Dan V America Tour: part 1
I’d never spent much time on the road as a comedian. Not for want of the thing, but mostly because it’s hard to get a good college or club booker and doing all the booking and wage negotiating yourself...that’s a full time job, one where the owning of a car is about as optional as having a a nervous system. Bookers generally want to see your best 5-7 minutes of one liners or cutesypoo observational bits, e.g. “Golf is weird, right guys? Right? 18 holes, a club and one white ball…(insert retarded observation here)!”
So if your act is predominantly stories or political...good luck. And if you have both...well, gooder luck. And if you're not in you early twenties while doing this...consider sepuku.
Since I’m one of those gentleman lucky enough to fool himself into thinking his thoughts on modern political warfare matter or that his own histrionic family history is as funny to an audience as it is to himself, trying to find a booker can be a futile errand. That and I have no patience for winning over some cigar chomping commission-vampire who would just as soon send out one of his dozen juggler/impressionist/adult hypnotism acts to whatever burnt out, woodland pool hall he’s deigned to give me a shot at that night. At least this is the cartoonish 1970’s image that comes to mind...which I’m sure is partly responsible for my lack of road experience.
So in general, I’ve previously been confined to rooms in Boston, L.A. and NYC, or when I did go on the road it was for brief periods (a few days) or to perform for specific groups like the resident College Democrats at whatever school my pal Jeff Kriesler would invite me along to open or middle for him. But that was then, and this is, ahem, now.
Enter: The Dan VS. America Tour
From the moment we hit the road, things went exactly as you’d expect them to go...wrong. But still somehow good. Good because you know that every comedian you’ve ever idolized had to go through the same thing many times over and came out of it much the better. Every comedian who goes out for long periods must find themselves wondering if the shows always have such wide ranging results. And of course they do. We’ve had s.r.o. Drink At Work Shows with great audiences excited to see every sketch and comedian, famous or not, but we’ve also had shows where the single, hate-filled audience member was actively remote viewing the location of our families so he could kidnap them, hold them for ransom, and force us to close shop.
That happens everywhere, but on the road, in strange towns and with little to do but focus on upcoming and recently past performances, it all gets blown way out of proportion...that is until it deadens you inside and you stop caring. Luckily for us on the D V A Tour, it only took three shows before we all stopped caring. Here’s what we’ve been up to so far.
I flew to LA Saturday February 3rd, and on Monday Dan Bialek, Dan Dominguez and I drove north for 16 hours and by 1 am, we’d made it to a sizable bar/pool hall in Eugene, Oregon (in the woods, yes). 200 people had shown up to see my best friend Dan Bialek headline (45 mins), myself middle (30 mins), and Dominguez open (15 mins). Unfortunately the audience had arrived around 10 pm. Three hours late due to construction, unforeseen deluges, and traffic jams, we arrived to find the 15 hardcore fans who stayed...15 hardcore drunk fans.
At the DAW Show, we always encourage our audience to patronize the bar as much as possible, knowing that they’ll keep it within limits. DAW audiences, like many of those in NYC downtown comedy, have either come to see a free-to-cheap show. It’s low risk for them. If it wasn’t good, “Hey, at least it was free.” And if it was great, “Hey, it was free!” Either way, chances are they’re not going to order 10 rounds of shots to chase their 10 rounds of car bombs and Sugartinis. They just don’t throw them back in NYC or LA or even Boston the way they do on the road.
So instead of a comedy show breaking up their thirst-slaking party, this already hard drinking community kept doing what they do best...you guessed it! Liver smothering!
By the time we got there, the level of speech coherence among patrons hovered somewhere around “offering three-ways as personal introductions” to “I shout racial slurs as punctuation.” That’s one thing we’ve definitely established on this trip...America still loves to hate. No fewer than three times at the first show alone, we were sitting around afterwards with a few locals, having a relatively nice chat each time, when out of nowhere, as if it was a hilarious anecdote they suddenly remembered and wanted to share, some fan of the show would blurt out how little affection he or she had for anyone with skin darker than a vampire Viking who’d spent most of his life in a cave. There’s a reason minorities cluster in cities: nobody wants to be the neighborhood novelty/focus of unreasoning hatred.
