I've been doing stand up comedy for 13 years. In that time I've pursued it with varying degrees of effort.
In the beginning I didn't really have a goal. I performed at one or two open mics almost every week for a year. I liked the attention it got me among my family and friends and the occasional "audience" members that took a moment to slur "Duuuude that was funny shit" between swigs of Bud Light. It was good for my unbridled low self esteem.
A few years in I started to get some paid work. It was a little bit because I was funny, but a lot because I was nice. Being one of the nicest people in a group of open mic "comics" is relatively easy. Don't bitch about the STATE OF COMEDY, don't try screw your buddy's girlfriend, and don't run down your fellow open mic'ers behind their backs (you should have the courage to do it to their faces, because it's probably warranted). I went on the road to fabulous comedy meccas like Winnemucca, NV. and Salem, OR. I met working comics, kept in touch with them, and got MORE work. Getting more work made me more serious about the craft. Yes. It's a craft. For a time this work paid off by giving me new material, making me a better performer and giving me a more polished persona.
But I got lazy. And scared. And arrogant. All qualities that retard your progression. I never gave up my day job, so I worked in comedy when I wanted to. I was comfortable thinking I was one of the best Reno comedians. I went through periods where I'd do a lot of shows and come to loathe my act. Then after I'd go months without performing, I'd get up somewhere and enjoy it again because the material seemed fresh. I'd quit comedy for short periods but I could never stay gone because, when you tend bar at a chain restaurant and spend your days making "RUTTI TUTTI SUPER FRUIT-A-RITAS" and prying four month old gum from the bottom of tables, you've got to have something that gives you a sense of accomplishment. I realized I had come sort of full circle. I wasn't doing it because I loved it, or even liked it, really. I was doing it for the attention and the self esteem boost. I loved the locker room aspect of it. The being on the road with another comic and suffering through same LOOOOOONG drive to a place that advertised the gig with finger paint on butcher paper. The 2 a.m. dinners spent talking about the show. The motel room that's mini-fridge came pre-stocked with the previous guests dentures (yes, for real).
I didn't love IT, though.
Earlier this year I reached another comedy crossroads. I realized that I wasn't good at anything else - food service, call center, sales, etc. - and maybe I should give comedy a shot full time. Not because I love IT, because I'd run out of other options. Through some lucky breaks and due somewhat to being a nice guy through the years, I've landed a pretty good gig. I get to perform nightly in a great club, and I can go on the road when I WANT to, not because I HAVE to. But lazy, scared and arrogant don't just go away without some effort on your part. I still suffer from those things. I haven't used this opportunity to improve, to write new stuff, to write BETTER stuff.
Then I had an inspired epiphany. If that's even a thing.
I had lunch with a fellow comic. His name's Kermet Apio. You should check him out: www.ikerm.com. He's fabulous. As a comic and as a human. I learned so much in 2 and a half hours sitting across the table from him. I wish I'd have recorded it, because I'm sure I don't remember all the quality advice, encouragement and knowledge that came my way. I remember some though. On the craft side he talked about a comic's "comedy machine" and how it was important to get that working properly, so that everything that went into it, came out with uniformity and personal truth. On the business side he talked about adjusting your reaction to things you had no control over and finding the silver lining. He talked intelligently about every aspect of comedy. It was like a free comedy seminar - TOTALLY free because Kermet even paid for lunch.
That night I had the immense pleasure of watching him perform. He opened for the GREAT Brian Regan. It's no small accomplishment to be asked to open for Brian since you not only have to be GREAT yourself, you have to have "all ages" appeal. Kermet fit the bill in both those categories and THEN SOME. He did 25 minutes that had the 1200 or so people in the room wiping away tears. Their raucous applause when he was finished lasted a good solid 2 minutes. His material was all true, all clean, and all hysterically funny.
And I realized, I do love IT.
In my entire "career" I've rarely watched very much of other comics, because when I see a great one, I'm usually discouraged in my own ability rather than inspired by theirs. Not this time. After watching Kermet (and Brian Regan too) I'm finally inspired. Inspired to ATTEMPT to write and do comedy the way I've always wanted to. Comedy that has a message. Comedy that doesn't insult. Comedy I'd be proud to do in front of ANYONE. Comedy that's true to me. Comedy that's funny.
So that's the journey I embark on as I write this. I'm going through my act and looking at places to clean it up and freshen it up. I'm making a list of NEW topics to talk about that mean something to me. I'm really THINKING about what I do on stage for the first time in years. I'm comfortable with the knowledge that I can't continue to do stand up if I can't do it the way I want to. I don't know if I'll succeed, but I do know that if I don't, I'll feel good for having tried.
And if I don't? Well I can still make a pretty good "RUTTI TUTTI SUPER FRUIT-A-RITA".
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Do The Right Thing!
Running a comedy club is fun. Mostly. I get to hang out with comics, perform every night, and the hours are tough to beat. It's probably the best job I've ever had, but there are still things about it that get under my skin. Hecklers, drunks, and people who are easily offended bother me, but besides my Mom (who is sometimes all three at once), most of them are easy enough to handle. I don't enjoy the administrative duties - I never know how many paper clips to order or how to make a kick ass facebook cover photo - but they're a small part of the gig.
One of the things I love the most is giving the local comics opportunities to do "guest sets". I got A LOT of breaks from good people when I was starting and I'm thrilled to be in a position to return the favor. What I don't love is that there's not much thought put into the etiquette of doing some time in a comedy club.
THERE'S ETIQUETTE INVOLVED IN DOING COMEDY?!? you ask.
Yes.
