I Remember Harry Houdini

When I was ten, my parents allowed me to make my first real life decision.

We were moving again, leaving Milwaukee and heading north to Appleton, WI. Gainful employment awaited my father at a local hospital, where he was going to work in something along the lines of administrative training.

The decision to be made was what grade to place me in at school. When I was in kindergarten--many years and cities previous--my mother stopped by the classroom one day and discovered me sitting inside my flip-top desk, playing with Hot Wheels cars while the rest of the students were doing reading assignments. Asking the teacher why I was allowed to fuck around and not pay attention, she was told I was already above and beyond the rest of the class in the language arts department, and thus was given "extra free time." Not wanting her son to miss out on any opportunities, my mother arranged for me to travel from kindergarten into 2nd grade during the reading portion of class.

Switching classrooms was un-nerving for my wee sensibilities, and on my first day, when everyone was ushered onto the floor and into a sitting-circle to read, I was so nervous I eventually peed myself. Not knowing anyone had intimidated me into trying to hold it instead of asking for a bathroom pass. I had been lying on the floor, pressing my little hips down as hard as possible in order to try and create a pressure that would hold the urine in, which of course that didn't work. A trickle became a torrent, and soon I was soaking in a puddle of my own piddle, with my clothes absorbing it like Bounty and creating a nice wet spot from nipples to knees across my front.

Though that auspicious beginning should have been the end of my days of advancement, instead I began being bumped up entire grades. In 3rd grade I was moved forward two levels, so when the time came to move to Appleton I was technically ready to enter what was known back then as Junior High. I would have been ten and entering 7th grade.

My parents were split on the issue. I was very young and would easily be the smallest child, and therefore the largest target, there. Even the un-cool kids would be able to vent their hormonal frustrations onto me. But, as I had already completed the grades others my age were attending, why would I mingle among them a second time? After discussing it heatedly amongst themselves and coming to no conclusion, I was asked what I wanted to do: enter 5th grade and be around kids my own age, enter 6th grade and be slightly younger but mostly compatible with those around me, or venture onward into a Doogie Howser future of academics and angst. I've no idea why I chose the way I did, but I opted to start all over and mingle with my peers in the 5th grade of Franklin Elementary. Maybe I was shooting myself in the academic foot, maybe it was explained to me that I would find the easiest assimilation there, but whatever the reason the outcome remained: I would be repeating two grades, thankfully without the stigma of having been held back.

Arriving in Appleton, the biggest shock to my system was the small-town societal psyches. In Milwaukee, I had been a minority in the next-door-to-inner city; in Appleton, all was white. With isolation, then, came fear and judgment. Even among those at my young age were racial epitaphs being tossed about with a surprising casual nature. I was confused; here everyone was complaining about "niggers," when there weren't even any black people in town. As a child, I had no idea what impact media portrayal played on a people's beliefs. If you have no interaction with a race, religion or sexual orientation, yet are exposed through your television set to either gross stereotypes or only the most negative of events, you will form a perception based not in truth, but limited exposure. Thus you will consider yourself aware while remaining utterly ignorant, an interesting irony.

Donna White had been my first schoolyard crush, back at the 38th St. School in Milwaukee. A cute little blonde, she taught me the importance of athleticism and alpha male attitude by favoring David Sutphen over me. David was going to be the next Pele, where I was, well, not. Learning from this rejection, after moving to Appleton and discovering Melanie Marceau, who became my second classroom crush, I quickly signed up to play soccer that I might impress her. Unfortunately, soccer wasn't exactly as popular in Appleton as it had been in Milwaukee. Sadly, I was reaching for the low rung on the jock-oriented totem pole. Even worse, upon first meeting Melanie I believe I said in the worst French accent possible, "Ah, Marceau, eh?" and pantomimed a bit, probably the "I'm in a box" routine. At the time, I took her look to suggest she heard the bit all too often, but I'd go on record today and guess she had no idea who Marcel Marceau was and that she simply thought me a freak.

