Some Day my Prince Will Come: Prince was my Prince

Opening for Prince was a peak moment in my standup career. He first burst into my life when I got a call from my agent to appear with this new singer-songwriter being described as a wunderkind at the world famous club, The Roxy, on Sunset Strip.

It was the late 80’s and I’d been warned by comic Ed Bluestone that a white Jewish comic (me) might not be ideal for Prince’s audience.  Challenged accepted! I needed a plan.

I got an idea.

I picked up my accordion and got to the Roxy early. Seeing people lining up for the show, I put on dark glasses and pretended to be blind, playing the song, “Lady of Spain,” over and over again for an hour. Some people were kind and threw quarters. As the line began to move, I could hear his hip fans comment, “Thank God we don’t have to listen to that crap anymore!”

When everyone was seated and psyched up to see Prince, the announcer said, “Now, opening for Prince is comedian Judy Carter.” I walked out on stage with the accordion and heard the entire audience exclaim in unison, “Oh shit!”

From that point on, it was a love fest between the audience and me. Supported by their enthusiasm, I was flying high. I didn’t want to end except that I couldn’t wait to tell Ed Bluestone that if there was actually a bridge, I’d crossed it and connected.

Later, Prince came into my dressing room and introduced himself. I was struck by how tiny is was. Onstage he’d had such a huge presence. It was obvious that he was painfully shy as he said, “Thank you for opening for me. You were really terrific.”

After performing more frequently, I learned that it was unusual for a headliner to watch the opening act, let alone speak to the underling. But Prince was unique – a kind, supportive, and generous man.
That led to me becoming the opening act for every African American act that appeared at the Roxy, including the Temptations, the Four Tops, the Manhattans and jazz singers like Clint Holmes and Esther Phillips. Those gigs were responsible for me getting a contract with Caesars Palace.

 Thank you, Prince. You will be sorely missed. Tonight I will party like it’s 1999.

Can Laughter be an Antibiotic for Pain?

Have you ever had a horrible day? A day that’s so horrible it’s funny? What is it exactly that turns life’s problems into punch lines?

I had one of those horrible days.

Used with Permission by Keep Calm Studios

It started with my Weight Watchers meeting weigh in where I gained 2.4 pounds. Really? And there is not much more I can take off during a weigh it. I mean, I even flossed. I had to face the fact that the only thing I can still fit into are my high school earrings.

So, I go upstairs to my bedroom and it stunk. My neighbor’s dog was over and pooped on my white carpet. That would not be so bad, but apparently right after that, my Roomba (an expensive, automatic robot vacuum cleaner) started and smeared crap EVERYWHERE.

It’s said that comedy is tragedy, plus time. But, at the moment of viewing my crap-streaked carpet, if someone had made a joke, I would have shouted in anger, “That’s NOT funny.”

But, a few hours after cleaning up the carpet and my Roomba, I posted it on Facebook and got a lot of laughs. 

There was no choice but to see if I could find the hilarity in this. Was there any way to go from being a drama queen to a comedy queen?

I remembered back to when I was in my 20’s and dating comic Andy Kaufman. He broke up with me, leaving me angry and bitter. I couldn’t stop obsessing about being dumped, until one night I went onstage at the Hollywood Improv and made a joke about it. 

Maybe the best was, “I was in love and we had one thing in common, we were both in love with HIM. I worshiped the ground he walked over me on.”

As the audience laughed, the pain went away. That’s perhaps when I realized that laughing at something can be the antibiotic for pain.

Please post about your horrible day in the comments. 

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Business Lessons Learned From 50 Shades of Grey

How I stopped being a SLAVE in life and empowered my relationships.     

A friend asked me if I wanted to go see 50 Shades of Grey. On my only free night recovering from a long work week, the LAST thing I want to see is seeing a woman dominated by someone. After all, as an entrepreneur, every day feels as if I’m tied to my computer, whipped by chores, pained by computer glitches, and brought to my knees by the volume of emails—each one screaming me into submission. Why would I pay to see that?

Source: CC BY 2.0

What I long for is to be the one on top of someTHING, which is sometimes better than being on top of someONE. I would like to dominate my inbox, get control of my escalating waistline, or maybe humiliate my dogs to stop peeing on my carpet. My wish is to be the alpha female, which I haven’t accomplished despite several rounds of obedience training. I can’t get my dog to heel or the people who work for me to do what I want, and I’m their boss. I can’t whip anyone into shape.

But, as I ranted to my friend of why I’m not interested in seeing a movie about S&M, I remembered a time, long ago in my 30s, when I was propositioned to enter into an S&M relationship and become a slave. No joke!

Because you don’t know me—picture Jewish girl, president of the 7th grade tropical fish club and 8th grade safety monitor.

Me a slave? This seemed a huge safety violation. I was a nerd. But, I was curious as I asked, “So… how does this work… this slavery thing?”

“Well… we all agree on what is going to be done, and then there is a word we decide on if someone wants to stop.”

And I thought, “OMG! You mean you actually listen and respect someone’s boundaries?”

After all, at that time in my life, I had let both men and women do things to me that I didn’t like, and I didn’t say anything to stop it. Even when my primary care physician inappropriately fondled me—I didn’t say anything. I just sat there frozen wondering, why he had to examine my breasts so thoroughly when I only had a cold?

“What kind of word,” I asked.

“Like ‘Blueberry.’ And this will be in the contract we would write together.”

“Contract? Write together?” I said, “You mean that we would actually communicate what we both want and write it down… with no attorney fees?”

“Yes! These contracts would include what we both expected of each other; what annoys you, such as hair in sink, how often we would have sessions, and a final list of offenses and the agreed upon punishment for each offense. Each offense will have a minimum and maximum number of strokes and a force level associated with it.”

I thought, “Wow! How conscious is this?” I mean, aside from the bruising of ropes, whips, and chains, I usually have been unable to tell someone what I want, yet, just like most women, I’m disappointed if I don’t get what I want. Don’t most women expect our partners to be working psychics?

And… I actually liked the idea of a defined punishment—just six slashes, and it’s over. This seems much better than someone dwelling on something I had done and punishing me for years and bringing it up in front of my business clients at a fancy party.   

I never did enter into that S&M contract. Black is not my color, and pain is not my pleasure. But, it did change me and help me to have better relationships. In future relationships, I got more in tune with my partners as well as asking directly for what I wanted and didn’t want.

“Judy—I need you to pick me up at the airport.” 

“Blueberry!”

I'd like to know—would you ever enter into a relationship like this?

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