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Brantford

Ever been to Brantford before?  If you have, you know these people like to drink(my soulmates, perchance.)  If you haven’t been, imagine a city full of the offspring of Lindsay Lohan and Scott Sidick*, with a legal drinking age that has been changed to “whatever.”  There you have it.  Brantford.  Also, they have one of the few A&W’s in Ontario that doesn’t require Rolaids. 

I leave my house around 4:00pm.  I’m supposed to meet my driver at Finch Station(John Mayer guy again-he’s in my Rodney post.)  I plan to meet a friend for a snack around Yonge & Eglinton first.  As I walk along Dupont, it starts to lightly snow.  I barely even notice it.

When I exit at Eglinton Station, the snow is coming down heavier.  Again, it doesn’t faze me.  As I sit in Cam’s Place, and chat with a fellow writer over pulled pork nachos(awesome,) I get a call from my driver.  (Do you like the way I refer to comedians with cars like they’re my servants?  Who’s the princess now, Kate Middleton?)  He’s now going to pick me up right where I am.  Even more awesome than the nachos.  Bless.

At 7:00pm I walk outside.  Ack!  Blizzard!  Where did this come from?  Haven’t my Uggs been through enough this year?  The road’s not even plowed yet.  All the cars coming up Yonge St. are going so slow, it’s as though they are all being driven by seniors and/or my mom.  I wait twenty minutes in the freezing cold.  Finally he pulls up.  Inside the car, JMG(John Mayer Guy) makes a comment.

“Bradford on a Saturday night… Oh the life of a Canadian Stand Up Comic…”

Did he just say “Bradford?”  I think so, but I’m sure he meant “Brantford.”  I know they sound the same, but they’re two different cities, in two different directions.

Further up Yonge St, it’s clear that the roads and weather are not going to co-operate.  I check Twitter(I’m addicted-don’t judge me) and other comics on the road are getting blasted by the snow too.  Yielding on to the 401, which is a complete snow field, unplowed, my heart starts to pound faster.  I hate being late for gigs.  I consider NOT being 30 minutes early, being late.

“Well, Bradford better love us for driving in this mess for them,” JMG says.

There it is again!  “Bradford.”  This time I have to say something.

“Hey, you know we’re going to Brantford, right?

“Bradford.  Right.”

“No……BraNTFORD.”

“And that’s just off the 400, right?”

“No, that’s past Hamilton off the 403!”

“Are you sure?”  Yes, I’m sure.  This is the same comic who had to make 5 U-Turns on our last road gig together.  I bring up the gig sheet on my phone to prove myself right.

“See, Brantford… Oh, Fuck!  The gig’s at 8!”

“I thought it was at 9?”  Ya, you also thought is was in Bradford. 

“Me too!”   Most of these one-nighters start at nine-I swear, but when he said to meet him at 7:00pm(which turned into 7:20pm) I just assumed he was giving us the right amount of time to get to Brantford.   But he gave us the right amount of time to get to Bradford.  And driving on the 401 is resembling a cross country skiing event.

I call the organizer ASAP to let her know we’re going to be late.  I get her voicemail, and leave a message that goes on so long, I see she’s calling me back before I’m even done babbling. 

“So, where are you guys?”  She asks.  You know how to play this game, right?  When you’re running late, and someone calls to see how close you are, you always lie and say you’re a little closer than you really are.”

“Um…. we’re on the 401.”  Not lying… yet.

“You mean like Burlington?”  Burlington?  Ha!  We’re not even at Pearson!

“Almost.  More like Oakville.”  I ask if the headliner’s there yet, and she says no.  Fewf.  Maybe we’ll all be late.  Ten minutes later, she calls me back.

“Mark just got here.  He says it took him an hour and a half to get here from Oakville.” 

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK!  We are fucked!  My anxiety is on the way up the CN Tower.  I need to calm myself down.  I ask myself, “What would I do if I was at a show that started over an hour late?”  (Thanks to the Spice Girls’ last tour, I know how that feels.)  The answer… Drink.  Obviously.  And I know Brantford will agree with me.  Yes.  As long as the venue doesn’t run out of beer, we should still be loved.  For the rest of the car ride, my phone rings every 15 minutes for an update on where we are.  We pass at least a dozen cars in ditches(possibly over exagerrating in case my agents read this,) and my last call from her is while we were pulling off the 403.  (Well, almost pulling off the 403.  You know the rules.)

“You’re so close!”  She cheers.  I’m pretty sure she’s way more understanding than a Torontonian would be in the same circumstance.  But late, or not late, I’m still running to the facilities to pee before I show face. 

As I walk in the room, I know I have that “only new person to walk in the room in 2 hours” look, that tells everyone I must be one of the tardy comedians. 

“You better be funny!”  Says a random dude, on his way to get his 16th bottle of Bud Lite.  I’m so happy small towns over stock the lite beers for comedy shows.  That 1% cut back on alcohol from a regular beer may, in my opinion, delay the intoxication level it takes to create a heckler.

“Oh I will be!”  I snap back.  Where the hell that cockiness came from, I don’t know.  But I immediately wonder if I have “cut in line for beer” in my rider.

JMG takes the stage, as our host for the night.  It’s a big crowd- you couldn’t possibly fit another person in here.  The streets of Wayne Gretzky Parkway must be empty.  JMG, like most hosts, asks if anyone’s from out of town.  One lady shouts, “Texas!”  And that leads us to our first heckler.  Only minutes into the show.

“And she managed to make it on time!”  Damn!  He killed it!  I’m no heckler enthusiast, but that was a good one.  The crowd went nuts too.  Plus, we did kind of deserve that jab.

Yikes.  My turn.  By being late, we have given this crowd an extra hour and twenty minutes to drink, of which, probably won’t help me.  And I’m sober!  I’m not even on their level!  Ahhhhhhhhhh!  I hit the stage.  I honestly have no idea how this is going to turn out.  I’m still full of the anxiety I had in the car over the pipe dream of being punctual.  For some reason, sometimes that edgy energy just works.  I’m not going to lie.  I’m kind of killing.  I hate saying that.  It sounds too cocky.  I should just say, “I did my job, and I did it well.”  But in the Stand Up Comic world, we refer to that as “killing.”

Since the weather is so nasty, the headliner agrees to close the show.  By “close the show,” I mean, the host(JMG) doesn’t have to go back on at the end, just to say “Goodnight” and give announcements.  In a comedy club, the host always has to make announcements post-headliner, like “Come back next week when we have Bing Bang Boo here,” or “You can hire Yuk Yuk’s for your cooperate events.  Check out our website for details.”  Here in this Brantford banquet hall, the only announcements we could possibly make would be, “I hope you can walk straight when you stand up,” or “Have fun at Jackhammers.”

The 401 is now plowed.  The snow has actually stopped.  JMG puts his XM radio on this favourite channel, which consists of all acoustic versions of songs.  I relax for the first time in hours.  When I arrive home, I get a text from the gig organizer, who I now feel quite bonded with.  She writes,

“Hope you guys made it home safe!  Thanks again!  You missed me kick a drunk ass out that told Mark(headliner) to suck his cock.  How do you guys do it?”

