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A movie cliché that I’ve never been able to corroborate is the idea that the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. Is

that true? How would you be able to find out? Wouldn’t the entire investigation consist of sitting at the crime scene until the

perpetrator returned? It sounds like that script device that no one ever debates, and the writer hopes he can sneak in without much

scrutiny. Kind of like all the nebulous legal jargon that permeates legal dramas with the writer hoping the audience gives him a

pass.

I was recently in the Tampa Bay area of Florida. My niece was graduating from high school and I was looking forward to the

bathtub warm water of the Gulf of Mexico, the soft white sand, and a grouper sandwich.

Life intervened with a health crisis for my girlfriend, and we were lucky to have family, and two doctors on hand, and a great

staff at the Bayfront Health Center in St. Petersburg.

Extending the trip presented an opportunity for me check the schedule at the Tampa Improv, to see who was in town and if it was

someone I could impose upon for a guest spot. Turned out my buddy Dean Napolitano was in town, and he already extended the

offer weeks before, when I asked if he was around the initial week I had planned.

More than 10 years earlier, Dean, was one of the first people I met in comedy when I was starting out. He was a recent arrival,

but was a seasoned veteran of comedy. He had big time management and was running a show at a club. I was doing the open mic,

on the insistence of my brother, and wondering what I had done with my life after leaving New York. These were not good days;

I was living in an apartment with an interior bee’s nest and was missing New York after 9/11 when the city banded together. It

felt like I left unfinished business, instead of following a dream westward.

I was embodying another cliché; that of the transplanted New Yorker lost and confused in the wilds of Los Angeles. I knew

enough to shut up about pizza, bagels, and museums, but one of my early jokes had the terrible punch line, “now I’m like a

soccer mom trying to get pussy,” about the car culture and dating in Los Angeles. Not my proudest moment, but you grasp at

anything in the beginning.

Dean had some friends who saw me perform at the tail end of the open mic, and told Dean that I was funny. I hung out with them

after watching the main show, and tried not to cling too hard onto what I thought was a good connection.

I was hungry for stage time and not so sure about the pathways to a career. I performed anywhere I could, at a Laundromat in

Silver Lake, at spoken word open mics, where I’d pass off Springsteen lyrics as poetry, and once in a while with Dean and his

crew.

It became imperative for me to have a tape of a set so I could get some real gigs. Even with better technology, getting tape is

difficult, things go wrong: you forget to press record, you have to go off script to deal with a heckler, or somebody bumps into

the tripod.

It came to me that if I got to Florida, I could ask a favor of my brother, who at the time was the executive producer of a local

show that interviewed the headliners who were in town at the Tampa Improv. He had an “in” at the club — that was part one of

the plan. The second part was to use his equipment from the television studio to make a professional quality tape. I was mic’d up,

he had the camera they use for the reporters in the field, it was gonna be great.I had a guest spot, which is usually 7 minutes, after the host. The headliner was Bill Bellamy. I had thrown a party the night

before, at a club in LA that was the scene of an early comedy triumph that had bolstered my confidence. I flew to Tampa (hung-

over) and changed into a good shirt in the car. I met the guy who extended the favor and who would also be the host. My brother

took his equipment into the theater and I tried to settle my nerves with a Heineken.

The crowd started to fill in. I think I might have seen my parents and my sister-in-law before they headed to their seats. I was less

than a year into doing stand-up, but was thinking this was finally a way in for me. It was writing and acting, it wasn’t passive, I

could find a stage and I could perform.

The Tampa Improv is a beautiful club; it’s in Ybor City and has great architecture. It was a bigger crowd than I had ever seen.

They were not there to see me. I was pacing around trying to get my energy going. The host started his set and was warming up

the crowd. My brother was in the back of the room looking through the viewfinder.

The host introduced me. I had no credits. No reason to be there. And suddenly realized no material. All the jokes that worked in

tiny rooms in Southern California coffee houses, and back rooms in bars were now sailing out of bounds like a rusty tennis player

trying to get his game back on track. I was double faulting all over the place. I was looking for the light. It was only 7 minutes

and I could not pull out of the nosedive. I was talking, doing the feeble material I had planned to do, but it was not club ready. It

was not packed-house-Friday-night-paying-customer-ready. And it certainly wasn’t camera ready.

