Tuesday, June 27, 2006  

And I'm Out

So my comedy hiatus technically started when I came offstage at the Vault Saturday night, where I'd gone after my headlining set at Nicks. The Nicks show was great - got to meet The Glow, watch Lamont Price (who has definitely gone to the next level of funny), and hang out with gonzo journalist Sean McCarthy.

I hadn't intended to even do a spot at the Vault. I was just going over because I drank a bucketload of coffee and didn't want to go home and try to go to sleep. But the boys at the Vault were saddled with one of the angriest, most sullen groups of people I've ever seen. A birthday party of young hotties scowled at the comics, a table full of Phillies fans sneered at them (it's like a baby New York!), and a couple of corporate types from New Hampshire looked bemused, like only rich, young, good-looking hayseeds can. I saw more than one comic go down in big stinky flames, while Steve Smith bought me Budweisers.

So of course I had to do time.

And you know what? I got them - cracked the nut, mostly by shitting on them, the comics, the club, and myself. I think I overstayed my welcome by about three rambling, beery jokes, but it was worth doing. Go out on a high note, and all that.

So I'm out. No comedy for five weeks. I'm recharging, as it were. Letting my muse relax and put her feet up, catch up on her stories. I'm not hanging out at any comedy clubs, not writing any jokes. Any and all creative energies will be put into Flaming Telepaths (working name), a BOC tribute band consisting of me and some actual, legitimate musicians. I think they have something like 30 years of musical experience between them. That number leaps to 30 years and 3 months when you add me. So basically, I've just tricked a bunch of my favorite Boston players into coming to my garage and playing BOC songs for me. Advantage, McIntire.

Anyway, I may or may not post here very much while I'm on m'little comedy break. In the meantime, buy my CD, drop me an email, and I'll see you on the flip-flop, freaks.

Wiki Me?

So someone emailed me this link to Wikipedia's list of stand-up comics; imagine my surprise to find myself on the list.

However, it's against the rules for me to edit my own page. I tried to put "Tim McIntire is a pretty funny comedian in Boston, Massachusetts," and it got deleted very quickly. Amazingly, "Tim McIntire is a pretty funny comedian in Boston, Massachusetts, and his penis has ninja powers," got deleted even more quickly.

So, uh, if anyone wants to do something to my page, go nuts. You don't have to call me funny or brag about my ninja cock if you don't want to. Whatever is cool by me.

Finally!

Real post coming soon, but in the meantime, Scatterbrain is finally live on iTunes!

Actual proof that I exist (yeah, you heard me, Rene Descartes...fuck you, Frenchie)!

EDIT: Aw, shit. Looks like it got misclassified as "spoken word" instead of "standup comedy." There are going to be some very disappointed poetry fans in the very near future.

Actual Laughing

Sorry for the lack of updates this week. I mean, if you read the post about Hyannis, it should have been obvious that my neurotransmitters would be in a state of hibernation until at least Wednesday. But the real reason is that I've been furiously and obsessively revamping my set list for the Laughing Liberally shows at Jimmy Tingle's Off Broadway this week.

Now, my personal liberal bona-fides are in order. Kyle Gilman even has archival footage of me screaming at cops during Ralph Nader's abortive attempt to get into the presidential debates circa 2000. With the exception of the gun thing, I'm cool, dig?

But my track record in front of my fellow lefties is not great. The last "political" show I did was an anti-war rally a few years ago. There was a big protest down in DC, and this show was held as a local show of solidarity or some such blabbity blah. It was freezing that day, so my opening joke was, "I was going to go to the protest, but it's really fucking freezing. So I guess I hate war just a little less than I hate being cold." Cute and self depricating, huh?

Not to these strident commies, brother. Cold death. I think Garfield might even have tape.

About fifteen minutes after my set, I was in the stairwell trying to get my bearings (bombing can be very disorienting), and talking to this dude I only halfway knew. One of his friends rolls up and says, "I just got here. I heard the comedian SUCKED."

I looked him in the eye and said, "Really? I heard he almost punched you in the face."

Long story short, I was terribly gun shy about doing more "liberal" shows in Massachusetts. But if last night was any indicator (and I'm not yet willing to commit that it was), I've been worrying for nothing. What a blast. My set went great, and the other acts are dynamite. Tonight, we're even adding Mad Benari Poulten to the show. You should come.

After my set, I'm dragging Sergeant Poulten to TT's to see Scamper. I'm listening to their latest record right now. Makes a strangely cheerful soundtrack to the Peak Oil sites I'm reading. Our permaculture garden is starting to sprout. Will trade squash for ammo when it all goes down.

Fear and Loathing In Hyannis

I apologize in advance if this turns into spluttering gibberish. I'm writing it in the dizzy afterglow of the most insane spinning class in the history of yuppie sports clubs. New teacher today, some dude straight out of the Parris Island school of personal training. Think I'm exaggerating? God's truth: he had us work out to music from The Deer Hunter.

I had it coming. If you measured this weekend's madness strictly by caloric intake, you would be under the impression that it was Roman in its excess.

You would be right.

