When I said I’d do a one-hour comedy set, I honestly thought I had it figured out.
I’ve been doing Clicks and Bricks for years—a one-hour banter show. My whole agenda there is to get people to loosen up, feel comfortable, and open up. I’ve gotten good at it. I know how to make a guest feel like they’re talking to a friend instead of being interviewed. I can hold an hour of conversation with ease.
And I’ve been running heavy bag classes for years too. That’s another one-hour block of my life where I transfer knowledge, build motivation, and convince people they can push themselves further than they thought possible. It took me about a year to get good at it, and three years to really perfect it, but now I’ll say confidently: I’m damn good at teaching that class.
So naturally, I figured—if I can do an hour of podcast banter, and I can run an hour of boxing class, then why not comedy? Just mix in some quick wit and flow with the crowd, right?
I was way wrong.
Comedy is not banter. It’s not coaching. It’s not motivation. It’s its own beast entirely.
The way I want to do comedy—it can’t be anyone else’s way. It can’t just be me riffing like I do on the podcast. It can’t just be me teaching or motivating like I do in boxing. Comedy demands something different. It demands structure. Timing. Craft. I’ve realized I need one-liners, I need clean transitions, I need material I can fall back on when the flow isn’t there.
But more than that—I need to write a one-hour story. A script. A piece of art I’ll go live and perform.
That’s what makes this so exciting. This isn’t just me “working on some jokes.”
This is me building a one-hour story I’m going to live out on stage.
And just like boxing, just like business, just like everything else—I’ll grind it out until I own it.
