The line up from an old Sin Show in Matthews, NC

Anyone that’s followed my career the last few years knows that I try to work at as many of Matt Davis‘ Sin Shows as possible.  They pop up in various cities around the country, sometimes in a comedy club, some times a rock venue, and if the economy doesn’t swing up in the near future they may become a place where comics fight to blow CEO’s for gas money.  As for now though they seem to be doing well and I enjoy stopping by to drop vulgar rants in front of the staff of the local Hot Topic and a the occasional rehab drop out (thanks for coming by Joe).  There are always two constants at any Sin Show:

1.  There will be vulgar comments made about our friends in the room.  My worst was probably when my sister decided to stop in and was greeted with “for those of you who only banged her twice, her name is Heather.” 

2.  Someone who’s going up is getting thrown to the wolves… whether they like it or not.

You see, the Sin Show is about showcasing the material of a certain group of comics.  Most of the time this is material that won’t normally fly in a comedy club for fear that comment cards may affect our house payments.  The only rule is that there are no rules.  None.  Say what you want, but remember it’s still comedy so make it funny or suffer the consequences.  Okay so there is one rule but since we’re comics and not toastmasters we’re supposed to know that shit going in.  The problem with designing a show around material that doesn’t normally work in a comedy club, is that most comics don’t write material unless they can perform it in a comedy club.  There are a few exceptions like Matt, myself, Kerry White, Josh Goguen, Mo Alexander, Paul Hooper, Jason Barnes (whom I’ve just met and is very promising), and a few others who will be pissed I got tired of adding links.  The guy that I’m talking about however is does not write like we do.  Not yet anyway.  But Matt puts him up.  Either to watch him sweat, to make us laugh crowd be damned, or maybe just to give him a shot which the first time he will normally blow (like we all have).  

The best of this bait set is most likely Joe Zimmerman.  Joe is not a vulgar comic, and certainly can’t be described as energetic.  But, he’s funny as fuck… sometimes only to other comics but the crowds are quickly catching up.  His crowd is not a Sin Show crowd yet time after time when Matt has put him up he has held his own.  He stands there confident in his material, and creeps the crowd out until they give up and admit he’s funny.  I highly recommend anyone that reads this track down some of Joe’s videos and watch them.  Then go back a few days later and watch them again.  You will understand by then.

So if you see a Sin Show on my schedule or anyone other comic, stop in.  You can be assured that you’ll hear things you cringed just thinking about, you’ll see things difficult to describe, and one comic just won’t fit.  He’s usually my favorite.

My wife is a sparkling jewel that has risen atop a steaming shit stained pile of white trash.  That’s the first line of the blog I wanted to write at the end of last week.  But I didn’t, at least I didn’t post it.  I wrote it, oh I wrote the shit out of it.  But I didn’t post it because I didn’t want to hurt my wife’s feelings.  Better yet, I didn’t want her to think about the situation that led to the first line of this blog anymore than she had to.  

Five hours after closing two bars in Reno (yes, it’s possible) my wife called to tell me her mother was in the hospital because her brain was bleeding.  Most of her family was telling her it didn’t look good, and she should get up there as soon as she could.  Two hours later I got another call to let me know the bleeding had stopped, but now there is a blood clot in her brain.  Whew, that was close… wait, um, I think.  

Like any sensible husband who’s never been on TV, at this point I’ve changed my flight and heading home.  Within an hour or so, I’m sitting in a leather seat trying to figure out if US Air will catch their mistake of only charging me an extra $500 to change my ticket.  Suckers.  When this thought fades away (who am I kidding, I’m still fuming about that shit), I get another call to inform me, false alarm, she’s fine.  The nurse has explained to my wife that her brain was never bleeding, she never had a clot, she only had a small knot on the back of her head.  Aren’t we happy she’s okay?  Yes, we’re just as happy as we were two days after our house burned when instead of figuring out if we should buy underwear or food first, we were listening to this same woman tell us about her brush with death.  It appears she had a massive heart attack but they said it was okay for her to go home from the hospital.  When my wife got there to pick her up she witnessed her mother arguing with the doctor about the validity of this supposed heart attack.  It appears that death did not touch her.  It didn’t even whisper in her fucking ear.

This is what I have come to know as normal behavior for my mother-in-law.  It’s actually normal behavior for everyone in my wife’s immediate family.  It’s odd that even though the rest of her family lives on the same road, only my mother-in-law’s house trailer has been stricken with an inability to avoid ignorant and sometimes felonious behavior.  Even as I write this I feel sure the idiot in question is attempting to convince someone that with her heart attack, bleeding brain, and lack of my love she probably won’t make it until the end of the year.

