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.