".. nobody at this gig is flirting with me, so on Friday I was forced to go down the street to the lesbian bar for sexual harassment.."
Dazed and Confused, March 17, 1997
Tucson is a good town. A bus near the comics' house goes right to the Y, tens of good coffee houses compete for my favor and all my online services have local access numbers. This week's home is right around the corner from the club, and it's huge by comedy standards. One guy lives here fulltime and telemarkets for the club. We three comics each have our own rooms. The couch houses a travelling comic with nights off between gigs and the spare bedroom is hosting the club's booker (up for the weekend) and/or two people from the Santa Fe gig who are also "up for the weekend." I have posted notes on all my food.
I am sick. I went to Walgreen's after my workout and bought twenty four dollars worth of witches' brew and robitussin. Everyone at the club has a different idea for me. The bartender says that four shots of tequila downed one after the other will cure my fever. The club owner gives me 'sudafed' pills before each show and one of the comics is big into homepathic medicine; he slips me some echinacea. Too bad no one in this joint believes in homemade chocolate chip cookies. I miss my mommy.
Nobody at this gig is flirting with me, so on Friday I was forced to go down the street to the lesbian bar for sexual harassment. I brought the other two comics with me for protection and it worked too well. I was left completely alone. Just think, less than a month ago a club employee was in tragic puppy love with me and I had to resort to looking like shit when he took me to the airport. That worked too.
I had several Martha Stewart moments this week. I boiled eggs and I made Uncle Ben's instant rice. A potato got baked and I melted cheese on toast. All that on top of pouring milk on my cereal every morning and washing alar off of apples. I am starting to dig the domestic life that the comedy condo affords. Whatever will I do with myself this weekend when I'm trapped in a hotel room? Watch tv in my rancid underwear, make dirty phone calls to my ex-boyfriend and drape runny ripped pantyhose over the shower rod in my own private bathroom? No, no. I am too much of a lady for all that.