Point After Touchdown
By Qiris L. Brown
Addicted to Boos
Ya know, Eddie Murphy once
told Barbara Walters alx>ut how
he would drive around in his car at
night and just cry. He would pull
up to a st(^ light sobbing, and
somebody would pull up next to
him and recognize him, and as he
would try to wave to them a strand
of mucus (translation; snot) would
stretch fiom his hand, they’d be
grossed out, and he’d jam on the
gas when the green beckoned him.
Ahh, the dramatically ironic life
of a comedian. I know what my
bro was talkin’ about.
But it’s time to get down to
business. How many of you wctc
at the Que Essence’s Showtime at
the Apollo production last Wed
nesday (raise your hands)? Now,
how many (rf you wctc not there?
Today is Monday, March 4. In
two weeks and three days, I have
been a part of four comedy shows.
In three of them, I felt chill; I
enjoyed myself and the audience
also seemed to have fun. But then,
(dun-DUNNNNN!!) came the
fourth show. I remember asking
the young lady who got me to be
a part of the Apollo: “Apollo?
Man, that’s a tough crowd, isn’t
it?”
“No,” she assured me, “You
aie established talent. They don’t
hooestablishedtaient” Being the
trusting brother I am, I agreed to
do it at that point What the freak,
as my ex-homeboy Tom Cruise
(he ain’t down no more, not after
Days ofThunder) used to say. But
as it would turn out, she could
& Entertainment
Hold on (Hey, Erika & Gai —
you’ve got 3,043 people reading
the Ink at this moment Not bad,
huh?)... Okay. Well, for those of
you that were not there, let me tell
you of my... adventure on stage.
have soW me the Brooklyn Bridge
and the returns would have been
better.
So, I trotted my humble self up
to Great Hall a little while before
the show and saw the familiar
beginnings of a crowd lining up
outside the door. I was pleased,
because the crowd was predomi
nantly African-American. I went
backstage and started to psych
myself up.
Dangit, I knew that trouble
was about to arise when this fash
ion show thing went on before me.
Although some (tf the designs were
reminiscent of the strapped-to
gether clothing a New York sub
way dweller wears, I was still sur
prised to hear such an unwelcome
greeting from the crowd. Their
clapping was about half as gener
ous as that crowd at Black Aware
ness Day in Coming to America
(remember?). I mostly heard lust
ful barks (I wonder who?), and
1,000 ‘Miss Thing’ snaps andraps
to the tune “Oooh, girl I can’t be-
lieeeeeve she wearin’ that!” The
homeboy who designed it all, in
the end, just came out, raised both
his hands in self-proclaimed vic
tory, and didn’t even wait for the
crowd’s reaction. He was gone.
r m backstage talking to some
one about how long I should be
when I hear my name being called.
The woman 1 was speaking with
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said,“That’syou!”I was rearin’to
go, hopefully to entertain my
African-American peers with
some intelligent humor. Right
before I jogged out, somebody en
couraged me; “Do good. We need
them to laugh right about now.” 1
guess I didn’t consider that the
said laughter could come at my
expense, instead of because of my
expenditure.
I arrived at the mike, and as my
mom and sister stopped clapping,
there was an instant of silence.
Then, I heard it — a few boo
addicts were flexing their nuclear
voiceboxes. I hadn’t even said a
mudflippin’ word, and those mugs
were about goin’ off already! I
popped the ftrst joke quickly,
trying to drown the unbelievers. It
went well, the audience laughed.
Whew! I thought I was OK and I
was—until I started to talk. You
see, intelligent humor requires that
one substantiate what one is talk
ing about first, then go into the
jokes. One cannot just go up there,
grab one’scrotch,say “Freak, Foul,
Freak Yo Mama, Foul, Filth,
Freak,” and then “Thank You and
Good Night” The audience is
ideally going to listen. But no, not
these brothas and sistas. It wasn’t
long before a chorus of boos (not
unlike the Hallelujah chorus, but
mo’ funky) attacked me. I kept
running that “Established Talent'
line through my head as I stood
there. The woman probably is still
off in a comer somewhere in
stitches of laughter, talkin’ about
“What a sucka! What a sucka!
Then, like the cavalry, I heard
some applause trying to encour
age me to keep going. This daring
faction grew until it about equaled
the boos. (And, let me take the
time to thank those people who
risked their lives for my flailing
dap.) So I stood there and laughed
while a live “Less Filling (boos)/
Tastes Great (cheers)” battle
erupted. (In real Ufe, it’s better
than the commercials.) I tried to
talk, but the noise was too loud.
Finally, one of the louder boo
addicts shouted something outlike,
“GetouttahCTe! You boring!” So
I retaliated; “Man, why are you
bothering me when I’m trying to
work? I don’t come up to
McEtonald’s and bother you when
you' re trying to work! ” The crowd
liked that and aimed their laugh
ter o’ridicule at The Mouth. Then
the unexpected happened. I’m
standing there watching the guy
leap up, grab his coat jog to the
stage, and hop on. My smarter
instincts said, “Run! RUN!” but I
stood my ground. He covered the
mike up, almost as if he thought
someone had called him up there.
“What’s up?”
I looked at him. “Say some
thing.”
“Nah, what’s up?”
How ironic — at that point I
was smelling booze on this boo
addict’s breath. I fought to keep
my consciousness. “Say something
to cut me down,” I whispered in
his ear. The crowd was silent in
anticipation. He turned to the mike.
“He said for me to cut him down,
dramatic pause) so he can f— me
up in the end.” He turned to me and
lightly hit me on the head. “I don’t
play that.” And, oh, they booed.
They booed Aim off the stage. They
lxx)ed ‘till the cows came home.
They booed that poor mug’s head
under his sweater. They booed him
all the way to Kansas. So, I took
that cue and said “SSSSee ya.”
Now, it was a learning experi
ence and all that, but I do have a
little beef to get out To those boo
addicts; Who Are You To Boo?!!
I say my one boy was at least brave
enough to come up and face the
challenge and receive his fair
payment foropenin ’ his cavernous
mouth. But what about the rest a’
ya? Sittin’ back there in the dark,
with a thousand-and-one others
around you doing the same thing.
I say BOOOO back to ya! To all
you non-listenin’, McDonald’s
workin’, non-hair combin’, non-
doorprize winnin ’, fake Kool Moe
Dee lookin’. Time Out biscuit
eatin’, non-tryin’ to better your
self doin’, non-class attendin’, non-
UNC attendin’. Soul Gloin', non
booty shakin’, non-comedy appre-
ciatin’, supah street- language
talkin’, non-teeth brushin’, Afro-
wearin’, Schlitz drinkin’ muggs,
Booo! BOOO! BOOOOOOOO!!!
So git on, ya gizzards! Go boo yo
mama!
Bill Cosby once said that if a
crowd doesn’t like your act it’s
your own fault Well, Bill never
did the UNC Apollo. It may have
partly been my fault but it was
mostly the fault of a substance
called al-co-hol, as well as a state
of mind called ignorance. If I sound
bitter. I’m not
I know that the crowd came on
the premises that they coukl be
rowdy and voice their displeasure
and it was all in some twisted ver
sion of good fun. In fact,
everybody’s invited to my next
performance . .. naaaaah. Don’t
call me. I’ll call you (or boo ya, if
I get the chance).
Black Ink March 4,1991