My First Open Mic Experience

This is going to sound like "the summer essay" that we were assigned in grade school--"How I spent my summer vacation." As Tollbooth Willie would say about me, "You unoriginal bastard!" But anyway, let us begin...

My first experience in comedy was at an open mic in the back of a dingy restaurant. It smelled of a nondescript stale beer mixed in with the smell of a room that hasn't seen sunlight since the day it was built--- like your high school buddy's basement. It was a relatively packed house. Anywhere from 15-20 people all crowded around a small box, set for a stage. (Yeah, we were supposed to believe a 4ft x 3ft x 2ft box was a stage.)

When I walked in, somebody was already on stage, ranting into mic. (I cringed thinking about the number of microorganisms growing on that petri dish of a mic.)

There was no real comedy. Just ranting. No one was laughing. The lack of laughter was sort of disconcerting, since after all, it was a comedy show--the only thing missing were laughs. And yet the performer didn't seem to notice. He was embittered, but not noticeably nervous. I think his confidence grew out of his familiarity with the subject matter--his ex-wife. He spewed vitriol. What baffled me was that his misogynistic rant was received as completely normal, at least to the audience. The crowd was unfazed by his hateful complaint speech. There seemed to be a collective acceptance. I would compare it to the Roman Catholic church--the congregation doesn't understand the entire liturgy, but they bow their heads in agreement anyway--knowing whatever mindless gibberish was being uttered something they needed to hear.

Finally, the host pounced on stage to break up the pin-drop silence. He was overzealous (which I later come to find out most hosts are). Apparently, that's their M.O.--to be over-the-top! They're there to be the vocal thermostat for the crowd; to bring them up when they're down. And to cool them off when they're too hot.

It was then that I decided to grab a seat--somewhere in the back, where I wouldn't be noticed. But I didn't know the host was paying such close attention to anyone but himself and his over-the-top antics. A good host knows the room, knows where every warm body is seated. He knows the pace, knows the energy (feels the energy), reads the crowd. So he did see me come in and asked me a direct question: Was I a comedian?

I hesitated. I has to ask myself the same question: Was I a comedian? That question was followed by another series of paranoid questions: "Why would he ask me that? Did I look like a comedian? Did I have a sign on my back? How did he know? Was he psychic?" Enough time has passed for him to grow a disturbing grimace on his face.

"Uh, no. I'm just here to watch."
"Oh, okay. Then that'll be 5 dollars."
" 5 dollars?"
" 5 dollars to watch. 7 to perform."

Ugh, what steep prices for basic entertainment, nowadays. I had to pay to stay. So I begrudgingly pulled out 7 hard earned dollars--dollars I wasn't ready to part with. After all, if I was going to stay and continue my observations, I might as well get on stage as a perk.

The host pulled out a clipboard with some paper, with a long list of names.

"Okay what's your name?" he expectantly asked. Again my paranoia kicked back in. "My name?" I thought. "Why does he need my name?"

"Lu... uh... Lu... cy... Lucy," as if first learning to pronounce my name.

"Lucy? That's it?" His pushy tone was beginning to annoy me. "What's your last name?"

"Dee. Lucy Dee."
"D? Like the letter "D"?"
"Like D...E...E..."
"Okay," as he scribbled my name in the last slot.
"Am I last?"
"Yeah, I can put you up earlier, if you want."
"No-no." I quickly back-peddled. "Last is fine."

Perfect. Everyone will leave the restaurant by the time I go up on stage. Little did I know about comedy etiquette, and that most, if not all, comedians will stay right up until the last comedian performs. Comedians know that we thrive off of having an audience. So unfortunately, to my chagrin, I had my audience, a comedian audience, of about 5 people--still an intimidating number people to a first-timer.


