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I was doing tons of improv, and more and more storytellingvery traditional stuff.
But, at the same time, I kept getting these odd impulses.
It was fun to see them through to fruition.
A panel of judges sat in the front row.
Whomever they deemed the winner moved on.
This show sold out.
People around town talked about it.
It was also massively popular.
What other comedian do you think you could beat in a fistfight?
Comedians are competitive people.
These harmless conversations got analyzed in back booths with great vigor.
For about a month, this became a dominant topic of conversation in my community.
People created their own ranking systems.
Rob Huebel and Rob Riggle are best friends.
But who would win in a fucking street fight?
Could Bobby Moynihan take out Jason Mantzoukas?
Then, a moment of inspiration struck.
A few other masochistic comedians and I rented a warehouse in Brooklyn.
We set up four stanchions and connected them with police tape to make ropes for our makeshift ring.
We hired a professional boxing referee.
Six pairs of comedians faced off.
Some of us took boxing lessons in the weeks leading up to the fights.
Then, we fought.
The first fight quickly showed that this day would be taken seriously.
Lets just say we all learned not to fight John Gemberling.
We filmed the days proceedings.
Everyone present at the warehouse agreed to keep the results under lock and key.
We screened all six fights to a bloodthirsty sold-out crowd at the UCB Theatre.
Paul Scheer took bets.
I buzzed with energy.
It was a thrilling night.
In 2009, a group of students at New York University took to my comedy.
They showed up at every show I did.
But they were insistent that their affection was genuine.
They started a Facebook group and one of them said, I love Geths storytelling show.
But Idreallylove to go to all the places in New Jersey where they take place and see them there.
It got under my skin.
I felt like I was being made fun of.
So I joined the group.
Im calling your bluff, I said.
To my shock, they did.
It sold out right away.
I stood near a wall, narrating events from my childhood.
There used to be a couch here, I informed them.
In 1997, I lost my virginity on this very spot.
In 2009, I was feeling restless and wanted to mount some sort of new show.
My sincere hope was to make something industry friendly.
Something that people who have hiring power in the comedy world might see.
Maybe I could get a staff writing job on one of the comedy shows that filmed in New York.SNL.
I hatched an idea: Id always loved talk shows.
Maybe Id mount my own.
Id host it, Id get friends to write and appear on it with me.
The artistic director of the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre, Anthony King, had other ideas.
Everyone has that idea.
I can see that, I said.
But Ive been around for years, and I think I could make one thats really good.
I agree, he responded.
Why would you of all people do that?
Because thats what talk shows are, I told him.
And Id love to work on a talk show.
Im going to give you a talk show, he said.
But Ill cancel it as soon as it looks like some cookie-cutter talk show.
I dont understand, I said.
Dude, all your best ideas are fucking weird!
No one else rents fucking buses.
No one else can convince sixteen other comedians to voluntarily get shot by a paintball gun when they bomb.
For a few years now, I havent understood why you dont just own that shit.
People love those shows.Thathas to be your talk show.
All your weird ideas.
Jesus, I said.
I never thought of it that way.
This was very true.
I didnt want to be known as the guy with the superstrange ideas.
It made me feel like everyone would see me as a total fucking weirdo.
But Anthony made me realize thatMy greatest asset is that Im a total fucking weirdo.
People would bring the cool shows up to me after they were done.
They were always enthusiastic.
And I always found a way to apologize.
Yeah, I dont know why I do that dumb shit.
That one was fun, sure, but its not all I do.
Im glad you dug that one.
Ive been doing a lot of stand-up lately too.
My insecurity that my ideas were too odd led to tons of apologies.
I sat in that chair across from Anthony and was flooded with thoughts.
I spent so much time resisting the things that made me unique.
I spent so much time doubting them.
I strategized around them.
Id do a weird show that went well.
Id have another good idea, but Id sit on it for a year to space it out.
Even my writing packets for professional jobs had backward logic.
I submitted aSaturday Night Livepacket with a bunch of hip-hop sketches.
This was while the Lonely Island was on the show and producing tons of great hip-hop-driven digital shorts.
I figured I should showSNLthat I could do what they did.
Why would they look to hire someone who can do what they already have?
I never once submitted a packet that showed off the things thatonly I could do.
I cost myself opportunities, money, and most important, a hell of a lot of time.
Instead of showing off my out-of-the-box impulses, I subconsciously created a habit of snuffing them out.
I thought my weird ideas were a roadblock to a fruitful career.
In reality, they were my greatest asset.
And over and over again, my apologies murdered their potential.
You have to learn to turn off the self-doubt about these ideas.
They are the greatest currency you have.
Do you know that people use your name as the benchmark for weird shit?
Oh God, I said.
What does that mean?
But youve never gone all in on it.
Its time to do it.
One more thing, he told me.
Im not letting you hide from it this time.
The only way Im putting this show up is if you call itThe Chris Gethard Show.
Anthony really changed my life that day.
FromLose Well.Copyright 2018 by Chris Gethard.
Reprinted with permission by HarperOne, a division of HarperCollins Publishers.
