I Have a Face for Radio

Last week I was a guest on the podcast Keith and the Girl. It's episode #677 called Break Time and you can find it here: http://www.keithandthegirl.com/AllEpisodes.aspx.


I loved doing it. I mean, I rather enjoy talking: This is one of the main reasons that I choose stand-up comedy as opposed to say, being a mime. And I'm very honest, maybe to a fault. So when a comic goes on a show and people ask you about your jokes, well, sometimes it can get very personal. Especially if your jokes tend to be about your life, as opposed to "what the deal is with paperclips."


This has always been a fascinating aspect of comedy for me. I can watch a comic do set after set in New York City. And after seeing him four or five times I know that he grew up in Massachusetts, had loving yet distant parents, and was raped as a child, yet we've never had an actual conversation before.


And this is always the dilemma as a comic. Should you talk about the issues that are really bothering you, thus opening yourself up to discussion with others, or do you just make sure that you talk about anything else as long as it's funny?

I always thought there were some things I'd never talk about. Like my menstrual cycle. Or how I feel like I'm being raped by ghosts when I go through the Puffer security detector in the airport. Or Slash from Guns N’ Roses. But you know, it can all be funny if talked about the right way. It's just about trying to be you up there. Although I have been dying to try this character where I'm a Chinese Children's Party Clown...

Caught Between a Joke and a Hard Place

This piece is based on a true story. While some of the characters have been tweaked for extra amusement, my general embarrassment and the lose of my pride is one hundred percent true.

I love doing comedy. I absolutely, flonking love it. Whenever I do a joke and the audience likes it, I just want to do a happy dance complete with the running man. And if it doesn’t go well, I can go home, cry a little and gently rock myself to sleep in the fetal position. No big deal.

So when I booked a show in Springfield, Massachusetts, doing 45 minutes of material for a Jewish benefit, I was thrilled. I had even properly schmoozed the booker, Larry. When I warned him that I didn’t have forty-five minutes of material solely on “being a Heeb” he said, “that’s okay, just do your thing.”

“Great! I have about 45 minutes of bestiality and pedophilia jokes that always do well!” I said sarcastically.

“I like you, kid. You’re gonna go places,” he said.

And the deal was sealed.

I had three months to prepare myself for the show. I wrote jokes, rewrote jokes, got onstage as much as I could and prayed that I wouldn’t forget all of my material halfway through the performance and have to fill the remaining amount of time by stripping.

I also learned as much as I could about Springfield, Massachusetts, because when in Rome, you should write jokes about the place so the audience feels like you’re connecting. Did you know, for instance, that basketball was invented in Springfield by Canadian James Naismith? (What are you going to tell me next, the Japanese invented baseball?!). Or that it’s the home of Theodore Geisel, aka Doctor Seuss? Or that there’s a picture book museum in the area, because apparently libraries don’t do the job? And it’s even the home of the Titanic Museum. (I know, I didn’t think there were any icebergs in them there parts either.)

Every couple of weeks, Larry the booker would check on me, to see how things were going: did I get my deposit, had I booked my hotel? And I began to learn more and more about the event. Like the fact they’d never had a comedian before, but last year they had a hypnotist and the group just ate it up. Comedy is kind of like hypnotism, right? [laugh nervously]. And that I was actually performing because the benefit was an auction and they needed some entertainment during dinner so they could tally all the bids. So, okay, maybe I’m not the main draw but I can be the E Street Band to their Bruce Springsteen.

Finally the day arrived. And I was ready to create comedy magic. I got to the subway station, giving myself plenty of time to make my train to Massachusetts. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And then I started to panic. And then I tried to calm myself down. And then I waited some more. And then the subway finally came, and I made my way to Penn Station and I arrived…exactly one minute after my train to Massachusetts had departed.

And as I cursed the MTA demons, I began to wonder, is this God’s way of telling me, “eh, shayna punim, it was a good try, but not to be.” (Yes, I imagine that God would sound like Mel Brooks). But I managed to catch another train that got me to Springfield thirty minutes before the performance.

Larry (who is a delightful bear of a man) pulled up to the station in his long black Cadillac, and after we greeted each other like old friends, he dropped me off at the hotel, which ended up being kind of, how shall we say, minimalist. I get to my room, change while trying not to be irked by the smell of stale cigarettes in my nonsmoking room and the hole in the comforter.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m heading with Larry, his wife, and his Cadillac to the benefit. We enter what looks like a banquet hall with gaudy chandeliers, elaborate Persian well-tread carpets, and lots of lots of Jews. And I soon find out that I have three hours to kill before I’m on and nowhere to go. I was in a room full of strangers in the middle of a silent auction, where the best prizes I could possibly win was a week of soccer camp for my kids or some precious contemporary Jewish artwork.

