I got a chance last night to open up for Pauly Shore. I jumped on it, noticing immediately the club was a sell out. I met the “handler” who was basically the sound guy and problem solver. He was very nice, but from the West Coast, so I don’t know if we communicated well. “Are you the opener?” Yes. “Who is the emcee?” I am. “Then who is the opener?” Ummm. Me. I’m both. The feature is after me. Can I have his intro? “He doesn’t have intro music.” Right. What does he want me to say when I bring him up? “Oh, that. Not sure.” Then again, my voice is very deep and mumbly. Maybe he couldn’t understand my slack-jawed yokel accent.
I am not much of a picture guy, I’m not very comfortable meeting big names, so I wasn’t sure how my meeting Pauly would go. He walked in, right before I hit the stage. “Are you the opener?” Yes! “Have fun.” Cool, thanks! Holy shit, I am a dud. Way to wow right from the start.
The show was sold out, so I stood and watched some of it, then after dodging the swinging kitchen door I figured I was better off just sitting at the ol’ bar. I have a joke where I mention the way my career path is going, at the age of 50 I’ll be running the scrambler at your local county fair. I then rub my hairy belly and say, “You kids quit pooshin’!” This apparently created a kinship with a middle aged lady who approached me after the show and poked me in the gut way too hard. “THAT BELLY MADE ME LAUGH!” Then she walked away. I need a handler, I feel violated. Security!