Faith and Works

What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? Can faith save him? If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto them, "Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled," notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the body; what doth it profit? Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.

James 2:14-17

In May of 2008, I was having a rough week: I'd spent a night in jail, my long-time girlfriend dumped me, and my latest show had been a flop. (That last one may not have been so unusual.) The last thing I wanted to do was conduct a tech rehearsal. But fifteen minutes into it, as I was talking through colors and washes and transitions, I was surprised to notice that I'd forgotten all of that -- I was relaxed, confident, decisive. In a confusing and uncertain world, ah! This was a process that I understood. I was relieved to have the work to do.

It was the first time I'd been clearly aware of that fact about myself, far from the last, and I've been reflecting on it a lot over the course of this election season, as I've been producing and writing and performing in a variety of a politically-themed shows. I was acutely conscious of it during an election-night fundraiser that I helped to produce. As the participants and audience were (unsurprisingly) left-leaning, I began to feel much like a funeral director, facilitating a process that I wasn't closely engaged in. (Indeed, as an alternate-party activist among liberals, I've been feeling a lot like I'm watching friends lose a beloved relative -- I can't share their grief, exactly, but I'm sorry as hell to witness it.)

I'll confess to being a bit bewildered -- three of our regulars declined to perform, one performer simply failed to show up, and of the remaining several expressed a desire for me to give them a way, any way, out of having to hit the stage. I appreciate that different artists have different responses to crisis, but this response is simply alien to me -- I'm so fucking grateful for the work.

(To be clear, it's not that I don't understand it. On election night 2008, after my show, I walked up and down Hennepin Avenue, punching telephone poles, until my knuckles were ripped and bloody. But I completed my goddamn set first.)

Granted, I may be a lot more acclimated to performing under ugly or hostile circumstances, but the comforting chaos of live performance is something that I can understand and (to some degree) control. If the alternative is drinking and grieving alone, I'd rather be trying to wrestle laughs out of a grieving crowd together. After all, if our profession has any true social or political function (and I am sincerely dubious that it does) -- surely it's that, in times of crisis, we can offer laughter and insight, comfort and context?

And what I found troubling is that my colleagues -- a pack of professional talkers if ever there was one -- in a moment of crisis, a moment when their words might have been able to provide something truly valuable to their audience -- their first instinct was to fall silent.

I was raised Catholic, and one of its tenets that remains central to my faith is the notion that we live in a fallen world, a world dominated by sin and greed and fear and hate and evil -- and that's why it's so incredibly important for each one of us to labor to improve it. We were reminded of that fact on Tuesday. What amazes me is that so many of my colleagues were shocked by the reminder. It's been said that my lack of emotional devastation is symptomatic of the fact that I don't take the threat of fascism seriously: my immediate thought is that their emotional devastation is a sign that they haven't been taking it seriously for some time.

My compatriots on the right have been observing (rightly, in my view) that the Democrats who have labored for decades to centralize and expand power in the executive branch are now reaping the bitter fruits of their short-sighted strategy. But even this seems short-sighted to me. After all, when Trump talks about a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States, what the hell even gives the President the authority to do that? The answer lies in the Alien and Sedition Acts, many of which are still on the books, which were passed by our second President, founding father and champion of liberty John Adams -- most likely as a means of silencing his political opponents. My intent isn't to draw some kind of false equivalence here, but to observe that the battle against authoritarianism and fascism isn't new, it's as old as civilization itself.

November 8th, 2016 was neither the beginning, nor the end, of anything. This is a battle that demands a lifelong commitment from every one of us. That is the price we pay to live in a constitutional republic.

One of the talking points among the left right now is that the election results mean that it's time to get to work. To which I can only say, uh -- were we supposed to have stopped? Over the past few years, I've signed my petitions and made my donations. I've toured the country. I wrote a book. I've attended conventions and festivals. I've produced fundraisers. On many of those endeavors, I lost money; on many more, I faced down hostile and belligerent audiences. I have exploited every opportunity I could find to create a space and a platform for the marginalized voices that so many of colleagues are currently mocking and vilifying. I have upraised my tiny, ineffectual fist to the best of my ability, and in at least this respect (if not in far too many others), my conscience is clear.

I don't plan to get to work, because I never stopped working. I plan to continue working exactly as hard as I would have if the Democrats had swept the House and Senate. I've already got some ideas for 2018 and 2020 that I've started research on. And praise God for that, because I don't know what I'd do without the work.