I hope she was asking about stand up comedy, and not actual Felatio.  Either way, I’m not sure.

lol,

comedian girl.

*If you got the Scott Disick reference, I know you watch reality shows involving the Kardashians.  And now you know, I do as well.

Maui

My dad’s a used car salesman.  Have I ever mentioned that?  Most likely not, but I definitely don’t re-read my posts, so forgive me if I have.  When I was a kid, no matter how long the journey, a trip to California, or a trip to Grandma’s house, my dad would always manage to sneak by a fellow competitor’s car lot.  Just to see what kind of product they’re selling, and for how much.  Yes, they may be your competitor, but they may also be your Ali.  Somehow, I have inherited this behaviour as a Stand Up Comic.

I’m on vacation in Maui, with my family-or as I like to call it, “Almost Paradise.”  Since my parents want to spend every waking moment of the trip with me, I’ve found a new love for early morning runs on the beach(Exercise-one of the few activities my parents won’t join me on.  Later in the week, I will take up Yoga.)  Somewhere on my morning runs, I stop for some delicious Hawaiian coffee and browse through local papers.  That’s where I spot it.  Wailea(that’s the part of the island I’m on) has a comedy night.  It’s at the exact bar I spend Happy Hour at every day, another daily refuge away from my parents.  So I make a point to remember that Tuesday, I will escape the ‘rents, and check out local stand up comedy, kind of like Baby carrying the watermelon in Dirty Dancing.

The escape is tricky.  As much as my parents are proud of me being a stand up comic, I do not encourage them coming to my show.  It’s not like I’m a dirty comic- I mean I can be a dirty comic, but I can also do a completely clean set.  It just depends what I’m hired to do.  Either way, I’m a very honest comic.  Clean or dirty, I’m an open book(obviously being dirty is more fun- I think crowds like the naughty material more, no matter how stuck up they pretend to be.)  That said, I gross out at the idea of my parents watching me.  I always have.   They’ve never seen me perform in a club before.  In that way, I’m like a teenager who hides her cigarettes, only her parents know she smokes, they just never get to see her do it, but they’re very proud… okay, maybe that’s a bad analogy…

My sister and brother in-law are in on the mission.  They want to go too.  The problem with doing anything at 9pm in Maui is that you’ve been drinking all day, and for a Toronto girl, it’s 2:00am, so you’re ready for bed.  I could be lazy and just forget the idea.  I’m tired.  But luckily, my dad is glued to his 3rd episode of “Becker” for the day, so I find the motivation to go.

It’s 8:55pm.  The show’s at 9.  I give sis and bro the “let’s get out of here” eyes. 

“We’re going to the store to pick up milk and butter,” says my sister.  A good excuse, because five days into the trip and my parents are(no joke) already out of butter.

We cruise down the Wailea Blvd, past all the shwanky hotels that would be cool to stay at, but not with your parents.  We pull up to the bar.  The parking lot is next to empty. 

“Are you sure the show is here?” My sister questions.

“Three cars… Yep.  This is a comedy show,” I confirm.

We go inside and as expected, there are few people in the “crowd.”  I suspect many of them are comics waiting to go on.

“I hope you’re not going to ask to go on.  This is tragic,” my sister says.  “Tragic…”  My new favourite adjective, which I will now use, but I’ll let you know, I got it from her.  (But I’m pretty sure she got it from her gay friends in Vancouver.)

“No, do it!” Says my bro-in-law.  Like I give a shit.  I’ve done a shit load of bad open mics, I just don’t usually bring witnesses.  I walk over to the dude by the sound booth.

“Hey, I don’t know how it works here, but I’m a Stand Up Comic from Toronto and-”

“You’re on next.”

Wow.  Clearily I’m in a small pond.  I go back to the bar and spread the “good” news.  The bartender looks up, my bro-in-law is excited, and my sister looks worried.  The bartender adds,

“You’re a comedian?  From Canada?  Cool… It’s usually just the same three guys every week.  We don’t get a lot of new flavour on the island.  ”  That’s me.  New “flavour” or “flavor” for the Americans.  Now, my New Year’s Resolution was to dress nicer on stage.  It’s mid-January.  Resolutions are still relevant.  I’m in a white tank top and a Maui skort(I sound like I’m from the 80’s, don’t I…) I would never dare do stand up in this outfit at home, even in the summer, but I’m also not going to bundle up in a Paula Poundstone jacket and pretend it’s not hot here.  I call this, my “as is” outfit.”  Cuz after all, I didn’t set out to do comedy tonight… I just came to investigate…

I forgot to mention, when I met the booker, I asked him his name.  I thought he said “Shady.”  So when I said, “Thanks, Shady!”  He said, “It’s Shaggy.”  Right.  “Shaggy.”  My advice to young comics, don’t mess up the booker’s name.   Cut to, me on stage-

“Keep it going for Shady!”  From off stage, I hear, “It’s Shaggy.”  Oops.  He hates me.  I’m pretty sure.  Luckily I don’t play here a lot, but to be fair, how many people know somebody named “Shaggy?”  Other than Scooby-Doo’s buddy?  I at least know a guy in Toronto named Shady(don’t ask.)   This is why comics should use their real name.  I would never accidentally call a Ray, Sam or Mike “Shady.”  But “Shaggy?”  I know that’s not your real name, and maybe that’s why, subconsciously, I can’t get it right.  Plus you’re bald.  Why “Shaggy?”

I do my set.  I’m not going to lie and tell you it was good.  There were maybe 8 people in the crowd, all seated as far away from the stage as possible.  It’s always shows like this that have no red light.  When I feel as though I’ve got a solid two laughs, I head back to the bar.  My sister and bro-in-law are supportive, or maybe just the best liars ever.  The bartender tells me that the old men doing shots of Jager at the bar were “howling”  at me.  I’m not sure what he means.  A sketch group takes the stage(yes, Maui has sketch too.)  When it comes time to get our bill, it’s drastically cheap.  Can’t tell if I got paid in beers, or those were sympathy drinks.  Either way, bless you, Mulligans.  Plus I made one new Facebook friend.

When we get home, my parents were sleeping.  But in the morning, my mom wakes me up.

“Hey, where’s the butter?”

lol,

comedian girl

ps.  I originally wrote this blog in my new Justin Bieber notebook my friend Jaime got me for Christmas.  I totally spilled beer on his bangs.  Don’t judge me.

Hello again.  It’s been a while.  I use Word Press so I can clearly see this is my first post in two months.   I tried posting this in December, but kept losing internet connection at the bar I was writing at.  Then I’d lose all my work, then I’d order another beer and say “Fuck it.”   I’m in a coffee shop now- how very “January” of me.  And I know you think my New Year’s Resolution is to blog more, but it’s not.  My resolution this year is to find out how often girls wash their bras, add two weeks, then do that.  I’m making 2011 slightly less unhygenic than past years (I said “slightly.”)

Now back to the discovery of today’s blog.  I’ve always been a little superstituous when it comes to comedy and my appearance.  I feel like the worse I look on stage, the better I do.  I usually wear plaid shirts, sport a ponytail, and covet my feet with Uggs.  A big part of my act is about how women don’t have to do extra work to themselves to get a man- you can skip a shower, let a burp go, and be a little fuzzy in certain areas of your body and still pick up.  My clothes usually match that theory.  In fact, when I shot my Comedy Now special, I was very close to wearing my Uggs on national TV.  I’m pretty sure my cute, gay wardrobe guy would NEVER have let that happen, though.  I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.

