Do I Miss Stand-Up?

Unpacking a seemingly simple question

Whenever I’ve talked to friends or acquaintances this year, they usually ask me variations of the same few questions.  “Do you miss stand-up?” or “How does it feel to not be doing stand-up anymore?” or “What the hell is a Substack?”  The answers I give are pretty straightforward.  It feels great to not be doing stand-up anymore, and no, I don’t miss it.  But like anything real and honest, the truth is a lot more complicated and difficult to get into during polite conversation.

Do I miss what my life was like during the last few years of my comedy career?  Absolutely not.  What had previously felt like striving and growth had started to feel more like desperation and stagnation.  I was constantly thinking about comedy, working on jokes, posting videos, and spending time out of the house at shows and open mics, all in a vain attempt to finally gain a foothold on a legitimate career.  It was exhausting.  On top of that, none of my efforts were leading to anything significant, so the exhaustion felt like it was completely meaningless and without reward.  Imagine Sisyphus attempting to roll the boulder up the hill but not even being able to get it past the starting line, no matter how hard he pushed.

So yeah, I don’t miss that at all.

I don’t think I even miss the act of being on stage and telling jokes.  Things had gotten so knotty and tense for me during those last few years that I wasn’t having any fun on stage.  I could count on one hand how many shows I did in 2023 where I performed in front of a real crowd, did well, and felt like I was loose and free and being myself.  That’s the most rewarding part of stand-up, and it wasn’t occurring with any real frequency.  There isn’t much to miss in this case.

What I actually do miss is a little more subjective and hard to define.  And it bubbles up whenever I watch stand-up comedy now.

Back when I was actually performing, I never watched stand-up, either online or on TV.  The only exception would be when one of my favorite comedians released a new special.  Other than that, I never intentionally sought out stand-up content.  I was seeing enough of it in real life that I had no desire to sit and watch it in my free time.  It would be like asking a Starbucks barista to go get a Frappuccino on their day off.  When I had a minute to myself, I just wanted to disconnect from it.

That’s changed for me in 2024.  I watch stand-up all the time now.  I watch the shorter sets from Don’t Tell and The Tonight Show, and I watch a lot of the new specials that come out.  Stand-up is easier for me to enjoy without my own desires getting in the way.  A lot of what I watch is mediocre and forgettable, but that’s fine.  I don’t get angry at subpar comedy the way that I used to.  Where things get interesting is whenever I hear a joke or see a stand-up set that is really, really good.  And I know it’s really good because it makes me jealous.

This happened with Taylor Tomlinson’s new special Have It All, Pete Holmes’ latest I Am Not For Everyone, Dan Soder’s On The Road and Nick Mullen’s The Year Of The Dragon.  I felt it when I watched Nathan Macintosh’s most recent set on The Tonight Show and Lafayette Wright on Don’t Tell.  I think, “Goddamn, I wish I could do that.”  It stirs this desire in me to be on stage and perform at a high level.  And back when I was doing stand-up, there was always this possibility that one day, maybe I would be able to do that.  But now I know I definitely won’t.

I think that’s what I miss.  I miss the possibility of the dream becoming a reality.  You know that saying, “The man who thinks he can and the man he thinks he can’t are both right?”  It’s not totally accurate.  The man who thinks he can’t is definitely right.  But the man who thinks he can may be right.  Just because you think you can doesn’t mean you’re automatically going to succeed.  There’s plenty of people who think they can do something when they truly, objectively cannot.  But for a lot of others, that “maybe” is always there.  It’s a powerful motivator, and can keep you going under tough circumstances.  I miss that maybe.

I shouldn’t get too hung up on that though, because the “maybe” was never going to come to fruition anyway.  Not to get too philosophical about it, but every bit of wishing and hoping and striving I did over the last fifteen years was always destined to be for naught, because it all led me to where I am now.  I’m not a professional comedian, I’m a guy who wakes up early and works on a Substack for fun before going into his office job.  And that’s fine, whatever.  I’ve mostly accepted it at this point.  But it also feeds into this other negative feeling I have around quitting stand-up that comes up whenever I listen to comedians I admire and respect talk about comedy.

I’ll be the first to admit, hearing comedians talk about the “craft” of comedy can be one of the most annoying things on the planet.  There’s a level of self-seriousness that is borderline insufferable.  I felt the same way during the Season 3 finale of The Bear when all of those chefs spent ten minutes talking about why they love to cook.  They’re prattling on and on about “nourishing their guests” and food being a “conduit for life’s greatest moments” or some other nonsense, meanwhile I’m leaning forward on my couch, practically screaming at the TV, “Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up.”

Unfortunately, I’m a sucker for this stuff when it’s coming out of the mouths of my favorite comedians.  I’m locked in on every Jerry Seinfeld interview where he discusses his process and the lifestyle that goes along with it.  I absolutely loved to hear Katt Williams talk about the importance of writing on Shannon Sharpe’s podcast.  John Mulaney’s interview on My Next Guest With David Letterman was revelatory.  Hearing Chris Rock and Kevin Hart (Not one of my favorite comedians, but still worth listening to) reflect on the early days of their careers in Headliners Only was fascinating.  But after those positive feelings fade away, I’m left with something else, something weird and unsettling.  I feel like, by failing at comedy and quitting, I let my heroes down.

I understand this is a completely insane and parasocial viewpoint to have, but it’s how I feel.  Hearing these guys talk this way is incredibly inspiring for me.  I mean that in the literal Latin sense of inspire, the word inspirare, which means “to breathe air into.”  I feel alive, renewed and uplifted.  I’ve always felt this way when I heard this stuff.  Unfortunately, I was never able to do anything useful or constructive with it.  All of that inspiration always led to a dead end.  It feels so antithetical to what these guys believe in and stand for.  And I know that because I failed, I don’t belong in whatever club they’ve cultivated for themselves as high caliber professionals.  They wouldn’t consider me or my efforts interesting or worthwhile.  I imagine Jerry Seinfeld reading my Substack (something that will never, ever happen), seeing all of my complaints about comedy, slowly rolling his eyes and hitting me with one of these:

So that’s the real answer to the question “Do I miss stand-up?”  I don’t miss what stand-up was for me, but I certainly miss what I wanted it to be and what I thought it could be.  But the “want” and “could” parts were never real anyway.  I’m about as close to them now as I was when I was actually performing.  I’m missing a fantasy.  It’s like lamenting the fact that you never learned how to fly.

That’s been the challenge for me over the last six months.  I love being home every night.  I love not posting on social media.  I’m glad to have rid myself of the constant sense of desperation that was gnawing at me for over a decade.  I just need to find a way to untangle the desire for the fantasy from my actual day-to-day life.  I think this is something that will come with time, and writing about it will most likely help as well.  I hope I can get to that point.  Because the last thing I want is for it to be ten or twenty years down the line, and I’m watching a stand-up set on my Apple Vision Pro Glasses or my Neuralink Ocular Hologram or whatever the hell device people are using at that point, and I hear a great joke, and I’m still stuck with the feeling of “Goddamn, I wish I could do that.”  That might have been a worthwhile way for me to live in the past, but it’s absolutely no way for me to approach the future.

Does that answer the question?