Respect the Fish, Man

As a little boy growing up in West Texas, I always enjoyed the summer days when my brother and I would walk the six or seven blocks to our local public swimming pool (which, of all things, was called “The Swimming Hole” ... and yes, that's actually a picture of it) to join dozens (it seemed like hundreds!) of other kids in the pool. As one of the youngest, I always stayed and played in the shallow end while my brother dove off the high dive. Not because I wasn’t able to swim (I was alright at it), but because I didn’t want to get caught up in the rough-housing of the older and bigger kids. I just wanted to put my goggles on and go under the surface … so I could look at everybody else underwater.

At the age of twelve, my mother worked a massive amount of overtime so that she could dig a pool in the family’s backyard … something that, in retrospect, probably put the family well into debt. I don’t think she particularly cared. I sure didn’t. We had a pool!

When you take an imaginative twelve year old boy and give him a pair of goggles and sixteen thousand gallons of water on a hot summer’s day … well, so long as he didn’t drown, you had a full-time babysitter. I was always a bit of a loner … I didn’t need friends my age to play with … I had a pool!

Ask anybody who was once a young boy who put on the goggles, went underwater and pushed off the side of the pool … cutting a path gracefully in the water … and they will tell you one thing: Aquaman is pretty cool!

Those of you who read or follow what is going on in comic books these days knows that Aquaman is going through something of a popularity resurgence thanks to Geoff Johns, who made Green Lantern and the Flash interesting in recent years. Those of you who do not follow comic books still know who Aquaman is though. He’s one of the most popular and well-recognized superheroes in history. Unfortunately, for the past couple of decades, he’s been something of a joke.

We can thank Saturday morning cartoons in the ‘70s and ‘80s for that. Why, in the ‘60s Aquaman had one of the best action cartoons around … following in the footsteps of The New Adventures of Superman and then joining the world’s greatest and most popular superhero in The Superman-Aquaman Hour of Adventure. But the ‘70s rolled in and in 1973 there was a new take on Aquaman … as one of the Superfriends!

For the next dozen years Aquaman shared his adventures with Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman and (in later years) a number of other Justice League of America superheroes. Thanks to some unimaginative writing and to the show’s focus on being child-friendly, Aquaman got the short-end of the stick. Unless an adventure took our heroes underwater, Aquaman was stuck riding shotgun in Wonder Woman’s invisible jet and standing around asking things like, “What do we do now, Batman?”

But as much as we might joke about a hero who’s biggest contribution to saving the world is often “talking to fish,” I think we all identify with Aquaman. I think we laugh because we relate to him. Aquaman may be the King of Atlantis, but on the surface, he’s just like us. Think about it: here is a hero with a strong sense of right and wrong and with abilities that are very specific, yet very fantastic. He’s not as smart as Batman, can’t fly like Superman and isn’t as strong as Wonder Woman … heck, even Robin the Boy Wonder has better gadgets in his belt … yet in his element, he is something special! He’s just along for the adventure … just like you and I in this world … and waiting for the opportunity to contribute. On top of all of that ... he has a family ... a wife and (for a time) a son ... not something touched on by his other Super Friends.

He is the ultimate underdog among superheroes … and that’s what makes him more human and more relatable than the rest of his Super Friends. He has the doubts and insecurities that you and I have … but he also has an amazing talent and skill ready for display. He rides a giant seahorse, for crying out loud!

So laugh at Aquaman! He can take it. Make him the butt of your jokes. That’s okay. But next time you’re in a body of water, take a deep breath and go under … push off and glide through the waves … and I promise, when you come up for air you’ll remember … Aquaman is pretty cool!

Justice League of Comedy at UC Lounge NYC

Friday, December 30, 2011 from 8:00 PM - 10:00 PM

NATIONALLY TOURING JUSTICE LEAGUE OF COMEDY BRING 'HEROES OF HUMOR TOUR' TO UC LOUNGE ON FRIDAY, DECEMBER 30

King Rich and Kyle Davis, collectively known as the Justice League of Comedy will perform a special "New Years Eve Eve" show at UC Lounge (87 Ludlow Street, NYC), December 30 at 8:00PM. General admission tickets are available for only $10.


The Justice League of Comedy has spent the past two years touring clubs large and small, from high profile comedy clubs to one-nighters in seedy biker bars where they barely escaped with their lives. With nothing but desire, an alarming sense of truth in laughter and a Nissan Sentra, they have hit all four corners of the continental United States ("Well, not really, we haven't been to Maine yet.") performing for enthusiastic and, on occasion, indifferent audiences on their 'Heroes of Humor' tour. They truly believe they are saving the world, one laugh at a time.

Road Trip of Self-Discovery

He wasn’t asleep, but he sure wasn’t awake either. His arms were crossed with each hand tucked tightly into the opposite armpit. He knew he must look a damn fool … but he was chilly and hadn’t had hardly any sleep the night before. He also knew he would have to take over the driving soon, his companion having driven the past seven or eight hours. He cursed himself for not being able to sleep in the car. At least then he would be a little rested.

The sun hovered just above the horizon in front of him. Had it moved in the past few hours? He didn’t know. It sure hadn’t seemed to. The radio played a sad top-40 hit and, in the state between sleep and awake, he was sure that this same song had been playing for the past hour or so. He felt a little numb. And as hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering …

He used to enjoy these trips. They were trips home. To his loved one. This one, however, was misery. Sure, it was still a trip home … but home to what? “Well, at least it will be nice to spend a night in my own bed,” he thought to himself … until it dawned on him that his bed would be empty when he got there.

“Jesus,” he thought, “I’ve got to clear my head. I can’t go through life feeling this depressed each and every passing moment. For God’s sake, somebody throw a pie!”

He reached over to the cup holder to take a sip of the coffee he had bought at the gas station an hour before. It was cool now. Gross. He then searched his pockets for his lighter and lit a cigarette. “How many of these damn things have I smoked this trip?” He looked in the pack and counted. There were thirteen cigarettes still in there. Oh yeah, and an empty pack on the floorboard. Twenty-seven cigarettes in around sixteen hours. “Oh my throat is gonna be a mess when I get home,” he mused. “If I get home. How much further now?” He looked over at the GPS and its arrival time … still nearly six hours away.

“God dammit.”

The wind blew a loud whistle through the crack of his window. He didn’t want to open it any more because it was well below freezing out but he couldn’t shut it because, well, he wasn’t about to put his cigarette out. Not yet. So with the cold wind blowing directly into his hairline and the sound of rushing air drowning out that stupid damn song on the radio, he decided to try to wake himself up and concentrate on the task at hand and not the events that had left him alone and feeling worthless.

In his mind the sound of the wind slowly transformed to the sound of applause from last night’s audience. “Why can’t every moment be like that?” Somehow or another he had transformed himself the night before. Somehow or another the weight of the world was lifted when he hit that stage. He smiled as he thought of the autographs he had signed afterwards, the hands he had shaken and, most of all, the group of women who clamored around him after the show. “How many shots did they buy me last night? And how am I still functioning?”

