Good God, Trump is such a graceless, pathetic clod. Four years of this? Really? https://t.co/omtP8FVxHn
Hey Trump -- you'll be nostalgic for the #WomensMarch come tomorrow. That's when state-level action starts, every single day. 'Night!
Not a single acting gig. I'm forced to act with groups of people in things, usually. It's beyond tragic. https://t.co/QVu0QuaTXx
Not only do you look like me, you're as big a pussy as I am. Except I'm not scared by...people sitting in a lobby? https://t.co/dsZD8sjC45
I am profoundly sorry and embarrassed. Please accept my apology. https://t.co/nz6bfI4cZ0

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SPEW

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Fri, Sep 24


COMEDIANS OF COMEDY SHOOTING DIARY: AN HOUR OF GRACE

@ 12:00 AM

   

I'm staying at maybe one of the most barebones, plastic-cups-and-rough-towels motels in Eugene, and yet they STILL have wireless internet that blankets the premises like the caramel murmurs of a Capri whore. I'm writing, photographing, and sending this from the "veranda" (three wrought-iron picnic tables near the second floor snack machines) an hour before tonight's show.

I've got my feet up on a bizarre lion's head fountain which serves no purpose except to fool me into thinking I'm making the most of the eastern Oregon "magic hour". I'm two pony shots into a bottle of single malt, 15 year-old Balvenie (in-cask date: August 18th, 1988—exactly ONE month after I started stand-up comedy) and almost finished with Gary Giddins' un-put-downable critical biography of Louis Armstrong.

I don't own any Armstrong records. I'm not a fan of jazz. But one chapter into this fucker, and I want to hear everything Dippermouth every recorded. I'm chasing the Balvenie with generic "Classic Selection" spring water.

Beauty and happiness can mug you in an Olive Garden restaurant, I'm starting to realize.


 
 
   
   
   
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