Originally published at www.SheckyMagazine.com
On the day of the event I went down a few hours before my spot to catch a few friends scheduled to perform before me. It was 5:30pm and the scene was definitely an unorthodox comedy venue. GMA has an open walled studio on the corner of Broadway. Although, technically you are inside the building, the walls opened up to the public. This definitely gave an outdoor feel to the entire studio. When I arrived another standup was on stage and killing to a packed audience of non-tourist New Yorkers who had just gotten off work. I turned to my friend, nodded confidently, and said that this doesn’t look like it’s going to be that bad. One hour later the New Yorkers had up and gone and were replaced by a scattered crowd of tourist families, children and all. By the time I went up the front row was made entirely of ten year olds except for one comic, sitting right in the center, posing as a normal audience member. I thought I had removed everything offensive from my act, but quickly learned otherwise. While relating how pale I was to the audience I said, "The sunblock I need isn't even approved by the FDA because it killed rabbits." I didn't account for the fact that ten year olds don't know what the FDA is. All they heard was that I killed rabbits. A round of oohhs, aughs and groans emerged from the crowd. I locked my eyes on one of the few remaining pleasant faces in the studio and continued on as a bus horn from the nearby street blared through the setup of my next joke. My set ended amiably at best and they handed me my Good Morning America consolation pen as I stepped off the stage. The crowd seemed mostly indifferent as I left. Rabbit killers rarely get standing ovations. I then checked off the experience as just that, another bizarre performance experience, and went about my Thursday evening as I normally would have. I went and performed in the basement of a bar in Hell's Kitchen and then headed over to one of the clubs to exchange GMA performance experiences with some other comics. I got home and climbed into bed a little before 3am and drifted off to sleep. I woke up at 3:40am to my cell phone shrieking Beethoven's Ode to Joy into my ear from my nightstand (nightstand is what I like to call the plastic sock drawer next to my bed that I bought at Target for four dollars). After recovering from a few seconds of post-waking amnesia I realized that it was a GMA producer on the phone asking me if I would come down to the studio. I agreed and they told me they would be sending a car to pick me up at 5:30. My driver was a very nice Indian man named Johnson and we had a pleasant and lengthy chat on the ride over. He said, "How do I get out of this neighborhood?" and I said, "Turn here." Johnson pulled up to the GMA building and I felt a tear well up in my eye as we said our goodbyes. I dabbed at my cheek with a tissue and composed myself as I entered the building. Apparently, my performance hadn't gone as bad as I thought. Inside they confirmed that I was one of the five finalists and introduced me to the other four. There were two other twenty-something comedians, a sixteen-year old kid and a woman in her late sixties by the name of Annie. We spent a few hours before the show in the green room. We ran through a rehearsal, but mostly just waited for show time. What amazed me the most was how friendly and eager to please everyone was at GMA. I was so used to getting cold shouldered and ball busted by every club employee I've ever met that I was starting to think that this morning television thing was some kind of trap. Then someone reminded me that these people were used to dealing with real stars and just didn't bother to lower the courtesy bar for us. In the green room a producer told us that we would be doing a minute of material and that once the red light came on we had ten seconds to finish. People watching the show at home were then going to vote online on who they felt was the best comedian. The winner would come back on Monday and perform a seven-minute set. When show time came we lined up next to the same stage we had all performed on only twelve hours earlier. They lined us up in some type of pre-arranged order and then choreographed how we were to enter and exit the stage. Right before show time Antonio Perkins, the GMA weatherman and host of the comedy show, quietly said from across the room, "When the red light comes on, get off right away or I'll have to cut you off." At least I think that's what he said. He wasn't looking at us when he said it and I really wasn't paying attention (a character flaw that's plagued me since grade school). If that was what he said, it was in conflict with the producer who told us we had ten seconds once the light came on. I turned from side to side asking, "Excuse me, was he talking to us? Was that important?" There wasn't really time for anyone to answer me. The taping had started and Annie Berman, the first finalist, took the stage. We each had a minute to perform and it was over before I was sure it was actually happening. My one-minute set seemed to go okay, even with the red light confusion, and soon we were lined up on stage for a final shot with Antonio and Diane Sawyer. The cameras were then shut down and we were ushered back to our cars waiting outside. In a few hours I would learn that Annie Berman swept the nation collecting 80% of the votes, but at the time I still had a limo ride waiting for me and a voice-mailbox full of friends and family that had just seen me on TV. I was enjoying what had been one minute out of my fifteen minutes of fame and really wasn't all that concerned with what middle America thought of me. I heard a loud, yet timid Indian voice shouting from across the street, "Hey, hey!" It was Johnson. I yelled to my GMA escort, "That's my man. I'm outta here." I climbed into the back of the town car and relished the moment as I said, "Johnson, take me home." |