Color Run, NASCAR, and Domestic Violence

Cincinnati was host to the 2015 MLB All-Star game, and one of the festivities was the Color Run.  15,000 people signed up to run or walk, and along the way, have people throw powdered paint at you.

Each station was a different color, and the first color we encountered was blue.  The paint handlers tossed the blue paint with great enthusiasm, and in their frenzy, I saw a stream of paint leave a canister, and landed directly in my eye.   It was blinding! I staggered around while they heaved more paint.  I could feel it getting in my hair, clothes, and shoes, as I stumble around awkwardly fearing a stumble and breaking my ankle.  

After several stations, and a rainbow of Technicolor assaults, we finished!  In the finish chute, I was busy trying to dig a giant chuck of blue paint that had settled in the bottom of my eye lid, and would randomly move up into my vision.  It would cover my whole field of vision in one eye, and then quickly dart back down as I attempted to remove it.  Like trying to catch an earthworm after a hard rain. As we crossed the finish line to get our medals, we were given more paint.  We each got a couple of bags of different colors, such as gold, silver, and purple.  The field at the finish line was a mess!  The band was getting people were tossing their paint bags in the air all at the same time.  It was quite a site from afar.  Everyone was a complete mess!

We had tickets that evening for the Kentucky Speedway Quaker State 400, so we quickly hit the showers to ready to head to the race.  Shannon came out of the shower with blue still under her arms, and all over her chest and neck.  It was difficult to get off, possibly because it was the first color thrown, and was on us the longest.  Whatever the reason, we could not fully remove the color.  Based on the placement, it looked like Shannon was a victim of some serious domestic abuse (see picture).

I joked about the fact she looked like the star of a TV drama on the Oxygen channel (of course played by Judith Light -she is always in those series), and thought she would fit right in with the rest of the NASCAR fans.

Not knowing the parking situation or lay of the land, we pulled into the first driveway, and the first spot we found.

If you are familiar with your math studies, and remember Pythagorean Theory, our parking to the speedway is the length of the hypotenuse, or in simple terms, the furthest f**king point from the damn track!  It was a giant hike to get to the entrance, but to shorten the distance, we dipped over a guardrail and attempted to travel down, and up the other side of steep ravine.

Due to a recent horrible ankle sprain, I inched my way down this steep hill, while my friend Dave helped Shannon ease down the hill.  Several other people followed us through this treacherous shortcut, and seemed to be going just as cautiously.

Near the bottom of the hill, nearing the trickling creek bed, Shannon slips and falls on her ass.  Dave, being the gentleman he is, is helping her up, when a girl in the trailing groups says, “doesn’t look like the first time you have taken a hit and fallen down.”

I remember looking down, and seeing a dumbfounded look on both Shannon’s and Dave’s face, followed by Shannon yelling, “I ran the color run this morning.”  But her words fell on deaf ears and the girl shook her head as if to say, “yeah, right.”

Guess you should never judge a woman by her bruises….

The Dimmer Switch

My home project for today is to change out a dimmer switch for newly installed lighting.  Unfortunately, I rested drywall against the current switch and broke it within 5 days of it being installed.

My visit to Home Depot was a little overwhelming.  I had no idea there were so many dimmer switches that ranged in price from $15 to $60.  How bad to you need to kill the lights that you need a $60 dimmer?  It didn’t even come with a remote!

This is where my color blindness, or lack of electrical experience became a slight hindrance. The switch came out of the box with one black wire, one green wire, and two red wires. Logic told me that the two red wires needed to be attached to the “hot” electrical circuit, while the black wire goes to the ground wire

The wires were attached the way I thought they should be, and I flipped the breaker to give it some power. I tuned on the switch, staring up at the lights, waiting for the brightness to fill the room, when….POP!  A giant arcing spark flew out the switch, smoke rose from the wires, and I heard the break trip. Son of a bitch! I just ruined a $40 switch!  What the hell went wrong?

I finally broke down and read the instructions. This parchment revealed that one of the red wires was the ground wire. WHAT!? Is this some new international wiring change I was not aware of? Who would use a red wire for a ground? Obviously the same guy that has never jumped a stalled car. What was the rational for this anyway? If we get people to blow up a $40 dimmer switch, they will have to buy another one? Where is the logic behind the coding? What if everyone just randomly changed historically created given truths?

Like changing the pattern on a traffic light, and indicating green really means stop, but only a handful of people know that. Do you know how much chaos that would cause? This would be one way automotive manufactures and insurance companies could make some extra cash.  Or maybe this is how China expects to take over the world. One dimmer switch at a time.

