Dear Los Angeles...

Dear Los Angeles,

It’s no mistake that I ended up living in this vast Playworld you call a city. Hundreds of hours of skate videos and countless reruns of Baywatch constantly called me to you. At the time I had no idea why I would move here or what I would do, but I knew my heart was screaming for California. 

For the past twelve years, I’ve been proud to call you my home. I’ll never forget the day I arrived. October 22nd, 2008. Fresh-faced, excited, completely unaware of the ways you would both make love to me and at the same time put your stilettos on my testicles and press down as hard as you could, stopping before you applied enough pressure that they would explode into oblivion.

Many people think about the joys of West Coast living. The sun’s always shining, every great band stops here on their tour, the ocean set against a backdrop of mountains. It can be paradisal in a million ways simply by stepping outside and taking a deep breath.

It can also be ruthless. When I arrived here at 23, I told myself I wouldn’t need a day job by the time I was 27. I’d be discovered, be on a sitcom, and be eating lunches with realtors to discuss which part of town I should build my psychedelia-inspired mansion. Fast forward to 35 and the only reason I’m not selling tickets at Universal is because of an invisible monster coursing its way through as much humanity as it can.

I never thought it was going to be easy, however, I always knew it was possible. When you move here, you see examples of success everywhere you go. You can use it to fuel jealousy, or you can use it as inspiration. I’ve certainly been guilty of the former but trained myself to always get my mind to somehow make it to the latter. 

LA, you’ve given me so much more than a home. You’ve given me a chance to become myself. Beginning stand-up comedy and using it as a medium of deep self-exploration has completely evolved the way I looked at the world. No longer do I see it as a cruel, unforgiving place. I see a beautiful planet filled with opportunities to experience endless amounts of joy. And all of that is thanks to the other weirdos who have decided to make this their home.

I hear a lot that LA is fake. Every person here only cares about themselves and will claw their way through every other crab so they can climb their way out of the bucket. That’s what I heard so that was my preconceived notion as well. What I found was exactly the opposite.

Los Angeles is filled with people that are exactly like me. They may not have piercing blue eyes and a mustache that could house a family of sparrows, but we do share something more important: mindset. 

They had a particular set of skills and ideas that were bigger than where they were from. It’s not to say they couldn’t have lived an incredible life somewhere else, but something about California makes you believe your dreams really will come true out here. 

And they will. Once you find your community.

This city is a drug dealer and everyone wants a taste of what you’re selling. You sling dime bags of hope, ounces of opportunity, and kilos of rejection. You love distributing nuggets of deliciousness amongst piles of shit. You bestow just enough to let me know that anything is possible, as long as I’m willing to slog through the mud, on my hands and knees to get there. And the only way to do it is for others to get filthy with you.

Above all else, that’s what you’ve truly given me. A network of like-minded individuals willing to throw away comfort for a chance of crossing the bridge to the other side. The place where we can frolic, dance, and create the things we wish existed. I have met thousands (and that is not hyperbole) of incredible souls who want to make and share art. They crave live experiences, connectivity, and the feeling that we are better if we do it together. 

Are there pieces of garbage floating in the pool? 100%. No city is without those that don’t seem to get it. Fortunately, most of that trash eventually gets scooped up and tossed aside. Those that view their art as competition never have a long shelf-life. It’s all about collaboration. Cultivating a community has provided an unlimited source of energy and motivation. When my friends do something amazing, it makes me want to step up my game. By pushing each other to dangerous heights, together we learn to fly.

Sometimes I think you’ve tricked me into living here forever. With your crazy taxes, rumbling earthquakes, 3 months of the year literally dubbed “fire season,” and one-bedroom trash can starting at $500,000. I could go to countless other places and probably be happy. The truth is, I don’t want to. 

While there are phenomenal humans everywhere you go, the concentration here is unbeatable. Every day I meet someone that makes me want to be better.

I moved here to be discovered. But you, LA, showed me something much better. You taught me how to discover myself. You whispered in my ear to run free uncaged, without shame or fear. You proved to me that I was the one holding myself back from realizing my destiny. Once I embraced me, as you painfully and lovingly taught me to do, everything else made sense.

