Mister Comedy

Yesterday was the seventh anniversary of the biggest ‘what-the-fuck’ moment in my lifetime. Combine that with the ratcheted up hostilities between Israel and Iran (Israeli minister says Israel might kidnap Ahmadinejad), China back to its repressive, pre-Olympics mindset and Russia seemingly nostalgic for a Cold War redux, my mind starts to wax apocalyptic. And when things get real scary, I think about how easy it would be to start my own cult. I’ve obviously got the leadership thing down, having been captain of my high-school debate team. If you’re not inclined to join my cult, maybe you’ll want to start your own, and in the that spirit, I’ve put together some tips to make your cult as successful as possible.

• Pick a date for the end of the world. Avoid the beginning of any century–be creative. Who’s to say the world won’t end on March 30th, 2012? Or tie your personal vision to an astronomic event–comets have been done to death, but what about the next asteroid shower?
• Get as many people to agree with you as possible–ideally, you should have at least twenty followers–otherwise it’s really more of a club than a cult.
• Choose a spiritual name for your followers to call you. You will have more luck drawing adherents if you avoid really American-sounding names like ‘Greg.’ Also avoid names which are difficult for your followers to pronounce, like Azhgtilsksh.
• When the ‘end times’ come, remember–you don’t have to kill yourself just because your followers do.
• If you have a regular job, quit. In addition to the long hours involved with starting a cult, you lose some credibility if you have to miss a vigil or a sacrifice because you’re ’stuck at work for another hour.’
• Convince your followers to have sex with you in exchange for their salvation. If they are not convinced, threaten to shoot them.
• Good places to build your compound: the desert, the mountains, or anywhere in Idaho. Bad places: the banquet room of a Holiday Inn and your apartment.
• Avoid telling potential converts about the killing themselves part. Wait until you get all their worldly possessions, then start dropping hints about ‘the next world.’
• Be sure to tell your followers that when they kill themselves (see above) they will be going to a better place. Nobody will give you all their worldly possessions if you tell them you’re ‘just not sure what will happen when this all shakes out.’
• Don’t tell people you’re God. Acceptable substitutes–Vessel of God, Messenger of Truth, Most Eminent Visionary. Bad choices–Smart Guy, Man Who Is Better Than Others, Guy Who Tells People To Kill Themselves.
• Find corporate sponsorship. With more cult startups expected than ever before, competition for lost souls will be intense. If you could be known as The Nike Cult of The Impending End Times, you’ll have a better shot at getting new members.

I watch a lot of tv, and I have fond memories of fall. Every fall as a kid I remember the TV Guide Fall Preview Issue, when times were simpler and there was a hell of a lot less to watch. You kinda felt like if a new show was gonna make it, it was your responsibility to watch. Shows like ‘Cheers’ started with low ratings, but because there weren’t 200 channels and internet shows and shows on your cell phone–well, networks were willing to let an audience grow.

I realize the big three networks are dinosaurs, but why are so many new network shows so incredibly, jaw-droppingly LAME? It can’t be lack of originality, because any studio or network head would tell you that they’re constantly looking for cutting-edge ideas and fresh faces. So all I can figure is , maybe the life of a TV executive is so busy, they don’t have time to…think up new shit. So, for all you harried industry players out there, here’s a few show ideas (with casting suggestions) you can have for free.

“Hey, Stop That! ”
A guy (maybe Chris Walken, if he’ll do episodic) goes around L.A. yelling at street people.
In the pilot, he yells at that guy who wears a trashcan lid as a hat.

“You Bet Your Ass!”
Game show where losers are forced into prostitution. Maybe have Saget host.

“Acquaintances”
A bunch of twenty-something slackers hang out in a coffeehouse. Since the show is filmed in a real coffeehouse, the characters are too self-absorbed to talk to each other. No dialogue should keep production costs down.

“One-Hour Martinizing”
The gritty reality of the dry-cleaning business. In the opener, guest star Joan Collins gives a terrific performance as a woman with a suspicious stain on her dress. Gandolfini would play the owner of the shop–maybe give him a mob background to lure ‘Sopranos’ fans.

