Switch Blade

I try to remain open to where I’m led. This counts not only for the venues I’m asked to perform in, but also what happens on the stage. I think most people assume that everything that happens during the performance is ‘planned’, but you would be amazed how much improv goes on up there. Sure, I have a planned ending, but the road to get there changes constantly. This keeps the show fresh for me, and in turn makes it more spontaneous for the audience. Sometimes what you see has never happened before, and may never happen again.

Once in a comedy club I had the owner warn me that the last variety entertainer they hosted was dragged from the stage and knifed. The full story was that a member of the crowd snatched the ventriloquist’s puppet and ‘killed’ it for being a smart-aleck. No, I didn’t make that up. The knifer then turned to the comic and said, “And you better watch yourself, I seen you egging him on”. Ah, showbiz.

A few years back I did a Thanksgiving performance for a mission church in downtown Charlotte. They asked me to come entertain the homeless families and rehabbing substance abusers. Dawn and I went and dined with them and I did my thing. We didn’t know that this show would open our eyes to a small peek at what God is doing with me.

There’s a piece I do toward the climax of my show that involves a personal item from an audience member and a lemon or orange. The piece has evolved from those days, but the method (at the time) required an audience member to hold a knife and cut open the lemon for the ‘big finish’. There was a gentleman named Robert who had quietly watched the show – laughing in the right places and generally getting into the spirit. He was about 40-42 years old, African-American and his face was care worn, but kind. (I watch everyone as the show progresses to decide who will be fun and enthusiastic for the end piece.  Sometimes I choose wrong … and those can be the most creative.) I had decided early on that Robert was my ‘knife man’.

The time came around and I called Robert up to help – I explained what he had to do and gave him the knife. Robert took the knife (a switblade in those days) and got REALLY introverted all at once. I chalked it up to stage fright and tried to keep him reassured. We pulled the effect off well and we got a great round of applause. And then …

Robert was weeping as he left the stage. As this was a comedy show, that kind of put me off. In my mind, I thought I had embarrassed him in some way. I started going over my ’script’ in my head to figure out where I had gone wrong. This soured the show for me and I felt bad that I had somehow ruined Robert’s night. (That’s right kids, I can get a standing ovation from 700 people, but if I spot ONE that isn’t enjoying themselves – guess who I remember?) Later, the hosting mission had an alter call and I saw Robert, crying openly and seemingly inconsolable. I finished up my duties for the evening and started packing up, trying to think of a way to apologize, but still not knowing what I did wrong. I felt blue.

As I finished loading the car, a lady approached us, very moved, beaming from ear to ear. “Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?” Well … no? She continued;

It seems that Robert had just been released recently from prison (and rehab). He had been, in his youth, very anti-white. He simply did not trust anyone who was white, and prison had not really dampened those feelings. He had been struggling with this in his walk with God, because he wanted to be forgiving, but old feelings die harder than Bruce Willis. When I ( a white man) invited him to be a part of my show, he immediately knew that I was going to make fun of him somehow. Hence the loss of excitement. He was just waiting to be the butt of a joke and was wondering how he was going to deal with the humiliation.

When I handed him the knife – his whole outlook changed. I don’t know if I can get across the feeling here, but – A White Man Handed Him a KNIFE and let him be the hero of the closing moment. No one of my race had ever casually handed him a ‘weapon’ in complete trust before, and it was a major breakthrough in his spirit. Now; I can’t take any credit for this, other than following God’s voice. He knew what Robert needed and I was a willing instrument in that change, without ever knowing what the real mission was.

When I get weary of this path, when I get lonely and feel discouraged, I think of Robert and the Switchblade. It renews my faith in this road in front of me.

What Do Magicians Call It?

It was winter – February 1984. The Police were on what was to be their final tour, supporting ‘Synchronicity’. In late October I waited in an ice storm overnight in order to score tickets. Several for my dorm mates and two especially for my girlfriend and myself. The overnight vigil is a story for another time. This story is about misdirection.

