Just another Saturday night in the E.R. (Part 2)

Lately, I’ve had more than a few people ask me when I was going to post the conclusion to the story about my trip to the emergency room. It’s as if I have nothing better to do than spin delightful and occasionally folksy yarns about shitty things that happen to me for your free entertainment. I don’t, but still…

Anyway, because I don’t have the same motivation or inspiration that I had when I wrote Part 1, here are the highlights for you (lowlights for me):

• The only channel that came in well enough to see in my room (because they’re apparently somehow still using rabbit ears at that hospital) was TBS, where my wife and I were forced to watch Cheaper by the Dozen. Agony. Sheer agony.
• I was asked to pee in a cup and after a great deal of Benny Hill-esque effort (I was attached to about 20 electrodes and what seemed like 20 feet of electrical cables in the dirtiest bathroom of all time), I was able to squeeze out some pee, which sat in a cup on the tray near my hospital bed until a nurse threw it away just before I was discharged.
• I was subjected to the most uncomfortable and unpleasant medical experience of my life when I had to go for a CT scan. The second they injected the dye, it felt like I’d jumped crotch-first into a hot tub and I thought for sure I’d just died and vacated my bladder and bowels. Apparently, that’s normal.
• After five hours, I was discharged with a diagnosis of “aggressive palpitations and near syncope,” which basically meant I had a really bad panic attack and almost fainted. Pretty masculine diagnosis, huh?

There. Part 2. Are you not entertained? Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?

Ahem…sorry. It’s Russell Crowe week on TNT.

A few thoughts on hecklers

Worst graphic I've ever put on this blog?

I had my first live experience with a heckler last night.

Well, I should clarify to say that my involvement was just as a passing bystander, but the events that unfolded while I was in the room fascinated me.

I was at the Beat Kitchen in Roscoe Village for a night of stand up presented by Chicago Underground Comedy. If you live in Chicago and you’ve never checked it out, you should. While it’s often known as a breeding ground for improv actors, Chicago has a flourishing alt comedy scene, with many of the comics opening for the likes of Brian Posehn and Maria Bamford when they come to town. In other words, they’re really funny.

Anyway, one of the comedians was halfway through his set when some doucher in the back screamed, “You suck!”

Now, in this age of social media, where an anonymous, condescending comment is just a click away, anyone who puts themselves out there in any form creatively—be it a YouTube video, blog post, original song, podcast or anything in between—will be subjected to some form of e-heckle at some point. It’s inevitable.

The Internet provides a buffer zone for people to say things they’d never have the temerity to say to your face, and gives them the ability to freely ignore anything you have to say in response. It could be a negative rating on YouTube, or a passive-aggressive comment on a blog post from someone who lists their name as “A Concerned Friend of Your Mother,” or my personal favorite, an email from a guy you barely knew in college, who you’ve seen maybe twice since, detailing why a video you did wasn’t funny, and providing you with three short video concepts he thinks would be much funnier. (Thanks for the ideas, Jason. They’re HI-LAR-IOUS.)

But the live heckle? That’s something entirely different. Stand up comedy thrives on pacing and timing, and the heckle can rob even the most experienced performer of that. But occasionally, you get a comic who derives joy from addressing a heckler face-to-face, who revels in the embarrassment and torment he or she is about to inflict on the assbag who’s just interrupted their set. This guy was one such comic.

The Misadventures of Stick-Figure Justin

Euro Cat (studio session takes 1 – 3)

Someone's a little flat through the chorus.

It was bound to happen. A slow Friday afternoon led to this:

Regular readers of this blog might recall the feline sensation, Cat Rap (what what). Unfortunately, the recording of this track didn’t go as smoothly.

This epic fit of idiocy was made possible by the iPhone apps, Cat Piano and Dog Piano, as well as an inordinate amount of spare time.

My apologies in advance. You’re welcome.

“Tim Tibo: Yeah.”

Once in a blue moon, I get the opportunity to combine what I love to do (act like an idiot and make people laugh), with what I get paid to do (teach video production to corporate-types).

This is one such moon.

Below is a promo I did for an upcoming series of workshops I’ve been hired to teach. The company I’m teaching them for said I could do pretty much anything I wanted to do with the promo, provided it was safe for viewing at work. Below is what I came up with. It’s essentially a lampooning of every shitty corporate video you’ve ever been forced to watch.

For the record, I originally wanted to spell the name “Tim Tebow,” but still pronounce the same way I do in the video. That way, my end screen could read, “Don’t be like Tim Tebow.” The thought of naming a character who’s an obvious idiot after the greatest college football player of all time made me shriek with laughter. In the end, my better judgment won out and I didn’t go for the completely pointless knock on an obviously nice guy. Yay clarity!

Just another Saturday night in the E.R. (Part 1)

As a preamble to this two-part, true story, I should state that I’m not a sickly person. While I occasionally might feel a little under the weather, I rarely succumb to the kind of cold or flu that would keep me from going to work (despite my attendance history at past jobs indicating otherwise). In fact, there was a three-year stretch in college that I didn’t get so much as a sniffle. Probably because any cold or flu virus that tried to attach itself to me was quickly eradicated by copious amounts of booze and nacho cheese. Take that, germs!

But after eight years in George W. Bush’s America, I seemed to have turned into something of an anxious person. If nothing else, those eight years helped me fine-tune my sensitivity to when something just isn’t right (thanks for the memories, W!). Add in a family history of heart disease, and you’ve got a recipie for a Saturday night in the emergency room. [For maximum effect, cue the Bay City Rollers classic, "Saturday Night" now.]

Spinning Off the Face of the Planet

Sitting in the West Theater of the Theater Building in Chicago on Saturday night, I was dizzy. Very dizzy. The kind of dizzy where you’ve had too much alcohol to stand, but not enough to pass out. My wife and I were there to watch my friend’s comedy troupe perform at Chicago Sketch Fest, but despite everyone laughing around me, I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I felt like I was about to spin off the Earth a la Superman II.

My heart began to race. My palms grew sweaty. I couldn’t catch my breath and then … nothing. One deep breath and the dizziness was gone, the heart rate back to normal.

Weird, I thought. What the hell was that?

Two minutes later, I could feel my heart rate drop and my eyes rolled back in my head. Fighting to stay conscience, I shifted nervously in my seat, taking deep and deliberate breaths. My wife turned to me and asked if I was okay. Yes, I lied.

My heart began to race, my palms began to sweat, my arms and hands went numb.

Shit! Is this a heart attack? For crying out loud, I’m only 29. If only I’d eaten fewer Chili’s buffalo chicken fingers last weekend!

And then, just as before, it suddenly stopped. I felt fine. For two minutes.

Guess who got lazy again?

Yep. This guy. The holidays took their toll on my motivation to churn out consistent buffoonery, but never fear! I’ll be posting nonsense again in no time, including the next few installments of “The Adventures of Young Steven Seagal“, as well as the pilot for a new web series I’m working on. It’s a show about a family of ravenous zombie cannibals who go from town to town devouring everyone, and they’ve set their sites on Terre Haute, Indiana. Just when the residents of Terre Haute think there’s no hope left, one dashing, brilliant, red-headed scientist discovers the ravenous zombie cannibals suffer from one fatal weakness: phallophobia.

I’m calling it “Boner City”.  Should be a hoot. Here’s hoping I can get Viagra on board as a sponsor.

Until then, I’ll leave you with this bit o’ genius from John C. Reilly and the guys at Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job!