Dude, where's my room?

Man, not long ago, I used to book this nifty little room. Simple stage, long, slim layout - not a bad place at all. We did several quality comedy gigs there, work that we could be proud of.

For a variety of reasons, for which no specific fault can fairly be assigned, I'm not with this venue any longer. It was sad to have lost out on a budding, regular comedy room, but the most troubling thing about the whole scenario is the way I found out they were moving on with comedy, but not with me: I saw a regional comic's Facebook status update that s/he'd be working in my backyard, at a very familiar location.

Uh.

Huh.

It's just that... it would have been nice to have been told, at some point ahead of time. Nobody owed me anything (although there was a pact of exclusivity early on, but even at that... it's complicated), but it would have been nice. Instead, it was like catching your girl making out with another guy, and having her tell you: "By the way, it's not working out." Suffice it to say, it was a little awkward.

Here's the good part: I've been doing awkward my whole, entire life. I eat, sleep and breathe awkward. The "A" in my DNA stands for Awkward. When I eat AlphaBits, all the letters line up to spell "AWKWARD." My blood type is "A," for... well, you get the idea. If I can't wade through a little awkwardness, then I might as well hang it up.

Whilst I mulled just how childishly to react to this turn of events, I got some very serendipitous advice from a hallowed corner of my social network: "Go. See the show. Smile, be happy and bear no grudge. For one thing, it's the right thing to do. And if anyone's got reason to be uncomfortable, playing it cool will drive them mad," was the gist of it. I may or may not have reached this level of wisdom on my own, but not so purely or quickly, I'm certain of it. So, I am definitely grateful for the nod in the right direction.

And so I did. Were there people there who wouldn't make eye contact? Sure. Did it trouble me? Hell no. I bought my ticket, ordered a drink and just had a ball. I chatted up the locals at my table. I watched the parallel comedies going on about me, on-stage and off. Afterwards, I had brief, pleasant conversations with the noteables in attendance, and made a point to make cheerful hellos to those who for some reason wouldn't look at me for the entire evening. It was positively joyous.

And from the minute I got there I saw the folly in the reactionary attitude I could have taken when I first learned that something was up: If had walked in there with a sour puss and a chip on my shoulder, I'd have been pissing in my own well. There was almost no reason anyway to cop an attitude, except for the simple, illusory pretense that I had reason to be put out. But if I had, I'd have alienated everyone there, rather than doing what I did do: enjoy myself and possibly, gently, allow anyone with ruffled feathers to be the source of their own ruffledness.

The moral of the story: don't be a dick.

Here's to the High Road: who knew the view would be so lush, and the ride so smooth?