Standing on the ice cold sands of King's Beach in a cheap pair of flip-flops, I looked out to the lake where I was about to start my first Ironman and I thought about a conversation 20 years ago in a college rental house.
"You see, Freud classified the personality into three separate elements: the id, which controls your animal instincts and pleasure center, the ego, which handles your day to day reality interactions and works to supply the id with it's pleasure, and the superego, which is your moral compass and often combats your ego and id and moves you to do things that are better for you in the long run. You have one of the stronger superegos I've seen, and it has managed to keep your ass out of trouble even considering how strong your id's needs are while hanging with us. I think that's why you're going to Germany; it's not the girl, your superego wants you to learn a language and understand other countries, and now I gotta find another guitarist when I move to Dallas."
"Wasn't Freud a coke addict with an Oedipal complex?" I smirked.
"That's funny, but you were listening, I saw your eyes flare in understanding. Now shut up and hand me that tap."
The gunshot went off, the pros were in the water and the age-groupers formed the line. I was standing at the 1:30 marker with my hands drumming in beat with the rhythm of the music. I looked around and wondered if there would be a candidate for the mini-speech I put together just in case someone was about to DNS from fear.
I know you're scared. So am I. But for reasons of your own, fifteen months ago you decided you needed this, and you made sacrifices to be here on this beach today. For fifteen months you got up early, went to the pool and did lap after lap trying to find a perfect stroke. You got up early to sit on the saddle and ride until your legs stopped burning, and then started burning again. You laced up your shoes to run when everyone else was found reasons not to. You did all that just so by the end of this day, when you're feeling a pain you've never felt before and your body is crying for you to stop, I need to rest, you could think back to every stroke you swam, crank you turned, and step you ran for the last fifteen months and you will say, "No."
But no, everyone was looking at the water, and the speech remained in my pocket. I began one of the dozens of internal conversations I had that day.
Id: I can’t wait to get warmer in the water.
Ego: How many of these people will you be passing at the 1:30 line?
Superego: Swim slow and smooth and forget the time. We have a long day ahead of us.
The line moved quickly toward the starting arch and I heard the beep as my chip crossed the pad. Whatever my result would be today, it wasn't going to be DNS; I was an official participant in Ironman Lake Tahoe.
It was rather odd when my feet felt warmer stepping into the lake after getting out of the sand. I thought about conversations in May of last year.
"What have you been working on lately, Clint?"
"I've been trying to keep one of my goggle lenses in the water on my breathing stroke. It keeps my head in the water and my body in line."
Clint is an older black man in Lane 1 with me in Masters class I started a month before registering. I think he could be in Lane 2, but he likes to swim his clean, smooth strokes at a slower pace, and I think he likes to follow the ladies. It took me about two weeks for me to realize that the things he told me he was working on was his way of telling me what my swim stroke needed. After about one month in Masters, I could swim a 200 without gasping for air, after six months, I finally got to where I could swim a full practice, no small part because of Clint's advice.
A lot of people were complaining about the cold, and it was, but I was surprised at how many forgot the high winds and rain from yesterday, the DNF rate would have been in the 30% range if the race were a day earlier.
Instead, the air was calm, and the water was much warmer than the air above it. As someone who studied thermodynamics, I knew that the water would have a higher vapor pressure than the air above it would hold, and this would lead to fog. As a swimmer of modest open water ability, it was a challenge that surprised me because I often veer left when I don't have a clear sight target and the buoys were invisible to my short peeks above the water.
The water is so crystal clear, you can see the beach and rocks on the floor hundreds of meters away from the shore, and they look so close that you could touch it. I kept my stroke rate slow knowing that the altitude would make the air feel in short supply, but for the first 400 meters, that didn't matter, it still felt like 'breathing through a straw.' I wound up losing the swimmers and after I looked up, I noticed I was 20 meters inside the buoy line and I had to get back on the course to the Turn 1 buoy so I wouldn't get DQ'd. It took some adjusting, but I finally got my stroke in a reasonable form so I was in a mostly straight line.
After Turn 2, I noticed there were more buoys on the return line, which seemed counterintuitive to me because I can sight off a mountain feature or finish line easily, not so on the way out. I was keeping the buoy line, and near the Turn 3 buoy, some fast AG swimmers had lapped me and were certainly not shy about swimming over me; at least the kicks to the face didn't bruise.
The second lap was awesome, even with some hiccups. The sun came out and I could use it to monitor my direction; I still sighted but I would know if I needed to sight sooner. At the Turn 1 buoy, the cramps I always get at one hour kicked in and I had to grab a canoe until I stretched it out. Someday I'll figure the right mix of hydration and stretching, but considering I had to take a couple of short breaks for, ahem, wetsuit warming, I don't think hydration was the issue this time.
My last 800 meters will remain with me always, I'm not a great swimmer but I found the water, executed all of Clint’s tips, and kicked out sub-2:00 minute hundreds for most of the final leg. I kept sighting off the incredible view of the mountains, all the while thinking, This race will always sell out.
I head out of the water, and look behind me briefly.
Id: The lake is gorgeous with the fog, sun and mountains.
Ego: See, you’re not the last person in the water!
Superego: Well done, you finished your weakest leg, but you’re fifteen minutes past your plan, you need to move.
The volunteers, I should say, the excellent, super cool, awesome, great volunteers, helped me get out of the wet suit in half the time I normally would, and I found my Bike Gear bag with no problem (the garbage bag wrapping them did it’s job). The nightmare that was the T1 tent has been discussed ad nauseum. If the race directors would like me to put together a spreadsheet to help them size the tent properly, I will offer my skills in numerical analysis pro bono.
Id: That was worse than Black Thursday during fraternity pledgeship.
Ego: That asshole stole my seat!
Superego: We lost another 10 minutes from the plan, keep moving.
I made smart choices on clothing; full length leg warmers, full gloves with a spare pair of fingerless in the back pocket, arm warmers and a tri-shirt, and a long sleeve cycling jersey my wife bought me three years ago (she noticed). I pop the Garmin on, get on the bike, and take off.
I was out of the water in 1:43, and transition was 17 minutes, but my bike is generally my strongest leg and I started passing people by the dozen. I pull out of the Carnelian Bay detour and then I felt a shakiness in the rear wheel.
Id: Not again!
Ego: You goddamn moron, why didn’t you buy a tire?
Superego: Berate yourself later. Fix the problem now.
I’ve had a couple of flats and I thought I solved the problem when I pulled some small debris out of the wheel, it rode for 30 miles and I thought it was taken care of. But it wasn’t. I pulled the wheel off quickly and levered off the tire completely. Before I had checked the wheel meticulously, now I checked the tire in full daylight and saw a microthin wire sticking out. I found you.
Right then another rider shouted, “SAG wagon right there!”
We now interrupt this race report for a message from our sponsor.
Is your race about screwed because you were too damn stupid and lazy to do the right preventative maintenance? Fear not, dumb warrior, SAG Monkey, www.sagmonkey.com, will come to your rescue for all of your needs provided you're lucky enough to be near them. They’ll fix a flat three times faster than you can, and be super cool about it too. Remember, SAG Monkey, they’ll keep you on the road, even if you’re an idiot.
Boom! I’m on the road again and flying. I must have been passed by 100 people while I fixed the tire, and half of them were behind me before getting to Tahoe City.
My coach was clear that I needed to ride this course. She had ridden it many times and she believed it would crush people who weren’t familiar with it. I’ve ridden the loop three times already, except for the Martis Camp, so I knew what was coming up. However, the section from Tahoe City to Truckee is such a euphoric joyride I just had to bask in the glow of a cool breeze in my face, the steady cadence and gentle burn of my legs turning the crank, and the sights and sounds of the Truckee River valley.
Id: I love the cool weather when I’m riding, the sun is nice too. This race will always sell out.
Ego: I love watching people go by me. See my power!
Superego: We are way behind schedule, do not get comfortable.
I’m feeling very strong as I pass through Truckee, seeing the rather funny signs (‘Worst Parade Ever!’) and hearing the crowd cheer. A few more turns and I rode through the walking path No Passing Zone, stand on the pedals to get some speed, three pro riders fly by me as if I’m standing still.
Id: Damn!
Ego: Damn!
Superego: Damn!
I keep my eyes on the road and make my way to Schaffer Mill Road. I never had the chance to preview this part of the course, but I did ride to the Ritz from Highland two times and the elevation map didn’t show any surprises, I figured it would be tough but within my limits.
I passed the Martis Camp sign, and stopped for a quick refuel at the aid station. One lady volunteer was cheering us on, then said, “I’ll not mention what’s up ahead.” with a chuckle. How bad could it be?
SOAPBOX MOMENT
What wasn't shown in the overdamped elevation map were the staircase rollers that add about 500-700 feet of elevation that you weren’t expecting, and the twists and curves of the road make four or five false summits that are demoralizing the first time you ride it. Look Race Directors, I get it, I’m doing an Ironman in the mountains, this stuff is hard, but don’t sugar coat the elevation profile on the section of the course that can’t be previewed.
END SOAPBOX MOMENT
It was this time when I had my first encounter with Public Servant (I know his name, but I don’t have permission to use it). He and I played the most enduring game of tag I’ve ever participated in. I would pass him, and then I’d refuel or go to the bathroom, then I would pass him again. And again. And again. It was reminding me of the Tortoise and the Hare, except I’m not fast enough to be a hare.
The first time up Brockway was fun. I was spinning strong, I found it easier than Martis, and I had to stay to the left because there was a line of people I was passing. The party at the top was cool, the lady wearing the shirt that said, ‘I don’t do Iron Man, I do Ironmen!’ was chatting me up telling me I looked great and keep it up (I haven’t told The Wife that part yet). I was beginning to think, based on numbers, that I was well within cutoff and I had made the time back up.
