Monday, October 11, 2004
12:12 PM
A day in my life as a broke, struggling comedian, waiter, and freelance writer.
(Sorry for the messed up symbols below, but if you can make it past them, the story's great. A bit long, but great. I've tried to contact the host of the free Blogger.com site and they've yet to get back to me. My Web masters don't know and I'm clueless, too. Anyone know why this shit happens? If so please drop me an e-mail. Thanks.)
Monday was the first day of the rest of my life. The previous day the Chicago Cubs had finished a highly disappointing season and with that came the end of my 2004 job at Wrigley Field. Saddened with another “Wait ‘til next year” motto playing all over the local radio stations and brushed across newspapers, I did what any struggling yet aspiring comedian and writer would do - nothing. And that’s why I struggle.
Of course I wanted to write all about the end of the season and how the team’s expectations fell far short. I wanted to edit all the great pictures I had taken from the end of the year party the night before. Sure I wanted to even write some jokes paralleling a life as a comedian with that life as a Cubs fan. But I didn’t. I simply lived life and with no rhyme or reason.
The cast
Me - a 29 year-old comedian and freelance writer
John - a 29 year-old bartender who’s my roommate and married to his wife living in Phoenix
Cyndi - my 29 year-old friend who grew up, like me, in Joliet
Matt - my 27 year-old friend who’s a full-time radio DJ, married with 2 kids and just relocated to the Chicago area
Katie - my 23-year-old girlfriend of two-in-a-half months
Monday, October 4, 2004
A day in the life of one, Scott Derenger
8:00. I awoke because I thought former Cubs TV play-by-play man Chip Caray was talking to me in a rather weird dream. Came to find out he was in fact talking, but to Mike North on AM-670 The Score, and not to me. I hadn’t drank that much the night before to celebrate the end of the season, so instead of simply going back to bed to nurse a hangover, I got outta bed and began my day.
8:15. I nestled myself in the comfy leather chair in the computer room to check my e-mail, surf the net and also write a Daily Derenger on my Web site. (How lame is this re-cap? I’m writing about writing.) When I saw that the few e-mails I had received were a combination of junk and things sent by people who I talked with since they sent them, I wrote a non-insightful nor creative Daily Derenger.
8:30. I grabbed my camera to check out the pictures taken over the weekend. I had no desire to edit and post them, so off went the camera and up I went. To do what I had no clue.
9:00. Upon remembering that my car was parked a few blocks away and although safe from a parking ticket, I wanted it closer. There were things I needed in there and I wasn’t about to haul them up three flights of stairs.
9:10. With unbrushed teeth and the same clothes in which I slept, the three-quarter-sleeve Field of Dreams t-shirt I had worn under my uniform jersey the day before and red and black checkered, oversized flannel pants, I headed for the Prizm. I slipped on some moccasins sans socks and rumbled through my closet for a stocking hat. I knew it was a bit cold and my bald head would appreciate my efforts.
9:15. I get outside and realize it’s very cold, much too cold to just be wearing the shirt I had on. I pull the hat down over my ears and walk across the street and down another, stopping soon thereafter to read an sign about an apartment for sale. Although it was a one bedroom, it was more than what I will be paying once my roommate’s wife arrives. I think of myself as a loser for living with a non-related married couple i.e. not my parents or aunt and uncle and continue toward the car. Wait - living with any married couple at 29 is worthy of being deemed a loser. I walk faster and try to dodge the cold wind.
9:22. I cross another street and head down a sidewalk. In the distance I see two dogs, one on a leash and one not. The leashless one appears to be old and simply out for a walk to keep from dying. The other one is moving around with more purpose and jumps up on a tree to see if the squirrel he chased was gonna come down to play. Their owner comes into sight holding the leash in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Still uncertain whether the person was a man or a woman. The phone rings to the tone of something from five years ago. It wasn’t a hip downloaded song. Instead it was an annoying tune the my roommate from Arizona had. It drove me nuts and I wished this guy and his dogs got run over by the oncoming cement truck. The guy didn’t answer the phone - must’ve been screening calls and continued on with the dogs. I walked by the old dog just slumbering along.
