Talk Dirty

Talk Dirty                5424  (1474)

Sunday, August 20, 2006-11:36 A.M. CDT

I am in Florida and the humidity is killing me.  Last night I stepped outside of the comedy club to make a phone call, and it was so humid, I could smell the detergent my shirt was washed in.  Yeah, it was *that* humid.

At the same time, my nose has dried out something fierce, and I can't stop pulling out hard boogers plus hairs.  I know God had a plan when he designed us to have boogers, but I'll be damned if I know what it is. 

The show Thursday night with Dobie Maxwell was fun, in that way that I was suffering in a redneck hellhole, but with a buddy, so it was o.k.  The accomodations were freaking out my lovely bride Pamela, who couldn't believe that there was a crack under the door of our room at the Motel 6 big enough to see daylight through.  She was convinced that hordes of insects, of which she is deathly afraid, would enter the room during the night, which of course, is rank foolishness.  The room was pretty grubby, though, and if you walked around barefoot, your feet told the story of neglect that was the rug cleaning program at the Palm Bay Motel 6.

The show itself was in a quasi-sports bar in a strip mall, reasonably well attended and with a little more attention to detail than the usual one-nighter; the room with the pool tables was cordoned off by heavy curtains, so you didn't have to speak over the clacking of billiard balls.  It was a nice touch, and I appreciated it.  The only duress came during my set, when about ten minutes in, they decided to eject the only black man in the room, a drunken gentleman who couldn't resist the temptation to walk around the room and engage *everyone* in conversation.  I soldiered on during the bouncing, until I realized what was happening and took a break.  I managed to get the room back after he was ejected, and we were off to the races.  Dobie drew some hecklers, but we both just hit 'em with high speed comedy, allowing no seams with which to continue the drunken retorts.

The next morning, I had to attend to a brake light that had appeared on my dashboard.  A trip to Jiffy Lube, our oil-change destination of choice, yielded a full-service oil change, new air filter, and the service man was nice enough to inform me that while they do not add brake fluid, he walked me through the process and even took one of the front wheels off to inspect the pads, which passed our visual inspection.  A cup of coffee and a trip to Advanced Auto Parts for a $1.48 bottle of brake fluid, and the dashboard light was off, my stress level had dropped to normal (which is still pretty high).

The drive to Panama City, Florida, was a nut-buster, and my route nickel-and-dimed me every step of the way.  I blame it on the close proximity to Disney World and Orlando in general.  We made our way west to route 75 and then north to route 10, and then the trail of tears across the panhandle.

We arrived at the Warehouse Comedy Zone's Comedy Cottage, a two-unit dwelling in a somewhat shady neighborhood.  We punched our access code in and entered, to find a nice big bed, futon, our own bathroom (the bane of traveling comics....sharing a bathroom with the other guy/gal), wireless internet, a mini-fridge and microwave.  It's quite a pity that such a well-furnished and comfortable place would only be used for two days!  And after the myriad shit-holes I've stayed in during my comedy career, it was a breath of fresh air.

The shows on Friday night were sparsely attended, and first show, I was really showing how tired and road-frazzled I was.  I was all over the board, and turned in a show that was o.k., but not up to my standards, and certainly not what I wanted my first impression to be.  The itinerary for the club indicated that they wanted to be a "cleaner" comedy club, and a lot of my material is dirtier, loaded with language (because I talk like that) and reflective of my comedy upbringing: Canadian comics who have to win over the respect of loggers, hunters and fishermen, and ain't gonna do it with no pansy-pickin' language...the comics I came up watching.

Headliner Tim Statum, who I worked with before, went up and did his show with no sign of censorship, using whatever language and material he saw fit, and second show, I just let loose and did my show.  It went over well, and I even got accolades from the owner about how I handled some latecomers who interrupted the show.  Saturday night, I went up and did my thing, allowing myself to become loose and improvisational, and it paid off in spades.  Richard, the club manager, really thanked me for the great job all weekend, and I felt vindicated.  I have to remember to stick to my guns and ride the horse that got me here.  I can change the act as far as losing the offending language, but I can't meddle with the content and continue to be myself.  Second show I went into a mini-rant about how supporting the troops doesn't mean putting one of those asshole yellow ribbon magnets on your car.  I had punchlines prepared that I put in, but it was one of those things that I just went into and didn't plan on saying, and it got the laugh and applause.

Today, Pam, Harmony and I make the trip to Fort Walton Beach, another Comedy Zone room that I did last year on my Florida trip.  It's at one of those "Howl At The Moon" dueling piano bars, and last year I did really well there, so I'm looking forward to knocking one out of the park.  I have the confidence and know what to expect, so that's a big plus in my column.  Also, I did well with product there last year, but of course, that was before the hurricane hit.  This summer, product sales are sucking the pipe, and with $3 a gallon gasoline, I'm really taking a hit. 

I'm about to shower up and shake the sand of Panama City from my heels, but looking forward to coming back next year.  Have a great week, and I'll check in from Fort Myers next weekend.

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY