An e-mail thank you letter from my first performance for Catch a Rising Star at Broadway Comedy Club led to a guest spot for another Catch a Rising Star show at the same club. The guest spot is nice. No bringing, no barking, just a stress-free opportunity to show up and perform.

The audience was a modest twenty people, but considering I didn’t have to bring anyone, it was more than enough for the price of free.

Only three comics were participating in the competition portion of the program, which I assumed should have had more contestants, but not everyone is willing to bring.

The host, James, was a generic black guy doing some generic black guy jokes. He came across as a friendly and personable, but not the more sought out comedian adjectives of good, funny, or the creme de la crème: hilarious. Although I told him my name and how to pronounce it, he botched my introduction. I am again considering using a stage name.

Even without being part of the competition and having no friends there to impress, I was nervous. I spent half my set walking on top of the cord, unable to navigate the stage independently. I swallowed a few punchlines since I wasn’t breathing often. All in all, a disappointing performance.

Obviously, I wish I had done better. Especially because this could have been a chance for the Catch A Rising Star people to look at me as someone to call on when there are spots to be filled. But I’m starting to realize it’s a long road that is going to require something I’m not well-versed in: patience.

On the bright side, I may have the look for the part. I met a clown-by-day and comic-by-night named Sassi who runs a Friday happy hour open mic. After just meeting me she said, “well, you look funny.”

I replied that, “outside of this current circumstance, I would take that as an insult. But considering where we are, thank you.”

I accommodated my upper east side friends by performing in their neighborhood at the almighty Comic Strip Live (commonly referred to as Comic Strip), a club that is organized, somewhat sanitary, well-laid out, and provides a professional video free of charge. Although watching myself on video is an awful experience that dramatically lowers my self-esteem as a comic and human alike, it is monumentally helpful to the improvement of my act.

Comic Strip’s new talent shows are at 6pm on Wednesday or 5.30pm on Sunday. Both times are far from anything that could ever been considered any kind of prime-time, but the quality of the club dictates such schedule.

Like most New Talent bringer shows, I had to earn my stage time by bringing audience members who paid a cover charge and were required to abide by the standard two drink minimum. I would prefer if some of these shows could offer no cover and a four drink minimum, as that would improve the show, but I don’t make the rules… yet.

I performed on the show back on April 22nd, when I was a super newborn who started the set by explaining that the holidaze Pot Smokers Pride Parade on 4-20 (two days prior) started two hours after its scheduled time and went through the Chinese buffet where all the food was cold, as requested.

Df Sweedler, who runs the show, took notes on my entire set and gave specific feedback that I found helpful. When I told him I’d only been performing for a month, he ripped up all of his notes and told me I was doing a great job. I was happy that he had provided his comments before tearing up the notes.

Df stressed originality, and highlighted the jokes I had that could be developed into inventive bits. He also informed me that when I get the chance to audition, I should always present clean material because if you prove you can be funny clean, the powers that be will assume you can be funny dirty, since that is an easier feat.

I understood. It made perfect sense. Mental note taken. Hopefully, auditioning would be in my future, but for now, I focused on shaping my material and growing my stage presence.

For yesterday’s show, I asked that Df watch me again. I looked forward to more words of wisdom, especially since I was doing an entirely different set than I performed back in April.

Unfortunately, he didn’t observe my decent performance. I don’t know why as I didn’t get a chance to talk to him before I left for the obligatory dinner with my friends to get a chance to show them my appreciation for their support.

We did have the following Facebook message exchange the today:

Df Sweedler August 30 at 11:01am

Heard you were kinda dirty last night. Are you sure that’s the road you wanna take?

Rachel Arbeit August 30 at 1:29pm

I’m only doing completely dirty and offensive stuff now. My goal is to alienate the audience as much as humanly possible.

Df Sweedler August 30 at 1:45pm

You’re kidding right?

Rachel Arbeit August 30 at 3:39pm

Of course. I’m a comedienne. All I do is kid.

That was the last contact we had.

