Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

I once asked this of a female rookie
I’d just met. It was a clumsy thing to say and I wouldn’t say it
again, but my heart was in the right place. At least I thought it
was; I thought she had a strong personality and I wanted to see that
come through on stage, instead of what I had come to consider the
qualities of a typical female comic.

I grew up with standup, listening to
albums, watching every cable comedy program and special, short sets
on talk shows, whatever I could. I learned early on that when I’d
see a man on stage for the first time, I’d have no idea what to
expect from him (so long as he was white and between 20 and 50),
other than he’d probably mention his dick at some point. Any
variation on that, the material was dominated by it (i.e. weight,
ethnicity, etc).

By that standard, nearly all female
comics fit snugly in the niche of female comedy, sets comprised of
dating, periods, dating, mothers, dating, and dating. There were, as
always, exceptions; Sandra Bernhard was ahead of her time. And
though I thought the range was limited, it didn’t mean I didn’t
laugh. Paula Poundstone, Elayne Boosler, Ellen DeGeneres, Rita
Rudner, just to name a few that made an impression on me. But even
Ellen joked about her difficulties finding a man, the cause of which,
in retrospect, seems a bit obvious.

However, at the time I made the
request, I’d been performing for six months, not at all at the same
pace as today, and I’d performed in far fewer venues. What I’ve
learned since is that my opinion was completely outdated. Yes,
female comics do talk a lot about being women, about being female
comics, but that’s because it’s who they are and I’ve met few of them
I thought had limited themselves to that.

There are, naturally, some behaviors I
don’t like, and trying to change them is a recurring theme of this
blog. Some of them, in my experience, are overwhelmingly female, but
they are so uncommon I won’t paint an entire group as typical. In
fact, if I could do it all over again, I would’ve asked her to not be
an untypical comic.

If, for example, you don’t actively
hunt gigs at least at the rookie, open mic level, and instead wait
for, or expect, invitations from club owners, you’re being an
untypical comic. This is something you’re supposed to be aggressive
about. If it were easy, anyone could do it. You should hunt, nag,
pester, and be prepared for rejection. You won’t get every gig,
especially in the beginning, so make the best of what you do get.

If you feel threatened by and/or are
shitty to a comic just because that comic is physically attractive,
that is petty, catty and bitchy. Yes, I realize the sexist
connotation of “catty” and “bitchy” but if the shoe fits,
wear it. While I personally have not seen man-on-man action in this
regard, I imagine it could happen. Whether or not it’s an exclusively female
thing, just cut it out. You’re better than that.

Sometimes a funny woman will have an
easier time getting a gig than a funny man because she’s a funny
woman. If you are a funny woman with limited experience and you get
a great gig and claim gender has nothing to do with it, you are
insulting a funny man who had to work for years before he got the
same chance. Now, I don’t expect you to shed a tear over hurting a
man’s feelings, but if we’re ever going to move the ball forward, we
need to respect each other and get along.

If you say, “She only got that gig
because she’s a woman!” you’re wrong and you should shut the fuck
up. First of all, the primary reason she got the gig was because
she’s funny. Second of all, a funny man will have an easier time
getting a gig than a funny woman much, much more often, even when
said man is far less funny. Some club owners are more active at
levelling the playing field and this is a good thing.

I wouldn’t trade places with a woman
for anything in life and certainly not in standup. When I contact a
club owner for a gig, he (pretty much always a man) wants to know if
I’m funny, not how big my tits are. When I show up, none of the
other comics feels I’m a threat because I’m attractive (for the sake
of this story, let’s say I’m a very handsome guy). When I go on
stage, the host doesn’t say, “The next comic is a man! He’s very
cute and actually pretty funny!” No man in the audience folds his
arms and refuses to laugh at anything I say, nor give dirty looks at
his girlfriend when she laughs. No woman in the audience is more
interested in how I look than what I’m saying. When I’m done, no
female comic tells me I need to match my material with my wardrobe
(although once a guy told me not to wear a funny t-shirt). And no
woman labels me as a typical male comic…

…ok, actually that does happen. When
I joke about my dick and make sexist remarks, there are women who tsk
and write me off as just another typical male comic. I’m aware of
that, but it doesn’t always prevent me from talking about what I want to talk about.
I do what I want and I accept the consequences. Female comics have their own range of topics to watch out for, and if someone says, “Great, another typical female comic,” well, you can’t win them all.

