This evening, as my wife and I were getting dressed to go out to run some errands, we started kidding around. Before I knew it, I was off on one of my little tangents, talking about the absurdity of the particular situation we had started kidding about, and my wife was laughing hysterically. The more she laughed, the more I went on, and the harder she laughed. I was like a shark, smelling blood and moving in for the kill.
For as long as I can remember, I have been funny. When I was a kid, I loved telling jokes. When I was an adolescent, I would listen secretly to comedy albums that my parents or friends’ parents and older brothers had, racy stuff like Richard Pryor, Cheech and Chong, Finnegan, George Carlin, and the bad boys from ‘da Bay,’ MacLean and MacLean. I would memorize the routines and repeat them to friends. Over time, I developed my own sense of humour, and I found that I could make people laugh on my own. I think I probably learned from all the successful comedians that I had listened to that to be funny was not only what you said, but also things like delivery and timing and setup and being able to read your audience.
This evening, when I’d finished making my wife laugh, I kind of mentioned that what I had said was funny enough to go into my standup act. It was then that I confessed to her that I’ve been seriously thinking about it, and that I had actually started writing material.
I couldn’t say for sure when I first started thinking about trying standup. I just know that in the past year or so, the idea pops into my head from time to time. I’ve known for a while that there’s a comedy club in Halifax that has an open mic night.
About a month ago, I can’t remember the circumstances, but I started thinking about this absurd situation. The more I thought about it, the more absurd it became. Then I realized that I was laughing. Out loud. I had made myself laugh out loud. I went over to the computer and attempted to write out the routine. When I’d finished, I was quite pleased. I read it over, imagining what it might be like to do it in front of an audience, how I’d say it, what the reaction might be. It suddenly became a possibility.
After we got home from our errands, I sat down and typed out the routine. Again, I was pleased with how it turned out, how it played out in my head.
I’ve spoken and acted and sung in front of people many times before. Something about this, though, seems truly terrifying. I’m not saying that I would ever consider doing this as a career, nor am I saying that I am even going to do anything about the impulse.
I just don’t know.
For as long as I can remember, I have been funny. When I was a kid, I loved telling jokes. When I was an adolescent, I would listen secretly to comedy albums that my parents or friends’ parents and older brothers had, racy stuff like Richard Pryor, Cheech and Chong, Finnegan, George Carlin, and the bad boys from ‘da Bay,’ MacLean and MacLean. I would memorize the routines and repeat them to friends. Over time, I developed my own sense of humour, and I found that I could make people laugh on my own. I think I probably learned from all the successful comedians that I had listened to that to be funny was not only what you said, but also things like delivery and timing and setup and being able to read your audience.
This evening, when I’d finished making my wife laugh, I kind of mentioned that what I had said was funny enough to go into my standup act. It was then that I confessed to her that I’ve been seriously thinking about it, and that I had actually started writing material.
I couldn’t say for sure when I first started thinking about trying standup. I just know that in the past year or so, the idea pops into my head from time to time. I’ve known for a while that there’s a comedy club in Halifax that has an open mic night.
About a month ago, I can’t remember the circumstances, but I started thinking about this absurd situation. The more I thought about it, the more absurd it became. Then I realized that I was laughing. Out loud. I had made myself laugh out loud. I went over to the computer and attempted to write out the routine. When I’d finished, I was quite pleased. I read it over, imagining what it might be like to do it in front of an audience, how I’d say it, what the reaction might be. It suddenly became a possibility.
After we got home from our errands, I sat down and typed out the routine. Again, I was pleased with how it turned out, how it played out in my head.
I’ve spoken and acted and sung in front of people many times before. Something about this, though, seems truly terrifying. I’m not saying that I would ever consider doing this as a career, nor am I saying that I am even going to do anything about the impulse.
I just don’t know.
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