2012/09/08: For a song

by Nick Smith

Time to return the big scissors to Jimmy's Gold Shovel and Oversized Scissor and Key Emporium. The ribbon is cut. I've noticed a few of you curious folk milling about wondering if I am ever going to put anything on here. Here you go. More stuff. To read. I guess.

I've been spending the weekend pretty much camped out at the Comedy Club because Kyle Kinane is in town. I'm going to avoid gushing too much here, but it is a privilege to watch him work. If you have not heard of him, and have anything greater than or equal to a passing interest in stand-up comedy, I strongly urge you to go buy his album on Amazon or elsewhere. That's been my week. That and working a bunch so I could take the weekend off.

I've been doing a little bit of prep work for my show tomorrow night. For those that require constant reminders, it is Sunday night at 7:30 PM at the Project Lodge at 817 East Johnson St. in Madison. I'm shooting for half of my set consisting of new material, but I may hedge a little and lean a little bit more heavily on the old stuff. I admit I have been fairly lax with my writing and have not been seeking out stage time as actively as I should have for the greater part of this summer. This fall I will hopefully apply myself with a new-found ferocity.

It's horribly easy to fall into the illusion that I am not capable of improving and that my best material is behind me, because it is the only tangible material I know of, While always present in some form or another, it is often difficult to directly access my faith in my ability to grow as a comic as long as I don't give up.  The volume of output has gone down drastically, so the failure of any new material is magnified and much more difficult to cast aside as chaff when I don't manage anything promising at the same time to focus my energies on.

The more I write. The better I'm going to get. And the more I'll be driven to get up and develop my chops. It's just that every time this big ball slows down, it takes a heck of a struggle to get it back up to pace. Throw your back into it, Smith. Quit bein' a bitch.

May all the choirs of angels sing your song,

Your cheeks have lost their luster.