David Foster's (comedy) Blog

“And sometimes when you win, you really lose.”

 Last week I was at Stand Up NY, asked to close out a show that sounded as I waited, to have a wonderful crowd, responsive to all sensibilities of different comics. A great crowd in an environment where the comic feels he has nothing to prove and/or no one to specifically audition for or impress (I already regularly work this club): The perfect setting to work out new material. The woman who is presently the most powerful booker in New York [and whose respect I feel I still lack] happened to be at the club, there to watch one of “her guys” prepare for his Jimmy Fallon set a few nights later.

The manager in my head begins thinking: This is someone you still have to impress. Fuck your new material, and probably fuck any old material she’s already seen, as it obviously hasn’t sufficiently impressed her. The crowd is relatively unimportant. This has suddenly turned into an unofficial audition set (a common experience).

 The booker sat next to me watching another one of “her guys” battle through the “check spot” (the thankless spot just before the headliner/closer goes on which a club will usually give to a comic who’s either new, or new to the club, where the crowd’s attention is diverted by receiving and paying their checks – not an impossible situation, but undoubtedly much tougher, and a bit ironically casted) as I waited to go on. My decision was final: In spite of really wanting to work out new material, New York’s biggest stand-up casting agent is watching. Impress.

A moment after the check spot comic had gotten off stage she left the room. Wtf?! She was only there to watch him? Wow, he really is one of her guys. She’s not gonna watch me. Eh, fuck it, back to the new material.

The new material I wanted to try, ironic as it may be, was additions and edits to the old material she had once seen me do in a poor setting that did not impress.

 I got on stage and immediately began to crush. The crowd was great, providing even more encouragement to not do the same old stuff. Mid-way through my set and mid-way through the old material that would lead into new additions (not “editions”) I looked to the corner of the room and saw her sitting there… not laughing.

 Fuck! FUCK! It was too late to call an audible. Obviously I have to finish this thought, after which I can hopefully shift my agenda back.

Civilians cannot realize how fast our brains are working on stage and/or how many other motives we might have besides or on top of simply making the crowd laugh or “doing good.” It can happen that quickly: I’m gonna do new material. No, I’m not. Oh, yes I am, and then mid-set: No, I’m not! The only important person in the room did not pay a cover or a two-drink minimum and has returned (and unfortunately she is the only one not laughing. Fuck!). The brain scrambles through the many, many bits we’ve written over the years and attempts to decide which is the best, not only to make the crowd laugh, but to gain the respect of that one person. The brain has literally seconds to scan and decide while we simultaneously deliver the bit of the moment with the proper intonation and confidence.

 By the time I’d finished doing what was almost exactly what I would not have done in an audition for her I looked up and she was gone. Utter disappointment. Agenda re-shifts: Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck it: Set’s going great, crowd is awesome and ripe for new material.

I went into the brand new bits and additions I’d originally planned on doing earlier en route to the club, and they hit in a way that would normally fill any comic with elation. The perfect set: A great crowd that laughed not only at the old stuff, but the brand new stuff as well. For me it was bittersweet.

I got off the stage and was loudly applauded, then complimented repetitively by audience members. I had now in my pocket the most valuable thing a comic really can have, which is a brand new effective bit I am proud of creatively. And I had failed. I didn’t know it while on my way to the club, but this set had become an audition that I did not pass. Sure signs of a booker being unimpressed is a) when they leave the room after watching about 60 seconds, and b) when they don’t say anything to you after you’ve gotten off stage. Check and check. 80 people in the crowd loved me. The one who trumps their importance 80-fold did not.

So much more goes into being a good [and successful] comedian than simply being funny. Well, maybe not so much the former, but definitely the latter. After we’ve developed clever and original material and gained the confidence on stage to properly deliver with a relatively unique voice and character we must make choices. What is the best way to open? Which of my bits will allow me to not sound contrived and says basically: Hi, how are you guys? Nice to meet you. What should be my set order for a late night talk show? What should be my set list for a particular audition? Where in my set should each bit go so as to maximize its funniness?

I often get asked by civilians how much we have to “know our crowd” and subsequently cater (pander) to their sensibilities – a sentiment I feel is partially perpetuated by cliché lessons people hear from stupid, generic classes on “public speaking.” Hahaha! What we do is so much deeper and more profound than “public speaking.” Besides regarding teachers, public speaking is a side task occasionally required for many students and corporate whatevers. Stand-up comedy is an art form. Public speaking is to stand up comedy what taping a home video is to film cinematography. Sure, you have to hold the camera steady and get all the necessary “characters” in the shot if you want it to be even mildly tolerable for your own family members to endure watching, but it is not a creation that you are trying to make a living off of, nor that will be subjectively judged by the masses. You are not attempting to artistically create a world for people to identify with anymore than most public speakers are. To digress, my answer is mostly no. There are occasions where for good money we headline a college show, or for a crowd of one specific demographic, where [due to both factors] we might consciously omit or insert certain bits. But for the most part our on stage agenda (so long as we are not one of the pussies or newbies still afraid to bomb) is a selfish one, working on material that will hopefully take us to our next creative level (which will hopefully take us to our next financial level). If there is no one from my industry in the room who it would benefit me to impress I will mostly not cater to or adjust for the crowd at all.

Right or wrong choices of which bits to do and when to do them can make or break careers, at least for the time being. I felt the choices I made on stage that night at Stand Up NY definitely temporarily perpetuated career stagnation, and reminded me of another time two years ago that I had done the same.

It was my one and only audition for Last Comic Standing. It was March, 2010, and I had recently developed what I still feel was really my first intelligent, “ranty” bit, which to me was a sign that I was becoming the comic I was destined to become, learning my voice, coming into my own. I was so proud of it. There was no definitive punch line, but instead a bunch of subtle punch lines sprinkled throughout a very organic-sounding stream of consciousness. It reminded me of something Bill Burr, Louis CK, or Chris Rock would do (maybe not that good, but in that vein). It was two minutes long, as was the audition spot for the show. Obviously I knew what I was going to do, and naively, was full of confidence that it would crush.

 The bit did not get one laugh from the three judges who seemed to smugly watch in the otherwise empty room at Gotham Comedy Club. Greg Giraldo smiled twice (RIP). Andy Kindler and Natasha Leggero looked at me like I was an open miker without a clue. I knew 30 seconds in that I hadn’t passed the audition. I was right. What I didn’t realize until watching the show months later was that I’d made the wrong choice. All the comedians who passed the first round of auditions had relatively short, quick jokes with definitive punch lines. This of course, is not to suggest that the judges can’t appreciate longer and more substantial material. What I failed to realize was that in spite of the set being only two minutes, you still must open with “an opener.” A bit that says: Hi, nice to meet you. A rant, no matter how original or intelligent, can rarely be your opener without sounding contrived. In addition, one stream of consciousness bit cannot show nearly the range of cleverness or uniqueness of perspective that a few quicker bits can. I can’t know for sure if the other jokes I had in my pocket would have gotten me passed, but I know they would have given me a better shot or at least earned half a chuckle.

Be careful to balance your internal artist and manager, and know when who is the one to listen more to. If the most powerful booker in New York is anywhere in the fucking building, your agenda should be to impress her, no matter whether she has stepped out of the room to go to the bathroom or talk to someone for a minute. You never know when she might pop back in. It is, after all, her job. And while you feel a new bit might be foreshadowing your future greatness as a comic, this does not make it the greatest bit for the audition next week. Choices…  

Nobody likes losing in the final round of anything by one point: Whether the Super Bowl, World Series, electoral college in Florida by a man who should have been President, or a comedian who’s been grinding for years, struggling to get any kind of accolades by which to better get his name “out there.” But Gloria in White Men Can’t Jump did tell Billy: “sometimes when you lose, you really win,” etc. (what good blog doesn’t start with a WMCJ reference?). This was my experience in the 2011 Comix at Foxwoods’ “Last Comix Standing Competition.”

Before the first round show I met the owner, Mike, in the bathroom, who was very cordial but barely looked twice at me (why should he? Just another new, wanna-be comedian who 9 times out of 10 is going to amount to not very much). But the club atmosphere was pretty much perfect, and for a cold, rainy Wednesday night 10pm show that followed the night’s more acclaimed headliner, the crowd was as impressive in quantity as they were quality. It had to be at least 100 strong who were definitely there to laugh with intelligent and comedy savvy senses of humor (from my own unbiased perspective of course). My set went well enough to pass to the next round. Amongst others Mike was one of the first to approach me with kind words of encouragement. “You really surprised me up there,” he told me. “I wasn’t expecting your style or presence to be like that, but I was very impressed. I had another great set in the semi-finals, which was actually an even bigger and better crowd, and again Mike was watching. This time, instead of surprised he was convinced. He didn’t use the word “convinced.” He used words much more meaningful to comedians – Paraphrasing: “Talk to Ryan. We gotta get you up here one weekend this summer and hopefully have you headline a night as well. Looking forward to seeing your 20 minutes in the final round.” My job was already done. Victorious in the finals or not I had already accomplished my original objective for entering the contest.

 No intelligent comedian enters a contest with the primary goal of stroking their ego with a trophy or certificate or pounding their chest to their losing competitors. Struggling comics need work. In a business where you have to be practically one of the best in the world just to make a living only an idiot would turn their noses up at any opportunity that could directly or indirectly lead to income and/or more opportunity. To be honest, except when it’s something crazy like $10,000 we really aren’t even entering contests for the prize money. Why? Well, in spite of most of us being in relatively dire financial situations no American is ignorant enough to think any chunk of change under six figures is going to provide long term security. Steady income is imperative, and competitions, just like festivals, NACA conferences, and TV auditions clearly fall under the heading of such a possibility.

 I’ve heard many pseudo-intellectual comedians (and less than pseudo intellectual as well) pontificate that “competitions are stupid,” “you can’t measure or score an art form,” “how do the judges know what’s funny,” and blah, blah, blah, bullshit. It’s true – no one can dispute that comedy is subjective, nor that the particularly chosen judges in a given competition necessarily have the most astute senses of humor or progressive minds, [any more than most bookers, agents, or casting directors do for that matter]. But we sign up to be judged, both accurately and inaccurately from the moment we embark on the stand-up comedy journey. I ask, why should formalizing said judgment in an isolated experience matter at all? It shouldn’t.

There should be no excuses. Claims that you are “not what Letterman is looking for,” or you don’t fit into the “alt scene,” that tourists don’t get you, or “comedy is not to be judged in competition” are all convenient excuses that do a wonderful job of narrowing your scope of focus, minimizing your mental and physical obligations, and also definitely limiting your potential for progress. Sure, there are plenty of great comics who have never appeared on late night TV, and plenty who have never won any competitions. There are also plenty who have. Winning most often always leads to at least something positive. Losing, by contrast, is never the cause of a career’s termination. This is the beauty of contests: Their ironic existence of being “win/win” situations. I’m confident most hugely successful comedians, at some point in their careers entered a contest and did not place first. They still went on to become hugely successful comedians (most of us have heard the story of Dave Chappelle losing on Star Search). So while it’s true that we need not give much mental credence to the outcome of competitions in their analysis of our abilities, they can only help. To discount this is an over-simplification of the former sentiment.

 I won the Boston Comedy Festival’s New York Competition in 2011. Besides helping me to pay my rent that month it got me an audition at the club the final round was held at. I’m confident it put me over the top in starting to get regular spots at another club its semi-finals were held at. It got the attention of an industry person who has expressed interest in submitting me for late night TV shows (even though I’m all wrong for those!). Most importantly, it gave me something new to brag about in my unsolicited emails and follow up emails to the very busy industry people who ignore us all daily and so effortlessly. Entertainment is a game of “What have you done lately?” and a contest, as silly as it may seem to your free-spirited, creative mind, qualifies as an accolade, and a victory [or really even a trip to the finals] is surely regarded as a right to brag.

 My experience in the Comix at Foxwoods “Last Comix Standing” competition was special because it was everything a comedian want contests to be. Whereas some clubs hold ridiculous round robins that feature a first round of one or two minute sets (a crime to even call that a “set”), the first round was a very respectable five minutes. The last round was 20 minutes, which is as rare as it is fantastic. Besides separating the men from the boys with a true feature-length set, it really gave us time to relax on stage and show who we are, as opposed to simply what we can think of and write. Whereas some clubs struggle to get any crowd into their dime-a-dozen Manhattan location on the weeknight first round shows, Foxwoods had a relatively huge crowd for every round. Finally, there is nothing we resent more as comics than when our set goes wonderfully and no one is there to see. If a tree falls in the woods… No. The answer is no. At Foxwoods the owner and management watched every set. This is all we want: to be watched and heard.

 I was passed into the club as both a feature and headliner even before the final round, and felt very welcomed by the club. As the first runner up I considered it a right to brag to all the industry relationships I covet, and added it to my resume. It’s only been a few months since the competition, and I’ve already been back for another wonderful show, and am booked for more dates a few months from now. I can liken the quality of the atmosphere in Foxwoods to that of Caroline’s or Gotham, and the quality of the crowd to pretty much any I’ve worked for. Great experience. “Sometimes when you lose, you really win.”

http://www.youtube.com/user/saucecomedy

1.     We are no longer laughing at punch lines whose entire strength is based on reinforcing a racial stereotype that has already been pointed out ad nauseum. (there are rare occasions when very talented, intelligent comics write ironically original race material).

2.     Comedians realize that it is not enough to be cerebral and clever, and that you must have some kind of personality as well. (“dry” does not necessarily qualify as a lack of personality. I think subtle charisma is too often overlooked and underrated)

3.     Comedians realize that it is not enough to be charismatic and loud, and that you must be cerebral and clever as well. (Katt Williams has made me laugh. This isn’t to suggest that he’s not smart, but his emotional delivery definitely pulls more laughter out of me than his writing)

4.     Insanity returns to movie and sketch protagonists. There was something highly disturbed about the likes of Richard Pryor, Jim Carrey, Chris Farley, Steve Martin, Chevy Chase, Martin Short, and Dana Carvey. Ironic, since society is more insane than it’s ever been, yet our comedy stars seem to be tamer and more civilly congenial than ever. I don’t condone chemical dependencies, but if there ain’t a screw loose you ain’t a lead man.  

