Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

Q; Why did little Jimmy get kicked out of the Cub Scouts?



A: He got caught eating a Brownie.

Growing up, even without the Internet, I had way too much access to adult material, explicit and otherwise. My parents, I wouldn’t say they encouraged this, but they were pretty laissez-faire about it. I’d watch R-rated movies on VHS at home, they took me to see them in theaters. When I was three years old, my mom took me and her mom to see Animal House on the big screen. I have no memory of this, just heard the story of us leaving the movie theater at the end, me singing the theme song, my mother mortified. It’s one of those movies you see on TV so many times in the edited format that you forget all the full-frontal nudity of the original release. It’s like seeing National Lampoon’s Vacation uncut and remembering there was an incest subplot.

Sometimes, my dad would take me to the movies on a Sunday and we’d see whatever was playing. One time, we saw A Christmas Story. Another time, we saw Night Patrol, which was a complete rip-off of Police Academy, and somehow worse. He took me to see Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein. Warhol had simply attached his name to an Italian adaptation of the classic tale, which was, at once, soft-core porn and graphically violent. It was in 3-D. At midnight. I was four. I remember it very clearly.

This is not to say my parents were bad people, or even irresponsible. I think they were just blissfully unaware, or wonderfully ignorant. It’s also weird to think, back when I was four, my dad was 27. It’s hard to imagine them as anything other than older than me now.

When I was seven years old and having already shown an interest in standup, someone in the family (not sure who) gave me a copy of Truly Tasteless Jokes. Published the form of a Little Black Book [EDITOR’S NOTE: For those of you born after 1990- back in the day, men who were single and ready to mingle would keep the phone numbers of their prospects written in a little black book] it was quite a collection of dirty and decidedly non-PC jokes, organized by category. There was a chapter of dead baby jokes. A chapter for blondes. A chapter for Poles. I don’t know what Poland did to deserve being thought of as complete morons, but I am grateful I can repeat those old jokes in Sweden, just replacing Poles with Norwegians.

The joke I wrote at the start of today’s entry comes from that book. I remember not completely understanding it at the time. I knew what Cub Scouts were (what you join when you’re too young for Boy Scouts) and Brownies (when you’re too young for Girl Scouts) but didn’t appreciate what eating referred to. I remember figuring it out and then, when retelling it again and again to my peers, I said licking instead of eating. Still works.

That book was popular enough to spawn a few sequels and a ton of knockoffs. If I dug around my old house long enough I’d likely be able to produce a few dog-eared copies. Of all the categories, I think the dead baby jokes stuck with me the longest. Perhaps they’ll lead off future entries.

Anyway, if you’ve ever wondered, “Why is Bussell the way he is?” I recommend finding a copy of Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein. Fast-forward to the scene when – SPOILERS – a very horny Mrs. Frankenstein takes the Creature to bed and he quite literally fucks her to death.

A man walks into a confessional. “Hi Father. Last Friday night, I was at a bar, and this girl half my age walks up to me, says it’s her 21st birthday, do I want to buy her a drink? So I do and we hit it off, suddenly I’m hanging out with her and her two girlfriends who are about the same age, one thing leads to another, the four of us end up in a hotel. The next two days, we barely stop to do anything other than have sex. It was a 48-hour fuckfest, if you’ll pardon my French!”
“I see. Are you prepared to repent for your sins?”
“What? No, I’m not Catholic.”
“…. then why are you telling me this?
“Oh, I’m not just telling you. I’m telling fucking EVERYBODY!”

——————————–

”I don’t understand how you got this job,” said my co-worker to me after I told her I was likely too honest during my interview. I’d said, flat-out, that a) I am not a car guy and b) while I am capable of doing hard selling, I have no interest in doing so. This being an interview for a car rental agency. I told her I probably got the job because I have been working literally longer than she’s been alive.

I’ve said forever that I’m long past the point of aiming for a job I love. I had that with Nintendo, back before I moved to Sweden, when my professional life and personal interests coincided perfectly. It was a wonderful time. If I didn’t have standup, I might be more inclined to find another job like that, but since I have another outlet to express myself within (read: care about) I just wanted a simple, reliable job that would pay the bills.

It’s nice to finally have that. I suppose I shouldn’t count my chickens before they hatch, as I’m on probation until August, but I have no reason to worry. Not that I don’t worry any time my boss asks to speak to me for a moment; I’m so used to getting bad news, it always makes me flinch.

