Need a hobby, everyone needs a hobby, so I’ve starts going to comedy open mics. As an audience member, that is. I’ve no desire to subject myself to the stage.
As an audience member at a comedy open mic, you will be alone. Everyone else is a comic, or they are a comic’s dragged-along date. Very occasionally they are a comic’s wingman. You, still in your jacket so you can make a break for it, you are the only true audience member.
Most young comedians are working firmly in the realm of the obvious. Yes, black people are like this, whereas white people are like—emphatic stress—this. New York is like this. College degrees aren’t worth very much, are they? My sex life isn’t going so well. Men are freaky. Women are uptight. Unless a woman is freaky, which is either a huge turnoff or completely empowering, depending on your perspective. I moved here from the Midwest. You know what? Obama. And how about rape. Oops, rape isn’t funny. I’m not PC. People are too PC these days. What used to be called this is now called—emphatic sneer—this. But seriously: white people? C’mon. And anyway, technology. 9/11. Okay, thanks everybody, that’s all I have time for. Goodnight.
This is mostly everyone. There are a few minor variants: the angry man, the bewildered man, the foul-mouthed lady, the common-sense man, the meek woman, the meek man, the oh-honey sassy man, the mmm-hmm sassy woman, the bro, the lady bro, the slightly mental guy, the batty lady, the poor person who is barely holding it together, who no one can look at, who everyone laughs at through clenched teeth, who you applaud for so they don’t commit suicide.
What good is the obvious? It’s hard to get more than a chuckle when treading such flattened turf. But maybe you are learning the ropes. Walking before you can run. “Sports metaphor” before you can “original witticism.”
Or maybe you are doing that thing comics do where you want to be subversive, but you’re seeking approval for your subversiveness. You’re a bad little boy, saying all the no-nos you know.
The open mic pictured was a nasty one. Some decent schtick spattered throughout, but mostly a lot of angry men. Big-shouldered angry men, oddly enough. Most open mic comics laugh too loudly at each other. They’re super eager to show their support, sweetly enough, but they also don’t want the pain of watching a bomb. These comics here, however, were menaces. They read their phones while their peers performed. They cackled at each other’s flubs. One set slithered into some kind of long-unsettled dispute between the performer and the host. The former had flaked out on the podcast of the latter. Their exchange was seething, bilious, and without humor.
I wonder, sometimes, how much I stick out at these things. Alone, paying strict attention. A small fantasy of mine is that the comics think I am a big-time agent. Taking mental notes, seeing great potential, prepared to change lives if I find those lives deserving. Tap a shoulder after the show. You—you’re the only one with talent here. Come with me. Here’s a critically-hailed cable show for you to cut your teeth on.
Really, though, probably just a sad-looking weirdo. Ah well.
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