It's interesting to see that an act like his that focuses almost exclusively on genitalia doesn't draw the kind of nocturnal demimonde crowd that understands sexual intrigue, the play and mystery of sex, its layers of darkness and complication (though there were enough Hollywood types in the high-price seats to fill up nearly 30 limos parked outside). Perhaps that's because [Andrew Dice Clay] is such a cartoon-the bluntness of his remarks fill up invisible panels over his head. Hickory Dickory Dock, Ka-POW! "She takes off her panties. Welcome to the jungle!" Ka-BOOM!

For that, Clay is a man of his time. But there's another, deeper source to his unmistakably visceral appeal (the cheer goes up to meet him like it would from a fight crowd). The burly weightlifters, high school athlete types, tarty looking girls, beer-swillers and tattooed swaggerers all look to him as some kind of icon of prowess (now and then you saw guys leaning on their cars and drinking in the parking lot before the show, while his routines played out of their tape decks). This bunch is not in any information age vanguard, and must feel the squeeze of Reaganomics and the current recession. Add AIDS, gay rights and-to them-the spectral rise of feminism, and you have a '90s version of a lonely crowd.