How Did I Get Here?

Do you ever ask yourself that question?

Maybe you’re having a midlife crisis as you sit at the dinner table eating leftover turkey tetrazzini while your annoying stepkids are arguing over who gets to pick the Sunday night movie.

Maybe you just got a flat tire in a gang-ridden neighborhood at 1 AM and you can’t call for a tow truck because your phone is dead.

Or maybe you are about to perform for 9 people in a cavernous room in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

You can’t stop the racing thought from pounding against your temples. HOW DID I GET HERE?

The rewards of performing in small towns are often abundant. Traveling to these places can be difficult so when entertainers decide to visit, the crowds are often filled with gratitude. If I’m performing in Chicago, I am one of a thousand things you could do with your evening. There are baseball games, hip-hop concerts, fifteen other comedy shows, biracial speed-dating events; you name it. But in a smaller market, you are often the best option. So people come, excited to see that guy they once saw on TV.

After three wonderful days in Las Vegas, doing shows and hanging with awesome friends, I took a red-eye flight, with a layover, to Sioux Falls. Having never been to the Dakotas, I was stoked to be in a novel place where I could sling my comedy to hoards of hungry fans. Traveling keeps me present. Every moment is brand new. My antennae are up, signaling and processing all of the new information that is flooding into my brain.

The trip started off a little rough. The promoter had forgotten to book me a hotel until the day before I arrived. Thanks to a massive rodeo and the city’s Comic Con, rooms were scarce. I ended up at a motel that hadn’t been remodeled since Johnson was president. Fine. It’s one night. I’ll barely be in it.

My show wasn’t until 9 PM so I spent the day exploring the city. On the road, I wander the streets, soaking up what the city has to offer. Sioux Falls is quaint, adorable, and has that classic midwestern charm that you miss when you live in a city like Los Angeles. People say hello to you without bothering you for drug money. It’s endearing. A pleasant change considering no one is asking me for change.

I decided to hit up Siouxper Con (Clever name!). Comic books are not my bag but I love immersing myself into a culture that is not my own. For the fans, this is their Burning Man. They are dressed in incredible costumes, celebrating what they love with like-minded individuals. This weekend is proof that they are not alone in their weirdness. They are a part of something so much bigger than themselves. It’s beautiful to see anyone in their element. I strolled through the booths, marveling at their costumes. Some I even DC’d. Get it? I watched a semi-pro wrestling event and cheered as loudly as anyone for a contender that looked surprisingly like me. I’ve smoked DMT and now watched someone pull off a DDT. Both of them transported me to a different world.

Now it’s time for the show. I take a lyft to the venue, a super cool gastropub with a large performance space. Looking at the stage, I know this is a place I can thrive. Even in big rooms with high ceilings, my energy will fill the space and make it feel intimate.

I was told there would be at least fifty people at this show, probably more. That’s why I did it. I was working off a door deal which means that I get the money from the tickets that are sold. Cool. This should be a good payday even if it is on the low end of what they told me. NOPE.

As we got closer to showtime, almost no one was in the venue. I quickly realized this evening was going to be a bust, financially and creatively. “Fuck me” was the resounding feeling. Now in this situation, I will never take it out on the crowd. Those nine people showed up and I have to give them the best show I can possibly muster.

Before I go on stage, I tell myself; “Have fun up there. Whatever it takes. Enjoy yourself.” And I did. While not an ideal situation, I can only control the circumstances that have been placed before me. I poured my heart out to that handful of patrons, leaving it all on the stage. I can happily say that the people there enjoyed themselves, but even still, there was an overwhelming feeling of emptiness and failure trickling throughout my body.

You can easily lose yourself in a situation while it is happening. Once I got back to the roadside shack they called a hotel, that’s when my positive mindset was truly tested. “Why do I do this to myself? When will it get better? How many years will I struggle with obscurity?”

As many as it takes. This is the life I have chosen for myself. A traveling vagabond slinging jokes to whoever will listen. There are nights that are incredible. Sold out shows with hundreds of people. There are also nights like this, when my resilience has to permeate the negative feelings that are doing their damndest to make me hole up and quit.

I know this is simply part of the journey. Shows like this could derail my mentality, but instead I go the other way. I use them to learn what I can do differently. How can I improve my marketing? How can I ensure that when I go to a new city, people will show up regardless of whether they have heard of me or not? I have to do this all over again in Fargo, North Dakota tomorrow. All I can do is believe that the circumstances will be better. Fargo and Forget.

I’ll continue to push forward. One crappy night in Sioux Falls is still better than every night I spent in the hospital dealing with cancer and sepsis. At least this shoddy shithole didn’t have machines that kept beeping every six minutes.

I don’t know if I will ever return to Sioux Falls but if I do, the situation will be different. Nothing will stop me from getting everything I want.

Every experience is here to teach us. It is our job to accept the lesson. My takeaway from this evening: I should have become an amateur wrestler.

37 Tried to Kill Me. Your Move, 38.

It was Easter morning, 2023. Sitting around a table eating brunch with my wife and her family, which of course is now my family as well. My sister-in-law Holly looked at me and in a soft voice said, “it’s really good to have you back, Alex.”

 I had been out of the hospital for over three months so her statement seemed misplaced.  I asked her to elaborate. 

“We didn’t know if we would ever see this version of you again.” That simple statement has been tattooed on my brain ever since. This version. Fun. Silly. Energetic. Illuminated.

When I look back at the last 12 months, almost every day should be forgotten. In my mind, I have skipped directly from 36 to 38. You could call it a series of unfortunate events but that doesn’t do it justice. That’s like referring to the Oklahoma City Bombing as a bad day at work at the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. 

Since the moment I turned 37, my life had flip-flopped. The cancer was already inside of me yet we didn’t know exactly what type. All we knew is that it was CANCER. Four months ago, Lauren and I had gotten married on a picturesque beach in Punta Mita, Mexico. We had been together in some form or another for 18 years by then. When we finally made our love official, boom! C-word. For someone who prides themselves on their timing, I rushed the punchline without giving the audience a beat to process the setup. 

The next three months were excruciating. Constant visits to specialists. The testing included blood work, MRIs, CAT and PET scans, bone marrow aspirations, etc. Something is seriously wrong and nobody can tell me what. I became lethargic and unmotivated. The unknown is far more scary than reality.

Finally, we had our answer. Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. How loud can a person mentally scream “FUUUCCKKKK?” While it was disheartening, it gave me comfort when the doctors told me they knew how to treat it. My prognosis was good. 

I could bore you with more details of chemotherapy but honestly, you can look at previous blogs if you need that story. The onslaught of misery and pain had begun. Everything was going swimmingly, until one day, it wasn’t. Something was horribly wrong with me and I was too confused to realize it. Luckily my wife saw right through my incoherent stare. She took me to the emergency room. 

When I entered that hospital on November 17th, completely delirious, I had no idea that I wouldn’t emerge for 33 days. Cancer was still in me. But now I had a much bigger foe: Sepsis. The surgery to install my chemo port in my chest had caused an internal infection. An invisible murderous bacteria that was hellbent on putting me into my forever dirt nap. 

