Community Theater

The building looks just like all the others - red brick walls slouch upon the grass and bare metal stairs look smoky in the sunlight. Almost faded from rain and wear, painted words appear on the building's side. One would hardly guess that, beneath such a common exterior, an age-old, thriving subculture attracts hundreds of people each weekend.

The place is Charlie Goodnight's, and it is one of the most popular stand-up comedy joints in the country. Located just off North Carolina State University's campus in Raleigh, Goodnight's has been the only one of its kind in the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area for over 20 years. Nominated by Citysearch.com as one of the "Best Singles Scenes in the Triangle," word has spread that Goodnight's offers not only a great show, but a rare chance to bond with both performers and fellow audience members in the temporary community that stand-up comedy creates.

As we approach the club, my friend Jessica and I feel overdressed in our nice black pants and heels; the people around us wear flip-flops and jeans. We walk inside and are immediately greeted by a collection of framed smiles: black-and-white headshots of comedic greats who have performed at the club line the hallway. There's Dennis Miller and Chris Rock; Jay Leno and Ellen DeGeneres; a young-looking Rosie O'Donnell and a dapper-looking Jon Stewart. Cheeky messages are scrawled upon the images in black Sharpie, all expressing appreciation for the club we are entering.

The night's headliner is Mitch Hedberg, an almost-famous comedian who has graced the stages of The Late Show with David Letterman and HBO's Comedy Showcase. His comedy is described as "alternative," and according to the club, his routine is rated "R." We learn that two other comedians will open for him.

A waitress leads us to our seats, which are, incidentally, as close to the stage as one can possibly sit. The ceiling is a twisted jumble of pipes, wires and lights, coated in black paint to hide the mechanical nakedness. Crude brick walls enclose the main room, and rows and rows of bare black tables form a sea of circles within. The house lights soon go down and "Low Rider" pumps from the speakers. Leroy Seabrooks, the host and opening act, runs on stage. Vulgar and profane, Seabrooks' routine is disturbingly hilarious. "I got me a trophy girlfriend," he tells us. "But the thing is, she ain't pretty. She's like a trophy for ninth place in a ping-pong tournament."

He then announces that he's been drug-free for two years, and everyone claps and cheers in docile empathy. An array of drug and alcohol jokes follow. His routine becomes more and more self-deprecatory, and the laughter grows to a roar. He wears his vices on his sleeve, and the audience eats it up.

I find myself wondering: What makes it possible for Seabrooks to trivialize and even get a laugh out of his shortcomings when most of us try to stash them away? When I discuss the show later with Duke sociology professor Linda George, she notes that part of stand-up's appeal is the feeling it gives audience members of being connected, of being a part of something bigger. "Humor is a learned skill," George says. "We decide as a society what we think is funnyâ_|. When we engage in humor and laugh at the same things as our peers do, we're demonstrating that we're an insider, that we're really a part of the culture. Humor is used a lot to define insiders and outsiders. It can be used to create bonds and create divisions. Everyone just wants to fit in."

The subject of his criticism soon shifts from himself to specific groups of people. He makes fun of blacks and Puerto Ricans; Guatemalans and gays; psychiatrists and women; and several others. Faces in the audience display alternating emotions. Some blush with recognition, others gasp in shock. Still others show pure elation, as if, by justifying his sins with humor, this self-effacing entertainer is absolving them of theirs. Even as he addresses extremely sensitive issues, the laughter continues in cathartic bursts.

Commenting later on this style of stand-up, George attributes its appeal to the taboo-breaking it embodies. "All of us have things that we'd like to say and do, but we don't [do them]" George says. "It can be a real 'up' to encounter someone who will say and do these thingsâ_|. If we can mask taboos or social norms with humor, it's a good way to get away with it, so to speak."

But not all comedians decide that taboo-shattering is the best approach.

Hedberg, the headliner, swaggers onto the stage - more refined, his routine is based less on criticizing others and more on spewing off one-liners and observations of absurd details. He is tall and lanky and dressed in cords, clogs and a patterned button-down shirt. He looks like he walked straight out of Haight-Ashbury, and he talks like it too. His detached, pothead-sounding delivery is key, as he turns otherwise-lame comments into hilarious punch lines:

"Dogs are forever in the push-up position."

"Why do they say that ants live in farms anyway? They don't farm anything. Plus, if you pull off all their arms and legs they look like snowmen."

Throughout his whole routine Hedberg sways back and forth and keeps his eyes closed behind aviator sunglasses. A waitress walks on stage at one point and presents him with a fresh gin and tonic (he has finished his first), yet he fails to notice her until the audience yells his name. He makes fun of his own laziness and lack of motivation, and he mocks his own jokes and thoughts. He has the audience shaking with laughter.

Toward the end of his act, I realize that my facial muscles are sore and my teeth are dry - I have been smiling for almost two hours straight. I look out into the sea of faces and the audience is transfixed. All eyes are focused on Hedberg and the riotous waves of laughter are continuous. With my spirits lifted, I feel as if I've been attending a type of comedic revival: The comedians have roused the audience and confirmed that we are sinners. They've cured us of our guilt through humor and perspective. They've revealed themselves with humility and granted revelation. They've trembled and sweat and preached about humanity, and they've given audience members the sense that we are not so bad after all.

After the show, I look around. Empty beer bottles and drink glasses clutter the tables, and smiles linger. I chat with some of the people around me - everyone seems content. An atmosphere of giddiness and euphoria pervades the rising audience. After laughing together for nearly two hours, we feel connected to one another; this wasn't just a comedy show we attended, but an electrifying affirmation of our own flawed humanity.