Being Patient is Sick!

How much of your life do you think you spend waiting?

I am often punished for being punctual. While I strategically plan to land at my destination at the agreed upon time, many others do not extend this courtesy. The excuses travel down the conveyor belt at a furious pace. I’ve heard it all.

Sorry, there was traffic.

I had to pick up my Lexapro and the line at the pharmacy was insane.

My father was found naked, wandering the streets, yelling out the name of his dead wife, so I had to bail him out of jail. Anyway, should we start with some egg rolls?

In the past year, I’ve spent countless hours of my life in waiting rooms. What a privilege. A whole room designed for me to sit quietly, watching precious seconds of my life flicker away at a snail-like pace. When you’re sick, this becomes reality. Appointment times be damned. The doctor will see you whenever she fucking feels like it. What are you gonna do? Cure your own cancer?

This is why they call you “the patient.” It is a word that transcends its usage because when you break it down, it is so much more than a name for an individual that needs care. They are telling you what you need to do. BE PATIENT. We will get to you as soon as we know that we have screwed up your plans for the rest of the day.

Tom Petty was right. Maybe not when he was shooting up large doses of heroin in an attempt to freefall down into nothing. I’m referring to when he said “The waiting is the hardest part.” We are often told how long we will wait for something. The human brain has evolved to be adept at dealing with torture when we know there is a timestamp on how long it will last. If you tell me fifteen minutes, a switch goes off that allows me to relax, knowing this particular period will last as long as brewing a strong cup of coffee.

But when that time has elapsed, and we still find ourselves in limbo, it is a maddening experience. The foot taps become rapid. An itch creeps into our skin. The clock is laughing hysterically knowing that while the rest of the world is moving along, you are temporarily sequestered in a state of desire, boredom, and frustration.

And there is nothing you can do about it.

Patience has never come naturally to me. I’m a delightful mix of stubborn and energetic, neither of which serves me in the waiting game because linear time doesn’t care about either. Of all the lessons I’ve learned from cancer, one of the most important was to slow down. When you are forced to wait, enjoy the downtime. Close your eyes. Deep breaths. Smile.

Beating cancer was a relief. While it pushed the limits of my body, it also tested my patience. The endless calendar of appointments was excruciating. I was pissed at these cancerous cells for swelling up my lymph nodes without permission. Consent is mandatory. But the real rage came from how they intercepted my time. Most people don’t tell you this but along with all the other bullshit, cancer is inconvenient.

The years it takes off of your life are not at the end. They are RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Cancer doesn’t care that you are supposed to be finding yourself at Burning Man, coaching your daughter’s soccer team, or studying for your master’s degree. You have to do what it says. Otherwise, it will obliterate your timeline all together.

An unexpected sensation came along with eradicating my cancer. I felt like I should immediately reach all of the high-level objectives that I have been working towards. “Look, everyone! I’m healthy. I’m strong. Now cast me as a series regular on your animated series and sell out all of my shows!” I went through a traumatic, painful, and terrifying experience which means every tree I’ve ever planted should fruit immediately. I’m ready to receive it!

Sounds reasonable, right? Sure, but that’s not how the world works.

It took me a couple of months to shed that attitude. Like my eczema-laden skin, it flaked off a little bit each day. I don’t shame myself for wanting to get on the express train as I steer myself toward my goals, but thinking that cancer was going to expedite the process is preposterous.

It’s going to take years of processing what I went through before I truly understand how it will propel me forward. By continuing my work as a comedian, relating this experience to others, the trees will sprout branches that reach far beyond what I could have imagined. Keep tending the garden. The flowers will blossom when they are ready.

Gandhi said, “To lose patience is to lose the battle.” He may have been hallucinating from a lack of food but the statement still rings true. I never thought that becoming a cancer “patient” is what would finally teach me the true meaning of that word.

My career will continue to build and along with it will come everything that I am meant to have in this lifetime. A family. A house. A life-size sculpture of pugs playing tennis. I will keep chiseling away at the marble every single day until I have sculpted a unique and beautiful piece of art. You can’t force it. All you can do is work hard, believe, and be patient. Eventually it will come harder than a celibate priest having a wet dream about an underage boy.

All that being said, if you make me wait when we are meeting up for dinner, you’re picking up the check.

37 Tried to Kill Me. Your Move, 38.

It was Easter morning, 2023. Sitting around a table eating brunch with my wife and her family, which of course is now my family as well. My sister-in-law Holly looked at me and in a soft voice said, “it’s really good to have you back, Alex.”

 I had been out of the hospital for over three months so her statement seemed misplaced.  I asked her to elaborate. 

“We didn’t know if we would ever see this version of you again.” That simple statement has been tattooed on my brain ever since. This version. Fun. Silly. Energetic. Illuminated.

When I look back at the last 12 months, almost every day should be forgotten. In my mind, I have skipped directly from 36 to 38. You could call it a series of unfortunate events but that doesn’t do it justice. That’s like referring to the Oklahoma City Bombing as a bad day at work at the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. 

Since the moment I turned 37, my life had flip-flopped. The cancer was already inside of me yet we didn’t know exactly what type. All we knew is that it was CANCER. Four months ago, Lauren and I had gotten married on a picturesque beach in Punta Mita, Mexico. We had been together in some form or another for 18 years by then. When we finally made our love official, boom! C-word. For someone who prides themselves on their timing, I rushed the punchline without giving the audience a beat to process the setup. 

The next three months were excruciating. Constant visits to specialists. The testing included blood work, MRIs, CAT and PET scans, bone marrow aspirations, etc. Something is seriously wrong and nobody can tell me what. I became lethargic and unmotivated. The unknown is far more scary than reality.

