I must be a prodigy, and thought she must be a woman that appreciates real comedy. The dark shit. Cool.

I could not have been more wrong on all accounts.

I realized that I am not a prodigy during the comedy competition. I had asked my colleague Phung to go so that I would have at least one vote. She brought her gay friend Nick for company. I go up, do my real dark set (and when I say dark, I mean Incestuous Necrophilia with Sound Effects, Child Pornography, and Serial Killing) and get zero laughs. Except for Nick. During the voting session, I don't get a whimper. Except for Nick. I leave asking what they thought, Phung tells me that she appreciated that I went up, but she didn't vote for me. She voted for the guy with the bad Viagara jokes. Nick tells me he thought that I was brilliant and that he voted for me.

(As an aside, I mention that Nick is gay because I've found that the gay guys I know have the most evil sense of humor that I could ever imagine. Seriously. Fucking evil.)

Of course, I listen to Nick because that's who I wanted to hear. I learned much later that Phung was the much better judge.

By the way, I still hate Viagara jokes.

Then I did a few more shows at the Roosters Open Mics. Each time, except for one when I followed a comic named Richard Stockton (who really can work an audience), I bomb. However, that one show, after Richard, the crowd laughed at the jokes, they laughed at the gag of bringing the guitar on stage without playing it, they laughed at the necrophilia, but not quite as much as they laughed at the jokes about family life, or my last name, or simple mannerisms. I got some aftershow praise by a few people, and thought that it was working out.

Until a nearly endless series of bombs. Bad ones too.

It wasn't from a lack of effort. I started sending myself e-mails about jokes, the file grew to about 15 pages. I started going to comedy shows all over the place. Heather stopped charging me if I sat in the back...I'd go and see (or do) bad open mics in seedy bars all over the Bay Area. All the people at Roosters, Ron's, and the Blue Rock knew my name. I've heard so much comedy...and started to realize that I didn't know it all.

Jimi, the bartender at Roosters, always liked my material. She has been around the world, and we've exchanged stories. After the almost good and mostly bad sets, she would always say (with a rather wry smile), 'Dennis, the writing is your strength, I don't hear jokes like that.' It was never exactly encouragement, except that she always said that wanted to hear more. I think she has a minor crush on me, and I have a minor one on her. I doubt that we'd pursue it, but the flirting is fun.

More time watching comics. I would watch the new guy (or girl) go up, and I knew immediately when they would fail because of timing or material. And I would be similarly amazed at a person (guy or girl) that would be able to rock a house not necessarily with material (but some had brilliant stuff), but with personality, riffing ability, and the general presence of someone who has been there. It's experience that cannot be conveyed.

I went to other open mics. I did my shows, and I pissed off crowds. I'd have a solid opening joke, maybe a few more, and I'd get good laughs. But at some point their jaws would just drop. Why don't they like necrophilia jokes? What could possibly be wrong with Jesus jokes? What a bunch of lame-ass audience members that don't understand what comedy is all about. Do they really expect me to play this guitar?

I kept running jokes by Phung at work; she has a good sense of humor. She understands, and even likes, a dark joke (as she's not a Christian, she often loved the Jesus jokes). But even if she liked it, she would say that it would piss off the crowd.

Finally, in the last month, three conversations happened.

First (and to be honest, most importantly), I watched a set at Roosters, and talked to the headliner. We got along, and he told Heather that I was a comic and maybe I could do a guest set. Heather and I giggled between each other, and then she was blunt while talking to the headliner. She said that my writing was great, but I had to stop offending the audience. If I did that, I'd get the guest set.

Second. My friend Berni told me that when I'm on stage, I often have a creepy look that was often covered by my jokes until they went dark, but when I went dark, it scared him.

Third. I talked with Tina, another comic who does quite well in the area, and she gave me the proverbial 'Camels Straw.' She said simply, 'You're so cute when you go up, everyone wants to laugh. When you stop being cute, they become disappointed because they want you to be cute. Go cute, it's your strength.'

That was it. I have plenty of material that is plenty cute. I'm a competent guitar player too. I had a few bits with the guitar that I have always hesitated doing because I don't want to be a Guitar Comic. But then I realized, if the material meets my standards (and it does), then the guitar is just an addition, not the act.

So I go up tonight. I find out that Richard Stockton is going up that night too. I also find out that my friends can't make the show, so I'm sure to have the short set. No matter, when I got home from work, I worked on the material that I knew would work.

I get to Roosters. I tell Beth (night manager) that my friends aren't showing up, so I'm stuck with the short set. She says don't worry about it. The list goes up, I'm first after the MC with four minutes. That's enough, I tell Beth I could take thirty seconds longer. She nods, I'll probably be okay.

