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Old 01-11-01, 05:28 PM   #1
Butterfly Man
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Hat Truth or Dare


This is the story of my worst show. It was my first or second year as a street performer in San Francisco. Those were the early days when being a comic juggler was actually a novel idea. There were only two of us--three, really, but the third guy sucked.

Mind you, comedy wasn’t king yet. Saturday Night Live was yet to be born. Robin Williams placed second in the San Francisco Stand-up Comedy Competition and the top sitcom on TV was Eight Is Enough. Real people still quoted from Rowen and Martin’s Laugh In--the hip ones from Monty Python. As I saw it, competition for being “the funniest guy I’ve ever seen” was between me and George Carlin.

I guess I never took this show biz thing too seriously. Maybe that's why that other juggler became famous and owns real estate in four different states, and I’m still trying to make rent each month. I never did do that brochure or promo-mailer thing. In fact, I just recently got around to geting a business card. These days I feel desperate.

But I digress. Let me preface this story (again) by telling you I am not at all like the person you see on stage. I am not funny. Never have been. I don’t think of funny stuff when I’m alone or with others. I couldn’t find a quip in a barrel of retorts. When you get to know me, I’m boring. It’s as simple as that.

It was dusk, it was windy, and it was cold. The fog rolled in. Perfect summer ime weather in San Francisco. The crowd was thin at first, but I took my time with a prolonged prop set up and after awhile, we reached the “I can do this” stage.

It was one of those “everything started to go wrong early” experiences. I turn on my Pignose amp, it squeals like a real pig. Shit, I think. Quickly I readjust the squelch and start a tape on my “portable” Wollensak reel_to_reel_nothing. “Fuck,” I mutter, a little too audibly.

In those days, I usually warmed up the crowd with a few hat tricks, training them to clap every time the top hat hit my head. It gets them involved, makes some noise, and a crowd draws a crowd. My first trick, I miss the arm roll. So what! A flip, a twirl, and a twist_I recover. It’s not as hard but it looks good and I never miss. They clap -once, but hardly together.

“No, no, no! Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said, “Together!” I do the easy front single-flip, but the wind grabs it. I do manage to catch it, albeit barely and way off center; my head cocked 90 degrees.
Reluctantly they clap together with a sincere lack of enthusiasm.
“Thank you, Thank you--both of you,” I’m forced to respond.

“You’re welcome,” comes from somewhere in the crowd.

Now, there can be times when a heckler is a good thing. Particularly if he isn’t drunk, knows when to quit, and can take a joke. Unfortunately, this never happens. As a consequence, most, if not all, comics arm themselves mentally with “heckler stoppers.” These put-down lines are meant to make the audience think the comedian can actually be funny in an unrehearsed situation. Luckily for Robin Williams, it works.

I’m ready to rumble, “Hey, fella!” I shout, “I like doing my act the way you like having sex--alone!” In retrospect, it’s a good line, if a little too harsh, a little too early. But the line never even registers a reaction, because here comes a perfectly timed response from the opposite side of the crowd:

“ You mean you’re not coming over tonight?” This gets the first real laugh of the show, and it’s from heckler #2.

I know now I’m in serious trouble.

I try not to panic. “You got the right town--but the wrong guy!” The line kinda works, but without thinking, I start running rapidly through my rehearsed stuff. My timing is way off. The audience smells blood.

I’m just into my 5 ball routine when a third heckler enters the fray: “Hey, I saw you on TV_(he poses just long enough to sucker me into a gratuitous smile)_and turned it off!” My brain goes into overdrive. I blurt out, “Yeah, and if I had 17 more of you I have a golf course!” But I’m really thinking: these guys are good!

The barbs fly fast and furious. I lose track of the bits. Somewhere in there, I do a diabolo, devilstick, club routine_but I remember none of it. More heckling, this time from the back.

“You suck!”

"You talking to me or the guy next to you!”

“I’m glad you came--too bad your father did!”

“At least I have a father--not 100 suspects!”

I want to die.


