Thu, Feb 11
Simon Amstell: I Love It Here
Somewhere in your phone is a note you wrote at two in the morning that you have never shown anyone, and it is either the truest thing you have ever written or completely humiliating, and you genuinely cannot tell which. Most comedy lets you off the hook for that. A smaller, stranger kind refuses to, and you walk out feeling weirdly lighter for having been caught.
Amstell built a whole career on that refusal. He was the acid host of a British panel show, quit being merely clever, and went off to make work about shame, family, and wanting to be loved more than is socially acceptable to admit. Hearing it in a two-hundred-eighty-seat room on La Cienega instead of a theatre is the difference between watching a person perform honesty and sitting close enough to see what it costs them. The no-phones rule matters more at this one than at most shows: nobody is clipping the vulnerable part for anyone else's feed.
This one starts at 7:30 rather than the room's usual 8, with doors at 7 and will call from 6. Afterwards people stand around on the sidewalk a while, not quite ready to drive home.
Somewhere in your phone is a note you wrote at two in the morning that you have never shown anyone, and it is either the truest thing you have ever written or completely humiliating, and you genuinely cannot tell which. Most comedy lets you off the hook for that. A smaller, stranger kind refuses to, and you walk out feeling weirdly lighter for having been caught.
Amstell built a whole career on that refusal. He was the acid host of a British panel show, quit being merely clever, and went off to make work about shame, family, and wanting to be loved more than is socially acceptable to admit. Hearing it in a two-hundred-eighty-seat room on La Cienega instead of a theatre is the difference between watching a person perform honesty and sitting close enough to see what it costs them. The no-phones rule matters more at this one than at most shows: nobody is clipping the vulnerable part for anyone else's feed.
This one starts at 7:30 rather than the room's usual 8, with doors at 7 and will call from 6. Afterwards people stand around on the sidewalk a while, not quite ready to drive home.
Amstell built a whole career on that refusal. He was the acid host of a British panel show, quit being merely clever, and went off to make work about shame, family, and wanting to be loved more than is socially acceptable to admit. Hearing it in a two-hundred-eighty-seat room on La Cienega instead of a theatre is the difference between watching a person perform honesty and sitting close enough to see what it costs them. The no-phones rule matters more at this one than at most shows: nobody is clipping the vulnerable part for anyone else's feed.
This one starts at 7:30 rather than the room's usual 8, with doors at 7 and will call from 6. Afterwards people stand around on the sidewalk a while, not quite ready to drive home.
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Simon Amstell: I Love It Here
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Thursday, February 11, 2027
7:30 PM PST – 10:30 PM PST
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Somewhere in your phone is a note you wrote at two in the morning that you have never shown anyone, and it is either the truest thing you have ever written or completely humiliating, and you genuinely cannot tell which. Most comedy lets you off the hook for that. A smaller, stranger kind refuses to, and you walk out feeling weirdly lighter for having been caught.
Amstell built a whole career on that refusal. He was the acid host of a British panel show, quit being merely clever, and went off to make work about shame, family, and wanting to be loved more than is socially acceptable to admit. Hearing it in a two-hundred-eighty-seat room on La Cienega instead of a theatre is the difference between watching a person perform honesty and sitting close enough to see what it costs them. The no-phones rule matters more at this one than at most shows: nobody is clipping the vulnerable part for anyone else's feed.
This one starts at 7:30 rather than the room's usual 8, with doors at 7 and will call from 6. Afterwards people stand around on the sidewalk a while, not quite ready to drive home.
Amstell built a whole career on that refusal. He was the acid host of a British panel show, quit being merely clever, and went off to make work about shame, family, and wanting to be loved more than is socially acceptable to admit. Hearing it in a two-hundred-eighty-seat room on La Cienega instead of a theatre is the difference between watching a person perform honesty and sitting close enough to see what it costs them. The no-phones rule matters more at this one than at most shows: nobody is clipping the vulnerable part for anyone else's feed.
This one starts at 7:30 rather than the room's usual 8, with doors at 7 and will call from 6. Afterwards people stand around on the sidewalk a while, not quite ready to drive home.
You found your people.
They didn't know each other before Falkor either.
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