I did a show a little while back in Agawam, MA, at a delightful little hidden gem called Goodfellaz. This particular establishment had to extend the glass front-window to 2 levels to accommodate all the neon beer signs that wouldn’t have fit otherwise.
It seems like every time I walk into a place like that, there’s some sort of hi-tech video golf game sitting in the corner. It always looks so out of place, like the truck got lost and brought the game to the wrong place. I’ll occasionally peek over so I don’t miss the 300 pound guy wearing overalls and a NASCAR hat who spends 10 minutes trying to change the timing belt, or the drunk bar whore who starts to cry when she can’t figure out where to enter her PIN#.
They had the host point out the exits before the show. That’s always comforting, in case they hate the show they know how to make a safe and speedy exit.
There was a guy up front who I’m fairly certain was a serial killer I saw from an HBO documentary. His homicidal moniker is The Iceman. I don’t think he was really into my brand of humor, and he was strong enough not to succumb to the peer pressure of everyone around him who was laughing. Serial killers are good like that. I left before the show ended, so he didn’t have a chance to intercept me in the parking lot to cold-heartedly poke at my tiny little heart with an ice pick. That would have smarted. And my blog post would have taken on an entirely different tone today had that happened.
On a somewhat unrelated note, my spell-check recommended icepack instead of ice pick. I don’t think that a serial killer would poke at my heart with an icepack, unless there were other extenuating circumstances, like I just ate lasagna and had vicious heartburn without a Tums in sight, and he wanted to relieve me of my gaseous pain before he punished me for telling jokes not to his liking.