I bounded the stage at the San Francisco Punch Line for the first time last night. A very enthralling moment. I was giddy when I was told I might go up, ecstatic when I was told I would go up, and brimming over when I was waiting in the wings. Coree Spencer (who performed previously) started tapping my stomach with soft punches like a furious chibi pixie. I accidently touched one of her boobs in self-defense [total accident].
Coree: Was that for good luck?
OJ: [Relenting] Yeah. [Later] Maybe [your boobs] like the stump at the Apollo.
The wonderful Lynn Ruth Miller [host] asked me my last name. She was afraid she was going to mess my introduction up. She affirmed that I would do well “…because blacks [me] and Jews [herself] always do well [in comedy, historically].”
OJ: Oh I know, look at “Blazing Saddles”.
My brain was vibrating. The closest approximation would be Stunt by Mr. Oizo
Onstage I felt like a Miyzaki film with a Stax film score. It was so much FUN. The set was a cognitively jumbled mash-up of material I don’t remember writing, instinctively recalled from a Roladex of (well-tested) musings. The light. Closer. And a leap off stage. When my peers and heroes congratulated me afterwards, well, James can explain it better than I can.
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