Turned on yet? How about a heart vegetation, multiple embolisms, a spleen abscess, and edema. My body swelled up 25 pounds because water wouldn’t drain from my tissues. For the first two weeks, I was bedridden. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t even roll myself over.

Doctors told my wife and family to brace themselves for the worst. My body had declared war on itself.  I was a civilian, caught in the crossfire. Eventually I was well enough to do physical and occupational therapy. One step at a time. Literally. My therapists treated me with the fragility of a 90-year-old cripple. I was a long way from the slacklining, tennis playing, ambulatory person I had worked so hard to be. 

To make matters worse,I had to have my knee operated on because it wasn’t draining properly. Another surgery. Was I worried? I’m in here because of the last one so I wasn’t exactly walking on sunshine at the thought. Fuck, I was barely walking on anything. Four more days while I watched colored liquids drain through a series of tubes sticking out of my leg. 

 If all of that wasn’t enough, while I was infirmed, my dad died unexpectedly. Not completely, he was 79 so at that age, anything can happen.  I could barely mourn the death because I had to primarily focus on my own survival. I still haven’t fully processed the fact that he is gone. He was my biggest fan. He loved hearing stories of my adventures. No one understood better than him how dedicated I am to not only my craft, but having an amazing life. He doesn’t believe in the afterlife and neither do I so I can’t even say he’s in a better place. He’s simply gone.

There’s more tragedy. But some of it is too painful and personal for me to reveal here. In time, I’ll talk about these instances. If all of this isn’t enough already, you have a level of sadism that should be studied.

I’ve thought a lot about this past year. It lasted forever and somehow it felt like seconds. 37 was not the magical year I had envisioned. So many times I thought I had hit bottom only to learn I was still in the shallow seas being dragged toward the Marianas Trench. Hit after hit. I was strapped to a wall being bludgeoned by a never-ending train of trauma. I’m a good person who leads with love. I strive to make others feel good about themselves. What did I do to deserve this?

Nothing. That’s the answer. No one deserves this. Well, maybe Andrew Tate and Donald Trump and…nevermind. I don’t have enough time to keep listing monsters. The point is this:  it’s not about what happens to you.

It’s how you react.

Looking back, I am a very proud boy. Dammit. Remember when we could say that and it didn’t mean you were a nazi?

I handled my cancer with courage. I was transparent and allowed others in on the journey. I constantly cracked jokes and turned the darkest moments into hilarious material. Making strangers laugh while I had a noticeable PICC line in my arm was the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced as a comedian. These people paid for babysitters, came to laugh, and now they are staring at someone with cancer. I’m sure many thought, “we should have gone to the movies.”

I did it for myself. I needed to take ownership of the situation. I have been told many times that my approach helped others who were going through similar struggles. I alleviated my own fears by sharing them with the world. I could have switched from a beacon of positivity into a dismal sack of hopelessness. Yet, I didn’t. I found myself bitter at times and checked myself. I can’t change what happened. There’s a reason why the front windshield is bigger than the back. Move forward.

Those 33 days in the hospital were the most painful of my entire life. Even when I got out, I could barely move. Everything hurt. I was on intravenous antibiotics for almost a month, attached to a fanny pack that kept reminding me: YOU ARE SICK. YOU ARE WEAK. But every day when I woke up, I did more than the recommended physical therapy. I made it my job to rehabilitate my body and mind. I listened to “Unstoppable” by Sia hundreds of times. Goddamn, that woman can infiltrate my psyche with empowerment. I got my meditation schedule back on track. With every painful step, I kept telling myself, “This is temporary. This is not your life. This will all be a fever dream if I keep doing the work.” 

I always knew I could bounce back. I kept journaling almost every single day. Most of it was goal-setting, positive affirmations, visualizations, manifestations. I kept track of how I felt and if I look back at the first entries of the year, I recognize how far I’ve come. I was hours away from death, unable to move, completely detached; and now I am literally climbing mountains. My wife and I spent two weeks traveling around Japan where I headlined a show and judged a Japanese Roast Battle. To answer your question, it was in English. I taped a set with Comedy Central where I made fun of my cancer. I’m not hiding from it. I’m using it. I will use every ounce of struggle for personal gain. I will not allow any of my misery to control who I am supposed to be. 

I thought 37 was a year to forget. Now I realize, it may have been the most pivotal year of my entire life. I was forced into lessons that I may not have ever taken the time to learn. I was the hare, running as fast as I could hoping to get to a finish line. Now I’m the tortoise. Methodical. Paced. Able to look around and shove my face in the fragrant, vibrant flowers while still knowing, I have plenty of time to win. Allergies to pollen be damned. I will smell those fucking lilies. 

While trying to burn me to a pile of ashes, all of this ignited a fire inside of me that cannot be extinguished. I am inflamed and it’s not just from my eczema.  I did everything I could to not only get back this version of myself,  but to shed my outer shell and have a complete metamorphosis. I was already a butterfly. But this winged-insect has turned into a fucking eagle. I have proven to myself that through the absolute worst pain, both physical and emotional, you cannot take away my spirit. I am meant to spread love, give joy, and make people laugh until they can’t breathe. None of it was easy, but it was necessary. 

With all of that behind me, I am here to say: Come at me, 38. Show me what you got. I’m ready for every single moment.

Bombs Away: A Comedian’s Bad Day at the Office

“We paid $100 for this shit?”

The man raised his voice as he spoke to ensure everyone in the room heard his words. Seconds later he stood up with his girlfriend and walked out. I was only 25 minutes into my headlining set. Needless to say, it was not going as swimmingly as I had hoped. 

I’ve been a standup comedian for 13 years. In that time I’ve performed thousands of times and most of them have been positive experiences. As a genuinely happy person, I want the audience to feel the same. Laugh your face off, sustain that feeling, and float out of the room when the show is over. This is supposed to be an escape from real-world problems. But in any profession, sometimes you’re going to have a bad day at work.

This past weekend I happened to have the worst set of my entire career.

In comedy, we call it “bombing.” Other terms in the vernacular include: eating a bag of dicks, taking a huge shit, and dying. No matter how you spin it, it is horribly uncomfortable for everyone involved. Imagine sitting on a sharp rod for an hour while increasing amounts of weight are added to your limbs, continually pulling you toward the ground while the pole digs in harder. Unless you’re a total sadist, it’s one of the worst feelings a person can experience. 

It’s Friday night in Dallas, Texas. I’ve been on the road for a week headlining venues in Arizona, California, Kansas, and Oklahoma. Every show had been excellent and they were all at clubs that I hadn’t played before. First impressions are important and between my sets and my ticket sales, I was having one hell of a little tour.

The early show was great. It took some shucking and jiving on my part to figure out exactly how to get the whole crowd on my side but eventually, I succeeded. Everyone walked out and wanted to take photos, buy merch, and thank me for a terrific evening. A natural high. My second favorite kind. Wink wink.

Let’s go, show number two.

Any comic will tell you that the late show on Friday is notoriously the worst of the weekend. The crowds are tired from work, usually drunk, and often they have received free tickets. Comedians despise this show. Personally, I enjoy the challenge. Maybe there’s a bit of sadist in me after all. Insert rod now. 

