Superstar Rookie book their second ever show at Northberg Tavern, a bar on High Street in the basement of a Donatos Pizza. This marks the live addition of one Tony Bair to the lineup, a lead guitarist about whom they still remain somewhat ambivalent. Although the other members have surely honed their own skills in the interim, and would have improved upon the debut gig regardless, I think Tony’s insertion gives them a more interesting and original sound.
This underground bar has only recently begun booking bands, so I’m not expecting much in the form of sound quality, but beer’s supposed to flow cheaply here and the place is sure to burst at the seams with familiar faces. As an added incentive Travis is hosting a party at his place after the show, and considering he always threw the best bashes in high school, this is not one to miss.
The Northberg is located beneath a Donatos Pizza at the corner of Frambes and High. After descending a flight of stairs and handing over the minimal admission to an absent minded doorman, I find most of the gang immediately, probably because they’re clustered at the most prominent table in the room. A long, banana shaped table with holes cut out to wrap around two pillars, it runs through the center of the tiny bar and affords the best possible view.
A funky, electric blue light suffuses the space, lending it a sickly and garish 1980s worthy hue. That coupled with the poor sound in the early going don’t seem to promise much of a future, and you add a sterile basement vibe into the mix. But man, though we never would have dreamed such at the time, for about a solid year, I and my friends – in various configurations, and numerous reasons – will wind up spending an awful lot of time at the Northberg.
Though other random diversions will occasionally draw us here, the twin pillars of our attraction become this local amateur comedy night, and the mind-blowing live appearances by one man with an acoustic guitar, this cat named Swabby.
Our initial experience with the local comedy business will occur on a Tuesday night in December. Cary had bailed on me at the last hour, meaning it’s just Damon and me conducting this surreal, double-billed tour of campus, one which began by taking in a jazz band at Sugar Shack. Now we are here. Damon’s never set foot inside this subterranean establishment, and neither of us have witnessed anything quite like this, whatever the location. After paying three bucks apiece to gain entry, we just barely catch the tail end of some freak performing a drag routine as a sort of opening act. He departs the stage as soon as we enter, though, to be replaced by some Faye chick who is acting as master of ceremonies for the humor extravaganza we’re about to behold.
“We’ve got an eclectic lineup tonight,” she smirks, “eclectic, eclectic…I like that word. Eclectic.”
I’m not quite sure what to make of our hostess, at least not without a more substantial body of data. On one hand she is kind of funny, albeit in a smarmy, self-satisfied manner. Heavy on the smarm, yes. But you can tell she’s intelligent, and would surely be a riot, if a touch neurotic, to hang out with sometime. Would she be a bit much to take in larger doses, however? More importantly, would we consider her doable? And must conversation always drift in this direction regarding members of the fairer sex? Well, yes, so it would seem, right or wrong – especially as she is a short brunette with attractive features.
“I’d do her, but she’d probably get on my nerves after a while, you know?” I conclude.
“Yeah, I know what you mean…,” Damon agrees with a nod of the head.
First up are the quote unquote amateurs, local comedians who don’t perform anywhere, competing for the door money. Some remarkably unfunny lady with big tits wins this competition, solely on account of having more friends and family in the crowd than anyone else – she talks about her breast reduction initially, and that goes over okay, but it’s all downhill from there. Still, everything is based on applause, and she pockets the cash, although Damon and I both find this tall, skinny guy who came on last to be the best.
Next up are the professionals, or rather those that actually have been performing, around town for the most part. One big black guy with short, dyed blonde hair, Vince, steals the show, as he has everybody in this joint rolling in the aisles. Unfortunately, this lighter skinned black fellow who goes by the handle Demetrius Nicodemus – a nice guy, obviously, but still – follows Vince and bombs hardcore. Most of the amateurs were better.
“Wow…that was…wiggity wiggity wack,” Faye comments, cackling to herself, onstage again after his time is up – and the way they signal this is by holding a lighter up from in back, a task left to one of the other pros.