The following is my own personal list of dos and don'ts for your guest set. I'm a crotchety old guy who took tickets, ran the sound, and cleaned up bodily fluids I wasn't even aware existed to get my first stage time in a real comedy club, so keep that in mind. I may seem harsh here, and it is actually my intention.
DO: Show up at least a half an hour before the show starts. I wanna know you're ready to go. It's not my responsibility to get in touch with you to see if you're still coming.
DON'T: Grab yourself 3 or 4 of the bottled waters from the green room. The club pays for those. I don't mind if you have one or two, but AT LEAST ask first
DO: Dress appropriately. The audience has paid to get in, they don't deserve to see you in an Amerian Eagle T-shirt, ripped jeans and flip flops. NO ONE deserves to see that, come to think of it.
DON'T: Do jokes that people who don't live in Reno won't understand. Your Sun Valley material probably kills at open mic, but people from Ohio don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You're in a comedy club in Reno, where most nights more than half of the audience is from somewhere else.
DO: Your time. If we agree on 5 minutes, that doesn't mean 2 minutes of "Thanks for coming out nice to be here how many locals blah blah blah" and THEN 5 minutes. The one sure-fire way to NEVER get on in the club again is to go over your time.
DON'T: Ask me for time every week. A comedy club with a paid audience isn't the place to work out your newest rape joke. When I give you a guest set, I wanna see if you can handle the room in case I need someone to work someday.
DO: Well. Give me your best 5 or 10 minutes. Don't engage the crowd or try to riff. Again, I wanna see if I can pay you to work the club when I need someone.
DON'T: Only come around when you're doing your guest set. If you stop by the club to see if you can help out in some way (at the door, flyers, etc.) I'm much more likely to give you stage time. Not to be a dick, but I don't NEED you.
DO: Promote your guest set on facebook, twitter, etc. and let your friends and followers know about any discounts the club offers.
DON'T: Ask me how many people you can comp in. I'm running a business and the biggest part of that is selling tickets. When you get to the level of working the club officially, you get to have a guest list. Not before.
Keep in mind, this is just my PERSONAL list. Other clubs may have more stringent or less asshole-y requirements. Less asshole-y would be my guess. I know some comics (of the few who'll even take the time to read it) will find this insulting. Those aren't the ones I wanna help anyway. They can work their rape / pedophilia / sex with livestock jokes out at Toastmasters or in a bar "filled" with other comics. For those that already do the right thing, thanks, and I'll see you at the club.
Oh! I almost forgot. I have a new bit I wanted to try:
Two pedophiles walk into a pet store looking for a new kitten...
Nevermind.
One of the things I love the most is giving the local comics opportunities to do "guest sets". I got A LOT of breaks from good people when I was starting and I'm thrilled to be in a position to return the favor. What I don't love is that there's not much thought put into the etiquette of doing some time in a comedy club.
THERE'S ETIQUETTE INVOLVED IN DOING COMEDY?!? you ask.
Yes.
The following is my own personal list of dos and don'ts for your guest set. I'm a crotchety old guy who took tickets, ran the sound, and cleaned up bodily fluids I wasn't even aware existed to get my first stage time in a real comedy club, so keep that in mind. I may seem harsh here, and it is actually my intention.
DO: Show up at least a half an hour before the show starts. I wanna know you're ready to go. It's not my responsibility to get in touch with you to see if you're still coming.
DON'T: Grab yourself 3 or 4 of the bottled waters from the green room. The club pays for those. I don't mind if you have one or two, but AT LEAST ask first
DO: Dress appropriately. The audience has paid to get in, they don't deserve to see you in an Amerian Eagle T-shirt, ripped jeans and flip flops. NO ONE deserves to see that, come to think of it.
DON'T: Do jokes that people who don't live in Reno won't understand. Your Sun Valley material probably kills at open mic, but people from Ohio don't know what the fuck you're talking about. You're in a comedy club in Reno, where most nights more than half of the audience is from somewhere else.
DO: Your time. If we agree on 5 minutes, that doesn't mean 2 minutes of "Thanks for coming out nice to be here how many locals blah blah blah" and THEN 5 minutes. The one sure-fire way to NEVER get on in the club again is to go over your time.
DON'T: Ask me for time every week. A comedy club with a paid audience isn't the place to work out your newest rape joke. When I give you a guest set, I wanna see if you can handle the room in case I need someone to work someday.
DO: Well. Give me your best 5 or 10 minutes. Don't engage the crowd or try to riff. Again, I wanna see if I can pay you to work the club when I need someone.
DON'T: Only come around when you're doing your guest set. If you stop by the club to see if you can help out in some way (at the door, flyers, etc.) I'm much more likely to give you stage time. Not to be a dick, but I don't NEED you.
DO: Promote your guest set on facebook, twitter, etc. and let your friends and followers know about any discounts the club offers.
DON'T: Ask me how many people you can comp in. I'm running a business and the biggest part of that is selling tickets. When you get to the level of working the club officially, you get to have a guest list. Not before.
Keep in mind, this is just my PERSONAL list. Other clubs may have more stringent or less asshole-y requirements. Less asshole-y would be my guess. I know some comics (of the few who'll even take the time to read it) will find this insulting. Those aren't the ones I wanna help anyway. They can work their rape / pedophilia / sex with livestock jokes out at Toastmasters or in a bar "filled" with other comics. For those that already do the right thing, thanks, and I'll see you at the club.
Oh! I almost forgot. I have a new bit I wanted to try:
Two pedophiles walk into a pet store looking for a new kitten...
Nevermind.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Who the Hell do You Think You Are?
Be yourself.
You hear it all the time, right?
Going on a first date? Be yourself.
