Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

One of the top questions comics ask- along with, “Can I get a free beer?” and, “Can I at least get a discount?”- is, “Why won’t that club book me?!” This is a question that can fuel hours, if not years, of angry speculation. However, the true answer is usually simpler than we’d like to admit.

I’ve met a lot of club owners. I’ve run three myself. No matter the club, whether it’s an open mic or high-cost admission or the nichest of niche clubs, the decision to book or not book is based on the same three questions:
– Will this comic do well at my club?
– Do I like this comic offstage?
– Do I think this comic is funny?

Of the three questions, only the first is objective. As much as we like to compare them to plantation owners or vampires or vampires who own plantations, club owners are human just like the rest of us. Comedy, like so many other things in life, is subjective.

Let’s say I run a club and Jeff Dunham’s people contact me, asking me to book him. If you don’t know who that is, he’s an American comic, a ventriloquist act, one of the most successful comics in history. He’s had his own TV show, he sells out arenas worldwide. So the answer to the first question is yes, obviously.

Do I like him offstage? I have no idea, never met him, never even heard any stories. He might be a real sweetheart.

Do I think he’s funny? No. Good Lord, no. I think he’s brutally unfunny. I think he’s so unfunny that I get offended when I see him on TV, performing to a sold-out arena and everyone is pissing themselves. He’s extremely successful and has millions of fans, so am I wrong? Of course not, he’s just not my taste. I like tomatoes virtually every way but raw and that puts me in the minority, but my taste is my taste. Also, I’ve read that not liking raw tomatoes is a sign of intelligence and that fits.

Would I book him? In a heartbeat. Would I book him if, in addition to not liking him onstage, I thought he was an asshole offstage? I’d love to say no but I would. He’s a big get, sue me.

Even if those are the only questions in mind, there’s no formula to it, like, if the answer to any question is no, then the comic doesn’t get booked. I’ve seen club owners book comics they don’t think will do well, don’t think are funny, but like them offstage. I’ve seen club owners book comics they don’t like on- or offstage but know they’ll do well. I’ve seen club owners not book comics they think are funny, know will do well at the club, but not like offstage.

This is a huge stumbling block for comics who approach club owners cold or- worse- just send a DM. “Hi, you have no idea who I am and I don’t have a clip, but can I get a spot?” Pretty difficult to succeed when the answer to all three questions is, “I have no fucking idea.”

In my experience, it’s as simple as that, but we’d love for the reason to be something other than our likability or talent. I’ve heard enough stories to accept that there have been club owners who were sexist or racist, but I haven’t encountered any myself. That said, there is a fourth question that some- but far from all- club owners ask themselves: “Is my lineup diverse enough?”

The issue of why so many lineups are overwhelming- or completely- male is a hornet’s nest I have no desire to kick right now. We can argue over how little or how much extra effort it takes to create a balanced lineup, so let’s just say it takes some extra effort, and not all club owners have the energy or desire to put in the work.

The bottom-line is that, no matter how funny and talented and gifted you think you are, no matter how many people agree with you, not everyone will. Not everyone will even like you offstage. And that’s okay, because that’s how life works. You’re not going to get every opportunity, so take full advantage of the chances you do get. “Be so good they can’t ignore you,” as Steve Martin famously said. Hey, if you’re consistently killing on stage, you can be a complete dick offstage and still get gigs.

Lastly, if you don’t feel you’re getting the stage time you deserve, that you’re not seeing the lineups you desire, start a club! Yeah, it’s hard work. Will take so much of your time, you probably won’t have the energy or desire to book comics you don’t know or particularly like. Congratulations! You’ve become another asshole vampire slave driver.

This past weekend, I turned down a paid hosting gig at one club in favor of an unpaid spot at another club. This prompted a few people to ask me why on Earth I would do something like that. Good timing, as this touches on a topic I’ve been meaning to write about for some time.

