I'm not dead yet

Today is my 24^th name day, and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be a man by now. Just this week I learned how to change my oil, so that was probably a step towards manhood. But, other than that, I haven’t been making much progress towards proving to the world that I’m anything more than a cat-loving “comedian” that has been wearing the same forest green, bulldog-print pajama pants for the last four years. And, if I’m being honest, I haven’t proven that to myself yet either.

Don’t worry; this won’t be another blog post where you’re wondering if it’s equal parts confessional and suicide note. The severe depression and sulkiness has since worn off, and I’ve moved on to a calm, manageable state of big dreams and small self-esteem. The latter is currently being balanced out by the number of people wishing me a happy birthday on Facebook. I’m up to almost 30 notifications, if I get any less than 50 today this will become a suicide note, due to the fact that it would matter to less than 50 people. If I get more than 100, my ego will cause my head to grow to such a size that it will become so swollen and heavy that it breaks my neck, paralyzing me from the collarbone down. So don’t overdo it. My life is in your hands, Dude.

Birthdays have never been that big of a deal in my family. And although I can say that I had a generally typical, happy childhood, I can’t honestly say that I’ve ever had a birthday party. I attended a few, they seemed great. Everyone gathers around and insists that you be the center of attention, it’s every middle child’s fantasy.

I can only complain about my childhood so much, and if never having a birthday party is my biggest gripe about my upbringing, then I have very little to be upset about. It goes without saying that there are people that have come from much less forgiving backgrounds that have accomplished more than me by a huge margin.

People, perhaps for good reason, have never seemed to feel bad for me. I remember a time in middle school when my brothers were driving me to school and we were listening to music. I can’t remember exactly what song we were listening to, but the lyrics had some reference to having a hard time getting through high school because of the way they were treated. I expressed to my brothers that I could sympathize with the sentiment and they looked at me like I had just told them they were both adopted.

“You have no idea what they’re talking about,” I recall one of them saying. They were probably right, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make. I’ve always found myself more easily identifying with the outsider, or the flawed hero. Which isn’t to say that I’m either of those things, I’m not. The problem is that I look like the total opposite of those things, so when a joke about how sad I am comes out on stage, people don’t buy it because they don’t think that the guy that looks like the quarterback of their high school football team can have any idea what self-loathing can feel like. What I look like on the outside has never really matched the person I feel like I am.

I know this is huge, earthshaking news I’m delivering to you. Tomorrow the front page of the New York Times will read “Minneapolis comic looks good, feels shitty.”

This has become a ramble, and I don’t feel sorry about that. This is what happens when I write before I even leave my bed in the morning. Outside of getting up to microwave leftover Chipotle, the most productive thing I’ve done today is watch my cat flip into fast forward mode when he discovered his new catnip toy. It’s my birthday, and this is how I’m choosing to spend it.

The night brings promise of laughter and merriment, with another comedy show at Stub and Herb’s. Doing comedy here in Minneapolis has changed me in ways that go beyond what people see on stage. You comics are a brilliant, amazing bunch of idiots and assholes that I love endlessly. So, thank you for allowing me to come along with you on this weird adventure that is comedy. I am inspired and humbled by you every time you make me laugh. Here’s to the many years to come of laughing with and at you.

I'm so 20-something

I just realized that before my post yesterday, I hadn’t done anything with this blog in over six months. A lot has gone on since then, not the least of which was my impulsive move to Minneapolis in pursuit of comedy adventures.

It’s not unusual for blogs to get cold after a young writer like myself either runs out of ideas or ambition. I’d like to think that I am an exception to many of the things that plague my generation at large, but that just wouldn’t be honest. I am working a job that has nothing to do with the degree that I have, I am no good with money and I complain about the incredible piece of technology that is my cell phone. But, worst of all, I am a moper.

It’s been something I’ve had to fight my entire life. I just have this negative attitude towards everything that does not seem to mesh well with my attempt at overall nice-guyness. I don’t know what you optimists have been doing this entire time that makes you think that everything is going to work out all the time, but clearly while you were doing that I was preoccupied with reality. I have never been able to see the bright side of anything.

