Oh God John, no. NO. Fight it. FIGHT IT. We worked on this in our "Yoga For Pretentious Douchebags" seminar. https://t.co/1lRaPC3yBC
Unless you're fusing them into bird claws in the process of becoming my unholy Falcon-Man Of The Night I don't care. https://t.co/FtTBjWWdSZ
SHUT UP JOHN LURIE THAT'S WHY https://t.co/vB7kuzoVMg
We;re getting there. Keep cool, you old perv. https://t.co/qp5aESiIoc
No. Brian. NO. Tell your wife to make you some warm milk and go to bed. This is another 96-hour Red Vines bender. https://t.co/Gp6TcuiVfN

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Fri, Sep 24


COMEDIANS OF COMEDY SHOOTING DIARY: AN HOUR OF GRACE

@ 12:00 AM

   

I'm staying at maybe one of the most barebones, plastic-cups-and-rough-towels motels in Eugene, and yet they STILL have wireless internet that blankets the premises like the caramel murmurs of a Capri whore. I'm writing, photographing, and sending this from the "veranda" (three wrought-iron picnic tables near the second floor snack machines) an hour before tonight's show.

I've got my feet up on a bizarre lion's head fountain which serves no purpose except to fool me into thinking I'm making the most of the eastern Oregon "magic hour". I'm two pony shots into a bottle of single malt, 15 year-old Balvenie (in-cask date: August 18th, 1988—exactly ONE month after I started stand-up comedy) and almost finished with Gary Giddins' un-put-downable critical biography of Louis Armstrong.

I don't own any Armstrong records. I'm not a fan of jazz. But one chapter into this fucker, and I want to hear everything Dippermouth every recorded. I'm chasing the Balvenie with generic "Classic Selection" spring water.

Beauty and happiness can mug you in an Olive Garden restaurant, I'm starting to realize.


 
 
   
   
   
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