Back on the horse, so to speak

Ahhh...Wednesdays at the Lantern Late Show. Nothin' like it. My improv show HARSH (Wednesdays at 1030 at Juvie Hall for those who don't read my web page or plugs) was down last night, so I went to my old home away from home.

Man. I miss those fuckers. I miss the craziness.

I miss the leaky bathroom and the dark back sofa where I candle-write my 'set list' (and I use the term loosely, being semi-retired from stand up - another term I use loosely, in that I haven't taken the stage solo in two, three weeks? That long? Shit.) I miss the crowd, who actually (wow) misses me. Crowd, another loose term, meaning the late night comics - Edward, Bob, Rob, Angry Bob, Mr. John Morrison (I love calling him that), Dan, Vito, Katie, Rachael. host Dave Baldwin, looking oddly groomed. How domesticated! Shake out that ponytail and ramp up that smokers cough! Haven't seen Baldwin in ages - I remember the first time I batted my eyes at him from stage. Ages and ages ago, it seems.

Erszi and I have pre-show dinner at the Olive Something (not Garden - a fabulous Mediterranean super-cheap and super-tasty place above the Comedy Cellar....to dream the impossible dream. Avocado salad, yogurt dressing, hot sauce, black bread, honey lemon tea - something like six bucks.) The waiter is hot and chatty.

I pass Emily and Raquel on the way out - I haven't even done the early show in ages, and chatted with them for a bit - they are fabulous funny ladies.

They've cut the show down, timewise - it used to run up till 230 - they've been dicky about the 2 drink minimum - they've slapped on a $20 card minimum - but hell, it's still the Lantern, and we're all still there, talking shit and hanging out in the bathroom, in the booths, on the stairwells.

We have civilians, drunk and up front, heckling like shit. I got up about halfway, not bad, considering it's been months, and got a suitably lovely-nostalgic introduction. For some reason, one of the brawny-rummy hecklers has fallen in love with me. He lurches bulkily to the back after my ranty bits on life and lobotomies and porn (not totally freeform, but energetic). He loudly throws himself my way, belching my praises and disrupting Liam McEneany's set; I am mortified. Within seconds the totally sweet Victor Varnado body-checks him; I assure him that I am fine, as Drunky McHeckler is slurring to me how totally gay he is so that the drink he (and his straight girlfriend?) is buying me is strings free. Victor stands by as the guy FINALLY leaves, to receive deservedly foul treatment from Liam, who I hope does not hold it against me. My comedy class pal Sparky tries to get me to order a Sam Adams for him but the waitron brings me another JD/Diet Coke (I am pussying out tonight, my stressed out tummy incapable of dealing with straight hooch and needing an acid/carbon dioxide dilution. Go figure.)

Just in time, as 130 approacheth, Vito Fucking Lantz (the worlds most wonderful late night Chicagoan comic drinking musical singing comic dart playing human...the list goes on) and I flash the signs from the dugout meaning "Macdougal. Ale house. Pitchers. They will come. We go now."

Thus the evening begins.

PBR. Jen the hoooooot bartender (#3 on my gay list) is there, we remember how much we totally miss each other (I shit you not, I am in love). Actually she is outside....when we get there, we see why, as there is a douchebag of fratties (how's that for a collective noun?) occupying way too much space and ruining the jukebox.

We find the back room, acquire darts. The rest of the lingerers from the show arrive, we play the darts game whose name I forget (the 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, bullseye one.) I am surprisingly not bad, for a drunk with no depth perception. One is dull and unbalanced, like at least one or two comics on the standby list. (BOOYAH!) Anyways...Pitchers empty. Shots get shooted. Vito and I finally commander the jukebox and Steve Earle, Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash come pouring out.

"Put on Janis Joplin, the bartender will TOTALLY sing!" Yes, indeed. "Put on Georgia on my Mind, Baldwin will cry!" Yep.

We wander about, never finish the game; we were winning. Baldwin discusses the merits of the Willie v. Ray versions of "Georgia." Vito brings up the James Brown version and is glared upon.

After 4, Jen can't sell to us, but she can give it away. What the fuck, one more. I dig out all my cash to tip out, and commandeer Baldwin to escort me to the bank machine afterwards. I'd been meaning to leave the bar for hours (I don't usualy enter so cash-poor), but it would have broken the flow, you know?

Vito and I talk about Minneapolis, about Chicago, about improv, about performing for yourself. About getting some road work in the Midwest if I make it out there in the spring. Cool cool stuff.

Finally chased out, we hit the bank machine. Stumble across the road to the Ma to try and cadge some more drinks. Why? Why the fuck not. Foiled, alas.

The evening (evening?) winds up in familiar fashion.

I've got a bit of a headache today (understatement), a bellyfull of Diet Coke and a slight cough (after being wearily handed my own Camel Light to chew on. Bad, bad.)

Damn, I miss that.

And damn, if I didn't forget to tape my set.

Which was, all in all, a pretty sweet set. Not perfect, a little blue, a little raw, but pretty sweet.

All of it, was pretty sweet. Sometimes you gotta go...