I believe that this is many ways due to my background as an athlete. I’ve discussed on this blog before about how I’ve grown since my days as a concussion seeking, muscle bound football player. There was a time in my life that my dream was to go play professional football. I’ve gotten to the point now that any more than 10 minutes of pregame football commentary and I start having overwhelming suicidal thoughts caused by the shame of knowing that at one point I probably sounded like these chimpanzees. But that’s beside the point.

When you play a sport, and take it seriously, as we were all required to at the college level, you have to watch a lot of film of yourself playing. Everything you do in practice and in games is recorded and analyzed by the coaching staff. So, every time I would make a mistake, which was nearly every play, I would have to watch it over and over again in a room full of my peers and a disappointed coach. Every time I stepped six inches to the left when I should have stepped right, that misstep was rewound, and replayed dozens of times with the coach repeating the same criticism in a different way every few seconds.

Part of a coach’s job is to be hard on their players, I totally understand that. And there are some people that are cut out for this kind of redundant scrutiny, and right now they are probably calling me a baby as they admire how great their biceps look in their sleeveless t-shirt. But I just wasn’t meant to put up with that any longer.

So now, when I make a mistake, whether it’s at work or on stage or anywhere else, my mind goes back to that film room, replaying that mistake until I’m so overcome with anxiety and shame that I lose all perspective of how insignificant that mistake is. The other day, I got lost trying to get somewhere in my car. I ended up having to turn into a parking lot to get turned around. I ended up driving the wrong way down one of the parking lot lanes and having a frantic hand gesture fight with a woman in a Kia Soul.

I was flustered, and starting to sweat, and found myself repeating the phrase “you’re dumber than a parking lot” out loud in my car. This, or something just like it, happens at least a few times a week. It’s this harsh negativity that weighs me down in everything I try to accomplish.

“This joke sucks, don’t even bother finishing it.”

“That open mic sucks, don’t even bother going to it.”

“The expiration date on this sour cream is three days ago… fuck it.”

You may be wondering how that last thought could fit in that same stream of consciousness, but believe me, it does. The only time I consistently feel optimistic in life is when I’m convincing myself I’m not going to get some horrible virus from food I shouldn’t eat.

I, like many so other people, am seeking to become a better version of myself. And convincing myself that I’m less competent than whatever inanimate object I’m frustrated with at the time is not helping me achieve that. My shortcomings are not going to be made up for by spending all my time thinking about the problems themselves. At some point, I’m going to have to get out of the film room, and start finding solutions.

Sick. Sulking. And sober... mostly.

I don’t know what I intend this to be, but I know that what I’ve been doing lately to fight off this feeling I have in my stomach hasn’t worked. That sinking, horrible feeling when you start to think “things really might not be okay.”

Is this sounding like a suicide note yet? Good. Most everything I write starts that way. Perhaps it’s because the only time I ever get the urge to write is when I’m feeling like this and suddenly want to feel like I’m having some slow motion cathartic moment in a David Foster Wallace novel. I am writing this on my laptop. My big, expensive desktop has been put on timeout in another room. After one too many games of “DOTA 2” that ended with an embarrassing score, and the temptation to jam a fork in my eye, I shut down my computer and instantly started unplugging everything on the back of the machine. I was not mad. I have thrown more than my fair share of video game induced temper tantrums in my lifetime. This was different. This was something I knew I had to do, and this time it has to stick. Because at this point in my life, the very best title I’ve achieved is an open mic comedian and a writer who doesn’t write.

So, the computer has been moved to the other side of the hallway, I forced myself to do it knowing full well that I won’t have the inspiration to climb under my desk to reconnect all those cords again anytime soon. I’ve only just started on this weird little power trip, and my first move was to use my laziness as a weapon against my own laziness. I think there is a quote from the Buddha that would apply here, but I’m not sure if this shitty old laptop has the processing power to handle looking something up on Wikipedia, so I’ll leave the fat guy out of this for now.

