My First Time On Stage - Open Mic Nite

My memory lapses never fail to depress me.  I can’t remember birthdays, wedding anniversaries,  or most major holidays.  Sometimes it takes me months before I connect a name to a face.  Numbers?  Forget about it.  And if I don’t have a to-do list, all day long I will float around as aimlessly as a rubber duck in a hot tub.  But there is one event I can clearly recall:  it happened on  May 19, 1988.  I remember almost every moment; what I said, how I felt, even what I wore.   Because a comedian may forget a lot of things, but they never, never forget the first time they set foot on stage.  

My appetite for comedy had been whetted by a business trip to Los Angeles.  While I was there I visited my first comedy club, taking in an  “Open Mic Night” at the famous Comedy Store.  It was a two hour show with some big time comics like Richard Lewis and Louie Anderson.   But the 8 people that preceded the pros were horrible, even by open mic standards.  These “comedians” were long on profanity and short on comedy.  All the f-bombs in the world couldn’t keep them from bombing.  I begin to think, “I can do that. I can be that bad.  Why not give it a shot?” If I could muster the courage, I could at least say I tried something most sane people would never do. The intrigue grew.  So at the end of the night, as I bought the obligatory t shirt, I asked the big red headed guy who sold it to me how to get on stage.  “Just be here at 6 o clock on Monday, and be first in line.  They’ll give you ‘bout 2 minutes if you’re funny, and ‘bout 30 seconds if you’re not.” Later,  I discovered  the shirt salesman was legendary comedian Sam Kinnison.

Unfortunately, there were no business trips to LA scheduled for a while.  But the seed had been planted. So, when my car radio told me the Comedy Club in Birmingham Alabama was having an open mic show that night, there was no hesitation.  I began to jot down notes - ideas for jokes.  Despite the knot in my stomach, I was going to take action on my thoughts.   

The old Birmingham Comedy Club was tucked in the corner of a strip center. It was a “classic” comedy club - black and white tiles, low ceilings and small tables -- very intimate and very loud. I showed up early with my wife and mother, which would guarantee some laughs, even if they were out of pity.  

The owner of the club, Bruce Ayers, sat down with all 6 open mic’ers and gave us the ground rules:  we each got  about 6 minutes if things were going good, and 3 minutes if things were going bad.  Go easy on the profanity, and don’t do other people’s jokes.  He also mentioned stuff I had never considered, like how to hold the mike, how to move the mike stand out of the way, and how to watch the light telling you when it was time to go.  Finally we drew lots - all of us praying not to get the dreaded first spot.  Thank God, I was going up fourth. 

My fellow comedy virgins were quite an eclectic mixture.  A black guy who waited tables at the club, an older guy with salt and pepper hair who looked better suited to a pulpit, a couple of guys I really don’t remember, and a girl who was -- gasp--  the cousin of Birmingham entertainment icon Country Boy Eddie.  For those of you not steeped in Birmingham TV history, Country Boy Eddie was a redneck institution. He had an early morning show with a country band and a never ending array of amateur talent.  His show started about 4:30 in the morning. So he was very popular with deer hunters, fishermen, and guys strung out on PCP.  He sang songs with a nasal twang that sounded like he needed a couple of shots of Afrin.  And she was his cousin!  I remember thinking, “Oh great, a professional!  What chance do the rest of us have?”

We weren’t going to have to wait long to find out how good the “professional” was because she drew the first number.  I grabbed a spot in the back of the showroom with a clear view of the stage.  After the big build up from the emcee (who was the opening act for the regular show) she made her way on stage, resplendent in her straw cowboy hat.  Then she opened her mouth, began to speak, and got..... silence.  To this day, I remember that silence.  It was surreal, as if she were speaking in the vacuum of outer space.  Total silence.  No coughs, no glasses clanking, no feet shuffling. Nothing but bone jarring, confidence wrecking, silence.  She was dying an agonizing three minute death.  And I was going to do that?

No way.  No way am I going to subject myself to that kind of humiliation in public.  I don’t get my self esteem damaged that badly when I’m arguing with my wife.   So I eased thru the glass door and skulked out of the club.  I headed to the other end of the strip mall, telling myself it was no sin if I didn’t go on stage.

But as I walked, I started feeling better.  Like how Superman feels stronger the further he gets from Kryptonite.   So, I fought thru my fear, got my courage up, then turned and headed back to the club.  By then, the second guy was about halfway thru his set. Hmmmm.  Not total silence -- his recycled material even got a few muffled chuckles.  I flashed back to LA.  I kept thinking, “ I can be that bad - if I do it for no other reason that to say I did it.”  I went to the bar and quickly ordered a bottle of Coors Light and taped my crib notes over the label. Now the third guy is about two minutes in to his routine.  Knowing I’m next, I began to pace back and forth in short choppy steps.  I can feel my heart beat in my temples, my palms get sweaty....and - Oh No!  My wet palms have made the notes on my beer bottle almost illegible.  Too late now, #3 is putting the mike back on the stand to officially finish his set.  I position myself in front of the narrow aisle between the tables that leads to the small stage. No turning back now.  The emcee calls out my name, and my time has come.

My first thought is, “ Boy, it’s dark up here. I can’t see anything but bright lights.” My second thought, “Don’t trip, you idiot!  Third thought, “Grab the mike stand and get it out of the way.”  Then as I squinted into the darkness, I asked the audience that one question, that clever bit of banter that every club comic on earth has opened his act with before.  “How ya doin”?  Like I care.  At this point  all I want to do is breathe normally, not pee my pants, and avoid spitting on the people on the front row. First joke: “Well, I hope you’ll bear with me for 5 minutes ‘til I finish - which is same thing I say to my wife.”  And then..... laughter.  They laughed!  It wasn’t a killer laugh by any means, but I said something that made them laugh. Emboldened, I continued thru my material - that is, the stuff I  could still read from my blurry Coors crib notes.  I managed to get the mike back on the stand, and left to a smattering of applause - probably from my wife and mother.  

Back in the lobby area, I felt a lot like a guy who just bungee jumped for the first time.  A combination of elation and relief.  And no urine stain!  

Jay Leno describes his first Tonight Show like the first time he had sex:  It was over in a few minutes, and he wasn’t very good at it, but he knew he wanted to do it again.  That night in Birmingham, Alabama I had the same feeling.  As a reminder of the first time I performed, I still have that beer bottle with the smudged notes in my office, signed and dated by all my fellow “comedians”.

What’s so amazing is, all these years later, I still get that same rush when I go on stage. Excited, my pulse pounding, ready to do it again.  But, even as I celebrate a good set, a nagging voice reminds me that the next time I could bomb like that first girl on that first night.  That’s what makes it so special.  

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