I'm in the semifinals in the Great Canadian Laugh Off!

After a super performance at Yuk Yuk's in Toronto, I was just chosen as a semifinalist in the Great Canadian Laugh Off!

The significance of this event cannot be overstated. This is really big for me. Another guy (who is amazing and very polished) and I are moving on from tonight's round to the semifinal night on Saturday.

This competition is made up of 64 comedians from all over the world. Tonight, eight comedians performed for eight minutes each. The field was strong--I was found all of the performances entertaining, and some of them were absolutely brilliant.

In the drawing before the show, I landed the coveted last spot. After seeing so many strong performances, I didn't think I had much of a shot. My attitude was that I would just try to entertain the packed house and enjoy my international debut.

The owner and founder of the entire Canadian Yuk Yuk's chain, Mark Breslin, was at the show, and he took the time to tell me he thought my set was great. Are you getting this? The owner of a chain of 12 comedy clubs all over Canada thinks I'm hilarious. This is huge for me.

Before the show, we were told that only one non-Canadian has been chosen for the semi-finals so far. The implication was that it's not too likely that a non-Canadian has a chance, so we should just have a good time. That did take off some of the pressure, but as often happens, my nerves made me pee every 20 minutes and my junk shrunk into my body, and I looked like I was 7-year old who just jumped into Lake Ontario.

In working on my set, I was stressing about whether I should go with a squeaky TV-clean set, or to do more risque material. Did I mention that this competition will air on Canada's Comedy Channel? So, I had concluded that I should curtail some of my more raunchy material. But then, in our pre-show orientation, the producer said we should just go for it. This is Canada--the audience is used to edgy material, and they'd be disappointed if they weren't seeing an adult show.

So, I quickly reworked my set list, and it obviously paid off. My closer, an act-out of my version of the first sex scene in Brokeback Mountain, was, shall we say, well received. In comedic vernacular, it fucking killed.

I get to do some sightseeing tomorrow--I'd like to head to Niagara Falls. Then, on Saturday, I'm doing an interview that they'll use for the Comedy Channel show. The Saturday show will have the same format as tonight's, with each comedian getting eight minutes.

Interestingly, the sponsor hotel just happens to be right in Toronto's large gay district. It's like magic. Actually, this encouraged me to go for broke on my gay-themed material because Toronto is clearly a very hip and progressive city. Queer as Folk was filmed here, you know.

Oh, I just remembered I have hardly eaten all day long. I was strongly encouraged after the show to go celebrate in a bar tonight. I think finding a late-night snack joint is probably more my speed.

I love Canada.

I met Conan!

This week, I got invited to meet Conan O'Brien. He was in town looking for new up-and-coming comedians to feature on the Tonight Show.

Well, not exactly. Well, not at all. He was in town to meet staff and advertisers at the local NBC affiliate. And I happen to work for one of those advertisers.

And that meant it would have been really desperate and pathetic of me to tell Conan that I'm an awesome comedian and I look forward to being on the Tonight Show. And despite the fact that I am indeed desperate and pathetic, I resisted the temptation.

Nevertheless, it was an interesting interaction. We were invited to pose for a photo with him. When it was my turn, I told him I brought my scissors to cut his string. If you aren't a huge Conan fan, you may not be familiar with a little thing Conan does at the beginning of his show involving an imaginary pair of strings attached to his hips. If you know the show, you know what I'm talking about.

So, I held up my hands as scissors by his hip and smiled for the photo. He said I should be careful not to get too close or it will look like I'm giving him a circumcision. I responded that as an Irish guy, I'd think that would have already been done. "Yes, a long, long time ago," said Conan, effectively describing to me what his penis looks like. In mixed company even.

My uncanny ability to draw out such a personal detail from a major celebrity is surely evidence that I should fall in line as the next Tonight Show host after Conan. Or at least the next host of the Late Show with Jimmy Fallon. (I mention this just in case NBC is scrambling for a replacement. Remember, NBC, Conan was an unknown too when he took that gig. In fact, Conan had never even played the Purple Onion or Rooster T. Feathers.)

After my photo, Conan came over to where I was standing and poured himself a cup of coffee (he takes Splenda, just like me!). He remarked that this was an awkward situation where all 30 people in the room are looking at him, but no one is talking to him. So, I told him that he wasn't nearly as freakishly tall as I expected him to be. The thing is, he said, a lot of Hollywood stars are really small, so he has to be careful not to make them look diminutive on his show. He had his desk lowered, and he's careful not to stand right next to the short ones. Sometimes, you'll notice he crouches down and extends his arm for a handshake to avoid towering over them.

