With Steve Burr in the MC position for the weekend, a chatty Thursday night crowd seemed eager for the show. Dario Josef dropped by for a guest spot and got the laughter started admirably. Even while working some new material in preparation for the upcoming Funniest Person in Rochester contest, Dario appeared relaxed and more confident than the last time I saw him at The Comedy Club. Time spent at open mics, doing improv and running Laugh Riot Productions with partner Kevin Ricotta is paying off, as Dario is becoming more of a presence on the stage. The audience enjoyed him and the applause genuinely carried across sets with little prompting from Steve.
Still, there was anticipation in the room. Robert Kelly was in the house, and the crowd that showed up Thursday night was there for him. He did not disappoint.
I will admit, I hadn’t had a whole lot of exposure to Robert Kelly. Naturally, I have seen the Comedy Central Presents, and a guest appearance he’d made on an episode of one of my favorite failed TV shows – The Job, with Denis Leary, a longtime idol of mine. I hadn’t watched Tourgasm, because I’ve never been a huge Dane Cook fan, and so I wasn’t sure what, exactly, the night would be like.
Robert Kelly talks about stuff that guys typically find funny: food, fucking and farts. I’m not saying women don’t laugh at those things, because we do. Especially the fucking. I think, for most females, however, farts are never as amusing as they are for you boys. It could be because we’ve been socialized to hold them in until there isn’t a man within a country mile. Or to pass gas as quietly as possible, which requires some amazing clench and relax maneuvers, and still may leave us red-faced while you point and laugh for the next hour. Kelly insists everyone laughs at farts, even nuns (“Oh, Sister Catherine!”). He says girl farts sound like mice fighting, and does a really animated bit about farting in a baby’s face. Everyone laughed. The girl sitting next to me, whom I had just met, was almost in tears. I laughed, but I wasn’t exactly bowled over.
He talked about his wife: about putting a mirror under her nose when he’s on top because her cum face and dying face are pretty much the same; about her blowing him for an ice cream cone on their first date. The voice he used to represent her was shrill and annoying, like nails on a chalkboard. Just when I thought I couldn’t keep listening, he delivered a simple, smart line: “I was with my wife on Sunday at a flea market, and I was really angry, because I was with my wife on Sunday at a flea market.” It pulled me right back in. He spent a lot of time talking about fat issues, and in among the more common thoughts (fat sex, fat food games, why we can’t make green apples taste like mac and cheese), he threw out something real. “I’ve been full for 30 minutes, but the pain from my childhood is still there.” The line made me smile deep inside.
And then he did a whole segment about intimacy, how boys are taught to man up, how girls get to cry over anything (“The sun went down, Papa.”) and boys have to learn how to feel. It’s real and it’s true and it’s sad. And in Robert Kelly’s show, it’s very funny. The more I think about what I saw, the more grateful I am that I was there. There’s something very likeable about this guy, and there are plenty of laughs throughout his show. Personally, there were also those moments when the laugh settled a little deeper in my chest, stayed with me just a little longer because the truth of the joke resonated beyond its telling.
I had a busy weekend and didn’t get to spend as much time at the club as I would have liked, but in the glimpses I got between shows, after shows, I saw a really warm energy in this man. Kind to fans, funny and friendly to the staff, Robert Kelly is a comedian I will pay closer attention to in the future. If you want to check him out, his podcast, “You Know What Dude!” is available for free on iTunes. Better yet, go to riotcast.com and make a donation to help support the show. While you’re there, check out a few of the episodes with Joe DeRosa, who will be at The Comedy Club July 12th thru the 14th.
This week, I’ll catch up on some of those things I promised – the comedy class members, a piece that isn’t critique. And on Thursday, it’s Rochester’s own Jamie Lissow. If you haven’t seen him live in awhile, this will be a great weekend to get reacquainted.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
Jesse Joyce and Austin Lafond
Austin Lafond cracks me up.
I guess that’s not such a surprise, given that the 16-year old is well underway on his comedy career path. He’s setting up rooms with local bookers, playing open mics and I’ve seen him onstage at The Comedy Club at least twice already this year. Oh, and then there’s that whole opening for Charlie Murphy here and in Syracuse at the end of the month. Austin is chasing his comedy dream with the same tenacity as many of his slightly older peers. But what is cracking me up right now is just the normalcy of the kid sitting in the booth with me before the show, telling me about the senior prank gone awry that resulted in the arrest of 27 School of the Arts students this week. He breaks the situation down in a number of ways. He feels bad for a few of his friends who were caught in a “wrong place, wrong time” scenario. Some of those kids are about to enter college – what if the incident impacts their acceptance? He’s just as puzzled as I am about the choice of materials. Who would use a permanent spray paint for a prank, when there are so many temporary options available? And why did a few kids have to take it too far, turn it into actual vandalism? It’s ten minutes to show time, and I’m having a regular conversation with a bright kid who is about to get on stage and tell one of my current favorite Holocaust jokes. I can’t help but enjoy the incongruity.
On stage, Austin is disarming. His physical presence can’t be mistaken for anything other than the youngster that he is: a childlike face, a growing-teen stance, a voice that will probably drop a bit by the next time I see him. The audience is in a state of “awwww!” Then he opens with a joke about a “midget – sorry, I guess the PC term is Asian” – and the audience loses it. His set contains a number of age-appropriate setups followed by mature misdirections and smart punchlines. I think adults who don’t spend time with teens on a regular basis tend to forget how funny they can be. The brightest can be both self-conscious and completely shameless at the same time. Add to the mix the superpowers of invincibility and omniscience that we have during those years and you understand why Austin Lafond can make a room full of grown folk laugh out loud. I won’t tell you the Holocaust joke – really, I want you to find him some night and hear it live. He swears it went over well at his friend’s Bar Mitzvah, so you have nothing to fear in finding it funny.
Jesse Joyce is a great contrast to Austin. If Jesse projected awkward onstage, it would be intentional and practiced, and you would say to yourself, hey, this comic is a pretty good actor. Having read his extensive writing credits - the Comedy Central Roasts of Sheen, Saget, Hasselhoff, Flav; numerous television, radio and print commercials that earned him two ADDYs (American Advertising Awards), his partnership with Greg Giraldo, being selected by Joan Rivers to write for her TV Land’s How’d You Get So Rich – but not watched any clips, I was a little under-prepared for the fast and furious funny that is Jesse Joyce.
