As some of you may know, my major in college was Wildlife Management. After school I got a job at an Environmental Consulting firm down here in Virginia. Although it was only a tiny portion of the job, one responsibility was to help control the massive overpopulation of deer in our large wetland banks. To do this, a group of four of us – all legal, trained and certified – would do night hunts. For those of you that wonder what we did with the deer after they were killed, have no fear; all meat was donated to Hunters For The Hungry which helps feed those less fortunate.

On one particular night a few years back, we finished up at about 3:00am. Because we clean the deer in the field, we often get a little bit of blood on us. Okay, actually a lot of blood. After leaving the site, we decided to stop at a 7-11 to pick up some drinks. All four of us were wearing dark clothing. All four of us had blood stained cloths, blood all over our hands, and a bit of blood smeared on our faces. We pretty much looked like we just slaughtered a small village. The Indian fellow behind the counter froze as we walked through the door. He started to shake. He didn’t say a word. As we shopped around the store chatting with each other, a couple of us *might* have said a few things like “man, that dude will NOT mess with us again”.

He checked us out without making eye contact. He was superbly freaked out. Mission accomplished. Homeless people got fed. The deer population was improved. And the Indian teller had a great story for his family (or maybe the cops?).

This past December, I played a Christmas party at a private residence in DC. I have performed at their (beautiful) house once before the previous year. During that first performance, I was set up in the corner of the living room, with guests mingling around that part of the house. It was all adults, except for one extraordinarily cute little boy – the home owners son. He walked into the room, toy guitar in hand, and with a shy demeanor hidden behind a coy smile, strummed his guitar just a few feet away from me. He was officially part of the band.


A year later was the Christmas party, and there I was again, playing in the corner. This time, my old bandmate was a bit sleepy, and only made a short appearance at the party… just long enough to watch me play a couple songs. His Dad told me that over the past year, he would often go to that corner of the room and play "Dan" (a.k.a. play his plastic guitar in the same place I do). By the time the Christmas party ended, he was fast asleep upstairs. I gave his dad a copy of my CD and the guitar pick I used that night to pass on to the miniature musician. I heard he was excited to get it and couldn’t wait to use it. Super cute!

First, I would like to take this opportunity to personally claim full responsibility if he becomes a rock star. I expect to be mentioned in his first Grammy acceptance speech. Second, I want to remind everybody how music can resonate with everybody – no matter how old or young you are. So next time your niece or nephew or son or daughter asks for a new video game, buy them a kazoo! (or guitar, or drums, or flute, or whatever won’t make the upstairs neighbors angry).

Many of you know that MOVEMBER is coming to a close. The annual, month-long event involves the growing of moustaches during the month of November. The Movember Foundation raises money and awareness of men’s health issues, such as prostate cancer and depression.

Although I didn’t participate this year, it reminded me of a great mustache weekend I had a few years back. Yeah, you heard me right… I used the term “Mustache Weekend”. My closest 6 guy friends from high school (collectively known as “The Bhutan”… don’t ask.) and I decided to have a mustache contest when we got together up in NY for our annual trek to Syracuse to watch a basketball game. We got lots of looks while at the bar after the game. A picture is worth a thousand words.

In the late 90’s, the band +LIVE+ was huge. With hits like “Lighting Crashes” and “I Alone”, they sold over 12 million records. Although my own music is on the softer side of these alt-rockers, I grew up a big fan of their driving guitars and melodic lines. Lead singer Ed Kowalczyk and guitarist Chad Taylor were certainly heroes of mine. Which made February 14th, 2000 all the more special.

In my college days at SUNY Cobleskill in Upstate NY, I helped create a “Concert Committee” to bring live music to the college. During my last couple years at school, I spent 10 months planning for the biggest concert the college had ever seen. Gathering funds and support took up all of my time, and my GPA plummeted to prove it. But all the work paid off, and eventually the day came where I was escorting my musical heroes off a bus and into the main building on campus that included the gym that they would be performing in.

Although I loved my time in college, SUNY Cobleskill is known for being in the middle of nowhere. It’s a cow town. You can literally major in Diesel Technology with a specialization in John Deere. But one thing Coby does have (other than lots of Carhartt jackets), is a small bowling alley. And when I walked by the open door to our 4 lane alley with the band members, Kowalczyk got excited. He asked if they could use it, and there was no way I was turning him down (even though I was told that the alley was off-limits because it was being painted at the time). He could have asked me to burn down the local retirement home while I ran it around it wearing women’s underwear and I probably would of said yes.

