It takes a lot of guts to get on stage in front of bunch strangers and make witty dark comments about your life story. And much like this blog, it was extremely therapeutic. But sometimes the experience was even more painful for me because I was preforming at the club in Chattanooga where my brother-in-law got his start in comedy, JJ's Bohemia. He now lives in Los Angeles and has become very successful at what he does. So the night that I decided to go check out the local comedy and become a part of it, it was extremely nerve racking. All the comedians already knew who I was because my older sister and brother-in-law are considered 'Chattanooga Royalty'. So when I entered the smokey saloon I already could hear, "Brady Effler?! What are you doing here?"
Around May of 2015, I had my first night at hosting at JJ's Bohemia. Yes, I had worked my way up to the point that Ryan Darling, the MC of the comedy room presented me with the honor of being the first and last thing the audience sees. It was also the night that Scully met me. I remember her telling me much later that she thought I was cute and funny. She might as well have said I was the sexiest man on the planet and could bench press the hopes and dreams of every third world country. I remember reflecting on this night over and over again when I moved to England. Each time I thought about it the memory got less and less real, but the feeling stayed the same.
I record the experience in my personal journal. The events that follow are real.
And if you've been keeping up with the other posts, you know that these entries revolve around a particular playlist. Well since this is technically the start of the tale, here is the first track of Is That You, Scully?
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter // The Anniversary.
(Sometime in May.)
Riveting.
That’s what I need to be… riveting. How many times should I... How many times do I need to hear this.
This room, an amalgam of inside jokes and insightful but posh cultural critiques, is dark and smokey on a rather bright and warm Wednesday evening— per usual.
The air felt rather greasy though.
I suppose it might be the mixture of denim vests, flowered dresses or the plumage of cigarette smoke. Then there was the dried beer dusting the counters and floors with men in tight pants. It was this ambience that all added to this greasy feeling, but what a warm welcoming. I can’t imagine that anyone who has ever walked into this building has ever been criticized on their dress code. Hell, even come in your underwear if you have the courage. I speculate that the only thing the crowd might give you shit for is it not having a smile or an earnest attitude. And if you can’t do that then there are plenty of substances for you to use to "fake it" for at least two to six hours (depending on what you ingest). Either way, welcome to the Wednesday Night Open Mic Comedy at JJ’s Bohemia, and I have walked in with my thoughts trickling down my subconscious like baby spiders.
Ah, yes, it is Wednesday night.
Nervous already…
I need to pee, or sit down.
I think I’ll sit.
This stool is awkward.
I think I look like a hunchback, crumpled at the counter with my hands folded and empty.
I'm gonna sign up to preform again tonight.
I feel good.
I feel funny.
I feel ready to delicately expose my innermost problems with a plethora of sexually vapid remarks.
Am I talking to my self again?
*silence*
Yeah, perhaps.
Maybe the people staring at me across the way will think I’m practicing for my set.
Oh, they’re hotties too.
Two girls; both tall, both hot and both dusting their phone with their long dark hair as they interact with one another.
One of them looks rather dorky though with those thick black frames.
I hope they stay for the show.
*I imagine their conversation*
“Oh, he must be savant” they’d whisper.
“Yes, I am special and deliberate with my dick jokes…” I'd reply.
That’d get a laugh, right?
Maybe they’d whisper again,“He’s cute too…”
“Oh, yes… yes I am cute. Take me home, please?”
I need to pee again.
Ugh.
I remained sitting at the bar while ignoring my primal instinct to pee or scream when a large and grinning bearded man approached me from behind the counter. The jolly fellow was in an aged Hawaiian button-up, but buttoned-down to his belly. The attempted lighting of the place refracted off of his polished dome highlighting his beady eyes that were full of joy.
Eddie, the bartender.
He stuck out his hand and greeted me with a soft chuckle cadence.
“Greetings Sir Brady! What can I get for you good my friend?”
He always made it feel like it was my birthday.
Every damn time.
“A white-horse my good sir!” I replied.
