Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Fundamentals for Delicious Living

by Nick Offerman

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  People often remark to us that they’re pleasantly surprised to see a marriage last as long as ours in Hollywood, which is a very sad thing to say about Hollywood. One of the main reasons I think we are succeeding has to do with our propensity to stay home and be boring. We don’t get caught up in the “business” here in town, meaning going out all the time to parties and bars and so forth. We are unencumbered by the need to “be seen.” When we see a red carpet, we head the other way if at all possible. Of course, some of this silliness is necessary, as part of our work is to promote projects in which we appear, but we do try to keep even that to a minimum.

  We prefer instead to stay home and read books. We do jigsaw puzzles or play cards. We watch movies. We make our relationship a priority so that it will survive all of the tumult (usually good tumult) that our jobs throw into our paths. A marriage bond needs a healthy elasticity so that when one of us is suddenly touring Australia for ten days the bond will stretch between here and Down Under without breaking. We have a strict rule: We never accept employment that will keep us apart for more than two weeks. In thirteen years together (and counting), we’ve only been apart for two weeks a couple of times, and even that sucked balls.

  Megan and I have both experienced the benefit of some powerfully good fortune in our lives, which I believe means that at some point we’ll see some low points to balance things out, as life tends to do. I am grateful beyond description to know that when we find ourselves in those doldrums, I will have a partner as smart and funny and supportive and strong and creative and loving as my wife. Her killer set of jugs also does not hurt my feelings.

  Love Your Woman (A Paean to Megan)

  Megan Mullally.

  Love-time? She is the reason for the season.

  My best friend. My legal property. My wife.

  I could honestly write a book solely devoted to my wife, and maybe I will, by gum, because there is at least a volume’s worth of amazing magic glistening about her person that will thrill you to pieces and render you extremely envious of the fact that she is, in fact, my legal possession in the state of California. Read the paperwork.

  Many know, adore, and rightly lust after her as Karen Walker, the gut-bustingly hilarious stack of curves on Will & Grace, one of the finest thirty-minute comedy programs ever to bless our airwaves and our living rooms, but I know her by some different names, particularly around the house. Names like Gettin’ Juggy with It, Queen of My Pants and the Known Universe, Pandora’s Box, Venus-and-then-some, Ark of the Covenant, the Bush, and, of course, Stacy BeaverHouse.

  I met her when I was twenty-eight, working on a production of The Berlin Circle at Los Angeles’ Evidence Room theater, a company we promptly joined, and one to which we continue to offer our fealty. Artistic director Bart DeLorenzo, a dear friend and genius of the stage, was one of the main influences that allowed Megan the opportunity to absolutely save my life (from myself), and we quickly fell into the grip of an ardor that only continues to grow, thank the pagan gods and their dogs.

  This chapter, then, is a song of joy, hollered directly at her beautiful face area. (You check out those cheekbones? Fuck me silly. Also, if you don’t already have it bookmarked, do a Google image search for “Megan Mullally Boobs,” and check out that first picture that comes up. Right?) I have oft enjoyed the word paean in my reading, to describe just such a song of worship, and so I thought to discover the proper pronunciation, as I had never actually heard it uttered aloud. A few different friends gave me a few different opinions, so imagine my chagrin when I learned from the Internet that it is pronounced “pee-in.” Perhaps I’ll just stick with hymn of praise.

  I suppose I’ll start off the jamboree with a salute to another of her characters, the sexually insatiable Elizabeth in Mel Brooks’s absolutely top-drawer Broadway musical Young Frankenstein. By the way, if you ever get the chance to see Miz Mullally tread the boards, especially if she’s warbling a tune, run, don’t walk. She makes a noise of pulchritude that would have made Ethel Merman hurl her boa to the stage in defeat and trudge off glumly to the pub. The never-ending cavalcade of chuckles that was Young Frankenstein included Megan’s showstopping number, “Deep Love,” a roaring, throaty, filthy tribute to the rigid trunklike love-member of the Frankenstein monster. By the end of the song, she was downstage in a single spotlight, barefoot in a torn dress, “singing her tits off,” as she likes to say of others, to such effect that the subsequent blackout regularly brought the audience to their feet like they were at a rock concert. Have I made it clear that I am a fan?

