Serious, Not Serious

SFR: How'd you get your start doing stand-up?
Paula Poundstone: I started doing open mic nights in Boston in 1979. And I was lucky enough to be 19 years old when that, sort of resurgence of, you know, stand-up comedy started taking place. There were a bunch of cities that started having open mic nights right around the same time, and I've never understood why. There was some sort of werewolf-type pull or something. I mean, obviously stand-up comedy has been around since we've come out of the cave. I worked in Boston for maybe a year or so before I took a Greyhound bus around the country to see what clubs were like in different cities.

How has the business changed since you started?
I haven't worked clubs in years, thank goodness. I work mostly theaters and mostly by myself, really, because I'm selfish. I have such a great audience, and I have no desire to share even a minute with them with someone else. I have a pretty isolated view. I don't know how it is now, but there was a period of time that some comics told me that to do open mic that you had to pay, or you had to bring audience members with you, neither of which could I ever have done.

You've said no two of your shows are ever the same. How does that affect your writing process?
Writing is a strong word for what I do. I try to be constantly infusing new material in my act. Largely, the reason no two shows are the same is … my favorite part is just talking to the audience. I start it off by asking, "Where you from, what do you do for a living," and little biographies emerge. On a good night (and I like to think that some of them are), probably about a third of the stuff that's said is because of the audience that's there. And therefore, no two shows are the same. Part of that came [about] because I couldn't memorize stuff. I just, I would get so nervous when I would get on stage that everything that I had prepared, that I had planned to say, would fly right out of my head. And then I would be stuck working the room. Originally, I felt this was a big liability and a really bad thing. And eventually, it dawned on me that it was really where the heart and soul of the night lie, where the sort of excitement and fun was. When I was living in San Francisco, when I was first starting out and working there, I worked behind the counter at a little club called The Other Café. It was only there for six years. I worked behind the counter in the mornings mostly, and I would hear the waitresses complain about the comics, even the open mic comics, who had every reason to be bad. They would say, "Oh my God, we have to listen to the same stuff day after day." I really wanted to have an act that wouldn't trouble the waitresses.

How do you deal with hecklers?
I never get hecklers. It's been years since somebody just shouted something out. I often get somebody that just wants to join in. But it never seems like a hostile gesture. I also don't work in clubs; there's generally not a whole lot of alcohol where I am, although it's possible.

The drunk are the best and the worst audience.
They are. Yeah … mostly the worst. I'll tell you, when I quit drinking, a lot of times I was still mostly [working] in clubs. It was like a temperance lecture every night. Sometimes you feel like you're missing something, and maybe it would be good to have a drink. Work in a club with people drinking, you don't hold that thought for very long. Instead you go, "Oh thank God. Oh my God, I looked like that."

What's been your biggest challenge?
You know, I'm not, like, a big huge star. I don't think I could do my parenting job [if I was a big huge star]. The job that I do is so much fun, and God knows I have no other skills. I don't know that it feels challenging. I honestly feel pretty lucky.

Santa Fe Reporter