Blocked

You never expect it to happen when you choose something you love. You think the inspiration will always be there, by sheer virture of your passion, your desire. You count on keeping your promise, on the vows being unbreakable.

And then reality and the day-to-day grind overwhelm you. The fantasy, the fire, gets lost as bills need paid, floors need swept, and the sound of your laugh grows faint.

I have so much to say, so much to do, and yet everything else seems to NEED to come first. I am stuck midway through Tom Simmons, desperate to get on to Rachel Feinstein and excitedly looking forward to Orlando Jones. I owe Guy Torry delivery on a proposition. I really do have something to say about Doug Stanhope. And locally, Dubland deserves a celebratory eulogy as it ends tonight, and Buffalo is still waiting for its accolades.

So here's my renewed promise.

I will do whatever I need to in order to catch up by the end of the week. That means I may have to condense the Buffalo shows into one piece. That means I'll pass on Eddie Griffin, who doesn't need my opinion to promote himself or his act. That means I didn't go to The Comedy Club this week to catch Gemini's show because, while I find magic everywhere and adore it, I'm not quite as enamored of illusion. That means I am still committed, but maybe I understand the journey a little better and can accept that it isn't what it once was.

And, hopefully, it will mean that we can get back to what we were doing here together in the first place.

Laughing, and loving every minute of it.

10/11/12 Rich Vos, Jimmy LeChase, Tim Almeter and Dario Josef

T S Eliot once wrote, “Anxiety is the handmaiden of creativity.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was channeling an evening, far in the future, when Rich Vos was nervously pacing the back of a dark room, awaiting show time. Like a metal spring coiled to its limit and about to unwind, he was both ready to start releasing and nervous about the process. Nine months earlier, when Vos last came to The Comedy Club, his angst read more like anger to me; I felt a very different kind of energy when I met him briefly before that show. His crowd work seemed a little pushy, a little punishing. I wasn’t sure, once the set was over, whether or not I had enjoyed it.

This time, however, was an altogether different experience.

 

But let’s not start there. Let me give credit to Dario by saying he was an excellent MC, and the perfect guide on the side for this particular show; he primed the audience for Jimmy LeChase. The first/last time I told you about Jimmy, he was working his joke-joke material, funny but more standard-format riffs on weddings. Tonight was a very different show, albeit one I thoroughly enjoyed. Jimmy took us on a stroll through the city, introducing us to the denizens of Crazy Town in a casually-paced storyteller style. From the homeless guy who rebuked our agreed-upon social contract by begging up (You don’t have 43 cents? How about a dollar?) to the delightful assortment of humanity hanging out at the sketchy local gas station at 11:13 at night, when his PB & J jones got the better of him, it was an interesting tour. We met the mumbly guy in the corner complaining about the price of beer, the old woman in her pjs just holding a loaf of bread as the Alzheimer glaze spread across her face, the dude repeatedly scratching the same non-winning lottery tickets and being disappointed that none of them had magically turned into winners and, my personal favorite, the neglected girl with the handful of candy (that’s diabetes just waiting to happen!).

For his peers who tend to operate in a more traditional set-up/punch style, Jimmy can be hard to evaluate. They were listening for those laughter bursts that kinda’ follow one another like firework booms on the Fourth, and Jimmy received a few of them. Mostly, and maybe more appropriate to his style, the audience gave him a quieter but constant chuckle, a steady stream of laughs that showed they, too, knew that late-night stroll.

Tim Almeter's promise to self-immolate at the end of his set was newly spawned. He hadn’t planned a flaming finale. He asked Vos if there was anything he did or didn’t want him to do during the spot. Rich replied, “I don’t give a fuck if you set yourself on fire.” Tim shared the retort with the audience and promised, “So I’m gonna’ close with that.”  Alas, no alarms were sounded. Tim delivered a great set, and even gave Vos something to play with in return.

 

“I had cancer. Waaah! I’m following a cancer comic; I feel like I’m doing a fuckin’ fundraiser. Hey, I had a hernia 3 years ago, you don’t hear me bitchin’.”

I think if that exchange had happened last time I saw Vos, I might not have seen the wink behind it, I might have been tempted to interpret it as a bitch-slap to the young pup for taking a shot. But that’s not what was happening at all. Besides, 26 years sober can carry the same skewed weight as being a cancer comic. It can be lobbed casually into a crowd and played for sympathy. Or, in the hands of someone as skilled as Rich Vos, it can be mined for hard truths and used to produce instant laughter.

The topics bounce between casual commonalities and culture clashes: the costs of driving on the New Jersey turnpike (I went four exits, spent $8. You drive the whole length of the turnpike, at the end they take your car); the pointlessness of the Occupy movement (They have no demands. They weren’t protesting, they were camping.); the difficulties of gay interracial dating (Dad, I’m gay. Now sit down.); the void of service on planes (They took away pretzels? I didn’t care when they took the blankets – there was more DNA on them than under Gacey’s porch.); the bond between racism and anti-Semitism in America (We should combine forces. With our brains and money, and your strength and speed, no one could fuck with us.).