I heard somewhere that the best defense is to be very offensive- something like that. So I fight back with everything I’ve got, both barrels blazing, sparing no one, women and children first. Lines like, “You should be at the airport, sniffing luggage” went back to back with “Hey kid, I’m your real father!” It got ugly.

In a street show, you don’t want to peak too early--your “hat” depends on it. Now it was time for my unicycle finale, where I ride uncontrollably through the crowd. Soaking wet with perspiration, I grab the unicycle just as this teenage punk yells “get a real job!” I snap. “Shut up!” I shout, “I could've been your father, but the dog beat me over the fence!” I sense I’ve reached an all-time low.

I roll weaving into the crowd. Wild, out of control, I scream, “Look out! Look out!” They scatter like flies. I make a semicircle,cycle to my stage area, and_gone! Everything is gone! Everything! Five clubs, three torches, machete, meat cleaver, axe, balls, rings, devilstick, diabolo_everything_my backpack, amp and tape player, even the rose (and vase!) I use for my closing hat-pitch trick! Everything! I can’t believe it. It would’ve taken at least ten or fifteen people to steal all that stuff so fast. I’m stunned.

I don’t know what to say. I start my hat pitch, then realize: I don’t even have a hat. Dripping with sweat, panting, out of breath, I’ve got nothing left. I’m a beaten man. Weakly I ask for some money.

The first person to approach me pulls my hat out from behind his back. He is smiling that smirky smile you sometimes see on a teenager’s face when he farts. Others follow, each one with that same shit-eating grin. Everyone has something of mine. I am surrounded. I ask, “What’s going on?” as all my equipment is stuffed into every crevice of my body.

“We’re all up here for the stand-up comedy competition, and we heard from this other juggler that we should come down and see your act.”

“He said you were good with hecklers!”

Not one of them gives me any money.

There are regular audience people behind them, but they can’t get to me. I’m surrounded by forty-two stand-up comics who think it’s funny I’m not making anything. I beg them, “Go away. Please leave.” They comply slowly, but the damage is done. Most of the real audience has left already.

I make a total of about eight bucks.

The crowd is almost completely gone as I survey all my equipment at my feet. It’s so cold my sweat is steaming. The comics are still milling around about fifteen feet away, imitting occasional small bursts of laughter. Then they leave as a group. They are almost out of sight when one guy yells back,

“You were real good, man. That other juggler sucked!”

I manage a feeble “Fuck you.”

Just before they turn the corner, I hear,
“Fuck me and you’ll never go back to women!” and one final burst of laughter.
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Old 01-12-01, 06:39 PM   #2
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I think what I find most disturbing about that story is that you were hunted down by these guys so they could kill your show. The malice involved, and the joy they took in killing your show and hat.
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Old 01-12-01, 10:48 PM   #3
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If i'd heard that story before the melbourne comedy fest I might have been scared off the pitch. As it was my hecklers on the balcony, worked well with the show and had great taste in whiskey. Which they displayed as they kept fulling my glass. Even picked up a few lines that night. Great story, glad it wasn't mine.

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Old 01-15-01, 04:16 AM   #4
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Butterfly man I humbly await the book.
Thats a great story you write well.
rock on
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Old 01-15-01, 06:46 AM   #5
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Butterfly.

I read your story and laughed my ass off. I think you should write an autobiography, do a big book tour, sell millions and become a best selling authour.


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Old 01-15-01, 02:01 PM   #6
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Yes, do the best selling author thing. Make millions, then use your new found weath and power to systematicly destroy the lives of the comedians who screwed with you that day. It would be the street performer version of Vincent Price's Theatre of Blood, only in that one he kills critics in ways based on Shakespeare plays.
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Old 01-15-01, 02:03 PM   #7
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Wow, my message of murder and revenge pushed me over into member status. What does that say about my karma.
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Old 01-15-01, 04:08 PM   #8
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Todd you are one twisted guy.
In a good way... i think?!

