I didn't exactly die on my first time out on stage at Bo Irvine's Comedy Club. I didn't kill either. I ended up in that weird comedy zone between killing and dying. To kill is the thrill
Last of two parts
for a stand-up comicBut that had been on a Thursday night and Bo convinced me that Friday night would be different. He was right, instead of 40 people, there were more than 100. Not wanting to get the hook as I had the previous night, I flew through my material. But the audience wasn't making things easy. Something strange was happening. They were laughing.
On Saturday night, with a sold-out crowd, things went even better.
When I got off the stage, I wasn't sure what had happened. I was in a daze. I needed a cigarette and I don't even smoke.
"You killed," Bo said. Then he went up and killed. And then his headliner, comedy sex therapist Kevin Hughes, killed. Everyone killed. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
Several weeks earlier, there were no comedy clubs in Honolulu. But Bo convinced the Japanese owners of the Aston Waikiki Terrace to let him give it a try. What he didn't know was that a fellow comic, Paul Ogata, also had noticed the gaping hole in the Waikiki entertainment industry. He launched the "Comedy Cow" at the Ilikai Hotel in December. Honolulu suddenly had gone from zero to 60, comedy club-wise.
The format for both clubs is basically the same: a venue for local comics, as well as talent from the mainland comedy clubs.
I had seen Bo's operation. Now it was time to check out Paul's. Sure that larger audiences were the key to success, I convinced Paul to let me give it a go on a Friday night.
Ten minutes? I asked.
"Uh, make it a little shorter," he said.
Less than 10 minutes? Whoa. "Hi. How are ya? Where ya from? Thanks. You've been a great audience. Bye."
No problem.
I arrived at the club just before show time to find hardly enough people in the audience to scrape up a touch football game. Problem. Major problem.
The headliner for the night was Jaz Kaner, a guy who, among other things, makes his ears flap with invisible thread. He's a former Hawaii surfer who has become a staple in the mainland clubs. And, he's funny.
SENSING my discomfort about the size of the audience, Paul and Jaz tell me the facts of life. Look, it's great when you have a large liquored-up crowd that loves to laugh. But if you can't go on stage and do the same routine with the same energy level no matter how big the audience is, you don't belong up there.
I understood. But all the confidence I had been packing around since my success a week before was gone. This wouldn't be like performing in a club. This would be more like standing on a coffee table in someone's living room. Good God, what kind of masochistic sicko would subject himself to something like this?
Just about then, Kehau Baijo finished her routine and called me up on stage. I guess that answered the question.
This was now my forth time on stage in eight days. And things were different. I started off explaining that my favorite pastime was to go down to Waikiki on hot, sunny days and watch the really white tourists burst into flames. Then I moved through some slightly off-color bits on same-sex marriage, being a military brat, Ebonics and growing up haole.
I didn't die. I didn't kill. But it still felt pretty damn good.
It's a strange, exhilarating business, this standup comedy. There are no spin doctors to save you if you screw up. No second chances. No middlemen. Your happiness is determined by the reaction of a group of complete strangers. It's like having sex during a car crash. Whether they love you or not, it's one hell of a ride.
