Are You Woo Woo Too?

Originally published in The Comic’s Log.

I’m not a big woo woo guy. I’m not even a woo guy. I’m a science guy. A fact guy. I believe in math and black holes, and that boats float if they displace enough water, even though I can’t explain any of those words. I don’t believe in astrology or miracles or gluten allergies.

But every so often something happens that makes me want to rethink things.

Your new debark date to February 8th, 2023. Please confirm receipt of this email.

I was getting kicked off the boat.

I read the email on my morning lap from bow to stern and back again. The night before I performed my first two shows aboard the Norwegian Dawn and I was still riding the waves of laughter from a theater full of people.

Until I’d checked my inbox.

The email was unexpected. And with no further explanation, there was nothing I could do except wonder why. I climbed the stairs up two decks, to the Grand Atrium on deck 7, where I would find Florin, the ship’s Romanian barista, waiting with an espresso and a joke. 

He found out I was a comedian the morning after my first night onboard. 

“You are comedian?”

“Yes.” Don’t ask me to tell you a joke.

“Tell me a joke!”

I sigh, which is terrible way to start a joke. “I’m half Italian, so I only speak with one hand.” I hold up my left hand and make the Italian gesture. You know the one, pinched fingers, curled palm.

He chuckles.

I continue. “The other half’s German, so I hold that arm down.”

He pauses, perhaps to parse the joke or translate to Romanian and back. A moment passes, and his linguistic roundtrip returns without a laugh.

“Germans are also known for a gesture,” I explain.

“Okay.” He frowns.

“Popular around World War Two?”

“Okay.”

“You know, the Nazi salute?” I look around before demonstrating a little half salute, tucking my elbow close to my body so I don’t get thrown in the brig or worse, cancelled.

“Okay. I go make your espresso.”

Nothing saps a comedian’s confidence in a joke than having to explain it, but I save my ego by chalking it up to English being his fourth language. 

Each morning afterward, Florin had a new joke for me that was a particular blend of hack and racist—the kind that start with “what’s the difference between a black man and an extra large pizza?” and end with me courtesy laughing and calling security.

I was too polite to tell him the jokes weren’t funny. And I was too afraid of what he’d do to my coffee if I told him the they were only allowed in whites-only country clubs. But I needed my espresso, and on this boat, he was the only dealer.

Today’s joke: “What do you call a Mexican who lost his car? Carlos. Car-los. Get it?”

I got it. 

I asked if there were any jokes about Romanians.

“No. We steal everyone else’s. We are gypsies! Get it?”

“Good one.” It was not a good one.

I took my espresso and continued my walk around the boat, stopping at one of my favorite perches against a guardrail overlooking the ocean to respond to the email and, depending on how I felt afterward, hurl myself overboard. 

Received! Did they give a reason for the schedule change? 

What did I want to say?

What the hell happened?! Was it something I said? Or did? Did they not like my jokes? Or my suit? Or my face? I told one joke about fixing my school’s computers in fifth grade because I did the best Indian accent. And the emcee (and my boss onboard) was Indian and, I got the sense, didn’t have a sense of humor. Did she get me fired? 

There weren’t a lot of other things that could have gotten me kicked off the boat, and I didn’t remember doing any of them.

The welcome packets for Guest Entertainers—guest ents in cruise parlance—don’t list many rules. Drinking is okay, we just can’t get drunk in public. Drugs aren’t allowed and if we’re suspected of using them they can administer a test at random. But after learning from one of the comedy bookers that they’d only ever tested one comic for drugs, and it was very obvious he needed to be tested, I didn’t get the impression this was a huge issue.

The only thing they really frown on is not having sex with passengers. 

Like they really don’t want us doing that. So much so that it’s on every other page of the handbook. 

You can drink, but don’t be drunk. Because you might have sex with a passenger. Don’t get high. But if you do, don’t have sex with a passenger. You should never be in a passenger’s stateroom, but if you happen to get lost and find yourself in one with a passenger do not under any circumstances have sex with them.

I told one of the comics on an earlier cruise that I couldn’t imagine anyone ever breaking that rule.

“Oh they break that rule alright. Some of these women are On. The. Prowl.”

“Not for me. I talk about being married in my act.”

“Oh that don’t stop them.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You know what the worst part about a threesome is?”

This took a turn. “That it’s just a fantasy?”

“The hardest thing about a threesome is that you’ll always be with a 9 and a 6, and the six’ll wear you out.”

“We lead different lives.”

I don’t do drugs. So that wasn’t it. I wasn’t publicly drunk. I mean, I’d had a few drinks each night, but I always drank the second one in my cabin. And not with a 9 or a 6.

What the heck did I do wrong?

I was proud to work on a Norwegian boat. Compared to other cruise lines, the food was better, the cabins were nicer, and the pay was much better.

Before Norwegian I’d worked on Carnival cruises. They specialize in shorter party cruises. Lots of couples, lots of booze, and lots of scooters. This was Norwegian. Lots of gray hair, lots of sunburns, and lots of scooters. The average age on Carnival was between 45-65. The average age on this boat was somewhere between 65 and dead. But I was having a decent time, and as far as I could tell, the audience enjoyed my shows. 

After each show I parked myself by the theater exit to thank the audience for coming.

At least that’s what I tell people in my newsletter.

The real reason? To receive their praise.

Sure, they could come all the way back to the greenroom if they wanted to tell me I made them laugh so hard they decided to add their estranged daughter with all the piercings and who votes for Democrats back in their will, but being in the way and staring at them as they try to leave the theater is more convenient.

Last night, as the audience filed out of the theater—whose capacity was 1200, which is unrelated to the story but is just a flex on my part—I could tell they enjoyed themselves. Most of them even smiled at me when they asked “which way to the casino?”

So when I got the email from my agent, I felt a mix of emotions. On the one hand, I was relieved. I had been on the boat—or ship, as one disgruntled passenger would later inform me—for four days and had already finished my books and grown tired with the food [but definitely not the pay].

But on the other hand, it felt like a kick in the nuts from some unknown foot. In fact, that was the hardest part: not knowing where this was coming from. I was supposed to be on for another 19 days, performing 4 more shows. But now I had seven days and only one more show to perform, which left a lot of time to speculate, to fill in the blanks looking for a reason why my tour was cut short.

I kept trying to remember Seneca’s line about not suffering imagined troubles. “There are more things…likely to frighten us than there are to crush us; we suffer more often in imagination than in reality.”

It was tempting to try to understand something I didn’t have enough information to understand. Was I not funny? Was I too dirty for the clean show? Too clean for the dirty show? Was it the political joke? Or the one where I say the word anal? But going down any of those roads would have led to a dead end.

For all I knew, they didn’t need a comedian on the next cruise and wanted to give more stage time to the magician, Levitating Liev. Or maybe they wanted a specific comedian…or maybe based on the next cruise’s demographics they wanted a black comedian, or a woman, or a black woman, or…

All I could do was move laugh and move forward. 

First, the laugh: I told Wiff I was coming home early.

She asked why.

I’m not sure. But I doubt any of the reasons start with “Anthony was so funny that…”

Then I moved on. I got back to my cabin and sent an email to my other agent, the guy who books commercials. Hey, turns out I’m going to be available February 9-19 after all. 

Three days later, I got a request to tape an audition, which I did while docked in Grand Cayman.

Two days later, the Friday after I got home, I did a Zoom callback.

The following Tuesday I got another email. This time with much better news:

You booked it. Your shoot date is February 16th, 2023.
Please confirm receipt of this email.

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 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, It can wait. 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, "study something useful; 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?

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!

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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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! 🫠

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. 🖐️💩

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Ritz Ready

The last stop on our month-long road trip finds us in the Ritz-Carlton. Which means we had to get Ritz Ready.

We got haircuts. We did our nails. We gave Bailey a bath. We stopped on the drive over and changed into prettier, fancier clothes and moved our luggage into into prettier, fancier bags. We filled up our rental car with premium and got a car wash. We would have bought a new car but didn’t have the time.

When you stay at the Ritz, you rise to the Ritz. You wear new underwear. You do your hair. You don’t wear a hat, unless it’s a fancy hat. And even then, as soon as the valet takes your stagecoach and you step into The Ritz, you remove it and hand it to one of the bell boys who is hired for the sole purpose of holding top hats.

You speak with a vaguely British accent, the refined Oxford one, not the backwater Cockney one, nor one from any place that ends in -shire. If in doubt, do an impression of Tony Blair. If you don’t know Tony, try Hugh Grant. If that’s too hard, try Ben Franklin, George Washington, or any of the Founding Fathers.

You tip generously. Or not. I’m not sure if the rich at the Ritz tip more or less than us regular folks. Or at all. Maybe they don’t even look at The Help. The bellboy boy seemed to appreciate the $100 I slipped him, even going so far as to say, “thank you, m’lord.” I didn’t know bellboys were allowed to speak at the Ritz. Will he be caned?

The coffee machine is better. It’s Illy. Which is Italian for fancy. The pods are all plastic. There’s no foil. No paper. No filter. Because those. aren’t. fancy. For the Ritz Regulars, the machine pulls espresso. For everyone else, caffe. Which is Italian for pansy.

There are Ritz-branded bottled waters everywhere. On the desk. On each nightstand and next to the coffee maker, in case your pansy coffee is still too strong. There are bottles near each of the bathroom sinks. (There are three!) They’re hidden in each drawer with the bibles. Nestled between the cushions of the couch. I think I even slept on a giant bottle of water. One of The Help came by last night and gave us more water. What’s wrong with non-Ritz water? Is that why my hair’s falling out and my belly protrudes?

The bed is heavenly. Not capital H Heavenly from that dump of a hotel and my pre-Ritz favorite, The Westin. Yuck. There are more sheets than I know what to do with and each of them has a higher thread count than all the sheets I own, combined. Why do they fold the two dozen sheets into some sort of pretzel you have to unwrap in order to sleep? I don’t know. Why are there eight pillows? Are they different? I don’t know. During my first night’s sleep I changed my pillow every hour on the hour and threw the old one out, which is what I assume they meant for me to do. Is that right? I don’t know. Those are Ritz Secrets.

The no dogs allowed signs are tiny and shaped like a dog taking a poop. They’re black, and small, and when they’re placed low on the dirt, impossible to read. Impossibly chic. They don’t actually say “no dogs allowed.” They just say “No.” That’s not just cool. That’s Ritz. But what do I know? I’m not rich.

I’m a pretender. An imposter. I splurged for a few nights because it’s our anniversary (thank you!) and it’s the end of a month long road trip. We’re tired. We’re haggard — save for the new hair cuts. We need to do laundry. We’re furry. We need a brushing. Sorry, Bailey walked into view and I just realized she’s not fully Ritz Ready. How did they let us through the front door?

I don’t belong. I’m not sure I want to belong. There is nothing wrong with the Ritz, with the people at The Ritz, the bellboys who hold top hats at the Ritz, or the valets at the Ritz who valet automobiles — cars are so pedestrian. But I’m wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants as I write this from my Ritz desk. The shirt probably [definitely] has pits stains. I’m not even wearing socks! Gross! My hair’s a mess. My breath smells like coffee. I’m a dumpster fire behind a luxury building. I’m the one trash can in the lobby that didn’t get emptied, and maybe [definitely] stinks a little. I’m dehydrated. I’m nervous. I’m waiting for that knock on the door, and the manager to softly whisper, “We know you’re not Ritz; come with us.”

But yet I’m here. I’m sipping Ritz water. Trying to work the Ritz caffe machine. I just pulled an espresso. Or the machine cleaned itself. I don’t know. I need to brush up on my Italian. I still need to brush my teeth. But later today I’ll probably [definitely] have a Ritz cocktail in the Ritz lobby. And no one will know I don’t belong. They’ll take my order. They’ll bring me nuts. They’ll take my 8000% tip. The Ritz patrons will pet my dog. They’ll smile at me. And they’ll have no idea there’s an imposter in their midst.

And that’s the point. I don’t matter. Not as much as I think I do. No one really cares what I look like or how I dress. Or how many Negronis I’ve had [a lot]. Or that my dog is licking their children and shedding all over the lobby. Because they’re too nice and too busy with their own jobs and own lives to really care what’s going on with mine. I am nothing.

But in that nothingness, I am free. I’m free to wear a pink shirt. Or a red sweater. Or a watch with an orange wrist band. They don’t care because they don’t have time to care. They might be just as worried about being Ritz Ready as me.

So next time I don’t feel Ritz Ready, I’ll just remember that no one is.

A version of this article originally appeared in Anthony LeDonne’s newsletter. Not one of the hordes of subscribers who enjoy his writing on a weekly basis? Click here.