Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I could gladly spend hours in serious discussion of all things standup. Hell, I have a blog dedicated to it. It’s an art form that has inspired passion in me like nothing else. I’m endlessly fascinated in the craft, how so many factors – the way you stand on stage, where your eyes land, the order of your bits, and on and on – affect your performance as much or even more than the quality of your material.

At the same time, nothing makes me laugh harder than hearing comics discuss comedy seriously. Recently, a friend of mine told me he can’t take someone’s opinion on the “craft of standup” if they’re not performing themselves; this is the same friend who has spent the past several months working on a bit about the difficulties he encounters with hygiene due to his hairy asscrack. Craft, indeed.

I’m not throwing stones here. I’m a self-admitted snob and can hang with the most pretentious out there. It’s just fun to talk seriously about a subject it’s impossible to take seriously.

Mid-pandemic I was on an online panel with a few other comics, discussing how we were affected by the restrictions and the fact that so many clubs had shut down. “We need places to express our art!” said one and I laughed immediately. “Yes, our art of using ‘Down Syndrome’ as a punchline.”

I’d love to discover that there’s an afterlife and I get the opportunity to meet Beethoven. “Oh yes, I was also an artist,” I’d say to him. “I explained to rooms full of drunk strangers how my penis is like frozen pizza.”

About a year into the pandemic, inspired by a friend who had long before suggested I do a bit about it, I came up with a sketch- an unboxing video for War Paint.  If you haven’t heard of that, it’s cosmetics for men.  But everyone knows that Real Men don’t wear makeup, so this absolutely isn’t makeup, no.  It’s War Paint!  Yes, it’s a real thing.

In the sketch I would be a manly man and repeatedly insist it’s not makeup, but ask my daughter to help me apply the products.  In the end I’d look like the worst drag queen you’ve ever seen.  Thought it would be fun to do, especially since I hadn’t worked or performed in months and was bored senseless.  My kid thought it would be fun also.

Then I saw the price tag for the Ultimate Kit, 154 Euro, not including shipping.  “Sorry, but I think we should pause on doing that video,” I said to my daughter.  “Don’t really have that kind of disposable income to drop on cosmetics I’ll use just to make a video and never again.”

“Yeah,” she replied, “and it would suck to go through all that for a video no one watches.”

Harsh, but true.  She knows me too well.  This is a reason I’m my own worst enemy, that I do it for the Likes.

Not completely.  I’m very self-motivated when it comes to standup.  To perform at all, to come up with new material, to consistently improve, that drive definitely comes from within.  I think that’s fueled by observable change- I can look back at old clips and see positive changes since, I remember certain gigs as turning points and milestones.  My drive in standup is based solely on my own enjoyment.

Creative endeavors off stage, however, are another story.  When I see other people who have successful YouTube channels or podcasts or tens of thousands of Instagram followers, I know they aren’t overnight successes. They had to plug away and grind and consistently put out content to build to that point.  I’ve met several people who said they’d never try standup because they want to be great immediately and know that won’t happen, and I just shake my head, but I clearly have the same attitude about creating content.

Take Twitter, for example.  I’d been a comic for nearly a year before I joined, noticing all my peers were more active there than on Facebook (this is 2012 we’re talking about).  I liked being limited in how little space I had to write jokes, though I never really understood the whole hashtag thing (even then, at 37, I was old).  But it didn’t take long for me to notice the Silence.  “Twitter is, you tell someone a joke and then they turn and walk away without a word,” as a friend succinctly put it.

The vast majority of my tweets got nothing.  My wife got really into Twitter and amassed over 1000 followers before I hit 500.  Before too long, I’d think of something I could post and then not bother, because what was the fucking point?  Just logged in for the first time in several months and I see I’ve dropped to 499.  Might as well be zero, really.

Another inspired-by-covid-boredom creation was a video bashing Coming 2 America.  I was excited to see that movie only to find it was the worst movie I’d seen in years, so I spoiled the whole thing in a 14-min long video, including screen grabs from the movie and my own commentary.  Was fun to do, despite taking at least four hours to put together.  I posted it on Facebook and Instagram and got very little reaction.  As of this writing, it has 70 views on YouTube and one Like.  I have another video in mind where I bash Forrest Gump but, again, what’s the fucking point?

