iThoughts

Being Funny

2011-04-13T07:03:00.000-07:00

The tough part about being funny is the days and hours and minutes right before getting on stage. I'm not talking about a big important show in front of hundreds of people. I'm talking about open mic night. A large part of being funny is staying fresh. To constantly come up with fresh material. Not the least of reasons being because so much of it is unusable. I spend a lot of time thinking, waiting, writing and hoping that lightning strikes and I've got a pen handy. When that doesn't happen and my open mic night is upon me, I've got to push myself hard to come up with something new before I perform. Preferably something signature that can be blown out into a whole bit with tangents and everything. But sometimes it's a small joke, or a resurrected joke that failed before but still seems usable. Which reminds me of a bit that I can use for tonight's open mic session. I better go write it before I forget it. That's the only way to keep moving forward as a comedian.

Boner tubs and depression dolls

2010-12-02T08:05:00.000-08:00

This country's real creative brainpower works for the drug companies. That's where the best and the brightest develop new illnesses for our victim-based economy. From dry eye and active bladder, to restless leg syndrome and old fashioned menstruation. It's like they've cured everything and now they're just making shit up.

But what I just don't understand is how their TV spots ever get the green light. American pharmaceutical ads are chock full of strange visuals. So much so, that sometimes I feel like I'm the ignorant one. Certainly I must be missing the obvious sexual overtones of two separate, side-by-side claw foot tubs on a hill. A man in one, his female partner in the other. The ad is for the erectile dysfunction drug Cialis. A drug for making a penis hard and erect. But why individual bathtubs? What is this - a 1958 sitcom with separate beds for husband and wife? Are they promoting good sex or secluded masturbation?

And what's going on with the Pristiq antidepressant windup dolls? Have you seen these spots? Usually a woman, with her family romping in the background, sits mesmerized by a tiny plastic windup toy that looks like her mini twin. The expressionless toy churns its feet rhythmically toward oblivion. The family gathers around and takes some mild pleasure in watching mom stare creepily as her Chinese import alter ego drones forward. This is the Pristiq version of mental health. Perhaps they want to discourage their users from original thought. Just keeeeeep taking the piiillllll. Or maybe they're alluding to the affects Pristiq delivers: numbness and ambivalence. A lobotomy in pill form. After an evening's onslaught of big pharma TV advertising, perhaps a lobotomy is just what the doctor ordered.

Less Than Seven

2010-11-28T16:13:00.000-08:00

When the movie Seven starring Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman came out in 1995, it was a hit. More than that, really. It changed the genre. Seven was so dark, literally and figuratively. A deranged, methodical madman, played to ominous perfection by Kevin Spacy, murdered his victims to the theme of the Seven Deadly Sins. Each victim was gruesomely tortured in a unique and unthinkable manner. The camera spared the audience no details.

Every scene in Seven was dirty. As in dirt. A patina of perpetual grime clung to the walls and windows in the backgrounds. Street scenes featured old and battered cars. It was always rainy. But that mood matched the theme. Depressing. Deranged. Hopeless. I remember when I saw it in the theater, the ending shocked me. I didn't see it coming. Neither did the detective, played by Brad Pitt. The killer set him up to receive a special delivery while they were together. His lovely wife's head in a box. I left the theater with an empty feeling. A pit in my stomach. All of the violence and the unimaginable ending was too much for me to feel like I'd simply watched an entertaining movie. It bummed me out. And that's what makes it a great film. To make the viewer feel as empty as the heart of its killer is an artistic achievement.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, my wife rented several movies to show to our daughter for the first time. We thought it would be fun to watch films with her that came out of our generation. Seven was in the mix. One quarter way through the movie our sixteen-year old became restless. I assured her that the film picks up the pace in a few scenes. The pressure was on. Could Seven pull it off? Will we make it to the scene where Brad Pitt desperately screams "What's in the box?!!" Eventually, our daughter lost interest. She knew this was our pick. So she politely informed us that there was nothing in the movie that she hasn't seen on CSI. We sheepishly agreed and turned off the TV.

So there you have it. What was once the edgiest psycho-thriller of its time is now a yawnway ticket snoozeville, according to the lmao text-set. With entertainment on-demand that includes blood thirsty shows like Dexter, CSI and True Blood, a classic taught thriller from the '90s like Seven is simply analog. I can't help but wonder what will bore our grandchildren.