Over the course of the school year, though, I wore Melanie down and in summer actually got her to go on one date with me. It was, in fact, my first date ever, and it was every bit as lovely and awkwardly embarrassing as first dates are supposed to be. My mom drove me to Melanie's house, where I got in the back of the car and she sat up front. The two women then chatted happily while I did my best not to die of mortification. Having mom there was bad enough. Having my date enjoying her company was a fate worse than karaoke with your co-workers. Your boss might think he can sing, but no, no he cannot.

(Like Kanye West when his voice synth is turned off).

In my mind, I wanted to be driving. It would have been so cool had I at my young age been able to roll up all on my own. Melanie would have been so impressed, she probably would have let me get all the way to second base, which for an eleven-year-old boy meant rubbing a girl whose chest was the same curvature as my own.

To make matters worse, my mom had to buy the tickets for my mid-day matinee; the theater wouldn't sell seats to such young kids. No idiot I, I wanted to take Melanie to a scary movie, one I had just seen and knew would startle her right into my waiting arms. The previous weekend, my mom had taken the family to the theater, but had done so without researching exactly what it was she wanted everyone see. There was a blockbuster of epic proportions currently running riot across the country, a family friendly crowd-pleaser that was getting great reviews and selling out theaters everywhere. Approaching the ticket booth with her husband, son and six-year-old daughter, my mom told the teen ticket clerk she needed "Two adults and two children for the new Speilberg film she'd heard about." Well, this was enough for any teen with a sense of humor to send us into the horror movie Mr. Steven had just produced. The woman hadn't, after all, said, "the movie Speilberg directed."

It wasn't until the paranormal researcher began tearing his own face off in a bathroom did my mom ultimately understand we were seeing the wrong movie. As quickly and quietly as she could, she escorted my terrified and crying sister out of Poltergeist and into the lobby. My dad and I refused to budge, however, and remained and had a dandy of a time.

The next day, three of us returned--my dad had had enough of the movies for one weekend--and tickets to E.T. were purchased. It was near sold out by the time we arrived, and we could only find two seats together. Mom and sister took them, leaving me to my own devices. Now, the funny thing about embarrassment is, it's something we generally do to ourselves. As I was sitting all alone, there was no way for anyone in the packed theater to know I was my mother's son; any actions of mine would in no way reflect her, sitting rows away with her daughter. Yet at the movies climax, as E.T. withered away and several hundred people started crying, a laugh rose above the sniffled din, and my mother began to grow beet red.

"It's a goddamn puppet and a contrived scene!" I would have yelled had I known what emotional manipulation was. I simply understood I was being toyed with, and I wanted nothing to do with it. As the puppet "died," and hoards of people blew their runny noses and wiped teary eyes, I laughed harder and harder, to the point I almost peed myself like it was second grade reading period.

So the allure of E.T. was lost on me, as was the fun of Poltergeist on my mom. Sadly, when it came to my first date, as Melanie was female, she enjoyed neither the scary movie nor my company. Melanie Marceau was my first date, but that one moment was also our last. Nichole Bouvery was my second Appleton crush, but she never even deemed do dine with me a single time. Oddly enough, I cannot recall the name of the one who did become my first girlfriend, which happened in Appleton in 6th grade. I can remember her brown hair, blue eyes and spotted freckles, but no name rushes to the forefront of my memory. It's funny how failure and rejection remains ingrained, while success fades with time.

Soccer having been a poor choice of "cool" sports, as the days grew short and winter entered into the Northern Wisconsin town, basketball became my next attempt to attract women. I remember playing one game, for about one minute, and shooting one basket for two points. Beyond that I was a benchwarmer. Being new to the sport meant I wasn't all that good at it, so I practiced, and practiced often. Even in the cold outdoors of lunch and recess, when we were supposed to run around to create warmth, if no snow was on the ground I'd be on the outdoor court performing shooting drills. This ultimately led to my demise. One winter day, I threw the ball through the air, and like most of my shots it was well off the mark. The basketball lodged itself between the rim and the backboard, leaving me to climb up and knock it free. Unable to retain a grip while wearing gloves, I barehanded it up the cold metal piping and reached for the stuck sphere. Dislodging the ball was easy enough; getting down was not. While my original plan had been to simply let go and fall to the ground, I had not anticipated my bare skin freezing lightly to the pole, making my dismount ungraceful to even the most forgiving judge. Instead of descending feet forward, I managed to somehow pull my hand back in alarm, and then twist and drop to the concrete elbows first.

