Author: Chris

I had to go to Miami for job stuff last week.  It’s always strange to review a city – I’ve been in Columbus for 16 years and haven’t been everywhere here.  People ask, “How was ____?”  They are basically asking, “How were the two restaurants you went to and the airport?”  THE AIRPORT SUCKED…is there a good airport?  It’s huge and hot and full of people.

As for the rest, it was nice.  I didn’t see the beach at all and it was hotter than Satan’s taint, but not bad.  The first night we went to the trendy spot, which meant driving through a warzone to get there.  I actually saw a drug deal on the sidewalk on the way.  Fun!  Someone muttered “gentrification” – look, if the alternative is eating next to drug deals, gentrify it up.  The bar/restaurant was an actual butcher, so I loved it.  Great food and I got a jalapeno and cheddar burger I saw them pick right out of the display.  Miami is also 85% Hispanic/Cuban also.  More Spanish than English, although a lot of Spanglish.  I would hear something in rapid fire Spanish, followed by, “You know what I mean?”  That was really unique to hear.

Day 2 we ate at a really nice place, but we tried a local favorite “ceviche” which is seafood cooked in acids.  It was horrendous.  Imagine the worst part of sushi (which I like) and you lick a battery after each bite.  Then again, everyone else was gobbling it up, so I guess I’m the weirdo.  The main course was great though.

In summation, this city had cool stuff, sketchy areas, was hot in September like every single city in America.  I think I have a future in writing a travel blog.

I had to visit a high school last week for work.  I rarely go to schools, but this trip was extra special, when I pulled in, it was raining like monsoon season in Thailand.  I waited out the rain, but it wouldn’t stop, so instead, 3 inches of lake formed around my car.  The second I stepped out, I felt water flood up over my shoes into my socks.  And the day is ruined.

I was already drenched, carrying my laptop bag, when I entered the door.  There were dozens of students crammed in the foyer, waiting for a chance to escape to lunch.  From behind me, I heard, “HEY!”  “BIG GUY!”  “LET ME HOLLA AT YA!”  I tend to avoid eye contact in general with strangers, so I thought it was for someone else until my shoulder was grabbed.  “Hey!  I’m tryin’ to get one of them rides!”  Excuse me?  “Get me a ride!”  A very confident young kid stood before me, asking a total stranger for a ride.  “I’m here for a sales call, not rides.”  He asked again.  “I am here for sales, can’t do it.”  “SALES?!  Alright.  SALES?”  He walked away.

Here’s a few problems.  First, I’m coming into the building, not leaving.  I’m pretty sure that’s the international language for not leaving soon.  Second, I’m carrying stuff in, so it’s even more obvious I’m not there to pick someone up.  Third, DON’T GET IN THE CAR WITH STRANGERS.  EVER.  Fourth, as strongly as you should be against hitching rides from strangers, I’m that and more against PICKING UP STRANGERS ESPECIALLY KIDS.

The good news is that I didn’t see any Amber Alerts on my phone that night, so apparently no one else gave that kid a ride.  The bad news is that I’m pretty sure that’s not a one time incident.  Looks like the “Don’t trust strangers” speech is getting prioritized extra early with my kids.  Well that, or the “Don’t be a dumbass and ask for rides from strangers” speech, anyways.

My wife and I, in the fun joyous time that is packing for a quick trip for two children and ourselves, forgot the medicine in the refrigerator for the kids’ ears.  If you’ve never packed for a child, take whatever you pack for yourself and times it by 347, then cram it all into something smaller than a military transport vehicle.

We were able to call it in and run to a small town pharmacy – a small town pharmacy on a Saturday night looks like a carnival ran into…well, another trashier carnival.  We were behind a woman who’s hair belonged on the set of the Outsiders.  A man to the right wore overalls and house slippers.  But the best was yet to be seen.

A cell phone rang and my wife instinctively looked over.  A woman, wearing a shirt that pictured a cat, in Uncle Sam wear, holding a sparkler and riding a bald eagle.  “That’s my phone, not yours!” she bellered.  The man next to her had his head cocked to the side so far I thought he would fall over.  His wide eyed stare entered my soul for a hot second, but I was able to look away before I turned into stone.

Minutes later, she approached, for no reason.  “My son would love that shirt!”  She pointed at my wife’s Ohio State tee.  There were probably five Ohio State tees being worn in the store, as it was gameday.  Her teeth looked like she brushed the bottom half of the top row only.  A brownish red stripe ran across the Maginot line of gunk.  “He’s 17, but has the mind of a 15 year old.”  Well, there’s a huge difference.  She began telling us about a blanket she got him.  My only thought was “don’t look at her teeth or the staring guy”.  While she spoke, the gazer mumbled to the pharmacy clerk and once they understood him, got six bottles of pills.  SIX.  The lady was blathering on about the blanket, but the pills finally broke her tale and we were able to escape, somewhat unscathed.  We finally got our kids’ medicine and ran for the exit, afraid to look back, lest we turn into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife.  I will never return to this cursed land.

