How did I get myself into this?
It was a question I asked myself countless times in the weeks leading up to the show. Stand-up comedy was something I’d always wanted to try but never planned to actually do. Maybe I’d finally get around to it after I was dead. I’d probably be easier to work with as a hologram. But when mega-selling author and rising stand-up star Jen Fulwiler asked me to open for her upcoming show in Bloomington, Indiana, I immediately said yes. I accept nearly every invitation to do anything. I’m the Nicholas Cage of comedy. Neither of us has ever turned down a project. This has led to more than a few questionable productions on both accounts. It looked like my first attempt at stand-up was going to be another mark of shame on an already sketchy comedy career. Not that it would hurt me much. There’s not far to fall when you’re already at rock bottom.
Although they seem like they’re basically the same thing, stand-up comedy and comedy writing are entirely different skills. To do well at stand-up, you have to master timing, delivery, and stage presence. Comedy writing just takes words. That’s why I do well on Twitter. It’s humor stripped of everything that makes real comedians funny. I can hold my own when you remove personality from the equation. Still, I’ve long wondered if I had what it takes to do a set on stage. Too bad the barrier for entry was impossibly high. To get five minutes at an amateur comedy night in Indianapolis, you have to bring five friends. That would literally kill me. It’s presumptuous enough to stride onto the stage and announce to the world that you intend to be funny. But to do it in front of people I know after asking them to give up their evening and pay a cover charge was too much humiliation, even for me. There’s a reason I write under a fake name on the internet. This was not something I ever wanted to follow me to real life.
The invitation from Jen was better than an amateur comedy night in every way. For starters, it would be a friendly audience. If I tried my schtick at a random comedy club, I’d mostly likely be telling kid jokes to childless twenty-somethings while I slowly dehydrated from flop sweat. Jen’s show would be different. We appeal to the same basic demographic. We just have very different levels of pull within it. My career total book sales are a rounding error compared to hers. More importantly, people will actually pay to see her. If I heavily promote an upcoming book signing for a month online, I might get a handful of people to meet me in person for free. Jen, on the other hand, can plop down in a random city anywhere in the country and have hundreds of people buy tickets for her show. For comparison, my own parents didn’t come out to see me, despite the fact that the theater was within easy driving distance of their house. In my mom’s words, “We’d come see you, but it’s expensive. We’re used to seeing you for free.” She followed that with four laughing emojis, so it probably wasn’t personal. It turns out you can put a price on love and it’s less than $30 per seat. I can’t even bring in my own mother. Jen wasn’t exactly going to pack the house by inviting me.
So why have me there at all? I don’t think Jen looked at me and saw untapped talent. She just didn’t know anyone else in the state of Indiana. I was the best possible choice out of zero options. Also, I would do it for free. I first reached out to Jen when I was shamelessly shilling one of my early books, and she was kind enough to invite me on her nationally syndicated radio show. Years later, when she asked me to open for her, I owed her one. Every favor has a price, and this one was my dignity. Mostly, though, I accepted the gig for selfish reasons. It was a chance to do something that had always scared me. I could cross it off my bucket list, even if it would also make me kick the bucket. I fully expected to die literally and metaphorically on the stage.
It took forever to put together a stand-up routine, both because it was a new challenge and because I was procrastinating. That part carried over from comedy writing. The work never seemed to end. When I finish writing a newsletter, I never have to look at it again. But when I finished writing my stand-up routine, I was just getting started. I had to practice. And practice. And practice. In one throwaway line, I mentioned ferrets. I went through the routine so many times that I dreamt about them. Of course, in my dream, the ferrets were suicide bombers. That part didn’t make it into the show. I’ll save that for my first Netflix special. The level of preparation quickly became overkill. Other than the names of my children, which I shout on a daily basis, I’ve never repeated any series of words more times in my life. I felt completely ready. That should have been my first sign I was screwed.
Two days before the show, I did a test run. This would be different from my thousand previous attempts because I planned to record it for my paid Substack subscribers. I figured that for five dollars a month, I could save them the cost of that trip to Bloomington they weren’t going to make anyway. I turned on the camera and, after a brief disclaimer, ran through all the jokes. It wasn’t my best attempt by a long shot, but I thought maybe I was just being hard on myself. I shared the video anyway.
I had hoped the flaws were just in my head. They were not. The feedback was almost instantaneous. In the nicest way possible, my biggest fans—the ones who like me so much they make recurring payments to support my writing career—told me that I sucked. Okay, what they actually said was that I seemed nervous, but I took it the same way. Those comments infuriated me because they were absolutely right. I was so disappointed in myself. It didn’t matter what I said if I was scared while I said it. The worst part is that I wasn’t nervous at all—until I turned on the camera. Then, something changed. I wasn’t in front of a live audience, but I planned to show the recording to people, so it had the same effect. My reptile brain went into fight or flight mode but somehow settled on neither. Instead of helping me escape or filling me with adrenaline for battle, I simply forgot how to breathe. It wasn’t a panic attack or anything. I just couldn’t remember when I was supposed to inhale, which usually happens on its own. I was doing everything manually, and not very well. Short on air, my delivery was flat and rushed. Meanwhile, my heart pounded out of control. My body thought my brain was dying and needed more blood. The resulting terror was obvious to even the kindest viewer. If this was how I reacted when I was alone in a room, what would happen when I was in front of a real audience? Maybe my prediction about dying on stage wasn’t far off.
