Editors Note: This piece was originally published on WitOut, a blog run by a group of comedians that covers the burgeoning and lively comedy scene in Philadelphia. You can follow WitOut on their website, on Facebook and Twitter
Dear Philadelphia Comedy,
All of it. Every open mic that lasted for two weeks in a bar I’d never want to step foot in unless they let me talk at half-listening strangers. Every fire hall gig in the middle of nowhere booked by a gravelly disembodied voice on the phone with a promise of pay I wasn’t sure I’d really receive. Every awkward improv scene where I wasn’t sure what to do so I just got louder, repeated what I’d already been saying, and tried to be a bigger, sillier, goofier fool. Every line of every sketch where I’ve agonized over details that don’t even matter, like the full first and last name of a character whose name is never even said.
