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?”