Thursday, May 26, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Bones: A Rare Little Bird
Early this morning a guy I know from "back in the day"in Cincinnati, was shot and killed by the Cincinnati police for waving a knife at them.
The details are murky, the rumors swirling. Cincinnati has a volatile relationship with the Police, especially the poor people. There are some very hard parts to the city too, some very dangerous areas and drug markets that the Police have to deal with. It's not an easy situation.
And where my old acquaintance lands on those scales I cannot say because I haven't seen him in years. I've heard tell that he has struggled with drugs and booze, and getting bye and I also hear that he has been playing music and has a gaggle of admirers who follow him around. Between his good looks and his body art, he certainly was visually striking. He was funny too.
I met Bones when he first arrived in Cincinnati in the 1990's. He came with a couple of other people from New Orleans to survey the scene. At the time he was a straight edge, born-again Christian minister in addition to being a gritty looking punk rocker. That's what stood out for me, probably a lot of people is he that he looked like the nastiest gutter butter but he was smart, didn't drink or party and he believed in Jesus. On the back of his arms were the tattoos, "Jesus is Lord".
I didn't think he was freaky for it, weird. He was a preacher but I don't remember him preaching. I remember feeling jealous because he seemed to have the courage of his convictions, although I didn't articulate it that way in my brain then. It was more like, "he is fucking cool. I wish I could be cool."
Many people I know have long and deep friendships and better stories to tell about him than I do. I really have just one, one little bird of a story about Bones.
It was a drunken summer night in Corryville on Short Vine. I was chasing my ex-boyfriend, a sexy, psychopath who shall remain nameless, from Sudsy's to the woods to the Sub Galley, tripping on acid, crying, out of my mind with sorrow and lust and that feeling of sinking I always had up until 1998. It wouldn't be a Short Vine Saturday night without one emotional breakdown. This was my night!
At some point I lost the scent of my ex-boyfriend and picked up the scent of someone else's ex-boyfriend. Just as the dude and I were getting into a cab together, my ex came out of nowhere and began attacking us, wailing on us with his fists, his feet and even his spit. The guy ran off, my ex ran off and I was back to where I started, alone, breaking down, and wasted.
I was losing my shit as they say. I was so lost and unhappy. I had only been drinking again for a short time since having had a period of a year off alcohol and drugs and it wasn't turning out to be the party with nice people and good times I had hoped it would. I was sliding down into a rancid existence that I thought had been kind of a game of extreme dress up. But the hell was real and it was not going away. It was mounting and multiplying and eating me alive.
Suddenly Bones appeared and I asked him, "would you pray for me?" He said of course and we went over to the steps by Perkins and I put my head down, sobbing. He laid his hand on top of my head and began to pray, asking God to help me and drive the devil out of me and save my soul.
People were walking bye. It wasn't that late. I can only imagine what people thought. Maybe you are reading this right now, saying "WHO THE FUCK CARES WHAT PEOPLE THINK", or maybe you are reading this and are more like me, saying, "OH MY GOD WHAT PEOPLE MUST HAVE THOUGHT! " The point of this story is that I was one of those people who cared what people thought, to the point where it was deadly in many cases. I still have that hang-up. But in that moment, I put everything aside, all my false pride, and turned to God as only the desperate do. And God's messenger was this really cool, beautiful guy with dreads and tattoos and these big eyes, tailor made for such an image conscious , albeit failure at keeping up an image, girl like me.
Then I got in a cab and went home, I think. My life on the party, hah! did not end there but I believe Bones helped me. He sure didn't hurt me, like I hurt myself and others, over and over and over. I know that people often tell the truth when they are really drunk because they do not have the courage to tell it and face it when they are sober and are so twisted within themselves that they don't even know what the truth is. What I was seeking from Reverend Bones in that moment was real, was genuine help and he gave it to me.
By the following winter, Bones was drinking and getting high. I hung out at his apartment once and we partied together with people and did not talk about the time he prayed for me. But whenever I'd see him, I'd think about how he prayed for me with a mixture of fondness and embarrassment similar to the feeling I get when I run into guys with whom I had one-night stands. Exactly like that - that I engaged in something very human and intimate in a very desperate way rather than deeply for a prolonged amount of time as it was designed for. Faith and love are meant to be tended and nurtured.
I'm pretty cleaned up. I have a very lovely life today. I don't know if Bones was living a lovely life but he died in a very ugly way. I cannot lay my hands on his head and ask God to help him. By the beliefs of some, he is with God now. But if anyone asks me, I will try to help them as he tried to help me.
