Please, Take My Plasma

I moved to Los Angeles when I was 23. Puffy yet still fresh-faced, all I had was a bag of clothes, a computer, and $15K. It took me years to save up that money. It was more than I’d ever had and I thought it was plenty to last until I was cast as the deadbeat son who lives in his parent’s basement on a hilarious, yet-to-be-written sitcom.

Within two months it had dwindled to under two thousand dollars. $9500 went to a car, $1000 for a security deposit, and another $1000 for rent. Throw in some food and startup costs to get on casting websites and bing bang bong, my 5-year plan was completely shot to shit. Every day became an endless search to find employment. I had spent years as a server and a tour guide so I figured I’d go for similar positions out here. After hundreds of applications and a few interviews, I quickly learned Los Angelenos did not want me to go anywhere near their food. Since I was brand new to the city, no one wanted me to be a roving raconteur either. 

Eventually, I found a job at a call center. From 7 AM to 1 PM, I would cold-call businesses in a feeble attempt to trick them into buying a box of packaging tape. If it sounds seedy, it’s because it was. The “company” was called Dynatek and their slogan, “Tomorrow’s Solutions Today” was plastered all over my tiny desk. In a single day, I would dial hundreds of numbers, hoping a couple would listen to my pitch that included a “free” sony digital radio. 

I realize that I’m using a lot of quotes, but honestly, everything about this job seemed to require them. The call center was filled with wannabe/failed actors and I used them all as a cautionary tale of what not to become. The most well-known was the actor who played Tank in the Matrix. One of the biggest movies ever, a huge supporting role, and yet here was this man trying to swindle overpriced adhesives to unsuspecting companies. Shady doesn’t even begin to describe what was going on in this place.

I quickly realized I would have to get stoned to do this job. Not a buzz, but a “punch me in the eyeballs until I bleed red” level of inebriation. The only issue was my budget. With what I was bringing in I couldn’t justify spending money on marijuana. When I mentioned it to Mike, a budding white rapper who sat across from me, his eyes went from closed to barely open.

“Ahhh bro, I’ve been there. Have you thought about donating plasma?”

I’d heard of donating blood, but plasma? What does that even mean? It sounded alien in concept. Don’t I need my plasma? What would others do with it? Make TV’s?

Mike wrote down an address for me and that very same day I drove out to a clinic deep in the San Fernando Valley. Lined up outside there were about 20 people who ranged from obvious methheads to recently unemployed blue-collar workers, all awaiting their chance to collect $35 by being stuck by a needle.

I remember how desperate I felt at that moment. Is this my life?  I vowed early in my psychedelic use to never do an intravenous drug. Nothing positive comes from a street drug that requires a syringe. Yet here I was, my desire to get high overtaking all other thoughts that were begging me to get in my car and drive away.

After 45 minutes of waiting, it was my turn to get the life-blood sucked out of me. I don’t have an issue with needles but I certainly don’t like them either. Deep breaths. As I attempted to relax, the phlebotomist came over to prep me. My eyes met hers and instantaneously, I fell in love. While I can find beauty in anyone, a strange combination has always destroyed my ability to communicate with a woman. I call it “Doe eyes, bitch face.” Huge, round, sparkling peepers with a visage that appears as if she would eat your head immediately after sex. Mila Kunis, Anne Hathaway, Elizabeth Hurley. All of these goddesses came to mind as she tapped my arm looking for a vein.

I couldn’t stop staring at her. She made small talk but I was a blithering idiot.  Too infatuated with her, too embarrassed by what I was doing to even attempt conversation. As she pushed the needle in with a supple approach, it couldn’t have been smoother. A tiny prick, but inside I was exploding. A million euphemisms could be written here but I’ll save you the time. 

She asked if I was OK. I told her I was amazing. She giggled and in her few seconds of spontaneous laughter, I began to imagine our life together. “I’ll be a famous actor and you can lay by our pool all day. I’ll give you whatever you want.” Obviously, I didn’t say that but I blazed the message into her subconsciously, knowing she could pick up the vibrations of my emotions.

When it was over, she pulled out (the needle), put a bandaid on my arm, and sent me on my way. No kiss. “I’ll see you next time,” she quietly whispered. I floated out of the clinic as if I had just been given the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. $35 in my pocket and a new prospect of love. The weed I bought got me high, but I was already dancing on a cloud.

