It was my friend László who said I should do this. Stand-up comedy. László is the kind of guy I listen to. He’d done stand-up a few times before in New Orleans. So when he told me a few weeks ago that there was an open mic in New Orleans a few Sundays away, I said, without thinking, ok, yes, I’ll do it. Now that I’ve turned 80, is there no better time to take risks?

I’d actually wanted to do this for a while. I just needed a push.

Then came the panic. I’d never done stand-up comedy before. That’s comedy in front of an audience, I reminded myself, a live audience. Yes, I’d done a few jokes in front of my mirror, but that’s really not the same thing, is it?

Write what you know is what they say. I thought that would be a good guiding principle for my stand-up material, as well.

I’m 80, as I said. That’s one thing I know. I’d begin with that.

László told me that I should have a solid three minutes. And that I should read it out loud ahead of time so that I gave myself room to perform, not just to say the lines quickly, one after another. I began to jot down material. And more. And still more.

My wife, Gaywynn, was forced to listen to my jokes so many times over the next few weeks, she must have wanted to join a convent. Or worse.

At one point, I called my daughter, Becky, a brilliant comedian who’s been performing comedy in front of audiences for years, including many open-mics. I walked her through my material. She had some sharp ideas and suggestions. I was grateful for her to have my back.

After much uncertainty, I had my three minutes. For better or worse. Was it funny? The audience would be the judge.

The day came. Nothing but to do except go, do my best, and let the chips fall where they may.

The venue was a place called Sports Drink. It’s off Magazine Street, uptown, in New Orleans, for those of you who know the city.

“So, you’re here for the open-mic?”

Gaywynn and I arrived around 6:30. Sign-up was at 7. The show would begin at 8. Sports Drink is small. I think at one point or another, we’ve all been in these kinds of places. Maybe in college. Often, they’re in basements. I watched as others signed up, one after another. All of them young.

Some friends showed up, thankfully. Olivier, a friend from days teaching at the University of New Orleans. And Skye, a former student and now a friend. Plus, László, of course. He was going to perform, too. And his girlfriend, Rachel, and two friends of theirs who I hadn’t met. I was glad to see their enthusiastic faces, because the room was nowhere close to full.

The host for the evening gave us the order of when we would perform. I would go third. That was a relief. I wouldn’t have to go first, and I wouldn’t have to wait forever, stewing in my own anxiety. And I had a bit of that.

Then, a little after 8, the evening started. I watched the first two comedians. They got some laughs. But what became crystal clear to me was that the audience wasn’t going to give them or me or anyone else anything for free. If I wasn’t funny, there would be no laughs. Just silence.

My turn.

I stood up, went to the stage. I leaned into the microphone.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

“YES!”

Then:

“Hey, how’s everyone doing? It’s good to be here!

I’m old.”

Then…I hear…laughter!

Thank you, Jesus!

Think funny, Rich! (Photo by Skye Jackson.)

I kept going:

“I have enough ear hair now to make a hair transplant for my head.

And I need it. If I don’t have enough, I can go to my eyebrows. As a last resort, my nose.”

A few more laughs! I even heard laughs from the other side of the room where people that I didn’t know were sitting.

After I shook some off the nervousness, there were a few moments when I was actually enjoying the experience. I was performing, and it seemed like I was doing all right. Not everything I said got a laugh, some of it didn’t land, but there was laughter.

I could see why people do this. It can become addicting. You want that fix, that narcotic laughter. It shoots through your veins like heroin. More! I want more! It feels soooooo good!

Then, there it was—my last line. I was done. I stepped off the stage and went back to my table, sat down and exhaled. Everyone congratulated me. That was nice. But the main thing was, I’d done it. 80 years old, and my first stand-up! The rush made me feel 50. It took me about three weeks of work and anxiety to put together three minutes of material, but it was worth it.

Here’s the video Gaywynn took of me. I’m posting the first half of the set. It’s about 1 1/2 minutes. I hope I’m funny.

After the last set of the night, we all went outside. László told me he had another club he wanted us to try. Would I want to do it again? Maybe in a few weeks?

I would.

Box checked. What’s next? Whatever it is, it should be something outside my comfort zone. That’s where I really feel alive. At 80, I want that.