Standup Comedian Curtis Cook Interviews His Future Self

Future Curtis Cook says standup comedy won't exist in the future.

I'm leaving Portland for Los Angeles to pursue my dreams of stand-up comedy, and my final show as a PDX resident is tonight at 8pm at Helium Comedy Club.

I've spent this week saying goodbye to old friends and working on new jokes at the open mics around town. I've also been fortunate enough to be interviewed by a few different folks about my move. And while many of the interviewers asked unique questions that led to interesting conversations, the same inquiry has come up time and time again:

Where do you see yourself in five years?

It's rare that I think so far ahead. I certainly have goals, but I'm not so sure of myself that I can commit to an idea of where I'll be in half a decade. I must admit, though, that the question did give me cause to think about what I hope to be striving towards. But after several days of angst-riddled pondering over what I would be doing in five years, I decided to leap into the future. Because only the future version of myself would know for sure where I'd wind up.

(It should be noted that I did not actually jump through time. That is impossible. Instead, I folded the mirrors of the tri-view medicine cabinet on my bathroom wall so that the reflective surfaces all faced each other. Then, as I stared into the void of my infinitely mirrored image, I chanted the name "Madeleine L'Engle" three times in a row while spinning counterclockwise. As I span, my reflections began to shift and change and merge. Slowly, my mirrored image was replaced with the scene of a time that had yet to pass, and I was able to glimpse into the future to hold a brief conversation with myself five years from now.)

Future Me was gaunt and malnourished. Not in that sexy, struggling-artist way that's so chic these days, but in a dangerous, unhealthy way.

Were his physical appearance not alarming enough, massive fires raged behind him. A cloud of ash hung in the air and thick clumps of soot came to rest upon Future Me's shoulders, his tattered clothes barely keeping his body shielded from the hellish landscape.

"Are you me?" I asked apprehensively.

"I am," Future Me responded grimly. "Feel free to ask me anything you'd like, but be aware that our time together is limited."

"Okay, well then I'll get right to it," I said, trying to subdue my growing concerns. "Where do I end up in five years? Do I achieve my dreams?"

Future Me paused and looked towards the distance with a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. It took several moments before he was able to compose himself, yet he still answered without returning his gaze to mine.

"It's been too long since I last dreamed," Future Me revealed. "I must ask you to remind me, what was it that we used to hope for all those years ago?"

"Well, to be honest, at this point I'm mostly just hoping that in five years I'll be making a shitload of money off of stand-up." I said

Future Me paused again as he maintained his fixed look towards the horizon.

"'Money,'" Future Me said wistfully. "It's been a long time since I heard that word."

"So we're still broke in the future?" I asked.

"We're just as broken as everyone else," Future Me responded.

"So, what? There's no money in the future, like, at all?" I asked.

"If there is, it certainly isn't worth much anymore," said Future Me. "Our need for money has long since faded. Actually – money aside – ever since The Incident, there is also no such thing as stand-up comedy."

"What do you mean?" I asked. "How could there be a world without stand-up?"

"Well," said future me, "It turns out that when the world falls apart and utter turmoil is the only way of life, no one really cares about how Millennials feel about social justice issues. Thus, in our time of global strife, there is no more stand-up comedy."

"But there's more to alternative comedy than young people shouting progressive buzzwords!" I stammered. "What about, like, observational comedy?"

"We tried that," said Future Me. "For a brief while, Jerry Seinfeld was running a web series called Comedians In Underground Bunkers Gasping For Air, but it never really took off the way he'd hoped."

"But what about poop jokes?" I begged, tears welling in my eyes. "Freud talked about the persistence of poop jokes. Or how about classic falling gags? Didn't Henri Bergson say that the falling gag would last forever?"

"THE WORDS OF OLD WHITE MEN MEAN NOTHING NOW!!!!" Future Me shouted before launching into a series of deep, meditative breaths – sharply inhaling through the torn sleeve of his shirt to avoid taking in any of the sediment wafting in the air around him.

Eventually, he collected himself enough to continue the discussion, but he still refused to look me in the eyes.

"Since The Incident," said Future Me, "very few words mean anything at all."

"The Incident?" I asked.

"Yes," Future Me responded. "Ever since The Incident, nothing has ever been the same."

"What is The Incident?" I asked frantically. "How did this happen? What caused all this turmoil? Was it mass flooding caused by an unusually strong hurricane season? Was it drought caused by an unprecedented heatwave? Was it genetically altered mosquitoes? Did it involved hostile forces seizing the U.S. nuclear base in Turkey? Was it another world war? Did Ebola come back? Did we run out of coral? Which one of these legitimate threats to global stability ended up having such catastrophic effects on the world five years from now?

"Surprisingly," Future Me said, "it wasn't any of that. In fact, it all started on August 17th, 2016 in Portland, Oregon."

"What?"

"Yes," said Future Me. "It all started that night when Helium Comedy Club housed the perfect show."

"Alex Falcone, Bri Pruett, and Anthony Lopez all delivered impeccable sets,"Future Me proceeded. "Nariko Ott performed tremendously, and Adam Pasi rained down a mighty series of jokes unlike anything anyone had ever seen before."

"There was just one problem," continued Future Me. "One by one, the people who weren't able to attend the show began to lose their minds to jealousy. Nations fell. Civilizations crumbled. The world could not handle the crushing weight of having missed such a brilliant series of performances by such astounding local comics. Humanity imploded on itself, all because a few people decided to miss a great show on a Wednesday night – the first night of the week wherein it's socially acceptable to be drunk."

"Oh my gosh," I said. "But August 17th, 2016… That's today!!!"

Hearing these words, Future Me looked into my eyes for the first time. His glance shot an eerie chill down my spine.

"Then there's still time!" said Future Me. "As long as the show tonight sells out to capacity, maybe there's still a chance to avoid this terrible plight. Maybe there's still hope that the world will end from something normal like global warming or a deadly virus or a general lack of coral. Do you realize what this means???"

"This means," Future Me replied, answering his own question, "that for literally the only time in history, a comedy show has a chance to effectively enact meaningful change."

"I hope you're right," I said.

And with that, I folded the relectrive ends of my tri-view mirror back to their normal positions and prepared for tonight's showcase – an event that may very well be remembered as the most important comedy incident in the history of time.

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