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Matt starts with a defense of boredom — specifically the stale-donut, mediocre-coffee, studying-the-carpet-pattern boredom of a conference breakout room. Because a bored audience is the greatest opportunity a speaker can ask for. When everyone’s tuned out, anything genuinely new snaps them back to attention. And newness, he notes, is finite by definition. A president is a lame duck by year six; anyone hot for a minute disappears if they don’t reinvent. The trick is to use your newness while you have it, and to keep finding fresh ways to say things when you don’t.
He proves it with a story from high school: a Rotary scholarship winner standing up at the local club lunch, cracking playful jokes across every political persuasion in the room without insulting anyone, and lighting the place up simply by being the novel kid who jazzed up their usual meal. They told him to come back anytime — a standing stage, lunch included — and his real regret is that he didn’t take it more often. Two lessons fall out of that afternoon. First, paint slightly outside the lines: be a little novel, a little unexpected, from a place of joy rather than provocation. Second, and more durable — get into a community and use it as your laboratory. Comedians grind through dive bars and hecklers before HBO; you need the same, a room of people who like and respect you enough to tell you when a bit lands and when you’ve stepped over a line. Your stage doesn’t need ten thousand seats. It can be a networking group, a mastermind, or a microphone at your desk. The catch is reciprocity: you don’t get fed unless you feed it. It’s gardening. The question for today: what’s the stage you’ll join or build?
By Matt Stone Enterprises5
66 ratings
Matt starts with a defense of boredom — specifically the stale-donut, mediocre-coffee, studying-the-carpet-pattern boredom of a conference breakout room. Because a bored audience is the greatest opportunity a speaker can ask for. When everyone’s tuned out, anything genuinely new snaps them back to attention. And newness, he notes, is finite by definition. A president is a lame duck by year six; anyone hot for a minute disappears if they don’t reinvent. The trick is to use your newness while you have it, and to keep finding fresh ways to say things when you don’t.
He proves it with a story from high school: a Rotary scholarship winner standing up at the local club lunch, cracking playful jokes across every political persuasion in the room without insulting anyone, and lighting the place up simply by being the novel kid who jazzed up their usual meal. They told him to come back anytime — a standing stage, lunch included — and his real regret is that he didn’t take it more often. Two lessons fall out of that afternoon. First, paint slightly outside the lines: be a little novel, a little unexpected, from a place of joy rather than provocation. Second, and more durable — get into a community and use it as your laboratory. Comedians grind through dive bars and hecklers before HBO; you need the same, a room of people who like and respect you enough to tell you when a bit lands and when you’ve stepped over a line. Your stage doesn’t need ten thousand seats. It can be a networking group, a mastermind, or a microphone at your desk. The catch is reciprocity: you don’t get fed unless you feed it. It’s gardening. The question for today: what’s the stage you’ll join or build?

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