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Old 01-15-01, 09:49 PM   #9
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Hey everyone ... don't ya get it? ... Truth or Dare!!! ... tell a busking related story here (real or not) about an onstage or offstage experience...
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Old 01-16-01, 01:26 AM   #10
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Since it was me that suggested this to Robert I suppose I'd better come to the party. The following is a true story with witnesses.

At the start of 1984, I was pretty pleased with myself. I had resigned from the chemical industry in '81, owned 50% of two succesful restaurants in Melbourne and a restaurant and guesthouse in Sri Lanka. I was also working as a clandestine foreign correspondent in Asia for a large Australian daily paper. By Dec. of the same year I was dead broke and in fact 1.4 million dollars in debt.

First, some idiot sub-editor put my real name on an extremely controversial article on the civil war in Sri Lanka and I was lucky to escape with my life. The restaurant was burned down, the staff terrorised and I had no choice but to leave everything and run. Even then it was only through the most unbelievable coincidence that I managed to get out of the country. I believe there is still a warrant out from my arrest on espionage charges.

I went to Europe where as I said in my bio., I had my first taste of quality street performance and saw my first pavement art drawing.

The day before I returned home, one of my partners (a Malaysian national) left Melb. for a "holiday" to visit the folks at home. Trouble was he took $2,800,000 of our bank's money with him, leaving the debt for my remaining partner and myself. Within a month, I had lost my house, car and both restaurants, even my furniture, stereo etc. My bank accounts and all incomes, including welfare, were garnisheed and I was summonsed to endless Corporate Affairs court cases.
I'd pretty much hit rock bottom and got up one Sat. morning (I was squatting in my own house, unbeknownst to the bank, whilst they were waiting to sell it.) to find I had only $15 to my name. I made up my mind then, to go and buy a paper to look for the dreaded job, as a chemist, and spend what was left on rice and potatos to get me through. For some reason, when I got to the shop, I thought I'd have a browse (hey, it costs nothing) and came across a box of 200 sticks of cheap but brightly coloured chalk for $12.95. I remembered Europe and worked out that that it would leave me enough for a day pass on public transport, so I forgot the newspaper and bought the chalk. Despite a horror day (I was moved on 3 times, which is hard on a pavement artist, and attacked by a mad mop-wielding cleaner), I made $29 and the next day $52. Two weeks later I had a new apartment, albeit unfurnished, and was happily rebuilding my life (again unbeknownst to the bank).

On my 17th drawing, I was arrested and charged with 17 counts of defacing public property (it took them that long to catch me on the job). Despite my protests that it was only chalk these guys were adamant, I was a criminal, and when I said I would fight it, they told me if I caused any trouble I'd "accidently fall down the stairs whilst leaving the building".
They nearly got away with it up till that point. I went home and rang several journo friends and the whole thing was in the national dailies and on talk back radio by 9 the next morning. It was a difficult day and in the midst of it a close friend rang and suggested it would be a good time to get out of town for a few days. He was going on a trip out into the desert and did I want to come? I leapt at the chance and we left that afternoon.

We drove for two days, North West of Melbourne into Sth Aust. and ended up in a place called Blinman (600 miles directly Nth of Adelaide) 150 miles from the nearest shop or pub. The next day we set out on a 9 mile walk to a set of water-holes in a remote gorge. My mate, Phil, is in a wheelchair so it took us nearly 16 hrs to get there and it was dark when we arrived. We set up camp, had a few joints, plenty of scotch and bedded down, comfortable with the thought that we'd left all the crap hundreds of miles behind us. The stars were brilliant.

The morning was unbelievably beautiful despite our hangovers and we soon set of to the waterhole for a swim. As we approach the water, we noticed something sitting on a rock round the other side. It was a small cardboard box and it's right-angles stood out like dog's balls in the desert gorge.
When I went round to investigate, I found a box of chalk identical to the one I had bought 5 weeks earlier, same brand, same colours, same size and in perfect shape, in fact still in it's plastic wrapper (start the spooky music here).

