Someday I will be a thousandiare!

The short story is that I did not go to a mic on Saturday. The long story is this:

My dear friend, Allison-Rose DeTemple (also the designer of these gems: www.breedspecificgifts.com Christmas in April, anyone?) snagged tickets to see Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers at The Williamsburg Music Hall. Perfect! There is an open mic at Legion Bar at 5 and I thought I had the perfect little evening planned out... better than Home Depot, or any Will Farrell movie since "Old School."

Mid-afternoon I fielded a call from Ms. DeTemple asking if I wanted to go to Queens Chinatown for $25 massages, her treat. I should mention that part of the reason I am trying to get away from quite so very much cabaret is that it takes a huge toll on your body. All those high kicks in high heels with a high ball of whiskey can do a number on your alignment, so a massage sounded vunderbar, and a free massage sounded even vunderbar-er.

Still, I was forced to decline. I had a commitment to stand-up and nothing, no, nothing was to stand in my way! Not even a free massage. So, off I trod for 2.5 minutes of rambling in the back of Legion a bar followed by an or and a half of my idol on the banjo.

The MTA, however, had a different idea entirely. Now, if I were to make a list of areas in which I excel, I would certainly not include time management. I would definitely include consumption of and the ability to sleep with my friends and expect that everything will go back to normal, but definitely not time management. I live in a craft den of glue guns, chalk boards, paint brushes, half finished costumes and no shelves, so It is a wonder I make it anywhere at all, let alone on time.

I may have provided the bread for this story of running epically late sandwich, but The MTA certainly brought on the meat. Pickles and mayo are questionable.

There I am waiting for giant sausage link of a Q train to arrive and whisk me away to Williamsburg, when I discover there are no trains coming to my stop. None. N'er ye a train for the rest of the weekend. My only transportation option was to walk to the next stop and jump on a shuttle bus to Atlantic Pacific where I could get a train to somewhere, assuming that train is not under construction, as well. Sparing you the details, (there was rage and veggie fried rice, to be sure) this process took an overwhelming hour just to get to Atlantic Pacific, defeating any hope I had of getting to the mic on time, on time-ish, or even on time enough that I could eyelash bat my way into jumping on the end of the line up.

Chinatown massages, it was (hello, 7 train) but I was wracked with guilt for missing the mic. How could I have panned so poorly? Been so irresponsible? How could I lay still for a hour when there was stand-up somewhere in the city, and I was missing it!

All those hours on the train gave me plenty of time to consider what, exactly, I was willing to sacrifice for this challenge, and even more so, for my career. This entire challenge is based on the supposition that one year of hard work (after four years of equally hard, but somewhat less streamlined work, to be fair) will put me in a place where comedy, not burlesque, performance art or working the coat check at beer promotions, could be my bread winner. I couldn't help but consistently return to the question: what was this year of my life worth to me? I had already declined dinner invitations, fielded angry texts and phone calls from friends who were convinced that I was over our friendship, or at least didn't value it anymore, and stayed four hours or more deep into the single digit hours of the night at a mic in pursuit of seven minutes, and that's just since I took the challenge. I have broken fevers onstage, missed major holidays with my family, ended relationships with women I loved I pursuit of this dream of performing.

What's more, I don't think I am anywhere near special for having done so. One of my dear childhood friends routinely clocks 100 hour weeks at his job as an architect.

What is one year of my life even worth? One hour? Pardon the leap towards the existential, but when you've been on a train for over 90 minutes on a Saturday on your way to a mic with a drink minimum and the promise of 180 seconds in front of a lackluster-at-best crowd, who will silently think to themselves "that's funny" before emitting even a chuckle, the gears in your head start to turn.

