Professional First, Degenerate Second

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• September 9, 2022

I am a professional first, and a degenerate second. If I think on it, these ways of mine could be traced back as far as grade school. If I had any gift of intellectualism, it was merely the discipline to not procrastinate. For the most part, I didn’t. Annoyingly so to my siblings and some friends. The truth is, this desire to get shit done was mostly anxiety driven. I knew if I got my assignments, I could put them out of my mind and fully enjoy myself. Though, sometimes in my writing classes, I would merely get excited at the prospect of drafting a story, I’d begin the assignment weeks in advance.

My parents, or more specifically my mother, since she was a stay at home mom when we were young, had us do our homework as soon as we got home. Of course, in the moment you were agitated, “but I just got home from school, can’t I get a break! Geez!” We’d snack and do homework, then we were unleashed to the outdoors (weather permitting), home for dinner, and then, we’d be very pleased there was no homework to do. While my mom and I have always been the readers of the family, I watched as much TV as anyone. We all did.

Even in my college years when I was flirting with being a total stoner, I was often game to drink or smoke, but usually only after I had finished my school work. I took college much more seriously than high school too. I no longer slept through half my classes and was hell bent on maintaining a 4.0 GPA. Getting fucked up was so much more rewarding when it was in the wake of your accomplishments for the day or the week. I could see very easily, even back then, how someone could slip into benders, enthralling, dangerous, reckless, problematic.

Don’t mistake me for a “work hard, play harder” person. I’m more of a work hard, play equally as hard. You know, balance.

My heart feels for these kids at the casino. A week in a casino, even if the gig is a sweet one, is a long time. It’s no surprise to me Elvis, who was duped into a residency contract at Vegas by his scumbag manager, was hopped on a shit ton of pills, including morphine. Another week or so… I could see myself going, “I need to feel something.” There’s a deafening quality to a casino. Not in an audible sense. If deafens your soul. And the poor kids— you’d be shocked how many people bring little kids. The Borgata isn’t on the boardwalk where there is more family stuff. These parents walk their kids into a room, probably the biggest room they’ve ever been in and it’s full of the brightest, shiniest machines making all sorts of noises. How grand it must look in the eyes of a child! Only to be told, “see allllll those games, you can’t play any of them.” My god, it’s enough to send a child into a tantrum he or she deserves to throw.

Seven days, six shows. That’s the deal. The room is great, the gym is huge and mostly empty every time I’ve been here, and it’s close to the ocean (lucky for me there were waves this week). It helps especially when you’re working with cool people. Our show of the week was me, my close friend Greg Stone, and Ruperto Vanderpool (whom I just met this week but we’re now friends!).

I still have to work in the days for my radio job, which is welcomed work because the days can get long. I’ll gamble a minimal amount of money, but it’s usually just at the machine at the bar so I can continue to get comped drinks and slowly play roulette. I was up by 3X my bet ($10, haha), but I later lost it on my off night where I got super fucked up and was taking chances at slot machines in the smoking section where I could smoke a joint. On the one day off of the week, I get pretty wrecked (post my day work). Sometimes it’s a good thing to waste a day. You don’t have to be wasted to waste a day, I just prefer it that way. Plus, it’s the fifth day and you start to get… well… detached. Like you’re watching yourself in the movie. It’s that deafness of the soul, I’m telling you. It’s not permanent, but it flows in and out of you, and eventually you don’t even look at people’s faces, they all look the same. You’re in a simulation. Is this real life? You see a kid running by and you think, “my god, who takes their kids to a place like this? It’s all sin. And little of the good kind of sin.”

While I was walking around on the off night, fulfilling the thirsty degenerate aspect of my personality, who has been patient, I’m sometimes recognized. My senses are already assaulted. The floor moves, not a single slot game makes sense to me, I’m lost in a revere, a dream I’m not the creator of, but I don’t mind being a passenger. Still, I’m in no condition to pull off being a conversationalist. Those would say sober I’m relatively difficult to understand, between my mumbling and starting a sentence mid thought. I can be tiresome to be around.

Mostly, it’s encouraging compliments. “You’re so funny!” “We really needed that laugh, you have no idea!” “This was one of the best comedy shows I’ve seen in a long time.”

I’ll take it. Glad to be a brief hero in anyone’s story.

One guy, however, made a point to tell me he didn’t care for the show. He was a plump man. The type of person who will start driving around one of those scooters before he even needs one. You know the type. He said he left the show early. He told me, he didn’t think any of us were funny but he respected us. How did I get talking to this guy? I’m on psychedelics man! Then, he goes on to tell me to keep trying. I could still “make it.”

Years ago, this type of backhanded compliment would have boiled me into a rage. But I just laughed at him, somewhat maniacally. Because it insulted me not that he wasn’t a fan of the show. This man is a moron. Imbeciles aren’t my crowd. I practice nuance with words. Also, most of the crowd at all the shows were laughing throughout. With a shit grin on my face I said, “you don’t need to worry about me. The comics you see on TV respect me. I write jokes for them. I’m doing just fine.”

Walking away, I seized the moment. Because I not only said what I meant, but I felt that way too. In the morning, I’ll write followed by a short surf session. Then, the shows will continue. Carpe diem, carpe noctem. Seizing the day and seizing the night. It matters to me not that most of these people will forget my name as soon as I leave the stage. For if I’ve distracted them from their sorrows for just a little while, I’ve done my job. And once the job is done, I’ve found a drink to put in my bony hand. I’m happiest in the sun, but sometimes, I feel most like myself in the moonlight.