The Scene That Never Was Part 2

The second installment of an underground comedy scene that shaped lives and broke hearts.

When I first moved to Boston, I didn’t have an apartment or a job, and I slept in the Nissan Altima that I would use to drive for Uber. To you, that may sound like a desperate lifestyle, but to the people at Ed’s basement, that was a responsible work-life balance. I remember telling people at Ed’s that I would drive 20-50 people in my car every day before turning it into a place to sleep, and many of them replied by saying, “damn, that's a good idea—why didn't I think of that?” Thanks to my peers, I actually saw my living situation as a positive. I thought paying rent was a waste of money, and that having a steady job would only impede my ability to do comedy. I opted for the more noble lifestyle of driving strangers around while trying to explain why there was a sleep mask and toothbrush on the back seat. My other activities during the day included showering at the YMCA, and stealing from the grocery store. When the sun began to set, I would drive to Allston, excited to see people in Ed's basement who were living worse than I was.

The programming schedule at Ed’s was unique. At most comedy venues, you would pitch a show to the owners, who would then workshop the idea with you and try to determine if it would be a good fit for their establishment. At Ed’s, you would go up to one of the people who lived in the house, huff a huge whippit, and say, "hey, I want to do a show" while you tried not to pass out. Then, the person you were speaking to would take whatever whipped cream canister or computer cleaner bottle you were holding, take a hit themselves in a sort of peace pipe ceremony, and reply, "don't tell me any more—the answer is yes. Whatever you do, I want it to be a surprise. Also, do you have a cigarette?"

This development process led to a number of amazing shows, and a lot of equally amazing train wrecks. While the shows always changed, the open mic was a weekly fixture in the basement and was its main attraction.It had upwards of sixty sign ups a night in its heyday. That meant that if you showed up later in the night, you would get to hang out at Ed’s for hours while you waited for your spot--or, you were forced to hang out at Ed’s for hours, depending on how you look at it. You would sit on one of the fabric camping chairs and watch a few comics, then go upstairs to the living room or outside to the alleyway, where there would be several circles of conversation which resembled a choose your own adventure video game. You could go out the back door and hear Ed wax poetic about his time doing theater in Los Angeles, which was surprising to learn, because he looked like a big rig operator. You could go into the living room and watch Dave Tyler try to hit a weed pen for five minutes before he realized that it was actually just a regular pen that was left on the living room table. Or you could turn to the couch and sit with the most unthinkable assortment of burnouts, crust punks, posers, and straight-laced open mic-ers that had made their way to Ed’s assuming it was a regular open mic and were horrified by what they found. Some would-be comedians would show up to the house, look around, and leave. Others would stay but keep their hands in their laps all night out of fear of touching anything, as if poverty and squalor were transmutable diseases.