Bill Cosby Teaches Jared from Subway

"Hey Jared! Good to see you! How are you?"

"Bill---Bill Cosby? What are you doing here? Wait, where the hell are we?"

"My boy, this is a place called the Public Consciousness. It's not fun, but don't worry, it's very temporary."

"The Public what? Look, I have some commercials to tape, I have to--"

"Hahaha," Cosby laughed. "Jared, trust me, all that filth flarn filth in your career just came to a dead stop. Nobody at any corporation is touching you now. Come on, let's walk this way." They started towards a door.

"How do you know so much about this place?"

"I was just here a few months ago. All these accusations came out about me drugging girls to have sex with them. It was Godawful. But like I said, you're only in the Public Consciousness for a very short while. I was quickly forgotten about."

"So why are you back?"

"Apparently, I just admitted to raping girls."

"WHAT?"

"That's what the public thinks. That I just said, 'hell yeah I raped them. I raped them all!' But of course I didn't say that. A sealed document from 2005 came out where I admitted some things. It was released, but since nobody reads anything more than headlines, the public just assumes I admitted it today."

Just then, the door they were walking to burst open. A lady was being escorted out while screaming. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!! I BELONG HERE!! DON'T KICK ME OUT YET!!"

"Holy crap," said Jared. "Who is that?"

"Haha," said Cosby. "That's Rachel Dolezal. I guess her fifteen minutes are up. She apparently wanted to stay here a little longer. That's a little weird. Let's go inside."

Inside, assorted celebrities and Greek government officials took up most of the chairs, as well as the US Women's Soccer Team.

"Hmm...hard to find a seat," said Cosby.

"Here, you can have mine," said Caitlyn Jenner. "I was just leaving."

"Thanks, Bruce--ah, shit, I mean Caitlyn." Cosby laughed. "I'm an old man, you can't switch things up on me like that!" He playfully punched Jenner as he sat down. Jared sat next to him.

"So what do we do here?" Asked Jared.

"Just got to ride it out. See those soccer players over there? The Public Consciousness thinks they were underpaid and are bitter. The truth is, they were paid handsomely and haven't said one thing about it. They're just ecstatic about winning the Cup. As for you, nobody is reading articles about your story, just headlines, so now everybody thinks your a pedophile."

"WHAT?!? I'm totally not--"

"Hahaha," laughed Cosby. "This is the new social media. Facts don't matter. It's what generates clicks. Anyway, the world has massive A.D.D. now, so this will all blow over soon. The true facts about you will come out eventually, but nobody will give a shit because the new made-up stories will be out by then."

"Wow. So, you're innocent? You really didn't rape those girls?"

"Um, let's just change the subject, why don't we?"

An Unexpected Message from my Mom

My OCD got sick and tired of seeing the big red “347” over the Google Voice icon on my iPhone a few days ago.  Yes, that means I had 347 new messages.  Well, maybe “new” isn’t a good description for them.  Some of them were from 2011.  Clearly, I hate voicemail.

But feeling under the weather and having nothing better to do, I decided to log into my Google Voice account on a PC and undertake the arduous task of cleaning it out.  The nice thing about Voice is that it attempts to transcribe the message for you so you don’t have to actually listen to the crap. Any time I saw phrases like “trouble with my Verizon phone you sold me” or “need someone to explain my bill”, I could immediately delete.  Productivity!

Then I saw a message from Norlina P. Simmons.

A message from my mom!

I played it. It was her complaining, wondering why she bothers to leave voicemail when I never check it.  I guess she learned her lesson, since this was the last message from her, and it was mid-2014.  After that she became a texter.

But her voice—My God it was wonderful to hear her voice again. I ceased cleaning out my voicemail and instead started searching for her messages.  There were many.  She’d tell me she was sorry she “missed (my) call, but (she) was in church” or that she “wanted to know if (I) was coming over for breakfast” or if I wanted to go with Dad and her “to get a sandwich”.   I listened to every single one, all the way back to when I started using Google for voicemail, back in ’11.

As I was going through them all, I noticed something.  I hadn’t heard the words “I love you”.  Mom and I had no qualms saying this to each other—in fact we said it a lot—but I guess it wasn’t something we did much in voicemail. 

I kept playing message after message.  I desperately wanted to hear it.  Finally, I played a message from April 18^th, 2012.  It ended with:

“…checked my phone and there you are! You called me. Okay, you’re okay. Love you! Bye.”

And, that’s when the waterworks started.  It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

Shit. Why do I write this crap?  It’s starting again.

Okay, the point of this essay isn’t to get all sappy.  The point is this: That message was a somewhat random voicemail where my mom was worried about me because (I guess) we hadn’t been in touch.  At the end, she told me she loved me to end the message, and probably didn’t think much about it after hanging up.  And now it’s the most important recording I have, and I plan on keeping it the rest of my life. 

