Lifestyles of the Poor and Fatuous

March 4, 2005

(No, smartass — ‘fatuous’ has nothing to do with farting. Keep your pootie jokes to yourself, there, Skippy.

Yes, I’m sure. I looked it up. Can we get on with the post now? Thank you. Hosebag.)

Folks, I don’t want to make you jealous or anything… no, wait, scratch that — I absolutely do want to make you jealous. And that’s why I’m going to tell you about the ‘rawk star’ life I’ve been living for the past few days. You’d better sit down for this one — it’s a doozie.

Wednesday: After a full, long, thrilling, satisfying day at work — hey, you never know; the boss might be reading this crap — I headed down to the Emerald Isle, a little bar down in Dorchester that hosts an open mike on Wednesdays.

Now, if you’ve seen any of the clips I’ve posted from the Wednesday Isle shows, then you know that it’s an interesting sort of place. Rich, who runs the show, is a great guy, but apparently the good people of Dorchester have exceptionally busy Hump Day schedules, because there’s rarely a crowd.

But that’s okay — there are always comics, Paul behind the bar pours a mean pint of Guinness, and we basically turn it into a workshop of sorts. And it’s nice to walk in and know most of the people there — some only by their material, but many from chatting and bullshitting away before and after shows. It’s a tight-knit little group — sort of like the Waltons on ecstacy. That’s about right.

Plus, you have to understand that an empty room, devoid of ‘civilians’ to laugh at jokes, is not the worst nightmare for a comic. It’s far better to be telling jokes in an empty room with no one laughing than to be telling jokes in a packed house with no one laughing. So, it’s really not so bad.

(If you still don’t see the distinction, think of it this way, all you folks with SO’s out there: It’s like the difference in having your wife or husband or boy/girlfriend or lesbian lover or whatever in a different room, where you simply can’t hear them talking to you… and having them in the same room, pissed as hell and refusing to talk to you. See how that’s more uncomfortable? Glad I could help.)

So, Wednesday night we did our show, and then I hung out afterward, chatting and bullshitting — see, I told you; we do that — until the bar kicked us out, pretty much. Then, the obligatory getting lost on the ride home, because a different exit is blocked off every Wednesday night for some asstacular reason, and it was off to bed. By, like, three. Maybe three-thirty. That’s rawk star, people.

Thursday: Not to be outdone, Thursday started with another beautiful, fulfilling, life-affirming day at the office.

(Yeah, you’re right — he’s not reading this shit. Still — it can’t hurt, right?)

Then, it was a trip to the Comedy Studio, for another set. It was a smallish crowd, by Studio standards, but still a fun show. And again, friendly people — a few comics I knew, and my buddy Ken came out. Good times.

But I gloss quickly over the show, simply to get to the aftershow. Good lord. Ken, my comedical friend Jenn, and I hung out at the bar afterward for a drink or two. Which we had. But we also had a long, bizarre conversation — which is the only possible kind, after a comedy show — that included but was not limited to:

the Amish
prison rape
elephant vaginas
shish kabob
Latino maids
the unexpected — and highly uncomfortable — relationship between bad lasagne and a lightbulb in the rectum

To say that we ‘scarred’ Ken — who was mainly listening to this opus of a discussion — would be an egregious understatement. I’m fairly certain I’ll never meet his children now, for one thing. He may well move out of state, and if I find a restraining order in my mailbox in the next few days, I really won’t be terribly surprised.

(But really — am I ever?)

Thursday night only lasted until 12:30 or so, but dammit — we packed it chock full of… well, of whatever comes from combining the subjects above in ways that would make Ron Jeremy blush. Or at least limp. You get the idea.

Friday: Right now, I’m wrapping up another amazing, productive, blah blah blah, wah wah wah, day at work.

(I give up — even if he is reading this, now I’m admitting to blogging at work. But just this once — I promise!)

And tonight’s going to be a real treat — and not even in the painful, depressing way that the previous two nights sort of were. No, tonight is special — I’ve been invited to meet the amazing and talented Elisson, of the aptly named Blog d’Elisson (that’s French, people), who’s in town for the weekend.

And not only that — no, no, don’t order yet! — I’ll also have the honor of meeting his lovely wife, SWMBO, and daughter, ED.

(Yeah, it kind of sucks that they have acronyms, and I don’t.

Well, actually, I do — but none that don’t begin with ‘SOB’, or have ‘MF’ littered in there somewhere. Nobody gives me good acronyms, dammit.)

So, I’m not quite sure what’s going to go down tonight, but I can tell you this much up front — ‘rawk star’. I’m sure of that. Look out, Boston — there’ll be two bloggers on the loose tonight. Hide the keyboards and hard liquor!

(On second thought, just hide the keyboards and pour me a drink. Let’s not get all crazy with this ‘looking out’ bullshit. It’s Friday night, after all.)

So — that’s what my past few days have been like. Jealous much? And if that doesn’t prove, beyond the twinkle of a doubt, that I’m completely and totally rawk star all over, then peep this little preview of what’s coming next:

Saturday… I’ll be spending the evening in an Elks Club. In Connecticut. Yeah. No shit, people. Can tight spandex and floozy groupies be far behind?

Yeah, I doubt it, too. Still — rawk star. Stay tuned for more adventures, just as soon as I get through having them. Until then, happy Friday, folks. I’m out.