The Message of You: The Power & Humor of Your Story

"Love, Gilda" Movie is a Must See!

2018-09-21T15:38:00.001-07:00

My Personal Gilda Story

Gilda Radner's movie is just out, “Love, Gilda.” Anyone who is into comedy MUST see this hilarious and moving film about SNL's beloved, first cast member, Gilda Radner.

Source: By Solters and Roskin (ebay) [Public domain],
via Wikimedia Commons

She was not only an incredible talent but also, an extraordinary person. My story, when I met her, takes place at the height of her success in 1979 on a cold, snowy NYC night.

I was the opening act at New York’s Bottom Line for the Roches, a band that was on Saturday Night Live a lot. The audience was full of showbiz VIPs who schmoozed and talked loudly while I was onstage. I made some jokes about it to the civilians in the first row, but the big shots studio execs continued to talk during my act. And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I got offstage I found out that the club owners had let these VIPs in and kept my seventy-five-year-old aunt Edith and her family standing in the snow outside. I went backstage in a fury. A woman asked me, “What’s the matter, honey?” I burst out crying. She pulled me into a small backstage bathroom. This complete stranger sat on the toilet in this tiny New York cockroach-infested bathroom, holding me on her lap while I sobbed on her shoulder. “That’s OK, honey. I know how hard it can be.” When I looked up I realized, “Oh my God, you’re Gilda Radner.” At that time, Gilda was a big star on Saturday Night Live. She was there to introduce the band but took the time to care for a complete stranger. Gilda Radner died of ovarian cancer in 1989.

How do you want to be remembered? Sometimes it’s the little moments, when we take the time to recognize others, that we truly are a superstar.

Comedy Updates and Contests: Female Comics are Rockin it!

2018-07-23T13:51:00.000-07:00

Former Student Hannah Gadsby Nabs Netflix Special

If you haven’t seen, Australian comic Hannah Gadsby’s Netflix special, STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND WATCH, here is the trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5aE29fiatQ0.

She BLEW ME AWAY.

I met Hannah when she was a student in my standup workshop in Melbourne, Australia. Five years later, she is an international sensation. Why? Because she is not only funny, she goes BEYOND FUNNY to create a new form of comedy that leaves the audience not just laughing, but INSPIRED.

After watching her Around forty minutes into her act, she announces that she’s quitting comedy.

“It’s probably not the forum, to make such an announcement, is it? In the middle of a comedy show,” she laughs, explaining that doing self-deprecating jokes about being a masculine-presenting lesbian no longer makes her comfortable. “It’s not humility, it’s humiliation,” she says.

She goes on to DECONSTRUCT COMEDY, telling that when you restrict yourself to jokes, you can’t tell the full story. By recounting traumatic experiences and raging against sexism and homophobia with passion and authenticity.

Inspired by Hannah, I decided to experiment with NOT BEING FUNNY in a gig I did for Genentech, a pharmaceutical company in Northern California.

I was hired to perform for three days, opening up each morning with 15 minutes.

Day 1: I made people laugh.

Day 2: I was super funny.

Day 3: I worked up the courage to do something incredibly scary and told a powerful story with NO attempts at being funny. It was a story that I told in my book The Message of You that was about connecting to an audience at the Spinal Injury Unit at the VA hospital with a story about my sister Marsha who was severely disabled. I allowed myself to cry onstage. It wasn’t at all comfortable. But…

THAT morning I got a STANDING OVATION. THAT was the performance that caused the head of the event to take me outside and tell me, with tears in her eyes, how moved she was.

Thank you, Hannah, for inspiring me to take a chance. Not going for laughs made me feel vulnerable and wobbly, creating the feeling that I was bombing. I’d been operating on the premise that in these times of uncertainty, fear and hopelessness, people want to laugh. But, they also respond to hearing a personal story that’s meaningful and not necessarily funny.

Have you ever watched a comedian or humorist on stage and thought...I can do that! Good news - Enter the Jeanne Robertson Humor Competition to get cash and a gig.

Prizes:
First place receives $1,000
Second place receives $500
Third place receives $250

Click here to enter.

Paula Poundstone Launches Free Podcast

Nobody Listens to Paula Poundstone is a comedy field guide to life, or at least a set of IKEA assembly instructions. Where else can you find advice on topics from "How to Keep a Friend" to "How to Translate Your Verizon Bill" Or even "What Do I Do if I Encounter a Bear” and "Should I Get a Penis Piercing?”

Paula and her co-host, Adam Felber, bring on leading expert guests and use their unique comedic sensibility to help us navigate life in the 21st century.

This is a must listen. Click here.

Can We Ever Get Over Stage Fright and Performing Anxiety?

2018-05-03T12:54:00.002-07:00

Stage fright and performance anxiety is a real thing.

I’ve been a performer my whole life. At 8 years old, I was doing magic at birthday parties. It was never fun. I would practice. Then fret. Before each gig, I’d throw up because of nervousness. The thing with magic is if you forget one object, it’s a disaster. If you forget the plastic gimmick, instead of the cup of sugar turning into a goldfish, you’ll have a dead goldfish with kids screaming. I worry that the children in the audience when I messed up are still in therapy dealing with their PTSD.

So, it’s 50 years and thousands of shows later as a magician, then standup comic, then professional speaker, I’m still fretting. I’ve performed in front of an audience of 10,000 with President Clinton. I’ve done shows all over the world, winning over audiences in China, Russia and maybe the toughest one being in Long Island. I’ve gotten standing ovations after my hour-long corporate gigs and have done a TED Talk. Audience members have laughed so hard there was pee on the floor.

All that success allowed me to buy an apartment building, build a house in Venice Beach, and travel the world. But, none of that is in my head when I’m getting ready for a new gig. No, what I hold onto is the look of horror as those children screamed at the dead goldfish. Another stuck memory is the man at a show in South Carolina who threw down his napkin and stomped out when I made a joke about then President Bush. Oh yeah, and I picture the guy I spotted looking at his watch ten minutes into my hour presentation. Each one of those images is there before I start a gig to punch me in the gut, creating scar tissue that hurts, like an old injury that swells when it rains.

My whole career, I’ve waited to have my performing anxiety go away and be replaced by the security you hope will come from practice and pleasing your audiences. But, no, anxiety refuses to make way for it. Heading to the stage, I’m frantically worrying that this is the time I’ll be exposed as the fraud I believe I am. This is the audience who’ll make me wish I’d heeded my Jewish grandmother, who’d said, “You should have been a bank teller.”

The bank teller isn’t expected to keep someone entertained for an hour. Making change isn’t as terrifying as making jokes. I continue to fear doing my job, which I bet bank tellers don’t. The fear starts as I start preparing. That makes me over-prepare. If I’m lucky, when I step onstage, something magical happens. Some call it talent, but the name isn’t important. It’s the fire that explodes, propelling me. And it’s best when I ignore what I’ve prepared, let go of the order of the material and trust it to lead me. Letting it be the boss, I ride it as if I’m on a wild horse that can jump higher than I’ve ever imagined. I leave the stage, high, breathless and excited. It all feels so right.

What was I so worried about? See, I can do what I have to. And then… oh, no. There’s that gig next week. Yipes. Back to the beginning.

After posting this to Facebook, so many people came up with solutions, including hypnosis to get over childhood scripts, meditation, and finally the best – to enjoy my stress as if I’m not scared, it means I don’t care. That stress is a motivator. Here is what one of my standup students, Nadia Witt, wrote, which I thought was very profound:

"Here is my philosophy: Cherish stage fright. Love it. Enjoy it. Talk to it. Thank it for helping to make you prepare and prepare and prepare. And then relish it no matter how prepared you are. Most people in life don’t get to feel this alive as often as we do. Most people go through life without actually feeling alive. Some people try to use drugs or something outside themselves to experience the thrill and excitement we get by doing the thing we love. It is magic. Even if a trick doesn't work or a joke doesn’t work or a dramatic moment doesn’t land ... that flutter of life in our gut is our talent... and our talent is our soul alive and visible to everyone around us. How often does the average person get to show off their soul at work? We are so lucky. Give your stage fright a kiss and a hug. She is the highest form of greatness begging to be revealed."

Great advice on dealing with performing anxiety.

Goodbye to Mitzi Shore, The Godmother of Comedy

2018-04-12T14:39:00.003-07:00

The comedy world mourns the loss of Mitzi Shore, mother of Pauly Shore, godmother of comedy

For those of us comics whose careers started at The Comedy Store, the Sunset Strip was dark on April 11th, when the owner, Mitzi Shore died. She contributed profoundly to many lives, including mine. She was a champion for us funny women, giving us the chance to find our authentic comedy voice, to perform in front of an audience, and to showcase our talent for bookers.

Founded in 1972, The Comedy Store originally looked like an Italian restaurant with checkered, red tablecloths. Mitzi’s son, Pauly Shore was a little kid running around; Steve Landesberg and Michael Keaton were regulars, working out their voices like the rest of us. Yakov Smirnoff washed dishes.

This was before everyone and their gynecologist was a stand-up comic, so I got to perform there pretty much every night and develop my act.

Two years later, when Mitzi divorced her husband, Sammy Shore, she took over full ownership of the club and began her legacy as a comedy icon. She painted the entire showroom room black and put red candles everywhere, apparently she believed comedy worked better if the audience felt they were in hell. The comic was the focus: lit by spotlight, the audience could see nothing else.

Petite, with curly locks covering her face, Mitzi was a dark goddess. She held court in the kitchen's darkest corner known as the “Mitzi Booth” or in the show room. I'm not sure I ever saw her in daylight, or if I had, I probably wouldn't have recognized her.

She could make or break a career so we were all psyched to have her hear our material. New comics eyed her booth, not wanting to go on until they had a shot at her attention. She did the thing that so many comedy pros do: they don’t laugh. The best you could get was a nasal, "That's funny."

Because she scheduled the performers, Mitzi wielded an enormous amount of power, the Queen Mother of stand-up, each of us were trying to kiss the proverbial comedy ring, hoping she'd propel us from wannabee to stardom. The 9 PM spot was prime: by 1:30, you were playing to a room populated exclusively by the hammered, the homeless and the heartless.

We treasured her words, elevating them to comedy scripture. In the nasal tone we all learned to emulate, she once said to me, "You are so kooky, Judy. Use that.”

I went home and pondered, "Is kooky good? Am I too weird? What?" But when Mitzi gave me a big break, in 1976 -- opening for Jackie Mason in the newly built, 450-seat Main Room, gone were the insecurities about how she thought of me.

There was no shortage of drama at the comedy club. Comics accused each other of stealing material. We behaved like siblings, competing, striking for pay, doing drugs and having sex in the parking lot. The saddest moment was the comic who, after not getting a spot, jumped to his death, and left a note that read, "My name is Steve Lubetkin. I used to work at the Comedy Store.”

Male comics dominated the stage with sexist, homophobic, and racial stereotyping jokes. In the 70’s the feminist and gay rights movements were just starting to make a cultural impact, as this was long before there was a #metoo campaign or “Will and Grace.” We were all fair game, bodies to pounce on. After all, this was the place that gave birth to Andrew Dice Clay.

But Mitzi created a safe space. She turned the upstairs storage room into The Belly Room-- a place for female comics. There were mixed feelings about it. I remember Marsha Warfield feeling it was a disgrace, saying, “Separate is not equal.” On a good night, there were eight people in the audience. But, many of us appreciated that Mitzi was recognizing the differences between female comedy and the hard-hitting punchline-oriented routines men were doing. (Listen to the story of the The Belly Room on NPR.)

