Wednesday, April 27, 2005

It's cold in Siberia

There is a place. Behind an unmarked door,'neath the electric glow of a red bulb.

Called Siberia.

Wherein, on Tuesday nights, down in the seedy depths of the punk-hipster bar, society's ne'er-do-wells and would-be comic hustlers rattle off acerbic barbs, wax poetic on societal taboos, and lament the decline of Western Culture.

It's a donkey-punch of a comedy show and it's quickly becoming my favorite place to pound some good ol' fashioned counter-culture back into my head when I'm becoming too bourgeoisie.

And last Tuesday, I was reminded why it's either the greatest underground "comedy" show in town or simply an exercise in shadenfruede.

Arriving late, I descended the metal stairs alongside a visiting friend from Boston. Instinctively, I warned her of the absurdly cult-like atmosphere of the show, jokingly referring to it as being akin to a live-action snuff film. Little did I know. The show was already in full swing and the theme of the night was storytelling. Specifically, your favorite drug-related stories.

Now, apparently, the previous week (which I had missed), a certain gentleman decided to offer up his best "fat chicks" jokes, and was literally dragged off the stage amidst a howl of boos and jeers. And so a deal had been cut. This week, he could tell his painfully unfunny and hateful fat material if he stripped down to his underwear and whipped out his fun stick.

And so he did. Dropping his drawers, there he stood, at attention*...

*Which was odd - who gets a woody standing on a cold stage standing in front of a shocked crowd in the sketchiest bar in NYC?! But I digress....

So there he was, his dingle-dongle aimed at the audience like a tiny torpedo of hack comedy, he launched into his invective as the audience tried to shield their eyes while simultaneously trying to watch the surreal train wreck that was occurring. As this tubby Panamanian-looking gent referred to himself as a "Skinny American," the irony disappeared into the stunned laughter of his captive audience. Horrible, hack material with no discernable punchlines + exposed genitalia = comedy gold. It's one of those traumatic, unbelievable moments that defy explanation. You just had to be there. This guy really wanted to tell fat jokes. That's called commitment, people.

My eyes still bleed. No one there will forget what they witnessed and what they learned that night: it's cold in Siberia.