Happy 6th Anniversary, Bae (comedy)

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• June 28, 2015

Six years is a lot to me.  There aren’t too many things I’ve done for six years.  Granted, I’m 26.  School is the longest thing I’ve done up to this point.  I never held jobs for very long.  I never had long relationships.  Six years is not a long time, yet it’s a huge chunk of my life.

Of course, some of the highlights of my career (and life) have been gaining respect from comics, doing “Louie,” and my first stand-up appearance on Live at Gotham on AXS TV.  But the big moments are so infrequent, they’re hardly what keeps you going.  And while they’re amazing, those are not the reasons I’m a comic.  Your life is filled with (at least it should be) meaningless little moments, which are completely the opposite of meaningless to you.  When moments with such a lack of significance, are extremely significant to you, it’s like life is winking at you to let you know you’re doing something right.  These are some of those moments…

The first good joke I wrote (which is in my AXS set)
“My dad is really paranoid.  He thinks that no matter where I go someone is gonna try to rape me.  I told him I can take care of myself, but he said, “no, you don’t understand.  You don’t understand what goes on in guys heads.  You’re very niave.  I know this.”
… I think my dad’s a rapist.”

Watch it here:Lori Palminteri, Live at Gotham

I think I wrote this joke after a year and half of doing comedy.  At this point, I was fortunate enough to be getting some work at the Long Island clubs (Governor’s and Brokerage), and while all the comics were very supportive from the start, that was the first joke they kept telling me was such a great joke.  I was so proud.  Side note: My dad also thinks this joke is hilarious.  He used to come out to shows, and introduce himself to the other comics saying, “I’m Lori’s dad, the rapist.”  He loves that joke, but does not like my abortion jokes.

The Production of Honest Living
I started writing pilots before I did stand-up, in college, where I was studying television writing and production.  The reason I started as a stand-up is because I want to be a sitcom writer.  In college, I produced a lot of scripts I wrote.  After I graduated, I continued to write spec scripts and original pilots.  I think as of now, I have four spec scripts, seven original pilots, and a feature.  My comedy friends encouraged me to produce one of my scripts, though most of them would be impossible without a budget.  I knew from producing my scripts in school, production is stressful and a lot of work.  It’s a big commitment.  Not only for me, but for whomever I get to take on the project with me.  I can’t do it alone (unlike stand-up, which is one of the reasons I was immediately drawn to stand-up).  I gave birth to Honest Living at a weird time in my life when I was trying to make money anyway I could, so I created a pilot about petty con-artists who lacked a conscience.  Showing someone a fresh script is like taking your clothes off.  Actually, I’d probably feel more comfortable taking my clothes off than showing anyone a script I’m working on (I mean, I work out).  Asking people to be involved in a production they would get zero compensation for made me nervous.  I didn’t want people to say, “ugh, I have to film this stupid thing Lori wrote.”  I didn’t want anyone involved unless they were really into it.  So we did some read-throughs, and they went well, and the other comics involved (Dennis Rooney, Tim Thomson, John Trueson, and others), they kept asking me, “when are we filming Honest Living?”  Their enthusiasm is what propelled the project.  Otherwise it would be another script saved to my desktop.  We had so much fun making it.  Plus, the feedback I got from Honest Living was incredible.  People really seemed to like it, thus, furthering my thirst to write for television professionally.  Also, my parents watch Honest Living all the time, and always ask if I’m going to make more episodes.  Unfortunately, not at this time, but I’m producing something else, which is giving me lots of anxiety.

Watch Honest Living here: Honest Living

That Time My Dad Gave Me Confidence When I Was Scared
Before I moved out of my parents house, I was recent college grad looking for jobs (and failing, miserably), struggling, and insecure about continuing to pursue comedy.  I was a mess.  I went from being really confident, and ballsy, to questioning myself.  I was in a dark place, although I hid it pretty well (I’m good at that!).  Anyway, I was in the kitchen talking to my dad about possible job prospects.  I felt like such a loser.  24, broke, and still relying heavily on my parents for survival (I had paid off my student loans, working multiple jobs, plus doing comedy every night, I wasn’t such a failure, I was really being overly hard on myself).  My family, well, we’re not overly emotional people.  Actually, we’re the definition of non-emotional people.  We’re a ball-busting people.  We’re going to laugh if you fall.  We’ll still help you get up, then make fun of you for the rest of your life, kind of people.  But upon trying to figure out what my life was going to be in the short term, my dad looked me in the eye, and said, “don’t give up on your dream.  Whatever you do, don’t give up on your dream.”  Honestly, I had to look away, because I thought I was going to start crying my eyes out (crying is not something we do).  Maybe this doesn’t seem so odd to you, but you don’t know my dad.  My dad is the most practical, live a stable life, blue collar, loves unions, and pensions, type of man.  Also, both my parents love all their children no matter what stupid things we’ve done (between three of us, there’s been plenty stupid), but my parents approval has never been unconditional like their love.  My parents are the first to give you their disapproval.  They’ll be the first to tell you, you’re an idiot.  They have opinions, and they will share them.  Approval always had to be earned in our house.  That wasn’t always easy.  Actually, it’s almost never easy.  So, to have his full support in pursuing a career where most fail meant everything to me.  It still means everything.

