I have performed stand up comedy over 1,400 times. I know because I keep a spreadsheet. It is fun to see progress. It’s also fun to make graphs with the data. I made some graphs.
That’s a pretty snazzy graph, but I also have one for the previous 6 years. Feast your eyes on this visual candy.
I then compiled all the most relevant data into a series of bar graphs.
See? Isn’t tracking things and making graphs fun?
I get on health kicks. Sometimes, I am a deliberate eater. I’ll go to Arby’s and order a Beef ‘n Cheddar with no bun and forgo the curly fries. That’s discipline.
Other times, I will spend $30 at Taco Bell, eat it all, and then get a bowl of cereal.
Around Christmas one year, I joined the low carb diet fun. I convinced my wife to get me a dehydrator. My excitement boiled over. I tracked the Amazon delivery status.
Christmas purists would shudder at my plans. I was going to use this dehydrator immediately. There’s no reason to wrap it or wait until the 25th. I want jerky.
Jerky is meat candy.
However, it is far too expensive. A quarter filled sack of jerky will run you the same as 3 pizzas from Little Caesar’s.
I checked. The eagle landed at 2:30. I was stuck at school. I considered leaving early. Does study hall really need a teacher?
My wife gets off at 3 and is only 10 minutes from our 3rd floor apartment.
By the time she arrived, my dehydrator was stolen. Porch pirates deprived me of my meat. They’re a bunch of jerky jerks.
Amazon plans for theft. They sent me another dehydrator. I immediately made jerky. I have owned it for 4 years. That was the only time I used it.
Senior year in highschool is an odd time. Of course, many students check out. They fall victim to the draw of “senioritis”. Most students experience loss. For many years, a sport or activity has consumed a large amount of their time and energy. Then, one day, the season is over.
I played football in highschool, but I was not going to play in college. I was passionate about football. I saw myself as a football player. Then, the season ended. I never played again. It has been over 15 years, I have not never put on a helmet or laced my cleats. It’s over.
Basketball was similar. I was offered an opportunity to play basketball in college, but I decided to join the debate team instead. In the following years, I played here or there. Basketball is no longer part of my life. In my basketball prime, I went to the gym and played pick-up games for hours. Guys wore t-shirts which read, “Basketball is Life”. I agreed.
High school classes were painfully easy. College was easy too. The first time I was really academically challenged was when I took Elementary Hebrew. Did you know they write backwards?
After basketball season my senior year, I had too much time on my hands. One of my school’s favorite teachers, Mr. Powers, started a men’s volleyball team. Besides having an awesome name, Mr. Powers was a beast at volleyball. I never took a class with him, but I heard good things. My best friend Derrin and I joined.
As part of the process of joining, we supplied Mr. Powers with a black t-shirt and ironed on a number. This was our uniform. I figured the t-shirt would match our spandex shorts and knee pads. Mr. Powers informed us that only girls wear knee pads. If he was calling me a sissy for not wanting to bump my knee, he did it very diplomatically. He also said we would wear basketball shorts. I was going to have to find another way to show off my meaty thighs.
We had one practice before our first game. We knew most of the rules. I later found out that most volleyball teams will hit the ball on their side of the net 3 times even if they can get it back over on 1 or 2. At the time, they called it “bump, set, spike.” We did not follow this formula. As soon as the ball came on our side of the net, we hit it back over.
I discovered that I enjoyed playing on the front line. While I’m 6’8”, I have the vertical leaping ability of a hippopotamus. Still, my height was an enormous advantage. I did not 100% know how to hit the ball and was called for a “lift” 3 or 4 times that game. I didn’t understand.
I saw girls volleyball players celebrate after every point. Our team was much too disorganized for that, but I didn’t let that stop me. My friend Derrin and I chestbumped after every made point for the entire game. No one ever joined us. Our shenanigans looked odd because I am a full foot taller than Derrin. Years later, I got married and Derrin was a groomsman. We have a photo of us chest bumping in a church wearing suits.
Despite not knowing how to play volleyball, we won our first game. We then had a few practices, learned the rules and techniques, and lost every other game for the rest of the season. I blame Brian Oval. In our rotation, he served when I was in the middle of the front row. He insisted on serving overhand and did not get a single serve in all season. He should have served underhand like a granny because the literal giant is in the best position for his considerable height. Volleyball was pretty fun, but Brian Oval sucks.
Moths are homely butterflies. I’m sure some weirdos like moths, but I don’t. It’s not just because they are ugly. If I hated all things ugly, I’d have disowned half my family and all my wife’s family.
My moth hatred is like Spiderman. It has an origin story. My “death of Uncle Ben” took the form of my older brother’s lying soul.
We were spending the summer in Daytona Beach with my grandparents. Moths were an issue at night. These flying monsters swarmed around the porch light.
My brother noticed the look of concern in my eight year old eyes. He saw an opportunity.
“Moths eat skulls.”
I just learned the word skull. My eyes widened. I took a step back.
I’ve grown since then both physically and emotionally.
I still hate moths. They fly their stupid bodies into you and turn to dust when they die. I’m not going to give them a chance to eat my skull.