I have this hope that someday, when I
see someone walk on stage for the first time, I won’t be able to
guess what he or she will joke about, at least not all the time.
Doesn’t mean the end of niche comedy, but it would mean the end of
comics being limited by them. It’s one reason I push fellow ex-pat
comics in Sweden to talk about more than Sweden.

In a perfect world, there will be no
funny women, no female comics, no comediennes. Just comics and
comedians, period. No pun intended.

I thought about writing on the topic of
what makes a good mc, but a) that ground has been covered to death,
and b) I’m as much a rookie mc as I am a rookie comic. Instead I
thought I’d just write about my own experience.

With Taboo Comedy Club, which I
co-founded, and now Crossfire Comedy Club, I wanted to have a place
where the focus is on the performers, where they get as much stage
time as they deserve, where they feel appreciated. It’s my club, but
it is not my show. When I host my own place or at other clubs, it is
not my job to be funny. It is my job to get the crowd warmed up and
focused and then I get the hell out of the way.

Part of the appeal of founding a club
was to try to improve on what I felt were poor aspects of other clubs
I’ve performed at, and the same thing affects how I host an evening.
I’ve experienced hosts:

– that did nothing. “Hi everyone.
Welcome to the show. Your first comic…”

– that didn’t understand their job is
to be a cheerleader. “God, I’m so miserable. Life is just
terrible. Your next comic…”

– that did too much. “Before we
bring out the next comic, I’m going to ramble for twenty minutes with
some material I’d like to work out.”

And so on. Comics will complain to
each other about the host’s skills or lack thereof- never to the host
of course; see the title of my blog- but I just see it as the price
of admission. When I choose to perform at a club, I play by the
club’s rules. I may not like it, but I adjust my set based on the
circumstances I’m presented.

If I’ve done my job as host right, the crowd is
warmed up and ready to be entertained by someone that isn’t me. If
the comic completely eats it, I’ll do my best to bring the crowd’s
spirits back up before the next person gets on stage. If the comic
was great, I get the next person up as quickly as possible to keep up
the momentum. It isn’t rocket science, although I certainly
understand the temptation to be on stage longer.

Hosting does mean I am limited in how I
present myself on stage. When someone else is hosting, I can be
goofy or angry or try completely untested material or ramble or just
do whatever I want, but I have to be a cheerleader and sharp when I
host. I’ve made the mistake about trying out something new because I
was so eager to do so and ended up driving the crowd’s mood into the
ground.

Being a cheerleader, however, doesn’t
mean I can’t be the bad guy when the situation calls for it. At no
point should a performer need to waste time yelling at someone in the
crowd to stop talking or get off the phone or otherwise being a
nuisance. That’s the host’s job. I can feel like a high school
principal at times- “Don’t make me turn the lights on and off until
you start paying attention. I can stand here all night.”- but I
can be shitty so the comics don’t have to.

It wasn’t until I’d had a year under my
belt as a comic before I dared to host for the first time, because
talking to people in the crowd was, and still is, a tough thing for
me. I have a hard time talking to people in real life, too, though I
learned, with a microphone in my hand, I have a lot more control over
the conversation.

One night in particular, early on,
shaped me more than any other, both as a host and as a comic. I was
hosting at a club, went up first, the crowd was completely silent. I
brought up the first comic, the crowd stayed silent. I went on
again, tried to be high-energy, the crowd didn’t go for it at all. I
brought the next comic up, the silence continued, and I paced
backstage, thinking, “Ok, I need to bring out my best, safest
material to turn this night around.”

The club owner came up to me, pissed as
hell, and I thought he was going to chew me out for being a bad host.
Instead, he said, “What the fuck is wrong with this crowd? You,”
poking me in the chest with his finger, “have to be hard on them.
They have a job to do and they’re not doing it.”

And that’s exactly what I did. I went
up after the second comic tried and failed to get the crowd going,
and in the nicest way possible, I told them that they were to blame
for not laughing, not giving the comics energy, because the comics
were funny. I was an asshole to them, talking like a drill sergeant,
but it turned the night around. “It’s never the crowd’s fault”
is as true as “The customer is always right.” Sometimes a crowd
sucks and needs to be whipped into shape.

