Let's Get Physical

This is part one of several posts regarding my size and what I'm doing about it. It is a pretty personal story, but I invite you to please follow along as I laugh, whine, complain, celebrate, swear, and sweat.


In case I haven’t made it abundantly clear, I am fat. And not like Mean Girls fat.

I’m actually fat. That doesn’t mean I don’t love myself or that I think I’m ugly. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think I’m deserving of a man who treats me right and thinks I’m beautiful or that I need to wear nothing by dark circus tent-like outfits to disguise my curves. But I do think that I ought to lose weight in order to live a nice long life that I can spend telling the world to go to hell.

Except it would be less fat.

I wanted to acknowledge my fatness from the get go, because for whatever reason, sometimes people feel the need to inform me. When I politely acknowledge that this is not a surprise to me and that I’m attempting to do something about it, frequently these very “well meaning” people will break into a lecture filled with concerned tones and helpful hints. It’s like they can’t help themselves--they’ve gone to the trouble of coming up with this lecture, and by God they’re going to get to say it, no matter what I say. It’s actually a bit of a Christmas tradition for some folks: As an evening holiday party winds down, someone pulls me aside and tells me with a look in their eyes as though I’m a breath away from dying all about how I have to get my life “under control.” Oh and “Merry Christmas and thank you for the lovely gift.” It’s inevitable, it happens every year, and there is nothing I can say to stop the awkward exchange.

It used to be that I’d list what I was doing in order to not be fat, but there’d be this doubtful look in their eyes and they’d continue with their personal appeal to my skinnier nature. This year I’m trying to get ahead of the concerned folks because I have this theory that if I lose enough weight by Christmas that they can tell that maybe I won’t have to have another lecture.

I know, that’s no reason to lose weight, but it’s enough motivation, in the short term. In the long term I don’t want to be dead by 35. I want to be able to shop in a store that isn’t Lane Bryant and not online. I would like to be able to walk into a restaurant without worrying that the geniuses who designed the place haven’t bolted the tables and booths to the walls so that I have to contemplate whether Miss Manners would equate stomach fat spillage on the table with putting my elbows on the surface.

To that end, I have recently enrolled with Orangetheory Fitness. It’s a gym with a philosophy that guides you through your workout. You’re given a monitor to wear under your clothes and it puts out a real time read out on your heartrate. The idea is to reach the “Orange Zone” and maintain it for a portion of your workout so you can maximize your after-burn (meaning you continue to burn calories after you’re done working out.) My friend Brooks is a partner with the place. He saw a post I made on Facebook, where I think I was expressing dismay at my size, the largest I’ve ever been, and a desire to do something about it. A few months later, once the gym was built, I was sweating to the dulcet tones of their trainers and my ragged breathing.

In my first class I lost my mind completely. You see, they have this pace setting thing called, ‘Base, Push, All Out,’ which works out to be, 'Ugh, this sucks.' 'OMG, no, THIS sucks!' and finally 'WHAT DID I DO SO WRONG IN MY LIFE TO DESERVE THIS?!' At least it feels that way or me. I gave into a little bit of perceived peer pressure and tried to keep up with people who consider 3 miles an hour on a treadmill to be a leisurely pace. Within about 10 minutes I was puking in the bathroom. Yep, I was that girl. Then I managed to get myself together and dove back in. And I made the mistake of looking in the mirror at some of the people working out. For whatever reason, there was one girl who kept locking eyes with me, but not in a friendly way, but more in what FELT like judgey. I felt so uncomfortable that I tried to run hard again, just to get her to stop scrutinizing my pace as she gave sidelong glances at my control panel. For all I know, the girl was thinking, ‘Wow! She is impressing me with her effort!’ But in my head I was thinking, ‘This skinny girl is judging me!!’ My face just got redder and redder, my coughing became more and more pronounced, and breathing was more than a little labored. The entire time though, the trainers kept checking in on me, giving recommendations, and correcting things like posture or my speed and incline. Eventually though, after only a half hour, I had to go sit down in the lobby while the rest of the class continued. It was around then that I realized my hands were shaking and my body was on the brink of becoming even more uncooperative.

