What do you do for a living?

Alex Trebek: Welcome back to Celebrity Jeopardy. And let's take a look at the scores. John Travolta has -$2,000. In a close second with -$1,900 is Michael Keaton. [ Keaton is doing several facial expressions. ] And in first place, with $0, is our returning champion Burt Reynolds, who, of course, has yet to ring in. It's time now for Double Jeopardy. And once again for this round contestants, I'd like to remind you, please, no cursing. Let's take a look at the board. The categories are: "Continents"; "Theater"; "Potpourri"; "Potent Potables"; "Numbers"; "Words That Rhyme With Dog"; and finally, "The Renaissance." And you know what, let's just replace that last category with "Jose’s Occupations”.[ Tile saying "The Renaissance" is flipped over to reveal "Occupations" ] Burt Reynolds, you pick the category….

As of late the questions: “… and you?... what do you do for a living?” are pretty commonly posed in reference to what brings me to Atlanta. It generally occurs immediately after my friends have finished explaining what their fancy jobs at the bank entail. Everyone expects to hear some fantastic story of how I am in the luxury import export business and I deal in overwhelmingly cute puppies as well as rare bunny rabbit breads. Instead I provide them with an uneasy answer that I have to dig deep for, and sounds like it came straight out of the mouth of a geeky Jeopardy contestant:

“Umm… Um… What is: I work for my family’s new start-up, and teach tennis part-time?”

For some reason my answer comes out in the form of a question sometimes! (The truth is: yes, this is what I do. But it’s not a “living”. I would describe it as a semi-unemployed state, with great benefits.)

WEAK!... The answer in the form of a question is likely the product of nerves, which in turn are caused by the fact that sometimes the person asking me the question falls into one of the two tantalizing categories of girls in Atlanta: either the innocently cute looking southern belle beauty, or, one of the scorching hot metropolitan temptresses that so often inhabit the Midtown night spots. Needless to say, my answer does not tend to please them.

Most girls don’t like this response, because when it comes to getting a woman’s attention in this town it works somewhat like my old friend Tony Montana said back in the day:

“first you get the money, then you get the power,THEN you get the woman."

And when I respond to that question with another question, it’s easy to see I missed Mr. Montana’s memo before I hopped over the border. Which basically means: Im broke!

That being said I have decided to give a little credit to the humanity of the Atlantan breed of woman by blaming myself for failing to have a lucrative job, and instead accept the reality that I am coming off as “that guy” in my attempts to answer a simple question.

So as a result of the unfortunate condition that causes me to become “that guy” whenever I am asked the dreaded employment question. I have resorted to boldly lying.

The other day when asked what I did for a living I was able to confidently reply:

“I am a professional middle weight boxer.”

Not sure if the inspiration and guts to lie about my occupation came from the fact that the person asking me had previously explained she was a 45 year old burlesque dancer, or if I was just straight up tiered of telling the boring truth. Either way I was not about to let myself fade into this sweet lady's shadow so it was time to steal the show.

The chain reaction of follow up lies that came after my original lie was impressive. It was the perfect exhibit of the explosive combo of a creative imagination, a propensity for mischief, and an uncanny ability to mislead. Everybody around me was interested.

My lie had inspired my friend to lie as well! As soon as I came out with this bold move, my friend sitting next to me explained that he was my bodyguard. (I was amazed by what I had inspired this do gooder to do.)

You may ask yourself: why would a professional fighter need a bodyguard? That same thought ran through my mind the instant he stated this, but no time for analysis. That was our story and we were sticking to it.

The conversation evolved. Our lies became more contorted. But surprisingly this mature woman’s love for us only grew stronger. So much so, that she decided she had to share her love for us with her friends.
I thought to myself:

“Am I ever going to tell the truth again?”

She called over her exquisitely alternative and beautifully indie, rock band girlfriends. I had never heard of them. Their name was Hotel Café, but for all I knew, or cared, they probably were some no names in the big city just like us. The fact of the matter was they were SEXY!, not old enough to be my mom, and I was about to have them sign my chest in the same fashion as they had done for our 45 year old bombshell of a M.I.L.F, burlesque dancer friend.

My chest paled in comparison to my dancing acquaintance’s surgically enhanced gazongas, but these ladies took a liking to it and turned me into their canvas. It tickled. Pretty soon I was all tatted up.

Eventually, the good time had to come to an end. Last Call! Our time ran out, and we parted ways with these lovely ladies.

We never asked them to serenade us, and they never asked me to box anyone. All us liars had a great time together.

That experience had me meditating on my employment situation here in Atlanta. What good is it for me to tell the truth about what I do for a living? At this point in my life any truth about my work is very flexible, as well as temporary.

LIEING CAN BE A LOT OF FUN