As much as I’d love to say that I don’t
care at all what others think of me, it wouldn’t be the truth.
Despite my tough guy image (sarcasm intended), I’m a pretty sensitive
guy, and my reputation is very important to me, especially in a
country where it’s so difficult to make friends. I’m happy that my
reputation seems to be positive, overall, and I hope it is driven by
the way I act and the choices I make.

However, like pretty much everything
else in life, a lot of what affects my reputation is out of my
control. It’s all well and good for me to say that the jokes I tell
shouldn’t be a factor, but of course they are. Onstage and off, my
sense of humor doesn’t have any limits, and now and then, off stage,
I have apologized for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person.
It’s important to know one’s audience.

But I have never, nor will ever,
apologize for what I say on stage. When I say something the crowd
finds abhorrent, they let me know, and I pay the price. A favorite
bit of mine that almost never failed to kill in Sweden got me
literally booed from the stage in Berlin, for example (I say almost
never because a woman once threatened to throw my own beer in my face
after a set). If people judge me for who I really am based only on
how I am on stage, that isn’t my problem.

I’ve said before that one of the many
things I love about standup is that we can be whatever, whomever we
want up there. You can be a character completely unlike yourself if
you choose so, though just about every comic I’ve ever met is some
version of themselves on stage. Note the key phrase, some
version.

Larry David said that when he’s on
stage, he’s “Superman.” He takes certain aspects of his
personality and exaggerates them into a persona. He’s himself, but
not himself. That’s what we do, we control the image of ourselves
that others see. We tell the truth, but not all of it, sometimes we
lie outright, and we keep other parts of ourselves a secret. It’s
pretty much what everyone does all the time, really, just more
refined than Facebook.

A few people have told me
they thought I was an asshole based on how they’d seen me on stage,
and were surprised to find out that I’m not. This is completely
dependent on the fact that I’m not really myself on stage, at least
not as three-dimensional as I am in real life. It’s a double-edged
sword of standup, that the crowd loves when we bare ourselves
(figuratively) and are natural, yet the more natural we make it seem,
the less the crowd sees how much work we put into it. “I could do
that, he/she is just talking up there.”

When I get an idea for a joke, it comes
from my id (the lizard part of my brain that often spews out thoughts
that shock even me). In my head, I can see myself delivering it on
stage, and I am PERFECT. It sounds great, I’m completely confident,
the crowd loves it. So I try saying it out loud and I am as far from
perfect as I can be. I mumble the words and it doesn’t sound funny
to me at all, doesn’t flow. So I write it down, edit it, get it as
close as I can to how it felt, and then try it onstage. It’s always
too wordy, so I keep working at it until it’s polished and I’m
finally satisfied with it. Every joke, bit, routine of mine are like
songs to me, and my primary quest in standup is to be as perfect
onstage as I am in my own head. I’m me, but not me.

I’d like to have a reputation as a nice
guy, someone who takes funny business seriously, works hard at it, is
passionate about it, and supports others. I never want to act
against any of those things and I don’t think I have, but I know I
plant my foot firmly in my mouth more often than I’d like, and it’s
usually women I piss off. One in particular, a co-worker, once told
me, “You are SUCH an asshole! And the worst part is, you think
you’re a nice guy!”

That stung. Then I just accepted the
fact that I am a nice guy who can be an asshole sometimes. I can
live with that. Better than an asshole who can sometimes be nice.

In any case, one thing I’ll never be
accused of being is cool. Never been cool, never going to be cool,
and that stopped bothering me long ago. One of the bigger comics to
visit Sweden once said of me, not knowing I was in earshot, “Nice
guy but he’s whiter than Jim Gaffigan’s knee.” I want that on a
t-shirt.

The title today is a little misleading
because there really aren’t any official rules for an audience at a
comedy show, especially one with no cover charge. Think of these
instead as a way for you, the civilian, to make the night fun for
yourself, the crowd, and the comics.

1. Don’t Talk. Should be obvious, but
isn’t. If you absolutely must say something to someone in your
group, use your <inside voice> and keep it brief. If you’d
like to have long conversations with your friends, there are hundreds
of other, better places to do so.

2. Don’t Use Your Phone. Should also
be obvious, but isn’t. Buddhists have it all wrong; if we were truly
One we wouldn’t be so desperate to be connected at all times. Try
living off the grid for a couple of hours. At least put it on silent
and check it during the breaks, not the show.

