it’s three in the morning and i’m still trying to process what happened. last night, i opened for reggie watts. it went well. it went very well. at roughly 350 people, it was BY FAR the largest audience i’ve ever performed for. and they laughed. they laughed at goofy premises and punchlines and tags that i’ve thought up in the shower or while walking my dog or while on stage at that minute; their upturned smiling faces illuminated by dimmed lights.

god. the feeling. it’s so hard to explain. i can only hope that you will find a thing that fills you with as much joy and love and confusion and acceptance as comedy does for me.

a large part of doing comedy is the hang. you’ve got to hang out at bars/clubs as you wait for your turn at open mics, but perhaps more importantly you have to hang out at bars/clubs on nights that you’re NOT doing comedy. you need to be seen as somebody who’s serious about it, willing to support those sparsely attended shows, eager to demonstrate that you’re down for the cause. after a point, you make friends - an odd assortment of people who you’d never know in your “real” life. the only thing you have in common is comedy. but whatever - friends!

now you get to hang with friends and that’s great! except…

look, i get it. i’m no L7 square, okay? everybody loves the pot. everybody but me. i don’t smoke it. sometimes i feel bad about that (the bulk of my work history has included places where smoking out wasn’t a deal-breaker; one place in particular, they used to roll joints on the OSHA poster about reporting workplace drug use. i’ve been squandering this good luck for years) but for the most part, i’m perfectly happy being drug free.

my comedy friends, however, can’t seem to function without it. the marijuana is very important. it’s a big part of being social. things are scheduled around the availability of the reefer.

tomorrow, one of my closest comedy friends is moving to new york. tonight he’s doing a set at 8pm and a set at 1am. in between those sets, his comedy friends are having a going away hang at one comic’s house. and all they’re going to do at the house is smoke out until the 1am show. then they’re going to walk to the show & sit in the back of the room, borderline comatose & breathing out of their mouths. i want to say goodbye to my boy, but not like that.

it’s bad enough that i’m five to fifteen years older than a lot of the comics i know. it’s bad enough that i’m one of the few girls who has shown that i’m in it to win it. it’s bad enough that i’m one of the even fewer black people in the scene. i can’t be the 39 year old black woman in the room trying pot for the third time to impress people like my life is a goddamn after school special.

that is too close to being the old man at the club for my liking.

and yet, i feel like if i don’t hang out, i will miss opportunities. lots of gigs are booked by being in the right place at the right time. but i don’t really get anything out of being the only sober one in a room full of smokers. plus, i don’t want to make them feel uncomfortable. now, drinkers - as long as you can tolerate their drunken ramblings and/or you have a cup in your hand, drinkers don’t really notice if you’re imbibing. (and i’ve been known to enjoy a cocktail from time to time.) but smokers tend to get weirded out if you’re not smoking.

this isn’t just a comedy thing, by the way. i’ve joined my friends outside as they smoked cigarettes normal & wacky. i’ve sat soberly at a bar with a friend who was getting girl-drink-drunk. i’m sorry, world - i’m a big ol’ non-smoking, non-drugging, barely-drinking stick in the mud. i don’t know why i feel like i should apologize, but i do.

i’m not going to the mary jane hang. i’m going to chill with my dog and the internet until it’s time for the 1am show. then i’m going to go to that show, give my departing buddy a big hug, and talk to my comedy friends, bottle of soda in my hand.

(…..Oh, just chill out and smoke a doobie already. - Ganja Ed.)

i just finished watching shut up, little man, a documentary about two drunk men who argued loudly and the two young men who secretly recorded them & circulated the tapes. i have a few thoughts:

1) the movie is 89 minutes long. that might have been overly ambitious. at 45 minutes, i was saying, “i think we’re good, right?”