Finally, we had our answer. Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. How loud can a person mentally scream “FUUUCCKKKK?” While it was disheartening, it gave me comfort when the doctors told me they knew how to treat it. My prognosis was good. 

I could bore you with more details of chemotherapy but honestly, you can look at previous blogs if you need that story. The onslaught of misery and pain had begun. Everything was going swimmingly, until one day, it wasn’t. Something was horribly wrong with me and I was too confused to realize it. Luckily my wife saw right through my incoherent stare. She took me to the emergency room. 

When I entered that hospital on November 17th, completely delirious, I had no idea that I wouldn’t emerge for 33 days. Cancer was still in me. But now I had a much bigger foe: Sepsis. The surgery to install my chemo port in my chest had caused an internal infection. An invisible murderous bacteria that was hellbent on putting me into my forever dirt nap. 

Turned on yet? How about a heart vegetation, multiple embolisms, a spleen abscess, and edema. My body swelled up 25 pounds because water wouldn’t drain from my tissues. For the first two weeks, I was bedridden. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t even roll myself over.

Doctors told my wife and family to brace themselves for the worst. My body had declared war on itself.  I was a civilian, caught in the crossfire. Eventually I was well enough to do physical and occupational therapy. One step at a time. Literally. My therapists treated me with the fragility of a 90-year-old cripple. I was a long way from the slacklining, tennis playing, ambulatory person I had worked so hard to be. 

To make matters worse,I had to have my knee operated on because it wasn’t draining properly. Another surgery. Was I worried? I’m in here because of the last one so I wasn’t exactly walking on sunshine at the thought. Fuck, I was barely walking on anything. Four more days while I watched colored liquids drain through a series of tubes sticking out of my leg. 

 If all of that wasn’t enough, while I was infirmed, my dad died unexpectedly. Not completely, he was 79 so at that age, anything can happen.  I could barely mourn the death because I had to primarily focus on my own survival. I still haven’t fully processed the fact that he is gone. He was my biggest fan. He loved hearing stories of my adventures. No one understood better than him how dedicated I am to not only my craft, but having an amazing life. He doesn’t believe in the afterlife and neither do I so I can’t even say he’s in a better place. He’s simply gone.

There’s more tragedy. But some of it is too painful and personal for me to reveal here. In time, I’ll talk about these instances. If all of this isn’t enough already, you have a level of sadism that should be studied.

I’ve thought a lot about this past year. It lasted forever and somehow it felt like seconds. 37 was not the magical year I had envisioned. So many times I thought I had hit bottom only to learn I was still in the shallow seas being dragged toward the Marianas Trench. Hit after hit. I was strapped to a wall being bludgeoned by a never-ending train of trauma. I’m a good person who leads with love. I strive to make others feel good about themselves. What did I do to deserve this?

Nothing. That’s the answer. No one deserves this. Well, maybe Andrew Tate and Donald Trump and…nevermind. I don’t have enough time to keep listing monsters. The point is this:  it’s not about what happens to you.

It’s how you react.

Looking back, I am a very proud boy. Dammit. Remember when we could say that and it didn’t mean you were a nazi?

I handled my cancer with courage. I was transparent and allowed others in on the journey. I constantly cracked jokes and turned the darkest moments into hilarious material. Making strangers laugh while I had a noticeable PICC line in my arm was the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced as a comedian. These people paid for babysitters, came to laugh, and now they are staring at someone with cancer. I’m sure many thought, “we should have gone to the movies.”

I did it for myself. I needed to take ownership of the situation. I have been told many times that my approach helped others who were going through similar struggles. I alleviated my own fears by sharing them with the world. I could have switched from a beacon of positivity into a dismal sack of hopelessness. Yet, I didn’t. I found myself bitter at times and checked myself. I can’t change what happened. There’s a reason why the front windshield is bigger than the back. Move forward.

Those 33 days in the hospital were the most painful of my entire life. Even when I got out, I could barely move. Everything hurt. I was on intravenous antibiotics for almost a month, attached to a fanny pack that kept reminding me: YOU ARE SICK. YOU ARE WEAK. But every day when I woke up, I did more than the recommended physical therapy. I made it my job to rehabilitate my body and mind. I listened to “Unstoppable” by Sia hundreds of times. Goddamn, that woman can infiltrate my psyche with empowerment. I got my meditation schedule back on track. With every painful step, I kept telling myself, “This is temporary. This is not your life. This will all be a fever dream if I keep doing the work.” 

I always knew I could bounce back. I kept journaling almost every single day. Most of it was goal-setting, positive affirmations, visualizations, manifestations. I kept track of how I felt and if I look back at the first entries of the year, I recognize how far I’ve come. I was hours away from death, unable to move, completely detached; and now I am literally climbing mountains. My wife and I spent two weeks traveling around Japan where I headlined a show and judged a Japanese Roast Battle. To answer your question, it was in English. I taped a set with Comedy Central where I made fun of my cancer. I’m not hiding from it. I’m using it. I will use every ounce of struggle for personal gain. I will not allow any of my misery to control who I am supposed to be. 

I thought 37 was a year to forget. Now I realize, it may have been the most pivotal year of my entire life. I was forced into lessons that I may not have ever taken the time to learn. I was the hare, running as fast as I could hoping to get to a finish line. Now I’m the tortoise. Methodical. Paced. Able to look around and shove my face in the fragrant, vibrant flowers while still knowing, I have plenty of time to win. Allergies to pollen be damned. I will smell those fucking lilies. 

