The Forty Days

I had three separate, vivid dreams last night.  In the first dream, I befriend a talking llama named Sammy, and we become buddy-buddy cops who hunt down an international jewel thief.  In the second dream, I am on a stage surrounded by friends and strangers, who are all looking at me and just sitting there waiting for me to make them laugh.  In the final dream, I am in high school and have to attend a day-long Saturday detention with other students who represent different segments of high school society–a jock, a misfit, a princess, etc.  Although we dislike each other at first, we begin to discuss the trials and tribulations of teen life, thereby gaining an appreciation that each person transcends his or her stereotype.  And guess what??!!  The third dream really happened last night!!  Wait . . . no . . . no, I’m sorry.  It was the second dream that really happened.  The third dream is the plot of The Breakfast Club.  My bad.

When the idea of doing stand-up at an open-mic night at a comedy club is first suggested by my friends, I love the idea but question whether I have the cojones to actually do it.  I picture standing on stage hearing complete silence, seeing various audience members shake their heads in disappointment, and my second grade drama teacher in the back of the room saying, “I made you play a tree in our production of American History X for a reason.”  But when a friend puts me in touch with Mason Lerner, a local comic and freelance writer who knows the Austin stand-up scene, I know what I have to do.  (Mason writes a hilarious sports column for The Faster Times, which you should check out.)

After discussing the local stand-up scene with Mason, I submit my name for an open mic night hosted by Punchline at the Coldtowne Theater on Friday night at 10 p.m.  I get on the list.  There’s no turning around now.  I send out an e-mail to all my Austin friends urging them to come support me.  At the very least, I ask them to come laugh at me.  That way, the strangers in the audience will think they’re laughing with me, and I won’t look like such an unfunny loser.  Having committed 100 percent, I sit down to write my material.  No problem.  I’m funny, right?  Wrong.  The material doesn’t flow.  I write a long joke about pooping in public restrooms with no doors on the stalls.  Terrible.

Then I realize that I’m trying to emulate a stereotypical stand-up comedian.  I need to embrace my own style of sick and twisted humor and own it.  I think about my humor in daily life, and much of it is based on misdirection and sarcasm.  So I write a facetious bit about how much I hate Gandhi and how much I love Joseph Stalin.  I also write a bit about an unpleasant altercation with a stewardess in an airplane bathroom that is definitely not Nana-appropriate.  By Friday afternoon, I feel pretty good about my material.  I read it over for Betsy.  She laughs at a couple of things, but we get into an argument about the Stalin bit.  Stalin’s not funny?  Really?  I substitute Saddam Hussein for Stalin and write an inappropriate bit about a certain room of Saddam’s palaces where terrible, terrible things took place that no one in their right mind would joke about.

My parents call about three hours before the show.  They want to hear my material.  I tell them it’s pretty raunchy, but they want to hear it anyway.  Don’t judge me, I ask.  I read it to them, and all I hear is crickets.  They don’t think it’s funny.  Wow.  That inspired confidence.  At 7:15 pm, I meet with my coach Mason, he reads my material, tells me it’s pretty good, and gives me some helpful pointers on stand-up.  Speak slowly, have fun with it, don’t worry if you bomb.

As showtime approaches, my friends start trickling into Coldtowne Theater.  I feel great that so many people came to support me.  At least I’ll have a friendly crowd when I bomb.  However, the theater is small and so many people come (for me and the other comics) that the show sells out, and some of my friends get turned away at the door.  Sorry!!!  I appreciate the support!  The show starts.  I am fourth on the list.  As I wait my turn, I nervously pace around in the hallway, rehearsing my shtick.  I hear my name called.  It’s Show-Time.  I walk out onto stage, and . . . well . . . you can see for yourself–but I can only include the Nana-appropriate portions of the routine.  Sorry!

That was the beginning.  Then there is some truly inappropriate bits that I have judiciously censored.  Here is the very end:

The entire routine goes by in a blur.  I can’t see anyone or anything because the white-hot spotlight is shining directly in my face.  I feel vulnerable, my self-worth determined solely by the response of the audience.  But I did it, and it’s over, and I feel decent about my performance.  When the show ends, however, my friends come out and tell me that I did a really good job.  And although much of the humor was wildly inappropriate, it was funny.  They like me!  They really, really like me!  On the way home, my wife tells me that she’s proud of me and calls me a rock star.  That makes it all worthwhile.

Put yourself out there.  Put yourself out there.  No fear.  No fear.  No fear.  And good things will happen, even if you do bomb every once and awhile.  This the lesson I am constantly learning.

Thank you to all my amazing friends who came out to support me and laughed at my terrible jokes!  And for those of you who got turned away at the door, thank you for coming and I’m sorry.  I will personally show you the entire uncut video at some point in the not-so-distant future.  I am so lucky to have such great friends.