Okay, THAT wasn’t the point either.  That was what happened.  THIS is the point: Tell your loved ones you love them.  All the time. Every time. Any time you think of it. Because you never know if that random “I love you” will be the last one you ever have to ability to give.  Or receive. 

I love you too, Mom.

My Mom, My Hero

When I was a Verizon rep in Florida, every once in a while another rep would catch me at my desk without a customer, seemingly doing nothing, with a big smile on my face.

"Dude, why are you smiling?" He asked once.

"No reason. Just to smile I guess."

"Well, you look like a serial killer. Stop."

My smile turned into a laugh, then back to a smile. I never really put that much thought into it. Sometimes I just smile.

In retrospect, I guess I now know where I got it from. My mom always smiled. She was perpetually happy. I'll never forget being at my parents' house one day at dinner when she just blurted out, "I'm so happy with my life". It was entirely genuine. There was no one in the world happier than her.

The crazy thing was, she had so many reasons to deny herself happiness. She never experienced having wealth. Even before the cancer, her body was ravaged with rheumatoid arthritis, osteo-arthritis, and some disease that prevented her body from producing any moisture. She also had an artificial shoulder and her hands were starting to become deformed.

Mother was in constant pain, but honestly, us loved ones always forgot about it because she NEVER talked about it. She never complained. And despite her crippling handicaps, she'd keep on volunteering, keep on making cakes and candies, and keep on smiling.

Check out these two pictures:

In the first, Mom is in the Cancer Center getting her chemo...smiling away. In the second--damn this hurts--this was the last picture ever taken of her. A few hours later she left on an ambulance ride she would never come home from. At this point the Cancer Center had told her her body was too weak for chemo. Every part of her ached, and she was only walking because her rehab specialist was trying to keep her muscles from atrophying. It's a blurry picture and hard to tell, but you know what you see when you zoom in?

A big smile.

I think Mom figured out two things that most people never do:

1. Happiness really is a choice. You can choose to be miserable, you can choose to be stressed, and you can choose to be dissatisfied. But my mom chose to feel happy and fulfilled.

2. At no time in life do you receive more happiness than when you give happiness. I already knew that Mom volunteered at LifeLine, a charity that supports single mothers, sang choir at the bedside of patients in hospice, gave away cakes and candies, et cetera. But since her passing I've learned DOZENS of stories of her giving her time, energy and love to others that I had no idea about.

Which explains the absolute FLOOD of people that came to her house to help her and Dad out in any way possible. So many people loved her because she loved so many people.

And that is where she got all her happiness.

As I said in her eulogy, the way I plan on honoring my mom is by living my life like hers: giving of myself. And in fact, it's not really work. It's all reward.

Because all the love you give, you get back tenfold.

I love you, Mom.

Mom and Dad (and Cell Phones)

Mom was in the passenger seat of Dad’s pickup truck.  She was playing with her brand new BlackBerry while Dad was driving.

“Great,” he said sarcastically.  “Now you’re going to become one of those damn ‘BlackBerry Zombies’.”

To this day, Dad hates cell phones, and only has a little flip phone because I got him one and made him promise to always leave it on.  That wasn’t the easiest rule to negotiate because the only thing he hates more than cell phones is actually answering calls on cell phones.  Mom, on the other hand, not only liked them, but seemed to have a knack for them.  I noticed her storing appointments and reminders on flip phones, which I thought nobody did.  This is why I got her the BlackBerry.

“No I won’t,” she responded.  “I’m just replying to some email.”

“You’ve been on that damn thing for half an hour.”

“Just a few more minutes.”

Dad stewed in the driver’s seat.  If he could keep his cell phone in his pocket while out with his spouse, he didn’t see why she couldn’t.  Whatever.

“Okay, okay, I’m done,” Mom said, after noticing my dad’s bitterness.  She put the BlackBerry in her purse.  

“Good.  I hate all this new technology.  I’d like to be able to enjoy just one damn day without it.”

Just then, his cell phone rang.

“Aw, SON OF A BITCH! Who the hell is calling now?!?”  He started to undo his seatbelt.

“Honey, be careful,” said Mom.

Dad, who’s a little heavy in the midsection, really struggled to get to the phone in his front pocket while it continued to ring. “DAMMIT this is why I hate these things!”

“Maybe you should pull over.”

“I can get it!”

After a few more curse words, he finally pulled the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open.

It said “Norlina”.

Mom purse-dialed him.

After a second of silence, Mom erupted with laughter.  It took a few more seconds, but Dad eventually joined her.  

Should I be Fired?

“My son just wants to take a look at iPhones,” said a middle-aged woman who hurriedly walked in our store on the Upper West Side. She wore very expensive clothing and was talking on her cell phone. She gestured at me to go away. Over-entitled Upper West Side bitch.

I turned to the boy. He was about 17, also well-attired, but not wearing it well. He was overweight, had thick glasses, and was all wrinkled. “The iPhones are right over--”

“I know where they are,” he interrupted and brushed past me. He immediately started touching all the app icons on our demo iPhone.