The crowd was small. Just shy of 30 people. Not an issue. I’ve had hundreds of shows with that size or smaller and I can always find a way to smash their chuckle buttons. Doesn’t matter that it’s already 11:15 PM. With 45 minutes of stage time, I will find a way to relate and unite this crowd. About ten minutes into my set, I realized something wasn’t connecting. 

“Don’t panic,” scrolls across a neon sign in my head.

Pivot the material. Try something else. So I did. And then again. And again. Jokes, crowd work, making fun of myself; absolutely nothing was hitting.

At a certain point, it felt right to admit it. I relayed to the small group of bored patrons that this was not how I wanted this to go. I am a people-pleaser and I want us all to walk out feeling lighter than when we came in. “I’ll get you,” I told them. 

Only I didn’t.

There were random laughs here and there but overall it was a deafening silence. If you can hear the air conditioner, it’s not going well.

As a group, they decided my comedy was not for them. However, I am a professional and I never give up. This would take relentless amounts of work to figure out how to salvage this show and I was ready to do anything. Then it happened.

A couple in the second row said, “Where’s Ralph?”

Ralph was the opening comic of the evening and he had just done 20 minutes before I got on stage. He did well and had laughs throughout his set.

That comment was meant to rattle me but I know better.

So I went into a joke that has been one of my killers for years. It essentially never fails. This time, it did.

The couple got up and walked out after making sure their disappointment was felt by everyone. The man said some other things that were odd flexes and as much as I hate to have anyone not enjoy the show, I was glad they left. “We paid $100 for this shit?” Yes, sir, you did. 

When I knew they were gone, I called them “rude c*nts.” Immediately, I felt awful. That’s not a word I use often but it’s what came to me at the moment. Using such a powerful slur did not help my cause.

The next half hour was as brutal as can be. It seemed that no one was having a good time, which is my personal nightmare. Everything slows down as an invisible wall is erected between performer and patron. 

53 minutes.

That’s how long I bathed in their stares. I pulled every trick out of my bag and none of them worked. I even invited people on stage to do some interviews/speed roasting and it was still met with apathy. 

In my opinion, an epic failure of performance. I never blame the audience when a show doesn’t go well. These same jokes have been crushing for weeks so I wanted to figure out why they suddenly weren’t getting laughs. 

I understand that not every crowd is going to enjoy my style of comedy. I like to make you think. I often go from A to C because I want you to fill in the gaps and connect the dots. But some people need A to B. Especially if they are tired and drunk. That’s not who I am and I will never play down the intelligence of a group of people. Come with me or don’t, but I won’t pander. 

Finally, the excruciation was over. 

I took a play out of Norm Macdonald’s book and instead of hiding in the green room, I stood at the exit with a smile on my face and personally thanked everyone for coming. It wasn’t easy, but it felt necessary to show that I was still grateful to them for being there.

A few people told me that they really enjoyed it but at that point, it was hard to appreciate the sentiment. When the last person was gone, I was incredibly relieved that it was all over. That rotten feeling, however, remained as strong as ever within my body. So I went out with the servers and poured different colored liquids down my gullet to forget about it. Shots on me, everyone!

The next day, I woke up in a garbage mood.

While I know that no comedian is ever immune from bombing, it had been over a year since I had anything close to this level of soul-crushing annihilation. I wanted to black out the windows in my hotel room and crawl under the blanket.

But I know better. Stewing in misery won’t help me break away from the stench of that show. Instead, I did the exact opposite. 

Self-care Saturday. I ate a healthy breakfast at a local cafe. I ran five miles while listening to my favorite songs. I did a breathwork session to flush out the negativity. 30 minutes of meditation. Wrote multiple pages in my journal. Called family and friends so I wouldn’t feel alone. Hit up comic friends to talk about it. I had to Taylor Swift this thing. It wasn’t a TV taping. It was a handful of strangers at a club in Dallas. SHAKE IT OFF (Taylor’s Version).

I decided to post about it on social media.

Transparency is important to me. Everyone has had a shit day at work and this happened to be one of mine. Sharing the experience was the right decision. I was flooded with hundreds of messages from friends, fans, and fellow comics. The positive encouragement was exactly what I needed. “Humility equals humanity,” commented one follower. So many beautiful people thanked me for being honest. This is a side of comedy most fans will rarely see. 

I can’t take a bomb like that personally. It’s difficult not to, but again, you can’t always please everyone.

Sometimes there are factors beyond your control. The best comics had lots of shows like this. Hedberg, Hicks, Norm, Kinison. Kinison often wouldn’t leave until he walked everyone. I only had two people leave. I guess I need to try harder.

With separation and perspective, I’m glad it happened.

Getting kicked in the face teaches you lessons. You can’t look good and get better at the same time.

Maybe 30 strangers didn’t enjoy me but since I exposed myself emotionally, thousands of people will now have a deeper appreciation for who I am as a person and performer. The tether between myself and my supporters has been woven even stronger than it was before. I call that a win. 

Saturday night, I had two shows in Fort Worth.

150 people at each one. I began my set by shitting all over Dallas and each time the room erupted with applause. I had two of the greatest shows I’ve had in a long time. Took lots of photos, gave out lollipops, and hugged as many fans as I could. Exactly what I needed to end my tour on a high note. Time to go home, cuddle my wife, and fuck my pugs. Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. Yikes. 

No one is immune from a bad day. It happens to everyone and you never know when it’s coming. How you handle it is completely up to you. If you know someone is having a rough day, share this with them. Sometimes we all munch on a bag of smelly, unwashed dicks. 

 Don’t give in to your demons. And if you’re doing a Friday late show in Dallas, please stay on your toes. 

If you want more a of peek behind the scenes of the life of a touring comedian — follow me, Alex Hooper, on Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok. On socials, I get vulnerable, silly, and frequently there are pugs. (

Keep Your Soul. Sell Your Self.

Can you create something out of nothing?

A couple of years ago I wrote a blog post titled, I’m Learning How to Be a Headliner. Going on the road solo was a new experience for me, especially since now I was the main attraction. Acrobats are amazing, but when you go to the circus, there better be an elephant in the room (other than the fact that the clowns are all convicted pedophiles). I learned how to command a room and keep their attention for an hour.  I learned how to maintain my health so I could perform ten times in a week without sounding like my voice was being strained through a raw-meat grinder. Every show was an opportunity to enrich myself in new experiences and develop skills that would support me, no matter what situation I encountered. 

I’ve dealt with nasty hecklers who attempt to commandeer the show because no one gave them enough love as a child. I’ve performed for audiences of 5-10 people more times than I can count and I still had to fulfill my obligatory time. I’ve had shows cancel on me because people didn’t buy tickets. And that one...that one hurts more than everything else combined.

With 12 years of comedy under my belt, I’ve been in enough weird scenarios that I can figure out how to excel. Doesn't matter the circumstances, I know I can do the show. Convincing people to come see me from thousands of miles away? That’s a whole different bag of uncooked potatoes. And when it doesn’t happen, it leaves me feeling like a moldy old spud. 

