Magic mic

Comedy night at Bamboo Lounge offers more than just laughs

Bamboo Lounge is one of a handful of old-school freestanding watering holes along Pine between Harvard and Memorial. Those bars—which include Angel’s and Keel’s Lounge—cater to the area’s blue-collar residents with pool, televised sports, and Internet jukeboxes perpetually in thrall to the latest country hit. 

Bamboo, one of Tulsa’s oldest gay bars, is different. Opened in 1957 (and closed and reopened several times since), its dour, anonymous exterior (save for a small neon sign) fits right in with its roughneck neighbors. But inside, the jukebox blasts mostly Top 40 pop, and green, blue, and pink club lights augment the ambience. 

On a particularly somber, quiet Tuesday night, three older men and a younger couple sit silently at the bar while a lonely trans woman sways mournfully through the room to Eminem’s “Superman.” A handful of small televisions run a crude, lo-fi, power-point montage of male models in various states of undress. Small, black, no-frills cocktail tables are peppered across the floor, arranged to face the modest stage area that plays host to karaoke, drag shows, and comedy nights. 

Table tents advertise a week-long celebration of the 45th anniversary of Stonewall, in conjunction with a handful of other Tulsa LGBT bars. At the center of the stage is a black monolith, a large amp that holds what appears to be a memorial of some sort—flowers flanked by two black and white photographs of a woman. 

The drinks are cheap; the selection is limited. Low-point Bud Select and Shock Top Wheat are the only draft choices, alongside a handful of bottled beer options. Kentucky Deluxe (a.k.a. Rotgut), that plastic-bottled king of limited-budget college drinking, is the well whiskey. 

I order a Shock Top and a Rotgut and watched the colored club lights change on the lonely, dancing woman.

Two nights later, the mood at the bar is loose and friendly. It’s comedy night. Brie Coquette, a Burlesque performer, event planner, and aspiring comic, is regaling the small crowd of 15 with an off-color story about the trials of admonishing children for using sexual language they don’t understand. In addition to her varying stage exploits, Coquette is also an elementary school teacher.

“So I very delicately explained what a clit is,” she deadpans. “And then the kid tells me, ‘OK I get what it is. But why do all the boys in class keep calling me that?’”The crowd chuckles politely. Coquette’s routine is not heavy on punch lines, but she delivers the blue anecdote affably and no one in this room is going to heckle her for not eliciting a laugh-a-minute. It’s easily the most polite open-mic crowd I’ve witnessed. The energy is positive and encouraging, and throughout the night the inevitable bombs delivered by each performer are met with sympathy laughs or respectful silence—no groans, no boos.

“I will leave you with the two things I tell my kids every day after class,” Coquette concludes. “One: Don’t make babies. Make good choices, don’t make babies. I know you’re going to do things that might make babies. But do things that will keep you from making babies. Thank you very much.” I wonder if the crowd of mostly gay men is right for a “don’t make babies” message.

An hour later, I tab out with the bartender and notice his right hand is housed in a latex glove. I ask him why; he holds his hand up so that I can see the vague outline of what looks like a nasty cut under the latex. “Had an accident. Gotta work, though,” he explains sheepishly. I look down next to the register and notice a candy bin full of condoms. “Don’t make babies.” I impulsively grab one.