Wednesday, June 24, 2015

In a defeat of the Los Angeles Dodgers, a Chicago Cubs fan caught a foul ball one-handed while holding and feeding his baby. And yet the same fan cannot grasp the concept of the Cubs going to the World Series. 

In a sad and ironic twist, the baby's name is Dodger. 

President Obama shouted down a heckler because it was at a White House invitation-only gathering. As a comedian, here is my guideline: If you have ever heckled anyone anytime anywhere? You’re an a-hole.

In Southern California, 66 surfers set a world record for most people surfing on a single board. In addition, they broke the existing record for amount of times saying the word dude.

Since you asked:

Recently I have been painfully reminded of one of my first “Oh no, life is going to be tougher than I thought” moments.

When I was ten, it was 1968 in Winnetka, Illinois. That is the upper-middle class, bucolic town featured in most of John Hughes movies, including all the “Home Alones.” (We lived in a beautiful, but more modest three-bedroom brick house literally across the railroad tracks on the “rough” side of town)

In 1968 Winnetka, you could ride a bike – without a helmet of course – and park it without locking it and not give a second thought to your bike being stolen. It never even occurred to me to buy and carry a lock.

One beautiful Saturday early summer evening, I emerged from the movie theater in the Winnetka Community House from a matinee showing of a John Wayne movie. Squinting from the bright sunlight, I saw what my eyes could not believe: my red Schwinn Stingray was gone.

 It simply was not there in the bike rack.

For the first time in my life, I was overcome with shock, disbelief and horror. This has to be a mistake, I thought. So I ran over my route to and from the Community House to my house – about a half a mile – five or six times, screaming and crying while searching for it.

In one instant, my single most important possession, as well as my only source of transportation, was gone. Not only was it gone, but the person who stole it was the one riding it. How could one human being do that to another human being? Don’t they know how much I loved that bike?

Because I had just seen a Western, I remember thinking this is why they shot horse thieves in the days of the Wild West.

My recent experience with litigation feels like I am dealing with the kind of kids who stole bikes as kids.

Only now they have graduated to stealing my jokes.

(In a side note. Although I never got the bike back, the identity of the thief was revealed to me. It was the same guy who bullied me when I was seven and he was nine, John Carney. The same John Carney who, when I was 16 and he was 18, I punched in the stomach so hard I nearly sent him to the hospital)


The old joke is the only qualification required to judge comedy is a birth certificate. Having said that, criticism hurts. Most of the time I can tell myself most of my critics are humorless and sad types. Because it is mostly true. Who else goes out of their way to tell someone, who is trying to make them laugh, they suck?

But when you are told your jokes are bad - and not just bad, but so bad they are not good enough to steal – from the head writer of one of your top comedy idols? 

Well that hurts beyond description.