The Comedy Cellar
West Village
NYC
3/29/24
Comedy is always a gamble. And that’s part of the thrill, no doubt. The threat of a bomb looms over every set, and jokes that land are miracles. The ones that really kill, the laughter is religious in its ecstasy.
It was my brother’s last night in the City, we’d yet to do anything big and touristy or standard only-in-NYC. Not monuments, museums, or anything like that. I just showed him the City as I live in it. So it was only right that we did at least one thing that everyone who comes into town ought to do. We linked up with some friends and stood in the windy cold, waiting to be let in to the legendary Comedy Cellar.
No phones allowed, so I didn’t get any photo or video. But, reader, hear me now, this place is the real deal. Beautiful and dark inside, the classic brick wall, and a declaration from the host that “this is a place where ignorance is allowed. It’s all jokes.”
And then the jokes come.
Beers readily brought to the table and refilled, the booze livening our senses of humor, stripping away any politically correct inhibitions we may have had. Then we roll the dice. The cattle call of comedians, mostly names I’d never heard. I don’t know if it was just the crowd, or if it’s a new over-indulgence in crowd work (the social media algorithm pushes this sort of a material for some reason, so a lot of comics lean into it heavy), but man did the first couple comics bomb badly.
Four folks into the show, one of comedian took the bombing to task, flipping his set into a beautiful sort of anti-comedy, hostile toward the audience and patiently chewing through his stage time. He asked the front row what they did for work, replying with a sardonic “Wooow!!” to every answer, only to follow it by telling the audience out of earshot that the answerer’s job was something else entirely:
“And what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an occupational therapist…”
“Wooow!!… This guy is pediatrician!”
I can’t say what it was about the bit, but it got me. Just gutted me. Might have been one of the funniest running gags I’ve ever seen. Just an absolute display of apathy and good humored belittling.
At a table near my friends and me, some dingbat in a polo shirt wouldn’t stop talking. Servers asked him to be quiet, a few comedians tried to put him down, but this fella was the unflappable sort of country-club white guy that’s never once considered the fact that space he’s occupying might not be built specifically for him and him alone to occupy. It was grating, until TJ Miller took the stage …
The charm of the late show at Comedy Cellar is that, well, it’s the most famous club in NYC. Any comics in town, doing shows or just visiting, are bound to roll through to either hang or try new material. Chapelle regularly appears unannounced. Seinfeld likes to step in. Joey Diaz and Dave Attell are regulars. It’s a magical sort of thing, that you’re almost always guaranteed to see someone famous-famous walk out to interrupt the flow of genuinely great, but lesser-known working city comics.
TJ Miller was Friday night’s esteemed guest, and he came with heat. Running through a few rounds of crowd work, his usual goofball vibe, he settled his attentions quick to the spot in the room which was noisiest.
A brief exchange with the aforementioned dude-bro, and their fencing broached the subject of NFTs — which, for some reason, Miller was hype to get into, trash, and blast:
“What’s in your portfolio, dude?” Miller leaned off the stage, shielding his eyes to assess his target.
The fella spouted a litany of increasingly ridiculous names to apply to currency – BitCoin, Ethereum, Polygon, Etc.
Miller then breaking of to the rest of the alienated crowd, “See? You guys hate this. It’s all nonsense!” Then back to his victim, “You think NFTs are a scam, and then you keep almost nothing but fucking meme-coins in your portfolio? Gimme a break!”
At the putdown, we erupt. Were the poor sucker’s ‘coins’ simply memes? I don’t know, I don’t care. It’s the pissing contest that rings true. This young man taking it so seriously, believing for a moment that he gets to share stage time with Miller, conversing over an earnestly shared interest – But, Miller’s not having it. Even if the man’s portfolio was something to impressed by, tonight it most certainly wasn’t allowed to be.
Miller again, “Here’s the thing, I just made $100, 000 selling my new special as an NFT. Scam my ass.”
The onslaught continued. In-jokes within which the only humor was the increasing cringe of the man in Miller’s sights, silenced by a shockingly deep knowledge of the fake-money world and its inner-workings. Good shit, and nice to see ol’ khaki-shorts put in his place.
All in all, a beautiful night of laughter and over-priced beer. An institution. Like the jazz clubs that I more often frequent, these sorts of places are the cultural immune system of NYC. The guarantee of a good night, solid performances, and stalwart vibe keeps the City strong and vibrant.
