Do you ever ask yourself that question?

Maybe you’re having a midlife crisis as you sit at the dinner table eating leftover turkey tetrazzini while your annoying stepkids are arguing over who gets to pick the Sunday night movie.

Maybe you just got a flat tire in a gang-ridden neighborhood at 1 AM and you can’t call for a tow truck because your phone is dead.

Or maybe you are about to perform for 9 people in a cavernous room in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

You can’t stop the racing thought from pounding against your temples. HOW DID I GET HERE?

The rewards of performing in small towns are often abundant. Traveling to these places can be difficult so when entertainers decide to visit, the crowds are often filled with gratitude. If I’m performing in Chicago, I am one of a thousand things you could do with your evening. There are baseball games, hip-hop concerts, fifteen other comedy shows, biracial speed-dating events; you name it. But in a smaller market, you are often the best option. So people come, excited to see that guy they once saw on TV.

After three wonderful days in Las Vegas, doing shows and hanging with awesome friends, I took a red-eye flight, with a layover, to Sioux Falls. Having never been to the Dakotas, I was stoked to be in a novel place where I could sling my comedy to hoards of hungry fans. Traveling keeps me present. Every moment is brand new. My antennae are up, signaling and processing all of the new information that is flooding into my brain.

The trip started off a little rough. The promoter had forgotten to book me a hotel until the day before I arrived. Thanks to a massive rodeo and the city’s Comic Con, rooms were scarce. I ended up at a motel that hadn’t been remodeled since Johnson was president. Fine. It’s one night. I’ll barely be in it.

My show wasn’t until 9 PM so I spent the day exploring the city. On the road, I wander the streets, soaking up what the city has to offer. Sioux Falls is quaint, adorable, and has that classic midwestern charm that you miss when you live in a city like Los Angeles. People say hello to you without bothering you for drug money. It’s endearing. A pleasant change considering no one is asking me for change.

I decided to hit up Siouxper Con (Clever name!). Comic books are not my bag but I love immersing myself into a culture that is not my own. For the fans, this is their Burning Man. They are dressed in incredible costumes, celebrating what they love with like-minded individuals. This weekend is proof that they are not alone in their weirdness. They are a part of something so much bigger than themselves. It’s beautiful to see anyone in their element. I strolled through the booths, marveling at their costumes. Some I even DC’d. Get it? I watched a semi-pro wrestling event and cheered as loudly as anyone for a contender that looked surprisingly like me. I’ve smoked DMT and now watched someone pull off a DDT. Both of them transported me to a different world.

Now it’s time for the show. I take a lyft to the venue, a super cool gastropub with a large performance space. Looking at the stage, I know this is a place I can thrive. Even in big rooms with high ceilings, my energy will fill the space and make it feel intimate.

I was told there would be at least fifty people at this show, probably more. That’s why I did it. I was working off a door deal which means that I get the money from the tickets that are sold. Cool. This should be a good payday even if it is on the low end of what they told me. NOPE.

As we got closer to showtime, almost no one was in the venue. I quickly realized this evening was going to be a bust, financially and creatively. “Fuck me” was the resounding feeling. Now in this situation, I will never take it out on the crowd. Those nine people showed up and I have to give them the best show I can possibly muster.

Before I go on stage, I tell myself; “Have fun up there. Whatever it takes. Enjoy yourself.” And I did. While not an ideal situation, I can only control the circumstances that have been placed before me. I poured my heart out to that handful of patrons, leaving it all on the stage. I can happily say that the people there enjoyed themselves, but even still, there was an overwhelming feeling of emptiness and failure trickling throughout my body.

You can easily lose yourself in a situation while it is happening. Once I got back to the roadside shack they called a hotel, that’s when my positive mindset was truly tested. “Why do I do this to myself? When will it get better? How many years will I struggle with obscurity?”

As many as it takes. This is the life I have chosen for myself. A traveling vagabond slinging jokes to whoever will listen. There are nights that are incredible. Sold out shows with hundreds of people. There are also nights like this, when my resilience has to permeate the negative feelings that are doing their damndest to make me hole up and quit.

I know this is simply part of the journey. Shows like this could derail my mentality, but instead I go the other way. I use them to learn what I can do differently. How can I improve my marketing? How can I ensure that when I go to a new city, people will show up regardless of whether they have heard of me or not? I have to do this all over again in Fargo, North Dakota tomorrow. All I can do is believe that the circumstances will be better. Fargo and Forget.

I’ll continue to push forward. One crappy night in Sioux Falls is still better than every night I spent in the hospital dealing with cancer and sepsis. At least this shoddy shithole didn’t have machines that kept beeping every six minutes.

I don’t know if I will ever return to Sioux Falls but if I do, the situation will be different. Nothing will stop me from getting everything I want.

Every experience is here to teach us. It is our job to accept the lesson. My takeaway from this evening: I should have become an amateur wrestler.

How much of your life do you think you spend waiting?

I am often punished for being punctual. While I strategically plan to land at my destination at the agreed upon time, many others do not extend this courtesy. The excuses travel down the conveyor belt at a furious pace. I’ve heard it all.

Sorry, there was traffic.

I had to pick up my Lexapro and the line at the pharmacy was insane.

My father was found naked, wandering the streets, yelling out the name of his dead wife, so I had to bail him out of jail. Anyway, should we start with some egg rolls?

In the past year, I’ve spent countless hours of my life in waiting rooms. What a privilege. A whole room designed for me to sit quietly, watching precious seconds of my life flicker away at a snail-like pace. When you’re sick, this becomes reality. Appointment times be damned. The doctor will see you whenever she fucking feels like it. What are you gonna do? Cure your own cancer?

This is why they call you “the patient.” It is a word that transcends its usage because when you break it down, it is so much more than a name for an individual that needs care. They are telling you what you need to do. BE PATIENT. We will get to you as soon as we know that we have screwed up your plans for the rest of the day.

Tom Petty was right. Maybe not when he was shooting up large doses of heroin in an attempt to freefall down into nothing. I’m referring to when he said “The waiting is the hardest part.” We are often told how long we will wait for something. The human brain has evolved to be adept at dealing with torture when we know there is a timestamp on how long it will last. If you tell me fifteen minutes, a switch goes off that allows me to relax, knowing this particular period will last as long as brewing a strong cup of coffee.

But when that time has elapsed, and we still find ourselves in limbo, it is a maddening experience. The foot taps become rapid. An itch creeps into our skin. The clock is laughing hysterically knowing that while the rest of the world is moving along, you are temporarily sequestered in a state of desire, boredom, and frustration.

And there is nothing you can do about it.

Patience has never come naturally to me. I’m a delightful mix of stubborn and energetic, neither of which serves me in the waiting game because linear time doesn’t care about either. Of all the lessons I’ve learned from cancer, one of the most important was to slow down. When you are forced to wait, enjoy the downtime. Close your eyes. Deep breaths. Smile.

Beating cancer was a relief. While it pushed the limits of my body, it also tested my patience. The endless calendar of appointments was excruciating. I was pissed at these cancerous cells for swelling up my lymph nodes without permission. Consent is mandatory. But the real rage came from how they intercepted my time. Most people don’t tell you this but along with all the other bullshit, cancer is inconvenient.

The years it takes off of your life are not at the end. They are RIGHT FUCKING NOW. Cancer doesn’t care that you are supposed to be finding yourself at Burning Man, coaching your daughter’s soccer team, or studying for your master’s degree. You have to do what it says. Otherwise, it will obliterate your timeline all together.

An unexpected sensation came along with eradicating my cancer. I felt like I should immediately reach all of the high-level objectives that I have been working towards. “Look, everyone! I’m healthy. I’m strong. Now cast me as a series regular on your animated series and sell out all of my shows!” I went through a traumatic, painful, and terrifying experience which means every tree I’ve ever planted should fruit immediately. I’m ready to receive it!

Sounds reasonable, right? Sure, but that’s not how the world works.

It took me a couple of months to shed that attitude. Like my eczema-laden skin, it flaked off a little bit each day. I don’t shame myself for wanting to get on the express train as I steer myself toward my goals, but thinking that cancer was going to expedite the process is preposterous.

It’s going to take years of processing what I went through before I truly understand how it will propel me forward. By continuing my work as a comedian, relating this experience to others, the trees will sprout branches that reach far beyond what I could have imagined. Keep tending the garden. The flowers will blossom when they are ready.

Gandhi said, “To lose patience is to lose the battle.” He may have been hallucinating from a lack of food but the statement still rings true. I never thought that becoming a cancer “patient” is what would finally teach me the true meaning of that word.

My career will continue to build and along with it will come everything that I am meant to have in this lifetime. A family. A house. A life-size sculpture of pugs playing tennis. I will keep chiseling away at the marble every single day until I have sculpted a unique and beautiful piece of art. You can’t force it. All you can do is work hard, believe, and be patient. Eventually it will come harder than a celibate priest having a wet dream about an underage boy.

All that being said, if you make me wait when we are meeting up for dinner, you’re picking up the check.

It was Easter morning, 2023. Sitting around a table eating brunch with my wife and her family, which of course is now my family as well. My sister-in-law Holly looked at me and in a soft voice said, “it’s really good to have you back, Alex.”

 I had been out of the hospital for over three months so her statement seemed misplaced.  I asked her to elaborate. 

“We didn’t know if we would ever see this version of you again.” That simple statement has been tattooed on my brain ever since. This version. Fun. Silly. Energetic. Illuminated.