There are many more details to this store that infuriate me, but I’m forced to omit them out of respect for my wife.  It amazes me how she was able to escape this vacuous chamber of disrespectful moronic behavior and become the levelheaded wife and mother that she is today.  Her mom has contributed to the ruin of at least 3 lives that I’m aware of, isn’t my wife obligated to inherit at least some of that crazy and pass it on to our daughters?  Shouldn’t she at least fake a hernia surgery?  If she’s hiding the crazy, she’s been doing it for 10 years.  So again, out of respect for her I won’t mention the other issues with her immediate family.  Her grandparents are lovely people so there is no reason to mention that her mother has actually told people I’m going to murder my wife and make it look like an accident.  Every aunt, uncle, and cousin I’ve met have been nothing but gracious towards me and my children so what reason is there to bring up that my wife’s sister allegedly contracted herpes at age 15 while living in an abandoned school bus.  My wife has been the perfect companion for a very long time and because of that I don’t think it’s right to tell the entire world that I’m pretty sure her niece hasn’t been able to walk across a parking lot since age 13 without sucking a dick.  I keep all these secrets to myself, because it’s the right thing to do.

I can’t say it any better than my girls.

Outside my extremely warm hotel suite

When we arrived at the airport in Charlotte my untraveled friend Dave informed me he was not aware he couldn’t take his pocket knife on the plane.  The quick decision was made to toss the knife in the trash before we reach security so we’re he’s not cavity searched and we’re I’m not delayed any further.  On the way to security we decide to play it safe and check with two TSA officers about the nail clippers he has also seen fit to carry with him (apparently I’m an unkempt bastard who never trims my nails during travel).  They advise us the nail clippers won’t be a problem… as long has we don’t have any knives, chuckle chuckle (these fuckers were psychics).

I pass thru security with no problems.  I assume this is because training to be a terrorist involves actual training and it’s obvious from about 40 feet away exercise is not one of the ways I choose to kill time.  While I’m putting my shoes back on I notice Dave speaking to another TSA officer who is holding his backpack.  Dave’s not one for patience with law enforcement so for a few seconds there is a lot of huffing and eye rolling until Mr. TSA shuts this attitude down with the question, “Why do you have a box cutter?”  He now has Dave’s full attention.  Immediately after the box cutter in question was found yet another even larger pocket knife is pulled from Dave’s bag.  I now realize I may be making the rest of this trip solo. 

Now, forgetting one pocket knife in your possession is probably standard practice in the south.  Considering we both live in a very small rural town the second knife in question is possibly acceptable as well (easy city folk, where we come from sometimes it is necessary to field dress a bear just before lunch).  However, I’m fairly certain the even screaming children who are about to annoy everyone without noise canceling headphones (thank you Bose) are aware that the entire reason we need this facade of safety is because of a few box cutters that made it thru a few years back.

The TSA officer has finally finished the search of Dave’s bag and informs him he has a few options.  Dave informed me later at this point he was sure one of the options was going to be handcuffs and a finger in his ass.  But, apparently there is no god because my prayers were not answered.  Dave’s options were:

1.  remove the blade and keep the box cutter (more on this later)

2.  throw both WMD’s away.

3.  pay $10 each to mail each item home.

Dave opt’d to mail the knife home and throw the box cutter away out of appreciation for not presenting any of the options he had imagined.  Great, now I have to buy Dave a knife to replace the one I had him throw away earlier.  

A half hour later Dave interrupts my barrage of witty lines concerning his previous situation to inform me the TSA officer admitted they did not see the box cutter in the xray.  Since they didn’t see the box cutter, isn’t it possible everyone also missed the extra blades he might have been carrying?  Would this not present a problem with the option to remove the blade and let him keep the frame?

So, what have we all learned from Dave’s misfortune?  That’s right it’s good to be white.  While I’m not a racist this is the first instance in my life where I have actually stopped to realize how skin color provided preferential treatment.  It also made me remember that from certain angles I look like a mexican and that’s close enough for some southerners to middle eastern and had that been my cutting apparatus it’s quite possible I would sucking dick in cuba right now.

