Thursday, December 23, 2004
12:56 PM
Watergate, White Water and now Whitehall, Michigan
(continued from the 12/23/04 Daily Derenger)

My live CD and my PROFESSIONAL douchebag shirt sat atop a wrapped gift before the Christmas tree. Even though the show was a miserable train wreck (let's be honest - how many train wrecks are not miserable?), I unrolled the black shirt and told people I would be selling them after the show. How pathetic was that? Very, but that so perfectly defines the kind of person I've become; even in the face of a crowd that wished me off stage seconds after I began speaking, I tried selling them merchandise. Nobody bought a thing. One lady even shook the headliner's hand and stood directly in front of me to do so, not even acknowledging my presence.

After a show like that, one would think it best to leave the place. Not me. I sat at the bar and was ignored in a way like never before after a show. Usually in small towns like Whitehall, the comedians are seen as pseudo celebrities. But not on this night. Even the guy I sat beside when I ate a sandwich 2 hours before the show didn't say a word to me. Had I gone to another bar I would've been a nobody. Here I was at least someone, albeit someone who didn't make many people smirk let alone smile.

As I continued to write down my thoughts and feelings on a piece of printer paper from behind the bar, a lady came up to me from behind.

"You done selling?" she asked.

"Did you want a shirt," I replied.

"Sure, it's for a guy back there. For Christmas. He deserves it."

I told her I had three colors and different sizes, too. She seem surprised by this and asked for an extra large white shirt. My goodies were long since thrown in the Prizm, so I braved the frigid cold and corralled a shirt. She gladly paid $15 for it. I had planned on selling them for $10 before I got there, but being that I hadn't sold a one, I figured why not make a 'lil extra money for my troubles.

Amazingly, that one sale made me feel a whole lot better. This lady came out of nowhere to buy my shirt and seemed overjoyed to do so. I was back on top and ordered another $1 draft of Bud Light to celebrate.

The show's emcee was Jeanie, a young waitress studying sports medicine at a local college. She bought me a beer while the headliner performed and then I sat next to her at the bar after the show. We talked a little bit but I mostly just sat and stared at CNN, airing directly in front of me.

Just then a girl with long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, came up to Jeanie.

"Boy that first comedian guy was stupid," she said.

Although I didn't make out immediately what she had said, I gathered that it was about me and wasn't nice. Jeanie appeared to lean forward as if to gesture to the ungrateful wench in the blue hooded sweatshirt that I was right behind her. The wench covered her mouth a bit and I said, "I don't give a shit about what she thinks" and proceeded to drink my beer. I leaned in to ask Jeanie what the girl had said and what I quoted above was verbatim. I was the comedian guy and I was stupid.

So quickly had I fallen from the grace afforded by selling a single t-shirt. Now I was right back to embracing misery's company. Jeanie had her back turned completely away from me and I was okay with this. She obviously knew the girl who wasn't my biggest fan and they continued talking and giggling. There was a large group of people in their early twenties gathered in the bar. Many of them were home from school, according to Jeanie.

Just then a female voice said, "I hope you won't hate me ..." I didn't turn to see who it was. It happened rather quickly.

Initially I thought it was the hooded wench trying to apologize, but then I turned to see that it was instead the lady who purchased the shirt a few moments earlier. I then thought she wanted another one and my demoralizing feeling quickly subsided.

"... but do you have this in gray?" she asked. "I gave it to him and said they had other colors. Then he said, 'Why didn't you get me one in gray?'"

Although I hadn't made another sale, I was happy to provide a gray shirt. I headed back out into the cold and rustled through my backpack of douchebag shirts. I must've been out there longer than before because when I re-entered the bar, my glasses fogged up, making me look truly like the PROFESSIONAL douchebag I was on this night.

At this point the chair next to Jeanie had been taken and I wasn't the least bit concerned. I was shamelessly excited to come home and write about the night's events.

The best part of the whole trip to Whitehall was Kristy. She was the supervisor working the front desk at the hotel. She was as nice as anyone I've met, which makes traveling that much better. There's nothing worse than having a shitty room, in a shitty town, with shitty people running rampant.

Kristy upgraded me from a room with a handicap bathroom to a suite with a jacuzzi and king-size bed. The jacuzzi was in the corner with mirrors shadowing the jacuzzi area along the wall. It's a sad day in my comedy career when the hotel clerk and a jacuzzi are the best memories of a Wednesday night.

Other than me, Kristy said that only one comedian had been even slightly talkative with her in the 16 months or so of shows in Whitehall, he being the Disgruntled Clown. When he checked into the hotel he wasn't in character, but when he stumbled in at 3 a.m., Disgruntled he was apparently.

Thanks for making the Whitehall massacre somewhat enjoyable, Kristy. If you see the wench in the hooded sweatshirt again, tell her that her breath smelled like she ate a bowl of Shitflakes for breakfast. And Happy Holidays.