While trying to burn me to a pile of ashes, all of this ignited a fire inside of me that cannot be extinguished. I am inflamed and it’s not just from my eczema.  I did everything I could to not only get back this version of myself,  but to shed my outer shell and have a complete metamorphosis. I was already a butterfly. But this winged-insect has turned into a fucking eagle. I have proven to myself that through the absolute worst pain, both physical and emotional, you cannot take away my spirit. I am meant to spread love, give joy, and make people laugh until they can’t breathe. None of it was easy, but it was necessary. 

With all of that behind me, I am here to say: Come at me, 38. Show me what you got. I’m ready for every single moment.

Time To Excavate

Brand new suit: Check. 

Fresh haircut: Check. 

Sixty of the people I love most: Check. 

Woman of my dreams: Check. 

Extra cells growing uncontrollably in my body: Check. 

Fuck. What was that last one?

It was one of the biggest days of my life. The Punta de Mita ocean breeze wisped through my hair on this insanely perfect evening.  All of our guests are laughing, crying, and everything in between as we pronounce our love for each other. This wasn’t just any wedding. It was almost twenty years in the making and everyone there knew it. But one attendee was there who was not on the guest list. No one saw or heard them. They were hiding in the shadows waiting to upend our lives. 

As I said, “I Do”, the cancer inside my body repeated the sentiment. I wouldn’t know for four months that I had Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, but Hodgy (my cute nickname for it) used that time to throw a giant party. His goal wasn’t to rage: he wanted to destroy the venue. The aftermath would be very expensive. As the cleanup crew of doctors found more issues, the bill continued to grow.

I often look back at the time before I was diagnosed. I was having one hell of a year. In March, Fifteen of my friends and I ravaged our way through Las Vegas on a 36-hour bender filled with dancing, delicious food, lavish hotel rooms, and incredible drugs. It was the bachelor party I always wanted. My nose hated me. 

Sin City to Decompression City. I flew from Vegas straight to Alaska to spend a few days with my brother and his wife. They live in a pristine environment outside Denali National Park. The contrast of being in the center of debauchery and then 20 hours later arriving in a snow-filled wonderland was exactly what I needed. I spent the next four days expelling the drugs from my system as I skied, ate fresh moose, and snorted fresh, freezing air directly into my nostrils. They were ecstatic to have a break after the landslide they were put through in Las Vegas. I ended that week by doing sold-out shows in Wasilla and Anchorage, the perfect cap to a monumental run of pleasure.

It didn’t end there. Less than a month later, my (soon to be) wife and I would live it up for 10 days in beautiful Puerto Vallarta. Five days with family and friends and another five by ourselves at the most posh resort I had ever experienced. To say it was amazing would be an understatement. Shout out to the poolside violinist who made every bite of ahi tuna that much sweeter.  It was only April and I was crushing life harder than a Midwest slaughterhouse. Sorry for the visual if you’re vegetarian or vegan. 

May reigned in two of our favorite festivals: Desert Hearts and Lightning in a Bottle. Lakeside illuminated temporary paradises meant to stimulate every part of your brain. These weekends were adorned with wonderful music, rainbow clothing, and the silliest humans on the planet.

I wasn’t only partying. I was producing. I released my second full-length comedy album and on top of that, a techno song that I created with my friend Sacha. I was in the crowd multiple times when a DJ played the song and to be part of the crowd as they got hyped was something I’ll never forget. On top of that, I was headlining shows all over the country at clubs I had never played before.  I was killing it on all fronts.  My life was like a bowl of Lucky Charms: Magically Delicious.

How did I get here?

Let’s rewind. When I was 17, I hated life with a passion. Terrible skin, horrible depression, and an inner rage that reared its ugly face as often as possible. The world was against me so I would make it my mission to make everyone around me as miserable as I was. I told my parents that I would be homeless and didn’t care about the consequences. Working towards a goal was unfathomable and inhabiting that level of unhappiness in your formative years? A happy life was so far away it might as well be on another planet. 

But under that Mars-like skin, something else was brewing that I couldn’t yet see. Potential. No one knew it was there because it was buried beneath the violent emotional outbursts that influenced my relationship to the world around me. When the entire universe feels like it is squashing you into oblivion, it’s impossible to consider a life filled with love and laughter. 

I don’t have time to go into how I changed or why and honestly, it doesn’t matter. My story won’t be yours and the methods I found to do a 180 are too plentiful to explain. What matters is that I did it. I had no idea that I could use the profound energy flowing through me to help instead of hurt. The potential was always there. I simply had to find a way to harness it.

Fast forward to now. The cancer is exactly the same. I had no clue it was there as I was living a fantastic version of life. I was going 100 mph on a highway with no roadblocks, preparing to break ground in my career and begin a family with my wife. If you put a beat behind those two sentences you could easily transform it into a hip-hop track. I never saw Hodgy until he jumped in front of my car, splaying himself across the windshield.

Thanks to this loser of a guest, my life has reverted to how I felt as a child. Constant doctor visits, new medications, a pause on many of the ways I express myself. It was a time when happiness was only felt in fleeting moments that would skitter away like bugs on a pond. I can’t do live comedy.  I can’t travel. I can’t play tennis or walk on a slackline. I had the worst hospital experience of my life and trust me, that’s saying a lot. I had worked so hard to build a life that even I was inspired to live, and now these radically dividing, uninvited cancerous cells are threatening to strip me of everything I’ve achieved.

But I am not my teenage self. The rebellion is still there and I’m thankful it is because that is what makes me an excellent creative. I learned how to use my stubbornness to my advantage. Angry Alex isn’t dormant. He’s dead. 