He expects you to see him as a coked-up Dr. House (“I’m jittery, I talk really fast and I have enormous, squirrelly coke eyes”), which isn’t far off, when he’s got the facial scruff workin’ and you’re viewing him head-on. At various times throughout the weekend, I caught glimpses of a younger Bit of Fry and Laurie Hugh and a thinner-jawed Michael Weatherly (Tony DiNozzo from NCIS). Despite the appeal of his face (!), I found myself drawn to his hands, fingers splayed, as he threw them in the air to highlight hysterical punchlines that were passing by at breakneck speed.
His bit about his drug-selling neighbor (Loose lips sink ships! Between you, me and the lamppost. Mum’s the word!) is sharp, and I loved it when he later said making fun of shelves is “more in his wheelhouse.” While baseball fans hear that expression frequently, it’s one whose origin has yet to be collectively agreed upon. Did it come from a ship’s wheelhouse, where the captain was in control? Was it the wheel on the carriage house floor, whereby the carriage was turned, or the same configuration in a train yard to ease in realigning the cars? Who knows? Who cares? Who pays attention to such things? Well, I do. So I love that joke.
The less nerdy audience members laughed at everything from Jesse being “engaged to be divorced” to his take on Malaysian monkey roadkill. The jokes were rapid-fire, connected by a “so, whatever, it doesn’t matter” when we started to fall behind. While the majority of his set stayed very consistent over the five shows, he added some untold material on Saturday that I later found on his CD, Pro Joyce (available and well worth the money at www.jessejoyce.com or iTunes). For more free funny, check out the videos on the web site, especially what he does to Rich Vos during his performance at Jim Florentine’s roast. Densa meeting? Bonnie and Clydesdale? Forget being John Malkovich. I want to find the door that leads into Jesse Joyce’s head. I don’t know if I can imagine a more amusing place to be right now.
Next week, it’s Robert Kelly. Between now and then, look for a special review of the graduates of Ralph Tetta’s most recent comedy class – the next session starts in July and you can get all the details at www.thecomedyclub.us – and something new, some one-offs on guest spots and trips to other comedy venues. I’m going home to central PA to see Andy Hendrickson again at the Comedy Zone, and will be catching a few Laugh Riot productions around town over the summer. Might as well tell you what I think. Oh, and I might start throwing a few more of my humorous essays up here, too. It’s only fair.
I guess that’s not such a surprise, given that the 16-year old is well underway on his comedy career path. He’s setting up rooms with local bookers, playing open mics and I’ve seen him onstage at The Comedy Club at least twice already this year. Oh, and then there’s that whole opening for Charlie Murphy here and in Syracuse at the end of the month. Austin is chasing his comedy dream with the same tenacity as many of his slightly older peers. But what is cracking me up right now is just the normalcy of the kid sitting in the booth with me before the show, telling me about the senior prank gone awry that resulted in the arrest of 27 School of the Arts students this week. He breaks the situation down in a number of ways. He feels bad for a few of his friends who were caught in a “wrong place, wrong time” scenario. Some of those kids are about to enter college – what if the incident impacts their acceptance? He’s just as puzzled as I am about the choice of materials. Who would use a permanent spray paint for a prank, when there are so many temporary options available? And why did a few kids have to take it too far, turn it into actual vandalism? It’s ten minutes to show time, and I’m having a regular conversation with a bright kid who is about to get on stage and tell one of my current favorite Holocaust jokes. I can’t help but enjoy the incongruity.
On stage, Austin is disarming. His physical presence can’t be mistaken for anything other than the youngster that he is: a childlike face, a growing-teen stance, a voice that will probably drop a bit by the next time I see him. The audience is in a state of “awwww!” Then he opens with a joke about a “midget – sorry, I guess the PC term is Asian” – and the audience loses it. His set contains a number of age-appropriate setups followed by mature misdirections and smart punchlines. I think adults who don’t spend time with teens on a regular basis tend to forget how funny they can be. The brightest can be both self-conscious and completely shameless at the same time. Add to the mix the superpowers of invincibility and omniscience that we have during those years and you understand why Austin Lafond can make a room full of grown folk laugh out loud. I won’t tell you the Holocaust joke – really, I want you to find him some night and hear it live. He swears it went over well at his friend’s Bar Mitzvah, so you have nothing to fear in finding it funny.
Jesse Joyce is a great contrast to Austin. If Jesse projected awkward onstage, it would be intentional and practiced, and you would say to yourself, hey, this comic is a pretty good actor. Having read his extensive writing credits - the Comedy Central Roasts of Sheen, Saget, Hasselhoff, Flav; numerous television, radio and print commercials that earned him two ADDYs (American Advertising Awards), his partnership with Greg Giraldo, being selected by Joan Rivers to write for her TV Land’s How’d You Get So Rich – but not watched any clips, I was a little under-prepared for the fast and furious funny that is Jesse Joyce.
He expects you to see him as a coked-up Dr. House (“I’m jittery, I talk really fast and I have enormous, squirrelly coke eyes”), which isn’t far off, when he’s got the facial scruff workin’ and you’re viewing him head-on. At various times throughout the weekend, I caught glimpses of a younger Bit of Fry and Laurie Hugh and a thinner-jawed Michael Weatherly (Tony DiNozzo from NCIS). Despite the appeal of his face (!), I found myself drawn to his hands, fingers splayed, as he threw them in the air to highlight hysterical punchlines that were passing by at breakneck speed.
His bit about his drug-selling neighbor (Loose lips sink ships! Between you, me and the lamppost. Mum’s the word!) is sharp, and I loved it when he later said making fun of shelves is “more in his wheelhouse.” While baseball fans hear that expression frequently, it’s one whose origin has yet to be collectively agreed upon. Did it come from a ship’s wheelhouse, where the captain was in control? Was it the wheel on the carriage house floor, whereby the carriage was turned, or the same configuration in a train yard to ease in realigning the cars? Who knows? Who cares? Who pays attention to such things? Well, I do. So I love that joke.
The less nerdy audience members laughed at everything from Jesse being “engaged to be divorced” to his take on Malaysian monkey roadkill. The jokes were rapid-fire, connected by a “so, whatever, it doesn’t matter” when we started to fall behind. While the majority of his set stayed very consistent over the five shows, he added some untold material on Saturday that I later found on his CD, Pro Joyce (available and well worth the money at www.jessejoyce.com or iTunes). For more free funny, check out the videos on the web site, especially what he does to Rich Vos during his performance at Jim Florentine’s roast. Densa meeting? Bonnie and Clydesdale? Forget being John Malkovich. I want to find the door that leads into Jesse Joyce’s head. I don’t know if I can imagine a more amusing place to be right now.
