What to do when you have a Shitty Boss...

Shitty Bosses.... Yeah, we've all had them.

Lt. Colonel Tall was a shitty boss although he was a tough S.O.B.....

Blake was a shitty boss - albeit, cool as hell...  

Michael Scott, too, but we loved him cause he was funny...

But, unfortunately,  most shitty bosses simply aren't this endearing, appealing or even threatening, they're just.... shitty.

Great leaders are born, but bad bosses are shat out into the world like a bathroom visit after a bad McDonald's meal.  The clean white porcelain order of your job is now defamed, defiled and soiled by this shitty boss defying you to wash them away but it's Sisyphean effort because there's always more shitty bosses to replace them.

So what do we do when we have a shitty boss?

Being a writer, I  look to the examples provided above.  All of these "shitty" bosses had another quality - Nick Nolte's Lt. Colonel Tall was as tough as nails with a chip on his shoulder due to his shitty boss.
Alec Baldwin was a demoralizing kick-in-the-nuts but he backed it up with that watch... Love him or hate him - he didn't care - the man made money and demanded you do the same.

Steve Carrel - harmless as he was ineffective - his office staff saw how harmless he was and could (along with all of America) just sit back and laugh.

These fictional shitty bosses - probably based on some real person - were sharpened and shaped by talented writers who had to dig deep to skillfully added or enhanced certain facets of their personality to make them dramatically or comedically more appealing.

That's the challenge facing any one who has a shitty boss... Dig deep to find the gold.

I know your endearing quality is here - somewhere....

Find your boss' appealing characteristic - a reason to root for them - you might have to make one up but go ahead, it's your boss - it's your story.

You get to create the character you would most like to see.    Are they just green and inexperienced because they've been assigned a position out of their capabilities?

"Would you like me to boss you around...?"

Are they too hungry for power, due to some injustice they've experienced in their lives or maybe they are just a harmless buffoon that needs to be taken less seriously and laughed at (in private) a little more.

Every shitty boss has the potential to be Nick Nolte, Alec Baldwin, Steve Carrel or whomever you wish.

Just dig deep, enhance that endearing quality and watch your shitty boss get flushed away from the toilet bowl you call your job.

And remember this one Hollywood truth:  Shitty bosses always get their "comeuppance" eventually.

Hacked... the 21st Century Wedgie

I once got an Atomic Wedgie...

Chuck Brawnie did the honors.  Inside my 3rd grade pants and underwear, he jammed some dirt, pine cones and proceeded to lift me up by the band of my Fruit of the Loom "tighty-whitey" underwear and hang me up on the McIllroy's front yard fence.

Great fun - for everyone but me.  As I hung from that fence for all the school to see - at least all the kids who walked down Smith Drive to get home, the sheer humiliation I felt hasn't been topped since yesterday.  

"Hi, I'm in the Philippines and...."

Over a 1,000 contacts in my address book received a message about my being stuck in the Philippines and in great need of money - $2,100 dollars to be exact.

It was my own fault, actually.  Like choosing to walk home alone from school that day of the wedgie, I received a text message from "Google" yesterday, saying, "There has been fraudulent attempts to log in to your email.  Please change your password immediately by clicking on this link.

And like an idiot, I did.  Never once questioning the validity of this text or why the LARGEST email service in the Universe would send me a text.... No, just like that brazen youth who believed he would walk home alone KNOWING Chuck Brawnie was giving neighborhood kids Atomic Wedgies, I boldly clicked on the link to change my password.

"Any money you could send me would be helpful as I am stuck here in the Philippines without my wallet..."

As various emails flooded my box with, "Bro, you've been hacked?"; "Alan, are you okay?"; "Hi, I received this strange email from you saying..." the recollection of that Atomic Wedgie, and its purpose, from so many years back, came racing to mind.

                                                                                   Humiliation.

There was no link to send money in the email.  No nasty pictures or insulting words but still deep down in my soul, as I read that polite request for money sent to everyone I know, there was that one tiny little voice that couldn't stop whispering, "They're all going to think you visit nasty websites with naked woman and farm animals...."

