Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

Thought I’d take a break from standup this week and talk instead about film, another interest of mine. It was my intended major in an aborted attempt to attain a Bachelor’s Degree. I was going to be a Cinematographer. Just one problem: as a Freshman in 1993, I went at the worst possible time; film was dying, about (but not yet) to be replaced by digital. If I’d gone a few years earlier, I would’ve gained a proper education in film and then adapted to digital. A few years later, I would’ve learned digital from the start.

I once had an assignment to complete a five-minute short on 8mm film. I took the commuter train an hour into the Boston suburbs to buy eight rolls of film from the nearest possible source, shot every planned scene over three days (hoping, but not knowing, if the footage would turn out as I wanted), brought the film back to where I bought it so it could be developed, returned again four days later to pick it up, then spent nearly twelve hours in an editing room, physically cutting and taping the film together.

All that for a five-minute, black and white, silent film. Ten-year-olds today can shoot far more complex movies using their phones in a fraction of the time. For free.

Well, I still love movies, and today I want to talk about a scene from The Godfather, one of my favorites. Early on, crooner and actor (and obvious analogue for Frank Sinatra) Johnny Fontaine appeals to his godfather for help. His godfather being Vito Corleone, a powerful Mob boss. Fontaine knows his singing career is on its last legs and he’s standing on the edge of obscurity. However, a script came his way and he discovered a role that would be perfect for him, one that would revitalize his career. Unfortunately, the head of the studio hates him and would never give him the part. Fontaine explains all this to Corleone before burying his face in his hands and, on the verge of tears, says, “Oh Godfather, I just don’t know what to do…”

Angry, Corleone grabs him, slaps him. “You can act like a man! What’s the matter with you?!” He’s embarrassed for his godson. The world of the Mafia is a macho one indeed and someone from that world could even say that Fontaine “was acting like a little bitch.” Toxic masculinity aside, there is something to be said for men and women alike to face adversity with heads held high, even when- or especially when – the obstacles are unsurmountable. Dignity has value.

Lucky for Fontaine, that even when humiliating himself, he still had a powerful patron willing to help. A patron with a trusted advisor who would try to make a deal with that studio head. When those talks failed, the patron had an enforcer, a huge brute of a man, decapitate the studio head’s favorite racehorse and slip the head under the man’s bed covers as he slept. Now, I’m a heavy sleeper, but to do all that and the guy doesn’t notice until he wakes up the next morning? That’s fucking ninja shit.

So, Fontaine gets what he wants at the price of his dignity and the question is, was it worth it? I suppose only Fontaine can really answer that. Hmm, maybe there is a connection here to standup after all. In standup, as in life in general, no one gets everything they want. It’s up to us to decide how we handle that. Accept and move on, or hang onto every slight, real or perceived, and seek petty retribution?

Mel Gibson as William Wallace famously said, “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom!” In that spirit, a club owner might not book you, but they can’t take your dignity. Dignity is only something you can throw away.

Last week, I did something for the first time in so long, I can’t remember when I did it last: I went to a club on a night I wasn’t booked, hoping to get on, not knowing if I would. Sounds almost quaint, doesn’t it? Notwithstanding the fact that someone of my stature should obviously get a spot every time he asks [ahem] it seems far from the norm in the Stockholm scene. This is coming from someone who barely inhabits the open mic clubs these days, so take this with a grain of salt, but my impression is that most comics, even rookies, don’t go to clubs unless they know in advance they’re guaranteed a spot.

That might just be prejudice based on my experience with Power Comedy Club. The concept was simple- show up, get a spot, and as long as anyone (and I mean anyone) was still watching, the show would go on. I think there were two nights in two years we had to end before everyone on the lineup got a chance on stage; three-hour shows were the norm, four-hour and longer shows were not uncommon. And yet, in a world where niche clubs open to promote diversity, only the concerted efforts of myself and my partners kept the nights from being exclusively male, white and straight. One night in particular, I brought a woman from the audience onto the stage just to have one penis-less participant.

And so it was that, on a Thursday with no other plans, I decided to take a chance. I took the hour-long commute to get to the club an hour before showtime and, luckily, managed to get a seven-minute spot. Then I took the hour-long train trip home. Ah, the glamour of showbiz.

