Dying and Living with the Perils of Chowder

Barry Maher
Mon, 02 Mar 2026 18:28:41 -0800
Opinion

Most people are terrified of public speaking, but it's seldom life-threatening. It's not like the audience might turn on you and strangle you with your own microphone cord. That really doesn't happen all that often.

Multitudes have died on stage, which can be agonizing. But only rarely is it the kind of dead where you don't get to finish your presentation and you're carried off and buried, and you can't watch any more TV or eat any more cheesecake.

The most horrifying public speaking disaster I ever saw happened to an extraordinary storyteller. He had the audience captivated. But he'd learned his material verbatim, and about halfway through, he forgot his next line. Instantly, the masterful storyteller vanished, and it was deer-in-the-headlights time.
Updated: Mon Mar 02, 2026

Most people are terrified of public speaking, but it's seldom life-threatening. It's not like the audience might turn on you and strangle you with your own microphone cord. That really doesn't happen all that often.

Multitudes have died on stage, which can be agonizing. But only rarely is it the kind of dead where you don't get to finish your presentation and you're carried off and buried, and you can't watch any more TV or eat any more cheesecake.

The most horrifying public speaking disaster I ever saw happened to an extraordinary storyteller. He had the audience captivated. But he'd learned his material verbatim, and about halfway through, he forgot his next line. Instantly, the masterful storyteller vanished, and it was deer-in-the-headlights time.

After a long moment, he called down to his wife, who was in the second row with the script. But she'd panicked too and lost her place. When she found it, he was so frazzled he couldn't understand what she was saying. Those who thought they'd understood her kept yelling different words at him. But it was like watching someone decompose. Finally — it felt like forever — he got the right words and was able to continue, clearly humiliated. Hours later, he probably realized he could have simply jumped ahead in the story to the next thing he remembered, and we never would have known the difference. I've always wondered if he ever did another gig.

After my face was on the cover of a soon-to-be-defunct Irish magazine (draw your own conclusion on that), I was at a formal dinner in Dublin. A member of parliament was on my right, a prominent CEO on my left. It seemed like there were about eighteen pieces of silverware at each setting, several of which I didn't recognize.

The CEO had actually brought a copy of the magazine for me to sign, which — aside from being rather weird — was undeniably ego-inflating. That lasted until he and I both realized that I was eating my Manhattan clam chowder with a gigantic serving spoon. To my surprise, I managed to dump an astonishing amount of chowder onto my lap. I'm not nearly as impressive in person as I am in print.

The thick red goo on my pants made it look like I'd been speared in the abdomen. And I was speaking right after lunch. I dashed to the restroom and hurriedly scrubbed it all off — clam pieces and potato chunks and everything — leaving my pants dripping. I never speak from behind a lectern. But I figured this time I'd make an exception.

Just five minutes late, I walked onto the stage holding a notebook in front of me like Gypsy Rose Lee doing a fan dance. I immediately felt ridiculous, pulled the notebook to the side, pointed to my pants and said, "Wasn't that chowder at lunch delicious?" Not a huge laugh but a decent one, and I could play with the subject later in the session.

Putting the notebook on the lectern, I stepped to the front of the stage. I thanked my introducer, paused to gather attention and let the audience know I was transitioning into my program and — like that unfortunate storyteller — nothing. Distracted, I'd completely forgotten the opening to my session. An opening that I'd delivered hundreds of times.

The solution? An arcane formulation that should only be attempted after years of rigorous study under the tutelage of masters. I said, "I can't believe I forgot my opening," and laughed. Then I walked over and checked the notes I'd left on the lectern, notes which I always have with me on stage just in case but have never needed before or since.

Nobody cared. Because fortunately, that day, my audience happened to be made up entirely of homo sapiens. If you're unfamiliar with the breed, they don't tend to be perfect and they understand imperfection. As a speaker, there's almost nothing you can't get away with — up to, but probably not including, showing up naked — as long as you're open about it and you don't get flustered.

It's much like life.

Barry Maher's dark humor supernatural thriller, "The Great Dick: And the Dysfunctional Demon," has just been released. Contact him and/or sign up for his newsletter at www.barrymaher.com.