MY TURN, NOT YOUR TURN. MY TURN!
I've been doing stand-up comedy in New York City, on and off, for nearly 10 years. I love stand up. I love getting up on stage. I even love feeling anxious, somewhat nauseated and juiced up like I'm on 'roids every time I do it. Seriously. TuPac releases another posthumous record before I calm down after a show. If I could shoot applause intravenously, I would; store it in a jar like a fart; buy a laugh track and play it on tiny speakers strapped to my belt. It's important to remind everyone, from the bodega dude to my therapist. Approval proves that I'm a good person.
I can count on my breasts, nose, eyes, ears and four toes the number of artist interviews I've read or seen where the subject says one or another version of this statement, "I don't do this (act, write, paint, sing, dance, fuck sheep) because I want to. It's a necessity. It's who I am and can't NOT do it. I'm compelled." And as much as I'd like to dismiss such a pretentious-sounding load of horse pee, they're right.
I cannot watch stand up. I just can't. I can't sit through a set without aching to get up there. It doesn't matter if I'm stuck at an open mic night in the middle of happy hour at a strip mall in Queens. I want the microphone. It hurts my face to go support my friends at their gigs. First, I am not paying $10 and a 2 drink minimum at Don't Tell Mama to watch my comrades do a 7 minute set that I've seen more than that fucking "music is my boyfriend" iPod commercial. Frankly, I'd have an easier time watching ONE NIGHT AT McCOOL'S on a loop while being rubbed down by the the Guinness Book of Records ' world's longest fingernails lady.
I think it's congenital. When I was 12 or 13, circa 7th grade, I tried to be a cheerleader because that's what the cool girls did. And I tortured myself. There I was on the sidelines, urging the boys basketball team not to suck so bad clad in a ridiculous orange (always my BEST color) sweater, a skirt, 'grundies' and Keds clapping my hands shouting, "Let's go, Let's go! L-E-T-S G-O!" as if I gave a shit. I wanted nothing more than to put the damn ball in my hands and show them how a shooting point guard would handle things. Incompetent, untalented douche bags. In all fairness I am talking about mid-pubescent white boys from Rolling Meadows, IL. Mighty, mighty St. Colette Tigers, my ass.
Us 80s kids used to wear small pins on our backpacks, jackets, painter's hats. The intent was to declare 'This is who I am.' My contemporaries wore Corey Haim, Def Leppard, Lita Ford, Sk8 or Die and INXS (among others) pins. I had Belinda Carlisle pins. But my favorite pin was a gift, though I can't remember who gave it to me. But they sure had my number. As though scribbled hastily by a 4 year old, in primary colors, it read, "IF I CAN'T WIN I DON'T WANNA PLAY." Latent attention seeking perfectionist anyone?
It started innocently enough. I was a skinny little blond girl who weighed 40 wet. Still, I would show everyone, I was a force to be recokned with, a non-robotic Small Wonder. (Vickie?) I would be better, faster, smarter, hungrier, more clever and sly than anyone, especially the boys. Well, first I wanted an invite to the boys' club. As Ali G would say, "Respec." After that I had clearance to beat the pants off 'em. No wonder I cannot stand anyone else holding MY MICROPHONE.
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
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0 comments
I can count on my breasts, nose, eyes, ears and four toes the number of artist interviews I've read or seen where the subject says one or another version of this statement, "I don't do this (act, write, paint, sing, dance, fuck sheep) because I want to. It's a necessity. It's who I am and can't NOT do it. I'm compelled." And as much as I'd like to dismiss such a pretentious-sounding load of horse pee, they're right.
I cannot watch stand up. I just can't. I can't sit through a set without aching to get up there. It doesn't matter if I'm stuck at an open mic night in the middle of happy hour at a strip mall in Queens. I want the microphone. It hurts my face to go support my friends at their gigs. First, I am not paying $10 and a 2 drink minimum at Don't Tell Mama to watch my comrades do a 7 minute set that I've seen more than that fucking "music is my boyfriend" iPod commercial. Frankly, I'd have an easier time watching ONE NIGHT AT McCOOL'S on a loop while being rubbed down by the the Guinness Book of Records ' world's longest fingernails lady.
I think it's congenital. When I was 12 or 13, circa 7th grade, I tried to be a cheerleader because that's what the cool girls did. And I tortured myself. There I was on the sidelines, urging the boys basketball team not to suck so bad clad in a ridiculous orange (always my BEST color) sweater, a skirt, 'grundies' and Keds clapping my hands shouting, "Let's go, Let's go! L-E-T-S G-O!" as if I gave a shit. I wanted nothing more than to put the damn ball in my hands and show them how a shooting point guard would handle things. Incompetent, untalented douche bags. In all fairness I am talking about mid-pubescent white boys from Rolling Meadows, IL. Mighty, mighty St. Colette Tigers, my ass.
Us 80s kids used to wear small pins on our backpacks, jackets, painter's hats. The intent was to declare 'This is who I am.' My contemporaries wore Corey Haim, Def Leppard, Lita Ford, Sk8 or Die and INXS (among others) pins. I had Belinda Carlisle pins. But my favorite pin was a gift, though I can't remember who gave it to me. But they sure had my number. As though scribbled hastily by a 4 year old, in primary colors, it read, "IF I CAN'T WIN I DON'T WANNA PLAY." Latent attention seeking perfectionist anyone?
It started innocently enough. I was a skinny little blond girl who weighed 40 wet. Still, I would show everyone, I was a force to be recokned with, a non-robotic Small Wonder. (Vickie?) I would be better, faster, smarter, hungrier, more clever and sly than anyone, especially the boys. Well, first I wanted an invite to the boys' club. As Ali G would say, "Respec." After that I had clearance to beat the pants off 'em. No wonder I cannot stand anyone else holding MY MICROPHONE.
