I'm Not High Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 - Nearly Aborted

  Chapter 2 - Getting the Bug

  Chapter 3 - Florida Bound ... and Gagged

  Chapter 4 - A Lesson from Steve Harvey ... and a Few Others, Too

  Chapter 5 - Engaged

  Chapter 6 - From Harlem, It’s the Uptown Comedy Club

  Chapter 7 - It’s a Breuer Family Wedding

  Chapter 8 - Babysitting Billy

  Chapter 9 - God Fired Me from Buddies So I Wouldn’t Cheat on Dee

  Chapter 10 - Joining Saturday Night Live ... and Becoming Joe Pesci

  Chapter 11 - Birth of Goat Boy

  Chapter 12 - Finding Farley

  Chapter 13 - Meeting the Mayor

  Chapter 14 - Chris Kattan, Heavy Metal Man, and the End of SNL Days

  Chapter 15 - Half Baked, Dave Chappelle, and Monk the Pooping Dog

  Chapter 16 - Birth of Gabrielle

  Chapter 17 - Saving Steve-O

  Chapter 18 - Life in the Jersey Burbs

  Chapter 19 - Partying Like a Rock Star

  Chapter 20 - Getting Sirius

  Chapter 21 - Dad Moves In

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  GOTHAM BOOKS

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  Published by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First printing, October 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Jim Breuer

  All rights reserved

  Gotham Books and the skyscraper logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Breuer, Jim, 1967-

  I’m not high : but I’ve got a lot of crazy stories about life as a goat boy,

  a dad and a spiritual warrior / Jim Breuer.

  p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-44380-4

  1. Breuer, Jim, 1967- 2. Comedians—United States—Biography. I. Title.

  PN2287.B68555A3 2010

  792.7’028’092—dc22

  [B] 2010019123

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  To my soul mate, best friend, and dearest wife, Dee. You have stood in the shadows, supporting my every move and keeping me grounded.

  Introduction

  Vegas

  In late fall 2008, I decided to write a book. This book. The whole thing really started on a flight. My wife, Dee, and I were headed to the Comedy Festival in Las Vegas for the weekend, and I was amped about performing all-new material. For years, I’d been thinking about my message, my act, and what I really wanted to say.

  I began doing a daily show on Sirius satellite radio back in 2004, when Dee and I had just started our family. It let me connect with people while still having a normal life as a dad. But over the course of doing my radio show, it occurred to me that the grind—going out and doing stand-up every week—was what really made me happy. It also occurred to me that my message had changed. Or maybe just evolved. What inspires me and what I want to share is what’s most important to me now: the ups and downs of family life—like alternating between changing my kids’ diapers and my dad’s.

  I wanted to see other families brought together by my comedy, by the little annoyances of our day-to-day that really end up being the best things about being alive. Most people, though, see me as the guy with sleepy eyes and a goofy laugh who played a stoner in Half Baked and a goat on Saturday Night Live. But I’m not that guy—I wasn’t then and I’m especially not now. So after a long break from stand-up, I thought, “If I’m going to get back into it with a whole new, more honest point of view, I’ll do it in Vegas in front of a bunch of other comedians.” They’d tell me if it was any good or not. And on the flight there I’d start putting down some thoughts on paper.

  Once Dee and I got into our seats on the plane in Newark, I took out my notebook and started writing. And magic happened. I felt like my hand was moving across the page on its own. I’ve written my whole life, but never before had stuff just spilled out of me like that. The next thing I heard was the voice of the flight attendant telling us to get ready for landing four and a half hours later. I’d written fifty pages, front and back, and my hand was killing me. I showed it to Dee, and she couldn’t believe that I’d done it all on the flight.

  We landed and checked into the monumentally extravagant Caesars Palace, and the next night I did my set at the Palace Ballroom. I crushed and got a standing ovation, validating what my gut had been telling me for a long time. The security guard who walked us into the venue was waiting for me when I came off the stage. He looked just like Mark McGwire back in his steroid days. I couldn’t help but ask if he’d dabbled in performance-enhancing substances, too.

  “It gave me a competitive advantage in my field,” he said matter-of-factly. He was tossing a water bottle back and forth between his hands and when he’d catch it, it would just disappear into his giant paw. “Now, though, the whole thing doesn’t appeal to me anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let me ask you something,” he said, not answering my question. “You had a really awesome, powerful set tonight. Are you a godly man?”

  “I pray,” I said. “I try to lead a life I can be proud of.”

  “Have you been born again?”

