EJay Buoncore
written by Michelle Peterson
Sandwiched between an arm-wrestling contest and something called “Bob Beardsley’s Memorial Mini-Mukluk Marathon”, the 2009 Iditarod calendar of events lists the “Adult Comedy Tour” with Chilkoot Charlie’s featured performer, EJay Buoncore.
For Buoncore and most of his fellow Alaskans, the tiny city of Nome — which hosts the finish line for the 1,161-mile Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race — lies far, far away. It’s so far north and west in Alaska that you can actually see Russia. [No, you can’t.] Not many comedians come by an offer to do a show there, and Buoncore, who got hooked on comedy about seven years ago, rarely turns down stage time.
“I’d been talking to this guy for a couple of years about going up to Nome and I finally got a window of opportunity to do it. Since the Iditarod was going on while I was there, the guy booking me said the Discovery Channel was going to be there, along with CNN and Fox Sports,” said Buoncore, who pictured crowds cheering on intrepid mushers, good-old-boy locals and feverish tourists, dying for a night of bawdy, boozy entertainment. “Of course, when I finally got up there it was complete bullshit.”
Instead of flashbulb pops at a crowded finish line, a lonely siren blared each time a musher approached. A camera guy, a reporter and a judge would all crawl out of whatever huts they were staying in, ask the contestant a few questions, check off some stuff on a checklist and that was it. He got hung out to dry on stage time, too.
“We met up with the guy that flew me up there—and this guy owns two bars,” said Buoncore, “and the liquor store in the most alcoholic place I’ve ever been. He had talked it all up and said I’d make all this money, and what I end up doing is this last-minute show at a pizza joint for like 18 bucks,” he said. Whether it’s poor planning or just shit luck, this kind of thing happens to Buoncore, who just turned 37, all the time.
And every time it does, he says, “Fuck it,” and goes for it anyway.
On his second night in Nome, he was booked at a place called Mark’s Soap and Suds—owned by the guy who flew him up there. “It’s this little room with a stage and behind the stage are five of these combo washing machines. On the other side of the stage is the bathroom, so every time somebody had to take a piss, they had to walk ON the stage to get there,” Buoncore said. “There were four or five people there, and three of them we had convinced at the last minute to come to the show. So I just figured, ‘I’m going to treat this like there’s 100 people here,’ so I did 40 minutes.”
His only ally in town was DJ Swetty, a guy Buoncore’s worked with before who also traveled from Fairbanks as Iditarod-related entertainment. “It turned into kind of a tent jar comedy tour,” Buoncore said. “Swetty was running around with an empty coffee can, like begging, ‘Hey, can you help this guy out?’ I should have been paid up-front but, of course, that didn’t work out, so I just made the most of it.”
Since stage time is like a drug—and he’ll do it until it kills him—he finished the show and wanted to go again. He and Swetty found a bar down the main drag and set up an impromptu show for 80 unsuspecting customers.
“I did my material and then did some improvising, just going off whatever came out of my face. I was supposed to do 45 minutes or an hour and I ended up doing two,” he said. “I don’t know how, but I broke two hours. I was glad they had a wireless mic because I just took the show into the bathroom with me.”
Disastrous shows are pretty common in Alaska. Buoncore’s not griping when he’s telling the stories. The few comedians who do live there, fight with bluegrass bands and Rock Band tournaments for stage time, and even touring comedians can’t sell out a room like a tribute band can.
His stage addiction’s put him through the wringer, but in his own words, he’s a glutton for punishment. “My regular job in asbestos abatement sucks,” he said, “and struggling to make people laugh sucks half as much.”
Before people realized asbestos was toxic—the U.S. banned it in 1978—it was sort of a miracle material because it’s flame-retardant and works as an insulator. It’s also strong, flexible and resistant to chemicals.
Oh, and it’ll give you lung cancer.
What’s left of it is tucked away into tiny crawl spaces, high ceilings and underground, all places you get to work if your job is to get rid of it. Throw in ex-convicts as co-workers and Alaska’s harsh climate—temperatures plunge to 20 below zero at least 50 percent of the time—and bombing on stage starts to sound easy.
