Eventually Oswalt took his focus off the woman, and the nurse came back around to take our drink order and make sure that we were okay. I felt a strange elation — I had survived watching a heckle! The room was okay, I was okay, and dang, even the lady seemed okay. Her girlfriend had put an arm around her in comfort, though there was some debate at our table as to whether she had gotten up to run out of the place in the heat of the badgering. Some saw her stand up and be pushed back down by her friend, while others said she sat there like a champ (that's the problem with eyewitness testimony; it is wholly unreliable). I chose to believe she was fine and had emerged unscathed.

The Gang of Idiots and I huddled on the street afterward, chattering about the show. Some hardcore Oswalt followers were bemoaning the fact that he had rehashed some old material; others were saying it was the best time they had ever seen him. I was happy someone else had been berated instead of me. That's another cool aspect about mysteries, the Rashomon effect: one event, three different experiences. There is always a heightened feeling of camaraderie after you see a show with friends, though, and we survivors headed to the library (read: dive bar) for a cognac (read: PBR) to discuss things further.

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