Finally, finally, FINALLY! It happened. After so much time and effort and disappointment, and more disappointment; after so many failed attempts and finally after heeding advice that in the end I realize now that they did know better, it fell into place.
I killed. I killed. I KILLED!
I have to write this now because the memory is fresh, and to say anything later wouldn't count; it must be documented now.
In a sense, I have lost my virginity.
I killed at the comedy club. Not just a quarter (or eighth or one) of the audience, not just varying quarters (or eighths or one) of the audience , not the dead silence of a stunned audience wondering 'How the hell you could think that is funny?' This time, they all laughed, more than a little at first, a lot at the end, raucous at times, and the applause when I said 'Thank you for your time, and don't forget to tip your bartenders and waitresses!' could not be mistaken for anything less than genuine 'Thanks for entertaining us!'
Finally, it all fell into place.
Some quick background. I've always loved stand-up comedy. Always. Ever since I was a young boy when my stepbrother Mitch brought his recorded 'Evenings at the Impov' with Jim Carey and many other new comics on VHS (the new technology at the time) . I thought myself a connoisseur when I was in college because of the hours of watching Half Hour Comedy Hour on MTV and HBO specials. And in a way, I am a connoisseur, I know when I am watching good comedy because I laugh when I hear clever jokes, even now, especially now. I have an open mind, and appreciate all angles of comedy...I will never be the Jaded Comic (I hope). I will always enjoy watching a good comic perform.
Two years ago, I went to a show at Rooster T Feathers; the local comedy club in Sunnyvale, CA. It was a good show, but the opening act was not exactly a killer. However, he did his duties. One of his duties was the announcements of comment cards on the table, and told us to fill them out. One of the questions was to rate the comics tonight according to 1) Great, 2) Good, 3) Fair, and 4) I could do better.
I was about to check 'I could do better' on the card until I asked myself, 'Could you?' Also on the table was a flyer about the Open Mic Night held on Wednesdays.
That flyer changed my life. I wrote down the website, and registered for the open mic in two weeks.
I'll be honest, I had comedy aspirations before during my college years, but Stillwater Oklahoma wasn't the best place to fulfill them. I had done some (really dark) material to friends, and had killed them in the process. I thought it would work well.
My first open mic at Roosters. Several comics showed up, one was an older guy wearing a suit. We struck up a conversation, and I told him that it was my first time up. He looked at me, and started to tell me things that comics should know. 1) Before Seinfeld did his first Letterman act, he did the exact material 50 times in clubs to get it right. 2) Always have a standby joke when you forget the next bit (his standby joke was about smoking pot and short term memory), and 3) Keep doing it. It will come.
I went up, prepared with 3 minutes of material that I thought would just kill them, because, damn it, I knew it was funny. It was dark, midnight blue material about the most awful things in human culture, but that they had to get it because I knew it was funny.
I got five laughs, maybe six. I knew that I was nervous, and justified the failure with it, but mostly I bombed. The old guy in the suit told me that the writing was real good, but so over the top that only the best can pull it off.
Then he went up, did his set, and proceeded to kill. I was dying, it seemed like pedestrian material about flying and women and sex, but it wasn't; he was brilliant. After his set, I shaked his hand, told him that I was totally impressed and that I did listen to his advice.
After that, Heather, the lady who owns the club, told me that I could be good if I work on it, and recommended that I tryout for the comedy competition that she had coming up in the next month.
Wait, on my first try, the club owner tells me I have potential? Shit, I must be a prodigy, and thought she must be a woman that appreciates real comedy. The dark shit. Cool.
I could not have been more wrong on all accounts.
I realized that I am not a prodigy during the comedy competition. I had asked my colleague Phung to go so that I would have at least one vote. She brought her gay friend Nick for company. I go up, do my real dark set (and when I say dark, I mean Incestuous Necrophilia with Sound Effects, Child Pornography, and Serial Killing) and get zero laughs. Except for Nick. During the voting session, I don't get a whimper. Except for Nick. I leave asking what they thought, Phung tells me that she appreciated that I went up, but she didn't vote for me. She voted for the guy with the bad Viagara jokes. Nick tells me he thought that I was brilliant and that he voted for me.
(As an aside, I mention that Nick is gay because I've found that the gay guys I know have the most evil sense of humor that I could ever imagine. Seriously. Fucking evil.)
Of course, I listen to Nick because that's who I wanted to hear. I learned much later that Phung was the much better judge.
By the way, I still hate Viagara jokes.
Then I did a few more shows at the Roosters Open Mics. Each time, except for one when I followed a comic named Richard Stockton (who really can work an audience), I bomb. However, that one show, after Richard, the crowd laughed at the jokes, they laughed at the gag of bringing the guitar on stage without playing it, they laughed at the necrophilia, but not quite as much as they laughed at the jokes about family life, or my last name, or simple mannerisms. I got some aftershow praise by a few people, and thought that it was working out.
Until a nearly endless series of bombs. Bad ones too.
It wasn't from a lack of effort. I started sending myself e-mails about jokes, the file grew to about 15 pages. I started going to comedy shows all over the place. Heather stopped charging me if I sat in the back...I'd go and see (or do) bad open mics in seedy bars all over the Bay Area. All the people at Roosters, Ron's, and the Blue Rock knew my name. I've heard so much comedy...and started to realize that I didn't know it all.