I share my colleagues' fear and concern for the damage that this unified legislature can do. But I'm also troubled by the moral damage we can do to ourselves, and our cause, in that fight. When I see the vitriol that many of them are unleashing on social media -- when I see them justify that vitriol as necessary -- when I see them characterize traits like empathy and compassion as weakness -- when I see them lionize themselves for their courage in abandoning those traits -- losing political power is one thing. But I also worry about losing our political soul. Rage is one thing, and one thing that I believe in (witness this entire blog) -- hate is entirely another. I know, from humiliating experience, that that is a very dark, very ugly path to go down. After all, if November 8th taught us anything, it's that we can't control anything -- nothing, except our own speech and actions, surely?

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?

Mark 8:36-37

A Few Words

To the audience before a libertarian comedy show, on Sunday, June 12th, 2016:

...so, uh, this morning was horrible.

I assume that we've all heard the news, about what happened in Orlando last night? It's obviously devastating -- I have a number of colleagues on the Fringe circuit who hail from the area. And I'm sure we're all still reeling.

In the coming weeks, we're going to be hearing from a lot of very loud and very angry people, because yelling is how some people grieve. Which I get! I of all people get that. We're going to be hearing a lot of opinions about things like immigration, and terrorism, and the Second Amendment, and homophobia. I just want to make it absolutely clear, at the top of this show, that tonight, we are going to be discussing none of those things.

The wounds are still raw. I am not mentally or emotionally equipped right now to riff on what happened. And, frankly, I'm not qualified to analyze all of the implications of what went down last night.

I am, however, supremely qualified to stand on this stage, and tell you some stories, and tell you some jokes, about my life as a political outsider. If that's something that is somehow useful to you today, then for the next hour, I've got your back. Let's get started.

It's Almost Comical

So two-time New Mexico governor Gary Johnson has just been nominated as the Libertarian Party's 2016 presidential candidate, to the surprise of none. (Well, to the surprise of no one paying attention to this particular corner of the political fringe. I imagine it *is* to the surprise of many asking "Wait, there's a third party?") (L/l)ibertarians of every stripe are going apeshit, while the mainstream media is -- weirdly enough -- actually paying some attention this time, if only because the Sanders/Trump campaigns betray a nationwide longing for an anti-establishment candidate, and you can't get more anti-establishment than a party that has never held that particular office.

Which is why it's weird that the party picked its most establishment nominee. I mean, perhaps not all that weird -- this is the same party that, in a burst of dadaist madness, nominated disgruntled Republican and drug warrior Bob Barr in 2008. But that's always been one of the many tug-of-wars in the movement -- that there's the half that wants to try to win with a well-groomed, soft-spoken white guy in a suit. I call this half the Republican Lites (greater taste, less killing), the ones who are desperate to appear both moderate and presidential, the ones who quiver in horror and barely-concealed rage at members that regularly pull shit like this.

It's this Urkel-like outsider craving for majority approval that leads us to nominate the Barrs and Johnsons. I mean, to be clear, I don't hate the guy. There's much about him to admire: he's a legitimate athlete and adventurer who has conquered every one of the Seven Summits, square-jawed, heroic: he's Captain Fucking America.

My skepticism is that I don't think we can ever win this battle. Voters who want establishment will vote establishment. They don't want to watch us ape Republican respectability when they can get the real thing for free. (Incidentally, *I* don't want to watch us ape Republican respectability, because I loathe both of those things.)

The one advantage that an alternate party has in a fight is that we *don't* have to obsess over every word, gesture, and costume faux pas. We don't have to watch our electability with a microscope, because, well...we don't have any. There isn't going to be a President Johnson in 2017. (Which does not render the campaign pointless! The goal is to grow the party to the point at which it does become a viable alternative, not to win every election immediately. Though, that said, I'm troubled by the notion that growing the party to that point means throwing out every principle that defines it.)

The other half of the tug-of-war is the rockstar libertarians -- the ones who say, fuck it, let's drop those truth bombs and who gives a shit if it alienates the suburban demographic? The Republican-Lites claim that embracing this is frivolously throwing away our credibility. I say that *not* embracing this is frivolously throwing away the single unique thing we have to offer the country. It's not about pretending the circus doesn't exist, it's about stepping up to be the ringmaster.