“I think she’s making fun of him, saying wiggity wiggity wack,” Damon theorizes.
But the best part of the whole show is by far improv, making it well worth the money we’ve spent to attend this highly entertaining potpourri of attractions. This guy with long curly brown hair and big nose, Marc Heuck, is running the first bit as Alec Trebek, host of Jeopardy. He rattles off six categories – such as People, Places, and so on, and one of the comedians kicks matters off by making a selection. Many years later Marc winds up with his own game show on Comedy Central, incidentally, but for now he’s stuck here in amateur night at the Northberg.
The first category chosen is Things. An audience member shouts out the name of a random object and the comedians ring in, try to come up with something funny that fits. If enough people laugh, Heuck will say, “okay, pick a category,” to the comedian that nailed it. And so forth.
Next up is Freeze, a game where two comedians take the stage and, once again, have an audience member shout something out, this time an activity.
“Frisbee!” someone says
So the two of them are acting out a skit based on a Frisbee, until another comedian, whichever one thinks up a good little bit, yells, “freeze!”
This comedian then climbs aboard the stage, taps one of the guys, and takes his place, acting out a new skit he’s just come up with based on what it looks like the one person remaining is doing, often stuck in a pose which bears no resemblance to the task at hand. Or at least an act, like bending over, which does crop up with a curious plenitude, that can be interpreted any number of ways. These results are the most consistently riotous of the night, as even Demetrius doesn’t perform half bad in spots.
Finally, all the pros grace the stage at once and form a line. As before, the audience is instructed to shout out a profession, and the comedians take turns acting out what the worst person would be for this particular job.
“Teacher!”
“Gynecologist!”
I holler out, “porn star!” from where we are sitting to the left of the stage, but unfortunately none of them could can up with anything too earth shattering for this, despite the apparent ripeness of the topic.
Marc, an extremely quick-witted guy, seems among the most adept at this. His sense of humor generally runs into dry territory, similar to ours (when we’re not in full blown jackass mode, that is), and we get a real kick out of his antics. If grading every category a la the Olympics or a talent show, he would probably land the highest score, for it’s interesting to note that almost nobody, however funny in one segment, is consistently good across the board. Vince for example isn’t so hot at this type of improv, though all of the short, short fat guys are great for some reason, and Faye does alright, too. Demetrius still blows chunks, however.
“Man, I wish he’d just leave!” I tell Damon.
II.
In the earliest months of its incarnation, this place went by Northberg Underground instead. According to my notes, they only changed their name to the much more durable Tavern identity at some point in early ’98. And adding further confusion to this issue, any events calendar you would see at the time or for years to follow would typically list this space as Donatos – although they don’t have trouble filling the place regardless, and it may have accidentally lent them some otherwise unfathomable cool.
While initially not impressed by the guy, a second visit was all it took to convince me that my coworkers were correct in their assessment. Swabby’s the real deal in working a crowd like putty in his hands, blasting Johnny Bravo’s paltry by comparison following out of the water, exceeding even Uncle Frank Medley’s performances up north in the entertainment department. I can only hope that this is one of his typical nights so Alan can see what I’m talking about.
Alan parks at this apartment complex nearby and we walk over to High Street, slip into the door at Donatos and down the side stairwell. We immediately locate Mill Run, Gina, and Julie, along with some other people I don’t know, sprawled along some booths just inside the door of this dim pizza shop basement. Stumbling around in this cavern is highly reminiscent of doing the same in our living room, but we manage to grope our way around and grab seats in their midst. It just so happens that Swabby is on break when we arrive, though using the opportunity to gladhandle his fan base, kiss babies and shake hands. Even without hearing a note yet you can gauge from the electricity of the crowd that he is on his game tonight, and as he takes the stage again, the insanity level eclipses even the last time I saw him.
Packed beyond belief, with a ton of underage girls in here, in great moods as they’re managing to get served without difficulty, this scene is exactly what’s missing now at Woody’s. Still yet to strum so much as a chord on his acoustic, he’s whipping them into a frenzy with stage banter alone. Then he begins playing, and the place erupts into absolute mayhem.