Enter Brooks, with an icepack. He sat next to me and we talked about how I could I approach this differently--like, for example, acknowledging that my base speed wasn’t going to be as fast as everyone else’s. He also praised me, pointing out that I had gotten into the Orange Zone and maintained it for a 13 minutes--which is pretty good, considering I only worked out for a half hour. In any other situation I would have felt like a complete failure, and in fact, those first couple minutes I sat there, I did. I felt like such an idiot, that I had made a big mistake. But talking to Brooks and the other people who work there afterwards, I had a new attitude: I could do this, I just needed to do it on a level that worked for me. After the class concluded, I went back in and got a tutorial on the most intimidating piece of equipment: The Rower of Doom! Well, that’s what I call it. A trainer (Wes) showed me how to use it in a no pressure environment, (Read: With no one else around!) and I headed out to visit at my grandmother’s house, feeling optimistic, kind of proud (with a dollop of disappointment in myself), and a very red, sweaty face.

The takeaway from that night? Exercise is awful, hard, and sucks. But I'm told it gets easier and eventually can become enjoyable. I suspect that last bit is a skinny person lie, but we shall see. You know skinny people--they lie all about all sorts of things. 'Greek yogurt tastes great on a baked potato!' 'I love hiking!' and 'Nothing tastes as good as being thin.' Why must you lie to fat folks, skinny people?

That evening, a couple things happened.

1. I picked up a bunch of cat toys off the floor for my grandmother. My back suddenly began twinging, but I assumed that this was due to being fat and having exercised.
2. My car got broken into and my workout shoes stolen. Talk about irritating. I didn’t even like working out really, and now the thing that made it a little bit easier was gone. That’s not even mentioning the sudden feeling of vulnerability and having to clean out part of my car at 2 in the morning in the dark. (Meaning I was crouching, nearly upside down in the front seat, trying to get up pieces of glass.)

Would almost be pretty if it didn't cost me $300+.

And sometime around #1 and #2, I threw out my back.

Next post, coming on Monday: Bunny squats, my new fiance--the heating pad, and how I unexpectedly started to like going to a gym with a preoccupation with the color orange.

Truly Outrageous

When I heard they were making a live action “Jem and the Holograms” film, I was over the moon. Why? Because Jem is excitement. Jem is adventure! JEM IS OUTRAGEOUS!! See??

She squeezes her earring and she and her bandmates--who run a foster home for girls, because they’re that selfless--become technicolor marvels. Glamour and glitter, fashion and fame! And more! They take on bitchy “enemy bands” with as much panache as they do while taking on a God damn volcano!

They are superheroes in their own right--saving royalty from being unseated, foiling the plans of cheaters in the many, many battles of the bands, and bringing attention to important issues like world hunger. And they did it all while looking amazing and singing a song.

“Jem and the Holograms” was an amazing part of the 80s. So naturally everyone was excited when the news came out that there was a film in the works. And then the trailer was released.

What you just saw is outrageous for all the wrong reasons. It surpasses awful. It does not even slightly resemble the original canon. It looks like a Disney Channel movie. (And not one of the good ones. If only it could end up as great as “Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century” we’d be okay!) They’ve completely changed the spirit of the original material. This is now a coming of age story about girl who learns about being herself and the real meaning of friendship and family. And that’s a great, sugary, cliche story that’s worth being told. Again.

And if it had been told as “Judy Smith and her Rocker Girlfriends!” I’d politely clap and say, ‘That’s very cute!’ But that’s not what’s happened here. What’s happened is director Jon Chu of Justin Bieber concert film fame and his similarly credentialed team decided they’d take something with a previously established following, use the names in order to bring along that built in audience, and wrote a completely unrelated story. It’s like fan fiction, except at least EL James had the decency to change the names of her characters.

But there’s more at stake here. Female superheroes have been facing an uphill battle for years. The fact that there have been how many superhero based movies (I’m not going to count them, just think about all of them though) and only one centered on a female lead is atrocious. And well, yeah, the movie was atrocious too.

 Execs gave in, (finally) deciding to do a Wonder Woman flick--and it only got greenlit after “Batman vs. Superman” and the “Justice League” films were picked up. Prior to that, attempts at getting a female superhero movie were shot down repeatedly.