My first memory is unpleasant because it involves my granny and nudity. My dad was the youngest of his family. I am the youngest of my family. That means I was doted on like few were. I was granny’s favorite. Some grandmothers get little white dogs and tote them around everywhere. My granny had me, and (at the time) I was little and white. I’m still white.
She would take me to all sorts of places, but because she was retired and all of her friends were of a certain age, she mostly took me to funerals. If I ever smell flowers, I immediately think of funerals, me in a clip on tie, and my granny.
Why did I spend so much time with her? My parents both worked and my brothers were both in school. I needed somewhere to go. Legend has it that I was put in daycare, but didn’t last. I was probably discharged for being too violent. Honestly, I was never violent. I was weepy. You could make me cry by looking at me.
So I had to go somewhere. My granny took care of me every day before I was old enough for school. However, I was a jealous little bugger. I was jealous that my brothers were going to school, and I wasn’t. My granny was a lot like me. A problem solver.
She bought or borrowed (maybe stole) a school desk. We had “granny school”. She would give me homework. One time in 2nd grade we were doing an assignment where we were supposed to collect leaves from a variety of trees. Child’s play. I was doing leaf books at 4 and a half.
Back to my first memory. There I was standing with my undies around my ankles alone. I heard myself shout, “Granny, I’m done.”
Thus begins my memory. I have always prided myself on having a better than average memory. It came in handy at school. My steel trap of a mind starts its illustrious journey by informing my grandmother of a successful poo.
I wrote this on Monday, February 20, 2023.
I am bloated. I am doing the Keto diet. It is hard. Bread is so good. It tempts me everyday. I have come up with a solution. Actually, I stole an idea from another diet and am not convinced it is a solution at all. I have a cheat day on Sunday. A couple of Sundays ago, I cheated the entire day. Things got nutty. I ate donuts before I was fully awake and downed Reese’s as I was falling asleep.
I tried to be more reasonable. I decided to limit my cheating to afternoon. Also, I had to eat a sensible and nutritious breakfast. Yesterday at about 1pm, I started cheating. By the end of the day, I consumed more than 7,000 calories and over 1,000 grams of carbohydrates. The rest of the week, my carb limit is 20 grams per day.
I suppose it is no wonder that I feel sluggish. I know that I did some eating to make myself feel better emotionally. I always find that sad. I know food soothes hence the term “comfort food”, but I like to think I’m better than that. I’m not. I get sad and fill my sad hole with sweets and bread.
I was upset because of a silly interaction with my wife. I also had a disappointing weekend of comedy. I performed for a total of 1 minute.
Carbs are my best friend and worst enemy. I love them with all my heart and they are going to give me a heart attack.
I recently went to New Orleans with my lovely wife. She’s not perfect, but she does not struggle with her weight. I have lost more weight than she has ever been.
To say that she’s a bad influence is a bit harsh. Instead, I will call her a demon temptress. (I know that she will read this, and that she will not like that line. That is the sole reason I chose to keep that line.)
She constantly wants us to get Blizzards or Cold Stone. I can turn that down. McDonald’s breakfast on a road trip is another story. Road trips are all about unhealthy eating choices. I tell the truth, but I do it with love.
Another factor was our destination. We went to New Orleans. I avoided carbs my first day in the Big Easy. That was enough.
The next day, I went hog wild. I ate like a pig.
I had so much bread, I became part carbohydrate. The GPS said New Orleans. My soul said Heaven.
Carbs affect more than just my joy. They affect my tummy. I don’t want to be crass, but carbs give me the farts.
I’m blowing up my sweatpants like I was part roman candle.
The next morning, we began our trip back home. Eleven hours in the car.
The air in that Impala was so foul that my wife’s nail polish dissolved. It was a rolling hot-box. She lured me over to the world of processed foods. The punishment fits the crime.
My 9-fingered brother started a church. At the time, he had 10 fingers. The phrase “started a church” makes it sound like he invented a religion. That’s not it. He started a new church in downtown Denver. Because “starting a church” sounds so weird, people that start churches came up with a different verb: plant. As in, my 9-fingered brother planted a church.
Planting a church is hard work and little pay. It is starting a business but not having anything to sell. He had to raise funds. He never asked me for money because he knew that I didn’t have any.
I was living in Louisville during my first year at seminary, and he told me about a Christian conference in Chicago which is a 6 hour drive from Louisville. I planned on attending the conference.
My good friend from high school, Derrin, also planned on going to this loftily named conference; the Gospel Coalition. We made plans for the 3 of us to share a hotel and attend the conference together.
While in Chicago, we had some time before the conference started. My 9-fingered brother suggested that we catch a Cubs game. By the time we took the train to Wrigleyville, the game was in the 3rd inning. We bought some discounted tickets from a guy on the sidewalk and hustled to our seats.
We were about to sit down when a ball came flying in from the field. My 9-fingered brother sprang up and caught it bare handed. Remember, at this time, he had 10 fingers.
