Last Call at the Brickyard: A Comedy Post-Mortem
Fear and Loathing in Radiator Country
January 26th, 2025
Williamsport, PA
The 250-year-old town of Williamsport in rural Pennsylvania is precisely four hours ’ drive from New York City—just long enough for three recently divorced comedians to share dating stories that would make Lily Phillips blush.
I'm writing this in the back seat of fellow New Yorker cartoonist Emily Flake’s car as we hurtle West to yet another road gig. I’m trying not to recreate the Great Vomit Incident of 2022, when, while hurtling down the highway home, I stuck my carsick head out the window and projectile-sprayed my breakfast sandwich onto some poor soul's windshield— A pale-faced firehose of bile and bacon bits painting the side of Emily’s freshly detailed SUV. I've since learned my lesson: eyes front, phone at eye level, dignity somewhere between "lost" and "never had it to begin with."
Emily runs a women’s writers' residency here called St. Nells, which is a safe haven for comedians to work on their masterworks of japery in a big old wooden house. It’s an excellent place to write (and pass out after a comedy show.)
This isn't my first rodeo in Williamsport. Or my second. My most recent show here was during NellsFest 2023, when we had the impeccable comedic timing of opening to a full theatre with "Are we all ready to laugh?" on the evening of October 7th. Nothing sets the stage for lols quite like a savage massacre.
After the long drive, we shuffle through the snow to the only place with lights on: an old spot off the beaten track by the name of Dolly's Diner, frozen in time from 1953. It’s attached to another local establishment named "Griggs Coffee & Peanuts." Because nothing goes better with your morning cup of Joe quite like a handful of unshelled legumes. The business plan for this place was written by an insomniac at a baseball game.
The other NYC comics on the show are Jess Salomon and Caitlin Reese. Young local act (and our boy ward) Emmett O’Neill would be joining us at the venue. Our perky young server, Rhonda, straight out of a central casting call for ‘Most Perfect Diner Waitress in Human History’, sat us at a booth away from innocent civilians. Caitlin said, “Im pretty sure they found Rhonda first, then physically built the diner around her.” Her thick Pennsylvanian accent slowly informed us that the special of the day is ‘a cheeseburger.’
She left us to ponder the menu and the several million local advertisements printed on the thin paper placemats. There was one for Gary’s Radiators above another one called Doug’s Radiators. The rest of the ads were for businesses specialising in other parts of the car.
A sign on the door informed us that due to the increase in the price of eggs, a 20c fee would be added to each egg. Four days into the Trump administration, and still no executive orders about omelettes. This is bullshit.
One of the best things about road gigs is getting to say the absolute worst things we can think of to crack each other up at whatever establishment will let us blow all our pay on precious eggies. Inevitably, someone will order a saucer of mayo just for a punchline. I made a joke that made Emily shoot porridge out her nose. A big win.
When we walked into the venue after a bracing pre-game at the local distillery, a dull panic hung in the air, a collective realization that we probably killed harder in the diner booth than any of us would on stage tonight. This was chiefly due to the fact we weren’t the main attraction at the Brickyard Ale House and Family Restaurant. You see, the venue kept the lights up and music playing throughout the gig, with a documentary about football on the massive screens above the bar. Suuuuper helpful. The TVs were on mute without captions, but somehow still more compelling to the locals than the smorgasbord of zinger mavens in the corner.
We ordered gluten-free pizza and a round of stiff cocktails to brace for the impending slog.
We then proceeded to perform for a damp saloon where the most engaged audience member was the guy trying to figure out if he could vape into his empty pint glass and cover it with his palm. Emily and Emmett copped the heavy lift of getting the show rolling before Jess jumped up and played to the only two people listening. (I am, of course, lying. One of them was listening; the other one was watching the TV screen above the stage, which was showing a commercial for the local WaWa. We would later learn this is where she works.)
It was -6° outside. Several punters decided hypothermia was better than whatever the fuck I was about to fling at them, so our audience dwindled to a half-filled jury box. The minutes ached past like months. Just before I went up, a woman in tan tights began exploring the depths of her companion's Levi's, prompting him to close his tab and vanish into the frost. At this point, Doug’s Radiators had a bigger turnout. We were barely down to a quorum.
Caitlin and I decided to switch intro credits (because why not?), so Emily brought me on stage to, “You might have seen him on HBO’s ‘Women in Comedy’—“
I hadn’t paid attention to the cue that nobody wanted ‘jokes’ until a good twelve minutes into my set— I switched to crowd work, pointing at a young woman in cowboy boots who had just sidled up to the bar. She pointed back, but with her hand in the shape of a gun. I forgot which state I was in. Her friend shouted out —unprompted— that she had contracted Cholera. Which is always great.
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