She So Funny

I auditioned and worked my way into “regular spots” at THE historic New York comedy incubators:  Catch A Rising Star and The Improv.  Now long gone, those “original” rooms were where I honed my humor following Bill Maher, David Brenner, Robin Williams, Sandra Bernhard, Dice Clay, Sam Kinison, Rita Rudner and Jerry Seinfeld.  I had done my obligatory 1:00AM club sets, MC’d for (pre-pole) stripper shows, bachelorette parties and the ubiquitous “Comedy Night” at every bar, restaurant and lean-to shack in the tri-state area cashing in on the comedy boom.  I was a working comedian in a flourishing industry that had begun to pluck journeyman joke meisters from smoky little comedy clubs and catapult those chosen into TV super stardom. 

It was a magical time 1990. I had a Hollywood agent shepherd me into my first speaking role, Bermuda in Pretty Woman.  The girl in the makeup chair beside me was an unknown named Julia Roberts.  Board member of the show business fortress, Friars Club was my New York manager.  His client list included a major young star who at the pinnacle of his sitcom career, put a bullet in his head.  THAT was the self-annihilating comedy success I craved. 

 I became a Catskills favorite.  Vegas and Tahoe showrooms were my pleasure to play when I wasn’t working with Atlantic City headliners.  While waiting for my propulsion into the white-heat of comedy celebrity, fortune and excessive substance abuse; I landed the plum job of opening act for Empress Songbird, Anita Baker.  To say it was a dream come true is a cliché that shames the reality.  I was on cross-country tour with a top diva in venues from NY’s Radio City Music Hall to LA’s Coliseum.  Three or more nights a week I was awash in waves of laughter from thousands and getting paid $$$!

Roadies, back-up singers, techies, musicians and me.  We ate, shopped, drank and swapped lies every chance we got, but we all moved as one when it was show time on the Anita Baker Tour.  This particular hot summer evening we boarded our van and settled in for the drive to Greenville, North Carolina.  Our boss, Anita was to follow in her in her private limo.

That our Greenville venue was sold out to several thousand adoring Anita Baker fans was not unusual, but the night’s cornucopia of evolving circumstances offered me the most exceptional experience of the tour.  After the band’s instruments were placed, microphones and monitors set and the curtain released, I walked into the house to view my performance area.  Much to my surprise it was a foot wide space of the stage spanning the gymnasium.  That’s right, GYMNASIUM!!!  Our tour was known for rocking the best and most beautiful houses in American entertainment:  the palatial rococo of Detroit’s Fox Theater, the art deco luxury of Radio City Music Hall, the modern expanse of DC’s Constitution Hall and the magnificent embrace of the historic Grand Old Opry.  The overbearing sent of sweat and chlorine was pungent confirmation - yes we’re playing a GYMNASIUM!   A gymnasium with no seats, no air conditioning and wait for it…no Anita Baker!

Our world weary tour manager informed us the show would be held until we knew our diva was well on her way to joining us.  Her private limousine driver had taken Anita to Greenville, SOUTH Carolina; nowhere near our airless, chair-less, stage scarce gym in Greenville, NORTH Carolina.

One –half hour after our scheduled show time, I clambered to the precipice four feet above the sweating throng standing in rabid anticipation. I planted myself above the teeming song starved and started my schtick.  The three people in the room retaining of a sense of humor chuckled at my opening line as disappointment rippled through thousands of Anita Baker enthusiasts like lightning.  I spoke, gestured and remained upright as their mantra shook the gym.  “You’re not Anita! You’re not Anita! You’re not Anita!”  Three thousand voices in unison.  This was more hecklers than any one comic should experience in a lifetime!  I threw words into the rhythmic thundering chant until my peripheral vision revealed a stage hand ready to assist me off stage.  My tottering exit set off a roaring wave of applause which I, delusional from vertigo, assessed a standing ovation. 

Thank goodness for the three back-up singers.  The Perri Sisters’ not too secret cache of Chivas Regal, and a glass was set at my mirror in our communal dressing area.  I lifted the glass to my lips as our newly arrived boss took to the stage.  She sang and I sipped Chivas through the entire concert.  I’m told that as I was dragged glass in hand to our van, my last words were “I’m not Anita Baker!”

by Helen Greaser

I'm lucky I've not really had an issue with heckling. Mainly that is because I am so incredibly awesome that hecklers are loathe to cross me. (Pause for laugh.) Anyways, I am sure that if I were to encounter a mass of drunken heckle-dicks I would slay them with my rapier tongue, sharpened by years of being a) the lone sister of three brothers, b) a bartender in NYC, and, most importantly, c) completely unafraid of anything when I have a microphone in my hand and a light on my face. This last part is key. The heckler does not have amplification, so his/her shouts are heard clearly by few, while my comebacks are on loudspeakers. And I have a damn light or five shining on me. The audience WANTS me to win. The heckler can only win if  a comic gives up, gets really pissed off and starts losing it, and/or turns the audience against him/her by being too cruel.

