Joshua Meyerowitz took to the stage at the Laugh Factory in Hollywood and declared himself “your fellow autistic” to the crowd, prompting applause from those in attendance.
The comedian said, “One of the hardest things for an autistic person is to relate to people, and as a stand-up comedian, you’re the one who can do that.” Necessary Building relationships with people.
“With an audience full of autistic people, I don’t need to connect with anything anymore!” Meyerowitz declared, and the room erupted in laughter. “I’m in my zone, bro!”
It was a Wednesday night at the famous club on Sunset Boulevard, and in many ways, the show going on on its brightly lit stage looked like any other comedy event in the Sunset Strip area, with drawings of genitalia, jokes about politics, married life and the disgusting side effects of Ozempic.
But its goal was much bigger: to make the noisy world of stand-up comedy a welcoming place for people whose brains work differently. The show was playing in front of a crowd packed with autistic adults and other neurodivergent people, many of whom were accompanied by their neurotypical family and friends.
The changes to a typical show were minor: a “chill-out space” for anyone who needed to step out for a break. Lowering the volume of the music playing inside and avoiding sudden, noisy changes in music between shows. Telling comedians to stop if someone jumps up or blurts out something.
Comedian Jeremiah Watkins performs at the Laugh Factory.
(Michael Blackshear/Los Angeles Times)
Strangely, making a comedy show inclusive of neurodivergent people “hasn’t been a big adjustment at all — it’s just something that no one has thought of doing,” said Rob Kutner, a comedy writer and co-creator of Wednesday’s show.
“You need almost nothing, except a little bit of thinking.”
When Jeremiah Watkins heard someone in the audience ask, “What about trains?” the comedian welcomed the opportunity to comment.
“What About this “Do you like trains?” he replied enthusiastically. “Are you a train fan? Great. What are your favourite trains?” he asked before moving on to his next point.
Watkins recalled that at a small comedy show for autistic people a few months ago he surprised an audience member who quoted a “Harry Potter” line to him. He responded by imitating Professor Severus Snape.
Kutner and co-creator Mike Rotman said Wednesday the show, called “Let It Out,” could be a model for comedy performances around the world. The pair worked with advocates including Autism in Entertainment, which promotes the employment of people on the autism spectrum in the industry, to publicize and document the show.
They want people to know that inclusion can be easy. “It should be made normal,” Rotman said. “It should happen weekly.”
Willie Hunter laughs while hosting a comedy show called “Let It Out,” which aims to include neurodivergent people.
(Michael Blackshear/Los Angeles Times)
As growing number With 10 percent of Americans diagnosed with autism — a condition that can affect the way people think, relate to others and experience the world — and generations growing up with protections under the Americans with Disabilities Act, there’s a constant push for inclusivity in daily life.
Many public spaces have taken steps to better accommodate neurodivergent people and their sensory needs: Some movie theaters offer “sensory friendly” screenings where the lights are on and the volume is low. Museums may set days and times to allow fewer people in to limit crowding.
Still, Maja Watkins, whose work focuses on teaching social and emotional skills, says there’s still a lack of fun, accessible options for autistic adults.
“You’re in high school. You go to prom, and a lot of times the special education department creates these fun opportunities for you. And then you graduate and slowly the services and programs start to diminish,” Watkins said.
Her husband is a comedian — the same one who was satirizing trains on Wednesday night — and she said her 38-year-old brother, who has autism, loves comedy shows but sometimes doesn’t like the loud noises or late nights.
“How great would it be if it was a comedy show that made everyone laugh … but maybe the seating could be arranged so that people weren’t so close together?” Maja Watkins said. “Maybe it wouldn’t be too noisy to begin with? Maybe if someone needed to take their fidget out … so it would be more quiet, that would be OK?”
Or being able to get up and relax without having to face sarcasm from anyone on stage — “That’s what my brother needed to stay put throughout the show,” she said.
Cole Spickler gives an interview backstage at the Laugh Factory.
(Michael Blackshear/Los Angeles Times)
Wednesday’s crowd included young adults taking a class at the Miracle Project, a Los Angeles-based organization that teaches social skills through improv. Teacher Sandy Abramson said for her students, “It can be overwhelming to go to a place like this because you have to adapt to the social norm, which is, ‘Don’t talk. You can’t take breaks.’ Things like that.”
He added that in this show, “he doesn’t have to be nervous or worried about how people will see him.”
Cole Spickler, 23, was excited for the show to begin. “I just like being around people,” said Spickler, who is autistic and counts Jim Gaffigan and Brian Regan among his favorite comedians.
Like many autistic people, he can speak freely, sometimes in a humorous way. When asked what he was learning in the social skills class — he was accompanied by a Miracle Project employee — he said, “I’m not sure if I really learned anything.”
Did he enjoy it?
“Yeah, to a certain extent,” he said. “Some of my colleagues can be really annoying.”
During the show, the crowd enjoyed jokes about autism. Meyerowitz joked, “I was born with autism, but everything else is my parents’ fault.” Kruger Dunn told the audience that she was diagnosed on the spectrum late in life.
Brian Miguel attends a comedy show at the Laugh Factory.
(Michael Blackshear/Los Angeles Times)
Doctors told him, “You don’t lie. You like to remember a lot of facts, and if you’re in trouble, you won’t go for help,” Dunn said. “I said, ‘So what you’re trying to say is, I’m trustworthy, I’m smart, and I’m not an informant?'”
“You use the word ‘disability’ a lot, but to me it sounds more like ability, Doc,” Dunn said to laughter and applause.
But Maja Watkins and others involved in organizing the show at the Laugh Factory stressed that accommodating the crowd did not mean doing a comedy show about autism, nor forsaking their usual jokes. Rotman said some comedians had asked him, “Are you asking me for neurodivergent material?”
“No, not at all,” he told them. “Do your set … do your seven minutes.”
Laugh Factory hostess Carmela Rogers said she insisted on working Wednesday nights after finding out about the show because “I don’t have to wear the mask I normally do” to appear neurotypical in front of the audience that attends the show.
In your line of work, you have to “show a lot of emotions, be really happy all the time,” which can sometimes be difficult for Rogers, who is autistic and has attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. In a break between shows that night, she said she was satisfied that the comedian hadn’t infantilized the neurodivergent crowd.
“People think if you’re autistic you should be treated like a child,” he said. “I’m just like any other adult – there are just some things about me that make me different from the rest of the population.”
Comedian Laurie Kilmartin performs during “Let It Out” at the Laugh Factory.
(Michael Blackshear/Los Angeles Times)
Before her set, comedian Laurie Kilmartin said she was “mostly doing a regular show,” but she wasn’t reacting as she would have if someone in the crowd spoke up.
Kilmartin said, “I’ve done every possible hellish job in the world, so I can’t be fired that easily”, and then quickly added, “It’s not that I’m saying it’s a hellish job – I’m just saying!”
At first glance, stand-up might seem like an unlikely place for autistic people, who may miss social cues or communicate in ways that the general public finds hard to understand. But it has often been a haven for those who don’t conform to the norm.
Meyerowitz, who has been performing for more than a decade and a half, said his anxiety makes it hard for him to do “normal things,” but in comedy, “we’re all weird people.” He once thought he’d live with his parents his whole life. He now shares an apartment with other comedians.
“Comedy gives me a community of friends I never had before,” Meyerowitz said.
