Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 156

Back in New York at last

Elysha and I returned to New York City on Saturday night to see Springsteen on Broadway.

Before the pandemic, I was in the city a couple times per month, but it’s been more than 16 months since I set foot in The Big Apple. Elysha and I saw Jagged Little Pill on Broadway in mid February of 2020, and then on February 29, 2020, I produced and performed in a storytelling and comedy show featuring Yale alumni.

That was it.

497 days later, we finally returned.

A lot has changed since I was last in the city. Many of the stores and restaurants around Times Square have been shuttered. Finding a restaurant that was still open was a bit of a challenge.

It was sad. It felt like the city was wounded.

I guess it was.

Prior to entering the St. James Theater, Elysha and I were required to present ID and vaccination cards, which was great. Half a dozen states – Arizona, Florida, Idaho, Montana, Texas and South Dakota – are run by mind-numbingly stupid Governors who have made it illegal to engage in this simple, protective practice.

Thankfully not New York.

Thus we were allowed to watch the show mask-free and feel safe.

Springsteen was incredible, of course. When Elysha was quarantined back in 2020 with COVID-19 after being exposed to the virus at school, I watched the Netflix version of his show more than once to buoy my spirits as I slept on the couch and tried to keep the house running. Saturday’s show was similar, with a dozen tent pole stories making up the spine of the show but with lots of room for improv and drift in between.

A man washing his hands in the restroom beside me said he’s seen the show four timers, and it’s never quite the same.

Brilliant. Just what I tell storytellers and public speakers all the time:

Don’t memorize. Remember. Allow yourself room for flexibility and adaptation. Be authentic. Don’t recite words. Tell stories. Speak from the heart.

Watching my favorite musician perform in such an intimate setting was unforgettable. Listening to him tell stories – the same thing that I do onstage – was insightful and illuminating and inspiring. Spending the day with Elysha – walking the streets hand in hand, sitting together in a Broadway theater, eating a subpar dinner in a New York City restaurant, and listening to music and talking in the car to and from the city – was exactly what I needed.

Exactly what I’ve been missing for the last 497 days.

Honestly, I was thrilled with simply being back in New York City again after being away so long.

The Perfect Comeback of Charlie Dicks

I found one of these Uno cards – a reverse – in Charlie’s pocket.

“Why are you carrying around an uno card?” I asked him.

“In case a bully says something mean to me,” he said. “I’ll just reverse it on him.”

After confirming that this was a hypothetical situation and that he wasn’t actually being picked on by anyone, I had to admire the cleverness of my boy. The responses that I often suggest when someone says something mean are:

“What is wrong with you?”

“Did you mistakenly think we’re living in a movie, and you’ve been cast as the jerk-face bad guy?”

“The amazing thing about your words is that because they come from you, they mean nothing to me. And to most other people, too.”

“My goodness, are you okay? Can I get you some help?”

“Listen, if you need to say that to feel better about yourself, go right ahead. I can’t imagine having such low self esteem. It must be really hard.”

The first one is the choice I recommend most. It’s quick, easy to remember, and often puts the jerk-face on the defensive.

But the Uno card is pretty funny, too.

My ten year storytelling anniversary

I’m celebrating an anniversary today:

Ten years ago today, I took the stage at the Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe and competed in my first Moth StorySLAM, telling a story about pole vaulting in high school.

It was my first time telling a story on any stage ever. My first step into storytelling.

I almost didn’t tell a story that night. When they called my name, I panicked. I didn’t move, rationalizing that if I remained perfectly still, the host, Dan Kennedy, would eventually toss my name aside and call another.

It had already happened earlier that evening.

Thankfully, Elysha forced me to take the stage, I told my story, and I won.

So began a magical, unexpected, impossible journey.

Ten years later, my life has changed in enormous, fundamental, and miraculous ways thanks to that night. Five minutes on a stage became a nexus point in my life upon which everything pivoted.

You never know when trying something new can change everything.

In the proceeding decade since that first story:

I won 52 more Moth StorySLAMs. 28 in New York City. 21 in Boston. One in Seattle. Three virtually.

I’ve won 7 Moth GrandSLAM championships.

I’ve performed hundreds of times on stages large and small all over the country and the world.

Two years later, Elysha and I launched Speak Up. We’ve produced 86 storytelling shows throughout Connecticut, Massachusetts, and virtually. Produced more than 100 Speak Up Storytelling podcast episodes. Partnered with organizations like Unified Theater, Compass Youth Collaborative, and Voices of Hope to teach storytelling and produce shows.

