The Weekend That Was…

Hey there ‘Red Heads… Alot to get to, so let’s get this blog train a rollin’…
First of all, big news for those of you who just can’t get enough of me on the web. is back online and I’m currently moving boxes of my virtual crap to my refurbished internet home. I’ll have my tour schedule, pix from the road, links to my comedy pals, a big fat photo of me, and a link to this fabulous blog on there. Visit it. Make me whole.

On to the details of the last 96 hours or so… On Thursday, spurred by an overwhelming urge to get the hell out of the house, I hopped in the car to check out the open mic at the Topaz Hotel in DC…and hopefully get some time. I was able to catch up with a bunch of my DC favorites like Ryan Conner, Danny Rouhier, Larry Poon, Frank Hong, Jerry Thomas, and Jimmy Merritt. All very funny guys. Open mics are always a mixed bag. With the talented folk, you get a potpourri of the novice, the deluded, and the just plain awful. One particular gal embodied the latter two. I believe her name was Jenn. I normally don’t print names, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t read much unless it’s on a liquor label. I wouldn’t call her a “comedian” so much as an “awkwardian”, but that implies she had any control over what she was doing. Not only was she an uncomfortable vulgar mess onstage (her material ranging from the romantic effects of douching with beer to creating a master off-white race to constantly repeating the word “cootchie”…she made Courtney Love look like Judi Dench), but she also committed the cardinal sin of heckling the other performers. She thought she was just being cute because she has big teats and the people she usually encounters laugh off her idiocy because they’re trying to score with her. She really should just save everyone alot of time and trouble and just “go wild”. Yes, this sounds cruel, but I believe I’m doing her a service by pointing it out. She is among the poor, deluded souls who think attention = validation, which must therefore = talent. You see these people on American Idol, grunting out a breathy version of Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, then standing aghast as Simon tells them that there ain’t no valley low enough to measure the void of vocal prowess that they actually possess. We need to stop encouraging these people…simply show them your back, like a dishonored Klingon.

On Saturday, I traveled to McSherrystown, PA to do a show for a Catholic high school athletic association’s fundraiser…in their gym. Oh, the glamour. For this gig, I had to be “church clean”. Now, I am by no means a dirty comic. When I do say “fuck”, it’s as an adjective, not a verb. For fuckin’ flavor. My comedy does have a bit of a dark slant to it…death, disease, and corny puns are my bread, butter, and…corn. The prospect of doing 20 clean minutes with 3 priests sitting front row center had me just a smidge worried that they wouldn’t be willing to accept the darker stuff and they’d just see me as a Jew without an alibi. I’m happy to report that I was able to file down my horns and get through my set without making baby Jesus cry. After all that worrying, they turned out to be a great crowd…when a priest laughs at your Parkinson’s joke, you must be doing something right.

Speaking of Jesus, apparently he decided to forsake the Seattle Seahawks and waved his terrible towel while he turned water into boxed wine for his big Super Bowl party in the sky-y. The game was ok. Here are a few observations I made about the other phases of the broadcast:

Stevie Wonder did a great job with the pre-game show, but did anyone else find it mildly ironic to watch a blind man in HD? Maybe it was just me…

The anthem would’ve been easier to listen to if I wasn’t so distracted by the giant Hershey Kiss on Aaron Neville’s face or by the pity I felt for the family of Marmosets that had to perish to make Aretha’s fur coat.

If I were a player on either team, and I hadn’t won a Super Bowl yet, I wouldn’t want to be photographed ANYWHERE NEAR the Lombardi trophy. I’m sure Matt Hasselbeck is gonna want some 8×10 glossies and a couple wallet-size copies of his crushed dreams.

I dug most of the commercials, especially the one for Burger King with the women dressed as fixin’s. I felt sorry for the gal who drew the short straw and had to be mayo.

To be continued…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s