So there I was, hanging out with my heroes watching them bowl. Scoring in the low 100’s, they probably made a good choice sticking with music over the PBA.

Unfortunately the photos I took in the bowling alley came out dark, but here is a picture with Ed and I after the show. It was my first (and last) hug by a celebrity! Unless you count that time I snuggled with Elmo after a 3 day bender in Amsterdam.


Maybe someday someone will want to go bowling with me;)

I have been known to stick my foot in my mouth at times. I could probably write a short book of ridiculous foot-in-mouth stories from over the years. However I recently had my most public of all “I can’t believe I just said that” moments.

I was DJing a wedding last weekend in Front Royal, VA – a rare gig for me but often lots of fun. For those that don’t know Virginia geography, Front Royal is in the northern portion of the state, and only about 25 miles from the West Virginia border. Toward the end of the evening, it was time to do the traditional bouquet and garter toss. This is a wedding tradition that is slowly dying, but it was fun to do this time around. I had some amusing music planned for the bouquet toss, the garter removal, the garter toss, and lastly the big finish where the two lucky recipients get a little personal.

After the two uneventful catches, it was time for the placement of the garter on the single girl. Using my mic, I asked the crowd where the new couple was and if they were ready for the deed… nothing. The crowd milled around on the dance floor not knowing what to do as I started to play “Lets Get It On” by Marvin Gaye anticipating a sexy garment placement. I asked again, “Where is the couple? They ready? Lets do this!”.

It was at the this point the bride looked over at me and quietly said “We can’t do it. It’s all family!”. Trying to be funny (big mistake), I jokingly proclaimed on mic “We’re close enough to West Virginia aren’t we?!”.

The entire crowd stopped talking. All you can hear are ooohs, ahhhs, and boos. The bride looks over at me and says “Hey, my whole family is from West Virginia.” By this point, my foot was fully in my mouth, which made it difficult to say “Uhhhhhh.. and lets get back to some dancing!”. I turned up the music and was glad it was dark enough to hide my face turning red. But I’m guessing the bride’s mother noticed the change of color in me when she walked up 3 minutes later to ask that I say a public apology after the current song stops playing. Ouch.

Train wreck complete.  

Some of you might know that I have a 4 year old dog named Cannon. He is extraordinarily cute, and he is a Rhodesian Ridgeback. For those not familiar with the breed, they were originally bred in Africa for their ability to distract a lion while awaiting their master to make the kill. That’s right – I own a lion hunter. To be honest, I think he’d prefer to be curled up on the couch than outside doing anything other than lying in the sun. But if a lion ever happens to walk in my house, oh man… it’s game on!

Anyway, when first looking into some local “Ridgy” breeders, many of them had questionnaires that you have to fill out to ensure that you will be a good pet owner. I have no problem with this practice, as I know firsthand from working with HSLA that there are far too many bad dog owners out there. But one breeder (that shall remain nameless) took this questionnaire to a new level of ridiculous.

Typical questions on breeder forms would be things like “Do you have any children?”, “Do you own other dogs?”, “Do you have a fenced in yard?”, or “Will you be able to walk your dog several times per day?” etc. All of these questions would be perfectly appropriate. However here are some of the questions they asked, followed by the answer my sarcastic brain would want to give. (PS – these are the ACTUAL questions from the breeder.)

Q: Are any individuals/children in your house diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD)? Yes No
A: Well my 3rd Grade teacher said I had ADD, but he also gave Richie Stevens a C- on his Science Fair display of a volcano which was really awesome except for when the lava, which was actually some type of Jello, poured out before he wanted it to and it got all over the gym floor. The janitor guy got really mad and took a swipe at Richie with a mop but… wait, what was the question?

Q: Have you ever seen a live lion in person, not on TV? Yes No
A: Are you f&#king serious? Every day man... Every day.

Q: Have you actually seen a lion in a zoo? Yes No
A: Yes. And tigers. And bears. Oh my.

Q: How big is a lion? Length:____ Height:_____ Weight:_____
A: Well, I call mine The Snake, and frankly I don’t feel comfortable describing it to you in that amount of detail. Besides, how can I weigh it?

