We unflinchingly say that we’re full time performers. It’s a badge of pride. Sure we haven’t had our New York Times article yet, or a TV show offer, but damn it, we work hard. Sure we don’t work much during the summer, but during the “school year,” the four of us do the work of eight men! Well, eight tiny men. Each one about half our size. You do the math.
The reason we don’t work as much during summer is because most of our shows are at colleges, and most colleges close during the summer, probably because they couldn’t keep afloat distributing all those free condoms during the lusty, warmer months.
So during the summer, we each find bizarre and non-committal ways of paying the bills while still leaving ourselves open for the usual business items and smattering of shows. Zach’s been living in Northampton, working on his hip-hop career as Mr. Napkins and directing theater at an arts camp. As usual, Andrew is changing the world in new and exciting ways, most notably through the Harry Potter Alliance, a social justice organization dedicated to fighting the dark arts in the “muggle” world. And Seth has been picking his nose.
I’ve pieced together an elaborate patchwork of occupations that fulfill my employment goals of being more interesting than they are lucrative. These include teaching Shakespeare in Vermont, house-sitting, organic urban gardening, and teaching a few martial arts classes at a camp in Cambridge. Teaching children how to kick and punch “bad people but not each other” provides me with a wealth of strange or "darndest" things kid say.
Yesterday, I was teaching some kids a stretch known as the Plow Pose in yoga. In it, you lie on the floor, then bring your legs up over your head with your feet touching the floor behind you. You end up doubled over with your back on the floor, your knees on your forehead, and your feet extended past your head. One little boy was struggling to stretch further and further, grunting and talking to himself by way of encouragement. Pleased that one of my students was showing such initiative, I walked over and finally heard what he was saying.
“I can… almost… (grunt!)… taste… my balls!“
------------
Aaron Kagan tours FULL TIME with the Late Night Players.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Doing the Charleston, Part Two: Dogs the Musical
Our first day at the Piccolo Spoleto festival in Charleston, SC was marked by a massive media blitz. First, we appeared on Low Country Live, a local morning news program.There we pathetically re-enacted our most accessible material without going over our three minute time slot. The hosts of the program chuckled politely, perhaps out of contractual obligation. Then it was off to a teaser performance at what seemed to be a craft fair.
The act before us sang songs from an original musical opening that week. It’s name? “Dogs the Musical.”
We didn’t see the entire show, so I can’t speak for the piece as a whole. But I can say that from what I saw, I think the same thing happened to Corky St. Clair of Christopher Guest’s “Waiting for Guffman” that happened to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character in “Last Action Hero.” Think about it.
One song told the tale of a young pet psychic who can hear what the “dogs” are thinking. The dogs, by the way, are humans with make-up on their noses. Another repeatedly featured the refrain “Bow-wow, yeah, yeah!” My favorite moment by far was when Priscilla, the one feline in the cast, refused to be groomed like her canine friends. I forget the exact line, but she said something about not wanting someone clipping near her “anal glands.” This was sung at full volume and in brilliant sunshine by a local woman of some sixty plus years, wearing cat ears.
But the strangest thing about DTM is that it costs $22 to see. We know this from a ticket stub found in the gutter, which may or may not have been a statement about the quality of the show.
-Aaron Kagan tours the US with the Late Night Players sketch comedy team when he isn't being mean to local theater productions.
The act before us sang songs from an original musical opening that week. It’s name? “Dogs the Musical.”
We didn’t see the entire show, so I can’t speak for the piece as a whole. But I can say that from what I saw, I think the same thing happened to Corky St. Clair of Christopher Guest’s “Waiting for Guffman” that happened to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character in “Last Action Hero.” Think about it.
One song told the tale of a young pet psychic who can hear what the “dogs” are thinking. The dogs, by the way, are humans with make-up on their noses. Another repeatedly featured the refrain “Bow-wow, yeah, yeah!” My favorite moment by far was when Priscilla, the one feline in the cast, refused to be groomed like her canine friends. I forget the exact line, but she said something about not wanting someone clipping near her “anal glands.” This was sung at full volume and in brilliant sunshine by a local woman of some sixty plus years, wearing cat ears.
But the strangest thing about DTM is that it costs $22 to see. We know this from a ticket stub found in the gutter, which may or may not have been a statement about the quality of the show.
-Aaron Kagan tours the US with the Late Night Players sketch comedy team when he isn't being mean to local theater productions.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Doing the Charleston, Part One: Harry Potter and the Scuppernong
There we were, in town for a four night run at the Piccolo Spoleto festival, which means we had four days relatively free in what has rapidly become our favorite touring destination: the Lowcountry. As we sloshed into the tasting room of a local vineyard, seeking refuge from tropical depression Barry, a teacup Yorkie ran up to great us. His name? Harry Potter.
He was followed by a charming older woman, who owned the winery along with her husband. I mean, she and her husband owned the winery together. She gave us the low down on Harry Potter: “ He was kind of a girly boy when we got him, with ribbons in his hair, but now he runs around with sticks.”
Seth, a wry smile forming amidst his stubble, asked: “Do you spell it H-A-I-R-Y?”
“No, H-A-R-R-Y” she responded, correcting what she must have assumed was Yankee ineptitude.
Her husband then appeared and instantly began describing the history of the Muscadine grape that they so proudly grow. Apparently Muscadine viniculture is an old Southern tradition, popular since long before what our informer referred to as “The War of Northern Aggression,” or what we in the North think of as “The End of Slavery.”
Given that comment, we were curious to see how our hosts would interact with the black family who came in after us. As far as we could tell, they were treated with exactly the same level of Southern hospitality, with one exception. The owner recommended that we pair their sweet, white wine with Thai food. We overheard him recommend that the family try it with fried chicken.
That said, we loved the wine. It was much more interesting and far less expensive than many of its counterparts above the Mason Dixon line. In fact, I’ll go so far as to recommend that phrase as the new slogan of the South: More Interesting, Less Expensive.
Some of the wines were on the dry side – always an accomplishment for small vineyards with unusual varieties of grapes, as they’re often tempted to compensate for lack of complexity with a higher percentage of residual sugars. We asked what accounted for the difference between sweet and dry wines from the same grape, imaging that it must have something to do with the type of oak their barrels were made from, or the ratio of skins to juice in the final pressing. “Dixie crystals!” they answered, beaming.
When they want to go for a sweeter wine, they add sugar. It was as though someone had put a toddler in control of the final product. Surprisingly, you could “taste the grape” much more in a bottle that had 1/8 teaspoon of added sugar. However, the same goes for “tasting the grain” in oatmeal as compared to, say, Cocoa Puffs.
Our hosts took every opportunity to inform us of the advantages of the Muscadine grape over all other varieties, making it an obvious metaphor for the superiority of the South. Lesser known and full of seeds, the Muscadine somehow beat out all those Northern grapes in every possible test. It was even naturally resistant to pests and required no spraying.
“So it’s organic?” asked Seth, full of New England liberalism.
“No, not with all the herbicide I have to spray,” said the proprietor.
But there was more. Muscadines, and their cousin, the Scuppernong (!?) also contain mythic proportions of every nutritionally beneficial chemical that occurs in nature, trumping grapes with wimpy names like “pinot.” Apparently, drinking Muscadine wine even coats your platelets so thoroughly that your arteries will never clot. To bad it couldn’t have helped them win that pesky disagreement over states’ rights.
