I'd Be Happy to Serve You

Everyone has difficult periods in life. Everyone. To say that any tough period I went through is more important than anyone else's would be ridiculous... there's a lot of bad shit going on out there. BUT... during hard times it does seem like I've got it harder than anyone else on earth, even if it's not all that bad.

To tell you the truth, that whole last part could easily be edited down to about five words. Freshman Year in High School.

So, it was Freshman Year in High School and like most of us I was a loser. I don't know what it was, really. I spent the first through eighth grades tearing up classrooms like they were my own personal comedy club. Somehow, I even ended up eighth grade class president. And I was the least qualified person for the job. (Sorry Margaret Farr.) In the ninth grade everything changed. Most of the girls became women and all that anyone seemed to care about was drinking and sports. (I'm sure sex was involved to but I wasn't really privy to that.)

Here is the list of things I concerned myself with, in order of importance: Saturday Night Live. Getting on Saturday Night Live. Comic Strip Live. Trying not to embarrass myself in School i.e. not talking. Movies, particularly of the "Horror" or "Comedy" genre. And Jim Carrey...

One thing I really loved to do, though, was dance. I'd dance at any opportunity. And I tried to connect with kids in my school by going to school dances. The problem was that most kids at Matignon, where I went, thought they were to cool for the dances. I danced like a maniac anyway. There was music. I had to. Regardless of my dancing skills, by my account I had little to no friends at Matignon.

A fact that may have been remedied one bright and sunny day when our little school was visited by an unknown Danish rap star by the name of Lucas. Lucas was promoting his new album by touring High Schools throughout the U.S. There was something mentioned about how he was a smash hit in England and was poised to be HUGE in America. How he planned to do it by stopping in to entertain our little High School, I have no idea.


We filed into the auditorium and Lucas was on-stage. Now, upon first glance, most of the kids in school were unimpressed that this guy was any kind of deal, let alone a star. It took some convincing. Let's just say, Lucas was met with hesitancy. At first. After all, most of us had been caught up in that Vanilla Ice controversy that had happened a few years previously. Myself chief among them. (Check the list of casualties in the War on Vanilla Ice. I'm under W.) Here we were, filing into our little auditorium, with smirks on our faces because we were to be entertained by a "White" rapper. The gall on us. Straight up Racism. Public Enemy would be pissed... or would they?

Lucas had traveled, from the Good Lord knows where, merely for our entertainment and he was met by the icy stares of a couple of hundred spoiled, catholic teenagers. Collective arms crossed and shitty, snide remarks were loosely flying around the room. The dank smell of our old auditorium was muffled by the musky stench of our teenage superiority. The opposite of teen spirit. There were a few defectors... the rebels. How I envy them.

Lucas is introduced by a teacher -hardly a warm-up act- and after a few quick, foreign accent sounding words from Lucas about how he's happy to be in our school and thanks for having him he rips into a track... My memory is a little fuzzy on this part but he's rapping and he's got dancers on-stage with him. He had an act. Which is great. I remember a few people dancing in their seats. One kid in particular, Paul, was waving his hands in the air and hip-hop-rockin' it from his seat. I think I took his cue at some point and started to dance in my chair. Anyway, kids weren't really gettin' down to much. Some were though. But as Lucas continued and went from track to track everyone started to loosen up.

It's important to note that Lucas was dancing all over the place. His dancers could move too. They put on a great show. Everyone on-stage was working hard to entertain and their hard work was paying off because, as a whole, we had gone from "cool as ice" to "Lambada: The Forbidden Dance." I believe Lucas may have had a couple of new fans. Each song flowed nicer than the last and before Lucas reached his crescendo he started inviting kids up to the stage to dance. Waving his arms, he yelled, "Come on! Get up here and Dance." Everyone was reluctant, of course, but then he came down the stairs of the stage and dragged a girl out of her seat... and kids started to jump up. As catholics we usually need that kind of encouragement.

A few kids started to jump up out of their seats and run towards the stage. Mostly goof balls and hams... the outgoing kids... the kids I wanted to be... The kid I knew I was but always held myself back from being. And do you know what? I jumped up too. I have no idea what I was thinking. I remember being really scared. The worst kind of stage fright, all the while running towards the stage. And I had to enter by a staircase that was right in the middle of the stage too. So, everyone could see me running up this semi-steep set of stairs. There was no hiding. As I got to the stage I looked around and I immediately noticed that there were a lot less people up there than I had previously thought. I was one of only seven or eight kids. That's it. Or so it felt.