Next week, it’s Robert Kelly. Between now and then, look for a special review of the graduates of Ralph Tetta’s most recent comedy class – the next session starts in July and you can get all the details at www.thecomedyclub.us – and something new, some one-offs on guest spots and trips to other comedy venues. I’m going home to central PA to see Andy Hendrickson again at the Comedy Zone, and will be catching a few Laugh Riot productions around town over the summer. Might as well tell you what I think. Oh, and I might start throwing a few more of my humorous essays up here, too. It’s only fair.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Mike Dambra
I know some of you come here for the review, and nothing but the review. You want to read how many people showed up, what kind of mood the room was in, how the MC and headliner handled folks, how the sets went. You’ll giggle with me at a punch line or two. You might go so far as to check out the comic’s YouTube clips or website, but, mostly, it’s all about the 60 to 120 minutes of this particular Thursday night. Let me give you fair warning. You may have to read a little more today. I intend to give you the regular run down, but I can’t stop there. This week has politics, has passion. This week has Pickle.
The room was full for a Thursday as Steve Burr and I made our way up and down the tables, replacing the outdated club calendars with the freshly printed batch from Staples (Chris Kattan! Mitch Fatel! Ben Bailey!) The audience seemed energized, the buzz was all positive. I moved around the room, briefly interrupting one Dambra tale after another. “You should have heard what he said to this one heckler.” “It was the funniest show I’ve ever seen.” “She would only come if I promised her we wouldn’t sit up front.” These conversations usually surround big-time headliners and hometown heroes. It made sense to hear them from a crowd who knew exactly who they were there to see: Mike Dambra, home for the weekend.
Personal note one: this week was a little crazy for me. First, I saw the passing of one of my greatest writing heroes, Ray Bradbury. His short stories have been with me since childhood, and his advice on writing, on simply being, have influenced me for many years. Second, I knew I was going to witness the four members of Ralph Tetta’s comedy class perform their graduation sets over the three evenings, and couldn’t wait to see how they would do. For the record, they all did well, and I am going to post a separate review/essay this week about their achievement. Finally, I was going to review Dambra.
If you don’t know (and I can’t imagine why anyone who doesn’t would be reading this blog), Mike Dambra is the name on nearly everyone’s lips when the title of Best Local Comic Done Good is bandied about. He is the one about whom other comics whisper, a comic’s comic. I told him I was struggling with how to write this review, because I know I will end up sounding like a gushing fount of superlative when it’s done: Wow! He’s the bestest ever! The quickest wit! The sharpest tongue! It’s because of moments like these I keep reminding you this blog is just my opinion: it’s so simple to see and hard to take me seriously when I’ve developed a comedy crush.
A longtime friend said he’s never seen Mike bomb on stage; he’s seen sets that were merely good, but none that could be called bad. I saw three of five this weekend, and know I’ll never pass on an opportunity to see another. His written jokes (“I’ll roofie a girl just to not have sex with her.” “I have nouns and verbs in the fridge. We can make a sentence later.”) are delivered in and around audience play, which makes them appear more improvised than they really are. It’s what Robin Williams said he was doing in his stand up days: he wrote a lot of material that flowed so well with the stuff he was making up on the spot, the audience thought it was all improv. That style is a lot of work, no matter how easy Mike makes it seem.
Mike is probably most known for Pickle (“Yesterday, I was a cowboy; tomorrow, I’m an astronaut”) and audiences love it. For a brief explanation of its origins, check out The Chet Wild Show: Behind the Funny Episode #106 with Mike Dambra, the Pickle and Hecklers on YouTube. His very specific hand placement and studied finger movements tell you this is not a thoughtless, toss-off impersonation. This bit comes from a real friendship with a real neighborhood kid, and Mike’s evolving understanding of how we’ve become so hung up on (not) labeling people. Mike isn’t using the word retarded just to shock you; he doesn’t care that much about your reaction. He just wants you to laugh and has a knack for getting you to do it in ways that might make some people a little sore.
Personal note two: This is one of the main reasons for my comic crush. Mike gets on stage and speaks in a way that has been taboo for a number of years. While I appreciate that political correctness has curtailed some hateful language, if only by making the people who speak it outcasts in a smiley face culture, it hasn’t done much to reduce the fear and hatred lurking behind the words. If anything, I feel we’ve lost traction, we’re slipping back from advancements begun in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Race, gender, ability, appearance – we congratulate ourselves for coming so far, when reality reminds us that much of the improvement is purely cosmetic, only curb appeal. It’s great that you don’t use the c word, the n word, the r word, the entire alphabet we’ve come to use in place of some of our most charged choices. Even better, though, would be if you gave up the prejudicial or discriminatory thoughts and actions that make those words loaded. Give up the behavior and the words won’t matter. This is a difficult conversation to have in our current climate. Comedy gives us an opportunity to discuss what might remain hidden without the lubricant of laughter.
Mike’s crowd play is the stuff of class clown dreams. He’s the grown version of every kid who spent time in the corner, nose pressed against the wall, because his brain sometimes forced his mouth to move too quickly; his putdowns and send-ups came flying from his lips before the little conscience angel on his shoulder could clear its throat. With a gleam in his eye and an occasional giggle at his own jokes, this childlike demeanor lets him get away with some of the boldest encounters onstage. Thursday night’s show happened to bring a cute 22-year old, her biker-garbed boyfriend and widowed mother to the front seats, and Mike had a field day. When Mom said she was a widow, he said, “Way to bring my show to a fucking halt, lady,” and then proceeded to make her part of the act for the rest of the night. Hitting everything from her “Gone with the Wind” fan to her deceased husband’s toe configuration, Mike had the three of them laughing as hard as everyone else in the room.
I told you, this week was a little crazy. I lost a hero; I think I gained a new one, though. Mike Dambra may not have affected anyone else in the room quite the way he did me, but – say it with me, folks – it’s all subjective. This one girl giggled. A lot. Next time Dambra’s in town, come join me.
The Bob Lonsberry Addendum: If you were at any of the five shows or caught Wease Thursday morning, you know Mike and Bob Lonsberry have been having a bit of an exchange over a comment in one of Lonsberry’s blogs that basically said the only thing worse than gay marriage are children born out of wedlock. Mike posted a response, explaining that he and his wife weren’t married at the time of his daughter’s birth because his wife was fighting cancer, the pregnancy was unexpected and they both felt the money was better saved for the harsh reality that he might be raising his child alone. Bob and followers responded that Mike’s daughter was unnatural and an abomination. Mike returned fire, supporters jumped aboard and, ultimately, Bob blocked Mike from posting to his blog.
