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April 13

Pensacola, FL


April 15

Tallahassee, FL


April 16

Atlanta Improv
Atlanta, GA


April 17

Atlanta Improv
Atlanta, GA


April 18

Birmingham, AL


April 19

New Daisy Theatre
Memphis, TN


April 20

Nashville, TN


April 22

Comedy Caravan
Louisville, KY


April 23

2720 Cherokee
St. Louis, MO


April 24

Improv Kansas City
Kansas City, MO


April 25

Fayetteville, AR


April 26

Little Rock, AR


April 27

Phoenix Underground
Shreveport, LA


April 29

Addison Improv
Dallas, TX


April 30

Addison Improv
Dallas, TX


May 1

Melt Lounge
Lubbock, TX


June 10

Irvine Improv
Irvine, CA


June 11

Ontario Improv
Ontario, CA


June 12

M15 Concerts Bar & Grill
Corona, CA


June 18

Sacramento, CA


June 25

Star Theatre
Portland, OR



You Can't Keep America Down


One year ago today some 3,000 people, many of them heroes or other people with moustaches, perished in terrorist attacks on America. According to the powers of information, the terrorists assumed this would break the American spirit (which differs from human nature in some unexplained way). To prove this theory incorrect, Americans stood united today and had American Idol grand prize winner Kelly Clarkson sing the National Anthem at the Lincoln Memorial. Seismologists stood along side others with heads bowed, unable to detect any possible spinning of graves.

“We should never forget” says nearly every telecast or other public memorial and if you stayed in your fallout shelter, syphilis-blind with carpet glue in your ears trying against the forces of nature to forget -they’d kick in your door to remind you. The anniversary events have also been conducted as though this was something that hasn’t been beaten into your head every hour of every day since it happened. No one has forgotten, even those who’s own personal tragedies and trials have made it a trivial footnote.

If there’s one thing that makes me feel sympathy for the victims’ families it’s that they aren’t being allowed to forget for even a second. My father died last year and I can’t imagine what it would be like if he was publicly remembered in the same way. I open up the paper every day for a year and one story or another screams “Hey, don’t forget your Dad’s dead!“. I sit in traffic on my way to work behind bumper stickers saying “Don‘t forget your Dad‘s dead!” and used car dealers have cheesy letter board signs declaring that they remember my dead Dad. After a week I’m ready to punch someone in the eye so I go to a Springsteen concert to hear Born to Run but instead he has a whole new album about my dead Dad. George Bush and the God Squad run ads on television warning the good citizens that “If you do drugs, you killed Doug’s Dad!”. I’d watch in horror as GW used my dead Dad’s name to garner support to invade Iraq only to turn the channel to a football game where they are opening with “God Bless America” being sung by the brave surgeon who tried to cut the cancer out of dead Dad’s ass. I think that might irritate the fuck out of me, not just the drama junkies of the world free-hitching on my grief wagon but also because I bet on football and would probably find weeping halftime footage of my Dad’s colon along with wandering shots of folks wearing awareness ribbons in the stands to be some kind of jinx.I wish there were some family members out there who would speak out against a government that is using their lost loved one as a poster child to further their own agenda of bad ideas. If only one widow of a New York firefighter to come out and talk about great times she had doing drugs with her husband. Out of 343 rescue workers who died, I’m sure roughly shitloads of them did drugs on occasion. Maybe GW could clarify for their families whether they were heroes or terrorists. The stories are out there but you’re unlikely to hear them. You are less likely to hear someone tell you that any of the 3,000 victims was an asshole, at least not in public. That’s my problem with memorials to people I don’t know. For every person who dies there’s someone out there who is really glad they are dead and I’d rather not take sides.

When I die there will be plenty of people who will be dancing like helmeted spastics and I can’t say they’d be out of line. Let them piss on my grave and curse the gods for taking so long to eradicate my existence. But if I die in such an enormous public spectacle that Celine Dion feels compelled to eulogize me through song, please dig me up and run me around town on a pole like Weekend at Bernie’s until she believes that I’ve been brought back to life and returns home.

Like bad tuna, you can’t keep America down.


Speaking of, we were packing up the car to leave Colorado Springs a couple weeks back when Sean Rouse, the feature act, started complaining of stomach pains. We’d drank enough all week to chalk it up to a hangover but decided that I’d drive him back towards LA while Renee drove my car. We spent the night at her parents house in the mountains and the next day he was no better so I kept driving to Vegas, where he got really bad but - fuck - we’re in Vegas and it’ll have to wait. Renee and I rambled and drank and frolicked like happy remedial school retards while Sean stayed in the room holding his guts and sweating thru every stabbing pain. On morning three we all got back to LA and Renee dropped him at the emergency room at Cedar-Sinai.


