Wait ‘Til Your Father Gets Home

Wait ‘Til Your Father Gets Home

So, most folks who have poked through this blog over the years, and have scoured those of others who are of a similar ilk to myself (stand-up comic of large aspirations and inversely-proportional talent) and have pretty much pieced together that Absolute Comedy in Ottawa is a club that is not-all-that-bad-at-all. And it is. Theslog that one has to put in in the Toronto rooms is paid back in kind at the hands of the Ottawa club. Crowds are full! People laugh to the point of physical exhaustion! Women alike throw undergarments stage-ward hoping to catch the attention of the funny man of the moment! The bathrooms have hot-and-cold-running-Glenfarclas! Okay, some of that is not that accurate. But it’s good.

Then there was Saturday late show…

Having had a host [absolutely no effing pun intended] of great shows under my belt with Adam Growe dealing out large laughs like Homer Simpson’s attempt at working Blackjack tables, we approached the Saturday late show. Most to all will tell you that this show represents possibly the worst of all of the nights in terms of roughness. Typically, folks who attend are tired from the previous week and have been drinking since at least 6:00pm. This gives them four and a half hours to get well and truly, erm, ready for a show. This crowd on Saturday was ready.

With the club owner away for the weekend, the covering staff had their hands full with this one. They handled it perfectly all things considered, but the hiccups throughout were many. Firstly, the show started approximately 15 minutes late with folks still finding seats as I hit the stage. Probably not the most ideal situation. That said, longtime friends Luigi Sarachino and Carrie Gaetz who were saddled with opening spots for the show and agreed to yank out time out of their sets to get Adam to the stage at a decent hour. One thing goes my way. I hit the stage to the usual come-hither-to-the-stage intro music, begin to start the show, and then the banjos kicked in. Yes, banjos. Apparently that’s what you can hear next when you don’t stop the intro music CD. So, once it stopped and I completed my WICKED air-banjo, someone in the crowd pipes up, “What the hell was that?” Reply I, “That is what we refer to in show business parlance as a ‘f***-up’.

There were three birthdays in the crowd as well, one more drunk than the last. I hope the gifts given to all of the happy birthday people included trips to the emergency ward for detox, ’cause from what I saw of the special day folks, a blood transfusion should probably be top of the list. Hats off to the guy who was not celebrating a birthday but was hammered as if he was 19 and had daddy’s AmEx. After I dealt with the banjo music, you know those moments where you’re at a party and talking above the music and the music suddenly stops and everyone hears you say something like “…AND THE DOCTOR DOESN’T THINK IT’S INFECTED AT ALL!” This guy had one of those moments. I had just finished talking and he blurts out to the rest of his buddies, “…GET THE F*** OFF STAGE!” [pause] I reply, “Well, I think one of either of us could leave right now, but I don’t think it’s going to be me…I’ve got a following.” The place erupts in support. So, not all bad, then. Dude took the hint from his friends and high-tailed it, bottle of Keith’s in hand. I took the hits for Adam and the others as best I could. Bottom line, show finished and no one got hurt. And they say hosting is easy…

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