As soon as I learned that the drink prices at Comic Strip were being raised to $12 per beer and $14 or more for cocktails, I did not return to the New Talent shows there. If my friends took me to a bar with $12 beers, I’d never go out to a place they chose again.

As I become a comedian, I’m getting questions and comments about being comedian. How appropriate!

“What kind of comic are you?” I was asked by a fellow amateur comic, all philosophical-like. I got the hint, I needed an angle.

“Female. I mean, I figure I’m female for everything I do anyway, may as well be female for comedy, too. That’s the same logic that has made me a white, Jewish comic, too,” I answered.

“A smart ass,” he replied.

“My dad always said it’s better to be a wise ass then a dumb ass,” I explained.

“Dad issues, now that’s very comedian of you,” he decided.

Funny.

When it comes to the general public, civilians, real audience… not comics, some of the same questions and comments come up a lot:

• (every comic’s favorite) Tell me a joke!
• Do people laugh?
• You’re doing comedy? So you think you’re funny?
• You should do a bit about my day/my dog/my weirdo friend!
• Do you get paid?
• I’d never be able to do that!

Never a dull moment.

Thanks to my weekly e-mails from Pudge, I found out about a free seminar at Gotham Comedy Club called, “How to Succeed in Today’s Comedy Climate.” With plenty for me to learn and the reasonable price of nothing, I was in.

I filed into the three-thousand square foot showroom at Gotham, filled with other helpless amateur comedians. I searched for a familiar, and preferably, friendly face like I was looking for a table to sit at for lunch in high school. It was relieving to spot Pudge in the middle of the slightly raised mezzanine-type area. I promptly joined him at his table.

Looking around, I noticed a lot of people I thought I knew. I couldn’t remember names, who was cool/nice and who was lame/a dickhead, or who was funny and who sucked. The scene looked like a montage of the open mics and bringer shows I had done in my short comedy life. Of course, the people who put the “strange” in strangers were littered in position right front-and-center around the stage. I predicted the average annual income in the room was thirty-thousand dollars. Possibly less. And by “possibly”, I mean “probably.”

Club co-owner Chris Mazzilli sat on the stage, accompanied by the pride and joy of Gotham Comedy Club, Jessica Kirson and a woman from a talent agency.

Chris Mazzilli introduced himself and his protege before spending a few minutes to brag of their achievements. This seemed unnecessary to me since it was pretty damn clear that they were both in a much better position than most in the room.

Mazzilli started a club because he was embittered with how comedians were treated and felt he knew a better way to manage talent. As an added bonus, he has a lot of successful friends that have hooked him up with competitive advantages to make his club a valuable asset for finding talent. I mean, comedy shows are filmed there, he’s got a good thing going. This I already knew. Self-promotion is great and everything, but I was there for the secret code to comedy success.

After they concluded the introduction/What Gotham is About & Why Gotham is Different segment of the program, Chris and Jessica stumbled to find an actual direction of the seminar. Clearly winging it, the two quickly opened up the floor to questions.

What we were supposed to ask about was not addressed. A heard of lost comedians were given the reigns to inquire anything their hearts desired about the world of humor and its impenetrable borders to a successful comedy club owner and professional comedian. This could only be bad.

The questions covered all angles of hideous. Some questions were straight up Mazzilli’s ass:

“How come Gotham is the only club in the city that offers a free open mic?”

“Mr. Mazzilli, how is it that you own a comedy club, but still have time to review videos comedians send you with such helpful constructive criticism?”

“Jessica, I have a two-part question for you. How have you gotten such a great reputation for wonderful, personalized classes so quickly, and when are your next comedy classes?”

Chris and Jessica took turns responding. “It’s about growing relationships with a club, possibly here,” Chris advised. Jessica went on to explain how important it is as a comedian to be professional and treat the employees at the club kindly by tipping for drinks and not being an asshole. Enlightening information. Truly groundbreaking, insider knowledge being passed out here.

More ridiculous questions were directed to the stage.

“Am I too old?” Some middle-aged man asked. Mazzilli replied with a comment on how age doesn’t matter. You just have to be funny.