It’s hard to say what Swabby – his first name, I believe, might be Mark – has perfected to make his routine the winning combination, above all others we’ve seen mining a similar vein. Part of it I’m sure has to be appearance, his clean-cut normalcy, winning smile, and short, fuzzy black hair sticking up all over the place. He’s also tall, and I’m sure most of the girls present would describe him as cute. Still, that can only take you so far, as does that bit about roaming the crowds on break. Though the closest local analogy I can think of would be AJ Angelo’s efforts at the same, even he pulls up short in that department. Sure, our buddy Dan Bandman also comes to mind, the way he makes a point of talking to everyone at one of his shows, but there’s something intrinsically different somehow about an indie band playing originals, versus these exceptionally polished cover song guys who bend over backwards to actually schmooze a crowd.
None of this would matter, naturally, if it weren’t for the music, and this is the real clinic, a textbook study in exactly what to play to work a college crowd into a fervor. He makes funny faces and refuses to take himself too seriously, while whipping out one singalong after another. Nothing is too cheesy for this Swabby cat, although, on the opposite side of that line, you will clearly find plenty he has excised: no singer-songwriter crap here, no angst riddled grunge, nothing which even remotely drags. Only the silliest, catchiest fare will suffice, whatever it takes to get these kids dancing and shouting along.
So what are we talking? We are talking everything from the Brady Bunch theme, to the Proclaimers’ lone hit 500 Miles, to Blister In The Sun to Chuck Berry’s My Ding-A-Ling. The latter he has turned into a masterful call-and-response, as he croons the first three lines of the chorus, then slams on the brakes as the crowd takes over to belt out its conclusion.
People are standing on chairs, on the tables even, pounding mugs and bottles. It’s utterly unlike anything we’ve seen in a bar, rivaling all but the best of national acts glimpsed in arenas or amphitheaters. And he is really just getting warmed up.
Oh What A Night finds its way into the set. If something isn’t working, he isn’t afraid to switch gears on a dime, jump into a completely different song, and mere seconds typically separate finished ones, even, unless he’s pausing for air or to voice a brief little motivational speech. Commercials are within bounds, too, as proven by his admirable rendition of If I Could Be Like Mike. What this reminds you of most of all, really, is a Jimmy Buffet concert, which makes sense as he glides into Brown Eyed Girl and then his tour de force, Margaritaville, for which Swabby has crafted an original – as far as I know – back and forth breakdown. This occurs immediately after the line about there being a woman to blame, after which our ringleader stops playing, as the guys shout one line, followed by the girls in the crowd screaming the next, on and on in alternating fashion:
“ALWAYS IS!” the guys declare.
“YOU WISH!” reply the women at full volume.
“SUCK MY DICK!”
“SUCK MY LEFT TIT!”
“SUCK MY LEFT NUT!”
“SUCK MY RIGHT TIT!”
“SUCK MY RIGHT NUT!”
“FUCK YOU!”
They know their lines without prompting, without a hitch, meaning that he’s surely been slipping in that segment for years. From here he picks up the baton and runs with it again, until the next chorus, where this dialog repeats itself, all three times its head rears in the song.
Still, despite the insanity, and the plethora of gorgeous females, it gets to be a bit overwhelming after a while. Gina and Mill Run are also both too wasted to carry on much of a conversation during the rare moments it’s quiet enough to do so. After about one full set of this, we say our goodbyes and head outside to Alan’s truck. Only to discover it’s nowhere in sight.
“Fuck!” he shouts, “we weren’t even here an hour!”
I’ve been in this situation before, and it’s almost as though there’s an optical illusion at play. Though the tow away notice is in plain sight now, neither of us has noticed it before. Call it selective vision when you’re itching to get somewhere, causing your brain to shut down and overlook the obvious. But for now, there’s nothing to do, but make note of the phone number, trudge up the hill to Summit Street and home.