Q: If you and/or your family were at home in your TV room watching television, where would the puppy/dog be?
A: Probably chained to the furnace in the basement with no water. Unless Dancing With The Stars is on. Dogs LOVE that show!

Q: If you went to watch a local parade, would you take the puppy/dog? Yes No Please explain.
A: Yes. Especially if it was a parade that had giant Chinese dragons. He has to learn the difference between real dragons and fake dragons sometime. Need I explain more?

About 6% of all car accidents are due to cell phone usage. Hasn’t your mother ever told you that you shouldn’t text or email while you drive? I know this common sense rule. I have even had friends be seriously injured while texting. However…

A couple weeks ago I was running late for a show in DC (it turned out to be the first show I have EVER been late too). Traffic was at a standstill on 395 approaching the city. The 45 minute drive had already taken me over two hours, so I was busy calling the venue and sending some emails. The traffic at this point was inching along. Move 10 feet, wait 10 seconds. Move 10 feet, wait 10 seconds. Lather, rinse, repeat. I thought it would be safe to use my Blackberry during this stop and go fun… until I hit the guy in front of me. Oops.

This angry dude gets out of his car and aggressively comes up to my window asking for my ID. I get out and show him my license as we both look at the damage. Fortunately, there was none. Not even a scratch. He thought about his options, and was seemingly reluctant to shake my hand and say we should just forget about it since no harm was done to his car.

Now the proper way to cap off this incident would have been to simply say “thank you” as I get back in my truck and go on my merry way. Instead of giving him this polite salutation, I chose to give him a firm shake and two words worth of ironic advice:

“DRIVE SAFE!”

I realized immediately that I had just hit this guy’s car due to my illegal and dangerous driving habits, and followed it up by telling him that HE should drive safe. I felt stupid twice that day.

This past weekend, I was playing at a bar (that shall remain nameless) close to my house in Manassas, VA. It wasn’t very crowded, and with about 15 minutes left in my last set, there were only about a dozen local patrons left smoking and drinking their Saturday night away. This wasn’t a posh DC Martini Bar… this was a LOCALS bar. The kind of place that looks at you funny if you order anything other than a bud light. Half the men there had a Harley parked out front. Everybody smoked. Every conversation I overheard had an average of 4.5 swear words per sentence. It reminded me of the bar my Dad used to bring me in as a kid. (Yeah, I know.. that’s another story altogether).

Anyway, in the middle of one of my songs late in the night, the only sub-25 year old in the bar walks out. Since I was set up right next to the front door, he was able to look over at me as he was walking out and say “You suck!”. I will admit, it surprised me a bit. I’ve played hundreds of shows, and that has just never happen before. The crowd that night was super supportive, and I thought they were really diggin’ what I was playing. When I finished that song, I told the crowd what he said, and a round of jeers pursued insisting that he is an idiot, and I was great. The bartender walked up and told me that the guy was pissy because he was drunk and just puked all over the floor, so they kicked him out. Okay, self confidence restored. I just wish I had a chance to say something back to his drunk arse.

So 10 minutes later, I finish my last song of the night. The crowd pleads for one more. Okay, you twisted my arm. I start playing “Wagon Wheel” by Old Crow Medicine Show when my dreams were answered. “You know who” walks back in. I instantly stop in the middle of the song and speak clearly into my mic for all the crowd to hear: “Oh, look who’s back! It’s the kid that thinks I suck. I don’t go to your job and tell you that you suck at flippin burgers do I?!”. The kid freezes in front of me, obviously shocked that I put the spotlight on him. He was probably also thinking that he considers himself a pretty good burger flipper. Some lady then yells out “so do you really think he sucks?” and approaches us. She gets in his face and starts yelling at him. He is a deer in the headlights. He admits he said that I sucked. Slightly-drunk-but-awesome-lady is nose to nose yelling at him as about 6 other patrons approach and start berating him with verbal assaults. It was then that the drunk kid decides to move from “nose to nose” with her to “lip to lip” as he gives her an unwanted kiss just to make her angry. The crowd flips.

Punches thrown.

Bar fight spills out the door.

I just start playing Wagon Wheel again, with a big smile on my face.

Thank you Manassas.

