Everything Ends (Part Two)

Tim McIntire is the man behind Mottley's. With his bald head and glasses he has been described as a 'deranged chipmunk'. He's always been cool to me, and the respect people have for him is well deserved -the man knows his shit.

He sat in the back of the club, in the sound booth. A pane of glass between us, his face was lit by the computer monitor in front of him. He was bathed in blue light. I saw his eyes.

That's what I remember on stage that night.

-And, the laughs.

Any set that is not a bad set, is a good set. I had a 'not bad' set. How you dice it from there is up to you.

Call it luck. I'll take it.

I sat down to a great relief and a smattering of applause. In just a few minutes, my entire outlook on life had changed. And, just to drive it home, Cupid stepped onto the stage in the form of Chris Penne, who, clad in only an enormous disposable diaper went on to describe what it's like to be Cupid.

I laughed my ass off.

After the show, I managed to make the rounds and talk to a few people. I gave Rick Canavan props and wished him well on his upcoming audition for the Montreal Comedy Festival. I thanked Bethany, talked with Jody Sloane and hugged Ellen Moschetto and Big Nezz. I, also, discovered that Cupid had a Bill the Cat tattoo on his bicep.

It all brought me back, and reminded me of why it is that I do this to begin with. The comedians. I was so caught-up in my own personal bullshit, and insecurities, that I forgot what it's all about.

I laughed my ass off.

I love driving through the city at night......when I'm in a good mood. It's beautiful. Especially, when the sky is clear and the traffic is lite. It's very relaxing. Nothing to do but drive and listen to music....watching the city glide by.

Sure, tomorrow I'd be back at work, surrounded by pee, poop, and boogers. "But, not tonight", I thought. ".....not tonight."

The lights of the city faded, as I drove, and Tim's face appeared. I was rushing out of the club, hoping to get home as soon as possible and grab a few hours sleep, stumbling up the stairs, when I heard his voice.

"You okay to drive?", he asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine", I said, not sure of why he was concerned.

His face vanished as I grabbed my ticket at the Mass Pike entrance and headed home.

By the time I hit Worcester, I'd cracked the window, John Hiatt was in my ear and curls of smoke flew from my lips.

It wasn't my best night, that's for sure. What it was was 'serviceable'. It had allowed me to walk out of there with more dignity than I had entered with.

Yeah, I was alright.

Thanks, for asking, Tim.