Month: June 2014

I was standing in the tent behind the club around a rectangular table with nine other comics, staring a young man, perhaps an intern, when I was told to do my best 30-60 seconds.  I’ve had short sets in my career, but I can tell you 30 seconds is about two one liners unless you talk like a teenage girl discussing how cool prom is going to be, then maybe four.

I don’t even remember what I did, but I think it was something normal and something inappropriate, probably jokes about basketball and sexual misconduct.  Between my pals, two of us got our release forms moved into one pile, and the other guy got moved to a smaller pile.  We were told we would be contacted by 1 pm if we moved on.  Then we walked out and realized we had to stick around, since we were in two different piles of release forms – one of us had to make it, right?  We went to Applebee’s down the road and began drinking, which is my solution to about any quandry.  One pm arrived…no one was called!  The ol’ paper shuffle was a ruse.  You got us, NBC, you old this and that!

Luckily, I had a pal in town who let us crash on his couches, which was nice, since between the three of us, we had four hours’ sleep total.  Upon awakening, we went to the worst restaurant in Nashville, where the appetizer was a cheese cube tray and all the meat looked like it was covered in the fat they stole on Fight Club.  The next day, we drove the three state trek back.  Upon further review, I had no business trying out for the show after one year, perhaps none now after seven plus years and they were right to pass on my very raw new comic self.  That said, I think I’ll still punch the guy with the ponytail for the two stacks of release forms if I ever see him…which I won’t…and if I do, I won’t recognize him…and it probably wasn’t his idea…  OK, I’ll just punch him in my imagination world, where I’m already a world famous and very wealthy comedian and terrorist fighter, where the rivers are made of beer and the wind blowing sounds like 80’s hair metal.

It was 2008, I had made the cut, not to get on the show, but to tryout.  I looked back at a bunch of poor souls who slept in the street all night just to get booted.  Bill Bellamy, the host, was going around and interviewing comics.  Then I noticed something sad – most of the people interviewed weren’t even comics, they were just costume wearing douchebags.  I watched as a guy wearing a Lincoln outfit and another guy wearing a stuffed gorilla on his back got five minute interviews.  Real comics?  No time!  There’s a guy dressed like Charlie Chaplin over there!  (There actually was and I hated his guts.)

A young man with a ponytail handed me a waiver form.  This is awesome.  I’m going to get to tryout on camera!  Then a limo pulled up.  Roy Wood Jr., a touring comedian, got out and walked in the club.  The rest of us were told our tryout would be…behind the club.  What?  Just before we walked around back, I told Camp he had a huge pimple on his face, which freaked him out.  I’m a dick.

Around back, there was a tent with four tables.  They divvied up the 40 in my group and told us ten to a table.  Then the long hair that handed me my clipboard earlier suddenly was my judge.  “Go ahead and give me your best 30-60 seconds!”  I realized, slowly, that I had a very small chance to advance.  I thought back to the times the staff told us to act excited for the cameras and how a nationally touring comic got right in, while us cattle were herded out back.  All fodder for ratings shots.  Then I remembered the last show I did for money about six people were there, so I had better suck it up and give skinny Fabio my best half minute, there, in the tent flapping so loud I could barely hear, with no microphone, no stage, no judges and no cameras.  Hope is a cruel lover, no pun intended to my current fiancee.

I think I’ve blogged about this before, but it’s been awhile and the show is on, so why not?  I had been doing comedy for exactly one year in late Spring 2008 when I caught wind that the last tryout for Last Comic Standing was going down in Nashville.  Of course, because comics are largely the dregs of society, we didn’t plan it until about four days before.  Sadly, I had the most reliable car of the group with a 1993 Mercury Grand Marquis.  My pal Camp had a 1962 Falcon that couldn’t go over 45 mph and my other buddy Baxter had no car.  Looks like my sweet ride is going!

There were many tales of booze, fights and comedy on the way down, but nothing out of the ordinary.  We arrive around six pm on Sunday, the tryouts were the next day.  We parked up the street from Zanies Comedy Club and realized there were already about 65 comics sitting on the street.  Cops showed up and told us the rules; no peeing on the street and no drinking (which usually leads to peeing in the street).  So we sat out all night, taking turns trying to sleep in the car.  I slept about an hour in the car, the rest of the time I sat on washerboards and played Euchre with a couple of other comics we ran into from Columbus, Malone and Burgstrom.

The sun finally rose, which meant we now had a place to piss and/or eat other than the gas station, which had run out of TP several hours earlier and closed the bathroom.  That, or the bathroom went on strike after dozens of comics shit in it all night.  When the light shone on the mass of degenerates, almost 2/3’s of the comedians were wearing the comedian outfit.  What is that, you ask?  Graphic tee, suit coat, jeans, Chuck Taylor shoes.  A few were wearing stupid hats or black rimmed glasses, but the hipster movement was still in its infancy.  Once everyone was awake, about 175 (the numbers had swelled) comedians were trying to one up each other, very loudly and obnoxiously.  I prayed for death, but death would not come.