Often I’m booked at comedy clubs that have a built-in audience. Some fans that I’ve acquired from Roast Battle or AGT will be there to see me but typically they only make up about 10% of the crowd. Everyone else is there because they trust that the venue will bring in top-tier talent. If I can win them over, they walk away feeling like they discovered a new artist. Someone that they can tell their friends about. I love being the trendsetter who can hip everyone else to amazing entertainment.

Other times, it’s not as easy. I’m booked at a bar, performance space, or small theatre where it’s much more difficult to get patrons there on a whim. You rarely go to a music venue without knowing who is playing that night. That’s when it becomes my job to fill the room. I have great TV credits, a decent social media following, and I’m loved within my community. Does that make people buy tickets

FUCK NO. (repeat as many times as necessary)

I’d love to think that I’ll show up and the place will be packed. It’s rarely the case. This past Wednesday I was booked in Chattanooga, starting a 4-night run that also included New Orleans and Atlanta. My travel day from LA to Tennessee was littered with delays, mechanical issues, and very little sleep. I arrived five hours later than expected, right as the show was set to begin. 

No one was there. Not a single person other than the owner of the bar and two of the comedians who were also on the show. I had agreed to a door deal so if no one buys tickets, I am about to lose my head and at least one foot. Hello, First Night of Tour, this is discouraging.

I was exhausted. I’d barely eaten, been re-routed through random cities, and had been in a middle seat for the last four hours between what I can only describe as “well-fed” humans. But I knew, I couldn’t let this be the show. Time to drop what little ego I have and sing for my supper. 

I went out to the street. Downtown Chattanooga on a Wednesday at 10PM isn’t exactly Times Square. Hardly anyone was meandering about. Every few minutes a couple or small group would walk by and I knew that was my chance to hook them. Allow me to introduce myself.

“Hi friends, I’m Alex Hooper. I’m a comedian and I’ve been on TV but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m in this city for one night, and I’m about to perform. I promise you will enjoy yourself if you enter this bar and give me an hour of your time. If you don’t, I will personally refund your money after the show.”

Yup. I said that. And over the course of 45 minutes I convinced twenty people to purchase a ticket. I barked in the most humble and meaningful way that I could. I let go of all self-importance and spoke to these sidewalk shufflers, source to source. There were two gorgeous young women on their first tinder date. A group of four frat boys who stumbled over from the restaurant next door. The group I was most proud of recruiting were eight barely-legal colorful kids from Orlando who were attending a music festival that began the next day. I knew they loved bass and I also knew they were ideal for my fan base. Wordplay!

JJ’s Bohemia is a small bar, so having twenty patrons plus a few comics was all we needed for an amazing show. Everyone killed. From front to back, the show was a major success. For ninety minutes, the glorious sound of shared laughter permeated the room. Like I said, I know how to do that part. 

When I finished my set, the whole room gave me a standing ovation. I stood outside to thank them all while showering them with stickers. Not a single person asked for their money back. It was an unbelievable win that filled me with elation. I was about to lose money and perform for no one. Instead I’m in the black and have added a bunch of dope people into my silly world. I’m going to remember that night, and I know they will too.

I’d love it if I didn’t have to tell this story. I could have shown up to JJ’s, sold out the show, crushed my set, and gone to sleep. But I’m not there yet in my career, especially when the universe is conspiring against me and breaking the computer inside of a 747 (yes, really.)

This night made me stronger in so many ways. It taught me that it’s worth it to ask for what you want. Never be afraid of doing the work to get butts into seats, even if it's five minutes before showtime. 

Your fans are out there. Go find them. Fifty “No’s” are worth one “Yes.” Always. Next time, Chattanooga will sell out. I guarantee it.

Fueling Up on the Road

As someone who has imbibed my fair share of narcotics, I always knew my favorite drug was being on stage. Commanding presence over a room of strangers who are hanging on your every word; nothing could fill my cup more.

But I was wrong.

Being on stage is not the best feeling in the world. Being BACK on stage is.

We all know that abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. Sometimes you don’t realize what you had until an unforeseen invisible monster strips it from you without warning. As much as I’ve always known comedy was my passion and my purpose, I didn’t realize that I had been taking it for granted.

One of the main draws of stand-up is that it was always there for me. TV roles come and go, writing jobs are temporary, even flowers only bloom during certain seasons. But comedy, especially in a big city like LA, is always happening somewhere.

When I would get frustrated at work, I would find a stage and pour the energy onto the crowd. The instant gratification of laughter would always bring me back to a place of joy, or at the very least, contentment. Ahhh, there’s that release. Even if I wasn’t booked, I would go sign up for an open mic in a coffee shop, comic book store, a dive bar where someone had been stabbed the night before. Can I use this fresh blood to write my name on the list?

Stand-up was my safe place. No matter where I was in my life I could always find a spot to perform and fellow degenerates to commiserate with as we spit out jokes and regaled our daily stories. When it was taken away in 2020, I had to come to a reckoning of who I was without the outlet that I had relied on so heavily for 11 years.

My beautiful and extremely patient fiance said something to me a few weeks ago that has stuck with me. “You’re someone different at home than you are when you’re out in the world.”

And she’s right. I never thought of it that way but my time at home was always meant for decompression. I would go to work at Universal and flap my jaw all day, convincing tourists to spend their hard-earned cash on frivolous upgrades. Knowing I would be on stage a few hours later, I’d go home and shut the fuck up for a couple of hours to recharge. 

When the pandemic hit and both of those jobs were gone in a flash, I didn’t know what to do with my energy. Sometimes I would speak in a silly voice or make an offensive joke and Lauren would just give me a look that said “Is this for me or you?” 

Let me be clear, she thinks I’m hilarious. My humor is certainly my most attractive quality, next to my golden curls of course.  With her, it’s always been subtle. I’m never trying. There are no act-outs or bizarre vocal inflections because that isn’t her style. She appreciates charm and wit, not an obnoxious clown doing cartwheels while singing songs about kidnapping (that’s supposed to be hyperbole but now I’m thinking I should write that bit).

When I go into the world, it’s a whole different story. I constantly bullshit with comics as we try to one-up each other in every way possible. We know when to be honest, yet we can play in this oddball style that allows us to experiment with comedy. We can laugh for hours as we stand outside of a club, passing joints (RIP) and tagging each other’s jokes. 

The fireball of energy swirling through my body isn’t meant to be directed toward one person. I don’t have to tell you, I’M A LOT. Small doses are best so I don’t exhaust and overwhelm you. Fans will often say to me, “you’re very calm off-stage.” As if they expected me to be pulling my hair, jumping up and down, and switching from screams to whispers at the drop of a kimono. We’ve all met that person who doesn’t know when to turn it off and that guy SUCKS. When I hear my name called, and I step into those lights, I put everything I have into those few minutes. The rest of the day, I can relax and be a (somewhat) normal human.

It isn’t just the stage and the validation from strangers that I’ve missed. It’s the conversations and random interactions I have while I’m on the road. In the past month, I’ve traveled to Nebraska, Colorado, San Francisco, and I’m currently writing this from a condo in Tampa after a four-day stint in Miami. 