Interestingly enough, there have been next to no black people in any of the towns we’ve visited and yet, as if they were monsters out of legend, the locals barely stop themselves from making the sign of the cross at their mention or from suggesting that perhaps separate but equal facilities could be set up for their schooling, eating, breathing, etc.
When we asked them what they don’t like about black people, the answer is inevitably an evasive non-explanation like, “I just don’t trust them.” When asked why, then they really pull out the big logic guns with retorts like, “I just don’t.” Both Dans and myself are all half-Latino, so during these chats, we’re blessed with the bonus experience of feeling like we’re half-under cover.
What’s truly beautiful about the redneck is that they're the perfection of the human being-as-trainwreck, utterly unaware of how horribly ruinous their lives have become, and in fact even proud of it.
First of all, they all have at least a couple kids they kinda, sorta know about living nearby or with one of their multiple ex-es. Jack Daniels is a breakfast beverage on par with O.J. or milk. Weight? Somewhere in the 300-400 lbs. range. There's always some vague desire to leave one’s particular town but no ambition in life grander than hanging out at the neighborhood IHOP to make that move manifest.
Dental deformities are a must!
And it’s not due to lack of money cause these folks can throw back a hundred dollars of booze a night, and that's on an off night. It must be fashionable to have teeth that practically come through the side of one’s cheek, which face every which way but useful, and which in times of danger can (I’m guessing here) serve as a defensive perimeter from which to hide behind. But it’s not they and the millions of planetary burdens like them who are the problem...it’s black people. Right?
Scapegoat much?
Anyway, to the matter of the shows themselves... The 15 people who stuck around for that first show were all very pleasant folks, aside from the latent racism--which is probably the most loaded excuse one can make for a group of people.
“Hey this is my buddy, Reg. He’s a good guy except for all the cross-burning and hate crimes.” But there it is. Nice with a streak of evil. Ugh.
So they sat there and they almost listened--which is tough when a retired hooker/stripper and her yip-yip dog on her lap kept interrupting. Which she was.
In her defense, she’s used to being the center of attention, and none of us were putting dollar bills in her clothes as we were all busy trying to win over a largely unwinnable sprinkling of people. Fortunately she took it upon herself to share every half-thought she was having as they came to her. Some of her pearls of wisdom included, “You’re handsome. But I don’t know what you’re saying,” and “Oh my god, my (garbled word) is just like (garbled phrase) too! See! We could be friends. You’re handsome.”
The show ended with Bialek telling one of his trademark personal horror stories and coming off stage to a big round of laughs and applause. Something he’s good at, taking a bad show and turning it into a showcase of his deftness with words while simultaneously remaining accessible to every audience, even a very drunk, very tired one.
That show would turn out to be a good example of what was to come.
The next night was a small college in Aberdeen, Washington, home to Nirvana’s late Kurt Cobain. Town motto? COME AS YOU ARE. Really. Truly. Dan Dominguez has been opening by observing the inappropriateness of Aberdeen’s appropriating of Cobain’s fame by using a Nirvana song title as their town motto. Other possible options they may have explored? Welcome To Aberdeen: Rape me.
About 70 people were scattered throughout what was a modern, well equipped, and quite large auditorium. They ranged from 14 years old (two kids in the front who didn’t smile once) to a group of area hipsters (who surprisingly loved the show) to a group of elderly ladies who were so frail they had to be escorted in by the theater’s attendants. (I think they enjoyed it. They didn't die. That's something right?)
Overall, the show went very well. We all had strong sets, and everyone seemed pleased except the 14 year olds who I think were hoping we’d be more like Dane Cook. I know this because I heard one of them say, "These guys stink. I thought they'd be more like Dane Cook." Then they tried to recreate one of Dane’s bits, something about a Tyrannosaurus having trouble jerking off due to its small arms. Sigh.