5.     We are no longer making shows dedicated to poking fun at civilians in youtube videos like a bunch of 4^th graders pointing at the kid who just pee’d his pants.

6.     We are no longer making fun of celebrities as if we know them, and they’ve all done something wrong to each of us. (light-hearted jest a la Dennis Miller’s old weekly report on SNL is okay, but entire shows relying on this strength are downright embarrassing and pathetic)

7.     Sex is no longer a taboo conversational topic, thus comedians become subsequently handcuffed from using relative expletives as a semi-crutch by which to get laughs. (the former may never happen, but maybe audiences will eventually mature enough to grow numb to the latter)

8.     TV shows stop with the brutally pretentious hand held camera and go back to the formula that worked for decades when entertainment was great. “If it ain’t broke…”

9.     There are less channels and less shows, thus less jobs for talent, thus quality over quantity in performance. An ironic wish from a performer, but it’s true.

10. Comedians no longer feel the need to embarrass random audience members or use the creation of awkward dialogue and situations as a way to get laughs. If you don’t have anything original to offer you probably shouldn’t have a microphone in your hand. Stop deflecting attention away from the stage. You’re ruining the perception for the rest of us who write! (admittedly there are literally one or two individuals who actually do this exceptionally well and engage in dialogue clever enough that it is very artistic)

He [or she] is in every crowd; though normally it’s “he.” Everyone, comedians in the back included, seems to be dying laughing, hanging on our every word, smiling and thoroughly enjoying our set. Yet he looks as bored as a teenager in math class – as a kid in church. Maybe he looks as angry as a Jew in church – though maybe he looks slightly more intimidating. Arms crossed across his chest, a drawl grimace on his face, as he slightly reclines in his chair, whether intentionally or not, non-verbally screaming to us: “You’re not funny! And I disagree with all these morons who are gassing you up to believe otherwise.”

As comedians, each with our own relative level of insecurity this is most often our default analysis of this individual: “He hates me,” or even worse: “He hates me and wants me to know it.” The latter I believe is rarely the case. Once in a while, maybe. The former I believe is often the case, though still not always. I think we all know someone whose default facial expression makes them look less pleased than they really are. We’ve also all been to events and shows that we probably would have enjoyed more than we actually did as a result of the difficult, stressful day, night, or week we were having; in which case our feelings and energy had very little to do with the quality of the show or performance. People are people, abstract and unpredictable, affected by many, many different factors, both internally and externally, and rarely manifesting according to any one set of rules or dogma we’ve concocted in our lazy little minds. There is no black and white “happy” or “unhappy,” “amused” or “angry,” “loves” or “hates,” but instead for most of us a constant gray area that we dance and fluctuate in depending on many circumstances that are most often out of the control of nearly everyone else in the world’s population. My point is that the man in the crowd surely might hate us and our jokes, but he also may not, and either way I think we would be well-advised to leave him alone.

Comedians can be such hypocrites. We resent people for heckling and are quick to rip them apart when they do so, yet so many of us direct conversation to audience members, too often in an antagonizing and/or embarrassing manner for them. We really do appreciate the few courageous independent thinkers who laugh in a quiet crowd we are bombing for, yet we resent the few non-laughers in a roaring crowd who loves us. Why do we (and by “we” I mean “those other comedians who I believer are inferior to myself, both on and off stage” – ha!) so frequently feel the need to call this guy out and question why he isn’t laughing or entertained? Is he not entitled to his own sense of humor? Is he not entitled to his opinion of our inarguably subjective craft, especially when he is politely and respectfully keeping it to himself? Ugh! It really bothers and shames me as a comic when I watch some monstrosity of insecurity absolutely crush on stage and decide ten minutes into the set that he’s going to pick on the one gentleman who happens to not find him funny. It’s almost as unfair as it is unnecessary! He’s doing exactly what all of our first prerequisite for a crowd is: he’s shutting the fuck up.

 Moreso even than laughing we want each crowd to shut the fuck up. We want our material to be given a fighting shot. We want to be heard – listened to, and hopefully understood, none of which is possible when one or more audience members are talking. I’ll sign up for a crowd of silence over one filled with conversation any night of the week, and I’m confident so would any of my peers. Why any comedian in the middle of a groove would allow himself to diverge from the creative course of developing new material for the eager ears of a room that loves you to address the tiny minority who seems unpleased is beyond me. This is the equivalent of a successful millionaire with a wonderful family who has actualized his occupational dreams becoming upset and completely preoccupied with a hangnail, a headache, and a cavity. Dude, relax. You’re winning. This one’s in the bag.

At the risk of sounding egotistical, I am proud to say I have recently reached a point of confidence in my ability, and even moreso in the originality and quality of my material that when I see someone not laughing I now always assume they are too stupid to appreciate my humor and prefer lower brow, hackier material. It is probably not entirely this person’s fault they are stupid and it’s not my fault they don’t appreciate me. Nobody is at fault here, thus there is no need for confrontation or dialogue any more than there is when initiated from the opposite direction. I knew I was a good comic two years ago, but I now possess ten times the confidence that I am a good comic than I did two years ago (most of us who are working hard feel this way). If one or two individuals can’t recognize that while I shine at my best it genuinely does not concern me one bit.

 I’m sure I’ve been guilty, maybe a few times in the past, of being bothered enough by a facial expression to call out its non-laugher, but it never happens anymore. I’d encourage my fellow comics to follow suit (not because I am the bar for excellence or success, but because it simply logically cannot help your career nor that particular set).

http://www.youtube.com/user/saucecomedy

Part of the reason I advise young comedians to watch veteran comedians work is not just to learn how to tell and write jokes, but to watch how they perform. Watch how they carry themselves on stage and how they move or don’t. You won’t be able to do it like he does because it took him one or two decades and literally thousands of shows to get to that point, while you’re a nervous wreck delivering every word that comes out of your mouth, but until you become comfortable you can learn to fake it ‘til you make it.

People always express to me how they could “never do comedy,” and how they give us “so much credit for getting up there,” and blah, blah, blah. I appreciate the complimentary sentiment, but don’t necessarily agree with the popular idea that comedians are really any braver, inherently, than anyone else. The majority of us are nervous wrecks for the majority of our first hundred if not thousand sets, and then even after that when a particular show carries importance in determining the immediate fate of our career. What separates comedians from non-comedians, in my opinion, is not our special level of courage, but our desire to be comedians. No matter how scared you are to fight someone, if you’re angry enough with them you’ll probably do it. No matter how scared a particular guy is to approach women, if he is desperate and she beautiful enough it will eventually happen. Desire is the greatest antidote for fear. I’m confident I’d be terrified to participate in the military and fight in wars, which is a small part of the reason for why I never enrolled. The much greater reason is my complete lack of any passion for or desire to fight for my country. I don’t hate my country. I know for many reasons I’m lucky to be here, but I don’t especially love it either, and I have no respect for or interest in violence. This isn’t at all meant to minimize or take away from what the military forces do for us, although maybe it sort of is. At least I’m being fair and using it as an analogy to concurrently minimize a small part of what we do as comedians.

We’re all afraid when we first get on stage – as much as any layperson on the street would be. Like anything else, practice makes perfect, and comfort and confidence come with time. Until it does a part of our job is to non-verbally convince the crowd otherwise by looking comfortable and confident. Watch veteran comedians. What do they do with their free arm and hand? How often do they walk around? What directions do they walk in? Watch a good comic’s feet on stage. They behave differently than an amateur’s. How long does he pause for laughter? What does he do while he pauses? How often do they turn their heads to address every part of the room? How often do they look like they’re making eye contact with people? Non-verbal choices are practically unnecessary with optimum confidence on stage because with optimum confidence we are in the moment, outside our heads, organically discussing our feelings on a topic or story with a group of people. There is no pressure to perform, as we have finally and truly become a performer. We can just be ourselves, and the aforementioned choices happen as organically as they do while at brunch with a few friends [before the third cup of coffee]. “I have something to say that you need to hear, understand, and appreciate;” as opposed to: “I hope you like what I have to say and respond how I want.”

Until that time we have to make intellectual decisions: If I were comfortable in this situation what would my hands, arms, feet, and face do while I deliver it? Fake it ‘til you make it.  

Comedian, Cool Herm, once came up to me after I bombed at a super-ghetto show in midtown Manhattan early in my career. “You gotta understand something,” he told me. “Fuck ‘em. You’re funny. So fuck them niggas out there, you know what I’m sayin’? Fuck ‘em.” I shook my head and told him I understood, and intellectually I did. Don’t give the audience so much credit. Have more confidence in myself and worry less about their opinions and feedback. Unfortunately there are many instances in life where we can intellectualize a concept but cannot truly internalize or understand it until we experience it; this being one of them. Thousands of shows and nearly a decade later I truly understand what Cool Herm was telling me. Of course I know I’m funny, so fuck them. This is what permits me to rarely any longer have to make as many conscious choices anymore on stage. My facial expressions and hand motions happen naturally in congruence with exactly what I’m saying. I no longer need to execute them pre-meditated. But until your heart knows what Cool Herm was telling me, you do.

Let me be clear: “Fuck ‘em” is an attitude occasionally misinterpreted, or at least responsively mis-executed by new comics. I’ve been guilty of it myself and observed it in others as well. Comedians sometimes go on stage with a contrived confidence that is terribly transparent to most if not all crowds, if not on a conscious level, then at least a sub-conscious one that simply makes the comic unlikeable, thus unfunny. When we pretend we are confident it comes across as cocky (on stage and off!), so please do not falsify an arrogant on stage character, especially if it is not consistent with your material or voice. Your best bet is to silently be honest with yourself about your insecurity and vulnerability, but to make non-verbal choices during relevant parts of your bits in order to at least do them justice in delivery. The crowd is not your enemy, and should not be looked at as such. For no matter how rowdy, stupid, or unruly they may seem they did still all enter the club with the intention of laughing. On some level they really are all rooting for us. View them instead as your friend. We all want to get in the end zone; it’s simply that you are the quarterback who has to lead us there.

 There is a lot more to an act and performance than the words, the structure, or your zany personality. Too many comedians are clutching mic stands like they are life preservers, holding one hand in their pockets like statues, or two hands on the mic as if it weighs 40 pounds. For several comics these bodily expressions actually work and fit their character perfectly. For others they serve as safety nets and training wheels, preventing them from diving into the deep end all alone and learning who they are on stage. I can’t tell you to relax any more than Cool Herm could tell me, but I can tell you to make a more concerted effort at learning what relaxed looks and feels like for you. Nobody while being hilarious in a conversational circle at a party would rest their elbow on a shelf for 15 minutes straight, and we’ve never seen behavior like this from Louis CK or Pryor during any one of their specials, so watch the vets, and get your elbow off that pole!

What makes the worst show of your life? What makes “the worst crowd in the world?” Too many black people? Too many white people? Too young? Too old? Would “stupidity” more succinctly comprise all of the above? “Civilians” often ask: “What was the worst show of your life?” or “what was the best?” Pretty impossible to answer.

For most of us who have been working hard enough for a long enough period of time there are many, if not at least a handful of shows all tied for both best and worst, respectively. Impossible to pick one show as the best of my life, as I am proud and happy to say there have been countless times that I’ve gotten off stage and thought to myself, “that could not have possibly gone better.” Obviously I could choose my set from HBO that I taped in only my third year in comedy, went perfectly, and to this day was my biggest crowd (approximately 1000). Though the set was brief at only six minutes, and in spite of the wonderful crowd response I did not feel relaxed for one moment of it. I obviously didn’t try any new material, nor did I get off stage and feel like the crowd and I had connected on any level beyond the superficiality of my material. So while it is still one of the greatest experiences of my comedy career and life it would be hard to single it out as “the best.”

“The best set of my life” (and there have been many) is one where you truly, truly feel as comfortable as you would in a room of only family and friends and reasonably so, get off stage feeling like you truly connected impeccably with the crowd. They didn’t just laugh at your jokes; they laughed at you, got to know and like you. Everything hits, including one or a few new bits, and their laughter is so encouraging that they muse you into developing a new tag or even entire new joke, impromptu. We can feel the difference between a crowd that thinks we are funny and a crowd that genuinely loves us – the crowd that wants for us never to get off stage and feels that we are one of the best comedians they’d ever seen in their lives. We all run the risk of delusion and bias, but I know I have felt this love and success many times before. The best show of my life, in my opinion, are the ones where the crowd could not have possibly been more entertained, impressed, and engrossed by my words, and I could not have possibly been more comfortable, creatively satisfied, and positively reinforced. The worst show would obviously be the exact opposite, and I would estimate having experienced this between 10-15 times. After each one I hold out hope that it will never happen again; but it always does. 

Most people, especially fans or audience members who approach us immediately following a great show, cannot believe that at our stage/my stage we still bomb and have terrible sets. This disbelief is indicative of the misconceived cliché that “you can’t blame the crowd” – that the fate of each set is wholly determined by the comedian’s performance. Again, I obviously run the risk of sounding delusional and biased, but I would contest that once a comic reaches a certain point in his career and/or ability that the outcome of every set is nearly wholly determined by the quality of the crowd. Sure, on any individual show they like some comics better than others, and some of us are more creative, charismatic, or confident than others, but the majority of us eventually get used to doing very well the majority of the time. This is because when you do the same thing (outside of working out new material of course) nearly thousands of times through a medium that you have practiced an equal amount of times there can only exist so much variant to how it is expressed. This becomes the constant in the equation – the controlled factor. The variables are often the environment and always the listener(s). Crowds change every night and people all think differently, act differently, and feel differently in different environments. So what makes the worst crowd in the world, which by logical deduction leads to “the worst show of my life?”

A bad crowd is stupid and generally unhappy of course. The latter I’ve come to realize over the course of recent holiday seasons when I noticed there were very few “stupid crowds” in the clubs. “Why is it,” I thought, “that all the intelligent people come out during the holidays?” “They don’t, asshole” (speaking of intelligence). A notable difference during the holidays is that people are happier. They’re off from work and school, on vacation, well rested, and less stressed out in general. Higher spirits equals louder laughs and a greater willingness to laugh to begin with. A stupid crowd, which is still also extremely common, is one that wants the predictable instead of the unpredictable. These crowds prefer hacky material, which contain sensibilities and punch lines they can easily recognize, and a complete omission of any subtlety or depth of thought. Topics like race, sex, and bathroom humor are always effective with these morons, and they adore crowd work as it frees them completely from active listening. They get to simply point and laugh at the other guy getting made fun of, not unlike third graders in the playground. Though neither a stupid nor unhappy crowd are nearly capable of creating the worst show of my life.