“Go ahead,” Larry said. “Go work the room, try to win something.”

I then spent the next few hours hiding from the guy who ran the JCC sports camp who took a fancy to me (nice guy mind you, but there’s something about a fella who wears a sport jacket, jeans, bolo tie, and sandals with socks that doesn’t do it for me), and being introduced to other strangers, one of whom invented some kind of newfangled teapot and thought I would be a good person to explain it’s workings to in detail. I also refrained from drinking myself under the table at the bar.

We sat down to dinner two hours later, as Larry or Larr Bear, as I called him to myself at this point, had made sure I was well fed, bless his heart. I sat down at a table with him and his friends. All the women were so painstakingly made up that you could see the line around their jaw where their makeup ended. All the men seemed to have stopped caring about their appearance several years ago, as exemplified by their rumpled bellies and receding hairlines that were combed to mask the effects of time.

“So, Emily, it must be so exciting to be a comedian,” one of the women said. “Have you been on any television shows I might know?”

“I’m working on it,” I said, sighing, as my ego headed south for the winter.

“And are you married,” one of the men at the table asked.

“No, but I have a boyfriend,” I said.

“Is it true, you know, what you wrote on your blog? You know, about him being black,” Larr Bear almost whispered.

“Yes,” I said, smiling, as the table tried their best not to collectively gasp in horror. It was just like a family dinner. All I needed was for my grandmother to show up and ask me, why “if my boyfriend isn’t Jewish, why can't he at least be white?” to really complete the picture. The conversation then turned to everyone’s kids, when each couple’s pool was opening, and how much they had gambled away the weekend before at the casino. As I have no kids, no pool, and no money, I smiled, picked at my food, and continued to go through my set list in my head.

Dinner was finally finished and I thought I was finally up, but no. Now there was a live auction. And then there was the tallying of the silent auction bids. And then they were all announced. And then roughly 220 of the 250 people in the audience got up to get their coats and head home.
And then I heard “And now for your entertainment. She has been trapped in a self-cleaning toilet…” And my heart sank. Because now I had to try and entertain thirty people, spread out all over a banquet hall that fit 300, most of whom were talking, and all of whom had no interest in watching comedy.

I walked to the stage, which was actually just a podium, and asked,” So who here is single, in her twenties, and lives in New York? No one? Fantastic.” And the few people left looked up at me and smiled and continued their conversations with whoever was nearby.

I’d get a chuckle from the audience here and there and when I told a joke that indirectly dealt with sex I got an “ooooohh,” from one of the audience members. (I guess the woman had never had sex before.) And it was exactly that unpleasant for the next thirty minutes, until Larry signaled I could wrap it up. I walked offstage amazed that I hadn’t fled and hitchhiked back to NYC, as my brain had compelled me to.

“I am SO sorry, Emily,” Larr Bear said, rushing over. “I don’t know why they put you up after they were done everything else. You never had a chance. And you’re really funny, we were laughing the whole time,” he said, gesturing to our table of sympathetic smiling faces.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling like I just had one of those nightmares where you’re naked and telling jokes, except in this case, everyone could actually see me. “I’m just going to be over at the bar.” And I had just gotten a drink when Larr Bear grabbed me to drop me off at my hotel. And I figured, no big deal, I’d just hit up the hotel bar, like a good lounge lizard.

Larr Bear dropped me off, with another sympathetic look and my check, which helped a little. “Really, Em, don’t worry about it. Maybe I’ll have you as the entertainment when I open up my pool this summer.” Ah, yes, any reason to drag myself back to Springfield. I half expected him to cuff me on the shoulder like some kind of movie pep talk as a single tear made its way down my face and the credits began to roll.

I walked into the hotel and realized there was no hotel bar. No, that would be in a classy hotel. And I was in the middle of nowhere, did I mention that? I’ll just hit my minibar, I figured. I shuffled over to the fridge, opened the door, and sighed once again. The fridge was completely empty. Eh, next best option, I’ll just watch the Lifetime Network and cry. It has the same effect, after all.

And at that moment, I realized two things: I was never coming back to Springfield, Massachusetts and Billie Holiday was right when she said, “there’s no damn business like show business—you just have to smile to keep from throwing up.”

Life and Death in 24 Hours

Maybe you think this is a dramatic title. Well let me tell you, that's not even how dramatic it actually is, as this all took place in about 6 hours. This is the screenplay that was my yesterday. [Stage direction: Reader jumps into time machine.]

It started with an e-mail about one of my best friends. She's pregnant with her first child. She's excited and the mama bear of our group. But regardless of how nurturing she may be, her baby-to-be doesn't seem to see things the same way. Over the last seven months, she's been in the hospital four different times for dehydration. She even managed to lose 16 pounds at one point because she couldn't keep any food down. I couldn't lose 16 pounds if I had a tapeworm.

