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On Saturday night, I walked onto a comedy stage for the first time since March 2020. I’d done one open mic, but I had no idea what to expect out of myself when I took the mic on Saturday night. Open mics are great, but it’s kind of like having a strong stretching session before a basketball game. You still don’t really know how you’ll play once it’s game time.
Backing up for a second: I first did standup in 2018 as a way to make amends to myself. I’d promised myself as a kid that someday I would try standup and see if I could make people laugh. But I spent my entire 20s and early 30s drunk or high most nights, and I just figured it would be one of those goals I’d have to cross off. I thought I’d thrown away the opportunity forever.
But in 2018, I was in a rut and worked with some sober friends to figure out how to get out of that rut. Standup stood out as a deep sadness on my part, one of the many, many things that alcohol and drug addiction had seized from me.
So I did a show in October, 2018, and kept doing it up through the pandemic. I had good nights and bad nights, but I tended to always have people come out to see me. And those people were mostly fellow alcoholics and addicts. Perhaps the best shows I ever did were sober conventions where I was asked to perform.
There are two reasons why those were my best shows. One is that I saw a lot of loving, familiar faces out in the crowd, and that always helps. Ninety percent of comedy for me is feeling comfortable out there. So much of what makes people laugh isn’t the words. It’s the pacing, the hand motions, the shoulder shrugs, the weird expressions on your face. When I am overly nervous, I end up just blurting out words, not performing an act. Next time you watch a comedian you like, pay special attention to what’s making you laugh. I bet a lot of it isn’t just the words you’re hearing.
The second reason is that reading the room is essential. I’ve had a few regular shows (not recovery events) where it’s impossible to really tap into the room’s energy because I look out at the crowd and it’s 20 people who are 24 years old, and 20 people who are 58 years old. Think about the number of things that would make both of those demographics laugh. It’s a very small Venn diagram.
In recovery, though, these are my people. I know them even if I don’t know them. So it’s really nice to have a good sense of the room the way that a sober crowd provides.
Now, back to Saturday night. I was quite nervous. I practice exhaustively, over and over again. But it’s still not quite the same thing as showtime. Think about making a pretend last-second game-winning basket by yourself on the hoop in your driveway, versus doing it in an actual game. You just can’t simulate it, which means I couldn’t quite say for sure how Saturday night would go.
And trust me on this, I have been ready to go for shows in the past and then… oof. I lay a total egg on stage. It’s often hard to pinpoint exactly what went wrong—sometimes it’s the performance, sometimes it’s the crowd, sometimes it’s the comics that went before. But I’ll tell you this, there is nothing in life quite like bombing at standup comedy.
I’ve led a pretty wild life. I’ve lost big sporting events in front of thousands of fans. I’ve said or done something humiliating during a public speaking event, or at a work function. I’ve been in a coma for a week, a wheelchair for six months and needed friends and family to bring me food and empty my urinal for almost a year. And, of course, I also spent 15 years or so doing more and more obscene things in active addiction. None of it is as rough as torpedoing on a stage by yourself. It’s hard to top the brutality of saying stuff you think will be funny and having 50-100 people just stare at you silently.
Anyway, I got there on Saturday night at around 7 p.m., an hour before the show was to begin. I had a pretty good idea that I had maybe 20-25 people coming—that’s half capacity, all there to see me and support me. And the majority of those 20-25 were people from sobriety.
And sure enough, as the clock ticked down till 8 p.m., friends started showing up. I can’t tell you how much that means. It’s not just about people showing up for me for a Saturday night comedy show. It’s the umpteenth time in sobriety where recovery people have shown up for me, and I know that for important events, I can always count on that group of people—and they can count on me. Whether it’s sober anniversaries, comedy shows, funerals, graduations, even moving… nobody shows up like sober people. It’s a a beautiful thing.
So as the clock wound down till go time, the room filled to capacity (50-60 people) and a big chunk of them were my friends. I went third, and, luckily, the first two comics were terrific. The crowd was warmed up and ready, and so was I.
I walked on stage and for about 8 minutes, had one of the best sets I have ever done. It certainly helped to look out and see loving faces in the crowd. I realized the same thing I often feel when I tell a 12-step meeting that I am struggling—they’re going to love me any way. I went on stage that night knowing if I bombed, they’d still all hug me and support me. What else can you ask for in life than that kind of support?
Well, I guess you could ask them to laugh, too. And they did! What an awesome night.
ALCOHOLIC/ADDICT JOKE OF THE DAY
This newsletter is a place of joy and laughter about the deadly serious business of sobriety. So, as I will often do, let me close with a joke.
An usher in a posh movie theater noticed a drunk sprawled across three seats. “Sorry, sir,” the usher said, “but you’re only allowed one seat.”
The man groaned but didn’t budge.
The usher became impatient. “Sir, if you don’t get up from there, I’m going to have to call the manager.”
Again, the drunk only moaned, which infuriated the usher, who turned and marched back up the aisle in search of the manager.
In a few moments, both the usher and the manager returned and stood over the man. “All right, buddy,” the manager said, “what’s your name?”
“Sam,” the drunk moaned.
“Where did you come from, Sam?”
With pain in his voice, Sam slurred, “The balcony.”
(Credit: AA Grapevine, June 2000, Anonymous)
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