When I look back at the last 12 months, almost every day should be forgotten. In my mind, I have skipped directly from 36 to 38. You could call it a series of unfortunate events but that doesn’t do it justice. That’s like referring to the Oklahoma City Bombing as a bad day at work at the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. 

Since the moment I turned 37, my life had flip-flopped. The cancer was already inside of me yet we didn’t know exactly what type. All we knew is that it was CANCER. Four months ago, Lauren and I had gotten married on a picturesque beach in Punta Mita, Mexico. We had been together in some form or another for 18 years by then. When we finally made our love official, boom! C-word. For someone who prides themselves on their timing, I rushed the punchline without giving the audience a beat to process the setup. 

The next three months were excruciating. Constant visits to specialists. The testing included blood work, MRIs, CAT and PET scans, bone marrow aspirations, etc. Something is seriously wrong and nobody can tell me what. I became lethargic and unmotivated. The unknown is far more scary than reality.

Finally, we had our answer. Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. How loud can a person mentally scream “FUUUCCKKKK?” While it was disheartening, it gave me comfort when the doctors told me they knew how to treat it. My prognosis was good. 

I could bore you with more details of chemotherapy but honestly, you can look at previous blogs if you need that story. The onslaught of misery and pain had begun. Everything was going swimmingly, until one day, it wasn’t. Something was horribly wrong with me and I was too confused to realize it. Luckily my wife saw right through my incoherent stare. She took me to the emergency room. 

When I entered that hospital on November 17th, completely delirious, I had no idea that I wouldn’t emerge for 33 days. Cancer was still in me. But now I had a much bigger foe: Sepsis. The surgery to install my chemo port in my chest had caused an internal infection. An invisible murderous bacteria that was hellbent on putting me into my forever dirt nap. 

Turned on yet? How about a heart vegetation, multiple embolisms, a spleen abscess, and edema. My body swelled up 25 pounds because water wouldn’t drain from my tissues. For the first two weeks, I was bedridden. I was in so much pain that I couldn’t even roll myself over.

Doctors told my wife and family to brace themselves for the worst. My body had declared war on itself.  I was a civilian, caught in the crossfire. Eventually I was well enough to do physical and occupational therapy. One step at a time. Literally. My therapists treated me with the fragility of a 90-year-old cripple. I was a long way from the slacklining, tennis playing, ambulatory person I had worked so hard to be. 

To make matters worse,I had to have my knee operated on because it wasn’t draining properly. Another surgery. Was I worried? I’m in here because of the last one so I wasn’t exactly walking on sunshine at the thought. Fuck, I was barely walking on anything. Four more days while I watched colored liquids drain through a series of tubes sticking out of my leg. 

 If all of that wasn’t enough, while I was infirmed, my dad died unexpectedly. Not completely, he was 79 so at that age, anything can happen.  I could barely mourn the death because I had to primarily focus on my own survival. I still haven’t fully processed the fact that he is gone. He was my biggest fan. He loved hearing stories of my adventures. No one understood better than him how dedicated I am to not only my craft, but having an amazing life. He doesn’t believe in the afterlife and neither do I so I can’t even say he’s in a better place. He’s simply gone.

There’s more tragedy. But some of it is too painful and personal for me to reveal here. In time, I’ll talk about these instances. If all of this isn’t enough already, you have a level of sadism that should be studied.

I’ve thought a lot about this past year. It lasted forever and somehow it felt like seconds. 37 was not the magical year I had envisioned. So many times I thought I had hit bottom only to learn I was still in the shallow seas being dragged toward the Marianas Trench. Hit after hit. I was strapped to a wall being bludgeoned by a never-ending train of trauma. I’m a good person who leads with love. I strive to make others feel good about themselves. What did I do to deserve this?

Nothing. That’s the answer. No one deserves this. Well, maybe Andrew Tate and Donald Trump and…nevermind. I don’t have enough time to keep listing monsters. The point is this:  it’s not about what happens to you.

It’s how you react.

Looking back, I am a very proud boy. Dammit. Remember when we could say that and it didn’t mean you were a nazi?

I handled my cancer with courage. I was transparent and allowed others in on the journey. I constantly cracked jokes and turned the darkest moments into hilarious material. Making strangers laugh while I had a noticeable PICC line in my arm was the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced as a comedian. These people paid for babysitters, came to laugh, and now they are staring at someone with cancer. I’m sure many thought, “we should have gone to the movies.”

I did it for myself. I needed to take ownership of the situation. I have been told many times that my approach helped others who were going through similar struggles. I alleviated my own fears by sharing them with the world. I could have switched from a beacon of positivity into a dismal sack of hopelessness. Yet, I didn’t. I found myself bitter at times and checked myself. I can’t change what happened. There’s a reason why the front windshield is bigger than the back. Move forward.

Those 33 days in the hospital were the most painful of my entire life. Even when I got out, I could barely move. Everything hurt. I was on intravenous antibiotics for almost a month, attached to a fanny pack that kept reminding me: YOU ARE SICK. YOU ARE WEAK. But every day when I woke up, I did more than the recommended physical therapy. I made it my job to rehabilitate my body and mind. I listened to “Unstoppable” by Sia hundreds of times. Goddamn, that woman can infiltrate my psyche with empowerment. I got my meditation schedule back on track. With every painful step, I kept telling myself, “This is temporary. This is not your life. This will all be a fever dream if I keep doing the work.” 

I always knew I could bounce back. I kept journaling almost every single day. Most of it was goal-setting, positive affirmations, visualizations, manifestations. I kept track of how I felt and if I look back at the first entries of the year, I recognize how far I’ve come. I was hours away from death, unable to move, completely detached; and now I am literally climbing mountains. My wife and I spent two weeks traveling around Japan where I headlined a show and judged a Japanese Roast Battle. To answer your question, it was in English. I taped a set with Comedy Central where I made fun of my cancer. I’m not hiding from it. I’m using it. I will use every ounce of struggle for personal gain. I will not allow any of my misery to control who I am supposed to be. 

I thought 37 was a year to forget. Now I realize, it may have been the most pivotal year of my entire life. I was forced into lessons that I may not have ever taken the time to learn. I was the hare, running as fast as I could hoping to get to a finish line. Now I’m the tortoise. Methodical. Paced. Able to look around and shove my face in the fragrant, vibrant flowers while still knowing, I have plenty of time to win. Allergies to pollen be damned. I will smell those fucking lilies. 

While trying to burn me to a pile of ashes, all of this ignited a fire inside of me that cannot be extinguished. I am inflamed and it’s not just from my eczema.  I did everything I could to not only get back this version of myself,  but to shed my outer shell and have a complete metamorphosis. I was already a butterfly. But this winged-insect has turned into a fucking eagle. I have proven to myself that through the absolute worst pain, both physical and emotional, you cannot take away my spirit. I am meant to spread love, give joy, and make people laugh until they can’t breathe. None of it was easy, but it was necessary. 

With all of that behind me, I am here to say: Come at me, 38. Show me what you got. I’m ready for every single moment.

Brand new suit: Check. 

Fresh haircut: Check. 

Sixty of the people I love most: Check. 

Woman of my dreams: Check. 

Extra cells growing uncontrollably in my body: Check. 

Fuck. What was that last one?

It was one of the biggest days of my life. The Punta de Mita ocean breeze wisped through my hair on this insanely perfect evening.  All of our guests are laughing, crying, and everything in between as we pronounce our love for each other. This wasn’t just any wedding. It was almost twenty years in the making and everyone there knew it. But one attendee was there who was not on the guest list. No one saw or heard them. They were hiding in the shadows waiting to upend our lives. 

As I said, “I Do”, the cancer inside my body repeated the sentiment. I wouldn’t know for four months that I had Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, but Hodgy (my cute nickname for it) used that time to throw a giant party. His goal wasn’t to rage: he wanted to destroy the venue. The aftermath would be very expensive. As the cleanup crew of doctors found more issues, the bill continued to grow.

I often look back at the time before I was diagnosed. I was having one hell of a year. In March, Fifteen of my friends and I ravaged our way through Las Vegas on a 36-hour bender filled with dancing, delicious food, lavish hotel rooms, and incredible drugs. It was the bachelor party I always wanted. My nose hated me. 

Sin City to Decompression City. I flew from Vegas straight to Alaska to spend a few days with my brother and his wife. They live in a pristine environment outside Denali National Park. The contrast of being in the center of debauchery and then 20 hours later arriving in a snow-filled wonderland was exactly what I needed. I spent the next four days expelling the drugs from my system as I skied, ate fresh moose, and snorted fresh, freezing air directly into my nostrils. They were ecstatic to have a break after the landslide they were put through in Las Vegas. I ended that week by doing sold-out shows in Wasilla and Anchorage, the perfect cap to a monumental run of pleasure.

It didn’t end there. Less than a month later, my (soon to be) wife and I would live it up for 10 days in beautiful Puerto Vallarta. Five days with family and friends and another five by ourselves at the most posh resort I had ever experienced. To say it was amazing would be an understatement. Shout out to the poolside violinist who made every bite of ahi tuna that much sweeter.  It was only April and I was crushing life harder than a Midwest slaughterhouse. Sorry for the visual if you’re vegetarian or vegan. 

May reigned in two of our favorite festivals: Desert Hearts and Lightning in a Bottle. Lakeside illuminated temporary paradises meant to stimulate every part of your brain. These weekends were adorned with wonderful music, rainbow clothing, and the silliest humans on the planet.