“Don’t Try This At Home!”
Science show where host teaches kids about loose wires, oily rags and light sockets.

“That’s My Chick”
Lovable guy gets drunk and starts a bar fight every Friday. Tony Danza is probably available.

“America’s Next Great Surgeon”

Reality show in which 12 people with different backgrounds (auto mechanic, barista, carny) learn surgery over 12 weeks, leading to a finale in which the final two each perform a heart-lung transplant.

“CSI: Law And Order”

Merging of casts of 3 CSI series and 3 L&O series creates first network ’super-show’  In the pilot, the thirty-seven stars just get in each other’s way as they try to solve the case of a genius mathematician (and former cop) who is also a sexual predator and serial arsonist wanted for cases in Las Vegas, Miami and New York.

“First Draft”

At the end of each episode, an actual television writer commits suicide.

The title of this post makes it look like my show in Buffalo didn’t go well, and that’s not really true. I got as much out of a Rotary Cub as any comedian could have. But MY GOD WAS IT A LOT OF WORK! First, to get to Buffalo, you drive west from Minneapolis (which is an actual city) about 45 minutes, past the suburbs, past all signs of civilization, until you see the lights of a town. That town isn’t Buffalo. You keep driving.

Interestingly enough, for the 20 or so miles before you get to Buffalo, there are no signs along the freeway saying ‘Buffalo–20 miles” or “Buffalo–next exit” or…anything. The only signs you see tell you to watch your speed, because you certainly wouldn’t want to get to Buffalo too quickly. Also on that stretch of freeway, they’ve painted white dots in the middle of the road, with signs saying “2 dots equals 3 seconds.” So you keep driving and counting dots until you see the Menard’s, take a right, and there it is–the Buffalo Civic Center. However, whereas ‘civic center’ implies a rather grand structure, where…big events might happen, this place looks like an aircraft hangar built on top of a high-school gymnasium. An old gymnasium with god-awful fake ‘turf’ duct-taped to the floor. Guess my ‘comeback’ had to start somewhere.

This was the Buffalo Rotary Club’s yearly fundraiser, during which they raffle off a new car. Now one of the fundamental rules of comedy, along with “Always Be Nice To The Guy Paying You” and “Don’t Make Fun Of The Girlfriend Of The Guy Paying You” is ‘Never Follow A Raffle.” See, everyone is there trying to win something, and when you go on, they realize you’re not giving away any prizes. You never want you introduction to start with the phrase ‘and don’t forget we still have a comedian.’

The three hundred or so people who didn’t win a new car dejectedly head for their own car (I mean it was almost ten o’clock in Minnesota after all) and I’m left with fifty or so people, who thanks a prime rib dinner and an open bar are either drunk or napping. The head guy of the Rotary Club then spends five minutes trying to get the drunk people quiet enough to hear my show, and to get them really pumped, gives me this introduction:

“Alright, so we’ve got a guy here from Chicago to entertain you. Here’s Michael Dane.”

The ‘audience’ is seated at gigantic round tables, thereby making sure that two-thirds of them aren’t actually facing the ’stage’, which is not really a stage but a three-inch high riser made of unfinished plywood. I start off playing with the crowd a little, and I had been given some notes on a few of the notables in the group to riff on. Unfortunately, none of the people for whom I had notes were still there. So I play with some people at the front tables, and I see a woman with big frizzy hair, and suggest that she was “the victim of a tragic home-perm accident.” Not brilliant, but the kind of line that loosens up the crowd before I get into my material. Well this crowd wasn’t too clear on the notion that comics…make shit up. No real grasp of sarcasm. So, a woman next to the frizzy-haired woman felt compelled to yell in the middle of my next joke “that’s natural–that’s her real hair!” I clearly had entered some sort of bizarre Literal Land, so I decided to just get to the act.

