Evan Wecksell - Blog

Catch me on E! 30 Most Outrageous Celebrity Feuds

Sat, Nov 25, 5:00 PM
Sun, Nov 26, 9:00 AM
Sun, Nov 26, 8:00 PM 
Mon, Nov 27, 12:00 AM 
Thu, Nov 30, 8:00 PM

So first Munchaba Lounge is sold, and now The Downtown closes its doors. In my first few years doing comedy I spent most Tuesday nights running back and forth between Munchaba and The Downtown. The two venues were like apples and oranges. If Munchaba was Ani Difranco, then The Downtown was Andrew WK. I spoke about Munchaba in my last blog so let me turn to the metal-based, pathology-fueled Downtown in Farmingdale.

Munchaba may have helped my development, but The Downtown forced it. I had my toughest sets there. Before I knew what I was doing I’d get heckled, have bottles thrown at me, and serve as more a distraction than a performer.  Did I mention I was a comedian among upwards of 50 metal, punk, screamo, and hip-hop acts? These were some of the most insane, imbalanced, and offbeat people I’d ever encountered.  Thank g-d The Downtown was there to play the role of halfway house. I swear, if any of these kids stayed home, they’d just end up yelling at their parents and throwing a brick through the TV before going up to their room to cry.  These kids scared the hell out of me, and I couldn’t wait to perform for them! Sometimes, I’d wait until 3 am to get on stage (even though the kids went home around 11).

I wanted to be their comedy savior. Even though I did stand-up and got the "comedy is tough" feedback from the first open mic host, Joe Ags, once Rick took over so did my guitar gimmick. The male stripper song got dollar bills shoved in my pants during the song. "Midget Love" got me a politically incorrect ovation. The memories kept coming, my mailing list kept growing and the stalkers started following

The greatest memory came as the open mic started happening less frequently. I guess with all these kids not buying alcohol, the venue wanted to make more money with booked shows. But even though I wasn’t there, I was penning a few of my signature songs, and when I returned, "Real Emo" and "I Wanna Be Black" debuted. "Emo" was inspired by The Downtown and I have to thank Jesse, the mailing list girl for starting the lyrics for me.  I also met the adorable Jen who paraded around my mailing list after my sets. I had over 50 names one night and gave out just as many demos. In my eyes, I was a star even though it was still just a Tuesday night in Farmingdale.

Rick was a great manager there. When he wasn’t requesting I play "Black," he’d have me host a few music nights.  Did I mention how amazing their sound and stage were? This was a real venue, but I knew once Rick moved on so would I.

I don’t want to speak ill of the subsequent staff there, so I’ll just appreciate what the venue gave me. While I had great shows there, I also saw greater ones (Stephen Lynch twice, Jim Norton and Bad Medicine - a Bon Jovi tribute band).  While Munchaba built my stage presence, The Downtown built my ego.  On an island where families settle down, The Downtown was one of the few places that had a young, adventurous pulse.

I just hope those kids I played for found another place to go, or else we’re going to have a lot of broken TVs on our hands.

Earlier this month I lost a part of me when I found out Levittown’s Munchaba Lounge was sold and closed its doors indefinitely. This news came unannounced and cut very deep as no venue did more for my development than Munchaba.

I remember going there before I took the stage for the first time. In August 2002, I heard their ad on the now defunct WLIR 92.7. I always wanted to try comedy and they had a night for it. I remember writing that first set list in my car. I had no material, just a set list.  I was still taking my first comedy class at The Comic Strip, and chose to take the plunge early.

Like many comics, my first performance had few if any laughs. I had no idea what I was doing.  All the other performers there, mostly poets, just stared thinking, "You know? I think this guy is trying to do comedy." 

The amazing thing was that everyone there was supportive. There was a group of great poets there called D-Live (Clarity, Alex, Tommy, KJW). Guy Kush hosted the night with his ponytail and pleasantly inappropriate humor. People had a place and community on a Thursday night in the middle of Long Island where they could express themselves.

Munchaba had two great, young owners who were hip and supported artists. Taryn coddled my stand-up and the spoken word on Thursday nights, and Tuesdays I discovered Bobby’s kickass music night. With WLIR radio promotion, a great turnout (worthy of two bouncers) and a kickass host in Ed Ryan, this was where my songs grew to be my gimmick. "Dick Evan Dyke" was inspired by Munchaba after I found this great girl… that liked other great girls. Darren worked hard behind the scenes, Danielle was a sweetheart waitress and Cindy the bartender made me my own drink called a "Wecksell." The ingredients varied, but it was always a fruity color that was more Ocean Spray than alcohol.  Munchaba was like that best friend you couldn’t wait to see each week.

