Open Mic Night

Sooooo many times in the past decade, I’ve been told by people “you should do stand-up,” or “you should grow a beard” or “I think we should just be friends.”

Now I have a beard, and I’m still lonely, BUT when it comes to stand-up, I always have a ready answer: “I already did.”

When I lived in Southern California, there were more open mic nights than transvestites.

There was always a guy who had taken improv classes and thought that meant he could do stand-up by flopping around the stage. A comedian, I mean… not a cross-dresser. Why can’t they be both?!

There was always a dude who purposely was filthy, filthy, flthy so he’d get kicked off the stage after a few seconds, thus making a name for himself. (Clubs usually insist that open mic-ers work clean).

There was always a cute girl who was moderately funny, except her material was about dating problems. I’m not buying it!

I always saw a soccer mom who was scared to death and would mumble aimlessly on stage. I always felt bad for her and wondered if she had a single, younger sister.

And there was always someone who stole their entire act from an old HBO special. (Redd Foxx seemed to be a frequent target).

Then there were a bunch of guys who looked like they wished they were sober enough to be considered stoners… they would have one funny story and 4 ½ minutes of lame “observations” (like over-eating while stoned -- so original!).

And then there was me. Not really fitting into any of these categories, I decided to fashion a story/routine like Bill Cosby. Which was dumb, because I never really liked Jell-o pudding.

The first time I went up, the club was having weekly “contests” in which the 4 or 6 best comedians would be invited back the next week. And I killed. KILLED! I killed so much, Ted Bundy’s uncle came up afterward and said, “you’re making my nephew look bad.” Then he offered me a lift in his Volkswagen.

The next week, I came back and the owner put me on first because I had killed. But he said I should do all-new material. So I killed with two bits; the rest got minor chuckles. I came off-stage and he says, “why didn’t you only tell the jokes that killed?”

The third week, I combined my best material from both appearances, and I killed again. At the end of the night, I was voted out in favor of 1) a kid who stole half his routine VERBATIM from Redd Foxx, 2) a totally unfunny-but-cute girl who also did a magic trick, and 3) a smelly stoner who talked about rambled parent-teacher conferences. Not sure if he was the parent or the teacher.

Most galling was that a very funny but plain-looking girl also got voted out. On second thought, she might have been Ross the Intern. I thought Hollywood had more integrity!

So the next night, I went to a different club. A rotund MC was sitting there in a Hawaiian shirt looking over some papers. I introduced myself, and when we shook hands, I thought he was wearing a catcher’s mitt. Wrong – he just had A HUMONGOUS HAND. Seriously. This thing was BIGGER than a catcher’s mitt. And it had been signed the Angels AND the Dodgers. This was clearly a medical condition, so I stuck to my vicarious WASP-y upbringing... and said nothing.

He gave me an index card to write out my intro. Here’s EXACTLY what I wrote:

“Our next comic comes to us direct from Chicago. He is to comedy what Michael Jordan was (beat) to comedy. Ladies and gentleman....”

Short and sweet. I even wrote “beat” so he’d know where to pause, in case the only comedic bones in his body were, in fact, buried in that giant hand. He glanced at the card, grinned and that was it.

The show starts. One by one, he introduced people with the same kooky-but-bubbly-persona. Sort of like a Jackie Gleason impersonator at Put-In-Bay. I had enough time to go feed my meter and come back -- twice. Finally, he gets up on stage, looks at me, and says, “Our next comic comes to us direct from Chicago, and he really wants to beat Michael Jordan. Ladies and gentleman...”

What what what?

I want to beat Michael Jordan?

The audience didn’t know what to do. “Is this next comic a moron?” they, and I, thought. So I did the only thing I could think of—I made fun of his handicap.

“Actually, my intro said ‘I am to comedy what Michael Jordan was… to comedy’. But you probably couldn’t see that because your giant hand was covering South Africa.”

And so it went.

“How about a nice hand for all the other comics? And a NORMAL hand for our MC, Bazooka Joe.”

(I don’t even know what that means.)

“Do you know what the difference is between you and Michael Jordan? He needed BOTH hands to pick up the United Center.”

All of a sudden, I noticed only the front couple tables were laughing. Everyone else was too far back and never saw the giant hand. So I decided to be a grown-up and make fun of them, too.

“Hey, tables in the back – don’t make me come over there. I did these jokes earlier in my room and I laughed my a-s off.”

Thank you, Don Rickles.

“Any more problems from the balcony and Lincoln’s gonna get it.”

There was no balcony, just me now SHAMELESSLY stealing from Rickles. But everyone was laughing because they expected me, a meek, doctor-ish-looking fellow, to be ruminating quietly about the funny differences between Medicare and Medicaid, or something. They did not expect a barrage of disconnected insults. After a few more, I used the remaining time for my REAL jokes (which went fine), and then left the stage, secure in the knowledge that I could never set foot in that place again.

As I walked out, chatting with another “comic," Mr. MC came running after me. I awaited a slap that would send me into a deep, deep coma at best.

“That was hilarious!” he excitedly told me. “Will you come back next week?”

Relieved, I asked, “Well... what does it pay?”

Next time… a review of “Rock Center” if I can find a sleeping family with a TV set by next Friday.