A fellow comic friend whose politics fall much further right than mine said that Lonsberry is simply old-fashioned in his ways and beliefs, with no room for growth. I agreed if, by old-fashioned, he meant racist, sexist and hypocritical. My father, an undereducated farmer and World War II veteran, held similar opinions. My father was also 36 years older than Bob Lonsberry and living in a time when our whole country shared many of those beliefs. Some of us have moved on, begun to embrace brave, dangerous ideas like the opportunity of strength that can be found in diversity, and the value of all individuals, not just a select few. We try to live it, not just speak to it, which is why we don’t fear words the way some do. Still, no one likes a bully. When you have to target two-year-olds, when you have to call out babies, I am puzzled to find where your strength in your own beliefs resides. Take on Goliath, if your faith is so strong. Or have someone explain to you the actual meaning of “suffer the children.”
I asked Mike what I could promote for him with this review, as I usually give readers a place to catch the comic’s videos, buy dvds, etc. He said simply to promote the idea that we might not want this kind of hateful division in our community. Perhaps a letter of complaint to WHAM, a post to a blog that you find objectionable, might be in order. We should not let any children be attacked that way, be called unnatural and an abomination.
And there is one more reason for my comic crush: a guy whose voice is his value, who makes a living with his words, speaks up for the voiceless. Who wouldn’t love that person in their corner? Apparently, God didn’t have a problem with the lack of a marriage certificate. The baby’s immune system impacted his wife’s cancer, and both mother and child are healthy and happy.
Thanks for reading. Next up, the comedy class graduation and Jesse Joyce.
The room was full for a Thursday as Steve Burr and I made our way up and down the tables, replacing the outdated club calendars with the freshly printed batch from Staples (Chris Kattan! Mitch Fatel! Ben Bailey!) The audience seemed energized, the buzz was all positive. I moved around the room, briefly interrupting one Dambra tale after another. “You should have heard what he said to this one heckler.” “It was the funniest show I’ve ever seen.” “She would only come if I promised her we wouldn’t sit up front.” These conversations usually surround big-time headliners and hometown heroes. It made sense to hear them from a crowd who knew exactly who they were there to see: Mike Dambra, home for the weekend.
Personal note one: this week was a little crazy for me. First, I saw the passing of one of my greatest writing heroes, Ray Bradbury. His short stories have been with me since childhood, and his advice on writing, on simply being, have influenced me for many years. Second, I knew I was going to witness the four members of Ralph Tetta’s comedy class perform their graduation sets over the three evenings, and couldn’t wait to see how they would do. For the record, they all did well, and I am going to post a separate review/essay this week about their achievement. Finally, I was going to review Dambra.
If you don’t know (and I can’t imagine why anyone who doesn’t would be reading this blog), Mike Dambra is the name on nearly everyone’s lips when the title of Best Local Comic Done Good is bandied about. He is the one about whom other comics whisper, a comic’s comic. I told him I was struggling with how to write this review, because I know I will end up sounding like a gushing fount of superlative when it’s done: Wow! He’s the bestest ever! The quickest wit! The sharpest tongue! It’s because of moments like these I keep reminding you this blog is just my opinion: it’s so simple to see and hard to take me seriously when I’ve developed a comedy crush.
A longtime friend said he’s never seen Mike bomb on stage; he’s seen sets that were merely good, but none that could be called bad. I saw three of five this weekend, and know I’ll never pass on an opportunity to see another. His written jokes (“I’ll roofie a girl just to not have sex with her.” “I have nouns and verbs in the fridge. We can make a sentence later.”) are delivered in and around audience play, which makes them appear more improvised than they really are. It’s what Robin Williams said he was doing in his stand up days: he wrote a lot of material that flowed so well with the stuff he was making up on the spot, the audience thought it was all improv. That style is a lot of work, no matter how easy Mike makes it seem.
Mike is probably most known for Pickle (“Yesterday, I was a cowboy; tomorrow, I’m an astronaut”) and audiences love it. For a brief explanation of its origins, check out The Chet Wild Show: Behind the Funny Episode #106 with Mike Dambra, the Pickle and Hecklers on YouTube. His very specific hand placement and studied finger movements tell you this is not a thoughtless, toss-off impersonation. This bit comes from a real friendship with a real neighborhood kid, and Mike’s evolving understanding of how we’ve become so hung up on (not) labeling people. Mike isn’t using the word retarded just to shock you; he doesn’t care that much about your reaction. He just wants you to laugh and has a knack for getting you to do it in ways that might make some people a little sore.
Personal note two: This is one of the main reasons for my comic crush. Mike gets on stage and speaks in a way that has been taboo for a number of years. While I appreciate that political correctness has curtailed some hateful language, if only by making the people who speak it outcasts in a smiley face culture, it hasn’t done much to reduce the fear and hatred lurking behind the words. If anything, I feel we’ve lost traction, we’re slipping back from advancements begun in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Race, gender, ability, appearance – we congratulate ourselves for coming so far, when reality reminds us that much of the improvement is purely cosmetic, only curb appeal. It’s great that you don’t use the c word, the n word, the r word, the entire alphabet we’ve come to use in place of some of our most charged choices. Even better, though, would be if you gave up the prejudicial or discriminatory thoughts and actions that make those words loaded. Give up the behavior and the words won’t matter. This is a difficult conversation to have in our current climate. Comedy gives us an opportunity to discuss what might remain hidden without the lubricant of laughter.
Mike’s crowd play is the stuff of class clown dreams. He’s the grown version of every kid who spent time in the corner, nose pressed against the wall, because his brain sometimes forced his mouth to move too quickly; his putdowns and send-ups came flying from his lips before the little conscience angel on his shoulder could clear its throat. With a gleam in his eye and an occasional giggle at his own jokes, this childlike demeanor lets him get away with some of the boldest encounters onstage. Thursday night’s show happened to bring a cute 22-year old, her biker-garbed boyfriend and widowed mother to the front seats, and Mike had a field day. When Mom said she was a widow, he said, “Way to bring my show to a fucking halt, lady,” and then proceeded to make her part of the act for the rest of the night. Hitting everything from her “Gone with the Wind” fan to her deceased husband’s toe configuration, Mike had the three of them laughing as hard as everyone else in the room.
I told you, this week was a little crazy. I lost a hero; I think I gained a new one, though. Mike Dambra may not have affected anyone else in the room quite the way he did me, but – say it with me, folks – it’s all subjective. This one girl giggled. A lot. Next time Dambra’s in town, come join me.
