I had been invited to appear at this new venue by the man who was the MC of the open mic comedy show at another bar in town, one that I had not previously heard of. Their own open mic night is on Tuesdays, and it seems to be a more intimate affair.
The “up” side of this “intimacy” is, of course, that people seated in the tables of the bar are more likely to be attentive, or at least more quiet, since there are fewer distractions. At the other club, where the MC of this comedy night at this club initially solicited my presence (as well as that of other performers present, lest anyone think he specially sought after me), there tends to be such a steady stream of bodies coming and going that it is well nigh impossible to establish connection with an ever-morphing audience, many of whom seem to prefer inebriatedly chatting with one another at the bar or playing pool in the adjoining room.
At first, I am afraid that things might be a bit too intimate, since there are only about three or four bar-dwellers about minutes before showtime. If this state of things prevails, doing a set is going to feel more like a dress rehearsal. I begin to wonder if maybe I should just “wing it” under such circumstances, because it would almost be too weird not to acknowledge the reality of a nearly empty venue.
Happily, the MC chooses to wait a few minutes past official starting time, and something resembling a crowd finally begins to file in. I begin to notice that the end of the stage is furnished with a horizontal post, something like you’d see on the balcony of a patio. This tickles me, as it puts me to mind of Benito Mussolini addressing the throngs from the balcony of his piazza in Rome, and I feel tempted to begin with an impromptu “Il Duce” reference; at the same time, I am unsure if this might be a kind of overkill, since I plan to finish my set by showing off my “Human Swastika” body sculpture.
When it is my turn, however, I only make rather oblique Mussolini references, along with far more pointed commentary concerning the end of “Pride Month.” I spend so much time preambling the main section of the act (one which I have performed before) that there is no time for hijinks once the routine is done. Instead, I bid the audience adieu, descend from my performer’s perch and creep back to the obscurity of my corner barstool. (Watch my set here.)
****************************
Much as I get a kick out of being odd, unusual, and at times “shocking” in my routines, I also find that nearly every time I take the stage, something almost devastatingly tragic occurs; that is, I have the sense of being one who takes ahold of the line, a line that reaches out through the wastes and wilds of uncharted space, and finds… nothing on the receiving end. That is to say, I get an indelible impression of having made no real connection, even if at times there are titters, faint buzzes and muffled whirs.
As I hang up the line, and wrap up my act, the alienation that has engulfed me for nearly the entirety of my life is only reinforced. Yet I am curiously unfazed.
I am, I suppose, used to it by now.
Andy Nowicki is the author of several books, most recently The Insurrectionist, Muze, and Love and Hidden Agendas, as well as the just-published The Rule of Wrath. Visit his YouTube channel.