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Another Great H&R Block Video
Director: Bobby Webster
DP: Kat Westergaard
HMU: Vera Stromsted
Back to School
Originally published in The Comic’s Log.
👋 Hello, people who thought they despised Severance because season 1 ended on a cliffhanger, only to find out that what they thought was the season finale was really the penultimate episode. [Me.] And hello, people who have to apologize to Ben Stiller and the whole Severance team because they’ve told a lot of people that they liked “all of season 1 and 2 except the final 10 seconds of season 1 which was the worst 10 seconds ever written in all of TV ever” and now have to eat so much crow. [Also me.] 🤦🏻♂️
A few weeks ago Wiff and I were at Georgetown University, where she had been invited to speak about feminism and romance novels. There were more than 50 students in attendance in a room built to hold 30, so many that the organizers removed the back wall and extended the seating into the hallway, as far back as the opposite wall. My inner husband was proud, but my inner fire marshal was worried.
The host, a professor in Georgetown's Women's Center and my wife's college roommate and bridesmaid, began the event by giving a brief overview of the Women's Center and its theme for Women's History Month, and then moved on to important topics, like the location of the snacks and the free tote bags. Then she told us where the bathrooms were located, and that, next to them, we’d find the sensory room. She may have said more, but all I could think was What the hell's a sensory room?
The two student moderators leading the Q&A started asking their questions. I tried to listen. But I was distracted. As an actor and audio/visual tech nerd, I needed to know why Lauren was holding her microphone transmitter in her hands. I considered interrupting the event to tell her to clip it to her pants, but as the only male at an event discussing feminism in a university’s Women’s Center, I thought, Better not. I learned later that she had to hold the transmitter because the sound guy said he could attach it to the back of her pants but, after taking one look at her form-fitting leggings, blushed, and said, "or not."
I don't fault the kid. He's in college. He may not know how to initiate micking someone, let alone a woman. Even in the real world, new sound guys are hesitant to touch a man, lest it seem handsy, and scared to touch a woman, lest it seem illegal. Experienced sound guys know it's okay to invade an actor's personal space. They'll tell the man, "I need to get in there" as they unzip his pants, and the woman, "I need to attach this to your bra strap; would you like to do it?" Ten times out of ten, the actress will just whip up her shirt. She's gotta get to set, and he's gotta make sure she can be heard. They both know it's not skeevy.
But that comes with experience. And that's the point of college. It's not real life. Nothing matters. It's a safe place to screw up. College football is fun to watch because the athletes aren't pros. Their motto should be "more turnovers, less domestic abuse." Every missed catch is an opportunity to learn. So is every mis-micked speaker.
That's not to say college is easy. It's not and it shouldn't be. Aristotle said the roots of education were bitter, but the fruit sweet. Oenophiles say that wine is better when the vines are stressed. I don't know what any of that means, but I do know that when you get thrown into in a pressure cooker like college, you come out the other end changed. Smarter? Hopefully. Wider? Unfortunately. But also more confident, better able to handle deadlines, and, for this sound guy, with the experience to walk onto a real set, for a real commercial, and mic up a real actor so he can earn real money.
But if you're just going to college just to get a job, you're missing the point. You go to college to become a better and more interesting person, who, because hiring managers are lazy, gets a better job. To them, a degree is just proof that you stuck with something for four years, or, if you're an athlete, nine.
My advice, while I’m on my giant soapbox, is to study the humanities, political science, history, economics. And the sciences, physics, biology, engineering. Learn how to write. Learn how to think. Don't waste your time on Communications, or that educational mirage, Business. Universities have schools of arts and science to shape better humans, and schools of business to be able to afford to have schools of arts and sciences. As one business school teacher told me, "you can always fall back on business."
Despite Wiff having to hold her transmitter, this was the best author Q&A she’s ever attended. The students were gracious. They were inquisitive. Each question started with "thanks for coming" and ended with a thoughtful inquiry. One student even used the phrase "vis-à-vis." I kept thinking, These kids are amazing! and What is vis-à-vis? Everyone seemed eager, curious, and energized. Some of that is due to youthful exuberance or recent caffeination, but also a thirst for knowledge.
I came away from this event reminded that that thirst, thankfully, isn't only quenched on a college campus. Anyone who didn't or couldn't go to college, or worse, got a degree in Business, can continue their education in the real world. Which is welcome news to me, because even though I was fortunate enough to go to college—and thank god I only minored in Business—I feel like I squandered my education by not studying harder. So I left Georgetown inspired to recreate the college experience in my adult life. I want to read more. I want to learn more. I want to do more kegstands. And I want answers to the big questions in life, like what the hell's a sensory room?
Reading List from Stockdale’s Foundations of Moral Obligation Course
This is the reading list from Jim Stockdale’s and Joseph Gerard Brennan’s Foundations of Moral Obligation course he once taught at the Naval War College. I took it from Stockdale’s Thoughts of a Philosophical Fighter Pilot, one of my favorite books on contemporary Stoic philosophy. My intention in posting this list is twofold: one, I’d like to read many of these books and will use this post as a reference; two, maybe others would like to read some of this stuff too.
Many of the books below are affiliate links which means if you click the link and purchase the book, I’ll earn a commission at no cost to you. Some of the books are out of print and/or difficult to find. Also, many of the oldest texts can be found in ebook format for free, so if free ebooks are your jam, be sure to look in your favorite ebook app.
READING LIST
Week 1: From 20th-Century Technology to the World of Epictetus. The Meaning of Moral Philosophy.
J. B. Stockdale, "The World of Epictetus." Atlantic Monthly, April 1978.
Week 2: The Book of Job. Life is Not Fair. The Problem of Evil.
The Book of Job. Old Testament.
Week 3: Socrates. Doctrine and Example. Civil Disobedience. Can Virtue be Taught? Soul and Body.
Week 4: Aristotle. Happiness as Living Well and Faring Well. The Moral and Intellectual Virtues. Courage as Balance and Endurance.
Week 5: Kant and Hart. Ethics of Moral Duty and Civic Law. Motives and Consequences. "Ought" and "right." The Meaning of Natural Law.
Week 6: Mill. Morality as Social Utility. Justice and the Greatest Happiness Principle.
Week 7: Individualism and the Collective, I.
R. W. Emerson, "Self-Reliance."
Week 8: Individualism and Collective, II.
Week 9: Science and Values. Does the Universe Have Meaning or Purpose?
Week 10: Return to the Beginning. Epictetus. The Stoic Ideal and the Ethics of the Military Officer. Philosophy as Technical Analysis and Way of Life. Wittgenstein and the Ethics of Silence.
Epictetus, The Enchiridion.
Plato, Phaedo (rereading of opening and death scene).
