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[Want to share your own Rogue story? Email Jaguar Bennett
at jagbennett@sbcglobal.net]
SATURDAY, MARCH 5 -- Tonight, it's all about me! Because I didn't get to see
anything else!
This Rogue Report has to be a little bit different. I didn't get to see any
of the Festival tonight; I was too busy being in it. I did two shows,
"Opposites Attract," at the Starline and my standup show,
"Pain, Guilt and Humiliation," at Veni Vidi Vici.
So I can't tell you what exciting things happened at other venues, although
I'm sure it was great. But what I can do is tell you how my evening felt for
me -- what it's like to perform in the Rogue Festival, from the inside.
Putting together "Pain, Guilt and Humiliation" has kicked my ass
nine ways to Sunday for months. Producing a one-man show -- especially
standup comedy -- is really, really difficult.
And, for me at least, it's not the performing aspect that's tough -- it's the
writing.
I write for a living, and I have for 15 years. But I hate writing. Writing is
the worst drudgery ever invented. I would rather do any kind of menial work
that doesn't involve thought than write.
And coming up with funny things to say is even more drudgery. Now, most
people have a good sense of humor, and most people can be funny from time to
time. It's easy to amuse your friends in conversation, but writing down jokes
on a cold page and persuading yourself that they'll be hilarious when you
perform them -- that's tough.
And writing takes time, too. Producing a full page of good material -- the
equivalent of 3 minutes of stage time -- can take hours of work.
Also, "Pain, Guilt and Humiliation" is what pretentious art-types
like to call a personal show. I hate the term ... it just reeks of that
"admire me because I am so deep" self-absorption that is so common
among inferior artists. But I don't mean that the show is about my struggle
with bulimia or my deep sensitive feelings. No, what I mean is that I wanted
to take a show to say what I really thought ... whether the subject matter is
trivial or serious, I wanted to be completely honest.
And so I was still writing pieces of the script even on the morning of the
day the show was going to go up. This was completely insane, I know. But what
could I do? I was committed to putting on a show, and so I had to come up
with something.
Rogue Rule #1: If you want to do something, just do it. Commit yourself
before you think you're ready, because if you wait, you'll never do it. Put
your ass and reputation on the line. If you're risking something, your work
will be a lot more serious for you.
4:00 PM: By late afternoon, I've got the show together, and I head out to
Rogue venues to do some handbilling.
Rogue Rule #2: Your show doesn't matter unless people come to see it. To get
people in the door, you've got to sell them on it. It's not enough to tell
people that you're so cute and charming and quirky that of course they're
going to want to see you be you. You've got to convince them that they're
going to have a good time ... and you've got to get the word out.
So whenever possible, I've been telling people about the most attractive
thing about my show -- that it's really dirty and really funny. and I tell as
many people as possible.
After handbilling and for the rest of the evening, I'm drilling myself on the
script and basically freaking out. Bombing on stage is my biggest fear here.
When it's just you on stage and you fail, it's indescribably miserable. So
mainly I'm trying to control my ever-rising panic, because if I get nervous,
I will bomb.
I've got a performance of "Opposites Attract" tonight, but to tell
you the truth I barely notice I'm performing -- I'm too keyed up about the
premiere of "Pain, Guilt and Humiliation." But this performance
goes remarkably smoothly -- it's the second night, everyone's over
first-performance jitters, and we're all comfortable as a cast.
The crowd is big at the Starline -- it's my first hint of what I'm going to
see and hear tonight, that this year's Rogue Festival is the biggest ever.
9:40 PM: I'm standing behind the back curtain at Veni Vidi Vici, waiting to
go on. I have no idea what is going to happen next -- triumph or complete
embarrassment. It occurs to me that, whatever happens, it will all be over in
an hour.
10:05 PM: I'm up! I'm out there, and I'm talking to an audience. The tent is
full, and dozens of strangers are looking at me to entertain them. This
should frighten me to death.
The odd thing about performing -- in my experience at least -- is that my
mind goes almost completely blank. It's like the performance comes from
somewhere in the subconscious mind ... I'm only dimly aware of what I'm
doing.
It's very strange ... I change the wording of certain bits around on the spot
to make them more effective, I interact with the audience, but I don't feel
like I'm in control of anything I'm doing. It's just happening.
Disaster strikes! Trying to keep a 45-minute routine in your head isn't easy
... especially when you were still fiddling with the script just that
morning. At a couple of spots, I started to blank on what came next. I stall,
take a drink of water, recover my thread, and continue.
But then comes the spot where I simply cannot remember what comes next. What
to do?
Rogue Rule #3: Things go wrong. They always do. You simply cannot anticipate
everything that will happen. And you're never as good as you think you are.
Nonetheless, you have committed to entertaining your audience. So no matter
what happens, you have to make your show work.
Fortunately, my unconscious mind, the one that's really doing the show,
doesn't let me down. The only thing to do is get my script from behind the tent
-- so my unconscious mind gives me permission to do it.
I tell the crowd, "Ladies and gentlemen, I have completely lost my
place. What was I going to say? Wow. This is terrifying. Please excuse
me." And I go back and get the script.
Rogue Rule #4: No one cares about you, or your ego. If you mess up, make it
work.
Amazingly, the audience doesn't seem to care too much that my whole show has
unraveled right in front of their eyes. I come out, script in hand, and start
using the script as part of the act. I don't need to any more than glance at
the script ... but my unconscious mind decides that the dramatic situation is
now a guy with a script next to him, so refer to it.
As it happens, my next gag is one of my edgier bits ... and the crowd groans,
partly in amusement, partly in shock. I grin at the audience. "Aren't
you glad I went back and got the script now?"
And it works, thank God. The audience forgives me, and the show continues.
11:00 PM: At last it's over. It was terrifying, it was exhilarating, and I
still don't feel entirely like myself. People tell me it went OK. All right
then. I'll take their word for it.
Rogue Rule #5: The audience is the final judge.
In our next issue ... no more self-indulgent nonsense ... real reporting on
the real Rogue Festival!
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