Madison is one of my favorite rooms, the perfect convergence of hip and friendly.  But to get there, I have to do a couple one-nighters that are much lower on my list. Tuesday in La Crosse, Wednesday in Dubuque, Iowa.   Close to the gig, I realized I had left my nice stage shirts hanging on a door in my apartment.  I only do this a couple times a year, but the new shirts I but on the road add up and I own too many at this point.  So I went to Target to find something cheap.  Pickings were slim. I'm not a big person, and for some reason they have very few small shirts at places like Target and Wal-Mart.  Also at these places, everything runs large so even a medium sits on me like a baggy dress.  It's strange because when I go to higher-end stores like Gap or Banana Republic (okay, higher-end for me) the clothes run smaller.  At those places I often have to get the medium because I can't fit into a small.  Are poor people uniformly larger than rich people?  And if so, why don't poor people just just knock down the rich people and take all their money?

    The drive from La Crosse to Dubuque is pretty – 125 miles winding through hills and small towns.  I'm not crazy about two lane highways though, shooting right alongside big trucks going the opposite direction.  It's a little stressful staying focused for an extended period and I get to Dubuque feeling tired.   

    This is one of those gigs where I never have to leave the building, just walk down to the hotel bar.  Every time I stay here they put me in the room next to the elevator and vending machines.  A few places see comics as big shots, but most treat us like freeloading slobs which, in general, is not inaccurate, but still hurts a little.  Inside the room I see there are iron burns on the carpet.  Who's ironing on the floor?  There's an ironing board in the closet. 

    With an hour until showtime, I lay down on the bed to take a catnap.  Before doing this I always set two alarms - my cell phone and the clock radio.  I like a back-up so I can relax.  Then I got up, washed, and chose a snug, black, knit t-shirt that I'd brought with me.  Not my regular look, but better than an oversized "Too Much Light makes The Baby Go Blind" t-shirt, my only other option.

    The night before I saw I would be working the week with C, whom I'd worked with before.  It was with him that I learned never to smoke pot before a show.  I'm not a big smoker.  Usually I turn it down, but once or twice a year, I'll accept an invitation.  So it was one night with C.

    It was a Saturday night.  The first show rocked for both of us and C invited me to "smoke a bowl" in his car.  I was feeling happy and sociable and thought, what the hell.  I said sure.  I've found whiskey (in moderation) to be a big help onstage – loosens me up a little – so I figured let's see what pot does.  We went down to C's car and I took a couple hits.  C said, "Come on, have another" and called me a pussy.  But what man alters his course because another questions his manhood? 

    This one, it turns out.  I had one more hit.  We went back in the club and the late show was a very different experience.  I was rambly, or at least it felt like I was.  The road to each laugh felt tortuously long.  When they were quiet, I was sure they hated me.  I tripped over words.  I think I meandered, but maybe that was part of the paranoia.  I sweated through what was supposed to be one of the easiest shows of the week and when I left the stage and passed C waiting to go on he said, "Way to hold your smoke, dude."

    But now, when I went to say hi to him, I could see on his face that he didn't recognize me.  I introduced myself and reminded him we worked together.  He said hi, and we shook hands and I could tell he still didn't remember.  I mimed smoking a joint, not to remind him – he's a frequent smoker, so it wouldn't have been any help – but to explain his poor memory.  He got it and agreed. 

    I was a little insulted that he didn't remember me.  But then I remembered a couple months earlier when a comic showed up at a Chicago open mic and had to remind me he had emceed with me several months prior.  Even with the specifics, I barely remembered him.  That night, he went up after me, and someone later told me he had insulted me during his set.  Of course I missed it because I didn’t stay in the room to watch him. 

    Now one could say there's a nice symmetry here and I got burned just as I had burned someone else, and there's something to that.  But I remember most people I work with.  This particular emcee was forgettable, and we didn't spend any time together.  Still, there is something to the idea that it's easier to remember up the ladder than down. 

    When I lived in Ireland, an Irishman once complained to me about American insularity.  He said they followed our political scene but we knew nothing of theirs.  It's true.  I didn't know the name of their president, and if I learned it then, it didn't stick.  Yes, Americans can be a little selfish and ignorant.  On the other hand, America is the biggest, most powerful country in the Western world.  Of course we're going to be more visible to a little country of four million than it is to us.  How many Irishmen know the name of the President of Paraguay?