Job interview? Just be yourself!
Meeting the in-laws for the first time? Be mostly yourself, but throw in a little Anderson Cooper, like the sophisticated part (advice from my wife).
Seems like a pretty simple thing to do, this being yourself. Get out of bed and, BANG!
Yourself.
Who the fuck would wear this shirt? Oh yeah. Me. I was myself when I bought it, and when I put it on today, I was just being myself. The myself that is one of the few men in his 40’s who would wear a Rick Springfield t-shirt. Besides Rick Springfield. Who’s in his 60’s, so that doesn’t count anyway.
But it’s actually pretty hard to be yourself.
I thought about this after my last show. I realized in all the time I’ve been doing stand-up, I might have been myself for about 35 minutes. Give or take. I have rarely been the REAL me on stage. I don’t mean those few awful years where I went by Dave Lorayne at gigs from here to Bend, OR. HEY. No one could pronounce Mencarelli, alright? Hell some Bendites (Bendonians?) had trouble with Dave. I’m talking about doing material that I wrote hoping it would appeal to a broad range of people, from 8 drunk guys in a bar, to 300 people at the Improv, or even a bunch of Wal Mart employees at a corporate event. And it does work, to some degree, in most places (bite me Mammoth). But it’s not true to ME. It’s based on truth, sure, but it has no point of view, no passion and no edge. It’s not the Dave that my family and a few close friends know. It’s not the Dave that hates Burning Man, “Twilight”, and those assholes at mall kiosks trying to sell you skin cream. It’s a Dave that would’ve worked in the Catskills or Vaudeville. Silly, unsubstantial and bland.
When I realized this, I also realized that, I spend very little of my life off stage being myself. Work Dave isn’t really me. In fact, Work Dave is different from job to job. There’s Radio Dave, Chain Restaurant Dave, Intuit Dave (that guy was a disaster), etc. Facebook Dave is certainly not the real me, though Facebook ANYBODY probably isn’t telling the whole truth. If your life really is all “loookitmeandmycoolfamilyatDisneylandandmyhusbandcookeddinner-AGAINtonightblahfuckingblahblah” then I not only hate you, I‘m also jealous. Customer Dave aint even CLOSE to the real me. If I stopped pretending to be so understanding when the nitwits at Taco Bell put lettuce on my Enchirito, the things I’d say to them would probably get my ass kicked by said nitwits. Motorcycle Dave is so not the real me, he even has a different name. I’d appreciate it if, when you see me, you’d use it. It’s Spyder. Thanks.
All this not being myself is pretty tiring. It’s frustrating too. There’s things I want to say on stage and in real life that need to come out. I was chatting with another comic before a show recently and the subject of stage fright came up. I explained how over the last few years my fear of getting up there had gotten almost debilitating. I told him that I was sick to my stomach the entire day of the show, and sometimes longer. I told him how I sometimes felt like I was going to pass out on stage. I told him how difficult it was when I tried to tell people this and their response was always “Oh, you’ll be fine. You’re funny.” Because I sure don’t feel like I’m gonna be fine. I’m petrified that even one joke won’t work. Or that a line will offend even ONE person. I’m over thinking it so much, that it’s just me reciting lines, like a bad beat poet. Or a good one for that matter. Both suck.
It’s the same in real life. I’m scared that even ONE person won’t like me. Or think I’m smart. Or think I’m culturally, politically or spiritually unaware. I pretend to agree with things I don’t (Balzac was a genius), know about things I don’t (who the fuck is Balzac?), or understand things I don’t (19th Century French Realism). I feel like I have to be so careful about what I say that I’d rather not even interact with another human being. It’s a constant filtering process and it‘s exhausting.
So I’m not gonna do it anymore.
I won’t be tactless. If you’re reading OK! Magazine, I won’t question your right to be a vapid idiot unless you open that door. If you’re over 25 years old or 160 lbs I won’t excoriate you for wearing skinny jeans. And I won’t laugh out loud at you if you’re sitting in a Starbucks wearing a Bluetooth headset and talking to your friend about the new Ke$ha single. But I also won’t censor my own opinions or views. I won’t worry so much about what strangers think about me or how an audience reacts to me.
I’m going to REALLY be myself, warts and all. That’s a figure of speech. I don’t have warts. What it means is you’re gonna get the good (I’m anti-murder), the bad (“Don’t Talk To Strangers” is my ringback tone), and the ugly (I cry during “Grey’s Anatomy”).
I guess what I’m saying is that if I wanna sit in a Starbucks wearing my skinny jeans, reading OK! Magazine and rambling on about Ke$ha on my cell phone, I’ll do it and I won’t give a shit what YOU think.
Spyder. Out.
You hear it all the time, right?
Going on a first date? Be yourself.
Job interview? Just be yourself!
Meeting the in-laws for the first time? Be mostly yourself, but throw in a little Anderson Cooper, like the sophisticated part (advice from my wife).
Seems like a pretty simple thing to do, this being yourself. Get out of bed and, BANG!
Yourself.
Who the fuck would wear this shirt? Oh yeah. Me. I was myself when I bought it, and when I put it on today, I was just being myself. The myself that is one of the few men in his 40’s who would wear a Rick Springfield t-shirt. Besides Rick Springfield. Who’s in his 60’s, so that doesn’t count anyway.
But it’s actually pretty hard to be yourself.
