Field of dreams

We want to start with a joke about Iowa, so lend us your ears. On second thought, it’s a bit too corny!

OK, OK, enough with the puns. We know they are are cringeworthy but the thing is this: our joy is derived from your agony. We love picturing your expression when reading them.

We’re also making corn jokes because Iowa was one of the few states where it’s reputation and our preconceived notions were both 100% accurate -- the whole place really was a big ol’ cornfield. We find most state reputations to be exaggerated, but the rumors about Iowa were more than mere kernels of truth.

R & R

Des Moines was about four hours south of Minneapolis. We were ready to hit the sack when we arrived, we just needed a nice place to park. We at first found a secluded industrial park that seemed like a winner, but it bordered a shipping and receiving hub for truckers who apparently only drove in reverse. It was LOUD.

We drove about a half mile out of the complex but could still hear the goddamn reverse beeps, so we moved to a Walmart and picked an empty corner of the lot. Not two minutes had passed before some fat slob grinded his rust bucket of a truck to a halt and blasted music. He just sat in the driver seat smoking cigarettes, cause why not?

Without fail, hordes of people will park next to us the moment we stop ANYWHERE. It’s a phenomenon straight outta nature.

When bees sting, pheromones are released that attract and signal other bees to swarm a target. The exact same thing happens when we park the van. The moment our engine shuts off, some kind of radio frequency is blasted out over the waves and signals everyone within 5 miles to park next to us and have a party.

We lifted anchor for the next spot once the shopping carts began crashing . We finally settled in an apartment complex parking lot not far from Walmart.  We were about to drift off into dream land when the piercing screech rocked us awake. It was coyotes fucking.

Breaking down

The following morning we awoke with a service engine light in the van. A few months yet remain before all 50 states are reached, so we make it a point to address automotive issues as soon as they spring up. Once the trip is finished we can drive the van over a cliff, but until then it’s our sweet little baby.

We used a diagnostic tool and discovered an error code for the catalytic converter. Neither of us possess enough automotive expertise to fix it ourselves, so we took the van to a mechanic. After a full day of waiting for its repair, the bright guys at the shop said, “We turned off that engine light for ya”.

They didn’t fix the problem, they just turned the warning sign off. It’s like a firefighter running out of your burning house to tell you “we’re all good, I turned the smoke detector off”.

Rescue me

We did a show at a bar called Lefty’s. The name and logo came from the owners three-legged dog who served as a mascot for the establishment. Despite missing the right leg, Lefty was still an ebullient sweetheart. To help paint a clearer picture, Lefty resembled the archetypal rescue dog.

We really wish women picked men the same way they pick rescue dogs. When it comes to rescue dogs it’s like the worse, the better. We’ve met so many girls who are like “Hey! This is my rescue, Woofy! He’s great - he has three legs, one eye, and two assholes. Oh, don’t scratch him - he bleeds. And forget about direct eye contact, he’s got a bit of a temper. Isn’t he the best?”

That would never happen with dudes. No girl would excitedly introduce her new boyfriend like “Hey! This is my new boyfriend, Rusty! He has dementia, two glass eyes, and violent night terrors. Wakes up kicking and punching. Isn’t he the best?”.

We love dogs, but we can all agree that rescue dogs are not noble  breeds by any stretch. It’s never a toss-up between rescuing a King James Spaniel or Great Dane, it’s more like “Should we get the Bull-huahua or the Pit-doodle?”. It’s always a mutt that resulted from a canine dumpster orgy.

Showtime

The show was in bucket format (random selection). We hadn’t done a bucket show in months, but the universe followed the standard operating procedure without missing a beat - one of us performed in the first five, the other in the last five.

A surprising number of non-comics randomly filtered in for brief stretches throughout the show. They’d watch a few sets and then head out because one in four comedians would walk the room. They’d have a bad set or engage in uncomfortable crowd work and the audience members would leave. It was the first time we’d ever seen a room get walked more than once.

There were a lot of comics at the mic, too. You can always spot the veterans vs newbies by where they sit. First timers cluster near the stage whereas veterans tuck themselves in the wayyyy back of the room.

Until next time

After the show we hung out and connected with some of the comics. The host, also named Dan, mentioned he had a few ‘Dan’ comedian friends out of Davenport and the next time we come through he’ll put on a Dan-A-Palooza for us all. So watch out, Iowa! We’ll be back sometime after our trip to Kansas City.