If there is one thing I do well on the bike, it’s descending. I used to ride dirt bikes so I’m fairly comfortable at high speeds, and after the bike gets to escape velocity I can hold a tuck, manage my braking and safely navigate slower descenders. The smooth, resurfaced roads allowed me to make it to 48 mph in a few spots; the yelling from the yahoos in the cars let me know how it looked from the outside.
The second lap was much like the first, except the climbs began to take their toll. I had reached an equilibrium with the riders, we’d pass each other from time to time, and the second time up Brockway had me going at a snails pace with cramped adductor muscles listening to every fourth car playing “Eye of the Tiger.” Public Servant and I changed places about five times, and we rolled into Squaw Valley at about the same time.
The Wife, The Girls, and The Grandma were waiting at the Squaw Creek entrance, and it was nice to sneak in a kiss before that ‘tiny little marathon’ the spectator reminded me about.
T2 was in much better condition than T1, and I followed a Slowtwitcher's advice to have a long sleeved jacket tied around my hips during the run. This was the first time I had seen such energy from the spectators, they knew my name from my bib and it freaked me out when perfect strangers were cheering. But that lasts until you leave the Village, then I was alone with my thoughts, which were primarily those of cramped legs and sore backs.
Two weeks before the race I had done the bike course at full distance, swam three miles in open water, and did long runs. The total time was going to be longer than I had hoped, and I knew it. I stared in the mirror at a body that was 40 pounds lighter than when it started, and I looked at my wife and said,
“Besides finishing, I had time goals for this race, and I’m not going to meet them. My one goal now is to finish the marathon running.”
“That sounds good.” she said.
My coach told me two things about the marathon: 1) the first three to four miles are terribly painful, and 2) plan to walk through the aid stations and run between them. The moment you start walking between aid stations is the moment you walk the race.
The adductor muscles in both of my legs were cramping, especially when I had to run around tri-club members that were walking three and four abreast on a six-foot jogging path. I remembered the running drills in Don Fink’s ‘Be Iron Fit’ I’ve been working on for the last six months; the Two Strings and Steady Focal Point drills. In spite of the pain, I was able to have an imaginary string pull my head up and straighten my back, and have another string pull my chest forward. Then I would focus on a target and adjust my run gait such that it didn’t move. When I do it right, I can feel the efficiency in my run. I run 8:30 minute miles on flats when fresh, I felt lucky to get 11:00 minute miles now. And the course is gradually uphill for the first 10 miles.
I walked through almost every aid station and then started running again immediately. The volunteers never cease to impress me; so kind, so friendly, and they have to be cold after the sunset, yet they don’t bitch. At mile 7 I hear, “I remember you from the bike.” It was another one of my tag partners, an Asian lady that had good speed on the flats but would slow a little on climbs and descents. We chatted a while about the bike course and the upcoming cutoffs at Mile 9.2. Then abruptly she said, “Good luck, my stomach is cramping.” and I left her behind. It almost felt like combat, and I was tempted to stop and help her, but I kept going. I was glad to see later she made it.
Right around Mile 14, I left an aid station and every muscle in my body felt like a brick. I saw people walking, and I wanted nothing more than to just keep walking and share the misery with company.
Id: This hurts, I want to eat and go to bed.
Ego: It’s about 8:30, you have over three hours to go 12 miles, you only need about 15:00 minute miles, it would be easy.
Superego: (pauses) For reasons of your own, fifteen months ago you decided you needed this, and you made sacrifices to be here today. What are those reasons? Your first reply would be things you couldn’t control, the crimes and neglect that others have done to you and your family. But really the reasons are what you could control and didn’t; your weight, alcohol and an unending travel schedule. You changed all of that so you could be here right now and you’re asking yourself to play games with the cutoff time, knowing your knees may not let you try again. You may be right, you could finish, but do you really want to look back on this day five years from now and remember doing anything less than your absolute best?
No.
I knew I wrote that speech for someone. I pulled the strings, focused on a target, and turned over my legs.
For 12 miles I ignored everything except the sound of my shoes and kept my legs churning. Other runners and volunteers were asking how I could still be running. I didn’t know where it came from, but I was driven. As I completed the first loop I saw my wife and she could see I had it and she shouted her encouragement. That energy from her, and the rest of the Village drove me harder.
With four miles left, I passed Public Servant for the last time. I told him my name and congratulated him because I knew his metronome would carry him across; he did the same for me.
At a near sprint I ran through the Village, smiling, giving high fives, and hooting for the crowd. As I crossed the finish line, the final time was 15:46, and I finished the last four miles at a pace equal to what I started. While I know it means a lot to everyone who does it, something inside me became whole when Mike Reilly called me an Ironman.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Advice to Expecting Parents
To random strangers surfing the net learning about the upcoming challenges of parenthood instead of working...congratulations on your upcoming baby! I imagine that you are receiving an unending stream of unsolicited advice, so I thought I would help with just a few tips about things that really matter, and then maybe add a couple of musings.
ADVICE
Assuming you do not start the day with a hypodermic needle and a cooking spoon, you have what it takes to be a good parent. You'll figure it out more quickly than you would imagine. That being said, every parent believes themselves an expert and they'll tell you everything they think you are doing wrong without remembering every baby is different. Nod your head and say 'Thanks for the tip.' while thinking about what Brooklyn Tony's grandfather did to live to 107 years of age (he minded his own fucking business).
MUST HAVE PRODUCTS
Everyone is going to say you have to buy this, you must buy this, if you don't buy this, your baby will DIE!...thanks for the tip. So recognize that I suffered that social trauma and still thought the following were extremely useful for The Wife and me.
Baby411
The signal to noise ratio on this book is very high, and it has answers to almost all questions that you may have about the new baby.
Happiest Baby on the Block DVD (not the book)
As soon as our lovely Daughter was pulled from the womb, the delivery nurses said, 'Man, that is a loud baby.' Delivery nurses said this, we had the outlier when it came to crying babies. If you think sleep is an annoying waste of time, then don't buy this DVD. It shows you how to take a screaming baby and turn it off like a light by using swaddling, swings, and ssshhhh.
Swaddles
One thing that they don't mention in HBOTB is that most swaddles are too small. Aden+Anais swaddles are expensive, but worth every penny.
One thing that they don't mention in HBOTB is that most swaddles are too small. Aden+Anais swaddles are expensive, but worth every penny.
Here's a youtube video I made to show a friend, she agreed that it works better than the video method as long as you pull tighter than you think you should.
It lasts for about 4 months, then you need to go to the Ferber Method
Solve Your Childs Sleep Problems
which basically tells you how to let your child cry itself to sleep without feeling guilty.
Also, Amazon and Diapers.com make life a lot easier than trying to drive to BabiesRUs, and they are a lot cheaper.
If you want to skip the Lamaze/birthing classes, this video, while not as funny as the title implies, is very informative and easier to watch with a glass of wine that The Wife will ask for a sip from occasionally.
Laugh and Learn about Childbirth
THINGS THAT START WITH A 'B' THAT YOU CANNOT BUY TOO MANY OF
Batteries, burp cloths, baby wash cloths, bibs
RANDOM MUSINGS AND OBSERVATIONS
Grandmothers--Grandmothers are a God-send until they try to kill your baby. There is nothing better than Grandma saying that she'll take the baby for the night, and then she puts the baby on its belly with a blanket (SIDS), 'flavors' the pacifier with honey (botulism), feeds the baby peanut butter (peanut allergies), uses baby powder (lung problems, use Boudreaux's Butt Paste, yellow version), adds rice to the bottle (no impact, except it clogs the bottle)...it's amazing we lived past two years of age. In short, we know now (because of Baby411) what they didn't know then, and you have to train them.
Breastfeeding vs. Formula--The Wife and I could never believe the audacity of people with their opinions on this...thanks for the tip. Whatever you do, your baby will be fine. If the mother wants to breastfeed, then go for broke with the Medela electric pump, but in the end, it's up to her.
Milestones (walking, talking, etc.)--Our girls have been early so far (because they are superior, as your child will be), but we've seen parents with kids that are late on some milestones, and they also grow up to be annoying toddlers that pull everything off of every shelf saying NO NO NO NO...very rarely are there problems.
Hospitals, Doctors and Nurses--One thing that will amaze you is that there is no agreement among anyone in the medical profession, they don't call it a medical 'practice' for nothing. Expect a lot of conflicting information, general disdain for doctors among the nurses, general disdain for nurses among the doctors, and assume the labor nurses will be more competent than the post-delivery nurses.
Rashes--All babies get them. So will yours.
Hopefully there's something useful here for the both of you, if I can leave with one more piece of very useful advice (that I may have said already).
Go out and do everything you can while you can, do not spend a single weekend night at home. When the baby arrives, your life will be completely different.
Good Luck!
Friday, April 13, 2012
Once More into the Breach
Oh crap, sitting in front of a computer on a Friday, and still reeling from the news two hours ago.
The biopsy results came back, he has moderately aggressive prostate cancer, and they need to start treatment immediately.
Project proposals, conference calls, budgets, it all seems a bit meaningless when that news hits. Just at 1:30, I was thinking, "Man, the keys on this keyboard are getting sticky. Maybe I need to order another one, that'll help me keep working." A first-world problem if there ever was one.
Then you get The Phone Call. It's someone you love, someone you grew up with. The brief, selfish part of you says, "Glad it's not me." then you feel horribly guilty for thinking that, and then you feel even more stupid when you realize that it could be you any day.
Gleason Score. What the hell is a Gleason Score? Is a 7 good or bad? Why are there two numbers, 3 and 4?
Pop up Wikipedia, look up 'Gleason' and then you see Gleason Grading System. Surely that's the same thing, right? A quick scan, I see the word 'prostate' and start to read. Pictures, 3+4 is better than 4+3, anytime there is a 5 the prognosis isn't good. Well, less aggressive and not a bad prognosis is a small favor I guess, but the word aggressive is there all right. Probable treatments include radioactive beads and targeted radiation. My mind pictures gamma radiation blasting electrons away from complex protein molecules...