What happened was: all of the kids stood in a line towards the back of the stage. The line started with the most eager kids at center stage and went straight across the stage to where I was standing: half on-stage, half in the wing... Lucas was still trying to get people up on-stage while we were standing behind him, dancing. Well, everyone was dancing but me. I was kind of bobbing. Once Lucas was satisfied that he wasn't going to get anyone else up he spun around and started interacting with the kids he HAD coaxed up there. He bounced over to center stage and started to encourage the kids dancing there. He'd shout, "Come ON! MAN" and "YEAH!" to the music. And much to my horror he started to make his way down the line to where I was lightly bobbing my head. Seven or eight or nine people away, mostly obscured by the school's green curtain, I was doing my best not to be seen and wishing I hadn't come into school that day. This was turning into a nightmare, quick.

Lucas, as he was connecting with the kids and getting down in line, he was moving across the stage in my direction. At one point, when he was still a good five or six people away he must have caught my hesitancy in his peripheral vision. He turned and looked at me dead in the eye and said, into the microphone, "come on, man, what're you scared to dance?" And, no shit, I turned (Jason Bourne style) and headed off-stage right. I knew there was an exit door to be found and also, if necessary, a staircase down to the lunch room backstage. I was ready to be free of this terror. Fast.

As I was making my exit Lucas said, "Awww, C'mon, man... Where are you going?" And a kid at the end of the line, next to me, grabbed my arms and started to pull me towards the center of the stage. Then the kid next to him joined in and went behind me to try to push me... I started to fight the kid pulling me and get my hands free. The kids let me go but one kid got to the end of the stage and was standing in front of me. blocking my exit. The crowd was going NUTS.

I could hear people laughing and booing above the music. And the music was loud. All of this happened in a mere matter of seconds. As I tugged my arms free of one kid and made my way towards the edge of the stage, Lucas was rightfully chiding me about my exit plan. As I was facing the lone kid who wasn't going to let me leave I was struck by a crazy notion: if these people wanted dancing then I'D SHOW THEM DANCING.

So, as I made my exit toward the side of the stage... I waited for the kid to put his hands up and push me back towards the center of the stage. Once he did that I used his push to execute one of the sweetest dance moves I know. Perhaps you may have seen it. It's a real beaut. (I used his leverage like Steven Segal will use his opponent's leverage to break their own hands and then stab them in the eye with their broken finger bones.) I go into a fall where it looks like I'm going to smash a knee and then I turn it into a spin move where I come around in a whirl. It's fluid and fast. Some real "Michael Jackson level" stuff. Then I bounce up and start hammering Lucas with some amazing moves. He was completely stunned, as was the audience- my entire High School- but the music kept playing and Lucas kept dancing. So, then he tries to take it to the kid to try and show me a thing or two. I come right back at him. Now, we're pretty much housing. Going back and forth, one after the other, from our respective sides of the stage. It was out of control.

Everyone was completely surprised. The kids were going crazy and Lucas lost his mind. When it was finally all over he gave me a high five and a handshake before I went back to my seat. I got pats on the back all the way out of the assembly. Even after I was at my locker and quickly on my way out the door everyone was telling me how much my dancing had kicked ass... but I didn't know what to say. I was embarrassed. I couldn't take the attention. It really was an interesting day at school. I'm sure it was one of the few times people could use the phrase, "but he was so quiet" and not be referring to a serial killer. I got to show off one of the things I did best...

After that, I kept my eyes open for Lucas. Bought his albums. And a few years later he came out with a really cool song titled, "Lucas With The Lid Off." His one major hit. I put a link to his video above. The video is by Michel Gondry. I suggest you watch it. Although, it doesn't showcase his dancing any. Which is a shame because Lucas was a great dancer. He had a lot of moves. But he should have brushed up. Because on that bright and sunny day in Cambridge, Massachusetts... inside of a tiny auditorium, tucked away in a little building by the name of Matignon High School, I danced that muthafucka back to Denmark.
-Chris

The Unposted

I've decided to put up all of the posts that I haven't previously posted. These are all posts that, for whatever reason, never got posted in the past. Some of them are meager. For whatever reason all have never been finished. If you happen to like one, or many, please let me know. I'd be glad to give it another whack. I'm doing this to spite myself. I could use the encouragement... or the guilt.

Titles are in bold. Comments are in italics.

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I'd love to do New Orleans Justice. I was really hoping that writing about New Orleans would turn me into a Hunter S. Thompson like legend. As you can see I wasn't even able to get a blog up on it's feet. this one crawls along at about three paragraphs and a shitty picture of Tom's plane landing. Some day I'll finish this one. It deserves time and effort. The short of it is: we were completely wasted the whole time and I took a ton of pictures of my awesome, drunk friend while trying to stay alive. I got my ass kicked in New Orleans. I'm, seriously, lucky to be alive after that one...

New Orleans: Old Friends, New Enemies (4/20/07)
The Following posts cover four fiendish days in New Orleans. Time well spent with one of our closest, funniest friends. A one Mr. "Big Thomas" Dustin. There are many scoundrels on this large planet but there is only one Tom Dustin.

