I WAS ASKED TO WRITE A SERIES OF PIECES TO CHRONICAL MY ASSENT INTO STARDOM AS A STANDUP COMIC.

Part One.

The songs asks, “Who are you?” And I wonder, “Am I who I say I am, as the author of these non-sensical ramblings, am I Jake Delacroix, the man who shamelessly steals software and other such necesities, or am I Henry Parkway, the dreamer?” Ponder with me and decide for yourself as I sit back and try to relax on another continental Continental flight.

I spin my LIVESTRONG bracelet, happy about my ability to spin it and decide to open this file and pound away at the lonely keys. My X Games piece was starting to bore me, staring empty headed at a blank computer desktop. I’m extremed out; tired of the spinning wheels, breaking surf, and revving motor cycles. I’m not that guy. I love those action sports stars for what they do but it’s not me.

My brain is my best asset, not my body, unless you’re a lovely lady. Wink wink, nudge nudge. But those guys are either fearless or just fuckin crazy. Getting on stage is scary enough for me. A bruise to my ego is bad enough, let alone a broken fibula. And the trick to preventing such disaster is to expect nothing, always be practising, be prepared and have fun. That is how we dance. I take a step forward. And then I take a step back. Take a step forward. Then a step back. And next thing you know, I’m doing the cha cha.

I met a group of freaks last week. Let’s just call them the “groovy gravies”. The groovy gravies will heretofore represent a group of men and women of different ages and ethnicities that for some reason or another believe that they are spiritually enlightened or awakened.

Now, let’s not get into the self righteous and grandiose ramifications of declaring oneself awake or conscience because that is an entirely different joke. The bottom line is that hanging with these schmos for a minute has provided excellent fodder for material. Here is a true story that has made its way into the act.

I was standing in line with one of the groovy gravies and she was drinking a soda. I looked away and then noticed that the soda can had made its way onto the sidewalk. Litter, not very groovy. But I looked closer at the can. It read organic. Oh, perfect. Since the can is organic it will biodegrade directly into the sidewalk. Mind you, while standing there, she preached to me the wonders of eating vegetarian. But later on in the night, she was shoveling wheelbarrows full of cocaine up her nose in the men’s room with a biker named Bones. Because we all know how much better coke is for you than beef.

Then, we tensely struck up another conversation regarding my t-shirt. Apparently, it was not very “kind”. It was neither made in a factory that holds slave free labor a priority nor was it certified organic. I’m such an idiot. How insenstive of me. But I did counter with the notion that the twelve year old Mexican girl, named Juanita, that muled a kilo of cocaine in her bunghole across the US border into the blessed city of Angeles for her to sniff uncontrollably was probably not treated so well by her captors. Not only were they abusive, I’m sure they took part in some sexual harrasment. And since Juanita’s madre and padre, who worked on Pablo Escobar’s “organic” cocaine farm, were murdered in a bloody rampage when Pablo decided he needed real specimins for target practice, she won’t be having a very healthy adulthood. Juanita will either need massive therapy or continue the cycle of violence with her children. That being not very groovy nor gravy. And then switching to a deeper level of sarcasm, I chided that there was probably no blood on the product of cocaine, while shaking my head and waving my hands in the air for comedic effect. No one got hurt bringing harvesting that crop and thank god its organic. That organic coke. Give a line. And I did one, while muttering “cunt” under my breath.

A couple of nights later I did a gig in Glendora at a place called Sweet Daddies. It took me an hour to drive there and, as is normal, I did 10 minutes of stagetime. But I made a large mistake by not having new material to practice there. I went not expecting a crowd but not preparing any new jokes. Preparing new material for a weak gig works good for me because I have an easier time having fun with new stuff when there’s no pressure from a large or rowdy audience. Plus, I can judge for myself how to get those words out of my mouth, which words to stress and which words to choose vocally. A lot of things appear funny on paper that may just be paper funny. The idea is to write to my voice, comedically and vocally. And when I find my voice I will let you know. The rule of thumb is that it takes ten years. And I‘m only a toddler at a year and a half.

Wednesday in Oblivion I performed at the Hollywood Improv. That was my first time in that shuffled mess of broken dreams that is a comedy club. I was 23rd on the list and since 5 or 6 regulars got shuffled in before me, I performed 30th at 1:15AM. It seems, while writing this now, that Wednesday was a fucking waste of time, but in the moment, it was the best I had ever done.