Although a core group in the crowd was clearly digging my routine, I spent much of my contractually-obligated hour essentially babysitting. Apropos of nothing I would be talking about, someone would announce loudly “I’m getting a drink–anyone need anything?” or “I gotta take a piss.” If I turned to the right, the people on the left would start talking. If I turned to the left, a canasta game would break out on the right.  On every other joke, if I didn’t yell the punchline, they seemed unable to tell that it was the end of a joke, and their cue to laugh. And, since it was an room full of Minnesotans, when they did laugh, wasn’t able to tell. The innate Lutheran-ness of Minnesotans doesn’t exactly lead to boisterous response.

It was also the whitest group of people assembled outside of the Republican National Convention.  The only person of color in the auditorium was the black security guard. Not even sure why he was there–Rotary Club events don’t tend to draw your rabble-rousers and troublemakers, even when they have an open bar.

I pushed through, though, eventually got to most of my actual jokes, and at the end, quite a few people said the had a great time (again, not that I could tell they had fun). Did my political stuff, did my pot stuff, even did my bisexual stuff (now I know why the security guard was there). Afterwards, I went to the open bar, had a gin and tonic in a plastic cup, got my money in cash, and headed out of Buffalo. Showbiz, baby!

As I write this post, I’m on a bus headed to Minnesota. On Saturday night I begin my return to standup comedy, with a performance for the Rotary Club of Buffalo, Minnesota. On the surface, none of that exactly screams ‘show business’-not Rotary Club, not Buffalo, not Minnesota. But, it is a gig. I feel a bit like Michael Corleone in The Godfather–no matter how many times I try to leave standup, “it keeps pulling me back in.”I’m not even sure how I feel about getting back in the game. Excited, sure. And, in a weird way, a little resigned. So now I’m playing catch-up with all the hipster, alternative and most importantly, young comedians working today. And here I am, the Grandpa Moses of comedy.

First thing I have to do is throw out a chunk of my material, because I used to do topical jokes, and a lot of those are past their freshness date. Back in the day, I used to have bits about an out-of touch, incompetent president risking American lives in wrong-headed military action motivated by oil, while the economy stagnated and inner-city violence soared. Well, maybe I don’t have to rewrite that much material.

I also need to figure out how to market myself . Used to be if I wanted work as a comic, I’d send a VHS tape of a show to the club owner. Now I need to have a website, a clip on YouTube, I probably should have a MySpace page and I’m sure there’s some way to implant a microchip in the heads of prospective audience members so they’re forced to watch my show in an endless loop. Well, at least I’ve got the website and the clip, which you can view here.

I realize I’m sounding like an old vaudevillian here (‘why, if radio hadn’t come along I’d still be somebody”), but it’s a little scary getting back on the horse. I was lucky enough to get into standup when it was booming, in the eighties, when every town with a sewer system had ‘comedy night’ at the local bar. If you had twenty minutes of material and a car, you could make a decent living. Then comedy got devalued when the market was flooded with 18,000 mediocre twenty-something comics who realized it was easy money and you got to work in bars and occasionally get laid because for forty-five minutes in Cedar Rapids, Iowa you were a star. Yeah, I’m a little bitter. But it’s good to be back. I’ll post again after I rock the Rotarians.

I have mixed feelings about the internet. Specifically, hyperlinks. Used sparingly, they can amplify meaning and lead readers to interesting tangents. But I think they can be overused. I don’t always want to leave the page I’m on, interrupting the flow of what I’m reading.

It’s a weird way of reading. Imagine if books worked that way. What if every few lines, you had to flip to another page to really get the author’s meaning.

Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov (see page 22) was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov (page 24), a landowner well known in our district in his own day (pages 240-245), and still remembered among us owing to his gloomy and tragic death (page 30), which happened thirteen years ago (page 78), and which I shall describe in its proper place (pages 108-110, 355).

I think hyperlinks are just enabling our attention-deficit mentality. It encourages writers to be lazy (I could explain what I mean as I write, or I could just let people click on something if they want more depth). It encourages readers to be unfocused, filling their heads with snippets and fragments instead of following the twists and turns within a piece of writing.

In general, we have too much access for our own good. One night, I was playing poker online, watching video clips on YouTube, checking the headlines on MSNBC, answering an email from a friend and posting an ad on Craigslist. I can honestly say I didn’t enjoy any of those experiences, but I was able to do them all at once. I fear I am actually losing the ability to focus on anything for longer than the time it takes to read a few sentences.