The champion of the rockstars, in my view, has been none other than charming eccentric John McAfee, the unapologetic coke 'n' whores candidate. I mean, what's not to like? He's the libertarian fantasy, a billionaire playboy tech genius -- oh. God. Oh God.

He's Tony Stark.

So why keep backing these alternate-party losers? If we accept that the goal isn't to *win* this year, then the goal is to *grow*. That requires media attention, and that's the thing that Team Iron Man is particularly good at. Especially in a campaign as carnivalesque as this one, media attention is everything. Who else do we have that's prepared to take on this shady, balding billionaire with a pathological hatred of illegal aliens -- oh. Oh, no.

Oh God no.

Hey hey! Updating this dusty blog because, once again, it's an election year, and, once again, I'm hitting the road with some political comedy. In the coming week, I'll be performing at the Atlanta Fringe Festival. If you're in the Georgia area, I hope to see you there -- if you're not, check out my political humor collection!

Indecision when? Indecision NOW, motherfuckers.

I wrote a book.

Perhaps unsurprisingly for the author of a book about indecision, my feelings regarding this are...complex.

- I've toured my material to the other side of the globe. I've managed teams of 30+ people in my ensemble shows. I've stared down hecklers and hostile audiences for my entire adult life. But as someone who grew up a geeky bibliophile, holding less than a pound of paper in my hands somehow feels like more of a real accomplishment to me than everything else.

- It also feels strange to regard these 140 pages of dick jokes as an accomplishment, in light of the sheer volume of what I produce on a regular basis. I'm a prolific writer/performer, and I'm confident that -- in terms of at least quantity -- I've written dozens of books over the years. Moreover, that's material that's been through the live-fire forge of strangers' apathy and enmity for over a decade.

- While I view having audience-honed material as my greatest advantage as an inaugural author, I also think it's important not to overestimate its value. What works on the stage can't simply be transcribed onto the page. And I'm not just talking about my reliance on the meaningful look or the spontaneous ad-lib -- I mean that the material typically has to be dramatically *restructured* before it's something that flows naturally for the eye, as well as the ear.

- It also feels strange, because this is a project that I've been living with for a long, long time. In 2005, I sat down to compile my comedy writing and realized that, without my explicit intention, it was almost entirely political. That manifested as a sketch comedy that I produced in 2006 and 2008, and later adapted to a comedy CD in 2014.

- Kickstarted by a combination of what I viewed to be many of my colleagues' unblinking endorsement of their majority culture with a disheartening trip to my ancestral homeland, the heart of Communist China, I began blogging my analyses of macroeconomics and current events in 2006.

- In 2008, I commissioned a photographer whom I held in high regard to help me photograph a book cover. I also commissioned a foreword from the then-chair of the state Libertarian Party. This book has been on the verge of being finalized/released for seven years.

- Having reinvented myself as a storyteller, I sat down with my comedy writing again in 2011 and, again, found it to be almost entirely political. This manifested itself as a solo comedy show, which I workshopped in an Irish pub shortly before the 2012 election and toured more widely in 2014.

- One thing that I'm saying here is that I'm a great believer in the unconscious process. I think that sitting down and saying "I am going to write a libertarian book" would have resulted in something dreadful; by simply trying to entertain, the political aspect of my writing has been a more organic expression of my observations and general state of mind.

- Consequently, the book feels less like a single, coherently-conceived message or moral than it does like a cross-section of my brain for the past decade, and of the surreal experience of being an alternate-party supporter across two Presidential administrations and every geographic region of these United States.

- It's also posed a unique marketing challenge, in the sense that I have as much objectivity about this particular project as I do about being an adult human since the turn of the millennium.

- I think it's funny. I know it's angry. I hope that, in at least a handful of places, it's profound. I promise you that it's conflicted. And I believe that being conflicted is not anything like a bad thing.

- If the book has a single message or moral, that's it.

I've got a book launch party on -- when else? -- Tax Day. Hope to see you there.

Rage Across America Tour: Summation

At long last, the tour is done. I'll be using this last post to collate all of my online detritus related to it.

THINGS TO WATCH

0:35     KC Fringe Promo. The place is crowded and I didn't have a mic, so it's damn-near inaudible, but in the interest of completeness here's a clip of me plugging my show when I arrived in KC.

1:30     2014 Fringe Participant Interview. A brief promo I did of my show with the Hollywood Fringe in LA.

2:22     MN Fringe Preview. Live promo I did with Matt Allex of Vilification Tennis. This was singled out by Graydon Royce of the Star Tribune as "solidly on the nice list."

