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

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.)

1. I created a profile on Backstage and started self-submitting to low-paying gigs ($200-$500) just 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 one 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.

2. I took Brooke and Mary’s On-Camera Commercial Intensive class. 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.

3. One of the agents I’d just 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.

4. 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 stopped operating.

I said no one.

The next day she sent an email introducing 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, and, depending on when you read this, a whole lot more.

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

Want to watch the live stream?

1. Click here.

2. Select LIVE STREAMS.

3. Find Comedy House New Orleans and select LIVE STREAMS.

4. Select Thursday Mar 23 - 9pm Eastern

5. Select NO DONATION* to watch the show for free.

6. Enjoy the show!

*If you choose to donate, I get 20% of the donation. If you really want to help fund my career, you can donate here.

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

New Commercials

A new batch of national commercials just dropped for Carl’s Jr. and Hardee’s. I’m so so proud of these. It helps when you get a director as funny as Chris Werner, a co-anchor as funny as Oriana Lada, an agency as creative as 72andSunny, and a production team as hard working as Schrom. The whole team did an incredible job. Especially me.

In case you don’t watch TV, you can check them out below.

Oh! And I’m especially proud of my first Spanish-language commercial. I’d like to thank my seven years of Spanish language classes for preparing me to say “Planeros unidos” on national television. You can watch that one at the bottom of this page.

Carl’s Jr.

Hardee’s

En Español

World Series of Comedy

I was selected to be part of The World Series of Comedy’s festival. You can buy tickets for the live show or streaming.

1. Click here.

2. Select LIVE or STREAMING.

3. Select Loonees Comedy Corner - July 20-23.

4. Select Friday 1.

5. Use code GIVE for discounted live tickets.

6. Enjoy the show!

I love the first of the month.

This is an edited transcription of my Morning Pages entry from September 1st, 2021.

The first of anything gives me so much much to look forward to. The first day of school. The first date. The first dance. The first day of camp. So much to anticipate. It’s like a blank slate.

There’s something about a blank slate. Nothing to hold you back. No baggage. Pure possibilities. You can do whatever you want without fear that you’ll upset your status quo. 

I wonder if that’s why we have rituals celebrating firsts. Weddings celebrate the start of a couple’s new life together. Matrimony gives them a reset button to wipe the slate clean. That’s why they throw a big party. “Hey! Remember when we were terrible people? Neither do we! Let’s drink!” 

Brides wear white, the clean slate color. Though nowadays no bride is a “clean slate” in the original, virginal sense, white still fits because it’s a new beginning for their marriage. Plus who doesn’t look great in white?

Birthdays are a reset. So what if you barely showed up for your 37th year. Now you’re 38! You’ve got a whole new year to make something of yourself! New Year’s celebrates the closing of one year and the opening of the next. Maybe that’s why we’re so happy on New Years. Because we’re all closet optimists, who can only see a year of possibilities, blind to all the negatives, including the hangover tomorrow morning. 

Even funerals are a sort of reset. If you believe in the afterlife, you could see it as a complete reset. “I didn’t make much of this life, but thank god I can start fresh in heaven! It feels a bit hot… just me?” Even if you don’t believe in the afterlife, it’s still an acknowledgment of an end for the funeral attendees. They must let go of the deceased. They must drop the baggage they held on to while the dead was still alive. What good is a grudge when the person you’re grudging against doesn’t know it? Or if they’re in the afterlife, they can’t do anything about it?

Endings allow us to change direction. On August 31st we say “not a bad month” but on September 1st we can say “…but this month’s gonna rock!” We need a way to acknowledge life’s ends, the rock bottoms. Only then can we start our ascension towards the surface. Without hitting rock bottom, we are still falling. Think of how stressful it is when you’re in debt. That feeling of “will I get out from under this?” That hopelessness influences your decision making. “I have to keep this terrible job, even if all roads lead to a dead end.” That’s why there’s bankruptcy. Or, if not a job, perhaps a marriage.

Divorce is an acknowledgment of marital rock bottom. A matrimonial bankruptcy. There’s no ceremony for divorce, although I imagine the two parties have their own ceremonies, involving heavy drinking, casual sex, or both. Something to wipe the slate clean so we can begin anew.

In divorce and bankruptcy, both parties admit it’s over, and in doing so are able to carve a path back to rightness. Bankruptcy allows the debtor a chance to wipe their hands of their failed business and create a new one. Same with divorce and its religious extension, the annulment. “This didn’t work. But better luck next time!” 

Although both the divorcee and the bankrupt face additional challenges in forging a road back. We shouldn’t stigmatize either event, though it would also be unwise to glorify it. Both the divorcee and the bankrupt suffer a decrease in their worthiness; the divorcee may find it more difficult to secure a mate and the bankrupt may find it harder to secure a loan. This ensures that people don’t jump to that last resort without some sort of thinking or work to prevent it. 

But we shouldn’t demonize the divorce or the bankruptcy. They are good. They are cathartic. We must acknowledge the end in order to begin again. Chris Rock said that Lorne Michaels told him, “You can’t make an entrance if you never leave.” Shutting that door means you can open another. That is hope. And that’s the feeling I have at the beginning of every month. I hope you do too.

It’s Okay to be Stupid

I really don’t want to be one of those people who says, “How is it July already?!” Whenever I hear that I want to scream “that’s how time works!”

But everyone knows that. We all understand how time works. I think we say “How is it July already?!” because we’re giving ourselves a free pass to be stupid. Just for a moment. And just to make a connection with people.

As always, for the sake of argument, let’s assume I’m right [I am], and that exposing one’s stupidity can make a connection, and let’s also assume that you want to make a connection with another human, and let’s even assume that another person wants to connect with you (this is a stretch for some of you).

Given all that, why does it work? How does it work? Why does telling an embarrassing story, or sharing a secret, or revealing your feelings endear yourself to another person? Because it’s real. And it takes courage. And both of those things are rare.

Whenever a character does something brave in a movie, especially in the name of love, I get a little choked up. When Tony Stark gives his life to save the universe in End Game, or when Hugh Grant drives to his aide’s family’s house and reveals his feelings, or when the little boy in the same movie does the same thing—I only watch Love Actually and Marvel movies—each time I see those moments, I tear up. Because they show us what it’s like to be a good human. These characters risk everything and grow as humans.

Which is so rare! When’s the last time you did something like that? Granted, if you pulled a Tony Stark, you’re probably reading this in the afterlife. But even then, when was the last time you spoke from your heart, were vulnerable, were brave?

For artists—and I would argue for regular humans, too—this should be a daily occurrence. We must put ourselves out there. We must be vulnerable. Because creating something from nothing takes courage. That little part of you, the little voice that whispers, “wouldn’t it be funny if...” or “let’s tell a story about...” is where the magic comes from. So you have to show it to the world.

And then of course be ready for people to tear it to shreds in the comment section.

But commenters aren’t brave. Ridiculing, critiquing, reviewing, that’s the easy part. It’s not courageous to tell someone their performance sucked. It’s not brave to write a yelp review.

Which is why art is hard. Writing is hard. Comedy is hard(est).

The reason art exists, the reason we love movies and TV shows—and especially comedy since it’s the hardest of all the arts (I might be biased)—the reason all these things exist, is to remind people what brave is. To show them they can be courageous. To paint a path that says, “you, too, can be do this. You, too, can make sacrifices. You, too, can be Iron Man.”

Without those reminders, we’re just regular people. And regular people just watch movies and roll their eyes at people who say “How is it July already?”

Last-Minute Valentine’s Day Gifts for Chefs

Looking for a last-minute gift for that special someone [yourself] in your life? Here are a few suggestions:

SHEET PANS

I use these half sheet pans for everything: food prep, toasting our bagels [not a euphemism], and broiling veggies [a euphemism].

I’m like a bad boyfriend. I love them to pieces, but I treat them like crap. I don’t wash them often enough, and when I do it’s usually in the dishwasher, which hasn’t been kind to them. I don’t know why, but for some reason after I put mine in the dishwasher once, they developed tiger stripes and a weird texture [furry].

Good thing they’re cheap!

Non-affiliate link 👉🏾 click here.

