Fueling Up on the Road

As someone who has imbibed my fair share of narcotics, I always knew my favorite drug was being on stage. Commanding presence over a room of strangers who are hanging on your every word; nothing could fill my cup more.

But I was wrong.

Being on stage is not the best feeling in the world. Being BACK on stage is.

We all know that abstinence makes the heart grow fonder. Sometimes you don’t realize what you had until an unforeseen invisible monster strips it from you without warning. As much as I’ve always known comedy was my passion and my purpose, I didn’t realize that I had been taking it for granted.

One of the main draws of stand-up is that it was always there for me. TV roles come and go, writing jobs are temporary, even flowers only bloom during certain seasons. But comedy, especially in a big city like LA, is always happening somewhere.

When I would get frustrated at work, I would find a stage and pour the energy onto the crowd. The instant gratification of laughter would always bring me back to a place of joy, or at the very least, contentment. Ahhh, there’s that release. Even if I wasn’t booked, I would go sign up for an open mic in a coffee shop, comic book store, a dive bar where someone had been stabbed the night before. Can I use this fresh blood to write my name on the list?

Stand-up was my safe place. No matter where I was in my life I could always find a spot to perform and fellow degenerates to commiserate with as we spit out jokes and regaled our daily stories. When it was taken away in 2020, I had to come to a reckoning of who I was without the outlet that I had relied on so heavily for 11 years.

My beautiful and extremely patient fiance said something to me a few weeks ago that has stuck with me. “You’re someone different at home than you are when you’re out in the world.”

And she’s right. I never thought of it that way but my time at home was always meant for decompression. I would go to work at Universal and flap my jaw all day, convincing tourists to spend their hard-earned cash on frivolous upgrades. Knowing I would be on stage a few hours later, I’d go home and shut the fuck up for a couple of hours to recharge. 

When the pandemic hit and both of those jobs were gone in a flash, I didn’t know what to do with my energy. Sometimes I would speak in a silly voice or make an offensive joke and Lauren would just give me a look that said “Is this for me or you?” 

Let me be clear, she thinks I’m hilarious. My humor is certainly my most attractive quality, next to my golden curls of course.  With her, it’s always been subtle. I’m never trying. There are no act-outs or bizarre vocal inflections because that isn’t her style. She appreciates charm and wit, not an obnoxious clown doing cartwheels while singing songs about kidnapping (that’s supposed to be hyperbole but now I’m thinking I should write that bit).

When I go into the world, it’s a whole different story. I constantly bullshit with comics as we try to one-up each other in every way possible. We know when to be honest, yet we can play in this oddball style that allows us to experiment with comedy. We can laugh for hours as we stand outside of a club, passing joints (RIP) and tagging each other’s jokes. 

The fireball of energy swirling through my body isn’t meant to be directed toward one person. I don’t have to tell you, I’M A LOT. Small doses are best so I don’t exhaust and overwhelm you. Fans will often say to me, “you’re very calm off-stage.” As if they expected me to be pulling my hair, jumping up and down, and switching from screams to whispers at the drop of a kimono. We’ve all met that person who doesn’t know when to turn it off and that guy SUCKS. When I hear my name called, and I step into those lights, I put everything I have into those few minutes. The rest of the day, I can relax and be a (somewhat) normal human.

It isn’t just the stage and the validation from strangers that I’ve missed. It’s the conversations and random interactions I have while I’m on the road. In the past month, I’ve traveled to Nebraska, Colorado, San Francisco, and I’m currently writing this from a condo in Tampa after a four-day stint in Miami. 

I always meet people when I travel and I’m not afraid to ask intimate questions (Thanks, Achilles’ Heel). Because they know I’m a fleeting presence who will come into their lives and be gone that night, they open up to me in ways that even a close friend may have trouble doing. In the past week, I’ve had two women talk to me about the struggles they faced after their husbands died. I didn’t ask for this information. They felt compelled to tell me because they realize that not only am I listening with genuine empathy but also because sometimes it’s easier to unload your emotions onto someone who you’ll probably never see again. 

