Reflections On 5 Recent Comedy Gigs

(Show Note #9)

In the last few weeks, I’ve done five stand-up shows. That’s right. Five. Not open mics. Shows. If that doesn’t sound like a lot, think of it this way: that’s nearly a full work week for someone who sells candles at the farmer’s market. Plus, this week marks my 1-year anniversary as far as performing stand-up goes. A year ago, I took the stage for the first time. Now, a year later, I’m getting booked with a little bit of frequency. That’s pretty cool. Every single show lately has reminded me why comedy is the most beautifully unstable thing you can do with your life outside of trying to raise teenagers.

First up, a March Madness comedy tournament. I had a five-minute set with one shot to impress the judges. And by “judges,” I mean a trio of humans whose laughs felt locked up tighter than a Chick-fil-A on Sunday. Cue Kanye’s song. I did manage to get a handful of small laughs out of one or two of them, just not all at once. It was kinda like a lawn sprinkler: a few laughs here, a few over there. At one point during the tournament, I stepped outside for a breather. A fellow comic came over and, even though we were outside, pretty much whispered, “This crowd is dumb.” And you know what? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little bit of that.

I don’t like blaming crowds. I just don’t. But sometimes, a show does have to do, at least in part, with the crowd. I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like a fixed imbalance in the universe or something. It’s one of those things were you try to land a clever pun and the silence is so deep you start questioning if you forgot how to use language. That’s kinda what it felt like. But, as I often point out, every audience is different. Some crowds are warm. Some are cold. Some are hot. Some are that weird in-between temp that reminds you of food poisoning.

And there’s another element to this, too, something that’s been part of every comedy tournament I’ve seen or attended regardless of what state it was in: the two comics who sold the most tickets on night one automatically got a spot in the finals on night two. That’s right. You could bomb your entire set, but if your cousin bought ten tickets and your church small group showed up in matching hoodies, you’re golden. I get it. It’s good business for the booker. No shade there. Do what you gotta do.

Of course, as a comedian, you want your fans to come. Makes sense. But when having them come makes you a shoe-in to advance in a tournament, I don’t know, that just feels off to me. Again, no shade; that’s just what I feel in my bones. I want to advance or not on the merit of my jokes/performance and I want everyone else to advance or not on that same merit. But it is precisely this dynamic at these sorts of shows that make me want to invite nobody. Usually, I don’t. Unless it’s a friend to help film/photograph.

Next up was a show at a brewery. I had just flown back to Hawai’i from Japan the night before. I was a bit jet lagged. (I still am 8 days later as I write this. I can’t shake the lag!) I was definitely tired. And my internal clock thought it was yesterday. The room held 28 people. Ten showed up. Not a huge crowd, but enough for a jury verdict, I think. When one woman walked in, she literally said to her boyfriend, “I feel like a sitting duck.” That’s right, it was so small and empty I could here people speaking under their breath to one another.

As a comedian, I thought, ma’am, I’m not a sniper. I’m a dad with a mic and a few decent jokes about how messed-up I am. But I get that, too. Small rooms often mean high stakes. You can see every eye twitch and hear every disappointed exhale. But here’s what I’ve learned: you gotta go in just as hard for ten as you do for a hundred. Comedy isn’t, or at least shouldn’t be, about ego. It’s about delivering your best, even if the only laugh you get is someone coughing because your punchline caught them mid-sip.

Then came the triple. Three shows in two days for Don’t Tell Comedy. These were fun. These were the I-might-actually-be-good-at-this kind of shows. Friday night was solid. Saturday 7pm? Fire. Everything landed. It was one of those shows where the crowd was so on I probably could’ve read my grocery list and they’d have laughed. I even slipped in some crowd work and got good laughs from that. I’m telling you, there’s something about a paying Saturday night crowd that just hits different. They came for comedy. They paid actual money. They left the house, found parking, and probably hired a babysitter. You know what that means? They need to laugh. They’re practically begging you to be funny.

By 9pm Saturday, we had 80 people in the room and the vibe was still strong. Don’t Tell Comedy is cool because the audience doesn’t know who’s performing until the comedian takes the stage. The audience doesn’t even know where the show is until the morning of. But the secret sauce is this: the audience chooses to show up without knowing anything. They’re already curious and excited. That makes all the difference. The setup, the mystery, the packed room, it all combines to make comedy feel electric.

Oh, and let me not forget this part. These five shows were booked by three different bookers. Each one had a different vibe, different communication style, different expectations. And here’s the deal: you adapt. You be a team player. You show up as ready as you can. I’m grateful for each booker every time they send me an invite because they’re taking a chance on me; they’re acknowledging that they see potential in me. And whether it’s a tournament, a small room with one lady quietly regretting her life choices, or a secret show in a mystery veterans center, the show always goes on. And you gotta bring the funny. You gotta bring your best.

Five shows. Three bookers. One jet-lagged body. And dozens of laughs. But all of it? Y’all, it was totally worth it! As I told my buddy Jerimy who went to the Saturday night shows to film, there’s still nothing quite like making people laugh on purpose. It’s an exhilarating feeling. And if you’re someone who can do that consistently, no matter where you are, in my book you’re doing alright.

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