so the club i performed at last night works like this: every 4 weeks you get the opportunity to perform for 3 minutes. afterward, if your name gets called, it means the owner liked you and you’re moving up—you’re entered into the club’s regular rotation of 6 minute slots, and if you do well in those, you move up from there until you’re rich and famous with your own HBO special.

yeah, kid, that’s how it works. it’s easy.

last night was a mixed bag. i had a solid set at the club—got decent laughs, which wasn’t easy because the room was full of comics. not bad. but it didn’t matter because after the show, nobody’s name got called. nobody was moving up. NOBODY. it was brutal. so i left.

i walked out to the parking lot where i ran into a comedian who’d been in the show. he’d had a strong set. he told me that he’d moved up, and he was shocked that i hadn’t. “you had a great set,” he said. i was confused—i told him that i hadn’t heard my name called and he replied, “oh, sometimes they don’t call names. if that happens, you just go up to the owner and ask if you made it.”

WHAT THE HELL???? NOBODY TOLD ME THAT. how was i supposed to know that??? how were any of us supposed to know that???

i sprinted across sunset boulevard and back to the club like a maniac, praying that the owner might move me up.

the club was packed. the next show was about to start. i found the owner in a corner talking to a tall brown-haired dude. i walked up to them and waited—then saw that the dude was kevin nealon. holy shit. i love that guy. but i was on a mission. i waited until nealon paused to take a breath, then gave him a little push on his back. he glanced at me and stepped aside.

“hi!” i blurted to the owner, “i was in the earlier show and am hoping that i moved up—”

the owner shrugged. “sorry. i don’t remember you,” he said. “come back in 4 weeks.”

i felt repulsive and idiotic and was pretty sure that i was about to die as i waved goodbye and backed away. I AM AN IDIOT.

at least i’d touched kevin nealon.

his shirt had felt expensive. i think it was camelhair—hairy but soft.

or maybe that was just my palm.

I got up on the Comedy Store’s main stage last night. The show went well—I was fifth up—a good slot. I had a solid set with decent moments of kill and met some new faces, including one comic who had just been on the Tonight Show, and another who won a recent season of Last Comic Standing.

Halfway through the show, a new comedian from Jersey came out on stage wearing a cheap suit, did some ranty cheesehole schlock about wanting to “fistfuck breast cancer in its dime-sized asshole,” ran off stage, and came back wearing a strap-on 10″ dildo over his suit pants…he ran around, took a bow, removed the strap-on, stuck the dick in his mouth, and slobbered into the mic, “I love this thing!” Apparently.

The backstage green room was porno slick—hi-gloss black and shiny with vanity lights, and in the middle, a 2′-high black piano-shaped table with a mirror top. A comedian told me that that 80s comics used to snort mountains of coke from it. I looked up close and yeah, there were deep razor line nicks all over it—click on the picture for a close-up. I considered rolling up a bill and sniffing around for Pryor’s leftover punchlines.

After my set I stepped out back onto Sunset. It was starry out but freezing and smelled like rain. Skinny hookers in 6″ heels and leather pants wobbled past on the sidewalk while frat boys in an Escalade drove by slowly to whistle. I walked around to the club’s outdoor bar. There was a famous comic hanging out. I ordered a gin and tonic and the bartender whispered, “That comic takes home a different woman every night…he likes the sluts.”

I sipped my booze and watched the bartender make a sloppy Long Island for a guy who was high as a kite. The guy took a sip, spit out some drink, shrugged, then walked away, apparently satisified…maybe he was hallucinating that he was in Napa….

This morning I have a splitting headache…not sure what gin the bartender used, but it must’ve been cheap shit—head’s thumping behind my ear…I keep reaching back there and expecting to feel Lars Ulrich’s foot. I am some kind of monster.

Today I leave work early to go stand in line in the rain at the Laugh Factory on Sunset…livin the dream.

In the 2 months that I’ve been in L.A. I’ve hit a ton of mics so far—some open and some booked—and without a doubt, most have been overbooked with too many comics. 3-hour shows are not uncommon here. Some bookers seem to think audiences can last that long, but of course they can’t, especially when faced with a good percentage of newbie comedians and an endless march of bad dick jokes. 2 hours maybe if they’re watching a high energy act like Robin Williams, but 3 hours? No way. NO WAY. The laugh chakra can only take so much in a sitting until it’s cooked.

