Oh, was I ever nervous! That is not a new state for me emotionally. I have angst - plenty of it in fact - but this was different. Plenty of things make me nervous, but being up in front of crowds is not usually one of them. I have no problem giving speeches, and I enjoy acting. My time in pro wrestling taught me to be in front of people, plus how to improvise both words and actions. Yet here I was, in a relatively small room, about to go up on a relatively small staged, and my heart was pounding.
Months ago I wrote a blog post about stand-up comedy and how much I enjoyed it, and how much respect I had for the people who performed it. For years the idea of giving it a try rattled around in my head. I know how to tell a joke, I have a general understanding of comedic timing (which is absolutely critical), but to go up and do it myself? It just remained another item on my figurative “bucket list.”
Maybe it was a form of withdraw from being out of wrestling for a year, but a month or so ago I just had the itch to perform again. I’d watch a stand-up comedy video on Netflix and the thought would keep popping through my head. Could I really do this? Would it work?
I was never arrogant enough to think I could do it as well as the people getting HBO specials or appearing in in front of hundreds in theatres, but then again I also knew I didn’t have to be. They didn’t walk on stage and perform at that level the first time either.
The more I thought about it, the more I started sounding like I did back in the summer of 2000 when I was considering going to wrestling school. Back then, the one thing I did not want was to be 40-years old sitting around wondering if I could have done it. If I tried and failed, it would have hurt but I would have known. At least I’d have some closure. I realized in November I was getting that same nagging feeling about comedy. That’s when I knew I was going to give it a shot. I might fail spectacularly, but if I did then I could at least go on knowing the answer. As always, the worst regrets come from thinking of things you never did.
I looked on the web and found a local comedy club that had an open mic night. Every Thursday, anyone who wants can put their name in at the Comedy Caravan and get three minutes. First, I decided to go on a scouting mission. I bought a ticket and sat in the audience. As the comics went through, one after the other, I realized it was a real mix of people who volunteered to go onstage. Some were clearly comedians either starting out or just experimenting with new material. Others were obviously people who were told by their friends they were funny and decided to go on stage and tell those funny stories to others. A few were clearly treating this more like amateur singers treat karaoke night, just wanted to stand on stage and tell a few jokes without any expectation of being particularly good at it. Some simply froze up, fumbled their words or forgot what they were going to say.
As the night went on, the one thing that kept popping into my head was; well, I wouldn’t be the worst guy up there, anyway. I was not afraid of freezing. I had done enough acting and enough wrestling shows to know I wouldn’t just get up in front of people and blank out. I also knew I could do better than the karaoke comics. I thought I could do better than the “funny friends” guys simply because they didn’t seem to understand some of the comedy fundamentals like setups and ending a story with a big punch line. They also didn’t seem to get that stories about funny things that happen to your friends are often only funny if the listener knows the friend and his/her personality.
I decided to give it a try the following week.
Throughout the week, I quietly prepared. When I thought of something funny or said something that made a friend laugh, I started writing it down on a notepad or thumbing it into the memo section of my phone rather than letting it fall out of my mind. I also decided I was not going to tell a soul I was going to do this (although I broke down and told my high school friend Rob, who was a safe five-hour drive away). If it turned out to be a total disaster, I decided to one else would ever know.
I also started working on the technicalities, playing with wording and emphasis, trying to find just the right rhythm and timing of a line. I started thinking about jokes more than just saying them. This was all a lot harder than it sounds. I also kept tightening the routine until it clocked in at just over three minutes. I knew the time wasn’t absolutely rigid but I didn’t want to be disrespectful and go way over either.
Thursday came and I drove to the club. I arrived an hour and a half early and walked up to the ticket counter just inside the door. I asked if there was any room on the list and the guy at the desk, who also hosted the open mic show, Bryan Kennison, told me there was. He turned out to be a very nice guy, shaking my hand, thanking me for coming out and writing my name down. As I waited in the bar outside the showroom (the weekend’s featured comic was doing the early Thursday show at that moment), Bryan came by and talked to me a while. He asked me if I had ever been to the Comedy Caravan before. I told him it was my first time.
“First time here or first time ever?” he asked.
“This is my first time doing comedy anywhere,” I said.
“Well, I won’t mention that during the intro,” he said.
Much obliged. He joked about how he had made it in comedy since he was hosting open mic night, with a $1 admission. “Yeah, but you’re twice as good as the guy that hosts the fifty-cent show down the street,” I said.
I ended up in the ninth slot. I had been pretty calm until I walked in the club, but as I paced around the small bar sipping my beer I felt the nerves coming on. I probably checked the time on my phone every 2-3 minutes until it was time to go in, and I probably did my routine in my head another six or seven times.
When they opened the doors, I found a table off to the side and sat down. Again, most of the people on the list were given three minutes, while others (more established guys I was assuming) were given five. There was a three next to my name of course, so I kept going over the routine in my head. The first eight comics that night went a lot like it had the week I sat in the audience. Some were exactly the same guys, in fact. I tried to stay calm but my pulse was racing. When the eighth comedian went up on stage, Bryan came by my table and whispered that I was next. I nodded and moved over to the side where the comedians came on and off.
Finally, it was my turn. I took a deep breath as Bryan gave me a very nice introduction, especially considering he’d never seen me perform before, and he did not mention I was a rookie.
As I walked toward the stage, I felt all the nerves drain out of me. It was a little like being back at wrestling. Being in front of the crowd calmed me down. I shook Bryan’s hand and took the microphone. The first thing I noticed was with the lights glaring at me from the left, right and front of the stage, I could not see a single person in the audience. I saw nothing but white lights and blackness. That surprised me a bit but I started going through my routine.
Some jokes didn’t do as well as I thought they would, while others got a bigger reaction than I had anticipated. It all seemed to be a blur; my mind was listening for laughs or other audience cues while my mouth was speaking the words I had practiced all week. I realized with some relief that I was actually speaking clearer than I usually did when rehearsing, a product of being up in front of people a lot I suppose. That was not intentional; I just kind of turned that on without realizing I was doing it. The only time I realized how nervous I still felt was when I did a joke that involved looking at my hand as if it were a piece of paper. When I did, I saw my hand shaking. Again, my brain was almost outside of my physical body as I did not feel nerves and seemed to be hearing myself as if someone else were talking and moving.
My last line got a big laugh, thankfully, and I ended on a strong note. I said “Thank you for listening,” and put the microphone back in the stand. I walked off to applause and was able to walk proudly back to my table. I realized later I had skipped a joke in the middle, but it all came out all right. I hadn’t been the funniest, but I wasn’t the worst either, and I had a couple of lines that got good, solid laughs and reactions.
I sat back at my table while the rest of the show unfolded. I was finally able to relax and laugh a little (I had been so nervous earlier I knew a good joke when I heard one but had no outside reaction to it). I took a few more deep breaths as I took in that true adrenaline rush again. I’d survived, and it even went pretty well. It didn’t take long to realize what comedians got out of the experience. It really was hard. If you fail, you fail alone. But if it goes well, the elation you feel is tremendous. I knew I was hooked, because before I had left the club that night, I had already thought of a few ideas for my next three minutes of material.
I hope it’s funny.