  For opening night, I put together this little ditty in the hopes that Mr. Brooks would bring me on as a writing partner, or at least a backstage broom. Still hoping for a call, Melvin. I give you “Elizabeth”:

  Chaste in all her speech

  But a terror in the sack

  Like a full-force Irish gale

  On her feet or on her back

  The voice of sweetest songbird

  With the gaiety of a faun

  Fellows brawl to rise and fall

  In labor on her lawn

  When she shops for diamonds

  Or simply cuts a rug

  They say that she’s a handful

  Aye (a handful of jugg)

  She’s god’s gift to men

  Oh she’s keen to unwrap it

  When the moon is in its wane

  It’s held that she can snap it

  So if you wear the tackle

  Nature gave man for love

  Then “Huzzah” for Elizabeth

  She is heaven from above.

  And below.

  My wife was born with a very unfair portion of talent. She seems to excel at whatever task on which she lays her hand. She decided to cut our poodles’ hair, and an hour later they came out of the bathroom looking like they had just been drawn by someone who draws the very cutest of cartoon animals. Not content to rest on her god-given skills, however, Megan has inspired me again and again throughout our years together with her steady work ethic. For some reason I grew up with the misconception, or fantasy, really, that when a person “made it” in showbiz, they would no longer need to work very hard. I figured that once you hit the big time, you got to just chill in your trailer, smoking a ton of the finest weed, then head in and kill a few scenes on camera, then go meet David Lee Roth at the beach to hang out with some bikini-clad models.

  Ah, puberty. It sells the shit out of some Bieber records, right? Or whatever dross from the Disney factory is passing for popular music today. Anyway, it turns out that these people at the top of their respective games in the entertainment industry don’t, in actuality, smoke much weed at all while working twelve- to sixteen-hour days. Because weed is a sedative. Sedatives, whilst mighty pleasing, well, they slow you down. Turns out, the time to party is AFTER work.

  I saw my wife rehearse every Will & Grace scene to the point of perfection and every song to within an inch of its life, driven by a desire to give the audience the most profound enjoyment possible. As I may have mentioned earlier, I quite enjoy hard work, but I had never seen anyone work, without being flogged by a coach, nearly as hard as my wife. This was a revelation. I realized that success on her level was only achievable through a gift of talent, consistent hard work to back up the talent, and a healthy portion of good luck on top of it. This is but one of the many, many lessons I have been gifted by “the lady with the heavenly poonts” who calls me husband.

  Early in our relationship, we were in New York City, where Megan was engaged in some press for Will & Grace. In a Lincoln Town Car, the vehicle of note for NYC press work, we were running maybe ten minutes late for an appearance she was to make on Letterman, a show of which I was and still am a very big fan. My late grandpa Ray and I used to watch Dave, and the fact that all the fancy East Coast types appreciate his dry, Midwestern sense of humor has always made me f
eel all the more comfortable when rubbing elbows with the cognoscenti myself. That makes it quite simple to comprehend why I would be completely panicked that we were going to be late to Late Night, even though I was merely the husband along for the ride!

  Our driver pulled up to the stage door, where there were eight or ten people on the sidewalk waiting for Megan, hoping for an autograph. Of course I barreled through them and opened the door for Megan, only to turn around and find that she was signing away. WHAT WAS THIS?!?! Once she had finished giving them some of her time, which amounted to all of two minutes, maybe three, she came inside and we got into the elevator to ascend to her dressing room. Once alone, I unleashed my righteous indignation: “What are you thinking? You’re already late for Dave!” She replied, “Darling, if it wasn’t for the fans on the sidewalk, and the fans in general, I wouldn’t be on Letterman in the first place.” Properly admonished, I stared at the round, lit button that read 5B in shame. The elegance with which she has always handled herself in such public situations continues to be a master class that I attend daily.

