Chicago Comedian : Scott Derenger

The Daily Derenger

2/08/2010

{o~o} Email Scott - scott.derenger@gmail.com {o~o}

Coming to you live from the toilet. I don't think anyone reads my site, though, so who cares. It's a Facebook and MySpace world now. If I updated this site with new pics, videos or blogs - or maybe an email address that works (like scott.derenger@gmail.com) - perhaps I'd be a tiny bit more successful.

But since I haven't and I'm not, fuck it.

I need to shower and head to Ana and Jason's for chicken enchiladas. (Cyndi has my car; I'm walking.) They just had a baby like 3 weeks ago, and I haven't seen Millie since she was a day old.

My legs are falling asleep. Time to rise and flush. Good night.

2/02/2010

This is from today's Joliet Herald News. Kinda. They removed the opening lines, of course without telling me first. Because it's more important to read about people killing each other and unemployment being higher in January. Heaven forbid people laugh a little, especially at a time when all they wanna do is cry.

A small, framed drawing hangs in Aunt Carol's bathroom. There are two young children standing outside of the tub, nude, looking at each other.

"You can't touch mine," the boy says to the girl. "You already broke yours off."

That made me laugh 25 years ago, and still does today. It reminds me of my youth, when we'd visit her Oak Park Apartment. Before she was a mother and a wife, Aunt Carol was a really cool aunt, mainly because she had an Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible, and took my brother Brian and I camping.

Sure, there was that one time when Aunt Carol warned me to take off my Cubs hat or else it would blow out of her car. But I was a kid; I didn't listen. And out the car it flew.

"Wave goodbye," she said, as her long, dark hair blew in the wind. "I ain't stoppin'."

My hair also blew in the wind back then. But so did my tears. Twenty-five years later, my hair's gone, but the tears aren't.

Aunt Carol is battling cancer, likely brought on from diabetes. Both diseases are indiscriminate thieves. They steal from the rich and the poor, men and women, the young and old. Those you love and those you've never met.

She's young, only 60. Her laugh is infectious at holiday gatherings, as is that of her husband, Joe. I was the altar boy in their wedding on Feb. 14, 1985, earning a crisp $5 bill.

I probably put it toward a new Cubs hat. With a chinstrap.

Aunt Carol loves the color purple, the movie - and the combination of blue and green.

She loves animals, evidenced by her season passes to Brookfield Zoo. She has always owned calico cats and German short-haired pointers. In 1993, her dog, Daisy Mae, birthed a litter, and we took one, Pepper. She was a purebred hunting dog, afraid of Bubble Wrap-popping and even the quietest thunder.

I've visited with Aunt Carol twice since her condition has worsened. We've strolled down memory lane, talking about her Catholic medical mission to Ghana as a licensed practical nurse in 1970, sponsored by St. Raymond's Cathedral in Joliet, and then pursuing her nursing license at Ferris State University, in Big Rapids, Mich.

Last week I sat beside Aunt Carol in bed, holding her hand, fighting back tears more real than any from losing a hat.

And I wondered why. Why did I wait till now to visit like this? I had let something out of my control dictate when I could visit.

I'm sure there are many people you love. You're sure they know, right? You don't need to visit or call, right? They just should know.

Well, they probably do. But stop by or pick up the phone anyway.

Before it's too late.

Scott Derenger's a comedian, a writer and a bald guy. His Web site is www.shaveyourhead.com. E-mail him at scott.derenger@gmail.com.

1/27/2010

I followed a tractor most of the way here. It took up both lanes heading north on Essington Road in Joliet. Or whatever direction I was heading. Toward the mall from St. Joe's Hospital isn't on anyone's compass, though.

This Panera is really slow for dinner time. I'm guessing the snow and terribly slick roads have much to do with it. I slid all over. Wheels spun and spun as I began moving after each red light and stop sign.

And then that fuckin' tractor. I just don't see why he thought 5p.m. on a week night was a good time to drive on a major road in a city of 100,000 people. But shit, under the circumstances, put some fuckin' salt in the back and spread that shit on the roads. Be useful at 17 miles an hour.

There's a male and female nurse sitting in the corner farthest from me. They just went outside to smoke, I'm assuming. Or maybe they have gas like me right now, and are much more thoughtful. I'm seriously surprised nobody's asked me to leave yet. I'm the only one sitting over here, though. Or maybe they think it's a piece of food rotting in one of the chair or booth cushions.

A white man with a shaved head and a blue tooth is in search of a wall outlet. I can tell. We can smell our own. In many aspects. Most people would wonder what the hell he's doing, but I've been there, done that. With a Mac, though, my battery life's long-lasting. Like me in the sack after a dozen Jack & Cokes. When I hear her snorin', I know it's time for bed. Hopefully she won't even remember being disappointed.