Now, I’m not really in a position to turn down money. I’m a full-time comic, which is just a nice way of saying I’m unemployed. (Shoutout to Swedish taxpayers for funding my rock ‘n roll lifestyle.) Not only did I choose an unpaid gig over a paid gig, I ended up performing to a crowd half the size of the other. Doesn’t matter, I’m happy with my choice.

I’ve gone through several phases as a comic. When I first started, struggling to get spots at the one club that would sometimes book me, to performing five to seven times a week at several clubs, to keeping that pace but also running my own club. To “slowing down” and only doing my own club twice a week and hosting another club twice a week, to today when I’m primarily hosting at a club every weekend and doing a few spots here and there. Compared to my peak many years ago, I’m barely on stage at all, not to mention the even fewer times I’m just doing a spot.

That’s why, in this case, I chose to perform rather than host. My last entry here was about hosting so I’m not going to repeat myself now, other than to say how much I enjoy the freedom of a set. Also, a little variety now and then is very much needed- all work and no play makes Ryan a dull boy. I’m not doing myself or anyone else a favor by only hosting the same room every weekend, doing virtually the same material, watching virtually the same lineup. That said, I still enjoy hosting very much and I absolutely appreciate the opportunity; it’s certainly a position I’ve earned.

In regards to phases, I’ve reached one I feel is nihilistic, that nothing I do actually matters. That sounds bad but let me continue- I don’t think anything my peers do matters either. I should probably explain that.

Years ago, when I was performing several times a week at several different clubs, I got jealous of other comics very often. There were many comics- even comics who had been around longer than me- who were getting a tenth of my opportunities, but I wasn’t thinking about them. I was only thinking about the opportunities I didn’t get, comparing myself to comics who got those gigs, got invited to do podcasts, etc, and, oddly, I was always more talented than them so why wasn’t I getting those offers?! I helped new comics with opportunities, either at my own clubs or at others, watched them surpass me and get to the point they were offering opportunities, but rarely to me. Is it true that no good deed goes unpunished?!

I am far, far more relaxed now. At the time, even other comics would tell me that jealousy is a good thing, that it fuels ambition. That might be true to a certain extent, but I’ve also seen comics become bitter and stay that way. There’s nothing worse than seeing a comic on stage who feels like the club is beneath them, that they’re doing the club a favor by being there. Seems it’s easy to forget the point, that whether there’s 20 or 500 people in the room, they’re there to be entertained and it’s our job to deliver. And if you’re headlining, you’ve got a spot that dozens of comics currently performing will never attain. Jealousy might be a fuel but I find it far more rewarding to appreciate what I have than to obsess over what I don’t.

Those feelings of, I’m funnier than comics who get opportunities I don’t, I’m too good for this room, they come from the same place- every comic thinks they’re funny. It doesn’t get more basic than that. We go up on stage and say things we think are funny and hope the audience agrees. If they don’t, then we work on the material or abandon it or keep doing it anyway because obviously the audience is just stupid. But it’s rare that a comic walks away from a bomb wondering if they’re actually funny at all. That’s a confidence that may or not be misplaced but is always there as a foundation.

When I say that nothing I or anyone else matters, I’m thinking of those times I saw a comic in a club that had been on TV, been an opening act on a huge tour, and was jealous. It occurred to me all too recently that I’M SEEING THEM ON THE SAME LINEUP AS ME. Sure, they’ll do rooms I can’t or be regulars on a podcast that isn’t interested in me, probably get more corporate gigs than me, but for the most part we’re still rubbing elbows in the same clubs with equal amounts of stage time. I imagine that contributes to the bitterness I’ve seen even successful comics fall prey to, to attain such heights and yet still remain on the same lineups with far less successful and ambitious comics such as myself.

It could be my imagination but it feels like doing standup for the sake of standup is a rare motivation these days. It could be a result of the pandemic- nearly all clubs shut down in Stockholm and while many have returned, including brand new locations, the lineups are very limited. Also, it’s unusual for a club to not charge the audience, when the opposite was true just a few years ago. For the many, many comics who can’t get those spots, it must be like a glimpse of distant water while lost in the desert.