The worst show is created by the worst crowd, which is the crowd that simply does not listen: the crowd that features table conversation from the moment you get on stage to the moment you get off. The ADD crowd. The iphone crowd, where there is never a moment that you look out and don’t see at least one asshole sending a text or looking at her facebook wall. Why did you come to a comedy show if you’d prefer to be on your phone?! In any of these crowds there are usually a few audience members who try to pay attention, others who partially pay attention to part of your jokes, others who decided nearly immediately that you’re not worth their attention and thus talk throughout your set, and finally one or a couple of self-loathing, parentless, hopeless losers who feel it is their responsibility to speak out on behalf of the crowd and let you know how bad you are at your greatest passion. What is worse than bombing is bombing for a crowd who’s attention spans won’t allow you to dig yourself out, then receiving a swift blow to your ego and feelings by more or less “losing” to a heckler in an unwinnable battle. This is the unfortunate fate that befell me just a week ago at a bar show on the east side (I cannot disclose location out of respect for my boy who runs the show).

Back room of a noisy bar, which in fairness only audibly interfered when someone came in or walked out – though in fairness this did happen frequently. Ha! Young crowd, predominantly minorities, probably aged 21-27. Poorly seated: a few booths along the back wall about 10-20 feet from the stage, two or three tables and chairs randomly placed between the booths and the stage. No space for the comics to sit, they are lined up against the wall and door that allowed in noise from the bar, which in all honesty probably would not have been too disruptive so long as the crowd was decent. This crowd was not decent.

I didn’t see most of the host’s set but I did go on first. A small portion of the crowd of about 20 reluctantly gave a weak applause when I asked them to acknowledge the host. Conversation went on at two of the four booths and one of the two tables, as new people arrived and moved chairs around. I chose material in hopes that the first punch line would get their attention, simultaneously shutting up those that needed it. I opened with a joke that always opens well (why not), and it did not. Instead of laughter it seemed to induce louder and more conversation in the “crowd.” An undesirable outcome to say the least. There was no one in the room I needed to impress, nor am I at a stage in my career or experience level where this situation rattles me whatsoever. I felt fine. I felt confident and comfortable - just disappointed. The first feeling that overcomes any veteran comic in this situation is disappointment over the realization of wasted time. “Not only will I not be able to work on all these new bits and taglines that I wrote just hours before the show and was all excited to explore, but this probably will not be even enjoyable.” Next is frustration.

I decided to address the people talking at the various tables, as although crowd work is not what I enjoy, there are times like these where your material is completely handcuffed if you don’t have their attention. These people would not have laughed at Richard Pryor’s material. They wouldn’t have laughed at Seinfeld’s, Louis CK’s, Chappelle’s, or Cosby’s. They couldn’t because they would have to hear it to laugh at it. You cannot judge someone is not funny if you’re not listening to their words any more than you can judge the taste of a food if you pierce your lips together as it bumps into your upper lip and frenulum. My material was bouncing off the proverbial pursed lips of this resistant crowd who were just too stupid to realize that coming to a comedy show was actually NOT what they wanted to do that night.

My crowd work was relatively ineffective as laughter was minimum and attention span only mildly increased in small pockets and brief increments. Maybe if I’d been a bit hackier – maybe more offensive with more racial punches and references to genitals they would have respected me more, though I am proud to say these tools are long since disappeared from my arsenal. Then the asshole:

Drunk, probably about 26 stumbles into the room, stands in front of a table of audience members and begins heckling. I noticed his tight, button up, black shirt and cringe to confess I snapped on him for dressing like a busboy. At the moment my suggestion actually got the biggest laugh yet from the room (undoubtedly diagnostic of their intelligence level). In fairness to me in my moment of hacky desperation he did honestly look kind of like a busboy. This obviously pissed him off, but he didn’t show anger. Instead he chose to not shut the fuck up for the next six minutes I was forced to suffer on the stage. “You wack!” he told me. “You corny yo’! Corny motherfucker!” “Yo White Mike! Look everybody, it’s White Mike.” It was 20 years ago and I was back in a middle school cafeteria being bullied by my intellectual inferior, whose parents loved him a lot less than mine did me. Solace can always be found in the awareness of the disparity in quality of our respective existences, but in the moment I feel like the loser.

I had nothing for this asshole, probably because it is just not in my nature, creatively nor energetically, to snap on people. I’m a fine enough comic that even in the most hopeless of situations, like this one, I can come up with one or two things like “the busboy” to shut up a heckler who follows the unwritten rule that states if you heckle and I get you, you have to shut up. Unfortunately insecurity in this case was way too abounding for my man to shut up. He kept at it and at it until suggesting that he could do a better job than me. When I encouraged him to go ahead: “Tell a joke,” he approached the stage and demanded the microphone. I felt the ultimate level of disrespect as he stood next to me on the stage. I refused him the microphone and he returned to his seat, continuously insulting me on his way. The crowd continued to talk.

I’d been finished with my obligations and errands downtown that day five hours earlier. I was exhausted. I could have gone home and rested. It had been a long week. I waited downtown, killing time, wandering around, doing my exercise in the park instead of the privacy and comfort of my home, briefly visiting with my girlfriend on the street, and working on material in my notebook that I’d looked forward to working out on stage that night. This piece of shit decided because he was drunk and had parents who should never have been parents that he would be single handedly responsible for wasting my time, unnecessarily depleting my energy, and stagnating my career progress, which incidentally is intimately attached to all my hopes and dreams.

I was enraged. I looked down at him from the stage as he sarcastically encouraged me to continue with my set. I felt my hand mildly shake and realized this was the closest I’d ever been to physically attacking an audience member. I knew I could take him, but also knew the bouncer out front could take me, not to mention the two friends he had with him. Other audience members more genuinely and kindly encouraged me to continue. Others continued their table conversation as if nothing was even going on (it really wasn’t –haha!). I knew material was useless as I didn’t have the attention of the room to begin with, and even if I had they lacked the mental tools to appreciate it, and asshole was sure to interrupt.

I fluctuated between silence, waiting for the host to come back in the room, and explaining to the crowd why I wasn’t doing jokes. “This isn’t a comedy show,” I told them. “For me to do jokes everybody has to shut the fuck up and that hasn’t happened for one full minute since I’ve been up here. Sorry. That’s what it is.” I could tell there were a few individuals who understood. A few others naively continued to protest in a supportive attempt. The drunk left the room and told me he was going to get me a drink.

In a moment similar to when the school bell rings for class to be over I saw the host return. I exited the stage, and was forced to brush past my friend on my way out as he returned with two drinks in hand. I paused for a moment and seriously considered going back into the room to break his face. I haven’t hit anyone, or really even wanted to hit anyone in ten years, but I wanted with all my heart to hurt that kid as badly as possible without hospitalizing him. I thought better and stormed out of the bar. An extremely kind audience member chased after me in an attempt to console. I shot him a dirty look, taking any opportunity to take anger out on anyone who was a part of that crowd (silly and immature obviously, but slightly forgivable in the moment, especially relative to the action I really wanted to take).

The audience member was persistent. I thought my look and energy would back him off but he followed me all the way out of the bar and into the street where I smacked my hand as hard as I could on a parking meter on the sidewalk, both verbally and non-verbally telling my boy, Gary Vider, how it had gone. “Great,” he said. “Looking forward to it.” Gary’s hilarious.

The audience member showered me with consolation and compliments that I expressed appreciation for and was humbled by, but could not genuinely experience said appreciation in the moment. I don’t think he understood. I tried thanking him away, passing him by business card, and getting him to leave me alone, but again, he was persistent (I’d hate to be the object of his romantic interest if the feeling wasn’t mutual). Again and again he told me: “You’re funny man, you’re really funny, I was laughing. I was really liking your shit. Fuck that guy.” Again and again I thanked him and encouraged him to email me any time, but to please leave me alone for the moment.

First and foremost we have to acknowledge obviously how sweet, sensitive, and cool this was of him to go out of his way to be so supportive. Though what I think people like him [and the heckler] fail to realize is just how frustrating an experience like that is, and more importantly WHY it is so frustrating. Veteran comics are not looking at the show in a vacuum, upset or disappointed that we somehow “failed,” “didn’t do good,” and it is somehow indicative of what kind of comic we are. No! We can’t give a fuck about some individual show when you consider just how many shows we do week in, week out. If this were the case then we’d never try new material, which leads me to what we are really upset about. We have an agenda when we get on stage: certain bits we want to work on and expand on. Certain bits we want to try – certain things we want to play with. Many of us at any particular show, spent hours in a particular neighborhood after completing daytime obligations, waiting for the show to start, exhausted from the previous night, week, month, or decade of shows. We’re often working for the stage time and no money. And for someone to decide, motivated strictly by ego and alcohol, that they are going to thwart all of these efforts, is beyond infuriating. This is why many clubs have bouncers who are there to remove the drunk, incessant heckler who does not abide by the unwritten rules. Unfortunately every bar does not.

 If you come to a comedy show, please keep in mind, in spite of how movies and reality TV might perpetuate some other impression, that the person on stage is not a stick figure cartoon nor character on a screen, but a person, with feelings, hopes, dreams, goals, pains, and suffering just like everybody else. They are not some millionaire celebrity like professional athletes, who do have to deal with heckling as coming with the territory of being a huge successful star. They’re regular people with the courage to not be a drone and to try something very scary. If you have a hard time listening then stand up comedy shows are not for you.

For so long and with such frequency, as comedians, we are given so little. We give so much of our time, our physical and mental energy – so much of our patience, on both the microscopic and macroscopic scales. “When will this show start? When will I get to go on so I can go the fuck home?” and “When will someone acknowledge me enough that I can make a living?” then “When will I be enormously successful?” We give our emotional energy to what it takes to withstand the blows of bad sets, ruthless hecklers, rejection and disappointment, injustice, and then even to the potential internal imbalance created by our highest and most glorious moments as well. For most of us it feels like we are mostly always giving and nearly never getting. We get what feels like no money, few opportunities, rare responses to emails and unsolicited mailings, and less spot times than any of us desire. Thus we work our fucking asses off for two things: obviously the faith and belief that it will one day all pay off, and for props; or “positive feedback” (depending on what subculture you subscribe to).

Great sets feel great. Great crowds make us feel good about what we do. Their laughter allows us not only to feel good in the moment and enjoy our time, but also feeds the aforementioned belief that this will one day all pay off. For some of us – most of us actually and unfortunately – this is a delusion being perpetuated. For another minority – like Dave Chappelle, Louis C.K., etc. – it is a wonderful foreshadowing of truth.

Compliments from audience members after the show feel fantastic as well. Like a woman constantly preoccupied with her physical appearance I’m confident most of us cannot hear these enough. Sure, we go through phases of bitter resentment, when we’d prefer monetary compensation over verbal reassurance, and we “already know” that we’re funny, but more often than not it feels awesome to know I was both heard and appreciated for what I thought of, structured, and delivered in the most frightening of manmade settings. I’ve also taken great pride in observation of the change in the “who’s” that are regularly approaching me with props following my shows. For while love from anyone and everyone is appreciated it is reassuring of the fact that we are growing and maturing as comics when our fans congruently seem to be more mature and intelligent than they were years prior. But the contrast in feeling between getting props from an audience member to getting props from one of our peers who we respect and admire is not unlike the difference between your mom telling you you’re handsome and the hottest girl in school telling you so.

In my first five years on the comedy circuit I had an inordinate amount of success for a young comic. Networks and casting directors loved me apparently, as I was on HBO, MTV, and Showtime before I could blink. Concurrently I felt I had no respect from most of my peers. Obviously one could diagnose this feeling as a result of insecure paranoia, but there is a fine line between paranoia and keen perceptivity. I never felt like the comics – especially the white comics – who worked the mainstream clubs and were worshipped by the industry had any respect for what I did on stage. They never seemed to really want to talk to me or take me under their wings the way I’d seen them do with other [white] comics at my level, and off stage I always felt somewhat excluded, whether energetically or sometimes even physically, from social banter. I felt like an outsider. Socially and ego-wise it didn’t bother me, as I was aware that many of them took exception to my hip hop style being contradictory to my ethnic and/or geographic background. Mentally I diagnosed the entire dynamic as conveniently perfect, as their belief structure of boxing me in to a cliché ironically boxed them into one in my mind, as pseudo-intellectuals, not from New York, with painfully typical prejudices. I had my group of friends who had all grown up in New York City and in my mind were all mentally far superior to these mediocre comics who were temporarily being celebrated by a bunch of dummies who happen to temporarily be in positions of power. Thus I did not need nor seek friendship on the comedy circuit.

Time passed and life changed. I grew away from old friends and grew up as a comic. I adopted an affinity for many of the comics I worked with, and even learned to appreciate ones I previously harshly judged. I wanted so badly, not only for reasons of ego but also for how it could potentially help my career, for the older comics from years back to see how much I’d developed. Unfortunately my previous reputation of having once been an urban comic and [still] being a hip hop white guy; or “wigger” depending on how much of an asshole you are, contributed in preventing me from working at the clubs where I’d get such an opportunity. Only once in a while I’d be in a venue that featured the “top guys” and would receive the anticipated positive feedback in the anticipated surprised tone: “Good stuff, dude.” “Wow, great set, man. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

I know.

Slowly but surely, thanks to enough hard work and some of the right decisions, these opportunities have increased, and I am now featured in many of the top clubs’ regular lineups. A few weeks ago I was at Eastville Comedy Club, one of my favorites, and was paid a wonderful compliment by a respected peer, Dave Smith, just after coming off stage.

