Tuesday, August 22, 2006  

The Plan

The back end of a five game curb stomp ain't fun, is it?

The Yankees descended on Boston like a horde of Visigoths, raped our women, burned our crops, and fled into the night, taking summer with them. You think it's a goddamn coincidence that this morning, the very first morning after the massacre, the air was cold and crisp and autumnal? No way. Macbeth hath murdered sleep and Giambi hath murdered summertime.

Remember the scene in Black Hawk Down where the Delta sniper sat alone and scared in the wreckage of his smoldering helicopter firing and reloading as fast as he could while about a million pissed off Somalis surrounded and finally engulfed him?

I figure that's about how David Wells felt yesterday.

Poor Theo. He has a Plan, and he's sticking to the Plan, and god bless the Plan. But sometimes, brother, the Plan doesn't work, and you're left hanging in empty space, like Wile E. Coyote, and then your bullpen, which bears a striking resemblance the Island of Misfit Toys, hands you a ten-ton anvil and you and your precious little Plan come crashing to earth in a cloud of dirt and dust and pink Red Sox caps.

Truth be told, I actually agree with Theo's Plan. But I'm also here to tell you that it is No Goddamn Fun when a Plan goes south on you. Oh, I had a Plan once. You bet your sweet spanky ass I did. And I'm here to tell you, about 99 percent of what I do day in and day out these days wasn't in it. Were I to show you the Plan, now kept for historical purposes in a safety deposit box along with my earrings and testicles, you'd be amazed at how far off course we've drifted. Yesterday was supposed to be the day I got caught in a cheap motel in Reno with a multicultural bevy of questionable women, a veritable rainbow of whores, putting my million-dollar development deal in jeopardy, though it would eventually be saved when the NBC executives were literally striken blind from the genius of my submitted scripts.

Instead, I'm in the middle of Plan B, which is equally rewarding, I swear, albeit in strikingly different ways. I don't know that there's an equation whereby I can compare the love and adoration of a beautiful wife and perfect children to the booze-fueled depravity of desperately kinked floozies, but if there were, the greater-than symbol would be pointed at Clan McIntire, squarely and unequivocally. Believe that.

I'm not here to complain for a second about Plan B -- I'm just here to tell Theo that I understand what it feels like to be standing in a vast open desert, vultures circling, throat parched and skin cracked, yelling into the empty blazing sky, "BUT I HAD A FUCKING PLAN!!!!"

Roundup

Well, most of you missed one hell of a show at Jimmy Tingle's this weekend. Great lineup, small crowds - the curse of summertime comedy. But Ira Proctor, Mary Beth Cowan, Mike Dorval, and Renata Tutko lived up to their billing, and if somehow I'm able to talk them into doing this again, y'all should carpe the goddamn diem and make it out, because you won't see a better show.

You can, however, see an equally good show this coming weekend. Same place (Jimmy Tingle's Off-Brodway), same time (10:00 Friday and Saturday), same level of kickassery:

Ken Reid
Elisha Yaffee
Korte Yeo
Ellen Moschetto

I mean, that's an all-star lineup no matter how you slice it. You wanna be the kind of person who watches Premium Blend and brags to your friends that you already know about the comics? Then you gotta see this one.

This may be the last you hear from me before Friday night. Me and Team McIntire are fleeing to some hippie villa in Vermont for a few days. I'm bringing my laptop, but it may be consficated by a woman in a white bonnet at the entryway, so keep your fingers crossed.

Hey...Come Out and Play

Like many others in Boston, I'm an unshaven, rumpled mess this morning, thanks to another Red Sox debacle in the Central Time Zone. I look and feel like Arkady Renko, and I don't anticipate it getting better any time soon.

On the other hand, the votive candles I lit in my Wily Mo Pena shrine seem to be working pretty well.

My point is this: don't sit at home tonight, watching the Sox go tits-up against the Orioles. You don't have to take that abuse. You can walk away. And then keep walking to Jimmy Tingle's Off Broadway, where I'm hosting a 10:00 comedy show that's as good as any you've seen.

I mean, I get to hand-pick the lineup. Just dig who I've gotten to do long sets tonight:

Mary Beth Cowan
Renata Tutko
Mike Dorval
Ira Proctor

This hosting gig could turn into something pretty regular, and your support really matters to me. It'll be a blast, I promise.

(P.S. Dear comics, please stop asking me for spots. I'm doing these gigs to restore my faith in comedy, and you guys are being counterproductive.)

Milestones

I do not know where I was the moment Jude took his first step, and I wasn't there for his first real word. He lost (and swallowed) his first tooth at school, and in a few weeks, when he goes to Kindergarden for the first time, I'll be long gone to work.

That's a lot of milestones to miss.

But just ten minutes ago, as we lay in his dark room, just after our story and just before he started to fall asleep, I was there -- right there -- when he figured out how to make fart noises on his arm.

Proudest day of my life.

Dear Comedy Professionals

I know that a lot of comics read this blog. So this post is addressed to you.

I'm currently wide awake after too much pre-show coffee. I'm relaxing by watching Savage Steve Holland's One Crazy Summer.

None of us...repeat, none of us...is as funny as this movie, and we never will be.

That is all.

And I'm Back

Oh, it's been a hell of a month, my droogs. A hell of a month. Know what I did for the last 30 days when I wasn't doing comedy shows?

Not a goddamn thing.

I sat on my ass and did jack-all. I lived like a regular person. I watched baseball games. I read books. I ate in restaurants with...wait for it...my wife. I went to bed at a reasonable hour, sober, with regularity. I ate vegetables that I grew in my garden. I cooked burgers on the grill and squirted mustard with my kids. I saw my kids.

Know what I didn't do? Write jokes, hang out in clubs, drink to excess out of boredom, pretend to be interested in other peoples' acts, pretend to be impressed by TV credits, humor open mikers who think they're rock stars, bore anyone with lectures, do old bits, do new bits, ask people where they're from and what they do, swear out of laziness, or talk about guys getting bit by snakes.

And it was heaven. Even if it was hotter than Mercury.

But things cost money, and summertime never lasts, so here I am. Maybe recharged, maybe terminally apathetic, but still cute as a bespectacled Aryan bug. I spent last night in the company of Brendan Boogie, rock star and comedy nerd, watching the Red Sox live by the sword and walk off again, cheering with the locals and drinking a celebratory drink while chatting about all things art. He's a good man, this Boog, and he makes me think it's possible to be a comic and a grown-up.

Big changes, monkeys. There's a lot of clubs I'm not coming back to. If you live more than, say, an hour and a half from Boston, well, send me a postard and keep in touch, but I ain't going to be seeing you no more. I mean, I understand you live out there for a reason. Maybe you like stargazing or maybe you're in a militia. But you live too far away, and I've driven too much as it is. I'm a homebody now, and my heart beats slower. I've taken all the chances that a guy should take.

I got a left-handed five-year old who needs to learn to pitch, dig?

But good news if you live here, near the civilized world. Starting next week, I'm going to be the regular host of late-night comedy shows at Jimmy Tingle's Off-Broadway theatre. That's right. Good shows, close to home, for smart people in a nice place. It's going to be fun...actual fun...and I hope to see you there once or twice or every goddamn week.

I'm not sure, but I think, just maybe, I'm glad to be back.