III.
Word begins to steadily increase about the outrageousness of these Swabby outings. He is now occupying a residency of sorts, playing every Wednesday and Thursday at the Northberg, every week. Soon after this latest visit, we manage to convince Damon and Paul that they have to come see this dude, pronto. And though we have chosen a Thursday for their initiation, which is for whatever reason the less insane of the two nights, without fail – I think because this is basically the start of a campus weekend, therefore there’s a lot more going on around here – they are nonetheless duly impressed.
We continue to sing his praises, luring still others into his lair. And it’s on another not too distant Wednesday that this scene reaches its absolute apex, a night where the familiar trio of Alan, me and Damon are joined by his sister Melissa, as we traipse down from the house on Summit.
From the moment our feet bottom out in this basement, it’s clear that the Northberg Tavern is reaching for rarified air tonight. The number two appears to carry some sort of magical significance, a recurring theme through virtually every encounter this outing will bring. We even initially have a second destination in mind, are intent upon winding up there as we leave the house – having spotted an unknown band’s gig flyer earlier today, with a black and white picture of our elementary school guidance counselor upon it, for a show tonight at Bernie’s Distillery, curiosity is absolutely gnawing at us – but the four of us don’t quite make it down there.
Damon runs into two girls he knows from OSU, as does Melissa encounter a pair of her future sorority sisters. In both cases, although this surely makes us disgusting pigs, some of us have a curious inability to remember the less attractive sidekick’s name. Regarding Damon’s classmate, whom he has mentioned before and would like to hook up with, since she is both beautiful and cool, Carmen is the attractive brunette in the ballcap. This is a look not nearly as many girls pull off well as believe they do, but it works for her. She’s curvaceous and boasting the ideal proportion of meat on her bones, her dark hair curly and long even though tucked up under that hat right now. Unfortunately, her friend, whose name may or may not have been Ashley, I forget, resembles a man more than anything else.
This pattern holds when the time arrives to meet Melissa’s newest chums. Katie is the looker of the duo, her really tall wing-woman not so much. But, while a veritable ream of my coworkers are also on hand, as expected, the finest of these aren’t necessarily well represented, either, so I can’t much complain. This being a Swabby show, the Wade sisters Julie and Gina are present as always, along with their new roommate who is also the most freshly hired server at our restaurant, Jen Z. She’s an old friend of theirs from the Cincinnati region who just arrived in town, and possesses a sweet demeanor to compliment somewhat of a baby face framed by her luxurious, full mane of wavy black hair.
Still, though always perfectly pleasant to be around, one wouldn’t count them the highlight of this occasion. Both are spoken for and, truth be known, probably a bit too subdued for our tastes. No, that honor would go to their swarm of female cohorts, a tangled knot occupying this huge central table maybe ten feet from the stage. Most of them are hot, and, according to Gina, one hundred percent are single right now.
Even so, there are two in particular commanding our attention. Damon and I are standing watching Swabby mug his way through Cecilia. Or should I say, listening to him play it, for there’s this blonde with a smoking body bent over right in front of us, talking to someone at the table, her sublime ass all but shoved in our faces. Mill Run is on the other side of me, about four or five sheets to the wind this time around, and I don’t even have to say anything, he knows exactly what we’re thinking.
“She’s very single, Jay, and a maneater,” he tells me with his standard husky throated chuckle.
Introductions are handed out soon enough. This we learn is Joy, while her copper haired colleague, equally gorgeous, is Jenny. Unfortunately in this instance, though I’m otherwise happy to see him, John H happens to be on the scene as well. He has already trained his laser beams upon Joy well in advance of our arrival, meaning we likely don’t stand a prayer.
Elsewhere, the familiar faces radiate like crop circles from this post. Danielle and Bobbi, John L, the cooks contingent well represented by the likes of Jeremiah and Rookie. Sean McEvoy and his reconciled former/current girlfriend Carrie, even. Oh, but what is this? While surely the maniacal work of John H’s, too, for I can’t imagine who else would have called her, here comes Keisha, trailed by Pam with considerable fanfare into this cavern. Except he claims wonderment to see her here himself, having like me given this up as a lost cause ages ago.
