That’s Not the Way
(I Like It)
another true story by Myq Kaplan
Last summer, I performed stand-up comedy as the opening act for KC and the Sunshine Band. I got a call that said the band needed support to round out their bill at the Cape Cod Melody Tent in Massachusetts, an outdoor venue under a giant tent that seats a couple thousand people around a rotating stage. I know what you’re thinking... Outdoors? Rotation? Tent? Triple perfect. The comedy gods have answered the prayers that I didn’t even know I was sending.
I’ll break down, piece by piece, how great for stand-up those circumstances were. First, it was outside. In the summertime. Which means daylight. Seems appropriate for a band comprised of sunshine, sure. However, as you might be aware, stand-up comedy is a nocturnal creature, thriving on a natural habitat of darkness where people lurk in anonymity and laugh from the comfort of their unknown hiding places. (I’d almost go as far to say that sunshine is kryptonite to the comedian, except for the fact that kryptonite at least has the syllable “nite” in it.) Stand-up in the light of day has all the authority, mystery, and power of a vampire in the light of day. It is uncomfortable, less impressive, and someone might burst into flames and die. (Depending on the particular vampire lore you subscribe to, but definitely uncomfortable.)
Next, the rotating stage. This means that at no point will the entire audience have the same experience. Here is a brief impression of such a crowd: “Which joke did you like best? My favorite was his butt while I wasn’t listening.” And this is a brief impression of a comedian in front of such a crowd: “Here’s the setup to a joke for you folks, and now here’s a punchline for you other folks who I wasn’t looking at and missed the beginning of the joke, and now back to the first people who are gone getting snacks.” At least the stage wasn’t rotating so fast that it made me ill, but then again, the physical comedy of my circular vomit might have been just the captivating phenomenon the audience was looking for.
Finally, the tent. Clowns perform under a tent, and what is a comedian but a clown with no makeup to hide behind? On this day, though, the rotating-stage-induced nausea likely rendered my face pale, and I imagine my nose was red from burning due to the aforementioned daylight shining like a beacon of wrong onto my face. The spinning stage was now set for this well-lit clown to entertain!
But first, before we get to that stage (the stage of the story that involves the stage), I was hanging out backstage pre-show and a guy came up to me and asked me what my schtick was. If I had known how the show was going to go at that point (which I could have guessed, but I’m atypically afflicted with an abnormal level of optimism, even in the face of perfectly predictable hindsight), I would have said something like, “My schtick is slow circular sadness.” But I didn’t know that, and I’d never actually thought about what my “schtick” was (I didn’t even know schticks existed after the 1950’s—I thought Jonas Salk discovered a vaccine for it, totally eliminating that schtickness, you’re welcome), so I said something like, “I don’t have a schtick, I tell jokes and stories about the things I think and do and see and hear,” you know, the boring truth? (Since then I have learned that that’s not the kind of answer people want, so in the future, I will answer such questions with, “My schtick? Why, it’s jewy vegan spiritual atheistic socially progressive word-loving fun times!” And people will say, “You mean gay? ‘Gay’ would be shorter and catchier.” And I will say, “You put the ‘mo-fo’ in homophobic,” thus proving my point as well as theirs.)
Since then I have also learned that the gentleman who made the schtick inquiry (schtinquiry? no) was, in fact, KC (of “KC and the Sunshine Band” fame). I didn’t recognize him because he had gained a lot of weight plus the fact that I never knew what he looked like to begin with. Point is, KC looked heavier than I imagined he had been previously. KC? More like KFC. Boom, got him, there’s my schtick (I really schtuck it to him). Of course, he could probably get me back by reminding me that he’s rich and famous (e.g. “Kid, you can’t even imagine all the expensive things I ate to get where I am today”). But that brings up the age-old question, “Would you really want to be really famous if you had to be really fat also?” For some people, it seems like the answer is a no-brainer and a yes-fatter—Fats Domino, Fat Albert, even people without “fat” in their name, like President Taft. More like President Taffy, am I right? (Possibly.) That guy is more famous for the fact that he was fat than the fact that he was president. The only thing I know for sure about him is that he was so fat, he got stuck in his bathtub. He might as well have been named President Bathtub, for how history remembers him. Or at least how I do. From history class.