I received an email just like this from an associate and that was the first thing that came to mind, "Goddamn, what websites must this guy have visited?!"  I then received an apologetic email from him announcing that he had been hacked.  Of course, having been bullied myself so many years ago, I took some enjoyment in the fact that I wasn't alone in the humiliation department.  I even added to his embarrassment by responding, "Hope, you had fun!"

But now, after having been on the receiving end, I see the absolute lack of humor in this incident.   But unlike 3rd grade, where I slinked home in great shame and physical discomfort, I am standing boldly here at my own cyber-home and denouncing those bored technically savvy freaks who have nothing better to do with their incredible technological talents but to create spam and virus...

For the record, I am NOT in the Philippines, I don't need $2100 dollars and I have NEVER been to any website that exploits farm animals!!   

.... Take that, Chuck Brawnie.

Alan Aymie is a critically acclaimed writer, performer and educational activist, living in LA with his wife and three children.  He is currently performing his critically-acclaimed, "A CHILD LEFT BEHIND' in Los Angeles and New York.  For more information, you can visit www.alanaymie.com

Justified.... My Dad's version...

My dad once helped me fly...

I was eight years old.  It was at my birthday party and at the end of it, I talked back to a tired man who had besides donating the X chromosome that made me, had also just spend four hours with a bunch of sugar-addled kids...

"Alan, tell your friends to go home, it's time to go inside..."
   
                "Dad....", I whined, "Just a little longer..."

"Son, it's time to take a bath...." my father said in that voice that was his precursor to violence.

                 "Son, it's time to take a bath...time to take a --"  I never got the second sentence out.

Like a NASA space shuttle, my dad grabbed me by my thick head of hair and carried me to the front door before sending me flying up the stairs.... human flight - no other way to describe it.  I stood in that shower - shivering from fear - it was the longest shower of my young life.  I walked out pruned like I had been at the beach all day.

My dad never said another word about it and neither did I - and I never back-talked again... till I was nineteen and like an old Silverback taking on a  young challenge to the band of gorillas - my dad slammed me so hard against the kitchen wall I saw stars.  The challenge was over before it started and everyone in our little band of gorillas all knew who was still king.

I think life was simpler back then.

I just spent forty-five minutes rubbing my son's belly as he fought constipation... He screamed at me more than my wife did when she was giving birth to him.  I wanted to yell back, I wanted to slap him upside the head and tell him to just take a crap but I didn't, I let him yell, I rubbed his belly, told him to focus on his breathing and forty-five minutes later, he gave birth to a nine-inch, 9 lb. bouncing bowel movement.

Don't get me wrong.  I yell at my kids.  Sometimes I scream.  I've never hit them - except for a ritualistic slap on the butt that was more out of confusion than anything else but I've never instilled the fear that my dad did to my brothers and I ... And I think my sons are the worse off for it.

There is no rule to our roost - life is a constant series of mediations, shouts, pleas and deliberations -  each day is a new challenge to the throne and my wife and I can only try to hold back the rebel forces made up of our three children's whims, wishes and demands....

Each day it goes on and on.... rub their bellies as they yell at us with no end in sight.  Some people say it's wrong to hit children and they're probably right but when I look back at my one day of human flight, I think my dad was justified... in teaching me to fly.

My 12 X 6 of Pure Hell...

There was an art exhibit a few years back where a guy advertised a "Studio Apartment" for rent in New York City.  It's price:  $400 dollars.  It's dimensions:  8 feet by 4 feet - the approximate dimensions of a casket.  He got thousands of calls.

"Hey, Roomie...?!"

The exhibit was the constant looping of all the crazy New Yorkers looking for their own affordable little slice of Heaven... I remember the exhibit - it was the answering machine on a small coffee table inside a plaster boarded rectangle with the same dimensions as what was advertised...

"Ha-Ha" We Angelenos all laughed at those silly New Yorkers - how funny their desperation was.... Out in California: we have an overabundance of space, sunshine and false humility.  Those poor New Yorkers all desperately clumped together like so many lobsters in a pot of boiling water - desperately trying to crawl over each other's dead carcasses to get out.

