How to Mourn the Loss of a Friend, When You Have to Put on a Happy Face

I was in Sioux City, Iowa, when I got the call.

My gig was a corporate show; a company Christmas party. So, when I say 300 people were waiting, that’s not an estimate.

Maybe I’ll tell the tale in video form someday, but I was in Nashville, Michigan, once—yeah, it exists. It’s a tiny dot of a town… Can’t imagine wanting the same name as the iconic Tennessee city, but whatever—when I got a text from my wife: “In the storm shelter. Tornado bearing down on us.”

That came right before I was to go on stage.

I got behind the mic and started slinging jokes, only telling the audience what I was dealing with internally after the “all clear” text came through.

The tornado had passed within a mile of my house.

Anyway, the closing of the video is mostly what this is about; the idea that when you are paid to perform, be it a musician, spoken word poet (OK, they don’t and should never get paid), or mouth clown (comedian, if we’re using fancy terms), you need to see past whatever you’re going through, and give the audience your all.

Those people are there to escape their daily life.

They might be going through something they just need to forget about for a moment or two.

I’ve been approached countless times after a show by someone who wants to shake my hand, and tell me they just got divorced/dumped/lost a loved one, and they just needed to laugh.

And, for the hour I was on stage, I was a distraction.

In all honesty, that’s all I ever am. I’ve no delusions about the “importance” of what I do.

99% of the time, I’m a simple dancing monkey. You had a long week at work, and you want to blow off some steam and see a show.

(And have a few drinks.)

But for that 1% that needs to forget something, my little dog and pony show is meaningful.

Hell, it’s a story I’ve told before, but my wife found me through comedy.

She was going through an unhappy week, and just needed to laugh and forget all the drama surrounding her.

Look how that turned out: nineteen years and two kids later, here we are.

So, even when the news hits me that one of my oldest friends has shuffled off this mortal coil…

The show must go on.