There are evening mall walkers, I've discovered. While not nearly as plentiful, their purpose is abundantly clear. The brisk pace, the normally rounded turns, the outfits I'd only wear to a mall if I were 12. Or seriously hungover.

A husband and wife duo just took a hard left in front of TGIFriday's The lady was on the inside, and almost knocked over the mall's 'weekly deals' sign in the process. Like when a downhill skier goes around those flags at 55 miles an hour.

Much faster than that fuckin' tractor.

The lady also carried a bottle of water, and switched hands at she made the turn. It seemed like something planned, like the water served as added weight to help with her "workout."

Here I sit, judging people attempting to get or stay fit. Meanwhile, I had to unbutton my jeans to sit down, and then proceeded to shove half an unhealthy sandwich in my pie hole, followed by baked potato soup and yet another hunka bread.

Fat ass. Don't forget the carbonated sugar liquid, too. Cherry Pepsi. Adding fruit is about the only way I'll drink Pepsi.

I planned to leave much earlier from Chicago. I woke at 7:45 this morning to move my car from the school zone. A grizzly-faced man in a gray hoodie, sunglasses, and pajama pants looks very suspicious outside a junior high school. And when he gets in his car - the one with the naked, female torso in the rear window - police officers should already be on their radios.

But I slid though the cracks. No authoritative halts whatsover. Just two left turns and a parking spot was found right in front of my building. And back to bed it was.

When I woke, I called my mother.

"Hello," I said.
"Yeeeessss, she replied."

Right outta the gate, I usually ask where she is and she does the same. I'm usually on the road somewhere in the country or at leas the Chicago area. Most often she's at home. Sometimes in the bathroom, which leaves me wishing her bra didn't double as a cell phone holster. Sometimes she's cooking in the kitchen or holding one of my sister's kids.

But today wasn't anything like that.

"I'm with Susan at the funeral home for Carol," mom said. Two sisters together, planning their older sister's funeral. The one with cancer. The one who loves purple. The one who wants to be buried in her wedding gown.

Last week I helped my mom cook for Aunt Carol and her family. With my iPod on and Tony Kornheiser looping like a NASCAR race, I peeled enough potatoes to fill a jacuzzi.

"I didn't know I'd have to tell you to stop," my mom said as she rolled around the corner of the kitchen island. She sits in an office chair, and since she works mostly in the kitchen, that's also her office. Her body is shot. Bad back. Bad knees and ankles. Bad shoulders. Bad hips , too.

"There were a bunch of small fuckers, so I just kept on peeling. I'm sure you'll find something to do with 'em."

She made this Greek dish with most of the potatoes. Add green beans, some red sauce, and chunks of beef and you have something Greek. I don't like it, though. I really dislike green beans. I bet even on pizza I'd have to pass. Yuck. Just typing it out makes me queasy.

Mom browned the hamburger meat and the ground sausage, and cooked the bacon for her baked beans. I opened nine cans of three different kinds of beans, added everything per mother's direction, and mixed it all up. In the slow cooker it went. Till morning.

When I woke, mom was pulling the black crust off the mostaccoli.

"I fell asleep in the drawer. That never happens," she claimed, the right side of her face read from where she'd slept.
"Bullshit," I barked. "You always fall asleep in here. You ever think that may have something to do with your body being so outta whack? Kitchens aren't made to sleep in. Unless you're a dog."
"Only the top layer just burned. It's fine."

I had a bowl of beans for breakfast, and then put the rest outside to cool.

Later that night, my friend Anne and I trekked to Oak Park to see Aunt Carol. Anne and I used to date. She's a southern gal who I unfortunately may never truly appreciate. She's met my family many times, except my socially inept brother. Anne even offered to cook for Aunt Carol, my uncle and their daughters. She made a lasagna and two pots of soup. I made nothing, instead offering my man power to lift, pour, and carry.

The waiter in me rarely takes a day off.

I hadn't been to Aunt Carol's home in many years. Maybe 10. When I first moved back from Arizona in 1999, I went a few times with mom and yiayia. I'd missed being home, so sitting and talking adultly things was kinda nice. Plus it was free and I was broke. One of their dogs at the time, Troubles, bit me in the leg when at my mom's about 10 years ago.

I guess that's why I never visited again.

Aunt Carol was lying in bed, somewhat weak and tired. I sat in a chair in the corner. Anne stood at first, and then sat on the corner of the bed. My uncle sat on the other side of the bed. Here I was, invading a married couple's most intimate space. Part of me wondered why I'd waited so long. Why a terminal illness had to nudge me.