On the other hand, these marathon shows build endurance, albeit painfully. Because you’re waiting and waiting in the back of the club, praying that you’ll be called up to the stage next (but you don’t know for sure if you will because of course there’s no lineup posted) and so your hopes are dashed when the next comic up isn’t you, or the one after that, or after that, over and over and over…then finally…2 hours in—and that’s early for this beast of a show—the MC approaches in the dark and says, “Hey: you’re up next. What’s your name, again?” Fantastic…it’s your time…except that YOU ARE FUCKING EXHAUSTED. Your nerves are raw. You’re dehydrated and starving and need a nap. But you’ve gotta muster it…because by now you know the audience is pissed off after being forced to sit for 2 hours. The MC gets on stage and tries to rouse some enthusiasm, but fails; it’s more of an apology for the marathon than a proper introduction for you. The audience seethes. They’re burnt, baby, BURNT…some have even left…and for those remaining, their Long Islands have long worn off, leaving them cranky as hell. Luckily you have a weapon: you KNOW the audience is pissed, so you can use that—use it by acknowledging it. You run up on stage and crack some jokes about this being the longest running show ever, that the audience members are saints for sitting so long, that you just can’t believe the number of dick jokes the comics have trotted out (“Unlike Paris Hilton’s vagina, they couldn’t fit another dick in here!”), and that every possible topic that could’ve been covered HAS been covered in the past 2 hours except maybe for (INSERT OBSCURE BUT HILARIOUS TOPIC HERE) and you’re off and running…the audience remains skeptical at first, but when you get your first laugh at 15 seconds, then another at 25, then turn up the energy so high that the agent trainee from Creative Artists wearing the $12 pink tie like a cheap Ari Goldberg at table 12 (yeah, I saw you, punk) laughs his ass off and dribbles O’Douls all over his pants, YOU’VE WON, BABY. 7 minutes speed by, you get the red light, hit the closer, and run off with a wave, 30 seconds early, giving high-fives to the back of the room, where the MC mutters with venom, “Way to bring them back.”

Congratulations. You just survived another one. For now. Muhahahahaha.

One 17′ U-Haul truck, 6 hired movers, 10 hours of driving in 90 degree weather, and a hundred unpacked boxes later, we made it to West Hollywood. Welcome to comedy central! The Comedy Store is only 2 miles away; and god, the Laugh Factory is just down the street. The weather has been in the high 70s with very little smog. Locals have been incredibly supportive and sweet (except for a handful of hipster douches in Silverlake…put down your cigarettes and stop looking so emo-ironic for just one second, PLEASE).

I did a short set at Elderberries, a lively mic run by Rebecca O’Brien (Jimmy Kimmel, NYPD Blue) and the crowd was great. The opening musical guitar act was a woman who looked familiar—then suddenly I realized it was Heather Stewart, a classmate from my old high school. I should add that my high school is 215 miles away—what are the odds? Apparently quite good.

Also caught über-talented Rick Shapiro at Vlad the Retailer on Melrose. Vlad’s is a bizarre storefront of arty objects that might be for sale — I’m still not sure — with a small comedy/performance/smoking room in back. Rick lasted 2 hours and 45 minutes. My ass was hurting by the end, but his riffs, stream-of-consciousness, and performance artesque moments were worth it. The guy knows how to blend crowd work and written material, and he’s a dynamo on the stage (or at Vlad’s, the 6×6′ slab of wood). Highly recommended. But bring plenty to drink. My Colt-45 was empty 15 minutes in. Oh, and people smoke (and by “people”, I mean EVERYONE), so if you’re asthmatic, wear a mask.

The cellphone photo above is from our balcony—you can see the Santa Monicas (that’s Runyon Canyon in the background). Click on it to zoom. I’ve heard celebs go up there to hike and sweat. I can’t WAIT to run them over with my bicycle!

That’s all. Not bad for week 2.

Yes, it’s true—my comedy-partner-in-crime KayDee Kersten and I are moving to L.A. July 31st.  The reasons for moving are many—more time with family, a more vibrant performance art scene, and of course, California’s most challenging comedy fishbowl. I’m so excited I could scream—check back here in August for the beginning of a side-by-side comparison of comedy in San Francisco vs. Los Angeles!—but I’m also already missing SF’s hills, fresher air, food (A16, Spork, Cav, Papalote), bars (Zeitgeist, Alembic), and our friends. We’ll be living near the foot of Runyon Canyon in West Hollywood about one block from Sunset—know of any breakfast spots we should hit? Oh, and where can we find a good plastic surgeon? Haha

Our last pro comedy show in SF is Wednesday July 21 @ 8PM with me, KayDee, and a cast of SF’s most hilarious comedians. Only $10 gets you in—swing on by for some laughs and drink!

And if you’re looking to get us a going-away gift, how about some jam made with
Lady Diana’s hair? Oh my god, yum!

Last year I traveled to watch an evening of Performance Art in Los Angeles. A man climbed onto the stage and sang Glenn Fry’s The Heat is On from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack. It was pitch-perfect. And I was pissed. This was the man’s idea of Performance Art? I was so disappointed.

