Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Last night I tasted power. Sweet success, baby.

My friend, comedian Stevie G, and I tried our luck again at the comedy club where I'd bombed before, the Comedy Cabaret.

I'd worked out some new material, much of which I'd written the day after my first attempt. I'd rehearsed it front of a camera (you know, so I could see how fat I am).

I was pretty confident this time around. For one reason, my act actually had jokes in it. Last time I did more of a monologue, without enough punch and pizzazz.

At first, there weren't too many people there. We hung out at the bar talking to a comedienne who goes by the stage name of Rose something and who reminds me of Ruby Wax. We had a great time ripping on "American Idol" until she turned away to write up her act!

Closer to showtime, we peered into the comedy club. One thing stood out immediately: four elderly people, clearly not comedians, were seated up front. An audience! Last time it was a room full of about 20 comedians, most of whom were too busy working out last minute kinks in their own material to bother to laugh at anyone. If they weren't doing that, they were out at the bar smoking cigarettes and cracking wise. Everyone pretty much died that night.

Why this particular group came out, I can't say. Maybe they thought they were in the Catskills. I don't think I saw any of them so much as smile all night, even when one of the comedians gestured to them and said, "I'd especially like to thank the cast of Cocoon for coming out tonight."

But any audience was better than nothing, I thought. Maybe they'll like my dildo joke.

People kept filtering in, more and more of them. I was thinking, this is either a bad thing or a very, very good thing.

The host decided to take the comedians in the order in which we'd signed up, which made Stevie G and I about eight and nine in the lineup. We were just hoping the seven people ahead of us didn't either completely bomb or do so well we couldn't follow them.

But we were in for a treat. The Emcee (Chuck or Chip?) was fantastic. He did exactly what you're supposed to do: acted as the cracker to clean the palate between acts, giving the audience a little breathing space, helping them to recover from the bad comedians and providing buffer room between the great comedians and the next in line.

The room was hot. I mean, these people were laughing, clapping, cheering. And more audience members kept streaming in. Last time, the only true audience members were a few women who sat with their friend, a comedienne, and left after she performed.

Stevie G, on my advice, had come up with an entire set based on being Jewish. It was something I'd suggested after an e-mail conversation where he was inflicting Jewish Elvis puns on me. "You need to do this on-stage," I told him. Turns out I was right. He got a fantastic response.

When it was my turn, I ran up, did a few kung fu moves ("Joke Kwon Do," I told the audience) and launched into my routine. This time I was prepared for the bright lights blinding me, preventing me from seeing the audience. I acted as if I could see them anyway, aiming my eyes to approximate eye contact.

I got my first laugh and almost fell off the minuscule stage. Then another laugh. I was invigorated. Then another. I was Superman, Wonder Woman and Xena, baby. I was a freakin' rock star! Woo!

Everybody was doing well. If you couldn't do well that night, you just had nothing. It was unbelievable. But then, unfortunately, we had to get back to reality. On the way out, we talked to a comedian who had just got offstage. We joked around with him for awhile before heading out.

On the way home, the radio was playing "Alive" by Pearl Jam, yet more proof that God is doing my personal soundtrack. He followed it with "Shook Me All Night Long" by AC/DC and then "Don't Bring Me Down." Does God know me or what?

So I was cruising along at 65 singing "Don't bring me down, Bruce! Don't bring me down, Bruce! Don't bring me down, down, down, down." And I wanted to keep on driving, ride my high down the highway, until the sun came up, baby.

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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