I always meet people when I travel and I’m not afraid to ask intimate questions (Thanks, Achilles’ Heel). Because they know I’m a fleeting presence who will come into their lives and be gone that night, they open up to me in ways that even a close friend may have trouble doing. In the past week, I’ve had two women talk to me about the struggles they faced after their husbands died. I didn’t ask for this information. They felt compelled to tell me because they realize that not only am I listening with genuine empathy but also because sometimes it’s easier to unload your emotions onto someone who you’ll probably never see again. 

After watching me on stage, they often feel a comfort level that for most people would take years to attain. They see this silly, mustached man expressing his truth and want to do the same. It’s a beautiful exchange that lasts anywhere from two minutes to a few hours, depending on where and when they catch me. Come at me, Widows.

I’ve always said I’m an energy magnet. What others don’t use I siphon and harness for myself. Being around people, especially in an environment of fun like a concert, festival, or comedy show, I am fueled by all of the molecules floating around waiting for someone to snort them into their veins.

This past month has been glorious. Traveling, performing, and expelling a year’s worth of bottled charisma isn’t just beneficial for me, but all of my loved ones who have put up with a different version of Alex than they are used to. I found ways to thrive, new perspectives, a love of smashing balls on the tennis court, but I need this part of my life to be the ultimate version of myself. It’s good for me and trust me when I say, it’s VERY good for my fiance, friends, and family.

I’m off to do a podcast, massage an alligator, and soak up this humid air that feels like one of my socks after a full day at Burning Man.

Catch you virtually, or maybe in real life, very soon. Much love, beautiful weirdos. 

My First Time

We have to stop and smell the roses. Look around this magical life and be grateful for all that we have accomplished. Whether you feel that way or not, take inventory of some of your most memorable experiences and I bet you’d surprise yourself at how many amazing things you’ll write down.

Last week I performed in the anti-mask capitol of the United States — Huntington Beach. About 500 people gathered on the sand to get drunk and listen to a few comics spit our musings. This would have been an amazing show in the before times, but in 2020, holy fuck. This is radical. Slightly off-putting and a little concerning, but I strapped a face-condom on and didn’t remove it except for the 28 minutes I had on stage. Bronzed beach-bodied couples kept trying to hug me and I had to keep them at bay. You know the type. Somehow the man and woman both look like Sammy Hagar and it’s kind of hot but in an “I can tell you have a strange amount of lube in your bedside table” way.

Performing that night was everything. A pent-up caged animal released into the wild ready to blaze a trail of destruction. God how I’ve missed that rush of adrenaline. The power of words creating a cacophony of laughter, exploding droplets all over the shoreline. Hearing that sound inserts a power in me that I have never been able to reciprocate. It’s orgasmic.

But there’s another part that I’d almost forgotten about that I didn’t realize I had missed so much.  The show is over, the crowd is clearing out, and a line starts to form of audience members that want to meet you. My thoughts jump from “get out of here” to “you can say hi to a few” to “screw it I’m keeping my mask on and going out for photos.” Maybe it was ego, but I think more so it’s the personal connection I crave. And ooo baby do I CRAVE hard.

People were very respectful. Even in their overly inebriated state, they understood. I spoke in terms they would get immediately. “Hey dude, stay one surfboard back.” 

Other than the first couple rows, you have no idea who is in that audience. After the gig, this is their opportunity to say something and I LOVE interacting with fans. I can say with all sincerity AGT has blasted me into a spotlight far beyond where I was three months ago. Not only did most of the crowd know who I was, they couldn’t wait to have a few moments with me. It may sound narcissistic, but goddamn it I have worked so hard for exactly this. A line of people who just want to say hello or take a picture- I felt the impact like a 7.9 earthquake of pure positivity.

I get to the end of the line after a few minutes of high-level schmoozing. I’ve read books on charisma and I know how to use tactics to make them feel just as special as they make me. Ask them a question, look them in the eye, laugh at their jokes, GIVE THEM ATTENTION.

The last group in line was a family. Mother, daughter, boy (11), girl (9). I’m smiling as hard as I can, looking at this gorgeous, quintessential California clan. The mother speaks first. “Hi! I sent you a message on Instagram today. We randomly saw this flyer and knew we had to come to the show. We are all huge fans!”

I’m beaming from ear to ear, but then have a revelation. I start to think about everything I did on stage and let me tell you, child-friendly it was not. Since quarantine, my filter is gone. Pretty sure I said the word cum at least 6 times and at one point did an act-out of a woman trying to keep it inside her as she waddles to the bathroom post-coitus, comparing her to a T-rex. It was completely off the cuff, and one of the biggest pops I had all night. That joke got the 500 laughs I coveted. But now I’m staring at these innocent children, the future of our country, and I’m wondering how much of that they retained. 

Either way, the family was as cool as could be. We took some photos and I made sure that I paid extra attention to the kids, recognizing that I would have no idea how to act in that moment if I were their age. They told me it was the first time they had ever seen a comedy show. My heart shot out of my chest directly toward the heavens where it burst into a million stars that will forever shine a light on this world. I was their first. 

And you always remember your first. 

In 1999, I was a 14-year-old kid living in the suburbs of Baltimore. Half-Baked had come out the year before and it was oft-quoted between my friends. A stoner comedy perfect for a young man destined to get high. I see in the newspaper (as my friend Julian McCullogh brilliantly says, “that’s when they used to deliver the internet to your house”) that Dave Chappelle is doing a live show at Towson University, a mere 15 minutes from my house. $10 tickets. My friend Phil goes with me, and my dad drops us off in the middle of a college campus, fresh-faced and innocent as can be.

I don’t remember much of what Dave did that night. Or anything specific. But like Maya Angelou said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

I recall Phil and I uncontrollably laughing throughout the opening comedian, and when Dave came on, it was lights out. We kept exchanging glances and hitting each other with the same explosion of enthusiasm. We have watched this man in movies, and now there he is, on stage, moving a room to tears of happiness. I walked out of there and didn’t shut up about it for weeks.

Cut to 18 years later. January 2017. I’m at The Mondrian hotel across from The Comedy Store, enjoying the accolades of having just filmed Comedy Central’s Roast Battle Season 2. It was my first major televised stand-up achievement and I might as well have been on 20 hits of ecstasy because I was invincible. Everything peaking at the same time. It’s the feeling I always chase. Drugs are great, but nothing will ever beat killing in comedy.

The after-party is in full swing, when who strolls in but the king himself, Dave Chappelle. We’ve met once or twice, but mostly in very quick exchanges. This was my opportunity, and if there’s anything you should know about me, I don’t let moments like this slip through my fingers. “I should have done this” is not a statement in my lexicon. I approach Dave as a hoard of young comics and fans brawl their way through to take a photo. He snaps a few then notices me and stops. 

“You.” His long bony finger points directly at me. My heart pulses an extra beat. 

“You were so funny up there, man.”

I’m stunned. I begin to pick up the pieces of my brain which had detonated seconds before. I have to tell him. So I did. 1999 Towson University. I was 14. It was the first time I ever saw live stand up. He’s clearly taken aback. 