-Aaron Kagan tours the US with the Late Night Players sketch comedy group, and is a burgeoning scuppernong afficianado.
He was followed by a charming older woman, who owned the winery along with her husband. I mean, she and her husband owned the winery together. She gave us the low down on Harry Potter: “ He was kind of a girly boy when we got him, with ribbons in his hair, but now he runs around with sticks.”
Seth, a wry smile forming amidst his stubble, asked: “Do you spell it H-A-I-R-Y?”
“No, H-A-R-R-Y” she responded, correcting what she must have assumed was Yankee ineptitude.
Her husband then appeared and instantly began describing the history of the Muscadine grape that they so proudly grow. Apparently Muscadine viniculture is an old Southern tradition, popular since long before what our informer referred to as “The War of Northern Aggression,” or what we in the North think of as “The End of Slavery.”
Given that comment, we were curious to see how our hosts would interact with the black family who came in after us. As far as we could tell, they were treated with exactly the same level of Southern hospitality, with one exception. The owner recommended that we pair their sweet, white wine with Thai food. We overheard him recommend that the family try it with fried chicken.
That said, we loved the wine. It was much more interesting and far less expensive than many of its counterparts above the Mason Dixon line. In fact, I’ll go so far as to recommend that phrase as the new slogan of the South: More Interesting, Less Expensive.
Some of the wines were on the dry side – always an accomplishment for small vineyards with unusual varieties of grapes, as they’re often tempted to compensate for lack of complexity with a higher percentage of residual sugars. We asked what accounted for the difference between sweet and dry wines from the same grape, imaging that it must have something to do with the type of oak their barrels were made from, or the ratio of skins to juice in the final pressing. “Dixie crystals!” they answered, beaming.
When they want to go for a sweeter wine, they add sugar. It was as though someone had put a toddler in control of the final product. Surprisingly, you could “taste the grape” much more in a bottle that had 1/8 teaspoon of added sugar. However, the same goes for “tasting the grain” in oatmeal as compared to, say, Cocoa Puffs.
Our hosts took every opportunity to inform us of the advantages of the Muscadine grape over all other varieties, making it an obvious metaphor for the superiority of the South. Lesser known and full of seeds, the Muscadine somehow beat out all those Northern grapes in every possible test. It was even naturally resistant to pests and required no spraying.
“So it’s organic?” asked Seth, full of New England liberalism.
“No, not with all the herbicide I have to spray,” said the proprietor.
But there was more. Muscadines, and their cousin, the Scuppernong (!?) also contain mythic proportions of every nutritionally beneficial chemical that occurs in nature, trumping grapes with wimpy names like “pinot.” Apparently, drinking Muscadine wine even coats your platelets so thoroughly that your arteries will never clot. To bad it couldn’t have helped them win that pesky disagreement over states’ rights.
-Aaron Kagan tours the US with the Late Night Players sketch comedy group, and is a burgeoning scuppernong afficianado.
Monday, May 21, 2007
My Big Break
I was recently asked to be in a play. It’s been 6 years since I’ve been on a stage for anything besides an LNP gig, unless you count a speaking engagment for Martin Luther King Day at a high school in rural Arizona and a couple of anxiety dreams. So this was kind of a big deal.
And it was flattering. The play was a 10 minute one act in the Boston Theater Marathon, a fundraising event at which you can watch as many of the 50 plays as you like, with all ticket sales going to charity. I got the offer through my girlfriend, who is among other things, a fantastic actress. Her employer, who is particularly well placed in the Boston theater community, said that she had a part that was just perfect for me.
Perfect? For me? Why, then it must be a very good role.
Do you think that turned out to be true? Why don’t you read the stage directions that describe my character’s entrance and then decide:
ART enters. He is naked except for a thong and knee-high leather boots. He has an anarcho-punk look. Printed on his chest, in black marker and in big letters, is the word “ART”. He turns round and his back becomes visible to the audience. On it, in black marker, is written the word “FUCKS.”
Yes, it was nice to take a break from the world of sketch comedy and sink my teeth into some real acting. I relished the opportunity to rub elbows with the theater community proper. You could say that we do theater, or you could say that we do something in theaters.
When other actors would ask me what company I was with, I had some explaining to do. Unlike them, I didn’t work with one of the seemingly infinite amount of theater ensembles from Western Massachusetts with one word names. Nor did I support my theater addiction with a desk job in one of those mysterious fields like “development” or “consulting” that must absorb all those people who majored in communications.
When I explained that I was in a comedy group, I heard a range of bewildered responses as people tried to condescend to something they didn’t quite understand. It was like a shark trying to insult a school teacher.
In the end, I found myself grateful for getting the chance to perform for a couple hundred people in one of Boston’s most prestigious theaters, and for a good cause. I also found myself scraping the word “FUCKS” off my back with cold cream.
And it was flattering. The play was a 10 minute one act in the Boston Theater Marathon, a fundraising event at which you can watch as many of the 50 plays as you like, with all ticket sales going to charity. I got the offer through my girlfriend, who is among other things, a fantastic actress. Her employer, who is particularly well placed in the Boston theater community, said that she had a part that was just perfect for me.
Perfect? For me? Why, then it must be a very good role.
Do you think that turned out to be true? Why don’t you read the stage directions that describe my character’s entrance and then decide:
ART enters. He is naked except for a thong and knee-high leather boots. He has an anarcho-punk look. Printed on his chest, in black marker and in big letters, is the word “ART”. He turns round and his back becomes visible to the audience. On it, in black marker, is written the word “FUCKS.”
Yes, it was nice to take a break from the world of sketch comedy and sink my teeth into some real acting. I relished the opportunity to rub elbows with the theater community proper. You could say that we do theater, or you could say that we do something in theaters.
When other actors would ask me what company I was with, I had some explaining to do. Unlike them, I didn’t work with one of the seemingly infinite amount of theater ensembles from Western Massachusetts with one word names. Nor did I support my theater addiction with a desk job in one of those mysterious fields like “development” or “consulting” that must absorb all those people who majored in communications.
When I explained that I was in a comedy group, I heard a range of bewildered responses as people tried to condescend to something they didn’t quite understand. It was like a shark trying to insult a school teacher.
In the end, I found myself grateful for getting the chance to perform for a couple hundred people in one of Boston’s most prestigious theaters, and for a good cause. I also found myself scraping the word “FUCKS” off my back with cold cream.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
My Vagina (Cream)
I recently visited a dermatologist for the first time since a short, Jamaican man named Dr. Virtue burned a mole of my chest at the age of thirteen. But that was a long time ago, and now my mom doesn’t set up doctor’s appointments for me anymore. I live in a world without Virtue.
I had one question for my new doctor that burned in my mind and sometimes on my upper thighs: how to avoid irritation and chafing in the… special zone. He recommended basic hygiene, regular dustings of baby powder, and, in the event of an incident, the application of an over the counter cream. This he scrawled in Aramaic on a post-it note sponsored by a corporation whose name seemed to combine an emotion and a kind of plastic.
