Don't Shit Where You Eat! ™

When me and my brother were kids, my mom would say to him at dinner, “Eat your veggies- there are starving kids in Africa!”
He replied, “So if I eat these, they won’t be starving anymore?”
———

I may have paraphrased that Rodney Dangerfield joke a little to fit today’s theme, but the punchline is a direct quote and that’s all that matters.

I am and have always been a picky eater. To be fair to myself, though, I am far less picky today than when I was younger. Growing up, I’d look at something and decide I wouldn’t like it, refusing to even try.

I remember exactly how that changed, right around age 30. My first wife loved asparagus, something I’d just decided I wouldn’t like. She’d often make it for herself on nights we didn’t have dinner together. Then, one night during a business dinner at Nintendo [yes, I gave up a job at fucking NINTENDO to move to Sweden, what the hell is wrong with me?!] asparagus was served as part of the fixed menu. Fear of social and professional embarrassment winning out over pickiness, I forced myself to eat it. Only to discover that I liked it! Only… having built up in my mind that I wouldn’t like it, my gag reflex was fully engaged.

That dinner was the first of three or four times I had to literally choke down a vegetable I actually liked. I forced myself to overcome my falsely learned reflexes. Goofy, I know.

Today, I’m far more likely to try new things, because I know the worst thing that can happen is that I won’t like it. That said, I still hate tomatoes, at least raw, whole tomato. In my defense, studies have shown that intelligent people often hate tomato, as the clash of texture- crispy outsde, absolute mush on the inside- causes a smart brain to react with revulsion. May seem odd that I like tomatoes in almost every form otherwise, but who said taste has to make sense? Raw carrots yuck, cooked yum. Cooked spinach yuck, raw yum. I’m complex, baby.

Speaking of professional embarrassment, it was during a work lunch at my first job that my co-workers noticed how picky I was (still am). “He’ll eat vegetables when he grows up,” said one. Another said that taste is irrelevant, I should just eat them because they’re good for me.

It’s that remark that leads into the meat – heh – of today’s blog. Long-time readers, you proud and happy few, will have noticed how infrequent my posts have become. That a common theme has been me bemoaning how little I’m performing over the past (now several) years compared to pre-pandemic.

Truth is, writing this blog has felt more and more like a chore, and, like any chore, I find it easy to avoid through procrastination. I have lots to say here, but the PS5 and YouTube and Internet with content both appropriate and otherwise are so tempting. Not to say they haven’t always been, but before I had a full-time job, even I couldn’t feel good about not making time to write once a week.

Thing is, I love writing. I’m enjoying writing right now! It’s like running, though. I remember the last time I went for a long run, I thought to myself, “I love running! Why don’t I do this more often?!” But I don’t remember when that was, as the last time I ran was long, long ago.

Same goes for standup. The ocean is a frequent metaphor I use and, boy, I’m really going to beat it into the ground here, but away we go! I love to swim [be on stage], but getting out in the water means getting across the beach [the club], and the beach is rock and broken glass. Not a fun place to be but something to get across as quickly and as painlessly as possible. When I get into the water, it’s all worth it! Except I can only swim for six to ten minutes, then back to the beach I go. Oh, and the beach is an hour from home.

To be clear, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the clubs, just plenty wrong with me. When I’m there, I don’t find many people to talk to, and the few I do, I don’t always find things to say. On the way to the club and every minute I’m there, I’m planning – and looking forward – to bail as fast as I can.

I know as I write this, I’m not doing a great job of selling how much standup means to me. I never liked to call standup a hobby; I once referred to a retail merchandising job as my “day job,” implying that standup was my “night job” and therefore true profession, despite making far, far less than a living wage. Well, based on what I’m written so far in this entry, I haven’t even made a case for standup as a hobby.

For a decade, I was addicted to snus. I liked the nicotine rush I got when I stole snus from others at the bar, and, as opposed to party smoking, it never made me feel sick. Then I was buying my own to have on nights out so I wasn’t taking from others, then never in the morning, then first thing when I woke. As the years wore on, I would frequently feel ill from taking too many, my gums sore, and I would spit it out with a bleh. I knew the nicotine was having an effect on me, but it was hard to define what that effect was. I felt like I was doing it just to do it, until a day came that I just decided I was done with it. A week of severe depression later, I was indeed done with it.

