An awful luck weekend. Lost $180US playing poker to a guy missing three fingers and had a big toe for a thumb. He looked like that guy you just hate. That seedy Eric Roberts sorta look, never really washed, a thin film of perspiration and a golf shirt with dulling stripes. He's the guy that gives you directions to a place that will get you killed or beat up, and thinks its your fault for trusting him... Well fuck me for not following my instinct and folding against this guy.
Instead I thought this guy must be a loser, so I in turn lost to his endless flushes and full houses. I kept thinking that this might be how I end up losing my fingers.
The night before I experienced all that we can be out next to the China Lake Navy Pilot training and testing place or thing. I performed a little jokee show to an assortment of desert riff raff. A bizarre show to say the least.
I enjoyed the crowd... at first. They seemed to love my show. But I did poke a little fun at a contingent of her majesty's pilots on loan from England who were throwing back some suds...And interestingly enough, the Brits displayed a characteristic oft thrown in the direction of this great land. Not having a sense of humor about themselves. These Union jackers were steamed when I pointed out that they would be speaking a fine dialect of Kraut if it wasn't for our boys back in WWII. This provoked a series of wails and moans after the show, culminating in a rather pasty faced chubby pilot, full of ale and cornish pastries to inform me that my show was shit! Everything about it was shit.
Now this is where most people would boast about a witty comeback or dance on their testosterone fueled response. I simply stated that the other two hundred plus patrons that applauded and laughed all through my exhibition, were the ones he really had the problem with. I backed out of the mean crowd of navy hooligans and found the vocal majority who enjoyed my act.
But... I felt bad. Really bad. I did a great show, but a small section hated me.
This is of course a mental problem of my own creation, my own desperate need for all to praise and champion me, but I felt really bad that they didn't get that it was a joke. A joke that was considerably less mean or full of vitriol than the average anti Yank crap that I heard on a daily basis being spewed from every Limey comic across that mighty cold divide of the Atlantic.
It was almost as though these pilots were let down. That I opened up the audience to let them down. That I set them up to show these brits that we really just don't care about them as much as the glory of the old empire would have them believe. Like a prom queen that found out she wasn't really pretty, and she wasn't really at a prom just a diner with some bikers who made her a hat out of tinfoil and remembrance day poppies...Hmm poor metaphor.
Regardless I felt bad all night about the show, and I guess Karma wise losing the money I made to a three fingered card shark was ultimately the balance of the universe taking shape in the fact I never got so much as two pairs all night.
Instead I thought this guy must be a loser, so I in turn lost to his endless flushes and full houses. I kept thinking that this might be how I end up losing my fingers.
The night before I experienced all that we can be out next to the China Lake Navy Pilot training and testing place or thing. I performed a little jokee show to an assortment of desert riff raff. A bizarre show to say the least.
I enjoyed the crowd... at first. They seemed to love my show. But I did poke a little fun at a contingent of her majesty's pilots on loan from England who were throwing back some suds...And interestingly enough, the Brits displayed a characteristic oft thrown in the direction of this great land. Not having a sense of humor about themselves. These Union jackers were steamed when I pointed out that they would be speaking a fine dialect of Kraut if it wasn't for our boys back in WWII. This provoked a series of wails and moans after the show, culminating in a rather pasty faced chubby pilot, full of ale and cornish pastries to inform me that my show was shit! Everything about it was shit.
Now this is where most people would boast about a witty comeback or dance on their testosterone fueled response. I simply stated that the other two hundred plus patrons that applauded and laughed all through my exhibition, were the ones he really had the problem with. I backed out of the mean crowd of navy hooligans and found the vocal majority who enjoyed my act.
But... I felt bad. Really bad. I did a great show, but a small section hated me.
This is of course a mental problem of my own creation, my own desperate need for all to praise and champion me, but I felt really bad that they didn't get that it was a joke. A joke that was considerably less mean or full of vitriol than the average anti Yank crap that I heard on a daily basis being spewed from every Limey comic across that mighty cold divide of the Atlantic.
It was almost as though these pilots were let down. That I opened up the audience to let them down. That I set them up to show these brits that we really just don't care about them as much as the glory of the old empire would have them believe. Like a prom queen that found out she wasn't really pretty, and she wasn't really at a prom just a diner with some bikers who made her a hat out of tinfoil and remembrance day poppies...Hmm poor metaphor.
Regardless I felt bad all night about the show, and I guess Karma wise losing the money I made to a three fingered card shark was ultimately the balance of the universe taking shape in the fact I never got so much as two pairs all night.
posted by escarius at
11:53 AM
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