Inside The Comic's Studio

There is something so deeply wrong with me that I now feel compelled to be truthful about it on the Internet.

I was at a particularly lively Portland open mic last night. A standup was threatened by an incensed audience member, who broke the emcee's microphone. The same young comic took it upon himself to let me know that one of my jokes is "terrible". He feels that being completely honest and free with his opinion is the greatest gift he can offer the Universe. You know, the usual. Also, there was an individual scouting for a showcase in Beaverton in the neighborhood of the old Westside.

It is an unpaid showcase that I would have to go to Beaverton for, in a neighborhood I don't much like.

It's a gig I don't want. If I were offered the gig, I would politely decline.

No, seriously, I would. I am blessed with multiple opportunities for unpaid mike time every week, many of them in biking distance. Like Dr. Venkman says, I don't have to take this abuse from you. I've got hundreds of people dying to abuse me.

But when she picked out some of my lady-friends and took their information and not mine, I was FURIOUS. What I really want is to be offered the showcase so that I can turn it down. It is ridiculous.

Is there a medication for this? Is it...it's alcohol, isn't it?