24 Hours of Stand Up
"You should do it," Meg said. "Don't argue."
How could I?
If you live in Philly, then you are probably familiar with the Philadelphia Live Arts Festival and Philly Fringe. One of its more ridiculous events is 24 Hours of Stand Up. Comedians from across the area would be converging on the Walking Fish Theater in Fishtown to do continuous sets of stand up comedy from midnight to midnight on Labor Day. I had to get in on this. I put in a call to Doogie.
"What people are doing are two sets," he said in his eternally disinterested, nasal monotone. "One in the afternoon and one in the morning. So I can get you in at noon and..."
There was a rusting of papers.
"...3:30 am. Is that cool?"
There was a long pause. Are you kidding? Did I have enough material? Would it be ready in time?
"Sure, Doogie. No problem."
"You do realize that's in seven hours."
"I'll be there." I hung up. I had work to do.
Yes, it was only a 15 minute set (as most comics would be doing), but my more current material was in no cohesive shape. I workshopped my set until about midnight (INSANE MAD props to Hol_man and trebligoniqua). Then I biked across town to catch Jeffrey DJing at Skinner's in Old City. I hung out, had a few beers, and went over my material until about 2 am. Then I biked uptown to the Walking Fish.
The Walking Fish Theater is a rowhome that has been converted to a theater on the northern edge of Port Fishington. As you would imagine, the theater is quite small. You can hear someone using the bathroom during a performance despite the fact that there is a PA system. What better place to witness hour after hour of stand up comedy?
I walked in and told the sound guy who I was and when I was supposed to go on. Then I surveyed the scene. The back was full of beer for people in the audience and coffee and donuts for comedians. A single spotlight illuminated the performer. Even though it was 2:30 am, there was a decent crowd and they didn't look like they wanted to kill themselves. The guy who was on stage was getting laughs. These were all very good things - better than I had hoped. I might be getting a decent audience at 3:30 am.
Then the host, Chip Chantry, explained to me that everyone was running late and my set was getting bumped to 4:30 am.
"You know, if that's all right with you," he said.
"Sure." What else was I going to reply? Of course it's not okay to bump me to four thirty in the morning, but I just hauled ass across town to perform and, damnit, I was going to get on stage.
Miraculously, people were still in a decent mood towards the wee hours of the morning. That all ended at 3:45 am. I won't say which local comic went on, but he was a complete hack and his jokes were horrendously bad. They consisted of one liners delivered in a smug, self-possessed drone. Despite the fact that his set was a trainwreck from the get-go, it did not stop him from performing for 45 minutes.
Now, I understand that sometimes you do a set and things just don't go your way. That certainly doesn't mean you stop in the middle of a joke. But you may want to cut your bit short considering:
a) The theater is full of comedians who have been waiting to get on stage.
b) Those comedians have been delayed an additional hour.
c) It's 4 in the morning.
d) You haven't gotten a single laugh.
His set came to a merciful end at half past four when, coincidentally, half the audience got up and left. By now, the other half hated life and everyone and everything around them.
That's when Chip introduced me. And wouldn't you know that a drunk guy stumbled into the theater and began heckling me? Worst. Set. Ever.
I got home at 5:30. I overslept and missed my noon set.
How could I?
If you live in Philly, then you are probably familiar with the Philadelphia Live Arts Festival and Philly Fringe. One of its more ridiculous events is 24 Hours of Stand Up. Comedians from across the area would be converging on the Walking Fish Theater in Fishtown to do continuous sets of stand up comedy from midnight to midnight on Labor Day. I had to get in on this. I put in a call to Doogie.
"What people are doing are two sets," he said in his eternally disinterested, nasal monotone. "One in the afternoon and one in the morning. So I can get you in at noon and..."
There was a rusting of papers.
"...3:30 am. Is that cool?"
There was a long pause. Are you kidding? Did I have enough material? Would it be ready in time?
"Sure, Doogie. No problem."
"You do realize that's in seven hours."
"I'll be there." I hung up. I had work to do.
Yes, it was only a 15 minute set (as most comics would be doing), but my more current material was in no cohesive shape. I workshopped my set until about midnight (INSANE MAD props to Hol_man and trebligoniqua). Then I biked across town to catch Jeffrey DJing at Skinner's in Old City. I hung out, had a few beers, and went over my material until about 2 am. Then I biked uptown to the Walking Fish.
The Walking Fish Theater is a rowhome that has been converted to a theater on the northern edge of Port Fishington. As you would imagine, the theater is quite small. You can hear someone using the bathroom during a performance despite the fact that there is a PA system. What better place to witness hour after hour of stand up comedy?
I walked in and told the sound guy who I was and when I was supposed to go on. Then I surveyed the scene. The back was full of beer for people in the audience and coffee and donuts for comedians. A single spotlight illuminated the performer. Even though it was 2:30 am, there was a decent crowd and they didn't look like they wanted to kill themselves. The guy who was on stage was getting laughs. These were all very good things - better than I had hoped. I might be getting a decent audience at 3:30 am.
Then the host, Chip Chantry, explained to me that everyone was running late and my set was getting bumped to 4:30 am.
"You know, if that's all right with you," he said.
"Sure." What else was I going to reply? Of course it's not okay to bump me to four thirty in the morning, but I just hauled ass across town to perform and, damnit, I was going to get on stage.
Miraculously, people were still in a decent mood towards the wee hours of the morning. That all ended at 3:45 am. I won't say which local comic went on, but he was a complete hack and his jokes were horrendously bad. They consisted of one liners delivered in a smug, self-possessed drone. Despite the fact that his set was a trainwreck from the get-go, it did not stop him from performing for 45 minutes.
Now, I understand that sometimes you do a set and things just don't go your way. That certainly doesn't mean you stop in the middle of a joke. But you may want to cut your bit short considering:
a) The theater is full of comedians who have been waiting to get on stage.
b) Those comedians have been delayed an additional hour.
c) It's 4 in the morning.
d) You haven't gotten a single laugh.
His set came to a merciful end at half past four when, coincidentally, half the audience got up and left. By now, the other half hated life and everyone and everything around them.
That's when Chip introduced me. And wouldn't you know that a drunk guy stumbled into the theater and began heckling me? Worst. Set. Ever.
I got home at 5:30. I overslept and missed my noon set.