The Bob Lonsberry Addendum: If you were at any of the five shows or caught Wease Thursday morning, you know Mike and Bob Lonsberry have been having a bit of an exchange over a comment in one of Lonsberry’s blogs that basically said the only thing worse than gay marriage are children born out of wedlock. Mike posted a response, explaining that he and his wife weren’t married at the time of his daughter’s birth because his wife was fighting cancer, the pregnancy was unexpected and they both felt the money was better saved for the harsh reality that he might be raising his child alone. Bob and followers responded that Mike’s daughter was unnatural and an abomination. Mike returned fire, supporters jumped aboard and, ultimately, Bob blocked Mike from posting to his blog.
A fellow comic friend whose politics fall much further right than mine said that Lonsberry is simply old-fashioned in his ways and beliefs, with no room for growth. I agreed if, by old-fashioned, he meant racist, sexist and hypocritical. My father, an undereducated farmer and World War II veteran, held similar opinions. My father was also 36 years older than Bob Lonsberry and living in a time when our whole country shared many of those beliefs. Some of us have moved on, begun to embrace brave, dangerous ideas like the opportunity of strength that can be found in diversity, and the value of all individuals, not just a select few. We try to live it, not just speak to it, which is why we don’t fear words the way some do. Still, no one likes a bully. When you have to target two-year-olds, when you have to call out babies, I am puzzled to find where your strength in your own beliefs resides. Take on Goliath, if your faith is so strong. Or have someone explain to you the actual meaning of “suffer the children.”
I asked Mike what I could promote for him with this review, as I usually give readers a place to catch the comic’s videos, buy dvds, etc. He said simply to promote the idea that we might not want this kind of hateful division in our community. Perhaps a letter of complaint to WHAM, a post to a blog that you find objectionable, might be in order. We should not let any children be attacked that way, be called unnatural and an abomination.
And there is one more reason for my comic crush: a guy whose voice is his value, who makes a living with his words, speaks up for the voiceless. Who wouldn’t love that person in their corner? Apparently, God didn’t have a problem with the lack of a marriage certificate. The baby’s immune system impacted his wife’s cancer, and both mother and child are healthy and happy.
Thanks for reading. Next up, the comedy class graduation and Jesse Joyce.
Friday, June 1, 2012
andy hendrickson 2
It was a small, but excited, crowd that gathered at The Comedy Club tonight.
Our unofficial conductor for the evening was a woman with a contagious lilt sitting stage right. Her laugh was bright, genuine and fun to listen to. Thanks to her spontaneous outbursts of pleasure, everyone seemed to be a bit more relaxed, a bit more amusing or amused. It set the tone for the room – laugh loud, laugh often.
Josh Potter was the night’s MC. He was able to make light of the audience size without for a moment implying that it would be a hindrance, and we went with him. This was the best set I’ve seen him deliver at The Comedy Club, cool and confident, as if his radio voice finally agreed to team up with his stage presence. From joking about being born prematurely (he was goo, until he was put in the Creepy Crawler machine) to the pointlessness of chivalry (if you’re too stupid to navigate a puddle…), he moved through his opening with ease.
Corey Smithson even seemed to be smiling more, which is a side of him I hadn’t yet seen. His bit about the Sara McLachlan ASPCA commercials (if I had a cat named Nathaniel, I’d run him over myself) is typical of his darkness. The comparison of his OCC peers with Syracuse students was lighter, brighter and very funny. I actually found myself Googling “self-dividing cells that stop when you look,” just to try to understand how he wrote that joke.
Chet’s new material included suicide humor and some added tags for his (true story!) missing kidney tales. While the overall topic can seem dark, the jokes are not maudlin. I said in my very first review of Chet that one of my favorite things about his comedy is how he can find the humor in some pretty challenging situations, and tonight that’s exactly what he did. Even better, and what made me most excited as his friend, is that tonight I saw Chet relax and truly enjoy himself onstage. It’s easy to forget, when you’re in the dark seats, that comedy is a business, that those people standing in front of you are doing a real job. The good ones make it look too simple; knowing how hard they work to prepare, how angst-ridden some of them can be about each punchline, I am always thrilled to see a comic friend grinning like the Cheshire Cat when a set is going well. Tonight was that kind of night for Chet.
It was the same experience, seemingly, for Andy Hendrickson. He showed no outward anxiousness about the size of the audience. He stepped onstage, planted his feet and showed fake Rochester exactly what we were in for: fairly clean, well-written, relatable humor, delivered with a confident style and easy pace. Andy is part of the Astoria crowd – a group of smart, talented comics with varying degrees of edge who hone their delivery at places like the Comedy Cellar or the Comic Strip and seem to be the next graduating class of Ha Ha High.
I assume the apparent ease of Andy’s delivery is the simple result of good writing coming from a naturally confident speaker. His material is found in life’s common spaces: home and family, sex and relationships, health insurance and technology-induced idiocy. His bits about his mother, from the scrapbooker’s cult, to grocery shopping, to her endless phone messages (you spoke so long, you filled the computer, Mom!) are observations any of us could make, but few could articulate so well. There’s a litany of sharp images in his set: catastrophic insurance, valium on a candy necklace, internet ADD, the Tootsie Pop relationship scale and masturbating to Game of Thrones. When Andy tells you his skin is pasty from living in the shadow of his Navy Seal, Harvard-educated brother, you understand his pseudopain. When he talks about his roommate’s (Keith Alberstadt, seen and reviewed here a few weeks ago) religious habits, like making the sign of the cross before meals, but not snacks, you know you could have had that same thought, but just didn’t. Andy, seemingly without effort, makes you wish your brain worked like his.
Go to www.andyhendrickson.com and sign up for his mailing list to download his album, You Idiot, for free. While you’re there, check out his videos, especially “The Switch-Up.” You’ll have the combined pleasure of seeing some of my other favorite Queens guys (Pat Dixon, Joe List), and a different, yet equally funny side of Andy.
After some interesting weeks at The Comedy Club, it was refreshing to just enjoy myself, to be able to cheer on old friends and laugh at someone new. Now it’s your turn, people. I got this one done early, so you could read it, be intrigued, and come out tonight or tomorrow night to see Andy Hendrickson. While Chet and Corey won’t be on the bill, I promise the guest spots/features that are will be awesome. Friday and Saturday, 7:30 and 10 pm. Go to www.thecomedyclub.us and make your reservations, or show up at least 30 minutes before the show to buy them at the box office. We’ve had a few sunny days here in Rochester, but the gray is back and you aren’t getting any Vitamin D for the next 48 hours. Might as well come inside and laugh your way to better abs and lower blood pressure.
