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.

How 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 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 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 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 Grilling

"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 can’t 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.

"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 in under 60 seconds.

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

I point at Chris. "You catch…”

“What?!”

And then, just to mess with him, I add, ”…enthusiastically.”

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

“MY DAUGHTER HAS A FEW FRIENDS WHO ARE GAY!” I 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. You’re probably getting a ton of material for your…skits…tonight. Right?”

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

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

How To Memorize Your Stand-up Material [or anything]

Last night I did stand-up at Gotham Comedy Club. Before the show, a few comics were hanging around chatting. At one point, one of the comics mentioned she was working on her next hour.

“How do you memorize a full hour of material?” another comic asked.

I stopped listening because I was too busy mentally writing this article. Now that I think about it, it was a mistake to ignore her. She may have had a life-changing answer that I completely missed.

But since I spent the time thinking about it while they were all talking, I’ll give you my thoughts.

Some people say that memorization comes down to repetition, but I think that’s short sighted. While repetition helps, it doesn’t ensure you remember every word of every joke come performance time. Especially if you get nervous. Even if you don’t get nervous, maybe you’ll be thrown off by the guy sitting in the front row and oh my god why is his beard so big? Does he have to take it for a walk? Oh crap, I stopped mid joke to ponder these questions and now I can’t remember where I am.

We’ve all been there. 😐

First, you’ve already got a leg up memorizing your material because you wrote it. So it’s already in your head somewhere. I’m not going to say it’s easy to retrieve, but memorizing something you wrote is easier than memorizing something you didn’t.

Second, use images. I wrote two new minutes of material yesterday and wanted to perform it last night. To get me from joke to joke, I created mental images, which are easier to remember and recall than each individual word of every joke.

Here’s how it worked for me:

The bit is about my wife’s career. The first joke is “My wife writes romance novels, or as I like to call them, wish lists.” So I imagined a shopping list on fancy parchment.

My next setup is “It’s hard for me to read her books.” So I imagine the shopping list as a book. I already know why it’s hard for me to read her books because I wrote it [and it’s true]:

“It’s hard for me to read her books. Number one, because I can’t read.
But also because it feels like she’s writing about the life I haven’t given her.
Her last few books were Marriage on Madison Avenue and Passion on Park Avenue.
I’m like, “What about my suggestions: Horny in Hell’s Kitchen, and Desperate in DUMBO?”

[I didn’t say these were GOOD jokes…]

Next I imagined a glass of white wine on one of the book pages, which gets me to the next joke:

Whenever I tell someone she writes romance, they always say the same thing. “Oh you mean smut? Hahahaha.” [I perform this act out as a WASPy middle-aged white woman sipping wine.]
Calling romance novels smut is like calling When Harry Met Sally porn:
It’s not true, no matter how much you want it to be.

With the wine in my hand, I imagine my wife hollering from another room. Which gets me to:

Sometimes she’ll ask for help, but it feels like she has an ulterior motive…
"What’s the fanciest restaurant in NYC?"
Le Bernadin.
"Most romantic vacation spot?”
Paris. Are these for your next book?
"No…places I wish you’d take me."

Finally, I imagine her pointing at my [nonexistent] six-pack abs.

People ask if I’m the inspiration for all her books.
Her characters are 6’4’’ and have 6 pack abs. I’m [air quotes] six foot and slammed a Philly cheesesteak for lunch. You do the math.

A friend asked me “are you ever having sex and she gets up to write it down?”
No.

If anything it’s the opposite.
I'll read her books and pick up a new move.
She’s like “where’d you learn that?”
“Page 46.”

The most important part is to use the images while you memorize the material. After I wrote this stuff, I read through it slowly and created images for each setup. The more detailed the images, the better. The idea—which I’m paraphrasing from the books below—is that your brain remembers unique things. When it sees something new, weird, dangerous, or sexy, it creates a flashbulb memory of that thing. And the interesting, detailed, unique, scary, or sexy the image, the better it’ll stick in your mind. You can make the images as scary or as depraved as you want—no one else has to know unless you write a blog post about it.

The last step is to connect the images to one another in order. That’s why I start reading the wish list like a book. And that book has a picture of a glass of white wine scribbled inside. And if I’m having wine, I’ll always pour one for my wife, who I notice is pointing at my [nonexistent] six-pack… You get the picture.

