Mic 3 & 4 Foot in the Door or in my Mouth.
New here? Start with Mic 1
Venue: Imposters Theater
Host: Cam Godfrey and Dezhawn France
Show: Ajar Mic
Set Time: 3 Minutes
Back at Imposters. My improv class was just before this mic, so I stayed the next two weeks. The first week was a lot like the last, I tried some things and they did ok. The room was not really too full. THe third week was a change.
I knew nothing about the comedy scene in Cleveland. Evidently, we have an actual comedy festival—the Cleveland Comedy Festival. Comics come in from other cities, locals get showcased, and there is a buzz. This is exciting, but I learned it after I stepped into my 2nd open mic.
Open mics are full of comedians, both in the audience and on stage, so there was a deluge of comics packed into that little room at Ajar Mic. Dezhawn, one of the hosts, seemed genuinely happy to see that I came back. It was still too early to know how anyone actually felt, but I appreciated the gesture.
Cam, the co-host, did a set about being in New York during Sukkot. One of her friends saw someone building a sukkah on the sidewalk and immediately assumed it was either a cult or a mental health emergency. I thought it was brilliant.
There were some very good comedians there. They were also all still working it out.
That was something I had misunderstood about open mics. Comics openly said things like, “I’m trying this,” or “That didn’t work,” or “Let me try another version.” It was live editing. Public failure as process. Once I understood that, it became less uncomfortable to watch and a lot more interesting.
So I got up and did family material. As I was welcomed to the stage 10 people walked out. No, seriously. The door opened in that tiny teacup of a room and people just streamed out like I had been introduced as a timeshare presenter.
Tell me how you don’t take that personally.
People have never walked out on me. In most rooms, if someone gets up while I’m talking, I have enough authority and gravitas to freeze them in place with eye contact alone.
I talked about how our kids were allowed to swear, but only selectively. “Hate,” “fat,” and “stupid” were banned. “Shit,” “damn,” and “fuck” were acceptable if used appropriately. We had something called Swear Night, where the kids and their friends could say curse words freely. It helped Scott and me monitor vocabulary trends and neighborhood influences.
It got a few chuckles, but they may have been mercy chuckles. This room sometimes gave polite little laughs the way people put tissue paper in gift bags—just enough to fill space.
So I decided to lean into some adult vocabulary and bring out a few premium words.
We had a family game where you combine an ordinary object with a swear word—like ass and hat: asshat. That sort of thing. The award winner in our house, coined by my daughter Grace, was Cuntcanoe. A cuntcanoe is a hot mess with momentum. I can be applied to a person: She showed up for brunch in a sequin dress and flip flops from a pedicure. Or a situation, Walmart on Black Friday and the power goes out.
That got a real laugh.
I know the “C” word creates instant emotion. That's why I just said - “C” word. I also know, by my own standards, it was a cheap laugh. But in my defense it was also a great mashup. You are welcome to use it. It gets less stares than the “C” word alone. And in the current climate, it is very applicable. I am used to social competence. I know how to walk into a room, read it, make conversation, find common ground, and settle in. I know how to be liked. I know how to belong.
In that room, I didn’t know how to do any of it.
I felt rusty, awkward, overeager, and oddly invisible all at once.
It was, frankly, a cuntcanoe.
After my set, I stepped outside for a cigarette.
Never underestimate the social power of a smoke. A cigarette is a free pass to linger. It gives your hands a job and your face an excuse.
There was a gaggle of comedians huddled outside. Some talking, some vaping, some discussing how hammered they were. None of them had seen my set, but I was determined to make contact. I took a drag and waited for an opening.
A very drunk comic bummed a cigarette, and just like that, I was in. It turned out they had all been at other mics earlier and were planning to go out again after this one. Introductions started, conversations opened up, and suddenly I was in the mix. To be clear, by in the mix, I was still the new kid at school. Everyone was friendly, but the people not talking were definitely sizing me up from across the playground.
I was immediately overwhelmed. I don’t remember names well under normal circumstances, and now people were adding clubs, hosts, neighborhoods, show formats, and start times like I was being briefed for a military operation.
I got in the car afterward and wrote down everything I could remember:
Bryan — One More Joke at the Winchester. Something about a secret society.Andre — not from Ohio. New York? New Jersey? Nice, polite, smart.Jay — in college, blonde, funny.One Star.Five O’Clock Lounge. Villager. Happy Dog. Podcasts. Roast shows.
So much to look up. So much to learn.
I also learned that no matter what room I’m in, I am still a mom. I know the mom vibe. I can see it in people’s faces when they’re unraveling, hungry, over-served, under-loved, or lying.
I may have lent you a cigarette, but my face still says: How are you getting home?
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