Book soup display I made
Angelo Bowers
Angelo Bowers was one of the most selfless individuals that I have ever met. The only thing that would make him sad is if you were sad. To which he would proceed to pepper you with jokes until you were smiling again. So many memories of him come flooding back to me as I write this. Doing shows in Universal city and calling ourselves “Road Dogs” Eating all the leftover sandwiches from Starbucks in the parking lot of the improv late at night and laughing, always laughing. He was my favorite part of any comedy show, he was everybody’s favorite part. Comics fell silent after they announced his name at a show. He was usually a few seconds late to the stage because he would be talking to someone and be too polite to excuse himself from a conversation. More accurately more often times than not he was listening. He was the best listener and he fucking cared. He was never interrupting you to tell you about a cooler thing he did or a project he did you “have to check out” He just listened. He taught me so much I always felt massively indebted to him just for the chance to be in his presence. He never ceased to amaze me. Not only would he have new material everyday, he would have new material from one open mic to the next. For Josh’s birthday roast at the unknown theater one year he wrote three pages of jokes about him while the show was happening. Which of course speaks to his effortless ability to craft material and the close friendship he shared with Josh. It was one of the funniest sets I have ever had to pleasure of watching live. “Josh’s comedy is like a Kevin Costner movie…you always want it to be good, but it never is” He started off to riotous laughter. The jokes only got harder and no one seemed to be enjoying it more than the target of his verbal assault. It usually happened that way. When Angelo was roasting you, you felt special because you knew this hilarious joke was written just for you with care. Since he had barely any online presence to speak of he meant the world to those of us that knew him because he was ours and we didn’t have to share him with the internet. You never knew where he was performing unless you were on the show with him or you tracked him down through a series of text messages and run down of the days open mic schedule. Of course he was worth all the effort. It didn’t matter if you made the list in time you just knew you could wait around long enough and he would appear. Walking from the last show or riding with another comic, he would be there. He was the hero that LA needed. He was like a match in a cave. Brightening open mics with his smile and his edgy jokes. He dressed like every teenage kid in the 90’s almost as if he was booked to do extra work for My-so-called-life and he never changed but it just worked for him. I found myself doing crazy and irresponsible things at times partially because it was a relatively self destructive period of time for me in LA but mostly I knew afterwards I couldn’t fucking wait to tell Angelo and the guys. “How hard is he going to laugh at this?” I would smile to myself wondering. He would listen intently punctuating your story with his hilarious quips. Most of the time when I would finish telling a story to other comics I was met with “Oh man, that’s crazy. What did Ange say?” Of course, you couldn’t wait to tell them. His one line joke was always better than the story anyway. I love you Road Dog, see you in Edgytown
Always
“Anything that gets your blood racing is probably worth doing.” -Hunter S. Thompson
(via spinexylophone)
(via thisforestcity)
Untitled 3
I was wandering around Los Angeles today having a hard time describing my mood. Pessimistically optimistic? Realistically hopeful? Gleefully morose? It is nearly impossible to describe the state I fall into when the adderall wears off. The mornings though are simply the best. I take one and chase it with a cold cup off coffee to set it off. Jump in the shower, turn up the music and world is good. Clean, focused and powerful I mentally tear through my days activities systematically. Dry off and destroy task after task with a new found vigor for life. Chain smoking and sweating profusely I make and take constant phone calls. Months worth of procrastination reduced to a matter of hours. Confident and forceful I challenge the day to take me on. The world is simply not enough. Kicking open mental doors with guns drawn, ready for action. I run hot until around 4pm when the headache sets in. The energy then slowly burns out of me until 5:30 when time falls back into place so hard I can almost feel the rotation of the Earth. Faded I jankily string sentences together trying to make sense of everything that was so crystal clear hours ago. No more is the Minotaur spirit wrapped in barbed wire spitting flames from 10am. Looking in the mirror all that is left is just me, staring listlessly. Pale, gaunt, covered in psoriasis, poor and a slew of other adjectives that mean