When it comes time for performance, all I have to remember is the first image. The wish list sets me off on a path of connected images. And before I know it, my set is over and the crowd is giving me a standing ovation.

Once you memorize the material, it’s important to trust that it’s “in there” somewhere. I fret all the time that I’ll forget something, but it’s the fretting that makes me stiff on stage, and that’s when I forget stuff. When I relax and trust that the images are in there, things come easy. Check out The Inner Game of Tennis (listed below) for a great explanation of why this works.

Recommended Reading

• Moonwalking with Einstein

• The Memory Book

• The Inner Game of Tennis

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.

Voiceover Setup

I recorded my first live voice over session today. The clients didn’t say it, but I’m pretty sure I was the best voice over artist they’d ever heard. Anyway, this article isn’t about making sure everyone knows I’m amazing—though it will contain plenty of that—it’s a list of the tools I use to record my first voice over job.

So.

Here we go!

Note that this is not a comprehensive list. It won’t contain pros and cons. It’s just my setup and I’m telling you about it because I use it to make money as a voice over artist and … it works.

Computer

Apple 16” MacBook Pro. I absolutely LOVE this thing. I had a 15” MacBook Pro but then on a whim I got the 16”. The keyboard is so much better. You don’t need anything fancy to do voice overs, but it helps.

Software

Adobe Audition. There are a couple of professional options when it comes to software. Audition is my preferred method since I already have an Adobe Cloud subscription. Audacity is another. Pro Tools is another. I don’t use many of the bells and whistles in Audition—most of the time I just record a clean file and let the agency do whatever adjustments they want—but they’re there in case I have to do them myself.

Microphone

Shure SM7B. I didn’t think a nicer microphone was going to make a difference. I couldn’t have been more wrong. It’s expensive, but I absolutely love the sound quality it produces. Well, that I produce, but you get the picture. This microphone makes my voice sound so rich and clean. I use to use a Blue Yeti podcaster mic, which was okay to start with, but the Shure SM7B blew it out of the water.

Recorder / Audio Interface

Zoom H4N Pro. You can’t just plug a microphone into your computer. The Zoom H4N Pro is a fantastic little device. There are other alternatives with better bells/whistles/knobs, but living in a tiny Manhattan apartment, I prioritize size over almost everything else. It’s the size of an old school cell phone. You can record onto the Zoom H4N if you don’t have a computer handy and/or just as a backup.

Travel Guide: Lake Placid

Mirror Lake in Lake Placid, NY. [Get the print.]

Lake Placid is beautiful year round. I’ve been during the summer and fall and loved both. If you’re into outdoorsy activities, like hiking, paddle boarding, mountain biking, summer is the time to go. But if you prefer a chillier hike (30˚F-50˚F), or just chillier weather while you sip Manhattans from a heated outdoor bar patio [see below], then fall is your time to shine.

Another reason I’m pushing you to visit in the fall… The crowds are much lighter. Lake Placid gets busy on the weekends no matter the season, but there are far fewer folks there during the fall. And on fall weekdays, it almost feels like a ghost town [my favorite kind of town].

WHERE TO STAY

High Peaks Resort. Wiff and I have stayed here twice, once in summer and once in fall. Both times were great. It’s not the fanciest resort in all the land, but the price point is perfect ($200-$300/night). We stayed in the Lake House, which offers very nice views of the lake—go figure.

WHERE TO STAY

Top Of The Park. Wiff and I tend to be creatures of habit. Once we find a restaurant we like, we’ll go back over and over. And most of the time we’ll order the same things.

Which is why I can really only recommend one place: Top of the Park. The food is on par with what you’d find in NYC. The drinks were outstanding. They didn’t bat an eye when we went off their menu and ordered Negronis and Vespers. They know their drinks.

Sit on the deck if you can. because they have FIREPLACES INSIDE EACH TABLE. Go early, even during the week the deck starts filling up around 4pm.

HIKES

Giant’s Nubble. This hike was short but steep. I started the hike before dawn when it was 30˚F out, but ten minutes in I was drenched with sweat. The view is SUPER rewarding.

