Where The Rubber Meets The Road

I avoid comedy competitions like they’re the Dave Matthews Band. A long time ago, I was in one. Actually, two. No, this isn’t the beginning of a bitter rant by another self-proclaimed hard-done-by comic who “got the shaft” in a competition he lost.

I won. Technically.

It was after the competition that I was approached by one of the judges who anointed me. In an ill-advised moment of candid disclosure, he told me that the judges had already made up their minds who the winner was before the competition began.
“Sure, once in a dozen shows one of those other guys might have got the better of you, but we all knew you were the one,” he told me.
“Not much of a competition, then, is it?” I replied, my pale victory fading even into nothingness.
He shook his head with a patronizing smile. “This is how they all are. You’d better get used to it.”

And he was right. Sort of. The fact of the matter is that I did win. That is, I had the best series of sets and more consistently hit my groove – when it counted. Run that competition a hundred times, and you’d get hundred different outcomes. I flatter myself that I’d still have won most of them, but it would never be the same results – every contestant placing in the same order – twice.
The “sort of” would be best illustrated by the only other competition I was ever in. Despite grave reservations, I decided to participate because the carrot they were dangling was just too big. Literally, as it happened, because the carrot was big enough to drag some heavy-hitters out of the circuit to join the fun. At the time, I was barely a pro. I featured (I was the middle guy) regularly, but headlined nowhere. The comics who descended upon the competition were solid pros – folks who commanded rooms from coast to coast.
Mixed into the pool of hopeful talent were others at my level and below. One of them was a very funny and offbeat guy who was a comics’ favorite. Of course, that didn’t exactly translate to being a crowd favorite. In my humble opinion, he was simply wasting his time working in the midwest. He belonged in Los Angeles. He had that weird, character-driven energy that made people like Jim Carrey superstars in television and movies, but comparative flops in stand-up comedy.
That’s where the carrot came in. One of the judges – the only one that mattered – was an agent for HBO, and was there to scout for The Comedy Festival (formerly the U.S. Comedy Arts Festival). And our weird, offbeat, character of a local was the fair-haired boy. The chosen one. Just like I was.
Except that he came in second. Unfortunately for the powers that be, who were ready and willing to crown our boy, one of the heavy hitters hit too damn heavy to deny. Which was odd, since almost every competition is obviously rigged. And yet, those who rig them seem to think it’s still a secret.
Yes, they’re all rigged. And yes, there’s still a chance – an infinitesimal chance – that someone bucks the system. But, no, it won’t happen at any level wherein you’ll ever make a difference in your career.

Last Comic Standing was a perfect example. Ostensibly a show that allows anyone (okay, professional comics) to break into the industry (movies and television), it was little more than promotional tool for those already inside the industry. If you weren’t already signed to a development deal, then you were there to be lampooned and humiliated by wannabe Simon Cowells. Members only – no visitors allowed.

So, I hold any comedy competition, those who participate in them, and especially those who put them on in contempt. Including myself.
Oh, and the second competition? I came in fourth. That fourth felt a hell of a lot better than my previous “win.”

There are a lot of aspects to comedy that are hidden to the public eye. Chief among them is the subtle dance between comic and booking agency.

For the uninformed: in comedy, “agency” means different things at different levels. At the level of the “development deal” comedian, who is on the cusp of breaking out with a movie or television show, or at any level above, an agent works in the conventional way. That is, they work to make their client the maximum amount of money in order to reap the maximum percentage.
However, for the rank-and-file comics who slug it out on the road, the agents represent the clubs. In some cases, agencies control territories, and any comic wishing to work it that part of the country is almost required to go through the agency that wields power there. The agents acquire new rooms, and the rooms pay the agency to stock the rooms with comics. Pay for comics is invariably worked out between agencies and clubs, with no input from comics. The only “choice” left to comics is whether or not to work for the agency.
Sort of.

The aforementioned dance is ritual of money and position. A comic who approaches an agency with a wide-open schedule and an accepting-all-work attitude is doomed from the start to be lowballed and stuck at one (very low) level for a very, very long time. The “dance” offers more risk, but much greater reward. The comic must present a casual and indifferent air toward the work itself, but an amiable and (somewhat) devoted face toward the agency who offers the work. A sort of, “I need you – I don’t need you” back-and-forth.