Unfortunately, people and places evolve, and I knew once Bobby sold his share to Taryn, things would change. And they did, but don’t get me wrong. The post Bobby era still had plenty of magic. Taryn brought a lot of peace, love and expression into the building. Miles and Jimmy bounced with the best of them, I met my first girlfriend, Lucas made awesome chicken nipples and I met the ridiculously insane Gangsta Rabbi.

However, as staff turned over, clientele (how do I say this nicely) matured, turnout dropped, the music night moved to Wednesday showing that they let the other Tuesday open mics dictate their schedule rather than the other way around. The Munchaba magic was fading. When Ed Ryan left, I tried to fill his shoes as the music night host. I knew it wasn’t the same, but the opportunity was invaluable. Mammacat’s John, who bought Bobby’s share, became a big fan of mine. They also paid me to host which was nice.

When I heard the summer was hurting for Munchaba I thought they would rebound in the fall, but when I wanted to swing by on September 1 to do some stand-up only to find a closed venue, I knew something was wrong, but honestly I wasn’t surprised.

Seeing Munchaba’s decline was like watching a friend who was ill only getting worse. You want to say something, but you don’t want to upset them. If I knew my calling was Munchaba, I would have stayed in New York and fought the good fight with them. But to me, Munchaba was my launching pad, my minor league farm system. It got me ready for the big time. I don’t know what will happen to the space on 58 Gardiners Avenue, but I hope it becomes a space that will help someone as much as Munchaba helped me.

If they ever make an E! True Hollywood Story on me I’ll make sure Munchaba is in the first segment. The second segment will be my downward spiral into drugs and alcohol, obviously, but that first segment - that’s where we ate, drank and relaxed - at Munchaba Lounge.

The night before the September 20 release of Bon Jovi’s new album, "Have a Nice Day," the band is simulcasting a Times Square concert into 100 movie theaters across the country. 

Since I have my ticket to see them "semi-live" at the Edwards Valencia 12 & IMAX, I have some questions for me and my fellow Bon Jovi fans as the night approaches:

Should I wear my black, skull-biker "Bon Jovi Forever" t-shirt that I forcefully turned into a tanktop?

Should I tailgate in the parking lot with a six-pack of Bud Light and attachable mullet while blasting "Livin’ on a Prayer" over and over?

Should fan club members get to the theater early and start a list?

Should we whine to security if someone doesn’t obey the list and cuts the line?

Should we forget security and just start beating on the line cutters?

Should I sneak in little bottles of vodka and rum as I purchase $4 soft drinks at the concession stand? (This is the only similarity to being at the actual concert.)

Should I hunt down hotel staff to get a wristband so I can stand next to the movie screen for two songs?

Once the concert starts, should I stand up, clap my hands and sway for two hours?

After each song should I yell, "Play Wild is the Wind!"?

Should I bring a sign and hold it up thinking Jon will see it?

Should my sign read, "Jon, please play Always for my girlfriend so I can go home and get some!"?

Should my sign read, "Jon, I want to be your ‘Bed of Roses’ girl!"?

Should my sign read… you know what, this could be its own list.

Should I bring the inflatable guitars?

Should I go to the bathroom when they play one of their songs off the new album?

Should I go to the bathroom with a bunch of women because everyone else there… will be a bunch of women?

Should I be the only one yelling "Hugh!" [McDonald, the bass player], because he is the only one who has enough spare time on stage to acknowledge me?

Should I, could I, have said the wrong things right a thousands times? (Inside Jovi fan joke. To everyone else - the lyrics from "Misunderstood")

After the show, should everyone post-party at a nearby hotel?

At the hotel should I get my guitar from my car and bring it inside for an old-fashioned singalong?

At the hotel should I get my condoms from my car and bring it inside for an old-fashioned, post-singalong orgy?

Should I ask my girlfriend’s permission to participate in that orgy?

Should I pretend those last few questions were never asked?

How about I just stop typing, open up ITunes and rock out to their new single, "Have a Nice Day?"

Should I make a sign for my rocking out that reads, "Evan, you’re a great rocker outer?"

