I can’t even read what I wrote below or discern a clear meaning, and I was there. All hail PBR, the anti-muse.

(You have to fucking give credit to the great drunks of literature. I don’t have any idea how folks like F. Scott and Ernest could get so stinkingly stewed and string coherent sentences together. Sure, I can get the periods and capital letters in the right places, but make sense at the same time? No way. Their gift is not mine. Worse still, I had a vivid dream in which I was drunk as well, and in the dream I was doing a lot of driving. I woke up feeling guilty as hell, even though in the non-dream world I did no harm and did not drive. The great drunk writers would have been coherent and guilt-free in their macho excess.)

Here’s a lucid version of what happened.

I knew in advance that one of the other performers on the show last night lives with a guy who works at my former place of employment. I had prepared in my head my very simple, “I don’t work there anymore,’ knowing that since he is new to comedy and we do not really know each other, the common link would be mentioned. No need to go any further, and I was ready for the cordial moving on to other topics.

All is good, but as the show is starting, I still haven’t seen that other performer and had somewhat put the whole think out of my head in order to concentrate on what jokes I would try and whatnot. I was number two on the list, so during the first guy I thought about my set list of bits, and I got ready for my turn. When that guy was done, I listened to the host from the de fact on-deck circle on stage left and checked in that the audience was still tight as hell, not relaxed, not laughing and re-thought what I might say to loosen the mood.

Then, as I literally was listening for my introduction, the roommate of the former co-worker bounced up to me, shook my hand and asked me how work was and named my employer as maybe the fifth word out of his mouth, and then re-reminded me how he knows me. I was completely caught off guard, because I was preoccupied with waiting for my turn. I stammered and quickly said I didn’t work there anymore and to say “hi” to our friend in common, but it was rushed and awkward and unlike what I had planned in terms of cool, hip and breezy. Stammering always makes you look SMMMMMMOOOOTHHH.

About a minute later, gloriously now off kilter from what I had planned to say, grindingly out of gear, I was up on stage. TOTALLY distracted I bounced around in my head, not remembering which jokes I had planned, how each joke was supposed to sound, nothing. I stepped on not one but two punchlines, reversing the words so the “surprise” was talked over in the middle and the fizzle of then non-witty words dripped out after. I did this in my first joke, my opener, my introduction to the audience, the one that is meant to give them the confidence I know what I’m doing. In the middle, I blanked and was silent for an uncomfortable pause, thinking not about jokes, but about the guy who knew me through work. And, I allowed some really loud and persistent table chatter in the front confuse me and take away what little resolve I may have had left.

The zen of comedy is your head hasn’t to be on the stage with you and along for the ride for it to work. Mine wasn’t, and it showed.

All of this would probably be OK, given that shit happens. But, I chose to commence to drinking as a way to lick my wounds, rather than going home and crying in peaceful isolation. DUMB-FUCKING-ASS move.

The club owner and his girlfriend were both buying me my poison of choice, and the three of us talked. On a good day, the owner and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on who or what is funny and how it all should work. But, now, he had my very, very bad night of work to use as an example of what not to do. I think a face punching at that juncture may have stung more but felt great compared to my ego slashing.

Next time, I’ll just bring along a hari kare blade in my backpack, next to my bike helmet. Then, a quick slice or two into my abdomen and my ego can maybe climb out of the gutter on the back of my broken corpse.