 
Video games used to be something I really enjoyed doing, lately they’ve felt a bit more like a crippling vice, and an overall soul suck of a hobby. And it’s only been just recently how much I’ve allowed them to have a genuinely negative effect on my personal life and psyche. While I don’t expect this hiatus to last any profound amount of time, there is just absolutely no way I will be able to become an adult any time soon if I continue to live the way that I do. Video games are certainly not the sole culprit in my distraction and laziness, but if my unproductive habits were Batman villains, video games would be The Joker. That metaphor sucks. 

I’ve come down with a gross, mucusy cold now. Probably because my diet is terrible, I don’t exercise, and I’d say I wash my hands about 30% of the time that I should. Nearly all of my problems are created by me, and yet I find myself too often unable or unwilling to find solutions from the same source. 

So what is all this for? Am I just pettily bitching in angst in hopes that the internet will feel bad for me? Well, yes. I’m the middle child, everyone should always be looking at me, I’m special. But really I just want to be able to go to sleep tonight with the mild satisfaction of having actually created something. This is no proclamation or belated new years resolution. This will not pay off my student debt, clean the litter box, or make my face stop leaking. But tomorrow I will wake up. I will write. And if I cannot write, I will read. God damn it, I will be interesting.

Manual labor: a mental straight jacket

Every morning I wake up with a fun new bruise/scrape/mysterious lump. If the amount of damage to my hands and arms were applied to my face, people would think I was in an underground fight club. The real, not-as-interesting-as-a-fight-club reason is that I work a manual labor job that requires putting my extremeties in positions that leaves them often vulnerable to being pinched, smashed, or bent backwards. If it wasn't for steel-toed boots, my feet would look like Jack Nicholson's face.

For clarity, I work at a party rental business. We rent out tents, tables, chairs for people that are putting on events. Summer is the busiest time, because people are getting married, graduated, or drunk in the outdoors for no real reason and need some shelter.

This means that about 25% of the time I'm working, I'm building a tent in someone's backyard so they can celebrate their brat daughter graduating high school. Yea, high school. Remember when people thought that was an accomplishment worth celebrating? Me either, because I was born after 1970.

I understand that I shouldn't complain about having a job, considering the rough financial times the country is having. I'm not saying that I'm above my occupation, but there's a part of me that wishes I could honestly say that my job requires basic literacy, but it doesn't. Come to think of it, an inability to read may actually make me better at my job. Words would be one less thing to distract me from that trailer hitch I'm about to walk into.

Shin splints make a man out of you.

Since I was a teenager, I've been using my body and physical attributes to move myself forward. That's a stupid way of saying that I played sports for a long time, too long. And once I stopped doing that, I found out that my brain, my wit were what I really had to offer the world that meant something. I've spent roughly the last two years focusing entirely on that, so now that I'm swinging a maul, I can't help but have the word “regression” bounce around my head.

I know most of my writing has some optimistic twist at the end that makes all these childish gripes a worthwhile venture through the blogosphere, but I don't see that happening here. I'm coming off an 11-hour shift that was spent almost entirely in the sun. We got a brief lunch break, but I didn't finish my food because I was too busy fantasizing about the horrific death of today's customer, who liked to whistle at you to get your attention. Like you're a dog.

Lifting stuff sucks. Sweating blows. Unemployment sucks and blows.

That is all, internet. I have to work in the morning.

Well, that was weird...

Apparently I graduated from college the other day. After wiping away the last few scribbles from the whiteboard that was filled with every homework assignment I had to do over the last month, I can't help but think “oh, so that's it?” I know I'm not the only one with that feeling, so I'm sorry if I bore you with the thought pattern of a 23-year-old asshole with an overpriced degree and an empty jar labeled “excuses for being unemployed.” It's the only perspective I have. Sue me.

I certainly thought it would be a little longer before I was staring at a word document again, but the underachieving public college I barely got into tells me that it's what I'll be doing the rest of my life, so I may as well start now. It's odd to think about, my life is supposed to start right about now, I'm no longer in the “training” phase.

I can start using the phrase “back in my college days” and follow it with a half baked story about how I only ate pickles and animal crackers for a week so I could afford beer. I didn't do that, but I'm sure someone out there did, and they'll sound like a real douche when they talk about it.

