Forty Gigs, One Body: A Week-by-Week Field Manual for Surviving June
Photo: DVSROSS, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Somewhere in mid-May, your phone starts buzzing. By the time you notice what's happening, you've agreed to host a HR compliance luncheon, a Unitarian church fundraiser, and something called 'Pride at the Outlet Mall' — all in the same week. Congratulations, baby. It's June.
The rest of the year, you're doing four shows a month, two of which are at a wine bar where the mic cuts out during your best bit. Then June arrives and suddenly you're the most in-demand performer in America, booked at a rate that would make a wedding band weep. Forty shows. One body. Zero AC. Let's break down the gauntlet.
Week One: The Corporate Kickoff
June 1st is always a Fortune 500 gala in a hotel ballroom with lighting designed by someone who has never seen a human face up close. Your contact is a well-meaning woman named Deb from Brand Partnerships who will describe your set as 'edgy but not TOO edgy' in an email chain with eleven people on it.
Survival tips: learn which words trigger the legal review (it's all of them), locate the open bar before you locate the stage, and make peace with the fact that your sharpest material will be replaced live with a bit about airplane food. Deb will love it. Deb will say 'you were so brave.' Tip Deb. Deb is trying.
Week Two: The Brewery Patio Circuit
Ah yes, the patio. Ninety-four degrees, zero shade, a PA system that appears to be a karaoke machine from a college house party, and an audience that is 60% there for the flight of sours and 40% startled allies. You will sweat through your outfit by soundcheck. This is not a metaphor.
Hydration strategy: one water per beer, no exceptions, and do not trust any venue where the 'green room' is the walk-in cooler next to the kegs. (Actually, do trust it. It's the coldest place in America. Bring a lawn chair.)
Week Three: The Church Basement Gauntlet
Week three is where the real range shows. One night it's a $2,500 corporate keynote, the next it's a potluck fundraiser in a Methodist basement where the payment is a casserole and a genuine, life-restoring hug from a 78-year-old named Carol who has decided you are her favorite. Do not underestimate the church basement circuit. It will feed you — literally, spiritually, and in ways your therapist will find interesting.
The danger of week three is overbooking, because everyone wants you and you have not learned to say no. Which brings us to:
The Art of Declining the Exposure Gig
By mid-June, your inbox will contain a request from a city council event offering 'great exposure' and 'a table to sell merch.' A table. To sell merch. At a city council meeting. This is the fifth such offer. Here is the polite template:
'Thank you so much for thinking of me! Unfortunately, my June calendar is completely full, but I'd love to be considered for next year.'
You will send this to five events. Two will respond with 'well, we usually have [Name of Bigger Local Comedian] anyway.' One of those two will be lying. This is fine. Exposure doesn't pay your electric bill, and the electric bill does not accept exposure as a form of payment. Trust us. We asked.
Week Four: The Delirium Phase
By late June, you will have performed your closer so many times you'll start saying it in non-comedy contexts. Your barista will hear the punchline. Your dentist will hear the punchline. You will forget which city you're in and open with 'What's up, Cleveland?' in Minneapolis. This is normal. This is the June haze.
Pacing advice from veterans of the Pride wars: schedule one full day off per week (you won't take it, but schedule it), keep a granola bar in your gig bag like a hamster, and never, under any circumstances, agree to 'just one more' show on July 3rd. That's how they get you.
July 4th: The Crash
Then it's over. The corporate money stops, the patios empty out, and you wake up on July 5th in a pile of glitter and unanswered emails, wondering if any of it was real. Your body, which has been running on iced coffee and vibes since June 1st, will file a formal complaint.
Rest. Genuinely rest. Watch television that isn't a recording of your own set for quality control purposes. Pet a dog. And then, around July 20th, when you've almost recovered, your phone will buzz. It's Deb. Apparently the company is doing something special for National Coming Out Day in October.
You open the email. You say yes. You absolute fool. You glorious, booked-and-blessed fool. See you in October.