But I wasn’t surprised. The Performance Art moniker has been endlessly appropriated by mainstream American artists who either aren’t aware that Performance Art has its own history that’s distinct from the histories of other arts, or else they just don’t give a damn and are looking for a cheap way to make bland poetry, music, dance, circus acts, and other “performing arts” sound more sexy.

Take this example—a flatulent work entitled ‘Performance Art Dance Piece’ in which three “dancers” attempt tired choreography that employs the same uninspired modern and contemporary dance vocabulary we’ve seen again and again. The men have little dance training, judging from their rickety turns, sloppy footing, poor spotting, lack of centers, Oompa Loompa groundwork, and newborn balance. But here’s the thing: if these unfortunate negatives had been taken to their extremes—if the dancers’ bad technique had been pushed to the forefront until the trio became abstract drunks trying to find their footing, or mentally challenged monks doing bizarre kung fu, or gods making an obvious attempt at reordering the dirt universe that the artists were mindlessly kicking up—this piece could’ve been transformed from bad dance into a unique Performance Art piece with its own internal structure and logic that demanded the audience “figure out” the spatial-movement-narrative language of the artists. But the movement, being so clearly Dance with a capital D, and choreographed with so many of the dance clichés we’ve all seen before, has left the “figuring out” pre-figured for us; we see the recognizable, codified movements and know instantly that this is Dance—which means the only mystery remaining for us is why anyone bothered to film the piece at all. There’s a fine line between bad art and good Performance Art, but this piece is simply proof again that the lazy fix for shitty art has become to label it Performance Art, then wait for someone to show up and clap.

Given its Dadaist, Anarchist, and anti-consumerist roots, I am all for Performance Art defying/defiling its own definitions and conventions, as it should—which is why the dilution of its name by arts that appear to be dying slow, painful deaths thanks to predictable, self-referential, and uninspired works makes me queasy.

I view definitions of Performance Art with suspicion—which is why it’s with a little self-loathing that I give you the Scotch Wichmann Performance Art manifesto, previously unpublished—and maybe it should’ve stayed that way.

I just couldn’t wait to show you these links:

Columbia University valedictorian admits stealing jokes from Patton Oswalt for his commencement speech. LOSER.

Official recipe for making brownies from the Pentagon. Section 3.2.8: “Dextrose shall be anhydrous or dextrose hydrate.” YES SIR!

And I just can’t get enough of Justice Yeldham playing the edge of a sheet of glass. Holy shit this one’s amazing.

Performance Art is alive and well in Southern California, thanks to my old performance art mentor John White—the performance artist’s performance artist—who is hosting a new performance series called 5x5x5 in Ventura. If you like Performance Art, Surrealism, Dada, sideshows, my-tongue-in-your-cheek hi/lo counter-counter-counterculture, or just “What the f*ck did I just witness?” moments, don’t miss this show this Friday, May 7 at 8PM when 4 performers and I will unveil brand new works.

In past pieces I’ve eaten trash, cut off my index finger, given birth to a chair, been slapped repeatedly by a 6’4 red head, and spit bullets while bouncing up and down on a piece of air heating duct (that was a noisy one). Don’t miss it!

5x5x5 Performance Art Series Hosted by John White — FREE! Friday May 7 @ 8pm at The Sylvia White Gallery, 1783 E. Main Street, Ventura, CA, Tel. 805-643-8300

Gather the key ingredients for your next meal without having to leave your bedroom/bathroom/garage! The Natural Harvest cookbook is packed/stuffed/crammed with mouthwatering semen recipes. Author Fotie Photenhauer (if that is her real name) claims to be a nurse, so she probably knows her way around a creampie, if you know what I mean. Don’t miss her juicy interview. Forget condoms; break out the salad bowl!

postscript: i love the first comment this post got. but i dont see what the big deal is. we humans consume tons of animal products: ice cream, sausage, entrails, pig feet, brain, tongue, fish skin…looking at it that way, i would actually feel more comfortable eating my own jizz because i know where it came from, and what is/isn’t in it. your man-juice isn’t going to suddenly start containing mercury; if it is, you’ve already got way bigger problems. google it and you’ll see that spunk is harmless with 7% of your RDA potassium plus protein, with not enough of anything to kill you.  millions of swimming sperm? big deal. eat yogurt and you’re downing billions of probiotic bacteria in one sitting.  besides, lets get real: you dudes were all teenage boys at one time. and teenage boys are curious motherfuckers. who masterbate constantly. and will eat anything.  so, men—let’s not pretend like this cookbook is something that we don’t already all know about. right? hello? anyone still there?

Available here.

If only they were scratch and sniff.  And too bad they’re not available for people—I know a few assholes that could use one.