Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

When I was 15, I signed up for a semester-long Cinema class in high school. I loved movies and now I had the option of spending 25% of a school year watching them. Seemed like a no-brainer.

The first thing we did was watch a short film called “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge”. Completely free of dialogue and set during the Civil War, it begins with a shot of a poster declaring that anyone caught by Union soldiers carrying out sabotage will be executed. Then we see a group of Union soldiers on a bridge, about to execute a prisoner, and we can assume why.

A soldier balances one end of a plank over the water and stands on the bridge end, while the prisoner is forced onto the other. As a rope is tied around his neck, we can see that he’s thinking of a woman and child, presumably his wife and son. The soldier steps off the plank and the prisoner falls, but the rope snaps and the prisoner falls harmlessly into the water. He swims to the surface, laughing with joy and relief, then swims to shore and begins running through a forest to elude his captors.

Some time later, he emerges from the forest and sees a house close by. The woman he was thinking of earlier is sitting in the garden and she looks over and sees him. We see the prisoner’s face as he begins to run towards the house, then we see the woman again. Except now she’s standing much closer to the house and wearing a different dress. Weird. We see the prisoner’s face again as he’s running, then we see the woman again, wearing yet another dress and this time a boy stands by her side, smiling. We see the prisoner reach the house…

The rope goes tight, snapping the prisoner’s neck, and he dies. Everything we had just witnessed was just a fantasy that had gone through the prisoner’s mind in the split second between falling and dying. Cool twist!

When it was done, the teacher had us watch it again, but this time pausing to highlight every flaw, and they were many. The plank, supposedly laid casually on the bridge, was clearly installed with a hinge. As the prisoner runs through the forest towards the camera, the camera was apparently on a truck driving away, as the truck’s exhaust is visible on screen. I hadn’t seen these flaws nor any of the others during the first viewing, but now I couldn’t unsee them. In fact, this one experience affected me permanently, as flaws jump out at me constantly when I’ve watched anything since.

It reminded me of a short story I had read a year prior, about an American couple in France, visiting a friend who had moved there some time before. As they walk to the pub where they’ll meet him, they walk through a street fair and enjoy the sights of a trained bear doing tricks and a beautiful young woman dancing while her father plays piano. When they meet their friend, they excitedly mention the street fair. “I know, isn’t it awful?” the man says, and the couple is confused.

He walks with them back to the fair, pointing out that the bear is half-starved and near death, while the “beautiful young woman” may not even be a teenager yet, clearly miserable under a ton of makeup, while her father is looking at her in a way that no father should look at his child. Now that the couple has seen below the lovely façade, they can’t unsee it. All enjoyment, all joy is gone for good.

This might sound like I never enjoyed watching movies ever again, but, in fact, it ignited a passion I didn’t know I had. I could still enjoy movies but on a different level, in a different way. It made me want to make movies and it’s too bad that didn’t work out as I’d planned.

This has been a long-winded prelude to talking about standup, as these things are very much related. Prior to my debut at age 36, I began to devour standup at age 11. So, for literally most of my life I was just a fan. Now that I’m a comic, I rarely watch standup outside the clubs where I’m booked, and it’s even rarer that I go to a club when I’m not booked. Despite numerous streaming subscriptions, it’s extremely uncommon that I put on a special from a comic I’ve never heard of, and when I do watch one from someone I’ve been a fan of a long time, like Bill Burr or Dave Chappelle, they don’t make the same impression on me as specials I watched while I was a civilian.

When I host, I tell the audience to laugh at jokes, not just smile. While comics perform, I get out of the audience’s sight, because I don’t want them to see how rarely I laugh. It’s not that I never laugh, but my reaction to a good joke is very often a nod and thinking, clinically, “That was a good joke.” If I ever bothered to count how often I laugh, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that I laugh at good jokes as often as I do at failed jokes.

It’s like the audience is seeing the comic fly but I can see the strings. I’m so aware of the mechanics, I can’t unsee them. I’m thinking too much about how the comics holds themselves on stage, how wordy the setups are, what punchlines could be improved or missed opportunities for callbacks or on and on and on, to just switch my brain to civilian mode and enjoy it on that level. I’ve taken all the fun out of standup by doing standup.

