In a series of moves that has taken me wester and wester, I have finally arrived at the westest: Los Angeles. Yesterday, I moved all my things, including a very reluctant cat, into my new converted-garage bedroom in Burbank. There are no windows, but there is a GD lemon tree right outside my door.
A few things about LA so far:
1. It is very scary here. The stakes for everyone are very high, because a lot of people have made a lot of sacrifices to get here. I will try to remember that when everyone is very scary all the time.
2. It is very beautiful here. I have stopped to gawk at any number of plants simply because they're giant and colorful. I have also carefully avoided plants because they're too tall and/or pointy. (See: It is very scary here.)
3. It's all going to be great. The weather is upsettingly perfect, even when it is raining. The food is wildly better than almost any place I've ever lived or visited. And I'm a better comic and more well-rounded person than I've ever been.
But damn, Denver, am I going to miss you.
The time I spent in Colorado was deceptively short: just over three years. But during that time, I became a comic. I produced my first show, my second, and three others. I did my first tour and headlined my first showcase. I started working at my first club and learned how to host. I booked a NACA showcase, and a JFL audition, college gigs, festivals, and commercials. I got two TV credits and recorded an album. I made merch!
In Denver, I learned what being a professional comic might mean, and started to plan for my future—dare I say it—career. Professionally, life at the foot of the mountains was everything I imagined it would be.
But I had imagined all that.
When I moved to Denver from Des Moines, I was always daydreaming about working for Comedy Works and hosting at High Plains. But I could not have prepared myself for the life that would unfold around comedy. And I'm sure going to miss it.
I'm going to miss chatting over the Mutiny counter while my mocha gets made.
I'm going to miss eating pho at 1:30 in the morning because nothing else is open.
I'm going to miss opening the front door to a closed El Charrito for weekly "staff functions.
I'm going to miss banging up the dfine stairs every afternoon with a sloshing cup of coffee.
I'm going to miss falling asleep on my big, leather couch with Scully on my lap and MacGruber on the floor.
I'm going to miss opening shows with three microphones on the Black Buzzard stage.
I'm going to miss hockey on Evergreen Lake and costume parties on Halloween.
I'm going to miss 50 First Jokes at the Bug Theatre, New Talent Night, and We Still Like You.
I'm going to miss board games and D&D and poker nights.
I'm going to miss Denver, you guys, a whole lot.
So, thank you, to the city and people that saw a bright-eyed little comic, passing through on her way west, embraced her, and made her your own. I love you. I'll see you soon.
10 More Things I Learned After Four Years in Comedy
It’s been four years since I started doing stand-up. Because I'm a big proponent of self reflection and also Facebook notifications, I have written annual progress checks in the form of “Things I’ve Learned” lists. They're designed to be helpful for me, but I hope they're helpful for you as well.
Here’s what I learned after one year.
1. The first time you do anything is hard and scary; just do it.
2. To make friends, don’t bring a posse.
3. Support shows.
4. Support each other.
5. You can be jealous. But don’t let it get in the way of you being supportive.
6. Your jokes aren’t funny; you’re funny.
7. If you don’t like a joke, you don’t have to tell it.
8. Every opportunity is a good opportunity, except when it’s not.
9. Comedy is entertainment not therapy.
10. Dating in a comedy scene is hard and weird.
And this is what I added after two.
11. When in doubt, go to the mic.
12. Say yes!
13. Write everything.
14. Find out why you’re different.
15. Give 100 percent, even if the audience is giving -13.
16. Surround yourself with people who are funnier than you.
17. Be available.
18. Be polite.
19. Be funny. Every. Time.
20. Dating in a comedy scene is what it is.
And I added ten more after three.
21. When you’re not getting something you want, you can always ask questions.
22. If that something is a show, go watch that show.
23. “When you can’t create, you can work.”