“Where's the big one? The iPhone 6 Plus?”

“We don't have a demo of the Plus,” I responded. “But if you want to know the size, this is the case for it.”

“What kind of store doesn't have a demo of the Plus?!? How am I supposed to decide on a phone I can't try out!?! This is ridiculous. This store is stupid.” He looked at me with detest.

I hit him with a left hook right in the gut. He grunted as the force caused him to bend slightly forward, which was unfortunate for him as it made it easier for me to connect with a followup right uppercut to the jaw. The punk literally flew into the iPhone display, which got knocked off the shelf. He slammed against the wall and slumped down to the floor. OtterBox cases and car chargers rained down upon him as he lay on the ground, groaning, with his bloodied face.

“Is it the same price here as online?” He asked.

Startled, I snapped out of my fantasy. “Yeah, Apple controls their pricing. iPhones are always the same cost no matter where you buy them.”

“Good,” he said, still playing with the iPhone. “I already ordered mine online. I just wanted to play with this one.”

“You already ordered it?!? YOU'RE WASTING MY TIME FUCKING WITH STORE iPHONES WHEN YOU ALREADY ORDERED THE PIECE OF SHIT ONLINE?!? COME HERE YOU OVERENTITLED TWERP!” I quickly put him in a headlock. “YOU WANT TO SEE AN iPHONE?!?! HERE'S A GODDAMN iPHONE!!” I started smashing his fat face into the iPhone display.

“What are you doing?!?” His mom shouted. I reached for an iPad with my free hand and quickly flung it, frisbee-style at the mom, knocking her in the forehead. She fell to the ground. The contents of her Prada purse spilled out onto the floor. A bag came out marked “Two Million Dollars of Untraceable Bills that can Definitely be Stolen and You'll Totally Get Away With it and Quit Retail”.

I quit smashing the punk's face and rushed over, grabbed the money, and ran for the door. Yes! I'm free forever! I can write and perform all I want and--

“Okay, that's enough,” said the kid. “I can't wait to get my phone! MOM! I'm ready to go!”

The mother, who was still on the phone, simply turned and left, and the son followed her out the door.

Match.com Has Nothing on Me

I have a rule that I never post about my social life on the Internet. I know that may sound weird coming from someone who has no qualms sharing the most embarrassing things about his life online and onstage, but we all have to have a line, and that’s mine. It’s mainly out of respect for the other party.

But, I love this story too much to keep it to myself. So this one time, I’m making an exception.  About two and half weeks ago, I somehow managed to score a first date with a beautiful girl named Evgeniya. She had walked into my Verizon store to buy a phone charger, and I was instantly attracted. She was tall, Russian, and had a strong, lovely accent. I kept her talking, trying to figure out a non-awkward way of asking her out.

Which I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be doing with customers.

Anyway, I chickened out. I started kicking myself. What are the chances she’d come in again? Probably nil. Then I thought: maybe I can find her on Facebook! Using the information she gave me, I found her profile and sent her a friend request.

Which I’m also pretty sure I’m not supposed to be doing with customers.

Long story short, I managed to eventually charm my way into the aforementioned date. It went well enough. I found that she owns her own business, and has lived in New York City for six years. She’s already well-established in the Big Apple. I’m currently renting a living room from a friend. I decided not to mention this. I knew I had some work to do to impress her.

The next day at work was “iPhone Day”, the first day we could sell the new iPhone 6. The store was a madhouse, flooded with Apple nerds begging for their new toy. Realizing we’d be slammed all day, our Regional Directors ordered pizzas for all of our stores. I hardly touched any. The only other rep had a couple of pieces. And the end of the day, we still had a pie and a half left.

“Do you want any of this?” asked my coworker Greg.

“No,” I replied.

“I guess I’ll throw it out, then.”

“No, don’t waste it. Give it to me, I’ll find some homeless guy to give it to.”

Greg looked at me weirdly. “You’re going to go wander around Astoria looking for a homeless dude?”

“It’s New York City,” I said. “It won’t take long.”

“Be careful, man. Seriously.”

I left the store with the pizza, and honestly had no idea where to go. You see homeless guys in NYC all the time, but how the hell do you intentionally find one? As predicted though, I didn’t have to walk very far. Strolling down 30th Ave near a train station, I saw three dirty-looking guys engaging in an animated conversation in another language. I walked up to them and asked loudly, “Hey! Are you guys hungry?”

These guys were ECSTATIC. One guy grabbed the box, thanked me, and excitedly shook my hand. The second guy did the same. The third guy shook my hand and spoke in a language I couldn’t understand. All three were laughing. The third guy wouldn’t let go of my hand. He kept shaking it.

“He’s saying ‘Thank you’,” said the second guy.

The third guy kept talking. It was an awfully long ‘thank you’. I was laughing and smiling, but I also wanted my hand back. All three of them were laughing and smiling too. I was beginning to think they wanted me to hang out and watch them eat. I started feeling a little awkward. The third guy was still talking.

