Bombing

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Transcript:

Covid was so weird.

I took a two-year break from stand up, almost.  Kind of.  There were a few open mics I was able to get to here and there.

I went on stage at a club for the first time in front of a real audience in two years, so strange.

I was all nervous, in the way that I used to get nervous when I first started stand-up.  I used to get so nervous and jittery.  My body would shake involuntarily.  So I was doin’ a little bit a that.

I couldn’t stop sayin’ it to people.  Friends would come up to me, I was like, “Man, I’m all jittery.  I’m a little jitterbug.”

An’ then I got on stage, and I bombed pretty good.  I was feelin’ reasonable about my prospects for success, an’ then I more or less ate it.  A couple jokes got some small pops, but, it was C - at best, borderline D+.

An’ I got off stage; my mind was racing.  My heart was a little thumpity thump.  Everything around you feels a little more intense.  You’re just in a room with people, there’s no reason to be this amped up, but that’s what it is…

Have you ever had something that you can’t NOT do.  You have to do it.  If you don’t do it; that won’t work?  That would be a significant problem?

Stand up is the only thing I’ve ever had in my life where I’ve thought: “If I don’t do this, I will be on my death bed, full of regrets.  Just, that was so dumb.  Why did I not do that?”

I don’ know if it’s healthy or not.  I’m in my 30’s now.  It hasn’t led anywhere.  I love it.  It’s awesome.  But it has gone nowhere.  My favorite thing to do.

I’ve been doing it for eight years now, ten if you count Covid.  I don’ really count Covid.

What is the difference between making meaningful progress as an artist and being addicted to a drug?

Don’t we all have to be addicted to something.  Ya gotta have something that moves ya forward.

For me, it’s getting better at stand-up.

And it’s so weird, cuz you don’t really choose what moves you.  You find out what moves you.  Sometimes stuff just grips you, pulls you.  Just yanks yer head, slaps ya in the face.  Ok, I guess we’re doin’ this now.  Didn’t know I was into this, but alright, yep.

Cuz it’s not like I was good at stand-up.  I was very bad at it, when I started.  Horrible, some might argue.  Very rare for me to experience any amount of success talking into microphones at strangers in bars, for like, 2 years.  It was 90% bad, 10% good, for about two years.

Not a good ratio.

But I couldn’t NOT do it.  I had to keep going.

I don’t mind bombing.  I kinda like it.  It’s kinda fun.

I mean, there’s a physiological, painful response.  It doesn’t feel good to have people look at you with a spotlight on you and not be on board.  It’s a very special type of rejection to be off-putting to a crowd of people.

You’ll get sweaty, maybe have a little bit of an internal panic.  You’ll agonize about it - ruminate on it for a couple days - “I’m such an idiot.”  Or worse, “They just don’t get me man.”

It’s a gut punch when it goes bad.

But I still like it.

That’s when you know you found a thing that you should keep doing - when it feels good to do that thing badly.  Isn’t that a sign?  Maybe not.  Maybe that’s just a recipe for failure in life.

I don’ know.  There’s something about that though.  When you faceplant, and you’re like: “Worth it.  We’re on the right track baby.”  I think that’s a sign, “Dust yourself off an’ try again, try again…”

Have I said anything on stage that I really regret?  Not really.  I’ve made some errors in judgment - usually when I attempt to riff.  Not great at that most a’ the time.

But I’ve never said anything truly regrettable, which, that’s pretty good for being eight years into this.  I’ve said some stuff that would be very upsetting to my parents.  Not sure they’re ready to hear all of it, but, I stand behind my body of work.

It’s a lotta garbage, but, some of it’s pretty good.  Some of it tickles people’s fancy in unexpected ways.  People like it when you do that to them; in the right context.  If they’re in a dark room with their friends drinking beer, staring at you - usually that means you have permission to attempt to tickle their fancy.

It’s such a weird balance.  I view comedy as an art form.  It’s not just fart jokes to me.  It is fart jokes, but it’s also a beautiful art form.  Fart jokes just happen to fall under its umbrella.  And they can also be beautiful.

But it’s always such a high wire act.  And the wind is always changing speed and direction.

You have to prepare so intensely, but then at a moment’s notice, you have to be willing to throw the game plan out the window and react in real-time to whatever is happening.

And I fall off the wire, all the time.  But it’s a good wire to fall off of, cuz you don’t actually die.

But you have to bomb.  Bombing is important.  It’s part of the art.

If you want to get good at anything, you have to stay in that space; people call it the zone of proximal development - where you’re working at a skill that is just beyond your capability.  You’re reaching for that ledge that you can’t quite yet reach.  Playing in that space, that’s how you get better.

I was watching Pete Holmes show Crashing, and he gets rejected by the owner of the Comedy Cellar in New York.  And she tells him: “A strong bomb is better than a weak kill.  I have plenty of white guys talking about nothing.  Who are you?  Why are you?  Why now?  It didn’t do anything for me.”

You have to eat it repeatedly; you have to risk yourself up there in order to dive down deeper into who you are and what you might have to say.  You can’t paddle around on the surface and play it safe.  You gotta jump off a cliff.  You gotta hold your breath, dive deep, struggle with whatever weird sea monsters you can’t see clearly lurking under the surface.

That’s how ya get stronger, more capable.  Wiser.

I was reading this Seinfeld interview, Tim Ferriss interviewed him.  Great interview.

Seinfeld talks about how if you could trade away all your experiences in life, swap ‘em out, the most valuable experiences, the ones he would hold onto the longest, would be the failures.

And he talks about being rejected from the Comedy Store in LA by Mitzi Shore.  And how that made him double and quadruple his efforts.  The rejection only made his passion and work ethic burn stronger, more vibrantly.  And he’s thankful.  He thinks maybe that’s exactly what was needed for him to be great was to be spurned and rejected by someone important and consequential.

In that same interview, he says, “It’s designed to break human beings, stand-up comedy.  It’s a perfect way to break a person psychologically.”

So you’re sittin’ there, bombing at these open mics, an’ you’re thinking:  Are you Jerry Seinfeld or just another bum who’s gonna break psychologically?

And I don’t mean are you Jerry Seinfeld in the sense that you’re going to be the most famous stand-up comedian in the world.  That’s a stupid, terrible goal almost entirely destined for failure.  Like twenty billion to one type odds.

I mean are you Jerry Seinfeld in that you have the steely determination to redouble your efforts in spite of repeated failures and rejections trying to crush your spirit?  Can you persevere in a way that the work is rewarding enough in and of itself even if the outcomes are bitter and punishing?

Now you might ask yourself: at what point do you just abandon the effort?  Why continue punishing yourself like this?

Well, the good news is, I’m not terrible at stand-up comedy anymore.  I’m not great.  I’m not incredible.  But I’m getting pretty darn good at it.  I’m getting really good at writing jokes.  I’m getting faster.  I’m still just ok as a performer.  But that’s getting better too.  So it hasn’t been a complete waste.  A total failure.

It’s some of the most rewarding work to me - creative work.  I thrive on it.  For whatever reason - creating makes me the most excited.

I’m a little bit of a comedy nerd - I’ve enjoyed watching and listening to stand up for a very long time, and it’s been very gratifying to learn that I can make art like the art that I love.

Cuz, as an audience member at a show - you’re seeing the more polished final product.  I’ve spent years now, learning intimately exactly how the sausage gets made.  Feeling how it feels to have to make that sausage.  It’s rough.  It’s painful.  It’s beautiful.  It’s fun.

And there are perhaps more noble pursuits in life.  But I don’t think it’s cut and dry like that.  I don’t think we have full control over what we aspire to do.