I hope this blog post finds you well! I know that we probably don’t know each other (or we know each other too well), but thanks for stopping by. Unless you got redirected here after searching the max fine for public indecency, in which case, get the hell outta here!
Firstly, I want to invite you to my new show First Rodeo on March 26th. Killer lineup.
It’s a cold first week of March here in New York, and I don’t know if that’s what’s getting the ol’ writing juice flowing, but it’s a-coming and it ain’t a-stopping. Recently I’ve found myself muttering weird phrases to myself that sound poetic and/or cryptic. I can’t tell if this is me going crazy, or the outline to a Sam Shepard-esque play, but things are cooking in my head.
At this point, if you’re reading this, you probably know me. I’m a manic depressive with a pretty serious drinking problem (hoo boy that’s hard to type), and have a tendency to overreact and look for meaning in things that don’t need it. But here’s the skinny: I am miserable. I really don’t have a reason to be sad- I moved into a great apartment in a beautiful neighborhood, I’m seeing a lady now (I think), and for the most part, I’m doing more comedy than I have since moving to New York. For all intents and purposes, things are going great. But just because things are outwardly good, internally, the shit has hit the fan.
Last week, a guy who I really looked up to and admired took his own life. Brody Stevens was a great comic, whether you knew it or not, he was a true oddball and twisted the form into something beautiful. Brody was known for his positive energy and his inability to just let an audience be mediocre. A lot of comics say there’s no such thing as a bad crowd, just a comic that can’t turn them around. I’d love to believe that. I’d love to believe that. I’d love to put all the onus on myself to entertain, but some crowds don’t want it. I run a weekly bar show (every Wednesday at Niagara in NYC at 8PM (please come)) and I know that for the most part, these were folks strolling through the neighborhood that I or my co-producers harassed into seeing comedy. Sometimes, these people are receptive, sometimes they want to laugh. Sometimes they want to sit quietly because they’re nervous someone will shit on them if they leave. Sometimes they’re a homeless lady that pissed all over themselves and are hell-bent on disrupting a potentially great show. These are all truths and these are all things I’ve seen in the last few weeks. Not all crowds are good, that’s a fact. But regardless of who was in an audience, Brody Stevens would make them remember him. Brody was a true talent and a believer in the power of laughter. He was also incredibly depressed.
It’s scary to think about, especially when you see someone you respect (who also had an unexplainable passion for baseball (the greatest sport ever played)) that just can’t take it anymore. I’ve been there. I’m still there most days, and it’s a fight to keep going. Most days, especially now, I wonder about why I’m doing what I’m doing. What’s the point in this stupid chase? What’s the point of waking up to do a job I hate so I can support myself enough to muster the will to get to an open mic or a bar show with no one there? What’s the use?
A couple of weeks ago, I was diagnosed with Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. Essentially, my heart is thickening and will eventually cause my blood flow to stop. I guess I’m lucky. I can turn a lot of it around with some massive changes, but that’s a scary thought. It’s ironic that my heart has thickened the more I’ve softened up and let people in. Like this is some cruel poetic joke that was written by a high school hopeful writer It’s so easy for me to just say “fuck it” I’ll keep living the way I have because it hasn’t killed me yet, when in reality it has. I don’t known why I’m writing this, but I feel like this is some sort of weird accountability thing that I need to take care of.
Life scares me. I never thought I’d live past 25, and I thought I was ok with that. I don’t want to die, but I don’t know how to justify living when the world is ending around me both literally and figuratively. I don’t have any answers, I don’t have any solutions, but this is where I’m at right now, and it’s fucking awful. I want to believe that eventually, I’ll be able to quit my day job that makes me want to put a gun to my head and I’ll be able to sleep in and do comedy full time. It’s what makes me happy. I know that sounds cliche, but doing standup saved my life and I feel like it’s being pried from me and my thick heart. I want to perform. I want to write. I want to connect with people. I’ve been so isolated (my own doing) for so long that I don’t know what it’s like to have real friends. I cut myself off because I don’t want people to worry about me if I suddenly die or just disappear. I’m not suicidal, far from it, but I am terrified that I’ll drop dead at any moment, and I don’t want people to lose a step in their day because my heart said “nah, later, guys.” I know that’s depressing, but I like to think of it as a wake up call. We need each other. I need you. I need you to know you’re loved, and that I love you.
It’s so scary living in a world that is currently being split apart for so many reasons that don’t matter. It’s so scary that hate is so openly delivered that yeah, it does make sense in a lot of people’s minds to be done with it. I get it. I guess what I’m saying is, we gotta do better. I have to do better. This isn’t meant to read as some call to action, it’s just that I can’t keep a journal anymore and this is me trying to get my thoughts out. Hopefully, I’ll see some of you at Our Wicked Lady on March 26th. Let’s get together and have a good time. I need this.
Here’s a joke to end this: I’m in a love triangle right now. I like this girl, she doesn’t like me, and I don’t understand geometry.
I love you.