“She’s a player,” he offers, with a knowing, almost sad grin and a shake of the head.
That seems to be the consensus, a theory which looks mighty solid at a casual glance. But playing whom, exactly? And are we sure she isn’t just playing herself? This is a question which still warrants further scrutiny, perhaps. The problem with nights like these, however, is that your head is spinning to such an extent that focus becomes an issue. Grasping at once for everything, you often wind up with nothing. It also doesn’t always help when you know in the back of your mind there’s always a contingency plan, a pretty much sure thing you can sleep with whenever. Sometimes this knowledge lends you confidence, but it can just as easily create complacency, and you must fight this thought at every turn.
In keeping with a theme established at her parties, Keisha makes her rounds and flirts with every guy in the room. Enough to make each feel special, and desire her even more, without actually tipping her hand in any direction. And the much more conservative seeming Pam continues to follow suit, more or less, completing the circuit if not the sentiment. Yet when the smoke clears and they’re left scrambling for seats, it’s encouraging that these two set up shop near us – although as packed as this place is, there’s really not much else. A number of us, our foursome and the two Johns included, have been shoved to the backside of this massive central table, with my view especially atrocious as I’m forced to crane around a giant metal pole to see the stage. Keisha and Pam fall into the leftmost flank, next to John L, within shouting distance if nothing else.
Occasions like this make it almost as much fun to imagine what our absent coworkers are up to at this moment, what kind of chumps are stuck on the floor or behind the grill or the hostess stand this very second. Almost, but…well, not even close, not right now. Dudes with backwards baseball caps are standing on some of the tables, same as last week, and a few go as far now as to start ripping out drop ceiling tiles in the grip of this inexplicable mania. Nobody connected with the bar objects. Meanwhile Swabby expertly shifts from one singalong to the next to the next without pause, ripping at present into Blister In The Sun.
“See, I always knew this would go over with these college kids!” Damon observes, a reference to our own efforts at learning this in the Paleozoic Epoch of last spring.
Oh, but what is this, the Swabster does slam on the brakes now, although a sly grin accompanies this move and you know it’s all just part of the plan. “I’m not playing any more until I see some tits!” he announces. And whereas in our clumsy hands such a declaration would surely fall into the perv pile, in response to him it’s met with a raucous cheer.
“Okay!” Sean’s girlfriend Carrie shouts, she of the smooth, rosy cheeked face, compact frame and silky straight raven hair. She stands up and our breath catches in our throats as she makes a motion to yank up her shirt – though it’s all just one big fakeout, a decoy, causing her to spin around and regard this crowd with a broad smile before sitting back down.
Danielle, however, obliges our ringleader by flopping out one gigantic, milky white boob, cupping one hand underneath it for his and everyone else’s appraisal. Normally one of the more reserved chicks we work with, she’s been on a mission of late, dumping her longtime boyfriend, announcing she’s moving to Florida in a couple of months merely to shake up her life. Has already put in her notice with management for that distant date, even, and you have to admire these bold moves, root for a totally normal person courageous enough to try something new.
Regarding this display of flesh, however, while not exactly complaining, let’s just say she hasn’t ever entered my fantasies. Alan and Damon are apparently jolted into a state of superawareness by it, however, as they bolt from their chairs and decide to make an end run around the right side of the table. Not to view our round blonde veteran waitress with that shock of white hair and the perpetual, comically cranky sneer of an agitated spinster, but rather to glimpse the entire scene in greater detail. As a result, they return with reports of a really nice-looking skinny girl whipping up her shirt and flashing both breasts, an arm’s reach away from them.
