Mic 45: The Backyard

I have a comedian friend. She happens to be a white woman of a certain age with a husband and children.

If crazy begets crazy, then stable begets stable, and so it is nice to have her on the scene. We have serving spoons, pay taxes and don’t live in our cars. 

And she’s smart and funny. Funny in so many ways.

For example, she and her husband host a backyard party each year with neighbors and friends and their families, and this year, some comedians. Like a typical, backyard potluck that is a front for a bootleg comedy show. 

Listen, she mentioned to me and some other comedians that  she wanted to have comedy and maybe karaoke. I am fine with the collective embarrassment of strangers doing karaoke. 

I was like, sure, sounds fun.

I love a backyard party.

Potluck food, free drinks, yellow jackets, I am in.

Did I really think we were doing comedy, like a show?

NO!

Absolutely not.

The party started at 6, and an 8 PM arrival was all I could hope for, so, to be courteous, I reached out with a text to let her know.

“Perfect, you are fourth.”

I have huge denial issues. If I really don’t want something to happen, I literally ignore it completely and hope it goes away.

I vaguely remember my OB-GYN telling me I was going to have to deliver my baby.

Frequently.

As if she somehow knew I wasn’t registering the reality of the impending birth.

Somehow, being told we were doing comedy wasn’t registering either.

I think any intersection that should have a caution sign is an intersection I don’t want to cross. In this case, comedy with the neighbors seemed like an intersection I should approach with some caution. I know people who live in this neighborhood, comedian wasn’t on my resume when they were in my life. 

However, it’s the end of summer in Cleveland and the nice evenings and ability to appropriately wear sandals will come to an end.

So, I picked up a hostess gift, because I am a white suburban woman.  I mean it was tequilla, good tequila, more backyard party then late night dive bar, blend.  I  tossed on some sandals, and headed to the backyard party.

When I arrived, there were a couple of other comedians there, huddled like smokers on the patio of a wedding. in a small group kibitzing amongst themselves.

We were in fact going to do comedy.

She had a 5 person line up planned, diverse in professionalism, material, age, ethnic background, and in sexual orientation. I mean, considering it was only five people, this was a small representation of the ACLU.

Listen to me  She produced a show in a backyard better than half the bar mics in town. 

Line up, her husband opened and she hosted. Talent was backlit from the garage.  At the mic you looked like a silhouette and looking into the crowd, it was just blackness. 

Jesus Christ, this is my life.

We are having this baby!

Her husband started us off with a lovely welcome and omage to his wives new hobby. My friend and host opened the show with her on-oint women of a certain age jokes.  

She asked us to keep it PG-13 so the next two comments had to edit their shows and still brought the jokes.

I was second to last, so the crowd had some expectations, and I felt, since this was a completely gentrified slice of Cleveland, I should start with yeast.

We are in Gordon Square; these people have sourdough starters.

They understand witchcraft.

From there I went on to the trad-wife bit. Doing my best Tradvestite work.

Again, a number of them in the crowd - there was solidarity. After all, this is a group of friends that trade bean salad once a week. Or so I have heard.

Then I took them on a walk through the neighborhood.

The white men and women staring back at me had in fact been part of gentrifying this area, and so they understood the rescue dog jokes.

I ended the set talking about white Jesus, California Jesus, with his podcast and entourage. Here is where I lost them. I was in the land of secular hipsters.

I know that my Lord and Savior, even when mocked, carves away at my perceived intelligence with this particular kind of crowd.

I couldn’t see facial expressions, but I felt it in the air.

I was a light under a bushel.

It was dark.