Wednesday, October 30, 2013

So ya wanna put on a comedy show? Don't.

I get it.
I know what you're thinking.

Business sucks.
The home team can't win a game.
No one wants to sit in your bar/restaurant/casino and drop a bunch of change on watered down drinks and pre-fab frozen potato skins.
Even with flabby ass ex-cheerleaders prancing about in Dollar Store negligee.
Karaoke night has deteriorated into a handful of regulars who can't differentiate between reality and their tin eared chances of getting on 'The Voice."
It's bad.
Dismal even.
You tried every "All-You-Can-Eat/Drink" special in the Idiots Guide to the Service Industry, yet still the room is emptier than a public park in Fargo, North Dakota in late January.
Even the crappiest cover band in town wants $600 a gig and a bar tab.
And they play "Higher" by Creed 4 times.
Even Scott Sapp would punch them for that.
What to do? What. To. Do?
Then here comes that kid! The one who offers to do comedy shows on an off night!
He says....
"Hey! I can bring people! All my friends say I'm funny, and we'll do it for free. just let us have the door!"

Fuck no.
Stop now, I beg you.

Why, you say?
Isn't comedy a great way to make people happy and fill my coffers to boot?

No it isn't.
It's the equivalent of offering free blow jobs and giving every dude a kick in the nuts instead.

Because comedy isn't a side dish to your "All You Can Eat Wing" promo.
It isn't the words "Comedy Tonight!" sans talent names on a crappy road side sign.
We are not side dishes to "Steak Night" or "Free Pull Tuesdays" either.
We work hard at what we do. Those of us who are professionals.
We travel 1,000's of miles to hone a craft. An art form.
Yes. I called it an "art form."
And of you don't believe that, then I again beg you to educate yourself.
You try and make 20 to 1,000 strangers like you enough to listen to your shit for an hour.
You probably wouldn't last a minute.

Not to mention, there ARE rooms.
Rooms in your town, or nearby most likely, who DO try and offer a professional show.
Maybe they are an actual long standing club, or a venue who has researched the market and made the proper adjustments to conform to the comedy show dynamic. These rooms are the bread and butter of almost every hard driving road dog on the circuit.
Clocks punched.

But now.
Because your cheap ass decided to partner with a hack little shit, or a shady booking agent who undercut the established guy by undercutting the comics pay by $100 and no hotel room, this consistent income generator is closing down.
And now comedy in your area is a pale, shitty ghost of what it was.

You get what you pay for.

We work hard and travel hard for our money. If someone is willing to offer the "same thing" at half the price, then please allow me to offer you some real estate deeds in Somalia.
I have a twin span in Alaska up for grabs.

Just don't, please?
For those of us who depend on hard work and talent to pay off....
Could you just figure out a new wing recipe?
I hear "Lead Zep Linz" is looking for work....

Monday, October 14, 2013

Monday Morning Hangover.

By all rights, I should hate the NFL.
Considering my left of center politics, anti-corporate attitude and general disdain for the arrogance that wealth breeds, I shouldn't spend my Sundays plastered in their marketing logos, screaming for my group of millionaires to beat your group of millionaires to make other millionaires more millions.
But I do.
Knowing what I know of how the owners of teams corrupt local politics and force cities to spend resources that could be better used for public services rather than grotesque architectural nightmares that can only be entered by spending loads of cash, I would still sell out family to get play off tickets.
And considering my knowledge of quantum physics, I should not be freaking out that I am wearing the wrong shirt and I didn't do my OCD ritual properly, hence causing the interception Brees threw.
I know, deep down, that my improper attire and screaming at a television will not set off a butterfly effect and change the outcome of the game.
I can't help it.
I am an addict.
I have a fleur de lis comforter.
I have probably spent more money and time on football than some spend on food and shelter.
And I will continue to do so.
Like I said...addicted.
My dresser has a New Orleans Saints alter that, if disturbed in any way, causes me to stress in a way normally reserved for fiscal issues or health problems. Instead of trying to justify or alter this behavior, I embrace it. I accept this madness.
I am, for better or worse, a New Orleans Saints fan/junkie/addict/slave and proud of it.
In lieu of religion, I worship at the alter of the Super Dome.
And Goodell is the devil.
504ever. Who Dat for life.