What happened next comes in snippets to my memory.

I landed and heard a crunch emanate from my left elbow. Springing to my feet, though no doctor I, I could tell something was wrong given the new geometric angles my jacketed arm was sporting. I started to scream, and made a crying dash for the school. Only one teacher was my nemesis back then, she who thought I was a brat and a troublemaker, and while she was probably right, she was also a bitter cunt of a woman. Proof of that harsh label lay in her next action. As I ran screaming and crying past her, one arm holding the malformed mess of the other, she actually grabbed my collar and said something about not being allowed inside until the bell had sounded. I pulled free and bellowed "FUCK YOU," something she tried getting me suspended for, and darted into the office where I passed out.

According to my mother, the school, acting in its infinite wisdom and compassion, neither called an ambulance, or her with worry in their voice. Their direct quote was, "You need to come pick Nathan up, he's in our office." That's all they would say. Unsure why, my mother did not rush out the door, but took all the steps she needed to in order to leave work early. According to her best estimates, I sat in the office with a shattered elbow for anywhere between an hour and ninety minutes until she arrived. By the time my mother walked through the door, I was sheet-white, deliriously fading in and out of consciousness and couldn't walk. Though my mother should have demanded an ambulance on the spot, she was too panicked and enraged and had the principle help her carry the chair I was haphazardly balancing on to her car. She hurried me to the emergency room, something a mere half mile away, where the doctors looked me over, then quickly re-set my elbow, saying it was merely dislocated.

Fortunately for my future, I was an inquisitive little bugger, and as they were rolling me out the door in a wheelchair I innocently asked, "So it's ok that I can't feel or move my hand?" Whoever was pushing me paused in his tracks, and then and only then, decided to order some X-Rays.

What they discovered was the bone had not just dislocated, it had shifted and several pieces that make up the joint were pinching my nerve. Apparently only a few more hours of remaining in such condition would have rendered my left arm a paperweight. Had I not opened my mouth and asked, had I asked when we got home and had been told to come in the next morning, any small little accident of fate and the nerve would have died and today I'd be typing these words one handed. Feel free to insert your own on-line masturbation joke here, if you wish.

I had immediate surgery, which made me nervous, but all I remember was a ceiling and a man telling me to count backwards from ten. I made it to eight. After that I had a lovely plaster cast outside my arm and two metal pins inside it. I quit basketball, as sitting on the bench hadn't done much for my self-esteem anyway.

While I wouldn’t actually go back and change a single day of my life, I do sometimes smile and wish the elbow event had occurred later on, say in the 1990's. By then my family and I would have known all bout lawsuits. In the early 1980's, however, suing the shit out of someone wasn't yet the fashion trend it became. So the school system that should have been bankrupted by a settlement, the hospital that would have made my family millionaires due to negligence and incompetence, well, they both got off scott-free.

Bummer.

Appleton gave me my first glimpses into what would become my living, though there would be no way of knowing that at the time. Stand up comedy first reached my eyes and ears in those young years through the ignorance of the elderly and the excitement of youth. My maternal-side grandmother lived fifteen minutes away in a town called Kaukauna, and we visited often. I would find out much later in life that grandmother's house was used as an escape both from and for infidelity and arguments at home, but as a child it was simply a visit. Kaukauna, for the record, is a town whose major industry is a paper mill. If you've never smelled one, it is eerily akin to that of a freshly filled diaper. Thus every time we visited my grandmother, I thought she had had an "accident," something that I feared came with advanced age. But, she made me Oscar Meyer cheese-filled hot dogs whenever I wanted, something my mother frowned upon, so I always forgave the smell for the reward of my taste buds.

