Heading downtown this past weekend to my favorite restaurant in Manchester, NH, I noticed something odd—everything was packed. Not just the place I was going to, everywhere. Bars, taquerias, pizza joints, even the sketchy parking lots—all full.

Eventually, I found my way to the Crown Tavern, my go-to spot, and squeezed into my usual place at the long bar. Brian, one of my favorite bartenders, was buzzing around, trying to keep up.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked, watching the madness unfold.

He grinned. “Oh, my word, it’s like Comedy Central around here tonight. We’ve got Bob Marley across the street at the Palace Theater and Matt Rife at the SNHU Arena.”

I blinked. “Bob Marley? Like… a tribute band?”

“No, the comedian,” he laughed. “Although that would’ve been funny too. Judy Garland is playing around the corner.”

“Is Judy doing comedy, too?”

“No, it’s a tribute show.”

“Oh, of course.”

Now, I don’t watch much TV these days. Most of my comedy comes in bite-sized bits—TikTok-y reels on Facebook. But this comedy resurgence, this collective need for laughter? It struck me.

Confession: When I was in my late teens, I desperately wanted to be a stand-up comedian. I could taste it. Growing up near Chicago in the golden age of Second City meant you had a front-row seat to genius: Belushi, Murray, Farley, Aykroyd, Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Steve Carell, Tim Meadows, Harold Ramis, John Candy, Shelley Long—and the list goes on. Something was in the water there. Something hilarious.

If I had stayed in the area and gone to college close to home, that would’ve been the path—no question. Comedy back then? It was raw and risky. Nobody hit harder than Richard Pryor. His characters were brilliant. His sets were long, winding, and often blue—profanity-laced, truth-filled, taboo-busting. He dropped F-bombs like punctuation and wielded the N-word like a lit match. Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock picked up where he left off—clever, cutting, and necessary.

But the comedian I admired most was clean: Tom Dreesen. He went to my high school. I remember interviewing him for our weekly television newscast after his first appearance on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Dreesen started out in a duo with Tim Reid (yes, Venus Flytrap from WKRP in Cincinnati). They were America’s first interracial comedy team—“salt and pepper,” they were called. Their act was built on race, because in the late ’60s and early ’70s, what could be more taboo? They were smart, funny, and subversive in their own clean way. Tim was a very successful sitcom actor, while Tommy worked as the opening act for Frank Sinatra for 13 years and appeared on The David Letterman Show between 50 and 60 times.

As for me, I never made it to the clubs or the sketch shows. My stage was the high school forensics circuit. Every Saturday from October through March, I’d perform the same five-minute set, three to five times a weekend, trying to land laughs with a straight face and a timed pause. And believe it or not, some of us had a following.

My act? A ridiculous version of Othello. Picture this: Othello as a street-talking tough guy, Iago as flamboyant and proud, Desdemona… well, I’m praying no video footage exists. It was a different time. But back then, we were just kids trying to make people laugh, trying to understand ourselves through character, parody, and punchlines.

Now, years later, I’m watching a new generation of comedians come up—people like Josh Johnson, who blend stand-up with story, rhythm, and sharp social commentary. It reminds me that comedy has always been a mirror, a balm, and sometimes a wrecking ball. And we need it. We’ve always needed it.

Because if you’re going to survive these times, you’d better follow the funny. It might just save you.

Curated Listening:

In music, especially in the 1960s and early ‘70s, there was no one funnier than Joni Mitchell. She could throw down punchlines and make an essential point with the best of them. Often, today’s music seems serious and self-important. However, Mitchell had a way of telling a funny story in a song while making people feel like they were part of the joke. Listen to one of her best that did both in “Big Yellow Taxi” HERE.

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