Headed to Austin, Texas....
…tomorrow for the Texas Book Festival, where I will have a featured sit-down/Q+A with local writer, one of only 150 authors so honored. Actually, the list of participants is pretty impressive, including two of my personal faves, Richard Russo (who was kind enough to do a blurb fro EVERYTHING HURTS) and Gail Collins, the sneaky hilarious Times Op-Ed columnist who has a new book out about lessons from the women’s movement.
Let me just say, I am not a big fan of book festivals. Usually, I wind up on a panel with other authors and after an hour, I’ve gotten all the laughs and then the holocaust guy sells all the books. But I’m doing this one for a couple of reasons. One is that I am not on a panel. Two is that my kickass online publicist, Nettie Hartsock, is from Texas, v-active in the festival and assured me of its far reach and goodwill. And C) it’s in Austin.
When I was a stand-up, there were only two non-casino towns I looked forward to boarding a plane for. One was Detroit (where coincidentally I am going next weekend for the Detroit Jewish Book Festival, which is another story entirely. And no, I will not be on a panel. The holocaust guys leave town after the first week.), where I played the Comedy Castle, my favorite road club. And the other was Austin, home to the Laff Stop. The Laff Stop was a beautiful new club and the audiences tended to be smart and sophisticated. It is a great city. A lot of wonderful music, golf, lakes and Stubbs Barbecue. Haven’t been there since I want to say the winter of 1991. Austin is also the mold and spore capital of the world. Every time Adrianne or I would work there, we would come back with a cold. When she said something to Ross Jackson, the manager, I think he gave her fifty bucks to keep it to herself.
Ross was a great guy. I used to do a thing in my act where if I saw someone very young looking in the audience, I would say, “How old are you, 11? What are you, 11? You look 11. Can I ask you a question? What are you, 11?” I would just keep doing it, and it was infectious with the audience. So, one night, I start doing it to a guy in the front: “What are you, 11? How old are you, 11?” His girlfriend stands up, grabs him and storms out. Well, the audience is howling. They go out front, demand to speak to the manager. The girl says, “We want our money back and don’t want to pay for our drinks.”
Ross: “Why?’
Girl: “The comedian was vulgar, obscene and offensive.”
Ross: “Which one?”
Girl: “The last one. The one with the cigar.”
Ross: “Bill Scheft? You’re kidding. What did he do?”
Girl: “He insulted my boyfriend.”
Ross: “What did he say?”
Girl: “He said he looked 11.”
Ross: “He does look fucking 11!”
Girl: “Well, are we getting our money back?”
Ross: “No, you’re not getting your fucking money back. And your boyfriend looks 11!”
I don’t really have an ending for this story, so I’ll just make one up… After I got off stage, Ross told me what happened, and paid me fifty dollars to keep it to myself.