Sean Rouse, eluding yet another attempt on his life by God (not pictured).

In Colorado Springs, Renee had stopped at Big Lots and, among other things, bought me a Starkist Travel Tuna Kit because she loves me and knows I love tuna and crackers on the road and that I don’t mind eating discontinued dollar store canned warehouse seafood. Unfortunately Sean got to it first and spent two days in Cedar Sinai with salmonella poisoning



Thanks to the folks in Charlotte at the Perch. Always a good time. Tell the Passmore’s that Renee says thanks for the candles. I’m still picking wax out of my ass hairs.


You are either on my mailing list or on the side of the terrorists. There is no middle ground.



Friends in a Condo

The Colorado Springs condo was not the worst in the country but it was certainly in the lowest ten percent. Regular pre-fab apartment complex but section 8 none-the-less where you can almost smell the meth cooking in adjacent bathrooms. Renee and I pulled into town near dinner time and called over to the condo to make sure Sean Rouse was already there so we didn’t have to stop at the club for keys.

James Inman, Doug and Sean Rouse

It was Sean’s first time at the club and he was hanging out with James Inman who’d worked here the week before and hung out late to get tanked with us. Rouse answers the phone and says the door is unlocked, c’mon up.

We grab all our shit and stroll through the semi-projects of the apartment complex, up the stairs and to the door of the condo which was, as he’d said on the phone, unlocked. Unfortunately, it was no longer the comedy condo. They’d moved the condo to a better neighborhood sometime in the year since I’d been here and never told me. We crash through the door of the old apartment, loaded down with all our stuff to the horrified stares of some white-trash, bus-station rat with a Mohawk sitting on the floor eating dinner with his fat wife and kids. After giving pause for possible gunfire, I stuttered a “Oops, wrong door” and we beat a hasty retreat back downstairs and finally got the info for the new place.

The new condo is better but it still carries the usual scars of old itchy thrift store furniture and neglect. Rouse greets us in towel and has to ask Inman to turn on the shower for him. He’s got rheumatoid arthritis and cant grip the butter knife that is required to turn the water on. He can get it into the slot where the handle used to be but he just cant quite turn it.

These are good days in comedy. Inman and Rouse are great friends and funny as fuck in their respective insanities and states of disrepair. Sharing a condo is a source of irritation for comics but it’s actually a lot more fun than a hotel room when you’re with good folks who drink and curse and don’t generally give a fuck.

The club is your average strip mall telemarketing joint that keeps hypnotists off the streets but the owners, Larry and Lyla, are some of the good people in the business. They make you feel at home and generally don‘t give a fuck either which is a damn good thing, being in Colorado Springs where the masses are either military or moral majority or both. Meth-heads are in great attendance, too and every night we mix with them after the show at Gee Cues bar/pool hall/karaoke brokers next door to the club. I like the low-rent types and nothing is better after yelling at a roomful of rednecks than watching bad karaoke. I remember one night here years ago being blown out on mushrooms here, staring in love and horror at a 40-something year old guy with a close-cropped onion-skin mullet and Edward James Olmos skin, wearing ill-fitting leather pants and a Z-Rock t-shirt, belting out the Rappers Delight whilst attempting to moonwalk. I had to crawl under a table.


Edinburgh Fringe


Taking into account the vulgar amounts of strange beer in pint glasses, the endless cigarettes and ecstasy that falls into your hand and then mouth from nowhere, the stress and endless interviews and photo shoots, jet lag and odd hours - it's hard to pin-point Scotland's shitty food as the reason for the recurring waves of nausea every day in Edinburgh but I have to trust my instincts.

It may have been Dostoyevsky that said, "You can judge a society by the conditions of its breakfast sandwiches," but I wouldn't know. I've never read his shit.

The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is a madhouse unrivaled by any comedy Festival in North America. The population of 450,000 doubles for the month-long event which features over 20,000 performers and at least five decent looking women. Not models mind you, but nothing you would turn away if you needed to wipe something icky off your dick.


The major difference is that this festival is all full length shows, not seven minute showcase horseshit like American festivals.


