I don’t know anything about the Pittsburgh neighborhood of Allentown other than I once spent New Year’s Eve at Alla Famiglia with a group a friends including a woman who bitched about the size of the amuse-bouche … I think we all know she just wanted everyone to know she was familiar with that term. We get it. You took French in high school, too, Katie.
I’m driving up the hill much more slowly than is typical for me because of these damn slippery trolley tracks. Honestly, it’s the one thing that precluded me from buying a house on Mt. Washington. You can all me crazy all you want, but I’m a texture person, even if said texture is under literal tons of steel and rubber. My Princess and the Pea-ness (heehee) isn’t about being high maintenance, instead it’s that I’m hypersensitive to well, everything, and if something feels off? YUCK. Immediate ick, I think the kids say. Or skibidi Ohio. Or something.
I pass what seems to be a quiet police station with a hot dog cart out front, and Waze tells me I’ve arrived.
“Yes,” I think, knowingly nodding my head. “This is how every good comedy show begins. Arriving at a venue that is inexplicably weird and right.” Yet, cops and comedy don’t seem to mix from what I’ve witnessed. The hot dog cart welcome wagon, though? Perhaps this place is on to something.
“What do you want from the bar?” My friend texts.
“Cab.” I reply.
“They don’t sell wine here.”
…
I’m annoyed. It’s a Thursday night and I had planned to see Geoffrey Asmus, my body filled to the brim with my favorite potion.
“They have champagne, though.” My buddy offers.
Redemption.
Champagne makes me feel fancy. The cold, gold sparkles always infect me with their effervescence. And I don’t care if it tastes like carbonated piss water. I was made to drink bubbles and gasp as they snatch my breath.
…
The Bottlerocket is a real gem. Hidden in broad daylight, this unassuming venue is everything a comedy creep like me could ask for. As I walk past, a friendly, quiet man selling hot dogs acknowledges me, but I’m not ready for the scene inside.
3 … 2 … 1 …
Whoosh! I open the door and inside it’s bustling. The energy within the building could not be more counter to the quiet, dark, muggy night outside. A most personable woman greets me at the front, welcoming me into the show as though it’s her own home, and I know at once, because of her, that this is where I should spend my free time. She is the antithesis to the Gen Z’s who stare at you, mouth agape, not knowing how to communicate or make change when you enter the place in which they work.
I feel like I’m entering a most miraculous circus, one where there’s surely a man with a top hat is about to usher me to my seat with a sweep of his hand.
The walls are an alarming, familiar, and delightfully disturbing red and black pattern, and I am hopeful that I’m about to witness a creep show.
The Bottlerocket and its talents do not disappoint.
Death!
Dying!
Dancing!
Freddy Mercury!
Mustaches!
Mensa!
The openers – from “new-to-me” to “dude-I’ve-seen-him-before-you’ll-love-Senneca-this-guy’s-irreverent-af” have us hype for what’s coming, and our headliner does not disappoint.
The energy from the stage is palpable. Those seated next to us in both groups and singles are equally comfortable, and this speaks to me in volumes as I’ll never miss a show just because my friends are not drooling as hard as me to get their next comedic fix.
And it’s the venue and its people – both performing and behind the stick – you need to thank for that. Welcoming a person walking in on their own as fabulously as I was, as if I was THE person they were waiting for? That’s a gift. One that’s always the right texture.
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