Back from the Big D. NFC East territory in the Southwest (never understood that). Been there a few times, but never got to kick it in the downtown and uptown parts of the city. Good times. There are so many bars per square foot I thought it was unseasonably warm in Wisconsin or it was dry in New Orleans.
I was doing a particularly shitty gig in Fresno and was trying to inspire myself to face a crowd that was indifferent to the proceedings. I brought a shirt on a hanger and was putting it on in the bathroom. It had french cuffs, because I’m classy, and I thought I might take a picture in the mirror. The lighting almost gave color to my usual pallor. I got off a shot without the flash burst and somehow captured a feeling a lot of comics can relate to – “what the fuck am I doing here?” The set went well and I was rewarded with a bar tab and a 4 hour drive home telling myself over and over, “this is all voluntary.”
Growing up I thought it was the height of luxury to find out my neighbors had a refrigerator in the kitchen and the basement. Other friend’s parents had an extra fridge in the garage. We had the standard kitchen-only fridge policy and it was just fine.
In LA I couch surfed before I moved into an apartment that had an old fridge whose freezer was frozen solid. I suppose I could have defrosted the fridge, but I was worried my Gatorade might spoil. I moved out of that place, partly because it had an interior beehive and moved into my current spot.
My new place didn’t come with a fridge. I haven’t had to worry about this shit since birth, now I’m in the market for the biggest appliance in the store. I bought used and got a year out of the first one, bought used again, got a couple more years out of that, and that croaked too. I wised-up and bought new, because you get what you pay for, but this grown-up shit sucks sometimes.
I drive a beater, a clunker, a hooptie. It’s reliable and grey, and I never valet. I lived in New York after college and didn’t drive much until I moved to Los Angeles. I am actually driving the first car I have ever owned.
People always wax nostalgic about their first car. “I had a ’67 Mustang rag top,” or “I had a VW bus that we used to get baked in before class.” My story begins and middles with an ’89 Honda Accord, a name that would drive George Carlin crazy, so from here on out I’m gonna lie and say my 1st car was a Plymouth Fury, because fury trumps rage and aren’t we all full of the rage on the road?
The cliche and over-used quote “a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step” has been uttered to me more than once. It was usually followed by me rolling my eyes, either visibly or on the inside depending on who was saying it.
It seems that if I heard the quote more than once, and from various people, I must have been procrastinating doing something and they were just trying to help. My resistance took the form of mocking what I thought was their lame use of greeting card philosophy. Now I see it as true and wise.
It took me too long to get this site up and running, but thanks to those persistent single step quoters — here it is. I hope you enjoy it.