A confession today.
I used my apparent ethnicity last night to my favor with a non Oreo. For so many reasons, I could tell just by looking at him that all I had to do was bat my baby browns at him and I could get away with murder.
He was the bouncer at a local performance establishment I decided to visit yesterevening. When he came to me in line, checking for wristbands, he asked me what I did on Monday nights. I said it depended on the Monday night.
He invited me to a night of comedy featuring nothing but “our” comics. All black comedians. All night. He was, as he put it, “all about it.”
Poor boy. Let him take a look at my iTunes, see videos of Maria Bamford and then maybe he would re-evaluate who exactly “our” comics were.
He gave me his card, showed me where to find his personal cell number among the other promoters’ numbers and moved down the line.
A few minutes later, the line was being let in and the rope was pulled just three people before me. Fear set in like fog in London.
The bouncer walked by, “Looking forward to Monday,” I said, smiling. “I mean, are we really the only two of us here tonight?”
“Come on in,” he said.
It’s true. I frown upon flirting with members of my assumed race. Makes it harder to convince the powers that be of who I really am and that I deserve the privileges inherent in my membership to their club.
But lines are long, it was chilly and A Prairie Home Companion is wonderful live. I didn’t want to miss a minute.
Preach on Garrison Keillor. Preach on.