Stand Up by Mike Freeman

Stand Up

By Mike Freeman

Why do we call making an audience laugh "Stand-up comedy?" If we fail to make them laugh, should we call it "Stand-up bombing?" Why is body position even a consideration in the job title? I wash dishes standing up. Should we call that "Stand-up dishwashing?"

Stand-up comedy is intriguing. How many jobs require a large group of strangers to listen to every word you say? Job performance feedback is instantaneous. People drink alcohol while providing their performance review of your work. You will never see your reviewers again. You hopefully manage intoxicated reviewers with delicacy and humor. Failure can be brutal.

The year is 1981. I am a systems analyst/programmer working on a mainframe computer at a local shipyard. I am 28 years old, single, and have a one-bedroom apartment over the Ocean Beach pier. The view and my life are outstanding.

My friend, Mark, lives in the same building as I do. He loves his life too. We often get together to create mischief and general mayhem.

The La Jolla Comedy Store promotes an amateur night for aspiring stand-up comedians. It occurs every Sunday night. Each amateur comedian gets five minutes for a shot at glory. A few are brilliant. Many muddle through their once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Several go down in flames.

Mark and I explore this fascinating activity one Sunday evening. We discover the sign-up list is long. First-timers get thrown at the end. You work your way up the list as you continue coming back. It is best to go early when the audience is sober and energetic. Going at the evening's midnight end is often brutal. The audience tends to be drunk and fatigued. Any grace for first-time comedians quickly evaporates. The last comedian faces a potential audience of 200 hecklers.

A decision percolates in my brain for the next few days. I decide I will do stand-up comedy. I want Mark to do it with me. I ask him. There is no immediate response. I hand him a beer. He thinks quietly. He will join me.

We begin working on original material. It is challenging to write five minutes of comedy. We slowly develop an opening song. Then we go into a newscast. It starts with us announcing, "Time for News Briefs!" as we rip a pair of underwear from our pants. I read ridiculous newscast stories as Mark pantomimes the on-scene action. A few short skits quickly follow. We end our routine with a few fake Comedy Store announcements. With my best announcer voice, I say, "For the owner of a black BMW with license plate IM2DUMB, your lights are on, and there is a dead gorilla in your backseat."

Secret rehearsals commence Sunday morning. We hone our routine to five minutes. Time to make the next big decision. Do we share our bold experiment with anyone?

Success demands witnesses. Failure requires a deep, dark cover-up. No one can ever know. Who do we trust? Do any of our friends possess this level of discretion? Is failure containable?

We list our friends on a sheet of paper. We easily eliminate many. A few pass the selection criteria. One last question to answer before we send out invitations. Are we really gonna do this?

We face the terror.

"Let's bail! Time to go ride some waves!" almost erupts from my mouth. I see Mark battles the same type of thoughts. We drink a beer. We make our decision. It is go time!

We invite our friends and eat a quick, nervous dinner. Everybody arrives at the comedy store. Mark and I sign up—time for a drink!

The show starts. Things appear to be getting off to a good start. The audience is supportive. People and their acts reflect a growing level of professionalism. Then it happens.

Someone bombs. There is some audience sympathy. The next amateur comedian survives five minutes of non-laughter. Audience compassion is evaporating. Time quickly goes by. Amateur comedians rise and fall. There are still a few people ahead of us. I nervously rehearse everything in my mind. The master of ceremonies calls our names.

Mark and I make our way up to the stage and begin.

Everything becomes a blur. We finish our routine. The audience is applauding. We jump off the stage, joining our friends. We celebrate with a victory round of drinks. The moment is thrilling! Exhaustion meets elation. We go home.

Word of our success quickly spreads. I tell people at my work. No one can believe we actually had the courage or the success. Mark and I decide to do it again. We update our act with new material, leaving in the portions that we know work well. We set the date and announce it to our friends. Several join us. Success is with us again on the second performance. We create new material, blending it in with the old. The audience's reaction to our third stage appearance is the best!

