The Comic Strip is where I started doing comedy right after I graduated high school. I was just a kid cracking jokes, but I didn’t know what it meant to be funny, or how hard it would be to become a real stand-up comic.
My first show ever was a “bringer” show at the Comic Strip. They let me close the show in front of 30 friends who I brought to the club. They had me close so the majority of the audience would stay for the whole show. Mostly, my friends laughed at the idea of me on stage so the fact that my jokes weren’t funny didn’t matter. I wish I could find a copy of that tape and have it burned b/c I’m ashamed that I killed that night. I hate seeing bad jokes get laughs. Even more so, I hate that I naïvely thought, “I’m on my way!”
The next set I did was at an open mic. Open mics are boot camps for comics, which is why they’re necessary for survival. You can’t just throw a soldier into a battle, he needs to be prepped and armed. Plus, my drunk cronies wont always be around as a crutch. Knowing this would be a more hostile environment, I brought a 6-pack of beer with me on stage as a bullet proof vest for their judgment. When a joke would bomb, I downed my Coors, but that only delayed the agony ‘til I sobered up. I woke up ashamed, but eager to get back on stage. Comedy is a lot about redemption, and most importantly, proving to yourself that you’re not delusional about being funny.
Fast forward four-years later: A few friends of mine told me about the Comic Strip audition. They were bringing it back: “Anyone can audition!” Which is great…But the bad news: “Anyone can audition!” I got there 2-hours before the sign ups, leaving class early. “Good luck!” my teacher said. I chose not to inform her that I was unlikely to nab this audition.
I got in line early. It began to rain, and I was umbrella-less. Eventually, I recognized some friends. I also recognized some of the shittiest open mic’ers you can ever imagine. Instantly I became angry about the space these inept comics were taking up. In Bill Maher’s book True Story: A Novel, he talks about how saying you’re a comic used to mean something. It used to carry weight; it meant you were a rare breed. Now there are these pricks who have done one open mic, and begin introducing themselves as “a comic.” However, I also see guys I respect, guys on a higher level than I am, and that intimidates me because they could be thinking the same thing about me.
The irony of this audition is that it’s for “late night,” which means if you actually land it, you get the privilege of going on stage after the professional comics at the Comic Strip, and pray that the audience stays (a good portion generally does). I still want it, and apparently a couple hundred other people want it too. As I get to the front of the line, I realize that it’s a lottery, which means my punctuality was a waste. I’m wet, and drew number 89. It could’ve been worse. My friend drew 180.
Fast forward to the audition night: It’s a Tuesday. I’ve had this date marked on my calendar for months. When I got there, we were informed that the booker would not be there that particular night. Instead he’d watch the DVDs of us, and get back to us. “If he doesn’t get back to you, call him.” Runnin’ down a dream…. I felt like a rock star.
The six audition spots for that particular Tuesday were set to go on after the regular show, and I drew lucky number 6, which meant I was going to be going on 3 hours into the show. After the headliner for that evening, Joe DeRosa, a comedian I like a lot, got off stage, the host got on and announced, “Okay, guys. The show is over, but we have some new guys auditioning,” which was his way of warning them- “this could be really bad.” There were about 80 people left in the room, and a friend of mine took the stage for the first audition spot. It was a hard spot b/c it was such a weird transition, but he did pretty well. Another friend of mine went on second and did very well. The audience seemed to nod to each other as if to say, “these newbies ain’t half-bad.” The room still had about 70 people left.
The third comic that went on was really weak. He closed with a callback to a joke that had already bombed. I laughed b/c I felt bad for him, and I anticipated the shitstorm I was about to inherit. Half the room was walking, and I was getting pissed. This was supposed to be my special night.
The next comic went on and also bombed. I prayed there would be someone left for my set. I wanted to yell, “FUCK YOU. MY TURN,” but instead I thought about yelling “FUCK YOU. MY TURN,” which was not as therapeutic.
The comic who went on before me was on for about 20 people, and he was easily one of the worst acts I’ve ever seen. He was dying, and he just started to melt down, “shit, man. This is terrible,” he kept repeating. “I’m fucking bombing up here.” I nodded, wishing he could see me. He segued from, “I’m fucking bombing up here” to “the gays should get married though, right?” like that was gonna’ save his set. Hey, man. I’m for gay rights too, but not enough to laugh at your shitty jokes. This was starting to remind me of comic Doug Stanhope’s comparison of his comedy act to a battlefield: “Some of you wont be here by the end!”
Two friends of mine turned to me and said, “sorry, man.” I nodded, and just smiled, which is all you can do after a certain point. You know what I mean? You ever feel so disappointed that all you can do is laugh like a lunatic? That’s how I felt.
A few more people left, but about 12 stayed surely out of pity. They knew there was one comic left and what’s 5 more minutes?
I felt defeated at first, but then I began to think of my favorite comics, and got a little pumped up. I felt like Rodney Dangerfield at the end of Back to School. The teacher he’s in love with is examining him in front of the full faculty b/c he’s accused of cheating. She asks him if he remembers Dylan Thomas’ poem, Don’t go gently into that Good Night. Rodney recites the entire poem confidently, and with passion. She asks him, “What does that poem mean to you?”
“It means I don’t take shit from nobody!” This gets Rodney riled up, “I’m gonna’ pass this exam. I’m gonna’ stay in school!”
I was introduced, and I think the fact that I was telling jokes rather than commenting on how despondent I was helped me get off to a good start. I was just telling my brain, “stay confident. You have nothing to lose at this point. You’re gonna’ pass… “
I was gaining momentum, but one of the tables in front wasn’t even paying attention to me b/c they were making plans for after the show. This was supposed to be my special night, and these assholes are arguing which bar to head to. As I’m thinking, “this isn’t so bad,” one of my favorite jokes bombs. I broke down the joke, and started to defend it, confidently and calmly, like I was a comedy professor. I got an applause break, and now had everyone’s attention.
Doing all those check spots (performing while people are tallying their blll and not paying attention to the comic) has helped teach me how to rally the crowd, and then get back to my act. The remainder of the crowd laughed for the rest of my set. I wasn’t sure I killed, but damn it, I didn’t leave the stage without a fight.
As I got off, I took a deep breath. I was ready to walk out, and some older guy with a raspy voice says, “Kid, I really liked that. You’re so comfortable up there. I’m gonna’ put in a good word for you.” I thanked him, then on my way out, the waitress pulled me aside and said, “you know, that’s the owner of the club.” I did not know that…
I didn’t get my hopes up b/c I can’t tell you how many times bookers or owners have told me they liked me and will book me and just didn’t. As Woody Allen says, “show business isn’t a dog eat dog business. It’s a dog doesn’t call other dog back business.”
Okay, so they didn’t call me back….But I called them, and I passed. So go to the Comic Strip, and please, please stay for the late show!