So in the spirit of altruism, as much as I want you all to visit my website, might I also suggest you start reading a classic novel. Grab a book–an actual, physical book–sit in a comfortable chair, turn off everything except a good light, and lose yourself in a well-told story. Just my little suggestion for everybody’s mental health.

I never really understood John McCain’s criticism of Barack Obama’s ‘celebrity’ status, since running for president of the United States by definition makes you a celebrity. Hard to run a national campaign for leader of the free world without a whole lot of people noticing (although Ralph Nader is trying). But even if he has a point, and for his vice-presidential choice, he wanted someone who’s not tarnished by celebrity status, shouldn’t that person at least be SOMEONE WE’VE HEARD OF? Doesn’t your choice lose some of it’s impact if all of the media reports begin with the phrase ‘Who Is Sarah Palin?’ Your VP doesn’t have to be famous, exactly, but I don’t think that person should be someone voters have to google. Jeez, in terms of name recognition he might as well have picked me.

I’m sure this wasn’t John’s idea. Karl Rove or some other RNC goon probably called him Thursday night (“Where do we reach him?” “Try him at home.” “Like that narrows it down…”) and said something like

Look, John. Obama just gave a brilliant speech that 38 million people watched. Now I know you’re leaning toward someone with solid economic credentials, and someone with a proven track record to highlight Obama’s inexperience, but we’re thinking we should go with a woman. There seems to be a lot of women in the country right now, and apparently they can vote. Pick one of them. What about that one woman in Alaska. Yeah, I know you’ve never met her, but she’s totally hot.

McCain actually acted the same as any guy would at bar closing time. The clock is running out, and he needs to hook up with a woman. And at that point in the evening, it doesn’t really matter who the woman is. Basically, he’s been set up on a political blind date, and is looking to make her his trophy vice-president.  Unfortunately for McCain, the eighteen million Hillary Clinton supporters supported Hillary Clinton because they……agreed with Hillary Clinton! They’re just not likely to suddenly decide “You know, now that McCain has chosen a woman, I don’t need equal pay for equal work, or the right to decide what to do with my own body.”

I know the religious right (which is usually neither) is thrilled. Palin is in favor of teaching creationism, and in fact believes that the world created in seven days. She believes there is no evidence to prove evolution actually happened. Of course, if you look at the Republican Party, she’s right–there’s no evidence they have evolved. Ultimately, choosing Palin makes McCain seem progressive, but not because she’s a woman–he looks progressive by comparison–next to this gun-toting, drill-happy, moose-eating, homophobic fundamentalist, he suddenly looks as harmless and inoffensive as that uncle who just keeps telling the same war stories at every family reunion.

Not that I’m thrilled with the selection of Joe Biden. This is an election in which it will be critical to lock up certain parts of the country that have traditionally been Republican strongholds. Thank God we can now count on…Delaware. And since Obama’s core message is that of change, it’s good that he chose someone who has worked in Washinton for thirty-five years. But I do like the fact that he seems a bit of a loose cannon. It just feels like at some point in the next two months, some reporter at some campaign stop will ask one wrong question, and Biden will snap. That could be entertaining.

Why not bring the vice-presidency into the twenty-first century? I say, make the choice as part of a reality show on Fox.

Tonight, on the premiere of ‘America’s Next Top Running Mate,’ fifteen average people will be competing for the chance to break ties in the U.S. Senate!

As the convention hoo-ha shifts to St. Paul with four nights of people distancing themselves from W., I have to give special special award to insufferably strident filmmaker Michael Moore. For years I have felt that Moore hurts progressive more than he helps, simply by being obsessed with being Michael Moore. His shameless self-promotion and sweaty agit-prop, though usually on the right side of the issues, probably turns off more people than it converts. A few years ago, I created the Slappy Award–an award for someone who, by virtue of a particularly bone-headed and addle-brained action, should be slapped.