Last night he was a rock star! Drinking heavily (or rather slurping … “Jell-o shots are stupid,” he thought) and dancing (dancing, for crying out loud!) with a group of beautiful women. One had pulled him into the bathroom and they made out for a while … but when the time came to consummate the filthy event, he just couldn’t do it. He was disappointed with himself for having let it even begin. “Hell, I’ve never been one to screw a perfect stranger in the bathroom … even on my best day. Then again, who am I being faithful to?”

The last half-hour of the previous night’s frivolity had been spent with him deflecting their advances and desires to be taken back to his hotel room. If it had been fifteen years earlier, who knows what debauchery he would have indulged. He questioned whether it was a case of him not being in an emotional position to take advantage of the situation or whether he was just getting old. “Twenty-five year old me would have at least taken the blow job.”

Or maybe he had just developed a moral compass? Nah.

Emotions are a funny thing. Somehow he had lost himself, lost his confidence, lost his desire … and he couldn’t quite understand why. Or how. Most of all he was angry with himself … for having blown it with her and for not getting it through his thick head that she was the one who had blown it. He deserved better and he knew it … he just couldn’t convince himself of that fact. Not totally.

“I thought I was over this already.”

He flicked his cigarette butt out the window and rolled it up. “My God, that same stupid song is still on the radio!” In the quiet he started to analyze his life and his character, if for no other reason than to prove to himself that he was worthy of love and happiness … even if she had thought otherwise. He had done some great things, he had done some selfish things, he had given and he had taken … and not always in the same ratio. He was quiet and aloof yet could be the life of the party when called upon. He was a jumble of both positive and negative character traits. He also suspected that he felt everything a little more strongly than most people … love, hate, joy and regret … and that maybe was his weakness.

Then again, perhaps that is what made him human. Perhaps that is what made him relatable on a stage. Perhaps he was just like everybody else … even if at this moment he wallowed in self-pity … because sometimes everybody does the same.

“For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health for as long as we both shall live.”

Perhaps he wouldn’t ever get to share that vow with the one he loved … but there in the passenger seat of a filthy Nissan flying down the highway in Virginia, he made that vow to the stage. Perhaps the reason he was so comfortable on the stage is because that’s the one place where he could share truth, his truth … and show that his weakness was no different than anybody else’s. He wouldn’t wallow in his self-pity … he would share it and invite others to laugh at it … and in time, it would go away. It will go away.

There were people more valuable and more important all over this planet … “but none of them are me … and a lot of them would be damn lucky to be with me.”

Remembering My 9/11 Experience

Note: My experiences on September 11, 2001 pale in comparison to those of thousands upon thousands of others. I did not lose anybody I personally knew in the attacks. I discovered very soon afterward, however, how fortunate I was. This is my experience and mine alone ... and by no means do I mean to indicate that it is more significant than anybody else's. To those who lost a loved one on that terrible day, I continue to offer my most honest condolences. To the first responders ... NYPD, FDNY, EMTs and private citizens ... you have my utmost admiration.

Ten years? How the hell is it that ten years have passed?

On the morning of September 11, 2001 I had some time to kill before I went to work. We had moved to NYC only the week before and I was spending each morning riding the trains and ferries and finding alternative ways to get to the office in Long Island City. I was exploring the city more than I ever had before and enjoying every moment of it. I was riding trains I had never been on and exploring neighborhoods I had never spent any time in. I wanted to know my beloved New York better than I ever had before. That morning I chose to visit the twin towers and take a stroll through Battery Park.

At about a quarter after eight I bought a bacon-and-egg on a roll and a cup of coffee from a street vendor at the foot of the World Trade Center. I sat on a bench wolfing down my sandwich and calling a few family members to tell them (to brag, really) about where I was. This was in the days before Facebook and Twitter ... so you had to actually call people to boast about your mini-adventures of the day. I spoke with my brother and my mother-in-law and told them how I was nearly blinded by the sun glistening off the towers above me. I had always loved New York ... but now I was a citizen and I loved it even more ... I wanted to share that love with everybody I knew.

I finished my boasting and my sandwich and went downstairs to catch the N train for the long ride to Queens. Little did I know it would be the last N train to pull out of that station that day ...

Somewhere along the ride (probably beginning at Penn Station or 42nd Street) I began to overhear passengers talking about how a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. At the time it didn't seem to be all that serious. Those of you who lived in NYC before the attacks will remember the amount of air traffic above and around Manhattan in those days ... there were always tiny planes and helicopters all over the place, many of which flew in and around the southern tip of the island. In my mind's eye, I envisioned some idiot in a two-seater prop plane had probably tried to buzz the towers, got too close and clipped the building. In my mind's eye it was just another "only in New York" kind of moment.

Getting off the train at Queensboro Plaza, I heard a loud bang ... it sounded like thunder. I cursed myself for forgetting my umbrella! Why, just the night before it had rained like crazy and I hadn't remembered my umbrella and was forced to walk through a downpour getting soaking wet. Now I was going to have to do it again ...

I turned to look back at the sky when the cloud of smoke caught my eye. The World Trade Center was on fire! My God ... that plane must have really done a number on the buildings! At this time I didn't realize that it was a jetliner that had crashed into the towers, I didn't realize that the noise I had just heard was actually the second plane crashing into the South Tower. I walked to the office, only a few blocks, in a bit of a rush ... went up the elevator and stood staring at the burning towers through our window. We began to listen to radio reports and ... to be honest with you ... I couldn't really tell you what news was being reported at the time. At one point, I turned to a colleague and said, "it just goes to show what amazing buildings those are. Somebody flew a freaking plane into them and they are still standing." Seconds later the South Tower collapsed ... making me feel rather the idiot and having me wish I had just kept my stupid mouth shut. Half an hour later the North Tower fell ... and suddenly I was truly frightened.

All mass transit was shut down and I was, for all intents and purposes, stranded in Queens. All I could think about was getting to Hoboken where my (then-) wife was teaching because cell phone service was dead. I walked with somebody from work to his apartment and we tried to watch the news ... except no channels were coming in, just a very broken-up signal on the CBS station. After a few hours of waiting (talking nonsense with this fellow from work who I didn't really like), I had had enough. I was getting to Hoboken come hell or high water!

And so I began my walk ...

I couldn't tell you much about that walk really ... I was in such a daze. I walked across the Queensboro Bridge with thousands of people coming the other way ... people were trying to get out of Manhattan, not back into it. Many of them were covered in dust and soot ... it instantly reminded me of news images of refugees trying to escape war-torn countries. I had to push and shove my way across that bridge into Manhattan. I made it to Central Park and began to walk down 5th Avenue to Rockefeller then over to 7th Avenue through Times Square ... all of these areas normally teeming with tourists ... and I hardly saw anybody for hours. In fact, outside of a handful of police officers, during the walk from Central Park to the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, I bet I saw less than twenty people. New York had become a ghost town! It was eerie and disconcerting. As I approached the tunnel, however, I became just one of hundreds of people trying to escape the island.