He continued to chat and answer some questions from others in the room (Damn, I wish they'd all have just gone away, so I could have had a private audience with him), until he said we should all try to make it down to L.A. to see the show. I asked him if we should just go up to the gate and mention his name and they'll escort us backstage. In Conan fashion, he was quick on his toes and said, "Yes, just come on up, bring a firearm, whatever you like. They'll lead you right on in."

It may be an exaggeration, but when I saw the photo above, I was reminded of another meeting of two great Americans.

Hey, a guy has got to dream, right?

25 Really Random Things About Me

I keep reading all these 25 fascinating things about my friends on Facebook, so here's my shot. But I'm going to be true to the word "random." Random is random. Finding out a friend of mine has a tattoo of Dakota Fanning on his ass is not random. It's disturbing.

1. I'm almost out of toothpaste.
2. My left areola has a circumference of 2.8 inches.
3. I didn't measure my right areola because that wouldn't be random.
4. The second digit in my first phone number was "2."
5. My middle name is not Humphrey.
6. Monkey feathers.
7. I was once 4 feet, 6 inches tall.
8. I am not a part of the Rhythm Nation.
9. I have never wrestled a gazelle.
10. I often wear two socks.
11. I am in my early to late 30s.
12. My biological mother was female.
13. Astrology is bullshit.
14. Today I recalled how to calculate the circumference of a circle.
15. The password is "corky."
16. My cel phone is charging right now.
17. Last night, I had dinner.
18. I'm not sure.
19. 404 Object Not Found
20. Number 13 isn't all that random, but it had to be said.
21. I can't fight this feeling anymore.
22. Gurgle gurgle flub flub.
23. I'm shorter when I'm sitting down.
24. My favorite color is 7.
25. I am feeling an irresistible urge to measure my other areola.

One Heckle of a Show

I don't have any solid strategies for dealing with hecklers, and I really should develop some. Tonight, I learned that insulting a man's girlfriend is not a solid strategy.

I just witnessed one of the more interesting comedy shows I've ever been to. The event was actually a birthday roast of a young, local comedian, Sean Sinha. The party was held at a pizza parlor that hosts a weekly comedy show. I wasn't there to perform. In fact, I only went to the show because I had come from another comedy show at Rooster T. Feathers where one of the comics had apparently left behind his cheat sheet of jokes ragging on Sean. I stopped by the pizza parlor on my way home, thinking I might do a comic a favor by hand delivering his lost jokes.

I've only been to this venue once. I did perform, and did fine, despite the fact that the clientele and layout spelled disaster for me. While there is a decent sound system, the "stage" is right in front of the door to the bathroom, so performers can expect to have their set interrupted by customers needing to take a whiz. And with beers costing one dollar, there was a lot of whizzing going on. The lighting was the worst--all florescent overhead lights illuminating performers and would-be hecklers alike.

But worse than the set-up was the audience's attitude. Apparently, they are there to eat pizza, drink beer, and abuse comedians. Every comic was heckled by a group of 20-somethings eating pizza in a table in the back of the room. Among them was a couple of young straight guys, who looked like brothers and heckled relentlessly. All night, it appeared that this behavior was tolerated, if not encouraged. This venue is not for the fainthearted. I think this pair was too shocked to hear that I was actually gay to do any real damage back to me. After the show, one of them asked me if it was really true that I'm gay. He thought it was just my shtick.

When I got to the club tonight, I found out that the guy who left his joke sheet was not who I thought it was. He was still at Roosters, hosting the comedy show that I had just left. So I was trying to do a guy a favor and ended up stealing the guy's jokes. And I try very hard not to steal jokes. Since the roastee is a friend and today is his birthday, I decided to hang out for awhile.

The first comedian that went up was Chris Schiappacasse. Chris is a bold comedian, unfazed by any lack of appreciation from an audience. In fact, I don't think Chris thinks a whole lot about the audience, which is a characteristic I find intriguing for an entertainer. He didn't notice when a heckler wearing a camouflage ball cap threw a piece of penne pasta with creamy pesto sauce at him. This was definitely one of the same guys who heckled me when I performed there before. He's a scrawny little white guy with a serious Napoleon complex, sitting with his apparent girlfriend.

After Chris finished, the host commented that Camo Cap Guy is a pretty poor shot if he can't hit someone as large as Chris, who is a pretty big boy. This double-edged insult merely prompted Camo Cap Guy to fling another noodle at Chris, this time, successfully, as Chris was walking out the door for a smoke. Interesting venue, I thought, where audience members can literally throw food at the performers and suffer no consequences whatsoever. Even Iraqi journalists get tackled after the second shoe is flung.

