02/13/03

The cigarette smoke forms a light haze in front of the stage at the Cleveland Improv. The microphone is alone onstage, standing in front of an imposing brick wall.

At the back of the room, seven aspiring comics watch as the audience files in and people begin taking their seats around small round tables. The waitresses move in and start hustling drink orders.

Jim Broniec, 25, one of the "graduates" of a comedy workshop who will be performing tonight, paces and smokes, paces and smokes.

Doug Duke, 20, wears a knit cap, a black, hooded sweatshirt that states "Scarface" and track pants. He is bearded and large, in a non-athletic way. He seems ready for a party; he's brought about 20 friends with him from Valley City, frog capital of Ohio, to watch his comedy debut.

Larena Krohe, a 25-year-old with vivid red hair, runs among the tables to talk to the friends and family who form her posse of 28. She checks her pockets for Kleenex, a visual aid for her act.

Along with these newbies is me, The Plain Dealer fashion editor, who decided to take a stand-up comedy class as a way to brighten up a dull January. But there's more to it than that - I was a comedy junkie long before I thought about taking the stage myself.

I read biographies of comedians, watch them perform and use tapes of favorite situation comedies the way others use chocolate and cigarettes.

It didn't dawn on me until I saw a newspaper ad for the class that maybe I could learn to give as many laughs as I've gotten.

So now I am one of four novices in this group of seven. I have practiced my five-minute stand-up act about 25 times over the weekend, and by now, it isn't remotely funny to me. But my heart isn't pounding like it was two days before, when I first did my full act in front of my classmates and our teacher, Dave Schwensen. Now, my biggest fear is that I'll forget my set.

I've consumed half a glass of white wine; any more than that, I've been warned, and my timing might be off (which presupposes I have any timing).

Yes, I've got wine, and I'm talking to God. "Please," I say to him. "Help me out with this memory thing and let me get one good laugh."

Our class also includes three comedy veterans. Jeff Darling, 31, drove from Columbus to Cleveland every Saturday to take the class. Yates Walker, 23, a college student at John Carroll University, has taken Schwensen's workshop twice before and has performed at several dozen open-mike nights. Mike Wypasek, 47, a real estate lawyer, is back in Schwensen's class for the fifth time. He's already performed at about 70 open-mike nights, as well as a few paid gigs.

The newcomers have had 12 hours of class time. Now we're ready to take the stage in front of a crowd of some 100 people. It's the same stage where I had seen comedian Brett Butler perform four days earlier - which is kind of neat, and kind of intimidating.

In 15 minutes, the show begins. It's hard to believe I began this only a couple of weeks ago.

*

It's 12 degrees as I drive to the Improv. In side, it doesn't feel a whole lot warmer; cool air is coming out of the vents. But Schwensen had warned us that it would be chilly; he also told us to bring snacks and something to drink during our four-hour class, because just about everything at the Powerhouse is closed.

On this first day, I meet Krohe, Duke, Broniec and Darling.

Another woman is there, too. Carol Osborne, a tanned blonde, is wearing a midriff-baring top and talks about an appearance on "Baywatch," which belies her occupation. She's a veterinarian in Chagrin Falls. Osborne says she wants stage experience so she can appear on infomercials to sell anti-aging supplements she invented for dogs.

Schwensen introduces himself. Besides having been a stand-up comic in New York, he managed the Improvs in New York and Los Angeles and booked talent for Comedy Central, "The Tonight Show" and the "Late Show With David Letterman." Now, he's back in Vermilion, with a wife and two children.

"People may tell you you're funny. That's a good start," he says. "But it's very different from doing it up here. I'll teach you how to put an act together."

Now it's our turn to explain ourselves.

Duke says his friends tell him he's funny. He's watched comedy on TV since he was a kid, and he's a big fan of Adam Sandler.

Krohe says she has been a "ham" since childhood. "I've got ADD and all through school I was always goofing off," she says. "I think it'd be fun to get paid for what I got in trouble for in school."

Broniec, who works as a systems engineer for the Thompson, Hine law firm in Cleveland, says he has had an interest in comedy since college. He says, "Sometimes I hear voices. Actor's voices. Like Jack Nicholson telling me to get my [butt] out of bed in the morning."

I tell the class that I like giving speeches and presentations, usually on the topic of fashion. The best part is making people laugh.

We take turns getting onstage, talking about the parts of our lives that we think might be fodder for comedy.

Duke talks about how he spends his time in Valley City in Medina County. He doesn't have a regular job.

"Mostly my buddies and I hang out, eating, playing video games," he says.

Schwensen gets him to tell us specifics about his friends, like the only friend who is better than Duke is at "mooching."

Krohe, a hair stylist who lives in Amherst, has thought a lot about her act. She tells us she does her best thinking in the shower or on the toilet. That's when funny things occur to her, such as the idea that when cats use the litter box, it must be like visiting the beach. Then she launches into a story about the time she tried out for the play "Cats" in high school. She taps out a little dance to the "Meow Mix" theme song.

Broniec, who lives in Strongsville, does a few dead-on impressions of Christopher Walken and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Schwensen suggests how he might weave them into his storytelling.

I talk about the part of my life I think is the ripest source of humor - being single and dating. I share a few stories that I think are funny about my friends' and my efforts at dating, about men and women who are cheap and the weird ways they save money.

