I went and had a physical the other day.  Next year I’ll be 50 so I figured I’d better take advantage of my last opportunity to get a check up as a virgin.  I don’t think my doctor likes me very much which is another reason I’m not looking forward to my 50^th year annual physical.  A man hopes for a tender touch for his first colonoscopy.  I think the reason my doctor is hostile towards me has something to do my lab work.  He was looking over my results and my blood pressure, resting heart rate, blood sugar and cholesterol were all good.  He sighed and says, you weigh nearly 400 pounds, drink too much, smoke, get no exercise and yet you seem to be in great shape. 

What did he mean no exercise?  Has he ever tried carrying 385 pounds with him wherever he goes?  Just getting out of my recliner or moving between my car and the front door of Dunkin’ Doughnuts can be like an aerobic exercise.  He told me that I need to consider some low impact lifetime sports.  I enjoy golf so I’m considering trying to get in 18 holes of golf a couple of times a week.  The coverage on the golf channel is remarkable. I’m just kidding.  Golf channel coverage is adequate at best.  Don’t worry about me though.  It’s not like I have totally let myself go.  If I ever crack 400 pounds I have committed that at that time I will go on a crash diet.  

I suppose I shouldn’t take my health for granted.  I did get a scare a couple of summers ago.  I woke up one morning and didn’t feel quite right, I felt like my heart was doing an extra beat or something.  As the day wore on it continued and it eventually crossed my mind…are these the early signs of the big one?  So I did what every red blooded American man would do.  I called my wife. “Honey, don’t worry but I think I’m having a heart attack.  What should I do?”  My wife and I have been married for 25 wonderful years so you might imagine how she reacted.  “Honey, I am at work for Christ’s sake.  If you don’t feel well maybe you should call the clinic.  If you are going to be late for dinner call me back.”  Click.

            Sensing the pain and the trauma I had caused her I bee-lined it to the emergency room.  It was hotter than hell that day and by the time I waddled across the parking lot I had built up quite a sweat.  I bounded into the ER looking all clammy and told the triage nurse, “I don’t want you to worry but I think I am having a heart attack.  What should I do?”  At this point all of my preconceptions of a hospital emergency room were blown out the window.  I had anticipated sitting in the waiting room for hours before seeing a doctor.  But I guess when a sweaty fat forties something man enters an ER out of breath and speaks the words heart attack people get busy. 

At first I felt really bad, you know, like when they took me on a gurney through the waiting room full of screaming babies, industrial accident victims and even a guy who was bleeding profusely from his head.  As I was carted by I could see a look of pain and hopelessness in their glossed over eyes.   And then I started thinking, “OH SHIT! Those people look messed up man!  If I deserve to be cut to the front of all those people waiting; I MUST BE DYING!” 

I was freaking out and began to yelling out prayers.  “Forgive me Father for I have sinned!  I don’t want to die!  Forgive me for lying about my weight on my driver’s license.  Forgive me for that time I masturbated… with images of Rosanne Barr in my head, and please forgive me for that time I made change out of the collection plate at church…I didn’t know until later at the bar that those two tens had stuck together…with that twenty… well okay I knew it but I don't think anybody saw me.”  
            It ended up that I had just suffered a little stress and indigestion and was released to go home in less than an hour.  I think God is really a vengeful god because in fact I didn’t die.  I had wished I would have died, however, when I had to walk out after I confessed all of my sins in front of the 100 people waiting in the ER waiting room. 

You can take a boy out of the country but… It’s amazing that after nine months in the city I haven’t outgrown the language of being an Iowa boy.  My wife laughed at me yesterday when I told her that part of my day had included a trip “into town” to pick up some things at the store.  The county I currently live in has over 1.2 million residents and the metropolitan area in which I reside has a population of more than twice the size of the entire state of Iowa. 

I have given up on being the pace setter on the freeway as I was so want to do in Iowa.  In Iowa once you got out front of a pack of traffic you might hold that position for miles and miles before coming up upon additional traffic in the coveted inside lane.  I did a show in Philadelphia Saturday; I love you Philadelphia, and mixed in with all the returning Holiday traffic on my way home.  Five hours to go 150 miles.  If you drive five hours in Iowa you end up in Chicago, Minneapolis, or St. Louis.  Nobody ever goes to Kansas City or you could make it there too. 