All of this might give the impression that I’m miserable in comedy clubs and never have a good time, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Like movies, I just enjoy it differently. When a new joke or bit works – especially if I thought of it five minutes before I go on stage – it feels wonderful. If I tell a joke for the thousandth time but it still works, that feels great, too. I enjoy seeing comics do well, even if I don’t personally think they’re funny. It can even be fun to watch a comic bomb, although I’d rather not be hosting that night, since I’ll have to fill in the crater before I bring the next comic to the stage. I just sometimes miss enjoying standup for standup’s sake.

In September of 1993, I began my journey as a cinematographer as a Freshman at Boston’s Emerson College. You may be aware that I am not currently nor ever was a cinematographer, so you may have some idea how my college career panned out. I could not have gone at a worse time – film was about to die and be replaced by digital; if I’d gone a few years prior or later I would’ve been golden. Oh well.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that outside the classroom I learned far more about life than from anything in the official curriculum. My graduating class of high school was just over a hundred kids and as far as diversity was concerned, we had a few kids who were off-white. Emerson wasn’t big as US colleges go but even the Freshman class dwarfed what I was used to, was far more diverse, and people talked funny, pronouncing water “wah-taaaah” instead of my native New Jersey “wudder.”

Many of my classmates were aspiring filmmakers, actors, poets, artists of all kinds. In my then iteration- hair parted down the middle and falling below my jawline, four necklaces and six rings and long pinkie nails- I fit right in. My dorm was coed, which opened the door for adventure. During my Senior year of high school I’d gone on my first date, ending with my first (polite) kiss, and as ecstatic as I was that night, my head would’ve exploded had I been told what awaited me just a few months later when I went to college. Of course, my wild halcyon days ended in early 1994 when I met the woman who would become my first wife, but it was fun while it lasted.

While I was surrounded by weirdos and freaks who tried smoking banana peels to get high (true story), there was another large community of students who couldn’t have been more different than them. And by different I mean very, extremely normal. The overall focus of Emerson’s curriculum was Communications, so besides the artists there were aspiring journalists and newscasters and media whatnots. There were fraternities and sororities at Emerson that were indistinguishable from those at more mainstream colleges, that wouldn’t have oddballs like me even if we wanted to join. For every hippie there was at least one potential CNN intern. But we were all in the same mix, so my floor of the dormitory was a blend of nerds and geeks and preppy sorority girls and dudebro frat boys.

Most of my college friends were as broke as me, so a common destination for entertainment was browsing at Boston’s Tower Records. God, I miss that place. I imagine that we were far from the only patrons who would often browse and rarely purchase, which doesn’t lead to sustainable business. It definitely did not in Tower’s case. Now gone but never forgotten.

Besides listening to music for free, we’d wander aisle after aisle of movies, eventually reaching the absurdly large collection of porno. You see kids, there was a time when you couldn’t get porn on your phone, you had to go to special stores and either rent or purchase porn on VHS. I was going to explain that VHS was before DVD but then I’d have to explain what DVD is, so just take my word for it.

Anyway, the main draw of those aisles, other than the naked pictures on the packaging, was the names of the films. They were often clever and always funny. I still giggle at “Jungle Beaver” and “Edward Penishands.” Of course, I wasn’t really into porn in for the comedy and if you’d asked me then if I was more passionate about porn or standup I would’ve had difficulty answering. Hell, I’d have difficulty now.

Again, we often browsed, rarely purchased. Not many of us even had VCRs in our rooms anyway. So my interest was piqued when I learned that a dudebro on my floor was hosting porn viewing parties in his room every Wednesday. He called it Hump Day because of course he did. We had zero contact but I somehow managed to get myself invited one night.

I was one of five dudes sitting in a small dorm room, waiting patiently as he loaded the porn into his VCR. (I’ve always been fascinated by groups of straight men watching porn or going to strip clubs together.) I stuck out like a sore thumb, being the only one not currently pledging a frat. I don’t remember the title but I do remember the first scene being girl-girl, as were perplexed and impressed by where one girl put her fingers despite having enormous fake nails that turned her fingers into talons.