All of a sudden, over my shoulder, I heard: “Um, Joe?”

Hand still firmly in the third guy’s grasp, I turned and looked.

It was Evgeniya.

At this instant, these things ran through my mind:

A) There are over eight million people in New York City.

B) There are hundreds and hundreds of blocks in New York City.

C) The ONE person of those eight million that I gave a damn about making a positive impression with just walked down the ONE block I happened to be on where I’m apparently just "hanging out" with homeless people.

D) Oh, and let’s not forget that the previous night I never mentioned my accommodations.

To her credit, Evgeniya instantly recognized what was going on, and laughed. Really laughed. For fifteen solid minutes. She couldn’t even speak, she was laughing so hard. And yes, I was laughing too. I offered to walk her home.

As we were leaving, one of the homeless guys yelled out, “She’s a catch!”

I think he may be right.

The Subway

I was down in the 15th St-Prospect Park subway terminal seated on a bench, waiting for the F-train, pretty much pissed off that I had to go in to the city on my day off for a last-minute breakfast with the Regional Directors of my company. As it always does on weekends, the F-train was taking its sweet ass time getting there.

A 20-ish girl walked up to sit next to me. She was heavy-set, African American and had a little space between her two front teeth when she smiled. As she sat, she accidentally kicked my shoe.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry." Her voice was sweet and melodic.

"No problem," I responded.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"It's really no problem." We smiled at each other.

We ended up next to each other on the train as well. Standing next to her was a 30-ish guy carrying lacrosse equipment. She smiled and asked him if he played soccer.

"No, lacrosse." he smiled. "A lot less running around." She laughed. Obviously she was no sports expert.

I should pause here to mention that small talk is uncommon on the subway. Everybody usually kind of stares straight ahead or buries their face in a book or their phone. She apparently is unaware or doesn't care about that.

They both shared a laugh over something I missed. At the next stop as she was getting off, she looked at me, smiled, and said "Have a nice day!"

"You like to spread positivity, don't you?" I asked.

"I try."

"I like that."

"Thank you. Have a great day."

I'm generally a pretty positive person, but I think lately I've kind of let myself slip into negativity. I've been working and commuting a tremendous amount of hours, haven't had much time for the gym, the stage or even a social life, and it's probably starting to show. But that girl made me feel a lot better. And guess what--the breakfast I had with my RDs went fantastic. My schedule should start freeing up soon.

I'm not religious at all, but I do think the Universe gives you what you manifest. And, every once in a while, it'll send you a message. I don't think meeting that girl was an accident. I think that was just life telling me, "Hey, you got this. Keep your chin up."

Vote "Yes"

Lady yelling at me from across the parking lot: "Would you like to sign a petition to legalize medical marijuana?"

Me: "Hell yeah. Bring that over here."

Lady: "Medical marijuana has many medical benefits such as--"

Me, signing: "Lady, you had me at 'marijuana'. Here you go."

Lady: "Thank you very much."

Me: "So you got any?"

Store Story #662

Recently, an elderly couple came into our store in Naples, Florida to discuss some aspect of their account. The lady, somewhat heavy-set, moved quite well and set in her seat with ease. The gentleman, skinny and slightly hunched over, with wisps of gray hair futilely covering his balding head, struggled to his chair. I asked how I could help.

She began discussing her issue, but soon started blinking her eyes in the sunlight that was beaming through the near window directly at her face. Her husband immediately noticed this, struggled back up off his chair, bent slightly over, awkwardly reached out, and with both hands formed a shade that blocked the sun from her eyes.

He looked--well, he looked like an idiot.

"Oh sweetheart," she said. "Please, you don't have to do that."

He replied that it was no problem, just continue.

"I had eye surgery a decade ago," she told me. "I'm supposed to be careful with sun exposure, but I haven't really been sensitive to it for years." She acted frustrated that her husband was in this weird position near her.

But her acting wasn't very good. Her lips curled up slightly at the ends and there was a sparkle in her eyes. Her knight in shining armor was protecting her.

So, sitting behind my desk, seeing this old man looking like some kind of breathing gargoyle playing first base, and this old lady, sitting prim and proper, hiding a smile while she has a weird shadow over her eyes, it hit me what exactly I was looking at.

I was looking at true love.

In that moment, there was nothing more important to that man than his wife, and weird position be damned, he wasn't going to let anything hurt her. I wondered if I would ever love someone that much. I decided I definitely would. Someday.

I also decided that true love could make a man look pretty stupid.

Store Stories #829

It caught me off guard when the door chime rung. Its beeping is usually unnecessary, since sales reps in our stores generally see our customers coming from their vehicles in the parking lot. But I never saw a car pull in. A short, older gentleman with thinning salt-and-pepper hair walked inside. He was probably in his 70s. I’m trained to give a warm greeting when someone comes in, but he beat me to it.