I flipped my emotional state once, which means I can do it again. When I was a struggling teenager, I had no idea that one day I would be on stage with the same comedians I was currently watching on TV. I didn’t know that people would recognize me in public and actually be excited to meet me. I didn’t know that joy would stick to me like a fly in a glue trap. What’s with all these insect references?

This isn’t any different. Right now I’m sick. Sick like pulling a quadruple backflip on a motorbike. Fucking sick, bro! But one thing that hasn’t changed at all is my POTENTIAL. There is no medicine on Earth that can cure that. I’ll beat the fuck out of this cancer like a drunk redneck beating up his underage girlfriend. OK, maybe I should go back to analogies about bugs.

My point is, even when you’re at your lowest, when it seems like nothing will ever go right again, when all hope has been abandoned, underneath the surface, you still have potential. It may have snuck into minuscule cracks but it’s still holding space inside of you. You just have to excavate. You may get lucky and it shoots out of you one day like a rocket, but most likely it will take two things: Time and Patience. Uggghhh. I know. 

Don’t be afraid to dig. Like those miners in Jurassic Park that discover the mosquito embossed in amber,  You never know what you’ll find that will change your life. Thank god we ended on a bug reference and not some vicious mention of domestic abuse. Whoops. Sorry. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

A Love Letter To My Cancer

Hey Hodgkins Lymphoma,

I hope you’re having a fantastic summer inside my body. You’ve been traveling, growing, and truly discovering what you can become. Divide and conquer. The Roman Empire would be proud.

When I first learned that you were inside of me, I was angry. I spent a lot of time wondering why you chose me. I barely know you and yet you have decided to move into my body without paying rent (rude!) and siphoning some of the greatest parts of me. My positivity, my creativity, my energy; you came for all of it. Like a bandit moving through a small western town, you showed up and just started taking whatever you wanted.

I was livid. Confused. Depressed. I began pondering what I did to beckon you. I exercise, eat well, meditate, do breathwork, and donate to charity. I spread love on a daily basis by making people laugh. I’m the one who lifts people up and for some reason you made it your mission to drag me down. Again, rude.

Here’s the thing though, Hodgy. I’m not upset that you’re in me. I feel like I'm supposed to hate you but hate is not an emotion that aligns with my personality. I love everybody and everything which means…I love you, too. 

You have entered my body for a reason. Maybe it’s to make me realize that life is precious. That’s something I thought I knew but this has made me understand it even more. I believe that you are here to teach me numerous lessons that I could never have learned without you. 

I’m not even in treatment yet and already you are shoving your curriculum down my fat neck.

I thought I was good at letting go. Thanks to you I realize there are sneaky beavers building dams on my river without my permission. With your help, the force of my flow will be uninterrupted as I move forward. Sorry to all my furry splinter-chopping friends, but you’re going to have to find a home elsewhere. 

I found myself saying the word “should” many times over the past few weeks. I should be at Burning Man. I should have worked harder on my podcast. I should have ordered the salad instead of the fries. But “should” doesn’t get you anywhere. “Should” is for people who have regrets. I am not one of those people.

I’m learning that you can plan for the life that you desire but that those plans can be shifted in a moment’s notice. Being able to pivot is crucial to discovering how you react in any given situation. There are many things I want to do that will have to sit on the back burner for now. By releasing this energy, I know there will be new inspirations that will grow inside of me, hopefully even faster than you are growing inside my lymph nodes. 

I’ve known for many years that I am deeply loved by many but I gotta tell you, Hodgy, I had no idea the amount of amazing humans that would step up since I announced you had taken up residence in my body. You think you are at an All-You-Can-Eat Cell Buffet but the Health Inspector knows you are here and is about to shut down the restaurant for multiple violations. You don’t understand the amount of love that is shooting into me. I am being carried by the uplifting energy of thousands of people and every one of them wants to see you get taken down.

Some of that love, however, I am sending directly to you. Because even though I am grateful for all of the wonders that will emerge over the next year and I want to make sure you know how I feel, I also need you to know you have fucked with the wrong magical sprite. I have rainbow blood coursing through my veins and your time is unfortunately for you, limited. Enjoy it while it lasts, Hodgy. I don’t have cancer. My body does. My soul is as radiant as ever. 

You have strengthened my story. You have given my family, friends, peers, community, and fans an even greater reason to root for my success. My comedy will become more authentic, original, bold, and exciting. This will not only be cathartic for me but many others who have already been touched by you in some way. We are going to laugh. A lot. At you. By sharing my personal experience with others, you will find yourself struggling to take down the next person you enter. 

My light is forever brighter and that wouldn’t have happened in the same way without you. You’re truly a mensch.

In closing, please enjoy your stay at the Hotel Alex Hooper. It’s a majestic setting to unwind, relax, and spread your cancerous wings. Sorry not sorry for all the poison that will eradicate and exile you from my body forever. Please make sure you don’t use the pool after 10 PM, especially if you have had diarrhea in the past 14 days.

Much love to one of the most notorious assholes on the planet. Let’s enjoy our time together. 

Sincerely,

Alex

One Small Step...

Dissolve into a canyon in Malibu. 

Breathe. I repeat this simple motion, harnessing my power to control the inevitable shaking that is rippling throughout my body. I look down. Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that. My brain is sounding the alarm to retreat. You don’t have to do this, Alex. There is absolutely no good reason for you to be out here. 

Hmm. Solid point. Score one for the rational mind. 