It’s 9:15 on a Thursday night. I’m sitting in the back of (insert comedy club name here) watching yet another comic who has given up. They’re calling it in. It’s the same shit they did when I first saw them 9 years ago. Nothing has changed, they’re even selling the same fucking t-shirts. Sometimes they’re on their way down from being some sort of celebrity, but they are never on their way up.

A lot of us became comics because we knew it was pretty much the only career that would make us happy. Sitting in a cubicle 8 hours a day would only push us to the point of calling the boss a cunt while kicking the phone off his desk and while those 5 minutes of life would be rewarding, the rest of them would slowly force a pistol to rest on our bottom lip. But the longer we’re in the business, the more we find out that the types of people we encountered in our “normal” job also exist in the comedy world.

Remember the boss you used to have who always seemed to be sitting on your desk when you arrived 15 min. early… even though it was 45 min. after everyone else got there? You were the only one in the group that had new ideas which meant to him you were always the one that didn’t know how to follow instructions. The one week when you closed the big deal, or completed the big project was completely ruined when you overheard him explaining how “his” team was able to pull through as expected, but next time he’ll make sure there aren’t so many problems along the way. Remember that cocksucker? He’s a club owner in Turkey Fuck, TN. He put on your itinerary to be at the club by 7:00 for a show that starts at 8:00, but when you show up at 7:00 you find out the other comics came by at 6:00 and he got pissed when you weren’t there so he’ll be back to talk to you at 8:15. So while you sit and wait, you examine the area, the town, the club, the wait staff, and who’s worked there in the past so you can make sure your show is tight and one that they’ll remember. You finally put together something that you know will hammer, only to be informed that the “list of club rules” includes no blue humor, yet fails to explain exactly what the fuck they mean by that. Then as the show is starting and you’re standing in the back watching the emcee drop an 18 year old reference to a high jacked TWA jet, the crowd sits stagnant and the owner leans over to you just to explain the reason they didn’t laugh is because they like it a little raunchier than that… but not too raunchy. Some how in spite of the explicit instructions you’ve been given, you manage to the destroy the room with some slight adjustments meant to keep this failed open mic’r owner happy. And while you’re standing near the door at the end of the show pulling days off the lives of your grandchildren thru a Marlboro Light, everyone who works in the club comes by to tell you that’s the best show they’ve seen in months. And when you walk to the office to get your check you hear the owner calling in his report to the booker. It seems you did okay, and he’ll have you back, but next time you need to understand the rules a little better so he doesn’t get so many poor comment cards (that are still sitting on the tables).

There was also that guy you used to work with who only had his job because his dad was a VP. The more he fucked up and got fired, the faster he came back to assume the position of the person who fired him. No matter how bad he made things for everyone else it always appeared at first that he figured out a way to convince management that he was doing a fabulous job and things were only getting better. Then you later realized that management was only doing what they had to do to keep their jobs. If they didn’t do it, the VP would find someone who would. It never seemed to matter that someone else could do a much better job than this douchebag, he was serving a purpose in his position by keeping the big guy happy. This guy is on the road too. He’s the middle act that some celebrities bring with them. You’ve had the week booked for 6 months. You cannot wait to work with this guy which is why you worked so hard the week prior to make sure your set in front of him is just right. Then 3 days before the gig the call gets made to the booker that he’s decided to bring his own middle act (the same one he’s been dragging around the country for the last 2 years). The booker has to accept the change because it’s written in the contract that he gets to choose his own openers. You aren’t pissed because it’s happened before and you head out to the club anyway hoping that for some reason this guy is late and you get to pick up at least the first show. He’s not late, as a matter of fact he’s early and has now manage to charm everyone hanging out at the club before the show. Maybe this guy isn’t that bad after all. That fantasy soon fades away about 2 minutes after he starts his set as you realize the next 20-25 minutes have an amazing similarity to a balloon toss. There’s a lot of back and forth between both sides, it’s boring as hell until the end when for a split second you think something exciting just happened when the balloon busted… and then you realize it was filled with water, not semen. As you sit there wondering why this guy is working your spot the crowd is sitting there growing impatient waiting on the celebrity to show up and when you figure that out you being to understand what bringing a cream puff to open for you does for the show. It keeps the big guy happy. He feels like his show is better because everyone is waiting on him to come in and save the day. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t understand it’s a much better show if he gets to come out and ride a big wave that’s already there rather than coasting in on the small one that showed up when the emcee called his name.