3. If You Hear a Joke You Found Funny,
Laugh Out Loud. A guy once told me after a show, “I feel bad
because when I’m in the club and I like a joke, I don’t laugh, I just
smile.” He should feel bad. No comic ever went home thinking,
“What a great set I had! Everyone was smiling!” If you like the
joke, express yourself audibly. If you are Swedish or otherwise
naturally afraid of being an individual, alcohol helps.

4. Don’t Heckle. Ever. Any questions?

– “What do I do if I don’t like the
comic?”

Don’t laugh. Take a little break, go
get a drink, step outside for a smoke or some fresh air, maybe
you’ll like the next comic. Just because you don’t like the comic,
it doesn’t mean the comic is bad. I hate Pop Country, for example,
but it’s called Pop Country for a reason.

– “But heckling is popular in the
UK!”

So is boiling everything. They
certainly do love to heckle. They heckle in Parliament, for
Christ’s sake. But if you’re not sitting in a Soho club then this
argument isn’t valid, now is it?

– “Standup is supposed to be
give-and-take with the crowd! Heckling adds to the night!”

It never adds, only subtracts. If a
comic gets 6-8 min of stage time, the comic plans 6-8 min of
material. The comic might be good and fast enough to turn your
inane comment into Comedy Gold, but whatever time is spent on you
is time removed from the planned material.

Bottom line: If you want to
participate in a show, write three minutes of material and ask club
owners for stage time. Otherwise, limit your involvement to
laughing and applauding.

5. If You Have a Chance to Tell a Comic
After a Show That You Enjoyed Yourself, Do So! Comics may be broken
people but we’re still people. We won’t bite, we appreciate a clap
on the back. Go right up and say, “I had a great time, thanks, I
thought you were very funny!”

Then- this is extremely important- if
you are not going to offer money and/or sex, just walk away. I don’t
want to sound ungrateful, you did a wonderful thing, and I know you
have the best of intentions, but chances are you’re going to screw it
up.

Example: Guy walks up to me after a
show, says, “I thought you were really funny!” Great so far!
But he continued, “I loved your joke about porcupines!” I don’t
have a joke about porcupines.

To recap: laugh and don’t talk too
much. By following these simple rules, you’ll not only ensure a
wonderful evening for all, you might just save a life!

Two years ago I went to see standup with a group of
civilians (read: non-comics/comedians).
The headliner was a comedian I’d not heard of before nor since, but
apparently a warm-up act for Letterman.
He was funny, did impressions, some of which were quite good, some of
which bordered on theft- an impression of Jim Carrey, sure, but doing Carrey’s
Fire Marshall Bill character, not so much.

I laughed, but he didn’t grab my attention until midway
throughout his set, when he began joking about his relationship with his
father. It was clear to me that, under
the jokes, there was some real pain there, but he moved on quickly and resumed
his impressions. That’s one of the
reasons few comedians have ever really affected me the way so many comics have,
because, with comedians, it’s all about the laughs.

Afterwards, one of the civilians asked me if I dreamed of
turning standup into a career. “I’d love
to, but it’s scary,” I said, “because so many comedy careers end in tragedy.”

“Oh, you’re just generalizing,”
another said. “Yeah, I am,” I replied,
and moved on. Some people just need to
believe the magic is real.

———————————————

When I was seven years old, I moved to a new town. Being socially awkward and poor at sports
(some things never change), I made no friends and instead became a target. That was Second Grade and I was one of around
twenty students. I hoped things would
change in Seventh Grade when I began at Middle School and they did, but for the
worse. I went to a small school, but
being in a class of around a hundred brought me more tormentors and still no
friends.

By this point, though, I’d discovered standup. I learned that if I could laugh at myself,
insult myself worse than anyone else could, it took away all their power. I never did learn any method of defending
myself other than hoping, if I just ignored them, they’d get bored and leave me
alone. They finally did, in Tenth Grade. From ages 15 – 16 I was completely ignored
and I’d never been happier. I still had
no friends at school but I didn’t have enemies, either.

Having that break of a year gave me enough self-confidence
to begin running Cross Country and Track in my Junior Year. I was, by far, the slowest on the team, so I
didn’t matter, but I didn’t care. All I
cared about was getting better, doing better with each race. When I continued participating in my Senior
Year I made my first friends, all of them surprised to find that, after all
those years, I actually was a somewhat interesting person.