Radiation is an excellent cell killer, but not a very good carcinogen.
Memories of health physics talks in conferences that seem rather unimportant at the moment. I hope those gamma rays take the right ones out.
Screw this, I'm getting some coffee. I realize my eyes are watering only when someone else comes into the coffee room. I bypass the small talk and leave quickly even though she's senior because this isn't her problem, and I don't feel like sharing right now.
This isn't his first time, colon cancer in 2002-2003, he made it fine although the chemo was a bitch. Then the aortic stint, now this. The Evil Me thinks 'I am Iron Man', and the guilt comes back. We've always dealt with things this way though, Dark funny thought, Dark sad thought. Repeat.
Haven't made it to Alaska yet, and our vacation is already planned. Enter more guilt, probably have to go in the winter. That'll be fun, and dark.
Dark funny, dark sad. Probably a bit of both coming soon to a warped mind near you.
The biopsy results came back, he has moderately aggressive prostate cancer, and they need to start treatment immediately.
Project proposals, conference calls, budgets, it all seems a bit meaningless when that news hits. Just at 1:30, I was thinking, "Man, the keys on this keyboard are getting sticky. Maybe I need to order another one, that'll help me keep working." A first-world problem if there ever was one.
Then you get The Phone Call. It's someone you love, someone you grew up with. The brief, selfish part of you says, "Glad it's not me." then you feel horribly guilty for thinking that, and then you feel even more stupid when you realize that it could be you any day.
Gleason Score. What the hell is a Gleason Score? Is a 7 good or bad? Why are there two numbers, 3 and 4?
Pop up Wikipedia, look up 'Gleason' and then you see Gleason Grading System. Surely that's the same thing, right? A quick scan, I see the word 'prostate' and start to read. Pictures, 3+4 is better than 4+3, anytime there is a 5 the prognosis isn't good. Well, less aggressive and not a bad prognosis is a small favor I guess, but the word aggressive is there all right. Probable treatments include radioactive beads and targeted radiation. My mind pictures gamma radiation blasting electrons away from complex protein molecules...
Radiation is an excellent cell killer, but not a very good carcinogen.
Memories of health physics talks in conferences that seem rather unimportant at the moment. I hope those gamma rays take the right ones out.
Screw this, I'm getting some coffee. I realize my eyes are watering only when someone else comes into the coffee room. I bypass the small talk and leave quickly even though she's senior because this isn't her problem, and I don't feel like sharing right now.
This isn't his first time, colon cancer in 2002-2003, he made it fine although the chemo was a bitch. Then the aortic stint, now this. The Evil Me thinks 'I am Iron Man', and the guilt comes back. We've always dealt with things this way though, Dark funny thought, Dark sad thought. Repeat.
Haven't made it to Alaska yet, and our vacation is already planned. Enter more guilt, probably have to go in the winter. That'll be fun, and dark.
Dark funny, dark sad. Probably a bit of both coming soon to a warped mind near you.
Monday, March 28, 2011
From Father to Daughter
Obviously based on the content below, I would never give this speech. But I thought it would be fun to write.
I have recently scheduled my vasectomy. My wife and I made this decision, with me taking the lead, after the birth of our second daughter. I have made the decision that I will remove myself from the gene pool after procreating two wonderful, beautiful daughters. The coin was flipped twice, and it was tails both times. I'm happy with this.
I scheduled the surgery consciously and gladly, but I would be lying if I said that I didn't have fantasies of the Father-Son talks that I won't give. The one talk that I will miss is the 'Father to Son Talk About Girls'. In my head, I had given the talk a hundred times, simply because in reality I had given it four times before. Results were positive.
I had 'The Talk' through a different source than most. My biological father has not been a part of my life, and while I acknowledge the role my stepfather played, he was not exactly a role model. I was too intimidated by my uncle for the chance to have that experience with him.
No, 'The Talk' waited until I was in the Army National Guard with a man who later became my college roommate. He and I aren't very close now because I was pretty much a jerk, but at least my memories are fond of him. While he was only a couple of years older than me, he was told he looked like Russel Crowe, except that he was better looking, and for reasons that other men always wondered, including me, the women always fawned over him.
I'm not talking about your average ladies man here, I'm talking elite. We would come back from the bars, me alone, him with four women following him, all of them wanting him, and sometimes he would be bored and send them all home. All of them were 9+ on hotornot. You would think this would be great, but when you're in your room alone after seeing all these girls, you think differently.
So we were driving back from drill one Sunday afternoon, I think this was before we were roommates, and we talked about how I can't get girls. Growing up I was always a bit of a dork, but nature was kind and gave me a decent body (before I quit smoking), a relatively handsome face, and a good sense of humor. However, I was still a pariah to the opposite sex. Or so I thought until I had 'the Talk.' Allow me to quote.
"Dennis, I have to admit it puzzles me a bit too because you are one of my better wingmen. Not the best, that's Joel, but you're pretty good. You're good looking, really smart, and one of the funniest guys I know. Even if you can't dance for shit, you should be pulling girls home at least half the time that I do. I think we need to have a talk about How to Pick Up Women and Get Laid."
The God just told me I had The Stuff, I just needed to refine it. Believe me, I was listening.
"Okay, first off, you need to understand that they want the same thing that you do. They want to be liked, they want to be liked more than their girlfriends, and they want to feel special. They also don't want a guy that's not a challenge. That's easy to say, but hard to do. Here's the Formula."
"You're at the bar, you and I start talking to girls. Remember when that one cute blonde was leaning in towards you and touched your arm? That's when you know She Likes You. She didn't touch you by accident. You didn't know it, but you were in already. If you had done what I'm telling you next, you might have had a good night."
"When you see she likes you, leave. Go somewhere without telling her where you are going, just go. Walk around, talk with friends, hang out, whatever, but don't be where she is until you run into her again because she was looking for you. When that happens, they always say angrily, 'You ditched me!' and act like they hate you. Then you reply calmly with a smile, 'No I didn't, I had to go to the bathroom and ran into a friend. I've been looking for you ever since.' At that point, she should be on your arm at the bar the whole night, just be nice and say 'Really?' to everything she says. Well, a little more than that, but I've seen you talk, you're alright when they like you. Keep talking, say her name a lot, and if you're holding hands or kissing, all the better."
"Step 2: The bar is closing. She says she's got to go, and asks what you're doing. Find a nice way of saying you don't know, but it would be more fun if she were there. Usually you can say it exactly like that. Then she'll talk about how we could go to a friend's house or whatever, and she'll ask how you're getting home. Obviously you gotta play it by ear, you either go to their friends, you ride with her, or take your car, but whatever you do, you can't say straight to the bedroom. The trick is to let her know what you want most is to be with her."
"So you go to the after party, or not, and she'll give hints about being tired. If she touches you again throughout the night, she's not quite as tired as you fear. Especially if she's ready for the first kiss (assuming you are still talking and holding hands). Some way or another, you'll have the chance to be alone in one of your places."
"Now, you are on the bed with her, and this is where most guys blow it long before clothes are off. Two things are important. The first is that she needs to feel comfortable and in control. The second is that you have a knee."
"What the hell am I talking about? Okay, you're kissing like crazy, kissing her neck, by the way, don't slobber, feeling over the shirt, under the shirt, over the bra, and all that is nice, but remember, when she puts her hand on yours and gently pulls away, you respect that. You stop. She'll mention she wants to take it slow and you say only one thing. 'That's okay.' No speeches, just 'That's okay.' Then you hold her and let her start kissing you again and you'll put your knee and thigh between her legs and move it gently up and down against her crotch as you kiss and fondle. This is important, it stimulates her without crossing any boundaries and she'll get excited, kiss you stronger and shirts will come off and while you are kissing her breasts while gyrating your knee she'll stop you. You respect her wishes, say 'That's okay' and hold her. More kissing, more knee, and before you know it you are both in your underpants and she'll stop you one more time. She'll say that she doesn't normally do this, and she probably doesn't by the way, not every guy knows this, and all you need to say is that we're here together and I want to be happy with you."
"No speeches, no drama, then she'll kiss you and you'll need to take off her panties and your underwear and you use the condom that you should have hidden under the mattress already. It's easy. Except when they do put on the brakes, and it happens. Although sometimes it winds up being a good night in some way or another, if you know what I mean. Then you kiss some more, wake up together, and wait until the next date. Any time they say stop, you stop. No complaints. If you complain, you'll be like you are now, alone."
Without going into the details of a much improved college life, my college life was much improved. I still had my flubs, but while I was in shape, good looking, and armed with the knowledge of The Elite, I learned how to not seduce women, but make them like being with me.
And that is The Talk that I won't have with my son. I'm fine with that. But at some point in my life, I know that my daughters will want to know something about the opposite sex, and at some point I will have to have the Father-Daughter Talk. I have thought long and hard about what I should say to them when that time comes. And in a moment of inspiration, I had the idea of what I should tell them.
I will tell my daughters exactly the same thing I would have told my son.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
There's a New Kid in Town
Well now, the sands through the hourglass have moved a bit since the last time I stroked the keys in this little corner of the web.
Quite a bit has happened since the last post...I think the last time I wrote I had a girlfriend. Now she has become The Wife, and now we have The Baby to contend with.
I almost get sick of all the TV shows and movies that talk about 'the miracle of childbirth'. I was always thinking "Jesus, it happens 40,000 times a day, and almost 6 billion times within the last hundred years. What could possibly be new about this?" Even my brother has done it, twice.
It's easy to be dismissive from the Armchair, but when you're in the game yourself, it's a whole different matter.
First off, there's the realization that it's not a car or a DVD. If you lose the baby, break the baby, or hurt the baby, you don't file an insurance claim and get a new one. You go to jail.
