Standup Comity
There is that famous metaphor, E.B. White’s: “Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it.” The profession of standup, the idea of “the comic” in the minds of the average person, exists in a similar state of delicate homeostasis. To be a comic at a party, at a bar on a night you aren’t working, is to make small talk under a giant hovering footnote, a looming scalpel. Friendly, inquisitive people invariably inquire, always revealing some benign or cancerous misconception. “So you, like, think of all that stuff on the spot?” “Do you like when hecklers make the show better?” “Do you write all your own stuff?” “Is [insert well-known but hacky standup comedian] the funniest comic right now?” The comic can be academic, explaining the profession to death, qualifying terms and remedying misconceptions, or she can joke around and be funny. But for reasons that are both revealing and mysterious, she can rarely do both. She is forced to decide. The comic is the frog. And presented with the option of slicing herself open, or hopping around, she sulks into a quiet, unjustified indignation. (“Nobody gets what I do…” ) No one really wants to see what goes on behind the curtain, even if everyone asks to peek.
