Earl David Reed

I have not been here for awhile.

I have not been able to go to the club, watch a show and then come home and immediately share the experience. There have been requirements and distractions for weeks and I have been challenged to keep my commitment to you, to these comics, to Comedy herself. I needed a jump start, a palate cleanser.

I needed tonight’s show.

I knew far too little about Earl David Reed, but I adore Tim Almeter and Anna Phillips, both of whom would be taking the stage on this Saturday night. We got to The Club a few moments after the start and squeezed into the first booth as Tim was telling one of my favorite jokes. It’s the one about the black friend from the group home who is afraid of deer – check the September Ben Bailey review for the awesome punch line. The room was filled with people who came to laugh, and they did, with and for Tim, for his whole set.

My last few comedy encounters with Tim have all been open mics, so it was a blast to be reminded how polished he is, how easily he takes that stage and transforms from young friend to professional comedian. Later tonight, Tim will insist that he’s giving it up, that he can’t do it if he can’t start making money. The truth of that situation is that he hasn’t positioned himself to, yet. While I remain convinced that Tim is the real deal, and will do well once he dives in, he struggles with his pro and con list, and I respect his struggle.

Tim brings Anna Phillips to the stage with the introduction, “This is one of the funniest people I know,” and he is not just spouting host hyperbole. We both love this woman, for her quick, dry wit and her unassuming nature, her ability to move an audience and her genuineness. Tonight’s audience seems to agree with us; they are roaring for Anna. I marvel in her vulnerability as she talks about going home for family gatherings and hearing their reactions to her weight gain; I dig her serial killer routine (Any serial killer who wanted to cut me up would need to make a lot of trips to the car. Dexter would need a two-part episode…You all deserve to die, and when I get that gastric bypass…for now, the only cereal I’m killin’ are these Honeycombs.); I laugh out loud every time I hear her “balls to the face” bit. Anna, like Tim, tried to convince me she was taking a break a short while ago; and Anna, like Tim, should not walk away from comedy ever.

Tonight is just what I needed. Tim and Anna have me and this room full of strangers laughing loudly, ready to openly engage with the man formerly known in these parts as Brother Earl. And five minutes into the show, I realize how much he scares me and how glad I am to be in the back of the room.

 

Earl David Reed is an exciting comic, a lightning-in-a-bottle comic. He takes crowd work to a place most can never hope to go, and the room rushes along with him like second graders in a Field Day race. Starting with simple questions we’re all capable of answering – What’s your name? Where are you from? What do you do? – Earl builds his 50 minutes around the audience, and they love it. Tom loves being hung like a Tic Tac; his wife giggles knowingly when Earl says she has fresh breath. The guy who says he’s from Webster (oh, so you’re from here? Obviously. Obviously? You’re not from this room….) postures for just a second, then surrenders immediately. Travis’ future wife is thrilled to let him be the punch line (When you get a name like Travis, they gotta’ give you a truck.). Matt, the engineer, is almost bursting when Earl tells him he looks tired “from working on the railroad all the live-long day.”  A second later, he’s saying exactly what’s in my head: your wife named Dinah? Someone in the kitchen with her? I won’t say “will she blow?” The audience was howling from start to finish. I have seen very few rooms this engaged, this joyful to be part of the show.

Once I realized that what I was watching was not just the way Earl warms up a crowd, but his act itself, I had to switch processing gears. And it was a simple shift, because I recognized what was unfolding onstage. If you take a look back to July, you’ll find my first-ever review of Mike Dambra, a friend and comic whose photo makes me smile and whose act left me dazzled by its brilliance. I said this: “His written jokes…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.”

And here was Earl David Reed, with that similar gift, wrapping his jokes around the shoulders of whoever showed up tonight ready to play. I was at once impressed by his skill, and scared that he might eventually work his way to the back of the room. It’s a weird thing with me and, like most PTSD issues, one that I can trace back to a specific incident or two, but I absolutely hate to be engaged by a comic during his/her show. I watch differently than the average audience member. I’m listening to the jokes, but I’m also analyzing the audience response, the body language, the use of silence, the energy in the room, the wordplay, whether or not I’m laughing out loud. I once unintentionally derailed a friend’s bit because I couldn’t name a woman when she called on me. I was so busy admiring her body awareness that I couldn’t shift in real time, and the only thing I could utter was “Jesus Christ!”

