Their names in lights
Let us begin by saying what this will not be.
This will not be an in-depth, no-holds-barred look into the lives of the four gentlemen I attended high school with who have gained fame as the Impractical Jokers (I always bar holds; I think it’s the right thing to do).
This will not be a very lively, informative discussion of what said gentlemen were like in high school (they were largely as you see them today with different and/or more hair; this is pretty much all you will get).
This will not be a glimpse into the crazy things that go on backstage at live shows (one time Sal gave me a jar of peanut butter to take home; this was probably as crazy as it got).
What it will be is mostly a story about how I took a bus to Ithaca and then a plane to Chicago to see marquees with the names of guys I met three decades ago (and also see them perform, because I figured I was already there so I might as well do more than just take pictures of marquees). And it will also be a little bit about why I did that and about the joy it brought me. And there might also be some points where I talk about something I have figured out about my life.
So that’s where I’m at. I hope this is OK with you. Well, actually I don’t. It just seemed like something to say. It’s going to go on with or without you.
But it’s starting now.
It is a very weird thing to know that I can turn on a TV in the vast majority of hotel rooms I stay in (sometimes I stay in lodging that is not willing to splurge on basic cable) and friends I met in high school appear on it. Usually for hours at a time. I don’t suppose that many people experience that. I mean, sure, lots of people went to high school with lots of people, and surely some of those people are on televisions in hotel rooms across America. But how many are on those TVs for, like, eight to 10 hours a day?
You can go crunch the numbers if you want, but my point is that is not an entirely common occurrence. And if you have not had that experience, let me tell you, it’s pretty cool. It’s also very comforting. I mean, if I’m having a rough travel day, I can (and often do) text a friend and explain that the bus broke down on the highway, so we had to wait for another bus, and then I was stung by a bee and I wasn’t sure if I was allergic, and thus relive the whole terrible experience. Or I can just sit down in my hotel room, turn on the TV, and see people I met in the last century who made me laugh well before they were on television and continue to make me laugh on and off television. It usually makes things better with very little effort on my part. I recommend the experience.
I also recommend the experience of seeing your friends from high school perform live to packed theaters and sometimes arenas (like Madison Square Garden!). This is also pretty cool. Seeing my friends make thousands of people laugh brings me a kind of joy I can’t quite describe. It’s pride and respect and happiness, but it’s more than that, I think, and I don’t really know what it is. I could struggle here for a bit and try to piece it all together. But I bet I wouldn’t do a good job of it, so let’s just leave things here.
Part of seeing them live is sometimes stopping backstage after shows just to say hi. Honestly, the vast majority of my interactions with the guys are during these quick moments after shows. They are my friends (full disclosure: I don’t know Brian as well as the others, because we didn’t really know each other in high school), but we rarely hang out (but, really, I swear they’re my friends!). So, am I a person who is really just using people he knew in high school for free tickets and backstage access to theaters and arenas across America? Jeez, that’s how you think of me, you creep? Man, you amass a bunch of Substack subscribers and you think you know them.
Well, bucko, I pay for my tickets! Most of the time. Sometimes, I accept free tickets because one of the guys gets mad at me when he finds out I bought tickets (you can talk amongst yourselves and determine who that person is). But I really enjoy buying them more, because, again, it brings me joy. Is it strange to give a heartless beast like Ticketmaster money and not only not be angry immediately afterward but actually receive joy in return? Of course it is. It’s a crazy world.
Anyway, this partially explains why a few months ago, when I realized that the dates for the taping of Sal Vulcano’s first stand-up special overlapped with the night Joe Gatto was set to perform at the State Theatre in Ithaca, a theater that has had a great place in my concertgoing history (and where my name is on a seat—legitimately, through a fundraising campaign), I decided to see if it was possible to get from Ithaca to Chicago in a reasonable manner. It turns out that if I went to Joe’s show in Ithaca on Friday night, slept for a few hours in my motel room, got up at 3:30 in the morning on Saturday, and boarded a flight to JFK at 5:30 that connected to a flight to Chicago at 8:15, I could make it to Chicago in plenty of time (with even a few hours to go searching for doughnuts) to see Sal’s final show Saturday night.
So that seemed like a reasonable enough manner.
When I arrived in Ithaca in—good Lord—1994, I did not know what to do with myself. I missed New York City, I missed my friends, and I wasn’t sure what to do about all that. Much like I was in high school, I was not much of a social human being. And by “not much of a social human being,” I mean that some Saturday nights, I just sat in my room by myself and listened to oldies music on the radio. I don’t think this is necessarily a terrible way to spend a Saturday night (I’m not against doing it right now), but it’s not optimal when you’re 18 years old.
But eventually, I found my way downtown and started regularly going to a cool bookstore and a place that had every magazine I could ever want (and a few pervs in the adult maagzine section, but, you know, good with the bad and all that) and then finally, in the winter of 1995, to a show at the State Theatre. I didn’t know much about the guy I was going to see (Buckwheat Zydeco) or what it looked like inside, but it was something to do. And I was a guy looking for things to do.
Plus, its marquee looked pretty cool from the outside. I mean, well, it kind of looked a little rundown. But rundown things can look pretty cool. In fact, sometimes it’s the rundownness (I’m a professional; I can make up words) that makes it cool. And so it was with the State. That raggedy-looking marquee called to me.
The rundownness (yeah, I’ll use it a second time) was even more evident on the inside of the State and was a little less charming than the outside. I remember it being cold and kind of musty inside, and the seats looked pretty beat up. But once Buckwheat Zydeco started, things changed. An energy took over the room. It was still cold and musty, but I didn’t notice it. The music was taking hold. The accordion was dancing all around the dilapidated hall. The sound of the spoons zipping up and down the rubboard was making people’s feet move in ways I’d never seen. And those people on the dance floor were shaking all over. It was some kind of magic, some kind of sorcery I wanted to see more of. And I did.
So, when I saw Joe was playing the State, which has since undergone a lot of renovations and is much prettier than it was when I first saw it in on that winter night, I knew I had to be there. And walking on State Street after I got off the bus and seeing Joe’s name on that marquee that called to me almost 30 years ago was something to see, something I was prepared for emotionally but that still hit me hard.
You might think, “Hey there, wouldn’t you rather see your name up there on the marquee?” I don’t know where you get off asking questions on my Substack, but I’ll allow it. The answer is no. I’ve never aspired to do anything that would end with my name on a marquee. I like my name and I like marquees, but I think they’re both just fine by themselves. I would much rather see the name of someone I care about on that marquee, someone I know has worked hard to have his name on that marquee. That makes me happy. My own happiness regarding the things I do—I don’t know about all that. It’s nice, I guess. But it’s not something I’m living for. When it comes, it’s nice. I enjoy it for a little bit and then move on. But I’m much more interested seeing the people I love happy. I think that’s how life is supposed to work. I could be wrong. But how could I be wrong and have a Substack with dozens of subscribers?
Anyway, Joe was great. He hasn’t been doing the solo comedy thing for very long, but he is naturally funny, so he’s taken to it very quickly. I was at one of his first shows in Long Island and just saw him last week headlining the Beacon in New York City, and it’s been fun to watch that progression. And in a rare occurrence, in Ithaca, I both bought a ticket and had tickets left for me at the box office. So I sold the extras on the street to finance my trip to Chicago. And if you thought for a second I was serious there, shame on you. And also, shame on the two overserved people who started yelling things at the stage and especially the one who took a swing at a security guard and wound up being arrested. Ithaca, you never disappoint with the crazy!
Speaking of crazy, as I headed back to my motel, I had a few hours to sleep before I called my Uber to head to the airport to begin my journey to Chicago.
I have no ties to the Vic Theatre in Chicago, and its marquee isn’t as cool as the State’s, but I was no less excited to exit my Lyft (after a day of walking around the South Side and finally hitting up Old Fashioned Donuts before grabbing some Culver’s, which, as my reward for my crazy itinerary, was unexpectedly across the street from my hotel) outside the Vic and see Sal’s face on the marquee. I met Sal before the others at high school, mainly because he was an Islanders fan and there were so few of us in a sea of Rangers fans that we all pretty much knew each other. So, maybe I find a little more joy in his success. Sorry, guys. You could have liked the Islanders, too.
Also, Sal, Joe, James (I have a hard time calling him “Murr”), and I were on the Retreat Team (yes, it is as cool as it sounds) in high school, and in one of the skits we performed at retreats, I originated the role of Myron the Nerd, a role later taken on by one Sal Vulcano, so we are forever linked in the pantheon of Retreat Team actors.
Anyway, it’s been great seeing Sal work on his stand-up while doing Jokers stuff. If the show hadn’t taken off, I’m pretty confident Sal would have been just as happy to be working toward success as a stand-up. So, just as I had to see Joe’s name on the State’s marquee (which, admittedly, was probably part for me as much as it was for Joe), seeing Sal tape his first stand-up special was something it was just not possible to miss.
The show I went to was the fourth in two nights, so I was a little worried that he might have already gotten what he needed for the special and would kind of coast through the fourth show to smooth out some edges. I should have known better. Sal has been honing this set for a while, so he’s got it down now. It was pretty razor sharp at the show I went to, and the crowd was hot too. That interaction between performer and crowd is always something to see when it happens. But when you know the person leading that interaction, well, that takes things to a whole different level, a level that fills you with such happiness and such gratitude that it can almost make you forget that you’re running on a few hours’ sleep, a couple of doughnuts, a pot roast sandwich, and frozen custard.
There was a little bit of an afterparty, so I stuck around for a bit before heading back to my hotel (I had a relatively normal 8 a.m. flight). And as I sat in that room, I didn’t turn on TruTV because I didn’t need to. I’d seen two of my friends bring joy to theaters full of people who had put down their money and spent part of their weekends with two friends of mine who had their names up in lights on a couple of marquees in America.
It will never stop being cool to me. I’m so grateful I get to see it.
Fun romp through the past. Did you hear they sold the Chanticleer building?