2) i will admit to a touch of voyeurism, but the idea of recording someone’s private conversations - and LAUGHING at them - upsets me on a deep level. when i was 19, i dated a young man who shared a house with two other guys. one night the boyfriend played me a tape (this was ‘91-‘92 - around the same time as the “shut up” phenomenon) of one of his roommate’s post-coital conversations with a one night stand, recorded from outside his closed bedroom door. as boyfriend cracked up, my blood ran cold; it was disturbing and unsettling. i’ve never forgotten that feeling. so i’m sorry if i don’t get the joke.

3) back in 1995, two different guys (not even the OG dudes) tracked down peter, the originator of the “shut up, little man!” line. they were both trying to get his story, either for a movie or for a written piece. the meeting was videotaped. when that videotaped clip was shown to the various talking heads/super fans, the fans didn’t seem to like it. it wasn’t the same, they said. it was too real. only then did they seem to realize that they had been fetishizing a couple of PEOPLE, people with actual problems, problems that possibly led to their weird existence of living together in a seedy apartment, drinking and fighting.

4) also, quit twisting yourselves into knots trying to justify your “art,” fellas.

5) after seeing so many other attempts at capitalizing on these recordings flounder & fail, this documentary feels like a last-ditch effort to lock in a legacy.

6) wow, that last thought was extremely cynical, even for me. i’m going to bed.

oh, this might be a big one.

i recently finished reading bossypants by tina fey. well, i didn’t actually finish it; i think there’s one more chapter about babies or something, but i got the gist of it. it’s funny. it’s very funny. i laughed out loud at times. so there’s that.

i like 30 rock, but i haven’t kept up with it over the last 2-3 seasons. i’d like to say it fell victim to stand up comedy, like so many other shows, but if i’m being honest it started to both bore and bug me. the show was getting to this cartoonish place that i didn’t enjoy. the same thing happened to seinfeld in those last few seasons; the episodes started to feel less smartly madcap and more throw-shit-to-the-wall wAcKy.

(this is also a problem i have with live improv comedy [fey’s background]. i understand that i should go with the flow but i’m not sure why i’m supposed to find a random collection of nonsensical things funny all because it’s happening in a make-believe car.)

basically, i kinda stopped caring what happened to liz lemon and her merry band of kwazy chawackters. once that occurs, it’s going to take illness & a comedy central marathon for me to give a damn again. but i’ve been trying. i’ve started to watch this season’s episodes on hulu. i haven’t laughed out loud much, but i haven’t been disappointed either.

here is where i mention that apparently some critics are also having a problem with 30 rock. (haters gonna hate.) i read this piece on the NPR website a week or so ago. if you don’t feel like clicking, the author says that the relationship between liz & jack has changed dramatically - liz has gone from a strong-willed, occasionally frazzled professional woman to a goofball lady who flails about & constantly seeks the approval of daddy donaghy. (i’m paraphrasing, but just a touch.) i also read this piece on slate that’s titled has liz lemon become “dumbass homer”? OUCH.

today i watched an episode where liz is renegotiating her contract with jack donaghy. she uses a how-to-negotiate guide that was written by jack a decade ago, giving jack a chance to battle himself. as they say, hilarity ensues. here is how the show ends, and pay special attention around the 20:18 mark. (don’t worry, i’ve set the video below to start at 18:48. i think.)

did you see that? did you see how she directly addressed her haters?

that bothers me.

i remember when tina fey won an award, possibly an emmy. in her acceptance speech she responded to internet commenters, using their screen names. it was a smart, biting, funny bit. she had an entire chapter in her book that did the same thing. funny, okay, but by now isn’t she ignoring that kind of thing? i’m sure it feels good to say to critics, “oh yeah? well, in your face! now what?” but does she have to be so…

…SMUG. that’s it, that’s what sometimes bugs me about tina fey and 30 rock. there’s an element of smugness - it’s not there all of the time, but i remember sensing it in the very first episode. that whole “bitch is the new black” thing from SNL’s weekend update back in the days of hillary v. barack was smug as hell. even her response to the recent “tiff” with questo from the roots (where he said on tv that tina fey was “never nice to the roots”) was some smug bullshit. she never actually apologized for what i’m willing to bet was repeat behavior; she just rushed ahead with the hoagie-of-forgiveness bit.