The truth of it is, I don't mind it, any of it, really. Sure, I wish things were different sometimes. I wish I could go on a vacation without fearing being called in for an audition or booking a show that makes me cancel it last minute. (I might mention the all expense paid Alaskan Cruise I had to pay not to go on because of an audition at an improv studio that I didn't book. As my manager said to me at the time, "do you have a career in Alaska? No. So stay here and do your job.") I would like to someday order a round of shots for my friends and say, "this round's on me!" without doing math before cautiously putting down my debit card in fear of overdraft fees. I would like to have a wife and give her nice things and take her to nice restaurants, not because we know the bartender and he will totally hook us up, but because she wants to go there. And someday, I believe I will have those things. Right now, however, I don't. I have 180 seconds to get better at a bit that may, one day, go into a 10 minute bringer set that will get me noticed by the owner of nonsense and poppycock club, that will be seen by a schmucky guy with pull at Comedy Central, who will give me 22 minutes not to fuck up in a comedy special that will run sporadically for a few years and may or may not ever lead to a substantial chunk of money that allows me to live alone without jumping on craigslist to look for an extra gig or two to make sure that I can fly home for Christmas without "mentioning" to my dad how expensive airfare is these days. Ooh, boy.

Someday, I will be a thousandaire! But I have to say, for now, I don't mind being where I am. Sure, I wish I could order martinis at will, but I can order them from time to time, which is something I couldn't always say.

In the wise words of my father, "all you can do is point yourself in the right direction and keep moving forward. It is not up to you to decide how long your journey will last."

So, onto Steve Martin! Onto greatness! Onto a free massage in Chinatown and talking my friend into giving me a ride back to my house in the ghetto with two roommates, one bathroom here even the trains sometimes do not dare to go.

Ladies and gentlemen, the show you are about to see is 64% gay

Lucky show eleven is also a bit of a cheat, as it took place largely in front of a burlesque audience...and I didn't work out any new material... And I really only spoke fairly briefly... but I am counting it, because it fulfills the aforementioned qualifications, and with God as my witness, I shall not fail a this challenge!

Ugh, am I that needy, I just invoked God to witness a stand up challenge? We soldier on.

Show eleven took place in the form of a Doc Wassabasco show at City Winery. Yes, it was burlesque, but not only did I do a singing number in which I speak to the audience before I cue the DJ (albeit doing my most tried and true jokes for drunk people) each of the performers also emcees one other performer over the course of the night. Nothing major to report here, except that BB Heart mentioned backstage that this was a particularly gay cast, and the indubitable fact checker within needed to verify said supposition before I would sign off on it. Being a woman of science and precision, I requested that each of the members of the cast, excepting the one male member, as we decided it should be a ladies only calculation--BB is cheating already--calculate here percentage gay, 1% being very fond of the fellas, 100% being season tickets to Michigan Women's Festival. We were at a solid 64% gay until two late-coming performers, who shall remain nameless, rated themselves 0 and .02%, respectively, which we rounded to 0. Caught in the long-finger nailed, able to get legally married in all 50 states as well as Canada grasp of their hetero extravaganza, our average plummeted to 40 something, stripping us of our official gay majority, though I do think a couple of the somewhat optimistic 50/50 girls were took notes as to whom to invite to their next venture into "I had a girlfriend in college and occasionally like to make out with someone whose 5 o'clock shadow is in their southern hemisphere" experiment.

I remember a drag queen in Lawrence, KS once tossing the line, "bi now, gay later," at a boy in the crowd of a protest or performance... or maybe there was a performance in response to a protest... or a protest in responses to a performance... the details are hazy, though I do clearly remember Fred Phelps's crew being present. God bless Kansas. Experience has persuaded me, however, that "bi now, annoying later" may be a more accurate moniker for rainbow explorers of the female persuasion. I am the last bi girl with whom I went to bed, which incidentally coincided with the first, second and third orgasm I ever faked. Oops.

The Joy of Cooking

Thursday brought me to Calvin Cato's mic quippingly entitled, Your Parents' Basement. Calvin is a rare find in comedy, in that he is not only a nice guy, but seems to have a fairly rational perspective on all things related to the business. I had been ask to perform at Rita MenWeep's Strip for a Cure AIDS Walk benefit, and was tempting fate by trying to squeeze in a set before, but no rest for the weary, and quite graciously, Calvin graciously put me up first and let me do my thang.

This is one of my favorite mics in the city, and I think most comics who are somewhere between just beginning and uber successful know that and give it the support it deserves by paying attention and frequenting the bar.

