It used to be that standing in front of strangers and speaking into a microphone was the easiest way to be funny in public, an ongoing audition that eventually morphed into an art form. It was a way to control the cruelties of show business, a way to be judged on your own terms. And so the audience was the adversary, the jokes were weapons, and vulnerability was to be avoided at all costs. The goal was to kill. And maybe get a sitcom in the process.
And so all the greatest 20th-century comedians, from Pryor all the way to Maron, painstakingly honed their acts, minute by minute, laugh by laugh, in pursuit of a bigger and better job. A career wasn’t an elevator — first stop SNL, next stop fame — it was a cliff. All of them talked about stand-up as their true love, but it was a true love that didn’t come with health care or stability; it was the sort of love that’s better appreciated when you have 46 Porsches in the garage. I criticize Leno for being distant and unknowable, but really he’s just one of a long line of funny men who made their bones (and millions of dollars) squeezing into suits that didn’t quite fit. So what if the skills required to host a late-night talk show have almost nothing to do with those needed to put on a tight 20 minutes at the Laugh Factory? To paraphrase Seinfeld, there’s no such thing as a bad gig as long as you’re being paid for it.
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