She's not old. Maybe 60. Sure her hair's a little gray but it's not the color of someone who probably won't see the flowers bloom again. I was like 12 and 14, so I didn't really comprehend my dad's parents dying. When my mom's dad died, I was 20. Older, I was too into being almost 21. I had two internships, a job, and school. My mental and physical energy was elsewhere.

But now I'm 35. I have lots of free time. Life's realities seem to make sense. They're not fair, but I know they happen, regardless of my efforts to stop them. Plus I have an insatiable appetite to write about everything I do, everything I think, everywhere I go. Even when I do nothing, think nothing, and go nowhere but the kitchen and my couch. I just wanna share this with you, whether you know me or not.

I know there are people out there, even if it's 14 of you, who have been here. It's somewhere no one wishes to be, but it's life.

And sometimes it's not fair. Not fair at all.

Anne had on a purple sweater. Aunt Carol's pillow cases were purple. On her makeup mirror beside a dresser hung a woman's purple hat. We talked and laughed. She told us that she had visited Aunt Mary and yiayia to talk about her condition. She told us with a numbing matter of factness. It was a reality that couldn't be avoided. No need to dance around the truth, it seemed.

I guess sometimes it's good to be me. To actively talk for a living. Sometimes I do it in front of total strangers. Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they stare. Sometimes they text their friends. Sometimes they listen.

In Aunt Carol's bedroom, with her best friend of 40 years sitting by her side, I talked about as much as I could. I didn't fear silence but I didn't wanna let the reality of my being there command my emotional ship. I didn't wanna just sit there and cry, although I easily could have. The entire four hours. Effortlessly.

My cousin, who'd just turned 15 the day before, passed by many times. She knew why I was there. She probably couldn't even remember the last time I was there. She never came in with us to talk or listen. I chalked it up to me being 20 years older, of course, but I also knew that we weren't exactly buddies. Aside from being Facebook friends, the thought of which makes me cringe when I think about some of the stories and pictures I've shared on here.

Sorry, Life. Her name means "Life" in Greek.

We talked about camping, about nursing, about Aunt Carol's love for German Short Haired Pointers. About her father who I now resemble in words and appearance. My papou - grandpa in Greek - sold porno movies outta the trunk of his car at a flea market. I used to give away porn movies to my friends and comedy club staff. Sure I could have sold them, but I got them for free.

While I may be bald and slim like papou, while I may tell dirty jokes in mixed company like papou, and while I rub my bald head while drinking coffee like papou, I'm clearly not the business man he was.

Heck, he'd probably get 20 bucks for my JUST SHAVE IT panties. Or he'd threaten to take off his fake leg and swat 'em with it.

This Panera never had much of a dinner rush tonight. They're opened for 80 more minutes. But I've been in here for lunch. That's where the rent's made. A man sitting in a leather chair right on the other side of the wall next to me is listening to music … without headphones. It could be worse, though. He could be sitting in the leather chair opposite the one he's in. Then he could be facing me, with his foreign music annoying every fiber of my being.

I crawled into bed to kiss Aunt Carol goodnight. I shook Joe's hand. I probably hugged Life casually. Her older sister joined Anne and I at a bar down the street.

I'm going to my mom's now to visit with her and my Aunt Susan.

I'll probably rub my head and drink coffee. We'll probably talk about the color purple. And how we love it so.

1/19/2010

From another Big Ten Panera. Trading girth for a beard.

There's an after-holiday clearance for 50% off at the two-story Barnes & Noble across the street. I still need to get my mom a calendar of nuns. She's simple to shop for, and loves one every year. Puts her doctors' appointments and my comedy schedule on there. Hangs it in the kitchen, on the wall between the large freezer and the pantry.

I'm at the Panera in downtown Evanston, Illinois, home of the Big Ten's Northwestern University, an esteemed school whose tests I couldn't pass to shop in the bookstore.

I ate a late lunch at home before this, so all I have is this frozen caramel thing with whipped cream and a fat straw that wouldn't fit in a horse's nostril. It's huge and purple. Like my engorged wiener. Or Barney's ass. It's arguably the gayest thing I've had in my mouth. And with the whipped cream that I'm licking in between sucking on this felch tube of a straw, everyone around me thinks I take it up the dirt chute.

There was 36 minutes in the parking meter around the corner. 75 cents per hour. The dinner rush will overtake this Panera in about 15 minutes, when the little hand's on the 5 and the big hand's on the 12. I'm seated at a counter overlooking a main street in Evanston's business district. It's kinda yuppie up here. Chain eateries and bars, but also some local gems. The bar I play softball for on Wednesday nights is a few blocks away, Tommy Nevin's Pub.

A lady dressed like those in Mad Men just swiveled by. A green, soft, fuzzy sweater and a long, tight, tan skirt. Some kinda scarf around her neck. She's probably having an affair with someone.