It’s my path and I choose how to pave it. I pick which direction it will go and it may be riddled with twists and turns, sometimes with no light to illuminate my way, but I know it’s leading me to a place of unbridled happiness. LA, you helped give me definite purpose. Once you have that, you cannot be swayed or distracted from your overall mission.

You did your best to deter me. 6 Car accidents, multiple years of auditions with zero results, never getting the showcases that I thought I deserved, a sun that scorches my sensitive skin even when it’s cloudy. I could have left after any of these. But I haven’t. And I won’t.

You are responsible for the empathetic monster that I have become. You showed me how to be positive. You taught me how to utilize my talents in unique ways. You encouraged me to latch onto my destiny and allow it to soar to unimaginable heights. 

I owe a lot to you, LA, and maybe that’s the reason I’ll probably never leave. I owe it to you to pass on everything I’ve learned to friends, family, peers, and future generations that will move here with the same stars that still sparkle in my eyes.

You did this to me, LA. Call me Whitney Houston because I will always love you (and I will probably die railing lines of cocaine in the bathtub).

Sincerely,

Alex TreeStump Hooper

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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?”

Playing the Game on Hard Mode

Going on TV can be a nerve-wracking experience for any performer. It’s a huge moment and now, thanks to our good friend and worst enemy, The Internet, anything you do on that screen will live forever. I’ve worked my tiny ass off to get those opportunities and no matter the circumstances, I have to kill it. Every time.

Being on America’s Got Talent is massive. Every year 75,000 people audition. Around 400 get to go in front of the judges and from that group only a little over a hundred will ever make it to air. You can get a standing ovation and four “Yes’” votes from the judges only to have your performance never see the light of day. You won’t get a phone call. You’re simply in limbo, having no idea why they didn’t showcase you. I’ve seen it happen to phenomenal artists.

I’m fortunate to not only have been on the show in 2018 but to have been invited back in 2020 to do it all over again. While I’m incredibly grateful to the show for allowing me to be myself, my individual scenarios have been absolutely horrifying by comedian standards.

Let’s start in 2018. I walk on a stage that is lit as brightly as can be, with the entire theatre illuminated as well. Comedy happens in the dark for a reason. It’s easier to laugh when you feel anonymous. It also makes it easy for me to not be able to see every single face, but rather feel a general vibe from the room and play off that. But that’s not what happens at AGT. You can see every set of braces reflecting directly into your eyes. 

Already, you’re at a disadvantage as a comedian. These people don’t go to clubs so the only comedy they know is watered down, family-friendly, producer approved jokes. No subtlety, no high-brow thoughtful humor. You have two minutes to prove to them you’re as worthy as a dance team that blows fire while doing backflips. 

When the booing began, I knew I was finished. There was no winning. There was only survival. The cacophony of the crowd yelling, the horrific sound of those buzzers, the judges disapproving taunts: all of it combined to form an explosion of noise so loud I couldn’t even hear my thoughts. I was humbled, ridiculed, and even though I pranced off that stage with my tail between my legs, I was shaken to my core. It felt like the worst bomb of my entire life. 

Some people would have quit. Most would have never gone back. Why would anyone choose to subject themselves to that level of torture...AGAIN?

I’ll tell you exactly why. Once you face something like that and come out on the other side, a feeling of fearlessness takes over your psyche. It can’t possibly get any worse, right? Wrong.

In September of 2019, I got the call that I was being invited back. I was doing everything I could to get a late-night set so I could show the world I’m a true stand up comic, not just a roaster. No one was biting or even returning my emails. So what do you do when you’re starving? You go back to the table that’s fed you before. 

This time I was ready. Whatever the bottom is, I’ve already lived it. If the audience barks at me, I’ll gnarl my teeth until they back down. I was convinced I could win this fight. 

Only, I’d never see an audience on the show again. I shot my second audition on March 14th, 2020... ya see where I’m going with this? I walked out onto that same stage, only now, instead of 3000 unruly peasants, I was simply staring at three iconic multimillionaires. All that pandemonium was gone. It was so quiet I could hear the stomp of my boots as I scuttled out to my starting position. COVID was officially here and everyone was on edge. 