“I like the feeling of getting a laugh, but bombing and struggling to win people back, that’s even better. I just love the ongoing struggle of it all,” he said. When construction work slowed down a few years ago, he took off for New York and spent three months in the city, hitting every open mic he could. He got on stage at least three times a night—sometimes five—doing showcases, open mics and help-work in exchange for stage time. “It was more work than fun, but it shot me with such a recharge of stand-up motivation and creativity. I love that town, but I ran out of money and headed back to Alaska.”
He started his own weekly open mic called Nudity and experimented with improv, sketch and short video projects. Buoncore finally caught a break when he moved to Anchorage, Alaska’s biggest city. He started out doing 10 and 15 minutes at Chilkoot Charlie’s, a bar that frequently brings in comedians from the Lower 48. Eventually, he became the club’s regular opener.
“EJay’s got a very unique sense of humor.” said Steve Franklin, a house DJ and comedy emcee at the bar, affectionately called Koots. “When he’s on stage, his persona is that he’s sort of ticked off with everything. It’s very dry, but he’s very funny. As far as we’re concerned, he’s one of the best comedians we have in the state.”
Aside from getting his stage fix, Buoncore gets to hear feedback from a lot of stand-up’s road warriors. “I hate it when people name drop, but I’d say 93 percent of the people that I’ve opened for were really cool and nice,” he said. “A lot of them had the same consensus [about his talent], ‘You’re good, now get the hell out of Alaska!’ I know they’re not going home saying, ‘I found the next big thing!’ Nobody’s going to come back and say, ‘Hey, come get on the plane with me!’”
His construction work wrapped up in Anchorage, so now he’s back in Fairbanks, saving money and hatching a plan to move south. When gigs do come around, they’re weird, like opening for Bag Lady Sue in Delta Junction—official directions: “Go to nowhere, and then go to nowhere’s butthole”—or a local bar’s children’s charity show, “Because what better way to benefit kids than by drinking and trying to finger somebody?”
“I try to set up shows and I still get up wherever I can, but the interest level is, like, nil. I know I’m beating a dead horse, but I’m convinced that horse is going to get up and ride me to La La Land,” said Buoncore. “I just want to get on stage and be funny. I guess we’ll see if anything comes out of that.”
Even though his name gets tossed around more than it used to, he still doesn’t have the household recognition to interest most Alaskans.
“Ron White was here last Saturday, and Cedric the Entertainer was just up here,” said Franklin. “There’s a big draw for celebrity comedians, and we have some comedians that come to Koots every year, but if it’s somebody they’ve never heard of, it’s hard to get a crowd to come out.”
For the record, Franklin and another Anchorage comedian got hosed by the Soap n Suds guy, too. “He screwed up the schedule, didn’t remember when the Iditarod ended. The crowd was a very unfriendly group, too, and I kept thinking, ‘Oh, my God. EJay’s going to get shot.’”
Well, he didn’t get shot, but he probably won’t be invited back. After realizing the weekend was a bust, Buoncore’s unscripted material turned on the booker. “I was talking shit and was calling his bar Mark’s Suck n Fuck. Apparently, nobody in the town likes this guy, so they were loving it,” he said. “Afterward, I went and crashed. Then at 5 a.m., I hear the guy I’m staying with screaming into the phone saying, ‘No, don’t come over here,’ and, ‘No, you don’t understand, we’re going to USE this motherfucker. He doesn’t know who’s in charge.’ I’m listening to this and thinking about all the stuff I’d said … ”
In a place like Nome, you’re always within earshot of somebody’s friend, cousin or roommate—and rural Alaska isn’t known for rational discourse.
“I waited until 8 a.m., and then I pitched my bag out the window, walked into the living room and said I was going to grab some breakfast,” he said. “Then I literally ran two miles to the airport and got the fuck out of there.”
Based on Buoncore’s track record, this probably won’t be the worst weekend he’ll encounter. And based on that same track record, he’ll keep forging ahead.
“All the drama, hecklers, tough crowds and uncomfortable silences drive me to become a better performer. I’ve been hooked ever since I first tried stand-up,” Buoncore said. “I’m not doing stand-up to get famous, I’m doing it because it’s one of the few things in my life that I’ve found a desire to commit to.”
For more on EJay Buoncore, visit www.myspace.com/ejaybuoncore
or www.nuditycomedy. .com.
Michelle Peterson is a writer from Chicago.