So when a show is intertwined in the same evening as my own birthday party, I’m stumped.  I would like to dress like a skid for the first portion of the evening, but afterwards, I would like to look(and smell for that matter) a little more deluxe.  But what do I do?  Do I wear my standard Stand Up uniform, and just bring an entire other outfit that I would have to change into during Peter Anthony’s set?  Do I use the Wendal Clarke’s bathroom as my own personal dressing room?  Or, do I just get it together, and fucking wear a dress on stage?  Peter’s set would be a shame to miss…

So I do it.  I put on a dress.  Pantyhose(obvi-I think we all know how often I shave my legs.)  High heeled boots.  Make- up.  I even wear my hair down, though if you look closely at my wrist, you can spot a tiny elastic that I could use for a last minute ponytail if I change my mind.

As I ride the street car down to Peter’s place, I convince myself I’m going to bomb.  So what?  It’s just one set.  At least it’s my birthday, so I’ll be having tons of drinks later to ease the pain.  When I get to Peter’s, he offers me a glass of wine.  Hell ya.  I need it.   I express my nerves.

“I always dress up on Saturday nights.  We’re performers.  We should always look just a little nicer than our audience,” he points out.  (I never mention peoples names in this blog, cuz I’m scared I’m going to misquote them.  Hopefully I didn’t screw this up.)  He has a point.  I breathe, agree, and feel a little less self conscious about showing a little leg on stage.

Frosty picks us up in his mini-van.  We get to Oakville much faster than usual, as it’s Saturday and there’s less traffic.  We walk in in the club.  The club manager barely recognizes me, as I look night and day different from my last show here.  I should probably eat something, but I hate eating before a set.  Though showing up for your own birthday party on an empty stomach is probably a bad idea too.  Maybe somebody will order something that comes with fries, so I can steal one(I am a chronic French Fry thief.  I may as well come clean about that.)

“Let the Good Times Roll” starts to play in the club.  That’s my system’s cue to get butterflies.  Every Yuk Yuk’s across Canada plays this song right before they start the show.  I know I have about 15 minutes til my show of doom.  Then it’s time for Oakville to judge me. 

I hit the stage.  Joke #1… Joke #2… Joke #3… it’s all going normal.  In fact, it might be going better.  They like me.  And I’m in a fucking dress and heels.  I never thought I’d see the day.  I always thought if I dressed too nice, the women in the crowd wouldn’t like me.  They’d get catty and instantly hate me.  As a comic, I want to be heard, not seen.  So I keep my look rather boring.  But here I am, challenging my own theory, and discover that maybe listening to a pretty girl confess that not everything’s pretty underneath, is more disarming than simply dressing like ass. 

So from now on, I’m not gonna dress down on stage.  I’m going to make an attempt to , at the very least, look “Rosedale friendly.”  I mean, I’m not going to walk into the Central on a Tuesday night in prom gear or anything, I’m just not going to purposely hide any form of cuteness I may possess.   After making this discovery, I mentioned it to another comic who brought up the fact he was very surprised I didn’t try to look nice at my last showcase.  Showcases are important sets where we should bring it, cuz industry people are sitting in the back of the room, trying to decide what to do with you- if anything.  It’s true.  I may have missed out on some opportunities by being scared to dress nice on stage.  But I can’t worry about the past.  I can only try for the future.

The good news for you?  Looks like I’m gonna be showering more.  Or I’ll just look like I showered.  I’ve got moves.

lol,

comedian girl.

P.S.  Seriously?  How often are you supposed to wash your bras?

At this point, the 401 is becoming as familiar as the University-Spadina Line on the TTC.   My afternoon starts off like any other.  I call the night bartender, and beg her to come in an hour early because my gig is in the boonies again.  She says “Yes.”  Thank God, or the people of Rodney might have been drunker by the time I hit the stage(if that’s possible.)

I meet my ride, the Emcee, at Finch Station.  Finch is creepy, but if I’m punctual, and he’s punctual, all should be good.  I get a text saying he will be in a big golden Nissan Murano.  Crap.  What the fuck does that look like?    My dad’s a used car salesman.  He would be so disspointed to find out I don’t know my Nissans from my Chevys.  So I wander around the passenger pick up, peaking into any car that’s gold, goldish, brown or even orange.  Why can’t any comedians drive Smart Cars, or Mini Coopers?  Something I could easily spot.  Just as I’m about to be the biggest creep at Finch Station, I spot the Emcee.  Fewf.

I get in the car.  I’m exhausted.  I want to recline the seat and pass out.  Five days of work, one class at George Brown, and who knows how many nights of drinking have all piled up into this one moment. 

“Here.  I brought you a bottle of water,”  Emcee dude says.  Hey, that’s nice.  I thank him.

“Do you like John Mayer?”  He asks.  Wow.  Now I feel like I’m being picked up for a date. 

“Have you heard his latest album?”  Um… not gonna lie.  Off the top of my very tired head, the only John Mayer song I can think of is that “Run through the halls of my high school” one.  I take a stab at the question.

“Continuom?”  Fuck.  I’m probably not even spelling it right.

“Nope, that’s his old one.”  Ha.  Finally somebody on the Yuk Yuk’s Roster who knows more about John Mayer than me.  He pops in the CD and we enjoy Mr. Mayor all the way to the 401, and through the cluster fuck traffic on the 401 that you can actually check into on Foursquare. 

We talk about apps for our iphones.  He shows me a few new games, which amuse me enough to wake me up.  I notice someone driving in the opposite direction, flashing his high beams.  That means the Cops are ahead, right?  We slow down.  Then we pass the cops.  Thank you, random driver.  I don’t know who you are, and I’ll put a million dollars on the fact you don’t read my blog, but thank you.  As we pass London and St. Thomas, we decide to use the google map on our phones to confirm our destination.  I google the address of the gig.  He googles Rodney.  We get two different locations.  My instincts tell me we’ve missed it.  I tell him we should turn around.  Obviously, a guy nice enough to play John Mayer for two hours, is a guy nice enough to take my advice on directions.  Guess what happens?

Five U-Turns and two phone calls later, we arrive at the gig.  The headliner is already here.  I’m not particularly sure I like him.  I’m not sure he likes me.  But in this war, Comedians vs. Rodney, we are allies.  We talk about the food options.  He points to the food station, where I can have pizza, or meat on a bun.   He recomends meat on a bun.  Thanks.  We seem to be getting along.  That’s good.  I prefer not to have enemies in this business.  I walk towards the food, but then notice the bar.  You can’t just buy beer here in the Rodney Recreation Centre, though.  You have to buy tickets first, then you can exchange your tickets for beer.  The ticket options read,  “3 For $10″or “7 For $20.”  Was having one beer an option?  I guess not.  I bust out $10. 

