My Life As A Hobby

  It was almost time.  Thirty minutes before I was to go on stage, we did a sound check.  The AV person made sure the volume levels on my wireless microphone were perfect, and then let me know how far I could pace to stay in camera range.  Since I move around a lot when I’m on stage, I carefully made a mental note of that information.   Twenty minutes before I was to go on stage, I was escorted into a small room with a chair in the middle. At first glance, it reminded me of a place someone would take you to extract a confession.  But it was far from that. I sat down, the door closed and about 10 people surrounded me, put their hands on me, and one by one prayed for me.  I’ve never had that done to me before. It felt well, amazing.  My time finally came. I took two steps up, and just like that I was on stage again, staring into the bright lights, while several hundred people waited. I began to speak.  However, unlike all the other times, laughter wasn’t the goal. Because on this particu

I’m getting goosebumps just thinking about it, even though it happened many years ago. I still marvel how the memory of something like this can have such an effect on me.  I remember it clearly;  it was the first night when I got a taste of what it’s like to be a big time entertainer. It was my first outdoor concert gig in front of thousands of people.  I had been doing stand up for a few years, progressing along at a pretty good clip.   Birmingham Comedy Club owner Bruce Ayers had developed enough confidence in me to start booking me in corporate gigs.  These are well paying jobs, coveted by all comedians.  So when “Comedy Club” showed up on my caller ID, I picked up immediately.  It usually meant money in my pocket. Today’s call was a bit different, however.  Bruce spoke,  “Hey Vern (back then, everyone was Vern), what are you doing next Saturday nite?  I might have a thing for you.” Thing was his comedy code word for a paying gig.  “It doesn’t pay a whole lot, but it will be great e

I just finished my annual reading of To Kill a Mockingbird.  Wow. As long as I live, I will read this novel.  And for me, there’s a bonus.  Every time I pick up the book, I’m reminded of a special graduation gift I gave to someone. Let’s face the facts - since the gift card came along it’s made true gift giving a dying art. Yes, I’ve used them - but reluctantly because I think they  reduce gift giving to a thoughtless ritual.  I’ve even talked about it on stage saying, “If someone gives you a gift card, what they’re really saying is, “I feel obligated to buy you something, but I don’t care enough about you to look for anything.”    A thoughtful gift is a beautiful thing.  For example, one Christmas I surprised my siblings with framed pictures of the dog we had as kids. It brought them to tears. I gave my wife her engagement ring by steaming open a box of Cracker Jacks and putting it in the surprise toy package. Once I had my friend Jay Leno send a buddy a personal birthday greetin

It’s been a while, but I’ve done it again. I locked my keys in my car. I thought that by now in our 21st century world, where we have more high tech gadgets than anyone in the 1950’s could’ve imagined, every automobile on Earth would have a foolproof method to keep this from happening.   It’s true that lots of new cars have features that make it impossible.  But not all of them.  My truck is a prime example.  And I’m living proof that if you take the right kind of moron, put him in the right kind of car, then throw in a dash of ADD, you can indeed still lock your keys in your car.  Bless my heart.  I was at a shopping center when it occurred. I still can’t believe I did it.  What’s worse, I’ll swear I was closing the car door while I heard the little idiot bell going off.  More on that shortly.  And it happens so fast.  I think the smallest measurable increment of time known to man is the time between that car door closing and realizing your keys are still in the car.  Sometimes you ac

Road rage has been a thing for a while now.  Ever since the paved highway, the automobile, and the stop light existed, people have become angry at the mistakes other drivers make.   I think it’s safe to say it didn’t happen before then.   In the   1800’s no one would go bonkers if the horse and buggy in front of them was going too slow on a dirt road.   But now, the pent up anger people have while driving is downright scary.   They turn into flat-out crazy folks, as my grandmother used to say.   What amazes me is how you can put the most genteel person behind the wheel of a car, and they turn into the Incredible Hulk.   We have a story at our church about a very nice, quiet, Christ serving member who became so perturbed with a slow driver, that she not only passed him, but rolled down her window and gave him the one finger salute.   To her absolute horror, the driver of the passed car was one of our beloved church elders.   WWJD?   I don’t think he’d flip off a slow moving Buick.  I

It’s a sure sign of spring.  Last Saturday I drove by our community ball park and it was packed. There was no doubt it was Opening Day.   What seemed to be thousands of parents and grandparents were crowded around the baseball diamonds to encourage their future major league players.   Please don’t question me - I’m sure that most parents at the ballpark will tell you their child is going to make it to the big leagues - Triple A at the very least.  It seems to me that all ballparks have one thing in common: the bigger the field is, the more serious the game becomes. That’s why my favorite game is the one with the smallest field - T Ball.  Hands down, it’s the best game to watch in the world - other than bikini beach volleyball, of course.  I like it because most kids don’t even know the rules, nor do they care.  It’s  wonderful organized chaos with colorful uniforms and imitation leather gloves.  The coaches try to coach, but the parents, most of whom never played baseball in their