2:37     Jumpin' Jack Kerouac Trailer. Trailer for a dance show I'm performing in in Minneapolis.

2:50     Jumpin' Jack Kerouac Preview. Live promo I did with the rest of the cast.

4:43     Indefinite Articles Trailer. Trailer I put together for the show some months ago.

5:37     The Calof Series. Promotional video for a storytelling series at Patrick's Cabaret that features about a minute of me workshopping one of the stories from the show.

THINGS TO LISTEN TO

1:00:01     Obsessed with Joseph Scrimshaw. A podcast interview I did in LA about J.R.R. Tolkien and his influence on my work.

1:49:47     Apropos of Nothing. Rather embarrassingly, I get even drunker than usual on this one and it rapidly devolves into us shouting slurred arguments over each other. That does seem to be what this audience comes for, however.

THINGS TO READ

03/23/2014     Story SlamMN! Interview. An interview I did with Paula Reed Nancarrow about competitive storytelling.

06/09/2014     Reddit AMA. I impulsively did an AMA (Ask Me Anything) in which I answered online questions from strangers about my career.

06/25/2014     Libertarian Rage as Theater. A rather confrontational interview I did with Stubble, a local men's magazine.

07/07-11/2014     Word Sprout Blog (Part One, Part Two, and Part Three). A series of essays about storytelling that I wrote for a local spoken-word organization.

07/18/2014     Friend a Day. A surprisingly glowing profile by local comedian Tim Wick from a series in which he writes kind things about people he knows.

05/30-09/23/2014     Libertarian Rage Blog (Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, and Part Six). Reflections on the tour.


PRESS REVIEWS

Natasha Lewin, Tolucan Times, Los Angeles: "...a healthy blend of outrage and amusement. Just like the hulk on a bad day, [low] is an angry man, and makes a damn good point showing why we should be too. American political system - SMASH!"

Matthew Everett, Twin Cities Daily Planet, Minneapolis: "...he's...smart enough to know...that anyone who claims to have such certainty is either a fool, or dangerous, or both. He lives to knock people off kilter, not for the joy of seeing people off balance, or the display of power that might be involved. He wants people to be constantly thinking, questioning, and hopefully laughing rather than crying about the absurdity of it all while they're at it."

Kate Hoff, Twin Cities Daily Planet, Minneapolis: "He's either crazy or a genius or a crazy genius..."

Rachel Reiva, Twin Cities Daily Planet, Minneapolis: "He has a commanding presence, his jokes are hilarious, and he gives an intimate look into a libertarian state of mind."

Jay Harvey, Upstage, Indianapolis: "Liberation through extreme tastelessness may be Low's most powerful self-help prescription."

AUDIENCE REVIEWS

Hollywood Fringe Audience Reviews (3, no star average): "...an intimate and emotionally raw piece with moments of humanity that transcend political affiliations."

KC Fringe Audience Reviews (2, 4/5 average): "...low's refreshing quest for intellectual humility survives for me as the most memorable theme."

Minnesota Fringe Audience Reviews (6, 3/5 average): "There's still much wit to recommend it, but I found his forays into crass sexual humor and political rage awkward and ultimately fruitless."

MY REVIEWS

As usual, I also wrote several reviews for both the TC Daily Planet and mnartists, collated at this link. 

...and there it is, folks: for better or worse, much of the last year of my life. Onto the next folly!

Rage Across America Tour: Postamble

"Our fellow citizens had fallen into line, adapted themselves, as people say, to the situation, because there was no way of doing otherwise. Naturally they retained the attitudes of sadness and suffering, but they had ceased to feel their sting. Indeed, to some...this precisely was the most disheartening thing: that the habit of despair is worse than despair itself."

- Albert Camus, The Plague

Well, that was a not-insignificant chunk of my life and career.

One of the major obstacles I've had to any kind of successful branding is my predilection for genre-hopping -- up next for me (and I'll hold off on the official announcement for a few more weeks) is my take on some squeaky-clean children's fantasy, and the audience I've built over the past few months is unlikely to follow me to it.

It's been a few years since I really dug into straight-up political satire, and it'll probably be a few more years before I plumb that well again -- until I, y'know, have something more to say on the subject. Of the genres I play with, it's by far the most exhausting. It requires the cultivation of a sharp tongue and a cynical outlook, and while I absolutely believe in the moral importance of rage -- its darker sister, as Camus well knows, is despair -- it's difficult to sustain that level of anger. Particularly for someone as introverted as me.

