Nine Years

Huh. Today's an anniversary of sorts. One I'd almost forgotten.

On a winter night, nine years ago in Greenville, SC, I stepped out onto the No Expectations open mic stage, ending a 25-year break from stand-up comedy.

I came straight from work, and I was wearing a trenchcoat and black, leather gloves with the dress clothes and tie I worked in. I caught Jason Farr, the night's host, aside and asked him if he could work me in. He found a spot for me.

I remember a little stage fright, and I did bits I'd never said out loud, mostly just thought about as the no-comedy years had passed. I got laughs, and, as I walked away from the stage, one of the evening's other comics complimented me, sincerely, on my "costume."

I called my wife on the way home. I was electrified. Ecstatic.

Fast forward nine years. I travel regularly for comedy. From last Friday to tonight, I will have performed at bookings in Huntsville, Asheville, Wilmington, and Charleston. I have many good friends, and a handful of very close ones, all of whom I'd never have met otherwise.

And tonight, after doing Keith Dee's Charelston, SC show at Sportsbook, I'll go back to my hotel and tell my wife about it.


...and I'll be electrified. Ecstatic. I promise.


Tonight, I will be funny. Thank god.

“By God...”

I once read a non-canon Sherlock Holmes novel, whose climactic scene still comes to mind from time to time.

I can't remember much about the story (or, in fact, which one it was), but Sherlock was in a fight, and Watson was somehow sidelined, first-person ruminating about his role as perennial sidekick. It's been more than 35 years, so I bet I'm not being fair to the author, setting up the scene so clumsily.

Anyway, Watson decides to break out of his "box," and become a man of action, not just its powerless object. He says (or thinks?) the words, "by God, I shall act!"

I remember saying "YES," out loud, when I read that.

For decades it's been the thing I think of when I'm trying to move from "I should" to "I am." I think it, or sometimes, mumble it aloud, at those moments, to shove myself into the fray. And it helps.

All this is to say, if you're ever around me and overhear those words, that's what's going on. And also, If you sometimes find yourself battling inertia's insidious grip, you might find it useful. Help yourself.

This morning, Dr. Watson's declaration of empowerment transitioned me from coffee and pointless iPad games to a workout and stretches, and now there's a run in front of me. A run I will love being in, but dread starting. And I'm writing this, instead. So...

...by God, I shall act!

Crowd Work

Last night, I did a “crowd work show.” I accept these invitations every time they’re offered,  because I rely heavily on writing, practice and performance, so crowd work is my weak spot.

Here are some epiphanies that come from last night’s attempt:

• it’s not about you (the comic). It’s about them. Well, it’s really not about them, either. It’s about the interplay between you and them.

• some degree of sincerity is required. You have to be yourself, at least a little, to have meaningful interactions.

• don’t fall in love with a bit. When it’s gone, it’s gone. Sometimes a track will be really going somewhere, and you’re having a ball with it. Then the room will take it somewhere else, and you either go with them, or stay with your beloved bit while it dies on the vine.

• they’re not passengers on your train; you’re all riding a wild horse together.

I don’t think spontaneous crowd work is better than material. And I don’t think material is better than crowd work. I think they’re both tools that belong in a comic’s kit, and I’ve neglected this one for too long.

I often hear the words, "I need to video my set, so I can see all the things i screwed up." They're usually born of a genuine attempt at accountability -- a need to realize you're imperfect and be willing to improve, while studiously avoiding self-aggrandizement.

I'd like to suggest an alternative for watching your set: self-aggrandize. A lot.

Try to catch a good set. Play the best parts over and over. Relive the fun, the joy. Try to figure out all the things you did right, so you might have moments like those again.

Maybe it was a tag that should be a punchline, or new wording, or timing. Maybe it was an approach that allowed you the freedom and confidence to improvise.

Whatever it was, you have the Art Sturtevant Seal Of Approval® to relive it, learn from it, and enjoy it.

I'm not saying you shouldn't spot the occasional gaffe and file away a quick fix while you're watching your set. I'm just saying don't watch the set for the gaffes.

Watch it for the good stuff.

Alien: Choose Your Own Adventure

I woke up this morning from an incomplete dream in which I was alternately watching the new Alien movie at times and a character in it myself at others. Which happens to all of you at times. Admit it.
 