My grandmother, like most spoiling grandparents, would usually take me shopping for little nothings. We generally went to the dime store downtown, but on occasion sojourned at the mall where the biggest and best presents lay. It was on one of these jaunts I made one of the most important discoveries of my life. Perusing the KISS albums in the record store, I browsed my way past an album with an interesting cover. What you have to realize is, these were not the wimpy little CD's of today, in tiny casings with miniature artwork. I was looking at 33 rpm, vinyl records inside big cardboard packages, where the covers jumped out at you and you could see them from across the store. On this particular day, I saw an album with a man on the cover. He was faking one finger up his nose, was sitting on the dunce's chair in front of a chalkboard that had the words "Class Clown" inscribed on it. I had no idea what it was, but I knew I wanted it. I was a class clown, and the idea of picking your nose was hilarious to me. Seeing as there were no "Parental Advisory Stickers" back then, I pointed, my grandmother shrugged, and I took home a copy of one of George Carlin's most infamous records. To say it was beyond my eleven-year-old sensibilities would be saying too little; the first time I listened to it, I don't think I even knew what to think. I was, however, utterly transfixed by the words. Words about war, America and racism. Words about life, living and growing up different. Dirty words. Very dirty words. Seven, dirty words.

I listened to the album obsessively, memorizing every word and nuance. I absolutely absorbed the seven dirty words contained within the oil-based grooves and proudly repeated "shit-piss-fuck-cunt-cocksucker, motherfucker and tits" to all my peers. I started trying to figure out exactly what stand up comedy was, and in 1982 in a wonderful little bit of manipulation, convinced my mother that seeing the R-rated "Richard Pryor Live On The Sunset Strip" was a great "mother/son" moment to share. It was playing at a single location, The Viking Movie Theater in downtown Appleton, and I reveled in the big screen experience. Hearing George Carlin had been one thing, seeing Richard Pryor's full body interpretation of ideas and words was sensory overload. I loved it all and wanted more.

Stand up comedy became my new fetish. I'd already been listening to Steve Martin and watching Saturday Night Live and SCTV, but in my mind Steve Martin was a TV/movie star. I knew little of his actual touring comedy, but I got the bug up my butt to learn. Learn about his early career, and what other stand up comics were out there. This interest would last until high school, where music and the bass guitar would surpass comedy in the foot race for my spare time.


There are only other two memories of note from my two years in Appleton. One wobbles forth from my mind randomly, the other is a bookend to a previous tale. The random but wistful to me tale is that my father was able to bring a small, suitcase-sized movie projector home from work. Oddly enough, the library had old, silent movies on film you could check out as easily as their books. So it was in the eleventh year of my life I discovered Buster Keaton, specifically his classic "The General." I'd thread the film between the two spinning reels and project it onto my bedroom wall. After the climax of the bridge collapse, I'd stop the movie, scan-rewind it to watch the structure rise from its ashes, then watch the trestles tumble earthward again. I tried inviting friends over for movie adventures, but they always seemed bored by the silence and confused by having to read a movie like a novel, so the magic of silent movies remained an event flown solo. I used to own The Buster Keaton Collection on VHS, but have yet to translate that to my DVD shelf. Maybe I'll remember to ask for it for Christmas one day.

My final note takes me back to my broken arm, covered in cast and held together by pins. As said, one teacher and I were at constant odds in Franklin Elementary, and on the day I shattered my left elbow, she actually tried to prevent me from seeking help. Upon returning from the hospital and re-entering school, I came across her in the hallway on my first day back. Frustration, snotty arrogance and a tinge of self-righteousness overtook me, and I held my mended arm up to her and said, "I told you I was hurt."

Without flinching, she shot back angrily, "Do you want detention tonight after school?"

How some people are allowed around kids is beyond me.

Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy

Dance for Your Dinner, Monkey-boy

There is a philosophy that states you will experience whatever you focus your attention on. If you think, "man, I'd hate to trip and fall down in public, that'd be so embarrassing," you'll trip and fall in public, that you may confront your fear.

A while ago, I was performing in the middle slot of a three-person show, and when I walked up on stage I was met with an ear-piercing cry of, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" That someone was so drunk to bellow at a comedy show did not surprise me; live comedy is sadly a realm of entertainment where drunken louts have to be dealt with on a semi-regular basis. The source of the screeching on that particular occasion, however, did make me tilt my head to the side like a dog riddled with confusion. At a table in front of the stage was a group of ten women, all dressed to the hilt, all white, and all easily aged sixty and above. Grandmother's night out, if you will. In the front row, one of them was so drunk she was doing a head bob, as if it were eighth grade history and staying awake was a chore in and of itself. This woman had been the source of the high-pitched screech of obscenity.

