 | "Renaissance Man" is an excerpt from Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man, by Stephen L. Wilson. Available at Smashwords. All rights reserved. © 2013-2021. |
"Of what?" he wanted to know.
"I don't know. Just something entertaining. I mean, I went through a phase of learning how to code web pages. That lasted a while, and I still like to play around with it to this day. Then I went through a self-publishing phase, and of course, I still dabble in that now and then. Most recently I have been blogging seriously. Pretty soon I won't be blogging as much. I have had fun entertaining myself, reflecting these musings like some Renaissance Man, wondering, 'What intellectual endeavor lies in store for me now?' Surely, and after much reflection, I assure you that my next passion will be making internet videos."
Like a pro poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes.
"What kind?"
"Funny ones. I don't know. A monkey flew outta my butt, and I named him Tanner!"
His gaze didn’t waver.
"That is so old, Dad! Do you know how many times I have heard that? And it wasn't even funny the first time around."
Like a pausing pro poker player, I peered ponderingly, studying his beady eyes.
"Sez YOU."
"Seriously, Dad. Who would watch THAT? You telling an old joke? What else do you have? I mean, sometimes you get to the point where you are no longer funny - you are just annoying."
"Well...yes. That's true. So I am saying...I'm saying, let's say I am funny only one time out of ten. You have to suffer through the other nine. We get to edit that out! Right? I mean, that's what I would have to learn if I am going to make internet videos, right?"
Like a perturbed pausing pro poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes. The question sounded desperate.
"OK. Whatever. You won't need me, right?"
I couldn't help it! I laughed out loud, right there in the kitchen!
He pressed on. "I mean, seriously. You have a webcam on the computer. I will show you how to use it. I'll get you set up. Then leave me out of it."
Like a perpetually perturbed pausing pro poker player, I peered ponderingly, studying his beady eyes. I countered his claim.
"Look. I will need a "straight man." Someone to reel me in when I run too deep."
"Running deep isn't the problem. Running stupid is."
I chose to ignore his blunt warning. After all, no great endeavor happened because someone gave up. I switched gears on him.
"Have you ever heard of Abbott and Costello?"
Like a perplexingly perpetually perturbed pausing pro poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes. He spoke.
"No. Who are they?"
"Back in the day, they were an act that made the transition from vaudeville to the earliest days of television. Their 'schtick' was a big, goofy guy and a straight man. The big, goofy guy would spend his time getting into ridiculous situations, or making absurd claims or just being a problem in general."
"Well, you have THAT role down, anyway!" he jabbed.
I just gave him the stink eye.
"AN..EEE...WAY...the comedy comes from the idea that the straight man is spending his time setting up the ridiculous antics of the other guy. It doesn't SEEM like that. It SEEMS like the straight man is truly working to help out his buffoon friend, but in reality, he is making sure his friend keeps winding up in trouble. As much as the audience wants to feel bad for the guy, it just keeps being funny. I can be Costello, and you can be Abbot."
"Only if Costello is the fat guy."
"Son, we don't call them 'fat.' We refer to those poor folks as 'overweight,' 'pleasantly plump,' or, if they prefer, 'morbidly obese.' Please, son. Try to be a bit more respectful. After all, there are people like that in our family."
"Yeah. And you are one of them!"
It took a minute for his delight to draw down to a decent decibel. As his cackles tapered off, I continued.
"So you are in?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Are you serious, Dad?"
"What?"
"Why would I be 'in'?"
I hadn't noticed before, but the boy was a bit agitated. He seemed almost offended that I was trying to involve him in my latest endeavor. Maybe THAT was why he was trying to get under my skin. Sensing opportunity, I made the ultimate Dad command.
"You don't have a choice."
"WHAT THE HELL?" (By this time, the boy and I have already established that, as men, we can drop a cuss word now and then, whenever the lady-folk and other innocents are not about. This restriction is null and void if we hit our thumbs with hammers, or stub our toes [Man Code, Article IV, Section 3.707, 5th Revision, 1997, et al])
Like a perplexingly perpetually perturbed pausing pro Peruvian poker player, I peered ponderingly, studying his beady eyes. I grinned like a smoked ham.
"Ha ha! How ya like me now? You just got "dad-smacked"! You...don't...have...a...choice! You are officially now my straight man. Don't worry - at least you aren't the buffoon. That should work, right?"
These words were spit from his lips at a Tommy-gun rate:
"I'm-not-doing-your-dumb-videos."
By now he had had just about enough of my guff. You could see it in his eyes. He was done.
"Aw, Bub. You know I am just messing with you. Anyway, it was just an idea. Just one more thing - A monkey flew outta my butt, and I named him Tanner!"
Like a poisonous, perplexingly perpetually perturbed pausing pro Peruvian poker player, he peered ponderingly, studying my beady eyes. All he did was stare at me and shake his head.
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