As I’m in line to retreive my beer, I wonder how many of these little tickets I still have from Dave & Busters.  There’s probably a stuffed animal in Vaughan waiting for me.  My “Wack-a-Mole” skills are off the charts.  A big dude let’s me go in front of him.  Wow.  Some V.I.P. treatment here in Rodney.  It turns out he’s one of the organizers.

“I think we’re going to run out of beer tonight.”  He says.   Yikes.  Did they under prepare, or is this crowd over drinking?  

The show starts.  The emcee hits the stage, which is already set up for karaoke after comedy.  The venue is a hockey arena that has turned into… what is this place…?  It’s not clear.  But now that I think of it, the bar is where I would go to rent my skates.  And as suspected, this crowd is drunk.  Well, maybe not the whole crowd, but definitely the front row.   I watch the emcee do his act, which I know is good.  He’s doing well, but the front row won’t shut up.  He starts roasting this girl in the front row.  I’m laughing my ass off.  I can never tell if people like that want to be burned, or just deserve it.  Behind me I hear someone say,

“The ambulance is here.”  That’s right.  This wholesome fundraiser for a Pre-School has turned into debauchary, before I even have the chance to do my “I didn’t know I was pregnant” joke.  A couple of guys from the front row run outside to say goodbye to their friend.  Maybe this is normal here.  I don’t know.

Shit.  The emcee is getting ready to bring me on.  I’m not going to lie… I’m scared.  They are ready to heckle, and I’m ready to cash in my second and third drink ticket.  I start off my act, committing to the idea I’m going to get these people to listen to me.  This is my first heckle:

“Bieeeeeeeeeeeeeebbbbbber!!!!!!!!”

Okay, I know some of you know what I look like.   Thus far, I’ve had nobody confuse me with Justin Bieber.  A flat Julia Stiles, maybe.  A young Catherine O’Hara a few times, but no one has confused me with a young, Stratford boy with a bowl cut- though our boobs are probably the same size.  She continues to scream “Biiiiiieeeeeeeeebbbbbbber!”  I’m not sure if she’s shouting it at me, at her friends, at the whole world… I don’t know.  But when “Bieber Fever” starts to interrupt my comedy career, I’m at a loss.  Luckily, the two kids(let’s hope they were 19) come back to their seats from seeing off their ambulance riding friend, they change the topic of heckling. 

“You’re hot!”  Um… no I’m not.  I’m wearing Uggs and a plaid shirt.  Maybe that’s high maintenance, Prom Queen material here in Rodney, but I’m not hot.  Plus I could fit four Duran Duran albums between my age and yours. 

The rest is a blur… Trying to tell jokes, trying to ignore the girl who keeps screaming “Bieber!!!!!!!!!!”  I should have bought 7 beer tickets.  As I leave the stage, people say good job, but I don’t really believe it.  One woman comes up to me and says, “I can’t believe you’re 30!  I thought you were 22!”  Okay, I like Rodney a little more after that one.  But then I go pee, and get scared, cuz I hear girls talking about how they used to go to Harveys and blow spit balls into stalls where people were peeing.  Ack!

Earlier in the night, the Emcee purposely backed into his parking spot, so we could make a faster exit.  At this point, I’m so happy he did.  We get a text from some other comics who are in Hamilton.  They say we should stop there on the way home for drinks.  And you know what?  Hamilton is very appealing after a night in Rodney.

xoxo, Comedian Girl.

P.S. Hess Village is quite the drinking experience.  If there’s a big line up for the bathroom, it’s probably because people are having sex in there.

Elmira

My first  thought on the way to Elmira, was “Sweet.  Elmira… It’s not as far as Mitchell.  I should make it back to Toronto well before last call.”  Priorities, people.  Priorities.

I meet the headliner at Keele Station again.  I’m early as always, so I hit up Timmy’s, and window shop through a 7-11.  There’s a new brand of Doritos.  Interesting.   I haven’t had Doritos in a long time.  When I was in Junior High, they were my lunch.  I walk back to the station.  My ride is waiting.  He was early too, but not as early as me, so he didn’t see me bumble off once I arrived.

It’s raining, and there’s traffic on the 401, even though it’s Saturday.  Where do people go on Saturdays that don’t involve a cab?  That always confuses me.  The further away from Toronto we get, the more the fog starts to roll in.  As we approach the cute, little town of Elmira(we had to go through 3 round-abouts to get there- I didn’t even know North America had round-abouts) it gets very foggy.  The headliner tells me a story of a girl he knows that doesn’t leave the house when it’s foggy out, because she thinks that’s when rapists are out.  “Hmmm…” I think to myself.  “The Foggy Rapist?  Sounds like a pub I might frequent.”

We enter the venue, a traditional community centre, that has converted their concession stand into a bar.  It’s packed.  Good job, Elmira.  You got the whole town out.  Comedians like a big crowd.  Why do you think I barely do open mics?  Music blares through the stadium… did I say “Stadium?”  I meant “Rec Centre.”  The DJ is playing “Stars on 45″, which sadly, I remember.  You know those cheap CD’s you used to get at K-Mart that would blend all your favourite Beatles songs into one big medley?  Please tell me I’m not alone on owning one of these discs…

We are guided into our “Green Room,” a converted class room that still has one of those mechanical pencil sharpeners attached to the wall.  They have a plate of pinwheel sandwiches and a basket of random bottled beverages for us(Bacardi Breezers, Smirnoff Ice and Bud Light Lime are not in my ryder, but thanks anyways.)  The emcee is a vegan, so the pinwheels are all for the headliner and I.  Oh, and I’m the only comic not driving, so I guess that other basket is for me…

I go pee.  As I’ve told you, I pee a lot right before I go on stage.  That’s my form of nerves.  There’s a sign on the back of the stall door that says “Please don’t flush tampons, sanitary pads or diapers down the toilet.”  Diapers?  Has anybody really tried to flush a diaper down the toilet?  And was it a baby diaper or an old people’s diaper?  I hope those flushers aren’t here tonight.  Babies and seniors are not my crowd.

I hit the stage, which has been randomly polluted by a smoke blower during the emcee’s opening set- like we’re rock stars or something.  As much as I dream of being a rock star, I don’t want to look like a Laura Branigan video up here.   As I’m on stage, I realize “I’m killing.”  I hate using that expression, cuz I really am a humble person.  But the crowd is undeniably digging me.  So I do what any comic would do during this moment- I do that joke that doesn’t always do well.  And….

Ouch!  They hate it!  I must remember my crowd!  People in a big city might understand the ridiculousness of that show, “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant,” but small town people probably know someone who went through a similar experience.  I must stop doing this joke on the road.  It’s fine at Spirits, or the Central in Toronto, but Elmira?  It barely survived in Mississauga.  I should know better.  No more “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” jokes on Supple runs. 

Luckily, I go straight to a joke that I know will work, and get the crowd back- fast.  Thank God.  I think they like me again.  I close strong, and even get some Hi-Five’s on the way back to the “Green Room.”  I grab the basket of un-drinkables, and take it over to the concession stand to trade them in for a normal beer.  As I do, a big, burly drunk guy approaches me.