I asked her to repeat her war cry, as I wasn't positive my ears were working correctly, and once again the live-action Mrs. Howell cried, "Bring it on, motha-fucka!" I half nodded my head, said "Well ok then," and started telling jokes. The woman randomly bellowed the same refrain several times throughout my time on stage, and after giving her the benefit of the drunken doubt for a couple of her interactions, I slammed her pretty hard and the audience roared their approval. The woman realized she was on a losing path and proceeded to doze off and drool lightly out the side of her mouth. Through the rest of my time on stage, two tables of drunks in the corner did their best to "contribute" and derail the show with shouts and inter-table talk, but I simply shouted over them until a bouncer finally made his way over to shush them.

After I exited the stage, the headliner, who I am going to call Adam, was introduced. If I thought the wealthy dowager up front had been belligerent enough to warrant getting kicked out during my set, what happened next was unlike anything I'd ever seen; when the headliner hit the stage, he too was met with a new high-pitched cry from the elderly woman. It wasn't a random generalization as had been with me, this time, she took one look at the comedian and knew exactly what to scream. "Bring it on, nigger!" echoed above the welcoming applause the host had called for. Not "nigga," which could have been considered marginally more appropriate (but not really), but "nigger," as bright as a day in July and loud and proud like Alabama man might cry. It wasn't said as a challenge, but more a hoot, like the full-blown cheer of someone looking to have a good time.

To say the audience was stunned would be saying too little; there are rare times when you can make two hundred people gasp collectively and hold their breath, but this was one of them. Adam, to his credit, handled the situation with as much grace as possible; he didn't blow up at her, but he didn't let it go. His first response was a measured, "Excuse me?" to which he received a second, "Bring it on, nigger!" He asked why she thought it was an appropriate thing to say, or if she was playing or believing she was somehow relating to him. Her response was yet again, "Bring it on, nigger!"

Given that the room was filled with as diverse a cross section of Americana as possible, and that a certain tension filled it from the instant her first racial slur was shouted, anything could happen. Still, Adam kept control of the situation and did his best to move on. The club, believe it or not, made no move to have the woman removed or quieted. In the corner, meanwhile, the two tables of white trash I had done my best to ignore got even louder, to the point Adam could do nothing but wage war with them.

By now, most everyone was talking amongst themselves about what was happening, shouting at either the two tables in the corner or the racist woman to "shut the fuck up," or directly up at Adam, who was doing his best in trying to deal with an out of control room. In the midst of this battle, the manager of the club carried a note to the stage and handed it directly to him. Adam read it, then resumed his war with the out of control audience. Eventually the table of women left, and did so to a chant of "Na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, good bye" from the entire audience (save for the two drunken tables in the corner, who continued to shout random shit to the stage through the rest of the evening). Adam worked the stage for his contracted time, eventually closed his and the audience gave him thunderous applause for his efforts.

After all was over, as Adam and I stood by our for-sale wares, every person that walked by us issued an apology on behalf of the behavior of others. For the woman and her racial slur, for the staff who didn't intervene, for the drunks in the corner… everyone was apologetic save for those who should have been. Everyone was also curious. All who exited remembered the note being passed to the stage, and asked Adam what it said. They wondered if the police were being contacted, or if he was given insight as to how the drunks and racists were being handled. He passed on answering, instead tossing out vague little lies; "It was about something I had asked about earlier," "oh, nothing important," and the like. When all was said and done and every member of the public had left, I asked what the note really said. What I was told floored me. "Let it go and move on," was written in bold strokes on the folded piece of paper. A black man who had just been called a nigger in front of a room full of people, and three times no less, a man doing an amazing job of handling the situation in a club that was doing nothing to police its customers, well, he was handed a note telling him to let it go and move on.

I don’t think I had ever heard of anything less supportive.

To the manager's credit, somewhat, admitted to being in the wrong and said she was sorry for the note and much of the situation. Apparently she and the bouncers were unaware of what had happened, assessed the situation incorrectly and made the decision to intervene inappropriately. But that didn't make it right. An apology follows an accident, and to not have the comedian's back in a situation shows an incredible lack of faith in the person. I couldn't believe she had taken the note up there in the first place, was angry on behalf of the other comedian, and wondered what I'd do if anything like it ever happened to me.