When the pharmacist at CVS had finally deciphered the doctor’s recommendation, she paused for a moment, looked me over, and, I later realized, assessed my gender.
“What’s this for?”
I lowered my voice and leaned in close. “Irritation in the groin.”
“Follow me,” she said.
Then, in the middle of the store, she asked: “Again, what’s this for?”
“Groin irritation” I said at a regular volume, trying to look as casual as I do when buying condoms.
She led me to an aisle with a sign that said something like “Women’s Lovely Items.” There, between of tubes of Vagisil and Spring Rain, was my cream.
I had two options: applicator shaft or vaginal suppository. I turned to my guide, but she had already high tailed it back to the safety of her counter, probably assuming that I or someone I loved had a vagina.
When I read the label more carefully, I saw that it said “Do not use unless you have had a yeast infection on your vagina before.” With those two strikes against me, I called the doctor. The receptionist answered.
“What’s your question?”
“I have a question about the warning label on my medication.”
“What’s it say?”
I told her. A pregnant silence followed.
I waited patiently while she checked with the doctor, pretending the applicator was a slide whistle.
“He says it’s fine.”
The entire episode made me feel kind of lost. Gone was the dermatologist of my youth. My new doctor didn’t provide the sense of security of one hand picked by my mom. I learned that we, the recipients of health care, must look out for our own interests. Yes, in the end, you could say that Patients is a Virtue.
------------------
Aaron Kagan practices good hygeine.
I had one question for my new doctor that burned in my mind and sometimes on my upper thighs: how to avoid irritation and chafing in the… special zone. He recommended basic hygiene, regular dustings of baby powder, and, in the event of an incident, the application of an over the counter cream. This he scrawled in Aramaic on a post-it note sponsored by a corporation whose name seemed to combine an emotion and a kind of plastic.
When the pharmacist at CVS had finally deciphered the doctor’s recommendation, she paused for a moment, looked me over, and, I later realized, assessed my gender.
“What’s this for?”
I lowered my voice and leaned in close. “Irritation in the groin.”
“Follow me,” she said.
Then, in the middle of the store, she asked: “Again, what’s this for?”
“Groin irritation” I said at a regular volume, trying to look as casual as I do when buying condoms.
She led me to an aisle with a sign that said something like “Women’s Lovely Items.” There, between of tubes of Vagisil and Spring Rain, was my cream.
I had two options: applicator shaft or vaginal suppository. I turned to my guide, but she had already high tailed it back to the safety of her counter, probably assuming that I or someone I loved had a vagina.
When I read the label more carefully, I saw that it said “Do not use unless you have had a yeast infection on your vagina before.” With those two strikes against me, I called the doctor. The receptionist answered.
“What’s your question?”
“I have a question about the warning label on my medication.”
“What’s it say?”
I told her. A pregnant silence followed.
I waited patiently while she checked with the doctor, pretending the applicator was a slide whistle.
“He says it’s fine.”
The entire episode made me feel kind of lost. Gone was the dermatologist of my youth. My new doctor didn’t provide the sense of security of one hand picked by my mom. I learned that we, the recipients of health care, must look out for our own interests. Yes, in the end, you could say that Patients is a Virtue.
------------------
Aaron Kagan practices good hygeine.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Poetry In Motion
“I walk alone, absorbed in my fantastic play, —
Fencing with rhymes, which, parrying nimbly, back away;
Tripping on words, as on rough paving in the street,
Or bumping into verses I long had dreamed to meet.”
-C.B.
Charles Baudelaire roamed the streets of Paris as a flaneur, a wandering poet in search of what we might now call “soft news.” His spleen was enormous. He floated down les avenues awash in absinthe, in a cloud of opium, being rained on by hydrogen and oxygen. A self described combatant, he fenced with the city to win its rhymes. Cities contain fences. Therefore, he might have sometimes fenced with a fence.
Replace “stroll” with “drive”, “the city” with “I-90”, and “poetry” with “blog” and you’ll see that I am exactly the same as Charles Baudelaire. He fenced for poetry, I for funny jokes. We are as one, except that I haven’t written poems called “A Hideous Jewess Lay With Me” and “To She Who Is Too Gay.”
En guarde, America!
-C.B.
Charles Baudelaire roamed the streets of Paris as a flaneur, a wandering poet in search of what we might now call “soft news.” His spleen was enormous. He floated down les avenues awash in absinthe, in a cloud of opium, being rained on by hydrogen and oxygen. A self described combatant, he fenced with the city to win its rhymes. Cities contain fences. Therefore, he might have sometimes fenced with a fence.
Replace “stroll” with “drive”, “the city” with “I-90”, and “poetry” with “blog” and you’ll see that I am exactly the same as Charles Baudelaire. He fenced for poetry, I for funny jokes. We are as one, except that I haven’t written poems called “A Hideous Jewess Lay With Me” and “To She Who Is Too Gay.”
En guarde, America!
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Comedy During Tragedy
The last line of the previous post was going to read: “As far as I can tell, all’s well in America.” But it just didn’t seem right. Sure enough, shortly after the blissful day I described in the last installment, our country suffered its worst school shooting to date.
People are quick to point out the relationship between comedy and tragedy, but in practice it’s much more complex than the old formula. When we’re up in front of college students and the crowd jumps when fireworks go off a mile away, like they did tonight, you realize that there’s not even a grain of gallows humor in what has just happened.
Our approach to sensitivity is as varied as our venue list. Sometimes it comes down to a quick decision made moments before going on stage, sometimes we add lib to correct content in sensitive environments, and sometimes we spend whole van rides arguing over which vaginal synonyms objectify women and which are just funny. (“Box” and “hoo-ha,” respectively.)
We live in an age of masters like the brains behind The Daily Show and The Onion. There have been masters in the past, like Chaplin taking on Hitler, but their less complex times did not require the finesse and nuance of, say, Jon Stewart tackling Bush regarding September 11th. Bernadine Dorhn, famous for blowing up buildings as ringleader of the Weather Underground, once told me that she thinks The Onion is a powerful tool for social change. From bombs to editorials by Area Man.
Ideally, when something like Virginia Tech happens, every citizen takes a good, hard look at their own actions. How can you prevent things like this from happening, and when they do, what can you do to help? What you can you do as a student, lawyer, parent, or in our case, comedian? Our approach is twofold.
First, reach out to any audience members who don’t look like they’re part of a community. These people frequently find their way to our shows and stay longer than anyone else, and we don’t leave until they do. Second, watch what you say up there.
We always want to push, but there’s no value in making an audience feel bad in a way that is unproductive or paralyzing. So for the time being we’ve snipped out any and all references to guns or violence, and I’m making more of an effort to reach out to loners, especially at colleges.
When I look what we’re doing and how it fits into the scheme of things at this point in time, I figure the best we can do is to give people a night off from the darkness.
-A.K.
People are quick to point out the relationship between comedy and tragedy, but in practice it’s much more complex than the old formula. When we’re up in front of college students and the crowd jumps when fireworks go off a mile away, like they did tonight, you realize that there’s not even a grain of gallows humor in what has just happened.
Our approach to sensitivity is as varied as our venue list. Sometimes it comes down to a quick decision made moments before going on stage, sometimes we add lib to correct content in sensitive environments, and sometimes we spend whole van rides arguing over which vaginal synonyms objectify women and which are just funny. (“Box” and “hoo-ha,” respectively.)