I thought about this after my last show. I realized in all the time I’ve been doing stand-up, I might have been myself for about 35 minutes. Give or take. I have rarely been the REAL me on stage. I don’t mean those few awful years where I went by Dave Lorayne at gigs from here to Bend, OR. HEY. No one could pronounce Mencarelli, alright? Hell some Bendites (Bendonians?) had trouble with Dave. I’m talking about doing material that I wrote hoping it would appeal to a broad range of people, from 8 drunk guys in a bar, to 300 people at the Improv, or even a bunch of Wal Mart employees at a corporate event. And it does work, to some degree, in most places (bite me Mammoth). But it’s not true to ME. It’s based on truth, sure, but it has no point of view, no passion and no edge. It’s not the Dave that my family and a few close friends know. It’s not the Dave that hates Burning Man, “Twilight”, and those assholes at mall kiosks trying to sell you skin cream. It’s a Dave that would’ve worked in the Catskills or Vaudeville. Silly, unsubstantial and bland.
When I realized this, I also realized that, I spend very little of my life off stage being myself. Work Dave isn’t really me. In fact, Work Dave is different from job to job. There’s Radio Dave, Chain Restaurant Dave, Intuit Dave (that guy was a disaster), etc. Facebook Dave is certainly not the real me, though Facebook ANYBODY probably isn’t telling the whole truth. If your life really is all “loookitmeandmycoolfamilyatDisneylandandmyhusbandcookeddinner-AGAINtonightblahfuckingblahblah” then I not only hate you, I‘m also jealous. Customer Dave aint even CLOSE to the real me. If I stopped pretending to be so understanding when the nitwits at Taco Bell put lettuce on my Enchirito, the things I’d say to them would probably get my ass kicked by said nitwits. Motorcycle Dave is so not the real me, he even has a different name. I’d appreciate it if, when you see me, you’d use it. It’s Spyder. Thanks.
All this not being myself is pretty tiring. It’s frustrating too. There’s things I want to say on stage and in real life that need to come out. I was chatting with another comic before a show recently and the subject of stage fright came up. I explained how over the last few years my fear of getting up there had gotten almost debilitating. I told him that I was sick to my stomach the entire day of the show, and sometimes longer. I told him how I sometimes felt like I was going to pass out on stage. I told him how difficult it was when I tried to tell people this and their response was always “Oh, you’ll be fine. You’re funny.” Because I sure don’t feel like I’m gonna be fine. I’m petrified that even one joke won’t work. Or that a line will offend even ONE person. I’m over thinking it so much, that it’s just me reciting lines, like a bad beat poet. Or a good one for that matter. Both suck.
It’s the same in real life. I’m scared that even ONE person won’t like me. Or think I’m smart. Or think I’m culturally, politically or spiritually unaware. I pretend to agree with things I don’t (Balzac was a genius), know about things I don’t (who the fuck is Balzac?), or understand things I don’t (19th Century French Realism). I feel like I have to be so careful about what I say that I’d rather not even interact with another human being. It’s a constant filtering process and it‘s exhausting.
So I’m not gonna do it anymore.
I won’t be tactless. If you’re reading OK! Magazine, I won’t question your right to be a vapid idiot unless you open that door. If you’re over 25 years old or 160 lbs I won’t excoriate you for wearing skinny jeans. And I won’t laugh out loud at you if you’re sitting in a Starbucks wearing a Bluetooth headset and talking to your friend about the new Ke$ha single. But I also won’t censor my own opinions or views. I won’t worry so much about what strangers think about me or how an audience reacts to me.
I’m going to REALLY be myself, warts and all. That’s a figure of speech. I don’t have warts. What it means is you’re gonna get the good (I’m anti-murder), the bad (“Don’t Talk To Strangers” is my ringback tone), and the ugly (I cry during “Grey’s Anatomy”).
I guess what I’m saying is that if I wanna sit in a Starbucks wearing my skinny jeans, reading OK! Magazine and rambling on about Ke$ha on my cell phone, I’ll do it and I won’t give a shit what YOU think.
Spyder. Out.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Ride Like a Man
There are a lot of things that define a man. Not all of them are accurate or fair, but even some of those things are generally accepted in society’s definition of A MAN. I’m not referring to the anatomical definition of course. That’s easy. Except in the case of Chas Bono. That’s a mind bender. I’m talking about things like the following:
How much money does he make? (inaccurate and unfair).
What kind of music does he like? (inaccurate but possibly fair).
Is he a good husband? Or Father? (accurate and fair).
Can he grow a cool goatee (totally fair).
There are probably hundreds of other things that people take into cursory consideration when they subconsciously decide if a male is A MAN. And, like deciding if Ben Affleck is a quality actor, or French-Canadians are rude and arrogant, or if the ugly girl should marry the vampire or the werewolf, opinions will, invariably, vary (He is, they are, and who cares).
I’m sure there are people out there who don’t think John Mayer is a “real” man. How can I be sure? I’m one of them. On the flip side, I’m sure there people who think John Mayer is the epitome of A MAN. He does have “manly” qualities. He’s apparently a commitment-phobe and he has some slick tattoos. You see? Those two things I just mentioned are stereotypical “man” qualities. You don’t ever hear a chick say “You know Becky is a REAL woman, with all her one night stands and that Grim Reaper tattoo on her chest!”
When I got my motorcycle recently, several people asked me if it made me feel like A MAN. Some mockingly (my guy friends - including the guy who sold it to me), some with genuine curiosity (BOTH of my shrinks), and some because I’d asked them to call me “Spyder”.
As a guy who has struggled with his image of what a man should be, and constantly questioned whether or not he has those qualities, the question “does having a motorcycle make you feel man” intrigued me. The answer is yes.
