Crash

Crash                                     3088

Saturday, January 14, 2006-11:33 A.M.

Dobie Maxwell almost killed my wife!

Two shows went off last night at Gary Field's Comedy Theater in Battle Creek, Michigan.  The first show was an uneven, stilted affair, populated by folks who couldn't afford to see Mad TV's Aries Spears in Kalamazoo.  And that was the good show.

Friday the 13th was in full effect for the second show, as every biker redneck moron that Battle Creek could shake out showed up and literally interrupted every punchline I could try to spit out.  I tried to close my show 15 or 16 times and then just gave up.  It was terrible.  Two nice girls walked out.  The club tried to quiet people down, but it was like a tire fire...one guy would shut up, and then another guy would errupt into distracting conversation.  It was a nightmare.

Dobie fared much better in the closing spot, because he refused to engage anyone in conversation for very long, and his style is much more rat-a-tat-tat than mine, and I'm pretty rat-a-tat-tat, but hecklers would always manage to jump right in just before a punchline.  At the end of the night, Dobie didn't even want to set up the merchandise table, he just wanted to retreat back to the hotel.  I convinced him to stay, and a nice couple came up and bought a couple of CD's.  Mission accomplished, we beat feat for the McCamley Plaza Hotel.

I've known Dobie for years, and two Christmases ago, we worked together in Mauston, Wisconsin, a tiny burg north of Madison that is home to about 4,000 people, although in the course of the weekend, we only got to meet about 50 of them.  Dobie is from Milwaukee, so he had plans to visit family on the Saturday, leaving me to my own company in a town that was little more than support for a truck stop.  In an attempt to get some exercise, I drove 20 miles to the nearest retail center, a Wal-Mart in the Wisconsin Dells.  I preferred a mall, but there wasn't one until Madison, and that was much to far to drive.  I suffered a mild panic attic in the store when I saw all the families and Christmas decorations and heard the Christmas music playing, and was missing my wife and daughter, then only 9 months old.  I got out of the store after spending only about 15 minutes walking around, and then drove back to the hotel where I laid in bed looking at pictures of my family and feeling consumed by melancholy.  The next day, it was so cold that my car wouldn't start, and I had to call AAA for a jump because conventional autos weren't strong enough to give me the juice I needed.  I drove home hot for much of the 15 hour ride, because I didn't want to take a chance that the car wouldn't start again.  That weekend was one of the lowest points of my comedy career, and I didn't make it any better by spending the day off (Thursday) hiding in the hotel and drinking Jim Beam which I had packed for the occasion, not knowing how much I'd appreciate it until later.

Dobie was the feature act at the Comix Cafe for Don Reese the day my wife and her mother got into a really bad car accident.  I had just started working at the club in management, and it was a Thursday, and I was in the club early, around 11:00 A.M., when I got a call from Don.  He was at Park Ridge hospital, where he went to have a lump in his leg checked out.  Come to find out, it was a blood clot, caused by the blood thinners he was taking for another condition, and the long drive from Iowa had exacerbated his condition, causing the clot.  The doctors at Park Ridge refused to release him on accounts of they insisted on keeping him under observation, lest the clot move up his leg towards his heart and kill him.  He called to let us know he wouldn't be able to make the show, and I made the decision to move Dobie up to close, and I would fill in the feature spot.

That night, Dobie, myself and club owner Ed Bebko were standing around, and I was called to the phone.  My wife and her mother were hit head-on as they were driving home, and they were at Strong Hospital.  The person from the emergency room said they were fine, but that I should get there as quickly as possible.  Dobie and Ed told me that I shouldn't worry, that they wereprobably in a fender-bender, and they were convinced to take the ambulance ride to the hospital to get checked out, just in case.  "Ambulance drivers always try to drum up the business" they insisted.  I settled down, and did the fastest, tightest, best 30-minute show of my life.  I ran out the back door to my Dodge Colt, and brushed the snow off with a swipe of my arm, and hauled ass tothe hospital.

What I found when I arrived was more like a M*A*S*H* unit.  My mother-in-law-to-be had suffered a crushed ankle, fractured wrist, and injuries to the face.  My wife (at the time, fiance'), had suffered deep bruises to the breast, a broken rib that wasn't diagnosed until much later, and both of them were in severe pain.  I stayed with them until 6 A.M., when they were released! and sent home.  I managed them into the tiny Colt, which was barely comfortable for one person, let alone three with two injured and not moving well.

I took the rest of the week off.  The club didn't have a problem with that.

