Emmy Award-Winner Julia Louis-Dreyfus got her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame today – and, deservedly so, I might add.  One small problem … they misspelled her name.  Whoops-A-Daisy!  In the organization’s 15 year history, they’ve never had a gaffe like this.  But it made me wonder who was ultimately responsible for the screw up.  Did heads roll?

Of course, Louis-Dreyfus found the whole thing hysterical and laughed it off.  Heck, she probably got more press out of the flub than she would have just by laying down in front of her correctly spelled star.

By the time the actual unveiling happened, workers had managed to chisel out the error and replace with a temporary “Louis-”.  All in a day’s work, I guess.  Louis-Dreyfus was even awarded the chipped out “Luis” portion as a memento.  What a good sport.

I had to laugh because something similar happened to me once … albeit not to that degree.  I had just landed in KC and was diligently working on my very first promo for my new station.  It was for an upcoming Halloween-themed event at World’s of Fun.  Entitled “Boo Blast!”, the extravaganza was a fun, festive (and oh-so not scary) event for kids.  Think theme park meets trick-or-treat.

Once I got the promo done, I was pleased with myself and immediately had it scheduled to air the next morning in children’s programming.  Imagine my surprise when I got a call from the fine folks at Worlds of Fun.  They were laughing so hard they could barely contain themselves. 

Seems I had made a slight spacing error.  Even though the announcer read the promo correctly, the viewer saw “Boob Last!”

I was certain I was going to be fired on the spot.  It wasn’t until my co-workers came in with Halloween candy as a “booby-prize” for Best Screw-Up that I realized I was off the hook. 

True story.

I have taught fitness for over twelve years now.   I could be having the worst day ever and by the time class is over, I’m renewed and refreshed thanks to my students.  Screw endorphins.  All I really need is their sweat and adoration.

The stories I could tell you about the various gyms I’ve worked at are not to be believed.  It’s like “As The Treadmill Turns”.

Since I’m typically the token male instructor at the gym, I’m regarded as a bit of novelty.  People come in to class and stare at me as if I was a unicorn.   A foul-mouthed unicorn at that.  When I’m teaching, I can’t seem to curb my potty mouth.  It doesn’t help I’m wearing a Janet Jackson-type headset either.  Any slip of the tongue and half the gym hears my obscenities.   I have yet to drop the “F-bomb”, mind you.  But everything else is fair game.  If the class gets whiny (which inevitably happens), I typically bark, “Push through the pain, bitches!”  If a female instructor said that to a room full of women, she’d be beaten to death with the various barbells strategically placed around the gym.   With me, they eat it up with a spoon.

I have nicknames for most of my students.  Terms of endearment.  Take the 60-something lady with eggplant-colored hair.  I called her “Grandma Funk”.  She became infamous – introducing herself to new students as Grandma Funk.  She’d rarely miss a class.  If she knew the song that was playing, she’d sing along loudly.  And she’d always add a superfluous booty-shake to nearly every exercise.

Another gal who shall remain nameless once poked her head in to the gym seconds before class started.  She announced, “Michael, can’t make it to class, hon. I’ve got a SCORCHING yeast infection.”  (I loved that she used the term SCORCHING.)  The class immediately turned in unison to gauge my reaction.  I nodded and said, “Thanks for the heads-up.  Maybe you could throw some raisins down there and make us scones?”

Through the years, I have always managed to keep my nose clean.  But I’m sure I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.   I wear my shorts far too short.  It’s a miracle there hasn’t been a wardrobe malfunction.  And Lord knows I play my Lady Gaga remixes too loud, but no one seems to complain.

Except for one.

Early in my fitness career, a heavy-set woman in a purple velour workout suit stomped up to me after class and spouted, “I don’t particularly care for your teaching style.”  I said, “I don’t particularly care for your crushed velvet purple jumpsuit.”  I forgot I was still wearing my microphone when I said it.  (Okay, not really.) She sneered and immediately went to complain to the front desk about my behavior.  The owner said, “I don’t care for his teaching style either, but his class is always packed so he must be doing something right.  By the way, that is not a good color on you.”

We didn’t see much of “Barney The Manatee” after that.