With my iPod Shuffle and this Mac laptop, I look rather studious, old, but studious. If they only knew I was just writing nonsensical bullshit and chatting on Facebook. And heck, my Shuffle's not even on. Too distracting to listen to Tony Kornheiser's show AND write. Plus it's more fun to look around, make people uncomfortable, and write about their reactions.

Last night I hit a comedy open mike, three blocks from my place. Scheduled to start at 11, but didn't kickoff till closer to 11:20. On a Monday night. That's the beauty of Chicago, no matter when or where, there's always something to do. But sadly, I've not been regularly out in the comedy scene. Seven or eight years ago I was out at least three nights a week, even if I had paid shows outta town on weekend. But I'm not hungry anymore. I don't try out new stuff. I don't mingle with local comedians much at all. I'm now a 'never-was' without ever being a 'has-been'.

"Please welcome to the stage," the host said repeatedly, even though there was no stage. Rather, the pool table was pushed aside and three track lights shined down upon us. The server/bartender, Francesca, walked directly in front of many performing comedians, as did other comedians and random patrons. Bottles of Miller Lites and cans of PBR were $2.50.

Two really attractive brunettes walked in a sat at the end of my table. I was there first so it was, in fact, MY table. One was tall with very dark hair, pulled into pigtails. Or handlebars, as was the picture painted in my mind. She enjoyed a PBR. The other girl was much shorter, with lighter hair pulled into a pony tail. That's sufficient for bedroom tug-of-war. She opted for the Lite. Because I hadn't been there before, and because I knew only a few comedians, I didn't know if the girls were just fans, groupies, regular customers, or a combo meal.

The girls went to smoke and when they returned, they sat at the table in front of me. The shorter of the two, wearing a really tight softball-style t-shirt, sat to my right. She leaned forward a few times. Her shirt rose, exposing the tan and tight small of her back. As well as some pink striped panties. She was probably 23. In my head we were already on Round 3 of naughtiness. She tucked her underwear back into her jeans once or twice. I sighed and waved goodbye every time.

My comedy isn't smart, sophisticated or hipster. It's wildly perverse at times, and eyebrow-raisingly sarcastic at others. It's steeped in self-deprecation. I rarely research history or extract profound symbolism from a movie. For a guy who loves - almost obsessively - to write, I read very little. Like American Idol failures, I'm forgettable.

I watched as younger, funnier comedians delivered well thought out jokes. Good timing, good stage presence, minus the stage, of course. Much of their material was enjoyed by both parties - comedians and patrons. Sometimes comedians play to the back of the room, where their compadres gather. The same compadres who they get blazingly drunk with 12 days a week. They become good friends in addition to being comedians. Sometimes the jokes are just for them.

A few comedians had full, thick beards. I knew one to be much younger than me. While I was impressed by his engaging material, I was more impressed by his beard. I rubbed my own sadly stubbled face, perhaps the way a flat-chested woman does when she sees a voluptuous female. I'm pretty certain facial hair Rogaine isn't a big seller, and that breast enhancement is a billion dollar, bosom-booming business.

I was envious and jealous, if that's possible. I just wanna have the choice of growing a beard of significance. My dad, my Uncle Jack, my Uncle Joe. They all had healthy beards at some point in their life. I've never seen my Uncle Joe without one in my 35 years. The stupid 'soul patch' beneath by bottom lip isn't even that impressive. I think it contains 26 hairs, which have to be kept kinda long or else it just look like I have dirt on my face.

As far as a mustache, I'd have a better chance of growing an antelope vagina on my forehead. Take a Chinese man's sparse beard and combine it with a Mexican man's sparse beard, and then you almost have my beard. It's fuckin' pathetic. I've been told my manhood is a decent size. I'd actually trade that in for a beard. At least for a few months.

When I hit the 'stage' last night, I had very few jokes prepared. I just rambled about being sore from picking up baseballs, how it's weird to watch porn while wearing headphones in my living room, and how I think Helen Hunt should've stuck with Jon Bon Jovi instead of Kevin Spacey in 'Pay It Forward.'

The two hot girls just stared for most of my five minutes allotted. But surprisingly, I enjoyed the silence. The other comedians stared, too. Some didn't know who I was and others were probably thinking, "This is why I don't wanna work the fuckin' road."

A bald man in a suit is sitting on the opposite end of this counter. He's white and he, too, has glasses. And ear buds in. And the makings of what looks to be a non-impressive beard.

At least I'm not alone.

The really funny, heavily bearded comedian left with the two hot brunettes. I rubbed my stubble again, wondering if a beard would make me funnier. I finished my fifth PBR, talked to some comedians at closing time, and then walked home. For others, perhaps their night had just begun.

