Year: 2012

The last leg of my northern run was in Harris, MI, which is near Escanaba.  That does no one any good whatsoever.  The nice part was that my drive from Milwaukee was only 4 hours and the weather cleared up.  The bad news was that I was heading to the western part of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and knew I had to drive 711 miles home on Monday.

I pulled in and saw the Island Casino, a tropical based facility, which was ironic, considering it was 14 degrees when the sun went down.  I got to my room and the door handle fell off in my hand.  Off to a good start, I see.  After the beating I took in Wisconsin, I was ready to choke someone.  Luckily, when I went to the show, about 150 people showed up.  One guy, the first one there, asked me, “Are you from down south?”  No, I replied, I’m from Columbus, OH (it’s easier than saying Zanesville when you’re 700 miles from home).  “Oh yeah, down south!”  I just stared at him with an annoyed, yet dead look until he nervously pulled out his phone and fidgeted away.

The show went great, although I only sold one DVD…I’ll blame the government.  It’s probably their fault.  Back on the road in the morning, I had a lovely 10 hour and 20 minute drive back for Christmas.  I learned a lot on my trip, mostly never book a week in the northernmost points of the United States in late December.  Actually, that’s all I learned.  See you in the summer, my viking pals up north.

After a restful Friday night (it was under 20 degrees, I didn’t leave the room), I had a double show Saturday night.  I went out and got some seafood (the headliner got lobster that looked delicious, my fish was apparently dropped on my plate from a passing seagull).  We walked in and the manager was the nicest person I have ever met ever.  He handed us menus, showed us the sound system, offered us a tour of the facilities, and so on.  Nice – this is going to be a good night.  Then the show started.

I did about a 60% good set, which is horrible.  The small crowd just wasn’t feeling it.  I felt a little better when it went about the same for the headliner.  This may have been a sign, but right before show two, the manager said “You can go short if you want to.”  Thanks…wait a minute…that sounds like, oh well.  I’ll kick ass, don’t worry about me!  I proceeded to experience a show about as pleasurable as smearing pheromones on myself and jumping into the gorilla house at the zoo.  I don’t know if smearing is how one applies pheromones, but you get the point.

A (shockingly) sober middle aged Wisconsin douche kept replying to everything I said.  “You guys drinking tonight?”  “Yeah, a little bit.”  “Thanks sir, you know you don’t actually have to answer every question with a complete sentence.”  “Oh, OK, well you asked!”  At one point, I may have made an allusion to hurting people after the show, but I don’t think they got it.  Another lady let her phone ring – all the way to voice mail.  “That sure is a long ring tone!”  She said merely said, “Yes, it’s pretty long.”  Me: “That wasn’t an observation, it was sarcasm…think you could silence your phone next time?”  Once the headliner was done, he yelled, “Thank you, you’ve been a car payment!”  I thought that was funny.  It was so bad, I didn’t even try to sell shit after the show.  Whatever fragment of pride I had left was apparently very strong.  Or shame, actually, it’s probably shame.  I can’t tell the difference anymore.

I hit the road day two, assuming the stupid asses in the UP of Michigan would have plowed the roads, especially since it hadn’t snowed in 12 hours.  NOPE!  After all, I’m sure they don’t get any fucking snow in the northernmost point of the Great Lakes…sonsofbitches…  The trip was more stressful than trying to leave North Korea.  I didn’t go over 40 mph for the first three hours.  Good start!  Thanks for everything!

I finally made it to Milwaukee and realized the hotel I was staying at was way over my usual experience.  They had valet parking, people to hold the door, and three restaurants inside.  Of course, as the snooty asshole in a suit was checking me in, I realized I was wearing a Captain America t-shirt I had worn three straight days, work boots, and a bright yellow Steelers toboggan.  No wonder he was short with me…oh well, I think he turned the corner when he saw me lug in a 20 pack of Bud Select and a calzone I bought down the street.  Probably not.  The only way he would’ve hated me more was if I asked where the bitches be at.  I almost did to see his self-righteous narrow head explode.  In summation, it was great to see a man who hated me more than Hitler have to kiss my ass, especially when I wasn’t even paying for the room.  Ah, the sweetness of small victories.

After my harrowing drive where I lost control of the road on two occasions, I pulled into the frozen town of Sault Ste Marie (pronounced Soo Saint Marie for some damn reason…stupid French language).  The casino was easily accessible, if you consider driving through residential neighborhoods convenient.  Strange.  As I parked, I noticed next month the casino would host Bubba Sparxxx, Queensryche, and the Oak Ridge Boys.  It didn’t make me less depressed.

The casino was as empty as the hotel in the Shining, but sadder.  I got to my room and it was balls freezing.  I set the heat at 67, which apparently was in Kelvin, because in 10 minutes I was sweating profusely.  Who lives here?  If you live north of here, you’re a sasquatch.  Then I went to yon show…

There were about 30 people there when I hit the stage, but three really drunk pieces of “yooper” white trash were getting on my nerves.  (Yooper is a term for Upper Peninsulares in Michigan)  I started the joke I do about drunk driving when the skinniest ratlike carny type yelled, “I can’t drive!”  Me: “You look like the type that I need to follow home, b/c you are guaranteed to get a DUI, allowing me to make it home.”  Him: “I haven’t had a license since 1996!”  Me: “Holy shit, do they let you ride a horse at this point?”  Then he rambled on and I cut him off.  I hope Bubba Sparxxx doesn’t have to deal with this shit.  Then again, his brother with the flavor saver bought me a double tequila shot.  Booty Booty Booty Rockin’ everywhere!  Rockin’ everywhere!  Rockin’ everywhere!

About two months ago I worked with a cool, laid back guy named Dwayne Gill, a very funny comic (and also a full time state trooper in Michigan, good dude to know if you live my lifestyle…)  He offered me a sweet gig running through the UP of Michigan, with a Milwaukee gig in the middle for December 20-23.  I took it in a second, mostly because it was all casinos (classy…supposedly) and I need the $.  I did that $ on purpose b/c I am cool.

As the weeks went by, I realized this might be a pain.  Why?  I forgot about this thing called “Christmas” and other such details.  Plus, in case you live in the Tropic of Cancer/Capricorn, the northernmost part of Michigan is COLD.

As I drove north, a cold front decided to ruin my eight hour drive by raining for the first five hours and turning to a frozen hell for the last four.  I nearly wrecked twice, but I made it.  Too bad I was stricken with PTSD by the end of my drive, but oh well.  I got to the check in and the lady looked at me and said, “I can’t believe you made it!”  When the venue says that, it proves you are a tard.  In my defense, what was I supposed to do?  Drive six hours north and turn around?  “Oh, these potholes are a bit large…I’m going home.  I’m sure the booking agent will understand that I no showed with four hours’ notice!”  Answer – I would have been fired forever, even if rabid animals were loose or there was a bizzard (oh wait, there is one going on right now).  I’m starting to think we need a comic union…

I had to drop off my dog at my Mom’s last night before my exciting comedy weekend in the sunny Upper Peninsula of Michigan (oh and Wisconsin, which is a tropical paradise in December also).  For some reason, she decided to pull out old school pictures.

There is nothing like seeing old pics of yourself in third grade with huge glasses, spiked hair and bright yellow suspenders to realize you can probably dress yourself better than your parents.  I saw all the experimental haircuts I was subjected to, such as the side tease, the bowl cut, the lesbian spikey mullet and the late high school fave, the butt cut (that last one is on me, I thought it was cool).  Due to these style bombs, I also observed each year of school pictures I smiled less and less.  I think the sweater vest and duck tail combo did it.