Wednesday, July 18, 2018

WHY DO I ALWAYS WANT TO MOVE BACK TO BOSTON?


I’m writing all this out because it helps me sort out the lunacy of being a creative person in New York.  I got weepy on the plane coming back from Florida which makes no sense (I don’t really do that).  I felt I wanted to move back to Boston.  I think that coming to New York because you’re a creative person is a great, yet terrible idea.  I think I take one step forward (just performed at the Friars Club), and three steps back (I drink more now than I ever did).

I still have this issue where I don’t want to emotionally commit to comedy. 

It’s hard to commit to anything, emotionally.  I think it’s funny (or not) that men have a hard time committing to women.  I resist committing to my career because that’s way scarier than giving someone half the house.  It’s a huge gamble.  A lot of people are doing it (in New York at any given time there is a free comedy show somewhere, several, even, on a single block). 

New York is a gamble and apparently I’m Ginger from Scorcese’s Casino cuz I’m rollin’ the dice baby.  Men don’t want to commit because it might ruin their life.  That’s the same reason I resist pushing with my career.  It’s fear.  Ah, that little bugger.  It also depends on what day you catch me on.  When I used to work Vegas twice a year, I was, in my mind, in show business for reals. 

Comedians are an interesting faction of show business, because we work the hardest and get the least respect.  We are like boxers.  We take all the risk.  We are the writer, producer, editor, performer, booking and marketing person.  So, No, your wife could not be a comedian.  No wonder I want to quit often.  But I’ve only felt that way since moving to New York so I blame the Yankees. 

We get the least respect because we are alone on stage so we get heckled sometimes, and the bookers are all frustrated performers with fickle personalities, who are just looking for an excuse not to book you.  I think I’m going to a Met game.

When I got booked in Vegas, I worked at the Riviera.  You got a pink hotel room overlooking the pool and comped dinners.  Let me tell you something, two shows a night for seven days, I woulda ate Chef Boy Ardee, I was so happy.  But the reality of a day job is enough to make you want to die by some epic, old school way like consumption or sticking your head in an oven.

This double life is what is getting to me.  (And I sort of get fired a lot).  I come back to the day job after Vegas, back to the meaninglessness and futility of it all, and it’s hard to take.  No wonder I drink too much.  It’s all garbage.  That is why I cried on the plane.  First of all, I am a New Englander.  Being in the 80 degree weather of Florida in December and then parting from it is reason enough, but as I find I am scrawling this out in an airport, I’m thinking there are other reasons as well.

Everybody who is in the arts, specifically in New York City has this feeling I suspect – even if you’re crying, wanting to quit, fearing failure and/or fearing success).  But there is something that we're getting as payoff.  I suspect that it is the satisfaction that we are forging our own way in a city that many don't have the balls to move to, never mind navigate the pot hole laden thoroughfares.  New York demands the best out of an artist.  That is a good thing.  It requires an amalgam into what we aspire to.  We have to grow into that person which requires shedding old parts of ourselves.  Ultimately it’s what we want.  We want to be changed.  We just didn’t know it was going to be this hard.