MY AUDITION FOR "LAST COMIC STANDING"
or
THINGS THAT ARE SLIGHTLY WORSE THAN GNAWING OFF YOUR OWN ARM
or
THINGS THAT ARE SLIGHTLY WORSE THAN GNAWING OFF YOUR OWN ARM
A good thing about living in New York City is that you can line up for hours and hours to audition for exciting things like slightly-mediocre network tv shows about stand-up comedians.
A bad thing about living in New York City is that you have to do aforementioned waiting in line in twenty-seven degree weather.
That's negative three degrees Celsius.
Also one-hundred eighty-nine in dog-degrees.
Because I am a diligent and career-oriented stand-up comedienne who doesn't really value her extremities, I decided to do this Freezer-esque-Line-Waiting Extravaganza.
"Sleeping on concrete? A joy!," I maintained.
"Who needs toes? Not me!," I opined.
"What could be more fun than spending a night surrounded by my fellow comedians?" I thought.
(NOTE: Truly, I believed none of these things. But, in all honesty, the process of being a stand-up comedian involves a whole lot of "fooling yourself." After years of telling yourself, "Someday I'll be a star," and "If I made one person laugh tonight then it was all worth it," and "Those audience members just threw things to show how much they were enjoying my act," a little bit of "Hey, this audition won't be so bad" isn't so hard to swallow.)
I arrived outside the comedy club at 10pm, twelve hours before the audition was scheduled to start, clad in four shirts, two pairs of pants, and a pocket full of hopes and dreams (and by "hopes and dreams," I mean "gum wrappers".) I was about thirtieth in line.
At that point, I believe the temperature hovered somewhere between "SO COLD" and "FREAKING FREEZING."
Lucky for ME, I was in line right behind a guitar player and a harmonica player who had the spectacular talent of being able to play the very same unrecognizable, horrible song in two entirely separate keys at the same time. It's not often that someone has talent like THAT and can do stand-up as well.
Sometimes it's easy not to notice the cold when you are instead noticing the blood streaming from your ears.
(ANOTHER NOTE: Don't think that I don't know that there's a thin line between "funny" and "bitter" and I've crossed it. I recognize this fact like the Dickens. )
Oh, let's speed this story up a little. I waited. I got cold. I got ouchy. I got numb. I cuddled with people I've never met. I yelled at people I've never met. (These two groups were not necessarily different people.) I pondered cosmetic surgery and plastic surgery. I drank hot chocolate. I cried.
Fourteen hours later, I auditioned.
The audition went like this:
ME: Blah blah blah, joke. Blah joke. Blah joke. Bla....
JUDGE #1: Thanks, that's enough.
JUDGE #2: I like her. She's funny. I think we should keep her.
JUDGE #1: No, I don't think she's ready. She's too new.
JUDGE #2: I think she's cute.
JUDGE #1: She is cute. But I don't think she's ready.
ME: Wait. Is there anything I can do to convince you?
JUDGE #1: Well, you could take off your.....
ME: Other than that.
JUDGE #2: I guess not. Thanks for your time.
And I went home.
In retrospect, I should have taken off my shirt. After all, I had on three more.
THE END.
(This story was brought to you by Monness, Crespi, Hardt & Co. , Top Plastic Surgeons, and Search Engine Reputation Management. Yeah, I don't know who they are either.)
A bad thing about living in New York City is that you have to do aforementioned waiting in line in twenty-seven degree weather.
That's negative three degrees Celsius.
Also one-hundred eighty-nine in dog-degrees.
Because I am a diligent and career-oriented stand-up comedienne who doesn't really value her extremities, I decided to do this Freezer-esque-Line-Waiting Extravaganza.
"Sleeping on concrete? A joy!," I maintained.
"Who needs toes? Not me!," I opined.
"What could be more fun than spending a night surrounded by my fellow comedians?" I thought.
(NOTE: Truly, I believed none of these things. But, in all honesty, the process of being a stand-up comedian involves a whole lot of "fooling yourself." After years of telling yourself, "Someday I'll be a star," and "If I made one person laugh tonight then it was all worth it," and "Those audience members just threw things to show how much they were enjoying my act," a little bit of "Hey, this audition won't be so bad" isn't so hard to swallow.)
I arrived outside the comedy club at 10pm, twelve hours before the audition was scheduled to start, clad in four shirts, two pairs of pants, and a pocket full of hopes and dreams (and by "hopes and dreams," I mean "gum wrappers".) I was about thirtieth in line.
At that point, I believe the temperature hovered somewhere between "SO COLD" and "FREAKING FREEZING."
Lucky for ME, I was in line right behind a guitar player and a harmonica player who had the spectacular talent of being able to play the very same unrecognizable, horrible song in two entirely separate keys at the same time. It's not often that someone has talent like THAT and can do stand-up as well.
Sometimes it's easy not to notice the cold when you are instead noticing the blood streaming from your ears.
(ANOTHER NOTE: Don't think that I don't know that there's a thin line between "funny" and "bitter" and I've crossed it. I recognize this fact like the Dickens. )
Oh, let's speed this story up a little. I waited. I got cold. I got ouchy. I got numb. I cuddled with people I've never met. I yelled at people I've never met. (These two groups were not necessarily different people.) I pondered cosmetic surgery and plastic surgery. I drank hot chocolate. I cried.
Fourteen hours later, I auditioned.
The audition went like this:
ME: Blah blah blah, joke. Blah joke. Blah joke. Bla....
JUDGE #1: Thanks, that's enough.
JUDGE #2: I like her. She's funny. I think we should keep her.
JUDGE #1: No, I don't think she's ready. She's too new.
JUDGE #2: I think she's cute.
JUDGE #1: She is cute. But I don't think she's ready.
ME: Wait. Is there anything I can do to convince you?
JUDGE #1: Well, you could take off your.....
ME: Other than that.
JUDGE #2: I guess not. Thanks for your time.
And I went home.
In retrospect, I should have taken off my shirt. After all, I had on three more.
THE END.
(This story was brought to you by Monness, Crespi, Hardt & Co. , Top Plastic Surgeons, and Search Engine Reputation Management. Yeah, I don't know who they are either.)
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