I also remember the next scene being boy-girl, as it was during that scene that I politely excused myself and never returned to another Hump Day. At the time, I’d been shocked into silence and left without speaking my mind, and in the nearly thirty years since I’ve thought about how great it would be to have a time machine and go back to that night.

This was the shocking moment- as the woman began to pleasure the man orally, our host walked to the VCR (he didn’t even have a remote) and said, “Ugh, we don’t need to see that.” The other guys beside me agreed and grunted their approval as our host fast-forwarded until that stage of the spectacle was complete.

Why had our host skipped the oral sex scene? Because seeing a penis in a woman’s mouth is gay, of course! What, you like seeing a woman service a man? What are you, quee-ah?

I was flabbergasted. I think I was around 10 or 11 when I saw porn for the first time and I’d seen a remarkable amount prior to that evening (I would not have done well if the Internet was available), but I’d never considered that only homosexuals would enjoy seeing a woman go down on a man. I also didn’t believe it, nor did I think that any of those guys, including our host, ever fast-forward those scenes when viewing alone.

If I could go back to that room, I’d ask them just one question, if they’d like to see male porn stars not hung like horses. There are probably better uses for a time machine, though. Besides, I doubt they would’ve admitted to only wanting to see men hung like a baby’s arm holding an apple. After all, porn is more than just fantasy- it’s fantasy fulfillment.

”Who’s on tonight?” asked a person considering buying tickets to a show I hosted last weekend. I get asked that from time to time and it always makes me laugh. Odds are, I’m not going to say one of the three or four names they’ve ever heard of before.

“Swedish standup sucks” is another comment I’ve heard said many times, by Swedes who don’t go to comedy clubs. I’ve always been fascinated by that; the reality is that the Swedish comedy community is enormous and diverse, yet the average Sven has no idea as the vast majority never appear on TV or have Netflix specials. There are a few superstars that have been around for decades, household names, but I’ve seen comics with less than ten years’ experience that can blow them out of the water.

With that in mind, I’ve consistently shook my head in wonder at how many comedy clubs operate in and around Stockholm. Back when I first started and told people there was at least one club open every night – and back in my heyday I was performing five or six times a week – they couldn’t believe it. The average Sven had heard of the one club that had become a Swedish institution, or maybe two, but not ten.

Bear in mind that this was pre-pandemic. Most of these clubs had no cover charge and while pure open mics were rare, it was common for a club to have eight, fifteen, thirty comics a night. Getting a spot was easy, sometimes at more than one club a night. Stockholm may be a capital city but considering the relatively small population size and the general awareness of standup, there was no reason to think there was enough interest to support that many clubs. And yet, it worked. Clubs came and went (a few of my own included) but there was always an active scene of one size or another.

Then came covid. While Sweden’s “lockdown” can’t compare with others, almost every club shut down for an extended period. One club gamed the rules and remained opened and no comic criticized them because, well, see the name of my blog. As the restrictions eased, some, but far from all, of the clubs bounced back.

While some clubs are still gone, probably for good, quite a few others have sprung up in their absence. As of this writing there are at least ten active clubs in Stockholm and nearly as many more in the suburbs. However, a major change is that almost all of them have a cover charge and more limited – even niche – lineups. There’s essentially only one where anyone can get a spot and, naturally, with a community this size the opportunities are fewer are farther between.

Gone are the days of racking up stage time, at least for most comics, including myself. I suppose I was lucky back in my early days to live close to Stockholm and to also have entered my first long period of unemployment – I could afford the time to be out five or six nights a week. Unfortunately, my alcohol consumption also increased and my addiction to snus made its debut… while I’m pleased to say I’m drinking less these days, I don’t foresee snus leaving my life anytime soon.

I’m curious to see how this will affect the development of the community at large. I’ve noticed that more comics are going on official tours than before the pandemic and that’s a good sign, plus more people are becoming aware of comics thanks to podcasts and social media, although there’s little improvement of standup on TV and mass media. Then again, TV and mass media are on the decline so maybe it’s normal to see those channels closed to us. It’s just too bad that rookies don’t have as many opportunities for growth.

