You don’t have to have a dream. People always talk about their dreams. Fine, if you have something you’ve always wanted to do, go for it. If it’s a big enough dream, it’ll probably take you most of your life to achieve. So by the time you get to it and are staring into the abyss of the meaninglessness of your achievement you’ll almost be dead so it won’t matter.
--Tim Minchin
My earliest memory of being asked what I want to be when I grow up was @ age three. The bishop of my LDS ward asked my 8 year old brother and I what we wanted to be. Big bro said "A millionaire." I replied "A Chinaman!"
After about two years, when that wasn't working out, I wanted to be a stand up comedian.
I have always loved making people laugh. More than pretty much anything else. At first I think it was something to distinguish myself as me. My older brother (who I compared everything to, and always came up lacking) was and is very funny. But, whether or not I was funnier, I was the "funny one." I could try to be funnier than everyone as a way to establish my identity. Being a solid 5 in the looks department, brains, and athleticism most of my life, funny was and is most of what I had/have going for me.
Comedy has been a huge part of my life. If I'm willing to watch a movie, 9 out of 10 times it's going to be a comedy. I listen to comedians practically as much as I listen to music. I have several stories where my sense of humor has made enemies into friends, bullies into allies, strangers into loved ones. I don't want to say it's changed lives, but it's enriched and defined mine. I love being the "funny one." But the comedian wish died probably in late high school or early college, when the dream was to be an actor, an artist, a writer, etc. (A funny one, but one nonetheless). I stopped wanting to be a comedian when I considered the logistics of it. Why try to be a comedian? The life doesn't sound like one I want. Sleeping in and telling jokes all night yes. But being away from my loved ones while I'm touring most of the year? I hope to like my wife and children, I said to myself. Why would I want to climb that pyramid only to discover after years of effort, that I'm at the apex, and utterly alone. But, I couldn't shake that it was in my core, my heart was the heart of a comedian. (imho obvs). I tried squashing that dream under the guise of practicality and reality.
Books like "The Alchemist" and "The Artist's Way" mask guilt as inspirational. (Or that's how I perceived them.) Reading "The Alchemist" reawoke the dream to be a comedian. The universe would conspire for me to succeed. But I ignored those promptings/hopes/dreams in favor of a more realistic education and career. I (IMHO of course) remained "the funny one," the friend who jokes and plays the role of jester in most situations. People would tell me I was funny, and I believed I was.
Fast forward to this year. Middle age, COVID, losing 3 grandparents within a year of each other, and other factors makes one take stock of their lives. Am I happy? Sure. Could I be happier? Sure.
None of my hobbies were bringing me the same joys or satisfaction/contentment they used to. I had an "itch" that felt unscratched. What used to excite and interest me caused ennui, and the ennui caused more ennui. (Confession: this whole post was just so I could put "ennui" thrice in a sentence.) My thoughts of standup comedy moved to the forefront. I realized I didn't have to quit my job and pursue the dream full time; I could make it a hobby. Once a month, once a week, whatever. I could be a local comic. Having my comedy cake and eating it too. So I googled "open mic comedy utah," and it seemed like the only game in town was Wiseguys in SLC. They had open mic night EVERY Wednesday. I thought it would be like once or twice a year, where I could work up the courage for the big day. Every week seemed more daunting somehow. Like the casualness and predictability of it made it harder to apply. Maybe because I told myself since it's every week, I could put it off more easily. But eventually, I stopped putting it off, and started putting out.
I signed up, and got put on the list (!) I began working on what I wanted to talk about. My wife wanted to go to support me, but for some reason, I told her and myself that going solo was the best idea. (Spoiler: I was wrong.) So I planned a set, and drove the 1/2 hour to the Gateway mall in SLC on the big day. They give you three minutes of mic time, which seemed like a tiny amount for the time and energy. But I told myself it would be worth it. Not only would I be discovered instantly and be hilarious, but the missing hole in my being would be filled by living my childhood dream. This was my destiny.