And a special note to the Lady of the Laugh: you should come to The Comedy Club every week. You seem to be the epitome of a live comedy audience member, and your contribution to the show did not go unnoticed. Thanks for leading us in the pure simple pleasure of laughing loud, and laughing often.
Our unofficial conductor for the evening was a woman with a contagious lilt sitting stage right. Her laugh was bright, genuine and fun to listen to. Thanks to her spontaneous outbursts of pleasure, everyone seemed to be a bit more relaxed, a bit more amusing or amused. It set the tone for the room – laugh loud, laugh often.
Josh Potter was the night’s MC. He was able to make light of the audience size without for a moment implying that it would be a hindrance, and we went with him. This was the best set I’ve seen him deliver at The Comedy Club, cool and confident, as if his radio voice finally agreed to team up with his stage presence. From joking about being born prematurely (he was goo, until he was put in the Creepy Crawler machine) to the pointlessness of chivalry (if you’re too stupid to navigate a puddle…), he moved through his opening with ease.
Corey Smithson even seemed to be smiling more, which is a side of him I hadn’t yet seen. His bit about the Sara McLachlan ASPCA commercials (if I had a cat named Nathaniel, I’d run him over myself) is typical of his darkness. The comparison of his OCC peers with Syracuse students was lighter, brighter and very funny. I actually found myself Googling “self-dividing cells that stop when you look,” just to try to understand how he wrote that joke.
Chet’s new material included suicide humor and some added tags for his (true story!) missing kidney tales. While the overall topic can seem dark, the jokes are not maudlin. I said in my very first review of Chet that one of my favorite things about his comedy is how he can find the humor in some pretty challenging situations, and tonight that’s exactly what he did. Even better, and what made me most excited as his friend, is that tonight I saw Chet relax and truly enjoy himself onstage. It’s easy to forget, when you’re in the dark seats, that comedy is a business, that those people standing in front of you are doing a real job. The good ones make it look too simple; knowing how hard they work to prepare, how angst-ridden some of them can be about each punchline, I am always thrilled to see a comic friend grinning like the Cheshire Cat when a set is going well. Tonight was that kind of night for Chet.
It was the same experience, seemingly, for Andy Hendrickson. He showed no outward anxiousness about the size of the audience. He stepped onstage, planted his feet and showed fake Rochester exactly what we were in for: fairly clean, well-written, relatable humor, delivered with a confident style and easy pace. Andy is part of the Astoria crowd – a group of smart, talented comics with varying degrees of edge who hone their delivery at places like the Comedy Cellar or the Comic Strip and seem to be the next graduating class of Ha Ha High.
I assume the apparent ease of Andy’s delivery is the simple result of good writing coming from a naturally confident speaker. His material is found in life’s common spaces: home and family, sex and relationships, health insurance and technology-induced idiocy. His bits about his mother, from the scrapbooker’s cult, to grocery shopping, to her endless phone messages (you spoke so long, you filled the computer, Mom!) are observations any of us could make, but few could articulate so well. There’s a litany of sharp images in his set: catastrophic insurance, valium on a candy necklace, internet ADD, the Tootsie Pop relationship scale and masturbating to Game of Thrones. When Andy tells you his skin is pasty from living in the shadow of his Navy Seal, Harvard-educated brother, you understand his pseudopain. When he talks about his roommate’s (Keith Alberstadt, seen and reviewed here a few weeks ago) religious habits, like making the sign of the cross before meals, but not snacks, you know you could have had that same thought, but just didn’t. Andy, seemingly without effort, makes you wish your brain worked like his.
Go to www.andyhendrickson.com and sign up for his mailing list to download his album, You Idiot, for free. While you’re there, check out his videos, especially “The Switch-Up.” You’ll have the combined pleasure of seeing some of my other favorite Queens guys (Pat Dixon, Joe List), and a different, yet equally funny side of Andy.
After some interesting weeks at The Comedy Club, it was refreshing to just enjoy myself, to be able to cheer on old friends and laugh at someone new. Now it’s your turn, people. I got this one done early, so you could read it, be intrigued, and come out tonight or tomorrow night to see Andy Hendrickson. While Chet and Corey won’t be on the bill, I promise the guest spots/features that are will be awesome. Friday and Saturday, 7:30 and 10 pm. Go to www.thecomedyclub.us and make your reservations, or show up at least 30 minutes before the show to buy them at the box office. We’ve had a few sunny days here in Rochester, but the gray is back and you aren’t getting any Vitamin D for the next 48 hours. Might as well come inside and laugh your way to better abs and lower blood pressure.
And a special note to the Lady of the Laugh: you should come to The Comedy Club every week. You seem to be the epitome of a live comedy audience member, and your contribution to the show did not go unnoticed. Thanks for leading us in the pure simple pleasure of laughing loud, and laughing often.
Andy Hendrickson (and Josh Potter, Corey Smithson and Chet Wild)
There were 28 people in the room tonight: 17 audience members, 5 comics, 4 wait staff 1 box office manager and me. A party of four, placed strategically down front in the very center row, decided to move themselves to a booth in the back of the room. Another party of four, stage right, two in wheel chairs, far end of stage center, and seven additional people spread down one side of tables, stage left. We’ve had this conversation before regarding the impact a small crowd can have on a show. Tonight, it was the perfect 28 people. It was 28 people who all wanted to have a good time, 28 people who came to enjoy themselves.
Our unofficial conductor for the evening was a woman with a contagious lilt sitting stage right. Her laugh was bright, genuine and fun to listen to. Thanks to her spontaneous outbursts of pleasure, everyone seemed to be a bit more relaxed, a bit more amusing or amused. It set the tone for the room – laugh loud, laugh often.
Josh Potter was the night’s MC. He was able to make light of the audience size without for a moment implying that it would be a hindrance, and we went with him. This was the best set I’ve seen him deliver at The Comedy Club, cool and confident, as if his radio voice finally agreed to team up with his stage presence. From joking about being born prematurely (he was goo, until he was put in the Creepy Crawler machine) to the pointlessness of chivalry (if you’re too stupid to navigate a puddle…), he moved through his opening with ease.
Corey Smithson even seemed to be smiling more, which is a side of him I hadn’t yet seen. His bit about the Sara McLachlan ASPCA commercials (if I had a cat named Nathaniel, I’d run him over myself) is typical of his darkness. The comparison of his OCC peers with Syracuse students was lighter, brighter and very funny. I actually found myself Googling “self-dividing cells that stop when you look,” just to try to understand how he wrote that joke.