“You were there? And now I’m here, watching you? How fucking cool is that?’

I can’t contain myself. 

“Its the coolest fucking thing in the entire world, Dave.”

I told him I didn’t want a picture. I didn’t need it. I just wanted a hug. His smile lit up as big as I’ve ever seen it. He put his arms around me and gave me a full embrace. Three of them.  As we separated our hearts, he looked in my eyes and said, “you just made my whole night.”

I stood there. Frozen in time. Allowing this moment to wash over me. Another 50 hits of molly have entered my bloodstream. I AM FLOATING. That charisma that I mentioned before, that’s a masterclass of exactly how to use it. Here I am, meeting my comedic idol, and he made me feel more special than when I used to ride the short bus to school. 

I knew right then and there that my life would be a never-ending plethora of excitement. They say don’t meet your heroes. FUCK THAT. Meet them, tell them what they mean to you, and if they don’t show appreciation, they aren’t worth it. The real ones, the GOATS, they will give you that moment because they understand what it means to you.

Back to last night. I told the family about seeing Chappelle in 1999. I looked right at the kids and said “I don’t know what you’re going to do in your lives, but I can only hope that one day we meet again, and I can watch you do something incredible.” The look on their faces, and especially the parents, I knew that Dave had taught me so much more than how to be an elite comedian. He taught me humility, grace, and the power of truly seeing someone, even if it only lasts a second. 

It was powerful. It was beautiful. It was a moment I’ll never forget, and I don’t think those children will either. Once again, I was floating, knowing I had completed this cyclical experience.

By the way, I didn’t find this out until a few years ago, the comedian that opened for Dave that night at Towson University that had me in stitches: A young about to be discovered talent named Dane Cook. 

I repeat Dave’s words from that fateful night, “how cool is that?”

The Zoom Comedy Boom

Let’s face it. Live comedy is dead... for now. 

Comedy clubs are my favorite places in the world. Few things are more beautiful to me than a group of strangers uniting to share an experience through laughter. Unfortunately, the very nature of stand up comedy is a sexual paradise for a virus like COVID-19. Hundreds of humans packed together in a tiny room with low ceilings, while continuously shooting droplets into the air like a confetti cannon on New Year’s Eve. Right now, It’s irresponsible and downright dangerous.

If you’re anything like me, this is a crushing blow. Comedians and comedy lovers alike want to be able to gather and chuckle, especially as the situation drags on. We need levity, especially in a time when the weight of everything is flattening all we’ve ever known to be true. The fabric of society is being shredded, and if we don’t find a way to laugh, we’re going to cry salty tears until we fill up the kiddie pool in our front yard.

But have no fear, my faithful weirdos: VIRTUAL COMEDY IS HERE!

For most consumers, Zoom is a platform for business meetings, family hangs, even just a simple way to spend some face time with a friend. When quarantine began, comedians wasted no time in switching to this format. I had virtual shows within the first week and they haven’t stopped since.

I’m not going to lie. At first, I hated this. Live entertainment is my jam. Staying in my home and performing from my bedroom didn’t have the same appeal. Screaming into my phone can’t give me that adrenaline rush that I crave when I walk onto a stage. That being said, there are some major benefits to hocking jokes in this new medium for both comedians and audience members. Such as...

YOU CAN TUNE IN FROM LITERALLY ANYWHERE

This past weekend my friend had a couple of people over to celebrate his birthday. Being that it would only be five of us and he has a pool, this was one shindig I didn’t want to miss. In the before time, there would have been no way to make this work if I had a show. Now, it couldn’t be easier. 

I set up my phone and tripod in his backyard so that all you would see is my gorgeous face and the Pacific Ocean off in the distance, put on my headphones, and happily did a ten-minute set. As soon as it was done, I jumped in the pool and went back to hanging out. With Zoom, the crowd is in your pocket. Anytime. Anywhere.

This also means that we can book comedians from different parts of the globe. On the same show, you can have entertainers from LA, NY, Australia, Indonesia. There are no limitations.

I hosted a show this past weekend from my home in California. One of my friends tuned in from the beach. On the East Coast. No more waiting for me to come to your city. I’m inviting myself to your house every time I do a show. You stay home in your pajamas and cuddle a furry friend, the comedians will take care of your entertainment. After all...

THIS IS A SHARED CONNECTION

One of the aspects of comedy that I miss the most is the random interactions I have as I trot around the planet. I meet people from every walk of life for the sole reason that they want to forget their problems and have a laugh. While we can’t gather safely IRL, we can do it virtually. 

Zoom comedy brings people together in real-time. You can hear others laughing. You can see their faces (or not if you want to turn your camera off and just watch). Friends and fans have been genuinely pleased to know that everything is happening in the moment.

My friend Chris said it best after attending a show. “I’ve been watching comedy from my couch my whole life. This is the first time I felt like the comedian was in my home, performing just for me.”

That sums it up perfectly. You can chat with the comedians and other audience members. You can ask questions to spark conversations. You can stare into people’s homes and wonder who the hell chose those terrible drapes! This format allows you to be at peak comfort while experiencing live entertainment from professionals. If you’re missing going out, I feel you. But no matter how you spin it...

THIS IS LIVE ENTERTAINMENT

I don’t know where you’re reading this from, but right now live entertainment of any kind is forbidden in Los Angeles. This leaves a huge void for people like myself who thrive on actual experiences. While you may not be traveling to a destination physically, you are interacting with others and creating memories that will last.

Even though you and your friend may be 2500 miles apart, you can watch a show together and still feel the magic that this is something special. You can discuss the jokes you didn’t get or why one of the comedians was performing from what appeared to be a prison cell toilet. 

Movies, TV shows, and streaming services will always be there. Zoom comedy isn’t here to replace Ozark. It’s an alternative. There’s something wonderful about knowing we are all here for the same reason. A TV show can’t change its outcome, but with Zoom...

YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN

Just like any live comedy show, things are going to happen in the room that can’t be avoided. But now instead of a waitress dropping a tray, dogs are barking, cars are screeching, older generations begin talking because they forget they are in the middle of the show. The variables are endless and some of my favorite moments have been a comic responding to a ridiculous noise or a light going out. 

As we all navigate this new reality, there’s going to be a ton of hiccups along the way. No matter what happens, we can always find a way to make it funny.

This also allows you to play with the new format. In one show, I was doing a set as myself when I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I popped off-screen, put on a wig, and came back pretending to be a kidnapped girl being held hostage in Alex’s bedroom. I begged for someone to call the authorities. I dropped out of frame again, then immediately came back as myself and pretended like nothing ever happened. 

COMICS: This is your opportunity. Try out that weird bit you’ve always wanted. Take chances. Think about how you can give the best show possible, with and without your written jokes. The stakes couldn’t be lower! There are no bombs on Zoom, only awkward pauses. We all want to take back the stage but we also know that we can’t. That’s why Zoom is here...

IT KEEPS COMEDY FRESH

I’ve heard it a ton. “I can’t wait to be back doing/seeing comedy again.” Well, guess what, buttercup. That transition period is going to be ROUGH. This is not riding a bike. Comedians need practice. And the ones that are choosing to not perform right now are going to suffer more than they realize. 

I’ve already forgotten jokes that I’ve told a thousand times. My rhythm is different, my cadence is changing. Doing these Zoom shows not only makes me think about the art form as a whole but also it keeps me WRITING. I have to come up with new things to say since a lot of my audiences are repeat customers. I still get that “new joke feeling” when I come up with a premise and punchline that I can be proud of. I crave that stimulation. 

Jokes don’t just happen. Every once in a while you are given a gift from the universe like seeing a cat rollerblading. But the majority of the time, we have to sit down and arrange our thoughts so you don’t see them coming. With Zoom, my new jokes have found life. I feel like I’m still progressing as a comedian in a time when others seem to think the world is “on pause.”

By no means am I saying that this is a permanent replacement for stand-up. Believe me, when this is all over, I may never do a Zoom show again. But for others, it may be here to stay. Agoraphobics, people with disabilities, kidnapped children who are locked in a cage in a sex basement in Indiana; they can’t simply leave the house to see a show. But with the magic of a computer or phone, even the sickliest of sickos or POW's can still find a way to be part of the hot, comedic action. 

We are all in a constant struggle to figure out how things will work going forward. It’s going to be a lot of trial and error. In a time when we are all missing family, friends, work, and our general way of life, why not try something new? And who knows, you might even love it. 

See you at my next show. No mask required.

A Legendary Evening

I’m staring into a sea of a thousand nameless faces. I’m as locked into a moment as I’ve ever been, but even still, none of their features stand out. One blob dissolves into another, row after row, section after section. Less than an hour has gone by since I learned that this show was happening. And now, here I was, standing on the stage of Symphony Hall. On my left side is Steve Martin. On my right is Martin Short. 

How the fuck did I get here?

2019 was a huge year for me as a stand-up comedian. For the first time in my career, I was headlining comedy clubs all over the country. Riding the success of Roast Battle and America’s Got Talent, I finally had the credits to tour in the way that I had always dreamed. Some were quick weekends where I’d fly in on Friday and be out on Sunday. Easy as a drunk divorcee in Vegas. 

This stretch of dates, however, was not so easy.  My tour was 11 days total, completely on my own. Starting in LA, I’d fly to Massachusetts, then make my way down to Florida on planes, trains, shuttles, buses, car services. At one point I think a St. Bernard pulled me in a rickshaw from one gig to the next. Every day was: travel, check into a hotel, perform, sleep, repeat. 

Was it fun? Of course. I love an adventure filled with unknowns. 

It’s Wednesday night, the night before my tour officially starts. I’m in LA about to catch a redeye to the East Coast when I receive an email from the comedy club I’m playing first.

“Hey, Alex. We have to cancel tomorrow night’s show. There’s a huge event in town and ticket sales are low. We’ll still pay you, but you have the night off.”

To any normal person, this seems like a huge win. But I’m a comedian. I want the show as much as I want the money, maybe even more so. I love my work and the reason I’m on tour is so that I can rip up stages, feed off laughter, build a fan base, and continue to hone my chops. I’m not going to Springfield, MA for pleasure, and if you’re the type of person who is, please consult a therapist. 

To say I’m bummed is an understatement. Here I am, about to start the most complicated tour I’ve ever put together, and my first night has already been canceled. Not exactly the magical omen I was hoping for. Now I’m not only nervous, I’m scared. 

My fiance (girlfriend at the time, yay life!) helps me calm down. She assures me that I’ve done the work and everything else is the reward. Whatever happens, take it in and enjoy yourself. At this point, I have no other options. Beam me up, United. Captain’s ready, prepare to fly.

9 hours later I arrived in Hartford, CT. I’ve been told someone will be picking me up. As I grab my bag and head down the escalator toward the waiting area, I hear someone shout my name.

“Mr. Hooper!” Delightfully staring at me is a husky gentleman with soft eyes and a face as smooth as Frank Sinatra’s sultry voice. He’s holding an iPad with my name and photo. I’m exhausted, a little disoriented, but holy shit! This is rockstar status. He takes my luggage and leads me outside to a brand new Escalade, where I tumble into the backseat and immediately stretch my legs. 

It was a 45-minute ride to the MGM casino that would be my home for the next three days.  The driver had only been in the US for two years, relocating his entire family after the devastating earthquake in Puerto Rico. When he arrived in Springfield, he only spoke Spanish. Yet here we were, having a perfectly fluid conversation as if he had popped out of the womb with a hot dog in one hand and an American flag in the other. He told me about his daughters, his wife, and how he knew it would be difficult starting over in his 40’s but that didn’t matter. He wanted his family to have limitless opportunities.  It was 7 AM and already I had met one of the most impressive humans I’d ever spoken to.

As we arrived at the hotel, a chipper young man was waiting to open the door and take me to reception. “Mr. Hooper! Welcome. You are an honored guest and everything you need this weekend is on us. Let’s take you to your suite.”

I’ve stayed in some gnarly situations while on the road. I’ve slept in my car in the middle of the woods. I’ve shared a couch with a dog that was covered in fleas. I’ve crashed in a child’s bedroom right after the wife took the kid in a divorce. Countless nights on filthy floors, using my hoodie as a pillow and trying my best to not roll around in whatever the hell is sticking to this tile. 

The bellhop opened the door to my top-level room. As I walked in, I almost shit myself. Years of squalor, carnivorous insects, and newly fucked-on couches had all led to this. Exquisitely modern, effortlessly spacious, a rain-faucet shower, and no less than 10 pillows on a bed the size of the whole state. I had arrived.

My sorrows of my premier show being canceled weren’t destroyed completely, but thanks to my luxurious digs they had dwindled to a point of overt acceptance. Nothing I can do but enjoy myself. I’ll catch a movie and then eat dinner at the fancy Italian restaurant on the casino floor. This weekend was on the house, after all. 

A huge part of touring as a comedian is learning to be comfortable on your own. Often a headliner will bring an opener, or friends will tour together, and I’ve been lucky enough to do both. But when you’re a newer comic, the money you’re offered isn’t enough to support bringing a buddy along. Hence, you’re often traveling by your lonesome.  “Table for One” becomes a mantra that you repeat as often as “I’m going to the bathroom. Please don’t steal my shit.”

As I’m sucking down homemade gnocchi with a side of wallet-free lobster tail, I’m interrupted by four men that either just finished a round of golf or were looking to cheat on their wives. One of them says, “Hey, you’re the comedian! We have tickets to see you!”

I’m flattered to be recognized but quickly correct him. 

“Not tonight you don't. It’s canceled.”

“No, Saturday. Tonight we are seeing Steve Martin and Martin Short.’

I practically choke on bolognese. 

“What? Where?”

“Symphony Hall. Right up the street. Starts in fifteen minutes.”

I’m tired from travel. My belly is full of thick, creamy, thousand pound noodles. But when life throws you the ball, you have to shoot.