On the other hand, for those comics who do get those opportunities, I’ve noticed an increasing sense of entitlement. I deserve more stage time, I deserve better spots, I absolutely deserve to get paid and paid more. Hey, we all love and need money and I’m certainly no exception. But if I’m performing at a club in front of a large crowd and I’m responsible for exactly zero ticket sales, I’m not going to stomp my feet and cry about not getting paid or not getting paid enough. While there are a handful of comics who sell tickets on name alone, that’s hardly the case for the overwhelming majority of the community here.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that comics should just accept every offer with a smile and never ask for more. We should all set a value for ourselves, for our time, and if we’re offered less than it’s up to us to say yes or no. I frequently hear comics compare standup to slavery but, as far as I know, plantation owners didn’t give slaves the option of not showing up for work. If the club is too small for you or the pay insufficient, nothing wrong with saying no!

I guess it’s a lack of humility I often see in others. I certainly enjoy getting paid for telling the same dick jokes I’ve told other times for free, but money is a nice bonus, not the end goal. I’m a comic because I love standup and my heroes are all comics. Call me an odd duck but I perform standup to perform standup.

Recently, a comic friend of mine asked the comedy community here in Sweden why so few comics are willing to host shows. More recently, he hosted a “MC workshop” at his club, to share ideas and encourage others to host more often. I really wanted to go – no one loves my opinions and sound of my voice more than me – but I wanted to see The Batman more, so I had to miss it. Damn that movie was good. I have no regrets.

Since I have this blog (which I’m embarrassed is updated so rarely) I figured I might as well share some thoughts on the matter here. While there are many reasons comics may not want to host, I can sum them up in one word: responsibility. The overwhelming majority of comics I’ve met love being able to show up (or not show up) for a booked gig whenever they want, to not pay attention to the show, to put on their coat as they walk off the stage and out the door. Hosting means arriving to the club before the show starts and staying beyond the end and watching every minute of the show. Being a host means sacrificing a great deal of freedom.

If I’m booked to do a set at an open mic-level club, I’m free to do whatever I want, however I want. If I’m supposed to do a seven-minute set I might do seven minutes of new material and maybe bomb horribly, maybe not. Doesn’t matter since there are twenty other comics on the lineup and, more importantly, a host who can fill in the crater I left on stage before bringing the next person on. Which leads to next area of responsibility as host: cheerleading.

No comic likes being first on the lineup, but no comic is ever first on the lineup. The host is first, the one who goes up in front of an ice-cold room and has to get the show started. Obviously the first comic after the host won’t meet a crowd as warm as the fourth comic, but if the room isn’t even a little warm after the host starts the show, that’s the mark of a bad host. Unfortunately, I’ve encountered them many times over the years.

If the crowd comes in with their spirits at Level 1 and the highest they can reach is Level 10, then every host should feel they’re responsible for getting them to Level 4 and never letting them drop below that. If the room is warm but then a comic eats shit, the host should bring the room back up before introducing the next comic. If a comic leaves the stage and the room is at Level 8, then the host should BRING THE NEXT COMIC UP IMMEDIATELY. There have been times as host when, while a comic onstage was absolutely slaughtering, I asked the next comic if they wanted me to do a slow intro for them, to let the crowd settle from Level 10 down to 8 before they went on.

I’ve seen hosts fail at the above many, many times. Not prepping the room for the show. Not doing any material after a comic bombs. Doing material after a comic kills. Testing new material and bombing. You need to keep this in mind when hosting: you’re the least important person on stage as far as the crowd is concerned and the most important person on stage as far as the comics are concerned (even if those ungrateful bastards don’t know it). It’s not your show. It’s not even your job to be funny, except when you need to be.

A few comic friends of mine once said on a podcast that it’s worse to have an ok gig than to bomb, and the best hosting gig can only be ok. I don’t agree with that completely but I would say that it’s true more often than it’s not. Doing a set means freedom, being a host means willingly putting on shackles.

I’ll leave on what may be a controversial note- when hosting, CROWDWORK IS NOT NECESSARY. To qualify this point, I enjoy crowdwork when it’s done well. The crowd gets the feeling that it’s a show and not television, that they and the comics are living in the moment and they’re getting a show that’s unique. The key part of the above is “done well.” I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that crowdwork is bad nine times out of ten, especially when it comes from the hosts.

Many hosts think crowdwork is, in fact, necessary, and that’s exactly how it comes across, as something that just has to be done. I’ve seen a lot of hosts follow a formula of, “Welcome to the show! … joke… joke… joke… ok, now’s the part where I talk to the audience.” That’s nearly a quote; other variations include, “Ok, let’s get to know the crowd better,” and the like.

Crowdwork should feel like an organic happening, not just a part of some process. Feel free to disagree and consider it a must! My suggestion is, if you’ve got a formula for when and how to talk to the audience, then just talk to them without telling them that now is the part when you talk to them.

One of my (all too many) pet peeves is when a comic asks someone what they do and whatever answer they get, the comic’s response is, “Oh, I don’t have a joke for that haha!” THEN WHY DID YOU ASK? Good Lord, if you ask someone in Stockholm the answer is most likely going to be IT, student, or unemployed. Write three jokes. Or don’t, because no one expects you to have a ready joke for all possible responses. You are expected to say something funny eventually, however, because you’re on stage and have a microphone. If their answer isn’t something you can work with, then ask them simple follow-up questions (how long have you done that? is that what you wanted to be when you grew up?) until you get to the funny. But please get to the funny at some point or don’t bother.

I’ve been hosting shows for a decade and do little to no crowdwork. Sometimes I think I should, because the comics waiting for their turn might hear something interesting to address during their set. As I stated above, however, the last thing comics pay is attention. I’ve been to too many shows when the same person in the room gets asked, “What’s your name, what do you do?” five times.

Some might say that, as host, it’s my job to care about the audience, innocent or otherwise. To be honest I’ve never really cared much for them, innocent or otherwise. They have a job to do – they’re just as responsible for their own enjoyment as the comics. That’s the final bit of responsibility for the host: reminding the crowd to not be assholes.

The Swedish version of the Christmas office party is the julbord- literally Christmas table. The whole office gathers for a smorgasbord of traditional food and alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

It’s also traditional to hire a comic for entertainment. Someone at the office thinks it would be a good idea to hire one of the three comics they’ve heard of and is horrified when they hear how much it would cost for their services. Unless it’s a big company with deep pockets.

That’s where agents come in handy. An agent will have a roster of available, unknown comics with far lower price tags. Hell, most comics will perform for a beer, if even that. A gig is a gig!

Not to brag, but I’m signed up with four different agents. Sounds impressive until I tell you only one ever got me any gigs and it’s been years since I last heard from him. But hey, I don’t have to explain that on my cv.

It was through this agent that I was contacted by a CEO looking to book an English-speaking comic for his julbord. I was a perfect fit, since I speak American and was in his price range. He told me I would be a fun surprise for his employees.

“You’re the customer so it’s absolutely your call, but I can tell you from experience that everyone will have a lot more fun if you tell them in advance that I’m coming.”

“…. So it’ll be surprise…”

Sigh.

“My idea is that I introduce you as the new Key Account Manager for the UK. You go up, pretend it’s real for a bit, and then you do your thing and everyone figures out you’re a comic!”

His money, his call. I wasn’t then in a position nor am I now where I could turn it down. I take what I get.