Finally, Bill Bellamy, formerly from MTV (and for some reason, on every single guest list for every party my fraternity threw in college), walked out in a cowboy hat and began interviewing the comics at the front of the line.  A couple of assholes from Atlanta jumped in front of me and got a stream of obscenities hurled at them, but it was of no use.  The temperature rose rapidly, sweat rolled down my already sweaty face.  My level of annoyance was high enough to form a blood clot, but thankfully, I made the cut.  They took the first 100 comics in line, so I was in the clear.  So you’re saying there’s a chance!  That was the high point, it would go down rapidly after that.  (To be continued)

I debated doing a blog about this for a while, but I am annoyed enough to proceed.  As I have pointed out before, I’m no authority on anything but drinking beer and being a dick.  I’m not the final word on comedy, but as someone that does it, I have had my fill of comedians acting like bastions of free speech, then sobbing that their feelings get hurt on social media.  I’ll explain.

The freedom of speech issue is huge to me.  I have watched comics do a lot of really unfunny “shock” material to be cool, apparently.  I sat in a show and had to listen to guy talk about how America deserved 9/11.  I honestly wanted to drag him outside and beat him with a barstool.  I despise comedians that hide behind freedom of speech and then do garbage material.  It’s a cop out and lazy – I could walk in front of strangers, talk about dead babies or rape, then jump on a soapbox and act like I’m Thomas Paine, but I wouldn’t be.  I’d be an untalented tool.  That said, the only way to find good comedy is to go unique and original, so I wouldn’t dare tell someone what to say.

Now to the other side.  I read an article from a comic that talked about how tough it was to hear punchlines about their particular group.  This comic, ironically, fully embraced the stereotype they were bitching about and was actually touring the country and doing television spots.  You have got to be kidding me.

The thing that really burns my buns with this is the fact if anyone is to be open to artistic freedom and creativity, or at least listening to things they’re not comfortable with, it should be people that speak into a microphone to strangers.  I’ve had aftershow confrontations that weren’t good.  I had a mom call me an asshole because I talked about a retarded guy pulling his penis out and shaking it at me.  It was hilarious and was really odd, thus I talked about the fact that he probably doesn’t find the word retarded offensive…since he pulled out said weiner in public.  Apparently, I can’t talk about that, it’s insulting to even bring it up.  I had a Japanese girl get offended by a World War 2 reference, which was weird, because I was talking about how offensive it was to say the slur “Japs.”  I was offended she was stupid enough to be offended when I was defending her ethnicity.

Long story short, I think the problem stems from the fact that our society loves to be in groups.  My race is ______.  I’m from this geographic region, so I like _____.   I like to have sex with _____.  How about you’re an individual?  Try that.  I know a lot of white people I hate.  I know more men who are douchebags than women.  I honestly don’t give a red shit about anyone’s choices in my government sanctioned group, I’m a person.  In other words, shove your crying and quit putting yourself in a category that is supposed to be outraged.  Be a person.  That said, if you’re comic, you really should be open-minded.  If you want to be a crusader, be that, just don’t snipe people as a comedian, then cry that jokes about sex or ham sandwiches or politics or fill in the blank are too far and you’re not going to take it!  Yuck.  Oh, and if some other comic pisses you off, find a way to be funnier and show them up onstage, not in a boo hoo post, blog or tweet.  Or take some Prozac or whiskey, the original Prozac.  On a side note, I realize the irony of bitching about blog bitching in a blog.  Shut up.  I have to take my Prozac, and by Prozac, I mean whiskey.  Where are my pants and why is everyone in this Starbucks acting weird?

I hate golf.  I would honestly rather be kicked in crotch with tap shoes than golf 18 holes.  That said, I realize I am in the minority, thus I can’t escape it.  I had a golf outing yesterday.  The early problem before I even started was getting dressed.  Collared shirt?  Any sport that makes me wear business casual is annoying before I even get going.  Do I play softball in slacks?  No.  You stink, golf.

I got there and was paired with two ladies and a buddy.  Most guys would say, “Oh great, two ladies.  I have to carry the team.”  I said, “Oh great, I’m going to be shown up by two ladies.”  And I was.  One even yelled at me for using a range ball to hit.  Do you know how much golf balls are, Imelda Marcos?  Back off my range ball – I stole this fair and square when no one was looking.

My team got last, mostly my fault, but the good news?  Door prizes for everyone!  Yay!  I drew my ticket and got…wait for it…drum roll…A FIVE PACK OF SCISSORS!!!  This actually wasn’t bad, I cut my toenails with scissors and my toenails are nasty.  Probably because I cut my toenails with scissors.  Plus if I win golf related stuff, it’s a waste, I golf like a paraplegic.  Additional bonus, I can cut the sleeves off this damn collared shirt.