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The Idiotic Notion that got me started in comedy, Part 1

So blogspot is getting the best of me these days, disallowing any of my neat interview podcasts to post. So I have to resort to a lame "Where did this comedy idea come from?" post. Well, fine blogspot, you may have won the battle, but I still have an army behind me of graphic designers that are going to rip your insides out and make them pretty for all to see---bwah-ha-ha-ha!! (Whoops! Halloween was last month!)

So how did this idea of comedy get into my head? To be honest, this memory didn't resurface until a conversation on the phone yesterday with a dear high school friend. For some odd reason, I blocked out this memory per chance because it was too painful.

Grabs your high chairs kids, gather around the fire, because momma's going to take you back... waaaayyy back to kindergarten, with Mrs. Johnson. Yes, I said it, Mrs. Johnson. Generic name, right? I'm not making this one up.

Mrs. Johnson lead the first grade class (whoops, already my memory is jumping years) in an annual Christmas school play. Each class had to perform their own version of whatever twisted zombie reindeer rendition to impress the parents. But because there were so many of us little 'uns, they threw in some ancillary characters: A Mother and Father Christmas tree. Enter yours truly: I was "Mother Christmas Tree". And Papa Christmas Tree and I, during all that time in Spelling and Grammar when we were supposed to be memorizing lines, we opted for doodling of dirty pictures, and making sure each was properly labeled--Butt, BOO-bies, and whatever that thing is below the belt. Vag-enis or was it Pen-gina?

Anyway, when it came time to bring the house down, Mr. Christmas and myself felt adequate. We sorta knew our lines. "Pen-gina." I remember during rehearsal that my cue was to speak after he did. I speak after he does. What it was exactly I should be saying still hadn't settled into my easily distracted and precocious brain. I just knew he spoke first.

Fast forward to School Play Day: The audience had been filled with anxious parents and restless kids. All the other classmates had not only memorized their lines, but they had done them so well, that people laughed after each bit. Genius, I tell you! I watched off stage in amazement. I took careful note of the cadence. Line. Line. Laughter. Line. Line. Laughter.

I found myself on stage with my green turtleneck on to blend in with my very carefully designed costume. I bore a sharp resemblance to a North American White Spruce. Meanwhile, Mr. Christmas Tree had become petrified. He somehow had allowed stage fright to set in. I didn't know where this was going, but I sensed all together downhill. Everyone else had gotten their laughs. It was Mr. Christmas's turn and he was bombing--big time. He just kept repeating the same two words in hopes that the other eight would magically fall out of his mouth. I knew it was now or never. I had to get that bit of laughter for him---for my partner in pervvy crime.

So what would a faithful Christmas tree wife do? Make silly faces to the audience. And just like I had anticipated, the laughter followed. It came in waves. I was overwhelmed by them. Unfortunately, so was Mr. Christmas. He thought they were laughing at his incompetence, failing to memorize a simple few lines. The audience finished laughing, yet Mr. Christmas hadn't quite finished crying.

I glanced offstage to meet a look of disappointment by Mrs. Johnson. What did she know? She wouldn't know good comedy if it shed pine needles on her front lawn. Make room on the couch, Letterman. A star was born! But only after I paid my dues in the "Timeout chair". (Sigh)



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1st time on stage

So I finally got on stage and "performed." It was more of a fumbling act, but I did it. I had been told by several comics, that if I didn't hurry up and get on stage, I would lose my initial momentum. So within a week of my quest, I was on stage, in front of audience of about 5-7 people. Mild laughs. My jokes were "too wordy," according to the feedback received from the Emcee. I pulled him aside and asked how I could improve. He mentioned writing out all my jokes, verbatim, and then leaving a line of space underneath each sentence. (Essentially writing double-spaced.) Then he said to edit using only what's necessary to tell a joke.

Wait a minute! You're telling a writer she needs to lessen the number of words she uses? Why don't you just cut off my left while you're at it?

He made that suggestion, and immediately I understood. Most of writing is editing. And the best writers can edit their work, too.

It's going to be a long hard road, this comedy. But I'm in it for the long haul!

~ Lucy

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