Dumpster Bear

It was the day after Valentine's Day, and I was taking the dogs outside to do their business.  I walked them back by our condo dumpsters, because that is where we have the most open space, and it is where the dogs like to run ahead, and eat anything the raccoons pull from the dumpster.  As I approached the dumpster, I noticed there was something on the ground.  My initial instinct was that it was a bag of trash that was discarded by dirty men after being serviced by the working girls of our ghetto community.

As I got closer, it was revealed that it was a stuffed teddy bear that was in pristine condition.  As I picked it up, I noticed it still had the original tag.  A red tag, attached to his ear, indicating it was $5.99 with the purchase of 3 Hallmark cards.  The other half of the tag indicated this was Hallmark's Kiss Kiss Cupid Bear, and the instructions read "Press bears together, hear them kiss, and watch his wings flutter!"  I love the exclamation on the end.  It signifies some magically display of action will be shown if two of these bears are touching.

But I could not help wonder the journey of this little bear.  I don't think it is a coincidence that this item of affection was found on the ground, in front of a dumpster, the day after Valentine's Day.  Possibly put there as a result of a poor heave by a scorned lover?  Maybe the receiving girlfriend saw the price of $5.99 with the notice of 3 Hallmark cards, and wondered, "who are the other skanks that might be receiving cards?"  Perhaps she thought the bear gesture was not enough to win her love.

And where is the other bear?  This bear is clearly not something you buy just one of, and leave the store.  You have to buy two, otherwise, what is the point?  You cannot give this cute bear to someone, and have them be disappointed there is not two of them to hear the kiss and see the wings move!  This bear was an only child, I know because I looked in the dumpster.  If I would have found the other one, I thought, only for a fleeting moment, that I could pass this off as my own purchase and give it to Shannon.  But I am sure she would have been suspicious when one of the bears smelled like spoiled meat.

These bears are clearly for the first time love birds.  Those individuals that clearly have a difficult time showing emotion.  Once you give one of these bears, you have to leave them both with your significant other.  How weird would it be to bring your bear every time to go over to your girlfriend house, just to put them together and watch their wings move.  Afterwards, you take it home?  Seems creepy!

I wish I knew the answer to the mystery bear at dumpster's doorstep, but I am just going to have to speculate. A small token of affection discarded like Taco Bell wrappers at 3:00 AM.  But I was happy it was left there.  Now my dog has a new chew toy, one from which he can tear the innards out and leave quilt batting all over the house.  So for that, I say....

Thank you douchey boyfriend!

Leave your thoughts on how that bear found its way to the dumpster in the comments below......and thanks for reading!

Ohio State Shoes - WTF!

I work until I cannot stand the hunger anymore.  I never really plan on lunch, but lunch plans on me. It plans on me getting out of the office, and venturing around and spending money. Today, it was a Jersy Mike’s day.  As I was eating, I could see the running shoe store. This is the store where I purchased my previous running shoes, and thought, I probably should get a new pair. I knew it was probably close to a year since I purchased a new pair, and I felt good about myself today. 

A couple of fleeting moments of enthusiasm, and excitement filled my mind as the thought of me running a marathon again filled my head.  My excitement got the best of me, and on impulse, I hurriedly finished my sandwich and Cheetos, attempted to get that pesky yellow residue from my fingertips, and walked quickly to the store.

Without haste, I walked swiftly to the counter and, “I would like to purchase the same things as the last time.”  No trying on the shoes, no looking at the colors, just wanted her to grab my size, and let me walk out the door.  It was a safe action.  I was in a hurry, and I have worn the same size shoe for years without incidence, and my previous shoes felt awesome!   She looked up my name in their computer, walked to the back, and presented me with a shoe box.  After paying I grabbed the box, and tossed them in the back of my Hummer.

When I got home, I realized, I had just bought a pair of running shoes that displayed, out of all the color combinations in the world, those of Ohio State University. I am hoping my color blindness is causing me to see these shoes wrong, but I am pretty sure these are scarlet and grey.

As an alumni of the University of Michigan, I was devastated!  How could I wear these hideous things out in public?  My thoughts turned to; how I can hide the fact I am wearing these things?  Running at night?  Wear some oversized sweatpants?  Spray paint them?  Put an old sock over them?

Then I thought, if I think of these as Ohio State shoes, I won’t feel bad about cheating on my future workouts.

The Comedy Condo

It has been a while since I was on the road being a comic. To have a week of comedy where you have to travel to a location more than 3 hours away, and have to stay in the “comedy condo” is what most comics strive for, if not just for the stories to tell at a later date. This week, I am in the Cleveland area working with one of my favorite “Road Dogs” Thaddeus Challis.