Normally, when someone arrives to pick up a car, we hand them their keys, tell them where to find it, and wish them bon voyage. Operating often as a skeleton crew, we don’t have the option of bringing every car to every customer. We’ll make exceptions under extreme circumstances.

Now that Spring has sprung in spectacular fashion (May began with snow in the air and a few weeks later I went for a swim; it’s like someone forgot to toggle the change between seasons and just flipped a switch a few weeks late), my standard for what qualifies as extreme circumstances has sunk dramatically. It’s hotter inside the building (air conditioning is all too rare here, as it’s needed all too infrequently) and busier with more tourists arriving, so I welcome any excuse to go outside, even for a few moments.

Taylor Swift playing three nights in town last week led to many fun interactions with customers, particularly Americans visiting Sweden for the first time. I met a family of four from a Philadelphia suburb and the dad told me, “We could’ve bought tickets to see her in Philly. Or spend less to fly the whole family to Sweden for a week, rent a car and stay in a hotel and buy tickets to see her here.” I heard a similar story again and again. I wouldn’t be surprised if Swedes were in the minority at those three sold-out shows.

Despite my oft repeated remarks about social awkwardness and one of my new co-workers calling me shy (feels weird to ascribe the word shy to a fifty-year-old man; seems more appropriate to say “loner” or “kept to himself” or “we didn’t see it coming”), I’m a veritable Chatty Cathy with customers. It was fun to meet so many Americans and see them smile when, after asking me what brought me to Sweden, I answered, “Love.” This, of course, is a lie- my ex-wife being the reason I’m here, the answer is closer to spite. Kidding! Kinda.

Anyway, as much as I dreaded the thought of getting back into customer service, it has been an overwhelmingly positive experience so far. Sure, there have been a few assholes, and some consistent behavior amongst people of certain cultures that makes my inner Pop-Pop say, “See? What did I tell you about those people?” but not enough to make me feel negative about it. I’m not leaping out of bed at 5 AM with excitement, “Oh boy! Time for work!” but I’m also not wrestling with the alarm clock, trying to find any excuse to call out lazy.

Customers have given a lot of positive feedback, both in-person and online, and that’s been nice for my self-esteem. Not to mention my ego. I brought a car to two American Swifties, a forty-something mom and her twenty-something daughter, and as I walked away I heard the mom say, “He’s such a gentleman!” and the daughter respond, “And cute, too!” I hope Taylor Swift announces more dates here soon. Or maybe a residency.

Well, yesterday, two women came in to pick up a Tesla, one of them walking with crutches. It was gorgeous outside, it wasn’t particularly busy, I’m a nice guy, and also poor enough that my only opportunity to drive a Tesla is forty feet (twelve meters) at a time, so I brought the car closer for them. It was one of those low-slung sedans, so climbing into the car felt like climbing into bed.

Going on break almost an hour later, I discovered my phone was missing. I was 99% sure it must’ve fallen out of my pocket in the Tesla, but I couldn’t be sure. I’ll just use Apple’s Find My Device online…oh, but I can’t remember my password. As a safeguard against my forgetfulness, I knew I written my password on a note… on my phone. Oh well, I’ll just reset my password. To do that, simply confirm on your Apple device. Don’t have one? That’s okay, borrow a friend’s Apple device.

Android is much more popular here but I don’t have interest in learning anything new, so I stick with Apple. Fortunately, the one other person in the office had an iPhone, so we used his, only to get a warning message that resetting the Apple ID can take several days. Abort. Okay, I’m reasonably sure I have my password saved in my gmail, though it took me several tries to get my gmail password right. Finally, success! Except, this being the first time I was opening my gmail on that device, there’s 2-factor authentication. Open YouTube on your mobile device.

I realize I’m not going to break any new ground with material about passwords. That’s why I say this without irony- implant several devices, cut into bone, tattoo a barcode on me, whatever it takes so I don’t need to remember any more fucking passwords. The phone is locked, so I’m not worried about security, and while it sucks to not have immediate access to Candy Crush, at least I can play on my laptop at home. No, the problem is that my phone has my monthly train ticket on it. The only way to access my bank, other than finding an ATM, which are going the way of the pay phone. I literally cannot work without it, as, after being the victim of a massive hack some years ago, the login procedure on work computers involves jumping through several hoops, including needing one’s phone, fairly often each day.

