My 6 year-old son believes in God. The God in the sky kind. I’m an Atheist. The Atheist on the ground kind. I’m leaning towards Agnostic, though, on my way to spiritual, because of my son. It’s hard to look in his blue eyes and be skeptical about anything. Everything’s possible.
When I was my son’s age, I was forced to go to church. I only go back now for weddings, funerals and one-on-ones in exotic locales. My son is not being forced to do anything except brush his teeth and lay off the Dr. Pepper. He asked me to take him to church, this Sunday.
I’ve been talking out loud, lately. Some call it prayers, many think I’m nuts. My ramblings are the ironic equivalent of a “Hail Mary pass”. A wise man once told me, “There are no Atheists in the foxhole, no Agnostics in the bunker,” so if you’re listening, my son’s God, email me. It’s important.
I arrived at WUZZ studios in Meadville, Pennsylvania at 6:30 a.m. for a pre-arranged radio interview, and was greeted rather rudely by Rockin’ Rich, who said no one told HIM about our little chat. He couldn’t fit me in his morning show. I said I was there to promote the comedy shows at Hotel Conneaut, the booker, Benny Baker, called you about this, and a weird smile crept over his face. “Wait, Hotel Conneaut?” he said. “Are you sure?” After a brief, hushed conversation between ‘Rockin’ Rich’ and his sidekick, ‘Taint’, the interview was back on. We exchanged pleasantries on the air and he told me they were unaware of a Comedy Night at the Hotel Conneaut, seeing as it was being renovated, aaaaaaaaaaaand it was HAUNTED. I said, “Haunted, you say?” and he replied, “Yes, famously haunted.” The radio guys told me, legend has it, that a woman named Elizabeth died in a fire in the hotel’s bridal suite on her wedding night and took up permanent residency in the hotel’s peeling, antiquated halls. Apparently, many people have reported seeing her and make pilgrimages to this place.
Rich and Taint went on to tell me about a High School kid who drowned in the lake, a butcher knife wielding chef, and other spooky activity. The Conneaut Hotel was featured on A&E’s “Paranormal State” and even the lobby bar is named, Elizabeth’s Spirits”, after it’s most famous ghostly resident.
Creepy old hotel, abandoned amusement park, paranormal activity, charred newlyweds, zombie chef, moldy teen, superstitious me, and Stand-up Comedy. Yeah, Perfect! Now, I’m going to be scared sleepless the whole night, trying to get some shuteye with one foot in the bed and one on the floor.
The comedy show was surprisingly well attended, fun, and I brazenly included Elizabeth, the ghost, in a couple of improvised songs Well, I shouldn’t have done that. According to the hotel manager, Elizabeth doesn’t like being talked about. His exact words were, “It pisses her off.” Well, dip me in Psychomagnatheric Ectoplasm and call me a pussy. now, I’m officially scared. How the hell am I ever going to get to sleep?
I made it through the night, dozed off for like a half an hour, kept looking for dead Elizabeth and the deceased chef under my bed, and then when I finally fell asleep, someone knocked on my hotel room door. I was too terrified to talk or move and thought, “What time is it?” It was 6 a.m.! In a cracking teenage voice, a boy announced that he was with housekeeping, and did I need anything? I opened the door to find a young man, about 16 years old, shivering, with blue lips, wet hair, a whistle around his neck, and he was wearing an old fashioned swimsuit. An Old—Fashioned—Swimsuit. Zoinks, Scoob! He asked me if I wanted any towels, and I said, “No, but you look like you could use one.” He didn’t even crack a smile and just floated away. I thought for a moment, “That’s the kid that drowned in Lake Conneaut, way back in the 1920s, and he’s come back from his watery grave!”
I ran like a drunk coed down to the front desk and asked the disinterested Millennial if they employed a wet young kid dressed in an old fashioned swimsuit, with a whistle around his neck, to clean their rooms, because, if they don’t… I JUST SAW A GHOST! The clerk said nothing… and just then, the lake drenched boy appeared, and the clerk said, “Yeah, that’s John, he’s on the High School Swim Team and before work he does laps around the lake. The whole team wears those vintage suits and he has the whistle in case he gets in trouble out on the lake.” I said to my housekeeper, John, “I’ll take that towel now, I’m going to need it to clean my pants.”
