Never Date A Comedian

Full disclosure: I’m plagiarizing myself. This is the true and well-aged tale that I told at our last Story Slam here in the Bay. But it’s a solid cautionary tale that is relevant to this day.

The theme for the Story Slam was: Adventures in Dating. The story I was originally going to tell involved a prom date, an ambulance and much blood (neither mine nor my date’s). 

Then I remembered this little ditty. So, here now, a tale from the self-absorbed streets of Los Angeles…
I’d been living in LA less than a year. I was fulltime freelancing as an advertising copywriting during the day, and performing standup comedy at night. Not every night, but regularly. 

I was also dating regularly, but almost never more than one date per guy. There was never anybody I wanted to see twice.

One night after performing a set at the Comedy Store, I went to Cantor’s. Cantor’s is a world-famous Jewish deli on Fairfax Ave. It’s open late and 24 hours on Saturdays. A lot of performers—comedians, musicians, actors—will go there after work to detox with a good corned beef on rye or a knish before heading home. 

So I’m there with a few friends who also aren’t ready to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and replaying that night’s performance. That’s when and where I was introduced to this guy. Jeff. Another comedian. 

Red flag, friends. I’d been pretty clear that comedians were off the menu. Too needy. Too erratic. But Jeff was also good looking, well-built (for a comedian) and flirty. When Jeff asks me out, I say sure. (It was late. I was tired and off my game.)

I honestly don’t remember where our first date was. I do remember that the conversation was good. He was smart and funny and not a bad kisser. He was cleared for a second date, which was pretty much a replay of the first date. Good chatting, plenty of laughs, good kissing. 

Date three. Jeff invites me to a party in Beverly Hills. For some reason, I meet him there, which turns out to be a fortuitous move. The party is in a huge house where I know nobody. Not a problem. I’m comfortable in a crowd. I like meeting new people and I’m having a fine time. 

When Jeff shows up, we travel the party both together and apart. I like that. He introduces me to a few people and we continue to drift. At one point, I step outside. Over to the right, I spot Jeff talking to some woman. Fine. 
Wait. Is he telling her a secret? Nope. They’re making out.

That’s my cue to exit. Jeff sees me getting into my car. (Thank God I drove myself.) He comes after me. “Honey, don’t go. Wait. Can’t we talk? Honey wait. Let me explain.”

As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to say. I’m not hurt. We haven’t gotten that close yet. But I’m sure as shit not going to let him “explain.” I already understand he’s a jerk. No further explanation of that fact required.

​A few nights later, I’m performing at a club on Hollywood Boulevard. Largo, maybe? Can’t be sure. But I’d been hired to emcee the evening. That meant I’d perform the opening set, then come up between each of the comedians, doing a few more jokes before introducing the next act.

I’d never emceed before. But knowing I’d be up multiple times that night, I thought it would be fun to bring my phone with me. This was when phones were just phones. No selfies. No surfing. And they were enormous. I had to wedge this thing the size of Barbie’s Dream House into my back pocket. 

The second time I take the stage, the audience knows I have my phone with me. They’d already witnessed me use it in my first set to call my parents who were in New Jersey, three hours ahead of us. I’d woken them up and let the entire room hear me getting into trouble. A comedy classic.

This time, I decide I’m calling Jeff. First, I tell the audience all about date number three, so they’re primed to hear me give this guy shit. But when I call, Jeff doesn’t pick up and I get his answering machine.

What now? I decide to leave a message letting him know that I was onstage and that I’d told everyone what an ass he is. This receives laughter and cheers of support. If you’ve never told someone off in front of an audience, I highly recommend it.

Then, I get an idea. I say, “Does anyone here have something they’d like to say to Jeff?” 

What happens next is beautiful. The audience--my audience—rallies around me, their new BFF, and take turns telling Jeff what a douche he is, asking what kind of idiot cheats on someone this great. They said things like, “She’s smokin’ hot.” Mr. Parker doesn’t call me smokin’ hot. It was class-A therapy.

Plus, the revenge was so much sweeter than dating Jeff had ever been.

EPILOGUE: That’s right, there’s more. When I get home that night (after stopping at Cantor’s, of course), there’s a message from Jeff. Apparently, when he heard my message, he rushed over to the club, hoping I’d still be onstage. 

He was sure the audience would want to meet him. And hey, he might even get a few precious minutes of stage time. Jeff was all about Jeff. How wonderfully LA-comedian of him.

So, when I say, never date a comedian, you now understand one of the pitfalls. And because I’ve never seen Jeff in a movie, on Comedy Central, or on some Late Night Cable Access show, it’s safe to assume that no other woman who Jeff cheated on ever gave him stage time either.

Cheers,
Honey Parker