The light flashed, probably earlier than it would have flashed. I managed a dismount and walked off. The host started making fun

of me and I walked to the bar and swallowed another beer in three gulps. The host came over and apologized for being a dick and

kicking me while I was down, and he told me it wasn’t my crowd. I thanked him for the accommodation and apologized for

eating shit. I had blown it. My brother had pulled a string and I had blown it.

My brother packed up his gear, and joined me at the bar, while I speed drank more beer. He asked me what I needed. I said I

needed to get out of the building. I needed to go somewhere else fast. I needed to think about the rest of my life. We wound up at

a barbeque joint and I soothed my shattered psyche with more suds.

Years later I returned to Tampa to play the rival club, Sidesplitters. I was the feature for my buddy, Jamie Kaler. My brother had

his camera and I was ready. I had great shows, got great tape, and felt vindicated.

Last week, asking Dean for a spot, though, was returning to the place that made me question whether I would continue. This was

the actual scene of my crime against comedy. Maybe those movie profilers are right. We do return.

My brother asked if I wanted him to see the show. He didn’t want to be a jinx. My girlfriend was well enough to attend and we

were all looking forward to a night out on the town.

I have done over 1000 shows since I bombed in Tampa. I’ve got a couple of TV credits. I didn’t quit. But, I hadn’t set foot in that

space since. I was warming up by goofing around with Dean, who I haven’t seen in years. I knew the stakes weren’t that high, it

was a 10 minute set, on a Thursday. I just needed to stay sharp since I had to extend my time in Tampa. It didn’t look the same,

until I looked to the back of the room, seeing where my brother had once set-up his camera. Then it came back, the anxiety. The

crowd was good, more than half-full. The lights dimmed and the host was on stage, I was a few minutes away from being able to

bury this demon, to slay this dragon, to succeed in front of family, to manifestly persist in the face of doubt. To travel back intime and say fuck you to that monster of fear and adversity. To feel good about myself. To make myself proud. To tell dick jokes

in front of strangers. To do that thing we do.

I grabbed the mic and danced to the boy band music I had requested. I remembered to breathe and I remembered my girlfriend,

who was in ICU for three days, texting me to “take my time.” I ripped it, or more accurately, I had a good set, got laughs and did

my thing.

Dean had a great set and insisted I stand out in the lobby with him and thank the crowd as they exited. He was the headliner and

they were there to tell him he did a great job, but enough people shook my hand and thanked me to let me know I had come full

circle, that I had faced down a failure and turned it into a victory, to win the rematch, to get back off the mat, to get back on the

horse, to topple the giant, to rattle off more clichés.

Maybe that’s why clichés are easy to use. They remind us of our connectedness. They remind us that life will step in and remind

you who is in charge. And they remind you that if you return to the scene of the crime, sometimes you get to admire your

handiwork.

Those ten minutes in Tampa didn’t add to my IMDb page, didn’t add money to my bank account, didn’t get me another agent. It

was one of the few times where tying up a loose end is enough. It doesn’t come with a certificate. It is between you and whatever

lifeforce you claim. It is one of those moments that you allow yourself some grace, some pride, some peace. I guess by sharing it

I am looking to keep a record, or maybe encourage someone else to keep going, to try to face down constant discouragement. To

remind myself that no one else can encourage you more than that voice inside you that says keep fighting. Thanks for hearing me.

Peace.

The danger of living in a social media world is that you can respond to

news and trends in an instant. While being able to “like” a picture of a

newborn baby in real time is an example of technology and heart working

well together, this instant response is less helpful when something

serious goes down, like what happened at the Boston Marathon. If you

have anything to say, other than my heart goes out to the people and

victims of that great city, then you need to put your hand over the

microphone before you speak.

Sitting here and writing I am stymied. I was going to talk about putting

aside silly notions of team pride, and how as a Yankee fan I still have

affection for the Red Sox and the city they play in. I now feel that

sentiment is cliche and insipid. We were wounded as a nation on 9/11

and we were wounded as a nation on 4/15, all other conjecture should be

put aside. The people in law enforcement will or will not apprehend the

criminals who did this.

We need to put aside all the noise that clouds our minds. Every swath of

humanity is affected in these trying times. A bomb doesn’t care if you

root for the Yankees or Red Sox, or God forbid, any of the Philly teams.

And I don’t care what you think might have happened in the few hours

after, and after the media overload began. Take a walk, call your loved

ones, check in with all your Boston friends, but put aside your need to

call your shot.

