When I was about 12, some kids in my neighborhood beat me up a little.  I’d been taking the same route to and from school for three years–subway, bus, walking.  I’d gotten used to seeing the same faces every day, a comforting routine.  These kids were new faces.  And they beat me up a little. I remember seeing them on the other side of the street as we waited for the light to turn.  There were six of them, pushing each other, horsing around. I saw them see me. Their heads moved closer together, they pointed at me.  My heart started beating a little faster.  Despite the fact that my neighborhood wasn’t the greatest, I’d never had trouble before.  This looked like trouble.  I could have turned around or crossed the other way.  But then the kids would know I was scared and would either pursue or, maybe worse, make fun of me.  Besides, this was my neighborhood and I had just as much right to cross the street as they did. So when the light changed, I crossed, moving towards them with as elaborately casual a gait as I could muster. When we got within hailing distance of each other, I made eye contact with one of the kids and gave a little head nod.  “What’s u–” A fist slammed into my stomach and I lost my air.  Someone pushed me back.  An open palm smacked the side of my head.  A flurry of punches hit my back and chest.  The kids laughed, called me a little girl, jostled me back towards the sidewalk. Then, just as quickly, it was over.  A trickle of blood ran from my nose.  I had the urge to run after the guys and unload a six pack...

Well dear readers, it’s Sam the Sham again. Let’s not waste much time with me delving into an esoteric reason as to why I am disgruntled with stuff. Just know it involves summer camp, mononucleosis, Transformers 3, giant spiders, not going to Comic Con, and a can of black olives. There. Now that we got that out of the way… FIERCELY ANTICIPATING Within ten minutes of knowing me, you’ll find out that my birthday is (and has always been) on September 11th. I tell you this not for the pity party, but rather because it explains why I find humor in the absolute bleakest of moments, and it also comes with a good story. The short and sweet version is that a girl in college, on Sept. 11, 2002, asked me if my birthday had always been on 9/11. I said “Yes, since I was born,” which, remarkably, saddened her. When faced with tragedy, rather than weep and moan, I try and find a way to get those around me to laugh. Distract us from the obvious plight. I am the anti-Fox News. So what am I fiercely anticipating, you might ask? (I brought it back. Relax.) The rough road ahead! Some people turn to the bottle in time of trouble. I turn to comedians. With a new season of Louie, I am reminded about the struggle of the day to day minutiae, and how it can be soul-crushing… and yet hysterical from an outsider’s perspective. Patton Oswalt is coming out with a new album to take a few pop shots at the establishment. And a new season of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (which I have, thankfully, finally come around to watching) is going to remind us all that we are inherently good...