I’ve performed for three people before. I do comedy in LA. It happens. But normally those are in tiny coffee houses or the secret back room of a marijuana den. Looking out at these judges, 75 feet away from me, amongst thousands of empty chairs; the vastness of the space was impossible to avoid. 

Once again, I didn’t allow this to shake me. I had a plan and no matter what, I had to be free and execute to the best of my abilities. Will they get it? Is this a talent? Is this relatable?

Thankfully, yes. It was far from ideal, but I accomplished my goal and got the pat on the back from each of these uber-famous celebrities who gave me a standing O. That’s ovation, not orgasm, although the latter would have been delightful.

When quarantine began the very next day, none of us thought we’d still be in this position. I figured a couple of weeks and I’d be right back to comedy clubs, traveling, filling my face with drugs, dancing like an uncaged buffoon at music festivals, eating sushi inside off a plate, you get it. 

Thanks to a lovely little global pandemic, all of our plans were gunned down and spared no mercy. Simon had just told me, “You’re such a dick. I don’t know why I like you so much. You need to come back and do this in front of an audience.” As each day passed and felt increasingly longer than the one before it, I slowly realized that was never going to happen.

Every day was a new adventure of how the season would unfold. Constant emails and phone calls with producers. We went from Plan A to Plan G in a matter of weeks. Discussions were had that maybe I would shoot at home through a Zoom call (ughhhhhh), or maybe we wouldn’t do this at all.

I was recording content for them, coming up with different ways to present my material in case we couldn’t be in the same room, having every single word I say put through a ringer of executives and network Standards and Practices. I mean it when I say, there were hundreds of back and forths of what I was allowed to say and do, especially in a climate where society as we know it was shattering around us. 

Because of this infectious invisible villain, I ended up not performing in the Judge Cuts episode. Producers and judges decided based on what they already knew about us who would move on to the live shows. Happy to say, they didn’t do me dirty and asked me to return.

But now, I’m going to do this LIVE ON TV FOR 10 MILLION PEOPLE. No pressure, right?

Everything was changing all the time and to make matters worse, I had nowhere to practice. When you see a comedian tell jokes on TV, you have to understand, they have told those jokes THOUSANDS of times. They run those sets into the ground to work out every piece of timing and rhythm until they can do the routine hanging upside down over a bed of spikes without missing a beat. That shit is ingrained in you.

With my set, I had to come up with original jokes. I threw them around to a few friends, but for the most part, I had no idea if they were going to work or not. On top of that, once again, there wouldn’t be an audience. Just the same super-rich personalities that have completely forgotten what it means to struggle and here I am, a lizard-skinned hippie pointing out their flaws. Uphill battle? Yeah. Slightly.

It’s tough to explain the process of getting that set to where it ended up. EVERYTHING has to be approved by a seemingly never-ending line of decision-makers. I’d pitch ideas, they’d shoot up the ladder, then come back down with notes.

 “Go harder! Pull back! Is that racist? Can you explain this joke? I don’t like the wording here. What about music? Staging? Yes, that’s definitely racist. We can see his bulge in that skinsuit. Is that going to be a problem? Uhhhhh, let me check. We’re not going to pay for that.”

 I could go on forever, baby! 

And that’s just for the actual performance. Then came the Coronavirus guidelines. Being tested every three days with that swab poking your brain, never removing your mask, social distancing, not touching anything, NO CRAFT SERVICES (the horror!)

Through all of this, I was grateful. I had no work of any kind and I couldn’t travel, so being on the show filled my days with purpose. Had this been a normal year, I don’t think I ever would have come up with such an original and bold way to showcase myself. 

Knowing I wouldn’t have an audience (again) made me push myself to develop something unique. How could I present material in a way that was exhilarating but wouldn’t rely on laughter fueling the fire? I pitched a bunch of ideas ranging from simple to absolute madness, and we eventually landed on the burn book.

I reformatted every single one of my jokes so they would work in a rhyme scheme. I hired my brilliant cartoonist friend Eddie Mauldin to illustrate the roasts of the judges. We found underlying music to make it feel intimate. So many elements had to come together to make it work, and all of them had to be approved by the team. If one person at the top said no, it was back to the drawing board.

What you saw me do in that live show was hundreds of hours of work coming to fruition. It’s one thing to have an idea. It’s another to execute. Watching it on TV later that night, I knew I had completed my task to the best of my ability. I created something that had never been done before and it had an immediate effect on everyone watching.

So here’s my point: It doesn’t matter what the situation is. There’s always going to be something that throws you off your game. YOU NEED TO RISE UP. You need to own every moment. No excuses. This is your time to shine and nothing can get in the way. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever return to AGT. But going through their machine, being faced with adversity in so many different ways, it has made me realize that I am unstoppable. I’ve been through literal nightmare scenarios multiple times and somehow found a way to thrive. I’ve proven that I will be myself and not bow down or pander to make people like me. 

Go be you. Whatever that means. No one can do it better than yourself. Stick to your guns, believe in yourself, and find a community of people who will stand behind you. It’s all out there for you to take. None of this was accidental. It’s capturing an opportunity and making the most of it. Go. Fucking. Get. It.

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.

Redemption Is a Dish Best Served Roasted

I never thought I’d go back.

After being exiled from the America’s Got Talent stage in Season 13, I didn’t think I’d be welcomed, let alone invited. A barrage of angry fans, hundreds of messages ranging anywhere from petty scorn to actual death threats, and a genuine internal feeling that I had completed my task all led me to believe that this experience was once in a lifetime.

But then...the internet spoke up.

Over the past two years, I have learned a valuable lesson: I don’t need everyone to like me.

Sometimes that’s a difficult message for an artist because criticism lies in wait around every corner like a predatory thief ready to steal your soul. But it’s true. I don’t. 

The reaction to my first performance on the show flabbergasted me. Over 75 million views and thousands of people still watch it every day. I struck a proper nerve because since it’s release, this cut has never stopped bleeding. 

One day it hit me. What if this wasn’t a singular moment? What if I could go back, with a new approach, and do it all over again?

So I contacted the producers and told them my plan. I could practically hear their saliva hitting the floor through my phone. I was in. 

Six days before I auditioned for the current season, I did a weekend retreat to heal my body and mind. If you’re not familiar with plant medicine, it has been used for millennia to dramatically improve the lives of people who may not be able to figure out what they need. Addiction, generational trauma, guilt, shame, blocked memories, it doesn’t matter. What grows from the earth knows how to replenish our soul. If you allow her, she will reveal deep truths within yourself.

To say it’s magnificent is an understatement. My experience was enlightening. I saw and felt both the new and familiar. All of it with a powerful magnifying glass that illuminated parts of my psyche I had been ignoring. 

In one moment, hours into my spiritual quest, I was transported to the AGT stage. I looked out over the same 3000 people that had ostracized me after my first performance. I stared into the eyes of the four judges as they anxiously waited for me to open my mouth. I flipped my tail one time for good luck and began…

Cut to one week later. It’s March 14th. I arrived on set to shoot my audition. I have already been informed there will be no audience. While I’m disappointed, I’m not scared. I’ve been doing comedy in LA for 11 years. No one is more prepared for this than me. 

I’d only been there an hour when they sent 75% of the crew home. Story producers, backstage cameramen, PA’s, everyone who was not essential to shooting that day packed up and left. There was still another week of auditions but none of them were going to happen. 

“We’ll get to as many of you as we can,” they assured us. None of us knew what to believe. 

I sat in the giant waiting room. A room that is normally a flurry of scales being sung, dancers polishing their routines, a mother wiping the snot from her monster child that has been forced into a life she could never have for herself. 

But today, SILENCE. 

This is when COVID-19 began to be more than a “possible worry” for me. I already had 3 shows canceled that week but I assumed it was simply overprotective measures. Now, sitting in this room of brightly-colored rainbow people from across the globe, I knew that this was much worse than I ever imagined.