‘But Jess! Look at the Avengers! Black Widow is a major character in the film!’ Yeah, well consider this: In the current hit “Avengers: Age of Ultron.” Black Widow has a badass scene where she drops out of a moving plane on a motorcycle and proceeds to look badass while kicking many an ass.

But what happened when it was time to develop the toy? Oh, they gave the badassery to Captain Americain one version of the toy and Iron Man in the other version. There is no toy version with Black Widow.

How does this all relate to what looks likes to be a shitty “Jem and the Holograms” movie? It’s all symptomatic of this idea that girls can’t kick ass. They can fall in love, lose their way, turn their back on friends, realize that there’s no place like home, and have a group hug with the people who really matter, but they can’t save the day. They are capable of rom-coming. And that? That’s detrimental. It goes beyond pissing off a fandom. It becomes damaging to society. It’s pandering, it’s limiting, and it reinforces the idea that men are physical beings and women are emotional beings.

I hear what you’re saying. “Jess, you’re judging a movie solely based on its trailer! Isn’t that jumping to conclusions?” No, because the people responsible for that trailer wanted the public to come away with an idea about the movie’s feel and narrative direction. Look at that and tell me I wasn’t supposed to get a rom-com vibe. You can’t.

There’s a missed opportunity here; an opportunity to tell a fun, female led story with a kick ass message, wrapped in a color palette that hurts your eyes. And that missed opportunity? Well, that’s truly outrageous.

10 Years Later: Remembering Lance Cpl Karl Linn

My adulthood begins with Karl Linn. Karl and I dated while we were both at VCU. It didn’t work out, but even when we weren’t dating, we were very good friends. For those of you who don’t know, on January 26, 2005, Lance Cpl. Karl R. Linn of Chesterfield, Virginia was killed in action in the Al Anbar province of Iraq. It was not until the next day that we heard he had died. On January 27, 2005, I turned 21.

I won’t go into that day, because I’ve gone over it in my head, with others, and in my writing so, so many times. My Dad’s memories of that day will have to suffice. And that’s not really the point of this post.

The point of this post is two-fold. Firstly, it’s been 10 years and I still feel this impulse to tell people, ‘There was this really amazing guy who’s not here anymore and his presence and absence in my life plays a huge role in who I am and the way I carry myself.’ I need people to know and remember him.

Last year I was asked by a publication what I wanted people to remember about Karl.

“To those who didn't know him, I hope people remember that when he set out to achieve something, no obstacle could stand in his way. He fought hard to become a Marine and he absolutely loved it.

Karl was a smart, sweet guy who was respectful of all people, who demonstrated over and over again that chivalry isn't dead and did so through his good manners, consideration of others, and simple gestures of kindness. He was a man of integrity with a strong moral compass. He was a good son, brother, grandson, boyfriend, and friend. He was a talented artist, an analytical thinker, a designer, and above all, a nerd.

But that's not what stands out in my mind when I look back at his life. To me, what I remember most fondly is a tree in Stuart Circle. After a week of midterms, he and I were burned out, so we went for a late night walk through Richmond's Fan district. On our way back to the dorm, we passed by St. John's United Church of Christ located on Stuart Circle. There is tall a maple tree next to the church, and as we passed it, like some kind of woodland creature, Karl leapt up, grabbed a low hanging branch, and scrambled up the tree. He grinned down at me from his perch, "I can go higher," he informed me, proudly. I remember smiling and telling him he probably shouldn't—he could fall out and break his neck. So naturally, he climbed higher. He checked for my reaction every branch or so, his grin getting bigger each time I laughed or squealed that he could get hurt. When he finally made his way down, I told him he was crazy; that made him laugh. When I think of Karl, I remember a boy who climbed a tree, just to make me smile and maybe impress me a little, because that's the kind of guy he was."

Grief never really goes away. It becomes a companion, a part of you, but not apart. If you let it work its way through you, loss can grow into celebration and remembrance, but the pain itself never really goes away. It just becomes a dull background noise that occasionally gets sharper.

This is one of those sharp times for me.

So now we’re at the second reason why I’m writing this post. This birthday I don’t want any presents. Karl loved being a Marine, but he saw the toll it took on his brothers and sisters in the military. The lack of normalcy, constantly being on alert, and being away from familiar places and loving faces weighs heavily on members of our military. So in memory of Karl, I’d like to ask that you all consider helping me raise $1000 for the USO. That’s $100 for every year he’s been gone. I’m also asking you to consider passing along this request to anyone you know who might be willing to contribute.