Rest In Peace Bones.
The details are murky, the rumors swirling. Cincinnati has a volatile relationship with the Police, especially the poor people. There are some very hard parts to the city too, some very dangerous areas and drug markets that the Police have to deal with. It's not an easy situation.
And where my old acquaintance lands on those scales I cannot say because I haven't seen him in years. I've heard tell that he has struggled with drugs and booze, and getting bye and I also hear that he has been playing music and has a gaggle of admirers who follow him around. Between his good looks and his body art, he certainly was visually striking. He was funny too.
I met Bones when he first arrived in Cincinnati in the 1990's. He came with a couple of other people from New Orleans to survey the scene. At the time he was a straight edge, born-again Christian minister in addition to being a gritty looking punk rocker. That's what stood out for me, probably a lot of people is he that he looked like the nastiest gutter butter but he was smart, didn't drink or party and he believed in Jesus. On the back of his arms were the tattoos, "Jesus is Lord".
I didn't think he was freaky for it, weird. He was a preacher but I don't remember him preaching. I remember feeling jealous because he seemed to have the courage of his convictions, although I didn't articulate it that way in my brain then. It was more like, "he is fucking cool. I wish I could be cool."
Many people I know have long and deep friendships and better stories to tell about him than I do. I really have just one, one little bird of a story about Bones.
It was a drunken summer night in Corryville on Short Vine. I was chasing my ex-boyfriend, a sexy, psychopath who shall remain nameless, from Sudsy's to the woods to the Sub Galley, tripping on acid, crying, out of my mind with sorrow and lust and that feeling of sinking I always had up until 1998. It wouldn't be a Short Vine Saturday night without one emotional breakdown. This was my night!
At some point I lost the scent of my ex-boyfriend and picked up the scent of someone else's ex-boyfriend. Just as the dude and I were getting into a cab together, my ex came out of nowhere and began attacking us, wailing on us with his fists, his feet and even his spit. The guy ran off, my ex ran off and I was back to where I started, alone, breaking down, and wasted.
I was losing my shit as they say. I was so lost and unhappy. I had only been drinking again for a short time since having had a period of a year off alcohol and drugs and it wasn't turning out to be the party with nice people and good times I had hoped it would. I was sliding down into a rancid existence that I thought had been kind of a game of extreme dress up. But the hell was real and it was not going away. It was mounting and multiplying and eating me alive.
Suddenly Bones appeared and I asked him, "would you pray for me?" He said of course and we went over to the steps by Perkins and I put my head down, sobbing. He laid his hand on top of my head and began to pray, asking God to help me and drive the devil out of me and save my soul.
People were walking bye. It wasn't that late. I can only imagine what people thought. Maybe you are reading this right now, saying "WHO THE FUCK CARES WHAT PEOPLE THINK", or maybe you are reading this and are more like me, saying, "OH MY GOD WHAT PEOPLE MUST HAVE THOUGHT! " The point of this story is that I was one of those people who cared what people thought, to the point where it was deadly in many cases. I still have that hang-up. But in that moment, I put everything aside, all my false pride, and turned to God as only the desperate do. And God's messenger was this really cool, beautiful guy with dreads and tattoos and these big eyes, tailor made for such an image conscious , albeit failure at keeping up an image, girl like me.
Then I got in a cab and went home, I think. My life on the party, hah! did not end there but I believe Bones helped me. He sure didn't hurt me, like I hurt myself and others, over and over and over. I know that people often tell the truth when they are really drunk because they do not have the courage to tell it and face it when they are sober and are so twisted within themselves that they don't even know what the truth is. What I was seeking from Reverend Bones in that moment was real, was genuine help and he gave it to me.
By the following winter, Bones was drinking and getting high. I hung out at his apartment once and we partied together with people and did not talk about the time he prayed for me. But whenever I'd see him, I'd think about how he prayed for me with a mixture of fondness and embarrassment similar to the feeling I get when I run into guys with whom I had one-night stands. Exactly like that - that I engaged in something very human and intimate in a very desperate way rather than deeply for a prolonged amount of time as it was designed for. Faith and love are meant to be tended and nurtured.
I'm pretty cleaned up. I have a very lovely life today. I don't know if Bones was living a lovely life but he died in a very ugly way. I cannot lay my hands on his head and ask God to help him. By the beliefs of some, he is with God now. But if anyone asks me, I will try to help them as he tried to help me.