It’s tempting to see standup the same way, as an unhealthy addiction, one that has waning power over me, something I’m doing just for the sake of it. That it’s something I could just leave behind. I don’t think that’s true, though, for a few reasons. One, because I’ve never seen standup as an addiction. Sure, I’ve heard more comics than I can count say that they were addicted from the first laugh, but I never felt that way… because I haven’t got my first laugh yet! Wocka wocka! No, I never felt like I was chasing laughs the way others chase dragons. I’m more about the reactions, as in, the crowd reacts exactly the way I want them to. That I can write a joke and think, “They will like this so much, I can close with it,” and then I try it and I’m right.

Secondly, because being a clown is such a fundamental part of me. To laugh at pain, to reduce its power (or to at least help suppress painful things deep down inside me, where they belong). I joke around all the time, I can’t help it. Hell, I joke around with customers just to make work less boring. I’ve even roasted more than a few.

I still get jealous when other comics get more opportunities than me. More than that, though, I’ve seen comics who aren’t quite my cup of tea, still have a comfort and confidence that comes with being on stage more in a month than me in a year. I want to get up more often.

So it was that, last week, I ate my veggies. I had one gig booked on Saturday during a comedy festival – one I was happy to have been offered – and I was fortunate enough to be able to book myself at Big Ben Comedy Club, on Thursday, Friday, and Sunday. Good Lord, I hadn’t been there on a Friday in over a decade.

When I say fortunate, I’m not being sarcastic. When I was there on Thursday, I was talking to a few comics about also coming the night after, and a rookie said he was on the waiting list but really hoped he would get booked. He did not. Myself, I’d put in requests for all three nights and had them all approved within a few hours. Of course, I’d like to think I’ve earned that much, if not through talent alone then at least experience.

The nights were… interesting. On Thursday, I was put last in the first half, which happens to be my favorite spot. I was even introduced as “the first half’s headliner,” which was an unexpected boon for my ego. Came with a little pressure, but nothing I had to worry about since I was the first comic to have setups and punchlines.

Man, I really try to not be a snob and let rookies be rookies, but there’s a certain type of rookie that gets under my skin. It’s easier to demonstrate than to put into words, but it’s like they’re role-playing as comics. They pace the stage and have the confident voice of a real comic, but they aren’t telling any jokes. It’s bad enough when rookies just retell a funny story that happened to them without adding anything, it’s worse when they’re not even good storytellers. You can have the most amazing dream ever and can’t wait to tell someone, but their eyes will still glaze over the second you say, “I had the most amazing dream last night!”

I was happy the way my set went. Or at least as happy as I could be, winning a 100m dash against quadriplegics. I kid, I kid! No I don’t. It did make me feel good, to show the difference years of experience makes. As I said earlier, I may feel jealous of the confidence others have at times, but I’m no slouch, either.

I don’t think recapping the other three nights would add much here, and this is a long post as it is, so suffice it to say that it was more of the same. I enjoyed being on stage, I enjoyed everything around the stage less. It’s not them, it’s me.

Time flies by and I imagine others are as tired as I am of me saying, “Oh, I need to perform more often!” and then not doing anything. I’m going to eat my veggies now, though, and finally get out there! Well, just as soon as Fall comes, and definitely then! Unless I come up with another excuse!

You know you’ve turned 50 when….
… you google “turning 50 jokes” and the results are just depressing.
———————-

Well, I turned fifty last month. Honestly, I could stop this blog entry with that simple statement, just to show how much it means to me. Age has never held much weight for me. Also, for the past six months, talking about my age on stage, I’ve said I’m fifty instead of forty-nine. I normalized being fifty before it happened.

I’ve often thought of something Dustin Hoffman said on Inside the Actor’s Studio about getting older. Age never meant much to him, either. When he turned twenty, he could easily see himself at forty. At thirty, easily see himself at sixty. Forty, eighty. Fifty… he was pushing it then, but he could see himself at a hundred. It wasn’t until he turned sixty that he knew, no matter what, he was closer to the end than to the beginning, but it gave him a sense of peace.

