On unfunded liabilities…
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Yearly Archives: 2012
On Nature’s Balance
On German Cops Trying – And Failing – To Give Me A Ticket On My Bike
I was riding my bike to the hardware store about 20minutes from our home in Germany. It was a sunny afternoon and there was little traffic. After stopping at a quiet intersection, I quickly resumed riding through the red light. Shortly thereafter I looked behind, saw a police car trailing me and knew immediately that I was being pulled over.
I’m good with cops in these situations. I’m 100% cooperative, humble and, most importantly, open: I admit guilt without stint. Doing so has enabled me to get out of tickets about the last six times I’ve been pulled over. This time, however, I felt I would not be so lucky. These guys, I sensed, wanted me to be ticketed.
I had never been pulled over on a bike before. I had never been pulled over outside the U.S. before. Both officers were younger than me – a depressing milestone. They seemed like the type of young men who spend most of their time lifting weights in their parents’ garage then throwing back beer at Germany’s equivalent of Hooters. When the first one stepped out of the car I said (in German) with the ingratiating tone of an experienced comedian: “I can’t speak German very well”. He replied (in German) “You can’t ride a bike very well either!”
He asked me where I live and said “On Kirchstrasse, with my wife”. “Show me your identification.” German authorities never ask questions – they make demands. I showed him my American drivers license. “Do you have something that shows you live at Kirchstrasse?” “No,” I said. Then, “Well, I do at home.”
His partner at this time was sitting in the vehicle with my drivers license and speaking on the phone – lots of back and forth. From the other officer the questions to me continued and I continued to answer. It became apparent that they were having some difficulty.
After about ten or fifteen minutes the other officer exited the car and approached me. “Okay. You will take us to your home to show us a document proving you live at 161b Kirchstrasse.”
“Oh, OK” I said, genuinely surprised and delighted (I suffer from clinical boredom and revel in such detours from the expected). There was a pause. “Um, do we put my bike in your car or do you follow me?” I asked.
“No,” said the cop. “You lock your bike and we drive you to your house.”
“I don’t have a lock” I said.
If things were going badly for these poor fellows before, this, I sensed, might be a knockout blow. The other officer returned to the car and the phone while his partner and I chatted about my background (American, comedian, etc). Another ten minutes passed. Finally, the officer exited the vehicle and they spoke to each other incomprehensibly.
Finally, I was handed back my drivers license and addressed in that scolding tone that suits German particularly well: “You ran a red light and the fine is 100 euros (about $130). Whenever you are in Germany you are required to have a proof of residency on your person at all times. Because you don’t have your proof of residency we must drive you to your home to get it. But because you don’t have a lock on your bike we can’t drive you. In the future you need to have your proof of residency with you at all times and have a lock for your bike. Only by doing so you will be able to receive your 100 euro fine.”
He didn’t really say that last sentence, although he may as well have.
BREAKING NEWS!
Shark Braves Cuban-Infested Waters… Pete Rose Inducted Into Gambling Hall Of Fame… Storm Leaves Millions Of Afghans With Electricity, Running Water… Alabama To Join The Dollar… Man Pleads Insanity In Marrying Stripper… Preparations For 2004 Athens Olympics Now Complete… Tiger Woods Attends Black Thai Event… Politician Takes Break From Messaging To Utter Single, Verifiable Fact… U.N. Downgrades Syrian Conflict To “Spat”… Fourth Draft Of Elevator Speech Runs Ten Minutes, 42 Seconds… Paul Krugman Wins Academy Award For Economics… POLL: Obama 46, Bush 52… Robinson Cano Finishes Triple, Double, Single, Homerun Shy Of Cycle… Syria Announces Austerity Measures… The Hague Unveils International Small Claims Court… Woman At Crowded Bar “Saved As Unread”… Kansas Declared State Of Normalcy… Al Qaida: “We’re Confident The Olympics Will Come Off With A Hitch”… Area Man Only Drinks A-socially… Drunken Treasury Prints Enough Dollars To Pay Off National Debt By “Friday, At The Latest”… POLL: Entire Nation In Contempt Of Congress… Hollywood Screenwriter Successfully Makes 7-Year Old Actor Sound Like Hollywood Screenwriter…
How I Got This Way
(This article originally appeared at eJuggle, the official publication of the International Jugglers’ Association).