The agencies hold the power at the “road comic” level, and a comic must be very clever, careful, and precise in order to wring concessions from them. From the perspective of the agency, one headliner is (essentially) as good as another. To be sure, a “draw” (comic who’s name on the marquee alone fills the room) is more valuable than the average headliner, but in most cases, they are interchangeable, and – unfortunately for the comics – more than ample. Thus, each comic must make a case that they are better than the multitude of others, when the truth is more likely that they are no better or worse. Since agencies deal with hundreds – sometimes thousands – of headliners, this is a difficult case to make, and even more difficult to “prove”.

Steve Martin once said of reaching stardom as a comic, “Be so good they can’t ignore you.” When Martin first said this, it was true. During his rise as a comedian, it was true. But no longer.
There is no longer such a thing as “so good they can’t ignore you.” Yes, they can. And they will. If you let them.

Thus, the dance. A slow, painful, time-consuming, and emotionally draining dance. I hear the music every day.

There are some gigs that you don’t forget. Not because they’re especially great (I barely remember the Terre Haute, Indiana gig where I received my first standing ovation) or because they’re especially bad (although those tend to stick), but because they change you in some way, however big or small. In this case, it was a realization. And I hope, pray, beg, threaten, cajole, and wish with every fiber of my being that it may one day be irrelevant.

Dirk Diggler And The Prison Of Azkaban

3/18/06 – Clarion, IA

Ever been to one of those small town bars where they still play cuts from AC/DC’s Back In Black, and get excited for Def Leppard? Where fortysomething men in quilted flannel shirts and non-sports-related baseball caps encrusted with filth are slumped over the bar, and their wives all bear a passing resemblance to the landlady from Kingpin? A place where you can just smell the defeat in the air; where people go when they’ve given up on living, and are getting down to some serious existence, drinking with a level of commitment usually reserved for life-and-death struggles on the field of battle. It’s as if every second is an unendurable trial, a test of the will to continue being alive. And by “alive”, I mean “killing as much time as humanly possible until the sweet release of death”.

If you’ve been there, you’ve been to the gig I played.

I looked out over the crowd (well, sparse gathering of 27 people), and thought, “There is not a single person in this place I would talk to if I weren’t being paid for it.” Even as an audience, they laugh grudgingly, as if admitting to having a good time would be an acknowledgment of responsibility to start living better.

And yet, after the show, they come up to me and say things like, “Thank you. You made me laugh.”

I made you laugh? Is that such a rare occurrence? Have I brought some ray of sunshine into your life? Have I really?

And I realize: This is Bush America. This is the vision. Broken down worker drones who mechanically shamble through life, and are willing to suffer any degradation, so long as it makes them forget how much they hate their lives. The worst part is, it’s also Clinton America. And Bush the First, and Reagan, and so on, going back to Eisenhower.
I suppose it would be easier to say that this is the America the corporations dream of.

And because these people will not raise their heads and look up at anything that might make them think about changing their world, I end up telling them dick jokes.

I whore out.

I throw in the towel on trying to make a point with my jokes, and “give them what they want”, when I should give them what they need: A swift kick in the frontal lobe. But I don’t kick them in the lobe. I baste their brains with butter and honey, and see them safely back to sleep. It shames me.

I am a star. I’m a star, I’m a star, I’m a star. I am a big, bright, shining star.

My previous post reminded me of a story from years ago, about hecklers and/or rude, selfish people. I wrote this up back in the day, and I reprint it here for your amusement/you to ignore:

DONATE YOUR BODIES TO SCIENCE, YOU FOOLS!!!!!*

It has come to my attention that some people believe that they are both invisible and inaudible when their cell phone goes off. The alternative is to believe they just don’t care that anywhere from 100 to 500 people are trying to watch a movie, a play, or a comedy show. And if I believed that, someone would have to be beaten.

Case in point?
Thank you, straw man, I’d be happy to provide one.

4/13/05
I’m doing a one-nighter (a show, not a woman), my opener/feature is on the stage. He’s pretty green, but he’s got some good stuff. If anyone could hear it, that is.
See, there’s this group of 6 people – 4 guys, 2 girls – talking amongst themselves and making/taking cell phone calls left and right. And which gender do you think is making the most noise? If you’re pointing at the guys, you are dead wrong.
So much for sugar and spice. Jumpin’ Jesus, these two stupid bitches are loud. In the 30 minutes the opener is on the stage, they have at least 10 calls between them. I step over to the club manager and have this conversation:

Me: What the fuck?
Manager: (Silence, and a not-so-bright look)
Me: Are you just going to let them do that to this poor kid?
Manager: (Even more vapid facial expression) Who? What?
Me: Open your ears, follow my finger. They’re loud enough to peel paint. You see the disgruntled looks on the faces of everyone around them? They’re angry because they can’t hear the show.
Manager: (Slow-but-steadily-changing-to-affronted look) What do you want me to do about it?
Me: (Gritting teeth) Throw them out.
Manager: (Shocked) I can’t do that!
Me: (Silence, murderous glare)

Finally, one of the yakking, thoughtless twats receives a call so important that her friends are too loud even for her. She gets up from the table and heads toward the exit, stopping at the door, safely away from the hubbub of the show.
With a sympathetic glance toward the stage, where the opener is sweating bullets, I snatch my cell phone off my belt and stalk over to the loud bitch by the door, whereupon the following takes place:

Flipping open the phone, not even bothering to pretend I’m taking to anyone, I stand approximately 4 inches from her ear, and say at the top of my considerable lungs, “Yeah, Paul, I told them not to put it there! Right! Leave it where it was!”
Annoying Bitch gives me a dirty look, and pushes through the door. She obviously has no idea that I’m the other comic. I follow, stopping right next to her, still yelling into the phone. “Well, Cindy said there was no reason to!! Yes!! That’s what I said!!!”
With a grunt of disgust and a roll of her empty eyes, Annoying Bitch walks up the street, muttering something into the phone about some asshole talking right next to her. And with a feral grin, I pursue, getting progressively louder and closer.
“No, don’t tell John to go home!!! I want him to finish the H-22′s before the end of the day!!! I don’t care what he said,” now practically running after Annoying Bitch, “I TOLD HIM TO FINISH WHAT HE WAS WORKING ON OR I’D HAVE TO-”

Annoying Bitch stops dead in her tracks and turns to me, livid. “What the fuck is your problem?” she demands, displaying her keen sense of irony.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding vigorously, “Irritating isn’t it? When someone is trying to accomplish something, and some fucking loud-ass, unfeeling cunt and her idiot friends won’t shut the fuck up!”
She glares at me, all three brain cells working furiously on a retort. “Fuck you, asshole,” she rejoins, cutting me to the quick.
“You have neither the looks nor the money**,” I reply. I consider continuing, but feel I’ve made my point. I turn, heading back into the club with a parting shot. “Little girl, you had better fucking pray that you’re not still in the room when I get on stage. Because I will make your sorry ass cry.”

Sure enough, by the time I got on stage, they were gone.

Shut off your cell phones in the theater, people. You’re not that important. And if you were, someone would be taking your calls for you.*** But if that’s too much to ask, do us all a favor and donate your bodies to science, you fools!

*Note: Shout out to Henry Rollins for this line.
**Note: Shout out to David Gerrold for this line.
***Note: Shout out to a thousand hack comics for this one.

February 4, 2009 – Decatur, IL
February 5, 2009 – Rockford, IL
February 6, 2009 – La Crosse, WI

All three gigs are one-nighters – those ugly necessities all road comics must have, and none want. Most one-nighters are bars. Some are restaurants. At least one is just a rented warehouse. All are the potatoes, and the scant few that are the gravy number into statistical insignificance. But enough of them mixed into a decent schedule of good clubs fill the cracks, and usually – as an inducement – pay well. And the inducement is necessary; as I’ve already intimated, they usually suck.

This is what you want; this is what you get.

All three gigs in this case are known entities. Been there; done that. Decatur is a random-strewn gathering of tables in a hotel lounge. The stage is hardly wide enough, and far too deep. Off comedy nights, it is obviously used for small bands and karaoke. I like Decatur. They’ve been at it for a while, and they generally get it right. The staff, that is. The crowd – well, they tend to be on the tight side, unless you’re a shuck-and-jive crowd-pleaser, heretofore known as a hack. The audience is invariably blue-collar, and while I hate what that appellation has come to represent, it’s the one that fits. They’re poorly educated, unimaginative, and like it dumb and full of swingin’ peckers. If it ain’t a dick joke, it had better be close. The feature, a veteran with the unlikely name of Conrad Courtney, is probably one of the better features I’ve worked with. In fact, he has no business featuring this one-nighter at all. He should have been there last week as the headliner. Or any other week. But then, this is a “Yoder gig”, and the Funny Business Agency that last signifies sometimes gets the booking wrong.

