Return to the Comedy Store

I’m up twelfth on the The Comedy Store Potluck. I’m standing with a band of misfits on the outside porch as the host goes over instructions. I used to live in this club. I’d get the coveted 1am spots as all new comics were put through the gauntlet. The development spots were nice during the week but the booker made you give your blood and life energy in exchange for every second. All those memories of being a young comedian in LA. Hanging out in dark hallways, Mels on Sunset, eating my dick in front of drunk strangers.

I thought it would be fun to go up again while I’m in LA, but now I’m regretting it. I get some head nods from guys who were here a decade ago, but for the most part, I’m an extinct dinosaur. New doormen, new waitresses, even the booker has gone through multiple cycles. I’m one of the erased. Like the wall of unrecognizable headshots that looks more like a Vietnam memorial and has equal showbiz merit to the headshots hanging at my dry cleaners.

I see comics nervously going through their notebooks. My mind can’t help but eviscerate them. “Which hack bit about blowjobs is going to make me famous?”

I remember being like that, but now I’m dead on the inside. I care but don’t really. Does that even make sense? Life does that to you, which in some weird way makes you a better artist. Maybe one of them will make it or at least have some success. I’ve seen it. Comedians who were parking cars here and getting high in the backrooms, now flood my TikTok with their podcasts and upcoming theater tours.

I give anyone credit for rolling the dice in Los Angeles. You have to be willing to suffer. Step out of your comfort zone. In my opinion, it’s no different than Vegas. You can write all the jokes you want, but you have to be a little lucky.

I get called on stage, and it’s a full house, crowded to the back wall. It takes me a few seconds to remember the rhythms of the room. It’s nice to be back.