My biggest stroke of luck was to grow up a short distance from a magic club called The Long Beach Mystics.
The Long Beach (largest non-county seat city in the U.S!) that my parents grew up in was sometimes called “The Des Moines of the west coast” because of it’s lack of what we now call “diversity”. But by the time I was born diversity had already arrived and would really begin to unpack over the next decade.
With large black, Mexican, Armenian, Vietnamese and numerous South Pacific Islander populations, Long Beach, by the time I got to high schoool, was home to the largest Cambodian population of any city outside of Cambodia. Our section of the city, though, still resembled the strictly suburban version of itself from the 1950’s. I could hope our backyard fence and be in famously Republican Orange County in ten minutes.
The clubhouse of the Mystics was a little over a mile beyond the Orange County line in Los Alamitos, a fact that seemed to cause no one any confusion or consternation. The magic shop in front was just that – a front – because the real magic took place in the back. Passing the glass counter of card and coin tricks and entering the door beyond it revealed a room of about equal size as the magic shop. It was a very little theater and one that served our purpose: bravely walking on stage to perform our routines, receive feedback and implement what worked. Rinse, wash, repeat.
If the club’s philosophy had a bias it was undoubtedly and unapologetically providing entertainment value. I don’t recall much talk about how to fool other magicians. Making a trick a lot more fickle in order to make it a little more entertaining was frowned upon. As I write these words I am impressed at how this last lesson has informed my minimalist approach to performing. Keep It Simple, Stupid. This was the popular refrain when one of us got so wrapped up in the technical aspects of a trick or routine that we began to lose sight of what mattered most: the audience’s enjoyment. During my first few years as a Mystic, I evolved from magician to juggler yet the same principles applies. The question “Wouldn’t it be more impressive to juggle five balls instead of four when I do this gag?” was met with the same skeptical silence that movie directors should receive when they ask “How can we employ this new technology?”
Once, after seeing us perform a show featuring shoddy music editing, Mark Kalin was moved to give a lecture teaching the techniques of avoiding such amateur mistakes. Passion.
As I grew into my teens, these lessons stayed with me, although I would gradually and characteristically take credit for them myself. It was not until two decades later, when I began performing regularly at The Magic Castle , that others made me realize what, exactly, I had my hands on as a kid.
“I didn’t know you were a Mystic!” I am told by incredulous magicians after seeing The Mystics – A 50 Year Legacy. After viewing the dvd (featuring a heavily-sedated interview which I do not recall giving), I was humbled by the awesome generosity of mentors like Stan Allen, Kevin James, Mike Caveney, Randy Pryor, Dana Daniels and many others: they wanted me to be great.
I was in good hands with The Long Beach Mystics – thanks, guys.
20 Hard-Learned Lessons On Successful Living
Living successfully means keeping your principles few and simple so that you may refer to them quickly in an emergency. The following 20 truths will never steer you wrong – ignore them at your peril!
1 Plausible deniability is the best policy.
2 The unexamined life isn’t worth living – but it does get you drunk faster.
3 Health is wealth. So is coming up with Google.
4 No man is an island. (Although Orson Welles came pretty damn close toward the end).
5 Keep regular hours. You’ll notice that at 5 a.m. there are only two types of people awake: health nuts and alcoholics (HINT: one of them is wearing a tux).
6 Make reminders for yourself. For example, I now wear a rubber band on my wrist. Each time I am tempted to snap it, I have a cigarette instead.
7 Be faithful to your spouse. If you’re a married man, for the love of God be prudent. Remember, it’s a very fine line between “innocent flirting” and “paying for sex”. I used to do my taxes at coffee shops but it made me such a chick magnet I had to stop. Many women simply don’t see the wedding ring so I had to start wearing a fanny pack to make my marital status crystal clear. Nothing says “Player” like a guy with a fanny pack, right? On some level it reminds the ladies of 007 – dinner jacket, cigarette case, fanny pack.
8 Marry well. I can’t overstate how important this is. If I could marry my wife all over again, I would do so in a heartbeat. I might tweak the pre-nup here and there, but that’s a separate issue.