It was nearing the evening and they had just opened traffic back up at the Lincoln Tunnel ... we had all lived in fear all day that "whoever-this-was-that-attacked-us" (we weren't really using the word "terrorist" yet) would be targeting the bridges and tunnels next ... but the Lincoln Tunnel is not just something you can walk through. I, and several dozen others, hitched a ride through the tunnel in the back of a meat truck. There were no windows and the ride was slow and uncomfortable. I was scared. Amazing how not being able to see your surroundings will increase the fear level. On the Jersey side of the tunnel, past the toll booths and up the hill, we stopped and my fellow passengers and I departed. I was on the edge of Hoboken (only a mile long) and minutes away from my destination ... but first, I jogged to the 14th Street Pier to look back at Manhattan. The southern edge of the island was covered in black/brown smoke which appeared to be bellowing into Brooklyn.

Enough!

I ran (and I mean ran!) back to Washington Street and then all the way down to 4th, made the right turn and up to where my (ex-)wife was teaching. She was okay! At the time, it was all that mattered.

Early the next morning, she and I went to Pier A (along with another thousand or so people) to survey the damage. We had only just learned about the tragedy and the heroes of 9/11. Many people took pictures. Many others wept. I hadn't the day before ... maybe I was too scared to ... but this morning, the morning of September 12th, I wept as well. A little girl then made a comment that stopped the tears and brought me a smile. She said, "it looks like somebody knocked the front teeth out of New York."

"You're right," I thought. Our smile will never be the same. But like the boxer who has just taken a punch, we will pull ourselves off the canvass and continue the fight.

Final note: The picture above of me with the World Trade Center in the background was taken on September 9, 2001 ... just 48 hours before the attacks. It's a terrible picture of me ... but it shows the towers how I remember them. To that end, I refrained from any images of the towers burning or falling ... I want them to be remembered for the glory of being the nation's largest buildings, not for being the site of one of history's most heinous acts.

A Letter To My Warren Boys

Dear Derek & Ty,

I wonder if you know how unique you are. I wonder if you realize how truly special you are. You are Warren boys ... and that is something to take a great deal of pride in.

There have been generation after generation after generation of boys named 'Warren" before you. But it is only recently that the term "Warren boys" has gathered such a singular distinction. The new and true definition of Warren boys was established long ago by your father and your Uncle Chuckie. We were the first iron-clad, dyed-in-the-wool Warren boys ... we gave significance to the term. We established the parameters from which all future Warren boys, such as yourselves, would be judged. And now it falls on you, the next and the greatest generation of Warren boys, to carve out greater lives and grander stories and legends.

Do you know what 'Warren" means? "To Preserve" ... and that is the task that now falls to you. To preserve the character of the Warren name ... and more importantly, to preserve the unparalleled and sublime grandeur of being a Warren boy.

Sounds all highly dignified, doesn't it? In some ways it is, but in many ways, it is not. It is simply a matter of pride.

You see, your dad and your Uncle Chuckie were as opposite as opposite can be. We really were. Your grandmother may say differently, but trust me ... I was there. Our personalities were different, our eye color was different, our talents were different and our skills were different. Your old man did fairly well in school, your Uncle Chuckie did not. Your Uncle Chuckie could make music out of anything, your dad can not. But there was a special, almost magical knowledge that we always possessed ... our differences made us matchless individually and extraordinary together. Knowingly or unknowingly, we lived by the same code. The same code that I will now share with you:

1. The Warren boys are not afraid to take chances.
2. The Warren boys always appreciate the skills and talents of others ... and always have a desire to follow that up with a "now see what I can do."
3. The Warren boys bask in the glory of the moment ... even if those moments seem to come too few and far between.
4. The Warren boys will fight (and fight hard!) for what is right.
5. No one (and I mean NO ONE) says anything derogatory about a Warren boy ... except another Warren boy ... and gets away with it.
6. Give joy as often as possible. Receive joy and then quickly pass it on. Don't bogard the joy!
7. Do no harm to others (unless they have it coming) and never be afraid to bend the rules when necessary.
8. Stand up for your loved ones. Stand beside your loved ones. Put your loved ones ahead of yourself ... even if they are acting like idiots.

In all honesty, that's a hard code to live by ... and we didn't always succeed. But we tried. Always.

The freedom to be atypical and stand apart from commonality (and more importantly, to support others in their special uniqueness) is what gives the Warren boy his swagger. It's a confidence bordering on cockiness. It's our strength ... because no matter what others may think or say about us, we know the other Warren boy has our backs. It allows us to be ourselves without (too much) concern of what others may think of us. It allows us to move forward in this grand adventure we call life. We are a very exclusive club ... there have only been four of us ... and as wonderful as so many people are that you will meet, they aren't Warren boys.

Warren boys defy the odds. Your uncle had a pacemaker put in when he was only thirteen years old. I remember your grandmother telling a neighbor that it was very likely Chuck would not live to be eighteen. Screw that! He lived to double that ... and he lived his few short years with us hard, fast and full of vigor! I was blessed to learn from the "original" Warren boy ... live for the moment, because the moment is all we really have.

Warren boys are filled with talent! Just look at yourselves. That talent is just as important as your life ... because talent, however large or small, is what makes life worth living. It's what we can share with the world ... and we don't share it to become rich and famous, we share it because we have it to give. Nurture it ... it is the garden of your soul ... sometimes it blooms, sometimes it rests ... protect it and love it.

Lastly, Warren boys would give their lives for one another. You know I would give my life for either of you. But did you know that your Uncle Chuckie would have too? I don't know many truths in this world ... but I know that.

This life is going to knock you on your ass from time to time ... it does it to everybody, but has a special fondness for knocking down a Warren boy ... and there are going to be times when you genuinely question whether or not you can go on. There will be times of great sadness, there will be losses too painful to imagine, there will be times when you question your self-worth and ask God why he has made this life so difficult. There's not a cure-all for those times. I wish I had one to give you. I wish I could take every ounce of pain you will ever encounter upon myself. But it doesn't work that way ... we can only offer one another our undying support ... and it is "undying" because I look at the two of you and I see the spirit of your Uncle Chuckie flowing through you. That support, that love, truly NEVER dies.

But I do know what will help you get through those moments. Just look at yourself in the mirror and say, "I'm a Warren boy." Eventually, the swagger will return to your step. I promise.

Love,
Dad

Hassle Hassle

NOTE: While digging through some old files, I came across this. It was written in (if the time stamp is to be believed) late 2003. I figured I would go ahead and share it with you now. After all, it is a traditional family story:

My first years in school were smack dab in the middle of the CB radio fad. You remember the CB radio, right? Breaker, breaker, one-nine … you got a smokey on your tail. So, my folks, who always tried to keep up with the times, installed a CB radio in each of their cars. In a day and age before the cell phone, it was pretty handy. Mom was in nursing school and didn’t leave until 7 or 8 in the evening. She could get in the car and tell Dad she was on her way.

Of course, this meant that everybody in the family had to have a CB handle. The name that would be used on the CB. Dad doled them out, we didn’t get to pick our own. My brother got “Bone Rack.” He was always pretty scrawny, so the name fit and he kinda liked it. What did I get? “Fat Man.” As in, “Na na na na na na na na Fat Man!” I was not a fat kid, a little chunky maybe, but I was not fat!