I let go of the rope above me. For a perfectly clear moment, I relax into the one-inch piece of webbing beneath me. It sinks and sways as I attempt to flow instead of combatting its natural movement. Against all odds and my better judgment, I take a step. The line moves more than I expect it to, but I manage to finagle my left foot ahead of my right. Hold it. Breathe. I’m doing it. Holy fucking shit. I’m highlining.

Oooops. That one moment of arrogance was all it took. My torso shifted, my knees buckled. Without any time to think, I nosedive off the slackline. Careening to my death, 100 feet below, I know I did my best. All I can do now is wait to paint the rocks with my face. It’s been a good run. Tell my pugs I love them.

Like a lightning bolt ripping through an ebony sky, the first flash courses through me. I’m 9 years old, floating down a lazy river at WaterCountry USA.  My family is having the time of their lives, raw-dogging their way down water slides with unlimited joy. Not me. I’m scream-crying to get attention. Older kids and their friends snicker at this scabbed-up piece of hamburger meat as he desperately tries to fill the pool with his own unhappiness. My family couldn’t be more embarrassed. I wish I knew how to have fun.

Star Wipe. I’m in sixth grade and in a moment of delirium, I mistakenly call my English teacher ”Mom.” The room erupts in laughter. I attempt to imitate my penis by crawling back inside myself to hide from this ridicule. They will never let me live this down.

Fade to White. My childhood bedroom. I’m 15 and have gotten flabbergastingly stoned with my friend and two other hardknock teenagers we met earlier that day. I’ve snorted the first and only line of Ritalin I’ll ever do in my life. The substances are having an all-out grudge match within my body and I don’t know which direction to root for. My friend Bruce looks at me as I suck on a bottle of Cheez-Whiz. He spits laughter as I drain the chemical orange goop into my mouth. 

“Dude, be careful. There’s acid in that. How much did you eat?”

The can is almost empty. I’ve never taken a psychedelic.  I've heard the stories of the Charles Manson-looking motherfucker that ate too much LSD and started tearing off his skin in an attempt to peel himself like an orange. He never came back, and now, neither would I. All three degenerates continue cracking up as I run to the bathroom. Sobbing and mortified, I wait to die. Twenty minutes later, they informed me it was all a joke. I’m never eating Cheez-Whiz again. 

Crossfade to an over-priced hotel. Ocean City, Maryland. It’s Senior Week and I’ve finally had enough liquid courage to tell my best friend my true feelings. She is my prom date, my everything, and I know my love is reciprocal. We’ll kiss, long and deep as if we are stuck in the final scene of a teenage romance movie. For the next week our friends will celebrate our inevitable immersion. We'll hold hands, share ice cream cones, and get sand in our nastiest areas. We will explore our awkward teenage bodies as the waves crash overhead. What could be more perfect?

I head to her room with all the confidence I can muster. When I walk in I'm greeted with a pornographic nightmare. There is another man, one she met earlier that day, fracking her oil as if it’s the last energy source on Earth. I saunter back to my room, look out over the ocean from the balcony, and slam my fist into the wall until my knuckles drip red. This is going to be a long 6 days. 

Hard cut back to Malibu. The rope attached to my harness tightens and stretches until I’m dangling 10 stories up, secured only by a metallic ring on the slackline. The entire fall lasted half of a second, just enough time to regale a few of my most embarrassing moments. An exasperated, uncontrollable laugh escapes my mouth as I realize, I’m not only still breathing; I’m fucking ALIVE. 

Voiceover as the camera zooms out of the canyon: “If you died today, what would flash before your eyes? What are you holding on to? Why do moments of pain stand the test of time yet happiness can feel so fleeting? 

Rack focus back to me. It’s time to let go. To embrace jubilation. To allow the best moments to squash the negative emotions into total oblivion. I know how to do this.

Letting go of that line was exactly what I needed. While I only took one step, it would be one of the most important movements I ever make. One small step for man, one giant step toward creating a more fruitful life. I’m not only relieved; I’m motivated. 

The view is gorgeous. Mountains, oceans, and valleys for twenty miles. Take it in. Relish in the rush of every cell pulsating, attempting to explain to my brain that I am in fact, still on Earth. Still in living human form. 

Gathering my strength, I climb the leash to clip my overhang onto the slackline. As I pull myself back toward the cliff, I’m ready. Only this time, fear will not be part of the equation. 

Whenever my final breath is emitted, love will envelop me in it’s warm embrace, letting me know I did my best. I’ll see my wife and my children dancing in a field to our favorite music. I’ll stand on stage as a sold-out theatre gives me a standing ovation, my friends and family filling the first few rows, beaming with pride. Isn’t that what life is all about?

Back on the cliff, I look out over the ravine. Time to take another step. 

Fade to Black.

Quitting Is Universal

“I will not be returning. Thank you for 12 years of employment. I’m very grateful.”

And with those 15 words, I have officially quit my job at Universal Studios Hollywood. All of the sweet, none of the bitter. I moved to LA on October 22nd, 2008 and began my tenure at Universal on December 6th. I wanted to be a tour guide but alas, they were only hiring for front gate staff, specifically ticket sellers. As a puffy-faced, bright-eyed little schoolboy, I was excited to have a job that would secure my finances until I made it as an actor. I was 23. I planned to be out by the time I turned 27. 

Four years should do it. A few national commercials, co-stars to guest stars to series regulars. I know it usually takes longer but I was confident. Too confident. Had I known I wouldn’t escape until triple that timeline, I’m not sure I would have ever signed up in the first place. The “man” that entered that theme park had no idea what he was signing up for to be an entertainer in LA. Difficult, of course. But the number of times I would crawl back to that ticket booth after having a life-changing night was unfathomable.

