The actor’s nightmare is going on stage and not knowing your lines. EVERY actor has had it, sometimes even onstage. When you ‘go up’ on a line during a play an eternity passes while your neurons ransack the archives of your ADD-addled brain looking for the smallest iota of logic that can serve to paraphrase. The adrenaline is comparable to being attacked by a mugger, your mind is defenseless against the onslaught of errant chemicals coursing up and down your spinal column.

Finally, you sputter out something semi-coherent while the other actors try desperately not to laugh in your face and you manage to get offstage without a complete mental breakdown. In truth, 3 seconds elapsed and no one noticed because most of the audience was asleep and the other 25 percent was wondering if they TiVo’d LOST properly. Still, it haunts you like a ‘Nam flashback and you tell the story for years about the holocaust of forgetting your lines during summer stock Moliere.

I was always curious about what the comic equivalent would be. When you forget what the hell you’re saying as a comic, you just look into the audience and say ‘How long you two been married?’ or ‘That’s a crazy shirt!’ or ‘Are you Asian or a stoned Mexican?’ Eventually your brain will scramble out of Hackville into something in your wheelhouse. Never a truly awful moment. Pull out your open mic impressions if you must. “Here’s Robert De Niro as a MIDGET!” What a wacky twofer that is!

I think I recently experienced the TRUE ‘comic’s nightmare.’

I was making my debut at the ICE HOUSE in Pasadena, an amazing club (the Laugh Factory equivalent … for Pasadena). Since I had just moved to LA, I hadn’t worked many local clubs and was excited about the prospect of a another comedy haven. I had my Red Bull Ketel One doing the Jedi mind trick on my brain, convincing me that I was brilliant and ready to blow the roof off. Yes, Red Bull Ketel One is deliciously responsible for delusions.

When the emcee brought me onstage, I came on and stared at, yet again, a group of strangers. They looked at me expectantly. At this moment, I think about one of my heroes – Patton Oswalt – who once talked about the merit of digging yourself a painfully uncomfortable unfunny hole the first five minutes, just to see if you can climb out of it. I was feeling Patton cocky.

“How you guys going?” Smattering of indifferent applause. One disproportionate WHOOOOOOO! Hmmm, you can always count on one slut in the audience for that bellow. I nodded as I looked at the crowd.

I noticed a stockily built guy with a tight, sparkly t-shirt stage left. His arms were folded, face like cold granite, measuring me with a withering stare. He had a thick steroid vein running from the top of his brow to his left temple like a topographical map of testosterone and rage.

“Hey sir, thanks for the shitty body language. They asked me what song I wanted to come up to and I said how about I just come up to that guy in the front row’s hatred. That’ll be fun.”

Crickets. Arms folded tightly. Everybody could see the bizarre standoff between this Ellen Degeneres-looking comic and this beet-faced muscle head with the floral Ed Hardy shirt.

“I don’t get you man.”

People watched, uncomfortable. I could literally hear the shifting in the seats and the clinking of Apple-tinis.

“You’re an interesting mix. Your face says ‘F%CK YOU!’… But your shirt says (with an effeminate flourish) ‘F%CK MEEEE!!!’”

The audience erupted. A solid minute of tension just got uncorked into a cacophony of laughter and applause. It was off the cuff and honest and I landed upon a joke that I knew would serve me well for years (and which I knew would surely be stolen by road hacks within weeks).

I then proceeded to my standard jokes about dating and love and relationships, but with the unbelievable credit and trust gained from navigating a delicate opening. They trusted me now and even so-so jokes were getting applause breaks. Clearly, I was on my way to being an Ice House fav.

And then I felt I weird space open up in my breathing. Then a telltale taste of iron on the blade of my tongue. My nostrils flared as a litmus test for the change in chemistry. The space expanded more and my lips smacked with the foreboding flavor.

Dammit, am I having a nose bleed?

I took a sniff, hoping for a runny nose. I held up my index finger to blot my right nostril and sure enough, it was bright red under the harsh illumination of the Ice House lighting grid. F%ck ME now, I thought.

“I think my nose is bleeding.” I double-sniffed again like an agent in a Hollywood Hills house party. I hadn’t had a nose bleed in years, but I remember an old trick from elementary school.

“Hey can I borrow your napkin?” Before the woman in the front row could answer, I had taken the course cocktail napkin from her table, ripped out a piece, and rolled it fervently into a makeshift tampon, whereupon I shoved it up my right nostril.

I had only done 8 minutes. I couldn’t get off yet, I was slated for 25.

“Does this look alright?” I queried the audience. They were laughing, they thought this was part of some absurdist Steve Martin-style bloody nose bit. Insecure, I shoved the wad in a little deeper. I started in on the next bit…

“The thing about –“

My left nostril, clearly feeling like the bastard stepchild of nostrils, decided then it was a good time to bleed as well. I sniffed it up until it slid down my throat like a shot of raw egg from a glass. I grimaced and gulped.

“Hey, I gotta get offstage… Sorry, I need to get offstage. Where’s the emcee, I need to get off.” An eternity passed until the emcee came back and relieved me from the mic. I was an instant butt: “No, he isn’t a cokehead, I’m serious. The truth is, this stage is a little higher off the ground than you might realize.” They both killed, I was a d-bag.

I went to the bathroom and stuffed more stuff up my nose until it finally stopped. I walked out bloody and beaten, the owners and managers giving me a look as if to say, “Stay off the powder, son.” I protested out loud to everyone and no one, “I’VE NEVER DONE COKE IN MY LIFE!” Just then, my 6 foot, rail thin, way too hot for me model girlfriend walked up to me, concerned. I could feel everyone at the Ice House collectively concur ‘ahh, now I see why she’s with him. He’s got the good shit.’
The management at the ICE HOUSE gave me half of my paycheck since I didn’t do my allotted time. I left upset and humiliated.

And that was just the START of the night…

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