Interestingly, this day also happened to be St. Patrick's Day, which brings me to yet another instance in which I realize that the peasant world is for peasants, the performing world is for performers. The last time this came up was Valentines Day when we had an amazing event at La Mama followed by an installation of my weekly show, Takin off the Ritz. In discussing holiday plans with performers and non-performers alike, it became clear to me that holidays for us are opportunities to bring out our holiday material and throw a special, holiday themed show. For you normal people, it is time to listen to said holiday material and go to said holiday themed shows. This year I tried to convince my sister that doing a show on Christmas Day and coming home the following Monday was no big deal. There are no young children in our lives. We can celebrate holidays whenever the fuck we want to. What does December 25 mean to any of us, personally? The logic was lost on my sister who threatened to disown me if I missed another family holiday, so home I went, and when St. Patrick's Day rolled around, out came my green feathers and burlesque number about drinking, but I stayed sober and was happy to be in the early set so I could be home before midnight.

At Calvin's mic, I tried out a bit that is more of a story than a punchline bit, and though the lol's weren't thunderous, I did have an all-comedian audience smiling throughout, so that when I did get to a punchline in my next bit (wordplay, te amo) they were more than ready to guffaw. I want to go back to said story and organize it around a couple of one liners, but I think this may have been a big part of what my "win one for the gipper" speech giver was talking about when he told me not to fear the silence. Part of the craft is getting the audience ready to laugh, and part of it is actually making them laugh. With the exception of some of the best one line comics around, you have to be willing to take the audience somewhere before you can expect them to be there with you when it's time to ha ha.

Sometimes I like to think of comedy as a reduction as in cooking. Like making a gravy or something. (Should I mention my ex, the reality TV chef, or can it just be inferred?) You put a lot in the pot to begin with, spices, broth, vegetables... I have no idea what else goes in there. I dated a chef, but learned nothing and have never, myself, actually made anything that didn't result in popcorn or mostly burnt rice. Point is, lots of stuff. Too much stuff. If you ate it Ike that it would be gross and bland, and the wrong consistency, and all in all, just off. You have to boil it for a while and let some of the nonsense and jokes about Facebook boil off until what yo utter is this really great, smart, poignant yet not overpowering 30 minute Comedy Central special slash gravy. Easy as pie! Damnit. Now I totally want pie. No homo.

Woah, Black Bettie

Wednesdays for me mean one thing. Ok, two things. Trying to wiggle in a hump day reference into all my texts and emails, and Spanking the Lower East Side at Nurse Bettie, hosted by my partner in crime, Honi Harlow (www.honiharlow.com). Though burlesque is it's bread and butter, It is no rare sight for a chanteuse (Shelly the Singing Siren and Broadway Brassy, to name a few) to make an appearance. I, myself, have done a ditty or two on that stage, so, knowing that the rest of my open mic part of the evening was dedicated to other matters, I asked Honi if I could do a number at the show with my ukulele so as not to fall behind schedule on my quest for world domination.

Performing in a bar is the fastest way I know to learn the importance of concision. When people have imbibed and are encouraged to keep imbibing, you only have so many words to which they are willing to listen before their what-to-pay-attention-to scale tips toward their drink in hand or the drunk girl falling off a barstool who looks more than willing to make out with you with fully bar-inappropriate tongue and possibly throw up in a cab on your trek back to your apartment in Astoria where you live with your craigslist roommate who uses your shampoo and thinks you don't notice. I had planned on doing a couple of bits, maybe three minutes or so, before delving into the song, but 90 seconds in, I knew it was time to jam or be jammed. I was unsure about the songs' reception among the drunkards, but was smilingly surprised to be asked by the crowd to return to the stage for a second number, which I did not do, for the host had things to deal with other than changing the up, and I don't blame her. Burlesquers can be pissy when you mess with their time frames.

So all in all, a success, I would say. Not in the boys club, but you can never have too much practice doing these things, and lord knows your audiences only get slightly more sober at the top. Even Eddie Izzard gets hecklers. Ugh. Don't even get me started about drunk people in Europe.