When we got back to what they laughingly call "town", no-one could tell us when any-one had last walked to the ponds or give us any clues whatsoever.
I still have the box of chalk.

When I came home the city had agreed to drop all charges and asked me to help them set up legislation and a busking permit system to cater for street performers other than musicians. I guess I had no choice.




[This message has been edited by Peter Voice (edited 01-16-2001).]
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Old 01-16-01, 11:05 PM   #11
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I was living with my wife in Daytona Beach, scraping by in the first stages of street performing, in 1986. In Mid January, I decided to get on my motorcycle (a rather impressive, I thought, honda 650) and cross the country, get discovered, and live large.
Life had other plans, and with the exception of LSU campus, I was barely paying for gas. In Austin, I finally began to get a hold, as drunks came out of the bars, and would throw the occasional 5 for a fire trick.
The cop told me it was ok to perform, but no more fire. My huge brain went to work on it. Well, they would probably just shut me down for the night if I pushed it, I surmised. As I saw it, it was a calculated risk. The arrest was quite a suprise. I pleaded with a flower vender (who I did not like) to strip the bike of my stuff and hold it for me.
There was a local tradition that you can sit in the cell for 72 hours without seeing a judge and then be released. Great people in that cell. At least five. We never kept in touch.
When they let me go, there was a message. Flower man had my stuff, and left a number. Florida suddenly looked like a great place to get discovered. I sped back, tail between my legs, and have stayed well away from Austin, especially after getting the summons to appear in court.
I've had my share of dead shows, stopped shows, and plain old drunks having fun at the expense of the show, but there was never a finish quite so cold as those cuffs.
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Old 01-17-01, 07:26 AM   #12
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This all happened at Motionfest this year. The much anticipated choreographer from Cirque du Soleil had showed up, and was worried about being late and setting up. So to cover she instructed everyone to break into groups of 6-7 and come up with a presentation that was "shocking." I walked into the room a bit late, didn't hear the instructions, and found my group.. consisting of Jon (Cowguys), Patrick Cashin, Robert Strong, (maybe Ambrose), and I can't remember who else. We brainstormed for a little while, then poof, our stage bit was complete. It went like this...

All six of us walked onto the stage, stood in a line facing the crowd and stared at the back of the room, neutrally and passively. Jon was standing at one end of the line with a glass of water. I was at the other end of the line. Jon took a swig of water, passed it to the next guy, who took a swig, passed it to the next guy etc. The water arrived at me, i took it, downed it, swished around in my mouth a bit, and spat it back into the cup. I turned to the person to my right handing them the cup, they spat their water into the cup.. etc. Then the cup full of saliva arrived at Jon who spat his water out. At this point the entire room (and line of guys) was looking at him so he shrugged and drank the saliva. The Crowd went nuts (Albeight with groans of disgust, laughter and clapping....)

So later that night the Butterfly man was mcing the gala show. He was doing a great job, but mentioned The Cowguys like twice in the first act, one comment was "Are the Cowguys here?" We were chilling out in the crowd, blending, not actually performing in the show. Well thats what I thought.

Dick Monday and Barry Lubin did their ventriloquist routine (one of the funniest bits i've ever seen!), which involves alot of water. They'd finished up, the crowd was tickled. Butterfly grabs a cup of water and does a little segway something along the lines of "Here's a little something for people who caught the show earlier today." Jon walked out onto the stage and stood next to Butterfly. Butterfly swigged the water gargled, swished, and spat into the cup. He handed it off to Jon who promptly drank it. EEEEEW. the crowd of course went nuts again
and Jon became famous for drinking other peoples saliva.

I happened to be sitting with Dan Holtzman of Raspyni Bros. fame who turned to me and said "You must be so proud!" I replied "Yeah he'll do anything for a crowd."

Earlier, while the group was figuring out the bit Patrick asked "So who's going to drink the saliva?!" A momentary pause fell over the group and Jon piped up "I'll do it" The group had established one rule...don't drink a whole lot of water, keep saliva to a minimum. Butterfly even got the little green things from out of his teeth (as he told us later..)

