15 Years Later

Everyone loves a success story.

Against the odds, an aspiring comedian from the middle of nowhere overcomes their dire void of self-confidence, works their way through adversity from both their peers and their personal lives, keeps getting knocked down just to get back up again until they finally get their opportunity to shine, and they knock it out of the park.

This is not one of those stories.

Think about your rock star dream.  The larger-than-life, most unlikely dream of fame that most people have at some point.  Some people would be actors if they could choose their path.  Others, like Larsen, would be professional athletes (which, admittedly, I have fantasized about as well).  Maybe you wanted to be a famous musician.

In my mid-20s, I took a shot at my rock star dream, which was to become a professional stand-up comedian.  I imagined having hour-long specials on HBO (before Netflix and other platforms changed the game), performing in theaters, making crowds of hundreds or even thousands of people belly laugh harder than they have in ages.

Well, here we are a decade later.  I’m not a professional stand-up comedian.  I do not have a comedy special on any streaming platform.  I do tend to make people laugh, but in considerably smaller groups than the crowds I envisioned.

For a long time I would tell people I was just “taking a break” from it.  This is false.  I broke up with it.  Well, actually it was probably mutual.  But much like my dating life at that point in time, I had trouble coping with the loss for a while.  I took it personally, as if the world was telling me I wasn’t good enough.

I struggled with my quiet resignation from chasing my rock star dream for a while, but as The Legend once told me, “Ninety percent of life is attitude…well, maybe not ninety percent.  But a large percent of life is attitude.”

Well then, if I’m going to have the right attitude, I should be looking for silver linings.  So, let’s try to find them, shall we?  As with any failed relationship, the two things I’ll always have are the memories and the lessons I’ve learned from them…

THE GARAGE SHOW

I’ve performed at several comedy clubs, bars, restaurants, lounges, coffee shops, talent shows, and even a college stand-up competition.  But the most unique and fun show I was ever a part of was in a comedy buddy’s parents’ garage.

This isn’t a way for me to spin some moment where I told a couple of jokes to a dog at a house party.  This was an actual show.

Our host found a little wooden platform, and that was our stage.  Someone brought a couple of speakers and propped them up on stools on opposite sides.  There was a microphone.  There were a few comics from the suburban scene that all had material planned.  The show had a set order and everything. 

Oh, and hell yeah we had an audience.  I don’t know how he did it, but the guy that hosted this show got word around his neighborhood.  Suddenly we were doing comedy for a driveway full of maybe twenty people that had all brought their own lawn chairs.  I’m not sure how many there actually were, but I’ve been to shows at real comedy clubs with less people.

And they were so good!  Few things are more important in comedy than an audience that’s giving of their attention and shows up in the mood to laugh.

So, after accidentally walking into the wrong house next door and asking some complete strangers what time the show would be, I performed next to a couple of propane cylinders and an upside-down hanging bicycle.  It was my favorite stand-up comedy show I’ve ever been a part of.

Mike’s lesson?  Be willing to try things.  Sometimes what you’re looking for might just be in a buddy’s garage.  Also, make sure you have the correct address.

STUMBLING ALONG THE OREGON TRAIL

In my mid-twenties, I took a month-long sabbatical out west.  That in itself is a whole different story.  Throughout the trip I tried to perform at as many open mics as possible.  I even accidentally got myself booked on a legitimate show in Tempe, Arizona.  I thought it was supposed to be an open mic.  Whoops!  It still went well.

A lot of the other shows were anywhere from subpar to halfway decent.  It was like the comedy open mic equivalent to the Chicago Bears.

But there’s always that very, very bad Bears season every once in a while.  One night at a mic in Portland, I was brought up to the stage by the host, Sean Connery.

I should note, this was not the former James Bond actor and subject of so many great impressions on Saturday Night Live.  It was just a guy that happened to be named Sean Connery.  This particular Sean Connery seemed nice enough.  The rest of the audience was considerably… we’ll say less nice.

I’ve been to plenty of these things, I know how it works.  A lot of times the audience simply consists of other comedians.  It can be very clique-oriented, and those other comedians often aren’t paying attention when you’re on stage.  Especially if you’re not in the clique.  Usually they just sit and quietly practice some form of not laughing.

I feared silence during my five minutes on stage, but as I took the microphone the room was very loud, full of conversation between audience members.  All of them.  Some of these people had just performed for their attentive and supportive peers.  As the Chicago guy approached the stage, they had already decided I wasn’t worth listening to. 

It was a feeling I was pretty familiar with from other aspects of my life.  Did I mention dating earlier? 

That night I bombed on stage in Portland, long before I even said a word.  I was frustrated, so I decided it would be a good idea to bomb again, within the same show.

I remember talking for about a minute, barely able to hear anything from the speakers I was standing right next to.  People in the front row literally turned away and were talking to other people.  I finally said something along the lines of, “Hey, fuck you guys.”

Then I had their attention.  And as a result of gaining that attention, the crowd ate me alive.

“Hey, fuck you!  Who’s this guy?”  They booed me for a full minute.  Then they went back to their conversations with each other.

Mike’s lesson?  Sometimes it’s just not your night, and that’s okay. 

In fact, a couple of days later I met a chap from England that I ended up hanging out with for most of the next week.  He was exploring musical open mics with his guitar, and I still had one more show on my list.   So we attended each other’s shows, both of which went quite well.

