No. 2 - A Comic is Born (Pt. 1)
Let's get this over with.
This week, we will talk about stand-up comedy—specifically, the lead-up to my first time.
Writers, creatives and comedians often share what is called a beginner’s mind, meaning they approach the world with curiosity, looking at the mundane through a lens of awe and amusement. I appreciate this, the beginner’s mind, because even in my mid-thirties, I feel that my brain, and my pussy, are still quite youthful and new! This is what it’s like to self-publish, hey? Amazing!
I bring this up because me writing about stand-up is like a grade three student writing about academia. It’s a limited perspective, but it’s still valid, I guess.
I performed my first comedy set on September 28, 2022, at Ralph’s, a sports bar with putrid walls and cold tile floors. The joint doubled as a sandwich shop called Fat Albert’s — their brand strategy was confusing, but their subs were delicious, the way sandwiches made of cheap bread and cheap processed cheese often are. On this particular night, a spotlight shown on an indiscriminate section of floor, beneath two large TVs, still on, but tastefully muted. There was no mic stand; rather, the microphone lulled in a tangle on one of the tables.
Earlier that day, I’d written “spot” impulsively on a call-out for comics in the Ottawa Comedy Community Facebook group. I was selected within the hour, and when I saw my name tagged in the lineup, I felt a rush of adrenaline and a sense of complete dread. What was I thinking?
The story of me contemplating stand-up comedy starts earlier than this. The story of me thinking I was (or could be) a funny person begins before that:
I remember a truth-or-dare incident at a slumber party where I ate a hamster turd to make my cousins laugh — it worked! I remember writing a family newsletter where I roasted my siblings in Weekend Update-style briefings. And, I remember a particularly successful show-and-tell in the 8th grade, where I told the story of attempting to charm an older boy by wearing a skort on a hiking trip. A skort! The story climaxes with an act-out of me, seated upon an anthill, getting my vulva torn up by red ants. Telling the story was more fulfilling than living through it, and since, I’ve found that to be true often.
Comedy was also a way to relate to my brothers and earn their respect. We would sit around listening to Dane Cook’s Harmful If Swallowed on CD and watch The Master of Disguise on repeat. We didn’t have taste, but we had enthusiasm! Comedy shortened our age gap and interest gap. It made us friends. I wasn’t the older sister when we were watching Hot Rod. I was one of the boys. And I wasn’t Mom 2.0 while we were watching Tosh 2.0. I was a buddy, a pal.
In my early twenties, my interest in comedy grew. I produced a handful of stand-up comedy shows. I was one of eight audience members when Nikki Glaser performed at my campus bar — we didn’t know how lucky we were! And with fascination, I watched a couple of friends try their luck on stage. The results were varied.
One friend — let’s call him Matt —invited our entire Documentary Screenwriting 300 class to a show. Red in the face and slurring his set-ups, he flubbed every joke. My cynical journalism cohort enjoyed watching Matt bomb. They sat back in their seats, smirking and occasionally catching each other’s eyes, widening or rolling them where appropriate. They winced, forcing the occasional “Ha!”
While I was amused, I didn't take pleasure in any of this. Instead, I felt a deep sense of mortification for Matt. It hurt.
The term cringe would not be popularized until 2019 — though I’m no historian! Still, I knew this feeling to be worse than shock, or fear, or disdain. I knew it to be the same feeling that caused my cousin Keshia to bury her head in the pillows during every Noah Baumbach movie we watched. This girl could sit through Human Centipede without blinking, but one scene with Ben Stiller flailing his way through a romantic encounter and she’d be watching through her fingertips. That’s the power of cringe! And yeah, I have yet to invite Keshia to a comedy show.
See, cringe raised the stakes. Seeing someone bomb meant any notion I had of being a decent performer would be hedged against the risk of causing someone more harm than joy. Knowing that you’ve caused someone to have this awful, visceral, second-hand experience (akin to waterboarding, really) makes any attempt at creativity feel extra vulnerable. EVEN THIS.