So, after not providing an adequate description of my schtick to the star of the show that I didn’t recognize, it was time to get on out there and perform! I had never opened for a band like this before, and I found out I still kind of wasn’t. I was more opening for the intermission, which in turn would open for the band. Curveball! My job would be to warm up that crowd and get them raring to go for the break... e.g. “Are you guys ready for popcorn, bathroom, and stretching your legs? I can’t hear you! I said, are you ready for... oh, I can’t hear you because you’re already doing all those things right now, during my set? Great, I guess I got you warmed up even more quickly than needed. I am a professional!”
So, I was scheduled to go on at 8, perform for 25-30 minutes, and the band would then take the stage at 9. If you want help with the math, that means the intermission following my opening act is at least as long as my act, if not longer. If I made it to the full half hour, then intermission and I would be on equal footing--though I believe that I would receive more pay than it, in money if not respect. And well-deserved, as I believe I did entertain the audience at least slightly more than the intermission did. (Side note: has there ever been a band whose name was “Intermission”? If not, someone create it, for the one-time joke that would never get old, “Ladies and gentlemen, now it’s time for... Intermission!”)
And now, ladies and gentlemen, intermission is over, and we’re on to the main event, the moment you’ve all been waiting for... no, not an end to this story, but my performance! And THEN an end to this story! First, a brief impression of no one in the crowd: “I’m very excited to see KC, but I’m ALSO going to pay close attention to this opening comedian who I don’t know or care about.”
Did I mention the stage rotated? To be fair, it can be good for people to be extra-excited when they’re facing you, but less exciting while they’re waiting for you to rotate away so they can start talking, and the lowest level of excitement period if they’re excited to be facing you again so they can give you a thumbs down.
That’s right. A thumbs down, the politest of all heckles! It basically says, “I want to show you I disapprove but also not interrupt like a barbarian.” This is the message I got from an eight-year-old girl, who I imagine learned that non-barbaric (but still rude) behavior from her mother and grandmother, both of whom were loving our interaction, during which I asked how old she was (which is how I learned that she was eight—I don’t have some sort of pedophile radar age detector if you were wondering, or if I do, I wasn’t using it).
And that was probably the most fun I had while performing (that night, not ever)—talking to an eight-year-old girl who was giving me a thumbs down. Better than a middle finger up, said my still-persevering optimism. Better than when several people started yelling for KC and I tried to tell them that KC would be out at 9pm no matter how much they yelled for him before 8:30, and we compromised by having them yell less and me get off at 8:27. Better than someone yelling “Get Down Tonight!” which could have been a request for the KC song OR a request for action from me in relation to the stage (but probably both). Better than when I thought back to the call I got asking “Do you want to open for KC and the Sunshine Band?” and wondering how I would have answered if they had asked the real question, “Do you want to come make some money yelling at people who at best won’t care about you and at worst won’t want you there at all?” Probably I would have said yes, as I enjoy driving and yelling and making a living.
Or a dying, as it turns out. Or an undying, if you liked the vampire analogy. Whatever the case, every opportunity is a learning experience, even if the thing you learn is that sometimes the thing to do is NOT to say yes to everything. Or to spin around, vomit, and light yourself on fire. Or to get stuck in a bathtub and not be able to make the show. (That’s why Taft did it, I think—he was KC’s original opener, and the bathtub thing was his schtick.) Or to talk to a little girl if her parents are the only ones paying attention (definitely make sure they’re paying attention, especially if your pedophile age radar detector or their voice tells you that they’re eight).
The point is, I am now a better comedian for having this show under my belt (a belt that would not fit KC, mind you). For example, I now have KC on my resume. Additionally, I now have the capacity to respond to 8-year-old hecklers. And I finally know for reals what my schtick is: clown vampire. But most importantly, I now have the ability to say “No” to opportunities such as this that may arise in the future. (Of course, I don’t plan to USE that ability, because otherwise, where would I get stories like this?)
And that’s the way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I like it.
Myq Kaplan is a comedian working out of Boston and New York. Visit MyqKaplan.com or godzillionaire.blogspot.com.