Anyone who knows me will tell you that I could gladly spend hours in serious discussion of all things standup. Hell, I have a blog dedicated to it. It’s an art form that has inspired passion in me like nothing else. I’m endlessly fascinated in the craft, how so many factors – the way you stand on stage, where your eyes land, the order of your bits, and on and on – affect your performance as much or even more than the quality of your material.

At the same time, nothing makes me laugh harder than hearing comics discuss comedy seriously. Recently, a friend of mine told me he can’t take someone’s opinion on the “craft of standup” if they’re not performing themselves; this is the same friend who has spent the past several months working on a bit about the difficulties he encounters with hygiene due to his hairy asscrack. Craft, indeed.

I’m not throwing stones here. I’m a self-admitted snob and can hang with the most pretentious out there. It’s just fun to talk seriously about a subject it’s impossible to take seriously.

Mid-pandemic I was on an online panel with a few other comics, discussing how we were affected by the restrictions and the fact that so many clubs had shut down. “We need places to express our art!” said one and I laughed immediately. “Yes, our art of using ‘Down Syndrome’ as a punchline.”

I’d love to discover that there’s an afterlife and I get the opportunity to meet Beethoven. “Oh yes, I was also an artist,” I’d say to him. “I explained to rooms full of drunk strangers how my penis is like frozen pizza.”