Our room was even darker than the original room, with more red candles, making it womb-like and intimate. Since there was no danger of a Tonight Show booker venturing in, we could take chances. Sandra Bernhard worked on her sardonic rants; Lotus Weinstock brought her daughter Lili Hayden (now a successful rock violinist) onstage; Robin Tyler and Pat Harrison became the first lesbian feminist comedy act. I did a song about my clitoris (though I knew better than to use it at a gig in Utah).

Mitzi was one of the first to have an all-woman bill. A group of us that included Lotus, Sandra, Emily Levine, Diane Nichols and Lois Bromfield were taken by limo to the La Jolla Comedy Store, where we performed for sold-out houses.

Many of Mitzi’s comics went on to become stars, tour the comedy scene of the ‘80s, and branch off into writing and speaking. She touched so many lives, and we now mourn the loss of hers, the woman who helped everyone see that women could be funny and powerful.

Networking Ideas for Selling Yourself: How to get jobs and clients in one minute

2017-10-16T12:41:00.001-07:00

How to get jobs and clients in less than one minute.

Stop missing networking opportunities. You can instantly create opportunity – within 30 seconds.

Judy Carter Story/Speaking Workshop

This last week I did a leadership training program on how to use humor and stories to influence others. One of the most powerful parts of the workshop was an approach to a question we get asked routinely by strangers,

“What do you do for a living?”

Most people respond easily with something like, “I’m a teacher…I’m a realtor…I’m a therapist.” By answering this way, you are cutting down on the chance to attract new clients, get paying speaking gigs, and certainly will not inspire conversation or create a connection. Describing your occupation can be boring. Rather than reducing your profession down to your job title, explain the RESULTS YOUR JOB CREATES.

Next time someone asks you what you do for a living, try this:

1. Dodge the question and ask them about what they do and inquire about their CHALLENGES. Remember what they say as you are going to be repeating it.

2. Use this script:

“So, what do I do? Well, you know how…" INSERT WHO YOUR OCCUPATION HELPS, i.e. people looking for homes to buy, sick people, people in the workplace…

"They have this problem, they… "INSERT PROBLEMS YOU FIX IN YOUR OCCUPATION. TRY MIRRORING SOME OF CHALLENGES YOUR PROSPECT HAS. For instance, burnout, employ engagement, finding the right help

"I’m a… INSERT YOUR PROFESSION. “Teacher, Speaker, accountant…”

"And I…” (teach, show, help) REPEAT OF PEOPLE YOU HELP

“How they can…” DESCRIBE THE RESULTS YOU CREATE. For instance, stress reduction, hitting project deadlines...

When a woman sitting next to me on a plane told me how overworked her department was, I used this formula and that resulted in my getting over $160,000 of speaking engagements. Now, you’re listening!

I asked her what she did (in HR at a naval base) and what challenges she faced. She told me they’d had some downsizing and everyone left was expected to pick up the work load. She also expressed that there was more conflict among co-workers now because of people having added stress.

OK – I got the info I needed to redesign my pitch.

So, I said, “You know how people in the workplace are overwhelmed by what they have to do? They’re not able to spend as much time with their family and their stress causes turnover and possibly taking additional sick leave."

At this point, she said, forgetting that this was what she told me and said, “Yes! That’s exactly what’s happening in our place!”

Knowing we’d connected, I continued by telling her, “I’m stress reduction speaker.” Now, if she were in healthcare, I would say, “I’m a healthcare speaker.” Depending on the need, I adjust how I describe what I do.

"As a former standup comic, I teach comedy skills to help people in the work place laugh their way out of stress and turn the work environment to a place where stress levels decrease and laughter increases, with people saying, “Thank God it’s Monday!”

Her next comment was, “OMG! We could sure use that! Can I have a card?”

Not only did this conversation lead to a speaking engagement at a naval base, but she referred me to speaking for the army, navy, air force, and 10 navy seal events. One plane flight got me two years of bookings.

Now you try it. You’ll need to look at what you do, not just as a job, but as the results you create. That transforms the perceptions of your occupation. “I’m a receptionist” turns into “I’m a maker of first impressions.”

“I’m a project manager,” becomes, “I bring together teams to hit deadlines while adjusting client’s exception (did you mean exceptions or expectations?)and creating unity in the project vision.”

“I’m a relator” is expressed as, “I make dreams come true, create security and a place to build a future.”

I’m an admin turns into, “I’m tamer of chaos.”

I hope you’ll let me know how it works for you. Then you can turn your job into a TED talk and let me help.

Hugh Hefner Gave me my Comedy Career and a Bunny Gave me Confidence

2017-09-29T13:51:00.003-07:00

Hearing Hugh Hefner dying, made me think back to my start in show business.

Before comedy clubs, the place to perform and get paid were Playboy clubs. When I was 21 years old, I was a magician and quitting my job as a teacher, OK, getting fired. So, I needed to get professional jobs. I looked up who booked the Playboy Clubs. I figured, it was the perfect place for me, I had talent and cleavage.

The man booking the Playboy clubs was Irvin Arthur. I called his office, “Hi I’m a girl magician and I would be perfect to work Playboy Clubs.”

The woman on the other end laughed and said, “Have your agent call. Mr. Arthur only sees talent who are represented.”

Since I didn’t have an agent, I drove to the 9000 Sunset Building that had the Playboy Marquee on top of it, and went into Mr. Arthur’s office. His receptionist told me in no uncertain words that I didn’t have an appointment and would not be seen.

“I’ll just wait here to see if he has a moment.”

I waited for 5 hours. Mr. Arthur would open his door and see me as various people went in and out. Finally, he motioned me in. Standing in front of his desk, I burned a dollar bill and made it reappear in a banana. He laughed. I put him across his desk and sawed him in half, and his receptionist applauded. That was when he invited me to perform that very night at the Century City Playboy Club.

“We’ve have dinner, you perform, and I’ll give you $50.”

That night went great. I went on to work at Playboy Clubs all across the country and Mr. Arthur became my manager.

It was at the Chicago Playboy club where I met “Hef” and my career changed forever.

My suitcases with my magic act didn’t show up. So, I tell the club manager the bad news, “Yeah, they didn’t arrive… so I can’t go on.”

“Oh no,” he said sounding like an Italian mafia cliché. “So you think you can’t go on because you’re little tricks didn’t come? Really? That’s what you think? Listen sweetheart, the man himself, Hef” is going to be here and he don’t like changes, so do what you have to do. Curtain’s at eight.”

I sit down despondent in the bunny locker room and hear someone talking to me.

Hi! Are you new?

I turn and I’m looking at a woman in a bunny suit.

“I’m… I’m… “

I just burst into tears. She pulls me to her and I cry into her massive bunny breasts.

Everything is wrong! I do a comedy magic act and my tricks didn’t show up. Hef is coming and I have nothing to wear, no act and you’re in a bunny outfit.

Judy, let me give you some advice, just say this to yourself, ‘I will survive, as long as I know I can love I know I’ll stay alive. You think I’ll tumble you think I’ll lay down and lie!’ Oh no I will survive.

Yes, I know… not original. But, that bunny changed my life.

I know Hef, Judy, and he wouldn’t be coming here to see your tricks. He’s coming to see you. Your tricks aren’t the funny part, you are. I can see that. Just be yourself. And you will survive. No, you will thrive.

I have nothing to wear.

I have an idea Bunny Chastity said.

The bunny outfit didn’t exactly fit. Bunny Chastity stared at my crotch.

What’s the matter?

Honey, you’ve got to shave?

Shave, I said looking under my arms?

You’ve got, you know, twisters.

Looking at my crotch I noticed the cut of the bunny suit exposed massive quantity of pubic hair.

“I can get you cleaned up in no time, “ says Bunny Chastity pulling out a razor from her locker.

The showroom is filling up. Hef is there.

I come out in the Bunny Outfit, scared as can be… I started to stutter as I said, “He- he- hello everyone… “

I feel them staring at my reddish upper thighs where Bunny Chastity just shaved… Someone shouts, “Hey Bunny!”

And then something snapped in me. Perhaps it was Bunny Chastidy’s motivational speech, or perhaps it was that the Equal Rights Amendment had just gone down to defeat in Illinois.

And said with confidence, “I’m a feminist and don’t call me Bunny! I’m a Rabbit damn you.”

And everyone laughs. And I will remember that moment for the rest of my life. I went on with the show.

Ladies and Gentleman, for the rest of my show I’m going to tell you what I was going to do for you if an airline, I won’t mention their name, but sounds like Belta. Big Laugh.

My escape from my grandmother’s girdle is on it’s way to Alaska. Big Laugh. I was going to do a sawing a man in half, with a black and decker saw, but Hef, you’ll be happy that my luggage is lost because I have a lot of feminist rage. Another Big Laugh.

And let me tell you about my Jewish mother and this cleavage. Another laugh.

Afterwards, Hef introduced me to his girlfriend, Barbie Benton and invited me to spend the night in the Chicago Playboy mansion. I stayed in the leather room which was actually vinyl. It’s all an illusion.

For the next three years I worked Playboy Clubs all across the country and did 22 performances on the Mike Douglas show.. The tricks got old and after a few months, I stopped bring them. I started going sans magic… That was when Playboy Clubs turned into Comedy Clubs and I was ready to ride the gravy train day of comedy, opening for Prince, Kenny Loggins, and of course, Barbie Benton. And I now speak for a living and write books teaching others how to find their voice and their message.

I realized that magic isn’t tricking people that I’m turning a glass of sugar into a goldfish, but rather, real magic is turning problems into punch lines and speaking the truth. And that’s when you truly make magic.

Can we Support Kathy Griffin even if we Hate that Photo?

2017-06-06T11:55:00.000-07:00

Did you hate the photo Kathy Griffin created? Can you support her even if you hated it?

When Kathy Griffin posted a gruesome photo of Trump’s bloodied head, a storm of controversy broke out from deep outrage to conversations of freedom of speech. The blowout was also intense as she lost her job on CNN, gigs got canceled and she has been severely criticized by the press. She apologized and seemed sincere, but that didn’t put an end to the barrage of death threats.

As a comic, I’ve done over-the-top material and have died onstage, but never threatened to be killed. Griffin’s posting was misconceived and certainly not funny, but, the backlash seems to be overkill, more disturbing than her post. Where were these people when horrible racist photos were posted about Obama? Where were the denouncements when male standup comics made homophobic and misogynistic jokes?

I started to write about this, but hesitated, worried that supporting her right to do shock art might cost me business, as I’m a humorist for many ultra conservative companies. When I realized how frightened I was to write something that would offend a potential client or go against my “brand,” that woke me up to just how important it is to support her, regardless of how much we might have despised what she did.

Judy Carter, Kathy Griffin, Shante Lewis
used with permission from The Fullfillment Fund

I've known Kathy Griffin for years, starting when she was a newbie at The Groundlings and Uncabaret in LA. She's always been shocking, saying things most people might think, but not say. I remember being taken aback when she told a story about a date that ended with a golden shower, laughing so hard, I had an asthma attack. This was the most shocking thing I'd ever seen done by a female comic. I couldn’t believe that she was talking so honestly about intimate and horribly humiliating things.

Her openness inspired me to be more daring and authentic on stage. I started talking about being gay, even writing a book about it for Simon and Schuster, “The Homo Handbook” that won the LAMBDA Literary award for best humor book yet was banned in Arkansas and other states.

Now that I'm doing corporate events, and as my prices go up, my authenticity has gone down. I'm more restrained, forced to face the challenge of passing the scrutiny of HR. I was even asked to take the word “drugs” out of my speech, and that was for a pharmaceutical company.

Griffin’s piece was consistent with what she’s always done – shocking us and shaking us up. In these desperate times, it takes a lot to wake up Americans. Being a “nice girl” seems ineffective when we’re coping with an administration telling us, “There is no climate change, no election tampering by Russians, and by the way, we are selling your National Parks.”

Another consideration is Griffin is a comic. What she does might be offensive and in bad taste, but she’s not putting any of us in danger. Measuring this against what the president has done, we have to concede that his actions and words, the hateful language he’s used to describe certain people and groups absolutely have consequences. Should we hold a comic to higher standards than the leader of our country?

So, I stand by Kathy Griffin along with other comics who are supporting her: Jerry Seinfeld, Jim Carrey, Jamie Foxx and others. Performance art is not always funny, comfortable, or pretty. At its best it’s a wake up call. It makes us feel. It makes us think.

When we try to censor performers, when we tell them that they crossed a line, and need to get in line, government approved entertainment will have us be as tepid as Disney on Ice.

Wait – Bill Maher is also being attacked because of a word he said?

Shouldn’t we hold up our president to the same decency we ask of comics?

I would like to know how you feel about it. Please chime in on my FB page https://facebook.com/judycartercomedy

5 Writing Tips for Breaking through Procrastination

2017-01-16T17:36:00.001-08:00

Using anxiety to write jokes, blogs, and even, write a book

Procrastinating about writing? Is your creativity block? Guess what? Professional writers are just as anxious as you are and often use shame to fuel their creativity. Read on…

Yesterday I went to a writing meetup and my friend, who was supposed to go, bailed on me. The reason she gave, “I don’t feel creative. I have no ideas. I just don’t feel like writing.”

This begs the questions: Do we wait for inspiration to write, or does writing inspire ideas?

I’ve had a career writing books and speeches/TED Talks for myself and others, yet most of the time, I haven’t actually felt like writing. I’ve often sit down to do it, not with an abundance of ideas screaming to put themselves onto the page, but fearing that I have nothing to say. Each time, I question why I accepted this assignment and become terrified, and that’s what gets me to the computer. At the basis of my writing is fear of public humiliation.

One would think that something I’ve done my whole life would build confidence. But, what sticks with me is not the recollection of my last standing ovation from a corporate keynote or the lovely email from one of my readers. No, my writing foreplay is imagining an entire audience looking at their iPhones while I’m on stage, letting me know I’m boring. I fear I’ll write a blog no one finds interesting. You would think that this negativity would stop me from writing but, no, shame is my motivation. I have to prove to myself that I’m not as bad I think.

Each creative process is a mess to success. The extreme anxiety I start with stirs the adrenaline that fuels a rant, joke, blog, or even, a book. When working on a project, I record snippets of ideas on my iPhone and write morsels on junk mail envelopes, thinking these vague ideas don’t deserve real paper. Looking at them confirms that I was right, filling me with frustration and anxiety, because my calendar says I have to get this mess into some kind of shape. If you want to see what happens when I’m preparing a speech, look at this video. It’s sure to make you feel better about your own process.

Writing is hard. That doesn’t mean it’s not going to be good. There’s nothing as unfunny and un-fun as writing a speech or a comedy. Remember how on "Seinfeld," Jerry and George would brainstorm ideas for their “show about nothing” -- and everything seemed so easy and made us laugh?

In the real world, writers are often frustrated, anxious, doubtful, and frequently find themselves staying up past midnight staring at a laptop and guzzling pitchers of coffee, desperately hoping something will occur to them other than the awful first, second, and third drafts they’ve been staring at for hours.

But -- what comforts me is to realize that all of our successes start out as messes. And the people who succeed are the ones who stick with the mess, finally uncovering the material that works.

So, if you have dreams of giving a TED Talk, writing a book, doing standup, or getting paid to speak, just start. Don’t give up because you’re weighed down by the feeling that every idea has to be perfectly formed in your head BEFORE you start typing it.

In my online workshop, everyone learns that material doesn’t come out of you fully formed like a newborn colt that can just leap to its feet and gallop. New material comes out raw and unformed, and most of the time just lays there like a baby bird, until with rewrite after rewrite, you finally feed it enough that it can fly.

So don’t paralyze yourself with the need to be perfect. Whether you’re writing your story, an act or a speech, what you start with doesn’t matter. What does is that you start. Nurture and parent the idea, and it will gradually takes on a life of its own. Your job is to show up, even if you have nothing. Remember “build it and they will come?” Trust me on this.

5 Steps to Completing a Writing Project

Set a time to write and put it in your calendar. Honor it as if you would if you an appointment with a doctor (not the way they do it, however). Take it seriously.
Set your timer to go off after 10 minutes and write until you hear it. Then increase the amount you set aside for writing. It is a mistake to have the WHOLE day to write. Be time specific.
Use Twitter as creative writing prompts. See what trending on Twitter and write about that.
Use a creative writing prompt to get started and see where it goes. Here are 365 creativewriting prompts http://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/
Have a support team. A friend, a meetup, or join our online community at https://TheMessageOfYou.com and we’ll make sure you don’t procrastinate.

Carrie Fisher: Turning Problems into Punchlines

2017-01-06T07:28:00.002-08:00

One of the things everyone admired about Carrie Fisher was the way she turned mental illness into a career. In so doing, she helped so many “come out” about their own secrets. In her books, her speaking appearances, and her one-woman show, she revealed what it was like being bipolar. “Having waited my entire life to get an award for something, anything,” Debbie Reynold’s only daughter quipped, “I now get awards all the time for being mentally ill. It’s better than being bad at being insane, right? How tragic would it be to be runner-up for Bipolar Woman of the Year?”

Carrie knew what all us standup comics know: that a problem can be turned into a powerful punchline. As a standup comic for 17 years and teaching comedy for 20 years, I found that when I joked about a problem, it made whatever I was dealing with more manageable. Laughing at a problem is empowering. I’m not just the victim. I’m the narrator, acknowledging it, taking charge of it and making fun of it.

I felt this full force at 21. Filled with rage and sadness after a difficult breakup, I took to the stage at the Hollywood Improv and proclaimed, “I just broke up with someone. We had one thing in common. We were both madly in love with HIM.” In the moment of laughter, something lifted.

When teaching comedy, the “normal” people in the workshop weren’t very funny. I remember one girl who refused to admit that anything was wrong. “No, I’ve never been rejected. I have a wonderful husband. My kids hug me every day.” There was nothing funny about that. Nobody related to her. To be funny, we had to find the courage to cop to the weirdness of our mother’s housekeeping, the fears of coming out as a gay man to a redneck father, showing that what is inside didn’t control us, but rather was the butt of a joke that led to laughter and healing.

“I wanted to tell my father I was gay, but he was always cleaning his gun,” a comedy student said on stage, winning over the audience.

My father would beat me with the belt my parents gave me for Christmas. When I was asked, “What do you want for Christmas?” I would say, “Socks!” another comedy student said to thunderous guffaws.

“Life is a cruel, horrible joke and I am the punch line,” was said by Carrie Fisher

It’s not easy being that open. In fact, it’s scary. It may be easier to tell these kinds of jokes in the privacy of a class, but going public takes guts. That’s what distinguished Carrie Fisher from many others. In her one woman show, “Wishful Drinking,” she took the risk of directing her humor at her parents, saying, “I'm a product of Hollywood inbreeding. When two celebrities mate, something like me is the result.” Instead of distancing herself from the audience by identifying her background as privileged, she freely showed the difficulties and pain, finding the way to mine it for laughter.

Here is a clip from her show on “Hollywood inbreeding 101.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0BBAQVNpvFM

She didn’t shy away from showing the complicated relationship between mother and daughter. Interestingly, this true confessional didn’t create estrangement. We know that the two women reconciled and became close. Carrie’s honesty may have allowed her mother to understand what went wrong and try to remedy it. As Debbie Reynolds said, “Carrie and I have disagreements and stalemates, but we still walk away loving each other."

On showcase night, my comedy students were reluctant to invite the person who would be the butt of their jokes. One woman was particularly fearful as her entire act revolved around making fun of her mom. She joked about her controlling nature, her obsessive cleaning, painted on eyebrows, and her holding up supermarket lines with excess coupon cutting. She was terrified of seeing her mother after the show. Her mother rushed over to her, hugged her and said, “You forgot to say I’m a hoarder. Here are some jokes I wrote for you to do next time!”

Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds can serve as role models, teaching us that laughter can bring us closer together. It’s a better tool for healing than denying. Our secrets are often what’s funniest about us.

Follow Judy Carter @judycarter.com

Judy teaches online http://comedyworkshops.com

Surviving Holiday Stay-overs: Home is Where the Heart is… and Where Murders are Committed

2016-12-26T14:18:00.001-08:00

Staying at someone’s house over the holidays, guests have to follow house rules and they can defy all logic.

Spending Christmas at my best friend’s house seemed like a great idea. It was especially perfect since I’d rented out my house for the entire holiday season so I’d have a place to go and be with, not only my dogs, but also someone I’ve known for 25 years. But, you can know someone for 100 years, and you don’t really know them until you’ve lived with them in their house for 24 hours. Because, there I am in her kitchen hearing a hysterical voice I didn’t recognize telling me, “You put a wet bowl in the dry section of the sink!”

Dry side and wet side of sink

I knew what a wet bowl was. But what sort of sink has a dry section? Laura and I have a terrific history. We’ve helped each other though break-ups, she’s cared for my dogs when I’ve gone away, we’ve traveled together happily, and she is one of the most generous people I know. But in her own home, I sadly discovered, Laura has more rules than Homeland Security. And apparently Christmas is a Code Red.

This wasn’t the first time I’d discovered that someone could be very different when you’re staying at their place. A love affair on vacation in the Caribbean went awry when I went to Ohio and found that great, hot sex didn’t happen after I’d put my lover’s garlic powder in the wrong place and messed up an elaborate filing system of spices. My getting on top of, into and in between sheets on a bed that had been made with hospital corners led to another cataclysmic fight. Home may be where the heart is, but it’s also where the rules are. And they’re not to be broken.

Laura had a specific approach to trash. Anything smelly was to go into the metal can. Other things went into the trash compactor. I got out my notebook and made a note, but a smell got by me and there was trouble. I got trashed because of the trash.

She also cared that the dogs’ mouths get wiped after they’d visited their water bowls so as not to mess up the floor. Each time I heard a sound that could mean impending danger, I ran into the kitchen. The kitchen became an area of stress. The refrigerator was only to be opened for glimpses and there was a serious time limit for those. Laura came running down to ask, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find cream cheese,” I whispered, wondering why she seemed so alarmed. Turned out she was alarmed because of the alarm.

Freezer with labeled food and alarm

“The refrigerator alarm went off,” she told me. “You kept it open too long.”

Not wanting to offend again I opened the refrigerator and snapped a photo with my iPhone. That would allow me to check the inventory except that the milk blocked many things. I had to move it and take another picture. It was a far from perfect solution but the only way to elude the alarm. I didn’t want the cops to come because I was searching for cream cheese.

Heater was off at night. It was winter. In my room, the thermometer said 51. I could see my breath. My dogs and I cuddled for warmth, but I still had to sleep in my ski underwear.

Day two I learned that cereal bags were to be heat sealed with a Food Saver machine, showers were to be squeegeed, and all stainless steel faucets had to be towel dried. I tried to argue, “But, it’s water. It dries on its own.” In this house, water was tantamount to Muriatic Acid.

