Zen And The Art Of Performing A Stand-Up Comedy Bit

Now, I’m coming from a perspective of having performed at a grand total of a handful of open-mics. So this is more of a how-it-happened than it is a how-to.

Zen lesson #1: I get to adjust my relationship with control. Unlike improv, where it’s all about the group, while performing stand-up you are in solo control of everything that you deliver. So in a way you have all the control. At the same time, you have none of the control because your content is in the audience’s hands (or laughter). You can’t “know your audience” in advance like delivering a lecture. You might be able to impress an audience through a clever lecture, but in stand-up, you can’t compel them to find you funny. It’s a powerful lesson in radical acceptance, because, having no choice in the matter, the only option is to choose to let go.

Zen lesson #2: I get to adjust my attitude about outcomes. There’s a thousand sayings about the virtue traveling well over getting to a destination. But, as I have no specific goal related to stand-up other than to experience it, there is literally nothing but the journey. I guess it’s possible that getting uproarious laughter could be a goal, but since I can’t control other people… And what’s more, Ali Wong blew my mind when she said that her purpose in going out to open mics was not to see what made people laugh, but, over the course of a dozen open mics in a night, to see what of her material she continued to feel interested in.

Zen lesson #3: I get to adjust how I choose to be seen. In polite society, we’ve all learned that performing as polished (bright and shiny, conforming, well-rounded) “professionals” is the name of the game. In standup, the comedians who resonate most powerfully with people seem to be the ones who let themselves be the very way that would raise eyebrows in said polite society. They show off their natural weird, imperfect, snarky edges. In stand-up, it’s not about who conforms but who can name the thing for what it really is. It feels like the ultimate inclusiveness and belonging when the audience gets to see the comic as their wonky self, and thus gets to feel safe to be their own wonky selves.

When my number is called at an open-mic, I feel a rush of scaredness. Everyone seems to have more experience than me, have more confidence than me, manage to be funnier even when they are bombing, and are younger. Much of the audience is poring over their material, awaiting their turn, not even looking. I come onto the stage and do the ritual, which already feels comforting: take the mic out, move the mic stand to the side, and put my notebook on the stool. The stopwatch starts. I have no control of the audience, have no goal but to live the next four minutes, and am learning to let myself be.