Don got better and finished the week off.  He was booked to headline again, and got bumped to wrap-around for Tommy Chong and his hideous wife, Shelby.

Dobie returned to the club and eventually headlined in his own right.

Mama Davis healed up, but still feels the pain in her bones when it gets cold.

Pamela spent six months on the couch recovering from the broken rib they didn't see the first time they X-rayed, and still harbors ill feelings towards the driver of the other car who crossed the double yellow line and hit her and her mother, but was never breathalyzed even though he had just left a bar, and admitted to "drinking something" and his passenger was completely inebriated.

Neither the driver nor his passenger suffered any injuries, and were questioned at the scene and released.

I went back to work the following Wednesday, and did days doing laundry, cooking meals, doing personal care and whatever else I needed to do.  I worked evenings, and at night, I slept dead, dreamless sleep.

The next time someone tells me an ambulance took a loved one to the hospital, I'm just going to go right away.

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY

 

Heavy Metal Maniac

Heavy Metal Maniac                                                  3067

Friday, January 13th, 2006-7:15 A.M.

New York State drinking laws turned me into a standup comic.

I'm in Rockford, Michigan, having performed last night at the Crazy Horse Saloon with Chicago's Dobie Maxwell, a good friend and funny comic.  "Mr. Lucky" and I handled the Blue State Rednecks as best as possible, and sold a bunch 'o swag after the show, but wallowed in self-pity afterwards....why can't they just sit still and enjoy the show?  Don't they realize they aren't "helping" by shouting stuff out?  I guess I got the one guy riled up...he had a cheesy John Waters moustache, and I told him he looked like a fluffer on Brokeback Mountain.  My bad, Michigan.

The drive out was momentous, as it marked my return behind the wheel after carpooling, flying and doing mostly local gigs for the last month.  I did 450 miles in just over six hours...you do the math.  I cut across Ontario, Canada, which makes me a speed limit scofflaw in two countries.  Oh well.....

The long drive allowed me plenty of time to think and reminisce, and for some reason, I thought back to 1984.  In 1984, I was 17, and the drinking age in New York State was 18.  I wouldn't turn 18 until November, so I was looking forward to it, until they announced that the drinking age would move to 19 in September.  I was robbed!  A whole year of drinking, hanging out in bars, and invariably meeting people and getting laid was being swiped out from underneath me!  Funny how short-sighted we are at that age.  So the next year, 1986, I'm all primed to turn 19 and be legal to drink, and New York State decides to change the drinking age to 21, but won't enact it until December 1st.  I would be legal for exactly two weeks, November 15 to December 1st, and I had a lot of drinking and stockpiling to do.

On my birthday, I wandered into a liquor store in my neighborhood, Rochester's 10th ward, and bought a small bottle of whiskey.  I didn't even get carded!  I was worrying about being refused sale for I.D., and in my white-trash neighborhood, they didn't give a dribbly shit howold you were, as long as they could make the sale without being busted.  I found out that day that there were a lot of places you could buy booze without being carded, and bars that would serve you if you stayed in the back and didn't make a lot of ruckus.

I decided to celebrate by going to the House of Guitars (world famous music store in Rochester) and splurging some birthday cash on some albums.  I purchased Metallica's "Kill 'Em All" and Mercyful Fate's "Melissa" albums because they looked cool.  I didn't know about Mercyful Fate's music, but I already owned Metallica's "Ride The Lightning," their second album, and wanted to hear what the first one sounded like.  It was quite awesome to my young ears, as was the Fate, which sounded like really fast Judas Priest.  I was officially a headbanger!  I grew my hair long and developed a drinking problem.  I used to tool around in a green Zephyr, which was basically a Ford Fairmont with design issues, blasting Metallica, Mercyful Fate, Slayer, Metal Church, and a bunch of other bands you probably never heard of.

When I returned to school in 1987, I was a bonafide music nut with a prestigious record collection, and I gravitated to the campus radio station.  I wanted to share this music that had been the soundtrack to my drinking and partying life with the world! 

While I was in school and active with the radio station, there was a girl who worked in the campus radio station who was also interning at WCMF, the big rock radio station in town, and she was beginning to do standup comedy.  She convinced a bunch of us to go see her at Yuk Yuk's, the comedy club in town.  I went, along with my roommate Larry, who was more of a Led Zeppelin guy.  We put the car in the only parking spot I could find, one on a steep incline, and put the parking brake on.  After the show, it had rained and froze, and the car wouldn't move, and we were so drunk, we forgot about the parking brake and the car wouldn't move.  My brother had to come pick us up and shuttle us home, and by the next morning when I sobered up, I realized what happened and we went to go retrieve the car.  I felt pretty stupid. 

