It’s hard to believe I’m starting for realz.
Before I typed it, I kinda hope the z would make me look tough. Like, if I sounded younger, and like I know what I’m doing, maybe that will make everyone believe that I actually have a plan. Notice the gratuitous “like”? Youthful yet confident, right? Are you falling for it?
I guess the most important thing is that I fall for it.
It’s Sunday night and I’m starting where it all started…my hometown. Well, I was born in NYC, so I guess I/it technically started there, but I’m from Montclair, New Jersey. Montclair is where I grew up, to the extent that I’ve embraced grownup-ness. When I get famous (which I’m fairly certain is going to be on September 14, 2015), the Montclairians are the ones who are going to claim me.
Ironic how they don’t want that much to do with me until that date, but I get it. Where do the kids go who don’t get off the Hogwarts waitlist?
For a girl who hasn’t actually read any of the books (or seen the movies), I’ve really beaten that me-as-Harry-Potter analogy into the ground. I think I prefer being compared to Neo. His story was more believable (I also kinda like the idea of a USB port in my brain) and there are times when I’m convinced that I can see the matrix… but more on that when you know me better and are comfortable with my flavor of crazy.
I’m not that nervous waiting for the show. Is there even a significance to the first show of a series? It’s almost better if I tank, nowhere to go but up. (I just looked it up and found that 39% of baseball teams who lost the first game went on to win the World Series – see, not terrible odds.)
I have friends coming to the show and my ego won’t let me tank-tank, for them or for me. One of them is a now-married ex-boyfriend from our early 20s, another is a guy ten years older than me on whom I have a crush. Rounding out the group is one of my best friends from high school and a small group organized by a friend of my mom. It’s not a “bringer” show, but it’s a cool show where we all try to contribute to a good audience.
As I get ready to perform, I kick myself again for not spending more time preparing my set. I drove to town early, had lunch with my friend, went for a walk with her around the park and then spent barely an hour in the Upper Montclair Starbucks over a coconut milk latte slapping together a set list. I couldn’t focus. Ten minutes isn’t hard to fill, but it always goes better when you have a plan.
Did I have a plan? I’m trying to get together a tight five-minute set to use at my audition to become a late night regular at The Comic Strip Live. I put together a bunch of jokes about dating, hoping to keep it universal rather than generic and to stand out from the other females by avoiding jokes that made me seem slutty or like I hate men. I plan on narrowing ten minutes of material down to the best five. Tonight is a test.
If I’m setting the scene properly, at lunch my credit card was declined and I had to use my debit card, so money is on my mind as well. Money is always on my mind. I’m tired of not having any of it and I’m thinking about going homeless. I can’t seem to find a job, probably because I spend my time writing jokes and hustling stage time instead of applying for jobs. I want to write, create, perform, and I’m ready to get paid for it.
So I’m nervous and excited and ready for a big change. What else? The show is in the bar around the corner from where I grew up. Tierney’s Tavern. I grew up with Mike Tierney who is behind the bar and always laughs the hardest at my joke about how most hot bartenders have to sleep with the manager of a dive bar to get the job. I guess that joke is a little slutty.
My friends can’t seem to follow directions to their seat and it’s pissing off the woman who runs the show. They want to hang out at the bar. Somehow I’m in the middle of it.
I’m also trying to figure out my set and meet the other women in the show. It’s called the Fun Fabulous Female show and I love the fact that all of the women are truly funny in different ways. My favorite does a bit about how when she tells people she just got married they tend to ask, "Who's the lucky guy?" Her standard response is, "anyone who didn't marry a lesbian."
Unfortunately, the show is hosted by the black hole of humor (at least in this room). He goes onstage and the audience visibly shuts down as he sings show tunes about coming out. (“Your son will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that he’s gay!”) It’s good that the women are strong, because each of us spends our first one to two minutes onstage just trying to get the audience to open up enough to laugh.
My set goes well enough. I’m not killing it, but it’s a respectable showing. My friends tell me I was amazing, but they’re my friends and they have to say that. Friends are supportive, but rarely reliable. I did tape the set and might post it here at some point.
After the show I go downstairs to hang out. I tell my friends that I‘m abstaining because I have my car and am driving back to NYC. The rest of the story is that I’m not in the mood to waste the $25 I made that night on alcohol when it can feed me for two to three days.
One of my friends is there with her fiancée and doling out the advice that I need to be tougher on the men in my life. I’ve told her about my latest three month stretch who has now taken to disappearing for multiple days at a time.
“Dump him!” she demands. I now refer to standing up for myself as: channeling my inner Heather (her name).
I drive home quickly, no traffic from Jersey to Brooklyn at midnight on a Sunday. On the way I think through my set, the night, and how I’m going to make it through. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m wondering what I’m doing.
I’m also definitely excited. It’s starting and I tell myself I can feel the momentum building.
