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Submitted 11/11/06

For the first time, I felt the baby move in my wife's womb. "Here I am" was what I heard the child say. What happened next is one of life's great mysteries. I felt...small. As insignificant as I can remember in quite a while. What an incredible process is life! I have made so many mistakes in mine. Years of learning and loss. How can I possibly hope to be a teacher and example to this little person? What a monumental task I have been given.

Then it hit me. Humility is always the key to making oneself available to be used as a tool. I know a little bit about survival and strength. Coupled with the art of remaining teachable and flexible, I can provide insight and information to this little one. Suddenly, hope outweighs whatever fear I am feeling about my own inadequicies and ineffectiveness. This child was given to me for a reason, probably many reasons. And then, right on cue, as if to say "right on Dad!", the baby moved again against the palm of my hand. I could not stop the tears that came next. THIS is one of the reasons I have been allowed to survive! We will be small together.

Submitted 09/23/06

Comedy is like a religion to most comics. We are apostles of our faith. It is our passion, pain, sin and our redemption all in one body of principles and power.

I remember performing a show with a very special guest as a member of the audience. As I was walking to the stage area I passed Robin Williams. I'm doing comedy in front of one of the most amazing, brilliant, legendary comedians of any era of comedic performance art! That's like a parish priest saying mass in front of the pope. Holy Shit!! God just upped the ante here.

So many thoughts firing away in my skull as I began to talk to this small crowd, one of those audiences where I could see every face clearly. EVERY face! I tried not to look in his direction at all. I worked very hard at sticking to what I do best, read the room and send the right comedy arrow out of the bow at the proper target at the perfect time. I thought "this is important. DO NOT MISS!" As I worked through the first five minutes of my set, I could feel the audience becoming bigger bull's-eyes, easier targets. They wanted to be hit. Boom-Boom-Boom. They started to fall as I worked. And then I heard that unmistakable Robin Williams laugh. It's a two syllable explosion. ha HAH! with the second syllable very loud. It's like the quick left jab-hard right hand of Muhammad Ali in his prime. Ba BANG!! It sends you back on your heels.

Submitted 08/26/06

Her name was Julie Farbolin. She played guitar and sang solo at the Garrett in Campbell, California. I was a freshman at San Jose State University… one of two years there that now seem like a blur.

Wednesday nights I would bring Larry or Chris or Dave or all of the above down to the club/restaurant to hear this woman play her 12 string and sing Janis, Linda, Carol or Jackson. She would perform and we would drink San Miguel or Michelob or even Lowenbrau, but always dark beer. I hated dark beer but it went better with cocaine for some reason. Good!

We would sit in our regular booth and pound the table to the beat of Julie’s tune and sing along. Everyone knew all the words, the chords, the pauses and when each song concluded we cheered like European soccer fans at the World Cup. It had to be very annoying to her to compete with the noise we made compared to the music she played! But she never once complained or treated us less than respectfully. She was a performer. At the time, I had no idea what that word meant.

Submitted 06/26/06

As he entered the restaurant, I couldn't believe what I saw! This wasn't the same guy I had known for almost 18 years. His face was drawn, his gait was unsteady and his eyes were milky with fear and uncertainty. I felt sad immediately and hoped my face didn't give me away. I have one of those faces that doesn't hide very much from you when you see me.

He hugged me and I felt his whole body quiver. As he pulled away, I heard his unstable exhale. His voice was uneven as he said, "It's good to see you bro." (I wish I could say the same I thought). "What's goin' on?" was all I could manage to respond.

I remember hearing someone say that we love the addict or alcoholic in spite of their disease...and sometimes because of it. I knew I had the time to give this man so I waited for him to speak. Finally, he said "I'm not doing so good right now". I could see that he was trying his best to be really honest with me. He was scared and embarrassed. He was peeling away the skin of the fruit to get to the center, the seed. I would give him the time I had...the time he needed. I figured it was about...time.

Submitted 03/26/06

I worked really hard to get the gig. This was a big-time recovery facility function. Powerful company. Prestigious, popular and profitable. You know who they are. They sell alot of recovery materials to the masses. "Chicken Shit for the Soul"...something like that. I was excited to be invited. I was new. I didn't know how new I really was. It's never good to not know what you don't know in this business, you know?

Bobby was their representative for the event. He was a semi-smooth talker with no personal recovery whatsoever.

The gig was Saturday night. I didn't find out about his character defects until the following Monday. WOW!

I was told I would stay in a certain hotel, be paid a certain fee, and be treated in a particular fashion. Bobby went 0 for 3. The entire event it seems was about him looking good to his peers and board of directors. He didn't. He lied to them about where my hotel was, how much I was being paid and several other less important matters. I was too green to have a signed contract with me when I arrived at the airport. When he picked me up I was told: "There've been a few changes in the itinerary." It's funny now. And it never happened to me again.

He taught me a bunch about trust and faith and follow-through...my own. I did a great job for him under awkward conditions. I have been smarter since. More seasoned. He did me a huge favor back then. Not sure where Bobby is now... hope it's somewhere more honest.

