Mic 9, 10, 11 Venues

Hosts: Zach Welch / Bill Squire

Shows: The Village Idiot / Fight for your Right

Set Times:  3 and 5  Minutes

Scott and I  popped in to The Lakewood Village Tavern late on a Thursday after a Christmas party. The Villager felt like an old gym where champions once trained.

There were comedians sitting at the bar outside the room, and it seemed that after they finished their sets, they left. It was less a lineup and more a slow evacuation.

By the time I got called, there were four people left: the host, Scott, me, and one man who looked like he had lost a bet.

I did three minutes and got a couple of chuckles. Scott laughed at everything, which is loving but an obvious obligation in a small crowd.

The comic before me was having a rough set. Scott leaned over and said—loud enough for every remaining soul to hear—"This is brutal. You have to quit."

In a crowded room, that's a whisper. In a room of four, it's production notes.

I wanted to die, but I also married him for exactly this kind of behavior.

After my few minutes and the rest of the show, we stood outside talking while I had a cigarette and Scott quietly took his shoes off. Yes, in public. Yes, without discussion. He is a toddler in dress shoes with a hard time limit. At a certain point in marriage, you stop asking follow-up questions.

Another comic, also smoking, told us this room used to be packed with comedians who came in from all over. This room was a rite of passage. "Don't judge it by tonight," he said. "Just remember you did a few minutes here—and come back."

There is a nostalgic, protective way comedians talk about clubs, hosts, and each other in this town. It feels like a family. A deeply dysfunctional family, granted—but still full of funny, smart, entertaining people who remember where they started.

Another iconic show and room in the Northeast Ohio stand-up scene is Fight for Your Right, an open mic at One Starin Lakewood hosted by Bill Squire and Jimmy Killius. It is all new material, it's a contest, and the winner gets fifty bucks. It is also a little unforgiving.

The three minutes are strict. Bill and Jimmy chime in during sets. The room is long and narrow and made up almost entirely of comedians.

The first time I was there I didn't know the setup. I didn't know they randomly drew names from a list. The whole thing felt slightly off its rocker. I also didn't know those two nights would reshape what I was going to do on stage.

After my second set there, I was talking with Bill, Hailey, and fellow budding comedian Catherine when Bill said, "It's not that I don't think you're funny, Missy. I don't think you're funny enough."

Hailey added to the pile on in the nicest possible way by telling me I was funnier chatting at the bar than I was at the mic.

Notes were being given. This is not a new experience for me. I've known for years that people find me much funnier in kitchens and living rooms than they do under stage lighting. A mystery for the ages.

Also worth noting: I famously love criticism and handle it with maturity and grace.

But this time I didn't flip the Risk board because I couldn't win. I didn't start a fight and leave because things weren't going my way.

No. I accepted the feedback... then quietly punished innocent family members later. Growth.

The second night I did the dead dog set at One Star and won runner-up. I lost to a guy who was funnier. I don't love voting by applause or being called back on stage. I don't care much about the fifty bucks, and being a runner-up is new to me, but it felt pretty good.

In September I was a civilian. Now it's February, and I have become part of the local wildlife.

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