A Trilogy of Assholery

When someone tells me three times within 15 minutes that he can be a “real asshole,” I have certainly learned in my life to believe the person.  If this were a personal interaction, I would’ve simply said, “I believe you,” and walked away.  But this is someone I have to work with if I’m going to be part of a particular creative project.  So I could’ve said something to the effect of, “This isn’t going to work for me; I’ve done more than my time with an asshole.”  But I liked the project, and it will be over in a few weeks, so, with an end in sight, I agreed to do it.  Now I am wondering if I made the right choice.  No money is involved, so it isn’t

going to help me pay a bill or even buy a metrocard.  I guess I am still learning how to create the life I feel good living.

 

I am not enjoying what I thought I would enjoy, but I hope in the end that I will feel proud of my part in the project.

…..

I traveled three buses in Saturday night’s crazy snowstorm to City Island to do a comedy set on the musician’s break at a Days of Wild music show at the Starving Artist’s Café.  I love that place.  I also always enjoy Days of Wild. 

Guitarist and singer Artie Dillon came up with a theme song for me.  I was delighted at the introduction.

This time, however, I had a heckler in the audience.  That is rare for me, 

so it didn’t register right away that he indeed was a heckler.  I thought he just wanted to ask me something – it’s a more casual atmosphere and not a comedy club, so it can be conversational at times.  I answered his nonsense.  I’d never seen him before.  I didn’t know what he was all about yet.  Well my sincere and intelligent answers didn’t do it for him.  So he continued to interrupt.  I asked him if he would like the mic.  That seemed to shut him up for a bit.  I continued doing my stuff, and he was leaving.  The stage is next to the door.  I saw him and said, “You’re leaving? Thanks for heckling me.”  He said, “You’re welcome.”  And he left.

As the door shut behind him, one of my favorite people there yelled out to me, “The IQ level in the room just went up.”

The support is so wonderful. 

I continued my material, and there was laughter, which did feel good.  It’s 

not an easy room for a comic.  Most of the people are intelligent and enjoy some of my stuff that other audiences tend to not get.  I really like that this audience knows what an amoeba is and that a “hoe” is a garden tool.  It allows them to get my jokes.  However, some are rather conservative and don’t appreciate my loose language and sexual references while others love it.  At the extremes, some have asked me to be dirtier, and others have not even smiled during my set.  I decided to accept I won’t please everybody.  That led to me remembering some song lyrics which led to a comedy bit which made most folks laugh. 

When the musicians went back on stage, another one of my favorite people there shared a story from the stage about the heckler.  Seems he arrived as an asshole.  Several years ago, he had a new open mic comic in tears.  She ran out and never returned.  It was an open mic where people are working on their stuff.  No one is expected to be a pro at an open mic.  The person sharing this story went on to say, “This time, you got him to leave.”

Of course, as a comic, it’s not my goal to make people leave, but it’s better than not being able to do my set.  As a person, when narcissists or any kind of rude person leaves, I take it as a diploma -- proof that I’ve learned and grown and now give off a very different vibe. 

At the end of the night, I received a wonderful, long, genuine hug from the man that booked me.  He said something like, "You are a good woman."  

It is so wonderful to be appreciated.  

…..

On Sunday night, I returned from the store and three male teenagers 

entered my building with me.  I did not recognize them as people from the building.  They did not say thank you when they entered though I unlocked the lobby door.  They went to the elevator which made my decision to take the stairs.  They spoke in Spanish.  As I was heading toward the steps, one kept saying, “Senora.”  I turned around and asked, “You’re talking to me? I don’t speak Spanish.”  He asked if the elevator was working.  I said, “Sometimes.”  Then he had the balls to ask what floor I live on.  “Not your concern,” I answered.

I marched up the stairs, carefully listening to their voices and 

movements.  I believe my attitude said, “Don’t fuck with me.  I’m tired of assholes and just might end you.”