But I don’t mind. He’s solid and original, and the crowd is well-lubed by the time I hit the stage. Nothing to write home about with my set. Afterward, I get to do what I rarely want to: talk to the other comic(s). In this case, it’s a pleasure. The guy is just cool as shit.

Rockford brings with it a familiar face, and loses a familiar face. The former, Chris Hegedus, is the feature, and while a shade less slick and seasoned than Courtney, he’s on the right track. I’ll be opening for the man in two years. My set is easily my best of the week, pulling laughs out of a previously tight-lipped bunch and dropping the Shit-Hammer Of God™ on a drunken girl who accuses me (in typically small-town-hottie-who-blithely-says-horrible things-and-gets-a-pass-because-she’s-marginally-attractive-and-spreads-her-legs-with-ludicrous-ease fashion) of having HIV. I reply with confusion that we’ve never slept together, so how could I have contracted it? An easy reply, but I sell it, and the crowd eats it up.

The real story in Rockford is the emcee. The lost familiar face in Rockford belongs to Sky Drysdale, a former DJ and continuing local celebrity who was responsible for putting a lot of asses in seats at L.T.’s (the bar/gig). Sky has moved on to greener pastures, or bluer skies (get it?!? ha-HAAA!). In his place, there was a kid who creepily reminded me of my wife’s ex – on a lot of uppers. He does not lack for enthusiasm, and punctuates every sentence with some variant of “fuck”. Not that I care, but it’s almost dizzying how many times in five short minutes the kid can drop the bomb. He’s not going to get real work any time soon. Not until at least he takes a couple Xanax and says “Smurf” instead. Off stage, he is way too wired in that overly-friendly, coked-up kind of way. Hegedus is beside himself with glee, hilarity, and horror at just how raw this emcee is. I bail early, since I’m slightly more than an hour from my own bed.

And then there’s La Crosse. As of February 6, 2009, it has now officially become my least favorite most hated place to go. I have been going to River Jack’s at the Best Western in La Crosse for nearly ten years, and I have never liked it once. It sucks, it sucked, and it will continue to suck. I fucking hate River Jack’s. Every time I have gone there, it has been a problem. There has almost never been more than twenty people in the crowd. You do the math. I have no idea why they continue to do comedy, since they obviously don’t make money at it. The staff at River Jack’s (not necessarily the Best Western) is among the rudest and most uninterested group of people I have ever worked with. Every one of them obviously hates comedy night and transfers it to the comedians. And every time I go there, there’s something new that sucks about it. One time they refused to give me my check until the next day. For over two years, their sound system was the worst I’d ever worked with (it still sucks, just not as bad). There are innumerable examples of shoddy treatment on the part of the staff.

And this time? Well, first of all, they caught the anti-smoking bug. You know, the wholly unrealistic scapegoat legislation so popular with towns these days. But that was nothing. I’m used to that. Then, they decided to start a vague, poorly thought out policy of censorship, telling the comics that they are a “family establishment” (that sells booze, stays open late, and plays loud, shitty music), and expecting the comics to get what they mean, and not what they say. I resolved instantly to say fuck at least five times, though less than the kid from Rockford, owing to the snide and irritating condescension. After closing my eyes, spreading my legs, and pretending the (even more “blue collar” than Decatur) audience was someone I love for forty-five minutes, I got off the stage, only to be told that not only did they not have my money that night, but also that they would not have it at all. Or, at least until they mailed it to me.

Now, understand, comics get burned all the time. Invariably, they get burned by clubs/bookers/owners who have been “in business for (at least 5) years, and never had a problem before!™” No comic likes to walk away without their money. I, personally, lose all reason. It took the booking agency owner getting up at 10:30 at night to call and assure me that I was covered no matter what before I let it go. In other words, it is a big deal. The hotel – by not paying me right away – was in breach of contract. I was doing them a favor by being nice enough to let them send me money after the fact. Yet, (and typically, for River Jack’s – THE WORST PLACE IN THE WORLD TO DO COMEDY, SO DON’T GO THERE FOR ANY REASON) the staff acted as if I was throwing my own feces around and demanding blowjobs. They stared at me aghast, shocked to the core by the idea that I should get my money per the legally binding agreement, and snorted derisively at any suggestion of compromise. All I wanted was the money I was owed.

I think I might go back to La Crosse one more time. Just to let them know. With as many rotting vaginal cavity jokes as I can think of. Then, I’ll turn around and throw napalm on the bridge. Then, piss on the ashes.

This is what you want. And this is what you get.