I can feel the sweat stains spreading. The stage lights beat down on me with all the mercy of a Catholic schoolteacher. My focus emerges from the din of the impatient crowd and with the mic desperately clutched in my hand it’s time to dive in. Welcome to twenty-five minutes of personal torment. I’m here to make them laugh, but it’s anything but funny. I got into amateur stand-up comedy when I was 15 and still naïve enough to believe it would get me somewhere. I’ll stop you before you get the impression that I’m impressive. The past three years in “the biz” have taught me several lessons. Three of which I relearn every time I go on stage. Stand-up may look like a laugh at first glance but many comics will tell you otherwise.
The first trial is “the heckler”. There’s at least one in every crowd. I have from the moment my name is announced to the instant the first punch line leaves my lips to convince ninety-six people their money has been well spent. The first joke is a tightrope walk as I tread carefully over the expectant silence. Then it happens. “I started by putting on shows for my family in my basement.” I can feel it coming before I’m even onto the next word. Like a right hook to the jaw, “You should have stayed there!” So we’re back in the second grade, where he who has the best insult establishes dominance. But I have to shake it off. They don’t know the time or effort I’ve put into this night. My mom still thinks I’m cool. Besides, I’m only there for their entertainment.
But alas, it is “the walkers” that deliver the heavier blow. Each show is like a battle. Like a soldier leading my audience into the melee, they’re not all going to be there in the end. I can tell who they’re going to be. They talk loudly over the announcer and sit awkwardly with their arms crossed. Some walkers are polite and at least endure my openers before bolting. But the ones that hurt are the people in the front row that ask for the cheque the moment I walk on stage. They make a show of standing up quickly and bustling about as they gather their things. They toss me intolerant looks and seem to scream, “You are awful!” At least the hecklers stay for the whole show. Again it boils down to their failure to recognize my efforts. I spent a week preparing to bring joy to their evening and they asked for their money back.
The worst part of being a comic is looking back on a show and realizing what a nothing I am. I watched an episode of VH1’s Behind The Music before coming on stage and convinced myself that I would walk out to 20,000 people chanting my name. Instead, I walked out to a few dozen drunken slobs who didn’t even know my name. Half of them didn’t even clap. But there’s still work to do. After my meagre door profits are collected it’s time to whore myself in the foyer. Like a captain going down with his ship, I stand moronically by my wobbly folding table. Sporting a pathetic collection of home-engineered live CDs, some pens I spent more on than I’ll make back, and my hung over face blown up on a wall poster, the audience files past me like I’m selling used diapers at a yard sale. I was actually looking forward to this night. With the coat-check girl as my solitary witness, I admit defeat and load my garbage into the car. I’d better get home and start writing for next weekend’s gig.
As you can see, comedy is a dead sport. Hardly the glamorous existence you might imagine it to be. There are no girls flocking to my side, no managers knocking down my door offering to make me the next big thing. I watch George Carlin specials at 2 a.m. on Tuesday and read books about Eddie Murphy’s transcendent film career and lie to myself. I chant my delusional mantra, “that’ll be me someday,” as I bounce along to “Eye of the Tiger”. The true face of comedy is the stingy club manager. It’s the mental crucifixion at the hands of the audience every single night. It’s the useless pile of torn pages and crumpled napkins in my room, every unappreciated joke I’ve written. It’s the forty dollars in my pocket at the end of the day. Don’t get me wrong. I live for the laughter, but the comedy kills me.
Coming at ya,
- The Sad Blogger