I wasn’t only partying. I was producing. I released my second full-length comedy album and on top of that, a techno song that I created with my friend Sacha. I was in the crowd multiple times when a DJ played the song and to be part of the crowd as they got hyped was something I’ll never forget. On top of that, I was headlining shows all over the country at clubs I had never played before.  I was killing it on all fronts.  My life was like a bowl of Lucky Charms: Magically Delicious.

How did I get here?

Let’s rewind. When I was 17, I hated life with a passion. Terrible skin, horrible depression, and an inner rage that reared its ugly face as often as possible. The world was against me so I would make it my mission to make everyone around me as miserable as I was. I told my parents that I would be homeless and didn’t care about the consequences. Working towards a goal was unfathomable and inhabiting that level of unhappiness in your formative years? A happy life was so far away it might as well be on another planet. 

But under that Mars-like skin, something else was brewing that I couldn’t yet see. Potential. No one knew it was there because it was buried beneath the violent emotional outbursts that influenced my relationship to the world around me. When the entire universe feels like it is squashing you into oblivion, it’s impossible to consider a life filled with love and laughter. 

I don’t have time to go into how I changed or why and honestly, it doesn’t matter. My story won’t be yours and the methods I found to do a 180 are too plentiful to explain. What matters is that I did it. I had no idea that I could use the profound energy flowing through me to help instead of hurt. The potential was always there. I simply had to find a way to harness it.

Fast forward to now. The cancer is exactly the same. I had no clue it was there as I was living a fantastic version of life. I was going 100 mph on a highway with no roadblocks, preparing to break ground in my career and begin a family with my wife. If you put a beat behind those two sentences you could easily transform it into a hip-hop track. I never saw Hodgy until he jumped in front of my car, splaying himself across the windshield.

Thanks to this loser of a guest, my life has reverted to how I felt as a child. Constant doctor visits, new medications, a pause on many of the ways I express myself. It was a time when happiness was only felt in fleeting moments that would skitter away like bugs on a pond. I can’t do live comedy.  I can’t travel. I can’t play tennis or walk on a slackline. I had the worst hospital experience of my life and trust me, that’s saying a lot. I had worked so hard to build a life that even I was inspired to live, and now these radically dividing, uninvited cancerous cells are threatening to strip me of everything I’ve achieved.

But I am not my teenage self. The rebellion is still there and I’m thankful it is because that is what makes me an excellent creative. I learned how to use my stubbornness to my advantage. Angry Alex isn’t dormant. He’s dead. 

I flipped my emotional state once, which means I can do it again. When I was a struggling teenager, I had no idea that one day I would be on stage with the same comedians I was currently watching on TV. I didn’t know that people would recognize me in public and actually be excited to meet me. I didn’t know that joy would stick to me like a fly in a glue trap. What’s with all these insect references?

This isn’t any different. Right now I’m sick. Sick like pulling a quadruple backflip on a motorbike. Fucking sick, bro! But one thing that hasn’t changed at all is my POTENTIAL. There is no medicine on Earth that can cure that. I’ll beat the fuck out of this cancer like a drunk redneck beating up his underage girlfriend. OK, maybe I should go back to analogies about bugs.

My point is, even when you’re at your lowest, when it seems like nothing will ever go right again, when all hope has been abandoned, underneath the surface, you still have potential. It may have snuck into minuscule cracks but it’s still holding space inside of you. You just have to excavate. You may get lucky and it shoots out of you one day like a rocket, but most likely it will take two things: Time and Patience. Uggghhh. I know. 

Don’t be afraid to dig. Like those miners in Jurassic Park that discover the mosquito embossed in amber,  You never know what you’ll find that will change your life. Thank god we ended on a bug reference and not some vicious mention of domestic abuse. Whoops. Sorry. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

Phew! That was a close one. If you’ve been following my journey, you know that I’ve been swinging my dick at a super posh palazzo in Sicily. I almost didn’t come home considering I was surrounded by incredible artwork, delicious pasta, and an endless array of Aperol Spritzes. It was paradise.

Wait. No. Scratch that and reverse it. I was not in Italy. I spent 33 days at Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center, which, unless you are an unhoused human, is the furthest thing from a resort vacation. Yup. One month in an East Hollywood hospital. Completely unexpected. In speaking to a few friends, I learned that most people have never been in a hospital overnight, let alone for the entire length of a menstruation cycle. So I figured I’d relay my experience and let you know what it’s like to be out of the moving world for that amount of time. Period. 

By early November, I was blasting through my treatments for Stage 3 Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. My oncologist was already telling me that he could probably scrape off a cycle or two if my body kept responding in such a positive way. I was doing a ton of standup, kicking ass on the tennis court, and experiencing minimal side effects. I appeared to be so healthy, audience members at my shows were questioning if I even had cancer. 

“Is this all for a bit?” I was asked that countless times because when people hear the “C” word, a picture goes through their minds. It isn’t a person on stage making them laugh. I’m not strapped to a chair, frail and weak, dozens of tubes running into every vein of my body. I’m not closing my shows by puking into a bucket, even though that could be hilarious in the right circumstances. I’d be like Gallagher. Front row is the splash zone so grab your raincoats, everyone. 

Other than not going on the road, almost nothing in my life had changed at all. Until it did. Without going into full detail, a few days after treatment #4, I developed an internal infection. At first, I thought it was fatigue from the chemo. But one night, things took a turn for the worse. My wife knew something was very wrong and with a couple of close friends, they got me out of the apartment and to the Emergency Room. I was confused, didn’t know my own name, and was immediately triaged to the front of the line. Take that, Woman with a Broken Arm! I’ve got celebrity status.

The next few days are a blur. It was mid-November and as everyone prepared for the approaching holidays, I was met with a team of new doctors who visited me like I was The Candyman. The fun one who distributes sweets, not the terrifying one who shows up and kills you when you say his name in the mirror. I learned that I was about 24-48 hours away from death which looking back, is absolutely terrifying. I haven’t even picked out a crematorium! Score one for my wife and friends for responding as quickly as they did or that would have been a wrap on Ol’ Crusty over here. (Don’t ever call me that).

No one told me how long I would be in the hospital and as days turned into a week, I began to get restless. I learned that my infection had spread and I had suffered a litany of internal ailments because of it. Thanks to lifelong terrible eczema (it’s not a sunburn), my body and I have always been in a dance. This time it flat out told me: I’m sitting this one out. 

Week one passed with no sign of when I would emerge from my cave. As someone who loves being outdoors, not being in the sun had a serious effect on my mental state. For the first couple of weeks, I was too weak to leave my bed. I had lots of visitors who were eager to see me and family/friends alleviated me from going batshit crazy. Even still, laying down 24/7 made it impossible for me to enjoy my life. 

There are other factors as well. I was drugged up to reduce pain and swelling, but also needed constant antibiotics, which had to be changed every couple of hours. I was woken up at 6 AM each morning to do blood work. I estimate over the course of my stay I was pricked no less than 200 times. I called them The Excavators because they would often miss my vein due to the swelling and have to dig around until they found one. All this before the sun came up. 

Uninterrupted sleep became impossible. Machines are constantly beeping and if it isn’t yours, it’s someone in the room next to you. This isn’t the Four Seasons. Doors are always open which means you hear conversations from your ailing neighbors, many of whom are not doing well upstairs. I switched rooms three times due to different needs, but somewhere on my admission application I must have checked a box that said “Room Preference: Next to Screaming Guy.”

Nurses told me this was typical for winter. People use the hospital to escape the cold for as long as they can. I know I can be annoying but at least I’ve never thrown a plate at a nurse while calling them an uncaring bitch. No matter what, I was always kind and grateful. I would constantly let the medical and cleaning staff know that I was grateful for them. Some of them would even slip me extra pain meds as a thank you. Hello hallucinations!

Being in the penitentiary, I mean hospital, for 33 days, means you are eating that food the whole time as well. For the first two weeks, I was on a “no solids, minced food” diet. Everything was pureed sludge and it tasted like nothing. No seasoning, not even on Thanksgiving. It was brutal. I never thought I would despise mashed potatoes but try eating them for a month straight and you’d just as soon shove them up your ass than put them in your mouth. Eventually, as my situation improved, I was upgraded to almost real food. It was better, but marginally so. It was still cheap powder sculpted into what looked like a piece of chicken. 

The combination of food and constant meds wasn’t helping my bowels. At one point, I had gone 7 days without pooping. I wasn’t eating much, but it was enough that I should have been pushing something out the back door. Presenting: My First Enema! For those of you who get queasy, feel free to skip the following paragraph.

The nurse told me I would have anywhere from 2-15 minutes after the enema before everything inside of me would escape. At the time, I could hardly shift from side to side. Getting out of bed and to a commode with a time limit scared me, but I knew it was the only option. She took the bottle, shoved it up my butt (told you I was basically in prison), and squirted about 15 ounces into me. Did I enjoy it? Yes, you sick fuck. I did. But then reality hit. I need to get to that bedside commode; fast. As painful as it was, I made it there in about 90 seconds and I had zero time to spare. As soon as my butt hit the plastic, the process began. The potion didn’t have much time to break it up, so while this poop was relieving, it was also extremely painful. Try to squeeze a basketball into a golf hole. That’s how it felt. 45 minutes later, I was back in bed, and ready for all the intravenous pain medicine they were willing to pump into me. It felt like I let the whole cell block take me to pound town. 

IF YOU SKIPPED THE LAST SECTION, WELCOME BACK! 

Most days I had to endure some type of procedure. 3 MRI’s, 5 ultrasounds, 4 CT scans. Due to the edema (swelling) of my entire body, these were very painful experiences. I had to be completely still while my legs and arms were twisted into unnatural positions. In more than one of them, I cried for over an hour as the machines took pictures of my insides. I did anything I could to think of happier times, but nothing worked. My tolerance for pain was being tested on a daily basis. 

Two and half weeks in, I began physical and occupational therapy. Finally, I leave my bed. At first, it was only a few steps, but by the end of the first week, I was using a walker and going down the entire hallway. A long way from smashing balls on the tennis courts but progress nonetheless. I was advised by nurses to not do “too much” because insurance would see it as me ready to leave the hospital, when in fact, I was not. Mentally I could have danced the cha-cha straight out the goddamn doors but physically, I was still dealing with the infection and overall weakness. So alas, escape was still on the horizon.

PT and OT were nice breaks from my days of watching TV. Because of the drugs, I couldn’t maintain the attention it would take to read a book or write. My mind was there but my eyes were filled with those worm-like streamers that float by without a care in the world. I was constantly hallucinating but not in a way that caused existential thought. So when I would spend an hour climbing into a fake car or picking up bean bags on the ground, it took some of the boredom away. Plus, it felt great to move. It hurt like fuck, but I’m athletic by nature so even going up and down four steps was a way to let me know, this is all temporary.

On December 11, my dad unexpectedly died. Fuck. Me. I sat in my hospital bed and sobbed for hours, my wife by my side to soak up the tears with her love and sweater. Emotionally it was her loving embrace that consoled me but that crimson wool top absorbed most of the moisture. At that moment, it felt like my entire world was collapsing in on itself. Everything I loved about life, aside from the people, had fallen to shit. No comedy, no sunshine, no real food, no dad, and the new fucking crazy psycho next to me is the loudest one yet. It was 3.5 weeks in and I was ready to be OUT. 

I’ll be honest. Multiple moments I wished for death. I was ready to pay my tab and check out. But alas, that isn’t my style. This too shall pass. If a horrible sequence of events is stacking up at the same time, then surely an abundance of riches will shortly follow. Think positively and everything will be cool. I combatted every negative thought with a happy one. It was all I could do to not slam my head into the fucking beeping blood pressure machine. 

The day my dad died, I did get some good news. I was told that I would be discharged tomorrow. Thank the patron saint of whatever because my tears were turning my place of slumber into a waterbed. I went to sleep, thinking about joining the outside world. Only, it wasn’t my time.

The next day an orthopedic surgeon came in and told me my knee wasn’t draining properly. I would need minor surgery that would keep me in for another 5 days. I was crushed. Every negative emotion spilled out of me like a turned over 18-wheeler on the side of the highway. Whatever joy I had left had evaporated. My kind demeanor had been tested and I snapped at my wife in a point of desperation. She was there every day and I apologized profusely when she called me later. It wasn’t like me. None of this was. This is not my life.

Surgery went well and on day 33, it was time to leave. Nurse Aleesha pushed me in a wheelchair toward the parking lot and I carefully and painfully, climbed into my wife’s car. BYE ALEESHA. I cried the hardest I’ve ever cried. The weight of this ordeal was hitting me. It was beautiful outside and I was elated, enthusiastic, depressed, deprived, confused, etc etc. Have you ever felt every emotion at the same time and your body was shaking because it didn’t know how to react? I can now say, yes, I have. I don’t recommend it. I had survived and I was going home.

As I write this, I’ve been out for 12 days. I’m attached to an IV bag 24/7 that is feeding me a constant stream of antibiotics. I need it for almost a month. It’s in a fanny pack and thanks to many years of festivals, I can rock a fanny. I’ve stopped using a walker and am hobbling around at the same speed as my 12-year-old pug. Progress. Every day brings new challenges and fortunately I am motivated to heal. Getting back to my daily routines is bringing me back to what it means to live a healthy life. I’m cooking my own breakfast, doing the dishes, pretty soon I might even have sex with my wife. She isn’t holding her breath.

Everything is a lesson and I’d be insane to not allow this to teach me. It has brought perspective on simple things. I never thought it would be difficult to poop. I never considered Taco Bell gourmet cuisine. I never realized that three continuous hours of sleep is a blessing. 

I pray that you never have to go through anything like this. But if you do, know that if I made it, so can you. I just hope that the crazy man is on a different floor.

For most people, hearing a doctor say the words, “You have cancer” feels like the ultimate gut-check. It can send you spiraling into the catacombs of the darkest part of your brain. What did I do to deserve this? How did this happen? Who’s going to watch my kids when I have chemo? Should I stop eating banana splits for lunch? Questions are abundant and nonstop as you attempt to figure out how you will navigate your life going forward. Change is imminent and whether you like it or not, you are forced to confront one of life’s ultimate challenges.

For me, hearing those words, wasn’t a bomb going off in my face. Instead, I felt relief. 

In the five months leading up to the official diagnosis, I wasn’t myself. Lethargic, uninspired, and craving solitude became my norm. If you know anything about me, these are not in the top 100 words people would use to describe me. Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself and it was snaking its way into anxiety and depression that I hadn’t felt in years. I did all of my normal self-care practices but nothing was pulling me out of the depths of my own insecurity… 

That’s why I wasn’t shocked when I found out it was cancer. Knowing that it was physical meant that I could do something about it. With Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, even at stage 3, my prognosis is a 95% cure rate. This was wonderful news because instead of being in this bizarre state of limbo, I finally knew the foe I was up against. Let’s. Fucking. Go.

Today I had my 3rd round of chemotherapy. I’m scheduled for twelve treatments over six months to exorcize these invasive, replicating, unwanted cells. At this time, I’m forced to take a break from my usual life of traveling, partying, and cruising through the world like a whirling Dervish.

Most of my days are spent writing, meditating, reading, playing tennis, slacklining, and doing comedy shows at night. Sprinkle in a bunch of concerts and outings with friends and honestly I can’t help feeling like I retired at 37. To many people, this forced vacation sounds like a dream. Even with the cancer looming in the foreground, I’m living an enviable life. 

Here’s where it gets scary. At some point, my body will be cured of cancer. Yay! But wait. With that, this fantasy existence also comes to an end. Right now if I wake up and don’t feel like doing anything, that’s perfectly acceptable. I’m not being lazy; I’m healing! But once I’m back to 100%, there are no more excuses. I have to make decisions that move my life forward. 

I’d be lying if I told you dying hadn’t crossed my mind. Of course it has. It’s cancer, baby! The mere thought of me paying the check for this lifetime was appetizing because it meant I wouldn’t have to try anymore. Dead people can’t fail. I relished in the imagery of my friends, peers, and fans saying, “He was so funny. What could he have created if only that stupid illness never showed up?” The “what if” was so appealing to me. And here’s why:

The younger me pounced on ideas. If an inkling of a notion of a concept entered my psyche, I would put forth all of my efforts to actualize it. I wasn’t afraid of failure and because of that I thrived. I truly didn’t care what people thought of me. I always knew I would find my tribe. But with that, came a plethora of naivete. I was running as fast as I could with no clear goal other than to move fast and try not to slam into a wall. It worked in my favor because the stakes were low. I had a regular job that would pay my bills when comedy couldn’t. That’s no longer the case.

Becoming a professional automatically means that comedy is my business. It’s my life-raft that I’m slowly building out to be a luxury yacht. I can’t rely on other forms of income because right now, I don’t have a steady stream that isn’t directly related to me being an artist. Getting cancer was a sign that I need to slow down. But now that I’m getting better, my nuts are being slowly pushed closer to the fire. I can already smell the twisted, burning hairs. 

I could write another book. I could bring back my podcast or come up with another premise entirely. I could try and sell one of my pilots. I could sit back and hope that I land one of these voiceover auditions and my life in cartoons will finally begin. I could produce a live show. I could try to floss with gummy worms. COULD. COULD. COULD. The indecision that comes with all of these possibilities can feel both exciting and crippling. Whatever I do, I want it to work. I want this cancer to accelerate my career as opposed to hindering it. 

And that’s why it’s so terrifying. People believe in me and that has led me to believe in myself. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Whatever. Soon I won’t have an excuse for why I’m not doing anything with my time. Many survivors say that getting to remission gave them a renewed lease on their life. Finally, they are living for themselves and checking off that bucket list one by one. Skydiving, visiting Morocco, eating a scorpion. Fuck it. I’m alive!

For me, this prognosis is a ticking clock. As I inch closer toward my goal of eradicating cancer, the true fear sets in. How do I set myself up for longevity in a career filled with cautionary tales? How do I not get lost in the shuffle when everyone is screaming on top of their own soapbox? How do I not feel like I’m losing time when everyone else is advancing?

I’m writing this rhetorically, but also hoping that it opens a magic chamber, revealing the answer within. I can’t continue to make the same mistakes. I can’t blindly accomplish tasks with the anticipation that everything will work out simply because I’ve worked hard and have been kind. I need a project that will not only sustain me, but elevate everything I’ve built in the past 14 years. I need to use this cancer to push me further into success. If I don’t learn from it, what good did it do?

Cancer isn’t scary. Figuring out my life after it’s gone? Yikes. Only time will tell how I navigate those rivers. I know I have it in me. I deserve the life that I dream about. With every swollen lymph node returning to normal, it passes along the same message: Keep working on your boat.

Hey Hodgkins Lymphoma,

I hope you’re having a fantastic summer inside my body. You’ve been traveling, growing, and truly discovering what you can become. Divide and conquer. The Roman Empire would be proud.

