I don't care who you are—the Pajama Men are funnier.
Quoth Lindy West:
Oh, this is just delightful. Just the best. The Pajama Men—Albuquerque duo Shenoah Allen and Mark Chavez, barefoot, clad in pajamas—make my very favorite kind of comedy:
It's conceptual and weird ("You have any siblings?" "Yeah, I got one. Half brother. Half sister"), silly and creepy ("Some people say beauty's only skin deep. But if that's true, you must be made totally out of skin"), lowbrow and highbrow and smart and dirty and sometimes sweet—all whipped up into a froth somewhere between sketch and improv.
I hesitate to quote anything, because you should experience it as it happens. The pair (accompanied by a handsome and kind-faced musician with a tiny mandolin thing who has got to be the most-getting-laidest dude of all time) whip from scene to scene, as newscasters, as knights-errant, as awkward teens, as gigantic thumbs—characters that begin infinite distances apart, eventually and naturally crossing paths in the surreal wilderness of the Pajama Men.
I once drove to Canada and rented a hotel room, just to see them. Like the Cody Rivers Show, the Pajama Men don't perform comedy: they use comedy as a magic flying carpet (with jet-propellers) to shoot them into a new kind of theater. (They will deny this. But artists don't always understand their own significance. Or insignificance.)
They used to be called Sabotage. Sabotage came to Seattle for the final year of the Seattle Fringe Festival, which crashed and didn't pay many, many performers their rightful box-office earnings. Which, understandably, pissed a lot of out-of-towners right off. That's it, I thought. They got burned their first time in Seattle. We'll never see them again.
But they're here. They're weird. And they can't be stopped.
All this snow we're having? They live in Chicago—they don't give a fuck.
They're performing tonight at Annex Theater, up on Capitol Hill at 1100 E Pike St.
Walk there. With a flask of whiskey. And bask in their genius.