Dad liked to give us nicknames. It was something he did out of love. Y’know, the kind of love that degrades and demeans. That kind of love.

I was twelve and a half years old when my baby sister was born. Yeah, little gap there. Guess you could say she was a surprise to everyone. And from the time she was very little, I was her favorite. She loved her big brother. Loved me!

Around the time she was starting to walk pretty well, she took to calling me, “Hassle.” Hassle? For weeks and weeks, I couldn’t figure it out. She would come up to me, arms outstretched, wanting to be picked up, and say, “Hassle, hassle.” I had no idea where it came from. Until one Sunday afternoon …

Dad and I were watching a ball game on TV while my sister was playing with one of her puzzles on the floor. After a while, Dad turned to me. “When are you gonna take out that trash, asshole?” “Hassle, hassle!” Ah … I get it. My lovely baby sister calls her favorite big brother … asshole. Thanks Dad!

After a while, we broke her of the habit. She didn’t take to calling me “asshole” again for about fifteen years

My Personal Favorite Super Hero Costumes of All Time

A boy's imagination only needs the four-color spark of a comic book to take off! Those of us who were drawn to the heroes of the comics, were initially drawn because, hey, they looked so dang cool! Here's my favorites ... I would love to hear yours.

10. Sandman (Golden Age)

Okay, I admit it. I've never so much as even read a Sandman comic. Don't know anything about him. Don't know his secret identity, exactly what kind of gun that is he's carrying around ... nothing. But every time I see the character with his suit, gas mask, hat and cape (cape and a tie ... that's an odd combination) I want to pick up a book and read just to find out. Sure ... you could very easily argue that "this is just some guy wearing some stuff on top of the suit he wears to the office everyday," and maybe that is exactly what makes the design so intriguing. I probably will never be a fan, but the get-up is enough to peak my interest ... and that's what makes a great superhero costume!



9. Banshee

Sean Cassidy has long been one of my favorite comic book characters and certainly my favorite member of the X-Men. For decades he's been an under-utilized character ... in fact, until the recent X-Men: First Class film, I bet many of you had never even heard of him ... hell, in the comic books these days, he may or may not even be alive. But his kick-ass power (he screams ... really loud!), Irish heritage and murky background have always made him interesting to me. Add on top of that a funky green costume (like I said, he's Irish) with a big, wide collar and weird striped wing-things that have never quite been explained (and each artist makes up their own rules about how large they are) and I'm hooked. Recent artists have incorporated more of the standard X-Men costume to his design, but I like it green and with the '70s collar!



8. Green Lantern (Alan Scott from the Golden Age)

Leave it to little known DC characters from the Golden Age to make this list over and over again. Sure, with the new film and DC's pushing of the character in the comics, the "new" Green Lantern may be more recognizable, but there is something about the sheer "busy-ness" of Alan Scott's costume that always caught my eye. Green pants, red shirt, old school lantern logo and long cape with giant collar ... it gives him more of a magical warrior feel (his ring is magic, all the "new" lanterns are some kinda cosmic power) that's at home with both modern superhero mythos and classic myth. A really cool "probably takes him an hour to get dressed" design.



7. Dr. Strange

Interestingly enough, Marvel's magic wielder, the Sorcerer Supreme has some similarities to Golden Age Green Lantern ... busy color scheme with gigantic collar ... but adds more of a tunic and sash to the wardrobe making him feel less like a superhero and more like a character from a Dungeons and Dragons game. Dr. Strange's appearance also increases in "cool quotient" with the funky hand motions he makes to cast spells. Rumor has it that Marvel may make a Dr. Strange movie in the near future ... I wonder how true to the design they'll stay with this one. I'm sure there's been plenty of artists over the years who were excited to draw the book, only to discover that drawing all that detail on the fringes of his cape got to be a little old after a while.



6. Space Ghost

Space Ghost makes the list even though he was not created or designed for comic books, but rather for the Hanna-Barbera cartoons in the 1960s. Even though Jan, Jace and Blip were all pretty lame, there was just something cool enough about Space Ghost to make him must-see Saturday morning fare. With his simple and sleek design, a mostly white costume with black cowl leading into a “who knows what the shape of it really is” yellow cape, Space Ghost was proof-positive that you didn't need to get too complicated to have a really killer super hero suit. Plus, he had those things around his wrists ... that made him invisible (or in the cartoon, an outline!) and the simple triangle with a ... well ... a "space ghost" logo.



5. Dr Fate

Another hero I never really followed as a comic book loving child was Dr Fate. A sorcerer (with a succession of hosts) who became a founding member of the Justice Society of America. I always thought the helmet (the Helm of Nabu) was awesome, but never really cared about the fact that Nabu's spirit would possess the character. I also never really had a full understanding of just what the heck his powers were ... it seemed that each successive writer just made a few more things up. But the simple design with almost-medieval golden helmet combined with matching cape (with collar!) and the Amulet of Anubis just made Dr Fate one of the coolest looking heroes around.



4. Captain Marvel (DC Comics)

For those of us who grew up in the '70s, Shazam! was must-see-TV. Of course, we weren't paying all that great of attention and most of us never realized that the character's name was actually Captain Marvel. Shazam was the old wizard who gave him his powers. Only problem is, those of us who only watched the show knew nothing about the wizard -- all we knew was that he had the powers of Solomon, Hercules, Atlas, Zeus, Achilles and Mercury and every-so-often, he would talk to them. But hey ... who cares? The point is that Captain Marvel had one of the most kick-ass super hero costumes ever. I mean, a golden lightning bolt on a red shirt? Cool! Add in the sash and unusual (and short) cape, and the "World's Mightiest Mortal" was one of the world's best-dressed heroes.



3. Angel (from Marvel Comic's X-Men)

Like most of the rest of the X-Men, poor Warren Worthington III has had more than his fair share of wardrobe changes over the years. First there was the plain yellow and black standard issue X-Men uniform, then the silly red shirt with suspenders look ("did they hold his wings up?") then a number of variations including the popular (but ultimately ugly) Archangel outfit fully equipped with razor-tipped steel wings. But the simple white and blue outfit with halo logo was just perfect. Sure, there was also another red costume that was an exact duplicate of this one, but the blue softened him more and made me reflect more on mythology. This was the modern Icarus ... the winged man. After all, what are super heroes if not the Greek gods of our generation?



2. Batman

Perhaps no major superhero has ever had the myriad of subtle changes to his wardrobe that Batman has had. From giant ears and purple gloves to black latex rubber, the number of incarnations of Batman's outfit is only matched by the number of gadgets in his utility belt. But for me, a child of the '70s and '80s, the Neal Adams-era Batman with gray tights, blue flowing cape (that was always catching some wind) and pointed ears is it! A loving middle-ground between Adam West and the armor-wearing Christian Bale in the recent movies. Other generations may reflect on the animated series or the Tim Burton movies ... but I'm from the post Adam West, Superfriends, Mego action figures generation. This is MY Batman ... and I love the design!



