It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth by Steve Bluestein Page B

"Are you ok?" “NO! My dog is taking me for a drag."
     
    So guess who has an attack in the hotel room.... alone. I'm in the room and I'm on the floor unable to move because the pain is that great. The maid opens the door and sees me lying there... "OH, I'll come back later." And she walks out. I'm screaming. About that time Steve Altman walks by and hears me. He gets them to open the door. He drags me to my bed. I have pills for the pain but I have to do a show. Cathy is out shopping...naturally. I call her and ask her to pick me up a back brace. Steve insists I take the pill. I do and do the show stoned out of my mind.
     
    The next night we close. The shows sucked. Not because I was loaded, I wasn't. It was Sunday and the audiences were exhausted. It reminds me why I like writing so much. No one from South Dakota is in the room with me trying to figure out what I’m saying. We leave Monday morning... I take two pills to get me through the long drive home. But Cathy needs to stop at the outlet mall to return something she bought. I'm telling you we are serious shoppers. I am asleep in the car and wake up at the mall. I think we are in LA and get out. I realize that we are still in Nevada and decide to go inside and pee. I am flying like a kite. I get into the bathroom, remove my equipment and return it only to realize the plumbing had not shut off. I am now standing in the men's room with an 8 inch wet spot over my pee-pee and trying to think of creative ways to wet the rest of my pants and make it look like "It's supposed to be that way."
     
    I am wearing a hooded sweatshirt and no undershirt so I can't even take my top off and drape it over the leakage. So I pull my sweatshirt down over my crotch and walk out with my hand in the sweatshirt pockets. I get to the car, where Cathy and Steve are waiting. "It's the perfect end to a perfect week.", I say and I lift the sweatshirt. Steve Altman is sipping a Starbucks and does the Danny Thomas spray take on the inside of the windshield. Cathy is laughing so hard she almost wets her pants. I crawl into the car like Quasimodo and Cathy heads back to LA with her two Steves.
     
    We talk all the way home about a film we want do, about writing together. We just talk. We just love each other. We cannot wait to get booked together again. This is the best week we have ever had on the road! And it's then that I realize that back pain and the bad view and the ugly room and the horrible audiences and the mispronounced name really doesn't matter. What really matters is good friends and good times... and THAT I had this week!
     
    I'm still in a back brace.
     
    March 21, 2006 -  THE NEW YORK TRIP  Part I
     
    I know many of you think I am making this shit up so I want to start by swearing on a stack of bibles that what I am about to tell you is true, it happened and I am not making up a single detail. It all happened just as I'm about to tell you.  This story is long. I'm going to tell it in 3 parts... this is part one, the prologue.
     
    THE SET UP
     
    My good friend and publicist, Richard Gordon, called me and asked if I wanted to do a TV talk show that shot in NYC. They would pay airfare, limo, and food plus pay me 1500 dollars to do the show. "Are you out of your mind!!! Sure I'll do it."  Now I'm not exactly a household name... "Toilet" is more of a household name than I.  And so I thought it strange that they would offer ME this deal.  However, I was not looking a gift horse in the mouth and I took the gig.... but with a suspicious eye.
     
    So the day I'm to leave they send a limo to my house. I had asked to fly on American Airlines to get the frequent flier miles. (The airline was offering triple frequent flier miles if you flew that month) And I got my wish, first class. I got to the airport and a woman was waiting for me, she escorted me to the first class lounge and waited until the plane took off. All the time I'm wondering when the hammer is going to drop on this farce