How an ignorant kid from Minooka who likes to crack wise could end up with such an unbelievable bounty of good luck is certainly beyond me. I do my best to keep my karma in check by working hard and minding my manners. It’s easy to do when I see so many (about 130, give or take) people on our crew busting their humps around me every day, without the pleasurable benefits of delivering delectable jokes like mine, nor being fed bacon and steak at every turn.
By now I am well-satisfied with the experiences I have been afforded as an actor. If folks continue to let me befoul the air of their theaters/film sets from here on out, I will be quite grateful, but at some point I imagine they’ll have had their fill of my particular brand of wolf bait. When that happens, I’ll simply be afforded more time in my woodshop, a situation that I believe is referred to as “win-win.”
On top of that, I recently discovered a new sideline in which I might be allowed to continue cutting my cheese: that of “humorist.” Never in a googol years did I dream that I would perform for audiences as “myself,” not to mention playing the guitar and singing without irony, but when a couple of American universities invited me to come entertain their students, I decided to take a crack at it. They let me finish all of my material, which I take as a high compliment, and by now I have performed at dozens of colleges and also beautiful theaters and even some crappy theaters all over the country. It’s a great deal of fun, and I don’t have to memorize any lines, plus I don’t have to build any scenery! In truth, this book only came about because of my first humorist show, American Ham, which, when witnessed by some people in my corner, caused them to tell me, “That sounds like your book,” so I thought . . . alrighty, then.
One of the greatest aspects of touring as a humorist has been the opportunity to experience fans in a way I never had before. For example, at Iowa State University, there was a healthy contingent of tailgating in the parking lot before my show. Several grills were busily engaged in the creation of Ron Swanson–themed meat items. What was this?!
Despite my need to prepare for the show, Mom, I couldn’t help but follow my nose in a meandering search that led to the clutches of students happily shoving bacon and turkey legs and steaks and burgers, not to mention noble beers and estimable scotch whiskies, into their beautiful pieholes. It was a privilege to shake their hands, and an even greater honor to be handed a jalapeño-cheddar-bacon cheeseburger with which I handily stuffed my own gob. I told them that this must be the most charismatic fan interaction ever, in which they were providing me with the fuel which I would then shortly burn in the entertaining of them.
* * *
Mother, as you know, when I first met Megan working on The Berlin Circle at the Evidence Room, one of her numerous top-drawer selling points quickly came to light: her singing voice. “Bitch got pipes,” as I believe the kids are saying these days, in their “hipster parlance.” Early in our acquaintance I asked her what her singing was like, and she quietly sang “In the Gloaming” into my ear with a bit of whispered tremolo that delivered but the first of Cupid’s many darts to my ursine heart. I came to understand that she sang in many different flavors and styles and mediums, from rock clubs to Broadway, and I fell head over heels for her voice just as I was becoming soundly smitten with the rest of her. She has a few records available with her band Supreme Music Program, which make for truly beautiful listens, upon which she favors “story songs,” or ditties with a bit of narrative, in other words. Tom Waits, Bobbie Gentry, Patty Griffin, Randy Newman, John Prine, Brecht/Weill, Dolly Parton, George Jones, and Jack White are just a sampling of the artists whose songs she covers with her reimagined dramatic renderings of each number. It is, simply put, damn good shit. (Mom. Sorry. I give up.)
In 2011 Megan and I were in Austin, Texas, shooting a film called Somebody Up There Likes Me with our friend writer-director Bob Byington. Bob had cast a local Austin actor who had garnered some notoriety for her work in the SUPERLATIVE television series Friday Night Lights (as Devin, the bass player for Crucifictorious) by the name of Stephanie Hunt as one of the alluring young ladies in the film. Inadvertently, Megan and Stephanie found themselves in a car one afternoon, and Megan asked her to sing one of her ukulele songs that we had heard about. Stephanie replied that she would oblige, but only if Megan joined her in the chorus. So they sang a song in close harmony, and they immediately sounded so good together that the PT Cruiser in which they sat turned itself into a GMC Yukon. These ladies could sing. Thus was a new legendary force of female entertainment born, the duo that calls themselves Nancy and Beth. These two ladies sing close harmony and perform choreography by Megan with such élan and goddamn pizzazz that it’s all the audience can do to keep their seats, so “toe-tapping” and “finger-popping” is the nature of the noise they make. (You’ve seen ’em, Mom, you know.)