“Hi puppy,” I said to the dog, knowing full well he was no puppy. It just seemed cuter than “Hey you old fuckin’ mutt.” Had his owner been on the phone, though …
“He won’t hurt you,” the asexual owner said to me. I smiled and the dog sniffed and then gently licked my fingertips.
“He may not hurt me, but so what,” I laughed to myself. “Your dog just licked the hand that had been fondling by ball bag since midnight. I may have hurt him.”
9:27. I turn down the street where my car is parked and see that most of the street is blocked off. There is construction of what appears to be a new apartment building directly across the street from where my car is. I panic at first, thinking my car has been towed. That all changes to hope for it having had some steel beams dropped on it. I could use the money and a new car. I see the Prizm fine and well with two orange cones about two feet in front of the bumper. A man in the street who is not a cop is directing traffic with an orange flag. Surely he feels more powerful than if he was digging a hole. I get in my car and begin maneuvering it around the cones. Another worker kindly moves the cone on the far left to allow me easy access to leave. I nod him a thanks and proceed back to my place.
9:32. Once down my street and just outside my building, I see signs for street cleaning. I can’t park where I usually do, so I opt for a space one street over.
9:40. Back inside, my stuff gets put on my bed and I examine some of the winnings from the employee party the night before. We all got a nice Cubs sweatshirt and then something else in the raffle. Mine was a green jersey from bar I’ve yet to visit near Wrigley Field. But with the jersey, I’ll be sure to stop in to Higgin’s on School and Racine soon.
(NOTE: I thought this would be written much sooner, like at the end of my eventful Monday. It’s now just before 2 p.m. on Wednesday and the recapping of this sucks. So, to spare you, me and the other dozen readers of this crap, I will only highlight a few more things. You’re welcome.)
At some point in the day, these random things happened:
My roommate, John, awake shortly after I return. As I’m watching SportsCenter, he comes through the living room wrapped in a Cincinnati Bengals blanket, and falls to the couch. “What up, nigga?” he says to me, a very white man. He, being an even whiter man, is famous for speaking jive.
After enough SportsCenter to satisfy my competitive-turned-lazy palate, I watched two standup tapes of my shows from suburban Denver. One is from September of 2002 and the other is from February of this year. There is nothing a performer hates more that watching and listening to him/herself on tape. And I know some non-humored audience members, sometimes family and friends, hate it too. John decides to watch the tape as if the jokes he’s heard hundreds of times all of a sudden intrigue him. I think it was more of his not having shit to do all day. If he could break up his tedious chores by watching footage of me standing in front of a backdrop that was seemingly made by a 3rd grade art class, why not do it? And there’s no cover charge or drink minimum in doing that. To his credit and that of my ego’s, he actually laughed a few times.
My reason for watching was to send a tape to a booker of an international comedy tour for our troops. The audio from me wasn’t too hot, but that of the crowds’ laughter was pretty good. As long as the paying customers are laughing, I’m not too sure the club cares why. (The tape was just sent out so keep your fingers crossed, please.)
As we watched the second tape, I again visited my bag of testicles. I wasn’t playing with myself but rather, I was simply resting my hands there. It’s a very warm place and, after all, they’re mine. I can do with them and to them what I want in the comfort of my own home. The fact that I was doing so on John’s furniture can be questioned. The fact that I controlled the TV remote with the same hand licked by the dog some hours earlier can also be debated. It’s now two days later and I don’t care. I veered away from my balls and instead began to rip apart my black Structure boxer-briefs. They featured holes that warranted their being thrown away months ago. But we all know how men love their drawers ravaged with holes. Factor in that the drawers in question were purchased for my first comedy tour to Japan and Korea and the sentimental value trumps any way they look. I continued tugging and ripping at them until a headband-like portion came off and was eventually wrapped around my bald dome. John was neither impressed or amused, but continued to watch my tape attentively, as if a report was due afterwards.