Fate's an asshole. A long boring but legitimate problem at work meant I would have to cancel. I made sure to notify the comedy club, so as not to blow my chances for the future. I signed up as quickly as I could for the next open mic night, and got in. I again told those closest to me NOT to come. This was for whatever reason something I wanted to do alone. Maybe because I told myself that bombing wouldn't be so bad if the ones who loved me didn't witness it.
Two of our friends invited us to go as attendees. I liked the idea as a way to scout the place, see what it was like, compare myself to the comics, etc. Roughly 50% were funny, maybe 10-20% were funnier than I thought I was. I liked those odds. Also, quite a few of them were introduced as it being "their first time," with a reminder to be patient and extra supportive to those brave souls.
One Wednesday evening in August 2021, I drove the 30 minutes to Wiseguys comedy club. I arrived at the club at the Gateway mall, by the music artist mural, and sought support from one of my heroes and rock god: Farrokh Bulsara.
I arrived at the club and signed in, among 20+ other hopeful comics. Thinking I had at last found my tribe, I tried initiating conversation with multiple people. Unfortunately for me and my dream, I was snubbed, rebuffed, tolerated, and/or ignored. It felt like Jr. High school: cliquish, selfish, somewhat smelly, and rude. Except I was this old man with an artificial hip, rather than the pimply boy unknowingly growing a cancer in his leg.
I bought some liquid courage and studied my "set," hoping to get the timing right and remember the jokes. It was a story I've told multiple times, embellished and modified in effort to get the maximum number of laughs of course, which I will not repeat here. I may still perform it on TikTok or something, but don't hold your breath. It was about "being walked in on" by your child during that intimate time with one's spouse.
I finally found someone who would talk to me, an out of towner who, coincidentally, was ALSO performing for the first time. The conversation was great. Relaxing, comforting, relatable, and funny. We agreed to take photos of one another on stage.
I watched many of the same comedians from the first time I went get up there, and most of them told the same jokes as before. Quite a few were the same ones announced as "first timers," telling the same jokes they told before as well. I found this mostly amusing, and anticipated the audience's support at when they inevitably announced it was my first time.
I waited and waited for my turn. Wiseguys open mic is about 2 hours, and I spent another $20 on drinks to quiet my nerves and steel my concentration. I waited about an hour and a half. The least funny person got up, and made inappropriate/disgusting/unfunny jokes. The crowd was annoyed, I was pissed, and even more anxious. And then of course my name was called.
I expected them to inform the crowd of my comedy virginity. They didn't. A little flustered, I told the crowd it was my first time. And immediately regretted it. I felt awkward and out of sync. Following the worst performance of the night already made it feel like an uphill battle. Like I had to get the crowd on my side, get in the groove, and go through my set. All in three minutes a big timer clicks down, like some Roman patrician I waited to give me a thumbs up or down. I stumbled my way through my set, forgetting half the jokes, but the gist was there, and, maybe more importantly, I did it. I may have forgotten a lot, but I still feel like I got quite a few good laughs. And, despite the hour drive time, the 2 hour wait, the $50+ in gas, parking, and booze, it was overall a positive experience. It wasn't the amazing thrill I expected or craved, but it was nice. And I did it.
Very soon after, either that night or the next; I signed up for the next week. As is my wont, I listened to standup comedy in my spare time. Although this time, it was as much for research/inspiration as it was entertainment. One of my favorite comics has always been Emo Philips. His unique style, method, delivery, and crafting is underappreciated but truly genius. Inspiration struck as I was preparing my next bit, it would be in the style of Emo Philips mocking those lovely Mormons who are suddenly offended at the word "Mormon." I've heard some say it's a slur now, despite its very founder embracing the appellation. I may also post the bit on this blog, on TikTok, or both or neither. Our friends who came with us before, came again to show support, and I again asked Tracie to NOT come. I felt not having her there would be easier. Despite her misgivings, she agreed. The night came, and I got to visit with another first timer, we joked and laughed and had a great time, halfway through we were joined by my friends who put me more at ease and boosted my confidence. I also felt vindicated AF when the new comic I visited with said he had come the week before, and said "I remember--you were after the worst one of the night!" So it wasn't just me who thought that. And yes, it WAS difficult for me, thank you. It took a long time, but I finally got to do my bit. Fortunately the audience were mostly Ex-Mormons judging by their "woos" when asked, so they were my target audience. In my humble opinion, it went better than the first time. I wouldn't say I killed, but I at least crippled a couple of them. It went very well. As I'm sure is the norm, some jokes I thought would get small laughs got big laughs, and some jokes I thought would get big laughs got smaller than anticipated chuckles. But, I felt good. Better, even. Even tho I was literally second to last of the night, and the anxiety of waiting and waiting and waiting for my name to be called meant they got my money's worth buying comfort and courage on the rocks.
