Shame on Me

It’s been a while since I’ve really screwed up.

Once, when I was in the seventh grade, my class built a clothes trunk to donate to our school’s annual auction. I say “built” but I mean “asked one of our parents to build.” It wasn’t much of a choice, really. One of the kid’s dads was a carpenter.

After it was built, our teacher had the chest brought in to class so we could admire our handiwork. Then she asked us to sign it. Just like real artists. One by one, we went to the front of the class, and signed it with a thick black sharpie. Before we’d signed it, a friend of mine leaned over and said, “I dare you to sign it ‘Da Pimp.’” So, when I approached the chest, after taking a moment to admire my creation, I signed Da Pimp.

Once we’d finished, a few teachers took the chest away to be prepared for the auction. I thought I was in the clear. There’s no way they’d see it among the 30 names in in the chest. Especially with only minutes remaining in the school day. Moments later, Mr. McCoy came in. “Nobody’s leaving until we figure out who signed Da Pimp.”

For a minute, I thought if I keep my mouth shut, they’ll never know. And that might have been true. The only one who knew I’d done it was the friend who suggested I do it. He was a security risk. A few minutes alone with him and a baseball bat might clear that up. But then I experienced shame. The shame of failing my teachers. The shame of being the sole reason all my friends—including the one who gave me the idea—were being held after the closing bell was me.

Some people sit with shame for too long. They dwell in it because they don’t want or are too afraid to atone for whatever they’ve done. That day in seventh grade, I learned that shame can be a powerful impetus for change. It can push us to make amends with whomever we hurt and to be welcomed back into our communities. I could only take a few minutes before I fessed up.

“If it’s a pimp you’re looking for, look no further.”

“Everyone can go,” McCoy said, “except you, LeDonne.”

What’s your Overstory?

What stories do you tell yourself...about yourself? You know, about everything that goes on in your day? I don't know about you, but if I didn't have some way to process all the extra ice cream I eat, the idiots I wait in line behind at Starbucks who seem to only just now in 2025 have discovered that they can order coffee in public, the woefully random and unfair diarrhea I get—that only and always seems to strike after I eat ice cream—if I didn't have some way to make sense of it all, I'd go nuts.

Which would go great on top of a bowl of ice cream... but that's another story and, unfortunately, another roll of TP. Malcolm Gladwell writes about the concept of an overstory in Revenge of the Tipping Point. Overstories form a framework that helps us process events. In middle and high school, the story I told myself was that I was smart, I was funny, and I was into leadership. It was a way for me to feel good about not fitting in, about being a little different. I wasn’t really all that different, everyone feels a little unbelonging every once in a while, but it helped me feel good about myself nonetheless. Your overstory might be that you’re a survivor. When you got randomly shoved by some weirdo on the street you told yourself “well, that sucked but I’m strong, so I’ll be okay.” That’s a great overstory.

But overstories can also be negative. The other day I saw one of my neighbors on the sidewalk. As he passed the parking garage exit, a car pulled out and nearly bumped into him. I say “bumped into” not to be hyperbolic, I mean literally bumped into. The car couldn’t have been going more than 1 mile per hour. My neighbor leapt back and performed a little scene I’ve seen others (including myself) perform many times, the Act of the Incredulous Walker: he threw up his arms in an emotional admixture of surprise, scorn, and incredulity. There was a scoff. Maybe two. Then he continued on his way, muttering to himself, “Boy, today just isn’t my day.” I don’t know what his overstory is, but it’s probably not “I can handle anything the world throws at me.”

The power of an overstory is that, once you decide what it is, you start to notice things that reinforce it.

The other thing about an overstory is that you can change it. Why not use it to your advantage? Tell yourself anything!

Moon River

Last night, I sat at the piano and played for the first time in 6 months. I played Henry Mancini's Moon River, arranged by George N. Terry, from a vintage piece of sheet music I bought Wiff two years ago. When the sheet music was originally printed, in 1961, it sold for $.75 which, in today's dollars, is $8.06. I found a seller on Etsy and paid $21. You could say I got ripped off, but I think the value of some things increases with age and experience. At least that's what I'm telling myself as I get a little older and a little more experienced. Plus, it was a gift so I didn't care.

