I’ve always been fascinated by stand up comedians. 

I think what they do is insane, in a good way. Writing jokes is hard. Telling jokes is harder.

First, they need to find something funny to write about. That’s not easy, because not a lot of things are obviously funny. Jokes take something ordinary and point out something undeniably true and hilarious about it, in a way that no one was expecting. 

Then, when they think they have something, they need to tell it to people. Total strangers. On a stage. And they have no idea if anyone will laugh. But they do it anyway, because it’s the only way to find out if they have something good. 

It’s a process you can’t help but respect. 

And it’s one I’ve always wanted to experience. So, when I lived in Philadelphia, I decided it was time to give it a shot. I admire so many comedians, but I never put myself in their shoes. I never try to do what they do. I figured I should try. 

I found an open mic to go to. 

It was at Ortliebs in North Philadelphia. It’s a dive bar with a stage and small seating area in the back. It’s sticky, dimly lit, and smells like old beer. 

They host an open mic night every Tuesday, so a week before I decided to get on stage I committed to writing my jokes. 

This was one of the most fun experiences I’ve ever had. All week leading up to the open mic I was on alert for anything in my life that I thought could be funny. I poured over my mundane, day-to-day experiences looking for the seeds of a joke. I bought newspapers and sat on park benches for hours reading stories, looking for anything that seemed absurd, weird, or even a tiny bit funny.

I wrote down a bunch of ideas, most of them going nowhere, all in an effort to come up with 4 minutes of material. 4 minutes is about all you get at an open mic, so you have to keep it tight. But 4 minutes of comedy is a lot to come up with for someone who’s never written a joke in their life. 

Speaking of writing jokes, that’s another thing that’s not straightforward. You can’t write them verbatim, because they require a certain rhythm that can’t be captured in words alone. The best you can do is a few stray sentences and words, anything that will set you on a track towards getting where you want to go, which is the punchline. 

Halfway through the week I ended up with a few pages of notes on premises I wanted to play with. This is where the writing stops and the talking to walls in your apartment with a comb in your hand begins. Because you have to say the jokes out loud and pretend you’re in front of an audience.

You have to get your timing down. You have to hear what they sound like coming out of your mouth. This is 90% of what telling a joke is. It’s a physical act more than anything else. 

By the end of the week I knew which jokes I was going to tell. I knew how I was going to string them together, how each one would lead into the next. The first time I got through my whole act, standing in my kitchen alone with a spatula in my hand pretending it was a mic, I was exhilarated.

Before I knew it, it was the next Tuesday, the next open mic, and I was scheduled to get on stage. The open mic started at 7PM. I spent the whole day in between work meetings pacing back and forth in my apartment, rehearsing my jokes over and over. 

I was nervous, but I’d spent a whole week preparing. I knew I could do it, but the nerves were real. This was voluntary public speaking, in front of a room full of strangers, with jokes that up to that point only I thought were funny. It felt less like preparing for public speaking and more like self-immolation. 

At 6PM I hopped on an Indego bike (Philly’s version of Citi bike) and rode to the bar. 

A quick note on Philly. Philadelphia was voted the most walkable city in the United States in 2023. It’s also one of the most bikeable. As a city, it gets a lot of shit, but I enjoyed my time there. You can get practically anywhere on foot or by bike, which is good because having a car there looks like a nightmare. 

At 6:30 I walked into Ortliebs, grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, and hoped it would take some of the edge off. It didn’t, and 30 minutes later it was time to take my seat in the audience. 

Most of the audience at a comedy open mic are other people who are performing. Everyone is rooting for each other. It’s a low stakes environment, but it was still hard not to feel like I was setting myself up for the embarrassment of a lifetime. 

Worst of all, you have no idea when the MC is going to call you on stage. There are maybe 40 people getting up for an open mic, and you could be slotted at any point in the lineup. Going up first would be tough, I thought, since going first is always tough. The crowd isn’t warmed up. But going last? That might put me in an adrenaline-induced craze, cause me to pass out on stage, and need an ambulance to get home. So I was hoping they had me somewhere in the middle. 

As luck would have it, I would be the thirty-seventh person to get on stage that night. Perfect timing. The suspense had been grueling up to that point. If another person had been called up before me, I might have vomited.

Walking out of a dark crowd onto a stage alone is one of the coolest, scariest things I’ve ever done in my life. For a second you kind of feel like a bad ass. Then you realize you’re not. And then you start fearing for your ability to walk, talk, and breathe, all at the same time. 

There’s probably some show biz saying about the blinding lights of the stage, but holy shit is that light bright. Not in a metaphorical way either. The light they shine on you is literally so bright you can barely see the people in front of you. It might have been hot too, but I was already in a cold sweat at that point so I don’t remember. 

I spent a whole 5 seconds fumbling around with the mic. I couldn’t get it out of the stand. That’s another thing you spend hours agonizing about leading up to your first time doing stand up. How are you going to hold the mic? 

You have a few options. You can leave it in the stand and sort of lean on it. That looks pretty cool. Or you can take it out, wave your hands a lot, and move around the stage. That also looks cool. 

I chose the awkward middle ground, where you take the mic out and stand as straight as a plank. I don’t know what I looked like from the crowd, but my guess is the same as a deer before it gets hit by a Chevy Tahoe.

One more thing about the mic. If you’ve never spoken into a microphone before, like me, you have no idea how close you need to hold it to your mouth. You’d think a microphone wouldn’t need to be that close to your face to project your voice. After all, it’s a microphone. But no. You almost have to put your lips up against it. I learned this by trying to introduce myself and realizing that I couldn’t even hear my own name. Hot start. 

But then, it just started happening. 

I started telling jokes. Words started coming out of my mouth. And they were the same words I had practiced all week, alone, with a fork in my hand. Joke after joke, they just kept coming out, exactly as I had rehearsed. 

And people laughed! 

I’m not making that up, people laughed! I won’t tell you what the jokes were (ask me if you ever see me in real life) but they were funny. At least to a few of the some ought 30 people still in the room, which was more than enough for me. 

I wrapped up the set with my closer, bid the crowd goodnight, and walked off. Just like that, it was over. The fastest 4 minutes of my life. 

I spent some time afterwards chumming around with the other comedians and open miker’s before going home. I met people I’d have otherwise never met in my day to day life. They were great. Some of them even told me I was funny, which was nice. 

The bike ride back to my apartment felt like I was riding with nitro boosters. I was buzzing, as anyone is after they just did something they thought would kill them but didn’t. I was proud of myself, and still am. 

So what did I learn from all this? A few things:

1. If you're not embarrassing yourself, you're not trying

Trying anything new opens you up for embarrassment.

Chances are you won't be good at something on your first try. You'll probably suck, and that's embarrassing. But if you're not trying things because you're too scared to be embarrassed, you'll never do anything worth trying in the first place.

My first time doing stand up went well, all things considered. But it wasn't all smooth. I couldn't figure out the mic, I looked like a ghost, and some of my punchlines fell flat on their face.

And while those things were embarrassing in the moment, I'm glad they happened. They're part of a cool story I get to tell for the rest of my life. If I let fear of embarrassment stop me, I would have never had this experience, and my life would be worse off for it.

Embarrass yourself more often.

2. No one cares except you

I was worried that doing stand up would go on my own personal highlight reel of all-time cringe moments.

But even if it did, no one cares. Every single person at that open mic stopped thinking about me after I got off stage. The same is true for most people in most situations.

So like I said, embarrass yourself more often, because no one cares except you.

3. Make fun of yourself

Most of my jokes poked fun at things I find ridiculous about myself.

Those were the jokes that got the most laughs, and it felt great. I took things that I felt insecure about and let other people laugh at them. Now none of it bothers me, because how could it? I'll be the first person to tell you that those things about me are funny, so no one can make fun of me for them.

Don't take yourself too seriously.

If you enjoyed reading this, make sure to subscribe and please consider sharing it!

James