Now that I’m fifty, I don’t feel any different, but also I do. It’s a weird combination. Physically, in many ways I’m in the best shape of my life, but when I get hurt- and that can happen easily, at any time- I take longer to recover. I don’t get sick often, but when I do, it hits a little harder, lasts a little longer. Unless I make a conscious effort, I grunt when I stand up, grunt when I sit down. I clear my throat dozens of times per day and I have nothing to say. I sound old.

When I do feel old, mentally, it’s mostly because of external factors, the people around me. A few of my co-workers are in their early twenties and, as I’ve mentioned before, having adult colleagues not much older than my daughter is fucking weird. One day, they told me about a pub crawl they’d gone on together, and I had moment of sadness that I hadn’t been invited. A brief moment before I laughed at myself. Why would a 22-year-old invite his fifty-year-old co-worker out for a fun night out on the town?

I have another co-worker who is six years older than me and she’ll often make comments to me like, oh, you know how it is for people our age! And when she does, my gut reaction is, slow down there grandma, we are not peers. Except of course we are.

Speaking of co-workers six years older than me, back when I separated from my first wife, a woman I worked with admitted she’d long had a crush on me. She’d married her high school sweetheart and could see herself dumping him for me. (Yes, this conversation took place several hours into a night at a bar.) But she also knew that, as wild and as passionate as it would be, before too long it would cool into the same type of relationship she already had, so why throw all that away?

It was and is one of the most depressingly honest things I’ve ever heard someone say. In any case, I reminded her that, at 32, I was single for the first time in my adult life, I’d just ended a 14-year long relationship, and no one should be throwing anything away to be with me. It was a sweet encounter, though, one that obviously stuck with me. Flattering for the ego at a needful moment as well; she may have been older, but, being Swedish, looked younger. Swedes are great investments that way.

After that job ended, I didn’t see her for years. Then, recently at Maffia Comedy Club, I was walking through the lobby when I heard, “Ryan!” I turned and there she was, smiling ear to ear, just as sweet as ever. She was there with a bunch of friends, including her husband, who didn’t look happy at all to shake my hand. It was nice to see her, but, Swedish or no, she was clearly approaching sixty and, dick that I am, it made me feel old.

I suppose it’s always the people around me that have made me feel my age. I’ve often said that I never feel as old as I do in comedy clubs, especially at open mics where most of the rookies are under thirty. To paraphrase a famous stoner, I get older, the rookies stay the same age.

Now, this may be me overdosing on cope, and there’s no way for me to know how to feel otherwise, but… at fifty, I feel younger than my parents’ generation when they hit fifty. They were obsessed with age. First, it was, “don’t trust anyone over thirty.” Then they got into their thirties and the angst set in- see the film The Big Chill and the tv series thirtysomething. Then it was, “forty is the new twenty” and then, “life begins at fifty,” and then they stopped kidding themselves.

It’s probably because – despite the obesity rate – each generation is healthier than the one before it. More exercise, less bad habits like smoking and boozing, more access to better meds. Again, generally speaking. You can see it in the Sex and the City “girls” who are now as old as The Golden Girls. Hell, Betty White was the “kid” on that show and she was 55 at the time.

Although, to be fair, the Golden Girls didn’t get to enjoy the same access to cosmetic surgery. Everyone can do whatever they want to themselves but I shake my head every time, especially when I see a guy that’s had work done. Then again, I am speaking from a position of privilege as I happen to be one of those guys who ages like wine.

I’m on the Al Pacino bell curve and I’m still on the way up, thank you very much. But that down-curve, woof. Well, my wife will get another good thirty years out of me! Just as long as my snoring doesn’t lead to her smothering me in my sleep.

An Irishman finds a old lamp, rubs the dust from the side, and out pops a genie. “I will grant you two wishes.”

The Irishman thinks for a moment. “I want a pint glass that will refill itself with beer every time I empty it.” The genie nods his head and *poof* a pint glass appears in the Irishman’s hand, full of ice cold beer. He downs the beer and, sure enough, a fresh refill appears.

“Brilliant. Give me another one of those.”
———-

A few weeks ago, I hosted Maffia Comedy for the first time in 2025. It’s weird to say that in April, considering that I practically lived there for the past several years. My availability has been more limited and doing more sets and less hosting is only good for me. Plus, that club owner is well sick of me. Familiarity breeds contempt.

Hosting less often means taking it less for granted, at least for me. I’ve written before that being the host means not feeling like one of the comics, so it’s more work than fun. And like any other job, there were days when I groaned at the thought of needing to leave my couch and go host a comedy club that I love. I do try to not be an entitled comic, but it’s very easy to slip into that mode.

Now, since it had been so long since the last time I hosted- not only at Maffia, but anywhere- I was more excited about it than usual. I got there early and helped set things up, the plan being that the club owner and I would grab some food before the show. With the room prepared, we had time for a beer before dinner. He came back with two beers and two shots of Jäger, as an ironic toast to a local comic who had recently announced on social media they had quit.

Now, not to throw shade on that person, if we’re supposed to announce it when we quit, I can name at least fifty people who must feel right foolish for just going away quietly. While I don’t like it when funny people quit, when I saw the announcement the first thing that leapt to mind was Willy Wonka deadpanning, “No, stop, come back.” Since you can never tell how comics will take a joke on social media- let that statement sink in- I wanted to, but refrained from, adding this as a comment:

Dear [ENTER COMIC NAME HERE],

While we are saddened to see you leave, you must give at least one month’s notice, so we expect to see you in the office on Monday. Also, we want to remind you of the Do-Not-Compete clause in your contract (Part 2, Section B, subparagraph 2c), so you have agreed to not engage in any other cultural activity for at least three months. Naturally, any remaining vacation days will be included in your final paycheck, and while the fiscal year for Dick Jokes Inc began April 1, you are welcome to submit any receipts from April 1 to 10 for Friskvårdsbidrag.

We drank and shot the shit and then noticed we didn’t have time for food, so might as well fill up with another beer. I’m hardly a lightweight, but with thirty minutes to showtime and an empty stomach, I was feeling the shot and two beers. And the third I bought myself. It suddenly hit me that, after not hosting in months, I was about to take the stage unprepared. I was reminded of stress dreams where I’m back in school and have to take a test I didn’t study for.

Fortunately, muscle memory kicked in, my hosting sets aren’t much different than my regular sets, and it was a very nice crowd there to have a good time. I took it slow and nursed that third beer. Practically ran home after the show, inhaled some leftovers, and passed out early. Rock ‘n roll lifestyle.

Back to host Saturday night, neither of us much in the mood for drinking, we opted for food instead of beer. I would have a beer before the show, of course, not because I’m an alcoholic but because I’m superstitious. Well, I suppose both could be true, but I noticed long ago that the times I have made a conscious decision to not drink before a show, those shows have always gone to shit. I don’t think it’s the beer, but me just taking it too seriously and not being relaxed to blame.

This crowd, however, included three women who were already shitfaced when they walked into the room. I’ve written before about Swedes and their troubled connection to alcohol. Sober in a crowd, they’re polite, rarely heckle, but are less likely to laugh. Drunk, they let it all hang out, but are more likely to heckle, and what they say is usually garbled nonsense you can’t do anything with.

One of the trio was clearly worse off than the others, repeatedly shushed by me, by people around her, even by the club owner. At one point – in the middle of the first half – she stopped me on my way to the back of the room, having introduced the next comic, to loudly ask where the headliner was. The headliner hadn’t arrived yet, so I told her they would be there soon, then promised, then promised I promised. Sadly, this woman would be thrown out during the break by bouncers, but on the bright side, her two friends couldn’t care less and were happy to remain for the rest of the show.

When the headliner arrived, I learned that they’d been at birthday party, a party they’d return to as soon as the show was over. Said headliner clearly had a bit of a buzz on, which didn’t really have a negative impact on their performance. Afterwards, I said, “It was fun to see you a bit looser up there tonight,” which they heard as, “I was a loser up there tonight?”

Ah, booze.

A man nods at a woman over the counter and says, “Thanks love, can I get a pint of Guinness and a packet of crisps, please?”

The woman smiles. “You must be Irish.”

The man, a bit offended, says, “Oh, because I ordered a Guinness? If I asked for pasta, would you think I was Italian?”

“No, but this is McDonalds.”
——————–



Sweden. Shit. I’m still only in Sweden.

