Dad piece continued

Performance piece I am working on:

I am not a political comic.   I try not get into it on stage.  It intices others to spout out their opinion and I don’t really give a shit about your opinion.  Just being honest.  My dad calls me right after this last inauguration and is like, “Guess “Wvhat?”

What?”

“Wve made it!”

“Made what?”

Wve got elected!”

“Dad, what are you talking about? You don’t even vote.”

“They finally let someone like us in vwhite house!”

“Someone like us?  Obama’s nether neither Russian nor Jewish.  What the hell are you talking about?”

“They finally let someone like us, of color, into the vwhite house!”

“Dad we are pale, Russian-Jews.  If anything, we are the opposite of being people of color; we are the people of no color.  Some people tan, we ignite.”

What I should explain.  What a lot of people don’t know about me is my father is black.  At least he thinks he is.  He is like Steve Martin in the movie The Jerk.  Where Steve Martin is raised by a black family and constantly gets defensive over his blackness.  He is the only person who watched the movie Airplane and thought it was a documentary. 

He dresses like a white, bald-Sinbad circa 1991 at all times.  He is best known for his neon squiggle MCHammer-pants, random mid-90s hardcore gangster rap quotes and the fact that he has worked out at the Broadway boxing gym in South Central for nearly 30 years.  LLCool J never sounded better than when sang by my dad with a Russian accent, “DZOing it and Dzooing and Dzooing it vell.”  I know, it makes me want to vomit too.

My father is the only white, 5’7 and ¼ inch tall Jew that was in the middle of the LA riots for no actual reason.  My father is at some random liquor store in the middle of South Central purchasing his cigarette of choice, (the following must be said with a Russian accent, focus on the R) Benson Ultra-Lights.  There is a some black dude working the counter who thoughtfully tells him, “Honkey, you need to get the fuck out of here, it’s not safe for you.”

            Good old dad doesn’t miss a beat and says “Honkey? Where?”

            My dad would make me go with him to the boxing gym in South Central often as a kid.  On the way there here would chain smoke during the car ride with the windows closed cause that’s what people did then.  When I would cough or complain he would say, “Wvee don’t like pussies.”

            We apparently don’t like our lungs either.

           

            At the gym I would not be allowed to workout with my father.  Mainly cause he didn’t want to have to pay for me.  No Jew jokes needed here.  I would spend the next 3 hours watching him as a non-black person use the N-word and hiphop terminology incorrectly to other men over compensating for their short comings.  Essentially I thought we would get shot there which never happened.  I think he thought he was the Notorious BIG, more like the Notorious BALD.

My father grew up in the former Soviet Union.  Like most immigrant parents he would try to use American expressions but would mess them up.  As a kid I got picked on a lot.  I was fat then.  I was so fat that I was eating Gilbert Grape.  I was one of those kids.  I would told my dad about the girl in line at recess who would constantly tease me, yelling ,“Yuri ever thought of Buns of Steel?”

My dad would pat me on the back, look me straight in the eyes and say, “Yura Move your head I’m vatching Tyson… “

From 1989-97 to my father Mike Tyson was his idol.

“Hand me my Benson Ultra-Lights! (Cough) Zthey aRRn’t laughing vith you, zhtey are laughing at you.” He would then light his cigarette and make me watch boxing with him.

My father would make me watch boxing all the time.  He still does.  As a kid I hated it.  This was his way of ensuring I wouldn’t come out gay.  He figured I would learn everything necessary to be a man from watching muscled, sweaty guys duke it out, round after round.   That’s like making a fat person watch the food network and then asking them how their diet is going.  Point is, at around 14 I realized that boxing was something both of us could enjoy but for very different reasons, if you get what I’m saying…  I spent a lot of time at that age pretending to have diarrhea as a result.

After I had been doing standup for a few months, my father decided to come to one of my comedy shows.  My father’s only references for comedy were black comics from the 70s and 80s.  When I told him I this was the career for me he was like, “You sthink you funnier then J.J. Walker, you know Dynomite?”

I’m in a long line up of comics and because I am amazing, I am number 20 of 30.  The host of the show is this nice black comic.  Every time he gets off the stage my father can’t help himself and mumbles, “he no Pryor.”

He does this 20 some odd times. 

“Brother, no Pryor.”

Keep in mind that since he thinks he’s black, he likes to hold true to the stereotype so EVERYONE, including the host can hear him.  As I walk on stage to do my 7-minutes, I am constantly looking his direction.  It’s like watching a child hoping he won’t act up.  Everything is good.  He is quiet.  I get my first laugh.  I forget my father is there.  I tell my big closer joke which gets an okay reception.  All is well.  As I put the mic back into it’s stand, I hear what sounds like a dog.  I quickly realize it’s my dad.  He has one arm flailing in the air.  He seems to think he’s on the Arsenic hall show.  Mind you, that show has been off the air for at least 16 years by this point.  He stands up takes his disposable camera winds it, snaps a photo and starts clapping.  He is the only person standing so it’s awkward.

I walk off the stage, straight to my dad who already has his cigarette and lighter ready to get out of the building.  He gives me a hug, leans in and whispers, “You good, but no JJ Walker.”