John later moves an end table from the computer room to the kitchen, switching spots with the coffee table. The coffee table is oddly shaped and the top of it is warped. It’s served duty as a coffee table in the living room, a coffee table in my room, a coffee table in the kitchen where an actual coffee make was placed atop it, and now sits huddled beside a filing cabinet in the computer room. The end table spent only a few days in the kitchen and has since been put in the … lemme go check and see … computer room again, straddling a three-tiered carpeted cat tower. The location of the coffee table seems to be up in the air at this point. The Vegas odds makers have it moving at least three times by the month’s end.
With my new wireless laptop connected to the Internet in my bedroom, I spend much of the day surfing the net and checking e-mail. “Do you want some coffee?” John asks me. “It’s almost 2 o’clock,” I say. “And?” “Okay. Fine.” And the coffee begins brewing.
“Do you like the gay creamer I bought?” I ask John as he sips from a weird-looking mug, almost resembling something King Henry VIII used. I had purchased some vanilla-caramel creamer, dulce de leche flavor to be exact.
“Yeah, it’s okay.” I’m not sure if I expected him to be more elated, but I really didn’t care. I bought it for me. His use of it was a bonus. If he liked it, it would then make up for the beer and soda of his I had consumed and no replenished. I’m a dick of a roommate, huh?
Two rather interesting phone conversations happen in the early afternoon hours, the first coming from Cyndi.
“What are you doing Saturday night?” she asked.
Nothing, why?
“We’re having a surprise party for Meg at Lee’s house.” (Sorry if Meg’s read this before the party. Not likely, though.)
“I was gonna do some trivia about Meg like I did for Lee last year. It went over well so why not do it again.”
Good idea. What do I have to do with that?
“If you’re not doing anything I thought you could come and perform. You could be the opening act.”
For what?
“For my trivia game.”
Are you fuckin’ serious? You want me to do comedy for you and your friends before you ask them questions about your best friend?
“Why not? It would be fun. They all like you. And your pay would be in free beer and food.”
(Even though I gave three seconds of thought about doing it, I was dying inside. My career had reached a new low. Sure I loved Cyndi, Meg, Lee and all their family and friends, but what does it say about my career when, on a Saturday night in October after being in the biz for seven years, all I can get is a gig opening up for an Alex Trebek wannabe with my compensation being cans of beer and finger sandwiches? No stage, no mic - just Lee’s living room and 40 hammered locals in their 30’s.)
Cyndi was interrupted at work and had to end the call abruptly. I was obviously saddened by this and haven’t talked since.
A short while later my friend, Matt called. He works for a new suburban Chicago radio station, 99.9, that plays anything. Working as a freelancer for the Herald News in my hometown, I want to interview him.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks.
I’m hanging out with Katie. Why?
“Well the house where we’re stayin’ has moth balls under it. They’re bad for the kids if too much of the air is inhaled. I need to go down there after work and get a bunch of shit outta the fridge and turn off the gas and stuff. I thought you might wanna come with?”
--Well that's it. I'm sick of this shit. Hope you enjoyed.--
10:29 AM
Ohhhhh Clare is Where Spiderman Lives
It's Saturday night in Eau Clarie, Wisconsin. I just arrived to my hotel after stopping for directions.
The booking agency just gave me a phone number for the club - no directions, no showtime, and the original given hotel was wrong.
But I'm here nonetheless.
It's 5:45 and the show begins at 8:30. My laptop is set up, but there is no wireless connection available. I wanted to write this
entry and post it immediately to my journal, but no such luck. And I'm not sure if using this shitty Notepad program will work.
For some reason, lately, when I've written a journal entry in MicroSoft Word or Works and it gets posted, the quotation marks, parentheses,
hyphens, etc., appear as anything but their appropriate symbols. It drives me nuts and I'm sure it drives the three or four of you loyal
readers nuts, too. Let me tell you, though, this Notepad bullshit is for the birds. You might as well give me a stone tablet on which
to write. I have to hit the enter key at the end of a line or else it will go on forever. Or maybe there are some settings I need to adjust.
