Not too long ago I was lucky enough to perform at the Comedy Store. This was the first time I performed in LA and the first time my father would see me do standup. Most comics, I assume would afraid of how their parents would handle their material because presumably it is within the nature of a good comic to push the envelope as much as possible. For me, this was more of a secondary issue really. I have never been one for censoring myself around anyone, especially my parents. I would rather put all the cards on the table so to speak. My worry was more in the fact that my dad has always had a way of embarrassing me. This is why, before the show I asked him to behave. I asked in the same way that a mother would ask a five-year old child to be on their best behavior. While my dad is a man in his 50s and one would assume that he would be filled with wisdom and life experience, he recently was spotted wearing MC Hammer pants. For this reason, his judgment must be questioned at all times.
My father has always been a peculiar man. As a young child, I often hoped that like the kids in many late 80s after school specials, I hoped that I would eventually find out that I was adopted. I at the least hoped that my mother had a secret affair with some celebrity but was given hush money as to not ruin their career. Ideally, I for some reason hoped that my father was someone cool like Bob Saget, or JR Ewing's hot son, I loved Dallas as a child (proof that no one chooses to be gay). Unfortunately, I never saw signs of money anywhere in our house. My favorite toy as a small child was a cardboard box that I used to pretend was a space ship to take me to the planet Evie from "Out of this World" was from. I would quietly pass my mother little drawings at the dinner table asking for a paternity test. Unfortunately, she would always just smile and pretend she understood even though she clearly didn't understand my 6-year old doodle-cartoon of us on Sally Jesse Raphael finding out the truth. She would just tell me that the ghost buster looked very nice as she would plop some more food on my plate. I would shake my head quietly and gobble down the rest of my hot dogs, ketchup and mashed potatoes, because my family is Russian and my mother was a horrible cook and call it a day. As I got older I realized that I kind of looked like my father in question even though I had a full head of hair. I eventually developed a love-hate soft spot for him.
A little background, my father, like most Russian men and Wayne Brady, has always thought he was black. He has always seen himself as a body builder/boxer. Like any Russian, he always saw himself as a health-fitness-enthusiet. In this fashion, he would start every workout with a pack of Benson Ultra-Lights, which he would finish off with a whey shake and some stuffed cabbage. Since the mid-80s he has worked out at a boxing gym in the middle of Compton, because, that apparently was the calling for a 5'7 and 3/4 inch tall Jewish man. He was the only white, Jew in the middle of the LA riots for no apparent reason. He claimed it was because he needed cigarettes. When I was 7, he biked marks on his shaved head to look like his idol Mike Tyson and when I was in 6th grade he bought the sound track to "Gangsta's Paradise" because he claimed that Coolio was the "shizot." In the modern day, if he still had hair, he would have a flat-top circa 1988. Does that paint a picture of the man who has claimed to be my father all these years?
In 2010 he was the only man still quoting Coolio and leaving me messages, "Yuri, call me, Gotta get up get down."
Even Coolio stopped quoting himself by the year 2010.
Growing up with a Russian/Wigger father has proved interesting. As a child, when I would come home upset because kids would make fun of me and my head was too large for my body my dad would try to make me feel better by consoling me. He would try to use American expressions, but then mix them up. He would take this one step further though and then gangsta' it up.
As I would be crying he would say (with a Russian accent) , "Yuri... hand me my Benson Ultra- Lights.... They aren't laughing with you, they are laughing at you."
I would be confused at this point and crying harder as I would start to drowned my sorrows in a large bowl of ice cream. This is because food is love and whoever said otherwise wasn't raised by Jews.
My dad would then ad this statement. "And don't worry you young blood, we can have them rubbed out." He also thought he was in the mafia.
So, at my recent show, as my dad sat down in his DMC shirt, and "In Living Color" white pants with neon squiggles on them he seemed calm and behaved. The host of the show was a funny, racist black comedian that was mediocrely funny. Three minutes into this guy's set, my dad started to whisper, "this guy is no Eddie Murphy." The thing was, that everyone could hear him including the comedian. And really? Eddie Murphy? What the hell did that mean? Was he saying that the comedian had lost his funny, now sold out and doing crappy movies? My dad did this every 5 minutes for the next hour until I got to the stage.
When I was performing he remained behaved. I was amazed and proud. As I closed my set, the host came up and shook my hand, then my dad got up. He was the only person standing.
He then yelled, "my brotha stand there and let me take a photo of you too."
The audience was confused and after giggling were silent. Now that they maintained a deathly silence of confusion and my dad stapped the photo, my father did it, he started to howl like a dog with his arms in the air. He for some reason thought he was on Arsinio Hall. As I walked off the stage I came up to him and gave him a hug to get him quiet. People clapped because they were confused by the whole situation as was I.
My dad then leaned into my ear and whispered, "I'm very proud of you. But the guy on stage is no Sinbad." It was odd.
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