In order to make people-watching an extreme sport, one have to go seek out places that act as crazy-magnets. Santa Monica and Venice are both beautiful examples of this. Friday night, I braved Venice’s First Friday and between the hordes of hipsters and mobs of bros, the people-watching was intense.
I witnessed a couple DTR-ing on the sidewalk, saw a group of rollerblading dancers pass by, and experienced a good amount of awkward eye contact that made me want to test out my theory that once you’re over 10, there’s no such thing as a not-creepy wink. Especially if I’m the one doing the winking, baby. See? Even in print that was unsettling. But if you really want to get full people-watching immersion, take Santa Monica and add an open mic.
The plan was to perform, myself; I was aspiring for mediocre and angling for a few pity laughs since it would be my first ever stand-up attempt. But I was foiled. Oh, was I foiled. I had written out a routine and dragged two friends along to the Westside Comedy Theater, located in the ritziest alley adjacent to the Third Street Promenade. I waltzed right up to the hosts and asked to be added to the list of comics performing that night (by “waltzed” I mean “walked normally.”) Unfortunately, I was informed that the list was already too full, but that I was welcome to stay and watch, get a feel for it and come back next week. The host who told me this was named “Atoole” pronounced “A tool” and he spends every Saturday night hosting several aspiring comedians. That seems to be an unfortunate combination to me. Despite the anticlimax, I promise you it took courage to ask to be put on the list.
So Carrie, Alex and I sat down and enjoyed one of the more entertaining evenings I’ve experienced this school year. It was very impressive to see so many people putting themselves in such a vulnerable position, at the mercy of the crowd. Some of them handled it better than others, as one comedian exclaimed, “What is it with this pitter-patter laughter?! I don’t like it.” Others slowly drowned in their own awkwardness, throwing out jokes like lifelines in a desperate attempt to break the surface. One of my favorite performers was an older gentleman. An example of one of his jokes: “Does anybody need a ride after the show?”
One audience member hollered “YES!”
“…Good.” Who needs punch lines?
Another used his slot as a therapy session about not understanding girls, one spent a good amount of his five minutes dancing, and a couple succeeded at being funny on purpose. All were equally bold.
My friends left the comedy club with a certificate for being great audience members (the hosts at this club also showered them with confetti), and I left with the following conviction: When it comes to really living and experiencing the freedom in vulnerability, guts matter more than talent.
