rule of threes


Thursday night.  The eye

In a dark, back corner of the bar, Roger, pissed, reprimanded Jack.  Jack grinned, embarrassed, a schoolboy talking to the principal.  He hid a bottle of Corona behind his back and nodded sheepishly at everything Roger said.  

Mike and I watched from a table.

“What’s he saying?” I asked.

“He’s telling Jack he’s getting too sloppy on stage.  He’s gotta cut back.”

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The eye.  Thursday night.  

I was playing Missile Command out front near the bar when I noticed tremors of laughter erupting from the main room.  Not just the inconsistent chirps of the regulars.  This was different.  This was the sound of people listening.  

I stood by Mike at the back wall of the main room.  

“Who’s that?” I whispered.


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Returning home, Cincinnati had never seemed so laid back, so peaceful.  I had been gone from the eye for over a week now, but my return was hailed by “Eeey! Jailbait! ” I was excited to be home, because that’s what the eye felt like now.  And I’d brought back a notebook full of bits.  

New York cabbies are crazy.  To them, the color red means blitz.  

New York is like the balls of America – it’s my favorite place, but it’s easy to get hurt.

The December 13 show went well, maybe my best show since the first one.  Smoke Alarm and Parking did well.  The audience was upbeat and a lot of the New York bits landed.  But while I was gone things had changed.  The eye had gotten new blood.

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