Craig McNamara writes

I’ve been known to sum up my past co-dependent relationship with television by telling others that my parents used to say, “It’s such a nice day, Craig – why don’t you take the TV outdoors?”   Yes, I’m exaggerating – but only a little. I freely admit, I watched way too much TV growing up. Given that, you might think our modern era of “Peak TV, with streaming services multiplying like rabbits on Spanish Fly, would be a dream come true for me, right?    Let’s press pause and think about that for a second.   Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the freedom to consume entertainment programs on my own schedule without having to wait a week between installments or broken up by commercials. And I won’t argue the point that we’re in a Second Golden Age of Television, with more shows than ever before of high quality, diverse subject matter, and involving storytelling – The Sopranos, Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, et al.   But here’s the thing: If you’ve ever owned a dog, then you know

My years in college coincided with the comedy boom of the early 1980s.  Back then, every kid who was a former class clown, or used laughter to deflect their insecurities, thought about spinning their jokes into gold. And I was one of them (the insecure ones).   Spurred on by the then-revolutionary countercultural satire of Saturday Night Live and the rise of comedy clubs and the stars they nurtured (Steve Martin, Rosanne Barr, Sam Kinison, Robin Williams, et al); suddenly every two-bit bar with a brick wall was laying a sheet of plywood over a base of plastic milk crates and hosting “standup nights.”    One of the first venues in Minneapolis to feature standups was Mickey Finn’s (now The Union), a dive bar in Northeast Minneapolis, probably best remembered (if at all) as the stage where Louie Anderson got started.    Eventually, the ubiquity of standup comedy (thanks, cable TV!) and way too many “open mike” comedy nights and their cattle calls of uncomfortably unfunny would-be comics k