Eddie nodded, and with a flick of his wrist, as if he was brushing away an imaginary but extremely lush wizard beard, he popped open the metallic fridge grabbing the nearest 16 ounce can of “Papa Bravo Rio.” In the layman that's Pabst Blue Ribbon. Cracking open the can he set it before me. Like normal I offered my card to start my tab for the evening but he refused it. He knew I was good for it, and even if I wasn't everyone there knew me. Everyone knew I couldn't t run fast either. But who couldn’t afford a PBR? It only costs you your dignity and about two-buck-fifty.
The alcohol felt cool and soothing as it trickled down my throat. I clenched the cold brew in one hand and lit up a smoke in the other. I felt like the loner at the school dance, standing awkwardly in the corner of the room. But I had hoped that I was the kind-of cool loner that eventually nailed the hot chick after she has a moment of clarity at the climax of my made up story. Then we'd drive away in the distance while Big Star blasts; roll credits, queue happy tears.
The bar counter was littered with ash trays, each of them ranged in size from 'petri-dish-small' to watermelon large. Old Christmas lights sloppily loomed around the bar like vines in a rain-forest; a rain-forest where the fire marshals should try checking on every once in a while but never do. This rain-forest had also the magical tunes of Black Sabbath instead of cawing tropical birds. Oh and don’t forger the chair that's bolted to the ceiling, such a small touch of class. A blind man could tell you exactly what JJ’s looked like, that’s the kind of place it is. The front mosaic-glass door, that had painted in pigs blood red “NO BEERS OUTSIDE”, begun to open and close about every 45 seconds. Each time someone new entered.
It’s getting closer to 8:30.
The door opened.
My mind began to race again.
There’s Bryant…
I can tell by the waddle.
I wonder if he’ll tell the beer cave joke again.
“The Natty Light Dragon!”, he'd shout “I shall slay you fowl beast!!!”
Oop, he just walked past those girls.
They're still here.
Yeah, they’re still hot.
One of them looked at me.
Do I look single?
A smile crept across my face as I saw each one of my new friends. They filed in, finding their seats or darting outside to the back porch. But each one was greeted warmly by Eddie. He was a generous courier of adult beverages, odd facts and bizarre homemade trinkets. If I can recall correctly, one night he tried to convince a patron that he could cure their hangover by electrocuting their nipples with a home made stun stick. Sadly, the crust punk kid was way to sober to even consider this venture.
I joined this troupe back in February after a girl broke my heart. I needed some solace, or at least a platform to exorcise my demons. Who knew making fun of yourself in front of complete strangers would be so therapeutic. Ever since my first night on the stage I’ve questioned my self as to why didn’t I do this before. As the smoke started to burn the insides of my fingers I stamped out the cigarette and signaled for another white-horse. It was time to head to the back yard area. As my feet touched the floor more thoughts filtered into my dome.
Riveting.
That’s what I need to be. Riveting.
People who tend to laugh and like those who fake spontaneity in their material, so maybe I won’t write down any of my jokes tonight.
Do it off the cuff.
As long as my sisters not there to scream, “Talk about your dick…” I think I'll be okay.
Oh, memories.
I need more courage.
Maybe some one has a little pot…
Oh, it’s nice out here.
Sitting on the back porch at JJ’s made me feel at home. The vibe here was a toss-up between a raw documentary of a teenage crisis or thirty-year-old's stuck in Neverland. I bet there are worried parents somewhere. As I exited through the back door, I first walked up a small set of stairs and found myself under the large awning. Under the awning, sitting at that large green metal table was Ryan Darling, Chris Hill and series of other comics that were due to go on for the night. Ryan sported a swim coach mustache and an outfit ready for either extreme urban biking or a Big D and the Kids Table concert. I don’t think he loved Ska that much, but he couldn't be that happy only listening to mewithoutYou and Titus Androicus. Chris on the other hand had a large brown mop on his head and always looked lost; squinting behind his large frame glasses as if to transverse the meaning of life itself. He talked in the driest time signature I’ve ever heard too. They were jabbering on over several PBRs about an old joke book Ryan bought from a second hand store as I sat down across from Ryan. He nodded in my direction.
“Um 90% of these jokes are racist…” said Ryan.
His voice was caulk, rusted and wet. “Or, just sad…” he said in exhausted breath.
“Tell another one,” Chris paused. I began to count in my head the seconds between his deep laborious breath, until his lips clambered to make another sound.
“Or, don’t. It’s just a funny book…”
8.5 seconds.
Ryan scrambled through the pages. His finger finally landed on one that lit up both his eyes and smile. Taking a deep drag of his cigarette, Ryan looked around the table and readied his posture as if he had just found a nudie picture. “Okay, this one’s bad”. Ryan propped the book up on the table, cleared his throat, “Okay, why is a an empty champagne bottle like an orphan?" His eyes were already memorizing our faces. I'm assumed for the same reason I do, I like to see the joy of laughter on someones face.
"Because it has lost its pop!”
I instantly choked on my drink, and every one at the table began to laugh. Chris and Ryan in unison shook their heads and said, "That’s just… just terrible.”
“I’m sure I could make a dick joke about that, you know… make it worse?” I retorted.
Ryan smiled and shook his head.“Oh I’m sure you could Brady. No one is worried about your ability to make a dick joke about anything.” Ryan took another drag of his cigarette, and his face twitched as if he either had an interesting thought or was about to sneeze. His eyes moved from the book in his hand to me.
“Mmmm Brady that reminds me, you wanna host tonight?”
My mind panicked in a manner of seconds.
Wait…
Did he just ask me if I wanted to host?
I never done this before.
I mean I did tell that if he ever needed me to host I would.
Oh my god.
YES!
I gulped, “Uh, sure dude.”
“Excellent, I’ll get you when we have a line up. Be sure to give them the light at four minutes to signal that they have a minute left. Oh… and when ‘Just Nick’ gets up on stage, I’ll light him at three minutes. You’ll understand why.” Ryan then stood up and patted me on the shoulder and waked into the building.
I need a cigarette.
It was the longest twenty minutes of my life. I went back inside to the den and watched the digital clock tick away on my phone. Every second was inching closer to 8:30p.m., the call time. My bladder was inflating. And those two hot girls were still in there, occasionally looking in my direction. I was transfixed on the front door. It would not stop swinging open and allowing in new bodies, bodies that I'd never seen before. My beer was shaking in my hand and I had least taken five bathroom breaks in the matter of ten minutes. No, I didn't have a urinary infection… it's just that I can’t contain my self when I’m, well, nervous. I started going over my set in my mind...
Okay, there’s at least… eight girls in here.
No, that’s part of my opener…
There are several girls in here.
Big dude.
Short dude.
Red neck dude.
Greaser.
Punk.
Crust punk.
Eh, he’s just dirty.
Should I write my jokes down on my hand.
Scratch that.
I don’t have enough leg space for them.
Oh, she’s cute.
Wait...
What was that sound?
Oh god, Ryan is getting on stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to Open-Mic Night! I am your bartender and father of these abandoned church mice you'll be hearing tonight” The mic was hot, and Ryan’s voice tore through what we now considerable silence. “We have a couple of rules, first, if you have to talk… Please go outside. I’m really terrible at ‘Shhhing’ people. Secondly, please don’t text the whole time you’re here. Disconnect.
Have some fun. Trust me, if that girl isn't here, are you really sure they want to have sex with you? And thirdly, please, please, please, give a warm welcome to your host for the evening Bradly Eeeeeflar!”
The crowd roared. Their applause was scratching the inside of my stomach. The lights dimmed. I took my steps towards the stage with drink in hand. Eddie was clapping. The hot girls were clapping. Bryant, Natasha, Jared and Chris, the other comics were clapping.
This is what ecstasy feels like. I adjusted my hat to the side, slid my phone in my pocket and stuck out my hand to shake Ryan’s. He shook mine sternly. After he got off stage I wrapped my clammy hand around the mic-stand, slowly feeling towards the blue tape wrapped around it, scratching my sweaty knuckles. As I was wearing my “Fuck Cancer” shirt, I thought it was only appropriate to light up a cigarette. Someone chuckled. I strained my vocals to make it sound like I’ve been living my parents basement, and had been playing World Of Warcraft for years.
I inhaled deeply.
Fuck it.
Sip your beer.
You’re a winner.
“Yess, yess, yess. That’s not my name Ryan...
you cock-koozie.
But YAAS.
There’s like eight girls in here.
YES, so statically one of you has to be a 'maybe'…”
Scully was there.
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