The MC, Sam, does his set, and it's a good one. He has a bit of anger in his comedy, but his jokes are tight and the crowd laughs. He announces the first comic of the night, and he misses my first name but gets the last name right. That's all I need, because my opener is based on my last name.

And from here, I really can't explain it. I opened with a (well-deserved) compliment to Sam and followed with the opening joke (which was a very condensed version of my previous openers), and they laughed. They laughed at the follow-up. I told them that they were a crowd that liked to laugh, and that was a Good Thing. I then asked them if they liked impressions, and more than one said yes.

I don't do 'impressions/impersonations.' I riffed off the concept. I did my strength, which is writing, except that the guitar was involved but not central to the act. I won't say how, come to my show if you're curious, but they laughed at the first bit, and they died on the second. I finished strongly with another bit that showed that I can play the guitar and sang a mini-song that showed I can sing. I ran 30-seconds long, but Beth didn't care. I was killing, and that's why they were there.

I finished with a long note, told them to remember to tip their bartenders and waitresses, and thanked them for their time.

They cheered. It wasn't a golf clap. It wasn't a Thanks for Having the Courage to Go Up, it was a Yell of a Job Well Done, and I Wish I Could Do It. I've seen it so many times from the back row, but this one was for Me and My Act.

The comics in the back congratulated me; some of them tell me they didn't want to follow me. I told them what I had heard before; go up there and kill, they want to laugh. Some did kill that night, some didn't, but it was a good crowd, one that I won't forget. I won't forget the beautiful girls up front, the hippies to the left, the lawyers to the right. They came to laugh, and I gave them what they paid for.

Richard goes up, and he still kills; man he's good. He plays banjo well too. I talk with him and two other guys that ruled the room that night; we agree to meet up again at another time.

Heather says goodbye and starts to leave. I ask her if I didn't upset the crowd this time. She says that the staff keep saying how impressed they are with me creating a whole new act. I say that it's a whole new act. There's a slight smile on her face as she leaves. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get the opening act soon.

I talk with Jimi after the show. She is glowing; she has been waiting for me to do this for a year. She can't stop saying how I finally found my act. She never says the other stuff was bad; she keep saying how this act was good, and she's amazed at how hard I worked on it. She keeps saying how funny it was, and how I can't let this one go, it's the one that will work. I'm guessing a bartender at a comedy club may have an idea on these things.

I drive home with this damn grin on my face that I can't erase.

Tonight, I killed. Tonight.

--Dennis

Things I Want To Do At Least Once Before I Die

Simple enough title, in no particular order...

• Sing the Star Spangled Banner at a sporting event.
• Bungee jump.
• Visit the pyramids.
• Parasail
• Learn to sail a ship
• See the Great Wall of China
• Go to Hawaii
• Do comedy on HBO (yeah, I know, first I have to be funny)
• Write and direct a movie (well, at least finish writing the two movies I've started)
• Raise a family
• Teach at a university
• Play Paganini in front of a crowd
• Design my home
• Save a life
• more to come

Random Thought

Okay, go with me on this one.

Do people realize how close we are to the chance of immortality?

Look at the state of our science and technology. At a level that is approaching fundamental, we understand the behavior of mass and light, which, if you read closely, is an almost all-inclusive statement.

We can almost understand the strange combination of chemical elements that makes up the aqueous, salt, and organic molecules which combine to form proteins, cells, and flesh, and eventually life. Modern techniques can almost reconstruct, if not regrow the fabric of life in the exact form required.

How far are we from the regrowth of body or brain and having a lifespan of limitless existence? Will I live long enough to find out, and will I be wealthy enough to afford it?

Given the choice, how long would I live before I decided I needed to die?


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman

Ich bin ein Berliner!

Dear Reader: If you have not the time nor the inclination to read this whole post, then I recommend going to The Icing On The Cake, which is the story of one of those times that must be shared.

It's been over forty years since John F. Kennedy announced to the world that he was a jelly doughnut with sugar coating (proper German would have had him say, 'Ich bin Berliner,' however, the Germans are used to hearing their language butchered, and they got his point), and many things have changed in the city of Berlin since then. In my various visits to Europe, I had never been able to make it to the new old capital of Germany, and almost every German will tell you that the city is the one you should see first.

I had known that I would make it to Berlin this trip, but I wasn't sure how. I had found out that Oliver was with his girlfriend and her parents this trip, and he would be too busy. Alex told me that her father, Guenther, and her uncle Wolfgang wanted to go, and we planned to go on the 26th and 27th of December. Wolfgang was a welcome edition. While Guenther understands a lot of English, and I'm pleased with how well my German is progressing; Guenther doesn't speak English well, I'm not fluent in German. Wolfgang's English is quite competent. Put simply, (I know, too late) he saved a lot of time flipping through the dictionary.

