I don’t usually get serious. I think if you know me well, or even not well, that’s not hard to believe. But I did want to reflect on something that happened to me recently. I’ve never been a nostalgic person. I don’t like taking pictures (but I love ruining them) or keeping mementos or letters or things like that. All that being said, I came to a realization and wanted to make note.
Last week I did a show called “What’s Up, Tiger Lily?” In my nascent stand-up experience it was, without a doubt, the biggest show I’ve done to date. It’s a weekly show, originally started by Maria Bamford, and regularly has appearances by Patton Oswalt, Marc Maron and the ilk. Everyone that would read this already knows all the details, and I hate to be repeating myself, but this is a good story and is worth taking a slice out of the abundance of time I have on my hands. Here’s what happened.
First off, Harris Wittels (who I had never seen before and had a great set) told a joke very similar to one of mine. Or I should say, mine is similar to his because he’s more successful than I am. This isn’t the first time something like that’s happened to me, and it won’t be the last. That sort of thing happens when you write, basically, straight jokes. There’s only so much comedy aether out there, and even if you tell bits or personal stories I’m sure you’ll encounter it. But that happened and it really threw me because I had the joke in my set and it’s a great joke, even though I still wanted to tell it, I listened to advice (which was right) and scrapped it for that show. Wah wah wah, big baby can’t tell his joke. But in all reality, it’s better to have a weaker set than have even one person think you ripped someone else’s joke off. So basically that’s what my brain was freaking out about until the next thing happened.
I was very late in the lineup so I had a lot of time to pace around outside and hyperventilate before my set. While running through my jokes out loud I look over and saw a guy that looked sort of like Louis C.K. Then I did a double take and realized, “Oh, shit, that is Louis C.K.” I immediately see what’s going to happen. Louis is going to do a surprise set, and I’ll go up after him, and I’ll bomb, and then I’ll quit comedy and go to law school. Louis goes up, and I figure I might as well watch. Then a few bits in he sort of looks out on the crowd and says, “It’s funny doing these small rooms.” I lost it and had to stop watching his set. For me, this show was a huge deal. And I felt so damn small in comparison to, admittedly, one of the biggest names in comedy. But at that point I was really panicking and not thinking straight so I couldn’t deal with it rationally. Fortunately, Louis did a half hour so I had plenty of time to level out. (Also, now that I’m typing all this, I realize that the Harris Wittels thing I was freaking out about earlier was completely out of my mind.) I sort of just told myself to forget about the Louis thing and focus on the jokes. That helped a lot, and so I just kept running over the jokes in my head. I hadn’t felt like that since high school, when I would over study for biology tests even though I already knew I knew everything. Half of it was because it was comforting in a way, the repetition, and the other half was pure fear in fucking up even the smallest detail and knowing I wouldn’t be able to cope with failure. Stakes are always a bit high with me.
Louis absolutely killed it. I could hear the laughter from outside. As he was wrapping up I walked back in and went near the bar. The place was packed, and the crowd (which had been fairly subdued up until Louis went on stage) was awake and alert. I definitely wouldn’t be on autopilot for this set. I knew they wouldn’t let me get away with that. Louis gets off stage to huge applause, and Eli Olsberg, the consummate host, introduces me and mentions, “It’s his first time at Tiger Lily, let’s make him feel welcome.” I heard people groan in reaction to that. ”Louis C.K. just did a brilliant impromptu set and now you’re bringing up this fuck? No thanks!” Eli said my name, and I walked up to the stage feeling like I was about to burst into flames. I will never forget how I felt walking up there. I got on stage, introduced myself, and saw the entire crowd judging me. ”This guy’s not Louis C.K. He’s not worth the zero dollars I paid for this show!” So I looked out at the large crowd and said, “It’s funny doing these small rooms.” They got it and laughed and clapped. Then I wasn’t nervous anymore and I had a good set. Although really I think as long as I didn’t throw up on stage I’d be satisfied.
So that’s the story and now I’ll shut up about it. I’m sure everyone’s heard enough. But that’s not what I wanted to make note of. When I was on stage I remember hearing specific laughs. Laughs from people I spend nearly every night with doing comedy. A lot of people came out not just to catch an always great show, but to support me. And I could feel it. I was lucky enough to follow Louis C.K. He woke up the room in a huge way and people were actively paying attention to me. That’s the most you can ask from an audience. But any one of us (and you all know who you are) could have been in the position I was, and I and everyone else would be part of the crowd cheering and clapping for whoever was up there. We all see each other all the time and hear each other’s jokes and we still laugh. We comedylove each other. It’s fucking amazing and everyone is awesome. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this about this particular scene, but it’s the one moment that will stay crystalized with me forever. Thanks to all of you. I’m proud of what I did at that show, but we should all be proud and feel damn lucky for being a part of this group. I finally get what the drama kids loved so much about each other in high school. It’s about doing the thing you love doing more than anything else in the world with other people who are doing the exact same thing, but in their own way. It’s turning work into fun. It’s playtime. We’ve found our treehouse. Let’s stay up there forever and never go home for dinner.