Submitted 01/29/06

I had already slept with her so I didn't care what she thought of me. She was one of those one-timers that couldn't keep my attention. It wasn't her fault. She was honest, pretty and the second smartest student in our ethics class. The smartest was a girl you wouldn't look twice at. I was way down the list.

For a second, I thought she was going to speak to me but she walked right past me to her seat in the lecture hall ...second row. I was in the fourth row, on the aisle. The next half hour dragged by like a river of slow mud.

Felt like all day. I couldn't wait to get back to the Friday poker game at the frat house. It was an all day tradition, every other week at San Jose State. I had only gone to class because I hadn't been to ethics class in a month. Midterms were coming ...always go to class before test day.

As the period ended, I stayed in my seat and let the rest of the row file out past me. I was waiting for smart student #2 to come up the aisle. Maybe I did care what she thought about me. I guess she had my attention because she seemed to ignore me that morning. Couldn't have that. I needed to be the one that created distance or disrespect.

As she passed I said, "Hey your hotness!! Busy this weekend?!" Without blinking or turning, she back-handed me across the mouth. Bingo!! Distance AND disrespect. Mission accomplished

Submitted 11/12/05

I walked on stage from behind the curtain after hearing my intro music. I had been here before. San Jose City College Theater. I work this place once a year. It is my "coming home" or backyard show. Almost everyone in the audience knows me personally or has seen me work several times. As usual, this show was sold out and the audience was in full voice: applause, whistles, and cheers of WHEEEE!

Each time I come home I have new material and a new theme to the show. This particular night was about my latest Lundholm-ism...First Thought Wrong. This is the mindset of an addict, the reason for my poor behavior and the core of many humorous tales of sin and survival. The fun thing about the SJCC show is that 98% of the audience suffers from F.T.W. There were probably five or six people in attendance who thought normally but by the end of the event, they had been converted. It is my favorite show of any year because it is so personal. Comedy club shows are like performing for in-laws, relatives. 12 step shows are like working for folks who grew up in my home. San Jose City is like doing comedy for people I did jail time with: Everyone is innocent, but we all know where the bodies are buried!

Submitted 9/26/05

For a road comic, it was a night like any other. 8 o'clock show at a comedy club in nowhere, some state, USA. I prepared to be funny for a handful of people in a dark, smoky showroom where the lighting was bad, the food was worse, the waitress was stoned and the owner couldn't care less. I was tired, restless and just about ready to surrender to a cold that had been coming on since yesterday. I hadn't taken a shower yet because I had been delayed on the highway after a tractor-trailer dumped it's load while hitting a patch of black ice. There was sugar across both lanes and the cleanup crew was working like they got paid by the granule. I barely made it to the club by showtime and I needed to eat. I felt less like working than I had in months. I told myself that somewhere down the road, this would be funny...but tonight it sucked. Just about that moment, I realized it was time to take the stage and make 'em laugh. After all, that's the job. I don't get paid because I AM funny. I get paid to BE funny.

Submitted 8/12/05

I held his hand as he died. He was a street guy like me, only much older. It was his time and he knew it. He just gave up. Didn't really even take a last breath. Just stopped breathing. He didn't even make an effort to close his fingers, bite his lip, blink his eyes. He just stopped living. Quit.

It made me sad, but even more than that I was curious. How had he lived? How had he come to this moment in this day? How many people knew him as someone else along the way? How many of those would miss him? How many did not?

Then, like a shot of meth, it hit me: This could be me someday! I was already in the same alley, the same damn streets, living the exact same life. "too soon to die", I thought. For all of us, it just seems too soon. For this guy...it prob'ly seemed long overdue. I don't know. In God's big plan I guess this man died right on time.

Submitted 6/12/05

Sunday mornings were for shakes and cakes! My roommates and I always partied from thursday afternoon to late, late saturday night: poker, Football, Frat Party, Concert, movie, whatever. But sunday mornings, no matter how late we were up, how drunk we were, we always made time for pancakes and milshakes. the whole San Jose State Campus knew what Sunday was about at our house.

We lived in Los Gatos in a four bedroom, 3.5 bath home, that had an open door policy if we knew you. four guys, all freshmen, all bay area boys, all not exactly right in the head, all bright, athletic, and full of it. we also lived in Saratoga, San Jose, and Campbell... all in a year and a half. It got to the point where when we were evicted, we would just leave the dishes, furniture, plants and groceries and go. wherever we went next, the first things we bought were Bisquick, Milk, Eggs, ice cream and syrup. Everybody knows Sundays are Sacred.

Submitted 3/27/05

I had a chance to tell her what I really thought about her. I passed. For the first time in my life, I thought about someone else besides myself. She was special. She was important. She mattered to me and I decided to let her know that by remaining silent.

Whatever I had to say could wait.She would eventually figure out that she was childish, immature, and totally self-involved. I didn't have to be the teacher. She was well-off enough to coast through her days and dream about what it would be like to be one of the less fortunate, the "little people". She couldn't see the fact that her lack of vision made her smaller than they were.
Everyone has a plus/minus system of existence. Mine was so much like hers, I decided that all of the information I was about to hand her was better practiced on myself. My own behavior needed an adjustment...the old cliché was true. She was an inspiration without knowing it. What a gift it was for a flawed individual to meet another one...all in the space of a few minutes. Time stands still for slow learners.

