By Pat Oates
Whenever someone waxes poetic about a comedy open mic, the descriptions are usually the same. Dark lit bar. Barflies scattered throughout the dive bar. Young hopeful comics, sitting alone with their noses buried in their notebooks, going over what they will utter on stage later. A brand new comic loudly walking around, interrupting the studious comedian’s process by tapping them on the shoulder and asking if the list is out yet to sign up. Another shadow boxing for some reason. It paints quite the sad struggling creative picture.
Then the comics go up and just poorly recite word for word the jokes they just studied like a 6th grader giving their book report in front of the class. Head down. Hands in pockets. Staring at their papers. No emotion. Just regurgitating the script they wrote.
Defeated, the comic walks off stage, puzzled why the scarce dwelling of people addicted to either alcohol or attention that make up the “audience” didn’t seem to care about what they just said. They know the jokes are solid. They have edited it. Streamlined it. Pulled out all clutter words. It has an intriguing premise and clear punchline. Why no laughter?
It’s because you are too worried about what you are saying and not how you are saying.