9 Drink moderately or not at all. This one strikes a personal chord with me. For a while there I had more than a little Captain Morgan in me. I thought of myself as a social drinker but at some point my drinking stopped being funny and started being downright hilarious. You don’t want to get to that point. I thought things were under control but I now realize that I would subconsciously invite myself to social gatherings in which you were practically expected to be drunk – weddings, cocktail parties, PTA meetings, etc. And then there’s all the lies you tell yourself. I would go a couple of days without a drink and then tell myself “What could be more harmless than a couple of drinks to relax, unwind and stop my hands from shaking?” If you have any doubts if you are overdoing, better to quit altogether.
10 Some things are easier done than said, like “disassociation”.
11 Enrich your life with books. I devour self-improvement literature. For example, I’m currently reading a book on how to be more assertive (if that’s okay with you). Here are three titles to get you started:
Health and fitness – “Cough Your Way To Rock-Hard Abs”.
Self-image – “The Complete Idiot’s Guide To Self-Esteem”.
History: “Facetious – The Greek Goddess Of Sarcasm”
Language: “German Made Merely Difficult”
12 Be Humble. Despite all of my success, I’ve never forgotten where I come from (Malibu, California).
13 Act appropriately. Different environments call for different behavior. On long-haul flights, for example, it is okay to press the flight attendant call button to request water or a blanket but not simply because the taser scene in “The Hangover” is about to come on.
14 Avoid brutal honesty. “Ribbed For Her Pleasure” is much better than “Ribbed For His Ego”.
15 Adopt a baby. Few things in life are more beautiful than adopting a baby – unless the kid turns out to be big boned.
16 Look forward, regret nothing. The past is the past. My wife and I got married in “I’m With Stoopid” t-shirts. Sure, we no longer place our wedding album where visitors to our home can readily access it, but do you think we lose any sleep over it? Live in the moment!
17 Accept that there will always be setbacks. When I was a kid, I tried digging to China. After a long and exhausting effort, I ended up hitting my head on The Great Wall. You talk about disappointment! Such experiences strengthened my resolve, however, and served me well in the future.
18 Accept that which you cannot change. My wife is from Germany and when you marry a German, there’s a certain symmetry. For example, I don’t laugh at jokes in her language and she doesn’t laugh at jokes in her language. Accept it and move on!
19 Think on your feet. When my dad can’t think of the word “website” he says “internet shingle”. Good for him!
20 Exceed expectations. When it comes to a successful business, under-promise and over-deliver. Consider this Turkish barber I solicited for a simple haircut.
Do you have ideas for living a successful life? Share them in the comment section below!
Nude Cruise!
My agent recently booked me to perform on a nude cruise. All of the passengers were naked throughout the ship: in the audience, at the buffet, in the casino. That’s right – the casino. God knows where they put their winnings.
About the best thing I can say about a nude cruise is this: it teaches you to make eye contact.
What I really loved were these bald guys who’d walk around completely naked but with the “comb-over” haircut: as if to say “God forbid someone should see my bald head.”
I actually ran into an acquaintance onboard. We were getting ready to sail and I his bright green Hawaiian shirt caught my eye (clothes were required until 30 minutes out to sea). “David? David Deeble?” he said. “Oh hey!” I said lamely, immediately indicating that I couldn’t place him. He quickly ascertained that I was performing on the ship and invited me to meet him and his wife for a drink later on in the cruise. Wonderful, I say. He gives me a big hug and walks away. I then saw that he wasn’t wearing pants. I returned to my cabin in a daze and wept quietly on the floor of my shower for thirty minutes.
Like everyone else in the history of the world, I don’t think of myself as a prude. I understand why someone might like to lay in the sun and not worry about tan lines – I married a European, for crying out loud. But who thinks “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna play blackjack with my pants on”?
Just as on any other cruise, there were signs throughout the ship that said “Please do not sit on chairs in wet bathing suits.” Frankly, that would have been an improvement. And unless you can be sure that they’re always laying down the same side of the towel, what’s the point? You might as well have someone stand up, turn their underwear inside out then sit down again.
I’ll tell you who enjoyed the nude cruise themost: the guys who work down in the laundry. They were basically on vacation for two weeks.