J. B. Stockdale, "Freedom," Parade, June 29, 1980.
Books on Comedy
If I were starting out as a brand new comic in 2025, these are the seven books I’d read, in order of importance.
The New Comedy Bible, by Judy Carter
I've been doing stand-up for 8 years and I still reference this book. If you take nothing else from this book, learn the joke structures she writes about:
A JOKE consists of two parts: a SETUP and a PAYOFF.
A SETUP is a TOPIC + an ATTITUDE + a PREMISE.
A PAYOFF is an ACT-OUT, a TURN, and/or a MIX + a TAG.
Here's her Neal Brennan example:
SETUP: It’s weird (👈 attitude) when they talk about the economy on the news (👈 topic) because they make it seem like everyone is rich (premise👈). PAYOFF: They’re like, (act-out 👉) ‘Global economic meltdown… is your money safe?’ ‘Uhh…you mean the $43 in my checking account? It should be okay.’
Mastering Stand-Up, by Stephen Rosenfield
Rosenfield approaches writing setups and punchlines from another, though equally helpful, angle. He discusses the importance of creating rolls as well as performing with emotional fullness:
To clarify what I mean by emotional fullness, let’s take a look at an excerpt from Louis C.K.’s piece on playing board games with his kids (this excerpt precedes the “Monopoly” material we looked at in chapter 7). I’ll indicate in parentheses the feelings that underlie his setups and punches.
Setup and punchline 1: (Annoyed) It’s boring having kids. You have to play kid games. You have to play board games. Little kid board games where you go . . . (making the monotonous sound of a game spinner twirling). And you go tick, tick, tick.
Punchline 2: (Making the same monotonous sound again.)
Punchline 3: (Trying to hide his frustration from his daughter) You got a six, honey.
Punchline 4: (Acting out his daughter’s slow and methodical counting and moving of her game piece) One . . . . . . . . . Two . . . . . . . . . Three . . . . . .
Punchline 5: (Openly frustrated, he points to where his daughter’s game piece should go) It’s here. Just go here. It’s just . . .
Finding Your Comic Genius: An In-Depth Guide to the Art of Stand-Up Comedy, by Adam Bloom
I liked Bloom's thoughts on what he calls "boom mic moments," those moments when comedians talk about other jokes or shows while on stage. "Even the biggest comedy nerd on the planet who’s seen that bit of material before and can quote it word-for-word doesn’t need to be reminded of that fact. So, the people who haven’t seen it before certainly don’t. There’s no point whatsoever in reminding your audience that what you’re about to say is a recital, because no single laugh (or two or even three) will justify causing that big a ‘boom mic moment’."
Also, I found his bonus chapter on corporate comedy helpful. When I was talking to a corporate comedy client, I used everything in that chapter.
Comic Insights, by Franklyn Ajaye
I love comedy. I love jazz. So when a fellow cruise ship comic told me there was a book written by a comedian Bill Maher described as "the jazz comedian," I bought it. Comic Insights is less about the craft and more about the art of stand-up. From the author's own mouth (pen?): “This is not a joke primer, but a philosophical approach to developing material that will help anybody who wants to be a comedian unlock his or her true comedic essence.” Ajaye features a ton of interviews with comedians. I found myself identifying with a lot of the reasons why other comics got into this line of work. When I was alone in my dark, windowless cabin on the cruise ships, this book reminded me why I got into this job in the first place.
The Comedians, by Glyph Nerteroff
A great read on the history of comedy.
Seriously Funny, by Gerald Nachman
A deep dive on the beginnings of stand-up comedy as we know it today, focusing on the comedians of the 1950s and 1960s.
Comedy Book: How Comedy Conquered Culture, by Jesse David Fox
This last one's more about the current state of comedy vis-à-vis culture.
A Friendly White
Originally published in the Comic’s Log.
"So what'd you do this weekend?"
I had been reading a book in an attempt to avoid conversation or eye contact with him, and until now, it had worked.
His voice was garbled and he spoke into his hands, so I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me or to himself or someone had turned on a garbage disposal full of marbles. The way he moved his mouth when he spoke made it sound like he was more focused on not dropping an imaginary cigarette from his lips than on enunciating his words.
A few minutes ago I'd walked into Natty Green's Pub & Brewing in Greensboro, North Carolina. I was in town for the North Carolina Comedy Festival, which I was excited to be a part of. It was an opportunity to perform and network with other comics, and it provided a chance to meet industry—the term for agents, managers, club bookers, and anyone else who works in a gatekeeper capacity. But I was also looking forward to this trip because it was a chance to get outside the little Manhattan bubble I live in and experience life in a small town far away from big city life.
Natty Green's was the only restaurant open on Labor Day—one of the features of a small town—so I entered and found a spot on the short leg of the L-shaped bar. There was an empty stool to my left, and just beyond that was a man eating his fries the way an archeologist might inspect relics he's uncovered from an excavated site the size of a dinner plate. He carefully selected each fry from the heap, held it up for a brief visual examination, then dipped it in ketchup before placing it in his mouth. Even his chewing was studious. With each bite he looked like he thought hmm, early Mesolithic...no...late Paleolithic! I was surprised he didn't have a leather-bound notebook to journal his food findings.
There were maybe another 10 people seated down the long leg of the bar, presumably so they could see the TV perched on the wall a few feet above my head. It's human nature to think you're the center of attention, but I've been under other TVs in other bars before, and I can usually tell when people are looking a few degrees above me. Even knowing that, I still felt like everyone was looking at me. Not quite watching me, because that would require something more focused than the blank-faced stares these people wore while the game was on. That's one of the nice things about sports, you can turn on the television, turn off your brain, and for a few hours forget how great or terrible your life seems and focus on how great or terrible your team is doing.
I'd been seated just long enough to get my beer and open my book when another man straddled the empty stool two to my right. Now, I make it a habit to not judge people by their appearance, or at least I make it a habit to say that I don't judge people by their appearance. But I do. I mean, can you blame me? When you've seen enough people in enough places, you notice traits they share in common to draw conclusions about their behavior.
Take this man, for instance. He wore a denim hat in the shape of a railroad engineer's. The hat matched his denim overalls, which he left unhitched on one side. Sartorially speaking, the denim was a nice contrast with his white underwear, fully visible on account of the fact that he'd opted to forgo a shirt. I didn't see a No Shirt No Shoes No Service sign on the door and neither did he. Maybe he was making a statement. A woman can show some sideboob, why can’t he? The elastic band of the underwear was flipped over, which I assumed had less to do with hiding the Hanes label and more to do with losing a fight against his paunch.
"What'd you do this weekend?" he asked again. What he lacked in sophistication he made up for in perseverance, and I don't care how judgmental you are, you can't ignore another human trying to start a conversation. Plus I’d come here looking for a small town experience and this looked to be my best bet.
"Oh, not too much," I said, walking the fine line between being rude and inviting further conversation. Where I live, you can say not too much and people understand. This guy isn't feeling chatty. I turned the page in my book to really drive home the point.
But this wasn't where I live. "I went trawling for junk," he said, "that's what I did. Got a bunch of coins. Neon signs. Damascus steel. Now, you can't leave that stuff in the driveway or it'll rust." He added the last thought as if the driveway were a perfectly normal location to store things that weren't Damascus steel.
"Sounds like quite the haul." My knowledge of Damascus steel is limited, so I didn't have much to contribute.
"What's the meaning of the book?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?" It's not that I didn't hear him—by now I could understand his garble—I was just surprised.
"What's the meaning of the book? Every book has a meaning."
Of course, how stupid could I be? “It's a collection of essays about Christmas," I said, realizing how silly it must look to be reading a book about Christmas in September. And then, in a half question, "So I guess the meaning of the book is...the holidays?" I felt like it was the first day of sophomore English class and I hadn't done the summer reading. Why are my armpits wet?
He mumbled something about books, took a sip of water and made a loud ahhhh noise, and then barked at the bartender. "You got my order, hun?"
"You didn't order from me, but I'll see if I can find it."
"Thank ya, darlin." He turned to the guy to his right. "So, what do you do?"
"I'm in banking," he said, which surprised me. This is something I hear daily in Manhattan, but wouldn't have expected it here. Though on second thought I shouldn't have been too surprised. He wore a nice white button down shirt made of a soft material. It was well tailored, stretched taut across his shoulders and chest. He was also black. Which made the next question all the more uncomfortable.
"You look like you play ball," the man said. "Did you ever play ball?"
As a friendly-faced white, I have the kind of face other whites feel comfortable saying racist things around. One woman, a white, once told me that when she took her daughter to tour Stanford "all we saw were these black and Asian kids. And I just thought where's my little Lizzie going to find friends?" I wanted to say "probably at a rally" but just smiled as if what she said was a perfectly normal thing to say.
Another time, another white told me about a bunch of kids misbehaving in the quiet car of a train. "They were causing quite a scene. And I don't have to tell you what color their skin was." But you just did!
This isn't the kind of conversation I'm lucky enough to eavesdrop on in Manhattan, so while I pretended to read my book I leaned in and turned my attention to them.
"Yes," he said. "I played in college. Ole Miss."
Okay, so maybe I was being overly sensitive. He didn’t seem to have a problem with the question, so maybe I shouldn’t either. Maybe I judged the weird guy a little too harshly.
They talked football for a few minutes and I ordered another beer. When their conversation petered out, the guy turned back to me. "Got into a little fender bender on my way back from hauling. This lady hit me. She was was only going 25, but..." And then he leaned in close. Whenever a white speaks with another white around a nonwhite, and they lower their voice and lean in, you know whatever's coming next is going to be a doozy. "...she damn near flew out the windshield. Pretty lightweight for a n----r." [Author's note: The character used the actual word, but I've prioritized self-preservation over veracity.]
And then, as if he hadn't just dropped that bomb, he hopped out of his stool with a smile. "Welp, I'm gonna go hit the head."
A moment later, the bartender brought his food. "Where'd he run off to now?" She rolled her eyes and sighed.
"I think he went to the bathroom," I said, still a little stunned.
She shook her head and set his food down. “Whatever.”
The manager came by and picked up the man's sunglasses.
"He just went to the bathroom," the bartender said. "Or did he move again?"
"I threw him out. Guy wasn't even wearing a shirt. Super weird... Either of you two want a sandwich?"
Only in a small town, I thought. I'd never be able to meet a crazy kook like that in NYC.
"So where are you from?" I asked the banker.
“Manhattan.”
Put That in Your Stovepipe
Originally published in the Comic’s Log on June 14, 2023.
I turn 40 this year. And I could die happy.
That’s not to say I want to.
There’s nothing wrong with me, at least not that I can tell. Besides the obvious, constant gas, I feel the best I’ve ever felt. Thankfully, the most suicidal streak I have is a proclivity to overindulge in both uncured bacon and Manhattans. Not at the same time, although that wouldn’t be a bad way to go.
I’m in a Louisville hotel room, writing from bed. Wiff, Bailey, and I are heading to Chicago today to visit a city neither of us have visited since moving out just over 8 years ago. Earlier this morning, I was looking at old photos we took in Chicago, and came across one of myself that caught my interest.
In it, I’m in my underwear. [Don’t get excited.] It’s not risqué, unless you call the sight of slight pudge spilling over an elastic waistband risqué. It’s tasteful pudge. I’m in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. My temples are still brown, a color they haven’t seen since Obama’s second inauguration—we both went gray soon after—and my face is a little pudgier. My shoulders are narrower. They’re slightly rolled forward, the way an office worker’s become from too much time hunched over a laptop pretending to work. And the iPhone I’m holding is an iPhone 6, a relic! It was the first photo I took of myself when I decided to start working out.
Up until then, I’d bragged that I didn’t go to the gym. I’d find ways to bring it up in conversation. Someone would ask, “Are you sure you want a third helping of Mac & Cheese?”
I’d respond like a smarmy magician letting the audience in on a secret. “Well, you’d never guess by looking at me, but I don’t work out. Can you believe it?” I’d wait for their eyes to go wide but the surprise never came. They could always believe it.
I used to say the same thing about reading books. Someone would ask what I was reading and I’d proudly tell them, “Oh, I don’t read.” I’d follow with a joke, the way you do when you realize what you just said was just about the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said. “I mean, I did enough reading in college. Or did I? Hahahaha. Haha. Hahaha. Ha…” It would get a courtesy laugh, the kind you’d give when someone just said the stupidest thing anyone’s ever said.
I’m not sure why I bragged about not taking care of my body. It’s not like I was some hulk of a man, with giant shoulders, six pack abs, my engorged pecs one sneeze away from ripping my too tight t-shirt clean off my waxed chest. My father-in-law described my body as a stovepipe.
And about the books? It’s not like I was a Pulitzer Prize-winning author making a joke at some fancy cocktail soirée. It’s one thing for Robert Frost to joke about having never read a book. But me? What was I trying to prove? That I was stupid?
Probably. I mean, I wasn’t stupid stupid. But I was stupid in the way people get when they don’t want to learn new things. Choosing not to learn new things is choosing to be stupid.
Gun to my head, I think I was covering for a fear of failure. It’s one thing to start on a journey and fail, but another thing entirely to have never started in the first place. If I was a stovepipe, at least I was a stovepipe because I never tried to be anything else. I wouldn’t be a stovepipe because I hadn’t worked hard enough.
There’s comfort in not trying. It’s safe. It’s like being a critic. From the comfort of your balcony seat you can judge the actors doing the actual work. Or it’s like being a fan, judging the shortstop when he bumbles a throw to second and misses the double play. Have you ever had to field a grounder with forty thousand fans rooting for the guy who just hit it?
I took another photo a few months ago. I’m a little leaner. I’m a little broader. I’m still pulling a goofy face—some things will never change. I still have obvious, constant gas, and I’m still mostly stovepipe. I’m not where I hoped I’d be by this time, but at least I haven’t quit.
And that’s the important part. Failure depends on where you draw the finish line. I get to decide when to fail. If I quit working out now, I’d fall short of my goal of looking like Captain America [before he transitioned]. If I gave up comedy now, I’d have made a good run, but would have certainly fallen short of my goal of international stardom.
I guess I’m not ready to die. I’ve still got shit to do!
How to Roadtrip
Last updated February 12, 2025.
This is brief write-up of some of road trip tips.
Packing
Pack light. Or at least lighter than you think. No one’s going to see you for more than 20 minutes at a time. They’re not going to know that you wore the same snazzy t-shirt and sweatpants combo yesterday. And if you’re driving across the US, chances are your outfit is the fanciest thing they’ve seen all week. The less you pack, the less you’ll schlep into your hotel every night.
Pack modularly. If you need to pack for different climates, different occasions, or different activities, pack the different stuff in different bags. In 2022, Wiff and I drove from NYC to San Diego to watch my brother make Chief in the Navy. We packed roadtrip clothes in one bag, and Naval ceremony clothes in the other. That way I didn’t have to carry a suit and tie into every dumpy hotel we stayed in along the way.
Driving
Pick your long poles. Pick a few must-see spots and plan around them. In the above trip, our long pole location was San Diego, but we didn’t care where we stopped along the way. Knowing we were always going the right direction gave us the flexibility to be spontaneous.
Set a drive time limit. Over the years our roadtrips have evolved. In the early days, we’d drive 18 hours to make it from Tacoma to Irvine or 12 hours to from NYC to Chicago in a day. But those long drives can get tedious. It’s no fun pulling into a big city and not wanting to go grab a drink because you want to blow your brains out. On our last few trips, we’ve set a daily limit of 4-6 hours. This is partially because we' have an old dog and endless hours in the car can be hard on her, and partially because we’ve wanted to see more of the towns we stop in.
Dining
Early on, when we wanted lunch on the road, we’d hit up whatever fast food joint was just off the highway. It was convenient, but the daly routine of Taco Bell, Applebee’s, and catastrophic diarrhea got tedious. Now, we’ll grab a salad and half sandwich at Panera or stop at a grocery store and make our own salad. The Paneras and grocery stores tend to be a few miles off the highway, which initially annoyed me, but now the 10 minute drive off the highway is a welcome change of pace.
On longer trips, we’ll bring our Yeti cooler for snacks wine and it’s amazing.
Apps
Route planning: We’re Apple Maps people and have never had an issue. It’s ETAs have always been accurate, and the directions almost always align with Waze and Google Maps, which we’ve tested a few times over the years.
Music: Apple Music and Spotify.
Look How Far You’ve Come
This was originally published in The Comic’s Log on January 21, 2025.
As we enter the third week of the year, most people are looking forward. They ask important questions like What are my goals? What will I accomplish?
But instead, I'm looking back. How did I get here? Is that a rash?
The aim isn't to analyze the ups and downs or the wins and the losses. It's to recognize the gains I've made so I can lock them in. It's an opportunity to look at what worked and recognize that it did, in fact, work. Just as we wear retainers to lock in the position of our newly straightened teeth, we can reflect on our lives to lock in the improvements we've made.
If life is climbing a mountain, most of us spend most of the time focused on getting to the top. You're on the trail. You plod along. When you hit a clearing you focus on the peak in the distance. You drink from your canteen, you slam some gorp. How much longer? Do I have enough underwear? Is that a snake? When you hit a difficult patch, you focus on the ground ahead. Should I scramble up this rock or that one? Will that root hold my weight? Why am I so fat?
But stop a moment. Turn around. You might see a beautiful vista filled with wildflowers. You might see where you made the right turns, where you took the right shortcut. Sure, there's a grizzly in the distance, but that’s nature's way of telling you to keep on going.
You can see where you recorded one more take to nail the audition and it led to one more booking, which covered one more month's rent, one more lunch date with Wiff, and one more chunk for savings. You can see where you kept on writing when you wanted to put down the manuscript and it led to a better story. You can see where you spent an extra hour writing jokes and how it led to a stronger, tighter act, which led to booking more shows.
Now look at the times when you lost your temper (but then right after, look at when you apologized for being a dickhead and got back on the path); the times you procrastinated writing a newsletter [for 6 months] and lost subscribers; or the times you didn't prepare a setlist for a show and stumbled through the set.
The missteps are tricky. It's easy to feel guilty about them, to feel shame from them. It's easy to think you'd be farther up the mountain without them. But in reality, you needed them. They gave you time to focus on becoming a better husband, a better writer, and a better comedian, and in doing so, better prepare yourself for the path ahead. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and also less of a dickhead.
Take a minute now to thank the path: for the opportunity to climb it and become a better human; for the times you went to the gym when you were tired and would have rather slept in; for the times you skipped the ice cream even though—actually that never happened. I never skip ice cream.
Thank each of the missteps: the fight with your wife, the procrastination, the hours spent reading the news. Even though they slowed you down, that’s okay. They give you moments to catch your breath, to realize your err, and to prepare for a steeper part of the path ahead. They make you a better climber and a better man.
Now, turn back around and look at the path ahead and see how much steeper it gets. You don't have a map—there isn't one—so whip out your compass. It's the one your parents gave you. The one your teachers helped you hone. Use it to figure out your path. It might seem scary—that grizzly bear is getting a little close, isn't he?—but where before you might have filled with fear, fill yourself instead with confidence. You can keep climbing because you've been climbing. Keep your head down, keep on marching, and don't forget, every now and then, to turn around and see how far you’ve come.
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How to eat and drink in Rome
Last updated: January 20, 2025
My three rules for eating and drinking in Rome:
Don’t do inside if there's someone standing out front* beckoning tourists to come inside.
Don't go inside if there's a giant menu out front in English.
Don't go inside if there are pictures of the food on the menu.
* They're called acchiappini, Italian for catchers.
Wine Shops:
The Italian wine in Italy is better and cheaper than Italian wine in the States. I grabbed a new bottle every day from the wine store around the corner and to take up to my room. Those were some of my favorite memories of the whole trip.
Antica Bottega Dei Sapori. My daily stop. It's just a grocery store, but a really good one. Decent wine selection. Nothing to write home about, but it was around the corner from me.
Bernabei. REALLY good wine selection. A few locations around the city. I know of Bernabei in Testaccio and Trastevere. There could be more.
For cocktails:
J.K. Place Roma. Hotel bar. Great cocktails. Really good shareable small plates. They bring SO MANY FREE SNACKS with your drink orders. You can basically get a light dinner for the price of a cocktail (not super cheap, at €24). My parents stayed at this hotel and raved about it.
Terrazza Borromini. Rooftop bar at the hotel where I stayed. Depending on the season, it might be partially enclosed and heated, but you can still get outside to enjoy the views. I had breakfast here every morning, so can't comment on the cocktails, but another friend highly recommended it for drinks.
Hotel Eden. I didn't make it, but a friend I trust had this to say: "If you find yourself at the top of the Spanish Steps, it's one of my favorite bars with the most amazing sunset views. It's the bar on the top level of the Hotel Eden."
For food:
Bar del Fico. My first stop after arriving in the city. I had the gricia and it was really good. There's a photo of me on the wall there. If you see it, snap a photo and send it to me, would you?
Pirò. Really good seafood.
Armando al Pantheon. It's good. But don't cry if you can't get in. Tough to get reservations because Stanley Tucci ate here once.
Matricianella. Solid choice. Great carbonara and cacao e pepe.
Da Peppo Al Cosimato. I haven't been, but our local food tour guide recommended this place.
Hosteria Grappolo D'oro. I haven't been, but our local food tour guide recommended this place.
Spirito Di'Vino. I haven't been, but our local food tour guide recommended this place.
For street food in an area where there are zero tourists...
Mercato Testaccio. Walk down from Campo dei Fiori to work up an appetite—it's a beautiful stroll mostly along the Tiber—and then putz around the market. You can grab suppli, arancini, and other Roman street food.
For gelato
Giolitti. Go here after the Mercato Testaccio. The place has been in the family for over 100 years and they've been serving gelato for at least 50. Most authentic gelato experience, i.e., no mounds of gelato, no toppings, just really great flavors. I think they have another location... I think just north of the Pantheon?
How to Host a Comedy Show
Last updated January 13, 2025
This is a brief write-up on how to host a comedy show.
Get them to behave as a group
Your primary objective is to get a room full of individuals to behave as a single group. To do that, get them clapping/wooing together three times. If you get the audience making noise right from the start it will make them feel less self conscious about laughing later.
“How’s everybody going tonight?”
”Wooooo!” [1]
”We can do better than that. How’s everybody doing tonight?!?”
”WOOOOOO!” [2]
You might think this is hacky, but no one cares. The audience wants to have a fun time. The comics want a hot room. Management wants everyone to buy more plates of mozzarella sticks and glasses of Chard. No one is going to think your welcome is hack.
Talk to Some of them
This may seem counterintuitive given the “behave as a group” note above, but getting to know a few specific audience members will help draw people out of their shells. It’ll also create organic openings for you to make a few jokes early in your hosting set, which gets everyone used to hearing the rhythm of jokes. And…it’ll get people clapping together a few more times. Here’s how I do it:
Initiate a conversation. I start with general topics like geography.
“Make some noise if you’re from out of town!”
”WOOOOO!”
Single out someone who clapped/wooed and talk to them. You don’t have to make a joke, but it will help get them laughing organically.
”Where are you from, sir?”
”Mississippi.”
[to audience] “Give it up for Mississippi…” [3] “Is this your first visit north of the Mason-Dixon Line?”
And you’re off to the races.
You could stay on geography—”Anyone else from out of town?” “Anyone from another country?” “Anyone from a Union state?”—or you could move on. You can steer the conversation toward a topic for which you already have material. I have material on being married, so that’s where I go next.
“Make some noise if you’re married!”
”WOOOO!”
”How long have you been married, miss?”
”22 years.”
[to audience] ”Give it up for 22 years!” [4] “To the same person?” or “What’s the key to making it 22 years?”
”Open communication.”
”That’s a good one. For my wife and me, it’s having a nice even division of labor. At home, I make all the jokes, she makes all the money.”
Next you could talk to someone else, you could pivot to other material, or you could…
Cover House Rules
Depending on the club, you may need to cover some house rules. I frequently host at Bananas Comedy Club, and they don’t have any house rules. Once, I hosted at a club that gave me an entire single-spaced page of do’s and don’ts to cover. Don’t ask if anyone is celebrating a birthday. Do talk about our drink promotions…
In general, remind people to keep their phones in their pockets, on silent, or better yet, off. Remind them that heckling is disruptive and passé. When I host at Gotham Comedy Club, I’ll tell them that we’re taping these sets.
“We’re taping the show tonight. The comics will review the tapes so we can get funnier. Some comics use the tapes to send in to late night shows. I’m sending mine to my mom as proof of life. ‘How can we make these tapes great?’ you ask? Laugh. That’s it. If you like a joke, laugh; if you don’t like a joke, laugh harder.”
When covering house rules, I find it helpful to insert a joke, hence the proof of life line.
I will update this page as I think of other topics. I’m already thinking I need to add a troubleshooting section… How to handle hecklers, what do to after a comic bombs, etc.
If you have any questions, feel free to drop them in the comments below.
New Commercials (H&R Block)
Last updated: April 8, 2025
⬆️ (This is me during the callback.) ⬆️
⬇️ (The actual commercials are below.) ⬇️
“Hi, Liz!” I said. The Zoom callback started and I put on my Book Me smile, one part hope, and two parts desperation.
She squinted behind oversized glasses. “What are we looking at here?” As a casting director she’s probably seen some strange auditions. The way she said it told me she hadn’t quite seen this.
I was in the middle of another job, dressed as Ebenezer Scrooge. I was also in heavy prosthetic makeup, not the ideal situation for a callback for a “Secret Tax Prep Company,” as the breakdown had called it.
“Oh, uh…I didn’t have a chance to moisturize this morning…hahaha…haha....”
The director spoke up. “I…I dunno if I can send this to the client.”
“Oh sorry. Seth said he told you guys that I’d be on set today dressed as Scrooge.” Seth is my agent’s assistant, and was the one who coordinated the meeting.
Liz paused a moment. “He did not mention that.”
[I found out later that Seth did, in fact, mention it and it was just a misunderstanding.]
“But, you know what,” the director said, “why don’t we run it a few times and let’s see if it’ll work.”
Maybe he wanted to see me for the role, or maybe he wanted to help me save prosthetically aged face, but I appreciated him throwing me a bone. We ran the scene a few times, adjusting the direction with each take. “This time say it like you’re telling someone a secret.” “This time, like you can’t wait to tell your friend about it.” “This time, better.”
That evening, my agent emailed. “Can you send in another tape? They just want to see you out of the prosthetics.”
So I sent in another audition. The next day, another email from my agent. “Hi! Hope you’re having a great weekend! I’ve got a booking for you!”
I finished patting myself on the back this morning, just in time to see the three beauties drop.
But wait, there’s more!
As of April 2, 2025, H&R Block release another commercial. Watch it here.
Our dog’s nightlight
Last updated: February 13, 2025
My dog, Bailey, is mostly blind. She’s never been fully diagnosed as “blind,” but she’s run into walls full speed and whined at the foot of a lamp enough times to make us think, her vision’s probably not 20/20.
Her blindness makes finding the water bowl in the middle of the night a bit tricky. The bowl is right beside our bed, so she wakes up Wiff whenever she clacks around looking for it. As soon as she turns on her iPhone flashlight, Bails finds the bowl and starts drinking. It’s all well and cute, except it’d be better if Wiff didn’t have to wake up in the first place.
I decided to make a motion-activated nightlight setup.
I bought the Eve Motion for the motion sensor. It’s small, battery operated, and easily connects to my Apple Home, a requirement for my setup.
I bought a cheap low level plug-in LED and used a smart plug I had laying around.
Then I setup a Home automation so that, when the Eve Motion senses Bailey approaching the water bowl area, it turns on the smart plug, which powers the LED. Once it stops detecting motion, it waits for one minute and then turns off the smart plug. Also, the automation itself only runs from 2 hours after sunset to 30 minutes before sunrise.
One week in and this thing has already saved Wiff several middle-of-the-night wakeups. Money well spent.
Smart Phone. Dumb User.
Last week Wiff and I went to Birdland to see Bill Charlap. I would have added “the great…” before his name, but that seems a little overdone. I mean, yeah, he’s great, but do we need to keep saying “the great so and so” whenever we introduce someone great?
Of course, there are people whose names contained the words “The Great.” There was The Great Santini and The Great Gatsby. And all those historical figures: Ivan, Alexander, and Catherine all shared parts of their name but no relation. Charlemagne too; literally “Charles the Great.” I suppose whenever they were introduced it must’ve contained their full epithet.
And what defines greatness these days? I don’t know how or whether greatness these days is different than any other days. And who defines it?
Wiff and I were in Birdland watching the show [which, btw, was great], when I noticed the two children sitting at the table to our left. They were not watching the show. They were watching their phones. The entire time. I only know this, because their phones were as bright as the stage lights, despite illuminating something not half as interesting. [Or great.]
They also didn’t clap. I can forgive not clapping after a musician solos. Maybe they're not part of the jazz cognoscenti and don’t know that one applauds after each musician’s solo, despite the fact that the applause steps on the next musician’s solo. That’s okay.
What’s not okay is not applauding once.
When even come to the show?
They acted like they were in their own private dining hall just killing time while “the entertainment” played.
It got to be so annoying, that I did what any well-mannered jazz show audience member should do: I whipped out my phone so I could take a great picture of them.
Bananas
This is my fart face.
This week I worked at Bananas Comedy Club, a new club for me. I hosted five shows, one for Collin Chamberlin, a NYC-based comic from Pittsburgh, and four for Mary Lynn Rajskub, an LA-based comic from Trenton, Michigan. I’m not sure why where they’re based or where they’re from is important for the purposes of this entry, but I’ve already written it and am too lazy to hit delete.
To get out ahead of the “how’d you book that?” question… On Tuesday night, an agent called me and said a mutual connection had referred me to him and asked if I was available to host a show Wednesday night and then four more over the weekend. Wiff and I had plans for Wednesday night, Valentine’s Day, but she was fine canceling because a) she supports my career and, b) she wouldn’t have to fake a headache.
There’s kind of a joke among some comics that we’re all just waiting for The Industry to knock at our door. Ninety nine out of a hundred times it’s pure fantasy. But this agent’s call on this Tuesday night was the one time out of a hundred where the fantasy was real.
I mean sure, the shows were in a hotel conference room. And sure, the hotel was in New Jersey. But it was work and I had a blast doing it. The shows were bananas. The audiences were the apeshit. And it was an honor to monkey see monkey do that club.
How to get a commercial agent in nyc
Last updated April 18, 2025.
Here’s the brief story of how I found a commercial agent in NYC who’s helped me book a ton of great work with great clients like Carl’s Jr / Hardee’s, Autodesk, Regeneron, Get Your Guide, Travelers Insurance, FILO, Prudential, and FanDuel. (Check out my commercial reel here.)
I created a profile on Backstage and started self-submitting to low-paying gigs ($200-$500) to build out my resume and get experience. Those gigs included GFuel, AT&T, Quadrant Homes, Westy Self Storage, Ask Mr. Franchise, Porch and Patio, Magyar Bank, Downs Ford, Hilltop Nissan, Sovereign Global Advisors, At Leisure Licensing (I wrote that script too), Interactive Brokers, and a handful of others… I didn’t know about Actors Access until later, but I’d recommend creating a profile and self-submitting there too.
I took Brooke and Mary’s On-Camera Commercial Intensive class (which I’d HIGHLY recommend). At the end of the class, they gave us a list of 10 agents and told us to mail—yes, mail—them our headshots and resumes.
One of the agents I snail mailed happened to be doing a Meet & Greet at Actors Connection. I signed up for it. During our meet & greet, he liked my read of the sample script and invited me in for an office visit.
A few weeks later, I went to his office and signed with A3, and have been with them for the past 6 years.
UPDATE!
In February 2024 my former agency ceased operations. In May 2024, a casting director I’d booked the Autodesk gig with—Mary Callahan, of the aforementioned Brooke and Mary—emailed me and asked who I was auditioning with since A3 shut down.
I said no one.
The next day she introduced me to CESD. Two weeks later I had a Zoom with Kirsten Walther and Maura Maloney, and the following week I had my first audition through them.
They’ve since booked me with Naadam, Goldbelly, H&R Block, Lumineux, and, depending on when you read this, a whole lot more. I couldn’t be happier.
I love helping people get started, so if you have questions drop them the comments below. 👇
Fancy Pants
When I was 25, I bought my first designer suit.
It was expensive. It was mail order.
And it did not fit.
It was also a tuxedo.
I’d worn a tuxedo exactly four times in my life, and I thought, despite the fact that tuxes were only $100 dollars to rent, that I should buy one—and it should cost over two thousand dollars.
I found a website that sold deeply-discounted designer clothing to fools like me, made room on my credit card, and bought the tuxedo.
It arrived. I tried it on.
And then I wept.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t sit down. The pants were way too tight.
You know when you’re trying to stuff a sleeping bag into a flimsy sack, and you stuff in one side but it comes slipping out the other? That’s what getting my thighs into these pants felt like. This suit was built for an Italian soccer player: someone thin, strong, and slicked up with olive oil. I was built more like an Italian wrestler: shaped like an over-stuffed sausage.
