Consider The Source

Last night was a nice little open mic showtastictardoganza at Giggles. I usually go there instead of, by all accounts, the much-lamented Sunday Night show at the Comedy Underground for a couple of reasons. First off, 10-15 comics show up, and most of them are actually pretty good. Second, everyone gets a fair amount of time, 5-8 minutes. Also, the audience, although sometimes low in numbers, are usually pretty attentive. They also have access to the comics hanging in the bar area, so there's a little more 'open' feel to emit as a performer.

Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.

This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.

As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
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