September 18th, 2025 – Steve’s Hot Dogs: When Supporting the Scene is Enough
Didn’t want to hit a mic tonight. Not at all.
Had the whole internal negotiation. Skip it? Blow it off? Party at Westport Plaza instead? I even ran it past my coach. Yes, I have a coach. No, I’m not telling you who it is. That’s between me and him.
The deal was simple: if I was skipping just to party, wrong move. But if I was building community, then maybe Westport was the right play. New apartment has VIP status there.
So I went. Ran into my hot tub friend and his wife — awkward as hell. “Hey, I spent a couple hours in the hot tub with your husband the other night.” There’s a bit in that somewhere.
I showed up late to Steve’s. Around 8:10, 8:15. Didn’t even know if it was a showcase until I walked in. Relief washed over me when I realized it was — because that meant I wasn’t going up. I could relax, sit back, and just watch.
The showcase guys were sharp. Real comics. The headliner talked for 38 minutes, kept it moving. Said he bombed, but it wasn’t a bomb. Tough room. Small crowd. Maybe one non-comic in the whole audience. To stand up there solo, banter that long, keep it engaging? That’s insane. That’s hard.
Watching him, I caught something. The power of one-liners. They’re like slips in boxing. Not punches. Slips. A way to move, reset, get your feet back under you.
It took me a long time to really learn that in boxing. I was a head-down, forward-charging fighter for years, and I paid some heavy prices for that style. Learning slips and rolls saved me. Now I’m proud to see that same lesson here: if I can’t slip and roll on stage with quick one-liners, then I’m fucked. Memorizing a script and walking forward isn’t enough.
So one-liner practice is the next step. Building that tool. Filling that bucket.
No mic for me tonight. But I was still there. Still part of it. Sometimes that’s the rep — showing up when you don’t feel like it, even when you’re not prepared, even when you know you probably won’t get called.
The community piece is bigger than I expected. It’s not just about stage time. It’s about being in the room. Watching others work. Learning how they carry themselves in a tough crowd.
Writing this on the patio at Westport Social right now. Water playing, music in the background, people moving. Turns out I can create out here in the wild. That might be new for me.
The planet’s full of beautiful people. Ugly ones too, but tonight I’m choosing to see the beautiful.
Not every night is about the mic. Sometimes it’s about showing up, backing the scene, and remembering why you’re here at all.
What do you think — is supporting the scene just as important as stage time? And how do you handle those nights when you don’t feel like performing?
