Davidoff - Road dog: life and reflections from the road as a stand-up comic

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This book is dedicated to my wife, who encourages me and shows me love. Her incessant nagging to finish this book is part of why it now exists. Youve helped me to care less about what I think and more about how I feel; for that I am indebted to you; also for other stuff, but if I were prioritizing, that would be even higher than doing laundry and stuffing bits of steel wool into the stove to prevent mice from entering the house. All jokes aside, I love you very much.

Its also dedicated to people all over this country, and in a few other parts of the world, who went out of their way to buy a ticket and make it to some club to sit in some dark room with a PA system and listen to what I had to say. I hope you were entertained. I take your time very seriously. I really appreciate you.

And to the hecklerswhat can I say? I hope you find the self-love you need to prevent you from crying out for no apparent reason in a room full of decent people, and stepping on my punch lines; until then, go fuck yourselves.

I would like to thank my friend Sam Sheridan, who inadvertently is also the most impressive human being I know. Thanks for encouraging me to write this, and introducing me to your, and now my, agent, David Kuhn. After reading this book Sam may regret doing both. Id like to thank David for pushing to find a publisher for this book. It wasnt easy. Id like to thank my mother for endowing me with a reflective capacity, and reinforcing that capacity by raising me in such a way that for the rest of my life Id likely have to spend some aspect of myself untying the strange knots of my childhood. To the Comedy Cellar (Estee, Ava, Noam): thank you for everything, but especially for providing me with a comedic home. You have no idea how meaningful that has been to me. To the Monday-night dinners with Andy, Dan, and Sandy: I cant thank you in an earnest way, as Id be eaten alive for having expressed any vulnerability, but suffice it to say youve made Monday evenings something worth looking forward tono small thing. Id like to thank Anthony Tambakis; your encouragement meant much to me. Id also like to thank Dom Irrera for his friendship, and for telling me that story about having found a slice of pizza in his pocket while playing Ping-Pong. To my agent, Justin Edbrooke, thank you for your professionalism and your support. Thank you to Jamie Masada, whose memory never ceases to bring a smile to my face. I miss you. A thank-you to my brother Orion for being there for me when I came back to New York from LA, a particularly low point in my life. Id like to thank the Tampellinis (Angela, John, Robert, David, and Pete) for making me feel like I have more family than I actually do. And last, but not least, the one, the only, the Can Do Kid, the great Bryan Callen; your friendship, warmth, hilarity, and generosity have never wavered. You are loved, mostly by yourself, but also by me, and many many others.

This is a true story, though some names and details have been changed.

Where to begin Im not a real writer. Im a bit dyslexic. Daylight saving time still confuses me, and I have a short attention span. I cant stand sitting for long periods of time. I was thrown out of high school for behavioral issues and will likely spend the rest of my life proving that Im better than the chaotic situation I come from, even though I will never actually feel that way inside. And yet, Ive always wanted to write a book. Why? Who knows? To prove to myself that I can? To discover the truth or get closer to it, whatever that means. To search. Dig. Find. Think. Question. Ponder. Feel. Here goes

ALSO this is not a collection of essays, but the chapters will not always follow one another in terms of narrative; thats just the way it came out of me. However, by the end, there will be a kind of continuitya dovetailing, so to speak. I will bring things back around in such a way that you will hopefully feel as though a story has been told.

The chapters have been named after the city or state in which the action or the reflection took place.

Fuck. I hate myself. Cigarette butts and mini-bottles from the minibar keep company with cocaine residue on the coffee table. I feel guilty. What am I doing with my life? What is life? I want to embrace it, but Im not sure what it is, and I dont think I know how. Maybe Ive been running from it for so long that Ive forgotten what it looks like. Sub-atomically, even dense matter is, for the most part, empty space. I guess thats kind of how I feel right now, like empty space. Im here, but Im not, like a ghost made of flesh and blood.

I worked last night, if you can call it work. Im a comedian. I was headlining a small venue at some hotel casino off the strip. Id mention the name, but whats the difference? Theyre all basically the same. Light reflecting off glittering glass walls, like risqu revue dancers in desert sequin tights, issuing promises they cant keep. Magnificent marble floors clashing with the sounds of bells and whistles, echoing from the Superman slots and the pai gow poker machines. Brilliant, dazzling, dizzying columns of light bursting into a billion pieces, seducing gamblers like mosquitoes irresistibly drawn to bug zappers. The most expensive free drinks in the world are given away here.

LAST NIGHT AT THE SHOW

Dov Davidoff! calls out the Playboy Bunny, introducing me to the audience as she recedes behind the red-velvet curtains. Exiting the hallway, I step out onto the stage, bathed in light that both blinds and illuminates. I think, What a strange symbol the Playboy Bunny is . The distant relative of a rodent with large ears and a bow tie has become so synonymous with sexuality that weve all just accepted it for what it is. I dont get it. Was Hugh Hefner sitting around thinking, You know, women are sexy but Id really like to fuck a rabbit ?

Reading the audience, I can spot the faces of the people for whom free table drinks are now a bitter irony. Their eyes are circled with dark rings but wide open like an owls. In some cases, theyve ended up here, at my show, as a consolation prize for having lost money in the casino. The pit boss said, Here, have two tickets to a comedy show on us.

Thats all? asks the loser with the heartbroken expression on the face.

The pit boss cracks a counterfeit smile. Tell you what you guys like buffets? Here ya go, he says, handing over two more tickets. On us. He winks, smiling like a reticulated python waving goodbye to a rabbit hell catch up with tomorrow. In Vegas, on us often means you just got fucked.

* * *

Like some kind of living history, these faces tell the story of how Las Vegas came to be an American cityone thats built on the backs of losers. Did these people really think theyd walk away winners? How the hell do they think these buildings got so high? Beware of shiny towers in the desert.

Their expressions register their nights reality, like small fish in a big bowl that have just discovered theres no way out. Depending on the beating these guys took, jokes will never be good enough. These guys are the owners of wallets that ran for office against blackjack tables and roulette wheels and lost by a landslide. Stage left, a bachelorette party celebrates the bride-to-be. Their hair-sprayed heads, covered with plastic penis hats, bobble back and forth to the rhythm of rum.