On the Road Again
We decided make the three hour drive from Hannover, and this was one of the more interesting parts of the trip. Our first stop was looking at the Helmstedt memorial of the former border between East and West Germany. The former checkpoint had about a dozen lanes, and Wolfgang and Guenther explained how it would require hours to make it through the checkpoint, and with one false word, you could be there for days. Wolfgang also mentioned how they used mirrors to look under cars. I mentiond that nuclear power plant security stations often do this now, and he said in an ironic tone, 'Ah, you get to reap the benefits of Communism.'

What was more interesting is that he said that he never imagined that the checkpoint would be a memorial before his death. It's at this point I began to realize the effects of the Cold War on Germany. In my experience, Germans accept the blame for what happened during the world wars, but what the Russians did afterwards was not warranted.

As soon as the checkpoint was crossed, there was an immediate difference in the quality of the roads and supporting infrastructure. Where before there were sturdy guardrails and very smooth surfaces, afterwards there were rather shabby guardrails, poorly constructed houses, and the road was a little less well maintained. It was apparent that many changes had taken place, but there was still much work to be done.

Not All Conference Rooms Are Alike
Before arriving in Berlin, Wolfgang wanted to visit Potsdam briefly, as he had not seen city or Schloss Sansoucci (which is gorgeous). Next to the Schloss (castle, in German) is Cecilienhof, the site of the famous conference between Truman, Churchill, and Stalin where they determined the fate of Germany after the war. Wolfgang told me that not long after the conference Churchill had remarked that they had 'slaughtered the wrong pig,' of course implying Stalin.

An interesting remark by Wolfgang was that this memorial was a place of sadness for many Germans because it is where the decisions about their life were made without their input because they lost. I mentioned that life was better now, and wondered what it would be like if Hitler won. He replied, 'Of course, but nevertheless...' We saw some more monuments and left.

Bright Lights, Big City
On to Berlin. In some cities, such as Paris, London, and San Francisco, I feel like the city itself has a personality, a life to it, that would be there even without the people. My first impression was that Berlin had it also. Before our trip, Alex had written down a list of sights that we needed to visit (I'm glad that Alex plans these things, because that's not for me). We checked into the NH hotel near Friedrichstrasse, and began our marathon trek around the city.

I won't bother with a detailed blow-by-blow (you'll understand the foreshadowing in a moment) of the trip, but I'll hit the highlights. Because of the war damage, sometimes Berlin has a mixed feel of the old and the new. Some of the real beautiful buildings survived, such as the Berliner Dom, Brandenburger Tuer, and Reichstag, others were not so lucky, like the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, which remains a memorial ruin.

A couple of interesting stories. As we were entering the Berliner Dom, standing in the garten alone was a woman screaming for no real reason. Every three or five seconds she would scream in a way that would curdle a banshee's blood. Only once did she say anything intelligible, something like I refuse to live under a dictator! Guenther asked which one, but we received no reply. We entered the doors hearing yet another a shriek, and saw the graves of Fredrick the Great. As we left the Dom an hour later, we heard her lovely singing voice yet again. Then I understood, we weren't watching a psycho scream for no apparent reason, we were the fortunate witnesses of performance art.

Another interesting facet of the city is that some of the waitresses in Berlin are very attractive, and the rest are stunning! Because of this fact, I thought I should advise the reader in just a little German so you may impress the ladies with your efforts in their language.

Ich haette gern eines grosses Bier, bitte.
(ISH HAY-ta GAREn (like bear, but 'g') EYEness GROWses BEER, BITT-uh)
I would like a large beer, please.

Noch ein, bitte
(KNOCK EYEn, BITT-uh)
One more, please. Repeat until drunk.

Bezahlen, bitte.
(be-TSALL-en, BITT-uh)
Check, please.

Ihre Bruessten gefaellt mir, viel dank.
(EE-ra BROOS-ten ge-FAYLT MEER, FEEL DONK)
Your service pleased me, many thanks

Naturally, Guenther and Wolfgang wanted me to practice my German, so it was imperative that we see at least one pub, kneipe in German, for every two visits to a Berlin sight.

The Icing On The Cake
Ah yes, it was a fascinating and entertaining trip to Berlin, and two old men and myself were simply exhausted and needed something to eat. We stopped at a random restaurant near Brandenburger Tuer, sat down, ordered our beers and food (see above), and began to recount the trip.

Our food came in the hands of yet another stunning waitress, we noticed that this food was amazing, we weren't exactly eating at McDonalds during this trip, but the fish I had (Seeteufel, or Sea Devil) was the best cooked fish I've had in years. I also liked that Wolfgang told me how much fun he had learning new expressions in English. Throughout most of the trip, he was speaking English, and I was speaking German, and we both found that we enjoy the subtleties of our languages and how they are related.

