None the Wiser

Hugging Sucks

Just when I thought I had cracked the awkward cheek-kiss greeting which is so de rigueur these days, I’ve recently noticed an even more disturbing trend on the UK comedy circuit: casual hugging. All I can say is, WTF, Britain? I moved here to get AWAY from invasions of personal space, and you’re letting me down big time.

All right, I didn’t move here for that, but it seemed a fringe benefit. I’ve never been a casual hugger. I’m not an emotional stone, mind you; I cry at Warburton bread ads like everyone else. But unless I really know you, I’ve just never gotten the purpose of lining up my whole person with, and squashing against, just anybody. When hugging is unwanted, it makes cheek kissing seem as innocent as texting. It’s the “NO, BAD TOUCH!” manoeuvre of the greeting world.

This all came to light recently when I noticed that a good handful of (male) comedy promoters and MCs like to hug (female) comics. Not just in greeting, which is embarrassing enough (not to mention a bit on the pervy side of awkward), but when we EXIT THE STAGE AFTER A SET. This has now happened to me four times, by three different people.

Let’s step aside from the argument that (male) promoters are using the hug as a way of getting away with touching (female) comics, and assume intentions are innocent. Affectionate. Congratulatory. Friendly. I don’t fucking care, Armsy McWraparound! Because even if you aren’t being a Chester the Molester in hugging me after I’ve finished my set, you ARE making me look like a complete douche in front of my audience. Especially if you’re not hugging the other acts.

To give a comparison, Oprah used to hug some of her guests who had been through terrible trials, like peer taunting and torturing cruelty. When she did this, it was a moment to showcase great pity and comforting mothering to the victim. Oprah can get away with that shit, she’s a talk show host. This is comedy. Don’t make me look like I’ve just survived the school bully by giving me a yoga-retreat embrace before I’ve even put the mic in the damn stand.

The problem with not liking hugging is that if I declare that I don’t like it, I look like an asshole. A standoffish cold fish of a lady who probably wasn’t given enough affection as a child and who can’t hack a good hug as a grownup. I was a licensed psychotherapist in my former life, but I’ve still never found a way to say “I’m sorry, can we skip the hugs?” without inducing a look of shock and - I daresay - pity - on the hugger’s face. “Poor gal,” they seem to be thinking. “She can’t HANDLE the hugs.”

Lately I’ve been trying my hand at physical blocks instead. Kind of American football style, arms straight out, palms flat. This gets an even weirder response. I look like I’m trying to be Neo from the Matrix, training in some sort of agent hugging rebellion programme. And if I did this after a set to an MC or promoter, what sort of message does this send to the audience? HANDS OFF PEOPLE! LOOK AND LAUGH, BUT DON’T TOUCH, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Sigh. There’s just no easy way out for the hug averse. We end up just grinning and bearing the bear hugs which are thrown upon us without mercy. It’s almost like huggers SENSE our discomfort and think they can squeeze it the hell out of our beings.

So what’s the answer? I remember an old Friends episode where Chandler finally confronts his boss about slapping him on the ass, then gets jealous when he stops and sees his co-workers getting slapped instead. Maybe if I actually set the boundary and stopped the hugs I’d get sad and miss them. Maybe I should learn to like it and just take it for what it is: casual affection.

Or maybe, the next time I get an unwanted hug, I should lick your face and see how you like THAT.

The India Effect

A Westerner heading to India for spiritual enlightenment is such a cliche.  Fuck it, I like cliches.  They make the world go round.

I travelled there for the first time last week, and since I returned I feel refreshed, centred, inspired, and perhaps most importantly - decidedly less important.  If there were ever a profession which indulges the self centred side of us, it’s stand up comedy.  I’m not saying that’s bad…after all, we provide a useful service.  Laughing is therapeutic and invaluable.  All I’m saying is, it’s a lot of ME, ME, ME getting a comedy career going and keeping it going.

So much so that I found myself getting pretty wound up these past few months.  Firstly, I’m putting on my debut hour long show at the Edinburgh Fringe festival in August.  This is a notoriously stressful experience and in many senses, a big rite of passage.  It’s your chance to really showcase your skills and hammer home a themed concept to the comedy world and public.  And trust me, my head (and stomach) have been feeling the impact of that stress.

The last gig I had before heading to India was one of the worst I’ve ever had.  I was feeling tightly wound, tired, and nervous about my show, but for some reason decided to turn the gig into a preview of sorts.  It’s a long story, and one I don’t even feel like recounting, but a woman with whom I’d had some banter at the venue the year before had apparently felt I’d insulted her…and in trying to diffuse her heckling I went on to TRULY insult her.  Oops.  Not only did I feel awful about it, but I had a roomful of people who were baffled and I daresay, a bit insulted themselves.  Then I treated them to a full hour of me looking at notes, trying out untested material, and fumbling towards the end of that hour with great anticipation.  Actually, in retrospect, I handled it pretty well and at least I powered through…I hope Edinburgh proves less strained however!

The next day I was on a flight to India with my husband.  The trip had been booked quite spontaneously as he had to do work there and I was really just tagging along.  We had barely gotten our visas in time - in fact they were delivered  the MORNING we flew.  In retrospect that was very indicative of how things have been feeling lately.  A bit crazy and last minute.

From the moment I entered the taxi and swerved down the insanity of the Delhi motorway, I felt peaceful.  I can’t explain it.  Anyone who’s been to India knows that the street is the opposite of peaceful.  Lanes mean nothing in India and you’re sharing the frenetic mania with trucks, motorbikes with Indian women riding side saddle and helmetless as their husbands drive 70 MPH, auto rickshaws, bikes, and as I’d later discover in Jaipur, sometimes elephants, camels, and cows (who always, always have the right of way).

But seeing (and immersing myself) in this chaos did exactly what was needed - it took me out of my head and forced me to look outside myself.  At a country with an infinite amount of intrigue, sights, and sounds.  One minute you’re looking at a Mughal temple, admiring it’s intricacy and effort, the next you’re at a red light with a 6 year old girl holding a baby, tapping desperately at your window.  It feels like an M Night Shyamalan film, but you have to stare forward or they won’t go away.  And if you give them money, we were warned, it will only go to the leader of their child exploitation ring.

Suddenly worrying about my punchlines seemed a little trivial.

India is a constant paradox - you’re drawn in by graciousness, curiosity, and love…then sometimes manipulated and taken advantage of.  You see beauty and splendour and feel awe towards your fellow human - then see ugliness and callousness and feel resentful in the same breath.  You smell curry, incense and roses, the next second raw sewage fills your nose.  You eat the most perfumed and delicious meal of your life…then your body decides to…erm, reject that.

Everything in India feels more complicated.  Preparing a meal means going to four different shops, not a supermarket.  Buying anything means haggling.  Booking anything means getting a connection to someone you can trust, assuming you’ll be ripped off otherwise.  But all these contrasts to my frame of reference made me instantly love India.  Because having to work harder means you appreciate what you get at the end (albeit the disappointment is greater when you don’t)

Feeling enlightened by India is a cliche, but it’s become one for good reason.  So much of what I experienced restored my faith in living life day to day - not just five year plan to five year plan - or career milestone to career milestone, as it’s been feeling lately.  There’s a great beauty and inspiration in the chaos of India, and I’m forever grateful I got to experience it.  

It’s hard to feel anxious when you’re on top of a camel giggling with your husband as you see your bizarre Arabian nights shadow beside you.

I’m grateful for this little oasis in my chaos, because it made me realise that none of my chaos is really chaos at all.  I’ve got an easy life compared to the majority of people in the world.  A VERY easy and very privileged life indeed.  And I want to enjoy every minute of that rather than feel angst about it…down to my Edinburgh show and whatever the hell happens after it.  Because the bottom line is, and how lucky I am to say this and mean it: I love my life and everything in it.  So what’s there to worry about?

It’s no surprise that my last three gigs have gone well, and have been, most importantly, fun again.  Let that be a lesson.  So I’m already looking into Thailand for December…let’s call it an occupational necessity.  Maybe I can even write it off as an expense.  Anyone have a dodgy accountant they wanna share with me?  

Anyway, since this has been so saccharine sweet anyway, let’s end with this…in the words of the dorky Alanis M: thank you India. Another cliche? Ah, isn’t it ironic… 

When Darkness Falls

Lately I’ve noticed my material taking a bit of a dark turn.  Largely, this is because I’m writing new stuff for my Edinburgh show, and exploring psychotherapy as a profession and the reasons I went into it - and frankly it’s just dark.  And anyone who’s worked in that kind of people profession understands that gallows humour is a coping skill more than anything.  But I think I’ve always had a dark mind and found things funny which others might flinch at.  As we know, it’s all relative and our personal triggers and limits vary according to many factors.

