Comedy

The Tao Goes Against the Flow

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I saw a big protest outside an elementary school.

Lots of activists, the usual e pluribus complainum crowd.

Big signs said:  “Stolen Land!” “No One is Illegal!” “ICE is illegal!” 

Musta been about forty people there, most of them under four feet tall.

The tall ones with the blue hair were teachers.

It’s not fair that teachers impose their political views on vulnerable kids, at least not before naptime.

That’s an abuse of power. Teachers can find that on Bumble.

So I decided to hold a counter protest — just me and my incredibly self-confident ego.

I got some old cardboard. I got a big black marker. And I wrote in big block letters so the blockheads could read it.

Then, I held up my sign from across the street from the school. I didn’t say a word. I just stood there. It was my John Cusack moment.

Before long, kids started crying. Then, the crying kids started to point. Then, all the kids got crying.

One of the blue-hair teachers came stamping across the street.

“What are you doing? That sign is disgusting!”

“At least, it’s true,” I tell her.

She says: “These kids are six years old! They don’t need you spoiling Santa Claus!”

“Okay,” I say. “You end your protest. I’ll end mine.”

Upshot:  In case you’re wondering, it can take a whole night before you make bail.

The Tao & the Weekly Exercise Tip

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I went grocery shopping today. Here in San Francisco, getting groceries has become an obstacle course. It’s how I get my weekly exercise.

It starts as soon as I park. Before I’m even outta the car, there’s a tap on the window. It’s the box boy.

“Roll it down!”

I roll it down.

He says he’s out here “collecting shopping carts… you know… Tips!”  He flips his phone in my face. He’s got the TipMo app. The screen says: $1 / $2 / $3.

A tip? For what? Maybe I’m going to the post office. Maybe I’m here to meet a Tinder date.

Way back in the 70s, when I worked as a box boy, I never got no tips. I double-bagged groceries, I pushed heavy carts through parking lots, I loaded up trunk after trunk. Maybe I’d get a nickel. Maybe I’d get a dime, a silver dime if I was lucky.

I look at the box boy at my window: “Hold on a sec… Maybe I got some change.”

Then, while I’m fingering junk in the cup holder, the box boy loses his patience and slinks off to pursue more promising prey.

That’s when I make my move!

I’m out of my car, dashing past the empty Waymos. When I get to the train of shopping carts, I tug and I tug till I yank one loose.

Fortunately, it’s a weekday morning. There’s no kids around, no one selling TranScout cookies.

Right as the automatic door swings open, a woman with a clipboard needs a couple signatures.

“Maybe later!” I say. I try to push past her.

But she flips her phone around in my face: $2 / $4 / $6.

I fake a grab at the clipboard, then cut left, squeeze right… I’m into the store! Touchdown!

So, I’m in the produce section, but I can’t find the Honeycrisp apples. I ask the guy stocking the broccoli. “Honeycrisp apples?” he asks. He pulls out his phone to check their location. “Oh! Oh! Over here!” And leads me to the apples.

And I am so grateful for this small simple kindness. I say, “Thank you so much!”

He flips his phone around: $3 / $6 / $9.

I can’t believe it!

I tap a nearby woman squeezing cucumbers.

“What’s with all this tipping?”

“Times are tough!” She flips her phone around: $12.95.

That’s enough exercise for one week.

Performing at the Peek-a-Boo

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Papa Gringo performing at the Peek-a-Boo Hair Salon

I’ve been doing lots of open mics. I did one recently at a Chinatown beauty shop. It’s called the Peek-a-Boo Hair Salon.

It’s very Chinese.

They got glowing red lanterns dangling from the ceiling. A big laughing Buddha with a fat stone belly. Plus, a Great Wall… of two-way mirrors.

(Talk about a captive audience.)

I went up after the Tik Tok Twins, a teenage Taiwanese dance act. I opened with my bit about Pork-Fried Firecrackers.

Nothing! Not a giggle, not a smirk. You could’ve heard an egg drop.

At first, I thought they didn’t understand me. But then one woman started clapping. But she was only drying her nails.

Next, I did my gag about Dim Sum being the name of my neighbor’s idiot kid. I thought I heard a snicker after that. Just a big toe getting clipped.

Then, I got a bit edgy. I did my joke about President Trump and President Xi meeting at a Castro bath house — how they both blew a shot at world peace.

[As Trump]: “Shame, shame, Xi, Xi. Look at what a mess we made!”

That joke made the Buddha blush. The two-way mirrors got hella steamy.

In the end, I did get a standing ovation — from a lady getting up from the hair dryer.

The Tao & the Dangers of Pool

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For the past month, I’ve attended several open mics in several different SF bars.

Some bars have pool tables. But I don’t like playing pool. Pool strikes me as racist.

Pool is a game with sixteen balls. And the main ball, the cue ball — the hero of the game — is white.

The white ball is set far away from the colored balls, which makes the white ball very happy,

When the game begins, the colored balls are trapped in a triangular prison. Once the colored balls are released, once they’re free, the white ball attacks.

 It fires a shot, and the colored balls scatter.