24. You have something in common with every audience.
25. If possible, write clean.
26. Watching comedy is almost as important as performing comedy.
27. Watching your comedy is even more important.
28. Host like everyone is watching.
29. Check spelling. Check pronunciation.
30. Social media matters.
Year four feels a little different than the first three. I'm not a comedy veteran by any means, but, after four years, stand-up has really wormed its way in my personhood. I still love it, but I have come to love it in a different way.
In year four, my relationship with comedy has gotten—*gulp*—serious? I feel like I've stopped joking in my free time and gone off to comedy college to be a professional. These days, I send comedy emails. Keep that in mind when reading this list. Comedy can be a wonderful hobby; it isn't my hobby anymore. I'm trying to make it my job.
Since I wrote my last list, I shifted my focus from working festivals to working in Denver. I only participated in two fests this year, but I performed on roughly 210 booked showcases and contests, more than one-third of those were at Comedy Works. I recorded my first TV spot on NBC's First Look, I produced another Funny Final Four showcase (and made it to the finals this time), and I did my first audition for Just For Laughs Montreal. I performed in Los Angeles, Chicago, Des Moines, and all over Colorado. I'm objectively funnier than I've ever been and I also didn't advance out of the preliminary round of the Comedy Works New Faces contest. I’ve made more friends and watched more comedy and been paid a little more.
I’ve also learned 10 more things.
31. Your night is coming, be ready for it.
I placed third in the Comedy Works New Faces contest in 2016. In 2017, I did not advance from the first round. And it fucking hurt. I've used a number of excuses to explain it. I was the 14th comic that evening. I got four great scores, but had one really bad one. I used most of five minutes to talk about women's pants, which probably didn't resonate with the whole crowd. But the truth is: I had a good set; I was confident about advancing; and I didn't. There were lots of other good sets that night; at least four of them were better than mine. That night was their night. But there's always another one. All I can do in the meantime, is make sure I’m prepared when the next night rolls round.
32. Start collecting high-quality video of your stand-up.
Good tape is worth its weight in gold. Good, clean tape is priceless. You can't do festivals without it. You can't tour without it. You won't be taken seriously without it. Because Comedy Works records everything, Denver comics are blessed to have access to a lot of good tape. If you're in Denver, buy your tape. It's invaluable. If you aren't, come to Denver. Let's get you some tape!
33. If you want comedy to be your career, treat it like a career.
To be successful in any career, there are things you’re supposed to do: work hard, be reliable, continue your education, network, get a website, etc. Comedy, although more casual and alcohol-centric than most careers, is not an exception. Prep for your sets like you would a meeting. Dress up every now and then. Maybe forego your second beer until after your work is done. The biggest difference between a comedian and a professional comedian is the professional part.
34. Answer your email.
I’m infamously bad at this one, so we’ll call it my comedy New Year’s resolution. But it is so, so important. This year, Pussy Bros received a mysterious email from NBC's First Look asking if we wanted to teach ex-Bachelor Chris Higgins stand-up. Our first thought was, “Whoa, phishing campaigns have gotten specific,” but that shit was legit. She found us through an interview we had done with 303 Magazine, who had reached out in a similarly open-ended email. Bottom line: Be accessible, respond, and follow up. The biggest gigs come through your inbox.
35. Want to produce? Find a venue that has your back.
When it comes to selecting a venue for an open mic or a comedy show, there is no amount of money, no perfect room, no drink deal that beats a venue that wants to have comedy. Find a place that will tell its patrons about you, that will put up fliers, and help with set up. Find a place that will pay you, if possible. This is their business. Comedy is yours. Make it clear you're interested in a professional partnership. Then, run a fucking great show for them.
36. When booking your show, include all the information.
"Hey buddy! Are you interested in doing my [Name of Show] on [Date]? It is at [Location] at [Time]. I would love to have you do [This much time]. I can offer you [This much money or this many drink tickets or infinite sandwiches]. Thank you!"
37. Watch successful comedians you don't like.
There is a big difference between watching comedy like a fan and watching comedy like a comic. A fan watches to laugh. A comic watches to learn. Go watch live, professional comedy. But more than that, watch professional comics that you don’t necessarily “get.” They’re doing something right, what is it? What is it about them that the crowd is responding to? It’s a lot easier to watch like a comic when you’re not caught up being a fan.
38. Be cool. You never know who you’re talking to.
Everybody is somebody in an industry built on relationships. Comedy Works server-turned-owner Wende Curtis is extreme example, but an example nonetheless. Whether you’re extremely cool to the staff or extremely not, they will remember and they will talk about. If you’re disrespectful to a host in Ames, IA, they will remember and they will talk about it. Be easy to work with and you’ll work a lot.
39. Side projects are important.
Write a script, make a podcast, create a viral sensation parody YouTube channel; Hollywood needs to know you’re bigger than stand-up. Start building a resume now, so when Hollywood finally wants to meet, you can honestly say, “I’m everywhere; I do everything; and I’m good at it.”
40. Work 30 minutes more.
When I first moved to Denver, I went to listen to Adam Cayton-Holland on comedy podcast “Talkin Shop.” He said—forgive me for paraphrasing—rising to the top of a scene is as simple as spending 30 minutes a day, off stage, writing and punching up your material. That’s it. Work half an hour more than the guy next to you.
I’m a full-time graphic designer and a stand-up comic. I spend between 40 and 50 hours a week at an office in front of a computer, another 25+ hours telling jokes (well, waiting to tell jokes), and another 6 to 10 hours at home designing posters, merchandise, and logos for myself and friends.
I love doing it. Illustration is always a treat for me. But it is still my work. And it doesn’t often get treated as such in the comedy sphere. So, after a few hours of bitching over Facebook messenger with other designer friends, I wrote this in an attempt to iron out the performer-designer relationship for all involved.
Note: If I’ve done a poster or something for you, it is because I like you and wanted to do work for you. You’re wonderful. This is less about projects past, than it is improving projects future.
They say when hiring a designer, everybody wants work that is high-quality, inexpensive, and fast, but, in the real world, you only get two. For instance, if you want an elaborate poster done this week, it's not going to be cheap. If you don't have a lot of money but you still want a nice poster, you're going to have to wait for it.
In the comedy world, these rules are not exactly followed. For one: The work is always cheap.
For work like a poster—eye-catching, custom graphics, bold typography, etc.—most professional graphic designers will charge $75 an hour or more. That means your comedy poster, at a professional rate, probably costs between $150 and $450.
When you factor in time, expertise, cost of design programs (it costs me $20/month for the Adobe Creative Suite) and additional materials, that number sounds a little more reasonable. Especially when you consider many designers have a full-time work schedule to keep up with, in addition to their schedule as a comic, musician, artist, ribbon dancer, whatever.
Of course, anyone who is doing a poster for a local show, usually knows and likes the person asking, understands the limited budget, and is happy to do the poster at an extremely discounted rate as a favor to a friend.
And it is a favor.
While we appreciate that you like our work, it’s important you know, you are not doing us a solid by hiring us. Your show will not give me exposure. I do not want time on your show in exchange for a poster. It is not my passion to make posters. It is my job.
If you’re not paying the designer at their full rate, they are doing you a favor. They are doing it because they like you, they want you to be successful, and honestly they don’t want to see whatever nightmare poster you create on your own.
I want to be clear. It’s okay to ask your buddy for a poster at less than a professional price. We know you don’t have $300 to throw down on poster. We would just like you to know the size of the favor you’re asking and receiving and be cool accordingly.
Here’s how you can be the coolest design client around.
1. Give plenty of time for turn-around.
I've asked around a bit, and the average comedy poster takes between two and six hours to make. Some take longer than that, very very few take less. Please, keep that in mind when you ask for work done.
If you need a poster in one week, that is considered a rush job. That means, in the next seven days, we need to find five free hours—outside of our work, life, and other posters in our queue—to sit down and do this for you. Not a small order.
Ideally, give your designer two weeks to get it done.
2. Tell us what you are going to do with it.
Typically when a designer works with a client, they release their work for the format specifically requested. If you ask for a poster for a single showcase, it’s bad form to use that poster for another show or a sticker or a t-shirt, unless you say that up front or ask for additional permission.
If you’re going to profit from this artwork, it’s going to cost more. Promotional materials like posters or flyers are very different from a t-shirt.
3. Know what you want.
It really helps if you have an idea for your poster. “Do what you want,” puts all the creative onus on us and doesn’t set us up for success. Help us, help you. What’s the tone for your show? What’s the venue like? What imagery have you used in the past?
IMPORTANT: Once the art is created, it is not time for a brainstorming session. If you are not paying the professional rate for your poster, you do NOT get illustration edits.
4. Know what you need.
When designing, it really helps to know what size and format this art is going to be used for. Do you plan to use it in print, online, or both?
If you are printing, know what size you need. 11x17 is a standard poster size. 8.5x11 is printer paper size. Are you printing in color or in black and white?
If you are just using it online, size is less important but still relevant. Would you like it horizontal or vertical? Should it fit on Instagram? Do you need an image sized for the event banner?
5. Include all the information you want.
It’s your responsibility to provide the final poster content before we get started. Poster content includes: show title, date, time, location, ticket price, additional information, sponsors and sponsor logos, and the lineup, if you’d like it included. Spell check everything, including your performers names, before sending it to us.
Please, please, get that information right the first time. Again, edits take time.
6. If you do have edits, let us make them.
Please don’t put logos and text over top of our designs. It hurts so bad. It feels like someone stole your joke and added a bunch of mismatched tags to it. Let us fix it or ask first.
7. Give credit.
Give your designer credit for their work every time, especially if you aren’t paying at their professional rate, ESPECIALLY if you aren’t paying at all. Tag them on Instagram. Tag them on Facebook. It’s probably not going to make or break their design career, but it’s nice to recognize someone for the cool stuff they make.
8. No time for a designer? DIY!
If you have a show in three days and need a poster, you can totally do this yourself with the help of THE INTERNET!
There are lots of free, intuitive resources for last-minute posters on a tight budget. They are designed specifically for people who don’t have design experience and are usually pretty easy to use.
Check out these links for free and easy design software:
https://spark.adobe.com/make/posters
https://about.canva.com
https://designer.io
This spring, I was invited to tell a story at The Denver Art Museum’s Untitled event featuring The Narrators storytelling show. We were asked to write something inspired by a painting at the museum. I selected a painting called, A Mountain Symphony by Sven Birger Sandzén, pictured below.
Here’s what I said:
I wish I hiked. It always seemed like a good idea.
When I moved to Colorado in October of 2015, I always thought I would. I could see myself at the top of a mountain, looking out across a craggy horizon, listening to the wind skirt through valleys and crash off peaks.
I always imagined myself, with a sunglasses tan, wearing a bandana and a backpack, with a dog also wearing a bandana and a backpack. I picture him like Martin Freeman, beady eyes with a big smile, three legs. I’d hold that cardboard sign with the elevation written on it, because I don’t know any good yoga poses.
Being from the Midwest, I never quite understood the cardboard sign. Midwesterners don’t really take pictures when we go for walks, because it’s not as cool to hold a sign that says four—four feet. The biggest difference between walking and hiking though, is that a hike is a spiritual experience, you climb, you toil, you sweat, just to look at your world from a new vantage point, and, of course, to let everyone on Instagram know that you exercise. Midwesterners, we go for walks to restart our heart after eating a whole tin of meatloaf. That’s why they call it the heartland, because of all the heart disease.
I don’t have heart disease, yet. But when I look at this gorgeous painting by Sven Birger Sandzén, I can feel it coming on. I’m kidding. What I feel when I look at these mountains or any mountains really is something Sandzén called the “beauty of bigness.”
When he painted this in 1927, he said that Colorado is “paradise for a painter.” And weed wasn’t even legal yet. But the West is paradise for a whole lot of people. As someone from the Midwest—which probably should just be called “The Middle”—The West still stands for promise and potential and the future. We just prefer to stay in the middle.
I want to be clear. I love the Midwest. I love Chicago and Des Moines and the long, straight highways in between. I love the rolling rural hills in western Iowa and the lakes in Wisconsin. I love my family, all in the Midwest. I miss them every day. But there is something about that region that makes leaving seem foolish, that makes you feel comfortable and content and sedentary.
We were raised in an atmosphere that said, “The Midwest is home. The Midwest is where people like us live. We can visit beautiful places and warm places and big places, but we live in the Midwest. And anyone who leaves is chasing a fantasy.”
“Oh, Mona’s moving to California to be an actress, well… she’ll be back. Rachel’s moving to Colorado to do comedy, but… she’ll be back.”
So often, I still feel that, that thing that says, “Go back.”
“Who do you think you are to move west?”
“The West isn’t for you. It’s too big. It’s too beautiful.”
I went to college in Des Moines, IA to study journalism and graphic design. But I was home in Naperville talking with my mom. We were in the car, driving past strip mall after strip mall: The Starbucks I used to go to in the morning before high school, the Starbucks I used to meet my friend at on the weekends, the Starbucks where I picked up coffee after babysitting.
I had been up all night the night before thinking about how much I hated my classes, particularly in journalism. I had never been one to hate school before. I loved school. I was good at school, but the idea of reporting for the rest of my life sapped any ounce of love I had for writing. It made me hate the thing I once cherished so much. I told my mom this. And she said, “Well, if you aren’t going to be a journalist, what do you want to do?”
At this point in my life, I wasn’t doing stand-up, but I was obsessed with Saturday Night Live. I wanted to do that. But I felt stupid for even thinking it. Who are you to do that? You can’t do that. Still, I told her, “Mom. I want to write for television. I want to write comedy.”
And she said, “How?”
And, honestly, I didn’t know.
I didn’t know anybody who wrote for TV. I didn’t even know anybody who knew somebody who wrote for TV. So I dropped it and went back to school.
My junior year, I took a class called Freelance Writing (At this point, I was liking my classwork a lot more). We got an assignment to do something outside of our comfort zone and write a first person experience about it. For that assignment, I did stand-up, twice.
I hope some of you have been lucky enough to get to do your thing. The thing that makes you feel right. I was very bad at stand-up back then, but even bombing back then, felt right.
I finished both my degrees. I did all my internships. I got a job in journalism. But less than a week after I graduated, I started doing stand-up.
In Des Moines, there were only two open mics a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So, on off nights, we often drove to Cedar Rapids, two hours east, or to Omaha, two hours west, to do five minutes at an open mic there. And after a year and half of doing that, I still didn’t know anybody who wrote for TV, but I knew people who knew people who did.
Suddenly, it seemed possible.
Suddenly, I looked west.
Now, I only got as far as Denver. Like the people who presumably settled in Denver, I saw the Rocky Mountains and thought, “Well, maybe this is far west enough for now. I don’t need—it'll be tough to get over that. I don’t have snow tires for my covered wagon. Let’s hang out here. This is fine.”
I’ve been here about two years, and I haven’t hiked a lick. I don’t smoke that much weed. And I certainly don’t plummet down the side of the mountain with tongue depressors on my feet. I’m still a graphic designer during the day. But, at night, I’m a stand-up comedian. And I’m pretty good at it.
These days, I know people who write for TV. And someday, someday soon, maybe I will too.
