I’d Like To Blame God, But I’m The One Who Hit The Panic Button

I didn’t tank my set at the Funniest Females Competition so much as I “phoned it in.” That is, if you could make calls from Outer Space.

I think it’s fair to say that God was a little against me.  It took me 2.5 hours to drive from Torrance to Burbank.   I fled Parking Lot 405 up Sunset Blvd. right about the time my GPS bailed on me.  That’s whenI hit Panic Button #1.   How am I supposed to know where Burbank is?!…(I have heard of this strange paper-y thing with lines and squiggles referred to as a “map”…but where to find one?)

I spent the next hour on the phone with my friend Jared who used his iPhone app to let me know that I was screwed no matter which way I turned…and that the traffic situation sucked, too. (Oh, come on….).  He mostly calmed me down.  Now that I’m 40, I can see how incredible miraculous it is that I’ve managed to function for twenty-two years without an iPhone or a Jared by my side 24/7.  So, maybe God does sometimes come through.  (And thanks Jared.)

Two hours later I arrived at the somewhat desolate area surrounded by moutains and dry air known as Burbank/North Hollywood.   That’s when I bolted out of my car  WITHOUT my “Comedy Boots” (regular boots that I actually wear every day, but have imbued with special powers).  COMEDY RULE #1: Always remember to check that you’re wearing the right shoes!

The audience consisted of a mixture of random white people and some very Boisterous Lesbians.   Now for a time, I have considered putting some effort into becoming a lesbian. The community seems supportive, pro-women, and currently endowed with a great networking system in Hollywood.  And, let’s face it, 80% of the men I meet would happily live in the Stone Ages.  (I originally wrote 90%, but changed it….progress!).  Some women are born gay, others are made by their dating choices.  Perhaps, I fall into the later category? I missed the experimental years (18-30) and no conversion has happened on it’s own….but maybe I just haven’t tried hard enough?  I wonder, though, how much I would have in common with a woman who never drooled over Tiger Beat?

As I sat watching the many awesome lesbian comics kill I imagined that the Boisterous Lesbians were going to be bored by my conventional heterosexual jokes.  I’m used to performing in front of a lot of horny guys at open mikes and if they aren’t listening to me, at least they might appreciate my skinny jeans.   When I thought about the Boisterous Lesbians, I felt about as exciting as a cracker.  And that’s when I hit Panic Button #2. “Bored” quickly morphed into “hate” in my thinking, as I began to fear that the Boisterous Lesbians were going to resent me and my material.

Then came time for my set.  I have this habit of sometimes rushing up to the stage when someone else’s name has been called.  Very professional. I have  now added to this skill the timing to leave the room right before my name is being called.   (I forgot to count the number comics  that had gone…again, very professional).  So, after creating a moment of awkwardness as the host repeatedly called my name, I finally rushed the stage in a burst of frazzled cray cray.   All I could think about at that point what kind of beer I would chug after my set.  (Corona…they didn’t have Pacifico).
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I don’t remember much about those eight minutes, but I suspect that I delivered my material in my Project Manager voice (monotone, official sounding).  People laughed in the right places, as if they were getting paid.  I knew I was phoning it in, but powerless to hang up.

“I felt very disconnected,” I told my friend Solomon after the show.

“Yes, you were disconnected,” he replied.  He’s very honest.

I tried not to beat myself up too much. Only a few lashings throughout the next day.  I’m still building the Grace Under Pressure Muscle.  I might venture out again.

Giant sigh.

Just for today, I did my best.