Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life

by Steve Martin

She didn’t know much about show business, having once told a ventriloquist to move the dummy closer to the microphone.

Laurel and Hardy’s work, already thirty years old, had survived the decades with no hint of cobwebs. They were also touching and affectionate, and I believe this is where I got the idea that jokes are funniest when played upon oneself.

But there was a problem. At age eighteen, I had absolutely no gifts. I could not sing or dance, and the only acting I did was really just shouting. Thankfully, perseverance is a great substitute for talent.

“I am about to do The Tonight Show.” Then I walked out onstage, started my act, and thought, “I am doing The Tonight Show.” I finished my act and thought, “I have just done The Tonight Show.” What happened while I was out there was very similar to an alien abduction: I remember very little of it, though I’m convinced it occurred.

I learned a lesson: It was easy to be great. Every entertainer has a night when everything is clicking. These nights are accidental and statistical: Like lucky cards in poker, you can count on them occurring over time. What was hard was to be good, consistently good, night after night, no matter what the abominable circumstances.

I would sing “I Can See Clearly Now” and walk into the mike.

And my closer, “Well, we’ve had a good time tonight, considering we’re all going to die someday.”