In the dark dark year of 2017
There was a unicorn frapp
And a pink pussy hat
And a strong relationship
Between Anna Farris and Chris Pratt
And there were three hurricanes
Bringing long rains
And two fidget spinners
And switched Oscar winners
And Roy Moore's horse.
And a free Internet source.
And a solar eclipse
and the Stranger Things kids
And Kendal Jenner with a Pepsi pressed to her lips.
Goodnight year
Goodnight frapp
Goodnight relationship with Chris Pratt
Goodnight long rains
And, Harvey the hurricane.
And also Harvey Wein...stain.
In fact, lets just retire the name Harvey.
Goodnight spinners
Goodnight Oscar Winners
Goodnight Roy Moore's political pet
And goodnight free and open Internet
Goodnight moon behind the sun
And goodnight Ken doll with a man bun,
Goodnight #metoo
And goodnight “Despacito”
Goodnight Trump
And goodnight Ryan
Goodnight nobody
I mean Mitch McConnell
Goodnight Stranger Things kids
(Not the Roy Moore kind)
And goodnight Kylie Jenner with a Pepsi pressed to her lips.
Goodnight CK
Goodnight Franken
Goodnight TJ
and goodnight wanking
Goodnight Keillor and Matt Lauer
Goodnight gross abuses of power
Goodnight 2017, go with care,
Good night assholes everywhere.
I've been trying to write something about Denver for the last month—my two year anniversary in the city was October 5—and it's taken me this long to figure out what I really wanted to say.
When I decided to leave Des Moines, I didn't know where I would go. I knew I wanted to do comedy—I had been performing regularly for a year and a half—but that was about it. After a little research, my choices narrowed to Chicago and Denver: east to family, familiarity, and comedy or west to... well, just comedy.
From the handful of Denver comics I'd met (Omaha punkz Zach Reinert, Preston Tompkins, Georgia Rae, and Ian Douglas Terry. Pavement-pounder and folk legend Sam Tallent. Hulking funnyman Elliot Woolsey), Denver comedy seemed to be regularly churning out sharp, passionate comics. They said, "Hell yeah," a whole lot, but they seemed to be happy. And that's exactly what I wanted to be. I decided to find out what was on the other side of Nebraska.
The last two years have been everything I wanted and more. The Denver open mic scene is smart and hard-working. The comedy veterans are experienced, engaged, and encouraging. The clubs themselves are supportive and accessible. High Plains is among the best festivals in the country. But my favorite thing about Denver is that its comedy scene is rich with female talent.
When I started comedy, I was the only female comic in Des Moines. When I left Des Moines, there were only five, all with less than two years of experience.
Denver is lucky to have women, from professional, headlining comics, to brand-new, enthusiastic open-micers, and everything in between. Most often, there's a woman on every lineup. Sometimes, there are more than one. We host mics and shows; we crush headlining, feature, and opening spots; we bomb. We're out there and we're working.
SIDE NOTE: I'm of the belief that the growth of a scene's female comic population is directly related to how many female comics it already has. The more women, the safer and more welcome women feel, the more women stay. So, as a relatively new, female Denver comedian, I have so much gratitude for all the female Denver comics who did the heavier lifting before me. Christie, Timmi, Mara, Kristin, Nancy, Nora, Stephanie, I'm sure it was really hard for a while. Thank you.
Of course, things could be better. We could make more of an effort to bring out-of-town headliners who are women and/or POCs. We could try to listen to and appreciate the comedy of people that are different from us. We could give women the same benefit of the doubt that men get when moving from opener to feature or feature to headliner. We could book women on the road. We could just fucking listen to each other better. But that's the thing about this scene: I truly believe that Denver wants to be better. And that's why I moved here.
Lately, I've been thinking about comedy outside the walls of the Denver scene a lot. It's scary. The business seems impossibly big; the steps between levels seem impossibly high. There's thousands of talented comics, thousands more untalented ones. But. I'm trying not to think about it like Frodo and Sam before waltzing into Mordor. Instead, I think comedy is like a real cool bar.