essentially the same thing. In retrospect I should have written this in the morning. I totally would have nailed that description. I walked across town to Sal’s and spent my last two dollars in change on a cup of coffee. The penniless walk of shame home would seem ten times longer I was damn sure of it. The headache intensified as I realized I had only eaten a banana this morning. Not out of financial set backs, I just don’t get hungry when I’m on the stuff. Before anyone jumps to any conclusions about me “abusing drugs” I was diagnosed with attention deficit disorder and prescribed Adderall. Life would be much simpler for me if it was readily available however after losing my health insurance it is much harder to come by these days. Where I understand why people (usually older) don’t believe in ADD I know that it is very real to me. “Well back in my day kids were just called stupid.Yuk yuk yuk.” Yes and they probably were stupid however “back in your day” the assault of both mental and visual stimulation was not nearly as severe. Which is why I can seamlessly use an iPhone while on a laptop and operate an HDTV none of which I’m pretty sure was available “back in your day” Yuk yuk yuk. After shooting the shit with the waiter for a couple of hours I walked home around 6, two hours before the open mic began. What the fuck happened to me? Four years ago I would have killed to do an open mic in LA but I guess four years is a long time. Sometimes this business of art weighs heavy on the soul for those fortunate few who haven’t sold or abandoned theirs. There is always just enough to keep me here. An audition that goes well. Killing on a booked show. A cute girl throws a desperate comic some pity sex. Just barely enough. I laugh as I think about how crazy it all sounds but there is hope. A small glimmering diamond of hope that is buried deep in the back of my psyche. “It’s possible” I think to myself mouthing the words. “It really is possible” I scoff at such a ridiculous notion but deep down I really do believe it and I just can’t stop. With the world at war with itself I wonder if it really matters at all. The rich vs. the poor, Races vs. races and in the true spirit of American competition Everyone vs. Everyone else. I wonder if anyone else sees things the same way I do or if my own blinding narcissism keeps me from seeing past the simple fact that I am constantly being held back by my constant war with myself. Always shooting myself in the foot by second guessing my first natural reaction. I am still mad at myself for leaving the before the open mic started. I actually feel shameful to admit it but some people find truth more compelling than fiction and I guess a few people have actually read this and liked it so pull up a chair guys and gals! I had a few new jokes to run too and I will force myself to go out and get up tomorrow night, twice if I can swing it. Sometimes though the open mics are just too much to bear. Out of the list of probably 35 - 40 comics that sign up I, on average, genuinely enjoy five maybe six comics. There are comics that I do not think are particularly funny, comics that do racist jokes, comics that do sexist jokes and comics that don’t even try to be funny and just try to be offensive or gross. Before I get fed a ton of shit by other comics that try to site examples of funny jokes that are all of those things and more please let me try to explain myself. Bottom line: Funny is funny. While I do not always agree with the subject matter per say if a joke is funny I will laugh at it. I am a comic before I am anything else. I absolutely hate when comics tell a blatantly racist joke and then blame the crowd for being too politically correct. “Oooooh sorry, too much for you guys??” they always throw around sarcastically like it’s everyone else’s fault. No kind sir, we are not laughing because we are bunch of stuffy church going grandmothers. We are not laughing because your joke is not funny and you do not wield the deft touch that it takes to make such a horrible subject humorous. So go fuck yourself, jerk-off. It just pisses me off to watch such ignorance. “Haha, women belong in the kitchen. Am I right guys??” No, no you are not right. It’s not funny and I’m not okay with it. I have on many occasions stood up and walked the fuck out after such bullshit. It’s almost like they don’t know any better which scares me. Of course you could picture some fresh faced 17-year-old kid just off the bus from wherever who just doesn’t know any better. Now picture watching some 35 year old guy who has been doing stand up for 3 months pulling shit like this and then try to give me advice about about how to be “funnier”. It just makes me sick sometimes. It used to be you had to be clean to work the big clubs now with shows centered around sex and being offensive I wonder if I have spent all this time trying to just be funny in vain. However my hope diamond still shines though and he usually knows whats up.
Untitled 2
I was listening to Marilyn Manson’s tourniquet this morning in the shower on repeat. I was 21 again, freezing cold on the wharf in Portland, Maine. Stacking crates three high, nine to a pallet. The shitty stereo covered in bait and god knows what else. It was a damn miracle that thing worked after Skully knocked it off the rusty stand into a puddle. Let alone the fact that it worked for years after and could still play a scratched burned cd from my moms house. That was just the way of the wharf though. Even against insurmountable odds everything and everyone just worked. Never because we wanted to but because we had to. It was like we were born to do it, almost as if we had always known how. I loved it. Packing lobsters to me has always in my opinion been an honorable profession. It was certainly different than any other job I had worked or will ever work in the future. There was no “dress codes” or a sanctioned reprimand for “being late” Fuck, we didn’t even have a functioning restroom. Being late was the worst though. The punishment for being late was far worse than being “written up” You were just met with the tired eyes of the men you let down. Goddamn that is a lonely feeling. Being ten minutes late meant that one ton of bait has been salted and barreled without you. It was then you wish that they would just yell at you or throw you into the ocean. But no, they just let their silent disappointment slowly eat you alive. Apologizing only made it worse. One day it clicked when my boss told me the story of the wise man and the fool. He sat me down one day and said “Dustin, if you are walking down the street and you get hit by a car, it doesn’t matter if the driver is a wise man or a fool, you still got hit by a fucking car” It was then I realized that it never mattered why I was late, I was still late and that’s all anyone cared about. My boss changed my schedule to start at 7am instead of 9am to come in early and help out with the bait. It was my big chance to try and hold my own with the seasoned regulars. After being late the first three days my boss told me the story of the wise man and the fool and I was never late again (save for the time I was in jail, which ultimately got me more respect than showing up on time). That was years ago now but I still remember it like it was yesterday. I turned off the shower, unplugged my iphone and headed for work. I spent my first fifteen minute break watching The Town. I had to stop after a little while because it got too heavy. Not the movie itself but the memories that I had attached to it. The memories weren’t bad, in fact they were awesome. It was last Christmas and The Town had just come out on DVD. In my close circle of friends and family everyone, everywhere was watching the town all the time everyday. The first time I saw it I was hungover at my friend Sam’s house. We were eating crackers and day drinking twisted iced teas until we were drunk again. The scene at the AA meeting where the guy is talking about his wife made me shed a tear. Maybe it was the twisted tea or the fact that I was just so fucking glad to be home and it was snowing or the fact that I might never find a love so pure. Whatever it was I wiped it away quickly so Sam wouldn’t notice and call me a pussy. I looked over and realized that he had passed out sixteen minutes and forty seconds into the movie. Ha, fucking guy. Well watching the town made all these thoughts and feelings rush back to me at work where I was unsure if I was going to be able to come home this Christmas.
Untitled 1
Stuff From my notebook, no chronological order
Sitting at ISLA again when I should be at the comedy store for the open mic. There is a strange vibe here and there is all new bartenders. The regular staff seems guarded at best. I miss the old bartenders but they were saints for staying as long as they did. They strain small talk with between dealing with rich customers. I don’t blame them at all of course. I mean sure I wish they would talk to me more but I wouldn’t talk to the guy drinking miller light at 2 for 1 happy hour either
Back at work my head is still reeling a little from last night. I texted this new girl later than I should have last night. She still responded so I didn’t feel guilty about it. I think I might have been trying to scare her off because to a degree I was afraid of her. I never thought I would see the day I would be afraid of a 19-year-old girl. Okay, when I was ages 1 - 19 I was probably pretty terrified of them. But I was though. I was afraid that maybe we could like each other and be happy which only turns to misery. The pain would fuck my head up for a while like the last one did. I wasn’t quite ready to quit on this one yet so I sent her a follow up text today saying something about the gin catching up with me. Of course she knew that, I just wanted her to tell me it was okay or that I was a stupid crazy reckless drunk and I should fuck off and leave her alone. However I was feeling fragile and was hoping for the former. I kept hoping my wandering mind wouldn’t get me in trouble at work today. I’ve been reading The Rum Diary and picturing myself getting drunk on ten cent beers in San Juan with a perfect tan and open Hawaiian shirt. I would take off my straw fedora and dab my brow with a white cloth handkerchief. I would cheers the new girl and she would smile at me…
Post Script: We hung out on Halloweeen, I got shitfaced and self conscious when her friends showed up so I left. Have not heard from her. I wouldn’t imagine she is ever going to read this.
Post Post Script: I have heard from her. It’s not likely I will see her again
Watching a documentary about Hunter S Thompson made me feel like a fool. He lived a real life. Had a family and owned some land. A real American. He fought for the good guy and rallied against the fucking swine. His hate was real and he took bold steps to change the injustices he saw. Rereading the ignorant drivel I put in my notebook That quite honestly is kind of embarrassing and am a little self conscious about posting. Rereading whatever stupid shit I wrote about some girl I kind of had a crush on for maybe a weekend as if I was some love struck thirteen year old boy writing on the back of his homework. Who the fuck do I really think I am throwing my hat into the ring with powerful literary giants. Then I remember that I am not actually doing that because people during the time they were writing actually read their work. In a world of short attention spans, short breaks and short tempers most people don’t have time to read or some people would simply rather not. I used to be enthusiastic about things and people and places. Hell I was class president for a year. I could get excited about things and just set the world on fire. I really really cared. It’s just so damn hard these days because nothing really fucking matters. Everyone around me just seems to be running around in circles. Working the same jobs, walking the same dogs, running into the same people. I ran away from home to escape this madness and it is eating me alive once again. I don’t really feel I have anyone that I can talk to. Of course there is people that I do talk to but not that I can talk to. Most of the people I talk to are wrapped up in a host of thier own problems that they try to tell me about until everyone I am surrounded by (including myself) is constantly drowning in a pool of their own self pity and hatred and fear. It’s like that downward spiral of souls in the animated Hercules movie, just much more depressing. Although not everyone I come across is stuck in the same dark vortex. The smart and strong ones I’ve ran with were not like that at all. You see they were always moving. Traveling the world abroad or exploding in small circles. Creating tales and stories of danger and peril. Fighting, hard drinking, drugs, late nights, after hours. Excitement. Expensive drunks with fabulous results. These people had stories as well and they had no intention of stopping the subconscious train of crazy that flowed through us all but not everyone caught it. When I was around them I saw the world differently like why the fuck couldn’t I just get famous they would tell me. They were the only ones asking me what was really stopping me? Then… I remembered days back when I ran hot. God I missed it. It was gone so quickly and seemingly so long ago I realize that I could just spend the rest of my life remembering how great it was and what a fucking loser I felt like now. I used to be hungry and I would tear tore this town apart on select few memorable nights. No one ever tells you that after failure (real or imagined) you don’t always have to pick yourself up by your boot straps and get back on the horse. You could dust yourself off, walk into the nearest bar and spend the rest of your days telling folks about that one day you fell off a horse. I’m always asking myself which cowboy I am. I feel I am at a point in my life where I might just pay my tab and see what life outside the bar is really like. My guess? Probably boring. Just really fucking boring. I need to get my shit together and live life again. The normal people can be really boring but I fake it well and no one seems to notice. I’m thinking about dressing up as myself for Halloween next year. I’m going to tape a gun to my shoe and when things seem to be going too well I will pull the trigger and shoot myself in the foot.
*heavy sigh*
10/12/11
This guy next to me at the bar is a total asshole. You can always tell by how they treat the bartender. I saw comedian Jeff Dye across the bar. Although when he looked over it may have seemed like I was fawning over him and I became self conscious. Half true. Why am I here I began to wonder? Just sitting at the bar alternating between looks of disgust for the industry and looks of contempt. “you’ll never make it doing that, kid” all the old bastards tell me. I might be sitting next to turtle from entourage (unconfirmed) but I’m pretty sure it’s him. He looks healthy, good for him I thought to myself. He ordered a diet coke, surprising to me given his on air persona. However I don’t blame him. I’m sure he has partied enough for most of middle America. There is a girl sitting next to me. She looks industry but I think she is waiting for someone. She orders a jack on the rocks and drinks impatiently, classy. I want to say something but I don’t. The comics at the bar talk about sports and I can’t relate at all. I just watch and wonder what it’s like to have a team and stats. “yeah, Johnny got fucked last season if you ask me. Labreck is really coming into his own, he is going to kill it next year” I would say. That never happens. I have no team and I don’t know the stats. I’m getting pretty drunk at the bar at this point. Luke is going to have to drag me out of here to watch Breaking Bad. I would wish terrible things upon the comics on tv who have landed shows out of jealousy but why? It’s pointless really. They worked hard to get where they are. Or were they just better at “networking” and never sat at the improv bar like a miserable old fuck who used to run this town but no one ever him gave him a shot. Bullshit. Although on the plus side I’m not depressed about a girl for once and that feels good. I am depressed about my career which in retrospect I feel like I should career in quotations as it is currently non existent. I noticed all the older comics with careers have stopped drinking alcohol and only drink water. However by comparison to the younger comics they all seem miserable. I am not as naive as I used to be thinking that fame is just going to show up one day and be all “Let’s dance!” I try hard at it I really do. It just feels like all I want to do is to make people laugh and no one will let me. By a stroke of luck I ended up making out with a really cool girl at the end of the night because we started talking about books.
Written from my iPhone
