No. 3 - A Comic is Born (Pt. 2)

The fates align... Or do they?

Sep 26, 2024

To recap: my first set was at a dive bar called Ralph’s, I overprepared and took a comedy class — well, technically, two comedy classes — and, yes, I ate a hamster turd once. Lots of you seem hung up on that detail, but I’ve moved on! Oh, and I also suffered from crippling anxiety sharing my creative work. Ralph’s. Hamster turd. Anxiety. I think we’re all caught up! But that doesn’t matter. This week, we’re jumping back to the first comedy show I saw in Ottawa. You can start here or read part one.

Months before taking the plunge and walking the comedic plank at Ralph’s, I was bickering with my boyfriend. This was a regular occurrence throughout the dark, cold winter of 2022. Covid had forced us to go from long-distance to unrelenting proximity, and we couldn’t hack it. We’d given it our best shot, but I’d recently moved out of his one-bedroom and into my own attic apartment in the Glebe. Thirty, flirty and thriving!

On this particular night, we sat around at his place watching clips on YouTube: some guy getting bitten by bullet ants, some guy drinking mayonnaise, some guy, maybe Ben Shapiro, offering insights on the WAP lyrics. I was tired and annoyed; of being inside, of places being closed, of political “discourse” limited to Tim Dillon’s perspective. I made my exit, trudging back towards my new spot.

Outside, the cold air was welcome. Snow began to fall. It was becoming harder to romanticize my relationship, but it was getting easier to romanticize my life.

Nearing my neighbourhood, I passed a small bar-like joint that had piqued my interest before on account of its peculiar name: Meow! That’s Hot. An illustration of a cat enmeshed in flame adorned their street sign, and I’d often wondered who had the entrepreneurial gonads for such branding. When I walked by, Meow! was usually closed. Blinds up and blacked out. Was it an abandoned animal shelter, a secret clubhouse, or a drug front? Who knew?

On this night, a Thursday, Meow! That’s Hot was animated and bright. Light shone through the front window, and a shadow moved against the white of the sidewalk. I wandered by and saw a man standing on a modest stage, microphone in hand. He was talking emphatically. I turned on my heel and veered inside, impulsively pushing open the door. I took the only seat available at the bar, wedged between a cute guy and a woman with strawberry-blonde hair. The woman was focused on the stage, laughing every so often, as I removed my mittens and parka, and ordered a Local Lager™ from the bartender.

The audience broke out in scattered applause, and the comedian on stage was replaced with a bald teenager… Or maybe he was a middle-aged man? I couldn’t tell.

He made a joke about looking like a sperm. This was accurate! I laughed loudly. The guy beside me smirked. Then Bald Boy™ made a joke about having cancer — I hoped this wasn’t true. I liked him. The beer was already hitting me, and I didn’t want him to die!

“The balding is genetic, not terminal,” he said. “I’m 20.”

He started in on a diatribe about hooking up with a girl who looked like his mom. I was riveted! The small audience roared — well, chuckled — and soon, he vanished from stage.

“Keep it going for Will Curley,” the host, Zach (I’d just learnt) said, returning. I clapped. “Let’s bring up your next comic…”

A tall dude wearing a balaclava took to the stage. He paced back and forth aggressively, reading from his phone. It appeared he was mocking the comics that came before him with jokes he’d just written. I was witnessing my first, in-person, live-action roast!

For effect on a particularly hard-hitting punchline, the comic pulled his ski mask up, revealing his face. I gasped — I knew this guy! J.P! My acupuncturist!

Months earlier, I’d reached out to him for treatment. [No one should be surprised I get acupuncture — I love the attention!] We’d gone through my entire medical history together: acne, mental health, STIs and all. Then, I lay down on a treatment table while he put needles in my arms, feet, face, and at the very top of my head: the meeting of the 100s, the point where all energy converges.

Now, here he was, on stage. I couldn’t help but laugh. I was aghast!

J.P. made a joke about someone named Joke Dispenser 1000. “From now on, I want to be referred to as Joke Dispenser 1000 and 1!” The guy beside me laughed heartily. This joke wasn’t as hard-hitting as the others, but it was cute.

J.P. finished his set, the show ended, and folks started chatting. It appeared everyone was friends.

The guy beside me subtly angled his body towards me.

“What did you think?” He asked.

“That was fun!” I replied. “I want to try!”

“You should!” He said.

“How’d your set go?” I asked. “You’re a comic, right?”

“Oh, great. Best set of the night,” He said. “Sorry, you missed it.”

J.P. walked past.