Working With Your Idol
Literally, every time I’ve worked with Colin Quinn is awesome.  Colin is the Eddie Aikau of the comedy world.  Eddie Aikau is a legendary surfer, known for not only being ridiculously bad ass when it came to charging waves, but he’s also famous for being one of the most down to earth, fostering, and inspirational surfers ever.  I realize I’m now using an icon of one tiny sub-culture to describe an icon in another tiny sub-culture, and how ridiculous that is, but it’s true.  I don’t think anyone is more beloved in the comedy community than Colin.  Working with him is amazing, and I imagine it would be a similar feeling to be in the water with Eddie Aidau, except creepier, since Eddie is dead.

The Existence Of This Blog
This blog has become sort of a therapy for me.  I enjoy writing it, even though sometimes I get scared because I write about events and feelings I hate talking about.  But I’ve developed a small following, and I thank the readers who return to read my blogs.  Supporting my writing is to support me in my journey. I started this blog because I’m not a good performer.  I rely too heavily on my jokes as a stand-up.  I have to be “looser” on stage.  Trouble is, I’m even more awkward in life than I am on stage.  If I can’t act normal in life, how am I ever going to be a great comic?   You might not know his name, (though I suggest you look up his stand-up because he’s hilarious), but one night, at the Comedy Cellar, Lenny Marcus smirks a little and goes, “I read your blog or whatever… I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.”  I was so flattered he reads my blog, and also quite bashful.   I never expected anyone to read my stupid blog (except my Mom), let alone any comedic brethren I admire.  So thanks for reading, everyone (especially Lenny), even if it makes you worry about my mental health sometimes.

Deja Vu
Here’s another name you probably don’t recognize, but should (11 Letterman appearances): Nick Griffin.  I was working at Broadway comedy club when I was still pretty new, maybe three years in.  Nick is on stage, and I’m having this deja vu moment.  I know him.  But I don’t.  I’d never met him before in my life.  I’m sitting there, and I’m sure I’ve lived that exact moment.  Everyone has deja vu.  This isn’t some mysterious occurrence.  I probably recognize his face from television.  As I’m laughing at one of his bits, suddenly, my mind triggers this almost flashback like moment.  I had seen Nick before, on television.  Of course, this isn’t really weird at all.  Lots of my comedy friends have been on television.  Before I did comedy (or ever thought about it), I watched late night shows religiously.  I loved stand-up comedy.  I was a comedy nerd and junkie.  After watching someone,  I would quote their jokes to friends or family the next day.  I’d forget their name, and probably their face by morning.  My memory is a graveyard filled with the ghosts of dudes who told jokes on late night who I’d never remember.  But this time I did, and it was this really cool “wow” moment for me.  Now I wasn’t watching comedy in my pajamas in childhood home.  I was on the sidelines.  I was behind the scenes.  I was in it.

The Bathroom Compliment
That leads sort of directly to this moment… a couple years later, when I was opening for Nick Griffin at Marisa’s in Trumbull, CT. It’s really cool when someone you both respect as a comic, and like as a person, asks you to open for them.  Because it shows a mutual respect for your work as well, and it means they can, at least, tolerate you for hours at a time in a car. When guys including Nick Griffin, Colin Quinn, Joe DeVito, Tim Krompier, and Ted Alexandro have requested me as an opener, I wish I had a sword and shield I could use as I recite some sort of knight’s vow, pledging to be on top of my game, as to not disappoint them in their decision making to choose me (I’m not just a comedy nerd, I also just a regular nerd).  I digress.  The audience in Trumbull was awesome.  It was packed, and the crowd was with me even with my darkest material, and my subtle jokes.  I loved them.  I was already happy to be asked by Nick to do the gig, plus, I just killed, so I’m feeling pretty good at this point.  I’m in the bathroom, and there’s an audience member in there with me (which is usually awkward).  She says, “you were so funny.  I mean, smart, really good jokes.”
“Thanks,” I said, washing my hands, looking to get out of there.  I’ve never been good at taking compliments.  I always see compliments as an attack.  When I went to leave, she sort of blocked my way.  She then made that type of heavy eye contact which demands your attention, and she said, “please don’t quit.”
At the time, like I said, I was feeling pretty good about myself, so I was thinking, I’m hilarious. I’m never quitting.  I don’t need your approval, lady.
But, as comedy goes, sometime later in the week, I’m feeling really shitty about myself, and questioning my life decisions, and I thought about that lady.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was kind of this really sweet, empowered female moment.  And I really appreciate that lady, whoever she was.  Because even though I don’t ever want to quit, sometimes you feel beat down, and feel like quitting.  It’s just an example of how a small compliment from a stranger can resonate with a person.   I’ve tried to learn from that lady, and compliment people I think should never, never quit.