Some of the roasters were actually pretty funny, and I was touched that they spent the time to write a bunch of jokes about Sean. Honestly, I thought it was sweet. I guess that's how young straight comedians show affection for one another--by writing jokes that cast aspersions on the other's ability to get sex, or worse yet, by implying that he's gay. I've become somewhat numbed to the prevelance of implicit anti-gay attitudes displayed on stage, even in our relatively progressive region.

Another comedian, who identified himself as 21 years old, didn't get far in roasting Sean before Camo Cap Guy and his girlfriend started in on their heckling. The girl mocked his stuttering over a joke, and asked if he's even old enough to vote. One of the comedian's first comebacks was to call Camo Cap Guy a faggot, and to ask if the girl he's with is his mother. Great. Now, who am I to sympathize with?

What happened next appeared to occur in slow motion. I'm not sure which insult threw Camo Cap Guy over the edge. He got up from his table in the back, and silently walked toward the stage. I could sense he was going to start a fight before he got to the front of the room. If I'd cared enough about the comedian, there would have been enough time for me to run up and stop the fight before it started. Instead, I dispassionately observed the spectacle with the ambivilance of a prison guard watching Jeffrey Dahmer get attacked.

Camo Cap Guy pounced on the comedian, but didn't seem to be trying to land any punches. A few people jumped up to pull the two apart. One young woman started screaming, "Stop or I'm calling 911 right now!" Camo Cap Guy responded "Go ahead and call!"

Fighting, I don't understand. Fighting without trying to land any punches really perplexes me. Why go after a guy and not try to hurt him? Pull some hair. Poke an eye out. Kick him in the balls. Maybe he realized at least one person was recording this show, and he knew from experience what prosecutors need to convict a guy for assault and battery.

At this point, I decided I had had enough comedy enjoyment for one evening and called it a night.

Happy birthday, Sean.

Are You There, God? It's Me, Rick Warren.

People are atwitter about how Rick Warren will end his prayer at Obama’s inauguration. Will he pray, “in Jesus’s name” like most evangelicals do? Or will he, in a show of inclusion, throw a bone to people of other faiths and pray in the name of “the Almighty”? I’m sure God is just up there in Heaven waiting with bated breath, wondering in whose name Warren will pray on Jan. 20. That’s what prayer is, right, a conversation with God?

Such discussions remind me of one of the many factors that led me to leave evangelical Christianity years ago--the blatant disingenuousness of the oral prayer. For several years, I listened to Christians in church, at camp, and at Bible study spout off in prayer. Some people were really good at it, throwing in lots of stock phrases that prove their mettle as devout believers. To be skillful at prayer is to show other Christians in attendance that you’re a good study, but in reality, it’s just a lot of aping of empty sentiments that merely expose one’s subconscious acknowledgment that God doesn’t actually hear our prayers.

Most of the time that people are praying out loud in a group, they’re not praying to God at all. They’re praying to each other, flaunting their religious tail feathers, only to impress or influence the human beings within earshot.

At the end of Bible study or Sunday school, we’d often sit in a circle, bowing our heads and everyone is subtly encouraged to pray. Someone was designated as the person that would “close.” What resulted, more often than not, was sanctimonious theater, where peer pressure forced everyone to pray something, anything, using those typical stock phrases other better Christians had been modeling for you. If you were in that circle and did not pray, an awkward silence would ensue until the “closer” would finally give up on you, and end the prayer “in Jesus’s name.” And then we all say “Amen.”

A typical prayer would be something like this: “Lord, thank you for the fellowship we’ve had this morning. We feel your spirit among us. Thank you, Lord. Thank you for your son, Lord. For giving his life, Lord. For dying on the cross for us, Lord. And for the wisdom we find in your Word, Lord. We pray that you’ll be with is today, Lord, as we go out into the world, Lord. Keep us grounded in the knowledge of your blessed love, Lord. Thank you.”

Yes, it sounded like nonsense. Because it usually was.

Sometimes, the person praying would veer far from a prayer intended for God’s “ears,” inadvertently referring to God in the third person, then quickly correcting themselves, by throwing in the word “Lord” a lot, to remind everyone that this is a prayer, not an extension of the sermon.

If prayer is what people do to communicate directly with God, then Rick Warren shouldn’t need a microphone, and the rest of us need not eavesdrop on the conversation. It really ought to be a moment of silence. Then, even atheists and agnostics can get in on the act--we can think good, hopeful thoughts that God won’t hear too.