I shared that with Earl between shows, that I enjoyed and admired his skill but was so grateful not to have been a part of it. He pointed out to me that he wasn’t asking for real engagement or deep thought; he was asking simple questions that anyone could answer, and then just riffing on whatever he’s given. He’s not making fun of his audience, he’s playing alongside them, sharing his toys. I see that, but it doesn’t alleviate my anxiety, and I’m grateful I was on the back wall. But I’m equally grateful I got to see Earl in action. He is truly talented, and a joy to watch.

I realize that I related to Earl on two other important levels. The first is his joke joke material: Time out was what my mother used to take when she needed a rest from beatin’ the shit out of us. Remarrying someone you previously divorced is like drinking sour milk, then putting it back in the refrigerator for the next day. These Civil War re-enactors asked if I wanted to hang out with them. I know my history, too. I told ‘em to call me when they get to the Motown years.

The second is the fact that he now lives about 20 minutes from my childhood, and for the first time in years, someone recognized the name of my hometown and didn’t smirk, giggle or roll their eyes. Anyone who knows Dillsburg and doesn’t immediately start in with the pickle jokes is a potential friend for life. I will make it a point to learn more about Earl David Reed, and so should you. You can follow him on twitter at @earldavidreed, check out his website, www.imearldavidreed.com, and pick up a dvd or a tshirt. Earl gives at least half of the proceeds to breast cancer awareness projects, so you can help others while helping yourself to some serious funny.

Woody, Woody and Me

I fell in love with Woody Allen as a young girl, trying to survive the desolate Pennsylvania winters by reading things no one else in my peer group found interesting. Lying next to the heat vents after being dragged out of giant snow drifts by my very tall father, I wanted nothing more than to be warm, dry and somewhere else. Being nine, there was no option for my escape that didn’t involve words on a page; fortunately, that has and will always be my favorite form of travel, anyway. So I found this book called “Without Feathers” and felt super smart because I knew it was a reference to Emily Dickinson. I started reading these strangely funny short pieces, realizing quickly that I wasn’t understanding half the pages I was turning, but still laughing out loud every now and again.
 

It was “The Whore of Mensa” that won my heart. Yes, at that age, I was aware of MENSA, having spent hours in my aunt’s beauty shop rummaging through back issues of Reader’s Digest so I could take every condensed IQ and MENSA sampler quiz they published. I was kind of aware of whores, but less as a career concept and more as something boys called girls who liked fooling around. The idea of a woman’s mental companionship being valued equally as her tits and ass just rocked my little girl world. I think I really believed, premenstruation, that I might one day meet guys who would fall in love with me because I was smart and extremely well-read. Sigh!

This single book was my introduction to Woody Allen, and I enjoyed his writing without ever looking deeper. It wasn’t until college that my dear friend Jonathan Manitsky introduced me to Woody as a stand up comic and as a movie auteur. Jon’s greatest gift was his ability to retell, in the most charming Brooklyn accent I’d ever heard, the story of the moose (And there's a law in New York state against driving with a conscious moose on your fender Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.) It was laugh-out-loud funny to me, and never failed to pick me up when college was beating me down. But just listening second-hand wasn’t enough for Jonathan. He needed me to really know Woody, and wanted to be the one to finally introduce us. So I saw Love and Death, Sleeper, Bananas, Take the Money and Run, Manhattan, Annie Hall, Zelig and more. I became a fan.

Tuesday night, I found myself loaning my prized box set, Getting Even/Without Feathers/Side Effects, to another Woody.

Woody Battaglia hasn’t been doing stand up for very long. As a matter of fact, I think I may have witnessed his 64^th performance this week at Acanthus open mic. Woody’s jokes are often about unusual things: like the way the Cold War might have been an entirely different event if Stalin hadn’t had to do his own laundry; tales of Citizen Kat, spelled with a K because Orsen Welles didn’t care about the soft C; bending his sex partner over the Scrabble board, so her rack bounces against the tile rack. I love these jokes: the Scrabble one, because the version of the game I invented in high school involved double-entendre answers that served as geek girl foreplay; the Orsen Welles references resonate because I, too, grew up with those horrible Paul Mason commercials (we will sell no wine before its time); and, finally, the Stalin starch adventure, because it reminds me of Woody Allen’s “The Metterling Lists”, the first piece in Getting Even.