When I first learned that you were inside of me, I was angry. I spent a lot of time wondering why you chose me. I barely know you and yet you have decided to move into my body without paying rent (rude!) and siphoning some of the greatest parts of me. My positivity, my creativity, my energy; you came for all of it. Like a bandit moving through a small western town, you showed up and just started taking whatever you wanted.

I was livid. Confused. Depressed. I began pondering what I did to beckon you. I exercise, eat well, meditate, do breathwork, and donate to charity. I spread love on a daily basis by making people laugh. I’m the one who lifts people up and for some reason you made it your mission to drag me down. Again, rude.

Here’s the thing though, Hodgy. I’m not upset that you’re in me. I feel like I'm supposed to hate you but hate is not an emotion that aligns with my personality. I love everybody and everything which means…I love you, too. 

You have entered my body for a reason. Maybe it’s to make me realize that life is precious. That’s something I thought I knew but this has made me understand it even more. I believe that you are here to teach me numerous lessons that I could never have learned without you. 

I’m not even in treatment yet and already you are shoving your curriculum down my fat neck.

I thought I was good at letting go. Thanks to you I realize there are sneaky beavers building dams on my river without my permission. With your help, the force of my flow will be uninterrupted as I move forward. Sorry to all my furry splinter-chopping friends, but you’re going to have to find a home elsewhere. 

I found myself saying the word “should” many times over the past few weeks. I should be at Burning Man. I should have worked harder on my podcast. I should have ordered the salad instead of the fries. But “should” doesn’t get you anywhere. “Should” is for people who have regrets. I am not one of those people.

I’m learning that you can plan for the life that you desire but that those plans can be shifted in a moment’s notice. Being able to pivot is crucial to discovering how you react in any given situation. There are many things I want to do that will have to sit on the back burner for now. By releasing this energy, I know there will be new inspirations that will grow inside of me, hopefully even faster than you are growing inside my lymph nodes. 

I’ve known for many years that I am deeply loved by many but I gotta tell you, Hodgy, I had no idea the amount of amazing humans that would step up since I announced you had taken up residence in my body. You think you are at an All-You-Can-Eat Cell Buffet but the Health Inspector knows you are here and is about to shut down the restaurant for multiple violations. You don’t understand the amount of love that is shooting into me. I am being carried by the uplifting energy of thousands of people and every one of them wants to see you get taken down.

Some of that love, however, I am sending directly to you. Because even though I am grateful for all of the wonders that will emerge over the next year and I want to make sure you know how I feel, I also need you to know you have fucked with the wrong magical sprite. I have rainbow blood coursing through my veins and your time is unfortunately for you, limited. Enjoy it while it lasts, Hodgy. I don’t have cancer. My body does. My soul is as radiant as ever. 

You have strengthened my story. You have given my family, friends, peers, community, and fans an even greater reason to root for my success. My comedy will become more authentic, original, bold, and exciting. This will not only be cathartic for me but many others who have already been touched by you in some way. We are going to laugh. A lot. At you. By sharing my personal experience with others, you will find yourself struggling to take down the next person you enter. 

My light is forever brighter and that wouldn’t have happened in the same way without you. You’re truly a mensch.

In closing, please enjoy your stay at the Hotel Alex Hooper. It’s a majestic setting to unwind, relax, and spread your cancerous wings. Sorry not sorry for all the poison that will eradicate and exile you from my body forever. Please make sure you don’t use the pool after 10 PM, especially if you have had diarrhea in the past 14 days.

Much love to one of the most notorious assholes on the planet. Let’s enjoy our time together. 

Sincerely,

Alex

“We paid $100 for this shit?”

The man raised his voice as he spoke to ensure everyone in the room heard his words. Seconds later he stood up with his girlfriend and walked out. I was only 25 minutes into my headlining set. Needless to say, it was not going as swimmingly as I had hoped. 

I’ve been a standup comedian for 13 years. In that time I’ve performed thousands of times and most of them have been positive experiences. As a genuinely happy person, I want the audience to feel the same. Laugh your face off, sustain that feeling, and float out of the room when the show is over. This is supposed to be an escape from real-world problems. But in any profession, sometimes you’re going to have a bad day at work.

This past weekend I happened to have the worst set of my entire career.

In comedy, we call it “bombing.” Other terms in the vernacular include: eating a bag of dicks, taking a huge shit, and dying. No matter how you spin it, it is horribly uncomfortable for everyone involved. Imagine sitting on a sharp rod for an hour while increasing amounts of weight are added to your limbs, continually pulling you toward the ground while the pole digs in harder. Unless you’re a total sadist, it’s one of the worst feelings a person can experience. 

It’s Friday night in Dallas, Texas. I’ve been on the road for a week headlining venues in Arizona, California, Kansas, and Oklahoma. Every show had been excellent and they were all at clubs that I hadn’t played before. First impressions are important and between my sets and my ticket sales, I was having one hell of a little tour.

The early show was great. It took some shucking and jiving on my part to figure out exactly how to get the whole crowd on my side but eventually, I succeeded. Everyone walked out and wanted to take photos, buy merch, and thank me for a terrific evening. A natural high. My second favorite kind. Wink wink.

Let’s go, show number two.

Any comic will tell you that the late show on Friday is notoriously the worst of the weekend. The crowds are tired from work, usually drunk, and often they have received free tickets. Comedians despise this show. Personally, I enjoy the challenge. Maybe there’s a bit of sadist in me after all. Insert rod now. 

The crowd was small. Just shy of 30 people. Not an issue. I’ve had hundreds of shows with that size or smaller and I can always find a way to smash their chuckle buttons. Doesn’t matter that it’s already 11:15 PM. With 45 minutes of stage time, I will find a way to relate and unite this crowd. About ten minutes into my set, I realized something wasn’t connecting. 

“Don’t panic,” scrolls across a neon sign in my head.

Pivot the material. Try something else. So I did. And then again. And again. Jokes, crowd work, making fun of myself; absolutely nothing was hitting.

At a certain point, it felt right to admit it. I relayed to the small group of bored patrons that this was not how I wanted this to go. I am a people-pleaser and I want us all to walk out feeling lighter than when we came in. “I’ll get you,” I told them. 

Only I didn’t.

There were random laughs here and there but overall it was a deafening silence. If you can hear the air conditioner, it’s not going well.

As a group, they decided my comedy was not for them. However, I am a professional and I never give up. This would take relentless amounts of work to figure out how to salvage this show and I was ready to do anything. Then it happened.

A couple in the second row said, “Where’s Ralph?”

Ralph was the opening comic of the evening and he had just done 20 minutes before I got on stage. He did well and had laughs throughout his set.

That comment was meant to rattle me but I know better.

So I went into a joke that has been one of my killers for years. It essentially never fails. This time, it did.

The couple got up and walked out after making sure their disappointment was felt by everyone. The man said some other things that were odd flexes and as much as I hate to have anyone not enjoy the show, I was glad they left. “We paid $100 for this shit?” Yes, sir, you did. 

When I knew they were gone, I called them “rude c*nts.” Immediately, I felt awful. That’s not a word I use often but it’s what came to me at the moment. Using such a powerful slur did not help my cause.

The next half hour was as brutal as can be. It seemed that no one was having a good time, which is my personal nightmare. Everything slows down as an invisible wall is erected between performer and patron. 

53 minutes.

That’s how long I bathed in their stares. I pulled every trick out of my bag and none of them worked. I even invited people on stage to do some interviews/speed roasting and it was still met with apathy. 

In my opinion, an epic failure of performance. I never blame the audience when a show doesn’t go well. These same jokes have been crushing for weeks so I wanted to figure out why they suddenly weren’t getting laughs. 

I understand that not every crowd is going to enjoy my style of comedy. I like to make you think. I often go from A to C because I want you to fill in the gaps and connect the dots. But some people need A to B. Especially if they are tired and drunk. That’s not who I am and I will never play down the intelligence of a group of people. Come with me or don’t, but I won’t pander. 

Finally, the excruciation was over. 

I took a play out of Norm Macdonald’s book and instead of hiding in the green room, I stood at the exit with a smile on my face and personally thanked everyone for coming. It wasn’t easy, but it felt necessary to show that I was still grateful to them for being there.

A few people told me that they really enjoyed it but at that point, it was hard to appreciate the sentiment. When the last person was gone, I was incredibly relieved that it was all over. That rotten feeling, however, remained as strong as ever within my body. So I went out with the servers and poured different colored liquids down my gullet to forget about it. Shots on me, everyone!

The next day, I woke up in a garbage mood.

While I know that no comedian is ever immune from bombing, it had been over a year since I had anything close to this level of soul-crushing annihilation. I wanted to black out the windows in my hotel room and crawl under the blanket.

But I know better. Stewing in misery won’t help me break away from the stench of that show. Instead, I did the exact opposite. 

Self-care Saturday. I ate a healthy breakfast at a local cafe. I ran five miles while listening to my favorite songs. I did a breathwork session to flush out the negativity. 30 minutes of meditation. Wrote multiple pages in my journal. Called family and friends so I wouldn’t feel alone. Hit up comic friends to talk about it. I had to Taylor Swift this thing. It wasn’t a TV taping. It was a handful of strangers at a club in Dallas. SHAKE IT OFF (Taylor’s Version).

I decided to post about it on social media.

Transparency is important to me. Everyone has had a shit day at work and this happened to be one of mine. Sharing the experience was the right decision. I was flooded with hundreds of messages from friends, fans, and fellow comics. The positive encouragement was exactly what I needed. “Humility equals humanity,” commented one follower. So many beautiful people thanked me for being honest. This is a side of comedy most fans will rarely see. 

