Can I get a do-over?

Friday night I flew out to St. Paul, Minnesota. I was going for a showcase in front of many college campus activity representatives for the states of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Northern Michigan, the Dakotas, Iowa and Wyoming. In other words if I am to die prematurely in a Richie Valens plane crash, these states could present an ideal opportunity for this. Small towns frequented by blizzards plus obscure artist equals certain death.

I learned this because my flight out was one of the two bumpiest flights I’ve ever been on. To the point that it lasted so long that I had actually settled on the fact that Northwest Airlines would be my tomb.

Side note: I kept getting thrown off by Northwest Airlines because all their planes just say NWA. I was expecting Ice Cube to come down the aisle serving my motherfuc-ing beverage.

We actually did arrive in one piece in St. Paul (and was asked by a driver if I was Antoine Walker because he was there to pick up Antoine Walker and I looked about 6’9”) and I got to my hotel just in time to catch the 4th quarter of the Utah Jazz game, which was on TV. I was also the only Jazz fan in Minnesota I think.

When I went up to my hotel room I had a choice between watching Cloverfield or Hot Older Sluts on pay per view, but settled on Real Time with Bill Maher.

The next day I went to sound check at 915 and saw that where I would be performing was huge – 800 seats. I was excited, and pleased because the microphone appeared to be transmitting what I was saying, thus ensuring that I would say hilarious things in the afternoon when I performed. I was wrong.

My set began with an introduction that could have only been botched more if I had written out my full name. Nothing like having your opening line be, “That’s pronounce Cauvin.” My set went pretty well if you were the 15 people who laughed consistently and not just at my home run jokes (3). It was also a success if you consider that I was sweating heavily and felt cotton mouth setting in. But the humiliation had not yet come fully.

At 4:30 there is the market place event, which is where the college reps come and visit the booths of the performers and book them for schools. It felt like a slave market, except being inspected and bought was a good thing. Well, in my adaptation of Roots for Comedy, let me introduce Kunta Comeday, the comedian who could not get bought. If it were actually a slave market I would have been a great success being one of the blacker performers, as well as having strong shoulders and a sturdy back. Unfortunately, the criteria was laughter and for thirty minutes (before catching a cab back to the airport I met all of two students who seemed fascinated by my career as a lawyer (it occupied 15 seconds of my routine so I am guessing they were just looking for recommendations to grad school).