The good thing was that I was so enamored by the show, the comics were so funny (too bad I don't remember who I saw), that I decided I needed to try going up on stage.  Actually, I had a few beers in me, and I heckled the middle act, and he killed me.  But it felt powerful, and I wanted to feel that power.  I went up at open mic after about six weeks of planning and plotting, and was terrible.  And I stayed terrible for over a year.  Finally I got the hang of it, and now I'm doing it full time.  Also, I don't drink anymore because of health reasons.  Apparently I overdid it a bit when I was younger, and along with a lousy diet, I developed type 2 diabetes.  Live and learn.

In retrospect, I guess I wouldn't have it any other way.  I have the best job in the world, a great wife and a beautiful daughter.  It's too bad I had to come by them in such a roundabout way, but at least I did, and thank God for small favors.

Maybe tomorrow I'll tell you the story about how Dobie Maxwell almost killed my wife.  I'll let you know.

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY

Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home                3005

Monday,  January 9, 2006-8:21 A.M. CST

Well, another successful week at the Rivercenter Comedy Club in San Antonio, Texas is at an end.  The crowds weren't anything special, but the staff is always great, I sold a smattering of merchandise and worked with some very nice guys, J.J. Ramirez and Lew Richmond.  It's going to be great to get back home to the wife and kid, though.

I'll miss this little efficiency apartment that I've been holed up in since Wednesday night.  As far as comedy condos go, it has it's ups and downs.  The fact that as a feature, I get my own apartment and my own bathroom is a big plus.  It's a nice convenience to have a little kitchen to cook in, which saves big bucks from the normal road food budget.  Dining out usually means either the worst nutrition available, or a sit-down place with inflated prices and a gratuity to boot.  You save money and come home malnourished, or be healthy and eliminate your profit margin.

And while I'm thinking about it, why don't we send those starving kids in Eurasia big bags of McDonald's french fries?  I saw Morgan Spurlock's documentary "Super Size Me" and it seems that Mickey Dee's food could be a quick fix to fatten up those little walking rib-cages.  Just a thought; don't crucify me....I'm only trying to help.  I figure a couple weeks of an American diet would get those kids back to fighting weight, and then maybe they could farm or walk to where the food is.  I'm just saying.

So I cooked meals in the condo this week, subsisting on whatever food the Walgreens grocery aisle had to offer.  They had the basics, milk, bread, eggs, butter, hot sauce, microwaveable rice in a bag, cheese, canned roast beef with gravy, ramen noodles, peanut butter, powdered sugar-free drink mix (I'm pre-diabetic), canned beef ravioli (sometimes you don't want to cook...don't judge me) and granola bars for the plane ridehome.  I kept the food budget nice 'n' tight, and ate pretty good considering the circumstances.

Now, last year when I was here, I bought the place a colander at a goodwill store so future comics could make spaghetti.  For whatever reason, the colander is gone now, meaning I couldn't make spaghetti, one of my favorite road meals.  I'm bummed, because last time I was able to catch a ride from one of the local comics, and this week, no one really hung out so I was kind of stranded.  I like to buy things for the condos that I stay in; I think it's just a good karma thing to do.  Last year, I also bought a bath mat for the place because I hate stepping out of the shower onto a bare floor, and I'm proud to say that it's still here.  It's the little things like that that go a long way towards making a place livable.

The apartment here in San Antonio is as Spartan as you could be.  Sure, there's a TV with cable, and a phone line so I could hook up to the internet.  Last year, the TV remote went missing (come to find out it was in the headliner's apartment, 5 floors up....I didn't find that out until the last day I was here), and sometimes, the club decides they're just going to save money by not putting in a phone line...after all, comics all have their own cell phones, so why on Earth would they need a land line?  I'm not pointing any fingers *cough* *cough* Omaha *cough* *cough* Milwaukee *cough* but that gets downright annoying, especially when you get used to hotels that by and large have the wireless internet.

Now, I'm no prima donna....I drive to gigs, and I can rough it with the best of them.  But if you're going to set up a condo for me to stay in, shouldn't it be at least as good as a place you would have to stay for a week?  I know that there's a small minority of comics who abuse the place, and they spoil it for the rest of us, but there are some basic amenities that shouldn't be skimped on because it's just disrespectful.

1.  Is it too much to ask for the place to be cleaned properly?  I don't mean hire the maids to come in, but if there's still garbage in the wastebasket, it doesn't do much for my condo confidence.  Also, a dirty sink with whiskers from the last guy (or gal...I don't discriminate) is a dead giveaway that the cleaning person might have skimmed over the place in some areas.

2.  Phone line and TV with remote, as outlined above.  I'll work with broadcast TV if I have to; the networks are o.k. for me, as little TV as I watch to begin with.

3.  If you're going to provide me with a kitchen, there should be some pots and pans to cook with.  Basics; a frying pan, sauce pan and a spatula, and I'm in business.  Also, how about some dishes?  Preferably microwave safe.  I stayed at a condo oncethat had 1500 glasses and no can opener.  Take the glasses back to the club, and get a can opener....they have 'em at the dollar store.  I said fuck it a long time ago, and now I pack my own in my luggage like it was my toothbrush.  And if the microwave doesn't work, don't tease me...throw that shit away.  If I want to know what time it is that badly, I'll just look at my watch.

And while I'm at it, let's have a burlap bag party on these asshole comics who adulterate the food in the condo fridge.  If you're so bored that you have to jerk off in the mayonnaise, maybe some healing time in the hospital is just what you need.  Comics get the short end of the showbiz stick enough times without having to worry about what one of our own is willing to do to us.  I am leaving a part bottle of hot sauce in the fridge when I leave today, and I know damn well that it's just going to get thrown out because no comic in his right mind would trust it to be safe to consume.  Which is a damn shame, I might add.

4.  Proper window covering isn't just a good idea, it's for our safety.  Anyone who has half a brain knows that different comics are checking in each week, they know the showtimes we perform, and when the condo is absolutely, positively uninhabited.  What better time to sneak a peek through those broken blinds and look for DVD players, laptop computers, iPods and other electronic goodies?  It's simple security, dammit!

5.  Last but not least, just consider that most of us are professionals, trying out best to put on the best show possible for you, to make you money.  If we have to live in a depressing, ramshackle place, we're not going to be enthusiastic, creative people.  The comedy condo is a device that helps the club save on lodging costs, and most comics are respectful of the facilities because we'd like to maintain our employment.  As a club manager, shouldn't you do your part to make sure that the accommodations are livable?  Just asking.  I reported last year on a condo in Tulsa, Oklahoma, which had a nasty roach problem, the furniture was beyond curbside, and the place was filthy.  For real, what did I do to deserve that?  Luckily, the club closed...no shit.  Good riddance.

My plane for home doesn't leave for another eight hours, so I have some time to kill.  Can't wait, to be honest.

Have a nice day.

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY 

Old Man

Old Man                                                   2984

Sunday, January 8, 2006-11:34 A.M. CST

It's funny how hope comes around at the right time.

It's easy to get discouraged in the comedy business, or show business in general, because it is largely an industry that worships youth.  At the ripe old age of 39, I often feel like I have nothing to contribute to the world of comedy, and even though I'm a decent writer and performer, I feel that I would lose the nod to a performer of equal talents who was younger and in better shape.  I understand the downside of casting, booking or choosing a performer who is older, and even though I generally get folks pegging me for as much as 10 years younger than I really am (good head of black hair helps a lot, but in the correct light, colonies of white hair make their appearance), I still feel that I'm dismissed as "old" by the industry. 

There are obvious exceptions, Lewis Black being one of them, but seriously, how many comics are getting breaks as relative unknowns going into their 40's?  I work every week with circuit headliners in their 40's and sometimes 50's, and even though they make the living they make on the road, they really have no shot at any TV exposure, fame, or making it to the next level, whether that be film, TV or some other opportunity I can't even fathom.  The tales of Rodney Dangerfield starting doing comedy in his 50's are widespread, and comics like Henny Youngman were pushing the envelope and doing standup dates well into their 80's (I saw Henny do a set on Comic Strip Live many years ago, and he was getting good laughs, but I couldn't tell if they were sincere or if he was just being paid homage).  But these are only the exceptions; you would be hard-pressed to think of 10 more in an industry of thousands.

So with much sadness going into the New Year about being 39, having just celebrated the commemorative birthday of death's door back in November, I greeted January with a heavy heart and some considerable vocational depression.  Until I heard the press conference; the Buffalo Bills, of whom I have been a fan of for 25 years, had announced that Hall Of Fame coach Marv Levy was returning to the organization as their new General Manager.