Woody B is well-loved here in the Rochester comedy scene. He has encouragement for everyone who takes the mic, he’s fearless in his own right. His laugh makes every joke sound like a winner. While I am not certain stand-up is the right vehicle for his humor, I remain convinced he’s one funny, funny man. And so, Tuesday night, I placed my treasured books on a table in front of him and encouraged him to read. I’m hoping he is inspired and turns the Stalin bit into an essay. Maybe fleshes out the Orson Welles reference into something longer, quirkier, about Citizen Kat.

In the meantime, you and I are lucky! Woody and his friends have completed the first episode of “The LETTERHEADS”, a mocku-podcast from a creative writing group who strive to spread wisdom about the writing process to their listeners. You can download episode one free on iTunes, and look for future episodes every fourth Thursday. If, like me, you have any love for radio shows – I can’t imagine my life without the 12 original episodes of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy– you will appreciate this little gem. Download it. Give it a listen. You’ll hear Woody as Manny and you will probably note, as I do, the warmth and laughter in his voice that can’t be hidden, even when playing the awkward, not-so-effective leader of this little band.

So Tuesday night was a great moment for me. I was able to share an old love – Woody A – with a new friend – Woody B – and now, it’s just a matter of time.

Back in the Groove

The holidays were overwhelming, full of work and family obligations at a level I haven't experienced for a number of  years. The extra contract came with a big December event. The holidays required multiple visits to in-laws and an extra "yes" or two that I didn't really want to give. Still, it was mine to manage, and I did so poorly. I caught whooping cough, which laid me up for a bit, and I had a tidal wave of emotional scenarios to ride out. All in all, I'm happy to say I was even able to watch live comedy through the past two months.

Now I have pages and pages of notes, and no blogs to show for them.

There were some really great shows that I will be sharing with you: Rachel Feinstein, Orlando Jones, Brian Posehn and Bob DiBuono were here. Locally, there are new open mics and scripted productions and, coming all too soon, a farewell show that will leave me sadly optimistic for one of my closest comedy friends. So much I need to write about, and yet I can't seem to get back into the swing of it.

So, here's the deal. I'm just going to start tonight and write one review per day until I get caught up, until these scribbled pages, napkins and index cards lead to something I can share with you here at the giggle.

I will always, always tell you to go to The Comedy Club and watch live comedy. Yes, I know I can sit on my couch and watch the tv, my dvds, YouTube feeds, my laptop, and I can hear jokes that way. But a live comedy experience is about more than just the jokes. There is an exchange between audience and performer, there is a contract that is upheld or annihilated. There is a unique entity that exists for a very brief moment in any live show, and your presence makes you part of it.

I am approaching the one-year anniversary of this blog, and some of the comics are beginning to come through The Club again. If you didn't catch them before, but found something in a review intriguing, come see them this time. If the show is different, if something catches me unaware, I'll write another review. Rich Vos was certainly a different experience the second time. Pat Dixon's show was made otherly by a change in venue that brought out a different crowd. Those are things I think about, and will share with you if they seem worth your time.

It's no small feat to keep a club of any kind open for 5 years, given the current finances of the average American. Mark Ippolito puts his heart and soul into The Comedy Club and I am grateful, so very grateful, that he does, because it is the place where I laugh most publicly and most consistently. It is the place where I meet the Paul Hoopers and the Carl Laboves of the world. It's the place where I see Keith Alberstadt on the same night he's appearing on Letterman. It's the place I watched a room full of people burst into both laughter and tears together while watching my friend Tiny one final time. So go to www.thecomedyclub.us and check out the upcoming schedule. Me? I'm looking forward to Dave Foley and Esther Ku, neither of whom I've seen live. There are two seasons of Kids in the Hall on my dvd shelf, and we all know how I feel about funny females. In addition, the returning favorites list is enough to make my head spin. Godfrey! Theo Von! And Brian Dunkleman! Throw in a road trip to see Paul Hooper and the phrase "March Madness" finally has some meaning for me.