We Get What We Want.

2009-12-16T07:55:00.001-08:00

I'm not special. And that's what keeps me moving forward. When I get sick of the never ending rat race at work or feel as though I'm not maximizing my personal potential, or failing to provide value-added deliverables which can be tracked through quantifiable metrics, I remember how a lot of gold comes from the Democratic Republic of Congo in Africa.

The DR Congo is where children and parents alike line up the on the side of crumbling muddy pits and toss up clumps of dirt to be sieved for tiny bits of gold. That gold moves through several layers of corrupt officials and offshore middlemen, and finally lands, among other places, in the velvet lined cases of America's malls. Those uneducated and barefoot children are lucky if they get anything for their work. The adults are usually paid with a bucketful of mud that may or may not contain any gold. A bucketful of MUD. It makes my qualms about my job seem like the fat little king in the Bugs Bunny cartoon who constantly demands hossenfeffer despite the lavish feast laid before him.

At the grocery store, I like to save money on food. When I see blueberries that cost more than three bucks a pack, I may feel indignant. Blueberries grow on bushes in Michigan. They're not rare. They should be rock bottom cheap. Then I remember the hands that picked them may have belonged to a 10-year old Mexican migrant worker. Not in Mexico. In Michigan. Working all day in the field. Living in squalor, with no sewage or hot water. In Michigan.

On the other side of the coin, it's important for growers to have access to child labor. It's more profitable for them. And that's important. Plus, I'm used to cheap fresh fruit on my table. Or as I like to call it, hossenfeffer.

Merry Christmas America

2009-12-15T10:26:00.000-08:00

Hey Christians! It's that time of year! Christmas is all up in our grill bringing on the joy of the season. Like a Sony Bravia 46-inch LCD HDTV priced UNDER a thousand dollars! That's 1080p, not 720p, yo. Let's just say "three wise men" were spotted doing the upgrade thang at Tar-jhay.

If you're looking to honor Our Savior's birth with exotic and lavish scents, then indulge in The One by Dolce & Gabbana for $55.99 (1.7 oz). Its unexpected hints of plum and vanilla pair seamlessly with the world's greatest unexpected pregnancy. Speaking of unexpected, don't make your guests crash in the gross manger thingy. Put down some coin for your peeps and let them rest their weary heads on a Natura Latex Harmony Mattress. This tree-hugging badboy blends soy-based and latex foams, helping reduce our dependence on uncool petro-chemicals. Petro-chemicals that come from Jesus' old stomping grounds. That is if the tankers can make it past those jerk pirates trolling the coast of Somalia! LOLz!

Which brings us back to Christmas. Don't be all procrastinatey and stuff this year! Jesus is checking Santa's list. You might not be on it. So CHARGE it!

At the Movies

2009-12-14T08:25:00.000-08:00

I'll judge a movie by its trailer all day long. This is one of the ways I decide which movies to see at the theater. I'm usually right. Sometimes I'm wrong.

The last two movies I saw at the theater were relative indies, The Road and Antichrist. The trailer for Antichrist lured me in with strange moments in slo-mo juxtaposed with anguished characters in a writhing wooded setting. The movie was the same, except more beautiful, more shockingly sexual, and more boring as hell. I mean c'mon! I get all the metaphor and statement crap, gimme some of that freaky deaky you promised in the trailer. Slooow and precious, beautiful and well-acted. I knew it! I was sucked in by the promise of Willem Dafoe, but left the theater feeling intellectually inadequate. Partially because I didn't get the talking fox part, and partially because I was totally entertained by the closeup depiction of a woman slicing off her own clitoris with a pair of rusty scissors. Art films... they're so artsy.

And The Road trailer promised a harrowing tale of grim and violent post-apocalyptic future. Viggo Mortenson is a low key bad ass and this movie's trailer underscored that. But at the same time, the trailer hinted at a fair amount of action. Not so in the actual movie. It was sloooowww... and painful and grim. As a man whose wife had bailed to her own death, Viggo played the role of the desperate father simply trying to not die. There were a few nasty marauders in the pic, but for the most part it was father and son narrowly evading lonely oblivion on a day-to-day basis. Pretty entertaining, but definitely could've used some more action.