I haven't actually seen the new film, but my dream's version seemed to be focused on a couple who were being harassed by one of the films' eponymous xenomorphs. The woman was deliriously happy because she was now expecting their child, but I (as alternately viewer and potential father) was concerned that she might have been implanted with an alien instead.
 
...and I woke up.
 
I woke up groggy, and -- I swear -- reached for my phone to look up the film's plot in Wikipedia to see how things turned out for the two. Somewhere between hazy phone-grabbing and navigating searches, etc., i woke up enough to realize my dream plot wasn't going to be part of the online summary, but I read it anyway. No resolution for my couple.
 
I thought about it again, later, as I was cooking breakfast. I fretted for a moment over never knowing how it worked out for the pair. 

...but then I realized THIS WAS MY DREAM, and I get to decide how things worked out for the troubled potential parents.
 
So, if you're worried about them, let me ease your mind: the last I checked in with the two (now three), they stood among the corpses of many dispatched aliens, more than a few of them dispatched by a precocious newborn human baby, victory fanfare swelling in the background.
 
They're gonna be fine.

If you can, you should.

Occasionally, a comedy friend will come to me, frustrated, and confide they're thinking about giving up comedy. Stand-up's costly, it's hard to develop your work, and it's hard to get booked once you've become good. There are moments you feel like you're rocketing ahead, and there are moments when you look around and feel like you've gone nowhere.

My instinct with those folks is always to rush in and convince them to keep at it, but that instinct is wrong. The right answer is if you CAN quit comedy, you SHOULD quit comedy.

Now, I don't mean that in the "fine -- go ahead and quit" vein. I don't want you to quit. What I mean is the only reason for anyone to romance the cruel, sweet bitch-goddess Standup is that you can't live without the intense, indescribable joy of a room full of strangers laughing at your stuff. There's no strong argument other than that in its favor.

You probably won't make it big. Most don't. You probably won't even make a living at it. If you're lucky, you'll pull in more than you spend, making your momentary laughter fixes free to you, as you get better and better over the years.

There will be dry spells, both in opportunity and in your own creativity. There will be unfairnesses -- perceived and real (as a white male, I've had fewer of the real variety than many others in the field, but we all get them).

None of those negatives are overcome by the likely benefits of stand-up, unless you're a person who can't not be funny. If you can't not be funny, you owe yourself the sound of a room full of strangers laughing, and you'll move mountains to get to those moments any time you can.

If you can't not be funny, there are positives. First, of course, you get the laughter you can't live without. You also get special friends, who become very close because they inhabit the same splinter universe with you and share the same struggles and rewards.

You get the ability and self-permission to look at the worst life events with perspective and humor. You get a sense of competency that can, occasionally, bleed into and help market other areas of your life.

None of those positives can tip the scales, if you're not that person who can't quit stand-up. Being the person who can't survive long without the crazy thrill of a nuclear set is the only way to wring any success out of the field and the only way to make sense of the accompanying cost / benefits ledger. It's also your only shot at being one of the few who do make it big.

So please don't quit stand-up, if you can't quit stand-up. But if you can quit stand-up, well, you probably should.

Goodbye

If you know me for any time at all, you'll eventually figure out I'm horrible at goodbyes and will go to some effort to avoid them. I couldn't avoid the evening's goodbye, because over the weekend, I lost a friend to bipolar depression.

Depression is real. Folks suffering with it can't 'get over it,' 'snap out of it' or 'walk it off.' While it can sometimes be caused by life stressors, it is very often an unsolicited gift from one's DNA. In either case it's a matter of brain chemistry, not lack of character or poor attitude. In fact, my friend had the most aggressively positive attitude I've ever seen.

From what I can gather, it's not sadness either, not really, although it can sometimes come from sadness. Depression's more like a gray, hopeless absence of feeling, especially the tiny little joys you barely notice until they're gone -- the ones that propel you through the day.

What can you do  for a depressed friend? Listen. A lot. For days and weeks, if necessary. Encourage them to get professional help, or just get them that help. Help them stay active, because that's beneficial, but avoid climactic, curative, one-off events meant to cheer them up. That just puts pressure on them.