As is always the case, I started out with only pure and noble intentions. Get to Hyannis early to beat the traffic, work on some material for this week's shows in my hotel room, eat a calzone and do the show. Strictly professional, dig? One hiccup: I had to go to PIXY 103 at 5:00 to do a quick radio spot. What could possibly go wrong?

Two things: this impish little disc jockey and the fact that the station's doing a promotion with a local liquor store and has a fridge full of free beer in the studio. A 20-minute radio spot quickly degenerated into two hours of a live, on-air frat party. As part of the promotion, talent is encouraged to imbibe over the airwaves, and who am I to argue with company policy? I would not say I got drunk, but I was definitely toasty, and remained so even when Bruiser's shift ended and he dragged me to some Mexican joint named Acapulco's for margaritas and Tecates. That's where we met his drinking buddies, Big Mike and a couple of diabolic Texans who can really only be described as rootin'-tootin' and who would appear later in the night, during the show, with open wallets and mischief in their minds.

Thank you, Jesus, for Acapulco's delicious and (more importantly) highly absorbent enchiladas Jaliscos. A plate full of Tex-Mex glory left me energized and coherent enough to make it to the show just in time to hang up my posters, put up my CD display, and hit the bar for a Budweiser or two before my set.

I settled in to watch my feature act do an unconscionable amount of crowdwork of the most high-energy kind. True Comedy Fact: opening acts should stick to material when possible, for any number of reasons, most importantly because it is their job to warm the crowd up, not rile them up and make the Drunk Headliner's job that much harder.

But this particular cat violates that rule on a regular basis, and on Saturday, he left me a double-helping of chaos as a wasted stripper flashed her (spectacular) tits at him, per his begging and pleading, right before it was my turn to go up. The crowd was worked-up, but the stripper was bananas, and she had every intention of heading right back to the Attention Trough on my watch.

I wasn't having it, though.

"Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down!" I barked, to the audience's glee. "I've got a light in my face and a lazy right eye and I can't see your titties anyway. So shut it!"

The place went nuts. She started hollering something at me. Nuh-uh, toots.

"No!" I yelled. "No talking! You are not for talking. You have tits, I have a degree. I will win talking!"

That's when it really busted loose, and I spent the next forty minutes or so riding a bucking bronco of an audience. The stripper got tossed, some other chicks walked out, but the rest of rabid maniacs in the club ate it up and only encouraged my bad behavior. Most of them had heard me boozing it up on PIXY and were there to see, well, pretty much exactly what they saw.

Then the Rootin' Tootin' Texans showed up and started sending me shots of Wild Turkey. They have my first album and knew the protocol. Only two made it past the club manager's defenses, but that was more than enough. I closed surprisingly strong and sold more CDs in one sitting than I ever did before. I figure the crowd was rewarding me for endurance more than funny, but their money will still spend the same. Of course, then I met a fella who didn't have any cash, and since I was definitely too boozy to work my credit card machine, we worked out a whiskey-for-CD payment plan that seemed to suit everyone nicely.

I enjoyed the denoument of the night's fun drinking with this fella, his ridiculously good-looking fiance, and two cool women who may or may not have been a couple, but who were Irish (from Ireland) and who insisted on a brisk pace of consumption. Not wanting to appear an ugly American, I went along with their wishes. At some point, I did an ad hoc wedding ceremony for the good-looking couple with the Irish chicks as witnesses, and then we all went to another bar for the reception.

One more pop, then a quick stumble back to the ol' Radisson, and it was 8 hours of brain-damaged unconciousness, a large black Dunkins coffee, a 2-hour drive home, and a weekend of soul-searching. I'm not crazy about what I found there, but that's the sort of thing I'll worry about on my summer hiatus. Right now, I'm just glad to be alive.

Guest Speaker

So I gather there was a comic with cerebral palsy on Last Comic Standing. I say "I gather," because I was busy watching a nut-cruncher of a Sox game instead (with a sixer of Smithwick's, natch). I guess he claimed that he didn't know of any other disabled comics who had been on national TV saying something.

Which is patently absurd.

I was going to write a little something about Chris Fonseca, a comic who was very helpful to me when I first started out in the business back in Colorado Springs.

But Chris emailed me something he'd already written himself, so, with his permission, here it is:

Disabling the Myth

Ever see your child do something and struggle with do I punish him or just let him suffer the consequences of his actions? Well, I feel my bastard comedy child, Josh Blue needs at the very least a timeout. I say "bastard," because I don't remember sex with Geri Jewell, but I guess it must have happened.

If you watch Josh's set, you see the best and worst bits Geri and I and other disabled comics wrote and performed in the dark ages. Before anyone invented the wheel (chair). Ha! I killl me, in the words of Alf.

For the record, I did not try out for Last Comic Standing, nor did I feel the urge to. Haven't seen LeAnn Rimes trying to get on American Idol either.

Here's the thing.

Josh Blue is neither the first comic with a disability or the best. The first, I've been told, was a guy named, Nick who wrote for Johnny Carson in the 60's and 70's. He had Cerebral Palsy.

