The Fat Cat

I’m on my first glass of house pinot.

In a bar.

By myself.

In the North Side.

I needed to get out of the house – needed to inject some humor into my life. It had been a long-as-Hell week with me trying to navigate my way through a new job in a new industry where I know no one. I’m four weeks in, so still trying to determine who my people are, though, I’ve already forced my friendship on a few.

None of my friends were able to accompany me to my very last-minute request to go out, out, out to a comedy show on a Friday night, but I got some awesome responses to my pleads for socializing:

“Ma’am, it’s 8 p.m. My bra is off.”

“It’s been a long-ass week, and I am drained like a pool in October.”

“I’m heading to a hockey game in BFE. #momlife”

Despite them, I pulled on some real pants and sprayed enough dry shampoo in my hair and around my periphery to mask my unshowered body.

Incredibly, I was able to gracefully slide myself into a parking spot right in front of The Fat Cat.

This place is a real gem. The vibe is cozy but open, warm but modern, and has that neighborhood feel even though I was able to maintain my personal, quiet space as a person who was looking to be unbothered for the night.

As is not unusual, I’m disappointed in the turnout for a bunch of artists in Pittsburgh. Yes, comedy is an art as most people aren’t fucking funny (cue every idiotic local yocal you’ve seen trying to interact (re: compete) with an established headliner).

A (good) comedian has to have the emotional intelligence to read a room, modify their set at the drop of a hat, twist their verbiage to resonate with a particular crowd, and not take it personally when no one shows up or perhaps, laughs.

They are writers. Visionaries. Actors. Authors. Humans who can find the hilarity in both the regular and mundane and the absurd. They have the ability to say what we’re thinking and make it OK to laugh. They are doctors – PSYCHIATRISTS for crying out loud, delivering direct dopamine to the masses – and I need to be medicated, so FILL MY DAMN PRESCRIPTION, DOC.

I get a booth for myself in the back. I’m able to hear both the comedian chatter of “Who goes first?,” Where is so-and-so?”, as well as the two other small groups debate what they’re ordering and how long they’ll stay. They’re trying to establish their perfect seats – not so far away that they won’t feel like a part of the experience and not so close to avoid becoming a part of the show.

I’m handed a box of popcorn, hangrily waiting for my real meal of ludicrous entertainment as the second floor is filled with pre-performance giggles, the scent of buttered popcorn wafting through the air, and some oddly comforting steel drum muzak permeating the space.

It quiets down momentarily, and then suddenly there’s bright, focused light and boom! boom! rat-a-tat-tat one-liners, quips, and turns of phrase on:

Porn!

Invasive species!

Child soldiers!

Racism!

Breakups!

Drowning cats!

Abortions!

The sheer delivery of topics – a verbal vomit of intrusive thoughts on stage – makes all of the huge and scary and “don’t talk about” subject matter OK to entertain for a moment, and my brain fills with oxygen as I gasp for breath from laughing at both the awkward and the wicked.

In this second-floor safe space, surrounded by the energy of others – both uncomfortable and never better – I’m reminded that laughter really is the best medicine, even if only at ourselves – or by ourselves.

I finish my second pinot and walk out the door into the crisp October air, not alone, but full of second-hand stories and experiences, a wealth of foolishness to negate a very serious week, and more jokes about pudding than I’d care to know.