And then One Girl's Giggle is going to expand.

While The Comedy Club will always hold my heart, I believe the only way we're going to sustain a real, thriving comedy scene in Rochester is if we educate and grow an audience. The media-soaked masses we have become are great for some forms of entertainment, and deathly for others. So, here in my own little corner, I'm going to offer more. There will be more reviews of local up and comers, more open mics and specialty projects. I'm going to tell you about Woody's podcast and Mikey's Goo Yard, share more on Jimmy's After Bedtime show and Pam's Comedy with Curves. I'm going to tell you about a documentary that I am supporting and a cd release party in February for another of my comic friends. I will review some projects you may not have heard about by pulling a dvd, book or cd off my personal shelves. Finally, I may toss a few of my own essays in here. It seems only fair to give others a chance to review my sense of humor, too. And, as always, I welcome reader comments and guest reviewers.

So, while it's been a tough couple of months, there's much to look forward to. There's more to write, more to praise, more to support.

More reasons to laugh, to groan, to snort, chuckle or guffaw.

But, mostly, more reasons to giggle.

See you tomorrow.

Comedy With Curves: Witty Women, All

When my friend Pam Werts was asked to produce a show with female comics, she didn't think twice about it. She knew, as do I, that there are plenty of funny ladies in Western New York and an all-female line up would bring a needed dose of estrogen to The Comedy Club. It never crossed her mind that the night wouldn't be laugh-filled and successful.

Sure enough, the first Comedy with Curves was both those things. Successful, because 83 paying fans showed up on a Sunday night - yes, even I gave up some precious NFL hours - to hear Dewey Lovett, Anna Hall, Maryanne Donnelly, Anna Phillips and Pam talk about decoy sluts, go-to lesbians, suicide lines, balls to the face and mom's moist box. Laugh-filled, because they talked about decoy sluts, go-to lesbians, suicide lines, balls to the face and mom's moist box.

Every one of these women is funny, and each of them has a style/persona all her own. Pam rocks as a host because she has a take-no-prisoners delivery and pop culture reference points that span 30+ years. From Bon Jovi to Adele, human insurance agents to Geico geckos, Pam can paint a broad stroke of ha ha across a room. Dewey is so unexpected, her tiny frame and squeaky mouse voice are a sharp contrast to her sarcasm and innuendo. MaryAnne's stylized Sad Sack is a well-crafted and honestly maintained vehicle through which to deliver her smart word play. Anna H is quirky and upbeat, with a bit of a Caroline Rhea vibe, while Anna P provides some of the most hilarious lines of the night with a "funniest girl in the break room" casualness. These women rocked the stage, and made the Comedy With Curves show an instant hit.

Next week, on Sunday December 23rd, Comedy With Curves will present its second show. There have been grumblings around the town. "It can't grow without real sponsors." "There just aren't that many funny women in upstate New York." "It can't work without a known headliner." What do my kids say? "Haters gotta' hate." Success breeds many responses; always, among the well-wishers, will be some people who, for whatever reason, don't want to acknowledge the good. That's ok. I believe in Pam. I believe in funny women everywhere and I believe in these funny women, all of whom I am blessed to call friends.

So, here's what One Girl's Giggle is gonna' do. This blog is now an official sponsor of Comedy With Curves. This blog will put up money to pay the comics, who did the first show for the love of their art and a beautiful bouquet of flowers from Pam. And I will offer to pay the $5 admission fee for the first 10 people who contact me here on Blogspot or on my Facebook page. I will call out to Dario, Mike, Kevin, Bryan, Jimmy, Woody, Austin, Nate, Tim, Vince, Mikey, Law and any other local guys in my comedy click and say, hey, come support this show. On my dime or yours. Be here for Dewey, for Anna, for the girls who have always laughed at you and made you feel supported, loved. I will ask Natalee to be my guest and sit with me in the booth, laughing away some free time before the big holiday push. I will ask you to bring family members, friends in town for festivities, even strangers who look like they could use a giggle in this season of giving.