Rest In Peace Bones.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
I Also Love the Way You Lie
First off, let me say that I wish I wasn't such an asshole when I was younger. But I can't skank into the past and change it. I have to learn to accept that I was a short-sighted, emotionally stunted ingrate who's only real loyalty was to eyeliner and beer, and try not to let it happen again.
I never had a camera either in the 90's, to take pictures of my friends and my outfits. If I'd had a camera, I wouldn't have the money for film because I spent it on acid or one of the guys I played house with would've hocked it.
So when I see close proximity's of my youth I get really excited, often overwhelmed. Films like "Gummo" and "Kids", anything written by Harmony Corrine or filmed by Larry Clark stir up a mixture of nausea and nostalga, which I call, naustalgia, in me.
Along similar but more glamourous lines, is the song and video of Eminem's, "Love the Way You Lie" featuring Rhianna. Frankly IT'S JUST TOO MUCH! That old familiar theme of sick, deep co-dependency played out by Megan Fox and that sexy Hobbit-guy from "Lost", dressed in the requisite tattered denim and combat boots is so compelling, so well-done. When they beat on each other and alternately kiss/chew each other's faces, I can smell the stale beer, light b.o., sweat, cigarette smoke, sour-white-boy-aqua net- dreads and patchouli in the air; I can feel my new-wave romanticism shift into post-punk ennui slide into grunge era drug-addicted disillusionment; I am transported back to nights making out with someone else's skinhead boyfriend in bushes and basements all over Coryville.
And let us not forget our narrators, Eminem and Rhianna, cultural icons as much for their various domestic violence episodes as they are for their music. See Eminem stomping around in that field, holding up his big-boy pants and and cursing the Gods for his Ike and Tina appetites! Watch Rhianna wring her hands, with her boobs hanging out but wearing the hood of her sweatshirt up. So tortured! So tortured!
It's like a snapshot of my life in the 90's except with a hair and make-up team.
I'm not like that now and I'm grateful because it's easier to age with hope and joy and enthusiasm than it is to toil on to the end with bitterness. Dissatisfaction is great for album covers, but to be an old, bloated throw-back still trying to whore in the bars is as ugly as it gets. Unless I were to become a full-on lunatic, morbidly obese, trying to wheel myself around in a wheel chair I found in the garbage, my legs stuffed into a couple of grocery sacks, rubber dish gloves on my hands, asking strangers to push me to the dollar store. There would be no blaze of glory for me. I'm not that cool.
I live a clean life, a sober life now. It's not perfect by any stretch, but my life is rich and beautiful. But I get it, that sick shit, I get it.
I never had a camera either in the 90's, to take pictures of my friends and my outfits. If I'd had a camera, I wouldn't have the money for film because I spent it on acid or one of the guys I played house with would've hocked it.
So when I see close proximity's of my youth I get really excited, often overwhelmed. Films like "Gummo" and "Kids", anything written by Harmony Corrine or filmed by Larry Clark stir up a mixture of nausea and nostalga, which I call, naustalgia, in me.
Along similar but more glamourous lines, is the song and video of Eminem's, "Love the Way You Lie" featuring Rhianna. Frankly IT'S JUST TOO MUCH! That old familiar theme of sick, deep co-dependency played out by Megan Fox and that sexy Hobbit-guy from "Lost", dressed in the requisite tattered denim and combat boots is so compelling, so well-done. When they beat on each other and alternately kiss/chew each other's faces, I can smell the stale beer, light b.o., sweat, cigarette smoke, sour-white-boy-aqua net- dreads and patchouli in the air; I can feel my new-wave romanticism shift into post-punk ennui slide into grunge era drug-addicted disillusionment; I am transported back to nights making out with someone else's skinhead boyfriend in bushes and basements all over Coryville.
And let us not forget our narrators, Eminem and Rhianna, cultural icons as much for their various domestic violence episodes as they are for their music. See Eminem stomping around in that field, holding up his big-boy pants and and cursing the Gods for his Ike and Tina appetites! Watch Rhianna wring her hands, with her boobs hanging out but wearing the hood of her sweatshirt up. So tortured! So tortured!
It's like a snapshot of my life in the 90's except with a hair and make-up team.
