Quips, tips and parting shots
the Joke’s on Me
Almost 20 years ago, I was
on my way to a gig in
Springfield, Mass. Just a
year earlier, I had quit my
day job to be a full-time
comedian and keynote
speaker. I liked speaking better than
stand-up, though, because
the pay was better, the
drunks were higher caliber,
and “mini bar” didn’t refer
to a small, smoky drinking
establishment.
I was living my dream,
which was destined to suddenly morph into a nightmare. Like so many nightmares, this dream began
with a seemingly innocuous
situation, and ended with a
frustrated scream, vicious
self-doubt, and a renewed
appreciation for nightclub
inebriates.
A humorist usually
encounters a receptive,
anticipatory audience. The
promise of laughter primes
the emotional pump so that
the good mood is ready to
spill out. But on this particular evening, I arrived to find the
auditorium awash in fear and anxiety.
Operation Desert Storm, the first Iraq
war, had just broken out and Saddam
Hussein had put the world on notice that
he considered the State of Israel as much
an enemy as the American troop. SCUD
missiles in Iraq were aimed at Tel Aviv,
which meant every attendee was no more
than one degree of separation away from
someone directly in the line of fire.
As I waited in the wings, my introducer, the congregation’s Rabbi, took
the stage. He droned on as I bounced
on the balls of my feet, ready to stroll
onto the stage, engage the audience and
lead them out of their desert of despair
and into the promised land of laughter. But the Rabbi must have been paid
by the word. He began to ad-lib on the
importance of humor, telling jokes, and
disclosing how his friend had taken my
comedy writing class, which promised
to help anyone become a funnier person. After 10 minutes, I was becoming
really annoyed. He was using my time
for his lame attempt at humor.
Finally, he brought me out. Walking
across the stage to the microphone, I
joked, “Thanks Rabbi, and, after hearing that introduction, I think maybe
you should take my class, too.”
As soon as I said it, I realized what I
had done. There in his house, a syna-
gogue, I had acted like I was
at a comedy club where put-
down banter was expected.
But I wasn’t at a comedy club.
I was at a professional speak-
ing engagement, and I had just
insulted the spiritual leader of
a group of people who were
scared out of their minds. With
horror, I could see each word
as it covered the distance from
my mouth to the audience’s
ears. I felt like Woody Allen in
“Annie Hall.” Only instead of
being dressed as a Hasid at a
WASP’s dinner, I was Saddam
Hussein at my last supper.
After 45 painful minutes, it
was over. The few people who
approached me after the talk
reprimanded me for insulting
the Rabbi. The woman who
gave me the check didn’t even
make eye contact. For a few
seconds, I considered not talking it. The
ride back up I-91 was agony.
For me, that day signifies one of the
lowest points and most important lessons learned in my speaking career. The
lesson? Yes, it’s my 45 minutes, but it’s
not about me.
A humorist usually encounters a receptive,
anticipatory audience. But on this
particular evening, I arrived to find the
auditorium awash in fear and anxiety.
Izzy Gesell, MS Ed, CSP, is a keynote speaker, workshop leader, professional
facilitator and presentation coach who helps people thrive and prosper during
times of change. He is the author of Playing Along: Group Learning Activities
Borrowed from Improvisation Theater, and a pioneer in using improv for
corporate and personal skill building. For more information visit www.izzyg.com.
