Standup (Raleigh, North Carolina) “It’s eight minutes of glory,” as Jami Gong, the owner and proprietor of Take Out Comedy says. A lot of people do standup comedy because they want to be famous. But there is the lie. I believe because I was born that makes me famous - implicitly. Makes all of us famous. Everyone was born to do something great. The world has its voices. All of them will not necessarily change the world. But because stories told through the words of others – make others who understand and listen to those stories – feel less alone. These stories help others believe they have a purpose. And encourage and help become the catalyst to loosen other’s tongues. Enter comedians. The mantra of a comedian is to be as Jami says, “Shameless.” Standup comedians are not insane. Not all the time. Just in that eight minutes. Where all the blood rushes to our heads and the adrenaline swells in our veins. There we are – female and male alike – alone on a stage, a spotlight, and a microphone. Then and there before an audience, we share. Everything. No shame. We make ourselves naked. And you laugh. Or not. Both are piercing. Maybe Jesus or Mohammed should have been standup comedians and focused more on “killing” their perspective audiences. Instead of their fans focusing on killing each other. Or sadly maybe They were. But their fans who did the translations over centuries had no sense of humor.
I always prepare for a standup open mic the morning before the tryouts. Someone listening through the door of the bathroom would think I am having a long, drawn out conversation with myself. In the shower, I like to hear my own words bounce off the shower wall. I try different words, deliveries, and I am always trying hard to clarify, purify, and shorten anything I say. I am doing standup not only to tell my story but to become a better writer. That instead of writing ten words to get the emotional, dramatic punch – I want to write three. The faster, fiercer a writer you are the more stories you can tell. And because I usually live day to day with a hundred ideas popping up with only one or two making it out on paper – I needed to learn to write tight. Standup comedy perfects that. “Strippers and pole dancing in Hong Kong is free, did you know that?” I start out absent mindedly re-lathering my head with shampoo for the second time. “Yeah, but in the United States you have to pay and wear sweatpants.” I shake my head not liking the flow. Not believing people would understand the sweatpants reference. I think again about reorder and start to wash my armpits again. I also use standup comedy as my own therapy. Because in Hong Kong, therapists are rare – I needed a way to release the stress. I learned this in Manila when I almost melted down completely. I had to get my frustrations and failures in a verbal form or it would become toxic. Over lunch, I found an empty office and shut the door. I take out my Blackberry and began to speak into it as if it were my virtual audience. “I am Jackson. I live in Hong Kong but I am originally from Alabama. Man, the cultural differences are huge. Paid sex is legal in Hong Kong…” I push the stop button on my Blackberry to stop the recording and shake my head. I hit the trash can icon. All day long I am delivering my self-made punch lines to everyone who will listen. I let loose on the women that work at the Medlin-Davis Dry Cleaners on Cary Parkway. I told one to Kristie who ran the cash register at Bruger’s Bagels. Now here I was standing in front of the two story brick building called Charlie Goodnights. I walk into the lobby and at the cash register I asked the lady manning the door are they holding the open mic yet. She nods. “They are already inside.” And when I walk up the stairs, I see the photographs and autographs of the greats – George Carlin, Jerry Seinfeld, Charlie Murphy, and my personal inspiration – Dave Chappelle. That’s when my stomach starts somersaulting.
I open the door and there are dinner tables everywhere. And one of the managers is at the door. He is without any emotion. “The show doesn’t start until another thirty minutes,” he says. Then a short black guy rounds the corner. “Hey Jackson! You back this week?” He pulls me through the door. And motions to the emotionless manager, “He is with me.” I clear my throat and put on a big smile. “Hey Kenney. Yeah. I have been practicing.” Just then one of the new guys makes his nerve shattering step by step walk up the stairs to take the stage. He goes near to the microphone and struggles to remove it from its stand. I go quiet and walk close to Kenney. “I want to audition.” I mouth. He nods. “Okay. No problem. Take an available slot.” The comedian on the stage begins and I move to the corner of the room where the professional and amateur comedians sit on bar stools. “So the other day I got behind this old lady…” the new talent starts. But then he stops, “Oops. What I meant to say, the other day this old lady got behind me…” And he begins again. All of us are silent. The quiet is deafening. I can almost hear my heartbeat. After too much silence except for the comedian on the stage, a voice comes on like God overhead. “Okay, that’s enough.” And just as quickly, the comedian twirls around trying to find the microphone stand to replace the mic. He walks over to us. And he is mumbling to anyone who will listen, “Why did they cut me off? I wasn’t finished yet.” The voice of God comes on again, “Okay, next.” And the stage sits empty. Just a microphone and a spotlight. The voice of God comes on again. “Who is going next?” I had barely made contact with the barstool but I stand and make my walk to the stage. I begin to jog a little to get my heart rate up and build up my energy level. I pounce on the microphone stand and rip off the mic at the top and move the stand out of the way to the back of the stage. I put the microphone on my chin as I was taught. “What’s up! I am Jackson. I live in Hong Kong but I am originally from Alabama…” I begin. I am on the stage but it feels like I am blind. The spotlight hides everyone from view. And its just you and the tops of the first tables and blinding yellow light. And I can feel the cold of the microphone on the whiskers on my chin. And deep in the back