"You've got really great material that will resonate with a lot of people," Schwensen says. "Relationship stuff is always good."

*

Osborne is not here to day, and Krohe has called in sick. The more experienced comics, Walker and Wypasek, join the class. That means I'm the only woman.

I had noticed at an open-mike night that the Improv had the previous Monday that 12 men performed, and no women.

"Why do you think more women aren't doing comedy, especially in Cleveland?" I say.

"I don't think women are funny," Walker says. He isn't smiling.

Broniec is more tactful. "Men have a stupid gene. They're not afraid to be stupid. Women are more rational," he says.

Schwensen points out all the successful female comics on the national circuit: Sarah Silverman, Ellen DeGeneres, Margaret Cho, Rita Rudner, Brett Butler, Janeane Garofalo. He says there are a few in Cleveland, too.

"It comes down to the dedication of doing it, hitting the open-mike nights as often as you can," he says.

*

Today, four of us - Krohe is back, but Osborne, the veterinarian, didn't return to class - will do something we've never done: try to deliver a five-minute act that is funny.

Wypasek, the attorney, warns the novices: "This is the toughest room you'll face. It's cold in here, there's only seven of us here, we're tired, and we've heard your material before. The audience will give you a lot of energy on Monday."

Good. Because I don't feel anything other than the adrenaline coursing through my body and giving me palpitations. To me, this is the hardest part: the first time I do my set in front of an audience. I've got my notes and a minicassette recorder to tape my performance and Schwensen's comments.

I'm remembering Walker's words - "Women aren't funny" - and my heart keeps thudding. I halt, sometimes, and look at my notes. And I get occasional laughs. Somehow, I muster the courage to tell an off-color anatomy joke about men. More laughs, but I decide I won't share that one with Monday night's audience, which will include friends and colleagues.

My panic motivates me. I know that unless I practice a lot this weekend, I will make a fool of myself. I spend much of the next two days rehearsing my act into a spoon, pretending it's a microphone.

*

It's nearly showtime.

Schwensen, our teacher, has handed us a paper showing the order in which we'll perform. I'm relieved to see that I'm near the end. It will give me more time to run through my act in my head.

The master of ceremonies, who calls himself Mr. Shan, takes the stage to warm up the crowd. Then Duke goes on. His routine is filled with scatological references, including one about Valley City's neighboring community, Brunswick. His friends in the audience are loving it. Next up, Krohe improvises a new routine about her recent sinus infection and recites a jingle about nasal secretions.

Broniec does his impression and tells some Akron and airport jokes.

Everyone's getting laughs. This is good.

Now it's my turn.

Mr. Shan announces my name, and I climb the four steps to the stage. I grab the mike but can't get it out of the stand. Finally I succeed, then move the mike stand behind me, as Schwensen taught us - to look professional.

It's hard not to squint. The stage lights are so bright, all I can see are red dots - the candles on the tables. Later, I learn that I'm too far back on the stage, a sign of timidity. I feel like I'm speaking into an empty room, but somehow, my voice comes out calmly.

I move through my routine. I think I hear laughs, but I can't tell how loud they are, or how many people besides my friends are laughing. I feel disconnected, almost as if someone else is onstage.

I begin a bit on the singles ads. "Did you ever notice how everyone in the personal ads is attractive?' I mean, isn't that just the problem in Cleveland - there are so many damn attractive people here! Really, if it wasn't for the weather, I'd swear I was in Southern California."

I segue into a story about a date with a guy who owned a boat. He is so cheap that he charges his friends for gasoline when he takes them for a ride. I admit I went out with him. "But when I saw the vending machines in the galley, that was it for me."

Finally, it's over. I leave the stage, and my classmates pat me on the arm. Some hug me and tell me I did great.

I'm not sure how I did, but I do know this: Stand-up is the toughest thing I've ever done, much harder than giving a speech. There, you're still informing the audience even if they don't laugh at your jokes. Comedy is very different: If nobody laughs, you have failed. And you know it immediately.

And it's so easy to screw up. Mess up the delivery, use the wrong cadence, and the joke dies. When you don't get a laugh where you're sure you will, the silence is a chasm.

But I want to do it again. I want to get better. It feels natural to tell stories to strangers, like I do with my friends.

The other novices from the class feel the same.

"I had a blast," Duke says. "I wasn't sure I'd be good at it, but I got laughs."

Broniec says: "It went so fast. You know Cloud 9? I was on about Cloud 38! . . . I think now that all is said and done, I have kind of a deep inner sense that this can work for me."

Krohe grins widely.

"I was nervous today," she says. "If I'd have been at work, I'd probably have been screwing up people's hair. But once I got up there, I wasn't nervous at all - I thought the stuff I improvised up there was the funniest stuff I did."

She's confident about her comedic future. "I'm waiting to get my video so I can mail it to clubs and get myself an agent," she says.

Duke wants to start making a movie about Valley City.

Broniec and I tell each other we'll stick to open-mike nights for now. Working a bar where half the people are shooting pool or talking to each other is an extreme exercise in humility.

But as our teacher Schwensen advised our class over and over: "Stage time. Stage time."

*

To reach this Plain Dealer reporter:

etheiss@plaind.com, 216-999-4542