Not everyone onboard was a nudist. There was also a breed of person I did not know existed: the spouse-of-nudist. You’d see them – usually the wife – dressed nicely playing cards or socializing over a few drinks with her naked husband and his new naked buddies. Apparently taking a spinning class with your coin purse there for all to see is now considered a hobby that your wife is expected to put up with. And I thought selling my wife on fantasy baseball would be a heavy lift.
In some ways the cruise was just like any other. There were the usual pool games, for example: water volleyball, belly flop contest, etc. Although I have to say that the ring toss was not I had come to expect up to that point.
My Agent
I called my agent, something I rarely do. I was nervous.
“Nice Try Productions. This is Charlie.”
“Hi Charlie. It’s me, David.”
“Who?”
“David Deeble.” There was a pause. “Comedian.” Then, impulsively, “You’re my agent.”
“Oh, right! Hey Dave! May I call you ‘Dave’? What’s up?”
“Not a whole hell of a lot, actually. That’s why I’m calling.”
“You know I’m workin’ my tail off for ya, babe!”
Earlier in the afternoon I had run into a club owner who I hadn’t worked for in years. After some friendly chitchat, I asked point-blank if he had spoken to Charlie lately. “You mean your agent Charlie?” he said. “I haven’t spoken to Charlie in years…”
Charlie was the kind of agent that’s constantly trying – and failing – to stroke the ego of his clients. During a previous dry spell he tried to console me: “Those who like your act really, really love your act. Having said that, no one likes your act”.
Things were “slow”, he explained in the way all agents do, as if for the first time in the history of the world people decided they didn’t want to pay other people to make them laugh. I told him that word on the street was that his other acts – like the guy who folds paperclips into roman numerals suggested by the audience – seemed to be turning down gigs, they were so busy.
“Can you hold on a minute? I’ve got a call on the other line.” There was then a suspect-sounding click sound meant to suggest that I was on hold but I could still hear the ambient noise of his office fan and the hyper-deliberate shuffling of papers. Then there was the phony click again. “Dave! I think I’ve got something for you!”
He then proceeded to divulge everything he could, leaving out details such as the location, date and pay lest I go behind is back and secure the gig myself. I told him I’d think about it and hung up, immediately called him again, and accepted the gig.
The Pyongyang Hilton is located in a blocky, Soviet-era building. It’s façade is barely visible from across the street due to the massive tangle of electric streetcar wires that hover above the broad, car-less avenue. It’s an easy gig – dark Sunday through Friday – and I’m welcome to all the tree bark I can eat.
My agent's personal assistant, Lexi (this photo in no way meant to lure readers to my blog).
Duke’s Midlife Crisis
Duke was the last person in the world one would expect to experience an existential crisis. But there he was, sitting on the edge of his bed night after night, asking the same question that had been plaguing him for months: “Why do people waste money on edible underwear when they can boil their own and drink the broth?”
His marriage was on the rocks. He was sober about love. He knew that even in the best marriage that there comes a point when foreplay goes from tossing clothes on the floor to picking them up. But still, life goes just going by too fast.
He loved drinking but was nonetheless cautious. Between his non-stop crisscrossing of the country and his fondness for gin, Duke had learned the importance of writing down what city he was in before going to bed each night.
He was, by nature, a humble man. Despite his unparalleled success in his career, he never forgot where he came from: a particularly plush section of Beverly Hills.
A lifetime non-smoker, he had become, during this crisis, to be addicted to nicotine patches. He would apply the patch to his shoulder at every idle moment: during work breaks, stepping off a plane, after making love… He finally weaned himself from the patches completely by smoking three packs of Marlboro reds a day.
He began taking long walks after work and on weekends. Passing through downtown, he noticed that the Occupy Wall Street crowd had apparently disbanded. “Where did they go?” he thought. “Maybe they’re back to being good old-fashioned homeless again” he thought.
During a business trip to Europe Duke had a 6-hour layover in Amsterdam: well within what he called his “trouble window”. His mind racing, he quickly placed his carry-on bag in an airport locker, took the train into the city and did a little window shopping or, as they call it in the red light district, “soliciting a prostitute”.
Duke lay in bed with the tall blonde, starring at the ceiling. “Patch?” he asked. Although he had weaned himself from the patch he nonetheless kept the leftover ones to offer beautiful women in the cafes and bars. “No, thanks” she said with a thick Dutch accent that sounded like German on Heineken.
