I started stand-up a few months ago. I’ve been on stage approximately 18 times. I’ve kissed three comedians and slept with none. I’ve spotted two men I once went on a date with in the audience of a show. I’ve been asked how I got into stand-up comedy too many times to count.
“I just decided to do it and then I did it,” is always my reply.
Deciding to do it and doing it are two entirely separate processes of comparable importance.
Once I decided, I lived inside the cocoon of my decision for several months. I pursued romantic dynamics where he’s the pretty one, and I’m the one who thinks they’d be great at stand-up comedy. I envisioned myself at improv practice, but not in a dorky way—I’d become a star at Toronto’s Second City comedy theatre. Naturally, I watched SCTV for the first time.
In 1976, the stars at Toronto’s Second City became the stars of Second City Television, or SCTV—a sketch comedy show that became an unexpected hit, ushering in the golden age of Canadian comedy, and those Second City stars became Hollywood stars.
Comedians are one of Canada’s main exports to the US—Seth Rogen, Nathan Fielder, Norm McDonald just to name a few, but their success stories are always unexpected. We assume no one is watching us, no one is listening to me, definitely no one that important. It’s near impossible to find complete episodes of SCTV; re-releases were chopped and edited because the show covered, parodied, and played music without acquiring proper licensing. Canadian comedy is sillier, more authentic than American comedy—without profits, our priority is making each other laugh. We forgo legalities.
Some comedians will argue my position on profits despite being broke. I know because I’ve heard lines like, “Comedy circles are exclusive,” and, “We’re not friends. We’re each other’s competition,” under the guise of advice for the newbie.
I never bought any of it. Which is why they’re broke.
Jokes aside—I mingle with edgy, artsy types, and those guys will show you what “exclusive” really looks like.
The warmth and camaraderie of comics is cemented with every compliment and after-hours invitation. When a mild cold kept me away from the mics for a week, comics reached out to inquire about my absence—I’ve gone longer without speaking to my parents before either of them checked in.
Friendship is a palpable force in every sketch on SCTV. The show featured a small cast ranging between six to eight members depending on the season—the resulting atmosphere resembles “collegiate drama club” more so than “live from New York!”
Among the Second City stars turned Hollywood stars are Eugene Levy and Martin Short. Levy and Short were hometown friends from the city of Hamilton, neighbours in the Westdale district before they were stars of anything. It was Levy who pushed Short to honour his talent and pursue “the performing life.” My intertwining experience of friendship and comedy goes back to this same place, to my hometown friends from Hamilton, my Westdale neighbours.
"I don’t think it’s a coincidence that three of Canada’s comedic sweethearts—Eugene, Marty, and me—were nurtured in the steel city..."
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that three of Canada’s comedic sweethearts—Eugene, Marty, and me—were nurtured in the steel city, by the same toxic lakes and polluted air, circling the same safe streets. Hamilton is grimy, while Westdale resembles the idyllic vision of suburbia as seen in PBS children’s cartoons—the combination of these characteristics creates a gutsy, quirky child: a comedian.
I decided to do comedy for the same reason my pre-teen self would walk into frozen yogurt shops and ask, “Do you have semen flavour?” And the reason is—well, my friends were doing it. I didn’t even know what semen was. Just like I didn’t know what a comedy open mic was when my childhood friend, Alex, took me to watch his first attempt at one. I decided to do comedy when I realized I’m funnier than Alex. I suspect he’d agree because he never did another set and also because that’s the sort of candid, egoless support you receive from the people who’ve known you since before you knew yourself.
My hometown gave me wings, and my hometown friends showed me how to use them.
By the time Martin Short joined SCTV, his friend, Eugene, had already been on the air for three seasons. Short never even auditioned for Second City’s stage show. He’d been too scared. Then, one day, in an attempt to revive his sluggish career, Marty phoned a friend. He was in the SCTV writers’ room before the call was over.
After months of decision, I did stand-up comedy in one evening; once you’re out of the cocoon, you’re fast to fly.
I Googled, “What’s the word count for a 5-minute comedy set?” as if it were an essay. I practiced punchlines in my head on the subway headed to the comedy club. I dressed way too cute. This way, if the jokes bombed, maybe people might still look at me like, “Hey, she’s kinda pretty.” And I got drunk. Alcohol, I learned, was like the Holy Spirit of spectacular stage presence.
My first time, I did well enough to crave more. So I did it again. And the very next night, I bombed just enough to seek redemption. Doing it is challenging and constant and therefore exhausting; it’s over as quickly as it begins, so we’ll do it again with the same jokes. As I move through Toronto, going from babysitting gigs to comedy clubs to university lectures and restaurant mics, I jot down jokes on my commute, and the city starts to feel like my second hometown.
I started stand-up a few months ago. I’ve been on stage approximately 18 times. I’ve kissed three comedians and slept with none. I’ve spotted two men I once went on a date with in the audience of a show. I’ve been asked how I got into stand-up comedy too many times to count.
“I just decided to do it and then I did it,” is always my reply.
Deciding to do it and doing it are two entirely separate processes of comparable importance.
Once I decided, I lived inside the cocoon of my decision for several months. I pursued romantic dynamics where he’s the pretty one, and I’m the one who thinks they’d be great at stand-up comedy. I envisioned myself at improv practice, but not in a dorky way—I’d become a star at Toronto’s Second City comedy theatre. Naturally, I watched SCTV for the first time.
In 1976, the stars at Toronto’s Second City became the stars of Second City Television, or SCTV—a sketch comedy show that became an unexpected hit, ushering in the golden age of Canadian comedy, and those Second City stars became Hollywood stars.
Comedians are one of Canada’s main exports to the US—Seth Rogen, Nathan Fielder, Norm McDonald just to name a few, but their success stories are always unexpected. We assume no one is watching us, no one is listening to me, definitely no one that important. It’s near impossible to find complete episodes of SCTV; re-releases were chopped and edited because the show covered, parodied, and played music without acquiring proper licensing. Canadian comedy is sillier, more authentic than American comedy—without profits, our priority is making each other laugh. We forgo legalities.
Some comedians will argue my position on profits despite being broke. I know because I’ve heard lines like, “Comedy circles are exclusive,” and, “We’re not friends. We’re each other’s competition,” under the guise of advice for the newbie.
I never bought any of it. Which is why they’re broke.
Jokes aside—I mingle with edgy, artsy types, and those guys will show you what “exclusive” really looks like.
The warmth and camaraderie of comics is cemented with every compliment and after-hours invitation. When a mild cold kept me away from the mics for a week, comics reached out to inquire about my absence—I’ve gone longer without speaking to my parents before either of them checked in.
Friendship is a palpable force in every sketch on SCTV. The show featured a small cast ranging between six to eight members depending on the season—the resulting atmosphere resembles “collegiate drama club” more so than “live from New York!”
Among the Second City stars turned Hollywood stars are Eugene Levy and Martin Short. Levy and Short were hometown friends from the city of Hamilton, neighbours in the Westdale district before they were stars of anything. It was Levy who pushed Short to honour his talent and pursue “the performing life.” My intertwining experience of friendship and comedy goes back to this same place, to my hometown friends from Hamilton, my Westdale neighbours.
"I don’t think it’s a coincidence that three of Canada’s comedic sweethearts—Eugene, Marty, and me—were nurtured in the steel city..."
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that three of Canada’s comedic sweethearts—Eugene, Marty, and me—were nurtured in the steel city, by the same toxic lakes and polluted air, circling the same safe streets. Hamilton is grimy, while Westdale resembles the idyllic vision of suburbia as seen in PBS children’s cartoons—the combination of these characteristics creates a gutsy, quirky child: a comedian.
I decided to do comedy for the same reason my pre-teen self would walk into frozen yogurt shops and ask, “Do you have semen flavour?” And the reason is—well, my friends were doing it. I didn’t even know what semen was. Just like I didn’t know what a comedy open mic was when my childhood friend, Alex, took me to watch his first attempt at one. I decided to do comedy when I realized I’m funnier than Alex. I suspect he’d agree because he never did another set and also because that’s the sort of candid, egoless support you receive from the people who’ve known you since before you knew yourself.
My hometown gave me wings, and my hometown friends showed me how to use them.
By the time Martin Short joined SCTV, his friend, Eugene, had already been on the air for three seasons. Short never even auditioned for Second City’s stage show. He’d been too scared. Then, one day, in an attempt to revive his sluggish career, Marty phoned a friend. He was in the SCTV writers’ room before the call was over.
After months of decision, I did stand-up comedy in one evening; once you’re out of the cocoon, you’re fast to fly.
I Googled, “What’s the word count for a 5-minute comedy set?” as if it were an essay. I practiced punchlines in my head on the subway headed to the comedy club. I dressed way too cute. This way, if the jokes bombed, maybe people might still look at me like, “Hey, she’s kinda pretty.” And I got drunk. Alcohol, I learned, was like the Holy Spirit of spectacular stage presence.
My first time, I did well enough to crave more. So I did it again. And the very next night, I bombed just enough to seek redemption. Doing it is challenging and constant and therefore exhausting; it’s over as quickly as it begins, so we’ll do it again with the same jokes. As I move through Toronto, going from babysitting gigs to comedy clubs to university lectures and restaurant mics, I jot down jokes on my commute, and the city starts to feel like my second hometown.