After high school and moving away to Boston for college, I
grew apart from and/or fell out with every single friend I’d made that
year. Thanks to Facebook I’ve managed to
stay in touch with a few people from those days, but I’d stayed in Boston after
college before making the move to Sweden, so close relationships are difficult
at best.

All of which makes reunions unattractive to me. I’ve been to a few and they are awkward
affairs; a room full of people, most of whom had nothing to do with me for
those years, some of whom were nasty to me throughout, and none of whom I’ve
had anything to do with in the years since, it’s worse than going to a party
full of strangers. Not to say I haven’t
had any interesting conversations or reconnected with anyone during them, but
still. We don’t have anything to reminisce
about, no fun War Stories, and I have no nostalgia. How can I have even the slightest longing for
the past when I’m happiest now?

“Jeez, let it go,” maybe you’re thinking. For the most part, I have, but spare a
thought for the fact that I was very, very unhappy and bullied during ten of my
most formative years. On the other hand,
that pain drove me, inevitably, to the stage.

So maybe I should go to my
30-year reunion and say, “Thanks! Today
I am, in large part, what you all made me!”
And then I’ll laugh, because that’s what I’ve always done, and I hope I
never stop laughing.

———————————————

I don’t know when Robin Williams stopped laughing. I mentioned earlier that few comedians have
ever meant anything to me; he was, is, The Comedian to me. All the energy I could never approach, quick
on his feet, and never failed to be personal on stage. Sadly, it is much more shocking to me when a comic
or comedian dies happy of old age in his or her bed, surrounded by family and
loved ones. His end is all too common.

Comics and comedians have always been the most interesting
people to me and it is my honor and pleasure to know so many, both rookies and
pros. They are the most creative,
gifted, and giving people I have ever known.
They, we, are also the most self-destructive people I’ve ever known, in
the most pain, the most likely to keep repeating mistakes and spiral downwards. But if we’re doing our jobs right, you never
know this, because we keep smiling, keep laughing, until we don’t.

We’re broken people, in many ways. Of course everyone wants to be loved, but it
takes a special kind of broken to drive someone to the stage, to seek that
acceptance from total strangers. Even
when we get their love, we don’t believe it; a common pitfall in comedy is that
the performer begins to hate the audience.
“They love me, can’t they see I’m worthless? How fucking stupid are they?” one might
think.

Sometimes, when I host a show, I’m confronted with an
audience that doesn’t want to give us much energy. When that happens, I say, “I’m going to let
you all in on a dark little secret about comedy: Every single person that comes up
on this stage has really low self-esteem and a big hole in their chest where a
soul should be, so we need you to give us much love as you can fake for two
hours. Okay?!”

I’m kidding! Comedy
really is magic. Pay no attention to
that man behind the curtain, Oz is Great and Powerful.

I imagine the standup scene in Stockholm is much like any
other, like a pyramid with a large base of rookies at the bottom and far fewer
pros at the top. Gigs look the same way,
lots of open mic-level clubs at the bottom, easy to get, and far fewer, more
lucrative opportunities at the top for us to compete over.

Usually, getting a gig at the top takes a lot of time and perseverance,
but now and then a rookie with very little experience has the good fortune to
be suddenly accelerated to a good one.
Now, there is a nice community spirit amongst rookies and you might
think this would make the rest of us happy, that one of us made it! You would be wrong. We encourage each other but we are also competitive,
angry, and bitter. We say, “That rookie
is not ready for that gig,” and, “The only reason that rookie got that gig is
because a Superstar got it for hen*.”

We’re probably right, on both counts. There’s a good chance that rookie won’t do
well, which will just hurt hen in the long run. But why did the Superstar promote hen in the
first place? Did the Superstar say, “I
am going to use my power and influence to give a great gig to a completely
random rookie hen is not ready for”? No,
the rookie was impressive in some way.
Funny, or unique, or perhaps a bribe was offered, who knows?

Perhaps we’ve also had a gig with that Superstar, who did
not choose to be a patron for us. That’s
the root cause for the jealousy- what does that rookie have that we don’t?