You can contribute by donating here at my GoFundMe page! If you’d rather make your donation directly, you can do so by going to the USO site.

Thank you all for the years of support you’ve each provided. I’m so proud of Karl. He inspires me every day. He saw some things in me that I couldn’t see. He saw some things in the world that I’m still trying to see.

Thank you for helping me honor his memory and thank our men and women in the military. All my love, guys.

Dislike!

Every now and then someone starts throwing around the idea of a ‘Dislike’ button on Facebook. And for whatever reason, people tend to get behind the idea. And to them I say, NO!

Fortunately, Facebook’s CEO Mark Zuckerberg dislikes the idea of a ‘Dislike’ button as much as I do. And to him I say, thank you! Oh, and thanks for letting us use Pusheen stickers—they’re so gosh darn cute!

Why am I such an opponent of the ‘Dislike’ button? My reasons aren’t exactly complicated. But in case you don’t want to continue reading, the simple answer is that it discourages civility, effort, and critical thinking.

Sorry, I just wanted to post another Pusheen. SO CUTE.

As if the internet wasn’t already a hostile enough place, we would be in a position where we don’t even have to specify why we don’t like something, we can just click ‘Dislike.’ Think about any comment section you’ve seen for a news item--even on a topic that’s not really that controversial. It’s littered with trolls and assorted asshats who have a keyboard and a comment section, and they’re speaking their minds, regardless of how ignorant, hateful, or incorrectly spelled it might be.

Do you really want to just give those folks a button? At least right now they still have to take the initiative to state why they don’t like something someone’s posted. (As opposed to ignoring it, but who does that?!! Lolz!!!) Commenting requires effort and at least a minuscule amount of thought--something that doesn’t come naturally to a lot of people. The convenience of a button would bypass both effort and thought, making Facebook and Facebook linked platforms an even more vicious arena for semi-anonymous, completely detached feedback, trolling, fighting, and general rudeness.

A ‘Dislike’ button will also encourage attention whores to be even worse than they already are. You’ve seen the posts. They’re like diary entries with an emo soundtrack. ‘Life is le sad for whatever reason and these are all the things wrong with life and life is terrible and I’m terrible and everything goes wrong in my life and this world and I’ll always be unhappy’ etc., etc., etc. Usually people post words of encouragement, along with the occasional clever person who posts, ‘dislike!!’ If there really was a button, imagine all the people who would select ‘Dislike’ as a sign of solidarity and support. The poster would be validated with the attention and amount of ‘Dislikes’—look how many people recognize the depths of despair you feel!!

Although to be honest, most people would really just be thinking this:

Not because we don't love you, but because you're being a drama llama and it's better to talk to your friends directly than to post to the world at large how awful life is for you. We just want you to be happy! WHY AREN'T YOU HAPPY??

But on a very basic level it creates a setting for people to feel bad about themselves. Bullying would take on a completely new dynamic. But setting aside the enormous problem of bullying, think about how you’d feel if people ‘Disliked’ what you were posting about? And I’m not talking about controversial topics. I’m talking about posting things like, ‘Just bought a new dress—I feel so pretty!’, ‘Person A and Person B are now engaged!’, ‘I really like [whatever it is you like]!’, ‘I had a great time with friends A, B, and C!’, a duck-faced party pic, a selfie, or an oversharing/TMI pic of yourself/your family/your vacation. Yes, people post everything from the inane to the routine to the life changing on Facebook. And sometimes others think what you’re posting is dumb or uninteresting. Sometimes these people will take the time (why??) to post a dry, sarcastic remark, a backhanded compliment, or a passive aggressive response. But again, that requires effort and thought. There are people who are rude, petty, and bored enough that they’d revel in such a button.

Now naturally there are arguments for a ‘Dislike’ button. There’s the efficiency of simply clicking ‘Dislike’—it would save time! Or perhaps one might lack the appropriate research or vocabulary to tackle something they don't like, but they could still express their feelings on the matter. To mirror one of my previous points, arguments on the internet would be revolutionized! No longer would we feel the need to argue with trolls; we could simply ‘Dislike’ what they’ve said! Take that, jerks!