I was given an address, a time to arrive and a phone number I could call to be discreetly let in. What I wasn’t told was the exact nature of the dinner or, more specifically, if alcohol would be involved. Swedish audiences love to laugh but only as a group- to be the only one in a club laughing a joke would be a nightmare. It’s worse when a company goes to a club as a group, because no one wants their co-workers to see what they think is funny. A little alcohol goes a long way, however; get them lubed up a little and they relax. Unfortunately, when employees get to drink together, especially when the booze is free, there’s no such thing as a little alcohol. When they’re smashed the last thing they want to hear is some stranger telling them dick jokes.

I faced three possible scenarios. One, that everyone would be completely sober and this would be awkward for everyone involved. Two, they’d be so blitzed I’d barely be able to tell them my name, let alone a joke. Or three, they’d be pleasantly buzzed and this would be a fun gig. I went to the venue hoping for the latter, but not counting on it.

I called the number when I arrived and was greeted by a young woman with a big smile on her face. “This will be so fun!” she said as she led me to a room I was to hide in until my time. “They’re having dessert now and then I’ll come get you. You’re actually the first surprise. After you, we have a salsa group that’s going to perform!”

“Nice!” I said. “So… is everyone drinking?”

“Ohhhhh yeahhhhh,” she said, drawing out the words as her smile was replaced by a frown. “They were already drunk before dinner. We had to start giving them water. They heckled the CEO off the stage.”

Okay. It’s going to be one of those gigs.

I waited in the room for far longer than I anticipated; I guess they needed a lot of water. Finally, the CEO half-stumbled into the room with a sloppy grin and said it was time. He led me down a hall into a large room with a lot more people than I’d expected, at least fifty. As planned, he introduced me with a false name and said I’d just been hired.

I took the stage and said, “Yeah, I’m also surprised to be here. I was walking down the street talking to a friend and suddenly your CEO stopped me and said, ‘Oh, you speak English? How would you like a job as a Key Account Manager for the UK?’ I was unemployed so I said sure, but if that’s all it takes to hire me, I guess he’s a shit CEO.” I probably still nursed a little resentment over the whole surprise thing.

I didn’t feel like keeping up the pretense so I dropped it immediately. I introduced myself for real, said I was from the US, and launched into my act. I was happy to see that they were in much better shape than I’d feared, it was a nice room and nearly felt like a proper club gig.

Nearly. Five minutes into my set and midsentence, I was interrupted by a shout from the crowd. “Where are you from?” I spotted her in the middle of the room, so drunk that her eyes were looking in two different directions, swaying back and forth. Swaying back and forth in her chair. How much does one need to drink before being unable to sit straight?

“I told you, I’m from the US.”

“Yeah but where are you FROM?”

“Oh,” I said. No one had ever asked me to be specific. “I’m from New Jersey, close to Philadelphia.” No response and her face remained impassive, so I went back to my material. I figured she was satisfied.

I figured wrong. Five minutes later, in the middle of another joke:

“Where are you from?”

“I told you twice that I’m from the US!”

“Yeah but WHERE are you FROM?!”

“My mother’s vagina! What do you want from me?”

The room erupted around her as she remained as expressionless as ever. A guy next to her put his hand on her shoulder and, mercifully, there were no further outbursts.

I’d been hired to do thirty minutes but, as is usually the case, I could tell after twenty minutes they’d had enough. I thanked them and headed back to my room, glad I’d done well and that everyone had enjoyed it.

When I entered the room I found the salsa band getting ready for their turn in the spotlight. The band being two men tuning their instruments and two women dressing up to dance while the men played. “Dressing up” is a strong statement as they were going for a Rio Carnival look.

Between the copious amounts of alcohol and the g-strings and pasties, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who remembers this gig.

2020 has been a rough year for me.  But then, how many people are going to look back at this year with nostalgia?  Not many, unless things get real bad in the future.  “Well, 2020 wasn’t great, but now it’s Trump’s sixth term and it’s literally raining fire.”

Still, I don’t want that to belittle my own problems.  Even before covid, I’d decided to step back from the stage and focus on getting my life together.  Some things I was able to fix, others learn to live with, and in the meantime, new problems reared their ugly heads.  One thing is certain: I haven’t been feeling particularly funny.

