It’s hard to believe I disliked naps as a child. This past Sunday morning, I took such a good nap, I didn’t bother getting dressed and almost left my apartment with no makeup—almost. Just as my bus was to arrive, I took off like a rat into a maze of laundry, eyeliner, mascara, “where the fuck is my lip gloss?” and then? Off to my next potluck.
Comedians love potlucks to the same degree as The Real Church Ladies of the Midwest. My contributiow was a half-drunken bottle of gifted wine, which I carried to the party in the interior pocket of my thick wool coat. Were I 20 years old in early ‘90s Manhattan, my commute may have earned me bragging rights: poorly applying a minimum of cosmetics on public transit, careful not to expose the contraband cradled against my chest, dressed in pajamas and a bubble goose.
The other guests arrived not much better. This afternoon’s feast would consist of an undeniably creamy and delicious mac ‘n’ cheese with a drizzle of Sriracha, paired with fresh(?) baked brownies. For the sake of my day job, I’ll note that these were standard, grocery store brownies, breaking from our overarching theme of PNW hipsterdom. The featured beverages were whiskey, and whiskey with cider. There was a brief moment of concern regarding the straight whiskey, as we had no shot glasses handy, but we quickly remembered that all cups are shot glasses; it’s really just a matter of efficiency.
In between stuffing our faces, we did what all artists must do, and took too many pictures of ourselves working premises. It was fun. It was natural. Then we were warned that normals had been invited, and not just any normals, but a couple of our host’s coworkers. It was also heavily insinuated that he had a sexual interest in one of them, so we knew to be on our best behavior. Of course, by “our best behavior,” I mean: We all got as drunk as possible and joked about murdering and eating the normals. Luckily, we got most things off our collective comedy mind before they arrived and decided to watch Sleepless in Seattle, as our host struggled to make headway with 1980s WWF references and a rousing discussion on the dangers of sloths.
At some point towards sundown, the other comics and I relocated to The Corner for Those Who’ve Given Up On Socialization—a dark corner every performer can find in any given space once we’ve put in a tight three to five minutes and gotten a couple laughs. To our credit, our lack of social graces was outdone by the ironically passive-aggressive, double-sided note left on the lobby door:
Side One: “To the people that live in the downstairs apartment. Please, stop the BULLSHIT. Come talk to me personally.”
Side Two: “At Murder Ink, it would be a shitty way to do Christmas. Come talk to me. My name is Steve. Merry Christmas.”