Another St Patrick’s came and went, a day that only became meaningful for me in 2006, despite my “Irish” heritage. On my mother’s side, my great-grandfather emigrated from Ireland to Newfoundland, then to the US, where my grandfather married another Irish immigrant, so pretty pure Irish until my mom married my dad. My stepfather jokingly referred to me as Heinz Ketchup- 57 varieties- and he wasn’t far off; in the late Eighties, my dad did some digging into our family tree and discovered a Scottish ancestor named Buzzle had arrived at Ellis Island and the official signing his admission papers said, “It’s Bussell now,” condemning me to a lifetime of correcting people who think my name has one s or one l or both.

Recently, my dad did one of those DNA tests and the results revealed over 60% Scandinavian, likely due to Vikings, long before they would devolve from aggressive aggression to passive aggression. That said, no one is more passive aggressive than an Irish-Catholic woman, so not only was a move, nay, a return to Sweden in my blood, my mother had prepared me for life here. Any time a Swede tries to be passive aggressive towards me, I laugh. They bring a knife to a gun fight.

Anyway, I can’t say that St Patrick’s held any special weight for me until 2006, as I’d moved to Sweden just a few days prior. My then wife made a cake with a shamrock on it, a sweet gesture, no pun intended. A few years later, around the same time, we decided to separate. A few years after that, around the same time, I stepped onto a stage and did my first three minutes as a comic.

Three huge milestones in my life, within a handful of years, all around the same holiday, makes St Patrick’s an important day for me, with no thought at all of snakes being driven out of Ireland. While I wouldn’t say my first marriage coming to an end is something to celebrate, it was a monumental life change, a start of a new chapter, full of unknowns and challenges.

It almost pains me to write about my life as having chapters, but it is how I see my history. Maybe it’s how everyone looks back at their lives, but it’s strange to me. It’s like I’m the same person throughout, but not, that my life is obviously one continuous chain of events, yet full of distinct periods somehow independent of each other.

One of the all-time greatest first lines in a novel is, “Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.” Vonnegut’s protagonist is living his life in his forties one moment, suddenly back in time to his twenties the next. For him it’s literal, his consciousness continuous despite the drastic changes in time and age, but it’s close to how I see memory working for me. When I think back to playing with toys when I was eight years old, or playing with other things back in college, I’m projecting my mind as it is now back into who I was then. I wasn’t the same person then, except of course I was.

I see my time in standup as a whole, but also in chapters. My first year, wide-eyed and hungry and out five nights a week. Founding and running Taboo Comedy Club with a partner. That falling apart, founding and running Crossfire Comedy Club on my own. That coming to an end and having my first burnout, taking a step back. Founding and running Cash Comedy Club, but as a silent partner. Having a good time doing that, founding and running Power Comedy Club with partners. That being great until it wasn’t, burning out again, taking a huge step back. And now, still taking tentative steps back in.

Time got…weird during covid, but it’s always been weird. Looking back, it’s strange to think how long a certain period of my life lasted. Like having amnesia and someone tells me my life story. “Wait… I ran Taboo for how long? In three different venues?!” Friends that have come and gone, relationships forming and falling apart, people who have moved away or moved… on. It’s all so abstract to me.

That goes especially for the times I felt like my life was on pause, like I was just waiting for something to happen. Those periods being generally defined by unemployment. Man, I’ve had some long droughts. Thank Goodness for a patient wife and a generous welfare system! In any case, my first, very long stretch without a job coincides, well, is responsible for my start in standup. There’s no way I could’ve juggled a full-time job and fourteen gigs a week.

I remember an interview with Dustin Hoffman where he said that age never mattered to him as long as he could double it. When he turned thirty, so what, he could picture himself at sixty. At forty, he could see himself at eighty. Fifty… he knew he was pushing it, but he could imagine himself at a hundred. When he turned sixty, though, he knew there was far less ahead than there was behind, but it gave him a sense of peace.

Maybe I’m getting more likely to look back with less to look forward to. And by that, I mean the number of years. I’ve never been a nostalgic person, because that isn’t just looking back at the past fondly, it’s longing for it. It’s inevitable, but I never want to feel like my best days are behind me, like people who peaked in high school. I remember the good times and the bad, and they led me to where I am right now. I like where I am right now. It’s not perfect, of course, and I’ll keep pushing for more, but I’m at point where I’m fully employed, I go to the gym every day (with rare exception), I’m performing more often. Whether this is a continuation of a chapter or the start of a new one remains to be seen.

I even put a beef behind me. So, Sláinte! Here’s to all the beefs, past, present, and future.

My wife said she wanted me to take her someplace she’s never been.

So I said, “How about the kitchen, you fucking whore?!”
– Henny Youngman Kinison (National Lampoon Magazine joke)

——————

Ah, the corporate gig.  An opportunity for a comic to get paid to say the same dick jokes we tell for free multiple times a week.  An opportunity to bomb, since you were booked by the one person interested in comedy, to perform for a large group of people who couldn’t care less.  But, you know, money.

I was once offered a wedding gig through a fellow comic, a Swede.  A friend of his was getting married and their guests were international, so they wanted a comic who could perform in English.  Said Swedish comic didn’t feel confident enough in his own English ability to handle it himself, so he asked me if I was interested.  Certainly I was interested in money I mean an artistic performance.

Mind you, I didn’t know the happy couple at all.  We bounced a few messages back and forth online, they gave me a general idea of what they were looking for, and we made plans to meet up for coffee.  Not surprisingly, this kept getting bumped and rescheduled and never actually happened, as they were far too busy with wedding planning to bother with me.

When the day came, I arrived at the venue- a lovely locale near a lake in Stockholm- and waited outside until it was my turn.  The groom was Swedish, the bride was Eastern European, and I listened as letters were read in Swedish and then again in English so that everyone could understand.

Finally, it was my turn.  I stood along one side of the horseshoe-arranged tables, the wedding pair sitting well off to my right.  It was my first time seeing them at all and they looked nice and happy.  I don’t remember my set, just that I kept it family friendly and ended with a corny line I stole from the speech my best man gave at my first wedding.

Afterwards, I went back outside and was quickly caught up to by a member of the wedding party, who happily asked me to stick around until the couple could come out to thank me.  It wasn’t long before they did so, smiling ear to ear.  The groom was a skinny giant; standing close to me while we talked, I had to bend my neck nearly ninety degrees backward to keep eye contact.

I didn’t have that problem talking with the bride.  If anything, I had the opposite problem.  I didn’t notice anything when I first saw them for the first time, seated at the table; perhaps she’d been sitting on a booster seat.  She was a little person, the top of her head barely reaching her new husband’s waist.  Sweet, though, and happy with my set, so I was happy as well.

As I left the venue, I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t met them before the wedding, because I knew that all I would’ve been able to come up with would be inappropriate jokes at their (her) expense.  In fact, I then proceeded to do just that.  I can’t remember them now, only that one was vicious and one was something about them saving money on the honeymoon flight since he could stuff her in the overhead compartment.  Of course I would go on and tell these jokes several times over the coming weeks, as part of my set at various clubs.  

A few months later, it was time for the Fall season premiere of my club, Crossfire.  It looked to be a good night, we actually had a crowd, which was far from the norm.  I hosted, as usual, and I got as far as, “This summer, I was asked to perform at wedding…” before locking eyes with the bride, sitting at a table across the room, her legs dangling off the floor.

Now, being the professional that I am, I quickly recovered.  “… and I’m not gonna talk about that tonight.”

Julius Caesar walks into a bar and orders a martinus.
“Don’t you mean martini?”
“If I wanted a double I would’ve said so.”
————–


The people who founded Rome looked no different than hundreds of other wandering tribes in Europe at the time, nomadic hunter-gatherers led by a chieftain. The area in which they’d decided to settle, however, was fertile, easily defensible, and strategically located for trade. The people thrived, the camp grew into a village, then into a city. The chieftain became a king, the population grew to the point a senate had to be established to represent the will of the people, and to handle administration.

However, the king still held absolute power. Like any other monarchy in history, there were good kings and there were bad kings, but there really is no such thing as a good king. A benevolent tyrant is still a tyrant, and a bad king is even worse.

During the reign of a particularly bad king, a group of senators formed a conspiracy. There should be no more kings, Rome should be a government of the people, by the people, for the people. Sounds noble, but since the Senate allegedly represented the people, what they were really saying was, a king shouldn’t be in charge, the Senate should rule. They hatched a plan to assassinate the king. One of the conspirators was a senator named Brutus.