It’s December 3, 2014 (Year of the Nasty Divorce), and I have just completed 16 comedy shows on a cruise ship and I have one day off before I start the next 16 shows. I’m burned out, and I could use a night to recharge. The cruise line flies me from Roatán, Honduras to Miami and then gets me on a shuttle to the delightful Doubletree Inn, where they’re putting me up for the night. As soon as I get there, I’m informed that it’s sold out, so I take a taxi to the Comfort Inn where the overflow gets stashed—and rumor has it—it’s not so delightful. The hotel has changed its name to the Clarion, which understandably confuses the cabbie, resulting in a drive that cost one hour and $65 bucks. Adding to the fun is the fact that the cruise line was also oblivious to the name change and had yet to contact the Clarion. An hour and a half later, I still didn’t have a reservation. It’s midnight, so instead of waiting any longer for the hotel to contact the cruise line for verification, I pay for a room, knowing that I’ll be reimbursed. I try to nap a little, which has been nearly impossible since the wife and I broke up. I miss my kids too, so unfortunately, I sleep like a shark.
At 5:55 a.m. the next day, I fly to Cozumel, Mexico red-eyed and saggy tailed. I arrive and spend an hour shuffling through the customs line, which is annoyingly typical. It’s only about 1:30 p.m. and the ships leave around 5 or 6 p.m., so I’m good time-wise. This lovely cattle-drive customs experience leads to a thirty minute cab ride in a packed van with no air conditioning, just a pine tree air freshener long past its due date. Pedro the Aromatic drops me off last. I got to the port at 2 p.m., just in time to find out that my ship left forty minutes ago.
SON. OF. A. BITCH!
Obviously, someone in the cruise line travel office had made a mistake and since it was a private charter the departure time wasn’t posted online, something I always check in case of any travel discrepancies. These things happen, so I go borrow the free Wifi at Señor Frog’s so I can email the person in charge of Travel Emergencies. They reply quickly and tell me that now I have to meet the ship I missed in Roatán, Honduras. I immediately think of Alan Arkin’s alarmed response to being tricked into flying to this dangerous country by Peter Falk in The In-Laws: “Honduras?”, as he bolts for the plane’s door. (Anyone under 40, Netflix it.) “I just got out of Roatán alive yesterday,” I say to myself. I’m told by the cruise line to check my e-mail, keep my phone on (I have no International plan), stay put (Where am I going?) and a port agent will drive me to the first leg of my journey to get me to the ship. (Great.) The port agent arrives, races through traffic and gets me on a rickety ferry that takes me to Playa del Carmen in the 90-degree heat and blazing sun. From there, another port agent (straight out of Central Casting: Mexican Villains Division) in a hot van all out of Freon rushes me to the surprisingly nice Cancun Airport. From there, I fly to the unsurprisingly scary Mexico City Airport, landing at 11:30 p.m., drained of my patience, moisture and will to live. My emergency contact tells me that it’s a six hour layover, and I should just stay at the airport, so I sleep on the floor with my guitar, luggage, and European-style computer bag tied to various parts of my body for safekeeping. I put my genuine fake Rolex, St. Christopher’s medal (some help he’s been) and passport in my underwear, because no one’s been rooting around in there for a while. Ba dum cha!
The next morning, I feel like an arthritic octogenarian after crashing on the hard marble floor. I slowly creak toward the ATM to get some cash for “whatever the f*ck may happen next” and my debit card gets swallowed by the machine. Apparently if you push too many of the wrong Spanish commands, it takes your card. I’m going through a divorce, my credit’s shot and I only have one piece of plastic, so now I’m penniless. SH*T!
The airport security guard, dressed head-to-toe in camouflage and donning a stylish AK-47, shoots me a look. I nod as if to say “I’ll keep it down, Sir.” Despite his terrifying accessories, he looks like he’s about 14. I head to the ticket counter to check my luggage and get my boarding passes, wait in line for 40 minutes only to find out that my Aeromexico flight has changed terminals and the new ticket counter is a cab drive away. “F*CK!” This vulgarity, familiar to all cultures, and loud as all f*ck, can be heard in Chile. Security boy shoots me another look. I hold his gaze for a full five seconds and then mime for him to please shoot me, shoot me now, por favor.