We live in an age of masters like the brains behind The Daily Show and The Onion. There have been masters in the past, like Chaplin taking on Hitler, but their less complex times did not require the finesse and nuance of, say, Jon Stewart tackling Bush regarding September 11th. Bernadine Dorhn, famous for blowing up buildings as ringleader of the Weather Underground, once told me that she thinks The Onion is a powerful tool for social change. From bombs to editorials by Area Man.
Ideally, when something like Virginia Tech happens, every citizen takes a good, hard look at their own actions. How can you prevent things like this from happening, and when they do, what can you do to help? What you can you do as a student, lawyer, parent, or in our case, comedian? Our approach is twofold.
First, reach out to any audience members who don’t look like they’re part of a community. These people frequently find their way to our shows and stay longer than anyone else, and we don’t leave until they do. Second, watch what you say up there.
We always want to push, but there’s no value in making an audience feel bad in a way that is unproductive or paralyzing. So for the time being we’ve snipped out any and all references to guns or violence, and I’m making more of an effort to reach out to loners, especially at colleges.
When I look what we’re doing and how it fits into the scheme of things at this point in time, I figure the best we can do is to give people a night off from the darkness.
-A.K.
Friday, April 20, 2007
As It Should Be
The day began with a massive brunch by our gracious hosts Tom and Susan Newberry, parents to Andrew’s girlfriend and my girl friend, Sarah. The meal began with a blonde gazpacho laced with green grapes and marcona almonds, and it ended with homemade mango sorbet and satisfied moaning. To drink, Mr. Newberry’s famous margaritas, so good that the recipe must here be published: 3 parts tequila, 1 part grand marnier, fresh lime juice, a dash of almond syrup. Not a bad way to start the day, if you like pleasure.
Breakfast was followed by a quick dip in lake Minnetonka, whose ice had just melted. It was quick because I didn’t want to die.
We then cruised on to Madison, passing the rock spires and cranberry bogs by the “Wis Dells.” While HQ was being slammed with a Spring Nor’easter, we enjoyed perfect driving weather: 64 degrees, spotty cloud cover, light traffic, and for us, not too much farting.
Things were looking good for the LNP. We were full of sorbet, the sky was full of migrating cranes, and adult novelties were available at most exits.
Breakfast was followed by a quick dip in lake Minnetonka, whose ice had just melted. It was quick because I didn’t want to die.
We then cruised on to Madison, passing the rock spires and cranberry bogs by the “Wis Dells.” While HQ was being slammed with a Spring Nor’easter, we enjoyed perfect driving weather: 64 degrees, spotty cloud cover, light traffic, and for us, not too much farting.
Things were looking good for the LNP. We were full of sorbet, the sky was full of migrating cranes, and adult novelties were available at most exits.
Friday, April 13, 2007
My Stars!
We’re sharing our booth at this conference with Dennis Haskins, aka Mr. Belding from Saved by the Bell, with whom I am on hugging – nay, bear hugging - terms. LNP celebrity encounters have spiked recently thanks to our help writing for Boston’s two highest profile fundraising events. Here are some things I’ve learned about those I’ve met.
Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick now recognizes the extravagance of his travel budget, and Andrew.
Boston Mayor Tom “Mumbles” Menino is like a big, democratic teddy bear. Not so much because he’s cute, which he is, but because he can’t really speak.
Aerosmith bassist Tom Hamilton makes a bizarre Borat.
In person, the Car Guys sound, and laugh, just like they do on NPR. The former is interesting, the latter slightly awkward.
Robert Goulet’s wife finds us “intriguing,” and he himself is not only charming but also drunk.
---
Aaron Kagan is currently typing this.
Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick now recognizes the extravagance of his travel budget, and Andrew.
Boston Mayor Tom “Mumbles” Menino is like a big, democratic teddy bear. Not so much because he’s cute, which he is, but because he can’t really speak.
Aerosmith bassist Tom Hamilton makes a bizarre Borat.
In person, the Car Guys sound, and laugh, just like they do on NPR. The former is interesting, the latter slightly awkward.
Robert Goulet’s wife finds us “intriguing,” and he himself is not only charming but also drunk.
---
Aaron Kagan is currently typing this.
LNP v.s. Snakes
From the seventh floor of the Crown Plaza in St. Paul I can see twilight releasing it’s dim hold on what’s left of the skyline. To my right, the bluffs of the Mississippi catch the last bits of sun. To my left, a packed convention center teems with entertainers of all shapes and sizes, hawking their wares to unwary college students at the regional conference for the National Association of Campus Activites, or “NACA.” Or, as some students from Massachusetts inadvertently say it, “NAUWKA.”
Here, a college might book the Late Night Players, a giant, a giant chair, a mechanical bull, or actual reptiles. I don’t like to think of it as a competition, but I also don’t like it when the chair does more business than us. When the reptiles do, I don’t mind -- if something can kill me, it’s fair for it to do better on the college market.
If you’re ever in the twin cities, I have one strong dining recommendation. The astronaut ice cream at the Science Museum is literally out of this world, and if you can identify the species of the “bird on the buoy” statue in the foyer, you get a sticker. The sticker cannot be traded for more astronaut ice cream.
Here, a college might book the Late Night Players, a giant, a giant chair, a mechanical bull, or actual reptiles. I don’t like to think of it as a competition, but I also don’t like it when the chair does more business than us. When the reptiles do, I don’t mind -- if something can kill me, it’s fair for it to do better on the college market.
If you’re ever in the twin cities, I have one strong dining recommendation. The astronaut ice cream at the Science Museum is literally out of this world, and if you can identify the species of the “bird on the buoy” statue in the foyer, you get a sticker. The sticker cannot be traded for more astronaut ice cream.
Monday, April 9, 2007
How to Have the Flu and Tour
Option 1: Don’t.
Option 2: No need to be a hero and drive all the way from Vermont to Detroit. Let Zach do it. You sit shotgun, moaning.
When you get to the Ramada in Buffalo, specify a non smoking room since you’re already in pretty bad shape and don’t need any extra carcinogens. When they still give you a smoking room, complain. While they’re getting your new room ready, shiver.
The next day, let Zach drive again.
When you get to the Howard Johnson in Pennsylvania, turn the heat on in your room, because it hasn’t been turned on yet that winter. When you notice that all of the heat is just being blown behind the curtain, hallucinate that it’s Marilyn Monroe over the sewer grate. Once you’re thinking clearly again, redirect the hot air by blocking off the curtain with a clock radio on top of a lamp. Crawl into bed already in your sleeping bag, still wearing your winter jacket and ski cap. Want to die. Hear the clock radio fall.
For breakfast, eat a saltine. Feel nauseous. Don’t eat again that day.
Take Dayquil. Wish it was stronger.
Drink lots of fluids. Wish it did jack shit.
Suffer.
Wait.
See Option 1.
Aaron Kagan is so funny, it's sick.
Option 2: No need to be a hero and drive all the way from Vermont to Detroit. Let Zach do it. You sit shotgun, moaning.
When you get to the Ramada in Buffalo, specify a non smoking room since you’re already in pretty bad shape and don’t need any extra carcinogens. When they still give you a smoking room, complain. While they’re getting your new room ready, shiver.
