It’s one of THOSE days yet again, so fair warning if you want to skip today’s musing. On top of the usual chazerai that I regularly try to cope with I’m still reeling from some self-inflicted wounds, mostly because I chose to speak up at the wrong time to the wrong person. And, honestly, I can’t seem to forgive myself for it.
This all stemmed from an otherwise innouncous outing at a comedy club this past Saturday night to see a friend of mine perform. Turns out there was a pre-show that featured others that I didn’t expect to see. One was someone that I was vaguely familiar with from decades ago when he was an up-and-coming star who has a few starring roles on shows I had some association with. Out of respect, I’ll withhold his name, but I’m providing a couple of before and after pictures for those with really good knowledge of those on the circuit–if you care to, you can figure out who this is. I will add that e’s evolved quite a bit both with age and material, and not necessarily in an optimal way. He now relies upon crowdsourcing as his primary source of material, and I just happened to be within his range of vision. 
This was all unfolding as Game 7 of the World Series was being played out. As those of you who read my colleague’s stirring recap–or simply haven’t been under a rock–know, it was a pretty incredible game that, natch, this fan was following. And natch, this comic was more than a little miffed. So I became the butt of his act, such that it was. To this person who has a history of abusive relationships, it was both an unexpected and, to me, over-the-top reaction.
It was all the more jarring because moments before I heard a gutteral laugh that indeed belonged to someone that once was a significant part of my life, who as it turned out was on the same list from our performer friend. As this person is bi-coastal and almost never not working, I honestly didn’t expect their presence. But lo, there they were. While Mr. Comedian was admonishing my rude behavior, I was running through scenarios in my tortured mind as to what if anything I could possibly say, including hello, that would at least give me a chance to at least let this special person know how much I missed them.
So I responded to him in the only way my id could allow me to at the time. “Please be funny”, I implored. It apparently violated a cardinal rule of stand-up audience. How do I know those rules? Because I was provided that list from the very person who admonished me–or, more accurately, the Google bot he provided me with spelled it out. The one that began the response to the e-mail of apology I wrote him after two very sleepless nights. At least I still had the option of writing him–in the case of the special person, they’ve blocked me years ago.
To his credit, he at least took the time to reply at all. Most busy performers wouldn’t bother with someone as otherwise insignificant as me. I know that first hand because that special person is also a performer, and was holding court outside the club after the show–as usual, a center of attention with their dazzling looks and personality.
Yet in the aftermath of this experience, not to mention the confusion of post-show dispersement, I was far too flustered to even say hello, let alone anything else. Frankly, I had had more than enough insult humor for one night to run the risk of receiving still more. But the fact that yet again the opportunity for some sort of closure that I so desperately desire came and went–and odds are the chances of another one are way more remote than they already were.
I have not been able to sleep more than a few minutes since, and I’m replaying this unfolding of events over and over in my head with the only closure I can find being that yet again I was a coward and someone who continues to make horrible choices.
When I asked this comic to “please be funny”, it was a sincere request to help him focus me and distract me enough from spinning out. Of course, he didn’t take it that way. He reminded me that he, too, was hurt. So I attempted to take the high road in reinforcing my apology to him. But it doesn’t undo the damage already done.
I never knew the rules of etiquette he requested Google to compile; I tend not to do that kind of research before I venture out for a rare night out. As someone who otherwise prides myself on being a good researcher, that’s most def my bad. Now I know what to do, which I’m sure will come in handy the next time a meh act competes head-to-head with a historic sporting event.
In the meantime, I’ll look forward to another day of kicking myself in the head for not having the huevos to have spoken up when it was really necessary. If you learned something from this, huzzah. Bottom line: don’t be me.
Until next time…