Their plan succeeded. The corpse of the king still warm, they swore a sacred oath: from that point on, there would never be another king in Rome. If anyone ever threatened to become one, it was the duty of the Senate to murder that person just as coldly as the last king.

The Republic would continue to be stable for over four hundred years from that point. Then came a true crisis: Julius Caesar. He was immensely popular with the people, the Senate was not. The common man viewed the Senate as corrupt and bogged down with bureaucracy. Caesar used his popularity and strength to chip away at the system of checks and balances long established by the Senate to prevent anyone from achieving absolute power, until he had become king in all but name only.

A group of senators, having reached their breaking point, formed a conspiracy. They remembered their oath, their responsibility. Caesar had to die, and in a spectacular fashion, to send a message to any other would-be tyrants. One of these conspirators was a senator named Brutus, a direct descendant of the man of the same name who had killed the last king of Rome, because history is fucking cool.

Their plan succeeded and on a day in March, Caesar died alone in a pool of his own blood on the Senate floor, having suffered dozens of stab wounds. Ironically, by trying to save the Republic, the conspirators had doomed it. Caesar’s murder would lead to two civil wars. Caesar would not become king, but his adopted son Octavian would become Emperor, and Emperors would continue to rule for the next and final four hundred years of the empire.

Anyway, no idea why Rome is so much on my mind lately. Perhaps it’s because we’re approaching the Ides of March.

A Roman walks into a clothing store and asks, “Do you have XL togas?”

The clerk replies, “Sure, but why do you need so many?”
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Rome was an interesting place back in the day. An absolute powerhouse, you would’ve found people in the city from all corners of the empire, with different languages, cultures, and religions, yet religious conflict was rare. A Greek would’ve said that Zeus was the king of all gods, while a Roman would say it was Jupiter, but since they spoke different languages, they figured they may actually be worshipping the same deity.

Well, the Jews weren’t going for that. They made a point to tell everyone there weren’t many gods, there was one God, and He was theirs. Romans may have been in control, but what did Earth matter when the Jews would enjoy riches in Heaven? All the things that Romans felt were blessing from the gods- money and sex being huge perks- those things were sins. God wanted everyone to be meek and powerless and poor. By an amazing coincidence, those were the exact things the Jews felt under Roman control.

Jews were quick to add that it didn’t matter if anyone agreed with them or not, because it wasn’t possible to become Jewish, it was their birthright. Romans would’ve rolled their eyes. Jews gonna Jew.

Just before the birth of Christ, the Republic fell. Caesar had been assassinated before he could name himself king, which led to a civil war and the rise of Octavian as Augustus, first Emperor of Rome. They were at the peak of their power and the empire would continue to expand significantly, but in many ways, it was the beginning of the fall of Rome.

Right as things began to go to shit, Jesus was born, preached, and was killed. His followers were Jews, but their religion was Christianity, Jewish 2.0. All the same tenets, but now anyone could join. Not only that, it was your duty as a Christian to get as many to convert as possible, and to constantly go against the mainstream. If you sneezed and someone said, “Jupiter bless you,” you had to correct them. “Actually, it’s ‘God bless you’.” (I didn’t make that up, that literally happened often. Can you imagine anything more fucking annoying?)

So, when things were falling apart, the Romans began to wonder why. Had their gods forsaken them? Or was something else to blame? Hmm… everywhere they looked, there were poor Brown people who didn’t speak the language, refused to assimilate to Roman ways, to even respect the culture. Not like us…

It’s said that Emperor Nero fiddled while Rome burned. That probably didn’t happen, is likely just anti-Nero propaganda spread by Christians. What did happen is, needing someone to blame for the Great Fire, he accused Christians, leading to one of many pogroms against them and many deaths.

Christians won out eventually, since nothing could stop the fall of the empire. As the divide between the haves and the have-nots grew into a chasm, it was much easier to find converts. Hey, you’ve got nothing anyway, might as well follow a god who says that’s a virtue.

What I love most about history is that it stubbornly refuses to repeat itself. No one would ever blame the “other” ever again.

Tryna strike a chord and it’s probably A-Minor.
Goddamn if that isn’t the best joke I’ve heard in a long time.
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I am aware that what the rest of the world calls American football, we, as Americans, call football. What the rest of the world calls football, we call soccer. I will do the same because I’m American. Not in the fuck-you-I’m-American sense, but that this is the language I speak. Yes, the British call soccer football, but I also would never ring my solicitor or put u’s in words where they don’t beloung.

