The Oriental Persuasion
A blackbox comedy club. "It looks like a dominatrix room!" one of the patrons exclaimed. "All that's missing are the handcuffs!"
But the show, hidden in the back of the pub, in that blackbox theater, like that tiny bedroom closet where daddy stashes his porn and firearms, was sold out. £5 concessions.
The comedian was Robert Newman, a novelist by trade I think. He was incredibly well-informed, his jokes spiraling around an array of subjects, touching upon American politics and Lyrical Ballads and...well, other things. He was funny when he remembered his act and he remembered most of the first ten minutes. And then everything took a sharp turn South. But also, I was on drugs so I'm not the best judge as to what happened in the act and when. I mean, maybe he was really funny. People seemed to enjoy him.
To my left was my chief supplier, also slightly out of it. To my right was a short white male, blond hair closely-cropped, with large glasses that seemed to accentuate the pinpoint dots of his eyes. On hearing my accent, he told my friend and I that he'd been to the states, adding that he had a Japanese friend with a Hong Kong girlfriend who lives in Chinatown somewhere somewhere somewhere in Vancouver or...the tale was winding and convoluted and the point was nonexistant.
Later, he came up to me and said, with that sort of round-about verbosity that only the British possess: "I can't help but notice that you are of the oriental persuasion."
Oh crap, I though. I know where this is heading.
"I have a great many oriental friends," he said. "Might I inquire as to where your parents are from."
"Mom's from Hong Kong."
"Ah yes. Then that would make you Cantonese. And your father?"
"He's from Los Angeles, which would make me Mexican." At least I think I said that and if I didn't, I should've.
"I must say, I do have a great many oriental friends. I know a girl from..." (and here he went down the laundry list) "...and one from Hong Kong as well. We often eat at this Vietnamese place. Have you ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant?"
"In the States, yeah."
"Would you ever care for some British Vietnamese food?"
"No." I don't know if I was paranoid at that point or if the guy was actually hitting on me. If he was hitting on me, then that actually raises my self-esteem about ten points. To the extent that I'm found attractive, it is generally by short asian girls. So a white british bloke is at least a change in pace though, boy howdy am I not interested in being buggered.
"Hold on," I said and grabbed a friend of mine who was standing nearby. She had a bewildered expression on her face and I think she was simply trying to speak with the comedian. "Here is my filipino friend. Her name is Camille. And..." here, I seized the white sweatshirt of another friend of mine. "This is my white friend. We call him Pat. And..." I grabbed another girl--not really a friend as I'd just met her that evening, but still, at that point of the night, I wasn't choosey. "Here is my buddy Elsi. She too is white."
And then I hightailed it out of there and ambushed the comedian to talk about Coleridge's unfinished Christabel.
But the show, hidden in the back of the pub, in that blackbox theater, like that tiny bedroom closet where daddy stashes his porn and firearms, was sold out. £5 concessions.
The comedian was Robert Newman, a novelist by trade I think. He was incredibly well-informed, his jokes spiraling around an array of subjects, touching upon American politics and Lyrical Ballads and...well, other things. He was funny when he remembered his act and he remembered most of the first ten minutes. And then everything took a sharp turn South. But also, I was on drugs so I'm not the best judge as to what happened in the act and when. I mean, maybe he was really funny. People seemed to enjoy him.
To my left was my chief supplier, also slightly out of it. To my right was a short white male, blond hair closely-cropped, with large glasses that seemed to accentuate the pinpoint dots of his eyes. On hearing my accent, he told my friend and I that he'd been to the states, adding that he had a Japanese friend with a Hong Kong girlfriend who lives in Chinatown somewhere somewhere somewhere in Vancouver or...the tale was winding and convoluted and the point was nonexistant.
Later, he came up to me and said, with that sort of round-about verbosity that only the British possess: "I can't help but notice that you are of the oriental persuasion."
Oh crap, I though. I know where this is heading.
"I have a great many oriental friends," he said. "Might I inquire as to where your parents are from."
"Mom's from Hong Kong."
"Ah yes. Then that would make you Cantonese. And your father?"
"He's from Los Angeles, which would make me Mexican." At least I think I said that and if I didn't, I should've.
"I must say, I do have a great many oriental friends. I know a girl from..." (and here he went down the laundry list) "...and one from Hong Kong as well. We often eat at this Vietnamese place. Have you ever been to a Vietnamese restaurant?"
"In the States, yeah."
"Would you ever care for some British Vietnamese food?"
"No." I don't know if I was paranoid at that point or if the guy was actually hitting on me. If he was hitting on me, then that actually raises my self-esteem about ten points. To the extent that I'm found attractive, it is generally by short asian girls. So a white british bloke is at least a change in pace though, boy howdy am I not interested in being buggered.
"Hold on," I said and grabbed a friend of mine who was standing nearby. She had a bewildered expression on her face and I think she was simply trying to speak with the comedian. "Here is my filipino friend. Her name is Camille. And..." here, I seized the white sweatshirt of another friend of mine. "This is my white friend. We call him Pat. And..." I grabbed another girl--not really a friend as I'd just met her that evening, but still, at that point of the night, I wasn't choosey. "Here is my buddy Elsi. She too is white."
And then I hightailed it out of there and ambushed the comedian to talk about Coleridge's unfinished Christabel.
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