Greenery on the Scenery

Last week Friday, I joined some of my fellow ComedySportz brethren for an evening we had been talking about for months. The pups of our litter are finally all 21 - the licenses to drink and stare have been legally administered. It was, in the great words of Brian Rogers, "game on".

I arrived around 8:30 with the intention of watching some of the open mic and hanging out with some of the stragglers at the CSz bar. My plans were quickly derailed when I was asked if I wanted to go to Silk.

I have been to this type of place once or twice in my life. Once, during a magical evening in Windsor, Canada - purely for cultural purposes - my father and I attended a exhibition of gymnastics and dance while enjoying copious amounts of LaBatt. I have also spent one or two Saturday afternoons at the Encore (located at 101 S. Dana Ct., Milwaukee, WI) waxing philosophical with the professors at this fine school of higher education. Sometimes it is hard to turn down a cup of coffee and good conversation. Who can say no to a gal in hot-for-teacher glasses?

Friday night started with the obligatory pre-game. We then hopped into Honni's "2 Fast, 2 Furious" car and headed up to the north-side of metro-Milwaukee. The admission, much like our boyish fantasies and our spending habits that evening, was free (thanks to Ed).

There was a cast of characters that included large security guards, cocktail waitresses (who look like they could be on stage, but probably have the moral conflict not to), customers of all colors, sizes and genders (who don't even scoff at paying $5 for a bottle of Miller High Life). Shangri-La with glitter and a coconutty-peach scent!

My favorite of all is the DJ. Perched high above the action, he's the house ringmaster, barker, cop and comedian. They all sound the same - it's the 3-pack-a-day Marlboro Red smoker meets your 5 o'clock, wacky rock station announcer. The sayings, the meter, the music. It's all quite universal - or so I am told.

A few years ago, I knew a silent partner in a local gentlemen's establishment. As I talked to the owner, I expressed my interest in being the DJ for the night. I was certainly qualified, I told her: I have a vast knowledge of shitty rock songs and have a plethora of stingers ("put your cash on the gash", "throw your pesetas on the te-tas", " stick your euros on the hot hoes") and a college degree from a Big 10 university. She said I could! Albeit on a Monday or Tuesday night. Sadly, it never happened - did I miss my opportunity to fulfill my life's calling? Can you imagine Stefanie and Supreme tickling your fancy to Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good"? Ass with class!

We all walked out two-hours later poorer, older and not a bit wiser. We also smelled like an orchard shit on us.

We'll be back. So dumb, but so fun. It's what we do and it's what they count on. I blame my friends.