“Hey Dan, we’re going to cancel the late show--not enough tickets sold. Sorry buddy.”

I sit in a greenroom on a maroon couch that was most likely a completely different color when it was carried into this comedy club several decades ago. It might have been bright red when the first ass, belonging to some vaudeville performer, imprinted itself on its cushion. I’ll bet even back then performers would often be told something similar, like “Hey hep-cat, we had to 86 the late show. Not enough swingers and kittens doing the Charleston through the front door.”

For a stand up comedian, there are generally two shows a night: the early show and the late show. The club will cancel a show if the ticket sales aren’t enough to justify the cost of staying open, but they don’t make this decision until they’re absolutely sure they can’t make any money. It’s cruel, but it’s an old cruelty, like illness or being forced to listen to a coworkers favorite music. I feel as though I’m playing part in an ancient tradition of performers as I meekly accept what the manager has just told me.

“Yeah sure, no problem, the early show is going to be fun,” I say, as he gives me a sympathetic nod and exits, closing the door behind him, trapping me in the strange mildewed air of the green room. The smell is thick with the flop sweat of countless acts before me. I sit and think about how I’ve failed before I’ve even gotten on stage, failed in the ever present challenge of every live performer in history. I’ve failed to sell enough tickets.

There was a time in my career when I didn’t consider ticket sales. I was a beautiful little minnow swimming through the murky waters of comedy, where all was new and nothing was expected of me. I would show up to a venue and the booker would say, “sorry, we didn’t sell a lot of tickets,” and I’d say, “who cares, there’s a microphone, right? What’s there to worry about?” Little did I know that the booker most likely went home after those shows and drank even more hand sanitizer than show bookers usually drink. My first experience wrangling an audience came in 2022, and god, did it hurt.

I had just amassed a decent-sized following by posting myself telling jokes while washing dishes in my sink. My minor success, coupled with my ever-expanding ego, turned me into the most volatile and damaged archetype possible: a man who is drunk on a very, very, small amount of power.

My arrogance ballooned to maximum capacity when famous booker Frank P messaged me. He asked if I wanted to headline an iconic Los Angeles venue. I said yes immediately. I had headlined in San Diego before, and, even though the venue I performed at drew its own crowd, I felt that I was responsible for at least a few ticket sales. When I was done messaging Frank I posted a story that said I would be headlining in LA and everyone should buy tickets now.

I put my phone down, put my head on my pillow, and fantasized about the virtual stampede that was now taking place to buy tickets. LA was a huge city, and certainly a high percentage of the people who follow me would rush to buy tickets. The website might crash, the venue might need to add seats, I might need to start a charity in order to launder the money that will undoubtedly be injected into my pockets in one month’s time. I didn’t think much about the show after that, seeing a sell-out as an inevitability. Three weeks passed, and I received a text message from the booker. I’ve received this message many times and in many forms since then, and no matter how many times it flashes across my screen, it always causes a pit of unfathomable depth to form in my stomach.

“Hey Dan, we only have three tickets sold for your show. Could you maybe post about it again?”

I studied the words to be sure I read them right. Three tickets? Did he mean three hundred? Was the message intended for a lesser act, like Jeff Dunham and his puppets? How will the puppets react? I bet Peanut will have ALOT to say about this one.

Unfortunately I read the message correctly, and more unfortunately, Jeff Dunham manages to sell more tickets than me to this day, just because he’s more talented and likable. The world is as cruel as it is unfair.

I went back on Instagram, more desperate this time. I used the word please about five times.

“Hey, please buy tickets now. We need to get an idea of how many people are going, so please get your tickets now and please tell your friends before I “please” myself in the head with a gun,” I wrote.

Under pressure, I am an incredible and persuasive writer. Unfortunately, my message went unheeded, and I arrived at the venue with six tickets sold. As though having three more people than expected had the potential of raising my spirits, the booker informed me that the other three were comped tickets he gave to tourists who he met at a spin class. I did my act in front of three audience members and three fitness enthusiasts, all of them brought together by a shared desire to politely nod as I told jokes and looked out at the mostly empty room. Going into my closer, I watched a janitor start sweeping, getting an early jump on a purposeless night of work. The venue was just as clean as when I found it.