Instead of worrying what that one person thinks or doesn’t
think of us, we should WORK HARDER.
Note- if all you want to do is make people laugh, then stick to your
6-min set that you know works and enjoy your hobby. But if you want the good gigs, then take more
advantage of the time you have on the rookie stages. If you’ve got a year of experience and you
know you can make people laugh, then just doing the same thing again and again
is not going to make you better any more than going to the gym seven days a
week and doing six pushups is going to make you Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Take risks.
Think about what scares you, like crowd work, and do that. Learn your material, practice at home, know
how long your bits are before you go on stage.
Move around on stage. Ask for
feedback. Change the order of your bits,
try not to do the same set twice. Seek
out new venues, new contacts. “Be so
good they can’t ignore you,” as Steve Martin said. If you have a passion for standup, then let
others see it, feel it.

No one gets every opportunity, so use your
God-given ability as a comic to just think about yourself and don’t worry about
the others. Eventually you’ll be in
right place at the right time. Or you
won’t. Who said it’s all about talent?

A final note to those rookies that luck
into great gigs- stay humble. You’re
still rookies.

*hen = Swedish, gender-neutral pronoun

One aspect of standup everyone seems to have an opinion on
is, when can one refer to oneself as a comic?
I’ve heard all sorts of answers:

–
After 100 gigs

–
After 500 gigs

–
After 5 years

–
After the first paying gig

–
Only when comedy pays the bills

And so on and so on.
Not surprisingly, it’s those with the most experience that usually have
the toughest criteria to fill.

Jerry Seinfeld wrote that one is a comic after the first
performance, since the audience doesn’t care if it’s one’s first gig or 1000th
gig. I like the spirit of that belief,
but a) to do your first gig and then go backstage and say to everyone “Now I’m
a comic!” is not a good way to make friends; and b) since all of my heroes are
comics, I have a hard time applying that title on just anyone. Especially myself.

I’ve got three years and over 400 gigs in several countries
under my belt, but I am a rookie comic.
I’ll be a rookie comic until I’m not.
I don’t have a clearer answer to this question either.

To my
knowledge, there’s just one word in Swedish for someone that stands on stage
and tells jokes: komiker. I had a
conversation with a Swede several months ago and he asked in English if I
preferred to be called a comic or a comedian.
I hadn’t really thought about that before, so I Googled it later and
wasn’t surprised to see there is a difference.
There’s an old saying about it, in fact:

“Comics say
funny things, comedians say things funny.”

Although
that makes it appear that being a comic is better, I don’t think one is better
than the other. For me, it comes down to
this: what’s more important to you, the material or the performance? A comic can go on stage and do material he
(in this case, it’s almost always a man) knows the audience will hate, and they
do, and he bounces off the stage with glee.
For comedians it’s laugh or die.

The saying
continues:

“A comic can
be a comedian but a comedian can never be a comic.”

In other
words, an angry comic can make silly faces in between rants, but a silly
comedian is not going to suddenly go on a rant about Israel.

9 out of 10
rookies I meet are comics, but I don’t think that’s necessarily their
choice. In the beginning we’re scared
and nervous and focused on getting the words out right and just plain surviving
the experience; the only thought of “performance” that might cross our minds is
holding the mic correctly and keeping our eyes off the floor. I think being a comedian takes time and
evolution.

Comedians
get a lot more attention than comics.
More likely to headline, more likely to receive glowing reviews. People go to a standup club to laugh and have
fun and drink, and comedians seem to care more about what the crowd wants than
comics. On that note, I add my own
saying:

“Comedians
think they are there for the crowd; comics think the crowd is there for them.”

I laugh at
comedians but my heroes are all comics, and being a comic is something I aspire
to. I always assumed that I would evolve
into an angry, ranting guy on stage and I’m surprised to see that this hasn’t
been the case, so far. I have rants and
my favorite thing to do on stage is to call everyone in the crowd assholes (and
have them applaud me for it), but I learned early on that I get much bigger
reactions when I’m high-energy and smile now and then.

When I
started my material was much darker because I really enjoyed making the crowd
groan and be uncomfortable. I had a joke
about Down’s syndrome that evolved into a bit and finally an entire routine and
it pissed one guy off so bad he wrote a well-received blog entry denouncing it. After a short while, I decided that, as much
as I like making the crowd groan, I like making them laugh more.

I also
believed once that I didn’t care at all what the crowd thought of me. But after I bombed, really bombed for the
first time, I learned I absolutely do care about it. And I know that if I don’t think about
entertaining the crowd at all I won’t get many opportunities to perform. So
they want to have fun and that’s on my to-do list, but it’s at the bottom of my
list.