Works at Comedian

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Hello people, this is a blog mostly about comedy and stuff so if you don’t care about it, don’t read it. Just a warning so I won’t waste any more of your time.

(Note: At some points in this blog I reference people who “haven’t been doing comedy that long” and when I “first started out”. I want to make it very clear that I am still very new to comedy and I would even say still starting out and I know NOTHING about anything. But I have been doing it longer than anybody who has been doing it less time than I have. I am not claiming to be an expert on ANYTHING and apologize if at any point I come off sounding like a pretentious douche. These are just my thoughts and personal opinions on a couple of things because blogs by people who have been doing comedy longer than I have, have really helped me out so I’d like to do the same with what little knowledge I have. Again, I’m just some idiot who has been doing comedy a little while but still has MILES to go before I’d be considered good or know what I’m doing in the slightest. This blog is just an opinion on something, an opinion that merits no respect or even attention but you decided to read it and this is my blog)

Due to some unforeseen circumstances I recently re-watched some videos of my very early days of doing standup.  (again, I am currently still very early in it, but I mean earlier) I cringed as I watched what few seconds of a few videos that I did. One thing I noticed that I get annoyed at by people who have done comedy once is something that I completely forgot I have done. A lot of people during their first open mic, or tenth or something like that, they will say “Being a comedian/as a comedian/I’m a comedian”. Every time I hear that from someone during their first open mic I just think “what a douche, he isn’t a comedian, he’s been on a stage once while his family and friends laughed at his stupid inside jokes”. I recently watched one of my videos where I say, and I quote (note, quotation marks to upper right hand side) “I like being a comedian, I’m not always a comedian…” this was maybe my…6th show? 7th?

I was truly embarrassed for myself, I realized that I was probably the guy on stage that the older comics in the back were saying “Who the fuck is this kid? He’s not a comedian and he probably never will be, WOW he sucks”. It was a very rookie mistake and part of me is glad I made it because that’s what made me learn. You have to fall before you can walk. Or somethin’. I know that one of my friends, who is a great comic now, and has been doing it for many years longer than I have, went over his time and got cut off during his first 3 minutes. I was shocked when I heard this. “How could someone this good, who knows so much about comedy do that?” The answer is of course the obvious one, he was a baby to standup as many people are (including me). But he learned from that mistake and now gets mad at people who do go over their time (as he should, it’s a dick/rookie thing to do). He gets upset like I do when I hear some guy say “I love being a comedian”. I think it’s such a pretentious thing to do, you don’t strum a guitar once and walk around saying you play guitar. But on the other hand, once you do comedy…you are a comedian…kind of….it’s weird, I know, and I don’t even have a real answer to the question I’m asking myself. I think that you are…but you aren’t…if that makes any sense (it doesn’t). Technically, when you make your first sale at a store, you’re a salesman…aren’t you? But that doesn’t mean the other salesman who have been doing it for years aren’t gunna say “This kid isn’t a fuckin salesman, he sold one vibrator”. (This metaphor takes place in a porn shop)

This brings me to my next point, the title of this blog. “Works at comedian”. A lot of times, the second after someone gets off the stage after their first open mic, they change their Facebook occupation to “comedian, or “comedian at comedian”, or something along those lines. I, again, am in that group. (I’m not proud to be, but it’s a harsh truth I’ve faced.) Maybe not right after, but within a month or two I did that. I shouldn’t have. I was an open micer (I am now, just barely, if at all, past that level now, which is debatable). The excuse I made for myself when I declared my self a comedian on Facebook was “now my friends that don’t know I do comedy will see that and come see my shows” or “if I add a comedian on Facebook and he doesn’t remember me, he will say, ‘oh, this guy is a comedian, I’ll add him’”. These are just the excuses I made for myself like “I worked out yesterday” and “I’ll wear a condom next time”.