I was caught off guard by the way I reacted because I go in front of the camera all the time. I’ve filmed hundreds of hours of unscripted podcasts and YouTube videos without ever getting nervous. I joke about how no one listens to or watches my content, but the truth is more people hear and view even the worst of those episodes than would fit in the theater where I’d be performing stand-up. But somehow, doing comedy in a slightly different format was throwing me off. The problem wasn’t the words. I had those memorized. The issue was my mindset. There was only one solution.
I got mad. Like, irrationally so. Think Michael Jordan making up insults the other team didn’t say and then using those as motivation to win six championships. I didn’t care if I wasn’t funny. I didn’t care if I forgot every single joke. But whatever happened, I would not be afraid. I’d spend my whole set screaming at the audience if I had to. The best defense is a loud and obnoxious offense. While other comedians would have been polishing their jokes, I spent my final hours listening to Eminem and yelling about mom’s spaghetti. You know, like a real professional.
Before I drove to the show, it was time for one final test run. For that, I turned to my ultimate source of inspiration: my kids. I handed them Nerf guns and told them to shoot me while I did the routine one more time on camera. I wasn’t worried about hecklers. This was going to be a family-friendly show with a heavily Catholic audience. Church ladies aren’t exactly known for hurling beer bottles at performers. I just needed to know I could get through the routine even if I was completely distracted by panic. I hit the record button, and the darts started flying. They hurt—a lot. Evidently my kids have repressed anger towards me because a lot of those shots went for vulnerable areas. Let’s see Jim Gaffigan nail a punchline while getting drilled in the neck. Amidst the foam hailstorm, I made it through the routine without missing a joke. If doing stand-up under fire didn’t scare me, nothing would. I was as ready as I was going to get.
I waited a few minutes for the welts to fade, then drove to Bloomington. The hour and a half trip gave me time to listen to more angry rap that would have never otherwise hit my playlist. I don’t know if I was ready to tell jokes, but I was ready to fight. I got to the theater a little over an hour early. I met Jen in person for the first time as well as Jonnie W., a veteran comic from Tennessee who would go on second. I would lead off. It didn’t matter if I went out there to a cold audience since I wasn’t going to get any laughs anyway. Jen asked me if I wanted the MC to explain to the crowd that it was my first time so people would go easy on me. I assured her that I did not. I didn’t need anyone else to lower expectations for me. I was fully prepared to bring them down myself. Jen also casually checked with me to make sure my routine was family-friendly. I had to make a few quick mental edits. How did she know that this would be my big debut for the f-bomb?
In what seemed like no time at all, it was showtime. The MC gave a one-sentence introduction, and I walked out on stage. I stared at the crowd. They stared at me. Then, I opened my mouth. To my relief, words came out. The right words, in the right order, with the right inflection. People laughed. That was weird. In all the years I’ve been pumping out jokes, I’ve never heard any reaction other than total silence. That’s how comedy writing works. It would be awkward if I were in your house with you to hear your response. At the show, I didn’t bring down the house, but people laughed at every part they were supposed to. It really was the friendliest possible crowd. I suspected that going in. Fifty-percent of the audience members I met before the show were Catholic priests. That’s not hyperbole. It was two out of four.
I guarantee you not a single person in that audience remembers my name, but I held my own. I looked and sounded like I knew what I was doing. If I hadn’t spent the opening of my routine joking about how I’d never done this before, you never would have known it was my first time. That’s because it wasn’t. I had tricked my body into thinking my attempt in front of the camera was my first real show. I got all the panic out of my system then. When I went on stage, my lizard brain thought, “Oh, yeah. We did this once before. We can probably survive this, too.” This time, my fight or flight response didn’t activate. I didn’t have to think about how to breathe even once. I also didn’t punch anybody. It’s probably good that I toned down my excitement level just a bit before I went on.
Afterwards, Jen said I validated her theory that comedy writers can make the transition to stand-up. Jonnie said his job was easy because, when he got on stage after me, the audience was already “warm.” That’s the highest praise from a pro that I’m going to get. With my turn out of the way, I was able to watch Jen and Jonnie work. They were truly impressive, and if you get the chance, you should check them out. Stand-up is definitely a skill that improves the more you do it. I don’t plan to put in the time for that. That’s not to say I won’t do it again. I’ll still never go to an open mic night where I have to bring five friends, but if a comic is passing through the area and needs an opener or if a local fundraiser needs some lackluster entertainment on the cheap, I’d probably be up for it. Nicholas Cage would be proud.
Shout out to the paid subscribers who let me know I looked nervous in that first video. You saved the show. I appreciate your honest feedback, even if my fragile ego didn’t want to hear it. As a thank you, later this week I’ll share that video of me getting nailed by darts during my final practice run. My pain is your gain. Also, Jonnie said he recorded the show. If he sends me the clip of my segment, I’ll post that, too. I won’t watch it myself, though. If I’m misremembering the whole thing and I was actually a nervous wreck, I’d rather not know.
Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.
James
13 Minutes of Terror