I’m going to let you on a little secret: I am not particularly spontaneous. For example, when I book tickets to a show, it is usually a performance I have researched thoroughly. Such research includes skimming the New York Times review, viewing the Wikipedia article, and watching an assortment of illegally taken videos on YouTube. After compiling my research, I am able to make an educated decision on whether to expend my minimal paycheck on such theatrical luxuries.
Mama B, however, does not have such an academic approach to life. In fact, she prefers to indulge in a little spontaneity every so often, and she especially enjoys schlepping me along for the ride. Last night was no exception. After begging G-d to inscribe me in the book of life, I boarded a train to the Royal Comedy Tour in Newark, NJ.
Since Mama B loves comedy, she booked the tickets as soon as she received the New Jersey Performing Arts Center brochure. She notably did so without having any knowledge of the four comedians– Sommore, Bruce Bruce, Mark Curry, and Damon Williams. And I, in my innocence, trusted her judgment.
As we arrived at NJPAC, we quickly noticed that we were the only white women at this performance. I, the somewhat perceptive and always audible one, exclaimed, “Are all the comedians black because this show appears to be attracting a particular demographic…”
I could sense Mama B’s unease. It’s not that she had any issue with black comedians; it was more a fear that she would be unable to understand/relate to any of their jokes and subsequently find the entire performance a bore.
And within seconds of the performance beginning, Mama B’s fears materialized. The humor revolved around the comedians’ “ghetto families,” who either had crack addictions or stole toilet paper from the Emmy’s or both. They also dropped the N word every 3-4 seconds, which just made us white folk a wee bit uncomfortable. And then there were the references to getting shot, an experience my mom and I hope we can never identify with.
Needless to say, we were not amused. Or, as Mama B commented, after Bruce Bruce spent twenty minutes discussing how to get your sugar mama to give you a blow job (his recommendation: bust into the room and yell, “this is a stick up!”), “He’s too old to be talking such smut.” Indeed, Bruce Bruce will be turning 50 in February, and perhaps is a bit too middle aged to be talking like a teenage boy.
Nonetheless, she was intent on staying for Sommore, the one female comedian in the pack. “I always like female comedians,” she stated. And so we stayed through intermission, only to be greeted by a 5 minute monologue on Sommore’s flat black bum.
We left midway through her performance. I, a bit disappointed and Mama B, annoyed that she had spent an exorbitant amount of money on, “such a crude and humorless show.” The lesson, of course, is simple: Mother doesn’t always know best, so when in doubt, question her judgment. She’ll thank you later.