Now, I’ve been lucky enough to have been paid to do comedy and work on a semi- (not really) regular basis (once or twice a month if I’m lucky, which I’m EXTREMELY grateful and lucky for). I don’t claim to be a professional comedian, because I am not one. I’d like to think of myself as one, but I don’t really believe I am. I like to think of myself who is above the title of “open micer” but below “working comic”. Could I be wrong? More than likely. Someone who has been doing it for 10 years could call me an open micer and I’d just say “yes sir/madam I am, may I shine your shoes for you and hear your comedy secrets?) Do I work, sometimes, yes. Do I still do open mics whenever I can and still have a shit ton to learn about comedy (including: A, how to do comedy. B, how to be funny. C, how to not suck. D, how to write a blog trying to give advice without sounding like a pretentious know it all) All of these things in the wrongly used parentheses are thing I’m trying to work on.

I may have said this in a previous blog but I’ll reiterate because you probably didn’t read it (smart move). I once heard a radio interview where they said that Jerry Seinfeld once said that the number of years you’ve been doing comedy, is basically your age. Also, Louis C.K. said that it takes 20 years to make a good comedian. These kind of correlate among each other. I’ll use myself as an example. I’m almost a 2 year old in comedy. I don’t know how to talk, can barely walk, and shit my pants on the regular. But, I can do those things better than a 6 month old, (not all of them, some 6 year olds are great at shitting their pants). Some people (very very few) are good at comedy from the start. I’m not one of those people, but I know some of them, and they’re great. I also know some people who have been doing it longer than that and haven’t received the luck I have to be where I’m at in the comedy world. It’s a weird world/business thing to be in. Going to Louis C.K.’s quote, A 20 year old may still have a lot to learn about life, but they can drive, walk, talk, handle a hangover, have sex, and win the lottery.

I’ll take another shot at myself. People should NEVER, wear shorts on stage. It is an “unspoken rule”. People who do this shouldn’t be allowed on stage. (Guess who wore shorts on stage for the first 3-4 months he did comedy…you’re right, Gabriel Iglesias. And the asshole writing this) When I wore shorts, (which I did every day in normal society) I thought I was gunna be the comedian known for not wearing pants…and I was…and not in a good way. Luckily, a comic emailed me and told me to stop, which definitely had an impact on where I am today (slightly above nowhere, barely). NO comic is where they are today on their own. It’s impossible. Other comics get you shows, give you advise, or maybe you just learn something from watching them, or maybe it was a friend who told you to do comedy or showed you where the open mic was in the first place. People make mistakes, and that’s ok, learn from them, grow, and go to bed. Goodnight.

P.S.I know this was a long blog, sorry. Thanks for reading.

(Can’t say this enough, didn’t mean to sound like a pretentious douchebag/asshole in this. I’m writing this to help anybody who wants/needs to be helped and because I wanted the writing experience. You should probably just ignore everything I’ve ever said. I know nothing about anything, just a guy with some opinions.)

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Captain’s Blog: Still not Crunchitized

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Dear Reader, Hey, thanks for reading this and whatnot. You didn’t have to click on that twitter/facebook link, but you did, and that’s why you’re one of a kind! No foolin’! You sir/madam are the bees knees. A real go-getter, a real 1950′s expression I’m not old enough to know! Speaking of which, that is the topic of this blog which I just decided 9 seconds ago. Age and growing up, but which are you going to focus on more Jordan? Probably the “and”.

So here we go, the blog is starting. It’s almost started. Here we go, did I get my light yet? Damn.

So as previously mentioned, I’m in college. I’m getting older, as some of you are. Everybody is at a different point in their lives, some people are doctors and lawyers, and some people are Tony Clifton (I don’t expect you to get that reference). As of right now, I’m a 19 year old college student who does comedy as often as he can/ or a 19 year old comedian who does college as often as he can. (I prefer the latter) So maybe you are younger than me, maybe you are older, but my point is, reading a blog written by me is just as demeaning, no matter the age.

I am currently apart of what many “older folk” are describing as the “laziest and worst generation of people”. I don’t believe this statement to be true. The arguments that these people use are generally along these lines

“Well kids today have their iPhones, and iPads, and mini refrigerators . Back in my day we had a milk a cow with our own mouths and memorize the phone numbers of our family, friends, and the police. They spend too much time in front of the t.v. and they are all fat and need a spankin’.”

