‘No One Is Going to Listen to Me’

With 11 stand-up specials under his belt, Jim Gaffigan is one of the most prolific comedians this side of George Carlin.

His family-friendly jokes about parenting and food made Gaffigan a household name — try strolling down the frozen aisle without thinking of that high-pitched whisper: “Hot Pockeeettt.” He has anchored TV series, written books and held serious acting roles in films like “Chappaquiddick” and “Linoleum.” And he reinvented himself in the extended role of vice presidential candidate Tim Walz on “Saturday Night Live.”

On Sunday, Variety presented Gaffigan with the inaugural Comedy Vanguard Award in association with the New York Comedy Festival. Gaffigan accepted the honor at the Upright Citizens Brigade in Downtown Manhattan and sat down for a wide-ranging interview in front of a live audience.

Below is an edited transcript of that interview.

I’m going to start with a softball question: What do you find funny?

My kids make me laugh the most — the sarcasm and inappropriateness I’ve instilled in them. It annoys my wife. Otherwise, a really well-crafted stand-up joke, whether it’s Brian Regan or Chris Rock.

Has your sense of humor changed over time?

Oh yeah, it’s definitely evolved. That’s what’s really interesting about having children — the value of irreverence. When you’re 19 or 21, the excitement around irreverence is so much more appealing than nuance. You appreciate nuance later on. When I was in college, I worked as a doorman at a comedy club, and I remember thinking, “Oh, these boring comedians.” I liked the edgy guys. I would have disliked my own comedy back then.

You’re generally known as a clean comic. Was that always the case when you were starting out?

No, I tried on a lot of different hats. I tried being edgy. There’s footage of me smoking on stage. A lot of it is just trial and error. Eventually, you end up being the person you actually are on stage. That’s kind of unavoidable in stand-up, if you want to embrace authenticity.

What does that trial and error look like, in a practical sense? How long did it take you to get to who you are now?

Some of it is the 10,000 hours and transferring what makes you funny with your friends onto the stage. But the trial and error is being educated on how the audience perceives you. It’s similar to being a character actor, which I also am, which is code for “ugly.” You need self-awareness. When I’d go onstage at Pips in 1993, the crowd had just seen Andrew Dice Clay, and they’d see me and think I’m John Tesh. I wanted to not be John Tesh, but eventually I had to face the reality that this is what I look like. It’s unfortunate.

By the way, Jim, you’re a very good-looking guy.

I’m married, but thanks.

Do you think there are certain personas you could not access on stage — or couldn’t make funny — because of your appearance?

Comedians get a lot of credit or criticism for the comedy they do, but the reality is, they do exactly what they’re kind of allowed to do. I’m a big, lumbering white guy. If I was angry, I don’t think that would be appealing. Louis Black can be angry, even Bill Burr can be angry. But if I’m angry, it just makes the audience uncomfortable. If I’m silly and self-effacing, that’s palatable to the audience.

Are you a silly person off stage?

I’d say I’m a silly person with my comedian friends. What I love about stand-up is that element of play — giving someone shit, that sarcastic banter. I wouldn’t describe it as roasting; it’s just play. Some comedians are always in play and doing bits, like Todd Glass. That’s why comics gravitate toward each other: it’s a play environment. But when I’m with my kids, no — I’m very focused. I’m also someone who has to work hard. I don’t know what kind of learning disabilities I have, but even studying lines for an acting role takes me longer than it would take my wife.

You’ve talked a lot about how you are obsessed with the writing and editing of stand-up comedy. What does that process actually look like for you?

It’s always changing. Some of it is conversational. Twenty years ago, I would often discuss bits with my wife, and now I might be discussing them with my opening comedian, Ted Alexandro. The writing and rewriting is really valuable, and that’s something I do when I tour. I don’t have that luxury at home because kids are too much work. If you’re thinking of having children, don’t. The luxury of doing shows out of town is that I can spend those days listening to a set and dissecting how I could expand it. For me, it’s not that I have to walk away from a writing session with a joke — I just feel good if I made the effort.

I want to go back to your early days in the 1990s in New York. You were an ad salesman during the day, and you’d perform at clubs at night. Is it true you were woken up at the office to be fired from your day job?

Absolutely. And the cruelty is that a friend of mine, Dave Attell, already had a joke about being woken up to be fired. Whenever this comes up, out of respect, I have to mention the fact that Dave Attell had this joke. But yes, I worked in advertising, and I’m really grateful for that experience. As a copywriter, the editing process, figuring out the shortest way to say something, is incredibly valuable, and that carries over into stand-up. But I was also a coward! Tons of my friends didn’t have day jobs, they would just do shows to make ends meet. I waited until they fired me, because that’s the kind of guy I am.

You worked the clubs for nearly a decade before getting your “big break.” Did you ever make a deal with yourself that if you hadn’t “made it” by a certain time you would quit comedy? What motivated you to keep going?

I was just so relieved when I discovered the creative reward of stand-up. I was definitely delusional. After six months of doing stand-up, I remember thinking, “I can’t believe I haven’t been on ‘Letterman.’” And then I didn’t get on for seven years. So, I did a lot of work on myself — therapy and stuff like that — but there was no expectation of “I’m going to stop doing this.” I remember sitting in a therapist’s office going, “Everyone in my peer group has done ‘Conan’ or ‘Letterman’ or ‘The Tonight Show.’ I’m never going to do that. I’m never going to have any monetary success in stand-up. Am I comfortable with that? Am I essentially comfortable being the weird uncle?” Because I didn’t have a girlfriend, either. And then I went, “You know what? I enjoy stand-up, I find it fulfilling. I’ll be the weird uncle.” When I made that decision and gave up on trying to make things work, then things started coming together.

You mentioned the word “delusional.” Is that a necessary trait for any artist to have?

All comedians are delusional — you have to be. If insanity is repeating something and expecting a different result, even the quickest careers involve five years of failure, and that’s insanity, right?

When you did find success, you were on “Letterman” and then quickly given a TV show, “Welcome to New York,” which was canceled after one season. What was it like to reach that peak and then have it taken away? What were the lessons you learned?

I feel like my career is this balance between creative fulfillment and getting caught up in other people’s expectations. And when you get caught up in other people’s expectations, that’s when you become frustrated. But having that opportunity to do that show was a really strong educational experience.

It’s weird, because comedians are very much self-servers, but they also have to be cooperative and compliant. They go into a club environment and they have to be deferential to the person who books it, the person who oversees it. So, they have to be audacious to get there, but they also have to be deferential. They need some schmoozing skills. But in the entertainment industry — particularly when creating and executing a show — you have to be protective of your ideas. I’m not saying you have to be Roseanne [Barr], but you have to be protective.

The skills that work in stand-up — not just the writing, but the business of stand-up — are completely different from the sitcom or television world. Acting is something I love, but it’s insane. I used to say auditioning is like stripping, but you don’t get a dollar. There’s an amount of humiliation and rejection every creative person has to embrace.

Are you still having to make those compromises?

Definitely. I can pick and choose what I want to do, or how I want to do it, but there is constant compromise. Anyone who says they don’t have to compromise is not being honest.

What are the boundaries you would not cross?

It sounds corny, but being a comedy nerd and having studied stand-up, I do think there’s an aftertaste to stand-up that people don’t realize. I don’t want my stand-up to leave people with that icky feeling. I don’t want to punch down. We all have friends who are super bitchy and gossipy, and they’re great to hang out with. But an hour after that, you’re like, “I feel kind of bad. We were making fun of Melissa forever.” I’m not saying I’m not guilty of this, because there is a lot of anger, and I have a very dark heart. But it’s better to bring insight and make a joke as a commentary on all humans.

I don’t bring this up as an example of punching down, but in your latest special you have a joke about Pat Sajak retiring from hosting “Wheel of Fortune.” You say, “You can’t retire from playing hangman” and talk about how ridiculous his job was. Have you ever spoken to Pat Sajak?

Every day. No — honestly, that’s a good example, because I wouldn’t want Pat Sajak to be like, “Why is he picking on me?” That’s where it’s imperfect. I tried to set it up where he seems like a loving guy. But the point of that joke is he was making $17 million per year — for playing hangman! The meat of that joke is more a commentary on how our priorities in our society are all over the place. Pat Sajak was compensated because people had an affinity for him. He was efficient, he was likable, he was charming. But maybe a teacher should make more than him!

I imagine that can be an awkward thing, though, when you joke about somebody and then run into them.

I have friends who are comedians who do that a lot, and it can be awkward. I typically don’t do that. Anything I say — particularly about my children, even if it’s hyperbole — is something I would say to them. I have a joke where I talk about being grateful that people come to my shows because it lets me afford to raise five kids, but now I realize my final task is to leave them with nothing. I say a version of that to my children. I’ll say, “I’m spending all the money,” and they get nervous: “Why would you do that?” And I say, “Because you don’t deserve any of it.” The core idea is that I want them to succeed and be self-sufficient.

Mike Birbiglia tells a story about how when he was in college at Georgetown, he cold-called you and invited you to lunch in New York because he wanted to become a comic and pick your brain about the business. What do you remember about him at that time?

First of all, I love Birbiglia, but he’s a lunatic. All comedians are lunatics. He called me and said he wanted to have lunch. And I said, “Look, I don’t know what I can tell you.” But he said, “I’ll buy you lunch.” So I’m like, “All right.” Granted, I’m a 30-year-old guy. He’s 19. Obviously I should have bought him lunch. Anyway, he came up, and I slept through the time we were supposed to meet and showed up late.