On Monday March 9th at 4:15 AM David and I departed our parents house and quickly ran over a dog sized racoon. THUMP. David, "What was that?" Me, "Racoon... zzzzz." I quickly went to sleep. (It's a condition I have. Killing animals, for some reason, makes me sleep like a baby.) # of miles from our Parent's house in Florida to The Big Sleazy? Roughly 700. I slept most of the way. (We killed a lot of animals.)

We finally arrived in New Orleans at around 1pm and made our way to the airport because that was the, same exact, time that Big Tom was scheduled to arrive. We happened to pull into the airport just as Tom’s plane landed...















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To be completely honest with you there's nothing I would rather do than blog about my experiences in Scotland last summer. I could make your eyes bleed with the tales. It would be great therapy and I imagine I've learned a lot from that trip. The problem is I've buried it deep within my soul and this post never got finished because I, no shit, started to get physically ill while trying to write about said experiences. I used to think I was well balanced... Edinburgh changed that and my sanity. "One and the same thing?" Pshaw!

There were some great things that happened there. There's a picture in this one that was part of what I love about life and someday I'll finish what I began. I do believe we came as close to seeing a person get possessed as anyone ever has on this trip and it happened shortly after I took that picture...

Enter These Haunted Halls (8/26/07)
I promised myself I'd blog when we got to Edinburgh and it's a promise I never kept. Hopefully I can disprove the old adage, "too little, too late." The time I spent in Scotland was one of the hardest months of my life and definitely the most difficult experience of my comedy career to date. As I sit here now, the recollection is difficult. My curse is having the memory of an elephant.















"Why such a bad time?" You ask. A combination of many things. Terrible shows chief among them. Don't get me wrong, there were plenty 'o great times to be had. And we had 'em. I just wish we were received better. From what I hear it's always difficult on your first visit, especially for American performers, and blah, blah, blah... Chalk it all up. The end result was one of the most grueling learning experiences one could ever hope to have.

Now, I'd like to go into great detail about everything that went on overseas but my posts have been entirely too long lately. So, this one'll be brief.

Gather round everybody and listen to these Haunted Tales.















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I took a trip to Vegas with my parents on Thanksgiving and I had a better time than I ever thought I would. I came to a lot of realizations. For one, I realized that I care more for slot machines than I ever thought was possible. I care an unreasonable amount for them, it turns out. I also, direly, wanted to make a comparison between Egypt's Pyramid and our Pyramid. One fact I learned in my research is that our Pyramid is the owner the most powerful light on earth, while their Pyramid is still larger than ours...


Pyramids (12/6/07)
Not long ago I took a trip with my Mom and Dad to Las Vegas. Two weeks ago to be exact. It was a great time. Much better than I expected. I'll tell you all about it but not now... I haven't the time. There was one thing, though, that caught my eye and tickled my fancy. They've got a pyramid. Can you believe that? I know that everybody knows but I love that we're still building pyramids. I think it's great.

Old Khufu the King would marvel at our pyramid...













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This post was supposed to be about how I won the Reggie Lewis essay contest and got to shoot free throws at half-time at a Celtics game when I was a sophomore... The problem is my description is longer than the post.

Free Throws (1/05/08)
I'm not a huge sportsfan. I guess I'd consider myself to be more of a movie guy or a

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Again, I think I just lost it on this one. I wanted so badly to write about my sadness but I couldn't do it. If I made a video blog of me crying about the Patriots loss I'm sure I would've gotten 2 million hits... and every comment would've been about how much of a "pussy" or "fag" I am.

Becoming A New England Patriots Fan (2/5/08)
I woke up in Phoenix with a hangover, wearing the same Patriots sweatshirt I fell asleep in the night before. The previous night a haze of mixed emotions. Mostly shades of blue. Everyone knows the Pats lost but few know that less than ten minutes after their defeat I suffered another, larger, more personal one. I lost my notebook. Probably the hardest thing to conceive of in my overly-active imagination. A most unkind fate.

I awoke with a sadness that was unexpected. I'm chalking it up to residual effects of the alcohol mind-numbing I submitted myself to. I wasn't prepared to feel so bad. In seasons past I've never been invested as much as this season. It has less to do with an unstoppable Offense than the fact that I've moved Three Thousand Miles from home. I'm not one of those "rub winning in everyone else's face" kind of fan. Watching makes me feel close to home. It's just nice. So, my brother decided we should take a drive to Arizona to spend the Super Bowl right where it was being played. It's a Historic occasion. So, that's exactly what we did.

We had some friends in from Charlestown and they were staying at a Hotel right next to University of Phoenix Stadium, where the game was going on. Theres also a third friend
who's a minor celebrity and now helps promote parties for high profile companies. So, that's how we found ourselves watching the dreams of our Patriots get crushed, in a tent, in the middle of Scotsdale, Arizona.

