Wednesday, 31 August 2016

I Was Made Into a Stand-Up Comic


Stepping out of your comfort zone and willingly inviting strangers to laugh at you isn't the average assignment for a professional writer. Here, what happens when a comedy novice spends a week learning to become a stand-up comic, presented by the stress sweat-fighting powers of Secret.
Day One

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

Usually I get that line on a third date. Today I'm getting it in the office. Leah shoots me an assignment that's basically a dare: interview some female comics, get tips, then try to perform a real standup routine.

"Won't that require mocking myself in front of strangers?" I ask.

"And performing!" Leah coos. "I know you love—"

"Attention?" I snap.

"Theatrics!" she answers.

The marks of a great editor: diplomacy and synonyms. But still, a rush of fear b*tch-slaps my face. It's not stage fright. It's the fact that brilliant comedy and basic self-hate seem to go hand-in-hand. From Amy Schumer to Kathy Griffin, my favorite stand-up sirens make fun of themselves for a living. I already loathe myself with alarming clarity. Plus, my first "adult" boyfriend just dumped me. Do I really need an excuse to pick myself apart…in public?

"You can probably find someone better," I stammer. "I'm not even sure I'm funny."

"You are," Leah says evenly. "You can do it."

"Leah, I can't!"

"Faran, I'll pay you double the normal rate."

"Great! Where should I start?"
Day Two

Where I start is with Ophira Eisenberg. She is a stand-up comedian, author, actress, Canadian, and the host of NPR's Ask Me Another. In May, she was on Girls. Now, she is onstage at the famous Upright Citizens Brigade, telling jokes—really good jokes—about being cooler than the girls in the audience. (Example: "My idea of a great night is making plans with a friend to go to a crazy party… then to have the friend cancel, so I can stay home and watch TV." Amen!) Despite being rad, busy, and certifiably famous in every Blue State, Eisenberg has somehow agreed to shove my standup career into existence. So after her show, we sit at a bar in the East Village and she offers up some very sound advice:

1. Say Maybe

"As a new comic, you're not going to know if a joke is good or bad right away. And if you're a perfectionist—which you probably are, because your eyeliner is very impressive—then you might veto a joke before it even leaves your brain. Instead, say 'maybe' to every idea in your head. The truth is, you won't know until you're in the moment whether or not a joke is 'good.' In improv, they tell you to say 'yes' to every situation. In standup, say 'maybe.' It'll keep you sane."

2. Stay Sober

"It is terrifying to test out a new joke in front of people. But you cannot drink, and I'll tell you why: because it effects your comic timing. I cannot risk my timing being off, because that's the one thing that every successful comedian has in common—whether their material is great or not, they know exactly when to land the joke. Alcohol messes with that. Stay away."

3. Wear Heels

"There's a myth that you can't be funny and pretty. That's outdated. Please ignore it. If you like to get dressed up and look hot, then when you get up onstage, dress up and look hot. I refuse to pay one second of attention to the idea that if you look 'too good,' it's distracting. You've written your own stuff. You've practiced your delivery. You've done all the work. Now you have to cover up your body because it makes your jokes better? Give me a break."

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