At some point, our two forces combined, à la so much chocolate and peanut butter, so that we began to perform tour dates together. I crack wise and play my silly songs, then they floor the audience with talent and an overabundance of feminine ka-pow!, and then we do some songs together. Between these joint shows and our work together onstage, on TV, and in film, Megan and I have come to feel like an old-fashioned showbiz couple, an almost vaudevillian comedy team, which really knocks me flat. Singing in her vicinity feels like showing off my backhand to Venus and Serena Williams, but I give it the old college try nonetheless. Our mutual affection is surely on display, and that brings some production value with it, upon which I can lean when necessary. Performing in this way has been one of the most unexpected pleasures of my recent years, and it’s a gig I hope I can hang on to for a long time to come.
* * *
As you can see, my dear mother, all things considered, my only gripe these days is wishing for more hours in the day. I’ve figured out (and lucked into) how to have so much fun at “work” that it has become my main vice. After spending years trying to find opportunities to perform for more and more people in my own style, I have now stumbled upon a moment where I can fill up a calendar year with such employ. Knowing all too well the fleeting nature of my business, my inclination is to strike whilst this here iron is a-heated, but too much of that will cause me to neglect the balance in my life. Therefore, while continuing to entertain folks when I can, I also do my best to see my family and friends and also to just spend some time doing nothing, lounging about with my wife and dogs, making sure we don’t burn the candle too virulently at both ends. It’s a challenge sometimes, being faced with too many tempting opportunities, which is what we call in our house a “champagne problem.” More often than not, I have found beer to be an effective solution. But I guess Dad already let you know about that, didn’t he, Mom?
Go Outside
I’m assuming my mom thought the last chapter was the end, so now that she’s gone to bed, let’s fire up the real final chapter, motherfuckers! Pack that shit up full and gimme a match (cool weed talk). In case I haven’t gotten it across to you fine folks by this point, here’s my trip: I’m opposed to a lot of the time that we as a civilization have come to spend looking at screens. For my money, life is much more delicious damn near everyplace but inside that screen.
Take film—I go see films that I think I’ll like, starring and shot and written by women and men toward whose work I am favorably inclined. I don’t see a lot of films. Taking in a film with Megan on a date is a delectable treat, and then I don’t care as much what’s on the screen, but still.
Take TV—I don’t regularly watch TV as an activity. I find a show I like, be it Deadwood, The Wire, Bob’s Burgers, or Breaking Bad, and I watch THE SHIT out of it, on my own schedule, which is a luxury afforded us by modern technology and broadcast systems. My favorite method by which to consume a series is by acquiring said program in its entirety and watching it on a vacation binge with Megan. Hole up in a hotel someplace with a view of the ocean or the forest or the desert and indulge. Drink deep and long and then have done with it.
&n
bsp; Take the Internet—is it an insanely amazing information system? Duh. It’s the insanely amazingest. Easily. The world in which we now exist, especially within our minds, has been so irrevocably altered by our collective ability to access virtually any information in existence with a few well-chosen keystrokes. The World Wide Web is a resource that I use with some regularity to answer questions.
When working on a canoe, for example, I regularly visit the builders’ forum that Glen Smith runs at the Bear Mountain Boats website, wherein all of my questions tend to find an answer or three. The various conversations in that “chat shed” are fascinating to me, and if I’m not careful I’ll catch myself reading correspondence well beyond the information I sought in the first place, so, believe me, I understand how fiendishly the Internet can tempt a body to indulge in diversion from one’s responsibilities, more commonly known as iniquity. Idle hands are never the devil’s workshop more than when those recumbent mitts are resting upon a computer keyboard.
