We saw Maron Friday night (4/17).  Before the show we drank at Voodoo Homestead, our new favorite beer and brewery, and we had food from the Berlin Street Food cart.  The sandwiches were sublime.  

The venue was within walking distance from the brewery and the evening was warm and sunny.  The smell of food in the air, the sounds of children playing basketball, the volunteer firefighters cleaning their trucks and laughing at private jokes...a perfect community vibe.  

Maron walked on-stage at about 8:20, and he was outstanding.  All the things I expected, and more...hilarious, honest, relaxed, in-control.  He moved through stories, jokes, call-backs, spot-on improvisational choices, impersonations, and he did it all with perfect...Maronness.  He's on my Mt. Rushmore of comics and podcasters (...that's two separate monuments, for those keeping track...), and I was on cloud 9 for like 75 minutes.  Really, he went for that long...and he was on fire the entire time.

On the walk back to the car, Jen and I both claimed, nearly simultaneously, "I'm hungry."  I thought about IHOP, but that place is a nightmare always.  It's typically packed with people, and even when it isn't the service is several ticks below a McDonald's drive-through at 2 a.m. on a Friday night in a college town, near the bars.

"We have food at home," Jen said.  So we drove home.  She went to bed.  I shoveled processed, packaged, sugar and corn-syrup laden "food" into my face.  I dragged my ass to bed, a sense of forboding slowing me with each step.  I woke in the morning feeling just as sad and gastro-intestinally unsettled as I'd predicted.

Here's my Facebook post from the morning:

Open the garbage can to toss out a tissue. The detritus of last night's food ravaging staring me in the face, imploring me to remember each bite. Shame cascading over me like so many salty chips, peanut butter eggs, Oreos, and nondescript shitty Easter chocolate. "Can I get an Amen from the choir?! Bite Jesus' head off for your salvation." (Or perhaps damnation.) Only one word suffices. Fuck. Post it on Facebook, get on with my day. Today, not yesterday, is my cheat day. Still is. Don't judge. Maron was funny, though. Ended his 75 minute set with a shame eating bit. So I honored him. Though, the comedy is not here for me. Yet. Reeses eggs are not meant to be eaten by the handful. I'll pay. Today I'll pay. Both emotionally and gastointestinally.

I had to give tours that morning, at the Wigle Whiskey strip-district distillery.  I recorded myself as I made the commute into the city.  Today, only I, Gregory, present to you our first mini-episode, "Shame Eating Aftermath."