Forever and a day ago, I wrote about my comedic aspirations. At the time, I’d just agreed to perform at a local charity event during the early holiday season. Hilariously (perhaps only to me), I was told the event was “blue”, in so much that the nice gal who asked me to perform was plenty fine with me dropping a few foul words, and to make my set as azure as I wanted it to be. Not that I’m that foul-mouthed (but given both my wife, and one of my best friends Matt, I’m clearly attracted to it),  I was pleased-as-punch to pepper my prose that evening with the devil’s tongue. Flash forward to the big night, and right in the front row? A line of children. When I took the stage, one even shouted “THAT’S BENNETT’S DAD!”. Cue my inner monologue going full bore Denis Leary while I proceeded to barrel through my set figuring that the worst that could happen is I’m forever earmarked as a potty-mouth on various local Facebook groups. When I hit my closing joke (which was, at that time, about Bennett’s inability to agree to eat fruits and vegetables), I met a polite sea of applause, and the hostess of the event gave me a passive thumbs up before ushering on the next act — a high school ska band. I was never asked back to perform at that event again. Their loss. 

Shortly after that personal pratfall though, I kept my gums flapping monthly at a local “spoken word” evening at a community coffee house. Among poets, storytellers, and a handful of locals loving a little night entertainment… I regularly joined the dais to deliver my monolithic monologues of middling merriment. With a warm room, this monthly escape fed my desire to perform… until March of 2020, when the world shut down. Cue the curtain and the denouement of my fledgling comedy career hobby. Total sets performed? Fourteen. Fifteen, if you count the full 9 minutes of hilarity that exist on YouTube that you should not seek out. Hollywood didn’t come calling. Lorne Michaels didn’t have a page call me about flying out to pass his Tootsie Roll Test. Such was life. 

In 2023, the then-NPR-sponsored show Mortified had an open call for submissions. Given that the Chicago showrunner was the same comic book shop owner (formerly) whose store birthed my first tinkering at earning titters? Maybe I had an in. But my thin-skinned brittle ego needed to believe it was truly out of merit that I was invited to perform at the famous Studebaker theater in downtown Chicago as part of the show. The kindhearted producer who was assigned to me helped me craft a ten-ish minute performance — inspired by and including bits of a found personal journal circa eighth grade (Mortified itself banks on its performers unearthing these found treasures of epic cringe, and sharing with the folks in collective fun and shared ennui). Keep in mind, up to that point, the most people I’d ever performed for was likely the couple hundred parents that would pack the Homewood-Flossmoor High School auditorium for our quarterly choir concerts. But back then? At most, I was the nerdiest whoisthat in our choir’s barbershop quartet. The largest crowd I’d ever entertained solo would have been the several dozen folks not quietly talking with others during that aforementioned local charity event. 

Now, four years and change later, I stepped onto the stage in front of 500+ strangers, and delivered a story that showcased my wit, my angst, and the ire of a fourteen-year-old me forced forever be cast as Villager #2 in every junior high production I auditioned for. I was even a Villager in plays that didn’t have villagers, so… I’d long thought “barbershop singer” would be the height of my performance career. But lucky me… the Mortified audience came to laugh and love. Every punchline I offered was met with hoops, hollers, and genuine laughter. And yeah, all my heartfelt moments were met with requisite awwwws as well. Ego? Never bigger. Comedy career? Right back to the chill chest until two years later, when Mortified asked me to submit again. Huzzah!

So, why am I reliving my comedic career a year-and-change after my last substantive outing? Well, as I’d mentioned before yammering on about my continued grousing over the WWE (and celebrating AEW) I’ve been listening daily to audiobooks. Specifically memoirs and essays of stand-ups (and one TV culinary educator who is also amazingly witty) — Gary Gulman, Marc Maron, David Spade, and presently Patton Oswalt (who I’ll denote I’ve actually previously enjoyed “Zombie Spaceship Wasteland” before… but long enough ago it was time to freshen up the memory). Listening to these fractured souls wax and wane about the lives they lead before, during, and currently amid their fame and fortune days has left me more than a little wistful about the life not lived.

Like too many other idiots in the world, I’ve always been told I’m a funny guy. My ability to quickly whip up a punchline, zip a zippy come back, or spin up a yarn about something mundane and punch it up to something noteworthy has been a skill honed lovingly since my mom denoted I needed clothing from the husky section of the store. It didn’t take long after that observation to recognize bullies and banal school chums wouldn’t pick on me much if I had a sharp wit and even demeanor. It also didn’t hurt that I could do silly cartoon voices, and could repeat jokes and japes gleaned from TV the next day on the playground. When environments changed and I entered middle-school, snark became my weapon of choice. Note it is also in James Hart Junior High’s hallowed halls I met Matt and Kyle — my Unshaven brothers from other mothers. Good humor and taller friends kept the bullies at bay. By the time I got to high school, my wit solicited a few notions to give “Speech Team” a go, but the clique of kids participating in “Extemp”, “OC”, and “Original Oratory” were never quite my people. The idea I’d waste precious time cavorting with my comic book buddies all to earn a trophy I saw no value in meant I saved my jokes for the lunch table, and eventually peppering my barbershop quarter performances with schtick. Truly, it took me several years into adulthood to be prodded to the stage to tell jokes, and admittedly, the adulation of the crowd upon completing my set was a drug I could see chasing.

But this is the part of the story where things take a turn for the normal. Prior to that charity event and Mortified performances… I worked three whole open-mics in a pathetic attempt to start a comedy career. Two bars, and one hipster coffee joint each offered me a stage and five to seven minutes to let loose my best material. Each time I went up? I got laughs. Admittedly kids… it felt like a hollow victory. Making slightly buzzed patrons giggle over loose material I schlocked together — material without an edge, a driving thesis, or really more than an excuse to say fuck on a stage — didn’t fill me with desire to continue. Also, and I mean this without jest: having to pay $20 to park my car to perform for 5 minutes for free with absolutely no promise for upward mobility seemed like an expensive hobby. For Rao’s sake… at least $20 of comic books weekly came with some great debates with my friends, and art to absorb. 

So if not the stage, then why not the pen? I’ve long flirted with the desire to build a living via writing. Unlike standup however, the world of the early aughts was still two decades away from the world going remote. Any desire I might have ever considered learning the ropes on getting a gig in a writer’s room came with the necessity of a cross-country move to either coast. Simply put? I’ve always been far too pragmatic to have considered such a sojourn; as both my (then) girlfriend (now: wife and mother to my kids), and best friends (then and now: Unshaven Comics) were all assembled in the Chicagoland area. So the dream remain(ed?) just that: a dream. 

The common denominator of all the memoirs I’ve taken in thus far has proven to me the missing piece in my DNA that would have seen me give any more go to a career in comedy. I admit freely, and yes… painfully… there is little-to-no wanderlust in my being. I love traveling the country when Unshaven Comics heads to a con — be it Denver, Philly, New York, Atlanta, Toronto, or Oklahoma City — but I travel with mates, not an opener and feature performer. And when the cons end for the day? There is no pull whatsoever to anything more than a hotel couch, crappy TV, and a laptop. The siren song of a dive bar, strip club, hipster haberdashery, or any sundry that lures comedians into the nightlife has never had an effect on me. While I know there’s likely a grouping of comedians who are of a similar cloth (Tom Papa, Pete Holmes, or Jim Gaffigan come to mind), the thread between the life and times of Marc Maron, Gary Gulman, David Spade, and Patton Oswalt all stitch together something that is wholly alien to me. A driving force that has grabbed the wheel and demanded of them the need to take to the stage to share. While I won’t shy away from attention (I am an only child, after all), that same force urges me towards the cacophony of creation that teems from me. Comic books. A blog column (hi!). Graphic design. And yes… an occasional dalliance with live performance.

I keep in mind that Rodney Dangerfield started his standup career at 45. Ricky Gervais, 38. Lewis Black at 40. So, never say never, I suppose. And for what it’s worth? I’ve recently taken a monthly residence as the host of Homewood’s Open Mic at Bergstein’s Deli — which I suppose is about par for course. Nothing says “Marc Alan Fishman” finally getting a regular gig telling a few jokes like free parking and a free sandwich afterwards. No joke!