It’s great to have these two back in the loop again. Though the Icehouse twenty ouncers are flowing throughout the bar, these baseball bat shaped bottles with faux athletic tape up top, though I know seemingly half the room and would surely have a fine time regardless, it’s nonetheless never quite as exciting when they’re not around. It’s the shared history, this narrative to which we are continually adding, sure, but also that these two are as genuinely entertaining as anyone else within this huge extended circle. So while you can call me troublemaker or devil’s advocate or any such handy catchphrase, all of my angling has been conducted with this thought in mind: wishing they were single like me and still working this campus scene, too. And the thing is, while neither will come right out and admit as much, they’re both feeling the same way of late, it’s obvious. That they might have left something on the table, and are itching to get back in the game.
By the time Swabby’s stopped playing and the crowd has considerably thinned, those of us remaining look and feel a little bit like war survivors who’ve retreated to the nearest bunker. In this instance, our fortress happens to be a raised rather than sunken one, for we survivors are seated around that central table – though absolute carnage does surround us, all the same.
We are eventually the last patrons remaining in the bar, Damon, Alan, Melissa, myself, plus Carmen and this friend we are calling Ashley. My head is swimming, not with drink but rather per usual the parting conversation with Keisha, one which has me feeling confused and fired up all at once.
As is their custom, she and Pam hung around here for maybe an hour before heading up the road. Either a more exciting outpost awaited them, or else the serious minded sidekick had to study again, I’m not sure. I’m standing near the back wall, though, and she seeks me out; again maybe she’s doing this with all the guys, maybe this is her genius. Actually I know this is her genius. But it feels different, somehow, different than she is with all the others as well as different from how she used to be around me. I like to think maybe she’s picking up on the vibe that I’ve marked her down as a hopeless cause, and that this increases the attraction somehow.
She takes both my hands in hers, one in each, and smiles at me, affixing those incandescent blue-green eyes on mine. “I wanted to talk to you!” she coos, then insists, “I’ll call you sometime this week, okay?”
When his girlfriend Carrie was suddenly feeling mysteriously not so hot, Sean McEvoy bailed at an early hour, too. Concerning those who hung around to watch Swabby to the titillating end, John H will wind up tagging along with Mill Run, Joy, Jen Z and company back to the Wade sisters’ apartment on Lane. John H will eventually submit a full report to his dossier detailing how he banged Joy at said apartment, this very evening. On one hand, coupled with Mill Run’s warning, and the ease with which this transpired, it’s fairly easy to conclude well, this Joy is clearly damaged goods. But on the other, it’s kind of hard not to think hmm, yeah, and I sure would like to find out for myself.
Once again though I have the constant antics of my roomies to keep me entertained, and focused upon the here and now. Alan’s about half tooted up, a don’t-give-a-fuck state which makes him even more hilarious than usual, which simultaneously often proving irresistible to the fairer sex. So it is that this Ashley or whatever has taken a shine to him. She’s blasted too, however, and is for some reason seated with a pitcher of beer she’s ordered, intended for her consumption alone. Every time she turns her head, Alan sneakily springs to attention and grabs the pitcher, siphons off a little more beer into his own glass.
Damon’s attempting to work the magic with Carmen in much more subdued, coherent fashion. But now the tavern is closing for the night and the bartenders are asking us to leave.
“Would you go get my coat for me?” Ashley meekly requests of Alan.
“Fuuuuuck youuuuu,” he blurts.
Ashley’s shocked into speechlessness, only stares at him, an astonished expression on her face.
“What do I look like?” Alan quips, then, shaking his head, adds, “that’s a good one. Whew.” He then helps himself to another healthy dose of her beer, this time right out in the open.
IV.
Damon has gotten to where he’s more than a little agitated now when his girlfriend, Shannon, actually drives down to Columbus for a visit. She’s called him up out of the blue on a Tuesday night, announcing just such an intrusion. He paces around the kitchen, fuming about how this messes up his entire week.