What may have been my biggest screw up was as Laura was putting away the dry items on the left side of the sink, I put a dog dish I’d washed out on top of the dry items. In my defense, I’ve never washed my dog’s dish as they understand that licking them clean is their job. I was wrong to expect praise for cleaning the bowl and was chagrined to be scolded for putting it on the wrong side of the sink with the dry items. True, it was wet, and it didn’t belong ON TOP of other dry items.

“Do you understand what you did?” she asked giving me a disapproving look.

Pantry with Labels

“Yes, I do.” I said, hoping to keep things at bay. “I got dry stuff wet again?”

“I want you to repeat to me what you think I’m saying.” she said, combining the worst of all my elementary school teachers. I was exhausted because of my freezing room, still hurt at having been reprimanded for missing a portion when I cleaned the dog pee off the tile floor and when I neglected to wipe my dog’s paws off thoroughly enough earlier this morning. All this combined to make me suspect she wasn’t enjoying spending the holiday with me or maybe she was picking up where my mother left off years ago, telling me each thing I didn’t do right. It didn’t matter. At that moment I wanted to grab a knife, put it into her and then leave it on top of the dry items. But if blood would stain the tile, I would hear about it, and I couldn’t face my life without my BFF, not on top of a Trump presidency.

So, rather than stabbing her, we actually talked and both realized that we were triggered. I told her about a childhood where I was blamed for everything and she talked about a childhood where she wasn’t seen, heard, or appreciated. We hugged. We cried. I dropped my Kleenex on floor. We both looked at it and before she could talk, I said, “I’ll pay for maid service.”

We laughed and that made everything okay, as it often does.

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TO BE FAIR - HERE IS LAURA'S RESPONSE:

When my BFF, Judy, called to tell me that she had rented out her entire house for the long Christmas weekend and she would like to come and stay at my house with her dogs, I said “yes!” immediately. I love the idea of holidays – especially Christmas. I’m just not so much into the execution of them. So, when Judy called, I was right in the midst of my usual Christmas season routine of not shopping, not decorating and not planning anything special. I thought her staying with me would be fantastic with us hanging out, cooking, eating, walking our dogs together, watching movies, doing whatever we want because we can. This is exactly what I love about not planning – being open to spontaneity and the unexpected. It was going to be a perfectly fun and relaxing holiday weekend. After all, I'm an easy going person.

I have known Judy for about 20 years. We have gotten especially close over the past 5 years as we have helped each other through some difficult times, traveled together to exotic destinations just because the opportunity arose and we are both curious and adventurous and shared thousands of personal, political and “if I ran the world …” stories. And, though we are about as different as two friends could be, in that Felix Unger and Oscar Madison sort of way, we are also about as compatible as two people could be and ALWAYS have a blast together. I consider her my honorary sister and had no hesitations about having her and her dogs stay with me.

So now I have a plan for Christmas and it perfectly fits my take-it-as-it-comes and make-it-your-own-great-holiday lifestyle.

On Christmas Eve, Judy and her two dogs arrive and settle into the guest room and then we stay up late chatting and munching on goodies until we head off to our respective rooms to sleep. I had told Judy when she arrived that the room she was staying in was evidently one they forgot to insulate when they build my house because it is always significantly colder in the winter and significantly hotter in the summer than the rest of the house. I made sure she knew how to work the space heater, told her about the down comforter in the closet if she needed it, showed her the thermostat and asked if she wanted the central heat on or off overnight. She is like me and said she prefers it off.

The next morning, I wander downstairs to see that Judy has already been up and had her tea. I do not actually see Judy, smell tea or see a tea cup, but I do see the dots of white from the foamy milk Judy likes in her tea on the counter and the spoon with still-clinging tiny white milk bubbles on it nearby. Okay. I go to get a treat for my dogs and notice that Judy has also had some nuts at some point the previous night. Not because I saw Judy have nuts, but because the lid to the jar is askew in such a manner that if you were to pick up the jar by the lid, it might just come off in your hand and the rest of the jar would then be all over the floor. Note to self – fix that. Speaking of the floor, one of Judy’s dogs is one of those “water dogs” who likes to drink from the water bowl and then stick his whole snout in the bowl up to his eyes when he is done and enjoy the feeling of the water dribbling out of his mouth as he walks through the house. I didn’t see Cody drinking water, nor do I see him in the kitchen, but I do see a trail of water from the far end of the kitchen that streams past the oven and the refrigerator and then rounds the dining room table. At the end of the trail, Cody lays on the dog bed looking refreshed and hydrated. Alright, a little clean up task for me. I go for a cold bottle of water just then but encounter something crusty on the refrigerator handle as I open the door. Hmmm. That wasn’t there before. I wonder what the hell that is.

None of these little Pig Pen-esque idiosyncrasies about Judy is new to me, or to anyone who has known her from more than an hour. Another close friend of hers characterizes Judy perfectly when she said that Judy “has a very causal relationship with her belongings.” What I’m starting to realize, is that when mi casa es tu casa, with Judy, that includes all of my belongings on that list of things that she does not feel a need to fret much about.

So, I tighten the lid on the jar of peanuts, take up the water bowl so the dogs drink outside, throw a rag towel on the floor and mop up Cody’s drool, put the spoon in the dishwasher, scrape the crud off of the refrigerator handle and wipe up the milk. I also make a mental note to let Judy know about a few house rules when I see her.

When she appears from the bedroom a little while later, she tells me she did not sleep well at all because she was “freezing all night.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. Personally, I hate being too cold, especially when you’re trying to sleep.

“Did you use the space heater?” I ask.

“No” she says, “I was afraid to leave it on.”

That’s fair, I think. I’m a bit paranoid about them tipping over and causing a fire myself.

“Did you get out the down comforter?” I ask.

She wanders away without answering.

I should also mention that, while I am not a clinician, Judy has what appears to be some form of ADD and I had already met my one question quote for her attention span.

It turns out, she never heard me say there was a comforter, again, because it was the second or third item in the list of things I told her about in the guest room.

So, I do mention her not to put a water bowl down unless she is supervising Cody’s drool habit and that the hand-washable stuff in the side of the sink with the drain board should be emptied when dishes are dry before newly washed items are put on top of the formerly dry items, the refrigerator door beeps if you keep it open too long and the temperature is being compromised, etc. And, no worries, it is Christmas day and we are going to fry a turkey in the turkey fryer she brought over and have a fantastic day. I am excited because we were going to do that together last year, but she was sick over Christmas.

So Judy decides to get the turkey out of the fridge and prep it for the big event. She puts it in the sink and begins what looks like a wrestling match with it – and even though Judy has a knife and scissors, she does not appear to be winning. I don’t know about you, but I definitely have a healthy fear of food-born organisms, especially in poultry. I’m seeing turkey juice and bits flying around the “wet” side of the sink and landing on the counter, the “dry” side dishes, the faucet, handles, cabinetry, and just about everything in an 18 inch radius of Judy and the turkey. I slowly back away from the situation like it’s the biohazard zone.

Oh god, I’m thinking, how will this disaster end?

Well, fast forward to turkey prep continuing with Judy injecting it with marinade on my center island, thus contaminating that entire cooking surface as well, to Judy asking me for a jar of poultry seasoning and proceeding, not to shake it all over the raw turkey, but to put seasoning in her hand, rub it on the turkey skin and then ACTUALLY pick up the jar with said hand, stick a finger in the jar with turkey slime on it to get a pinch more for an area that needed that extra bit more coverage. In my mind, large portions of my kitchen were cordoned off by virtual police crime scene tape.

Nonetheless, the meal is coming together and I’m feeling pretty confident that the proper cooking temperature and plenty of bleach-based cleaner will make everything okay. The deep fryer is filled with oil, plugged in and…. not heating. Yup, I guess when Judy dropped the fryer as she was carrying it a bit haphazardly into my garage the day before, it dislodged the part of the contraption that communicates with the heating element to actually heat up.

Well, plan B became pouring the cold peanut oil out of the broken fryer into a pan, heating it on the stove top, deconstructing the raw turkey and frying it piece-by-piece. Here are the highlights:

Me: “Judy, is that the plastic cover for the meat thermometer that you have in the boiling oil?” Judy: “Oh, I was wondering about that,” taking the now melting cover out of the pot of oil.

Judy: “Do you have tongs?” Me: “Yes, in that drawer.” From that drawer where there are two sets of sturdy, grippy tongs, Judy selects the third set – ice tongs. Cut to Judy with a very slippery, five pound turkey thigh and leg hovering over a very full boiling pot of oil on a gas range and the slow motion action of me yelling “Nooootttt thoooose tonnnnngs…” as the thigh slides from the weak and not-at-all-grippy tongs splashing down into the pot. About a cup of hot oil erupts out on to the neighboring burner which, thankfully, was not lit. I admit that I did retrieve the fire extinguisher from the laundry room and place it on the counter next to where Judy was frying. And I might have let slip a phrase such as, “I prefer not to have my house burn down today.”

I could go on and on. REALLY. And, needless to say, Judy and I were quite perturbed and had a few cross words with each other. But what matters is, we really, really love each other and want to be friends until we are in assisted living together. And, in order to do that, we need to resolve differences and move forward. So we did. We wanted to find a solution, so we talked about what happened and each of our emotional triggers from the day. We felt heard, close and loved. And we could laugh about it. Being the problem solvers we both are, we decided to hire a cleaning crew the next day, so we could continue our stay-cation, and our friendship. And, being the generous, fair and high moral character person that Judy is, she paid the entire cleaning bill. Merry Christmas to me!

That dinner, when it was finally cooked, was delicious, and filled my body and soul. I love you Judy and I always will.

10 Reasons Why It's Easier to be Jewish at Christmas

2016-12-19T17:51:00.002-08:00

There was never an official diagnosis, but I knew my seasonal, winter depression was a case of serious HOLIDAY ENVY caused by being Jewish at Christmas. Oh sure, we had Chanukah. It’s billed as “the festival of light” but it’s really Christmas-light. “Dreidel” isn’t even in MS spellcheck. You won’t find a latkeh with Judah Maccabee’s face on E-bay.

Growing up, my family tried to put on a festive face. We’d stick a tarnished menorah in the window, our way of saying “us too” in the neighborhood’s winter wonderland of sleighs, reindeers and elves, each house giving off more light than a shuttle launch. We had those blue and white streamers attached to banisters and we spun plastic Dreidels, but what I was lusting for was Santa, the first unavailable man in my life. I yearned to sit in his oversized lap and whisper what I wanted. Unlike my mother, he wouldn’t have scoffed, “You don’t need a training bra!” He would have, I knew, found me adorable and “ho ho ho’ed” at my jokes, making sure I got not only the training bra, but a cocker spaniel puppy as a bonus.

Judy in Ugly Chanukah Sweater

If I was caught moping, I’d be reminded, “We have our own holiday.” Uncle Norman never tired of telling us about the victory of the Jews over the Hellenistic Syrians in the battle of the Maccabees – hardly your warm-hearted, Hallmark moment. Christmas and Chanukah are apples and oranges. The story of Jesus born in a manger to a virgin is a guaranteed ratings win over a forgotten tribe, even with the long-lasting oil miracle thrown in as a B-story. If there’s a miracle, it’s that anyone converts to Judaism when it means giving up chocolate Easter bunnies and eating bitter herbs! Christian holidays have been “Disneyfied,” escalating in proportion and visibility. Christmas has the longest shelf life of any holiday, which is why my holiday depression extended to spring, when the last of the Christmas decorations would finally wilt from the heat.