What prompted me to give up my pack leading driving was that I discovered if you run in the outside, slow lane you end up passing the same little silver BMW’s numerous times on your journey.  I don’t know what it is about those little Beemer drivers.  They fly by and slam on the brakes when they meet traffic, get blocked and fall back and then the cycle continually repeats itself as you go down the road.  I should confess at this point that it has crossed my mind numerous times that my GMC Yukon had an original sticker price very similar to that of the 300 series yuppie mobiles and in the event that their cutting in and out of traffic ends in shared lane space my Yukon would crush them.  I wonder how cool they would feel with a big capital GMC tattooed across their backside.  

Please don’t misunderstand my disdain for the little silver Beemer’s as bitterness.  I fully respect those finely engineered cars in the 500 plus series range and the X, Z and M classes.  But in my mind the 300 series Beemer’s are more like cubic zirconium, faux pearls or Dallas Cowboys outerwear.  They are for trendy people who care more about what they believe others will think of them than they care about nurturing any real personal substance.  I mean really; how could anybody really be a Cowboys fan unless they were shallow self centered lemmings?  Hey, hey, I’m just kidding.  Cowboy fans aren’t shallow.  They are deeply full of …. Sorry, I am just having a little fun.  This is a comedy blog.  Or is it? 

My apparent disdain for the Cowboys is born more in the affection I have for my DC neighbors and my new found friends in Philadelphia.  (It would seem that even I can be a shallow bandwagon jumper!)  It is pretty amazing the depth to which football rivalries go.  I have even heard anti Cowboy blurbs uttered from the pulpits of churches in the DC area.  I guess when in Rome…  In Iowa you were basically a NFC Northern division fan and we were fairly evenly split as fans among the Vikings, Packers and Da’ Bears.  Your more enlightened and thoughtful Iowan’s preferring the Bears of course.  There were a few odd quirky people who followed the Rams or the Chiefs but nobody really ever acknowledged them in public very much. 

Damn…How did I go from intending to post about adjusting to DC life and end up ranting about BMW’s and the Dallas Cowboys?  I had wanted to mention a bit about my last show in Philadelphia.  Stand-up comedy offers the epitome of instant gratification.  You know the moment you exit the stage how you did.  While I feel blessed that I don’t ever recall bombing, yet, there exists a wide range of degrees in how well you feel a set did or didn’t go.  The show in Philadelphia rates strongly as my best show ever.  The weekend before my show the Eagles had beaten my beloved Chicago Bears and I was tempted to rant about the lack of brotherly love I felt from the City of Brotherly Love.  I’m glad I didn’t.  I’m now whole heartedly in love with the city of Philadelphia.  Those Jim’s cheese steaks don’t hurt my feelings for the city any either.

            I’ve been sitting at my computer for maybe a half an hour but can’t seem to pull my eyes away from the game that my 10 year old is playing on his X-Box.  That shit is amazing.  I think one of the benefits of being born before the world had benefit of all this gadgetry is that I am so easily amazed by technology.  I don’t know that kids these days (by kids I mean anyone under 40) can truly appreciate how mystical technology can seem to a geezer like me.  I grew up with three channels of black and white TV, a piece of rope and a sock puppet.  I loved my sock puppet.    

            I know a little bit about technology.  I used to be the IT guy for a large mid west credit union.  Yeah, that guy.  I worked in a cubicle, and yes it was in the basement.  Many of you who may have seen my show know that my stapler was blue, however, so I think I was just a wee bit cooler than Milton from Office Space.  And yet even with a technology background there are times when I will just sit and stare in awe at my cell phone.  The other day I was traveling at highway speed on the DC Beltway, (4 mph) talking to my daughter in London while she ambled around the shops of Piccadilly Circus.  How freekin’ cool is that? 

            Out in my garage I have a shelving unit four foot wide and seven feet tall.  It is filled to capacity with all my old LP albums that I refuse to part with.  I would imagine that collection of records weighs in the neighborhood of 1000 pounds.  My I-Pod, had I not left it in my pants pocket before doing the laundry, would hold 5 times the music that those vinyl discs contain.  That blows me away.  If you see my wife any time between now and Christmas I’m thinking a Droid might make a great replacement for my I-Pod.  And that Droid!  It’s… it… oh never mind.  You guys know all about it.  Phone apps are out of this world these days.  I still don’t get it though.  How they can cram 5,000 pounds of LPs, a 5 megapixel camera, a GPS unit, web browser, game system, and computer applications into a piece of plastic smaller than my wallet that rings when my momma wants to talk to me is beyond me. 