Submitted 2/17/05

She finally found me in the corner of the room, quietly considering how to tell her what had just happened to me. As she looked into my eyes it occurred to me that I couldn't tell her the truth.

The year was 1985. It was my wedding day. Sharon and I were married in Castro Valley on a Saturday afternoon. We had lots of family and friends with us as we took our vows in the Catholic church service. It was a beautiful wedding.

As we walked into the reception hall, Sharon and I looked around the room at all the people we cared about. They were all there.

One of the priests from the parish approached us, said his congratulations, and asked me if I would help him carry a couple of cases of wine from the back of the church to the hall. "No problem", I said. A few minutes later I met him in the sacristy to help with the wine. As he put his hand on my shoulder, I was unprepared for what happened next. He said, " I'm so happy for you Mark. I've known you for a long time. I'm glad you found a wife. You know, I've always been attracted to you myself. I'm a little jealous of her..."

Submitted 1/10/05

This is gonna sound strange, but I couldn’t stop her from wanting to better herself. She was obsessed with the idea of eluding her past. Every childhood memory was like the pop of a starter’s pistol. POW!! RUN!!

Books, films, television… all of these were an invitation to remember pain and escape from it at the same time. She was mired in memories and doing 100 miles per hour simultaneously. I wanted so much to hold her still… just long enough to tell her that she was already better, already healing, already grown up. She wouldn’t slow down even for a minute to hear anyone besides the people from her past.

I have never met a more determined individual in my life. She was proud, bright, beautiful and unhappy. Everything about her was respectable, but you couldn’t make her believe it. She was moving too fast to take any of it in… Life for her was a blur. To those of us who knew her, her life was a masterpiece, a portrait of near perfection. And all of the good in her was her doing. The few tiny flaws she had were not her fault at all. They were put there before she knew who she was not. I always wanted her to become what she already was.

Submitted 10/20/04

There is a moment right before the curtain goes up, when the house lights go black, when the audience is in that anticipatory posture of bodies leaning forward in a tense silence… a moment where I say to myself, "I don’t want to do this." Really.

I’m not sure where it comes from, but it always makes an appearance just before I make my own, Brief. Certain. Then … gone!

As I take my first step into the spotlight, something else replaces it: Faith. I have worked so hard on this particular show, had so much help from competent, loving, devoted professionals that there is no way I’m not doing this. I have watched audiences of 60 to 600 people at a time enjoy this piece of theater from beginning to finale. I hear their laughter and I feel their empathy and I see their contempt as I go through the story, become the characters, tell the tale to the end. I watch them wipe their eyes and noses. I listen to them trying to catch their breath after laughing. I hear the smokers hacking and the men banging the arms of their seats. I applaud them as they stand when it’s over. Stand! What was I afraid of? Just me.

Submitted 8/1/04

I thought my heart had exploded inside my chest. My lungs had evaporated and I could not get air into my body! I knew I was dying. At some point in the next couple of minutes, I wondered if my guts would drop out of my asshole. My balls had shriveled up and the blood stopped flowing to my brain. I was unaware of my surroundings. But I was positive that I would fall like a wounded elephant any second now.

As my head got lighter, my limbs got heavier. I could no longer breathe at all. My eyes blurred and my spine felt like a piece of limp rope. I could hear thunderous noise between my ears and it seemed to increase in volume … right up until the very moment my knees gave way, my anatomy collapsed and my hands broke my fall. I landed with a dull thud.

I lay on the coarse fiber of the carpet in the hallway, a mass of human nothing… as I watched her walk out the door for the last time. “Please come back,” I screamed silently.

Submitted 5/25/04

I was afraid to open the drapes and look out the window. I knew it was morning again, the worst part of any day for a drug addict. It starts all over again: The withdrawal, the fear, the delusion, the chase to cop, the hunger.

Sure enough, as I peeled back the motel curtains I spied the blue sky, sunshine, and the maid walking past my window. She must have known she surprised me because she jumped too.

The paranoia I felt was constant these days. I feared others, myself, the dope, the booze. Everything I would touch today could harm me. I couldn’t make another choice for myself. When in doubt, (which was all day), choose pain. If I hurt myself, I get to find my own cure … again. Goddammit, I was tired of getting loaded!! I have to quit, but I can’t … I can’t, but I have to … maybe tomorrow.

Submitted 1/23/04

By senior year, I was a guard on the basketball team. I was 5’10” and 135 pounds and I couldn’t jump. Oh yeah, I was slow too. I was the sixth man, which meant I came off the bench when someone needed air or got hurt. I was never an all-star.

All of that being said, no one worked as hard as I did to be good. I was “out of my mind” possessed by the game. Practice, league, exhibition, playoffs, it didn’t matter. I would run 'til I couldn’t breathe, dive on the floor, fight under the basket with guys who were a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier! I never quit…

At the end of the season, the players voted on the team awards. MVP, most improved, most inspirational. I thought I was the most inspirational, so I voted for myself. I thought “no one will really know who voted for whom, right?” At the post-season banquet, the coach handed out the awards.