You’d think eight days of gift giving might make up for something, but not when your family is “practical”. They didn’t want to “spoil” us. On the first day of Chanukah, I’d get one glove. On the second day, I’d get the other one. And we lived in LA, where nobody wore gloves. By day three we were out of brisket and the fun of trying to shove candles into slots filled with last year’s wax had worn off. I wanted to be part of the ritual of holiday shopping, but the only presents I needed were for were the newspaper delivery guy and my hairdresser, people whose last names I didn’t know. Everyone would be saying, “Merry Christmas” and I, who thought of myself as quick-witted, would be stumped for a response. This was no piece of honey cake.

Never mind how many scientific theories or vaccines our people have come up with, in December, we’re not a main event. Try looking for Chanukah wrapping paper in the Rite-Aid in North Dakota. Even in Manhattan, where Hispanics speak fluent Yiddish, a supermarket had put out matzo for Chanukah. And don’t think I was the only Christmas wannabe; Jewish superstar Barbra Streisand made a Christmas album. That’s right, our Yentl! You don’t get Taylor Swift singing “Chillin’ in the Gefillen.”

I’m not sure when things were recast for me, maybe when I heard “Put on your yalmuka. Here comes Chanukah”. As unlikely a guru as Adam Sandler got me out of my funk, getting me to see there is, in fact, a bright side to celebrating the holiday of lights. I had time off and didn’t have to go to church. Christmas Eve I’d gotten into a first-run movie without dialing Fandango. Their holidays get more press, but that’s all they get; we get theirs and ours. And if we want to take a day off, we can make up a holiday. “I can’t come in tomorrow because it’s the first day of “Cha…anything”. I started counting the perks.

Here are 10 REASONS why we Jewish people should be happy at Christmas:

1. We’ll never end up in an emergency room because we fell off a roof putting up reindeer.

2. We’re not traveling during black-out periods to see family. Because of the quirky timing of Chanukah, we can actually use frequent flyer miles.

3. There’s none of that lying to our kids about Santa Claus or pretending the toys are made by elves, not by children in China.

4. We’re not pressured to be happy, which is why it’s not such a Jewish thing to commit suicide during Christmas.

5. Nobody will ever knit us a red wool sweater with reindeer on it.

6. We don’t have to climb a ladder and hang tinsel on a tree with most of it ending up clinging to our clothes.

7. We’re not spending most of January standing on long lines, without receipts yet, to return a fondue set.

8. We can send cards, such as a New Years or Passover card won’t get lost in a huge stack of Christmas cards.

9. Less cholesterol in Potato Latkes than ham.

10. And if this were the only perk, it would be enough. We get jelly doughnuts for dessert, not a Christmas fruitcake with dried maraschino cherries on top.

Personal Story about the Election Results

2016-11-14T14:57:00.001-08:00

Trump, OJ, a Ventriloquist, and a Penny

It was 5:30am on Nov. 9, 2016, the morning after the election and I was probably the only person in the world (of the sober ones, anyway) who didn’t know who had won the presidential election.

After driving to Nevada and knocking on more than 300 doors for Hillary Clinton, I couldn’t handle watching the results. So, when the news started to look bad for her, around 8 pm Pacific Time, I took a Xanax and pulled a Scarlet O’Hara, “I won’t think about this today.” I knew there would be plenty of time for that.

Waking up at dawn the next day, I took a deep breath, turned on my iPhone and saw a text from CNN noting, “Hillary won the popular vote.” I breathed a sigh of relief thrilled that justice prevailed! People voted against sexism, racism, and hate. Having my country pick her over him was a personal victory for me as it healed my personal wounds of my mother being excluded from the workplace, and it distanced us a bit from the anti-Semitism and discrimination imposed on my immigrant grandmother. It even felt like a step away from my own history of being sexually assaulted.

As I went to call a friend I canvassed with, I saw the p.s. that while Hillary won the popular vote, Donald Trump was, nonetheless, our next president.

I burst into tears, instantly transported to another time I’d watched something equally unjust, remembering Oct. 3, 1995. It was a sunny day in Seattle, and I was in a hotel room with the TV on, waiting to hear the verdict in the OJ trial. It could not have been clearer that he had murdered his wife and her friend, Ron Goldman. His blood was on her gate. Ron Goldman’s blood was in his car. His size bloody shoe prints had been found on her walkway. They didn’t need a home movie of him to be sure what happened. The phone in my hotel room rang, letting me know that my 2pm private comedy consult had arrived. I was in Seattle doing a week’s engagement at a comedy club, and taking in some extra money by doing consultations.

“Send him up,” I said, turning off the TV.

I opened the door to meet Roy, a chubby, nerdy man in his 40s, with a shabby suitcase in hand, that looked no less ratty than the toupee on his head.

“Hello, nice to meet you,” Roy said, so softly, I could barely hear him. I remember wondering how this soft-spoken guy could command an audience when he barely kept my attention and I was only three feet from him.

Roy sat on the bed, which I later realized was a bit strange. As I pulled up a chair, he opened his suitcase and took out a rather large wooden dummy, dressed in a miniature suit and tie. “Oh no!” I thought, hating ventriloquists and their dolls. But I tried to comfort myself that it would be over in an hour and this guy had paid in advance. Roy busied himself, straightening out the dummy’s tie and then propped it up on his leg.

“So, you need help writing material for your ventriloquist routine, Roy?” I asked.

Then, with the dummy on Roy’s knee, a booming, assaulting loud voice yelled, “Hey lady, pay no attention to Roy. I’m the one paying you. That idiot Roy is a jerk. He can’t think of anything funny. Got any zingers? Come on, time is money!”

Roy then said softly to the dummy, “Hey, come on, Frankie, be nice. Judy, this is Frankie.”

“Hello,” I said, fretting that I was having a conversation with a fucking doll.

Frankie, the dummy said, “Hellllllooooo, gorgeous! What do you say, we get rid of the old guy with the bad toupee, and you and I make a little whoopee in your hotel room?”

Note to self: Never have a consult in a hotel room.

Changing the subject, I said to Roy… “Did you want me to watch your act and write some material?”

Frankie, maybe now aroused got even louder, “Hey, hot tits, come a little closer, I want you to grab my hand…”

“I’m not grabbing anything,” I said.

Roy persisted. “Oh, come on, Judy, play along … just shake his hand.”

That’s when I started questioning how much did I really need the $200 for this consult. I checked my watch. It had been 15 minutes. What should I do? Try to get through the next 45 minutes, or give him his money back and tell him to get out?

I shook his hand and a large wooden dick popped up on the dummy.

“Wow – you just gave me a woody! Get it?!”

I froze. This was a new low -- being sexually assaulted by a grown man with a doll. I usually had a quick one liner, but I was thrown by Roy’s pretense that it’s not him, it’s the dummy. I had to make a decision. If I just sat there, would that make me a comedy whore?

Swallowing back bile, I said, “OK, that’s a hack joke. Let’s work on some good ones.” I pulled out my laptop and sat there writing jokes as the rest of the hour progressed at glacial speed.

When he finally left, I realized that I was probably the last person in the country to hear the OJ verdict.

My heart was pounding as I turned on the TV and saw a smiling OJ. Not guilty.

I broke down and cried, afraid about our country. How could it be that in America, grown men could carry around a doll that that sexually assaults women and think it’s funny? What kind of country are we in where a man can murder his wife and her friend and walk away free?

My fear gave way to anger, and I made a decision to stop being nice. I would rage at every man I met.

My first victim was behind the fish counter at Pike Place Market. He charged me for a pound of crab, but I saw it wasn’t a pound, but rather .9 on the scale. I screamed at him, “You are cheating me, you SOB!”

I yelled at the men honking their horns, “Shut the fuck up!”

And when a black man came up to me asking me for spare change, I screamed, “Why should I give it to you? What have you ever given a woman?”

But, instead of turning away from me, this older man in tattered clothes calmly asked, “What’s the matter?” I told him about how the world treated women. How my mother was denied a career just because she was a woman. I told him about being assaulted by my father and there was no one to believe me, and that a man could kill a woman and get away with it.

When I finally ran out of steam, he asked, “Do you have a quarter, a dime and a penny? Don’t worry, I’ll give them back.”

He held the three coins out in his open palm and asked, “What do you notice about these three coins?” I shook my head. I didn’t know.

He said, “The penny is the only coin where the president is looking to the left. The others are looking in a different direction. You see, Lincoln freed the slaves. When I was 12 years old, living in Alabama, I watched my uncle get lynched. I saw them hang him from a tree. I’ve seen many things in my life, but I never thought I would see the day when a black man accused of killing a white woman doesn’t end up in jail. Times are changing.”

As we sat on Pike Place Market. I shared some fish with him and we watched the sunset. I wondered if I’d had his history if I’d have had his reaction? If I had walked in his shoes, would this be a day of celebration?

And now, so many years later, OJ is in jail, the world tilts to the left, and back to the right, and it is a slow journey to justice.

That made me stop deleting my Facebook friends who LIKED Trump. Instead, I sent a message to a Trump supporters and said, “If you tell me what happened in your life that made you vote for Trump, I will listen.”

Anger can take a long time to dissipate so I’m now hoping that Roy and his dummy Frankie will be the only act that agrees to perform at Trump’s Inaugural.

Having Election Anxiety? Therapists Report Trump Trauma

2016-10-26T12:16:00.002-07:00

If you’re finding that your emotional well-being is being challenged by this presidential election, you are not alone. The Washington Post writes, “Psychologists and massage therapists are reporting ‘Trump anxiety’ among clients.” According to the Post, what seems to be anxiety producing is, “How can Trump be so divisive AND popular at the same time?”

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com

My own case of Trump Trauma started shortly after the Republican candidate called Mexicans “rapists.” Like many, I thought, “Well, that will end his campaign.” But that didn’t happen. His rallies grew and so did my anxiety level.

His insults continued. He mocked the disabled and people of color, and he body-shamed women. We then saw tapes of him bragging about sexually assaulting women while proclaiming, “No one is more respectful of women than me.”

And yet, Republicans didn’t get out of endorsing him while I was having a hard time getting out of bed. Seeing women wave “Women Support Trump” signs, I took to having a cocktail – maybe two -- after the evening news.

There was no 12-step program or halfway house to get over the mania. Going “Trump Free” was impossible as he was on every iPhone news feed, the subject of every Facebook conversation, and even sleep provided no escape as he appeared in my dreams to tell me I was not a 10. Still, I heard him saying, “You’re fat, you’re old, I’m going to grab you by your pussy, and you can’t stop me!”

In that dream, Trump’s face was replaced by my father’s. Although there was little resemblance between his family and mine, in therapy, the connections surfaced. Both Trump and my father had an undue sense of privilege. In the 1950’s, men were thought of as princes. When nights became violent, my mother made sure that by morning everything looked perfect. The man leaving our home, in a coat and tie, was off to work, providing for his family and a dutiful wife who took care of the house. Those who knew the truth about what was going on in our family – my mother, some neighbors, even the police – did nothing to try to stop it. Men were given a pass.

Trump revealed by his own words that he was a sexual predator. My father didn’t have a videotape with Billy Bush, but he kept a meticulous journal of all his conquests. When I found it after he died, I saw that my mother wasn’t his only victim. If he were alive today, I can imagine my father putting a Trump spin on it, “That never happened. Believe me, she was ugly and flat chested.”

And the women – Melania, my mother, and others – lack the courage to stand up to the monsters sleeping next to them or giving them a pass by chalking it up to "Boy talk."

But, understanding the roots of my Trump Trauma and writing this blog, my anxiety has lessened. Also helping has been the polls showing that others are crossing political lines making a statement that this behavior is not acceptable.

Unfortunately, there will always be men like Trump and my father. But if anything productive comes from this election, I hope there will be more honest conversations about them, and we will unite to help women protect themselves and their children from these men.

12 Tips to Remedy Seasonal Depression

2016-09-26T14:35:00.000-07:00

Fall Starts with National Suicide Prevention Month

Seasonal depression is a real thing as I just got an email that September is National Suicide Prevention Month. Wow! Summer over already? In Southern California, the weather doesn’t alert you to the change of seasons. The leaves on palm trees don’t change color. Actually, the drought has all but done away with trees. It’s 78 degrees and there is no obvious difference so we desperately look for a sign that we are approaching winter, things such as:

Angelenos are starting to lose their tan.
With all the kids back in school, the ocean water smells better as there is less pee in it.
Weight Watcher meetings are less populated with swimsuit season over.
The slight coolness in the air whips up sad feelings of loved ones who have fallen from us. We mourn for what was, who we once were, who we’d hoped to be and never will.

You’re probably thinking, “Hey, Judy, you’re supposed to end with a joke.” I know, that last bullet was sad. And that’s why September makes sense for a Suicide Prevention Month.

But, as someone who sometimes falls into seasonal depression, I look to turn messes to successes. It’s a way of making them hurt less. Some of you prone to seasonal depression understand what I’m talking about. So, I’m sharing my list of things to do when you fall backwards. I keep it on my iPhone in my “Notes” always available to turn to. That helps cope with the urge to have yet another Whiskey Sour, order Chinese food delivery AFTER dinner, or I find myself wondering if middle age is too late for a second career as a prostitute.

Carter’s Combat Depression List:

Break into in case of emergency

Hug your dog.

MOVE: Go to another room. Go in the yard. Go to the store. Go anywhere other than where you are.
GET A MASSAGE. People who get paid to touch us generally do a better job than the ones in bed with us.
SHOP ON AMAZON. You can always return the stuff when you feel better.
WALK YOURSELF OR YOUR DOG TO A NEW PLACE. Get away from the usual routine. The vibes of a different place, with different people is invigorating and healing.
WRITE AN APPRECIATIVE FACEBOOK POST, SEND A TEXT OR EMAIL. Tell someone how and why you appreciate them. Helping another person is a terrific spirit lifter.
PLAY A VIDEO GAME. Shooting the bad guy is a great way to express your anger and lift the fog.
SING. Even if no one else will, your dog will listen.
MAKE A LIST. Count the times you felt happy and try to recreate that state of mind.
GIVE AWAY MONEY. But not to the wrong candidate. Kiva.com is a great site that loans money to impoverished small business owners who repay them. It’s the gift that truly keeps on giving.
GO ON MEET.UP.COM You’ll get to know strangers who are worse off than you. Maybe others who’ve read this list. That will help put things in perspective.
PAINT BY NUMBERS. When I write my books, I always do paint by numbers. You can’t go wrong. It’s easier than staying in the lines in a coloring book. There are no choices and it’s guaranteed to look like the picture on the box it came in.
LABEL THINGS. Get an DYMO labeler and go to work. It makes a satisfying sound as it spits out labels such as “Ground Cumin” “2015 Taxes” and “Love Letters Circa 1985.” You will feel productive. But, if you over do it and start labeling you cats, “Cat” call your therapist ASAP.

What are your tips to fighting Fall Funk?

I Need a Job! Four Steps to Find New Business Opportunities

2016-09-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

The new business opportunity you are trying to find might be might be next door, rather than on LinkedIn.

My friend told me that she got a job as head of marketing for a new startup company. Not only is she going to be on salary, but she also gets a percentage of the startup company. Sarah, in her late 50s, is a former Hollywood agent, screenwriter, and entrepreneur. She doesn’t have an MBA, nor does she have any degree in marketing.

So how did Sarah, who has had little experience in marketing, get this amazing job when other people are aging out of the corporate market?

Sometimes a cliché is true. A dog is a man’s – or in this case, a woman’s – best friend. Sarah got it by walking her dog.

That’s right, you read this right. As both women walked their dogs, Sarah gave her neighbor great tips on launching her startup, which led to a job offer.

You see, business opportunity is everywhere. Some see it and act on it. Others are distracted by desperation and don’t notice when an answer to a career problem is right in front of them. It’s important to realize that it’s never too late to start a new career, in a different business, and have a new income stream.

Many of my baby boomer friends are shocked to find that their retirement savings are not sufficient to cover the long lives we are all facing, and Social Security payments aren’t going to give them a life that includes even grungy hotels.

Here are 4 Steps to help you find new business opportunities:

Get out of the house and meet new people. Branch out. Do something different. Just last weekend, while playing Pokémon Go on the Santa Monica Pier, I met a man who was having trouble with a PokeStop. Turned out that he’s a dentist who had to give a speech, and he was scared out of his mind. Guess who has a new client? Me!
Consider everyone you meet as a potential resource. Business opportunities are not just on LinkedIn or in an office. They can be your nextdoor neighbor whom you walk your dog with, or even your Uber driver (whose brother might run a comedy club that you have been trying to get into).
Even if you don’t have an elevator, have an elevator speech. Be prepared to tell others what you do in a compelling one-minute pitch that doesn’t sound like you’re selling yourself. Sarah came to me for coaching last year as she was preparing to give a speech. We worked on The Message of You formula, a technique to market yourself -- and what you do by focusing on outcomes. This way of introducing yourself forms an instant connection to others.
Giving often leads to getting. Be generous. Walking her dog, Sarah gave her neighbor marketing ideas. She did it, not to get a job, but that’s who Sarah is. As a freelancer, she advises authors on how to sell more books and does product placement for movies and books.

Do these steps not looking for a hand-out, but as a way of being helpful to others.

Have you noticed that people love when they’re not looking? It’s the same with getting a job or clients. By being giving, you’re likely to generate others to do the same, and you will be the recipient. It’s more inviting than a desperate, “I need a job!”

If you know someone looking for a job, tweet this!

@JudyCarter

Get paid to speak your life message at The Message of You

How to Become a Paid Motivational Speaker

2016-08-22T12:41:00.001-07:00

5 Steps to Having a Moneymaking Message

In becoming a motivational speaker, I went from being a standup comic, flying coach, getting heckled, and sharing a Motel 6 to being a paid speaker, traveling first class, speaking to an appreciative audience, and staying in fancy hotels with spa soap. Rather than doing nine shows a week in a comedy club, I was now earning more doing just one speech.

Speaking at Women's Health Event in Pensacola, Fl

In 2008, however, everything changed. When the recession hit, the motivational speaking market went downhill as companies could no longer justify hiring a pick-them-up, make-them-laugh speaker. Rather than entertainment, they needed someone with a message, someone who would deliver “take-aways” that improved efficiency, reduced sick days, and boosted their bottom line.

Seeing the writing on the podium, I switched from being a “lighten up humorist” to speaking on the topics of stress reduction and leadership. I continued to use my comedy material to keep the audience laughing, but added specific ACTION STEPS to make my points create lasting results. Developing these STEPS are essential if you want to have a moneymaking message as a motivational speaker.

In my online speaking workshop, students find these crucial action steps by examining their own “mess-to-success” journeys and taking advantage of the specifics that worked for them. Few thought to examine how they lost weight, conquered a depression, or started a business. They were so busy keeping up with LinkedIn and Facebook, they overlooked what they’d learned about overcoming a particular challenge. Getting in touch with those steps is the way to earn extra income as a speaker and can even transform into a book.

Here are some steps to help you find your Action Steps to become a motivation speaker:

This is excerpted from my book "The Message of You":

Make a list of your successes.
Next to each, note your starting point, i.e., bad health, living with your parents, directionless, whatever.
Explain how you got from your “mess” to your “success.”
Find 3 things you did differently that worked.
Give a name/label to those 3 things that got you to success as those are your Action Steps.

Watch free video lessons, get coaching, and join online workshops to find your message and become a paid motivational speaker.

https://themessageofyou.com

Message Marketing: 6 Essential Entrepreneurial Marketing Skills for Your Home-Based Business

2016-07-21T14:22:00.002-07:00

Attend Free Online "Marketing Your Message" with Judy Carter

Thursday, August 4 - 6pm to 7pm (Pacific Time)

Register HERE.

Yesterday, when I asked my neighbor’s kid if she could walk my dog, she directed me to her dog walking website, complete with client reviews, a message statement, customer testimonials, and pricing tiers. In the About section, I learned she is 10 years old.

Say what you will about Millennials, but today’s kids have more sophisticated message marketing skills than most Baby Boomers. Still, even if you aren’t a born entrepreneur, you can learn 6 essential skills necessary to earn extra income with your home-based business.

Why become an entrepreneur?

With company’s hiring fewer full time employees, careers like my father’s, who had one job for his entire life and retired at 55 years old with a lucrative pension, are few and far between. According to The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, the average person now has 12 jobs in his or her lifetime, and many of them are at the same time. If you want to afford a great lifestyle, it is necessary to be a self-starter and know how to maximize your earnings.

When starting a home-based business, BEFORE you hire someone to design your website, write copy, and handle the marketing, learn these 6 marketing skills:

1. Know your message. Your essential business message has to be front and center on your website. This is called Your Promise Statement which is a 5 to 7 word statement that conveys the results of someone using your service or product. That should go onto your website, form your social marketing campaign, and be reflected by your logo. http://themessageofyou.com/webinar-jane/

2. Get Google to Find You. Like the old adage goes, what good is a website if Google can’t find it? You can DIY SEO marketing to increase your online ranking without hiring an expensive expert.

3. Write Findable and Sizzling Web Copy. Data driven websites are a bore. Communicate with clients using STORIES. There are 3 Essential Stories you have to have on your website.

4. Create a great demo video. Before you hire an expensive video production crew, assemble an authentic video that will connect with Millennials. A phone and selfie stick will be useful as you want to be authentic.

5. Connect with stories. Know your 3 Essential Business Stories that include: the story of your customers, the story of your business, and your own personal heart story.

6. Use public speaking to promote your business. Yes, speaking is scary, but there is no better marketing than a 12-minute TEDx talk to turn you into an International Expert.
Your message is your foundation to your marketing. To help you find your message and
other marketing skills, view free video lessons here. It all comes down to message
marketing.

Overcoming Procrastination: Read this now or you never will

2016-07-12T12:56:00.004-07:00

Attend Free Online Workshop with Judy Carter

Thursday, Aug 4 - 6pm to 7pm (Pacific Time)

Register HERE.

Writers Block? Overcome Procrastination Now

Overcoming procrastination is possible! I’m a total procrastinator, yet, I have published five books, written TED talks for myself, and others, and run my home-based business where I’ve developed an online speaker and comedy workshop.

And further more, I got this blog done!

You’re probably thinking that, “That doesn’t sound like a procrastinator.” You want proof of what a nut job I am?

Here’s a video of a day in the life of a writer (me) struggling to write a new speech where I keep looking for ideas in the refrigerator which has the same stuff in it as it had in it when I looked 5 minutes ago. Squirrel!

Why Do People Procrastinate?

According to Oregon State University, there are Six Reason why people procrastinate.

#1 "But I Don't Know How"

When I was teaching standup, so many comics didn’t do any advance work because if they didn’t get laughs, they could cop-out by saying, “I didn’t work on this.” Nobody likes to feel dumb. In my comedy and speaking webinars, the attendees who do their homework and put themselves out there, get better. Just ask past comedy student, Seth Rogen.

#2 "This Stuff Is Just Plain Boring"

I was complaining about all the boring database work I have to do to promote my new book "The Message of You Journal" to my buddy film director, Cathryn Michon. Meanwhile, Cathryn commiserated because although, she got to write, starred in and direct her movie "Muffin Top: A Love Story," rather than spending her time drinking Champagne from a crystal Tiffany flute, she spent her time re-linking audio files, color correcting, and searching for corrupt pixels. As she said, "People don’t realize that 90% of having a dream job is boring, grueling, grunge work.” Take our dreams... please!

#3 "I Don't Feel Like Doing It"

If you want until you’re motivated to do something, you’re going to die waiting for that burst of inspiration. Getting tasks done is like married sex: you make an appointment, start doing it even when you don’t feel like it, and then your both surprise yourself that things got rolling.

#4 "But What If I Can't Cut It?"

Fear of failure is another reason people procrastinate. I remember when I was teaching comedy, that there was a student whose cell phone went off right before it was his turn to go onstage. He would shout, “My wife has an emergency!” But, the third time, his wife gave birth within a month, we were on to him. In my online Comedy Workshop, generally, the people who show up are the ones who succeed.

#5 "You Can't Make Me"

Many times, my internal voice sounds like my mother saying, “Do your homework, NOW!” And my rebellious reaction, “NO!” We baby boomers were the protesting generation. I can just see us in Assisted Living being pushed to the bathroom going, “Hell no; we won’t go!” Oh look, you already went... in your pants.

Here’s the thing, if you are a procrastinator, there are workarounds to overcoming procrastination:

ADMIT IT

As in all first steps, you have to admit that you are a procrastinator. If your first thought right now is, I’ll admit this "later” rather than, “Now,” you are a procrastinator. I remember listening to Jane Fonda interview in the '80s where she called herself “Lazy.” Mind you, at the time she was a movie star, teaching workout classes, raising a family, as well as putting out exercise DVD series. Once you admit it, then you can accept fixes.

GET APPS

Turn to a power greater than yourself – an APP! Yes, there is an app for that and here are some good time management tools. According to LifeHacker.com here are the Top 15 Time Management Apps and Tools

HIRE A BOSS

So now, even though, you have a list of time management tools, if you are like me, you “Dismiss” those annoying reminders on your iPhone telling you to do something. So, hire a boss via TaskRabbit .I tried hiring a Virtual assistant and that was a disaster. So, when I was writing a book, I hired someone whose sole job it was to sit next to me on the couch and not allow me to get up and wake me up when I fell asleep. That book is "The Comedy Bible" and has sold more than 500,000 copies.

STOP WORKING

I know, this is a weird tip. Avoid procrastination by procrastinating. Yesterday, I was beating myself up because I couldn’t get anything done. So, I just got out of the house, walked my dogs on Venice Beach, had some frozen Yoghurt, went shopping, and had a lovely cocktail. And the next day, I got stuff done, as I wrote this blog. Sometimes, you have to give yourself space to let your brain relax. Beating yourself up is never a way to overcome procrastination.

The good news is that you’re not alone. There are millions of us avoiding stuff and many of us are successful. We all need help and that’s why I created the ultimate Stop Procrastination tool, The Message of You Website where we can all empower each other and overcome procrastination.

The Number One Tip to Being Funny

2016-06-30T12:48:00.001-07:00

Have you ever bombed when trying to be funny? OK, if you’re a comic, or a speaker, you probably are going to lie, right?

I’ll admit it – even, I, the author of "The Comedy Bible" have bombed. Yes, I’m been in that "no-laughs" misery zone that segues into that “I-know-I-can-get-them” desperation mode.

It isn’t pretty.

Here are some of the STUPID THINGS that I have done when bombing:

I start pacing. The bad news is that I look like a moving target. The good news is that I’ve racked up 3.2 miles on my Fitbit.
I start laughing at my own jokes. How phony is that? Obviously I’ve heard them before.
I talk faster. One time I finished an hours worth of material in 15 minutes. A big problem when you’re the headliner. Now what?
I walk into the audience to do crowd work. Not such a smart idea to get closer to the very people who hate you.
I talk louder. Yes… a middle-aged woman shouting is SO much funnier.
I start criticizing the audience. And we all know how well that works when trying to get someone to love you.
I get dirty. Right! As if talking about pubic hair while people are eating nachos is attractive.

So, what is the number 1 secret to being funny? It’s to NOT TRY to be funny. Every time I haven’t done well, it’s because I wasn’t into what I was saying. I was just up there TRYING. “Trying” is not BEING..

So, rather than going onstage thinking, “I’m going to try to get people to laugh”; go onstage to COMMUNICATE your point of view, your opinions, your message. Even if you don’t get laughs, you still will have a purpose. And most importantly, going onstage DOING rather than TRYING will make you authentic, and even get you laughs.

Outlaw immigrants? Then No Baklava for Trump!

2016-06-20T14:58:00.002-07:00

Stop hypocrisy by living by the laws you make

Our Congress refuses to pass laws on gun control as they voted down 4 bills today.

While everyone is talking about Orlando, I am thinking of another state, Ohio. In a few weeks, Republicans will flock there but although Ohio is an open carry state, no guns will be allowed at the convention. Right out of the gate, Donald Trump talked about the wall he would build if elected and in fact, he has already built one for himself. His wall of high security at Trump Tower, his bodyguards, his private jets means he doesn't have to be in around crazy people who have assault rifles, but the rest of us do.

There certainly wasn't a wall of protection around anyone who died from a bullet in a movie theater, a high school, a church, a college campus, or, most recently, a nightclub.

Sobbing along with others in my Venice Beach community, we listened as they read the 49 names of the mostly gay Latinos gunned down in Orlando. We hugged each other and recommitted to the fight to end easy access to assault rifles that allow a mentally ill person to shoot hundreds in minutes.

I was sure that this would be the event that pushed our leaders to do something to stop this gun insanity. Instead, I hear I hear Donald Trump’s solution is building walls and preventing immigrants from entering this country.

You know the Golden Rule? Treat others as you would want to be treated? I have a new one. The people who make the laws have to live by the laws they create.

Strange as they say that everyone carrying guns makes us safer. Following that logic, concealed weapons SHOULD be allowed at their convention. They want them in schools, then why not at their convention or, for that matter, in Congress?

Similarly those who refuse to raise the minimum wage should be paid like the employees at Walmart. And we all know that the clerks work a hell of lot harder than our Congress people.

They don’t like Obamacare? Cancel their free medical insurance provided by taxpayers and let them try to get insurance with a preexisting condition.

You don’t support Black Lives Matter, minorities or gays? Then you can listen only to white people music. That’s right, bop along to an accordion solo. And, have a straight person do your hair (I’m sure that’s the explanation for Donald’s “every day is a bad hair day”).

You want to build walls that keep out immigrants? Then you don’t get to eat Greek or Ethiopian food, delicious Korean-Mexican short-rib tacos or amazing Pasta Fogioli at that new Italian restaurant direct from Naples. Enjoy your can of SpaghettiOs.

Let the lawmakers live with the consequences of the laws they support. Maybe that will teach them the contributions foreigners have made to our culture, and they might be more open to building bridges, not walls.

Sign the Petition: "Ban Assault Weapons Now"

What do you think? Please add your comments.

3 Simple Steps to Get a Business Mentor for Free: Enroll Others in your Message

2016-06-08T12:50:00.000-07:00

As a newly single person, I get excited when someone asks me out to dinner, especially when I hear, “I’m treating!”

“Wow, that’s promising. Someone really likes me!”

But, my enthusiasm is dampened when I hear: “I’m treating because I want to pick your brain.”

Now, at my age, I’m thrilled that anyone wants to pick a piece of my body, but my least favorite part to give away for free is my brain. Isn’t that called intellectual prostitution? I’m whoring my brain away for a fillet of Salmon.

I understand why I get approached this way. After all, I’m a former standup comic turned speaker and one of the few people who actually gets paid to do what I love – to stand in front of others to entertain and inspire. Most people who consult with me on improving their presentation skills want to learn how to quit their day job and get paid to speak.

I know that the comic or speaker who asks me out for a date has good intent, but there’s a better approach to get information, than offer a meal. It’s not like I have a sign on my door that says, “Will consult for food.”

After all, I’m sure you, just like I, have spent a lot of money filling your brain with marketable skills and professional know-how. We’ve gone to college, attended meetings, got CPU credits, not to mention years of therapy to correct a dysfunctional childhood so we can go days without Xanax.

And you want me to tell you how togged paid to speak for a slice of pizza?

Now, I DO give stuff away. But, it’s usually when someone approaches me with a MESSAGE that I believe in. Then I don’t even care about the meal. I WANT to help because the person has ENROLLED me in their message. They get a “piece of my mind” and a boatload of my talent when they offer me to be a part of something I believe in.

I have donated speeches to cancer, children, veterans as well as assisting with writing TED talks for discounted fees because I believe in the MESSAGE. That’s what happened when Muslim scholar, Dalia Mogahed asked me to write her TED talk which resulted in over 1.5 million views. Even though I'm not Muslim, I’m proud to be a part of her message of ending Islamophobia.

So, when you need help that you can’t afford, think about how you approach someone. Rather that paying them with paella, know how to enroll someone in your message.

3 Steps to Enroll a Business Mentor

Describe your business without using these three words, “I” “My” “Me.” Rather, describe what you do in terms of the RESULTS you create for OTHERS.
Identify the “Problems” your business solves. Another words, when Dalia Mogahed came to me, rather than telling me all about herself and the TED talk she wanted to do, she told me of her concerns about the stereotyping and discrimination of Muslims. Although not Muslim myself, I fully got onboard as I wanted to join her in making a difference.
Create a simple statement that contains the problem you want fixed, the audience your business addresses, your credentials to fix the problem, and the results you can create.

Master these simple 3 steps and you will not only enroll a business mentor, but interns, followers, and especially customers. Practice these three steps and use them to promote your business and even get paid to speak!

Get access to Judy by becoming a member of TheMessageofYou.com

Getting Depression to Move Out and You Move On

2016-05-23T16:57:00.002-07:00

Part 4 in a 4 part series on Depression

View others in this series:
Part 1: "Are Comedians More Depressed?"
Part 2: "When Depression Visits and Stays"
Part 3: "Do We Have Any Control Over Depression?"

Mr. D. was firmly planted in my being, but I was determined to unseat him.

Since I started writing about depression I’ve been inundated with well-wishers giving me solutions, including: meditation, MDMA, exercise, various TED talks, and moving to join a cult. I do appreciate the intent behind all my readers, and since exercise didn’t involve packing for a trip to be in a cult, I put on my Target tights, gathered my dogs and went out for a jog, moving slowly enough so that someone on crutches could whiz past me. I kept going, waiting for a runner’s high. It never came. But, something else happened that changed everything.

I ran past a man walking his dog and my dog’s leash got tangled around his leg. He bellowed at me, “God damn it!”

The force of his anger shocked me. It was excessive. All that was going on was two leashes getting involved. I quickly untangled mine, apologizing, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over again.
Glaring at me with hateful eyes, he kept yelling, “God damn you!”

I hadn’t run more than half a block before I ducked into an alley and collapsed in a puddle of tears. We all have our limits. Both the external world and my inner world were conspiring and yelling at me. But, this time, I recognized those angry eyes. I also noted the voice was familiar. It belonged to my father, drunk and screaming at 6-year-old me for spilling milk at the dinner table, “God damn it! You are worthless, worthless.” In that moment, I found out who Mr. D was.

Sobbing, I continued to sit in the alley. This was no movie star cry. It was ugly and heaving. I thought about my father, about all the angry old people, and that horrible angry man. As a child, I wasn’t allowed to cry. Now I could let it all out. I comforted myself by wrapping my arms around my torso. My dogs caught on and licked my face. Somehow I felt lighter when I got up. I was feeling again.
I continued my jog around the golf course. In the distance, I saw the angry man walking towards me. My inclination was to go another way, but an inner voice challenged that, asking, “Why change where you are going?” It was a voice I hadn’t heard in a long time. Kind. Strong. Reasonable. It was the voice I heard when doing standup comedy, the one I used to make sure that the hecklers in the audience didn’t have the final say. It was the voice that had my back, the one I could count on now to deal with the angry man.

With my head held high, I looked directly at him and said, “Have a good day.” Saying this simple positive phrase was a triumph. I didn’t let him turn me angry. I realized that his anger had nothing to do with me, and my sadness had nothing to do with him. And in that moment, the course of my personal emotional history shifted. People do and can trigger the past, but it has nothing to do with who I truly am in the present. And today, in this this expression of positivity, another angry person didn’t get to have the final word.

That night, I woke up while it was still dark, stunned to discover the voice that had been telling me I didn’t deserve to live was gone. Mr. D had left the building, replaced by the voice of quiet. I could hear and enjoy the quiet snoring of my beloved dogs. The birds welcoming the dawn. And I was pleased to again feel a sense of peace, something that had been eluding me for a long time.

It’s now my 3-month anniversary of celebrating life. My energy has returned. Mr. D has come back, but it’s temporary lodging and he no longer hangs around for long. I uploaded an app that tracks moods that helps keep Mr D at bay. I’ve stopped being ashamed of depression because I understand how much it has given me. Depression has escalated my power of empathy. It’s magnified my inner strength. It’s made me accept that life is not a series happy events, but rather it’s a series of disappointments where we learn how to transform messes to successes. Happiness is not delivered free of charge, but realized.

Regardless of which voice is in my head at any moment, I’m grateful that I am again able to feel something. Anything – sadness, anger, fatigue and joy. Mostly, I appreciate feeling love: the love coming from my friends, family, my dogs, and you, the readers who write me with your own stories.

Do We Have Any Control Over Depression?

2016-05-16T16:37:00.003-07:00

When doing good deeds for others makes you feel even worse...

Part 3 in a 4 part series on Depression. View others in this series:

Part 1: Are Comedians More Depressed?

Part 2: When Depression Visits and Stays

Are we able to control depression?
My readers might have noticed the huge gap between Part 2 and 3 of this series on my “winning the fight against depression.” After all, I had my happy ending totally mapped out when writing about it, which triggered a return visit from Dr. D. Maybe because I live in California, I likened it to the aftershock that inevitably happens shortly after you’ve returned all your tchotchkes to the shelf when you’re convinced an earthquake has ended. Or, as they like to say in Hollywood, I had a sequel.

I thought I was done writing about it, but when I was speaking at a Toastmaster event in Las Vegas, a woman came over and let me know how surprised she was that someone she perceived as being successful and funny dealt with the same condition she had. She thanked me and said, “Because you wrote about yours, I’m stopped being secretive about mine. And that’s helped.”

That made me think I might be on to something. Is this the new “coming out?” It might be harder to

admit to being depressed than being gay. Depression hasn’t acquired any cache. There are gay role models, stars, musicians. Gays get parades. There are no Zoloft-sponsored Depressed Pride Days.

Some of you have suggested I look into childhood trauma to see if there’s a connection. I want to let you know: I have had therapy, EMDR, primal scream, exercised and cut out sugar. I took Landmark training, Quested, did Burning Man, took drugs and stopped taking them. When all that failed, I wondered if I was too self-absorbed and considered doing charity work. Maybe Mr. D would leave me alone if I were more of a do-gooder. I pictured how my new friends would create a ripple effect of happiness in my life as they gushed with gratitude. When my energy returned, I might even be able to write a book titled, “Curing Depression by Giving.”

I rushed to volunteer to deliver meals to those who couldn’t get to 7-Eleven. I got my schedule, loaded up the car with meals that looked like the bottom of a shoe with runny baby poop on top. No matter, these poor, elderly people, living on meager funds in a tiny apartment were pleased to have company, regardless of the quality of the food. I would be the person to change their lives.

On my first delivery I double checked the address as I couldn’t possibly be delivering meals to this luxury high rise, right on the beach in Santa Monica. I buzzed the video intercom and was escorted by a security guard through marble floored hallways, past the indoor and outdoor swimming pools, the exercise room with a TV on every treadmill, to the apartment on the 14th floor. When I knocked on the door, I heard a man yell, “God damn it, who is there?”

“It’s your meal delivery,” I said, trying to keep my voice cheery.

“God damn it, just open the door!”

Opening the door, I saw the most exquisite view of the Santa Monica Bay. But that was overshadowed by a ghastly stench and a disturbing amount of clutter, so much that the door opened only part way as it was blocked by stacks of newspapers, magazines, and take-out containers. A disembodied voice from the next room screamed, “Just leave the food in the tray and leave, God damn it.”

Nervous, I put the meal on top of a magazine with Nixon on the cover, and closed the door. OK… no cookies. No WWII stories. The next place would be better. In a Venice home, a long haired, Baby Boomer in tie-dyed screamed at me for not having a plastic bag to put the meal into. As he slammed the door in my face, I was the one apologizing.

My third stop was to a woman also living in squalor, but she seemed nice. There was no yelling. I tried to start a conversation and she said she was about to watch a TV show. On the screen I saw the DirecTV logo bouncing about. “Do you want me to turn it to a program?” I offered.

“No, I like watching this,” she replied.

I returned home even more depressed. From what I saw, getting older is like pouring Miracle Grow on one’s defects. Was this a glimpse into my own future? When does saving stuff turn into hoarding?

I found the answer and it is in the final blog of this series. Stay tuned and please post your dealings with Mr. D in the comments.

Sign up for Judy’s online free comedy workshops here.

Depression: When Depression Visits and Stays

2016-04-27T12:43:00.001-07:00

This is Part 2 in a 3 part series on Depression

Read part 1 here: Are Comedians more Depressed?

If you’re like me, you may have met someone on vacation and said, “If you are ever in my town, you must stay with me.” Then, this person shows up on your doorstep and you regret it. You’re stuck with them. At breakfast. At dinner. Hanging out in your space. You have an intruder sucking your energy, occupying your time, and making you listen to their unending disapproval.

That was how I experienced depression. Mr. D entered my life and, like an unwelcomed guest, wouldn’t leave. I lived with him in misery for three months until the day his sorry ass left. My energy returned and I’m no longer exhausting my resources dealing with an alien who’d taken over my life.

I became aware that he had left when I woke up in the middle of the night, and the voice that would tell me various ways of killing myself was silenced. I didn’t have to hear about whether hanging or jumping was a better way to go. It was quiet. The change was profound. It was as if the angriest family member had just packed up and taken off.

With depression gone, I was able to feel. Whether sad, angry or happy, I’m grateful to be feeling again. I can read in the newspaper about people being murdered and feel sad, but that’s different from depressed. I feel happy about the small stuff, even just finding my keys. I have extreme joy hearing birds sing, walking the Venice Canals with my dogs, and I don’t fall apart if I say “Hi” to someone and get no response. That doesn’t go into the column of “Reasons not to Live.” My thrust is to live and to make a difference. Mr. D had been heckling me for three months and I’m glad he’s gone.

When depressed, it was exhausting to try to appear normal. I had to outshout the voice telling me that everything I was doing was wrong. Adding to the mess was my sense that everyone I encountered knew I was depressed and was judging me. The maid I passed in a hotel hallway knew. Audience members listing to my jokes knew. The DMV clerk knew.

When I forced myself to go out with friends, like a battered woman not wanting others to see my internal bruises, I was acting. I pretended that I wasn’t suffering from Mr. D, my own abusive man. I would try to follow their jokes and laugh when it was appropriate even though it was a chore. Laughing and smiling had become strenuous, aerobic exercises. Faking joy – when I didn’t have a molecule of it - was grueling.

One of the hard aspects of being depressed is having people ask, “What happened?” I caught on that it was better not to admit it, but before that I’d make up a fake reason.

“Well, you know I got divorced… last year.” That satisfied them. But the answer could also have been, “It’s March, it’s sunny, it’s rainy.” Depression sometimes just arrives without a reason.

In addition to being exhausting, Mr. D provoked guilt. I believed I was responsible for inviting him in. And I felt shame that I was not strong enough to evict him.

One month into rooming with Mr. D, my therapist suggested sending me to a psychiatrist to put me on meds. I know they help a lot of people, but they felt wrong for me. I don’t like meds. I worried how they might affect the one gift God has given me - creativity – and I didn’t want to take any chances. So, I asked my therapist for time for me to try to get Mr. D. to leave, promising to try harder to make it happen.

Reading that exercise and music help, I jogged while listening to upbeat music. Jogging when depressed is like running as the TinMan, with lead as feet carrying a boulder on your back. I ran 5Ks, got home and waited for that so-called runner’s high with an inner voice congratulating me, “You did it!” But, no Nike ad ending. Mr. D was still in my head, saying that I hadn’t run far enough.

Next step was my idea to hang with people who were more depressed than I was. This was a different take on the assumption that hanging out with people who were fatter than I was would make me look thinner. I’m here to tell you that none of these works.

Things got worse before they got better.

Final Part of this series next week.

Some Day my Prince Will Come: Prince was my Prince

2016-04-21T16:18:00.000-07:00

Opening for Prince was a peak moment in my standup career. He first burst into my life when I got a call from my agent to appear with this new singer-songwriter being described as a wunderkind at the world famous club, The Roxy, on Sunset Strip.

It was the late 80’s and I’d been warned by comic Ed Bluestone that a white Jewish comic (me) might not be ideal for Prince’s audience. Challenged accepted! I needed a plan.

I got an idea.

I picked up my accordion and got to the Roxy early. Seeing people lining up for the show, I put on dark glasses and pretended to be blind, playing the song, “Lady of Spain,” over and over again for an hour. Some people were kind and threw quarters. As the line began to move, I could hear his hip fans comment, “Thank God we don’t have to listen to that crap anymore!”

When everyone was seated and psyched up to see Prince, the announcer said, “Now, opening for Prince is comedian Judy Carter.” I walked out on stage with the accordion and heard the entire audience exclaim in unison, “Oh shit!”

From that point on, it was a love fest between the audience and me. Supported by their enthusiasm, I was flying high. I didn’t want to end except that I couldn’t wait to tell Ed Bluestone that if there was actually a bridge, I’d crossed it and connected.

Later, Prince came into my dressing room and introduced himself. I was struck by how tiny is was. Onstage he’d had such a huge presence. It was obvious that he was painfully shy as he said, “Thank you for opening for me. You were really terrific.”

After performing more frequently, I learned that it was unusual for a headliner to watch the opening act, let alone speak to the underling. But Prince was unique – a kind, supportive, and generous man.
That led to me becoming the opening act for every African American act that appeared at the Roxy, including the Temptations, the Four Tops, the Manhattans and jazz singers like Clint Holmes and Esther Phillips. Those gigs were responsible for me getting a contract with Caesars Palace.

Thank you, Prince. You will be sorely missed. Tonight I will party like it’s 1999.