Seven Minutes in... well, seven minutes at least

Show numero seven-o came in two waves. First, there was that time I showed up for Mike and Friends mic at Otto's Shrunken Head, a venue which gave me mild anxiety as it is an old standard for my most loved and now most hated ex, the musician who started dating my friend behind my back while I was still madly in love with her, causing my heart to piñata open into tiny tiny pieces and broken shards of self-respect, love for my fellow man, the will to live and so on and so forth, a piñata mess that took upwards of two years to Humpty Dumpty back together again. Still, this 365 in 365 challenge is all about facing fears, there is only so much of the city you can give to your exes, and there is no day like today to reclaim Alphabet City.

I shan't lie, I wouldn't put this mic on my list of top ten favorites (even though I have only had seven to date) though through no fault of Mike, himself. He is a great guy, an enthusiastic host, and shares my alma mater, Amherst College--go, Lord Jeffs. He does a pre-sign up thing, and couldn't squeeze me on, but he promised that if I could wait an hour and change, he would put me up on the second mic he runs just down the way at Boxcar.

I did wait, ordered my coke on the rox, and ate shit. By the time I did get up, I was less than excited about the whole adventure, and the whole aura about the show oozed with the stinky, sticky comedian glaze of, I am miserable and through misery, I hope to make you laugh. That said, lord knows I will be back. There are only so many options on badslava.com, and I am on a schedule. I also learned a valuable lesson about taking non-performers advice when they say things like, "that's really funny. You should use it in your stand up." If you heard my alarm clock joke, you know what I mean.

Fortunately, later that evening, I was booked to do my ode to Justin Bieber act at Ad-Dick-tion hosted by my all time favorite boy-lesquer ever of all time, Go-Go Harder (www.gogoharder.com). I was an all male line up, though as a lesbian, I always feel that I have an honorary place as one of the boys, not to mention that this was a pretty glamorous pack of boys, so I was far from the only pretty pretty princess backstage. I dare say, I may not even have been the prettiest princess, though I did have the biggest titts. B+ cups for life!

I did a little comedy and a little song and dance, met up with my dear friend, Diane Wade who is the GM of the space (Bowery Poetry Club) not to mention a fellow fan of Eddie Izzard and crafting... And red wine... And pickle backs... Really one of the most amazing women on the planet, so all was well.

Had intended to go to Penny's again, but by 1:30 in the am, I was too pooped to poop, let alone to tell jokes. Even jokes about poop.

Oh, and I should mention that a musician friend of mine, (fine! Also one of my exes, though to be fair, when we dated she was very young and still identified as a woman and I had a shaved head and an affinity for smashing into people on the rugby pitch, so lots has changed) did go to Penny's and called me to register, perhaps one of the most entitled complaints I have ever had to entertain. Le pronoun-questionable ex was upset to have been drawn last out of the hat (Penny's is a lottery system) despite being extremely talented, and could believe that people would waste hir valuable time as an artist by doing nonsense onstage, such as lying down or being perfectly silent for extended periods of time.

Dear Ex:

Welcome to New York. Open mics have nothing to do with being talented. They have to do with everyone getting their seven minutes. You are not entitled to any more accolades at an open mic than anyone else, despite your boi-ish good looks and ability to do amazing things with your hands... on the ukulele.

You don't go to an open mic to be great. You go to become great.

Also, remember that time we had sex on the dryer in your parents' basement after you did your senior prank even though I was well into college and the whole idea of coming home to Ohio to take you to your prom was hilarious to begin with, let alone, making out in the semi-furnished basement while we "watched a movie" and hoped your mom didn't come down to unload the washer? Whatever happened to those more innocent times?

FOUR FIVE AND SIX... dealing with a lot of dicks

Four was with Sassi at Broadway Comedy Club. A fairly typical mic. Not gunna lie, I spent a huge chunk of time outside talking with my friend, Princess Sunshine talking about a burlesque venue and their choices on vocalists. Look, burlesque has been my life for a while now, and I miss it. I love it. I have a natural proclivity for gossip, and in that department, comics are boring. Or at least, not as interesting to me as all of my bedazzled friends.

Five was a little bit questionable, so I had to take it to committee. It was my UCB Improv 201 Showcase. Now one of my very first jobs in the city was as a short form improviser (Where are you from? New Jersey! What exit?) but I haven't ever studied long form, so one diversity scholarship later (I have to say things like, "as a lesbian" when I go to meet ups in order to compete in the pissing contest of diversity. My liberal arts degree in nonsense and whimsy also gives a lil Harry Potter tingle whenever I utter sentences like, "as a lesbian..." This show counts because it is 1.) In the boys club and 2.) Involves thinking and speaking on my feet 3.) led me to make a funny joke about chlamydia (always funny) which I may work into a bit.