Thankfully I had two friends auditioning to help appease the situation. John Hastings and Sam Brillhart are both comedians I’d worked with before. In any social situation, especially one where we are competing, comics cling to each other for comfort like a small child holding their mommy’s hand in a crowded subway car. We crack jokes, drink coffee, eat the ridiculously shitty sandwiches that are shoved in a fridge by someone who has never played Tetris. Being around like-minded individuals makes time move in a place where it often does anything but. 

While the nerves bludgeoned me from the inside out, I did what I always do before a big performance. Find a quiet space, away from everyone, and meditate. Just breathe. Thank the universe for all she has given me. I remind myself numerous times: This is what you were born to do.

I’m waiting backstage to go on. The act before me is a marching band and even without an audience, I can tell this is one hell of an act to follow. They have energy, excitement, loud music, and everything else that goes into the perfect AGT package. Following this will be an uphill battle. Fortunately, I love being the underdog. 

A week before, when I had been under the guise of my transcendental earth mother, I had seen through my own eyes exactly what was going to happen. The judges remembered me. I’d make my “apology”. And as soon as I started spitting jokes, they laughed. This isn’t the same as the first time. This time, they get me.

Of course, in my vision, the crowd was there and the reaction was overwhelmingly positive. Some of them still didn’t like me, but that didn’t matter. As I said at the top, I don’t focus on them. If I’m not for you, that’s OK. I’ll find my people. 

Aside from the audience, everything else I pictured came to life as it had in my mind. They not only got my act, but I could see the thrill on their faces as I lit them up one by one. In my previous encounter on that stage, I couldn’t hear anything. I was being drowned out by the groundlings that had been swept off the street and into a theatre with the promise of a free T-shirt. This time the only faces I saw were Howie Mandel ( a turtle who’s been burned alive), Sofia Vergara (a backup rodeo clown), and Simon Cowell (an overdone tater tot.)

As I finished I did my standard pirouette (as any fancy boy does) and received my standing ovation. It was only three judges, but that’s all I needed. I was there to win their approval. And I got it.

Simon: “You’re such a dick. Please come back and insult us again.”

Sofia: I love everything. Your outfit, your jokes, your tail. I can’t wait to be destroyed.”

Howie: “I was wrong about you the first time. You’re absolutely hilarious.”

Redemption was mine! I had stared down the belly of the beast. And that takes talent. Or at the very least, a huge set of balls that I’d squeezed into my unitard a few hours before. 

Even without the audience, I knew I had accomplished what very few others have ever done on the show. I came back after being eliminated, performed a similar act, and drank from the cup of success. 

I pranced off stage with the supreme knowledge that I had claimed my trophy. What had been merely a dream a year before had now come to fruition. It felt wonderful. And now, I get to go back and do it again.

Quarantine began the very next day. As I’m writing this, it’s officially been over four months of stay-at-home orders. While I’m extremely grateful for having this moment under these extreme conditions, there is one thought that keeps plaguing me: I wish when the medicine was devouring the negativity in my body, it had thrown in a quick addendum about Coronavirus. 

It wouldn’t have changed anything. But I would have bought stock in a puzzle company. 

BONUS TREAT: 

Since they cut my Sofia jokes in the final edit, I’m going to share them with you here.

Sofia is from Columbia. If you’ve ever heard her speak you know I don’t mean the university.

You sound like a chihuahua in a blender set to high.

I can’t think of one reason why you’re famous. But I can think of two!

Lessons From a Dead Stop

For the past ten years, I’ve been going 100 mph. Non-stop. I’d wake up early to go to work, then come home and immediately begin doing my actual work - comedy. I’d write jokes, send emails, organize shows and projects, then stay out as late as I could jumping from spot to spot. Full throttle, always gunning it and looking straight ahead toward a future so sweet I could sell it in a cupcake shop. 

On March 15th my fully fueled rocket ship slammed into a brick wall. I didn’t see it coming, nor did anyone else. A large part of me believed that I had hit it with enough power that I would smash through, barely losing any speed. But we all know, that wasn’t the case.