The next day, let Zach drive again.
When you get to the Howard Johnson in Pennsylvania, turn the heat on in your room, because it hasn’t been turned on yet that winter. When you notice that all of the heat is just being blown behind the curtain, hallucinate that it’s Marilyn Monroe over the sewer grate. Once you’re thinking clearly again, redirect the hot air by blocking off the curtain with a clock radio on top of a lamp. Crawl into bed already in your sleeping bag, still wearing your winter jacket and ski cap. Want to die. Hear the clock radio fall.
For breakfast, eat a saltine. Feel nauseous. Don’t eat again that day.
Take Dayquil. Wish it was stronger.
Drink lots of fluids. Wish it did jack shit.
Suffer.
Wait.
See Option 1.
Aaron Kagan is so funny, it's sick.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
Freedom Bread
A hearty “hag sameach” to my fellow descendants of escaped Hebrew slaves celebrating Passover this week.
I celebrated Passover this year by making matzoh. I figured it couldn’t be that hard, and certainly shouldn’t take too long. And not to brag, but it was practically shmurah.
I also spent some q.t. with my cousins and long time LNP hosts, the Steinbergs. We usually show up at their place well after our gigs in the city, eat their hummus, and take off again in the morning. This time I was able to hang out and catch up at their cozy home in Westchester county; possibly the nicest place in the world if you don’t think about all that other stuff.
Nina’s macaroons were breathtaking, and the homemade chopped liver was to die for. Eventually... The twins just played Carnegie Hall, Zack got signed to URI for baseball, and Adam already produced an international hit; apparently “Chicka Chad” is huge in Italy.
So sorry, Nazi’s. We’re only eating the bread of affliction because we want to. And we dip it in chocolate.
I celebrated Passover this year by making matzoh. I figured it couldn’t be that hard, and certainly shouldn’t take too long. And not to brag, but it was practically shmurah.
I also spent some q.t. with my cousins and long time LNP hosts, the Steinbergs. We usually show up at their place well after our gigs in the city, eat their hummus, and take off again in the morning. This time I was able to hang out and catch up at their cozy home in Westchester county; possibly the nicest place in the world if you don’t think about all that other stuff.
Nina’s macaroons were breathtaking, and the homemade chopped liver was to die for. Eventually... The twins just played Carnegie Hall, Zack got signed to URI for baseball, and Adam already produced an international hit; apparently “Chicka Chad” is huge in Italy.
So sorry, Nazi’s. We’re only eating the bread of affliction because we want to. And we dip it in chocolate.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Pain in the Neck
I’m coming to you from a stiff, upright position in a Holiday Inn Express in Easton, PA. Why, besides early man’s desire to hold tools and look for jaguars, am I standing upright?
Because I screwed up my neck and it hurts to… do things. Even to sit, or turn my head. Regardless, tomorrow I shall sit indeed: for six hours as I drive, alone, for the show must go on. But I’m not changing lanes.
Did I hurt my neck performing? (Obviously not.) Or by foolishly answering Seth’s dad’s bizarre sit-up challenge at the gym this morning? Hint: Seth’s dad is about twice my age, but he’s twice as good at doing weird sit-ups.
Thanks to the Sit-Up Challenge, I finally understand why some stomach exercises are called “crunches.” I actually heard and felt my vertebrae "crunch" as I gripped the bars behind my head, lofted the lower half of my body straight up into the air, and jammed my neck and shoulders against the padding. All to prove myself to a paternal figure, and to fail.
Besides my intense pain and the Williamson Wedding, this hotel also has a Bar Mitzvah party tonight. We had an easy time picking out which people in the lobby were here for which event, thanks to a new game I’ll call “Blonde Hair or Crazy Nose.”
Ouch! Sorry - my neck, not the joke.
Aaron Kagan has been called "The Calvin Trillin of Writing About Touring as a Sketch Comic."
Because I screwed up my neck and it hurts to… do things. Even to sit, or turn my head. Regardless, tomorrow I shall sit indeed: for six hours as I drive, alone, for the show must go on. But I’m not changing lanes.
Did I hurt my neck performing? (Obviously not.) Or by foolishly answering Seth’s dad’s bizarre sit-up challenge at the gym this morning? Hint: Seth’s dad is about twice my age, but he’s twice as good at doing weird sit-ups.
Thanks to the Sit-Up Challenge, I finally understand why some stomach exercises are called “crunches.” I actually heard and felt my vertebrae "crunch" as I gripped the bars behind my head, lofted the lower half of my body straight up into the air, and jammed my neck and shoulders against the padding. All to prove myself to a paternal figure, and to fail.
Besides my intense pain and the Williamson Wedding, this hotel also has a Bar Mitzvah party tonight. We had an easy time picking out which people in the lobby were here for which event, thanks to a new game I’ll call “Blonde Hair or Crazy Nose.”
Ouch! Sorry - my neck, not the joke.
Aaron Kagan has been called "The Calvin Trillin of Writing About Touring as a Sketch Comic."
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Oh, The Things You Didn't Know I Did Today
We dwell anonymously, flying down the interstate at odd hours between semi-major metropolitan areas, lodging where it’s least expensive, performing for people who can’t afford the Black Eyed Peas. Most people don’t understand that you can make your living as a performer without their having heard of you. Well we're everywhere, and you had no idea.
For every Johnny Depp there’s a thousand guys like me lurking around the rest stops of major highways, sleeping in the Motel 6’es of America, hawking our wares to anyone who can afford a show fee plus four meals (two vegan, please).
We once descended upon the office of a Jewish community center somewhere in the Midwest to use their computers. I guess they thought we were coming over to juggle and tell jokes, because they were surprised when we just said “hi” and parked in front of four monitors, fingers flying, keys clacking, our faces reflecting the cool, blue glow of the PC screens. When we’re not performing, we’re working. If we had normal jobs, we’d be rich.
Today you might have read about Brittney’s first post rehab outing, but I bet you didn’t know how many times I had to spell “Reibstein” for a mechanic in Kentucky. That mechanic’s name? Actually Mike Hunt.
I also:
-priced out travel to a prep school in Georgia
-ate a burrito
-left a message at a bar in Kent, Ohio where we forgot a vest, beret, and mustache
-used a toothpick
-cashed a claim check from when somebody tried to break into the van in Peoria
-missed my family
-found out the guy who edited our last anti-Walmart video also made the controversial Obama you tube video
-stared out the window
-looked over an application for us to tour military bases in Afghanistan
-cried a little
-edited a script in which a member of Aerosmith will be playing Borat
And what did Johnny Depp do? Probably just drink champagne and cackle.
For every Johnny Depp there’s a thousand guys like me lurking around the rest stops of major highways, sleeping in the Motel 6’es of America, hawking our wares to anyone who can afford a show fee plus four meals (two vegan, please).
We once descended upon the office of a Jewish community center somewhere in the Midwest to use their computers. I guess they thought we were coming over to juggle and tell jokes, because they were surprised when we just said “hi” and parked in front of four monitors, fingers flying, keys clacking, our faces reflecting the cool, blue glow of the PC screens. When we’re not performing, we’re working. If we had normal jobs, we’d be rich.
