Whether joking or not, sometimes shit happens and I can't say shit about it. But now, I'm showing my cards to everyone... (and toning it down for the general public). Recent events transpiring made me want to jump as high as the moon, listening to radio at its highest frequency and singing the most intoxicating, foul version of The Dark Side of the Moon when it was over. But I need to start at the beginning. I tightly grasp Naked Lunch with one hand, struggling with plot development, I'm not loving its flatness, but the fine character revelation is something I'm feeling chemistry with. I let go of the book. The buzz fading and it's twisting into a massive headache, as I stand hunched over my suitcase in our room at Hotel Chelsea in historic New York. The epic night of comedy was awesome and there was no time to read. I finish unpacking everything because there wasn't time when we first got to our hotel room two nights ago. Happier than hell after happy hour, I look at the book and then look at my stolen Gotham shot glass. I smile and reflect.
A stream of talented and untalented comedians took the stage at Gotham Comedy Club. One of the comedians was a comedy writer and sucked. My tip to him would be to write a novel people might enjoy to read. Dive deeper than a mixture of Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland and Jack's On The Road. Concoct four climaxes and create a story more exhilarating than sex with a big-titted, tight-assed French prostitute who just landed in Canada after realizing she wanted to save herself and didn't want to lose her virginity in Amsterdam (there's nothing like a prostitute who just passed the immigration process). But it was a good night. I didn't read the night away, but I did learn the process of downing tequila shots at Gotham:
Lick it (salt)
Slam it (tequila)
Suck it (lemon or lime)
There was time before the special guest comedian took to the stage. I wasn't praying to Jesus, but I was listening to Kenny Loggins (close enough) when I started ordering beer. Then the music faded low and I was listening to a beautiful female voice. Juice Newton's Queen of Hearts played and I was swaying my head back and forth and slamming down another bottle of Sam Adams. I needed to keep quiet and keep a low profile and it was almost like my wife needed to wear a Muslim veil to protect her identity. I realized I didn't want to shout the lyrics to "Queen of Hearts" and embarrass myself and draw attention to my Cougars T-shirt. My face turned bright red, but I was confident I wouldn't draw attention to myself. After all, I was nobody and I was still the same nobody looking for nothing in the nothingness of time.
To make a long story short (because I'm not getting paid shit to write this blog), T.J. Miller performed the final act at Gotham Comedy Club, strung out on Manhattan bottled water, he emphasized morality is relative, while I thought time is relative -- and morality just plays a smaller corner piece in the puzzle. I kept my mouth shut and absorbed true comedy realizing I didn't want to be the next Man on the Moon like Andy Kaufman. I wouldn't have to resort to the depths of depravity, because I wasn't starved for attention, and I'd already had a taste of the best of New York (especially after fine dining at Ristorante Rafele and Giovanni Rana Pastificio & Cucina).
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