Dr. Showlove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love to Bomb

So on Sunday night, I was lucky enough to be part of a pretty stunning line-up of comedians at the DC Improv Comedy Lounge for an audition showcase for The Great American Comedy Festival (booked by Eddie Brill from The Letterman Show) and the Just for Laughs Montreal Comedy Festival. I only write of its prestige because it felt surreal to be on the line-up.

I was performing with comedians that made me gurgle carrot nubs of wonder onto my preemie bib when I first started comedy (Schlegel, Jackson, Myers, Smith, Maher, Mumma, Conner, White...the list goes on...Mante, Weems...that's it, I included everybody! Don't come hunt me!) I'm sorry, that should also be present tense. They still make me burp up pea fluff and awe on my baby bib when we are in the same room (it's awkward for me mostly).

So I was on this show, and I wanted to do a good job at least for myself, but also for my peers because their respect means a lot to me. I went up relatively early in the show and completed a solid set...for a bombing! A pretty solid bombing through and through. Mediocre response? Check. Audience interest wavering? Check. Manage to utterly disenchant a roomful of people within six minutes? CHING CHING CHING!


this man especially hated me!
photo courtesy of Flickr and rileyroxx

That's right. After a good deal of traveling, and "ooh look Aparna is gone and off conquering the world!" (which is not a rumor I started but rather Curt's light lady du jour, whoever that lucky dame may currently be...you have my blessings), I come back to do everyone, including myself, not proud via a less-than-stellar showing for a crowd that decided I am to comedy as rice is to the Atkins diet. I brought back an Atkins metaphor! No? Nothing? I accept your silence, and raise you one cricket farm. I actually didn't mind bombing. I'm pretty new to audition sets, and suddenly I've had to do several in the span of a few weeks so I think it's only natural the quality starts to peter pan off into NeverCleverLand.

Mostly I was bummed out the audience didn't like me at all. And by at all, I mean, really, they were actively polling each other for how they felt about me during my set. I got a copy of one of the handouts, and it read: "Do you like her? Check No, Hell Naw, or Not Even Comfortable Quantifying my Dislike in a Mere Two-Dimensional Square" They also instigated ways to get me off of stage quicker such as blank stares, talking incessantly in the corner, and hesitant pity laughter, all of which, they'll be apathetic to know, moderately worked.


the jokes felt wooden. i felt wooden.
photo courtesy of Flickr and julianrod (PBUH)

But once you realize you really did try and do your jokes justice, and you still couldn't really muster up any positive crowd sentiment, it gets kind of liberating after that. I've seen all of my favorite comics bomb. And honestly, it's more inspiring to me than seeing them do well, because I realize they are just as good with their bad sets as they are with their good ones. And that, to me, is part of what comedy is all about. After the show, everyone was gracious and nice in either avoiding eye contact with me, which is usually how I deal with comics who had bad sets (a cheap parlor trick to impress your enemies), and/or giving me conciliatory butt pats, which is how I usually self-medicate anyway.

So I am lucky! I am lucky to have failed and blogged about it. I am lucky to have amazing peers who do not disown me at the first smell of "this joke's not taking." I am lucky to have seen some of the amazing sets that people did have Sunday night. And I'm lucky that I got a swell opportunity, and I got to learn from it. *cue stage moms awwwing* *cue stage dads punching holes in walls* *cue stage babies looking 'on' as always*