Having a dad who’s a Mission Hills stockbroker and diplomas from Rockhurst High School and William Jewell College might be an unexpected bio for someone who’s been making a living at standup comedy for 35 years. No one seems more surprised and delighted by that than Nick Griffin.
Griffin has notched 11 appearances on The Late Show with David Letterman among many late-night TV sets for hosts including Jimmy Fallon, Stephen Colbert, and Conan O’Brien. He did a Half Hour Comedy Special on Comedy Central and his full comedy special, Absolutely Wonderful, can be seen on YouTube. You can follow Griffin on Instagram, @comicnickgriffin and find out where to catch him live at nickgriffin.net.
Griffin appears nightly in New York City between road gigs, which keep him flying around the country more weeks than not. He spoke by phone to IN Kansas City from his hotel room in Las Vegas, where he had a weekend run at Comedy Cellar, about how his standup career got launched his junior year in college, current trends in comedy clubs, and why humans are so drawn to comedy.
What are some of your memories of growing up in Mission Hills?
I suppose like a lot of people that are my age, we were able to go outside. My mom, or actually my parents in general, had these seven kids, and they just wanted them out of the house all the time. We kind of did what we wanted. Anytime we came into the house, whether it was early or late, my mom would just say, “Please go back outside.”
I had an older brother, Pat, and I kind of followed him around and did whatever he wanted me to do. There were a lot of shenanigans. We had a lot of nice kids our age in the neighborhood. So, I hate to say it, but it was just sort of normal suburbia in the ’70s, you know, riding your bike and going down to the creek and throwing rocks at rats and starting little fires in the cement and firecrackers and just normal stuff.
A lot of sports, too. My brother was into football, so I decided I should be into football. We would play a lot of games. We had a side yard where we had a lot of room. There was just a lot of running around.
How did you end up at William Jewell College?
Well, I went to KU for a semester, and I don’t know why I didn’t like it, but I didn’t like it. I just couldn’t really find my footing there. An old high school friend called me and said, “Hey, I’m going to William Jewell. It’s this tiny college up in Liberty, Missouri, and they’re looking for football players.” I thought, “I like playing football, and I’m not enjoying this over here,” so I went over.
I really liked William Jewell. I thought it was wonderful. I didn’t play football much, but it kind of focused me a little. It’s a Baptist College, and I’m Catholic, and I eventually ran around with a bunch of other Catholics, and we would go down to Kansas City, to Westport, to drink when we had time.
Were you running around with Catholics because they drank more than the Baptists?
Yeah, probably. We were a little bit more focused on our drinking, I think. We had done a little bit more drinking by then than the Baptists. And there just wasn’t a lot going on in Liberty. Very small town. Which was fine, but we eventually ended up in Westport, and there was an open mic night at a bar where we drank that was called Stanford and Sons.
Did you have any experience prior to that open mic night?
I did do a little theater in college, but we were all into standup. We all knew a handful of comics. And David Letterman was gigantic then. In terms of coolness, he was very, very important to my age group. We would watch people on the Late Show with David Letterman, and we’d watch The Tonight Show, and we already knew of Seinfeld and Leno and Carlin and Pryor. I had a notebook that I had started scribbling stuff in, and my roommate, Tony, talked me into going to open-mic night and trying it. All four of the guys I ran around with said they’d buy my drinks for the whole night, and I didn’t need much more encouragement after that.
How did it go?
It went OK. I didn’t do great. I think my older brother, who I had followed around my whole childhood, was there with some friends. My college friends were there, so I was lucky in that I wasn’t going to bomb, regardless. There were probably only 50 people in the room and 20 knew me, and they were all giddy from booze and just knowing me. I don’t remember exactly what I talked about. I think some of it was big brother stuff and bad dating stuff.
But I really caught the bug. A local comic named Brad Nelson hosted the open-mic night, and he was real nice to me and encouraged me and gave me ideas about what other places I could do. I probably wouldn’t have done it a second time if I hadn’t run into Brad. He kind of became my mentor or just running buddy. He really helped me a lot in those early years.
‘‘I was a junior in college and it was really important to my parents that I get a degree, so although I didn’t really hit the road much, I was doing sets on a pretty regular basis, probably twice a week at Stanford and Sons and there was a place called Funny Bone, which eventually became Slapsticks. So there was a lot of stage time in those early years for someone who was just starting.”
Did you start performing regularly right away after that?
I was a junior in college and it was really important to my parents that I get a degree, so although I didn’t really hit the road much, I was doing sets on a pretty regular basis, probably twice a week at Stanford and Sons and there was a place called Funny Bone, which eventually became Slapsticks. So there was a lot of stage time in those early years for someone who was just starting. After about a year, year and a half, they let me host a little, and sometimes Brad would take me on the road to some of these smaller towns and we would do weekend gigs there and that was cool. The more I did, the more I liked it, the more I felt like maybe it suited me.
What happened after college?