About a third of the way up, I stopped to catch my breath at the Giant Washbowl. [I also happened to be lost, since my GPS on my phone was taking its sweet time to update.] I didn’t know it until after I’d taken the picture that this was Giant Washbowl, the little pond that would become the focal point of the view from the top.

Giant Washbowl (Click to enlarge)

I have an acrylic print of Giant’s Washbowl hanging on my wall.

If you continue onward, and if you’re hiking early enough to catch the good light—LIKE I KNOW YOU ARE—you might be treated to a sweet sweet view like this:

View from the Top (Click to enlarge)

That is, until the fog clears. At which point you’ll be treated to a view like THIS:

Not bad, but not great.

And then you’ll have realized that you overshot the best view! So, if you’re seeing this, head back a hundred yards or so to a little outcropping, and catch THIS view:

Not bad, right? (Click to enlarge)

Mount Jo Loop Trail. Another short and steep hike. There are two routes, the Short Trail and the Long Trail. They’re almost equidistant so it won’t matter too much which route you pick. I went up the Short Trail and down the Long Trail. The Short Trail felt steeper—it was straight uphill the entire way—but that could have been only because it was on the way up.

The Mount Jo Loop Trail hike provides views of Heart Lake.

Heart Lake from the top (Click to enlarge)

Heart Lake (Click to enlarge)

Travel Guide: Manchester, VT

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Downtown Manchester

I love Manchester.

Outlets, great food and drinks, a beautiful golf course, AND beautiful fall foliage—all less than a 4 hour drive from Manhattan? Sign me up.

Wiff and I usually make one trip a year to Manchester. And this year is no exception, even if it was a bit by accident.

We spent a few nights in Stowe to catch the last of Vermont’s fall foliage. We got there in the middle of a storm, which served to wipe out pretty much all the foliage they had left. Lack of leaves aside, we loved Stowe [Travel Guide pending]. We wanted to stay longer but they had no rooms available.

So we went crawling back to the ex we shared some wonderful times with, and headed south to Manchester.

WHERE TO STAY

The Kimpton Taconic. I love Kimpton hotels. They’re all pet friendly. They have great bars and restaurants. I asked my wife to marry me at a Kimpton—me and Kimpton go way back.

They have a social hour every day from 5-6pm where they give out free beer and wine. If you hypothetically spent the morning hiking and the rest of the day working in your hotel room, the social hour is a good motivation to shower and get out of the room.

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The Equinox Resort. Our first two visits to Manchester had us staying at the Equinox. The place has history. Four U.S. Presidents stayed here: Taft, Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, and ol’ Bennie Harrison.

Lincoln was supposed to head here [poor choice of words] but couldn’t on account of his being assassinated. His son, Robert, built his family home in the neighborhood, and you can visit it today.

The building shows its history. The rooms are cozy and large [we have Taft to thank for that]. The structure feels old, the grounds are in need of a little sprucing up, and they need to do something about all the ghosts.

It is a Marriott [née Starwood] property, which is wonderful news to SPG loyalists like me trying to rack up their nights.

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WHERE TO EAT

The Copper Grouse at the Taconic. They have some of the more knowledgable bartenders in town. Wiff ordered a Vesper and was surprised when it came out perfectly.

“This Vesper is perfect!” she said. “Thanks!”

“That’s an O.G. cocktail right thar, Miss,” the bartender said. “We don’t get many folk orderin’ that round these parts.” He paused to polish a pint glass with a dirty rag. “Mainly city folk like yourself. And mayhap a few country dudes spoilin’ to tie one on.”

“I don’t know what half of those words mean,” I said.

Wiff took a sip as the bartender continued. “Tain’t another barkeep in town who can conjure a cock-tail like that. Y’all come back know ya hear?”

THINGS TO DO

Outlets! Like Catholics genuflecting upon entering a pew, Wiff and I always take a minute to pay our respects to the Manchester outlets whenever we're in town. We always stop at Theory for dresses and Kate Spade for jewelry. Vineyard Vines also has an outlet here for you whale tail fans out there.

HIKES

Lye Brook Falls Trail. This one came highly recommended from the staff at the Taconic. It’s also rated the top hike in the Green Mountain National Forest area. We didn’t do this hike because we also heard it was crowded, but also because we’re not really falls people. Based on the pictures it looks pretty good. I just can’t comment on it since I didn’t do it.