Whatever; back to life in lovely Eau Claire.
I find that odd; that Eau Clarie is pronounced "Oh Clare," yet there isn't a single "o" in the two words. Interesting.
The directions were received at a Kwik Mart, again oddly spelled. There were two guys behind the counter, maybe in their late teens, who I asked for directions. A man was on my left and had just paid for some lotter tickets and a package of Camel cigarettes. He had on a sleeveless shirt and also wore a pirate-like eye patch with a pair of regular glasses over it.
"Do you know of a place called Down South in a Best Western?" I asked.
"Yes, but it's not a Best Western anymore. It's called The Palace," the darker haired of the two told me.
"Oh, okay," I said.
"You going there for the comedy night?" the other guy asked. "It starts at 7," he added, looking down at his watch.
"Well I'm one of the comedians, so I don't think it'll start without me."
The man next to me was still fumbling with his wallet and purchased items. He overheard the conversation and interjected.
"Well you're not funny," he said, glancing at me. With his good eye. He was laughing and sounding very much like how I would assume a pirate would, a raspy voice indicative of having smoked one too many packs of Camel Non-filters.
I hadn't tried to be funny. I was simply lost and needed some help. But I couldn't resist busting the chops of one of Eau Claire's finest citizens.
"Thanks. And you shouldn't run with scissors," I told him.
Johnny Depp ( or whatever his character was in Pirates of the Carribbean) said nothing and walked out. The two cashiers laughed, gave me directions,
and I was off to The Palace.
Now whenever I hear that the hotel is an old Best Western, I have mixed emotions. For the most part Best Westerns are nice, but when the hotel is called The Palace, it's anything but.
And I was right.
Seeing the weeds growing along the outside of the building and the chipped paint bordering all the windows, I knew a Palace it wasn't. Still, it was free.
I entered through the front doors and checked in. A man with a beard and wearing a baseball cap and shorts, looking a bit like Robin Williams, was talking with the front desk clerk. He then went over the read the papers at the other end of the counter as the clerk checked me in.
"I'm checking in for the Down South club," I told him. He proceeded to punch me in even though the reservation wasn't under my name.
"It may be under the name of the bar or the bar manager or even the agency," I advised him, "but it's rarely under the comedian's name."
What time does the show start?" I asked, knowing that the 7 p.m. time given at the gas station was wrong. That was just too early for a one-show-only Saturday night.
"8:30," the clerk said.
He continued to check me in as he also took a phone call, eventually handing me the plastic card for a room key.
"256," he said, and then continued with the phone call.
The Robin Williams look-alike raised his head from the paper he was reading to inquire about the comedy night.
"There's a comedy night here? In the hotel?"
"Yes, sir. In the club over there call Down South," I told him.
"Well are you funny?" he asked.
I had been in Eau Claire for all of 15 minutes and had talked with five people, two of whom questioning whether I was funny or not.
"Okay then. Try this one on." And I proceeded to tell him about One-eyed Willie from the gas station. He laughed, in what seemed to be a genuine way, and I headed down the hall toward the location of the night's show.
"All right then, maybe I'll check out the show tonight," he said.
There were a few different rooms that appeared to be bars.
"I think we tried too hard for the hoes last night," said a large man leaning against the entrance to the kitchen. He was talking to who I figured was a fellow kitchen employee. The both were wearing aprons. I didn't hear anything further and continued down the hall.
I peeked into a small dining room where two people were seated in the far back. I don't even think they were customers, maybe just employees talking business. Or also about other hoes. I then asked a scruffy, lanky waiter where the Down South club was. He pointed me back to where I had just passed.
"I don't think it's open yet," he said.
"That's okay. I'm one of the comedians. I just wanted to check out the room."
I looked through the window and there was a young blonde lady taking bar stools down from atop the bar and tables. I then entered through the side doors next to the window.
"Hello," she said to me, as she kept on placing the stools accordingly.
I said hello as well and walked toward her.
"What time does your comedy show begin tonight?" I asked, even though I had known from the front desk clerk.
