The Daily Id - Issue #2: Entropy’s No Love Seat
Sometimes people give me prophecies and sometimes I just read too much into an Escalade load of frat boys yelling “faggot” at me during my morning walk to campus (side note: I know at some point every man is called a homosexual slur by a group of young sexually charged men, but, after talking to friends, I find it happens to me far too often. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m usually just walking. It’s not as if I’m skipping down the street throwing glitter in people’s faces like I’m Rip Taylor. Also, every time that happens to me now, I just start running down the street yelling: “wait, sir come back, I want to blow all of you. Please, let’s all of us high-five with our cocks!”). But I’ve gotten a couple of terse statements lately that have become all I can think about.
The first was from a club owner who has always looked after my comedy interestsand just been a really friendly guy to me in general. The night before I had done a set at this bar for a show benefiting a local youth group that just went horribly (side note: I did really enjoy one thing from that night, even though it did not go over well. Halfway through my set some band roadie with a dirty look and long hair walked on stage and started tuning the instruments for the band that was to follow me. He was obnoxiously loud and to comment on the situation I said, “You look like one of the Allman Brothers….the one that died, but after he died.”) He had called me to talk about something and we got on the subject of my set the night before: “You know, you did that to yourself last night. You just get on stage sometimes and it’s like you are trying to destroy yourself.” It was one of those obvious observations that seemed like an epiphany to me. I’ve spent most of my life trying to destroy it. Everything is obvious after the fact: the twist at the end of The Sixth Sense, the thought that maybe slavery wasn’t such a good idea, that moments that happens exactly 14 minutes after you eat Fazoli’s.
I drink too much. I smoke when I can bum them. I light things on fire when things can be lit on fire. I’m George of the Jungle desperately moving through life by reaching out my hand for the next bad decision vine. I’ve put on 60 pounds since high school. I’ve alienated 90% of the people that ever liked me. I never learned to shut my mouth. But there’s hope.
The second prophecy was from a local musician that I ran into on Kirkwood. I hadn’t seen this guy in a long time, but I always thought he was a pretty cool and intelligent guy. After the few minutes of my awkward rambling he said, “I’m glad to hear you’re still doing stand-up. It’s you.” Maybe it meant nothing, maybe I shouldn’t have had two double Jack’s by 2 p.m., but it kept me going for a few days. Things are actually looking up in my life, but it just feels weird saying it between regurgitating your esophagus lining.
