Mic 1
Show: Stand Up Comedy Basics Graduation Night
Set Time: 5 Minutes
I took a stand-up comedy class at Imposters Theater taught by Bill Squire, a local celebrity and comedian whom I had never heard of, but my brain unintentionally blended together a defining voice of the late ’70s and early ’80s rock scene, Billy Squire, and allowed me to feel as if I knew who Bill Squire, the comedian, was.
As it turns out, other people did know who Bill Squire was. Maybe it was from The Alan Cox Show on WMMS, or from his specials that stream on YouTube, or from his podcast Cleveland America. Whatever the connection was, when I mentioned his name with a bit of accidental starstruckness, people picked up on it—even though I was clueless.
The class was four weeks: Monday nights, two hours, with ten other people trying out their funny. We were assigned a five-minute set we would be working on for the next couple of weeks and then performing at a graduation show. Bill suggested thinking of a funny story or situation that could inspire a set. I immediately thought of my snappy crotch. The snappy crotch story is one I have told a thousand times, and it doesn’t disappoint.
This is a story that naturally has all the pieces:
A crowded airport.
A pop-up security station manned by a large Russian woman with very little grasp of the English language. She is wielding a security wand like a maestro conducting an orchestra of suspicion. Elegantly twirling it up and down and around random passengers before they board the plane.
Me, an arbitrarily selected passenger dressed professionally, wearing a bodysuit that has metal stays at the crotch - a detail I had never once considered until it became a Federal concern.
An alarm that goes off as she moves the wand between my legs.
A language barrier that gave birth to a previously undefined fashion feature, as I explain that there are snaps in my bodysuit, leaning in and whispering that the crotch snaps together. “You have a snappy crotch?” she bellows in a mix of curiosity and concern. “I will touch you now.” A decision she made for the safety and well-being of all the Texas oil men waiting to board the plane.
I picked the story because it was easy to tell. I picked it because I was hedging my bets. Self-deprecating humor is a good source of laughs. This story was filthy with it. And, to be honest, I wanted to get on stage and guarantee laughs.
Over the couple of weeks the class met, we learned fundamentals like where to move the microphone. It’s a bigger deal than you would think. We rehearsed our jokes and worked through adding tags. In comedy, a tag is an extra joke or a series of quick jokes added after the punchline to keep the laugh going. I learned that stand-up needs to be shorter and funnier to get the laugh fast and try to keep it going ie. tags. I am a narrative person; “paring down” was too delicate a term for my editing needs. It was more like taking a machete in the rainforest, hacking off paragraphs to get to five minutes.
No one will care what the security guard is wearing. No one cares that anyone is around you. No one cares why you are on the flight. The fact that your crotch makes the security wand go “beep” is the most important point, so get there fast and make sure everything is leading to your crotch.
That was the internal narrative as I chopped away at what I wrote.
I was the last comedian to go on that night, and I got laughs from strangers and from friends and family I invited. I’m a public speaker. I can command a room, but was I “stand-up” funny or performance-funny? I didn’t know. I hugged people, thanked them for coming, went out for drinks after, and then went home.
They tape the show, so a couple of days later I got the link. I learned so much more than where to move the mic.
I learned not to wear all black on a black stage, or you look like a floating head in good shoes. I learned that bright lights are not kind to older skin. I looked tired and washed out. I learned that I looked heavy and out of shape and that I am short. (I struggle with the height thing. I am truly unaware of my stature and assume it to be a good five to six inches more than it is.)
I talk too fast. I don’t wait for the audience to respond. I am preaching, telling a story, not having a conversation. I am blinded by the spotlight and unable to see the crowd’s reactions, so I move through material too quickly. I am worried about time and timing. I am hot because of the lights and my sweater choice. I can see that I am not nervous, but I am also not comfortable. It is forced and scripted but they laugh. They laugh because it is a funny story, not necessarily because I am funny.
All of these things compound, and my mind is racing with comments and criticism and all I can think is: when can I do it again?
"Following along? [Sign up here] to get new mics in your inbox."