KITCHEN RAGS

Nothing says “I love you, now get cleaning!” like these rags.

Like sheet pans, I use them for everything. I clean the counters, hold meats in place while carving or butchering. I’ve even used them as a rustic cheesecloth to make ricotta cheese.

Non-affiliate link 👉🏾 click here.

CHEF COAT

Wiff got me this for Christmas and I absolutely love it. I was sick and tired of wearing nice shirts while cooking, only to have a tiny spot of oil splatter up and ruin the whole thing EVEN THOUGH I WAS WEARING AN APRON. I thought you were supposed to protect me, Apron! … I don’t know why I believed it; aprons only cover your middle, which is great if you take a shot center-of-mass, but what if the oil grazes an extremity?

Enter the Chef Coat. This thing protects my entire upper body and I get to look like a kitchen badass. dYes, I realize it’s short-sleeved, but I just roll up my shirtsleeves and I’m protected. And yes, I still occasionally get oil burns on my forearms but that’s what my [manly] arm fur is there for.

Non-affiliate link 👉🏾 click here.

KITCHEN SCALE

Small, cheap, endlessly useful. The one linked below is the same one I use.

Affiliate link 👉🏾 click here.

A PASTA PILLOW

Get the pillow 👉🏾 here.

Get the recipe 👉🏾 here.

5 Tips to Deal With Stage Fright

During the Q&A portion of a recent Zoom comedy show, one of the audience members asked how comedians deal with stage fright. I can’t answer for all of them, but I can offer a few [five] suggestions that have helped me.

1. Be your own therapist.

It’s so much cheaper than the real thing and, I'd argue, just as effective. When you analyze your own phobias and other undesirable behaviors, you’ll find it hard to keep repeating the behavior.

What specifically scares you about performing on stage? People won’t laugh.
What does the people not laughing mean to you? It means I’m not funny.
What are the costs and benefits of the assumption: if people don’t laugh then I'm not funny? Pro: Uhhh... Con: Not feeling funny may affect my performance; I might not write as well.
How would it change you or your act if you cared less about whether people laugh? I might not feel less funny, I could feel freer when I write, which would mean funnier and more original material, which would give me confidence on stage, which would obviously mean I’d sell out the Beacon Theater.
What is some evidence for and against the assumption that you’re not funny? Every day, my dog tells me I’m not funny.
Maybe we should stop talking to ourselves and seek real help? That’s a great idea.

Other questions to ask yourself:

• Is it possible that maybe you can’t read people’s minds and maybe they’re not judging you as harshly as you think?

• Could it be possible that they’ll forget your name the second you get off stage?

• Have you ever been in the audience when a comedian didn’t do well? How did you feel?

• Do you remember every comedian you’ve seen who didn’t do well? Is it possible that maybe they won’t either?
  

2. The Nike Method.

Also, Exposure Therapy. Just do it. Start by imagining the scenario. Include as much detail as possible. What the stage looks like. How many people are in the audience. What they look like. What the mic smells like. Imaging telling a joke. It doesn’t kill. Now imagine what comes next. You’re still standing there. The audience is still sitting there. You tell your next joke. A few people laugh. You end your set. You’re still alive. The audience has already forgotten your name. Were you physically harmed in any way? Is it possible that you can take what you learned from that experience and do better next time?

Then, actually perform. Get up on stage in real life. Get through it, and feel what it feels like to be alive after a so-so performance. (Or a killer performance, depending on how well you did.)

3. Use the feeling to fuel your rehearsal.

Whenever I think about stage fright, I think about forgetting lines or material. I harness that anxiety to fuel my preparation. I’ll practice jokes until I hate them.

4. Tell yourself it’s excitement.

You’d be surprised how well you can lie to yourself. When my pits drip, I tell myself those jitters are my body’s way of telling me it’s excited. I usually believe it.

5. Ask What’s the worst that can happen?

There’s no such thing as a comedy emergency. You’re not going to literally die. Unless you’re an audience member at a Dane Cook concert.

Try Softer.

I didn’t sleep well last night.

I woke up around 1am and was wide awake. Worse than narrow awake. Better than being at a wake. Awake, with any modifier, is not the state one wants to be in when they’re trying to be asleep. [Or even…wide asleep.]

It could have been the extra Manhattan I had with Wiff to close out the night. Or the Pomeranian snoring in my ear. Or maybe it was the Mexican food. [I’ll know in an hour…] But whatever the reason, I was not asleep.

I tried to get back to sleep. Really hard. I tried meditating. I tried counting sheep. I tried hunting sheep. I tried apologizing to the sheep for counting and then hunting them. I tried holding my breath until I fainted. I thought about putting a pillow over my face and setting the snoring Pomeranian on top, but I’ve seen too many police procedurals to know how that ends. And I don’t want to die in a way the coroner chuckles about when he tells the investigating detective how I died.

Detective: “How’d this stiff expire?”
Coroner: “You’ll never guess.”
Detective: “Smothered by an overweight Pom?”
Coroner: “Uncanny! That’s why they pay you the big bucks!”
Detective: “Thanks to the $15 minimum wage my fry-flipping son makes more than me.”

That’s how those go, right?

Anyway, I tried really hard to get to sleep. And it’s the trying that was the problem. The harder I tried, the further I was from my goal. Because trying takes active thought. Trying takes action. Yes, even meditation, although relaxing, requires focus. And I’m pretty sure the last thing sleep wants is me chasing after it.

What if instead of trying, I let sleep come to me?

Or, better yet, what if I let go of the ideal of having a “perfect sleep” altogether and embraced my being awake?

So I opened up Notes on my iPhone and started writing jokes, some of which I plan to break out on the stand-up comedy show I’m hosting tonight. And, after I let the Muse say her piece, she retreated back to her weird little cave that all muses inhabit, and left me alone.

And just like that, sleep came.

If there’s a lesson for me here, it’s this: for most things in life, don’t try. And lay off the Mexican food before bed.

Who Grated My Cheese?

Wiff and I just got back a week upstate [New York]. We rented a cabin and got snowed in and loved every minute of it.

We called it Think Week, named after the week Bill Gates takes to read and, get this, think. As the name would suggest, we read and thought…for a few hours, and then Wine happened, and then we gorged on carbs and watched Psych reruns. It wasn’t exactly what we’d envisioned, but you sometimes you just have to go with the flow. Because the flow tasted amazing.

We always pack our own food when we head out on trips like this. Partially because, as much as I love visiting little hole-in-the-wall restaurants, I prefer my cooking to theirs. But also because I like not having to leave the cabin once we arrive.

But when Wiff told me she brought grated Parmigiano-Reggiano instead of a wedge of Parm-Reg, I almost lost it. I’m a wedge-of-Parm guy all the way. How dare she ruin our entire week by buying pre-grated Parm, even if it was the only Parm the store had? Pre-grated stuff is dry! It crumbles instead of flakes! AND I NEED FLAKES.

But, just as I was about to end the Fun Train and turn into Sulkmaster Supreme, I decided to tough it out.

And you know what?

Our pasta alfredo came out fine. Better than fine.

And certainly better than most restaurant food.

Gun to my head, I don’t think I would have noticed a difference had I not audibly fussed about it before.

So the next time someone does something slightly different than the way I’d do it, I hope I can remember to shut up, relax, and keep having a good time.

Where Are All The Ghosts?!

Ghosts are weird.

There, I said it. 

I’m not afraid of expressing my opinions anymore. I’m not going to let others dictate what I can and can’t say. What opinions I should and should not have. 

I. Am. Brave.

I find the whole ghost thing odd. Don’t you?

First of all, we’re fascinated with the afterlife because we don’t understand it. We don’t even know if there’s an it to understand. My money’s on no. Unless it is real, in which case I’ll switch my bet right at the end.

I find the rules around ghosts oddly specific. 

A lot of buildings are said to be haunted. Hotel rooms. Restaurants. Basements. 

Why do ghosts just haunt one place? They’re free to move around. They’re not limited to locked doors, or stairs, or elevators. They’re ghosts! They can fly or scoot. Whatever ghosts move. If I were a ghost, I’d float all over the place. My first thought would be, “I CAN FLY?!?” 

Wouldn’t that be cool? I mean, there’s the whole downside about being dead. But if I have to die, flying around isn’t a bad trade off. 

It’s crazy to think ghosts only hang out in one room, or house. They can fly wherever they want. They aren’t even limited to this earth. They can literally be out of this world. And since time isn’t really a concern, you could float to Jupiter whenever you want. 

Oh… if there’s life out there, are there also ghosts out there? Wouldn’t that be cool? Some crazy alien race is chock full of ghost aliens. Why aren’t we overrun with ghost aliens now? 

And doesn’t it seem weird that there are so few ghosts? Even the TV shows that hunt ghosts only come up with a ghost once or twice a season. They’re trained to find them and they can only find one or two in 22 episodes? Imagine a fishing show where the fisherman only catches a fish once a season. 21 episodes of Jed sitting in a boat, driving the boat. Using his gear to find fish “hot spots.” 

Then Jed gets a twinkle in his eye. “They’re here.” Okay, Jed. Let’s see you do your thing. 

And then…

Nothing.

For 21 episodes.

Who’s watching that?!

Anyway, with as long as humans have been around, don’t you think we would have more ghosts? Why aren’t there any neanderthal ghosts? You can’t tell me they all kicked the bucket in a way that would prevent them from turning into ghosts. 

Native American burial grounds are good for ghosts. You always hear about the angry spirits coming back to haunt the burial grounds and the people who desecrate the grounds. 

First of all, why do they care? I mean, I don’t want to insult any Native American ghosts reading this—they’re a growing demographic—but you could go anywhere and do anything. You’re a ghost! Can’t you float to some other place?

Second, instead of exacting revenge on whoever trespasses on your burial grounds, what if you just put up a sign? You know? Use your words, ghosts! Chances are the people who are desecrating your burial grounds don’t know what they’re doing. Not to give them an excuse, but I don’t think they know you’re there. So, instead of toppling a building or saying, “BOO!” Just draw a big, “GO AWAY” sign in the dirt. 

And then you hear about ghosts inhabiting a hotel or a restaurant or someplace because they have unfinished business. I’ve never cared about any unfinished business long enough to hang around an extra hour. But you’re telling me that you’re waiting around an additional lifetime? Dude. Relax.

Maybe that’s what you need!

Maybe instead of ghost hunters, we need ghost counselors. People who can help you get over something and then crossover.

You’ve got grief counselors. Maybe we need Ghost Grief Counselors. 

I wonder what a ghost’s Maslow Hierarchy looks like? The Maslow Hierarchy is a theory that Abraham Maslow developed—which is convenient seeing as the hierarchy and he share the same name—to explain that humans need certain things before they can achieve other things. 

Humans need physiological needs met first, like food, water, sleep, shelter, sex. Then they can focus on safety, then making friends, then they can feel good about themselves, and then, only after every other need is met, can they reach self-actualization. And I presume there’s a prize at that point.

Is it different for ghosts? Let’s take a deeper look… 

Physiological? They have no corporeal body with needs. They don’t need food or water. I’m pretty sure they don’t need shelter, but maybe that’s what was pissing off the Native American ghosts and their burial ground. Sex? Are ghosts boning? Do they only bone with other ghosts? Or could you have a ghost-human relationship? Is that legal?

Do ghosts sleep? I’ve never seen a ghost, let alone a sleeping ghost, but I’d have to imagine that seeing a sleepwalking ghost would be one of the most terrifying things ever. A ghost is bad enough. But you could at least chat with it. Ask it what’s the matter. A sleeping could would be freaky, but then you’d probably wake it up anyway with your scream. They’re light sleepers, I’m sure. 

But a sleepwalking ghost. Holy. Smokes. 

That right there could be the issue. They can’t even get past the first tier of the Maslow Ghost Hierarchy™, let alone reach ghost-actualization. 

There we have it. We need ghost counselors to help ghosts reach ghost-actualization. I’ve solved ghosts! 

But then where would they go? And what would they do? 

Would ghost counselors work themselves out of a job? Like they finally help all the ghosts get through their issues, and then all of a sudden there’s no more ghosts?