He tried to crowd out these meaningless thoughts with women and drink but they persisted. “Why does the world ‘lisp’ have to have an ‘s’ in it? It seems so cruel.” He paused on a bridge above the canal as a boat passed beneath him. “For that matter, why does the word ‘titillating’ have to be a little, well, titillating?” He resumed his walk.
Duke’s thoughts turned to his father’s father. His grandfather passed away when he was only seven years old, but he still remembered his “Gramps'” last words: “I’m pretty sure this isn’t a supporting wall”.
Duke decided that what he need was new scenery. He needed to go someplace exotic, a place unlike anywhere or anything he had experienced. Then it hit him resounding clarity: “Bombay”.
Walking the streets of Bombay, now called “Mumbai” for reasons that were clear to no one, Duke was astonished to see entire families living in filth on the streets. He read a tourist guide given to him by the hotel concierge: “Bombay was known under colonial rule as ‘The Queen’s Necklace’.” If that’s the case, thought Duke, then clearly the king did not go to Jared.
He recalled the time he and his wife had read the Kama Sutra. It was so complicated they had to call Bombay to get technical support. “Thank God for speakerphones” he thought.
My Checkered Past
I grew up in the deepest jungles of Brazil. A rebellious teenager, one day I came home from school without the ritualistic bone in my nose. My father was furious and really let me have it: “As long as you’re living in my thatched hut you’ll wear a bone in your nose! We’re having our family picture taken today so take off that ridiculous suit and tie and strap a leaf between your legs. You look ridiculous!”
In college I majored in advertising and soon was able to land a job with a small firm in the heart of the Amazon. It was fun at first, dreaming up winning campaigns for dreamers, mostly smalltime entrepreneurs. But then we landed a big fish – Viagra – and all the creative joy was gone. The couple sitting in bathtubs on the beach sharing a bottle of champagne? That was mine. I was desperate to come up with an idea that would get me fired but nothing seemed beyond the pale as far as Viagra was concerned. I was finally fired after developing a two-page pop-up ad. I exited the building with a severance package that consisted of two weeks’ salary and a piece of biscotti and never looked back.
With my father’s help I landed a job as wine critic for Popular Mechanics magazine. I was utterly unqualified – to this day I am unable to distinguish a red from a white. I did, however, learn to appreciate any wine with possessing notes of buttered toast, an aftertaste of pomegranate and the ability to get me drunk in under 20 minutes.
From there I landed a job at a men’s big-and-tall clothing store. At 5’5″, I was hired, in my bosses’ words, to loiter around the store and “make customers feel big and tall”. A kind and gentle man, he would nonetheless point me out to customers and say “Hey look – Pinoccio is a real boy!” I quit when I realized I was unable to trigger the electronic eye above the urinal in the break room. I tried everything to make that damn thing flush: stand on my toes, wave my arms above my head, jump up and down – the whole shebang. Ultimately I had to ask help from my co-workers: “Hey Bob, would you give me a hand over here? Hey! Where are you going?! Come back – you didn’t wash your hands!”
Most of the jobs I’ve been worth a nickel at tend to exploit my diminutive physique. I’ve been a jockey, a chimney sweep and once, in Cleveland, I was used to prop up the short leg of stool. When times were hard I always found work assembling those sailboats inside the those little bottles.
I was happy just dime dancing around the country. Then I up and married my landlord. That my wife not only continued to charge me rent but refused to replace the squeaky hinge on the screen door was no small source of friction between us. One night, feeling frisky, I was put a move on her in bed and she said “It’s that time of the month”. Given that she was both my landlord and my wife, this was fraught with meaning. But what did it mean? I decided that the safest way to proceed was to give her a thousand bucks in cash and slowly back out of the room. She still writes me every Arbor Day.
It was exhilarating to be single again. For a while there seemed to be sex available around every corner and even, sometimes, at the end of long hallways. In Denver I fell in love with a beautiful prostitute, Helen, whose innate modesty caused her to rebuff my sexual advances “until we’re married”. I thought about paying for it but it was just too degrading. One night we got into a screaming match over the proper use of “suffice” – she insisting that “suffice to say” was correct while I knew from my days in advertising that the correct use is “suffice it to say”. She calls me each year on my birthday, although to this day she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that I was right.