there is a man looking at a laptop with his own microphone listening – seemingly uninterested. All I have practiced. All the words seemed to have been wiped out of my memory and I pause to find a word to kick start me. And this pause seems like an eternity. But then the words pop into memory: cultural differences. “Yeah the cultural differences between Hong Kong and here in the States are so huge…” I keep talking and finally not wanting to be told that my time is up, I stop myself. “I am Jackson. That’s all the time I got. You have been a great audience.” Then I turn, find the microphone stand, replace my mic, and I am off the stage. I start down the steps and finally the voice of God says, “Thanks.” A pregnant pause. “Okay. Who is going next?” the voice of God asks. I get to the corner where all the comedians are. I see some guys from the last couple of weeks. One in particular who is originally from Pakistan who pretends on stage to be an extremist terrorist with emotional attachments to this life. His name is Bilal. He gives me a fist bump. “Good stuff Jackson.” “Thanks man. Good to see you.” And I take a bar stool. And let out a big breath of air. Then I turn to him, “Are you going to be on tonight?” He shrugs. “I don’t know yet. They told me I didn’t need to audition so I guess maybe so.” God’s voice comes back on, “Okay if nobody is coming up. I would like to thank all of you coming out. I will talk to you shortly.” And I hear a pop where someone switches off the microphone above us. The barmaid comes by. “You want anything sweetie?” “A hug,” I say trying to relieve the nervousness. She laughs. “Oh, poor baby. I will give you a hug.” And she drives her body into me for a soft embrace. She pulls away. “Now how about a beverage?” “Margaritas are on special tonight, right?” “Yep, but its cheaper to get a pitcher.” “Okay count me in.” She writes something down on a pad of paper. “Sure thing.”
Suddenly Kenney appears. He has a list with him. He goes to one of the other guys I didn’t see perform. “Hey man, come with me.” And they walk to the back together. Bilal turns to me, “How about you man? Why did you have to audition?” “I always audition. I need the experience. And I want to try out new stuff.” “So you think you are on the show?” “I don’t know.” And another comedian comes up and strikes up a conversation with the group. I don’t really listen. I am still getting over my nerves. Finally the house lights dim. The barmaid brings me my pitcher of margarita and a glass with salt around the rim. All of the new talent has been talked to – that I can see – except me. I pour me a glass and drink it down. I shrug my shoulders. And I accept my fate. “Not this time. But that’s okay. Just means I need to practice more,” I say to myself. And like magic, once I think I am not going onstage, my heart rate slows and I feel relaxed. And there is nothing greater than watching a live standup show for free. And I always watch intently to learn from the others. Customers start taking their tables with drinks in hand. Suddenly, Kenney shows up in front of me looking down on his list. “Jackson, you are on tonight. You cool with that?” “Yeah man,” I say just as my heart starts pumping wildly and I feel sweat starting to drip down my armpits. He pats me on the shoulder. “Cool, man. Cool.” Bilal touches his arm. “How about me?” Kenney is honest. “Not sure yet. I will get back to you.” And suddenly Kenney is gone. I down my margarita. And pour another. But I wait to drink any of it. I remember the other rule of standup: never do your performance drunk or high. If you kill, you will think that it was because you were drunk or high. And not because you are funny. That’s why so many comedians get hooked on drugs and alcohol. Finally, all the tables are full. The lights are completely down. Then suddenly, the spot light comes on bright, brighter than it has been all night. And the host Doug comes on stage. “Hey everybody! Welcome to Charlie Goodnights…” And he begins his
introduction bit. And the audience is roaring. Even some of us – even though we heard most of his bits last week – it’s the style in which he does them – makes us chuckle. My heart is pounding out of control. I am sweating. My throat is dry. The worst thing about going onstage is – not knowing the order you are going onstage. You could be next. You could be last. But at all times, you got to be ready. And you only have 10 or 15 seconds to feed off the energy level left over from the last comedian if they are good or not. “…well, let me get off this stage and get you laughing more. Our next act comes all the way from Hong Kong. Please give it up for Jackson…” And he puts the mic back on the stand and starts to applaud. I sit there for a second. As if everything is surreal. Then Bilal hits me and leans into me, “Stand up!” And I do. And like before, I jog to the stage. I remember taking each step and its like I feel every foot fall. And there is Doug watching my face. Seeing if I can do this. I smiled a big smile and he puts out his hand for me to shake. Not only do I shake it. I pat him on the back and say, “Thanks man.” Then I tear after the microphone. I remove it and haul the stand to the brick wall at the back. “How are you doing tonight?” I ask with the microphone firmly on my chin. Some clapping is still going on and some respond, “Good!” Someone yells out, “Fucking great!” “Wow that guy is excited,” I say. “Well I am Jackson. I live in Hong Kong but I originally come from Alabama. You know in Hong Kong pole dancing is free and paid sex is legal? Crazy. And here pole dancing is paid and paid sex is…” And I hold it and look down on a beautiful girl on the front row who is not even paying attention. “Marriage...”
Written by GS Jackson, © 2009 LOL Entertainment Group, LLC (USA) Limited (HKG)