I have no cab fare, so I hoof it approximately a mile with my guitar, large bag and man purse to my new Aeromexico ticket counter. Soaking wet from the 99% humidity and badly in need of a knee replacement and a heart shunt, I make it to my gate with ten minutes to spare. Flight 397 to San Salvador, with an on time departure of 5:30 a.m., is a turbulent one and normally would scare the food court fajitas out of me, but I’m unusually calm. I’m reading over my divorce papers—I welcome death. When I arrive and get to the next gate for my flight to Honduras, I sit, sigh, and close my eyes for just a second since I have another hour before the next leg of my never-ending commute. “Ahh… just relax,” I plead with myself.
When I open my eyes, I come to the unfortunate realization that everyone waiting for my flight has gone. Now I fall asleep? Are you kidding me? NOOOOOO! This can actually be heard in hell, which from what I hear, is the majority of El Salvador. I rush to the agent at my gate who, thankfully, says that if I run to the plane on the tarmac, I just might make it (she says this in Spanish of course, but I figure it out from all of the exaggerated gesturing, like a Telemundo comedy sketch). I take off as fast as my 50 year-old legs will take me, with all of my items flopping clumsily beside me. I must look like an older, white, out-of-shape, overly accessorized cartoon caricature of Usain Bolt. They open the hatch door and let me in. I thank the El Salvadorian gods, whomever or whatever they may be. (I’m going to assume their higher power is a chicken, coconut shell with Jesus-like markings, or a cell phone taken from a dead tourist.)
When I get to Roatán at 11:00 a.m., I am picked up by yet another grizzled, dandruffy port agent who escorts me to immigration, which, as it turns out, is a hut in the hills manned by a woman with one arm and what appears to be chocolate around her mouth. God, I hope it’s chocolate and not some sort of voodoo sh*t. Her name-tag is heavy on the consonants. She looks me up and down with her cataract-clouded eyes, grunts, checks my passport and then looks at her computer. She asks me in her native tongue why I was in Roatán a day and a half ago and I’m back today. The port agent translates, I explain, he tells her, she doesn’t understand, and I spend the next hour in a small room being searched, prodded and probed by a man with large hands. He finds nada, so I’m free to go and walk to our van like an aging, bow-legged Blues singer.
We proceed to the ship, and on the way, my Honduran driver tells me that his country is the world leader in homicides, “Ees almos two to one,” he says. He seems proud of this fact. I ask him, as politely as I can, to drive a little faster because I have children and would very much like to see them again. We stop for a public execution—just kidding, but at this point, it wouldn’t have surprised me. I finally get to the ship and am informed that it’s a gay charter and it gets pretty wild, especially in the hot tubs and pool areas, so I may want to stay in my cabin between shows if that sort of thing offends me. Oh and by the way, I have three shows the first night. Now, I’ve been traveling for two and a half days and I’m afraid that doing three shows on very little sleep and a lot of aggravation might make me a tad cranky on stage. (Did I mention that I’m going through a divorce?) Heaven help the Mojito-addled, hapless, homosexual heckler.
Now, any sane person reading this may question my career choices, to which I can only reply, “What, and quit show business? Being a comedian, or any other kind of entertainer, is about the journey, the experience, the stories, and some of the best trips, times and tales are the ones that occur on the outskirts of rich, the fringes of famous: the guns drawn at hell gigs in country bars, the long drives in the blinding snow when you don’t know where the ramp starts and the highway begins and the shows on chartered cruise ships with flamboyant drag queens, regular queens and a naked guy on a skateboard being led around like a pull toy. That’s my job and this is the career I chose. As the saying goes, “they pay us to travel, not to perform” and I can’t stop now, I’m just starting to get the hang of it. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go, I have a show for a boatload of gay people to prepare for—right after I take a nap. (I better set 2 alarms.)”