Chet’s new material included suicide humor and some added tags for his (true story!) missing kidney tales. While the overall topic can seem dark, the jokes are not maudlin. I said in my very first review of Chet that one of my favorite things about his comedy is how he can find the humor in some pretty challenging situations, and tonight that’s exactly what he did. Even better, and what made me most excited as his friend, is that tonight I saw Chet relax and truly enjoy himself onstage. It’s easy to forget, when you’re in the dark seats, that comedy is a business, that those people standing in front of you are doing a real job. The good ones make it look too simple; knowing how hard they work to prepare, how angst-ridden some of them can be about each punchline, I am always thrilled to see a comic friend grinning like the Cheshire Cat when a set is going well. Tonight was that kind of night for Chet.
It was the same experience, seemingly, for Andy Hendrickson. He showed no outward anxiousness about the size of the audience. He stepped onstage, planted his feet and showed fake Rochester exactly what we were in for: fairly clean, well-written, relatable humor, delivered with a confident style and easy pace. Andy is part of the Astoria crowd – a group of smart, talented comics with varying degrees of edge who hone their delivery at places like the Comedy Cellar or the Comic Strip and seem to be the next graduating class of Ha Ha High.
I assume the apparent ease of Andy’s delivery is the simple result of good writing coming from a naturally confident speaker. His material is found in life’s common spaces: home and family, sex and relationships, health insurance and technology-induced idiocy. His bits about his mother, from the scrapbooker’s cult, to grocery shopping, to her endless phone messages (you spoke so long, you filled the computer, Mom!) are observations any of us could make, but few could articulate so well. There’s a litany of sharp images in his set: catastrophic insurance, valium on a candy necklace, internet ADD, the Tootsie Pop relationship scale and masturbating to Game of Thrones. When Andy tells you his skin is pasty from living in the shadow of his Navy Seal, Harvard-educated brother, you understand his pseudopain. When he talks about his roommate’s (Keith Alberstadt, seen and reviewed here a few weeks ago) religious habits, like making the sign of the cross before meals, but not snacks, you know you could have had that same thought, but just didn’t. Andy, seemingly without effort, makes you wish your brain worked like his.
Go to www.andyhendrickson.com and sign up for his mailing list to download his album, You Idiot, for free. While you’re there, check out his videos, especially “The Switch-Up.” You’ll have the combined pleasure of seeing some of my other favorite Queens guys (Pat Dixon, Joe List), and a different, yet equally funny side of Andy.
After some interesting weeks at The Comedy Club, it was refreshing to just enjoy myself, to be able to cheer on old friends and laugh at someone new. Now it’s your turn, people. I got this one done early, so you could read it, be intrigued, and come out tonight or tomorrow night to see Andy Hendrickson. Friday and Saturday, 7:30 and 10 pm. Go to www.thecomedyclub.us and make your reservations, or show up at least 30 minutes before the show to buy them at the box office. We’ve had a few sunny days here in Rochester, but the gray is back and you aren’t getting any Vitamin D for the next 48 hours. Might as well come inside and laugh your way to better abs and lower blood pressure.
And a special note to the Lady of the Laugh: you should come to The Comedy Club every week. You seem to be the epitome of a live comedy audience member, and your contribution to the show did not go unnoticed. Thanks for leading us in the pure simple pleasure of laughing loud, and laughing often.
Our unofficial conductor for the evening was a woman with a contagious lilt sitting stage right. Her laugh was bright, genuine and fun to listen to. Thanks to her spontaneous outbursts of pleasure, everyone seemed to be a bit more relaxed, a bit more amusing or amused. It set the tone for the room – laugh loud, laugh often.
Josh Potter was the night’s MC. He was able to make light of the audience size without for a moment implying that it would be a hindrance, and we went with him. This was the best set I’ve seen him deliver at The Comedy Club, cool and confident, as if his radio voice finally agreed to team up with his stage presence. From joking about being born prematurely (he was goo, until he was put in the Creepy Crawler machine) to the pointlessness of chivalry (if you’re too stupid to navigate a puddle…), he moved through his opening with ease.
Corey Smithson even seemed to be smiling more, which is a side of him I hadn’t yet seen. His bit about the Sara McLachlan ASPCA commercials (if I had a cat named Nathaniel, I’d run him over myself) is typical of his darkness. The comparison of his OCC peers with Syracuse students was lighter, brighter and very funny. I actually found myself Googling “self-dividing cells that stop when you look,” just to try to understand how he wrote that joke.
Chet’s new material included suicide humor and some added tags for his (true story!) missing kidney tales. While the overall topic can seem dark, the jokes are not maudlin. I said in my very first review of Chet that one of my favorite things about his comedy is how he can find the humor in some pretty challenging situations, and tonight that’s exactly what he did. Even better, and what made me most excited as his friend, is that tonight I saw Chet relax and truly enjoy himself onstage. It’s easy to forget, when you’re in the dark seats, that comedy is a business, that those people standing in front of you are doing a real job. The good ones make it look too simple; knowing how hard they work to prepare, how angst-ridden some of them can be about each punchline, I am always thrilled to see a comic friend grinning like the Cheshire Cat when a set is going well. Tonight was that kind of night for Chet.
It was the same experience, seemingly, for Andy Hendrickson. He showed no outward anxiousness about the size of the audience. He stepped onstage, planted his feet and showed fake Rochester exactly what we were in for: fairly clean, well-written, relatable humor, delivered with a confident style and easy pace. Andy is part of the Astoria crowd – a group of smart, talented comics with varying degrees of edge who hone their delivery at places like the Comedy Cellar or the Comic Strip and seem to be the next graduating class of Ha Ha High.
I assume the apparent ease of Andy’s delivery is the simple result of good writing coming from a naturally confident speaker. His material is found in life’s common spaces: home and family, sex and relationships, health insurance and technology-induced idiocy. His bits about his mother, from the scrapbooker’s cult, to grocery shopping, to her endless phone messages (you spoke so long, you filled the computer, Mom!) are observations any of us could make, but few could articulate so well. There’s a litany of sharp images in his set: catastrophic insurance, valium on a candy necklace, internet ADD, the Tootsie Pop relationship scale and masturbating to Game of Thrones. When Andy tells you his skin is pasty from living in the shadow of his Navy Seal, Harvard-educated brother, you understand his pseudopain. When he talks about his roommate’s (Keith Alberstadt, seen and reviewed here a few weeks ago) religious habits, like making the sign of the cross before meals, but not snacks, you know you could have had that same thought, but just didn’t. Andy, seemingly without effort, makes you wish your brain worked like his.
