November 26, 2025
Funny Bone was a bust — didn’t get on.
Purple Quarters saved the night, like it always does.
Asked the crowd if they wanted something polished or if I should just riff.
They chose chaos.
Good choice.
I worked the autism diagnosis coming next week. The psychiatrist said I didn’t just check every box — I hit the 95th percentile on every symptom. If there were an autism Olympics, apparently I’d medal. I’m still figuring out how I feel about all that.
Bought a new camera and brought it with me. Never pulled it out. Doesn’t matter how much gear I buy — some nights my brain just says “not today.”
The Chess Game That Wasn’t
After the set, someone from the audience asked if I wanted to play chess.
Sure. Why not.
We sat there moving pieces around, talking strategy, talking life. Then I felt the shift — that lean-in, that vibe change — and realized this wasn’t actually about chess.
And here’s the thing:
I’m straight. Very straight.
I’m just terrible at realizing when someone’s into me until it’s extremely obvious.
I don’t want to lead anybody on accidentally, so I made a clean exit before things moved in a direction I couldn’t follow. No drama. Just clarity.
Walking to my car, relieved that I’d handled it respectfully, my phone rang.
Mom.
Ambulance.
Possible heart attack.
ER.
Go. Now.
Everything in me dropped.
The Summer That Changed Everything
Suddenly I’m 14 again.
The year after my adoption, after getting caught at 13 in a stolen ’81 Chevy Citation with a pound of weed — that was the year the family decided I should spend the summer in the Mojave Desert with Grandpa Joe and Grandma Judy. Three months out there.
Best summer of my life.
Days spent wandering until I got lost on purpose.
One afternoon it rained — five minutes, maybe ten — and we ran outside like it was Christmas morning. The desert exploded with life instantly. Flowers opening, cactus drinking, colors everywhere. The whole world breathed at once.
It was the first time I saw how a few drops of rain can change everything.
When we got home to St. Louis, the house felt empty — brothers gone, sister barely around. Just me, the parents, and the blinking red light on the answering machine.
I hit play.
My aunt’s voice.
“Tell your mom to call me. It’s about Judy.”
I stopped the tape. Light went off. Left it at that.
Two weeks later, Mom found out Grandma Judy had died. Funeral was already over. Family fractured. And I had erased the only message they got.
I didn’t know better.
But I’ve carried that weight ever since.
What We Can’t Rewind
Standing in the hospital watching them work on my mom, that old memory hit me hard — all the messages we miss, the connections we mishandle, the people we accidentally hurt without meaning to.
That person at Purple Quarters wanted something I couldn’t give. Not because there’s anything wrong with them — but because I’m wired differently. The autism diagnosis will just give a label to what I’ve always known: I often play a different social game than the people around me.
I don’t play chess to win.
I don’t do comedy to compete.
I don’t connect through hierarchy.
I’m an anarchist at heart — rising-tide energy. Even that metaphor has hierarchy — the boat sits on the water — but it’s still symbiotic. Still partnership, not dominance.
The Camera in the Bag
And that new camera? Didn’t touch it tonight.
Maybe some nights aren’t meant to be documented.
Maybe some messages need to blink red until someone else hits play.
Or maybe I’m just tired and scared and doing what I always do — turning chaos into philosophy, philosophy into comedy, comedy into connection.
Mom’s going to be fine.
She has to be.
And this time, I didn’t miss the message.
But that 14-year-old kid who erased the blinking light — he’s still in there, still figuring out why he hit that button, still carrying the ghost of a goodbye that never happened.
Rising tides, even in the emergency room.
Even when old ghosts show up.