                              I'm not laughing anymore

Last month, I was cast in a play that heads to New York - great play, great cast, great theater - a summer in Manhattan while my wife and kids spend their sun-laced days in upstate New York - couldn't be better.... right?

Wrong.

In the last two weeks, I have made 63,458 phone calls, emails, and website visits in the hopes of finding a decent space that isn't much bigger than an Art exhibit.   Check out this great spot on AirBnB:

 $90 bucks for this blow up mattress in the kitchen....Sweet, right?!?!?    This was not what Frank Sinatra had in mind when he sang, "NY, NY"....

I tried to contact the lady renting it to ask her, "What the hell are you thinking?!"  But, unfortunately, someone beat me to the punch and the place was already rented.     $90 dollars for a air mattress in a kitchen.... Start Spreading the News...     I can almost hear Frank Sinatra warming up, right, now....

Alan Aymie is an award-winning playwright, actor & performer.  He can currently be seen in the critically-acclaimed, "A Child Left Behind".  This summer he will be found on various NY street corners singing for loose change from his cardboard box.

From Laundry Rooms to Theatre Lobbies - the Writing Cycle.

I'm in my laundry room again.....

"Presto Chango...!" 

It’s not exactly like the one to your right - it's smaller and a lot dirtier.  The trash barrel overflows with detergent bottles and dryer lint, the floor is never swept and the one dirty window has been painted shut; allowing no fresh air to erase the constant whiff of detergents, bleaches and my wife’s gardening chemicals. 

But this is where the "MAGIC" happens...

Late at night, when all my kids are asleep and my wife is entranced by The Voice, American Idol or Modern Family, I sneak down to this dank and dirty place to write.

Here amidst the quiet hum of a dry cycle and the pitter-patter of the little feet of scampering cockroaches (or whatever they call cockroach feet), I go to work with only the light of a computer screen on my face.

In January of 2011, I sat down to work on a new solo play about education and Asperger's Syndrome and over the next few months, I ( with a lot of pushing from a good friend/director of mine) completed the first draft of what would become my current solo play, A CHILD LEFT BEHIND.

When I had a first draft good enough to be read semi-publically (or so I thought),  I scheduled a reading with a few close friends at a friends’ living room (one the advantages/disadvantages of having no children), bought some snacks and printed up a copy to read.   We ate, I read, they talked, I listened and then the night amongst people was over.   It was SO exciting.... then back to bugs, bleaches and windowless rooms.

This process went on for the next four or five months until a draft was ready for a public reading at the Katselas Theatre - more people, more snacks and more notes. That reading led to another and another until finally the show entered pre-production at the same theatre and finally, a four-month run that led to numerous wonderful reviews from The LA Times, LA Weekly, Culver City News (amongst others) before moving on to another four-month extension at the Ruskin Group Theatre in Santa Monica; for more reviews, more press and more people.

"His clothes smell so clean..."

After my shows, I always walk out to say hello to the people who attended, answer questions, etc. - some of the most common questions always have to do with my process.  "How long did it take to write the play?", "How did I get the idea?"; "Was it hard to do?" and other pertinent questions about that mysterious thing known as the writing process.

I would be remiss to say that I don't enjoy the attention, it is often time the only renumeration a playwright receives for their work  but the most gratifying thing about standing at the center of the theatre lobby is the fact that I GOT OUT OF THE LAUNDRY ROOM!!!! 

"I can't find a synonym for bleached...!!!!"

A seed of an idea, born in my head and sentenced to hard labor by a judge, jury and jailor of one (me) - the length of which is also self-determined and like Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption, it is up to me to tunnel myself out.  It may not be 500 yards of sewerage but at times it certainly feels like that's what I'm writing.  Sometimes, the sentence is for life - a piece of writing that I know I will never finish and when I am in the mood for self-flagellation, down to the laundry room I go...

