5/17/13, 1:30 AM
Bar Open Mic, Flappers Comedy Club, Burbank, CA
True to my word, I tell Erikka I’ll take the last thirty minutes of this week’s mic. I can tell she’s glad: a ton of people are still in the pitcher, which means we’re gonna have some angry comics on our hands. We talk at the end of the bar about how to handle this, and decide that it’s better to get everyone up, so before bringing me on, Erikka announces that everyone will be doing two minute sets from now on. She’s met with groans and boos, but she grits her teeth. “Would you rather wait and not get on? Didn’t think so.”
She introduces me, and I take the stage. I don’t remove the mic from the stand - no time. “Makin’ sacrifices, guys! Yeah!” I tell the crowd I have two things to say: one is that I wish I didn’t have so much useless information in my head - specifically, the names of the members of the Black Eyed Peas - and the other is a brief story about a customer who asked me to break a hundred so he could buy drugs later. The first bit goes pretty well, gets a couple claps, and the second one definitely has potential, but I can tell something’s off about it. The angle I’m coming from isn’t quite right. But I can’t worry about fixing it now.
I grab the pitcher and Quincy, another comic, asks if he can draw the names for the last section. I shrug. “Why not. Guest puller Quincy Jones up in here, everyone.” I keep the chatter in between comics to a minimum - don’t want to have any more irate comics on my hands.
We get through fourteen comics in just under half an hour. I feel simultaneously exhilarated and run down by the end of the show. I thank everyone for coming, tell them to get out and go to bed, then turn off the mic and start packing up.
One of the comics comes up to me and tells me how unhappy she is that we had to cut time to two minute sets. Says it’s disgraceful, almost insulting. I want to tell her this isn’t my fault, if you didn’t want to do two minutes, you should have left, but I tell her I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do right now, and we’re working on getting things started earlier. She’s still miffed, but she leaves. I’ve got no problem with her shooting the messenger. I’m wearing the bulletproof vest of not giving a shit.
Me, Parker, and the bartender are the only three left. We all give each other the same “what the fuck is she talking about?” look, then laugh about it. These are the perils of hosting: pissed-off comics and drunk audience members. These, I can live with.