Today you might have read about Brittney’s first post rehab outing, but I bet you didn’t know how many times I had to spell “Reibstein” for a mechanic in Kentucky. That mechanic’s name? Actually Mike Hunt.
I also:
-priced out travel to a prep school in Georgia
-ate a burrito
-left a message at a bar in Kent, Ohio where we forgot a vest, beret, and mustache
-used a toothpick
-cashed a claim check from when somebody tried to break into the van in Peoria
-missed my family
-found out the guy who edited our last anti-Walmart video also made the controversial Obama you tube video
-stared out the window
-looked over an application for us to tour military bases in Afghanistan
-cried a little
-edited a script in which a member of Aerosmith will be playing Borat
And what did Johnny Depp do? Probably just drink champagne and cackle.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
How Do You Guys Exercise?
To answer the question posed by the title of this post, I'll say bizarrely, or never.
As one of the Dresden Dolls pointed out, the irony of becoming a successful artist is that you live a lifestyle antithetic to art. Or, in our case, to exercise.
Thanks to touring, I’ve observed new and undesireable things happening to my body. Some of them are painful, some audible. I’m not as fat as many Americans, but neither are pigs or whales.
I exaggerate, and to show you how absurd it is to even have the words “fat,” “my,” and “body” in one post, I have attached a photo of myself looking fit after our first year of touring. But it’s my obsessive attention to detail that makes me an ideal candidate to pick apart society with the tweezers and needle of comedy. In fact, our material has been described as “blistering” by at least one journalist we’re friends with.
I suppose using Outlook on long drives just doesn’t keep me as toned as I used to be. Guess the OUTLOOK on my HEALTH doesn’t look so good! Actually, it’s really sad.
As one of the Dresden Dolls pointed out, the irony of becoming a successful artist is that you live a lifestyle antithetic to art. Or, in our case, to exercise.
Thanks to touring, I’ve observed new and undesireable things happening to my body. Some of them are painful, some audible. I’m not as fat as many Americans, but neither are pigs or whales.
I exaggerate, and to show you how absurd it is to even have the words “fat,” “my,” and “body” in one post, I have attached a photo of myself looking fit after our first year of touring. But it’s my obsessive attention to detail that makes me an ideal candidate to pick apart society with the tweezers and needle of comedy. In fact, our material has been described as “blistering” by at least one journalist we’re friends with.
I suppose using Outlook on long drives just doesn’t keep me as toned as I used to be. Guess the OUTLOOK on my HEALTH doesn’t look so good! Actually, it’s really sad.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Prog Com or "Is the new..." Is the New "Making a Joke"
As a fairly busy comic, I rarely get to see the work of other comics. When I do, it’s a treat to come across material that matches my exacting standards. You see, I like comics to be funny rather than making me feel like the jury of 500 hundred Athenians felt about Socrates.
Fortunately, there’s a new wave of upper middle class, white, male comics here to save all the upper middle class, white, male comedy fans from the unfunny and offensive material that all too often passes for humor. The closed circle is now a safer space.
A good comedy show that doesn’t drag society backwards with every laugh is a veritable ivory billed woodpecker. But the bird has been cited more and more, and it’s now safe to say that we’re enjoying a new wave of progressive comedy, or as I just decided to start calling it, Prog Com.
These comics include(d) Mitch Hedberg, Dmitri Martin, Mike Birbiglia, and Myq Kaplan. Actually, those are just the ones I know. (See sentence #1.) The LNP had the pleasure of opening for Martin, catching Birbiglia’s act last night, going to school with Kaplan, and will perhaps meet Hedberg when our van crashes into an oncoming semi.
These comics actually cook up new jokes rather than rehashing the old “men leave the toilet seat up but women use all the toilet paper” bit or delighting us with advancements in the art of “_______ is the new _________.” And when they say "fagott," you can tell by their messy, hipstery hair that they're actually making fun of people who say fagott. Or they're talking about burning sticks.
Fortunately, there’s a new wave of upper middle class, white, male comics here to save all the upper middle class, white, male comedy fans from the unfunny and offensive material that all too often passes for humor. The closed circle is now a safer space.
A good comedy show that doesn’t drag society backwards with every laugh is a veritable ivory billed woodpecker. But the bird has been cited more and more, and it’s now safe to say that we’re enjoying a new wave of progressive comedy, or as I just decided to start calling it, Prog Com.
These comics include(d) Mitch Hedberg, Dmitri Martin, Mike Birbiglia, and Myq Kaplan. Actually, those are just the ones I know. (See sentence #1.) The LNP had the pleasure of opening for Martin, catching Birbiglia’s act last night, going to school with Kaplan, and will perhaps meet Hedberg when our van crashes into an oncoming semi.
These comics actually cook up new jokes rather than rehashing the old “men leave the toilet seat up but women use all the toilet paper” bit or delighting us with advancements in the art of “_______ is the new _________.” And when they say "fagott," you can tell by their messy, hipstery hair that they're actually making fun of people who say fagott. Or they're talking about burning sticks.
Why?
You may be wondering why four college grads decided to do what we do. You might think “Hey, these guys probably should have gone to grad school.” You’re probably right.
Based on some feedback I received after my last post, I feel the need to explain why we continue in such a difficult line of work. That feedback:
“I feel horrible. You must really love what you do to put up with all the crap that comes with being on the road. And if the four of you were girls, you'd have scratched each other up and blown all your money by now.”
- Miriam Stern-Kramer
I’m not sure if I agree with her gender analysis, I do think my reader has a point. Life as a touring sketch comic isn’t all tow trucks and traffic jams. In fact, sometimes we perform sketch comedy. But that’s not why I decided on this unique application of my Bachelor of Arts in European Cultural Study. It’s because of a letter I wrote in 1998.
I was then about to graduate high school, and like many others in my position, I wistfully daydreamed about my new life as an academic, wondering whether or not the amount of alcohol my body could tolerate would be considered “cool.” I sat down to write a letter, which is what we used to call e-mailing, and it was then and there that I decided that I would one day be an artist. After graduating from college and reliving the graduation party scene from The Graduate over and over again, I decided that being an artist meant being commercially successful at being an artist. By this rationale, my parents would be satisfied, and Van Gogh was an insane bum.
I didn’t want rave reviews. I didn’t want roses thrown at my feet. I didn’t want Steve Martin turning over in his grave, or Steve Martin to have died. I wanted to pay Rocco Lorenzo four hundred and seventy five dollars - which is what we used to call six hundred dollars - on the first of every month, entirely from my doing comedy. And that would show everyone who said it couldn’t be done that they were wrong. And they were. Because now, I can almost always pay my rent.
How’s that Miriam?
PS – Since there weren’t any traffic accidents in this post, I’ve attached a photo of my hand after I sliced it open transporting our disco ball to remind children of the perils of the theater.
Based on some feedback I received after my last post, I feel the need to explain why we continue in such a difficult line of work. That feedback:
“I feel horrible. You must really love what you do to put up with all the crap that comes with being on the road. And if the four of you were girls, you'd have scratched each other up and blown all your money by now.”