Second, in order to keep from losing the baby, breaking the baby, or hurting the baby, you gotta do a lot of things according to it's schedule, which appears to be about a 2 or 3 hour repeating cycle. And man, does she remind you of her schedule with all four lungs a blazin.
Third, and truth be told, most important, you really love the baby. From the first second it starts screaming, you are hooked. Maybe because you realize that you had a hand in her creation, and that for the next twenty or thirty years (or as long as she listens to you), there is one person in the world that will always want to know what you think, always think about you first when a problem comes up, and hopefully always have a smile for you when she sees you. And you feel the same way about her.
Maybe I distilled it into fewer words than some third rate sitcom, but I'm guessing that this fatherhood thing is going to be a pretty cool ride.
Quite a bit has happened since the last post...I think the last time I wrote I had a girlfriend. Now she has become The Wife, and now we have The Baby to contend with.
I almost get sick of all the TV shows and movies that talk about 'the miracle of childbirth'. I was always thinking "Jesus, it happens 40,000 times a day, and almost 6 billion times within the last hundred years. What could possibly be new about this?" Even my brother has done it, twice.
It's easy to be dismissive from the Armchair, but when you're in the game yourself, it's a whole different matter.
First off, there's the realization that it's not a car or a DVD. If you lose the baby, break the baby, or hurt the baby, you don't file an insurance claim and get a new one. You go to jail.
Second, in order to keep from losing the baby, breaking the baby, or hurting the baby, you gotta do a lot of things according to it's schedule, which appears to be about a 2 or 3 hour repeating cycle. And man, does she remind you of her schedule with all four lungs a blazin.
Third, and truth be told, most important, you really love the baby. From the first second it starts screaming, you are hooked. Maybe because you realize that you had a hand in her creation, and that for the next twenty or thirty years (or as long as she listens to you), there is one person in the world that will always want to know what you think, always think about you first when a problem comes up, and hopefully always have a smile for you when she sees you. And you feel the same way about her.
Maybe I distilled it into fewer words than some third rate sitcom, but I'm guessing that this fatherhood thing is going to be a pretty cool ride.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Back in the (Writing) Saddle, again?
My god, has it been a long time since I've done this.
Every year I say to myself that I will start to keep a continuous journal of my life, and every year, I make a few posts and drop it.
I can think of a few reasons that I don't do it more regularly:
1. Work is ever time consuming
2. So is Mary, my girlfriend.
3. Even if there wasn't work or Mary, there would be something that kept me from doing it.
I think if I apply real introspection, then the truth is that if I record it, it may someday be used against me in the court of law.
I've always had this difficulty, I don't like to be recorded. I don't like pictures (unless they are good ones), and I don't like knowing that my thoughts are available for someone else's perusal.
But then there is the performer side of me that wants it badly, that wants to be famous and recognized and liked and doted upon.
It's a tough personal conflict.
Here's how I think I'll do it. I'll keep posting this as a Saved Draft, and then someday, someday when I'm happy with the writing, I will post it publically.
But not today. Or maybe I will, you never know.
I'm sitting in the Red Carpet Club at Washington Dulles Airport. As I've discussed with other travelers, when you travel for work, the first six months are okay, you get to see sights, learn the craft of navigating through the airports and rental car agencies, and eventually you feel comfortable anywhere in the world because are certain that your five words in their language and your patience in English will get you to the hotel.
But then, at some point, it stops being fun.
You get tired of the airline delays, you get even more tired of the people who seem to think that the person behind the desk can do anything about it by screaming at them.
You get tired of hotel soap, hotel shampoo, hotel exercise facilities, hotel towels, and hotel beds (which are never the same, anywhere).
You get tired of stopping what you are doing right then because you must realized you need to get to your next flight.
Like now.
Farewell reader, have a good day,
Every year I say to myself that I will start to keep a continuous journal of my life, and every year, I make a few posts and drop it.
I can think of a few reasons that I don't do it more regularly:
1. Work is ever time consuming
2. So is Mary, my girlfriend.
3. Even if there wasn't work or Mary, there would be something that kept me from doing it.
I think if I apply real introspection, then the truth is that if I record it, it may someday be used against me in the court of law.
I've always had this difficulty, I don't like to be recorded. I don't like pictures (unless they are good ones), and I don't like knowing that my thoughts are available for someone else's perusal.
But then there is the performer side of me that wants it badly, that wants to be famous and recognized and liked and doted upon.
It's a tough personal conflict.
Here's how I think I'll do it. I'll keep posting this as a Saved Draft, and then someday, someday when I'm happy with the writing, I will post it publically.
But not today. Or maybe I will, you never know.
I'm sitting in the Red Carpet Club at Washington Dulles Airport. As I've discussed with other travelers, when you travel for work, the first six months are okay, you get to see sights, learn the craft of navigating through the airports and rental car agencies, and eventually you feel comfortable anywhere in the world because are certain that your five words in their language and your patience in English will get you to the hotel.
But then, at some point, it stops being fun.
You get tired of the airline delays, you get even more tired of the people who seem to think that the person behind the desk can do anything about it by screaming at them.
You get tired of hotel soap, hotel shampoo, hotel exercise facilities, hotel towels, and hotel beds (which are never the same, anywhere).
You get tired of stopping what you are doing right then because you must realized you need to get to your next flight.
Like now.
Farewell reader, have a good day,
Sunday, October 01, 2006
God I hate laundromats
Daily Rant
Son of a bitch, it happened again.
Here I am in Paris, City of Lights. Not far away from the Gare de Lyon train station. My hotel is the Hotel Lyon Bastille, which is one of the nicer places you can get in Paris for around 100 euros a night (technically, it's still a dump, but a well run dump with nice staff and free wireless internet).
I ask the attendant (her name is Sophie) if they have a laundry service. She says no, but there is a laundromat around the corner. I said thanks, and the next day (this morning), I went with my clothes to get it done and over with (I hate laundry).
The machine is a bit different, they have a central system where you pick your machine, you pay, and it starts automatically. The machines are front loaders, and you can't open them until it's done. I check the chart, the two loads of wash, washers 10 and 9, will be done in forty minutes. Great, I'll come back in thirty-five minutes and I'll watch them in the dryer.
I get in after thirty-five minutes, and there is a guy that asks me in French if washer number 9 is my washer. I say yes, and he tells me that he accidentally hit 9 instead of 7 and my clothes are being washed and he wants his money back. I tell him that's his problem, but I was more concerned about washer number 10.
It was empty.
Dammit! How could this have happened? I'm five minutes early (apparently their clocks use the same scale as a fisherman's ruler). The only saving grace is that they got a short load of t-shirts, socks, and one pair of Ralph Lauren boxer briefs. That I have no more t-shirts is a pain in the butt, but if the guy didn't accidentally put more money in my machine, I would be out about $500 worth of shirts and slacks.
The guy was nice enough, and I gave him half his money back. We talked a bit more, and I'm not sure where he was from, but it was a good chance to speak some French. I told him I lived in California, and that I am here on business. He asked me if California has a lot of police. Then he talked more about police. He really liked talking about the police, like he looks out for them all the time. Frankly, I suspect that if I arrived about five minutes earlier, he would have been talking to them again, because I would have been calling for them.
But, I started this post complaining about it happening again. This is not a phenomenon local to Paris, it happened to me once in San Diego in a hotel laundry, somebody took my Red Sands beach shorts out of the dryer. My first thought then, as it was today, was if they try them on before they took them. After all, you don't want to look foolish in stolen clothes that are too short.
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Son of a bitch, it happened again.
Here I am in Paris, City of Lights. Not far away from the Gare de Lyon train station. My hotel is the Hotel Lyon Bastille, which is one of the nicer places you can get in Paris for around 100 euros a night (technically, it's still a dump, but a well run dump with nice staff and free wireless internet).
I ask the attendant (her name is Sophie) if they have a laundry service. She says no, but there is a laundromat around the corner. I said thanks, and the next day (this morning), I went with my clothes to get it done and over with (I hate laundry).
The machine is a bit different, they have a central system where you pick your machine, you pay, and it starts automatically. The machines are front loaders, and you can't open them until it's done. I check the chart, the two loads of wash, washers 10 and 9, will be done in forty minutes. Great, I'll come back in thirty-five minutes and I'll watch them in the dryer.
I get in after thirty-five minutes, and there is a guy that asks me in French if washer number 9 is my washer. I say yes, and he tells me that he accidentally hit 9 instead of 7 and my clothes are being washed and he wants his money back. I tell him that's his problem, but I was more concerned about washer number 10.
It was empty.
Dammit! How could this have happened? I'm five minutes early (apparently their clocks use the same scale as a fisherman's ruler). The only saving grace is that they got a short load of t-shirts, socks, and one pair of Ralph Lauren boxer briefs. That I have no more t-shirts is a pain in the butt, but if the guy didn't accidentally put more money in my machine, I would be out about $500 worth of shirts and slacks.
The guy was nice enough, and I gave him half his money back. We talked a bit more, and I'm not sure where he was from, but it was a good chance to speak some French. I told him I lived in California, and that I am here on business. He asked me if California has a lot of police. Then he talked more about police. He really liked talking about the police, like he looks out for them all the time. Frankly, I suspect that if I arrived about five minutes earlier, he would have been talking to them again, because I would have been calling for them.
But, I started this post complaining about it happening again. This is not a phenomenon local to Paris, it happened to me once in San Diego in a hotel laundry, somebody took my Red Sands beach shorts out of the dryer. My first thought then, as it was today, was if they try them on before they took them. After all, you don't want to look foolish in stolen clothes that are too short.
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Friday, August 25, 2006
The Loneliness of a Long Distance Runner
I've got to keep running the course
I've got to keep running and win at all costs
I've got to keep going, be strong
Must be so determined and push myself on
"The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner" --Iron Maiden
The Setup
My earliest thought about running a marathon was when I was eight years old watching the Ironman Triathlon on ABC's Wide World of Sports, where they swam over 2 miles, cycled 112 miles, and finished with a marathon. At the time, I had thought that just the marathon alone would be more than enough.
Over the last two years, several people who have been close to me have told me that they have run a marathon. These include my cousin Joe, my ex-girlfriend, my half-sister's husband Philipe (more on him in a moment) and most recently, my friend Berni. Berni had just finished the Vienna Marathon in April, and when he told me about it, it reminded me that the San Francisco Marathon was at the end of July. The Saturday morning before Memorial Day, I thought about it, looked it up in Google, went to the website and registered for it before thinking about it. One hundred dollars later, I found out that my bib number is 5134.
The Training, Part I
I had asked a friend who had run the Bay to Breakers before if he'd be interested in running it with me. He was blunt about it, saying that he'll be in Mexico partying for three weeks, and there's no way he'd be in shape for it. But, many of his friends ran it, some competitively, and he then gave me a series of good pointers for training that I started on right away.
Feelings aren't always facts.
The Training, Part II
I have found that one easy guarantee that you'll do something is to tell everyone at work and home that you have stated a goal. This is why I never say that I've quit drinking for good.
I basically told everyone I talk to on a monthly basis or more that I was running a marathon. The usual replies were,
"Good luck."
"Are you f**king kidding?"
"You're crazy."
But it was out there, and I was committed.
Back to my brother-in-law, Philipe. This guy is a running fanatic; he runs ultramarathons and other endurance races. While I was in Paris last April (another story on that later) I went running with him. He quickly left me behind, but when I returned forty five minutes later, he showed me a bunch of stretches to conclude the run with. I told him about the training in June, and he started sending me one bit of advice for each day during the three weeks before the race.
Pieces of advice, all of them good, came from people who ran them before. My racquetball partner, Jim, who is about 62 years old, told me that the halfway point of the marathon is mile 20 (out of 26). I asked him how he knew this. He said that after five marathons, you get a feel for how to do it. I took him at his word.
Long runs. I'll skip the details, but I must that they are mandatory.
The Race
It was the day of the race, just barely. The alarm clock went off at 3:00 am. I was dead tired, but instead of hitting the snooze bar, I got up, put on my running clothes, grabbed a banana and made the 45 minute drive to San Francisco.
I make it into the city at 4:15 am, the race doesn't start until 5:20. Parking was not as bad as I expected, I found a place only a few blocks away with no problems. The weather was as advertised, cool, a little misty, but not cold. Perfect conditions.
Eventually, I made my way to the start line corrals. Man, it was crowded. A large human wave was slowly making it's way south away from the ferry building, following a sign that said, "Runners only."
A nervousness crept into my belly, Have I trained enough? Will I finish today? During two of my long runs I had to walk, would I have to walk today?
The runners were being slowly corralled into general areas, but I was late enough such that I would be forcibly started in the faster times. I heard the announcer say that the wheelchair racer has begun, a guy was using a hand cranked chair that had him going at a fast pace. The time on the Ferry Building clock reached 5:20 and a roar of the crowd let me know the race had started. Runners started walking more quickly toward the start line, and before I knew it, I was on Embarcadero Street looking at the start banner. About 10 yards before the banner, the crowd started jogging, and my shoe with the chip on it crossed the mat. I had started the marathon.
Mile 1
One of the first pieces of advice sent by Philipe was to start slow. This did not appear to be an option, the crowd moved at what seemed to be a very slow pace. I almost believed P. Diddy when he said that he would have run faster if there weren't so many people. It was still dark, but I saw a white flag banner on the side of the road with black lettering that said 'rUnsfm Mile 1'
One down, 25.2 more to go.
Mile 2.5
First water station in front of the Aquatic Park. Also the first hill. The same hill during the Friday Night Skate could be brutal because of the rough road conditions and the steep grade, but while running, it was cake. A light sheen of sweat started to form on my body; I was almost warmed up.
Mile 4.8
The steepest grade of the course. It didn't hurt that much though, and I developed my running pace that was smooth and comfortable. Many people were wearing signs on the back with a picture of a young man. I assume the man died, but didn't know how.
Mile 6.0--Golden Gate Bridge
Of course the race promoters would die to get the bridge on the course, and they did. Trouble is, they only closed two lanes, so you have thousands of people in one lane running across the bridge, and thousands of more running back. This was the first out and back and it blew me away to think that the leaders were already over two miles ahead of me as they returned.
One interesting observation: a man was running wearing leather armor and carrying a shield and a spear. I know what he wanted (aiming for recreating Pheidippides), I hope he knew the distance between Marathon and Athens was 25 miles.
Mile 13.1--Halfway There
Up and down, up and down through wooded areas and residential streets. Overall, I simply felt great. I had a consistent pace throughout the course, and I knew I was doing great. Approaching the halfway point, running downhill, I see my time is just a few minutes over two hours. I would easily beat my goal of 4:45. So I thought.
Mile 14.0--Golden Gate Park
Fuck. This hill never seems to end, my legs are getting weaker and I have to pee. For the first time in the run, I stop quickly and take the bathroom break. The first of many breaks to come.
Miles 18.0-22.0
A blur. Alternating visions of walking and running, uphill and downhill. I blow right by an athletic male, and I get passed by an obese female. I numbly grab a Gu from the aid station, and with leaden arms I tear it open with my teeth. I take the smallest taste and realize This is how you should eat, slowly, give your body time to digest it.
Crowds, yelling and cheering, carrying signs saying 'You are our heroes!' and more signs of the dead young man. Other signs with AIDS, more pictures., now I got it, they were sponsoring an AIDS charity. But they were also cheering for me. Thank you.
The tiniest hill ruins me, I can't proceed without walking. I use tricks like doing four counts to 100 with each step (1-2-3-1, 1-2-3-2, 1-2-3-3, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-5...). Sometimes it works and I make it to 100, which should be near a quarter mile, sometimes it doesn't. Damn I should have started training earlier. Second-half marathoners are passing me left and right.
I have never been so tired, and I realized Jim was right, Mile 20 is the halfway point.
Miles 22.0-25.7
It finally flattens out. I can see Pac-Bell Park in the distance, and I remembered from the map that there isn't that much farther to go. An older lady, at least 65-70, runs by me wearing a blue bib like mine, and it takes me a minute to realize she was passing me.
Stereos blaring. Roger Daltrey is singing "I can see for miles and miles, I can see for miles and miles, I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles..."
Very funny, thanks random stereo guy.
Some guy in his twenties blows by me at a near sprint yelling, 'TRACK!', clearly the 5K race has started. My internal reply was 'FUCK YOU!', but being so tired I give him the evil eye that he didn't see in my sunglasses. I wanted to trip him so badly. Someone else did tell him off, good for him. To this day I hate the race organizers for throwing that load of crap in the middle of this.
My thighs barely feel like they can move. Eminem blasts, "You better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go..."
Better, random stereo guy. Thanks.
Mile 25.7
The milk of human kindness flows more often than one would believe, and I think it's worth a few minutes to write this one down.
I was trudging one slow leg at a time along the Embarcadero (1-2-3-24, 1-2-3-25...) and I just gassed with a moan of 'Shit', and started walking again. My head looking down, I barely had the energy to lift it. I saw a pace setter at 4:40 ahead of me, and I knew that the 4:45 was behind me. It wasn't far, but it felt like forever.
A voice from a man whose face I never saw, although I could see his rather tall and stocky frame in my periphery, says smoothly,
"It's okay, you're almost there. Your body is tired and you're starved for oxygen. Notice how your shoulders are pulled forward? They compress your lungs and prevent your body from getting the energy it needs. How about pulling your shoulders back for me?"
He made perfect sense. I pulled my shoulders back and damn if he wasn't right, I started breathing deeper. He must have been a coach, and a good one too.
"That's good, now you need to pull your head up and look where you are. You see that tower over there? The finish line is right behind it. I'm not gonna let you go yet, take a few more breaths. Keep your head up, that's it, you're feeding your body with oxygen. Alright, shoulders back, take a look at that tower. Now, I want you to take a few more breaths," which I did, "and it's time for you to finish your marathon as you clearly started it four and a half hours ago. Finish it as a runner. Now go!"
And I ran, my head high, shoulders square, and legs pumping. I yelled thanks. I never saw his face, but his voice will remain with me to my grave.
Mile 26.2--Finished
It's almost anticlimactic after that pep talk, but I ran across without stopping and felt a lot better than I thought. It was done, 4 hours, 43 minutes.
It's funny after the fact. Everyone with blue bibs looks at those without them and thinks a little less of them. Nananana, I ran farther than you did...I try not to feel superior, but sometimes you can't help it.
The Next Day
Imagine every single muscle cell in your legs completely blasted by working out for a hundred hours on weights, and it's half of what I felt. I walked like a duck for a week. I must admit a bit of admiration from all of those who asked if I made it. I was modest about it, and told them I walked a bit, but they, like me, thought and said the same thing.
"Hey, you finished."
You're damn right I did.
I've got to keep running and win at all costs
I've got to keep going, be strong
Must be so determined and push myself on
"The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner" --Iron Maiden
The Setup
My earliest thought about running a marathon was when I was eight years old watching the Ironman Triathlon on ABC's Wide World of Sports, where they swam over 2 miles, cycled 112 miles, and finished with a marathon. At the time, I had thought that just the marathon alone would be more than enough.
Over the last two years, several people who have been close to me have told me that they have run a marathon. These include my cousin Joe, my ex-girlfriend, my half-sister's husband Philipe (more on him in a moment) and most recently, my friend Berni. Berni had just finished the Vienna Marathon in April, and when he told me about it, it reminded me that the San Francisco Marathon was at the end of July. The Saturday morning before Memorial Day, I thought about it, looked it up in Google, went to the website and registered for it before thinking about it. One hundred dollars later, I found out that my bib number is 5134.
