I like good comedy. The day I stop laughing at Mark Normand one-liners is the day I quit working in this field. There is magic to a well-written joke. When I was in middle school I discovered Demetri Martin and I fell in love with his beautiful, tight one-liners. Jokes like-- “A treehouse is really cruel, because it’s like killing someone and then making one of their friends hold it.” I love language and the math of a good joke. Comedy is an immensely powerful force and it is capable of changing the world. But the thing that keeps me in this field is the comedians themselves. I’m fascinated with the type of person who knows exactly what they’re getting themselves into, and still can’t help themselves from chasing the life of a comedian.
When I was interviewing Anthony DeVito about the mindset of a working comic, he said, “It takes brutal honesty with yourself, and absolute delusion,” and added, “[in your mind] you are the best and the worst at all times. It’s horribly exhausting.” Often times, there’s a sense that they couldn’t have possibly succeeded in any other profession. In her special Irish Goodbye, comedian Morgan Murphy addresses this, saying, “A lot of people say to me, ‘Morgan, if you weren’t a comedian, you’d be the funniest girl in the office.’ I don’t know if I believe that. Most of my friends are guy comics and if they weren’t comics they’d never be the funny guy in the office. They’d be the fucking crazy guy in the office.” To many comedians, this road isn’t a career choice. It is a sole option for survival in a world where they feel they do not belong. Steve Simeone, paid regular at The Comedy Store, always called his home club “The Island of Misfit Toys.”
In March of 2015, Nick Kroll was being interviewed by Buzzfeed in Griffith Park. The interviewer, Anne Helen Petersen, asked him basic questions about his life and his comedy before asking the one question that always seems to come up in interviews with comedians: Why does it seem like all comedians are depressed? This stereotype pervades comedy culture. Interviewers especially cling to ideas of the sad clown or the tortured artist, and luckily for comedians, they get to enjoy both stigmas. When he was asked that question, Nick Kroll responded, “The reality is that just about everyone is quietly unhappy. I don’t think that pertains to comedians specifically.” Initially, I was fascinated by this answer, but the more I thought about it the more it seemed to fall apart. Having spent many hours in comedy clubs across the country and having interviewed dozens of comedians, there’s too much evidence for me to ignore. No offense to Nick Kroll, but I don’t believe him.
Stand-up comedy is a subculture full of characters, and if you’re looking for dark stories you’re going to find them. As Mark Twain said, “The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven.” Here’s a brief overview of our greatest comedians: George Carlin was a latchkey child of divorce who struggled with alcohol and cocaine abuse. Richard Pryor was raised in a brothel and attempted suicide at age 39 by lighting himself on fire. Moshe Kasher was in and out of rehab three times by the time he was 15 years old. Maria Bamford speaks openly about her mental health problems and her time in institutions. Lenny Bruce, Mitch Hedberg, Robin Williams and others took their own lives. Even comedians who don’t initially seem to have many demons can surprise their fans with moments of vulnerability. For example, when Ray Romano was a guest on Pete Holmes’ podcast You Made it Weird, he was talking about his career and he told Pete, “If my dad had hugged me once I’d be an accountant right now.”
We can spend hours discussing the hard-luck stories of comedians, but I think what’s more interesting is when the industry itself acknowledges the problem. In 2010, The Laugh Factory in Los Angeles, California actually hired a resident psychologist. Dr. Tabori, a professional therapist, spends several nights a week at the club and the regulars get sessions with her. If a club like The Comedy Store or The Cellar were to do this, it would be easier to minimize. Those are clubs that believe in the art form, take care of their comedians, and are central to the community. The Laugh Factory, on the other hand, is frankly a mediocre club that makes most of its money selling drinks to drunk tourists. If they think the mental health of comedians is a problem, then there must be a problem.
In simplest terms, stand-up comedy is an art form that calls to maladjusted people, and the lifestyle it demands is prone to exasperating those tendencies. Comedians spend years toiling in dingy open-mics when they’re first starting their careers. If they’re good enough, they typically make most of their money on the road, stopping in small towns across America, dealing with tough crowds, hecklers, and bachelorette parties. Even if a show on the road goes well and they kill, the comedian is still going to be alone in a hotel room for most of the day. In short, it is a situation that might not be the best for your self-esteem and your sanity. When Irish comedian David O’Doherty was asked “What do think is the secret of a good comedian?” He responded, “You have to like sitting on trains and have quite low self-esteem.”
Even though I don’t believe Nick Kroll’s assertion about comedians, I do believe in a future where it can be, if not true, more true. But that future may take some work. I want for nothing except for the success and the happiness of my beloved comedians, and so here are a few ways I think we can get there.
An Open Letter to Working Stand-Up Comedians:
My Dearest Comics,
Hey there. Big fan. Long-time listener, first time writer. I have to say I appreciate you all and I’m constantly impressed by your strength, your work ethic, and your ability to see things with such wonderful clarity. Whether you’re doing observational comedy or you’re telling stories, so much of your job comes down to seeing things as they really are, not just how we want them to appear. There will never stop being a need for someone to point out all of our problems, even when we don’t want to see them. We all really need you, especially when things are looking bleak. That is to say, we really need you right now. I truly love how much you make us all laugh, think, and rethink. And, I love you enough that I need to be honest with you. So here goes.
You scare me a little bit. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear for many of you. I have watched you face enormous adversity from all sides, and I have watched you face enormous adversity from yourselves. I’ve watched you get heckled, I’ve watched you get punched, and I’ve watched you breakdown on stage. I’ve watched as you received death threats for your jokes. I’ve even watched as your family members received death threats for your jokes. I’ve watched you lose everything to drugs and alcohol, and I’ve watched you lose your sanity and your lives to the industry and the lifestyle. It’s a hard battle, and it’s a daily one.
I know that you don’t really like being told what to do, which is probably what led you to become a comedian. In your world it’s a monologue, and if people talk back too much someone throws them out. Still, I’d like you to put your defenses down, at least for a few pages. What follows is five pieces of advice, and even if you choose not to heed any of them, I hope that it’ll at least start a conversation. Please, indulge me here. If nothing else, maybe you’ll get a good bit out of it.
1) You need to accept that what you’re doing is hard.
There’s this pervasive thought in stand-up comedy that you guys have it lucky or that you’re cheating the system somehow. I really wish you’d cut it out with that one. When Pete Holmes was interviewed in 2012, he had just performed six shows in three days at the Laughing Skull in Atlanta, and he was rightfully exhausted, but he had this way of insisting that he wasn’t complaining. “Never will I consider this like an actual job, like, my hands are so baby soft, you know?” He told the interviewer. “I’ve never worked a day, it feels like. But then there are times when you do this thing that is very fun a lot and you’re like…” He trailed off, not really able to finish the thought.
Just because you aren’t working with your hands and doing some traditional job does not mean that what you’re doing is easy or that you don’t have permission to complain. I think you often have a sense of guilt here that makes you feel trapped in your unhappiness, whenever that unhappiness strikes. Please, give yourself a break. You don’t need a secondary monologue in your head criticizing you for feeling stressed or confused. Those people in the jobs some of you consider more “real” could probably never hack it as a comedian, either. What you’re doing is important. Don’t lose sight of that.
If you are able to accept that what you’re doing is difficult and worthwhile, it will make it easier to accept when people want to praise you for it. Even if you want to roll your eyes, I think that letting people love you is ultimately a good thing. When they gave Seinfeld that comedy award a few years back, he couldn’t accept it fully. I remember him saying that it didn’t feel right, and that comedians are supposed to be the ones in the back of the room making fun of these cheesy, meaningless awards. If that’s how you feel, then go for it, I’d always rather you be honest. But please don’t take that route if you feel like you need to maintain some cynical outer shell. If that’s the case, you’re probably not being honest with yourself about more than a few things. Being able to express genuine gratitude and humility isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength. I promise.
2. Have concrete goals.
Part of the problem with being a comedian is that making it doesn’t really exist. There are lots of milestones in a traditional comedian’s career. The system used to be to have a tight five-minute set, get onto Johnny Carson, get invited over to the couch, and then get your own sitcom. And that used to work -- look at Jerry Seinfeld, Drew Carey, and Ellen DeGeneres. But things are different now. You can reach success through endless different outlets, maybe a hit web-series or an amazing podcast. While this is exciting and promising for a more pure meritocracy within stand-up, it can also do a number on your self esteem and those sneaky voices in your head telling you, “You’re a fraud.” Next time you hear those voices, ask them this question: “What is making it?” Is a spot on a late-night show? Is it an album? Maybe a taped HBO special? Is it an eponymous TV show? I can’t say for certain, but I have a feeling that none of those things are going to make you happy. You have to make the choice to let yourself be happy. Look at Carlin. He had all of those things, not to mention five Grammy’s and a Mark Twain Award, and he never stopped finding things worth complaining about. He never stopped pushing himself and performing.
I suggest you start by learning how to become micro-ambitious. Instead of doing everything for the chance to eventually have your own sitcom or what have you, consider devoting yourself to being the best at the task in front of you. It can be as small as crafting your first tight five minutes. I also suggest you define what you want for your career. The clearer you are about what you want, the easier the road will be to get there. With arts like writing or comedy there is always room for improvement. On the one hand, this can be intimidating because perfection doesn’t exist, but on the other hand, it means that you can always strive to be better and be closer to expressing your true selves. I implore you to see it as an opportunity, not as a trap.
3. Be a fan.
Not only are you a warrior and an artist, but you are part of a rich lineage of stand-up comedians. Stand-up comedy is a young art form but from Moms Mabley to Mort Sahl and everywhere in between it is an art form full of heart. Brush up on your history, and respect those who made this all possible. Lenny Bruce was arrested from stage over half a dozen times in the 1950s and 1960s for obscenities and even taken to court for his material. Bruce’s comedy was a search for truth and vulnerability, and time after time he saw that truth being withheld. Think about him now and then when you find yourself saying “Fuck” onstage without thinking. I know he was posthumously pardoned in 2003, but a little thank-you from you every once in awhile would be a nice gesture too.
I also want you to be a fan because I don’t want you to forget how beautiful and important stand-up comedy is. The last thing I’d want is for you to become jaded about the material. Cultivating a deep love and respect for your brothers-in-arms, past and present. It is a great way to starve off that dangerous malaise. I’m not saying that you need to be able to recite Carlin’s Seven Dirty Words or Steve Martin’s Grandmother’s Song (although I think that should be a goal of everyone, comedian or not) but I do believe that being a fan will help you find gratification in your own work.
Watch shows as an average audience member. If nothing else, I hope it instills some respect for the randomness of humor. You’ll hear an identical joke bomb one night and kill the next. Maybe if it isn’t your joke, you’ll see this as charming not infuriating. No comedian has ever really had comedy figured out, and anyone who thinks they do has a hard bomb waiting around the corner for them. Part of the magic of your art is that it taps into something primal and beyond our understanding, and a healthy reverence for that will keep you grounded and keep you sane.
4. Don’t Give What You Don’t Have
For a long period of time, I was obsessed with Demetri Martin. To some extent I still am. But a little bit ago I found out that not only did he get into Harvard and drop out of law school with one year left, but his father was a Greek Orthodox pastor and he was married and divorced by the time he was 25. I was shocked at how interesting and unique his life is and I felt a certain sense of indignity, as if somehow I was owed that information sooner and more thoroughly. In this age of podcasts and soul-baring, we fans often know too much about you guys. Through casual listening, I’ve learned not only the full name of Pete Holmes’ therapist (Dr. Gary Penn) but how many “pumps” he lasted when he lost his virginity (6) and the one man he’d go gay for (Ryan Gosling AKA Daddy Gos’). I know that both Sarah Silverman and Mark Normand wet the bed way into their teenage years, and I know that George Carlin blamed himself for his parents’ divorce. These are real people with real stories, and they have no idea who I am yet I am privy to their secrets.
This vulnerability and authenticity is poetic but it is not a necessity of a successful comedian. Look at Mitch Hedberg, Steven Wright, and Brian Regan. Hell, you can even go back and forth if you want. And if Demetri Martin wants to focus on wordplay and surrealist jokes, he’s allowed to. I am not owed a one-man show about his struggles, and I’ll do my best to remember that, too. I think comedians and fans alike need to be reminded that it is solely up to you when it comes to how far or how deep you want to go. Some of the best shows I’ve ever seen featured existential dread and dick jokes, and they both have a place at the table.
5. Remember that you’re a person first.
I need to say this one a few times. You’re a person first. You’re a person first. I don’t care that you have a new 45 minutes that you’re trying to punch up, if the idea of going on the road right now makes you nauseated please be kind to yourself. Everyone is different, and just because something worked for another comedian doesn’t mean that it is what’s right for your career. The best example of this right now is this insane drive to follow the Carlin and Louis CK mold of putting out an album a year. I promise you that it won’t always be worth it. Listen to yourself and listen to your material. If it needs a few more months to really shine do not withhold that.
I also want to remind you that should you face some particularly trying times, you are in control of how you process that information. When Tig Notaro was diagnosed with bilateral breast cancer, she was on stage within two weeks doing a full thirty minute set about what was going on. There was a very real possibility that would be her last comedy set, and she wasn’t about to let it slip by. What came of that set is arguably one of the best comedy albums of all time. On the opposite side, when Patton Oswalt faced a trauma of his own, the loss of his wife, he disappeared from the public eye entirely. He put down the microphone, and focused all his attention on grieving and on being there for his daughter. When he reemerged a few months later, he wrote an incredible piece about grief and how he’s been coping with this personal tragedy. He writes:
“If you spend 102 days completely focused on ONE thing you can achieve miracles … You will not be physically healthier. You will not feel "wiser." You will not have "closure." You will not have "perspective" or "resilience" or "a new sense of self." You WILL have solid knowledge of fear, exhaustion and a new appreciation for the randomness and horror of the universe. And you'll also realize that 102 days is nothing but a warm-up for things to come.”
Patton and Notaro dealt with their personal trauma in public ways, but they each did so within a timeline and a format that made sense to them. Sometimes it feels more honest to express yourself in the moment, and other times it will feel more honest to wait. Please don’t let anyone tell you how and when to handle your own situation. And as I said earlier-- your grief is your own, and if you’d rather keep it to yourself and talk about silly jokes that’s a choice available to you, and sometimes it’s the best choice there is.
Thank you for indulging me. Good luck out there. Look me up next time you’re in the city, I’ll buy you a slice..
Warmest,
Katie Mears