I don't do this with TV & film scripts - those are written in the bright light of my dining room, on top of a round hickory table with the kitchen, TV and all surrounding modern conveniences at my disposal. (except of course a washer and dryer).  

But there is something about a play - it's intimacy - it's more personal nature and a play's need to reveal more than entertain that forces me down into the darkness of my laundry room.  But the process of tunneling myself out is magical and always gratifying.

Recently, I was contacted by the Cedars Sinai Hospital to perform my current play for their parental outreach program.  It will require several rewrites to comply with some specific requests they have made of me.  This will require me heading back down....   And so it begins all over again and again and again - a cycle - like washing my clothes.

Originally from Boston, Alan Aymie is a critically-acclaimed writer, performer, educator in Los Angeles where he lives with his wife and children.  His current play, A CHILD LEFT BEHIND, is playing around and outside Los Angeles.

And the Grammy goes to...

If the First 18 Years of My Life Were the Grammys

Who cares, right?  I know, I know, we've all got these lists in our head.  But with the Grammys on tonight, football season over and my daughter now playing music that I have never heard of in my  life (who exactly is FUN?) I figured, "Why not?".   I created this list - mostly for my kids - so they would know what music was like when it was good (sorry Kelly Clarkson and pugilistic-wanna-be Chris Brown).  These songs are not about best, biggest or baddest, they are simply the soundtrack to my childhood.  So without further adieu...

1. "Papa's Got a Brand New Bag" - James Brown 

My dad worked with James Brown.  Hustling his music to radio stations up and down the east coast.  He once told me that James Brown told him, "George, what does radio need with my music?  They already have Chubby Checker." Point being that the greatest performer of all time even doubted himself at one time. The first song I ever heard my father sing along to on the radio.

 2. NIGHT MOVES - Bob Seger

The first song I remember singing along to (in my mind).  My dad loved Bob Seger's music and once said (as complimentary as he could be) that he was surprised when he learned Bob Seger was white.  

3. GOT YOU UNDER MY WHEELS - Alice Cooper

First album I listened to beginning to end.  A childhood friend played it for me on his old turntable.  After listening to the album, we went out and threw rocks at cars on the highway.  We got caught and beat silly by our dads.  No one was singing.

 

4. SHOUT IT OUT LOUD - KISS

I hate cats but I LOVE $$$

The first group that I could officially say was "all mine".  I noticed their Destroyer in my dad's record store, incorrectly figured out which named matched up with which character (I thought Gene was Ace and Ace was Gene because Ace was a "cool" name and Gene sounded dorky).  

I continued a twenty-year love affair (& Kiss Army membership) until realizing KISS cared more about their merchandise sales than their music.

5. LET'S GO - THE CARS

Boston band, The Cars provided the backdrop to my first attempts at drinking and driving (on my bike). I would drive to the other side of town with a small transistor radio taped to the handlebars of my bike.  After a few beers, I would drive back - this song usually playing at night.  That little transistor radio served me well, until one drunken night, it, my bike and I all crashed into a telephone pole.

6. JAMIE'S CRYING - VAN HALEN

My first "make-out" session took place at the 8th hole of a private golf course.  We never spoke again.   I wasn't crying - it was allergies.

7. DO I - J. Geils Band

The only J. Geils concert I ever saw was because a certain girl I knew was going as well.  That night, I lifted her high onto my shoulders as Peter Wolf sang this song.  A few months later, I lost my virginity to the very same girl.  Many years later, I have developed lower back problems, like J. Geils and my virginity, I have to say it is because of that girl.

8. SHE'S GONE - Hall & Oates 

What's ironic about this song of lost love is that I had yet to acquire any love yet to lose.  Still the boys dubbed as Philly's "Blue-eyed soul" provided songs that transitioned me from my teens to my early twenties.

9. ROSANNA - TOTO

Just as clumsy and awkward as my first relationship, Toto's first turn as pop balladeers (instead of their former less successful attempt at Pop Power Band) made them lots of money and showed them how to have a modicum of success despite the imminent danger to your self-respect.  The same formula I used for most of my relationships.

