Comedy is a funny thing

People are funny when they meet a comedian. If it's at a party, they immediately suggest that I should entertain all of the guests with my skit.

First, I don't do "skits." Not that there's anything wrong with skits. I did skits when I was a camp counselor, and my skits rocked. We'd have a weekly competition, so being the competitive guy that I can be, I wrote funny new skits every week for the boys in my cabin, and we always won, hands down. If only I could remember them now, maybe I would work them into my set. "Set," not "skit."

Second, I don't think it's cool to impose comedy on unsuspecting guests any more than it's cool to show up at a party with your karaoke machine and insist on belting out Neil Sadaka's entire songbook all night long.

Third, what am I? An 8-year-old who just learned to play Three Blind Mice on the recorder?

Fourth, no lighting? No stage? No mike? No show. My first attempt at comedy was nearly my last. I had signed up for my first comedy course, but the class hadn't even started yet. All I had was the workbook and a few notebook pages I had filled with what I thought were infallible comedy bits of gold. I was excited to try my stuff out, so when I found myself on a camping trip with 40 other gay men, I proposed to do some of my new bits around the campfire. So let's see. Bad lighting, no stage and no sound system. Without lighting, any facial expressions are lost. Without a stage, there's no separation between performer and audience that hints to the audience that it's time for them to pipe down and listen. Without a mike, well, the comedian's voice competes equally with every audience comment or utterance.

Needless to say, it did not go as well as it had in my head. Half the jokes were so obvious, someone had yelled out the punchline before I got to it. Worse yet, their version was often funnier than mine. I managed to shake that experience off and try it again in a more suitable environment having learned a good lesson.

Last night, I was having an early Thanksgiving potluck in the Pittsburg marina, with some friends that have boats. I don't generally introduce myself as a comedian, but Steve introduced me as such, and my new friend, whose name I've forgotten, had a comeback for my reasons why the Thanksgiving potluck was not going to be interrupted by my set, my skit or anything of the sort. Lighting? We've got huge spotlights on these boats. No problem. Stage? You can stand on the boat deck and we'll sit on the dock. Mike? Ha. No mike. Discussion is over.

Then, of course, they want me just to say something funny. Cue circus seal "arfs." Maybe I'll slip something in a conversation in context, but just jumping into my act just doesn't work at a party. It'd be as jarring as busting out in song, like a Broadway musical. Though, now that I think of it, that would not be entirely unexpected nor out of place for a gay party-goer to jump on a table and start a chorus of "Dancing Queen."

Cocktail party conversations can result in comedy material, and I often surreptitiously try out some new material on party guests, but don't expect me to announce that it's coming. And if I'm not saying anything funny to you, just remember, it's you, not me. Seriously, some people inspire me to be funny, and others inspire me to play Brickbreaker on my Blackberry, pretending to answer an urgent e-mail.

It's flattering that people are interested in hearing my comedy, but look, there's a time and place for everything. I'd rather they ask where they can see me perform, how they can join my new Facebook fan page, or how they an join my mailing list. And by the way, I am available for parties, just as long as there's lighting, some configuration that resembles a stage, a functioning microphone and and an audience that's expecting comedy, and not a clown, a stripper or a camp counselor.