Featuring Diana Jordan.
There is a lasciviously voyeuristic aspect to a male viewing a comedy show written by, performed by, and intended “for women only.” The amazing — or not-so-amazing, given Diana Jordan’s keen wit and wisdom — thing is that the men guffaw and belly-laugh as loudly as the ladies — another credit to Jordan for her ability to get her targets to laugh at their own foibles.
What Jordan offers is the opportunity for women to get together and laugh at their love-hate relationship with the male pig.
It’s a chance for “girl’s night out” without having to shove a dollar bill down the front of some half-naked man’s pants (though by the rowdiness of this crowd, it’s probable that they’d enjoy that, also).
Jordan’s material runs the gamut from bawdy to bitchy, from insinuating to insightful.
Some of her topics include women running the country, women inventors, and a female God.
In one particularly funny segment, she points up the fact that everything painful to women begins with the male gender: men-opause, men-tal illness, men-stral cycle, and hys-terectomy.
Jordan does admit the need for men: after all, someone has to take the blame.
Jordan, a 10-year vet of stand-up, knows her audience and plays to them with acumen.
Several times she expertly shows her roots as a lounge singer, but it’s Jordan the writer/comedian who shines.
Showing great range, she closes the show with a poignantly funny prediction at herself at age 70 in the whiskey-voiced, cigarette-smoking persona, Pepper.
The entertainment value for women is obvious.
For men, Jordan provides a comic look at male insensitivities that are guaranteed to provide thought as well as chuckles. Quite simply, her “for women only” show isn’t for women only.