Like most of my projects, the end-product wasn't so much a goal as a by-product of an existing process. This was my attempt to compile some of my most successful short pieces in one place -- not an attempt to sit down and write a political show, but to recognize that a huge proportion of my comedy writing is political. I remain bewildered by the fact that the material that has consistently killed it with spoken-word crowds (one of the pieces placed me in MN Story Slam Finals) was so challenging to sell outside of that demographic.

So what's different? Two things leap out at me:

1) the environment. Most of these sets were developed in front of late-night crowds -- pubs 'n' clubs -- where the audience was generally young, knocking back a few drinks, and looking to have a good time. That's a different experience from the more formal one of reserving a ticket and sitting down in a darkened theatre.

Most notably, many of the audiences I performed for seemed to be actively looking to have a bad time, staring daggers and seething hostility before I opened my mouth. Which, I mean, I can handle audience hostility, but it raises the question: why were they there in the first place?

Actually, this I think I get -- I get the impulse to seek out entertainment to hate-watch. I was an avid listener to Air America back in the day -- I would drive, scream, swear, and pound the steering wheel. That rush of adrenalin that anger brings can feel fantastic, and I'm indebted to the radio network for birthing many of the stories in the show.

So, hey, if I was serving that function for the audience, I'm happy to take my place in the circle of rage. the ciiiiiiiircle of raaaaaage

2) but the bigger factor, I suspect, is packaging. It's one thing to be out for a night of entertainment, and to have some guy appear in front of you cracking political jokes, many of which happen to libertarian. It's another thing entirely to grit your teeth and buy a ticket to see a libertarian comic.

Not only is that a tougher sell, but that marketing re-contextualizes all of the individual jokes. Didactic or not, the stories become so when the title implies a message. Which, y'know, I'm disinclined to shy away from, but dem's the breaks.

But, yeah, I'm wiped -- more so than I usually am at the end of a tour -- and it's largely because I once again utterly failed to properly market this thing. One question I get asked a lot on the road is "Don't you get tired of the material?" ...and my answer is usually no, I wouldn't do it if I didn't love it. I do, however, grow exceedingly tired of the wildly erratic crowds. Any performer will tell you that, while a large crowd buoys you, a thin one just sucks the energy out of you -- you have to work that much harder to keep the room alive. And for several stretches of this particular tour, I was working very, very hard.

It spreads, too, to other aspects of the experience. If you've got a hit show, then everybody's your best friend. If your material is struggling, no one will look twice at you. I had one defining experience, with another political comic whom I thought I was getting along quite well with. During one post-show drinking session, I made some crack, and he did a double-take, stating "I thought the libertarian thing was ironic." Er, no, I responded -- and he then looked away, avoiding me for the rest of the week.

But, y'know? This is all bruised-ego shit, and my ego has proven to be not unlike Prometheus' liver in its ability to continually regenerate itself. The exhaustion will pass, the psychic wounds will heal, and the frustrations will fade. So what will I remember?

I'll remember the fact that, after nearly every show I've done for the past couple of months, I've had at least one person pull me aside to try to express their shared rage, their loneliness, their frustrated idealism. I had one guy grab me firmly by the hand, look me in the eye with somewhat alarming intensity, and say "Most people aren't going to get what you're doing here. But it's important." And putting aside for the moment my usual cynicism (i.e. how important can it possibly be if most people aren't getting it?) -- I can't pretend I wasn't a little moved.

I've now been doing political comedy long enough to get the fact that politics in popular culture are cyclical. Right now, libertarianism -- particularly in the liberal arts world -- is an object of scorn. But that doesn't mean that all the impassioned libertarians go away. We're still here, even if there doesn't seem to be a place for us in the zeitgeist right now. And if I can provide a space for us to step back, point at the soul-crushing, hellishly absurd nightmare that our economic and electoral system has become, and laugh -- then that's something I can feel proud of on my deathbed.

I'll do one more compilation of online writing next week, just so it's all in one place. Before I go, I couldn't resist sharing this: a word cloud I put together from all of my First Amendment Box responses. If you want a cross-section of the country's collective unconscious, this is my contribution.

Rage Across America Tour: September!

