Q&A: Doug Stanhope explains how his mother made him do it

When I called comedian Doug Stanhope for this Q&A, he answered the phone with confusion. “I normally don’t pick up blocked numbers,” he said, “but when they come right at the top of the hour, I think: Did I forget about some interview or something?”

Stanhope gives off the impression that he doesn’t really care about anything, and yet there’s a passion and an enthusiasm that underlies all he does. His humor is not politically correct, but he always seems to be voicing universal frustrations. He’s a comic’s comic — an overused term, but there are few whom it applies to more than Stanhope. He’s mastered not only the art of the joke but also the art of making the joke feel unexpected, hiding its seams, coming across as authentically spewing vitriol to the powers that be and the powers that don’t be.

His new memoir, “Digging Up Mother: A Love Story,” chronicles his relationship with his mom, from whom he got his off-color comedy. For all the dark humor, debauched happenings and caustic commentary, the book is actually an honest and odd exploration of what it means to love despite flaws and failings, through pain and discomfort. He spoke by phone from Bisbee, Ariz.; our conversation has been edited for clarity and length.

How did you decide to write a memoir? And what made you choose to frame the book through your mother?

Quite honestly, it was my manager’s idea. I didn’t want to write a book. I didn’t even think I’d be able to remember enough. In 2009, my manager and I worked for a week just trying to put together a treatment. It went nowhere, but I was happy with that, because I didn’t even want to do it. Then, I turned the stuff about my mother’s suicide into a bit. After it came out on that special on Netflix [“Beer Hall Putsch” in 2013] — I don’t know if that was the catalyst — but suddenly a bunch of publishers were interested. So we signed a deal, and I [swore and said], “Now I have to write a book.”

What do you think your mother would think about the book if she were still alive?

If it was the most unflattering picture of my mother that could ever be taken and it was put on the cover — her naked with sawdust in her eyes, sleeping awkwardly — she’d still love it because it came from me.

The book is subtitled “A Love Story.” Why call it a love story? And what would you say your mother taught you about love?

Oh, wow, these are those questions I never know how to answer. “What does love even mean?” You think I know? But the book is a love story, because throughout the relationship, there were times when it was almost as though she considered me as a spouse or a life partner, to the point where it was uncomfortable. I almost felt like I was dumping her toward the end. So it’s really almost a love story in a literal way.

The book opens with the story of your mother’s death: She was dying of emphysema and took an overdose of pills while those in attendance held a roast/cocktail party. It’s a bold choice to begin there. How did you decide to open with that rather than build up to it?

I’m a hugely paranoid person when it comes to stand-up. That’s why I won’t do two shows in one night. Because my act is structured to sound like it’s coming off the top of my head. If you come to the second show thinking I’m just riffing, you’re going to be disappointed, because you’re going to hear most of the same bits. So I brought that paranoia to the book. I assumed that everyone in the world, or at least everyone who would be interested in the book, had heard that bit in my routine, so I thought I should get to that up front. I was playing to the fans, thinking, “Alright, you already know this, but here’s a more detailed version, and then we’ll get into stuff you don’t know about.”

What do you think drugs and alcohol have given you as a comic?

Confidence. I used to have a bit that wasn’t really a bit that went: “Drugs opened up my head enough to think of this weird stuff, cigarettes gave me the patience to sit and write it down, and alcohol gave me the confidence to stand up in front of you judgmental ... and perform it.”

One thing that makes your stand-up stand out is that your bits often don’t feel like bits. It usually seems like you’re really having a breakdown onstage for our personal delight.

That’s also why alcohol is necessary. Stand-up comedy can feel so fraudulent. You’re putting on the air that this is all coming off the top of your head, but you have to make the same jokes every night. So alcohol helps you a bit with making it more fresh. And then I always try to open with something I’ve never said before – something about the day, the town, the news, just to get it to be so that I am actually sputtering, so that the rest of it sort of flows naturally behind that.

There has been discussion about the millennial embrace of political correctness having a stultifying effect on comedy as an art form. Does this trend worry you?

It’s worse than ever now, from what I hear. But I’m fortunate in that I have a very loyal and tenacious fan base, and I don’t need it to be any bigger. So I don’t really do spots in L.A. or New York. I do shows for people who know who I am. I can’t imagine anything that I could say that would offend my audience, other than maybe “I quit drinking” or “I’m born again.”

Malone is a writer and professor of English. He is the founder and editor-in-chief of the Scofield and a contributing editor for Literary Hub.