In the 2 months that I’ve been in L.A. I’ve hit a ton of mics so far—some open and some booked—and without a doubt, most have been overbooked with too many comics. 3-hour shows are not uncommon here. Some bookers seem to think audiences can last that long, but of course they can’t, especially when faced with a good percentage of newbie comedians and an endless march of bad dick jokes. 2 hours maybe if they’re watching a high energy act like Robin Williams, but 3 hours? No way. NO WAY. The laugh chakra can only take so much in a sitting until it’s cooked.

On the other hand, these marathon shows build endurance, albeit painfully. Because you’re waiting and waiting in the back of the club, praying that you’ll be called up to the stage next (but you don’t know for sure if you will because of course there’s no lineup posted) and so your hopes are dashed when the next comic up isn’t you, or the one after that, or after that, over and over and over…then finally…2 hours in—and that’s early for this beast of a show—the MC approaches in the dark and says, “Hey: you’re up next. What’s your name, again?” Fantastic…it’s your time…except that YOU ARE FUCKING EXHAUSTED. Your nerves are raw. You’re dehydrated and starving and need a nap. But you’ve gotta muster it…because by now you know the audience is pissed off after being forced to sit for 2 hours. The MC gets on stage and tries to rouse some enthusiasm, but fails; it’s more of an apology for the marathon than a proper introduction for you. The audience seethes. They’re burnt, baby, BURNT…some have even left…and for those remaining, their Long Islands have long worn off, leaving them cranky as hell. Luckily you have a weapon: you KNOW the audience is pissed, so you can use that—use it by acknowledging it. You run up on stage and crack some jokes about this being the longest running show ever, that the audience members are saints for sitting so long, that you just can’t believe the number of dick jokes the comics have trotted out (“Unlike Paris Hilton’s vagina, they couldn’t fit another dick in here!”), and that every possible topic that could’ve been covered HAS been covered in the past 2 hours except maybe for (INSERT OBSCURE BUT HILARIOUS TOPIC HERE) and you’re off and running…the audience remains skeptical at first, but when you get your first laugh at 15 seconds, then another at 25, then turn up the energy so high that the agent trainee from Creative Artists wearing the $12 pink tie like a cheap Ari Goldberg at table 12 (yeah, I saw you, punk) laughs his ass off and dribbles O’Douls all over his pants, YOU’VE WON, BABY. 7 minutes speed by, you get the red light, hit the closer, and run off with a wave, 30 seconds early, giving high-fives to the back of the room, where the MC mutters with venom, “Way to bring them back.”

Congratulations. You just survived another one. For now. Muhahahahaha.

One 17′ U-Haul truck, 6 hired movers, 10 hours of driving in 90 degree weather, and a hundred unpacked boxes later, we made it to West Hollywood. Welcome to comedy central! The Comedy Store is only 2 miles away; and god, the Laugh Factory is just down the street. The weather has been in the high 70s with very little smog. Locals have been incredibly supportive and sweet (except for a handful of hipster douches in Silverlake…put down your cigarettes and stop looking so emo-ironic for just one second, PLEASE).

I did a short set at Elderberries, a lively mic run by Rebecca O’Brien (Jimmy Kimmel, NYPD Blue) and the crowd was great. The opening musical guitar act was a woman who looked familiar—then suddenly I realized it was Heather Stewart, a classmate from my old high school. I should add that my high school is 215 miles away—what are the odds? Apparently quite good.

Also caught über-talented Rick Shapiro at Vlad the Retailer on Melrose. Vlad’s is a bizarre storefront of arty objects that might be for sale — I’m still not sure — with a small comedy/performance/smoking room in back. Rick lasted 2 hours and 45 minutes. My ass was hurting by the end, but his riffs, stream-of-consciousness, and performance artesque moments were worth it. The guy knows how to blend crowd work and written material, and he’s a dynamo on the stage (or at Vlad’s, the 6×6′ slab of wood). Highly recommended. But bring plenty to drink. My Colt-45 was empty 15 minutes in. Oh, and people smoke (and by “people”, I mean EVERYONE), so if you’re asthmatic, wear a mask.

The cellphone photo above is from our balcony—you can see the Santa Monicas (that’s Runyon Canyon in the background). Click on it to zoom. I’ve heard celebs go up there to hike and sweat. I can’t WAIT to run them over with my bicycle!

That’s all. Not bad for week 2.

Yes, it’s true—my comedy-partner-in-crime KayDee Kersten and I are moving to L.A. July 31st.  The reasons for moving are many—more time with family, a more vibrant performance art scene, and of course, California’s most challenging comedy fishbowl. I’m so excited I could scream—check back here in August for the beginning of a side-by-side comparison of comedy in San Francisco vs. Los Angeles!—but I’m also already missing SF’s hills, fresher air, food (A16, Spork, Cav, Papalote), bars (Zeitgeist, Alembic), and our friends. We’ll be living near the foot of Runyon Canyon in West Hollywood about one block from Sunset—know of any breakfast spots we should hit? Oh, and where can we find a good plastic surgeon? Haha

Our last pro comedy show in SF is Wednesday July 21 @ 8PM with me, KayDee, and a cast of SF’s most hilarious comedians. Only $10 gets you in—swing on by for some laughs and drink!