10. THEN, with most of my teen years behind me, I entered college, started listening to a little musical genius named Prince and set myself up for a very exciting next decade.

It would be a good ten years...

"Hi, I'm going to be your new roommate."

Hyman Roth was spittin' the truth...

"THIS IS THE BUSINESS WE CHOSE..." Movie stars, ballplayers... cheerleaders... if you don't want to be judged in the private eye - don't bother to try to stand in it, please. 

Case in point:  Kaitlyn Collins; former Green Bay Packers cheerleader - a seemingly nice attractive young lady who "defended" herself when a posted public photo of her was commented on by some Chicago Bears fans that called her "ugly"and other vile comments.  Kaitlyn.... Come on, really?

You chose to make a living by dancing in front of 60 thousand drunken Lambeau fans who paint their naked chests in weather that kills most living things - please! 

I can't say how much it bothers me when public figures complain about their lack of privacy.   Some arrogant overpaid ballplayer complains about how he has to answer to the press about why he's drinking beers and playing video games in the in the locker (see John Lackey) while his team is struggling to win a game just irritates the hell out of me.

The talent ladder you use to climb up to your dreams is the same ladder they will beat you over the head with later.  (Beauty, humor, physical prowess, talent, aggression)  Look at Ray Lewis,  poor guy says he's going to retire, praises Jesus and then we find a little deer blood on his elbow or whatever and everyone wants to know where the bloody white suit is...

Why do we all want the spotlight as long as it's rays are basking us in warmth but a little glare and we all want to go a little,  Michael Hutchence (who by the way suffered the worst public degradation which thankfully, he never lived to see).

Take solace in the fact that you Made It, Kaitlyn.  

You reached your dream job.  The fact that some drunken slobs on a Chicago Bears website are calling you names is a small price to pay for your dreams.   You will never have to deal with these people unless your next job takes you underneath a rock.   Pay it no mind.  But remember,  someday when your daughter tells you she wants to be a cheerleader,  tell her to go study her science books.

Talent always fades.  Jealousy stays young forever.

Ode to all who smoke...

My cousin is a smoker.  Smoker with a capital "S".   He just underwent by-pass surgery at a very young age.  It was FIVE by-passes... what is that quintuplet?  whatever it is it's very rare...  For the last two weeks leading up to the surgery, our family was on pins&needles - "would he be okay?  What was going to happen?" we all wondered.

Happy to say surgery went well.  He's recovering and we're all praying that this life-threat will get him to finally quit smoking.

I used to smoke - the worst kind - a "social" smoker.

"I'm really such an ass..."

 I only smoke when I drank.... in another words I was an asshole.  Seven years ago, I quit drinking and the smoking went with it.  I can only thank God that my three beautiful children never saw or know that their father once was so stupid to smoke.

I smoked because it was cool  It really was:  the addiction, the need, the rebellion and Jesus, did it make a beer taste better.  But these days I'm so much more cowardly than I used to be and I just want to live  - live as long as I can.  So when I see people smoking, I want to tell them, "Don't", I want to give them a hug and say, "I get it", I want to punch them in the freaking mouth and tell them, "Grow the F%$ck up!" But most of all, I want to tell them, "Get ready, because you are going to suffer horribly and regret this moment along with all the others you took Death's dick into your mouth... Oh, and your clothes smell really GROSS...."

A friend of mine still smokes - cigars.   I've tried to tell he to stop.   She laughs it off.  She nods knowingly.  She laments her addiction.  But she KEEPS smoking and if she lives long enough, it's going to kill her.  This morning, I wrote a poem for her - and for all smokers.  I hope you like it.

"I don't need to smoke to look like an asshole"

 SMOKE

If smokes were dicks you'd be considered a whore

But they're not so you smoke more and more.

Death shooting it's load like a cloud of smoke.

You deep throat his dick and laugh at those jokes.

Til one day - too late - and you can't turn back

Death busted his nut and it's on the attack.

Cough. Cough. Spit. Spit.

Blood is in your lungs.

Doctor's grim non-smiling face

Knowing your painful death has come.

Suffering ride awaits you now

ticket has been paid.

Cigarettes are laughing now

Another smoker laid.
Wish you didn't date this guy
But bitch you all get played.


Alan Aymie is a writer, teacher and performer.   His most recent play, A CHILD LEFT BEHIND played in Los Angeles for the last eight months and was selected as one of the top five solo productions in LA.

5 steps the Lakers MUST take to win again

First off, let me say that I don't like the Lakers.

Born and raised in Boston - my basketball joy comes from seeing the Celtics raise the Larry O'Brien Trophy amidst a sea of raucous Bostonians as LA's finest (which the Clippers might debate) slink off the court in complete despair and dejection.

Garnett screaming, "I'm on top of the world, Ma!" while  Kobe bite his tongue before answering another question about the lack of chemistry should be enjoyable but it's not.

Boston fans need the Lakers to be good.

It's like Samuel Jackson in UNBREAKABLE, "Now that we know who you are, I know who I am"

"I will trade you fourteen comics and a wheelchair for Dwight Howard"

The Celtics need a good villain and there is no better villain than the Lakers - although Ray Allen and the Heat are close.

"I never had court-side seats!"

Can you imagine how bad the Dark Knight would be if Cesar Romero were still around?  

Heath Ledger MADE the Dark Knight.  

Boston fans need the Heath Ledger Lakers not the Cesar Romero version and that being said, I propose:

  5 WAYS TO REBUILD THE LAKERS :

1. SEND UP THE WHITE FLAG.

This season is over.  Admit it.  Get rid of those Championship flags to put on your car antennas and put this season to rest.  Once the Red Sox finally admitted the Bobby V experiment was a failure, they made some trades and set themselves up for the next year in a way they could never have done if they had kept holding on to the fantasy.

2.  TAKE JIMMY BUSS TO THE WOOD SHED

Every boy wants to prove he's his own man - but the Lakers are Jerry Buss' franchise and he has to give his son a big spank on the bottom and take the reigns back.  Little Jimmy has been trying to prove this are HIS Lakers and as we all know when any teenager tries to be independent - things get ugly.

3.  TRADE HOWARD FOR A POINT GUARD

He's a great center.  The dreams of a Kobe/Howard dynasty were certainly wonderful for Lakers fans to think about but this is a one-man show.  Kobe doesn't share.  He is the NBA equivalent of the Lone Ranger.  Even Shaq had to go and there's never been another player to even come close to riding shotgun.  Trade Howard for a couple of good Tontos and let Kobe run the show.  This is not a centers league anymore.  If Steve Nash came to LA with a portable time machine then maybe he could have helped but Steve Nash couldn't guard my four-year old son.

4. FIRE THE COACH - REDUX pt. 2

Mike D'Antoni is a good coach.  Mike Brown is a good coach.  They are not Lakers coaches - at least not Lakers coaches right now.  Remember Doc Rivers had a lot of haters when he first started coaching.  Even the great Bill Simmons didn't like Doc's rotation of players, and people thought he was not developing the younger guys THEN came the trade for the Big 3 and everything changed.

Who knows what would have happened if Doc had stepped into all that expectation and anticipatory fan base right off the bat?  He - relatively speaking - had it easy.  The Celtics sucked, everyone knew they were going nowhere and expectations were low.

Mike & Mike stepped into a hungry juggernaut of expectations - this cavernous hole of need, dreamy expectations of Lakers Domination & a burning desire to completely erase the failures from the past two early round playoff exits proved to be too much for either man.

With the raising of the white flag, the Lakers should go ahead and hire Bernie Bickerstaff as the interim coach for the rest of the season.  The Lakers were 4-1 with him.  The expectations will be low, Bickerstaff won't threaten anyone and he  certainly won't try to impose any SYSTEM onto the Lakers - things can only get better and then the Lakers can conduct their coaching search in a low-key manner which brings me to step number five....

5. GET JEANIE BUSS & PHIL JACKSON THE SHAKESPEARE CLIFF NOTES

The Lakers need Phil.  Phil doesn't need the Lakers but everyone knows he wants them.  Jim Buss knows all of this and like Edmund in King Lear, he has tricked his foolish father into taking over the Kingdom.

Phil must use all of his natural guile and skill to right the ship and take back the reigns of the throne by marrying Jeanie Buss.  Once their union is official, then Phil can replace Jim, exile him to the Toronto Raptors and the new Los Angeles  Power Couple can reign supreme.

"Do you know the Triangle Offense?"

Of course, this will only last until the guilt of exiling her stupid brother weighs too heavily on Jeanie Buss and she rides Phil's motorcycle rides off into the sunset with a PHISH groupie where they will spend the rest of their days in a Zen monastery leaving Phil alone with only an aging Kobe.

All the while, Doc Rivers tries to raise a formidable army to attack the Western kingdom and restore order to the NBA.   Unfortunately, the Celtics are more like a Shakespearean Comedy of Errors right now and will need more help than just a Danish Army.

"It's sort of like I got it but I need a confirmation..." - Dwight Howard

Who knows, maybe they can get Howard on the cheap? 

Goats, Guts & Glory - was Flacco's Hail Mary guided by God's hand?

GOAT.

                    GUTS.

GLORY.

That's how it breaks down this morning, doesn't it?  I mean sure, you could make a case for Ray Lewis' constant rantings of, "God is great!"   But when you think about real Glory as in, "Glory to the highest..." there's only one football player that truly comes to mind.

Has the value of Tim Tebow's playoff win with the Broncos last year risen this morning like Christ on Easter Sunday?  Hard to say but the Twitterverse is blazing with how badly Manning choked (he wasn't the only one on that Broncos roster, Raheem Moore...)  However, Tebow's road to playoff victory reminds us all that the bottom line for Tim Tebow's NFL career is that given the reigns to an NFL franchise - he put far more in the debit column than the credit.  Besides Tom Brady, Drew Brees, Aaron Rodgers & (hurts to say this) Eli Manning, who else can you really include?

If I were going into battle, I would want Ray Lewis to speak to the troops before hand.  If there is another person with better inspirational speaking skills on this planet - I'd like to hear them.  As much as I hate the Raven - he is the heart, soul and every other internal organ inside that team.  He is the Baltimore Ravens.  Next year, we should simply call them, "The Purple, Black & Silver Team from Baltimore".

Peyton Manning on the other hand is the perfect shiny Italian roadster - precise, detailed, perfection - the NFL season is a bumpy, rough, hard terrain that gets bumpier come playoff time and the Manning Roadster - at least the older model has made a stronger argument that he can't handle this type of driving than he can.

Tim Tebow on the other hand - a jalopy.  The old pickup parked in the back of your house, rusty, mismatched passenger door that you picked up from the junkyard and no radio but it gets you there.    

NFL pundits talk about how, "Tebow will never get you to an NFL championship!"  My question is how many do?  All Tebow does is win - every place he's gone.    And those same "experts" that say he will never succeed were also the same people who were fitting Ryan Leaf and Ki-Jana Carter with their HOF suit jackets while waiting until the 199th pick to select a skinny kid from Michigan who split time his senior year with another "Great arm-ed" QB.

Heart, guts, glory & God - the great intangibles.  Tim Tebow has them all.  Peyton Manning has great mechanics.... And on the last play of the Broncos "Super Bowl or Bust" season - he didn't even have that.

Originally from Boston, Alan Aymie is a LA-based writer/performer whose work has been produced in LA, NY, DC & the HBO U. S. Comedy Festival in Aspen, CO.  Although he does not possess a great vocabulary,  his wife says all he does at SCRABBLE is win.  

Spiderman, French Toast & Spiritual Peace

My wife gave me a Spiderman spatula for Christmas.  Actually it was the
whole set:  Spiderman, Iron Man, Captain American and of course, Hulk...

"It's two of  your favorite things, Honey," She beamed, "Superheroes and cooking!"

"It's all in the juicer"

I looked down on the four men who have been a big part of my life and thought of how good it would be to cook my favorite breakfast: Peanut-butter French Toast using Spiderman or Iron Man to flip them over till  they were a toasty brown but I couldn't.  "I can't use them - I'm juice fasting now."  I sadly proclaimed.

I had bought a juicer - the Breville BJE50XL.   It's like the Tom Brady of juicers.  My plan was simple. Juice, Cleanse and get into the best shape of my life.  I would lose weight, create a clean and high-functioning digestive system and make 2013 the BEST YEAR OF MY LIFE..!! (echo for effect)

"I wear Uggs, too..."

The only problem is I like food.  My wife makes Christmas cookies - all kinds: chocolate with peppermint icing, vanilla cookies with sprinkled candy canes, sandwiched chocolate cookies with Nutella filling - stacks and stacks of cookies and I couldn't eat one.  I was juicing.  I was perfect.  I was Tom Brady.

When we sat down to a Christmas Eve Dinner that included glazed ham, mashed potatoes, sweet yams and pecan pie, I had carrots, kale and ginger juice.  Christmas morning amidst the presents, wrapping paper and scrambled eggs and bacon - I sipped on a mixture of pulverized beets, spinach & celery stalks.

New Years Eve brought our family, everyone's favorite foods ordered from everyone's favorite restaurants.  I had a purple concoction made from beets, celery and ginger.  Happy New Years, indeed...

My wife and kids seemed happy, joyous and content but I was hungry, angry and sick of cleaning out a freaking juicer four or five times a day. Staring at the hanging Spiderman spatula hanging on the kitchen wall conjuring up images of golden brown french toast served underneath a wet blanket of syrup; a cup of Starbucks Christmas Blend coffee on the side just made it worse.


 "Tom Brady..." I grumbled to myself as I took another sip of my red beet juice that tasted like sour dirt.

That night I broke my fast - in the middle of the night.  I had about fourteen sugar cookies, a half a side of ham and three Hershey chocolate Santas.    Shamed and smudged with chocolate, I crawled into bed and slept with Nutella-smothered cookies dancing in my head - 2013 was a few hours old and I had already failed.

The next week went pretty much the same - healthy juicing at day, shameful gluttonous gorging at night, all in the pursuit of Tom Brady-like perfection.  I couldn't look my kids in the eye any time they asked me about what I was putting in my juicer.  It was like a big fat  lineman trying to stick his chubby feet in a pair of Tom Brady Uggs and having his kids say, "Looks good, Dad!"  

"I'm a disgusting gluttonous pig..." I thought to myself as I munched on another sugar cookie.   Then, finally, today, on the first day of the NFL Playoffs - it all changed....

I woke this morning with one affirmative thought in my head:  "I am not Tom Brady".    In the NFL game of Life, I am a blitzing safety, an undersized guard but I am not the QB.  I can't handle having the game rest on my shoulders - I'd rather be the guy who nothing is expected from and then surprises everyone with an occasional big play.    

Sure Tom's got the rings, the supermodel and sits on the throne of greatness but who wants that kind of pressure.  Am I really going to spend the entire year juicing in the pursuit of that? 

I am not Tom Brady - I am Ryan Wendell.  

Undersized and undervalued.  Show up every day and do your job the best you can.  

That's TRUTH.  That's Power.    

My life is not about glory but guts.  Grabbing my lunchbox, going to work and grinding it out every day - a constant pursuit of improvement not perfection.   

That morning - with the sun shining bright,  I walked into the kitchen, pulled out the pan, eggs, Spiderman spatula while shouting, "Who wants some French Toast?!"   

Spidey and I made French Toast, smothered them in Nutella, maple syrup, and powdered sugar.  I was happy, the family was happy and I was at peace.   I was not Tom Brady.  I was Ryan Wendell.  Filled with imperfections, coffee and Nutella-smothered french toast, ready to plop down on the couch watch the NFL playoffs and remember 2013 would be about progress not perfection.    Somewhere out there, I knew Tom Brady was smiling....

And  if he needs a juicer, I can get him one - cheap.