The Training, Part I
I had asked a friend who had run the Bay to Breakers before if he'd be interested in running it with me. He was blunt about it, saying that he'll be in Mexico partying for three weeks, and there's no way he'd be in shape for it. But, many of his friends ran it, some competitively, and he then gave me a series of good pointers for training that I started on right away.
- Get good shoes.
- Run at least twenty miles a week, but step it up to thirty-five as you go along, and finish each week with a long run that goes from eight miles to about eighteen.
- Give yourself two weeks before the race to rest.
Feelings aren't always facts.
The Training, Part II
I have found that one easy guarantee that you'll do something is to tell everyone at work and home that you have stated a goal. This is why I never say that I've quit drinking for good.
I basically told everyone I talk to on a monthly basis or more that I was running a marathon. The usual replies were,
"Good luck."
"Are you f**king kidding?"
"You're crazy."
But it was out there, and I was committed.
Back to my brother-in-law, Philipe. This guy is a running fanatic; he runs ultramarathons and other endurance races. While I was in Paris last April (another story on that later) I went running with him. He quickly left me behind, but when I returned forty five minutes later, he showed me a bunch of stretches to conclude the run with. I told him about the training in June, and he started sending me one bit of advice for each day during the three weeks before the race.
Pieces of advice, all of them good, came from people who ran them before. My racquetball partner, Jim, who is about 62 years old, told me that the halfway point of the marathon is mile 20 (out of 26). I asked him how he knew this. He said that after five marathons, you get a feel for how to do it. I took him at his word.
Long runs. I'll skip the details, but I must that they are mandatory.
The Race
It was the day of the race, just barely. The alarm clock went off at 3:00 am. I was dead tired, but instead of hitting the snooze bar, I got up, put on my running clothes, grabbed a banana and made the 45 minute drive to San Francisco.
I make it into the city at 4:15 am, the race doesn't start until 5:20. Parking was not as bad as I expected, I found a place only a few blocks away with no problems. The weather was as advertised, cool, a little misty, but not cold. Perfect conditions.
Eventually, I made my way to the start line corrals. Man, it was crowded. A large human wave was slowly making it's way south away from the ferry building, following a sign that said, "Runners only."
A nervousness crept into my belly, Have I trained enough? Will I finish today? During two of my long runs I had to walk, would I have to walk today?
The runners were being slowly corralled into general areas, but I was late enough such that I would be forcibly started in the faster times. I heard the announcer say that the wheelchair racer has begun, a guy was using a hand cranked chair that had him going at a fast pace. The time on the Ferry Building clock reached 5:20 and a roar of the crowd let me know the race had started. Runners started walking more quickly toward the start line, and before I knew it, I was on Embarcadero Street looking at the start banner. About 10 yards before the banner, the crowd started jogging, and my shoe with the chip on it crossed the mat. I had started the marathon.
Mile 1
One of the first pieces of advice sent by Philipe was to start slow. This did not appear to be an option, the crowd moved at what seemed to be a very slow pace. I almost believed P. Diddy when he said that he would have run faster if there weren't so many people. It was still dark, but I saw a white flag banner on the side of the road with black lettering that said 'rUnsfm Mile 1'
One down, 25.2 more to go.
Mile 2.5
First water station in front of the Aquatic Park. Also the first hill. The same hill during the Friday Night Skate could be brutal because of the rough road conditions and the steep grade, but while running, it was cake. A light sheen of sweat started to form on my body; I was almost warmed up.
Mile 4.8
The steepest grade of the course. It didn't hurt that much though, and I developed my running pace that was smooth and comfortable. Many people were wearing signs on the back with a picture of a young man. I assume the man died, but didn't know how.
Mile 6.0--Golden Gate Bridge
Of course the race promoters would die to get the bridge on the course, and they did. Trouble is, they only closed two lanes, so you have thousands of people in one lane running across the bridge, and thousands of more running back. This was the first out and back and it blew me away to think that the leaders were already over two miles ahead of me as they returned.
One interesting observation: a man was running wearing leather armor and carrying a shield and a spear. I know what he wanted (aiming for recreating Pheidippides), I hope he knew the distance between Marathon and Athens was 25 miles.
Mile 13.1--Halfway There
Up and down, up and down through wooded areas and residential streets. Overall, I simply felt great. I had a consistent pace throughout the course, and I knew I was doing great. Approaching the halfway point, running downhill, I see my time is just a few minutes over two hours. I would easily beat my goal of 4:45. So I thought.
Mile 14.0--Golden Gate Park
Fuck. This hill never seems to end, my legs are getting weaker and I have to pee. For the first time in the run, I stop quickly and take the bathroom break. The first of many breaks to come.
Miles 18.0-22.0
A blur. Alternating visions of walking and running, uphill and downhill. I blow right by an athletic male, and I get passed by an obese female. I numbly grab a Gu from the aid station, and with leaden arms I tear it open with my teeth. I take the smallest taste and realize This is how you should eat, slowly, give your body time to digest it.
Crowds, yelling and cheering, carrying signs saying 'You are our heroes!' and more signs of the dead young man. Other signs with AIDS, more pictures., now I got it, they were sponsoring an AIDS charity. But they were also cheering for me. Thank you.
The tiniest hill ruins me, I can't proceed without walking. I use tricks like doing four counts to 100 with each step (1-2-3-1, 1-2-3-2, 1-2-3-3, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-5...). Sometimes it works and I make it to 100, which should be near a quarter mile, sometimes it doesn't. Damn I should have started training earlier. Second-half marathoners are passing me left and right.
I have never been so tired, and I realized Jim was right, Mile 20 is the halfway point.
Miles 22.0-25.7
It finally flattens out. I can see Pac-Bell Park in the distance, and I remembered from the map that there isn't that much farther to go. An older lady, at least 65-70, runs by me wearing a blue bib like mine, and it takes me a minute to realize she was passing me.
Stereos blaring. Roger Daltrey is singing "I can see for miles and miles, I can see for miles and miles, I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles..."
Very funny, thanks random stereo guy.
Some guy in his twenties blows by me at a near sprint yelling, 'TRACK!', clearly the 5K race has started. My internal reply was 'FUCK YOU!', but being so tired I give him the evil eye that he didn't see in my sunglasses. I wanted to trip him so badly. Someone else did tell him off, good for him. To this day I hate the race organizers for throwing that load of crap in the middle of this.
My thighs barely feel like they can move. Eminem blasts, "You better lose yourself in the music, the moment, you own it, you better never let it go..."
Better, random stereo guy. Thanks.
Mile 25.7
The milk of human kindness flows more often than one would believe, and I think it's worth a few minutes to write this one down.
I was trudging one slow leg at a time along the Embarcadero (1-2-3-24, 1-2-3-25...) and I just gassed with a moan of 'Shit', and started walking again. My head looking down, I barely had the energy to lift it. I saw a pace setter at 4:40 ahead of me, and I knew that the 4:45 was behind me. It wasn't far, but it felt like forever.
A voice from a man whose face I never saw, although I could see his rather tall and stocky frame in my periphery, says smoothly,
"It's okay, you're almost there. Your body is tired and you're starved for oxygen. Notice how your shoulders are pulled forward? They compress your lungs and prevent your body from getting the energy it needs. How about pulling your shoulders back for me?"
He made perfect sense. I pulled my shoulders back and damn if he wasn't right, I started breathing deeper. He must have been a coach, and a good one too.
"That's good, now you need to pull your head up and look where you are. You see that tower over there? The finish line is right behind it. I'm not gonna let you go yet, take a few more breaths. Keep your head up, that's it, you're feeding your body with oxygen. Alright, shoulders back, take a look at that tower. Now, I want you to take a few more breaths," which I did, "and it's time for you to finish your marathon as you clearly started it four and a half hours ago. Finish it as a runner. Now go!"
And I ran, my head high, shoulders square, and legs pumping. I yelled thanks. I never saw his face, but his voice will remain with me to my grave.
Mile 26.2--Finished
It's almost anticlimactic after that pep talk, but I ran across without stopping and felt a lot better than I thought. It was done, 4 hours, 43 minutes.
It's funny after the fact. Everyone with blue bibs looks at those without them and thinks a little less of them. Nananana, I ran farther than you did...I try not to feel superior, but sometimes you can't help it.
The Next Day
Imagine every single muscle cell in your legs completely blasted by working out for a hundred hours on weights, and it's half of what I felt. I walked like a duck for a week. I must admit a bit of admiration from all of those who asked if I made it. I was modest about it, and told them I walked a bit, but they, like me, thought and said the same thing.
"Hey, you finished."
You're damn right I did.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
The One That Brings You Back.
Finally, finally, FINALLY! It happened. After so much time and effort and disappointment, and more disappointment; after so many failed attempts and finally after heeding advice that in the end I realize now that they did know better, it fell into place.
I killed. I killed. I KILLED!
I have to write this now because the memory is fresh, and to say anything later wouldn't count; it must be documented now.
In a sense, I have lost my virginity.
I killed at the comedy club. Not just a quarter (or eighth or one) of the audience, not just varying quarters (or eighths or one) of the audience , not the dead silence of a stunned audience wondering 'How the hell you could think that is funny?' This time, they all laughed, more than a little at first, a lot at the end, raucous at times, and the applause when I said 'Thank you for your time, and don't forget to tip your bartenders and waitresses!' could not be mistaken for anything less than genuine 'Thanks for entertaining us!'
Finally, it all fell into place.
Some quick background. I've always loved stand-up comedy. Always. Ever since I was a young boy when my stepbrother Mitch brought his recorded 'Evenings at the Impov' with Jim Carey and many other new comics on VHS (the new technology at the time) . I thought myself a connoisseur when I was in college because of the hours of watching Half Hour Comedy Hour on MTV and HBO specials. And in a way, I am a connoisseur, I know when I am watching good comedy because I laugh when I hear clever jokes, even now, especially now. I have an open mind, and appreciate all angles of comedy...I will never be the Jaded Comic (I hope). I will always enjoy watching a good comic perform.
Two years ago, I went to a show at Rooster T Feathers; the local comedy club in Sunnyvale, CA. It was a good show, but the opening act was not exactly a killer. However, he did his duties. One of his duties was the announcements of comment cards on the table, and told us to fill them out. One of the questions was to rate the comics tonight according to 1) Great, 2) Good, 3) Fair, and 4) I could do better.
I was about to check 'I could do better' on the card until I asked myself, 'Could you?' Also on the table was a flyer about the Open Mic Night held on Wednesdays.
That flyer changed my life. I wrote down the website, and registered for the open mic in two weeks.
I'll be honest, I had comedy aspirations before during my college years, but Stillwater Oklahoma wasn't the best place to fulfill them. I had done some (really dark) material to friends, and had killed them in the process. I thought it would work well.
My first open mic at Roosters. Several comics showed up, one was an older guy wearing a suit. We struck up a conversation, and I told him that it was my first time up. He looked at me, and started to tell me things that comics should know. 1) Before Seinfeld did his first Letterman act, he did the exact material 50 times in clubs to get it right. 2) Always have a standby joke when you forget the next bit (his standby joke was about smoking pot and short term memory), and 3) Keep doing it. It will come.
I went up, prepared with 3 minutes of material that I thought would just kill them, because, damn it, I knew it was funny. It was dark, midnight blue material about the most awful things in human culture, but that they had to get it because I knew it was funny.
I got five laughs, maybe six. I knew that I was nervous, and justified the failure with it, but mostly I bombed. The old guy in the suit told me that the writing was real good, but so over the top that only the best can pull it off.
Then he went up, did his set, and proceeded to kill. I was dying, it seemed like pedestrian material about flying and women and sex, but it wasn't; he was brilliant. After his set, I shaked his hand, told him that I was totally impressed and that I did listen to his advice.
After that, Heather, the lady who owns the club, told me that I could be good if I work on it, and recommended that I tryout for the comedy competition that she had coming up in the next month.
Wait, on my first try, the club owner tells me I have potential? Shit, I must be a prodigy, and thought she must be a woman that appreciates real comedy. The dark shit. Cool.
I could not have been more wrong on all accounts.
I realized that I am not a prodigy during the comedy competition. I had asked my colleague Phung to go so that I would have at least one vote. She brought her gay friend Nick for company. I go up, do my real dark set (and when I say dark, I mean Incestuous Necrophilia with Sound Effects, Child Pornography, and Serial Killing) and get zero laughs. Except for Nick. During the voting session, I don't get a whimper. Except for Nick. I leave asking what they thought, Phung tells me that she appreciated that I went up, but she didn't vote for me. She voted for the guy with the bad Viagara jokes. Nick tells me he thought that I was brilliant and that he voted for me.
(As an aside, I mention that Nick is gay because I've found that the gay guys I know have the most evil sense of humor that I could ever imagine. Seriously. Fucking evil.)
Of course, I listen to Nick because that's who I wanted to hear. I learned much later that Phung was the much better judge.
By the way, I still hate Viagara jokes.
Then I did a few more shows at the Roosters Open Mics. Each time, except for one when I followed a comic named Richard Stockton (who really can work an audience), I bomb. However, that one show, after Richard, the crowd laughed at the jokes, they laughed at the gag of bringing the guitar on stage without playing it, they laughed at the necrophilia, but not quite as much as they laughed at the jokes about family life, or my last name, or simple mannerisms. I got some aftershow praise by a few people, and thought that it was working out.
Until a nearly endless series of bombs. Bad ones too.
It wasn't from a lack of effort. I started sending myself e-mails about jokes, the file grew to about 15 pages. I started going to comedy shows all over the place. Heather stopped charging me if I sat in the back...I'd go and see (or do) bad open mics in seedy bars all over the Bay Area. All the people at Roosters, Ron's, and the Blue Rock knew my name. I've heard so much comedy...and started to realize that I didn't know it all.
Jimi, the bartender at Roosters, always liked my material. She has been around the world, and we've exchanged stories. After the almost good and mostly bad sets, she would always say (with a rather wry smile), 'Dennis, the writing is your strength, I don't hear jokes like that.' It was never exactly encouragement, except that she always said that wanted to hear more. I think she has a minor crush on me, and I have a minor one on her. I doubt that we'd pursue it, but the flirting is fun.
More time watching comics. I would watch the new guy (or girl) go up, and I knew immediately when they would fail because of timing or material. And I would be similarly amazed at a person (guy or girl) that would be able to rock a house not necessarily with material (but some had brilliant stuff), but with personality, riffing ability, and the general presence of someone who has been there. It's experience that cannot be conveyed.
I went to other open mics. I did my shows, and I pissed off crowds. I'd have a solid opening joke, maybe a few more, and I'd get good laughs. But at some point their jaws would just drop. Why don't they like necrophilia jokes? What could possibly be wrong with Jesus jokes? What a bunch of lame-ass audience members that don't understand what comedy is all about. Do they really expect me to play this guitar?
I kept running jokes by Phung at work; she has a good sense of humor. She understands, and even likes, a dark joke (as she's not a Christian, she often loved the Jesus jokes). But even if she liked it, she would say that it would piss off the crowd.
Finally, in the last month, three conversations happened.
First (and to be honest, most importantly), I watched a set at Roosters, and talked to the headliner. We got along, and he told Heather that I was a comic and maybe I could do a guest set. Heather and I giggled between each other, and then she was blunt while talking to the headliner. She said that my writing was great, but I had to stop offending the audience. If I did that, I'd get the guest set.
Second. My friend Berni told me that when I'm on stage, I often have a creepy look that was often covered by my jokes until they went dark, but when I went dark, it scared him.
Third. I talked with Tina, another comic who does quite well in the area, and she gave me the proverbial 'Camels Straw.' She said simply, 'You're so cute when you go up, everyone wants to laugh. When you stop being cute, they become disappointed because they want you to be cute. Go cute, it's your strength.'
That was it. I have plenty of material that is plenty cute. I'm a competent guitar player too. I had a few bits with the guitar that I have always hesitated doing because I don't want to be a Guitar Comic. But then I realized, if the material meets my standards (and it does), then the guitar is just an addition, not the act.
So I go up tonight. I find out that Richard Stockton is going up that night too. I also find out that my friends can't make the show, so I'm sure to have the short set. No matter, when I got home from work, I worked on the material that I knew would work.
I get to Roosters. I tell Beth (night manager) that my friends aren't showing up, so I'm stuck with the short set. She says don't worry about it. The list goes up, I'm first after the MC with four minutes. That's enough, I tell Beth I could take thirty seconds longer. She nods, I'll probably be okay.
The MC, Sam, does his set, and it's a good one. He has a bit of anger in his comedy, but his jokes are tight and the crowd laughs. He announces the first comic of the night, and he misses my first name but gets the last name right. That's all I need, because my opener is based on my last name.
And from here, I really can't explain it. I opened with a (well-deserved) compliment to Sam and followed with the opening joke (which was a very condensed version of my previous openers), and they laughed. They laughed at the follow-up. I told them that they were a crowd that liked to laugh, and that was a Good Thing. I then asked them if they liked impressions, and more than one said yes.
I don't do 'impressions/impersonations.' I riffed off the concept. I did my strength, which is writing, except that the guitar was involved but not central to the act. I won't say how, come to my show if you're curious, but they laughed at the first bit, and they died on the second. I finished strongly with another bit that showed that I can play the guitar and sang a mini-song that showed I can sing. I ran 30-seconds long, but Beth didn't care. I was killing, and that's why they were there.
I finished with a long note, told them to remember to tip their bartenders and waitresses, and thanked them for their time.
They cheered. It wasn't a golf clap. It wasn't a Thanks for Having the Courage to Go Up, it was a Yell of a Job Well Done, and I Wish I Could Do It. I've seen it so many times from the back row, but this one was for Me and My Act.
The comics in the back congratulated me; some of them tell me they didn't want to follow me. I told them what I had heard before; go up there and kill, they want to laugh. Some did kill that night, some didn't, but it was a good crowd, one that I won't forget. I won't forget the beautiful girls up front, the hippies to the left, the lawyers to the right. They came to laugh, and I gave them what they paid for.
Richard goes up, and he still kills; man he's good. He plays banjo well too. I talk with him and two other guys that ruled the room that night; we agree to meet up again at another time.
Heather says goodbye and starts to leave. I ask her if I didn't upset the crowd this time. She says that the staff keep saying how impressed they are with me creating a whole new act. I say that it's a whole new act. There's a slight smile on her face as she leaves. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get the opening act soon.
I talk with Jimi after the show. She is glowing; she has been waiting for me to do this for a year. She can't stop saying how I finally found my act. She never says the other stuff was bad; she keep saying how this act was good, and she's amazed at how hard I worked on it. She keeps saying how funny it was, and how I can't let this one go, it's the one that will work. I'm guessing a bartender at a comedy club may have an idea on these things.
I drive home with this damn grin on my face that I can't erase.
Tonight, I killed. Tonight.
--Dennis
I killed. I killed. I KILLED!
I have to write this now because the memory is fresh, and to say anything later wouldn't count; it must be documented now.
In a sense, I have lost my virginity.
I killed at the comedy club. Not just a quarter (or eighth or one) of the audience, not just varying quarters (or eighths or one) of the audience , not the dead silence of a stunned audience wondering 'How the hell you could think that is funny?' This time, they all laughed, more than a little at first, a lot at the end, raucous at times, and the applause when I said 'Thank you for your time, and don't forget to tip your bartenders and waitresses!' could not be mistaken for anything less than genuine 'Thanks for entertaining us!'