So Michael Moore was on Countdown with Keith Olbermann last night, and said that the timing of Hurricane Gustav’s arrival this week coinciding with the Republican National Convention was “proof that there is a God.” Really, Michael?  God really works that way? By potentially destroying thousands of people’s lives in order to make a political point? You need to be slapped.

I haven’t had an internet connection for a few days, and the withdrawal has been brutal. I really shouldn’t be frustrated, since my wireless connection is pirated off one of my neighbors who is actually paying for internet access (but damn you, ZWIRE972, whoever you are!). But I am now so addicted to the web (what an appropriate term that is) that I become non-functional without it. Incapable of talking with friends, unless the chat takes place inside a little box. Unable to write anything unless I can instantly send it to the entire world. If my computer ever dies, I won’t even be able to compose a sentence, because I’ve been using a keyboard for so long that I’m not sure I still remember how to form the actual letters with a pen. What’s maddening is that I have internet access for a few minutes, then I don’t. It’s there and then it’s gone. Which makes it really hard to watch porn. You can’t follow the plot (‘is she with the cable guy or the pizza guy?’).

I didn’t get a text message from Obama this week about his vp choice, and that’s fine. Don’t get me wrong, I would do almost anything to help him get elected, but on my cell plan, I would have had to pay ten cents to receive the message, and things are kinda tight right now. I did, however, get a telegram from John McCain.

I’m not sure how tech-savvy we want our president to be, truth be told. Take text messages for example. This kind of communication has simplified language so much, it’s become the digital equivalent of grunts, to say nothing of the fact that a generation has thrown spelling out the window (are the extra keystrokes required to spell ‘you’ instead of ‘u’ really THAT time-consuming?). I just think if world leaders start texting each other, international dialogue will lose a little depth.

Putin: ur missiles r 2 close 2 us imho

Obama: ab2 move them brb

Putin:  thx l8r

And what if Obama is as hooked on the web as I am. Missing cabinet meetings because he’s playing Scramble on Facebook (though it would be cool to get a message saying ‘Barack Obama has added you as a friend’ on Facebook), stopping press conferences because he needs to Google something before he can answer a question, deciding how to handle a crisis by checking Wikipedia. I just think there’s a slippery slope here, people.

Yes, I know. I haven’t posted in a few days.  So, to the four people who are checking, I’m sorry.  Now on to new business.

I’m in a very transitional place right now (makes it sound like I’m in rehab). I have been quarter-heartedly looking for a new soul-sucking, mind-numbing underpaid office job with no benefits, and though I have emailed over two hundred resumes, so far–no response. Admittedly, my resume is a bit thin. I’m forty-eight, and have worked exactly three real jobs, totalling maybe five years in the ‘real’ world. The kids on ” Real World” actually have better job prospects than I do.  Combine my scant experience with the fact that I can only take jobs I can do sitting down due to my mysterious hip/knee/leg enfeeblement, and the fact that (though I’m no expert) the economy seems to be…less than booming, making my job prospects about as good as those of a Republican running for mayor of Chicago.

Friends have suggested I pad my resume. Get creative they say, which in my case would essentially be making shit up.  So I tried to think of things that couldn’t be checked on easily.

2001-2006         Missionary Work             Ulan Bator, Mongolia

Some people have said “But what about your years of work as a comedian? There must be a way to use those skills in the workplace.” Yet oddly enough, very few companies seem to need someone who’s good at mocking authority and insulting drunks.

Still others have said I should emphasize my life experiences. I’m just not sure that in my case that constitutes a marketable ’skill set.’

1991-2008

• watched television
• developed contacts in the marijuana industry
• gained proficiency at moving, especially on short notice

The other bit of advice I got was to not limit myself. Instead of applying for only those jobs for which I think I’m qualified, cast a wider net and apply for anything. “You can learn on the job” , they’d say. “Any job will train you if they like you.“ I must admit this was kinda fun. Just to see how far into the process I could go applying for a job as, say, a radiologist, or senior hydraulics engineer. Or, from a Craigslist posting on August 19th–

“Yes, I’m interested in the position of regional osteo biologics specialist. Now I think I’m pretty familiar with with the whole osteo biologics thing–did a little googling–just wondering…what region are we dealing with here? This is some sort of bone thing, right? Hello? …Hello?”

I’ve actually seen job listings on Craigslist for doctors. How many bridges have you burned as a doctor if you’re looking for work on a free ad site? Is that the standard career path for physicians? But the problem with looking for work on Craigslist is that Craigslist has all these other categories that suck you in and you never get to the job listings. Craigslist is like this primordial soup of human randomness, neatly categorized. ‘Lost and Found’ is a great example–there are actually ads where people are saying they lost a wallet–and believe that someone will actually see the ad, and return the wallet! People who lost–other people! “Yeah, I think I found your cousin Ed–you wanna meet somewhere so I can return him?” But my favorite is in ‘for sale,’ in the ‘free’ category. People giving away gerbils. Toilets. Yarn. A fifteen foot live birch tree. It’s the cyber equivalent of throwing shit in the alley. Someone actually posted an ad offering a goat. This begs so many questions. Why does someone in Minneapolis have a goat? If someone in Minneapolis has a goat, they obviously didn’t get it ACCIDENTALLY, so why don’t they want it anymore? What’s wrong with the goat? And if someone needed a goat, why would they look on Craigslist?

Anyway, if anyone knows some place that’s hiring middle-aged pot-heads who can type a little, let me know. I’m willing to relocate.

My friend Angela called me again today. She’s called every day for the past six or seven months, sometimes twice a day. She rarely leaves a message. I use the word ‘friend’ loosely, since I don’t know Angela’s last name or even what she looks like. I do know where she works though. Angela is a collections agent with Capital One.

Now you all know Capital One.The company that gives credit cards to people who can’t get credit cards because their credit sucks? Their catchphrase is “What’s in your wallet?” (what’s in my wallet? NOTHING! that’s why i need your credit card!)…anyhoo, you’d think they’d know how unlikely it is that the kind of person who actually need a Capital One card would ever have enough money to pay them back, but Angela believes in me.

You would also think that a 21st century financial company would have the technological savvy to understand cell phones and caller ID. Considering the number of companies to whom I owe money, I tend to not answer calls if the number starts with 800 or 888.  See, none of my friends have toll-free numbers. But here’s Cap One, thinking ‘Maybe this time he’ll pick up. He’s probably just busy figuring out how to pay us back.’ I can picture the supervisor saying”Angela–try him again–he’s gonna be home eventually.” As if after five hundred calls, I’m gonna pick up the phone and say “Ok, how much do I owe you Got it. I’ll send it out today.” I really should answer it one of these days, just for fun.

“Hello? Oh–hey Angie. Yeah, I guess you’ve been trying to get a hold of me for a while now. Sorry, I’ve just been really swamped. No, no it’s not you. It’s me. I just feel like you’re pressuring me. ? Ang, if this is about the money, I gotta tell ya–I just don’t have it. I know, I know. I let you down. Anyway, look–I gotta run. But call me anytime. Yeah, you can call me tomorrow. I may not be able to pick up, but just leave a message”

But my dear Angela never leaves a message. She has her friends do that. I particularly like the British chick that calls to say she’s from ‘Alliance Solutions’ (a collection agency) and would “really appreciate’ a call back. She always sounds upbeat in that kicky, Euro way, sorta like Emma Peel from the Avengers. And who wouldn’t want to call her back? I mean, she’s offering solutions. And she’s from…an alliance.

Actually last week, I accidentally answered. I didn’t have my glasses on, thought the ten digit number was a friend in Seattle calling, and I answered. It was my girl Angela. She didn’t sound very happy with me. She finally gets the chance to talk to me, and she takes this tone with me. All scolding, and judgemental. I realized in that conversation that I would be a crappy spy, because I tried to pretend that I was Michael’s roommate, and she saw right through me.