Huge comedy shows, TV appearances, epic parties — all of them came with a caveat. “I have work tomorrow.” Every holiday when my friends would be gathering and celebrating. “I can’t go. I have to work.” 

I never felt embarrassed to have a day job. Part of pursuing your dreams is having financial stability. Having to do work that didn’t fill my purpose drove me to go harder at night. But some days, I had to question what the hell I was still doing there. 

So many times I would get called into a meeting with my managers. It’s the same feeling when the principal wanted to see me in middle school. I don’t know what I did, but it’s not good. I’d sit down at a table with my bosses on one side, and me, all by my lonesome on the other. While it was a mere four feet across, the distance may as well have been a mile. Mentally, I was never there. They would drone on about a guest complaint or an inappropriate joke I made to a coworker, meanwhile I would be in dreamland thinking about how later that night I was on a show with Sarah Silverman. I’m on the same flyer with the woman who was my screensaver in college. I probably shouldn’t tell her that. 

Don’t get the wrong idea; I was an ideal employee. I was punctual, had a great attitude, and could upsell a front of the line pass to a family of disabled veterans living off food stamps. But being that the company was so corporate, any discrepancy had to go through multiple channels of disciplinary actions. All of which were a complete waste of mine and Universal’s time. 

Looking back over the 12 years, I spent probably close to a hundred hours in those offices explaining myself for minute, petty, and horrendously arbitrary situations. I almost quit so many times, but constantly reminded myself that it would be the same level of bullshit somewhere else, and I would probably make far less money and incur even more responsibilities. Having a mindless job is paramount to me being a successful comedian.

The reason I never walked in with a loaded verbal gun and began firing my “fuck yous” was simple. I told myself when I was hired that it was the last job I would ever have that wasn’t directly connected to my passion. Had I known that it would last as long as it did, I may have turned that metaphorical gun into an actual weapon and blown my brains out in front of the Shrek Theatre. Sorry kids, an actual ogre has committed suicide. Please go back to the Simpsons ride.”

I often think about the amount of energy I spent dealing with the crap that goes into working for a major company. But in the end, that’s any job. There is always someone there who has to check a box that will undoubtedly take a shit in your mouth. Sometimes intentional, but often you’re just a cog in the machine and they need a certain number of disciplines to offset the pizza party we are getting in the breakroom. Two slices only. Yes, we are watching

They were always watching.

I could sit here and regale you with tales of the countless times I almost got fired over absolute meaningless reasons. I could explain how I was so good at my job that I was often awarded Salesman of the Month, and a couple of times Salesman of the Year.  I outsold my nearest coworker by literally millions of dollars and all I received was a certificate thanking me for my achievements. I could tell you about how I fought back against the establishment because “that’s the way it is” never comforted me as an answer to a question. 

The reason why I won’t is that there isn’t a point. I always knew the job would be temporary and told myself that every day as I strapped on my magnetic name tag.  I dreamt of the day I walked out of there, never to return. Little did I know on March 14th, 2020, I would never step into that uniform again. Coincidentally that was also my first AGT audition for season 15. From my stupid salsa dancer/flight attendant-looking uniform, straight to being lost in Sofia Vergara’s doe eyes and giant melons. I still love you. Please call me back.

I mean it when I say I’m grateful. My employment allowed me to pursue comedy without worrying about how I would pay rent. When I told my management team I needed to travel across the country to do a club during a “peak” week, they did their best to accommodate. While some of my experiences were littered with negativity from superiors that didn’t understand why I was always tired, others were loaded with adoration of coworkers and bosses who thought what I was doing was cool as fuck. One time I walked into the break room and everyone was watching me on Roast Battle, celebrating my victories.

Being surrounded by every walk of life was good for me. Hollywood can be shameful and soul-crushing, but none of these people cared about that. It reminded me of what was important, but also that I had to get out of there so the theme park didn’t dictate when I would tour or go on vacation. Also, I was really sick of getting recognized in the middle of my shift and explaining to a guest who has seen me on TV why I am now asking them for a second credit card because their first one was declined. Thanks for being a fan, you better call your bank.

I accomplished a fuck ton over the last twelve years. When I began that job, I hadn’t even started doing stand-up. The fact that I’m passed at major clubs, have filmed huge TV spots, landed a few acting jobs, even that I have haters, is all because I believed in myself while subsequently never thinking I was better than having to clock in and go to work. Yes, you saw me at the Comedy Store last night. No, I cannot give you a discount. They’re watching...

I’ll tell you the moment I knew I was never going back. During the quarterfinals of AGT, they put me up at the Hilton which overlooks Universal. From my window on one of the top floors, I could see the main plaza. Those four little booths, that I spent god knows how many thousands of hours in, were staring back at me from hundreds of feet below. I was about to shoot live television on one of the biggest shows in the world. Returning to that job was now impossible.

Whatever you do, do it as well as you can. If I hadn’t been a model employee in so many facets of the job, I would have never gotten away with all the favors I received. On more than one occasion, when my boss told me that I couldn’t get time off, I looked directly at them and said, “Then fire me.” They caved. Every time. Yes, I was that Shrekkin good at selling tickets to muggles. 

In closing, I am taking this move to be a big one. I promised myself that would be my last day job and I’m going to do everything in my power to sustain that truth. There will be moments of scarcity, of fear, of gut-wrenching anxiety, but in the end, I’m more prepared than ever. 

I know how to sell tickets. But from now on, I’ll only be selling them to my own shows. And that’s a wrap on Universal Studios Hollywood: The Entertainment Capital of LA. I’m clocked out.

I Wrote A Book!

It’s true! I have to keep pinching myself so I know this isn’t a dream. I did it. It’s real. OW! Maybe it’s time to stop pinching.

Click here to grab your copy. This funny self-help book is available on Amazon in both paperback and a Kindle version.

I’m as surprised as you are. I always wanted to write one but this wasn’t part of the plan for at least another few years. Sooooo….why now?

The Low Point

Toward the end of November, Los Angeles was entering full Coronavirus crisis mode. Everything was shut down which meant stand-up comedy was once again, ghosting me. Earlier in the year, I found projects to keep me entertained during the drought but these new restrictions had me wrapped up like a muskrat in the coils of a python. There was NOWHERE to go and NOTHING to do. 

I freaked out. I teared up. The anxiety of filling my days with menial activities for another few months was overwhelming. I’ve been relaxing and practicing self-care since March and as nice as that sounds, it’s producing diminishing returns. You can only go deep so many times before the fish at the bottom of the ocean start needing some space.

One night, as my fiance and I were chatting, the idea of writing a book came up. I told her that I wasn’t quite ready to tackle such a huge assignment. 

“What if you didn’t write a novel. What about a funny self-help workbook?”

Immediately my cognitive wheels started spinning furiously. Vin Diesel would have told me to slow down and I would have told him that he should have said that to Paul Walker (RIP). Sorry, Vin. This idea is too good. Pedal to the metal. Let’s go.

A Funny Self-Help Book is Born

I preach a lot about unapologetic positivity and optimism. My main purpose in life is to spread love, uplift others, and have fun. What better way to do this than by putting my personal methods into an easily digestible format so that others can benefit as well.

Almost daily, I’m hit up by someone on social media with a life question. Everything from “How do I tell this girl I like her” to “What advice would you give to a young performer?” Sometimes it gets weird and they just wanna see my feet. But who am I —a fuzzy man who on occasion wears a tail—  to say what’s bizarre? 

I also knew one inherent truth that I had never heard anywhere else. Getting roasted made me love myself. Somehow, being viciously insulted again and again has allowed me to be completely OK with my appearance. Hundreds of jokes have been aimed in my direction to delight audiences both in real life and on television. Sure, I look like the moon in a silent movie, a Meth Labradoodle, or TwoFace if he only had one face. All of those statements are true.

At first, I felt attacked. But I then began to love who I was. I stopped judging and started owning. As more quips were thrown at me, I began to laugh with the rest of the crowd. This was a huge turning point.

Along with getting publicly thrown into a fire pit and charred alive numerous times, I had also spent a couple of years devouring a ton of self-help books. I’d pick up tidbits from each one and implement them into my daily life. Little by little, my anxiety and fear began to deteriorate. Through meditations, visualizations, and writing exercises, I was at a place where I could look in the mirror and not instantly begin criticizing the person looking back. What a breakthrough!

Then there’s my podcast, Achilles’ Heel. For almost 100 episodes, guests have opened up about the darkest part of their lives. As I learned more about their perceived weakness, I realized that it wasn’t that at all. Our flaws don’t make us weak. They make us interesting. Everyone has something they think is “wrong’ with them. But what if that same flaw could actually be transmuted into strength?

Through every episode, the amazing people I interview tell me about their struggles and also their tips to live a fruitful life. A life without all their bullshit getting in the way. These conversations are engaging and enlightening, but they’re also individual lessons on how to be a better human. 

I thought a lot about where I was 10 years ago. Misguided, confused, flailing about without any real goals. Back then, I would have NEVER read a self-help book. That was the inciting incident that let me know exactly how and why I needed to flesh this out and actually write this funny self-help book.

The Anti-Self-Help Book

As I constructed the 28-day outline with my fiance, I constantly reminded myself that I was writing this for the old me. With that focus, I was able to fill the book with not only ideas and concepts to find joy, but also a fuck ton of jokes to keep the reader entertained and laughing their ass off.

I took everything I’d learned, put it in my own words, and crafted it into a format that could be enjoyed by anyone. That includes the depressed rageaholic that I used to be. It’s right on the back cover — This is not your grandmother’s self-help book.

Take a peek inside Roast Yourself To Happiness! Click here to download a FREE 16-page PDF excerpt from the workbook.

I’ve been asked hundreds of times how I got to where I am. How do I wake up every day with a smile on my face and a genuine lust for life? Why am I always in such a magnificent mood? Not only have I scribed my methods throughout this book, but I did it in a way that is simple, satisfying, and fun.

I’m living proof that even the most stubborn fucks can transform themself into a powerful being. One that is ready to absorb love and exert it limitlessly throughout the world. 

I’m so excited to unleash this funny self-help workbook into the world. I know it’s going to help change lives for the better. The only question is…

Are you ready to Roast Yourself to Happiness?

Annoyingly Positive

If it happened once I could have ignored it. Brushed it off without giving it even a brief moment to infect me. But twice? In the same week? Goddammit. Now I have to pull out my emotional microscope and get ready to look under the lens.

Two people, both of whom I consider to be very close friends, stated that I was annoyingly positive. Let that sink in for a moment. Typically I reserve the word “annoying” for my upstairs neighbor who has been sanding his floor consistently for the last two years.  I also say it when I’m waiting in a long line for a simple errand.  I would even say it when I have to press the volume button 45 times when I switch from HBO to Hulu because for some reason we can’t solve the channel app volume gap any more than we can fix the wealth gap. That’s annoying AF.

But positivity?? Annoying? I’m going to have to break this down.

