Accomplishments and the Actor

I am an actor.

It’s important that every week that goes by that didn’t make me famous or produce a properly sized paycheck, I make a list of my accomplishments so I don’t feel like a complete failure. Here’s all I did last week:

One, I cleaned the house.

Two, I went on a bunch of auditions. (They all proved fruitless, but the point here is that at least I went instead of spending the day weeping gently in bed.)

Three, I paid some bills.

Four, I did a brief appearance for an internet video that these two really attractive women who I never met before were putting together. It was fun. They were really attractive.

Five, I mowed the lawn.

Six, I produced an episode of my web series.

Seven, after I did that episode of my web series I went to the lounge in the back of the diner we always go to and was hijacked by a stand-up comedy show. You are probably wondering what I mean. The truth is, I would never go to a stand-up show on purpose. I don’t mind seeing it on television, but showcase evening at stand-up clubs tend to be rather trying. Hence, the only time I see stand-up live is when I get hijacked by it. There just aren’t that many funny comedians in the world, from what I’ve seen. Now, when my web series crew and I go to this lounge in the back of the diner, we expect to be hijacked by something. Usually it is musically oriented. In fact, until this particular night, it was always music that hijacked our evening. Occasionally it was fine, but most of the time it was terrible. But it’s music, so you can treat it as the jukebox and go ahead and have a conversation while the misguided artists onstage sing about how their boyfriends broke up with them. But this past week, what we were hijacked by was completely bizarre. An older man, who called himself a stand-up comic, took the stage and introduced the show. It was a roast. A birthday party roast. It was his birthday party. He was throwing himself a birthday party roast. After he did ten unfunny minutes of homophobic banter straight out of the nineteen-eighties, he introduced the first in a long parade of comics I had never seen nor heard of before. Few of them bothered to write actual jokes, but they all were certainly very insulting to the old guy who was throwing himself the birthday roast. One guy did this amazing thing where he’d kick his straight leg up in the air, and it cleared his head every time. He apparently spent most of his time doing yoga when maybe he should have written some jokes. Our host and birthday boy kept singling me out in the crowd (most likely because I was one of only two people there who wasn’t a comic waiting to go up and bomb on stage) to make some joke about me being gay. I really don’t care who thinks what about me and my sexuality, but if you are going to hurl homophobic barbs in my direction, you really should make sure they are fucking funny. Don’t get me wrong, here, however. Don’t think I wasn’t having a great time. I was. The fact that there were so many goddamn people itching to get up there and roast this dude I’d never heard of that prepared nothing remotely comedic for the show was glorious to me. I’m glad my wife wasn’t there, though, because she would have slipped into a deep depression. Bad comics first give her the empathetic flop sweats, and then she has to shut down emotionally to keep from becoming violent. Me, I kind of enjoy the awful, the campy, the surreal. This was certainly the description for that evening. Still, we only made it three hours and had to go home to get some rest. On the way out, the birthday boy hurled one more homophobic slur in my direction. I wished him a happy birthday. I went home with a big smile on my face because the train wreck I had just witnessed was not something I will soon forget. I made a memory. A memory!

Eight, I wrote on this stupid blog.

Nine, I can’t come up with nine. Or ten. So forget it.

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