By Ron Tite, Guest Author

From Brad:   Ron approached me online with this story, and the absolute truth of it cracked me up.  I’ve done so many shows similar to this, and the pain is still fresh.  Want to peak behind the scenes to see and feel how comedians think?  you’ll  love this article.    Enjoy!   — Brad

While we all have our favorite artists or genres, I’ve always felt that true lovers of music simply like good music. Crappy, lowest common denominator country is not something I have Faith Hill in, but good country – Johnny Cash, Willie

Nelson, and on occasion, Merle Haggard – is certainly worth stepping off thetractor to listen to. Most Glam Rock, on the other hand, is more glam than rock but on the right day, at the right time, I will channel my inner-Oshawa, throw my head back, close my eyes, and sing along with Jersey Jon as he proudly proclaims, “I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. I’m wanted (wanted!) dead or alive.”

I can do that because music can be neatly placed into categories. Those

categories and the artists who define them can be accessed at the appropriate

time or when I’m in the appropriate mood. A road trip on an open highway with

friends? That usually features Nirvana, not Norah Jones. Chilling out with a glass

of wine in a sea of candles? Well, that’s more of a Bach moment than a Beck

moment. That’s the best part of music. We can like songs, bands or singers but

we don’t have to like them all the time.

Sadly, comedy is not like that. But it should be.

To the average Joe, if you’re a comedian, you’re not a heavy metal comedian or

a country comedian or a jazz comedian, you’re simply a comedian. People

expect you to be funny at all times, at all events, on all occasions, regardless of

your strengths, niche, style, or format.

For some events, it’s more appropriate to hire musical comedians, for example,

than stand-ups. Other times, improvisers aren’t appropriate because the event

actually should feature a stand-up.

Even if a stand-up is the right choice, there are countless kinds of stand-ups just

like there are countless styles of music. Choosing the wrong type of stand up is

like selecting a Marilyn Manson tune for a wedding procession (although I’m sure

there are Goth brides out there who would like nothing more than to walk down

the aisle to “This is the Shit”).

Maybe it was growing up with Bill Cosby albums and impersonating the booming

voice of The Lord as he spoke to Noah. Perhaps it was some constant personal

need for attention that complemented the fact that I was the youngest and most

spoiled child in my family. It could have even been a deeper psychological thing

that can only be explained by Dr. Phil. Whatever it was, I chose part of my career

to be in comedy. I’m a comedian and I have spent some of the past 11 years in

clubs, on campuses, and in front of corporate audiences simply making people

laugh.

It certainly wasn’t something high school guidance counselors suggested I

pursue but I absolutely love stand-up. When it goes well, it’s like crack – it’s

highly addictive, incredibly enjoyable, and you’ll do anything to get your next hit.

When it doesn’t go well, it’s like… ahem… crack – that deep dark underbelly part

of crack where you lose sleep, lose weight, look like shit, and wonder how you

could be so stupid to get involved in something so soul-destroying to begin with.

Luckily, the good nights have far outweighed the bad ones.

I love writing exploring thoughts and simply finding the funny. I love that I can go

up on stage with a plan in hand and then completely abandon it because, hey, I

felt like it. Maybe deep down I even superficially enjoy it because it’s a more

interesting response to dreadful cocktail conversation starters like “Soooo, what

do you do?” Most of all, though, I think I most like the just-in-time feedback.

You want ROI? Choose comedy. Spend 2 minutes on stage and you immediately

know what your return on investment is. Simply put, either they’re laughing or

they’re not. There’s no need for an HR-mandated, 360-degree-feedback,

quarterly review with your boss answering lame questions like “…and where do

you see yourself in 5 years?” (People should just use comedian Mitch Hedberg’s

response to this question: “Celebrating the 5th Anniversary of you asking me that

question”). You don’t need to track Q3 sales data or year over year earnings per

share or pre / post brand awareness figures to know whether you’re doing your

job or not. If the crowd is responding to your performance with laughter and

applause, consider your contract extended. If they’re not, well, you might want to

think of the end of your set as a temporary pink slip. And don’t let the mic stand

hit you in the ass on the way out.