Finally, it all fell into place.
Some quick background. I've always loved stand-up comedy. Always. Ever since I was a young boy when my stepbrother Mitch brought his recorded 'Evenings at the Impov' with Jim Carey and many other new comics on VHS (the new technology at the time) . I thought myself a connoisseur when I was in college because of the hours of watching Half Hour Comedy Hour on MTV and HBO specials. And in a way, I am a connoisseur, I know when I am watching good comedy because I laugh when I hear clever jokes, even now, especially now. I have an open mind, and appreciate all angles of comedy...I will never be the Jaded Comic (I hope). I will always enjoy watching a good comic perform.
Two years ago, I went to a show at Rooster T Feathers; the local comedy club in Sunnyvale, CA. It was a good show, but the opening act was not exactly a killer. However, he did his duties. One of his duties was the announcements of comment cards on the table, and told us to fill them out. One of the questions was to rate the comics tonight according to 1) Great, 2) Good, 3) Fair, and 4) I could do better.
I was about to check 'I could do better' on the card until I asked myself, 'Could you?' Also on the table was a flyer about the Open Mic Night held on Wednesdays.
That flyer changed my life. I wrote down the website, and registered for the open mic in two weeks.
I'll be honest, I had comedy aspirations before during my college years, but Stillwater Oklahoma wasn't the best place to fulfill them. I had done some (really dark) material to friends, and had killed them in the process. I thought it would work well.
My first open mic at Roosters. Several comics showed up, one was an older guy wearing a suit. We struck up a conversation, and I told him that it was my first time up. He looked at me, and started to tell me things that comics should know. 1) Before Seinfeld did his first Letterman act, he did the exact material 50 times in clubs to get it right. 2) Always have a standby joke when you forget the next bit (his standby joke was about smoking pot and short term memory), and 3) Keep doing it. It will come.
I went up, prepared with 3 minutes of material that I thought would just kill them, because, damn it, I knew it was funny. It was dark, midnight blue material about the most awful things in human culture, but that they had to get it because I knew it was funny.
I got five laughs, maybe six. I knew that I was nervous, and justified the failure with it, but mostly I bombed. The old guy in the suit told me that the writing was real good, but so over the top that only the best can pull it off.
Then he went up, did his set, and proceeded to kill. I was dying, it seemed like pedestrian material about flying and women and sex, but it wasn't; he was brilliant. After his set, I shaked his hand, told him that I was totally impressed and that I did listen to his advice.
After that, Heather, the lady who owns the club, told me that I could be good if I work on it, and recommended that I tryout for the comedy competition that she had coming up in the next month.
Wait, on my first try, the club owner tells me I have potential? Shit, I must be a prodigy, and thought she must be a woman that appreciates real comedy. The dark shit. Cool.
I could not have been more wrong on all accounts.
I realized that I am not a prodigy during the comedy competition. I had asked my colleague Phung to go so that I would have at least one vote. She brought her gay friend Nick for company. I go up, do my real dark set (and when I say dark, I mean Incestuous Necrophilia with Sound Effects, Child Pornography, and Serial Killing) and get zero laughs. Except for Nick. During the voting session, I don't get a whimper. Except for Nick. I leave asking what they thought, Phung tells me that she appreciated that I went up, but she didn't vote for me. She voted for the guy with the bad Viagara jokes. Nick tells me he thought that I was brilliant and that he voted for me.
(As an aside, I mention that Nick is gay because I've found that the gay guys I know have the most evil sense of humor that I could ever imagine. Seriously. Fucking evil.)
Of course, I listen to Nick because that's who I wanted to hear. I learned much later that Phung was the much better judge.
By the way, I still hate Viagara jokes.
Then I did a few more shows at the Roosters Open Mics. Each time, except for one when I followed a comic named Richard Stockton (who really can work an audience), I bomb. However, that one show, after Richard, the crowd laughed at the jokes, they laughed at the gag of bringing the guitar on stage without playing it, they laughed at the necrophilia, but not quite as much as they laughed at the jokes about family life, or my last name, or simple mannerisms. I got some aftershow praise by a few people, and thought that it was working out.
Until a nearly endless series of bombs. Bad ones too.
It wasn't from a lack of effort. I started sending myself e-mails about jokes, the file grew to about 15 pages. I started going to comedy shows all over the place. Heather stopped charging me if I sat in the back...I'd go and see (or do) bad open mics in seedy bars all over the Bay Area. All the people at Roosters, Ron's, and the Blue Rock knew my name. I've heard so much comedy...and started to realize that I didn't know it all.
Jimi, the bartender at Roosters, always liked my material. She has been around the world, and we've exchanged stories. After the almost good and mostly bad sets, she would always say (with a rather wry smile), 'Dennis, the writing is your strength, I don't hear jokes like that.' It was never exactly encouragement, except that she always said that wanted to hear more. I think she has a minor crush on me, and I have a minor one on her. I doubt that we'd pursue it, but the flirting is fun.
More time watching comics. I would watch the new guy (or girl) go up, and I knew immediately when they would fail because of timing or material. And I would be similarly amazed at a person (guy or girl) that would be able to rock a house not necessarily with material (but some had brilliant stuff), but with personality, riffing ability, and the general presence of someone who has been there. It's experience that cannot be conveyed.
I went to other open mics. I did my shows, and I pissed off crowds. I'd have a solid opening joke, maybe a few more, and I'd get good laughs. But at some point their jaws would just drop. Why don't they like necrophilia jokes? What could possibly be wrong with Jesus jokes? What a bunch of lame-ass audience members that don't understand what comedy is all about. Do they really expect me to play this guitar?
I kept running jokes by Phung at work; she has a good sense of humor. She understands, and even likes, a dark joke (as she's not a Christian, she often loved the Jesus jokes). But even if she liked it, she would say that it would piss off the crowd.
Finally, in the last month, three conversations happened.
First (and to be honest, most importantly), I watched a set at Roosters, and talked to the headliner. We got along, and he told Heather that I was a comic and maybe I could do a guest set. Heather and I giggled between each other, and then she was blunt while talking to the headliner. She said that my writing was great, but I had to stop offending the audience. If I did that, I'd get the guest set.
Second. My friend Berni told me that when I'm on stage, I often have a creepy look that was often covered by my jokes until they went dark, but when I went dark, it scared him.
Third. I talked with Tina, another comic who does quite well in the area, and she gave me the proverbial 'Camels Straw.' She said simply, 'You're so cute when you go up, everyone wants to laugh. When you stop being cute, they become disappointed because they want you to be cute. Go cute, it's your strength.'
That was it. I have plenty of material that is plenty cute. I'm a competent guitar player too. I had a few bits with the guitar that I have always hesitated doing because I don't want to be a Guitar Comic. But then I realized, if the material meets my standards (and it does), then the guitar is just an addition, not the act.
So I go up tonight. I find out that Richard Stockton is going up that night too. I also find out that my friends can't make the show, so I'm sure to have the short set. No matter, when I got home from work, I worked on the material that I knew would work.
I get to Roosters. I tell Beth (night manager) that my friends aren't showing up, so I'm stuck with the short set. She says don't worry about it. The list goes up, I'm first after the MC with four minutes. That's enough, I tell Beth I could take thirty seconds longer. She nods, I'll probably be okay.
The MC, Sam, does his set, and it's a good one. He has a bit of anger in his comedy, but his jokes are tight and the crowd laughs. He announces the first comic of the night, and he misses my first name but gets the last name right. That's all I need, because my opener is based on my last name.
And from here, I really can't explain it. I opened with a (well-deserved) compliment to Sam and followed with the opening joke (which was a very condensed version of my previous openers), and they laughed. They laughed at the follow-up. I told them that they were a crowd that liked to laugh, and that was a Good Thing. I then asked them if they liked impressions, and more than one said yes.
I don't do 'impressions/impersonations.' I riffed off the concept. I did my strength, which is writing, except that the guitar was involved but not central to the act. I won't say how, come to my show if you're curious, but they laughed at the first bit, and they died on the second. I finished strongly with another bit that showed that I can play the guitar and sang a mini-song that showed I can sing. I ran 30-seconds long, but Beth didn't care. I was killing, and that's why they were there.
I finished with a long note, told them to remember to tip their bartenders and waitresses, and thanked them for their time.
They cheered. It wasn't a golf clap. It wasn't a Thanks for Having the Courage to Go Up, it was a Yell of a Job Well Done, and I Wish I Could Do It. I've seen it so many times from the back row, but this one was for Me and My Act.
The comics in the back congratulated me; some of them tell me they didn't want to follow me. I told them what I had heard before; go up there and kill, they want to laugh. Some did kill that night, some didn't, but it was a good crowd, one that I won't forget. I won't forget the beautiful girls up front, the hippies to the left, the lawyers to the right. They came to laugh, and I gave them what they paid for.
Richard goes up, and he still kills; man he's good. He plays banjo well too. I talk with him and two other guys that ruled the room that night; we agree to meet up again at another time.
Heather says goodbye and starts to leave. I ask her if I didn't upset the crowd this time. She says that the staff keep saying how impressed they are with me creating a whole new act. I say that it's a whole new act. There's a slight smile on her face as she leaves. Maybe, just maybe, I'll get the opening act soon.
I talk with Jimi after the show. She is glowing; she has been waiting for me to do this for a year. She can't stop saying how I finally found my act. She never says the other stuff was bad; she keep saying how this act was good, and she's amazed at how hard I worked on it. She keeps saying how funny it was, and how I can't let this one go, it's the one that will work. I'm guessing a bartender at a comedy club may have an idea on these things.
I drive home with this damn grin on my face that I can't erase.
Tonight, I killed. Tonight.
--Dennis
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