And that’s just the Internet. I do reluctantly use Twitter to communicate information to the folks who seem interested, about humorist tour dates and film screenings and new releases from Offerman Woodshop, because it’s an incredibly effective way to reach an audience directly. That doesn’t seem particularly foolish to me. I even add some occasional ribaldry and eye candy to my dispatches, to keep the flypaper a little sticky, if you will. Yes, I am comparing my fans to flies, but only in the most poetic of fashions. In truth, I imagine they are for the most part jackasses (as are we all) to a similar or slightly lesser extent than myself. I digress.
What I am driving toward with all due haste is the simple, comforting message that spending time outside in nature, to my way of thinking, is a much more gratifying diversion than anything one can engage in upon a screen.
“Hang on, guy,” you interrupt, “don’t you make your living through people looking at screens?” Yes, adroit reader, indeed I do. Nicely observed. And I sincerely hope that each and every one of you watches and enjoys Parks and Recreation and Childrens Hospital and my films as well. I know that not all of you will see it all, and if you do, not all of you will enjoy all of the content, because people simply have differing tastes. How else do you explain feta cheese? In any case, I only work on material that I think is well worth people’s time and that I would be proud to display upon my résumé. So I’m not suggesting that you never watch filmed entertainment—no, far from it in fact. I’m suggesting that you only watch programs containing my wife or myself. Have a good laugh on us, perhaps rewind a few of your favorite moments, and then get your ass outside.
When I am at my family home in Illinois, we love to visit the old towpath along the Illinois and Michigan Canal. It’s as picturesque there as any postcard, brimming with wildlife and all of the local flora that we find so charismatic. There are other gorgeously appointed state parks we love to frequent, champing through the woods, exclaiming our pleasure at nature’s grottos with all the gusto of Theodore Roosevelt. We also love to vacation in Minnesota, as I have mentioned, where our main activity is to float ourselves out upon a lake in a boat or pontoon, fishing, sure, but really the fishing is just an excuse to sit on blue water in the middle of verdant green forest, packed with both deciduous trees and conifers, beneath Mother Nature’s gorgeous and vast sky, often quilted with cumulonimbus confections. My folks and my siblings and I have always loved to ramble about any part of the planet on foot, but we seem especially drawn to scenery that juxtaposes water with the woods. I believe that makes us “Midwesterners.” It seems worth mentioning that we are a pretty mellow bunch who don’t seem too affected by stress, and I can’t help but see at least a slight cause-and-effect happening here.
Many people react adversely when I suggest a venturing into nature of any sort, sometimes stating without shame that they don’t want to “get dirty.” I tend to stare silently for a moment in response, containing my disappointment, before calmly explaining to them that getting dirty is the whole point. If you’re getting dirty, that means that you have traveled to where there is no pavement. When you sojourn into such terrain, you greatly up your chances of experiencing some full-on wild nature. I reckon it’s not for everybody, but “everybody” is not penning this tome about fundamentally delicious living. I am.
I am personally opposed to the recent development that positions young parents so violently apposite to germs and dirt in general. I have enjoyed a life of terrific health, knock wood, while remaining generally filthy most of the time. Every time I have the opportunity to eat some food that has fallen on the ground, especially in an airport bathroom, I jump to it, in the firm knowledge that I am solidly fortifying my immune system. The “cleaner” we keep our children, the weaker they will become. One man’s opinion. Also, most bugs are pretty tasty.