There are no politics to navigate. No mutli-tasking to distract you. No offsite team

building exercises where you’re asked to catch a 400-pound office admin in a

trust fall. And you’ll never hear a comedian say, “Well, I left the audience a voice

mail but they haven’t got back to me yet.” It’s you, the audience and your

microphone. That’s it.

All that being said, over the years I’ve learned that there are thousands of

variables that can lead to a successful gig and thousands more that can lead an

unsuccessful one. Choosing the right type of comedian is just the most basic.

Countless other details can be the difference between a standing ovation and an

experience that can only be described as the longest 30 minutes of your life

where you question your sanity, your talent, and why God selected you as the

one to go down in a ball of flames in front of 100 strangers at a charity golf

tournament.

Like financial institutions, experienced comedians attempt to identify the

variables and manage their risk. When I get briefed for a gig, I always ask myself

“Given what I know, will I kill or will I die?” Only in comedy is it better to kill, than

to die. If there’s a greater chance that I will die, I tend to say no. While the show

must go on, I’d rather not have my self-confidence shattered to be a part of it.

Sure, Neitzche said, “That which does not kill me makes me stronger” but clearly,

he was never asked to MC a corporate event where half the company had just

been downsized. Besides, he clearly didn’t know the comedic difference between

dieing and killing.

Admittedly, some calls are easy to say no to. I once got a call that literally went

like this:

“Hi, Mr. Tite. I’m looking for a comedian and someone gave me your name. The

event is next week and I will need you to roam around interacting as a court

jester for about 3 hours. You don’t happen to have your own court jester

costume, do you?”

Are you kidding me? A court jester? And he expected me to have my own court

jester costume? I wouldn’t improvise as a court jester for 3 hours if I literally was

the last comic standing.

Well, that’s what I wanted to say. What I chose to say was,

“It sounds really fun but I’m not really a character comedian and my adult-onset

asthma limits my ability to roam for extended periods of time. Perhaps I can give

you some names…”

There are comedians I know who would not only be brilliant roaming as a court

jester, but they would actually love doing it, too. Thankfully, I’m not one of them.

Because of calls like this, I have developed three simple rules to ensure that I

don’t even entertain the idea of doing a gig that may end up as my worst gig

ever.

Rule #1: No Golf Tournaments.

They always seem harmless enough, but trust me golf gigs are not for me. First

of all, I hate golf. I don’t play it. I don’t watch it. And aside from knowing what

Tiger Woods looks like from American Express commercials, I don’t know a hell

of a lot about it. Because of this lack of familiarity with the sport, any humourous

links (pardon the pun) will lack credibility and I’ll be seen as an outsider.

Strike one (or whatever the appropriate golf term is).

Secondly, let’s survey how the day generally unfolds. The crowd is usually 100 or

so over weight middle management men who told their boss they were doing

“charity work” simply to spend a workday on the golf course. It’s not that they

don’t care about the charity; it’s just not something they choose to support

outside of the particular event. They spend from 8 until 4 playing, drinking,

dehydrating, and sun burning. They bug each other. They challenge each other.

And along the way, they make countless jokes that somehow manage to

manipulate the term “Best Ball” into “Best Balls”. By the time they reach the

clubhouse for their free steak dinner, the testosterone in the air is so thick it

would make Chuck Norris gag.

Somewhere after the steak but before the coffee, a comedian is supposed to

take the stage – which is never a stage at all – to entertain them and to hand out

door prizes that include a sleeve of golf balls and a box of golf shirts that have

been printed with the lead sponsor’s logo on the side. After the golfers been fed,

they simply want to leave so the only way to get their attention is to stoop to their

level of “mine is bigger than yours” by commenting on their appearance and

making fun of what happened on the 4th ladies tee, even though you weren’t

there.

As if these event circumstances weren’t enough, you can’t even accept an

assignment like this out of respect for the almighty cash-grab. Being charity

events, they never have money to pay you. Call me cold, call me insensitive, call

me selfish, but I’d rather donate my time to an event where people actually

appreciate the value I bring.

Can some comedians do it? Yes. There are a number of talented comics who

make a killing doing the golf tournament circuit. They love the sport, they

appreciate the complementary green fees, and even if they don’t support the

camaraderie that develops over 18 holes, like true professionals, they certainly

pretend like they do. As far as I’m concerned though, when it comes to golf, I’d

rather not even tee off. I’ll only end up in the sand thingy without the club that you

use in the sand thingy.

Rule #2: No Christmas Parties.

“Hey, I know what would be a hoot,” some admin assistant tasked with

organizing the company holiday party will say. “Let’s get a comedian!” Yea.

That’s a splendid idea. While you’re at it, why don’t you bring in a motivational

speaker to deliver the metaphor of Santa and his elves as a high performing,

self-directed work team? They’ll love it. Add in updated, spiritually generic

Christmas carols to illustrate change management and you’ve got yourself the

best holiday kick-off since the CEO was convinced to play Ebenezer Scrooge

while giving out the year-end bonuses way back in ’82. Bah humbug.

Still, I guess I can see why the notion of a comedian is appealing for holiday

parties. The mere thought of spending a festive evening with the people you’re

forced to share a cubicle with all year clearly calls for desperate measures. Hate

the way Frank from Finance whistles when he walks past your desk? Now picture

him wearing his church suit and a blinking Rudolph tie with mistletoe taped to his

forehead. Yup, I’d be reaching out for a little help too. Besides, you have to fill the

time with something. If there aren’t scheduled activities for people to participate

in, they might just resort to actually getting to know each other and that can be

very dangerous to morale. So scheduled activities it is.

When the self-nominated organizing committee convenes to give you some

background, you realize that they don’t know the first thing about organizing a

social function at all. They start by proudly going through their plans as if they’ve

been working on the Oscars. If I compiled all of the briefings and plans I’ve heard

into one master party template for control purposes, it would kinda look like this:

1. The function will take place in the ‘Rico Suave’ banquet room at the

Comfort Inn near the airport.

2. Everyone is encouraged to show their spirit by wearing red, green or

whatever the official colours of Kwanza are.

3. The night will start off with a complementary cocktail party (2 drink ticket

maximum) in the hallway outside of the banquet room so the elaborate

balloon decorations can be kept a secret until the very last minute.

4. People will be brought in, seated, and treated to a chicken dinner with

frozen carrots, canned mash potatoes and gravy bought at Ikea.

5. Wine will be served and it will taste like something you strip antiques with.

The VP made the wine himself and even added customized labels with the

company’s logo and the line “Happy Holidays. ‘Yule’ tide things over with

even more sales in the New Year!”

6. As dessert is served, you will go on. You will do a 30-minute show that will

be interrupted with the crashing of plates being cleared and random bursts

of “I’ll have decaf. Do you have decaf? No, I want decaf.”

7. After you’re done, the DJ (receptionist’s nephew) will plug in his Ipod and

people will dance until midnight. At that point, they will be kicked out

because going past midnight costs an extra 200 bucks.

Although you’ve been hired as a professional, the organizers will attempt to do

your job by presenting suggested material. “Oh!, you can use this!”, they’ll say.

They’ll reminisce about the time that someone played a trick on Helen. They’ll

bring up the time that Bruce sent a fax to the wrong client. They’ll bring up every

nickname and each drunken sales excursion that inspired it. Regardless of the

content or individuals involved, these stories will always be punctuated with the

phrase, “oh, and we laughed…!”

Here’s a tip. If anyone ever says, “oh, and we laughed…”, they won’t. When it

comes time for the show, you’ll get the details wrong, mispronounce the name, or

not realize that the hilarious event provided actually ended someone’s career

with a hushed sexual harassment suit. The crowd will either give you absolute

silence or rabid mumblings of, “Who’s this asshole?”

Even if your material is gold, you still won’t win. These people don’t want to be

fed. They don’t want to be given silly awards. And they certainly don’t want to be

entertained. What they want to do is get drunk and muster up the courage to flirt

with the hot new girl in marketing. The only thing standing between a bad dinner

and a night of blue balls is you. At the lowest point of your career, you’ll realize

that you’re not a comedian; you’re a cock block. And I don’t wish that holiday

wish on anyone.

Rule #3: No costumes

Let’s see, you want me to dress up like a Taco? I don’t think so.

Following these rules is pretty important but it’s not exclusive to comedy.

Remember the time you had an office affair that ended badly and you swore that

you’d “never-ever-for-as-long-as-you-live” have a relationship with someone you

work with again? You probably realize that some workplace affairs could be fun

but given the horrible memories of the last one, you’d rather not entertain the

idea. So you make a rule and promise not to break it. You’re not driven by

wisdom. You’re driven by fear.

As am I. I have had some horrible gigs and like you I’d rather not put myself

through the stress of another one. So I always follow my rules.

Why? Simple: when a horrible gig happens, a number of horrific psychological

and physiological events occur.

1. The warning. Whether it’s the mood of the room, the bad lighting on the

stage, the level of inebriation in the audience or something else that you

can’t quite put your finger on, you know the second you walk into the room

that death is imminent. Through a series of messages shot across your

synapses, your body calmly says, “Prepare to die.” (I don’t know about

other people but the voice I always hear is Patrick Stewart’s). You start to

sweat, you become fidgety, and like a guy on a blind date who realizes

he’s not going to get any, you begin to frantically rack your brain for ways

to save it.

2. Plan B. You’re brilliant. You’re funny. You’ve saved other gigs so why not

this one? You come up with Plan B, which is always resorting to old bits

that are tested and true. In the business, they’re called your “gold

material”. All you try to do is make them relevant to this particular gig with

weak segues and out-of-left-field introductions. ”Can you believe it’s June

already?” you say before launching into your bit on Tim Hortons. “There’s

a June that works at my neighbourhood Tim Hortons. They make Tim Bits.

Don’t they know that Tim Horton was killed in a car crash? Do we really

need to name them Tim Bits? Little bits if Tim? That’s gross.”

3. The clamoring. You’re on stage executing Pan B and it’s not working. In

the places where past audiences have responded with laughter, this one

doesn’t respond at all. You hear absolute silence, a subtle cough from the

back of the room or the sound of a chair being subtly scraped across the

floor. Your mind clamors to simultaneously analyse why your gold isn’t

good enough and what else you can use to get the room back, while you

attempt to roll on so the crowd doesn’t see you sweat. They do.

4. The Cancer Face. On the hit show Party of Five, one characters, Charlie,

is ill and he tells his family to not show their cancer face – the look they

give him that clearly shows they feel sorry for him. That’s the look

comedians get from an audience mid-horrible gig. The crowd doesn’t want

to see you fail but they know you’re right in the middle of doing so. They’re

witnessing a wreck happen in real time and for the first time in their life,

they’d rather not rubber neck to see it go down. To protect themselves,

they simply avoid eye contact. They stare at the floor. They stare at the

wall. They look at their watches thinking, “ I know this dude is going to flat

line.” You see the Cancer Face. You resign.

5. Resignation. It’s gone. It’s not coming back. While your mouth chatters

on without you, your brain is only thinking one thing: How soon can I leave

this stage and will I have any dignity left when I do?

6. Inner weeping. Ever hear of the Imposter Syndrome? It’s when you

dismiss your past accomplishments and credit them to simply fooling

people. When inner weeping begins, you realize that you’ve been caught.

You’re not a comedian. Who are you trying to fool? You’re simply one of

those god-awful people who tend to be funny at kitchen parties

My worst gig ever was not a golf tournament and it wasn’t a Christmas party.

Along the way, there were even gigs that I thought were going to be my worst gig

ever but actually turned out ok.

I was once called on to host a show that the Second City produced for the

Ontario Mood Disorder Association. That’s right, mood disorders. Now when

you’re performing for people with mood disorders, the show can either go very

well…. or NOT very well. It all depends on what mood the crowd is in. The

attendees for this event didn’t make me nervous though. It was the actual name

of the show.

“Laughing like Crazy”.

As the host, I was expected to open the night by announcing to a crowd of

people sensitive to mental illness, “Hello, everyone. Welcome to Laughing Like

Crazy!”

That’s like offering to buy a round of drinks at an AA show. Or doing visual gags

for the CNIB. It wouldn’t work.

But it did.

They were a lovely audience, the show was a hit, and even though I thought it

was going to be my worst gig ever, it wasn’t.

Then there was the time that I organized the talent for a Child Find Ontario show.

This noble audience dedicated themselves to an organization that attempts to

find missing kids. When we gathered in the green room before the show, a

comedy duo I brought in proudly told me they would be performing a song called,

‘There are Too Many Children in the World.”

Yikes. It wouldn’t work. This would surely be my worst gig ever.

But it wasn’t. The show and most importantly, the song were a huge hit. Being

the talented performers they are, my friends sold the hell out of the song and

even had the crowd singing along during the chorus. They loved it.

No, my worst gig ever was not at Christmas, it was not at a golf tournament, and

it was not before a sensitive not-for-profit audience. It was funny enough, on April

Fool’s Day. It was the first of April and I was the fool.

It all started when I got a call from a friend and very talented comedic colleague,

James Cunningham. We often trade gigs when conflicts arise and for James, this

was one of those times.

It was a finance gig. 30 minute set. A fee that was below my average rate. I

wasn’t booked on the date and $some is better than $zero. So I said yes.

About a week before the gig, I discovered that it wasn’t a finance gig at all. It was

a 60th Birthday party for a guy that worked in Finance. Great. I had never even

thought of adding birthday parties to my Do Not Accept Rules because quite

frankly, who would ever want to hire a professional to insincerely roast someone

that they didn’t know on the day that celebrated the guest of honour’s birth? As it

turns out, some people did.

I was sent the distributed invite and I realized that not only was it a 60th birthday

party but it was a 60th birthday party taking place at an Italian restaurant. Lovely.

That probably meant that there would be no stage or mic and punch lines would

most likely be interrupted by wait staff or other restaurant patrons looking for the

bathrooms. So, like any responsible comedian, I didn’t write specific material

about the guy because a) I didn’t really know him and b) the set would probably

go much better if I just spritzed. (Spritzing is when a comedian simply talks to the

audience and makes stuff up based on the conversations. It’s kinda “just in time”

comedy.) I thought it would be safer to simply engage in hilarious banter all

based on the question, “And how do YOU know John?”

I arrived at the location and immediately had a heart attack. What I thought was

going to be an Italian eatery was actually a wedding banquet hall filled with 300

people, a live band, highland dancers, and a stage. I couldn’t have spritzed with

a crowd that size. In my head at the back of the room, I quickly began to adapt

pre-performed material that would be appropriate and not glaringly repurposed.

No problem. I certainly had done that before.

Looking out at the crowd, I then realized something I had contemplated but

admittedly, not given enough thought to. It was a minor point in my conversation

with the wife that I thought I could overcome but given the roadblock that had

been placed before me and given the visual of the audience before me, I knew it

was going to be almost impossible.

To get the best laughs, a comedian must know their audience and then look for

things that everyone has in common so your material is relevant to as many

people as possible. That’s why club comedians often use jokes on relationships –

it’s one thing that all of us, regardless of socioeconomic or geographic

background, have in common.

On this night, my audience was comprised of thirds.

It was 1/3 family who ranged in age from 2 months to 92 years old.

It was 1/3 powerful C-level finance executives from Bay Street who wore

expensive suits and big gold watches.

And it was 1/3 actual working farmers from a town north of Toronto where the

guest of honour had been raised and still had property.

I had done rural audiences. I routinely performed for corporations. And I had

often done clubs with a range of ages. But never had I done them at the same

time. The clash of cultures was very apparent. Hugo Boss clashed with GWG.

Silk with polyester. Post-secondary education with the school of hard knocks.

Trying to find something they had in common was going to be like trying to DJ for

a Beverly Hillbillies reunion cast party.

As I was scrambling to make a link between my material on Tim Horton’s and this

guy’s life, I was given the schedule of events around my slot. Both sons would

speak with the second one ending his comments by introducing me. I was to do

30 minutes and then the band would take the stage. Seemed harmless enough.

The first son brought his 2 month old son on stage with him and proceeded to

say some very touching words about how he hoped he could be as good a father

to his son as his birthday-celebrating dad had been to him. The second son took

the stage as the crowd was still wiping tears from their eyes from touching,

sensitive son #1.

Well, that ended quickly.

Son #2 started his speech with the line, “Well, I’m not the son. I’m the step-son.”

Great. Way to kill a room, man. As the gathered guests and I soon discovered,

this was actually the most touching part of his speech. He continued, “Some of

you know that I had a difficult year…”

After this comment, I literally heard anuses puckering as the assembled friends,

family, and colleagues mumbled, “Oh, he’s not going to…”

Yes, he was. He continued with a speech that went something like this:

“As some of you know, my wife – sorry – ex-wife kicked me out of the house last

year. When I went to my dad, he asked why she kicked me out and I had to tell

him the truth. See, my ex-wife thinks I’m gay.”

Was I witnessing a public outing right here before my very eyes? Was he going

to break down in tears like a blubbering Elton John?

“Now, you’re probably wondering why she thinks I’m gay. Well, it’s because I

have a lot of gay friends and my best friend who is gay truly thinks I’m gay so he

got me a book called Coming Out to Your Wife. She found it.”

Delivered by any comedic professional, this whole speech could have

conceivably been seen as the best set-up to a fantastic punch line. One of those

times where the audience is fixed on every word waiting for the fabulous pay off.

Sadly, and we all knew it, this was not one of those times.

“My dad told me that I should move on but I couldn’t because she took my house,

she took my RRSPs,” he continued.

It was actually getting worse. I hoped none of the Mood Disorder people were in

attendance. Man, this depressing address would have surely sent them over the

edge.

“My dad told me that I should see it as an opportunity to get a fresh start in life

but I couldn’t because I still owe $500,000…”

From my viewpoint, I could only see the back of his dad’s head but I imagined

that he was either fuming mad or mortally embarrassed.

“Dad told me that I could finally take the time to focus on my business but I

couldn’t because the business was essentially bankrupt.”

On the scale of Dr. Peck’s stress indicators, this guy had hit all the buttons. All he

needed to score the perfect 10 was a death in the family and a change of

address.

As he built negative momentum, he was hurtling toward his brilliant finish.

“So here I am. A 38 year old male forced to live with his mother who, when she

asked if I was speaking tonight, told me that I shouldn’t get my hair cut because it

showed off my bald spot and made my face look fat. So Dad, for always looking

on the bright side even when there wasn’t one, Happy Birthday.”

And then came the capping moment. The denouement to his birthday wishes.

The last line of his depressing diatribe that would leave me wondering why I had

chosen this career over so many others. The line that would haunt me for

months. The line that would enter my nightmares and wake me in the middle of

the night with a sweaty brow and clammy skin. The line that seemed to be the

only line that could have been delivered to make this disastrous night complete.

“And now, we have a comedian for you.”

As I approached the stage from the back of the room, I walked past the crowd of

people who looked as if they had just witnessed a live execution. The only

sounds coming from them were the whistles of air entering and leaving their

gaping mouths. Their hands were clenching the sides of the high-back dinner

chairs and their feet rested uncomfortably because their knees were bent at

perfect 90-degree angles.

As I took the stage, I saw two things. A podium with a microphone and a mic on a

stand for the band. I hate the immobility that podiums offer so I reached for the

band mic when “Waaait!!!” came from the back. The lead singer of this birthday

band sprinted to the stage to inform me that THAT mic had been EQed for her

voice and that I shouldn’t use it. While she fished for another one, I was left

standing in front of 300 still shell-shocked people. Alone.

When I finally was given a working tool of my trade, I began the only way I

thought I could. A personal principle is to never ignore the reality. Address what

everyone is thinking and get it out of the way. So I did.

“Hey, let’s have a big hand for Brad and that uplifting tale of bankruptcy and

divorce. Brad, I wonder who else we can out tonight?”

I was pissed. I was pissed for accepting the gig. I was pissed that I hadn’t done

the proper amount of research on the venue. I was pissed that someone would

hire a comedian for a birthday party. But mostly, I was pissed at Brad for airing

his dirty laundry at his father’s celebration in front of family, friends, and his dad’s

colleagues.

I did what we comics occasionally have to do. I put my head down and tried to

just get through it.

Did they laugh? Some did for some jokes and others for other jokes but for the

most part, it was a battle that was not to be won.

After 22 minutes of agony, my departure was quick and graceful. In one fluid

motion, I left the stage, got in my car and drove away knowing that the band I left

behind would face the same challenge that I had. Knowing that was music to my

ears.

==

This article is by guest author Ron Tite.   Thanks Ron.   I feel your pain, brother!   Looking for a comedian?  Book Ron… or look me!   Go to the contact page now!