I have had talkers through my sets --- many times, the talkers are people I BROUGHT TO SEE THE SHOW. One talker was a guy I just started to "date" (the quotes denote my euphemism for "a few beers, a kiss, and a quickie"), and I had to shut him up by saying:  "SHUT UP guy who I just started to date, and by 'DATE' I mean a few beers, a kiss, and a quickie!!!" That shut him up but good. Also: he never watched me do comedy again. Or called me.  Strange.

I've had shitty hosts who yelled at the audience for not laughing enough, on a Tuesday night, at 6 pm --- that is worse than any heckler. Try doing a set after THAT. The audience is angry and embarrassed and dares you to be funny. And usually foreign. Also, I was introduced as "HELEN GREASER" and GOD I hate that. Helen Greaser. Helen Greaser sounds like a trashy neighbor with cars piled up in the front yard like kindling. Maybe I should work on that character. Hell, Larry the Cable Guy made it work, and now he's a gajillionaire. Sheeeeeit. (Pause again for laugh.)

I'll tell you what: BRING IT ON. I will take your damn heckle and turn it into comedy gold. (see above.) I will relish the opportunity to stop my set (if that is what it can be called) and deal with your talking gob and I will emerge VICTORIOUS. I will BRANG it. Just try me. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. I'll do it Clinton style:



Or perhaps British style:




Wait, this is really my fave Brit-style:






Brang it!

Dyke. Or maybe lesbian. That’s what he said. Or at least I think that’s what he said. Personally, I never heard him. I found out later from some of my friends who were in the audience. My friend John (see “my little hint of girlyness” in a previous blog) defended me somehow and called him out on it. Lesbian. Really? To call me a lesbian onstage is like waiting for Carrot Top to get up there and then yell, “redhead”. Dyke? That’s different. It’s definitely more aggressive. But like I said, I never even heard it. And at this point, I barely remember it. That’s probably been my only real heckling, because for this blog I’m not going to count drunken fools that randomly yell out things, not just to me, but to every comic in the lineup. I do consider that heckling, but I don’t take it as personally as I did this. Or as I would have taken this, had I heard it. But since I didn’t hear it, it makes me consider the age-old question, “If a heckler heckles in a club and there’s no comic to hear it, does it still make a heckle?”

I’ve seen people get heckled. I’ve seen it handled well; I’ve seen it handled not so well. I’ve seen a comic “induce” heckling and then in not being able to handle it, freeze up an entire room to the point where anyone following him could say whatever they wanted and get roars of laughter, basically by releasing the staggering amount of tension. Then I’ve never seen that comic again.

So back to my heckler. Although it was a long time ago, I sometimes think back on it and wonder if I had heard it, how would I have responded? Of course I always go with the harsher word in my mind:

- “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

- “If you’re in the market for lumber, you’ve come to the wrong place. Although if you’re a gentleman looking for lumber, maybe the West Village is the right place for you after all.” ( a somewhat local reference, as well as informative for tourists)

- "Ooh, are we playing homophobic mad libs, now? Man, I can’t wait to hear an adverb!"

I’ll admit it feels nice to close someone down, especially if you know they’re ruining the evening for everyone in the audience. Even if they aren’t directly heckling me, it’s nice to shut someone up in a way that’s better than just saying “shut up”. I’m talking about in a way that says “I’m smarter than you and everyone here knows it. And now you do too. So there. Take that back to your office water cooler on Monday morning and whine about it. At least it’ll stop you from rambling on about Dance Moms for one day.


Of course having written this, I realize the next time I step foot on stage, I’m going to get heckled. And I’m sure I’ll think back on this blog in the process and wonder if I’ve spent enough time working on it. It’s not something I would ever look forward to or wish on anyone else. Unfortunately, it seems to come with the business and you just have to be prepared for it, as much as you can prepare for something that tends to happen spontaneously. I’m sure I’ll deal with it somehow. But on the bright side, I hope to hell they call me dyke.