After watching me on stage, they often feel a comfort level that for most people would take years to attain. They see this silly, mustached man expressing his truth and want to do the same. It’s a beautiful exchange that lasts anywhere from two minutes to a few hours, depending on where and when they catch me. Come at me, Widows.

I’ve always said I’m an energy magnet. What others don’t use I siphon and harness for myself. Being around people, especially in an environment of fun like a concert, festival, or comedy show, I am fueled by all of the molecules floating around waiting for someone to snort them into their veins.

This past month has been glorious. Traveling, performing, and expelling a year’s worth of bottled charisma isn’t just beneficial for me, but all of my loved ones who have put up with a different version of Alex than they are used to. I found ways to thrive, new perspectives, a love of smashing balls on the tennis court, but I need this part of my life to be the ultimate version of myself. It’s good for me and trust me when I say, it’s VERY good for my fiance, friends, and family.

I’m off to do a podcast, massage an alligator, and soak up this humid air that feels like one of my socks after a full day at Burning Man.

Catch you virtually, or maybe in real life, very soon. Much love, beautiful weirdos. 

My First Time

We have to stop and smell the roses. Look around this magical life and be grateful for all that we have accomplished. Whether you feel that way or not, take inventory of some of your most memorable experiences and I bet you’d surprise yourself at how many amazing things you’ll write down.

Last week I performed in the anti-mask capitol of the United States — Huntington Beach. About 500 people gathered on the sand to get drunk and listen to a few comics spit our musings. This would have been an amazing show in the before times, but in 2020, holy fuck. This is radical. Slightly off-putting and a little concerning, but I strapped a face-condom on and didn’t remove it except for the 28 minutes I had on stage. Bronzed beach-bodied couples kept trying to hug me and I had to keep them at bay. You know the type. Somehow the man and woman both look like Sammy Hagar and it’s kind of hot but in an “I can tell you have a strange amount of lube in your bedside table” way.

Performing that night was everything. A pent-up caged animal released into the wild ready to blaze a trail of destruction. God how I’ve missed that rush of adrenaline. The power of words creating a cacophony of laughter, exploding droplets all over the shoreline. Hearing that sound inserts a power in me that I have never been able to reciprocate. It’s orgasmic.

But there’s another part that I’d almost forgotten about that I didn’t realize I had missed so much.  The show is over, the crowd is clearing out, and a line starts to form of audience members that want to meet you. My thoughts jump from “get out of here” to “you can say hi to a few” to “screw it I’m keeping my mask on and going out for photos.” Maybe it was ego, but I think more so it’s the personal connection I crave. And ooo baby do I CRAVE hard.

People were very respectful. Even in their overly inebriated state, they understood. I spoke in terms they would get immediately. “Hey dude, stay one surfboard back.” 

Other than the first couple rows, you have no idea who is in that audience. After the gig, this is their opportunity to say something and I LOVE interacting with fans. I can say with all sincerity AGT has blasted me into a spotlight far beyond where I was three months ago. Not only did most of the crowd know who I was, they couldn’t wait to have a few moments with me. It may sound narcissistic, but goddamn it I have worked so hard for exactly this. A line of people who just want to say hello or take a picture- I felt the impact like a 7.9 earthquake of pure positivity.

I get to the end of the line after a few minutes of high-level schmoozing. I’ve read books on charisma and I know how to use tactics to make them feel just as special as they make me. Ask them a question, look them in the eye, laugh at their jokes, GIVE THEM ATTENTION.

The last group in line was a family. Mother, daughter, boy (11), girl (9). I’m smiling as hard as I can, looking at this gorgeous, quintessential California clan. The mother speaks first. “Hi! I sent you a message on Instagram today. We randomly saw this flyer and knew we had to come to the show. We are all huge fans!”

I’m beaming from ear to ear, but then have a revelation. I start to think about everything I did on stage and let me tell you, child-friendly it was not. Since quarantine, my filter is gone. Pretty sure I said the word cum at least 6 times and at one point did an act-out of a woman trying to keep it inside her as she waddles to the bathroom post-coitus, comparing her to a T-rex. It was completely off the cuff, and one of the biggest pops I had all night. That joke got the 500 laughs I coveted. But now I’m staring at these innocent children, the future of our country, and I’m wondering how much of that they retained. 