It’s good to see the comedy scene coming back to life and my itch to open a club of my own is growing. I have an idea that would combine a few themes from previous clubs I’ve run into a new concept; at the very least, the club would be open to anyone looking for stage time. But with so many clubs operating already, it makes me less motivated to make the effort, like doing a podcast when everyone has a podcast. Plus, as much as comics have enjoyed rooms I’ve run before, I’ve never been great at attracting a crowd. Many was a night I pumped a fist in the air, happy that more than ten people sat in the audience. Running a club is hard work and I’ve found that just updating this blog every Monday is a chore.

Several years ago and just before the club’s CEO banned me for life, I headlined Stockholm Comedy Club. I told the crowd that my daughter had discovered my snus addiction and demanded I quit. “Ok,” I told her, “but do you really want Daddy to start smoking crack again?”

It got the desired laugh, although two girls in the back row howled louder and longer than everyone else. So much so that they were still laughing over the setup to my next joke and now that the crowd was more aware of them than what I was saying, I had no choice but to pause and address them. As distractions go, people laughing too hard is a good problem to have.

Once one of them had calmed down enough to answer me, I told her I appreciated them laughing so hard but wondered why. “When you said ‘snus’,” she stammered, wiping tears from her eyes, “we thought you said ‘snooze’!”

I sighed. “Why do I bother?” I said, not trying to hide the bitterness in my voice. “I should just be up here saying ‘utfart!’ and ‘Masterkock!’” I just moved on from there.

Some might say that the whole point of standup is make people laugh. If that were true, at least for me, I would just include lots of Swedish words in my act, especially the ones that sound like naughty English words. My “career” would certainly benefit from it; there’s no shortage of expat comics here who don’t let snobbery get in the way of a laugh.

In fact, during my first year when I’d reached the point I thought it was more fun to make the crowd uncomfortable and groan than to laugh, after a particularly nasty bit I said, “Oh right, you don’t want to hear this from me! I’m an English comic, you want to hear…” and then did purposefully awful jokes about utfart and slutstation. I wanted the crowd to laugh at how terrible they were, only to one day realize they were actually laughing at the jokes. They were laughing the wrong way and that made me want to strangle them, so I stopped doing those jokes.

Only to resurrect them years later, when hosting shows. They were meant to warm up the crowd and I still wanted them to laugh ironically, even though I knew that most people were legitimately laughing. I know it hurt my reputation with a few comics who didn’t even realize the whole thing was tongue-in-cheek – I was just yet another, typical expat comic. Nowadays, if you ever hear me do that routine at the start of the show, it tells you that I think the audience is shit and needs a kick in the ass. It’s a rare event, fortunately.

————————————————–

In the years after Dave Chappelle infamously walked away from filming the third season of his show on Comedy Central, he gave several different explanations. One of them was that he’d had an epiphany in the middle of filming a sketch. It was based on the idea of man having to make a choice, with an angel on one shoulder telling him to do the right thing while a devil on the other tempted him to be selfish. In the sketch, the angel was a “good” Black man, representing the best aspects of Black culture, while the devil was the embodiment of every bad, stereotypical depiction of Black men. He said that, during filming, he heard a white crew member laugh the wrong way, and he began to suspect his intention for the show to challenge people’s beliefs was instead doing the opposite.

Generally, when the crowd reacts in a way not anticipated by the comic, it isn’t a bad thing. You might write a setup-punchline joke, try it on stage, and the crowd laughs during the setup. That laugh might take away from the punchline. Maybe it’s a sign the punchline is too obvious or even unnecessary. It’s just another reason working out material on stage is so important, because writing at home is only going to take you so far.

Maybe for some comics, crowds can never laugh the wrong way, but not for me. I’ve performed in Swedish several times, but that was years ago. Other than not being as comfortable doing it, I don’t want the crowd to laugh at my dialect or when I mispronounce words. I want them to laugh at my jokes. If I didn’t care why they laugh, as long as they laugh, I’d be a Swedish act all the time.

