My dear friend, Allison-Rose DeTemple (also the designer of these gems: www.breedspecificgifts.com Christmas in April, anyone?) snagged tickets to see Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers at The Williamsburg Music Hall. Perfect! There is an open mic at Legion Bar at 5 and I thought I had the perfect little evening planned out... better than Home Depot, or any Will Farrell movie since "Old School."
Mid-afternoon I fielded a call from Ms. DeTemple asking if I wanted to go to Queens Chinatown for $25 massages, her treat. I should mention that part of the reason I am trying to get away from quite so very much cabaret is that it takes a huge toll on your body. All those high kicks in high heels with a high ball of whiskey can do a number on your alignment, so a massage sounded vunderbar, and a free massage sounded even vunderbar-er.
Still, I was forced to decline. I had a commitment to stand-up and nothing, no, nothing was to stand in my way! Not even a free massage. So, off I trod for 2.5 minutes of rambling in the back of Legion a bar followed by an or and a half of my idol on the banjo.
The MTA, however, had a different idea entirely. Now, if I were to make a list of areas in which I excel, I would certainly not include time management. I would definitely include consumption of and the ability to sleep with my friends and expect that everything will go back to normal, but definitely not time management. I live in a craft den of glue guns, chalk boards, paint brushes, half finished costumes and no shelves, so It is a wonder I make it anywhere at all, let alone on time.
I may have provided the bread for this story of running epically late sandwich, but The MTA certainly brought on the meat. Pickles and mayo are questionable.
There I am waiting for giant sausage link of a Q train to arrive and whisk me away to Williamsburg, when I discover there are no trains coming to my stop. None. N'er ye a train for the rest of the weekend. My only transportation option was to walk to the next stop and jump on a shuttle bus to Atlantic Pacific where I could get a train to somewhere, assuming that train is not under construction, as well. Sparing you the details, (there was rage and veggie fried rice, to be sure) this process took an overwhelming hour just to get to Atlantic Pacific, defeating any hope I had of getting to the mic on time, on time-ish, or even on time enough that I could eyelash bat my way into jumping on the end of the line up.
Chinatown massages, it was (hello, 7 train) but I was wracked with guilt for missing the mic. How could I have panned so poorly? Been so irresponsible? How could I lay still for a hour when there was stand-up somewhere in the city, and I was missing it!
All those hours on the train gave me plenty of time to consider what, exactly, I was willing to sacrifice for this challenge, and even more so, for my career. This entire challenge is based on the supposition that one year of hard work (after four years of equally hard, but somewhat less streamlined work, to be fair) will put me in a place where comedy, not burlesque, performance art or working the coat check at beer promotions, could be my bread winner. I couldn't help but consistently return to the question: what was this year of my life worth to me? I had already declined dinner invitations, fielded angry texts and phone calls from friends who were convinced that I was over our friendship, or at least didn't value it anymore, and stayed four hours or more deep into the single digit hours of the night at a mic in pursuit of seven minutes, and that's just since I took the challenge. I have broken fevers onstage, missed major holidays with my family, ended relationships with women I loved I pursuit of this dream of performing.
What's more, I don't think I am anywhere near special for having done so. One of my dear childhood friends routinely clocks 100 hour weeks at his job as an architect.
What is one year of my life even worth? One hour? Pardon the leap towards the existential, but when you've been on a train for over 90 minutes on a Saturday on your way to a mic with a drink minimum and the promise of 180 seconds in front of a lackluster-at-best crowd, who will silently think to themselves "that's funny" before emitting even a chuckle, the gears in your head start to turn.
The truth of it is, I don't mind it, any of it, really. Sure, I wish things were different sometimes. I wish I could go on a vacation without fearing being called in for an audition or booking a show that makes me cancel it last minute. (I might mention the all expense paid Alaskan Cruise I had to pay not to go on because of an audition at an improv studio that I didn't book. As my manager said to me at the time, "do you have a career in Alaska? No. So stay here and do your job.") I would like to someday order a round of shots for my friends and say, "this round's on me!" without doing math before cautiously putting down my debit card in fear of overdraft fees. I would like to have a wife and give her nice things and take her to nice restaurants, not because we know the bartender and he will totally hook us up, but because she wants to go there. And someday, I believe I will have those things. Right now, however, I don't. I have 180 seconds to get better at a bit that may, one day, go into a 10 minute bringer set that will get me noticed by the owner of nonsense and poppycock club, that will be seen by a schmucky guy with pull at Comedy Central, who will give me 22 minutes not to fuck up in a comedy special that will run sporadically for a few years and may or may not ever lead to a substantial chunk of money that allows me to live alone without jumping on craigslist to look for an extra gig or two to make sure that I can fly home for Christmas without "mentioning" to my dad how expensive airfare is these days. Ooh, boy.
Someday, I will be a thousandaire! But I have to say, for now, I don't mind being where I am. Sure, I wish I could order martinis at will, but I can order them from time to time, which is something I couldn't always say.
In the wise words of my father, "all you can do is point yourself in the right direction and keep moving forward. It is not up to you to decide how long your journey will last."
So, onto Steve Martin! Onto greatness! Onto a free massage in Chinatown and talking my friend into giving me a ride back to my house in the ghetto with two roommates, one bathroom here even the trains sometimes do not dare to go.
Appropriate that you were having these moments of open mic self-reflection on a day you were seeing Steve Martin. If you haven't read his memoir, "Born Standing Up," it's really great - covers the development of his stand-up act and general autobiography leading up to his leaving it all behind for movies. These blog posts of yours are reminiscent.
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