It's now 5:40 and this Panera is nowhere near as packed at I thought it would be. But I think my meter's about to run out. I'm gonna fill this caramel-drenched coffee cup with Dr. Pepper and head for home.

Happy Tuesday night.

1/18/2010

Well, I was supposed to be playing in the Chicago burbs of Crestwood this weekend, but instead they wanted some funnier Italian guy. So I was given a gig in South Dakota and then two in central Minnesota as a replacement. In January, no less. Good times - and long drives - await.

Thursday I'm in Brookings, SD. They have a bar there called Cubbie's, with blue draft beer. I was there back in 2005, on Halloween. I'll be sure to stop in. Pics and stories await.

I'm at a Panera in Chicago. Have been for a few hours. Battery's gonna die. Plus lots of people wanna sit here.

I worked the Cubs Convention over the weekend. Well, I volunteered for 3 hours. I picked up lightweight baseballs in the pitching cages. Now my hammies are barking. Who knew doing basically nothing would require a pre-nothingness stretch routine.

Being fat and lazy while getting old sucks.

Go Cubs.

1/12/2010

Bagels & butt-cracks bagels at Panera.
Cedar Rapids, Iowa

They're leaving, these two wives, probably around my age. Huge wedding rings. One's a blonde and the other a brunette. They have their hair and makeup done to the nines, yet they're in Panera for lunch. The blonde has long hair pulled up and the brunette's is really short and spiky in the back. While I prefer brunettes, that's a shitty-looking haircut.

Even on Alyssa Milano.

I'm sitting at a two-top table, just inside the front door, to the left. To my right are two tables of I'm guessing to be Vietnamese families, but I'm far from certain. I hope Charlie Sheen walks in soon so someone can yell "Charlie", just to see what happens.

There are two little boys who keep running around my table. They peek at my computer to see if I'm playing the games they'd like to be playing on here. Kids have a whole different world today. When I was 5-years-old, I still hadn't played an Atari. Today's 5-year-olds have their own video game machines the size of our cell phones.

But at least we have PornHub. And they do, too, I guess. Another reason for me to get a vasectomy on the way back to my hotel.

I had mac & cheese, and a half a smokehouse turkey sammich. Both were great, mainly because I was extremely hungry after missing the free hotel breakfast.

One boy is pulling the other boy. "Let's go potty. Let's go potty." They're inches from my table and if one lets go of the other, he's gonna crash right into my table, Dr. Pepper will spill all over my machine, and another war will begin. I better call John Rambo.

I wanna move to a "more private" spot, but I don't wanna make it too obvious. Even if the germ-infested, forgot-to-pullouts weren't running around, I'd wanna move. This place was packed when I walked in. I hate taking up a big table when it's just my douchey self, so I settled for this small table right in the middle of 1968.

The comedy club here is in the hotel. Sometimes I prefer to get out and see the city I'm in, but not this weekend. It's really cold here. I know I'm at a Panera but that's a given. Like two sets of chapped lips on an Eskimo cheerleader.

The old club was in the basement of building in downtown Cedar Rapids. A place with lots of character: the green room had a couch that comedians signed, and pictures all over its walls. It wasn't a really hoppin' downtown or anything, but it was fun. Then came a huge flood in the summer of 2008 that wiped away a lot of downtown, including Penguin's, so they had to move.

I had one of my best shows in that old club. It was a Friday night. The place was packed. My friend Anita was in town for a wedding. We'd met via MySpace. She was a Cubs fan finishing school in San Diego. We chatted, emailed and all that noise. Until that show, she'd never seen one of mine.

As I left the stage, I don't think my feet touched ground for at least 10 minutes. I walked on water, on clouds, on fire, on broke glass. I felt like a superhero. Those moments reassure you that you're doin' what you should be doin'. That the long drives and staring crowds are simply bumps in the road.

This Panera has grown quiet as 3p.m. approaches. I've relocated to a small table against a low wall. The fireplace sits a few feet away from me, on the left. Sure it's fake but it's calming. The cold outside, the snow everywhere, the billowing smoke from businesses and homes nearby give the illusion that I'm in a ski lodge up in the mountains.

But I'm really in a strip mall next to a bar that's next to a chiropractor.

NFL Playoffs begin in 25 minutes. I should probably get going, even though I have no dog in that race. No money. Nothing at all really. Fine, I'll stay a little longer.

A friend from grade school and high school lives about 25 minutes from here, in Iowa City. He's a Doctor of Philosophy and a Professor at a small, local college. He's been pursing such a thing since we graduated high school in 1993. He's also married to a young, beautiful brunette who's also getting her Doctorate. I don't even know if all that shit should be capitalized but they've earned it in my book.