I inhaled the remainder of my rations and sprinted in the direction of the show. Most of the audience was already in but a few late stragglers were still pouring through the doors. I found one man, selling a single ticket. 

“$125. Face Value.”

“Here’s 80. The show is starting in two minutes. No one else is buying that ticket.”

And just like that, a mere 20 minutes after I had learned about this show, I was now sitting in the audience waiting for it to begin. Kismet. 

If you’ve never seen this show (you can watch it on Netflix), it’s essentially two of the greatest comedy minds of all time, who happen to be best friends, jovially ripping each other to pieces for an hour and a half. They sing songs, show old photos, do hilarious physical comedy, and roast one another in a way that only the greatest of mates could. The more you love, the harder you can go. 

About thirty minutes into the show, they bring up the Three Amigos, the first film they starred in together. They ask for three volunteers to come on stage and perform the famous dance from the movie. Now having my stage taken away from me that night, my entire body is vibrating with this opportunity. Luckily their stagehand is looking toward my side of the theatre, and sure enough, I’m the first person he calls. 

I encroach the stage, turning my enthusiastic skipping into walking so I wouldn't appear too excited. I’m cool. I got this. Out of the three they chose, I’m the first to arrive. Martin Short takes one look at me.

“Oh look, everyone, It’s Carrot Top’s sister! What’s your name?”

The audience loses it, as do I. I’ve heard variations of this before, but off the dome from Jiminy Glick, it has a whole new meaning. 

“I’m Alex!” I announce way too loudly, trying to settle my nerves. 

He responds sarcastically. “A little louder maybe, Alex. I don’t think they heard you in the back.”

I sing it this time, operatically. “I’m Aleeeeeeeeeeex.”

This gets a bizarrely huge, unexpected laugh from the crowd. Martin seems pleased that I’m playing along. He notices my attire, which couldn’t be more drab. A plain t-shirt, jeans, and dirty sneakers. I had not intended to leave the casino.

“Tell me, Alex, if this is what you wear to the theatre, what’s your bowling uniform?”

The crowd is eating it up. They know this is off the cuff, a special moment just for them. Steve Martin gives me a sombrero and they move on to ask the other volunteers a couple of questions. A few moments later, we are all on stage, in a perfect line, doing the Three Amigos dance. I kept staring out into the crowd as they cheered along, but mostly I just kept looking at the two icons on either side of me. This is absolutely maniacal. How the fuck did I get here???

As the song ended I went back to my seat, but I didn’t sit. I hovered above it, floating through an endless dream. I’m not sure if I ever sat down or if I spent the next hour suspended in mid-air, unable to touch the ground. My smile extended past my ears and into the other rows surrounding me. This was truly one of the most phenomenal moments of my life.

Later that night, I glided through the casino floor. Countless people stopped me to tell me how much they enjoyed my performance. It was bizarre, as though my show had never been canceled, only replaced by something so much more meaningful. Going to bed, it was almost impossible to tell if any of this was real. I do a lot of drugs, but I was stone-cold sober. This was indeed reality.

The next morning I was up at 5 AM. I had three radio interviews to bang out all over the city, so they sent a driver to chauffeur me around. The story made for incredible fodder with the hosts and it was one I was stoked to tell. At 8:30 I was finished, charged up on a ton of coffee, and full of energy from the night before. I decided to go for a run along the Connecticut River. I went six miles, further than usual, but with my previous night still giving me gas, I felt unstoppable. 

After that, I headed down to the pool. Only one other couple was there, early thirties, gorgeous, with a one-year-old baby. I took one corner and started splashing around when the woman called out to me. 

“Are you a burner?” 

For the uninitiated, this means ‘have you been to Burning Man?” I figured my appearance had triggered this thought. My friend Jason Van Glass once touted in a roast battle, “You look like you went to Burning Man and never came back.” So I know this isn’t far-fetched. But also, this is Massachusetts. Far from the unforgiving playa of the greatest festival in the world. 

“Your sticker on your water bottle says Black Rock City. We used to go, but you know, life.” She pointed to her baby. I instantly felt a kinship with these people. Burners are a huge, yet tight-knit community. When you meet others, it’s impossible to not feel a connection, especially when you are far from home. I was relieved and our chatter quickly turned from rhetorical banter to the dialogue of close friends. 

They shared a weed vape as we all got stoned and spouted tales of how we all ended up in Springfield. 

It's 11 AM and I've already lived a whole day.  I’ve done radio, I’ve run, I’ve eaten, I’ve swum, I’ve made friends, I’m high. Time to go back to my room.

I get off the elevator on the sixth and final floor. As I’m stepping off, still beaming with delight, only one man is waiting to get on. 

STEVE MARTIN, as dapper as you can imagine, adorned in a royal blue suit and a beige fedora. We lock eyes.

“Steve!”

“Hey, it’s you! Great job last night!”

“Thank you. I promise I’m not a creep but I’m getting back on this elevator with you.”

“OK” whimpers out of his mouth but I can tell there’s a slight concern in his voice.

I have 6 floors to make this count, so I begin.

“Steve, I have to tell you how I ended up at your show last night. I’m a comedian and I’m playing the comedy club in the casino all weekend. However last night, the first night of my tour, the show was canceled due to lack of sales.”

Steve chimed in, “I remember those days.”

I continue., “So I found out you guys were playing, scalped the only ticket that I could find, and ran over as fast as I could. Then in a miracle moment, I was called on stage with you and Martin. What started as a horrible evening turned into a bucket list night that I never even dreamt about.”

“Wow. That’s great. And whatever it means from me, I thought you were very funny and I hope the rest of your tour goes well.”

I stared into his eyes. On the outside, I kept my cool. On the inside, pure chaos. My heart had ceased beating. Every synapse in my brain was firing on all cylinders. Lightning was shooting out of every pore. I wasn’t sure if I was melting or exploding into a million pieces. 

‘Steve, it means everything from you. Thank you.”

We had only one floor left to go. I reached for my phone to ask for a picture. But something inside me hesitated. In a flash of certainty, I knew I didn’t want to be that person. This moment was perfect. I would remember this as a pivotal night not just in my comedy career, but my life. I had been on stage with legends and this interaction proved that it was real. Steve Martin just told me I was funny. That was more important to me than any number of Instagram likes that picture would have warranted. I don’t need the photo. I have the memory, and that’s more than enough.

We said our goodbyes and he stepped off the elevator. I was too astonished (and way too high) to move. I stood there, replaying our conversation again and again. Had I paused time? Was the elevator stuck? Two minutes later someone else got on and I realized I had completely forgotten to push the button to go back to my floor. 

One question I’ve been asked repeatedly when I tell this story is, “Why didn’t you roast them back?”

Trust me, I thought about it. Up close Martin Short looks like a candle who has been melted far beyond the wick. A mannequin who has been frozen in the middle of a botox injection. But I knew this wasn’t MY show. It was my job as a volunteer to make them look good, not to show them my comedic chops. If I had even tried to get in a zinger, the audience could have detested me. In this story, I’m not a comedian. I’m a lifelong fan who has the honor and privilege of being on stage with two of the best to ever do it.

And that, my friends, is a happy ending for me.