“Hello,” he said with a huge smile and strong Italian accent. “How is this day treating you?”

I instantly liked him. There are some people that carry themselves in such a way that they exude positivity. I could tell this is how he greeted everyone. I returned the greeting.

“I’m having a problem with my smartphone,” he started.

That string of words is all too familiar to wireless reps, and none of us like it. It means:
A. I’m not selling anything.
B. I’m about to spend a lot of time not selling anything.

But it’s part of the job, and I thought I’d enjoy his company, so I listened intently and eventually resolved his issue. He graciously thanked me. He followed that by asking, “So, how’s business?”

“Eh, it’s Summer,” I responded. In Florida, everyone knows that means it’s slow.

He nodded politely, and then seemed to search for another topic. “Well, at least you can catch up on other things in your life.” He smiled.

Immediately I recognized that he didn’t want to leave. In Florida we get a lot of elderly customers that seem lonely and starved for conversation. Sadly, sometimes we have to find ways to ease them out for the sake of business, but this time the store was empty and heck, he was so damn pleasant. I engaged him.

“Yeah, I’ve kept myself pretty busy. Been hitting the gym a lot, riding my bike, and…”

I hesitated for a second. I tell maybe one out of every twenty customers about my double life.

“…and, believe it or not, I have a night job. I’m a standup comedian.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? How exciting! How did you get into that?”

Usually, it’s a story I’m pretty sick of telling, but I jumped into it with him. His enthusiasm was infectious. Soon he knew about the blogging, my old phobia of public speaking, the first time I got on stage, pretty much everything. I also admitted that while I’m excited about what’s going on in my comedy career, I’m getting pretty old to be chasing dreams.

“Preposterous,” he replied. “It’s never too late. I can tell you have a passion for your art. Don’t ever give up on your dream. I think you’ll make it. No, I’m positive you’ll make it. If you have the talent, the passion, and you never give up, you can’t fail.”

He then shook my hand and gestured like he was going to leave. Then he stopped, smiled again, and seemingly to emphasize his point, he repeated himself. “I’m serious. Do not give up on your dream. I fully expect to see you on television someday.” And with that, he got up and left.

I never did see how he got to the store.

Father's Day

My earliest memory of my father is when he was in his late 20s, and took me with him to pick up a new 1974 Chevy Impala. I was three years-old at the time, so the memory is not much more than an image and an emotion, but the image is of me looking out the front window from the passenger seat, and the emotion was pride—as if I had bought the car—and seeing Mom come outside as we pulled into our house in Pensacola, FL.

(Funny side story: Dad got in BIG trouble with Mom for not bringing her car shopping.)

Dad was in the U.S. Navy for my entire childhood, and couldn’t always be there for my sister Lori and me, but I knew he wanted to. When he was home, he assumed the role of “Dad” perfectly: he played with us when we were good and disciplined us when we weren’t so good. When he was away on some months-long deployment, he’d write us letters telling us he loved us, and always buy us things from whatever country in which the U.S.S. Nimitz was in port.

One of my favorite memories is standing on the pier at Naval Station Norfolk in Virginia, waiting for the Nimitz. I was about seven at the time, but even to a full-grown adult a Nimitz-class nuclear carrier is a gigantic thing to behold. The tradition was for all the sailors to be on deck, in their Navy whites, waving to the crowd below. For Lori and me, it was a game of trying to pick out Daddy. At that distance, though, it was futile. But we had no problem picking him out when he came off the ship, and as we ran into his arms screaming “DAAAADDY!” We let Mom get her hug and kiss in eventually.

As I got older, I played the role of the typical stupid, long-haired rebellious teenager, and got into a lot of trouble with the law. Once this required a court appearance where I had a lawyer and there was a prosecuting attorney whose job was to sentence me. I was acquitted, but I’ll never forget who was standing beside me, supporting me, the whole time: my straitlaced, military-bred Dad.

Dad has been an amazing father to me, as well as an incredible husband to my mother. If I end up being half the man he is, I’ll feel I’ve done a good job in this life.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Where's my Dos Equis Tryout?

I've written for a blog that had thousands of readers. I've worn the UPS uniform. I've gotten on stage in front of hundreds of people, with a lone spotlight on me, and made them all laugh. I've seen the Latvian National Opera...in Latvia. I'm on a comedy podcast. I once carried on a three-hour conversation with a Russian fashion model who couldn't speak English.

I've written freelance sports coverage for the local paper. I've made out in a red London phone booth...in London. I've sat in a jail cell for a crime I did not commit. I've been interrogated by The Netherlands equivalent of the TSA in Amsterdam, while hungover. I danced the night away with a professional dancer in the Philippines. I've been in at least two motorcycle accidents.

I once got a private message from Louis CK on MySpace. I got lost late one night in Cancun, Mexico and had to walk a long, lonely stretch of road half drunk and pretty sure I was going to get kidnapped. I also met a sexy Canadian flight attendant down there who taught me what a "phallix" is. I never watch TV. I call a lot of girls "ex-girlfriends" that I never once called "girlfriends". I once scored the only '100' on the Real Estate exam, then never became an agent.

I've been broke. I've been rich. I've been in-between. I've been heartbroken, though I'm not sure I've ever been in love. Todd Glass once handed me a joint. I had to perform the day after one of my close comedian friends died, I bombed, and the only thing I felt was numbness. I've seen the world from the top of the Empire State Building.

Every single thing I've written is absolutely 100% true. That Dos Equis guy can go fuck himself. I'm the most interesting man alive.

Mother's Day

About five or six years ago, I was riding as a passenger in a car where the driver noticed an immigrant-looking woman walking with two small children on a long, empty sidewalk. The three of them were by all indications neither near their starting point nor their destination. The driver made a joke. I didn't laugh.

I immediately thought of my mom. She’s Filipino, having moved to the United States shortly after marrying my dad in 1969. For several years, Mom didn't have a driver’s license, and would have to run all her errands on foot. This was especially difficult when my dad, who was in the Navy, was on a months-long deployment in some ocean. She had no choice; she had two young children to raise. Shit had to get done. Groceries had to be bought. Kids had to be taken to school.

My memories of this time are scant; she got her license when I was in about 3rd grade. But one that does stick out: When we lived in Springfield, Missouri, we rented a small two-bedroom house with no air conditioning, which over the Summer Mom decided was intolerable. So we went, by bus, to buy an air conditioning unit from a department store.

Have you ever tried to lift an air conditioner?

I have no memory of the sales people or which store we bought it from, but I can only imagine what they were thinking when they saw my tiny 5”1’ mom and me—all of six-years-old—lug that unit into the parking lot and off to the bus stop.

Then up onto the bus. Then down off the bus, for the long walk back home.

I often wonder what it was like for Mom, moving to an entirely new country, not knowing anyone, not having any family nearby, responsible for two kids, with my dad gone for months at a time. But I know this: she never once hinted to my sister and I that it was hard on her. She was always loving, supportive, and positive.

She’s definitely been a hero to me, and the best Mom a son could ever have.

Happy Mother’s Day, Norlina P. Simmons

NYC Trip Update II

I'm posting this from the train station in the Woodlawn area of the Bronx, sitting on the steps pretending like I'm a New Yorker. Everyone here seems to be coughing, sniffling and hacking, so I fit right in. This Goddamn cold hit me the day before I left for the Big Apple, and hasn't left me since. It's been more committed to me than any of my last three girlfriends. I'm starting to fall in love, I think. What's a good engagement gift for phlegm?

The last seven days haven't gone exactly as planned, but what a whirlwind. Upon arrival at the apartment of fellow comedian Devin Barnes (and his beautiful girlfriend Ashley Hughes) my body told me: "It's time to sleep for about a week". I had a temperature, cold sweats, a sore throat, and congestion. Devin asked me if I wanted to rest for a couple of days. Yeah, right. I'm in NYC. No stupid fucking cold is stopping me. It'll probably be gone in a day or two, anyway.

(Author's Note: that last sentence was repeated by me every single day of this trip. I'm now pretty sure I'll have a antibiotic prescription in my future)

I'm on the train now. It's packed. Where are these people going at 10:38 at night?

I've only performed twice this whole trip. I really thought I'd get on stage more, but shit happens. More importantly it's been eye opening seeing the comedy up here. It's just...different. I'm based in Florida, where most of the crowds are either rednecks or octogenarians that are a broken hip away from death. They want simple, easy to understand jokes. Here in New York, you can write complex multi-layered bits and the crowds actually get it. I'm like in heaven.

Shit, I need to hit "Post" because I'm about to lose service in some damn tunnel. I know these statuses are weird and unevenly written, and I swear, the moment someone pays me for this shit I'll worry about that.

I love you all. Make me famous.

~J

NYC Trip Update

I'm currently at about 30,000 feet in a Delta airplane the size of a tube sock. I hate everybody in here. I'm sitting on the aisle and fantasizing about tripping everyone that walks by. If we crashed it would suck because I would die, but everyone else getting killed would take the edge off.

Okay, I know I sound bitter. I'm on three hours of sleep. Plus, I have not been sick in two years and NOW my dumb ass body decides "hey, why not pick up a hacking cough so everyone on the plane loves you?" Yeah, trust me, if I died no one on this plane would shed a tear.

In case you're wondering, I can post this because I paid for Internet access for my phone. OF COURSE I had to pay. Just like I got charged $25 for checking one bag. I'm pretty sure on my next flight there'll be a pay toilet. They'll also announce "due to worsening economic conditions, we no longer pressurize the cabin. For your convenience, we do offer oxygen for $30 per hour. Please enjoy your flight".

I'm on my way to New York City to perform comedy. And they just announced I have to turn my phone off. Don't rob my house.