But, this time was better than before, and so I signed up again. I obviously expected to be put on the list as I had the previous three times. But I wasn't. "No big deal, I'll sign up for the next week." No response. This happened about 3 or 4 times. Signing up, bupkis. I was a nervous, anxious, suicidal wreck every week. I watched my email obsessively, waiting for my name to be put on the list. Waiting for the acceptance filled with exclamation marks. My mind flooded with questions: was I too offensive? Too edgy/offended Mormon sensibilities? Worst of all, was I not as funny as I thought?
I spoke with my therapist about it. She asked what was the worst part of not being accepted. I said "not knowing why." So, with her and Tracie's suggestion, I emailed the comedy club, inquiring as to my snubbery. They responded quickly and very kindly. No, I was not intentionally being left off the list. I wasn't offensive, crude, or unfunny. (At least not to the point of blacklisting.) She (we'll call her "Rachel") said that it was actually quite a fluke I got on the list 3 out of 3 times. Their process was somewhat random, and she encouraged me to remind her when I hadn't been accepted after a few weeks to improve my chances. She also said I should introduce myself to her next time I came.
I felt so relieved. The uncertainty was gone. So I signed up for the next week, clearly anticipating my acceptance. But nada. (deep breath) Ssssssssssssssiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I didn't just think about this on the acceptance deadline or the days leading up to it. Throughout August and September and October it was constantly on my mind. Any given second, I'd write down funny thoughts until I had over 20 pages of jokes or potential jokes and funny stories. I didn't know what to do. Most of the time, when making pros and cons lists, I told myself that it was barely worth my time and money to go; even if I was accepted. To go just to be supportive seemed pathetic, and a waste of time. And money. But, again in therapy, I realized that the thing I enjoyed most was going early and talking to the (very fucking few) other comics who would deign to speak with me. "Shooting the shit" as I've heard it called. It's a very common expression. But hanging out, drinking and laughing is one of the most fun things to me. Way better than nervously stammering my way through 3 minutes of jokes, terrified of heckling or worse, the MC kicking you off early/kicking you off because you're past your 3 minutes and you suck.
Around this time, my amazing supportive friends who hopefully don't know I still write on my blog 2-3 times a year encouraged me to try other avenues. One ran an open mic night for poetry in Provo. I've wanted to go for several years, but for one reason or another (Provo is far) I never have. But I showed up one night, which may not have been the best night to do so. There were maybe a dozen people there, I knew more than half of them, the mic wasn't working, and no one else was telling jokes. But, I told my list of one liners I was most proud of, and they laughed hysterically. Maybe it was because they knew me, maybe it was because I could see their reactions better without the combination of spotlight and terror, maybe it was because I was actually funny, maybe it was Maybelline. But it was great. I felt like an idiot for not letting people come in the past, but c'est la vie, amirite?
Back to the comedy. After a few more times of rejection/radio silence from the comedy club, I figured I could at least go to "shoot the shit" with the comics who weren't pieces of shit and actually worth talking to. So I decided to try that avenue. (Tbh I also hoped that in showing support without being called on, it would improve my chances of future acceptance as well). Showing up an hour early, I noticed several others being put on the "standby" list. I figured what the hell, right? I'm here, I have tons of jokes that my friends found funny. So I asked to be put on the standby list. They told me I got the last available slot. Cool.