“Am I too ugly?” Yes, I thought. But it doesn’t matter. You just have to be funny.

“What should I wear?” It should go with your act/character/point of view, but it doesn’t really matter. You just have to be funny.

The stupid questions continued. A comic asked why bringer shows exist. Um, so the clubs can bring in customers who spend money. Come on now, don’t waste the resources with this crap. How could these people expect to succeed in comedy if they were brain-dead? Ugh/bleh. I was losing the patience I never had in the first place.

I had to try to get something meaningful out of this. Evaluating the situation, I figured if I asked a funny question, I could at least make an impression on a comedy club owner. I raised my hand, stood up and delivered my question to Chris Mazzilli. “If someone like me, were to sleep with someone like you, how much stage time would I get?” The crowd erupted in a laughter that lifted my spirit.

Unfortunately, Mazzilli seemed to take it as a legitimate question, not a joke. “That’s not how this operation runs,” he replied.

“But you said we should build relationships,” I tagged to another round of chuckles.

Mazzilli didn’t seem to know how to respond. I may have thrown him off by shifting the mood away from seriousness.

By the end of the seminar, my notebook only had one comment in it: “Don’t tell people how long you’ve been doing comedy. If it’s less than 2-4 years, no one will respect you, they will say you need to pay your dues. If it’s more than 4-5 years, people may think that you should’ve made it by this point, so if you haven’t, you probably aren’t very good.”

The seminar concluded and the party broke up. Several people stopped me to compliment my humorous inquiry. My plan worked in that I had killed in one regard, but I had failed in that I hadn’t left a favorable first impression on Chris Mazzilli.

Surely, he’d forget all about. He was a busy man who saw god-knows-how-many-comedians over insert-some-short-period-of-time. In an attempt to get over it, I told myself I’d have another chance some other time to make a good impression on him.

I e-mailed a thank you note to the producer at Gotham Comedy Club. I mentioned that I brought twice as many audience members to the show than was required of me. Perhaps I could earn myself a spot on another show without having to bring anyone, I suggested. Request granted. I was given a guest spot (free of barking or bringing obligations) at another Friday, 6.30pm New Talent Show.

This earned points with me, so I returned a few weeks later when the show was on sale for 3 people instead of the usual four.

With ten people in the audience, three of which I brought, I was feeling as comfortable as an environmentalist at a NASCAR race. Gotham’s main room is far too big to be occupied by less than a dozen people. Frankly, it was embarrassing. It was like a dress rehearsal for a real show, but with a cover and two drink minimum like a real show.

Plus, I was still getting used to being on stage… a strange and vulnerable place. I needed to take a step back and slow down on the show front. I needed more time on the often painful, but always helpful open mic scene.

There seemed to be two main ways to get onto a New Talent Comedy Show: bark or bring. Barkers are those dickheads on the street going, “Comedy show tonight! Who wants to see some comedy?” Sure, the show has to be promoted somehow, but before stand up was on my radar, every time I saw some schmuck yelling on a corner about a comedy show, I groaned at the annoyance.

Bringers are shows where many of the comedians get their stage time by bringing a certain number of audience members to the club. For either tactic chosen to get the stage time, no one was screened. If you can make money for the comedy club, you can get on stage.

Preferring to harass those I know over those simply trying to mind their own business walking down the street, I told my friends to come support my new bizarre hobby.

I spent all day going over my plan and was plagued with a variety of silly concerns. Would I forget my jokes and what order I planned for them to go in? What if I missed the big red spotlight that told me I had one minute left? Would they kick me out of comedy forever? What if no one laughed? What if they laughed at me, but I couldn’t tell? Would I fall off the stage? They were going to mispronounce my name, right?

The show was at 6.30pm on a Friday at Gotham Comedy Club, which seemed like a decent time for a happy hour show. The show was a 4-person bringer. Worried that I wouldn’t reach my quota, I invited more friends than I needed, and one even brought a couple of his friends. As is ended up, I brought 8 people.