Marv Levy is a legendary coach, having guided teams in the college ranks, the USFL, Canadian Football League, and most recently, was the leader of the NFL's Buffalo Bills, the only team to appear in four consecutive Super Bowls.  At the age of 80, Marv has accepted owner Ralph Wilson's offer to become the General Manager and Vice President of football operations.

In a job where the hours are not constrained to 9-to-5 and the workdays don't come five to a week and two days off, there is a great deal of stamina that is required to function at that high level in a multi-million dollar professional sports organization.  Marv sounded great at the press conference on Thursday, which I heard live on my laptop courtesy of streaming video technology, and my heart swelled with pride and I'm not ashamed to say that I wept a little with joy in the privacy of the Rivercenter Comedy Club's feature act condo apartment in faraway San Antonio, Texas.

Marv represents everything that's right with professional sports.  His adage "Don't be dumb, don't be dirty" should be posted in the locker room of every professional sports team, particularly in the light of the events in yesterday's wild-card NFL game between the Redskins and the Buccaneers (there was some spitting in a debate between players, and a Redskin got ejected from the game).  A talented guy like Terrell Owens would never have been allowed to burn like a tire fire the way he did for so long under Marv's tutelage.  And I look forward to the overall improvement of the Buffalo Bills' record under Marv's knowledgeable guidance.

Back in 1996, I appeared in a commercial for Sprint Long Distance with Marv Levy and Bills quarterback Jim Kelly.  While I didn't care so much for Jim's condescending treatment of me, Coach Levy came over to me, greeted me with a friendly "Hello, youngster!" and after I gushed a bit and thanked him for his great work with the organization, he started asking me questions about myself, like how did I get into acting, and what shots had we done earlier in the day, and then just like that, Coach was off to the next person, shaking hands and smiling and just generally being a bright spot to everyone who was enduring a long, hot day of shooting in a merciless July sun.  And this was only six months after enduring prostate cancer surgery to prevent the spread of cancer.

Most of all, coach Levy is an inspiration to me, that after hanging up his headset and retiring to a job inbroadcasting, he got fidgety and attempted a return to coaching, but was unable to find a fit or a team that would take a chance on a man who, even though he was enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame, was into his 70's.  If he fails, and finds the General Manager's job to be too much for a man of his age, he will at least be able to take consolation that there was still one organization that was willing to acknowledge his skill and experience, and if he succeeds, well, then the entire national attitude towards age and aging must be looked at once again, to determine if we are writing people off at too early of an age.

And as I continue my approach towards 40, I will stand and applaud the efforts of a man twice my age who is carrying the torch for me, and everyone else who is looking for an opportunity to contribute to their field, despite the lines in their faces, the grey (or no) hairs on their head, and the twinkle of hope in eyes only beginning to grow dim.

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY

Feelin' Satisfied

Feelin' Satisfied                    2976

Saturday, January 7, 2006-4:31 P.M. CST

It's 4 hours until showtime, and I'm ready to bitch about it.

I'm playing at one of my favorite clubs in the country, the money is great for a change, and I was able to afford to fly in rather than drive.  Great, huh?  The bad news is that we're at the low point of the tourist season, crowds are sparse, the local NBA team had a home game last night that drew against us and absolutely killed us, the movie theater that the club gets free tickets to is showing absolute CRAP, and my mc is not up to snuff.

First things first.  The club is great, don't get me wrong.  It is also huge, and to me, that means you should be doing some aggressive marketing to have decent crowds in the joint.  There was an advertisement in the local daily, which is a lot more than some clubs across the country do, but seriously, 35 people in a room that is just a shade bigger than the ballroom of the Titanic is a little embarrassing.  What do folks think when they see a show with 35 people in the audience?  Even if everyone in the crowd laughed at full capacity at every joke, it's still a weird, empty feeling along the lines of "What did I just see in there?" versus "Wow, what a show I saw!"  The crowds this week were so small, I thought I was playing for the New York Jets.