“Is this Michael?” “Uh, who’s calling for him?” “This is Angela.” “Uh, this is his roommate–let me see if he’s here…–no, sorry, he’s out.” “Do you know when he’ll be back?” At this point, Angie’s already on to me, but plays along like an expert criminal profiler. “No, sorry, he’s not very good at communicating (what?)–can I give him a message?” “It’s a personal matter.” Now for some reason, i continue the charade. “Well can I tell him what it’s about?” At this point, she’s done playing games. “Why would I tell you if you’re just his roommate? And I think I’m actually talking to Michael Dane.” I had no idea what to do. Hands sweating. Head spinning. Then, my masterful comeback. “No, this is his roommate.” Her response? “Are you sure you’re not Michael Dane?” And I hung up. She hasn’t called me in over a week. I miss her.

So I’ve finally gotten old enough to get away with being cranky. See I’ve always been cranky, but now that I’m almost fifty, I realize I’m gonna start getting cut slack for being a cranky old guy. I can now be the guy in line muttering angry shit about–anything. I can pull it off now, because I look the part. You have to age into crankiness–it’s like smoking a pipe–a twenty-five year old with a pipe just looks pretentious and–well, wrong.

And why do feel so oddly empowered? Why do I suddenly look the part? Because now I walk with a freakin’ cane! Now I’m not thrilled that my marathon-running days are over (before they could even start–tragic), but there’s a plus side. The other day I hobbled onto a train and proceeded to tell the teenager (who was, I might add, terribly unkempt) to get his feet off the seat in front of him. And he did! So testing my newfound license to scold, I strongly suggested that the kids in the back should quiet down, and they did!

But for the best example of the power of the cane–I was crossing the street last week, and noticed a couple of young guys in one of their…hot-rod jalopies. They didn’t see me, and clearly had no intention of stopping before the crosswalk. So I let them pull all the way into the crosswalk, walked to the driver’s side window, planted my cane and yelled ‘this is a crosswalk, punk!” They looked very frightened. They backed up, waited for me to cross, and then drove away (at the speed limit, I might add).  Now in that moment, they were probably cursing me, but I guarantee that they will remember the insane old dude the next time they come to a rolling stop. And that’s the beauty part, people. I call it freelance social engineering.

This is all very cool, and almost offsets the fact that my body is breaking down at an alarming rate. Yesterday I got out of the chair at my desk and thought ‘I’ve been sitting too long.’ YOU CAN’T SIT TOO LONG! Sitting isn’t an activity! I’ve actually said ‘Oy–my hip’–trust me, when you use Yiddish AND talk aout your hip, you’re officially old. Once when I called my friend Eugene, the first ten minutes of the conversation consisted of asking each other about each other’s various ailments.

I wear reading glasses, have digestive problems, walk with a limp ,and about three years ago I woke up one morning unable to lift my right arm. I suppose that’s something I should look into. Problem is, I don’t do the doctor thing. It’s not the actual doctor, it’s the time before the appointment. Combine an overactive imagination with the fact that I haven’t exactly treated my body like a temple (maybe a rec room? a VFW hall?) and I always think the worst. Throw in access to WebMD, and now I’m sure. But unlike most hypochondriacs, I don’t want to be proven right face to face. “Well, yes Mr. Dane, you do have a rare Sub-Saharan blood virus, and quite a nasty brain tumor as well.” “Well, glad I came by, doc. I’m very relieved.”

Side note about my cane–I actually wanted a walking stick–less, i don’t know, orthopedic looking. I’d seen some very stylish walking sticks, but then realized that I’d never seen a walking-stick store. Or walking-sticks in a store. I couldn’t imagine that everyone sporting a stick hand carved them out of branches on their back porches, so I did some searching on the web. Funny enough, the only sites I found for my walking-stick needs were pimp-related. Pimphats.com . Pimpcostumes.com . I found it interesting that, apparently, the demographic group propping up the walking-stick industry would be none other than our hard-working pimps. Turns out there’s a vast selection of stick options, including one that can (no lie) be filled with a pint of your favorite booze. Now that’s being at peace with being an alcoholic-when you don’t even bother to hide the bottle, choosing instead to guzzle directly from your pimp stick.

Anyway, I should end this now. My leg’s hurting, I need to take my Benefiber, and I’m kinda tired. Besides, my stories are on now.