"YOURE NOT GOING to write anything mean about us, are ...
Holy Christ, I think, preparing for yet another phone conversation about Elliott Smith. Yes, Miss Publicist, I know that you have feelings, too, and I've learned my lesson that there's no reason any of you shouldn't keep enabling?um, I mean, working with whatever musicians help you innocently pass the time. And I certainly feel bad for accusing anyone in the recording industry of failing to properly respond to a troubled young drug addict.
After all, it's not like the recording industry has experience with that kind of thing.
Then I remember this publicist works for Animal Fair magazine and that she's talking about the 4th Annual Canine Comedy Fundraiser being held at Show to fund animal rescue efforts. She's different than the other publicists who've called me this week. This publicist works for a company that actually cares about dumb animals.
I assure her that my own dog is already looking at me reproachfully, and that I can't imagine why I'd write anything mean about a fundraiser for needy cuddly creatures. But that's several hours before I find myself thrown out of Show's VIP Lounge in a bid to accommodate the brightest stars of Manhattan public access television.
This leaves me as dejected and confused as the three mutts who've been brought to the club after being found under a truck on Randall's Island. I'm not nearly as cute, of course, but that changes once I become really drunk. So drunk, in fact, that I make a note to call my pal at the Enquirer when I spot reclusive tv personality Jai Rodriguez acting in a very gay way?before I remember that his tv show is, you know, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
And, of course, I think I'm positively hallucinating once the stand-up comedy starts. It helps that I'm the only one drunk enough to be paying attention. Publicists will be delighted to know that I'm no longer the most bitter person on the planet. It seems that honor goes to stand-up comics performing for free to an audience that won't shut the hell up.
It doesn't take long for first sacrifice Bill Burr to grasp the situation, and he responds with the most inflammatory device that can be unleashed upon a Manhattan fundraiser. That's right, folks; he brings on the conservative politics. "There are no feminists in house fires," he notes, and that's only after he lambastes the audience for being boneheads after they instinctively boo at a mention of President Bush.
He goes on for a while, too, before being followed by Todd Lynn. The audience is still chatting away, so Todd ups the ante with the ultimate fundraising taboo. He invokes race barriers. "Fuck all y'all," Lynn announces. "I got no jokes for 60 white people."
He then literally refuses to tell jokes, and simply complains about the rude crowd?that, of course, remains oblivious. This inspires Rich Voss to quickly establish his own fearlessness: "When the teacher at school said to sit Indian-style, I got a bottle and laid in the gutter." That only leads to plenty of gags about dead Frenchmen, plus a quick Versace zinger. There's also some mention of how Rich's dream gig is playing Susan Sarandon's home and doing a routine about his love for Rush Limbaugh.
Things eventually get so confrontational that Jai is pulled onstage to deliver a Queer Eye "Hip Tip"?specifically, that it's really cool to be polite and pay attention to the nice stand-up comics. I'm afraid this puts an end to my fun, but things only get better once the crowd is guilted into paying attention to Patrice O'Neil. He hits them with some good left-wing tolerance: "Let's give it up for countries who eat dogs!"
It's not long before Patrice is yelling at some event organizer?or, as he puts it, an "indeterminate white woman"?who's trying to motion him off the stage. The entertainment portion proceeds to wrap up suspiciously early. I never see any semi-names like Ali Wentworth or Jim Gaffigan getting anywhere near that stage. Maybe they ducked out, or didn't even bother showing up. I don't care. I've enjoyed the best stand-up I've seen since Rudy Ray Moore pissed off the crowd at B.B. King's by insisting on singing a bunch of old soul tunes. Fuck all y'all.
[jrt@nypress.com](mailto:jrt@nypress.com)