I did a show last night at Two Dollar Radio Headquarters, not a radio station, but a bookstore/coffeeshop/bar, because names are goofy in 2018.  The show was actually call Unicorn Level Comedy Hour, because with a three year old daughter, I need more unicorns in my life.  It was a great crowd and made me realize further what crowds work in comedy, which do not.

Good – Small group of friends, 3-5 people.  Bad – Huge group of friends getting together for the first time in a few months.  Small groups pay attention, look at each other when a joke hits close to home.  Huge groups start telling stories and it’s over.  Every time a gaggle of eight or more sits in the front row, you are in trouble.

Good – Old weird people.  Bad – Old drunk weird people by themselves.  Old weird people give good feedback by occasionally giving weird input, since they are, well weird.  Usually yelling something like, “Hey, I like English literature!” or “That’s the kind of porn I like!” randomly.  Old weirds drunk and alone yell that every single joke.  It goes from “Hey, this is kind of helping my joke” to “Oh God, please let the ceiling fall on this guy.”

Good – Friends of one of the comics.  Bad – Friends of the bar staff.  Friends of comics usually pay attention.  Friends of the bar staff hope they get free drinks and black out.  Plus the latter are always there, so they feel entitled and wouldn’t shut up if you were giving away the location of Blackbeard’s treasure onstage.

Good – People having some drinks.  Bad – Blackout Billy, the guy who thinks he’s funnier or the bar’s number one regular.  My favorite interaction with a drunk ass who thought he was funnier was when I ran an open mic.  He started heckling, then paid me $20 to go onstage.  He did about 90 seconds, bombed and left the bar.  The whole time the sign up sheet was still open…for free.  Best $20 I ever made.  The bar’s number one regular, though, thinks he (or she) is the sun of the heliocentric tavern world and will refuse be interrupted.  I had a guy heckle me at a cancer benefit once – just before the show he was loudly talking about slow pitch softball.  By all means, please tell us more!  Comedy?  Meh.  Stories about sacrifice fly balls and Texas shootout doubleheaders between First Lutheran Church of Christ and Terry’s Radiator and Clutch?  HELL YES!

After one of my last shows, I had a very drunk man come up and offer me weed.  He was about 3 inches from my face and his breath was overwhelming.  Luckily for me, he was more interested in the ladies, so he moved on before I had to do something extreme, like set myself on fire or anything more pleasant than speaking to him.

There is a very strange thing that happens after shows, where really drunk people decide it’s a good idea to approach a comic and engage in very strange ways. One guy came up to me and decided to bombard me with stories of his favorite comedian.  Not as is in, “have you ever worked with” or “are they an influence” – more just straight up “here’s something I like and you’re going to hear about it.”  The worst part is that I was selling shirts and books, so there was no escape.  He body shielded anyone that might buy something.  I actually did just straight up bail and leave my stuff to the masses after ten minutes.  It’s the comedy equivalent of leaving your keys in the ignition in a bad neighborhood, but it was worth it.  I ran to the bathroom and noticed he had moved right along to the next comic, showing them the same pictures he had showed me.  Probably cost me $100, because the room was packed when I first set up.

Another couple approached me once after a good set.  “Oh man, you were funny.  We saw a show in Parkersburg about ten years ago, guy was hilarious.  Oh what was his name?  Um, he was a little taller than you, probably mid 40’s then.  Sound familiar?  Ever work with him?”  First, sounds like he made a great impression.  Second, here’s what I have so far.  He’s a guy.  He’s older than me.  That narrows it down to 750 comics it could be.  Luckily I have memorized every show done in the United States since 2001!  It was…oh wait, no one has.  See ya later.

I did the Cincy Brew Ha Ha years ago also after winning the Go Bananas comedy competition.  Had a fun set and a guy came up to me afterwards – he had a face tattoo and looked like he had done at least a year in prison.  “You’re really funny, we should hang out some time!”  Well, I have never been an accessory to a felony…may be worth the material.  Let’s set up a playdate.

My daughter is, as my grandmother would say, “Ornerier than a popcorn fart.”  I don’t know what that means, but she said it and it sounds pretty wild.  Ornery sucks to spell, by the way.  It took me five minutes to figure that out and I was my high school’s co-valedictorian.  That last word took a while too, but that’s Dewar’s fault, not my brain.

Friday night she was fighting sleep like I fight sobriety.  HARD.  I went to get more milk, when the cat, that weird animal that lives in my house and murders things every five minutes, ran like hell’s fire down the hall.  That means one thing.  Dingleberry.  When the long haired cat gets a dingle, it’s crazy time.  I didn’t think about it, but when I came up I saw my sweet girl standing over something, talking up a storm.

“It’s OK.  Accidents happen.”  There was a lovely cat turd with a piece of toilet paper the size of your thumbnail next to it.  “It’s OK.  Mazy has a stinker on her butt.  It’s OK.”  What in the blazes?  “I clean it, it’s OK.  Accidents happen.”  My sweet little sleepless hellion/angel was trying to clean the dingleberry, aka the “stinker on her butt.”  I now am terrified if my kid ever tells me she made a stinker.  God knows the magic that will happen when she starts repeating more words from mom and dad into her own little word factory.