            I suppose what prompted me to write about how amazed I am by technology began early this morning when I awoke and practiced my old man morning rituals.  It starts with the nine - minute urination that we used to laugh about when it was our grand fathers trickle that seemed to go on forever and ever.  Then after I shower I apply my ever trusty Rogain-anti-balding-creme, take my arthritis medicine, and put on my reading glasses, none of which I needed only five years ago.  It made me contemplate how quickly life moves along whether you are paying attention or not.  So take time today and stare at your damn cell phone for a moment.  That shit is amazing and you should appreciate that people paid enough attention in school to make gizmo’s like that available to you.  Then get yer butt in gear and do what ever you have to do to make it a great day.  Time flies and you don’t want to miss anything.

My wife is convinced that I will never die with any secrets.  Had I not just opened my big mouth concerning our intended family Christmas present I might have thought she was paying me a compliment.  No fewer than four times since we decided it would be a great Christmas present for the family to travel to London and visit my daughter have I uttered some "when we get to London" type phrase.  The poor lady is exasperated with me.  Luckily for me my comments have gone over the head of those within earshot on each occasion.  It is either luck or confirmation that nobody ever listens to what I say.  I'm just reporting.  You decide. 

This will be my first opportunity to travel abroad.  Travel abroad.  HA!  It seems paradoxical to utter an expression such as "travel abroad" with reference to a working class stiff such as myself.  Think Flintstones in Rock Vegas, The Munsters at a society gala or Dick Cheney at a gun safety seminar.  Maybe I should just stick to describing my travel plans as wedging my size 58 rear end into a cramped size 32 regular coach seat for eight hours.  Sometimes you just have to fly to get where you want to go.  I don't like it.  I'll do it but I will most likely be bitching about it the entire time.  Sound fun?

I come by my loathing of flying honestly.  I think people who have a seat assignment next to me don't enjoy flying very much either.  I always like to arrive early to the airport because it takes me about a half an hour to put my damn shoes back on after going through security.  Really, there should be a fat person’s exemption for that rule.  Fat people aren’t terrorists.  Watch the damn news.  Fat people just want people to not hate them.  Its those skinny bastards that you need to worry about. 

            The last time I flew; after doing the whole shoe ordeal I made my way to the plane.  I was sitting in my assigned seat, spilling over the armrests and hoping beyond hope that the vacant seat beside me would remain that way.  If that seat would only remain empty everything was going to be fine.  The plane was nearly filled to capacity.  So far so good. 

The flight attendant made her count and reported to the captain.  We would be in the air in no time.  I began to relax.  Well, as much as you can relax with the sensation of having your ass pinched in a vice.  Then the stewardess passed through the plane one more time, made a passenger count and returned to the cockpit.  She seemed to spend time in thought before turning back and looking in my direction.  Something was wrong.  A ground crew member and a TSA official boarded the plane and began talking with the stewardess and they kept glancing back in my direction.  My mind was racing as I looked at my watch.  I rechecked our departure time on the boarding pass and looked back at the conferencing airline employees.  There was some frantic talking over hand held radios at the front of the plane and still more subtle glances in my direction. 

What was this?  Did I match some profile description?  This flight occurred during the last presidential administration.  Did the fact that I was flying on a Bush’s-ratings-are-down-so-we-better-declare-a-fear-inducing-code-orange-day have anything to do with it?  I started thinking; I’m a large dark haired brown skinned bearded man.  Don’t these people know that fat people aren’t terrorists?  I was losing it and sweat started to appear on my brow.  Good.  Break out in a guilty looking sweat.  That would help.

And then it happened!  Well something happened and it scared the bejesus out of me.  We had a late passenger.  My heart sank regarding the coveted vacant seat next to me.  I wanted to cry; especially when I saw the passenger huff and grunt her way onto the plane.  This particular passenger was at least as “vertically challenged” as I.  As she approached I watched passengers being flailed to and fro as her hips popped from row to row.  As the passenger neared my row I shot the flight attendant my best “you’ve got to be kidding me” look.  The two largest passengers on the plane had been assigned side by side seats on one of the smallest planes in the Northwest Airline’s fleet.  .

The enormity of our problem overtook me as the late passenger stopped, looked at me, looked at the seat number and then let out a big sigh that caused sweat from her upper lip to spray all over me.  She looked at me again.  I looked at her.  And now we both had a look on our face like we were about to cry. 

