Public Speaking and Comedy
And overcoming the terror of both
A few weeks back I emcee’d a gala in my tux in front of more than 300 classy attendees at La Paloma. I handed out awards, begged for bucks and told jokes so old Kino would have booed.
“Grow up here like I did and you have to be bilingual. I’ll bet some of you didn’t know ‘La Paloma’ is Spanish. Yeah. It’s Spanish for ‘The’ Paloma".
On my way home after the successful event (Key point) I reminisced about how pant-pissing terrified I was of public speaking when I was a kid. Quiet as a schoolhouse brick I was a constantly tripped chubby dodge ball target with acne. At Naylor Middle School I was scared of five things:
Recess (See 3)
Coach Chuk ( P.E.Coach from Hell. Click here on this Happy Birthday Jesus Full Metal Jacket D.I. scene to understand Coach Chuk from the perspective of a bed-wetting cartoonist)
Bullies with bright futures
Girls
Delivering the annual book report in front of Girls
Book reports were the worst because we had to stand in front of the class, a completely alien world I’d never visited before. Up until middle school I’d never been at the front of a classroom. Ever. For years I had safely hidden myself away where most cartoonists and writers and comedians come from: the back of the class.
For years, my nickname among the faculty was Casper the Student.
In the back of the class I could lay low, study Mad magazine and draw my teachers naked and get my pal Mo into trouble for laughing. I avoid being called on until I was thirteen. Damned book reports.
My voice shook, my hands trembled, I dropped my stupid book report and everyone laughed including the cute girl in the front row who I had a terrible crush on (Her hair smelled like freshly baked bread) and in closing, flustered about losing my place over and over I peed my pants. Other than that my book report was fantastic.
Public speaking was forced on me I tellya
Back in the ‘80’s when I started working at The Arizona Daily Star an editor came up to me and said, “We got an invite from this wonderful civic group. The Crustaceans. Or something like that. They need a lunch speaker and none of us want to go, so you’re going.”
So I went and counted the yawns as I stumbled through notes about my newspaper. Horrible. I vowed I’d never do a straight talk ever again.
The next time I came up with a few jokes, brought my easel and pad along and drew my subjects on the spot.
When speaking it helps to have a prop. Charts, pictures, toys, animals, funny hats, balloons are swell and some recommend a watermelon and a mallet. Me? I prefer my easel and pad.
I’d pick up my thin metal easel and jab its three legs at the audience. “Borrowed this thing from my wife’s gynecologist.” The gasps were rewarding.
My cartoons and caricatures were my public speaking security blanket. (I admire comedians like my buddy Elliot who go up on a stage armed with only their words. That’s a gift. And it’s Chutzpah. I think ET loaned him an Extra-test-tic-ulare.)
I eventually embraced my fear of speaking and found the fun in it. At a brunch in Scottsdale an attendee might call me a baby killer while the next day at a fundraiser I’m the messiah and then at Friday’s forum on civil liberties a grousing disgusted patron would noisily walk out followed by Saturday when I watched EMTs revive an attendee during a Sun City talk. We applauded them and I continued. I flourished.
I came to respect and love Rotary and the Lions and the Chamber and all those civic and veterans groups because from my Walter Mitty perch what I always found was Frank Capra’s America with a dash of Old Pueblo salsa every wonderful time I stood with my fellow Arizonans to say the pledge. And I made Pearl Harbor survivors, Cancer Survivors and Homicide Survivors laugh.
In the early nineties God knows why I was elected President of the Tucson Press Club. For decades the Press Club hosted a popular satirical program of songs and skits held at the TCC called “The Gridiron Show”. My good friend Tom Turner, a newsman and talented local theater actor, asked me, “why don’t you try your quick sketch solo act on stage in front of a few hundred drunk fans at the Gridiron?” So I did. I riffed onstage about Ev Mecham and Rose Mofford as I drew them, occasionally looking at my set notes which I’d lightly penciled on each blank sheet beforehand.
I have a terrible memory, the curse of those of us adrift in constant free association (a gift from the Gods for comedy writers). I relied on many cheats for each performance. Notes on shirt cuffs. Notes written on the palms of my hands. Notes on programs. Sometimes I’d cave and just read the notes in my reporter’s notebook aloud.
At least until I surrendered to trusting my improvisational ability with the subjects I called up to the stage to draw.
Thanks to The Gridiron I had a venue where I could practice my craft. A break came when a comedienne named Debbie Rice saw me at one such Gridiron Show. The late and wonderful Debbie Rice told me I was good enough to do Laff’s.
“No way.”
“You’ll be a draw!”
Debbie was right. I was a draw and we performed together a couple of times. It was exhilarating for this comedy club virgin to sell out a noisy raucous comedy club more than once.
Alzheimers took Debbie. Tragic for a soul who could perform the entire “Wizard of Oz” in 3-minutes. She always killed. I think of her every time I’m at Laff’s, whether it’s for my “Titters” show for breast cancer dollars or a straight comedy night there with my friends Elliot Glicksman, Nick Seivert (Bob and Bob) and Nancy Stanley (Queen of the Estrogen Hour).
Are you interested in public speaking or comedy?
Seek out others with your unhealthy interest. About this time my friends Elliot, Nick, Fish Karma and Mike Sterner (brilliant established comedians-actually lawyers, librarians, & teachers) talked me into joining their “Sweatlodge” Troupe, their answer to “The Bloodhut”, a glorious troupe of feminist comedians we admired.
