Usually, if I’m in front of a mic, it’s because I’m performing stand-up in a theater somewhere, a benefit or a corporate booking.

I can’t see myself ever doing nightclubs again. The unpaid bar tabs alone make that too awkward.

But a month ago, I was asked to be a featured speaker in a series of lectures — my subject, of course, being comedy. More specifically, how laughter keeps us young and healthy.

Typing this with a tissue stuffed up one nostril as I battle an insidious virus, I might not be a ringing endorsement for a glowing immune system, but studies do tell us that laughter releases endorphins and conquers stress.

For the audience, at least. 

Because comedians, through touring, can easily slip into a relatively hedonistic lifestyle, it’s not surprising that we’ve seen some crash and burn, ignoring their liver warning light. But I guess the inability to practice moderation can be applied to anyone, really.

On the other hand, it’s pretty clear that many comedians seem to live forever. And as I mentioned during my rather freewheeling lecture (couldn’t be bothered to prepare or knock out any sort of outline), I think it’s because there is something about an audience that is incredibly healing.

A lifetime ago, I was asked to perform on “Bob Hope’s Young Comedians Special” for NBC. Milton Berle was a guest star, and I remember him giving every appearance of being robust and sharp as a tack.

He was, in fact, somewhat frustrated in that he was trying to improvise a little backstage with Bob as they went over the script, but at that stage, Bob was around 90, had macular degeneration, and was really quite frail and unable to follow Milton’s suggestions.

The studio audience was seated, the cameras were focused on their marks, and as I watched Bob sitting hunched in his chair I thought, “he’s never going to be able to pull this off.”

But then the lights came up, the announcer boomed his introduction, the audience cheered and it was as if Bob began to radiate from the inside out. With eyes alight and expressive, he walked, erect, to his mark and launched into a few minutes of shtick before introducing the first comic.

He then would return to his seat only to rise again to thank and shake the hand of each of us after we did our seven-minute set. How I wish I still had the photographer’s still of me reaching for his hand, absolutely towering over him as if he were an end table. Lost in a move somewhere, I guess.

George Burns had the same ability. As he approached 100, he was still performing, and I watched him being wheeled by someone I supposed was his manager, who must’ve been 80 (the same age as his writers, sitting in the green room to watch his set), backstage in Montreal. Helped to his feet, he stood with his trademark glasses and cigar as the curtains parted, and came sparklingly alive in front of an audience of 12,000 at the Saint-Denis Theater.

Henny Youngman was another one. While reduced to reading his jokes from cue cards held by his adorable lady friend from the stage of the casino we were working somewhere on a New Year’s Eve, despite his great age, he still had ability to riff backstage from the comfort of an overstuffed sofa.

Any comedian will tell you that a receptive audience absolutely has the power to heal. We’ve all stepped up to the mic with a fever, headache, toothache, and, as if by miracle, not only is the pain forgotten as soon as we begin our act, but often symptoms completely disappear by the time we say, “Thank you, Cleveland, good night!”

There’s something about unrestrained laughter that’s exceedingly powerful. Even if all you’ve ever done is cracked up your co-workers, best friend or family around the dinner table, you know it to be true. 

I’m not sure which is more addictive: having the ability to make people laugh, or receiving the laughter. Comedy is the only art form that relies on a physical, audible response from the audience in order to be successful.

You can watch a film quietly, gaze silently upon a painting, smile as you read a book, but boy, no explosive laughter for a comedian means we’ll be creating new LinkedIn profile.

Phyillis Diller, Red Skelton, Groucho Marx — and all those greats who remain with us today: Carol Burnett, Bob Newhart, Dick Van Dyke — they know the secret of how a comedian and a roomful of strangers can come together within moments of meeting and create a happy intimacy. They know that laughter is the sister of joy, and joy is the daughter of love.

And you don’t need a lecture to learn that.

Pam Stone, of Landrum, is a comedian, author and horse dressage trainer.