How I quit my day job, blew my tax return, took a leap of faith (or maybe just repeated a seasonal cycle) and became an internet whore.
I got back from Connecticut two weeks ago. I'd had a successful two-nighter, and I was feeling good about myself. I say "feeling good" in the sense that I was being very realistic about the kind of success it had been. I put on a good show, the crowds liked me, I booked a one-nighter with a local comedian/booker who liked my act, and when the manager paid me, he told me he'd have to talk to the booker about bringing me back as a headliner.
On the other hand, the actual headliner, a guy who's passed at the big clubs, and could have been, potentially, someone who might have taken me on tour, or at least have been a good contact, hated my act. Like avoided eye contact when I got off stage hated my act. My little ingenue dreams of being discovered and rescued from obscurity were, once again, dashed.
Still, from a sober, realistic, working comedian standpoint, it was a solid success, the kind of result that, if repeated often enough, will lead to a full schedule of bookings within a couple years, and a full schedule of headline spots maybe a couple of years after that. Yes, I could honestly see, at the close of last weekend's show, that in a few short years, I could be making a living as a comedian. And it wasn't just last weekend. Last weekend was the cap to my first five consecutive weeks of work in legit clubs in 10 years of stand-up. It had been hard earned, but it was definitely a win.
But the slide had already started. The slide that has me writing at 9AM, not because my professional success has spurred me to a renewed focus and commitment, but because my sleep cycle has gone completely off the rails as I've fallen into a spiral of bedridden Netflix and YouTube binge-ing, cigarette smoking, and caffeine abuse -- I'll leave it to you to imagine how much porn has been watched -- and after three hours of drifting and flipping, I'm up again. The slide started a week earlier with my two celebratory cigarettes in OKC, after having finished my first solid month on the road. The dread of returning to NYC was setting in, and the smokes felt more like a last wish than a celebration.
The road isn't perfect, in fact, it's pretty damn lonely; and if you're not in your 20s, it can feel like a waste of time. But I was productive, writing and exercising, and most important, I was entertaining people every night. I do love it. And since after 10 years you start to wonder whether you're just fooling yourself, having some sustained proof of your skill is reassuring. The road made me feel like a comedian, but as I sucked down the first two cigarettes I'd had in over two months, I was already in the grips of a presentiment that New York would erode that feeling almost immediately.
I was not disappointed. After OKC, I had several days back home before my weekender in CT. First, I got a parking ticket, and a letter from the city telling me to show up a the courthouse and register for jury duty or risk a $1000 fine and imprisonment. The city has a way of reminding you who's boss the second you get back in town, and it always involves money and time you don't have. I had one fun mic and then a series of brutal bombs working on what I know is a funny bit. Mics are useless for learning anything other than I come off as a creepy guy that 20-something's don't want to know or hear anything about. Which I already know. I put in some face time at some of the clubs, but I just sat alone, awkward and creepy. An act I've done probably 8 road gigs with pretended not to see me. The headliner I'd met on the road graced me with a pained greeting that was necessitated only by the fact that I was squeezing past him at the bar. Yay, face time! By the time I got to CT I was taking down a pack a day.
And the whole time, the looming question, "when am I going to have to go back to selling knives?" Three weeks ago my boss told me I could work part time as long as I worked 2 months at a time. He mentioned Australia, New Zealand, England, and Ireland as possible destinations. I told him one month was the most I could do, he told me he'd think about it and I should call him back in two weeks. It's not the worst position to be in, refusing to work full time and still being offered opportunities. I should be grateful.
But the whole cycle of working a day job to make money but then ignoring comedy, letting my relationships and chops deteriorate, then stepping away from the day job to focus on comedy until I completely run out of money so I have to throw myself even harder into the day job ... I don't see it ending. What I am starting to see is the potential to make some money with the knives that could coax me to swallow any measure of revulsion or disappointment. That scares me. So does being old and broke. So does never really going for it.
So does going for it, it seems.
Then I did my taxes and got a huge write-off for all the miles I've put on my car. All of a sudden there's a big chunk of money I wasn't expecting coming my way (invest in the deluxe version of Turbotax, kids!) and I'm wondering a) can I make it without working until the check hits, and b) how long can I make it after the money comes? Will I finally be able to reach escape velocity, if I just focus all my efforts on making my living as a comedian?
So I spent the week after I got back from CT, aside from the aforementioned diversions, desperately racking my brain for how I'm going to make a living. I emailed over 100 clubs and bookers and booked 2 gigs over the next 2 months. Not exactly sustainable. I thought about a lot of other ways to make a living that don't involve selling knives in box stores: drop shipping, no-money-down real estate schemes, affiliate marketing, freelance writing, blogging, day-trading, crypto-currency investments, selling real estate, selling computer systems, and of course, podcasting! Fantasies all, naturally, just a nervous reaction to the reality of self-employment.