I suppose Warren and all those who have delivered prayers at prior inaugurations spent some time preparing what they would say. If prayer is really talking to God, writing it out seems awfully formal. If God is really listening, Rick should just think his prayer. And why wait for Inauguration Day? Why do messages to God need to be embargoed? If Warren has something to say to God about America, Obama, hope for the future, and an end to poverty and disease, he should say it, er, think it, right now.

And now, a special message for God. Dear God, are you really reading my blog? Wow, that’s a trip. Thanks for stopping by. Lord, thank you for my Facebook fan page and my website, martygrimes.com. And God, I pray that you will guide me at my performance at Harvey’s in the Castro on Tuesday, January 20 at 9 p.m. In your name, I pray. Amen.

My Milk scene

I'm concerned that many of my friends are going to watch Milk and are distracted because they are watching for the scene I am in. I don't want you missing important scenes while you try to pick me out in the crowd scenes.

Don't call me self-absorbed. Already, two people have told me this. Now, I haven't seen the movie yet, but I can help you narrow down your search. I'm in the scene where Scott and Anne (James Franco and Alison Pill) walk into San Francisco City Hall to go to the memorial for Harvey there. As the camera pans around to show that only a few people showed up to the memorial, I'm standing in the back as an usher, next to a pillar.

My friend, Karen, was watching for me and knew exactly where to look, but still said she couldn't pick me out. Ah, the miracles of Hollywood makeup artists. It's probably because of those wicked cool sideburns they put on me. Or because I was just a blur in the background for a millisecond.

Anyway, I blogged about the whole experience back when it happened, if you want to read more.

Comedy is a funny thing

People are funny when they meet a comedian. If it's at a party, they immediately suggest that I should entertain all of the guests with my skit.

First, I don't do "skits." Not that there's anything wrong with skits. I did skits when I was a camp counselor, and my skits rocked. We'd have a weekly competition, so being the competitive guy that I can be, I wrote funny new skits every week for the boys in my cabin, and we always won, hands down. If only I could remember them now, maybe I would work them into my set. "Set," not "skit."

Second, I don't think it's cool to impose comedy on unsuspecting guests any more than it's cool to show up at a party with your karaoke machine and insist on belting out Neil Sadaka's entire songbook all night long.

Third, what am I? An 8-year-old who just learned to play Three Blind Mice on the recorder?

Fourth, no lighting? No stage? No mike? No show. My first attempt at comedy was nearly my last. I had signed up for my first comedy course, but the class hadn't even started yet. All I had was the workbook and a few notebook pages I had filled with what I thought were infallible comedy bits of gold. I was excited to try my stuff out, so when I found myself on a camping trip with 40 other gay men, I proposed to do some of my new bits around the campfire. So let's see. Bad lighting, no stage and no sound system. Without lighting, any facial expressions are lost. Without a stage, there's no separation between performer and audience that hints to the audience that it's time for them to pipe down and listen. Without a mike, well, the comedian's voice competes equally with every audience comment or utterance.

Needless to say, it did not go as well as it had in my head. Half the jokes were so obvious, someone had yelled out the punchline before I got to it. Worse yet, their version was often funnier than mine. I managed to shake that experience off and try it again in a more suitable environment having learned a good lesson.

Last night, I was having an early Thanksgiving potluck in the Pittsburg marina, with some friends that have boats. I don't generally introduce myself as a comedian, but Steve introduced me as such, and my new friend, whose name I've forgotten, had a comeback for my reasons why the Thanksgiving potluck was not going to be interrupted by my set, my skit or anything of the sort. Lighting? We've got huge spotlights on these boats. No problem. Stage? You can stand on the boat deck and we'll sit on the dock. Mike? Ha. No mike. Discussion is over.

Then, of course, they want me just to say something funny. Cue circus seal "arfs." Maybe I'll slip something in a conversation in context, but just jumping into my act just doesn't work at a party. It'd be as jarring as busting out in song, like a Broadway musical. Though, now that I think of it, that would not be entirely unexpected nor out of place for a gay party-goer to jump on a table and start a chorus of "Dancing Queen."

Cocktail party conversations can result in comedy material, and I often surreptitiously try out some new material on party guests, but don't expect me to announce that it's coming. And if I'm not saying anything funny to you, just remember, it's you, not me. Seriously, some people inspire me to be funny, and others inspire me to play Brickbreaker on my Blackberry, pretending to answer an urgent e-mail.

It's flattering that people are interested in hearing my comedy, but look, there's a time and place for everything. I'd rather they ask where they can see me perform, how they can join my new Facebook fan page, or how they an join my mailing list. And by the way, I am available for parties, just as long as there's lighting, some configuration that resembles a stage, a functioning microphone and and an audience that's expecting comedy, and not a clown, a stripper or a camp counselor.