So while I personally can’t say I’ve had an experience that compares to Chappelle’s, I did witness it happen to someone else. I once did a gig during a special event at a Business college in Stockholm. The students where all quite posh and quite white. After my set, I went to the back of the room to watch the others. A Black comic took the stage and his routine included act-outs of some of his Black friends back in the ‘hood. I noticed a group of white kids howling and looking at each other in a way that said, “Everything we think about those people is true!” They were laughing the wrong way.

I’m not going to moan (or even whinge) about it not being socially acceptable for white comics to do exaggerated, stereotypical characters of people of color anymore. But whenever I see a Black comic do a stereotypical Black character, or an Indian do an Indian, or Hispanic do a Hispanic, etc etc, I can’t help but wonder if the crowd is laughing the wrong way. After all, whites aren’t allowed to do it anymore because it keeps those stereotypes alive and we should let them die. You get a pass for mocking people in a protected group if you yourself belong to that group, but, again, I can’t help but wonder if that just keeps the stereotypes alive.

In any case, it’s not for me to decide what comics should or should not say. I can’t even make everyone believe that there is ever a wrong way for people to laugh. It’s just another limit for me to add to my already overburdened self.

I don’t mind telling you that I am an avid listener to The Joe Rogan Podcast. During the pandemic, having it on in the background while I sat stuck on the couch at home was a nearly daily occurrence. As my wife was also home with nowhere to go herself, this was often to her chagrin. I heard his ad for Athletic Greens so many times that, at one point, I thought it was worth looking into! Only to discover the subscription model only works if you’re making Joe Rogan Spotify money.

(As an aside- I often wondered why Rogan episodes after the Spotify deal would be interrupted by him reading ad copy for Athletic Greens or any sponsor for that matter. Surely his finances had grown beyond the days when Fleshlight was a proud sponsor? Considering when the ads started – and when they stopped – I suspect he started doing ads out of fear that Spotify was going to drop him due to his constant covid comments and, now that the risk is over, he doesn’t bother. But I digress.)

The draw for me to the podcast was his conversations with other comics – talking about the early days, the current business of comedy and getting so deep into minutiae about the craft of standup I can’t imagine anyone who doesn’t perform themselves being anything but bored silly. I love that shit, though, and if I’m not talking someone’s ear off myself I’m happy to hear others talk about it.

Lately, though, my interest has waned. Bill Maher has a new podcast as well and I’ve found myself dumping out of his episodes as frequently as I do Rogan’s, for the same reason: I’m tired of hearing comics whinge about woke. (I told you ‘whinge’ is my new favorite word!)

I’m not tired in a “I’m so sick of white men complain they can’t say whatever they want” woke kind of way. For me, they might as well be whinging that the sky is blue. Yes, woke culture is exhausting. Yes, it’s easy to offend people without trying, or even by trying not to offend. Yes, comedy was easier before. But this is how things are now and while it’s possible the pendulum may swing back at some point, it’s hard to imagine that we’ll ever get back to that time when we didn’t care at all about which group was the brunt of what joke. The genie’s out of the bottle.

To be clear – I don’t believe in taboos. There is no subject that can’t be joked about, no protected class that can’t be ridiculed. As controversial as Chappelle’s latest special was, I wouldn’t censor a word of it. That said, the chief accusation was that it was transphobic and, despite Rogan’s repeated claim this was due to Chappelle telling the story of a trans comic who opened for him (when I saw the special, this struck me as, “I can’t be transphobic! I had a trans friend once!”) it has more to do with his joke about punching a trans woman in a bar. It got a laugh from the crowd and from the man himself and the point of making that joke was loud and clear: “I don’t give a fuck what you think, I’m going to say whatever I want!”

He has every right to! But to paraphrase Jeff Goldblum, just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. Since the majority of people I talk to and hear from are comics, I’ve heard Chappelle defended far more often than attacked. But not once have I heard anyone say, “That was his funniest special ever,” nor, “That was his best special ever.” (Note that “funniest” and “best” aren’t always the same in standup.)

Chappelle is considered one the best comics of his generation – rightly, in my opinion – and yet he settled for a quick, cheap laugh, one he thought was good enough to be filmed for prosperity. To be fair, since the crowd laughed, they were willing to settle for it as well. But I think all comics, especially those at the top of their game, should hold themselves to a higher standard.

Carlin said that the job of every comic is to find the line that should never be crossed and step over it with impunity. I have always been inspired by that. I love when someone in the crowd looks at a comic with awe, that they’d dared to say something, maybe even something the person in the crowd had thought themself, on a stage to a room full of strangers. Carlin certainly wasn’t afraid to hold up a mirror to us, to show us some ugly things about ourselves and society we would’ve preferred to ignore.

The key with him, though, was that he was funny about it. As was Bill Hicks and Richard Pryor. My Holy Trinity of comics (I’ll write about them someday). It’s the reason their material holds up to this day, especially Carlin as he was the most prolific and lived the longest of the three of them.

While I’m happy to see Carlin’s words still inspiring others, I’m less enthused by that inspiration rarely going beyond a shallow level. More often than not, the hero comic who won’t be censored and will shatter all taboos is talking about anally raping retards (their words, not mine). If I say it’s offensive to me I just mean an offense of my taste. Mostly I just find it boring.

In case you think I’m a huge snob about standup – well, I am, but I’m not always a snob – I was a big fan of Dane Cook as well. I’ll never forget seeing him live in Boston, comparing his girlfriend’s vagina to a box of cow tongues. It’s not the joke that made such an impression, it was seeing two young women in the row ahead of me laughing so hard they were crying, and looking at each other as if to say, “I can’t believe we’re laughing at this!”

THAT’S the level comics should be aiming for. No, not the cow tongues part. To be able to make people laugh no matter the subject matter. Yes, the crowd laughed when Chappelle said he punched a trans woman. His critics didn’t. We should want our toughest, most sensitive opponents to say, “Well, I found that joke offensive but I still laughed because goddamn it was funny.” If that’s not a standard I can hold rookies to, I can absolutely hold comics as experienced as Chappelle to it.

I’m reminded of when right-wing pundits reacted with venom to the Dixie Chicks criticizing Bush Jr, telling them to “shut up and sing.” Woke is here. Maybe it will die down, maybe it will even go away! It’s here in the meantime, though, so learn to work with it, around it. Use your fucking heads and stop whinging about it.

I’ve noticed some clubs promoting shows that are guaranteed to not be woke. Not in Sweden yet, but it’s just a matter of time. I would love that to mean that these are shows where audiences will be forced to confront uncomfortable truths, where their values will be challenged. Somehow I doubt the comics have such lofty ambitions.

During the summer, I passed a bit of time listening to old episodes of The Ricky Gervais Podcast and fell in love with a British word I hadn’t heard before: whinging [win-ging]. Defined as a very specific sort of whining, to “complain persistently and in a peevish or irritating way.” I believe it resonated with me now because I have developed a powerful distaste of whinging in the comedy community.

To be fair, I’ve done my own share of whinging over the years. All comics, to some – or a massive – extent, are self-hating narcissists. When opportunities don’t come our way we tend to project our animosity on the comics who get them instead, and come up with explanations that never include, “That comic is better than me.” Instead, it’s because they kiss more ass or have a penis or have a vagina or what have you.

I believe, or at least hope, I’ve relaxed over the years, but naturally it bothers me that I’m not offered spots at every club, invited to every podcast, etc. I also understand that no one gets everything and even if there are comics who get more opportunities than me, I know that many more don’t get as many opportunities as I get. Knowing that helps me complain much less.

I know a lot of rookie comics who have performed for several years without progressing beyond the open-mic level. If one of them complained to me about that lack of development, that wouldn’t bother me. What does bother me – and lately it’s grown to a militant level – is successful comics, especially more successful comics than me, whinging about the few opportunities they don’t get.

It drives me bonkers when I hear a comic who has performed in all but one club whinge about the one that won’t book them. Comics with 20,000 views on TikTok whinging they didn’t get 40,000. Comics who never get less than ten-minute-spots whinging about comics getting five-minute-spots at a club that won’t book the former. And on and on.

It’s just the by-product of the bizarre combination of a passionate will to perform and passionate insecurity. The result of finding an explanation for a closed door being anything other than not being good enough, funny enough, special enough. Throw in an unhealthy dose of competitiveness, it makes tearing down others even easier.

