Per Jerry Seinfeld, "According to most studies, people's number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two. Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you're better off in the casket than doing the eulogy."
Doing stand-up comedy is, in my opinion, the scariest kind of public speaking. Unlike making a speech before your peers, stand-up requires you to put yourself out there before a room full of anonymous strangers. Because the feedback is instant, you'll know in a matter of seconds whether they like what you're saying. It also requires you to make this bunch of strangers like you just as quickly. Probably the best way to get started, as the sneaker ads say, is to "just do it." In other words, get up there, and get up there, and keep getting up there. But if you're not that gutsy, you may be able to find a class at your local comedy club where you can learn and practice in a safe, supportive atmosphere. If that's not an option for you, there is help.
Comedian Steve Giantuco, known professionally as "Stevie GB, the World's Funniest Accountant," has created a YouTube series, "Start Up Your Stand-Up." Among the lessons you'll learn are how to get started, how to handle bombing, how to get press, etc. After doing stand-up on Long Island for more than 20 years, and opening for the likes of Louie Anderson, Rob Schneider, Bobby Collins, Caroline Rhea, and Lewis Black, he knows what he's talking about. You'll find his short, informative videos here bit.ly/1LQ3eBt.
For years now, whenever the family gathers for a photo or my husband
tries to photograph me (a story for another day), I invariably ask
someone, "How's my hair?" I'm not a particularly vain person, knowing
that the breeding ground for cowlicks that I call "hair" will always be
askew. I couldn't recall when that question became part of my photo
routine until I heard the news about Garry Shandling's death. It came
from him. I wasn't asking it about me, but rather, I was imitating the
fictional "Garry" of the "It's Garry Shandling's Show." In almost every episode, he'd ask that question out of anxiety, as if having every strand in place would mean that the rest of his life would be just as neat.
I
didn't know much about Garry Shandling before the Showtime series, but
from the minute I heard the theme song, I was in love. That catchy,
goofy, self-aware wink at the audience was all it took to hook me --
that, and my strange crush on Michael Tucci, as his neighbor "Pete
Schumacher." It was one of my "appointment" TV shows (what they now
call "Must-See TV"), and my husband and I would watch, singing along
with the song, swaying and boucing like two kids around a campfire.
One
of the most poignant and heartbreaking episodes was what we didn't know
then to be the final appearance of Gilda Radner on TV. We saw it as
her comeback to comedy after ovarian cancer, little knowing that a short
time later, she would be gone. The scene involved her returning ta
wagonload of books to Garry that he had lent her to read. When he asked
her why he hadn't seen her on TV for a while, she chirpily responded,
"I had cancer. What did you have?"
After that show
ended, and Garry went to HBO with his "The Larry Sanders Show," I felt
deprived. My husband no longer worked in the cable TV trade and we had
to drop our premium channels (First World Problems, yes, I know.) This
was in the days before one had other options, like waiting months for
the DVDs or piggybacking on a relative's HBO GO account. Everyone was
talking about it, and I had no frame of reference, except from
occasional promotional clips when Garry appeared on (real) talk shows.
Many
comics are hailed to be geniuses, but there are only a few who truly
qualify. Garry was one of them, doing on TV what others wish they
thought of first. He will be missed.
"How's my hair?"
We Killed: the rise of women in American comedy by Yael Kohen (Sarah Crichton Books, an imprint of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012).
Almost
anybody who is, and was, anybody in the field has a say about the
status of women in comedy in this anecdotal history. While the choppy
format is a bit annoying (a string of attributed vignettes), the stories
and opinions from the 150 comics, writers, producers, actors, and
critics, from Phyllis Diller to Chelsea Perretti, elicit anger and awe.
No one whines here or feels sorry for themselves.
The
book opens with a helpful "Cast of Characters," a list that identifies
all the interviewees, both female and male, and their relationship to
comedy. Each chapter represents an era, starting with the 1960s and
ending in 2011. Interspersed among these chapters are sections that
spotlight one outstanding person who changed the playing field: Carol
Burnett, Merrill Markoe, and Ellen DeGeneres. While Elayne Boosler,
Tina Fey, and Amy Poehler are discussed, but not interviewed, the most
notable absence in these pages is that of Amy Schumer, whose thunderclap
appearance on the scene happened just as this book was hitting the
shelves.
Does "a rose by any
other name smell just as sweet?" What we call ourselves matters. For
example, I'm a librarian by profession, and there are folks out there
who think the title is quaint or outdated. Some people have suggested
that we call ourselves "information technicians." It sounds "hip and
modern," but doesn't touch on the nuance of what I do. (Personally, I
prefer "Person you never knew you needed, but now can't do without," but
that doesn't fit on my business card.)
There is also the "sexism" attached to the title. When most people think of the word "librarian," they think of a woman
(hairbun and sweater set, optional). But if you say someone works as
an "information technician," odds are you're going to think of a man (pocket protector and social awkwardness optional). However, the library profession, once a male-dominated field until the early 20th century, is overwhelmingly female.
So what do you call yourself - comedian/comedienne or comic - and why?
Full disclosure: I have a particular interest in knowing so that I use the preferred term in my entries.
Being a comedian is not all fun and games. Like any other profession, it takes a lot of work, and when your livelihood depends upon the largesse of others, there is bound to be exploitation.
I'm Dying Up Here: Heartbreak and High Times in Stand-up Comedy's Golden Era by William Knoedelseder (Public Affairs, 2009).
After cutting their comedy teeth in New York City at clubs such as Catch a Rising Star, comics began to flock to Los Angeles. The goal was to catch the eye of a talent booker for The Tonight Show, where an appearance could make one's career (or in a few cases, break it). Everyone was there - Jay Leno, David Letterman, Richard Lewis, Andy Kaufman, Robin Williams,Tom Dreesen, and more - all vying to get noticed. It was a golden time of camaraderie, fun times, and hard work, until the comics realized they were being exploited by club owners who hoarded precious stage time, meting it out to their favorites, giving nothing in return except "exposure." The comedians' solution was to take a page from the labor movement. They formed a union and went on strike.
There were few heroes and and one big villain in Knoedelseder's chronicle. The "big bad" was Comedy Store owner Mitzi Shore, the bitch mother of the L.A. comedy scene and the Marie Antoinette of the comedians' uprising. She would alternate between being supportive and oppressive, and took advantage of her position. Most striking was her treatment of women. Rather than give female comics a chance in the Main Room (a rare occurence), she relegated them to "The Belly Room," which, in her mind, was a separate, but equal, nurturing space for them. This also highlights a big void in the book. With the exception of the appearance of Elayne Boosler, there isn't much focus on the women who also struggling for stage time. The names are there - Alison Arngrim, Lois Bromfield, Susan Evans, and Marsha Warfield, to name a few, but hardly any get more than a mention or a few sentences.
As with every war, there are casualties. I'm Dying Up Here tells the parallel story of Steve Lubetkin, an aspiring comedian, who came to seek his fame and fortune in L.A., but ultimately finds frustration and a downward spiral that provides the balancing tragedy to the laughs.
NOTE: Jim Carrey received a green light from Showtime to create a series based on this book.