Vos is sharp, his random and extensive callbacks are phenomenal and his quickie lines are a thing of beauty. “’Know what I forgot to did?’ ‘Conjugate a verb? Pay for what’s in your hand? Stop having kids?’” “You look like a Roman nickel. You should be guarding a wall on Game of Thrones.” “Smoking three cigarettes a day is pointless. It’s like going to rape a girl, tearing off her clothes and then fingering her. You’re going to jail, you may as well fuck her.” “You look like an epileptic Marine cut your hair.” “’Do you have turkey burgers?’ ‘We used to.’ ‘Let me sit down, we’ll reminisce about the good ol’ days.’” If you had no understanding of tone or affect, if you couldn’t read body language, you could probably get really pissed off by Rich Vos.

And that’s the saving grace, that’s the best part. Between chewing madly on his Nicorette gum and that pre-show pacing, you can tell Rich’s creativity is fueled by anxiety, not anger; he generally wants to make you laugh, not piss you off. Every now and again, he’ll turn away or drop his head and laugh at himself, at the ridiculousness that just spilled from his lips, and the audience exhales with him, confident once more that he is, indeed, there for the joke. His material about his divorce, remarriage and three daughters is that balanced blend of pathos and punch line. His conversation with his 4-year old (It’s a house? No, it isn’t. It’s just scribble. That’s what you do, you’re a scribbler. Well, answer me this. Would you live in it?) is that thing that looks like reality, but is actually trompe l’oiel: deceiving to the eye or, in this case, the ear.

After the show Thursday night, Mark introduced me to Rich and asked if he’d chat with me a little, told him about the blog. Graciously, and at the expense of some downtime spent savoring one of those turkey burgers, he agreed. He started, though, with a question I’ve heard a number of times over the past year. “No offense, but what makes a person qualified to be a comedy critic?” He seemed genuinely curious, and I wasn’t offended at all. I told him of my passion for the art, my lifelong love affair with comedy; I mentioned that I’ve logged plenty of hours on stages over the years while acting, educating, motivating; I told him he could read the first entry in this blog if he was really interested; and I reassured him that I don’t think of this as critique. Reviewing what I see and sharing how I perceive it, I am trying to support the craft, educate an audience and do my small part to keep live comedy thriving. It was an acceptable answer. He was cool hearing my passion, and spent some time talking about the scene, about his upcoming projects (I can’t wait to see “Women Aren’t Funny”, a documentary he’s produced with wife Bonnie McFarlane), about the fact that he still gets so nervous before a show. He gave me a copy of “Still Empty Inside,” his third CD which you should pick up on iTunes – you will not be disappointed. And for some of my friends at earlier stages in your comedy career, take a look at his website (www.richvos.com). This man has it together on so many levels.

His anxiety isn't just his handmaiden; it's his bitch.

Breather

Wow, I'm behind.

Rich Vos. Doug Stanhope. Eddie Griffin. Dubland. Rob's Playhouse with Dave Dyer. O'Comedy at O'Connells'.

I have been seeing an incredible amount of comedy in the past few months. There was a stretch there where I was at a live comedy show 17 nights out of 24, two of which involved two different venues and multiple comics. In my real life, my after school program kicked in, my spouse is home but we are separated, my side contracts are moving at hyperspeed and I am going so fast so often, that I have just not been writing anything that wasn't mandated or attached to a paycheck.

I am tired, people.

Exhausted.

And yet, there's much to say about all of the acts mentioned above, and those who keep stepping onstage at The Comedy Club, Rob's, DubLand, The Space and other venues in this little corner of the world. I personally committed to telling you about them, trying to win you over, trying to get you to go spend your limited free time and money supporting something that literally can improve your physical and mental health. Laughter is an amazing tonic, a miracle elixir that soothes souls, warms hearts and builds bonds between people. Even if the jokes are dark, angry, or merely stupid, laughter is an essential ingredient in my happiness gumbo. I use it instead of okra - it's a texture thing.

Still, despite all the great comedy I've been seeing, I am tired.

I haven't been able to devote the time and care to this site that I mean to, that I want to, that I remain fully committed to.

So, I've taken a breather. It's almost over - I can see light ahead.

Tonight, I'll be seeing Tom Simmons at the club, and then, when I get home, I promise I'll sit down and write. I've started Rich Vos - I just want to do him justice, because the experience this time was so different than when he came to town at the beginning of the year. I'm excited to tell you about him. I'm excited to tell you that Doug Stanhope was so not what I expected that I am actually nervous about writing the review. I want you all to know that Rob's Playhouse is a good room for comedy and worth the trek to Buffalo. You need to know about O'Connell's, too, and not just because it's a great venue for an open mic. The food is awesome and the atmosphere is quite lovely. As a product of a dry house and a dry town, I think Dub Land could become the first bar I've ever enjoyed hanging at. And wait 'til I tell you how good Zack Johnson was mcing for Eddie Griffin, and how interesting it was to sit through Eddie back-to-back, as the champagne flowed and the room got rowdier.

I haven't been slacking on comedy. I've just not been sharing much. I've been spending more time in my real life and catching a few more hours' sleep, when I meant to be paying tribute to the jokes and jokesters that make it all a little easier to handle.

But, after tonight's show, I'll get back on track. I promise.

Hopefully, you will all still be here, reading and maybe even getting a little joy for yourself from my insights. If not, I hope you're out supporting live comedy in your community.

Talk to you in a bit.

10/4/12 Marc Unger, Austin Lafond, Mike Gifaldi and Josh Potter

One of the greatest philosophers of my childhood, Charles M. Schultz, was able to use my favorite round-headed kid and his beagle to help me digest some very important concepts. I understood that unrequited love could ruin the taste of a good pb & j sandwich, that it was cool to have a rich fantasy life, that everyone had something to feel insecure about and that hope could always rise again, even in the most depressed of spirits. Charlie Brown was one depressed little guy. “Sometimes I lie awake at night, and ask, 'Where have I gone wrong?' Then a voice says to me, "This is going to take more than one night.'" No matter how many nickels he put in Lucy’s tin can, there seemed to be no cure for what ailed him.

 Depression, like ADD and OCD, seems to be fairly common among stand up comics, although it’s still a chicken/egg question: Do depressed people use laughter to try to heal themselves, thus leaning toward comedy, or does the life of a road dog comic, with its hours of loneliness, constant travel, tight finances and interrupted intimacy, lead to depression? I have yet to hear a definitive answer. And on this Thursday night, it didn’t seem to matter. The whole room felt depressed. The audience was quietly eating, politely focused but not seemingly eager to laugh when Josh Potter took the stage to start the show. Austin Lafond delivered his set, but couldn’t get more than a chuckle or two from the group.

 Mike Gifaldi had a bit more success. As one of my favorite local comics, I watch him nearly every week at DubLand, and always enjoy a chance to see him at The Comedy Club. I like Mike because he’s sorta’ the opposite side of my coin. He’s all tattoos and metal, irony and darkness on the outside, and a generally nice guy on the inside. The thoughts he shares onstage are not for everyone, but tonight’s crowd seemed willing to go with him. He started by telling them he’s always nervous when he goes onstage, that “the voice in my head usually convinces me I'm going to be fine, which settles my nerves, but today I realized it’s the same voice that tells me I'm going to pull out in time.”  His jokes flow from the homeless dude who never begged from him to being bit by a feral child living in the local WalMart; from his “Charlie Brown with a drug problem” hair style to his actress girlfriend who said he never helped her become a star (I lit her on fire and shot her into space.). I enjoy guessing how Mike will go over in a particular room. Tonight, although the group initially seems unsure if laughter is even part of the program, they loosen up and laugh a little.

 Which is perfect, because the experience they’re about to have with Marc Unger is, for me, nothing short of spectacular.

Marc gets on the audience immediately: we don’t like anything, we were sitting at home, then we were clubbed over the head and suddenly found ourselves in an airplane hanger listening to Josh’s depression. In one fell swoop, he knocks the audience, the room and the MC, and I know I’m in for a fun night. First, we learn about Marc’s marriage to a beautiful 27-year-old special needs teacher (“My twelve-year-old autistic student tied his shoes for the first time today. How was your day?” “I watched six episodes of ‘Myth Busters.’”) and the issues that come up between two people looking at each other across two decades. “She’s 27, she loves sex. I’m 47. I love the History Channel." She steps out of the shower, glistening and ready for a romp; he’s glued to “American Pickers,” wondering if they’re going to buy the Shell Oil sign.  She wants kids, he thinks he hates them. The jokes are at once personal and universal.

Marc covers a lot of territory in this set. He leads us through drug legalization for seniors (If you make it to 65, all drugs should be legal. If you’ve raised kids and they leave you in a nursing home, every night should be Bingo and Blow night at Happy Acres.), the future of reality tv (Last Sad Guy Standing: get 8 really depressed people together in a house, each with a weapon, and America tries to text them into committing suicide) and the ignorance still alive in the good ol’ USA (You’ll never hear checkmate in Shreveport, but you might hear “I ain’t playin’ with those colored pieces.”) His political bits about Clarence Thomas, Ruth Bader-Ginsberg and Anthony Scalia (so far right, he thinks Thomas is only 3/5 of a Judge) are smart and funny, without proselytizing. Some of the wittiest lines fly by so fast, I barely have time to scribble them in my notebook.

And yet, there is real depth to this material. “The way we get news, on our homepage, it’s all vomited together on the screen. We don’t know what’s important.” It IS both sad and funny that Snooki’s baby was #1 on Yahoo Trend, while a potentially planet-destroying asteroid was #5. It is a little abnormal that we can use the word friend to describe someone we’ve only met on Facebook (A friend helps you bury the hooker when you kinda’ fucked up, not send you a Star Trek quiz at 3 am.). Marc’s current show is great. Fortunately, you can find a good portion of it on his CD, “Dirty Truth,” available on iTunes, at amazonmp3 or in stores on December 6^th. At www.MarcUnger.com, you can learn more about the other elements of his performance career: his acting and writing projects, his blog and radio show. 

