Greg Proops has been a peripheral comedic presence in my life since childhood: a sort of bespectacled, sexually ambiguous Fred Schneider character; the guy I liked slightly less than Ryan Stiles on Whose Line Is It Anyway?; a standup I've seen a million times but never bothered to remember much about. Then, earlier this year, I watched Proops perform in a tiny, dim lounge in Los Angeles—a swift, breathless, blistering, 30-minute rant that somehow swept the entire universe of pop culture (cocksucking, cocaine, Kardashians) into one perfect moment of performance art. My apologies for the past 27 years, Proops. I fucked up. (The Parlor, 700 Bellevue Way NE, 425-289-7000. 7:30 pm, $20–$30, 21+.)