Either way, the family was as cool as could be. We took some photos and I made sure that I paid extra attention to the kids, recognizing that I would have no idea how to act in that moment if I were their age. They told me it was the first time they had ever seen a comedy show. My heart shot out of my chest directly toward the heavens where it burst into a million stars that will forever shine a light on this world. I was their first. 

And you always remember your first. 

In 1999, I was a 14-year-old kid living in the suburbs of Baltimore. Half-Baked had come out the year before and it was oft-quoted between my friends. A stoner comedy perfect for a young man destined to get high. I see in the newspaper (as my friend Julian McCullogh brilliantly says, “that’s when they used to deliver the internet to your house”) that Dave Chappelle is doing a live show at Towson University, a mere 15 minutes from my house. $10 tickets. My friend Phil goes with me, and my dad drops us off in the middle of a college campus, fresh-faced and innocent as can be.

I don’t remember much of what Dave did that night. Or anything specific. But like Maya Angelou said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

I recall Phil and I uncontrollably laughing throughout the opening comedian, and when Dave came on, it was lights out. We kept exchanging glances and hitting each other with the same explosion of enthusiasm. We have watched this man in movies, and now there he is, on stage, moving a room to tears of happiness. I walked out of there and didn’t shut up about it for weeks.

Cut to 18 years later. January 2017. I’m at The Mondrian hotel across from The Comedy Store, enjoying the accolades of having just filmed Comedy Central’s Roast Battle Season 2. It was my first major televised stand-up achievement and I might as well have been on 20 hits of ecstasy because I was invincible. Everything peaking at the same time. It’s the feeling I always chase. Drugs are great, but nothing will ever beat killing in comedy.

The after-party is in full swing, when who strolls in but the king himself, Dave Chappelle. We’ve met once or twice, but mostly in very quick exchanges. This was my opportunity, and if there’s anything you should know about me, I don’t let moments like this slip through my fingers. “I should have done this” is not a statement in my lexicon. I approach Dave as a hoard of young comics and fans brawl their way through to take a photo. He snaps a few then notices me and stops. 

“You.” His long bony finger points directly at me. My heart pulses an extra beat. 

“You were so funny up there, man.”

I’m stunned. I begin to pick up the pieces of my brain which had detonated seconds before. I have to tell him. So I did. 1999 Towson University. I was 14. It was the first time I ever saw live stand up. He’s clearly taken aback. 

“You were there? And now I’m here, watching you? How fucking cool is that?’

I can’t contain myself. 

“Its the coolest fucking thing in the entire world, Dave.”

I told him I didn’t want a picture. I didn’t need it. I just wanted a hug. His smile lit up as big as I’ve ever seen it. He put his arms around me and gave me a full embrace. Three of them.  As we separated our hearts, he looked in my eyes and said, “you just made my whole night.”

I stood there. Frozen in time. Allowing this moment to wash over me. Another 50 hits of molly have entered my bloodstream. I AM FLOATING. That charisma that I mentioned before, that’s a masterclass of exactly how to use it. Here I am, meeting my comedic idol, and he made me feel more special than when I used to ride the short bus to school. 

I knew right then and there that my life would be a never-ending plethora of excitement. They say don’t meet your heroes. FUCK THAT. Meet them, tell them what they mean to you, and if they don’t show appreciation, they aren’t worth it. The real ones, the GOATS, they will give you that moment because they understand what it means to you.

Back to last night. I told the family about seeing Chappelle in 1999. I looked right at the kids and said “I don’t know what you’re going to do in your lives, but I can only hope that one day we meet again, and I can watch you do something incredible.” The look on their faces, and especially the parents, I knew that Dave had taught me so much more than how to be an elite comedian. He taught me humility, grace, and the power of truly seeing someone, even if it only lasts a second. 

It was powerful. It was beautiful. It was a moment I’ll never forget, and I don’t think those children will either. Once again, I was floating, knowing I had completed this cyclical experience.

By the way, I didn’t find this out until a few years ago, the comedian that opened for Dave that night at Towson University that had me in stitches: A young about to be discovered talent named Dane Cook. 

I repeat Dave’s words from that fateful night, “how cool is that?”