Altogether, there are fifteen colored balls. But the white ball’s nemesis is the evil eight ball, the tall strapping black ball.

Q: How does this racist game end?

A: When the white ball, the hero ball, sinks the black ball in one of six pockets.

That’s literally white supremacy.

However, if the white ball sinks into a pocket, that’s a scratch. The white ball loses. That’s affirmative action — at least, according to the colored balls.

It’s easy for the colored balls to call the white ball racist. The white ball’s outnumbered 15-to-1.

When the colored balls call the white ball racist, that’s called projection. Colored balls are racist, too — just racist toward each other.

The first three colored balls are all solids — yellow, blue and red. Those are primary colors. They are pure. They are proud. And they are proud of their purity.

But as they stand shoulder to shoulder, secretly sneering at one another, they collectively scorn the secondary colors: solid purple, orange and green.

Secondary colors are not pure. They are, let’s be honest, the embarrassing offspring of two primary parents. Those primary parents are not proud.

Still, all six solids can put aside their prejudice and find family fellowship as they all, together, despise the seven ball.

Officially, the seven ball is maroon or burgundy. But let’s face it: It’s solid brown. All the colors are ashamed of brown. Brown is the untold secret.

But one day, soon, all the balls will be brown.

Until that time, the brown ball is welcomed by its six solid cousins for a holiday tradition of hating the stripes.

Q: And why do the solids hate the stripes?

A: Because the stripes are all half white.

Bottom line:  Racism isn’t a circle of hate. It’s sixteen balls on a green felt table.

That’s why I throw darts.

The Tao & the Art of Bombing

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Well, I gave it a shot.

I heard about a Thursday-night comedy open mic at a bar on Dolores Street not far from my house. I walked down earlier this evening to check it out.

I arrived just as the show was about to begin, There were only a few folks sitting at the bar, plus a few others shooting pool in a nook toward the rear. Everyone had their backs to the small stage and microphone stand.

By the front door, a half dozen nervous comics were sitting around as if waiting for the results of a blood test.

Brady, the evening’s MC, took the mic off the stand and said hello to everyone. No one turned to look at him, just the nervous comics.

When the first guy got up, despite no one paying attention, he launched into his set, but it was hard to hear. I tried to keep my focus on him, and I laughed when he presented each premise, but I couldn’t quite catch his punch lines. The next comic was equally hard to hear.

Finally, this one comic got up, one with questionable pronouns. They did great! I could hear them perfectly. Clearly, they’d had some prior public-speaking training. Though they were reading off notes on their phone — something I’ve been told to avoid — I really did enjoy their energy.

Then the MC called my name.

All day, I’d been rehearsing this bit I’d written about the Ohlone Indians. Soon as I got up to the mic, I knew that no one would listen. So I decided to simply practice reciting my memorized lines at the microphone. I did get one laugh from one of the other comics. Mosly, I got nothing. Two-and-half minutes passed like two-and-a-half hours.

All in all, I’d say it was a bomb — the whole show! But bombing can be a blessing.

Everyone busts their cherry some time, and now I’ve busted mine. It was good to get a chance to practice speaking while holding the mic. Good to get a chance to keep addressing different parts of the room. Good to lose my place at one point and then recover from an awkward pause. No one was listening, so none of it mattered.

After the last comic performed, the MC thanked the patrons in the bar — none of whom seemed remotely aware that comics had been performing.

How surreal!

Still, afterward, I got to know a few of the comics, most of whom were heading out to another open mic at another club. They invited me along, but I was wrecked after busting my cherry, so I walked back home while they caught the bus up to Market Street.

Even though the event was a bomb, I’m grateful to have gotten a chance to practice — and to meet some other comics and exchange our contact info. I look forward to seeing them again and joining them on the open-mic circuit all over San Francisco.

How About You?

When was the last time you tried something new, only to discover it may be more challenging that you thought? Let me know in the comments.

Ladies & Gentlemen… Papa Gringo!!!

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Now that Saturn’s gone direct, it’s time to move forward with the stand-up comedy classes, which start tomorrow night in the heart of San Francisco’s legendary North Beach.

For the past several weeks, I’ve been jotting down ideas on a yellow legal pad, sketching out jokes and bits for introducing Papa Gringo to an imaginary crowd.

Here’s one possible opening. Please let me know what you think.

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Hi, I’m Papa Gringo.

Yes, that’s a fake name.

The name Donald Trump has got to be a fake name.

If not, that’s child abuse.

Trump, alone, sounds frumpy and dumpy.

Then you add Donald Duck.

No wonder he’s a quack.

Take the name Ronald Reagan.

As an actor, that was the president’s stage name.

His real name was… Ronald Reagan

In his case, the name was real but the man was fake.

And why are the Republicans’ two biggest presidents named Ronald and Donald?

Ronald McDonald is a fake name.

The point is, with a fake name, you can be the real you.

So, here are some real truths about the real me….

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What Do You Think?

Should I give up my day job? Ideally, I need a few good laughs in the first thirty second. Let me know if you got any ideas.