Editors note: the only part of this story that uses the “Godwin Exaggeration Factor” (sometimes as high as 12%) is the implied cavity search at the Honduran immigration hut. It was actually just a thorough pat down and luggage check. If you doubt the “guns drawn at hell gigs in country bars” line, ask Lee Loren (Carrot Top’s sound and light guy) about the time he and Pat had a shotgun pointed at them while trying to get paid in
While hiding out in Tampa, Florida from my girlfriend’s connected family*, nursing a broken wrist, I couldn’t play guitar and was forced to work at a TGI Fridays. Needless to say, I wasn’t a very good waiter. To this day it’s the only other job I’ve ever had since I was 20.
This is what got me fired after 3 weeks.
Lady: “Waiter, is the de-caf coffee done by the chemical method, or by the reverse osmosis method? I have (she whispers) Cancer, and strict diet guidelines.
Me: “Um, I’m not sure, but either way it’s most-likely a (I whisper) carcinogenic.”
Lady: “Well, I’m already very sick and I “don’t want to make it worse. Could you find out?
Me: “If you’re already sick, it probably doesn’t matter; have the de-caf and live a little.”
Author’s note*: To this day I’m nervous about telling the story of the Rich Italian Girl and the Poor Irish Troubadour and what happened to the Troubadour’s wrist in the parking lot of the Crackerbox Palace in Kingston, PA after a gig.
We did The Irish Comedy Tour somewhere in Bumfrack, Iowa at a place called “The Stockyard” (an old slaughterhouse, now a nightclub). Our show didn’t draw many people, and Jim Paquette (he’s French Irish, I guess), the talented MC, had a rough go of it. Jim did fine; none of us tore the roof off the barn that night, and I think the 18 Farmers that showed up got a little comic relief from the shuckin’, milkin’, and killin’ in their lives. But in our quiet van back to the Motel Sh*t, Baguette (my nickname for him) was unusually sullen and asked me a question.
Jim: “I don’t know why my Superman bit bombed. You’ve been doing this a while. It was funny, right? (Long pause). ‘Superman landed in a cornfield, out in the middle of nowhere, no one around, just like here, blah, blah, blah’, and you even remarked that it was funny, and had potential. What happened?”
Me: “Jim, it WAS funny, in the van, on the way to the show, and it DOES have potential, but we’re in the ‘Laugh Business’, not the ‘Funny Business’.”
Jim: (silence)
Then, in a drunken, Jack Daniels’ induced blackout, Baguette punched me. No, I’m kidding, the French don’t fight. We finally laughed and eased the pain with some local moonshine, that tasted like how antifreeze smells, and called it a night. A crappy night.
Author’s note: Jim and I are both blind, now.
Out of the blue, Jimmy started talking fake Chinese to the Asian lady at our local takeout place, Jing Fong, and it got weird (judging by the stern look on her face). Halfway through his “Ching chong, gung ho, wing wang”, I stopped him and asked her to please teach him how to say “Thank you” in Chinese. She smiled and said, “It’s
” (pronounced si si), and Jimmy repeated it perfectly. The Asian Lady gave us a slight bow, we took our food and left (conflict resolved). When we got in the car, he asked me why I stopped his talking, and I said, “I know you were trying to make me laugh, but you were about to get a Chinese star to the face.” Jimmy goes, “Well… xièxiè for saving me.”
About halfway through my set at “The Brig” in Sumter, SC, the chatty Shaw Air Force Base crowd started chanting “Big Red, Big Red, Big Red.” What the ? Where did I lose control? I had no idea what was going on, so I asked the throbbing mass of military why they were yelling “Big Red”? (never ask a question you don’t know the answer to) In no time at all a big, drunk redheaded dude jumped on stage, pulled his pants down, and with his ass facing the crowd—dropped a deuce. The place went nuts! After a little scuffle, the bouncers threw him out and left me doing my act next to a steaming hot pile of Big Red’s feces. Thanks to my 6-year stint on morning radio, I had plenty of scatological jokes and songs to save me. This sh*t is killing.
2 months ago, I was working in Florida and a dapper gentleman approached me before the show and said, “I’m Big Red… remember me?” I said, “I do. You got one in the hopper? Crowd looks a little tight.”
When I saw the ‘Breaking Bad’ finale and they played Badfinger’s song ‘Baby Blue’, it brought back great memories of the time I was in Badfinger… for a day.
I was working on WMMR’s Morning Zoo and we were preparing to do a week of live shows from the Trump Plaza with great guests like Jerry Seinfeld, Mike Tyson, and Greg Allman—to name a few. I looked at the list of performers we had coming up and saw the British group Badfinger was going to be on our show and thought, “Wait, isn’t everybody in Badfinger dead?” I was a fan of them, and due to their Beatles connection, I knew a little bit about the band’s history (Paul McCartney wrote their first hit, ‘Come And Get It’). I told our producer, Karen Buck, I was pretty sure there weren’t any surviving members of Badfinger, because the two main guys, Pete Ham and Tom Evans, killed themselves (this was pre-Google). Karen told me her info says that the group Badfinger will be here on Tuesday, a day early, and The Flaming Caucasians (our house band) and I were supposed to rehearse a song with them. “Maybe it’s all new guys”, she said. “Maybe it’s all imposters”, I replied. “Either way, it won’t be what the audience expects.”
On the day of the rehearsal, Badfinger showed up. It was one guy, Joey Molland, their guitar player. That was it. Joey was the only surviving member of the group and it turns out he didn’t sing or write any of their hit songs. “This has the potential for disaster”, I thought.
Joey, all English toothy grin and hungover looking, picked up a guitar and told us we were going to do ‘Baby Blue’ and ran us through the chord changes. He was a great guitarist, thank God, and It sounded pretty good after a while, with him playing the iconic riffs from the song and us backing him up, but he wasn’t singing. Not a note. Nothing. I asked Joey why he wasn’t doing the lead vocal and he said, “I’m not really much of a singer. Why don’t one of you guys do it?” I looked at the band, turned back to Joey and said, “We can’t sing it, we’re not Badfinger, that would just be… bad.”
I convinced Mr. Molland to sing, but Joey said he couldn’t hit the high notes in the bridge, the emotional arch of the tune, so he asked if I would please do it. I said, “I can hit those notes, but this a Morning Zoo crowd and they know me as the ‘dick joke singing poop song guy’, and I don’t think they’d buy me doing vocals on a beloved Badfinger hit. Joey says, “Your producer says you have a great voice, so why don’t you give it a shot?” I said “Sir Joey Molland, last of the Badfingers, flattery will get you everywhere”, and I sang the living shite out of the ‘Baby Blue’ bridge, “What can I do, what can I say?”, and I was Badfinger for a day.
Good friend and fellow comedian Mike Stankiewicz and I were hanging out at the Silver Legacy Casino lounge in Reno, after our show at Catch A Rising Star, and in walked the band, Journey. The group just finished working in the main room and were still dressed in their stage attire, so it looked like they walked off the set of one of their 1980s videos. It was the Fall of 2000. I pointed the Journey guys out to Mike, naming each one, explained lead singer Steve Perry’s absence, and gave him a little “Behind The Music’ backstory, but he couldn’t care less (Stank is a blues guy, has great musical taste, and we were probably in the middle of a Tom Wait’s discussion). Even though I never owned a Journey album, I understood their success, and thought it was pretty cool we were breathing the same oxygenated casino air. The future Rock and Roll Hall of Famers held court at the bar, and in no time, the place got more crowded, more attractive, and we had fun chatting up their “spillover”.
Mike and I befriended a tall, gorgeous, whackadoodle blonde, who came all the way from Virginia to see Journey, and much to my dismay, she was dying to meet Steve Perry’s replacement, Steve Augeri. The only problem was, this girl was shy (or acting it) and claimed she didn’t have the nerve to approach him. I told her, “Look, it’s 11:45, and if you don’t go over there soon, you’re going to miss the midnight train going anywhere.” She was not amused.
It was a bit much after a while to hear her go on and on about this dude, so Mike took her to where the band was sitting, and even though I pointed Steve Augeri out, mistakenly introduced himself to Neal Schon, thinking HE was Steve, the singer. “Hi”, Mike said, “I’m performing here, and I don’t mean to bother you, but this girl was at your show and wanted to meet the new singer.” The founder of Journey looked pissed and said, “I’m Neal Schon, the guitar player—not the singer.” Mike says, “I’m Mike Stankiewicz, the comic—not a fan”, and escorted her to the right guy.
I don’t know what happened that night, but I do know—that girl—Michaele Sahali, went on to be in the TV show, ‘Real Housewives Of D.C.’, became an infamous White House party crasher, and married… Neal Schon, the guitar player—not the singer.
I brought a pretty gal from Charlotte, North Carolina to meet my Mom, because since this woman and I were moving in together, I thought they should get to know each other. I don’t normally run my relationship decisions by my Mother, but I figured, what the hell, my new girlfriend is great, so I might as well show her off. (she never even met my first wife, who I married in Jamaica after knowing her for only 3 weeks. Marriage lasted 8 months.)
My dear, sweet Mom put on quite a spread; all the things I pretend to enjoy, like freezer-burned Chicken and Peppers, gummy rice, crispy, store-bought, stale Asian noodles and a lovely box of chilled red wine. You see, my Mom’s a worker, not a cooker.
My Mother couldn’t have been more gracious or charming to my adorable Southern Belle, telling her cute little “Pat when he was a boy stories”, and asking about her childhood, her job, which was cutting hair, and how we met—you know, light, polite small talk. No question or answer was strange or out of the ordinary. When Shelly Lee (not her real name) excused herself to use the powder room, as she called it, my Mom whispered in my ear, “She’s horrible; definitely not for you—you’re special. Get rid of her.” “What the hell?”, I said to myself. She’s Horrible? And get rid of her? That’s a tad harsh; what are we, the Mafia? No, We’re drunken, dysfunctional Irish, for Christ’s sake. We don’t get rid of people; we make mean jokes and drink too much, so your undesirable partner ends up just getting rid of themselves. And how does Mom get horrible out of an hour conversation? A horrible assessment takes time: weeks, months, sometimes many years of marriage.
Now, every parent thinks their children are special, even when we’re not—but give me a break, I’m moving in with her next week. She’s amazing! What the hell is my Mother talking about? Look at her! Check out that peaches & cream complexion—she’s sweet, loving and gorgeous!
Why did my Mother put that damn bug in my ear? What in God’s name could I do about it now? Why didn’t she just keep her opinion to herself? Why? Because she knew something I didn’t and loves me, that’s why.
That’s my Mom in a nut-shell. She’s overbearing, in your business, and prone to overkill. {On the issue of overkill: she used to home school us after we had already gone to a full day’s worth of school. Me, my brothers and sisters are incredible sources of useless information. Ask any one of us who’s the person considered “The Father of Modern Classical Music” and we can tell you. She forced me to learn how to knit, because it was a skill she said might come in handy some day. You know, just in case World War 3 wipes out all the Walmarts in Northeastern Pennsylvania and the village needs extra sweaters, scarves and booties for an unusually cold Winter}
I moved in with the seemingly charming Charlotte Harlot, but we were doomed, thank God. My Mother had worked her Voodoo; planted a seed in my head that made me see her for who she really was. The woman WAS horrible. She was selfish, inconsiderate of others, and… just plain odd (I was so focused on “other things”, I didn’t notice that she ate non-finger foods with her fingers, for example). My Mom saw right through her, and because my eyes were clouded by a sweet face, pouty lips and a darling figure, I wasn’t paying attention to important details. (I cleaned this last sentence up, because my Mother will be reading it)
You see, I’m a Momma’s boy and proud of it. I had to be, there was no other option.
I love you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day!
Author’s Note: The only thing that my Mom will disagree with in this story is her bad cooking. In her defense, she has improved over the years. She uses fresh peas now, not the gray ones out of a can, and her Salisbury Steak, that we called Swamp Flats, no longer needs to be dabbed with paper towels to remove the grease. Mom’s also not an abusive drinker, like some of us used to be. Half a glass of wine, that’s it, and she’s telling you stories about her neighbor, who allegedly had relations with his dog (she lives in Walkerton, Indiana). She will also claim that my new girlfriend was not as pretty as I thought she was, and has photos to prove it.