I can’t take a bomb like that personally. It’s difficult not to, but again, you can’t always please everyone.

Sometimes there are factors beyond your control. The best comics had lots of shows like this. Hedberg, Hicks, Norm, Kinison. Kinison often wouldn’t leave until he walked everyone. I only had two people leave. I guess I need to try harder.

With separation and perspective, I’m glad it happened.

Getting kicked in the face teaches you lessons. You can’t look good and get better at the same time.

Maybe 30 strangers didn’t enjoy me but since I exposed myself emotionally, thousands of people will now have a deeper appreciation for who I am as a person and performer. The tether between myself and my supporters has been woven even stronger than it was before. I call that a win. 

Saturday night, I had two shows in Fort Worth.

150 people at each one. I began my set by shitting all over Dallas and each time the room erupted with applause. I had two of the greatest shows I’ve had in a long time. Took lots of photos, gave out lollipops, and hugged as many fans as I could. Exactly what I needed to end my tour on a high note. Time to go home, cuddle my wife, and fuck my pugs. Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. Yikes. 

No one is immune from a bad day. It happens to everyone and you never know when it’s coming. How you handle it is completely up to you. If you know someone is having a rough day, share this with them. Sometimes we all munch on a bag of smelly, unwashed dicks. 

 Don’t give in to your demons. And if you’re doing a Friday late show in Dallas, please stay on your toes. 

If you want more a of peek behind the scenes of the life of a touring comedian — follow me, Alex Hooper, on Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok. On socials, I get vulnerable, silly, and frequently there are pugs. (

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. 

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.

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.

“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.

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. 

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?

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. 

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. 

Dear Los Angeles,

It’s no mistake that I ended up living in this vast Playworld you call a city. Hundreds of hours of skate videos and countless reruns of Baywatch constantly called me to you. At the time I had no idea why I would move here or what I would do, but I knew my heart was screaming for California. 

For the past twelve years, I’ve been proud to call you my home. I’ll never forget the day I arrived. October 22nd, 2008. Fresh-faced, excited, completely unaware of the ways you would both make love to me and at the same time put your stilettos on my testicles and press down as hard as you could, stopping before you applied enough pressure that they would explode into oblivion.

Many people think about the joys of West Coast living. The sun’s always shining, every great band stops here on their tour, the ocean set against a backdrop of mountains. It can be paradisal in a million ways simply by stepping outside and taking a deep breath.

It can also be ruthless. When I arrived here at 23, I told myself I wouldn’t need a day job by the time I was 27. I’d be discovered, be on a sitcom, and be eating lunches with realtors to discuss which part of town I should build my psychedelia-inspired mansion. Fast forward to 35 and the only reason I’m not selling tickets at Universal is because of an invisible monster coursing its way through as much humanity as it can.

I never thought it was going to be easy, however, I always knew it was possible. When you move here, you see examples of success everywhere you go. You can use it to fuel jealousy, or you can use it as inspiration. I’ve certainly been guilty of the former but trained myself to always get my mind to somehow make it to the latter. 

LA, you’ve given me so much more than a home. You’ve given me a chance to become myself. Beginning stand-up comedy and using it as a medium of deep self-exploration has completely evolved the way I looked at the world. No longer do I see it as a cruel, unforgiving place. I see a beautiful planet filled with opportunities to experience endless amounts of joy. And all of that is thanks to the other weirdos who have decided to make this their home.

I hear a lot that LA is fake. Every person here only cares about themselves and will claw their way through every other crab so they can climb their way out of the bucket. That’s what I heard so that was my preconceived notion as well. What I found was exactly the opposite.

Los Angeles is filled with people that are exactly like me. They may not have piercing blue eyes and a mustache that could house a family of sparrows, but we do share something more important: mindset. 

They had a particular set of skills and ideas that were bigger than where they were from. It’s not to say they couldn’t have lived an incredible life somewhere else, but something about California makes you believe your dreams really will come true out here. 

And they will. Once you find your community.

This city is a drug dealer and everyone wants a taste of what you’re selling. You sling dime bags of hope, ounces of opportunity, and kilos of rejection. You love distributing nuggets of deliciousness amongst piles of shit. You bestow just enough to let me know that anything is possible, as long as I’m willing to slog through the mud, on my hands and knees to get there. And the only way to do it is for others to get filthy with you.

Above all else, that’s what you’ve truly given me. A network of like-minded individuals willing to throw away comfort for a chance of crossing the bridge to the other side. The place where we can frolic, dance, and create the things we wish existed. I have met thousands (and that is not hyperbole) of incredible souls who want to make and share art. They crave live experiences, connectivity, and the feeling that we are better if we do it together. 

Are there pieces of garbage floating in the pool? 100%. No city is without those that don’t seem to get it. Fortunately, most of that trash eventually gets scooped up and tossed aside. Those that view their art as competition never have a long shelf-life. It’s all about collaboration. Cultivating a community has provided an unlimited source of energy and motivation. When my friends do something amazing, it makes me want to step up my game. By pushing each other to dangerous heights, together we learn to fly.

Sometimes I think you’ve tricked me into living here forever. With your crazy taxes, rumbling earthquakes, 3 months of the year literally dubbed “fire season,” and one-bedroom trash can starting at $500,000. I could go to countless other places and probably be happy. The truth is, I don’t want to. 

While there are phenomenal humans everywhere you go, the concentration here is unbeatable. Every day I meet someone that makes me want to be better.

I moved here to be discovered. But you, LA, showed me something much better. You taught me how to discover myself. You whispered in my ear to run free uncaged, without shame or fear. You proved to me that I was the one holding myself back from realizing my destiny. Once I embraced me, as you painfully and lovingly taught me to do, everything else made sense.

It’s my path and I choose how to pave it. I pick which direction it will go and it may be riddled with twists and turns, sometimes with no light to illuminate my way, but I know it’s leading me to a place of unbridled happiness. LA, you helped give me definite purpose. Once you have that, you cannot be swayed or distracted from your overall mission.

You did your best to deter me. 6 Car accidents, multiple years of auditions with zero results, never getting the showcases that I thought I deserved, a sun that scorches my sensitive skin even when it’s cloudy. I could have left after any of these. But I haven’t. And I won’t.

You are responsible for the empathetic monster that I have become. You showed me how to be positive. You taught me how to utilize my talents in unique ways. You encouraged me to latch onto my destiny and allow it to soar to unimaginable heights. 

I owe a lot to you, LA, and maybe that’s the reason I’ll probably never leave. I owe it to you to pass on everything I’ve learned to friends, family, peers, and future generations that will move here with the same stars that still sparkle in my eyes.

You did this to me, LA. Call me Whitney Houston because I will always love you (and I will probably die railing lines of cocaine in the bathtub).

Sincerely,

Alex TreeStump Hooper

We have to stop and smell the roses. Look around this magical life and be grateful for all that we have accomplished. Whether you feel that way or not, take inventory of some of your most memorable experiences and I bet you’d surprise yourself at how many amazing things you’ll write down.

Last week I performed in the anti-mask capitol of the United States — Huntington Beach. About 500 people gathered on the sand to get drunk and listen to a few comics spit our musings. This would have been an amazing show in the before times, but in 2020, holy fuck. This is radical. Slightly off-putting and a little concerning, but I strapped a face-condom on and didn’t remove it except for the 28 minutes I had on stage. Bronzed beach-bodied couples kept trying to hug me and I had to keep them at bay. You know the type. Somehow the man and woman both look like Sammy Hagar and it’s kind of hot but in an “I can tell you have a strange amount of lube in your bedside table” way.

Performing that night was everything. A pent-up caged animal released into the wild ready to blaze a trail of destruction. God how I’ve missed that rush of adrenaline. The power of words creating a cacophony of laughter, exploding droplets all over the shoreline. Hearing that sound inserts a power in me that I have never been able to reciprocate. It’s orgasmic.

But there’s another part that I’d almost forgotten about that I didn’t realize I had missed so much.  The show is over, the crowd is clearing out, and a line starts to form of audience members that want to meet you. My thoughts jump from “get out of here” to “you can say hi to a few” to “screw it I’m keeping my mask on and going out for photos.” Maybe it was ego, but I think more so it’s the personal connection I crave. And ooo baby do I CRAVE hard.

People were very respectful. Even in their overly inebriated state, they understood. I spoke in terms they would get immediately. “Hey dude, stay one surfboard back.” 

Other than the first couple rows, you have no idea who is in that audience. After the gig, this is their opportunity to say something and I LOVE interacting with fans. I can say with all sincerity AGT has blasted me into a spotlight far beyond where I was three months ago. Not only did most of the crowd know who I was, they couldn’t wait to have a few moments with me. It may sound narcissistic, but goddamn it I have worked so hard for exactly this. A line of people who just want to say hello or take a picture- I felt the impact like a 7.9 earthquake of pure positivity.

I get to the end of the line after a few minutes of high-level schmoozing. I’ve read books on charisma and I know how to use tactics to make them feel just as special as they make me. Ask them a question, look them in the eye, laugh at their jokes, GIVE THEM ATTENTION.

The last group in line was a family. Mother, daughter, boy (11), girl (9). I’m smiling as hard as I can, looking at this gorgeous, quintessential California clan. The mother speaks first. “Hi! I sent you a message on Instagram today. We randomly saw this flyer and knew we had to come to the show. We are all huge fans!”

