Before going on stage to open the Laugh Factory's New Year's Eve show this past Sunday, a large, black dude in a rabbit fur pimp jacket nervously approached me. He flashed a mouth full of metal and minerals and introduced himself as "Alad."

Alad had the grill and the ubiquitous bling bling that spoke of surreptitious corporate activity and furtive envelope exchanges.

For a second, I thought he wanted to beat my ass for the edgy/borderline offensive race material that has slowly been earning me a reputation in stand-up circles for being fearless and/or crazy and/or stupid. It wouldn't be the first time.

I had my life threatened at the Los Angeles Laugh Factory about a year ago. I was onstage, riffing on the audience, when I saw another gangsta clad in the puffy fur of small dead animals seated at a table by the stage. It looked like he was with a couple of the bitches from his stable.

I said to him, "What poor thing had to die for you to wear that awful jacket? ... Let me guess ... your Auntie?"

Pimp Bunny Fu-fu stood up, pointed at me evenly with a straight bedazzled digit, and walked out of the club. The ladies followed suit.

Apparently, he promptly pimp strolled to the front entrance and told the manager of the LA club, Mr. Woods, that he would have "shot" me if he "weren't there with his Auntie."

I mean, what are the chances that I insult a man that generally and happen to offend him THAT specifically?

Who would have known that one of the two hoochie-mammas on either side of him was his aunt and that he actually referred to her as his "Auntie?" What can you say about that, other than "SWISH!!!"

Pimp Nephew left his business card with Mr. Woods. When I finished my set, Mr. Woods called me over and showed me it: it said "Death Row Records" with the simple title of "producer" at the bottom. When I looked closer, I could have sworn I saw blood on it. In retrospect, it might just have been hot sauce.

Oh, shit, I thought, when Alad shook my hand.

"Yo, can you help me out?" he said.

It turns out Alad wanted my help in proposing to his long-time girlfriend before the ball dropped (and, from the look of his leathery skin, about 50 years after HIS balls dropped).

Since I walk the line between innocent, hopeless romantic and drunken, shit-stirring imp, I figured this could only be a win-win situation. One of those itches was bound to get scratched. The part of me that aligns with the former compelled me to ask Alad:

"Hey, buddy, are you sure she's going to say YES?"

"Yeah, yeah, absolutely!"

"Cuz you realize it's going to sucks balls for everyone, especially YOU, if she says no."

"N-no, she won't."

I never thought I could say this about a guy with a grill ... but he was acting very cute.

Big Daddy Kane was stuttering and nervous. He was jumping up and down and pacing. It was adorable. So, I agreed to help him. It's not often that you get to be directly responsible for a public proposal. This shit was going to be interesting.

As the night wore on, I did my goofy "I'm a happy clown!" MC shtick and, in between, leaned against the bar sipping on my Jack and looking bemused at Alad, who kept bouncing on his seat and excusing himself to go to the bathroom. It looked like he was either coked up or had a urinary tract infection.

The moment neared and the last comic onstage started to wrap up his set. The crowd was warm and loose as I took the stage.

I brought off the closer, did some "yay team let's clap" stuff, and then said that I wanted to bring my good friend Alad up for a guest spot.

Kool Mo Dee got up, nervous as shit, and started telling jokes about "crackers."

Had I been hoodwinked?

Then, he asked his girlfriend to come up on stage with him. His "boo" was all tits and ass. She looked like a treble clef -- the undercurve of her breasts almost seamlessly flowed into the top shelf of her ass, seemingly uninterrupted by the presence of ribs and internal organs.

Alad stammered for a bit and told her that he loved her.

She was genuinely shocked as he awkwardly reached in his pocket, produced a gaudy square foot of bling that seemed to exactly match his earrings.

Alad pulled up on his black slacks and awkwardly dropped to one knee.

"Will you marry me?" he asked.

Or at least I think that's what he asked. It was impossible to hear - the place had erupted in hoots and applause! Alad was getting the standing ovation that I can never seem to get.

He and Treble Clef came to a trembling embrace as the general manager rushed over to me to basically say, "Hey, now get them the fuck offstage!"

I sheepishly went up onstage and told the audience to applaud for the new couple as I gently nudged Alad in the direction of "off."

For a brief moment, as I looked out into the audience, I could tell that everyone in there believed in the sanctity and beauty of that moment. They believed in love, in life, in commitment, and in the promise of a new year.

I cued the booth to lower the screen so the audience could watch the live footage of the ball dropping just a few blocks away.

I got off the stage and looked around at all the rejuvenated couples, all the hopeful singles. I grabbed my Jack Daniels and slunk against a column, wondering about the day I will inevitably propose.

Right now, I picture myself doing it in private, on the kitchen floor, saying something very immediate and appropos like, "So... are you going to keep it?"

But, hey, maybe there is something about these grand public gestures and this true love shit.

Maybe it is what gives people just enough hope to get up in the morning when all that faces them on the other side of those 15 consecutive snooze button swats is a crappy, thankless job. I wouldn't know about that, though...I don't have one of those things. Those "job" thingies. The last time I heard a snooze button swat I was sleeping with a girl in high school. For legal purposes, I won't disclose when that was.

I swelled with optimism. I felt like the Grinch; my heart expanded 3 sizes that night. I felt at one with humanity. I felt that everyone in the club that night was my friend and that we all shared a moment we will, in some way, remember for the rest of our lives.

As the lights got dimmer, and the rude awakening of a buffed and polished Ryan Seacrest appeared 8 feet high and luminous on the backdrop, I got a little emotional thinking about the proposal.

Beaming, I turned to Alad and asked him, "When did you know, man?"

He said, "I don't know, we've only been dating for 2 months."

I nodded and turned back to look at the giant disco orb descend into another year.

Oh yeah, and all that swelling optimism?

It was completely gone the second Alad answered my question.

It was time to finish my Jack and go the fuck home.

Posted by Bill Dawes at 1:02 PM

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