Many Happy Returns

There has been considerable activity in my life lately, and last night was only the latest chapter. I was puttering around at home, eating some tasty rice with soy sauce and watching a little tv. It was then that I remembered the stand-up comedy showcase put on by Monkey Butler (the org that puts on the improv program I participate in). I got my things together and rushed out to go.
First I had to drop off some dvds at the library. That done, I went and caught the bus to the subway station. That took me to the notorious and seamy crossroads of Hollywood and Vine. From there, another bus was needed.

First, though, a creepy encounter: As I was walking away from the subway station there in Hollywood, I heard a voice warning me of a dropped wallet. Of course, I felt for my wallet, and there it was right in my pocket. The odd thing was that the voice was coming from some kind of speaker or bullhorn behind a fence there along hollywood blvd. opposite the Pantages Theater.

I shook that off, and caught my last bus (which had either just been fully cleaned or was the site of a man who ate a bushel of lemons and then exploded). Hollywood is a weird place. I say that whenever I even pass through there very briefly. It's not a "Marx Brothers at the Opera" kind of thing. I just feel like Dorothy in Oz or something. Full of awe, wonder, fright, disgust. I don't mean to say that all of that is a bad thing.

Anyway, I get to the club where the show is. Of course I passed by the place because it was just a dark, non-descript bar with the sign 'Cocktails' lit up. Inside, there was not a place anywhere that sufficient light fell upon to see what was what. Good luck trying to freshen up in the bathroom or finding your things when you come back to your table.

It was a good show, and lots of friends were there. I'd say that's generally the best part.

Most of the comics leaned pretty heavily on blue material. I'm not some genteel Southern belle apt to succumb to 'The Vapors', but cursing and sexually explicit material is not what I would do. It often is rather lazy and not terribly creative. Some comics are skilled enough to do it (Carlin was a master artist painting with a pallette of objectionable language, and comics like Pryor knew how to write material about sex), but it often doesn't come off well. Moreover, it limits one's audience and commercial appeal. Performers that can fill New York's Beacon Theater don't need to concern themselves with "Big Tent" comedy, but your common struggling comedian hitting open mikes and working not especially lucrative gigs elsewhere might do well to make themselves more accessible.

Afterwards, a friend and I chatted up (as they allegedly say) a couple of ladies who had seen the show. Sadly, one was both only visiting from NY and taken. About the other one, let's just say that her personality and bearing left me unsurprised that she herself was a comedian. She proved to despise Madonna. Not surprising either, as the Material Girl unquestionably has her detractors. I won her favor by praising Madonna's 80s contemporary Cyndi Lauper, but lost it by also praising Madonna's performance in the 1990 film version of Dick Tracy.

When that conversation had petered out, my friend and I headed back to North Hollywood to rest up before another day full of fresh adventures.