We hadn’t yet checked in to a hotel yet, so we were obliged by two of the show's fans, a couple of sweet Emo kids, to come stay the night with them. We all went out to get Mexican food then crashed at their place, which they shared with an obese 50 year old English woman who sat by the fire guzzling wine and cigarettes and who related to us that she’d almost been raped that night. Horrified, we asked what had happened and could we help. It turns out that was just an opener for her because the next sentence out of her mouth was addressed to Dan. That sentence was, “So are you going to fuck me?” None of us stand on ceremony when a ridiculous situation rears its wonderful, wonderful comedy-making head. The woman then climbed on Dan’s lap and tried to force herself on him.
She kept asking us to "shag" her...so a good two hours was then spent explaining to her that her “jump rope tits” weren’t really doing it for any of us. And when she threatened us with suicide by swallowing pills, we quickly fetched the pills and begged her to do it. Which of course she did not. A 40 minute walk in the rain later, she came back and went straight to bed. The pills? Tums.
But the fun doesn’t have to stop there. Not when ambiguous sexuality is involved. Emo-boy, a nice kid, and his girlfriend of a week and a half, also a nice kid, were enjoying the antics I suppose, but they were turning into a side show themselves. She spent the next portion of the evening trying to convince us she was with him only until he admitted he was gay, an “accusation” he continuously denied by telling us stories that started with phrases like, “When I was at the hair salon...” and “I was only trying to kiss him because...” Well, a little urging and a lot of built up ennui within them both made it possible for us to coax them into trying to make a baby from within their dog’s travel cage. Ten beautiful, awkward minutes later produced nothing more than further remonstrations from the girl that he was a bad lover, which we defended as a group with the observation that she looked as if she probably leaned lady-ward with her own sexual cravings anyway. Once again we were fairly dead on...since such a scenario had apparently played out not long before our visit to the town. Would we could time travel.
We’d had our fill of helping these two young pupa transform into the beautiful little butterflies they would someday become--the English creature had passed out in her room--so it was off to bed. Our last impression of the town would be as we dropped off Emo-boy for his appointment at the hair salon. Urging him to get out of Aberdeen as soon as possible but knowing he’d at best move to Portland, we said our goodbyes and were on the road to a coffeeshop in Tacoma, Washington.
But that's a hilarious story for another blog.
Goodnight America, wherever you are.
Love,
Sean
So if your act is predominantly stories or political...good luck. And if you have both...well, gooder luck. And if you're not in you early twenties while doing this...consider sepuku.
Since I’m one of those gentleman lucky enough to fool himself into thinking his thoughts on modern political warfare matter or that his own histrionic family history is as funny to an audience as it is to himself, trying to find a booker can be a futile errand. That and I have no patience for winning over some cigar chomping commission-vampire who would just as soon send out one of his dozen juggler/impressionist/adult hypnotism acts to whatever burnt out, woodland pool hall he’s deigned to give me a shot at that night. At least this is the cartoonish 1970’s image that comes to mind...which I’m sure is partly responsible for my lack of road experience.
So in general, I’ve previously been confined to rooms in Boston, L.A. and NYC, or when I did go on the road it was for brief periods (a few days) or to perform for specific groups like the resident College Democrats at whatever school my pal Jeff Kriesler would invite me along to open or middle for him. But that was then, and this is, ahem, now.
Enter: The Dan VS. America Tour
From the moment we hit the road, things went exactly as you’d expect them to go...wrong. But still somehow good. Good because you know that every comedian you’ve ever idolized had to go through the same thing many times over and came out of it much the better. Every comedian who goes out for long periods must find themselves wondering if the shows always have such wide ranging results. And of course they do. We’ve had s.r.o. Drink At Work Shows with great audiences excited to see every sketch and comedian, famous or not, but we’ve also had shows where the single, hate-filled audience member was actively remote viewing the location of our families so he could kidnap them, hold them for ransom, and force us to close shop.
That happens everywhere, but on the road, in strange towns and with little to do but focus on upcoming and recently past performances, it all gets blown way out of proportion...that is until it deadens you inside and you stop caring. Luckily for us on the D V A Tour, it only took three shows before we all stopped caring. Here’s what we’ve been up to so far.
