better than gatorade

As Bernie Mac lay dying in a Chicago hospital last Friday night, a hapless female comic paced the tiny stage at Dangerfield's in New York City, dying a symbolic death of her own. Her death was temporary, the result of one too many bad vagina jokes and an almost remarkable inability to connect with an audience who wasn't asking for much.

From the last table to the left of the stage, I sat with my college friends, out on the town just like old times. We saw her. We wanted to feel sympathy for her. There were no laughs, not even groans. Just an occasional uncomfortable courtesy chuckle to break up the silence. She scrambled: she got dirty, she got racist, she got aggressive. Still she could not produce a genuine laugh. It was excruciating. Occasionally we yelled things, not to heckle but just to break the tension.

Four comics held the mic that night. Four working comedians, all of 'em 15 year veterans, for sure. None of 'em successful enough to have their names listed anywhere on the marquee, on the window, on the tickets that we printed out two for one from the website. No HBO specials. Just generic comedians, some funnier than others. The second guy had a darkness that kind of set him apart, but not by much.

The atmosphere at Dangerfield's was just what you'd expect: bad wood paneling, little red table lamps, velour cushions. Tourists, kids with fake ID's, and us. Septuagenarian waiters ambled from table to table, hearing every third order. I drank a terrible, nearly undrinkable margarita, because I figure when you are in a place like that you order a margarita and take your chances. I lost this time.

One summer morning in the year 2000, I woke up dry-mouthed, achy and depressed. It had been a bad night of too much to drink, followed by the usual hangover menu: anxiety and despair, with a side order of loneliness this time because my lady was out of town. After a greasy Veselka breakfast, I went home to try to sleep off the feeling. I couldn't do it. So I pulled myself together as well as I could and walked over to the movie theater on 3rd avenue and 11th street. I purchased one ticket for The Original Kings of Comedy.

Over the next two hours, four comedians held the mic. Steve Harvey led off. I knew him from Showtime at the Apollo and wasn't expecting much. He surprised me -- a very funny routine and a huge, warm presence that completely won me over. DL Hughley and Cedric the Entertainer followed him up with occasionally hilarious sets. I started to feel a little better.

Then Bernie Mac took the stage and destroyed everything. Destroyed the audience onscreen and the audience in the theater. Destroyed the three comics who had preceded him. And, finally, destroyed my hangover. It was one of the most disturbing yet accessible routines I'd ever seen. He was unlike anyone else, even though he stuck to the staple comedic topics: sex, family, men, women, kids, etc. His delivery and honesty and command was just unreal. He was untouchable, the perfect cleanup hitter. Suddenly I had a new favorite comedian.

Then he took the usual path of a successful comic: TV show (I watched it a few times -- it was OK), movies (mostly pretty bad), general famousness.

Now he's dead. Hedberg, dead. Carlin, dead. Pryor, dead. Yet two goddamn Gallaghers continue to walk the earth. Tell me how that's fair.

Would I still think Bernie's act was as funny today as I did that day eight years ago, in the throes of a hangover and desperate for relief? Probably not, but who gives a shit.

Thanks for the laughs, Bernie Mac. We could have used you on Friday night.