Midlife at the Improv

We like this take by baby boomer Mel Miskimen on what it takes to chase your dream, and to keep running after it, even when no one else seems to share it. She calls it “Midlife at the Improv.”

Stand up comedy has been my dream ever since I saw Totie Fields on the recently deceased Merv Griffin Show, and every once in a while I get the crazy idea that I should chase my dream and do an open mic.

Open mics are in bars or nightclubs. They usually start at 10 p.m. – quite a challenge for me, a 52 year old menopausal woman who is usually asleep on the sofa by 9:05. If you need further proof, I have yet to make it through an entire episode of any of the CSIs. On the day of the night, I ingested enough caffeine (coffee, tea, Extra Strength Excedrine) to simulate a cardiac episode.

At 9:30, wild eyed and palpitating, I left my husband in his leather chair with the current James Patterson book, his hand holding a glass of red wine – for his “cholesterol” – and drove to the smoky nightclub full of twenty and thirty-somethings who chain-smoked – apparently D.A.R.E. did nothing for them. I signed the open mic roster. I was fifth in line.

First up? A guy with tattoos and piercings and issues with women and getting laid. And then came another guy – no tattoos, but he still had issues with women and getting laid – the theme was, their need to have it and their lack of getting it. Well, did these guys ever stop and think, “Gee, maybe using ‘bitch’ as a term of endearment doesn’t work.”

They talked about their “dicks,” their “crotch rockets,” and shouted out stuff to the audience like, “Are you feeling me!?” Um . . . no. Thank God. They dropped so many f-bombs, the room was a cuss word Nagasaki.

The audience? It went nuts.

Then, it was my turn. Jason, the host, introduced me this way:
“Hey! Let’s give it up for Mel. She’s really f***ing funny!” Kind of sets the bar too high right off the bat, I thought.

So, I did this hi-larious bit – the same one that I performed a week earlier at a fund raiser for my son’s high school – about what it must have been like for the Virgin Mary to raise Jesus. I mean, come on. Think of it. He’s The Son of God. Talk about a kid with an attitude! She couldn’t use the classic line on Him, “Oh, I suppose you think it’s all about you!” At the high school, I killed!

But this time? Well . . . let’s just say it got so quiet, I could hear the exhaust fan droning in the bathroom down the hallway. I finished to a round of tepid applause. I didn’t even bother to hang around to see if anyone cared to sign me to a limited engagement. Yeah, right.

I went outside. Got in my mini van. Turned the key and drove home. No radio. Just me, my thoughts, and the mantic hum of the defroster. “What the hell?” I told myself – and yes, I always talk to myself. I’ve thought about getting one of those phone things that go into your ear so it looks and sounds like I’m carrying on a very important phone conversation.

“What made me think that I could do stand up? I am a big, fat (and old) loser. I can’t be like them. I can’t swear. If that’s what it takes, then . . . what? The chase is over? Maybe my dream has outrun me. That’s it. I’ve been lapped by frigging, bastard, twenty-somethings.

I pulled into the garage and closed the door. But I didn’t shut off the motor. Not right away. I waited. I thought that life wasn’t worth living if my dream was over, but then I thought . . . wait a minute. Who’s to say my dream is over? Come on! This was just one audience. Full of stupid kids who were weaned on MTV and too many bad casts on Saturday Night Live. They can’t help it.”

I turned the key and took it out of the ignition.

“Screw it. Screw them. I’m going to keep on chasing, running after my dream. For however long it takes. Baby steps. One forward. Two back. Left. Right. Left. Right. Tread softly. Carry a big schtick.

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By the way, Mel’s new book is Cop’s Kid: A Milwaukee Memoir. Check it out here.

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