"Around 8:30," she said. "Are you one of the comedians?"
"Why? Do I look funny?"
A slight paused ensued. "No."
I wasn't sure how to take it. Some guys really do look fun and are comedians while others don't look funny at all and are great ones. I voiced my thoughts to her, shook her hand, and introduced myself to Sarah. She was now the third Eau Clairean who questioned my being a comedian.
I left Down South, ironically located up north and relatively close to Canada, and headed back toward the front desk. All I knew was that I was in room 256. I knew nothing of where it was or how to get there or where to park. I rang the bell and nobody came. I walked out by the indoor pool to look at the room numbers overlooking the pool. Some kids were in the pool, other were visiting at the surrounding tables, and two kids nearest me were eating some cheese pizza. I only saw numbers in the low 200's, so I headed back to the desk, thinking maybe the guy would be there. Nope. I then looked at the map taped to the desh near the bell and tried to figure out where I was staying. It wasn't my first time in a hotel, so I figured it out easily enough. I had just never been handed a key and basically told, "Good luck ... With the show and with finding your room."
I parked on the side, grabbed two of my bags and headed upstairs. Right inside the door upstairs was a stain that looked like a large animal, maybe an elk, had shat on the floor. However, the sign entering the hotel said "No pets." But I don't think many elk are domesticated, thus negating being pets. Still, the stain was huge. A few down the hall and near my room was another similar stain. I brushed it off as "shit happens - literally" and continued on toward my room.
The maid's cart was positioned right outside my room as the room next to mine was being cleaned. It was 5:30 on a Saturday night so why not. I noticed the person cleaning the room was anthing but the standard maid-type person. Usually it's a woman and one who speaks little English. But I was in northwestern Wisconsin. The maid was a guy in his late teens, wearing a Grateful Dead-like tye-dyed shirt and tan cargo pants. If you're cleaning rooms, you need lots of pockets to replenish the soaps and lotions.
I squeezed between the wall and his cart, entered my room and dropped my bags. I turned on the TV to catch the scores of the Twins-Yankees game along with a packed day of college football. I then darted into the bathroom to take a shit. It was The Palace and I needed to use the throne.
Right after I turned on the light, my eyes look to the bathtub. In the righthand corner of the tub was a half-dollar sized spider. It didn't move as the light went on and off; he just stayed put.
"Well that's nice," I said aloud, as if the spider was awaiting my arrival and I was shocked to find him hanging out in the tub. Luckily, I have no fear of spiders. None. I simply said," Hey lil' dude," and proceeded to depants and drop a deuce. Experiencing much relief after the 5-hour car ride, I could not have cared less about the spider. I figured the smell would get to him eventually. I also thought about running water on him, but then remembered the song "Itsy, bitsy spider" and thought him to cute to drown. I finished up, left him there and headed down to my car to ... guess what? Get my camera.
I gave some thought to telling the Johnny the Maid about about my shower mate, but didn't want to subject him and the arachnid to the scent of my movement. Plus I wanted a few pictures before 8-legged demon was destroyed. I reuturned and there he was, still where I had seen him initially. I snapped a shot of him from a distance, like Bette Midler would've wanted, and then got closer, even climbing in the tub. Again, he wasn't moving at all. Maybe he was dead, but very photogenic if not. He eventually moved a little when I put the camera about three inches from him. And then he moved a lot when Johnny the Maid squahed him, well, like a bug. I could've easily disposed of the spider, but thought it best to let Johnny know of The Palace's uninvited guests. Who knows, maybe a free meal or some hotel porn could've been negotiated to compensate for my trauma? Instead Johnny just smashed it, said he was sorry, and left.
It's almost an hour to showtime. I need to be a real comedian and figure out what I want to say tonight. However, that's usually thrown out as soon as I misread the crowd. I also have to iron my jeans and take a shower. I've been writing for 90 minutes and am tired. So much for a nap before the show. Here's hoping the Eau Clairean laugh lovers are as interesting as the ominous stains and bathtub buddies.
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