This became a ritual. I kept telling myself I wasn’t addicted to marijuana yet here I was week after week, returning to the faceless clinic to have the nurse of my dreams drain me of my excess plasma. I wasn’t here to support my drug habit. No. I was here because I found myself needing her. Our relationship may have been platonic, but when someone looks in your eyes as they insert a small piece of sharp metal into you, it’s difficult to not feel an intense level of intimacy. 

I was smitten. For the next four months, I donated plasma, too afraid to establish any real connection. What was I going to do? Ask her on a date where we couldn’t spend more than $35? She would see right through my pathetic self. So I’d lay back and watch the blood circulate through the machine and back into me, quietly dreaming of what could be. 

Eventually, I got a higher-paying job and was able to walk away from Dynatek. I had definitely not solved Tomorrow’s Solutions. I was tired of the shadiness and knew that this was not the way to make the world a better place. This new job meant that I no longer had to get stoned day in and day out. It also meant I could afford pot when I wanted it without having to wait in line with the dregs of society (of which I always claimed I was not…but I was). I never went back to the clinic.

13 years later I still think about Nurse Pricksalot. I hope she found someone who looks at her the way I did. That’s all any of us really want. To be noticed. To be seen. To be desired. To have a beautiful stranger tie a piece of rubber around your arm and ask you to squeeze a ball for thirty minutes. And of course, to get high without breaking your bank account. 

Keep Your Soul. Sell Your Self.

Can you create something out of nothing?

A couple of years ago I wrote a blog post titled, I’m Learning How to Be a Headliner. Going on the road solo was a new experience for me, especially since now I was the main attraction. Acrobats are amazing, but when you go to the circus, there better be an elephant in the room (other than the fact that the clowns are all convicted pedophiles). I learned how to command a room and keep their attention for an hour.  I learned how to maintain my health so I could perform ten times in a week without sounding like my voice was being strained through a raw-meat grinder. Every show was an opportunity to enrich myself in new experiences and develop skills that would support me, no matter what situation I encountered. 

I’ve dealt with nasty hecklers who attempt to commandeer the show because no one gave them enough love as a child. I’ve performed for audiences of 5-10 people more times than I can count and I still had to fulfill my obligatory time. I’ve had shows cancel on me because people didn’t buy tickets. And that one...that one hurts more than everything else combined.

With 12 years of comedy under my belt, I’ve been in enough weird scenarios that I can figure out how to excel. Doesn't matter the circumstances, I know I can do the show. Convincing people to come see me from thousands of miles away? That’s a whole different bag of uncooked potatoes. And when it doesn’t happen, it leaves me feeling like a moldy old spud. 

Often I’m booked at comedy clubs that have a built-in audience. Some fans that I’ve acquired from Roast Battle or AGT will be there to see me but typically they only make up about 10% of the crowd. Everyone else is there because they trust that the venue will bring in top-tier talent. If I can win them over, they walk away feeling like they discovered a new artist. Someone that they can tell their friends about. I love being the trendsetter who can hip everyone else to amazing entertainment.

Other times, it’s not as easy. I’m booked at a bar, performance space, or small theatre where it’s much more difficult to get patrons there on a whim. You rarely go to a music venue without knowing who is playing that night. That’s when it becomes my job to fill the room. I have great TV credits, a decent social media following, and I’m loved within my community. Does that make people buy tickets

FUCK NO. (repeat as many times as necessary)

I’d love to think that I’ll show up and the place will be packed. It’s rarely the case. This past Wednesday I was booked in Chattanooga, starting a 4-night run that also included New Orleans and Atlanta. My travel day from LA to Tennessee was littered with delays, mechanical issues, and very little sleep. I arrived five hours later than expected, right as the show was set to begin. 

No one was there. Not a single person other than the owner of the bar and two of the comedians who were also on the show. I had agreed to a door deal so if no one buys tickets, I am about to lose my head and at least one foot. Hello, First Night of Tour, this is discouraging.

I was exhausted. I’d barely eaten, been re-routed through random cities, and had been in a middle seat for the last four hours between what I can only describe as “well-fed” humans. But I knew, I couldn’t let this be the show. Time to drop what little ego I have and sing for my supper. 

I went out to the street. Downtown Chattanooga on a Wednesday at 10PM isn’t exactly Times Square. Hardly anyone was meandering about. Every few minutes a couple or small group would walk by and I knew that was my chance to hook them. Allow me to introduce myself.

“Hi friends, I’m Alex Hooper. I’m a comedian and I’ve been on TV but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m in this city for one night, and I’m about to perform. I promise you will enjoy yourself if you enter this bar and give me an hour of your time. If you don’t, I will personally refund your money after the show.”

