A few weeks ago, I saw a book written by some unknown comedian that was
supposedly about funny stories from the road. I flipped through it real
quickly, which was silly since I never bothered to read a word. I'm not
sure what I was looking for, but I certainly didn't find it. I put it
back.
Right now, I'm in the back seat of a Chevy Aveo on the way to
a gig in North Carolina. This car is Goddamn tiny. I suppose it's
physically possible for me to be less comfortable, but it would require
dental tools. Positions like this make me reconsider every decision I've
ever made in my life.
And that's the thing about comedy: you
have no idea what kind of crazy ass situation in which you'll end up.
For every top-notch comedy club I've ever performed in, I've been in
five other venues that could easily have been sets for a "Saw" movie.
For every fine meal I've eaten on a promoter's dime, I've paid for ten
at some greasy spoon with dust on the picture frames. And for every
comfortable, normal trip I take with other comics...
Okay, that
last sentence fragment was pure fiction. No trip taken with other comics
is normal. In fact, usually they're one of two things: incredible fun
or horrific torture. But no matter which, they are always interesting.
Damn.
I was about to list off a bunch of stories of things I've experienced,
but almost every story includes some element of illegality (not by me;
really) or a serious compromising of morals. Which means they're pretty
juicy. Which means they'll be perfect for MY book. So screw that other
comic. I've got some stories of my own to sell. And my book will be
funnier.
Now, if you'll excuse me, we just crossed the Georgia
state line, I'm sick of typing on this blackberry, and I have got to
find some way to sleep in this padded shelf Chevrolet calls a back seat.
