Open Mic Hero

There are few places on earth I feel more at home than an open mic. It’s a mix of nervous energy and seasoned pros burning cigarettes like they're waiting for a verdict. It's a weird ecosystem because you have so many "types" in one location, facing the same audience, despite having wildly different days on arrival.

For me, open mics provide the one thing I love most: the constant stupid. I write better after sitting in a room with strangers throwing different perspectives on things I have already thought about. It's the great equalizer; a nobody can win the hearts of the audience while a "Netflix Known" hits a flat night. However, the open mic is also an interminable landscape you never learn to escape—mostly because you forget you were trying to leave.

This hit me after a conversation a few years ago. A comedian told me, "You are only an open mic-er until you decide not to be." That has been rattling in my noggin for years while I sort out what it means. The best I’ve landed on is this: Don't be the Open Mic Hero.

The Open Mic Hero is a rare bird, and one I have been until recently. They thrive on the mic. They crave it. It's chaotic, the rules are loose, and there is plenty of fodder if you don't feel like trying. For me, it became the perfect solution to a problem I never addressed. If I went to open mics and was an absolute force on stage, the young comics would be enamored. I could give advice until they caught up, turned into professionals, and no longer needed my wisdom.

There are several of us hanging in the branches for different reasons. Some are still hoping the "industry" will see us and give us the romantic ending. Some are angry, changing their fuel with the tides of popular comedy. Some are old dogs taking their final throws, truly confused by the path (and in their defense, who isn't?).

This isn't me casting aspersions. Mostly, it's me looking in the mirror and seeing an ugly amalgamation of these ideals slowly forming.

It's not all doom and gloom, kids. There is a route out. It's your choice in the end.

You can be an Open Mic Hero in a new form: the Karaoke Comic. The one who is out there to have a good time, not pursuing fame or an audience—just a funny person being funny.

You can be a Part-Time Professional. Know your limits and schedule accordingly. Maybe you don't want fame but don't mind rocking a showcase a few times a month.

Or maybe you want greatness. Maybe you want historical acknowledgement, but no one will hear you at open mics. You will become that person people tell stories about: "Remember so-and-so? I wonder what happened to them?" If you want greatness, I can't give you real advice, but quit worrying if dimly lit bars believe in you. Treat it like a business. Why should we care about you before you do?

The business doesn't have to be artless; consider it guidelines for yourself. What do you want? How do you plan to do that? More importantly, what are you willing to do differently to make that happen? I'm not talking about some inspirational "who's going to carry the boats" David Goggins nonsense. I mean the real shit. Will you stop worrying about writing a new four minutes every week so you can finally hone the point you were trying to make in that one joke that actually meant something?

For me, that last point is the hardest. I like to be relevant and fast and crowd-worky because it is fun and upbeat. However, what is the point of writing jokes with dreams of an album if I refuse to bolster them? Do I want to be destroyed by Rotten Tomatoes? 

In the end, this is me submitting my resignation to the Society of Open Mic Heroes. I don't know what my path out of the desert is—maybe death by a thousand bombs—but I can no longer linger in the shadows given the resources available. I'm not Carlin, Pryor, or Kinane, but I can be a better steward of the time I am given.