Instead of annihilating the wall and watching it explode into oblivion, I’ve been forced to break it down, piece by piece. I’m physically removing each brick that was obstructing my path, putting them in my mouth, and painstakingly chewing my way through the hardened clay.

Does it hurt? Yes. 

Is it an inconvenience? Yes. 

Does it taste good? Fuck no. It's brick. Masticating through a single crumble is torture.

Luckily, my teeth are strong as fuck.

By having this forced sedation from the stage, I’ve learned a lot about myself. I never allowed myself to slow down because I was too afraid of the consequences. As long as I kept pushing, more opportunities would congeal out of the gutters of slime that we commonly refer to as the entertainment industry. 

Tenacity was always at the forefront of my mentality. GO GO GO!  Don’t stop to ask for directions. If I get lost, I’ll find my way back and relish in the lessons learned from my unplanned excursions.

I didn’t always want to do my work, but I could justify it by going on stage. Maybe I didn’t write that pilot or shoot that sketch, but my invitingly delicious black tar heroin known as stand up comedy was always available. As the yellows of the day transitioned into the blacks of night, my veins would pop out causing my otherwise unnoticeable bloodstream to resemble a road map across my skin. They would burst at the seams waiting for audiences to inject them with laughter, at which point my entire body would enter a state of relaxation and euphoria that few will ever come to know. 

Stand up is my drug. Along with a bunch of other actual drugs but let’s face it; All of those are synthetic versions of what I really want, the energy, approval, and pure joy of other humans. As much as I love candy-flipping, it can never come close to what I feel when I have the total attention and control of a room that has come to listen to the random silly anecdotes I’ve concocted in my comedy cauldron. 

It’s a feeling that simply cannot be replaced with likes, retweets, and shares (but please for the love of all that is holy keep giving me those in the meantime). Without live comedy, I’ve had to mentally tackle emotions that haven’t come up in years.

I thought I had beat depression. Ha! Turns out it was lying dormant in the backseat while I was busy putting the pedal to the metal. I never stopped to turn around, so I never realized it was still there, waiting to poke its ugly, unmasked face. Remember me, motherfucker?? Get ready for a wave of sadness to wash over your entire existence.

Same goes for anxiety. By continually moving, I didn’t ever stop and face the things I was afraid of. I know fear is present but who’s got the time? I planned to grab my life by the balls and pleasurably twist until I came hot joke juice all over the world. I can’t measure my worries if I never let them pierce the surface. 

Slowing down is for wimps. Real artists push through the pain to get where they want. Remember the prince in Sleeping Beauty? He tore his way through miles of thorns and brambles because he knew what was waiting on the other side. If I slog my way through shit gigs, open mics, atrocious bombs, eventually I’m going to arrive at a clearing of this torrid forest.  I’ll kiss my perfect future on the mouth, waking it up to infinite possibilities of happiness and love. In a totally non-rapey way of course. Consent is the epitome of sexiness.

So here I am. Opening my eyes to a daily struggle to figure out what to do with myself. I’ll go on long walks, read in the park, write in my journal, meditate. Those are the days when I win. Other days I can’t stop refreshing the endless barrage of shit known as Twitter and Instagram or playing Words with Friends with people who are definitely not my friends. 

Who am I without the stage? What do I do with all this energy brewing inside of me? It doesn’t dissipate so I need to find ways to redirect it. 

Luckily, I’ve found a few things that have helped tremendously. 

Protesting. Joining a cause that I believe in has made my presence feel needed again. Being a tiny part of a huge movement has inspired me in all sorts of new ways. It’s taken the importance off of myself and allowed me to find compassion in my fellow humans.

Fundraising.  Finding charitable organizations that I believe in couldn’t be easier thanks to social media. My friend Tema and I have raised over a thousand dollars by doing Instagram Lives. I can watch in real-time as friends and fans donate money to try and make the world a more suitable place for all of its babies. 

Writing. I did force myself to finally bang out a pilot. It doesn’t quite have its wings yet but the base and general idea for where I want it to go is laid out with some very funny scenes and characters. It was a way for me to crank out jokes and be productive without needing an audience.