Facebook

Facebook looks back at me in grayed-out words and and asks "How's it going, Joseph?" like it gives a shit. It doesn't. It just knows that getting you to post something--anything--is the key to facebook. Heck, it's more than the key, it is the everything of this "social network".

Facebook produces no content, it just organizes billions of megabits of keyboard diarrhea into easily digestible forms for consumption by an increasingly A.D.D.-afflicted population. It's a wonderfully programmed, sterile, blue-on-white-on-blue sublimation of desires to have an actual social life. It looks back on you and asks, "what can you do to get your Likes and Comments today?" And in your attempt to get your rat pellets, you produce page views, which produce ad images. The picture you just uploaded of your toddler with cookies on her face just bought facebook's campus a new park bench.

The word "everything" in my first paragraph? I wanted to italicize it for emphasis. I couldn't, because facebook doesn't permit that. Too many options for the commoner. Facebook is created to crush creativity to the point where no one stands out, meaning that everyone feels comfortable. Hey, MySpace allowed creativity, and we all know what happened there. Bad things, man. Bad things.

If Facebook commits crimes against creativity, Twitter is a serial killer. 140 Goddamn characters. That's what you get, fucker. Now even NBA players can be twitterific. Christ, did I just type that word?

I'm not complaining. This post has no point. I don't even know what the problem is. But I just decided that NyQuil is the solution.

Comedy vs. Cancer vs. Local News

Two years ago, I was asked to perform with a few other comics at a charity event for cancer. Well, I guess it was against cancer. Or something. It was one of those "Relay For Life" things where people trek around this high school track for hours, and I was to perform on a stage right in front of said track.

First off, I've never understood how people walking around in circles fights cancer. I understand that they accept pledges that a certain amount of money will be received if they walk for a certain amount of time, but, uh, what's wrong with someone just donating money for, you know, the cause? Are there really people out there that think, "look, those namby-pamby cancer patients aren't getting my money for nothing. Maybe if somebody sweats for me."

From what I remember, sweating was something a lot of those walkers could stand to do anyway. It's ingenious how they convinced people to pay them to get their fat asses off the couch, where they then could feel good about themselves for sending that money to the "fight against cancer".

Jeez, I sound like a douchebag. And I haven't even gotten to the story yet.

Anyway, right before showtime, veteran comic Bryan Hamilton rounded up myself and the few other comics and told us the ground rules. Basically, no cursing or adult subjects. Which basically removed about 95% of my act back then. I had to go to some very mediocre jokes, including one I had discarded long ago about how self-centered the local news is in their reporting of world events. Now, every single time I had told this joke previously,

1. I never mentioned a specific news organization, and
2. No one ever laughed.

Well, #2 remained consistent, but for whatever dumbass reason, I decided to add "you know how you watch local news, like ABC-7 or Fox 4..." to the bit. A bit that makes the anchors seem kind of stupid.

Well, guess who turns out to be a HUGE sponsor of Walk For Life? And happened to have a HUGE booth in the middle of the football field inside the track, with anchors and reporters signing autographs? Yeah, that would be Fox 4, who apparently didn't see the humor in me saying that if Key West fell into the ocean, they'd only report on how it affected traffic in Southwest Florida.

 The next day, a representative of Fox 4 called Walk For Life and threatened to pull sponsorship completely. I never knew how the conversation went, but when I imagine it, Fox 4 says "Quit hurting our feelings, or your fight against cancer can go fuck itself". Whatever was said, I got a tongue-lashing from Bryan. Oh, and we haven't been booked by Relay For Life ever since.

I love you all.  Make me famous.

Comedy is...Different

When I decided to become a comic a little over two years ago, I had no idea what kind of world I was entering. Up until that point in my life, I had always been employed in some kind of profession that required you to be, you know, professional. This meant there were certain assumptions about the way you behaved and just generally ran your life.

 

Just to cite one small example, in my previous jobs, the other employees rarely showed up stoned. And reeking of alcohol. That rarely goes over well in status meetings. Also, it was commonly assumed that you had a car. Or at least, you know, a current, non-suspended driver's license. And, if I saw white powder under your nose, I pretty much guessed you grabbed a powdered doughnut out of the break room.

 

This sure the hell hasn't been the case in standup comedy.

 

True story: I once went on a road trip with four people to a comedy show in North Carolina, yet I had to drive 50% of the time because two comics didn't have a valid license.

 

True story: I once had to leave a club because the comic I was hanging out with was caught with cocaine powder under his nose and got kicked out.

 

True fact: All the "carpooling" I've been doing in the last two months, with comics going to the same show, has happened in my  personal car.

 

True fact: I had only seen any form of illegal drug maybe a dozen times from high school to about two years ago. Now it's rare that I go a whole week.

 

I'm not complaining. I love standup comedy, and the herky-jerky, unexpected, and sometimes extralegal experiences that come along with it. I don't do drugs, but hey, I can drink at work. How many of you can say that? I don't remember there ever being a beer tap in any corporate break room I've ever been in.