Guenther had noticed a blonde woman in the corner (the only difference between old men and young men is the amount of time they have spent looking at pretty women) who was eating with another female friend. He asked Wolfgang something quickly that I didn't quite get, and then Wolfgang replied and the word 'Wonderbra' was in the sentence. Guenther said, 'Ja, sie' (Yes, her)

Naturally my attention perked, so I had asked them to speak slowly. Guenther was almost certain that the beautiful young blonde in the corner was Regina Halmich, who also happens to be the current female boxing World Champion. If you've followed the link, you can see why an underwear company would be interested in her modeling their wares.

Now, as you can probably guess, not as many people are familiar with female boxing as male boxing, but Guenther knows boxing thoroughly. Regina has started to become a celebrity in part because of the underwear ads (hence Wolfgang's Wonderbra comment), but Guenther has been following her career for years, probably in part because she's German and winning.

Apparently, this girl is a badass. She lost one time several years ago because of a cut to the eye, but has defended her title against twenty-five female contenders since. Interestingly, she also beat Ali's daughter (Guenther doesn't think Ali's daughter is that good). A local German television show host named Stefan Raab (his show sounds something like the Tom Greene Show) challenged her to a boxing match, and she apparently broke his nose. A Google search shows that she has quite a few fans, too.

Guenther wanted to be sure if she was Regina, so he asked the waitress to ask her to confirm. The waitress, with typical German discretion that I appreciate, refused, saying that it would be impolite.

Guenther was in turmoil. He didn't want to disturb her, but he really wanted her autograph. German celebrities typically sign business cards, and Guenther took out the one I gave him earlier, and then put it back in his wallet. He and Wolfgang were exchanging Maybe ifs, Maybe ifs, Maybe if's for a few minutes, and then we paid and Wolfgang and Guenther stood up saying how this was a wonderful ending to the day, seeing a celebrity in the restaurant.

I could write a novel about how many kind things Guenther had done for me; he had given me money, a place to stay, and advice at times when I really needed it. I watched Guenther go outside as I got my jacket. I then thought about how Alexandra would react if we told her that we saw Regina but didn't ask her for an autograph. Finally, I thought about a line in the old TV show The Commish, where the guy told his son, 'If you don't give her the chance to say no, you don't give her the chance to say yes.'

German caution and discretion be damned, I owed Guenther this much. Wolfgang hadn't stepped outside yet, so I asked him for a card. He didn't have one, so we asked the bartender for a piece of paper and a pen. She gave us one (with a very disapproving look), I looked at her table and noticed no food, and then I walked over towards Regina.

I have never asked for an autograph before, I'm sure most celebrities know how to write, and I wasn't sure what to do besides having the pen ready. The usual standby, honesty, turned out to be the best method. I approached her table, and said, in (heavily accented) German,

Entschuldigung Sie mich, bitte? Excuse me please?

She smiled warmly and said 'Ja'

Swish, from the look on her face, this would be easy.

Sind Sie Regina Halmich? Are you Regina Halmich?

She said Yes, again.

Sweet, at least I wasn't talking to a stranger for no reason.

I skipped the 'I really don't want to bother you...' and cut to the point with a smile and enthusiasm that I didn't have to fake.

'Mein Freund Guenther ist grosser Boxenfan und er haette sehr gern ihre Autograph'

My friend is a big boxing fan and he really would like your autograph.

I didn't see a reason to lie to her saying that I was the fan, because I wasn't. I was hoping that my honesty and intentions of getting it for someone else would be what she noticed.

She smiled again, apparently I wasn't bothering her, hell, maybe my broken German was entertaining her, and said (in German, but I'm tired of writing things twice) that she's sorry that she didn't have a card. I offered her the paper and pen with a shrug and a smile and she said, 'Guenther, like my father. Is it with a T or TH?' I replied 'TH' and she wrote, Fuer Guenther...and Guenther came up behind me (surprisingly, somewhat nervously) and introduced himself.

My first thought was 'Hey Guenther, you're cutting in on my girl here.' (as I said, she's hot, and she was smiling at me), but then I thought about to whom the autograph was addressed and realized it was the best thing that could have happened. She gave Guenther the autograph, we thanked her for her time, and left.

We were driving back to Hannover, and I was sitting quietly in the back seat with a stupid grin on my face. I was a little proud of myself that I had the courage to ask Regina for the autograph, the wisdom to be quick and honest, and mostly glad because finally I could pay Guenther back just a little for the good he has done for me. As we drove, Wolfgang had said,

'I suppose you would say in English that meeting her was the culmination of our trip?'

I replied, 'Naturally that works, but in America we would say that it was the icing on the cake.'


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman