What Is Comedy?
I’m in Palo Alto tonight, still coming down from flight anxiety. Big meeting tomorrow—the kind that could change everything or change nothing. I love those scenarios. Either this deal goes through and life gets really good, or my life stays exactly the same. And I love my life right now, so I can’t lose.
But I needed to burn off this nervous energy, so I went hunting for an open mic. Couldn’t find one, but stumbled into Roosters Comedy Club instead. Wednesday night showcase, packed house, twelve comics. The energy was perfect.
I ended up talking to this 24-year-old web developer. Works on front-end architecture for some big networking company out here. Smart kid. I ask him why he does stand-up.
“To get ladies.”
I immediately go philosophical—oh yeah, builds confidence, helps you talk to women better, all that. But I don’t think that’s what he meant. I think this kid genuinely believes if he’s funny on stage, he’ll get laid. And honestly? He’s probably right.
We riffed about it for a while. I told him there are easier ways—be a male stripper, hire prostitutes, guard a female prison. That kind of back-and-forth is exactly what I love about this whole thing.
But watching tonight’s comics got me thinking about something I’ve never really considered before: What the hell is comedy?
I used to think stand-up comics were just making stuff up on the spot. Now that I’m doing this, studying it, I realize it’s all scripted. When I watch Chris Rock do the same exact set in different cities, down to the millisecond, that thing is rehearsed to perfection. It’s a play.
And there’s this whole style where people rehearse to make it look like they didn’t rehearse. They’re playing the role of someone just coming up with brilliant shit off the top of their head. It’s fascinating.
Me? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life perfecting pure riffing. That would take everything I’ve got. I’ve been throwing jabs my whole life and sometimes I connect, but to get that good at improvising? That’s a lifetime commitment I don’t want to make.
Instead, I’m thinking about comedy as a collection of little plays I can pull out of my pocket. String them together differently each time, make each set unique. Save the riffing for breaking up the scripted stuff.
Because here’s the thing—if you want to really make something that moves people, that changes them with your words, it’s serious work. Everyone wants art to be fun and expressive, but the profound stuff? That takes commitment.
Tonight I watched all these different approaches. Wild performance art, crowd work masters, comics making it look effortless when it’s anything but. And I realized comedy is whatever you want it to be.
For me, it’s about connecting with people. Making them know their shit’s gonna be okay too. If I can inspire people to really go for something scary and fun but in their best interest, I’ll be happy.
I see comics self-sabotage because they secretly think they might get discovered, get famous—but they also believe it won’t happen to them. So they never fully commit. I do it too. We all do.
But tomorrow I’ve got this meeting where I literally can’t lose. And tonight, sitting in this packed comedy club, watching people try to figure out what they’re doing up there just like I am, I’m reminded the best part isn’t the destination.
It’s figuring out what comedy is supposed to be for you.
What do you think comedy is? I’m genuinely curious what drives people to get up there and try to make strangers laugh.
