by sofiya alexandra

Posts tagged Brock Wilbur

36 notes

Exquisite Corpse

Here’s what’s up: as comedians, we are often self-centered. It’s part of thinking by yourself and talking about yourself so much. A lot of us also grew up missing love or a steady home life. So my friend and fellow comedian, a giant of heart and actually physically a giant, Brock Wilbur and I made a book to benefit a local underfunded kids’ charity called KidSave.

It’s called Exquisite Corpse, and it features 31 LA comedians (including the director of Airplane!) each writing a chapter having only read the last paragraph of the previous chapter. Each chapter is in the voice of one comedian, and continues the same story… more or less. It’s weird, funny, sweet, gross, dark, hopeful, and vulnerable, a truly one-of-a-kind literary experiment made by some incredibly talented people, and edited by me and Brock. The amazing Brandon Vaughn did the art.

It’s only available until October 31st, and it only costs $9.99 (or just $5 for a Kindle version!) and all the money goes to helping kids grow up in loving families instead of in orphanages or in the foster care system. 

If you need more reasons to buy one, here are 31 of them:

Allen Strickland Williams, Amber Kenny, Amber Tozer, Andy Sell, Aparna Nancherla, Barbara Gray, Beth Stelling, Brandon Vaughn, Brock Wilbur, Claudia Cogan, Dave Ross, David Schilling, DC Pierson, Ed Galvez, Eric Toms, Evan Gaustad, Galloway Allbright, Grant Pardee, Jerry Zucker, Josh Androsky, Klee Wiggins, Lauren Flans, Lisa Beth Johnson, Matt Ingebretson, Megan Koester, Nicholas Clark, Ron Babcock, Sofiya Alexandra, Sophie Kipner, Todd Masterson, Yassir Lester

Thank you for supporting and reblogging! 

Exquisite Corpse on Amazon - Kindle version

Exquisite Corpse on Amazon - paperback version

Filed under comedy writing charity kids kids charity exquisite corpse book LA comedy LA comedians Allen Strickland Williams Amber Kenny Amber Tozer Andy Sell Aparna Nancherla Barbara Gray Beth Stelling Brandon Vaughn Brock Wilbur Claudia Cogan Dave Ross David Schilling DC Pierson Ed Galvez Eric Toms Evan Gaustad Galloway Allbright Grant Pardee Jerry Zucker Josh Androsky Klee Wiggins

15 notes

Lessons from My First Year of Standup

My friend Brock Wilbur is celebrating his one year anniversary of doing standup by hosting a huge open mike, and asking his comedian friends to pass on the things they’ve learned. My two cents are below, but the whole wonderful article with a ton of great advice from great comics is here:

There are a million things you learn during your first year of comedy. Some things are slow creepers you don’t notice yourself acquiring, like learning when to pause, and when to keep going, and to talk slower, and to take the mic out of the stand and own the stage. Some things hit you all at once while you’re watching others, like that your energy can change the mood of the entire show, and that you shouldn’t berate the audience for being small, or quiet, or for showing up, for fuck’s sake, and that without truly connecting with the audience, it’s impossible to have a great show. Some things will make you feel astoundingly stupid and awkward, like when you’re trying to give someone the light at the Belly Room at the Comedy Store, and instead of pulling on the string that turns on the long red halogen tube light you pull on the light itself, which shatters in your hand and forces you to host while drinking tequila and slowly bleeding into your Forever 21 blazer and lighting people with your shitty LG phone. But those things come with experience and practice, and if I could only hold on to two things I learned my first year of standup, I would choose the following: eyes on your own paper, and be a kamikaze.

When you start doing standup, especially in a huge and competitive entertainment city like Los Angeles, you meet literally hundreds of other people who are trying to succeed in the exact same way that you are. At first, it can be intoxicating and exciting, but quickly, the high can be replaced by a defeatist attitude, of viewing yourself as a tiny fish in a huge pond. Then the bitching and the anxiety starts, “I can’t believe he’s done Tiger Lily, I’ve been doing comedy like 4 months longer!! I totally killed in front of Booker Judgerson the other night, but he booked Guffaw McLaughey instead of me, that guy’s a total douche and not funny at all, ugh! Oh, well of course Ass Titsovitch got booked, she totally tongued him in the mouth at the Memorial Day BBQ!” STOP. STOP IT RIGHT NOW. You’re being a judgmental ass whose comedy will suffer because you’re paying attention to the “business” side before you’ve taken care of the creative side. The fundamental truth is, if you work hard, perform whenever you can, make things that make you laugh, you will keep getting better (assuming you’re funny to begin with). And as tempting as it is to keep comparing yourself to other comics, you aren’t helping yourself when you do it. If you’re good, you’ll get booked. It’s that simple. There are no misunderstood geniuses in laughter — either you make people laugh, or you don’t. Get good, post your projects, perform. Good things will begin to happen, I promise. And also — you don’t work at a law firm, or in finance. There’s no ladder in comedy anymore. If you do a set on Letterman, you’re not famous immediately. There are no steps, no map. You can work incredibly hard on your sketches, and have your dumb Katy Perry parody kill on YouTube instead. You could try so hard to write late night monologue jokes, but have your short story about a penis family get attention instead. But guess what isn’t going to happen? Someone handing you your own show because you’ve compared yourself to everyone in your comedy scene for 5 years straight. So, eyes on your own paper!

Secondly, stop worrying about being terrible. You will be terrible, off and on for a long time, and occasionally even after you’re good consistently. You cannot allow yourself to be affected by a bad open mic, or show. This is something I repeat to myself daily because I’m a perfectionist and a worrier and a Jew. You also cannot compromise the kind of comedy you want to do because you’re too scared to do it. My favorite joke of mine is one where I just act like a particular type of a person, the waitress Marlene. The joke is about 3 minutes. It requires people to buy into this person and to care about her. It’s a lot to ask, and a long joke to commit to. It thrives on awkward pauses, and relies on the silent moments between the laughs where the audience is holding their breath to see if the long journey I’m taking them is worth it. It requires unbelievable trust. When I first started doing the joke, the journey was not worth it. I would get spooked by the awkward silences so much I would rush through Marlene’s monologue. I was afraid to riff, to come up with better beats, because I didn’t want to take up too much of the audience’s time. I looked and sounded uncomfortable. I still do, when I don’t fully commit to the character, and that’s when the joke doesn’t work. The audience can smell my fear. But when it kills, I feel like it’s the only truly worthy joke I tell. I have a fisting audience participation-involving joke that’s even more high-risk. When it dies, it dies in a horrifying manner that makes my face heat up on stage like a skillet — but when it lives, my God, it soars. One time it made our incredibly sweet Clark Kent of a realtor friend who says “Gosh!” cry with laughter. But when I first asked an audience at a Sunset Grill open mic, “How many of you have had one finger inside you, or put one finger inside someone?” I can assure you the response was not even close to laughter. If you want big laughs, you have to go for what you truly think is funny, despite current “trends” and “movements” in comedy, or the kind of jokes your friends make, or what some executive tells you is selling right now. Be fearless, go for broke on stage every time, and don’t worry about sucking. Be a kamikaze.

Also, carry gum: we comedians often get bad breath. It’s just polite.

Filed under stand-up first year of stand-up comedy Brock Wilbur lessons