When it came to the most inspirational, I was excited and nervous. The coach said, “And now for the most inspirational player on the team, in a 100% unanimous decision, the winner is … Mark Lundholm!” I could have crawled under my chair. The entire audience knew every player on the team voted for me … including me. What an inspiration!!

Submitted 11/28/03

Franco Harris picked the ball out of the air and ran through the bewildered Raider’s defense for the winning touchdown! Oakland was not going to the Superbowl. This play will forever be remembered as the “Immaculate Reception.” As a Catholic, I laughed at this.

I was a teenager at the time. I was born in Oakland. My family was Raider fans, especially Dad. As the teams cleared the field that day, I looked over at my father. He was crying! I had never seen him do that before. Unbelievable…

He got up and went outside to mow the lawn, wiping his eyes as he went. I followed him out the door, amazed that he was so affected by the game. I never said a word to him, or he to me. We just worked in the yard. No discussion about internal, emotional things … Just making sure that on the outside, everything looked OK.

Submitted 10/6/03

I threw the gun out the front door of the motel room. I knew I couldn't manage the courage to pull the trigger again. Courage? No, complete cowardice really.

I lay back down on the bed. I was crying so hard I couldn't wipe my nose or catch my breath. I thought, "Maybe I'll convulse myself to death." Anything would be better than the total desperation I felt now.

I remember looking at my own naked body. Sweat and chemicals coming out of my skin, goose flesh at the same time. I could count my ribs, I was so thin, and I could actually see the heart beat ripples surrounding the breastplate in my chest. My yellow fingernails reached up to grab the pillow so I could quiet the sobbing I could not control.

Submitted 9/15/03

I was an opening act, a cherry. He was the Headliner. He was funny. I was trying really hard. We worked together for a full week in California. He was a brilliant writer and a craftsman when it came to welding words together to create a concrete form from an abstract idea that belonged on the stage.

He communicated well with an audience, but he never engaged them in conversation. He did his entire set without talking to them. He spoke over them or right through them, but never with them.

I watched him every night, thinking, "God, I want to be that good some day."

He approached me at the end of the week and asked me how I quit drinking. I was surprised because he didn't look or sound like he had a problem with alcohol. His time at the club was just part of his day though. He told me he wanted to quit, but couldn't. He didn't feel good when he drank, and felt worse when he didn't. I remembered that phase of my own alcoholism. Painful.

At the end of the week, we wished each other well, traded phone numbers, and never stayed in touch. I'd hear his name from time to time and the story always included alcohol. The last time I heard his name was the week he hung himself in the Comedy Condo in Houston, Texas.

Submitted 8/26/03

Another morning. Another airport. Another plane to catch. I had just finished a week at a comedy club in Ohio. I was standing in line waiting to board my flight when a very large, very happy woman approached my position. She beamed as she said, “Mark! Saw your show Friday night! You are incredible!! My friends and I talked about it all the way home. We drove 90 miles to see you. Thank you for coming to Ohio!” I was a little embarrassed but said, “Thank you for what you said.”

As she walked away, I put my head down, took a deep breath, and as I looked at the toes poking out through my sandaled feet, there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned and looked at the passenger in line behind me. He quietly asked, “Are you famous?” I giggled, “Evidently not.” He smiled and said, “Who are you?” I looked at my ticket and said . . . “Seat 11B.” I don’t think he thought I was funny.

Submitted 7/27/03

Drew Carey came back-stage, walked right up to me and said, “Man, you are funny! What was your name again?” I told him my name and then he asked where I was from, how long I had been doing comedy, was I an actor and where was I going after my week here in Montreal?

I smiled, knowing it was his hometown. I said, “Cleveland.” “No way! I’m from Cleveland! I’ll be there next week.” I thought to myself … This is very cool. He liked my show, and now we’re doing the back-stage bonding thing.

“Are you a sports fan?”, he asked. “Oh yeah, big baseball and football fan,” I said. Drew looks at me and says … “You know, the Indians are home all next week. Have you ever been to Jacobs Field?” Humbly, I said, “Nope!” With a big warm smile, he stuck out his hand to slap me on the shoulder and he said, “Well, you should go if you get a chance.”

As he walked away, I thought … this is one of those stories that would be funnier if it had happened to someone besides me.

Submitted 7/8/03

The nurse took me into a private room. Plush carpet, soft colored, wall-to-wall. Earth toned paint all around the room. Three dentist chairs in the center with stereos instead of drills and spit-bowls.

This was the Relaxation Place: treatment center experiment for cocaine, meth addicts. I was here to learn how to be serene, silent, and still. Yeah, right!

I was in the chair all of five minutes before I fell asleep. I was asleep about three minutes before I was tapped on the chest. “Wake up,” she said. “This time is for relaxing, not for napping.” I said, “A nap is pretty relaxing, Honey.”

Thirty seconds later, we were on our way back to the dorm room with all the other criminals and crazies. So much for serene, silent, and still. From that day on, Dentist Chair Central was referred to as Torture Town.