By the time I got out of college two years later, I had accumulated a handful of pretty decent contacts. There were probably four or five people I knew, mostly in the Midwest, who booked a lot of rooms. Not great rooms—some of them were good rooms, some of them were really bad rooms. You could get up and they’d pay you. I can’t remember what I was making back then, maybe 25 to 50 bucks a show.
What makes a room really bad?
It’s probably an Italian restaurant or a karaoke bar that has a comedy night on a Wednesday and they put it up on a flyer underneath a poster, so no one knows. So when you get there, they’re mad because they have to turn off the TVs, they’re missing their local sports game. And also, the setup’s not good. The mic doesn’t work. No one tells people to shut up.
When did you move away from Kansas City?
About two years after graduating college, when I was 23, I moved to New York. I knew one guy there. He had married a woman in the city, and he liked me, and he said, “When you get to New York, let me know and I’ll do what I can.”
So I moved there, and I called him. And he said, “You know what you should do is call the comedy clubs and tell them you’re new in town and you need stage time.” And I was like, ‘Geez, that’s the big nugget you had for me? I uprooted my whole life to come to New York and you said, ‘Call the comedy club and tell them you’re a comic?’”
And so you do that. You go around, introduce yourself, sit in the back of the room and sometimes at the end of the night they’d let me go up. I did that for about three years, I started to get a little bit of traction, but I didn’t know anyone there and it is super expensive to live in New York.
Did you work day jobs?
I did.
What kind of stuff did you do?
Just nonsense. I worked in a bagel shop. I worked for the Ellis Island Foundation. People would call in if their family had been on Ellis Island. They would get a plaque, and I would fill in the order. Just real drudgery. But the people at the various jobs were very nice and usually supportive if I had to take nights off.
After about three years, not getting enough stage time and being really impatient, my friend got a job writing for The Arsenio Hall Show and said, “If you want to move [to Los Angeles] with me, I’ll let you sleep in my office at home for free.”
So after three years in New York, I moved to LA. I knew more people out there, by chance, people I knew from the road. I had a car out there, which was much more helpful for gigs, and I lived there for 14 years.
What was living in LA like after New York?
Just having more room, you know? Everything in New York is so tiny—your personal space, your apartment. I started working more day jobs. I worked in some offices, filing. I also worked for a maid service where you would go into people’s apartments when they’re gone—you have a key—and you clean it and then you leave and go back to the office and you’d have like two or three of those a day.
You know, the LA lifestyle is just easier. I’m not terribly proud that I chose the easier route for that period of time, but it was a little bit of a relief, and I had more of a social life because I knew more of the comics out in LA. I had people I could go out and have dinner with or have a few beers with.
Why did you leave California after 14 years?
I was going to New York a couple of times a year. I had started getting TV sets, I had done Letterman a few times. And going to the clubs in New York, I felt like it was more intense. There were just more shows, cause New York stays up so much later than Los Angeles. So I thought for a change of pace and to light a fire under me, I would move back to New York and see what would happen.
And since then, has New York been your home base the whole time?
Yes. I’ve been here 18, 19 years, I think.
What neighborhood do you live in?
I was in Hell’s Kitchen for about 12 years and then the pandemic hit, and it just got really rough over there, so I moved to Murray Hill, which is over by Grand Central Station. It’s much quieter.
How much are you in New York compared to how much you are on the road?
I would say I’m on the road 30 to 34 weeks a year. I call it a week but it’s generally Friday, Saturday, or sometimes Thursday, Friday, Saturday. And if I’m home in New York, I’m performing at least three sets a week, sometimes more.
You joke in your act about being kind of a slacker but your schedule in New York and on the road seems like a lot. Does it feel like a lot?
Oh, God, yes. Yesterday, I was thinking, “What else can I do? I’ve comedied myself out of a life.” Yeah. But look, it’s a great job. I’m lucky to do it. I’m thrilled that after however many years of doing it, I’m still excited every night that I get to do it. But the traveling is the worst.
Air travel has kind of become hell after 9/11, and short hotel stays are not much fun…
Right.
…but is there some part of that lifestyle that you secretly like?
Oh, sure. I love writing the standup, and I love reading, and I love doing a short workout every day. And I love the fact that I fly into Des Moines or Tampa and get in around noon and I can do all those things that other people are probably at their jobs wishing they had time to do.
What’s the biggest downside?
I’m not really sure how to measure it, but just being alone all the time has probably not been great for relationships. Because you’re so used to having alone time, and you kind of get used to it and you end up needing it.
Your comedy is very personal. Do you wrestle with boundaries when it comes to using people in your life as source material?
Yeah. I’m pretty respectful. I don’t do a lot of family stuff. I’m sure there’s times I’ve been over the line, but it’s pretty minimal. I have in the past run into an ex-girlfriend and said, “Look, I don’t know if you saw this, but I shouldn’t have said it.”
Is it ever hard to do daily life without viewing everybody you encounter as a potential character for a bit?
