Valentine’s Day Flowers

Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching, and I know many woman are expecting flowers from the their significant other.  My wife, the lovely Shannon, reminds me all the time that she would love flowers at work.  She mentions this every time I send pictures of flowers via text message, and asking if these flowers brighten her day.
So instead of waiting until February 14, I ordered flowers to be delivered on Monday, at her work place.  When they arrived, she called to remind me that Valentine’s Day is on Friday, not Monday, and her co-worker thought I was an idiot for sending them early.

But here is the method to the madness.  Girls want to get flowers no matter what day of the week, year, or holiday. And they want to show off their flowers, in their office, to the their co-workers, and clientele. So why would I wait until Friday to send flowers when I can maximize their effectiveness by getting them delivered on Monday?

By getting them delivered early, they can sit in her office all week, everyone gets to see them, and make their comments, and I look like a hero.  Versus sending them on Friday, and they either sit unnoticed all weekend, get neglected and wilt, or she brings them home, and I get to watch my expensive gesture rot on a coffee table.
In my mind, Monday was definitely the best choice!

Late Night Lake Staring

It is 4:10 in the morning and between my stomach issues and Shannon slowly inching her way diagonally across the bed, I am awake. My sleeping area at the head of the bed has shrunken to half of my pillow due to Shannon's tossing and turning. She has positioning herself to maximize the amount of  sleeping area by utilizing the Pythagorean formula to become the long side of a right triangle.  Now that I am unable to roll over without crushing her face, I slowly slide out between the covers and find myself sipping my baking soda water on our deck overlooking Twin Lake in Michigan.
 

There is no moon, but the sky is providing a lightning show that gives up a quick glimpse of the surroundings in sporadic intervals. No rain yet,  but you can feel a storm on the way.  The wind is picking up and the distant sound of thunder is getting louder. The wind and air have that certain smell that reminds me of my childhood when I would watch a thunderstorm roll across Lake Michigan.

I love it here. On a peaceful lake in my home state with the smell of the surf, and the sound of an incoming storm. I feel at home and my environment is filling my head with distant memories.

A lightning bolt just hit near by and I am on a second floor deck.  Time to head inside and push my C-squared woman to the bed's edge and enjoy the passing rain.

Punishing Life's Good Deeds

They say that no good deed goes unpunished, and after tonight, I am inclined to agree. Sunday night I took a comic home from the Funny Bone, and when I dropped him off, he mentioned he had no electric, or food. After watching him enter a dark apartment, knowing he was going to be sitting in the dark, and would have to find a soup kitchen the next day to eat, I felt compelled to help.
A small post on Facebook, a few direct emails and before I knew it, I had raised $350, and bought $50 worth of groceries. It made me feel good to help someone out, and bask in the kindness of others. I worked late and wanted to get my energy back from working 12 hours, so I strapped on my running shoes and headed out at 9:00 pm for a Price Hill run.

Now, I have not been taking very good care of myself, and one of the reasons was an Achilles injury that kept me sidelined most of the summer. But the doctor cleared me to finally get back on my feet and allowed me to run. So this run, being only the second one of the summer, was painful, and reminded me my endurance is only slightly greater than a fat guy climbing stairs. I was wheezing, coughing, trying to catch my breath, as I stumbled from block to block. Walking was part of the process of getting home.

I am approximately 1 mile from my condo, feeling I should stop and rest, when some kids are yelling from a dark corner in Dempsey Park. “Hey man, I want to axe you a question, slow down man. We need to axe you something.” With each statement, I kept running, trying to quicken my pace. But the more I tried to increase my pace, the  quicker their steps became.  Faster and faster, until eventually, I turned and saw 5 kids, around the ages of 15-17 running virtually at full speed right behind me. I don't really count the 13 year old in the total.

What happened next, I cannot explain. The vision of this confrontation played in my head before it happened, and I felt my actions were completely reactionary. I had been running in the street, but found myself running to the park railing when I saw the mob moving closer. I was afraid that they would get behind me somehow, and I didn't want to be surrounded on all sides. The railing helped keep them in a semi-circle where I could see most of them, and as I stopped to confront my pursuers, I knew someone was going to throw a punch. A quick survey of the crew gave me a pretty good indication who, out of the 6, was going throw the first blow. A kid, about 17, wearing a black pseudo-tuxedo shirt, with nappy hair. Taller and older than the rest, he seemed to have an agenda in his eyes.

