“As we all know, I’m one of the biggest assholes of all time.”
The crowd erupted into heavy, hardy laughter. Cheeks were red with grins and liquor, but hard to distinguish in the room absent of light sans a single spotlight on the man on stage — chastising himself like a well established masochist — though most would just call him a comedian.
My night started with impromptu plans to go to Los Angeles with a friend, so we could pretend our lives are interesting for various social media outlets. We glammed up (I even wore heels), and decided to go to The Comedy Store in Hollywood for the first time.
I knew big names like Louis C.K. dropped in to do sets or just watch the up-and-comers, so I channeled my inner stalker and prepared myself to scan the room for top dogs I could befriend, and pray they would include in their sets, referencing me as the crazy, small blonde who followed them into the bathroom for a photo.
What I did not expect was to end up in a place about the size of a standard classroom, projecting a seedy, but inviting atmosphere reminiscent of the first time I went to an indie concert. We sat in the back next to a nice man from Texas who offered us tissues when my friend sneezed and became exceptionally aware of the cackling we produced when we heard something genuinely funny.
Feminism. Abortion. Pornography. No topic was exempt from the wrath of the comics, often heckling the crowd between jokes (they were especially fond of a group of guys from Maine wearing shorts in the front row).
“I’m gonna hug you girls because you’re cute.”
One comedian sat next to us, still reeling from his set, his smile stretched across his face as if people were holding up the corners of his lips.
The mark of a good comedian isn’t the size of the audience, or how big their name is billed, but on how satisfied they are with the show. I found myself ugly laughing harder in a smaller crowd, ignoring the pain of sitting in a tiny chair for four-hours because I would rather lean on a dirty table than miss a quip.
It was well after midnight when we left and stopped to make friends on the way out.
The best kinds of celebrities are those who don’t care that they are. I went to stand in line for the bathroom where I was informed by a group that they weren’t actually in line and later discovered they were the comics in the lineup, comparing notes and talking about getting high. Later they stood outside and played guitar and sang loudly — happily.
We were invited to a comedy show in an apartment, met an Australian who invited us to his festival and met some of the nicest faces I have ever seen grace television.
I love comedy. I love self-deprecating humor. And I love that my face hurt from hours of laughing. Most people fight to meet musicians and celebrity personalities at Coachella. But me? I would rather spend my weekends at The Comedy Store.
