Valium Vickie

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Meditations from an unknown comic on a long drive home after a successful show

I fucking killed! I fucking destroyed. Never gonna have to send 15 emails just to get booked again. That asshole is going to be begging me to come back there now. God, I needed that. Those last couple shows have been so shitty. Just gotta keep doing more shows. More shows will turn into bigger shows and some more money and then who knows? Who knows, what? What are you even talking about? I don't know, I just know I needed that. If I don't stop, I can be home in two hours and still make it to the bar for a few drinks. God I wish I had some coke. Oh well. Probably better, I have a bunch of shit to do tomorrow anyway. It's always something. Just once, there was a weekend where I didn't have anything to do. I had those fuckers in the palm of my hand. I could've gotten them to laugh at anything ... except that guy in the front. What was his problem anyway? Didn't crack a smile all night long. You're at a comedy show asshole ... you're supposed to laugh. Nice, I love this song. They never play this anymore. They never play anything good anymore. Can barely even stand to listen to the radio anyone. All that new shit is awful. God, I sound like an asshole. I sound ... I sound old. That's what you say when you're getting old. You say all the new shit sucks. But that's not true. In high school I was really young, and I listened to Zeppelin and The Beatles. But I guess I listened to alternative stuff, too. And that was new. What the fuck is alternative, anyway? And what was that guy's problem? Not one laugh the entire night. Maybe, I should've went right at him. Then he would've seen how ridiculous he was acting. Even that lady he brought was cracking up. He looked so annoyed the whole show. Maybe he was having an affair with that lady and didn't want to draw any attention to himself. That's it. Probably wanted to sit somewhere in the back and of course that lady just had to sit right up front and cackle like a psycho. Probably wanted him to get busted, too. Fuckin typical. Of course he wasn't laughing. I wouldn't be laughing either if I was trying to avoid getting caught cheating on my wife. What a bitch. But what if it was me? What if it didn't really go as well as I thought? I messed up a bunch of stuff in the middle, and most of these people would've were so drunk they would've laughed at anything. God, they even laughed at that douche with his hacky Lorena Bobbit jokes. Jesus Christ, what if I'm delusional? What if I really, really suck?

Monday, July 11, 2011

Working with Chris Rock

The other night I had privilege of working with Chris Rock. Yes, that Chris Rock -- the hugely successful, disgustingly rich and undeniably hysterical comedian whose debut HBO special "Bring the Pain" is the sole reason I became interested in stand-up. Granted, our collaboration took place in a dream I had. But goddammit my subconscious is so much more powerful than my waking conscious, so I should probably add "worked with Chris Rock" to my intro, an intro that currently consists of bullshit like, "regularly performs at clubs and colleges all up and down the east coast."

Anyway, in the dream, I'm at a Wisecrackers Comedy Club -- only it's not really a Wisecrackers, it's more of a VFW-type hall. I'm in a back room with the other comics, when a giant black woman enters and informs us -- in a very emotional way -- that Chris Rock has just died. I assume the woman must be Chris Rock's mom because apparently in my dreams kind of a I'm racist, and the thought never occurs to me that non-related black women could be emotionally affected by Chris's death. I approach the woman who, as it turns out, is Chris Rock's mom and attempt to console her. I put my arms around her and ask if there's anything I can do to help. Turns out there is. Chris's mom asks if it would be OK if she brought her son's body into the show. In the background, I notice the other comics emphatically shaking their heads, as I say to Mrs. Rock, "If it will make you feel better, of course you can."

In the showroom, there's a makeshift Chris Rock shrine that includes a beautiful coffin filled the body of the legendary comic, a cardboard cutout of Chris circa the "Bigger and Blacker" era and a couple of huge bodyguards. The booming voice of an announcer informs the room that "We're in the presence of greatness, ladies and gentleman. Nine-time Emmy winner Chris Rock is in attendance tonight." (Note: I found the nine-time Emmy thing to be the most unusual part of the dream.) A spotlight then lights up the Chris Rock memorial viewing area for the audience. Once the spotlight dims, I notice Chris's corpse begins to stir. At first it seems like the involuntary type of post-mortem movement I've heard stories about. But then I see that the movement is voluntary. Chris Rock isn't dead at all, in fact, he's cracking up over the spectacle of his staged memorial. Before the rest of the audience catches on, Rock leaps out of his coffin and takes the stage. He opens with a killer joke about old, dirty panties, but he's soon interrupted by a group of rowdy, Mongolian hecklers. Unfazed, Rock responds with a series of perfectly timed retorts about Genghis Khan and Mongolian stereotypes that shuts up the historically misplaced hecklers.

Before I can talk talk to my favorite comic about his performance, my subconscious yanks me out of the Wisecrackers/VFW and dumps me in a field that's reminiscent of the pumpkin field in "It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." Cocoa, my neighbor's black lab, is trailing a safe distance behind me. I tell Cocoa to go home, and then I'm awake. I haven't worked with Chris Rock since.