Then of course, there's Geri, who debuted on "Facts of Life" in the late 70's. She can now be seen on Deadwood on HBO.

Also, there is "Steady Eddie" from Australia. He too has Cerebral Palsy.

My own career started in 1984. I too, have C.P.

I like to boast my two "Super Bowl Rings" of comedy. I appeared on Letterman in 1997 and The Just For Laughs Comedy Festival in Montreal, that same year.

Add to this list, Brett Leake, who has Muscular Dystrophy, Alex Valdez who is blind, Kathy Buckley, who is hearing impaired. The list goes on and on.

So, Mr. Blue is full of it, when he claims he knows of no other disabled comic, who has been on national TV, saying something. All you have to do is watch 1994's Look Who's Laughing which aired on PBS.

We're all there.

Chances are Josh owns a copy. Speaking of "copy," hmmmm. I distinctly remember Geri on "Facts," wearing a T-shirt that said, "I don't Have Cerebral Palsy, I'm drunk." Therefore, any drunk/cp jokes are Geri's.

Period.

I could go on and on, but it's easily summed up this way. My friend, the late Bill Hicks, once told me, "best way not to dog another comic, you don't think is funny or original is say he's a nice guy."

So...

For the record, Josh Blue is a nice guy.

Ode

Dear Smithwick's Ale,

It's only been three days since we met, and I'm still walking on air. I don't know how I lived without you so long. It's like I'm alive for the very first time. I know I only chose you because I was at the Charles Playhouse lounge and I suddenly realized that the bartender who thinks my comedy sucks was on shift and I just blurted out the first thing I saw, but I now know that it was fate, baby.

I needed you, and you were there, and you were delicious. All three times. Three times! You make me young again!

And then later, after my show at Nicks Comedy Stop, where they've replaced their stage with a waitress station and a stepladder, and I needed to come back to the bar and replace my dignity with alcohol, you were still there, waiting for me. You knew I'd come back, didn't you? You didn't even mind when I shared you with my friends. It was just physical with them, I know, not true love. You proved yourself to me, and that's how I know we'll be together forever.

How do you feel about a threesome with Old Overholt? It'll be freaky, but I think it could be fun.

I'm back at Nicks in just two weeks, but it seems like an eternity! How am I supposed to live without you? Oh, 3 days ago, I didn't even know you existed, but now I long for you, ache for you. I don't care who knows it! I'll find a packie and declare my love for you in front of everyone!

I LOVE SMITHWICKS, MY NEWFOUND REDHEADED IRISH SLUT BEER!

Ephiphany

Hey! I'm quoted in something on the Globe's website today. If you read the whole piece carefully, two things stand out:

1. Apparently, I'm a "local notable," and
2. I'm also apparently a much worse person than other local notables.

Last Comic Caring

I write this with full knowledge that it could be on a judge's desk someday labelled "Exhibit A."

But:

The next person who asks me, "Hey, how come you didn't try out for Last Comic Standing?" is getting ninja punched in the voice box until my shoulder cramps and I have to stop.

Which actually gives me an idea. I would try out if it really was a fight to be the last comic standing. I would definitely want to be on a show where I could hide in the living room and smash comics who are better connected and more telegenic than me in the face with a piece of rebar (note: this plan is contingent on Joe Rogan not being on the show). It could be like Highlander - if you kill another comic, you get all his jokes, until there really was only one comic standing, with a notebook and a samurai sword, bombing at the Comedy Connection because it's all tourists.

But I digress.

While LCS has been very good for some friends of mine, and I'm geniunely happy for them because of it, on balance it combines everything I hate about stand-up comedy: cutthroat competitiveness; flashy, high-energy, short sets; pandering to an audience; and, worst of all, having to live with other standup comics.

I know my comedy, and I know myself. My act isn't suited for comedy contests, and even if it were, I'm not wired to excel in high-pressure situations. Which is why I'm king of the road and my friends are all on television. I don't think in those terms. This isn't an artistic issue - this is practical. Grace under pressure and short zingy jokes are going to get you a lot further with the industry (I refuse to capitalize that term like it's important) than quirky shaggy dog stories. If I'm ever going to "make it" (a mythological condition that doesn't actually exist), it's going to be in a roundabout, indie kind of way. And that's fine with me.

Comedy contests are wretched things. It brings out the worst in comedians. This is an unbelievably ego-driven business under the best circumstances - throw in money, prestige, and television, and it becomes insufferable. Some of it's ego, some of it's nerves, but to be backstage at a contest is to be caught in a swirling suckhole of desperation and naked aggression. And some guys thrive on this, no doubt. Makes them excel. They dig it like big league pitchers dig it. Not me. I get twitchy and drunk.

And I've never seen a comedy contest that wasn't at least a little rigged. Word up.

I've been doing this a very long time, and I have a certain amount of professional standing and a commensurate amount of personal pride, and there is not a doubt in my mind that were I to audition, I would be one of the guys they make look like a desperate, unfunny shithead, and I haven't taken the path less travelled for this long to fall for that now.

How come I didn't audition for Last Comic Standing?

Because I ain't goin' out like that.