As the show started, the producer brought the six or seven of us amateurs outside to tell us the order of the show. There was another girl named Rachel, who was going on right before me. Were they really doing that? A mostly male show with two girls with the same name and we were scheduled back-to-back. Maybe the emcee did this on purpose because he had some Rachel joke. It was just too bizarre.

Standing off to the side, I tried to watch Rachel on stage before me, while I battled my nerves. She was an attractive blond with a hot body and a sweet voice. She mentioned she’d been in Playboy years before. They had to put me on after this girl?

There was nothing I could do about it. I took the stage and plowed through my material. Because I didn’t give myself time to breathe or even notice my surroundings as much as I didn’t give the audience time to laugh, I had time at the end of my set.

I finally took a breath, more to give myself a moment to think of what to say. “So the comic before me was also Rachel. She was Playboy Rachel, and I’m “Camp Brochure Rachel.”

The audience laughed loud enough that I couldn’t help but notice and smile. They liked it. It was a quick throw-in comment, but it was on the tip of their tongues and they appreciated the observation. It was a good note to end on.

My friends, of course, flattered me and told me I did well. This was true in that I didn’t freak out, shake like I was in an earthquake or pee my pants. These are, although small, accomplishment. Celebratory drinks followed.

A perk of the show was that I was given a video of my set. I had no idea how nauseating it would be to watch myself. Not only could I see every nerve, I’ve never felt fatter than watching myself on video. I understand eating disorders much better now.

I had no idea what I was getting into when I went to my 1st comedy open mic. I had written about 5 minutes of material that may or may not have been funny. I wrote jokes in a notebook. I timed it with the stopwatch on my cell phone. I practiced in the shower and in front of the mirror.

I thought I was ready. And I was, in that I was ready to get on stage and give stand up a try. But I had no idea what world I was getting myself into.

Thanks to the World Wide Interweb, I found the essential open mic resource, BadSlava. I looked at the plethora of open mic choices, and opted for the closest comedy club to my apartment, so that I could run home if disaster occurred.

I was greeted by the warm and friendly face of Pudge Fernandez, who informed me that for the price of one overpriced drink from the bar, I’d be entitled to humiliate myself on stage for 5-6 minutes. Alright, sign me up! Cool, there’s one spot left.

I wrote my name down. I was to be the “headliner” of the open mic, the 24th comedian and final comedian on Uncle Pudge’s Monday Open Mic Marathon.

The label “marathon” was much more true than I anticipated. I sat attentively for two hours watching “comic” after “comic” get on stage and display everything from talent to confession. It was a lot. I was surprised and confused. As I proceeded through several beers, I felt relieved that many were so awful that I knew I wouldn’t be the worst of the lot. At the same time, I felt deceived because I was sure this was supposed to be comedy, and there was a distinct and obvious lack in that quality going on.

Sure, some had good material and poor delivery, others had poor material and good delivery. A couple seemed to be pretty funny.

But those were fewer and farther between. Several stood up and talked about their day, using the audience to fill the obvious void of a companion/friend in life. A few seemed to be making their best efforts to creep out the crowd. Many forced laughter out of sheer awkward tension. I was so nervous that many times when I wanted to roll my eyes at the oddity occurring in front of my face, I ended up laughing.

Some told hack jokes, which were at least attempts at humor. Every once in a while, when I wanted to write someone off, they had a couple of good lines mixed in their set.

I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I was seeing.

“You know when you’re a kid and your Dad locks you in the closet for a week?” one guy asked. No, I don’t. Maybe you should be on a couch, not a stage.

This wasn’t comedy, it was a support group for losers.

By the time it was my turn, I was half-drunk and half-nerves.

The lights were bright. It was hard to see the audience. I opened with a line I could only use once, “This is my first time doing comedy… that’s right, I’m a virgin… which means this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.”

For five minutes, I went. I rolled through my material. I remember seeing some smiles, hearing a laugh here and there. I’m pretty sure I didn’t breathe until it was over.

Three days later I got an e-mail from Pudge entitled, “Monday Marathon re-cap!!!!!!” The beginning read: