It had been a long time since I stepped on a stage to do stand-up in Spanish. On September 12 I came back to the stage of the NJB Cultural Center, in Miami, and it showed. I arrived cold, nervous, with that usual excitement but also with a question spinning in my head: will I remember everything? Because this wasn't just any show. Almost all the material was brand new. I kept only two or three known jokes for rhythm; the rest was freshly written, some of it still fuzzy in my memory. It was, in short, a test. A test of myself: of my talent, my discipline, my ability to stand there and connect.
What all this is about
For a while now I've been writing a new show called "Contar con alguien" (Having someone to count on). The idea came to me looking for that thing that happens to all of us, wherever we're from: that very human (and sometimes very dramatic, especially here in the United States) need to count on others… and on ourselves.
I started asking myself: where do I count on someone? And the jokes came from there. Because trust between us has been eroding: we've become independent, self-sufficient, solitary. We don't want to ask for help: out of shame, because we feel the favor "comes with a bill," because everything costs something. Right there, in that contradiction, there's comedy. And there's truth.
What SinEditar is
I told the people who came that night exactly this: SinEditar is like all of us jumping out of the plane together. We jump with no parachute, the audience and I. And mid-fall, you trust that I'll strap a parachute onto your back. It's pure adrenaline. Raw material, unpolished, built live. Nobody knows what's going to happen. Not even me.
The night
The room wasn't big, but the audience was wonderful. They were locked in from start to finish. And there was a bit of everyone: a Peruvian, Venezuelans, Colombians, Cubans, Puerto Ricans. That mix was a gift, because every nation has its own way of seeing that idea of "counting on someone," and playing with those points of view made us burst out laughing several times.
Two things happened that I love about this format. The first: I was reading my jokes off my notebook and someone shouted "you look like a pastor!". The room laughed, and right there I launched into playing a preacher, a bit that wasn't written anywhere. People loved it. Wholesome, nobody offended, pure fun.
The second: I had talked about the kinds of friendship, about who you count on and who you don't… and I never mentioned the neighbor. Someone in the audience pointed it out: "you also count on your neighbor… and sometimes you don't even know them". That fed me. It opened a whole new lane. I'm now writing new jokes about it for the next show. That's SinEditar in its purest form: the material gets built with you.
Not everything was perfect, and I won't sugarcoat it. Some jokes that were hilarious in my head… weren't so much on stage. You wait for the laugh, and it doesn't come. And right there, live, you make a mental note: this one needs work. It stings a little. But that's how you polish it. An hour and fifteen minutes that felt way too short. And to me that's the best sign: time only drags when you're suffering. That night flew.
The photo
At the end, a lot of people stayed. They wanted photos, they wanted to talk. And the moment happened: we took a group photo with those of us still there. In that photo you'll find my wife, a cousin, friends I invited so they'd laugh and help me grow, and people I met that same day who I now, no exaggeration, carry in my heart. Because the room was so small, it's easy to remember every face. Some came through Eventbrite, others from my website, others because a friend invited them… and there was even someone who came because ChatGPT recommended it. That's how strange and how beautiful this is.
Let me confess something: it still feels strange when people ask me for photos. You don't feel that recognized, and I imagine the person getting home, looking at the picture and wondering "who was this guy again?". But I value it a lot. To me it's giving a little more piece of myself. And I like to think that someday, whenever, that person will find this show's photo and remember they laughed that night. As we say in Colombia:
To remember is to live.
The part nobody sees
Now, the honest part. That day I lost money. The tickets we sold didn't cover the theater's costs. And in the moment it did weigh on me: living off art isn't easy. Often you go into debt to pay for the venue, and that night the question was simple: how am I going to pay for this?
It was a show for my soul, not for my wallet.
I don't count it as a failure, but as an opportunity. I learned that the joke is only half the work; the other half is marketing, is truly connecting with people, is not getting complacent. And I'll be frank: losses are normal in any business, and you have to know how to take them. Today I do SinEditar mostly to cover the costs (the theater, the team beside me), not to line my pockets. The money, when it comes, will come with the big show. Because to me the work matters more than the money: making people laugh, living the experience, getting out of the house to build something. Of course it stings a little to lose. But I know that little by little it comes together, and that life pays this sacrifice back. You reap what you sow.
And since this show is precisely about counting on someone, I can't wrap up without saying it: none of this is made alone. Behind every SinEditar is my wife. She runs the production: makes sure the camera is rolling, the sound is right, that I arrive at peace to do my thing. And, beyond the logistics, she believes in me; that's worth more than any ticket sold. I also count on Mr. Pichardo and the whole NJB Cultural Center team, who handle the lights, the sound and every detail so the room is ready when the doors open. A show is made with people. And that, exactly, is what having someone to count on is about.
In fact, this blog was born from that. From wanting to tell you, in my own words, how things happen in my life, with love, unfiltered. I want to leave a memory, for my kids and for myself down the road, of all the effort and the opportunities you build for yourself. Today maybe a couple of people read this. Later, who knows. But you start now, or you keep waiting.
What's next
Next up is the last show of the year: Saturday, November 21, again at the NJB Cultural Center in Doral. And I'm preparing completely differently. I'm writing diligently, testing jokes with people close to me so I don't arrive so raw, asking fellow comics "how's this one?". I'll mix what already worked, what I've polished, and new material. Because the idea behind SinEditar is for it to be a regular date, with new stories each time: the space where I test material and keep building, brick by brick, not just one show but several. And underneath it all, the big one: "Contar con alguien".
If you want to laugh with me and be part of this thing that's just getting started, I'll see you there.
Can't make it this time? Join the Parche VIP and hear about upcoming dates before anyone else, plus content and surprises that never hit social.