1. Superman

The template from which all other superhero costumes are created. Tights and cape, logo/symbol on the chest, a belt and (if you feel like it) some underwear on the outside. There is no better design for the daydreams of a young boy. All you needed what a red towel to tie around your neck, and you too could go "up, up and away!" It just doesn't get better than the Man of Steel.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

Let's be real for a moment ... we all lie. Maybe little white lies, but we all lie. Its human nature to withhold a truth or try to control another's perception of us. We've all made up excuses for why we were late for work or school. We've lied about our successes and failures ... what's the difference between telling so-and-so that you make $60,000 a year when you only really make $48,000 ... and we probably all lied to our parents in a vain attempt to get out of trouble when we were children.

You lied to your boss. So what? Told your Mom a fib about how well you were doing in school. Who cares?

Unfortunately some of us will lie to ourselves.

You can get away with those other lies ... you can trick and deceive others ... but you can't really deceive yourself. Or can you? I've certainly never been able to pull it off. I'm too emotional ... too riddled with guilt. It's not a question of self-awareness, but rather a question of being too sentimental and temperamental. But I discover more and more that others are capable of doing it. You can convince yourself, or at least appear to convince yourself, that the lie is truth ... and maybe it is, but it isn't your truth. It's just a lie that you think is better than your truth.

Sometimes it seems to be an attempt to conform. Your friends and family all believe that you should think this way or that, that you should have this particular opinion, they advise you that you should take a course of action that you don't really feel is right. And you do it ... you go along with it ... even though in your heart-of-hearts you know it is wrong. Hell ... the idea might have been yours to begin with! Sure, it seems like a good idea ... it seems like the right thing to do or feel or think ... but is it? You fight with that doubt as your inner-self tries to assert control, but you beat it back. You force yourself to believe in a non-truth. And you have to live with those repercussions.

The unfortunate thing is that you can't really fool those who have an honest bond with you. Just as you could never quite fool your parents and just as your children can't quite fool you. Because while they may hear and acknowledge (and perhaps even believe) your lie with their eyes, ears and brains ... the hearts are also speaking to one another ... and you can't fool a heart. You can only fool yourself.

A Lot Can Happen Between the Bridge and the River

Where I grew up, it was flat. FLAT! Those of you who have never visited the South Plains of Texas may not fully understand the severity of that statement. It was flat! It felt like you only needed a good pair of binoculars to see China. Flat!

This, naturally, meant that I had very few interactions with heights. I had no reason to fear heights, because I never really encountered "height." Sure, my hometown of Lubbock TX had a twenty-story building, but I had never even stepped foot in it until I was 22. And like most young boys, I climbed my fair share of trees, ran around on a number of roofs and even spray painted my initials onto a water tower. In high school, as part of theatre classes, I climbed ladders to hang lights dozens of feet above the stage. Not once was I ever afraid ... I certainly didn't have a fear of heights.

In fact, I still don't think I do.

But that doesn't mean that fear and discomfort aren't right around the corner.

In the year 2000, at thirty years of age, I had my first encounter with vertigo. It was frightening, debilitating, dizzying and ... for a brief moment or two ... certainly seemed life-threatening. I remember that first 'attack' vividly:

I was standing on a packed 33rd Street/Queens Boulevard platform waiting for the 7 train to take me back into Manhattan. It was 5:30pm and the platform was as crowded as can be. It was a hot May afternoon as I stood on the edge of the platform and peeked down the tracks ... the train was at the 40th Street station and would arrive in moments. "Thank God," I thought, "I hope the A/C is working in my car."

I then glanced over at the green glass of the Citigroup Building (One Court Square) that reflected the sun. And in an instant, I was all-but delirious ... the world was spinning, I wasn't sure I could keep my balance, sound seemed to fade and the approach of the coming train seemed muffled. A cold sweat ran down my back and dripped from my nose. I felt I would fall over (onto the tracks!) in a second. As the train pulled into the station and passengers piled on, I forced my way to the back of the platform and crouched between a bench and a garbage can, trying to maintain my composure through sheer will-power.

I logically knew that I was okay ... I wasn't going to fall over. I tried to rise to my feet ... and the sensation of imbalance increased. So I crouched again (how I must have looked to all the other strap hangers coming and going from the platform), squeezed my eyes shut and tried my best to concentrate ... just focus and make it go away.

After several minutes (which felt like hours) it did.

Over the following months, these 'attacks' would occur and re-occur with alarming regularity. Some were minor and brief, others incapacitating and several minutes long. I began to refer to the time spent in an 'attack' as "the gap between the bridge and the river." In time, the fear felt during the attack diminished ... because I had confidence it would end. No matter how hopeless or helpless I felt nor how frightened I was that the end of the 'attack' might mean the end of my life, I had the will-power to see it through and the faith that I would be alright.

A lot can happen between the bridge and the river.

For me, it was a fascinating analogy. What must be going through a man's mind after he has thrown himself from the bridge and before he hits the river? It was a phrase I had first heard from my brother when he was going through an exceptionally rough patch ... he felt he had tossed his life away and was just waiting for the end to come and hit him in the face. As a means of reassuring him I told him that "a lot can happen between the bridge and the river."

And that, my friends, is how my still occasional bouts with vertigo shape my character and my faith. They are a reminder. No matter how low I feel, no matter how grim the situation, no matter how certain (or uncertain) the outcome ... I have the will-power and the faith that something will happen to spring me back to the bridge to continue my journey.

And one day ... one day when I'm hurtling through space headlong towards the dark and murky river ... I may just sprout wings and fly.

A Tribute to James -- Part Three (of Three)

The summer of 2008 will be remembered by most Americans as the summer gas prices went through the roof. For James and I, it was the summer of guessing how far we'll go on whatever gas we might actually have in the tank. When your car averaged 16 miles per gallon when it was new (17 years before) and is now averaging 10 on a good day, $5.00+ per gallon gas on a limited income gets to be a dicey situation.

Needless to say, James spent more time than he deserved on the side of the road and I did more than my fair share of walking to the filling station to spend my pocket change on enough gas to (hopefully) get us home that day.

But the great thing about James: when I really needed him to, when I coaxed and loved him along ... when the chips were down, he came through. Each and every time! So when we were late to work a time or two because we ran out of gas, I didn't complain.

By the summer of 2009, gas was back down to an almost reasonable price but my gas mileage was getting worse and worse. Now James was 18 years old. Now he had ... well, maybe 200,000 miles ... we don't know, because one day his odometer just set itself back about 50,000 miles for no apparent reason. On top of that, his acceleration was decreasing and from time to time dark smoke billowed out his tailpipe. "Oh James, please hang on."

While at the Midas station to get an oil change they diagnosed the problem. James' fuel pump was about to go. So once again I dropped every penny I had to get him back up and running. And after the fuel pump was in, he ran great! For about three days.

