The title of this post has to be read with a hard ‘R’ intoning the sweet dismay of doe-eyed Nancy. 
M. likes to say it just so, as an homage to Nancy that also serves to make me wonder where exactly I am in my life. Oh, Lord.
It suits my mood, though, after a special evening in comedy-contest surrealism. The inherent flaw in any comedy competition is that they lend themselves to the worst part of old-timey talent shows. If it were music, you’d be pitting accomplished string quartets against death metal head bangers with folksy singer-songwriters, drunken karaoke, spoon and saw players and some Tuva throat singers. Just an unholy, wholey fucking random mix to determine “the best.”
For a variety of reasons, I suspect whatever bit I do have by way of ability to entertain it never, ever, never, ever, ever will be shown to best advantage in a contest. I know this intellectually and accept it fully in my heart and soul.
Nonetheless the fuckedupness of the human mind is that leap where you think, “I dunno, maybe I will win.”
D’oh.
On the crazy ass, what the fuck and why am I here? front–No fucking lie, this show included an angry-sounding bit of original guitar playing, a woman who could be described as in Mame (and much like myself) as “somewhere between 40 and death,” who calls herself a poet, comic philosopher and who had a spontaneous and dramatic nosebleed right before the show, several young men of varying degrees of interesting and/or talent, a performer with thick eye-stinging halitosis and a legally blind lawyer. I am making none of this up. None. And, tomorrow or some time soon there will be videotaped evidence.
It was cool meeting some folks and talking to a couple of others and just hanging out in that comedy hanging out way. I had a couple of brief, but interesting convos, all nicey nice, joy, joy to be putting on a show. There were even people comprising an audience.
Still and all, when they announced the winners, there were the couple of names, as there always are in comedy contests, where at best you think, “Huh?” and at worst you think, “No fucking way.” When the one douche did an endzone type dance with self-congratulatory yelping, it definitely leaned more to the second thought.
I can’t decide which was my favorite personal exchange of the night, though. Was it the quick dialogue that went something like:
Guy, “Hi, she said (gesturing to a woman off to the side) that you’re a Chronicle reporter doing a piece on the show tonight. Because you have that tripod.”
Me, “Huh, what? Um, it’s for my video camera, if I tape myself tonight.”
Guy, “Yeah. I thought you were a comic…”
In an appropriately short number of comic beats later, the woman referenced above walked up to me:
Lady with rich imagination, “Have you been to many comedy shows? (Or something like that.) Are you taping the show?”
Me, “Just my set,” followed by awkwardness and ensuing discourse about my non-reporter status.
Puzzling that whole thing was. Among the questions in my head, why would a newspaper report tape a comedy show?
The better to transcribe here in text, I think, was this exchange:
“I get a strong sense that you are an air sign.”
“Nope.”
“Oh, than earth.”
“No. Is there just one left?”
“Fire, then? I didn’t see that.”
“Um, uh, no, water. I’m Pisces.” (I kept inside my head, “Now you want to guess any other random facts about me that prove absolutely nothing about my personality?”)
Fucking California.
id like to guess
guess 1) you are smarter than the average Boo Boo
guess 2) you suffer fools gladly
guess 3) you dont like confrontation as you will say platitudes
guess 4) you are a lost soul in certain places
guess 5) you hate th e bloody english for being right
seee 5 out of five
so amsterdam or bloody walsaw indina but t fuck
im a waiting
not realy
XXXXXXXXXXXXxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxn fun hun dave
IT is actually, “Good lord” not “Oh Lord”
Dear Dee, Remeber any “art” competition is not a real contest. A real contest would have you all telling the same joke and see how many people laugh. You would be judged uniformly on perhaps-physical agility, poise and diction. A “contest” is a framework for “Advertising” which is a connection to “attention” which should flow to “Drinking” which should conclude with patrons spending money in the participating establishments. The only person you (Me/us) should be “competing” against is our own belief in our talent and performing at a higher level than you believe yourself to currently be . Strive to be more than you are. That’s art. That’s why it’s difficult. Thank you, I’ll take my answer off the air.
Uh, Dave, huh? I really don’t understand.
And, the British always right? What the fuck? Two words — Thatcher and Blair. (Actually, I don’t mind Tony, but I’m guessing you do. And, that would make you wrong either way.)
Dot, right you are (of course). Do you ever get tired of your rightness?
I know that’s what is wrong with the whole contest thing. But, I really, really, really wish you were there to here/see your reactions. Especially to the nosebleed. It was fucking Vesuvius and the chick bleeding was old enough for women of our age to be thinking, she’s old. I kept waffling among trainwreck rubbernecking, neurotic concern and not caring.
The whole show was awesomely like a circus.
The woman with the nosebleed probably has high blood pressure or leukemia, keep her in your prayers.That, alone , is funny. You are way too smart to get caught up in the drama. You have to participate in these things because if you DO win (and the law of averages dictates that you will, eventually , some day win) then you can put it in your press to get PAID work. Otherwise, on to the next thing.
I am not always right-Exhibit A -Barry. Exhibit B- Capri pants. Exhibit C-Liver and Cream of Mushroom Soup casserole . . . .
Happy 4th of July Dave.
Nyuk, nyuk.
OOUCH!!!!