The stage’s lighting released just enough errant heat to make me wonder if the source of my palm sweat was nervousness. Of course it was nerves; I was about to perform stand-up comedy for the first time in my life at The Velveeta Room’s Notorious Open Mic. Forget the fact that the last comedian’s bit included a simulated fart and a George W. Bush impression that made liberal use of the word “homeboy”: Getting on stage in front of strangers is terrifying.
Allow me to backtrack a bit. Although I consider myself a funny guy, I’ve never really had the stones to try comedy in front of a live audience. Sure, my tall tales have elicited the occasional chortle at parties, but stand-up is an entirely different animal. There’s no beer-bong-show-saver when you’re on stage, and the audience at a comedy club can’t be counted on to laugh simply because you’re their designated driver.
I had only three minutes on stage, but I spent the entire week beforehand obsessing over my act: Every gesticulation I would make, every pause I would take, every time I would blink was choreographed in excruciating detail in my mind as if I was about to make my debut at the Apollo. I felt like an eccentric conspiracy theorist examining each frame of the Zapruder film for even the slightest hint of a second shooter. The grassy knoll was my mic stand; the book despository was the bar; the umbrella man was the vodka tonic I drank seconds before mounting the stage. Jack Ruby can be the guy who performed after me that played the harmonica, because listening to his jokes was like being shot in the stomach at close range.
Monday was spent at Spider House producing an outline of my act. I’ve always thought it was funny that old people will often say something ridiculously and horribly offensive in the middle of a conversation and then carry on as if nothing happened. For example, my grandfather was once talking to a neighbor about the joys of grandchildren, when he suddenly noted that he thought the neighborhood mailwoman looked “barren.” He concluded his statement by complimenting my grandmother’s caramel cakes. This bit had potential.
I realized Tuesday, as I listened to my finance professor drone on about interest rates, that stand-up comics often accentuate the differences between various races, genders, and religions. I could play off this expectation by reversing the scenario and focusing on the similarities between two groups of people. For instance, has anyone ever noticed how similar a baby is to a hobo? People like hobo jokes – I think this could work.
On Wednesday, I had a conversation with my roommates about the state of country music. Why is it that country musicians can pass off reprehensible acts as the boot-shufflin’, hat-tippin’ moseyin’ of good ol’ Texas boys? There’s this Toby Keith song called “What Happens in Mexico Stays in Mexico,” the entirety of which is focused on a businessman committing infidelity within the borders of our neighbor to the south. As each verse crescendos and the chorus is initiated, Toby Keith vindicates the adulterer by declaring that his transgressions “stay in Mexico.” For one, this simply isn’t true – some idiot always brings a camera. Second, it’s disgusting and appalling, which probably means it’s a great candidate for a joke.
I went to Starbucks on Thursday morning to write out all of my material. At this point I had about a page and a half worth of jokes, but I really hated my opener. I considered if rock stars allow their onstage theatrics to surface in their everyday lives: Does David Lee Roth ever randomly thrust his pelvis or kick wildly into the air while calculating his tax return? I wasn’t sure if this was funny, but I struggled to come up with something better. I put off thinking about it until later that evening.
That night, while getting ready to leave for the club, I thought about how girls can “pussy-whip” guys but cannot alternatively be “penis-whipped.” You never hear of a girl who suddenly loves watching football and Judge Dredd after meeting a guy, but you always hear of that guy who, as soon as he gets into a serious relationship, claims to love nature walks and Project Runway. I decided to use that as my opener and left for the club.
The rest of the night unfolded like so:
Thursday, 9pm Met up with my older brother and performed my routine for him. He laughed at most of the jokes, but not the first one about rock stars bringing their concert antics into mundane situations. Maybe I should cut that joke.
10:15pm Showed up at The Velveeta Room. I’m number 18 on a list of 33 people, so I’ve got a pretty prime spot. I start to get really nervous.
10:30pm MUST DRINK BEER TO CALM NERVES. I now understand why comedians make self-deprecating remarks about drinking before gigs. This is my first attempt, and I’ve already downed four beers in 45 minutes.
10:45pm Decide to cut my joke about guys being “penis-whipped.” Maybe I’ll think of something better when I get onstage. I really have to take a piss.
11:00pm A lot of the comedians here are either first-timers or regulars on the Jr. High Lock-In at the Bowling Alley circuit. I start to feel a little better about my act. I’m only five people away.
11:20pm I’m next. The comedian up there right now is bombing. I have to check my notes to remember my first joke. My leg is shaking. I really want to just start running and never look back. I wonder if I could make it to Waco on foot. Does riding a bicycle count as being on foot? What about a unicycle? I bet riding a tandem bike that far would take a lot of determination.
11:23pm The MC calls my name, and I hop on stage. My friends are cheering loudly for me. I decide to scream back like a drunk frat guy. This gets a laugh. I start to feel more confident.
11:24pm I’m feeling pretty good, but then a random woman in the back boos me. Instead of getting flustered, I tell her, “Go look for a jungle gym or swing set, because this isn’t recess time.” This gets another laugh. I’m enjoying myself. My bit about hobos and babies gets a pretty big laugh. Even though the lights are so bright that I can barely see the audience, I am able to tell that the guy in the front row is laughing intensely. This is unrequited ecstasy.
11:25pm I am no longer nervous – what I’m experiencing is pure adrenaline. I cannot falter; I am capable only of ineffable comedic elocution. In my euphoric haze, I decide to close with my bit about country music.
Silence.
The comedy gods giveth, and the comedy gods hath taken away. My immaculate set now besmirched by the tense noiselessness of an uninterested crowd, I cut my losses and end my act.
11:26pm I thank the audience and head back to my seat. A rush of relief washes over me as the once-stagnant air is invigorated by lively applause. A guy I’ve never met before tells me I did a really good job. I hope he isn’t hitting on me.
11:28pm I start thinking about my next Velveeta Room performance, and I quickly realize that I’ll have to come up with all new material – another week of writing crappy jokes, agonizing over timing, and constantly second-guessing myself over a mere few minutes of stage time. Oh well, you know what they say: “Dying is easy; stand-up comedy is hard.” Unless, of course, you’re drunk – in which case it’s just bad.
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