The club has a nice reciprocal agreement with a movie theater in the same mall, and comics can go see films for free.  Last year I saw "Million Dollar Baby" which I liked, only because I didn't have to pay for it.  This year, they're showing "Hostel" (No), "Wolf Creek (See "Hostel"), King Kong (I know how it ends), "Cheaper By The Dozen 2" (Are You Fucking Kidding me?), "Rumor Has It" (Why do they even bother making films like this?), "The Family Stone" (Boo), "Fun With Dick and Jane" (Did Jim Carrey ever meet a paycheck he didn't like?), "The Chronicles of Narnia" (o.k., looks decent, but I can't get the "Lazy Sunday" rap out of my head, which would be annoying, and I don't think I have the patience to sit still for a movie that long), and finally, "Grandma's Boy" (Lord, please deliver me from idiot comedies).  How bad is a slate of movies when you can honestly say, "Gee, I wish 'The Ringer' was playing?"  Pretty bad.  I don't get the perks very often, so when they come down the pipe, I try to take advantage of them and be appreciative, but dammit, man!  I have to schedule a return date in the summer when some good movies are out.

Finally, our mc is about 100 years old, and he's only been doing comedy for a couple of years.  His crowd work is non-existent, and his material isn't even corny....it's just half-baked.  I'm in a position to book mc's, and I am remiss to book a comic until they show that they have at least a little bit of "it," the spark that they get it, that they understand the comedy stage and can bring something to it that's at least engaging.  The mc for this week is a great guy, nice as nice can be, but he just hasn't burst through the cellophane ceiling from open micer to qualified mc.  It's a little frustrating following 15 or even 10 minutes of comedy that is met with overall audience indifference.  Especially when there's only a few dozen folks there to begin with.  Comedy is fragile, and you don't give the fine china to a guy wearing goalie gloves...it just doesn't work.

I know that all my bitching makes me sound like some sort of prima donna, but I woke up today with a pinched nerve in my shoulder courtesy of the bed in the feature condo, replete with hobo linens and the mattress of a thousand spanks, and it's making me a little cranky.  I hope the shows tonight are better, and hopefully I'll check in tomorrow with some good news and rainbow thoughts. 

Have a great weekend.

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY

6:05 P.M. CST

P.S.  I fixed the crick in my neck, so I'm less cranky now, but my criticism of the movies still stands.

My Best Friend's Girl

My Best Friend's Girl                          2955

Friday, December 6, 2006-10:12 A.M. CST

I have the best cock-block story of all time.  Wanna hear it?

The names have been changed to protect the innocent, the guilty, and me.  If you ask me, I will not divulge the identities of the persons involved, and if you guess them correctly, I will deny, deny, deny, so don't bother, o.k.?  Just revel in the story and stop being such a fucking busybody.

Some time ago, I was traveling to an engagement with another comic, who asked if he could bring his girlfriend along.  I said yes, because that sort of thing doesn't bother me.  Now, this relationship was fairly new, and my comic friend was trying to make a good impression, so he asked me to try and represent him as best as possible.  He's a decent guy who I've come to know well for the last few years, so I didn't think that was a problem.  The only problem in the equation is that I am a notoriously bad wingman.  I'm already married, so pursuit of women doesn't interest me anymore, nor does the examination of the "rap" that women want to hear.  Consequently, the correct thing to say is never on my lips, and I can't imagine the opportunities that I've capsized in my attempts to help a friend put what he has between his legs between the legs of his intended.  Honestly, I mean well, but I must be socially retarded.  The fact that I'm married is definitely a testament to the patience, kindness and generosity of my wife, who is either the most naive woman in the world, or possessed of the saintly virtue of being able to overlook my copious shortcomings.

So we're in the car, my comic friend, his girlfriend and myself, and we're making the small talk.  Along the way, I mention my father.  His name is Ralph Tetta, the same as mine, and he worked for an envelope manufacturer in Rochester for 38 years in the shipping department, first as a clerk, and then for the remainder of his time there as a supervisor.

I will allow myself a time to indulge in describing my father to you, as it is important to the story.  My father is my hero.  He's made a few mistakes in life, but did wonderfully with what he had to work with.  He's a product of a single mother, having never known his father,and learned from a woman who had just survived the Great Depression, cultivating a tendency towards hard work, savings, and an appreciation of what he had.  Consequently, a lot of what I am is due to what I learned at his knee, such as a propesity to hoard and to be quite niggardly at times when it comes to spending.  But I digress.  My father left school when he was 14 to work and help support my grandmother and the household, which left him little time to be a kid and enjoy his youth.  He worked, and when he wasn't working, he spent his time looking for work.