That night was back to my world below fourteenth street, or, in this case, off the ol JMZ in the BK lounge to a house party in Bushwick with burlesquers and fetishists. Let it be said now that I'm not really into fetish--I struggle to keep a straight face. Or even a gay face that isn't laughing, for that matter--but that's what I get for befriending sexual deviants and vagabonds. The jumps between comedy and burlesque are always comical, however. To go from a group of hoodies and sneakers to wigs and bedazzles never ceases to amaze me, not to mention the personal wardrobe crises I now encounter daily.

Sunday the mic I wanted to go to was cancelled, which was fine as I had spent all day in pajamas with a dear friend of mine watching "Peepshow," a British import and a jem of a Sunday-morning time-waster.
Lucky number six

Monday brought me Letterman's Backdoor where I was scheduled to do a thirty minute set: read, the length of a Comedy Central Special. I dug deep into the vaults of old material, and in the process, failed to reveal many of the new comedy gems I have unearthed since I first stuck my toe into the cold, cold waters of stand-up as a more than semi-obnoxious 23 year old. A tricky audience to begin with, though, again, not a total fail. Highlights HERE.

SHOWS ONE TWO AND THREE

March 7th, 2011. Show numero uno is Motel Luca. (Ok, so I took Sunday off. There was an awards ceremony for the festival I was just in, and this marked my last chance to get my baby-dyke light designer drunk before she heads to Philly and her stupid girlfriend who is not me. Diet starts Monday!)

Luca is a great mic, and I had been there before, so I knew it wasn't going to be total weird-o-ville, though it did force me to face one of my worst fears head on--that fear, of course, being, interacting with other comics. An audience of thousands pales in comparison to an audience of five to fifteen bored comics, not to mention the pain and agony that is a one on one conversation with a comedian. There are exceptions to this rule, but without my bedazzles and costumes, I am not a particularly social bug to begin with, and this boys club freaked me the fuck out. I stood outside the bar texting for a while thinking of excuses, until I had sent my last "perhaps I should have gone to grad school" text out into the tele-universe, and forced my oh so unwilling self to go in, order a stupid glass of wine (which gave me heartburn. I think I may have an ulcer, but that's neither here nor there.) (Seriously, though, does red wine often give people heartburn? I'm freakin 27, why do I have heartburn.) I brainstormed my face off as to what jokes to tell and way over prepared for what was, in the end, four and half minutes and about one and a half of the eleven bits I had written down in my little comic notebook. Still, I didn't eat shit, I tried out some new stuff and left feeling perfectly lackluster. Could be worse. I could be Mario Lopez.

The next day a friend had booked me on her show which takes place in the back of a restaurant. The show was canceled on account of absolutely no one showed up, so I went to see a friend's play about breast cancer with my ex, who also used to have breast cancer. Welcome to the big time.

The night was not lost, however, as show numero dos came in the way of Penny's Open Mic.
I have been a regular here for eons, though almost never do stand-up. I tend to sing or, yeah, usually I sing. This made me face another of my biggest fears, which is doing repeat material in front of people who already know large portions of my body of work. A huge part of me feels like I should be constantly creating, never the same show twice! But one of the big points of this is to work on material, to boil it down until all that is left is the funny, none of the fat (stress-a-rexia, here I come) so time to get over that. Always a loving crowd, and my breast cancer friend(s) were both in attendance, so I pulled out my chemo material and killed. Er... didn't kill. Ugh. Wordplay.

It should also be noted that I heavily considered sleeping with one of my exes on this eve, but cooler heads (and also the fact that she has a job in New Jersey) prevailed and I, like a true comic, went home alone.

