My So-Called Comedy Career

Was I funny?

That has never been proven.

Not scientifically.

Well, unless you count my winning the “First Annual San Francisco FOG Comedy Competition.”

“FOG” was perfect – during the finals, about two-thirds through my competition routine, I had that singular clarity brought by sudden stage fright. No Buddhist monk achieved the complete and total lack of thought I experienced as I stared out at the audience, the judges, my fellow standup comics, and my comedy coach.

The blankness of my mind was nearly total. Though I did realize 1) I was in the finals of a competition, 2) I knew my own name, and 3) beyond that, nothing. Nada. Zilch.

“Peace” was NOT what I experienced.

PANIC. Terror. Disgust. Despair. And more.

Who knew any one soul could suffer so many experiences simultaneously.

As I stood, mute, I decided I had to do SOMETHING.

I waggled the mike stand.

And just like the old stick shift in a manual transmission truck – like I used to drive in my farm-boy youth – my mind lurched and I grasped the only though that sprang up.

I just started yakking. In this competition, it was required I perform between 5 and 9 minutes of material. One aspect of the blessing of this experience was the total absence of even my rudimentary sense of time. I’d performed routines for many years, and so knew how long they each was. To my dismay I realized I had latched onto a routine I had not used in years.

Standup comedy rule number 1 is: open with your second-best joke; end with your best joke. As I wallowed in self-pity and revulsion, I was able to remember my closer.

Disgusted, I rolled through my ending bit.

I left the stage, left the building, and took refuge alone at my cousin’s nearby apartment. After some serious self-loathing, I scraped myself up out of the chair and returned to the scene of my shame to congratulate the triumphant comic.

It was me. I had won.

It was a miracle.

The judges all wrote for local papers, which got my name in print every week, since I performed somewhere in the San Francisco Bay Area every night.

My monthly showcases were always printed.

I got more gigs, and actually made some money.

Not enough to go pro, though it was a pleasure to be paid.

Eventually I was ready to “take my show on the road.”

I never did.