Prospect Rock Trail. This hike is only 3.1 miles out-and-back. That’s less than walking a 5K. The only catch? It’s entirely uphill so it feels more like stair-mastering a 2.5K and on the way back, stumbling a 2.5K. Some people complain that the trail is boring, which I could see in summer when everything’s lush and green and—kinda boring. But take a look at autumn!

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dAd! WaiT uP! als0 whY ArE u LeaNInG WeiRDlY (Prospect Rock Trail)

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HeY, m0M. YoU’vE G0t BetTeR trEATz AnyWay. (Prospect Rock Trail)

Holy crap, it was like walking through an autumn wonderland. We were pretty late in the leaf peeping season but there were still tons of beautiful yellows, oranges, and reds.

And once you reach the top—completely winded and drenched in sweat—your reward is the view from Prospect Rock. Note: The actual viewpoint is hard to find if you’re terrible at reading signs. Near the top, you’ll see a sign that says “LOOK UP!”, which leads you to a smaller sign on the same tree that says, “Prospect Rock ➡️.” If you’re good at following directions, you’ll see a little path off to the right. The viewpoint is 20 yards down that path.

And this is what you’ll see.

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View from the top.

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Gratuitous foliage shot.

Not bad, right?!?

If you' brought a telephoto lens, you can sneak up on the local cows in town. Click the photo below to zoom in, you little bovine voyeur, you.

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Well hello there, Cow.

It gets chilly when you stop hiking so be sure to pack layers. If you look closely enough, you’ll see me, Wiff, and Pom, wrapped in Wiff’s vest and sitting on her lap.

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Can you see us??

Book Review: Can't Hurt Me

On the drive up, we listened to David Goggins' audiobook, which is fantastic if you're looking to reach your potential.

It's the story of how one man "transformed himself from a depressed, overweight young man with no future into a US Armed Forces icon and one of the world's top endurance athletes."

Between each chapter, the audiobook version includes a radio show style conversation between the author and his ghost writer, which breaks up some of the more graphic stories—his shitbag dad beat his entire family—with challenges for listeners to help them reach their potential.

Last night, Wiff and I partook in the first two challenges: take stock of all the crappy stuff holding you back and, 2) . I took stock of all the crappy stuff holding me back [lack of self-application] and then engaged in some real selftalk.

. I recommend this book if you want to kick the legs out of any excuses

I do not recommend this book to anyone looking to improve himself, herself, their self, ourself, Chief Sealth, or the 2005 movie Stealth starring Josh Lucas, Jamie Foxx, and Jessica Biel—which bombed at the box office and should indeed be looking to improve its self.

Personally, I have no use for the book. You see, some of us are at the top of our game. We can't go any higher. Not because of any physical, emotional, or even spiritual limitation. But because there's nowhere else to go. I don't know how else to describe the feeling of being at the top other than than lonely. Which is why I'm making myself appear more normal so that I may be more relatable. So. If you're looking to get better—like me [wink]—then I'd HIGHLY recommend this book.

Buy it here.

Book Review: Range

“Don’t feel behind.”

That’s my favorite line from this book. I realize it’s not so much a line as it is three words of advice, but for someone who often feels behind, it’s good advice.

The book opens with a story about two of the world’s best athletes. One has trained at his sport pretty much since birth. The other tried a bunch of other things and didn’t really get into his sport until later in life. But at one point or another, they were both at the top of their respective sports. The two athletes are Tiger Woods and Roger Federer.

The upshot is that we hear more about the Tigers of the world. We learn that specialization is the ONLY way to guarantee success. So parents enroll their kids in violin lessons at age 2.

But Range illuminates the lesser-told story, that for every Tiger there’s a Roger. Don’t feel bad if your kid isn’t playing Für Elise by age three, it’s okay. [But by god make sure they nail it by the time they’re 4.]

I enjoyed Range (👈🏾 affiliate link) because it made me feel better about being who I am, someone with multiple interests who hasn’t really broken through yet.

When I a kid, I wanted to be a doctor. And then a scientist. And then a computer game developer. And then, when I finally turned 11, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to be on stage. Doing what, I had no idea. I just liked stages. Mostly for the girls—my wife was stage manager for a lot of my high school shows—but also because making other people smile felt good. I can remember one moment during a production of Godspell where I was on the stairs leading down to the audience. I was singing so close to real people. I can still remember seeing them smile. At everyone else on stage.