  “Nope,” I said, then nodded toward Dee. “But she has.”

  “So have I,” he said.

  At that, I feared that I was going to get dragged into a discussion about accepting
Jesus Christ as my savior. But instead he simply told me that he really liked my set, and I guess he just wanted to learn more about me.

  Dee interjected. “I’m just upset that he dropped five F-bombs on the crowd.” Then she looked at me and said, “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “I can see through the cursing,” the security guy said, “and still totally get Jim’s message. You know, Jesus hung out with all kinds of people and never sat in judgment of them. It’s good to keep an open mind. A message can be delivered in any medium. We can’t ignore it just because we don’t like how it arrives.”

  Then the juicehead with the big heart, Dee, and I just started sharing stories in that back hallway. We must have sat there for two or three hours.

  “You should really write these stories down, bro,” the security guy said. “They’re like testimonies. You need to share them.”

  “It’s funny that you’re saying that,” I told him. “Because the whole flight out here, that’s exactly what I was doing—writing them all down.”

  We eventually parted ways and Dee and I went back to our suite. I was fired up about the progress I’d made on writing the book and about the response I’d received for doing stand-up material that was true to my heart. The next day Dee and I both worked out in the morning, and then I was going to meet her in the lobby in the early afternoon.

  While Dee was out running errands, I continued to write and stare out of our giant window down at the Las Vegas Strip. Something overtook me, and I took a break and walked closer to the window. I felt untouchable. Life could not have been going any better. And I felt like it was time to address all of the negative energy out there, to literally tempt fate.

  “I know you’re out there, but you can’t stop me from touching people’s lives,” I said out loud, addressing the Devil, and any other as yet unannounced evil forces out there. “And I’m going to do it without being a preacher. I’m not a shrink, either. I’m just an everyday, ordinary guy with some deep-ass stories. I’m a modern-day prophet warrior. Try and stop me. If you have any power at all, come and destroy this notebook.” I held it up to the window, sneering and laughing at the same time.

  Immediately the rational, sober part of me told me not to push it. Sure, I was raised in Long Island and I loved to bust balls. But as an adult you have to take your good fortune with humility and grace. It’s great to hit the home run, but if you make fun of the pitcher as you’re rounding the bases you’re going to get put on your ass the next time you’re at the plate. There was no good reason to start taunting Satan.

  I stepped away from the window and now I was feeling a little paranoid. I looked around the room, thinking it would be wise to put the notebook in a drawer or something, just to be safe. But all of the drawers seemed to be unprotected, just begging a thief or a vengeful spirit to steal from them. I walked over to the safe, but it was tiny. If you had a Rubik’s Cube that you really wanted to protect, this would have been the perfect safe for it. But a notebook? It didn’t really fit without getting all crinkled up and wedged. I forced it in there for a second, like a taco, and tried to close the door. It wasn’t happening, despite repeated slammings. Now I was starting to freak out. I even had Yoda’s voice inside of my head, growling, “Never underestimate the power of the dark side.” Fate, the Devil, or whoever was messing with me already.

  Then I stopped and realized how pathetic I was acting. I got mad at myself for cowering like a baby and defiantly pulled the notebook out of the safe. I put it back on the desk and said to the room, “It’s right here. In plain view. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  By now I was running late to meet Dee. She was down in the fancy Caesars spa getting a manicure and pedicure. Unbelievably, she’d talked me into getting one, too. Weren’t these things generally reserved for chicks? “Yes,” I thought, “but Vegas is about indulgence and trying new things. And Dee and I could just sit and talk without a care in the world.”

  So I got on the elevator and took it to the lobby. Because of the festival, it felt like the red carpet at the Oscars down there. The floor was packed with famous comedians rubbing elbows. I hadn’t really expected to see so many people I knew, but as I got closer to the nail spa, I could see Jerry Seinfeld and Chris Rock standing a few feet in front of its entrance, inside of which Dee was patiently waiting for me.

  “What’s happening, Jim?” Jerry said just as I walked up.

  “We’re getting something to eat,” Chris added.

  “Oh, I’m just hanging out,” I said, gazing around the lobby. “Taking it all in.”

  Just then Eddie Izzard walked by and stopped to say hello, just as Dee poked her head out the spa’s doorway. She had little wads of tissue between each finger, protecting her newly painted nails.

  “I thought I heard you out here,” she said, smiling. “They’re waiting for you! Hurry up!”

  Then she ducked back in.

  Now the guys looked confused. “Actually, I’m getting a, uh, procedure, ah, too,” I explained sheepishly.

  I believe Jerry made a face as if I’d just told him I was going to walk in and ask for a vasectomy. Here I was in Vegas, home of flashing lights, high rollers, and showgirls, and I was going to sit in a spa with my wife, listen to Kenny G, and get my toenails painted. It was emasculating, even if that’s the one thing I wanted to do most at that moment.

  “Bonding,” I said. The guys nodded, piecing it together.

  I babbled on. “You guys are all married, right? You know how it is.”

  “That’s cool, Jim,” Chris said, backing slowly away. “Sounds like a nice afternoon.”

  So then I went into the spa. A big Jamaican woman gave me my first and only pedicure, and it was amazing. All the women in there were gossiping about the festival, wanting to get tickets or meet a star, not knowing that Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock, and Eddie Izzard had just been standing not more than ten feet away from them. I soon forgot all about not wanting my guy friends to know what I was up to. And I also forgot about the notebook up in our suite.

  When we finished, I was just ready to go back up to the room and take a quick nap before dinner. Between spending the whole flight writing, then performing, then staying up until nearly dawn talking to the security guard, I was wiped out. I was relishing lying down without being awoken by the screams of my children. When you’re a parent of young kids, you soon learn that every time you try to steal a nap, just when you start to drift off, you’ll inevitably hear a blood-curdling shout or wake up to discover that someone’s given the cat a haircut or used a Sharpie to decorate a piece of furniture.

  When we got back upstairs we saw the maid’s cart in front of our door. I heard her vacuuming inside, and I didn’t want to scare her, so I opened the door slowly while knocking loudly. Maybe I wouldn’t even take a nap, I thought. Maybe I’d write a few more pages while I was on a roll.

  As we walked in, I heard the vacuuming coming from the bedroom. The noise stopped, and then the maid wheeled the machine back out into the living room. Her eyes bugged out when she saw us.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, laughing. “I tried to knock. I didn’t want to scare you.”

  The maid had dark, dark circles under her eyes. I don’t make a practice of judging people on looks—probably because I’ve had people assume I’m a degenerate pothead my whole life—but this woman was creepy. She was thin, in her late forties, with a head of jet-black hair. I assumed she was maybe from somewhere in South America. Or maybe from the blackest pits of hell. I wasn’t sure.

  “I apologize about your candy,” she said nervously. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. The festival had sent a package of gifts to the participating comedians—a briefcase filled with candy and coffee mugs. But now I just saw the briefcase on the kitchen table with nothing inside of it.

  “I thought you had checked out,” she said timidly. “So I gave the candy to a friend. To another maid. I can get it back. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.�
�

  I had no idea why she thought we checked out when all of our clothes and luggage were still in the room. To me it sounded crazy, but I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. Accidents happen. I’m sure she had a lot of rooms to clean, and I bet people leave them in complete disarray—especially in Vegas. Plus, in the bigger picture, we were given this amazing suite with a view of the whole Strip for the weekend. If this was the worst thing that was going to happen, big deal. I looked over at Dee, who shrugged and grinned. It was just candy.

  “No,” I said to the maid. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t think I’ll miss the extra five pounds I would’ve gained eating it.” I laughed, letting her know there were no hard feelings.

  “No biggie,” Dee added.

  The maid nodded silently, then quickly started pushing the vacuum toward the door. She seemed in a hurry to leave. I figured she was embarrassed and wanted the situation to be over. But I wanted to make sure nothing else had gone missing.

  “Is that all you gave away was the candy?” I asked. I figured now was my only chance to check. Once the maid left the room, it would be all but impossible to get anything back. It was a giant hotel, she didn’t speak English very well, and it would just be a convoluted ordeal. But it wasn’t money or jewelry I was thinking about. It was my notebook, which I was relieved to see was still on the desk.

  “No,” the maid said, shaking her head. “Just candy. That’s all.”

  “Great,” I said. “Let’s not worry about that.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling, and walked back out to her cart in the hallway.

  Dee went into the bedroom, and I walked over to the desk. I had no sane reason to pick up the notebook and thumb through it. I mean, it was sitting there just as I’d left it. Opening it up would be proof that I was paranoid. I get that the candy—so tempting and delicious, spilling out of a wide-open briefcase—was an obvious target to be snapped up. But a $3.59 notebook? All of the hotel rooms were furnished with stationery. And the maid probably had extra supplies of it on her cart to replenish any that had been used. If she needed paper, she had access to tons of it.