August 23, 2010
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Knife.
I’m not even going to set this one up. I’ll tell you exactly what happened right off the bat. I had a knife pulled me, while on stage, at a Biker BBQ.
A best friend of mine, Corey Graves calls me at 5:30 on Saturday August 21:
“Hey dude Eddie asked me to do this Biker BBQ, are you in?”
The Eddie that Corey speaks of is a comedian who says he isn’t a comedian, but a “funny hoodlum.” And I always believed it, but I now I saw it. He has lived all over, from the basements of Comedy Clubs to, apparently, a Hell’s Angels compound. He’s a comedy veteran and a staple at the Providence Comedy Connection. He’s also fucking crazy, but in the most endearing way. And would absolutely book a show like this and find it to be a good idea and make me, not the most masculine, go up first.
“Yeah dude! Where is it?” I say giggling and excited without even thinking about the situation I’m about to walk into.
I get the directions and begin to drive there. My heart is racing, I’m elated. I see this as a storytelling show. In my head I’m telling myself, “When you’re famous and people ask you about past shows this is one you can tell people.” I throw the windows down in the car and pump up The Gaslight Anthem and start trying to figure out my set. That’s when I hit a pothole on the speedway of my creative mind. What the fuck do the toughest biker’s with a “Gangland” special on the History Channel find funny?
Corey and I are sitting by our cars about a mile away from the “compound” and we can hear the band playing ZZ Top. And we’re trying to talk ourselves down from the proverbial ledge, chain smoking and releasing the most nervous giggles sound has ever vibrated to. At first we’re telling each other our sets. Then we’re talking about how its nothing, its another show. Then we’re like we’ll be fucking rock stars, they’re going to love us. And we start getting confident.
Eddie shows up with two other comics, Heath and Brian Beaudoin. Brian, one of the funniest people I know, looks at me as we’re walking up to the party and says, “I’m only going to say this once Shaun, comics dream of shows like this.”
Let me set this ridiculous scene up for you. We walk up to this house and there is a horse stable to our right. Oh wait, I forgot the 9 or so men in orange shirts that are the security for this get together. Everyone is very hospitable they give us beers, they shake our hands, they crack jokes and smile. They all look like the toughest people I’ve ever met. There is a Confederate flag hanging up on the house. People are all in lawn chairs. There is a giant pig roaster. There are women there who look like they stepped out of a Warrant music video 25 years too late. The men look older than my parents but are probably younger and would probably kick my ass faster than I say my name. As soon as we start walking to the stage four or five people light this massive 14 foot bonfire. Oh yeah and the stage is about 5 feet off the ground.
Eddie says I’m up first. He makes one halfhearted joke and then I go up. I start talking, there is a humungous fire burning in front of me, and all of the people aren’t even close to me. I know they can’t hear me. But as a comic I realize this isn’t the ideal show, so I decide to grin and bear it and just do my time and get off. Not two minutes into my set I look to my right and there is a very drunk behemoth with maybe four teeth and a redder face than the label of his favorite beer (Budweiser, duh). He’s is staggering forward and to his right towards me with a 4 or 5 inch switchblade in his hand up in the air. This happened right after one of my first punchlines, I still think this is playful and I ask him if he couldn’t find a lighter so he just raised that instead like it was a rock concert. He didn’t even process my sentence.
“I just want you off the fucking stage,” he says in a slobber driven exclamation, his eyes dead but filled with hate.
I laugh and continue with my set. Then the head PA guy takes the mic from me and starts chiming in on my jokes. I look forward again and that knife-wielding alcohol soaked man is close to the stage. The PA guy takes the mic again.
“Hey, Roscoe,” I now have learned drunk Hulk’s name.
“WHAT!?”
“You got to settle down and stop barking at him.”
“Purr, purr purr!!”
I can’t even believe what’s happening. Roscoe is now purring at the PA guy. But he does leave.
I take the mic back and start telling a story that I know will eat up time, is pretty funny and then get me off the stage. Not another two minutes later, Roscoe is back and his knife is raised like Mel Gibson in “Braveheart.” He tries to hop up on the stage.
At this moment I am terrified. I start saying everything that is coming into my head. Things like:
“He’s still got a knife. He’s hoping on stage. What should I do? Why isn’t anyone doing anything? What do I do? He has a knife. Um, I’m going to give it back to Eddie. Yeah I’m giving it back to Eddie. My name is Shaun and thanks for threatening my life today!”
They shut down the show. No more comics, the band was coming up. I did 6 minutes and had a man named Roscoe come at me with a knife and then they shut down the comics for the night. It was an unnerving experience and something I will never forget. Roscoe will hilariously haunt my dreams. My only regret is that I wish I just had balls of steel and started making fun of Roscoe. But then again, if that happened I probably wouldn’t have been writing this now. Thanks comedy, one good story after another.