Of all the things Swedes could be critical of, the only thing about America that they consistently give me shit over is soccer and football. “You should call it hand-egg!” they say with glee, thinking no one ever thought of that before. Another chesnut is, “There’s only eighteen minutes of action in a three-hour long NFL game!” True, but you know what the key word is there? Action. My Lord, I’ll take that over watching a ninety minute soccer match any time.

To be fair, I’ll take that over watching baseball, too. And basketball. And tennis. And any other sport, because I am not a sports guy. I could not give less of a shit about sports, which makes expecting me to be a big defender of football even more ridiculous. Sports bore the living fuck out of me. However, I have seen many sports live and had a great, fun time, every time. Except one time, when I had amazing seats at a soccer match and I was equally bored to tears. I guess what I’m trying to say is, fuck soccer.

And fuck everyone who says, “Oh, they’re such pussies, wearing all that armor!” The quarterback is built like a muscular stick and there are eleven guys on the opposing team, each built like a dumptruck, hoping to slam into him so hard the ball flies out of his hands and his teeth from his head. I think we can excuse the padding, especially considering the average soccer player will fall to the ground and writhe with pain if the wind changes direction.

The only reason I developed even a passing (no pun intended) interest in football is Tom Brady. I was living outside Boston when he took over as QB for the Patriots midseason. I remember him being asked in his first press conference if he thought the Pats had any chance at all of making the playoffs and he said, “We’ll have to win every game left on the schedule for that to happen,” and then they won every game. This was so unexpected, their stadium had been scheduled for demolition before the season was over, and had to be postponed. I watched them defeat the LA Raiders in a home game, at night, in the snow, and it remains the greatest game I’ve ever seen.

Turns out, cheating and taking advantage of every possible loophole had a lot to do with their success, but why would I care about that?

Well, you’d never catch me watching any football game other than the Super Bowl, but I’ve made an effort to see that every year. Not so easy, considering the fact that I live six hours ahead of the East US Coast. After Brady left the Pats, what little interest I had in football waned, and last year, four days into a new job, I made the executive decision to not stay up until the wee hours watching TV. This year, securely employed, I figured, why not?

My interest was piqued this time thanks to the Philadelphia Eagles. Growing up in South Jersey, the Eagles should’ve been my team, but I wanted them to lose because Philadelphia fans are the fucking worst. I knew they’d riot if the Eagles lost and riot if the Eagles won, and guess what happened this year? Fun facts about Philly fans (and people in general):
– Santa made a special appearance during an Eagles game one year. Fans threw ice balls at him.
– Fans have thrown C and D batteries at opposing teams and referees.
– The Beastie Boys participated in Lollapalooza one year and MCA brought a gaggle of Tibetan monks to bless the stage at the start of the day. Attendees were given free bottles of water because it was so hot. I think you can guess the rest here.
– Also, the Beastie Boys put a basketball hoop on stage and made shots now and then during their performance. This basketball hoop was stolen by the end of the night.
– HitchBot, the hitchhiking robot that successfully navigated across several countries, did not get past an alley in Philadelphia.

Boston Red Sox fans are a close second to Philly as far as horrible people are concerned, and I was always torn about the prospects of that team. Again, these are fans who riot no matter the outcome. Ultimately, I was happy when the Sox finally won a World Series, because a major aspect of their identity – that they were cursed and could never win – was taken from them. Now they were just yet another team.

While I went into this Super Bowl hoping the Eagles would lose, that feeling was destroyed in minutes. The last Super Bowl I’d watched, a lot of people criticized it as boring, because each team’s defense was so strong. Kansas City just got humiliated by the Eagles, over and over again.

But I couldn’t tell you who I felt worse for, Kansas City, or the Hollywood celebrities who showed up to be part of the pregame and introduce the teams. It reeked of desperation, actors begging to stay relevant in a country where populism has swung so hard to the right (indeed, King Trump was even in attendance, the first sitting US president to do so). I likely feel worst for Drake, that poor Canadian. Bad enough that the crowd at the Grammys sang along to Not Like Us, this time an entire arena roared the A-Minor line.