In a sense, this book is not an autobiography but a biography, because I am writing about someone I used to know. A few years ago, I began researching and recalling the details of this crucial part of my professional life-which inevitably touches upon my personal life-and was reminded why I did stand-up and why I walked away.
In the end, I turned away from stand-up with a tired swivel of my head and never looked back, until now. I was not self-destructive, though I almost destroyed myself. I was not naturally talented-I didn't sing, dance, or act-though working around that minor detail made me inventive. The course was more plodding than heroic: I did not strive valiantly against doubters but took incremental steps studded with a few intuitive leaps. I was seeking comic originality, and fame fell on me as a by-product. I can remember instantly retiming a punch line to fit around the crash of a dropped glass of wine, or raising my voice to cover a patron's ill-timed sneeze, seemingly microseconds before the interruption happened. I suppose these worries keep the mind sharp and the senses active. I worried about the sound system, ambient noise, hecklers, drunks, lighting, sudden clangs, latecomers, and loud talkers, not to mention the nagging concern "Is this funny?" Yet the seedier the circumstances, the funnier one can be. Comedy's enemy is distraction, and rarely do comedians get a pristine performing environment. Stand-up is seldom performed in ideal circumstances. The comedian's slang for a successful show is "I murdered them," which I'm sure came about because you finally realize that the audience is capable of murdering you.
The audience necessarily remained a thing unseen except for a few front rows, where one sourpuss could send me into panic and desperation. Darkness is essential: If light is thrown on the audience, they don't laugh I might as well have told them to sit still and be quiet. I stood onstage, blinded by lights, looking into blackness, which made every place the same. Though my general recall of the period is precise, my memory of specific shows is faint. My decade is the seventies, with several years extending on either side. After the shows, however, I experienced long hours of elation or misery depending on how the show went, because doing comedy alone onstage is the ego's last stand. Enjoyment while performing was rare-enjoyment would have been an indulgent loss of focus that comedy cannot afford. My most persistent memory of stand-up is of my mouth being in the present and my mind being in the future: the mouth speaking the line, the body delivering the gesture, while the mind looks back, observing, analyzing, judging, worrying, and then deciding when and what to say next. Ten of those years were spent learning, four years were spent refining, and four were spent in wild success. I did stand-up comedy for eighteen years.
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