Erased

“ID?” the Comedy Store doorman asks me.

I take out my wallet and flip him my driver’s license. I used to know all the door guys, the waitresses, the paid regulars. Every comic needs a home club to hang out at. Some place to ground you in a groundless universe.

But then again, I’ve never seen him before. I scan the people loitering on the balcony. I’ve never seen ANY of these people.

I look at tonight’s line-up posted on the wall and only recognize three names. This feels like an alternate dimension. I’ve been away from LA for almost two years, which in entertainment time is like a thousand.

I roll to Flappers. I’m on the Yoo-Hoo room show, the club’s small intimate space. I wait in the green room and sit with a group of comedians who uninterestingly watch the host warm-up the audience on the TV monitor. A young girl in her twenties flips through her notes and notices me.

“Are you new to Los Angeles?”

“I guess so.”

I end the night at the Laugh Factory. I’m on the second floor in the booth, a comedian foxhole, where a comic on the show asks me who I am. I tell her that we’ve done showcases together, even shared the same manager at some point.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t recognize you, you cut your hair!”

I drive home and think about the acts I saw tonight: podcasters, TikTok influencers, a few jaded veteran comics to help keep the show going. Anybody can do comedy with no barrier to entry.

Times have changed. If you don’t keep up, you’re left behind. Or worse - you are erased.