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Authors: David Cross
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Touching the Void
but without the real danger of death and the awe-inspiring triumph over it through superhuman strength and courage. I could
then write and produce a one-man show off and then on, and then off again, Broadway about my experiences of turning the graphic
novella written about the financing of
My Story’s Story’s Behind-the-Scenes of the Making of The Story Casino,
which was thematically designed and inspired from the story the way I told it on a special sixteen-part
Oprah.
My point is this: I would be filthy rich. But ultimately, what we learned here is that Mandy Patinkin not only loves pita
chips but that he has a favorite kind. Can you guess what they are? Answer at the end of this piece.
Oh! Hello! It’s the end of the piece!
Answer: Roasted garlic!
A Little Bit about Me, ’Cause It’s My Book
“I’ VE BEEN TO P HOENIX , A RIZONA , ALL THE WAY TO T ACOMA , Philadelphia, Atlanta, L.A. Northern California where the girls are warm so I could be with my sweet baby, yeah.” Steve
Miller sang those words and, thanks to the borderline tragic need of aging boomers to remind themselves of a fantastic youth
that is more than likely 75 percent imagined, probably still does at the Verizon/Delta/Capri Sun amphitheater near you. By
the time I was in my early twenties I had been to all of those places (yes, even Tacoma), living in two of them for at least
nine years and another for six months. I’m using this to illustrate the point that, because of an unstable childhood in which
my family moved at least once a year if not more, and because of an early entry into the world of stand-up, traveling “the
road,” I too, like Mr. Miller, have been all over America. The only states I have not been to are Alaska and North Dakota,
and North Dakota doesn’t even count. And Alaska is so far away that it might as well be Tasmania. And to say you haven’t really
been to all of Australia just because you didn’t go to Tasmania is silly. So, I’ve been all over America.
People are often lulled into attributing blanket generalizations to people of different regions—i.e., the good folks of New
England are tight-assed and prudent, people in the South are friendly and move at a slower pace, people in the Midwest are
useless tweakers who don’t shower for weeks on end, etc. etc. Sometimes, of course, there are some truths to these assessments.
People in the South are, indeed, on the whole, more “polite” (in the sense that they say “hello” and stuff like that) than
most other masses of people. That’s not to say there aren’t any racist assholes who would shoot a hippie faggot in the back
rather than hear about two of them getting married in a strange progressive land far, far away. And I’m sure there’s at least
one person in the Midwest who’s not selling her 9-year-old’s pussy for another hit on the ol’ glass dick. For the most part,
these generalizations exist for a reason. I am going to do my best (through my thoroughly jaded jaundiced eyes of biased bitterness)
to convey what a day or lifetime spent in some of these charming hamlets of care-free nuclear families grilling their bulk-bought
Mexican hot dogs and scooping potato salad from a 5-gallon plastic bucket, is like.
Let’s start with where I was born and where I return to at least a couple of times a year—Atlanta, Georgia. Now I don’t want
to turn this into a memoir, as I’m a bit young for that yet. But I do have some pretty amazing stories to tell. You can turn
to page 54 for a teaser of some of the stories I’ll be relating in the memoir that will be forthcoming at some point down
the line. When people find out that I grew up in Atlanta, they will usually say, “Where’s your accent?” which is ridiculous,
since everyone should know by now that I sold it to Larry the Cable Guy for twenty bucks and a set of “Git-R-Done” tire covers.
Actually I grew up in
Touching the Void
but without the real danger of death and the awe-inspiring triumph over it through superhuman strength and courage. I could
then write and produce a one-man show off and then on, and then off again, Broadway about my experiences of turning the graphic
novella written about the financing of
My Story’s Story’s Behind-the-Scenes of the Making of The Story Casino,
which was thematically designed and inspired from the story the way I told it on a special sixteen-part
Oprah.
My point is this: I would be filthy rich. But ultimately, what we learned here is that Mandy Patinkin not only loves pita
chips but that he has a favorite kind. Can you guess what they are? Answer at the end of this piece.
Oh! Hello! It’s the end of the piece!
Answer: Roasted garlic!
A Little Bit about Me, ’Cause It’s My Book
“I’ VE BEEN TO P HOENIX , A RIZONA , ALL THE WAY TO T ACOMA , Philadelphia, Atlanta, L.A. Northern California where the girls are warm so I could be with my sweet baby, yeah.” Steve
Miller sang those words and, thanks to the borderline tragic need of aging boomers to remind themselves of a fantastic youth
that is more than likely 75 percent imagined, probably still does at the Verizon/Delta/Capri Sun amphitheater near you. By
the time I was in my early twenties I had been to all of those places (yes, even Tacoma), living in two of them for at least
nine years and another for six months. I’m using this to illustrate the point that, because of an unstable childhood in which
my family moved at least once a year if not more, and because of an early entry into the world of stand-up, traveling “the
road,” I too, like Mr. Miller, have been all over America. The only states I have not been to are Alaska and North Dakota,
and North Dakota doesn’t even count. And Alaska is so far away that it might as well be Tasmania. And to say you haven’t really
been to all of Australia just because you didn’t go to Tasmania is silly. So, I’ve been all over America.
People are often lulled into attributing blanket generalizations to people of different regions—i.e., the good folks of New
England are tight-assed and prudent, people in the South are friendly and move at a slower pace, people in the Midwest are
useless tweakers who don’t shower for weeks on end, etc. etc. Sometimes, of course, there are some truths to these assessments.
People in the South are, indeed, on the whole, more “polite” (in the sense that they say “hello” and stuff like that) than
most other masses of people. That’s not to say there aren’t any racist assholes who would shoot a hippie faggot in the back
rather than hear about two of them getting married in a strange progressive land far, far away. And I’m sure there’s at least
one person in the Midwest who’s not selling her 9-year-old’s pussy for another hit on the ol’ glass dick. For the most part,
these generalizations exist for a reason. I am going to do my best (through my thoroughly jaded jaundiced eyes of biased bitterness)
to convey what a day or lifetime spent in some of these charming hamlets of care-free nuclear families grilling their bulk-bought
Mexican hot dogs and scooping potato salad from a 5-gallon plastic bucket, is like.
Let’s start with where I was born and where I return to at least a couple of times a year—Atlanta, Georgia. Now I don’t want
to turn this into a memoir, as I’m a bit young for that yet. But I do have some pretty amazing stories to tell. You can turn
to page 54 for a teaser of some of the stories I’ll be relating in the memoir that will be forthcoming at some point down
the line. When people find out that I grew up in Atlanta, they will usually say, “Where’s your accent?” which is ridiculous,
since everyone should know by now that I sold it to Larry the Cable Guy for twenty bucks and a set of “Git-R-Done” tire covers.
Actually I grew up in
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