Right, yeah, early on especially. Every. Little. Thing. “Is that a joke?” “Is that a joke?” “Is that a joke?” That’s all I would be thinking: “Is there a joke there? Is there something I could do with this?”
But now after all these years, I’m pretty confident that the funny stuff will come, and if I sit down and have some peace and quiet, I’ll find a joke. I certainly spend a lot of time writing, so I know how to get to it, but it’s frustrating not being able to pull up new jokes all the time. Because especially in this social media age, you just need content constantly. It wasn’t like that 20 years ago.
Why don’t you have more shows in Kansas City?
In Kansas City it’s hard because it takes me at least three years to write a whole new 45 minutes, so I don’t want folks coming out and seeing jokes they’ve already seen. Especially if a lot of people from high school and college come out and they’re really enthusiastic.
I could definitely do more gigs in Kansas City, and I get offered a few more, but I feel bad if I don’t have new material, so I wait until I have a whole new act.
What standup comics today make you laugh?
I love a guy named Dave Attell. He just did a special on Netflix called Hot Cross Buns. I’m a big fan of Gary Gulman—his second HBO special is called Born on Third Base. Maria Bamford, I’m a big fan of. Judy Gold I love. Joe List, who’s a younger guy, I love his stuff as well.
A reviewer wrote that you write perfect jokes. What makes a joke perfect?
Geez, I don’t know. There’s so many different kinds of jokes. But the guys I always liked—Richard Lewis, and Pryor and Seinfeld—I think whenever there’s a kernel of truth, whether it’s personal truth or a universal truth, that makes the audience connect better. Sometimes I think a little bit of naughty makes it good. There are some really good comics who are dirtier than I am, and I think they’re great.
At this stage in your career, you probably don’t get into any bad rooms, but how much do audiences vary from night to night or town to town?
They’re generally the same. I think comedy is in a really big boom right now and there’s money to be made so a lot of franchise comedy clubs work hard at making it work. They have security to keep people quiet if they’re heckling, and they make sure the other acts can gel together. So most of the clubs are good, and it’s always a thrill to go there.
On YouTube, I see you making eye contact with a lot of audience members, like you’re really checking them out.
Right.
Are you trying to adjust your act to the crowd as you go along, or are you just trying to make a connection with them?
I think I’m just trying to make a connection and trying to get a better handle on who’s laughing, and also a lot of it is just insecurity and paranoia. Somebody’s not laughing so I better find them and help them move along here. You know, like you would a slower student.
But yeah, I like to see people’s faces. I know comics who look right over everyone’s head and don’t even try to make eye contact. Everyone’s kind of got their own process, but I definitely want to see what everyone’s thinking or figure it out.
You talk about depression in your act. It doesn’t seem like standup comedy would be a career choice for someone that struggles with insecurity or depression.
Yeah, that’s so funny. It’s true. There’s so many insecure, depressed comics out there. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been mingling at parties, and somebody will ask me what I do, and I say I’m a comic and they’re like “You’re a comic??” I think it’s because I spend a lot of time thinking inside my head.
So you’re not the life of the party.
Nooooo. No. Not even close. There’s not even a pulse.
So, yeah, comics are insecure. But there’s reason to be insecure. You’re opening yourself up to people. And you’re asking them to like you. I used to wish I wasn’t so insecure. But then I think, I’m telling people my innermost thoughts, in a bar. Why wouldn’t I be insecure?
Is standup therapeutic for you somehow?
I think it probably opens you up a little more, and I would say on some level it’s got some therapeutic effect. But more than that it’s just fun and exciting and most people don’t get to spend 45 minutes a day doing something that’s fun and exciting.
I did a show here last night that didn’t kill, which is what you want to do, and then the next show went really well. So it’s just up and down. One minute you think you’re the greatest, and the next you think you’re the worst. It’s a rollercoaster. The real goal is just to keep getting better, and it’s nice if you make a good living from it.
I’ve heard musicians say they are bad at guessing which of their songs is going to be a hit. How good are you at predicting which new material will really land?
I’m horrible at it when I’m writing it. Every joke I write I consider it a 50-50 shot it will work. But once it works, sometimes I think, “Oh, I can make this into a monster chunk of material,” and I’m usually right.
I had a bit maybe five years ago about soup.
I’ve seen it. I love that bit.
I just had one joke on it and then I obviously built on it. But I remember thinking, “I bet I can really make this into a monster.” So, yeah, sometimes you can tell.
Another time I wrote that joke about depression where I said I was depressed and my friend said, “Remember, there’s always someone worse off than you” and I said, “Now I’m depressed and worried about this other person.” I knew that was going to be a great joke.
What is the essential thing about comedy that makes us crave it and love it so much?
I just think it’s a release. There’s a payoff.
A lot of stuff in daily life never pays off. So you get anxious and frustrated. Good jokes usually have a satisfying release at the end. There’s a finish line.
Interview condensed and minimally edited for clarity.