Go to www.andyhendrickson.com and sign up for his mailing list to download his album, You Idiot, for free. While you’re there, check out his videos, especially “The Switch-Up.” You’ll have the combined pleasure of seeing some of my other favorite Queens guys (Pat Dixon, Joe List), and a different, yet equally funny side of Andy.
After some interesting weeks at The Comedy Club, it was refreshing to just enjoy myself, to be able to cheer on old friends and laugh at someone new. Now it’s your turn, people. I got this one done early, so you could read it, be intrigued, and come out tonight or tomorrow night to see Andy Hendrickson. Friday and Saturday, 7:30 and 10 pm. Go to www.thecomedyclub.us and make your reservations, or show up at least 30 minutes before the show to buy them at the box office. We’ve had a few sunny days here in Rochester, but the gray is back and you aren’t getting any Vitamin D for the next 48 hours. Might as well come inside and laugh your way to better abs and lower blood pressure.
And a special note to the Lady of the Laugh: you should come to The Comedy Club every week. You seem to be the epitome of a live comedy audience member, and your contribution to the show did not go unnoticed. Thanks for leading us in the pure simple pleasure of laughing loud, and laughing often.
Dom Irrera
Dom Irrera is a known comedy entity who requires very little review at this stage of his career. Not because he isn’t worth talking about, but, at least here in Rochester, he has a fan base that adores his humor and will come see him live whenever he’s in town. A household name on the marquee doesn’t always guarantee a great night of stand-up (Pauly Shore, anyone?), but it can also just as easily result in a night you’ll never forget (the Diceman). I would place Dom Irrera in the latter category.
If you go to www.domirrera.com and read his biography, you’ll see the word family used a lot. I have to admit, he reminds me of my Uncle Bob from New Jersey, sitting around my folks’ table, talking to my dad and pulling out little magic tricks and pocket amusements to entertain my brother and me. He showed me my first Mexican jumping bean and those little magnetic Scotty dogs, which wound up in the favor cups at my wedding 20+ years later. My memories of him all seem like secrets shared by only us, even though we weren’t that close and he didn’t visit often. Dom Irrera reminds me of Uncle Bob.
Offstage, his role in “Hollywood Shuffle” and his hosting duties on “Offsides” are my personal favorite parts of his resume. Onstage, there is a lot to choose from: his characters and voices, his easy interplay with Mark, the club owner, throughout his set, his fearlessness which comes from a long history of saying just what he feels. There’s much to admire, and even more to laugh at. The jokes move from the everyday (who can’t make beer ice cold?) to the profane (Date rape is better than regular rape, because there’s dinner and a movie), and even the ones that might offend don’t seem so harsh coming from this person who feels like, well, family. I think my favorite is the bit about the father who was proud that his son was banging all his classmates and a few teachers in college, and how you will never hear a father say the same thing about his daughter. You’ll never hear him say, “I’m so proud of my little nymphomaniac.” It’s a joke whose funny cuts straight to the heart of one of my personal crusades, railing against the sexual double-standard between genders.
Having people with whom he shares history in the audience seems to be a good thing for Dom. When he stops to talk directly to them, the rest of the room feels like they’re being let in on a secret, added to the team. It’s also a great framework for letting us know how much new material we’re seeing, while justifying the presence of the classics. I don’t ever recall hearing Dom do the Joey Bagadoughnuts bit over the years, but I’ve certainly heard my husband and his friends quote it enough times.
Dom Irrera, at a time where a lot of entertainers might be tempted to coast on history and ride the wave of nostalgia that keeps people buying tickets (Pauly Shore, anyone?), seems to continue to love his gigs. At this point in his career, he “can do stand up in a hammock,” yet continues to provide a quality show for the fans who still want to show him love. He’s off to Ireland for the Cat Laughs festival; he continues to play Montreal’s Just for Laughs. You’ll find him on your television in the Supreme Court of Comedy. Dom Irrera seems to be working just as hard now as he was twenty-five years ago. That kind of permanent presence can certainly make a fellow feel like family.
If you go to www.domirrera.com and read his biography, you’ll see the word family used a lot. I have to admit, he reminds me of my Uncle Bob from New Jersey, sitting around my folks’ table, talking to my dad and pulling out little magic tricks and pocket amusements to entertain my brother and me. He showed me my first Mexican jumping bean and those little magnetic Scotty dogs, which wound up in the favor cups at my wedding 20+ years later. My memories of him all seem like secrets shared by only us, even though we weren’t that close and he didn’t visit often. Dom Irrera reminds me of Uncle Bob.
Offstage, his role in “Hollywood Shuffle” and his hosting duties on “Offsides” are my personal favorite parts of his resume. Onstage, there is a lot to choose from: his characters and voices, his easy interplay with Mark, the club owner, throughout his set, his fearlessness which comes from a long history of saying just what he feels. There’s much to admire, and even more to laugh at. The jokes move from the everyday (who can’t make beer ice cold?) to the profane (Date rape is better than regular rape, because there’s dinner and a movie), and even the ones that might offend don’t seem so harsh coming from this person who feels like, well, family. I think my favorite is the bit about the father who was proud that his son was banging all his classmates and a few teachers in college, and how you will never hear a father say the same thing about his daughter. You’ll never hear him say, “I’m so proud of my little nymphomaniac.” It’s a joke whose funny cuts straight to the heart of one of my personal crusades, railing against the sexual double-standard between genders.
Having people with whom he shares history in the audience seems to be a good thing for Dom. When he stops to talk directly to them, the rest of the room feels like they’re being let in on a secret, added to the team. It’s also a great framework for letting us know how much new material we’re seeing, while justifying the presence of the classics. I don’t ever recall hearing Dom do the Joey Bagadoughnuts bit over the years, but I’ve certainly heard my husband and his friends quote it enough times.
Dom Irrera, at a time where a lot of entertainers might be tempted to coast on history and ride the wave of nostalgia that keeps people buying tickets (Pauly Shore, anyone?), seems to continue to love his gigs. At this point in his career, he “can do stand up in a hammock,” yet continues to provide a quality show for the fans who still want to show him love. He’s off to Ireland for the Cat Laughs festival; he continues to play Montreal’s Just for Laughs. You’ll find him on your television in the Supreme Court of Comedy. Dom Irrera seems to be working just as hard now as he was twenty-five years ago. That kind of permanent presence can certainly make a fellow feel like family.
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