My father was a manager for most of his life, and well-liked by everyone he worked with.  He was known as a guy who would lend you five bucks until payday if he had it to lend, because he knew that there was a time when he needed to extend his hand, and it was a way to show appreciation for the grace he received.  When I was the General Manager of the Comix Cafe in Rochester, I did the same thing, fronting comics advances and burying the loans in the books until they were paid back (and I collected every dime).  As a comic myself, I always understoond that the road was hard, and wanted to help where I could.  My father shot straight and spoke the truth, and got in trouble more than once for calling someone a lazy S.O.B. or a piece of shit, or whatever epithet seemed appropriate at the time.  He would never wear a shirt and tie to work, because he deemed that the garb of a guy who wouldn't be counted on to roll up his sleeves when the workload got heavy.  Instead, he wore a long shopcoat and bermuda shorts in the summer, which made him look like a flasher.  The point of all this was that when you worked with my father, you didn't forget him.  He was a private man who rarely entertained at the house, but loved the spotlight and loved to joke around.  Work was his method of socialization, and anyone he considered a friend was a work acquaintance.  I am very much the same way.

So I'm in the car with my comic friend and his girlfriend, and I mention my father, and I describe him as a tall, gangly man.  At that moment, the girlfriend declares that she knows him, she worked with him before he retired, but didn't think he was my father because even though he's got the same name as me, I don't share his gangly frame.  I actually inherited my girth from my mother's side of the family, although my father's mother was no slouch.

She starts spitting out intimate details about my father that only someone who worked with him would know, like little jokes he would tell, and how he would buy all the girls in the front office coffee in the morning (coffee was only 15 cents in the shop coffee machine, and my father was a shameless flirt, so it was a low-cost way to get away from the loading platform and whore around).  We're in the car giggling and laughing, and my comic friend is dying inside, like he can't believe this is happening, and I go ahead and call my father in Florida (I owed him a call for the holidays) and he says to put the girl on the phone and they wind up chewing the fat until we went out of cellphone range, and my friend is cursing me out the whole way and threatening to go down to Florida and fight my father with his knuckles.

Can you imagine?  My father retired in 1994, so this cock-block was over 12 years in the making.  I laughed so hard, I almost wet myself in the car.

Bottom line, if you're trying to get laid, do me a favor and leave me out of it.

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY

Traveling Man

Traveling Man                                2936

Thursday, January 5, 2006-7:01 A.M. CST

Bruised and battered, weakened in body but strong in resolve, I report to you from San Antonio, Texas, just an Ozzy-piss away from the Alamo.

This is my first post of the new year, and I've got some catching up to do.

First things first; New Year's Eve in St. Louis at the Comedy Forum was great, although the first show I drew some heckle-birds, which I did my best to dispatch but was overwhelmed by the shear numbers.  Second show was great, but we wound up running just a bit short, and Mike Dambra, Chris Smith and I had to go back on stage and kill time while we waited for the ball to drop.  The evening was mercifully short, and then New Year's Day was basically spent in the car driving home.  Mike dropped me off at my doorstep around Midnight.  I got bonused from the club, which is kind of rare, but it's nice when it happens.

The next two days off are a blur; I think I did laundry and went to stores and bought things and paid bills.  On the one day, I was thwarted at every turn by old people...everywhere I would go, some old bastard would be holding up the line with their incessant whining or digging through some sarcouphagus of a purse looking for a penny that was minted sometime during the Woodrow Wilson administration.  At the post office, there was this old biddy who was trying to sell her 37-cent stamps back to the guy in favor of the new 39-cent stamps, and she refused to just buy the 2-cent makeup stamps....she felt she already paid the money, and they should exchange the old stamps for the new ones, less the 2-cent increase.  When they finally came to an agreement, she looked at all the people behind her and said "Gee, the lines are long today!"  I wanted to beat her with her own cane

So with all of my chores and tasks completed, I got ready for my flight Wednesday morning to Texas.  Mike Dambra, the Ultimate Warrior of comedy, picked me up at 6:00 A.M. to take me to Buffalo, where I had a 8:24 A.M. flight to Chicago, a brief layover, and a 10:00 A.M. flight to San Antonio, where I would arrive at 1:00 P.M., just in time to have a nice nap, a shower and maybe a meal to get ready for the big 8:30 show.

Just as Mike was dropping me off at the United Airlines check-in counter, my phone rang with a special automated message from Expedia.com.  The flight from Buffalo had been delayed and wouldn't take off until 10:00 A.M.  At the ticket counter, I was informed that my new arrival time in San Antonio would be 11:52 P.M., approximately two hours after my show was scheduled to end.  UNACCEPTABLE!

