Work It

This past spring marked my fifth year doing comedy. Five years. Wowza. I actually had to look back at dates to figure this out (I’m bad at math). And of course, that included the ubiquitous “break” that most comics take (mine was a little over a year). But yeah, five years.

When I started doing comedy, I thought it’d be completely different than it turned out to be. Don’t get me wrong, I dreamed, like most comics do – that I’d be surrounded by easy whores throwing their bras at me after an amazing set… and groupies.. perky-nippled groupies. Mmmmm! I mean I was a natural at hanging out with friends and making them laugh for hours. I had witty retorts for just about everything (can you say “Class Clown”?) and after becoming a bitter musician (as a 280 pound girl, was actually told to call a record producer back when I lost 150 of those pounds… yeah… anyhow, I digress…) I thought my passion for the stage was something I’d have to give up.

So that leads me to how I decided to try stand-up comedy – I’m out with my friend Shana at IHOP one day, and as I’m leaving a woman grabbed my arm and said “I was listening to your conversation with your friends and you are the funniest person I’ve ever heard, you should be a comedian.” And the dream was born – I was going to pursue stand-up comedy… and save for a shitty experience with a douchebag comic in Chicago who ran a ‘workshop’ (that’ll be another blog entry, I’m sure), I have never felt quite as much “me” as I have on stage as when I’m performing. Well, ok, I have felt like “me” off-stage – but my first “me”, truly “me” experience was telling jokes into a mic.

[and yes, I appreciate how much you want to feel me, you're very cute, hornball, now let's move on]

And now, 5 years in, I’m here to tell you – COMEDY IS HARD! It’s still hard. It will always be hard. And that means I’m doing it right.

Being funny on my couch is natural (clothed or not)… I can be in a group of 2 or 25 and slay them. For real. [turning on humble Amelia] But being on stage is a completely different situation. On my couch, my friends know me – I know them – so I can make them laugh pretty easily (and yes, girls not only think boob and poop jokes are funny, but we tell them, too). Nothing is more of a reality check than being on stage in front of 20 (or 2 or 40 or 200) people and thinking you’re the funniest person ever and hearing crickets – or worse – nothing. If you’re new to comedy, don’t invite your friends to every show. Why? Being funny in front of strangers is hard.

One of the best things I did when I started was to get stage time anywhere I could. When I started comedy, I lived in Dallas. Dallas didn’t have a ton of opportunities… nowhere near as great as Chicago. And while I weekly went to The Backdoor Comedy Club for open mic (I miss you guys, so much! And SHUT UP you assholes who are giggling at the name). I would wait and wait for my 4 minutes… after 30 comics had gone up, and worked and worked on my fat jokes. And work I did. I then started doing music open mics to get more opportunities. It helped I had those Billboard connections I mentioned in a previous post (namedropper, pshaw)… but it was about getting up on stage as much as possible and working. It was tons of time, lots of writing, and lots of disappointment. But it made me a better comic. Go up – and if you don’t have places to go up, make them. Finding places to go up, and going up as often as possible is hard.

I’d say my ratio for things I write to things that actually work is about 18 to 1. That may be a bit a little too generous… but it’s true. I think it’s because I feel I’m a natural performer – so when I write, I tend to not sound like me. I mean come on, who talks onto paper anyhow (if you can give me a good answer for this I may give you a prize)? And I’m a totally/ridiculously critical person when it comes to my own self – so whatever I write, I immediately hate (I am assuming this is how the disciples felt as they wrote the New Testament, which helps a bit).

Writing has always been tricky for me. Whereas many comics have trouble performing – I have none of that. I do, however, have writer’s block/laziness/lameness/bleh. And in an effort to try to come up with quick fixes or magic bullets – I’ve read tons of books, done some classes (I know, shut up naysayers). I’m still unable to find ways to spark my laziness when it comes to writing. But I’d make the mistake of following the rules too closely. Like, there I was, filling in the blanks. And then when I’d tell a joke it had this strange “Mad-Libs” rhythm to it. Bleh. It wasn’t authentic. It was boring. It was methodical and maniacal and mediocre (and that, my friends, is alliteration, woot!).

And I know I never have, and still don’t write enough. Like a fat girl working for Hostess, I get into bad habits – like being married to some jokes. Let’s face it, as a comic, nothing feels quite as good as getting a huge laugh from an audience – and I take that joke, and I love it and hug it and call it George. I beat that joke like Michael Jackson… no, I’m gonna leave that one – cause I’ve got nothing (except vodka in my system). After losing 170lbs (yes, I’m HAWT now), it was hard to get rid of my fat jokes (and that’s another point, because it was DAMN easy to write fat jokes). I mean I spent YEARS relying on those jokes – pointing out the most obvious thing to me – my hugeness. I was married to that. Now I need to try new things, write new things, find new things to write about. And hey, writing comedy is hard.

Back in Dallas, I was mentored by some fabulous comics and people who gave me some great advice. And THAT was hard too – figuring out who to hang out with. I think that you tend to gravitate toward certain folks (the good looking, well-to-do types, right ladies?) – but finding the ones who were helpful and made me a better comic – and dare I say, me them – was important. We worked together. WORKED.

Back in the big D, very Saturday, a group of about 8 comics would get together at my place and we’d workshop our material. We’d go to open mics together. We’d send each other emails. We’d help each other get better at our craft. And It was great. Maybe codependent, yes, but great. I miss it often, but I’m lucky to still have a relationship with my buddy Shaun Arredondo, and we still send each other things from time to time. It’s that old proverb that rings true, even now: Iron sharpens iron. It’s hard to find the right folks to surround yourself with, but worth the work.

When I started, I worked 100% clean. Let me be clear – I say “fuck” more times a day than just about everyone else I know, combined. But reality is, when I wanted to get paying work, I had to be clean. And for the record, I’ve made some money doing paid work. Most clubs didn’t seem to want anyone who’d be dirtier than the feature or headliner. And I get that. Following rules and being different from how I am from day to day is hard.

And now, like other things in my life, I’m starting over with comedy five years in. After the weight loss, I’ve had a difficult time redefining myself. I’ve also used that as a huge amount of laziness to not move ahead with my comedy. I have had to find a new voice… and while I am still funny (and, note HAWT), I can’t be married to those fat jokes I mentioned earlier, and I can’t get married to thin jokes (cause, I’m NOT a whore, ok?)…

Comedy is hard work. I have to work even harder on my writing than I did when I started. I’ve got to continue to surround myself with great people. Unlike Dallas, I’ve got so many opportunities in Chicago. While I still say fuck more times in a day than I can keep track of (carpal tunnel prevents me from doing so), I still tend to work clean and not rely on “fuck” for a laugh (but dammit, “fuck” is funny).

It’s still hard… and I hope it always will be. Cause if it’s not hard, then I’m not working enough.

BONUS FEATURES:

My first comedy set ever at the Improv in Addison, Texas. Spring 2006.

One of my most recent sets at Comedy Under The Tap in Oswego, IL. Spring, 2011. Five years later (and -170lbs too)!

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