I’m beaming from ear to ear, but then have a revelation. I start to think about everything I did on stage and let me tell you, child-friendly it was not. Since quarantine, my filter is gone. Pretty sure I said the word cum at least 6 times and at one point did an act-out of a woman trying to keep it inside her as she waddles to the bathroom post-coitus, comparing her to a T-rex. It was completely off the cuff, and one of the biggest pops I had all night. That joke got the 500 laughs I coveted. But now I’m staring at these innocent children, the future of our country, and I’m wondering how much of that they retained. 

Either way, the family was as cool as could be. We took some photos and I made sure that I paid extra attention to the kids, recognizing that I would have no idea how to act in that moment if I were their age. They told me it was the first time they had ever seen a comedy show. My heart shot out of my chest directly toward the heavens where it burst into a million stars that will forever shine a light on this world. I was their first. 

And you always remember your first. 

In 1999, I was a 14-year-old kid living in the suburbs of Baltimore. Half-Baked had come out the year before and it was oft-quoted between my friends. A stoner comedy perfect for a young man destined to get high. I see in the newspaper (as my friend Julian McCullogh brilliantly says, “that’s when they used to deliver the internet to your house”) that Dave Chappelle is doing a live show at Towson University, a mere 15 minutes from my house. $10 tickets. My friend Phil goes with me, and my dad drops us off in the middle of a college campus, fresh-faced and innocent as can be.

I don’t remember much of what Dave did that night. Or anything specific. But like Maya Angelou said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

I recall Phil and I uncontrollably laughing throughout the opening comedian, and when Dave came on, it was lights out. We kept exchanging glances and hitting each other with the same explosion of enthusiasm. We have watched this man in movies, and now there he is, on stage, moving a room to tears of happiness. I walked out of there and didn’t shut up about it for weeks.

Cut to 18 years later. January 2017. I’m at The Mondrian hotel across from The Comedy Store, enjoying the accolades of having just filmed Comedy Central’s Roast Battle Season 2. It was my first major televised stand-up achievement and I might as well have been on 20 hits of ecstasy because I was invincible. Everything peaking at the same time. It’s the feeling I always chase. Drugs are great, but nothing will ever beat killing in comedy.

The after-party is in full swing, when who strolls in but the king himself, Dave Chappelle. We’ve met once or twice, but mostly in very quick exchanges. This was my opportunity, and if there’s anything you should know about me, I don’t let moments like this slip through my fingers. “I should have done this” is not a statement in my lexicon. I approach Dave as a hoard of young comics and fans brawl their way through to take a photo. He snaps a few then notices me and stops. 

“You.” His long bony finger points directly at me. My heart pulses an extra beat. 

“You were so funny up there, man.”

I’m stunned. I begin to pick up the pieces of my brain which had detonated seconds before. I have to tell him. So I did. 1999 Towson University. I was 14. It was the first time I ever saw live stand up. He’s clearly taken aback. 

“You were there? And now I’m here, watching you? How fucking cool is that?’

I can’t contain myself. 

“Its the coolest fucking thing in the entire world, Dave.”

I told him I didn’t want a picture. I didn’t need it. I just wanted a hug. His smile lit up as big as I’ve ever seen it. He put his arms around me and gave me a full embrace. Three of them.  As we separated our hearts, he looked in my eyes and said, “you just made my whole night.”

I stood there. Frozen in time. Allowing this moment to wash over me. Another 50 hits of molly have entered my bloodstream. I AM FLOATING. That charisma that I mentioned before, that’s a masterclass of exactly how to use it. Here I am, meeting my comedic idol, and he made me feel more special than when I used to ride the short bus to school. 

I knew right then and there that my life would be a never-ending plethora of excitement. They say don’t meet your heroes. FUCK THAT. Meet them, tell them what they mean to you, and if they don’t show appreciation, they aren’t worth it. The real ones, the GOATS, they will give you that moment because they understand what it means to you.

Back to last night. I told the family about seeing Chappelle in 1999. I looked right at the kids and said “I don’t know what you’re going to do in your lives, but I can only hope that one day we meet again, and I can watch you do something incredible.” The look on their faces, and especially the parents, I knew that Dave had taught me so much more than how to be an elite comedian. He taught me humility, grace, and the power of truly seeing someone, even if it only lasts a second. 

It was powerful. It was beautiful. It was a moment I’ll never forget, and I don’t think those children will either. Once again, I was floating, knowing I had completed this cyclical experience.

By the way, I didn’t find this out until a few years ago, the comedian that opened for Dave that night at Towson University that had me in stitches: A young about to be discovered talent named Dane Cook. 

I repeat Dave’s words from that fateful night, “how cool is that?”

Going on TV can be a nerve-wracking experience for any performer. It’s a huge moment and now, thanks to our good friend and worst enemy, The Internet, anything you do on that screen will live forever. I’ve worked my tiny ass off to get those opportunities and no matter the circumstances, I have to kill it. Every time.

Being on America’s Got Talent is massive. Every year 75,000 people audition. Around 400 get to go in front of the judges and from that group only a little over a hundred will ever make it to air. You can get a standing ovation and four “Yes’” votes from the judges only to have your performance never see the light of day. You won’t get a phone call. You’re simply in limbo, having no idea why they didn’t showcase you. I’ve seen it happen to phenomenal artists.

I’m fortunate to not only have been on the show in 2018 but to have been invited back in 2020 to do it all over again. While I’m incredibly grateful to the show for allowing me to be myself, my individual scenarios have been absolutely horrifying by comedian standards.

Let’s start in 2018. I walk on a stage that is lit as brightly as can be, with the entire theatre illuminated as well. Comedy happens in the dark for a reason. It’s easier to laugh when you feel anonymous. It also makes it easy for me to not be able to see every single face, but rather feel a general vibe from the room and play off that. But that’s not what happens at AGT. You can see every set of braces reflecting directly into your eyes. 

Already, you’re at a disadvantage as a comedian. These people don’t go to clubs so the only comedy they know is watered down, family-friendly, producer approved jokes. No subtlety, no high-brow thoughtful humor. You have two minutes to prove to them you’re as worthy as a dance team that blows fire while doing backflips. 

When the booing began, I knew I was finished. There was no winning. There was only survival. The cacophony of the crowd yelling, the horrific sound of those buzzers, the judges disapproving taunts: all of it combined to form an explosion of noise so loud I couldn’t even hear my thoughts. I was humbled, ridiculed, and even though I pranced off that stage with my tail between my legs, I was shaken to my core. It felt like the worst bomb of my entire life. 

Some people would have quit. Most would have never gone back. Why would anyone choose to subject themselves to that level of torture...AGAIN?

I’ll tell you exactly why. Once you face something like that and come out on the other side, a feeling of fearlessness takes over your psyche. It can’t possibly get any worse, right? Wrong.

In September of 2019, I got the call that I was being invited back. I was doing everything I could to get a late-night set so I could show the world I’m a true stand up comic, not just a roaster. No one was biting or even returning my emails. So what do you do when you’re starving? You go back to the table that’s fed you before. 

This time I was ready. Whatever the bottom is, I’ve already lived it. If the audience barks at me, I’ll gnarl my teeth until they back down. I was convinced I could win this fight. 

Only, I’d never see an audience on the show again. I shot my second audition on March 14th, 2020... ya see where I’m going with this? I walked out onto that same stage, only now, instead of 3000 unruly peasants, I was simply staring at three iconic multimillionaires. All that pandemonium was gone. It was so quiet I could hear the stomp of my boots as I scuttled out to my starting position. COVID was officially here and everyone was on edge. 

I’ve performed for three people before. I do comedy in LA. It happens. But normally those are in tiny coffee houses or the secret back room of a marijuana den. Looking out at these judges, 75 feet away from me, amongst thousands of empty chairs; the vastness of the space was impossible to avoid. 

Once again, I didn’t allow this to shake me. I had a plan and no matter what, I had to be free and execute to the best of my abilities. Will they get it? Is this a talent? Is this relatable?

Thankfully, yes. It was far from ideal, but I accomplished my goal and got the pat on the back from each of these uber-famous celebrities who gave me a standing O. That’s ovation, not orgasm, although the latter would have been delightful.

When quarantine began the very next day, none of us thought we’d still be in this position. I figured a couple of weeks and I’d be right back to comedy clubs, traveling, filling my face with drugs, dancing like an uncaged buffoon at music festivals, eating sushi inside off a plate, you get it. 

Thanks to a lovely little global pandemic, all of our plans were gunned down and spared no mercy. Simon had just told me, “You’re such a dick. I don’t know why I like you so much. You need to come back and do this in front of an audience.” As each day passed and felt increasingly longer than the one before it, I slowly realized that was never going to happen.

Every day was a new adventure of how the season would unfold. Constant emails and phone calls with producers. We went from Plan A to Plan G in a matter of weeks. Discussions were had that maybe I would shoot at home through a Zoom call (ughhhhhh), or maybe we wouldn’t do this at all.

I was recording content for them, coming up with different ways to present my material in case we couldn’t be in the same room, having every single word I say put through a ringer of executives and network Standards and Practices. I mean it when I say, there were hundreds of back and forths of what I was allowed to say and do, especially in a climate where society as we know it was shattering around us. 

Because of this infectious invisible villain, I ended up not performing in the Judge Cuts episode. Producers and judges decided based on what they already knew about us who would move on to the live shows. Happy to say, they didn’t do me dirty and asked me to return.

But now, I’m going to do this LIVE ON TV FOR 10 MILLION PEOPLE. No pressure, right?

Everything was changing all the time and to make matters worse, I had nowhere to practice. When you see a comedian tell jokes on TV, you have to understand, they have told those jokes THOUSANDS of times. They run those sets into the ground to work out every piece of timing and rhythm until they can do the routine hanging upside down over a bed of spikes without missing a beat. That shit is ingrained in you.