Jon still hasn't told his girlfriend about the bit. I'm keeping it in a file folder for our slightly rude silent comedy fringe festival show (which i'm sure we'll get around to writing someday...)

That was for anyone who had missed Motionfest this year... Come on out next year, who know what'll happen!
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Old 01-21-01, 03:57 AM   #13
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In 1982 I got a nasty paper cut.
It changed my life.
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Old 01-22-01, 05:45 AM   #14
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What's the matter, Robert? Not enough people responding to your other requests for busking information, so you try another tactic?

------------------
Each man's given a bag of tools,
An hourglass,
A book of rules;

And each man's built,
'ere his hour's flown,
A stumbling block -
Or a stepping stone.
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Old 01-22-01, 12:57 PM   #15
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Actually, the responses have been great and the stories even better.
--------------------------------------------

This man's given a bag of stool,
A sour ass,
A look of drool;

And this man's ilk,
'ere his sour tone,
A bumbling crock -
Or a Chilini clone.
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Old 01-22-01, 02:18 PM   #16
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This happened back in the late eighties when I was performing to try and make ends meet while I slaved away in university. (As opposed to now, where I perform to try and make ends overlap while I slave away at my desk.)

I was hired to perform at a company Xmas show. I don't recall the company, but it was some sort of blue-collar affair. I get there and meet the manager who hired me. It's a plain 'banquet room', filled with some 300 workers in rows of tables and chairs packed in as tightly as possible. There's a small stage and microphone set up at one end of the room, near the entrance.

I can deal with this. The lighting and staging is a little less than I had hoped and the crowd a little bigger, but what the heck - I'd been paid up front, when I got the contract. I hang out at the bar while some awards are given out, after which I'll be on. There's a constant line-up at the bar. As far as I can tell, the workers have decided to bilk the company as much as possible in free booze. I figure having the crowd as liquored up as possible can only help (can you hear the ominous music playing...?).

The awards are done, I'm introduced and I go on. I'm about 10 minutes into my act when I see a fellow near the back fall off his seat. The only people who have seemed to notice are the people around him, and they put him back on his chair, so fine.

Two minutes later, he falls off his seat again. There seems to be a bit of a commotion, but it's near the back and I can't really tell, and besides, I'm trying to keep going. Halfway through the next trick, I hear sirens outside.

Paramedics rush in with a stretcher. They leave the stretcher near the entrance and work their way through the tight-packed tables to the fallen guy. They strap him to a board, but there's a debate between the paramedics about whether or not he'll make it back to the hospital. One paramedic rushes out to the ambulance for a medical kit.

I'm still trying to keep the audience's focus. I'm shouting into the mike to be heard over the sirens, and it's starting to feed back. The paramedics decide they have to work on this guy right now, but because the place is so full of tables and chairs they choose the only open space - right in front of the stage.

So I'm on stage, there's an ambulance with sirens wailing right outside the window, and three paramedics trying to save the life of a drunk lying on the ground two feet in front of me.

I look over at the manager, and he makes the universal gesture for 'keep going' (finger-pointed hands moved in a circle). I ask, "Is anyone still paying attention to me?"

No response from the crowd, who are (not surprisingly) watching the paramedics.

"Thank-you, good night, have a great holiday and don't drive drunk!"

I was glad I had been paid in advance.


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Old 02-06-01, 02:06 PM   #17
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It was back in 1988 and I was having the time of my life experiencing my first full season as a street performer.

I was in Barcelona, performing on the Ramblas with my partner Joel. We were having fun shows and constantly giggling about our adventures. Anyway we were doing our last shows of the evening when we got the heckler from hell.

The guy was drunk and Austrailian (what are the chances of that?) He was about 6' 5" and sported a shaved head, a pair of Dr. Martin's Boots, shorts, ripped t-shirt and a look about his face that indicated to us he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

He walked right through our crowd and into our circle where he tried to join our show by making an ass of himself. We played with it as best we could, i.e. introducing him to the audience as our long lost brother, letting him have the spotlight for a minute, insulting him, asking him to leave, offering cash for him to leave etc. Nothing worked.

Still, we continued the show. Our finale at the time consisted of a nice seven torch passing routine with lots of build up and jokes. Right after we had presented our torches to the crowd our heckler friend proceeded to drink the petrol we used to fuel our torches. And I mean drink, he was gulping the shit down like it was water. When he'd finished drinking he kept a mouthful of petrol so he could walk in a circle around us, spitting the fuel on the ground as he went. His plan was to make a circle of flame around us. It didn't work. He tried to light the petrol he'd spit on the ground by touching a match to it, but the stuff wasn't combustable enough to light that way.

After this brilliant stunt the guy just walks away, we thaught we'd seen the last of him. We were wrong.

He came back during our final show of the evening. The petrol he'd been drinking, combined with the alcohol already coursing through his system caused him to become violently ill in the stomach. He walked right into the middle of the pitch and started vomiting. And not just vomiting, he was vomiting with style. Puking into his hands, then rubbing it back into his face and even eating some of it. After getting sick in front of us and our crowd he left again, this time we were sure he was gone for good. We were wrong again.

In an effort to salvage the show we convinced our audience to follow us to another pitch down the Ramblas. We (The Airborne Comedians) prefer to work in a vomit free enviornment, we're just picky that way.

Anyway we salvaged the show, we even had a good show and made it all the way to last trick in our torch passing routine when vomit man showed up again.

He was no longer wearing his shorts or t-shirt. In fact he wasn't wearing anything at all except his boots and a piece of some kind of synthetic fur he'd found in the gutter somewhere, wrapped around his waist like a loin cloth. It really wasn't a very good loin cloth though, being that the function of a loincloth is to cover one's loins. This piece of fur left his private parts exposed to the public.

He picked up one of our hats and stood there next to us as we were excepting donations for the show. He was shouting at the top of his lungs "MORE MONEY, MORE MONEY!" over and over.

We just pretended like he wasn't there and finished passing the hat. We never saw or heard from the guy again.

Anyway that was the worst heckler I've expierienced before or since. I'd even comletely forgotten about the guy until reading this subject. Thank you Butterfly Man (and the rest of you) for helping to stir up such a wonderful memory.

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Old 02-12-01, 11:53 AM   #18
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Although I frequent the rec.juggling NG, I have not posted at this site before, but Robert’s “Truth or Dare” is a challenge that can’t be passed up.

Writing about the worst, or most embarrassing, show ever is easy – choosing which one to write about is not. Since it is impolite to dominate any conversation, I will only choose one…

A commonality between performers is the reoccurring nightmare about being on stage. A classic example of this is the dream where I am on stage, the lights come up, the music starts, and I begin my routine only to realize that I have completely forgotten to wear any pants. Now, this situation may be a reality for some, depending on the sorts of shows you perform, but in my sleep-state I realize that the laughter is no longer directed towards the routine. I usually wake up in a brisk sweat.

I was a juggler with Cirque du Soleil’s production of Quidam. In that show, the common character roaming throughout the show is the “every-man” character. This character is dressed in a white cover-all, much like those worn in clean rooms or for toxic waste disposal. They have hoods and are all white with a zipper up the front. The concept of the character was to hide the person in the costume and make them faceless, emotionless, drones that go about executing tasks under the direction of the show’s Master of Ceremonies.

As a good and cooperative ensemble member, I regularly volunteered for these cues. Most of the acrobats hated doing the grunge work of running around on stage in these less-than-flattering costumes, so they left plenty of opportunities for a performing yes-man like myself to shine. As such, I did most of the cues that needed to be done in the white suits.

Working in the tent in Southern California in the summer was hot work. Not only was it hot but also my main costume was a three-piece suite. The kind folk in the costume department even lined in for me so that I wouldn’t catch cold in that drafty tent. It became quickly apparent that wearing one costume over another to do the white-suit cues was impractical. So, most of us that had to don the “every-man” costume would do so in our underwear.

After doing almost 1500 performances with Cirque du Soleil, as soon as the show started, I would slip into autopilot with the greatest of ease. I had the show optimized to the microsecond and knew exactly when and where I needed to be for each cue.

If you have read this far, you see it coming…

The finale of the show goes like this: All of the cast roam about the stage in our white, every-man, suits. There is a clap of thunder and we all collapse onto the stage. As the music starts up again, we slowly rise, and in a very dramatic moment, we peel away the white suit to reveal the real person behind the mask, concluding in an almost tear jerking ensemble bow.

On this occasion, I had been talking backstage, and had not been paying attention before going on for the finale. I went out, did my little choreography, the thunder clapped and I collapsed as I had collapsed hundreds of times before. I lay there until I heard the appropriate music cue to unzip my suit and rise to embrace the warmth of the crowd’s applause. I unzipped my suit to see that I was not wearing anything except a brisk sweat.

I had gotten so used to being on stage without anything else on that it felt perfectly normal to me. To make matters worse, as I said before, I was a “yes-man,” particularly to the director. I proudly volunteered to be down-stage center and to be the one to cue the entire ensemble to rise together – i.e. they all watch me out of the corner of there eyes to see when to stand up.

So, here I am, in nothing but my undies under my white-suite, FRANTICLY trying to figure out what to do before I had to strip. I first thought that I could get off stage somehow, but I was at least twenty meters away from either wing. The show is on a thrust, so I had audience on three sides, meaning that there was no way I could get from down-center to backstage. Then I decided that if I just lie perfectly still, no one would ever get up and the audience would eventually get bored and leave. (The cast members in that show were especially committed to doing everything exactly the way that it was told to them, so I have no doubts that none of the acrobats would have moved if I had not moved first!)

Ultimately, I realized that I would have to get up and take a bow. The solution was quite simple really; I just didn’t take off the suit. I just continued to represent the every-man that appears in any community. I took my bow and exited.

I was unable to confess to this faux pas while I was with the show for word of such a goof on stage would have quickly reached the Montreal offices. It was not that I was worried about my job status, but there are many in the administration there who take great pleasure in singling out individuals and have some good fun at their expense. Luckily for me, everyone else was also on autopilot and never even noticed me as I left the stage to go vomit.

Steven Ragatz


[This message has been edited by Steven Ragatz (edited 02-14-2001).]

[This message has been edited by Steven Ragatz (edited 02-14-2001).]
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Old 03-19-01, 09:44 AM   #19
danielc
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Late night show, working the festival circuits. Performance tent is right beside the beer tent. This is the recipe for imminent disaster.

Before I even get on stage and begin to unload my props, a chorus of "Your fucken mother" is ringing out as I solemny attempt to hook up my mic. I half assedly start the show trying to over come the constant shouts of "You fuckin' suck" and "Your momma must be proud ya' fuckin' hobo"

I have a decent sized crowd built up and the crowd is now yelling at these drunks to be quiet. I'm lambasting them with everything I have from all the standard lines to all the racy raunchy lines. The crowd is now infighting with the drunks. I use the classic
"I'm glad you came, too bad your father did"
This nets me a standing o and security extracting the drunks from the grounds.

But the fun doesn't end there. Oh no.

Walking back to my car after the show I notice a guy following me. I turn and look at him and lo and behold, it's Senor drunk from the show that night. He yells something illegibly, and hurls something through the air. I feel warm beer splashing my legs and a half empty beer can bounce to the ground at my feet.

A couple more obscenities and he's gone.

And the worst is, I know there will be a show that's ten times worse.. The question is .. When?
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Old 03-29-01, 04:55 PM   #20
Furry Eggs
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Join Date: Mar 2001
Location: Delmar, NY, Not the USA
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I don't get it. I do a show, collect the money and go home. What's so hard about that? Sometimes I have a hard time spending it all, but surely that can be excused? Why is life so hard for you guys? Maybe you should try rubbing glasses. Cheers, Ed
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