Remembrance of things past

So, when I got the call from the publicist of the Kilkenny Comedy Festival on a lonesome Wednesday in an Atlanta hotel room, asking me to write a funny 500-750 word article for the big entertainment magazine of Ireland Hot Press that would be “due on Tuesday”, I panicked. Not because I’m not funny, because I am, I mean, I’m really funny.

I’m the kind of funny where people leave my shows in silence; in awe, if you will, or… even if you won’t. There is no way the silence is due to their not getting me. Oh, they get me alright, and they are frightened by just how much they get me. It deserves that level of quiet. It’s a form of respect. Most often than not, the “respect” continues even on their long ride home from the club. Sometimes mistaken as a sad and pathetic bout with depression by fellow motorists waiting in the car next to them at a light. This is why the panic I endured had nothing to do with questioning my comedic abilities.

My panic came from the memory of what a failure I was in junior high and high school that came rushing back immediately. “Due on Tuesday” never meant anything to me other than here comes another disappointing marker in your school “career”. I never handed any assignments in – ever. When tests were handed out to the class, I immediately graded mine with an “F” and then put my head down waiting – OK, sleeping – patiently for the bell to sound and free me for three minutes of pure and utter bliss in the hallways. However, those three minutes would ultimately only lead me to yet another classroom with a suburban housewife posing as a “teacher” where I would hear of yet another assignment that would more than likely be “due on Tuesday”or some other day I would probably not deliver. I hated school. I still do.

Constantly misunderstood and locker-searched, I endured nasty looks from teachers and counsellors as I made yet another late entrance to class. However, there was one teacher who was so frustrated by my lack of effort that she tried to reach out to me by taking me to dinner, school games, on day trips to colleges hoping I’d find an interest in something other than cigarettes and my guitar. She was the young, cute, cool teacher that everyone loved. She took a liking to me I guess because I was on the “at risk” list and she wanted to make everything all better. She began writing my papers and doing my homework for me just so I would hopefully graduate and get the hell out of there (I failed three grades – 8th grade twice and then 9th). Then, woven in-between all this, where even her “help” didn’t make a difference, were the unspeakable crimes I committed like excessive tardiness and talking in class that landed me many a day in in-school suspension. I pretty much had my own personal cubicle where I had carved “The Pretenders” in the desk. The deal with in-school suspension was that you had to serve your time and finish all class work that was due, and if you didn’t, another day would be added. Typically I had to be let out after an unusually long stretch of days added and served. One day it hit me in my in-school isolation that I could just get up out of my seat and walk out of there.

Right then, I stood up and began to walk towards the door. At the same moment, the suspension “teacher” stood up and put his hand out to motion “stop right there missy”. Then he actually said, “Stop right there missy. Where do you think you’re going?” I said, “Oh, I’m headin’ home.” he said, “No you’re not. Now, you need to go back and sit down.” I said, “Oh, actually, yeah I can, and I’m going to. I’m done. I’m goin’ home. I quit. you win.” I walked down to the parking lot, got into my car and drove home with the biggest smile on my face. I had to go back the next day and actually do some paperwork to make it a legit drop out. One teacher told me when she was signing my release paper that I’d end up a stripper.

Well, now I’m a comic. A high school drop out comic. Funny, because in the comedy scene I’m considered cerebral. Sometimes “too cerebral to book in some clubs”, or at least that’s the excuse I get. I can’t win. I was the class clown, turned professional clown who’s too cerebral to work. Dropping out has never hurt me. I’ve never needed anything specifically from any class that I can think of… not until the Kilkenny Comedy Festival needed me to write an article for this magazine. So, this is my first legitimate paper. In my panic I thought to hunt my old teacher down to write the article for me, but I went out on a limb and just did it myself. Hopefully if this is poorly written, I’ll just be seen as a dumb comic and get one-nighter hell gigs more regularly… Hopefully that is.