I flew to LA Saturday February 3rd, and on Monday Dan Bialek, Dan Dominguez and I drove north for 16 hours and by 1 am, we’d made it to a sizable bar/pool hall in Eugene, Oregon (in the woods, yes). 200 people had shown up to see my best friend Dan Bialek headline (45 mins), myself middle (30 mins), and Dominguez open (15 mins). Unfortunately the audience had arrived around 10 pm. Three hours late due to construction, unforeseen deluges, and traffic jams, we arrived to find the 15 hardcore fans who stayed...15 hardcore drunk fans.
At the DAW Show, we always encourage our audience to patronize the bar as much as possible, knowing that they’ll keep it within limits. DAW audiences, like many of those in NYC downtown comedy, have either come to see a free-to-cheap show. It’s low risk for them. If it wasn’t good, “Hey, at least it was free.” And if it was great, “Hey, it was free!” Either way, chances are they’re not going to order 10 rounds of shots to chase their 10 rounds of car bombs and Sugartinis. They just don’t throw them back in NYC or LA or even Boston the way they do on the road.
So instead of a comedy show breaking up their thirst-slaking party, this already hard drinking community kept doing what they do best...you guessed it! Liver smothering!
By the time we got there, the level of speech coherence among patrons hovered somewhere around “offering three-ways as personal introductions” to “I shout racial slurs as punctuation.” That’s one thing we’ve definitely established on this trip...America still loves to hate. No fewer than three times at the first show alone, we were sitting around afterwards with a few locals, having a relatively nice chat each time, when out of nowhere, as if it was a hilarious anecdote they suddenly remembered and wanted to share, some fan of the show would blurt out how little affection he or she had for anyone with skin darker than a vampire Viking who’d spent most of his life in a cave. There’s a reason minorities cluster in cities: nobody wants to be the neighborhood novelty/focus of unreasoning hatred.
Interestingly enough, there have been next to no black people in any of the towns we’ve visited and yet, as if they were monsters out of legend, the locals barely stop themselves from making the sign of the cross at their mention or from suggesting that perhaps separate but equal facilities could be set up for their schooling, eating, breathing, etc.
When we asked them what they don’t like about black people, the answer is inevitably an evasive non-explanation like, “I just don’t trust them.” When asked why, then they really pull out the big logic guns with retorts like, “I just don’t.” Both Dans and myself are all half-Latino, so during these chats, we’re blessed with the bonus experience of feeling like we’re half-under cover.
What’s truly beautiful about the redneck is that they're the perfection of the human being-as-trainwreck, utterly unaware of how horribly ruinous their lives have become, and in fact even proud of it.
First of all, they all have at least a couple kids they kinda, sorta know about living nearby or with one of their multiple ex-es. Jack Daniels is a breakfast beverage on par with O.J. or milk. Weight? Somewhere in the 300-400 lbs. range. There's always some vague desire to leave one’s particular town but no ambition in life grander than hanging out at the neighborhood IHOP to make that move manifest.
Dental deformities are a must!
And it’s not due to lack of money cause these folks can throw back a hundred dollars of booze a night, and that's on an off night. It must be fashionable to have teeth that practically come through the side of one’s cheek, which face every which way but useful, and which in times of danger can (I’m guessing here) serve as a defensive perimeter from which to hide behind. But it’s not they and the millions of planetary burdens like them who are the problem...it’s black people. Right?
Scapegoat much?
Anyway, to the matter of the shows themselves... The 15 people who stuck around for that first show were all very pleasant folks, aside from the latent racism--which is probably the most loaded excuse one can make for a group of people.
“Hey this is my buddy, Reg. He’s a good guy except for all the cross-burning and hate crimes.” But there it is. Nice with a streak of evil. Ugh.
So they sat there and they almost listened--which is tough when a retired hooker/stripper and her yip-yip dog on her lap kept interrupting. Which she was.
In her defense, she’s used to being the center of attention, and none of us were putting dollar bills in her clothes as we were all busy trying to win over a largely unwinnable sprinkling of people. Fortunately she took it upon herself to share every half-thought she was having as they came to her. Some of her pearls of wisdom included, “You’re handsome. But I don’t know what you’re saying,” and “Oh my god, my (garbled word) is just like (garbled phrase) too! See! We could be friends. You’re handsome.”