Now, let’s get to the personal stuff, since it’s obvious to regular readers what I’m about to say.

I dig this guy.

 Marc Unger’s web site bio describes his humor as “fresh, edgy and brutally thoughtful,” and I can’t argue with that. It continues, “Armed with dynamic stage presence, his explosive rants … are not only powerfully funny, but provocative as well.” Again I agree, but for one thing. While his presence is certainly dynamic, I never felt like I was listening to an explosive rant, not in the way I’m used to. That description led me to believe I’d be hearing a delivery similar to Leary or Hicks, maybe even a Kinison rage. It could be that Marc toned it down a bit, given the somber beginnings of the evening. I should have asked when he graciously sat for awhile in the back booth and discussed his comedy with me; because I hadn’t prepared by doing any homework, I didn’t realize I’d feel this way until Friday, when I checked out his net presence.  Now it’s like I’ve somehow missed out on great opportunities because I didn’t know Marc Unger sooner. I would have gone to see his one-man show “Drinking Up the Pieces,” or any of the older ones (Nocturnal Emissions, Mindblanking). I would have watched the “Friends” and “Veep” episodes on which he appeared; actually, that’s one I can remedy, so I will watch those. How do I see “The Filchaks Take a Gamble,” which I’m sure I’d enjoy both as a new fan and as a fantasy football fanatic? I need more of Marc Unger.

“Drinking Up the Pieces” is about Marc’s two-year struggle with depression; he made a few references to depression throughout the show.  I have worked in and around the mental health community for years. I’ve had relatives, a spouse and close friends who have dealt with varying levels of depression, and went a few rounds with it myself over my lifetime. Talking to Marc one-on-one, I never got that feeling, that little drag that usually signals to me that I’m dealing with someone who’s dealing with something. He was funny, but not “on.” He was insightful. He was helpful. He struck me as an artist who knows himself, who has figured out several ways to express his understanding, and knows how to bring others along for the journey. The audience was grateful for that skill, and rewarded him with applause. I was grateful and hopefully can reward him by sending other people in search of his work.  

I took an entire week to write this review because I didn’t know how to start. Flipping back and forth through my notebook, Mike’s Charlie Brown reference kept drawing my eye. So I searched Charlie Brown and depression, and found a number of strips that spoke to me. Here’s the one I want to end on. “When you're depressed, it makes a lot of difference how you stand. The worst thing you can do is straighten up and hold your head high because then you'll start to feel better. If you're going to get any joy out of being depressed, you've got to stand like this.” The drawing shows Charlie Brown slouching, shoulders dropped, head down. It’s the same position most of the audience started in on this particular Thursday night. But Marc Unger gave them a reason to lift their heads, straighten their shoulders and laugh.

"Laugh at yourself and at life. Not in the spirit of derision or whining self-pity, but as a remedy, a miracle drug, that will ease your pain, cure your depression, and help you to put in perspective that seemingly terrible defeat and worry with laughter at your predicaments, thus freeing your mind to think clearly toward the solution that is certain to come. Never take yourself too seriously." - Og Mandino, psychologist and essayist

9/27/12 Bobby Slayton, Dario Josef and Chet Wild

Dario and Chet both had short, but laugh-filled spots. Since I've said a lot about Dario lately, I'll say it was nice seeing Chet have an opportunity to do something other than host, even though he's a great MC. With most of his summer devoted to running the Funniest Person in Rochester contest, it was fun to hear him just tell jokes.

All too soon, it was time for the headliner, Bobby Slayton.

Twenty years ago, I laughed at a lot of Bobby's material. This night, not so much.

But many other people did, so - there's that.

I can't love 'em all, but that doesn't mean you can't love the ones I don't.

You can find plenty of Bobby Slayton on YouTube, at www.bobbyslayton.com and a million other places. You can only find me here, so - there's that.


 

9/20/12 Dan Viola, Tim Almeter and Dewey Lovett

With a pretty full room for a Thursday night, Steve Burr MCing and Tim Almeter doing a spot, I was looking forward to seeing my friend Dan Viola headline.

We all know I sometimes have a hard time reviewing my friends, comics whom I know on a deeper level, comics with whom I’ve shared more than a show, and Dan is one of those people. We share that Tiny Glover connection, which never leaves my heart and has led me to some of the coolest people in my current sphere of influence. It’s an obvious bias with me that, if I like you as a person, I generally enjoy you more as a comic. If you’re an asshole, you better have damn good material – and, fortunately, many of you do! Dan is not an asshole; he’s a family man, a clean comic and someone I’ve enjoyed seeing come back to the stage.