Mark and I continue to learn about our new craft. The same material produces different reactions from various audiences. A portion of the Comedy Store's amateur night audience returns each Sunday. How to use voice modulation, pauses when speaking, and body language to get laughs. New material is critical.

Mark and I prepare for our fourth appearance. We develop a new routine that we are confident will bring the house down with laughter. It is about the Mediterranean fruit fly invasion, a serious threat to California's fruit and vegetable industry. I play a rollicking boogie-woogie song on the stage piano, while Mark wears a Mediterranean fruit fly mask, running around causing havoc within the audience. We weave this routine into our act for the night.

We expect several people we know to be in the audience that night. My sister, Karen, and her husband, Chuck, are among them. A senior manager from work, named Tom, will attend. Our friend, Angela. All of them have seen us before. A few people will see us for the first time.

Mark and I park his van on the street next to the Comedy Store. We drink a beer while rehearsing our new act. Our friend Gino approaches with his current girlfriend. I roll down the window to talk. He introduces us to his girlfriend. Her nickname is C. P., which stands for "Cutie Pie." It is their first time seeing us. They continue walking in. Mark and I work on our act.

Mark and I enter the comedy store and sign up for the show. We continue moving up the list. There is a sprinkling of our friends and family throughout the audience. We order a drink and sit back to enjoy the amateur comedian show. We pray that the one or two in front of us do not bomb horribly. It is a real challenge to bring an audience back from that.

The master of ceremonies calls our names. We confidently walk up to the stage and begin. Everything seems to go smoothly. It is time for the Mediterranean fruit fly portion of our act. I start on the piano as Mark places the fruit fly mask over his face and starts his interaction with the audience. I listen for uproarious laughter. I keep playing. I keep listening.

Nothing.

The resounding silence makes seconds feel like hours. I keep playing the piano, not sure what to do. We have no plan for this outcome. I keep playing. A few boo's emerge from our audience.

Mark walks up to the microphone, removing his mask, and says, "This is the most embarrassing moment of my life!" The audience laughs.

He runs off the stage and dashes out a side door. Playing the piano does not seem like a good idea. I try to adlib a joke or two, with no success. The master of ceremonies takes over the microphone and "gives me the hook."

I run off the stage. Then a new panic hit me. Mark is my ride home! I dash out the door to where the van is parked. Mark has the engine revved and starts to pull out. The passenger side window is wide open. I dive in as he roars away from the comedy store. I wrestle with the seat until I am properly seated using the seatbelt.

"I will never do this again!" Mark screams. He continues wailing.

I am quietly processing the recent events. I know now is not a good time to talk. We drive home.

The next morning, I go to work. My senior manager, Tom, calls me into his office. I really do not want to have this conversation. I sit down in front of his desk, eyes looking at the ground. Tom has a reputation for being a rugged manager.

"Tough night last night." He starts out saying.

I shift positions in his chair in reply.

"You know, Mike," he continues, "every person in the audience dreams about doing what you did last night. Have the courage to get up on a stage in front of a large audience and roll the dice. To take that big chance. Ninety-eight percent of them envy you for doing something they won't. They will always sit in the audience. Always remember how great it feels when you are successful in making people laugh. Feel good when you stand up with courage, to attempt that!"

I am speechless. My mood improves tremendously. I learn a critical life lesson. There is abundant life after failure. The sun rises the next day. My friends are still present. Karen and Chuck still love me. My career continues to flourish. It is better to try and fail than always regret never trying.

In a few weeks, Mark and I will return to the La Jolla Comedy Store and success. We perform our act about a dozen times. We bomb a few more times, always learning along the way. The experience is the best public speaking course ever!

Remember C.P. from the first time we bombed? We married a few years later and have three children and four grandchildren. How is that for failure? I get the girl anyway!

Maybe that's why they call it stand-up comedy.

You stand up—no matter how hard you fall.