Jimi, the bartender at Roosters, always liked my material. She has been around the world, and we've exchanged stories. After the almost good and mostly bad sets, she would always say (with a rather wry smile), 'Dennis, the writing is your strength, I don't hear jokes like that.' It was never exactly encouragement, except that she always said that wanted to hear more. I think she has a minor crush on me, and I have a minor one on her. I doubt that we'd pursue it, but the flirting is fun.
More time watching comics. I would watch the new guy (or girl) go up, and I knew immediately when they would fail because of timing or material. And I would be similarly amazed at a person (guy or girl) that would be able to rock a house not necessarily with material (but some had brilliant stuff), but with personality, riffing ability, and the general presence of someone who has been there. It's experience that cannot be conveyed.
I went to other open mics. I did my shows, and I pissed off crowds. I'd have a solid opening joke, maybe a few more, and I'd get good laughs. But at some point their jaws would just drop. Why don't they like necrophilia jokes? What could possibly be wrong with Jesus jokes? What a bunch of lame-ass audience members that don't understand what comedy is all about. Do they really expect me to play this guitar?
I kept running jokes by Phung at work; she has a good sense of humor. She understands, and even likes, a dark joke (as she's not a Christian, she often loved the Jesus jokes). But even if she liked it, she would say that it would piss off the crowd.
Finally, in the last month, three conversations happened.
First (and to be honest, most importantly), I watched a set at Roosters, and talked to the headliner. We got along, and he told Heather that I was a comic and maybe I could do a guest set. Heather and I giggled between each other, and then she was blunt while talking to the headliner. She said that my writing was great, but I had to stop offending the audience. If I did that, I'd get the guest set.
Second. My friend Berni told me that when I'm on stage, I often have a creepy look that was often covered by my jokes until they went dark, but when I went dark, it scared him.
Third. I talked with Tina, another comic who does quite well in the area, and she gave me the proverbial 'Camels Straw.' She said simply, 'You're so cute when you go up, everyone wants to laugh. When you stop being cute, they become disappointed because they want you to be cute. Go cute, it's your strength.'
That was it. I have plenty of material that is plenty cute. I'm a competent guitar player too. I had a few bits with the guitar that I have always hesitated doing because I don't want to be a Guitar Comic. But then I realized, if the material meets my standards (and it does), then the guitar is just an addition, not the act.
So I go up tonight. I find out that Richard Stockton is going up that night too. I also find out that my friends can't make the show, so I'm sure to have the short set. No matter, when I got home from work, I worked on the material that I knew would work.
I get to Roosters. I tell Beth (night manager) that my friends aren't showing up, so I'm stuck with the short set. She says don't worry about it. The list goes up, I'm first after the MC with four minutes. That's enough, I tell Beth I could take thirty seconds longer. She nods, I'll probably be okay.
The MC, Sam, does his set, and it's a good one. He has a bit of anger in his comedy, but his jokes are tight and the crowd laughs. He announces the first comic of the night, and he misses my first name but gets the last name right. That's all I need, because my opener is based on my last name.
And from here, I really can't explain it. I opened with a (well-deserved) compliment to Sam and followed with the opening joke (which was a very condensed version of my previous openers), and they laughed. They laughed at the follow-up. I told them that they were a crowd that liked to laugh, and that was a Good Thing. I then asked them if they liked impressions, and more than one said yes.
I don't do 'impressions/impersonations.' I riffed off the concept. I did my strength, which is writing, except that the guitar was involved but not central to the act. I won't say how, come to my show if you're curious, but they laughed at the first bit, and they died on the second. I finished strongly with another bit that showed that I can play the guitar and sang a mini-song that showed I can sing. I ran 30-seconds long, but Beth didn't care. I was killing, and that's why they were there.
I finished with a long note, told them to remember to tip their bartenders and waitresses, and thanked them for their time.
They cheered. It wasn't a golf clap. It wasn't a Thanks for Having the Courage to Go Up, it was a Yell of a Job Well Done, and I Wish I Could Do It. I've seen it so many times from the back row, but this one was for Me and My Act.
The comics in the back congratulated me; some of them tell me they didn't want to follow me. I told them what I had heard before; go up there and kill, they want to laugh. Some did kill that night, some didn't, but it was a good crowd, one that I won't forget. I won't forget the beautiful girls up front, the hippies to the left, the lawyers to the right. They came to laugh, and I gave them what they paid for.
Richard goes up, and he still kills; man he's good. He plays banjo well too. I talk with him and two other guys that ruled the room that night; we agree to meet up again at another time.
Heather says goodbye and starts to leave. I ask her if I didn't upset the crowd this time. She says that the staff keep saying how impressed they are with me creating a whole new act. I say that it's a whole new act. There's a slight smile on her face as she leaves. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get the opening act soon.
I talk with Jimi after the show. She is glowing; she has been waiting for me to do this for a year. She can't stop saying how I finally found my act. She never says the other stuff was bad; she keep saying how this act was good, and she's amazed at how hard I worked on it. She keeps saying how funny it was, and how I can't let this one go, it's the one that will work. I'm guessing a bartender at a comedy club may have an idea on these things.
I drive home with this damn grin on my face that I can't erase.
Tonight, I killed. Tonight.
--Dennis