Before I get to Dan, however, let me say that Tim Almeter is quickly becoming someone I’ll be writing about too often; in a world where so many variables have to come together to make a great show, Tim is X, the variable we’re always looking for. For a relative newcomer, he has a wealth of material that seems to hit more than miss. His fast delivery is an extension of his fast thinking, so he can change gears when a particular joke doesn’t seem to be connecting. He CAN change gears – he doesn’t always choose to. Trusting your own voice is an ongoing battle for any artist. I’ve said before that I admire Tim’s fearlessness; the stubbornness will prove to be an asset in a career that depends so much on opinion. That, and the fact that he cracks people up.

I also wanted to talk about Dewey Lovett, even though she did her guest sets on Saturday night. Apparently, I missed the most incredible show of the weekend, the Saturday early show, which all the comics agreed was amazing. I was a little surprised to hear that when I saw not one, but two bachelorette parties exiting the room. The second show was a little more laugh resistant. While sometimes the right move may be to ignore the crowd altogether and deliver your set as planned, Dewey used her improv experience to move through her bits and push the audience to react. In this, her petite frame and youthful voice were assets. No one could take offense when Dewey was sharing her glow bracelets with the heartbroken recently-single chick, or when she was questioning the short attention span men have while at the urinal. Her designated slut routine (He pulled me real close and said, “My pancakes come with sausage.” I was really thinking about breakfast, though, and said “I’m really more of a bacon girl.”) is a thing of beauty. I look forward to bringing you future tales of Dewey as she spends more time on The Comedy Club stage.

Now, on to Dan Viola.

Much of Dan’s material is centered on his family life, shared with a wife and seven children, and his experiences spending fifteen years as a public school teacher. His first big piece is about wishing he were bilingual, so he could have been more romantic on his wedding night. He runs through some lovely lines in the lilting sounds of Italian and French, then hits us with the “harsh, cacophonous and intimidating” sounds of German. His Deutschland Barney is a crowd-pleaser, and I admire anyone using the word cacophonous properly these days. Tonight there happened to be a girl from Germany in the audience, which was discovered only after Dan had goose-stepped his way across the stage. Everyone enjoyed the awkwardness as Dan and the girl exchanged a few sentences. He then quipped, “I asked, what’s for lunch? She said, I want to take over your country. So you’re a spy - I saw Captain America.”

He moves on to talk about his younger brother going back to college (Dual major in gynecology and jedi master – he’s going to be an ob/gyn kenobi) and does his bit about Acronym Based Content 101, or ABC1 for short. It’s the first of several fast-paced, dense jokes that require the listener to pay sharp attention, and it’s a style I really enjoy. Later, he’ll do bits about bathroom stall correction notes at Harvard and a fire-and-brimstone preacher teaching Biochemistry (Hallelujah, can I get an amino?) in the same speed-demon delivery. They all kill me.

Continuing on with jokes for local folks all about life in Hilton (at Prom time, all the good overalls are at the cleaner’s), a rant about today’s kids (even if you have smart kids, they have dumb friends) and their inability to get even the simplest order (black coffee! How do you screw that up?) right at Tim Horton’s, and he and his wife’s inability to get even the simplest concept (birth control! How do you screw that up?) right at home. He wraps up the show with his now-classic examination of Winnie-the-Pooh as seen through our current medication-fueled analysis (Owl is dyslexic and delusional. Eyeore? Depressed.) and earns a generous round of applause from the audience.

I try to  imagine what it must be like to be a student of Dan Viola’s; on this, and most nights he performs locally, I can get first-hand anecdotes from former students and team members as they stand in line, eager to shake his hand and share a memory or two. If you’re a fan of clean comedy, seek out one of Dan’s shows. He does a lot of fundraisers, so odds are you can enjoy a night of live comedy and help a great cause at the same time.

Next week, Bobby Slayton.

10/4/12 After Bedtime Addendum

While passing and receiving "attaboys" from the After Bedtime crew, I read the following post from Bryan J. Ball:  I got a great mention! Printing it and putting it on my happy wall!

At first, I thought that was just sarcastic ball-busting, as I hadn't mentioned him at all. Because his name was nowhere in my meticulous notes. And I had no recall of his being onstage.

So, let me fix this. Bryan J. Ball and Mikey Heller joined Kevin Ricotta in doing "Staff Revelations," one of my favorite pieces in the show because a) I know everyone they are talking about, b) even an audience of friends and family enjoy feeling like "insiders" and c) the jokes were hilarious. I stand by the fact that I took no actual notes during that bit because a) my lizard keychain light flashes like a mini-disco and wasn't a good choice in assisting my limited vision, b) I was so into what I was seeing/hearing that I couldn't drag my brain to the paper and c) it isn't only penis-based creatures who love Dewey Lovett.

So, my apologies to Bryan and Mikey. You'll learn more about them here in the future. Mikey won me over at an open mic night by referencing Othello and All About Steve in the same 6 minutes. In my brain, that's a great Saturday afternoon double feature. Again, guys, sorry for the miss.

And, Bryan, I hope there's still space on your happy wall.