There was a moment where I had to give it to them, though. The Giants, the Giants' fans. The Patriots sucked. They choked. No disrespect to Brady and the gang but they didn't deserve to win and life is good that way. I'm sad that they lost. More sad than I thought I'd be. But it's good to see a victory go to a team that deserves to win sometimes. And to tell you the truth, I smiled at the reaction the Giants' fans had when they won. Don't get me wrong, I was crushed, but there's just something infectious to seeing grown A-dults cheer and hug and jump up and down. It's hard for me to be unhappy when other people are sooo Happy. That's why I do comedy.

When the thought above struck me I felt the familiar urge to draw my pen and whip out my notebook and that's when I noticed it was gone. Everything came crashing down. It's a dreadful feeling. The same as having your car stolen. (I've been there too.) I only had four six pockets and I kept checking them over and over again. To no avail. I could pull neither a notebook nor a Patirots win out of my sweatshirt...

I pushed past the initial shock, bought my friend James a round (he's a Giants fan) and wrote my thoughts down in- my new notebook- a bar knapkin. As the night wore on we drank a lot more and there was live entertainment in the tent. Some of the worst bands and rappers I've ever seen. I was prepaired to leave even though I had no idea where I was or would be going. That's exactly what happened when my buddy James' friends arrived.

Luckily, the notebook was recovered (from the Lincoln Towncar that we had taken from the Hotel our friends were staying at in Phoenix)

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This is the Post that made me come up with the idea to post all of the other ideas. Would you rather have me rant about how great Stephen King is? We all know that he's a National effin' Treasure... Right? Read the Dark Tower. You'll see.

Stephen King is Our Shakespeare (Tonight)
You're Fuckin A right he is! And I'll take Stephen King over Shakespeare any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Consider, for one second, what authors they made us read in High School. Who did we have to...

-Chris

Staying up Late

It's 4:23 Los Angeles time or 3:23, or however you care to look at it, as I write this and who knows what time it'll be when I finish. It's been a while since I've written one of these darned things and well... you get the drill. I was just about to pack it up for the night when I was struck by a couple of things. Minor observations, some of them paradoxical thoughts...

The first is that I was talking to my mom earlier to day and she asked me if I'd been getting to bed late. I then was asked the same question, round about 12:30 am, by a friend... In my conversation with my mom she spoke about how she'd been reading my blog and remarked on how I hadn't written in a while. I mean to, mom, I really do.

Now, I was just about to hit the sack and the thought struck me. I don't like going to bed. Although, I do LOVE to dream. Now I'm hit with another remembrance of a conversation I had earlier with, yet, another friend about vivid and lucid dreams. All of these points brought up by other people.

I tend to go to bed really late and wake up really late as well. I don't, for whatever reason, like going to bed. I don't want to miss anything... the problem is that my dreams are so real. Sometimes I wake up sad because I miss my dream reality. In some dreams I can fly. Do you have any idea what it feels like to really fly and then find out that you're grounded in reality? I guess that feeling has something to do with proprioception.

So, I fly in my sleep. While sleeping, in reality: I also talk, walk, and the scary thing is that I sometimes fight in my sleep. I've woken up on top of my bed or in the middle of my room ready to fight imaginary enemies before... It's scary because when I wake up I usually feel dazed and then embarassed or ashamed for not knowing where I am. It's weird.

Needless to say but I'll say it anyway, I am not a morning person. I try to be but I'm a Grump. What a great word for how I feel sometimes. I wake up and I'm not happy. I suppose you can say that this may have had a full hand in why I chose to become a person who works at night. The morning time is the lowest part of my day. You think that'd be the inverse... but sometimes I just wake up sad and I have to spend a good deal of time fighting it off. Maybe that's what I'm trying to punch away when I awake in the middle of my room.

I blame my dreams... perhaps my sadness is just Freddy Kruger being subtle. I don't know what he wants from me. My parents weren't involved in that mess... right mom?

Sometimes, when I think of it, I view my dreams as another reality where nothing is ever the same... and when you think of it doesn't it seem as though that would be the perfect alternate reality to this one? My immediate plan is to get a notebook and keep a dream journal. Mayhaps it'll be one of those flip-top ones that reporters and detectives use so I can further investigate this other reality. If I come up with anything good I'll report back to you, here. If I don't come back with anything... well, I guess it's because I've dissappeared into that other, cooler reality. It's 5:01 now,
or then,
Chris

Before I go: I used to tell my mom, when I was little, how sleeping is like time travelling. If you stay awake the night takes longer to turn into morning but when you sleep it seems like only a few moments have passed. So by staying awake you're actually living longer... I don't know what that means but even as a youngster I sounded like a raving lunatic. It's late... I have to get to bed.