Comedy is hard.

I met Leslie Nielsen once. It remains one of the high points of my so-called journalistic career.

This was back when I was a wee smartass reporter in Boise, working for an alt-weekly with more guts than smarts or money. Nielsen was in town to promote and perform his one-man show about Clarence Darrow, the attorney who represented the people nobody else wanted to touch — labor leaders, murderers and accused bombers.

Nielsen chose Boise as one of the venues because that was where Darrow first came to national prominence defending notorious labor leader "Big Bill" Haywood. The play was going to be performed at the old Idaho Penitentiary, which was where Haywood was held during the trial.

Nielsen even stayed at the Idanha, the same hotel where Darrow set up camp — despite the fact that the Idanha had barely done any renovations since Darrow slept there.

He was a very gracious and kind interview. Darrow was a hero of his — one of mine, too — and he didn't even flinch when my editor burst into the room wearing two pairs of sunglasses, then dramatically whipped one pair off.

"Actually, that was Robert Stack," he said with that perfect deadpan stare.

Nielsen started as a dramatic actor, but he never seemed to look at his transition to comedy as a step down despite so many people asking him that question. Because it wasn't. Look at the huge number of gifted dramatic actors who cannot deliver a punchline to save their lives. Nielsen was able to play the ridiculous in such a way that made it seem real. There was no sense of him slumming, or faking his way through a performance. That's what made it really funny. You believed that he believed the lines, no matter how absurd.

I can't quote him directly, but here's my best paraphrase: never insult your material by assuming you're too good for it. Give it your best, every time.

It's an important lesson. I'm glad I got to meet him.