And if you’re looking to get us a going-away gift, how about some jam made with
Lady Diana’s hair? Oh my god, yum!

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.

“Look at this man! He is insane! Why bring him to me? Am I so short of madmen that you have to bring this fellow here to carry on like this in front of me?” — Sam. 21:14

Some old-but-instructive interviews with Mitch Hedberg at Arizona State University, Montreal, and with Howard Stern. Also found some old Bobcat Goldthwait here and here. Although superficially their volume couldn’t be more different, their intensity, observations about the industry, subtle political POVs, and riffing skills are formidable.

Comedians’ best horror stories from Hollywood — auditions, day jobs, head shots, you name it. Nothing’s funnier than watching comedians cry.

Esquire writer Scott Raab interviews Seinfield genius and Curb Your Enthusiasm neurotic Larry David about hummus, driving a Prius, and the Seinfeld Curse.

Saturday night I did 10 minutes of my favorite material for a SF audience and it hit well. Bits about growing up in a redneck town, German guilt, Tom Cruise, my knack for attracting lesbians, and a short bit about my shrink got decent laughs through the end, with two applause breaks. So far, not bad.

But Friday night was another story. Friday I did the same 10 minutes in SF for a younger crowd that, I later found out, was mostly from a suburban town 40 miles east of SF.

A red flag should’ve been flapping. Young is one audience; suburban is another; young and suburban is a third. And San Francisco is another audience altogether, with all of its many subgenres—straight, gay, urban, geeks, etc. The backwards trucker caps in the audience and short skirts in the 40-degree SF nighttime weather should’ve been hints that these people were not from SF, and that adjustments to my set might’ve be necessary. But of course, OF COURSE, I failed to scope out the crowd. Bad move.

I’m second up. The MC gives me a warm intro and I jump up to do my 10. I open with with the redneck jokes, then go into Tom Cruise, and all’s fine—the crowd’s embraced me and I’m 4-5 minutes in. But then I start the German bit. As soon as I say ‘German’ and ‘guilt’, I feel a downturn in the room’s energy. A sudden cold breeze. There are still laughs, but something’s shifted in a way I’ve not sensed before. And instead of turning outward toward the flesh-and-blood people sitting there, I turn in.

I finish German with some ok laughs and get into Lesbians. I hear some initial shock, then some laughs, then another energy downturn—but worse than before. It feels almost like people are afraid to laugh—they’re missing the ironies, and sticking on the word ‘lesbian’ just like they seemed to stick on ‘german’ and ‘guilt’.

At this point, I have a choice. I can trudge forward and try to finish Lesbians, really milking it, trying to get the audience back, or I can stop the bit cold and rip on myself with self-deprecating cracks about the bit falling on its face, and then try some other topic.

I decide to power forward…because in the back of my mind I’m thinking, just wait for it, people, this bit’s heelarious and the big punches are coming! And when the punches finally arrive—and they usually kill—I get nothing. NOTHING. Not a single laugh. Zero. A sea of faces just looking back at me in the dark. Again, at this point, I should’ve pointed at my glaring failure. I should’ve exploded it on stage, shined a spotlight on it, let the crowd know that I knew that they knew I’d just eaten shit….

But I don’t. Instead, I fool myself. I think, hey, I’ve got an ace in the hole: my big 1-minute closer! That’ll get ‘em! So without commenting on the previous 2 minutes of totally obvious and horrifying silence, I go for the big ending—and again, NOTHING. Fail fail fail. I say good night and get applause, finally…as I leave the stage…and after ending on nothing. I jog off totally embarrassed and hoping nobody taped that shit.

A few people in the audience came up to me after and said they’d liked my act, but it didn’t heal the sucking wound. I’d served myself a huge lesson. None of the other comics ate it that night because they either worked hard at connecting with the crowd, or they adjusted their material to better feed younger and suburban appetites.

Let my failure shine as a beacon, o fellow comics.

I was surprised that I laughed when I watched this. Manson has a fine sense of timing as a lay actor, and a great sense of humor/irony, which together betray an obvious understanding of psychology and human behavior. In those terms, he is very much a shadow comedian, the comic’s evil twin, a real flesh and blood Joker who knows how to manipulate, shock, or even get laughs with a well-delivered punch that tells ironic truths…even as it’s breaking your ribs.

Each punch carries a double meaning; the faces he makes are a calculated critique of America’s media circus and its fascination with deconstructing him—but then—we remember what he is famous for, and so then comes the second meaning: a megalomaniac killer showing off—showing us he is unknowable because he is insane—a superficial act that plays the very circus he is simultaneously critiquing. For a moment we *think* we know him because he’s familiar…he’s been on TV…but then we witness just how at ease he is with what he is…a monster, there, sitting in his chair…then suddenly lunging forward. All hit at the same time. A “real” comedian playing for a paying audience couldn’t pull this off—not even close. Any subtle monsteresque threat a comic could muster would dissipate in the safety of the distance from the stage to the seats. After all, who really fears being murdered during a comedy show? (Ok, maybe the comic—ha). It would be Grand Guignol at best. It’s macabre to say it, but Manson manages to achieve a complex moment of comedy here that few others could…or would…or, shit, should.