I fell in love with standup when I was a preteen and, for nearly ten years, I’ve been performing myself.  Chasing gigs, running clubs, going on road trips.  It has been, by far, the greatest passion in my life, so it’s been sobering to see that, not only has my drive to perform cooled considerably, I haven’t missed it very much.

Maybe it would be different if we weren’t living in the new covid normal, if all the clubs were running as they always had.  I can’t be certain, but I don’t think so.  So many comics have talked about getting addicted to laughs, but I’ve never experienced that [insert no-one-ever-laughs-at-you comment here].  My drive to be a comic has always been due to my passion for standup and, due to not being passionate about anything this year, that drive has suffered along with everything else.

I’ve been very outspoken about being a comedy snob and I’ve noticed that my snobbery has, somehow, increased over the last year.  For example, there was a scandal this summer at one of the few Stockholm clubs that has remained open- a heckler got upset at comics doing offensive material, was thrown out, leading to a backlash on social media towards the club, leading to comics rushing to the defense with the Free Speech banners held high- but the only thing I could think was, “Yes, you can joke about anything, but how about being funny?”

If you’ve got a joke about Down’s Syndrome and it’s really, really funny, people will be laughing so hard they forget to be offended.  Unfortunately for 99.99% of the comics, just saying Down’s Syndrome is the punchline.  I should know; when I first started, I had a Down’s Syndrome joke.

The other thing about that club is that it was open seven days a week during the summer.  I know a lot of rookies who went there several days a week looking for gigs.  I also know that, when I finally see these rookies for the first time in many, many months, they won’t have any jokes I haven’t heard them say before.  But hey, they’ll have more gigs under their belts.

It gave me the idea to run a comedy course designed for rookies who’ve been performing for one to three years.  It would be a one day event.  Each of them would do a five minute set and then I’d tell them to continue grinding for gigs or, in most cases, I’d say, “Look, you’ve never been very good and you won’t get any better.  Maybe stop wasting your time and pick a more lucrative hobby.  Stamp collecting, perhaps?”

Naturally, no sooner had this idea struck me than I checked myself.  First of all, there’s nothing wrong with performing just to perform, without ambition, or even with ambition that will never be realized.  Also, who am I to judge?  I was at an open mic last week and when a rookie who’s done five gigs asked me how long I’ve been performing, I was almost embarrassed to say nearly a decade.  I’m doing alright but I’ve seen comics with far less experience pass me and reach heights I won’t attain.  And that’s also okay; I’ve never had much ambition and it shows.

Becoming bitter is a trap I’ve seen many comics fall into and that’s not for me.  I can’t say I jump for joy when I’m not an advertised comic on a lineup or put first, or at the fact that more clubs than not won’t offer me gigs unsolicited, and plenty of those clubs won’t book me even if I ask.  I just shrug my shoulders and accept that, based on my level of ambition and talent, I am right where I deserve to be.

Besides, one thing I really enjoy is seeing rookies and their unbridled enthusiasm for being in the club, walking off stage after a thoroughly mediocre gig but shining like they’d just slaughtered at an arena.  It reminds me of when I felt, “Oh my God, I’m booked at an open mic in two weeks, I can’t fucking wait!” instead of, “Ugh, I’m booked at an open mic tonight, I should just stay here on my couch.”  Or nine-year-old posts on Facebook I made saying “I just killed at an open mic!!!!!!!!”  I’m sure I didn’t, but thanks On This Day for reminding me.

I’ve never been one for nostalgia. I honestly get sad when I hear people my age talk about high school as the best years of their lives.  I’ve never wanted to look back at my happiest days; I’d rather feel that I’m happy now and/or more happiness is just up ahead.  But I do catch myself sometimes, looking back at those early days when I was more wide-eyed and enthusiastic.  I also know that this is a common feeling amongst comics who’ve been at this just as long.

