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Film at Eleven… or Next Week… or Maybe Never

You know, I’m not sure I’m cut out for this whole ‘technology’ thing. Forget that I write here most days, using my computer and the internet and all that newfangled crap. And never mind that my whole frigging job is to write programs all day. Apparently, I still don’t have the hang of this stuff, after all. Because on Friday, I was outwitted by my videocamera.

Maybe ‘outwitted’ is the wrong word. Machines don’t have wits, of course. It’s ‘outwitted’ when my wife tricks me into doing the laundry. Or when that guy down the block makes me mow his lawn. Or the dog bamboozles me into chasing her tail for her.

(Which is bad enough, but one time I actually caught it. I was tasting ass fur for at least three days. Bleh.)

Anyway, here’s what happened — I had a show on Friday night, and I wanted to tape it. Now, of course, I try to tape all my sets — so I can gasp in horror at them later — but I’ve never had a Friday show before. So this was something special. I even wore clean underwear for it. It was sweet.

Now, to complicate matters, I discovered / remembered on Friday morning that my camera has a remote control. So, I did a little testing at the house, and figured out that I just needed one button to make the thing work. One button. Push it once, it records. Push it again, it stops. It’s not rocket science, right? I can do this. I’ve got opposable thumbs, and everything. How hard could it be?

So, I went to the show, and set up the camera. My wife got me this little tripod to set it on, which is sweet. Now I look like all the other cool kids who got wedgies back when they were in the A/V club.

(Yeah, I know it sounds bad. Still, it’s cooler than not having a tripod, and wishing I were as cool as the A/V kids. That’s just fucking sad.)

Anyway, I got everything all set up, and my turn on stage came up. So, during the intro, I took the remote out, pointed it at the camera, and hit the button. Because I didn’t want to do it on stage, of course — that’s just damned tacky:

‘Hey, folks, how you doin’? *poooooint* *cliiiiiiick* You having a good time?‘

So, I went on, and did my set, and got offstage and hit the button again. And I remember, even then, thinking to myself, ‘Gee… I was at kind of a weird angle when I tried to stop the tape; maybe it’s still running.‘ And I figured that was okay — I can always rewind it and deal with it later.

It never occurred to me that — duh — I was at the exact same angle when I tried to start the damned tape. So really, in a way, I outwitted myself. Mom would be so proud. Bitches!

Anyway, the tape never started, of course. So I got nothing. Which kind of sucks, because it was a pretty good show. There were a lot of giggly drunk people there, and that makes for a good show. Or a good wake, or a good orgy, or apparently a good Congressional session, for that matter. In any case, I was pretty bummed at the time. And I felt pretty foolish.

On the other hand, I found out that the club, as of a couple of weeks ago, has started taping all of its shows, and burning them to DVD. Apparently, they’re better with their opposable thumbs and sophisticated forebrains than I am. So I still feel pretty stupid, but it looks like I might be able to score a copy of my set, after all. And from a better camera and hooked-in mic, so it’s gonna be much higher quality, too.

(That’s ‘higher quality’ from a video standpoint, you understand. It’s still the same old dick jokes you’ve seen over and over again. No camera’s gonna fix that, people.)

Anyway, that’s the story. And, as an added bonus for you comedy clip fans, by sometime tomorrow I’ll post the sets from the other two shows I did this week. They didn’t have audiences to speak of, and the bars weren’t so nice, but it’s all about the practice, right? I mean, if it can’t be about the money, yet, or the fame, or that whole ‘snorting coke off a hooker’s back’ thing… then I guess it ought to be about the practice, right? The craft. The form, and the writing, and the experience of it all.

So, yeah, the drinking. It’s pretty much about the drinking. Woo fuckin’ hoo.

Anyway, you can look forward to all of that. Or fear it, or ignore it completely. I can’t tell you people how to live your lives.

In other news, I’m going to the Patriots game today. (Big woot!) And it’s going to be around thirty degrees out there, so I’m layering up on clothes to stay warm. I’ve got most of the layers on already — everything but the sweatshirt and coat and hat. When I’m all done, I’ll have, like nine square inches of skin protected with only one layer. But who needs lips and thighs, anyway? This ain’t no KFC, bitches.

Meanwhile, I just went to the bathroom with all of this stuff on, and it wasn’t damned easy. I just had to pee, and getting in there to my… um, pee-er was like breaking into Fort frigging Knox. It should never be so hard to get access to your own penis, dammit. Ever.

Come to think of it, it shouldn’t be so hard for other people to get access to your penis, either. Call me crazy, but I think the important part is making sure that people who shouldn’t be fiddling with your penis don’t get near your penis in the first place. But once you let somebody through those outer defenses, it shouldn’t be so fricking hard to get in there. You don’t want them to get frustrated and lose interest, right? Then nobody’s happy. I’m just saying.

Anyway, I’ll see you kids tomorrow. Go Pats!