Hi. I'm not Andy Kindler.

Weirdly, my one year anniversary stand up gig last week was delivered to a way smaller audience than that first tentative step up to the mic at Siberia in July 2012.

In some ways, the one-year gig was even more of a challenge than that first open mic, when I shyly delivered a couple of poems and some bad Game Of Thrones gags. That first bill, with talents like Bill Dykes and Sean Patton - it's a wonder I survived, really. I must have looked pretty green.

Last week, a dozen or so regulars sat in their local pub, doing what they normally do on Saturday night, only my friend Beth, having played a couple of songs on her bazouki to warm them up, was introducing me and they’re suddenly having to listen to…what is this, stand up? Performance? POETRY?

And by a Brit to boot.

You could hear every reaction in that room. To my Fox News gag (“So he’s a f*cking liberal, then.”), to my painful puns (“Some of these jokes are f*cking awful.”). This is ten minutes into a one hour set, with some even more delicate wordplay and a faux-homoerotic poem about an ex Pope still to come. Set phasers to "BOMB".

A year ago, I would have crumbled there and then, colour drained from the cheeks, mouth dry as yesterday’s ashes and knees collapsing. Last week I thought: “Well then. Here’s a challenge.”

When the room is that small and somewhat resistant, and you know you’ve got an hour or so with a mic, with some tricky internal editing you can start to pick people off. It became like stealth missions on a video game: focus on Fox News guy until he grins. Stay on Pun Hater until he laughs at your most contrived word play. Go after those laughs.

Energy picks up, the rest of the room (already good) come with you, the gig turns around. I end feeling like Rocky in Rocky IV, each hard won laugh is a clap from a Russian, each book sold after the gig is one of the politburo standing up to applaud my fighting spirit.

Of course, it’s great to play to a theatre full of friends who’ll indulge your We Didn’t Start the Fire parodies and Miley Cyrus remakes for two hours, but scrapping for a grin at a locals’ pub from people who only went in there for a quick Guinness? That’s a good feeling.

One year in and even just beginning to learn shows you how much you don’t know as a a new stand up comic. At least I know to always have a drink on stage because that nervy dry mouth is still there, and you can easily be reduced to that kid stepping up for the first time.

I should be writing material. I have about a week to finish writing my new show and then three weeks to rehearse. I’m not losing sleep over it just yet…my lost sleep at the moment is for a variety of unrelated reasons, but the pressure is starting to creep up.

It’s the first time I’ve ever sat down and tried to write an almost entirely new 90 minute show from scratch. The three incarnations of one-man shows I’ve done so far have all been, and I will punch myself in the face for you as I use this word, an organic process, with material slowly piling up over a number of months, like cholesterol in the veins of a cheese addict.

A few people have asked at recent shows, ‘When are you going to write some new material?’, the implication being that I’ve been peddling my current stuff for an unacceptable amount of time. It’s a respectable comment, though to be fair I did only really start doing stand up less than a year ago. I guess there’s only so many times people are willing to listen to you doing contrived puns about salt.

As a stand up comedian of sorts – and I see myself very much on the fringes of that group – I see a fair amount of stand up comedy. I love seeing people do new material but usually it’s the same five or ten minutes they’ve been honing for some time – nothing wrong with that because how are you meant to get better otherwise – but sometimes I don’t really feel like I’ve had a chance to really nail down how I want my stuff to sound.

But perhaps with a 90 minute show, people are spending more, investing more and so fresh thoughts are more necessary. I don’t know. I do know I’ve been sitting here for two hours and have only really thought up a weak-ish parody of Get Lucky by Daft Punk.

I’ve done tens of gigs now – and I know some comics work two gigs a night or five a week or something – but I take some pride in never having done the exact same thing twice. I’ve always played with the order, had at least one new poem or bit, changed up the banter. If even Tony Cachere’s aren’t interested in your Tony Cachere’s poem, though, maybe it’s time for fresh meat. Unseasoned, natch.  

But back to work. Like the man said, genius is five per cent inspiration and ninety-five percent dicking around on the internet.

Sunday night is going to be one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.

Just over two years ago – still a stage-shy, bumbling caterpillar – I challenged myself to do something terrifying and came up with 20 minutes of vaguely comedic monologue that I performed to a lounge of friends.

I still have the video. It’s Awkward 101.

