Wednesday, September 24, 2003  

Goddamn, I Hate Colleges

Pain in the ass show last night at Northeastern, which is generally a fun place to play. Club did no advertising (none...not even stupidass homemade flyers) and drew 9 people, who were real sports, but that still doesn't change a real comedy truism: performing for 9 people blow-diddly-ows. Add to that the party of 5 who showed up haflway through the show and plopped down in the back of the room, turned on the Red Sox game, and started yakking about whatever it is 18-year olds who couldn't get into a better school yak about. After a couple polite, "Uh, dudes...could ya...you know...not talk during the show"'s, I finally snapped when the kid in question said, "Look, we want smoothies. And they won't run the blender while you're on stage, so could you hurry up?" And my world went red. I mean, I remember being an 18-year old douchebag myself, but I don't think I'd ever have been that public a cocksucker for the sake of a speedy smoothie.

So I tell the bartender, "You can run the blender all you want, if it'll shut these fuckers up. Hell, pull the fire alarm...actually, yeah, I'm begging you, pull the fire alarm and we can all go home." So I look at the kid and go, "Better?" And he looks at me like I'm a wet food stamp. You know, that look that only a real spoiled white kid can give you? Like you're the butler and your gloves aren't up to snuff? And he goes, "Pfffft. Hardly."

Ordinarily, at this point, I'd unleash hell, but it's a college, and they never really get these sorts of things. Management, that is. In a bar or a club, I could bury the guy while the crowd egged me on like the onlookers in The Accused, and 99 times out of a 100, management would back me up and buy me a beer. But in a college, the crowd will wince like scared puppies and management will disavow you in a heartbeat. Plus, the guy who books the room, and who I like, and who gives me a shitload of work, was there, and I didn't want to queer his relationship with the club. So after a little spluttering while I reigned in The Beast (my temper), I settled for offering a free CD to anyone who would kick the kid in the balls for me and limped to the end of my set, feeling every bit like the hired help. Can I just have one job, day or night, where I'm not shit upon by rich kids? Is that too much to ask?

P.S. The offer for a free CD still stands. His name's Brendon, and he's an adenoidal pale little fucker. One CD for every nut shot. Photographic evidence required.