But those arguments of support don’t really outweigh the arguments against. A ‘Dislike’ button is just a bad idea. It engenders hostility, negativity, and laziness--things we already have enough of in this world. So let’s 'Like' more things! Let’s be more civil! Let’s have thoughtful, well researched debates and conversations! Let’s support one another! Let’s be awesome!

Cold Hands, Warm Hearts.

My friend Jessi is always the first person to get cold. While most people are running around in short sleeves, she’s got on a sweater, and in the evening, bragging/complaining about her electric blanket and space heater.

Note: Jessi looks nothing like Nick Offerman.

It’s totally okay though; we trade off on teasing one another about our internal thermostats, as I’m usually the first person to get hot. At like 67°.

What are friends for, right?

One night, not too long ago, I stepped outside of my apartment and thought, ‘Huh, it is a bit cool out. I bet Jessi is freezing! Haha! At least she’s got her layers and space heater!’ But that passing thought kept bothering me. What about the other Jessi’s in my community who don’t have such things? Richmond recently lost one of its homeless outreach facilities, in a town where heating shelters only open in the city in emergency (read: extremely cold,) situations. They don't open for every other winter night that's just plain cold. And despite the great organizations that offer housing, there are still plenty of people who don't make inside on cold nights, for one reason or another And that made me feel...

*sad pug is sad!!!*

I decided that action was needed. Recalling a homeless outreach organization I worked with in the past, The Daily Planet, I checked out their needs on their website. And their list is straight forward:

• Knit hats
• Gloves
• Scarves
• Thick socks
• Blankets
• Thermal underwear
• Sleeping bags
• Winter coats

So I propose this: I want you all to check out your closets, chest of drawers, or heck, maybe even the sale section at Walmart, Target, etc., and see if you've got any of those items. The goal is simple: We can make our notoriously erratic Virginia winters a little easier for those who don’t or can’t have a place to go. I’ll even come pick donations up from you, if that sweetens the deal!

Everyone of us has a scarf or pair of gloves that we never wear or a blanket we never use that just sits in the back of our cars. How many pairs of socks do you have? Do you really need that many? No you don’t. Just do your laundry more often.

If you’re interested in participating, please let me know! If you don’t have my email address, you can message me on Facebook, Twitter, or in the comment section that you’d like to participate. Let's make Richmond a little warmer for some folks this winter!

(Note: I know I have some really cool friends who work with different organizations or heck, they have their own organization. I’m not trying to outshine them or neglect them--I love anyone who’s doing good stuff--this was just the first organization I thought of.)

Heifer: That, which I am NOT!

For the record, in case there was ANY misunderstanding, calling a person, particularly a woman, particularly a woman who is fat, 'heifer,' even if you're "just joking," is neither appreciated, nor acceptable.

Why? Because a heifer is an animal of the bovine persuasion who has yet to have her first calf. The implication that I’m young and without child is certainly apt and possibly even appreciated, but I can definitely do without the bovine part.

Not pictured: Me.

See I've spent most of my life trying to battle a public that on the regular attempts to compare me to a barnyard animal, among other things, and having someone, however funny they think they're being, call me, 'heifer' is not helping the situation.

Of course that’s assuming you’re referring to me as an animal, which you probably aren’t. The truth is you’re probably using it in the non-barnyard vernacular, which is, according to Urban Dictionary, “A prodigiously large female.”

I'm pretty sure you know what 'large' means, along with female, but let's do a quick Google search on the word, ‘prodigious’.

Remarkably or abnormally! Oh! And massively! VAST. COLOSSAL. MAMMOTH. So I'm a mammothly large female. You're calling me that while laughing like the funny person and/or friend that you think you are! Well that is just charming.

But of course you’re just playing, right? You’re just taking a word that makes an observation about me and using it in a manner that you consider to be non-offensive and should therefore be non-offensive to me as well? That’s great. That works both ways right? Because if that’s the case, I can pull together a list of things I can call you too. So if I comment on your race, gender, appearance, or sexuality, don’t get offended--I’m just playing!! See! It’s funny! We’re all laughing, right?

