Lawrenceville Distilling Co. is a real gem. First and foremost, you can bring dogs. So, clearly the story stops here, and you should go.
Nothing else matters if there are dogs freely running amuck, panting and prancing, and spreading permanent joy. Does a venue have a dirt floor for a bathroom? Does it squeeze out mold water from dirty dish rags into its cocktails? I don’t care. If a canine can occupy the area, it trumps everything else. (For the record, Lawrenceville Distilling has clean places to pee and doesn’t use dirty dish rags. I’m just sayin’.)
A small, mixed breed pads around the periphery, happy as a clam (or dog, whatever the hell its breed is) and I’m hoping it’s clear to this pooch that I’m obviously who it should be spending the night accompanying.
The large garage door entrance opens into your teenage crush’s garage-band-basement apartment, except this one has a bar fueled by Parking Chair Vodka and Savini-inspired cocktails. Shots of Night of the Living Dead pop on the screen, and if I wasn’t sold already, I am now.
The monotone voice of Stacy, frowning as employee of the month, opens the show and comedians from around the area shout about:
Voodoo!
Finances!
Unemployment!
Therapy!
Power Rangers!
Trauma!
Every topic imaginable is covered, and it makes me feel both seen and unhinged.
A table consisting of two couples, who seem oblivious to the comedic talent show unfolding in front of them, cackles at their own jokes, and I’m using my secret, willful powers to urge them to zip it. There are rules about attending comedy shows. Rules! Rule numeral uno is: pipe down! Do not speak unless spoken to – my God!
I’m not alone at this show, and my comedic partner whispers her side thoughts because she, like me, was born with the innate knowledge of when to shut the fuck up.
I see people leave ahead of the end and want to inform them that THE SHOW IS NOT OVER, FOLKS, and if they wait just long enough, they may just experience existential bliss – that fever-pitch moment where everyone understands that safety is in numbers as we scream-laugh in unison at the gasp-worthy despite the daily horror that goes on around us.
The show comes to a close, and after a number of “thank you/see you later/I think I need a comedy show to celebrate my 25th* birthday” conversations, I walk back out into the cold, warm with laughter, camaraderie, vodka, and hope that as long as there’s someone to laugh with, I’ll be alright.
*I lie about my age. Get over it.
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