I kept in touch with this guy for years.  Half a decade later, in my last year in echo school, I got to go to England for spring break!  Freakin’ awesome, right?

So the real lesson that I learned:  Be kind and friendly to others.  You have no idea what paths will open up for you down the road.  And there are some people whose attention is much worse to have than to not have.

Also, maybe don’t curse out a room full of rude assholes with a microphone. 

A GLASS OF CHOCOLATE MILK

I’ve previously mentioned that I worked as the light and sound tech at a comedy club for close to two years.  For a while before that, I attended open mics at that same club.

One of the traditions among open mic regulars was to go to the country bar around the corner after the show.  However, there was a smaller group that didn’t feel like swing dancing or having a beer after 11 pm on a Monday.  So they would instead go to Denny’s around the other corner.  I was part of the Denny’s group.

I’d often order a chocolate milk with my late night breakfast.  You know why?  Because it’s delicious.  I know what I like.  But I’d get the same reaction from someone in the group every time:

“Did you just order a chocolate milk?  What are you, six?”

I heard this plenty of times.  I’d usually just roll my eyes and accept the ridicule.

But one night we were joined by a particular fellow aspiring comedian.  We’ll call him Fred, for story purposes.  Fred had a lot of confidence in himself, or at least he portrayed it that way.  He’d always try to give me advice on how to entice women through my comedy act, though I usually didn’t care for his methods.  Honestly, he was just trying to be helpful, because for some reason he was a big fan of mine.

Fred talked about me like I was the greatest thing in the world.  Like, a little too much.  I do appreciate that to a point, but he would often talk me up in ways that were… overly enthusiastic.

I sat across from Fred that night as he gave me unsolicited advice about comedy, women, and who knows what else.  Someone came to take our order.  You guessed it right, I ordered a chocolate milk.

Fred looked at me quizzically.  “Did you just order a chocolate milk?”

I sighed, preparing for the inevitable.  Yes, I ordered a chocolate milk, just go ahead and get it out of the way.  I prepared to say just that, but he cut in.

“That’s the most baller thing you’ve ever done!”

I sat silent for a moment, reflecting on what brought me to this point in life, and finally responded, “Yeah, I don’t think it is.”

I appreciate that Fred was trying to boost my confidence.  However, on the list of adjectives to accurately describe myself, I’d put “baller” somewhere towards the bottom.  Frankly it shouldn’t be on the list at all.

And if the coolest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life has been ordering a chocolate milk at a Denny’s, then my life sucks, Fred.

What’s the lesson?  I don’t know.  Sometimes people are just fuckin’ weird.

Okay, so I gained some pretty interesting experience from my time chasing a stand-up comedy career.  Cool.  I’m still not a professional stand-up comedian.  Should seem like a failure.  But a decade later, I’ve realized it’s not.  Want to know a secret?

I didn’t become a professional stand-up comedian because I actually didn’t want to.

Comedy is hard.  Being funny is one thing, but it takes so much more than just being funny.  Working your way through the scene can be brutal especially for a person that has historically struggled with self-confidence.  Audiences are unpredictable, or sometimes absent.  Other people trying to do the same thing can be friendly, but they can also be spiteful.  And regardless of how friendly they are, a lot of people will feel the need to give you advice, and a lot of that advice is terrible. 

In order for me to succeed in that realm, I’d have to put everything I have into it.  One hundred percent.  I might not have realized it at the time, but I just didn’t want to put that work in.  More importantly, I didn’t want to endure the lonely, harsh comedy landscape. 

Sometimes you fall in love with the idea of a relationship, but the actual relationship turns out to be more heartache than it’s worth.  I fell in love with the idea of a full-time comedy career.  The good parts were absolutely great, but they were too few and far between the many, many bad parts.  I didn’t actually love stand-up comedy like I thought I did.

I made the decision to stop going on stage once I started echo school.  My excuse was that I wouldn’t have time anyway.  And that’s true, I wouldn’t have.  But I haven’t been back since.

I still enjoy stand-up comedy.  I still write material occasionally, if only for the catharsis of the creative process and the nostalgia of imagining telling those jokes on stage.  I’m still friends with and/or fans of some of the awesome, hilarious humans I met during my comedy journey.

But stand-up comedy and I are much happier being friends.  We might hang out again someday, without any pressure or expectations.  Just old pals having a good laugh.  I have a feeling that will be way more fun than when I was convinced we were soulmates.

Besides, look at where I’ve been since then?  Some of the best stories I have are from the path I took.  I’ve met several of my closest friends directly or indirectly through my career in healthcare.  I got to live in Hawaii for four months.  I mean come on!

And the things I learned from my time trying stand-up helped me along the way.  I understand the way people react.  I know how and when to use humor to reach others.  And that comes in handy in healthcare.  I’m also more comfortable talking in front of groups, taking risks, and potentially even embarrassing myself. 

Oh, and I’ve found other avenues to entertain people in ways I never could have before.  All thanks to the connections I made and lessons I learned from that journey.  It’s likely a big reason I was able to keep up with Larsen that first day at Buffalo Wild Wings.  And now here we are.

The great entertainer Paul Heyman once said, “If you’re not afraid to fail, boy you’ve got a chance to succeed.”

I tried stand-up comedy.  It didn’t work out.  That’s part of my path.  That path altogether has led me to where I’m at, and more importantly, who I am.  I’m pretty happy with it.

So then what was my real lesson here?

Go ahead and chase your dreams.  You’ll end up right where you need to be.