I have something in common with funnyman Colin Quinn, whom you know from Saturday Night Live and movies like Grown Ups.
We both had a heinous experience with the theater 45 Bleecker, where I was supposed to produce a show last year and Colin actually opened one.
The sleazy “Owner/Creative Director” stiffed him — and others — and ended up shut out, with the place closed down by the landlord.
Well, my show found another theater, and so did Colin’s.
In fact, before the shutdown, he had already packed up his rage and moved his show (Long Story Short) to Broadway, where it did really well.
But at the Drama Desk nominees reception at Bombay Palace yesterday, Quinn told me the guy still owes him money and he’s not surprised.
“How could anyone trust him?” Quinn asked me as I nodded like a bobblehead.
“He looks like a porn producer from the ’70s. I’d love to kill him, to be honest.”
This is actually a refreshing change from most comics, who generally want to kill themselves.