After stopping, I turned and kept my back to the park railing, as they formed a semi-circle around me. When everyone was relatively still, a smaller member of the gang made a statement I don't remember, but I found myself saying, "OK, ask your question." The oldest one, standing just off my left shoulder winds back and throws a right hook toward my face. I knew this would be the guy to throw the punch, so I ducked under the sweeping blow. His fist barely grazing the top of my head, and I found myself lunging toward my attacker. My crouch gave me some pretty good momentum, as I instinctively lurched up, and toward him.  My fist connected with the bottom of his lower jaw and I could see his eyes get wider as it landed.  I don’t believe he expect a counter attack. My momentum was carrying me into him, and I was afraid both of us would crash to the ground, leaving an open invitation for the others to jump in with little risk.

In an attempt to control my balance, I threw a left elbow toward his head. We were too close to land a full on punch, and we were falling into the street. The elbow connected to the side of his head, and swept his ear. It was enough to slow my forward progress, but we were both still falling. I managed to get both hands on him, push off, and throw him into the street. The action was just enough to create some space for me to sprint away from the pack.
I was running full bore down the street, and some of the younger ones were trying to get in front of me to corner me again. I took a 90 degree, hard left turn, down some stairs. The stairs were narrow, and crumbling, and I struggled to keep my balance. But this evasive maneuver help me separate the pack a little. Two of the kids missed the stairs and ran past the stair opening. Two others must have lost their footing on the steps, and I could hear them crashing down the stairs behind me. That left the one person who took my punch and fell into the street. It was enough of a delay that he could avoid the hazards and see my running pathway.

I hit the bottom of the stairs and took off in a dead sprint into the park. The park was dark. Very dark, and I kept thinking if I let these punks catch up to me in this park, no one will find me until morning. But I knew that the District 3 police station was straight ahead, and that is where I was going. So my legs, which have never run a full sprint in over 3 years, found the energy, after 3.5 miles, to carry me longer and faster than I have run in a long time. My lungs burned with each breath, but my legs were filled with so much adrenaline I could have beaten Usain Bolt to the cop shop. Behind me, I kept hearing "kick his ass" and "get that mother f*&cker." But they seemed so far away I didn't feel that concerned. One comment I heard was "God damn, that f*#cker is fast."

Eventually, I found some light at the end of the park, and quickly turned on my heels to confront any pursues. The only one was the kid I punched originally. He had a look of redemption in his eyes that was a little frightening, but it felt more like embarrassment than rage. Perhaps he was upset he got jacked in front of his friends by some old, white cracker. Whatever the case, I stopped, squared up, and said "You better make this one count." We locked eyes, realizing it was just him and I, he turned and ran into the darkness to meet his posse. I turned and ran to District 3 to report the incident.


When I reported what had just happened, the police officer said, "Oh, we had another guy report the same thing about 7 minutes ago." If that was the case, where were the cops? District 3 is at the end of the park.

I believe I was very lucky. The mob’s only intention was to inflict bodily harm on someone, and I was able to get out of the situation with nothing more than a throbbing hand, which actually feels very satisfying.

I am also glad this did happen to me, and the outcome was favorable. I cannot imagine how this would have turned out had I chosen to execute another option, or if someone else would have stumbled on these low life wanna be pieces of gangster shit!

Just Being Awesome!

It was a cold December and I was on a road trip with my good friend Dave to perform a week of stand-up comedy at in a Funny Bone Comedy Club near the east coast. After 10 hours in the car, we arrived at the club with only a couple of hours before the show - just enough time to get our bearings, check into the comedy condo, and wind down a bit before the crowd would begin to push through the doors looking for a place to get warm and enjoy some cocktails and laughs.

It was a Wednesday night and there was only one show scheduled. It was a small crowd that only filled the first two tiers of the club, but a crowd that came prepared to enjoy the art of live comedy. I was the MC and Dave was the middle act, supporting a headliner that I soon found out, was both arrogant and demanding. He gave me his intro and the facts he wanted me to mention. While I was introducing him on stage, I looked over to see him shaking his head in disapproval. As he shook my hand and I was turning over the stage, he leaned in and said “Not even close!”

I was bothered at first, and wondered what I forgot to say. The 20 second segment of the show played over and over in my mind, and I could not put my finger on why my introduction was met with such dissatisfaction. Luckily my confusion and concern was removed from my mind after the show as the wonderful club patrons treated us all like rock stars. We were all signing glasses and shirts, and shaking hands with people who said it was the best comedy show they had attended. It was awesome to be appreciated.

