The Comic’s Log Sample
Give Me Liberty or Give Me Dog Food
Waiting for wardrobe, I found something rarer than early check-in: a Southern bar without Moscato.
👋 Hello, people who, for most of your life, thought Paso Robles was pronounced PASS-oh ROH-blace, and recently corrected a bartender on the pronunciation even though she said she’d worked with winemakers from Paso Robles who told her how to say it. [Me]. And hello, people who got home, researched the correct pronunciation, discovered it was PASS-oh ROH-bles as the aforementioned bartender had correctly said it was, and then had to DM her on Instagram apologizing for being an idiot. [Also me].
Greetings from historic Richmond, Virginia!
I’m here to shoot a commercial for Hill’s Science Diet Dog Food. I know what you’re thinking: “Wow, he’s made it. I hope he’s not lonely at the top.” Rest assured, devoted followers, this feat won’t go to my head. Unfortunately, the wine will.
In the city where Patrick Henry demanded liberty, I arrived at the hotel and demanded early check-in. Only one of us got what he wanted. So, like the pretty prima donna I am, I stormed off, screaming, “I’ll be in my trailer!”
Moments later I returned for my luggage. “Normally I have assistants for this sort of thing.”
The front desk associate didn’t look up from his computer. “I’m sure you do, sir. Would you like a Moscato while you wait?”
I sat down in the lobby and texted the producer: Rooms aren’t ready but they put us on the waitlist. Nobody puts Baby on a waitlist.
Producer: Oh lord. Let me call because we paid for early check-in.
To kill time, my co-star and I set out to explore Richmond’s bustling downtown corridor. Nine minutes later we’d seen everything, and doubled back for a second lap. After the third, her phone buzzed.
Hotel: Good news! Your room is now ready!
Having toured town thrice, and thinking my room would surely be available any moment, I sat down in the lobby and resumed pouting and asking strangers “Do you know who I am?” until I got hungry. And if you’re hungry, there’s no better place to be than the South.
When I think of Southern food, I think fried: fried chicken, chicken-fried steak, steak-fried chicken, fried chicken with fried steak, and hushpuppies, which are essentially fried fry, with a side of chicken-steak-fry-fry. But contrary to popular belief, the South actually has some decent restaurants. Luckily, Richmond had exactly one.
It was 3 p.m., and with our fitting an hour away, I had time for a quick bite and a glass of wine. Earlier, the bellhop had given me some recommendations.
“If you’d like a cup of coffee, there’s Urban Farmhouse across the street. And if you’d like a nice Moscato, the hotel bar’ll be open any minute.”
“What if I’d like a Manhattan?” I asked. What is it with this town and Moscato?
“There’s Siné, the Irish bar. And there’s…one other place, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Well, you might like it, sir, but I wouldn’t take your lady friend, if you know what I mean.”
Given the way I was dressed and my general disposition, I couldn’t tell if the other place was a strip club or a gay bar. The way he chuckled and pinched my butt cheek, my money was on the latter.
None of those fit my mood, so I asked the internet. Requirement one: nearby. Requirement two: no Moscato. As luck would have it, the only bar without Moscato south of the Mason–Dixon Line was right across the street. I couldn’t run fast enough.
The sign at the host stand read, Please wait to be seated—even at the bar—even if you’re alone—even if you’re waiting for a Moscato to-go. They had opened moments before and, with no one at the stand and the clock ticking, I took matters into my own hands. I sat myself at the bar.
The bartender was polishing silverware.
“You’re the only bar in town without Moscato on the menu,” I said.
“We do things a little drier around here.” She placed a menu in front of me. “What can I pour you?”
I waited a beat to see if she’d spit into a spittoon, then perused the menu.
Terredora di Paolo Aglianico (Italy)—dark cherry, licorice, Italian gesture implied. Avinyó Brut Reserva Cava (Spain)—you’d be the first. Lost Creek Petit Verdot (Bluemont, VA)—16 mo French oak; don’t drink if sober; pairs well with moonshine.
“I’ll do the Aglianico,” I said. “And the confit chicken wings.” An Italian wine in a Southern bar? And chicken that isn’t fried?
Halfway through the glass, I got a text about the fitting:
Producer: 5 p.m. Final time :)
Me: Copy that! Translation: time for a second!
The bartender recommended the Cava with my wings. I obliged, because yo soy thirsty.
“What brings you to Richmond?” she asked.
“I’m shooting a commercial,” I said. “My hotel ro—I mean, my trailer, where I have bottles and bottles of Dom Pérignon as part of my talent rider, wasn’t ready. So I’m killing time while the peons scrub it top to bottom.”
“Oh, cool! What’s the commercial for?”
“Dog food.” I grabbed a wing to avoid making eye contact.
“Wow. You must be big time.”
My phone buzzed again.
Producer: Omg you guys are going to kill me. I have to meet the RV dude at 4:30–5 but will let you know when I’m wrapped with him.
Me: No rush! Translation: Barbera time!
Halfway through the Barbera, my phone didn’t buzz, but I started to. And with my next sip, I had a moment of clarity: maybe slowing down could be good. Sure, the delays weren’t ideal, but they gave me the chance to try some new wines and retire some old stereotypes.
“Did I mention we sell retail?” the bartender asked. “It’s 30% less than what we list on the menu.”
“Well, maybe I’ll take a look. In case Production forgets to stock the Dom.”
I felt like a kid in an alcoholic candy store. And that’s been my experience with the South: some clichés are true—clapping when planes land, “college” meaning “killing time between football games,” and not knowing what cliché means—but if you look hard enough, you might find an Aglianico in the rough.
I closed out, went back across the street to the hotel with a bottle of Aglianico under my arm, and checked-in. I got up to the room just in time for my phone to buzz again.
Hotel: Good news! Your room is now ready!