How A Friendship Happened
I first saw Myq Kaplan on stage at Caroline’s on Broadway. I rarely got to perform there, so like any responsibly struggling comedian, I would pop in on occasion, usually en route to my less coveted spots for the night. It was a Saturday and Myq was on stage for the kind of packed house that comedians drool over. He looked confident and calm, I instantly identified him as being more comfortable than me on stage. He held the mic without taking it out of the stand and used his other hand organically, as needed. It wasn’t stuffed awkwardly into his pocket, nor clenching the lower half of the stand the way amateur comics and/or nervous wrecks did. Before I heard a word out of his mouth, I knew this was a strong comedian.
But that wasn’t all I knew the moment I saw a Myq Kaplan. I also knew he was a nerd, in its purest most classical sense. He was thin, with a rather full head of receding black hair, if that makes any sense, he wore glasses, and even from the back of the room I could recognize him as Jewish as easily I could someone who was black or Asian. His clothing was non-descript, “normal” jeans and some kind of “regular,” long-sleeved black shirt, surely a case of the man making the clothing.
Before I heard him speak, the crowd was still catching its collective breath from his last joke. I was always overwhelmed by a particular storm of emotions whenever I walked into a club that I wasn’t hired by and saw someone on stage who I’d never seen before. First was envy, feeling a bit threatened, but mostly curiosity. Is this someone I’ll like, love, dislike, or downright loathe? Comedians are generally as susceptible to the power of first impressions as are laypeople, which assigns an unfairly disproportionate amount of importance to the first joke.
Myq continued into his next joke: “I am a vegan… or as they used to call me in high school, a ‘faggot.’”
The room erupted. I laughed the way comedians do: A smile of varying widths, maybe a look at the ground with our arms crossed, or a lean into a colleague next to us with a whisper: “That’s funny.”
He killed, not only with the room, but with me. Myq had this profound knack for expressing the neuroses of his stream of consciousness, but it wasn’t as self-deprecating or self-revealing as a Woody Allen. Instead, Myq possesses a capacity to hyper-analyze every spoken word and sentiment. These are separate things, which if you weren’t so aware you could in fact learn by watching his act; or you could likely learn by many other means, but in this particular moment we’re discussing Myq, even as we simultaneously discuss the distinction between words and sentiments by way of none other than words and sentiments. The previous sentence’s stream of consciousness was my rather weak impersonation of Myq Kaplan.
If nothing else, I knew I had never seen another comedian like him before, which is inherently impressive. It’s what makes a comic a “comic’s comic,” one who even their most miserable, curmudgeon-like peers who have seen it all, get excited to watch as a breath of fresh air above the stench of cynical repetition that permeates the majority of most stages. I watched the rest of his set and left the club as soon as he did the stage, with my own spots to attend to for what would be another evening of reflection, on how could I improve.
As I walked through the bright lights and pastel colored outfits of tourists along Broadway I wondered if I’d ever see him again. Caroline’s especially, is one of the more transient clubs where a lot of out of town comedians pass through. And while Myq had the Jewiest urban affect of anyone I’d seen, it was still possible he could have been from L.A. or Chicago, maybe even Montreal or Boston. Comedians make up the most microscopic portion of the world’s population, but for comics entrenched in the circuit it feels as though there are millions of us. We might observe a new colleague one night at the club, then see them multiple times a week for months to come, not for a few years, or never again. Maybe he was from another country. Maybe he quit. Maybe we just happen to be working different venues and aren’t crossing paths. Who knows? And who cares?
Every year the Boston Comedy Festival held a round robin competition in New York in the summer months leading up to its hometown event, and in 2009 I made it to the finals. It was my seventh year in comedy, I was just beginning to find my voice, which is to say learning to write better jokes and deliver them with confidence. The finals were at a small performance venue in Soho, just off of Spring St. and Lafayette, a place I’d never performed at, which for local comics is like a Seinfeld episode you’d never seen. The show was downstairs past the dimly lit, cozy bar space, and when I got down there I was greeted by my competition, the other comics who’d apparently also slaughtered on previous rounds. Most of them I didn’t know, which usually bodes well for one’s chances, but then I saw Joe List walk in. I asked him optimistically if maybe he was just passing through to watch, hoping against hope, which he swiftly deflated by replying no, he was on the show; and I realized winning might be quite difficult. Then I saw Myq Kaplan in the hallway, at which time I knew winning would be impossible.
I introduced myself, told him I’d seen him before at Caroline’s, and paid him a compliment that he responded to gratefully. I was immediately intimidated. I’m about six inches and forty pounds larger than Myq, and we were both born in 1978, but I was looking up to him as an elder statesman. There was something mechanical about the way he conversed that was similar to his on-stage delivery and made me feel disconnected. This was always a pet peeve of mine on the circuit — comics whose conversational style off stage didn’t waiver at all. Maybe the problem was mine. Maybe it wasn’t that their off-stage personalities were contrived, as much their confidence on stage was so high that there was no discernible difference. Maybe it was my own insecurities, desperately wishing to connect with some fellow performer, even in spite of us sharing no more history or familiarity than we do with some audience member in the crowd.
As the comics all convened in our typical cypher backstage, awaiting show time in the corner of the bar, or under some staircase as was the case here, I wished to speak to Myq. Throughout my career I observed this neurotic conflict come up for me quite often in dialogue with comedians who were more successful than me. Do I genuinely want to be speaking to this person, or am I simply seeking a valuable network? I am quite the extrovert, and would mostly likely be yapping their ear off just as much if we were both busboys sans any long-term goals. But we’re not busboys (well, maybe some of us are on our non-performing nights). And it isn’t even their approval I seek, but their fondness and respect, so that it might eventually lead to some advancement in my career.
I was right. Myq was from Boston, but like any good Boston comic — and there have been countless — he’d recently relocated to New York to become great. Although my insecurity never waned, he smiled throughout our exchange; he made eye contact and asked relevant follow-up questions the way human beings do. If nothing else, he was kind. I take that back: If nothing else he was funny, and secondly I seemed to be discovering a sincere kindness.
The show started and we went our separate ways, literally and figuratively. Myq won the competition convincingly, his star continued to rapidly rise as I continued to feel obsolete, doing train wreck shows in the basement of a Times Square assembly line of a club for $15 to no fanfare. It felt like whenever I’d pop into the more esteemed clubs, Myq was on the line-up. Was he “passed” in every club in town? Or was it just serendipity that we should continuously cross paths?
I was going through a difficult time, between my father’s health waning in correlation with my occupational hopes and dreams, plus an overwhelming workload and stubborn health issues of my own. Myq and I crossed paths one night at Stand-Up NY on the Upper West Side and shared another pleasant exchange, where for some reason I still felt like an alien only visiting his planet, temporarily being humored by its leader. I observed in him a particular calmness, an emotional equanimity that I envied as much, if not more than I did his talent. Of course, it could have been just his persona — many people who know me only peripherally see me in a similar light — but I suspected Myq’s tranquility to be more transcendent than my own. When I got home that night I had the urge to reach out to him, not as a fellow comedian, but as a fellow human.
Social media wasn’t yet the gold standard. I sent him an email and he replied within twenty-four hours, an apparent rule followed by most successful people. I told him that I was impressed by him, not just on stage, but his maturity off stage, and what was his secret. It was nothing special or profound, but his thoughtfulness around every idea was. He cited being potentially bestowed genetically with a healthy brain chemistry, also having many good friends from a variety of backgrounds and perspectives on whom he can lean as needed. At the time I felt I had neither of these. I’d outgrown my old social circle — or so I thought — and in so doing challenged my own genetic brain chemistry through an interim of relative isolation. Finally, I was touched by his closing of the email with an offer to “reach out any time,” and maybe we’d get together; although I stereotyped him as too busy for me, too funny, and/or cool… in the modern nerd way. For about a year we remained local pen pals, a dynamic I’d never before experienced, but was willing to participate in, as it had been years since I’d last idolized a friend. We’d exchange updates on the goings on in our respective careers, which embarrassed me, occasionally shared rough or finished drafts of our latest creations, but mostly I’d discovered a new potential philosophy partner, one with whom I shared a mutual interest in the spiritual realm and self-growth. Sometimes we’d email once a week, other times every couple of months, but it instantly became a regular exchange, and one I was grateful for.
When his next birthday rolled around Myq included me on an email blast invite to not one, but three different celebrations over the course of the weekend, which I knew was not self-glorifying narcissism, but quite the opposite: A celebratory selflessness in notification of his entire weekend’s agenda so that everyone he loved would have the opportunity to attend whichever was most convenient for us; with an addendum of no pressure, that he was grateful just to have the people on this BCC as friends in the first place. It was sweet and unique, a birthday invitation that made so much sense, but the likes of which I’d never received before. Most of all, I was flattered to be invited, and for the first time in many years, nervous to attend a social event.
When I got to the V-Spot, a vegan restaurant in Brooklyn, owned by Alex Carabano, another fellow comedian, I was stunned by the small table. I figured there’d be some long table reaching across the entire dining room for twenty or thirty people, but the grand total was eight of us. That was the moment I realized Myq held me in high regard.
The more I’ve gotten to know him, the more I’ve come to love and respect Myq, as a comedian, as a man, and a mindful presence in the world. We graduated from being pen pals who attended birthday gatherings to brothers that regularly meet up for one-on-one meals to discuss everything from our respective personal lives, to our (occasionally differing) opinions on current social issues, and as my comedy career has faded into a story from the past, I’m always sure to inquire how things are going on the grind. When I moved to L.A. I made many friendly acquaintances, but only a few who I’d label as close friends. One of them was a fellow, nerdy, Jewish, old-school hip hop head and comedian, Zach Sherwin, who I later discovered, surely not coincidentally, was Myq’s BFF; even later I’d discover one of the most endearing facts about any two adults that I’ve ever known. As Myq lives on the east coast and Zach on the west, they keep in touch, to say the least, by speaking on the phone — not texting or commenting on each other’s posts — every day. For anyone who’s ever been bicoastal or had loved ones on the opposite coast you understand how impressive this is. One will call the other and 90% of the time the other will pick up. The other 10% that they are truly unavailable they’ll get a call back within hours. Sometimes they’ll chat for three minutes, other times for three hours, but they always connect. The first adjective that came to mind when I heard this was adorable, but because they are both straight men and our society is our society, I wouldn’t want it to sound at all sarcastic, nor pervert how admirable this is with any potential misinterpretation. In a world where people aspire to buy houses, cars, and things, Myq and Zach are two of the wealthiest people on the planet. I wonder does Jeff Bezos have a friend like this? I wonder as well, if I do?
I periodically receive texts at random from Myq Kaplan, telling me that he’s thinking of me, he misses me, he loves and respects me and/or what I contribute to the world, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make my day. I’ve always assumed that there are many people in his inner circle who regularly receive similar messages from him, but that is obviously no reason to minimize its sincerity. He is thinking of me — he must be to send the text in the first place — and his willingness to share such positive sentiments makes the world a better place.
I am on Myq’s email list, as he is mine. Sometimes he shares his latest musings, which are hilarious, other times he is simply expressing gratitude to the group, letting all of us know how important we are to him, how important we are to the world, and that he loves us. Amazing. Around the holidays every year he additionally offers a list of the various charities he is presently recommending, and we can assume contributing to himself. Myq is someone whose advice I heed most of the time. I’ve made recurring donations to the charities he’s listed and followed the people he recommends following online. Each instance has made my life a bit better, a bit richer, though none nearly to the degree as has having the good fortune to be called a friend by Myq Kaplan. The first time I saw him I hated him: He was a better, more successful comedian than me. Then I coveted his attention and respect: He was a better, more successful comedian than me. Finally, I’ve come to love him, not as a better, more successful comedian than me, but as my friend, my brother, and someone who makes the world a much, much better place.