An Unlikely Friendship
In 2013, I went to Ireland with my two buddies and very funny comics, Mick Thomas and Tim Gage.  It was a great experience.  I was nervous about how my jokes would play in another country, but all the shows were great.  Probably the most rewarding and lasting benefit of the trip has been a friendship I formed with an old friend of Mick’s: Niall Reck.  Niall was at our first show in Wexford, and we later spent more time hanging out with him than any one else on the trip.  Niall and I are both big kids.  Niall has kids of his own, and a successful web design company (he did this site), yet our imaginations from our youths are still very much in tact, and we have a lot in common.  We haven’t seen each other since that trip, but we stay in touch, and I consider him a really close friend.  He was also one of the people who encouraged me to be more honest in my blogs.  He’s been very supportive of my career ever since, and seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to reaching out to see if I’m okay.  If it weren’t for comedy, I would have never met Niall, and I’m really happy my bizarre path crossed with his, and that we have the technology to maintain a friendship overseas.

My Long Island Crew
I actually started comedy in the city, doing bringers and open mics, while I was a student at Hunter College.  I did get passed at the Long Island clubs pretty early thanks to blind confidence, and really, being in one of those “right time, right place” moments.  I remember one of my first sets was a Thursday fundraiser at the Brokerage comedy club.  I didn’t have a good set.  This is because I was very green.  No one doing comedy less than two years is really funny.  I got off stage, and one comic said “good job up there.”  I mumbled, “thanks,” but I knew I didn’t do a good job.  I knew I was too green to be working these rooms at that time.  I felt guilty, and a bit nauseous.  I felt like I shouldn’t be there.  I had no idea what I was doing.  Tim Gage was hosting that show.  I had never met him before, and for some reason, I thought his name was “Phil.”  Gage walked up to me and said, “you just gotta get up more.”  And then he walked away.  From that moment forward, Gage was my guy.  I didn’t want to be lied to, or have smoke blown up my ass, or be treated softly because I was young, or a girl.  I wanted real.  Don’t give me fake.  The Long Island comedy crew has been supportive from the start, and I’m appreciative to have gotten my chops in that scene.  Long Island crowds are tough.  It made me a better comic.  The more I worked those rooms, the more those guys became big brothers to me.  They took care of me.  They still do.  Tim Gage busts my balls more than any one else I know, and I’m grateful for it.

That Time I Almost Died
I should specify which time I almost died, since that seems to be a habit of mine.  After the Great Tonsillectomy of 2013, where, post surgery, I hemorrhaged twice, spewing pints of blood out of my face, losing so much blood I lost consciousness, my blood pressure dropped to a startling low of 70/30, and needed a blood transfusion… I was laid up in the hospital, unable to talk, move, or eat.  I was disgustingly skinny, and impossibly weak, and always high and dizzy from pain killers.  I was literally trapped in my mind with nothing to think about except pain, and my life, which was associated with pain because I was hurting around the clock for weeks.  Admittedly, my thoughts were pretty dark at this time.  I’m already an obsessively morbid person, I didn’t really need a near death experience to prompt my thoughts of existence or lack there of.  When you die, what’s left of you?  Your body is gone.  Your money doesn’t matter.  Your possessions may be disbursed amongst loved ones as a token of your being, but all of that is nothing.  I had this revelation that art is the only thing that matters.  For me, that was writing and stand-up.  All I thought about was getting back on stage.  Being in the hospital bed was delaying my journey.  Stand-up was no longer something I did, or wanted to do, it was a part of who I was.  And I just wanted to get back to it.  Also, it should be noted here that during this month of not working at all (and making no money, whatsoever), some of the Long Island comics had a “fundraiser” for me.  They took the money they were supposed to make for a show and dropped off an envelope of cash that was rightfully theirs.  That’s the kind of people they are.

That Day I Bombed And Loved It
No one really enjoys bombing, but it’s a good thing.  When I first started doing stand-up, I was ballsy as hell.  I think this is why people respected me.  I (seemingly) had no fear when I went on stage and tested new material.  I’ve always written a lot.  And when I was new, I didn’t really have any great jokes, so I would experiment with jokes I just wrote.  I was constantly trying out underdeveloped bits.  When I hit the fourth year mark, I had enough good jokes where I could almost always do well.  Then, I hit this phase where I was scared to try new jokes.  I was scared of bombing, and people thinking I wasn’t funny, and getting banned from rooms.  And even though I was getting a good response from the crowds, I was coming off stage feeling empty.  I hated myself for it.  One night, I’m at McGuire’s comedy club, and I did a bunch of new jokes, and I bombed.  These jokes were underdeveloped, lacked punch lines, and were simply awful.  Plus, it was a hot crowd.  I would have killed if I did my normal set.  But I walked off stage with a tremendous feeling of joy.  For months, I’d been stuck in this weird funk of desperately seeking others approval, I’d forgotten who’s approval I need most.

The Moment I Didn’t Hate Listening To My Set
Part of becoming a better comic is listening to your sets.  This is torture.  There’s just so much to hate about yourself, and if you don’t think so, you’ve never done stand-up.  Last year, around my fifth anniversary as a stand-up comic, I was watching a set I did and I did something I never did before when watching myself… I laughed.  Not hard or anything, it was merely a chuckle.  Obviously, I know my jokes, so it would be weird if I sat there, hysterically laughing at myself.  But I’ve never been happy with my delivery.  I’m a stronger writer than performer, so I usually cringe when watching/listening to myself perform.  I still don’t love watching myself, actually, I don’t even like it, but I no longer hate it, which is huge.  I do, however, hate the sound of my voice.  My god, it’s annoying.  Why any one allows me to talk is baffling.  There’s only one person who has ever said they like the sound of my voice, and that is my Mom.  No one else has ever said, “you have a great sounding voice.”  I’m usually complimented on my wit, eyes or boobs.  Never my voice.

Half Full Bottle Of Pee
Recently, I was driving to a gig out of town on a Friday afternoon, and got stuck in some traffic.  What should have been a two hour drive, turned into three and a half hour drive.  I was getting agitated and anxious, as I do.  I’m sitting in traffic, looking at a water bottle on the side of the road, half full of piss.  This was the second pee bottle I saw so far.  I wondered how many more pee bottles I would see, and I decided to make a game of it.  What would be the gig I traveled to where I saw the most bottles half full of pee (does that make me an optimist?) tossed to the side of the road.  Now, I’m giggling in my car, alone.  All New Yorkers talk to themselves.  I portend you’re not a true New Yorker if you don’t talk to yourself.  But laughing to yourself, surely that’s the sign of an insane person.  In this little moment, I realized, I’m not sitting in an office, thinking of ways to kill myself.  I’m in my cool car (cool might be a stretch for a Hyundai), listening to good music, on my way to a gig.  This is great, I realized.  My life is fucking awesome.  It’s good to feel that way.  Even though you don’t always feel that way, it’s wonderful when you do.  Sometimes, to feel it, you just have to shift your perspective a little bit.

The Best Part Of Comedy
Writing a new bit that works.  This is the fuel to my fire.  There is nothing better than having new jokes that are working well.  It’s the best. THE.  BEST.

My days revolve around comedy.  If I’m not writing or performing, I’m absorbing the life around me and trying to figure out how to turn it into bits, or scenes for my screenplays.  I obsess, I worry, I create.  I think it’s a comic’s nature to be unfulfilled or dissatisfied.  The best comedy comes from a not only a place of truth, but often times a place of pain.  This is why we are so susceptible to depression, and mania.  When I’m discussing screenplays with other comics, watching a friend try out a new bit at an open mic, working on new jokes, or filming a script I wrote, I sometimes forget how fortunate I am to be involved in the world of my passion, because it’s the norm for me now.  I talk to my good friends and fellow comics, Joe Giarratano and Andy Pitz, pretty much every day.  Joe came up with me, and we did the open mic grind together.  Andy is a headliner, and all around good dude.  Joe and Andy are just two of many great friends and talented people I’ve come to know in the past six years.  I’m friends with comics at all different stages in their careers, and all ages, but none of that really matters, because we all carry this sort of nervous ball of energy, and we’re thirsty for creative growth.  It may mean nothing to you, but for me, I’m amongst a group of really talented and special people.  I’m honored to call them my friends and peers.  It’s because of this that despite the often overwhelming sense of disquietude, I still find myself happily caught in a state of wonderment.