A funny thing happened on the way to the comedy club...

COMEDY
Last night I did something I’d wanted to do for a long, long time. I attended amateur night at a local comedy club.

No, I didn’t perform. I haven’t been able to muster the necessary courage to do that, but thanks to the coaxing of my good friend and frequent commenter Jules, I made a rare foray into Minneapolis—on a weeknight, no less—and enjoyed around 20 amateur comedians.

A couple people bombed, predictably. Around three people left a lasting impression. Regardless of performance, however, the entire two hours was a pleasure and the audience was very polite and respectful. The drinks were cheap, too: two beers for $5.50.

I’ve long been seeking some sort of creative release and was hoping a bolt out of the blue might strike me soon telling me exactly what my niche is. I felt no revelation last night, nor did I sit there chomping at the bit thinking “I could do better than this.” Instead, for a change I simply enjoyed the moment and am now thinking and hoping that this will become a regular part of my life. I’m reasonably convinced that at some point I’ll give it a whirl (after a shot or two of brandy), and if I do I’ll give you a full report.


HOW CAN YOU LAUGH WHEN YOU KNOW LEAB'S DOWN?
My friend (I hope we’re still friends) Leab over at Ironic Teachings seems to be a bit depressed today, so drop by his blog and lend a comment or two of support. I fear I’ve taken him to task a bit strongly the past couple of days and hope he’ll forgive me. It’s funny how people can have a spirited debate even if their beliefs are not so different from one another’s. Our recent exchanges are somewhat of a microcosm for the state of the world. Perhaps if people quit yappin’ and started listenin’ they’d realize that but for differences in syntax and language, we’re all basically the same.

Anyway, here’s my latest column from the Stillwater Gazette. My column has yet to garner even one indication that someone is reading it. No e-mails, no letters to the editor, nothin’. I haven’t been fired yet which is a good sign, so I guess it’s true that no news is good news.

AVON CALLING
The “No Soliciting” sign recently disappeared from my company’s window and it was the equivalent of a drop of blood hitting a shark tank. The only distinction between door-to-door salespeople and sharks is that the latter skip the foreplay and go straight for the throat rather than make small-talk about the weather.

Replacing the sign would be simple enough but its absence has proven to be a mixed blessing. The never-ending stream of solicitors is incomprehensibly annoying, but it’s a constant reminder that my career could certainly be on a worse track.

Some door-to-door solicitors are clearly attempting scams. One gentleman drops by every week offering to audit our company phone bills to “see where I can save you some money!” Sure, it’s tempting to provide employee and client phone numbers and account information to a complete stranger, yet somehow I’ll resist. This is the type of guy who could offer college coeds a glass of punch from a bowl clearly labeled “Spiked with roofies” and still get some takers. Finely tailored suits, exquisite dental work: all signs point to the fact that someone is providing this man a living, and a generous one at that.

Recently, a car pulled tentatively into the parking lot, inching forward then inching back, pulling into a space, pulling out. Finally, the driver—a fresh-faced, 20-something kid—mustered the necessary resolve to exit the car and enter the lobby. Wielding a smart-looking portfolio, he asked to see the person in charge of hiring.

“Aaaah,” I thought. “An industrious college grad seeking that first job.” I asked him what type of work he sought and he clarified that he was not seeking work. Rather, he represented an administrative staffing agency.

“You poor guy,” I thought, then more correctly thought “Your poor parents.” How do they explain this at cocktail parties?

“So, what’s your son up to?”

“He’s a door-to-door solicitor for an administrative staffing company. And yours?”

“Serving 25 to life for a double-homicide.”

“Lucky.”

I explained to the lad that ours is a small company, and I in fact comprise the entire administrative staff. Undeterred, he stuck to the script, countering “But if something happens to you, surely your superior should have a back-up plan.”

“Son,” I said, “if something happens to me, our back-up plan consists of propping me up with a broomstick. The only discernible differences would be a marked decrease in my typing mistakes, less sarcasm and a few more flies.” He laughed nervously and gave me his card, which I shredded. I do that with all solicitors’ business cards. It’s quite cathartic.

One solicitor wished to provide a quote on cleaning services. His visit was akin to a pop-in by one’s mother-in-law. He eyed the dusty floorboards disapprovingly and ran his finger along the tops of doorframes. “Your clients deserve to visit a spic-and-span office,” he insisted. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that our only visitors are door-to-door solicitors, and a cleaner office would only encourage them to stay longer. I shredded his proposal, card and brochure page-by-page, pushing out nagging thoughts that shredding has become a “problem.”

Another regular visitor wishes to sell us “document imaging solutions.” I suffer his visits but never long enough to find out what his company actually does. It’s enough to get a weekly reminder that my job, thankfully, doesn’t require consistent use of the phrase “document imaging solutions.”

The piece de resistance of door-to-door solicitors is the duos consisting of a handsome young man and a pretty young woman employing a tag-team approach that would be envied by the World Wrestling Federation. The female half of the duo always bares just enough leg and/or cleavage to stave off a forcible removal from the premises. While politely declining their product or service, I muse that within a month she’ll be pole-dancing for two grand a week, and he’ll return to college, like dad wanted him to in the first place, resuming his role of spiking the fraternity punch with roofies.

Things certainly go full-circle. It began with the Fuller Brush salesmen peddling their wares door-to-door. Soon thereafter the only folks who came a-knockin’ were those selling religion. Now the salesmen are back, and there are apparently enough lonely or naïve consumers to keep them in business. If the avian flu is truly going to reduce the population by 150 million, it could do worse than to target both camps.