 

It's a whole new world.  It's just...different.

 

I love you all. Make me famous.

Anthony's 4/21/11: Avoiding the Chokehold

The caller ID said Bryan Hamilton was trying to reach me.  I don’t like answering the phone when I’m driving, but if you send too many of Bryan’s calls to voicemail, you run the risk of a rear naked chokehold the next time he sees you.  I hit the “answer” button.

“I’m featuring at Anthony’s tonight,” said the fellow comedian.  “And I got you a guest spot.  Be there at seven.”

Notice that nowhere in that quote was I actually asked if I wanted to perform.  You know, it’s possible that I have plans; I could have been partying last night—um, okay, well, I could have been on a date with—ah, fuck it, who am I kidding?  I had no plans.  Besides, you really shouldn’t piss off guys that look like this:

So I agreed to take the gig. 

Bryan, a former Marine and full-time redneck, really did put me in a rear naked chokehold once.  About a year ago, before he got a smartphone, he had one of those old phones on which you could change the banner.  It had originally said something like “Sprint PCS”, but one day I decided that was too generic.  So when he foolishly left it on the bar while performing, I began searching through the menus.  It wasn’t until later that night that he looked at his phone and saw his new banner: “I LOVE THE COCK”.

He let me off easy that time.  But after I pulled the same trick a few times (“LOVES IT UP THE CHUTE”, “MEN ARE FOR ME”, “PROUD TO BE GAY”) my comedy mentor decided he had had enough.  While waiting for my set at a small Latin club, I suddenly felt an arm shoot up underneath my armpit and back behind my neck, with another arm wrapped around the front of my neck.  I couldn’t breathe.

“So, are we done fucking with my phone?”

I gagged out an unintelligible reply.

“I think I’ve made my point,” Bryan declared.  He certainly did. 

Fast forwarding to last night, the gig went outstanding for every comedian.  For whatever reason, it was a smaller crowd than usual, but they were great.  I’m not much of an improvisational comic, but I went off script a little to make fun of a guy in the front row.  I have a bit that starts with “Have you seen that commercial for Enzyte, the ‘male enhancement’ drug?”  After I said that, I heard a douchebag talking on his cell phone.  I immediately said, “This guy certainly has.  He’s even bragging to his friends about it right now.”  The crowd loved it.  Douchebag didn’t, but at least he took the hint and got off his damn cell.

I’d never before met the headliner, Lou Angelwolf, but he’s very funny and a terrific guy.  He actually ended up crashing in my spare bedroom, so he gave me a bunch of pointers.  The best thing he said to me, though, was that I made him laugh out loud several times.  It’s tough to make a comic laugh, so that was a great compliment.  If you ever get a chance to see him perform, don’t miss it.

That’s it for me.

I love you all.  Make me famous.

So, uh, this is it…

 

It took about two days, but my new(ish) website and blog are just about complete.  I’ve known I’ve needed a web presence for a long time, but there’s a lengthy list of reasons why I had not gotten it done:

1. Websites cost money.

Okay, so maybe “lengthy list” was a slight overstatement.  Call me a cheap ass*, but I’ve adapted nicely to the prevalent Internet marketing thought that every online product or service should be free.  I have no idea why.  I think we’ve all just gotten used to it.  Facebook, twitter, Gmail, Google Documents, blah blah blah are all somehow available at no charge.

* You wouldn’t be the first.

How the hell do they do it?  Everyone says facebook is worth like seven billion dollars, yet I haven’t the slightest clue how they make a single dime.  Do they actually print money?  Are they running whorehouses on the side?   Do they produce snuff films in third world countries?

No matter, I’ve been spoiled by this, so I hate paying for anything web-related.  Then along comes weebly.com to save the day.  Seriously, if you want to build a simple, free website without knowing any coding whatsoever, give them a shot.  And no, I’m not being paid for the plug.

In fact, I’m not being paid for any of this crap.  I need to figure out how the hell those damn websites are doing it.  Maybe they’re making it up.  Maybe one day I’ll just post on here that my website is worth eleven trillion dollars.  Yes!  Then I’ll have an Initial Public Offering of stock, raise millions of dollars, and then begin an advanced business process I’ll call Getting the Fuck Out of the Country With the Loot.  Hey, it almost worked for Enron.

Okay, where was I?  Oh, this website.  As you can tell for the menu above, this website will be a catch-all for everything I’m doing related to entertainment.  I have a few more videos to put up, but I’ll be honest here and say, like most every comic, I’ll never have a lot.  If you want to see the standup, you have to come see me.  I’ve got to make my money somehow!

I’m also going to start recording podcasts soon.  They’ll be an hour long, and I’ll kind of riff on certain subjects and have an advice segment.  I’m actually pretty excited about it. 

So, that’s it for now.  Let me know what you think of this blog/website.  If you like it, I’d love to hear it.  If you have suggestions, I can’t wait to ignore them.

I love you all.  Make me famous.