That's gotta be pretty damn cool, to be a Doctor. To be married to a hot, soon-to-be Doctor. Mr. and Mrs. Doc may come to my show tonight. Or I may meet them for lunch when I pass through their town tomorrow. We'll see. They saw my show in Joliet on Thanksgiving Eve, so really there's no need for them to sit through another 25 minutes of me rambling.

Speaking of, last night I did just that, rambled. I had no idea where I'd begin. Even though it was a brand new room, in my head I knew the emcee and headliner had seen my stuff a few times. I didn't wanna do the same thing. Again.

I did some crowd rap. A guy in the front row shared that he'd been working at the local Quaker Oats plant for 33 years. I love me some Peanut Butter Crunch. If you drive by on the right day, you can smell what kinda cereal they're making. Another guy in the crowd told me that, but the 33-year vet told me they make all cereals every day.

My performance was barely average. They loved me in spurts, very short spurts. And then it was funeral home quiet. And appropriately so, as I died a slow death in front of 65 Iowans.

OMG! I glance aimlessly into the air to my right - still at Panera - and there it is, a female butt crack, peering out from beneath blue jeans and a black belt. I can't really see her face but I'm a guy, so that doesn't matter. The young man across the table licks his fingers as he finishes his bread bowl of soup.

After my show, I set up my merch in the hall outside the club; The headliner set up inside the club. Nobody even inquired about my stuff until a girl with a trendy conductor's cap approached me. She appeared bald beneath the hat. And she was, removing it to share her baldness with me. Her boyfriend was also bald. But his was the male pattern kind; Hers was the female pattern kind called Breast Cancer. She looked young, too, maybe 26. By May the chemo will be done and her hair will come back. She hopes. We pray.

She asked about a shirt, and I gave her one. She offered to pay, but I declined. I then joined them in the hotel's sports bar for a drink. She's only allowed one with the chemo, so she just sat there with her boyfriend, her sister and another friend. And me. She'd already had her drink during the show. I sipped a Jameson on the rocks, splash of water, bought by a guy who'd seen my show. I waved thanks and then joined the foursome.

The girl with the exposed crack now has it covered. The guy extended his foot to her booth, and it sat perfectly positioned to cover the crack. Oh well. All good things come to an end, they say.

Like now.

1/07/2010

From Today's Joliet Herald News
Common Sense

Like so many before it, 2009 blessed our hearts with many ups and challenged our souls with many downs.

In my first column, I shared the loss of my dear friend, Ray on October 4th. Our pictures now adorn my small apartment; the one from our only Cubs game sits beside the book WE ARE CUBS FANS, in which I share a story of crying in 1984 when the Cubs lost to the Padres. My dad told me to get used to it. So did Ray.

For Christmas I bought Arlene a glittery poinsettia. She set it on the coffee table where Ray's collection of Cubs Bobble Heads watches TV with his wife. Arlene then sent me on a shopping spree of sorts, through Ray's old socks, shirts and sweaters.

"Whatever you want, Scotty," she encouraged repeatedly.
"Ray never wore these. He didn't like sweaters." I didn't wanna appear unappreciative, but if Ray didn't like 'em, I wasn't gonna like 'em, either. Just on principle.

Besides, I don’t think the fashion desires of a 35 year-old bachelor closely mirrors those of an 88 year-old World War II vet. No offense, Ray.

"Take the beer in the fridge, Scotty. You and Ray were the only ones who drank it."

“Now we're talkin' shared desires.” Then Arlene handed me a tin canister with Canadian whiskey inside. My smile widened. I always joked that Ray should've slugged some whiskey to put a pep in his step; Little did I know he'd been holdin' out on me.
Cookies, utility gloves, Ray’s Blackhawks t-shirt, and a hug and kiss for Arlene completed my productive day at Ray-Mart.
(Arlene is currently recovering from a broken hip suffered on Christmas Eve. Please keep her in your prayers.)

But as life’s circle continues its rounds, I said goodbye to Ray and hello to a beautiful baby girl.
December 30 was Leah Brett’s First Birthday. I’ve known her mother Monica since kindergarten. As teenagers Monica called me at 6:25 to make sure I was awake. Chances are she was also the last person I talked to the night before.
In 2002 I was a groomsman when Monica married Jim Brett at St. Mary Nativity in Joliet, where she and I attended nine years of Catholic grade school. I wanted to wear a dress as a Bridesmaid.

“I was an altar boy. Just think of it as a robe.” Minus the thin shoulder straps and satin shine, of course.
But Monica never gave it a second thought. Perhaps because I’m frightfully clumsy in heels.
Now Monica’s a mother and a wife. Her parents couldn’t be prouder. I serve ice cream sundaes and sell women’s underwear after my comedy shows. It’s no doubt whose parents deserve a refund.