“Hey!  You were really funny!  But what’s this?”  He grabs the sleeve of my shirt.  “This looks like your brother’s shirt.  That’s not what you look like in your picture!”  Yes, I’m wearing a long, over sized plaid shirt.  And yes, in my headshot I look like a young Olivia Newton-John.  I guess people in Elmira don’t know the rule that people look 18 times better in their headshots, than they do in real life.  Consider this a lesson learned.  (Later in the week, the headliner will tell me the organizer called the Yuk Yuk’s office, and say “the guy we originally asked for didn’t show up-some other funny guy did.”   But it was him.  They just didn’t recognize him from his picture.  These people take the headshots very seriously.)  Back in the “green room,” me and the emcee chat.  As we do, the organizer comes in.

“How long’s this guy gonna do?” 

“About 45,” we say. 

“But the pizza doesn’t come til 11.  He’ll have to do longer.”

Ack!  It’s not that easy, people.  When a comedian’s on stage, you can’t just give him a green light when he’s expecting a red.  We try to explain that our contract says “100 Minutes,” not 120.  Twenty minutes of stand up comedy is a lot- especially when you’re not prepared for it.  The emcee tries to get the headliner’s attention.   In mime, he moves his hands out to both sides and mouths the words, “Stretch!  Stretch!”  On stage, the Headliner shakes his head, but at this point we can’t tell if he’s shaking his head at us, or one of the many drunk people in the crowd.  I keep looking at my phone, but this time not because I’m checking Twitter- there’s no reception out here-but because I’m checking the time… Keep moving, clock!  Keep moving!  All this time to fill… and for Pizza Pizza…  Ugh. 

And guess what?  He pulled it off.  I don’t know how he did it.  I would have shit my pants, or done so much crowd work I would have known the pant sizes of everyone in the front row.  That’s how I know I’m still a middle, and not a headliner.  

We exit immediately after the show.  I shake a few hands, take one last pee for the road and say good-bye.  I’m making it home for last call in Toronto.  I just know it.   

And I do.  I meet up with two other comics, coming from other cities.  We bond about our shows, close down the bar, and head home.  Another night in the life of a Stand Up Comic.

xoxo, Gossip Girl.

I mean,

LOL, Comedian Girl.

PS. I actually googled Laura Branigan for this blog, to make sure I spelled her name right- her last name, not first. It turns out she passed away in 2004.   This goes out to you, Laura.  I love your song “Gloria.”  It was my favourite.  I had it on “Mini-Pops.”  RIP.

Mitchell

Yes, Mitchell is a town.  Not some dude I did comedy for last night.  If you don’t know where Mitchell is, let me enlighten you.  It’s far.  Even farther in Friday afternoon traffic.  Fun.

First of all, I hope your shock that I’m blogging again has subsided.  My last blog was in September, and I didn’t even tell you how the other two nights in Ottawa went.  I made it sound like I was going to blog about all three nights, then made a quick turn onto Slacker Ave.  But thanks to my October full of Supple Runs(I explain that term in one of my blogs-check the very small pool of archives,) I decided I really need to jump back on the blog train.

Friday, Oct. 22nd, 2010: 12:15.  What seems like a million dudes in suits, take comfort at the bar, ready for beer and lunch, in the shortest period of time possible.  The bartender, me, is hoping for a slow day, so I can bolt out of work as early as possible to make it to my gig in according time.  This is what I call, “living the dream.”  Doing what you love, and doing something else to support that dream.  Thank you, Fionn MacCools.

It is all about timing, isn’t it?  Timing for these people and their lunch breaks, timing for me and my jokes…  At this point in the day I realize timing is important to everyone in life- not just comics.  I dash out of my day job at 3:15, only skimping on one side duty that I promise to do tomorrow.  I gotta meet the headliner at Keele Station at 4:00 for my ride to Mitchell.  I hope I don’t fall asleep on the subway.  Perhaps closing down the Keg last night was not a good idea.

I get to Keele Station 10 minutes early.  The headliner is early too.  Two punctual comics- completely unheard of, especially if you’ve ever worked with a comic from out west.   Now comes the crawl up Black Creek Dr, then the crawl on the 401, then the crawl of rush hour traffic.  Shit, we even hit Kitchener traffic.  Yes, people.  Kitchener has traffic too.  By the time we hit Stratford, I’m starving.  I sacrificed my lunch break to cut lemons and limes.  I ask if we can pull over for food.  The headliner suggests Wendy’s, which I decline, due to a food poisoning incident I had with them in 1999.  I have no ill feelings towards Wendy’s, since I got a lot of homework extensions thanks to them.  I simply have lost my lust for the Spicy Chicken Sandwich.

So we go to Kelsey’s.  I have a chicken quesadilla.  Mexican cuisine in a Canadian restaurant… my favourite.  The bartender even brags about giving me my side of jalapenos for free.  Yummy.  Thanks, bartender dude.  As we pull out of Kelsey’s, I see a building with a big red sign on it that says, “FAG.”  Seems offensive, Stratford- it really does.  Can anyone tell me what goes on in that building?  I’d love to know.

About 30 minutes and 24 barns later, we arrive at our gig.  The Mitchell Community Centre.  Half the venue is a hockey rink, the other half is a rec centre turned into a comedy club for the night.  I wish I had a map at home that resembles the one on Regis & Kelly, so every time I play a town like this, I could put a pin on it.  We meet the organizers, one of whom is wearing a shirt that says,  “Friday Night Funnies.”  I wonder if she made the shirt herself, or if they sell them down the street at Giant Tiger.

We meet up with the emcee of our show, who drove separately from us, due to his proximity to the 407.  I know him from Vancouver.  Both dudes I’m working with tonight are funny, so that relieves me of any extra pressure.  I’m the middle, as always.  No complaints- I love middling.  It’s the sweet spot.  The emcee asks the organizer if there’s any announcements he can make for her. 

Organizer Chick: “Ya, can you draw the winning 50/50 ticket right off the top of the show?”

(Yes, most of the small town gigs I do have a 50/50 draw.  I should start buying tickets- I could triple my earnings.)

Emcee Dude: “Don’t you want to do the draw at the end of the show, so you can sell more tickets during the show?”

Organizer Chick: “No- we want them to win now, so they spend all the money at the bar.”

Wow, smart thinking, Organizer Chick.  Me and the other comics retreat to the kitchen, AKA our green room.  There’s a sign that says, “Hot Dogs: $1.00.”  That’s right.  “Dinner and a show” means “Chicken Weiners and Vibrator Jokes.”  I don’t even know if those people knew they were eating chicken weiners, but we knew.

The Emcee does his time off the top, then brings me on.   In my intro, he mentions that I lived in L.A. for a while.  Having L.A. in my intro always makes me a little nervous.  I get scared the nice, small town people will think I’m pretencious, which obviously, if you know me, is not true.  I smile more than a dentist.   He also brings up our history of being friends, which I do like.  I doubt the crowd really cares, but a lot of us comics have been friends for years.

I hit the stage.  Like most small town gigs, it’s pretty clear they’re not used to female comics.  Most of the men in the crowd give me a look that reminds me of Ben Stein’s students in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.”  That anticipation of being utterly bored and not interested.  But a couple jokes in, I can see they’re warming up to me.  I’m not that cliche female comic that talks about her period… until my second to last joke, but screw you.  It’s funny.

