When Comedy Gets Complicated

The thing about growing up on Lenny Bruce and George Carlin is that they taught you that comedy’s job was to rub our noses in hypocrisy. Smart comics. They held up mirrors to society and made us laugh at what we saw, even when it was uncomfortable.

Especially when it was uncomfortable.

I thought I understood what that meant until I found myself producing an improv troupe at 70, standing in front of a circle of students ranging from their twenties to their seventies, all wanting the same thing.

I was about to learn exactly how dangerous that becomes when every moment could be recorded forever, and when the difference between being edgy and cutting too deep can determine whether you heal or harm.

Tuesday Night Magic

“What do you hope to get out of class tonight?”

“Laughs. Just get out of my head.”

“Stop overthinking everything.”

“Permission to be silly.”

That’s what Kymberlee asks them at the beginning of class every Tuesday night. She follows that up by telling them, “This is a safe space. Take big swings. We have each other’s backs.” We work with our house team, the Embarrassment of Pandas.

And we do have each other’s backs. In that little room, with no audience except ourselves, people discover they can be funny. They find voices they didn’t know they had. They play characters that surprise them. Sometimes they cross lines—usually with what we old-timers call “blue humor,” though I bet half these kids don’t even know that term.

It feels like magic. Like we’re giving people exactly what they came for.

But here’s what I didn’t anticipate: being told repeatedly by our coach to “not think” in a world where thinking has become mandatory for survival.

Don’t Think, Just Trust

Kymberlee and I have been training for ten years here in Santa Barbara. We’ve built something real – our troupe performs monthly at the Alcazar Theatre in Carpinteria, and we’ve been going down to JEST Improv in Ventura for Friday jams for a couple of years now. We’ve done festivals, other venues. We take the comedy seriously.

This year, we brought in Navaris Darson from The Groundlings to work with our core group of five or six players. Thursday nights, we rehearse hard. Navaris brings that professional LA training – the kind that emphasizes fearless commitment, taking big swings, and making bold choices without hesitation. “Don’t think,” he tells us, over and over. “Trust your instincts. Commit fully to the choice.”

It’s a conscious effort to turn off your brain. And sometimes, when I’m so in the moment, I’m already committed to the choice when my rational mind kicks in – usually because of a laugh from the audience or my teammates that’s encouraging me to keep going.

What has been interesting to me over the years is the quality of intelligence that we see in people who come to class on Tuesday nights. Currently, we have a researcher at our hospital, a mechanical engineer, a vibe-coder, a Disney-adult, our former sitcom writer, a young mother of four who has just gotten her second degree and knows complex math like she knows “Yes, And” - an aspiring actress, a playwright, and a fashion designer. A wide mix that seems to be forever shifting.

These brilliant people come seeking the same thing everyone seeks in comedy: permission to be spontaneous, to surprise themselves, to connect through laughter.

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Fast and Funny Until...

See, we don’t just teach. We perform. We call what we do “fast and funny”—outlandish, physical humor that presses hard on the hilarity of the human condition. Simple, random things you wouldn’t think are funny. Like a talking water bottle in the break room.

And here’s the thing about live improv comedy that people don’t understand: it’s a real-time negotiation between performer and audience. You try something. They laugh. You double down. They laugh harder. You keep going until...

Until what?

That’s when I started thinking about the phrase “cutting edge.” It has a specific meaning, right? Sharp, innovative, pushing boundaries. And then there’s “edgy comedy” - provocative, risky, boundary-pushing.

But here’s what hit me: you want comedy that’s edgy but doesn’t cut.

Comedy that’s sharp enough to matter, but not so sharp it wounds the relationship you have with your audience.

The Impossible Balance

That’s the impossible balance we’re trying to strike every time we step on stage. Be authentic enough to surprise people, bold enough to make them think, edgy enough to break through their defenses - but not so sharp that we cut the very connection that makes comedy work.

Because once you cut that relationship, once you damage the trust between