Forgotten Butt-Wipes: My First Comedy Tour

I was recently invited to go on tour as a featured comedian for my friend Jersey, the headliner for the tour. I was completely stoked to do this because, in my head, it legitimized me as a performing comedian. I have worked for a few years on honing my material from the wildly disorganized, wordy, humorless malignancy that it was, cutting away at it over time. Eventually, it became the wildly disorganized, wordy, somewhat-funny malignancy that it is today that makes some people laugh.

Before my comedian-friends and would-be detractors start handing me shit, let it be known that I understand that I am in no way close to being a "famous" comedy star or any other shit like that. But also understand, I did all of this in less than three years and facing a huge uphill battle, so I'm fine with doing a little bit of my own back-patting. I discuss my comedy upbringing in another post, which you can read here.

The basic summary of the tour is that it went off without a hitch. It was fantastic. Extremely lonely, but totally invigorating otherwise. The audiences were very different from venue to venue, but they all liked my material, seemingly very much. The easiest way to describe how I feel overall is that I feel like an addict.

Not addicted to the dried semen and Boone's Farm dried on the nightstand in my first hotel room, though.

When I first left my house on Thursday, I was excited and nervous. It was that initial possession of the drug, scary and anticipatory. The first part of the trip was a seven-hour drive to Biloxi, Mississippi, AKA the interracial capital of the world.  Jersey and I found our hotel easily enough and were pleasantly surprised to be notified that our rooms had full kitchens. Looking back, I'm not too sure why we were excited. It's not like we were going to be doing any cooking.

Unless you count my cooking this European coffee. Manufactured in Vernon, IL.

I was exhilarated and exhausted from the road. I settled into my room, which smelled not unlike a bowling alley. We went to Burger King for lunch, because the nomadic life of a comedian has always catered to fine dining. Then, off to Margaritaville Casino.

The pit bosses were women in Hawaiian shirts. I know, right?

I had never been to a casino before, but it was exactly what I had expected from a Jimmy Buffet-themed casino: flamingoes, tacky decor, and old people. The staff was very friendly and treated us well, although forgetful (where were my fucking Red Bulls and only-blue peanut M&Ms? Don't you know who the fuck I am?!?!). The stage and room were beautiful.  I didn't see any advertising for the comedy show hanging around, which may or may not have resulted in the crowd of about 20 people. That said, these 20 people laughed their collective ass off. The drug was in my system now, and I was giddy. My heart was racing and I thought to myself, "now I'm legit."

Jersey onstage at the Margaritaville Casino in Biloxi, MS

We wrapped up the show and ordered our dinner to go. Back in the hotel room before 10pm, stooped over a sweaty Styrofoam container of coconut shrimp is when I felt the ebb of loneliness. The drug was leaving my body. Clarity was returning, along with the realization that comedy may be the hardest job I've ever had.

Always bring a duffel bag to store hookers in. Or whatever.

Think about it: you're driving all over the map (clubs will not fly you out unless you're super-famous and worth the ticket price, and I am not), usually headed to small towns or the outskirts of big ones and staying in solitary hotel rooms. Even if you're traveling with someone else, it is likely more of an associative relationship rather than a deep friendship.  Then you head to the venue and perform (maybe an hour or two), eat the food they give you, then return to the hotel. The next day, you're either driving to the next spot or hanging out all day at the hotel while waiting for your next performance. After the Biloxi show, we did the former.

Not before eating our luxurious Waffle House breakfasts. Not unlike a lot lizard.

We had a six-hour drive to Canton, Georgia just outside of Atlanta. I was really excited for this show for some unidentifiable reason. I was determined to do a longer, even better set.

Drive, check-in, eat, consume alcohol, sleep, repeat.

Bojangles sweet tea and whiskey. I do know how to live.

Let me say this right off the bat: the Painted Pig Tavern in Canton, GA not only has great food and drinks, but the staff and owner are extremely gracious and friendly and the venue itself is classier than the name suggests. And once again, I got that high on stage. I performed a great set, approximately 30 minutes on stage. The crowd ate it up.

The Painted Pig Tavern in Canton, GA.

We hung out for about an hour after the show with the bar staff and a few fans, then went back to the hotel. Lather, rinse, repeat. Seven hours ride back, and Jersey only puked once at a rest stop. All in all, I had a great time.

More often than not, I realized, touring is somewhat boring, monotonous, thoroughly exhilarating, and exciting. I have never done anything that I love more than performing and really hope that it can become a career one day. I was afforded the flexibility to extend or shorten my set, depending on how I felt on a given night. The mad dash to rearrange my set to accommodate the crowd, which is a hallmark of mine, was gone.

This could be wrong, but for the first time in my comedy "career," I was completely comfortable with my set and with improvising. Riffing with the crowd wasn't strange to me anymore and did not throw me off of my game as is used to. The experiences I've had with hosting different comedy showcases came into play and helped me connect with the audience.

If nothing else, this trip centered me and what being a comedian really means to me. It also humbled me into finally understanding something that is seemingly so obvious: comedians perform very much for themselves to untangle their own personal knots, certainly, but are primarily tasked with relating to an audience so that they too are comfortable with hearing about someone else's problems or observations and how similar these are to their own.

That little toilet was so hard to try and shit in, you wouldn't believe it. 

Life as a professional, touring standup comedian would be very lonely if you have people that you care about back home, I think. If I didn't have such a young kid, it would be a lot easier for me. I was often lonely on this very short trip. Now, my first day back, I want to go out and do it again, even more than ever, but that tinge of road-weary longing to see my son hangs in the periphery of that pipe dream.

We'll see how it comes out.