Wait, we’re not? It’s not okay for me to use a slur against your race, gender, personal appearance, or sexuality? But… I’m confused. So it’s okay for you use a slur against me, but it’s not okay for me to do the same about you. Huh. That’s weird. I guess the only thing I can say is…

I understand this might be very confusing for you. To assist you in understanding what or who you may call a heifer, I've created the following list:

  An actual cow, preferably one who hasn't had her first calf yet.

This guy from "Rocko's Modern Life," although his name is spelled 'Heffer.'

A charitable organization to which you can/should contribute. In fact any time you try to call someone a heifer, donate to this charity. It’ll be like a swear jar.

So in conclusion, in case you haven’t gotten it through your head yet, DON’T CALL ME A HEIFER. Or else my prodigiously large ass and attitude will put you in your place, publicly, loudly, and mercilessly. Got it? Now you go have yourself a nice day!

Robin Williams, 1951 - 2014

I remember the first time I heard “Reality...What a Concept.” I’m not sure how I got my hands on it, but I know I was not quite 9 yet because I hadn’t seen “Aladdin.” Obviously it was not age appropriate, and I knew it at the time. I remember listening to the cassette in my bedroom with the door shut. About 60% of the content went way over my head, but that which didn’t left me laughing, hard. It was my first experience with stand up comedy that I really liked. I remember looking at the cassette and thinking 2 things: 1) This was Robin Williams, that guy from that Nick-at-Nite show, “Mork and Mindy,” and 2) I wanted to hear more stuff like his stand up and less “Nah-Nu, Nah-Nu.”

Like every kid my age in America, I saw “Aladdin,” “Fern Gully,” and “Mrs. Doubtfire.” I begged my parents to let me see “Toys” and “Dead Poets Society,” but I wasn’t allowed. See, I was just a kid. A kid who knew great jokes about Village of the Damned People.

I remember when I saw “Hook” for the first time, and I was one of the Lost Boys. “You’re playing with us, Peter!” He portrayed a man who, as it turned out, never really grew up. Not really. And it seemed even then that maybe Steven Spielberg might have been typecasting. Because I don’t think for a minute Robin ever grew up, and maybe that was why it hurt so much to be him at times.

When I was 13 I used Napster to download “A Night at the Met.” It was one of the first things I ever downloaded. I still have the CD I burned it onto. And being older, I started to get a lot of the jokes and references, even though several of them were, again, above age appropriateness. But I was hooked. It was intelligent humor, a display of a genius at play, and the funniest thing I had ever heard in my young life.

See, for me, Robin Williams was more than an actor or a comedian. He was the man who introduced me to my sense of humor, my particular preference for smart comedy that went beyond the juvenile humor of my peers. He was topical and playful; smart, yet not above a crude joke. A master of characters and play, he seized upon every opportunity to adlib and improv, exploited irony, and used history and facts to delight and make you think at the same time. His humor made me feel validated and less alone because even though I didn’t laugh at the same things as my peers, here was a guy who represented that which I found hilarious. He made me laugh in times when I was so very much alone and sad as a kid. He taught he how to make jokes that elicited laughter from adults and eventually kids my age, and it was through humor that I learned how to fit in and deflect the worst parts of being a kid and teenager.

As I got older I saw many of the movies he was in and loved them. I’m nowhere near having watched everything he’s ever been in, but I guess I need to apply myself more. I won’t go through the full list, but there are so many bright spots and very few ‘wrongs’ in his career, as far as I’m concerned. Except for “Death to Smoochy.” *shudders*

His HBO specials, “Live on Broadway” and “Weapons of Self-Destruction” were nothing short of brilliant, and I frequently reference and quote both in everyday conversation. I had the privilege of seeing him live TWICE: Once in Richmond,  while he was on a stand up tour, and once on Broadway in the production of “Bengal Tiger at Baghdad Zoo.” It was after the latter that I met him.