It’s weird because my daughter and my son both want to go into the entertainment industry, and you want to provide insight and guidance, but the reality is there’s no easy answer. We all scroll through these clips of “the perfect piece of advice,” but it’s so fluid.

He said the advice you gave him was: “Don’t move to New York until you’re really good.” Would you give the same advice to a young comic today?

I don’t know if it applies today, but I do think that was good advice. You’re only allowed to be new once, meaning new in New York City. People carry their first impression of you for a while. New York was such an important hub for stand-up. It still is, but there are so many different clubs and shows, and so you could be in New York and do a lot of shows and not arrive at the Comedy Cellar until you’re ready.

Generally, you are not a political comedian. But last year, you played Tim Walz on “SNL” and hosted the Al Smith Dinner, which is a bipartisan campaign event. Was being thrust into the political discourse an uncomfortable experience for you?

Oh, absolutely. I’ve always liked the fact that at my shows, a lesbian couple could sit next to a Mormon family and enjoy the stand-up I’m doing. But I do find politics fascinating. We live in an age where you can’t really articulate anything [without it being misconstrued]. My best friend from childhood was furious that I did the Al Smith Dinner. He said, “I can’t believe you didn’t destroy Trump.” And I’m like, “I know it’s not going to change anything.” And the task was to attack both sides — in a setting where you’re surrounded by billionaires.

The Tim Walz thing, I was within the environment of “SNL,” and there’s a cultural interpretation of every sketch. I intellectually know this: No one is going to listen to me. At the same time, I want to be able to look my children in the eyes and say I didn’t allow some horrible thing to happen. I also feel comfortable that people know my views. But I don’t know if me being an advocate helps — like with the Mamdani thing, that ended up being very divisive.

You’re talking about the Sarah Sherman bit on “SNL”?

No, just comedians supporting the mayor. I remember seeing Stavvy [Stavros Halkias] and all these guys [supporting Zohran Mamdani], and I’m like, “I don’t know if that’s helping him.” Maybe I’m being naive.

Well, we’re in an interesting time where comedy is at the forefront of politics. You have guys like Andrew Schulz and Theo Von interviewing politicians on their podcasts. You say no one is listening to you, but maybe people are!

People are coming to a show to have a break from some of this drama. That’s not to say there aren’t great comedians who talk about social commentary — the spirit of George Carlin is very important. I remember when Trump was first elected, and my opening act had some political jokes. During 2016 and 2017, the audience would kind of look at the ceiling. The jokes were well-constructed, and they weren’t on one side or the other, but it was just too much.

There are great comedians who participate in that conversation, but people are already getting 24-hour news, and everything is clipped and [proliferated] everywhere. Not only is the material not evergreen — it’s so topical that it lasts half a day. People are looking for a break from that. They’re not ignoring the serious issues, but they’re going, “At least I can go see Jim Gaffigan and hear him complain about being a parent.” That’s not to say he doesn’t care about someone being tackled in the streets; it just means maybe people want a break from that.

You’ve done 11 stand-up specials. How has the press tour evolved over time?

There’s still the power of the late-night shows. Some of that is the prestige, but a lot of it is the clips that come out of those appearances, whether you’re on “The Tonight Show” or “Kimmel.” But obviously, the power of podcasts is significant. You end up getting very strategic about how you place these things. 

Even the outlet for a comedy special is always moving. I had two specials on Comedy Central, then I did one on my website. Then I did a couple on Netflix, a couple on Amazon, one on Hulu. It’s always moving. Is Apple going to get into the business? Is Ellison going to buy HBO and then they’re going to try to compete with Netflix? It’s constantly changing, so you have to guess ahead. In some ways, the powerhouse now might be YouTube. That doesn’t take anything away from how important Netflix is, but comedians have become so successful by posting their specials on YouTube that it can actually allow them to go to Netflix.

Besides eyeballs and money, what are the metrics you weigh when choosing which distributor to partner with?

I see a special as harvesting crops. You always want to be expanding your audience. If I’m going to Baltimore or Denver every two years, I don’t expect that the people who enjoy my stand-up are coming every two years. That’s not realistic. Some of them are busy. Some don’t have the disposable income. You always want to be expanding the audience that enjoys your comedy. So, when I first went to Amazon, I knew they had a reach that, at that time, Netflix didn’t. With Hulu, I knew there were viewers who consumed a ton of stuff there, so why not spread the wealth? It’s easier for me to do that than someone like Dave Chappelle, who’s getting a huge check. He doesn’t have to factor in, “Maybe I can get more people.”

What excites you about the future?

It’s an exciting time for creative people. I know things are scary, but I think that translates to a certain independence. Creative people who are self-starters are going to be fine.