Unmixed

Like many other forms of drunken performance, the stars can all align in comedy.
Nothing you say falls flat.
Everyone laughs louder than normal.
All of the women in the front rows have ample breasts in low-cut tops.
It all works out while taking no work at all.
Equivelant to a lightning strike, such truly flawless nights are anamolies to be coveted.
Like an emerald, or nude photos of a buddy's ex-girlfriend.
They're truly beautiful. They're unique. You never forget them.
To use a buzz word, you "kill."
"You didn't kill, bud. You did very well.
Killing is when they're banging the tables and standing when you get off of the stage."
That's Bill MacIntosh and the smokey words he'd plume at me while standing outside after a show.
Bill was great at keeping you grounded (if not deflated).
I never utter the words "I killed."
But when all of those constellations queue up for you, well...if it's going to happen, it'll happen on a night like that.
Conversely, the constellations sometimes get hammered and belligerent (much like your audience), and leave you to your doom.
Saturday's show was like that.
Offering my bones and thoughts, I tried to wow some concrete alchemists during their Christmas party.
By 'concrete alchemists,' I mean, y'know...dudes who mix concrete.
"Needs more salt!"
Enticed and teasted by the open bar, Andie and I milled about with Caesars as we waited for me to get things done.
This was when we still thought the show would be pleasant.
And it was pleasant, initially.
The patrons seemed content enough.
There was prime rib. Chicken Tetrazini.
What could go wrong?
At corporate shows - any show, really - I obsess over and spot the drunkest people in the room.
I guess I do this in order to psyche myself out.
Works sometimes.
When you're among a large gathering of co-workers who are all outside of work's perimeter, you feel otherwordly.
You're there, but you're not present, and eyes linger on you as employess wonder what your 'deal' is.
Anyway, it seemed like it was going to be a normal show.
Some boozebags. A slideshow. Some awards.
A lot of old people, maybe, but relatively standard stuff.
The vibe slowly began to queer, though.
She and I watched some geezer hobble our way.
Picture the slowest-moving old person with a cane that your imagination is capable of.
...
Got it?
Skipper was slower than that.
I'm not kidding, I've never seen an old person more full of molasses.
If he says, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," in the kitchen, he has piss running down his leg in the living room half an hour later.
That slow.
I'm mesmerized by this, and a few feet off, I can tell Andie is too.
Then he approaches me.
"Are you Luke?"
"No, I'm not."
"What's your name?"
"Paul Warford."
"What?"
"Paul Warford."
...
"I don't work for this company."
He nods, places his hand on my arm, and then procedes to walk around me.
I don't know if he ever got to where he was going.

The program said:

Dinner
Bullshit Awards
Slidshow
Entertainment
Band of Portly, Middle-Aged Fellows (musical act)

Now, I was the "entertainment."
Unfortunately, what sort of entertainment I was never was mentioned.
Which isn't a great precursor to a show.
The element of pre-emptive surprise is not our friend.
Springing a comedian on a group works when the comedian is Chris Rock.
They showed a series of awful safety videos just before bringing me on.
"Don't plummet to your death while working."
That kind of thing.
They starred the employees themselves - atrocious actors, the lot of them.
Therefore, the videos were morose and laughable at the same time.
Giving a final word on the importance of using handrails, I was introduced.
"And now for his views on the world, Paul Warford."
I got up there and looked at a sea of people who were mildly confused at best.
I start talking. I try to engage. No one wants to tell me anything.
As I'm doing this, I think to myself, "Do they think I'm a motivational speaker?"
Never experienced that before.
Nor have I experienced the slow, gradual metamorphises on everyone's faces from confusion to sheer bafflement.
Who is this man? Why is he talking to us? Are we paying him?
This is what their countenances call to me as I wade, waist deep, through utter feces.
Awful.
Jokes don't work. Banter doesn't work.
Swearing doesn't work.
I keep trying to engage with the drunkest guy in the room (rookie mistake).
He's so hammered he can't even form sentences, electing to instead interrupt me with sounds out of his mouth.
"Huh! Whuh nuh scabbah! Ha!"
And I'm returning that with, "What was that, sir? Say it again."
I had four people listening to me in the very front.
At one point I asked if anyone had committed a dine and dash in their lifetimes.
I had an experience (you'll hear about it eventually) that I was going to delve into.
A woman at the front, quite haphazardly, I might add, raises her hand.
And she's like, 60.
"You've dined and dashed," I ask.
A sort of preoccupied nod to this.
Immediately I've forgotten how bad the show is going and now want details.
Turns out she once ate at a place called 'Dine and Dash.'
Not the same thing.
Someone asked me if I was a homosexual. 
My relationship with the room was just never meant to flourish.
Eventually, I got quieter and began actually describing to the promoter why the show wasn't working as the show wasn't working.
People trickled to the bathrooms and bar.
Others initiated their own conversations at their tables.
People were waiting for me to be done.
And boy, was I.
I was done.
Slated to do 30 minutes, I performed about 12 in what has proved to be one of my worst bombs in history.
Since people have begun paying me, this was the first instance of me not doing my time.
No matter what, just do your time and dust off.
Drink up.
But dust off.
Apologetic and legitimately embarrassed, I went over the aftermath with the guy who hired me.
Not unlike recounting a plane crash while the bird's tail is still sticking out out of the side of the barn.
Though he certainly shouldn't have, he paid me.
I offered him a free show (which I will certainly perform) should he ever want one.
Then it was time to mingle.

It's hard to fight your own cynicism while chatting after a private show.
The experience is typically nice enough, but a little strained.
A lot of smiles and nods.
A lot of response to compliments (which is nice 'n all, but still weird).
After the show, there is a new feeling of familiarity that the audience has.
However, this feeling is mostly a combination of the show's conclusion and alcohol.
There is no familiarity, really.
Yet you shmooze.
It's a part of the job.
That is, of course, unless you piss your clothes onstage and want to get the fuck out of there.
Despite the open bar (which we were more than welcome to), I had a rental to drive home.
Given the atmosphere, I figured that requesting a hotel room at that point would have been pushing it.
Andie finds me in the hallway outside the ballroom, saying, "We've gotta go.
I called some woman a bitch in the washroom. We have to go now."
Meanwhile, I'm flabergasted because this is a woman who typically apologizes to furniture.
"What? You did what?"
"In the bathroom, that woman who called you a homosexual asked me, 'You actually let him fuck you?'"
Isn't that awful?
"And I said, 'I don't let him, I beg him for it.
I think you're a homophobic bitch.'"
Astounding.
So, now Andie is afraid of being punched in the face.
It is time to scaddadle.
We were desperate to steal some beers to drink at home.
Sheer principle, I guess.
They are opening the bottles as they hand them over because this is a hotel and they have rules.
So, we come up with the brilliant idea of getting some saran wrap to cover the beer bottles with.
We ask the A/V guy to get that for us.
Andie explains why we want it as she's tearing off sheets of the plastic wrap.
As discretely as a pair of flaming kangaroos, we try to seal these beers while inside the ballroom.
I have my backpack positioned near them as we're hiding them under a small table's cloth.
Andie also stashed some cookies under there, I believe.
As I leave to grab our coats, one of the wait staff walked near to Andie and took the little table, revealing our welfare setup in the process.
Uttering, "This is ridiculous," she walked away.
It never would have worked anyway.
I explained to her that at that point we were very much a stink in the room.
Eyes were on us everywhere.
Some of the wives looked particularly disgusted.
We went outside for a joint with Craig, who saw me in another town on another show that was actually good.
A fan.
We left following that.
We sat in the parking lot for a while first while my mind siphoned out some alcohol.
The rental's headlights pryed the night open as we made our way home.
Holding her hand as I drove and she slept, I realized I was beaming ear to ear.
It had been a great show.
It was truly beautiful. It was unique. I'll never forget it.
Though polarized zeniths, bombing and killing have a few things in common.