But it wasn’t an easily paved road. As extraordinary pillars of Faith, Hope, and Love, virtues ingrained in us as young, religious scholastics, Monica and Jim overcame great adversity by bringing Leah Jane into this world.
I’m blessed to call them my friends. Happy Birthday, Leah.

Scott Derenger’s a standup comedian. His Web site is ShaveYourHead.com and his email is scott.derenger@gmail.com

1/04/2010

The bartenders from Six Strings in Bloomington, IL, on NY Eve.

That's my mom's hand, my new niece's foot, and my curious nephew Tyler reaching for his sister's piggies.

Such a cute little shit.

Happy 2010!!!

My sister had a baby girl last Tuesday, December 30. Makayla Jean. Both are doing well. MJ is beautiful, and loved by her big brother Tyler. And her Uncle Scott, of course. But I'm back home in Chicago, where no dirty diapers are found anywhere in my toasty apartment.

12/28/2009

With Mark, Terese and her parents at a great pizza joint in Racine, Wisconsin, called Wells Brothers.

FINALLY ... Porn at Panera.

Good afternoon from the Fort Wayne, Indiana Panera, the one closest to my hotel. Another one is like five miles away but this one was just over two. Score. End zone dance. Excessive celebration penalty.

But who cares, right?

The snow is really wet and heavy, but it's kinda balmy. Great packing potential, better than any you'd find at a gay pride parade after party. I may go back to my hotel and make snow angels outta the female mannequin torso in my backseat. She's got great tits, too.

This Panera's in a strip mall, connected to a audio-visual store and then a furniture store. I'm now in my third seat in just under an hour. First I sat in half a booth, made just for one person. Or two people pathetically in love. There's that kind in here now, sitting right beside each other while their coats and her purse sit on the other side of the booth. Those people suck on every level, and not in a good way, either. Not only is it fuckin' retarded, but it's just not functional. You can't look at the person straight-on. Your head is always cocked to the side as you shove food in your face. And it's not like this place is romantic. They're not gazing into each other's eyes, sharing a bottle of wine, and tossing grapes around. It's a sandwich cafe. There's soups and salads. Or maybe black bean soup gets her juices flown'. Probably all over the sheets if she gambles and loses.

"Well, I thought it was a fart. Sorry."

Speaking of assholes, there's now a guy sitting where I first sat, in that half booth. He scurried in from the wet, falling snow, sat down, removed his moccasin-like slippers, crossed his legs under himself, and sat on his feet as if they were eggs he'd hatch in a few weeks. There's four inches of wet, heavy snow. Slush and puddles are everywhere. Why the fuck are you wearing' slippers in this shit, shit for brains? His black jeans are also tighter than his girlfriend's pants. She just got done with work here, and sat down beside him. They're holding hands. He's still reading a book. I'm staring at them both, 10 feet away.

There's also a pudgy chick wearing blue sweatpants with PINK on the butt. I'm sure if you removed the pants and panties, smacked her snow-white ass, the cheeks would be pink, but come on. I despise her existence. I hope she falls in the snow, making the pink on blue cold and wet. Serves her well. Or maybe I'm just an old, out-of-touch asshole. Perhaps blue is the new pink.

The girl also has on one of those ridiculous winter hats with the flaps on the sides. But she's got long hair and also a hood. She looks even more like an asshole. I have one on, too, but I'm bald. Any winter head gear I wear is perfectly acceptable.

Fort Wayne has been fuckin' great so far. Good shows and great radio. Doc & Stone in the morning and Elvis & Hammer in the afternoon yesterday. i joined Elvis & Hammer at Wrigley Field Bar & Grill for their live remote/prize give-away before last night's first show. I figured my Wrigley Field gig would be a topic of conversation, and being that I talked about the celebs I've met in the suites, it was really a no-brainer.

But the crowd wasn't exactly Cubs fans, especially in mid-December. They were in there on a Friday night to drink and hopefully win front row seats to the Bob & Tom Comedy All Stars Show. I need to get on that fuckin' show. Gonna make it happen in 2010. Mark my word. Or expect me to whine a year from now.

The headliner doesn't sell anything, so that can really help me. But still, he's on stage for almost an hour after I'm done. People throw applause breaks his way, and with every one of 'em, I'm forgotten more and more. I've sold some shirts and panties, but after paying a $135 speeding ticket Thursday morning, I still am a long way away from making any panty profit.

Last night a girl at the late show was celebrating her birthday. I later found out she was turning 35. She looked maybe 27, with four kids, no less. She wanted my panties for free. I tried bartering. "Gimme the ones you're wearing and you can have these." She was drunk and pulled out the black lace from beneath her jeans. But her friends kept her in check. Unfortunately.

I had half a chicken frontega sammich and creamy potato soup. An apple sits on my 15-year-old black, leather gloves. There's a hole in the right middle finger, so I think this will be the last winter for them. A retirement ceremony will take place in the Spring.

The drunk birthday girl and her party were pretty chatty in the second row. They were sauced before they walked in. I made the mistake of talking to them once, which I quickly discovered was one time too many. They then wouldn't shut up. A girl in the party had on a tight gray t-shirt. Nice arms and a really nice rack. Then again, I've been fooled by that many times. They probably sag or the padding gives the illusion of a full C-cup when reality has 'em barely at a small B.

boooo.

I met them at the huge 5-bar joint across the parking lot from the club called Pierre's. Last night was Naughty School Girl Night. Mr Bellding from "Saved By The Bell" was there to announce the bands and drink specials. You wanna talk about milking a moment, albeit one that lasted my entire high school existence, 1989-1993. At least I wasn't the oldest bald guy there.

All the bartenders and cocktail servers donned really short skirts, hair in pigtails, librarian glasses, shirts tied in a knot at the waist. It was heavenly. But still in Fort Wayne. So heavenly in a relative sense.

I found the birthday party crew in the dance club bar. We did some shot with a cherry in it. Then they danced. I watched. Other people from the comedy shows were there, too. Some would shake my hand. "You were really funny up there, man." Some just pointed and nodded my way. I had no entourage. But I did have a gray zippered hood at my side.

The girl in the gray shirt sat on my lap in an oversized black, pleather chair. We talked about life, as she waved her ice-less cocktail all over. Dana, from a town 45 minutes away, with a 4-year-old and a teaching degree. No numbers exchanged. No kisses, either. Her crew left the dance floor and stumbled toward us. Dana stood up to join her friends, but somehow she fell into a guy walking by. He began hugging and holding her. I watched like a sad puppy dog who'd just lost his bone to a bigger dog. I guess I hadn't marked my territory.

The big dog then began talking to me about Dana. I noticed earrings in both his ears and more cologne than at an Italian wedding. My king-size hotel bed and log of salami was quickly becoming a better option. I went to the bathroom. When I returned, Marmaduke was still holding Dana. I stood out of sight to watch. She then stumbled back to her Bengi puppy, and sat down with me again. This time her friends were grinding on each other. Thongs and g-strings were hangin' out in all directions. Dana began lap dancing like I had a wad of 50's in my pocket. I almost had a wad of something else had the grinding lasted 32 more seconds.

(An old lady and what appears to be her son just sat down directly next to me. She and I are on the same booth seat. This Panera is littered with available tables and Maude and son have to sit here??? WTF on foccacia!!! They can't really see shit back here. I thought old people like to people watch. So much for Panera porn surfin' with a Golden Girl.

And I really meant that. Porn sites are okay here. A female comedian friend sent me a link to a porn star who's from Fort Wayne. Upon clicking on BreeOlsen.com, I realized I had to move way to the back or risk getting booted from Panera. So I did. But Bree Olsen is just another porn star. She's blonde with uncommonly natural breasts for her occupation. She has a nice gathering of fuzz above the kitty cat, just the way Bengi likes it, too.)

The group of gals decided to take their show on the road last night. Dana invited me with but her friends' body language didn't agree. I wasn't nearly drunk enough to pathetically tag along. The ring leader, which is also the head cockblocker, grabbed Dana's hand and pulled her away, like a mother does with her toddler in a the Walmart toy aisle.

"You don't need that. let's go."

The puppy's bone was taken away again. This time literally by a pack of bitches.

I stayed on their scent but kept my distance. They leaned in to talk to each other, looking my way a few times. "The loser comedian guy is watching us. Get a fuckin' life," they said. Or something similar, I'm quite certain. Dana waved whatever arm she managed to get free. I just shook my head, sipped my Jack & Coke, and thought dearly about making sweet love to a Volcano Burrito. Taco Bell was on my way home.

They left. I then walked around, hoping to find people from the show, to either buy me drinks or engage in stimulating conversation. No such luck, though. I just stared at the school girl bartenders a few minutes loungers, put my tail between my legs, and headed out into the snow.

Not everyone's a comedian. And after a night like that, I don't wanna be, either.

But tonight is Saturday. Two more shows. And two more opportunities to NOT enjoy it doggy-style.

12/20/2009

Yesterday was Alyssa Milano's 37th birthday. I love her. In a I'd-take-the-toliet-seat-she-sat-on-and-hang-it -in-my-room kinda way.

Fort Wayne's been a great time, but, like so many others, this time has come to an end. A hungover three-hour drive back to Chicago begins any minute. That goodness for NFL on the radio.