The tuxedo collected dust in my closet for several years while I resolved and re-resolved to lose a few pounds. This was clearly not a high priority since I’d reduced my daily pasta intake by approximately zero percent. Thankfully, I also hadn’t been invited to any black-tie events.
I decided to go to a tailor, who surely could fix anything! Tailors are modern-day magicians. Well, I guess magicians would be modern-day magicians, but tailors are still magical. They have an uncanny ability to make us feel good. I’m not vain, but if I don’t look my best, I don’t feel my best.
I researched the best tailor in Seattle, didn’t make an appointment, and showed up.
***
I open the door and enter the tailor’s shop, silent except for the hushed whispers of the tailor and his client, a well-heeled man in his late 50s which, in Seattle, translates to a Patagonia-wearing-Volvo-driver in his late 50s.
The door closes behind me. There’s no tinkle of a bell, nothing to indicate anyone’s entrance or exit. No one acknowledges my presence. Must be fancy. If I’ve learned nothing else in my time on this planet, I’ve learned that the fancier a store is, the less warm and welcoming its people are. Take the French, for example: They’re the fanciest in the whole world—French peasants dress better than American royalty—but have a reputation for being cool and unwelcoming, thumbing their aquiline but very fancy noses at the world.
I can see the tailor doing tailor-like things to Mr. Patagonia. They speak in that particular sotto voce that every tailor speaks in. I imagine a tailor hailing a cab. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t wave his arm. He just suavely lifts a hand, as if absent-mindedly measuring the air, and a taxi appears.
I don’t know if they’ve noticed me. I’ve been in this guy’s entryway for what feels like two days, and nothing.
I work up the courage to say something. “Hello?”
Without looking up from his chalk mark he waves me over to the seating area. Must be French. Must be fancy.
Finally, it’s my turn.
“What can I help you with?”
“I need you to make this fit.” I hold up the suit in case he wasn’t sure what I meant by “this.”
“Put it on, fatty,” he says with a smirk. He knows exactly how this charade is going to end but, like a commuter rubbernecking to catch the roadside accident, he can’t resist the carnage.
After a brief and feverish struggle with the pants, I come out of the changing room. I feel like a nervous debutant trying on her gown for the first time, timid but pretty. And sweaty.
“You got any ice water?” I ask. “Maybe a towel to dab my forehead?”
He chuckles. “Okay, hop on up.”
I step onto the dais like a robot learning to walk. I don’t want anything to tear. “There are mirrors,” I say. “I can see your eyes rolling.”
“How do they feel?” he asks.
“A little tight.” My voice is several octaves higher than when I walked in.
He circles the platform, investigating the pants. He grabs the fabric of the fly with far too much confidence and speed for my comfort. “Really? Button fly? I thought we got rid of these in the Middle Ages.”
Button flies were fancy. These pants were fancy. Surely he would know that since he was a fancy tailor. “Yeah,” I say, “I didn’t know that when I bought them.” This was a complete lie. When I Googled Fancy Tuxedo, I also added With Button Fly.
He brings over a chair. “Sit.”
“I’m good,” I say. The pants wouldn’t survive me taking another step, let alone sitting down.
“I need to see how tight they are when you sit.”
“I think we both know they’re tight.”
He points at the chair. I step down, holding my breath so I don’t blow out the pants and say a quick prayer to whatever saint is in charge of making sure pants don’t explode.
I sit.
The pants make a soft noise that, if I spoke pants, would translate to, “Oh God, why!?” I’m still holding my breath.
“Hmm,” he says, squinting as he investigates the seams, “these are really tight, mostly in the thigh.”
“Yeah.” I gasp for air.
“I have several Seattle Seahawks as clients.”
“Great!” Is my face blue?
“You have thighs like them.”
“Okay!” I’m going to pass out.
“You have thighs like their offensive linemen.”
That feels unnecessary.
“But the upper body of a cubicle worker.”
“So what does that mean for me?”
“I can’t let these out far enough to fit your—thunder thighs. You’re going to have to return them.”
“You knew that the moment I walked in here, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why’d you have me try them on?”
“I couldn’t resist. You know when you drive down the freeway and there’s an accident?”
“Rubberneckers. Yeah. I know. Is there nothing you can do for these pants? For me?”
“You could lose weight.” He looks down at my thighs, "Like a lot of weight. I think you’ll have an easier time returning the suit and getting a bigger one.”
He clearly doesn’t know that I had bought the suit from one of the fanciest online clothing stores that doesn’t offer returns or refunds, let alone that I am determined to lose enough weight to fit into this suit.
“Okay!” I waddle back to the changing room and slip out of the suit, and by “slip out of” I mean I spend 20 minutes sliding them down my legs inch by inch until my legs were free. The strain marks on the pants are visible. As are the strain marks on my pride.
***
I would go on to keep the suit for years, transporting it from home to home, always looking at it the same way I looked at the extra pounds on my body that kept me from fitting into it: “You’re still here?”
Eventually I would sell the tuxedo for pennies on the dollar, to some other fool with a dream of being someone he’s not constructed to be.
I’m happier now, though not necessarily lighter. And I’m okay with that because that’s part of growing up: realizing you can lose the last 10 pounds, but won’t.
The Cable Company You Keep
Originally sent to my newsletter subscribers on Monday, March 20, 2023.
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I have an issue with my external hard drive. It’s not the fanciest in the world—it was a free with purchase sorta thing—but it’s not so janky that I should be having the problems that I’m having with it.
Every time I connect it to my laptop, I get somewhere between 5 and 15 minutes of usage before my MacBook Pro informs me that the disk was not ejected properly. (If that phrase doesn’t sound familiar, it’s because you’re using a PC like a serf.)
The fact that the disk isn’t being ejected properly isn’t the problem. The problem is I’m not the one ejecting it, properly or not. I don’t want it ejected. I want it injected. Or dejected. Or whatever the opposite of ejected is. [Conjected?]
So I typed my symptoms into the Internet, and came to the diagnosis that the problem is the cable, and the only treatment is to a new one, which is like going to WebMD with a cough, diagnosing yourself with brain cancer, and prescribing a new head.
And this unintentional ejection—which affects more men than you’d think—isn’t even the real issue. The real issue is that I’ve been living with it for weeks.
Okay, fine. Months.
Months!
Every time I plug in this external drive to edit photos, I get a few minutes of usage and then ka-blam, premature ejection. I huff. I sigh. I cower in shame. I explain that this almost never happens. And then I plug it back in and start the whole cycle again. [Weird way to end that metaphor, I know.]
