It is late, although it's early for him. It's 2:10am pacific time / 5:10am eastern, and my husband has surmised the last 60 hours in a two line text. We're both struggling to understand just what the fuck happened. My bones feel the torment 3,000 miles away. And you're paralyzed into staying put, but your mind concocts any way to right a situation that has gone horribly wrong. Sometimes the best laid plans... right?
The reason for my Lady Vacation with puppy was because Travis agreed to road trip to the south, with a presented goal of doing comedy. It would be his first real chance to wet his tastebuds being a comic who performs outside Los Angeles. Do the whole bit. It wouldn't be the same as being a true "road comic," who are on the road more than they are off. But dude, test the waters. The plan seemed solid. Have the clubs set him up with a room; see the local sights; get to experience the feeling of making a little money. Los Angeles knows it doesn't have to pay people to perform. But it's that entertainer's desire to be on stage, lured by a dangly green carrot, which drives them to the brink of such propositions.
Every comedian is mad in some way, pushing to get their fix in laughter. We shouldn't trust them to make proper plans. Not all of them anyway, which is why they get a manager. Someone has to be the suit AND deal with your obsessive, your manic, your recluse, your perfectionist, your addict, your depressive, your over achiever, your impressor, your fake, your hustler, and the minority of your mostly stable comic. Only one of these is capable of wearing a pair of creative and business pants. I'm married to him. But even he needs help at times; we all do.
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