It started simply, as many things do. In the wake of Y2K’s tremendous disappointment, I made a New Year’s resolution to try my luck at stand-up comedy. It made sense, with my interest in things that are funny, but stand-up is a difficult thing to get started at. It took a millennial resolution to finally work up the pelotas to take the open mic at Collective Unconscious. I did five minutes of VD jokes, and in doing so, altered the fate of the universe as we know it. My set, my very first attempt at stand-up comedy, had the crowd gone apeshit. Women were screaming at me, tearing my clothes and begging me to impregnate them. One man demanded I kill him with my bare hands and eat his heart so that his life force might mingle with mine. I had detonated dead center in the tragio-hilarious human condition - the result was white hot comedy.

Or so I told myself. It was either that or give up entirely. Frankly, it could have gone either way.

In the sixteen months that followed, I worked extremely hard at avoiding "real jobs," as well as developing a deep sense of restlessness and learning to survive on 450 calories a day. And so my stand-up began to take shape. I’ve never wanted to do that whole "My problems, your comedy" thing. Angry punchlines, no matter how loudly they come through the speakers, never seemed like the right thing to do. I wanted my comedy to be positive, exemplary. I focused on dancing. It would be the centerpiece of my act. Lead-ins and bits would all revolve around dancing. This, I figure, is the comedy of the future.

When I arrived in Chicago, I made it my goal to take the scene by storm. I hit the open mics and started getting booked gigs. Not tons, but enough. I was working with some heavy hitters from Second City and making a name for myself as "that guy who dances, tells jokes, then dances some more."

So when Mark Geary, one of the key promoters for the Chicago Comedy Festival, called me and asked me to be a background dancer for Judy Tenuta, all I could say was, "Who?"

"Judy Tenuta, she was huge in the 80s, I can’t believe you don’t know who she is." Mark Geary is from Manchester, so everything he says sounds cool.

"I’ll do it."

"She’s got a pretty strong gay following. She plays the accordion. You must’ve seen her on the tele."

"I’ll do it, I said."

"Okay, can you get another fella on board? She wants two guys." Uncoordinated male friends stumbled through my head at an alarmingly slow pace. Tony Delio, a 200 pound style-cramper of the first order, settled easy at the front of my mind.

"No problem, Mark. Let’s do this thing."

He gave me Judy’s number and warned me that she might be a bit flitty. I laughed it off.

When I got her on the phone, I instantly remembered who she was. Judy Tenuta. With the accordion and legion of buff queers carrying her out on some sort of float. The way she said "Ooooo" in the fluttery sort of way, her "men are pigs" tag line, the brief marriage to Emo Phillips. I introduced myself and she squealed.

"This is going to be totally mental! The show is called 2001: A Love Goddessy, so in the beginning you’ll be bowing down to me and then this Madonna song will come on and you’ll roll around on the ground and..." She went on to describe several bits from the show and I did my best to pay attention, but horribly uneventful memories from early adolescence, the kind that involve tv, a remote and soul crushing boredom, would not leave me be. We agreed to meet an hour before the show and go over the particulars.

I was excited. I hadn’t gotten a chance to audition for the Comedy Fest, so becoming a last minute part of it was cool. Most of the people I told about the show seemed to know who Judy was, and playing the legendary Vic Theater was certainly an honor. Tony was jazzed, I was jazzed, and luck was on my side.

I arrived at the Vic as scheduled. It was 6:30, an hour before show time, and Judy was on stage. Her handler, a guy I’ll have to call Fredrick (he never gave me his real name) was kicking his feet around the stage, holding a mic in one hand and a diet Pepsi in the other. The young man at the keyboards spread his hands and wrought the opening strains of "Thus Spoke Zarathusa."

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, prepare yourselves for a riotous road of laughter and hilarity as we enter the world of the comedy future, 2001, A Love Goddessy! But first, her opening act and close personal friend, Madonna!"

"NO," came a voice from the theater. "It’s too long! Way too long, it has to be shorter, it’s too long!"

Tony and I had seen Judy’s picture in the paper. We agreed the photo was kind of hot, and working from fuzzy memory, we concluded that Judy was kind of hot. Seeing her in person, stress and anger wrapped long across her face was...uneventful.

I introduced myself and she greeted me graciously. The worries of the intro vanished from her mind and she was happy to meet me, excited to meet me. This was going to be tons of fun and where’s the other guy? I got up on stage and we rehearsed the 2001 opening for ten more minutes. I bowed down for that part.

Tony showed up and we ran through the rest of the show, supposedly cue to cue. Tony and I danced through something called Stud Surfing, brought out a sheep for some other song and presented sashes for a fashion show bit. Judy and Frederick were arguing, Christian the keyboardist was smiling into his lap and Tony and I were working out moves between sips of beer. We rehearsed the last song, some march about being from Chicago, and were hustled into the belly of the Vic.

