Jimmy Yang - How to American

Backstage, Arsenio joked, “This is gonna be the last time you ever talk to me, you’ll be too famous to talk to me after this.”

“Thank you so much for having me on your show, Arsenio. I’m sure I’ll talk to you again, hopefully I’ll be on this show again.”

“You got it, man, would love to have you back.”

I never got to go back on the show again. Three days later, The Arsenio Hall Show was abruptly canceled. CBS had originally signed on for a second season before I went on the show, but they decided to pull the plug on it three days after I went on. Coincidence? Probably. Or maybe this hot Asian chick was too hot for America. Either way, I felt lucky that someone dropped out so I became the very last stand-up comedian to ever perform on The Arsenio Hall Show , joining the likes of Eddie Murphy, George Lopez and Andrew “Dice” Clay. On my following birthday, Jeremy gave me a custom-made poster that said: YOU GOT ARSENIO CANCELED. I now proudly hang this magnificent poster in my living room, as I will cherish this moment forever.

Rush Hour 4 ?

The names of the people in this chapter have been changed in order to protect their identities and my safety. Yes, this chapter is about to get gangster.

I’d only been to a strip club once in my life when I was eighteen years old. Phil took me to a high-end strip club with velvet curtains and chandeliers in Westwood in LA. I was blown away by how beautiful the dancers were. They didn’t look like strippers; they looked like sorority girls from USC. They probably were actual USC students trying to pay off the astronomical tuition. I was not a very confident eighteen-year-old, and I was sure the strippers could smell the virgin on me. Phil offered to buy me a lap dance but I was afraid of the unknown behind those VIP curtains, so I turned it down. I wasn’t interested in throwing money behind the brass railing in exchange for a pair of blue balls. I wanted to be an insider who knew these girls on a real-name basis. I wanted to be a strip club DJ just like Guam. Guam was definitely no role model, but my young and impressionable libido was incredibly envious of him sleeping with eighty strippers. Becoming a strip club DJ was the only way to instantly transform myself from a sexually frustrated chump to a world-class stripper whisperer. Being a strip club DJ became my American dream.

I was working at the used car lot during the day and then putting in work at the Comedy Palace every night. Old Larry at the car lot had a friend named Shooter who came to visit him at the lot every week. They knew each other from AA or ’Nam or something, I forget. I think it was AA. Or maybe it was AA in ’Nam. Larry lived in Shooter’s apartment. When you are sixty years old and you still crash at a buddy’s apartment, you know you have made some serious mistakes in your life. Shooter was a notorious figure in the San Diego underworld. Word on the streets, Shooter did twenty years of hard time in prison for something involving a dead body. I didn’t dare to dig any deeper. He wasn’t affiliated with any particular gangs, but all the gangs respected him. Shooter also owned a strip club in San Diego.

Shooter was in his sixties; he rocked a thin Mohawk and wore a pair of black plastic Choppers sunglasses. Have you ever looked at a guy and you know he could kill you without flinching? Well, Shooter looked like he would beat that guy to death with a sledgehammer. Whenever he entered a room, he exuded a dark aura of power. He was like the Undertaker from the WWE, except this was real-life hellfire and brimstone. I was scared, but absolutely fascinated by him. Every time Shooter came in, I looked up at him in awe. I thought gangsters were so cool, let alone a gangster who owned a strip club. Larry had told Shooter that I did stand-up and Shooter quickly took an interest in my comedy. He probably noticed the admiration in my eyes. The first time he talked to me, I was as nervous as a nerdy high school freshman talking to the starting varsity quarterback.

“Hey, kid, I heard you do stand-up,” Shooter said to me in his gravelly Mickey Rourke voice.

Even though I knew he was a gangster, I tried to stay composed and talk to him like any normal person. “Yeah, I’m usually at the Comedy Palace. You should come by sometime,” I replied.

“Sounds good. I can bring some of the girls from the club.” In case you’re wondering, by “girls” he meant strippers. I could barely contain my excitement. I couldn’t wait to show off my soon-to-be stripper fans to the boys at the Comedy Palace.

I realized talking to gangsters is like talking to celebrities; you just have to treat them like normal people and not freak out over who they are. They don’t like to be treated differently; they just want a genuine conversation like everyone else. Gangsters have feelings too.

That weekend, Shooter rolled up to the Comedy Palace in a white stretch limo. One by one the strippersgirls strutted out of his car. Everyone in the parking lot stopped and stared. I proudly whispered to Guam and Tarrell, “That’s my boy, Shooter.” Guam nodded in approval. And without taking his eyes off the girls, all Tarrell said was, “Damn!” It was one of the coolest moments of my life.

That night, I felt like a gangster myself. When you are on the good side of a gangster, you feel safe and invincible. All the comedians were extra motivated that night and we put on a killer show. I could see Shooter and the girls clapping their hands, laughing like innocent children. For a moment, Shooter went from a feared gangster to a regular, happy audience member. That’s the magical thing about stand-up comedy. No matter who the audience member might be, if you can make him laugh, you’ve got a fan for life.

After the show, the girls came up to me one after another to give me a hug. “Oh my God, you were so funny!” “Hilarious!” “That was amazing!” These positive affirmations from the strippers felt as legit as a raving New York Times review. Sean, Tarrell, Guam and all the other comedians looked on in awe. I got all the street cred I could ever wish for that night.

Then Shooter walked over to me and simply said, “Good job” as he made his way into his limo. I knew this was my chance; I saw my American dream of working at a strip club flash in front of my eyes. I seized the moment and I ducked my head in the limo before Shooter closed the door.

“Hey, do you need a new DJ for your club?” I nervously blurted out.

“You free this Thursday?”

FUCK. YES.

FANTASY SHOWGIRLS

I couldn’t sleep for the next few days. I felt like a kid who just got the golden ticket to Shooter’s Stripper Factory. All the years of sexual frustration in high school and college would finally be forgotten. This would be my ultimate redemption from Guam and Tarrell making fun of me in the back of the Comedy Palace. I pictured the hottest strippers surrounding me as I spun on the ones and twos at a fancy strip club that was like a kind of heaven for dudes.

When I stepped foot into Shooter’s club on Thursday, I realized it was nothing like the paradise I had imagined. It was inside an old wooden bungalow in the shady part of town. The exterior was pink and powder blue with an old wooden sign that read: FANTASY SHOWGIRLS. There were no velvet curtains or chandeliers. I entered through a giant wooden door and swam through some old crusty purple curtains, and there I was, in the shittiest strip club I had ever seen. It was nothing like the swanky strip club Phil had taken me to in Westwood. If the Westwood strip club was a Michelin-star restaurant, this strip club would be a taco truck on the side of a gas station. It was a seedy, dystopian joint where dreams came to die. The inside smelled like years of despair and ball sweat, with a hint of stripper lotion. To this day, I’m not sure what strippers put on their bodies, but every stripper wears that same distinct stripper lotion. Nowadays, that smell brings me a satisfying nostalgia. The chairs and VIP booths were old Goodwill-quality pieces with suspicious stains on them, but the lights were just dark enough that you could trick your mind into not seeing them. There was a bar in the middle of the club. It was a sad, lonely island that only served sodas and Red Bulls. Under California state law, a fully nude club cannot serve any alcoholic beverages; only a topless club can serve alcohol, and ours was the fully nude variety. I never really understood that law. I guess the lawmakers thought the exposure of vaginas mixed with alcohol was the tipping point that would make people’s brains explode or something. Everyone knew this; customers just showed up wasted anyways. It was a sound strategy for veteran perverts.