Stand-Up Comedy: A Lifelong Obsession
It’s been almost 11 months to the day since I decided, “You know what? I’m just gonna do it. I’m gonna do stand-up.” A year of life has come and gone since that moment when I traded comfort for chaos, self-protection for some self-deprecation, and a quiet evening at home for the chance to bomb in front of strangers who are mostly just there for the half-price wings and drinks. Eleven months! That’s longer than it takes to grow and give birth to a human life!
What I’ve learned in those 11 months could fill a book—or at least a very awkward therapy session.
So far, stand-up comedy has not been glamorous. In fact, in some cases, it’s barely been respectable. It’s been loud bars and sticky floors, tiny stages and wobbly mic stands. It’s driving and waiting for hours to perform five minutes of material, only to realize most of the crowd isn’t there for the comedy—they’re just waiting for karaoke night to start. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, like dads with tripods filming their kid’s middle school basketball game, I have hope. And I love it.
This isn’t the kind of love that’s sweet or cinematic. It’s not rom-com love, or the kind of thing where, when your grandpa puts on his left leg prosthetic, everything kinda falls into place. It’s the kind of love that wakes you up at 3 a.m., sweaty and muttering punchlines that didn’t land. The kind of love that convinces you to stand in front of a room full of strangers and say, “Here’s everything wrong with me, and probably you too—please laugh.” It’s obsessive, exhausting, and can be borderline unhealthy. But hey, it’s cheaper than CrossFit.
That first laugh is magic. And I don’t mean sleight-of-hand magic. I mean real, blow-your-mind magic. It’s the moment when a thought that started in your head ends up in their gut, and suddenly, you’re not just holding a microphone—you’re holding lightning. At least, that’s how it feels until your next joke flops.
Eleven months ago, I thought comedy was about being funny. Turns out, comedy is about being human. It’s about showing up, standing up, and messing up. It’s about taking the weird, the painful, and the embarrassing parts of yourself, others, the world and turning them into something we can laugh at—even if we’re still cringing inside. Of course, it’s not just that. But for me, so far, that’s been a lot of it.
When I look back on my first year of comedy, I see failure. Not catastrophic, go-viral-on-YouTube failure, but quiet, shaping failure. The kind of failure that whispers, “You’re terrible,” but also, “Come back tomorrow and try again.”
Comedy forces you to fail, but it also teaches you how to turn failure into momentum. It’s about finding the humor in the silence, the lesson in the bomb, and the punchline in the pain. And let me tell you, pain can lead to some killer material—especially when your family and friends provide half of it for free.
This site isn’t a guide to comedy. It’s not a manifesto about what makes a great comedian. I’m not here to critique the art form or act like I have it all figured out. I don’t. This is just my process, my season, my obsession. And if some comedians look at my process and think, “That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” I’d kindly invite them to write their own Substack. This one’s mine, and I’ll fail here as much as I need to.
It’s not my first time putting myself out there publicly. Back in the early 2000s, when blogs were a thing, I went hard. As a young scholar, I wrote and posted without fear. Now, as a seasoned scholar, I’ve done the same with podcasting. And here I am, yet again, this time as a stand-up comedian, and I’m doing it again—figuring it out in public.
Because comedy is a conversation, especially stand-up. It’s a shared moment between the comedian and the audience. Sometimes it’s a good conversation, the kind where everyone laughs and you feel like a genius. Other times, it’s a monologue, and not the fun kind. But when it works, when the room buzzes and the laughter rolls, it feels, as I said, like magic. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re doing something that matters. Or at least something that beats karaoke.
That’s why I started this site: MichaelHalcomb.Live. It’s not just a website—it’s a sandbox. A place to share my process, my failures, and the occasional joke that actually worked. It’s where I’ll post clips, stories, and rants about comedy—and yeah, there’ll probably be some turds in the sandbox, too. After all, it’s where I’ll be transparent about what I’m learning, even if what I’m learning is that a joke about something that’s still only funny to me.
Eleven months in, I’m not the comedian I want to be. But I’m closer than I was on day one. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that comedy isn’t a sprint. It’s not even a marathon. It’s more like running on a treadmill that’s just a little too fast. You might fall. You might flail. But you keep going. You keep chasing the laugh. Because when you finally catch it, it’s worth it.
So here’s to the next 11 months and beyond. To the laughs, the bombs, and everything in between. And to all of you who’ve been a part of this journey, whether you’re in the audience, reading this post, or heckling from the back of the room—thank you.