I greeted the three audience members. They were very nice and told me they had a great time. This was surprising because I could see their faces the entire show and their expressions told a different story. The stationary cyclists were equally, and eventually more enthusiastic than the people who came to see me on purpose. I waved goodbye to the tragedy-stricken-family-sized crowd and went back to my car. The car is a wonderful place to scream because of its soundproof nature, but you have to be careful of the fact that the front window is see through. Otherwise you run the risk of screaming in anger, then opening your eyes to see all six recent audience members staring at you with grave concern. You may then have to smile and wave, thinking you’re putting the car in reverse, slamming into the car in front of you, then driving away.

That booker stopped booking me, and I embarked on my long journey of acceptance, perseverance, and tampered expectations. I learned that having a following does not mean you have a bunch of people who are willing to pay money, leave their homes, and see you. My videos are luckily humor-based (at least, when I write them well,) so it’s not like I have zero crossover. Maybe somewhere there is a person who makes taxidermy “how-to” videos who wants to cross over into standup. He would most likely have a harder time making that switch, even though his material would be easier to write. That being said, I struggle to sell tickets compared to other standup comedians with similar or smaller followings, and that can be hard to accept.

I began to go on the road under similarly-false preconceptions about what followers mean. I would go to a city where I had ten thousand followers, and ten would show up. The ten that did show up got a good show. I have been doing standup for much longer than I’ve been making videos, but nevertheless, it’s hard to perform in rooms so small you don’t have to move your head to see everyone. If you’re selling a bunch of tickets on the road, you have the potential to have fun when you fly out to perform. You can afford to bring your friends, and afford to buy those friends matching sequin jumpsuits that you require them to wear at all times. Real fun. But if you don’t sell a lot of tickets, your experience is wildly different.

I get on the plane to my shows nervous about whether I will make enough money to justify the flight, and I stay in the hotel the comedy club provides, if the comedy club provides accommodations. If I’m left to get my own hotel, I look for the cheapest place that hasn’t been mentioned in an article about a local homicide in the last six months. Because of that rule, Motel 6 is almost always out of the question.

Leading up to the show, I am checking and refreshing the ticket count about ten times an hour, imagining what performing in front of the meager number will feel like. After shows, I am constantly trying to think up ways I can charm the manager so they will have me back at the club. I’ve considered resorting to doing magic tricks for them.

Not all the shows on my last tour were poorly sold, but enough were to give me a sense of fear over my upcoming tour. I want to be clear: I have no issue performing for small crowds. I’ve performed for a single couple before, and will happily do it again (as long as it’s not the same couple--they left halfway through my set. I don’t know why they left, though I assume we can take agoraphobia off the table.)

My fear as it relates to ticket sales is not selling enough to stay on the road. There is a limit to what a booking agent is willing to do for you. I have a wonderful booking agent, so wonderful that I know he has better things to do with his time than gamble on having me as a client for the rest of his life (but Ben, if you’re reading this, please keep believing in me. I will make over $2,000 in a year some day, you just wait.) So my fear is ever-present and has been for the last two years. You might think my anxiety is unsustainable, but almost every performer feels this way. Just look at every career comedian, who hasn’t died from overdose or suicide, or their wife killing them...okay, maybe it is unsustainable.

Every comedian feels this way, even the famous ones. My friend Laura Peek, who is extremely funny and professional but is not yet a celebrity, was recently talking to Mark Normand, a famous comedian. She was telling him that she was worried about ticket sales in Chicago, and Mark looked at her and said, “hey...me too! Comedy!”

It’s hard to imagine a man who regularly sells out theaters being worried about anything other than what kind of wrap to get around his solid-gold Porsche, but they have anxiety too. You don’t get into comedy because you have a healthy relationship to rejection and acceptance--you measure yourself off of how funny you are, and how many people want to see you. The second you sell a show out is the second you start thinking, dang it, I should have done a bigger venue.

Like most things, this problem is remedied by being in the moment. I think my comedy career has huge upward potential, and some day I’ll be doing theaters and disappointing certain people at a much higher level. The trick is enjoy the seats that are filled now, instead of thinking about the seats you want to fill in the future. I have a phrase that I invented, so if you see this phrase somewhere else just know they stole it from me: “Never do anything you think you’re too good for.”

I’ve seen comedians making asses out of themselves because they think they’re beyond the show they’re performing on. It’s gross and off putting and disrespectful. Someone who bought tickets has devoted time and money to you, and they deserve to get your undivided attention. There is nothing grosser than someone who thinks they’re better than what is in front of them. Right now I am selling about 20-50 tickets a city. Next year it might be 100, in three years it might be 1000, but none of that matters now. What matters is who shows up tonight. With that being said, consider coming to a show--here is the link.

Tickets to all upcoming shows

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