- Miriam Stern-Kramer
I’m not sure if I agree with her gender analysis, I do think my reader has a point. Life as a touring sketch comic isn’t all tow trucks and traffic jams. In fact, sometimes we perform sketch comedy. But that’s not why I decided on this unique application of my Bachelor of Arts in European Cultural Study. It’s because of a letter I wrote in 1998.
I was then about to graduate high school, and like many others in my position, I wistfully daydreamed about my new life as an academic, wondering whether or not the amount of alcohol my body could tolerate would be considered “cool.” I sat down to write a letter, which is what we used to call e-mailing, and it was then and there that I decided that I would one day be an artist. After graduating from college and reliving the graduation party scene from The Graduate over and over again, I decided that being an artist meant being commercially successful at being an artist. By this rationale, my parents would be satisfied, and Van Gogh was an insane bum.
I didn’t want rave reviews. I didn’t want roses thrown at my feet. I didn’t want Steve Martin turning over in his grave, or Steve Martin to have died. I wanted to pay Rocco Lorenzo four hundred and seventy five dollars - which is what we used to call six hundred dollars - on the first of every month, entirely from my doing comedy. And that would show everyone who said it couldn’t be done that they were wrong. And they were. Because now, I can almost always pay my rent.
How’s that Miriam?
PS – Since there weren’t any traffic accidents in this post, I’ve attached a photo of my hand after I sliced it open transporting our disco ball to remind children of the perils of the theater.
Monday, March 12, 2007
100 Miles in 6 Hours, iii
I ended up driving a rental car back from Nashville to pick up Seth and Zach, who passed their time at the gas station in a semi comatose state taking turns in front of a space heater they came to call “Polonius.” I don’t know what happened there in Horse Cave, but I do know that they really didn’t want to leave "him" when I finally did show up.
Having gone in the tow truck with Red Calf and J. to Nashville, I had to make the 100 mile return trip back to Horse Cave to get the guys at the end of a long day that had already sucked more than a name without a story. It took me 6 hours. I spent most of that time far from the company of Polonius and stuck in my tracks in two separate, gridlocked traffic jams caused by an inch of snow, roughly the same amount New England has had in total this winter. It would be more accurate to say the jams were caused by the inability of Kentuckians to drive through that inch, but I don’t want to point fingers.
Six solo hours in a traffic jam at the end of a day already full of time consuming automotive mishaps was more than I could handle, and I went mad. I felt bad doing so, knowing that no matter how bad is was for me, I was probably more alive than the people in the cars that were blocking the road.
Having gone in the tow truck with Red Calf and J. to Nashville, I had to make the 100 mile return trip back to Horse Cave to get the guys at the end of a long day that had already sucked more than a name without a story. It took me 6 hours. I spent most of that time far from the company of Polonius and stuck in my tracks in two separate, gridlocked traffic jams caused by an inch of snow, roughly the same amount New England has had in total this winter. It would be more accurate to say the jams were caused by the inability of Kentuckians to drive through that inch, but I don’t want to point fingers.
Six solo hours in a traffic jam at the end of a day already full of time consuming automotive mishaps was more than I could handle, and I went mad. I felt bad doing so, knowing that no matter how bad is was for me, I was probably more alive than the people in the cars that were blocking the road.
100 Miles in 6 Hours, ii
So it was an ordinary day at the Late Night Players office, meaning that we were dodging semi’s to make it to the breakdown lane sans power steering while haggling with AAA to honor our free five mile tow. And if we were to rename Horse Cave based on what we discovered there, it would now be called Hours and Hours Waiting in A Gas Station and Two Hundred Twenty Dollars for A Tow Truck To Nashville and A Dry Chicken Breast Sandwich Cave.
The story of how we decided to get the van out of our temporary HQ in HC is really too boring for the attention span of anyone who does their reading on the internet, so I’ll skip it. But I will share some wisdom from our tow truck driver, as it pertains to tattoos and, in his words, “boobies.”
J. told us that if you rub salt and lemon juice into a tattoo on the day you get it, it will disappear. Part of his forearm is testament to this delicious and inexpensive alternative to a laser, and the rest of it illustrates what happens if you don’t perform the Horse Cave Scrub.
He also told us that if we hung a sign up in the back of the van that said “We Want to See Boobies,” we probably would. According to John (that’s his full name) you can get in trouble for exposing your breasts on 65, but not for asking, so we had nothing to lose. Now Johnny also portrayed the stretch of highway between Lincoln’s birthplace and Bowling Green as an erotic hotspot when viewed from the elevated cab of a tow truck, so his perspective may be skewed.
The story of how we decided to get the van out of our temporary HQ in HC is really too boring for the attention span of anyone who does their reading on the internet, so I’ll skip it. But I will share some wisdom from our tow truck driver, as it pertains to tattoos and, in his words, “boobies.”
J. told us that if you rub salt and lemon juice into a tattoo on the day you get it, it will disappear. Part of his forearm is testament to this delicious and inexpensive alternative to a laser, and the rest of it illustrates what happens if you don’t perform the Horse Cave Scrub.
He also told us that if we hung a sign up in the back of the van that said “We Want to See Boobies,” we probably would. According to John (that’s his full name) you can get in trouble for exposing your breasts on 65, but not for asking, so we had nothing to lose. Now Johnny also portrayed the stretch of highway between Lincoln’s birthplace and Bowling Green as an erotic hotspot when viewed from the elevated cab of a tow truck, so his perspective may be skewed.
100 Miles in 6 Hours
We were cruising down I-65 in Kentucky, headed for Nashville, and for the moment everything was normal. Well, as far as traveling the country in a ’97 Chevy Astro loaded with wigs, beards, dresses, tofu jerky and booze goes. (Ordered in most to least.) Then suddenly, in the middle of snowy, heavy traffic, the van completely conked out. Actually, that is pretty normal.
Yes, old “Red Calf” checked out within a stone’s throw of Horse Cave, Kentucky. We call it Red Calf from an old anagram of Charleston Comedy Fest: Red Calf Costs the Money. The following tale will do no harm to that association.
I have no idea, however, why they call it Horse Cave. In fact, neither do they. In their informational pamphlets, it says “no one actually knows how Horse Cave got its name” where there should be a clever anecdote. An explanation of a name that consists mostly of explaining that there is no explanation is, on the scale of dumb, somewhere between using a word to define itself and naming an eatery The No Name _________ [noun]. I’m sorry, but where I come from, a name contains a name. And that’s Boca Raton, aka “Mouth of the Mouse.”
The pamphlet went on to suggest that perhaps the entrance to the famed local cave was large enough for a horse to pass through. But by that rationale, the town could just as easily be named “Floor Lamp Cave,” “TV Cabinet Cave,” or “Upright Mattress Cave.” By the way, I’m writing from a hotel room. I at least expected that the town was named by the bastardization of some local indigenous lore, a culture preserved and honored in the truck stop where we’d been towed to with a selection of, as Yogurt says in Spaceballs, “moichandise!” This included brown skinned and otherwise Aryan featured baby dolls in plastic buckskin, shrink wrapped and made in China. You could also buy tiny tomahawks armed with plastic moulds of rodent jawbones. Clearly, from Boca.
Yes, old “Red Calf” checked out within a stone’s throw of Horse Cave, Kentucky. We call it Red Calf from an old anagram of Charleston Comedy Fest: Red Calf Costs the Money. The following tale will do no harm to that association.