First of all, the “A” word is a descriptor that has been attached to me since I was a toddler. It was a badge I wore proudly as a rebellious young whippersnapper.  I didn’t have conversations; I screamed orders. I would deliberately prod people for the sheer fun of watching them get aggravated. I would sing songs loudly when I didn’t know the words as I was walking down the street. That shit was super annoying. I didn’t press buttons. I smashed the keys so they would never work again. Ask any teacher to describe me and I guarantee you that word would be in the top three (Disruptive and lazy would be the others. Sorry “funny,” you’ve been overruled).

Being annoying was all part of my brand before I ever knew what that meant. But as the years went on and I began to work on myself, I realized that it was not beneficial to anyone to exert that type of useless energy. 

For the past 4 years, you’d be hard-pressed to find examples of me being the rude degenerate that is still very much ingrained in my roots. Books like The Four Agreements have taught me principles that have become stalwarts in my psyche.

If you’re not familiar with the agreements, here they are:

1. Be impeccable with your word.

2. Don’t take anything personally.

3. Don’t make assumptions.

4. Always do your best. 

Simple, right? By constantly reminding myself of those statements, any negativity tends to slide off me like a pickle thrown at a window. It may linger and leave a snail trail of brine, but eventually, it’s going to hit the ground. 

I read about ten personal development books a year. I used to refer to them as self-help but I didn’t like the connotation that I needed to be rescued, even if it was me who was saving myself. As humans we are always developing in some way, therefore the growth mindset is much easier to attach yourself to if you flip the language. Don’t help me! Allow me to develop!

I consider my sunny disposition to be an invitation for others to join me as I soak up rays of light from anyone and everything. As I merrily stroll through the streets, I smile at each person that passes my way. A mother pushing a stroller: Smile. A jogger decked out in neon taking strides so long you have to wonder what he’s running from: Smile. A schizophrenic alcoholic brandishing a knife in the middle of a busy intersection: Smile (but I’m keeping my windows rolled up).

Positivity isn’t something you acquire. It’s a conscious choice. There are a thousand moments in every day that could make you say “fuck everyone and fuck the world and fuck me for dropping my burger on the ground before I even took a bite.” We are constantly being challenged by our environment to join the dark side of our emotions. Sometimes the tiniest slip, even if you don’t fall, is enough to push you over the edge.

Even as a species, we tend to vocalize bad moods over good ones. Complaining is easy because you get to be the victim. Take pity on me, everyone! I’m having a shit-in-my-own mouth type of day and If I tell you about it then you’ll be forced to sympathize. 

Celebrating your happiness is a truly vulnerable act. You’re about to profess to the world that you’ve done well. Time to pat yourself on the back as you skip down the sidewalk! By simply raising the corners of your mouth toward the top of your head, you’re opening yourself to ridicule from the depressors. 

We all know who I’m talking about. I used to be one of them. You may be one right now. There are some people who find it troubling to be around positivity. For whatever reason, your glee is enough to drive them even further down the pity path. Have you ever been in a great mood only to have someone say “What are you so happy about?” Not with a tone of “I really am curious why you’re dancing in the street” but more with the impression “You shouldn’t be feeling this way.” That, my friends, is a depressor. I know, because I’m usually actively fighting my desire to revert back to that exact mentality.

Last week was stressful. The presidential election was still in the air, COVID was breaking 100,000 cases a day, WINTER IS COMING. I felt the weight of looming gloom casting a shadow over the country. I listened to friends who were freaking out, but personally, I didn’t allow it to affect me. Instead of slouching into a repressed state, I went outside to play. Yup, I’m a 35-year-old man who still needs his daily recess. I played tennis, went to the beach, I even went stand-up paddleboarding through the Venice Canals. I filled my days with joyous activities and avoided the media as much as possible. 

I’ll say it again. Positivity is a conscious choice. 

This is where anxiety, depression, pressure, and stress all come in. When someone is stuck under a mountain of negative thoughts, I attempt to be the sherpa that helps pick up some of their belongings to lighten the load. I do this because I care, but this is also where true vulnerability happens. By sharing my methods of remaining calm and jovial, I’m going to inherently piss people off. When you’re discontent, you want others to commiserate with your feelings. Instead, here I am, colorful and raging with an overly enthusiastic level of cheer. Another word for that?

Annoying.

My optimism and mood are completely dictated by me. Other humans cannot affect my outlook on life, at least not in a negative way. I don’t allow those emotions to enter. Sometimes they slip through the back door, but I’m usually pretty good about keeping it locked. So is my fiance, but that’s a different story and I can sometimes pry it open if we’re drunk enough. Heyo!

I’ll never give up hope. I don’t care what state of disarray we have fallen into. There may come a day when I’m walking through a torched city, shirtless, a bazooka strapped to my back, dragging my dead family on a rope tied to my belt, and I’ll still be glad that I was hopeful for a better existence. Plus I’ll probably be super ripped.

I’m still pragmatic and I consider myself a realist, but I’m optimistic as fuck when it comes to my life and the minor role I have in adding to the well-being of society. So if I’m so positive that you consider it annoying, realize it has come from years of excruciating self-care and deep reflection. If you’re not down with that, then go eat a sandwich in the corner while I figure out how to love you unconditionally. I suggest the banh mi. It’s delicious. 

You can’t break me or my spirit. My blood is made of rainbows and lollipops. The more you try to bring me down, the more freely I will float. I’m unapologetic in my eternal quest for joy. So maybe I am ANNOYING. The truth is, I don’t give a shit. I’ve spent enough time on the other side to know that I want to be in a place where the sun is always shining. 

Do you want to join me? Or is spreading joy a bothersome and irritating act? You have a choice. 

See you on the bright side. 

Blog RSS