“One leg to the north / One to the south / What I can’t do with my dick / I’ll do with my mouth!” And then he pounded a drink.
The lead-off comic had finally been saved from the stage. About 10 minutes earlier, he threatened not to finish his set without a Jaegerblaster shot. He was bombing by that point, and even though his comedy soon devolved into some rather ugly racial hostility with front row hecklers, it took that long for anyone to buy him a drink. People cared that little. Finally the bar took mercy on him (and us) and sent up a couple of shots.
His second toast: “Here’s to looking like movie stars, living like rock stars, and fucking like porn stars.”
I’m currently developing a theater piece that explores San Diego through its club/social scene, and last night we went on a field trip, doing research in Pacific Beach (or “P.B.” as it’s known by the locals). The line of breasty chicks for P.B. Bar & Grill (THE place to be on Tuesdays) was too long to even be endured (“dude, everyone smokes pot in San Diego. I smoke–I live in Ocean Beach–this one time…”), so we headed next door for Comedy Night at Moondoggie’s.
Margaret, my former student with whom I am collaborating, inspired the hell out of me with her dazzling generosity as an audience member. She laughed, even when the jokes weren’t funny (and they weren’t). She nodded and responded and remained thoroughly committed to the comics–without even the bland neutrality I retreat to when confronted with bad performance.
So much to write about from last week–still figuring out how to say it in bite-sized chunks.