Lester's Hosts Inaugural Comedy Night with Moustache Ride
|Photo by Andrew Hevia|
The event was not an open mic. It was a gathering of established comedians, all who have reached the host and feature level of comedy at tri-county improvs. In other words, these were eight professionals in a unique environment, without the pressure of a two-drink minimum, within the safe parameters of comfort where they could try out new material.
Jessica Gross organized the event and also played the night's maestro. She was our host, our captain, our transition-in-chief, however, furthermore, and in conclusion, this maestro conducted the night with grace, precision, professionalism, and of course, humor.
Lucas Peterson-Connolly opened, murdering his ten-minute set, making fun of his Zach Galifianakis-likeness, his pending birthday, slam poetry, and his crack-smoking manners.
Wendy Starling, platinum and bespectacled, ripped through a quick paced, dark, and dirty set covering birth control, suicide, living in L.A., and trendy hipsters. Her high-pitched manic energy mixed well with her potty mouth, yet was balanced by her beautiful smile.
Daniel Reskin owned all ten minutes of his set like a boss. His Rasta misunderstanding routine was off-the-chain. "I saw a Rasta walking around my hood shouting Jah-bless! Jah-bless! And I said true, respect, we're all blessed, def. To which the Rasta man replied what do you mean? I'm job less. Job less. There's no jobs out here." Excellent timing. Truly clean and intelligent humor.
Irene Morales, the self-proclaimed Daria of all comics, low-voiced and deadpan, rolled onto the mic like a Cuban/Paraguayan tumbleweed, delivering like Digiornos.
Patrick Schroeder, a Broward comic, ripped into the audience, always a great way to establish attention and authority. Alpha-male, anyone? No, not really. Dynamic, high-energy, charismatic, yet a little rude and dare we say a deprecating douche-bag shtick, Schroeder's earned guffaws probably haunted the hallways of a few of our dreams.
Lisa Corrao, an adorable four foot ten (1/2) inches with feminist balls of steel, played the race card in a non-intrusive manner. A self-deprecating, abject, sexy, smart bitch, with a subject roll-o-dex ranging from the homeless, black people, and midgets, she certainly had no fear. "I came up with the best name for an abortion clinic: Wombs-to-Go."
John Wynn, our last Samurai of the evening, rollicked with his own self-deprecation schtick, playing off his Asian roots and his own obesity, juxtaposed against American idiocy and our multi-cultural awkwardness.
Lester's is doing excellent things, hosting an assortment of events running the gamut of culture from music, art, poetry, lectures, etc. Lester's brings something to Wynwood--winners. Think of it linguistically. We want to live in a place of winners, as opposed to losers. Maybe you'd like to live in Losewood, but we like boners, so we'll see you in Wynnwood. Thank you. We'll be here all year.
Don't miss next month's showcase. Trust us.
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