A Crab Indeed

I realized over the past year that I am not a good friend. Maybe I was at one point in my life, but I’m not anymore and haven’t been since the start of the pandemic. Probably since I’ve been calling myself a comedian. Maybe still further back into my past. Regardless, I’m just not good at it. I want to be. Or I like the idea of it anyway. I thought I was for a long time. I’ve fooled myself— and maybe other people too— because I do have many of the qualities one looks for in a good friend, at least at the start, anyway.

I’m super chill like seafood on ice.

I don’t talk too much so I won’t bother anyone.

I won’t ask for help because I’m afraid to look stupid.

In fact, I won’t ask for anything for fear of being burdensome.

So I always pay my part of the bill but I’ll never offer to pay yours.

And I know how to keep secrets including any of my own. 

And I like being funny since my comedy is a shell whose thickness is measured in laughs.

You get the idea. I’m describing an ambivalent stranger more than a friend. A friendly clerk at the neighborhood store who knows how to look invisible when trouble walks in the door. A talking crab whose main goal is to walk sideways through life and not get picked apart by seagulls or seals.

Living my best life.

Three people in my life lost a parent in 2020. I was not there for them. Not because I didn’t care but because they didn’t reach out to me and I didn’t want to annoy them. I’m not even sure where there is anymore. So I’m putting this out there because I don’t put myself out there. A sort of self-reconciliation. I don’t push myself to meet people where there are. I give exactly enough to give the appearance of trying. I won’t ghost you, but I will make up a somewhat convincing excuse that involves a ghost. If any relationship between two people is around a 50/50 split in the effort, then I am a true San Francisco 49er. I am one of many people I’ve met in this city who are like this. Maybe we’re all over the world. Probably. There’s no reason to think SF is any more special than I am. 

And I see now that I am a bad friend like I am a bad writer (a content creator!). I have good ideas and better intentions. The possibility is apparent. I make half-hearted attempts, little crustacean-heart-sized efforts that I do not see through. I tell myself no one wants it. What I have to offer isn’t good enough. Or maybe it will be good enough once I work on it more. . . just a little longer. But shhh! Keep it a secret until it’s perfect.

Who here doesn’t actually have a heart?

I didn’t become a performer until I was asked to audition for a job by a stranger at the gym. 

I didn’t start doing comedy until my wife convinced me to try

I only do shows I’m invited to. 

And part of what I liked about stand-up was they would call my name and that’s how everyone knew it was my turn, and then I’d say a few words and I’d use them to ask for permission to go on to the next thing. And the audience would give me that permission by laughing. If I did it right. 

And that’s a shitty way to be. It’s not modest or being humble. It’s withholding what I have to offer to the world (whatever that may be) in a salty claw. Like I’m afraid to find out that what I do have to offer isn’t as valid or worthwhile as I think it is or as I’d like it to be. Or that I’m going to find out I need to work on it more. Or— worse— I shouldn’t bother because no one wants it anyway. 

So I’m coming up against this desire to be a good friend and an accomplished artist plus an evidence-based fear that I am no great shakes in either regard, mixed with an unshakeable sense that true greatness doesn’t need to advertise itself. This creates a cozy situation where I can safely hide away, secure in the knowledge that when I’m ready the world will come knocking on my door but until then I can remain secure in the knowledge that I’m just not good enough yet. So not only should I not be expected to put myself out there but I ought to keep myself right here until otherwise requested

So those are the thoughts.

And these are the crabs!

But the questions left are many. How close to the truth is all of this? What comes next? Is being aware of this even a start to fixing it? Do I want to fix it badly enough to put in the effort? Confront the fear of failure by accepting the real possibility that failure might be my only option? That the only choice left to me might be in how I let these failures manifest in me? Or maybe this is just the way I am? Will I always scuttle along the edges of life’s shore, afraid to be exposed or get too close? Or will I come to terms with the fact that just because I’m facing the right way doesn’t mean I’m necessarily moving in the right direction?

This really should have just been about not having the qualities that make a decent friend. But instead of going deep, I went wide and tried to connect it to my struggle as a writer, leaving me feeling lost in a tide pool.