However, I’m not blind to the fact that comics who whinge more than me are also more ambitious than I am, so telling them to whinge less is the same as telling them to care less. Probably not great advice for someone hoping to make a career out of standup. But if I can’t get comics to obsess less about the chances they don’t get, it would be nice if they’d stop obsessing about the comics who do.

It was nice with a summer break. But considering I’ve been back for a week and I’m already whinging about comics who whinge, I guess it’s going to be a long year.

Several years ago, back when I was performing three to five times a week, I went to the US for a month during the summer. A week away from the stage and I started itching to perform again; by the end of the month I was nearly jumping out of my skin with all the new ideas I wanted to try out. When I’m visiting family, NYC isn’t so far away as to be completely out of the question, and Philly is a quick subway ride away, but I didn’t have any contacts in the US and it felt weird to bail on my family to chase a gig.

As the years passed, I gained a few contacts in both cities and I’ve performed in NYC once, Philly several times, but my urge to perform has diminished significantly. When I visit the US I don’t mind the break. Would be more accurate to say that my desire to gig doesn’t beat my desire to not bother with the rigmarole of finding a spot and getting to it.

I’ve written before how that itch became nearly extinguished over time, especially just prior to and during the pandemic, but I’m happy (?) to say it’s coming back. I put a question mark on that because my opportunities are severely limited. Many clubs that closed during the pandemic have yet to reopen, if ever, and although several clubs have sprung up since, the dynamic has changed in Stockholm. Before, most clubs didn’t charge the audience and getting spots was easy. Now, most clubs have a cover charge and the lineups are much more limited. Most of these clubs are run by comics who aren’t falling over themselves to offer me gigs, even when I ask, which is humbling. But that’s alright- a healthy ego never leads to good material.

Also, I do get more and longer gigs a month than many others, so I appreciate that and don’t take it for granted. By far, though, the biggest limit on opportunities comes from me. There’s an open-mic level club in Stockholm that’s open every night of the week and although I wouldn’t get a spot every time I ask- in fact, I asked for a spot tonight and was refused- I’m sure most of my requests would be granted. But I rarely ask, as the thought of taking the train an hour to get there for a seven-minute spot, just to turn around for the hour home, kills my motivation far more often than not.

Last night I found myself wondering what comics here would be like if Stockholm was more like NYC, where comics have to work harder to get spots but, with the right work ethic, it’s possible to perform several times a night. As it stands here, there aren’t many spots available but they take very little effort to get, and I can’t help but think that’s the reason there are so many comics who perform a few times a week, for years, without the slightest amount of growth. I try not to judge, but I’m only human, and despite my curiosity I’m not going to walk up to someone and ask if the odd chuckle here and there really satisfies them.

The most frustrating part of all this is that most of the time I’m hosting and most of my new ideas can’t be done while I’m hosting. Well, “can’t” is a strong word- I could do it if I wanted. But as I’ve stated many times here I’m not one of those hosts that do, let’s just say challenging material, and when the audience has paid a steep ticket price I don’t feel comfortable trying out new bits that are several minutes long. Hell, I get nervous trying a new joke, let alone a new chunk. When I do get a regular spot I take advantage of the chance to test new material, but those spots are so few and far between it’s difficult to really work out new ideas.

Besides the itch to perform, I have to admit the itch to start a new club is increasing as well, and I can’t help wondering why. Traditionally, comics start clubs to get guaranteed stage time for themselves, but I’d be happy to open a club, have someone else host it, and I’d maybe do a spot now and then. I wouldn’t open a club to hang with comics, as I can’t say I have much of a social circle at the moment and I’m not what you would call a mingler, especially when a show is in progress. I certainly wouldn’t open a club to make money.

I think I want to open one so, as in the past, I can offer more opportunities to others who otherwise don’t get many chances to grow. I’d love to see more return on my investment, though, and see them improve over time. I just need to figure out a way to motivate them. Maybe a trap door on stage triggered by thirty seconds of silence…. I’ll keep thinking about it and get back to you.