Judy sequestered herself in her dressing room, leaving Tony and I out in the hall. We were shown into a large closet with a ripped up leather couch and a stained rug.

"You need something to drink?" the assistant stage manager asked us.

"Beer," we said.

"What’ll it be?"

"Oh, whatever’s cheap, easy. Whatever."

"Like a sixer?" she said, and held out her hand for cash. We reluctantly put a ten spot in her hand and told her to make it a dozen.

Frederick fluttered into our closet as the assistant left. His eyes had that ‘Here we go again / isn’t this a crazy life’ sort of droop to them. He held out a pair of T-shirts.

"Here you go, guys. These are from Judy."

The T-shirts said "Judy Tenuta, Love Goddess." Judy’s picture, the same one we saw in the paper, was plastered on front. We accepted the T-shirts with a nod and shut the door.

I’m usually not one to be given a great opportunity and then bad mouth it to the world on the internet, but I’m also usually not one to humiliate myself in public for a T-shirt. Don Rickles, it was said, got $40,000 for his appearance at the Comedy Fest. We figured Judy got at least $5,000 to $7,000. Then remember ticket prices were at $25 a head, and the theater was seating 600 (that’s 15 large for those of you without a calculator in the apple menu). Tony and I looked at the T-shirts and counted the change from the beer run. The assistant stage manager said,

"I took a brew for service charge. Cool?"

And so we began drinking. We stood in the little doorway of our closet and watched the backstage antics. Judy was freaking out over microphones and costume pieces, the warm up act was pacing nervously in the hall, a camera crew was getting it all. And Tony and I kept drinking, shooting the breeze about our girlfriends and what we might do after the show. Judy handed us several new props and gave us hurried, unclear instructions on what we were supposed to do with them and when. We nodded and kept drinking.

At one point, we were called into Judy’s dressing room for a pre-show prayer. We knelt on the ground and held hands and pretended this is what we’d be doing if the camera crew wasn’t there.

We changed into our costumes. We had picked them up at K-mart in the boy’s section. They were tiny, green shorts and T-shirt set. Meant for kids about half Tony’s size and weight, it was truly, truly ridiculous. Why had we chosen this as our costume? Should we even bother with the shorts?

"Of course we should," Tony said.

We were hustled up to the stage at about 8. Judy was freaking out about the opening act and the CD cues.

"What the fuck is he doing? Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to get off! What the fuck is going on! Frederick, can’t you do something and don’t forget that the Madonna thing comes right after...what the fuck is this asshole doing?!" Tony actually tried to calm her down, and it was a funny thing to see. Here was a man who had little to interest in comedy or performance, in a tiny green outfit, backstage at the Vic, taking an outdated, overpriced and egocentric comedian by the shoulders and saying, "It’s gonna be fine. You’re gonna be great. He’s getting off...right...now."

And just like that the warm-up act left the stage. Judy’s eyes shifted away from Tony she began whispering to Frederick, being sure to shoot a dirty look to opener as he came off stage. Tony looked at me and rolled his eyes and took a long drink of beer. I marveled at how someone who had been an incredibly successful comedian could harbor such negative energy immediately before she was to go and be funny. We were still drinking when Frederick told us to get out there, that the show was starting and we should be on stage bowing down as Judy walked out. We nodded in casually agreement and ran out, practically naked, in front of my mom, our girlfriends and 597 strangers.

After the opening number, Tony and I scooted backstage and took a look at the cue sheet. She was already skipping around like crazy. We had no idea what was coming next or when it would come, or even what to do when it did come. It made little difference. We half-listened to her set, still drinking and occasionally running downstairs for more beer. At one point, Tony remarked he had been more nervous for a practice PSAT test than he was for this gig. I was in total agreement. We’d hear something familiar and hop out on stage to dance around and act the fool. Every time we did, Judy’s body and eyes seemed to tense. She’d look at us as she rolled through her dated, recycled material, thinking, Who are these assholes and why didn’t I get buff gay studs who dance normal?

I can answer that for you, Judy. Give me a call and we’ll talk about it.

Judy plodded through her set and I stood backstage, thinking on what it all meant. It was my biggest gig to date. I was an unrehearsed background dancing for a headliner comedian forgotten two decades ago. Then and there, all those things meant very little. After tonight, she would go her way and I’d go mine and neither one of us would remember too much of what happened out there. But you know you’re part of something real and something unforgettable when you’re just out of view of 600 people (and literally behind the back of the embittered Head Stage Manager), watching your friend Tony Delio piss into a cup, winking at you. Because that’s funny.