In spite of the gloom, I had a premonition of success, and in January 1975 I started a short-lived diary. It surprises me that a diary meant to chronicle an important year in my life could contain so many negative passages. My entry for the Hub Pub Club started this way: “This town smells like a cigarette.” Then I sank a bit lower: “My material seems so old. The audience indulged me during the second show.” Then I really started wallowing in it: “My act might have well been in a foreign language…my act has no ending.” Next I degenerated into my version of Kurtz’s lament, “The horror, the
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