We traveled up to Greensboro early in order to have some dinner and get psyched for the show. I was decked out in my best suit; Ivory white – wide at the shoulders and narrow at the waist, pure eighties. The shoulder pads on that bad suit were so wide I would have become a kite in a stiff breeze. My hair was spiked and angry. The young lady was also dressed to stun; a dress that was all attitude and cut low. She was tall and leggy and had a swagger that would not quit. It was the eighties – it was rock & roll. The crowd was as much of a spectacle as the band.

Get the picture?

Now – we had borrowed her uncle’s camera. A really nice one, in order to record the event for posterity. At the time we weren’t aware that this was the last Police tour – but we were huge fans and really wanted to capture the moment. We parked and approached the auditorium. There was a huge sign at the door that “NO cameras or recording equipment would be allowed. Any cameras found will be confiscated.”  The Man was out to ruin our fun. Damn the Man. We stood in the parking lot debating. Hide the camera and test our luck, maybe losing her uncle’s good camera? Take it back to the car and just remember the show for what it was? What to do?

The lady was all for hiding it in her purse. taking a chance. I came up with another plan. I proposed we take the camera in, but not try to hide it. Just carry it in as though we hadn’t seen the sign. (Or possibly couldn’t read.) “If we hide it and we get caught, we’re nothing but guilty. If we carry it, we can pretend ignorance and run it out to the car if anyone says anything.” Brilliant, right? I slipped the camera strap over my head, wearing the Nikon like a big black necklace. We walked in. We got right through the ticket takers and headed around the concourse.

I saw them long before they spotted us; a cluster of four or five security guards. They were scanning the crowd, looking for contraband or unruly guests. We had to pass right in front of them to get to our seats. No way they could miss the camera. I watched as one of the guards poked another and then pointed at us. “Ah, well” I said, “It was worth a try.” The two guards moved to intercept us and we stopped. The first security guy spoke;

“Excuse me, Miss.” he said, almost making eye contact with my date. (If he had only raised his eyes about 2 feet) “But do you have a camera in your purse?”

She looked at me. I looked at her. I didn’t laugh. It was tough.

“No Sir.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead.”

He opened her purse and took a quick glance through the contents. It seemed hard for him to focus. Finally satisfied that she wasn’t sneaking anything by him, he returned the purse. “Thanks – sorry to bother you, but we have to check.” We allowed that it was no problem and moved on.

It took everything I had not to turn around and snap a shot at them.

The concert was amazing. We took a few shots (which I don’t have, she got them in the settlement.) but the music was so overwhelming we mostly sang and danced and reveled in being young and alive.

What is distracting you today? Sex? Money? Farmville? Is anything blocking your vision of the Lord and his plan for you? What is slipping by ‘under the radar’ while you are misdirected?

New decade

I have been told so many times this was not going to work. “We can’t sell you.” “People just don’t get it.”

I think they are getting it now.

So many pressures to ’succeed’. I’ve found myself lately with the philosophy of ‘Less is More’. I feel like I have waited my whole life for this … why get off the ride now?

Mr. Nickles

Speed Street Charlotte is a unique street festival. Themed around NASCAR, it takes place on the weekend of the Coca Cola 600 in May. Several full city blocks are closed for the weekend and tens of thousands of people crowd the streets of Uptown to celebrate. The event has hosted Carrie Pickler, Styx and Cheap Trick for headliners.

For the past few years I have been hired to work ‘Street’ style magic during the festival in order to add some flavor and fun. That’s where I met Mr. Nickles. That’s not his real name; I only knew him as “Scott”, but I’ve come to think of Scott as Mr. Nickles.

Mr. Nickles is a displaced citizen – an urban outdoorsman – an economic refugee. What my Grandfather used to call a ‘hobo’, my Father called a ‘vagrant’ and I used to simply refer to as ‘homeless’. I don’t know the current PC term. Mr. Nickles is a man in an unfortunate, tough situation. (I’ll discuss flowering up a problem with pretty language another time.) He is a human being.