Matt’s story seemed like the worst possible outcome. He appeared to have no idea how unfunny he was. He kept inviting droves of our peers to partake in this spectacle. He started a podcast.
Conversely, another friend, Jordan — we can use his real name —started comedy quietly. He kept it to himself and didn’t tell his friends until he was opening for touring acts. Jordan was funny and charismatic and joked about having such a prominent eyebrow ridge that a small woman could take shelter beneath it in a rainstorm. When I saw his set at the Comic Strip in West Edmonton Mall, the audience sat captivated. He oozed likability and relatability, and it wasn’t just his fantastic, sexy eyebrows. On stage, he was the best friend everyone wished they had —a true, inherent talent.
Once, after seeing Jordan perform, he introduced our group of giggly twenty-year-olds to the headliner, a comic from LA with tussled hair and dimples. Maybe you know the one. He indulged us. He was stuck in Edmonton with nothing better to do, and we were young and adoring; a formula that gets some comics laid, but I had more serious intentions. I peppered him with questions about writing, crowd-work, and life on the road. I told him how much I wanted to try comedy myself.
“You should do it.” He said. “You have a great look for it.” I hung to these words. I took them to mean I was pleasant-looking but in a goofy, warped, approachable way, like Amy Poehler or Kristen Wiig or Mr. Bean.
For years after that, whenever a guy rejected me, I’d tell myself, it’s okay; I have an excellent look for stand-up comedy! An excellent look!
I forgot about stand-up for a while, save for one-hour specials. My twenties were spent striving for a career, a partner, and a home. It wasn’t until I had acquired these things (and proceeded to lose them) that I felt confident in sharing my creative work. I started timidly writing short stories during slow afternoons at my day job, but it didn’t come easy.
Once, after submitting my first narrative piece to a workshop, I spent an entire weekend crying under my duvet, forcing my boyfriend at the time to anaconda himself around me and whisper reassurances. The elective vulnerability of the process had rattled me. Every word I wrote reflected my self-worth, intellect, and misshapen interiority. I chastised myself for being someone compelled to share, unable to stop.
With practice, or rather, exposure therapy, I pushed forward. I published a couple of pieces. I signed up for more workshops. I took a comedy class. I dropped out of that comedy class, still too scared of the stage.
Disappointed in myself, I took another comedy class, forcing myself to face the discomfort. Do it once, I thought, on your own, before the end-of-class showcase. That’s basically how I found myself at Ralph’s, telling a man named Owen McGowan how to pronounce my name before he brought me up on stage.
A lot of comedians scoff at the idea of a comedy class. And I get it. Comedy has no barrier to entry. You don’t need to give some guy three hundred bucks to get on stage. You can show up at a bar, throw your name in a bucket, and be granted a captive audience for 6 minutes any night of the week in Ottawa or Edmonton — the metropolitans they are!
It helps to speak English, but even that isn’t a firm prerequisite. It's good to have jokes written, but many people don’t. They assume, often incorrectly, that their comedic genius will materialize in the moment. That they will take hold of the microphone, and every droll observation, every witty thought, every lousy Hinge date, every drug experience, every breakup, every specific, adorable thing their kid does, will suddenly transform into a succinct set chock full of perfect punchlines. Nobody needs a class, but a class makes this improbability clear.
“You don’t understand,” I told a friend the other day. “I took a comedy class because I was terrified of even holding a microphone!”
“Huh?”
“I wanted to learn to pull it out from its little holder and then confidently set the stand behind me. I wanted to look smooth, polished!”
“You are such a dork,” he replied.
To be continued…
Thanks for reading L’After Party! Please like, comment, forward and subscribe! I’m still ironing out specifics, such as tone of voice, subject matter and publication frequency, but having you along for the ride has made this fun!
If you happen to be in Ottawa, you can see the culmination of all this anxiety and contemplation Monday, September 16 at Absolute Comedy, Wednesday, September 18 at il Vicolo, Thursday, September 19 at Pour Boy, or Sunday, September 22 at Yuk Yuks. Some of these are open mics. You’re always welcome to put your name in the bucket and give it a shot. 😉 <3
Hamster turd?! 🐹