He commented on how intelligent a particular bit was that I was doing. I thanked him, and to consciously diffuse the potential innocuousness of our interaction he reiterated to me: “No, yeah, really great stuff, man. Really, really smart.” I knew his intention because I’ve done the same thing before to others. This is where we let our peer know: This is not some generic compliment coming out because I’m a good guy, socially we get along, and I heard the crowd laughing in there. I give those occasionally, I know, as do you, as do all of us. But right now I am sincerely letting you know that I mean my words and that was an awesome fucking bit. “Aww, thank you,” I responded, first word in the sentence indicating that I now genuinely recognize your compliment as organic and meaningful and not having come out because you’re a good guy, socially we get along, and you heard the crowd laughing in there.

Dave elaborated to say that he’d just been talking with Jay Oakerson recently (another respected peer) about his having noticed how much I’d grown and how original and smart my material now was. At that moment yet another respected peer, Luis J. Gomez approached the cipher only to chip in on the gas-pumping into my head. Ha! They both verbalized that they’d always thought I was funny, but that now my set was remarkably strong and how they’d noticed I’d developed a very original voice. I knew they were lying about having always thought I was funny, but didn’t care at all. They’re good guys and that’s the kind of shit good guys say. When I continuously expressed my appreciation for the compliments Dave Smith continuously reiterated the fact that he’s really not that nice of a guy and never pays fake compliments. He wanted me to know that he meant it. I already knew, but definitely appreciated his effort as well. I sat there listening to their [mostly] accurate assessment of where I’m at as a comic, along with the [slightly] less accurate assessment of what I was doing on stage years prior, and for one of the first times in my career, felt accepted. I felt legitimized. At the risk of sounding corny or like a Kevin Arnold voiceover in The Wonder Years I felt like a freshman on the high school football team getting his first high fives and compliments from the senior captains. For so long and so often as comics, on both the microscopic and macroscopic scales, we feel like no one is listening or paying attention. Why can’t people multi-task by paying their checks and listening to my jokes? Why is the crowd talking? Why didn’t the booker watch my set? Is any agent watching anybody’s clips ever? It’s amazing anyone ever gets signed! I felt heard. Recognized. Somebody who mattered to me was paying attention and acknowledged what I’d been grinding my motherfucking ass off for years to achieve.

Months before I’d won the Boston Comedy Festival’s New York Competition. Weeks before I’d gone on between Aziz Ansari and Janeane Garofalo at the same club and had a great set. Actually the night before I followed Louis C.K. and also had a great seat (after the first few minutes of awkward quasi-bombing). The compliments paid to me by Dave and Luis that night at Eastville far superseded all of these. They were not only the highlight of my night, but still probably my best career moment of 2012, and provided me with more tools to withstand the next round of blows in the form of rejection, disappointment, and failure. My point is that what you do with innocuous compliments really doesn’t matter so much. I think people appreciate these on a fairly superficial, cordial level and there’s nothing wrong with giving and receiving them. Though we all feel the difference when the compliment comes from the depths of the heart and mind, so please do not hold these back. Never underestimate your power or the power of positive reinforcement. Tell your peers they are dope when they are, and why they are. It just might be something they’ve been waiting a decade to hear. It might make their week, and it will definitely give them more stamina for the weeks or days or at least hours to come.

http://www.youtube.com/user/saucecomedy

I’ve thought long and hard about it and come to the conclusion that there is no way to write this particular “blog” without coming off as arrogant or conceited; and instead of abstaining from expression I’ve made peace with said diagnosis. I know I can be relatively arrogant or conceited regarding certain aspects of me, but also know that a) I am not as bad as many others are, b) can be quite humble regarding other aspects of me, and c) believe what is most important is that we are first honest, and aware of our own conceit so that we may ultimately address and transform it. My possession of such awareness is, in my opinion, what makes me so superior. Ha! In all seriousness…

 I get a lot of positive feedback on my blog. All my life I’ve gotten positive feedback on most of my writing. In spite of my subjective degree of conceit this feedback is always extremely appreciated. I have had many days go from shit to neutral, neutral to good, or even shit to great because of the unsolicited kind words of a friend or stranger. Compliments are like vegetables for the soul – (sex is like sleep for the soul (that’s why they’re both done in the bed)).

I’ve also received ambivalent compliments, most often characterized by critique for how “looong” my blogs are – how wordy I am or how I should keep them shorter. While I realize no one could be more biased towards my creative output than myself, thus subsequently judgmental of my critics, I believe these people are idiots, or at least short-sighted (which is actually a lot less of an insult than “idiot,” as the former is potentially impossible to change, whereas short-sightedness is a more pliable condition). I would suppose this bunch are less critiquing my expressive ability, and more noting the disparity between the anatomy of my “blog” and most other blogs they check out online. This is understandable, as most blogs in my opinion, are pretty stupid; about as creative and substantial as most magazines’ articles and most often interesting, ironically, to only those who have no true interests. My blog is a blog only incidentally. As a non-published author with no literary agent, yet a passion for writing, I want people to read what I write; hence I take advantage of the world wide web’s capacity to “publish” me more or less, and thus have a “blog.” What I’ve learned from my more web-savvy loved ones is that blogs are generally pretty concise and to the point. People rant and rave for a page or two about fashion trends and/or celebrities they hate, why they hate them, man/woman clichés, and/or they tell the hilariously cute story of their recent business trip or vacation. Their friends and family and fans (if they exist) love their streams of consciousness, enjoy their clever quips, and are entertained by their craaazy stories and perspective that happens to not completely reflect that of our nation’s most domesticated, mindless drone, who represents about 95% of the population.

 There is nothing really wrong with the presence of this expression, nor its reception, but it is usually the most superficial, novice manifestation of literary expression that exists. Calling anyone with a blog “a writer” is probably not unlike calling anyone with a youtube channel a “television producer,” or anyone with a cell phone “a photographer.” I suppose due to my lack of publishing or literary agent I can’t necessarily be called “a writer” either, though my intent is to be so. I want to be a writer (amongst other things). I enjoy the process of writing and am excited about the unraveling of an idea or experience “on paper,” thus choose not to be restricted by the unwritten rules of cyber-literature. Obviously this filters out many surfers who just want to read three quick paragraphs about how corny and over-rated I think 30 Rock is or my opinion on most tattoos, but I’m sure Peter Luger’s was aware they’d be filtering out all vegetarians and vegans when they opened up, and they’re doing just fine. I’m not claiming to be the Peter Luger’s of writing, nor am I ignorant to the fact that vegetarians are the minority, whereas web surfers with short attention spans are the majority. Nevertheless, I must do what I want to do and what is true to me, so I write what I write and remain hopeful that its true appreciators will find it and tell other people with like minds, who will tell other people with like minds, who will reproduce with each other, and create millions more like minds who will ultimately appreciate this unique characteristic of my blog and self so much that it makes me very wealthy and buys my mother the rather not unique, expensive beach home she has always wanted.

 Regarding the idiots I have a different take. Don’t we all –

 To say someone “talks to much” can a be a fair accusation, often indirectly pointing out that they simply do not listen enough, maybe indirectly pointing out that they are too self-centered to keep as a loved one. Talking too much might also be a symptom of either a complete unawareness of or disregard for our social construct, which while repressive and annoying at times, is generally beneficial to say the least (otherwise the streets would be filled with nothing but insults, fights, and exposed genitals – mostly of the male variety). Said unawareness is present in what we call “a moron,” whereas disregard for in what we call “an asshole.” Even those of us who “hate rules” do appreciate most rules, hence do not like people who “talk too much.” Talking “too much” in Chinese Medicine is often symptomatic of what they call “yin deficiency” or “heart fire,” patterns that are reasonably synonymous with insomnia, anxiety, hyperthyroidism, hypertension, mania, etc. Also talking “too much” exhausts the lungs’ energy (qi), and so is quite literally unhealthy. Personally I do love to talk and have been [mostly half-jokingly] criticized for talking too much, though have been also fortunate enough to never be short on people who want to listen to and be around me. For this I am grateful; and choose not to consciously change this about myself. For while I realize that Chinese Medicine might diagnose my behavior as a physiological imbalance I also understand that we are all prone to some kind of imbalance, and it is these imbalances that make us beautiful and attract to us the other imbalanced who will love and embrace us, and hopefully restore some of our balance. I digress:

To say someone writes too much is a very different critique of communication, as outside of school assignments, reading something is nearly always a voluntary act, in contrast to listening to someone talk, which happens against each of our wills on almost a daily basis (especially for urbanites). We choose the articles, blogs, books, and papers that we want to read, and so if we are uninterested in the topic or bored by the downright shittiness of the writing we are free from any obligation to continue. This is why to say someone “writes too much,” is “too wordy,” or produces pieces that are “too long” is inaccurate feedback from the reader – consistent with their remedial minds I’m confident I am about to expose.

 One cannot think a book or movie is “great, but too long.” One can say something “would have been great had they omitted a, b and c,” but it would be paradoxical to claim the former review, as “too long” implies the artist either repeated himself unnecessarily, included irrelevant information that lacked even any source of gratuitous enjoyment, or was a boring read; any of which are direct critiques of the writer’s ability, and not at all mutually exclusive to the quantity of words used. My point is not simply to highlight the ambiguity of these compliments I’ve received, but also to teach my “critics” about what it is they do and do not like.

 Concision is important in magazine or newspaper articles: 800-1000 words by Friday, Johnson!  Also on TV shows with news reporters, in business letters, sitcom dialogue, and tweets. What do all of the aforementioned have in common? No artistic quality whatsoever. Everyone loves movies, but why do some people (most often intellectuals or at least pseudo-intellectuals) love movies but hate TV shows? If our attentions spans in recent generations have all shortened and concision is of such high priority it would stand to reason that a 30-minute show is much preferable to the 90-150 minute films on the big screen. But films have more substance, more artistic integrity, thus more accurately reflect reality. They go deeper. My point is not at all to say there is a direct correlation between quality and length (ladies). I definitely think there is more artistic integrity in almost any episode of Seinfeld than in 90% of the films produced in the past decade. Though one could argue, in a vacuum, that a film comparable to a sitcom of relatively equal quality is analogous practically to a novel and its comparable periodical blurb.

 Anyone can tell you “the day was overcast,” “the argument was heated,” or “the crowd laughed,” and if your attention span or interest in the story is deficient you wouldn’t care to hear much more. Though if you were engrossed by the story, passionate about its theme, and/or curious about the scene you would be left quite unfulfilled and non-stimulated. If I told you, instead:

 The day was gray and dreary, a day that felt like it had repeated itself one too many times for me to withstand – maybe due to my own imbalance of spirit, or maybe to my heightened sensitivity to atmosphere (of course I prefer the latter diagnosis). In any case it was the kind of weather that shifted my mood. There are days so beautiful that you wake up feeling low, but then walk out of your house and are immediately lifted by the blueness of the sky, brightness of the sun, and sounds of the birds. This day was its antithesis. Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t that I woke in such a good mood and was brought down by its grayness. As a matter of fact I think I woke with the grayness and hoped against hope that today would be different. I counted on today to lift my spirits. It disappointed me. Instead of there being “not a cloud in the sky,” there seemed to be nothing but clouds in the sky. It was one of those skies where you see no actually sky – or else the clouds become the sky. Without a dry spot in sight even the dampened ground looks depressed. The sidewalks and streets look lonely – they look to be almost slouching, and the front lawn looks like it is frowning, patiently waiting for sunshine to breathe life back into it. There is the sound of one bird in the distance, instead of the many – one bird insistent on being happy, desperately seeking like-minded company, inevitably to be disappointed and rejected. It is just barely too cold to be comfortable, depressingly consistent with how the neighborhood looks.

 “The day was overcast” is four words. The paragraph is 282. The former is perfect for a weather report. The latter tells a story. The only reason to call the latter “too long” is if you dislike the author’s style of writing, have no interest in the story or mindset of the protagonist, or are simply an idiot, incapable of connecting to depth of analysis of any given situation.

Every moment in life – every interaction, occurrence, and seeming non-occurrence, no matter how seemingly banal or common on the surface, possesses infinite depth. Whether one chooses to see, acknowledge, or explore it depends on one’s level of interest or intelligence. One can be brilliant and uninterested in something and choose to ignore its depth. One can be intrigued but idiotic, thus incapable of seeing its depth. But if one possesses both interest and intellect one will be terribly unsatisfied with concision (which is subjective of course) for the sake of concision, unless of course said expression managed to fully explore and convey the deepest elements of what it was addressing.

 I choose to go deep in my analysis of every given situation depicted in my blog, because stand-up comedy is my passion. I know I love it and feel I understand it on a pretty deep level. We need words and adjectives like “good,” “bad,” “nervous,” “confident,” but there is really no such thing as any of these oversimplifications as they pertain to my passion or likely anyone else’s for that matter. There is no such thing as  “a good set” or “a bad set,” or “confidence” on stage, but instead enormous gray areas between good and bad, confident and nervous, that are defined by the infinite possibilities of detail and specifics that take place, both internally and externally, during every minute, and every second and nano-second of every one of our experiences. So if you think you like my writing if only I didn’t write so much then my deduction is that you don’t really like my writing. Or maybe you do but you’re not as interested in me or in stand-up comedy as you thought you were. Or maybe you just aren’t not as dumb as you thought you were, and the depth of my exploration loses your inflexible mind, as it is too remedial to have gone there regarding anything prior. If the latter is the case, I would encourage you to make whatever positive changes you know you are not making in your life. This will undoubtedly lead to a clearer mind, which will probably attract new and more dynamic people into your world, who will clear and elevate your mind even further, and the positive snowball effect continues.

Nobody has ever made me laugh as hard or as often as my younger brother, Jonathan (“Jon Jon”). My ex-best friend (and aside from my brother, who is my brother, really the only true “best friend” I ever had), Eric probably came very close; though our friendship was during an earlier, more carefree period of my life in which I spent more time intoxicated than any other. Eric is hilarious, no doubt, but I was also then a much easier audience for sure. I have a higher level of respect for my brother’s comedic sensibilities maybe than I do any person in the world – more even than Richard Pryor or Jerry Seinfeld, both of whom I revere as performers, yet neither of which I feel are necessarily quite as simply funny, in a vacuum, as is Jon Jon. The funniest comedian in the world (subjectively speaking of course) is surely “the funniest comedian in the world,” but not necessarily the funniest person – much like any dumb magazine’s top 50 most beautiful women are actually just the top 50 most beautiful female celebrities. Surely there are many lucky men out there who look at their woman, then back at that list and think, “yeah, she’s okay.” My point is that no comedian has ever made me laugh as hard as my brother has. Obviously any idiot could write this off as familial bias, which I concede could be influential, but then are Beyonce’s parents biased in their opinion of her beauty? Was Yoko Ono biased towards her husband’s musical ability or Biggie’s best friends biased towards his? There must be instances of alleged “biases” that coincide with truth, no? I suppose time will tell how much credibility I have in the perception of the masses.

Although I am the comedian, when we hang out my brother definitely gets more laughs from myself and mutual loved ones than I do. Obviously there can be many reasons for this: the energies in dynamics between myself and others present, my mood, how well I slept the night before, and of course how much neurotic deliberation is going on in my mind regarding whatever issue I happen to be dealing with that day. These factors are non-existent on the stage, where we don’t have the mental freedom to entertain other facets of our lives, and are demanded to express only our sense of humor - not the complete entirety of who we are. That being said, he’s just funnier than me. I make him laugh too of course, but I think more often with the eccentricity of my character and personality, whereas he makes my laugh with pure wit. My brother’s timing, clever quips, and non-verbal communications within his verbal expressions are nothing short of brilliant. I am so grateful for his existence, as he is the only person on the planet who can still make me either fall on the floor laughing like a little kid or send me running 10 steps down the block like a black audience member on old episodes of Def Comedy Jam (anyone who judges that as contrived behavior, by the way, suffers from the perfect combination of physiological egocentricity (“how could you feel that way about that if I don’t feel that way about that?”) and deficient exposure to African Americans – it’s real, trust me). The flip side of my gratitude for my brother is an immense insecurity (“immense” relative to myself) I feel regarding my brother’s opinion of me as a comic. It is for this reason that of the 10-15 shows he’s probably been to, Jon Jon has never seen me at my best on stage. He’s seen a handful of bombs, a bunch of mediocres, and a few great sets so far as crowd response went, but I know he’s never seen me be actually funny [by his/my/our standards]. I’ve seen him belly laugh at comedians before, and of course I’ve made him belly laugh before while off stage, but in ten years of comedy have never actually seen him belly laugh at me from one of my crowds. It’s a fairly legitimate sickness in neuroses, but this is why my favorite person in the whole world is not invited to the taping of my future half hour special. How fucked is that?

Why do our friends and families make us nervous when they come to shows? They should make us less nervous, right? They love us no matter what, right? “We’re here to support you,” they tell us. “You fuckin’ idiots,” we think back. “You’re not supporting me by coming to my show (unless it happens to be the rare occasion of a show we are producing ourselves, in which case the number of asses in the seats actually matters, either financially or reputation-with-that-club-wise)! You think whether you one or two or even nine individuals are laughing can make a difference in the quality of the set/performance? If the crowd sucks they’re going to suck regardless of how “supportive” you are; and if they’re great, vice versa. I assure you unless you come with a group of ten to a crowd of 20 you will not influence the outcome feel of the set. You wanna support me? Help pay my rent so I could ease up on the ol’ “day job.” As a matter of fact just give me the $50 you were going to spend on drinks at the show and pay my utilities, thank you.”

You make us nervous because we want so badly for you to see us at our best, and with as much of a crapshoot as comedy shows can be, our absolute “best” can be a tall order.  Most comics with my experience level can say that “good” surely happens more often than not, and “awful” happens pretty rarely, but so does “perfect,” and when a loved one’s entire point of reference for what you’re pursuing in life is one or even just several samples you want it to be perfect. Deepak Chopra said: “If you can let go of imperfection, perfection will appear by itself.” Brilliant! It means if we choose not to obsess over minor bullshit or hiccups we can basically still feel completely blissful. Imperative to keep in mind in relationships, no doubt, and pertinent here as well. Imperfections happen in sets all the time: A joke or tag sort of misses, they don’t laugh, a heckler says a little something, and being as professional as we are it doesn’t affect us one bit. It’s like a mosquito getting in the way of a running back headed for the end zone – we barely notice. Unfortunately with the added agenda of specifically impressing one or a few individuals present, we are hyperconscious of every imperfection, thus spend too much time in our heads analyzing the mosquito and interpreting how our friends interpreted him, and subsequently are not effectively present in the moment. It’s stupid, unnecessary, neurotic, and it sucks, but hey… that’s comedy.

Another reason it feels weird for loved ones to watch us on stage, at least for myself, is not because I am showing a side of my personality that they’ve otherwise never seen, but because of our awareness of their ability to see so much more than everybody else in the room is. In a comedy set the crowd is getting more or less a window view into our character – one dimension of our personality and perspective, depending of course, on our style on stage. This doesn’t mean we aren’t being true to who we are, but depending on how long the set and/or how great or revealing the comic is, it is only one part of us you are seeing. There exist proverbial walls surrounding the aforementioned “window” that necessarily keep the rest of our character shielded in order to not psychologically repress our depressions and fears [you pseudo-intellectual Freudian douche], but to enhance the one dimension we intend to come through for the momentary mutually desired purpose. When loved ones are present I am hyper-aware that there are people present who see through those walls, and although they know that what I show through the window is as organic as everything else in the room, I feel maybe slightly more vulnerable than I am comfortable with. This coupled with my inability to let go of imperfection in these moments then functions as a snowball towards depleted confidence, which always equals depleted funny.

Does this mean we want you to never come to our shows? No. Well, yes, maybe on some level our id (I’m a Freudian douche too!) wants you never to come to shows. Then life and comedy can be always easy – can always feel relatively the same (outside of auditions and TV tapings), and we can never worry about what you think of us. But neither life nor comedy are ever easy or every consistent. We take great pride in doing something for a living that people want to come and observe and even show off to their other friends and family, and also realize it would be ridiculous for us to prohibit them from doing so, as even if it goes poorly no one set defines anyone’s career (except maybe the taping of your first HBO special?) and life will go on, usually pretty immediately. My mom and cousin were at the worst show of my life, and we were all able to laugh about it over dinner hours later. A girl I was on a third date with once saw me bomb and flip out on an audience member who genuinely wanted to fight me; and again, she and I were passionately making out in the park hours later. Careers always go on, relationships are unaffected, and we realize that in order to succeed in our craft in the first place we must be able to effectively handle various levels of pressure at all times. So if you want to come see me at work, even if you are my brother, by all means come. The more challenges, the better.

I look forward to the day I feel as confident with Jon Jon in the crowd as I do with him not. I believe with more growth, both as a man and comedian, and of course increased confidence that can also come superficially from more external means such as more tangible career successes, that I will get there. In the meantime I can’t wait to see him laugh at me the way I’ve seen him laugh at Eddie, David Cross, Zack Galifonackis, or even more local, closer peers such as Joe DeRosa and Gary Vider (he loves those fuckin’ guys and it mildly bothers me – ha!). This will be as much a milestone as my first hour special or headlining weekend at Caroline’s… neither of which by the way is Jon Jon invited to at all. Love ya bro’!

http://www.youtube.com/user/saucecomedy

What do you suck at? Most people choose to ignore their flaws and weaknesses (it is ironically said ignorance that perpetuates our subconscious and unnecessary levels of insecurity about those flaws). Instead we seek scapegoats for who or what is to blame for whatever voids exist in our lives, thus failing to take responsibility, and subsequently action towards filling said voids. But everyone sucks at something. Even Derek Jeter, it seems, is a pretty shitty actor. Tom Brady might be incapable of telling a good joke, and Michael Jordan did sort of suck at baseball.

I write here mostly about my wife, stand up comedy, as it is the davidfosterCOMEDYblog, but today chose to scribe about my mistress, Traditional Chinese Medicine, motivated partially by reflection over the many health issues friends and family I’ve seen over the holidays are dealing with; also by a look forward to a new year which always features resolutions towards self-improvement. In addition I am proud to announce a milestone of progress in my “day job” as I have reached the homestretch in my pursuit towards a Master’s degree in Chinese Medicine and will now be interning in my school’s clinic beginning in January (call 212-982-4600 to schedule an appointment – I’m there Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays through March!). This is more or less the equivalent to a western medical student’s “residency,” except I won’t be cutting anyone open or prescribing them medication with a list of side effects that will make them wish they could only have their original symptom back. We cure people for real. Though do we?

Sometimes we do. There are simple patterns and “easy cases” where all a person needs is a few treatments and/or some herbs, and are not required to take any conjunctive action to facilitate the healing process. These are usually acute conditions with straightforward treatment principles. Chronic conditions are more complex. First of all they have been around for much longer; have made somewhat of a home in the person’s mind and body and most often are linked to his/her genetic constitution - which, contrary to what most western docs will tell you, does not mean it is incurable, but just more of a challenge that requires proactive steps by both healer and patient. More often than not what I see are lazy, weak-minded people who want the easy way out [of their problems in life]. They want to pop a pill (or a more holistic remedy if they’re at least not so ignorant) and feel better. Unfortunately it rarely works like this. “Life is hard” is a cliché I agree with but feel is misinterpreted by the masses. I observe people take this basically to mean: “life sucks. Deal with it!” Like, “shitty things happen and there’s just nothing you/we can do about it.” I take exception, and instead believe life is a series of challenges that if properly prepared for and managed can be joyous and wonderful at all moments – even in the face of adversity. Where life becomes “hard” is in said preparation and management that most of us choose not to do most of the time; though if we did, life would ironically cease to be so hard. No pain, no gain. Best things come to those who wait. Etc, etc, etc.

90% of the patients who come into the clinic at school would benefit enormously by changing their diets, lifestyles, or exercise patterns. I’d say about 10% of them do so. The masses have basically the mentality of a 12-year old: they want to eat sugar and sandwich meats every day, drink soda, coffee, and/or alcohol as much as they want, work non-stop without resting, not exercise regularly, and of course communicate in their friendships and relationships as would a 12-year old. Fortunately all these behaviors are relatively harmless… so long as you are 12 years old and have only been guilty of them for about five years. If you are 50 or 40, or in many cases even 20 nowadays, and you live like this, you will inevitably feel like shit. That is a promise.

What I have come to realize is the many components that go into “good health.” If you work out five days a week and eat vegetables every day you are undoubtedly healthier than you would be if you didn’t – but are you guaranteed to be healthier than dude X, who doesn’t eat or exercise as well? Unfortunately not. Dude X may just have stronger genes than you do, or he might be happier and more at peace with life. He might have better relationships, less stress, and a more enjoyable job, thus a more pleasant world. This, I have come to realize, can often outweigh all the kale and yoga classes in the world.

I have divided perfect health into ten parts, each of which might be equally important as the next, especially depending on who you are and what you suck at.

1)   DIET: Okay, so first of all, sugar is shit. It’s complete shit, and when I say sugar I’m talking about sweetened beverages and ketchup too. There is scientific proof of sugar’s direct links to depression and many, many other diseases (just about all of them I think), so I doubt it’s any coincidence that our country’s depression rate has soared in correlation with the amount of sugar we are ingesting. The benefits of eating healthy foods in addition to your sugar intake will be reduced, as from a Chinese Medicine standpoint sugar compromises the digestive system’s ability to absorb nutrients, so if you have dessert while you’re still digesting your kale and spinach you will not get the same benefit as someone who skips dessert, or at least waits 20-60 minutes until digestion is complete. Americans have a funny idea of what is healthy eating. For some reason we think that salads and low-fat sandwich wraps are an ideal diet, conveniently neglecting the body’s need for cooked vegetables. Chinese Medicine does not really condone salad eating (especially in the cold weather months), because salad is a cold food whose temperature needs to be transformed for assimilation, which takes more energy from the digestive system, exhausts the internal organs, and ultimately makes it more difficult to assimilate nutrients from the next meal. Do you cook your own food as often as possible? Take-out is shit… relatively speaking. Do you eat cooked spinach? Cooked kale? Swiss chard? Asparagus? Mustard greens? Sweet potato? Lentils? If the answer is no to all, or really even any of these and your health is not perfect then, good news: it’s your fault. You can change it! If you “don’t like” these foods or “can’t eat no fuckin’ kale or sweet potatoes” then let me know when you celebrate your 17^th birthday and move out of the projects and then maybe you’ll be ready to feel better. Bread and dairy, from a Chinese Medical perspective, are shit too. If you don’t believe me/them eliminate both from your diet and tell me how you feel… dickhead. Chinese Medicine does not condone vegetarianism or veganism in our modern society, but obviously organic meat is always better, and if you’re eating meat with every meal, or red meat more than 1-3 times a week, what the fuck is your problem? I hope you don’t have the nerve to mentally judge cigarette smokers, because you’re probably doing close to as much self-harm. Oh, and fuck your magazine clichés that say “one cup of coffee a day is good for you.” This may sort of apply to some people during certain times of the year in certain climates but chances are this is not you. I love coffee too, but it is nothing short of an addictive drug. If you’re ingesting it every day then the first step is admitting you have a problem and go from there. Just google the dangers of caffeine and the quantity of it in a cup of coffee and then cc me on the “fuck off” email you send to that hack-ass magazine that told you it was good for you.

2)   EXERCISE: My observation is that most Americans exercise too much, too hard, or not at all. Those falling victim to the former are mostly the vain, ego-driven young adult males who are terrified of losing a millimeter of bicep and consequently potentially missing out on an otherwise sure one-night stand from the club this weekend, or of course the young female who watches way too much reality TV, always thinks she is fat, and doesn’t realize that her low opinion of self has way more to do with why she isn’t attracting guys than the once again, additional millimeter of body fat (which is necessary!) that formed around her hips last week. She also doesn’t realize that salad (cold food) is making her metabolism slower and that she would lose more weight not if she ate less, but if she ate more… cooked vegetables! A healthy balance in exercise is imperative: It should be regular and we should push ourselves, sweat, and get winded on occasion, but only to a certain extent and not in every work out. Many teachers believe 20 minutes every day is all you need to be in good health. Personally I think 5-15 minutes of stretching could be done every morning and night, a 20-30 minute light workout 3-4 days out of the week, and a harder 60-90 minutes another 1-3 days, depending of course on your age and overall present stamina (don’t rush into anything). Strength training is good, but heavy weightlifting puts a lot of strain on the tendons, muscles, and organs, and can potentially create more stagnation than healthy movement in your channels. Running definitely burns calories and opens the lungs, but is very hard on the knees and bones and is proven to speed up the process of osteoporosis (better if you run on grass than concrete, but watch those ankles). I think regular practice of things like yoga, martial arts, and qi gong forms are the best types of exercise. That being said, if there is a sport you love to play, do that shit. No site is more brutal than the woman on the treadmill at the gym desperately trying to lose weight with a painstaking look on her face. She obviously hates the treadmill and everything else about the gym and will subsequently gain less benefit from the workout. Find something you enjoy. If you can’t find anything, look harder. Look in different places. Get better friends and watch different shows. Get off twitter. It’s stupid. And don’t forget to breathe. Not breathing while you exercise is about as bad as not chewing when you eat. And not exercising at all and expecting to feel okay is like not showing up to work and expecting a paycheck.

3)   LIFESTYLE: Once again, balance is at the crux of this issue in our society. On average, especially in any metropolitan area, I’d say 85% of any person’s mental and physical energy is devoted to their career, and the other 15% is split up between relationships, rest, and other shit. This is imbalance in lifestyle, which leads to imbalance in physiology. Designate time to communicate with and enjoy the company of your loved ones and time to relax and for your self. If such times are not featured at least in every week, if not every day for you, your health will suffer no matter how many greens you eat or yoga you do. As a matter of fact if you’re one of those psycho eccentric yet one dimensional “health freaks” who eats nothing but organic foods, no meat and no dairy whatsoever and exercises hard for two hours six days a week your body would probably thank you very much for a day off with some burgers and barbecue with friends… and choosing not to take every joke they make at your expense so personally. As our nation becomes more and more informed and more career driven our divorce rates continue to sore. If we worked 20% as hard on communicating in our relationships as we do at our jobs who knows what could happen? Some couples might even be happy! Wtf?!

4)   LOVE/SEX: Gotta have it, but not too much of it. Having excessive orgasms, especially for men, contributes to weakness of the kidneys and depletion of our vital energy and essence. This leads to signs such as balding, premature hair graying, dryness of the skin, lower back pain, bone, teeth, and hearing problems. Sex is healthy, no doubt. Without it your health will suffer. If it’s not poppin’ off for you right now I’d advise making figuring out what you’re doing wrong a priority (but also not stressing over it too much if that’s possible). Maybe you need to lower your standards – maybe online dating – maybe do anything but what you’ve been doing, but do it! Do it, do it, do it. Get laid. It feels great when you do. The whole world shifts. Food tastes better, people are less irritating, tasks are easier to accomplish… as long as you aren’t busting nuts every day. Daoist philosophy believes that up to age 25 it is more or less safe for men to cum as many times as they wish, but after that our kidney essence begins to deplete. There is no numerical rule set in stone that applies to every individual, but I’ve read that to live ideally you should cum once a week in your 30’s, twice a month in your 40’s, once a month in your 50’s, etc. If you’re no Daoist and are presently sleeping with a very attractive woman nobody expects you to follow these guidelines specifically, but if you’re letting ‘em fly five or six times a week it might be a good idea to cut down. Nobody’s saying not to have sex five or six times a week. Just don’t cum every time. Have some self-control, ya jerk!

5)   FRIENDS: Tied in with lifestyle, this is imperative. A) Do you have people whom you love (and are not sleeping with), and b) do you spend time with them? Of course the former is even more important than the latter, but again, no matter how focused, “busy,” or career-determined you are, time has to be made to bullshit and kick it with your peoples. I strongly believe that part of the reason peoples’ health take such nosedives in our mid-late 20’s is not just because we are “getting older” (as 27 really should not be old enough for our bodies to fall apart), but because we spend so much less time having fun with friends. Part of the reason so many older people look back on their college years as the best time of their lives is because it was a time when socialization took priority over financial concerns. Unfortunately for most people these priorities dramatically shift places immediately after graduation; and slowly but surely stress and depression seep in. Quality of friends is a factor as well. If you are not comfortable being vulnerable or honest with your friends they are not true friends. Sometimes breaking up with bad friends and abstaining from negative company is as important for your progress as is breaking out of a bad relationship.

6)   JOB: I loved the movie Office Space, but really took exception to one line Jennifer Aniston’s character says towards the end: “Nobody likes their job, but…” Obviously I understand where the sentiment comes from and don’t dispute its accuracy or relevancy. The exception that I take comes from a much deeper place of abhorrence for the overall mental state and perspective of our world’s masses. If you don’t like your job, fucking quit! I understand, I know, I know, it doesn’t work like that – you have bills and rent and blah, blah, alcloalhdhrouabdap. So, fine then: HUNT for a new job. Hunt, hunt, hunt, until you can get the fuck out of there. A full time job takes up WAAAAY too much time our of our lives for us to dislike it and not make getting a new one our absolute top priority. Have you no respect for the beauty of existence? Of course I have my gripes and complaints and at any given time can fall victim to wishing certain things were different about my life, but am constantly reminded of how grateful I should be for the fact that I have not one, but two truly genuine passions that can both function as fruitful careers. My heart goes out to those of you who do not, and I’m sorry, but I have no answer for how to get in touch with your passion. I suppose the best advice I can offer is to take heed to my health advice where it might pertain to you, and other positive things will begin to open up for you. One aspect of life absolutely does engender another. I didn’t know I loved comedy until I stopped smoking weed; and I never did too well with girls until I started doing comedy. I didn’t get really good at comedy until I started studying martial arts and Chinese Medicine. I am a huge believer in that fixing what you can will often subsequently fix what you cannot. Just be patient and persistent.

7)   SLEEP: The first thing your body does in any day is sleep. Before breakfast or exercise or meditation or anything at all we are unconscious. So, the day doesn’t technically start with a good breakfast, but a good rest. Good health begins with good sleep, and as an inhabitant of Manhattan, stand-up comedian, who is constantly stimulating my sympathetic nervous system at night (when it should be resting), and releasing adrenalin at night (when I should be releasing melatonin), insomnia is no stranger to me at all. Daoist monks sleep from 9pm-5am (or is it 8-4? Whatever, it’s something completely insane like that…), and ideally we should supposedly do the same. Obviously this is not possible for many of us, so as in any other aspect of life, you do what you can to comfortably come as close as possible to ideal, and try not to stress the “imperfection” in you lifestyle. Go to sleep as early as you can with all lights and electronics OFF. If you fall asleep with the TV or radio on, it’s time to grow up. Sounds and lights stimulate your sympathetic nervous system while you are asleep, which compromises your rest, and makes your body weaker and less healthy. It’s time to break the habit. What’re you, afraid of the dark? Do you think there are monsters or demons in your room? Get a nightlight, think happy thoughts, and call your mommy… bitch. 8 hours of sleep is ultimately vital. If it’s not happening for you do whatever you can to make it a priority. Don’t eat late at night, cut back on the coffee, don’t watch TV in bed, etc, etc, but do what you can. Also, having too many dreams is less than ideal, especially if they’re scary or sexual (or both!). Come see me at the clinic so we can work on that. Ideal sleep position is laying flat on your back and ideal wake up situation is naturally with no alarm clock. Alarms do shock the heart and nervous system, so if you must use them try to make them as quiet and physically far away from you. as possible.

8)   BREATH & POSTURE: Nobody sits right. Nobody! I swear in this city of about 10 million people I think I see about one person on the train with good posture about every other day; and they look like a total freak, because it is so rare for us to see (general rule of thumb I believe is in a society as dumb as ours I’d be concerned if I was never doing anything that looks a bit freak-ish). Our schools teach us about World War 1, the Italian Renaissance, how to write cursive, and calculate the square root of 144, but they never teach us how to sit and breathe. Breath is your life force, as important as food and drink (as a matter of fact we can go much longer without the latter and survive than the former). Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Do it relaxed but constantly, and deeply into your stomach if possible. When you forget to breathe – and you will forget – remind yourself and keep it going.  The more you do so, the less you’ll forget. I’ve also read that in the cold weather air it is best to exhale through the nose as well. In any case, go to any yoga or meditation class and learn how to breathe, sit, and stand. Proper posture will prevent you from looking like a the letter “s” as an old person, and will help you to breathe better, which helps to think and digest better, which helps you live better.

9)   TV & MUSIC: Do you watch TV every day? Me too. Stop. Besides constantly insulting your intelligence too much television (not relative to what your dumb, unhealthy friends watch, but relative to what healthy people you don’t know watch) is harmful to the eyes and again, over-stimulating to the sympathetic nervous system. I’m not suggesting not watching at all, as entertainment and using it to relax once in a while is probably pretty healthy. I’m simply suggesting using it as it should be used: In moderation, not as a daily crutch or form of escape from the misery one might feel in quiet isolation. Television should be a luxury, not a staple in daily life. If we could discipline ourselves as such we’d be rewarded with much less channels, which means cheaper cable bills and much less shitty shows with shitty actors who wouldn’t be on our TV’s if we weren’t so emotionally dependent on them to feel happy. As for music, people are definitely blasting it into their ears way too loudly and often, but I do sort of believe if you aren’t blasting it in your home and even dancing and singing/rapping along on a weekly if not daily basis then some level of depression is inevitable. Do NOT neglect your love for the songs you love. They can often do more for your body than an organic plate of the finest produce.  

10) FAITH: Statistics show that people of faith, whether through organized religion or a more spiritual practice, live longer, healthier lives than those who lack such an element. Skeptics might argue that this is a prime example of “ignorance is bliss,” to which one might argue back: “bliss is still bliss, no matter how you slice it,” or better yet: “Since skepticism is basically a product of the ‘how can you really know?’ mentality, then how do you really know that faith is ignorance?” In which case, is this not a case of “might as well” or “can’t hurt to try?” The general cynicism regarding the unseen in our society is, in my opinion, a simple over-compensatory adopted philosophy and overreaction to the obvious stupidity and even insanity of most modern organized religions. Yet said insanity in some does not necessarily mean there is no God or higher power, or spiritual forces at work; not to mention that quantum physics more or less proves the existence of such forces. I must digress, as this argument is not at all the purpose of this essay. There is scientific evidence of the health benefits from yoga and meditation (though it is laughable that such practices have been reduced by so many laypeople to exercises whose purposes are simply to reduce disease and promote longevity), and I can say for sure that my own spiritual readings and studies have instilled in me the ability to remain patient, loving, and forgiving in many instances where I previously would not have. Of course I am not always the “zen master,” as I am a human being working on it like everyone else, but I am confident that my faith in forces such as karma, God, positive thought, visualization, forgiveness, and the connectedness between all living beings has probably helped me to avoid certain calamities at certain times.

If even one sentence from any of my ten topics help you at all then I am grateful. I hope you don’t feel too judged by me, as at many times including right now I am guilty of not always following my own advice (as likely are the people I’ve gotten my advice from). Life is about non-stop enjoyment and pleasure, yes, but it is also about strength, determination, and discipline. Balance! Yin and yang! Without one the other will suffer. In our society most of us have been ignorantly raised to seek only the pleasure, thus neglecting the discipline. Where this leads, as we observe in so many is an ultimate lack of pleasure, even from the same source we once acquired it from. Why? Because we lack balance. Insert balance in your life through discipline in following as many of the aforementioned guidelines as you can (without being too crazy or neurotic of course). In the meantime, many of us do have constitutional (genetic) issues that can be helped along towards remedy by holistic healing modalities such as acupuncture and herbs. So come holla at me!

212-982-4600. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, bitch

 http://www.youtube.com/user/saucecomedy

Why do we hate each other? Why is it so commonplace for one comedian to walk up to another comedian sitting in the green room or back of the showroom and critique the comic presently on stage by whisper-exclaiming: “___________ sucks!” The simplest explanation likely often used as a defense by those of us who are most critical and expressive (my guilty self included at times) would be that we’re smart. We’re good comics who work hard at developing original material, thus could not be naïve enough to let this hack on stage off the hook without degrading him behind his back to our fellow comic. Nevertheless I can’t help but recognize that this seems to take place more in our profession than in others, and even more so than in other artistic pursuits where quality is obviously always subjective. I’m not necessarily saying we are even wrong for our behavior. As somewhat of a Buddhist I always feel conflicted and guilty in criticism of others, yet consistently rationalize that in these instances I am entitled to my opinion and that I am not degrading the actual person, but instead his skill level at a particular craft. Does that make it okay? Maybe not, but I at least try avoiding the expression: “_______ sucks.” Speaking honestly this doesn’t mean I don’t think or feel that he sucks; I just try to express it with more compassion.

In sports performance quality is relatively objective: Either he scores a lot of points or gets a lot of hits or he doesn’t. Same as in real estate, finance, even law and medicine. Co-workers may dislike each other for personal reasons or play their respective games with different styles or approaches, but there is a numerical bottom line nearly impossible to dispute with verbal criticism. Not so in the art world. In spite of the fact that this is still America and any comedian or artist could easily try to legitimize their ability by account balance, even the most common laypeople have acknowledged that there are plenty of financially successful, talentless “artists” in our society, as there are those unsuccessful with great talent. But do filmmakers, authors, musicians, or dancers criticize one another the way we do? I could be wrong, but I truly don’t think so. I ask myself why? Why do we waste so much breath offstage hating our peers on stage, denouncing everything coming out of their mouth that we are being forced to listen to? That’s why.

 Great filmmakers aren’t forced to watch the un-funniness of Owen Wilson, Kevin James, or Ben Stiller movies, the mental masturbation and pseudo-intellectualism of the Cohen brothers, or the generally hacky crowd-pleasing manifest that wins Best Picture most years. The former may be bitter that the box office numbers and accolades are greater than their own, but surely are not forced to sit and produce their own films while sitting in a theater where a bunch of clichés sit blindly accepting the lack of character development taking up their time and mental space. In the mid 1990’s Nas, Biggie, and Wu-Tang never had to listen to Master P, Cash Money Millionaires, or MC Hammer if they didn’t want to. Nirvana didn’t have to listen to Warrant or Poison or Def Leppard (were rappers behind the spelling of that name or were Def Leppard actually the original musician spelling-rebels?) and nobody ever required Phillip Roth or Dostoyevsky to read US Weekly or the Daily News. We do.  

