Humor

My Turn

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It was my turn to be the subject of ridicule last week. We all take turns. There is not a set schedule because my circle of friends are opportunists. For instance, if you try to get away with wearing a stupid-looking hat out one night, well then it is your turn. That is how it works. 

A group of us were playing golf at Wild Dunes in Charleston, South Carolina on Memorial Day weekend. We were at the turn house and I asked the lady what sandwiches they had. She said they had chicken salad, but when asked told me there were grapes in it, which I hate. Then she said they had tuna salad. It was very hot and I was very hungry so I really would have eaten anything. I had to ask, however, if there were red onions in the tuna because there usually are. I cannot eat red onions because I am allergic to them. I can eat them cooked or pickled, but not raw. The snack lady said she thought there were “regular” onions in the tuna. I am not sure what constitutes a “regular” onion, but I could no longer delve into the ingredients of the various salads at the Wild Dunes turn house and ordered the tuna. Continue reading “My Turn”

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Essay

Not My Last Supper

I have the luxury (or curse) of having ten plus years of stuff I’ve written on record, either in this blog or in thousands of pages of notes. We have a terrible habit these days of taking a tweet some guy wrote ten years ago and using it to sink their entire career. On occasion, I’m going to uses things I’ve written in the past to show you how absurd this practice is. I barely recognize things I wrote a year ago, much less ten. While I take responsibility for the things I wrote, because I did write them, I ask that you allow me the opportunity to change my mind. To admit I was wrong. Please let me learn from my mistakes, even if it takes years.

This is not easy for me to do but I think it is important. Something I wrote two years ago came up again and I feel the need to address it. “My Last Supper” is a small post, only 500 words, but it still lives with people I care about. And it’s ugly. And I’d like to correct the record. 

This old post is about how much trouble I used to have attending large gatherings like dinners. Instead of trying to figure out why and fix the issues in my life, I decided to blame the dinners themselves and my friends for even inviting me to them. I wanted you to know how much I hated the evenings and I wanted you to in turn quit having them or at least quit inviting me. The people that I’m speaking to in this post aren’t adversaries, they are people that I love. Why do I so crudely admonish them for inviting me to a party? I don’t know. I think I was looking for something or someone to blame for my unhappiness. Other than me of course. 

Honestly, I wanted to just delete the post because it is so hard for me to read and admit I even wrote. But because someone recently brought it up again, because they were planing a nice dinner and they were worried I would not agree to come, I feel the only way I can erase the damage the post has done is to address it verbatim. I so easily forget that the things I write and say matter. Even if it only matters to a few people.  

The words in bold are from the old post. They appear unchanged. I’ll also link the post here. Continue reading “Not My Last Supper”

Travel

Creep in Clearwater

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Last Saturday, I received an email from Side Splitters comedy club in Tampa announcing a “very special event.” I am on their email list because I have attended a few shows there over the years. Most comedy clubs start their emails with some sort of baloney pumping up the announced act and I didn’t think much of it until I saw the name “Louis” before the email preview cut off. I love Louis Anderson, but he wouldn’t be a “very special event.” No, they were advertising that Louis C.K. would be appearing “next week” for 5 shows. For me, that is like announcing Paul McCartney was going to play “The Poor House” in Charleston, SC. I jumped on the opportunity and decided I would at the last minute drive to see Louis in a small comedy club six hours away. Louis has to do business like this now because if he gives too much advanced notice, people who wish to do him and his career harm would be there to ruin the shows. The show was fantastic, it was a chance of a lifetime and I’m so glad I did it. This blog post is not about Louis C.K. 

I am an unapologetic fan of cults. I am also a fan of Leah Remini’s show on Scientology. Maybe those two things are correlated but my lawyer has advised me to let you figure that out for yourself. The most recent episodes of Leah’s show were about Scientology’s involvement in Clearwater, Florida. L. Ron Hubbard wanted a place for Scientology like Utah is for Mormons. He picked Clearwater as that place. Clearwater is about 20 miles outside of Tampa. The show made Clearwater out to be some sort of ghost town where all the main attractions were owned and controlled by the Church of Scientology. I had to see this place for myself and since I was going to be in Tampa anyway, I went. Continue reading “Creep in Clearwater”

Self Help

One Year Later

 

I thought I knew the day I quit smoking. “September, 21 2012.” I remember the things that happened that day. The Carolina Panthers lost on the road to a 50-yard hail mary thrown by that stupid Matt Ryan and the United States Ryder Cup team lost a huge lead to Europe at home. It’s been dubbed, “The Miracle at Medinah.” Not smoking for an entire day was “The Miracle on Felix Street.” I didn’t sit down. I paced around my living room all day. I said to myself, “If I don’t smoke a cigarette today, I’ll never smoke again.” I didn’t. And I never have since. I discovered I had the date of those events wrong. For six years, I’ve been donning my “Another Year without Cigarettes” party hat nine days early. September 30th, 2012 is my official quit date. But that is not the point. The point is, I have never smoked again.

Today, I’ve gone 365 days without consuming alcohol. Well, there’s a trace amount found in kombucha. The stupid state of North Carolina requires ID to purchase “Gingerade” because of it. I drink six ounces of kombucha a day. That amount of alcohol couldn’t knock a no-see-um on its ass. Continue reading “One Year Later”