When all of the audience left and only comics and staff remained, the headliner let me know exactly where I had strayed with his introduction. Apparently, the introduction he provided was not just snippets of information from which I could use my poetic license to glean highlights and communicate them to the masses… Oh no… This was a script that was written to be performed in the exact fashion in which it was written. According to the headliner, each word was ‘given careful consideration and the order of each word, sentence, and phrase, was designed to show he was in demand and exceptionally brilliant’.

The rest of the week was what you would expect from a person who has an over-inflated view of themselves. As the MC, and a comic who was just one step up from an open mic-er, I was treated to limited conversation. a couple closed door meetings between Dave and ‘Mr. Ego’ – where he promised Dave some road shows with him. I was not to know because the headliner didn’t think “I was not ready.” This statement really didn’t bother me because he showed up at the club every night AFTER I performed my set, meaning HE NEVER SAW ME PERFORM!

After only the second show, this headliner involved the manager of the club to inform me the headliner didn’t think I was doing the MC job very well and she was letting me know I was getting fired for the week. Eventually this turned out to be false, after about an hour, and it was just a funny joke (to him). He was nice enough to “let me finish out the week” but was informed later I was in fact NOT in jeopardy of losing the job. I guess this was just one of the many methods he uses to prey on the weak subconscious all comics’ seem to process.

But this behavior taught me a valuable lesson in the art of stand-up comedy. Sometimes, it is not about being funny. Sometimes, it is about being able to push through the mental barrier of self-doubt, and insecurities and to believe you are great. I tried to put myself into his mind and wondered what it would be like to see yourself so positively.  To believe in yourself so strongly that you think every joke you write is hysterical must be exhilarating!! To possess such arrogance that all outside distractions are trivial, and any advice given by other comedians ‘must be created out of jealously and spite’ must be awesome! To be so rigid that you scoff at the methods of others, and dismiss their successes as a ‘blind squirrel finding an acorn’ must feel amazing! But I didn’t feel any of these things when I can see how they affect those around me.

So I don’t believe I will ever embrace the values shown to me by the headliner’s conceitedness. I choose instead to write better comedy, help my fellow comics, and enjoy the company of everyone around me. Because in the end, the goal is to entertain the masses, and when a joke falls flat, or our timing is off, and the laughs do not present themselves, our insecurity can be a powerful negative force that can lead to destruction of confidence. And while standing on stage with nothing but a microphone, one needs to feel as confident as possible. It’s a scary place to be. And ultimately it will be our friends and those around us that will put us back on the path that we, as comics, were meant to travel. And I shall enjoy the journey – and the company of those who travel it with me.

My Thoughts on Occupy Cincinnati

The issue I had was not their right to protest, but their lack of an agenda and no clear reason to protest. I stumbled onto their camp after work one day and interviewed over 8 people. Every one of them had no idea why they were down there, and even their leader provided no clear explanation of why they were occupying the space, and proceeded to get very aggitated when I tried to get her to narrow her focus. Two people in particular were guarding the donation box, but when asked what the donations were for, or why they decided to join the movement, neither of them had an answer.

In my opinion, many of the people seemed to join the movement because they wanted to say they were part of something. I joined protests in college, but only because they were on my way to one of my classes. I really didn't know specifically the reason I was protesting. It was just fun to hold a sign, in a group, for a couple of blocks, and tell my friends I was involved later in the day.  I remember one such protest where the signs said, "I have sex to cum, not to conceive."  Who wouldn't want to join that protest?

Many of the members wore their citations they received from Cincinnati police around their necks as a proud trophy of their deviance and many of the people had been on-site for days. How can they afford the time? Will they become part of the social system funded by the system they are protesting?I am all for the people's rights to assemble, but get a permit, have an agenda, and have a clear focus of what you are trying to change. Go through the proper channels to obtain the proper facilities to accomodate your assembly, such as sanitation.  Don't use downtown Cincinnati as your restroom because you feel like you have the right to protest.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong? (Part II)

The glasses got thrown in the trash, and I ventured out without eye protection.  I live on a very steep hill, and the bottom is about 3/4 of mile away from my condo.  As I was racing down Price Hill at about 45 miles an hour, I hear something banging with each wheel revolution.  I have a cyclo-computer mounted on my front fork.  In my haste to get on the road, I must have bumped it right into the turning path of my spokes. Each revolution sounded like a drum corp.  With a little push, I moved it out of the way, and proceeded toward the bowels of Cincinnati.