I’m as self-involved as the next guy, probably more so, but my need for

attention can stand down in moments like these. More of us should take

this note. It’s not about you. I’m not even sure who it’s about, but it’s not

about me. And that’s as it should be. That’s the other fall-out of

generations of me-first and the instant age. Our need to be the constant

and tended-to center of our own worlds.

We have to be reminded that the cynic says human nature is bad. In New

York, after 9/11, I was turned away for 2 days before I could give blood

because so many had already given. Runners yesterday literally went the

extra mile to give blood when it was probably unhealthy to be drained.

That is not political, people care, and people respond. Maybe the thing to

do is say hello to a stranger and ask them if everything is ok, or to

implement a be nicer policy in our lives. Putting aside the need to be

right and attempt to be righteous.

The danger with being able to post this in an instant is that I don’t knowif the sentiment is well thought-out or if I sound like a jerk or a sap. I’m

not sure how air-tight my stance is, I don’t even know if I have a stance. I

don’t know if I’m begging for attention or trying to add to sensible

discourse. I have to put it aside or I have to shelve it. That’s the risk, so if

you have a larger platform you might err on the side of caution, and if

you’re at the grocery store and you want to mouth off you should

exercise that same caution. I hope I’ve been careful in this case, because

this is a time of healing. The yank the band-aid off analogy doesn’t work.

These are real wounds and caring is a verb. I’ll stop the preaching now,

and I’ll try to be nicer, putting aside my need to be well-liked.

Stand strong Boston.

I like tennis. I played tennis. I started late and had a couple of communal

lessons, but I was tall and liked to come to the net and got pretty good. I

also had no head for the game. When you hear someone tell you how

much of a mental game tennis is, you shouldn’t roll your eyes – they’re

right.

Tennis is not a game to play angry, which is the only way I knew how to

play it. I hit balls over the fence to get my rage out. I threw my racket and

cursed the Gods with every mishit. I had to run extra laps before every

practice, as a fine for every F-bomb, or racket bounce.

I didn’t continue to play because I started doing the plays at school. I’m

still performing, but haven’t picked up a racket in a long time.

Many years ago I needed a job in the late summer and got hired at the US

Open, or hired by the food vendors. I was going to bartend at a high-end

restaurant, but couldn’t make the orientation, so I was relegated to a

food stand that sold sandwiches, pretzels, and beer. I was pre-miserable

about it before it started.

My anticipated misery was well-founded. It was two weeks of sixteen

hour days, with a crew of crazy people, constant theft, and a crowd of

people dressed in tennis gear to watch people play tennis. People wear

jerseys to other sporting events, but to wear tennis gear to watch, is like

wearing cleats to Yankee Stadium. You’re not gonna get in the game.

There are, of course, some class issues when it comes to tennis. It is a

high class game, both to play it and to attend its premier events. I was

working with local kids from the rougher parts of Queens, some

concession stand lifers, and a lot of off-duty firefighters.

The tournament is a great event if you don’t spend it spraying water on

pretzels and dipping them in salt. The scope and size of it is something

to behold and the ultimate champion has to go through the brackets and

conquer one opponent after another. I want to go back as a fan.

In the middle of the event, having lost track of time and my desire to do a

good job, two women approached the counter and ordered sodas. I

noticed a necklace on one of the women, which had a pendant in the

shape of Nantucket Island, where I vacationed as a child. I mentioned her

necklace to which she replied, to her companion, “How did he … Oh,that’s right, some of them are working here for college.” I was already out

of college and should have been flattered that she thought I looked like a

current student, but I was offended that she couldn’t believe a soda jerk

at the Open would know Nantucket, or its geographic likeness. The way

she called us “some of them” also tuned my fork. “I used to go there as a

kid,” I said to the back of her head. OK we rented when we went to

Nantucket, and I hadn’t been since I was 13, but I had vivid memories,

and affection for the place. I was angry and tired and worrying about my

life.

Our concession stand was deteriorating with every day. People quit. New

people arrived. Our manager was fired for not being able to control the

shortfalls of the registers and the inventory. I was battling new managers.

Telling them that I brought limited competency, but certain work ethic. It

was miserable.