"The Gambler's Fallacy...is the belief that if deviations from expected behavior are observed in repeated independent trials of some random process then these deviations are likely to be evened out by opposite deviations in the future...[it] implicitly involves an assertion of negative correlation between trials of the random process and therefore involves a denial of the exchangeability of outcomes of the random process."

I've been thinking about the Gambler's Fallacy a lot on this tour, as my audience numbers have been wildly yo-yo-ing up and down from city to city. (Not that attendance is a random process -- there's some pretty clearly evident variance in cause and effect -- but the emotional results can certainly feel that way, and the Fallacy's more about a psychological phenomenon than a mathematical one, anyway.)

tl;dr: you can't make predictions based on what you feel like the universe owes you.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
FOUNDED: 1833
POPULATION: 2,695,598
HIERARCHY: metropolis
MOTTO: Urbs in Horto
VENUE: Youth Company Chicago

I find myself doing a more ambitious tour every couple of years. By the end of each one, I'm exhausted and frustrated enough that I swear not to do so again, but then a few years pass and the itch of wanderlust returns. In this case, my primary motive (perhaps appropriately for a libertarian show) was financial.

To say that I regard myself as a somewhat private person may seem absurd, coming from a blogger who got engaged onstage, but there are many aspects of my life that I try to keep guarded from just how crass I know show business can get. In this case, the anxious/euphoric/stressful cloud over my head that I haven't been mentioning for the past couple of months is that I'm getting married -- in, Jesus, a few weeks here now.

A longer tour seemed like an opportunity for me to generate some badly-needed cash to help finance the shindig. Unfortunately, my unbroken track record for failing to predict how successful one of my shows is going to be seems to be spot-on -- while I have turned a tidy profit (and I'm deeply amused by the notion that such irreverent material is contributing to a very reverent event, which seems like an apt metaphor for the whole relationship, really), it's fallen pretty far short of the economic neighborhood I was aiming for.

The other complicating factor is the fact that traveling to raise money for the wedding means that I haven't been physically present for much of the actual wedding planning. I have the most phenomenal fiancee on the planet who's never been anything but supportive, but I've definitely been able to hear the stress in her voice, and our shared frustration at my inability to shoulder some key bits of the workload has been wearing.

---

The inverse of the Gambler's Fallacy is the notion of streaks of good and bad luck, and though they're mathematically problematic I've never been able to help being swayed by them. In this case, I found a number of troubling signs collecting around my approach to the Chicago Fringe:

- the complete lack of any press response, despite an unusually high level of marketing aggression on my part.

- the cancellation by my billeter shortly before I arrived in town. I want to emphasize that this is no way the responsibility of the Festival's housing coordinator, who went above and beyond the call of duty, offering her own living space to be shared by myself and another artist.

- the parking situation, which I anticipated would be problematic but has grown exponentially more so since my last time working in town (in 2011). After several hours of searching, I couldn't find any space nearby for my car that wouldn't set me back several hundreds of dollars that I hadn't budgeted for, and circumstances would require me to move it several times. This, in addition to basic day-to-day costs of being in a city the size of Chicago, was placing me in some pretty dire financial straits.

- early on, I also had an episode of night terrors that cost the artist I was sharing a room with to lose a precious night's sleep. I've been plagued by a number of parasomnias, loud screaming and sleepwalking among them, but they've never been a problem while touring -- until now. Mortified, and since I am apparently incapable of moderating my behavior while unconscious, I quarantined myself to sleeping on the patio, to prevent future soporific episodes from plaguing anyone else.

- I'd say that the final stroke, however, came when I ended up canceling my opening night due to lack of turnout. It's my second such cancellation this tour -- but the first one was a one-night deal, due to some pretty mitigating circumstances. Canceling an opening night in a major city is a very, very bad sign.

I found myself playing through the upcoming two weeks in my head. I was exhausted, and hadn't had an uninterrupted night's sleep in over a week. I was hemorrhaging money at an alarming rate that I was now clearly not going to earn back. What was the best-case scenario? That a handful of other artists would take pity on me, show up to offer their support, and I'd give them a free show? I had just that last little bit of pride left, that stated that it would be preferable to give myself a penile frenulectomy with an icicle.

A mid-Festival cancellation is rare, but not unheard of. Even considering it brought an extraordinary amount of guilt and shame -- it is, after all, a slot that could potentially have gone to another struggling artist, and it creates just that much more work for the Festival organizers who are already spread terribly, terribly thin. The third -- and, in my view, the greatest factor -- is the betrayal of the audience.