Since those early days (going from club to club across vast comedy deserts) I’ve spoken in venues ranging from dark clubs to meeting halls to theaters to resorts to convention centers— from a venue in Toronto packed with thousands of Canada’s finest judges, to a school house in Tombstone. I’m pretty sure I spoke at a Sweet Tomatoes for a family reunuion.
Reward every audience by preparing custom material written just for them with their unique characteristics and notable characters in mind. At the gathering of judges I was teasing the lovely good humored athletic woman I’d randomly invited onstage to draw. She was unnerving, saucy and playful. As I handed her the drawing and the crowd applauded I asked her, “What do you do?”
“I’m a Justice on the Supreme Court of Australia.” Standing ovation. Some family law conference at Caesar’s Palace.
Never googled to check out her claim. I like that story just the way it ends.
Over the centuries (the Jurassic through Borscht Belt Period) I enjoyed writing custom humor for audiences ranging from Beer Wholesalers to the Edible Oils Institute to Enron executives.
Learning about the world around you is one of the joys of public speaking. For example at the Edible Oils Institute conference I followed the inventor of Olestra and I learned Olestra causes cramping and loose fatty stools. “Well, thank you for that presentation and now please welcome the comedy of Davvvvvve—is it Fritz?-Davvve Fritzimmons!” I found a way to work “anal leakage” into the first 5-minutes. Not one laugh. Tough crowd. Must’ve been the chips they ate at lunch.
And yes, I did entertain Enron executives at Ventana Canyon. Very posh. I regret I cashed their check the minute they handed it to me. They originally wanted to pay me with a share of stock. I should’ve taken the stock. (Head slap. “Shmuck!”) A share of Enron stock would be priceless kitsch! (Arrogant gasbags. I loved roasting a memorable few of those pompous jackasses.)
“Faking it” is everything
I’ve learned to fake confidence, the hardest skill to learn because it comes from experience, from all those years of speaking engagements that did not kill you and made you stronger. Faking confidence, your audiences thinks oh, boy, this speaker is going to be good. Because this boob clearly thinks he’s good unless he’s a deluded idiot faking confidence.
My mantra? The audience wants you to succeed.
“My mantra? The audience wants you to succeed.”
—Some Bullshit Motivational Speaker in Scottsdale
Unless it’s a comedy club packed with Trump truckers in Tucumcari. In the past I’d gleefully wade into hostile audiences and ingratiate myself with self-deprecating humor.
“My Ex surprised me recently. She told me that all those years we were married when she told me she ‘got’ my cartoons—” pause.
And then by nailing my impression of my ex-wife’s voice I amplify the catty punchline. “I was faking it.” Who says pretending to understand a brilliant cartoon can’t be akin to faking an orgasm?
After calling a subject up to the stage to stand next to my easel to my left, I’d say, ”Hard to believe anyone here, tonight, is to my left.” Oh, what a funny liberal communist that lefty pinko rat bastard Fitz is. Rim shot.
Interact with your audience
Used this for years. “How many Dems here tonight?” Hands. “How many Republicans?” Hands. “How many Independents?” Hand or two. “Good to know. I’ll speak slower.”
Rituals helped
I relied on ritual and theatrical superstition for years. “Break a leg.” Cap your marker. Check your fly. When no one is looking I sip a little blood from the paper cut I always get from handling the God-Damned pad. Like Lechter sipping Chianti. I let my eyes roll back in my head like a Great White shark going in for the kill.
I’m still not ready for my cue.
I have to do “The Master Sergeant”. He had been a boxing champ in his youth. Every time I walked out on stage I imagined myself entering the ring looking to score knock out punches like the old Palooka himself. I’d strike my fists up, boxer’s pose, on my way out of the green room and thou would be with me, Pop.
I shall not want more stage time.
Where is thy promotion? The club owner maketh me to bomb, he leadeth me beside his still audience, “what is this a wax museum?”
Yea, though I’m performing in the valley of comedy death,
I will fear no heckler for thy bouncers they will comfort me.
Thou preparest a table in thy green room with Cheetoes and Jolly Ranchers.
Thou anointest my head with whatever pills, liquor, weed you got until on stage my time runneth over and the red light calleth me offstage.
Surely good reviews and more gigs shall follow all the days of my life and I will dwell in the Chuckle Hut for ever.
Or Snickers or the Giggle Pit or Guffaws and then one day it will happen. You get on the conference speaker’s circuit. Without an agent or a manager. Word of mouth is taking you far and don’t you have a day job?
A little background on the naming of "La Paloma". (and you are correct David "La" does mean "The"!):
George and David Mehl owners of Cottonwood Properties came to our team at Taylor Advertising (Yes, Jay Taylor's Advertising agency) to take on the marketing and advertising for their new planned development that included the future Westin Hotel. They were naming the project "Montecito" after the upscale community near Santa Barbara, because it was, well, upscale, as they had envisioned "Montecito." Jay took strong exception to the name. "It's California", we're Tucson. We spent the next few weeks coming up with options, spending lots of time walking the property. There were doves everywhere and "La Paloma" was born. We came up with the simple graphic and the George and David listened. It worked out. The logo is unchanged to this day... some 40 years later. https://www.lapalomacc.com/
My first husband - Fletch - taught comedy traffic school in San Francisco. Talk about a rough crowd! But they were also a captive audience. For eight hours. Yikes I remember when Olestra first came out, Fletch said deadpan: "Anal leakage? Now there's two words I never wanted to see in the same sentence." Thanks for another great blog.