The other day I thought it would be funny to dress up in an old USSR football jersey, go to Chinatown, wear a fake mustache and sunglasses, and pretend to be a confused Russian trapped in time and have to eat the strangest Chinese candy I could find.
Well it wasn’t funny at all, in fact the jokes fell flat, the costume was confusing and I had little or no material to work with other than my deadpan “Boris” accent I pull out when pretending to be an evil nuclear scientist. My friend Mat helped out by showing to up to film my insanities and any hedonistic desire that came to mind in the hot, oxygen deprived air of central Chinatown.
The day started off as usual I called him up and asked him to meet me, I didn’t tell him what the plan was, but told him that it’d be wise to bring some money and a disguise. Mat doesn’t know me to well, and was a bit confused by the request, and tried to ask me lots of questions that I wouldn’t answer. He made arrangements to have bail posted by another friend in case we got into trouble, told his girlfriend he loved her, and left the house, an intrepid explorer into the psyche of me.
Upon arriving in Chinatown we shared some laughs and filmed our journey. The first thing we had to do was find some candy. It was about 5pm and my heart was racing. Being in a politically charged communist shirt in the middle of the largest Chinese Canadian population in the world, not to mention the insane mustache and glasses, was a bit frightening. I thought I might actually get hurt. I didn’t expect the reactions I got. Total nonchalance and utter refusal to acknowledge my existence. Not a single person cared, or gave me a second look. It was a bit disheartening.
It was really hot and humid that day, I was sweating like a pig, and the duct tape holding the fake mustache on was peeling off my face. Constantly having to fix it and breathing in large volumes of fur-laden air made me hyper aware of my own sense of smell; the odor of rotting vegetables permeating the piles of garbage outside each shop was unusually strong. To make matters worse, the Chinese observe an old tradition called “Closing Time”. Apparently in Chinatown Shops close at 5pm. None of the candy shops I knew were open and none of the shops that were open had anything that resembled strange or amusing food stuffs. I suppose I could have made some jokes about crackers or soup, but I felt it just wouldn’t have had the same impact.
Forlorn and rejected we left Chinatown when we realized nothing we were doing was even remotely funny. I thought it would be easy to be funny, with the mustache and the glasses, I had a great start. But there’s a point, somewhere around talking about frozen shrimp in a fake Russian accent you realize you’re just like that lame ass that thought he was funny when he made those fart noises in Socials class.
Comedy is a tough child to please, one that screams at you constantly and beats your shins with a bat. Just when you think you are being funny it pees on your shoes, and amuses itself with fart noises.