We traveled to the club to get the condo key, and then headed over to see what our dwelling conditions will be for the next five days. The door was on the side of a small strip mall, and was made of steel. Only three address numbers from the dollar section of the hardware story revealed this secret passage. No window, no signage, just simple numbers. As we took the stairs up the darkly lit stairs, the steel door closed behind us with a distinctive bang. Air whistled around the gaps in the door jam, the little lit the open door provided, cause instant darkness. The dark stairwell, and creaky steps provided a heightened level of anticipation and possible disappointment.
The room was clean, and I was surprised the stench of stale beer, and pot was not left from the last comics staying here. Thad and I chose our bedrooms, and began to settle into the surroundings. This must be an old building because the wiring for each of the outlets is noticeably traveling around the baseboards and up the walls. Almost as if a building inspector told the owner he needs to upgrade the wiring, and running conduit up the side of the walls was the simplest solution.

Being above a small dental office, behind a steel door, with only one side of the condo having windows, it almost feels like I am in the witness protection program and this is the safe-house.
We were sitting around the kitchen table, and I grabbed the stack of magazines that were nested in a small alcove. I didn’t read the title of the first magazine I picked up, and was very surprised and the first picture I saw. It was a naked man, on a beach posing for a picture with a naked girl, while several other naked people were casually standing around. I quickly closed the cover and read the title---Naturally Magazine? Apparently, this is the magazine for nudists! And there were two copies of this magazine at $9.95 per edition! (Click here to see their Facebook page). Who would pay that much for old man balls and 1970’s un-kept pubic regions?
Immediately I tried to think of the past comics that were in this condo, and thought about who might be a nudist. No one came to mind, but maybe it was a comic that was just too embarrassed to buy a Hustler, or didn’t have a computer for the internet. Both copies of the magazine looked like they had been left in the rain. All of the pages were wavy, and stiff, and the sound of paper being peeled from itself was present while thumbing through it! After realizing what this magazine might have been used for, I immediately threw it toward the back of the recessed space only to let another unsuspecting comic soil his hand through the pages.

Another creepy surprise came when I pulled back the curtain of the one window in the bedroom. Behind the glass, was a storage room that was totally dark, but in several of the panes of glass were small, bloody handprints and blood splatter. A little unsettling, but based on the small size of the hand prints, I am guessing it was Brad Williams.
The bathroom is crazy small! The sink is strategically place directly in front of the toilet. If you sit on the toilet, you need to position yourself at a 45 degree angle, and put one leg in the tub.
But to be doing something I enjoy, with Thad, a guy I love like a brother is so worth it all!
#WouldNotChangeAThing

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?

The Peoria Experience

I am on my way to Cedar Rapids, Iowa to perform at a satelite location for the World Series of Comedy. My traveling companions are two other Cincinnati comedians, Adam Minnick, and Homer Shadowheart. Adam is slated to perform in the wildcard round on Wednesday, which seems a little below him based on his talents. Maybe he just submitted a bad reel.

But in our quest to perform a great set, we stopped in a place called the Red Barn in Peoria, Illinois, to work on a tight 5 minutes.  Adam searched the internet and found this open mic, of which we knew nothing. We pulled past the place and saw the people were hanging out all over the outside of the building. It didn't look like anyone was inside. As we parked the car, and casually walked our way to the door, wondering if this was the best choice for our evening.  Weaving through the crowd to the door, the look of the clientele looked very suspect. 

As I walked in, the smell of herbal oil and stale beer hit me like someone just threw a rotten salmon in my face. And the people! What bad decisions did these people make to get here? Everyone had dread locks, tattoos, giant gages in their ears, and had a lost spirit appearance. The guy running the show said he had a full schedule of local performers and could not accommodate three guys who traveled over 4 hours. Whatever douche! We are out of here...after I get a back room piercing with a dirty needle....

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Online Dating FAIL! of the Week

I don’t know why, but I have always been somewhat facinated with the online dating scene. Browsing the pictures and profiles always stimulates my imagination as I try to create stories in my head for their life and what drove them to the online world of dating.  These characters eventually find their way in short stories or archived for future writings. 

I have never gone on a date from one of these sites, and personally, I find the interaction pretty cold, and impersonal.  Plus, I am getting good at spotting the fake profiles, and know from your picture if you have kids or not. 

But every once in a while, I run across some interesting profiles that beg the question, “Really, this is the picture you decided to show the world?”

Below, is one of those profiles!

At first you think this woman is a spontaneous, fun lovin’, laugh a minute kind of gal, unless, of course, you are creeped out by clowns. 

But if you look a little closer, you realize, you might be in for more than you bargined for, especially in the hygene department.  Why the hell would you post a picture of your hairy pits? 

If you are not terrified by clowns, perhaps this picture will change your mind…….SHAVE THAT SHIT!

Thank you Loraine Braun for This Nice Article on Me!