Maybe we should also be focused on ghost prevention, you know? How does one become a ghost? Where’s their movement? Where’s their march!?

But for reals, are we creating new ghosts every day and we just don’t realize it? I want to know how many ghosts there are, where they’re from, what’s their reason for ghosting, and why they need in order to not ghost any more. 

I’m calling for a ghost registry. And a ghost census. A GHOSTUS.

This all seems very reactionary. I suppose the problem isn’t as big as I’m making it out to be. Come to think of it. This all seems like one elaborate over explanation about the not being a ghost.

Which seems a bit like I’m doth protesting too much. So…lemme dial it back. 

Boo.

Capital Grille

"Next round's on us!" Chris says. "It's the least we can do for interrupting your date."

"How do you know it's a date?" Randy asks. Randy is Chris' friend, coworker, and former client. "It could just be a night out." They met 8 years ago when Randy was Chris's first client. Chris sells software that now supports all of the Army hospitals around the world.

Randy’s from the hills of West Virginia — a self-proclaimed hillbilly — but you wouldn't be able to tell by his manners or fondness for rural European villages. He enlisted right after high school and spent 20 years in the service. "The Air Force was my finishing school," he says.

"Do you have kids?" Chris asks us.

"No, no kids."

"Oh, we definitely interrupted a date," Randy says. "You should buy them a drink. Are you all from around here?" 20 years of Air Force service may take away his y’all, but it’ll never take away his accent.

"No. New York. Manhattan.”

“What part?” Chris asks.

Not many people are familiar with our neighborhood. “Hell's Kitchen?”

"I LOVE HELL'S KITCHEN! I WAS JUST THERE LAST WEEK! I’M JOHN!”

John's a newcomer to the conversation. He's an Indiana-based CPA. His daughter lives in New York, works for the Travel Channel and does improv comedy at Upright Citizens Brigade. She’s dating a guy who works in finance. John calls him "Wall Street." We learn all this within 2 minutes.

“They probably think we’re on a date,” Randy says with a chuckle.

“Why would they think that?" Chris says. "I’m not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m very supportive of the gay community. I have an aunt who’s…you know…fruity.”

I didn’t think you were gay…

“But," Chris continues, "just curious…between the two of us, who do you think would be the pitcher and who’d be the catcher?”

…until now.

Just to mess with Chris, "You catch…”

“What?!”

”…enthusiastically.”

“Mmmhmm.” Randy chews his steak and nods in agreement. "You do look purdy tonight.”

“MY DAUGHTER HAS A FEW FRIENDS WHO ARE GAY!” You gotta love John.

The bartender sets Chris and Randy’s food down, asks if they need anything else. Chris dishes up Randy some of his vegetables.

“We’d make a cute couple,” Randy says with a chuckle.

Chris shakes his head. “Not that I have a problem with…them..but I’m just not gay.”

Randy laughs harder.

Chris goes for a subject change, “So she’s an author; what do you do?” We’d covered Lauren’s craft earlier in the conversation. 

“I’m a comedian.”

“I have so many stories for your comedy.”

That’s not how it works.

“You’re probably getting a ton of material for your…skits…tonight. Right?”

“I’m just enjoying the conversation. You guys are great.”Yes.

“Do you have a camera?” Chris says.

“What?”What.

“You can use whatever we say, just don't put my face on the gay stuff.”

That’s really not how it works.

“And please don’t use our last names.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.” Tee hee.”Your secret…“ is there a secret, Chris? “…is safe with me.

Chris and Randy pay their bill and get up to leave. We share pleasantries and best of lucks. Chris walks over to John and bids him a good night. John says thanks for the drink. 

Randy takes down Lauren’s pen name so he can look up her books. I knew he had a soft side.

Everything’s quiet now that everyone has left. Lauren and I finish off the rest of our dessert and the bartender tops off our wine.

Pretty good impromptu post-Disneyworld cocktail.

Origin Story

For his first step in elective, unnecessary, self-directed therapy, a stand-up comic recalls his first two memories. What surfaces is largely inaccurate, grossly delusional, and therapeutically unsuccessful.

---

My very first memory is from when I was a baby. Or maybe a toddler. I don’t know. All I know is that, at the time, I was too young to know what they called small humans. I was also too young to know words or have thoughts. I was basically a blob with eyes. Cut me some slack.

I remember sitting in someone’s lap, surrounded by people, and there were yellow-ish curtains. At least I think it was yellow. I can’t be positive I was able to distinguish color. Maybe they were white. Or sheer. Is sheer a color? The point is they were laughing. Or yelling. Or maybe hungry? No, I’m sure they were laughing at something I’d said or done. Or maybe excreted. The point is, I was the center of attention and it felt right. It was my first audience, and I was killing.

My next memory is from preschool, and it was the first time I thought I might be funny. I would have thought I was funny as a baby/toddler/small human, but as I mentioned, I didn’t have thoughts yet. Preschool was different. I was a confident, five year old little boy. I was also precocious. I was at the top of my preschool class, dominating my fellow classmates in skills like freeze tag, nap time, and saying the magic word. And calling myself precocious.

This particular day at the Fircrest Presbyterian Church Preschool was Test Day. And the tasks were simple—for me at least. Have I mentioned I was precocious? I aced Zipping Up My Coat and Sitting in a Chair Without Falling Over. 

The Finger Test was a curve ball. They asked us to tap each finger to our thumb. I was like, “Yo, Teach, when I get to Lil’Pink, do I repeat and then go back? Or just tap the pinky once?” I was always a gangster. 

I’m not exactly sure what they were testing. This didn’t feel like some sort of state-required test. Was the teacher bored? Looking back, these seem like the kinds of tests Jane Goodall administered to her ape pals. I don’t know when the conversation was at the end of that day. “Mr. and Mrs. LeDonne, congratulations, you have a chimp.”

After crushing the Finger Test, only one task remained—the Stairs Test. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, was to walk up a flight of stairs, turn around, and walk down. Simple enough. The first two kids ascended easily but struggled on the turn. They might have been afraid to let go of the handrail. I don’t know. I wasn’t coaching them. I was getting in their head. They were my competition. I think. They eventually got back on track and finished strong. Then it was my turn. The teacher said, “Your turn, Playa.” Or something like that. I can’t remember every detail.

I got to the top of the stairs faster than everyone else. When it comes to tests, I always finish first. [Only in tests, ladies.] I went to turn around, but felt an urge to do something different, something unexpected. This little voice in the back of my mind said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if…” and instead of turning around and descending like a normal child, I walked down backwards, like an idiot child. You can imagine the hilarity that ensued. I laughed. The kids laughed. I had my second audience and I. Was. Killing. Again. Unfortunately, I was too young to take my act on the road so I signed autographs until snack time and wondered how I’d write about this memory thirty years later.

The rest of my childhood was spent impersonating characters I saw on In Living Color, a sketch comedy show featuring Jim Carrey, Jamie Foxx, David Alan Grier, Ali Wentworth, and three dozen Wayanses. I’d run around saying things like, “Homey don’t play dat,” “Pork and Beans!” and “do you have them big breastases?”

That is, until, Ace Ventura Pet Detective came out, and then I spent the better part of ages 11 to 13 impersonating him. Every time my parents asked me to do something it was "ALLLLL Righty then." I’m surprised they didn’t stop asking me to do things, given how annoying it must have been to have a little idiot running around over exaggerating every single affirmative.

And yes, I was still doing impressions from Carrey’s In Living Color days, which include Vera de Milo—a steroid-using female bodybuilder who had a deep breathy voice and a horse-whinny laugh—and Fire Marshall Bill—a fire marshal who continuously sets fires and electrocutes himself.

Surprisingly, the ladies were not throwing themselves at me in my pre-pubescent days. Crazy, I know. That wouldn’t come until…never.

You might be asking what someone could actually do with all these impersonations. The answer is, “Not much.” 

In grade school, my friends and I used to spend our lunch breaks getting each other to laugh so hard we’d blow milk out our nose. That was our view of fun, and boy, was it fun. And messy. My friends and I still try to do this. Not much has changed, other than some of us are now lactose intolerant.

But when you’ve discovered a good thing—and I would argue that making your friend laugh so hard he blows milk out his nose is a great thing—why would you change?

