I think I was in the Fourth Grade when I discovered Comedy Central.  The channel was still in its infancy, collecting seed money for future projects by rerunning season after season of Kids in the Hall, Mystery Science Theater 3000, and shows from the BBC that my malleable sense of humor slowly (but most surely) embraced.

Absolutely Fabulous was a Sunday afternoon staple.

Late night clips from Two Drink Minimum were worth staying up past my bedtime for.

But there was one show… one unbelievable show that captivated me beyond all others.

Hosted by Clive Anderson, Whose Line is it Anyway? (UK), would flicker on to my television screen, and I was instantly awash in brilliance, bathed in awe.

True awe.

I knew what acting was (I was three years away from performing in my first stage play), and I knew theater was something I wanted to pursue.  But seeing these four performers, night after night, on a bare stage and a live audience rely on wits, not a script, and each other, not scenery, to create some of the most hilarious, memorable, and truly fantastic comedy I had ever seen, was something so foreign.

And so remarkable.

I was in love.

I was in love with Ryan Stiles, who needed no words, just a goofy expression to tell the story, bending his 6’6” body in impossible ways just to get that laugh.

I was in love with Josie Lawrence, who drove home the point for me that women CAN be funny.  Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.

I was in love with Tony Slattery’s… enthusiasm.

I was in love with Gregg Proops – convinced that one day I’d meet a dry-sense of humored man with great glasses.

I was in love with the laughter and excitement of not knowing what was going to happen next, and that uneasy and thrilling feeling of knowing that the performers didn’t know either.

How amazing it all was.

So when I was given the honor to go backstage and meet Colin Mochrie and Brad Sherwood (both having performed in Whose Line…UK, and here) before “Colin Mochrie and Brad Sherwood: Two Man Group” at Miller Auditorium on Saturday, a rush of adrenaline pulsed through my body.  My head swam.

What the hell do I say to two men who have been so instrumental in the development of my sense of humor?

How the hell do I tell them how important they’ve been to me?

How can I possibly put in to words that there was a point in my life where my only respite from the bullies and pubescent drama was to use the skills they unknowingly taught me; think on your feet, beat them to the joke, and stand as tall as your 4’10” self can.

I planned.

I prepared.

I knew exactly what I was going to say to them:

(handshakes all around)  “Colin, Brad, it really is such a pleasure.  Thank you so much for the years of laughter.  Truly.  A brief moment on stage for you was a lifetime of encouragement for me.  I studied at your feet for years.  You’re so talented, and it’s such an honor to be able to see the show tonight, and watch two masters whom I’ve looked up to for years, do what they do best.”

Instead, it came out like this:

“Colin, you are so much taller than I expected… and Brad… well, you’re tall, too.  Um… so have you gotten a chance to check out Kalamazoo?  No?  Wow, I really like your shoes.”

That’s not a joke.  Bethany at Miller was there for the whole humiliating thing.

I backed out of the room as soon as they had gone back to their dressing room, feeling like a puddle of regret as I slinked to the lobby to wait for the house to open.  Embarrassment aside, I was the first person through the gate when the chime sounded to indicate “doors.”  I ran to my seat.

Sixth row.  Center.

No curtain.  Just two stools, two microphones on stands, two strategically placed bottles of water.  My heart started pounding again.

This was my Beatles ’64.

The lights dimmed on the house and Colin and Brad took the stage without much fanfare; clad in black button downs, black pants, and black shoes (yes, the ones I told them I really liked so much), and away they went, taking us along.

That’s improv; they go, we follow.

For two-and-a-half hours the audience at Miller was enraptured watching these two men effortlessly rap about electricity, metal-detect their way through an island made entirely of water (you had to be there), and the hilarious confession of one Brad Sherwood to the crime of stealing “a spaceship owned by albino porcupine aliens from Donald Trump’s Hair-Piece Maker and Professional Fort Builders Emporium (in Ishpeming)” the only evidence linking him to the crime, “a glass eye.”

Good shows leave you satisfied.  Great shows leave you wanting more.

And I wanted more.  So much more.

So, who really cares that I made a fool of myself in front of some of my heroes; I’m but a blip on their large-scoping radar.  Seeing them work (well “play,” really) was a moment I will never forget; and a story I will share forever.

Come back soon, Colin and Brad. Kalamazoo loves you.

photo by Bethany Gauthier
photo by Bethany Gauthier
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