Catching a foul ball is exciting. Being in your designated seats for less than a minute and catching a foul ball is downright exhilarating.
That night, my 9-fingered brother brought the baseball to a lecture featuring 2 prominent theologians. After they spoke, he asked them to sign the ball. Even though this was during the steroid’s era of baseball, we were pretty sure both of these guys were clean.
The next day, my 9-fingered brother met a pastor from the Denver area. The idea was to get this guy to convince his church to send money to my brother’s new church. Churches planting churches. Reproduction at its finest.
My 9-fingered brother wanted to impress this guy, so he took him to lunch at Gino’s East, a deep dish pizza place famous in Chicago. Since I had the car, Derrin and I got to tag along. My brother was schmoozing the pastor as Derrin and I perused the menu. One pizza looks particularly delicious: the Meaty Legend.
Even though I was at lunch with 2 pastors, attending a Gospel conference, and currently a seminary student, I was still a silly boy. I said, “Meaty Legend? That was my nickname in high school.”
Derrin, my 9-fingered brother, and I laughed uncontrollably. The invited pastor did not. He also did not financially support my brother’s church plant.
I believe that I only experienced one negative physical side effect from my size. I have big feet. That’s a bit of an understatement. By the time I was in 8th grade, I wore a size 18. The other 6’8” guys that I knew did not have that big of shoes. I was unique. I had to order my shoes. This was before online shopping. I had to subscribe to a magazine for shoes, note the ones that went to size 18 (which were only 3 or 4 pairs of basketball shoes), and call a 1-800 number. A few weeks later, I could walk outside.
I played football for 3 years and had only 1 pair of cleats. They were the type of cleats that could be refurbished. I screwed off the numbs on the bottom and replaced them with fresh and much larger numbs.
The physical misfortune that befell me was toenail related. For years, I had ingrown toenails. Both of the nails on my big toes grew into the flesh of my toe. Everytime I took my socks off, I had red marks on the top of each sock. I bled everyday.
While the toes did not hurt most of the time, they were extremely tender. If you stepped on my foot, I would howl in pain. It was sharper and more immediately painful than a blow to the family jewels. I would prefer a swift kick to the nuggets over an accidental pace on my foot. Whenever I saw the yellow Gadsden flag with the rattlesnake, I got it. Don’t Tread on Me.
At first I tried some home remedies. I scraped the middle of my toenails lengthwise with a knife. The idea was to make the nail grow inward. Everyday in 8th grade, I came home, took my bloody sock off, grabbed a knife, and started scraping.
Here, I think I should remind you that I later completed a Ph.D.
I was also concerned with infection. I had hydrogen peroxide. I poured it on my toes everyday. It bubbled white. If I think about what life as an 8th grade boy was like, I think about the white foam of hydrogen peroxide on my tender toes.
Eventually, the problem became so bad that I needed surgery. Outpatient surgery. No anesthesia. My mom took me to my pediatrician. He grabbed some pliers and said, “this is going to hurt.”
My mom offered her hand for me to hold. I said, “I’ll break your hand.”
The doc said, “Just hold 2 fingers.”
After 40 minutes and a lot of pain, he burned part of my cuticle so I’ll never have an ingrown toenail again. The top of my toes are still a bit tender, but I was able to walk across the stage and accept my Ph.D. without a bloody sock.
I went to Liberty University, the world’s most exciting university. Seriously, they use that tag line or at least did when I went there.
After my first year, I decided to upgrade my living situation from the budget dorms in the “circle” to the slightly nicer dorms in the “quad”. The walk to class was longer, but instead of 3 guys shoved into one room, I would have only 1 roommate. I let the computer pair me up with a random freshman. His name was Garret. He loved World of Warcraft and was up for anything.
He took a look at me, the monster who would now sleep in his room, and decided to take the top bunk. Smart.
Not many people would volunteer to have my body 3 feet above them while they slept.
Quick side note:
I did sleep on the top bunk for a couple of weeks one summer after I graduated. I came back to Lynchburg and crashed with my buddy Dan. He had a bunk bed, and I slept on the top. One afternoon, we were both in bed. I was reading The Hobbit, and I took an unexpected journey. The top bunk slid off the supports and collapsed. Dan was pinned to his mattress by a plywood board with a guy on top that could easily be described as “husky”. Dan was fine, and I moved my mattress to the floor.
In the door room, however, I graciously accepted the bottom bunk.
I grabbed my fitted twin sheet and put it over the vinyl covered mattress. I threw my blanket and pillow on top. My bed was made. Now was time to lay in it.
The next morning, I was tangled in my bottom sheet. During the night, it popped off the mattress. The coefficient of friction between the cotton sheet and the vinyl mattress was rather low.
I returned the bottom sheet to its position. The next morning, I again woke up to find my fitted sheet refusing to stay on my urine proof mattress.
I said, “I’m not dealing with this all year.”
That was the last time I attempted to put a fitted sheet on that borrowed mattress. For the next 2 semesters, I slept directly on the blue vinyl. Each morning, I peeled myself off thankful that I did not have to mess with an unruly sheet.
Jake Hovis 