The neat thing about life, then, is when you look at a situation and wonder how you'd react if it were presented to you, sometimes you are given the opportunity to find out.

A headliner myself now, in a different room in a different state, one fateful night I took to the stage a little after 10pm. The 9pm show had been delayed a half an hour, because a birthday party of twelve was exceedingly late in arriving. Such an action immediately set a poor precedent; the incoming people saw the show had been held just for them, and even if they didn't openly realize the power they had, they understood on a subtle level just how important they were.

That everyone arrived intoxicated should be no surprise, nor should the fact they then did jell-o shots all through the opening act. By ten o'clock, they were slurringly drunk. "That's my brother's name!" was shouted at my introduction. "Your brother is named Nathan Timmel?" I asked, and got a laugh from the audience. A gentle enough response, but enough of one to start the table off and running.

The birthday party was listless; they were talking to one another when I wasn't dealing with them, and shouting random incoherent shit when I would break from my jokes to acknowledge and attempt to shut them up. Instead of being witness to a bouncer or club employee kicking them out or quieting them down, I would look over to see them being served even more alcohol. They were all members of the Army, and as the club itself had called for a toast for those that serve, I was placating as nicely as firmly possible. I never have a problem telling a table to shut the fuck up--witness this if you haven't already seen it--but for the life of me couldn't get the group to behave in the slightest. So it was to my stunned anger when forty minutes into my set I was handed a note from the club owner, "Please stop talking to them and move on with your act."

I couldn't believe it. I felt defeated. I had just taken two flights across the country, rented a car and driven an hour and here I was, standing in front of a group of people who never should have been let in the door, let alone served more alcohol or had the show held thirty minutes for their arrival, and I was being told I was the fuckup. Had I an established career, I would have apologized to the people who had come out to see comedy, told the club to fuck off and walked off the stage and out the door. Fuck the pay; if I could have afforded the professional repercussions, I would have eaten the time and money. Instead, I remained on stage for another 20 minutes, doing my best to remain as professional as possible given the circumstances.

Unlike the time I was witness to a comedian being blamed for club failure, I was given no apology for the rude behavior or lack of support. I was, in fact, told, "The other tables complained and I had to give out comp tickets to another show because of that group." Apparently this was somehow my fault.

The final straw on this irritated back came from the doorman, who shook his head in resigned confidence to me; "Those people, I tell you, they came in a couple weeks ago and did the exact same thing."

Of course they did.



I have one other moment in my mind involving the "experience what you witness" theme, but it's rather anti-climactic after everything before it. Hell, given proper narrative form, this whole thing is probably written ass-backwards, with the peak being in the beginning with the racial story, but so be it.

I think Clerks II is a damn fine movie. Watching it recently, the scene that jumped out at me was that with the Jason Lee as the Internet Millionaire. If you're not familiar, Jason Lee arrives at the fast food restaurant the main characters Dante and Randall work at to mock them for being in their thirties and failing their way through life. The scene ends with an angry-at-his-existence Randall needing to get the hell away from everything and blow off some steam. Why that moment in the movie meant something too me I do not know, but I do remember thinking how much it would suck to run into a nemesis that superseded you in life.

As always, be weary what you wonder about.

The next comedy run I went on had me working with a fella who, though not an enemy of mine by any standard, had still been doing comedy less than half the time I had, was fairly green on stage, yet was already being invited to the biggest comedy festival in the world. Agents, managers, HBO and Comedy Central all scout it and thousands of comedians apply for entry annually; the kid on the run with me had a friend who knew those with clout and had gotten him a foot in the door. There is a conventional wisdom that says you respect something you earned more than anything simply given to you, but I'm going to have to cry bullshit on that. I have found money lying on the ground on several occasions and never once did I say, "Damn, I really wish I had earned this twenty dollars."

Playing the game "why not me?" is probably the most self-destructive thing a person can do. "She got a promotion, why not me?" "That person won a million dollars, why not me?" "That person lucked into success, why not me?"

Because life is random, and stupid.

I have no other answer than that right now.

All I have is attrition.

Hopefully that will be enough someday.