She went back into the hospital a few days ago because she was having contractions, and she's not due for another two months. When I talked to her she seemed so calm that I was calm, too. She was like "either I’ll be able to carry it to term or we'll have it naturally, early. But the baby will be okay." Maybe that's the beauty of drugs, but still, I felt better after talking to her. See? That's the nurturing part.

Then I get the email. She's having a c-section at 4 p.m. Ah, a c-section isn't natural?! And when I call them a few hours later, freaking out, they have a little almost-four pound baby boy.

"The baby and Mom are healthy," her hubby said. And when he said "mom" I got all kinds of verklempt. My two good friends--people with whom I have been falling-down drunk, who I watched do the worm at their wedding reception, who I've known before they were even dating each other--are now parents. [Cue “Circle of Life” music.]

Cut to twenty minutes after I get the news.

I'm in Times Square. My assignment? To interview people on the street about what they call their or their girlfriend's period. Why, you ask? For a new monthly show called "The Monthly Show with Aunt Flo." (See my schedule for details. It’s March 21 at 8 P.M.!) We tried this first in Astoria, Queens, and the problem was that no one spoke English. (I'm not being racist, that's what happened.) But in Times Square, it’s different; the masses want some camera time.

The jackpot was when we asked two aspiring rappers our question. "I call it man's frustration," one of the guys said.

I wondered if maybe it wasn't a little frustrating for the lady, too. He did not seem to agree. "No, it's a man's frustration. I wrote a song called 'Man's Frustration.' Wanna hear it?"

And indeed I did. And then he dropped a hot sixteen on the subject of periods. I kid you not, a rap song, fit to be our theme. It was kind of magical.

Cut to the west village.

I was heading there after my Times Square adventure to cram some comedy in at the Village Lantern. The show was going on as usual and in the middle of someone's set we hear gunshots. That's right, gunshots. And not one or two, like ten.

And everyone was very freaked out. Someone was actually worried the gunman would come down the stairs to where we were and start shooting. I thought that was ridiculous, I mean, if a shooter is stupid enough to break up a comedy show, and think the person onstage won't call him out, then he needs to get out of the house more often (for many reasons).

Turns out it was a huge ordeal. Four wounded. Two auxilary cops dead. We come out to look and there's a body nearby. That's right. This is not "Law & Order" people, this is life in the big city. It was literally a zoo. (http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/03/15/nyc.shootout/index.html)

All in all, one very hectic day. I think I need to get out of the city for a bit.

[Fade out. Play a few bars of “Man’s Frustration.”]

What Happens When You Take a Girl Out of Philly

I did a show a few days ago at a bar on the Upper East Side. These types of shows are always interesting because the people at the bar are usually there to get drunk and not necessarily watch comedy. Thus the hilarity, or more often the awkwardness ensures.

On this particular night, there were a bunch of drunken nurses on one side, an older couple watching the show intently just a few feet away from the performing comics, and a group of undoubtedly hot, yet slightly trashy girls. And I'm not saying that because I'm jealous. There's just something about a girl that wears a tank top with no bra in the middle of winter, which says to me "I’m sure this girl is very nice, but I think she might have trade sexual favors for a place to live." When asked who the girls were, they said they were the Girls of Philly and had just finished taping a radio spot. Something told me it wasn't on NPR.

And now it was my turn to entertain this crowd. I looked over at the Girls from Philly. And I had to ask them my question.

"Hey girls? I'm a girl. And I'm from Philly. How come I can't be a Girl from Philly? Is it because I'm short?"

I expected them to say something like. "Yes." Or "Short is the least of your problems." Or "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?"

But that's not what they said at all. In fact, one of them--who had an INCREDIBLY long torso, I may add. Like it was practically a work of art it was so long--yells over to me: "You can be a Girl of Philly. Show me your boobs!"

This was not the answer I expected.

"Well, I could," I said. "But usually when I show them, I like the person to say nice things to me first and make me feel pretty. And alcohol helps, too."

"Well what do you want to drink?" She asked.

"Tequila. Like a trough of tequila, " I said. "In fact, just warm the funnel up now."

And the rest of the set was great (and I don’t mean just my boobs! He-yo!). The audience was participating and I felt like I had done my job. I just hoped they would forget about the boob showing. I mean, I just felt so unprepared. At least I could get a tan before my bosom’s big debut!

Luckily for me, that wasn't a problem. In fact, there were many other boobs on display that night, courtesy of the Girls of Philly. And the girls were very considerate. When a guy at the other end of the bar yelled that he couldn't see, they turned around and gave him fair share of eye candy.

And while I realized that you can take a girl out of Philly, you can't take the Philly out of the girl. However in these girls' cases, just substitute the word "Philly" with "strip club."