"I'm a guest of Charna's," I tell the Laugh Factory doorman.
"Right this way, sir," he says, ushering me up the stairs at what used to be a porn palace and what has now been turned into something far, far scummier: an "upscale" comedy club. Red velvet curtains. Lots of mirrored surfaces. Wall photos of the greats: Dangerfield, Rickles, Saget.
The details of this opening night party, which I had been hearing about for the last week or so indirectly - "Yeah so I got an email from this guy, who heard from Matt Pack, that Christina Gausas had whispered it at The Mosaic…" - were a living example of a game of Telephone, going from "Damon Wayans will be there, Baby Wants Candy is performing, and Charna says it's an open bar" to "Damon Wayans is performing WITH Baby Wants Candy and Charna is tending bar!"
Turns out: no Baby Wants Candy, no Charna, and no Damon - or any other - Wayans. Instead it was a roomful of (emphasis-on-the-)old school showbiz-y types with shiny suits and shinier jewelry - people who probably normally spend their evenings kibitzing over coffee and Linzer tarts at Sardi's with Joe Franklin (who himself was very much in attendance, so you KNOW it was a party).
Walking into the initial cocktail anteroom, I feel exceptionally out of place, underdressed, and undertanned, but I see Tanouye, Millie Cho, the Package, Birch, Matt Moses and others mingling to themselves in the middle of this swarthy soiree. They explain that it's free food and drinks, but the finger fare has been well picked over by the time I get there, and to get a free drink, you have to flag down a waitress first, a task easier written about the next day than done. I walk through a couple rooms to in an attempt to order from the bar, but right when I sidle up to it, a large authoritative black man tells me that it's waitress service only, and that since the show is about to begin, wouldn't I be so kind as to find my way to the showroom and have a seat?
Yes, large authoritative black man - yes I would be so kind. Thank you.
Brister actually makes the same mistake of entering the bar right behind me, and she ends up getting corralled into the main room along with me. Our eyes wide and free of resistance like a sheep's, we survey the room and see that all the shiny happy Broadway types are seated up in front - "Best seats in the house, baby," they're surely telling their bubbly mistresses. We, on the other hand, go right to very back row of seats where Susannah's already staked out the best position for making early exits.
This opening night "gala" has absolutely the strangest vibe for a comedy show. First they bring up the club owner, Jamie Masada, he of the indistinguishable accent (pronounces Guiliani as "Goo-lee-ahna"), and also worthy of note as the person who, through his Comedy Camp program for inner city kids in LA, introduced Michael Jackson to the boy he most recently molested. So right there, we're off to a hot start.
He gives a polite little speech and then turns the floor over to an older, very "Bowery" gentleman who's apparently another financial backer in the club. He prefaces his speech by stating that he is "not a standup comic, or a sitdown comic, or a comic at all," but a lawyer, an investment banker, and a consultant. He then proceeds to do 15 minutes of painfully awkward standup comedy about the professions of law, investment banking, consulting. Each bit would get to a point where he'd say "Which reminds me of the story of (insert joke title here - my favorite was "The Story of the Chinese Waiter and Yiddish Restaurant").
He wraps up his set and introduces the first comic on the bill, a guy who's "appeared on the Tonight Show 61 times, has subbed for David Letterman, and for many years was the opening act for Ol' Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Tom Driesen!!!!"
Scattered applause.
Tom Driesen, resplendent in the same glossy suit and coconut tan favored by Scorsese extras everywhere, comes up and performs a set that must have KILLED in 1975, if not even a decade earlier. Brister points out that when they say he "subbed" for Letterman, they're not talking The Late Show or even Late Night but the morning show he hosted, oh, 25 years ago. Instant indicator of where this guy's coming from: he refers to his home not as "LA" or "Los Angeles" but "Hollywood." He proceeds to take down such hot-button targets as William F. Buckley, Qaddaffi and the difference between black and white audiences in segregated comedy clubs.
Later he moves on to some pretty biting stuff on the President. Clinton that is.
"They would say that if you sat alone with him for five minutes, President Clinton could charm the pants off you. That's why he'd hold only four-minute meetings with Janet Reno."
At one point during his set, someone's cellphone goes off. Driesen handles it like a pro:
"Will the drug dealer in the audience please turn off their phone? Or if you're gonna take the call, why don't you order enough blow for all of us?"
(some laughter, the majority of it nervous) Driesen, sensing a new rapport with the audience, decides to "work the crowd" a bit.
"God, don't you just HATE these people who leave their cellphones on during shows? I just wanna beat the shit out of them! Anyway, I recently had my prostate checked..."
And then he just continues on with his set. Yes, that was the full extent of his "riffing" on the cellphone user: "I just wanna beat the shit out of them."