A few things motivated this adventure. I mentioned in a previous blog post that my services had been engaged to coach a would-be rookie prior to his debut and, the week earlier, he’d booked that debut on a Thursday at Big Ben Comedy Club. It also happened that I was working at On Air Game Shows the same night, but would finish in time to make it to Big Ben before the show started. Being in the city already, it was easy to run over there, also doing something I rarely do these days- I went to a club when I wasn’t booked and had zero intention of trying to get a spot.

Although I’d made my standup debut by competing against other rookies in Bungy Comedy, Big Ben was where I got my real start twelve years ago. At the time it was open on Thursdays and Sundays only; it would be years before Thursdays became International Nights and more years still for the club to be open three nights, then four, then every night. I vividly remember the first time I went there, just to check it out. It was so packed, I literally had to climb a wall in order to see the stage. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear much. The physical layout of the room has changed over the years, but the sound system stubbornly remains terrible. Part of the charm, I suppose.

Back in those early days, while my grind was at its peak, I practically lived there. Those days are long gone, of course, and it’s a bit of a shame. Being a regular at Big Ben is like being a regular at a gym, but in January- you see a lot of new faces each day that you’ll never see again. One of the authors of the well-intended but ultimately failed Code of Conduct (I should really do a deep dive into that someday) based the rule, “Greet every comic in the club, every time,” on her own experience of walking into a club (I’m guessing Big Ben) and, despite the fact that she was a seasoned veteran, no one said hello to her.

This is someone who I believe began performing before I did, yet I’ve met her maybe four times in twelve years. It’s just comic nature. Unless you’re super social – and, as I’ve said many, many, too many times before, comics are social retards – comics who don’t know you from Adam’s off ox don’t want to talk to you until they’ve seen you do well on stage. I had this exact experience at Big Ben a year or so ago. I showed up for the first time in months, sat with the other comics, next to someone I’d never met, who didn’t even look in my direction. I went on stage, did well, came back, she made eye contact, smiled, said hi and complimented my set. It’s just the way of things and as much as I’d like to say I’m above it, I’m not.

This trip to Big Ben a few weeks ago was no different. Again, it was my first appearance there in several months and I’ve been there maybe eight times in the past few years. I said hello to a few people I kind of know or at least remember meeting before, but otherwise sat anonymously watching the show. No one was like, “Oooh, there’s Ryan Bussell, a 12-year veteran!” because of course they didn’t.

A handful of rookies I’d never seen before went up before my protegee made his debut and, watching them, it reminded me greatly of just how important confidence is to a performance. I got to see a few forms of it in action. There’s zero confidence, which is self-explanatory. There’s false confidence, where someone has much more confidence than the material deserves. There’s role-playing confidence, where a rookie speaks and acts like a professional comic they’ve seen on TV, the rookie thinking that’s how they’re supposed to sound and act as well. Thing is, the audience can see right through someone who is falsely confident or pretending to be so.

My guy went up and was the first with just plain old, natural confidence. Not falsely secure in his material, but confident because he has years of experience in public speaking and at least being funny from time to time. He wasn’t introduced as it being his first time, he didn’t mention it himself, but that confidence had a big impact on the crowd and it went really well for him. For a rookie, I reminded him then and continue to do so. You know how it is with rookie egos.

I once dated a woman who came from a musical family. Her father and sister were amazing musicians, but she didn’t play any instruments herself. I asked her why and she said she loved the theory of playing, but not the practice. I’ve met many rookies over the years with a similar mindset, impatient and wanting to be good right away, and my guy is one of them. After the gig, he told me he’d come up with a strategy for gaming the system, that would potentially guarantee future bookings whenever he wanted, which I won’t reveal here. I responded with, “Well, you could do that, or – hear me out – you could just show up, ask for a spot, and be prepared that they might say no.” He looked at me the same way he did when I said he’d need to go on stage at least fifty times before he’d be any good. Some things just can’t be taught, I guess.

He was booked again the following week and I decided to go, even though I had no other reason to be in the city that day, even though I love being at home very, very, too much. It wasn’t entirely unselfish, though. I never sit down to write new material cold, simply wait for the Muse to do her thing, and a day prior I finally got inspiration.

The past several months I’ve had a lot of random thoughts swirling around my head and suddenly a way to start a set occurred to me. As I thought about it, I realized I had a twenty-minute set without even trying. Shit, this could be a whole damn hour. Only problem is, I have no intention of putting a show together. I’ve been encouraged to do a special and I love the idea, just one problem: no one would show up. At this point, doing a show would just be an exercise in ego stroking, and it’s a bit counterproductive to try to masturbate one’s ego to an empty room. The adage, “What if they threw a war and no one showed up?” comes to mind.

While I live at Maffia Comedy these days, I don’t like testing new material as a host nor for a crowd that pays a not small amount for tickets. Again, a quaint thought, I know. Big Ben, then, is the best spot for me to try out new ideas, but the prospect of a two-hour commute to maybe get a few minutes is rarely attractive. I also fall easily into the trap of looking at the room through nostalgia goggles, thinking more about how I remember the room being (and my memory being overly flattering) than how it is.

But I went last week and I got on and the new stuff went well, so I’m happy with the night. Maybe I’ll try to get there more often. On the other hand, my PS5 isn’t going to play itself.

”I’m just trying to rid the world of all these fevered egos that are tainting our collective unconscious and making us pay a higher psychic price than we can imagine.” – Bill Hicks

To paraphrase Hicks and Allen Ginsberg, I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by fevered egos.

Being a 48-year-old straight white man, obviously I love Breaking Bad, a show that demonstrates how destructive ego can be. The first episode sets this up perfectly- we see Walter White, a Chemistry teacher, lecturing his students. Here he’s in his element, no pun intended, and he humiliates a dumb jock in front of his peers. Teaching doesn’t pay all the bills, though, and we later see him at his part-time job at a car wash, on his hands and knees, scrubbing the hubcaps of an expensive car… owned by that same dumb jock, who watches with glee.

You may not be surprised that I think of this frequently at Maffia Comedy Club, where I host the show and then put chairs away after it’s over. The club has a history of offering spots to rookies in exchange for helping out and, for a short period last year, the thought that other comics might think I only get spots because I work there really got me down. I’m glad to say I got over that, although I think it’s more apt to say I got over myself.

A friend back in high school leveled this criticism at me, “You think you’re the center of the universe and you don’t even like yourself that much.” As I entered the world of standup two decades later, I realized that this applies to nearly every comic I’ve ever met. I’ve said a million times before and will say a billion times again that it takes a special kind of broken to seek approval from drunk strangers. Ego and insecurity have a bizarrely symbiotic yet destructive relationship, fueling each other one minute, wrecking each other the next.

It’s up to every comic to determine their own worth, but it’s an understatement to say this can be very difficult. I’ve met many comics over the years who overestimate themselves. Mind you, I’m basing this not on my own opinion of their comedy – humor is subjective – but on how well they do in front of audiences. I’ve seen comics get nothing but polite chuckles, if even that, yet walk off stage with chest and ego inflated. In my experience, the comics who are most vocal about not getting what they deserve are often among the least deserving.

I know a comic who would absolutely crush set after set, show after show, miserable because other comics wouldn’t recognize his brilliance. Upset that lesser comics got opportunities denied to him, blind to the fact that those same comics didn’t get his opportunities. No thought on what he had, focus only on what he didn’t. He’s very open about being a narcissist, though, so if you’re reading this- yes, I am talking about you.

I know a comic who would get five-minute spots in exchange for helping out, that decided after awhile that they’d rather not perform at that club until they were good enough to be booked without helping at all. They missed a few years’ worth of opportunities as a result, but also developed over that time in other clubs so much that they reached their goal. Not only do they get booked without helping, they’re about to headline for the first time.

I saw a comic given a brief spot do twice their time on stage, because it was unfair that everyone else on the lineup got longer spots. Rather than focusing on a short, powerful set, killing from start to finish, that would all but guarantee an invite for more spots in the future, they opted for a longer set with prolonged silences and polite chuckles. For all I know, they might’ve thought it was a huge success. It’s also likely that their insecurity made their ego explode.

Self-worth and self-esteem are vital. So I’ve heard, at least. We shouldn’t do things we feel are beneath us, but perspective and self-awareness are also important. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

Last year, I was offered a spot at a club in exchange for helping out. My ego screamed, I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO!!!! but I said sure. It was my first invite to the club and I thought, what the hell, don’t have anything better to do. It’s their house, I’ll go and be the only unpromoted comic on the lineup, prove myself, maybe get a promoted spot in the future. I went and felt like it was mission accomplished. Later, I got another invite to perform… in exchange for helping out. I politely declined.

That club owner may feel that I’m at a level where I need to help out in exchange for spots. I disagree, but I don’t think he’s an asshole. Maybe his opinion of me will change in the future, maybe not, and that’s also okay. Hell, I might be bored enough to accept a similar offer from him down the line, and that would simply be my choice.

A few years ago, I was offered my first and perhaps last spot at RAW Comedy Club, 25 minutes. I initially planned a 25-minute set but pared it down to 20, as I knew it would be better to focus and take my time rather than pad it out to the gills. It ended up being, hands down, the best gig I’ve ever done. The club owner wasn’t there and, moron that I am, I didn’t film it, but I doubt it would’ve mattered. In addition to the fact that I have tens of social media followers, the club owner knows me, we’ve gigged together, he’s seen my posts, he knows what I have to offer and nothing makes him think to invite me back, and that’s also okay. I’ve seen other comics in similar positions blast him openly on social media, because, as I said before, some see a closed bridge and blow it up to feel better about themselves. What’s the point, though, other than assuaging a bruised ego?

“We all love ourselves more than other people, but care more about their opinion than our own,” said Marcus Aurelius. Psychologists often put it more bluntly- no one cares about you as much as you do. Get out of your own way and accept that it isn’t that you’re not getting what you deserve, you’re getting as much, or possibly even more, than you deserve. Want more? Work harder. Be undeniable. Maybe you’ll get more, or maybe not, because luck has more to do with than you’d like to think. Life’s unfair, kiddo, so run your own race and spend more time appreciating what you have than pining for what you don’t.

People achieve undeserved success all the time and maybe, someday, you’ll be one of them. Fingers crossed!

17 years. I’ve lived in Sweden for 17 years. I know I just talked about that in last week’s post but damn, it’s still on my mind. I keep wondering if I somehow got the math wrong but nope, I definitely moved here 17 years ago.

An aspect of Swedish life that’s always fascinated me is their relation to alcohol, which has come up now and again throughout my writing. I could probably do a deep dive and research to really understand it, but I prefer not knowing all the answers and maintaining the mystery. For example, did they really drink so much that the government had to step in and set up a monopoly on liquor sales, with limited hours of operation on Saturday and none on Sundays?

Don’t get me wrong, I actually like the government liquor stores. Walk into the typical package goods store in the US and you wouldn’t feel surprised when you get shot. By a gun, I mean, not shots. Stores here are nice, generally well-stocked, and the prices are so low compared to bars that you feel like you’re making money by shopping there (which maybe goes against the goal of reducing drinking).

The only downside, other than their limited hours, is that they don’t have refrigerators. That decision is clearly motivated by keeping costs low, but amusingly they say it’s part of their mission to discourage drinking. I don’t see many bums needing to wait for their white wine to be chilled and beer is typically imbibed at a warmer temperature than in the US. We like our beer ice-cold so we can forget that our biggest brands have zero flavor.

I’m writing about booze this week, not because I’m an alcoholic thank you very much, but because it has a huge impact on audiences here. The Sober Swede is reserved, doesn’t want to stand out, can be reluctant to laugh in front of other strangers for fear of revealing what they find funny. The Drunk Swede is often a sloppy mess. Neither state is good for comedy and we hope to perform for crowds somewhere in the middle.

Because they don’t want to stand out nor, God forbid, for a stranger to talk to them, Swedes fill a club starting from the back row and only sit in the front when absolutely no other option is available (or drunk; see below). I was recently at a show for Greeks living in Stockholm and they started in the front and worked back. I imagine Swedes would accuse Greeks of doing it backwards, but Greeks are used to that criticism.

For the same reason, heckling is extremely rare here. But once the booze begins to flow, some Swedes overcorrect and decide they want to be part of the show. I should like this, in theory; I do think Swedish comics can have it way too easy, so it should be good that they get a curveball thrown their way now and then. Unfortunately, a heckle from a drunk rarely leads to a good joke. Much more often, it just leads to the heckler being insulted and being too drunk to understand that the comic (and everyone else in the room) hates them.

Last weekend, I checked the tickets of a group when they arrived and knew right away that they would either be great or a problem, as they had obviously pre-gamed hard. Despite being amongst the first to arrive, they sat front row center, which added to the uh-oh feeling. One of the women in the group heckled the host only minutes into the show and ended up on stage with him (by his invitation, at least), but fortunately it was a fun and spontaneous happening that all enjoyed.

On the other hand, this encouraged the woman to heckle other comics. Bill Hicks once told a crowd, “You’re not part of my act. Your involvement is limited to laugh, applaud, and a blowjob from every woman after the show.” Doing crowd work always has the negative potential to encourage crowds to heckle and even that could be okay except it’s usually only the drunks who have the liquid confidence to do so. After getting shut down quite harshly by another comic, this particular drunk sat sullenly quiet for the rest of the show. Afterwards, however, she held court, remaining in her seat while the room was emptied of furniture, loudly insisting to anyone who would listen that she wouldn’t take shit from anyone and was glad she shouted her feelings to the comics.

She probably remembered nothing the day after, God bless her.

During the break at Maffia Comedy Club a few weeks ago, a guy from the crowd walked over to me and asked me where I’m from. “Knivsta,” I replied. Yeah, but really, where am I from. “Jersey.” He told me he was from Queens, had moved to Sweden as a kid. His father was from Chile, his mother from Sweden, they visited her sister in Stockholm when he was ten. During the trip, his aunt was killed in an elevator accident that cut her in half. Since they were staying in her apartment, his mom didn’t feel good about leaving as planned, and the stay became indefinite.

I’ve met people who moved here for love, to study, to work, but as a result of bifurcation by elevator? That was a first.

This week marks seventeen years in Sweden and twelve years in standup. It was also around this time, fifteen years ago, that I told my first wife we should divorce. No, it wasn’t intentional that these things lined up, just an odd coincidence.

Regarding standup, I’ve heard comics debate whether or not 2020 and 2021 should count towards one’s total, since not much at all was going on during the covid years, but I don’t see why it matters. Okay, maybe someone who had their first gig in January 2020 and their second two years later shouldn’t go around saying they’ve got three years in the game, but for me, I don’t see a difference in saying twelve or ten. I know someone who started eleven years ago but says twelve and it just makes me scratch my head. I don’t think it adds any gravitas to inflate the number by one.

If anything, it’s a bit embarrassing. I met a rookie at Big Ben Comedy Club early 2020 about to do his third ever gig. He asked me how long I’d been performing and his eyes went wide when I said ten years. I remember how I felt when I was in his shoes, but it was like I was saying, “I know it’s a challenge now, but if you keep up the hard work, in ten years you can still be right here.”

As for life in Sweden, it’s hard to believe it’s been seventeen years. For perspective, my family moved around a bit when I was a kid, and I was ten when we moved into the house I’d live in until I went to college in Boston at eighteen. I’ve lived in Sweden more than twice as long. I lived in Boston for three years, briefly moved back to Jersey, then returned to Boston for another nine before moving here. In other words, I’ve lived most of my adult life in Sweden with no plans to leave anytime soon.

My mother’s father passed away a few months after I moved here and I traveled to the US alone for the funeral. When I returned to Sweden I felt like I was returning home, despite the move being so recent, despite the fact that I was living with my then wife’s parents, and it was odd to arrive at the airport to find my own way back to the house when everyone was speaking a language I’d barely begun to learn. Of course, it’s both fortunate and unfortunate that most Swedes are great at English and it’s easy to get around.

“Home is where the heart is,” as the saying goes. Well, I was returning to my daughter, whom I loved and still do, and my then wife, whom not so much these days. I prefer Robert Frost’s line, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

Ultimately, I’ve experienced a feeling that I know is common amongst expats, to feel at home in both our native and adopted countries and also neither. Like having a foot in two hemispheres at once, belonging to both and yet not at all. The guy I mentioned earlier, who briefly had two halves an aunt rather than a whole one? He said that since he was old enough to remember living in NYC, he feels just at home when he travels there. When I visit my childhood home, I sometimes pause and remind myself that I once lived there all the time. It doesn’t feel real. It’s still the same house, though it’s changed a lot since then. It’s the same neighborhood, but it’s changed a lot since then. Obviously and most importantly, I’ve changed a lot since then. So, one more saying: “You can’t go home again.”

Being on the outside looking in is the best possible perspective for a comic. It gives you the ability to see what others take for granted, to notice what others can’t, or won’t. I suppose it’s also better for a comic to be an outsider for motivation’s sake; after all, if you felt like you belonged, why would you want to go on stage and seek approval from drunk strangers?