They say don’t meet your heroes, and I’m betting there’s some truth to that, but thankfully not on this occasion. The crowd around the railing was pretty thick after the show, but I had somehow managed a spot at the front. Everyone was taking pictures with him and getting his autograph. I got my program autographed as well. As he was signing it, I stammered, “I am such a huge fan. You taught me about comedy when I was only 8. I think you’re brilliant. Thank you for all you do!” He murmured a ‘thanks,’ and then posed for a picture with me. He was really tired and there were a lot of people around. The only problem was the woman who took the photo didn’t understand camera phones and got a shot of my elbow. She asked if I wanted to try again, and I said, trying to keep the note of sadness out of my voice, “I don’t want to take up anymore of Mr. Williams’ time. Thanks though.” He immediately turned back to me and asked, “Would you like to try again?” I beamed, “Yes sir, please!” And he did! He gave me a smile and shook my hand, giving my hand an extra squeeze. I remember walking back through Times Square like I was on a cloud. I couldn’t wait to call my parents and friends and tell them I met Robin Williams, my hero and favorite comedian.

There’s a movie that sometimes gets poorly reviewed and regarded, but I love it. However in light of today’s events, it’s gone from one of my favorites to possibly the most tragic: “What Dreams May Come,” a film in which his character, who has died and gone to Heaven rescues his wife from Purgatory after she commits suicide, out of grief.

Robin Williams left the world this morning, most likely at his own hands. He left behind three children, a wife, numerous fans, and unfinished, brilliant work. I won’t speculate on the hows or the whys, but we can all surmise that he had to be in a very dark place to do such a thing.

I have been crying off and on since I heard the news this evening. To those who think I might be overreacting, boo-hooing over some celebrity, I say this: Robin Williams was more than a genie, a nanny, a cabaret club owner, a doctor, a bat, or an alien. He was, to my mind, my professor of humor and comedy, my hero and inspiration, and a man who taught me how to be me, starting at age 8.

I hope that he’s found peace, and a great reward for all the joy he brought to so many of us. I believe that the pain and pressures of life are gone and that he can finally let go. And I hope that when I reach the same place--wherever that might be--there’s a stage-side seat for me. Because God knows even he’ll be able to work up some amazing material about the afterlife.

You’ll be missed, Robin. Thank you for everything.

Genie, you're free. pic.twitter.com/WjA9QuuldD
— The Academy (@TheAcademy) August 12, 2014

The Hurricane Names for 2014 Are Totally Lame.

My friend Jack got me to thinking after this tweet:

Super Typhoon Neoguri set to slam into Okinawa (Sounds a bit more ominous than 'Arthur', wouldn't you say?) http://t.co/wK6W5LxzNj
— Jack Lauterback (@jackgoesforth) July 7, 2014

I have to say I thoroughly agree with him. I think it’s pretty clear that the 2014 Hurricane season’s names are the worst yet. Sorry in advance if your name is Dolly, Fay, Nana, Teddy, or Wilfred. Although I’m not sorry, your names are terrible hurricane names. You should complain to NASA or NOAA or Al Roker or something.

I can't hear 'Hurricane Dolly' without thinking of Dolly Parton. Or maybe a sheep. Or maybe a sheep dressed as Dolly Parton. Supposing there is a Hurricane Dolly, it had better be absolutely fabulous, with a disproportionately (and possibly artificially) large western wall. All news segment music intros had better include a chorus of “Jolene.” And Jim Cantore better be clinging to a sign post, winds bearing down on him, making a “9 to 5” reference.

Okay, so maybe that hurricane isn’t so bad. But Hurricane Fay? … … Never mind, I’m related to a Fay, and she is definitely a hurricane--in all the best ways, of course. She is in charge, knows how to make a grand entrance, is good at organizing people, her arrival is greatly anticipated, she's frequently found in Florida, and her penchant for shopping is certainly hurricane-like.

So we’re good with Hurricane Dolly and Fay. But what about Nana? What is she going to do? Harass you about when you’re going to FINALLY get married and have babies? Or when are you going to cut your hair? Or lose weight? Or wear nicer clothes? Or put on some make up? Or when are you going to do something with your life? Or dump one guy for another? Or go to her preferred church? Or clean your house to meet her level of clean? Or criticize some other part of your life?!?!?! … … Never mind, that is all very destructive and scary. Hurricane Nana is also very, very terrifying.

Well Teddy can’t possible be that intimidating a name. Teddy makes me think of bears, and bears totally--

Terrifying. Teddy is effing terrifying. Never mind.

But we can all agree that Hurricane Wilfred is not at all scary. Not even a little. Wilfred is a middle-aged man in a dog suit. Sorry Wilfred.