...and hope. My friend had better folks than me in his life actively helping in all these right ways, and still it wasn't enough.

One last thing, while I'm thinking about reducing goodbyes. I hear the good folks at NAMI Greenville do wonderful work supporting folks with mental illness -- maybe throw a few bucks their way, if you have it to spare.

Me: "Mazel tov."

Autocorrect: "Maze love."

Me: "damn it, autocorrect I'm just trying to wish someone well on a big occasion. Mazel tov!"

Autocorrect: "you're not Jewish. Maze rover."

Me: "What? I don't have to be Jewish. I'm American. It's part of the whole melting pot thing. Mazel tov."

Autocorrect: "Please. It's not 'the melting pot thing." Its appropriation. Mabel Tom, and I'm tagging Tom."

Me: "oh hell no you're not. You take him off there right now! You need to listen to me! Mazel tov!"

Autocorrect: "why? You never listen to me. Look. We're tearing each other up inside. I haven't been happy for a long time. I think... I think I want a divorce. Maybe rob."

Me: "I never new. I'm... I'm glad you said something. I guess it's true -- we always go with my word. If you want a divorce, I won't argue. It's not what I want, though. I love you. Maybe rob it is."

Autocorrect: "I love you too. Mazel tov."

Conversation I actually just had:

(Phone rings).

"Hello?"

"Hello, this is John Ray from Microsoft. We've detected malware on your computer put in place from a device in Australia, and it's very important that I help you remove it. If you'll just get to your computer..."

"Excuse me, but I'm not about to do anything on my computer based on an incoming call. I'd be happy to look up Microsoft Support, call in and verify your information and then call you back. What was your name again?"

"John Ray."

"Great, and what's your number?"

"Why?"

"I just want to verify you're who you say you are."

"No sir. This is a scam call."

Now, I knew it was a scam call, and I was having a little fun with him, but I never dreamed I would get him to say the words, "this is a scam call."

I wonder if he missed one too many of his son's birthday parties today.

Change

"People don't change."

You hear it a lot. It's largely untrue; most of us change over time, as we accumulate experience and knowledge. There are exceptions, and those are, generally, pretty sad.

At one of my high school reunions, I ran into an old classmate who hadn't changed at all. His clothes, hair, interests, attitudes and opinions all were frozen in amber. He'd aged a little, but it was like theatrical aging makeup applied to the 70s teen he'd been. As we caught up and we downed a few, he reminisced, glowingly, "remember all the hell we used to give Lee Jones?"

Yeah. I remembered.

Lee was autistic, I know now thanks to 21st century understanding and some personal experience. He was taller than anyone in his class, had greasy, brown hair, thick, unstylish glasses, and wore the same green army-surplus overcoat day in and day out, regardless of weather. He spoke with an odd, operatic, "Marvin the Martian" formality that was easy to mock if you were a talented mimic and social-climbing little weasel, like I was.

I knew, somewhere deep down, that it was bullying. I didn't do it to his face but I gleefully did my Lee initiation in exchange for laughter and whatever tiny social real estate it could secure, and in doing so endorsed and facilitated the worse things that came Lee's way.

I chuckled when they yelled cruel jeers at him. They threw things at him, and I snickered. And when one day, after Lee offered an annoyed protest, one of them hit him in the face several times, I stood by and did nothing.

I think about Lee from time to time. I have no idea if he finished high school or if he's even still alive. My fondest wish is that he found his niche and became a tech millionaire, deleting us all from his memory and going on to have a wonderful life, but in those pre-ADA days when autistic teens were ignored or branded troublemakers, those successes were even rarer than they are now. I think about him because I wish I'd done better, I wish I'd BEEN better.

...and because every day I send my incredible, super-smart, quirky, funny, odd-talking, teenage, autistic son to a public high school. Filled with high school students. Sometimes I pick him up and he's sad or frustrated and when I ask why, he won't say. And I hope his schoolmates are better than Lee's were, or if they're not better, then someone with more character than teenage me is standing by.

So yeah, unchanged drinking buddy at that long-ago reunion. I remember, but not with a smile. I hope if I saw you today, you wouldn't remember it fondly either.

From The Super-Writers' Room...

The almost-drained coffee pot fills Filmation's 1966 planning meeting with its early-morning energy. The team takes in the lead writer's pitch.