  On a more personal note, another of Megan’s sublime talents resides in her acumen for interior design. It’s an art that obsesses her to approximately the same degree which I am enthralled by woodworking, only she can decorate an entire room in the time it takes me to build half of a table. She has turned our home into such a work of surprising beauty that I am often caused to giggle when I trudge in from a day at the shop, covered in sawdust, at the idea that I should reside in a house as inventively appointed as this. Her color palette is intensely modern, using accents and shades that I could never have fathomed working in concert. What’s more, she is an amazing collector of art, which is an attribute I appreciate very powerfully, as I am much inspired by the paintings and drawings that festoon our walls, even the ones with no naked ladies.

  Let’s see, we’ve discussed beauty, talent, artistry, elegance . . . ah. I see I’ve buried the lead. Megan’s finest trait, even more apparent than the glorious volcanoes of flesh gracing her upper abdomen, is her sense of humor. She has, without question, the filthiest, most hilarious predilection for phrases and gestures that would make a sailor’s cockring blush. When we became friends in rehearsals for The Berlin Circle, I would race home from rehearsal every night to report the day’s delicious blasphemy via her lips. She couldn’t make a crack without mentioning somebody taking a shit on somebody’s balls, or, when no one but me was looking, pretending to masturbate furiously, with the fervor of a cleaning lady scrubbing at a stubborn stain on a rug, only to play it completely cool when the attention of the other actors turned back upon us. She just makes me laugh like nobody else can and has done so day in and day out for thirteen years now. That’s one of the many reasons they call me the Lucky Bastard.

  As a student of music myself, I have long dreamed of the opportunity to perform alongside Megan as she regales the audience with her brand of melodiousness. Recognizing this desire in me, she has coached me over the years to strengthen my singing voice with practice and hard work, until just in the last couple of years, to my great satisfaction, I’ve begun singing in front of audiences, mainly in my first humorist show, American Ham. Among the songs in my repertoire is “The Rainbow Song,” which I wrote in 2008 for Megan’s fiftieth birthday. I had asked, it being her fiftieth, if she didn’t crave something fancy in the way of a gift for this milestone age, some sort of bauble or gewgaw.

  (An aside—Megan has had zero “work” done. By “work,” I refer of course to plastic surgery and Botox and all the other horrors that famous beautiful people traditionally inflict upon themselves. Let me just urge you, if you are contemplating anything in this realm, to please reconsider. There is nothing that a man or woman can do to improve upon nature. Your true self, no matter how much you dislike that self’s lack of cheekbones, is the most beautiful version of you that can be presented to the world, and no amount of any doctor brutally butchering your flesh is going to buy you more adoration than simply your own personality, created by nature. And, admitting that in some shitty arenas having “corrective” surgeries actually does show dividends, do you really want the fruits of your life’s labors to increase in bounty because you have bigger tits? Mightn’t you be happier in another situation wherein you were valued for the person inhabiting the body you showed up in? [Implied answer: yes.])

  For her fiftieth-birthday gift, Megan said, “No, nothing special, just make me one of your cards or do one of your funny dances. Or, you know what? I would actually love a rainbow for my birthday.” I narrowed my eyes and scrutinized her face for a time, determining that no, she was not kidding. “Okay, honey,” I said. “Cool. Sounds good. Let me make a few calls.”

  Shitcakes. A motherfucking rainbow? I was stymied for a long time, racking my brain for some way to provide Megan with a birthday rainbow (her favorite color, BTW), and coming up short. When it looked as though all would be lost and I would fail miserably, I was saved by the late, great Nina Simone and her charming song “Beautiful Land,” which lists the colors of the rainbow, one for each verse! Ha-HA!! I would live to fight another day! I wrote the following lyrics and my dear friend, the wizardly mountebank Corn Mo, helped me set them to some old Irish chords, creating my first song. Thanks again, CornMo(.com)!