I'm not like that now and I'm grateful because it's easier to age with hope and joy and enthusiasm than it is to toil on to the end with bitterness. Dissatisfaction is great for album covers, but to be an old, bloated throw-back still trying to whore in the bars is as ugly as it gets. Unless I were to become a full-on lunatic, morbidly obese, trying to wheel myself around in a wheel chair I found in the garbage, my legs stuffed into a couple of grocery sacks, rubber dish gloves on my hands, asking strangers to push me to the dollar store. There would be no blaze of glory for me. I'm not that cool.
I live a clean life, a sober life now. It's not perfect by any stretch, but my life is rich and beautiful. But I get it, that sick shit, I get it.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
I Give and I Give...
Right now, I don't give as much of time or my money as I'd like to. I am in a good place with my budget but not quite there with my debt to incorporate a regular payment to any one charity. I used to support NPR every month but I was deferring on my school loan and a credit card bill so I had to end my membership and out that money towards the bills. I hope to incorporate a regular amount of money into my budget that I give to various charities soon.
And time? I have precious little. It's all I can do to sign a few letters to congress to save the wolves from BP or something similar. However, all the e-mails I now get in my inbox ever since I first tried to help Queenie the Elephant on Facebook is tempting me to unsubscribe from all the different Wildlife and Environmental and Free Press organizations I don't remember signing up for to begin with.
What I do currently to give back to society, or help it out, or do something for something else for a good reason is recycle. I have 2 trash cans in my apartment. One is for garbage and one for recyclables. And I do not have a mud room or laundry room to store it in, nor a car to take it to the recycling drop-off in the turnaround driveway at the Peggy Notebart Nature Museum. The "trash" sits in my house till I am able to get a ride for my garbage from someone; foist it off on my do-gooder friends, Stephanie and Julie, because they have recycling pick-up in their neighborhood; or I walk it to the drop-off myself and try to get a little fresh air and cardio while saving the planet.
And now I also offer my comedic services at fundraisers. So far no one has found my comedy that helpful but I am supposed to do a a stand-up show at a prison to cheer up the inmates, (or warm them up for some Bible teachings). However I just found out the prison is on lock-down because of an outbreak of H1N1 virus so we'll see.
My dear friend, Marena reminds me that God made me funny to lighten the burden of others, which I do at least once a day. That's a good start. I wish I could make the whales and the wolves laugh while they try to cope with their vanishing habitats. I wish I could make corporations giggle themselves into fits of caring more about people than the bottom line. I'll keep trying and also write the occasional check.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Silence of the Lambs
Tonight, while I was watching "Silence of the Lambs" I experienced the strangest sensation. The movie took on the quality of an old film, a "classic" movie right before my eyes and ears. The music sounded big, sweeping - Grand! The color quality reminded me of technicolor films like "Sweet Charity" or "West Side Story. And of course Jodie Foster had more of dewey quality rather than sinewy.
I hope someone experiences me in the same way.
"Silence of the Lambs" is the only horror film I consider a comfort film.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Tears of a Clown
I am going to have to re-think this idea of doing something with my life. It's not my strong suit. I'm not cut out for the peaks, the valleys, the highs, the lows, the Laverns, the Shirleys, the severe depression or the oragasmic happiness - ANY OF IT!!! of following my dreams. I am pursuing one of my passions and I am a fucking wreck.
First off, the catharsis is going to kill me. I dug deep and wrote some jokes about growing up. Then I killed at several open mics with the material. The jokes were about my racist Grandma. (Which Grandma? I'm a white woman. Pick one) Apparently I unearthed some issues and I got really insecure about it a day or 2 before I went up at Zanie's in the Female Funnies showcase for my 3rd time. Was I thrown off my game with Succeeder's Remorse? (I made that emotional disorder up but I'm going to work it into the lexicon) I always want to feel confidant at Zanie's because it's one of the few windows of opportunities I have at this stage in the comedy game.
I didn't get to feel that way that night. I 'm not seasoned enough to know if it was the venue to do more controversial material but I was going to vomit if I had to do my older material. That is a growing pain of being a comic, honing the same material over and over again. but I felt very unsure about putting up new, more controversial material that worked in front of comics, in front of civilians. I had an alright set but it wasn't that euphoric experience I had at my first Zanie's showcase. I got my cake but didn't get to eat it. I ate something but it wasn't cake. You get the idea. And then the next night I was so wrung out and woke up sobbing in the middle of the night.
Lack of sleep, that is my dilemma.
I am not getting enough sleep. I get up too early, even when I get up late, I'm up too long and do too much and don't get it done anyway. I don't even make it to half the late open mics and still I am exhausted. I'm 41. If I'd have sorted this shit out earlier instead of playing tip the bottle, hide the salami and chase the dragon in my youth, I might get 8 or 9 solid hours now because I'd already be a big comedy star, resigned to mediocrity or dead. It's also so my spiritual imbalance and lack of discipline. I do not try to make myself lay right down after I get home form an open mic. In bed next to me, where a man used to be, is a stack of books and notebooks that I read from or write in in the quiet of night. Very poetic. I'm far from poetry the next morning though, running around my apartment screaming, "Shit! Shit! Fuck" as I try to find my earrings and a hat to fit my giant head and my house keys with 30 seconds til the last bus I can get before I'm late to work arrives at my corner.
And I'm pissed off all the time. I got into an argument with an 86 year old woman at my office day job yesterday over a lost and found box. I would like to think when I'm physically and spiritually fit, that I know better, that she is old and tired and cranky and gets a pass. Afterall, I'm not as old, but tired and cranky. (In my defense, she was a real bitch.)
And I'm dehydrated. Water, water everywhere and coffee has water in it right?
My pee clinks in the toilet bowl like ice cubes in a glass.
And then last night I had a realization -
people who do nothing and do not look deep within themselves have nothing to say so do other things and look deeply and tell people about it. Keep digging.
and I learned a lesson-
It's tough to get laughs from the same set of tired comics that were at the last open mic so don't sweat the silence.
and I loosened up-
I ranted at the host, I made fun of myself and kept a smile on my face.
I drank water and slept in.
This morning I was rewarded with awareness of some goals I have for myself that I had forgotten in the pressure and anxiety of these past few days of emotional upheaval. I wanted to give up like the old days.
But because I hung in there, I got to see a glimmer of hope.
And I got see the truth: That old lady is still a bitch.
First off, the catharsis is going to kill me. I dug deep and wrote some jokes about growing up. Then I killed at several open mics with the material. The jokes were about my racist Grandma. (Which Grandma? I'm a white woman. Pick one) Apparently I unearthed some issues and I got really insecure about it a day or 2 before I went up at Zanie's in the Female Funnies showcase for my 3rd time. Was I thrown off my game with Succeeder's Remorse? (I made that emotional disorder up but I'm going to work it into the lexicon) I always want to feel confidant at Zanie's because it's one of the few windows of opportunities I have at this stage in the comedy game.
I didn't get to feel that way that night. I 'm not seasoned enough to know if it was the venue to do more controversial material but I was going to vomit if I had to do my older material. That is a growing pain of being a comic, honing the same material over and over again. but I felt very unsure about putting up new, more controversial material that worked in front of comics, in front of civilians. I had an alright set but it wasn't that euphoric experience I had at my first Zanie's showcase. I got my cake but didn't get to eat it. I ate something but it wasn't cake. You get the idea. And then the next night I was so wrung out and woke up sobbing in the middle of the night.
Lack of sleep, that is my dilemma.
I am not getting enough sleep. I get up too early, even when I get up late, I'm up too long and do too much and don't get it done anyway. I don't even make it to half the late open mics and still I am exhausted. I'm 41. If I'd have sorted this shit out earlier instead of playing tip the bottle, hide the salami and chase the dragon in my youth, I might get 8 or 9 solid hours now because I'd already be a big comedy star, resigned to mediocrity or dead. It's also so my spiritual imbalance and lack of discipline. I do not try to make myself lay right down after I get home form an open mic. In bed next to me, where a man used to be, is a stack of books and notebooks that I read from or write in in the quiet of night. Very poetic. I'm far from poetry the next morning though, running around my apartment screaming, "Shit! Shit! Fuck" as I try to find my earrings and a hat to fit my giant head and my house keys with 30 seconds til the last bus I can get before I'm late to work arrives at my corner.
And I'm pissed off all the time. I got into an argument with an 86 year old woman at my office day job yesterday over a lost and found box. I would like to think when I'm physically and spiritually fit, that I know better, that she is old and tired and cranky and gets a pass. Afterall, I'm not as old, but tired and cranky. (In my defense, she was a real bitch.)
And I'm dehydrated. Water, water everywhere and coffee has water in it right?
My pee clinks in the toilet bowl like ice cubes in a glass.
And then last night I had a realization -
people who do nothing and do not look deep within themselves have nothing to say so do other things and look deeply and tell people about it. Keep digging.
and I learned a lesson-
It's tough to get laughs from the same set of tired comics that were at the last open mic so don't sweat the silence.
and I loosened up-
I ranted at the host, I made fun of myself and kept a smile on my face.
I drank water and slept in.
This morning I was rewarded with awareness of some goals I have for myself that I had forgotten in the pressure and anxiety of these past few days of emotional upheaval. I wanted to give up like the old days.
But because I hung in there, I got to see a glimmer of hope.
And I got see the truth: That old lady is still a bitch.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Jokes and Notes
Tonight I went to an open mic at a club on the South side of Chicago called Jokes and Notes. I didn't tell many jokes and I got alotta' notes. It was not my best comedy night ever.
I'm about a year and half in to stand up and I am miles better than I was when I started. Oh but I have so much to learn yet.
I don't know if what I did was bomb but I started off rocky, the kind of start akin to taking a step and in mid-step you know you are going to sprain your ankle but you are powerless to stop the step and BAM! You are down on the sidewalk, your purse spilling all over the sidewalk, your tampons flying all over the place. I tried right away to relate with the nearly all black audience and talk about Prince and his Controversy album. Silence. Apparently Prince does not quite hold the court he used to in the 1980's. Prince might be the only black person talking about Prince anymore. Then I launched into material not on what I am now convinced would've have been the perfect set-list and I watched my jokes splat like bugs on a windshield.
I was unaware that as a newcomer to J & N I only got 3 minutes. If I'd have known I got so short a set I would've crammed more jokes in there. Actually, I suspect that's bullshit. It was my night to eat a bit of it. I thought I got 5 minutes and when the red light above the DJ went on, I thought I was getting pulled early because I was stinking up the club. I froze like a deer in the headlights. So then I stood there trying to assess whether or not I bombed and the DJ felt compelled to play a hip-hop song I am unfamiliar with but I think the chorus goes something like, "Bitch, get out the way! Bitch, get out the way!..." Do you know it?
As I went off the stage, one woman was actually hiding her face as I walked by and not because she was a burn victim. It was a very long, Dickensian walk to the gallows. Fuck.
Then the owner came over and told me I got the music because I didn't respect the light. It was after that I found out from another comic what my time was supposed to be. A comedy of errors without, you know, the comedy. But everyone had a good laugh at me as I took the 10 hour, 25 mile walk back to my seat.
The current host of Jokes and Notes on Wednesday is a comic named Marlon Mitchell, a very cute, personable, self-effacing comic who has a very comfortable, approachable style and an arsenal of stories about women he tried to date and the characters in his neighborhood. A very likable emcee, occasionally and necessarily going a bit far with his humor. The perfect host in his element. He did a lot of time at the top and in between comics and killed all evening. The host of a good room is very seductive and you want to be a part of their charisma, be familiar too. But familiarity is crafted, earned, the luck of the draw on the list and often a fluke. I made the mistake of acting familiar instead of being myself and following my instinct about my set-list and it didn't work. Marlon was funny and the audience loved him and I wanted the same thing. But I didn't pop out of the audience's vagina so love was not a given but a privilege I haven't earned there yet.
On the ride home, my fellow comic and friend Bridgett and I talked about the room at Jokes and Notes, which she's done a lot. We talked about what the audience at Jokes and Notes likes versus the audience at Jay Harris' showcase, Jerry's Joke Jam, likes and how we are trying to find our audiences for our voices as comics. I'm still finding my voice.
I'm learning that some comics will always do their comedy and never alter their work for their audience and others will try to read the audience and tailor their set to the crowd. I don't know what's best but I suspect like most things, it's in the middle.
The material has to be strong no matter what, but delivery, timing and tone are all a part of a killer set.
I was riding high this morning. I got up early, got a clip on YouTube and e-mailed someone about a gig. I wrote in or on my blog, however you get the pieces there, and got so many compliments on my clip from friends on Facebook. I sensed a storm cloud brewing on the bus ride home but I went up at the open mic anyway and learned many valuable lessons.
Yay, pain.
The real test was walking out of the club with the stink of a bad set on me and still be polite and be a trooper. And I had to do this sober and smoke-free. Ugh. I wanted a smoke so badly for 3 seconds.
I was very grateful that some other comics invited me to their rooms and gave their cards as I left tonight. And earlier today, all those friends on Facebook that complimented me and gave me all those, "You Go Girls"!after viewing my clip, I am so grateful for them because they reinforced what I know- that I am a good comic. I am grateful to be able to make people laugh. I am grateful to be a good comic who had a bad night who will over-think it but is lucky to be able to get to over-think about and do what she loves.