Before I typed it, I kinda hope the z would make me look tough. Like, if I sounded younger, and like I know what I’m doing, maybe that will make everyone believe that I actually have a plan. Notice the gratuitous “like”? Youthful yet confident, right? Are you falling for it?
I guess the most important thing is that I fall for it.
It’s Sunday night and I’m starting where it all started…my hometown. Well, I was born in NYC, so I guess I/it technically started there, but I’m from Montclair, New Jersey. Montclair is where I grew up, to the extent that I’ve embraced grownup-ness. When I get famous (which I’m fairly certain is going to be on September 14, 2015), the Montclairians are the ones who are going to claim me.
Ironic how they don’t want that much to do with me until that date, but I get it. Where do the kids go who don’t get off the Hogwarts waitlist?
For a girl who hasn’t actually read any of the books (or seen the movies), I’ve really beaten that me-as-Harry-Potter analogy into the ground. I think I prefer being compared to Neo. His story was more believable (I also kinda like the idea of a USB port in my brain) and there are times when I’m convinced that I can see the matrix… but more on that when you know me better and are comfortable with my flavor of crazy.
I’m not that nervous waiting for the show. Is there even a significance to the first show of a series? It’s almost better if I tank, nowhere to go but up. (I just looked it up and found that 39% of baseball teams who lost the first game went on to win the World Series – see, not terrible odds.)
I have friends coming to the show and my ego won’t let me tank-tank, for them or for me. One of them is a now-married ex-boyfriend from our early 20s, another is a guy ten years older than me on whom I have a crush. Rounding out the group is one of my best friends from high school and a small group organized by a friend of my mom. It’s not a “bringer” show, but it’s a cool show where we all try to contribute to a good audience.
As I get ready to perform, I kick myself again for not spending more time preparing my set. I drove to town early, had lunch with my friend, went for a walk with her around the park and then spent barely an hour in the Upper Montclair Starbucks over a coconut milk latte slapping together a set list. I couldn’t focus. Ten minutes isn’t hard to fill, but it always goes better when you have a plan.
Did I have a plan? I’m trying to get together a tight five-minute set to use at my audition to become a late night regular at The Comic Strip Live. I put together a bunch of jokes about dating, hoping to keep it universal rather than generic and to stand out from the other females by avoiding jokes that made me seem slutty or like I hate men. I plan on narrowing ten minutes of material down to the best five. Tonight is a test.
If I’m setting the scene properly, at lunch my credit card was declined and I had to use my debit card, so money is on my mind as well. Money is always on my mind. I’m tired of not having any of it and I’m thinking about going homeless. I can’t seem to find a job, probably because I spend my time writing jokes and hustling stage time instead of applying for jobs. I want to write, create, perform, and I’m ready to get paid for it.
So I’m nervous and excited and ready for a big change. What else? The show is in the bar around the corner from where I grew up. Tierney’s Tavern. I grew up with Mike Tierney who is behind the bar and always laughs the hardest at my joke about how most hot bartenders have to sleep with the manager of a dive bar to get the job. I guess that joke is a little slutty.
My friends can’t seem to follow directions to their seat and it’s pissing off the woman who runs the show. They want to hang out at the bar. Somehow I’m in the middle of it.
I’m also trying to figure out my set and meet the other women in the show. It’s called the Fun Fabulous Female show and I love the fact that all of the women are truly funny in different ways. My favorite does a bit about how when she tells people she just got married they tend to ask, "Who's the lucky guy?" Her standard response is, "anyone who didn't marry a lesbian."
Unfortunately, the show is hosted by the black hole of humor (at least in this room). He goes onstage and the audience visibly shuts down as he sings show tunes about coming out. (“Your son will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that he’s gay!”) It’s good that the women are strong, because each of us spends our first one to two minutes onstage just trying to get the audience to open up enough to laugh.
My set goes well enough. I’m not killing it, but it’s a respectable showing. My friends tell me I was amazing, but they’re my friends and they have to say that. Friends are supportive, but rarely reliable. I did tape the set and might post it here at some point.
After the show I go downstairs to hang out. I tell my friends that I‘m abstaining because I have my car and am driving back to NYC. The rest of the story is that I’m not in the mood to waste the $25 I made that night on alcohol when it can feed me for two to three days.
One of my friends is there with her fiancée and doling out the advice that I need to be tougher on the men in my life. I’ve told her about my latest three month stretch who has now taken to disappearing for multiple days at a time.
“Dump him!” she demands. I now refer to standing up for myself as: channeling my inner Heather (her name).
I drive home quickly, no traffic from Jersey to Brooklyn at midnight on a Sunday. On the way I think through my set, the night, and how I’m going to make it through. I’m tired. I’m hungry. I’m wondering what I’m doing.
I’m also definitely excited. It’s starting and I tell myself I can feel the momentum building.