Fun for the Whole Family

I try not to go on too terribly much these days about my standup "career," a term I use in much the same sense that a homeless person might use it when discussing "cup jangling."  My reticence is partly due to the fact that I've settled into a nice, comfortable routine, in which very little new is going on for the moment.  But it's mostly due to the fact that I don't want to give the impression that I have an inflated sense of my extremely relative "success," a term I use in much the same sense that the Asian woman who goes through my recycling in search of returnables might use it after I've had a party.  But I recently had some interesting encounters with what I will generously call "fans," which I like to think of as revealing

A couple weeks ago I was working the door at a show.  Now, for anyone who isn't familiar with the term "working the door," imagine a giant, anthropomorphized cash register doing a little dance and making cheery sounds every time someone puts money into it.  Then picture that same cash register, but world-weary, tired, and a little pudgy in the drawer, and you've pretty much got me.  Most of the audience that night were New Yorkers, but a middle aged couple came in from out of town, and said they'd never been to a comedy club before.  They asked if there was going to be a lot of bad language in the show, and the hostess said that there would be some, but probably not too much.  I thought this was an odd response, given that I can't remember the last time I saw a comedy show that didn't involve at least a good fifteen minutes on masturbation alone, to say nothing of all the material on pedophilia, rape, and OkCupid.  But they seemed pleased with their answer and gave me their money.  Ka-Ching!I got to perform a little while later, and I had a remarkably good set.  I say this not to brag, of course.  Generally speaking, the most positive thing I'm willing to say about anything I've done is, "that wasn't too terribly embarrassing."  Rather, I mention my good set because it's an important plot point.  Anyway, I'm basking in the afterglow of my glorious triumph, and after a few more comics take the stage, the easily-offended couple came out and politely requested their money back.  They said they were offended (easily) by some of the material in the show, and felt they had been duped.  The managers graciously decided to give them their money back, and I, the perpetually cheery cash register, happily obliged, apologizing profusely for the show not being a good fit for them.  They said it was okay, and that they actually quite enjoyed my set.  As they left, I couldn't help but wonder if I should take that as a compliment.  Is it a badge of honor that my comedy is fun for the whole family, or a mark of shame that I'm not edgy enough to offend the sensibilities of Middle America?  In the end, I decided to take it as a compliment, less because I thought I had earned one, but more because I wanted one, and I was afraid they'd ask for that back, too.

Fast forward one week.  I'm working the door at another show.  They put me up to perform first after the host, which is often a tough spot, as the crowd hasn't had time to fully digest their drinks and loosen up yet.  But again, it went quite well, perhaps even better than the week prior.  And better yet, this time there are no complaints and everyone stayed for the entirety of the evening.  The show ends and I leave the club, and as I'm weaving my way through the crowd out front, someone slaps my arm.  I turn and find myself confronted with my adoring public, an elderly German grandmother with an enormous smile on her face.

"You were very good, very funny," she said in a thick German accent, moving in for a big, friendly, grandmotherly hug.  I smiled like a kindergardener who just got a gold star, and said, "Thanks so much!  I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"It was so good," she said.  "I really don't like gross humor very much, you know?  But your jokes were very good."

"Yeah," I said, "I don't really like to do that sort of thing much."

"That's good," she said.  "The host was so filthy, you know."  I immediately knew what she meant, as the host is someone I've seen at many shows and mics.  He's a very funny guy, but his material does tend to be quite ribald.

"I'm sorry to hear that" was the most diplomatic thing I could think to say, so that's what I offered as my rebuttal.

"We were so offended, we almost walked right out.  But then you came on, and you were so funny.  And my husband and I were saying, 'Isn't it nice to see that Americans can be funny without putting their balls on a plate."

At this point, I must admit I was a bit taken aback.  First of all, that wasn't the sort of talk I was expecting from an eighty year old woman complaining about foul language.  But I was mostly thinking, "I really hope that's some sort of weird German slang and not something that happened."  I had visions of a Seinfeldian comic, coming out onstage like a waiter in an unimaginative porn scene, trying desperately to explain his views on how cluttered women's purses tend to be and wondering why no one is laughing and it's so cold in there.  I mean, I'm not a prude.  I do think there's room in comedy for material of dubious taste, especially if it's exploring taboos and posing legitimate questions.  But still, this is an establishment that serves food, and there are certain basic hygiene standards that really should be followed.

So what did I learn from these encounters?  I already knew that I tend to shy away from dirty material, just as I knew that it's never a good sign to be getting laughs with your pants off.  But I did learn something about my fan base.  I learned that they do exist.  There really are people out there who like me.  They may not be young, hip, or speak English as their first language.  But they like me!  They really, really like me!  Hopefully they don't ask me to autograph their boobs, though.

-TC