I’ve known The Sixth Borough since their inception in dismal January 2007 at the Ric Rac and in our living room. I was at stage left switching lights at their first show. I peddled “ADULTS” tickets, drunkenly disparaged Die Actor Die judges on their behalf, joined them on the radio. They are my friends and my colleagues, and in some cases, closer to family. I’m sentimental because I’m proud: at Snubfest this weekend in Chicago, they won both the Audience and Judges' prizes for sketch comedy.
When my friends do well, I’m happy for them. Not only because they should do well, but because it gives me hope. I do what I’m doing in a bubble. I have my shows, and lord knows The Dive has given me more opportunities than I’m worth, but the room is only so big, and will only get me so far. I am good at reading, but who’s ever sat down with my writing?
I’m not alone like this. I went to college for this kind of disappointment. I was told, a few weeks before graduating that I am “not [a writer].” That afternoon, fuming, I looked around the room and realized I was one of very few who were willing to fight against that. It’s only natural to worry now it’s all been for naught.
When things like this happen to people that I love and respect who have earned it with cleverness and talent above anything else, it reminds me, however fleetingly, that what I am working for could be worth something, and that persistence is pretty much all I’ve got in my favor. But it’s something, and occasionally, it pays off.