Submitted 6/17/03

She was waiting for me when I came around the corner. She said, “Where’s my dope?” I tried not to look guilty. Even though I was. I had broken into her bedroom window on the second story of the apartment two nights before. I took 3 ounces of coke and some cash. I knew where it was because she was one of my dealers. Five foot tall, 110 pounds and really nice-looking. She had more than cocaine going for her.

When I ripped her off, I knew this moment would come. I lived close to her (walking distance) and she never trusted me anyway. Beauty and brains.

I said, “What’re you talkin’ about?” She yelled, “I want it all back! Now!!” I knew she was serious when I saw the gun.

Submitted 6/8/03

I was playing shortstop in the All-Star game. I was a skinny kid who had a wicked arm and covered a lot of ground. I loved to be in the middle of it: double plays, line drives, attempted steals and cut-off man throws to home plate. I was always the kid with the dirtiest uniform when the day was done. Go figure.

In the top of the second inning, the runner on first tried to steal second base. I moved over to the bag to take the throw from the catcher. It was low and skipped off the dirt and into my glove. I had to go down on one knee to get it. As I swept my glove across the runner’s foot, his spikes went into my grounded knee. Smack! Right against my kneecap. He had slid late and really pounded me. He was on top of me when I realized that something was wrong with my leg. I stood up, looked at my uniform pants … a little dirty, but not even scratched. Ooo!? Felt like my right knee was cold.

I lifted my pant leg up past my knee onto my thigh. Damn! I could see my kneecap. No blood for a second or two, but the skin was split wide open. Big gash across the knee and as I put my finger in the hole — BANG!! Blood everywhere, cascading down my leg and into my shoe. When I realized that the blood was mine, I got light-headed and plopped my butt down on the infield.

The umpire looked at me and said, “You OK?” I replied, “The runner was out, right?”

Submitted 4/5/03

It was 22º below zero and the highway was closed because of the snow. I didn’t have to be in Spokane until tomorrow. But I really wanted to get to my hotel. My little '87 Nissan pickup truck was as reliable as a mother’s love, but I was still 2 hours from my room for the night and stuck in a rest area.

1:30 a.m. and all was not well: I was tired, immobile, hungry and ve-e-e-rry cold. I raided the vending machine at the rest area and settled in for the rest of the night. Laid my coat across the front seat of the Nissan and left the engine running, heater on, hoping I didn’t run out of gas while I slept.

Submitted 3/3/03

I was being questioned about the burglary for the second time. I wasn't even a little nervous. I knew they couldn't connect me to anything about the theft. I was clean and they knew it too. They were making a point: I was under surveillance. From this moment forward, I would be watched closer than a homeless man in a Beverly Hills Safeway store.

My mistake had been my smile. The detective said it pissed him off that I smiled all the time. "Something funny, smart guy?" he said. I answered quickly. "You mean besides that tie? You a circus clown on your day off?" He smashed one of my hands on the table with his metal binder. He had bad breath and bloodshot eyes. I held my breath while I continued to smile…

Submitted 1/25/03

She lived in British Columbia. We met during a one-nighter in Nanaimo. She was hot, willing and completely insane! We were only together for a couple of nights, but the impact was particularly strong . . . on both of us. I thought about her for weeks after I came back to the states. We even talked a couple of times on the telephone. Then we didn't. I got busy with more work and travel; she did too.

A few months later, I called to say hello and got an answering machine, heard her voice and left my hotel room and phone number. Her mother called me back the next day. The young lady, that hot, willing, insane, exciting female, had committed suicide. She cut her wrists and bled to death in her bathtub. I cried for a couple of days. Then I got busy with work and travel, but I wasn't the same for awhile.

Submitted 12/24/02

It was Christmas, 1964. I was five. We lived near Oakland, California—my parents and their four children. All of my brothers and my sister are younger than I am. The youngest, Michael, hadn’t arrived yet, but I’m sure his presence was being considered, or at least "discussed".

Anyway, Christmas that year was awesome because I was getting a Beatles album! Their first. I knew that because I had asked for it and gone searching underneath the Christmas tree to find it. In those days, there was nothing else that was shaped like and felt the same as a vinyl record album in its cover. I found it and peeled open just the very corner of the wrapping paper, I saw the word "Ringo" and I knew. It was going to be a Rock n’ Roll Christmas!! Now, if my parents only had a record player.

Submitted 10/18/02

My daughter was a freshman in high school. Cheerleader. First football game. I was there. In some ways, it was awesome—in some ways, awful. She is very attractive, and I forgot how teenage boys look at cheerleaders. Ouch.

I was sitting in the stands next to her other Daddy, my ex-wife’s husband Mike. We all get along. Anyway, Mike and I are talking and laughing and watching the game and our daughter. Right in front of us, there are two male students, and one of them says, "Look at that one at the end. The one with the boobs! She’s hot!"

Guess whose daughter was the hot one on the end? Yep . . . So, Mike leans over to me and says, "Do you want to do this or should I?" I said, "Mike, I’ve already been to jail."

So Mike goes down and sits next to the boys—whispers something to them. They both stare at him, turn and look at me—eyes huge—and then they take off in a hurry. I said, "Geez Mike, what did you say?" He said, "I told them—See that guy behind you? That’s that girl’s Daddy. I’m her other Daddy. There are two of us and two of you. Who do you think is going to win?"

We both howled. My daughter’s team won that night as well.

Submitted 9/06/02

Al Pacino’s latest film, Scarface, was previewing tonight. My friend Jay and I decided to go see it . . . on cocaine. Probably one of the worst decisions ever, but at the time, well. We had a huge bag at the house, did a lot of it, and then took some road beers to get us to the theater.

Big line at the theater, no pun intended. We waited an hour for tickets and another hour for seating. Spun and no fun! We walked in, sat down, and looked around. Paranoid, coming down and biting our lips and insides of our cheeks. The movie was long and we had left the bag at the house. It had been a few hours since we had a whiff of anything strong and it was starting to become a problem.

Then the scene happened! You know the one. That one where Al Pacino puts his entire face into a huge pile of coke on his desk and comes up with thousands of dollars of white powder on his face and neck.

The audience laughed. Jay and I left the theater and drove home at about 100 miles an hour to the rest of the bag. For the remainder of the evening, we talked about how bad the movie was and how good we had it. Scarred Faces.

Submitted 8/20/02

I entered the hospital room and looked toward the bed behind the half-pulled curtain. The patient in that bed had a bandaged forehead, black eyes, and a bleeding, broken mouth with front teeth missing. I had never seen my mother so helpless. I lost some blood in my head, felt some shortness of breath and sank to the floor. The nurse ran over to me and helped me regain my feet. I was totally embarrassed. I looked over at my mother and she was smiling, sort of, and shaking her finger at me . . . teasing.

She had always been strong for her children and now I couldn’t look at her without something weakening in my gut. Until this moment, I never considered the mortality of anyone in my family but me. I had been a criminal, an inmate, a street person, and tried to commit suicide. But it was sobering to me seeing the difference between what pain I had inflicted on myself and what injuries life could provide in the blink of an eye . . . wrong place, wrong time. As I looked into my mother’s eyes, I was grateful for the survival of both of us.

Submitted 7/14/02

She used to squeeze the toothpaste tube in the middle! Drove me nuts. I hated to use the toothpaste after she did. I always had to re-squeeze it. Get all the paste pushed back up toward the cap end so that the tube could be rolled from the bottom . . . the way it should be.

Every morning she would go to work (one of us had to), while I slept late. Right around noon-thirty, I would slither out of bed. Dope dealers have better hours than any banker. I would creep into the bathroom, knowing I would look down onto the counter and see that damn toothpaste tube squeezed in the middle. Yep! Every *%#!&*! time.

She left me. Not only because I sold drugs, but because I was an angry man and miserable to live with. The problem with me was that I loved her and it scared me to love someone. I sabotaged that love.

I missed her terribly and was too proud and insecure to go after her. So I stayed alone. Slept alone. Cried alone and loved alone. Every morning for months, I would crawl out of bed, go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and . . . I would have given anything to see that tube squeezed in the middle just one more time.

Submitted 6/10/02

I told her she was the best I ever had. (I told all of them that, back then.) Ego is leverage. It’s like karate—one’s own weight can be used against them. I was as unbalanced as anyone I knew, and I enjoyed making sure that others around me stayed on their tiptoes or back on their heels. Safer to be sicker.

I cheated on her many times, though she never knew it. I could really fool people in those days. Sincerity was like a pair of sunglasses I could wear to prevent her from seeing through me. I had several types of shades. I wore all of them eventually.

Can’t really tell you why it ended, except that back then I couldn’t really respect someone who could be fooled so easily. That’s probably one of the sickest things I’ve ever said . . . But oh, so true. She couldn’t help me, she couldn’t help herself. But she seemed to heal. Me? Even after the hurt was over, I still missed the pain.

Submitted 5/15/02

It was obvious that the man was mentally retarded. He had slow, jerky movements and his speech was simple and awkward. He dressed like a child, even though he was over 40 years old. His hair was greasy and flattened to his forehead . . . and his smile . . . his smile was radiant! His name was Flip (no kidding). He was quite frankly the happiest person I had ever seen. Smiled all the time.

His parents had adopted him and raised him from the time he was very young. I always admired that kind of commitment. What sacrifices they had made to accommodate a human being who was eternally immature; forever young.

I was a grocery clerk at a small market in the Oakland, California, hills. Flip and his folks were regulars. This particular Saturday morning, Flip was with his mother. She had to be in her late sixties, and was sweet as strawberries. They were both in my checkstand, standing behind a young, attractive woman who was buying salad dressing. Lots of it. Paul Newman had just come out with his brand of food—"Newman’s Own". Very successful now, but brand new back then. Not every grocery store could get it. This woman was buying a dozen bottles to send to her family around the country. Twelve bottles.

My brother, David, worked at the store too. He had a crush on this woman, so he came to my checkstand to bag her groceries for her—any excuse for conversation. David was shy. I finished ringing up the young lady’s purchases and remarked, "Twelve bottles of Paul Newman! What’re you gonna do, take a bath in the stuff?" The young lady smiled and started to tell me about her family around the country. All of a sudden, Flip starts laughing . . . hysterically, continually, and then he says, "Ma’am . . . Ma’am . . . I’d like to watch you take a bath, OK?" My jaw dropped to my belt, David stopped moving, the young lady’s face jerked toward Flip, and her face flushed the color of calves’ liver. Then, all at once, everyone was laughing. Loud and hard, tears coming down our faces. The whole front end of the store just stopped functioning. Flip was laughing harder than anyone, knowing he had inspired the laughter. Immaturity can be a wonderful handicap from time to time. It worked for Flip.

Submitted 2/15/02

It was my first big-time gig. I was to open the Temptations/O’Jay’s concert in Baltimore, ’96. I was going to work a large outdoor venue with thousands of seats . . . Sold Out! I couldn’t wait to get to the amphitheater to check it out the night of the show. Showtime was 10:00 p.m. I got there at 8:30. After a short limo ride from a great hotel where I had taken my usual 2-hour nap, I got to the stage door with my show clothes and "All Access" badge to get backstage. As I walked down the hallway past the headliners’ dressing rooms, I took a peek inside the first door and saw full-length mirrored walls and a well-lit lounge area with leather sofas and chairs. Each member of the Temptations had their wardrobe hung next to a pristine make-up table with mirror and chair and ice-bucket, with their personal choices for snacks sitting on each table. A full-length buffet table with tons of real food was along a wall that ended with two tubs of ice filled with sodas and beers. The O’Jay’s room was almost identical except the wardrobe hanging there was blue.

When I came to the next door, I saw that it had a star on it and my name on a sign above that star. I had arrived. I turned the knob to see my dressing room and found it locked. Uh-oh. Maybe I was too early . . . maybe they hadn’t set up my room yet. Of course, the big name acts were a priority.

I found the stage manager and asked about the locked door. He said, "Oh, we’re trying to find the guy with that key. It’s the janitor’s closet." It was the janitor’s closet: big mop bucket, big mop, chemical bottles on shelves, a huge concrete sink to wash up with, brooms, towels, etc. What a humbling moment!

Welcome to show business, Funny Man . . .

Submitted 1/1/02

Both of them showed up at my hotel room within minutes of each other, long leather coats on. The younger of the two women was naked underneath her coat. The older one had on very little lingerie. I had no idea that either of them would be "dropping by". I had slept with the younger one on Wednesday. She was 21 years old and very accomplished as a lover. Bisexual, adventurous and energetic. Friday, I had spent the night with the older one. She was 32. Buxom, beautiful, and very lonely. She had been divorced for about a year and had been celibate for a time after. Most recently, she had only dated and kissed goodnight type of thing.

I opened the door, and there they were! The younger one took a swing at my head and smacked an open hand on the door jamb. The older one stood on the step just sobbing. I hadn’t expected anything like this. For years on the road, I had managed to "keep my affairs in order" as it were. Somehow this had gone differently. They entered uninvited and demanded an explanation from me. They were a team now, obviously. They had discussed strategy prior to knocking on the door. I dealt dope for years and had never once been surprised like this or found it necessary to consider involving the police in any kind of domestic dispute situation. Now I picked up the phone to call the cops. The two women didn’t even flinch. They were calling my bluff.

Submitted 12/17/01

I was being chased. I couldn't see the guy, but he was bigger than me. At that time in my life, everyone was bigger than me. I was scared beyond tears . . . Pure, primal panic! My breathing was frantic, and his was right behind my neck. I turned a corner, ducked under a hedge in someone's yard and remained still. Then, a huge hand grabbed my lower leg and dragged me onto the lawn. This was the moment I dreaded: My father began to tickle me. I laughed and squirmed and pushed away his hand, but not too much. This was our game! I loved it. He was paying attention to me and was loving and kind. He was a good dad to all of us kids. He did the best he could . . . when he was around.

The same thing that terrified me about the game was what I loved most. The uncertain outcome or surprise ending. When? Where? It has never changed. From "peek-a-boo" as an infant to roller coaster rides to mystery novels or relationships with women. I realize it now more than ever. Life's uncertainty is manifested best by the oldest game known to mankind. It's the chase! Of course, the tickling is never a bad thing either.

Submitted 10/29/01

She told me she wanted to free-base the coke I had in the bag. I told her that wouldn't be necessary, as this was the best blow in the Bay Area. (Everybody thought they had The Best back in the '80s.) She said basing made her want to have sex. I grabbed the pipe! Sex and Drugs was like Surf and Turf. I watched her cook up the cocaine until that hard rock formed in the vial. In those days, there was no such thing as "crack" or "ready rock," as it was called for a while. You had to mix the coke powder with water and baking soda to cleanse the coke of impurities . . . heat away all the cut. Involved process, but coke-smokers swore it was worth it. I wasn't so sure.

I had been dealing dope for a couple of years, but had never free-based before. I thought those people had a problem. Sick as hell to go through all that mixing and fixing, just to get high. Snorting was good enough . . . always had been. I was a snob and a purist.

She burned the rock in the pipe using a lighter. "Crack" gets its name from the sound it makes as it burns—crackling . . . like Rice Krispies without the snap and pop.