Just before covid hit I took a break from standup and went into self-imposed exile, only to find that I didn’t miss standup all that much.  The longer I was away, the less I felt drawn to the stage, and then the lockdown eliminated most chances for that anyway.  It gave me the idea to do a limited-series podcast where I’d talk to other comics who had quit standup completely or just quit the grind and were happy to perform a few times a year instead of a dozen times a month.  With this thing, at least, I went into it with eyes wide open- I was about to be the last person on Earth to put out a podcast and most of the people I’d talk to would be unknown to the majority of the current comedy community, much less the general public.  Also, since they were mostly, if not completely, out of the game, most of them never bothered to share the episodes to their own followers.

I posted the audio on all the major podcast services and made a point to not look at how much- or more likely little- traffic it was getting.  I did this podcast for me, because I didn’t want it to be just another idea that I never realized.  I posted video on YouTube, however, and the views there are harder to not notice.  As of this writing, of the ten episodes the most successful has 110 views and 5 Likes.  One episode has two views.  While that doesn’t affect my feelings about those ten episodes- I’m glad I did it and I clearly did it more for me than anyone else- it has affected my drive to continue the podcast.  I knew from the start that a good follow-up season could be interviewing comics who stayed active during the pandemic but, again, what’s the fucking point?

I could mention several other examples but the last one I’ll cover is this very blog.  Looking back at past entries, it’s clear to see periods where I was driven to write several posts, then gaps of several months or even over a year before I was motivated to write again.  I’m currently in, what I hope to be, an active period, but I have no idea how long it will last.  This is solely based on the fact that I don’t know how many- or more likely few- actually read anything I write.  When I post this on FB, my mother-in-law will click Like within thirty seconds, but I doubt she’s ever read anything (shoutout to Ylva, I do appreciate the support).  I don’t get many more Likes than that, but comics will occasionally tell me in person that they read a recent post, which is nice, and surprising, because I would’ve remembered if they clicked that Like button.  I have to be motivated by the idea that more people are reading this than I know, but that motivation tends to burn out too quickly.

I don’t want this to come across as a Pity Party, because I honestly get it.  There’s a ton of content out there and I’m sure others do to me what I do to them, whip through their posts on social media without ever listening to their podcast or watching their video.  And we’re talking about people I actually like, not to mention all the rest.  Who has that kind of time?

I’m also terrible at promotion.  When I do something, the only way I announce is on Instagram (300 followers, most of whom are also FB friends) and Facebook (950 friends, some of whom are dead).  Of all of them, how many ever see anything I post?  Of them, how many are interested in anything I have to say about anything?  Of them, how many actually engage?  Pretty small numbers.  I don’t pay to advertise, I don’t promote myself on stage, I don’t guest on popular podcasts (that one isn’t a choice), I don’t do anything that can get my message out to a larger group of people.  Part of it is just being lazy, but there’s always that thought that I’ll put more time, energy, and even money into promotion and still not move the needle.  If I don’t put myself out there, I don’t get rejected.  See, this is what happens when you don’t date in high school.

I’ll finish by answering the question I asked several times in this post- what’s the fucking point?  The point is to create for the sake of creating, not to get views and praise.  That lack of drive and ambition makes me my own worst enemy.  Maybe I will do that second season of the podcast and that video bashing Forrest Gump, but if I do I know it will be for me.

One of the top questions comics ask- along with, “Can I get a free beer?” and, “Can I at least get a discount?”- is, “Why won’t that club book me?!” This is a question that can fuel hours, if not years, of angry speculation. However, the true answer is usually simpler than we’d like to admit.

I’ve met a lot of club owners. I’ve run three myself. No matter the club, whether it’s an open mic or high-cost admission or the nichest of niche clubs, the decision to book or not book is based on the same three questions:
– Will this comic do well at my club?
– Do I like this comic offstage?
– Do I think this comic is funny?

Of the three questions, only the first is objective. As much as we like to compare them to plantation owners or vampires or vampires who own plantations, club owners are human just like the rest of us. Comedy, like so many other things in life, is subjective.

Let’s say I run a club and Jeff Dunham’s people contact me, asking me to book him. If you don’t know who that is, he’s an American comic, a ventriloquist act, one of the most successful comics in history. He’s had his own TV show, he sells out arenas worldwide. So the answer to the first question is yes, obviously.

Do I like him offstage? I have no idea, never met him, never even heard any stories. He might be a real sweetheart.

Do I think he’s funny? No. Good Lord, no. I think he’s brutally unfunny. I think he’s so unfunny that I get offended when I see him on TV, performing to a sold-out arena and everyone is pissing themselves. He’s extremely successful and has millions of fans, so am I wrong? Of course not, he’s just not my taste. I like tomatoes virtually every way but raw and that puts me in the minority, but my taste is my taste. Also, I’ve read that not liking raw tomatoes is a sign of intelligence and that fits.

