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  1. how the hell? how the fuck?

    Tuesday, April 14, 2015

    Two days after putting my darling Luigi to sleep (amongst other horrible happenings not for public blogging), I was to perform in the third Divorced Divas of Comedy show at the Clarion Theatre in our springtime show.  I advertised it saying if it didn’t feel like spring yet, we’d bring the spring.  I wondered how the hell I was going to do that now. 
    I am the producer as well.  I entertained the idea of replacing myself as a comic in the show.  But I had already advertised the show with me as one of the performers.  I just didn’t know how I would be funny.
    People paid for tickets, and I like to see them leaving very happy about their experience. 
    Not only had I not yet decided on my set, I couldn’t imagine doing it.  I have done well and not done well with the same material, so I know the delivery is the main thing.  And that is what is so difficult when one’s heart is broken and compounded by more shit beneath it and on top of it.  My best buddy in the world knew what I was enduring.  Life would be terribly lonely without such a precious friend. 
    “How the fuck am I supposed to be funny tomorrow?” I asked him.
    “Well, you can just say, ‘Look, I had to put my dog to sleep, and my son hates me. Other than that, I’m a barrel of laughs.’” 
    He, once again, made me laugh in spite of all I was going through.  He’s magic that way.  It helped knowing I could say that line if I needed to.
    One of the other comics invited Michele Balan, ( and she came!  She and her beautiful partner attended the show.  I told myself, Mindy, you must put aside all the stuff that is weighing you down.  Don’t fuck this up.  All the pain will be waiting for you.  You must put it temporarily aside.  You know you can be good up there, and you will be good, dammit!
    I introduced the show and the first comic.  I watched her set.  Then it was my turn.  I decided not to say the stuff about my dog and my son.  I felt it would only make me feel better and not the audience.  It did me well just thinking it.  I tried to just be the barrel of laughs.
    I forgot shit and my set was quite under the time I was supposed to do, but I am not going to blacklist myself.  I was proud that I pulled it off at all.  No one in the audience knew what I was going through except for a couple of friends.  I did well with what I did.
    After I introduced the next comic, I went back to sitting near Michele.  She took my hand and said, “You were very good.  You were original and smart.”
    That was the best I could ask for.  I got through it.  I did well.  There was laughter throughout.  I was grateful.  All of the comics -- Ellen Orchid, Taffy Jaffe, Leighann Lord -- did a wonderful job.
    After the show, which was a very, very good show, Michele Balan and her guest drank wine and talked with us in the dressing room.  Michele said that she didn’t remember the last time she went to a comedy show to watch.  And she enjoyed the show!  Yes, I’m proud.


  2. 6 comments:

    1. sending you hugs and kisses.

    2. Melinda said...

      ((((((((((((((((((((MINDY)))))))))))) SENDING LOVE YOUR WAY!

    3. RHC said...

      Yeah for you Mindy on doing your show! So sorry for your loss...

    4. Jack Cooper said...

      When still in college and just starting out in what would turn out to be a long -- what the hell! possibly infinitely long -- and sophomor(on)ic course as an adult manque, I woke to the plaintive appeal of my dog, Deegan, the love child of a notorious Irish Lothario whose name I cannot remember but whose red bandanna (in the style of the day) around his bold Setterish feathers kept the hope and the hump of Woodstock alive on campus. Unfortunately, the gift of distemper (in this case, a canine STD) came with the father and was visited on the son. At the point those four feet could neither stir nor circle any further, I was all that Deegan had left, all that mattered and as much dumb explanation as he was going to get (which was absolutely none). He was but a little over a year old. Later that day, I sat for an examination in Religious Thought (originally scheduled as multiple-choice on who you wished to fuck, who you couldn't, you wouldn't, all or none of the above, but redesigned and formulated especially just to fuck me). I failed it. The professor, in learning what had happened earlier that day, said I should have let him know, and he would willingly (even gladly, this being Religious Thought -- however impure) have let me postpone sitting for the test. Too late, of course. It's always too late, then never. The show must go on. Life and death -- as someone must already have pointed out -- eh! just a string of inconveniences ...

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