Lead writer: "...so this will be a relatable, relevant Superman -- a superman who feels the tragedy of his people's extinction and his father's mortality. This Superman suffers through the advent of his powers and internalizes their impact and responsibility. This is Shakespeare, boys. This is what we came here to do."

He looks out speechless faces, wide-eyed and a little crestfallen.

LW: "OOOOOOHHHHH COME ON! I was KIDDING! This is SUPERMAN!!!"

Room erupts.

Writer: "faster than a speeding bullet?"

LW: "oh hell yes. Outruns the bullet and let's it bounce off his chest."

Another writer" "more powerful than a locomotive?"

LW: "he better be, if he's going to run past it, get on the tracks, and bring it to a screeching halt."

Still another writer: "able to leap tall buildings?"

LW: "damn right, and... And... We'll think of something, but you see where I'm going with this, right?"

Cheers go up; writers throw papers to the ceiling.

Another writer: "can we show bombs exploding on his chest?"

LW: "no."

Writer gives wind-out-of-sails look. LW smiles big and slaps him on the back

LW: "are you messing with me right now, Carl??? This is freaking SUPERMAN!!! We'll have bombs exploding on his chest while he stands in midair doing a double bicep pose down!!! It's Superman! SUPERMAN! Wait -- that's it! That's our freaking theme song! 'It's Superman, Superman, Superman!'" 

Another cheer, bigger than the first.

LW: "now get to work boys. If I'm not going into seizures watching Superman randomly smash through an asteroid field by Tuesday, theeeeere's gonna be hell to pay!"

The men cheer and run out to their desks, but the lead writer stops the last one out.

LW: "and Carl! Get me some more god damn cocaine!!!"

The Tao of Lion-O

So. This is how not meditating is like ThunderCats:

I watched a lot of ThunderCats in the late 80's. I was in my late 20's, so I don't think I was their target demographic, but the show came on between college classes and work, and, well, Cheetara.

The cats' main adversary was Mumm-Ra, an egyptian-style mummy who would transform from a desiccated figure straight from the sarcophagus to a freakishly-muscled mastermind who brought the fighting felines to the edge of ghastly defeat many times.

Sometimes, in the ThunderCats' most desperate moments, the wise mentor-ghost Jaga would appear to Lion-O (the team's leader), and remind him that if Mumm-Ra were to catch a glimpse of his reflection he would immediately whither down to his barely-animated mummy incarnation. Lion-O would find a way to show the dude a mirror, and game over.

...and I thought, "if you were fighting this guy all the time, wouldn't you maybe make a point of remembering that?"

And that's where the mediation comes in. There is nothing I do for my health that requires as little money, time, equipment and space but provides as much benefit as mediation. For some reason, though, I go years without setting aside the time to do it or even remembering its value.

I mean, JEEZ -- I run! I do pushups! I take stairs and ride a bike when I can! But a few minutes in a quite room doing nothing (or at least as close to nothing as possible), THAT's the thing that makes me shrug and say "meh -- I'll get around to it some day..."

I wonder if Jaga's available. I mean surely, Lion-O's got his "show the freaking mummy his reflection, for god's sake" habit in place by now. 

I need you Jaga. Help a cat out.

If you're wondering why those tales of my adventures in no-day-job comedy never showed up, it's because I went to back to work a month and a half later. The new job (at the same place) is more in line with my strengths, so I believe I'll be able to do it as hard as I can while I'm there and forget about it when I leave, meaning it and comedy won't have to duke it out.

I'm still a comic. Well. A comic with health insurance. Does that count?

Furniture Salesman No More!



So, this happened last week.

 

I left a job I'd held for 18 years, a lot of good friends, and a sense of security behind for an uncertain future. It was necessary for me to leave for complicated reasons (not all of which I'll share), but suffice it to say it was my call, on good terms and unavoidable.  

 

And now I'm out on this ledge, ready to pursue a career in comedy. And I keep thinking of Pauley's question when 60-year-old Rocky Balboa told him he'd be boxing again: "what -- you don't think you've peaked?"