Would I book him? In a heartbeat. Would I book him if, in addition to not liking him onstage, I thought he was an asshole offstage? I’d love to say no but I would. He’s a big get, sue me.

Even if those are the only questions in mind, there’s no formula to it, like, if the answer to any question is no, then the comic doesn’t get booked. I’ve seen club owners book comics they don’t think will do well, don’t think are funny, but like them offstage. I’ve seen club owners book comics they don’t like on- or offstage but know they’ll do well. I’ve seen club owners not book comics they think are funny, know will do well at the club, but not like offstage.

This is a huge stumbling block for comics who approach club owners cold or- worse- just send a DM. “Hi, you have no idea who I am and I don’t have a clip, but can I get a spot?” Pretty difficult to succeed when the answer to all three questions is, “I have no fucking idea.”

In my experience, it’s as simple as that, but we’d love for the reason to be something other than our likability or talent. I’ve heard enough stories to accept that there have been club owners who were sexist or racist, but I haven’t encountered any myself. That said, there is a fourth question that some- but far from all- club owners ask themselves: “Is my lineup diverse enough?”

The issue of why so many lineups are overwhelming- or completely- male is a hornet’s nest I have no desire to kick right now. We can argue over how little or how much extra effort it takes to create a balanced lineup, so let’s just say it takes some extra effort, and not all club owners have the energy or desire to put in the work.

The bottom-line is that, no matter how funny and talented and gifted you think you are, no matter how many people agree with you, not everyone will. Not everyone will even like you offstage. And that’s okay, because that’s how life works. You’re not going to get every opportunity, so take full advantage of the chances you do get. “Be so good they can’t ignore you,” as Steve Martin famously said. Hey, if you’re consistently killing on stage, you can be a complete dick offstage and still get gigs.

Lastly, if you don’t feel you’re getting the stage time you deserve, that you’re not seeing the lineups you desire, start a club! Yeah, it’s hard work. Will take so much of your time, you probably won’t have the energy or desire to book comics you don’t know or particularly like. Congratulations! You’ve become another asshole vampire slave driver.

This past weekend, I turned down a paid hosting gig at one club in favor of an unpaid spot at another club. This prompted a few people to ask me why on Earth I would do something like that. Good timing, as this touches on a topic I’ve been meaning to write about for some time.

Now, I’m not really in a position to turn down money. I’m a full-time comic, which is just a nice way of saying I’m unemployed. (Shoutout to Swedish taxpayers for funding my rock ‘n roll lifestyle.) Not only did I choose an unpaid gig over a paid gig, I ended up performing to a crowd half the size of the other. Doesn’t matter, I’m happy with my choice.

I’ve gone through several phases as a comic. When I first started, struggling to get spots at the one club that would sometimes book me, to performing five to seven times a week at several clubs, to keeping that pace but also running my own club. To “slowing down” and only doing my own club twice a week and hosting another club twice a week, to today when I’m primarily hosting at a club every weekend and doing a few spots here and there. Compared to my peak many years ago, I’m barely on stage at all, not to mention the even fewer times I’m just doing a spot.

That’s why, in this case, I chose to perform rather than host. My last entry here was about hosting so I’m not going to repeat myself now, other than to say how much I enjoy the freedom of a set. Also, a little variety now and then is very much needed- all work and no play makes Ryan a dull boy. I’m not doing myself or anyone else a favor by only hosting the same room every weekend, doing virtually the same material, watching virtually the same lineup. That said, I still enjoy hosting very much and I absolutely appreciate the opportunity; it’s certainly a position I’ve earned.

In regards to phases, I’ve reached one I feel is nihilistic, that nothing I do actually matters. That sounds bad but let me continue- I don’t think anything my peers do matters either. I should probably explain that.

Years ago, when I was performing several times a week at several different clubs, I got jealous of other comics very often. There were many comics- even comics who had been around longer than me- who were getting a tenth of my opportunities, but I wasn’t thinking about them. I was only thinking about the opportunities I didn’t get, comparing myself to comics who got those gigs, got invited to do podcasts, etc, and, oddly, I was always more talented than them so why wasn’t I getting those offers?! I helped new comics with opportunities, either at my own clubs or at others, watched them surpass me and get to the point they were offering opportunities, but rarely to me. Is it true that no good deed goes unpunished?!

I am far, far more relaxed now. At the time, even other comics would tell me that jealousy is a good thing, that it fuels ambition. That might be true to a certain extent, but I’ve also seen comics become bitter and stay that way. There’s nothing worse than seeing a comic on stage who feels like the club is beneath them, that they’re doing the club a favor by being there. Seems it’s easy to forget the point, that whether there’s 20 or 500 people in the room, they’re there to be entertained and it’s our job to deliver. And if you’re headlining, you’ve got a spot that dozens of comics currently performing will never attain. Jealousy might be a fuel but I find it far more rewarding to appreciate what I have than to obsess over what I don’t.

Those feelings of, I’m funnier than comics who get opportunities I don’t, I’m too good for this room, they come from the same place- every comic thinks they’re funny. It doesn’t get more basic than that. We go up on stage and say things we think are funny and hope the audience agrees. If they don’t, then we work on the material or abandon it or keep doing it anyway because obviously the audience is just stupid. But it’s rare that a comic walks away from a bomb wondering if they’re actually funny at all. That’s a confidence that may or not be misplaced but is always there as a foundation.

When I say that nothing I or anyone else matters, I’m thinking of those times I saw a comic in a club that had been on TV, been an opening act on a huge tour, and was jealous. It occurred to me all too recently that I’M SEEING THEM ON THE SAME LINEUP AS ME. Sure, they’ll do rooms I can’t or be regulars on a podcast that isn’t interested in me, probably get more corporate gigs than me, but for the most part we’re still rubbing elbows in the same clubs with equal amounts of stage time. I imagine that contributes to the bitterness I’ve seen even successful comics fall prey to, to attain such heights and yet still remain on the same lineups with far less successful and ambitious comics such as myself.

It could be my imagination but it feels like doing standup for the sake of standup is a rare motivation these days. It could be a result of the pandemic- nearly all clubs shut down in Stockholm and while many have returned, including brand new locations, the lineups are very limited. Also, it’s unusual for a club to not charge the audience, when the opposite was true just a few years ago. For the many, many comics who can’t get those spots, it must be like a glimpse of distant water while lost in the desert.

On the other hand, for those comics who do get those opportunities, I’ve noticed an increasing sense of entitlement. I deserve more stage time, I deserve better spots, I absolutely deserve to get paid and paid more. Hey, we all love and need money and I’m certainly no exception. But if I’m performing at a club in front of a large crowd and I’m responsible for exactly zero ticket sales, I’m not going to stomp my feet and cry about not getting paid or not getting paid enough. While there are a handful of comics who sell tickets on name alone, that’s hardly the case for the overwhelming majority of the community here.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that comics should just accept every offer with a smile and never ask for more. We should all set a value for ourselves, for our time, and if we’re offered less than it’s up to us to say yes or no. I frequently hear comics compare standup to slavery but, as far as I know, plantation owners didn’t give slaves the option of not showing up for work. If the club is too small for you or the pay insufficient, nothing wrong with saying no!

I guess it’s a lack of humility I often see in others. I certainly enjoy getting paid for telling the same dick jokes I’ve told other times for free, but money is a nice bonus, not the end goal. I’m a comic because I love standup and my heroes are all comics. Call me an odd duck but I perform standup to perform standup.

Recently, a comic friend of mine asked the comedy community here in Sweden why so few comics are willing to host shows. More recently, he hosted a “MC workshop” at his club, to share ideas and encourage others to host more often. I really wanted to go – no one loves my opinions and sound of my voice more than me – but I wanted to see The Batman more, so I had to miss it. Damn that movie was good. I have no regrets.

Since I have this blog (which I’m embarrassed is updated so rarely) I figured I might as well share some thoughts on the matter here. While there are many reasons comics may not want to host, I can sum them up in one word: responsibility. The overwhelming majority of comics I’ve met love being able to show up (or not show up) for a booked gig whenever they want, to not pay attention to the show, to put on their coat as they walk off the stage and out the door. Hosting means arriving to the club before the show starts and staying beyond the end and watching every minute of the show. Being a host means sacrificing a great deal of freedom.

If I’m booked to do a set at an open mic-level club, I’m free to do whatever I want, however I want. If I’m supposed to do a seven-minute set I might do seven minutes of new material and maybe bomb horribly, maybe not. Doesn’t matter since there are twenty other comics on the lineup and, more importantly, a host who can fill in the crater I left on stage before bringing the next person on. Which leads to next area of responsibility as host: cheerleading.

No comic likes being first on the lineup, but no comic is ever first on the lineup. The host is first, the one who goes up in front of an ice-cold room and has to get the show started. Obviously the first comic after the host won’t meet a crowd as warm as the fourth comic, but if the room isn’t even a little warm after the host starts the show, that’s the mark of a bad host. Unfortunately, I’ve encountered them many times over the years.

If the crowd comes in with their spirits at Level 1 and the highest they can reach is Level 10, then every host should feel they’re responsible for getting them to Level 4 and never letting them drop below that. If the room is warm but then a comic eats shit, the host should bring the room back up before introducing the next comic. If a comic leaves the stage and the room is at Level 8, then the host should BRING THE NEXT COMIC UP IMMEDIATELY. There have been times as host when, while a comic onstage was absolutely slaughtering, I asked the next comic if they wanted me to do a slow intro for them, to let the crowd settle from Level 10 down to 8 before they went on.

I’ve seen hosts fail at the above many, many times. Not prepping the room for the show. Not doing any material after a comic bombs. Doing material after a comic kills. Testing new material and bombing. You need to keep this in mind when hosting: you’re the least important person on stage as far as the crowd is concerned and the most important person on stage as far as the comics are concerned (even if those ungrateful bastards don’t know it). It’s not your show. It’s not even your job to be funny, except when you need to be.

A few comic friends of mine once said on a podcast that it’s worse to have an ok gig than to bomb, and the best hosting gig can only be ok. I don’t agree with that completely but I would say that it’s true more often than it’s not. Doing a set means freedom, being a host means willingly putting on shackles.

I’ll leave on what may be a controversial note- when hosting, CROWDWORK IS NOT NECESSARY. To qualify this point, I enjoy crowdwork when it’s done well. The crowd gets the feeling that it’s a show and not television, that they and the comics are living in the moment and they’re getting a show that’s unique. The key part of the above is “done well.” I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that crowdwork is bad nine times out of ten, especially when it comes from the hosts.

Many hosts think crowdwork is, in fact, necessary, and that’s exactly how it comes across, as something that just has to be done. I’ve seen a lot of hosts follow a formula of, “Welcome to the show! … joke… joke… joke… ok, now’s the part where I talk to the audience.” That’s nearly a quote; other variations include, “Ok, let’s get to know the crowd better,” and the like.

Crowdwork should feel like an organic happening, not just a part of some process. Feel free to disagree and consider it a must! My suggestion is, if you’ve got a formula for when and how to talk to the audience, then just talk to them without telling them that now is the part when you talk to them.

One of my (all too many) pet peeves is when a comic asks someone what they do and whatever answer they get, the comic’s response is, “Oh, I don’t have a joke for that haha!” THEN WHY DID YOU ASK? Good Lord, if you ask someone in Stockholm the answer is most likely going to be IT, student, or unemployed. Write three jokes. Or don’t, because no one expects you to have a ready joke for all possible responses. You are expected to say something funny eventually, however, because you’re on stage and have a microphone. If their answer isn’t something you can work with, then ask them simple follow-up questions (how long have you done that? is that what you wanted to be when you grew up?) until you get to the funny. But please get to the funny at some point or don’t bother.

I’ve been hosting shows for a decade and do little to no crowdwork. Sometimes I think I should, because the comics waiting for their turn might hear something interesting to address during their set. As I stated above, however, the last thing comics pay is attention. I’ve been to too many shows when the same person in the room gets asked, “What’s your name, what do you do?” five times.

Some might say that, as host, it’s my job to care about the audience, innocent or otherwise. To be honest I’ve never really cared much for them, innocent or otherwise. They have a job to do – they’re just as responsible for their own enjoyment as the comics. That’s the final bit of responsibility for the host: reminding the crowd to not be assholes.

The Swedish version of the Christmas office party is the julbord- literally Christmas table. The whole office gathers for a smorgasbord of traditional food and alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

It’s also traditional to hire a comic for entertainment. Someone at the office thinks it would be a good idea to hire one of the three comics they’ve heard of and is horrified when they hear how much it would cost for their services. Unless it’s a big company with deep pockets.

That’s where agents come in handy. An agent will have a roster of available, unknown comics with far lower price tags. Hell, most comics will perform for a beer, if even that. A gig is a gig!

Not to brag, but I’m signed up with four different agents. Sounds impressive until I tell you only one ever got me any gigs and it’s been years since I last heard from him. But hey, I don’t have to explain that on my cv.

