On The Road (briefly)

This past weekend, I had the distinct honor of performing stand-up comedy on the road.  So, yeah.  You should be impressed.

Three shows in three cities in three nights may seem like a lot of work for someone as committed to the sloth lifestyle as myself, but I was promised free food at each location so the weekend basically morphed into an episode of “Diners, Drive-In’s, and Dives” with slightly fewer jokes but more actual home-style waffle consumption.

Sunday afternoon arrived, and I geared up for what was clearly going to be the most exhilarating road trip of my entire life.  Thanks to some screw up with scheduling, and some half-way decent stalking, I managed to snag a ride down with The Man*, Jimmy Failla.

For those of you who are not best friends with Jimmy (like I am), I want to tell you something: he is literally the greatest.  In all categories.  Not only is he an unbelievably talented stand-up comic, but he also writes books, hosts pod casts, drives taxi cabs, AND he invented the fist bump.  It is worth noting that he is not accepting any applications for new best friends right now (or ever) because he already has one and it’s me.

On the ride down to the show, Jimmy and I mostly just talked shop.  And went shopping.  For shoes.  No joke. This is something real that happened.  Never in my life have I gone on a date – I mean, gotten a ride to a show – where the guy insisted that we pick up some new kicks, but you know, we were just making memories.  He also bought shoes for his wife which I also thought was a surprising move for a man on a date with me, but he reminded me that this was not a date at all, and I should, “Probably lay off the Pinot.”

I wish I could tell you that I crushed this Sunday night crowd like some sort of exceptionally beautiful comedic monster truck, but that probably wouldn’t be fair to monster trucks.  They’re all so beautiful.  It was a great show, and afterwards, I sang the “Living Single” theme song with some lovely ladies from the front row.  Because I am a giver, people.  I give, and I give, and then I take most of it back when you’re not looking.

The truth is that there were a couple speed bumps (in keeping with the road trip theme) that I had to get over during Sunday’s performance.  I know I may seem perfect, and yes, everything is as it seems.  But seriously, fist bumps of thanks go out to Jimmy Failla, my comedic hero, for having my back.  You’re literally The Man.

*The original phrase, “You’re the man!” was created after someone hung out with Jimmy Failla for five minutes.

**If you see Jimmy Failla, please do not bring up my current (and indelible) best friend status.  He’s very busy, and also, sometimes he plays this game where he pretends to not know who I am.  God, he is HILARIOUS.

Harvardly Even Knew Her

This may come as a surprise to many (read: all) of you, but I recently started a new job.  I’d tell you where I’m working, but I still don’t feel safe.  Even with the restraining order.

As part of the hiring process, I was informed that the company would have to run a background check to make sure I was telling the truth.  Naturally, I panicked.  I tend to lie – ahem, I mean, ENTERTAIN – fairly frequently, and given my penchant for extreme sloth, I rarely find time to proofread my own work for spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, hilarious gifs, grease stains, less-than-flattering self pics, and/or flat out lies.

Days went by, and I didn’t hear back from anyone about the background check.  I took this as a clear sign that I should probably quit this job, and begin a new life as a grifter so I could be sure my fraud and trickery talents were being put to good use.  Plus, I hear it’s pretty lucrative.*

I was plotting out my first fake identity (researching competitive wig prices and stealing social security numbers) when I received a phone call.  Apparently there had been an issue with my background check, and I was instructed to check my e-mail immediately to view the error.  I open up the lengthy document, and start to scroll through, looking for some typo or misspelling of my own name that could be the culprit.

And then I saw it.  Education:  Applicant entered “Harvard University” but Harvard has no record of Applicant.

Applicant. Not. Found.**

I offered to send my employer a photo of my diploma via Instagram, but they said I should stop being such a pretentious d-bag.  But seriously, to date, attending Harvard and more importantly, graduating from Harvard is probably my biggest achievement.  And by biggest achievement, I mean my only achievement.  And frankly, I think it should be enough.  WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

I graduated almost five years ago, and after rolling out of Cambridge, with a heavy heart, and an even heavier ass, Harvard starts calling all the time, being all like, “Yo gurl, gimme some money” and I’m just like, “Lo siento, no hablo ingles!” and then they’re just like, I FEEL LIKE I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU.

I didn’t know they meant that quite so literally.  I had to call the registrar’s office and convince them that just because I haven’t made any sort of contribution to society since graduating doesn’t mean they can take away the one thing that keeps my parents from denying that we are blood-related.  Harvard agreed to write a letter on my behalf, which looked WAY less official than a Lo-Fi version of my framed diploma, but thankfully, my employer found it acceptable.

And so, they make take our lives…but they’ll never take…OUR FREEDOM!  Pretty powerful, right?  I wrote that.***

*This knowledge is based solely on the movie, “Catch Me If You Can.” IT WAS BASED ON A TRUE STORY.

**For those of you who don’t know, this is reference to the movie “Richie Rich” when he’s using the latest Dadlink technology, and the computer reports, “Dad. Not. Found.”

***No I didn’t.  I’m was lying again.  But you have to admit, I’m pretty good at it.

Birthday Par-tease.

This past Saturday, I was exhausted.  I woke up, looked at the time, and went back to sleep.  Then I woke up again, checked the time, and went back to sleep.  Finally, I woke up, checked the time, and realized that I may be slipping into a dangerous pattern.  So, I went back to sleep.

However, I knew I would have to get up eventually as I had been invited to a birthday party that evening, and much like Head & Shoulders’ shampoo, I have been trying to cut down on flaking this year.  I began the long arduous process of preparing my physical appearance so that it would be deemed appropriate in the presence of other humans.  Five minutes later, I figured between my application of deodorant and a quick pre-game vodka cocktail, no one would probably be able to tell that most of my make-up was left over from the previous evening’s activities.

Now that I was all dolled up, I began my trek down to the apartment listed on the invitation, and even stopped to get a bottle of wine.  I arrived in record time, filled with a renewed sense of pride at my own accountability, and knocked on the designated door.  I noted that it did seem rather quiet in the hallway, but I just assumed that the folks already celebrating on the other side of the wall were more civilized than the under-medicated flock of nightmares I call my friends. (You guys are the BEST!)

The kind hostess opened the door, but the apartment behind her was empty.

“Oh, god,” I thought. “This is my intervention.”

But no, it wasn’t.  It was much more awkward than that.  The party had been postponed, the hostess explained, and yes, everyone else had followed party protocol and had not shown up.  I stood there breathing at her for a minute, which I find always puts others at ease, muttered “I’m sorry” over and over again in an attempt to convince her that I could muster up one singular social skill, and scurried back onto the elevator, kicking myself for having already drank the bottle of wine on the ride down there.

Dejected, and already sobering up, I went back up town to seek refuge (and more alcohol) in the only place I feel at home…my home.

And then I went back to sleep.

Editor’s note: I do not, in any way, hold the hostess or birthday-haver responsible for this string of events. 





Oh, alright, FINE.  I’ll write a blog.  What’s that?  You don’t remember asking me to?  Hmm, that’s probably because you drink too much.  We’re all pretty worried about you.

Ugh, stop trying to make this about you when clearly I am talking about something much more important: myself.

This blog will be a collection of thoughts, stories, anecdotes, dream sequences, abandoned novel attempts, confessions, declassified information, knock-knock jokes, and daily struggles that mostly just focus on me, and my life.  I will also post about upcoming stand-up shows that feature me, and other events that that honor me in some fashion.

So, cancel all your upcoming plans and obligations.  Quit your job, move out of your home, and destroy any potential sources of distraction, like your yo-yo.  This blog will need your full attention, and financial support.  Get excited.