SNYDERMANIA: tHE coMedY GuyS

Thursday, June 20, 2013

tHE coMedY GuyS

I give you the COMEDY GUYS. The five of us did a lot of comedy in the 80s. But now we don't care what the temperature is. More often than not, we performed well past midnight, for a handful of drunks, at the smallest of small-time clubs of LA and Hollywood. We had a few adventures. For example, we were with Rosanne Barr the night before she got her big break on the Tonight Show. I should clarify that when I say we "with" Rosanne Barr I mean to say we were having a beer with her. Our comedy careers all ended a couple of decades ago. We've all moved on with our day jobs audience members suggested we refrain from quitting. One of us is a TV news cameraman, another is an airplane engineer, one of us is some kind of rocket scientist, another is a school district muckety-muck, and the last just quit his teaching job to write books and find a better direction in life and is writing this little blog entry when he really should be seeking for gainful employment.

No comments:

NORTHERN EXPOSURE

Goethe's final words: "More light." Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry: "More light." Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlight. Neon. Incandescent. Lights that banish the darkness from our caves, to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's field. Little tiny flashlight for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home- Lead Thou me on! Arise, shine, for thy light has come. Light is knowledge. Light is life. Light is light.

FIELD OF DREAMS

Well, you know I... I never got to bat in the major leagues. I would have liked to have had that chance. Just once. To stare down a big league pitcher. To stare him down, and just as he goes into his windup, wink. Make him think you know something he doesn't. That's what I wish for. Chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag. That's my wish, Ray Kinsella. That's my wish. And is there enough magic out there in the moonlight to make this dream come true?