Here are my multiple problems. Number one being the whole technology argument. Yes, children today have iPhones and iPads, and they spoil us beyond belief. But a 15 year old sitting in front of a computer screen playing tetris for 9 hours while “Candle In the Wind” plays lightly in the background, did not invent it. You know who did? If so, please email me and let me know. But I’m pretty sure it was a man in his late 40′s to early 50′s. I don’t care enough about this blog to google these facts. But my point remains, we are just using the technology that good ol’ Papa Lazy gave us. I wonder if hundreds of years ago (or whenever the oven was invented). Old people would say “All these young punks, using ovens to heat up their chicken! Back in my day, mama and (person who mama is 60% sure was my) papa, took turns heating that dead bird with their mouths as if they were trying to fog up the winduh to spell out “In need of assistance, call the authorities…probably should have just spelled out HELP, would’ve taken about 4 hours less time” in a car window as “Uncle Tom” took them to his “Secret Cabin” for “Anatomical Hide & Seek”. They spent hour after hour heating that bird to a blazin’ 43 degrees F. And we didn’t have your fancy FORKS & SPOONS! We would trim the cat’s nails and used that to cut up the bird, before sacrificing it to the God of Dishwashers, which had yet to be invented.” Obviously this scenario is RIDICULOUS! Everybody knows that the God of Dishwashers only accepts cash bribes. (Was the dishwasher invented before the oven? Ha! Joking! I don’t care)

My point being, every generation has new technology that it uses and abuses, that’s how the world works. Whether it be a car, a washing machine, an iPhone, or Taye Diggs. People use what they are given, you can choose not to, and there is nothing wrong with that. Unless you have a problem with being banned from society and all the T.G.I. Fridays. I think this is really all I have to say on the topic. Or at least I think this blog is long enough and you don’t deserve to be put through any more of this worldly advice from a 19 year old who is typing this whole thing from his 2011 Macbook air. (Not bragging, just pointing out the blatant hipocracy and bias) I don’t know why you kept reading but I sincerely do appreciate it. Have a nice day, good luck on finals if you are taking them, and remember to tell your parents you love them (that’s how you stay in the will). 

P.S. (I wouldn’t cite this blog in paper as a resource on human behavior, or for any paper for that matter)

 

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College, thy name is….well…College…

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     Hello readers! By which I mean: my parents, high school teachers, and people who noticed that that was probably an in-proper use of a colon, and those who find using the same word twice in a row always sounds awkward awkward. I haven’t blogged in a while, which I’m sure you’ve noticed because I know you deprive your children of love every day that I don’t post something, which is understandable as most people do. So this is my blog to blog after not blogging a blog in a while and wanting to blog a blog a blog worth blogging. Repetition.

         So here is a quick update on my life without getting into too much detail. I’ve lived, I’ve loved, and I’ve lost. I’ve lived longer than anyone who has ever died younger than me. I’ve loved showering in what was once probably a toilet stall, and I’ve lost my “never see the ‘guy who lives across the hall from you”‘s ball sack’ virginity. Not very proud of the last one…or the 2nd to last one..or the 2nd to first one. The point is, I’m alive and there’s nothing anybody, besides those who decide to kill me, can do about it.

       When people ask me what I’ve “been up to??” I usually tell them the same thing “College”. Because most people usually get what that means. College stops being a place and becomes more of a girl that 70% of the country has slept with. 

“You been with college?”

“Oh you know I’ve been to college!”

“How was she?”

“Well you know, she’s not that easy (unless you’re a theatre major) and she always reminds me of how much alcohol my scrawny body can contain, right after I puke on her bed sheets”.

