stand-up comics have it easy

ics
complain that they have the hardest job in show business. they face,
alone, a demanding crowd that's come to be entertained, that says "make
me laugh!" depriving the performer of the element of surprise, leaving
only superior and overwhelming force, hence (see the old-fashioned
grammar? could hang a hook on that in a gig!!) all those comedians who
shout a lot.

i say comedians have it easy. their audience has come hoping to laugh. my audience is walking away as fast as they can,
hoping i won't open my mouth and talk to them!
keep in mind, i'm not talking about street performing, telling jokes i've rehearsed to an
audience that feels safely on the move, safe enough to smile, and say,
"that's cute! so Ashland! but the grey beard and the sorrow-hollowed
eyes take a bit of the fun out of your act...."

i'm talking about walking down the alley with my new 40 oz.er of Pabst Blue Ribbon
beer at 11 am, watching this guy texting into his phone and walking
right towards me. three feet away, he finally sees me, and, startled,
veers out of the way.

now there's a spot where grammar fails me, or rather, i fail grammar, all those commas, and high-faluting
words like veer- sneer! what i mean is, this kid f*&^n with his
phone darn near ran me down, and what if i'd have dropped my 40?
there's no insurance, there's no guarantee, nothing to cover me from
the loss of that familiar comfort,....

so i smiles at him and turns on the charm, doing my bests to keep him from beating me up up
when i say, "You know, what they say, 'Hang up and Walk!" and he
laughed, so it was ok.

sometimes i'm not so lucky. sometimes i watch the defense program go into effect, at the same time the offense
trigger's been pulled, and i watch the poor folks who were just walking
down the street minding their own business when i butted into their
conversation, and they're gripping their purses, searching for cops,
calling for help, and getting ready to belt me all at the same time,
and i wonder,

"Was it something I said?"

i'm reminded of one of my favorite people, John Reed, from Portland,
Oregon. He wanted me to call 911 for him, so they could take him to
detox to sleep, tho he hadn't been drinking yet, he was sick, he said.
911 told me that they knew john, he knew he had to wait til one o'clock
for the Hooper Detox center to open, so he hung out with me and told
stories-where he was when kennedy was killed, and how even though he
had no home, no place in his heart to go back to, he said,

"but I still got this little smile...!"

and he won me over, just like that- the most engaging little smile i'd
ever met. after an hour, i bought him some orange juice and gave him,
what? a dollar, i guess (i was broke, this was maybe '82, maybe '84,
somewhere like that) and later i saw him dancing absolutely ss(^%t
faced, the way i want to dance, the way that greek actor in nobody
loves a drunken indian, which was a great book, and a great movie under
another title with anthony quinn, who could really dance! danced,

like this guy, John Reed, let's hope he still has that little smile,
bless him, was dancing down there at the saturday market before the
cops came to give him a ride to detox, at last.