Julia Rossi (6:48)
Jocular content, folks. Jocular content. I'm not Charles Manson. That's how the monologue began. Then I get really angry at the audience for having believed that I might be Charles Manson. And then I get horribly, horribly sad that they now believe that I'm not. It was completely schizophrenic. And I get to the end of the first paragraph, and I'm supposed to look at a person in the audience and say, think about it, Jackass. And I do. And after saying that, I find I've gone completely blank. I don't know the next line. I don't know the next paragraph. I can't remember what this monologue is about. There was kind of a tectonic shift going on for me that summer. You see, the State, the sketch comedy group that I was a part of, we were shattering to pieces. We had been together for eight years, and when we were 23, 24, 25, we had our own series on MTV. And all that time I thought, oh, my gosh, we're so wonderful together that surely we'll be together. And till we're in our 70s, like the rolling Stones, when what I probably should have been following that up with is, think about it, Jackass. But really, I was clinging to the fact that there's safety in numbers, that when you're on stage, in front of an audience, or in front of cameras, it can be nerve wracking at times, but. But you've always got teammates when you're in a group to catch you when you fall. But in the summer of 96, my team was history. And whenever I'd step on the stage at that point in my life, the first thing I thought was, oh, shit, I'm all alone. Well, in 2013, there's alternative comedy shows every night, dozens of them all over New York city. But in 96, there was one, Luna Lounge on Monday nights. Louis CK, Marc Maron, Jeanine Garofalo, Patton Oswalt, Dave Chappelle, Zach Galifianakis. Everyone was at Luna Lounge on Monday nights. And I'd find myself around those people and just think. I just have to pretend I'm confident. I would just think, well, you know, yeah, yeah, I've been on tv. I'm just gonna act like I'm going places. But in fact, in my intestines, I always felt like I was on five hits of acid. The fact was that every Monday, the stage fright and the social anxiety were getting worse. There were some Monday nights when I couldn't bring myself to leave my apartment just to go see the show. And I lived two doors down. The thing was, I just didn't want people to see that I wasn't totally sure of myself. And I was looking right past the fact that all the other comedians were letting the audience see their insecurities and then making jokes about it and getting laughs. But no, no, no, no. I couldn't be happy with that. Because I thought I had the solution. I thought that if I just played confident characters, no one would ever have to see me, right? I'd play a guy who really believed in himself something other than Kevin. And every word that came out of that guy's mouth was going to be obsessively memorized. When I was doing Bits back then, I'd spend about three days perfecting it word by word. And then three days memorizing it. I would recite it into my Sony Walkman with Megabass. And then I remember that Manson monologue. I walked from the Lower east side up to Harlem and back again. Just listening to those 10 paragraphs over and over and over. And there's only so memorized a thing can get, folks, at a certain point. It's time. Diminishing returns. So there I was, up there on stage at Luna. And I'd made it to the end of paragraph one. And the place was packed. People were growing up, the walls like ivy. And it was a total fire trap because they didn't even have seats. So most of the crowd was sitting, Indian seats style, right there on the floor. So I get to that big line. Think about it, jackass. And the stage fright. Ripped the next nine paragraphs right out of my mind. I kind of felt like one of those guys in a dunking booth who had just been talking to everybody. And then someone throws a baseball, and suddenly I'm underwater. I was staring at them, and they were staring back at me, and they were confused. So I start thinking, what do I do? What do I do? What do I do? I know I'll go back to the beginning, because if I do that, I'll get the flow and all the words will just come back. So all of a sudden, I find myself saying, hi, there. I guess you're all wondering who I am. And that's why I'm perfectly willing to admit that I am Charles Manson. So now my already colossally confusing monologue was becoming like Waiting for Godot. So I get to that point, think about it, jackass. And I'm blank again. Like, I just run right up to the very same edge of the very same cliff. And I'm staring at them, and they're staring at me. And I'm telling you, I don't think I'd ever felt that kind of unsafe before. I turned to Jeff Ross, who was hosting the show. He was on the stage because the place was so fucking packed, the host couldn't get off it. I turned to him and I knew I had to speak in such a way so that he could hear what I was saying, but I accidentally said it so that everyone could hear what I was saying. I said, I can't do this. And I started to leave the room. Now, here's the thing. There were no aisles. The door was about 40ft away, and in front of it, packed shoulder to shoulder, sitting Indian style, was the crowd. So I just start stepping between, between and over bodies like I'm a barefoot man in a field of cacti. Then something amazing happened. You see, this was the beginning of the big alt comedy scene. So what people were actually expecting was the unexpected. Everyone was trying to be Andy Kaufman. So the audience, what they thought was, oh, Kevin is playing a guy who's so insane, he doesn't know if he's Charles Manson or not. That's probably also the kind of guy who would be seized by sudden, desperate urges to flee comedy shows. And they'd heard me say, I can't do this. So they said, no, you can do it, do it, do it, do it, do it. And I'm crawling between them and I'm going, no, I really can't. And there's tears starting to come down out of my. And then I realized, holy shit, I'm totally winning them over. This room is going nuts when someone grabs one of my feet and I'm down into the bodies. Then I found myself doing something I'd never done before. I was body surfing. They had porn, pushed my body up and started throwing me around themselves. It was the 90s. It was all the rage. And here's the thing. Body surfing is especially awkward when everyone's seated Indian style. But I'm going around and around going, no, no, no, no, no. I feel like I'm a guy in a J. Cheap 60s horror movie who's been shat into the bowels of hell. But finally, they kind of surf me back up to the stage and belch me back up onto it. So I get to my feet and I'm wiping the tears out of my eyes, and I realized I'm no longer the dominant partner in this relationship. I had no choice but to finish the monologue. And so somehow it came back to me, word by word. I went total Manson on those motherfuckers, saying I was gonna paint the wall with their blood. And they loved it. Now, afterwards, I went home two doors down, and I was thinking, wow, everyone said the same thing. They didn't care at all if I had fucked up parts of it or not. They thought it was the best bit of the night. But I didn't fully understand what that night's significance was until many years later. Just a couple years ago, I was listening to the radio and I heard a concert by Bob Dylan in 1964 at Avery Fisher hall in Lincoln Center. A big deal. He's only 23 years old. It's a suit and tie kind of affair. And he starts into a song. He plays a little riff, and he plays it again and again and again and again. And I'm like, what the fuck is going on with this concert? And he finally stops and he says to the audience, do any of you know how the lyrics to this song starts? And they yell it out to him, and he finishes the song. And when I heard that, I thought, oh, my God, that takes me back to luna Lounge in 96. Because at that time, I was so obsessed with this idea that my team was gone and there was no one to catch me if I fell. But the truth was, there was a team I could reach out to that night. There were people all over the room who caught me when I fell. So remember that if you ever find yourself in a situation like that where you're staring at a group of people and you feel like you're all alone, I'll bet they think you can do it. Thank you. Well, I am sorry. I'm so excited, folks. We have so many wonderful stories and wonderful storytellers. We have some folks here from New York, and we have some folks from the local scene here, folks who have done a lot of work with First Person Arts already. The first person I want to bring up is someone who's very near and dear to my heart. Because if it wasn't for Julia, there might not be a risk. It was Julia's show, Strip Stories, that kind of introduced me to this format. It was the first place where I really took a risk and walked away understanding, wow, that was Amazing. And it got me thinking of doing this very show. She's also on VH1 on a regular basis and on, I think, the Playboy Channel with a show called Foursome. Walk of Shame. But she doesn't get naked in it. She just makes fun of people who do. Please welcome Julia Rossi.