Twenty minutes later, I wrap up my set.  I’m happy with it.  It’s not the best set I’ve ever had, but it’s certainly decent.  I hit the bar, which reminds me of the canteen at my junior high school, only instead of ordering a Mountain Dew I’m ordering a Bud Light.  Don’t judge my beer choices on the road- slim pickin’s.

I head to the bathroom, cuz there’s something about stand up comedy that makes me have to pee a lot.  Maybe it’s the nerves, maybe it’s all the free water.  A guy stops to tell me, “Great job.  That was really funny.”  I try to shake his hand, but it’s in a cast.  I ask him, “What happened?”   He says, “A cow kicked me, and broke my thumb.”  Wow.  I had no idea cows were so violent.  No wonder they’re using chicken weiners tonight.

After the show, the crowd wants to meet me and the other two comics.  The women are all really friendly, and most of the guys have Roy Daye beards.  This is what I love about small town shows.  The crowd is genuinely happy you came to their home town to entertain them.  They want to buy us drinks, but we decline.  We have to drive back to Toronto.  Shit, I have to work my day job tomorrow at 10 am, though I don’t disillusion them with the fact that comedy isn’t my sole job.

As we drive back to Toronto, I notice there are no hotels in the town of Mitchell.  Maybe that’s why we didn’t get one in our contract.  The nearest hotel is in Stratford, and their marquee reads, “Welcome Maple Syrup Producers.”  No rooms for travelling comics in this community.  The maple syrup industry has bought us out.

We continue on, towards Toronto.  We drive through the town of Wilmont, where we can’t help but tell Mike Wilmont stories.  Who knew that a town in Ireland wrote a song about him…  I secretly pass some gas in the car, but luckily, none of it smells.  I’m so blessed… I crawl into bed at 1:32 am…  Sleep is valuable…  In the morning, I will tell people I’m tired, cuz I played the Mitchell Community Centre last night.  Or maybe I’ll just tell everyone I sold out the MCC.  Tomorrow,  I’m off to gig in Elmira.  And I will keep blogging…

“Holy shit.  She’s writing again,” you think to yourself.  Fuck, even I’m shocked.  I’ve managed to do nothing but slack this summer, a skill I learned when school let out every June.  But I’m here now.  Call it September “Back to School” motivation, or something(without the school, of course.)

I’m in Ottawa right now.  The birth place of my stand up career.  It was in this city, many years ago, a fraternity guy we called “Spicolli” (in reference to Fast Times at Ridgemont High) told me I should try Stand Up Comedy.  That’s all it took for me to get involved with this sport.  Of course, comedy wasn’t the only thing Frat guys convinced me into doing, but let’s stick to the theme of this blog… for now.

Yesterday morning I woke up bright and early, to not only catch my 9:30 train, but also to pack.   I leave everything ’til the last minute.  I purposely don’t pack the toothpaste, because last time I took the tube with me, my boyfriend just brushed his teeth with water all week.  I’ll buy some later.  (I will also forget to pack face wash and anything to do with shaving, but I won’t realize that til later.)

At Union Station, I text the headliner, see if he’s en route.  He texts back, saying he’s taking the bus-it’s cheaper, then refers to me as a “Baller,” a term I love.  I text back, “It’s probably for the best.  I’m eating tuna anyway.”  I chase the tuna with an extra large coffee from Second Cup, then fall asleep on the train.  I’m sure that place has faulty caffeine.  Their coffee never wakes me up.

In Ottawa, I check into townhouse reserved for the out of town comics.  My roommates this weekend are awesome.   Funny and cool.  The headliner and I decide to check in to the Heart and Crown for dinner.  I chose not to be a vegetarian, and have my favourite road dinner: beer and wings.  Three beers and six chicken wings later, it’s half an hour to show time.  Crap.  Better run.

Elgin Street.  A place that holds many memories for me, none of which pertaining to comedy.  The old Yuk Yuk’s was up on Albert St, but these days it resides in the old Bytowne Tavern, a basement bar where I used to enjoy karaoke and 10 cent wing night as a student.  I check in with the manager, who is like my comedy father.  He gave me my first break as a stand up, which I am grateful for.  I hope I don’t smell like beer.

I’m doing 25 minutes tonight.  Crap.  I haven’t done comedy in a few weeks.  Better bust open my notebook.  I say hi to the host, and my other comedian friends who are on the show.  It’s seriously a great line up.  The crowd is young.  I decide to do a new cocaine joke.  Just trying to stay edgy and young people.  Not actually partaking in any.  I try to do a new joke everytime I hit the stage, though some nights that’s just not possible.  When a crowd is uptight, I stick to the greatest hits.

I’m on third.  The crowd is definitely fun.  I get an applause break for my opening bit(a joke I just won an XM radio contest with- not trying to brag, but since I never have anything to brag about, I might as well drop it in:)  After the show, the sassy Latino comic on the show, whom is hilarious and says “Hot Diggity” even better than I do, wants to take some pictures.   She mentions how she was sad when Irwin Barker(one of Canada’s best comics of all time) passed away, and she didn’t have any pictures of him.  It’s a good point.  Comics travel and work with so many great people, but we don’t have that camera crazed obsession that Asians have.  I agree we should take some pictures.

After wrapping, it’s time for comic bonding at Lieutenant’s Pump, a pub down the road that I probably can’t spell properly.  Later we return to the townhouse(checking in on Foursquare all the way, obvi) and end up in an impromtu You Tube party.  Nobody has any pot, which is a shocker for a house full of comics.  Either way, that “Hide your wife, hide your kids” music video with that guy from the Detroit News is pretty funny. 

And now I’m blogging.  Good for me, eh?  Anybody actually waiting for one of these?  Probably not, but this writing kept me off those deluxe looking patios on Clarence Street today.  I didn’t even remember my sign in name and password on this website!  I had to look it up.  Come to think of it, the guy who set up this blog site told me I could change my name and password, which I haven’t done.  I wonder if he’s ever considered hacking in, and pretending to be me… I doubt it… but if anybody finds this blog boring, I’m John Breton, signing off.

Don’t know where Haliburton is?  Neither did I when I first got the gig sheet.  All I knew was that it’s 3 hours away.  Not every gig is in a Comedy Club.  Some are in different venues that have hired comics for the night.  They transform(or try) a dining room, bar or community centre into a comedy stage.  Like tonight.  Most comics in Toronto call these “Supple Runs,” in reference to the agent that books them.  These are my favourite shows to do.

The first part of the Supple Runs, for me at least, is meeting my ride.  I don’t have a car, but I come baring gas money.  Depending on how well I know the comic, the first half hour or so in the car can be awkward.  But most comics have a simple way of solving that problem- a fine smokable.

First off, I barely ever smoke pot.  I was chronic in University, but now I’m a one-trick pony, and my trick is beer.  I’m good at beer, like Serena’s good at tennis.  I definitely never smoke before I go on stage.  I did once in Mississauga years ago and the crowd definitely knew I was high… or maybe I just thought they knew…  But this is a 3 hour car ride, plus the traffic is really bad.  Surely if I smoke now, I’ll be normal by my show, right?