9/14/12 After Bedtime with Jimmy LeChase and Friends

Watching the birth of a creative endeavor can bring about all sorts of feelings in the observer, ranging from jealousy (wish I had thought of/was a part of that) to concern (it looks a little oxygen-deprived. is everything ok?) to utter delight (God, how beautiful! how precious!) or anywhere else on the current emotional map of the masses. I’ve felt all of those and more while watching friends debut their latest dance, sonnet, concerto or canvas. Sometimes I am so breathtakingly in awe of what I’m seeing that I forget for the moment that I, too, am an artist and have been through this process; I know that whatever pain it took to get that piece here will soon be forgotten in the sheer delight of its existence.

 

That’s a strange way to begin discussing the brainchild of a newlywed father of none, yet I feel the parallel is apt. Having a creative idea is not that novel – people have them every day by the dozens. There are incredible sketches, statues, stories and songs existing in the minds of your neighbors, your fellow travelers, every second, and I personally can’t wait for the day we can experience them telepathically. Until then, however, bringing the idea to fruition remains the responsibility of the artist; many of us struggle, not all of us succeed.

After Bedtime is a success story. Delivery complete, ten fingers, ten toes. Now all that’s left to do is raise this baby and abort this analogy.

Kevin Ricotta began the first show by warming up the audience and preparing us for what was to come. I love Kevin. He’s just got one of those soothing personalities that make you think everything’s ok if he’s on your side. While I admit that some of his jokes continue to puzzle me – I am the odd woman out when it comes to Charles Horses – his claim to the merchandising rights on “gravy boats and pool floats” cracked me up.

 It was obvious by his nervous energy that this project is important to Jimmy LeChase. When someone I’ve seen stand confidently in place and tell even underdeveloped jokes turns in circles, drops his head and delivers punch lines toward the wall, it’s because this show matters. But saying this was a live theater event that we’ll be embarrassed about tomorrow was completely off the mark. Cue cards and teleprompters exist, not just to help people remember lines, but to force them to look at the audience, the camera. I have no doubt Jimmy will grow more comfortable with his monologue with every new episode.

Vasia Ivanov and Mike Gifaldi’s debate to be Jimmy’s best friend was possibly the wittiest one I’ll see all year. Despite the passing of time, it’s still easy to make a bad Roman Polanski joke and, given the current kitten stranglehold on comedy, you never know who’s gonna’ go mad over mistreatment of the cuddly critters, but these two guys were hilarious. One being my favorite misanthropic curmudgeon and the other being someone I’d never seen until tonight, I really enjoyed this bit. By audience applause, Mike won.

When Austin Lafond, representative for sponsor Silent but Deadly, Inc., was introduced as Doctor Science, I giggled out loud at what I thought was a very clever throwback to Duck’s Breath Mystery Theater’s “Ask Doctor Science.” A comedy team from the mid ‘70s who brought sketch to NPR in the early ‘80s and were responsible for one of my true comedy heroes (Ian Shoales, the alter ego of Merle Kessler), their Doctor Science bits became popular enough to have a one-season run on Fox in 1987. I was delighted to think, for just a moment, that someone shared this reference. Turns out, Nate Clark just has a knack for the obvious when pressured to think up last-minute character names. Still, I’ll never think about Agent Orange, Strawberry, Chocolate and Bubble Gum the same way again.

Crowley was a great first guest, sharing stories about growing up in Alaska and dealing with drunk callers to the radio show. I think the audience felt a sense of pride when he pronounced, “the crowd is learn-ed” in response to one of his references. Jimmy seemed much more relaxed once he got behind the desk, which is what you want in a talk show host, right? Hand awareness, something many performers struggle with onstage, will come. I think many of the guys in this crew, enamored of or enslaved by their own beards, tend to put their hands on their face more frequently than they realize. No big deal when you’re practicing your Freud/pedophile look, but a hindrance when the camera is directly in front of you and the audience can’t control your volume.

 Rounding out the rest of the show, Rick Matthews was a good choice as the first stand up guest, and delivered accordingly; “Staff Revelations” was a great addition; Dewey Lovett’s Don’t Give a Fuck commercial (sorry, Dewey! I was enjoying you so much, I forgot to write the actual product name in my notes) was great; and I’m still a bit disappointed we never got to Nate Clark’s bit, although the costume was funny enough to make me hope it makes it to episode two.

 Of course, there will and should be a second episode, and many more after that until Jimmy’s ADD kicks in or everyone moves on to their own creative endeavors. After Bedtime is a good idea well-executed. I’m sorry I won’t make the second show (prior promise), but excited to know I’ll be able to catch it on YouTube. The rest of Rochester should hasten to The Space (1115 E. Main St, the Hungerford Bldg, door 2, floor 2) on Saturday, October 6^th at 6:30 pm, and spend the best $5 of their weekend enjoying the growing pains of After Bedtime with Jimmy LeChase. Sorry, I meant to stop with the whole birth/baby thing, but I’m obviously ovulating for absolutely no reason at this point in my life and just couldn’t let it go.