Finding yourself a spot by a creek or under a tree or atop a butte or along the shore where you can sit and look and not think brings a peace that not even the most mellow of Enya tunes can achieve (Enya made some records in the eighties and nineties that were super cool and mellow, you guys, and she’s still at it). Seeing sunlight dapple the leaves of a tree whilst a breeze plays across those same leaves, weaving endless permutations of imagery and soothing sound, is going to do you some good, is all I’m saying. When I spent some beautiful days in the mountains of Japan, I was quite taken with the philosophy of the Shinto discipline. In short, it is a form of spirituality that links the indigenous people to their past generations as well as nature. Hiking in those mountains, we came upon exceptional examples of nature’s beauty, such as an ancient oak tree or a waterfall, which would have been distinguished by the Shinto priest with a white ribbon to communicate the exceptional power of the spirit in this special object or place. I felt much more akin to that expression of “sacred” than I have ever felt to the trappings of a Western church.
If you incorporate hiking or cycling into your robust chill-trip, so much the better. “Clockin’ yo cardio and peepin’ dopiaries” is how some of the modern skateboard-enthusiast kids might describe this practice. “Dopiaries” are, of course, dope-ass topiary bushes. Obviously, topiary work requires landscaping, which indicates civilization, so we would tell those “def street” sprouts to head a little deeper into the wild.
Now, let’s kick that shit up a notch. Get yourself a kayak or canoe. I don’t even care if you don’t craft it by hand out of wood. I don’t. You should at least make your own paddle, though; that’s not asking too much. Now get out on the water, and view all of the same exquisite scenery from a silently gliding watercraft. One mighty advantage to the small boat is your stealth factor. Whilst cruising downstream in small California rivers or cutting a swath across a Minnesota lake, I have happened upon critters quietly drinking at the banks with great frequency. If you think that a doe and a couple of fauns standing a few yards away watching you float by, or a beaver swimming along with a willow branch for its front porch, won’t chill you out and heal the hole that getting too many e-mails is eating in your brain’s ozone layer, then your thinking parts might be in need of repair.
Can’t lay hands on a boat? Get an inner tube. Use your noggin. String together some shipping pallets and float them on four five-gallon water-cooler bottles. Set a couple of lawn chairs on top (I might screw them down) and take a leisurely and restorative voyage upon the king’s barge! Besides the enjoyment in getting one’s britches both wet and dirty, such marine trips are incredibly inexpensive to produce. If you’re dealing with moving water and you’re not a complete ignoramus, you can have a rather perfect afternoon for the price of those Guinnesses in the cooler.
Finally, the most delicious combination I have found in life is created by bringing your romantic love into your rustic constitutionals. Experiencing all of the naturally exquisite features described above hand in hand with your beloved cannot be topped. Except maybe by encountering the same setting whilst sixty-nining each other. That might just be the most truly deli
cious living. Megan and I love to hike in all different terrains, sometimes with the dogs, sometimes with a bottle of wine, and yes, sometimes mouthing each other’s genitalia. We have a regular excursion in Northern California that culminates in a breathtaking stretch of coastline, where we powerfully savor the view, the elements, and the company. At the end of the tale, I can’t imagine you’d ever wonder why they call me the Lucky Bastard.
WATCH ME BURN
Photography by Matthew Micucci, original art by Rob Kimmel, airbrush replication and lettering by Martin McClendon
Paddle Your Own Canoe
Siddhartha said life is like a river,
The thought of watching it pass me by causes me to shiver.
So I grab life by the balls, I got some advice to deliver.
Get off your caboose. Paddle your own canoe.
Young Teddy Roosevelt was a weak little puss,
But he exercised and became quite an ornery cuss,
’Til he could whip two bears and also Cuba without a fuss.
By god, number 26 paddled his own canoe.
You like to smoke some reefer, and you like to dance.
The preacher tells you to keep yer pecker in your pants,
But the preacher’d be kissin’ your nephew given half the chance.
(He can go to hell.)
Then you can spend your Sundays paddlin’ your own canoe.
I mighta mentioned Jesus Christ himself got high in my van.
I told him I wouldn’t go to church, and he shook my hand.
Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Fundamentals for Delicious Living Page 29