Speaking of common feelings, there’s the “oh it used to be so much more fun to hang at clubs” feeling.  One I hear often, in particular, is the era of Maffia Comedy at Baras Backe, a bar where there was a side room in which all the comics could hang before, during and after the show.  I tend to look back at that time with rose-tinted glasses and miss it today, but then I remind myself that it was a show where no one respected how much stage time they got, making a two-hour show stretch to three hours and beyond, and if I wasn’t hosting, I was “headlining.”  (A comic nicknamed me Mr. Sist, sist meaning last in Swedish.)  As a result, while everyone else was hanging out and having a good time, I was usually the only one paying attention to the show.

Which is not to say that I didn’t enjoy it, because I did and I have a lot of fond memories of the place.  I’m guessing, however, that there are a host of rookies out there right now that are having just as much fun as we did back then, that will look back at even these terrible times with nostalgia.  Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, just be sure to take those glasses off.

I’m not sure where I go from here.  Back in the early days, I’d see very funny people suddenly disappear and wonder how they could’ve just quit like that.  Now I see how easy it can be and I still care enough about standup to find that worrisome.  I’ve done a few gigs recently, I have a few booked, maybe I’ll get back to the grind.  Maybe I’ll open a new club, but not before all the covid restrictions are gone.  Hopefully there will be a nice window of time between the release of an effective covid vaccine and the sky falling.  Happy times ahead.

A week before Christmas, my position where I worked was erased, and I agreed with my manager that I should leave. Which is like describing a breakup as “mutual.” Everyone says that losing a full-time job in Sweden is next to impossible, but not only is it very possible, I am really good at it, apparently.

At least I saw it coming, for good and for ill. Heading into the Christmas season I can’t say that I was in the best of moods. Grumpy, anxious, taking anger out on friends, generally wondering how I let myself get to that point in my life. All of that came to a head in early January, just when I was enjoying my annual, post-holiday depression, which hopefully isn’t fueled by also being sober every January.

I had to get away, to get my shit together. I quit my club, canceled all my gigs, knew I needed a break but not how long it would be. I didn’t want to make a production of it, just wanted to go away quietly.

It was the longest break I’ve taken in nine years. I’ve heard comics talk about the benefits of taking a break, but I can’t say I experienced any. Didn’t miss performing, didn’t think of any jokes, had absolutely zero motivation. What I did do was spend a lot of time on my couch, not going out, barely communicating with anyone. I tried therapy for the first time, so now the only thing separating me from all the other comics out there is that I’m not on Tinder. Watched a lot of TV, played a lot of video games. Which was fine, for quite a while, but, not surprisingly, it got boring after a few months.

By the start of March I was thinking about performing again, but still didn’t have a real drive to do so. I had a standup event to run for a visiting US comic in the middle of the month, one I’d have to do, and wasn’t excited about. When Trump announced the US-Europe travel ban, the comic had to cancel, and though I feel bad for that person, the news came as a relief. I just wasn’t ready for it.

However, when the middle of the month actually arrived, I was asked to host another show and I said yes. I was ready to go out and see the world again! … just in time for everyone to stay in. I’m such a hipster, I self-isolated before it was cool.

————–

I was booked to host Friday and Saturday night. Friday was…. brutal. Not many tickets sold in advance, and not everyone who’d bought a ticket showed up. The headliner didn’t show up, either; I told the audience that him not being there was proof that cocaine doesn’t help against covid. Covid was the elephant in the room but I was far from my best myself. It was my first time on stage in over two months; I feel rusty after a week. I’d assumed it wouldn’t be too hard, since I host so often, but I barely remembered my own name up there. On the bright side, we didn’t take a break, so after doing five awful minutes to start the show my time on stage was reduced to just introducing the next comic.

A few of us went for a beer after, though none of us felt like celebrating. Being in a half-empty bar just magnified the gloomy atmosphere.