Tonight I gigged for a group of bright-eyed American students who have been in the UK for just a few months.  A lovely bunch, they were attentive, receptive, and open minded for certain.  But for the first time since I’ve been doing stand up here, I became aware of some of my content - and how it has the power to elicit real emotions.  Specifically, to shock and offend a bit.

Part of my routine involves observing that the UK has the darkest sense of humour in the world, and that this stems from their traditional way of coping with trauma - getting on with it, and having a laugh about it rather than getting emotional.  This is invariably received with agreement.

I then go on to make some observations about how this manifests itself in the callous approach to dead celebrities, etc, and then segue into a bit about how innocent and decidedly un-dark Americans give their children whimsical hippy names, which could possibly be linked with the increase in school shootings.  It’s just an observation meant to illustrate how optimistic and wide eyed Americans can be, blind to the way the rest of the world views this, and suggesting the worst of all consequences for it.  The school shooting bit is really just a device to darkly illustrate the point.

For the first time tonight, I became aware of the impact of that joke.  Not because I didn’t intrinsically get that my message had impact - but because no British audience over the past two years has ever responded to that bit with anything but laughter (or at worst, and rarely, silence).  Tonight though, audible gasps and WOWS and OOOOHS were heard.  Little laughter though.

Now back in my New York improv days, I remember one of my teachers saying that a gasp or groan is as good as laughter, sometimes better.  That stuck with me.  Sometimes you aim to make your audience FEEL rather than just laugh - to think, to feel something about the message, to be taken aback.  But tonight made me wonder about that oft posed comedy dilemma:  where’s the line between sending a message and just saying something for the sake of offense?

Obviously I wasn’t saying it for the sake of - I had thought through the joke and knew its intention, which wasn’t purely to shock but to make a cultural observation.  But of course I could have chosen a more benign device than school shootings.  I could have just said that stupid American names lead to bullying.  Or frat boys. But in my head that’s not as funny because the point gets diluted.  

It could simply be that having only done stand up in the UK, I’ve tailored a set for British people and observed their boundaries, rather than those of my own nation.  And in this case, tried to roll out a joke to the so called victims, rather than the usual observers.  Just last night I had a conversation where someone asked if Americans can laugh at themselves as well as Brits…and I said no, not usually, but then again Brits won’t laugh at themselves if you hit the wrong nerves.  

There are comics who do far worse jokes with far less thought than this one, so in a way maybe it’s foolish to analyse.  And actually, I didn’t get a BAD response, I just got a different one than what I’m used to.  It didn’t ruin the gig, I just carried on down a different path.  But it seems like encountering an audience who treat your material with a different response should be a lesson in reflection.

Will I lose that joke?  Nope, because it works.  But I’ll remember WHY it works, and maybe sometimes we comics need a check on our material that way.  

Thanks American students for being your gloriously emotional and expressive selves.  Now get over it.  :)

Why I Don’t Mind Dying

The other week I was at a strange gig in Essex where ten acts were competing for attention with about seven fruit machines and five TV screens showing sexy sexy music videos.  The audience were actually all right, although a significant lineup of Orangina coloured young ladies with £20 hair extensions meant we had to stick with the basics. 

A funny thing happened to me in the middle of that gig.  I stopped caring about what the audience thought, and almost wanted…to baffle them.  To silence them in a bout of anti-comedic confusion.  So I brought my newly purchased “Tangle Teezer” on stage (a plastic hairbrush with no handle that women like to purchase for about 580% of its wholesale value). 

At first, I still had them.  One of the Oranginas shrieked in recognition and pulled out HER Tangle Teezer.  We shared some silly exchanges: I noted that hers was black, she got very offended and said it was NOT, it was PURPLE, innit!?  I pointed out that her defensiveness suggested a bit of Essex racism.  Ha ha, the audience laughed, and the Tangle Teezer bit should have ended there.   But then my strange urge took over.

Instead of burying the hairbrush back into my pocket I started to brush my hair.  For no reason.  I just stared out at the audience silently and ran the brush through my hair.  It only lasted a little while but it was profoundly silent and I could see the audience sink into a wave of confusion. 

