Now is one of those times when it doesn't seem so incredibly self-involved or just plain old without effect or for no use whatsoever to put something out into the world (a recurring theme): in San Francisco, on the midst of a mini (though maybe only in my mind)-tour, at the café which I know best though perhaps no longer enjoy so much especially.
This morning I received one of those kinds of a series of emails which tend to push you back into the world of your choosing as opposed to away from it. That is, someone said that they liked something; another that it was "no worries" that the fact that I'd asked him to edit something and then said soon after that actually no, that's ok, it's no longer needed was no problem; and, perhaps, most importantly, another said that she has faith in whatever reasons there may be for such a weirdly impoverished, possibly self-sacrificing (though maybe eminently selfish, though maybe not, too, ultimately) way of life.
But is it self-sacrificing? I asked myself. Then, I realized, that I was reading the email, from within the literal closet in which I'd spent the previous night. (The fact is, sometimes you end up staying at some of the strangest of comedy flop houses, where, instead of on a broken down--and, I'm going to say, quite most likely pee-stained--couch, in a room with three others, you chose the incredible calming, and peace, and quiet, of a little closet-cum-home cocoon sleeping space.)
I suppose, though, what's kind of the most interesting thing that I'd like to relate is, do weird things. I mean, without being so incredibly fairly glib, it's just that sometimes you have to do things that most people wouldn't accept as right or proper but that can actually make not only sense, but, in fact, everyone happier.
For instance, for a show in another city just the other night, I was on a bus (inter-city) for a show that night. The bus broke down, however, and we were stranded maybe only forty minutes out and it was an evening bus as it was and my getting to the show on time was incredibly uncertain. It turned out that another bus came to pick us up and we would be arriving at the station just about with exactly the amount of time I would need to get to the club by 9:15, the absolute latest I would be allowed to get on, according to the super ridiculously friendly and cool (cool) comic-producer.
Should I stand up and make an announcement and ask the people on the bus if someone being met at the station with a ride might be able to rush me to the show? I thought. No, though, I figured, just let it go. Don't do that. Don't be that guy. (Don't be that guy still, again.) So, I phoned up a cab company, told them my situation, and asked them to be at the station at 8:45--no, 8:50; no, 8:55--and so on and so forth, so as not to have the driver leave before the bus' arrival on account of my not being there.
Anyway, so it turned out that the bus arrived later than the time I'd arranged to meet with the second cab I'd called for and there was no one there. Time, though, was passing, as the third cab which I'd called was presumably on its way. So, standing under the little bus station awning, trying to stay out of the rain, I ran up to one of the cars pulling away with another passenger from the bus; explained my situation in a super rushed and presumably quite endearing, if pathetically so, way; and so they said sure, jump in, we'll take you to the show.
Riding in the back with a girl about my age (home after a long trip far away) and her parents up front, we had a nice little talk about their traveling-musician brother/son and the father's past experiences of catching rides to and from ball games.
We ended up pulling up to the club; I said, if they'd like, they could come in for the rest of the show and they'd be comped; they said sure; I jumped out, raced up in the rain; showed up with two minutes to go; asked the comic-producer about the comp and he said of course; asked the comic-producer if there was time to go to the washroom and he said no, probably not, not really; and then walked up and did an admittedly quite very good set before a group of the frankly somewhat staid and insufficiently appreciative elderly (consensus opinion; not mine alone) who may never hear of me ever again, but then handed out a few promotional buttons so who knows?
No longer just some guy who would've otherwise just shown up late or even not at all and have remained forever or at least a very long time unknown, maybe; but, rather, some guy now who just did some good jokes, a group returned to some comics' home in high spirits, on our way to a strange and ridiculously enjoyable evening and night and then morning and early afternoon.
And, all this--at least in my mind--happened because of an asking the fucking people for a fucking ride to the fucking show. So, I suppose, just do these things. (Of course, who knows how the night would've turned out otherwise?) I'd like to thank my father for pushing me to do strange things when I was a child and making it perfectly clear that it really doesn't matter at all about how weird others may think you are. (That has probably held me back a lot professionally.)
And, of course, an extra-special thank you to the Giblin family.
Apologies to the Yellow Cab Company of Sacramento.