Opening: Comedis Personae II [v1]

Say something, the voice in my head says

I spend a lot of time training that first summer.

I don't have much choice.

If we were in New York, it might be possible to do four or five sets a night. That's much less realistic in Edmonton, even for the most in demand comics, although two or three sets in a night isn’t unheard of. And I am far from in demand. I'm still dining on the scraps of draw spots and open mics.

Those sets are not going well. My jokes are Russian soldiers, ill-equipped, insufficiently prepared, and dying in large numbers. But there's a lot of them, and inevitably a few survive to join the next wave.

And so I practice.

I practice in the mall. I practice at bus stops. I practice on street corners, staking out a sidewalk square stage and delivering material, emphasizing giving attention to the passers while not being thrown by their lack of interest.

I practice standing; it's called stand-up, after all. We think a lot about our face and upper body–what do I do with my free hand? Meanwhile, it's our feet that give us away, our stepping in place, our rising onto tiptoes, our awkward weight shifts. On this point, dance and martial arts are in agreement: if you're going to be still, be still, and if you're going to move, move.

Mostly, I practice at home.

There are things you can't work on without an audience but that doesn't mean you can do nothing. Writing is the most obvious example, but there are others.

I isolate variables and train them through the creative use of stopwatches, video cameras, and metronomes. I work on specific situations without having to wait for them to arise organically. Inspired by jiu jitsu games, I come up with drills to use space, to have a sense of where I am in time, to free myself physically and vocally, to not just know my material cold but to find a way back to it when I'm lost. It's subtraction by addition, adding new elements, possibilities and challenges so I can find the things that are most me and strip away the rest in hopes they'll show up onstage when needed. Put regular time into things that need to be automatic, but constantly adding, dropping and coming back to others things, giving my brain and body opportunities to come up with new approaches to old problems.

And then I go onstage and bomb harder than I thought possible.

But who cares? I don’t need to be famous. I don’t even need to be funny.

I need to fill this time, and comedy will take as much time as you're willing to give it and demand more. And more so these days, in addition to writing and performing and seeking out gigs, social media has inserted itself into the game, a Gibbering Void Monster, all eyes and mouths but no ears.

It might not be good, or even healthy, but it's what I want.

Comedy is as creative and technical as dance or jiu jitsu but lacks the physicality. So while you won't get in shape doing stand up comedy, there's also no injury risk. You can do it every night without your body breaking down.

You can go until you collapse.

I've always been happiest with an obsession: jiu jitsu, music, dance, Buddhism, comedy. My happy place is the knife edge between confidence and despair, between enthusiasm and frustration. The trick is balancing my obsession with the demands of the rest of my life. But I am on my own now. I’ve no one to answer to. I can crawl into my obsession and pull it shut behind me.

Standup comedy is by most measures a stupid and pointless endeavor, especially when you consider how time- and energy-consuming being good at it can be, but as it turns out, that’s exactly what I’m looking for: Something that fills the time completely and is also something that doesn’t matter.

And yet…

Meaningless isn't the same as worthless.

Something doesn’t have to matter to be important. Some monks describe what they do as useless before reminding us there is more to life than being useful. Committing to something or someone is its own reward whether or not you are recognized for it, successful or even particularly good at it. The idea is to quietly showing up for your own life.

And in this spirit, on September 18, 2022, I find myself at Fargo’s.

***

The original Fargo’s was located on Whyte Avenue and for a while in the early 2000s, it was the hottest room in comedy. Hosted by Marty Maclean and Rob Pue, the closest thing to a comedy superstar Edmonton produced. Others got their start there, including my biggest local comedy influences: Sean Lecomber and Andrew Iwanyk.

Fargo’s has since moved to Capilano. Inspired by Fargo's legendary past, Kyle is attempting to recreate the same magic at this new location, even going so far as dragging local legends from the past out of retirement or semi-retirement like Ryan Ash and David Dempsey.

Works for me. I've missed those guys.

I am not one of those legends.

I show up at Fargo’s anyway. It’s twelve minutes by car and about an hour by bus. Two buses, technically.

I'm still the first comic there.

But showing up is important. You never know what can happen.

Kyle is setting up in a corner of the room, wrestling a large black curtain for a backdrop. The comics will be performing in what looks like a hockey penalty box. . I ask him if he needs help. He says he’s fine, so I order a hamburger. It's delicious.

Kamal arrives while I’m eating.

“I'm glad you're here,” Kamal says. “Did Andrew talk to you?”

He has not, but boy, I would like it if he did. I have never seen the mysterious Andrew Iwanyk outside a show. Just knowing he talked about me when I wasn't there leaves me giddy.

I don’t tell Kamal that. At least I don't think I did. I don't have the most detailed memory for conversations. I do the best I can, but I tend to leave things out. Talk long, write short, that's me, though sometimes I do the opposite.

“Okay. Well, you know how Kyle won’t let you on the show?” Kamal continues. “We think we found a way.”

I laugh. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kamal says, and follows it with the four most compelling words in Edmonton comedy.

“Andrew has an idea.”

***

Andrew Iwanyk's ideas have been the most talked about performances.

One of the most creative men I've ever met, Andrew is so driven by his own inner vision, he can't not do it even when he wants to. More than once I've seen him leave the stage and immediately horrified at himself. Why did it do it? I knew it was bad, and I did it anyway.

The idea of something working through him, a vision so uncompromising it won't be contained by its own vessel inspires me.

Most comics make jokes about serious topics. Andrew takes ridiculous topics and treats them with complete seriousness. Over the years I've watched Andrew bring up whiteboard to do his jokes in Mandarin Chinese, convince audience members to Indian leg wrestle, display his world championship bottle blowing skills (24th out of 26 contestants, judge jelly bean counting contests, and provide instruction in how to do the perfect French braid.

It's an honor to be part of Andrew's bizarre performance pieces.

I don't care what his plan is. If Andrew wants me to participate, I'll do it, no questions asked.

In fact, sometimes not asking is better.

***

“There's a local comedian, Dan Brodribb, he's having open heart surgery tomorrow. I spoke to him at the hospital, and, well, he's worried he might not make it.”

Andrew is onstage telling this to the audience. I am near the bar with my phone in one hand, second guessing myself.

Some plan.

“Dan's always wanted to do this show, but the guy who runs it, Kyle, says he isn't ready.” Andrew takes a breath, as if overcome by emotion. “But this could be his last chance. So I'm going to phone his hospital room…”

There aren't many people here, and they are all confused.

“...I'm going to phone him and he'll tell his jokes to me, and I'll repeat them to you guys. Does that sound good?”

The crowd doesn't know what to say

“Are you guys ready to fulfill a dying man's last wish?” Andrew yells. “Come on. Let's get some fucking applause in here?”

A few people clap and cheer. It's half hearted, but what the hell.

“All right,” Andrew says, calm again. “So I'm going to call him…”

I don't like the idea. It feels like undermining Kyle.and I want Kyle to like me. But this is Andrew asking and Andrew is my comedy hero. I’m thrilled to be part of his act.

I have a choice to make and I make it. I answer the phone

“Hello, Dan? How are you doing?” Andrew says into the mic.

“I cant believe I'm doing this,” I say.

Andrew looks up at the audience. “He says he's not sure he's going to make it.” He continues, “Okay, well don't worry, we're here to make your dream happen. Tell us your jokes?”

Self conscious, I say a few one liners. He repeats what I say.

He repeats exactly what I say.

Every tic and “um” and stammer.

Jesus. I didn't realize how far I'd fallen. Hearing myself from Andrew's mouth…

The audience agrees.

“You know what?” Andrew tells the crowd. “Kyle was right not to have him on the show.”

The crowd laughs.

Kyle, watching from the back of the room, does not.

***

Two days later I get off the bus and cross the street to the West Edmonton Mall parking garage. Next to Hudson’s is the Bourbon Street entrance where I join a parade of disconnected humans make their way past a stretch of indoor restaurants, solitary or in family groups, people with no connection to each other but commerce, but still sharing being human even if they aren't aware of it or each other.

And between Mr. Mike's Steakhouse and the Taco Shop, a ticket booth beneath a blue sign: Rick Bronson's The Comic Strip, Edmonton’s A-level comedy club.

The Comic Strip isn't a bar. It is a full fledged comedy club. It isn't what it was, but its still the biggest in the city. It is my first time back at the Strip since I've returned. There was a time I played this club one weekend a month, Thursday through Sunday.

That was a long time ago. The club was younger and so was I.

I'm uncomfortable going back to club shows. My intention had been to stick to open mics and bar shows. Club feels a little too much like being drawn back into the business, and that way lies bitterness, frustration, and resentment. Also I’m not good enough.

And yet here I am

I greet Nick McQuik, who I know from the old days, and look at the list. I am fifth right after Andrew Iwanyk.

I’m excited to get to see what he does.

He does this:

“I’m here to tell you about a snake in our midst named Dan Brodribb,” Andrew tells the audience. “Dan Brodribb told me he was going for heart surgery on Monday, and it was all lies. Just so he could get on a show. You’re a liar, Dan Brodribb. Dan Brodribb made a fool out of me, and I want everyone to know it.”

He continues in this vein for sometime, and it would be fine except that I am the next act.

I can’t not address this. Comedian names aren’t nearly as memorable as pro wrestlers names but there is no way the crowd will forget the ‘Dan Brodribb’ whose name Andrew said fifty times in five minutes, is the same name that Kyle is introducing.

It might be time to call an audible.

Andrew leaves. Kyle returns to the stage–of course he’s hosting tonight–and introduces me.

I remember this walk. Down a couple steps from the sound booth across and past two stage right tables and a mirrored pillar, Up a couple steps and I am onstage. The backdrop has changed from a caricature of the Edmonton skyline to a large screen but the stage feels the same under my feet.

I look out into darkness. My eyes are worse. The stage lights are nearly blinding; the darkness beneath them impenetrable

I go up, and wait in a long silence. A few giggles

Say something, a panicked voice in my head says.

A calmer one says, wait.

I listen to the calm one.

The audience is buzzing with tension, like a drawn bowstring. I feel it in my body. A few giggles break out. I look towards the sound, and another ripple goes through the crowd. Baby laughs.

They want the tension gone, and honestly, so do I. But I know better than to rush.

I raise the mic to my mouth, and breathe in.

The crowd waits.

“So,” I tell them, at last. “I just had heart surgery…”

The arrow flies, hits the middle of the crowd dead center.

The laughter that follows is a rush of birds taking flight, many individual pairs of wings and also one flock, both pixels and picture. I feel the laughter at the same time as I hear it, a thudding punch to the chest. My heart and lungs expand to take it on; my head swims from the empty calories of the approval of strangers.

A memory stirs.

Oh yeah. This is what it is supposed to feel like.

This is the beginning of killing. It's only one explosion of laughter instead of a rolling bombardment, and even that lone blast is maybe only 80% of this crowd's potential, but it's as close as I've gotten since coming back.

Now how do I follow this up?

I can't think of anything, and so I leave. Smarter to end on a big laugh than to die chasing the dragon.

With the extended silence, it felt like I'd been on stage for a while. It was ninety seconds.

I was supposed to do five minutes.

As I leave, Kyle, who is hosting, caught off guard by my early departure sprints past me for the stage. He doesn't look happy.

Shit.

***

Kamal is thrilled.

“Andrew made you tonight, “ he gloats from the driver's seat as he glides his battered Toyota into a left turn, trying to make the second green light around the corner of the mall. It doesn't always happen, but if you time it just right... “They all respect Andrew, so if he's talking about you, they'll believe you're somebody. Besides, repetition creates familiarity, and he must have said your name forty times. They won’t remember they all heard it within the same five minutes. They just know they heard it a lot.”

I'm not sure that's true. But I'm not completely sure it's not true either. I laugh.

“You just became part of the scene,” Kamal says. “Everybody accepts you now.”

I remember Kyle's expression as he came out of the dark to replace me onstage.

I think, Not everybody.