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.