There will be both new and familiar faces on this line-up. That's simply a matter of holiday timing, NOT because there aren't a plethora of funny women in the area. Once the new year rolls around, there will be larger sponsors, and shows will be spaced out a bit. This is not a whim, an anomoly. I can't wait to see Rich Vos's movie, "Women Aren't Funny," but I know his talented comedian wife, Bonnie McFarlane, reinforces for him every day why that title itself is just another punch line.

Women may use, process and deliver humor differently than men. There is plenty of research, scientific and informal, to explain why. You guys are peacocks and making us laugh is another way of winning our favor. We have tits and ass. Your funny bone is the last thing you care to have us arouse. And that's fine. We, the fans of comedy, are all here for the same reason: to laugh. I'm behind anyone who can give me that release, whether you pee sitting, standing up or spinning distractedly in a circle while evaluating the tilework.

Come join me at The Comedy Club on Sunday, the 23rd, at 7:30 pm, for Comedy With Curves. You won't be disappointed. At the very least, you can watch the giggle jiggles as a room full of breasts heave with laughter. Most likely, you won't be able to stop yourself from joining in.

Tom Simmons

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde has long been one of my favorite Victorian-era writers and Brit wits. For years, I’ve enjoyed his plays, appreciated his poetry, and truly adored his social critique. As I sat down to write a review of Tom Simmons, it was the following quote from Wilde that jumped into my head.
 

“If you’re going to tell people the truth, you better make them laugh; otherwise, they will kill you.”

 

Tom Simmons tells a lot of truth during his time onstage. Since that truth is not all easy to digest, it is rather fortuitous that Tom is one of the funniest comedians I know. I am simply in awe of his ability to weave seamlessly between the political and the personal in a way that doesn’t give the audience time to cool off or pull back. The level of skill needed to recognize the point of disconnect as it is happening and ease into something warm and fuzzy is a testament to his nearly twenty years onstage.  

 

The set opened with Tom sharing that he worries a lot about the world: the fact that no one reads anymore, that people are shooting their coworkers or shooting their families and then shooting themselves (why can’t they start by shooting themselves? There should be some kind of suicide assistance hotline, 1-800-go ahead). People tell him not to worry about the things he can’t control. (Who worries about things you can control?)

The bits fly by quickly as this master teacher stealthily slips knowledge into unsuspecting minds, much the way my mother used to serve my brother “spice cake” and smile to herself while throwing away the zucchini peels. There’s so much essential truth packed into a Tom Simmons show that I feel a little disappointed to know I can’t possibly catch it all with one viewing. Thank God there are five shows this weekend, a cd for sale and a bonus set available on iTunes. I need time with this guy.

 While you’re still here with me, though, let me share just a small sampling of what Tom Simmons brings to the game. Here’s a full day’s lesson on money, a sore subject in America these days. Pardon my paraphrasing:

 

My son came with me to do radio one day. I asked him why he wanted to go; he said famous people go do radio. I said no, famous people call in. He said if you are famous, then you get rich and everybody is happy. It kinda broke my heart. I said to him, no son, money is not what makes people happy in this world. He looked at me as if to say, are you NEW here?

 See what he did there? He made a human connection with this cute story about his son, and then reeled us in to drop some knowledge.

Money is just made up, it’s an illusion. There are rich people out there who have money, but they don’t own it. It’s owned by the Federal Reserve Bank. It’s deceptively named to sound like it’s part of the government, but actually it’s a for-profit private company that owns our money. They make it up out of nothing and then sell it to us at interest. Even Sam Walmart is like, what a great business model you have there…. And the people on our money were against the Federal Reserve; Lincoln, Jefferson, Franklin, Jackson, they all thought it was a bad idea, and then we put their faces on the money. That’s like putting Mother Teresa’s face on condoms and then passing them out at Planned Parenthood.

 Three minutes into a bit and we’ve had a father/son fuzzy moment, a history and an economics lesson. Now for some sociology.

Money is our God, it’s what we worship, what we work 40 or 50 hours a week for, what we think will make us happy. We have altars built all over the country in the form of banks that we bail out. Then, we stand in front of the ATMs and pray there’s $100 in there.

Need some pop culture?

Gold will hold its value. I used to think rappers were idiots for what they did to their mouths. Turns out those guys are monster investors.

 And how about some theology?

 

Jesus. Jesus was a pretty chill dude. The only time he used violence in his entire ministry was on the money changers in the temple. Know how evil you have to be to piss off Jesus?

