Opening Night at Open Mic
Like a Virgin...

by Barbara Sehr

It was a cold and stormy night, not unlike November in Seattle.

Tonight would be my first time.

But it would not be gentle.

In just a few seconds I would learn — like every Open Mic virgin before me — that a “dick joke” does not refer to a President of the United States who resigned from office.

A grand total of five people braved standing water on the freeway to get their humor fix and assorted adult beverages at Giggles Comedy Nightclub.

More than 20 comics had done the same.

Open Mic Night is one of those institutions where you learn that comedy is in the eye of the beholder:

My girlfriend is pregnant and I don’t know whether to shoot her or get her an abortion…”

Suddenly I felt confident. If this was the competition, I could be the next Johnny Carson without so much as an Ed McMahon stoking my comedy fire. After all, I came here tonight as the graduate of a three-night class in stand-up comedy and experienced with a standing-room-only crowd of well-wishers to cheer me on at this same club, just a few weeks before.

But this crowd was not in the mood to wish us well.

“You should shoot yourself,” a member of the audience yelled out at the comic still looking for his first laugh.

Most open mics have merciful time limits, often truncating long-winded would-be comics with a flash of light, a whisper of music and ultimately a silenced microphone. But this would be a night where time limits would be set by a higher authority. “That’s my set for the night, “the comic on stage intoned after just two attempts at levity.

At least two more comics were pushed out of the gate in what had become a Roman Coliseum populated with fans of the “Lion Is King” persuasion. There would be no gladiators among the comics this night. There would be no laughter. There would only be the sound of ice cubes melting in a glass and comic wannabes scouring their set lists.

The “crowd” of five in the audience, had already diminished to just three by the time I took the stage for the first time. Eye contact would not be a problem this night — even with the bright stage lights burning out what was left of my pupils.

It was a tag-team Open Mic night, with no MC. Each comic was given the task of introducing the next one. I winced as the previous comic butchered my name to the point of making it unmemorable.

Suddenly, I was where few men and even fewer women had gone before. I was standing on a brightly lit stage before a somewhat less than adoring crowd of three people. By now, I hoped, the pleasing effects of alcohol had taken hold on the “crowd.” As for me, the Diet Coke had done little to give me courage.

“Anyone here ever been to Winnemucca, Nevada?” I began ever so slowly.

Winnemucca was one of those place names like Schenectady that should draw automatic laughs according to the comedy authorities. I could see the audience attempting to either draw a laugh, or hide the gaseous effects of their nachos. Their reaction wasn’t clear, so I went on…

“There’s a big sign as you enter the city on Interstate 80…. ‘Welcome to Winnemucca — Five billion people have never been here.’ It makes you feel kind of special…”

By now, I could tell it wasn’t a laugh that the audience was drawing.

“Tonight, I’m going to make you feel REALLY special…. More than SIX billion people have never seen my act…”

NIRVANNA! I got a smile from the lone woman sitting amidst my three-person crowd. It was not exactly hilarity, but a smile. I had been more successful than at least three comics tonight. My “career” had been saved.

The smile encouraged me to continue through tales of unrequited searches for employment, the language skills of the Vice President of the United States, and jokes I would rather forget.

But this night — the stormy weather, the search for intelligent humor and my place in comedy — would always be a special night. After all, bringing a smile to a complete stranger is what the good life is all about.