And It Gives Me Something To Laugh About, 'Cause My Real Life Ain't Fucking Funny.

Nathan told me recently that comedy at the club level is all about selling beer.

There's something disturbing, yet comforting about that idea.

When I think about the performances of great comedians like Lenny Bruce or Richard Pryor, I focus so much on how groundbreaking they were and how amazing their material was that I forget the rooms were full of people who just wanted to have a good time. They didn't necessarily care about changing the rules of our culture or shining lights on the dark, hypocritical corners of society. They wanted to laugh, be with their friends and have a drink. If they weren't there buying tickets and booze and shitty, stale bar food there wouldn't be a club in the first place. And Lenny and Richard would just be some really funny homeless guys.

So thank you, beer-swilling crowds. You make it possible for me to do something I love. No matter how much you may suck, nor how much you may hate everything I say or do, I will always love you, just for showing up and spending your money.

Next week will be my one year anniversary of doing comedy, and I'll be hosting at the Loony Bin all week, doing my level best to sell some beer.

Come see me.

In the meantime, check out my set from Tulsa last week.



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I'll Keep Digging For Fire

When I was 17 years old, I took a course on human biology that basically amounted to a university pre-med class. We'll leave aside the reasons for that and just acknowledge that I did not belong there and did not finish out the entire year. The first test centered on early humans and their trek from Africa to other parts of the world. A key question on the test asked "What allowed early humans to leave Africa?" The answer, of course, is "Fire." My response? "Feet." Like I said, I didn't really belong there.

But fire is a pretty damned important thing to us. As far as I know, humans and humans alone set out to create and control fire. Without it we would find ourselves even more at the mercy of predatory species and the elements than we already are. From an evolutionary standpoint, having fire is like having a cheat code. Once you get that key, all sorts of doors open up. Advancements like cooking, and seeing things after sundown are easily within our reach. Societies begin to form around these pockets of warmth and safety. And other, more deadly creatures suddenly shit their animal pants when they see that we command the awesome power of fire.

I've been questing for fire lately.

Sure, there's the physical quest for warmth in my chilly apartment. Since the complex switched from heating to cooling last week I've been a bit cold, and very glad that my living room has a fireplace. But it's a metaphysical quest, too. And hopefully that's the only time in my life I will admit to being on a metaphysical quest.

Just like the hairy manimals that walked out of Africa all those years ago, we have to follow our own paths. And the fire we carry with us pulls us along, keeps us alive, and keeps the monsters at bay. I lost my fire this week, and not because of any comedy contests or lackluster showing at an open mic. Fortunately I found it again. The how and the why of the story lacks gravitas, but let it suffice to say that I dropped my fire because I forgot how important it is. I'm just glad it didn't go out before I realized what a mistake I had made.

So, I hope as you move on to where ever you go that you keep your fire. Keep it burning and it will keep you moving.

Tonight I'm Gonna Have Myself A Real Good Time

I've been up for a while now, having risen early to work on my thesis. But I was also troubled by a dream I had this morning. In this dream, I am in Venice, Italy hanging out. Jerry Orbach is there, protected by a large number of Italian S.W.A.T. team members in a safe house. Someone kills him, and all the men protecting him, and for some reason I am tasked with tracking down the perpetrator. I find him rather quickly, because it is a dream. He's in the midst of eliminating all the evidence of his crime. He's standing on a small boat, somehow pushing a Maserati into the canal. Yeah, he has his Maserati on the boat, which is about as big as a canoe, and he's picking up this sports car and dumping it into the water. It makes no sense, but whatever. My partner and I grab a boat and row out to him. Oh yeah, I have a partner from the Venice police department in this dream. Next, the murderer throws his bloadsoaked coat into the water. Lastly, he drops his pistol into the water, only I manage to catch it first. I tell him that he will confess and stand trial for his crimes. He runs, I shoot him in the foot. He keeps running, I keep chasing him. I'm out of bullets, so I pick up a nice bottle of port from a table at a café as we run past. I get closer to him, and I start whacking his head with the bottle. It is the sickest feeling I have ever known. And I can't stop. I know this is a dream now, but I can't shake it off. And I see myself, in third person, striking this man over and over with this bottle that never breaks. He's staggering but won't go down. So, I grab his head and start bashing it into a large rock, right on the corner. For some reason there's a blank television screen right in front of him, so I can see the reflection of my handiwork as his skull goes from "perfectly intact" to "broken eggshell." Thankfully, that was the end of the dream. Any thoughts?

In less disturbing news, I'll be performing tonight at Othello's in Norman. It's a comedy open mic, the very first that Othello's has had. If it goes well, it could become a weekly thing. You might even see some of the better comics being picked to provide entertainment on more popular nights, and being paid to do it, too. I really hope this goes well. It starts up at 9:30, but I'd get there a bit early to sign up and go over the ground rules. I'm so excited, I might actually smile today. I hope to see all my 405-ers out there tonight.

In the meantime, I shall fill my day with thesis, work, and hummus.