y’know, she’ll cop to it. she’s aware that her confidence level is ridiculously high, sometimes leading her to say stupid stuff, then cutting herself down with that rapier wit of hers. but that ain’t stopping her from appearing snotty at times.

look, i’m a pro-am hater. i’ve got grape haterade racing through my veins (sour grape! whaaaat??) and i don’t HATE tina fey. she’s ridiculously talented and i am learning many things from her, even from afar. things like be good at what you do, then be better. don’t fight against women in your field. believe in your voice. wear sunscreen. whatever. this could be me being envious of how when tina fey strikes back, she’s making a statement for feminism but if it were me, i’d be just another angry black woman. (i hate to go to race, but i wouldn’t be honest if i denied that it plays a small part in my discomfort.) maybe i just wish i had the kind of confidence in myself that she has in herself. i don’t know, man. i’d work with her in a heartbeat, but that smugness keeps me from putting all of my eggs into her basket. clearly i need to keep a few eggs for my own.

in closing, tl;dr.

first thoughts after listening to the new sleigh bells, reign of terror, multiple times today:

okay, for everyone out there who will immediately say that it doesn’t have the same bite at the first record - how could it? a big part of treats’s appeal was its huge serving of “WTF?” there’s no way to duplicate that. but you also can’t drastically switch it up; that sound is crazy original (even while sounding like my bloody valentine played over j-kwon’s “tipsy”). so it sounds like the duo is sticking with the basic formula while implementing some tweaks. first, alexis’ vocals are louder and there seems to be an emphasis on harmonies. derek’s guitar work is downright baroque at times; he has also written really beautiful passages. (it helps to be a fan of repetition, though.)

in closing, whereas the first record sounded like hearing kids running through the streets as you drove around sweating in the summer sun, your shitty car speakers making everything seem distorted, this record sounds like….well, like that same summer mostly, but also the days that you stay in during a sudden rainstorm, hoping that it stops in time for you to catch that guy you like at the pool.

also, i like sleigh bells. if you got a problem with that, keep it to yourself. i don’t talk shit about whatever boring ass crap you keep reppin’….oh! that must be the wine talking.

i just finished reading the book of drugs by mike doughty and i probably should take a minute to let it soak in, but i feel so…conflicted.

let me start by saying that i’m a huge mike doughty fan. not just soul coughing (but DEFINITELY SOUL COUGHING; that’s one of my all time favorite bands) - i’m a fan of mike doughty himself, his writing, his music, his glasses, his constant internet presence, his voice, his round head. i like him a lot, so i was kind of excited about this book.

many months ago, on the twitter, doughty expressed his annoyance with people asking him about soul coughing. he kept saying how that band is dead to him. when pressed, because twitter will always press you, he said the book will explain everything.

and it does..? in it we read about one michael doughty, the son of an uptight drunk military man and a stressed out, constantly venting woman. he spent some years in an unorthodox college, worked the door of a world renowned music dive, and stumbled upon three musicians who were able to release the sounds from inside his head. sadly, these three musicians also did a number on our young doughty, making him feel as if his talents were negligible. after years of the emotional abuse, doughty snapped and ended the band.

he did all of this while being fucked up. SEVERELY fucked up. he was a junkie. a big ol’ drug-using junkie.

it wasn’t a surprise to me; i had heard the rumors, but i didn’t realize the extent of his drug use. and it makes it harder for me to…well, to feel for him, to be honest. i’m usually very empathetic; i was prepared to read his story and cheer him on. however, the voice inside my head kept yelling, “you are a fucking junkie.”

and to my eye, a junkie for no good reason. i’m not dismissing the family dynamics or the possible mental health issues. i’m just saying that people make it through every day with the same basic background and they manage to do it without sniffing black tar heroin. having a band who doesn’t like you doesn’t make you some sort of delicate flower who needs weed & coke & full bottles of jack daniels to survive.