Anyway, the whole point of quitting the day job is to focus on comedy, not find another day job that I'll be hoping to quit as soon as possible. I had to keep reminding myself of that. Any time spent perfecting some skill other than comedy would be better spent writing, doing sets, emailing bookers, even putting in fucking face time, the absolute worst requirement of stand-up dues-paying. And the more I thought about that, the more I became certain that no matter what my boss offered me, I was going to say, "no."
But I needed reasons.
I focused all my booking efforts on the dates I had told my boss I had open the last time we spoke. I looked at how much money I had left, decided I could make it to my tax return on $100, and invested $200 in T-shirts. I got Merch, Baby! Now I just need gigs to sell 'em at!
I got in touch with a guy who wants to film my one man show and said, "let's make this happen in May." Well, I left a message to that effect, anyway.
I spent hours unsuccessfully trying to stalk the writers of a popular comedy show so I could pitch them a series of sketches I'd written.
I sent the sitcom pilot episode I've been working on for a year-and-a-half, which has been stalled halfway through the third act for more than a year, to a writer friend to see if I he could help me bring the whole, over-written mess to a close.
I sketched the outlines of a webseries with a friend for whom I had done some acting in an earlier web series.
I pitched a former classmate on doing lo-fi DIY commercials for local grocers.
I pitched a local club on a podcast. Full schedule.
I continued doing mics that I feel too old for. Honestly, the power of a mic to crush you amazes me. I'm extremely sensitive, I know, but I've done a show in a strip club where they sent me out on the catwalk with the strippers, they didn't even turn the music off! I've done an outdoor craft festival where the Hungarian quilters were getting more laughs than I was. I've done a sports bar in football season, during the playoffs, they didn't turn off any of the forty TV's and no one knew there was gonna be a show until I started squawking at 'em. I did a show last month IN A PACKED, FULL-TIME, LEGIT CLUB, where a seven-foot tall cowboy with an eye-patch was getting a hand-job, in the audience, from some tramp he'd picked up (I later learned) at the local Joe's Crab Shack -- how the fuck are you supposed to compete with that? I have bombed CATASTROPHICALLY from every possible position in the line-up: host, feature, headliner, guest-spot, the dreaded co-headliner, comedic guest on a variety show, comedian opening for a music act, podcast guest, auditions, competitions, I've bombed in conversation with nearly every headliner I've ever driven to a gig, you name the pooch, I've screwed it. I have known the depths of shame and self-doubt, but nothing can pop your balloon like 5 minutes at a shitty mic.
But I went! And when I wasn't doing sets, I went to shows. I (BARF) networked. And when I wasn't doing any of that I wrote. Inspired writing! The kind of writing that keeps you up all night, scribbling in margins, drawing arrows from one page to the next, writing multiple bits simultaneously, flipping back and forth between them, until they all merge into one brilliant mega-bit and you fall asleep in the dawning light with that euphoric feeling of, "I just wrote The Bit!" Then you wake up at 3pm, re-read it, and think about all the rooms where it won't work, which is probably all of them. "I have to find new rooms," you think. "No, I have to cultivate my audience." And then, "first you have to get in front of more actual audiences." And finally, "I need to write less ambitious material." You look out the window, school's just out, and a laughing 9 year-old runs by wearing a back-pack that's almost as big as he is. You think, "look at him. He has a future." You decide to take a day for yourself.
In other words, I was doing what all the other comedians are doing.
I was also preparing myself for the call to my boss. He's very persuasive (no shit, Ron Popeil is his uncle). A couple months back, he had me stay over at his straight-out-of-Miami-Vice mansion, where he's neighbors with Stephen King, took me out to a couple meals, gave me a taste of it all. And he's very accommodating: seems like every time I say, "no," to him, he comes back with another offer. When you've never had anyone court you for work, it's extremely seductive, no matter what the job. But I knew his patience was wearing out ... After all, I've only done five total weeks of work for him so far this year, and ultimately, he's very practical.
After about half a day of pacing and visualizing how I was going to take charge of the phone call, I dialed him. The important thing was to take charge. He didn't pick up, so I left a message and relaxed. The thing was in motion. I returned to my bookings, and just when I was absorbed, he called back. I had barely finished my greeting when he said,
"So, you wanna to go to England? I'm sending you to England for three weeks, how's that sound?"
It sounded great. I wanted to go to England very badly. What's more, he'd given me everything I'd asked for, and more -- a three week assignment overseas! And he'd been so nice that I felt like I was betraying him. I just couldn't say no. So I pretended the connection was bad until he got frustrated and told me he'd call back the next day. My power play had turned into playing possum, but I hadn't said, "yes."
The next day I got a call from his secretary, saying she had him on the line for me. Thinking I'd learned my lesson, I said, "I'm just going into the gym, tell him I'm gonna have to call him back."
"He's just about to get on a plane and he'd like to settle this today."
Plane trumps gym.
Anyway, it was stuttery and lame, but I got out of the gate fast, and told him that I appreciated everything he'd done for me, but I had had a lot of opportunities come up (to be precise, which I wasn't, a two-nighter in Newport News) and I had to say, "no thank you." He was incredulous, but also incredibly cool about it.
I wondered what it would be like the next time I asked him for something. He asked me wether I was going to make any money on these "opportunities," and I just laughed. He got on his plane, and I went to the gym, where incidentally, I actually heard someone laughing at me. So now the beasts at my gym aren't evening bothering to conceal their contempt for me and my puny weights. Ah, the beginning of a new era! 43, bad back, chronic diverticulitis, freshly unemployed, and the object of open mockery at the gym. Not exactly how I wanted to commemorate my new freedom, but hey, at least I was getting laughs.
So now what?
Well, obviously, I've decided to blog. Writing counts as a creative pursuit. And in between the once-a-month gigs, I need something I can monetize, so there will be links. And who says I can only sell T-shirts at gigs? Uncle Ashley's Creepy Tees are now available online! Presto!
And who says I can't continue selling kitchen implements while simultaneously, you know, erm ... creatively pursuing? For instance, as a response to my diverticulitis, I started juicing, and got an absolute steal on an Omega Juicer from Amazon. I can personally recommend this product: it's easy to use, and more important, easy to clean -- and that's the part that derails most juice diets. Besides, if you're NOT buying kitchen implements on Amazon, it can only be because you're committed to PAYING TOO MUCH. So shut up and click through!
The items I'm hawking on this blog should not be confused with those on my Products page, all of which are fake, a joke which, in 5 years, no one seems to have gotten, in spite of the fact that one of the listed prices is "NO CHARGE IF YOU CAN HAUL 'EM AWAY." And for those of you who do visit my Products page, don't be confused that you can actually click through to things you can buy. It's an ill-conceived Easter Egg hunt retail model that I'm trading in for the in-your-face-I'll-sell-anything model embraced by this blog.
At the end of the Christmas sales season, I promised myself I wouldn't be in the same place next year. Spring came and I decided to write a blog and go on tour. That was two Christmases ago. The resulting blog lasted two installments. You can check it out here, but the short version is someone on a message board called me a fag and I gave up. The "tour" left me broke and I wound up making the same resolution this last Christmas, and here I am. I had forgotten about the other blog until I opened up Weebly to start this one. So this might just be a seasonal affliction.
But why can't this one succeed? Why shouldn't I try to make a little extra scratch complaining about my bowel health and recommending natural remedies the efficacy of which I have no way of evaluating? Have you heard about the healing properties of Beef Bone Broth? According to some studies which I have not read, the collagen from the marrow of the bones, after 48 hours of cooking, is the most bio-available form of this nutrient that is crucial to soft tissue repair, making bone broth one of the best foods for intestinal and joint health. Jesus said, "teach a man to fish ..." which is why I gave you the link to the recipe book. But your gut is telling you the only long term hope for the American economy is a return to quasi-mercantilism, which you will help bring about by subsidizing hipster craftsmen and their small businesses by acceding to their outrageous (read: "not exploitation-based") prices. Distasteful as doing business with hipsters is, the truth is you're lazy, so do it for America and just have your broth delivered.
A very sweet friend of mine recently asked me whether she could buy knives from me. She needs knives, and she wanted to help. Here you go, gorgeous. This is a better price than I ever could have given you, and what's more, it's a portal to whatever knife-set deal you want, or whatever other kind of deal you want. The important thing to remember is, as long as you're going through my portal, you're helping! I'm skipping the tip-in on that one because I want to end on a serious note.
The Power of Now, by Ekhart Tolle. This book changed my life. I read it six years ago, and ever since then, it has been with me wherever I go. And for some reason it always seems to be on the floor of wherever I happen to be living at the time: Jackson Heights, Cork, Bed-Stuy, my car. This book has been on my floor for six years, making me feel guilty -- it's a fucking curse! -- and now, I share it with you. You're welcome! The problem with embracing now is that usually, now isn't all that different from then.
Advising me on my decision to leave sales, a self-helpy friend recently said to me, "jump and the net will appear." Said the hunter to the tiger. If nothing ever changes, I suppose the struggle to change doesn't change either. So here I go again.
Coming next week!
Who the fuck knows?
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