9/13/12 Ben Bailey, Tim Almeter and Dario Josef

I hadn’t yet rounded the final bend in the road that kept me from seeing The Comedy Club, but I worried. Summer was almost over, and things were starting to pick back up. Would this be the night? Would Ben Bailey, the comic, be a huge draw? Would Ben Bailey, host of tv’s “Cash Cab,” bring in a crowd?  I had my answer soon enough when I found myself parked on the far side of the pizza parlor next door. The lot was full, the tables were full; Ben Bailey was the man. A weekend of good shows and entertaining audience interactions solidified that impression.

 

I made a decision a few weeks ago not to talk about the MCs unless they were new to the role, new to the club, just to avoid becoming redundant. I’m deviating from that because I need to talk about Dario. I have seen Dario perform on six nights out of seven this week, and he is on fire. I’ve watched him take real risks, blending new jokes in with some tried and true material, and it’s paying off. The time he’s spending doing improv has made his crowd work quicker, less mainstream. His stage presence is more natural; his eyes are no longer on his feet. The transformation is a pleasure to watch and I find myself laughing every time.

 

Tim Almeter, like Dario, is also a local comic on the rise. Finishing third in this year’s Funniest Person in Rochester Contest, Tim takes the stage with an attitude of fearlessness. He assumes the audience will find him funny, and they do. He jumps right in to material that can be polarizing: talking about our differences. First up is the Indian woman on the train platform whose son said he wasn’t going to be a doctor, like some white person, to which she replied, “Shh. They’re right there.” Then on to a story about his coworker’s fear (Deer are afraid of white people. Black people are afraid of deer. White people are afraid of black people.) and the discovery of an anti-Semitic golf cart (Who’s on the golf course good-time hatin’ Jews?). Tim talks about things both common (speaking to your cat, wrinkling your girlfriend’s underwear) and curious (being “regal” at the bar) at a speed that occasionally requires you to play the joke back in your brain to make sure you caught it. Both these guys can be found easily on Facebook, or seen live at various open mics and Laugh Riot productions. It is well worth your time to seek them out.

 

Ben Bailey began by acknowledging the potential confusion that might result for people who had only ever seen him on “Cash Cab.”  He apologized for having hair, pointed out that tv isn’t real. “Know what else isn’t real? I’m not a cab driver.” He did a long riff on the guy down the road selling dirt and then proceeded to show us he’d done his homework on Rochester, noting that he was downtown earlier (just me, no one else. Tumbleweed, tumbleweed, government worker, one lone guy making Xerox copies) and checked out the Genesee (thought he’d found a beer river).

 

Ben’s show is packed with jokes. His rhythm seems to be premise, punch, punch, tag, tag, tag. He tries to see how far he can go without the joke weakening. Instead of that taffy-pull feeling where the humor gets stretched thinner the longer it goes, Ben’s jokes feel like they’re an incredibly long rope, endlessly uncoiling, until he gets bored and moves on to the next premise. He talks about things: traffic light countdowns, taking people to prison in the Oscar Mayer wiener mobile. He talks about places: the reaction of people in NYC when they see him in the cab (You’re going to be playing the Hudson River Challenge!), “I was down South, don’t go if you don’t have to.” He talks about people and how we talk: “Do what now?” It’s always Now now, stop specifying.” “I don’t understand all y’all. I thought y’all was already plural.” His bits on good ass toast and ordering multiple Guinesses were hilarious, as was the friend wanting to borrow a scissor to cut his pant into short. He also has a great bit about to-do lists: I woke up and looked at my to-do list. It said “all that stuff” on it. I thought I better get up. I got all that stuff to do and I don’t know what any of it is.

 

For myself and the other comedians who watched the shows with me, the most interesting parts of Ben Bailey’s weekend were his crowd interactions. On Thursday, there was the mini-fan club down front who brought him a Cash Cab drawing, “This is cute. Do you have jobs? If I were a gay man, this would be so important to me. You recruited a colleague? I thought you said collie.” And the drunk girl: “Don’t pretend you’re mad. You have such a crush on me. You’re like a little girl who pushes the boy off the swing because she likes him.” Friday was intense, as there was mounting conflict with a drunk guy who tried to be funny but just grew more annoying. Ben’s already fast pace picked up, his anger became apparent as he went back and forth with this guy. He reminded everyone that timing is part of the job, that he doesn’t just get up on stage and say random stuff, there’s work and an art to it. The audience was with him, and Mark had to go warn the guy that he was going to be escorted out if he didn’t stop immediately. Ben continued and, for a moment, I wasn’t sure he was as annoyed as he appeared to be. He smile/smirked a little as he tried to bring us back. Saturday had a mini-match with an audience member, as well.

 

I liked watching these near-collisions. No one truly seemed like they were gunning to screw up the show or mess with Ben Bailey – at 6’6’, he’s really not the kind of guy most people would test for the hell of it. The girls seemed a little star struck and the guys just seemed to have had too much to drink and no way to turn themselves off. Watching Ben stop one step short of losing it made the already fun show just a bit more enjoyable. In the final moments, I heard this: “If we’ve learned anything here tonight, it’s that you can’t learn anything at a comedy show.” Great line, but I don’t agree. I learn things at comedy shows all the time. This weekend, I learned how much I enjoy watching hecklers and comics collide just a little. I learned that Ben Bailey can get people into a comedy club. And I learned that I really enjoy premise, punch, punch, tag, tag, tag.

9/6/12 Greg Warren and Austin Lafond

Austin has waited semi-patiently for this review. I keep telling him, I’ll get it done tomorrow, I’ll have it up tonight. He’s anxious, not because he doesn’t know what I think of him both as a person and as a comic, but because he knows our opinions vary widely on what constitutes a good set. I felt Austin did his job – he delivered the set he wanted, his way. He reworked his hacked street sign joke and it went well. He also added a new bit I’d only heard once before at an open mic, about hating to tell people he lived in New York. They always think, sky scrapers, traffic. “Then I have to remind them. Upstate New York – tears and suicide.” It gets a decent laugh, and will probably stick around for awhile.

Some of his regular killers just don’t connect with tonight’s crowd, and he experiences his usual post-show angst. I worry a little – I’d hate to see him suffering stress-induced ailments before he even graduates from high school. At the same time, I admire his seriousness. If I had focused that intently on my writing at that age, you might be reading this blog between chapters of my latest book, while waiting for my podcast to download. More experienced comics give him time and advice, and he applies it all. I just want him to remember that it’s supposed to be fun for him, too.


Listening to Greg Warren is a lot like sitting around the living room on New Year’s Eve, early evening, before the drinking is really underway, and laughing as your favorite uncle tells all the classics. His language is generally clean, his version of every incident is the funniest ever and nobody’s getting mad about any of it. No one’s sitting there, arms folded, face of stone. You’re all laughing, at each other, at yourselves, and at how ridiculously, humorously normal it is to have this much fun with family.

At least, that’s what I imagine as I sit here in the booth, laughing as Greg recites his dad’s many exploits: the way he “escapes” restaurants (We got out of there for $12!), the way he would distract his kids by sending them to look for arrowheads (I spent 15 years looking, never found one. There are only 4 and they’re all in a museum.), his role as Greg’s wrestling coach and the political attack ads he and Greg’s mom lob at each other over fixing anything in the house (Colleen Warren wants terrorists to invade this house.). With a relaxed pace and that storyteller’s gift for voices, Greg makes even the quickest encounter seem like a tale worthy of Shirazad.

There’s poor Shannon, the checkout girl who mistakenly comments on his 2 am oreo purchase (Shut your whore mouth, Shannon. A crack dealer doesn’t say “ooh, looks like someone needs crack.” No, ‘cause a crack dealer knows a customer when he sees one.). The little old men at the gym who love to warn him about the dangers of an untied shoelace. His queer girlfriends, laughin’ and lesbianin’ while he gets hit on at the gay bar. The disapproving contractor who always wants to kill the last guy who passed that shoddy handiwork off as professional. The three very different cabbies – in Saint Louis, Nantucket and Brooklyn – who each have plenty of advice to give and, thanks to Greg, the perfect, annoying voice in which to give it.

The two sweetest bits of this weekend are the one-star people and Huey Baker.

One-star people are everywhere. He’s encountered them in a four-star hotel, sharing the pool with their basset hound or hanging out in the fitness room, kids eating peanut butter & crayon sandwiches while dad works out in his jeans. He knows when one-star people begin a statement with “I’m just sayin’,” he’s about to hear a really ignorant comment. For more on this particular subculture, check out Greg’s current CD, One Star Wonder, available on itunes or on his website, www.gregwarrencomedy.com. You can also check out the hilarious song/video, “One Star People,” on YouTube.

When they think of Greg Warren, many people think of his Huey Baker bit. Huey was a black guy (still is) that Greg knew in school, a friend who gave him the nickname “Flute Man.” Never mind that the instrument he played was a clarinet, Huey was always down for a flute joke. “Hup 2 3 4, What the hell we fightin’ for, Flute Man!” “Where’s your flute, Greg?” “Know who Greg’s favorite football player is? Doug Flutie. Know his second favorite? Brian Picolo.” As the proud owner of a faded, unopened box of Flutie Flakes and a big fan of “Brian’s Song,” I almost bit my tongue trying not to overlaugh. That joke would be funny to me no matter who was telling it. But add Greg Warren’s distinctive Huey voice, and I am helplessly holding my sides.

Greg Warren is a nice change of pace for me. His humor is homespun, but not hokey, and he makes it all seem so effortless. Sitting at the bar before the show, you’d barely notice you were talkin’ about the game on the screen before you with the night’s headliner. There’s something real and comfortable and almost nondescript about this guy, until he takes the stage and the voices start coming out of him. Then, you just want to sit back and laugh at Uncle Greg.