 To show you just how smart this guy is, he even uses the money theme to make some dick jokes.

We give it different names, right? It’s the dollar here, it’s the looney in Canada, it’s the euro in Europe. The weirdest name by far that I’ve found is in Vietnam where they call their dollar the dong. Like, sorry, baby, I’m a little short on dong tonight.

It’s true that I love rant comedy. I love a committed performer sharing a wealth of information using an intelligent vocabulary executed with exquisite comedic timing. I’ve seen it done well, I’ve seen it done poorly. The difference, for me, is usually one of precision. It’s easy to be too heavily weighted on one of those elements and throw the experience out of whack. I started out being a Dennis Miller fan, loving the word choices and semi-obscure references that seemed to always serve the joke. Somewhere, though, it changed, it began to spin away from sharing thought and lean toward spitting invective. What once felt like collective snark, a mutual laughing at the world, has since morphed into a constant scolding by someone who just seems content to get off on feeling superior. Tom sometimes feels like gentle rant, moving the physical aggression into something more searching, with momentary floor gazing and the occasional shrugging of shoulders. I have seen very few live performers cover so many potentially controversial topics with so many punch lines.

His Bully the Bullies podcast takes a stand against militant religious types who use the pulpit to bully congregants, who then go out and bully others with their supposed moral supremacy. Please check it out on iTunes and make a contribution, if you can. So many people out there don’t have the words so easily at their disposal, can’t always articulate on their own behalf, and so are victimized by the gift of gab. One more reason I admire this guy is that he puts his gift to use for the underdog.

Tom Simmons is a bit of a revelation: his material can be racial, without being racist, religious without being proselytizing or denigrating. He finds the balance, being simultaneously challenging and supportive in what he wants to say. I get the feeling he cares about what you take away from his shows. It’s great that you laugh, it’s even better that you think. It’s not always easy for a comic to accept that he will sometimes have to forfeit a guffaw while some new piece of information is absorbed. And when you speak as rapidly as Tom does, you lose a few chuckles along the way because the listener’s brain has to let one line go to catch the next. There are so many great lines in this show, in fact, that I’ve taken weeks to write this review. I simply could not decide how to move forward, what to share and what to set aside. I want you to leave this page with the absolute understanding that this is one amazingly talented comic who pushes all my personal humor buttons.

So, here are a few more of my favorites, arranged more haphazardly, but no less loved.

“I was working in Tacoma, Washington, and on my way to the club every night, I saw this big red neon sign says ‘Jesus cares about you.’ Which is fine, but when I left the South, Jesus fuckin’ loved me. I don’t know why we have all the drop-off all of a sudden. In his defense, I have been seeing other people lately, like Buddha and science.”

“To the rest of the world we are like a really boring hot chick that won’t quit talking about herself…. We’re number one. Wow, really? Check your stats.”

“I try to be nice, I try to love everyone, but…have you met everyone?”

“Jesus did some interesting things. He turned water into wine and they said he was God.    My Uncle Stan did that in the shed and they gave him 7 to 10. There are no ‘What would Stan do?’ bracelets.”

“I see your Bible and raise you a Declaration of Independence and a Constitution.” 

 For me, this was one wonderful comedy weekend. Just as straight-forward and thought-provoking off-stage, I enjoyed real-people conversation with Tom. I know I’m looking at 20 years of master crafting, something that can have the feel of exposure without ever baring so much as an ankle. Still, he’s the kind of person for whom I would join a bowling league – although I’d rather it be a writer’s group – just to hang out every week and hear what’s on his mind. Without that option, I must be content listening to his most recent CD, Keep Up (available at Amazon and iTunes), checking out his Bully the Bullies Podcast (also available for free on iTunes) and waiting patiently for his return to upstate New York. You should check out all the above mentioned opportunities, and go to www.tomsimmonscomedy.com for access to videos, his blog and upcoming tour info.

 Next weekend, Tom will be performing with another of my close comedy friends, Kris Shaw. I am excitedly anticipating just how these two smart, unique men will perceive one another. Tacoma, Washington, I’m counting on you to treat them both with love and laughter. You’re in for a few nights of truth you’ll never want to forget.

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.