This ain’t my first motorbike, you see. I’ve had three other motorcycles that I barely rode on the real streets because I was scared. The last one I had, I was determined, would see the open road. Or at least McCarran. I enlisted the help of my pal Trey to teach me to ride. The first time out, I laid the bike down 20 feet out of his driveway. “Well, got that out of the way” I told myself. No major damage, and though I could tell Trey was having second, and probably as many as
26th thoughts, we continued. When I made a left turn and used my right foot to stop myself from side swiping the curb, we pulled over.
“Where are we going next?” I asked Trey, trying to convince him, and myself, that going anywhere else was a good idea. He wasn’t buying it.
“We’re gonna make a right off this street, head back to my house, and put your bike up for sale on craigslist.” He said, more than matter of factly.
I sold the bike, To a chick. That hit me smack in the manhood. If I said she was a lesbian, would that make it better? She was and it doesn’t.
Fast forward to last summer. I was hanging around Jim McClain (I’ll let you decide if this was an upgrade in companions from Trey) and he’s a biker to the core. I got the bug again and I got myself in the Riders Edge Safety Course at Reno Harley. In a nutshell, I learned to feel safe on a motorcycle. I got some good tips and encouragement from the guys at Harley (yeah, even Kerr) and eventually got motorcycle number 4. And yes, as I said, it does make me feel like a man.
Let me explain.
Some of the things that make me feel like a man are: I’m an adequate and sometimes even good husband. I think I’m a pretty good dad. I’ve learned to not apologize for who I am, and I almost always admit when I’m mistaken, and try to make amends. And now, I've overcome my fear of riding a motorcycle. Every time I get on it and go from my house near McQueen High School to the Sparks Marina, or from work to Idlewild Park, I feel like a man. I’m conquering something that I struggled with for years. I assume that when I get the balls to ride it on the freeway and faster than 60 mph, that feeling will grow even more.
See, it’s a good lesson. If I can beat that fear, what other fears might I be able to overcome? Could I get on an airplane and fly to Florida for Spring Training? Could I take a real stab at being a full time comic? Could I put my hand in my daughter’s gecko tank to feed it? The answers are maybe, maybe and not a fucking chance.
You get my point.
And if you don’t, here it is. Overcoming your fear can make you feel like a man. Even if you’re a woman. Or Chas Bono. Tattoos and fistfights and a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs don’t make you a man.
I probably wouldn’t tell a guy with tattoos, a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs he wasn’t a man. But I did ride my Harley on Sparks Blvd the other day… so someday I might.
How much money does he make? (inaccurate and unfair).
What kind of music does he like? (inaccurate but possibly fair).
Is he a good husband? Or Father? (accurate and fair).
Can he grow a cool goatee (totally fair).
There are probably hundreds of other things that people take into cursory consideration when they subconsciously decide if a male is A MAN. And, like deciding if Ben Affleck is a quality actor, or French-Canadians are rude and arrogant, or if the ugly girl should marry the vampire or the werewolf, opinions will, invariably, vary (He is, they are, and who cares).
I’m sure there are people out there who don’t think John Mayer is a “real” man. How can I be sure? I’m one of them. On the flip side, I’m sure there people who think John Mayer is the epitome of A MAN. He does have “manly” qualities. He’s apparently a commitment-phobe and he has some slick tattoos. You see? Those two things I just mentioned are stereotypical “man” qualities. You don’t ever hear a chick say “You know Becky is a REAL woman, with all her one night stands and that Grim Reaper tattoo on her chest!”
When I got my motorcycle recently, several people asked me if it made me feel like A MAN. Some mockingly (my guy friends - including the guy who sold it to me), some with genuine curiosity (BOTH of my shrinks), and some because I’d asked them to call me “Spyder”.
As a guy who has struggled with his image of what a man should be, and constantly questioned whether or not he has those qualities, the question “does having a motorcycle make you feel man” intrigued me. The answer is yes.
This ain’t my first motorbike, you see. I’ve had three other motorcycles that I barely rode on the real streets because I was scared. The last one I had, I was determined, would see the open road. Or at least McCarran. I enlisted the help of my pal Trey to teach me to ride. The first time out, I laid the bike down 20 feet out of his driveway. “Well, got that out of the way” I told myself. No major damage, and though I could tell Trey was having second, and probably as many as
26th thoughts, we continued. When I made a left turn and used my right foot to stop myself from side swiping the curb, we pulled over.
“Where are we going next?” I asked Trey, trying to convince him, and myself, that going anywhere else was a good idea. He wasn’t buying it.
“We’re gonna make a right off this street, head back to my house, and put your bike up for sale on craigslist.” He said, more than matter of factly.
I sold the bike, To a chick. That hit me smack in the manhood. If I said she was a lesbian, would that make it better? She was and it doesn’t.
Fast forward to last summer. I was hanging around Jim McClain (I’ll let you decide if this was an upgrade in companions from Trey) and he’s a biker to the core. I got the bug again and I got myself in the Riders Edge Safety Course at Reno Harley. In a nutshell, I learned to feel safe on a motorcycle. I got some good tips and encouragement from the guys at Harley (yeah, even Kerr) and eventually got motorcycle number 4. And yes, as I said, it does make me feel like a man.
Let me explain.
Some of the things that make me feel like a man are: I’m an adequate and sometimes even good husband. I think I’m a pretty good dad. I’ve learned to not apologize for who I am, and I almost always admit when I’m mistaken, and try to make amends. And now, I've overcome my fear of riding a motorcycle. Every time I get on it and go from my house near McQueen High School to the Sparks Marina, or from work to Idlewild Park, I feel like a man. I’m conquering something that I struggled with for years. I assume that when I get the balls to ride it on the freeway and faster than 60 mph, that feeling will grow even more.