When Shannon arrives, the three of us decide to traipse down for amateur comedy night at the Northberg. This weekly variety show has lost some of its luster after repeated visits, but we can’t think of any better options in such a pinch. The last time Damon and I came here, this really attractive professionally dressed redheaded woman, probably in her mid 30s, wouldn’t stop staring at the two of us the entire time. She’s actually turned around and beaming in our direction most of the night, instead of watching the comedians. When one of them makes a joke about a plastic pussy, the entire room erupts with laughter, including us.
“You boys aren’t talking about me, are you?” she asks. We both mumble a quick no, and I guess we’re just a little too young or unsure of ourselves or something, because like idiots neither of us makes a move to score with this older chick. Damon will admit, though, that he had the perfect comeback on the tip of his tongue, as soon as she said that, but couldn’t bring himself to blurt it out.
“I almost said, not unless you’ve got a plastic pussy!” he tells me.
Nothing quite so entertaining will transpire this time around. Part of the problem is that the element of surprise is lost after a few visits, and the comedians begin repeating themselves. The more ambitious or experimental ones might not, though this only means they run into consistency issues, as almost nobody is gut busting hilarious with every outing. A difficulty further compounded in that the best of the bunch, as you might imagine, are typically the first ones to move on, and disappear from this scene.
Demetrius Nicodemus, for example, though he seems like a nice guy, is the least funny of the lot, and took over hosting duties from Faye last month. At one of Swabby’s shows I happened to be in the men’s room the same time he and some of his buddies were, and heard him repeating jokes from the night before, passing them off as his own material. Coming here means we’re unfortunately subject to something even worse, i.e. a ton of his mugging and filler content between acts.
One fresh face is making his debut tonight, Rich Couris, or at least this is the first we’ve ever seen of him. He has this razor sharp smart-alecky wit in the Dennis Miller vein, in fact his voice even sounds similar. You can tell he’s somewhat of an elitist, and is fine with that, as these jokes aren’t told for everyone’s benefit, he doesn’t feel the need to seek the entire crowd’s approval. In spite of this attitude – or, in reality, because of it – the three of us will laugh no harder the entire night than during his set. And this isn’t to say he’s above the common man’s subject matter, for example, topical sexual content.
“Now this Monica Lewinsky’s saying she gave Bill Clinton oral sex, and that he missed her face, came all over her blue sweater….” Rich begins, “I’d just like to say to Clinton – HELLO! HOW COULD YOU MISS A TARGET THAT BIG!”
In defense of our host, Demetrius is enjoying one of his better nights, too. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to succeed in this pursuit, and he clearly works hard at this. His major problem as I see it is that, as a person of shall we say mixed heritage, he can’t seem to make up his mind which crowd he’s pandering to. Half of the time it’s as though he’s attempting to act black and the other half white, instead of just being himself. Plus, he’s just not that original in either material or style. Still, he does have us rolling during one segment tonight, a first, so it’s possible he’s figuring things out.
A singular strange occurrence, which I never bring up, has me feeling like my heart is going to jump free of its moorings, even as my jaw slides past it to the floor. As we sit in chairs at a front table immediately before the stage – which makes the spotlight sensation even worse – the pulse beat hammers away in my neck with increasing urgency, though a sinking dread floods me otherwise. There’s this skinny young white kid on the stage who starts into a story, which really has no point, it’s obviously just a crazy encounter he can’t get over and wants to mention. He says he was at the Yucatan Liquor Stand one night with some friends, sitting at a table upstairs…when a nice looking older woman, a brunette maybe somewhere around 30…approaches him out of the blue, kisses him on the lips and asks for his number. But then he never hears from her again.
He doesn’t give her name, but doesn’t really have to. There are just way too many similarities here, and I know he was one of Teresa’s victims, too. I shoot surreptitious glances over to Damon, wondering if Paul, my only witness, ever told him about that incident – because I, imagine that, hadn’t mentioned it to a soul – but he’s just watching the comedian and seems oblivious. Then the kid concludes his tale with a shrug, saying something to the effect of, I don’t know, it was just really weird and moves on, sans any sort of punchline.