I went home early to go on gmail there, remembering on the way that my kid could see where my phone was, and she verified within minutes that my phone was exactly where I thought it was. Ironically, after finding my Apple ID in my gmail, the app couldn’t Find My Device. The good news is that my phone is simply stuck between seats in a car that will return to my office. The bad news is that will be four days from now. The good news is, I have the next three days off. The bad news is, I start early on Sunday, and the car isn’t scheduled to arrive until five hours later- and that doesn’t mean it will actually arrive on time- meaning I’m still screwed.

I can’t say I blame them for not wanting to drive back to the office just to give me back my phone. The place they’re staying at is over an hour away. But I can’t help but think of that old, cynical expression: no good deed goes unpunished. I am glad that I helped them because one of the women was older and on crutches, and not because they were hot.

Speaking of which, I did fall for that trap last week with a French girl who’d booked a car. She said hadn’t driven that type of vehicle before- it being one of the most basic automatic cars in our fleet- so could someone please show her how it works? As usual, it was quite warm in the office that day, and as she asked she fanned herself with her own shirt, exposing her midriff, and I said, “Duuuhhh, oh-kay.” I brought the car to her and she asked if R means Drive (I’m not kidding) and I was happy I don’t have a car of my own at the moment.

Again, I know I’m not charting new territory by commenting on our increasing reliance on mobile devices, but it’s a big deal to me right now and I’ve got nothing but time to kill. I’ve thought for many years that the rise of the smartphone gave the lie to all Buddhists, wannabe and otherwise, who claim we are all one, maaaaaaaaan. The internet and smartphones in particular show, at once, both that we aren’t naturally connected and that we are desperate to be so.

On a final note, being without a phone made me break my Facebook Fast, since Messenger is my best option for communication for the time being. I’ve been sorely tempted to scroll but managed to avoid that, so far. As it’s quite prominent on the front page, however, I couldn’t help but notice today the first of FB’s “People You May Know” friend suggestions was a guy I’ve known, disliked, yet previously been connected to for over a decade, until recently, I guess. They should combine “People You Many Know” and “Memories” into “Here are Some Ex-Friends and Dead People.”

A tourist in NYC gets lost and asks several people for directions. Finally, he walks up to a cop and says, “Hi, can you tell me how to get to Times Square, or should I just go fuck myself?”

(Lately I’ve had a bunch of old jokes running through my mind and I think I’ll open each blog post with one, until I get bored or forget.)

So, last weekend, four of my new co-workers saw me perform for the first time, for what turned out to be, once again, a thoroughly okay gig. The weather is just too nice for crowds to spend time in basements. They had a blast anyway, possibly due more with their pre-gaming and staying out after, doing shots until 3 AM. Hopefully they’ll spread the word and I can get more of them to come on an even better night.

There is video, though I haven’t seen it yet. Maybe I should cut together clips from several of these recent gigs for my next special, “Ryan Bussell: Thoroughly Okay”.

A few weeks ago, after I’d told another co-worker that I do standup as a somewhat professional hobby (I tell people this as easily and as often as I would if I was a vegan or did cross-fit; other than being an American in Sweden it’s the only interesting thing about me), she asked me why I don’t simply make my living doing standup.

Oh, you sweet summer child, I thought, if you’d seen my act you’d never ask that. Out loud, I said it is very difficult to achieve a level of fame high enough to make a consistent living as a comic, particularly in Sweden.

“That’s not true!” she said. “My favorite comic comes from the south of Sweden, he’s so funny, his name is…. uh…. he’s blonde….”

“You’re kinda proving my point here.”

“Wait,” she said, turning to Google. “Oh yeah, Johan Glans!”

Right, arguably the single most famous and successful Swedish comic in this country’s history. Why can’t I just do what he’s doing? Well, where to begin?

I’ve heard it said that no comic ever became successful by keeping their day job and grinding at night. That they had to abandon financial safety and focus all their attention on gigging and writing and so on. I bet that’s true. I also bet that, for every comic that found success that way, there are a hundred who failed and limped back to civilian life. In my case, pushing fifty with a family and a not inconsiderable amount of debt already, I don’t really have the standing to say, “You know what? I’m not going to work anymore, just pursue my art of dick jokes and Down Syndrome punchlines, because I am an artist.” Not particularly responsible. Besides, I’ve already exhausted my unemployment benefits.