“Sounds about right, last time I saw her, we ordered cookies and pizza at 3 a.m, because we were so hungry from watching Gangnam style 90 times in a row until I actually turned into a pudgy Korean man” 

So that’s mostly what I’ve been up to. What about you? I’m just kidding, you know I don’t care. I had you there for a second though. But in all honesty, I flip flopped on the whole “should I bang…I mean go to college” idea for a long time. Part of me knows my plan in life (which does not require a degree) and didn’t want to keep doing school work. Another part of me wanted to sleep with college a couple times, I heard she was a lot of fun and couldn’t get pregnant. And another part of me just didn’t want to admit to myself that I was wrong and maybe college would be fun. I know she is going to dump me soon, hopefully the same day as graduation. If she dumps me before then I’ll be sure to post a blog entitled “How my parents disowned me” followed by “So who needs sexual favors in exchange for blow?” then followed by “Seriously, I need blow. I will do anything, woman, man, Wesley Snipes? I’m lonely and desperate”.

Well that is all for now. I will try to blog more frequently, I feel the need to tell you this because I know that how you schedule your day depends on it. And if you don’t care, which is the more likely answer, why are you reading this in the first place? I wouldn’t and I’m the guy who (hired a Jewish person who) wrote this. There is a comment section, but I plan on expelling these mutated babies I call thoughts onto the internet whether you like it or not. And that’s the way the cookie gets arrested for breaking copyright laws. Have a nice day! 

 

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People who read this shouldn’t lift heavy machinery

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This past Monday, I had the pleasure of performing at a new open mic in Fountain Square. Performing in front of six comics, and five people paying attention while all the others were busy with their successful lives. This experience brought back some good ol’ memories. It was reminiscent of another open mic set up by the same person, but with more people in the audience this time (that means more not paying attention too) but they did have Elephant Ears, so it evened out. The old place doesn’t have a comedy open mic any more, so this past Monday at the new place was a lot of fun. I’m not saying that in a sarcastic or dickish way, I really mean it.

I went to thee ol’ shit eatin’ hole almost every Monday for 6 months or so, during that time I was worse at standup than I am now (which is really saying something) and I ate a bigger turd every Monday than what dogs do on a normal basis. Every Monday night I’d drive home in shame of the terrible performance I gave, dreading the next week’s show. It got cancelled around Christmas time (thanks Santa, you Bill Cosby wannabe) (stomach full uh puddin’), and just at that moment, I realized how much I was going to miss it. I know I’ve mentioned this topic in a previous blog, but this show has kind of rekindled that thought so I’m taking another whack at it, like a weed whacker, or a 15 year old boy.

I sincerely do miss that “terrible show” feeling, I’ve grown to love awful shows especially when you know the people bombing on stage are hilarious. It was like a blast from the past, but that blast was an audience who didn’t want you to be there. I think it’s the god awful shows that make you better, and that you can reminisce over months later with the other survivors. There is some great feeling I get, knowing I’m one of the few people in on the joke, I think that’s a universal thing, it’s sort of like an inside joke. The person on stage is funny, the audience doesn’t get it because they don’t care, and I actually get it. To me, that makes it all the funnier. This new room might not last, but if it does, you can bet your ass I’ll be there, takin bigger dumps on that stage than U2 did when they decided to keep Bono.  

So if you ever have the opportunity to perform at some science awful place, do it. Back of a laundry mat? I can’t wait to get offered that gig. Hell I’d pay a few quarters just to get to perform there. It might suck at that moment, but months later, you’ll realize it was the best time of your life. It’s like what Steve Carrell said in Little Miss Sunshine. He was quoting some writer but the point was this, the suffering years were his best, all those years he was happy were wasted. Enjoy suffering while you can, before you meet your soul mate and become “happy” and shit. Especially if it’s free suffering, ain’t nuthin bettur. 

 

Also, Check out my new jokes on Rooftop Comedy. http://www.rooftopcomedy.com/comics/JordanMatherLicht?performerSearch=Jordan+Mather-Licht

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Fighting w/ Tae-Kwon-Do = Swimming w/ a Parachute

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I took tae-kwon-do classes for a while in my younger years of life I lived. Made my way all the way up to dark blue belt second Gup. No, that’s not a typo, that’s a real thing that exists in the human world along with surgery and the Kardashians. I thought I was such a badass, learning how to fight like Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, Jaden Smith, I couldn’t have been more excited. 

The first thing that immediately turned me off of it though, was the cup requirement. Not drinking, or world, but wiener. You had to wear a cup…when you’re 11 years old and that cup fit around most of your thighs….it’s a pretty uncomfortable thing. But I dealt with it like a big boy and pushed through, not through the cup but you know what I’m saying. I thought I was going to be a bad ass by the end of it. Turns out…tae-kwon-do….doesn’t teach you shit. It’s all a series of fake movements to an imaginary opponent(s) that will never exist. It was a giant waste of time and money, more so than my education, which is saying a lot. If you ever have the chance, I highly advise against going, unless you’re a dick and I hate you, then I’ll send you the address to the place and I’lll even give you the secret password to skipping up 5 belts. (It’s “Here’s 50$”) 

If you want to learn how to fight, start boxing, or pour honey in girl’s hair, both will help you learn real fast. Some people just aren’t fighters, myself included, me fighting would be like a T-Rex learning to rap. We all know their tiny arms can’t throw up gang signs. Parents, if your child wants to be cool, don’t get him tae-kwon-do lessons. Buy him sunglasses, or cigarettes, or an air conditioner, something that actually will help him get cool. 

For those of you who didn’t just read this blog, I understand. 

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A Night To Remember. Part 2

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*Forewarning- this story is grossly inappropriate, disgusting, vile, and one of the reasons I had fun my junior year of high school. If you don’t like to read gross things involving bodily fluids, ketchup, and sweaty men discussing dirty awful things, I suggest you don’t read this blog. (But do read every thing else I have already, and will post). You’re Welcome.*

To Be continued, continued. 

“I’d c** in his shoes” resonates inside of Earl’s tiny, odd, & insignificant brain, as a great idea. He quickly steals one of Tudor’s shoes and runs into the bathroom. Three minutes later, he emerges from the room of baths with a shoe, full of little douche bags who will never get to grow up and play tee ball and make their parents mediocrely proud. He puts the shoe back where he found it and they act as if nothing happened. Knowing he exacted his revenge, he calms down, and everybody goes to sleep feeling hunky dory, Earl feeling especially dory. A few hours later, I enter the room and Mr. X tells me of this story, where we began, and onward we go.

Everybody wakes up and get’s dressed in their signature ***** ****** High School attire, and is ready for the meet. Tudor still unaware of the amount of infants in his footwear. (He had 3 pairs of shoes, 1 pair for wrestling and 2 for…to have I guess. He put on 1 of the 2 or showing off….but not that “special” one.) Mean Mr. Mustard informs the whole team of this scenario, and we all snicker and giggle the 3 hour long bus ride to the meet, well “all” except for you know who.  

We sit in the locker room, cracking jokes about the unknown misfortune of Tudor, while he is in the room by the way, we are just so sneaky in clever with out jokes about “coming into a new pair of shoes” he remains unaware, also, he’s a dumb ass. We all then pick a flaw in each person and proceed to make fun of it for at least a minute or so each. We go weigh in with the other 40 naked guys and proceed to wrestle for the next 6 hours or so. At this point, we all realize that the coaches know about the whole situation, and are not too happy, as to be expected, despite the cruel hilarity of the situation. We all ride back to the school, trying to hint to Tudor what he will expect when we get back, still never picking up the hint like a man with no arms trying to pick up a piece of flubber. 

We get back to the school, return to our people clothes and wait for Tudor to find his shoes so we can watch the ensuing fiasco. He never does. Some of us grew tired of waiting, so we leave and realize we will have to wait until Monday. With few people left in the room, Tudor finds said disaster, knowing without a doubt who did it, but does not take action. (We all presume it is because nobody was around to watch it, attention whores are like that) The shindig is over….so we think.