To many employees the last days of clean-up were voluntary. Managers

were almost begging people to come back the last day. I didn’t want to

go. I talked to my Dad and he said I should honor my commitment. I tried

to argue that only a dupe would show up, to be one of the understaffed,

to do all the work, for a group of rotten burned out management creeps.

I went. Because some of us show up and do what we signed up to do.

From 2012:

Grief can make you do crazy things, silly things. Grief feels like your

whole psyche is seizing, like an athlete dehydrating during a race. It can

also, in hindsight, make you see something in yourself that you might not

be too proud of.

My father passed away two years ago. And it took every day of those two

years for me to be able to type those words, say those words, and not

tear-up thinking those words. That’s the grieving process, or so I’m told.

Part of the process that I was most resistant to, was the idea that things

would get better. I didn’t want them to get better, I wanted to honor my

dad by being unable to smile and laugh and to miss him with every tick

of the clock.

During the two weeks of planning services and walking around my

hometown like a zombie, I had a melt-down with my family that I was

powerless to stop. If a transcript existed it would be hilarious. I was

having a reaction to the mention of a group of poets who might want to

share their words during my father’s viewing.

After retiring from the New York Times, my dad found it tough to adjust,

and was in some ways rescued by a local group of poets who met and

called themselves The Red Wheelbarrow, in honor of the famous doctor

poet William Carlos Williams, who lived and practiced in my hometown of

Rutherford, New Jersey. My dad became a leader in many ways and found

an up-tick of productivity in his writing when most people settle down.

He published poems in their annual release and published his own book

of poems, Zerilda’s Chair.

“You know, maybe they could say a few things.” my brother said.

“WHAT? NO FUCKIN’ WAY. I DON’T WANT TO HEAR SOMEBODY’S POEM

ABOUT THEIR GENITALS. THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS DON’T KNOW HOW TO

EDIT AND IT’LL TURN INTO A COFFEE HOUSE AT MY DAD’S WAKE. NO

FUCKING WAY.”

Or something to that affect. I was reeling and sad, I wanted to cast myself

as the person to bring the house to tears with my eulogy. Our local

catholic church would not allow lay people to speak and only scripture

could be read. I was angry that no one from the family would be able to

use their own words.The truth is, that, I, the professional public speaker, would not have been

able to compose myself, and it was really a moot point. But, the idea that

these poets would get the floor made me crazy. It was misplaced emotion

to say the least.

I’m not much of a poetry fan. I love Shakespeare and I like the quotes

people post from famous poets, but I don’t wrap myself in verse very

often. I liked my dad’s poetry, because it was free verse and sounded like

talking. I had never read anyone else’s poems in their anthologies. For

that I’m sorry.

I’m also sorry that I had ill will for a group of people who helped my

father find a place in the world after retirement. A group that still invites

my mother to their functions and treat her like a first lady of poetry, since

he’s been gone. I want to thank them all. I want to thank them for, in the

words of my brother, saving my father’s life, giving him a purpose, an

audience, and a community.

Long Live The Rutherford Wheelbarrow Poets. Thank you for being there

for my family, and thank you for your words. For what are we without our

words? We are silent, and poets don’t go out like that, they have

something to say and they leave behind their words to help us navigate

the rough waters of life. A lesson I am grateful to have learned.

Meet Carl De Gregorio

Carl De Gregorio is an actor, comedian, writer, and acting coach whose work is built on range, timing, and a genuine connection with audiences. From theater and off-Broadway performances to television, film, commercials, live comedy, and digital media, Carl brings a sharp point of view and a memorable presence to every project.

This site is a place to explore Carl’s latest appearances, media highlights, creative work, and professional background. Whether you are a fan, casting professional, event organizer, or fellow creative, you will find a clear look at the experience, personality, and versatility behind the work.

What Carl Does

• Acting for stage, television, film, and commercial projects
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That mix of performance and storytelling gives Carl a distinctive edge. He understands how to command a room, shape a scene, and deliver material with both professionalism and personality.

Why Experience Matters

Great performance is not just about being seen. It is about being remembered.

With a background that spans multiple performance formats, Carl knows how to adapt to different audiences, venues, and creative goals. That versatility matters whether he is stepping into a dramatic role, delivering comedy on stage, appearing in media, or helping another performer sharpen their skills through coaching.

For industry professionals, that means working with someone who understands preparation, presence, and consistency. For audiences, it means performances that feel polished, engaging, and real.

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