St Patrick’s Day is coming up this week and I’ve long since designated that as my official anniversary date for both living in Sweden and my standup “career.” The reason? I don’t remember the exact date of when I moved here, but I do remember that St Pat’s occurred within the first week, and my then wife made me a cake with a shamrock on it. I mean, she wasn’t all bad.

At least not then. Oh man, I could tell you stories from the years since that would make your head spin.

On a Friday a few weeks back, while hosting Maffia Comedy Club, I mentioned to the headliner during the break that the crowd felt pretty tight, wasn’t giving us much energy. The headliner suggested that I do crowd work, maybe that would help. Long-time readers of this blog know my feelings towards crowd work; while not militarily anti-, I’m not a big fan.

Abstaining from giving her my full rant against crowd work, I simply told her that it’s not something I do. She then pointed out what I believe is the biggest motivation for a host to do crowd work, that it would provide information to the comics that they could use during their sets. I agreed with her that it’s a lovely thought, in theory, but ultimately pointless as comics don’t pay attention. As I would be hosting the night after as well, I mentioned a comic on Saturday’s lineup that I knew would arrive late and end up asking someone in the crowd the same questions they’d been asked once or twice before. “Well, I pay attention,” she replied, only to later ask someone in the crowd the same question they’d been asked before. Hey, we all have lots on our minds during a show.

All that being said, I have given crowd work a lot of thought lately. Specifically, that I should do it more (read: at all), not because a host should, but to knock myself out of my comfort zone. I’ve gone from hosting very often to nearly exclusively hosting. I’m very good at it, thank you very much, even without crowd work, but even I can get tired of my own voice. I always host the same way, same style, same material, to the point that I could go on stage half-asleep and run on autopilot. Because of that, I find doing sets at other clubs more exciting, as I try out new material (and actually feel nervous).

Working as a game show host at On Air has forced me out of my comfort zone since shows include segments where I interview participants. I’m glad to say I’ve come a long way but there’s still room for improvement. After all, I’m nearly 48 and talking to people has never been a strength of mine. However, one thing I’ve noticed there – and also at Maffia this past weekend, when I added crowd work to my intro – is that, while I ask questions and try to react naturally to whatever they say, I tend to quickly steer the conversation into material I’ve said a million times before. It’s the vocal equivalent of grabbing the mic stand. Security in comfort.

This past weekend, I saw a comic make his return to the stage after a bit of a break. He started out with several minutes of untested material, which is not recommended, but to his credit it was good, albeit talky. The crowd liked it, but he wasn’t doing as well as in the past, and I could tell he knew it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him so nervous, leaning forward so far he reminded me of a sprinter in the starting blocks. He gradually returned to old material and the change was profound, leaning back on his heels, much more relaxed, the volume dial on the crowd increasing.

It’s the irony of standup that we develop a set that’s a guaranteed winner only to quickly tire of it. Not all of us, of course; I could name several comics who were already veterans when I started who have barely written anything new in the twelve years since. They don’t have to. They’re reliable killers and aren’t tired of their own voices, God bless them. It’s our job to entertain the crowd and they do their job well.

And yet… Although I’m aware of my job to entertain and it’s on my priority list, it’s low on the list. I want them to enjoy my set but I think it’s fair to say I want to enjoy it more. Still, my enjoyment is tied to theirs. I recently did a set at another club, ten minutes of mostly new material, and while the crowd enjoyed it, I couldn’t help but throw in towards the end, “I hope you enjoyed this TedTalk as much as me.” I’m happy I did it, happy they liked it, but would be happier if they laughed as much as I’d expected. That’s the process, though, to work out new material, and I’m not doing nearly enough of that. Standup isn’t always about laughs but you don’t need to read a blog about standup to know that laughs are a pretty important part of it.

Some comics might find the comfort zone a great place in which to live. It’s nice and safe and secure to me, too, but that makes it feel like a trap. It’s a constant temptation to settle for what already works rather than try anything new. A place to be good but never great.

I’ve been approached by a friend of a friend who wants to make his standup debut and wants to pay me to prepare him beforehand. My exact words to him were, “I’ll gladly take your money, but the only way you’ll actually get better at standup is by doing it, and you’re going to suck for a long time.” He was undeterred and the offer stands. Probably for the best as, during our initial meeting, he presented several pages on “olla” and I think I’ve already earned my fee by advising him to throw that away.