With my set, I had to come up with original jokes. I threw them around to a few friends, but for the most part, I had no idea if they were going to work or not. On top of that, once again, there wouldn’t be an audience. Just the same super-rich personalities that have completely forgotten what it means to struggle and here I am, a lizard-skinned hippie pointing out their flaws. Uphill battle? Yeah. Slightly.

It’s tough to explain the process of getting that set to where it ended up. EVERYTHING has to be approved by a seemingly never-ending line of decision-makers. I’d pitch ideas, they’d shoot up the ladder, then come back down with notes.

 “Go harder! Pull back! Is that racist? Can you explain this joke? I don’t like the wording here. What about music? Staging? Yes, that’s definitely racist. We can see his bulge in that skinsuit. Is that going to be a problem? Uhhhhh, let me check. We’re not going to pay for that.”

 I could go on forever, baby! 

And that’s just for the actual performance. Then came the Coronavirus guidelines. Being tested every three days with that swab poking your brain, never removing your mask, social distancing, not touching anything, NO CRAFT SERVICES (the horror!)

Through all of this, I was grateful. I had no work of any kind and I couldn’t travel, so being on the show filled my days with purpose. Had this been a normal year, I don’t think I ever would have come up with such an original and bold way to showcase myself. 

Knowing I wouldn’t have an audience (again) made me push myself to develop something unique. How could I present material in a way that was exhilarating but wouldn’t rely on laughter fueling the fire? I pitched a bunch of ideas ranging from simple to absolute madness, and we eventually landed on the burn book.

I reformatted every single one of my jokes so they would work in a rhyme scheme. I hired my brilliant cartoonist friend Eddie Mauldin to illustrate the roasts of the judges. We found underlying music to make it feel intimate. So many elements had to come together to make it work, and all of them had to be approved by the team. If one person at the top said no, it was back to the drawing board.

What you saw me do in that live show was hundreds of hours of work coming to fruition. It’s one thing to have an idea. It’s another to execute. Watching it on TV later that night, I knew I had completed my task to the best of my ability. I created something that had never been done before and it had an immediate effect on everyone watching.

So here’s my point: It doesn’t matter what the situation is. There’s always going to be something that throws you off your game. YOU NEED TO RISE UP. You need to own every moment. No excuses. This is your time to shine and nothing can get in the way. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever return to AGT. But going through their machine, being faced with adversity in so many different ways, it has made me realize that I am unstoppable. I’ve been through literal nightmare scenarios multiple times and somehow found a way to thrive. I’ve proven that I will be myself and not bow down or pander to make people like me. 

Go be you. Whatever that means. No one can do it better than yourself. Stick to your guns, believe in yourself, and find a community of people who will stand behind you. It’s all out there for you to take. None of this was accidental. It’s capturing an opportunity and making the most of it. Go. Fucking. Get. It.

Let’s face it. Live comedy is dead... for now. 

Comedy clubs are my favorite places in the world. Few things are more beautiful to me than a group of strangers uniting to share an experience through laughter. Unfortunately, the very nature of stand up comedy is a sexual paradise for a virus like COVID-19. Hundreds of humans packed together in a tiny room with low ceilings, while continuously shooting droplets into the air like a confetti cannon on New Year’s Eve. Right now, It’s irresponsible and downright dangerous.

If you’re anything like me, this is a crushing blow. Comedians and comedy lovers alike want to be able to gather and chuckle, especially as the situation drags on. We need levity, especially in a time when the weight of everything is flattening all we’ve ever known to be true. The fabric of society is being shredded, and if we don’t find a way to laugh, we’re going to cry salty tears until we fill up the kiddie pool in our front yard.

But have no fear, my faithful weirdos: VIRTUAL COMEDY IS HERE!

For most consumers, Zoom is a platform for business meetings, family hangs, even just a simple way to spend some face time with a friend. When quarantine began, comedians wasted no time in switching to this format. I had virtual shows within the first week and they haven’t stopped since.

I’m not going to lie. At first, I hated this. Live entertainment is my jam. Staying in my home and performing from my bedroom didn’t have the same appeal. Screaming into my phone can’t give me that adrenaline rush that I crave when I walk onto a stage. That being said, there are some major benefits to hocking jokes in this new medium for both comedians and audience members. Such as...

YOU CAN TUNE IN FROM LITERALLY ANYWHERE

This past weekend my friend had a couple of people over to celebrate his birthday. Being that it would only be five of us and he has a pool, this was one shindig I didn’t want to miss. In the before time, there would have been no way to make this work if I had a show. Now, it couldn’t be easier. 

I set up my phone and tripod in his backyard so that all you would see is my gorgeous face and the Pacific Ocean off in the distance, put on my headphones, and happily did a ten-minute set. As soon as it was done, I jumped in the pool and went back to hanging out. With Zoom, the crowd is in your pocket. Anytime. Anywhere.

This also means that we can book comedians from different parts of the globe. On the same show, you can have entertainers from LA, NY, Australia, Indonesia. There are no limitations.

I hosted a show this past weekend from my home in California. One of my friends tuned in from the beach. On the East Coast. No more waiting for me to come to your city. I’m inviting myself to your house every time I do a show. You stay home in your pajamas and cuddle a furry friend, the comedians will take care of your entertainment. After all...

THIS IS A SHARED CONNECTION

One of the aspects of comedy that I miss the most is the random interactions I have as I trot around the planet. I meet people from every walk of life for the sole reason that they want to forget their problems and have a laugh. While we can’t gather safely IRL, we can do it virtually. 

Zoom comedy brings people together in real-time. You can hear others laughing. You can see their faces (or not if you want to turn your camera off and just watch). Friends and fans have been genuinely pleased to know that everything is happening in the moment.

My friend Chris said it best after attending a show. “I’ve been watching comedy from my couch my whole life. This is the first time I felt like the comedian was in my home, performing just for me.”

That sums it up perfectly. You can chat with the comedians and other audience members. You can ask questions to spark conversations. You can stare into people’s homes and wonder who the hell chose those terrible drapes! This format allows you to be at peak comfort while experiencing live entertainment from professionals. If you’re missing going out, I feel you. But no matter how you spin it...

THIS IS LIVE ENTERTAINMENT

I don’t know where you’re reading this from, but right now live entertainment of any kind is forbidden in Los Angeles. This leaves a huge void for people like myself who thrive on actual experiences. While you may not be traveling to a destination physically, you are interacting with others and creating memories that will last.

Even though you and your friend may be 2500 miles apart, you can watch a show together and still feel the magic that this is something special. You can discuss the jokes you didn’t get or why one of the comedians was performing from what appeared to be a prison cell toilet. 

Movies, TV shows, and streaming services will always be there. Zoom comedy isn’t here to replace Ozark. It’s an alternative. There’s something wonderful about knowing we are all here for the same reason. A TV show can’t change its outcome, but with Zoom...

YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN

Just like any live comedy show, things are going to happen in the room that can’t be avoided. But now instead of a waitress dropping a tray, dogs are barking, cars are screeching, older generations begin talking because they forget they are in the middle of the show. The variables are endless and some of my favorite moments have been a comic responding to a ridiculous noise or a light going out. 

As we all navigate this new reality, there’s going to be a ton of hiccups along the way. No matter what happens, we can always find a way to make it funny.

This also allows you to play with the new format. In one show, I was doing a set as myself when I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I popped off-screen, put on a wig, and came back pretending to be a kidnapped girl being held hostage in Alex’s bedroom. I begged for someone to call the authorities. I dropped out of frame again, then immediately came back as myself and pretended like nothing ever happened. 

COMICS: This is your opportunity. Try out that weird bit you’ve always wanted. Take chances. Think about how you can give the best show possible, with and without your written jokes. The stakes couldn’t be lower! There are no bombs on Zoom, only awkward pauses. We all want to take back the stage but we also know that we can’t. That’s why Zoom is here...

IT KEEPS COMEDY FRESH

I’ve heard it a ton. “I can’t wait to be back doing/seeing comedy again.” Well, guess what, buttercup. That transition period is going to be ROUGH. This is not riding a bike. Comedians need practice. And the ones that are choosing to not perform right now are going to suffer more than they realize. 

I’ve already forgotten jokes that I’ve told a thousand times. My rhythm is different, my cadence is changing. Doing these Zoom shows not only makes me think about the art form as a whole but also it keeps me WRITING. I have to come up with new things to say since a lot of my audiences are repeat customers. I still get that “new joke feeling” when I come up with a premise and punchline that I can be proud of. I crave that stimulation. 

Jokes don’t just happen. Every once in a while you are given a gift from the universe like seeing a cat rollerblading. But the majority of the time, we have to sit down and arrange our thoughts so you don’t see them coming. With Zoom, my new jokes have found life. I feel like I’m still progressing as a comedian in a time when others seem to think the world is “on pause.”

By no means am I saying that this is a permanent replacement for stand-up. Believe me, when this is all over, I may never do a Zoom show again. But for others, it may be here to stay. Agoraphobics, people with disabilities, kidnapped children who are locked in a cage in a sex basement in Indiana; they can’t simply leave the house to see a show. But with the magic of a computer or phone, even the sickliest of sickos or POW's can still find a way to be part of the hot, comedic action. 

We are all in a constant struggle to figure out how things will work going forward. It’s going to be a lot of trial and error. In a time when we are all missing family, friends, work, and our general way of life, why not try something new? And who knows, you might even love it. 

See you at my next show. No mask required.