  The Rainbow Song

  (A rousing 6/8 time)

  You RED me my rights when you arrested me,

  You put me on trial and gave me life.

  But ORANGE you glad I didn’t say banana,

  When you made me your bitch and I made you my wife?

  You YELLOW you yell when I ball a melon,

  But you don’t complain when I tickle your back.

  We are both a’GREEN that we’ll serve our time.

  If I drop the soap I know you’ll watch my crack.

  Please enjoy this Rainbow Song,

  And this gift of leprechaun romance.

  Please enjoy as part of this well-balanced breakfast,

  The Lucky Charms you will find in my pants.

  You BLUE me away when you sang “Shock the Monkey,”

  Your fingers inside me let the games begin.

  INDIGO . . . Is a tough one to pun with,

  But when we’re apart, it’s the mood that I’m in.

  We get along so well, we could never be compared

  To Jesus of Nazareth and Pontius Pilate,

  But if you’ll endure the slight of calling me sir

  I’ll be Peppermint Patty to your VIOLET!

  Please let this song be your rainbow,

  I’ve got my Cialis so I shall not fail.

  Please don’t deny my advances,

  For tonight you’re going to take it in the pail.

  Please let my song be your rainbow,

  I made it for you, this shit cuts like a knife.

  Forever I’ll follow this rainbow,

  To that fifty-year-old sweet pot of gold,

  That seems to grow foxy instead of old,

  From which I hope to never be paroled,

  My angel in a centerfold,

  She plays more than Sousa upon my fife,

  My jaw-droppingly beautiful wife . . .

  15

  Finding Swanson

  The secret to getting cast? Don’t give a shit about the audition. The secret to that? Being happy at home, being happy in love. Being happy in the rest of your life. Auditions are so depressing. There’s a hallway full of dudes, and sometimes you see three dudes you know are fucking great, and it’s horrible to see them, because you think, “Oh, perfect, these three great guys. They would all be ideal for this part.” And then six other jerks, two of whom are your good friends. Or else, there are a couple of those guys who like to try to “psych you out.”

  I had this one guy—I wish I could remember his name so I could call him out in chapter 15 of my book. He’s been breathing
easy through the whole thing, thinking I didn’t remember him, but now, here in this late chapter, I’m calling you out, BRO. You know who you are, all macho and shadowboxing. Actually going outside the building and then staring me down through the window. We’re actors, man. We’re just actors. I’m not interested in fighting you or anyone. I didn’t become a boxer or a soldier or a paramedic or a badass in any other way; I became an artist, and I’m afraid the same is true of you (using a loose interpretation of the term).

  It’s so demoralizing—in this business that scores your abs so much higher than your enunciation—that the troglodytes can make it all the way through the filters to a callback for a fireman pilot. Half the time the people in the room for whom you’re reading are barely even TV people. Sometimes they come from music videos. Or funny Internet shorts. Or business school; that’s the worst. They might be great people, even really creative ones, no question, but their main interest is just not in telling stories.

  It’s easy to let yourself get down in the mouth when you’re going to these auditions, because half the time what you have to offer they can’t even see. They don’t have the right goggles. You’re applying all of your powers of storytelling to a scene, with humor or tragic pathos, but they’re viewing you through Coca-Cola glasses, musing over whether your role might do better demographically if you were more buff, or blond, or Kardashian. It’s important that you can set aside the idea that you wield an artistic agenda, as can the writer, hopefully, because the suits have an entirely different agenda, and that is to sell diapers. And pickup trucks and breakfast cereal. You’re working with an entirely different box of logic than they. Know that going in, and you’re ahead of the game. These are just a tiny sampling of the delights of the audition process, but never fear: Once you have the right someone to come home to, be it even a pet or a poster of Billy Jack, you can then think, “I don’t fucking care. I can’t make this corporation more artistic, so I’ll just have fun here and do my best.”