“Hey!” I said— catching him off-guard. “I know you!”

“Hi,” J.P. replied, eyeing up the guy beside me. “You two friends?”

“We just met,” I smiled.

“Okay.” J.P. seemed amused, like there was something I was missing. We chatted for a bit and then he politely excused himself to join a table of comics at the back of the room. I envied their camaraderie, wanting a place at their table.

I turned back to the guy beside me.

“Why do you go by Joke Dispenser?” I asked, inferring who he was.

“I like the privacy of a persona,” he replied.

Dear reader, I am a trusting person. I am a naive person. I saw no reason not to proceed in having a measured conversation with this man. I learned we were the same age. I learned where he worked and all kinds of details about him. I shared freely and amply and saw nothing unusual about this interaction. I was being social.

So, when the night ended and we started walking in the same direction, I shrugged it off as happenstance. Ottawa can feel like a small town!

“Later!” I waved, when we finally reached my street.

He stood there for a moment.

“Where are you heading?” I asked, confused.

“Oh, back to Centretown. I couldn’t let a girl walk home alone.”

Hmm.

I continued to my house. Content with the evening. Inspired. I was certain 2022 was the year, I’d try stand-up comedy!

Maybe I hadn’t come to Ottawa for a relationship or a job or out of pandemic-driven boredom. Maybe, the universe had led me to here to start doing amateur stand-up comedy!

It’s been two and half years since this went down and my delusion has evaporated. Well, about this.

I’m fairly certain I wasn’t drawn to our nation’s capital — by the universe, no less — to become an amateur comedian, to lurk around the basement at Swizzles, to shock the elderly with sexual act-outs and weird overshares, to interrupt kind men watching football games, or to say mean, nasty, cruel things to people I genuinely like for entertainment…

The universe didn’t make that happen. I did.

It only feels inevitable, like a force unknown, because, who really, would choose this? But, I did. I did. And I do.

Then again! — the more I read about the universe and the formation of galaxies and physics and all the forces outside of free will, I am compelled to remain deluded about the mystery of this life. There is a beautiful magic to it. A narrative richness! One where the truth is often stranger than fiction, and stories take bizarre and synchronistic turns…

Exactly a year later, after I’d done 53 comedy shows, my phone buzzed against the granite of a countertop. Joke Dispenser 1000 had texted me. He had used a new number. One I hadn’t had a chance to block yet.

You know what, Danika? At least I have the talent and discipline to back my delusions.

I think the last time I’d messaged him I’d said, something like, leave me alone, you’re deluded — but in earnest I can’t remember my exact wording. I knew I used the word deluded in some context because he kept repeating it.

What do you have? The message read. Anyone who’s ever told you you’re funny enough to perform in front of a live audience has been enabling your delusions… Your newsletter has been coming soon for 3 fucking months…

He had a point there. I mean, I just started publishing it now. Touché.

You haven’t been able to post a single fucking joke on your Twitter.

True. But I also hadn’t cared to.

‘Oh, I went to comedy school and now I’m a comedian.’ Okay lady.

That made me laugh! I kept reading.

I reached out cos I thought that chick I used to know will turn 33 soon and that’s too old. She wanted my cock in her holes perhaps I should give her a chance before she turns into an old hag. Go fuck yourself you dumb cunt.

If you had gotten on your knees and begged for my cum, if you had slurped every last drop of liquid gold that comes out of my balls, you could’ve become a tad bit more amusing. Good fucking riddance.

And then, the next day:

You’re so fucking dumb you don’t even realize how much I love you, you stupid bitch.

When people ask me what it’s like being a woman in comedy I say, it’s good. Because it is! It’s easier to get stage time. Some audiences are more generous with their laughter. Others aren’t — but that’s true for everyone. I genuinely feel respected by my peers. I have plenty of mentors; in my community and on HBO. My closest Ottawa pals are other women in comedy or adjacent to it. But also, I think every woman in comedy (or outside of it) has a story like this… some are better, some are far worse.

So when Kate says, “Hey you need to stop saying your address on stage.”

And I go, “Did I do that?”

And she says, “That’s twice now.”

I laugh, and then, I take her concern seriously.

To be continued…
Next week is a none-comedy issue,
but we’ll be back at Ralph’s soon!

Thanks for reading. I feel compelled to say this is a work of auto-fiction. Liberties have been taken, some small details have been changed, on account of lapsed memory and imperfect recall. But also, I have the screenshots and text receipts.

If you’ve made it this far, please consider liking, sharing or subscribing. Then I don’t have to pedal my work on social media where my mom’s friends can find it!