It was through this agent that I was contacted by a CEO looking to book an English-speaking comic for his julbord. I was a perfect fit, since I speak American and was in his price range. He told me I would be a fun surprise for his employees.

“You’re the customer so it’s absolutely your call, but I can tell you from experience that everyone will have a lot more fun if you tell them in advance that I’m coming.”

“…. So it’ll be surprise…”

Sigh.

“My idea is that I introduce you as the new Key Account Manager for the UK. You go up, pretend it’s real for a bit, and then you do your thing and everyone figures out you’re a comic!”

His money, his call. I wasn’t then in a position nor am I now where I could turn it down. I take what I get.

I was given an address, a time to arrive and a phone number I could call to be discreetly let in. What I wasn’t told was the exact nature of the dinner or, more specifically, if alcohol would be involved. Swedish audiences love to laugh but only as a group- to be the only one in a club laughing a joke would be a nightmare. It’s worse when a company goes to a club as a group, because no one wants their co-workers to see what they think is funny. A little alcohol goes a long way, however; get them lubed up a little and they relax. Unfortunately, when employees get to drink together, especially when the booze is free, there’s no such thing as a little alcohol. When they’re smashed the last thing they want to hear is some stranger telling them dick jokes.

I faced three possible scenarios. One, that everyone would be completely sober and this would be awkward for everyone involved. Two, they’d be so blitzed I’d barely be able to tell them my name, let alone a joke. Or three, they’d be pleasantly buzzed and this would be a fun gig. I went to the venue hoping for the latter, but not counting on it.

I called the number when I arrived and was greeted by a young woman with a big smile on her face. “This will be so fun!” she said as she led me to a room I was to hide in until my time. “They’re having dessert now and then I’ll come get you. You’re actually the first surprise. After you, we have a salsa group that’s going to perform!”

“Nice!” I said. “So… is everyone drinking?”

“Ohhhhh yeahhhhh,” she said, drawing out the words as her smile was replaced by a frown. “They were already drunk before dinner. We had to start giving them water. They heckled the CEO off the stage.”

Okay. It’s going to be one of those gigs.

I waited in the room for far longer than I anticipated; I guess they needed a lot of water. Finally, the CEO half-stumbled into the room with a sloppy grin and said it was time. He led me down a hall into a large room with a lot more people than I’d expected, at least fifty. As planned, he introduced me with a false name and said I’d just been hired.

I took the stage and said, “Yeah, I’m also surprised to be here. I was walking down the street talking to a friend and suddenly your CEO stopped me and said, ‘Oh, you speak English? How would you like a job as a Key Account Manager for the UK?’ I was unemployed so I said sure, but if that’s all it takes to hire me, I guess he’s a shit CEO.” I probably still nursed a little resentment over the whole surprise thing.

I didn’t feel like keeping up the pretense so I dropped it immediately. I introduced myself for real, said I was from the US, and launched into my act. I was happy to see that they were in much better shape than I’d feared, it was a nice room and nearly felt like a proper club gig.

Nearly. Five minutes into my set and midsentence, I was interrupted by a shout from the crowd. “Where are you from?” I spotted her in the middle of the room, so drunk that her eyes were looking in two different directions, swaying back and forth. Swaying back and forth in her chair. How much does one need to drink before being unable to sit straight?

“I told you, I’m from the US.”

“Yeah but where are you FROM?”

“Oh,” I said. No one had ever asked me to be specific. “I’m from New Jersey, close to Philadelphia.” No response and her face remained impassive, so I went back to my material. I figured she was satisfied.

I figured wrong. Five minutes later, in the middle of another joke:

“Where are you from?”

“I told you twice that I’m from the US!”

“Yeah but WHERE are you FROM?!”

“My mother’s vagina! What do you want from me?”

The room erupted around her as she remained as expressionless as ever. A guy next to her put his hand on her shoulder and, mercifully, there were no further outbursts.

I’d been hired to do thirty minutes but, as is usually the case, I could tell after twenty minutes they’d had enough. I thanked them and headed back to my room, glad I’d done well and that everyone had enjoyed it.

When I entered the room I found the salsa band getting ready for their turn in the spotlight. The band being two men tuning their instruments and two women dressing up to dance while the men played. “Dressing up” is a strong statement as they were going for a Rio Carnival look.

Between the copious amounts of alcohol and the g-strings and pasties, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who remembers this gig.