And, in a sense, it's that third factor that convinced me. What audience? What audience was there to betray? This ain't my first rodeo. I know when it's time to call the patient. I sat down with the housing coordinator, explained my situation; contacted the director, and swung by my venue to pick up my properties; told Siri to take me home, and with that, I pulled the plug.

---

The trip home was not without its stresses, including faulty brakes and several lightning storms, because Loki apparently can't resist the urge to sign his work. Partway to my destination, I received a text from my fiancee, telling me (to my astonishment) that I was expected. One of the downsides of being in love with a detective is that it's impossible to surprise her. A few hours later, I let myself in her front door. There was a box of wedding invitations on the dining room table, and my groomsmen's jackets were laid out on chairs surrounding it.

I was coming out of a lot of shame and frustration and anger. I knew I had a lot more in front of me, as I worked through the consequences of my decision. I've made a lot of shitty choices in the past couple of months. But in that moment, for better or worse, I knew that this one was the right one. I was where I needed to be.

SAINT PAUL, MINNESOTA
FOUNDED: 1854
POPULATION: 285,068
HIERARCHY: city
NICKNAME: Pig's Eye
VENUE: Amsterdam Bar and Hall

You never want to end with a matinee. It's one of those unspoken bits of production wisdom: you always want to have a matinee, for the audience that can't make your evening show, but it's not going to have your strongest turnout. And you want to end strong.

Booking a Saint Paul show was all about trying to end strong. There was already an element of risk here, since Fringe remounts traditionally have to struggle to find audience, and this show had already struggled in Minneapolis: but I knew that I wanted to close out somewhere close to home. I knew the venue -- I'd hosted a burlesque show here last year -- and it had the added resonance of being less than a mile from the state capitol. I booked it eagerly.

I did everything I could think of to make this one special. I made it a fundraiser, donating half of the door to FairVote Minnesota, an organization devoted to electoral reform -- and they were kind enough to send several volunteers with T-shirts and a mailing list. I invited two other libertarian comics to perform with me on the bill. I officially announced the release of the sketch comedy album I've been secretly working on for the past several months (available now on Amazon! And iTunes!). I didn't know how many people were going to show up, but by God there was going to be a party for those who did.

Turnout was, unsurprisingly, small -- not embarrassingly so, greater than my fears but short of my ambitions. Most importantly, it was just short of that critical mass that every comedian desires -- the number of bodies that generate the collective response of a crowd, rather than the response of a collection of individuals.

See, but this was actually one of the most interesting aspects of the show. My marketing blitzkrieg had resulted in several disparate groups -- there were Fringers, there were libertarians, and there were electoral reformers -- and the overall result was that you could hear ripples of laughter from individual pockets of the room: one joke would hit one demographic, another another. The performance felt, at times, almost like a textbook study of targeted jokes. And a death knell to the notion of universal comedy.

Which, really, may have been, if not the strongest, then by far the most appropriate note to end this tour on.

SO WHAT HAVE I LEARNED?

I think that I may actually be dumber now than I was when I started.

FIRST AMENDMENT BOX RESPONSES

As part of the tour, I've included in each programme a "First Amendment Box", in which audience members may write any extreme, absurd, or politically incorrect thought -- and submit it anonymously. I share them here, with no commentary or context.

"I believe passionately in the right of individuals to recuse themselves from coercive acts of the state. Specifically, I believe in the 13th Amendments of the (SERIOUSLY ENDANGERED) United States Constitution, and that it enjoins the federal government or any state or local government from obliging involuntary servitude in any form - civilian and/or military - whatsoever. LEGALIZE THE U.S. CONSTITUTION!"

"I hate men. I pretty much think they're all pedophiles and idiots. And warmongers and controlling sociopaths. (Well, most.)"

"AN-CAP *voluntaryist/abolitionist +Voting is immoral & the lesser of two evils imposes aggression by proxy."

"I had to urinate SO BAD that my bladder was walled against my feces, only the strength of my anus can save me now"

"I don't think much I don't say; so, I'll say this: fuck Kanzer and Bieber - Thought"

"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
My term of endearment:
C-U-N-T"

(I just want to indicate that my transcription cannot capture the loving calligraphic detail, as well as the illustrations and flourishes, with which that last poem was written. And I can't imagine a better note to end this entry on. I'll plan on penning an overall reflection sometime next week: otherwise, thanks for reading!)