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Overview
Have you ever suffered from FUNNY GIRL SYNDROME? Are you the gal who makes people laugh? Are you considered "a lot of fun" and "a good sport"? Do all your male friends bring you their troubles and ask for your advice––about their girlfriends? If so, you will relate to Nina––a wry, hip, hilarious gal who is sure to make you laugh.
Nina has a roommate who showers with her cat. Nina has a college education she hasn't used. And Nina has waited tables at Bellyaches Comedy Den in Boston for way too long... She's heard it all: mother jokes, sister jokes, chick jokes, and fat jokes. And then some. She's served beer to half–broke hipsters, drinks to businessmen with bad dates, and occasionally hears something truly hilarious.
But what Nina hides from the world is that she is FUNNY. Because she has suffered in the past from Funny Girl Syndrome––you know, she makes you laugh but you won't take her on a date. But all that's about to change, because it's high school reunion time. And there's nothing like facing a gym–full of people you knew back ten years ago to make you want to pull up your socks and shine.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780061755279 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 10/13/2009 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| File size: | 427 KB |
About the Author
Sara Faith Alterman is a regular feature writer for NewEnglandFilm.com, and is the associate director of distribution of BuyIndies.com, an independent film catalog. Since studying film theory at the University of Rochester and comedy writing with Second City, Sara has written sketch comedy for ImprovBostson and has had her work featured in publications, including The Independent, Carolina Woman magazine, and the Discovery Network’s Great Chefs magazine. Sara lives in Boston, is working on her next novel, and hates writing about herself in the third person.
Read an Excerpt
Tears of a Class Clown
By Sara Alterman
HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2006 Sara AltermanAll right reserved.
ISBN: 006075592X
Chapter One
He was squinty, the man flapping his yapper, with a Dippity Do and nostrils that twitched in time with his desperate lips.
"Hey, hey, how about some of my spicy tuna roll, huh, baby?"
Oh come on.
"So I says, 'Easy lady, that's my elbow!' Ba-da-BOOM!"
It had been going on like this all night; pathetic lines tossed out halfheartedly, like Frisbees on the beach in August.
"Sure, honey, feel free to use my dipstick to check your levels!"
Someone should slug this yahoo. Anyone? Anyone? Help a lady out.
All men, too. Honest to God. I'm not too surprised; it isn't often that we get chicks with balls enough to brave this crowd.
It's a tricky business, stand-up comedy.
I wished more of these morons figured that out before they got their paws on a microphone.
The moron du jour, sporting khaki pants, was nearly bursting out of a coral-colored shirt printed with birds of paradise--typical comic wear. His shoulders were broader than a Buick, and his strongman handlebar mustache glistened with sweat.
I've worked at Bellyaches Comedy Den for years now, and believe me I've heard it all. Mother jokes, sister jokes, jaded jilted-lover jokes, chick jokes, dick jokes, smart jokes, fart jokes, fat jokes. Boozers,losers, politics, pimps and hookers, bitches, tricks. Nobody's safe, no ethnicity ignored: honky, cracker, nigga, kike, wops and dagos, fags and dykes, jappy guidos, spics and chinks, the motherfucking kitchen sink.
My boss, Hal, actually wanted to use that rant as the club's motto, but City Council got a little nervous. I think some selectman had a problem with "cracker."
Bellyaches is small and dank, choreographed around a precarious platform that barely passes for a stage. Mismatched chairs accessorize two dozen tiny cocktail tables, which are packed together awkwardly to fill most of a shallow audience pit. The bar runs along the back of the room. I've spent the better part of my adult life stuffed back there like a helpless pimiento, yanking sticky taps and rolling my eyes at the sad excuse for entertainment. Make no mistake about my use of "better part." I'm talking majority. Believe me, I don't count my beer-bitch duties among the finest moments of my twenties.
The place defines "dive," but it's actually fairly popular; gross is apparently the new chic with Boston-area hipsters. It's gone far beyond thrift-store threads and pizza grease bedhead: I sell enough Pabst Blue Ribbon in a week to build a Tijuanan shanty village with the aluminum from the discarded cans. All that cheap beer is a beacon for amateur comics. Honestly, they flock like raccoons to shiny objects, likely comforting themselves as they leave with the notion that if their jokes bombed, the audience must have been, too.
You'd never catch me onstage in a million years.
Most of my friends are aspiring stand-up comedians, and I've seen more than enough rejection to stave off any limelight cravings. Time and time again I've watched grown men sniffle about jokes that failed or bits that bombed, while nursing Cuervos and dejected faces speckled with coin-shaped bruises. I don't need a crowd to make me feel bad about myself; superhuman celebrities and trendy department stores do a fine enough job of that, thank you very much. Watch any Lindsay Lohan movie and then shuffle into Express to try and stuff your ass into a pair of stretchy, sparkly pants. You'll leave the mall with a cinnamon roll and a pudge complex every single time.
So, I try to keep myself safe from heckling. It's much safer behind the bar, anyway, unless some wino gets fresh about my rack.
Though I man the booze, I wouldn't call myself a "bartender" per se. I wish. Bellyaches only serves wine and beer, so all I do is pull and uncork. (That's what she said. Ba-dum . . . bum. Ha.) Cocktail it's not. Hal has owned this place for twenty years, bought it when he was fresh off the boat from East London. He's a pervy sort of Cockney, with lumps of doughy limbs and gravel in his throat. Saved his quid for nearly a decade so he could move across the pond and live out his dream of owning a moldy comedy dive. Not much stand-up in the UK, apparently. I guess they don't laugh too much over there. Ashamed to show their teeth, I'd imagine.
In his spare time, Hal fancies himself an amateur photographer, capturing weddings, christenings, bar mitzvahs, headshots, the occasional catalog campaign. His favorite shoots are portfolio jobs for aspiring models. He likes to dress the oblivious gigglers in thongs and drape them over machinery for "artistic effect." If you ask me, it's for his spank bank. For extra cash I help him out sometimes, loading his cameras, holding the light meter, and sponging the sweat from the back of his pasty neck. I keep that last part a secret.
Bellyaches was a butcher shop before Hal got his mitts on it; there are still bloodstains visible in the cracks in the cheap tile floor. There's a rumor that before that it was a Mob den, Tommy guns and all, but Hal waves that off.
Whatever its former purpose, the club still sports questionable ambiance. The walls are dingy, half the lights are blown out. Hal's even had the same Bud Light neon crackling behind the bar since 1985. Abe likes to remind me of that; he's an ageless Irish perch who started coming here five nights a week the very first night Hal was open for business. Retired from the force for twelve years, Abe stays home with his wife on Saturday nights, not out of dedication to his family, but rather to Jesus. Doesn't want to be hung over on Sunday morning; afraid he'll sleep through church and get tossed in the back of a one-way wagon to the fiery cell below. He's holding out for the big doughnut shop in the sky. And boy, does he love me.
Continues...
Excerpted from Tears of a Class Clown by Sara Alterman Copyright © 2006 by Sara Alterman. Excerpted by permission.
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