What To Say

A comedy show began as I walked to the back patio for a smoke. I was asked if I was a comic but they quickly learned, I am not. The group of comics were friends of each other. It was small and intimate. There was no care of quality. Joke be bad or joke be good, there was always a laugh. Most were sympathetic; a small support to those who do their best. Stand up comedy is the hardest form of art after all. It is always nice to see people support one another. I left after an hour of their company. Next was karaoke. A guilty pleasure of mine, I love to sing. It matters not how crowded the bar is or how many cheers I receive. I sing for myself and my own judgement of quality. All are supportive of anyone who has the courage to step onto the stage. All of them are welcoming and their cheers will tell you of your ability, great or not. Chico welcomes all who arrive. How long it keeps you is entirely up to you. As the hours roll by the patrons become more and more unruly. By the closing of the bar almost all stumble out with barely a modicum of grace. They are all drunk. Very drunk. I sit in the corner. Familiar faces say hello and move on to more exciting subjects. The mob of humans. Men who are ready and eager to buy drinks and the women ready to exploit them. I saw nothing this evening. Only the normal. The fake and the masked. I almost cried. There is only so much peace one can take from the weather. There is only so much effort one can give to uplift the other. To find one's own purpose is a sisyphean action. To find one’s honest self is nearly an impossible task. How does one know if they lie to themselves when they only have themselves to debate? A fight with another is much easier than a fight with the self. How do you know who wins when the combatant is a part of you? Where do you go when you are trapped by your own self? Where do you go when you are lost in Chico? I don’t know. I wish I did.