   Downtown Cincinnati is relatively deserted between 6 and 9, which made the ride through it very nice.  Almost to the workshop, only a couple more streets and I would be there!  Headed toward a large intersection, with traffic crossing both ways, I see my light turn yellow.  I had good speed, so it would be no problem to make it through if I just hammered on the pedals a little more.  I committed toward running the light and headed toward the intersection.  With a couple of might pushes, I had only slightly accelerated when the chain fell off the front sprocket just as I entered the intersection.  Luckily, a lone car traveling at a slow speed was my only obstacle, and I was able to let it go by before my front tire passed his back bumper. 

   My heart was racing as I coasted through, only to find that the other side of the intersection ended at a park. A park where drug deals are made, homeless take refuge, and the nature of the clientele is questionable at best.  My bike is fairly expensive, and looks expensive.  I had to stop, as there was no way I could have coasted four block to the theater, and I certainly was not going to walk.  As I slowed, and prepared myself to come to a complete stop, I could feel eyes all over me.  I am a guy that is clearly on the wrong side of the tracks, and in obvious distress.  I found the most solitude place possible and prepared to repair my chain.  "Nice bike," and "Hey, what did you pay for that bike," were the cattle calls I heard, coming from all directions.   I almost leaped off the bike, and fixed the issue with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew working for Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France.

   No other issues presented themselves for the duration of the day, but hey, there is always tomorrow....

What Could Possibly Go Wrong? (Part I)

I know that when it rains it pours, so I guess I kind of expected things to go bad all at once. I came home from work, and wanted to head to the Know Theater and partake of the improv workshop that Kirk Kiver run. Since I have not gotten too much exercise, outside of the walking in Chicago, I thought it would be a good idea to ride my bike, from the hills of Price Hill, to the far side of downtown. Not a long ride by any means, but enough to get my legs pumping again on my bike.
As I thought of this awesome idea, I was still at work, finishing up some much needed office decor changes. I had brought a sticker to work that looks like a stencil of New York reflecting off of the water. In the move, I had removed this from Shannon's wall, and placed it on one of her pictures, using the glass as a holder for it. On the way to work, my "Low Fuel" light came on, which is did a couple of miles from home the night before. Pressing my luck as I have previously done, I once again took the chance that there is enough gas to get to work, which there was!
After putting up the stencil, and admiring my new office surroundings, I headed to the gas station. It was crowded, and each pump had cars waiting. I saw a young kid emerge from a POS (Piece of Shit). I knew that he would not been long, as I reminisced about my youth and the fact I never had any money to put gas in my car. I pulled in behind him, and my instincts were right. He barely put the nozzle in the tank before he was pulling it out, and hopped back in his car. As I pulled ahead, I see that he only put $3 into his pile of rust.
I went to put my debit car into the pump, when I realized, I forgot my wallet at home. At this point, I was on fumes, and unless I come up with at least a gallon of gas, I am screwed! I dug around in my car, and for some reason, I had $6 in my center console! Just by the grace of God those dollars were there. The line was relatively long for a simple gas station, and the it seemed like everyone wants cigarettes, and/or lottery tickets. What happened to just gas and soda? I got to the counter and said "Six on pump one please." Well, pump one was the pump that is closest to the window, and everyone could see I am driving a Hummer. I heard little snickers behind me, and one person said "really?" I could tell by there reaction that they thought it was a little ridiculous to put only $6 in a gas guzzler.
With gas prices being so high, I put my $6 into the tank in just under a minute. As the car started, the Low Fuel light faded, but the gas gauge barely moved. About 1/4 of mile down the road, the Low Fuel light came on again, only to mock my insignificant purchase. With 1.5 gallons in the tank, I knew that would be enough to get me home.
I was excited to ride my bike to the workshop. It was a hot day, but I needed the exercise. Little did I know that my excitement would quickly turn to frustration. The tires were flat, and needed air. The back tire inflated fine, however, when I went to put air in the front tire, the valve stem broke off inside the pump. Now I have a pump that I cannot use, and a tire that is still flat. The pump had to be disassembled, and the tube had to be replaced. All of which, I didn't really have time to do if I was to get to the workshop on time. Hastily, I fixed them both, and was ready to ride. I grabbed a pair of glasses that have yellow lenses for night riding, and they broke in my hands. Really? How much shit is going to have to go wrong before I can get out of the house?