Sad Fulfilled Clown
Last night I had a show at Punch restaurant/lounge. Too bad if you weren't there. You really missed out on some fruitful shit. During my set, I shared a story with the audience that I had previously told only to my shrink. Never to another human being. Yet, there I was--"on"--revealing one of my most traumatic childhood experiences to 30 or 40 people with whom I have basically no relationship. And this morning I woke up feeling not unlike I did when I was drinking...a lot: embarrassed, shocked and full of regret. Another "I can't believe I did that" moment had arrived, only this time its invitation wasn't bathed in JackDaniels and Sierra Nevada. It was the direct result of freedom from fear and total honesty.
The one place I feel most comfortable is on stage. I am not a stand-up comedian because I want to be famous and make a lot of money, tho that would be sweet. But time and time again, I choose to get up on that stage, sacrifice my pride, risk being rejected, agonize over material and give everything I've got to an audience, not because I like to but because I need to. Don't get me wrong, I feed off every morsel of fleeting fame and adoration. Applause and laugher are my crack. I will do literally anything to make someone laugh. However, my creative process isn't wholly altruistic either. Any comedian who tells you that they just like to make people laugh has their lips puckered neatly around your asshole and they're blowing a constant stream of hot air right up your poop shoot. Trust me, we get as good as we give. Thank God people find our neuroses and crooked observations funny. Otherwise we'd have nowhere to go except maybe therapy. I implore the laughers to please continue supporting our varying degrees of insanity and need. Love us for we cannot love ourselves. How else can you explain the fact that, after bombing, failing miserably and feeling unfunny and worthless, we get right back up there. Again and again.
I need that stage time. It allows me to reveal more of myself, to see where I'm at in this world, to say what I have to say. Up there with a microphone in my hand, I have free reign and no shame. None. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I actually like myself. So, for 5 minutes, 8 minutes, sometimes 15 minutes at a time, I am bulletproof. Comedians notoriously live and die by audience reaction, but I've learned (the HARD HARD way) that it really doesn't matter if I "kill" or not. I win either way. My success is determined by my willingness to Just Do It. While I wish I knew that when I started, and while I hope I can always feel the truth of that statement, I know I won't. There will come yet another time when I feel like a fucking loser because I wasn't funny enough. But the rare occasions of clarity, like last night, help keep me going. Kind of ironic, isn't it? That a craft so inherently self-centered and self-obsessed has taught me how to be less so?
Ah, speaking of selfish, the rain-soaked sidewalks of Manhattan are no place for a goddamn golf umbrella! So close your fucking Traveller's Insurance JP Morgan KPMG American Express Summer Classic '02 nylon tent of a weather shield or I'll do it for you. And when I'm done, I'll save even MORE space and store that massive umbrella right up your ass! Keep it in the suburbs, Westchester. We don't want your kind here.
posted by Shannon E. Ennis at
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
The one place I feel most comfortable is on stage. I am not a stand-up comedian because I want to be famous and make a lot of money, tho that would be sweet. But time and time again, I choose to get up on that stage, sacrifice my pride, risk being rejected, agonize over material and give everything I've got to an audience, not because I like to but because I need to. Don't get me wrong, I feed off every morsel of fleeting fame and adoration. Applause and laugher are my crack. I will do literally anything to make someone laugh. However, my creative process isn't wholly altruistic either. Any comedian who tells you that they just like to make people laugh has their lips puckered neatly around your asshole and they're blowing a constant stream of hot air right up your poop shoot. Trust me, we get as good as we give. Thank God people find our neuroses and crooked observations funny. Otherwise we'd have nowhere to go except maybe therapy. I implore the laughers to please continue supporting our varying degrees of insanity and need. Love us for we cannot love ourselves. How else can you explain the fact that, after bombing, failing miserably and feeling unfunny and worthless, we get right back up there. Again and again.
I need that stage time. It allows me to reveal more of myself, to see where I'm at in this world, to say what I have to say. Up there with a microphone in my hand, I have free reign and no shame. None. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I actually like myself. So, for 5 minutes, 8 minutes, sometimes 15 minutes at a time, I am bulletproof. Comedians notoriously live and die by audience reaction, but I've learned (the HARD HARD way) that it really doesn't matter if I "kill" or not. I win either way. My success is determined by my willingness to Just Do It. While I wish I knew that when I started, and while I hope I can always feel the truth of that statement, I know I won't. There will come yet another time when I feel like a fucking loser because I wasn't funny enough. But the rare occasions of clarity, like last night, help keep me going. Kind of ironic, isn't it? That a craft so inherently self-centered and self-obsessed has taught me how to be less so?
Ah, speaking of selfish, the rain-soaked sidewalks of Manhattan are no place for a goddamn golf umbrella! So close your fucking Traveller's Insurance JP Morgan KPMG American Express Summer Classic '02 nylon tent of a weather shield or I'll do it for you. And when I'm done, I'll save even MORE space and store that massive umbrella right up your ass! Keep it in the suburbs, Westchester. We don't want your kind here.
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