The sheet music also came with a hidden surprise: the previous owner had marked it up a bit—a circled quarter note, reminding them to hold for a whole count; a handwritten flat symbol, reminding them to play the accidental. And that's just in the first part half of the song which is written in the key of C. Once it changes to A flat major, I can only imagine how many times they must have sharpened their pencil. It reminded me of when I was learning how to play.

When I was younger, I marked up music the same way the previous owner did. I was in my high school's pep and jazz bands and the Tacoma All-City Jazz Band. I was also a ladies man. It was a fun way to support my school's teams in all the sports I wasn't athletic enough to play. I wasn't a fantastic piano player, but I was good enough to make the cut. I had to audition for those positions and, there being only one piano per band, the stakes were high. You were either in or you got to watch the other piano player play and wish they'd break a wrist. Thankfully, in each band, my competition was just one other pianist: for the school bands I competed against a nice girl with a friendly smile; for the all-city band, it was a different nice girl who also had a friendly smile. As I remember it, I destroyed them both. As history has more accurately recorded, there was no competition. They were both on their way out of the bands and I was just their replacement.

But the important takeaway?

I was a virtuoso.

As I sat there last night, playing what is arguably Mancini's most memorable song, noticing the previous owner's markings, it helped me remember that the key to earning a spot in a jazz band wasn't begging for an audition, it was playing better. To get better at jazz, I played classical. Which may sound counterintuitive, but when you’re learning to play jazz, playing classical helps. It gives you the dexterity and precision needed to play solos quickly and accurately. It gives you a familiarity with the keyboard so you know where your hands and fingers are at all times. To play better jazz, I needed to play better classical. I needed to focus on the inputs, not the outputs.

Now, I'm not auditioning for jazz bands, I'm trying to be a better stand-up. I want to tour nationally. I want to be recognized in airports. When I get arrested in a foreign autocratic regime and get thrown into a Siberian gulag, I want to be so famous my prison overlords recognize me and give me an extra helping of toilet-borscht. I want more and better paying gigs. I want more money. I want fame.

But my current situation is a direct reflection of how hard I've worked on the craft. My phone isn't ringing off the hook because I haven't worked hard enough on the jokes. Also because phones haven't had hooks in 20 years. I’m not touring because, despite having over 90 minutes of funny stuff, I need more and funnier minutes, because whatever I've got isn't funny enough for enough producers to think we have to get Anthony Le-whatever on the show!

I need to focus on the jokes. I need to focus on the punchlines, the bits, the material. I need to focus on the classical.

But in the meantime, Moon River will do.

Change Your Place, Change Your Perspective

I’ve watched a lot of stand-up.

I’ve noticed that, often times, the stronger the opinion, the smaller the world view.

The fix?

Get a different vantage point. See the other side.

Change your place, change your perspective.

Summer Writing Project

Today is the summer solstice, marking the first day of summer and the halfway point in the year. It’s the day where most people in the northern hemisphere will look out their windows, shake their head, and say, “why the hell is it still light out?”

Being halfway through anything is bittersweet, but whether it’s bitter or sweet depends on how you look at it. I’m 41, which is considered middle aged. I could focus on the fact that half my life is over and I’ve only just this year started to eat fiber; or I could focus on the fact that I’m in good health—thanks, fiber!—and have, at the very least, this moment to enjoy. I could focus on the fact that I haven’t achieved the things I’ve wanted to achieve—international stardom or at least a credit score above 620—or I could remember that, over the last 41 years, I’ve learned things that will help me make the best of whatever time remains.

I could choose to focus on how I frittered away much of the first half of the year. Or I could look at it differently: even though we’re halfway to the end, it’s a new beginning.

In the name of new beginnings, I’m starting a little project called the Summer Writing Project. It’s something Wiff proposed a few days ago, and a bandwagon I wholeheartedly jumped on. The project is simple: write every day. That’s it. No rules. No regulations. No requirements. No other r words. Just rite. It can be about whatever you want. It can be a blog entry, work on your manuscript, an apology note to your estranged lover. I’m choosing to make mine public—we could all use something to laugh at—but you can keeps yours private. If you’d like to join, you’re more than welcome. You can even link to your Summer Writing Project in the comments below.

Read my Summer Writing Project posts here.