In the mid-eighties, cash flowed into the comedy clubs so the club owners did whatever was necessary to keep the good comics funny. It was common for comedians to draw against their pay during the week in order to purchase the drugs necessary to tweak their nervous system - enflamed nerve endings are to a standup what finely tuned muscles are to an athlete.

One Sunday night I was in the office at the Atlanta Punchline as one of the owners, Ron DiNunzio, counted out my week's pay. His partner, Dave, fielded a call and quickly put it on speakerphone. It was John Fox, the ultimate wet road dog, calling from the Punchline's franchise in Columbia, South Carolina. Dave asks John how the week went. John said fine and then proceeded to the nature of the call, "Dave, I need an advance." Dave looks at Ron who shouts into the speakerphone, "What are you talking about? Didn't you get your pay tonight?" John was almost insulted by the question, "Didn't I just say I had a great week, Ronnie? Now are you going to send me some fucking money so I can get home or not?"

John probably spent twenty-five hundred dollars in drugs that week. Back then I hated following John into a club; the waitresses always had big habits and such high expectations.