Catch a Falling Star
Greetings from beautiful Princeton, New Jersey! Where all the leaves are luscious shades of yellow, gold, orange, and red, and all the people are average shades of white.
This weekend, I'm working at Catch a Rising Star. When it first opened, Catch was one of only two comedy clubs in New York City. It's where Jerry Seinfeld got his start nearly 50 years ago.
It's since moved to the basement of a Hyatt Regency off the side of the road in South-Central New Jersey.
Different vibe.
I know I've really hyped this place up, but I'll bring it down a peg. There's something off about the logo. It looks like something a proud parent would display on the family refrigerator. "Look what Timmy drew at school today. Yes, he's the blind one."
I think it's the star. The point where the two "legs" meet the body puckers inward, making it look off-balanced. And the star's "arms" are too outstretched. It looks like it's splattered on a windshield, like some sort of celestial bug that plunged toward the earth at tens of thousands of miles per hour and now needs to be scraped off with one of those crusty gas station squeegees.
Or maybe it's the three action lines beneath. They're supposed to convey motion—as if the star is rising, which is a little on the nose—but they look like they're chasing the star away. The logo looks like a shooting star that's lost its way, which is appropriate, considering the types of people who go into comedy.
It's a trope in the comedy world to say that all comedians are broken. But I don't think that's true. Some are, sure. Others just tell themselves they’re doing the work. It's more likely that a loud few perpetuate the myth of the Broken Comedian. Perhaps they themselves are damaged, and saying "everyone's broken" can make them feel less alone. Misery does love company, after all. And it is reassuring to be with other people, even if those people should be strapped to a gurney in a mental ward.
I don't think I'm broken, which, I admit, is totally something a broken person would say. I want to believe that you do have to be a little weird to get into this line of work. But is that really true? Can't you just be a normal human being with a fun job?
I had a middle school teacher who used to say, "You're special until you think you are" and I think that logic holds. We get to go on stage, make people laugh, and have 67-year-old self-proclaimed Jersey girls tell us after a show how much they enjoyed us because we were "clean, smart, and you didn't do a bunch of racist black stuff." (I guess what I'm saying is I found my target demo.) We get to have a fun job. But the moment we start believing our job is different or cooler than other jobs is the moment we lose touch with reality. Instead of spending hours telling other people on podcasts that we're special or weird, what if we just put our heads down and did the work? Can't we just write and perform for 67-year-old Jersey girls?
It was a pretty fun weekend. For starters, I got paid. So, already a great story. How much, you ask? Just enough to cover the train tickets, two dinners, and a book I bought from one of the headliners for $30. I also got to explore Princeton, NJ, a town I'd like to come back to. Which makes me think I don't want to be a rising star. I'd rather be a comet.
The difference between the two is that one burns out quietly, and the other sells merch in the lobby.