When I first moved to Virginia in 2000, I worked as an Environmental Technician (and continued to for several years). One of the many tasks associated with this job was to build walking bridges, duck blinds, and bird houses in newly created wetlands. This meant that I spent a LOT of time at Home Depot buying wood and other materials. I was in the Land of Orange at least 3 times a week, no joke! But one visit in particular was far more interesting than all of the rest combined.

During the summer of 2000, I was sitting in a giant, clumsy 1991 Ford F250 company truck. I was parked at Home Depot, truck turned off, reading my receipt to make sure I didn’t get double charged for something. It was then I felt the truck move… it was so slight that I first thought a gust of wind was to blame. But a quick glance in the rear-view mirror let me know that another truck had just glanced my bumper. I got out of the truck to assess the damage. This old truck had been through hell already, and combined with the fact that it was built like a tank, there wasn’t even a scratch that I could notice. As I looked up, I noticed a VERY VERY large man walking up to me as he frantically said “I’m so sorry dude!”. He was flustered. He was in a hurry. He was anxious. He was stumbling with his words. He was paranoid. And he was also about 6’4” and 270 pounds. Literally the size of an NFL player.

He was talking fast, not completing sentences, and he seemed REALLY worried I was mad at him. “I was in a hurry… I was checking my phone and.. my wife is mad at me… I left her keys in the… I got pulled over on my way here and got a ticket.. It’s been a bad… I don’t want you to sue me for a neck injury. Come over here and let me give you a hot dog”. What?! Did this gigantic man just give me 13 reasons why he barely scuffed my truck and is now offering me a hot dog? Or is giving me a “hot dog” some kind of slang for kicking my ass?

It then started to make sense. He introduced himself as Tony Turk, and how he owned the hot dog stand in front of the Home Depot. Since it was late morning, I was getting hungry anyway so I took him up on his hot dog bribe. As I was waiting for him to fire up the grill, I found myself reading a dozen newspaper articles that were pinned up on the front of the hot dog stand. Most had a headline similar to “NFL Brother Combo Start Hot Dog Business”. The articles talked about Washington Redskins Dan and Matt Turk. I asked Tony if he was related. Turns out he was yet another gigantic child of the Turk family.

Although I didn’t know this at the time, the Turks were absolutely HATED by Redskin’s fans. Matt was a Pro Bowl punter, and older brother Dan was the long snapper. Dan botched several snaps during the ’99-’00 season, and worst of all, snapped so badly on what could have been a playoff game-winning 51-yard field goal that punter Brett Conway (Matt was traded to Miami earlier that year) could not get the kick off. The Redskins lost, and have never made it that deep in the playoffs since.

Tony stood there and told me stories of growing up with his brothers. All three were extremely close, and were still dealing with daily threats by psycho fans and people walking right up to them expressing their hatred. It was like the Turks had single handedly ruined an NFL franchise. Over the next several months, Tony and I became friends. He sometimes called me “Neck Brace” – his nickname for me in reference to how he thought I was going to walk up in a brace someday letting him know I was going to sue for physical damages caused by our “accident”. I talked to him several times a week at his Home Depot hot dog stand. He never charged me for a hot dog that summer, and trust me, I ate a LOT of hot dogs! Every week he had a new story to tell. Tales of closing down an entire local bowling alley so he and his infamous brothers could bowl a few games without being harassed. Stories of bar fights, where drunk fans thought it would be a good idea to start a fight with three men that look like Gladiators. Tony was proud of his family, and his love for his brothers shined through with every word. Plenty of funny stories, and even some sad ones mixed in.

Little did I know, that one of those sad stories was about to happen: Dan Turk got diagnosed with testicular cancer that summer. Although the Redskins had released him at season’s end and he could barely walk down the street without being yelled at, he had far bigger things to worry about. Unfortunately, Dan died in December of that same year.

The following summer, all of the Turk hot dog stands were gone. I went to several Home Depots in the area that he had worked trying to find the jovial Tony Turk slingin’ dogs. He was nowhere to be found. I’m not sure what became of the Turk brothers, but I’ll never forget the summer I spent hearing one of the happiest and saddest stories in NFL history.

I’m not a Redskin’s fan. But I am a fan of the Turks. And their free hot dogs. Thanks for the memories Tony, and I hope you and your family are doing well.