Yup. I said that. And over the course of 45 minutes I convinced twenty people to purchase a ticket. I barked in the most humble and meaningful way that I could. I let go of all self-importance and spoke to these sidewalk shufflers, source to source. There were two gorgeous young women on their first tinder date. A group of four frat boys who stumbled over from the restaurant next door. The group I was most proud of recruiting were eight barely-legal colorful kids from Orlando who were attending a music festival that began the next day. I knew they loved bass and I also knew they were ideal for my fan base. Wordplay!

JJ’s Bohemia is a small bar, so having twenty patrons plus a few comics was all we needed for an amazing show. Everyone killed. From front to back, the show was a major success. For ninety minutes, the glorious sound of shared laughter permeated the room. Like I said, I know how to do that part. 

When I finished my set, the whole room gave me a standing ovation. I stood outside to thank them all while showering them with stickers. Not a single person asked for their money back. It was an unbelievable win that filled me with elation. I was about to lose money and perform for no one. Instead I’m in the black and have added a bunch of dope people into my silly world. I’m going to remember that night, and I know they will too.

I’d love it if I didn’t have to tell this story. I could have shown up to JJ’s, sold out the show, crushed my set, and gone to sleep. But I’m not there yet in my career, especially when the universe is conspiring against me and breaking the computer inside of a 747 (yes, really.)

This night made me stronger in so many ways. It taught me that it’s worth it to ask for what you want. Never be afraid of doing the work to get butts into seats, even if it's five minutes before showtime. 

Your fans are out there. Go find them. Fifty “No’s” are worth one “Yes.” Always. Next time, Chattanooga will sell out. I guarantee it.

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.

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. 

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. 

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A Hard Look In the Mirror

It’s easy to assume that I’ve always been a rainbow of light smothered in positivity sauce. As I dance my way through this iteration of life, I attempt to remain dainty on my feet. I soak up as much beautiful energy as I can, absorb it through my patchy skin, and exert it limitlessly back toward others. However, this was not always the case. It was the polar opposite.

For the first 22 years of my life, I hated myself with a vigor that would be too intense for even the most evil of dictators. I refused to accept compliments, especially about my appearance. I knew that I was a disgusting garbage monster made up entirely of a skin disease that depleted me of any self-worth. Say whatever you want to me, my mind was made up. I had painted a picture of myself using puss, ooze, blood, flakes, and steaming piles of excrement, still chock-full-o-corn. It wasn’t pretty, then again, neither was I.

In the same way I love inspiring people, I used to take pride in being able to suck them down into my cruel state of existence. If someone was smiling, I would remind them that mass genocide is occurring every day. If a person was in a new relationship, I would chatter on about divorce rates. If you got a new car, I would stand on the hood and piss through the sunroof while you were taking it for a spin around the neighborhood. My happiness was derived from stealing it from those who earned it. Twisted? Yup. Detestable? Tell me again, Daddy.

I’m not proud of it, but my morality knows that honesty is the best way to atone for my previous behavior. I can’t expect you to trust me without total transparency.

When you hate yourself, no one can convince you otherwise. I had a loving family, lots of friends, a sick pair of rollerblades, I had it made! But when you find solace in a dark hole, it’s very difficult to ever climb out. Wallowing in misery, ain’t it grand?

For years I’ve been working on my attitude toward myself, others, and the world as a whole. Countless hours of reading personal development books, meditation, and positive affirmations have slowly begun to warp my brain into a place where I can experience hot, sexy, unadulterated, raw-dog love. 

Three words that come up relentlessly in my process: FEAR. SHAME. JUDGEMENT.

The funny thing about those words is that they are also often used by others as the antithesis of what I stand for. When I go on a show like America’s Got Talent, decked out in a skin-tight bodysuit, getting annihilated by the vitriolic screams of thousands of people, fear is not a word that seems to fit the situation. But trust me, inside, my blood is boiling to a temperature so hot I’m waiting for steam to pour out of my mouth like a human tea kettle.

It’s not that I’m fearless. I tell myself I am but that’s a lie and I’m smart enough to know I can’t fib to my inner-child or higher self. I don’t believe anyone is fearless unless they are a raging sociopath. I have learned how to channel my fear into positive energy through my ever-growing plethora of experiences. I know when to actually be scared, and when it’s merely a case of self-sabotage to inflict unnecessary harm. 

I allow the frightening feeling to wash over me. Come on in, invited guest! That tingling through your bloodstream, those hairs erecting toward the sky, that brick sitting in your stomach weighing you down to the floor, all of them are tools in your arsenal. If you remain confident in any situation, those feelings will mutate into emotions of comfort. When I feel the nerves racing through me, it’s because I have everything in my power to KO this experience. 

I’ve harnessed this fear for huge performances. I called upon it when I tried to slackline across a canyon 75 ft above the ground. I even needed it when I proposed to my fiance on a floating dock in Hanalei Bay, Kauai. I felt that familiar discomfort, let it run through me, and then break it down so I can remove the negativity and be left with the useful part of that energy.

You can’t lose it so you might as well use it.

Moving on to other super fun feelings that all of us love: SHAME and JUDGMENT! 

I’ve often been told that I’m shameless and that mostly stems from how I dress when I’m on TV. Realistically, as much as I love wearing insane outfits lined with sequins and furs, I partially do that to hide from my insecurities. The more ridiculous the clothing, the less people notice my skin, the more empowered I feel. Plus, it’s just more entertaining to be a colorful buffoon. 

Sometimes I still have trouble looking at myself in the mirror. I assume that never fully goes away no matter how many trips I take down Psychedelic Lane. But recently I had an experience that altered me past the point of no return. 

I was in Sedona, Arizona, decompressing in the desert only three days after my final performance on AGT. I quite the narcotic cocktail flowing its way through the roads less traveled in my head. While it weaved its way through wormholes I had never discovered, it turned down one wrong street and I realized I was about to shit my pants. Fortunately, I’ve done enough drugs to recognize that squeeze in my abdomen was more than me getting totally ripped. I excused myself and floated to the toilet.

One thing I recommend while tripping is to avoid mirrors. However you see yourself without influence will be amplified times a million, be it positive or negative. With my personal view of myself, I tend to lean towards the latter. I stumbled into the brown-tiled bathroom, shirtless, and unavoidably began to stare directly down the belly of the beast. 

“Ughhh. Look at you. You’re covered in red splotches. You have tiny scabs on your arms and legs. There are pink lines leftover from scratching in your sleep. You’re flaming harder than 1980’s San Francisco. You’re fucking gross.”

Harsh, I know. I would never talk to someone else this way so why was I OK saying it to myself? I stood there, unmoved, and kept staring. Moments went by before I spoke again, but this time I said the words out loud.

“You’re beautiful. I love you. Your skin is unique. It is your own. Others may not understand it. They may be grossed out, scared, confused, uncomfortable. But those are their feelings. I cannot allow the judgment of others to reign supremacy over how I see myself. No one can make me feel any way that I don’t want to feel.”

I said all of that. As I continued to leer at my mostly naked body, a sense of pure calm released within me. Something changed. I felt weightless. My skin became less fiery as if sheer will had caused it to release whatever negativity and sickness had been causing my eczema. It didn’t physically disappear, but that didn’t matter. After 35 years of loathing, I could finally see beyond the rash. 

Powerful doesn’t even begin to describe that emotion. It was a momentous victory over my psyche and also over the thousands of faces that had ever looked at me and wondered what the fuck was wrong with my face. I used to let them influence me, but not anymore. 

I’m in control. Repeat: No one can make me feel any way I don’t want to feel. 

And bam! Just like that, I had a new mantra as I drift through this existence. 

Did I need drugs to have that revelation? Probably not. You can’t lie to yourself while under the influence of a hallucinogen. Truth always wins so while it wasn’t necessary, the combination of that liquid and powder was the catalyst I needed.

Negative thoughts will never fully go away. Even with all the work I’ve done, I still find myself passing judgment toward others without reason. When I see a very overweight person drinking a 64-ounce milkshake, I can’t help but look at them as weak. After that moment, I try to think about their personal struggles and how I have no reason to think ill of them any more than they do when they look at me. If I can flip the script, I’ll walk away stronger. Perhaps I’m looking at a war veteran who was in a horrible firefight, lost use of their legs, and has lost some of the will they once held on to. They deserve that milkshake. And put some fucking Oreo chunks and chocolate syrup in that cup while you’re at it. This man is a hero!

You’re never going to fully erase judgment, fear, and shame, but we can certainly chip away at those words little by little. Pretend you’re a diamond mine and somewhere within you is an unlimited treasure. It’s protected by layers of mud, rock, and sludge. Every time you’re kind to yourself or others, a piece of that sediment is broken down and stripped away. One day, you’ll find that cave of diamonds and realize you can live there in perpetuity. 

And that, my friends, is how you will always shine. Jerry Springer ended every show, no matter how trashy and insane with a simple phrase: Be kind to yourself and others. It really is that simple. 

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