Comedic puberty

My interest in comedy developed, unfortunately, in middle school.

In sixth grade, I had a small part in a school play called “Monday Night Live.” We performed it on a Thursday but it was still called “Monday Night Live.” I can only assume the copyright laws on sketch comedy shows for 12-year-olds are pretty brutal.
In any event, the star of it, Peter, was one of those guys in middle school who was somehow good at everything. I don’t think he cared about comedy necessarily; he just happened to be hilarious. He was also great in serious plays and was the best singer in school. And somehow, he pulled off wearing an earring. Needless to say, the guy was very popular.

“I bet that Peter guy will end up on Saturday Night Live someday,” my dad said to me after our production.

I looked my dad square in the eye (read: fidgeted in my seat and haphazardly turned the pages on a “Magic Eye” book) and said, “or maybe I’ll be on it.”

“Uh, sure. That would, uh, be a good thing for you to do,” he said.

After that moment, I was determined to be funny, and to be recognized as funny: Half because I was really interested in comedy, and half because I wanted to upstage “Mr. Wonderful.”

At first, I tried asserting my dominance in the comedy community of Northview Middle School. The community, I should add, didn’t consist of improv and sketch groups or aspiring stand ups as it does at IU. Rather, it consisted entirely of guys who quoted Adam Sandler movies in an effort to disrupt class and hit on girls on the bus. Even at the tender age of 12 I knew that those guys weren’t actually funny and I didn’t want to join their ranks. So instead, I did the only other thing I could do. I affixed a sparkly mini-bumper sticker to the outside of my locker that read “CLASS CLOWN.” The “N” was positioned to look like it was falling off the row of type, and one “S” was backwards.

“Uh, what’s that?” a junior member of the comedy community from my grade, demanded of me. He had buzzed blond hair and wore Hawaiian shirts and sandals on a daily basis, even in the winter.

“It’s a sticker,” I replied.

“You’re not a class clown,” he said.

“Whatever,” I said.

“I said you’re not a class clown,” and then proceeded to rip the sticker off my locker.

“Alligators are ornery ’cause of their medulla oblongata,” he added.

Luckily for me, I realized at that moment that middle school was not the place to hone the craft of comedy—or to express oneself at all, for that matter. I spent the next two years acting quiet and reserved in school, but staying up late every Saturday to watch SNL, demanding that my parents go bed early and let me study the scenes on my own in the dark living room.

After a while, my jealousy for the star of the play faded and I became interested in comedy completely on my own accord. I started an improv group in high school and am happily involved in the legitimate comedy community that exists here at IU.

And Mr. Wonderful? He’s is in the music program at Northwestern University, which, I’ve got to say, is a huge relief.