The past week has certainly been better for me than it has been for DJ AM. Last Monday night I opened a show at NYC's Blender Theater for the band Me Talk Pretty, who have just been nominated for a 2009 MTV VMA. (If you haven't heard their stuff, they are an amazing band based out of New York City and you need to visit their site—after this article.) There were 600 screaming audience members there not to see me, and I still managed to pull off a really good set.

Blender Theater with Mike Cannon on the outside marqueeI was basically a glorified hype man, which made me feel like the fella from the And 1 Mix Tape videos who always screams "Ooooh BABY!" even though someone just threw a no look pass into the 8th row. I actually managed to sneak in a few of my jokes as well. I opened with this doozy: "Everybody, we've lost a member of the music community, everyone give it up for DJ AM." The crowd predictably exploded. "It's really crazy that this happened everyone. DJ AM survived a plane crash…and then died on the day Final Destination came out." The punchline was met with momentary confusion, followed by raucous laughs and a few "oh my god's." Perfect.

Lil Wayne and Baby kissingI was even able to pull off something I've always dreamed of doing. It seems every comedian wants to be a rock star. It's incredibly appealing to have people sing along to songs they've heard a million times, rather than have them curse and scream at you for a joke they heard the last time they saw you. I, on the other hand, would much rather be a rapper. I love the fact that they can come hopping out on stage and do whatever the fuck they want to do. It would be amazing to stroll on stage in a comedy club and slap a dude in the face with a stack of bills, and make it rain on bitches' titties. So with that in mind, I stopped telling jokes and said "Alright, you emo crackers. When I say ME TALK, you say PRETTY!" "ME TALK! – PRETTY! – ME TALK! – PRETTY!" For that few fleeting seconds, I felt like Lil Wayne up in that bitch.

As a comedian, the elation that comes along with a good set lingers much shorter than the funk of an awful night; it's funny how quickly reality can smash you in the face like a steel-covered strap-on. I had a ROD of an erection for the remainder of Monday night all through the next day at work. But Tuesday night I had the privilege to perform in front of five of Times Squares' worst tourists. I went from screaming into a microphone to 600 fans likely rolling on ecstasy, to feeling like I was speaking into a bullhorn six inches away from somebody's date.

Miley Cyrus in sexy clothesIt's truly amazing how much a bad audience can determine my mood for days and even weeks to come. All of these seemingly meaningless people in the grand scheme of my life hold the keys to my immediate mental health. Monday night I was ecstatic, spending money that I don't have—on dinner. Then Tuesday, I was so distraught I went home, sat alone in the dark, and lip synched to Miley Cyrus for three straight hours. That last part usually happens regardless of my mood, but I've found that Miley works when I'm blue, and Hannah brings the sunshine in. I love that quirky little whore.