I didn't see the trailer for Precious. Just a couple clips online here and there. That's all I needed. This movie made me a fly on the wall in the rotted suffocating heat of bleak ghetto life for one severely abused, undereducated, obese black girl. Wow. What a jaw-dropping performance by all, particularly M'onique who played the main character's ragingly abusive and equally neglectful mother. Where she pulled that performance from I can only guess. But if she doesn't win an Oscar for that, I'll be as pissed as the year Denzel won for Training Day.

AT&T the Great White Nope

2009-12-05T16:31:00.000-08:00

There's a TV spot for AT&T Wireless that has my attention. Not because it's creative or memorable or effective. But because it's all kinds of racist. However, I do believe it is unintended. But I could be wrong.

The AT&T spot in question has garnered moderate attention for casting Tyler Hansbrough, #13 draft pick for the Indiana Pacers. Never heard of Tyler Hansbrough? Perhaps you don't belong to the target demo. I trust that Mr. Hansbrough - with more than 20k FaceBook fans - enjoys enough recognition for AT&T's purposes, which is carving out a sizable chunk of the endlessly expanding social network universe. That's where AT&T is focusing much of their marketing, and this TV spot seems to be their flagship for that endeavor.

It illustrates a pig tailed li'l black girl who ain't got a friend in the world, 'cept her scrappy white mutt who jus' ran 'way. She's obviously sad that her dog has gone missing. So what's a po black chil' s'posed to do, 'cept nail crumpled li'l signs up 'round town? Not exactly a hopeful method of reuniting with lost pets. But unbeknownst to the po li'l black chil', a very connected and benevolent white guy, played by Hansbrough, has noticed her doomed analog plea and decides he should help. With his AT&T smartphone, he snaps a pic of her sign, and sends it out to his vast social network. We then cut to a series of scenes that shows young white folk getting Twitter and FaceBook updates on their tricked out mobile devices. They spring into action!

Every person holding a mobile device in this spot is white. Each become part of the plan to help tall whitey help po li'l black chil'. Meanwhile, the black folk are relegated to analog ignorance in every scene. Sure, Mr. Hansbrough's character hangs with some brothers, but they appear to be oblivious to his charitable act. One quick scene has a white woman showing her phone display to a black woman, as if to ask if she's seen the dog. The sista cluelessly shakes her head no.

Eventually, the dog surfaces with three young people - two whites, one black. Guess who's transfixed by her mobile device? The white girl, of course. She got the Twitter update and immediately recognizes the dog! What's her black friend doing while the white girl solves the mystery? Petting the escaped dog and smiling her clueless ass off.

Finally, we see the po' li'l black chil' dejectedly walking home after a day of fruitless, primitive search. But who's waiting triumphantly on the stoop of her home? Mr. NBA himself. With whitey the dog. Po li'l black chil' is so happy she doesn't even feel endangered by the ivory stranger parked on the porch steps. And why should she? He's the perfect role model for blacks: Kind, white, and in the NBA.

Post script: I can't decide if it's clever or pedestrian, the way AT&T embedded no less than four of their signature "more bars in more places" into the scenes of this spot. Most viewers will see the architectural arches that overtly imply more bars. But three other instances are much more subtle, if not subconscious. What is this, the fifties? Subconscious advertising cues have never been proven effective and are more myth than real practice. If AT&T is trying to be a leader in 21st century communications, they can start by leaving unintended racism and Madmen-style legend behind in the last century.

2009-09-18T08:18:00.000-07:00

I'm on CNN.com reading the day's news and events. I knew before I logged on it would be a gruesome affair. Lately, there have been some seriously heinous events reported. I'm no sociologist, but it seems to be pretty bad compared to even five years ago. I am unclear as to whether there are more horrible things happening every day, or if the media is just reporting more of it. So allow me to give some examples of what story lines I am reading on ONE page of the news online.

Police: Mom Tried To Suffocate Daughter In Kudzu Patch

Baby Abandoned In Storm Drain Dies

Metro Atlanta Soldier Killed In Afghanistan

Man Accused Of Slicing Cat's Throat

Contractor Not Guilty Of Dog Spray Painting

Pandemic Flu Vaccine Production To Fall Short

Woman Catches Fire During Surgery, Dies

Bees Sting Man More Than 200 Times

Gov't Stands By As Mercury Taints Water

Man Says He Hid Wife's Body For 2 Years

Wow, quite a news day.

