There’s a rush you get as a comedian when you’re on-stage performing and, at the same time, thinking about the material you’re going to do later in your act. It’s amazing! Now, I realize it’s not uncommon for people to be able to talk and think at the same time. Being able to stand up in front of an audience and juggle these two with no one else being the wiser is another story. It’s a special skill that is developed and perfected over time. I remember becoming aware of my talent for doing so early in my career as a Headliner at comedy clubs, and it reminds me of a magical moment of awareness I had as a parent.
Recently, I asked my wife to look me in the eyes so that I could tell her that I love her. “Oooohhh my G-d, you’re such a freak!”, was her response. An odd reaction, yes; unless you’re familiar with my penchant for adopting new schtick to improve my person and the world at large. At any given moment, and without warning, you might find me: vitamixing avocado pits; writing sexy love texts; reading my financial statements aloud; wishing happiness and prosperity for people who annoy me; buying locally manufactured ties; and promoting self-awareness and empathy as the keys to utopia. The latest thing I’ve come up with- I have declared myself to be on an Anger Strike.
Whether you’re married, dating, in a common-law relationship, or working it all “International” like Pitbull ft. Chris Brown, it’s not easy to keep the “love” alive. If you want to maintain that spark, and make your amorous relationships last, I’m going to share with you the one key thing you need for success.
WARNING: This post contains content that I find disturbing and gives me the squirms.
The most important thing I can tell you about my travel experiences as a self-diagnosed, semi-professional germophobe is that I still travel. This is an impressive feat of courage considering what I find disgusting about taxis, airports, airplanes, hotels, restaurants, conference centres, other random people and washrooms of any kind that are not attended to by my also-clean-freak wife. Before you nod knowingly and shrug wondering what’s so different for me from how you feel about this very same list of geogermal entities, let me ask you this- have you ever left a note for the maid at your hotel that says: “This room is cleaner than it was when I arrived. Take the day off. –Adam”.
I’m happy to say that I have only a few “uncomfortable” dating moments filed away in my portfolio of romance. That includes the “non-starters” where it just wasn’t going anywhere for anyone, which were somewhat awkward. Slightly more unpleasant were the dates where it was painfully obvious (to me and the waiter) that it was my companion who was feverishly scrambling for an exit strategy.
I have not waded through the public evidence in the Jian Ghomeshi case, nor do I claim to be a subject matter, or legal expert on this trial. I’m not going to publicly convict, nor exonerate Mr. Ghomeshi of the charges laid against him. What I am going to do is comment on a sentiment that is being shared in the media and in my personal life. Despite my lack of knowledge of the legal system and criminal code, limited expertise about sexual assault, and only glancing familiarity with the Ghomeshi case, I’m confident that I can settle any arguments you may be having about whether victims of a sexual assault should be blamed for what happened to them.
You might assume, as I once did, that the only people who are in the need of a little “ME” time now and again are people (grownups) who otherwise get very little. As a parent, I have come to learn- not so much actually. Apparently, even people who have seemingly vast quantities of undisturbed solitude, (teenagers), feel it is their basic human right to have, yet, even more. Of course, these people (teenagers) argue that they don’t, in fact, have as much quality alone time as you (grownups) might think. They communicate to you that, in the context of their individual existence, this misunderstanding creates unnecessary, but easily remedied, confusion and animosity, (not the exact words of a teenager). The solution is for all involved, (grownup people and teenage people), to employ the same language when discussing the perceived inequities, even when the circumstances seem to vary dramatically.
I’ve had a few fights in my life. Literally. As in, “Few: not many, but more than one.” Three actually. Make that two and a half. The full-fledged fisticuffs were both in Grade 5. The half-clash was in 1st-year University, drunk on a bus. All 2.5 were with my best friends. Every year in the days leading up to the Super Bowl, I think of these fights. Not because of the gruelling battles that are fought on the NFL’s sacred stage between armour-clad, compression-shorts-wearing gridiron gladiators. But, instead, because it was after the Super Bowl XL broadcast in 2006 that I watched my first pay-per-view UFC event. It was fighting like I had never seen before, and, clearly, never came close to experiencing. I was a changed man.
There’s an unscientifically proven fact in the comedy business that the toughest crowds to perform stand-up in front of are “industry crowds”; more specifically- a room full of other comedians. There is, however, a small percentage of the comic population who thrive in this environment. They are known as “comic’s comics” and they are universally adored by their contemporaries. At the same time, because they’re often too “insider” or “alternative”, it’s not uncommon for them to struggle in front of “regular” crowds. But, of that small sub-set of the stand-up comic population as a whole, there’s an even smaller percentage of comic’s comics who are also hilarious in the eyes of mainstream audiences. Basically, out of every 10,000 comedians, there’s Louis C.K..
Okay, hang on, before this goes sideways, let’s call it: Bylaw Officer Belligerency. Please don’t be offended by my use of “Meter Maid”, as that’s not the point of this post. I went “retro-insensitive” with the above heading because, while I was able to craft an alliterate ring with the correct job title, there’s no corresponding Beatles’ song to hum in my head. It’s only a coincidence that it was a woman who issued me the parking ticket I’ve been fighting in Vancouver since September (2015).