Watching the world pass me by

There is a pernicious tendency in stand up comedy (and other arts, I'm sure), to strike a spark of jealousy against the flint of others' progress. That is, there are people who will quickly develop a hostility (if not outright hatred) for those that they see succeeding, paying dues and making some kind of progress. How awful.

It is childish and short-sighted and actually detrimental to the one who embraces this way of thinking. It is as clear as any an example of the adage: "Anger is like a hot stone; while you hold it and consider throwing it at your enemy, it is you who is burned." My apologies for a rough paraphrase; it's off the top of my head.

But I am wary as I find myself grinding my teeth in frustration as I see my "peers" (the word is used loosely here, as some are 'above' and some are 'below' me, in my estimation. It matters not) beginning to excel. Nick Larson is talented with photography and image editing. Aaron Kromann is cunning with visual arts. Saul Trujillo is much younger than me, and is becoming skilled and respected in the game of comedy.  They all work at it.

These are just a few examples; there are more. It chafes. It burns, occasionally, that these people are "moving up," as the typical sour grapes, left-behind comedy practitioner might put it. I've had ideas, inspiration for shows or writing or lighting or sound or sponsorship or whatever the hell. And I've let them languish, for some reasons that are understandable and for some reasons that are indefensible, like laziness, fear of being outside a comfort zone, or for the inexplicable, incommunicable motivations that all humans experience on their way to not getting things done.

The difference is (and I am very glad there is a difference) that I understand I don't suffer because they progress. I am happy to see each and every one of the shit-encrusted baboons scrape away the caked-on scum of lethargy and lack (some of these poor assholes don't have a car) and failure off of their miserable hides and attain some "next level" of achievement. Kromann put out a terrific piece of illustration that proudly accompanies the current withering pseudo-rivalry of the MAMA awards this year. Each "MAMA-nee" has put effort and inspiration together and come up with something of which they should be proud. Saul made a fine video. Kromann, his illustration, masterfully done. Even Jason Sohm wrote something legible, I think. El Roberto has nicely posted his proximity to insanity for all to see, and I think it's touching.

And I don't begrudge the any of it. Unlike your typical hater, I see that their success does not equal my failure. It is not a zero-sum game where anything they reap comes out of my harvest.  I am truly happy for each of them when they do well, succeed, "pass."  I've seen all of them, every single one, eat their own excrement in front of a spindly, apathetic crowd, and so I feel that I know them. I am in touch with their humility, even if they are not (but to their credit, I think they all are well aware of their foibles).

But still, I am unsettled. I am bothered to see them make something wonderful. *I* should be making something wonderful. I should have been out working on my abilities last year, when I so smugly considered what I *could* do and left it for later, instead of what I *would* do.

And this is at the heart of my dilemma. Encouragingly, I believe that the only real, productive competition is with that fellow in the mirror. The only person to compare yourself to is the person you were yesterday, or today. Or where you thought you'd be tomorrow. If you can outpace THAT guy, then you have won something. If you can surprise him, and widen *his* eyes a little bit, *then* you have accomplished something.

And I have not impressed that ugly jerk in a while. That hard marker sits and languishes and taps his foot disdainfully and impatiently at my reticence and laziness and chuckles not-so-softly at my sloth, and waits for me to get my shit together and stop making excuses and get uncomfortable and risk my effort and pride and do something I don't know that I can do yet. That prick judges harshly, and I've given him no reason not to laugh derisively and dismiss me.

It pains me to sit in the middle (okay, closer to the beginning) of "the race" and watch runners zip by - "zip... zip... zip-zip..." as I sit in my aluminum lawn chair and numbly search the cooler for one more beer amongst the chunks of ice.

That pang is motivational, if you let it be.