See, it’s a good lesson. If I can beat that fear, what other fears might I be able to overcome? Could I get on an airplane and fly to Florida for Spring Training? Could I take a real stab at being a full time comic? Could I put my hand in my daughter’s gecko tank to feed it? The answers are maybe, maybe and not a fucking chance.
You get my point.
And if you don’t, here it is. Overcoming your fear can make you feel like a man. Even if you’re a woman. Or Chas Bono. Tattoos and fistfights and a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs don’t make you a man.
I probably wouldn’t tell a guy with tattoos, a high pain threshold and an iPod full of Pantera songs he wasn’t a man. But I did ride my Harley on Sparks Blvd the other day… so someday I might.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Streaking
Brett Favre's incredible streak of 297 straight starts as an NFL quarterback ended this past Sunday. His streak of getting away with sending pictures of his frank and beans to hot girls is intact at 1.
That we know of.
297 straight times of suiting up for an NFL game is an impressive streak, given the brutality that takes place every Sunday on the field. But there are some other, less glamorous, and certainly less publicized streaks that are equally as impressive.
For example:
Jimmy Lee Dykes of Bowlegs, OK delivered the local newspaper every day for 43 years. From the time he was nine years old until his parents mysteriously disappeared and he was forced to move from their home to his Aunt Frassy's basement. Jimmy Lee currently makes $75 to $80 a month mowing lawns in the summer, rides the same Huffy bicycle he started with, and hopes one day to see "a real live girl totally nekkid... without payin'".
Mitch Broiles who hails from Jacksonville, FL. hasn't missed a slow pitch softball game for his team, The AristoBats, since he began playing in 1987. Despite a dislocated elbow, a ruptured umbilical hernia, and six DUI's, ol' number 69 (what else?) has played every game at first base on Tuesday nights for 23 years. Not surprisingly Mitch can tell you that his career batting average is .567 (It would be higher, he claims, but that year with the DUI's was tough, as Mitch hits better "with a bunch a beers in me..."). Of the 6 Mrs. Broiles' who've attended Mitch's games over that time, the current one holds the longest "married to Mitch" streak at 7 months. Congrats Mr. and Mrs. Broiles and their 3 children!
And lastly...
Reno's own Dave Mencarelli is the owner of a streak of dubious nature. He has NEVER won a single game of Madden football online against a live opponent on the Playstation Network. Not one game. He's never as much as led at halftime. In several games, he hasn't even gained positive yardage. Most of his opponents have been children in their early to late teens, some of which have been interrupted by cries of "IS YOUR HOMEWORK DONE?!" and still beaten him soundly. Dave hopes to one day have a lead at halftime and disconnect, refer to himself in the third person on a blog site where he has less than 5 followers (CHECK!), and get an xBox 360 so he can actually pay to get his ass kicked in online games by kids without armpit hair.
That we know of.
297 straight times of suiting up for an NFL game is an impressive streak, given the brutality that takes place every Sunday on the field. But there are some other, less glamorous, and certainly less publicized streaks that are equally as impressive.
For example:
Jimmy Lee Dykes of Bowlegs, OK delivered the local newspaper every day for 43 years. From the time he was nine years old until his parents mysteriously disappeared and he was forced to move from their home to his Aunt Frassy's basement. Jimmy Lee currently makes $75 to $80 a month mowing lawns in the summer, rides the same Huffy bicycle he started with, and hopes one day to see "a real live girl totally nekkid... without payin'".
Mitch Broiles who hails from Jacksonville, FL. hasn't missed a slow pitch softball game for his team, The AristoBats, since he began playing in 1987. Despite a dislocated elbow, a ruptured umbilical hernia, and six DUI's, ol' number 69 (what else?) has played every game at first base on Tuesday nights for 23 years. Not surprisingly Mitch can tell you that his career batting average is .567 (It would be higher, he claims, but that year with the DUI's was tough, as Mitch hits better "with a bunch a beers in me..."). Of the 6 Mrs. Broiles' who've attended Mitch's games over that time, the current one holds the longest "married to Mitch" streak at 7 months. Congrats Mr. and Mrs. Broiles and their 3 children!
And lastly...
Reno's own Dave Mencarelli is the owner of a streak of dubious nature. He has NEVER won a single game of Madden football online against a live opponent on the Playstation Network. Not one game. He's never as much as led at halftime. In several games, he hasn't even gained positive yardage. Most of his opponents have been children in their early to late teens, some of which have been interrupted by cries of "IS YOUR HOMEWORK DONE?!" and still beaten him soundly. Dave hopes to one day have a lead at halftime and disconnect, refer to himself in the third person on a blog site where he has less than 5 followers (CHECK!), and get an xBox 360 so he can actually pay to get his ass kicked in online games by kids without armpit hair.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
A Preemptive Release of Some Of My Private Documents (or "Screw You, Julian").
Technology can be a cruel mistress. The internet was originally invented to bring the world and it's varied peoples closer together. As long as those varied peoples could afford a computer and AOL.
But that was a long time ago. The internet has evolved. It's become more useful than an "information superhighway". It now allows us to reconnect with our 3rd grade girlfriends, know exactly what Kim Kardashian is up to 24 / 7, and find out what the temperature is in Cayenne, French Guiana, with just a few keystrokes (86 as of this writing). Any of that "information" seem "super" to you? I didn't think so.
And now, Wikileaks.
Releasing sensitive government documents in the midst of all the tweets, youtube videos with cute kids or cats, and soccer scores. MUCKING UP the REAL things the interenet is intended for.