There's a very long line and one old bouncer. He is very rude. If he likes you, you can come in. If he doesn't, you can get back in line tomorrow. Maybe he'll like you tomorrow. Some people ask him what he's looking for, but he just mumbles, "Eeeegh. I'll know it when I see it." From the outside, "it" is a clever, young men who isn't too challenging. Then again, most of the people in line are clever, young, and unchallenging men.
Of course, a lot of us hate the bouncer. We should. He's an asshole—a regressive, offensive, unfunny asshole. But some people love him. They're usually assholes as well. Fact is: You want in the door. And he works the door.
Now. Comedy is changing. These days, there are more bars with more lines and more bouncers who are different kinds of assholes. The lines are somehow even longer. So we end up camping out in line: making friends, drinking out of bottles in paper bags, telling jokes, building a scene.
As far as I know, these are the easy days, the fun days. Fighting will breakout from time to time, but at the end of the day, we're all just in line together, waiting for another asshole bouncer to tell us to come back tomorrow.
And we will.
For different reasons, we'll all wake up early in the mid-afternoon, and we'll stand in line again. Some of us will stand in line for the rest of our lives, and that'll be enough. Some of us will quit to have a family or get a real job. And maybe, just maybe, some of us will make it past the asshole bouncer and get to see the real cool bar.
I haven't been inside yet, but, from what I hear, there are even more lines in there.
A lot of shit has gone down on Facebook recently. And that's okay. We can fight. I love that we fight about stuff. I love that Denver comedy is something worth fighting about. I love that the scene is large and diverse enough that there are things to fight over. But every time a fight breaks out, I try to remind myself about the real cool bar with the long lines outside.
Look. You can book shows however you want. You can hang out with whoever you want. You can fight. But try to remember, at the end of the day, we're all still standing in line together. In the sunshine and in the snow and in the driving, freezing rain, we're all just a bunch of schmucks, waiting for the judgement of one old asshole. So be kind. Share your whiskey and your hand-warmers. Shake hands with strangers. Pat your friends on the back. We might be out here waiting for a really long time.
It's New Faces season again! My preliminary contest round is May 24 and I get 20 free tickets for friends and fam. Call 303-595-3637 and mention my comp list for a real cool show. (at Comedy Works)
10 More Things I Learned After Three Years in Comedy
It's been three years since I started doing stand-up. Since then, I have done annual (and public) progress checks with myself in the form of "Things I've Learned" lists. I guess it's like sitting down with a boss to talk about my performance without any of the scary stuff like "goal-setting" or "having a boss."
Here's what I learned after one year.
1. The first time you do anything is hard and scary; just do it.
2. To make friends, don’t bring a posse.
3. Support shows.
4. Support each other.
5. You can be jealous. But don’t let it get in the way of you being supportive.
6. Your jokes aren’t funny; you’re funny.
7. If you don’t like a joke, you don’t have to tell it.
8. Every opportunity is a good opportunity, except when it’s not.
9. Comedy is entertainment not therapy.
10. Dating in a comedy scene is hard and weird.
And this is what I added after two.
11. When in doubt, go to the mic.
12. Say yes!
13. Write everything.
14. Find out why you're different.
15. Give 100 percent, even if the audience is giving -13.
16. Surround yourself with people who are funnier than you.
17. Be available.
18. Be polite.
19. Be funny. Every. Time.
20. Dating in a comedy scene is what it is.
This year, I hesitated to post another list. Looking back on the first two, the exercise seemed a little loftier and less reflective than it had when I wrote them. Reiterating the fact that these are things I’ve learned and not necessarily advice only goes so far when the list is undeniably framed as advice. And who am I to be giving advice only three years into this thing? I don’t know really. But for the sake of continuity, I decided to write another one.
There are as many ways to succeed in comedy as there are comedians, so there’s no telling what path will or won’t work for you. And, of course, I can only say what has gotten me to this point.