I had to go out of town for a series of comedy gigs in New Jersey, but my neighbor took James to his own mechanic as a favor and discovered ... that the fuel pump had been installed incorrectly. Oh ... and because of that, we had about another $1600 worth of repair that would need to be done. I didn't have the money ... but no matter ... I loved James and you'll do whatever you have to for those you love, right? Somehow or another, we got it payed off and James was back up and running. All you can truly wish for your loved ones is health, and for James, he had it ... so long as I didn't mistreat him.

In February of 2011 my life once again spiraled out of control. I didn't have a home or a family, but I had my splendid red engine. In fact, he became my home and a place I felt safe (and could sleep). I had a reclining driver's seat to nap in and somebody who was actually deserving of my affection, even if others might consider him a twenty year old hunk of scrap metal. In March, with no other choice, James and I went on our last adventure ... a comedy gig in Savannah and, if luck could stay with us, a final trip to Texas. That was a lot of miles for a 20 year old Blazer! So with a shiny new radiator installed, off we went to Georgia for what turned out to be an excellent gig ... followed by a horrible tragedy.

Protective of James and concerned about money (we hadn't made as much at the gig as we had hoped) I decided to head back north to Wilmington. We would go to Texas on another day. Thirteen miles across the South Carolina border it happened: a sudden, loud 'thunk' and we lost all power. I knew immediately what had happened ... James had thrown a rod. With less than $200 to my name, I did the calculations: $200 to tow it to the next town, several hundred more (if not a thousand) to rebuild the motor ... there was no other choice ... this would have to be the end.

I spent the night trying to sleep in James on the side of the highway waiting on my friend Kyle to come and get me (and all of my meager possessions, which were in the backseat) and at the advice of a State Trooper, we would leave James by the side of the road. I had no other choice. It was the last thing in the world I wanted to do ... but I had been doing the last thing in the world I wanted to do a lot lately. For the six and a half hours I sat in James for the last time, I talked to him, thanked him ... and wept. He was my best friend ... and there was nothing I could do to save him.

Kyle arrived and we unloaded James and put everything in Kyle's car. I fought back tears in the early morning hours. Then, with everything unloaded and ready to say goodbye one last time, I grabbed one of James' hubcaps (more of a lug-nut cover, really) and vowed to keep it with me always. A memento from Jamesy-James ... my spendid little red engine.

That hubcap now hangs on my wall ... and I will keep it with me always. If told that I could only keep one thing in my house, and everything else would be destroyed, I think I'll grab it first. Because so long as I have it, I'll have a little piece of James with me as well.

A Tribute to James -- Part Two (of Three)

Christmas was fast approaching ... and it was going to be another lean one. Getting moved, renting a new (over-priced) house and buying the new Blazer had pretty much put me right back in the poor house. Then again, I've spent the majority of my life in the poor house, so I certainly wasn't worried. Better yet, I did have enough cash stashed away to make the trip up to Lynchburg to spend Christmas with my youngest, Ty. So it didn't matter that I wouldn't receive any gifts this year. It didn't matter that I had no Christmas decorations. All that mattered was that I had a vehicle that should (in theory, at least) get me the 280 miles I needed to travel to see my little one.

I knew I had a less-than-honest gas gauge, but figured I would just fill-up more often than might be necessary. No biggie. Other than a minor oil leak (that I couldn't pinpoint), there was nothing else mechanically wrong with my new red Blazer. Or so I thought.

Having left Wilmington at about 6:30pm (it was already long past sundown) I would make another discovery regarding my new form of transportation: once I got up to about 45 mph, the speedometer stopped working. And by "stopped working," I mean that the needle would drop back down to zero even though I was hauling ass on the Interstate. So, without having a clue as to how fast I was going, I tried to keep pace with the other cars on the road and made the assumption that so long as I wasn't passing many people, the odds were I wasn't speeding.

I checked into a cheap motel in Lynchburg a little after midnight, grateful that my new ride had made the trip. I would hit the sack, get some sleep, get up bright and early the next frosty morning and go see my son. It was going to be a good Christmas!

In the morning, I walked out to the parking lot and noticed a HUGE puddle of oil under the Blazer. "Well, my minor oil leak looks like it got a little more major." Undeterred, I put a quart of oil in and drove off to get my boy and have a little breakfast. Ty was excited when his father pulled up in his "brand new Jeep." No ... technically it wasn't anywhere close to brand new, and no, it wasn't a Jeep. But it looked like one. And it had been washed the day before, so it was just as shiny as anything brand new.

"What's he called?" Ty asked me.

"Who?"

He smirked at me from the backseat and, looking in the rearview mirror, I could see him roll his eyes.

"Your Jeep."

"I don't know. I hadn't thought of a name yet. What do you think we should call him?"

Without hesitation he replied, "James. 'Cause he's really spendid!"

Now, if you're not familiar with Thomas the Tank Engine, you might not get the reference. But being the good Dad (or at least, as good of a Dad as I can be) I caught on. We decided to name him after the red diesel engine from the Railway Series of books. From that moment on, his name was James. Or as Ty and I lovingly called him, "Jamesy-James."

A Tribute to James -- Part One (of Three)

I think that most people, at some point in time, can honestly say that they love an inanimate object. Not “love” as in “I want to marry a moped,” but simply a strong fondness for an object. It can be anything … a piece of furniture, a house or home, an article of clothing … and in America, quite often our automobile. After all, we as a society, spend a great deal of time in our cars. They are a requirement of life. It is something that you likely spend some time with each and every single day of your lives.

I have owned a number of cars in my life and I have been fond of most (certainly not all) of them. But only one has ever captured my heart. Only one vehicle can I say I truly loved. This is a dedication to him:

(… and, yes, I realize I used “him” instead of “it” … and with good reason!)

Oops! I'm Gonna Need a Car!

In October of 2007, I packed up my few belongings and moved from New York to Wilmington NC. I was at a low point in my life … I felt as though a nervous breakdown would occur any moment … and I had hoped that a change of scenery filled with warmer weather and beautiful beaches would help heal the physical, emotional and mental wounds I was suffering from. I had a job waiting on me, the money was okay (the company was filled with idiots, but whatever) and I would be nearer my precious Ty. It all seemed great!

Once in Wilmington however, it quickly dawned on me that living in a metropolis and living in a smaller community were two different things … and would have different requirements. Like a car.

See, for the last several years in NYC, I had been without a car. I didn't need one. I took public transportation everywhere I went. Having a car was actually a bit of a hassle … during the time I did have one, I accumulated hundreds (and hundreds) of dollars worth of parking tickets. But once I arrived in Wilmington it was readily apparent that I would need a vehicle … and I would need one quick. The only problem: I had spend quite literally every penny I had just to move. So I would rely on friends to provide transportation for a few weeks … something we all (at least, the majority of American males) find a bit embarrassing.

The Red Blazer at the Auto Auction

Three weeks later (and just a week before Thanksgiving), a friend and I go to an auto auction in Whiteville. Neither of us had any intention of buying a car. I only had about $700 to my name and couldn't dream of buying anything (that wasn't a piece of crap) for that … but we both thought we would get an idea of what type of vehicles they had (we were both in a position where we were going to have to buy something soon) so that maybe the following month, one or both of us could make a purchase.