Monday comes, school is over and it is time for wrestling practice. John Earl bends down to tie his shoe (in front of a crowd). Then, out of nowhere, Tudor runs up, wearing his fathers high school ring, and punches Earl square in the jaw after which, immediately running out of the room in fear. Earl drops like a sack of dead birds and is then rushed to the athletic trainer’s office. Police and coaches begin to get involved as Earl has the hole in his face tended to, while trying to keep the immense amount of tears from falling into the wound. Now the police are involved and insist that the two hooligans bring their parents in for a meeting the following day. The next day, I walk past the “fishbowl” meeting room and see the two kids with their parents, discussing if charges should be pressed and whatnot. 

After seeing that, all I can think is…How do you tell your mother…that you ejaculated in a another man’s shoe because he threw a condom at your face? I couldn’t do it. They were both expelled. So everything worked out alright. Tudor has yet to buy a new pair of shoes. I just made that last sentence up. The End.

*True Story

 
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A Night To Remember. Part 1

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*Forewarning- this story is grossly inappropriate, disgusting, vile, and one of the reasons I had fun my junior year of high school. If you don’t like to read gross things involving bodily fluids, ketchup, and sweaty men doing dirty awful things, I suggest you don’t read this blog. (But do read every thing else I have already, and will post). You’re Welcome.*

It was a cold dark night in November…or possibly December but that isn’t extremely vital to this story. It was a Friday, of that I’m sure, we had a wrestling meet that next morning, which was a Saturday for those of you without calendars, so I had to be at the school by around 5 a.m. For those of you unfamiliar with how wrestling works, I’ll give you a brief lowdown.  

The wrestling team spends all week cutting weight in whatever crazy ways they can, putting on trash bags while running, not eating, spitting (to name a few). Then, on Friday night before the meet, the team sleeps in the wrestling room at the school, as they will have to wake up around 4-5 a.m. and this assures them not to be late, and they can sleep near a heater if they have to lose more weight. I, however, am a very heavy sleeper and refuse to sleep near 15 other guys in high school who are bigger assholes than I am, so I sleep at home and drive to school, because I have a driver’s license, as a grown ass man should. Now with that out of the way, our story continues.

I arrive at the school around 4:45. The majority of the team still asleep, I creep into the weighing room where I find my good friend, Mr. X, weighing himself, as he prepares to run around the school because he is a pound or so overweight (by “overweight” I mean 141 lbs). I walk in and he informs me that this could be a very drama filled meet we will be participating in, I ask why, and he proceeds to tell me this story.  

Earlier that night, around 10 p.m, a friend of mine, we will call him Mean Mr. Mustard, was hanging around a group of the other wrestlers having a good time. He, always with a few on deck, pulls out a condom and proceeds to fill it with mustard. They notice that one of the wrestlers is already asleep (we will call him, John Earl), a grave mistake. The group of miscreants proceed to follow Mean Mr. Mustard to the room where he is sleep, and Mr. Mustard goes to John Earl and places the mustard filled condom next to his face, so in the morning, the group can all watch him wake up to a condom filled with mustard in his face and laugh at his, bound to be hilarious, reaction. 

However, another wrestler, we shall call him Tudor, just wants to fit in and be apart of the group. So, Tudor finds another condom and fills this one with ketchup, does he stop there you may ask? Of course not, he instead pokes a hole in the tip of said prophylactic and proceeds to throw it in the face of the slumbering John Earl, hoping to get a good laugh and the respect of his peers. A grave mistake. 

John Earl awakes, as most people are bound to due after a powerful condiment condom slap, to realize what has happened. Unbenounced to the group, John Earl is allergic to tomatoes (a predominant factor in ketchup) and has a small allergic reaction. Naturally, John Earl wants to fight Tudor to regain what little respect he thought had before the incident (he had none, he was douche). The team, wanting to have a successful meet the following morning, prevents any physical occurrences from….well occurring. Tudor is taken outside while Earl and Mean Mr. Mustard talk inside the room of wrestling. 

However, Mean Mr. Mustard pulls John Earl aside and tells him that physical violence is not the way to revenge, something much sneakier is in order. Earl, curious, asks Mr. Mustard what he could possibly do to exact an equal revenge. Mean Mr. Mustard informs Earl that “If someone were to do that to me…I’d ¢𝓤* in his shoes”… 

To Be Continued…   

 
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