Ok, I’m off topic. Thanks for reading. Any questions?

When I told everyone I was moving to California, the first thing everyone said had to do with the weather. "It’s nice there." "I wish I was there." Or they would make the surfer sign with their hands and say "cowabunga." How Ninja Turtle of you.

My problem with the weather is the same problem women have with nice guys. Nice is boring. Everyday is always nice, always sunny. The weathermen here have nothing to work with yet somehow the stations employ them year-round. They should just make the weatherman a temp so they can tape him for a week and then run it every seven days. The Californians won’t know the difference while the weatherman goes back to his employment agency for his next assignment.

I like how the weatherman realizes how boring the weather here is so he tries to catch people off guard by reporting all these low numbers. "It’s 12 in Hollywood, 10 in Riverside and only 6 in Ventura." Dude, you’re talking about the wind speeds. I guess I’ll bundle up in a windbreaker while I’m at it. If it wasn’t for offices, restaurants and the law I would never wear a shirt.

The worst part is how people here complain when the weather here is anything less than perfect. "Oh my goodness, it’s 72. I’m so chilly." Are you kidding? 72 is room temperature. I know people in New England who would cut you in the winter for half that.

After the weather, people always mention the traffic to me as does every single radio station here every ten minutes. You can go two ways on traffic reports, either tell us every single problem on the road in LA (and the OC) or don’t tell us anything. Because I can do the traffic in one sentence: "Everyone could be going faster." It’s magic! I guess what I’m trying to say is there are three things that Los Angeles always has: sunshine, traffic and accessible porn. Ah, the lengths you go to just to tell a porn joke.

New York Ramblings - 5/1

In the tradition of ESPN.com’s The Sports Guy, here’s a lightning round of what happened each day while I was in New York. While it’s always tough to go home after you move out, at least there was a lot of food in the refrigerator.

Thursday, April 21 - Munchaba Lounge
It was still a spoken word night, but DJ Nemesis Enforcer seemed to be a big rave fan. To get in, the password was ecstasy. Now the ultimate question - If you are doing stand-up for a bunch of stoners, and they’re too "relaxed" to laugh, do they count as audience? At least they liked the Pope stuff.

Friday, April 22 - Jack Dempsey’s & Poole Party
Dempsey’s had audience from Ireland, Denmark, Amsterdam and Rhode Island. So my comedy reached three countries and two states in one venue. Knowing how to play "Sunday Bloody Sunday" paid dividends. The Rhode Islanders seemed lost so I just talked about grain alcohol (legal in R.I.). I knew that state was good for something.
The Poole Party was insane! Ron Poole is insane! The crowd was insane! Ron made out with a MILF while her teenage son and his girlfriend watched. Flamboyant would be an understatement. Check this show out at RonPoole.com!

Saturday, April 23 - Poole Party, Underground Lounge
Ron Poole had me back much to my delight. More insanity with people from Wisconsin to South Dakota. Did you know South Dakota has cell phones?
Left to emcee Underground. A small crowd where half of them are drunk, sketchy dudes "doing their own thing" in the front. While I was never more hack with this line, I had to say it: "If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I’d fart." Only took a few comics for them to get thrown out. Comedy history was made that night when one of the early comics, whose act was ruined by the dudes, went on a second time in the same show!! Has this ever been done. It’s like when you already say goodbye to someone yet you run into them again so you must ignore or else the universe ends.

Sunday, April 24 - Race in Central Park
Ran 4 miles in less than 26 minutes. I lined up too far back as I spent my first mile running past kids from IS 30 in Brooklyn. Is it wrong to push them aside if they’re breaking my stride?

Monday, April 25 - Long Island University, Southampton
I’ve been waiting over 2 1/2 years for the response I got from this show. I brought Southampton College a free show to help them forget that their school was closing. Props to Joe DeVito, Tom Kelly, Danny Leavy and Billy Bingo for also bringing the funny.

Tuesday, April 26 - Yankees vs Angels
Saw the A-Rod 10 RBI game. Apparently he’s now officially a Yankee. Can’t figure that out. They won one game and then lost the next four of five. I guess that’s what true Yankees are - individual superstars who lost their mojo as a team. It’s a long season, but they look old. More injuries are a coming.