Click on lives

2009-09-17T08:47:00.000-07:00

Garden hose duct-taped to mouths full blast. So much, in so many ways. Always at our fingertips, in our pockets, on our skin, in our wallets and under our eyelids. More flavor, more access, more use, more input, more opinion, more friends than we really have. More beat and more chocolate than ever before. Our circles set us free while they entwine us in a tangle of our own reflection. We look good, but we feel bad. Scan it send it click it work it. Touch screen speed and mainstream greed and bits of the world that bring empty calories to our plate. Hate spills and eyes lock, children learn, we hate them for it. Days to come morphing grotesque, but still we pound the rocks.

Extreme is the new regular

2009-08-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

You cannot deny that food is extreme now. Extreme is the rule, nearly passé. Juice boxes, pizza crusts, nachos, chocolate beverages. All deliver – according to their packaging and marketing – a maximum explosion of mouth-blasting chow downness with every cheese-filled, bacon-packed, mega-sized mouthful. Today’s edibles are commonly ladled with illusory flavors like Taco Bell’s Volcano Double Beef Burrito and Burger King’s Angry Whopper with Angry Sauce. I have no point of reference for Angry Sauce. Is it extracted from the frothy fat rolls of an outraged Bariatric patient? We’ve become so imbued with flavor extremeness that today’s packaged food must top yesterday’s bombastic caricatures of sustenance in order to be noticed by a bored and spoiled populace of overeaters.

This uniquely American affliction has spread to chewing gum. Spearmint, peppermint and cinnamon are cast aside like outdated analogs to make room for Rain, Cobalt and Flare. I had to read the packaging carefully before buying a pack of Wrigley’s uber-hip 5 Gum. Because of the satin black packaging, I wasn’t sure if it was gum or a pack of French cigarettes. The closest thing to flavor copy, “Experience the warm and cool winter sensation of 5 gum.” A bold, if not nebulous, claim. Except it tastes like chemically engineered, mint-like putty. That’s what happens when they “extreme” a classic product like peppermint chewing gum. It’s already perfect.

Are we so over-stimulated and so easily bored that gum makers must resort to reformulating, renaming and repackaging a product as perfect as spearmint gum? What will our grandchildren eat/drink/chew? I don’t want to know the answer. We need to slow down, eat simple, and just chill the fuck out.

Snow: a Force for Good

2009-01-09T07:54:00.000-08:00

Snow is our friend. And until TV weather forecasters realize this, we will continue to suffer their stressful warnings about an impending dusting. Snow does things that only snow can do. It covers up dog poop in my back yard. Snow slows things down. When we get hit with a few inches overnight, I don't have to be into work on time. Sometimes, when it snows during the day, I leave work early. And I go sledding. There's nothing like a sled hill after a snowstorm. The electricity in the air affects everyone. I used to go for the sledding. Now I go for the atmosphere.

Yeah, shoveling snow kinda blows. But I like the way the sidewalks look after they get shoveled. Nice and neat, defined and clean. Snow allows neighborhood kids to make some pocket money from neighbors. Snow feeds entire families because dad wakes up at 4 a.m. and plows as many driveways as possible. In northern Michigan, a snowstorm attracts snowmobilers with pockets full of cash to throw at elk jerkey, batteries, sandwiches and hotel rooms. They come in trucks and SUVs equipped with new snow tires they bought from Sears and Belle Tire. Just try to get your vehicle serviced at a tire store after a snowstorm. You'll be watching Montel on the TV in the waiting area for hours. That means mechanics are working and earning money. They're installing parts made in factories and delivered by drivers who get paid by the hour. Snow is one of the greatest natural economic engines known to man.

Snow gives an opportunity to spend time with your kids while they're still kids. And they get to spend time with you while you feel like a kid. Snow is good and pure and positive. If only the local news reported it from that angle.

Excuse Me, Is This Your Knife in My Back?

2008-09-09T13:13:00.000-07:00

There aren't many standup comedians who I like. I don't mean their acts, I'm talking about the actual person. I can count on one hand the number of comedians who have tolerable personalities. The most common offending attribute is nonstop talking and not listening. Typically, they talk about other comedians and how they aren't funny/shouldn't be in the position they're in/slept their way to the top, whatever. After Eliza Schlesinger won Last Comic Standing in summer 2008, not one comedian I spoke with said she deserved the award. They talked about how her boyfriend is a successful comedian and how he must have kicked open the doors for her.

None of them said, "I'm glad she won because I know her." That's how I feel about it. I'm glad she won because I spent a weekend working with her at the Comedy Castle in Royal Oak six months before she scored a spot on the show. She was just another comedian trying to break out. Which is what she still is, after winning the big prize - just another comedian trying to break out. Last Comic Standing is no American Idol when it comes to producing the Next Big Thing. It's a silly show that entertains millions for a few months and the winner is cast aside for more important TV viewing like America's Got Talent. So I don't know why we can't just congratulate her. It's not like she actually won anything important. Throw her a bone! Her boyfriend did. Ooohh! Snap! Seriously, she has no business being a comedian. Have you heard my latest bit?

Talk to Your Doctor... About Your Doctor

2007-11-14T13:11:00.000-08:00

After the attacks of 9/11 we wondered how it was possible for our country to be so vulnerable. Most people settled on "lack of imagination." Nobody could've possibly dreamt of such a horrific scenario.

It's not that we don't have the creativity. There's plenty to go around. But the real creative brainpower is busy working overtime at the big pharmaceuticals. You've heard the term "brain drain?" Well the drain is flowing directly into the marketing offices of drug companies. After developing multiple drugs for every common ailment years ago, Big Pharm finally exhausted the list. But there was still billions of dollars to be made. So they started getting creative. Who else could have come up with "restless leg sydrome?"

It all started when they gave complicated names to everyday afflictions. Acid Reflux DISEASE, instead of heartburn. Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder, instead of shitty parents. Did you know that there's a little yellow goblin and all his rowdy friends living under your toenail? Don't worry, there's a pill for that. And you have to take it for six to nine months - about the same time it would probably go away on its own.

But the cherry on the sundae comes in the form of a radio spot I heard while driving home from work. It had all the trappings of a drug commercial: sympathetic voiceover, soft menacing music track, and a buildup to the problem. "If you think you have an addiction to your prescription, you're not alone. Many people struggle with this problem. It doesn't have to be this way. Talk to your doctor. Only your doctor can deliver the care you need. It's private and nobody else has to know."

So after pumping you with prescription medication, only your doctor can help. Like asking your pimp to get you off the streets and into a safe environment. Now that's creative thinking. Or evil. I'm not sure which. Ask your doctor.

Opening for Tracy Morgan in Detroit

2007-01-23T13:19:00.000-08:00

When you’re a big name comedian—a star with a following—the announcer doesn’t mispronounce your name. So when I was backstage waiting to be introduced and make my big entrance in front of a standing-room-only crowd at the Magic Bag Theater in Ferndale, I was not at all surprised when he did just that. He mangled it. Regardless of the fact that he got it right for the first show three hours earlier. Regardless of the numerous times I clearly pronounced it for him. But I’m not a big star. And the show must begin. And as the opening comedian for headliner Tracy Morgan, my name is mostly irrelevant.

What is relevant is a house packed with paying customers—many standing in the side aisle, shoulder-to-shoulder, front-to-back because the chairs and tables were claimed long before they walked in. This multi-racial crowd of urban thirtysomethings happily parted with $25 each after waiting in line in sub-arctic temperatures. They were eager to see the man who made his fame playing—among others—the effeminate, self-absorbed buffoon Brian Fellows on Saturday Night Live. But first, they had to watch me. I was the opener.

As the opener, you take the bullet. That’s your job. People don’t really care about you. So you better get their attention. More importantly, you better be funny. And without ever hearing my set, Tracy Morgan decided I had the right stuff to take his bullet. The night before, while I was basking in his fame, disguised as his drinking buddy at a hipster lounge, he leaned back, looked me in the eye and said, “You a cool muh-fuh. Why don’t you do a guest set for me tomorrow?”

Perhaps it was his comedic instinct. Perhaps it was the numerous vodkas and cranberry he drank as star-struck patrons awkwardly blurted out that they thought he was awesome. Whatever it was, I recognized the rarity of both the moment and the invitation and said, “Absolutely! Really? I mean, yeah!” I had just met him hours earlier. I was visiting my friend, comedian J. Chris Newberg, backstage before their first show. Newberg is close-to-famous in his own rite. That Friday night, he was the opening act for Tracy Morgan.

Between sets, in a graffiti-covered green room, we listened to Tracy Morgan lecture on what it takes to be a star comedian. He’s a natural-born preacher. And a preacher expects you to sit and listen. “I’m Tracy Morgan! Are you Tracy Morgan? No! That’s my name! Tracy Morgan!” And then listen some more. “You think I got it easy? You think this was all just handed to me? Hell no! But I believed in myself! My daddy used to beat my ass! Humor’s just a way to cope!” Maybe that’s why later in the bar he felt comfortable enough to ask me to be part of his show. I’d listened to him.

On Saturday, I had doubts as to whether I should follow through with it. Even though the owner of the theater witnessed the personal invitation, I wondered if the offer would be valid when everyone was sober. On the phone, Newberg ripped at my flip-flopping. “Aaaaww! Does Baby wanna suck his baba and watch TV tonight? Is Baby sweepy? Or are you a man? How often does a famous comedian extend that kind of an invitation, you moron?”

When I arrived back at the theater, the door staff was waiting for me. They introduced me the sound man who would later butcher my last name. All I had to do was wait for show time. The first one came and went as a blur. The lights onstage were the brightest I’d ever experienced—I found that disorienting, as was the nagging fear that I’d left my fly down. The crowd of 250 responded well and I had a decent set. But Tracy Morgan arrived after I finished and never saw a single minute of it. Between the early and late show, he again dominated the conversations of everyone around him—my wife Kristi, the assistant manager, the staff. After ordering a gin and tonic he barked to the bartender, “I’m Tracy Morgan! Say my name! Say it!” The bartender cleared his throat and timidly obliged. “Trrracy Morgan?” “Dat’s right!”

Finally, they opened the doors for the second show. It was sold out. A seemingly endless flow of people filed in to crowd every last inch of space that had a view of the stage. Ten minutes before show time I said good bye to Kristi and left her at the bar.

Alone and backstage, I paced. That’s what I do before every show. The sound man poked his head in and yelped, “Five minutes, Paul!” My set was a jumble in my head. Words and phrases popped up and disappeared. A brief moment of panic, followed by a controlled flow of adrenaline and I was ready. I knew exactly what to say and how to say it. Tracy Morgan’s take-no-prisoners, hip-hop bravado had seeped into my attitude and I was going show him and the audience an in-your-face style of comedy that grabs them by the throat and doesn’t let go.

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for our special guest, Paul Pearshons…sen…jen…ski!” You’ve got be kidding. I wanted to choke him. Instead, I walked out and unleashed a blistering fifteen minute set. It felt good and tight, yet loose and smooth. Five-hundred people laughing hard at a joke you tell on stage is like slipping on Superman’s cape. I was right where I wanted to be, knowing somewhere in the shadows, toward the back of the room, my wife was watching.

I finished my set and introduced Newberg to more applause. Backstage, I spent twenty minutes more with Tracy Morgan, knowing I’d probably never talk to him again. And for a brief moment, he stopped preaching. We sat side by side on the couch, listening and laughing at Newberg’s material. He was killing them out there. I had done my job well. The bullets were few and the crowd was great. I felt fantastic. Then, in a rare moment of self doubt, Tracy Morgan turned his head, looked me in the eye and asked, “Do you think they think I’m funny?” I almost gasped. I couldn’t believe after all his bluster and hype he wanted my opinion—on anything, let alone on if the crowd thinks he’s funny. I answered as sincerely as possible, “Yeah, man. They think you’re funny. No question.” He just looked at the floor, “You really think so?” “Yep. They love you.” I reassured. “Ahhite,” he allowed.

As Tracy Morgan took the stage to raucous applause, I pushed my way through the crowd to the bar and found Kristi. The best part of my job is when I get accolades from her. She’s my biggest fan—my inside-the-audience feedback gauge—and knows my act as well as I do. She can tell when I replace a word with another and lets me know if it worked or not. Since this was a guest set, I wasn’t paid any money. Getting her opinion was my paycheck.

I found her. “Well, what did you think? Pretty good, huh?” There was no denying I had a great night. But her face didn’t have that glow. She crossed her arms, leaned back a little and replied, “I wouldn’t know. While you were onstage, Tracy Morgan stood right here and preached to me non-stop about what it means to be a comedian’s wife! I missed the whole thing!”