If I’m not too lazy when M. goes to run 20 miles, I might upload my set from last night. It wasn’t a bad set. No notes, a few new things and overall I was gladly lowkey and relaxed.

Apart from getting laughs in the right places and playing for a pretty good-sized audience, I was gratified by my favorite schaudenfraude-ish comedy experience. Right before the show there was one comic with whom I had worked before (and who M. fucking hates, partially for her leaning heavy on the Asian thing, of which she’s half, and partially for her “edgy” yelling), and she was chatting with another dude. She was asking if he was performing, apparently he was a comic, but his name wasn’t on the night’s show flyer.

His reply, “Yeah, well, I’m up, but, you know, I’m like the best kept secret in SF comedy. They don’t always put my name on the sign, but I do them a favor and perform.” Or something to that affect. Your basic poor me, I’m misunderstood, but watch me blow the doors off this dump, comedy braggadacio that always, always, always is a portent of nothing pretty.

I made a mental note to watch this guy’s set, because clearly he was going to play like a rockstar.

I was fully and thoroughly rewarded for my judgmental cynicism. He blew the doors off alright, in the sense that he totally blew. He sucked so hard, you could feel the pressure change in the room. My personal favorite two moments were (1) his homeless rap with the big punch of seeing a guy with a sign “Will work for drugs,” rim shot, which he presented in classic, vaudevillian “Ta Da” outstretched arms to chilling silence and (2) his big closer with a 20-year-old street joke (personalized, though, which was nice).

The street joke is the one about walking up to a punk with multi-colored hair and something about thinking it was your son, because once you got drunk and fucked a parrot. Ha ha ha ha, like in 1979, when crayon-colored hair technology was new and punks were unusual and life was fresh and pure and clean.

But, a wacky punk reference in late 2005? By a guy with shoulder-length a straggly, aging biker/hippie ‘do, beard and mustache? In fucking San Francisco? Yeah, right, ’cause in the fabled streets of SF, where people go way the fuck out the way to appear creatively bohemian, a punk is noticeable?

I get way too much pleasure hating on that kind of comic and their irrepressible arrogance. M. spent the whole of this guy’s set watching me wince and laughing his ass off.

My other favorite bit was the poor guy’s opener about his appearance and, “Yeah, I know, you’re wondering if I ride with the Hell’s Angels.” Actually I wasn’t thinking that because, um, you look about as edgy as a triangle of pumpkin pie, and anyway, when was the last time anyone ever worried about the Angels? Altamont Speedway, maybe?

Honestly, though, I swear, I actually reserve my comedy bitterness and excessive bile for the jokers who you overhear bragging on their badass comedy selves. For any potential audience members, there is always an inverse relation to funny, if you overhear someone touting his greatness before a show.

Other than that, it was a fun show with a lot of interesting, funny and original folks. I wish I had talked with Sherry Sirof, if only because she had the best abortion reference I have ever heard.