So, what did I get out of this? This $60,000, 5-year-long, slow motion train wreck that I am now supposed to call an education. I know I'm supposed to be excited, I've gathered that from my classmate's Facebook updates. Which isn't to say that I'm not tickled by the idea of never doing homework again, because I am. It's venturing out into the great nothing we refer to as the “economy” that scares me. Let's be honest with each other, I'm a creative brain in a frat boy's body in a toddler's clothes with a Writing Studies degree. Rough financial waters lay ahead.

I wish I could sit here and honestly believe Johnny Depp in Blow when he says “money isn't real,” but I can't. Money is real. When the government comes calling for their financial aid money back, I won't be able to tell them that I thought all those loans were imaginary. I'm going to have to tell them that the check's in the mail. But the check isn't in the mail, because there is no check, because there is no job for someone that has an “Idea Board” that only contains the phrase “funeral home employees working on commission.”

Perhaps I'm being a bit glum, that usually happens on days spent entirely in a basement bedroom trying to write a blog post that will be read by seven people. I'm sure there's some idiot, or some group of idiots out there that will want to hire me to write things for them. And if they're reading this, disregard everything you've read so far, except for the bit in the beginning with the jar. I thought that was cute.

I'll be honest, in most classes I learned nothing. In some classes I learned something and then forgot it by the time I walked out of the classroom. And in a few classes, my tuition money contributed to me becoming a better writer, and more well-rounded individual. Taking this angle on my college career, and you'd think I'd be asking for a refund. But the path one takes to self discovery will always have it's tolls, mine just happens to have a dollar sign in front of it.

Life has a way of trying to make you hate the things that you love. Well, I love words. And if taking back-to-back linguistics classes wasn't enough to squash my passion for language, I'm not sure what could. Take a close look, folks. This is written documentation that I am experiencing youthful enthusiasm for life. I'll have to remind myself of this in a decade or two when I've become that jaded, bummer of a veteran comedian that I'll inevitably turn into. There is always value in learning about yourself on level that's deeper than what you have to look at in the mirror.

$60,000 of value? We'll see.

Up late, feeling weird

I find myself up at nights with this unfamiliar energy that I can't shake off. It's not something easily described, like most sensations rooted deeply into a psyche. It's like my brain is screaming at the rest of my body, “DO IT,” but never really explains to me what “it” is. So in many ways, my writing this is my way of trying to get my brain to shut the fuck up. I'm approaching 4:00 AM, and no matter how many times I highlight and delete full paragraphs from what you're reading, I'm still getting yelled at by my brain. The last paragraph with the Arrested Development reference actually wasn't bad, but by the end I was hit with a barrage of “is that what you want to say,” “that's not quite right,” “no, try again, you can do better.” My brain's a perfectionist, clearly the rest of me is not or I would have picked up that tissue that missed the garbage... three days ago.

Is this how you know you're going crazy? When your brain and the rest of you seem to be communicating on two entirely different wavelengths? The only thing I'm worried about is what kind of crazy I am. Am I crazy like the Wright brothers: “See that bird? Let's do that.” Or am I crazy like the Mansons: “See that bird? Let's go eat a hooker.” Considering I'm not smart enough to invent something like human flight, and not hungry enough for a whole hooker at the moment, I'm probably somewhere in between. But either way, I'd like to think that this is a similar sensation that many of the great creative minds have experienced. I guess I just feel better believing that Louis CK stayed up at night with a sense of undefined purpose before he started turning out the funniest jokes on the planet.

The last few days have been a complete waste. I've been stuck in a cycle of: wake up, walk to computer, overeat, go to bed, repeat. A less than ideal pattern of behavior for someone with big ambitions, probably too big. I'm not ashamed to admit that I value nothingness more than most people probably should, but I've started 2012 off with a complacent groan and it needs to change.

I've heard from successful people that the key to achieving what you want in life comes down to just doing it. Want to be a comedian? Get on stage. Want to write a book? Start typing. Want to make a movie? Find a camera. The world is made up of people that did it and people that kept saying “Well it's not that simple...”

People spend their entire lives just waiting for that spark of inspiration that sets them on the path they think they deserve. But the fact of the matter is that life doesn't give you that spark. What life gives you is a free night to think every now and then, and a decent bottle of wine. Then you're on your own. Asking for anything more is pissing in the wind.