The show ended with Bialek telling one of his trademark personal horror stories and coming off stage to a big round of laughs and applause. Something he’s good at, taking a bad show and turning it into a showcase of his deftness with words while simultaneously remaining accessible to every audience, even a very drunk, very tired one.
That show would turn out to be a good example of what was to come.
The next night was a small college in Aberdeen, Washington, home to Nirvana’s late Kurt Cobain. Town motto? COME AS YOU ARE. Really. Truly. Dan Dominguez has been opening by observing the inappropriateness of Aberdeen’s appropriating of Cobain’s fame by using a Nirvana song title as their town motto. Other possible options they may have explored? Welcome To Aberdeen: Rape me.
About 70 people were scattered throughout what was a modern, well equipped, and quite large auditorium. They ranged from 14 years old (two kids in the front who didn’t smile once) to a group of area hipsters (who surprisingly loved the show) to a group of elderly ladies who were so frail they had to be escorted in by the theater’s attendants. (I think they enjoyed it. They didn't die. That's something right?)
Overall, the show went very well. We all had strong sets, and everyone seemed pleased except the 14 year olds who I think were hoping we’d be more like Dane Cook. I know this because I heard one of them say, "These guys stink. I thought they'd be more like Dane Cook." Then they tried to recreate one of Dane’s bits, something about a Tyrannosaurus having trouble jerking off due to its small arms. Sigh.
We hadn’t yet checked in to a hotel yet, so we were obliged by two of the show's fans, a couple of sweet Emo kids, to come stay the night with them. We all went out to get Mexican food then crashed at their place, which they shared with an obese 50 year old English woman who sat by the fire guzzling wine and cigarettes and who related to us that she’d almost been raped that night. Horrified, we asked what had happened and could we help. It turns out that was just an opener for her because the next sentence out of her mouth was addressed to Dan. That sentence was, “So are you going to fuck me?” None of us stand on ceremony when a ridiculous situation rears its wonderful, wonderful comedy-making head. The woman then climbed on Dan’s lap and tried to force herself on him.
She kept asking us to "shag" her...so a good two hours was then spent explaining to her that her “jump rope tits” weren’t really doing it for any of us. And when she threatened us with suicide by swallowing pills, we quickly fetched the pills and begged her to do it. Which of course she did not. A 40 minute walk in the rain later, she came back and went straight to bed. The pills? Tums.
But the fun doesn’t have to stop there. Not when ambiguous sexuality is involved. Emo-boy, a nice kid, and his girlfriend of a week and a half, also a nice kid, were enjoying the antics I suppose, but they were turning into a side show themselves. She spent the next portion of the evening trying to convince us she was with him only until he admitted he was gay, an “accusation” he continuously denied by telling us stories that started with phrases like, “When I was at the hair salon...” and “I was only trying to kiss him because...” Well, a little urging and a lot of built up ennui within them both made it possible for us to coax them into trying to make a baby from within their dog’s travel cage. Ten beautiful, awkward minutes later produced nothing more than further remonstrations from the girl that he was a bad lover, which we defended as a group with the observation that she looked as if she probably leaned lady-ward with her own sexual cravings anyway. Once again we were fairly dead on...since such a scenario had apparently played out not long before our visit to the town. Would we could time travel.
We’d had our fill of helping these two young pupa transform into the beautiful little butterflies they would someday become--the English creature had passed out in her room--so it was off to bed. Our last impression of the town would be as we dropped off Emo-boy for his appointment at the hair salon. Urging him to get out of Aberdeen as soon as possible but knowing he’d at best move to Portland, we said our goodbyes and were on the road to a coffeeshop in Tacoma, Washington.
But that's a hilarious story for another blog.
Goodnight America, wherever you are.
Love,
Sean
posted by The Crespo at 1:17 AM
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3 Comments:
Oh. My. God. On behalf of the states of Oregon and Washington, my apologies. I'm so bummed that I didn't know you were going to be out here, though!
FREEEEEEEEEDOM!
What? Freedom from the Northwest, you mean? Nice.
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