Luckily, the United ticket agent was able to put me on standby for a 2:37 P.M. departure out of Chicago that would get me to San Antonio by 5:30, three hours early for the show, and time to get a nice shower and a meal.  Off I went into the friendly skies.

Upon arriving in Chicago, I immediately turned into Tom Hanks in "The Terminal."  I had my laptop, but they wanted to charge me $6.95 to connect to their wireless internet, and I'm on a budget this week, so I declined.  I ate a McDonald's lunch, which wasn't bad (I swear I must be addicted to fast food) and took my afternoon prescription medication which I had judiciously moved from my checked luggage to my carry-on bag, just in case this "standby" thing didn't work out to my favor.  I can walk around stinking in my clothes and go buy new things if possible, but replacing lost medication can be a bitch.  Then, I started walking around the terminal.  I got some excercise, which in retrospect was a good idea, because I needed my legs limber for the tribulations that would follow.

Getting closer to the 2:37 P.M. mark, I called Coastal Entertainment to tell them of the situation, and kept calling to update them as the picture became clearer.  While waiting, I struck up a conversation with a young man from Indiana named Jay who was heading to San Antonio to take pictures of his church's mission group.  We talked about religion at length, and as he had two daughters, we did the obligatory picture swap, showing off our little darlings.  He was flying standby as well, but was 10th on the list, and as I was first, I was hopeful for my chances of getting on the plane, but not so much for him.  He wasn't in any particular hurry, so he was taking everything in stride.  Somewhere along the line, I let go of my expectations, too, figuring that I wouldn't be the first comic who missed a show because of airline complications beyond their control, and I should just stop stressing about it.  Still, I said at least one silent prayer that there would be room on that plane for me.

Around 2:30, it was announced that the plane we were going to take wasn't arriving until 2:35, meaining the flight was delayed because you can't deplane 100 passengers and their luggage and reboard another 100 people in two minutes.  The plane boarded, and my name was called even before the first passengers got on.  I was ecstatic, and started making calls to my wife and booking agent to let them know that I was going to make it.  Still, I felt a little sorry for Jay, who possibly was looking at spending another 4 hours in the airport, sitting and waiting.  We had been talking earlier about the whole standby experience, and he mentioned that he changed into slacks and dress shoes because you have a better chance of getting a first-class seat if you're dressed well.  And sure as shit, Jay got on the plane, and from seat 11-F, I could see him stowing his luggage into the overhead compartment in the first-class section.  You go, boy!  I guess when the Bible says "the last shall be first and the first shall be last," they weren't kidding.

So our 2:37 flight wound up being pushed to 2:50, then 3:00, then 3:15.  After everyone had boarded the plane (and believe me, there were plenty of seats....the one next to me remained empty, meaning everyone who wanted to fly to San Antonio got on), we sat for another 45 minutes while the baggage guys loaded some bags they forgot to bring on their first trip.  So now, I'm calculating my arrival time with a 4 o'clock departure, I'm getting to Texas at 7 o'clock, picking up my bags and catching a cab to make an 8:30 show, and I'm figuring that I might not even have time to shower, much less eat.  I grab my bags, which were within the first dozen off the baggage carousel, and ran outside after giving Jay a fond farewell.  I grabbed the first cab available, and explained my hurry, and 12 minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Maverick apartments.  I had a nice shower, changed into some clean clothing, and headed over to the Rivercenter mall.

The show was light, about 35 people, and I laughed a little inside, that this was what I labored 13 hours to make it to on time.  But I ran on shear adrenaline (and a diet coke) and turned in a good performance.  Headliner J.J. Ramirez from NYC did a great job, and after shaking hands and kissing babies (and selling one of my "Ralph Tetta Box Sets," namely a CD/DVD combo), J.J. and I beelined for the Denny's restaurant next to the mall, and I ate a Super Bird sandwich like they were going to take it away from me any second.  We told stories about comics we knew in kind, and retreated back to the Maverick where we parted company.  The building has a keypad security feature that didn't work last time I was here, and while J.J. was trying to remember the digits, I just opened the door and gestured for him to enter.  At least it's a deterrent for any shady folk who haven't completely cased the joint.

I'm looking forward to a good week; our mc is in his 70's so I hope they don't give him the light, because he might start walking towards it....Bada Bing!  I'll be here all weekend.

And try the veal (have you ever seen veal on the menu at a comedy club?  If I opened a club, I would put it on there just to be funny, and if anyone ordered it, I would tell them we were sold out of it).

Ralph Tetta

Rochester, NY