Ya Bahsta’ds!

From Providence we drove about an hour North to Boston. I love Boston. It’s filled with wicked funny people and the large Irish population makes me feel at home. Bostonians communicate in a direct, no-nonsense (read: mean ) manner that has earned them the brand ‘Massholes’. I love it. Probably because people from Philly are the same and could share that brand - minus the “M”.

Philly and Boston share a certain northeast assholeishness that’s magical. As an example: the Phillies and Red Sox rarely face each other, so there’s no need for rivalry or animosity -- but it exists for fun. I went to a Phillies/Red Sox game and half the people in the stadium were wearing “Bahston Sawks Cack” shirts. Instead of getting all pissy, Boston fans dismissively shouted “Ah, fuck you” and everyone shared a laugh.

Some (read: most) will take that as ‘being mean’ but in parts of the northeast, and especially in irish-catholic households, throwing shade is a sign of affection. The more shit you give a person, the more you like them. Whoever said “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all” was a fucking loser. If you’re with a group of northeast ‘assholes’ and they don’t speak to you, that means they think you’re too big a pussy to participate in the banter.

Happy Halloween

We arrived in Boston the Friday before Halloween. Halloween parties are always a blast - if you have a costume. A friend took us to a costume party without mentioning that pivotal fact, so basically we had to endure shitty jokes for the entire night. “What’re you dressed as, a dork?!” “What are you, a loser?” “Hey, take off the mask!”

Despite the deluge of 4th grade insults, we had a blast Friday night. We saw the city, drank some beer, and met a bunch of new people. The only drawback about being introduced as comedians is that when people find out you’re funny, they try to roast you for some reason - I guess to prove that they’re funny too. “Oh, you think you’re funny .. ya.. heh .. ya… Irish.. fuckface!”. Zing. Nailed me.

The whole “I-can-do-what-you-do” thing is unique to comedy. If you tell a stranger you’re a mathematician, they don’t race to a whiteboard to solve systems of polynomial equations. But if you say you do comedy, there’s no shortage of people frothing at the mouth to hit you with their best jokes -- which are typically a mix of Anchorman quotes mixed with stolen bits from Comedy Central.

Even with no comedic context I get roasted when meeting people. I have one of those familiar faces where I ‘look like’ someone, and whenever I hear “Hey, you look like …” I have to emotionally prepare for a really hurtful comparison.

A person will be like “You look like that guy from Lord of the Rings … Gimli”. The worst part is they’re not even trying to be mean. It’s just true.

Suited and booted

The following day we actually bought halloween costumes and were spared the delightful witticisms of fellow merrymakers. Dan C couldn’t go to the costume shop because of work, so he made the mistake of allowing me to choose for him. He requested something simple like a police officer or a pilot - so I got him a Leather Daddy outfit. He was decked out with vest, hat, and gloves replete with metal studding. The only element missing was chaps; the store didn’t have any, and it changed the look entirely. Wearing a vest, gloves, and a leather fedora on top of denim jeans, Dan looked like a grownup trying to fit in with emo teens at a my chemical romance concert.

The costumes greatest ambition was actualized when we got back to Philly. We left the van at Dan’s parents house, and they used it to move furniture for friends. While making space in the back, they discovered the studded leather gloves and accompanying vestiary accoutrement in a gym bag. Until that point they tried really hard to accept Dan’s van lifestyle, but stumbling across BDSM paraphernalia was the straw that fucked the camel’s ass.

In their mind, not only does their son live in a van like a vagrant, but he uses it as a kinky sex wagon. I only wish I had bought more accessories for his costume. It would have provoked exceptionally titillating dinner table conversation for Dan if whips and buttplugs were in the bag.

Showtime

The mic was on Sunday. Some of the people we met Friday and Saturday wanted to come and watch. If it had been a normal show or showcase we’d have said “hell yeah!”. But because this was an open mic, we said “if you’ve got absolutely nothing else to do, sure”.

Friends often gripe that we don’t invite them to enough shows, but the reason comes down to expectation vs. reality. When most think of comedy, they envision Netflix specials -- polished sets and beautiful theaters. By contrast, open mics are half-baked bits and smelly basements. Mics are practice. If your friends played in a band, you wouldn’t want to watch them play scales and tune instruments in a garage.

We walked into the bar and without missing a beat the bouncer said “you must be comics”. I’m not sure if it was a compliment or an insult. Although subtle, there is a difference between “you look like a funny person” and “you’re funny lookin”. We put our names on the list and waited for our turn. The comics before us ranged from ‘just starting out’ to ‘a few years in the game’ and they did well. Everyone was in a festive holiday mood.

I performed fourth that night. In attendance were comics and non-comics from Dorchester, Downtown, and South Boston among other neighborhoods. We share that East-Coast-Irish-Asshole vibe, so everything just worked. If I made jokes about being freckled, drunk, pasty, or from a rough family, etc. it brought the house down. In addition to locals, several people we met over the weekend came to the show and provided a lot of laughs, too.

When Dan or I go up first and crush, it’s good for both of us. It lights a fire under the next guys ass and forces him to manage a range of emotions, from “Fuck yeah, my boy just did great!” to “Oh shit, now I have to bring it” to “Alright, calm down, you got this” without anyone seeing the internal gears turning. Some nights Dan crushes and I eat shit. Sometimes I do great and Dan bombs. But this night we both went out and killed. It was a great way to finish a fun weekend in Boston.

The next morning we were on our way to Portland.