When me and my brother were kids, my mom would say to him at dinner, “Eat your veggies- there are starving kids in Africa!”
He replied, “So if I eat these, they won’t be starving anymore?”
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I may have paraphrased that Rodney Dangerfield joke a little to fit today’s theme, but the punchline is a direct quote and that’s all that matters.

I am and have always been a picky eater. To be fair to myself, though, I am far less picky today than when I was younger. Growing up, I’d look at something and decide I wouldn’t like it, refusing to even try.

I remember exactly how that changed, right around age 30. My first wife loved asparagus, something I’d just decided I wouldn’t like. She’d often make it for herself on nights we didn’t have dinner together. Then, one night during a business dinner at Nintendo [yes, I gave up a job at fucking NINTENDO to move to Sweden, what the hell is wrong with me?!] asparagus was served as part of the fixed menu. Fear of social and professional embarrassment winning out over pickiness, I forced myself to eat it. Only to discover that I liked it! Only… having built up in my mind that I wouldn’t like it, my gag reflex was fully engaged.

That dinner was the first of three or four times I had to literally choke down a vegetable I actually liked. I forced myself to overcome my falsely learned reflexes. Goofy, I know.

Today, I’m far more likely to try new things, because I know the worst thing that can happen is that I won’t like it. That said, I still hate tomatoes, at least raw, whole tomato. In my defense, studies have shown that intelligent people often hate tomato, as the clash of texture- crispy outsde, absolute mush on the inside- causes a smart brain to react with revulsion. May seem odd that I like tomatoes in almost every form otherwise, but who said taste has to make sense? Raw carrots yuck, cooked yum. Cooked spinach yuck, raw yum. I’m complex, baby.

Speaking of professional embarrassment, it was during a work lunch at my first job that my co-workers noticed how picky I was (still am). “He’ll eat vegetables when he grows up,” said one. Another said that taste is irrelevant, I should just eat them because they’re good for me.

It’s that remark that leads into the meat – heh – of today’s blog. Long-time readers, you proud and happy few, will have noticed how infrequent my posts have become. That a common theme has been me bemoaning how little I’m performing over the past (now several) years compared to pre-pandemic.

Truth is, writing this blog has felt more and more like a chore, and, like any chore, I find it easy to avoid through procrastination. I have lots to say here, but the PS5 and YouTube and Internet with content both appropriate and otherwise are so tempting. Not to say they haven’t always been, but before I had a full-time job, even I couldn’t feel good about not making time to write once a week.

Thing is, I love writing. I’m enjoying writing right now! It’s like running, though. I remember the last time I went for a long run, I thought to myself, “I love running! Why don’t I do this more often?!” But I don’t remember when that was, as the last time I ran was long, long ago.

Same goes for standup. The ocean is a frequent metaphor I use and, boy, I’m really going to beat it into the ground here, but away we go! I love to swim [be on stage], but getting out in the water means getting across the beach [the club], and the beach is rock and broken glass. Not a fun place to be but something to get across as quickly and as painlessly as possible. When I get into the water, it’s all worth it! Except I can only swim for six to ten minutes, then back to the beach I go. Oh, and the beach is an hour from home.

To be clear, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the clubs, just plenty wrong with me. When I’m there, I don’t find many people to talk to, and the few I do, I don’t always find things to say. On the way to the club and every minute I’m there, I’m planning – and looking forward – to bail as fast as I can.

I know as I write this, I’m not doing a great job of selling how much standup means to me. I never liked to call standup a hobby; I once referred to a retail merchandising job as my “day job,” implying that standup was my “night job” and therefore true profession, despite making far, far less than a living wage. Well, based on what I’m written so far in this entry, I haven’t even made a case for standup as a hobby.

For a decade, I was addicted to snus. I liked the nicotine rush I got when I stole snus from others at the bar, and, as opposed to party smoking, it never made me feel sick. Then I was buying my own to have on nights out so I wasn’t taking from others, then never in the morning, then first thing when I woke. As the years wore on, I would frequently feel ill from taking too many, my gums sore, and I would spit it out with a bleh. I knew the nicotine was having an effect on me, but it was hard to define what that effect was. I felt like I was doing it just to do it, until a day came that I just decided I was done with it. A week of severe depression later, I was indeed done with it.

It’s tempting to see standup the same way, as an unhealthy addiction, one that has waning power over me, something I’m doing just for the sake of it. That it’s something I could just leave behind. I don’t think that’s true, though, for a few reasons. One, because I’ve never seen standup as an addiction. Sure, I’ve heard more comics than I can count say that they were addicted from the first laugh, but I never felt that way… because I haven’t got my first laugh yet! Wocka wocka! No, I never felt like I was chasing laughs the way others chase dragons. I’m more about the reactions, as in, the crowd reacts exactly the way I want them to. That I can write a joke and think, “They will like this so much, I can close with it,” and then I try it and I’m right.

Secondly, because being a clown is such a fundamental part of me. To laugh at pain, to reduce its power (or to at least help suppress painful things deep down inside me, where they belong). I joke around all the time, I can’t help it. Hell, I joke around with customers just to make work less boring. I’ve even roasted more than a few.

I still get jealous when other comics get more opportunities than me. More than that, though, I’ve seen comics who aren’t quite my cup of tea, still have a comfort and confidence that comes with being on stage more in a month than me in a year. I want to get up more often.

So it was that, last week, I ate my veggies. I had one gig booked on Saturday during a comedy festival – one I was happy to have been offered – and I was fortunate enough to be able to book myself at Big Ben Comedy Club, on Thursday, Friday, and Sunday. Good Lord, I hadn’t been there on a Friday in over a decade.

When I say fortunate, I’m not being sarcastic. When I was there on Thursday, I was talking to a few comics about also coming the night after, and a rookie said he was on the waiting list but really hoped he would get booked. He did not. Myself, I’d put in requests for all three nights and had them all approved within a few hours. Of course, I’d like to think I’ve earned that much, if not through talent alone then at least experience.

The nights were… interesting. On Thursday, I was put last in the first half, which happens to be my favorite spot. I was even introduced as “the first half’s headliner,” which was an unexpected boon for my ego. Came with a little pressure, but nothing I had to worry about since I was the first comic to have setups and punchlines.

Man, I really try to not be a snob and let rookies be rookies, but there’s a certain type of rookie that gets under my skin. It’s easier to demonstrate than to put into words, but it’s like they’re role-playing as comics. They pace the stage and have the confident voice of a real comic, but they aren’t telling any jokes. It’s bad enough when rookies just retell a funny story that happened to them without adding anything, it’s worse when they’re not even good storytellers. You can have the most amazing dream ever and can’t wait to tell someone, but their eyes will still glaze over the second you say, “I had the most amazing dream last night!”

I was happy the way my set went. Or at least as happy as I could be, winning a 100m dash against quadriplegics. I kid, I kid! No I don’t. It did make me feel good, to show the difference years of experience makes. As I said earlier, I may feel jealous of the confidence others have at times, but I’m no slouch, either.

I don’t think recapping the other three nights would add much here, and this is a long post as it is, so suffice it to say that it was more of the same. I enjoyed being on stage, I enjoyed everything around the stage less. It’s not them, it’s me.

Time flies by and I imagine others are as tired as I am of me saying, “Oh, I need to perform more often!” and then not doing anything. I’m going to eat my veggies now, though, and finally get out there! Well, just as soon as Fall comes, and definitely then! Unless I come up with another excuse!