This article was published in the Cincinnati Examiner on Oct. 5, 2010 by Loraine Braun.

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No, there is not a typo in the name -- Kim E Sherwood IS a guy!  And if you have the privilege of seeing him perform, you will learn how he got that name from his parents.

This Grand Rapids, Michigan native began his comedy career while a student at the University of Michigan.  Even though he was a pre-med student, Kim auditioned for The Big Show, which is a student-run, sketch comedy production.  Making  callback was a surprise to him as he had no theatre or comedy experience prior to that.  Kim earned a place in the group and quickly became hooked.

Following a change of major, Kim became a financial consultant.  Life circumstances and his job ultimately brought him to Cincinnati.

Kim readily recalls his grandmother’s advice about life:  “Never hide your sense of humor from the world”.  That advice was taken to heart and has become the cornerstone by which Kim lives his life and how he approaches each and every performance.

He initially performed improv and even produced Improvapaloza, Cincinnati’s first comedy festival.  As a result of that festival, Kim founded and still performs with the award-winning local improvisation comedy troupe, Wits End.

In addition to improv, Kim performs stand-up and he finds both challenging.  Kim is quick to point out that with stand-up you are by yourself.  The work you do is yours to keep when you come off of the stage.  Kim currently is focusing more on stand-up comedy at both local comedy clubs and travels extensively to perform at other clubs and venues to develop his craft.  He has opened for numerous headliners and has the goal to feature and eventually be a headliner himself.

Kim would like for people to know that his comedy comes from the heart and is personal experience. His comedy is not imagined.  “The foundation is me and how I live my life.”  Kim’s comedy is high energy and his stage presence draws the audience in so that they eagerly travel with him on his comedy journey during his performances.  To learn more about Kim, visit his website.

Crowley’s, A Picture of a Cincinnati Bar, in a Chicago Hotel Room

I am on the road, traveling for my day job and stopping in various places to do some comedy, and checked into a Hampton Inn, outside of downtown Chicago.  After dragging all of my bags through the door and into the dimly lit room, I fumbled for a light switch along one of the walls.

Once I found the switch, the room became more habitable with the soft light of the energy saving bulbs illuminating part of the space.  As my eyes adjusted to the new light, I noticed a picture on the other side of the room, located right above the computer table.  The picture created a sense of déjà vu.  As I leaned in closer to examine the print, I was taken all the way back to Cincinnati, the city from which I had just came.

The print resembled a very familiar bar, Crowley’s, located in Mt. Adams in Cincinnati.  A bar that I use to live down the street from, and is located only 3 miles from where I live now.  At first, I dismissed my initial thought that this print was of the Cincinnati Crowley’s, at which I have so many times found myself over served.  For an hour I tried to convince myself that this picture just looks like a familiar place.  I mean what are the chances, that out of all of the rooms at the Hampton Inn, and all of their black and white pictures, I end up in a room with a picture of a Cincinnati bar?  A bar where I know the owners, and have performed with Kevin Crowley, an extremely talented actor in the Cincinnati area.

Eventually, I had to put my mind at ease.  After searching for images of the Cincinnati Crowley’s bar, it became very clear, that this print, in a hotel room in a Hampton Inn, in the Chicago-land area, was indeed, the Crowley’s I love.  Actually, it felt very nice to be so far from home, but with a glance upward at the picture, I can be taken back to the comforts of a familiar town.  But I still think it was creepy!

Comedian Mike Baldwin

I recently worked the Dayton Funny Bone and had an awesome time. This week was made not only by the amazing crowds, but two very funny comedians. The feature was a very talented Kansas City comedian by the name of Mike Baldwin. The winner of the Funniest Person in Kansas City, not once, but twice.
Not a very physical guy, but has some great facial expressions that really add to an already good punchline. He is a very good writer who’s comedy can connect with a very wide array of audiences. A very superstitious guy who wears the same t-shirt on stage because he had a great show once while wearing it. The superstition is paying off because Mike was hilarious every night.
Mike does sell a great t-shirt after the show, and you don’t even have to see his show to get the meaning. On stage, he has a great way of presenting it, which made me laugh every night. Buy a shirt at his official site www.comedianmikebaldwin.com.
If you get a chance, make sure you check Mike out when he comes to local comedy club, and buy a shirt!

Another Weekend, Another Fallen Soilder

It is another Saturday and I am so proud of the people I surround myself with on the weekend. A day of booze cruisin' on a pontoon up and down the Ohio river comes to a screeching halt after the boat docks.

My good friend here cannot wait to get off the boat and try his sea legs on land. Apparently, someone paid the gravity bill at the marina and it took him by suprise.

Not sure how long he laid there, because he was still there after we left an hour later.

Looking forward to next weekend.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry