TINATELLSJOKES - Blog

Comedy Isn’t Code — It’s Connection.

Wed, 22 Oct 2025 15:18:51 GMT

@evaalexocomedian As a comedian, show-runner, and producer in Montreal, I am genuinely INFURIATED. Using POC A.I COMEDIANS to promote your club is ETHICALLY AND MORALLY WRONG. Please tell me your thoughts cuz I am so tired of keeping quiet. #montreal #mtltiktok #montrealtiktok #standupcomedy #mtl ♬ original sound - evaalexocomedian

It’s been a busy time, and I haven’t been able to write — but I’d feel like I was doing a disservice if I didn’t say something.

Before our Tuesday show at Mackay, a fellow comic showed me one of the videos that’s been circulating. My initial reaction was immediate: that’s not something we would ever do at Comedy on Mackay. Social media suicide. I dismissed it right away as another example of how businesses misuse AI — something I’ve seen happen repeatedly until their ventures eventually folded. I brushed it off because, frankly, it wasn’t my show, not my problem.

Then it was brought to my attention again — this time by another comic — that the video had been created using Sora, OpenAI’s new text-to-video model. For those unfamiliar, Sora generates realistic, cinematic footage directly from written prompts. In other words, you can describe a scene, and Sora will create a moving image of it.

However, Eva Alexos from The Kickback posted an argument that made me think more deeply. This isn’t about business models or branding — it’s about what makes comedy so profoundly human: the humans themselves.

As a weekly show, our budget runs on passion and the kindness of the people I’m proud to work with. The money we make in ticket sales goes directly to the comedians. We also offer free footage to our featured and special guests so they can use it for social media, festival submissions, or to send to bookers. I remember when I first started in comedy — a lot of people wouldn’t book me unless I had a 10-minute video or at least five years of experience. That’s a big reason why we keep offering this service on a rolling basis — so that newer comedians can have something tangible to show bookers and grow their careers.

My perspective on this is a little different. Several weeks ago, I wrote a blog about heckling and violence in comedy — and got a fair amount of heat for it, both publicly and privately. Still, I felt it was an important conversation to have, because violent heckling can be genuinely scary. I didn’t think my opinion was controversial — I never named a specific show — but the commentary that followed was bonkers: personal attacks, character jabs, and wild assumptions about my show.

Eva, in her post, faced something similar. She didn’t name any specific club, but the Montreal scene is small — people connected the dots. I completely understand that some shows lack the budget or resources for professional footage, but honestly, even taking photos or videos with your phone can create enough FOMO to draw an audience. Sometimes people prefer that homemade look — it conveys authenticity, something audiences crave. I’m grateful that the people I collaborate with on Comedy on Mackay share that same belief.

To play devil’s advocate, AI can be useful. It helps programmers write code, compare prices, draft emails with the right tone, and even edit grammar errors in academic writing. I’ll admit — I’m so bad at math that I use it to help me budget. But it can’t replace performers, musicians, or artists — the things that make us distinctly human. I truly believe comedians are artists, too. Comedy isn’t just about dick jokes or cheap laughs for vulgarity’s sake — it’s about how we use humour to connect, critique, and reflect.

The problem is much deeper than what we’re seeing. It’s not about a single show or a single comedian — it’s about the ethical use of AI, its effects on the entertainment industry, and how incredibly sophisticated it’s become since the creation of ChatGPT. While Sora might not replace three-armed comedians anytime soon, it does force us to look at how absurd — and revealing — our relationship with technology has become.

How Does Standup Comedy Relate to Life

Thu, 07 Aug 2025 05:39:06 GMT

Quinn Lague performing at the Open Mic at Comedy on Mackay

There are a lot of reasons why people do standup comedy.

Some do it for the pure joy of short-form storytelling—turning life’s absurdities into something others can relate to. Some do it for the attention. Some use it to process the horrific and the terrific—to reclaim their story.

For me, it’s the last one: reclaiming my narrative.

Standup comedy can be one of the most enriching things in life—a way to bring light to the grind of the boring and mundane. But it’s also one of the most honest mediums for understanding failure and resilience in real time. One night you’re killing it; the next, you’re bombing in front of a crowd with your most personal material.

When we think about humour in a broader sense, we think about how it can be to our advantage to disarm a tense room with a laugh—or even by addressing the tension in real time. In the Montreal scene, some of the most authentic comedians have done exactly that.

“How are you doing? I’ve seen you with your arms crossed this entire time.”

That one line can release the tension that had been brewing in that one individual—and the audience feels it too. While some audience members might not be used to, or even welcome, participation in a comedy show, it creates a sense of levity that, as comedians—and as human beings—we often take for granted.

When I think about my life as a musician, we deal with tension and release all the time—similar to standup, except there’s an unpredictability to it. I can practice my instrument for hours and produce something that I know is good. However, with standup, I can recite my set a billion times in front of a mirror, but unless I have control—or a grip on the room—it can fall flat unless I adapt in the moment.

Often, this is what we call riffing—commentary improvised on the spot. When it involves audience interaction, it becomes crowd work, because we’re leaning on the crowd’s energy and response. That spontaneity offers something fresh and new. It allows the audience to feel included in the show—a kind of inclusivity that’s unpredictable, but powerful.

I know it might sound like a strange way to think about standup, but it really does reflect life. We have to talk about the hard, weird, scary, and angry stuff—because those are the very things that can bring us together. That’s how a room full of strangers ends up laughing together.

If you’re new and have never tried standup comedy before, drop by every Tuesday at Comedy on Mackay at 10 PM for our open mic!

How to Do Stand-Up Comedy in a Second Language

Wed, 30 Jul 2025 02:56:20 GMT

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Doing stand-up comedy is one of the most vulnerable things you can do on stage. Now, imagine doing it in a second language — where the rhythm, timing, and slang don’t always land how you practiced them in your head. That’s not just vulnerability — it’s linguistic bungee jumping.

Not many people know this about me, but I speak eight languages: Tagalog, English, Portuguese, Spanish, French, German, Chinese, and Italian. That’s what happens when you live in Europe for eight years and collect languages like Pokémon. But fluency isn’t permanent — it fades if you don’t use it. And when I decided to write and perform my first comedy set in Spanish, one of my favourite languages, I felt all that rust loud and clear.

Still, I wanted the challenge. I have a lot of Latin friends, and I thought, Why not push myself? But right before I went on stage, the questions started spinning:

What if they don’t understand me?
What if I’m not funny in this language?
What if I bomb?

Imposter syndrome hits harder when you’re trying to be funny in a language where even your own jokes feel like strangers.

And weirdly? I did.

I didn’t bomb. I had my notes, I stammered through some of the lines, but I held the mic and delivered. I even realised midway through that my Spanish persona is way more political than my English one. Comedy isn’t just about the jokes—it’s about who you are when you’re up there, and who you become in each language.

The Real Obstacles of Multilingual Comedy

1. Timing, Tone, and Cultural References
In English, I know exactly when to pause, when to push, when to punch. In another language, you’re guessing. You might pause too long. Or not long enough. You might drop a reference that kills in Manila but dies in Montreal.

Tip: Watch local comics in the language you're performing in. Study how they move through their sets, not just the words. Listen for rhythm. Mimic until it becomes your own.

2. Translation Fatigue
If you think Google Translate can save your set, I have a dictionary to throw at you. Jokes don’t just travel across languages—they have to transform. Wordplay? Gone. Emotional tone? Lost in customs.

Tip: Write your jokes directly in the language you’re performing in, even if it’s a mess. You can always clean it up. But trying to retrofit an English joke into Spanish is like forcing a mango into a wine glass. It’s gonna get sticky.

3. Accent Bias
Let’s be real. Some audiences will hear your accent and assume you’re the punchline. It’s frustrating — and it’s real. I’ve had people come up to me after shows saying things like, “Wow, I didn’t expect you to be so articulate.” (Gee, thanks.)

Tip: Take control of the narrative. If you have an accent, name it. Own it. Joke about it before they can weaponise it. It disarms the room and sets the tone: I know who I am—and I’m driving.

4. Double Vulnerability
Comedy is already intimate. Doing it in a second language? That’s taking your emotional underwear off in front of strangers and doing it with subtitles.

Tip: Don’t hide from it. Your in-betweenness is your superpower. You notice things others miss. That friction—that stretch—is funny. Mine it.

The Secret Perk? You’re Instantly More Interesting
Let’s face it. If you're doing comedy in a second (or third) language, you’ve already done something most people wouldn’t even attempt. You’re not just telling jokes—you’re performing cultural translation in real-time. That’s wild. That’s brave. And when it lands? That’s magic.

So if you’re out here grinding mics in your second language, keep going. Whether your jokes are spicy, awkward, or just bilingual — you’re building something special. You’re not just making people laugh. You’re making them listen.

And honestly? That’s worth every “¿cómo se dice punchline?” moment.

As comics, we spend so much time perfecting the rhythm and delivery of our words. But when you're navigating a second language, “perfection” gets replaced by improvisation, charm, and the occasional beautiful mess. And sometimes, that’s where the real laughs live.

To celebrate this linguistic chaos, Comedy on Mackay is launching a new themed show this September: Wronglais — a bilingual night where comedians are encouraged to lean into their mistakes, trip over their tenses, and turn second-language stumbles into punchlines. It’s not about getting it right — it’s about making it funny.

Hecklers, Violence, and the Rise of the "Heckle Mic"

Thu, 24 Jul 2025 18:46:42 GMT

In comedy, hecklers are a known risk. Some are positive hecklers—overexcited audience members who just want to be part of the fun. They act like rowdy cheerleaders, trying to hype the comic up, even if it’s disruptive.

Then there are negative hecklers—people who bring hostility, insecurity, or straight-up aggression into the room. Their interruptions aren’t meant to be funny or helpful—they’re designed to throw a punch, metaphorically (and sometimes literally). They create a toxic energy that can make even the most hardened comics glance toward the exit.

A couple of years ago, comedian Ariel Elias found herself in one of those moments. She was performing at a bar when a woman heckled her mid-set, demanding to know if she had voted for Trump. The situation escalated quickly—the woman’s male companion threw a full can of beer at her. Ariel, in an act of ultimate composure, picked up the beer, opened it, and drank it on stage to the crowd’s applause. She looked calm, but later admitted her hands were shaking.
That video went viral, giving her a career bump—but it raised an important question:

How far is too far?
Since then, some comedy shows have leaned into this chaos by creating heckle rooms—shows where audience members are encouraged to heckle. The idea is to foster raw, unpredictable interactions and sharpen a comic’s crowd work skills. It’s supposed to be fun. Edgy. A challenge.

But let’s be honest: heckling is a skill. A good heckle requires timing, wit, and just enough bite to be funny without derailing the set. Most people don’t have that. So when you pack a room full of amateur audience members who’ve been told “go ahead, be mean,” it can get uncomfortable real fast.

And what’s worse than a bad joke? A bad heckle.

That’s why these shows only work when the host and lineup are exceptionally good. You need comedians who are quick on their feet, confident, and capable of flipping the power dynamic at any moment. Otherwise, it becomes a cringe fest where no one’s having fun.

Some comics do thrive in that chaos. Sam Morril, for example, is a master at heckler takedowns—so much so that a huge chunk of his online presence is built around it. But Sam has been doing this for over 20 years. He’s seen every flavour of heckler. He’s got the reflexes of a stand-up ninja.

Most comics (and audiences) don’t.

So when I hear people pitching “heckle mics” as the next cool format, I get it. But I also cringe a little. I’m not trying to spend my Friday night watching a group of crowd amateurs with no timing or jokes try to roast comics for sport. If I wanted to be heckled with no punchlines, I’d just go on a first date.

Mediocrity Breeds Mediocrity: A Love Letter to Comedy’s Basement Dwellers

Sat, 19 Jul 2025 17:28:27 GMT

You ever watch a comedy show so bad you start questioning your own taste in friends for inviting you? Like, “Damn, did I really go to college with you and sit through this set where a guy just lists types of soup for five minutes?” That’s not just a bad night. That’s what happens when mediocrity becomes the norm. And let me tell you, in comedy, mediocrity isn’t just tolerated—it’s booking gigs.

Look, I get it. Everyone has to start somewhere. We’re all going to bomb. But there’s a difference between taking your lumps and setting up camp in Bombville, population: your same five jokes that never worked. Comedy isn’t just showing up—it’s rewriting, growing, and not treating the stage like your personal therapy session about your ex from 2012.

But when a scene stops challenging itself—when the bar is “you showed up,” and not “you killed or at least tried something new”—that mediocrity becomes contagious. Suddenly, everyone’s doing variations of the same safe jokes. It's like watching the same open mic on loop, except this time it's also a showcase and someone's aunt is in the front row pretending to laugh.

When the bookers don’t push for originality, when the hosts are just there to hear themselves talk, when your fifth “token lineup” still includes the same three white dudes named Kyle... it breeds laziness. It tells comics, “Eh, this is fine.” But comedy wasn’t built on fine. Comedy is chaos. It’s risk. It’s the courage to say something wild and hope it lands.

If we want better shows, we need better standards. And I don’t mean elitist gatekeeping—I mean effort. Rewrite the joke. Try the new bit. Don’t wait for someone else to raise the bar. Be the bar.

Because when you challenge mediocrity, something wild happens—you get comedy that actually makes people feel. Not just polite chuckles. Real laughs. The kind that leave an audience texting their friends, “You have to see this show.”

Let’s stop rewarding “meh” and start pushing for “holy sh*t.”

For comics who give a damn. For audiences who want more than polite chuckles. For anyone who’s ever thought, “Why am I sitting through this?”—we hear you. We have two shows every Tuesday at 8pm and 10pm at N sur Mackay. Get your tickets today!

How to Be a Good Comedy Host: Tips for Keeping the Crowd Engaged

Sun, 22 Jun 2025 04:06:20 GMT

Dawn Ford performing at Comedy on Mackay.

Sometimes as comedians, we walk away from a show where everyone bombed — the comics, the crowd work, the energy in the room — and we console ourselves by blaming the audience. “Tough crowd tonight,” we say, nodding in solidarity, as if we were all helpless passengers on a sinking ship.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: sometimes, it’s not the crowd. Sometimes, the root of that flat, uncomfortable, or low-energy night comes down to how the show was hosted.

And that’s what I want to unpack here — because being a great comedian doesn’t automatically make someone a great host. And vice versa. Hosting is its own craft, with its own responsibilities, and when done well, it can lift an entire room. When done poorly? It can tank a night before it even starts.

🎙 What makes hosting different from just performing?
When you’re the host, you’re not just one of the comics on the bill — you’re the glue holding the whole show together. Your job isn’t just to land your jokes. It’s to:

✅ Set the tone. The audience takes their cues from you. If you’re high-energy, they relax and engage. If you’re awkward or disconnected, they mirror that.
✅ Warm the room. The host bridges that weird gap between people filing in with their drinks and people being ready to laugh. You’re the first impression.
✅ Support the lineup. It’s not about you. It’s about creating the best possible conditions for everyone else to succeed.
✅ Manage the energy. If a set bombs, the host resets the vibe. If a comic kills, the host keeps the momentum going without stepping on the magic.
✅ Handle the unexpected. Drunk heckler? Mic goes out? Weird energy shift? That’s on the host to manage.

🤔 Great comedian ≠ great host (and vice versa)
Some comics absolutely crush as performers — but put them in the host slot, and they fumble the vibe. Why? Because hosting isn’t about being the funniest person on the stage. It’s about being the most generous, the most adaptable, the most attuned to what the room needs right now.

On the flip side, I’ve seen comics who might have tight five minutes, but as hosts they shine: welcoming, quick on their feet, masters of crowd connection. They make the whole night better because they understand their responsibility as stewards of the show.

💡 So what’s the takeaway?
If you’re hosting, it’s not just your job to get your laughs — it’s your job to serve the room. That means thinking beyond your own set:

👉 Are you setting your fellow comics up for success?
👉 Are you keeping the audience engaged and feeling safe to laugh?
👉 Are you managing the pacing, the energy, the flow?

And if you’re booking or running a show, think carefully about who you ask to host. The best comic on your lineup might not be the best host — and that’s okay. Hosting is a skill, and like any skill, it deserves respect.

✨ Final thought
Next time you walk away from a tough show, ask yourself: Was it really the crowd? Or was it how the show was steered? Because hosting isn’t just an opening act — it’s the foundation the whole night is built on, which is what we focus on at Comedy on Mackay! Drop by on Tuesdays at 8pm at NsurMackay.

How to Find Your Comedy Voice: A Guide to 6 Stand-Up Styles

Thu, 12 Jun 2025 07:00:00 GMT

Photographer: Eric Spicely (@spicewonder)

One of the best things about stand-up is that there’s no one way to be funny — and thank God, because if I had to write like Seinfeld or shout like Sam Kinison, I’d have quit ages ago.

Still, I meet so many new comics who ask, “What’s my voice?” like it’s something you pick off a shelf. The truth is: voice comes from trying, failing, and figuring out which style of funny feels like home. So let’s talk about the different kinds of comedy styles out there — and what it actually means to “have a voice” in stand-up.

1. 🧠 Observational Comedy
Think: Jerry Seinfeld, Michelle Buteau, Nate Bargatze
This is the “have you ever noticed...?” genre. It’s clean, clever, and built on everyday absurdities.

✏️ Jokes start with something universal — parking, relationships, elevator buttons — and twist it just enough to make it feel fresh.
🎤 It’s not about your trauma. It’s about that weird guy on the bus.

Great for: Comics with sharp timing, dry wit, and a knack for detail.
Dive deeper: Nate Bargatze’s The Tennessee Kid is a masterclass in observational dry comedy.

2. 💀 Dark Comedy
Think: Anthony Jeselnik, Tig Notaro, Hannah Gadsby
This is where tragedy meets punchline. When done well, it’s fearless. When done poorly… it’s trauma cosplay.

✏️ The goal isn’t just to shock — it’s to reframe pain into something unexpected.
🎤 Jeselnik once said, “Dark comedy is just light comedy for people who’ve seen some shit.”

Great for: Comics with edge, patience, and emotional clarity.
See also: Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette — love it or hate it, it changed the way people think about what stand-up can hold. Watch on Netflix.

3. 🎭 Character-Based Comedy
Think: Maria Bamford, Chris Lilley, Catherine Cohen
This style leans into personas — the more extreme, the better.

✏️ These comics play heightened versions of themselves (or total inventions).
🎤 Maria Bamford switches between voices so fast you feel like you’re at a one-woman show in her brain.

Great for: Comics with acting chops, voice work, and chaos in their DNA.
Want to explore? Maria Bamford’s The Special Special Special is shot in her living room with her parents as the audience. Iconic.

4. 📝 Storytelling
Think: Hasan Minhaj, Mike Birbiglia, Ali Wong
These comics are narrative machines — they don’t just hit you with punchlines, they build worlds.

✏️ Their sets often have arcs, callbacks, emotional beats. It’s stand-up with structure.
🎤 The laugh isn’t always immediate — but when it comes, it hits harder because you’re invested.

Great for: Writers, poets, journal-keepers, overthinkers.
Watch: Mike Birbiglia’s The New One or Ali Wong’s Baby Cobra here.

5. 🌀 Absurdist & Surreal Comedy
Think: Eric Andre, James Acaster, Julio Torres
You’re not sure why it’s funny. It just is.

✏️ These comics break the rules of reality and logic.
🎤 The setup might be “What if a toaster had anxiety?” and somehow… it lands.

Great for: Comics with vivid imaginations and zero fear of bombing.
Essential viewing: James Acaster’s Repertoire is a surreal, color-coded journey through four hour-long specials — all filmed in the same week.

6. 😬 Cringe/Anti-Comedy
Think: Norm Macdonald, Andy Kaufman, Tim Heidecker, Steve Martin
This one’s weird. And risky. And brilliant when done right.

✏️ It’s built around tension, awkwardness, silence — the laugh comes from the discomfort itself.
🎤 Not for the faint of heart. Or anyone who needs constant validation.

Great for: Comics who don’t mind being misunderstood in service of a bigger joke.
Want to get uncomfortable? Norm Macdonald’s Nothing Special — recorded at home before his passing — is a masterclass in deadpan and subversion.

✨ So… What’s My Style?
I lean toward storytelling with a dark twist. I like to set you up with something soft — and then shatter it with a punchline you didn’t see coming. If I can make you laugh and wince at the same time, I feel like I’ve done my job.

But honestly? The best comics I know don’t box themselves in. They mix. They morph. They steal tricks from every style until they’ve built something that only they could do.

So if you’re new (or just figuring it out), here’s my advice:

Try them all.
Fail a lot.
And when in doubt, write the joke you would want to hear — the one that sounds like a text you’d send your funniest friend at 1am.

Because that’s your voice.

And no style guide can write that for you.

Filling the Room: Why Comedy is a Two-Way Street

Thu, 05 Jun 2025 01:22:27 GMT

Saba Jakeman, co-producer and co-host of Comedy on Mackay with audience members.

There’s a unique kind of anxiety that creeps in five minutes before showtime when half the chairs are still empty. For comics, that silence hits differently. We start doing mental math: Did I post enough? Should I have made a reel? Did my followers ignore this one? Is this my fault?

The pressure to fill the room has somehow slipped into the job description of comedians—particularly those of us working in indie, alt, or DIY scenes. And to be blunt: it shouldn’t be.

At the same time, let’s also be real—if you’re on a show, it’s not a huge ask to let people know. You don’t need to become a content machine. But a simple post, a story, a mention—those things matter. Not just for the producer, but for the whole lineup. Sharing is solidarity.

💬 A Real Moment That Stuck With Me

After a recent show, a comedian messaged me:
“There weren’t many customers there, so I won’t worry too much about the pay. Honestly, keep it—thanks for the spot.”

It was generous. But it also hit me hard.

Because beneath the politeness was something familiar: that subtle feeling that if not enough people showed up, maybe their set wasn’t worth it. That maybe they didn’t earn the spot.

But that’s not how this works. Comics aren’t responsible for turnout—not alone. That’s a producer’s job. Of course, producers don’t control the algorithm or the weather either. But we carry that burden because we believe in the room—and we hope comics will share that belief, even just a little. Your job is to show up, perform, and if you feel like it, let people know where you’re performing. That’s it.

🧠 Comedy is a Collaboration, Not a Transaction

A comedy show doesn’t happen because one person is funny or one person booked a bar. It happens because everyone involved contributes. The producer organises and promotes. The comic writes, performs, and (ideally) shares the event.

But when this relationship becomes lopsided—when comics are only booked based on draw, or producers assume comics should singlehandedly promo the show—it creates tension. The room doesn’t fill, people start blaming each other, and the scene gets colder, not stronger.

🤝 The Symbiotic Relationship

Here’s what a healthy dynamic could look like:

Producers: Promote the show actively, highlight performers in posts, create a vibe people want to return to. Don’t just rely on comics to do the lifting.
Comics: Show up, bring your best, and make some noise about it. Not everyone can give the same amount every time—and that’s okay. But if we each give something—some posts, some presence, some grace—we build a space that lasts. That kind of momentum can’t be faked, and it can’t fall on one person alone. Even a quick “Hey, I’m on this cool lineup tonight” makes a difference. Tag the show. Repost the flyer. Let your people know you’re out here doing the thing.

It’s not about being a marketing guru. It’s about showing respect—to the show, to your peers, and to yourself as an artist worth seeing.

🚨 What Happens When It Falls Apart?

When comics feel like their worth is tied to how many followers show up—rather than how hard they crush—it gets toxic.

When producers rely solely on performers to build their audience, it starts to feel exploitative.

When no one shares anything, shows tank, and no one wants to come back.

A healthy comedy scene needs both infrastructure and energy. One without the other burns out fast.

And when no one says anything—even silently—that absence can feel like complicity.

At Comedy on Mackay, whether there are four people or thirty-five, our goal stays the same: to create an intimate, unforgettable experience that makes every audience member feel like part of the show. That’s not the compromise of a small room — it’s the intention.

We don’t measure value in headcount. We measure it in presence, in energy, in connection. Sure, we still need people in seats. But what keeps a room alive isn’t just numbers—it’s returning energy. Audiences who come back. Comics who want to return. That starts with presence, not pressure.

We’re building something ambitious here.
We’re experimenting with format.
We’re showcasing underrepresented voices.
We’re trying to expand what live comedy can look like in Montreal.

That kind of work takes time, trust, and shared energy—and it only thrives when performers and producers recognize their shared role in shaping the room.

💬 The Ask

This isn’t just about flyers or marketing—it’s about shaping the kind of comedy culture we want. When you share a show or tag a lineup, you’re not just doing promo. You’re showing up for the kind of space you want to grow in.

So here’s what I’m saying, both as a comic and someone who produces:

If you’re a comedian, please share the flyer. Even just a story. It helps the producer, but more than that—it helps you. It builds your presence, shows you're active, and supports the people putting in work to create space for comedy.
If you’re a producer, please don’t make draw the unspoken requirement. Be transparent if that’s your metric, but better yet—book people who are funny and match your show’s vibe, then give them tools and tags to help promote it without guilt-tripping them.

🌱 A Room Fills Best When Everyone Feeds It

We’re all trying to grow in this thing—get better, be seen, build audiences. That only works when the relationship between comedians and producers is one of mutual respect and effort, not quiet resentment.

You don’t have to go viral. You don’t have to bring ten friends every time.

But you should let the world know you’re doing something worth showing up for.

Because you are.

What It Really Takes to Run a Comedy Show as a BIPOC woman

Thu, 29 May 2025 07:00:00 GMT

"You're doing great."

I hear it a lot. From comics, from audience members, from people who genuinely love what we’re building at Comedy on Mackay. And I know they mean it with love. They’re rooting for us. But what people don’t always see is that ‘doing great’ often means doing everything.

Producing comedy as a BIPOC woman — especially in Montreal, where scenes can be cliquey, white, and historically male — is not just about curating lineups. It's booking. It's negotiating. It's DMing. It's crowd wrangling. It's staying calm when someone says something casually racist onstage. It's being the one to handle it afterward. All while still trying to write, perform, and grow yourself.

When I created Comedy on Mackay, I didn’t just want a stage. I wanted a space that felt like mine — ours. A space where a queer Filipina could talk about her trauma, mental health, and bisexual dating disasters and not get followed by someone doing their ninth riff on Tinder or why women be shopping.

But being a BIPOC woman producer means you’re not just making space for yourself. You’re making space for everyone else, too. And that’s the beauty. And the burnout.

You want to book more queer comics. More women. More voices of colour. And then the messages start rolling in:

"Hey, can I get a spot?"
"You're doing tokenism."
"Why wasn’t I booked?"
"I thought this was a meritocracy."

It is. And also, it isn’t.

Meritocracy only works after equity exists. And in most scenes, we're just not there yet.

I remember when I first started producing, someone told me: "If you start your own room, you'll never get booked on other shows."

That wasn’t just a comment. It was a warning.

But I did it anyway. Because I realised: if people don’t want to book me because I built something of my own, then those are stages I don’t want to stand on anyway.

What I’ve learned is: a lot of power in this scene is imaginary.
Still, the microaggressions are real.

Nobody throws slurs around (at least not out loud), but the energy speaks:

Being called "intense" for setting boundaries.
Being told I'm "emotional" when calling out harm.
Hearing people say they "love the diversity of your show" while never offering to share, fund, or promote it.

And still — we do the work.

Let me be real: the hardest part isn’t the logistics. It’s the emotional labor.

I stay late. I help wipe the tables and clear the stage. I pay comics before paying myself. I absorb the tension in the greenroom. I mediate. I cry at home. Then I show up the next week with a smile on my face and a clipboard in hand.

Because I know: if I burn out, the show burns, too.

Some weeks, I’m proud of a set I did. Other weeks, I’m so busy texting comedians to accommodate their schedules and sorting out Eventbrite orders that I don’t even get to be a comedian.

But when it works, it’s magic.

When the lineup is fire, the room is full, and a queer comic says, "I’ve never felt safer to be this weird onstage," I remember why I do this.

When an audience member says, "I’ve never seen someone talk about mental illness like that and make it funny," I know we’re doing something real.

So yes. It’s hard. It’s invisible. It’s not always fair. But it’s mine. And it’s changing the space—slowly, stubbornly, beautifully.

To every BIPOC woman, femme, and non-binary person producing comedy: I see you. You are not too much. You are not imagining it. You are not alone.

You’re building something real. Even if the work feels invisible — you are the infrastructure.

If you want to help us:
🎟️ Buy a ticket. 🗣️ Share the show. 💸 Pay the comics. 🪑 Respect the room.

We’re not here to be "diverse." We’re here to run shit.

What is Good Comedy, Really?

Thu, 22 May 2025 14:32:54 GMT

It’s a question I keep coming back to.

What is good comedy?

Not just funny comedy. Not just crowd-pleasing, brand-safe comedy. But good comedy — the kind that lingers, that stays with people for the right reasons. The kind that respects the room without playing it safe. The kind that hits you in the gut, but still makes you want to come back for more.

A few months ago, I brought a friend to an open mic — someone I care about deeply. She’s a tenured professor, not easily shocked, but thoughtful and emotionally attuned. One comic that night told a joke about eating aborted babies. And that was it. We left. She still talks about that night — not because it was funny, but because it was memorable in a deeply disturbing way.

And I get it — comedy isn’t church. It’s messy and provocative and thrives on risk. But when a comic clears a room of paying audience members — people who came out for a laugh and left feeling sick — is that a win? Is that the kind of “memorable” we’re striving for?

There’s an old saying in comedy: “You can say anything as long as it’s funny.” But more and more, I see comics interpreting that as “I can say anything, as long as I find it funny.” And maybe that’s the problem.

Great comedians get away with a lot — they bend reality, push discomfort, walk a tightrope of offense. But they also know where the line is. They understand the job isn’t to traumatize the audience or alienate them — it’s to bring them with you, even into dark places. Especially into dark places.

A lot of my material is heavy. I talk about sexuality, mental illness, violence, disillusionment. But it comes from a place of survival, not spectacle. I try to make people laugh through the things I’ve survived — not just shock them into silence or laughter through discomfort.

I’ve come to believe that good comedy resonates. It doesn’t just land — it connects. It can be sharp, raw, and risky, but there’s a craft to it. Shock for shock’s sake is cheap. Comedy that alienates everyone in the room isn’t brave — it’s lazy.

When someone clears a room and says “I crushed,” I wonder — what was crushed? The vibe? The trust? The reason those people showed up in the first place?

If we say “comedy is what makes people laugh,” then we also have to ask: what kind of laughter are we after? Nervous? Guilty? Defensive? Or joyful, uncomfortable, earned?

I’m still figuring it out. Maybe we always are.

But I do know this: if someone remembers your set and never wants to go to a comedy show again, that’s not comedy. That’s failure dressed in provocation.

And maybe what makes good comedy good isn’t just how hard it hits — but how well it holds people while doing it.