I'm about a year and half in to stand up and I am miles better than I was when I started. Oh but I have so much to learn yet.
I don't know if what I did was bomb but I started off rocky, the kind of start akin to taking a step and in mid-step you know you are going to sprain your ankle but you are powerless to stop the step and BAM! You are down on the sidewalk, your purse spilling all over the sidewalk, your tampons flying all over the place. I tried right away to relate with the nearly all black audience and talk about Prince and his Controversy album. Silence. Apparently Prince does not quite hold the court he used to in the 1980's. Prince might be the only black person talking about Prince anymore. Then I launched into material not on what I am now convinced would've have been the perfect set-list and I watched my jokes splat like bugs on a windshield.
I was unaware that as a newcomer to J & N I only got 3 minutes. If I'd have known I got so short a set I would've crammed more jokes in there. Actually, I suspect that's bullshit. It was my night to eat a bit of it. I thought I got 5 minutes and when the red light above the DJ went on, I thought I was getting pulled early because I was stinking up the club. I froze like a deer in the headlights. So then I stood there trying to assess whether or not I bombed and the DJ felt compelled to play a hip-hop song I am unfamiliar with but I think the chorus goes something like, "Bitch, get out the way! Bitch, get out the way!..." Do you know it?
As I went off the stage, one woman was actually hiding her face as I walked by and not because she was a burn victim. It was a very long, Dickensian walk to the gallows. Fuck.
Then the owner came over and told me I got the music because I didn't respect the light. It was after that I found out from another comic what my time was supposed to be. A comedy of errors without, you know, the comedy. But everyone had a good laugh at me as I took the 10 hour, 25 mile walk back to my seat.
The current host of Jokes and Notes on Wednesday is a comic named Marlon Mitchell, a very cute, personable, self-effacing comic who has a very comfortable, approachable style and an arsenal of stories about women he tried to date and the characters in his neighborhood. A very likable emcee, occasionally and necessarily going a bit far with his humor. The perfect host in his element. He did a lot of time at the top and in between comics and killed all evening. The host of a good room is very seductive and you want to be a part of their charisma, be familiar too. But familiarity is crafted, earned, the luck of the draw on the list and often a fluke. I made the mistake of acting familiar instead of being myself and following my instinct about my set-list and it didn't work. Marlon was funny and the audience loved him and I wanted the same thing. But I didn't pop out of the audience's vagina so love was not a given but a privilege I haven't earned there yet.
On the ride home, my fellow comic and friend Bridgett and I talked about the room at Jokes and Notes, which she's done a lot. We talked about what the audience at Jokes and Notes likes versus the audience at Jay Harris' showcase, Jerry's Joke Jam, likes and how we are trying to find our audiences for our voices as comics. I'm still finding my voice.
I'm learning that some comics will always do their comedy and never alter their work for their audience and others will try to read the audience and tailor their set to the crowd. I don't know what's best but I suspect like most things, it's in the middle.
The material has to be strong no matter what, but delivery, timing and tone are all a part of a killer set.
I was riding high this morning. I got up early, got a clip on YouTube and e-mailed someone about a gig. I wrote in or on my blog, however you get the pieces there, and got so many compliments on my clip from friends on Facebook. I sensed a storm cloud brewing on the bus ride home but I went up at the open mic anyway and learned many valuable lessons.
Yay, pain.
The real test was walking out of the club with the stink of a bad set on me and still be polite and be a trooper. And I had to do this sober and smoke-free. Ugh. I wanted a smoke so badly for 3 seconds.
I was very grateful that some other comics invited me to their rooms and gave their cards as I left tonight. And earlier today, all those friends on Facebook that complimented me and gave me all those, "You Go Girls"!after viewing my clip, I am so grateful for them because they reinforced what I know- that I am a good comic. I am grateful to be able to make people laugh. I am grateful to be a good comic who had a bad night who will over-think it but is lucky to be able to get to over-think about and do what she loves.
My Dental Journey
My Grandma would be proud of me that I'm finally taking care of my teeth because she used to nag me about dental care.
Nag- that's horseshit! She tried to parent me! Which was her job! Nana knew I wasn't taking care of my teeth and she had false teeth from growing up poor at the turn of the 20th century in rural Tennessee.
I've been racking my brain trying to figure out when I can blog.
I have been racking my brain trying to figure out what to blog about.
I am too busy to write in the evening and my creative energy comes in the morning like it does for a lot of people. Then this morning I sent an e-mail to enter a comedy contest. I woke up earlier than normal to get a clip of my comedy on You Tube. It took all night to download from my older computer.
It hit me. Write in the morning instead of scouring other people's work on cable television.
It hit me. Write about my teeth.
Why my teeth? Well, millions of other people watched and will be writing about President Obama's State of the Nation talk last night. But only two people talked about the state of my teeth last night and only one person will be writing about them.
As my dentist, Dr. Sam Tahbaz says, my mouth has been stabilized. I didn't see a dentist for years. A year or two after I got sober, I went to a dental clinic for 4 simultaneous root canals. Typical alcoholic feast-or-famine behaviour. Up to that point I hadn't been to a dentist since my teens and my mom made me go.
I've held a non-for-profit corporate day job for over 2 years now. I get paid vacation and insurance. After a year on this job I started getting a tooth ache that kept getting worse until I had to see a few emergency dentists to extract a tooth and do another root canal. After that I found a great dentist, Dr. Tahbaz, right up the street from me.
I have been going to him, getting fillings replaced, cleanings and scaling. As he reminded me, my fillings were from the Carter Administration. Ha! And now, my mouth is stabilized!
I still have some work to do but if I got stuck on a desert island today my gums would hold up for a while.
My friend Julie shared with me yesterday that she hadn't been to a dentist in 5 years and finally went. I got to share my "Dental Journey" with her to show my support.
Of course, I only went back to the dentist because I am going to live, probably, till I'm old. I didn't know this but I have come to accept and embrace this. So I don't want to go forth with a mouth full of "scusm gnashers" as my friend Johnny calls them.
And I have insurnace I should use. But it took me a year and a horrible toothache and a few hundred dollars to get me to use it.
That relates to President Obama's talk in a way.
We should give people medical and dental care but we can't make them use it. That hope comes from a desire to live and be happy. I wish I could give that to people. Maybe my "Dental Journey" will help.
Nag- that's horseshit! She tried to parent me! Which was her job! Nana knew I wasn't taking care of my teeth and she had false teeth from growing up poor at the turn of the 20th century in rural Tennessee.
I've been racking my brain trying to figure out when I can blog.
I have been racking my brain trying to figure out what to blog about.
I am too busy to write in the evening and my creative energy comes in the morning like it does for a lot of people. Then this morning I sent an e-mail to enter a comedy contest. I woke up earlier than normal to get a clip of my comedy on You Tube. It took all night to download from my older computer.
It hit me. Write in the morning instead of scouring other people's work on cable television.
It hit me. Write about my teeth.
Why my teeth? Well, millions of other people watched and will be writing about President Obama's State of the Nation talk last night. But only two people talked about the state of my teeth last night and only one person will be writing about them.
As my dentist, Dr. Sam Tahbaz says, my mouth has been stabilized. I didn't see a dentist for years. A year or two after I got sober, I went to a dental clinic for 4 simultaneous root canals. Typical alcoholic feast-or-famine behaviour. Up to that point I hadn't been to a dentist since my teens and my mom made me go.
I've held a non-for-profit corporate day job for over 2 years now. I get paid vacation and insurance. After a year on this job I started getting a tooth ache that kept getting worse until I had to see a few emergency dentists to extract a tooth and do another root canal. After that I found a great dentist, Dr. Tahbaz, right up the street from me.
I have been going to him, getting fillings replaced, cleanings and scaling. As he reminded me, my fillings were from the Carter Administration. Ha! And now, my mouth is stabilized!
I still have some work to do but if I got stuck on a desert island today my gums would hold up for a while.
My friend Julie shared with me yesterday that she hadn't been to a dentist in 5 years and finally went. I got to share my "Dental Journey" with her to show my support.
Of course, I only went back to the dentist because I am going to live, probably, till I'm old. I didn't know this but I have come to accept and embrace this. So I don't want to go forth with a mouth full of "scusm gnashers" as my friend Johnny calls them.
And I have insurnace I should use. But it took me a year and a horrible toothache and a few hundred dollars to get me to use it.
That relates to President Obama's talk in a way.
We should give people medical and dental care but we can't make them use it. That hope comes from a desire to live and be happy. I wish I could give that to people. Maybe my "Dental Journey" will help.
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