I couldn’t stand it for very long so I tucked the thing away and continued on with no explanation.  I joked with another act that it was my Andy Kaufman tribute.  But I couldn’t help but wonder if I had discovered something:  that sometimes it’s more powerful to hold an audience and NOT give them what they want.  I suppose that’s different from dying, where you are working your balls off for the laugh and getting nothing.  But even that uncomfortable, soul destroying scenario gives me a weird sense of satisfaction.  The same way that when you trip and fall on your face in public and no one laughs your adrenaline spikes.  If I’m honest that sort of thing used to make me cringe; now I say to myself “Wow, it’s their loss they didn’t get the beauty of THAT moment.”

Maybe the performing, the insanity of getting up behind a mic, has finally made me lose my marbles.  Or maybe I’m on to something:  I’ve conquered the fear of death.  At least in comedy. 

Competition, Schmompetition

This isn’t about comedy competitions, tt’s about comic competition.  And how the world of social networking and long car journeys with other acts can either help you or drive you to paranoia and panic on the comedy circuit.

When it comes to my material and what I do onstage, I don’t worry about the competition.  Not because I think I’m the best at what I do, but because I think I know my voice and what I offer the audience.  I’m confident in my “product” and I get on with doing the best I can with it.

However, put me in a car with three comics who have all gigged at venues which I’ve never managed to get into, or I daresay, have never heard of, and the worst of my demons start growling.  Just this past two weeks, I’ve been booked for three weekends at the Glee clubs, did my second open spot at the Comedy Store and got glowing feedback from the owner, got booked at Highlights for the first time, got booked for a run in a five star hotel in Malta, had a request to do a big corporate gig, and in the meantime enjoyed some very good gigs all over the UK.  But what does my brain focus on?  The fact that I’ve never even gotten in TOUCH with a handful of other clubs which other comics threw out in conversation.

Then there’s Facebook, which I’m unabashedly addicted to and use for both promotion and indulgent banter.  And Twitter, which I’ve more recently come to use for both as well.  They did a study awhile back which established a positive link between social networking usage and negative comparisons/competition with others.  Ironically, this was shared like mad on Facebook.

But I can’t blame the technology, really; it’s simply harnassing that natural but destructive tendency we all have to compare and contrast, and keep up with the Joneses.  In this case, however, the Joneses are an army of other comics who are all bashing away at the impossible dream of Reaching the Next Level in Comedy.  So rather than celebrating the successes, it’s easy to panic over the holes on your CV.  

And I’m expected to remember everybody’s NAMES.  Me, the girl who can go to a party and have to ask THREE TIMES what someone’s name is.  It’s not personal, it’s not me being rude, it’s my scattered brain taking in all the visuals of a person and thinking about their tone of voice and wondering whether they’ve always dressed like an 80s dorkster… and SHIT I’ve forgotten they have this name thing I need to hold onto in there.  

Most comics can rattle off with ease the names and details of hundreds of other comics…both well known and obscure.  I can name the ones I like, grew up watching, have seen enough of on TV and comedy sites to remember, and have worked enough with enough to remember not just their face but their name, which is likely to be Mark, Paul, or Dan.  This puts me at a seeming disadvantage in the face of acts who seem to have memorized the entire repertoire of Chortle reviews and act titles.

Funny thing is, none of this translates to any resentment or bitterness towards others for me.  It all goes inwards and makes me either 1. panic and worry I’m behind on my game or 2. work harder to keep rising.  I’m trying to keep it at number 2 as much as I can.  And also remember that in the end, comparison, competition, and panic do absolutely fuck all to help any of us get better at our craft, or rise up in the ranks.  Being kind to other acts, sharing tips as much as you ask for them, and just working hard seems to be a much more sound approach.  And we’re supposed to have fun along the way, right?

Most comics also don’t flaunt their CV, but rather share information generously and as a matter of conversation.  We’re self-centred by nature and we wanna talk shop ALL the time.  But there’s always that occasional little troll who does the eyebrow raising “oh, you’ve never played JIMBO’S BIG FAT TITTERS NIGHT in OXBLARGE?  Wow.  how long you been going again?”  and then you have to decide if you’re gonna let the demons prevail.

Maybe I should take a break from Facebook.  Maybe I need to just put up more filters when I sense people are trying to communicate in a competitive rather than supportive and curious way.  I’m pretty good at reading intention… .I just need to make sure I keep those little pesky demons at bay so I keep mine intact.

Wow, you made it to the end of this?  Shit, please don’t compare it to other blogs, I’m just doing the best I can here…