I laughed so hard and so long I was afraid he'd beat the shit out of me.
"Right this way, sir," he says, ushering me up the stairs at what used to be a porn palace and what has now been turned into something far, far scummier: an "upscale" comedy club. Red velvet curtains. Lots of mirrored surfaces. Wall photos of the greats: Dangerfield, Rickles, Saget.
The details of this opening night party, which I had been hearing about for the last week or so indirectly - "Yeah so I got an email from this guy, who heard from Matt Pack, that Christina Gausas had whispered it at The Mosaic…" - were a living example of a game of Telephone, going from "Damon Wayans will be there, Baby Wants Candy is performing, and Charna says it's an open bar" to "Damon Wayans is performing WITH Baby Wants Candy and Charna is tending bar!"
Turns out: no Baby Wants Candy, no Charna, and no Damon - or any other - Wayans. Instead it was a roomful of (emphasis-on-the-)old school showbiz-y types with shiny suits and shinier jewelry - people who probably normally spend their evenings kibitzing over coffee and Linzer tarts at Sardi's with Joe Franklin (who himself was very much in attendance, so you KNOW it was a party).
Walking into the initial cocktail anteroom, I feel exceptionally out of place, underdressed, and undertanned, but I see Tanouye, Millie Cho, the Package, Birch, Matt Moses and others mingling to themselves in the middle of this swarthy soiree. They explain that it's free food and drinks, but the finger fare has been well picked over by the time I get there, and to get a free drink, you have to flag down a waitress first, a task easier written about the next day than done. I walk through a couple rooms to in an attempt to order from the bar, but right when I sidle up to it, a large authoritative black man tells me that it's waitress service only, and that since the show is about to begin, wouldn't I be so kind as to find my way to the showroom and have a seat?
Yes, large authoritative black man - yes I would be so kind. Thank you.
Brister actually makes the same mistake of entering the bar right behind me, and she ends up getting corralled into the main room along with me. Our eyes wide and free of resistance like a sheep's, we survey the room and see that all the shiny happy Broadway types are seated up in front - "Best seats in the house, baby," they're surely telling their bubbly mistresses. We, on the other hand, go right to very back row of seats where Susannah's already staked out the best position for making early exits.
This opening night "gala" has absolutely the strangest vibe for a comedy show. First they bring up the club owner, Jamie Masada, he of the indistinguishable accent (pronounces Guiliani as "Goo-lee-ahna"), and also worthy of note as the person who, through his Comedy Camp program for inner city kids in LA, introduced Michael Jackson to the boy he most recently molested. So right there, we're off to a hot start.
He gives a polite little speech and then turns the floor over to an older, very "Bowery" gentleman who's apparently another financial backer in the club. He prefaces his speech by stating that he is "not a standup comic, or a sitdown comic, or a comic at all," but a lawyer, an investment banker, and a consultant. He then proceeds to do 15 minutes of painfully awkward standup comedy about the professions of law, investment banking, consulting. Each bit would get to a point where he'd say "Which reminds me of the story of (insert joke title here - my favorite was "The Story of the Chinese Waiter and Yiddish Restaurant").
He wraps up his set and introduces the first comic on the bill, a guy who's "appeared on the Tonight Show 61 times, has subbed for David Letterman, and for many years was the opening act for Ol' Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Tom Driesen!!!!"
Scattered applause.
Tom Driesen, resplendent in the same glossy suit and coconut tan favored by Scorsese extras everywhere, comes up and performs a set that must have KILLED in 1975, if not even a decade earlier. Brister points out that when they say he "subbed" for Letterman, they're not talking The Late Show or even Late Night but the morning show he hosted, oh, 25 years ago. Instant indicator of where this guy's coming from: he refers to his home not as "LA" or "Los Angeles" but "Hollywood." He proceeds to take down such hot-button targets as William F. Buckley, Qaddaffi and the difference between black and white audiences in segregated comedy clubs.
Later he moves on to some pretty biting stuff on the President. Clinton that is.
"They would say that if you sat alone with him for five minutes, President Clinton could charm the pants off you. That's why he'd hold only four-minute meetings with Janet Reno."
At one point during his set, someone's cellphone goes off. Driesen handles it like a pro:
"Will the drug dealer in the audience please turn off their phone? Or if you're gonna take the call, why don't you order enough blow for all of us?"
(some laughter, the majority of it nervous) Driesen, sensing a new rapport with the audience, decides to "work the crowd" a bit.
"God, don't you just HATE these people who leave their cellphones on during shows? I just wanna beat the shit out of them! Anyway, I recently had my prostate checked..."
And then he just continues on with his set. Yes, that was the full extent of his "riffing" on the cellphone user: "I just wanna beat the shit out of them."
I laughed so hard and so long I was afraid he'd beat the shit out of me.
