The Scary Part of Cancer (It’s Not What I Thought it Would Be)

For most people, hearing a doctor say the words, “You have cancer” feels like the ultimate gut-check. It can send you spiraling into the catacombs of the darkest part of your brain. What did I do to deserve this? How did this happen? Who’s going to watch my kids when I have chemo? Should I stop eating banana splits for lunch? Questions are abundant and nonstop as you attempt to figure out how you will navigate your life going forward. Change is imminent and whether you like it or not, you are forced to confront one of life’s ultimate challenges.

For me, hearing those words, wasn’t a bomb going off in my face. Instead, I felt relief. 

In the five months leading up to the official diagnosis, I wasn’t myself. Lethargic, uninspired, and craving solitude became my norm. If you know anything about me, these are not in the top 100 words people would use to describe me. Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself and it was snaking its way into anxiety and depression that I hadn’t felt in years. I did all of my normal self-care practices but nothing was pulling me out of the depths of my own insecurity… 

That’s why I wasn’t shocked when I found out it was cancer. Knowing that it was physical meant that I could do something about it. With Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, even at stage 3, my prognosis is a 95% cure rate. This was wonderful news because instead of being in this bizarre state of limbo, I finally knew the foe I was up against. Let’s. Fucking. Go.

Today I had my 3rd round of chemotherapy. I’m scheduled for twelve treatments over six months to exorcize these invasive, replicating, unwanted cells. At this time, I’m forced to take a break from my usual life of traveling, partying, and cruising through the world like a whirling Dervish.

Most of my days are spent writing, meditating, reading, playing tennis, slacklining, and doing comedy shows at night. Sprinkle in a bunch of concerts and outings with friends and honestly I can’t help feeling like I retired at 37. To many people, this forced vacation sounds like a dream. Even with the cancer looming in the foreground, I’m living an enviable life. 

Here’s where it gets scary. At some point, my body will be cured of cancer. Yay! But wait. With that, this fantasy existence also comes to an end. Right now if I wake up and don’t feel like doing anything, that’s perfectly acceptable. I’m not being lazy; I’m healing! But once I’m back to 100%, there are no more excuses. I have to make decisions that move my life forward. 

I’d be lying if I told you dying hadn’t crossed my mind. Of course it has. It’s cancer, baby! The mere thought of me paying the check for this lifetime was appetizing because it meant I wouldn’t have to try anymore. Dead people can’t fail. I relished in the imagery of my friends, peers, and fans saying, “He was so funny. What could he have created if only that stupid illness never showed up?” The “what if” was so appealing to me. And here’s why:

The younger me pounced on ideas. If an inkling of a notion of a concept entered my psyche, I would put forth all of my efforts to actualize it. I wasn’t afraid of failure and because of that I thrived. I truly didn’t care what people thought of me. I always knew I would find my tribe. But with that, came a plethora of naivete. I was running as fast as I could with no clear goal other than to move fast and try not to slam into a wall. It worked in my favor because the stakes were low. I had a regular job that would pay my bills when comedy couldn’t. That’s no longer the case.

Becoming a professional automatically means that comedy is my business. It’s my life-raft that I’m slowly building out to be a luxury yacht. I can’t rely on other forms of income because right now, I don’t have a steady stream that isn’t directly related to me being an artist. Getting cancer was a sign that I need to slow down. But now that I’m getting better, my nuts are being slowly pushed closer to the fire. I can already smell the twisted, burning hairs. 

I could write another book. I could bring back my podcast or come up with another premise entirely. I could try and sell one of my pilots. I could sit back and hope that I land one of these voiceover auditions and my life in cartoons will finally begin. I could produce a live show. I could try to floss with gummy worms. COULD. COULD. COULD. The indecision that comes with all of these possibilities can feel both exciting and crippling. Whatever I do, I want it to work. I want this cancer to accelerate my career as opposed to hindering it. 

And that’s why it’s so terrifying. People believe in me and that has led me to believe in myself. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Whatever. Soon I won’t have an excuse for why I’m not doing anything with my time. Many survivors say that getting to remission gave them a renewed lease on their life. Finally, they are living for themselves and checking off that bucket list one by one. Skydiving, visiting Morocco, eating a scorpion. Fuck it. I’m alive!

For me, this prognosis is a ticking clock. As I inch closer toward my goal of eradicating cancer, the true fear sets in. How do I set myself up for longevity in a career filled with cautionary tales? How do I not get lost in the shuffle when everyone is screaming on top of their own soapbox? How do I not feel like I’m losing time when everyone else is advancing?

I’m writing this rhetorically, but also hoping that it opens a magic chamber, revealing the answer within. I can’t continue to make the same mistakes. I can’t blindly accomplish tasks with the anticipation that everything will work out simply because I’ve worked hard and have been kind. I need a project that will not only sustain me, but elevate everything I’ve built in the past 14 years. I need to use this cancer to push me further into success. If I don’t learn from it, what good did it do?

Cancer isn’t scary. Figuring out my life after it’s gone? Yikes. Only time will tell how I navigate those rivers. I know I have it in me. I deserve the life that I dream about. With every swollen lymph node returning to normal, it passes along the same message: Keep working on your boat.

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. 

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.