I performed in front of Hannibal Buress

I spoke at a conference in Victoria, Canada, last month. It was an extraordinary three days spent with some of the most accomplished and fascinating people I’ve ever met.

I was also lucky enough to have two friends from Connecticut joining me, including storyteller Ellen Last, who performed and taught alongside me.

She was pretty extraordinary.

I told stories, taught storytelling, performed comedy, and ran a workshop on how to write jokes.

While I was onstage attempting to tell stories to make people laugh, comic legend Hannibal Buress was in the room as one of the conference attendees. I was told that he was recording one of my stories with his phone.

When I was teaching a workshop on writing jokes, Hannibal Buress — award-winning, world-renowned comic  — was seated in the back of the room, watching me.

I had not planned for any of this.

I’ve told people that I’ve never felt nervous performing onstage, probably for a variety of reasons:

Unjustified levels of confidenceAn unholy lack of concern over what most people think of meA keen awareness of how quickly a poor performance is forgottenEndless amounts of forgiveness for myself

Probably, most important:

Once you’re tortured by murderers at gunpoint — gun to head, trigger pulled — nothing ever seems so scary or difficult.

Perspective is a powerful thing. I wouldn’t wish my particular brand of perspective on anyone, but if given a time machine, I wouldn’t change it, either.

But performing comedy in front of the great Hannibal Buress?

And teaching comedy in the presence of Hannibal Buress, who has more funny in his pinkie finger than I have in my entire body?

I thought to myself, “If I’m ever going to feel real nervousness, this might be it.” Then I took the stage.

Did I feel nervous?

Thankfully, no.

I wanted Hannibal to love my comedy.

I wanted him to think my methods of joke writing were insightful and brilliant.

I very much wanted to make him laugh.

But nervousness?

No.

Excitement for sure. I was filled with elevated levels of expectation and a deep desire to perform well, but not nervousness.

And if Hannibal hated my comedy or thought my joke writing strategies were nonsense, would that have upset me?

Not really. I would’ve been disappointed in myself for failing to take advantage of this unique opportunity, and I would’ve been annoyed at my inability to perform to my standards of excellence, but again, I’m exceptionally forgiving of myself.

It was Hanibal Buress, after all. A comic legend. Impressing him was going to be exceedingly difficult regardless of the circumstances.

I also know that poor performances are quickly forgotten. If Hannibal hated my performance, he wouldn’t be thinking about it or me an hour later. By the end of the day, I’d be entirely forgotten.

A missed opportunity, for sure, but not a career destroyer.

Besides, everyone bombs. Even the great Hannibal Buress bombs.

I was also keenly aware that this was Hannibal Buress, comic legend, but also Hannibal Buress, human being. He’s exceptionally skilled at making people laugh, but we all have singular talents. He probably can’t teach a class of fifth graders, write a novel, or avoid three-putting for multiple rounds of golf in a row like me.

I can almost certainly cook a better egg than he can.

We’re both just people. We do some things well, some things poorly, and most things in between.

An audience is also just people.

A room full of some of the most accomplished and fascinating people I’ve ever met is also just a room full of people.

Perhaps this is also why I don’t get nervous speaking in front of audiences, and perhaps why you shouldn’t, either. An audience might consist of many faces and twice as many eyes and ears, but each one is a singular human being, just like you.

Like you, they all have dreams and flaws. Hopes and failures. Wishes and fears. They have all enjoyed moments in the sun and suffered long days in the shadows.

They are all just people like you. Nothing to be nervous about. Nothing to fear. Just human beings hoping to be entertained.

Even if one of them happens to be comic legend and genius Hannibal Buress.

On the last day of the conference, I spoke to Hannibal at a picnic beside a lake. I told him that I loved his comedy and thought he was brilliant.

He said, “I like what you do, too.”

Did he really mean those words?

I’m going to assume he did, because I also believe in being kind to yourself whenever possible.
Assuming the best intentions.
Finding your fuel wherever you can.
Telling yourself the best story possible.

We all deserve every bit of sunshine that you can get.

I caught a ray of sunshine that day when a comic legend said that he liked what I did, even if he was being a little generous.