Thrice a Vomit Then a Show

Yesterday was a single hoot. Possibly even a double. Someone had canceled for a gig last minute, and I was asked if I could step in for them. It was a paid gig involving a hot dog eating contest, so I of course said yes. Remember that calories in LA are expensive. So I show up and learned that if I had already eaten two slices of pepperoni pizza for breakfast, as I had before I received the notification regarding this gig, I can eat precisely five hot dogs (and two bottles of water I think) before I projectile vomit not once, not twice, but thrice. Then I kept trying to eat, which alotted me a bonus $25 gift card as a "Spirit Award" for pushing through, even though there was truly no reason to do so apart from the need to perform.

Then I had an audition to record. I have found a place in a parking garage nearby that has bouts of relative quiet and a blank wall. The lighting is not great, but decent enough for the task. Or so I assume, though maybe it will keep me from getting booked. In any case, my insides were still working through the enormous input of food and water and the instability of the intestinal tract that inevitably follows a round of emesis, so I had a headache and felt less than ideal for the next few hours. This was a shame, because that night, I had a show. I wrote a song for the first time over this past month, along with standup about my friend's testicular cancer diagnosis (and removal). My intention had been to spend the day workshopping and memorizing what I had written, but my body had finally begun to earnestly decline approaching further cognitive efforts, and I thus was still reading from my script when I performed. It was alright, but like most times I have performed, I felt like it was sorely lacking.

After writing the above paragraph, I texted a writer/director friend about filming a comedy special, partly as a way to raise capital on the cheap. He is interested. Braining some storm about that now.

It could be so, so fun.