But I needed that night to get me ready for Saturday. The crowd was half the size it normally would be on a Saturday, but it felt full enough that no one noticed the difference. I was loose, not nearly as nervous, and asked the club owner to have a break in the middle like the show normally does. That way, I got to do ten minutes at the start and another ten after the break and I, quite frankly, was fantastic. I’d got my mojo back!

A few of us went for a beer after, because we wanted to celebrate… and left the half-empty bar after one beer. It’s not easy to maintain a party mood when you’re in a ghost town.

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In the past week, I’ve been in four clubs, performing twice. Not many people in each room, of course, and I would describe their attitude overall as “fuck corona.” Which is exactly what I told them from stage:
“Fuck corona, yeah! Fuck old people! We’ll show that virus! I think we should take it a step further and spit in each other’s mouths- it might help build our immune systems and will give me an erection, so win-win.”

I know that just being outside the apartment at all is controversial and I don’t share that “fuck corona” attitude, but my bottom-line feeling is, if some people are choosing to go out anyway, the show might as well go on. I’ve heard comics compare themselves to musicians on the Titanic, which is apt, since, like the Titanic, our venues are slowly slipping under the ice. I’m glad I don’t have to make the choice to keep a club open or not; most have closed, some choose to remain open despite cries for them to shut down. That choice may be taken from them soon, especially if an official ban on bars and restaurants comes down.

I hope that doesn’t happen. I’m still spending most of my waking hours on my couch, even if I’ve gone out a few times. I’ve watched too much TV, played too many video games, done waaaay too much soul-searching. My brain is terrible company.

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Every once in a while, something comes along and scares the shit out of the human race. SARS, Ebola, Avian Flu… My all-time favorite was Super AIDS, which didn’t capture our attention for very long.

When Swine Flu arrived to scare the shit out of all of us, experts advised using hand sanitizer regularly. Naturally, we trampled over each other to get that, as well as the vaccine that came out not long after. A year later, we found out that neither worked; the vaccine didn’t even give people narcolepsy, even though many still believe that.

I’m not an anti-vaccer. But I am against being reactionary and living in fear. I’m also against not caring at all, saying, “meh, it’s no worse than the flu.” I think we should take it seriously and take precautions. Many of us are in risk groups, or close to people who are, and we should be extra cautious. But no one should be passionately “OMG WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!” or passionately “the media is just making a big deal out of nothing” because we simply don’t know enough yet.

I know what medical experts say today and I take that seriously, but what makes science science and not religion is that experts change their minds as more data is made available. “THOU SHALT BATHE IN ALCOHOL SANITIZER” wasn’t written on a stone tablet when Swine Flu came out. After time and observation those same experts could say, “Whoops, we were wrong about that.” Maybe it really does help against covid, or would if we used even more of it, or maybe not at all. We’ll find out.

Maybe self-isolating works, or would work if everyone did it. Maybe comics telling dick jokes to 10 drunk strangers in a small bar is worse than licking a toilet seat, or maybe it doesn’t matter at all. Maybe posting 18 times a day on social media about covid and screaming out the window at people outside to get indoors for the love of God will save us all, or maybe not at all. We’ll find out.

Well, most of us will find out. Most of us will get through this. Some of us will not live to see covid-free streets and chemtrails back in the sky above us. Some of us will die from covid. Or car crashes. Or domestic violence, on the rise thanks to self-isolation. Or from God knows what. Death is coming for us all, sooner or later.

I often say to rookie comics, “You’ve got 5 minutes on stage. You can be whatever you want, talk about whatever you want, so how do you want to spend that time?” Not many of us know how many minutes we have left to live, but we all know it’s limited. So how do you want to spend that time? I’ll try not to judge you for it, but I probably will. Hey, I’m not Jesus. But who is?

If we’re very lucky, the worst of this will blow over by summer, in time for covid to be replaced in the headlines by shark attacks, and then that can scare the shit out of us instead. Life returning to normal.