I later got involved with our high school’s improv team. That was even more fun, because we would actually make people laugh. And that, my friends, is the real goal of this whole thing. It wasn’t enough to make people smile or, depending on the quality of the performance, occasionally cry. No, I wanted the laugh. I was hooked.

So I did what any normal kid did. I went to college, majored in political science—again for the girls [my wife was a poli sci major]—and economics (because I wanted a job). I got a regular job as a technology consultant. Then I became a recruiter. Then an independent headhunter [same thing]. And then a commercial actor, stand-up comic, and writer.

In short: a lot of different things.

The hardest thing about doing different things is that I don’t feel like I’m making progress in any one area. It’s easy to feel like a failure when none of your pursuits has panned out successfully.

Range (👈🏾 affiliate link) was the first thing that made me feel okay being who I am—someone who does a lot of things.

I just haven’t “broken” yet. [Note: I’m using broken in the sense of “breaking out,” not “broken down.” It’s an important distinction… I think a lot of people break down before they break out.]

This book reminded me that it’s okay to be me. Someone with varied interests. Someone who doesn’t have ONE THING that they make a ton of money doing. [At least not yet.]

It’s a good reminder that Rome wasn’t built in a day.

And yeah, I’m Rome in this example.

Here’s an affiliate link to the book on Amazon. If you click it, I’ll earn a commission, which will put a few cents in my pocket.

Buy the book (👈🏾 Non-affiliate link)

Always Do The Banana Joke First

There’s a moment in an episode of Comedian In Cars Getting Coffee where Steve Harvey talks about telling a young comic, who’s about to face a tired audience, to open with his closer. It’s a joke about bananas. The comic opens with his usual stuff and gets eaten alive.

Recently I’d wanted to change things up. I wanted to start stronger. In recent sets I started with B or C material and then, once everyone was keyed into my cadence, I went to A stuff. This was stupid. I wasn’t starting off strong and as a result the audience was barely with me by the time I got to my big closer material.

So I tried I tried Steve Harvey’s advice. I started with a joke I know always gets a laugh.

And it worked!

I started with “Dating is hard…especially when you’re married.” And I got a laugh. It put me at ease. Like, “alright, one down, let’s keep rolling.” It put the audience at ease too.

Until I open my mouth, every one of them is thinking, “I hope this guy’s funny.” And once that first joke’s out there, they relax. “Okay. He doesn’t suck.” They’re on board!

The funny thing is that all my other material got bigger laughs too. Once they were relaxed and listening, they had a stronger response. And that made me more confident in my delivery, which made the jokes better, which resulted in bigger laughs… etc. You get where this is going.

Anyway…

Next time you’re in a rut and wanting to punch your stuff up, try opening with your closer. Always tell the banana joke first.

Bad Representation [Not a Taylor Swift song]

I just passed on an offer for representation from an on-camera commercial agent. A lot of actors would call this ludicrous. But it was the right call for me for several reasons.

First and foremost, the contract was excessively limiting. They wanted to prohibit me from posting on any social media without their prior consent. The exact line: “refrain from posting to any social media platform without AGENCY’s prior consent.” I post on Instagram daily-ish, YouTube occasionally-ish, and Facebook never [because it's a trashfarm]. 

I wasn't really interested in running every post by them for approval. Besides the fact that that’s completely laughable, it raises an interesting question: what kind of clients do they deal with where they need to approve every social media post? If mom and dad have to approval every minute detail of their child’s life, maybe they got a bad child. [That's how kids work, right?]

Second, they wanted the right to use my likeness for all agency advertising IN PERPETUITY. That means that even after we part ways they wanted the right to use my image, voice, video, audio, for their agency advertising. I asked if we could remove “in perpetuity”—because those two words are an actor’s nightmare—and replace with “Subject to Talent approval; approval not to be unreasonably withheld.” 

I thought that was reasonable. To me it says, “you can use my beautiful face for your giant billboards, but you gotta ask me first and, btw, I won’t be a dick about it.” And, god forbid our relationship burns in a fiery blaze of glory, I have the right to say “no, dickheads, you can’t use my beautiful face.”

Three: The contract includes an exclusivity clause whereby they’d be my only representation. This alone isn’t a deal breaker because everyone asks for it and it’s not that unreasonable in my opinion. If they’re gonna bust their hump getting me in front of casting directors, the least I could do is say that I won’t canoodle with other agents behind their back.

What I didn’t like is that they’re based in another city— let’s call it Omaha—and they were primarily going to book me in that city, and they were unwilling to write in an exclusion to the exclusivity clause that would make it okay to work with my NYC representation (Abrams), whose contract, by the way, is nowhere near as long or as restricting. As it was written, I would have been in breach of contract the moment I signed.

Four: When I asked about these points, their response was that it was “non-negotiable.” Whenever I see that, I know it’s time to run for the hills. If you’re unwilling to have a conversation about our working arrangement, then I don’t want to work with you. Even if you’re unwilling to amend your contract, I want someone who’s willing to explain why. Even if they’d said, “Sorry, it’s not our practice to adjust the contract because we like to keep our legal stuff simple” I would have totally understood! I still would have passed, but at least it wouldn’t have left a sour taste.

So, to all the new actors out there clamoring to find an agent: Be okay saying no. Be okay passing. Because hitching yourself to an agent who’s not a good fit could be worse than not having an agent at all.

We moved. Again.

The NYC skyline is sooooo blah.

I forgot to tell you we moved. Well twice actually. 

About a month ago we moved from the UWS back to Hell’s Kitchen. Because we actually missed it here. Surprised, aren’t you? We were too.

There’s something about the dirty scrappiness of Hell’s that I love. Nothing’s perfect here. Some parts are new and wonderful. Others are old and wonderful. Most of it’s dirty and gross but alive. It’s a lot like life. Deep, eh?

That was a month ago. And then a week ago, we moved AGAIN. 

Crazy, right?

We just weren’t feeling the tiny studio vibe. Not because it was a tiny studio—that part was actually kinda nice. But more because of the light situation. Because of the structure of the unit, we didn’t have wall to wall windows. There were soffits or whatever they’re called on either side of the room, which blocked a lot of light. So our place was a little dark all the time. Not the end of the world, but we just weren’t feeling it. 

Our new place is palatial by comparison. It’s a 1.5 bed and 1.5 bath and is the biggest place we’ve ever lived in in Manhattan. There are four doors inside the unit. Which is insane! The way it’s structured makes it feel way larger than it really is, too. Which is nice. 

Oh! And the best part, it’s kind of a corner unit. There’s one room—what we refer to as The Parlor—the juts out a little bit from the north side of the building, and it creates an interior corner. So from The Parlor, we look north AND west. Pretty sweet, right?

I never thought the corner thing would appeal to meal. I never thought I’d enjoy it as much as I do. The north view is all buildings, but they’re in the distance, so it’s kinda like having mountains in the distance. And there are low buildings to keep things interesting in the middle ground. And then, because it’s a freaking corner unit, I can see all he way down 42nd St. to the Hudson. THAT’s pretty sweet.

The biggest challenge in a larger apartment is not filling it up with shit. That’s the problem we had in previous places. We’d downsize in a small place, then move to a bigger place, buy a whole bunch of shit, then downsize again when we moved to a smaller place.

If we can keep the same amount of crap we had in the smaller place in the bigger place, it means we’ll have more room for stuff to spread out. More open space. More empty space. Which is pretty sweet. 

Because in that empty space is where ideas can germinate. I think that’s important in a home. Leave enough empty space for ideas to form. If your home is filled with clutter, then there’s no room to find new ideas. When I was a kid my grandma used to say “a messy bed makes a messy mind.” Or something like that. My bed was always messy so I may have garbled the message.

But the point is that you can think more clearly when your bed is made. You’re not wasting mental energy thinking bout what needs to be done. You’re not wasting background mental power focused on a tangle of sheets and blankets. I’m not really sure why my bed was so messy that “a tangle of sheets and blankets” was an appropriate descriptor. 

I think that message extends to the rest of the home too. When your bed is a wreck, you can’t think straight. When your home is in shambles, you can’t live straight. 

So, I guess if we’re to take anything from this post about getting a larger place, it’s this:

clean your room.