The auction was actually cool … a whole lot of cars worth six or seven thousand were going for only two or three thousand … but this was way out of our price range. There were several heaps of garbage going cheap too … in fact we both had a laugh when a pair of Mexican brothers bought a Honda Accord with over 500,000 miles on it … it looked like shit and was spewing oil. Then again, they got it for only $200 cash … I guess, not bad in the long run. After a few hours of checking out the cars and being paranoid that any slight movement would mean I accidentally put in a bid, they wheeled in this 1991 Chevy Blazer. Ah! It was perfect. A little beat up, but it ran okay. The bidding began at $1500. Too bad I didn't have any money …

Then a surprising thing happened: nobody bid on the Blazer. The auction was thinning out. Those who had made purchases were getting paperwork done or were already on their way home. Another couple of dozen folks were like me and my friend, just spectators for the day. The auctioneer then looked over at the owner, they had a quick whispered discussion, and then they lowered the opening bid to $1000. Ah, so close.

But again, nothing happened. The owner and auctioneer had another (longer) whispered conversation. “The opening bid has been lowered to $500.” Before I even knew what I was doing, I was nodding at the auctioneer … I had just placed a bid on a car. Somebody else bid $525. I bid $550. Going once. Going twice. Sold!

Suddenly a panic hit me: I had just agreed to purchase a car. I had enough money in the bank account. There was one problem though … I didn't have a driver's license! In NYC, I had let is slide and didn't renew it … and you had to have a driver's license to purchase a car. Uh oh! Now we had a dilemma … the first of many …

Thinking quickly, I convinced my buddy that actually HE was buying the Blazer. Sure, I would be paying for it, but we would have to put the title in his name. Then, once I got my driver's license, we would transfer the title to my name. Okay, one problem solved. The next problem was that there was no plate on the car … not even a temporary plate. Little did I know the auction house wasn't responsible for that. While most people were loading up their purchases to be towed home, we weren't exactly prepared for that. I would have to drive it back to Wilmington with no plates. No worries, my buddy could just follow me in his car and stay close enough so that no cops could pull in behind me.

I hopped in, started him up and he sounded great. The gas gauge said I had over a quarter of a tank, so it should be plenty to get home and get it parked in the driveway … I could worry about everything else later. Twenty minutes later I learned the first little quirk of my new Blazer … the gas gauge didn't work! I ran out of gas a good 20 miles from Wilmington and home … and neither I nor my buddy had a gas can. Frustrated, but laughing, I climbed in my buddy's car and we turned back a few miles to the nearest service station and began to fill up any and every empty bottle he had in the car … two liter Coke bottles, a few smaller water bottles, you name it. After a nearly hour-long adventure of filling up bottles, taking them to the Blazer, pouring the gas and then getting him started up and back to the service station to actually put a safe amount of fuel in, we were back on the road. Minutes later I was home with my new red Blazer in the driveway. It wasn't legal to drive, but it was MINE … well, in theory.

Five Months Later

... and I still can't think straight.

... and I still don't understand.

... and I still wake up confused.

... and I've all but given up hope.

In the fall of 2007, I was at my wits' end. I was fighting just to make it through the next day. My body, mind and soul were deteriorating. I felt I would have to make some drastic changes to maintain my health and my sanity. So on a whim, I up and moved south ... and faced challenge after challenge to build a "new" life ... but in doing so, for a time, beat back the health issues, the personal issues, the financial issues ... made friends, found love (or at least I sure as hell thought I did) and created a new career. I started out weak and alone, but developed strength and renewed my own integrity.

... and I'm back in the same boat.

... but this time I have more confidence in myself.

... I know that I am filled with righteousness.

... I know that I am not the one giving up.

But I'm feeling another whim coming on.

...

...

The Roar of the Throbbing Hum

Throbbing. A throbbing pain that he couldn't isolate. A throbbing noise; a loud deafening hum fading in and out.

Uncertain, he opened his eyes and saw ... nothing. Grayness with hints of black and red. He could make out no discernible shapes. No matter how hard he tried, he could not make his eyes focus. In fact, he wasn't even certain he wanted his eyes to focus. He wasn't certain of anything ... where he was, when it was or even who he was. But he knew pain. Ripping through his body, welling in his chest and cutting through his mind as though it were a blade. Confused and frightened, he stayed motionless. Finally, another sensation.

Taste. Disgusting, horrible taste filled his mouth. A combination of salt and bile. Had he thrown up? Was it sweat? He reached up and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It didn't help. He leaned back and for the first time realized he had been sitting upright, but slumped forward. His vision wasn't clearing, but the throbbing hum was growing louder and the taste was even stronger. With his right hand he wiped away the inside of his mouth. Moisture. Liquid. Sticky, hot liquid. "My God, am I bleeding?"

With his hand on his lap he tried to focus on it. Concentrate on it. Find out what it was.

But it was impossible to concentrate with the roar of the throbbing hum, the pain shooting through his body. He realized then that he was trembling. Violently. His hand wasn't resting on his lap, but was flopping around like a fish pulled from the ocean. The recognition of that movement somehow made his eyes begin to find shapes and objects, not clearly, but enough to recognize that he was looking at his hand, his arm, jerking wildly against his blood soaked jeans. He also recognized smoke. Black smoke coming up from near his feet. Moments after seeing it, he inhaled it deeply.

In a daze he began to cough. Phlegm and spittle flew from his mouth and nose. The first cough brought a searing pain that shot round and round in his chest like a tornado breaking ribs. The second and third coughs did likewise and the pain was so great that he fought to suppress the next cough. He lost that fight and with the following cough his body wretched and vomit spewed from his mouth. The pain and the nausea brought another bit of clarity. He knew he had been unconscious, he knew he was someplace familiar.

"The car?"

He forced his head up, ignoring the pain and the smoke and saw a spider-web of cracks through glass. He recognized the interior of his car, so familiar yet so unrecognizable. A nightmarish version of someplace familiar and welcoming. He was in his car and that ... that shattered piece of blue, gray and black metal in front of him had hit him. He had been in a crash.

Papers from the glove box floated in the air burning as large embers. "The car is on fire," he thought to himself incredulous as to this even being possible. He looked down at the crimson that soaked his legs and realized that the blood must be his. He also realized that the car wasn't the only thing on fire ... his pants were on fire as well. Only upon making this realization did he feel that pain, a sharp sting surrounding his calf. He reached for the door handle, but to no avail. It wasn't where it normally was. In a panic, he ran his hands across the metal and plastic to his left until he felt the latch and pulled.

A wave of fresh, cool air hit him followed by the hard gravel and ground. Immediately he remembered the old saying, “stop, drop and roll.” The only problem was that he simply couldn't get his body to react to the thought. On his knees, he patted at the fire on his lower legs weakly. He watched the blood stain the dirt in front of him, uncertain of where it was coming from. If only he could concentrate, if only the surging, throbbing noise would go away. He turned and saw the flames in the cab of the car, embers flying about. It was surreal, as if he were watching television with the sound off. Yet he could feel the heat.

He knew he wasn't safe. He had to move. He had to do something. But he couldn't. He felt helpless. Like an invalid. Like a child. Like a baby.

A baby?

Dear God! They were still in there!

King Rich & Kyle Davis on KLBK-13

Don't Think For a Moment I Can't Pull It Off

They say that love is doing what's right for somebody else before you turn your attention to yourself. Yup ... I really don't have a problem doing that. Although it seems I'm the only one capable of doing such sometimes.

We all make mistakes. I can't prevent you from making your mistakes ... no matter how incredible they are or how bad the consequences are for me.

If you struggle with the choices that you have made ... then maybe, just maybe, you've made the wrong choices.

Maybe This Is Why I Don't Blog

It seems that every single freaking time I take up this blog again, horrible things happen to me a few weeks later.  Maybe I should just keep all of my thoughts and opinions to myself.

Have you ever been in a hole so deep that you can't comprehend how you could possibly get out of it?  I was in much the same boat just seven or eight months ago.  But at the time I had plenty on my side ... a great relationship with a woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, career opportunities slowly beginning to reveal themselves ... it was gonna take some time, but light was at the end of the tunnel.

So I focused on that possible bright new future ... one with the woman of my dreams by my side, my choice of career real and possible and some degree of financial security.  The problem was ... it wasn't coming fast enough.

So I changed my focus more to the here and now ... not out of selfish reasons, but because I never thought it fair to not uphold my end of the bargain in my relationship.  And although I was taking positive steps in the right direction ... I'm afraid I neglected the true reason I was doing it in the first place.  Her.

She has been pushed to the breaking point.  The point where she appears to no longer care for and/or about me.  Its my fault.  

But whatever happened to "relationships take work?"  We haven't done the work ... we really haven't.  And that is what breaks my heart.

The next ten days will dictate my future on a scale like never before.  In ten days, I will have no other choice but to forfeit everything I ever dreamt of ... my choice of career, my future, my ability to fend for myself ... and most of all, I will have to forfeit the only relationship that has real value and potential in my life.

In ten days ... life will not be worth living.  Again.

Social Media Label Disagreement

I've been wanting to write this particular blog entry for the past several days. I'm annoyed and once again have the desire to get on my soapbox and do a little preaching. I've tried to keep that to a minimum, but sometimes you just gotta give in and speak up.

So I'm checking facebook the other day and am scrolling down my newsfeed. Nothing terribly interesting to report … comedians promoting their shows (for those of you who don't know, all of us comics are friends on facebook for some reason), a few silly videos posted, some of my artistic friends posted photographs and two or three of my friends were reporting what they were having for dinner. Then I saw a post that only caught my eye because it had nearly twenty comments (and now it has around 60). Curiosity got the best of me and I read it.

The post itself was from a comedian working in South Texas who I don't really know (a good fifth of my friends list are comedians I don't really know) who posted something along the lines of “I'm headlining a show and if you don't like it, you can kiss my ass.” The responses / comments ran the gamut from “good for you” to a ridiculous tirade telling this particular comedian that he has no right to headline a show and that he's weakening his local comedy scene by doing so because he's never really worked a real comedy club.

Comedians bitching at one another because their egos are so fragile? Sigh.

For those of you who are not in the “comedy business” (God bless you) let me take a moment to explain the issue and terminology. Although a comedy show may be presented in many different formats, the one most frequently used (with variations and with good reason) includes a host or emcee, an opening act (or guest spot) who performs anywhere from three to ten minutes, a feature act (frequently called “the middle”) who performs twenty to thirty minutes and then the headliner who will do anywhere from forty-five minutes to a little more than an hour (yes, some headliners will boast about being able to do longer … I'll address that in another post). Although I have always agreed with this format (if booked correctly, the show builds nicely to a crescendo), the more and more I work in this business, the more and more I laugh at how comedians want to label themselves.

Don't get me wrong … there's a very good reason we all want to be considered headliners. Headliners typically make more money. The problem is, more than a few people in this “business” only want to be considered headliners because they want to stroke their own delusional egos. For one, I don't speak of myself in those terms. Taking a look at the work I did in 2010, I headlined about 60% of the time, featured about 30% of the time, did a couple of guest spots and hosted a large number of the shows I produced. However, I do not affix one of those stupid labels to myself … because I am much more concerned about the show than I am my performer's ego. Trust me … I've seen more than one so-called headliner who couldn't carry his weight … the business is filled with them. I've also seen features who shouldn't even be doing anything other than an open-mic. But its not really their fault … that responsibility falls on the booker.

My thought has always been to arrange the comics in a line-up that benefited the show. That line-up may or may not be based on experience. For example, having a high energy feature with a low-key headliner may not always work out. When booking shows, I always try to find a line-up that benefits the show itself, not the individual egos of those involved. The question for me is: can they fill their time and fill it well? And yes, I will admit, I've made some mistakes booking folks who couldn't fill their time and (worst of all) couldn't fill it well.

Back to my facebook friend: his biggest detractor was a fellow comedian who appears to have more experience but, from a quick Google search, not all that much really. This detractor appears to have carved himself a little niche as a house comic in a couple of established clubs and … well, that's all. But, since he's worked in clubs whereas this other fellow appears to have worked mostly in alternative venues (bars and clubs, for example), he obviously feels superior and entitled to tell somebody how to conduct his business. I don't know this guy either … he may be an awesome fellow … but he comes across as a self-righteous dick hole. Who the hell is he to tell a fellow comic what he's capable of?

To top it all off … the show is for NO MONEY (a mistake, my friends) and is being produced by the would-be headliner. So really … who gives a f*ck?

My advice to the first-time headliner: if it is what is best for the show (and you honestly believe that) the DO IT! Screw the detractors. However, if the show would benefit from a different line-up (perhaps you have forty-five minutes, but some of it is not all that strong), then investigate that route. Do what is best for the show on that particular night. Period. End of story. It really isn't any more complicated than that.

My advice to the adamant detractor: shut the hell up! Do your talking on stage, because otherwise you come across as a massive prick. You may be right … this guy may not be able to carry the “headliner” load … so how does that affect you? You're not even on the bill. You don't like this guy? Then don't work with him. Or better yet … why don't you feature for him and blow him out of the water?

My advice to the both of them: get rid of this antiquated thinking in terms of headliner, feature and so forth. How about referring to yourselves as comedians? How about taking the slots you are offered (or booked) and making the most of them? How about paying attention to your own business and career and letting your fellow comics take care of theirs? How about (here's a novel thought) you support one another and help push one another to be better?

I don't think of myself in terms of headliner or feature … I think of myself as a comic. That's it. And frankly, I'm barely that … only in the past year has comedy become my primary source of income, only recently has it become my job. Sure … I get aggravated as hell when I hear some kid from an open-mic who has never taken home a paycheck call himself a “comedian,” but I typically keep my freakin' mouth shut. It's a “title” I've worked hard to earn … not everybody deserves it … but even then, the mouth (at least publicly) stays freakin' shut!

I'm a comedian. You guys are comedians. How about we just leave it at that?