By the time I showed up, I already had five articles written about my appearance in some of what seemed like 300 local newspapers. Brian Hennigan, the promoter who brought me over was responsible for most of the press. He's a genius with sincere-sounding bullshit, mostly because he's sincere when he's full of shit if that makes any sense. The bullshit spin in the American press that I was coming to make fun of WTC victims didn't hurt us getting articles but was quickly put aside, even by the guy that started it.

I got through the first couple shows just trying to figure out what they'd get and what they wouldn't and if you have ever been over here - you know they get a hell of a lot more than the douchebags in the U.S. That doesn't necessarily make them more pleasant as people but what little knowledge I've gained over the years never made me very happy either. Maybe that's why got along so well. Misery loves comedy.

The thing that scared the shit out of me was the reviews. Every paper had sections devoted to the Fringe and the reviews were unlike anything I'd seen in the States. They knew comedy, whether you agreed with their take or not. You hear them say that someone relied on old material too much (thank an ugly God that this was my first trip) or that so 'n so had great lines but his heart wasn't behind the material. Unbelieveable to see comedy viewed as an art form.

Except for the San Francisco Comedy Competion, I'd never had a show reviewed before. In fact, I have never seen a comic get a review, save for a household name that stepped back onto stage to take a break from whatever it was that made him that famous. Any press you get over here is a preview which is more of an advertisment than a critique.

I got reviews and the reviews were good although I didn't really like any of the shows. It was difficult to get used to quiet audiences until I did a set at the infamous "Late and Live" at nearly 3 am where the audience is reminded at the beginning that "The heckler is always king!" and I went up sloppy like I tend to get at that hour and ate my ass in a hat. After that, I learned to appreciate the quiet in my shows.

Hecklers are a different breed here, as likely to throw a pint glass as to yell something demeaning. And the best way to gain their ire is to mistake where you are. The only warning I got from David Crowe, the comic who'd recommended me and whose week I was following, was not to confuse Scotland for England. So one night I said something about being in the UK and was blasted for saying it was the UK, which I think it is but no one can seem to explain the difference between the UK and Britain and Scotland and England and Great Britain and North and South Ireland and the British Empire and you need a compass to get through a set without getting hit with something.

I couldn't imagine what most people went through here. Most comics perform for a month of straight shows and have to promote them on their own. The streets are filled with shitheads in wigs and funny uniforms handing out flyers and using any goofy line to get an ass in a seat. Then there are the mimes and magicians and jugglers that perform in Hunters square directly under the apartment where we stayed. Everyday you wake up to a thunderous round of applause and rush out assuming they found a cure for AIDS only to see a juggler on a unicycle, always juggling something very dangerous and he always tells you how dangerous it is but you know it's not because if it was dangerous he'd have scars of missing digits but he doesn't. The only person I want to see juggle something dangerous is some one who can't juggle.

Regardless, I can't imagine a month of this. It's too difficult to be a comic, a tourist, a drunk, a husband and a reviewable act at the same time. Renee holds up pretty well on her own but you can't help but feel like shit when there's so many things you should be doing together. We ended up taking a hideous tour bus one afternoon, too hungover to actually fight the tourist foot traffic but still needing to feel like we'd done something. The city is amazing if you have ever been a child that loves castles and dungeons and all that but that shit was real and you get an understanding of why the place feels so evil. So much of the tour was inadvertently morbid that it was hilarious. "If you look to your left there is the square where they used to burn witches and to the left is the fountain square which is built on a cemetary where they buried witches and they used to steal their bodies for medical experiments at the university here on the right and when they'd catch the body snatchers, they would torture them over there in the dungeon by the park and then hang them in this maketplace up ahead." Creepy. Good creepy but creepy nonetheless.

My good friend Dave Fulton is here and I never get to see his show because we perform at the same time but we get to hang out and I also get to meet George Mortimer who runs and who I have kept email correspondence with for the last year. We had a good time debating a Jesus freak on the street. You can't beat a Jesus freak but I think we could call it a draw when he had to call in his manager.

All the things to do but ego takes up so much time and as the good reviews started coming in Brian toyed with the idea of adding more shows to make me eligible for the Perrier award, the big brass ring at the end of this but we ended up deciding that that could just make me look like a dick for trying. With my career, I'm happy settling for good reviews.

Funny how you can spend a week talking about how full of shit the media is and still jack off to a five star review.

Plenty more happened and I'll try to get the rest in the next update but I'm barely off the plane and heading for Colorado. Stay tuned and, in the meantime, here is a review: