I crinkle my eyes in the worst way when I belly-laugh. Which is fine. Adorable even. If you don't wear makeup. Otherwise -- and I blame this phenomenon on my pain-in-the-ass though delightfully anti-aging oil slick of a skin type -- one laugh too many can lead to smears usually expected from mug shots, restaurant breakup scenes, mind-blowing sex, 48-hour benders, crack binges ... but from attending a comedy gala?
So. How was Danny Bhoy?
As good as a dime-sized blotch under my left eye.
And that's possibly a personal best.
Irish Scottish comic, occasionally mistaken for a Bollywood Indian cinema heartthrob, I quote, has this uncanny knack for faux ad-lib, taking what seem like un-tailored, in-the-moment gags and running with them throughout an evening.
And he is so smooth about it.
No sweat beads on forehead, no underarm stains, no fleeting do-I-suck-do-they-hate-me facial expressions -- even veteran Eddie Izzard flashed a couple of those -- if it wasn't for the stage, you'd swear he was a dinner guest in your kitchen just shooting the breeze on viking crotch fashion and Qatar strip clubs. It's like he's not even trying, kind of like that smart alec we knew -- or were -- who'd skip weeks of class time in high school only to still get an A.
That's Danny. F***ing A.
In line with About.com's and the New York Times Company's full disclosure policy, readers should be aware that Evelyn Reid was provided with complimentary tickets to review Danny Bhoy's Wanderlust, a common procedure in the entertainment industry. Also note that the latter gratuity has not influenced this review. For more information on full disclosure at About.com, please consult our ethics policy.
*Danny Bhoy, on the perils/blessings of opening a series of 11 shows at Just for Laughs in Montreal. On a Tuesday.