doughty has cleaned up now, something else he discusses in the book. he also takes a moment to tell all of the former soul coughing fans that every time they (we?) ask him about SC, they (we?) are essentially saying “fuck you” to him. oh, word? well, let me take a moment to say it directly:

fuck you, m. doughty. fuck you for trying to make me feel like shit for enjoying your music. and again, i’m not just a SC fan - i saw you on your post-SC, sweaty skittish tour (atlanta and athens), bought the cd directly from you. i have your solo records, even the ones that sound a bit too adult contemporary for my tastes. i’ve allowed your voice to be hard-wired into the happy section of my brain. i will probably continue to be a fan; i still follow you on twitter & tumblr and i’ll look you up on whatever the next revolutionary internet thingamajig will be. i hope that you continue with the recovery & healing process and that you get to the point that you no longer hear “fuck you” when you encounter a SC fan, but that you recognize that your work and your talent - something YOU MADE - has touched another person’s soul in a way that they felt compelled to share with you.

(is this me dealing with doughty falling from grace in my eyes? perhaps. i’m not in the habit of putting people on pedestals; i rarely talk to musicians after a show because i figure they just got off work. but the feelings that this book stirred up made me realize that i held him in high regard.)

at any rate, doughty’s writing is wry, clean & concise. his flow is engaging enough that you don’t even miss the chapter designation. and if you like tales of rock star debauchery, then this should do the trick. i hope you’re able to enjoy it without all of the weird soul searching & changes in perspective that i’m going through.

it’s 5:30am and i am fired up. hoo boy, am i fired up. i just read this article in the ny times and it’s one of the dumbest things i’ve ever read in my life. IN MY LIFE.

it’s about trying to come up with an original name for your child in this internet age. parents are coming up with possibilities and immediately googling them to check for negative connotations. okay, that in itself is not a bad idea. if you want to give your child a name that’s off the beaten path (like, say, shalewa niambi) then you should do the research. you may think carrion is an interesting variation of the name carrie, but you’re basically calling your daughter a dead animal carcass. so please, google that shit.

but here is where the article takes a ny times-like turn, i.e. the first-est of first world problems. and i quote:

But too little research can backfire, too. Deborah Goldstein, 43, and her partner, Gabriella Di Maggio, thought they had chosen unique names for their boys: Levi and Asher. To be sure, they checked the Social Security Administration’s list of most popular baby names. Neither was in the top 100…

But shortly after the couple moved to South Orange, N.J., in 2006, they had a rude awakening. While waiting at an ice cream parlor, they heard a woman shout “Asher!” at a different boy.

“It was two other Jewish lesbian moms with a child of the same name,” Ms. Goldstein said. Google had let her down. “It didn’t tell us it’s a unique name unless you move to a neighborhood outside New York City where other trendy Jews are moving, too.”

really? so did they just leave the kid at the ice cream parlor rather than deal with the shame of being yet another trendy jewish lesbian couple with kids and an internet connection?

speaking of kids and the internet:

The next thing Ms. Pollak did, of course, was to Google it. “One of the Web sites said Chloe means little green shoots, and we liked that,” Ms. Pollak said. Chloe it was. They even registered their unborn child’s first and last name as a domain name and signed her up on Tumblr, Twitter and G-mail.

The Kaslofskys wish they had had that foresight. When they Googled Kaleya in 2009, there were only a few relevant results. But since then, the parents of another child named Kaleya have started posting videos of that little girl’s adventures on YouTube, with titles like “Kaleya Makes a Snow Angel” and “Kaleya Runs From a Wave.”

Ms. Kaslofsky is miffed. “Things have changed in the last three years,” she said.

you are all officially the worst people ever.

out of curiosity, i just googled my first name. i’m aware that it’s a fairly popular nigerian name. the first two results are my rooftop comedy profile and this tumblr. [sorry about that, other shalewas.] third is a song by danny young, a nigerian pop singer. but get this - the sixth result is this: a webpage for a woman who has my first & middle names, only switched. and instead of being “miffed,” i’m fascinated. the world is bigger than your fucking mommy & me play group, you idiots.