Father's Day

Note: this was supposed to come out on Father's Day. But then I spent days and days editing it and then ... forgot to post it. So, like many things I do, this one will be late.

---

Father’s Day is here. And with it, my annual confusion over where to put the apostrophe. Is it Father’s Day? Fathers’ss’s Day? How many fathers possess this day? And why do they all want to make it so hard on me?

To tell you the truth, I don’t understand why we have Father’s Day. Mother’s Day I get. Mothers deserve a day just for going through childbirth. You know what? They deserve every day...

Father’s Day seems like an afterthought. Like we had our first Mother’s Day and dads everywhere were like, “Where’s our day? We did half the work, if you know what I mean. Hehehe.”

We know what you mean. You can have a day. But don’t go asking for a month. We save those for groups who deserve it.

We don’t expect much from dads. The bar is so low that every month or so a video goes viral of a dad talking to his baby, or dancing with his daughter, or shoving his toddler in front of the soccer goal to prevent the other team from scoring—all real videos and all things dads should be doing all the time.

Unfortunately, there are a lot of bad dads out there. Absent dads. Distant dads. Deadbeat dads—a term I think a tired dad made up after chasing his kid around. “You run along, Junior, I am deadbeat.” Even God was kind of a weird dad. “Hey, Jesus? Remember when I said you were gonna change the world? There’s more to the story…” A lot of dads are like bad substitute teachers, they’re really only qualified to take roll call and put on a movie. “Okay kids. Who wants to watch Frozen? Which one are you?”

But there are also tons of great dads out there. They show up every day. They try. The care. Sure, they take roll call and put on Toy Story 12 when mom needs a night off, but they also explain how to throw a curveball, how to negotiate a job offer, how to program a computer, and how to appreciate shows like Taxi and Cheers—all things my dad taught me.

My dad wasn’t bad. He was fantastic. Still is!

My parents divorced when I was young. My mom worked nights, and after my dad got off work, he'd drive an hour to my mom’s house to make sure my brother and I didn’t burn it down. And then he’d drive an hour back to his house.

He came to our baseball and soccer games. He even coached for a few seasons. He was present in our lives despite the distance. And once when he had to travel internationally for several months, he wrote us a letter—to the millennials out there, letters are old timey emails—telling us he missed us and loved us and... I assume he wrote more, but we forgot all about it when he returned with soccer jerseys from all the countries he visited.

I guess where I’m going with this is that material gifts are better than love.

So. Now. The question is: What sort of last-minute gift should I get my dad this year? Have you ever asked your dad what he wants for Father’s Day? "I don’t want anything.” Which means, “I don’t want anything…that you can afford.”

Nothing says thank you like buying your dad something he probably doesn't want or need, but this isn’t about him. It’s about me. And this year I thought I’d get my dad something personal. Something that says, “I made you something because I had no idea what to get you.” It’s a time honored way of ensuring he’ll love it. Because...guilt. [Which I learned from my mother.]

I have a history of making personal gifts for my dad. In third grade I made an exceptionally terrible clay bowl that looked more like an exceptionally terrible ashtray…something every nonsmoker puts at the top of his wish list. The year before that I made a clay imprint of my hand. And the year before that I drew a hand turkey that said Happy Father’s Day. At least that’s what I thought. I couldn’t spell.

But now I can. So maybe this year I’ll write him a letter to say thanks for being a great dad. Or a very personal but short essay that I post on the Internet. Or maybe just a gift card to Under Armour.

To all the Fathers out there. Happy Father’s Day. Thanks for being great dads. Thanks for showing up. Thanks for being great role models. Thanks for helping us with our homework. And for trying to teach us where to put apostrophes.

Happy Father’s Day, Pops. Hopefully we can celebrate the next one in person.

Love,

Anthony (Your Oldest Son)

Free Zoom Comedy Show

Need a laugh during quarantine? A friend of mine is hosting a free Zoom comedy show. The lineup includes several headliners. And sorry, I won't be on the lineup. It's Saturday April 25th at 8:30pm ET. It's gonna be great.

Click here for the meeting link. The password is 622564.