Wednesday July 7, 2004. Comic Pete Carboni and I were joking the other day when we agreed that we hate happy comics. They should go die. The Ice House crowd was a pain in the ass because the booker broke up the energy of our standup with improv between sets. Way to kill the room with happiness. The crowd ended up feeling bad for me because they took what I was saying as reality instead of humor. Whenever you’re getting awwws instead of laughter, you’re fucked. Damn reality world of improv got them all screwy, and happy and in the moment. This is not a happy moment. It’s miserable and that’s why I’m here. To make you laugh in this shitty moment. Stand up comedy is pain manifested into laughter. Therefore, both feelings must occur. And today I relish the pain. And so I picked up on the waitress. Going back to the advice that Dana Gould gave me, “Louis, fuck as many waitresses as you can.” I followed suit and took his advice, hard and fast...no pun intended.

Friday July 9,2004. Here I sit on an airplane about to taxi for take off. The plane will hopefully land in Newark, NJ in about 5 hours. Unless, of course, it lands in a ball of fiery twisted metal somewhere in Nebraska. I hate that state. It’s so fucking boring that a plane crash would make it topical, therefore interesting, even if only for a week. Like who even gave a fuck about Oklahoma before the federal building bombing. Tragedy is great for empathy and tourism. I’m going to NY for a chick but I can’t let her know that. So, I disguise my weekend with fake hidden agendas of comedy clubs and magazine editorial meetings and ‘zine promotion. It is the gift of bullshit and freelance. I never leave stage.

I did not intend to have to lie but here is the back story. My friend Marina Vlaids is an actress. She approached me in my parents kitchen two months ago asking if I would do an article on her. She is willing and, might possibly, prefer, to do nudity. So, if I could pitch that idea to one of my many editors, she would be obliged. As it turns out, she would be featured in an off-Broadway play about a stripper. And would be stripping in the play. Feeling the tickle of incredible journalism about to occur, the mind raced something like this...strippers, Broadway, nudity, article, hot young actress, first Stage equity, opportunity, photo shoot, nipples, bedroom, feather boas, vagina, poles, penis... condoms...genius, I know...fast forward to today. She has a staph infection and ended up in the hospital not caring because the play was giving it’s last performance in its extended epic run of two weeks. Alas, I will save face in NYC by focusing on standup. No. All those friendly club owners and bookers in NY have not to date returned my calls, my many calls. And this is after doing numerous NY shows and bringing an audience of 15 people to each one. Not good enough. Rejection, the sweet fruit of comedy.

Short of pounding the pavement and begging for stage time on Saturday and Sunday, which I will do, I look forward to my woman, sweet little, cute little, beautiful Molly and ponder the idea of how to convince her I’m working. Because who wants to seem so attached. And we will need to back up for the meeting her story. But first a disclaimer...

All these stories are true except the ones that are false and/or some may be made up, depending on the reader and their personal connection to me. A lie is only a lie when we want it to be. Because it only becomes true when it is proven to be. The sweet excuse of poetic license has gotten me out of plenty of awkwards questions but mainly this one, “Is that true?” I think the song goes, “Believe it if you need it or leave it if you dare.”

Saturday June 12, 2004 6:00am flight from Los Angeles to Tennessee for the Bonnaroo Music Festival, which was my first music festival with press credentials. I never saw the end of that trip because it is still happening right now. And if I look into my past, I had started the trip long before June 12. In order to supplement money for food and shelter before comedy makes me rich beyond my wildest dreams, I have three jobs. I write music journalism, which consists of interviewing bands and pitching features for publication in print and web media, I sell parking lot t-shirts at concerts and I work as a production coordinator for America’s favorite family, The Simpsons. So, the irony of my existence is introspective, intelligent and lucid while deeply sarcastic and pun-oriented. Those conditions coupled with slackjawed laziness, smartass cyncism, and the road hungry desire of Middle American comeuppance is my intrinsic reality whether fictional or fact. You decide.

Back on the plane with a tape recorder, a notebook and bag full of t-shirts. I crash my ass and wake up in St. Louis like I’d been hit by a Mac truck. Off the plane and into the bar for a pulled pork sandwich, a thirst quenching drink and the depression of ugly people with kids. Listening to them butcher the English language with grace and candor while I lose my dignity for sharing their space, I daydream out the airport window, where no plane was connected to my jetway and rain fell in its place.

One hour delay led to being rerouted because of a dreadful thunderstorm over Nashville, which when I landed sixty miles east of Bonnaroo followed me all the way to the festival. All the way into the muddy streets of drenchfest, I slid and slipped and handed out copies of Bandwagon and cried for those to buy my t-shirts, got my press pass and waded backstage to find it flooded. The value of my press pass was free water backstage, the drinking and the knee deep kind. Thick and slippery southern mud. Six hundred dollars on the shirts. My new design was selling. Handed out my last and thousandth copy of the Bandwagon Special Edition comedy ‘zine with serendipity to my friend, Rodney. We walked together to his RV and watched friends from NJ ingest mountains of cocaine and ecstasy. Normally, I don’t prefer that environment but it beat the monsoon.

She walked through the crowd practically naked except for a wreath of hemp that became her tribal necklace. Sexy, muddy hippie bitch that worked as a hostess at TGIFridays somewhere in Ohio. Although, it was Rodney’s idea to get her into the RV, I got the attention and the poses which became pictures which never came out. Pictures in my head were the only ones that lasted. Ones of her opening up in every way. Ones of my laughter with friends over victories and spoils of rain soaked festivals, memories of scurrying through the crowd to avoid her in the rain.