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Baby, Is It Time for My Geritol Yet?

Ah yes, another Friday night in Casa de Charlie.

(Is that better, or Chez Charlie? How about Der Charlie Haus? The Shantytown Crapshack of Charlieness? No? Eh.)

Anyway, my wife and I are here. On Friday night, at eleven o’clock. In our sweatshirts and ‘fat pants’. We got home, ordered pizza, and sat down on the couch to eat it, watch TV, and think about how fucking old we’ve gotten. Pitiful, really.

Oh, I could make excuses — I could convince you that we’ve both had exhausting weeks. She’s been working until ten or later the past few nights; I’ve been getting up early and also been out of the house four of the last six nights, either working out or at comedy shows.

(And come to think of it, the two are really interchangable. Doing standup in front of people probably gets my heart racing faster than any sort of cardio crap that those muscle-headed trainer bastards could come up with.

And if you’ve ever seen me work out… well, let’s just say that they hand out blinders to everyone when I walk into the gym, lest the other members double over hysterically and hurt themselves falling off the treadmills when I reach the ‘gettin’ jiggy‘ portion of my exercise routine. It’s an insurance thing, I suspect. Some liability clause or other.)

Anyway, I could probably weasel our way out of being called ‘loserly’ tonight. You know, if I argued hard enough, and fed you enough low-quality tequila. But what about all those other Friday nights we’ve spent lately, cooling our heels in our nighty-night clothes, too spent from a week’s worth of being pounded down to get out and pound down some beers? Let’s face it — we’re old. Done. Cooked. Kabukied. Or something — who knows what the hell ‘kabuki’ is, anyway?

So, we’re old, and boring, and it’s just damned depressing. I remember the salad days, not long ago, when we’d frolic among the living, dancing and singing and drinking scary bubbling purple liquids until our eyebrows got numb. Okay, so we never sang, or danced much, either. We’d occasionally drink wine — that’s sort of purply, right? — but usually it was just a couple of beers at the local watering hole, under the twinkly sexy glow of a Budweiser frogs neon light. Still, a night out is a night out, right? Even if the ‘main course’ is beer nuts and stale bar food.

(Hell, especially if that’s what’s on the menu. Everybody knows there’s nothing better than a couple of mouthfuls of soggy nutty ‘chos.

Man, it just seems so cheap and tawdry when I put it that way. And — you know, ‘Ew’!)

And really, it’s not like we’re not still spending time in bars — all those comedy shows I’ve been going to haven’t exactly been at Carnegie Hall, you know. I’ve caught my share of ‘seedy underbelly’ recently, if you catch my drifticles. I mean, sure I can’t drink for the five minutes or so that I’m onstage — well, not much, anyway; just a sip after the really big laughs.

Yeah, so like I said, I really don’t drink onstage. *sniff*

I do sometimes have a beer or two beforehand, though, to steel the old nerves. At least, that’s the theory. In practice, it just tends to fillen up the old bladder, instead. Which makes my sets shorter, as I race through my material so I can use the damend can, but I think my delivery might be a little more consistent if I weren’t hopping back and forth and crossing my legs throughout the whole thing. I’m thinking next show, I’ll just pee right there on stage — that’s at least got to get a pity laugh, right? And it’s all about putting together a unique persona up there — how many people have you seen on Comedy Central or HBO who just let ‘er rip ‘n’ drip like that? I’m guessing none. I’m also guessing that there are probably laws against that sort of shit, so maybe it’s not the way to go. Man, I thought I had something there.

Anyway, I forget what the hell my point was. Something about being pitiful and old, hanging indoors on a Friday night. But you know what? I’m liking it in here — it’s warm, the beer is free, and I don’t have to worry about how the hell I’m gonna make it home. That’s pretty friggin’ sweet, if you ask me. Of course, in the meantime, my wife has fallen asleep on the couch; she’s drooling on the pillow right now. The dog is buried under a blanket, snoring. And here I am, watching TiVoed standup and giving you folks a running commentary of my night. Whee-fuckin’-ee, folks. Welcome to the jungle.

Yeah, this is goin’ pretty much nowhere. And I really am beat tonight — I need ten or twelve hours of sleep in me before I’ll be good for much of anything, I’m afraid. So I think I’ll sign off for the night and let you get back to your weekend. I just hope it’s more exciting than mine — I feel like a game of shuffleboard is gonna break out around here at any moment. Where the hell did my youth go, anyway?