I just rolled out of bed here in Provincetown-- the land of flip flops and saltwater taffy -- and made a big pot of coffee. God, I love coffee! There is just nothing better than a hot cup of strong coffee to clear away the cobwebs in your brain and help you shake the cosmic Etch-A-Sketch and start each day with a fresh, blank screen! And honey, in this town, I need a fresh new start everyday! It has slowly dawned on me that no matter how good my show is, no matter how great the reviews, I am starting with a new batch of tourists every few days and all that hardwork and positive word-of-mouth goes right into the trash like useless, soggy coffee grinds. Yep, no matter how genius my show may have been last night, I have to once again get in full rodeo clown/whore and literally BEG people to come see it tonight!

You know that ad-libbing and improv are my forte', so when I am on the street I can always entertain people and get them to stop and take notice. People will stand there for ten minutes or so, cracking up. Finally, I will turn to them and say, "My street show is better than most of these bitches' stage acts -- if I can make you laugh like this out here when I'm not even trying, just imagine my show!" Usually they end up buying tickets, but not always. When families with young children walk by I say, "Stay in school, kids -- get a real job!" You have to give back, right?

Most people want to take photos. I usually say, "Sure! But why just PRETEND that you are having fun? Come see my fucking show and make some real memories!" They almost always just smile and ignore this as they take their picture. When a young teenager takes a photo with me I always chirp, "Say MySpace!" and then add, "You do realize that when you're talking to a 14 year-old girl on MySpace, it's really a 47 year-old man, right?" Many people take pictures of me from all the way across the street or while they are still walking, like I'm a zoo animal that could pounce and rip open their neck at any moment. Hmmm, maybe they're smarter than I thought.

Last night, a chunky woman in her mid-sixties with tight yellowing gray curls walked up and looked at me like I was something hanging on a gallery wall that could not see her back. She was in cornflower blue walking shorts, beige orthopedic shoes, the ever-present Cape Cod t-shirt (some folks go hog wild and get a hoodie!) and coke-bottle glasses. "Hi!" I say to her. Nothing. "Want to see a funny show?" I ask. "I don't know," she whines, "Give me a little free sample!" It's a show, bitch, not fudge, I think to myself. Then I figure, what the hell, and tell her one of the jokes that always gets a big laugh at my show. She just stands there, then says, "And?" To which I say, "That's it!" "Well, I don't get it" she sneers. I look over and her friend (neice? granddaughter? nurse?) has her face all screwed-up, like she just smelled shit, and starts slowly shaking her head in disgust. "I wouldn't pay ONE dollar to see your show!" croaks the hateful prune.  So I decide to handle this like the lady I am. I turn back to the old woman and say...

"WHY DON'T YOU SHOVE IT UP YOUR FUCKIN' ASS!? I DON'T NEED TO TAKE THIS SHIT FROM SOME OLD BITCH WHO LOOKS LIKE AN EXTRA FROM 'MAMA'S FAMILY'! LISTEN, DON'T TAKE IT OUT ON ME BECAUSE YOU LIVE IN IDAHO AND YOU HATE YOUR FUCKIN' LIFE!"

Yep, the docile white tiger just went for Roy's throat. The poor guy in the Goofy costume, finally lost it and kicked the bratty little kid who refused to stop punching him in the crotch. I did it for the sweaty immigrant back in Los Angeles dressed as a Subway sandwich who keeps cheerfully waving at passing traffic despite the constant barrage of verbal abuse and snickers from assholes in SUV's who think they're better than him. That sweaty Subway sandwich is no different than Meryl Streep to me. Show biz is show biz, honey.

As the unsuspecting granny practically runs away in her cumbersome comfortable shoes, her polyester-encased thighs rubbing together with such speed and force that they threaten to burst into flames, I lovingly add the cherry on top of my delicious Hate Sundae when, at the top of my lungs, I yell...

"HEY, AT LEAST I DIDN'T CALL HER A CUNT!"

People rush up and we sell at least 15 more tickets.  Good times!