I was working my table, gathering some crowds and doing my magic thing when Mr. Nickles ambled over to see what the fuss was about. He seemed a bit put out with the crowd, but seemed to enjoy what I was offering. If you’ve seen me work, you know there’s a bit of storytelling before the ‘magic effects’ begin. Mr. Nickles was very attentive, laughing in the right places and getting into the spirit of things. A tourist passed by and dropped a dollar on my table, so I swept it into my hat. Mr. Nickles followed it with his eyes and I remember thinking, “When this bit is over I’m going to buy that man some lunch. He’s enjoying my show and he looks like he could use a pal for a little while.”

Then the effects started. When the first ‘magic moment’ hit, Mr. Nickles was visibly stunned. I let the moment sink in and watched to see his reaction. What happened was unexpected and a bit humorous; he dug down in his pockets and pulled out … a nickle. He placed it carefully on the table where the dollar had landed a moment earlier and he whispered, “Do some more, please.” So I did. After the next ‘magic moment’ in the routine, Mr. Nickles again dug into his pocket and placed another nickle next to the first … and then another, and another.

Every time something magical happened, this gentleman dropped another nickle (no quarters, no dimes, no pennies; it seemed he had only nickles in his pocket.) Every time he plugged another nickle down, he grunted under his breath. “Damn … whoa … huh … gosh …” I began to tricks and crack jokes just for him. The crowd around us got bigger – like this was the show. It was a great moment of theater. The crowd was laughing at us and with us; I was in physical pain from holding my joy in. Mr. Nickles was laughing right along at the whole situation- happiness dancing in his eyes. The nickles piling up on the table added to a very surreal scene.

Inevitably, the time came when he reached in his pocket and came out empty. “Aw” he said, “I can’t watch no more – I’m outta money.” I assured him he could stay – he didn’t need to pay me to watch. (Though, truth be told, I was swiftly running out of material. It was not going to be long before I came up empty, too.) “No” he said, “I’m out. That was a really fun time. I haven’t laughed that hard in years.” He shook my hand and we were startled by the sudden applause of the crowd. They had seen a great show, a wonderfully real, human moment and they were showing their appreciation. I looked back around to see Mr. Nickles walking on down the street. I was about to call out to him when he started making a wide circle, so I watched to see what he would do. Meanwhile, I scooped the pile of silver into my hat. (There really must have been 60 or 70, at least.) I kept an eye on Mr. Nickles, because I intended to give him the tips that were rapidly piling up on the table and in the hat.

Here’s the best part;

As the crowd was just about dispersed, I looked up to find my new friend standing at my elbow. Before I could  say anything, he asked “Hey man, you got any change? I need to make a phone call.”  It seems that he had forgotten giving his money away to me. After a moment I poured the collection of shiny Jeffersons out of my hat for him. You would have thought it was a pile of gold bricks. His face split into a huge grin and he all but jumped up and down in glee. He stuffed his pockets full, and then I bought us a couple of NASCAR hot dogs.

I have worked for some great, memorable audiences. I’ll never forget this guy, ever. He not only made my day – he became a part of a very unique, impromptu, magical show.

Gratitude?

My car is nearly 20 years old. The family van is making strange noises.

I’m behind on the mortgage because work just hasn’t been there this year. The same with the van payments.

With taxes and end of the year expenses, we have virtually no money in the bank. Bills are due or overdue.

While I have a good act, and I connect with my audiences – work is sparse. I (as always) have great prospects and the future looks bright, but I stress constantly over the phone not ringing.

And.

My best friend is losing his young wife to cancer.  Within weeks.

Dear God, thank you for my problems.

