12/28/13, 12:30 AM

Bar Open Mic, Flappers Comedy Club, Burbank, CA

It’s been ten days since my last set. A much needed sojourn to visit my parents in Texas made me want to relax instead of work, so I opted not to get on stage at all. But I’m back in town now and itching to get on stage. I get a work-in spot at the open mic and have a drink while I wait my turn. I shoot the breeze in the back of the bar with a few comics.

The show plays out as per usual - a few new guys, a few regulars, our resident old man Gary talking about his dick, my buddy Josh talking about being a 31-year-old virgin. This really is just an average Friday night. It seems routine at this point. That’s not a bad thing, though. I just feel comfortable.

Clarke calls my name, so I take the stage and start by asking if anyone had a good Christmas. Nobody bites, so I talk about mine by way of my grandparents and the gifts they’ve given me - one from my grandma this year that wasn’t even under the Christmas tree, one from my grandpa last year before he passed. The second joke gets a better response than the first one, but both get some laughter. This holiday-specific material might not work year-round, but I feel like when the crowd reacts warmly like this - even lukewarmly - there’s something worth exploring about the bits.

Next, I talk about a sign I saw for a Family Restaurant that advertised its Cocktails in a bigger font than the restaurant’s name. “I think that sends the wrong message,” I say to some chuckling in the back. I talk about how even though it seems like fun to be drunk around kids, it’s a terrible idea, relaying a story of getting repeatedly smacked in the face by one of my swimming students as proof. The premise is funnier than the punchline right now, so my next task is to get the end up to snuff with the beginning.

I don’t remember what my final story was supposed to be. “What else should I talk about?” I ask myself into the mic. I look at the notes I wrote in my phone and find a good one: a story from work when a guy tried to convert me to Judaism by complimenting me. His exact words? “You look smart. Jews are smart! You’re probably an Orthodox Jew who doesn’t know it yet.” This ridiculous line of logic gets a laugh, but that’s as far as it goes since I haven’t written this story out or analyzed my attempted converter much. But there’s something to this story. While realizing this, I lose my train of thought, ramble off into nothingness, thank the crowd, and leave the stage. I return to my now-empty drink at the end of the bar and order a glass of water. I’ll watch a few more comics then get out of here. What’s the harm in sticking around?