I visited with two hopeful comics who were fortunate enough to be on the official list. One seemed nervous and nursed one drink quietly. One was an out of town semi-regular who I thought was my age but turned out to be @ 15 years my junior. But that was the best part. Hanging out, relaxing, making others laugh. I met some of the staff, and I asked who “Rachel” was. They said sometimes I’m Rachel, sometimes he is. Apparently it was more of a title than a name. Which in retrospect seems kind of rude. “Rachel” told me to speak with them. I didn’t ask their name or request a meeting. It felt somewhat disheartening, if not outright rude. Open mic time. Fast forward through many of the same comics telling many of the same jokes, being lied to by the emcee that it was their "first time," the two hours passed, some 3 minute increments were longer than others. Near the very end, the quiet, nervous guy I had tried visiting with apparently had several hundred more drinks between social hour and his turn to get up. He drunkenly and incoherently rambled through a couple minutes before being asked to sit down. It was over. Or was it? "Last comic of the night is Austin Beckstrom!"
Hooray. I get to tell my one liners. To a crowd tired and ready to go home. On a Wednesday night after less than 1/2 the comics made them laugh. After someone being rude and embarrassing and plastered and unfunny. Goody for me. Uphill for Austin, here I come. I told my jokes, but I don't think my heart or the audience's hearts were in it. Oh, and the emcee told me (and the crowd) I only got 2 mins, rather than the much more luxurious: three minutes. It was pretty shitty. Both the circumstances, and my performance. That one I probably won't be posting. Maybe I'll do the one liners. Follow me on Twitter, more than half of them are already on there. But I disliked it so much, I realized it was probably time to give up.
Comedy was not what I had hoped for. Not what I anticipated. Not what I needed and not even what I wanted. The cons outweighed the pros by more than double. But I felt conflicted. "Am I letting down my inner child by giving up so easily on my childhood and adolescent dream?" "Am I too old, too late to do this? Not to make it a career, but even a hobby. It's a big commitment time wise and money wise. Is it worth the stress that comes with signing up and waiting for a response? Is it worth the drive, the gas, the food, the parking, the booze... for 3 minutes of time from an audience that's ready for you to get off stage to make room for someone they find funnier? That's another thing. Are my jokes good? I think so, obviously. Do others? Debatable." I decided to retire. To quote Lane Smith in the Mighty Ducks: (my references are so current, as are my jokes) "You're not even a has-been. You're a never-was."
So here I am. Giving up on my childhood dream, because it's too late, too hard, too much commitment for not enough return on investment. I don't think it's a case of bitter grapes. True I didn't get embraced by the more "serious" (successful) comics of Utah like I had hoped. True it wasn't this illuminating Proustian moment of clarity when I finally achieved my dream of telling jokes in front of a crowd. But I had fun, I think I made some people laugh. But it's too much of a commitment, even one night a week. A night I could spend with my kids, my wife, playing games, watching movies, telling jokes.
I could try to keep signing up. Being Borderline (I've posted about this before; deal with it) means I have a tendency to "split," or think in an "all or nothing" manner. And it's true. I could make it less of a "I must do this every week and get accepted in order to do this as a hobby where I get paid to do it, or it's not worth trying." But no. Quitting altogether honestly feels like the right choice. For my sanity, my happiness, my bank account, my family, my life. (Not in that order.)
But, I'll still be "the funny one." Still embrace comedy in all its forms. We still have friends over and we go places (fuck off, omicron) and hopefully will have more company and outings in the future, (as our fears of dying or inadvertently killing loved ones with the plague diminishes). I still (hopefully) have half a life left. Lots of potential to make jokes, bring laughter, and shoot lots and lots, and lots of shit. Am I ok with this? I think so. Maybe it's denial (probably Maybelline), but I think it's healthy to examine your dream and see if it's worth it. It feels silly to pursue your heart's desire, or what you thought was your heart's desire, when it turns out to be middling to fair. Pursue a nonsensical dream, or ask yourself: is your waking life better? Yes.
I'm glad I tried it obviously, (another check on the bucket list), but I feel like I kind of missed my chance. It's not what I thought, what I wished or wanted. And that's okay. Maybe it's time to give being a Chinaman a try...
