So I get on stage at Castagnola’s, a seafood restaurant at Fisherman’s Wharf in SF.
A 50-year-old heavyset woman is sitting with her bald husband about 4 tables back. She’s drunk and has been growing increasingly talkative throughout the night; she’s told comics before me that she’s from Iowa and loves sex.
My initial strategy is to ignore her. I open with a few jokes about growing up in a white trash town. I get some decent laughs—then Iowa babbles something.
I give her a smile, ignore her, and keep going.
Iowa babbles again, this time loudly enough that other people hear it—something about her wanting me to tell a joke.
I laugh and say, “What do you think I’m doin, lady?”
The audience chuckles, but it was a bad move on my part — open-ended questions in a burgeoning standoff rarely end well (well, for me, at least…).
And as if on cue, she responds in a drunken slur, “You’re jacking off. Why don’t you tell a joke that’s funny?”
The crowd gives up a long woooo. A woman whispers ‘oh shit’ in the front row. The battle is on.
I smile…but I feel myself start to sweat. Any comic can look like a bully, but—call it sexist if you want—male comics have to be especially careful when dealing with a female heckler. Push too far and you go from saying what’s on the audience’s mind to sounding like an abusive jerk, and you can kiss the rest of your set goodbye. The best strategy in this situation is to gently riff and let the heckler hang herself; just repeating what she says will sometimes get a laugh, and give her enough attention to satisfy her need for attention.
So I say, “If you saw what I have to work with when I’m jacking off, you’d think it was funny.”
The audience laughs. Iowa laughs. Maybe I’m O.K. I continue with my set.
Iowa orders still another drink…oh god. The bartender—a very nice woman who inserts herself into shows to the restaurant manager’s chagrin—walks up to Iowa’s table, and in the middle of my set, proceeds to shake Iowa’s martini loudly. I stop talking and stare at the bartender as she pours the martini. The pour seems to take forever. I check my invisible wristwatch. The audience chuckles. Thank god I’m still getting laughs.
Iowa remains occupied with her fresh martini while I launch into a bit about people in SF thinking I’m gay.
Suddenly Iowa yells, “You look gay to me! I bet you like dick.”
I answer: “Just like your husband enjoys sucking yours.”
The audience laughs, but the situation is getting precarious….
I go for my big closer and Iowa interrupts me again. This time I try a new strategy: I literally hold my hand up to her like a traffic cop making a stop — my hand right up to her face — and she shuts up! She halts, brakes squealing! Tell it to the hand! Not a word comes out of her mouth! A new miracle technique! I finish my joke, get my last laugh, and thank the audience.
As I run off stage, I pass the headliner who’s about to go up. He looks deathly nervous; I’ve seen him perform before, and I know he doesn’t like riffing with crowds. I shake his hand and whisper, “Good luck with Iowa!” He smiles sickly. His palm is soaking wet.
I go to the back of the room and take a drink. Iowa jumps out of her seat and stumbles over to me and my comedy partner KayDee.
Iowa slurs, practically crying, “I’m sorry I ruined your setttt, Scotch Wichmann! I’m sorrryyyyyy!”
And of course I lie: “You didn’t ruin it…the audience was laughing…that’s all that matters.” I even pat her on the back. Iowa smiles a little. I deserve an Oscar.
Then she yells, “MY HUSBAND THINKS I’M A PIECE OF SHIT!”
KayDee and I look each other. Oh man.
Iowa continues slurring as the show ends. The houselights come up. Iowa wants a hug, so I give her one; no hard feelings.
One of the other comedians walks by. He’s 16 years old, skinny, and shy. He had a good set early in the show; the crowd liked him a lot—even Iowa.
Iowa looks him up and down. She licks her lips—then lunges forward and grabs his asscheeks hard with both hands. Meat! The 16-year-old yelps and runs.
Iowa chases him across the room and tries to get another handful while her husband laughs at his piece of shit.
January 29th, 2010 at 10:14 pm
True dat, bloody mary. True dat!
January 29th, 2010 at 10:13 pm
I think I saw Million Dollar baby’s mom on the show Mercy. She plays a nurse.
It would be awesome if she did fat fetish porn. Someone should throw her out of show biz; the way: accuse her of saying something anti-semitic and then a few months later – you’ll see fat her naked body and shouting mouth pining a phrase to a skinny frat boy who’s forced to do a quick scene on an internet porn site – “hey skinny boy, pick a fold and fuck it!”
yeah, I kinda wanna see Iowa and all the types like her doing fat food fetish porn with skinny white college kids forced to fuck a fat obnoxious white trash pig nosed midwestener to pay down his credit card bill, cuz daddy lost his job and can’t afford to pay his son’s tuition nor booze bill.
December 26th, 2009 at 6:34 pm
Funny as shit.
When I read this post, I kinda envisioned Iowa like that White Trash bitch who played Hillary Swanks mom in the movie “Million Dollar Baby”.
Yeah, Iowa, the midwest and the south are totally fucked. But, look what’s also cumming out of SF – this guy. So, the whole country is fucked. Doesn’t matter if you come from Deliverance Country or not – sick people like this SW funny fucker exist all over this fuckin’ country.
Yeah, safe to say the Chinese will take over this country and do us doggy style just like on those ancient Chinese erotic art. I love those fatty-fat chink-chinks doing it doggy style when I look at Chinese art.
December 23rd, 2009 at 7:35 pm
Wow!
Scotch,
A friend of mine has seen you before doing your stand up. He lives in SF and I and my wife live in So. Cal. *Yes, you all hate our plastic tan asses*
Anyway, my SF pal told me to read your latest post. I have to say, if you’re as good a comic as you are a writer, you should move to LA and get into the top-heavy entertainment scene with a real agent.
Or, move to NYC and get yourself a good book agent, because you’re a damn good writer. You can tell a scene, and a scenario in such a way that compels the reader to read on, because the rhythm and cadence on how you tell a story is very damn good. Plus, you round it out with a damn good ending. The ending in movies, books, play, and stand up is like Christmas – you make your profit on how well the ending plays out.
Bottom line: you’re a good writer and your niche might be that of writing your memoir of the comedic life; or, you might become a ghost writer for famous people who’ve lived a high paced life. You’ve got that way of engaging the reader for a long spell. Engaging the reader to read and not to stop the read is a bitch of a talent to pick up, or it comes naturally to a few – either way, you’ve got it.
Good comics can act, and now I see a good comic can write. You’ve got a good voice. I think many would like to see what you can do in a memoir format of the comedic life. What you wrote above made me laugh, but I had to stop laughing because I was so compelled on how the drama between you and white trash Iowa worked out. I loved every damn second of what you wrote up above.
And since I can’t find my own goddamn good ending, I’ll steal yours: “Iowa chases him across the room and tries to get another handful while her husband laughs at his piece of shit wife” – classic!