Personal attacks from Wikileaks can't be far behind. So I've decided to do what spin doctors call "getting out in front of it". Before they get me, I'm going to begin exposing my OWN private documents. Right here. On the internet. Beginning with a few years worth of letters to Santa Claus. I've corrected the spelling errors to spare myself and my teachers the embarrassment.
December 11th, 1975 (age 8)
Dear Santa,
Well here we are. Two years since I asked for the Big Wheel, and still no Big Wheel. While I appreciate the Tinker Toys and the Fisher Price Action Garage, I really kinda wanted the Big Wheel, which is why I'll ask for it once again. You brought one for Stevie McMann, a fact which he never lets me forget, and you even gave one to Violet - and she's only THREE. I don't know if there is some kind of Big Wheel lottery that you and the elves do, but I feel like outside of a few incidents (Mrs. Cahill's dog was NOT my fault), I've been "nice". Being good for a Big Wheel is a lot more incentive than doing it for goodness sake. The rest of my list is as follows:
Electric Football
J.J. from Good Times doll (that would be dyno-mite!)
Shrinky Dinks
Easy Bake Oven (I don't care what my dad says)
Steve Austin Six Million Dollar Man action figure (the one where you can look thru the back of his head and use his bionic eye)
That's it for this year, along with of course, the Big Wheel. My dad says I'll be too old for it next year (but he also says only girls and sissies want an Easy Bake Oven, but I don't think knowing how to bake is gender specific).
Mom says she'll skip the cookies and leave you the Pall Mall's and that funny smelling juice you like.
Merry Christmas and say hi to Missus Claus for me!
December 9th 1985 (age 17)
Hey Clausmeister,
I know I haven't asked for 6 or 7 years but I'm ready to try one more time for the Big Wheel and if it'll help, I'm also ready to admit Mrs. Cahill's dog WAS my fault. I wish I'd have had the chance to apologize before she croaked. Hope things are rad at the North Pole! This year has been pretty bodacious for me. The acne has started to clear up and Missy Higgenbotham actually made eye contact with me at the Homecoming game. Dennis says it's becuase I spilled my Jolt on her, but I think it's because my new haircut makes me look exactly like Sonny Crockett.
Anyway, this year's list should be pretty easy to fill, so here goes:
The new Stryper cassette; Soldiers Under Command. It's supposed to be gnarly.
A bass guitar, like the one Nikki Sixx plays in the "Shout at the Devil" video (is there some contradiction in asking for that on Jesus' birthday? If there is I'll take one like Mike Anthony has in "Jump". Van Halen FOR EVER!)
Some Le Tigre shirts in assorted pastel colors
Some of those cool Rags pants
a chain steering wheel for the ol' pinto - I think some bitchen' accesories will make it totally rad
That's it for this year. As always I'll leave the smokes and the screwdriver, though I guess I won't put the muffins out since you don't eat them and the easy bake oven is pretty much dead anyway.
Say hello to Mrs. Claus for me.
But that was a long time ago. The internet has evolved. It's become more useful than an "information superhighway". It now allows us to reconnect with our 3rd grade girlfriends, know exactly what Kim Kardashian is up to 24 / 7, and find out what the temperature is in Cayenne, French Guiana, with just a few keystrokes (86 as of this writing). Any of that "information" seem "super" to you? I didn't think so.
And now, Wikileaks.
Releasing sensitive government documents in the midst of all the tweets, youtube videos with cute kids or cats, and soccer scores. MUCKING UP the REAL things the interenet is intended for.
Personal attacks from Wikileaks can't be far behind. So I've decided to do what spin doctors call "getting out in front of it". Before they get me, I'm going to begin exposing my OWN private documents. Right here. On the internet. Beginning with a few years worth of letters to Santa Claus. I've corrected the spelling errors to spare myself and my teachers the embarrassment.
December 11th, 1975 (age 8)
Dear Santa,
Well here we are. Two years since I asked for the Big Wheel, and still no Big Wheel. While I appreciate the Tinker Toys and the Fisher Price Action Garage, I really kinda wanted the Big Wheel, which is why I'll ask for it once again. You brought one for Stevie McMann, a fact which he never lets me forget, and you even gave one to Violet - and she's only THREE. I don't know if there is some kind of Big Wheel lottery that you and the elves do, but I feel like outside of a few incidents (Mrs. Cahill's dog was NOT my fault), I've been "nice". Being good for a Big Wheel is a lot more incentive than doing it for goodness sake. The rest of my list is as follows:
Electric Football
J.J. from Good Times doll (that would be dyno-mite!)
Shrinky Dinks
Easy Bake Oven (I don't care what my dad says)
Steve Austin Six Million Dollar Man action figure (the one where you can look thru the back of his head and use his bionic eye)
That's it for this year, along with of course, the Big Wheel. My dad says I'll be too old for it next year (but he also says only girls and sissies want an Easy Bake Oven, but I don't think knowing how to bake is gender specific).
Mom says she'll skip the cookies and leave you the Pall Mall's and that funny smelling juice you like.
Merry Christmas and say hi to Missus Claus for me!
December 9th 1985 (age 17)
Hey Clausmeister,
I know I haven't asked for 6 or 7 years but I'm ready to try one more time for the Big Wheel and if it'll help, I'm also ready to admit Mrs. Cahill's dog WAS my fault. I wish I'd have had the chance to apologize before she croaked. Hope things are rad at the North Pole! This year has been pretty bodacious for me. The acne has started to clear up and Missy Higgenbotham actually made eye contact with me at the Homecoming game. Dennis says it's becuase I spilled my Jolt on her, but I think it's because my new haircut makes me look exactly like Sonny Crockett.
Anyway, this year's list should be pretty easy to fill, so here goes:
The new Stryper cassette; Soldiers Under Command. It's supposed to be gnarly.