To disappear the problem would cost me, at most, $50 for a top-of-the-line cable and, at least, $10 for a generic cable. [We both know I’m not going generic.]
Fifty dollars! The cost of two fancy cocktails, a new Deep V-neck t-shirt, or a postage stamp. [I’ve never mailed a letter.]
Why haven’t I fixed it?
Is it the money? Wiff and I aren’t exactly rollin in the dough but we’re far from starving, and I can find $50 in the discretionary budget. [Say bye bye to my new spring Deep-V…]
Do I not think I’m worthy of spending the $50? A small part of me imagines himself to be super scrappy, like I could jury-rig a contraption to fix the problem, and in the process, solve cancer. But a larger part of me doesn’t have the patience to wait around for Ol’ Scrappy LeDonne to Rube-Goldberg a solution.
Maybe I’ve been dragging my heals because it feels safe to work on something not scary. Writing jokes—or writing anything—is scary, because at some point someone’s going hear the joke or read the writing and then immediately judge it and, by extension, you. And as much as you tell yourself you’re immune to the judgment, it still gets under your skin. Even this morning, I took a break from writing [read: procrastinated] to check Instagram and saw a comment on my reel: “Wasn't even funny. Keep trying. Maybe one day you'll get there.” [Thanks for the encouragement, Dad!]
And what other issues am I not dealing with while I ruminate on this one? There’s an opportunity cost to rumination and, despite my brain being enormous and talented [and humble], I can only ruminate on one thing at a time.
I finally took my medicine.
On Monday, I ordered a cable. The $50 one. Because I deserve the best.
On Tuesday it arrived.
And on Wednesday, I plugged it in, and learned the issue wasn’t the cable, it was the hard drive. 🤦🏻♂️
So now, with my power of inductive reasoning bruised, I must forge ahead and try another course of treatment. Probably by buying a top-of-the-line external drive [no more deep-v’s till 2026!], and probably only after waiting another 6 months.
At least it’ll distract me from writing! 🫠
World Series of Comedy 2023 - New Orleans
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Click here.
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Find Comedy House New Orleans and select LIVE STREAMS.
Select Thursday Mar 23 - 9pm Eastern
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Preparation Age
Originally sent to my newsletter subscribers on Monday, March 13, 2023.
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I turn 40 this year, and the one thing I’ve learned in my almost 40 years is that I have more to learn now than ever before.
I don’t mean learning about existential issues, like life and death. I’ve solved those. And I don’t mean personal issues, like health and finance. I’ve given up on those.
I’m talking basic stuff.
Like how to take my dog for a walk.
***
This morning, like every morning, I gather her leash, my keys, and a roll of poop bags.
This particular roll is new. Secured onto itself with a little sticker in the shape of a blue leaf.
Already, I have questions.
Why is it a leaf? Nothing about the process of picking up dog poop in a mass-produced bag spooled around a tiny toilet paper roll screams leafy. A leaf connotes eco-friendliness. And I doubt single-use plastic is what Captain Planet uses to clean up after his pup.
And why is it blue?! Oceans are blue. Mood swings are blue. But a leaf? Not even in the Amazon, the most biodiverse ecosystem in the world and after which the seller of the bag is named, contains plants with leaves this blue.
Anyway, we get outside and she begins her routine, first with the “number ones,” marking several very specific spots, surely frustrated at having to remark the same spots every morning.
Or maybe she’s not frustrated. Maybe she does what needs to be done without prejudice or emotional response. (How wonderful it would be to be a dog!) Or maybe she doesn’t look at it as remarking, and more “y0u SeEM pLEAseD WhEN I g0 hERe. anD HErE.”
Next, the Main Event. She hunches over, turning into that telltale curl of a dog preparing to make a Twosie, and goes. She finishes and bounds off in the opposite direction, putting as much distance between her and her work as caninely possible. At least as far as this 6 foot leash allows.
Now it’s my turn. To pick up her push, not to make my own. I pull the roll from my pocket and fumble with the sticker. It’s cold out. It’s raining. My normally highly dextrous fingers—weird flex, I know—are numb from the cold and the wet. But I persevere, despite being pulled in one direction by a frisky pom and in another by civic duty (hehe).
With each failed attempt to rip the sticker with my freshly trimmed but now useless man-nails, I grow more frustrated.
I have more questions.
Why didn’t I remove the sticker upstairs in the comfort and heat of my apartment, where I could use scissors or an exact-o knife, or somebody else’s (Wiff’s) talons to remove the leaf? Why didn’t I remove the sticker in the hallway as I waited for the elevator and for Bailey to stop running laps down the hallway and back in excitement over her pending poop?
Soldiers don’t load magazines on the battlefield. Speakers don’t write speeches on the stage. Why did I wait until we were on the street to ready the roll? Why hadn’t I prepared?!
It’s in this moment I realize something:
I don’t appreciate being prepared.
Until I am not.
I should appreciate preparation every time I cook. The spatula’s clean. The pans are stacked. The pantry is organized. It even has labels. The food’s in the fridge. Most of it’s fresh. It’s ready to use with minimal prep. The counters are clean. So is the board. Everything is ready to go.
But I don’t stop to appreciate the work I’ve (Wiff’s) done to prepare.
Without preparation, things aren’t in their place. Could you imagine trying to cook without preparing to cook? Where are the pans? They’re not in their spot. The spatula’s dirty. I have to wash it. Which wastes time. Which makes me angry. And makes a simple task like making breakfast a chore, a lot like taking a geriatric dog for her morning squeeze with a fresh roll of bags secured with a stupid leaf.
Finally, in a flash of rage, I claim my victory. I shred that stupid blue leaf, rip off a bag, slide my hand inside, and take a moment to embrace the hard-earned lesson: next time, remove the sticker before the walk.
…only to learn that for every lesson learned, another, harsher one awaits:
It doesn’t matter when you aggressively remove the sticker…
if you forget to check the bag for holes. 🖐️💩
Inspiration
I was planning my set for my spot tonight at Gotham Comedy Club when I wanted to take a break. Or procrastinate. Whatever. The point is, I starting planning the clubs I wanted to hit as part of my “Drive By” plan, which makes me sound more like a Type-A Crip than an enterprising comic. I was checking out the lineup at NYCC, came across the Good Eggs show, and saw a name I hadn’t noticed before.
This preamble is going somewhere, I promise!
The name was Matt Ruby. His bio mentioned his newsletter, which I immediately checked out. And then spent too long reading. Turns out it’s GREAT for procrastinating. Anyway, where I’m going with this is reading other people’s thoughts on comedy, the industry, the jokes, etc, makes for great motivation. At least for me.
Seeing that he’s got not one but TWO weekly newsletters is inspiring.
Which I guess is why I decided to write this on my blog.
Anyway.
That’s all for now.
Chow,
Anthony