Every now and again I realize that as pastimes or vocations or avocations go (whichever the fuck it would be) comedy can be as satisfying as blowing sailors for nickels. If I were literally a crack whore, I may not enjoy the work. But, at the end of my shift, there would be the sweet rock to smoke up and remind me of life’s gifts. Or at least to blind me to life’s non-crack induced euphoric moments of displeasure. All in all, I can see the trade off.
But, with comedy sometimes the risk benefit analysis just don’t work out as well as the one a crack whore must consider.
Tonight, I did as OK as to be expected in a difficult environment. The scene is a large, loud bar with a group of guys who like to shout out their own witticisms and flash critiques. (Emphasize on the word “guys.” These are the kind of men who like to wear clothes with words and logos and animals and geegaws and join fantasy football leagues to have something real to discuss with their friends.) My job is to connect with them, the audience, and sometimes I can get a little communication going with guyish guys if I’m a little dirty and clearly acting tough and world weary. (Fucking hell, that’s an understatement. A Coast Guard member, a good decade my junior, took me home on the basis of that game once, so it’s fair to say I connected.)
With this group, though, they weren’t with that. Might have something to do with the fact that one of their buddy’s nickname was “Homo,” not exactly the same sense of humor as me. Getting out a few lines, getting a couple of them to laugh was about all I could expect and it’s all I got.
But, what the fuck, right? That’s the point of doing open mikes.
On the other hand, though, M. was lying on my couch and watching TV and just being around. So the whole time I’m there, I’m thinking “What in Christ am I doing? I could be chilling on the couch, maybe getting a back rub (more likely giving one, small fake dramatic sigh). But, NO, I’m here listening to this shit, participating in this shit, helping to create this shit.” It’s like pulling an extra shift at the plant to save money for a trip to Paris, when you know you’ll never save enough, since the doctor’s already told you you only have a year to live.
Man on couch, drunks at bar, Man on couch, drunks at bar, Man on couch, drunks at bar, how to choose?