A few months back, I told a story about my perennial scatterbrained but loving Mother, and her use of my computer as a fancy calculator. I got more responses to that story than any other IAHAS post I have ever shared. I thought it might be a good time to pull another one out of the vast vault of crazy Mom tales. My nieces don’t call her “Goofy Gram” for nothing!

My mother’s brother – Uncle Leigh to me – was a wonderful man. He was a Special Agent for the Department of Defense. He served in Vietnam with the U.S. Army. He was a loving father, an outdoorsman, he inspired me to play guitar, and he was absolutely hilarious. Since he lived in Wyoming most of my life, I only got to see him about once a year when he would visit my family in Upstate NY. I cherished those visits. As a kid, he reminded me of Dick Van Dyke in a way. He had the long face, kind spirit, and sense of humor that people gravitated toward. I couldn’t possibly say enough wonderful things about him. Unfortunately, he passed away in 2002 after a battle with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease).

My mother was also very fond of Leigh. She had several brothers, but Leigh was special to her. So special in fact, that in honor of him, she decided to pass on his name to me. It was an honor indeed to have the middle name Leigh. I remember how many times as a kid that my mother would remind me with a proud smile on her face that my middle name was shared with her brother. She took every chance she could to repeat this unforgettable fact.

However as I got a touch older, 10 years old maybe, I asked my mother one simple question that she surely must have assumed I would someday ask: “Mom, if my middle name is supposedly named after Uncle Leigh, then why is mine spelled “Lee” rather than “Leigh?” I don’t remember the exact answers my mother gave me as I asked this question over and over as I got older. But like a slippery politician, she gave me piles of non-answers – “it doesn’t matter”, “he knows I named you after him”, and “aw Dan, you’re just being silly”.

Eventually I got old enough, late teens I suppose, that a lifetime full of non-answers were actually starting to bug me. I was curious. I wanted to know. I had spent my whole life explaining the story of my middle name with one possibly-false sentence: “I was named after my Uncle Leigh”. What was the real reason that my mother changed the spelling?

I approached the creator of my three letter middle name with determination. I wasn’t going to accept any more lies or half-truths. It was show time, and she won’t be leaving this room until I get my answer! Was the whole story a scam? Was I really named after some high school sweetheart? A confederate General? Holy crap am I adopted?! All these questions needed to be put to rest.

“Mom, I need to know this: Why is my middle name spelled differently than Uncle Leigh’s?” She started to repeat some old lines that I had heard before. I cut her off. “Mom, seriously… tell me the truth.”

She paused. This was it. She was going to reveal the real reason right here and right now.

“Well,” she said with a hint of defeat in her voice, “I just thought that it would be easier for you to spell.”

What?! Easier to spell?! For her or for me?! I was taken aback. Could this be true? I will admit, there was a split second where I thought this was just another made-up-on-the-spot answer to avoid telling me some deep dark secret about my family history. But I know my mother too well. This really was the true answer. No matter how ridiculous the reasoning.

That’s right - my mother actually thought that “Lee” would be easier to spell than “Leigh”. Don’t all newborn infants have a tough time with the “i before e, except after c” rule? This was one of those odd exceptions to the rule I suppose. But considering it was MY NAME, you’d think by the time I was old enough to comprehend Sesame Street that I would be able to memorize 5 letters in a row.

I love my mother and her crazy reasoning. I suppose all that really matters is that she really did name me after a magnificent human being. And I’m still honored… even if I have a miss-spelled middle name.

“Dan” isn’t exactly a unique name. “Fisk” is a bit more rare. When paired together, “Dan Fisk” isn’t a bad combo to set me apart from all the John Smiths of the world. But I do occasionally hear of another Dan Fisk. There is a gynecologist about 20 minutes away that shares my name (lucky me). There is another one that has an account at my bank. There is some college kid with a cheesy movie review show (that "happen" to have the exact same logo I use until I complained). They are out there.

As a musician who tries to make it easy for friends and fans to find me online, I’m fortunate to not have a super common name. If you use Bing or Yahoo to search for “Dan Fisk”, the first couple pages will be mine. However, if you use the search engine that completes 66% of all online searches in the US – Google – I am not the first page that pops up (I’m the second). For now, that top billing goes to… drumroll please…. A gay male porn star.

What ever happen to cool porn names? Dan Fisk?! Really? Does this guy not know what it takes to give yourself a great porn name? Here is the list of the top ten male porn names (from Buzz103.radio.com):

Seymore Butts
Dale DaBone
Ben Dover
Jack Hammer
Chocoball Mukai
Dick Nasty
Jon Dough
Arnold Schwarzenpecker
Long Dong Silver
ManDingo

Now THOSE are great porn names.

Interesting, I didn’t see DAN FISK on that list? Maybe it was number 11. Anyway, I’m just glad I was smart enough to purchase www.danfisk.com many years ago. I’d be seriously bummed out if that URL was covered in naked men.

Here some fun facts to chew on (thanks to www.HowManyOfMe.com):

There are 159,022 people in the U.S. with the first name Dan.
There are 11,260 people in the U.S. with the last name Fisk.

There are 5.1 million people in the U.S. with the first name John.
There are 2.8 million people in the U.S. with the last name Smith.

There is exactly 1 stupid porn star with my name.

The Dan Fisk that owns the twitter handle @danfisk? He is a self described “Freedom 55’r Empty Nest’r with a passion for cooking” from Canada. (my handle is @danfiskmusic)

Don't worry Mom, I'm not a male porn star. 

Disclaimer / Preface: Although I try not to show it publicly, or express my views within the confines of my music and web presence, I’m actually quite opinionated when it comes to politics. But here I sit, about to admit to the digital world that I am a hardcore lefty… a progressive… a liberal… a (gasp) DEMOCRAT! I currently have no intention of dragging my politics into music, and I take pride in respecting other people’s beliefs (particularly when it comes to politics). But to fully appreciate the story I am about to tell you, it is important to realize where my political allegiance lay.

A couple years back, I was hungry to start playing some solo cover gigs and wouldn’t turn down a single opportunity that my agency booked me for. Then one evening I got a phone call offering me a gig for a ton of money that seemed too good to be true. I was asked to play at a private political fundraiser the very next night for a local Democratic official, and the speaker at the event was none other than the Governor of Virginia – Democrat Tim Kaine! I was stoked! Should I wear my Obama shirt?! Would it be weird to ask for a photo with me and the Gov on stage together? Ahh, what a night this was going to be I thought.

The event was to take place at a nice restaurant right on the waters of the Potomac. I was to play on a stage that connects to a dock, facing the shoreline gathering of people. 100 feet of water separated me from the guests. To give you a better idea of how cool the set up was, here is a picture of me actually playing the event:


Sounds like a great time huh? Well, not so fast... When I first arrived to start setting up my gear, I mentioned to the manager of the restaurant that I am a hardcore Democrat and was very excited to play for the Governor. He looked at me with apologetic eyes and said: “Yeah, I might of given your agent the wrong information on accident. This is a Republican fundraiser for Delegate Lingamfelter and the guest speaker is former Virginia Governor George Allen!”

First of all, who the hell is Lingamfelter and what kind of name is that? Secondly, holy $hit. Mr. Macaca is here?! I have to play for THAT guy? So I sucked it up, played my songs with a fake smile that would put Sarah Palin to shame, and I got paid. I had to donate most of the money I made to the Obama presidential campaign just to clear my conscience.

Every musician hopes to someday hear his voice on the radio, and I am no different. Back in 2005, I had my chance to be interviewed by a major Washington, DC radio station, WJFK. “The Giant Show” was hosted by Giant Brian, who was a producer for Ron and Fez, as well as a former intern for David Letterman. The late night show was actually co-hosted by a good friend of mine, who will remain nameless for this post!

So my band Knockout Mouse was just starting out. We had recorded a few songs at a friend’s small home studio and were excited to show it to the world. Were we very good? Probably not. Was I ready for a live radio interview? Definitely not. Did I get tricked into being the butt of a series of horrible jokes potentially broadcast to over 5 million people? You bet.

While I thought I was going to phone in to the radio station and be interviewed in a serious manner, Giant Brian had other things in mind. I thought he wanted to interview an up and coming singer-songwriter as part of a new local music portion of his show. What he actually wanted to do was make fun of a local schmuck as much as possible and had no interest what so ever in music! He is a comedian, not Ryan Seacrest. I should have done my research on this guy. He talked over my songs, he said I sound like the male version of Charro, he called us Modest Mouse, etc. He tried desperately to be funny, but failed at every turn. It wasn’t until part way through the interview that I realized this was all a big joke and I started to get a little sarcastic back at him. It’s no surprise that the short lived “Giant Show” was cancelled a few months after my interview, and Giant Brian no longer works in radio. There is a little bit of me that wishes he is now a homeless guy walking around with a sign that says he has a God-given gift of voice.

Although it was a good lesson to learn, I can finally look back at the whole experience and laugh. I was young and naïve (at least that’s what I’m telling myself). I remember thinking that I hope nobody EVER hears this interview! But here I am, almost 6 years later, writing about it and ready to share the interview in hopes you can laugh with me (or at me!).

I can’t believe I’m doing this, but here is the audio for you to listen to:

The Good: Mike and I played as a duo at The Blackthorne staff holiday party the week before Christmas. We had great time playing, and seeing the staff be able to enjoy themselves while not working was a very cool thing. We left at night’s end extremely tired, but glad we had such a good night.

The Bad: Even though it was nearly 2am, I still had to drive 50 minutes to Reston to drop off Mike, then another 40 minutes back to my house. Mike feel asleep after 5 minutes on the road, so I was on my own in trying to stay awake.

Loud music… check.
Occasional self-slap to the face… check.
Window down to have cold air remind me how much I hate winter… check.

Roughly 45 minutes into the drive, I was using all the energy I had just to stay awake and keep my truck between the buoys. Must…. stay… on…. road…

The Ugly: It is a natural reaction to slow down the instant you see a cop with a radar gun on the side of the road. It also tends to snap you out of your driving coma when you see those flashing blue lights behind you. As my truck came to a stop and Mike was waking up (thanks to me poking his leg and a few loud swear words), I noticed a street sign right in front of me: The Algonkian Parkway?? Where the hell am I? That is not a road that was anywhere between the Blackthorne and Mikes house!? Before I had a chance to process what the hell was going on, the cop was asking for my license and registration. I was virtually sleeping approximately 30 seconds ago, so it was a high priority to convince the officer that I was in no way under the influence, overly tired, or anything other than a supremely polite and law abiding citizen. Which is why my first words of “Good afternoon officer” probably didn’t sound too intelligent at nearly 3am in the morning. While he was running my background check in his car, I had a chance to gather my senses. Apparently I had missed a turn about 5 miles back. I’m pretty sure I would of kept going until I woke up in Pennsylvania if it wasn’t for the cop.

$116.50 later, I officially got my second speeding ticket of 2010. I suppose that is not a bad price to pay to stay awake and avoid a crash. But I think I’ll try Mountain Dew next time.

We have all felt the pain of dealing with service and support with major companies. You have called up Verizon to figure out why your internet is down… or you emailed Dell to help you figure why your new software isn’t loading… or live-chatted with your favorite online store trying to get them to straighten out last month’s bill that they screwed up. All of these are frustrating. Horrible customer service makes you want to pull your hair out! At least it does for me. Remember the 75 year old lady that got mad at Comcast and decided to go to their Manassas, VA office and wreak havoc with a hammer?!

Well, I wanted to share a recent example that I found to be typically aggravating and hilarious all at once.

Scene: I bought a new Epson printer.
Problem: I can’t get it to work.
Epson’s solution: Use their “Online Troubleshooting Guide”.

The guide is a series of questions that you must answer (multiple choice format) which will theoretically lead to Epson diagnosing the precise issue right there on the screen without having to use any paid human employees. Sounds like a good idea right? There were questions like: “What were you doing when the problem occurred?”, “What is the power light’s current state?”, and “Do you see an error message on your computer screen?”

So I went through all the questions (at least 20) and waited while the magic Troubleshooting Guide came up with a solution. About 20 seconds later, the following screen appeared before my eyes:


Okay, so they couldn’t figure it out with their cute little troubleshooting guide and they want me to email them. I actually ended up calling instead, and eventually got the problem resolved. But I love the options this wonderful little screen gave me. I could click the “Start Over” button and try again… or I could click the E-mail Support link and send a message (who puts a dash between “e” and “mail” these days?!), I could click on the Help link, I could print this screen, or I could close it out. WAIT… did I just read that right? Print?! You want me to PRINT the screen that says you can’t figure out why my printer doesn’t work!? What a cruel joke. Isn’t that a little bit like calling a tow truck company to pick up your car and they ask you to drive it to them?