 Ironically, as such an individual sport - the golfers of artists as I call us, we almost never work alone. Even celebrities and national headlining comedians most often have hosts and/or openers divulging their own perspective, sentiments, and energies upon their crowds before they get on stage. Filmmakers depend on an entire crew, yes, and musicians are most often in a collective band, not to mention sound guys and studio engineers, etc. Though they record and film respectively without influence or interference from any of their peers. We do not have that luxury. Most of us don’t get to choose who will be hosting our shows or whose material or delivery style will influx the crowds’ brains immediately before our own. Because of this we have the benefit of observing our craft in others probably much more often than other artists. Because of this we have the detriment of observing our craft in others probably much more often than other artists.

 Nobody likes an asshole, and an unfunny person trying to be funny, regardless of how the present crowd receives him, is kind of an asshole. As a matter of fact a crowd receiving him well might probably irk us even more (not just because of our ego, but also our instinctive human distaste for injustice and illogic). All art forms can reveal a lot about its artists; but none more than stand-up comedy, because in ours there is no buffer (aside from stage fright in some cases) between who we are and what we are presenting. You can learn a lot from an author by how and what he writes, but his obligation to the plot and setting of his story slightly buffers exactly who he is. Same rule applies to actors and musicians, as they can show and tell us so, so much of themselves, yet have obligations respectively, to their characters and songs. Comedians have no buffer in revelation. Sure, there are those of us performing more of “a character” – more of a specifically eccentric dimension of our personality on stage than others, but even that is a very demonstrative choice about who we are. A comedian is being more than just funny on stage; he is being himself, and if this self happens to be unlikeable to us, it can be a pretty brutal 10-20 minutes of forced audio immediately preceding our own opportunity to pursue our life’s dream. Compound this annoyance with however nerve-racking a particular show is before going on, and how can that be not frustrating at least to some degree?

 What people find funny is a great measure of intellect, world exposure, and overall energy, and often is a huge determinant in who our friends and spouses are in life. Thus, when we become true students of what is “funny” and are basically forced to work in the same group in class with fellow “students” who obviously haven’t studied very hard, haven’t read the book, or should just be in a different class regardless, it presents a unique challenge to our patience and ability to focus that other artists do not have to deal with. That being said, we should attempt when possible to keep in mind that without “bad comedy” there can be no such thing as “good comedy,” and thus learn to appreciate, maybe not the humor of, but at least the existence of hacky race jokes, predictable shock humor, sex bits, and typically overdone cynicism. In the end they will make us look good.

I just woke up 80 minutes ago. Why am I running nearly as fast as I can through the noisy and crowded Times Square train station tunnel wearing khaki pants, boat shoes, and a sports jacket? I’m trying to catch the1:04 bus to the Poconos for a gig with an outdated dress code for which I am being underpaid, under the premise that if I impress I will be invited back for more gigs for more money with some kind of regularity. Regularity has been something terribly missing from my career, and so I sprint faster through the tunnel. The next bus isn’t until 3:15 and the bookers have supposedly requested I get there by 4:00… for my “7:00 sound check???” Unfortunately my present status prohibits my questioning of such illogic.

Today is Saturday, 12:53pm. Yesterday was apparently the last day of six months of nice weather. Today is a 40-degree legitimate snowstorm.

There is no heat on the bus. Babies somewhere in the back alternate between vociferous playing and crying (not sure which is worse). I ponder over the perfect herbal formula for the guy sitting behind me who can’t stop clearing his throat. I feel justified in having not paid for my ride (though maybe more appropriate to acknowledge my suffering on the ride is justified by my having not paid). It wasn’t intentional. I haven’t intentionally stolen anything in eight years – but in my rush for the bus I accidentally exited the terminal at the wrong door, subsequently probably bypassed the bus driver collecting tickets, and rushed onto the bus, honestly just so I’d be able to find the right bus if that wasn’t it. According to the people in the front row it was. I got on and made my way to my seat, relieved, exhausted, cold. It wasn’t until moments later that I’d realized I may have just accidentally saved $30. Fuck it.

Hungry, cold, too tired to read, and too awake to go to sleep (coffee), I stared out the window as we passed what would probably look like a beautiful exhibit of nature to many people. Snow fell in healthy-sized flakes, covering the trees, branches, and bushes off the side of the highway. White coated the landscape. The couple in front of me happily took pictures of the season’s first snow. They however, are not struggling comedians. I missed the warm weather immediately. It didn’t look pretty to me. It looked exhausting. Uncomfortable. Cold. It looked like shit. I wished I could pass out.

I knew getting into this gig that it had all the potential in the world to be awful. “No jeans, no sneakers, must wear sport jacket,” the rules were told to me. Although it’s not my style I am able to understand and respect when certain venues have certain rules to avoid comics showing up in shorts, torn t-shirts, and baseball hats; But a sport jacket? No jeans? What year is this?

I’ll tell you what year it is. It’s probably about 1987, or whenever the hell the last time it was that a couple could go to a love resort getaway with a straight face and no hidden camera following them. Pulling into the parking lot by the hotel’s driver I was greeted by a huge red sign shaped like a heart that read: “Welcome to the Land of Love.” Covered mostly in snow the architecture and landscape looked mostly like a shitty, mediocre ski lodge, but apparently this is where some assholes come to get their love on. Curious.

 Though I take pride in my New York nativity I am always pleased when I go out of town and am greeted with such pleasantries and warmth, and a bit shocked when I am not. This was an instance of the latter. Neither the girls at the front desk nor the sandwich-making woman in the café seemed to give too much of a fuck about me. I wasn’t even offered any free meal (nor was I offered a drink or even bottle of water during my show later that night - ghetto). They coldly gave me a key to my room and sent me trudging in my boat shoes through the cold snow to what looked like an enlarged tool shed just off the side of the road. Why didn’t I bring a pair of boots, you ask? Because for a 24-hour trip where I’m earning $250 (transportation NOT included) I didn’t really want to make the effort (nor did I have the time) to fuckin’ “pack.”

Simultaneously, I entered my room and 1979. There were mirrors everywhere. Every wall, every ceiling, every corner of the room was covered in mirrors (at one point I got a better look at my ass than I think I ever had before in my life (as pleased as a straight man could be I guess)). There was a purple hot tub in the living room… shaped like a heart. The bed was round. There were two seats in the shower that I assumed were not for handicapped guests. Man, this was going to be one wild weekend of masturbation. Wtf

I took a nap, did some exercise, and went to take a shower… No hot water. Haha! I love when really tacky, gawdy places end up showing their truly budget, ghetto colors.

The lady who booked me on the gig texted me and excitedly told me they were expecting more snow later in the night: “It’s gonna be beautiful,” she wrote. “Are you kidding me? Beautiful? We’re not in Utah or Colorado. This isn’t the Swiss Alps, my dude. We’re in PA. There’s a traffic light about 50 feet from the tool shed I’m calling a room. We’re in a dark parking lot and there’s no view of any mountains or landscape from anywhere I stood at any time. I have no deck, nor did I bring any family with me to enjoy such pleasantries had they existed… but much like my wife and kids, they don’t. It’s not going to be beautiful. It’s going to be wet and cold and annoying and uncomfortable, just like snow always is for everyone, except wealthy people who are voluntarily at ski lodges with all of the perfect accommodations to counter the conditions.

At 6:45 I decided to be a few minutes early for sound check, in hopes that maybe I could get back to the room in time for the hot water to be back on, and get back for the show which I was under the impression was at 9:30.

I met Merle, the show’s producer and host (of course his name is MERLE! Haha!), who told me that no soundcheck was necessary… “Unless you’re gonna be singing. Did you have anything you wanted to sing?” “What? No, what? I’m a comedian, I don’t… I’m not…” Sound check was unnecessary. It was unnecessary, and apparently my spot time is not until 10:30pm. I rushed my ass off, skipped breakfast, squeezed onto the most crowded of subway cars, and sprinted through a snowstorm dressed in business casual so that I could be six hours early for $250 in Pennsylvania. Maybe the gig would be good, right? Wrong. If Merle’s costume (or the design of my room) was any indicator of the kind of people I’d be talking to, then this would potentially be a long 45 minutes. Merle was dressed as “the love doctor,” complete with white lab coat, stethoscope, and probably 15-20 condom wraps and mini-boxes stapled to his coat. Hahaahaha!

Merle told me I’d be going on after the cover band and following the Halloween costume contest; so besides breaking the cardinal rule of comedy before music (due of course to the latter requiring only passive listening and the fact that as the night goes on people become more tired and/or drunk), we’ve added an extra silly event that includes complete audience participation and playfulness immediately before asking them to sit down and intellectualize premises, punch lines, and hopefully not too many subtleties. Fuck.

I arrived an hour early for my set. I wanted to observe the scene and to take a break from observing my ass from all angles in the room. The showroom smelled like an airplane. I swear, it really smelled like an airplane. It looked like a creepy party scene from The Shining (Kubrick, 1980). About 100 people (50 couples to be exact) filled the room that looked to seat about 350. Ages ranged from 25-75, and although I appreciated their presence the most, the majority of my pity was for the existences of the 25-year olds. It was probably about 75% white, 25% black; I didn’t notice any “others,” but in this room everyone was on the same playing field of “coolness.” The utterly lame corniness of this scene powerfully transcended all race, culture, and apparently even age differences. If this was your cup of tea, it was. If not, then you are more like me (though not necessarily so much like me as I feel there are probably 80-100 levels of coolness between myself and this scene).

I sat in the back of the room people watching, feeling nauseus. I don’t know if it was because of the people I was watching or the mediocre turkey and bacon sandwich I’d had earlier, or due to nerves before doing 45 minutes for what looked like an awful group.

The band was encouraging people to “get up out their seats” and come dance the electric slide. As typical as observed in a shitty wedding or Bar-Mitzvah party I noticed a few women get up, briefly attempt to coax their men into doing the same, and then go on without them. An ironic instance, no doubt: This man somehow thinks he can exist at this resort with his beloved and yet somehow be “too cool” to do the electric slide. Hmmm…

Mediocre costumes everywhere I looked. A couple of good ones, which slip my mind since I just really didn’t give a shit. They had a contest (in which Forrest Gump got way too much props), and all the contestants had an opportunity to dance with their partners around the room; during which I heard one middle aged black woman joyously exclaim to her awkwardly stoic husband: “Look honey, we’re having fun!” Guess their race. Black! So don’t stereotype, it’s not only white people with the lamest sitcom personalities on the planet. Though one white guy’s costume was a huge, wooden penis protruding out of his kilt, suspenders above. He took every opportunity to get out on the dance floor when encouraged, but was funniest after the few minutes of shocked laughter and pelvis thrusting dances were over, and was seen simply two-stepping normally, as if he wasn’t wearing a three-foot penis. I actually later joked on stage that this was not even a costume, but obviously an excuse to just wear a humongous penis. This joke was the only one of my night that the ghetto girls from the Bronx laughed at. 

 There was a mummy-wrap contest, and yet no 12-year olds or camp counselors were present.

My set was… really just not the story of the evening (for them or myself). I’m fairly confident nobody hated me (though I think that was partially due to how “nice” I looked – maybe that’s why they make you wear a sport jacket) or walked out. No boo’s, no heckles, and not very much laughter either. Ha! There were moments during the set where I sort of convinced my brain that I was just giving a presentation, and thus laughter should not be expected anyway. It was tepid at best with a couple of moments of decency. Probably about 80-100 people equally dispersed across 350 seats, tired from a night of drinking, costume contests, and watching the band, confused from a life of isolation. I took it slow, omitted certain bits I knew would be “too much” for them, and included some of my older hackier jokes I knew they would appreciate (was right). I don’t know if it was because the set was so, errr… below average or not, but I was given the light to get off 5-10 minutes earlier than expected (so the set was 35 instead of 45), but was elated to get it, as I’d already decided 20 minutes prior that even for better money, this was not a gig I wished to ever return to. Sure, I’m a comedian and they happen to look for comedy acts for their venue, but this is a clear case of mis-casting (and I pity the career of any comic for whom this is not a mis-cast); much like you would not book Seinfeld to headline a Tuesday night comedy show in the South Bronx (at least not before he became “Seinfeld”). I was given literally a few handshakes and compliments after the show, two of which came from the younger couples who actually seemed to enjoy most of my set (thank God they were there!), and I swiftly made my way back to my room.

 New York pisses me off all the time, but without fail, every time I arrive back in the city, whether having been gone for a day, a week, or a month, it makes me so happy – so comfortable. Maybe it’s because it is home, sure, but a part of me definitely feels like it also a return to the planet. Normalcy. Exiting the bus station one of the first humans I see is a 30-year old, professional-looking, Indian-American couple walking down the block. The girl’s kind of fly. The guy looks… like I’m not necessarily her type. These are people. Real people! Thank God they exist and I get to see them all the time, because it is not too far away that things are very different.

http://www.youtube.com/user/saucecomedy?feature=mhee

http://davidfostercomedy.com/

Dear Self,

 My cat wants me to retire from comedy. She wants me to fuckin’ quit. Throw in the towel, hang it up, call it a wrap, and pack it in. She doesn’t think I’m funny. She never laughs at anything I say, whether directly to her or on the phone with somebody else… But wait a minute… She never laughs at anything anybody else says either – not even when I’m watching Richard Pryor. As a matter of fact she has the same response to Richard as she does to Comedy Central roasts. And wait a minute… She wouldn’t be satisfied at all by my just retiring from comedy. She also wants me to stop going to school, or out to see friends or girls, probably to stop ever having sex in front of her (although her response to that also is pretty much the same as it is to Comedy Central roasts), and really to stop doing anything that isn’t laying down on the couch next to her… but not too close, and petting and scratching her… but not too much, and ultimately donating all of my mental energy to her physical space. Obviously this is an impossibility. It would be only a matter of time before the building owners smashed down the door of my way-behind-on-rent living space to find an emaciated, sexually starved man with many F’s for lack of attendance of all his present school classes, and whose whereabouts had been pondered by family and peers, at least for some time.