She took a huge hit, closed her eyes, held her breath, handed me the pipe, laid back on the bed and began to touch herself. I was quite enthusiastic about joining her by this time. I put the pipe to my lips and sucked hard. Instantly, a spring popped in my brain as the dope went straight to the top of my skull . . . POW!! I staggered, dropped the pipe, leaned forward and vomited on the woman . . . ouch!!! She stopped touching herself and started to scream. It was gross, man. There was puke all over her legs and feet. "These shoes are brand new!" she yelled. I grabbed my coat and wobbled to my car. I didn't even get a kiss . . . smoking crack sucked.

Submitted 9/3/01

The director told me to work smaller and to focus on the two center cameras. This was a drastic change for me because I have been working crowds of 300 - 5,000 for ten years. As a stage comic, you are supposed to include everyone in your field of vision— front, back, right, left. It keeps the audience interested, included. In a theater or comedy club, a comic must work bigger (exaggerate movement) to make an impression all the way to the back row.

"Television is different", they told me in rehearsal. A blink of an eye is enough to convey a sentiment. A slight sneer is better than a scowl, less is more. We did two shows at the Brea Improv. We taped both for a Showtime Special. First time on TV for me. I mean Big TV, not those local morning shows I have done in Buffalo, Omaha, South Bend and Salt Lake City. The Executive Producer will edit the two 30-minute sets into a single half-hour performance. Showtime will air this Special in December or January. We'll see . . .

Like everything else these days, restrained enthusiasm is best for me. Not too high, certainly not too low. Everything in time. This part of the book has no conclusion at this point, but I'm looking forward (cautiously) to seeing how it turns out.

Submitted 6/27/01

The house lights went up as the entire audience filed out of the amphitheater. I relaxed backstage with a bottle of water and a sweat towel . . . breathing quietly with my eyes closed. The whole show goes through my head in about 10 minutes. What did I do wrong? Which bits need work? How can I make the joke funnier? What needs to change?

After the mental review, I grab my clothes and personal bag and I walk from the green room to the parking lot, where my little compact rental car waits to carry me back to my hotel room. There, I will shower, eat, watch the news, read my latest paperback and fall asleep for a few hours. As I get up the next morning to catch my plane home, I think about what happened the night before. I was the opening act for the Temptations and the O'Jays, and an audience of six thousand people gave me a standing ovation. Not bad, but there is always room for improvement. Oh well, I'll work on it.

Submitted 4/25/01

My dad had a great sense of humor . . . Still does, for that matter. He used to like old jokes (new to his kids), but he had lots of them put to memory. He loved plays on words, and was a master of the goofy, obvious pun. He used to call me "Marcus o' Carcass" because I liked to oversleep on school days.

One Christmas, he told my brothers and me, three of us, we were all getting the same gift Christmas morning. There were three of them, but they were identical. I was 10, David was 9, John was 8 years of age. I asked my dad for a hint about the present. He said, "Part of it will fit in your back pocket."

You should have seen the wheels turn in our heads: A radio? A knife? A model train? A microscope? Money? Money!! We can buy whatever we wanted for a change. My parents both had more fun that year than any holiday I can remember. Every day brought more guesses, wilder and more obscure than the day before. On Christmas morning, we scrambled to the tree to see three new bicycles!! Bicycles!! The pocket part . . . a handle grip.

Submitted 3/12/01

I was delivering chips to a small grocery store in Richmond. I did this every Tuesday, regular stop. Today would be different.

As I knelt by the chip rack, stocking it with fresh stuff, pulling off old stock, I heard what sounded like a car backfiring on the street. Not uncommon in this old part of town. Then some kid came running into the store saying that someone had been shot. The owner walked out the front door, looked across the street to the empty lot the boy had pointed toward. A man lay on his back, still, quiet. I walked across the street, checked for movement in other parts of the neighborhood . . . someone running, a car hurrying away . . . nothing except other onlookers gravitating toward the victim. As I bent over him, I noticed his eyes were open, staring straight ahead . . . he was dead, but his eyes didn't know it yet. The store owner knew the man. Said he was trouble and probably had this coming . . . Later, we talked to the police, told them we didn't see anything, and went back to work. I remember thinking, "Does anyone really have that coming to them?"

Submitted 1/14/01

My brother and I were the last people to see her alive. She bought a bag of groceries at the store. Dave checked her out and I was closing up the front doors. Roberts' Market closed at 7 p.m. back in those days and she was our final customer that night. At the time she left, 7:02 p.m., neither Dave nor I realized it was her final stop . . . ever. Less than 3 blocks and 5 minutes later, a man grabbed her, knocked her to the ground, raped her, then cut her throat. She died right there in the woods of the park, all her groceries strewn about the ground next to her.

The man who killed her was eventually caught. Dave and I were witnesses at the trial. We were asked to establish the time she exited the store, the items in her bag, clothes she had on that night. The man was convicted because of his teeth. After he used his knife on her, he took a bite out of a package of bologna she had purchased. Dental records confirmed the size and shape of the bite marks and he went to prison, but not for long.