A bass guitar, like the one Nikki Sixx plays in the "Shout at the Devil" video (is there some contradiction in asking for that on Jesus' birthday? If there is I'll take one like Mike Anthony has in "Jump". Van Halen FOR EVER!)
Some Le Tigre shirts in assorted pastel colors
Some of those cool Rags pants
a chain steering wheel for the ol' pinto - I think some bitchen' accesories will make it totally rad
That's it for this year. As always I'll leave the smokes and the screwdriver, though I guess I won't put the muffins out since you don't eat them and the easy bake oven is pretty much dead anyway.
Say hello to Mrs. Claus for me.
Monday, July 27, 2009
The not so Great Outdoors
I spent the weekend out among strangers and after being exposed to them for more than 10 minutes or so, I'm beginning to understand why on-line gaming is so popular. If you're playing Warcraft or Halo 2 and the white trashiness begins to bubble to the surface, you can escape with the flick of a switch. If only it were so easy in the real world. It's not. So I beg of you, if you know anyone who is guilty of the offenses I'm about to discuss - slap them. Hard. Then tell them to read this (or as will be neccessary in many cases, read it to them). Thanks.
1. Keep your mutt on a leash. For chrissakes, at least WATCH it. If it gets near my dogs (who ARE tied to the trailer) or my kid, I'm gonna throw rocks at it. I'm willing to bet lots of trips to the vet or the emergency begin with the words "Oh, don't worry he's harmless". Looking at the empty beer bottles lying around your Dale Earnhardt Jr. blanket and the tribal armband tattoo, I'm not willing to trust your judgement about your dog. Just keep it under control. I'm sure too that it's incessant yelping doesn't bother you while you're out on your boat, but if I wanted to hear that, I'd still be dating my last girlfriend. And how the FUCK do YOU afford a boat? Are marijuana sales not affected by the economy?
2. It's a safe bet that everyone within 200 yards doesn't enjoy Lynard Skynard or Disturbed as much as you. Please turn it down. Or off.
3. It's none of my business if you want to yell things like "Fuckin' shit ass motherfucker" in front of your kids, but I don't really wanna hear it and I don't want my kid hearing it either. She spends enough time in the car with me to know more curse words than most marines, and I don't need her to hear it from you.
4. I'm sure you think you look BAD ASS riding your stand up jet ski 50 mph in the cove, but the speed limit is 10. TEN. It's ten because kids are swimming in the cove. It's ten because no one wants to hear the whine of your engine (though I'd take that over the Lynard Skynard). It's ten because that's as high as a lot of you can count. Bottom line is - it's ten.
5. Don't lollygag at the boat launch. Be ready when it's your turn. Don't back your trailer down there and then stop to change into your bitchen swim trunks with the skull and flames (how old ARE you?). Don't make us wait while you chit chat with your pals about the "fuckin' shit ass motherfucker who told you to tie up your dog and turn down your music". Just put the boat in the water and MOVE.
I know this seems bitter and judgemental. It is. After spending my saturday next to what amounted to a travelling carnival with no rides (that picture is a CHICK), I'm pissed. Cigarette butts flicked into the water and washing up in front of my spot. Potato chip bags being blown all over the beach and into the lake. And the double negatives? Don't get me started.
Just try to have some common courtesy and think about your surroundings. We're all in this together whether I like it or not.
And I can't get a tan in World of Warcraft.
1. Keep your mutt on a leash. For chrissakes, at least WATCH it. If it gets near my dogs (who ARE tied to the trailer) or my kid, I'm gonna throw rocks at it. I'm willing to bet lots of trips to the vet or the emergency begin with the words "Oh, don't worry he's harmless". Looking at the empty beer bottles lying around your Dale Earnhardt Jr. blanket and the tribal armband tattoo, I'm not willing to trust your judgement about your dog. Just keep it under control. I'm sure too that it's incessant yelping doesn't bother you while you're out on your boat, but if I wanted to hear that, I'd still be dating my last girlfriend. And how the FUCK do YOU afford a boat? Are marijuana sales not affected by the economy?
2. It's a safe bet that everyone within 200 yards doesn't enjoy Lynard Skynard or Disturbed as much as you. Please turn it down. Or off.
3. It's none of my business if you want to yell things like "Fuckin' shit ass motherfucker" in front of your kids, but I don't really wanna hear it and I don't want my kid hearing it either. She spends enough time in the car with me to know more curse words than most marines, and I don't need her to hear it from you.
4. I'm sure you think you look BAD ASS riding your stand up jet ski 50 mph in the cove, but the speed limit is 10. TEN. It's ten because kids are swimming in the cove. It's ten because no one wants to hear the whine of your engine (though I'd take that over the Lynard Skynard). It's ten because that's as high as a lot of you can count. Bottom line is - it's ten.
5. Don't lollygag at the boat launch. Be ready when it's your turn. Don't back your trailer down there and then stop to change into your bitchen swim trunks with the skull and flames (how old ARE you?). Don't make us wait while you chit chat with your pals about the "fuckin' shit ass motherfucker who told you to tie up your dog and turn down your music". Just put the boat in the water and MOVE.
I know this seems bitter and judgemental. It is. After spending my saturday next to what amounted to a travelling carnival with no rides (that picture is a CHICK), I'm pissed. Cigarette butts flicked into the water and washing up in front of my spot. Potato chip bags being blown all over the beach and into the lake. And the double negatives? Don't get me started.
Just try to have some common courtesy and think about your surroundings. We're all in this together whether I like it or not.
And I can't get a tan in World of Warcraft.
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