 My cat doesn’t really want me to quit comedy. I’m pretty sure her walnut-sized brain has no idea that I do comedy. Though I do think she wants me to talk to her more, and on the days when I’m not running around, and actually am physically present in the apartment, to spend at least a few minutes on the couch with her, petting, coddling, and talking dirty to her.

I realize sometimes when my cat cries, undoubtedly out of loneliness for attention, that the reason I’d been emotionally neglecting her, is not because I’m outside the house gallantly pursuing love or money, but because I’m inside my mind, neurotically pursuing love and money.

What is the hardest thing about doing comedy? Is it getting on stage in front of a room full of strangers and getting them to laugh? Ironically, no; this is the easiest. This is the first mountain we climb and triumph in our careers, and although bad sets will always occasionally occur, this challenge of “stage fright,” “public speaking,” or whatever other cliché the masses want to give us “so much credit for having the courage to do” is consistently the easiest part of being a comic (quantity of desire is a major factor in determining “courage;” which is to say nobody doesn’t do stand-up comedy entirely because of fear).

The greatest challenge, and hardest part about being a comic is really the more spiritual one of learning to be at peace with where you are at in your career and to not obsess every day over all of the things that you should be doing, are unable to do, or people who don’t know you, how to get them to know you, and how much you’re fucking up right now by not doing exactly that. These thoughts of course all being catalyzed by the much deeper fear of failure in life, as opposed to the failure of one set.

 You can only do what you can do. On any given night there are between 30-50 venues where comedy is going on in New York. Your respective levels of desperation for money and stage time, in addition to who you’re “in with” will determine where you can be. If conditions prevent you from being in certain places you think might be more beneficial, try not to think about those other places. It will drive you crazy. Set aside a day or two each week for online networking and emails and follow-ups and do yourself the favor of not thinking about that shit at all during the other five or six days. That will drive you crazy. Set aside time for writing and working out material, and maybe time for writing and working out script ideas, and don’t think about either one while out with friends or on dates. This will annihilate your social and sex life (trust me!) and THAT will drive anyone crazy.

Is it your fault your career isn’t further along than it could be? Yes and no. You’re a better writer now than you were two years ago, which means two years from now you’ll be better than you are now. Why couldn’t you have just worked harder to develop quicker and have been there right now? You’ll be even more comfortable on stage two years from now, which will make you an even better comic, so why not just get on stage five times every night for the next six months and reach that point quicker? Because that would drive anyone crazy. We all make mistakes, which from one perspective stagnate our progress (in comedy and every other aspect of life), but from a more functional perspective are inevitable and imperative for growth. We can’t avoid wrong decisions, wrong actions, inactions, or too much action when inaction was “the right choice.” If it was possible to always avoid these perceived fuck-ups we would be perfect human beings, and as that is an oxymoron in itself, we are morons for thinking it is possible.

I am not afraid of getting on stage in front of 5000 people with cameras rolling and performing what is largely considered the most difficult art form in our culture. I’ve practiced and “made perfect,” and know how to succeed at it. I’ve transformed my craft into a formula and formulas always work (except when there is a drunk heckler or non-listening assholes present, but alas, these would qualify as foreign variables thus nullifying said equation/formula). I’m not afraid of hecklers or rowdy rooms or ghetto rooms, or having to go on last after Judah Friedlander and Mike Yard at Eastville Comedy Club on a weekend, because Eastville’s crowds are good and so am I, relatively… I think. The reason I do not fail in these situations is a) because of my practice, and b) because I’m really not afraid of failing. Failure in any of these predicaments would mean the temporary feeling of humiliation and awkwardness, the likes of which I’ve already experienced enough times to know that while not preferable, does eventually go away and isn’t really so bad. I am a man, relatively… I think. I’ve had my heart torn out by a woman, gotten over addictions, had panic attacks where I thought I was going to die, been to jail, been in fights, been robbed on the street and once in the George Washington bridge terminal bathroom by a guy with a bloody hand back in the mid-90’s when New York was still gully, and been in plenty of horribly emotional life predicaments. A failed set is not scary for me. But a failed life is pretty scary for everyone. This is why so many people “drone out” and get a safe job with a safe pension and medical plan and marry the first person that seems pretty good when they’re about that age: Fear.

I am afraid of getting on stage in front of even 20 people with no cameras rolling and performing in front of the manager of Caroline’s, or any comic who’s in really good with the manager of Caroline’s. Why the latter? Obviously because I would hope if he saw me have a spectacular set enough times that he might recommend me to the manager of Caroline’s or maybe to one of the other club’s whose employment he has and I’ve coveted for so long. Are these people especially scary or intimidating, in a vacuum? Of course not. The manager of Caroline’s and each comic on his roster is just a dude, like me, and possibly not even as cool as I am. Why am I afraid of them? I’m not. I’m afraid of not realizing my dreams, a reality anyone can observe in the faces that fill the trains during rush hour throughout our city everyday. Dreams unrealized. Depression. Failure and frustration. Effort put forth and nothing seen in return. The antithesis of what we are taught growing up as the formula for the American dream. Quite often we hear success stories where the equation worked, just like everyone’s heard a story about someone’s “grandfather who smoked his entire life and died healthy at 98 years old.” Is this the norm? Does hard work pay off? Yes, but not always. Probably not even the majority of the time. I would agree that most success stories are preceded by hard work, but so, unfortunately, are many stories of failure.

 The hardest thing about being a comic is the hardest thing about being a human being: enjoying the ride. Depending on your brain chemistry and how extremely your parents’ household conditioned it, you may have to work as hard at disciplining yourself to chill and have fun as you do at writing and crafting the perfect bit.

It’s Saturday afternoon and you want to write material, write your script, and take care of some web site stuff and networking online. Choose one. Maybe choose two if you have time, and do those. Don’t think about the others. At some point they will pop up in your brain because the human brain is totally fucked and it does what it wants. Train your brain. When the thought pops up, stop! Allow it to pass. Maintain focus on the task at hand. Tell your brain you’ll deal with it another time.

It’s Tuesday night and you have spots all night at a club where you can’t get any networking done, but you need the money and stage time they provide you with. You know of three other shows going on where you might be able to more effectively further your career. Unfortunately rent and bills prevent you from being there. Those other rooms will pop into your mind throughout the night. Stop! Train your fucking brain.

You need your head while writing, performing, and completing administrative tasks online. You don’t need your head while walking around the apartment cleaning, putting things away, or watching TV. Hello! There’s somebody there that wants, needs, and loves your attention. Say hi to the fuckin’ cat. Tell her you love her and she’s cute and talk in a voice that most people will never hear come out of your mouth. This can only manifest organically if you have the courage to stop worrying… which for many of us takes probably twice the courage it takes to get up on that stage.

Love,

Self

I think it’s somewhere between our 300^th and 1000^th set we comedians grow relatively sick of watching stand up comedy. We become somewhat jaded, especially in response to anything remotely hacky or any delivery that sounds less than completely organic and conversational. Basically, anything that sounds too transparently like “stand up comedy” is nearly incapable of earning our attention, let alone entertaining us. As a recently become student of the craft, I don’t always experience this feeling; and when I do I am sometimes conscious of fighting against my urge to ignore [the performer].

People often ask if I “always knew” I wanted to do stand up comedy. I don’t think I knew I wanted to do stand up comedy until about a month before I tried it. Unlike the many stories that began with “listening to Richard Pryor records as a kid” or always watching this guy or that, dreaming of doing it from a young age, I was never especially even a fan of stand up comedy growing up. I remember my brother and our friends giggling like little girls hearing about shit, dick, and pussy on Def Comedy Jam back in the day and loving Raw and Delirious when I was finally put on to them as a teenager, but never had the feeling that this was something I could or wanted to do. I have no regrets about this omission of awareness as it is part of my story, though do have regrets over my similar neglect to observe and study in my first few years on the circuit.

 In my first six years I rarely paid attention to what the veteran comedians were doing on stage. I knew they were crushing and knew one day I’d be able to do the same, if not better, but I never studied how the craft manifested in each individual. I didn’t pay attention to how they constructed their jokes, why one worked and one didn’t, the science or formula of what makes one funny and one not (Einstein said that science done well is an art form, and art forms done well are a science – definitely agree!), or what comedians were doing with their arms, legs, and facial expressions on stage. All of these are imperative things to understand. It wasn’t until the summer of 2009, my eighth year, that I transcribed every word of Jerry Seinfeld’s and David Cross’ HBO specials, respectively, that I really began to study stand up comedy. I swear, although I did not reference said transcriptions often or even during my writing process, that literally two months later I turned a major creative corner as a comic.

I began to understand how and why jokes were structured the way they were and what prerequisites exist that distinguish great jokes from good ones (there are many). I like to watch what comedians do with their bodies on stage, as obviously non-verbal communication, both during jokes and in between them, plays a huge role in the type and caliber of comedian we are. Being on stage is nerve-racking, even for the veterans. How are said nerves inhibiting someone’s performance through “flaws” in body language? Or how is that phenomenal comedian making his nerves work well for him? What does he do with his hand that isn’t holding the mic? How often does his facial expression drastically change? How often does he seem like he’s directing conversation at a selected individual, and how often does he seem to be scanning over the crowd? Watch mediocre or poor comedians! They consistently ignore certain people or sections of the crowd. You can have great material and a wonderful character and delivery but if your nerves cause you to neglect delivering to a part of the crowd, will they laugh? Should they laugh? You’re not even fuckin’ talking to them! Does this mean we have to make eye contact with every individual in a room of 200? No, of course not. You don’t even have to do so in a room of 20, but in some manner at least, even if it’s simple subtle shifts in the direction you are standing in, every single person should feel like you are talking to them for at least one moment in your set.

 I like watching comedy now. I loooove watching Pryor or Seinfeld, David Cross, Galifonackis, or Eddie. I even watch bad comedians on Comedy Central sometimes, not laughing at all of course, but observing: What is this guy’s structure/formula? How does he manage his nerves in his body language? What does he have that I don’t that got him this special? A good fucking manager! Just kidding… Though even if I’m sincere, same questions applies. Quite often we do ourselves the disservice of stroking our own egos with a sense of entitlement and application of external blame on the industry for our lack of successes, and neglect to acknowledge where improvement is needed from within. Cerebral comics rationalize that they are more deserving that that guy on TV, completely disregarding that the guy on TV, due to having more charisma (charisma and intelligence are not mutually exclusive, you high-brow dickheads) and a better stage presence due to more confidence or better body language (these two can mutually engender each other, as I often feel much more confident on stage when I pace back and forth and “talk with” my free hand). Charismatic comics with confidence may think the same gripe in the opposite direction and be equally guilty, thus cheating themselves. Learn how to write, ya moron!

 I watch the local veterans who I look up to and have less success than and observe: What are they doing that I’m not? Where are they distinctly superior, if so (sometimes I can’t find anything and just go home bitter, mumbling to myself, resentfully)? What are they missing that makes them not as good as Chappelle or Louis CK? Then, depending on what I’m presently working on or have coming up I pay attention to specifics: How long does he pause between premise and punch line, punch line and next premise? How loudly does he speak and how close does he hold the mic to his face (I seriously think it took me six years to learn how to hold the fucking mic (I’m a late bloomer, but I have bloomed))? If he’s a pacer, how many steps does he take? Does he use the whole stage to walk? Is there a rhythm to it? Does it look fluid, or just like mild nervous energy manifesting (not ideal)? Finally, and maybe most importantly to me in recent time: How does he start?

 Openers are so, so, so important! So seemingly brushed over and aside by veteran comics who subsequently blow us away with brilliantly clever and insightful material delivered with master perfection, but trust that these “throw-away” one liner “nothings” are quite calculated, intentional, and previously mulled over. Openers’ vitality for experienced comics is not because of the cliché of “first impressions” - he has so much confidence and material that if the first joke bombs he can pull himself out of the hole whenever he wishes. I recall hitting that point in my career where I realized it no longer mattered so much if the first joke didn’t hit – that I knew the second or third one would, and that my body language alone told the crowd that I was unconcerned, so they didn’t have to be skeptical. This feeling obviously feels great, but occupationally is dangerous. An opener in a local, 20-minute club spot is just that: an opener. No big deal. But an opener in a 5-minute audition spot for Letterman or Conan, or a big festival competition is a considerable portion of your set. It deserves a lot of attention, and must be as great as you can make it. Now having reached the point where I have a lot of auditions and enter a lot of competitions, I always, always, always watch how people start. I watch how veteran headliners start, how peers closer to my level start, and even how my perceived inferiors and amateurs start (yes, you can always learn from those with less experience). How natural do they segue from silence and “how you guys doing?” How unhacky are they able to make it? How quickly are they able to distinguish themselves as unique without forcing it (as of course the introduction is a fairly generic situation, quite challenging to make organically original)?

 Watching and studying comedy is imperative if you want to be great – maybe not if you want to be good, but definitely if you want to be great. Sure there are understandably some times and phases you go through where you just don’t feel like watching, and prefer to write or socialize/network off stage in between spots. This is fine. Shit, our lifestyle is hard, and we have to allot ourselves moments for fun, relaxation, and slacking off… so long as you have balance. Slack off, yes, but study and pay attention as well. And within that attention and study, another kind of balance is equally as important:

 There can be a fine line between “being influenced by” and biting, or at least “overly influenced by.” This will be a very difficult line for a new comic to walk, as they are still discovering their voice and identity. Even for myself, as recently as last month I found myself in Louis CK’s head on stage after having enjoyed his special on TV while lying in bed the night before. My set undoubtedly suffered. I was aware of my mistake and righted it on the next set. Absolutely, definitely learn from and absorb what you can from great, veteran comics, and even peers or younger comics. But do not do what is not organic to you. Watching others should be like reading a textbook or even taking a class in martial arts. You learn the moves, the motions, the forms, and how to hold your hands and position your feet. You learn the foundation, and even karate masters occasionally reference back to it to refresh their body memory. But this is a foundation. What makes a martial arts expert an expert is how he ultimately applies this foundation to himself and understands how it will express uniquely through his body. This is the yin and yang of being a student of stand up comedy.

http://davidfostercomedy.com/

http://www.youtube.com/user/saucecomedy