Bloodied On The Shore

The Carnival Story.

This story is a bit long, so it's been broken down into two parts.

This is part one.

I am not a cruise ship comedian. In order to be a cruise ship comedian, you have to be able to work squeaky clean to an audience ranging in age from 9 to 90. That's about three requirements too many for me. I always imagined the perfect cruise ship comic would be a guy who spends his entire set shaping balloons into animals that have gone extinct.

"Look little girl, it's a birdie!"

"Look grandma, it's a passenger pigeon!"

Oooh's and aaah's all around. Everybody wins. Why, then, did I find it necessary to enter the barely heralded Carnival Comedy Challenge NYC in 2004? Good question. For some reason, most comedians have deluded themselves into thinking that any stage time is a potential opportunity. Even that 2am open-mic set on a Sunday night in front six barely conscious drunks is worth it, because you never know who might walk in and whisk you away to stardom. In reality, the only person who might walk in at that point has probably just shot the President and is looking to hide out until the heat dies down. Lee Harvey Oswald should have gone into a shitty open-mic instead of that movie theater. The idiot comics would have been so happy to have a real live civilian in the crowd, they wouldn't have turned him in. They probably would have let him do five minutes out of courtesy.

"So...what's the deal with treason?...Anyway, uh, can you imagine if Arnold Schwarzenegger was Kennedy's head? It would be like 'I'll be back...and to the left!' Get it? Anyway, I'll be selling my CD in the back, and look for me on MySpace!"

But, the Carnival Comedy Challenge actually presented a real opportunity. The winner, of course, would be given the dream job of entertaining diapered vacationers on the high seas. The losers, though, would at least be able to perform in front of the panel of industry judges. When comics see the phrase "industry judges," the words appear to have huge breasts and blink bright red neon. We can't resist. The judges for this particular competition consisted of some good road bookers, the talent director for Carnival, and special guest judge, Eddie Brill - comedian and comedy booker for The Late Show With David Letterman. When comics see "The Late Show With David Letterman," the words appear to be hot college girls fisting eachother while playing Madden 06 with their free hands. We have to sign up. Even if we don't win, we'll probably get on Letterman. That's the actual thought process. Seriously.

The entry fee was something like $25, which I paid gladly. Now, here's how the whole thing worked. There was a preliminary round in the morning, and another prelim in the afternoon - judged by the road bookers and the Carnival guy. Out of those two rounds, twelve lucky finalists would be chosen to perform the following night in front of those judges and Eddie Brill. Of course, in typical "let's make it like American Idol" fashion, the crowd that night would actually choose the winner, while the judges would just give you a critique after your set. Simple enough.

Now, I have a terrible track record in comedy competitions. I never do well, but I also never have any luck. I always seem to go up first, second, or last. The crowd is either ice cold or dead tired. Every competition I've ever done has followed this pattern. From the Boston Festival, to the Seattle Comedy Competition, to Comedy Central's Laugh Riots, to the Funniest Person In Baltimore, it doesn't matter. I never get lucky and draw 6th. There's always that extra little hurdle to overcome.

I, along with a couple dozen other comics, was part of the morning prelim. We filed into the comedy club at 11am and listened to the rules. We would be given three minutes to strut our stuff in front of the judges and whoever else happened to be hanging out in the room. They would just pull names randomly out of a hat and call you on stage. Care to take a guess who the first name was? Me, that's who. Out of roughly thirty people, I was picked to be the first comic on the first prelim. Not shocked at all, I shuffled onto the stage, did my three minutes, did pretty well and left.

...to be continued.