Pickling. Yes, you read that correctly and it’s not some weird sexual term (please don’t google it). I began making my own pickles and kimchi even though it was never an interest of mine. I simply needed an activity and one that I could be proud of the results. And let me tell you, they have been absolutely scrumptious. 

For ten years, I thought about myself and how I could thrive. Sure I did it with love, but it was always for the betterment of my own life. But coming to this dead stop has opened something inside of me that I don’t think I would have discovered without slamming into an invisible barrier. 

I’ve always been compassionate, but now I have time to really see the struggles of those not like myself. Whether it be gender, skin color, socioeconomic status, sexuality, or whatever the hell makes you different from me, I finally understand the injustices that are stricken among those that are not straight white men. Now that I’ve got the knowledge and time, I can educate myself on how to be better going forward. I can read books, watch documentaries, listen to the struggles of those who have been oppressed. When you realize how unfair it all is, it’s almost impossible to not get involved in this worldwide revolution.

I can’t say this shutdown is beneficial for me. But it has compelled me to view the world with a fresh set of peepers. The smoke from my bong has cleared and the haze has settled. My career is not the most important thing in the world. Doing what’s right, fighting for what I believe in, doing my damndest to make sure I’m on the right side of history, that’s what’s paramount right now. 

Eventually, I’ll have gnarled my way through these durable bricks and I can start flying again. And honestly, I can’t wait to be sweating under those bright lights. 

Until then, I’m going to keep taking in the lessons that are being showered on me from every direction. Since I can’t stand on stage and talk, I might as well sit up and listen. I’ve never been very good at it, but now is the perfect time to learn.

The World is Changing. Can I?

2020 is going to be my year! 

Sound familiar? 

Like many of you, I approached this new decade with initiative and gusto. Maybe the moon was on a new cycle or the planets were aligning in a divine way or your upstairs neighbor who was constantly practicing Stomp moved out. Whatever it was, it felt like all of us were ready to grab the bull by the horns and ride that oversized piece of beef straight to victory.

Then this happened. 

I live in California so there’s always fires, earthquakes, and yoga studios that open directly next to each other to worry about. But a pandemic that keeps us isolated for months? Please. 

All of us have experienced loss due to COVID-19. Some have lost everything. Businesses, hobbies, LIFE. I’m fortunate that no one I know has died but I have lost something I never expected to be taken away: my sense of purpose. 

And honestly, it hurts more than I ever thought it would.

As a stand up comedian, the stage is my world. I’ll never forget the first time I did it. March 9th, 2009 I performed a 6 minute set at a nightclub in Studio City. I walked off stage in a blissful haze. I called my mom immediately. 

“I found it. This is what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”

Since that moment, Comedian has been my identity. If you think being surrounded by the funniest people in the world is a cool job -- you are 100% correct. I’ve been proud to do the work, climb the ladder, and achieve goals that I never even thought possible. And after almost 11 years, I knew 2020 was going to be huge.

Momentum was on my side. I already had a big TV appearance booked and on top of that, I was preparing to record my second album that would be released at the same time. Bang Bang. That was solid but I knew I could push myself further.

I decided to shoot for the cosmos. For a while, I’ve been toying with an idea for a comedy special that would be unlike anything that had been done before. Unconventional, colorful, magical, and perfect for the crowd that I’ve been cultivating. I assembled a team of talented friends who could spin hay into gold. We put together numbers and packets and knew that this was immediately going to be exactly what it calls itself: SPECIAL.

Then this happened. 

In a matter of a few days, all of my plans came crashing down like your drunk uncle at Thanksgiving. And now, I woefully admit, I don’t know what to do.

Since I began doing comedy I always worked as hard as I could. Hit the most open mics. Book the most shows. Write the most jokes. Use the most drink tickets. I knew if I kept improving success was inevitable. I went out night after night and because I was persistent, opportunities to advance my career would present themselves to me. GO GO GO!

