I’m (Kinda) Funny Now
How I survived stand-up comedy class.
“You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” — Eleanor Roosevelt, You Learn by Living: Eleven Keys for a More Fulfilling Life (1960)
I am onstage at the famed Punch Line Comedy Club in San Francisco, microphone in hand, describing the time I bought an expensive abstract painting of James Stewart in Vertigo without realizing it bore a striking (and very, very unfortunate) resemblance to Adolf Hitler. It was a class exercise, a story scribbled out in eight minutes with no chance to rehearse, so it was rough. It was also my first time, well into middle age, attempting something resembling stand-up comedy. I rambled and hemmed and hawed and waved my hands a lot. I was, at best, mildly funny. But I made it to the end and managed not to vomit or faint or die of mortification on the spot. By that measure, it was a triumph. The instructor, Jesse Fernandez — a veteran stand-up comic and the best kind of cheerleader — and my half-dozen classmates clapped and cheered for me. I couldn’t help thinking that the last person I’d seen perform for real on that stage was Ali Wong. Ali Wong. It was a good moment.
I’d stumbled onto the class on the Punch Line’s website and knew I needed to sign up. Just reading the description made me nervous: “Learn how professional comedians get people’s attention, keep it, and make them laugh... And you don’t need to be a natural either!” The chance to learn about the process of creating stand-up material — find out how the sausage is made — and to try it myself was irresistible. Like most people, I’m very uncomfortable speaking in public (in the same way I’m very uncomfortable stepping in front of a firing squad). During the handful of times in my professional life that I’ve addressed a large group, I’ve been shielded by a lectern and had the benefit of notes, a PowerPoint presentation, and impeccable credentials. The idea of me standing alone onstage with a microphone, trying to make people laugh, was almost inconceivable.
I see a lot of stand-up comedy. During the pandemic, I attended Zoom shows. I really needed to laugh. I got divorced and was laid off from my job of fifteen years. My dog died. Then my mother died, leaving twenty-three dogs and a small, messy estate in Hawaii for me to deal with (a story for another time). The upside to all this heartache is that it can be mined for material. As Alan Alda’s character pontificates in Crimes and Misdemeanors: “Comedy is tragedy plus time!” In class, I scribbled: “Is menopause funny?”
I started studying stand-up comics (i.e., watching Netflix specials and Instagram Reels) in earnest. On a drive to and from Los Angeles, I listened to Steve Martin read his book, Born Standing Up. I was struck by how hard he worked for years to perfect his act, and by how smart and original it was. His routines, remembered from the records of my childhood (A Wild and Crazy Guy, Comedy is Not Pretty!), explore the nature of comedy in a conceptual and totally hilarious way. Despite his enormous fame, he also managed to protect his privacy. He played a character, a buffoonish and overconfident comic, and so revealed little about himself. Many comics joke in cringeworthy detail about sex and dating and marriage, relatable topics that are fraught for me. I think a lot about what to reveal onstage and am intrigued by the idea of sidestepping the personal altogether.
When I mentioned to a friend that I was taking a stand-up class, she excitedly responded that my “break-up story” is “comedy gold,” and moreover that she tells it because it’s so good. I was floored. She’s not wrong, but I don’t love the idea of the literal worst day of my life being a fun bit of gossip. I’m not ready to make light of it. If comedy equals tragedy plus time, I may be dead before I can laugh about it. That said, her version is fictionalized. It’s true that the conversation took place right after my husband and I had finished a spin class — which is, yes, a funny set-up — but her dialogue is made up. As she tells it, my husband turns to me and says, “I can’t do this anymore,” and I ask, “Why not? Did you hurt your knee or something?” and he delivers the zinger: “No, I mean our marriage.” Bah-dum-BUM.
In class, we learned that the comedy ethos is to be encouraging and open to input. Never dismiss or reject feedback; say thank you, and then you’re free to act on it or not. This makes sense. Stand-up comedy is hard, and you have to throw a lot of stuff at the wall to find something that sticks. You don’t want to stanch the flow of ideas. No one wants to be around someone who shoots down ideas.
I confess, this is an area of opportunity (to use the corporate jargon of my former employer) for me. As a lawyer, I’m used to critiquing people’s dumb, risky, and/or illegal ideas. So I’m learning to bite my tongue in response to feedback. On the flip side, I struggled to join in brainstorming sessions during class, when my smart and funny classmates generated rapid-fire smart and funny ideas. When it comes to sharing my own thoughts, I instinctively censor myself. Better to remain silent and be thought unfunny than to try to make a joke and remove all doubt.
During one exercise, I tried out a bit about making elaborate Instagram posts to impress my ex-husband, who still follows me on social media. (This is only a little bit true.) Afterwards, an older male classmate approached me and said earnestly, “I know what you should talk about: how hard it is to find clothes that fit!” I made a confused face, trying not to show my irritation (what does this have to do with my bit? Also, is he calling me fat? I think he is calling me FAT) as he continued, “Because it’s so hard for tall women to find clothes that fit!” I managed to smile and say something noncommittal like, “Huh, okay!” I’m sure he meant to be helpful. Ah, the blithe self-assurance of the middle-aged white man. I congratulated myself for “yes, and”-ing instead of biting his head off.
After class, Sam, a gregarious software account rep with a love of Elvis Presley, invited me and other classmates to join her at a nearby bar for a drink before the Sunday comedy showcase at the Punch Line. This became our routine: Class, drinks, then get into the showcase for free because we were now considered “comics.”
During the Sunday showcase, comedians (and those of us pretending to be comedians) are seated at the bar and at tables along the sides of the room. During one showcase, Steve the booker (the person who picks comics for the show) came onstage and asked all the comics to stand up. The house lights were raised. My classmates and I looked uncertainly at one another and slowly stood up. Steve then invited a guy in the audience to choose a comic to go onstage next. I had literally no material but kept standing. My brain screamed, What are you doing? SIT DOWN! But a teeny tiny part of me wanted to be chosen and see what I could do in front of an audience. Fortunately for everyone, the guy chose an adorable Gen Z gamine, and she killed. I absolutely wasn’t ready to perform that night. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready.
At the next showcase, Steve came by the table where my classmate Jason and I were sitting and asked for our names to check us in. For the rest of the show there was a knot in my stomach. I was irrationally terrified that I would be tapped to perform, even though Jesse had advised us that comics have to check in regularly on Sundays for months before getting to go up.
After the final set, the host (the very funny Chris Riggins) announced that all the comics in the club should line up for “joke parade,” each getting a turn at the mic. A slightly drunk Sam rushed over and ordered me and Jason to get in line with her. We both hesitated and then followed her. I brought my purse for some reason. As we inched closer to the stage, I frantically tried to think of a joke. I am not good at one-liners (which is to say, I am not good at anything comedy-related at this point). Sam assured me it would be okay to do an unoriginal joke, but I decided that if I was going to do it, I should try something I had come up with myself. When it was my turn, I walked onstage (with my purse), stood in front of the microphone, blinded by the lights, and said:
“I’m a grammar nerd. I prefer that term to ‘grammar Nazi,’ which really trivializes Nazis. And my grandpa doesn’t like it.”
The joke doesn’t work because, among other things, it’s ambiguous; it’s not clear that my grandpa was a Nazi. (To be clear, no one in my family was a Nazi, but that was the intended punch line, which I thought would be funny.) It also needs the right delivery, and mine was unrehearsed and shaky at best. I don’t recall whether anyone laughed. I do recall that as I left the stage, the host said to the crowd, “she’s dealing with some family trauma there,” and then it was over.
I read somewhere that the first time you skydive, your mind goes blank when you jump out of the plane; it shuts down, believing that you’re about to die. It takes practice and repeated exposure before you can actually experience the fall. Taking the stage that night was like that: I blacked out. But I performed, briefly, onstage at the Punch Line in front of an actual audience and lived to tell about it.
The stand-up class culminated in a showcase at the Punch Line for our friends and family. Each of us would perform for five minutes. I told no one out of fear that I would bomb. I also caught the flu and was ill the entire week prior to the show. I was still congested and coughing that morning. I thought about bailing but gave myself a pep talk: You don’t want to miss this experience. What’s the worst thing that could happen? You’ll suck. So what? This was perhaps the most important lesson that Jesse taught us: Don’t be afraid to bomb. It happens to everyone, even experienced comedians. The stakes are low. (Especially since I’d made sure no one I knew would be there.) So I took cold medicine around the clock, dosing myself again right before arriving at the Punch Line. My classmates and I nervously paced around the green room (we got to hang out in the green room!). Sam ordered a Jamison; Jason drank a Red Bull; I stuck with water. I was light-headed.
As I tried to remember my material, I made the decision not to take the microphone out of the stand when I got onstage. The microphone at the Punch Line has a cord, and I noticed Jason (who went up first) having to navigate stepping over it as he walked around the stage. He had some good jokes about IKEA and its negative effect on relationships. Our classmate Jenny went up next and regaled the crowd with a story about Judas goats, female goats on the Galapagos Islands used to lure male goats to the hunters (who would shoot them; hence “Judas”).
As Jenny stepped down and Jesse went up to introduce me, I walked towards the stage in a fog. I went up the steps, barely acknowledging Jesse, totally focused on not tripping and getting to the microphone (is it too low? how do I adjust it? I’ll just leave it). I had decided to disclose my drugged-up state and started my act with, “I’ve seen comics up here performing high on weed or mushrooms. Full disclosure: I’m on DayQuil right now, so buckle up!” That got a laugh. “Don’t worry, it’s not Covid, it’s just the flu” — I looked at the guy sitting directly in front of me — “so even if you catch it, you’ll be fine … in like ten days.” He did not laugh (but a few others did).
My material was in a notes app on my iPhone in my pocket, just in case. I didn’t need it. I had rehearsed enough and miraculously, I remembered everything I had planned to say. My material was mediocre, but I did my best to be “on” and get the timing right, despite my muddle-headed state. I even enjoyed a moment here or there when a line landed and someone laughed. My last joke was weak — apparently only I thought it was funny — so I struggled to close. (I am also terrible at ending phone calls and voicemail messages.) I finally said something about hallucinating due to the DayQuil, thanked the audience, then practically ran over Jesse to get offstage. It was a relief, but also exhilarating. I did it! Did what, I wasn’t totally sure, but I felt amazing.
Afterwards, I sat at the bar and clapped and cheered for (and with) my classmates. There were lots of clever bits and funny moments and applause. When the show ended, I reluctantly said my goodbyes and went home to collapse, still buzzing.
A few days later, Jesse emailed a congratulatory message to all of us with the video of our show. It was very strange watching myself. I was slightly hunched over the microphone, gesturing a lot. My timing came and went. My voice was annoying. The crowd was kind, and I got a few genuine laughs. Not bad for the first time.
I’m so glad I did it. Big thanks to my classmates for their kindness and especially to Jesse for his incredible teaching and support. Do the thing you think you cannot do. Because, it turns out, you can do it. Not perfectly, or even well, but no matter. It counts.
I’m still taking notes, writing material, and working up the nerve to do my first open mic. You can follow me on Instagram at @kpscarr_haha.