Wednesday I had a promotional modeling gig and got paid to stand in one place all night, which was awesome. I will say, however, that it was a benefit for The Humane Society and a shocking number of patrons entered adorned in their finest furs, and I'm not talking poodle. If I had been getting paid to talk, I would have some things to say, let me tell you. The night also featured a guest appearance by a Broadway actress currently appearing in "Catch Me If You Can," who inspired me to never wear a bedazzled unitard to a charity event once I have passed the age of 40, nor to title my upcoming album "Sass," nor to dance Fosse choreography while audibly gasping for air into a microphone in front of a medium sized group of subdued party guests ever. Before her performance, I wouldn't have put any of that past me, so good life lesson to learn.

I also made my way to the venue of my old Monday night show and fought (successfully) to get my Mondays back, so victory! I also broke a fever and almost passed out, and think I want to get nose surgery because I think I have an overly abundant proclivity for sinus infections. I also may be a hypochondreac... and a horrible speller. What? One thing at a time.

Show numero tres would have to wait for my dear friend Noah's new Thursday mic, The F*&king Free Mic, which went insanely well. So well, in fact, I had a fleeting sensation of, "this may not be so bad after all." My dear friend, John Murdock, was at my side, which helped. We had the two non-comic bar patrons rolling, and I made a vow not to do material about being at open mics. I am here to work out material for the big time, not to be able to kill at an open mic.

Mission: Stand Up

The basic story is this: I started off life as an actor, who got funny enough to become a comedienne, who got physical enough to get sucked into burlesque. Then burlesque figured out that I can talk, and I started hosting as a comic once again.

For anyone who has ever considered a career in stand up, it is no secret that life-o- the stand up comedian can be pretty rough. Comics don't tend to be the happiest of folks, and the industry, itself, errs towards the dog eat dog. So since I was putting enough pennies in my penny jar from working in the burlesque world, and was making people laugh to boot, I stopped working as a stand up, except for the odd set as a hangover from shows with which I had worked with in the past, and even then, my sets tended towards the ukulele, an instrument I play just barely well enough to fumble through a handful of funny songs. No more calling myself a stand-up.

Then one Saturday, out of nowhere, everything changed. I had three shows that night: the closing of my one-woman musical in the Frigid Festival, a burlesque extravaganza where I was debuting a new number, and finally, at midnight, The Naked Comedy Show--read, one of the shows I got into back when I was hungry for stand-up stage time and still requests me on line ups, I think because I am a pretty girl and it's a naked show.

After le naked show, je suis completement pooped, but a fella in the business approached me to give me feedback, real feedback, not like pat on the back, well done, kidd-o feedback. Montreal Comedy Fest auditions were early that night in the same venue, so he had lingered. I've known this fella for quite some time. He knows me as most comics know me, as living in the neither here nor there, kind of comedy, kind of burlesque world.

Now, sit tight, for here comes the big a-ha. I told him I had given up stand up and he said, quite simply, "don't." I don't think he would even remember most of what he actually said to me; it wasn't particularly eloquent or inspired, but perhaps that's part of what caught my attention. He was talking to me like I was a comic--a sitting at the big kid table, albeit at the far end of the big kid table, comic. For reasons that are neither hither nor tither, something in my head clicked.

"Hit the mics hard for a year, and you'll be fine," he said. "Go to a mic every night--every night--for a year, and you'll be making lots of money," to which I responded, "money? What's that?"

Now, I'm not sure how literally he meant this pep talk to be, and, perhaps I am clinging to it because it is giving me the kind of structure I so desperately crave in an industry that is so far out of my control, but I took it at full face value. 365 stand up sets in 365 days, and I'll be fine. If not rich and famous, at least a comedienne who gets to keep her clothes on for a living.

So here I am. 365 shows in 365 days. Then came the pregunta, what counts as a show? I can't give up burlesque all together. My penny jar needs those pennies, but burlesque can't count towards stand up. It's similar, but different. There's no talking. Well, here's the skinny--and I do mean skinny.

A show doesn't count unless I speak at least 2 minutes of original or improvised material. (2 minutes is the length of the shortest mic I know of in the city. Thanks, The PIT.) So burlesque only counts if I get to speak for at least that long before a number.

And that's pretty much it. It's back to the mics, back to $5 for 5 minutes and buying a lot of diet coke's at bars, which only a comedian can understand.

For one year, I have signed a contract to be a stand-up comedienne. No option period, no backing out, no distractions from feathers and fans. Wish me luck!