Today I operate a thriving consulting company, working with companies like Slack, Johnson & Johnson, Pfizer, LEGO, Rustic Pathways and many more  to help them tell their stories, market their ideas, sell their products, advertise their wares, train their people, and more. I’ve worked with advertising agencies like Saatchi & Saatchi, designing commercials and campaigns for car companies and consumer products. I’ve worked with school districts, colleges, and universities throughout the country, teaching storytelling to students, faculty, and administrators. I’ve worked with attorneys, comedians, priests, ministers, and rabbis, Santa Clauses, and so many more.

Then there is the crazy stuff:

I’ve served as the substitute minister at Unitarian Universalist Churches.

Taught storytelling on a Mohawk reservation of Canada.

Chatted with Dr. Ruth prior to a TEDx Talk. Performed privately for David Blaine. Shared a green room with Samantha Bee. Chatted with Jesse Eisenberg. Shared a stage with some of my storytelling heroes.

I’ve taught storytelling to a room of 500 prosecutors and the attorney general of Indiana.

Been invited to tell a story naked more than once.

Elysha says the craziest thing of all the things that storytelling has brought me is the work I do at Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health.

I don’t exactly fit their vibe, yet I somehow get along quite well there.

Thanks to storytelling, I’ve been given the chance to write comic books. Pen columns for Parents magazine. Draft television pilots with show runners and documentarians.

I’ve delivered numerous TEDx Talks, inspirational talks, commencement addresses, and more.

I’ve begun performing stand up comedy. Produced one solo show and am working on another. Wrote a book on storytelling that is being used on high school and college campuses around the world.

I’ve watched Elysha become an emcee that other emcees have looked to for advice and counsel. I’ve watch Clara tell her first story to an audience in Seattle. Watched Charlie fall in love with my storytelling improv games.

Best of all, I’ve met some of the most amazing people of my life through storytelling. Made so many new friends.

Tonight, I return to The Moth for my first live StorySLAM since March 3, 2020. I’ll be celebrating my ten year storytelling anniversary at The Bell House in Brooklyn, dropping my name into the hat just like I did ten years ago when I had yet to place my feet upon a stage.

Unlike that first night, I’ll be hoping that my name is chosen.

The moment when I took the stage on that very first night and began speaking, all of the nervousness and fear evaporated. It has yet to return. I found a place where I belonged. Little did I know that I would also find a place that would change my life.

It’s hard to believe it’s only been 10 years.

 

Grossest thing ever

Charlie saw a bug on the window of the car and said, “That’s the grossest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Grossest ever?” I asked. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” he said. “Seriously. What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever seen?”

I have a great many contenders for grossest thing ever. I mentioned none of them to Charlie.

I once saw the backfire from a school bus blow a hole the size of a grapefruit in the leg of a 14-year old boy who had been leaning against the exhaust pipe at band camp.

I once saw my own femur and kneecap exposed to the world as I pried my leg from the air conditioning unit of my Datsun B-210 following a head-on collision in 1988.

I once saw a man bleed to death in about three minutes after being stabbed on the corner of Main and South Street in Brockton, Massachusetts.

In 1991 I attended a party at North Adams College where the punch was spiked with vodka and road kill. The frat boys had shoveled up a dead animal off the side of the road a couple days before the party and had frozen it into a block of ice that they had dyed red. They then froze the block of red ice containing the road kill into a larger block of ice and dropped it onto a trash barrel filled with gallons of Hawaiian punch and vodka.

The goal was to drink the barrel of spiked punch before the ice melted down to the road kill.

We succeeded.

But the winner for me was something I saw at a movie theater in Berlin, CT about two decades ago. Upon entering the restroom, I saw an enormous, sweating man in red leather pants standing beside a urinal. He was using his right hand to aim, but in his left hand was a hotdog, covered in mustard, that he was eating while urinating.

I nearly retched on the spot.

Not nice children

They have not stopped.

After telling my now-former students about my response to Elysha’s initial declaration of love  – “I’m flattered” – my students spent the rest of the year, including our graduation ceremony, throwing those two terrible words back in my face.

Such a wonderful, terrible bunch of children.

Last week, I received an email from one of these students along with a photo. She had found one of my books in a bookstore in Bethany.

Whitlock’s Book Barn, I assume. A lovely shop that deals in used and rare books.

Along with the photo of my book was a single sentence that read:

“I am so flattered to see this in Bethany!!”

Almost as annoying than the use of the word “flattered” was the double exclamation point. I taught her that only amateurs and monsters use more than one mark of punctuation at a time.

Attacked by water fowl

I was exiting Winding Trails, the lake club where my family and I spend our summers. I had a meeting with an important client in less than an hour and needed to get home quickly in order to shower and be prepared.

I had spent a little too much time on the beach with Elysha. She’s quite alluring. I was running late.

As I approached the gate, I came upon a flock of geese in the road. They weren’t walking in the road. They were simply standing in the road.

I edged forward slowly, assuming they would scatter as two tons of glass and steel approached.

They did not. They barely looked in my direction.

So I honked, expecting to startle them into movement at the sound of the horn.

They still didn’t move.

I lowered my window and shouted at them to get out of the road.

Nothing.

I sat there for more than three minutes, sensing the precious seconds ticking away.

Finally, I got out of the car and ran towards the geese, shouting at them to move. Flapping my arms.

Finally, they moved.

They attacked me.

Nearly en masse, the geese turned on me, some hissing, some expanding their wings, and they charged.

I stood my ground for about half a second, then I turn and fled, jumping back into the car and slamming the door shut behind me. The geese surrounded my car, hissing and honking. Angry and outraged. Still blocking my path.

It was ridiculous.

I don’t want you to think that I was afraid of the geese. If necessary, I’m sure I would’ve killed every single one of them. Strangled them by their long, stupid necks. Stomped on their lopsided bodies with my shoes. Shoulder-checked them into the pavement.

But then what?

I’m the guy who slaughtered a flock of geese in the middle of the road because they attacked me?

Can you imagine?

So instead, I remained in my car, feeling like one of the characters in a Jurassic Park movie, hiding from the dinosaurs.

At one point, a Winding Trails employee emerged from a building ahead and to the left. I assumed that she had witnessed this spectacle and had come to help, but no. Surrounded by geese in the middle of the road, she simply walked up the road, ignoring me and the geese completely.

Eventually, the geese in front of my car meandered enough to the side to allow me to slowly move forward and escape.

I had to skip the shower and meet with the client in a wet bathing suit. Thankfully, no one knows what you’re wearing below the waist on Zoom.

In my defense, our sailing instructor told me the next day that he’s also been chased by those geese and considers them a mean bunch of birds.

Still, attacked by geese? Hiding in my car?

Not exactly the most heroic moment of my life.

Magic still exists. In the form of death receptacles.

I was driving Clara and Charlie to camp yesterday morning. They were bickering a bit as we pulled out of the driveway, so to shift their attention away from discord, I said, “Hey guy, let’s look for rainbows today on the way to camp!”

It was a sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky.

Charlie said, “Yeah, right Dad. We’re not going to see any rainbows today. Look at the sky, weirdo.”

Clara concurred.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s look for penguins instead.”

The two of them proceeded to school me on penguin habitats, the proximity of local zoos, penguin dietary needs, and my own foolishness.

“Okay,” I said. “How about Komodo dragons! Let’s look for one of those!”

Clara laughed and offered a detailed lesson on the Indonesian island of Komodo, where the Komodo dragon lives.

Who knew?

“Have you no magic in your hearts?” I asked. “If you keep your eyes open, you never know what you might see.”

Then it appeared. The thing we we never thought we’d see. At that very moment.

Stopped in front of us at a red light was a truck pulling a small, flatbed trailer. Strapped to that trailer was an enormous stone sarcophagus,. A tomb of sorts, about twice the size of a standard coffin, with pink and blue inlays. Carved into the stone was the last name of the deceased.

“How about a stone sarcophagus?” I said, pointing ahead, barley able to contain my enthusiasm. “A tomb!”

“A what?” Clara asked, then she saw it. Charlie, too.

They couldn’t believe it. They were amazed.

“See?” I said. “You never know what you might see? That stone tomb is going to be buried soon. Maybe today. Never to be seen again. But you got to see it. Today. On the road. Next to a Dunkin Donuts.”

Charlie proceeded to crack jokes about the possibility that the deceased was already in the tomb. Clara laughed. Their bickering long forgotten.

I thanked the universe for its perfect timing.

Soccer didn’t suck

I don’t like soccer, so when Elysha proposed that we purchase tickets to the US women’s soccer team’s match versus Mexico, I wanted to say, “No, thank you. That sounds awful.”

But instead, I said, “If the kids want to go, I’ll go.”

Clara immediately said yes. Apparently she loves the US women’s soccer team, knows the names of most of the players, and can spout off many of their personal biographies.

Who knew?

Charlie said no which sent my heart soaring, but a few seconds later, he reconsidered and agreed to go.

So much for my soaring heart. I was now stuck going to a soccer game on a perfectly lovely summer night that we could’ve spent doing something far more entertaining.

Still, I said nothing. Just smiled and agreed to go.

I also remained silent during the hour we waited in traffic to finally make it to the stadium. I couldn’t believe it. All these people wanted to watch soccer?

I remained silent when I told my family to hop out of the car and walk to the stadium, leaving me in line for another 25 minutes before I could finally park thanks to Rentschler Field’s abysmal infrastructure.

When I finally made it to my seat, I had missed the first 20 minutes of the game. The US women were already leading Mexico 2-0. I sat down beside Clara and proceeded to have a fantastic time.

I couldn’t believe it.

While I’m still not a fan of soccer, I discovered that watching live soccer played well can be exceptionally entertaining. Watching my children do “The Wave” for the first time in their lives was joyous. Listening to Clara call down to Alex Morgan as she warmed up on the sidelines made my heart soar. Erupting into cheers with 20,000 other screaming fans on goals 3 and 4 was both surprising and inspiring.

I also got to enjoy the moment in the line for slushies when Charlie insisted that I confirm with the cashier that this was the line for regular slushies and not the alcoholic slushies adjacent to us.

“Charlie, I know this is the line for regular slushies. Don’t you trust me?”

“Not really,” Charlie said. “You do some crazy things.”

The woman in front of us erupted in laughter.

I did not.

Despite Charlie’s lack of confidence in his father, it was a glorious evening at Rentschler Field. We left the game about ten minutes early and were back in Newington less than 20 minutes later.

Nothing better than effecting a speedy escape from a stadium parking lot.

What I’ve learned over the years spent with Elysha is to say nothing when she proposes something that sounds decidedly unappealing to me. Rather than arguing against it, pointing out its potential pitfalls, and finding reasons to complain, I remain silent and hopeful because almost always, Elysha is right about these things.

I’ve enjoyed far more surprisingly joyous experiences thanks to Elysha than I can count.

Including, remarkably, a soccer game.

Unintended Uber

I was driving down Main Street in the direction of my next Egg McMuffin. I had exited my driveway about ten minutes earlier and was approaching a traffic light when I heard, “Meow.”

I nearly drove off the road.

After regaining control of my vehicle, I turned. Sitting in Charlie’s booster seat, staring at me, was a black cat.

The neighbor’s cat.

One of my kids had left my rear window open overnight, and apparently the cat had decided to take up temporary residence in my car.

“Meow,” it repeated.

I turned around at the next intersection and headed home. As perfectly content as this cat appeared to be, I wasn’t taking it to McDonald’s.

Don’t let a little rain stop you.

My friend, Rob, texted me yesterday, asking if I wanted to try to squeeze in a round of golf before the rain.  I wanted to point out to Rob that it was kind of raining already. A gentle mist was falling, and the ground at the course was sure to be soaked. I was feeding the kids and preparing to climb on my exercise bike, but instead, I said yes. “I’ll be there.”  When we arrived, the small building where you pay for your round of golf was closed. There was one person teeing off on the first hole, but as far as we could tell, no one else was on the course. It was cold, wet, and drizzling by the time we were ready to tee off.  For the next couple hours, Rob and I had fun. We played golf. We struggled to improve upon a game that affords constant opportunities for improvement. We told stories about the days when we taught together in the same school before Rob’s retirement. We caught up on recent events in each other’s lives and the lives of mutual friends.  We exercised. We laughed a lot.  Rob, who has only been playing golf for about two months, swore like a sailor when his shots rocketed into the forest, dribbled off the tee, or skittered across the green. It’s hilarious to watch. In the 22 years that I’ve known Rob, I’ve never heard him swear so much.  We also saw a fox. Rob saw one with a meal in its mouth. I saw one galloping across a green. We saw a bald eagle. We saw a red-tailed hawk being pursued by smaller birds. We saw rabbits. We said hello to a dog named Tessie. And we saw deer. A stood about ten feet from a deer that needed to move so I could punch a ball under some trees. Later on, as Rob was preparing to swing, a mother deer burst from the trees behind him, followed by her fawn. The fawn saw Rob, stopped, and turned back into the forest as the mother pranced across the fairway into a second stand of trees. Realizing that she had left her baby behind, the mother then pranced back into the original stand of trees to retrieve her baby. While all of this was happening, a bald eagle perched itself in a tree directly above Rob. It was quite a moment. Then Rob hit a fantastic shot over my head and adjacent to the green.  I shot 9 over par. I missed make-able birdie putts on the seventh and the final holes that are still annoying me.  Other than the one man teeing off when we arrived, Rob and I saw no one else on the course. When we passed by the small building at the end of the round, it was still closed and empty. Free round of golf.  To think I might’ve allowed a little mist, the occasional drizzle, and unseasonably chilly temperatures to stop me from playing golf. To think that some less-than-ideal weather may have prevented me from spending time with my friend, walking in nature, playing a game I love, and seeing all of that wildlife.  It makes no sense.  I’ve played golf in the bitter cold. Last week Rob and I played as temperatures were approaching 100. I’ve played while it’s snowing, and I’ve played while there was still a considerable amount of snow on the ground. A little mist is nothing compared to those days, and yet I nearly stayed him.  How stupid of me.   I’ll never forget the moment Rob was preparing to swing when those deer burst out from the trees behind him and a bald eagle perched above him.  You don’t get moments like that too often in life.   Thank goodness my newly-obsessed golfing friend had the wisdom to suggest that we play.