I’ve since managed to cobble together a couple of OK Fringe shows, and stumbled across a few comedy and burlesque stages. Sometimes it was funny. Sometimes my fly was open. I learn something every single time.

The point of the challenge wasn’t just to scare myself. Or rather, it was, but the fear doesn’t come from getting up on stage. It comes with revealing yourself. I don’t mean some thespian-ic ‘search for truth’ but just: This is what I came up with in my brain. This is more of me than you’ll get meeting me on the street. This is what I’m trusting you with. OH GOD I'M SO SORRY DID I MISREAD THE SIGNALS?

On Sunday night I’ll perform on my own to an actual theatre. Just me. 90 minutes. Just me. No line up of comics to hide in, no burlesque troupes to distract anyone. My words, my music, my videos (made with help, of course). This is all I’ve got.

If people come, they’ll let me do it again in a few months. If not, then probably not. I’ll still do Fringe and it’ll be fun, but Sunday is stepping up. Or at least, an audition to step up. I’m not saying I’m now a theatrical butterfly, just a hopeful pupae. Or larvae. Something gross, anyway.

You’ve probably come to a show of mine and I can’t really tell you how honoured that makes me feel. I’ll bug you to come to more things I think you might like. But Sunday is when I really need support. Asking for it is scary, like being on stage with just a mic is scary, but I’m asking.

If you’ve liked what I’ve done, please think about coming on Sunday night, 8pm at Mid City Theatre. I would be honoured, and incredibly grateful. Plus, I’ll try and make you laugh, and after, we’ll go for a big drink.

I’ll try to remember to do my fly up.

Thank you.

Event Page: www.facebook.com/events/542902575747857/?fref=ts

Tickets: www.eventbrite.com/event/6374629689/eorg#

One of the most interesting places to be in my opinion is the breakfast buffet at five star hotels in developing cities. Being the only place for any businesspeople of note to stay, it’s a hotbed of (possibly shady) commerce.

Being invisible in my journo-casual attire, I can move unnoticed among the tables, which mostly consist of fresh-faced financiers and entrepreneurs attempting to court jaded, weather-worn locals with marketing phrases they really don’t care about.

They’ve been joylessly doing business in a virtual war zone for decades. I’m not sure I’d open with agencyspeak blabber about catalyzing demographic sea change and brandvertising.  You can tell that these young sales guys are corporate cannon fodder, sent in to see if it’s worth their bosses slumming it for a couple of weeks to tie up the big bucks.

There’s usually a high level of escort presence, but Kathmandu seems weirdly puritan about things courtesanal. If they want big business, then surely that’s a pill they’re going to have to swallow. What corporate drone is going to want to live here without hot and cold running cheap prostitutes?

Meanwhile, over egg-white omelettes, a cacophony of trans-adlandic accents vie for attention. The Americans, English and Australian commercebots all sounds the same – neutral TV tones via California, London and the Pacific Rim.

A Canadian junior executive tells an ill-advised story about buying pharmaceuticals in Thailand. “You can get the pharmacists there to write you a prescription,” he says, with wide-eyed wonder. As I recall things in Bangkok, you just walk in and buy whatever you like – the paperwork part just seems unnecessary if it’s being written by your salesperson. In any case, he was sold Tramadol for a minor back pain, and was horrified on Googling it to find out that it was an opiate derivative. A life of heroin addiction narrowly swerved, there.

The audience of locals seem unimpressed, given that pharmacies here seem to operate out of the front of houses, even the idea of paperwork in any form seeming laughable.

The young sales people press on, relentlessly. This is early days. A capital city with mud tracks for roads is still pre-capitalist-frenzy. But get in now, and the riches could be yours. Condos, malls, Kathmandu’s first Starbucks. A whole world of delights. Close that deal, young grasshopper.

Pokhara, Nepal.

Yesterday I did something I never thought I’d say I did. I hiked in the Himalayas. Alright, for two hours. In the foothills. BUT STILL. It’s quite impressive for an adventure-sports-phobic city kid like myself.

I didn’t really even want to do it that much, but in the end that seemed churlish. I woke up at Tiger Mountain Lodge in Pakhora, a rickety mountainside town around 30 minutes flight via shaky prop plane from Kathmandu.

I was the only guest in the place, which is a kind of an upmarket hideaway, and so had that weird thing where there’s lots of staff with nothing to do but watch and note your every move. You can’t pick anything up beyond cutlery without someone dashing over to snatch it from you lest you expire under the strain, which is alternately luxurious and exasperating.

Dinner looked to be a tense affair as I dined alone with seven bored waiters intently gazing at which vegetable I was going to fork next, but thankfully I was joined by the ultra-charismatic and indelibly posh general manager.

As little as I have in common with the upper classes, the ones that aren’t massive racists are always consummately charming and very entertaining to listen to and actual, dyed-in-the-tweed gentlemen do conversation incredibly impressively, it has to be said.

I retired early and woke up to the sun poking over my wooden deck and onto the awe-inspiring canvas that was the snowy tops of the local peaks, each around 7-8,000m high, the most satisfyingly mountain-like one being Machapuchre (Mount Fish Tail).

With a morning to kill and a bored guide loitering in the lobby, it wasn’t long before I was whisked off to meander up and down the slopes. They were pretty gentle, to be fair, and I only lost my footing and looked like an ungraceful clodhopper around five or six times.

The guide, Harry, did promise a menagerie of wildlife, though in the end, this was limited to our companion, Boss Dog (a dog), and the goats and cattle kept by the local farming community.

Each family had a small holding, and we rambled through their property, though Harry said it was alright. To be fair, they all came out and waved and said hello, the adults in Nepali (‘namaste’) and the children in English.

It’s hard to talk about the appearance of people living in what the west would term simplistic living conditions without coming across as patronising, but it was striking that even in these rural habitats, the children were heading to school in pristine uniforms, and the women were all working their corners of the hillside in beautifully coloured sari. I wanted to take pictures but then wondered how I’d like it if some idiot was pressing his lens into my daily routine.

Not much, is the answer.

After a couple of hours – me sweating buckets, Harry lamenting that we only had time for ‘a very light stroll’ – we (I) called it a day. I was so awestruck by the backdrop of spectacular peaks and I wondered if seeing that every day made you take it for granted. I asked Harry if he even noticed the mountains any more.

“Yes, of course. Each day brings a slight difference. The shadows and colours change with the sun. It’s always changing.”

I guess nature of that scale and majesty is almost impossible to take for granted.

So a couple of weeks ago, I performed seven shows over five days as part of the New Orleans Fringe Festival. I joked on stage every night about Fringe being “70 shows that otherwise have no business anywhere near a reputable theatre” but obviously it’s a high quality festival, and I’m kind of embarrassed that I put myself in the mix with such incredible talents.

The bare facts are this: around 150 people came to see my show, many of them strangers, and I made a profit. This is A Win. That people were nice about the show and laughed and liked me on Facebook is also exciting. I’m proud that it was (subjectively) an artistic and (objectively) a financial success.

I don’t kid myself that I’m the best performer – I can be nervous and awkward – but considering I’ve done less than 20 stand up gigs, to do an hour of material feels like an achievement.

Doing a one-person show is difficult. It’s not that there’s no help – Taylor my venue host, Ariel, the supporting artists and various other people were on hand for vital jobs and to listen to me spout off about logistical snags and I couldn’t have done it without them.

The hard work is self promotion. For starters, you know you’re going to become annoying very quickly. You’re the only one that really cares you’ve sunk the best part of a grand into putting the show on, and the only real way to make that back is to hawk the show relentlessly for two weeks – cue the clogging up of Facebook feeds, endless Tweets and pushy messages and text blasts.

I apologise. It’s shameless. But it has to be. The stakes are otherwise too high for one person investing in their own enterprise. Every single ticket counts, so you pester and confirm and cajole and do deals and flirt and beg. Whatever it takes to get someone to the address at the right time.

Even to get those 25 people a show in the door, it took all my time and persistence. Biking around to every hipster coffee shop to put up flyers and posters, sending out press releases you know will likely be ignored in the deluge, flyering at the Fringe headquarters, arranging preview shows, talking to sponsors, hiring chairs, networking face to face…it’s your job for a fortnight.

I’m thankful that New Orleans supports this kind of thing. That the people here get it, that they tolerate the hard sell sometimes. I can’t imagine doing this anywhere else. I’m glad people come to a kind of purposely shambolic Fringe show with an open mind (apart from the people that walked out/fell asleep). That’s two successful years running for me. And that makes me happy. Imagine how it will be when I get good. I’ll probably not be as likeable, huh?