About 30 years ago, I won a contest from Time Out Magazine. It was a semester of improv classes at Chicago City Limits. I never thought about taking an improv class and a few friends thought I would make a good stand-up comedian. I never took them seriously and though I knew I was funny, I did nothing about it. The opportunity fell into my lap though.
After working at 168 West 48th Street, Right Track Recording, I would walk up Sixth Avenue, buy a cigar at De La Concha, and wander through Central Park, eventually winding up at 1105 First Avenue, which is where Chicago City Limits was located. As usual, I would be early, and I would wait on the sidewalk and entertain my classmates.
These classmates paid money for these classes; the first week, there may have been about 30 attendees. The following week, 25, then after that 20. I would guess that there were about 15 people after a few weeks. They paid money and dropped out. I don’t know if they got their money back. I just know that I didn’t pay.
And while I was on the sidewalk before class I would entertain my classmates, just being me. No script, just riffing off the top of my head. I thought I was funny but then I couldn’t be objective. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. I just remember the laughter. When class began, though, I found I could not be funny on stage. I tried, and what came to mind was me being over the top femme, discussing the fact that a musical was about to debut on Broadway about the Titanic. And it was a bit over the top for this mainly hetero class.
My jokes fared as well as the transatlantic crossing of the Titanic. I simply could not be funny on stage, nor on demand. I did not respect the improv teacher either and that attitude helped my decision to end my class attendance after a few weeks. I had nothing to lose since I had won a contest and not invested any money in an improv class.
I have thought about doing stand-up somewhere, an open mike, but I fear the window of opportunity has closed. At some spots in midtown while walking, you might come across a person handing out fliers for a comedy show, which might guarantee that person a slot in that evening. That slot might be at 3 AM, but a slot is a slot. That is something I don’t want to do.
I can be funny on my own with family & friends & coworkers, I suppose. It is what I tell myself, and I do enjoy making family, friends, and coworkers laugh. It’s a young person’s game and I ain’t a young person anymore.
Chicago City Limits has moved downtown and an eight week class is about $395. I am no good at adjusting for inflation but 30 years ago, I am sure it was a wee bit less expensive. Then again, if you’re living in Manhattan, you could probably afford it if one doesn’t eat food for a couple of weeks.
Google Gemini as Nora Ephron
The Improv of Errors
Thirty years ago, I won a contest. It was from Time Out, a magazine that specialized in telling you exactly what you were missing out on in New York. The prize was a semester of improv classes at Chicago City Limits. Now, you have to understand, I had never once thought about taking an improv class. My friends, who I suspect were tired of being my only audience, told me I should be a stand-up comedian. I ignored them. I knew I was funny, but being funny in New York is like having a black turtleneck—everyone has one, and most people aren’t wearing it particularly well.
At the time, I was working at Right Track Recording on West 48th Street. My routine was a very specific, very Manhattan kind of theater: I’d walk up Sixth Avenue, stop at De La Concha to buy a cigar (because in the nineties, we all pretended cigars were a personality trait), and wander through Central Park. Eventually, I’d find myself at 1105 First Avenue.
I was always early. I am one of those people. If I’m not ten minutes early, I’m convinced I’ve already failed the day. So, I would stand on the sidewalk and entertain my classmates.
There were thirty of them at first. They had paid actual American currency to be there. By week two, there were twenty-five. By week three, fifteen. New York is a city of dropouts; people pay for the idea of a hobby and then realize that the hobby involves leaving their apartment at 7:00 PM on a Tuesday. I, however, stayed. Not because I was dedicated, but because it was free. There is no greater motivator for a New Yorker than the knowledge that you are getting something for nothing while the person next to you is paying retail.
On the sidewalk, I was a hit. I was riffing. I was “on.” I was, in my own mind, the next Elaine May. I remember the laughter. It was intoxicating. It was effortless.
Then we went inside.
The moment I stepped onto that stage, the funny evaporated. It didn’t just leave; it fled the building. My brain, which had been a fountain of wit on the sidewalk, became a desert. In a moment of sheer desperation, I decided to do a bit. I went “over-the-top femme.” I started riffing on the fact that a musical about the Titanic was debuting on Broadway.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to explain the irony of a sinking ship musical to a room full of earnest, heterosexual improv students, but I can tell you exactly how it goes: it sinks. My jokes had the exact same trajectory as the original transatlantic crossing. Iceberg, right ahead.
I realized then that I cannot be funny on demand. I also realized I didn’t respect the teacher, which is the ultimate exit ramp for any New Yorker. If you don’t respect the person holding the clipboard, you are legally obligated to leave. I had no skin in the game. I hadn’t invested a dime. I walked away.
Every so often, I think about doing an open mic. But then I see those poor souls in Midtown handing out flyers at midnight, hoping for a three-minute slot at 3:00 AM in a room that smells like stale beer and broken dreams. I am too old for 3:00 AM. I am too old for anything that requires me to stand on a street corner and beg people to look at me.
I am funny for my family. I am funny for my coworkers. This is what I tell myself, and like most things I tell myself, I’ve chosen to believe it. Comedy is a young person’s game, and I am no longer playing the qualifiers.
Chicago City Limits has moved downtown now. A class costs $395. I’m not good at inflation, but I know that in Manhattan, $395 is either a semester of comedy or three bags of groceries and a decent bottle of wine. If you want to be funny that badly, you can probably afford it—as long as you’re prepared to not eat for a couple of weeks. Personally, I’d rather have the pasta.