To Paraphrase

This road is my life
Speeding through the night
I have been to these places
For barely a moment

Wide awake
Sometimes sleeping
Sometimes watching
Sometimes dreaming

Through stroby towns
Too fast to know their names
Too fast to know if I came or will come again

Sleeping towns joined together
By the Parallel lines
Parallel lives

You and I
We’re movie-rich
We’re reflected in the window
The dark night’s black mirror glass
Distant lights from the wrong side of the tracks

Christmas lights
Go by in the houses
Anonymous windows
Anonymous rooms of
Anonymous souls

So take my hand
Squeeze it tight
Make some light
In the darkness
I’m glad you came on this trip
Don’t lose your grip
This road is my life

Travel with me
And we’ll see..

Magician

Magician take me upon your wings and … gently roll the clouds away.  I’m sorry so sorry I have no incantations only words to help sweep me away.  I want some magic to sweep me away. I want some magic to sweep me away. I want to count to five turn around and find myself gone. (1,2,3,4,5)

Fly through the storm and wake up in the calm. Release me from the body from this bulk that moves outside me. Let me leave this body far away I’m sick of looking at me. I hate this painful body that disease has slowly worm away. Magician take my spirit inside I’m young and vital. Inside I’m alive.

So many things to do.  My fingers are weak – things just fall away. Inside I’m young and pretty. Too many things unfinished My very breath taken away.

Doctor you’re no magician – and I am no believer.  I need more than faith … can give me now I want to believe in miracles – not just belief in numbers.  I need some magic to take me away I want some magic to sweep me away.  Visit on this starlit night replace the stars the moon the light – the sun’s gone.

Fly me through this storm and wake up in the calm … I fly right through this storm and … I … Wake … Up … In … The … Calm

Burning Patriotism

Penn & Teller on “The West Wing”.

The Other Greatest Band

Most of my new friends, the ones who have come into my life in the past few years, have very strong feelings about exactly who ‘the greatest band’ is. A large number of them consider said band to be … well, UKnow … Don’t U? (And You, Too?)

They may be very convicted of this opinion, but they are wrong. I love them quite a bit. I saw them live while you were still in diapers. (Thank you Jesus for a long, full life.) They are not, however, the greatest.

I humbly submit to you the Greatest Band in existance today. (My psychic friends have guessed already.)

Marillion.

They took their name from ‘The Silmarillion’ by J.R.R. Tolkien.  That alone ought to send the fantasy readers, geeks and Mrs. Martin rushing to iTunes. They started off quite prog and jazz, writing sprawling epic songs in the nature of early Peter Gabriel era Genesis. They made a 35 minute song on the life of Grendel, he-monster of Beowulf fame. They have since refined their taste and mood, and create some of the most moving music ever recorded.

I discovered them in 1983, while trying to deal with my parent’s ugly divorce and MUCH uglier re-marriages. The frontman (Fish) wrote an entire album dealing with his failure as a husband. It pulled me through and I have been a fan ever since.

Want to hear more? Want to hear how the music of Marillion helped me save my life and my marriage? Drop a comment.

I know you, my friends and casual readers. You deserve to hear this band.

24/7

If you know me, you know what the title means.

A special prayer room, a full week of prayer. I started on Sunday at midnight to 1AM, continued my shift 2AM through 3:30 AM Sunday morning. I should have stayed until 4, and let the staff sleep. That has bothered me all week. Two of my daughters with me for an hour, my wife with me for another.

Dawn found sanctuary in the “green closet”. No surprise there. : )

First thing I read on my journey was a post-it note that read “I forgive the Hannibals”. Damn. That speaks.

It’s very humbling to feel you are the filthiest object in the room. Thank God for grace.

My replacement didn’t show up. Like a dummy I followed the rules and called the number for the staff, then prayed for whoever it was that didn’t come. They missed out on so much. I should have just stayed another hour when it was apparent they were a no show. Lisa lost some sleep because of me. I’m sorry …

I felt cleansed. I am greedy for that feeling again.