The only other time I’ve been paid for this sort of service was at Power Comedy Club. As part of a bachelor party, the groom’s friends arranged for him to do standup for the first time. Fortunately, they give him a few days to prepare, and we sat down together an hour before showtime. He showed me his notes, I suggested ways to structure them, and the result was remarkably positive. Obviously, it helped that he had so many friends in the room and the crowd knew it was his debut.

It’s pretty common for comics to supplement their meager incomes by teaching classes and while it makes sense, it’s always felt a little weird to me. One comic in particular has taught many would-be comics and everyone I’ve spoken to afterwards has the same story- “I told a joke, she told me I should never do it on stage, I did it on stage anyway, it worked great.” Maybe she does this on purpose but I doubt it.

Getting feedback from other comics is extremely important, but the downside is that, more often than not, a comic is telling you how they would do it. Being on stage is your chance to be yourself (if you want) and telling a joke that someone else gave you or, worse, stealing someone else’s material is just karaoke. While some comics write for the crowd, the vast majority of us just say what we think is funny. Sometimes no one else agrees with us, which sucks, but at least we still like it.

I’ve learned over the years to ask comics before offering feedback. People appreciate it less when unwanted suggestions are thrown at them, especially female comics who are given unasked for feedback from men so often it’s a cliché. When I ask comics if they want some feedback, it’s extremely rare that they say no, but I’ve found myself offering less and less often. I think it’s a symptom of the “why bother?” mentality I’ve mentioned in an earlier post.

I think a comedy course can be very helpful, particularly for people who have never been on a stage before. There’s so much to think about beyond your material- how you hold the microphone, stand on stage, where you look, and on and on. You might have a joke that takes ninety seconds to tell that should be cut to thirty and having a pro explain what to cut and why can be beneficial in the beginning.

The problem is that humor is subjective. You can’t be expected to find every joke funny. When I first started, my wife was a great test audience for jokes and has since become a comic herself, which has been very fortunate for me. At the same time, some of my best material began with me testing it in the apartment to a resounding “meh” from her. Believing in it anyway, I either made it better or, sometimes, told it word for word on stage and found a better audience there.

As I help this guy going forward, I’m going to establish some ground rules. In particular, he doesn’t have to accept all my feedback, and if I’m not impressed by something he feels passionate about, he should do it anyway. So, if sometime in the coming months you hear a rookie do five minutes on olla, hey, I did my best.

Last week, for the first time since 2019, I got naked on stage. You might wonder why on Earth I would do such a thing and you wouldn’t be alone. Got me thinking of how it all came to pass and that’s what I’ll be digging into this week.

Late in 2010, I decided to try standup for the first time by signing up for the next season of Bungy Comedy. I hadn’t been to any comedy clubs in Sweden by that point but had heard of a club called Big Ben. Since my debut at Bungy was set for March 2011, I thought I’d go check out the scene at Big Ben beforehand.

I could be remembering this wrong, but I’m fairly certain it was this night that I saw a comic named Pontus Ströbaek. His set began with a story about waking up to discover his daughter had dressed his morning wood in Barbie clothes. Later in the set and without remarking on it at all, he began taking his clothes off while continuing to talk about other things, until he was stark naked except for strategically placed Barbie clothes. Perhaps this planted a seed in my mind; it certainly made quite an impression on me.

Speaking of impressions, I’ve always been jealous of comics who can do them well. Not impressions of celebrities, mind you, as I find them almost exclusively cringeworthy. I never think, “That sounds just like the person!” but, “That sounds just like the comic trying to sound like someone else,” with varying levels of success. Even the greats, in my opinion, don’t sound like their targets, but as parodies of them. Dana Carvey and Will Farrell as George Bush and George W Bush, respectively, are fantastic examples. When people off stage do impressions of the Bushes, they’re almost always doing impressions of the impressions.

I’m envious of comics who can do characters in voices different than their own, like Richard Pryor. Different backgrounds, dialects, even gender. Most of Pryor’s career was dominated by characters- it took decades for him to just be himself on stage. Even towards the end, though, he’d do his beloved Mudbone character (which actually started as a character talking about someone named Mudbone).

On an early album, he had a routine about a theater troupe putting on a play inside a prison for the inmates. The routine includes several different characters, including a guard, the warden, the theater director, lead actor, and lead actress. Pryor seamlessly flows from one character to the next and it’s mind-boggling.

After my start with Bungy, I began frequenting Big Ben on a regular basis, and in June or July I began performing at Maffia Comedy as well. It was there that I told a comic named Thanos I was jealous of his ability to inhabit so many different characters in his sets. After living in Boston for over a decade, I can do a passable Masshole accent- just take r’s off words that have them and add r’s to words that don’t, so car becomes cahh and idea becomes idear. Another consequence of living there and trying to erase my native New Jersey accent is that I can barely do one now, only that water and coffee become wudder and kawfee. The only other dialect I can do is, “Mamma Mia, that’s a spicy a-meatball!”

I’ll never forget Thanos’s reaction. “The reason you can’t do voices is because you say you can’t do voices.” Maybe he’s right. It was certainly a very Zen, be-the-ball thing to say. In any case, an idea sparked in my head and within a few hours I’d fleshed it out and committed to doing it on stage.

Maybe I have to credit Dane Cook as another seed. In his first special, he said he’d done a Jame Gumb impersonation for his girlfriend. But the ripping off, er, inspiration doesn’t stop there- I have Andy Kaufman to thank as well.

I did the act at the next show. My wife was also on that night and only she and the club owner knew what I was going to do. When I was booked for it, I thought it was a regular Tuesday night at Maffia, and this was months before I began hosting for the first time, but it just so happened to be Valentine’s Day. Once I realized that, I wondered if it was really the right time for the act, but I was committed by that point.

I told the crowd the whole story about being jealous of comics who can do impressions, including what Thanos had said to me. I asked the crowd if it was okay that I test a few impressions of classic bad guys from movies, and that, if they could recognize what movies I was referencing, that would mean I was good at impressions after all.

The first two were Travis Bickle (Taxi Driver, “You talkin’ to me?”) and Darth Vader (do I have to explain?). This was the Kaufmanesque portion of the bit- I wanted to build up the crowd about testing impressions, only to let them down by doing two extremely basic characters (and not especially well). Okay, they’d think, that’s the joke.

For the third, I said I’d need a little help from the DJ (also the club owner) who started playing “Goodbye Horses.” I took off my shirt, to the delight of the (surprisingly many, at least to me) women in the room, then took off my pants. I grabbed a bag I’d hidden onstage earlier and removed a robe and lipstick, both of which I put on. Signally the DJ to turn the music down, I said, “Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me. I’d fuck me hard. I’d fuck me so hard.” The music back on, I removed my boxers from under my robe, tucked in, and opened the robe wide.

Okay, so I never get naked naked on stage. While I don’t have enough self-confidence to flash my bait and tackle, I think it’s still pretty impressive (if that’s the right word) to reveal as much as I do, especially as an American. I could go into a long tangent here about the American psyche vis-à-vis public nudity and men’s insecurity in general, but the length of a blog post isn’t important, it’s how you use it.

Anyway, the bit went better than I’d imagined, as I hadn’t counted on it being Valentine’s Day and there being so many women in the crowd. The comics were appropriately shocked, especially the host who I flashed one last time for good measure. I’d asked another comic to film my set and while I don’t remember who he was, I do remember that he chose to zoom in on my mangina for some reason.

Looking back, neither I nor the club owner remember who had the idea, but from that point on, there would always be a special show on Valentine’s Day that I’d host, act included. It’s been a fun tradition, although I don’t understand why so many couples think it’s romantic to spend the evening listening to comics they’ve never heard of telling dick jokes. I’m glad they do, of course. In subsequent versions I dumped Travis Bickle and I’ve done it many times now, although I skipped the 2020 show and, due to the pandemic, there was no show in 2021. 2022 was meant to be my triumphant return, but at the last minute the manager of the venue told me I wasn’t allowed. A new manager was coming in and he wasn’t sure how she’d take it. How dare they censor me as an artist?! She turned out to be cool, which is why I got to do it this year.

I should also mention that I did the act at Big Ben twice over the years. The second time was also the second and so far last time I ever hosted there; the club owner’s first thirty choices for host weren’t available, so I got the gig. During the act I had a tuck malfunction, so the front row briefly got the Full Monty after all. I later heard that the owner of the bar took the club owner aside and said, “No one gets naked here ever again!” I choose to believe that the owner realized perfection had been reached, so why try to top it?