Every month, you hear me going on and on about "Improv at the Yucca." I talk about it on the radio. I tweet about it. If my schedule weren't so busy, I'd run to Radio Shack, buy a bullhorn, and stand on my roof and advertise it. I love improv, and I love the fact that we've done it for nearly 14 years with great success.

But things weren't always so rosy. Back in 2005, a few of us decided to start a new, smaller improv/sketch comedy group. We called it "The Venue." Oddly enough, the name came from a TV show that we were supposed to write and perform on. The TV show never made it to air. Perhaps that should have been a sign that we shouldn't use the same name, but we're comedians, not geniuses.

 

The twist in The Venue was that we would cater each show to whatever audience hired us. This made it feel more personal, more familiar. It was a TON of work, but it felt like we would get hired more because of this small touch. Our first show was for a convention of childcare workers. We got paid, got the stuff on our backstage rider, and really felt big. They even set up a table in the lobby for us to sign things after the show. Unfortunately, we got very little "could you sign this" and a lot of "where's the restroom?"

 

We then got booked in the booming metropolis of Andrews, TX. As we drove into town, we were psyched to see our name on the name outside the civic center. Passersby craned their necks to see five people suddenly jumping out of a car to take pictures next to said sign. For some reason, I remember that we were really nervous about that show. Fortunately, one of us had the foresight to bring beer on ice. In hindsight, there were two problems with this. First, Andrews was in a dry county. Second, we were drinking it outside, on the grounds of the city-owned civic center. I believe the statute of limitations on this has passed, so I'm pretty safe admitting all of this now. Besides, there were officers in the audience that night, so hopefully they can remember the laughter and see past our lapse in judgment.

 

We did a couple more things here and there. Local fairs, a convention for Texas paralegals, etc.. We even got an agent based out of Chicago. Shortly after signing us, she was fired. A big part of me wants to believe that she took our demo reel to her boss to show off her newest signee, and was promptly shown the door.

 

But then, it happened. While searching for places to perform, I found a theater in Dallas, TX. I contacted this place and inquired about performing there. Not only did they invite us to perform both Friday and Saturday night, they were going to do a publicity blowout. Email blast, snail mail fliers, big advertisements in their windows, the works. As performers (and, thus, generally cheap people), this was an amazing opportunity.

 

That fateful Friday in September, we loaded up the SUV and drove to Dallas. We weren't megastars, so we had to cover our own transportation. We also had to cover our own hotel. We checked in to the La Quinta on Dallas North Tollway, walked around the corner to the liquor store, and loaded up on celebratory drinks. We didn't go onstage until 11:00 that night, so we had plenty of time to kick our feet up and revel in the fact that we had "made it."

 

Fast forward to 11:00. I'm standing backstage, microphone in hand. Our intro music blares through the speakers (Pink's "Get The Party Started," for the curious). I exclaim into the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, from Midland, TX, please welcome...THE VENUE!" I ditch the microphone, we step through the curtain, and are suddenly horrified. Not because we were nervous. Not because we were unprepared. We're mortified because we are standing onstage...in front of eight people. There were four people onstage that night, eight in the audience, a sound op, and the box office worker. For the mathematically challenged, that means that there were less than 15 people in the building. And we promised a 90-minute comedy show.

 

It's amazing how versatile alcohol can be. The same beer and liquor that was supposed to be celebratory before the show, turned into a coping mechanism after the show. Not only were we hosed on our fee for the show (we were paid a percentage of tickets sales), but we were stuck paying for a hotel room that suddenly became more depressing by the hour. The next night, we had 24 people in the audience (hey, we tripled), but at that point, all we felt like doing was tucking our tail between our legs and sulking home.

 

Should have stayed in Andrews.

 

More From Mix 97.9 FM