Who Knows What Heights We'll Hit
Today's the day - an arbitrary marker on my own calendar, sure, but it's the day where my schedule goes haywire for the next few months. It's the busy season, my first real one, and I'm prepping to hit the road for four days of comedy. I passed out at 10:30 last night and woke up in a panic at 4:30, so that counts for six hours' sleep, and my meticulous schedule has a nap built-in before the show. Because that's how rock stars do it.
I'm pretty sure rock stars also get up at 4:30 and run the dishwasher, do laundry, clean out the car, fold and sort merchandise, double-check the kids' lunches and medications, and write self-serving blogs about all of the above. Raise a glass to the ghost of [this] comic's past, the me who would have reacted to this itinerary ten years ago by getting drunk as shit last night, sleeping till three, then driving like an insane person and making up excuses for being late.
(Not to worry, I'm still gonna get drunk at some point on this trip, but only when my car is safely tucked into its appointed spot at my designated hotel and my antics can be confined to sloppily liking and commenting on old flames' Facebook posts in the dead of night, or writing self-serving drivel I delete in horror the next morning.)
I booked my first weekend at Mark Ridley's Comedy Castle yesterday. Another rite of passage for a midwestern comic. January's filling up, while my December remains grimly landlocked and bitter white on my calendar. Maybe I can put ten more pounds on and moonlight as a Santa.
See you at Turtle Creek Casino tonight at 9:00. I'll be the one with the snappy t-shirts for sale and the stupid look on my face, incredulous that I'm getting paid to write and say jokes and amazed I had a plan and it sorta worked.
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Where I write about the stuff I do when I'm out doing the stuff I do.