Where Sam doesn't play anymore ...Rick's Cafe Americain

Pauly was continuing his Phish-following, so he was a no-show at the game.  Ferrari cobbled together a short table with Coach, Marie, and Diane filling out the table early and a craigslist player named Charlie replacing Coach late.

I came to the game out of sorts. The funny Jew finals were coming up and I arranged to practice my routine a few times before the competition. It wasn’t going well. On Saturday night I performed at The Improv. Before describing my performance, a few shout-outs.  First, to Jessica Kirson.  I tried to get into a preshow that she runs at Gotham Comedy Club for Saturday night, but she didn’t have space for me.  It was a last minute call, so I certainly understood. She promised to call if anyone cancelled.  Then she went beyond the call of duty.  She called her friend Rich Brooks (who doesn’t appear to have a personal site, but gets the second shout-out) who put me into the Saturday preshow at the Improv.  Thanks to both Jessica and Rich who bent over backwards for a stranger.  (As a side note, Jessica did put me into tomorrow’s preshow at Gotham Arrive by 6:15. See you there.)

In any event, I didn’t think the Improv show went well.  I muffed a joke badly, I skipped another entirely and some jokes that usually do well were met with silence.  My pacing wasn’t very good. I used the same introductory phrases over and over. What else ... on my video of the performance I’m off-screen for much of the set because I didn’t move the mike stand.  I couldn’t stop wincing when I was watching myself.  Anyway, Brother of Ugarte assures me that it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought.  Yes, he reports, the crowd was sort of cold.  But, he cautions, even though they didn’t laugh at everything I said, at least they were paying attention.  Apparently most of the crowd had come to see one of the other novices and when he wasn’t performing there were a lot of bathroom trips and side conversations.  I guess that is something.

It didn’t prepare me for Monday, though.  On Monday I went to the open mic at New York Comedy Club.  I’ve been to one open mic in my life, so I don’t want to sound like an authority, but it was about the most depressing thing I’ve ever seen.  Bad comic after bad comic took the stage.  The club itself is dingy and depressing.  The emcee was a 50 year-old man that kept “kiddingly” flirting with my girlfriend (and, in turn, each of the very few young women in the club).  After over an hour in the “big room” - which probably seats 70 - I was told that as a first-timer at the club I would have to play the small room - which seats about 15 in an indescribably bad set up.  And I was 8th on the list.  That meant I would have to endure another hour of small room comics before I got my time.  I finally went out and requested to be moved up, since the big/small snafu wasn’t my fault.  They moved me up, but it didn’t do any good.  My spirit was broken for the night and it showed.

I flew through my routine at a breakneck pace.  A five minute bit that I can stretch to seven was finished at three.  Whole chunks were forgotten.  What I managed to get out was delivered lifelessly.  I didn’t even grab the life support of a lone audience member that was actually laughing.  I got off the stage and spent the next hour complaining to my girlfriend about my performance.  I don’t know if I can do another open mic, but I figure that if I can’t then I don’t have the nuts to even be in this business.  So I’ll go back.  But I’m not telling anyone about it in advance. Nobody should have to see that.

So, broken and plagued with self-doubt, I made my way to the Blue Parrot.  If you are thinking, “That is really no condition to hit the poker table,” you are spot on.  I didn’t have any energy for table banter, nor did I have the confidence to raise with anything short of either the stone nuts or position and a flop that clearly helped nobody.

I quickly found myself down $25.  I never made it back to even and I used the last half hour to make sure that I remembered June 28th as one of the worst days of my poker life.  I chased, I called with crap, I let myself get pushed around.  All in all, $87 down.  And I probably cemented a reputation as a fish with Charlie and Diane.

Only one hand stands out.  On the first hand, there were four of us playing 2/4 and I was in the small blind with rags.  I had been playing too much poker online and had developed the bad habit of playing my small blind with little regard for my cards.  I had developed a second habit: no poker face.  I looked at my cards, made a face like someone had just farted, and then called.  With Ferrari looking right at me.  He paused for a second and said “Raise,” and I cursed him for taking advantage of, well, exactly the sort of thing he should take advantage of.  To prove that I’m no pussy, I called.  And the flop missed me horribly.  I lost an extra $3 on that hand because of a total lack of discipline.  Shameful.  (For those following Ferrari’s game, he claims he would have raised anyway, but took added joy in raising into my obvious garbage.  He had AJo on a short table.)

I made a few decent plays, but I didn’t get called much when I had the nuts.  I hovered between -15 and -30 for most of the night and then just slid into oblivion in the last half hour.  Ferrari cleaned up and I think Diane won some money, but it was hard to tell.  I cashed out before the game ended, so Ferrari can give the final tally in the comments if he chooses.

For me, after bombing on stage and imploding at the tables I dragged myself to the train for the long late-night local train to Brooklyn.  And once again - I swear that I am not making this up - on the heels of a bad loss at the tables I had to walk home in the rain.