CringeHumor

The first time I ever performed in a comedy club was at the Funniest Jewish Comedian contest at Stand Up NY for amateurs. I didn’t know what to expect and had no idea how big the comedy world was. I thought I would be going up against Jerry Seinfeld in the contest. Of course, I was in for a rude awakening when I went up against a guy who read jokes off a printed synagogue newsletter or index cards. Then he just tossed them into the audience every time one of them bombed. All of the other acts were similarly bad in different ways. The MC was legendary Catskills comedian Freddy Roman. The audience was comprised of middle age, Orthodox Jews from Long Island who had come out to see their friends be funny. It was a bringer show disguised as a contest, but none of us even knew what a bringer show was. As with any bringer show, it’s billed as having one or two quote on quote professional comedians on the show or surprise guests.

Midway through the show, one of our surprise guests showed up. He was a big black guy in a baseball cap. For about 20 minutes, he horrified the Jewish audience with jokes about fingering women and different ways to shoot cum on people’s faces. When I popped my head in once or twice, I heard groans or gasps or whispers about how it was inappropriate. One of my relatives came up to me after and said, “I hope you’re not going to be this guy.” That guy turned out to be one of the greatest comedians New York City ever produced. And I later got to know him as Patrice O’Neal.

It wasn’t until three years that I started to immerse myself into the NYC comedy scene and determined that this was I wanted to do with my life. Back then, we used to do tons of open mics, bringer shows, bark for stage time, and then, when all our shows were done, we’d head down to the late shows at the Comedy Cellar to watch the pros in action. The shows at that time revolved around the same comedians: Jim Norton, Bobby Kelly, Artie Furqua, Dave Attell, DC Benny, Dave Chapelle, Hood, Modi, Rich Voss, Colin Quinn, Keith Robinson, Greg Giraldo, and Patrice O’Neal.

I immediately became inspired by Patrice and I thought he was one of the funniest guys I had ever seen. During and after the shows, the comedians would sit upstairs around the table in the back and usually Patrice or Colin Quinn would hold court. This was a concept that later evolved into “Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn.” I used to go there with my friends from the open mics, sit at the next table, and listen in. We just wanted to be near the greatness.

I don’t know if this is the first time Patrice spoke to me but it’s the first recollection I have of it. I walked up to Olive Tree Café late one night wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt. Patrice looked at me and said that I looked like a walking baked potato. I think there are very few people who you want to be ripped on because it feels like an honor. You always hear about the great Don Rickles and how back in the day everyone in Hollywood would show up to his shows so they could be ripped on by him. In our day, this person was Patrice. And no one knew how to rip on you better, funnier, quicker, and more accurately than him. Every time he opened his mouth, and had the intention to be funny, he was just fucking hilarious.

I think Patrice took a liking to me because he saw himself in me. In fact, I know he did, because he told me. I used to have very low self-esteem and I lacked confidence when talking to women. I thought it was weight related, until one day Patrice sat down with me and explained to me that it didn’t matter how heavy you are. When it comes to women, it’s all in the attitude. He gave me pointers and techniques on how to approach girls. More than anything, he gave me confidence in myself. I never looked back and I never had problems talking to women again.

When I started my magazine, The Comical, in 2004, the idea was simple: It was going to be an outlet for comedians to tell funny stories and do funny columns, an inspiration I had after seeing the movie “American Splendor.” There was a problem though. I couldn’t get good comics to write articles for me. I was a barker comedian and the club comics didn’t want to give me the time of day. The only big comic initially willing to jump on board was DC Benny. Even after a few issues had been released, I was still getting a lot of, “Yeah, I’ll send you something,” or other ways of being brushed off by the Cellar acts and mid-level guys.

One night, I was talking with my friend Matty Goldberg, fellow comedian who shared a deep love for Patrice’s work, and I came up with the concept of a Dear Patrice column. I said to Matty wouldn’t it be funny if people wrote in their questions to Patrice and he wrote back in a Dear Abby like fashion. Would he answer them in a real and raw way? The next night I found Patrice at the Comedy Cellar and asked him if he’d do it. He said yes. Matty wrote the first few questions, and a few days later I met Patrice, parked in his SUV, on a corner in Jersey City. I got in the car with a video camera and asked him the questions, which he replied to. We took those, transcribed them, and that became the Dear Patrice column. It was one of our most popular columns for the rest of the magazine’s run. And, it opened the doors to all the rest of the comics who were now coming to me, wanting to be in it.

After the magazine ended, Patrice and I remained friends. I would call him for advice and occasionally he would come by and do my radio show. A few years went by an an opportunity came around. I was asked to write for a new show starring Patrice O’Neal where he would make jokes about the news and hip hop. Myself, Wil Sylvince, and Brian Kennedy were the writers. Our first writer’s meeting was at Wil’s apartment in Jersey City. Patrice showed up with a tiny little white poodle. It was probably the funnies thing to see. I just never would have expected that to be his dog.

Most of that meeting was spent listening to Patrice rip on Brian Kennedy about the fact that he had to leave early. It was one of the funniest things I’ve ever watched. Then we shot around a few ideas for jokes. Patrice picked up his little dog and left. Though the show never got picked up, the fact that I got to write for Patrice and the fact that he liked some of the things I had written and laughed at them was reward enough in itself for me. I was honored to be involved in writing for a genius. And I was touched by the fact that Patrice believed in me.

I once tried to trick Patrice into being in a video I wrote. He figured out right away when he saw the cameras. I told him my plan was to film it and show it to him because I was so confident that he’d love it when he saw it. I didn’t feel I could convince him to do it otherwise. He told me, “Danny, you’re not an amateur anymore. This is some Bush-league bullshit.” He said I had proven already to him that I was funny and that if I wanted him to be in a video, all I had to do was ask and he would do it. A week later, we did. He called me later that night and explained to me that I was a real comedian now and that people should want to be in my projects. Again, he told me to have confidence in myself and in my abilities. That was a major turning point for me in my career, and that conversation had a huge impact on me and the way I did things from then on.

Patrice and I got together the day that George Carlin died. We were both pretty torn up about it. He told me that comedy was pretty much over because we’d lost the last great comedian. I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to sound cheesy, but I remember thinking we hadn’t because he was still alive. Now, I understand how he felt that day.

Patrice was always there for me as a friend, as a mentor, and as a comedic inspiration. A year ago, I had convinced myself I had contracted diabetes. I had a few symptoms that I had read about and I thought my life was over. Lying on the bed, paralyzed with fear, and in a deep depression, I called Patrice, who I knew was diabetic, for advice on how to deal with my newfound illness. He spent about two hours on the phone with me, teaching me how to live with diabetes, telling me the hardships that he’d gone through with it and explaining to me how I’d be ok. The next day, I went to the doctor and did blood tests, only to find out that I didn’t have diabetes. I just had what my girlfriend calls, “Woody Allen Disease,” where I constantly convince myself I’m dying, but there’s nothing wrong with me.

For a few weeks, I was too embarrassed to call Patrice back after the heartfelt conversation he’d had with me to break the news to him that I was fine. I told Bobby Kelly what had happened to see what his advice was. He laughed and said, “I don’t know who is crazier, you for thinking you were dying, or Patrice for indulging you for two hours on the phone. Call him back. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

I called Patrice back a few days later. I was nervous. I said, “Patrice, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I went to the doctor, and found out that I’m fine. I don’t have diabetes.” Patrice, without missing a beat, replied, “Ha! I bet you’re pissed off about all the jokes you just lost. Now don’t think you can go doing those diabetes jokes just because you wrote them. And I know you did. Now, don’t go trying to get diabetes now just so you can use those jokes. In a case like this, you just gotta scrap them and cut your losses.” I told him I was sorry. He told me that he understood, and that it was just some Jewish people shit- that we’re all crazy and it was no big deal.

There are no words to describe the loss, the void, and the emptiness that the entire comedy world now has to face. The other night, I sat in my room, watching Patrice’s latest special and imagining him coming out of that coma and killing it in another special soon after. He’d be laughing in everyone’s faces who thought he was done. That will sadly never be. I hope with time, Patrice’s legacy and legend grows and people appreciate who he was and what he meant to comedy in this generation. He was a father figure, a mentor, and a force. And he was a huge inspiration to us all. He will always be missed.