And finally there was that guy who sat at his desk everyday for 20 years and bitched about how long it took the day to go by. He never did anymore than what was asked of him, which kept his salary at a level that forced him to spend the rest of the day roaming the office telling everyone how rich his latest pyramid scheme was going to make him, but only if he got you to sign up underneath him. The only time he showed any emotion was when the boss didn’t want to leave him out and finally tossed him a small project that even the janitor could do a better job on. He’d milk that project as long as he could to keep from doing the real work that he was responsible for, and everyone else would chip in to take up the slack just so the boss wouldn’t get pissed. He’s in the comedy world too. It’s 9:20 now and I’m still staring at him. He’s just about to start that famous 20 minute T-shirt commercial and close out the show with a bit that was less than mediocre in 1991 when he stole it. After the show I wonder outside the club biting the top of my beer bottle and just as I’m convinced the night couldn’t get any worse, he walks over to explain to me how I should lighten up because if I work hard I’ll be where he is one day. He’s a safe bet for the booker and explaining to him that eventually even the homeless people in town will be able to repeat his act verbatim is a waste of time.

Luckily there are still a few guys out there that started in the mail room 5-10 years ago. They worked their ass off everyday offering suggestions, taking more responsibility whenever they could, always standing their ground and calling bullshit when they saw it. They’re still around today but now they’re managing their own team, running their own business, or they made enough to retire and they simply sit back and do what they want instead of what everyone else thinks they should. Those are the guys you see who don’t mind bombing, and laugh in the back of the room when they watch their friends eat it in front of an Easter weekend crowd of 14 people. They’re the ones that come thru your town every year, and every year it’s a different act. They don’t give a shit if they sell anything or not because this isn’t just a job, it’s a lifestyle. The same groans they got in Paducah, KY will be repeated at the family reunion after they hammer Uncle Nigger Hater for telling hack racist jokes.

Now it’s 10:30 and I’m on my way home trying to figure out how the first three groups always appear to get more respect in the business. Any business. I think it’s because the people that are watching us have become accustomed to settling for shit. It’s their one night out that week and even though no one forced any emotion on them while they were out, at least they were out. Just like Monday morning will be the same as every Monday morning for the last 20 years. It sucked, but at least they got paid.

The majority of the posts here will be about me and will be intended to support my desperate need for attention.  However, when I see an oppurtunity to pass along some information about other comics that doesn’t make me want to cut my wrist, I’ll post it as well.  

Here’s a little proof radio sucks worldwide, not just here in the US.  Russel Brand (from “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”) and his partner Jonathon Ross (you live in the US, don’t pretend you know him) were supposed to interview Andrew Sachs (Manuel from “Faulty Towers”) on their BBC radio show.  When they called him live on the air his voicemail picked up.  With 99% of the DJ’s I’ve met, this would be where the story ended. But this was Russel Brand who in the past:

-was fired from MTV (UK) on Sept. 12, 2001 for dressing as Osama bin Laden on the air for interview with some pop star who’s name I can’t remember and don’t give a shit about.

-Called Bush “a retarded cowboy fella” who in England “wouldn’t be trusted with scissors.”

-Compared Britney Spears to Jesus because of their similar resurections.

In this case, Russel and Jonathon decided to conduct the interview with Sachs’ voicemail.  Notable points during this “interview” are when Ross yelled than Russel fucked Sachs’ granddaugther, then Russel denied it while giving out her name on the air and then stated it he did it but she was okay with it, then they closed it all out with a song about the sex in question.  Again, the story would end here in most cases, but this is Russel Brand, and the UK.  Complaints to the BBC have surpassed 18,000, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown is pissed, the granddaughter in question (who in my opinion was asking for it) demanded they be fired, and two complaints have been filled under a UK law called the “Protection from Harrassment Act.”

I grew up in a British family and know a thing or two about British law.  Their legal system is great because it protects Amy Winehouse while she competes for the world record in “most days walking while legally dead,” but Brand may get 6 months in jail for claming he fucked the granddaughter of a washed up 70’s sitcom star.  

What does all this mean?  It means knowing he could already be going to jail for a dumbass radio stunt Russel Brand said:

-He was sorry he said it, he had only met the granddaugther.  Followed by “met her brains out.”

-He would make it up to Sachs by breaking into his house and fondling him while he slept.

My next post about this will be annoucing the sale of a new line of Che Guevara style Russel Brand tee shirts.

After 17 years of extensive R&D, the new site is up and running.  Since no one is reading this yet I’ll save myself the time and just say expect more updates as soon as I find a few people that give a shit I exist.

To the new online home of Comedian Julian Kross.

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