Since I wrote my last list, I’ve performed on roughly 160 more booked showcases and contests. I’ve participated in five more comedy festivals. I placed third in the Comedy Works New Faces contest, I produced a Funny Final Four showcase, and most recently got promoted to Comedy Works’s “Almost Famous” list. I went on tour with two hilarious women and I inherited an amazing storytelling show. I’ve made more friends and watched more comedy and been paid a little more.
I’ve also learned 10 more things.
21. When you're not getting something you want, you can always ask questions.
Whether it’s a writing job or a club spot or a verified Twitter account, everybody in this business is chasing something. When you find yourself at a roadblock, call a friend on the other side and ask them how they got there. What extra work did they put in? Whose hand did they shake? When did they get there? Remember: It is possible that you aren’t ready for this thing. If that’s the case, don’t worry. At least, now you have a heading.
22. If that something is a show, go watch that show.
If you’re not getting booked on a show, absolutely go to that show. Tell the producer you like what they’re doing. Get your face in front of their face. No Facebook message, no passing comment, no great open mic set will do more for you than showing up. That being said, if you plan on flat-out asking for a spot on a show, phrase it more in the “I like your show and would like to be considered for it” direction than the “Can I get a spot?” direction. And, for the love of comedy, include a tape.
23. "When you can't create, you can work."
Some of my favorite creative advice comes from Henry Miller's 11 Commandments of Writing. This one is the best. There will be days that you’re not going to be able to write. Sometimes those days will be all in a row and it will suck and you’ll feel awful. Work a little, instead. Watch some old tape; go to a show; archive your jokes; or promote your shows. There’s always work to be done.
24. You have something in common with every audience.
The hardest I bombed this year was in front of a crowd that I had written off. The vast majority of the audience was twice my age, married, suburban, and politically conservative. I thought, “I have nothing to say to these people. Why would they care what I think?” And I ate it. Hard. And it was my fault. It’s our job to make audiences laugh and most of us don’t have the luxury of picking our audience. So, don’t be dumb; read your audience, find common ground, and perform the hell out of every show.
25. If possible, write clean.
I’m generally of the opinion that new comics should write clean. It encourages good writing habits and keeps the writer out of the “my vagina/my dick” trap at the beginning of every comic’s career (including mine). Also: You’re going to have to work clean eventually, so get ready. Don’t wait until you’re offered a $500, 30-minute, all-ages gig to find out you don’t have two clean jokes to rub together.
26. Watching comedy is almost as important as performing comedy.
My first instinct when I started comedy was to hit as many mics as I possibly could, forsaking all else for a few moments on stage. But the longer I do comedy, the more I’m beginning to think that I can learn just as much from watching live, professional comedy. When you don’t have new stuff to work on, take a night or two to catch a national headliner. There’s a reason they’re a pro.
27. Watching your comedy is even more important.
Yes. Everyone hates their voice. But you have to watch your tape. I try to watch it once with the sound on to catch lags in energy or laughter and another time with the sound off to recognize physical ticks or bad habits. Now if only I would start listening to my recordings…
28. Host like everyone is watching.
Chances are, your first opportunity to work at a club will be in the MC spot, so get good at it now. Start your own show and learn the basics. Guest host the hell out of an open mic. Don’t waste an opportunity to develop your abilities as a host. It’s a lot trickier than it seems.
29. Check spelling. Check pronunciation.
Before finalizing your posters, before starting the show, double-check how to say and spell your performers’ names. It’s the easiest thing to get right; so don’t get it wrong.
30. Social media matters.
You should have a Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram; and they should be easy to find. I don’t think it’s super important that you post every day, but other comics do expect to be able to find you online. Don’t risk losing a connection because you didn’t pop up in the search bar.
It's the last night of the #pbsouthpaw tour and we're all very sleepy and broke. But we can't wait to close strong! Come hang out tonight at the Blue Room. (at Springfield, Missouri)