This was the first year I took control. I told myself no more waiting for the dream bus to finally make it to my stop and let me board. Fuck that. I’m building my own bus. Only no one wants to ride the bus so again, fuck that. Let’s build a spaceship instead. Why drive when you can fly? It will be dangerous, exhausting, and a huge commitment. Others will call me crazy. Fantastic. The best ideas are always the ones that seem the most far-fetched. 

Everything was falling into place.

Then this happened. 

For me, the thrill of experiencing live entertainment is paramount. Concerts, festivals, rooftop comedy shows. I want to be surrounded by people, connecting through a shared feeling. I want that “you had to be there” moment because those are what make your time on this planet unique. Instead of spending my time making videos and sketches to advance my career, I focused everything on creating shows and parties that had a vibe of pure fun and silliness. People would often see photos and ask me what happened at the events. And I always loved telling them, you have to come. That’s the only way to find out.

Create the things you wish existed.

That’s precisely what I did. I navigated the annals (haha, annals) of my brain and heart to come up with things that I would want myself. I knew my path would take longer because only so many people could go to each show, but that didn’t matter to me. It filled me with joy to know that this is only for us. It was always going to mean more than a clip that anyone could show their mother on YouTube.

But now the world is changing and the one thing I thought could never be stripped of me, stage time, has been eviscerated. Not to be overdramatic, but it has been devastating. 

The stage is where I feel the most alive. It’s vulnerable, raw, and requires a mindset that never allows you to let your guard down. Even when you’re doing your best, you have to maintain that energy, or your drunk uncle could show up again.

Without being able to perform in front of people, I don’t know how to fill that void. And it is terrifying.

I knew I needed stand up comedy. Something happens to me when I don’t get on stage for a few days. I imagine it’s similar to a crack addict who quits cold turkey. Strange moods take over because I have unfocused energy swirling around my biosphere with absolutely nowhere to go. I just want to crumble some jokes onto a piece of tinfoil and suck that laughter up through a straw. 

Adaptation is the key to success in any field. Growing and changing with the times is crucial. But what happens when you simply don’t like the direction that everything is going? What if it no longer makes you feel accomplished? Or even fulfilled?

I’m struggling with how to continue. I know that I’m never going to quit. This is the only thing I want to do and settling for something else is simply not an option. So how do I do it in a way that doesn’t feel like I’m compromising everything I’ve always stood for?

I’ve been doing shows through Zoom, IG live, and Twitch. Is it weird as fuck? You know it is. I’m in my bedroom staring at my mustache through a computer screen wondering if anything I’m saying is connecting. 

I have to keep telling myself: this is the world now. Don’t be the old man that refuses to keep up with the times. ADAPT. CHANGE. GROW.

Redirecting your circuits is never simple. I can tell myself all day to learn new skills and make my comedy work in a digital medium, but actually doing it? Fuuuuuckkkk. It. Sucks. Resistance is a cold glass of lemonade and, oh boy, am I thirsty. Which leads me to my next point…

How do I make this new world work for me instead of against me? How do I create a live experience when we can’t physically experience anything in the same place?

This is a test that has been placed upon all of us. Whether you’re a nurse, a postal worker, a waitress, or a mime -- the world is going to be different going forward. A lot of us are going to have to shift directions. I’ve always been able to go with the flow so it shouldn’t matter that I don’t like where the flow is taking me. It’s my job as a human to find comfort and happiness in any situation I find myself in.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to perform in front of people again. I do know that I’m not going to let this beat me down. I’m going to come out of quarantine stronger.

Mentally. 

Physically. 

Emotionally. 

I’m going to teach myself how to do things I don’t like to do because the alternative is hanging my hat up and goddammit I’ve got way too many awesome hats to let them sit on the shelf.

This is scary. And sometimes I don’t know how to feel. And that’s OK. As long as I keep practicing self-care and putting effort toward something, then I’m winning. Even if it’s only for a few minutes a day. My plans aren’t canceled; they are reorganized. Keeping that perspective is of the utmost importance.

I can’t wait to see you all again. To gather. To hug. To galavant around a field and dance until our faces melt into the ground. Until then, I’ll see you all through these screens. 

Embrace the new normal. We are all here together. After all, 2020 is gonna be our year!