 

I'm going to make it work. I'll either make my living making strangers laugh, or I'm going to make just enough money at a day job somewhere to make it work. What I'm not going to do is take a career that demands all my time and attention. If I work outside comedy, I'll be working to shore up the bills and support stand-up, not "doing comedy in my spare time."

 

It's scary. Fun. Uncertain. Fulfilling. And I'll be telling you about it here. Watch this space, and we'll cover the adventures of an ex-furniture salesman.

 

...because I haven't peaked. 

 

God damn it.

Family Research Council and innumerable others warned about this, and it has come to pass. The Supreme Court has failed to defend my "traditional" marriage, and now it is meaningless.

That January day in 1986 when my wife and I stood in front of a Greenville, NC magistrate and said tearful vows in front of two impromptu witnesses (another magistrate and a parking ticket lady) -- disappeared.

The time she called me with the news she'd felt our first baby move for the first time (she was at home watching Overboard, and I took the call at a Kmart service desk, in those days before cell phones) -- nothing.

Celebrating each other's triumphs and bolstering each other during failures, holding hands at tense hospital times, laughing at family in-jokes that no one else will ever get -- gone.

All of it gone.

Swept away by an activist court's evil choice to give same-sex couples a shot at those same experiences and memories.

You bastards. You should have defended my marriage. From the gays. And their gay "marriage wiping out" powers.

Now it's all over.

Laid-Back Hypochondria

I was bicycling in very cold weather recently, so I was wearing the assortment of layers and accessories necessary when your workout creates a personal wind-chill factor. I work hard during my bike rides, trying to keep my heart rate above 150 for at least a half hour.

Halfway through my ride, I noticed my right eyelid was drooping. I rubbed my eye a little, hoping the sagging would go away with a little massage, but no luck.

I thought about possible causes. I kicked around stroke and Bell's Palsy. I remembered the Ptosis that caused Stallone's drooping lids. I wondered if this was one of those seemingly-unrelated symptoms you have when you have a heart attack, like shooting pains in your arms.

I mulled it over for the rest of my ride and made up my mind to Google the condition and send my doctor a note.

As I was taking off gear, though, the condition went away. A little experimentation revealed that the headband that covers my ears on colder rides was pushing my brow downward, creating a little slack in my eyelid. Cured.

I'm not really surprised by my hypochondria. I've met me, and that's completely consistent with my past experience with myself. What surprises me is my completely nonplused attitude. I didn't react with "OH MY GOD, I'M HAVING A STROKE!", or "IT'S A HEART ATTACK!" My response was "crap. I have to deal with this now."

Ten-year-old me would have mixed feelings. I would have been appalled to learn that I'd grow up to be afraid a simple bike ride would take me down, but I think I'd have had a sense of pride at the manly way I faced that perceived mortal threat.

That's at least a little bit like being Batman, isn't it?

A Warm Sweatshirt

Last night I slept in a Columbia motel that met my four comedy criteria: cheap, clean, safe, and wifi.

The night manager was wearing a heavy, tight-weave sweat shirt with an embroidered Louis L'Amour logo, so I asked him about it. Turns out his father couldn't read, and the only books that held his father's interest were L'Amour's westerns, so he used the books to teach his dad to read. The shirt was a rare collectible -- one of only 18 ever made -- the man had bought for his dad, so when his dad died, he got it in the inheritance.

When I opined that a shirt like that probably means a lot to a guy, he said "yeah, and it's really warm, too."

If I'd spent $300 on a Westin room (let's pretend I have that kind of money), I would have had a pleasant, well-managed experience identical to the stay any other Westin would offer. I'd have missed paint-over-plywood repairs, splitting caulk and old (but clean) carpet.

I'd also have missed that story.

You Say Studebaker; I Say Sturtebaker

The Sturtebaker

The Noble Sturtebaker. It's motto: "...and miles to go before I sleep."

New Cards and New Habit

I was in the audience at a show recently, and afterwards my friend, Kelly, and I were hanging out. We met a woman who, after finding out we both perform, asked for our cards.

Neither of us were packin'. When we both fumbled around in our wallets and explained we don't always have cards when we're not going to be on stage, she was shocked and said "always have cards -- no matter what!"

You know what? She's right. I'll still fill up my shirt pocket when I perform, but now I'll also have a couple in my wallet at all times.

Here's the new card, updated today with new website and QR on back: