One of the weirdest things in my history on the road happened just about an hour from Boston, in a town called Leominster. It was some time in the early '80s—or in Leominster Time, the late nineteenth century. This was a town with plenty of money, but no sense of humor—two conditions that seem to coexist quite often.

The population was something like 40,000, but apparently one guy named "Beany" had been designated to do all the laughing for the town. The place we played this particular night was a disco that did comedy one night a week. The plan was to give Beany a night off. Some local volunteers would go to the disco, get hammered enough to push out a few guffaws, and then it was back to work for Beany.

There was no dressing room, so the other two comics and I were forced to wait in the disco, listening to this sickening music and by squinting through blinding glitter light from an old disco ball to watch people dance like they still had "Saturday Night Fever." Our IQ points were dropping faster than a kamikaze pilot's altimeter. This was no preparation for performing comedy. It was like warming up to pitch for the Red Sox by listening to Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First?"

Suddenly, and without any warning, the music died, and the place went dark.

To be Continued...