Perhaps this is a trait of my generation. It seems like just about everything that's been invented since I was born was made to distract me from more meaningful endeavors. Of course Michelangelo could focus on painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, he didn't have a Netflix queue to watch or access to pornography on his phone. Why wouldn't Beethoven compose those nine symphonies if the only alternative form of entertainment was playing hopscotch or dying of the bubonic plague. I don't intend to blame the shortcomings of this lethargic generation on the technological advances that are supposed to represent the forward thinking we so obviously lack. But it's impossible to even finish a thought, let alone an idea, when every time you blink there's a new shiny gadget offering instant satisfaction.

This is the hand we're dealt. And I don't feel like folding this one, at least not tonight. That's why I'm still up at a time when most people are just waking up for a productive little Wednesday. I'm awake because this itch wouldn't scratch itself. I'm awake because that twinge my brain is giving me is sick of being cast aside, and I decided that it had a good point. I'm awake because even though I don't have any idea what the hell I'm writing about, I know I had to write it.  

The Bachelor Party (2 of 3)

                Internet, last time we spoke, I was trying my best to be a poetic and heartfelt writer in describing my experience at a wedding. The reception to this writing was warm, and appreciated. But, from more than one of your constituents, I heard you were wondering where my crass childish side had gone. I assure you, that side is living well.

                The day after the wedding, I had to wake up early to drive home to begin another good excuse to start binge drinking, a bachelor party. This was the first bachelor party I had ever attended, so my only perspective on such an event has been from watching movies like The Hangover.

                This is my friend’s “last” night as a single man. So I was fully expecting to arrive at the cabin the party was taking place, and be welcomed by hookers with hardcore drugs. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find any hookers in Clear Lake, Minnesota (at least none that fit my strict criteria), and we didn’t have the courage to ask the neighbors if that was indeed a meth lab in their basement. Now we’ll never know.

                Instead, there was other manly, more legal, shenanigans. The first example of which was a game called “beer darts.” I had no idea that drinking games could be so dangerous. Basically, everyone sits in lawn chairs in a circle outdoors with their beer can sitting between their feet in front of them. Then, you take turns throwing steel-tipped darts at other people’s cans. If you hit the can, that person has to drink out of it until the can stops leaking from the hole the dart just made. Needless to say, I thought I was going to lose a toe on more than one occasion.

                We head out on the lake on a pontoon to play more drinking games. These got particularly interesting due to the fact that we had six people on a pontoon with a capacity of four. Trying to keep ourselves from nose diving and sinking the entire boat was a game in of itself.

                At this point in the night, I thought we had done the status quo of what is expected at a bachelor party. We were drinking, we were yelling, and we were using the phrase “man-shit” just about any time someone threw something, caught something, hit something, broke something, flexed a muscle, or farted on someone. You know… man-shit.

                The evening took a turn for the weird when we made the decision to go to the local street dance. And I knew it was going to be a weird turn because when we got there, one of the bachelor’s friends, whom I’ve met only once before, looked at me and said “let’s get fuckin’ weird” when we arrived at the street dance.

                The details are blurry from this point forward, but I do remember the lead singer pointing to me in the crowd in admiration of the batman logo on the front of my shirt. And I’m not surprised, it’s basically the coolest shirt on the planet. After that, I just remember wandering on stage and dancing with a middle aged woman in a Jared Allen jersey while singing along to “I Got Friends In Low Places” by Garth Brooks… I’m not proud. But, the locals certainly seemed to appreciate my moves.

                Somehow, I ended up leaving the dance with a near-life-size cut-out of Snoop Dogg advertising a new flavor of malt liquor from Colt .45. This racist joke pretty much writes itself.

                I know I usually try to find some sort of heartfelt meaning behind these trivial life experiences, but I’m struggling to find one here. If there’s anything I took away from it, it’s that men need very little excuse to behave like total jackasses. Essentially, all it took for us to get out of hand was a wedding coming up in three weeks and our appreciation for farting in crowds of strangers.

                I’ll finish off these epic trilogy in the coming days. In the meantime, remember that it’s not all a joke, but it’s all funny.