On the other hand, being a starving artist would be a motivator. As it is now, I have a hard time maintaining enough discipline to put this blog out on time each week (in fact, this entry is late), or putting out any other content at all, because of the inner voice that whines that few will see it and less care. With no safety net, I couldn’t afford to surrender to self-pity. I’d have to keep generating content regardless, with the hope that something would hit, someday I’d be in the right place at the right time.

On the other, other hand, that would mean I’d have to take this shit seriously, and I really don’t want to do that. It’s counter-intuitive to think you have to take standup seriously anyway. Over the years, I’ve seen many comics start after me and then whiz past me like I’m on a skateboard on the highway and they’re in a Tesla. Setting aside the argument of talent level, not one of them matches my level of slackitude. Even those who don’t put out a lot of content, at least they rub elbows and make an effort to get gigs, not just wait for opportunities to come out of nowhere.

A slacker I may be, but I am a slacker with a remarkable amount of mileage. I’ve done a lot and I can say one thing that many I’ve met over the years can’t claim- I’m still around. I know many who quit after three years, five years, felt like they were getting nowhere and what was the point of continuing? I think that’s the inherent risk of taking this seriously: if you go all-in and it still doesn’t work and you see people constantly pass you, it’s no wonder why so many of my peers end up wallowing in anger and resentment.

Me, I’ll just keep trudging along, perfoming as often as I can, in as many places as I can. That was always my one and only ambition anyway. Those opportunities may be few these days, but I appreciate them. Who knows what the future holds?

A year or so ago I met a former comic I hadn’t seen since the pandemic and he asked me flat out why I still perform. My answer was simple. Spite.

Having a new job with varying shifts has thrown a monkey wrench into my standup schedule. Not that my gig frequency was exactly setting the world on fire before, almost exclusively hosting Maffia Comedy on Fridays and Saturdays. Work means cutting back even on those gigs.

Although I was available both nights this past weekend, someone else was booked to host, which is understandable; for more than two years it’s been me nearly every damn time, and I miss just doing spots. You know, being a real comic. Problem is, those rare nights I just do a spot at a club, it’s fun to dick around and try new stuff, but when a crowd pays about $40 bucks each for the show, I want to give them my best.

I could’ve gone in to do a spot on Friday but, it being my first day off in several days, I thought it was time better spent with my wife at home. I booked myself for a spot on Saturday but, as the day approached, my desire to not go increased. I even had an offer from work to go into the office for one hour Saturday night and make $40 (interesting symmetry there) and I was very tempted to take it.

In the end, I shamed myself out of the door. Didn’t take the job offer because, is my night really worth $40, even if it’s easy money? I moan about not being a real comic but, when I have the gig, I’m tempted to toss it away? There are still plenty of comics who want to gig at Maffia but can’t, so I shouldn’t take it for granted. Lastly, I’m still feeling the effects of the pandemic in that I’m entirely too happy to cancel plans and stay home. And so it was that I found myself on the 45-minute train commute for a thoroughly okay 10-min gig at Maffia and then the 45-minute train commute home.

For me, thoroughly okay is bombing.

To clarify, lest I come across as pompous (even more than just as a person who writes a weekly blog about standup), I don’t mean to say that what may count as a good gig to others is a bomb to me. Or I guess I am saying that, actually. I remember many times in my first year that I saw a veteran walk off stage after a set I would’ve killed for, shaking their head like, “Well, that sucked.”

Part of that is just how a comic’s mind works. Performing in front of a hundred people, ninety-nine pissing themselves with laughter, we’re laser-focused on the one that isn’t laughing. Go up with ten new jokes and nine kill, you walk away grumbling about the one that didn’t fly.

Mostly, though, it’s that our own standards for what is considered a good gig increase over time. Or at least they should; I could name some veterans that walk away from mediocre gigs, at best, looking like the cat that ate the canary, “Nailed another one!” Honestly, I’d rather bomb than do okay.

That being said, yes, bombing still sucks, just not as bad as in the early days. My first real, solid bomb, it was on a Thursday night and I felt like shit until Monday. It doesn’t hit the same way anymore, probably because I developed calluses on my soul. Feels more of a bummer due to time wasted. On the other hand, it could make for a fun story to tell.

