an email to my friend jeff who quit his job as a bartender at a red lobster in connecticut and wants to be a stand-up comedian but won’t move to l.a. because he doesn’t like planes.

you don’t fly to LA. you drive here. you rent a shitty, shitty apartment in venice beach. you walk into any bar or restaurant and beg for a job waiting tables or washing dishes. you go to open mics every night of the week because we have them every night of the week. you get on stage and deliver material. it sucks. you get booed. you learn how to be funnier. you take classes at upright citizens brigade and second city. you write terrible comedy sketches with other terrible wannabe comedians. you eventually, inexplicably get paid $50 a month to do a terrible sketch show at UCB or IOWest. you get drunk every night and eat a lot of tacos. you run into random celebrities at shitholes in hollywood. you make fun of the valley. people stop booing at you and start laughing with you. you get paid in drinks to do stand-up with 10 other comics on a $5 bill at a shitty bar. you keep getting drunk. you record stupid but occasionally accidentally funny youtube videos. you tweet 30 jokes a day. you get 5,000 twitter followers. you get 10,000 views on your shittiest video yet. you audition for a 3-minute standup spot on “conan.” you get rejected. you get cast in a 2-line role in an awful kevin james movie. you move from your shitty venice beach apartment into a shittier hollywood apartment. you’re doing standup 6 nights a week and friends start asking you to fly to NYC to be on their shitty bills at lousy brooklyn clubs. they pay for your flight and your drinks. a well-known comedian invites you to open for him in seattle and portland. you write a screenplay. you get an agent. after your 10th tryout you finally get that 3-minute spot on “conan.” you have small parts in 3 sitcoms in 2017. you no longer wait tables. you’re funny for a living. because you worked hard at it and because your know-it-all-friend told you to stop whining and go do it.

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