The following is a real entry from my journal that I wrote while I was high on the road.  There might not be a lot of full sentences.  Don’t judge me.  Just imagine yourself somewhere around Lindsey, ON on route to Haliburton(my career is on fire.)

“Smoke joint.  Crave chips.  Driver craves Starbucks.  You wonder if Starbucks sells chips.  Driver can’t find Starbucks, so he stops at Subway.  Awesome.  Subway sells chips.  You pee.  Driver buys you a 6″ Veggie Delite Sub.  Back in the car.  Finish eating sub.  Fuck.  You forgot to buy chips.  You try to get your mind off chips by counting barns.  1…2…3… Check Facebook on phone.  Maybe the driver will get lost, have to pull over at a gas station and ask directions.  Then you can buy chips… 12 … 13… 14… Check Twitter… Maybe Driver will start to crave chips and/or just pull over for chips cuz he’s board of driving.  Oh, look.  There’s a car dealership.  Why do they only sell trucks?  There’s a lawn chair store.  We must be close.  Goat Rentals?  Oh… Boat Rentals.  Need glasses.  Godfathers Pizza?  Didn’t your parents take you to a Godfathers Pizza when you were a kid?  Whatever happened to Bonanza?  And Mr. Mikes?  You miss the taste of the hot dog at Zellers Skillet Restaurant… turn right.  Are we there yet?  No, another boring highway.  Check Facebook.  Check Twitter.  Let everyone know you want chips.  Oh crap.  Forgot to count barns.  Let’s just say 23.”

And that’s me writing high.  Apparently weed makes me write about myself in second person.  Three and a half hours and only one pee break,(hold your applause) we arrive at our gig.  Well, first we drive right by it.  But after the U-Turn we see it. 

Now, this is why I love Supple Runs.  When you drive hours outside the city to perform for people, they’re so grateful.  They treat you so nice.  Free dinner, free drinks(my personal fave, but don’t worry- I never over endulge.  I’m a professional.  Although I wish there was a classy way to ask for a roady.)  The chef even comes over to personally offer us his specialty, five alarm wings(did I mention I’m only %67 Vegetarian these days?)  I definitely want the wings, but I’ll wait til after my show.  I have to do 15 minutes.  If the wings rumble something in my digestive track, I may run off stage after five.

It’s thirty minutes to show time and the MC is not here.  I hope this isn’t one of those shows where he runs late, and I have to host.  Not that I mind hosting, but when you’re on stage, and you don’t know when the next act is going to enter the building, you find yourself looking at the door a lot.  You just have to keep going until he shows up. 

He phones.  He’s near, but he’s going to be late.  Fewf.  I’ve done shows where one comic doesn’t show up at all.  It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, and I have to fill 40 minutes, don’t be surprised if you hear my B-Sides.

The show starts 20 minutes late.  MC does his thing and brings me up.  I do my 15 minute spot(okay, I did 17-not horribly over time.)  It’s a good set.  They’re loving all my material, although my flushing babies down the toilet joke gets a big “OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”  It’s not as bad as it sounds, I swear.   There is one guy in the front row who looks like MACGruber.  He has his back to me, and is probably one of those hill billy guys who think women aren’t funny.  I make fun of him behind his back, miming his body language.  The crowd laughs.  I’m happy with that.  I return to my regular jokes.  As I’m on stage I think to myself, “Ya, the weed definitely wore off.  I’m fine.”  (I was probably telling a joke about a vibrator while this thought occured.)  I finish on a big laugh, as we all love to do.

Now it’s headliner time.  And time for my five-alarm wings.  Mmmm…. good wings, but lets be serious.  I’m a Mexican trapped in a Canadians body.  Haliburton hot is not hot for me.  Still delicious though.  I wash them down with a pint of Coors Lite(my working beer.)

On the way home we’re disturbed by the songs playing on the radio.  MC Hammer, Alannah Myles… time to slip in a Tony Krolo mix.  We enjoy another fine smokable.  It’s too dark to write this time.  Three hours later, he drops me off at my door step.  I thank him for the ride, a great show(we did sell out Haliburton- a wopping 70 seater) and say goodbye.  As he drives away I bolt into the convenience store.  I need chips.

lol,

comedian girl

christina

@walkinsauce

ps Why can’t I stop all this double spacing?

Hi again. Remember me? I’m the blogger who blogs whenever I feel like it. Not consistently, just when ever I want. By doing so, I also save you from reading about my mornings watching “The View,” and my hard ships waiting tables. You’ll thank me someday. But today, I have to write. I just have to. As comedians, we know that funny shit doesn’t happen every day. Sometimes you have to dig for it. Somedays, you don’t.

I was getting off shift from my serving job. A moment I love. Especially since I was “released” at 9:15pm. That’s pretty early in the serving world. I have two birthday parties I want to attend. One, is my new agent, Sarah’s. A quality chick, who I have not spent much time with. As much as I would love to go home, and watch the season finale of 24 (it’s been in my PVR for a month-it’s not going anywhere,) I feel some beers at Sarah’s birthday party will be more exciting. I head for Osgoode Station.

Every time I ride the subway, whether I’m in a rush, or not, I get this uncontrollable urge to run the second I enter the subway. It doesn’t matter if I can hear the train coming or not- I just run. The thought of standing around waiting for a train, or anything for that matter, drives me crazy. In fact, two weeks ago I walked home from a Jay’s game, just because the subway was down. I don’t splurge on cabs when the sun is still out. But I do buy street meat for the walk home.

I enter the station at the Four Seasons entrance. At Osgoode Station, I feel like this is the nicest entrance. I even press the big round buttons on the wall that automatically open the doors, as I walk in. Not for me, but for the people behind me. As I do so, I hear the train. I sprint. I run, and I run fast. I swipe my TTC card, showing to bystanders that I am NO tourist. As I hear the tones of the subways car opening, I run faster, and note that the escalator is working in my favour. As the second set of tones pipe up, I know the train doors are about to close. I run, and I just barely make it in. A small triumph for the day, but I’ll take it. I find a seat(another triumph) and just as I’m about to start reading my book, a guy approaches me.

“Wow, that was pretty amaizing!” Says Bill, or Ted, or somebody on an Excellent Adventure.

“Thanks,” I say, as I bust out my book.

“I’m recruiting for an all girls Volleyball team, and by Volleyball, I mean Roller-derby, and by Roller-derby and mean tennis- and by tennis, I mean I know nothing about sports- you would be perfect. It’s clear you can run,” he says. He’s scrawny, not visably drunk, but definitely eager.

“Well, I don’t really have a lot of spare time,” I say. Obviously. You guys know that, otherwise I’d blog more. I pull out my ipod.

“Wow! You have an ipod and a book. Cool! ” Yes, I can read and listen to Lily Allen at the same time. One of my two talents. As I try to ignore him, he keeps talking.

“What’s your name?”

“Christina.” I’ve never been good with fake names.

“I’m ——–.” I could write it, but I’m too nerdy. I protect the innocent… or the weird. He keeps speaking-shocking, I know.

“What do you do that keeps you so busy? You must have a controlling boyfriend that you’re running home to?” I love that he asks this, cuz he is giving me an opening to say “yes, I have a boyfriend. Go home to Plenty of Fish, or EHarmony.” Of course, I don’t really say that-I’m too nice.

“No, actually, my boyfriend is quite nice.”

“Oh, well, I’m a comedian,” he says. This is when I perk up. He’s a comedian? Are times as an open mic-er so bad these days, you try to make random chicks on the subway laugh? He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with- and I’m glad. Sure it’s sad he doesn’t know who I am-nobody does. But I still believe I’m slightly ahead of him in the game.

“Oh, you’re a comedian?” I ask. “Where do you perform?”

“Yuk Yuk’s, Absolute… all over.”

I start to giggle. I can’t help it. Finally I have to let him in on what I do.

“Well, actually I work for Yuk Yuk’s. I’m actually on my way to Sarah’s birthday party right now. Do you know Sarah?”

“Umm… no…I know Jessica…” He says, getting nervous.

“I know Jess. Cool chick, shoulder length dark hair, tattoos, doesn’t like Celine Dion… that Jess?” Okay, I know that’s way too many details about Jess, but you get the picture. I know Jess.

“Ummm… No, I know Jessica the waitress at Yuk Yuks.”

At this point, he starts to lose all confidence. Heaven forbid that approaching a random girl on the subway, and claiming you’re a stand up comic, should come back and bite you in the ass.

“Well, this is awkward now…” he says. The only honest thing he’s said between Osgoode and Museum Station. At St. George Station, we both get off.

“Are you going to Sarah’s birthday party too?” I say. We walk down the stairs to the Bloor Line.
“It’ll be mostly comics there. You must know some of them.”

Is that bitchy? I didn’t mean to seem bitchy, but if this guy is really a comedian, even if it’s one I’ve never heard of before, that uses the TTC as a form of practicing crowd work, he could certainly drop by.

“Uh, well I know some comics… um… Gilson Lubin..” I pipe in, right away.

“I love Gilson! He’s great.” Bill/Ted is more terrified that I recognize his reference.

“And Kenny Robinson….” he continues.

“I love Kenny too!” I say. I know you’re probably thinking this guy is black, but he’s not. He’s as white as my inner upper thigh. And I’m only pointing that out because I want you to know that most of Kenny and Gilson’s fans are NOT this tacky.

Not much else happens between me and random “comedian” after this. I think I’ve shocked him by being a comedian. Later in the night, I ran into Rodney Ramsey(whom I mentioned in the last blog- a fantastic comic/buddy) and I relay the story to him. As it happens, Gilson was out tonight too.

“Tell the story, but make sure you drop the name of the “comic” at the end.” – Rodney.

Tons of laughing happened tonight. Most of it was off stage. That’s the best part about being a comic: Hanging out with comics. We bond just like any other co-workers. And I haven’t even started on my comedian friend Claire and her “Manbatical”(check for blog links on my Facebook page.)

So next time I enter a subway station, I may not run for the train. Like Gwyneth Paltrow in “Sliding Doors,” my fate is my fate. I have many destinies, but only one can transgress.

lol,
comedian girl.

PS If you have seen that movie, just note that I prefer myself with long hair. I hope that doesn’t Fuck up my life.

Okay, I’m the worst blogger ever.  I’m not consistent, regular, I miss many opportunities to write.  I don’t even remember if my last blog left you on a cliffhanger.  If it did, I want you to know I’m okay.  I’m on my couch, drinking beer, watching T.V.  My comedian buddy Rodney Ramsey said “This blog is a great idea.  But like any blog, you got to make sure you write it all the time, whether you feel like it or not.”  I think he said that a month ago.  For me, blogging is like going to the gym.  I really like it once I get there.  When I leave, I think “I’m definitely going back tomorrow.”  Then, I don’t go for 3 weeks.  I’m no creature of habit.

Tonight, I’m not even performing.  I’m sitting at home, watching “Dice-Undisputed.”  It’s past 2:00am and nothing’s on TV.  Suddenly, I remember I have “Dice-Undisputed” on my DVR.  It may not be as popular as “Glee” or as scandalous as “Melrose Place”(please don’t cancel “Melrose Place,”) but I can’t help but be intrigued by any show having to do with stand up comdey.  My boyfriend walk’s in the room, with his Stouffers Thai Ginger Beef microwaved dinner.

“Who’s this guy?”  He asks.  That’s the best part about dating a younger man.  He doesn’t know who Andrew Dice Clay is.

“He’s a dirty comic from the 80’s.  He actually used to be quite famous.”

Ewwwwwwww.  Did I just defend Andrew Dice Clay?  I didn’t mean to.  I was just trying to justify the shows I plug into the PVR.

“Okay, Cutie.  Don’t rot your brain with this stuff,” he says, as he leaves the room.  I’m sure my boyfriend isn’t the only person Dice has walked in the last 20 years.

I continue to watch the show.  As a partially working comic, I need to know which comics are getting their own TV shows.  Are they funny?  Am I funnier?  Do they have better connections than me?  Probably.   But I’m well known at the Keg.  In this particular episode, Dice is going to Boston, to do a live show.  He’s determined to crush.  The show comes back from commercial.  The letters “IFC” pop up in the top right hand corner of the TV.  Don’t brag about airing a show unless you think it’s good, IFC.  Then, on the top left corner, it says, “Coming Up Next: Dead at 17.”  Enough said.

Wow.  I wouldn’t want to play “Count the beeps on this show.”  Swearing isn’t funny.  Swearing has it’s place in life for sure, but it’s not here, on this show.  Swearing is appropriate when you get to the Beer Store two minutes after it closes.  Swearing is appropriate when you stub your toe, or get naked and realize you’re out of condoms.  Swearing is NOT so entertaining, when an old comic from the 80’s and his three buddies are pinballing between each other during a reality show.

There’s another commercial break.  I’m not even fast forwarding the commercials anymore.  I’m actually trying to remember what other F words sound like.  What companies are airing their ads during this show?  Cuz these are not companies I’m buying anything from.

We’re back.  Dice has entered the building of his big show.  Artie Lang is going to bring him up.  I should wake up my boyfriend and see if he knows who Artie Lang is.  I wonder if my boyfriend knows who Bob Hope is?  I hope so.  I love Bob Hope.  I don’t care if it makes me sound 60.

Oh no.  Dice is getting heckled.  Dice is dropping F Bombs, the heckler is dropping F Bombs.  I have no idea what is going right now.  Oh shit.  The show just ended.  That was it?  He goes to Boston, does a show, says the F word a 1oo times, gets heckled and leaves?  Did the Producer lose funding half way through the show?  I’m confused.  Is this a series or was this a one time special, shot by the director of the Hills?  It’s not clear.  What a waste of time.  I could have been writing jokes for the last hour.  Or writing a blog… Oh, ya.  I just did.

xoxo
comedian girl.

ps I know I’m a Vegetarian, but I still hang out at the Keg.

pps  The commercials I saw during this show were for Mr. Clean, Ancestry.ca, Always Infinity, Gilette, Febreze, Ram Trucks, eHarmony and Duracell.  I don’t know what “Clean freak, family loving, menstrating, hairy, ordor-phobic, off teraining, soulmate searching, vibrator users were watching this show tonight, but I have a feeling these companies missed their target audience by a long shot.