I have no idea, however, why they call it Horse Cave. In fact, neither do they. In their informational pamphlets, it says “no one actually knows how Horse Cave got its name” where there should be a clever anecdote. An explanation of a name that consists mostly of explaining that there is no explanation is, on the scale of dumb, somewhere between using a word to define itself and naming an eatery The No Name _________ [noun]. I’m sorry, but where I come from, a name contains a name. And that’s Boca Raton, aka “Mouth of the Mouse.”
The pamphlet went on to suggest that perhaps the entrance to the famed local cave was large enough for a horse to pass through. But by that rationale, the town could just as easily be named “Floor Lamp Cave,” “TV Cabinet Cave,” or “Upright Mattress Cave.” By the way, I’m writing from a hotel room. I at least expected that the town was named by the bastardization of some local indigenous lore, a culture preserved and honored in the truck stop where we’d been towed to with a selection of, as Yogurt says in Spaceballs, “moichandise!” This included brown skinned and otherwise Aryan featured baby dolls in plastic buckskin, shrink wrapped and made in China. You could also buy tiny tomahawks armed with plastic moulds of rodent jawbones. Clearly, from Boca.
So Funny It's Scary iii
After somehow surviving Ghost Night, I expected the girl at checkout to laugh at me when she found out my room number. Instead she showed about as much interest as a block of the cheese that has made her state so famous, and pudgy. Yet when I told her what happened, she became a veritable pepperjack of disbelief, all of which sounded extra endearing in Wisonson-ese: “Oo my gad, why did yoo stee-ay in dere!?”
Apparently, couples who have grown weary of the natural wonders of the act of love sometimes ask if there are any haunted rooms for them to tousle in. She’s always had to disappoint them. Now they’ll be staying in 412.
The next night we drove through a blinding white out so bad that we passed up a stop at Thai Café in Indianapolis, home of the finest coconut pudding in the country. So when we reached our destination, I had to spend another two hours behind the wheel of the van trying to find something much worse to eat. The best I could do was a bar serving chicken wings apparently so bad that no one else had to eat them, until me. I ended the night so irritated that I ran barefoot for three miles on the treadmill back at our Hampton Inn. (Not because I was mad, but because we don’t really have room to pack secondary shoes.) By the time I curled up to sleep on the floor, it not being my turn for a bed, my feet were sort of raw. But hey, at least I don’t have a day job. Plus the lights stayed off.
Apparently, couples who have grown weary of the natural wonders of the act of love sometimes ask if there are any haunted rooms for them to tousle in. She’s always had to disappoint them. Now they’ll be staying in 412.
The next night we drove through a blinding white out so bad that we passed up a stop at Thai Café in Indianapolis, home of the finest coconut pudding in the country. So when we reached our destination, I had to spend another two hours behind the wheel of the van trying to find something much worse to eat. The best I could do was a bar serving chicken wings apparently so bad that no one else had to eat them, until me. I ended the night so irritated that I ran barefoot for three miles on the treadmill back at our Hampton Inn. (Not because I was mad, but because we don’t really have room to pack secondary shoes.) By the time I curled up to sleep on the floor, it not being my turn for a bed, my feet were sort of raw. But hey, at least I don’t have a day job. Plus the lights stayed off.
So Funny It's Scary ii
Many performers are stupid, but we are not. We’re college grads from one of those prestigious institutes in New England that people outside of New England make fun of. On top of that we’ve got oodles of random life experience packed into the past few years of touring. On any given day we might have to change a tire, write a gag for William Shatner, or find the most vegetarian friendly restaurant in London, Ontario (which, by the way, is called Barakat – try the garlic yogurt). Plus it takes brains to drive 1,000 miles in one day and then be funny AND somehow be wearing unwrinkled clothing. Our friends who have become doctors and lawyers have never had it so rough. Financially.
So when the lights in our hotel room starting going off and on by themselves, we certainly thought to flick the switch on and off. We even unscrewed the bulbs halfway. And we continued to be haunted.
Zach: “Just close the bathroom door.”
Me: “No!”
Zach: “Why not? Because you’re scared?”
A long pause followed, in which I weighed my desire to preserve my manliness with my desire to preserve my life from the attack of a ghost.
Me: “Yes. Very.”
I called the front desk, hoping for some reassurance, but when I asked if this kind of thing was normal in an old hotel, all the attendant said was “Oh my god!” and “No way.”
So when the lights in our hotel room starting going off and on by themselves, we certainly thought to flick the switch on and off. We even unscrewed the bulbs halfway. And we continued to be haunted.
Zach: “Just close the bathroom door.”
Me: “No!”
Zach: “Why not? Because you’re scared?”
A long pause followed, in which I weighed my desire to preserve my manliness with my desire to preserve my life from the attack of a ghost.
Me: “Yes. Very.”
I called the front desk, hoping for some reassurance, but when I asked if this kind of thing was normal in an old hotel, all the attendant said was “Oh my god!” and “No way.”
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
So Funny It's Scary
Welcome to the first installment of LOL, USA, in which I attempt to explain to you how truly bizarre my life as a traveling comic is. I tour the US with my road weary sketch comedy cohorts, the Late Night Players, as we perform for colleges, clubs, theaters, festivals, and the occasional bar or bat mitzvah. Really.
We’re on the road 200 days a year, about 150 of which are show days, and the act’s about an hour long. That means for every sixty minutes of funny, there’s ten times more of time spent waking up in the van with an odd taste in your mouth and having no clue where in America you are until you can can tell from the architecture of a rest stop. For every laugh we get, we’ve seen ten bloody deer carcasses along I-90, and for each guffaw we wrench out of a crowd, there’s been infighting, engine trouble, and peeing in empty bottles when there wasn’t time to stop. Turns out that being funny really isn’t that funny. And last night, it was just plain scary.
I was coming “home” to an old hotel after a long travel day and a great gig at a nearby college. But just as I started to fall asleep, there came a soft flash of light from the bathroom, which, I should mention, had been pretty creepy well before it started glowing. When I got up to investigate, I witnessed the antique lights over the mirror silently turning themselves on and off.
Aaron Kagan and the Late Night Players are based out of Boston and play regularly, oh, everywhere. To verify, check out www.latenightplayers.com.
We’re on the road 200 days a year, about 150 of which are show days, and the act’s about an hour long. That means for every sixty minutes of funny, there’s ten times more of time spent waking up in the van with an odd taste in your mouth and having no clue where in America you are until you can can tell from the architecture of a rest stop. For every laugh we get, we’ve seen ten bloody deer carcasses along I-90, and for each guffaw we wrench out of a crowd, there’s been infighting, engine trouble, and peeing in empty bottles when there wasn’t time to stop. Turns out that being funny really isn’t that funny. And last night, it was just plain scary.
I was coming “home” to an old hotel after a long travel day and a great gig at a nearby college. But just as I started to fall asleep, there came a soft flash of light from the bathroom, which, I should mention, had been pretty creepy well before it started glowing. When I got up to investigate, I witnessed the antique lights over the mirror silently turning themselves on and off.
Aaron Kagan and the Late Night Players are based out of Boston and play regularly, oh, everywhere. To verify, check out www.latenightplayers.com.
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