Our flight attendant caught on quickly that we had a major problem.  She started scanning the seats behind us and suddenly everybody got busy diving into the “Sky Miles” magazines or their I-pods or lap tops, anything to avoid eye contact with the flight attendant who was looking for some sucker to swap seats.  Eventually an empty seat was found near the back of the plane and I vowed to swear off air travel from that day on.  The chances of having an empty seat next to me on an 8 hour flight to Europe over the holidays are good aren’t they?  Aren’t they?  I need a little reassurance here people!

            Not so many days ago we had one of those family blow-outs where everybody seemed to jump on each others nerves.  Okay, maybe I encroached on the families nerves.  Whatever, I just remember that everybody was mad.  Things were said that shouldn’t have been said.  It happens sometimes.  By now I don’t even recall what everyone was so darned mad about anymore.  I have an inkling that may have had something to do with me letting out a little roar from the underpants lion and then hitting the window locks in the Yukon.  Say what you will but it is hurtful when you do your best to create a moment of levity and people end up telling you (To summarize just some of what was said) they hate you, you are a smelly bastard, that they give up on you ever growing up, you are sick, they never liked you, they want to be put up for foster care, they want a divorce, that you should be ashamed of yourself, that they can’t stand you and that you are incapable of ever becoming civilized, you should be shot, you should be killed, you should take a one way trip to shitville and you smell so bad they don’t understand how you can live with yourself.  After a bit I became immune to the hurtful jabs because I was more concerned with trying to reconcile the failed juxtaposition of the gastric and the comedic relief I had sought so diligently to achieve.  But alas, other than the beneficial relief of intestinal pressures; comedic relief was not forthcoming. 

            I suppose it didn’t matter so much that I had hit the window locks. It was raining…hard.  The victims of my butt trumpetry; should they opt for an exchange of unfouled-air would be drenched from the deluge that would come with it.  The yelling had ended and now one of these pregnant silences fell upon the car.  Not a single passenger was spared from rage or hurt feelings.  The rain pounded on the steel roof of the truck and the windshield.  The wipers were pounding their monotonous swooshing sound.  In some desperate attempt to fill the air with something other than the heaviness of dysfunction mingling with methane I turned on the radio.  Whitney Houston was singing her hauntingly beautiful “I Will Always Love You.”  It was maybe the perfect song if you were looking for absolutely the most incredibly inappropriate song in the world to play.  Still nobody was talking and someone reached over to turn up the radio to drown out the silence that was the wake of our discordance.

(It might be a good idea to click this link now and let the music play in the background as you read the rest of the story.) So we are sitting at a red light.  Nobody is talking and I’m staring out the window at the driving rain when a Mexican man comes walking down the sidewalk.  He looked defeated.  Drenched from head to toe; it was obvious that the mans plans had been thwarted by the weather.  It seemed as if all he wanted to do was get home, get back to some comfortable sense of warmth and normalcy.  From his gait and demeanor it seemed that home might indeed be a very long way away.  And I’m feeling compassion for this man.  I suppose I am transposing some of my own feelings of momentary incompleteness and inadequacy upon this lonely looking man walking in the rain.  I’m staring at him, mesmerized actually and wondering what his story is.  I can feel my eyes water a bit.  My bottom lip almost feels a twinge of a quiver and Whitney Houston is singing, “And I ayyyyeeeee ayeeeee will always love you.” 

As I burst into maniacal laughter the family thought for a moment that I had blown a gasket.  With worried looks they asked me what was wrong and I had to explain to them just how wrong it had struck me as to be watching this Mexican man seemingly walking in slow motion, as if he were on a beach and we were on a romantic interlude while Whitney sang of eternal love in the background.  And finally the evasive comedic moment I had so desperately sought and failed at earlier was achieved.  That’s the problem with living with a comedian.  Sometimes they have to endure way too much when I’m working out a punch line.

Until next time…Don’t let your beer get hot and No Cheatin’!

            It was shaping up to be one of the biggest nights of my life.  "Married Comedian Disclaimer: I was married in the afternoon and all of my children were born in the day time." The first signs of full-blown fall had settled upon Washington DC.  The temperature had pummeled a full thirty degrees from what had been the norm in summer’s final grips.  And it was raining.  In the event that you haven't experienced it... there is nothing quite like driving on the DC beltway.  In the rain.  At night. During rush hour.  Nonetheless I was bouncing in my seat as I navigated the snarled traffic on my way to comedy nirvana.  Over the previous five weeks I had worked hard to hone my comedy act down to a concise five minutes.  I was braving the beltway in the rain, at night, during rush hour to make it the twelve miles from my home to deliver five minutes of flawless funny in my debut at the DC Improv. 

            
            Not only is the DC Improv considered one of the premier comedy clubs in all of the United States but it is truly a home to the greats of comedy.  I was about to deliver my set of witticisms on a stage that had seen the likes of Jerry Seinfeld, Robin Williams and Jay Leno.  Most recently I had seen Wanda Sykes appear at the Improv and I literally laughed until I cried.  I couldn’t tell you how many times I have read or heard of comedians of the caliber forementioned who have spoken affectionately about the perfect ambiance of the DC Improv.  This was truly going to be a special night for an aspiring comic such as me. 

            
            I had pulled out an old mix CD I had made last year and was listening to it on my way to the show.  The music was working its magic.  I was lost in the rhythms and harmonies of some of my favorite tunes of all time.  The butterflies in my belly began to subside.  And then “the song” came pumping out of my stereo.  I became lost in the lyrics that I had first heard performed live in the fall of 2008.  My daughter had gone away to college, not far.  Close enough that we could get to her in a hurry and far enough for her to know that we wouldn’t be popping in. 

            
            She had been away to college for over a month and we hadn’t seen her and it was getting to me.  A family musician friend was going to be performing in a coffee house in her college town so I invited her to invite me to join her to see the show.  Upon being seated I saw my baby girl approaching through the crowded coffee shop and I realized that my she had become a woman.  She hadn't yet seen me.  I was bursting with pride in the way only a father would understand upon seeing his daughter walk confidently his way.  I realized and I suppose I knew all along that she was going to do okay without her Daddy’s protective wing around her. 

            We talked and we laughed and caught up and then our friend, Kevin (BF) Burt started in on a song I hadn’t heard before.  It went something like this:

            One day you gonna spread your wings and fly away and that’s okay

            Cuz baby daddy understands that’s what you supposed to do.

            Oh and daddys gonna cry that day but don’t you worry baby

            Cuz that’s what daddy’s s’posed to do too.

            Just remember no matter where you go, no matter where you roam

            Daddy’s waitin with open arms. 

            Oh to give you that big daddy bear hug baby

            As soon as you step one foot back in your home.

            You’ve made my life worthwhile Oh you’ve made life worthwhile

            Just to see you smile.

            When I first heard that song my daughter had been living less than an hour from me and the words broke me as they were an affirmation that I had to let go.  I tried.  I’m trying. I wept and couldn’t hide it from her and I think Only then did I understand why it had been okay with her that we hadn’t seen each other for a month.  I tend to tear up at inappropriate moments when it comes to her.  And now as I was inching my way along the Beltway for one of the biggest nights of my life my daughter couldn’t be with me.  She’s now going to college across an ocean where I can’t get to her in a moment if need be.  But she’s doing okay and I know she is strong and she’s smart.  And then I was glad that through that song we shared she was with me in a way.  I felt her presence strongly and recalled the confident way she came looking for me in that coffee shop. 

            
            The show was freeking awesome.  It was as much fun and gratification as I have ever had in my adult life (wedding and birth of children not withstanding) and somehow I don’t think I could have done the show without her.  When it came down to it the show was indiscribably important to me.  It was a life defining moment but in the bigger scheme of things...not more important than family.
Kevin (BF) Burt  - See and hear Kevin Burts "See You Smile" here.

    Here we go.  Even before I did comedy I got my ya-yas out as a blogger.  The old site, Red Hog Diary, was a political blog and it wasn't very funny and in the end it wasn't much fun.  The thing about politics is that half of the people in the world are under-edumacated, half are crazy and the other half are just mean.  That leaves the remaining third of us enlightened folk to be better off pissing in the wind.  Know what I mean?

    So after three years, some 1200 posts, and over 70,000 views later I hung it up.  It got to the point where I was mad all the time at the asinine things people had to say about the obvious truths I was sharing.  The other half of the time I spent trying to figure out new ways to piss those off who pissed me off and the remaining third of the time I wrote some cute story about something going on in my life that had nothing to do with politics.  Funny, not ha ha funny but unusually funny was that those times where I just wrote about life and wasn't trying to save the world with my political insight were the most popular of my posts amongst my regular readers.  So it goes. 

    When you spend several years of your life doing something every day it has a way of sticking with you and so I figured why not do a comedy blog?  I'm not going to post on it every day but will post when I see fit or something tickles me.  I don't suppose we will always be funny here but our message will always be intended to entertain and never intended to piss you off.  Check back when you can or better yet, sign up for an RSS feed or email alert for when we have new posts.  Glad you stopped by.  See you later or through the window!