Wednesday, April 27 - Munchaba Lounge
Hosted the infamous music night featuring the Gangsta Rabbi, Steve Lieberman. Picture a non-threatening Charles Manson mixed with a cracked out Ron Jeremy. This guy is one of my heroes. He has high blood pressure and his hands go numb if he plays more than 45 minutes. He also wore a hospital bracelet. What did he play? A grunted version of Greenday’s "Boulevard of Broken Dreams." Just applaud him now. There were other acts, but they were too sane to remember.

After deciding the house husband life was not for me, I got out to the employment agencies and had a rite passage. I became a temp. A hired gun. The player you trade for to get you over the hump at the most critical time. Well, that last part only applies to sports, but I was happy, because I just secured myself three weeks of stable employment. However, the experience was so dreadful I pulled out after only a week and a half. So I temped at the temp job. I was a temp within a temp. (We can say "TWAT" for short, but that word would resemble more my coworkers than me.

I worked at a big women’s clothing company in L.A.’s garment district. The surroundings were dreadful, and mapquest said it was only 20 minutes away when the signature California traffic made it closer to an hour. And the company was so big that I had to park in a lot so far away the commute now became an hour and ten minutes when you factor in the walk.

Now when you work in fashion you can assume that your coworkers are either gay, snobby or gay snobs. It was remarkable. Robots had more personality than these people. At least with robots I could carry on an objective conversation. Like if I were hanging out with Data from Star Trek, we could kick back and predict sporting events, analyze stock quotes then I’d peel open his scalp so I could program him to dance.

These people looked away from you at all costs and were so imprisoned by their work that they only spoke in the language of fashion.

Them: "Check for the POs on cuts YED and PBO and run a cut & sold after checking the cost sheets."

Me: "How was your weekend?"

One thing I did like about the company was its diversity, but it was almost too diverse. It was so diverse I was the token white guy. In my office it was me, a black woman and a Hispanic woman working under an Indian man and I was temping in place of an Asian woman. I’m like what time do we all hold hands and sing "We Are the World?"

The black woman actually had personality, because she was like a throwback black woman. She was so good at making herself laugh you’d almost expect each sentence to end with "kiss my grits" followed by an encore chuckle.

One bizarre episode was on the first day when the Asian woman was still there and asked me to do some math for her. I was baffled. The Asian is asking me to do math? The Asian, who is 75% computer wants me to calculate? I had to step out for a moment to breathe into a paper bag before I started.

The final oddity was that the IT guy was British. I didn’t know if I wanted to ask him for computer help or challenge to a duel. Zing!

Well, I’ve babbled enough. I’m at home again, but I’m not a house husband. I’m a self-employed volunteer professional. Ok, I need to go breathe into a paper bag.

When I moved out to California, all I knew was where I’d be living. That’s it. No job lined up, no shows booked and a bank account with nowhere to go but down. So in just two weeks my daily to do list has gone from submitting reports and running staff meetings to washing dishes and watching Judge Mathis. While I am not married, you can call me a house husband.

The stay-at-home house husband lifestyle is different from when you graduate college and you claim to be burnt out from the college lifestyle. First of all, who knew you could burn out from sleeping late, watching Springer and binge drinking? Guess you’re left to just travel Europe on your parent’s dime. Maybe get a new car as a reward for setting the family record for number of random hookups in a four-year period.  This time around I’ve had plastic surgery. That is the term my mom uses when she no longer allows me to use her credit cards. My younger sister will find this out once she returns from Costa Rica.

As a house husband, there are no trips to Europe. Traveling to me is going to the bodega on the corner for a burger after an hour of reading ESPN.com. I used to get excited about submitting payroll in time. Now I get excited about rearranging the food in the refrigerator and surprising my girlfriend with that hair mousse she needed. Sure beats surprising her with a paycheck.

But fear not, for my house husband days are numbered, because my life has direction. Right now that direction is to the closet to get the vacuum, but I’m just taking a break. In a temporary environment that is Los Angeles where film projects, theater parts and day jobs come and go I can jump in at my convenience.

As I write this I have two interviews scheduled tomorrow and once my car arrives and that final box from FedEx gets there I’m ready to roll. Because while it has been nice watching Judge Mathis, Judge Joe Brown, Judge Judy and The People’s Court berate people who aspire to reach the level of human trash, all good things must come to an end. And so we work. So the bank account doesn’t plummet. So our passions can be supported. And so we can keep hooking up with at least one person.