Okay gigs aren’t fun to talk about. I should know, I’ve dedicated this week’s blog on the topic. The other night, some people liked me, some didn’t, so I ignored the latter and focused on the former. I tried a new joke that absolutely no one enjoyed (some jokes you can hear hit the ground like a cast-iron skillet) so I bailed on it halfway and moved on to something more reliable. I could’ve gone on longer, but figured ten minutes of an average performance was more than enough for both the crowd and myself, so I just wrapped it up. Good timing, too, as running straight out the door immediately after meant catching an earlier train home and laughing at Eurovision with my wife.

What makes it easier to deal with bombing is knowing it happens to everyone at some time or another, there’s really no way to avoid it, nothing you could’ve done to salvage it. Conversely, the worst part of an okay gig is knowing you could’ve done better. Been more engaged, more prepared, quicker on your feet. Been more likeable. Been funnier. The part of my brain that encouraged me to stay home has been gloating for the past twenty-four hours, that I put in so much effort just to feel lousy about myself. Hell, I don’t have to leave the house to feel lousy.

Well, the bad, or just okay, gigs help us appreciate the good ones. In other news, I have a fun habit- I start at a new job, tell my co-workers I do standup as a somewhat professional hobby, and then while I’m still in the probation period of employment, a bunch of them come see me and then I lose the job. This Saturday, I’ve got a gig at Laugh House and a bunch of my new co-workers are coming along and I suppose I’ll be looking for a new job this time next week.

The title of this week’s post is a nod to the Gin Blossoms, one of those Nineties bands that was hot for a minute. The lead guitarist and songwriter had formed the band but, after struggling towards success for a while, the band decided to change direction. The lead and backup singers changed places, as did the lead and backup guitarists. The now former lead guitarist grew increasingly depressed about the new direction, so the label (doing what the band wanted but would not) withheld money from him until he quit and signed away his royalties. He did so. Then the band became an “overnight success” and he killed himself. The band’s next album was called Congratulations I’m Sorry.

With that depressing trivia to start off the entry, it’s my birthday today! 49. My own age never mattered to me all that much, though I do appreciate that I can still surprise people who think I’m in my thirties. That said, I think I feel my age more and more, or at least I think about it more often. Like the other day, when I woke up to find my right eye extremely irritated (it would remain so for another twenty-four hours), my first thought of the day was, “Well, got that to deal with, I guess.” As I mentioned in a recent post, I’m long past the age when weird body shit happens and goes away for no apparent reason.

Another significant way I’m reminded of my age is my relationship to others around me. My mom once told me that, back when she was in her thirties (and been a mother for over a decade), she asked her mom, “When will I feel like a grown-up?” to which my grandmother replied, “I’ll let you know when I feel that way myself.” I know I’m a different person than I was ten years ago, let alone twenty or thirty years ago, but I don’t really feel different. How can I? When I reflect on memories from my teens, I’m inserting my current psyche into that lithe, nimble teen body. Yeah, okay, I was never lithe nor nimble, but let me have this. It’s my birthday.

So while I don’t feel like a middle-aged man, it’s only natural to be seen as one. Whether I’m in a comedy club surrounded by rookies who are barely in their twenties, or with co-workers who aren’t much older, it’s no surprise that people aren’t falling over themselves to get to know Grandpa. Pair that with my own social retardation and I find myself getting worse, not better, at mingling. You should’ve seen me at my company’s kick-off this weekend. I pulled off a French Exit not once, not twice, but three damn times.

Anyway, onto what I’d actually intended to talk about this week, inspired by my day job. My co-workers include Iranians, Afghans, Syrians, and several others who fall into the lovely US umbrella of A-rabs. They often speak A-rab to each other. And working at an airport, I often have A-rab customers, and my natural instinct is to wonder when someone will leap across my desk and wrap their hands around my throat for US crimes, real or imagined.

When I moved to Sweden, I took a one-month long intensive course in Swedish. I got to talking to a young German guy and I asked him where he was from. When he replied, “Dresden,” I winced, then apologized. During WWII, the Allies (well, the US) firebombed that city, despite being well aware that it was a civilian target. The thought was, slaughtering civilians would sure be a great way to break their morale! I suppose it worked but it’s one of those means and ends things. I’ve heard there’s a park in Dresden that has a lovely hill- the hill being made of the ruins of much of old Dresden.

The guy was visibly surprised I knew about Dresden at all, then said he appreciated my response. He hadn’t entered the conversation with a grudge against Americans. This experience, and others like it, inspired one of my early bits.

“I’m from the US and, living here, I meet people from all over the world. I’m so used to apologizing, that’s how I introduce myself. ‘Hi, I’m Ryan, I’m sorry. Where are you from? Dresden? I’m sorry we firebombed your city.’ ‘Hi, I’m Ryan, I’m sorry. Where are you from? Kurdistan? Yikes. I’m sorry about the Gulf Wars, they were not well thought out.’ ‘Hi, I’m Ryan, I’m sorry. Where are you from? Bosnia? Okay, I am sorry it took us so long to get involved in your war but, in our defense, you have no oil. And look at the bright side! If you weren’t white, we never would’ve showed up.’”

I miss that bit.

I was reminded of all this a few weeks ago when, asking a customer for his passport and being handed Iraqi documents, I thought to myself, “Please don’t ask me where I’m from, please don’t ask me where I’m from, please don’t ask….” He asked me where I was from. I said the US and he lit up, wondered where specifically, why I’d moved to Sweden, said he’d been in the US recently.

Americans believe that everyone in the world loves us and hates us. Those things don’t go together. Maybe we think everyone in the world thinks of us as gods. Very possible, seems on-brand for us. I’ve learned over the years as an expat that foreigners don’t really think about us as often as we believe. Certainly not with the passion we imagine.

That being said, one of my Iranian co-workers just posted an anti-Israel comment on our office’s WhatsApp thread and I’m not touching that with a ten-foot fucking pole.

The parking lot was empty and covered in a thin layer of snow as I walked across it to my office. I stepped onto what I thought was an empty parking space but, the ice giving out beneath me, leaving me falling into nothingness, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. I’d forgotten that the parking lot was riddled with large openings exposing deep shafts underground. This particular opening had iced over somehow, but it held my weight as well as rice paper. Plunging into the inky darkness I thought, this is how I die, and the only reason I’m here at all is because I finally got a new job.

I woke with a start to find my wife sleeping peacefully at my side and my cat curled against my calf. All was well. This doesn’t have anything to do with anything, I just thought I’d give an example of how working late nights is fucking with my emotional well-being. Sigh. This blog is becoming a collection of non sequiturs. Maybe I should change the name from “Don’t Shit Where You Eat” to “But I Digress.” But I digress.

Watching the show at Maffia Comedy last Saturday night, the comic got a huge laugh, followed by an applause break. My kid turned to me and said, “Wow, this crowd is generous.” I laughed, because I’d thought the same. I was also filled with pride that she could tell the difference between generous and earned reactions.

Which is not to say that the comic didn’t’ deserve a strong reaction or that they weren’t funny. Quite the opposite. Thing is, some nights – and this is true at all clubs, not just Maffia – you have to be at peak performance levels just to get chuckles out of a crowd. Other times, you can lift your arm like Data and have the crowd roaring. (That was a deep cut to any Star Trek TNG fans out there.)

The week prior, the crowd was drunk and grumpy. I blamed the weather. This week, the crowd was visibly happier and not quite as thirsty, though the weather had not improved. But they had been paid.

There’s some variation and I don’t have exact figures to back this up, but most people get paid once a month in Sweden. And they all have the same pay day. Which means, the week before pay day, everyone is three weeks away from the last time they got money. No wonder they were drunk and grumpy two weeks ago. This night, they were flush with cash and probably hadn’t paid any bills yet.

It’s often argued that a crowd that has paid for a show is better than a crowd that got in for free but, as I’ve said before, if that was true, corporate gigs would be amazing rather than nightmares. The theory is that, if people have paid for the show, they’ll be more invested in it. In my experience, though, people are just as likely to feel entitled to heckle or get up for drinks a dozen times in the first hour. Hey, they paid for it, they can do whatever they want.

We can argue that topic forever. What’s not up for debate is that a paid crowd is much better than a non-paid crowd. Crap. Having said that, I realize I have nothing more to say on the topic, and paragraphs should be at least three sentences long. Really wrote myself into a corner there.

I like to think I’m a very good host. I also like to say I’m a very good host, since others don’t say it enough about me, the fuckers. Sure, I’m not the most traditional host in the world as I largely eschew crowd work, and don’t worry, I’m not going to delve into topic of crowd work yet again. Let’s just say that I recognize my own strengths and weaknesses and I can add more value to a night by not asking someone their name and what they do and is the person next to them their partner or relative or both because that happens in the north of Sweden, wocka wocka.

Also, Swedes don’t want to be spoken to, in clubs and otherwise. A crowd of 100 of them, 99 will not like being made part of the show. The only thing worse is the one who does, but more on that later.

I have a new full-time job with a varying schedule and I can’t tell which shift suits me the best. I can start very early and end very early, which theoretically is best, except I’m not a morning person and I’m so wiped after, I can’t do much. The middle shift gets me more sleep in the morning, which is great, but I get home after dinner, which means the whole day is shot, so that shift is the worst. I feel best during the late shifts, starting late afternoon and ending at midnight, or beyond. I can sleep late, even get to the gym before, and I’m a night person. The only drawback is that I can’t do standup those nights. Oh, or see my family.

I’m currently in the midst of a run of late shifts and, my two nights off from work being Saturdays, I host game shows during those days and host Maffia Comedy at night. Which means two weeks of very late nights with no breaks. And I’m closing in on my fiftieth birthday.

Granted, hosting game shows and a comedy club should be more fun than work. Especially considering that, not only can I drink while working at a comedy club, it’s practically encouraged. My day (and often night) job sometimes involves driving, so drinking is discouraged. Still, last Saturday, I would not have minded the night off, despite having missed Maffia the night before. I don’t want to take it for granted, however. Many would love to perform there and can’t (and some of them are super pissed about it, God bless them). And so it was that I went and hoped to have a good time.

By the way, just thought I’d throw this in here, although it doesn’t suit my topic. Consider it a “kids these days, amirite?” aside. I recently met a rookie I thought has potential and I sent him a message, encouraging him to come by Maffia sometime. I think he could start with a solid five minutes and grow from there. His response was a little too enthusiastic so I clarified that he should come meet the owner, maybe have a clip prepared. He said, cool, he’d thought I was offering him a gig but he’d come by sometime. He hasn’t yet. Kids.

I guess while I’m off-topic anyway, I might as well address the question I’m often asked, as to how to get booked at Maffia. The same way you would get booked anywhere. Go to the club, even if you’re not already booked. Introduce yourself to the owner. Be polite. Don’t pretend to be God’s gift to comedy, that your stage time is a favor to the club. Have a clip ready. Think to yourself, “This clip will either get me booked or prevent me from getting booked for a decade or more,” so make sure the quality of the clip is more likely to do the former. When you do get booked, show up early and do your absolute best. And if you end up eating shit, don’t wonder why you don’t get booked again, like it’s one of the grand mysteries of the universe. But if you can’t tell the difference between a great gig and eating shit, I really can’t help you. Aside complete.

Speaking of knowing when I eat shit, back to last Saturday night. Taking the stage to start the show, I noticed a lovely young woman in the front row, gingerly sipping from a shot glass. This will be a fun night, I thought, mistakenly. I got as far as, “Hi, I’m Ryan, I’m from the US,” before being interrupted by a “woooo, make America great again!” that was slurred by another drunk woman in the middle of the room. “Oh, hello, my drunk blonde friend, what’s your name?” Look at me, doing crowd work ten seconds into a show!

“Maxine and I’m jussht kidding.”
“So… don’t make America great again?”
“Uh, yeah, but change your president first.”
“We’re about to, back to Trump.”

It got a laugh from the crowd but a blank stare from Maxine. I also noticed that the woman in the front row whom I’d seen sipping a shot was so blasted her eyes were completely glazed over. As were her companions to either side of her. We were now one minute into a two-hour show.

To be fair, my opening set went alright, as did the first half of the show, but the crowd was drunker than usual. I blamed the weather as we were still getting snow in mid-April (jokes aside, even I think this is ridiculous). I’d decided not to do very much material to start the second half, figuring a short set would end the night and get me home sooner, but when the owner wanted the break over, many people had not yet returned from the bar. I didn’t want the headliner going on while people were still walking in, so I ended up doing a longer set than I’d intended.

Which the crowd didn’t like very much. I think we were feeding on each other’s negative vibes by that point. The right move for a host in that situation would be to switch to crowd work or, at the very least, very crowd-friending material. I was annoyed, though, so I instead yelled at them about Swedish pizza. Even as I launched into the bit, I was thinking that this is a routine I haven’t done in literally years, that it involves a callback to another bit I wouldn’t do, and it hinges on the crowd liking me. They didn’t like me, so it went as well as you can expect.

My grandfather liked to joke about his first night in action during D-Day, “I dug a foxhole so deep they wanted to charge me with desertion.” Here I was, digging a hole of my own. I think it was just an instinct to lash out. Oh, you’re not having a good time? Fuck you, neither am I. However, being the professional and good host that I am, I got them back on my side and happy before the headliner went up.

By roasting a guy in the front row that had been roasted all evening. Because I am a good host who knows low-hanging fruit when he sees it.

I’m also good at my real job. A few nights ago, I kept the office open until 2 AM to help a customer, and he posted a lovely review online. “Employee waited us [sic] until 2 AM. Was super gentle [!] and professional. Employee Name Rajan!”

I went camping on a small island with some friends last summer and we enjoyed s’mores, as you do.  I really like s’mores, but this was only the fourth time in my life I’d had s’mores.  All four experiences with s’mores would only be positive for me, although I am aware that it’s not uncommon for people to have bad experiences with s’mores.  And while I’m a fan of s’mores, the Swedish authorities are not fans of s’mores, which is why I keep writing s’mores instead of what it’s actually called.

By the way, ever hear that Beatles song, “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”?  Great song.  Underrated band.  But I digress.

After taking I mean eating s’mores, I sat on a rock at the edge of the island and stared at the sky.  It was mostly clear that day, except for one large cloud, roughly square in shape, and as I watched it became a screen against which shapes and colors were projected.  Gradually, the clouds morphed into two Celestial Beings, one of whom communicated one word to me, telepathically:

<EMBRACE>

I knew what it meant.  All the negative aspects of my life, all my vices, all my bad habits, everything I’d fought against in order to be a good person, I was told to embrace those things about me.  Stop fighting.  I felt this enormous weight lift from my shoulders as I realized, it’s okay to be selfish.  It’s okay to think of no one but myself.  Hot on the heels of this revelation, however, came another: I wasn’t talking to just any angel, I was talking to the perfect angel.  I’ve heard people say that s’mores lead to conversations with God, yet here I was, talking to Lucifer.

You just want me to be that way because it would put me on a road to You, I told Him.  He chuckled and put His hands up.  <Hey, you got Me.>  One might think the Devil would be furious at being rebuked, but why should He care to be denied my soul?  I’m certain there’s no shortage in that department.

I’ve thought about this experience many times over the past year, but especially in the last few months.  Noticing that my reactions to posts on social media were, more often than not, “Fuck them AND their mother,” lead to me realizing a break would do me some good.  The idea of succumbing to the darker sides of my personality becoming more tempting, it’s better to just focus on work.  (A moron accused me recently of sitting on the couch all day on Twitter, of all things.  I wish!  I have three goddamn jobs.  To be fair, I do spend a lot of time on my couch, regardless.)

So what does this hilarious post have to do with a standup comedy blog?  I’m getting to that.  Jeez.  In the movie Stranger Than Fiction, Will Ferrell’s character realizes that he can hear a narrator, that he’s become the main character in someone else’s story.  Not knowing what to do about it, he’s given some advice- do nothing.  Literally.  Just sit on the couch and wait for the plot to happen to him.  Indeed, he doesn’t have to wait long before a wrecking ball smashes into his apartment.

I feel like that’s where I am now, pre-wrecking ball.  That if I just keep my head down and plug away at my jobs, suddenly I’ll be inundated by gig offers and podcast invites.  Except I know that’s not how this works.  Nor should it.  In theory, my phone should be ringing off the hook!  (Remember when phones had hooks?)  I mean, I’m a brilliant comic with twelve years and eight countries of experience, ran about sixty comedy clubs, people should be falling over themselves to hand me offers!  Except I’m just as brilliant and deserving as any other rookie, with zero ambition and social skills so poor I couldn’t mingle my way out of a wet paper bag.

So my social media fast continues.  Spring is springing, I have a full-time job and for the first time in so long I can’t remember, I don’t have Imposter Syndrome.  Maybe in Autumn, by then securely employed, I’ll be more into grinding for gigs and chasing the dragon.  Although by then I expect the thirty thousand clubs currently active in Stockholm will have been whittled back down to three.