Two weeks ago, I left Omaha with a stomach full of pastrami, a head full of regret, and a hotel keycard that might’ve been cursed. My last column— Fear and Loathing at the Old Mill Inn— documented what can only be described as a low-budget horror film disguised as a baseball trip: hallway meth ghosts, midnight police encounters, vending machine cuisine, and that unmistakable motel scent of old sweat and lost dreams.

I vowed never to return. So naturally, I went back. But this time, it wasn’t for work. No coaching. No cameras. No traumatized vending machines. This time was for pleasure—a comedy show, a night off, and a shot at personal and geographical redemption.

And I brought backup: Sean Mara, my brother in burrito-fueled chaos. A man with the confidence of a pirate and the attention span of a loose firework. Normally I drive, but this time Sean took the wheel, and I sat shotgun—clutching my energy drink like a rosary and saying a quiet prayer that involved both God and Geico.

We left Central City around 4:30 p.m., chasing the comedy high of Shane Gillis, with James McCann and Big Jay Oakerson opening. We were ready for anything—except, apparently, Omaha traffic.

Somewhere around 132nd and Dodge, we hit it—bumper-tobumper purgatory, the kind of gridlock that erodes your will to live. Sean muttered things under his breath that made the upholstery wilt. I stared blankly ahead, replaying my life choices like a man realizing he forgot to lock the front door three counties ago.

Eventually, the city loosened its grip, and we pulled into the Hilton— a far cry from the Old Mill Inn. This wasn’t a motel with flickering lights and mysterious stains. This was valet parking, live lobby music, and mood lighting that didn’t make you question reality.

Of course, there was no parking, but Sean handled it while I navigated a packed lobby of wedding guests, business travelers, and people who looked like they owned cryptocurrency. A musician played acoustic covers of songs I didn’t recognize. The front desk lady smiled and charged me $50 for something I still haven’t identified. I nodded like I understood the rules of the game. I didn’t.

But this time, there were no tweakers. No hallway crimes. No whispering demons. Just two dudes and a city daring us to trust again. We made it to the CHI Center just in time. And I’ll say this: the show was worth every ounce of pre-show madness.

Shane Gillis walked on stage with the swagger of a man who knows how close he is to getting kicked off the internet again. James McCann was sharp, relentless. Big Jay Oakerson, the perfect blend of chaos and charm. The arena shook with laughter. It was church—if your church served beer and preached with profanity.

By the end, my abs hurt. My cheeks hurt. My soul had done cardio. We returned to the Hilton—fully wrecked in the best way—and navigated our way through a crowd of people pretending they hadn’t just spent $400 on two cocktails and a charcuterie board. We weren’t ready for sleep. We were ready for patty melts and High Life.

We placed the DoorDash order and headed down to the valet bench, where we sat with beers in hand like two retired rodeo clowns reflecting on the wreckage of youth.

That’s when we met him—a bro from Sioux Falls, sporting the vibe of someone who once got arrested at a Toby Keith concert but now sells insurance. We talked bourbon. We talked life. We talked like men who knew the weight of a good sandwich and the fragility of hope.

There I was—the Forrest Gump of the Hilton, drinking cheap beer in a fancy place, swapping stories with strangers while waiting for melted cheese and meat.

The food arrived. We returned to our room. Cable TV. Clean sheets. No felony energy. We ate in peace—greasy, glorious peace. I didn’t have to hijack TJ Williams’s YouTube account. I didn’t hear whispers through the wall. I didn’t fear for my life. I just watched actual cable, ate a hot sandwich, and relaxed. Saturday morning came without dread. We didn’t sprint to the car. We didn’t escape the city like fugitives. We just… left. Like regular people. Like survivors who no longer flinch at the sound of hallway voices.

And that’s when it hit me. Maybe it was never just Omaha. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was circumstance. Maybe it was the motel rug soaked with regret. Or maybe, just maybe, I needed Sean in the driver’s seat, a patty melt in my lap, and a cold beer in hand to see the city for what it really was—a chaotic, overpriced, mildly cursed gem with decent food and really good jokes.

So here it is: Omaha, I forgive you. To Shane, James, and Big Jay—thank you for the healing. To Sean—thanks for driving, brother. I owe you a cigar and three years of therapy.

To the Hilton—I’ll see you again. Probably during Big Jay’s run at the Funny Bone this December.

And to whoever charged me $50 at check-in… please, just let me believe it was for protection from spirits.

As always— thank you for reading. And if you ever find yourself on a bench outside a fancy hotel with a cold beer in your hand and a patty melt on the way… You’re probably doing just fine.