Marty's Musings

Six Degrees of Wikipedia's featured article and Kevin Bacon

2010-03-05T00:13:00.001-08:00

Every day, Wikipedia has a feature article. And as I've discovered, every day, that article can be linked to Kevin Bacon, with no more than six degrees of separation.

March 3, 2010

Sholes and Glidden typewriter
Civil War
American history
Richard Nixon
Frost/Nixon (film)
Kevin Bacon

March 4, 2010

Kinzua Bridge
Pennsylvania
Philadelphia
Howard Stern
List of Celebrity Guests on the Howard Stern Show
Kevin Bacon

March 5, 2010

Suffock Punch
USSR
Cuba
John F. Kennedy
JFK (film)
Kevin Bacon

March 6, 2010

Battle of the Alamo
Disney
Paramount Pictures
Footloose
Kevin Bacon

The Unbearable Being of Lightness

2010-01-20T01:23:00.001-08:00

After an 18-day vacation in the Philippines, it’s no surprise that friends and coworkers would expect a white guy like me to come back with a tan. Sorry to disappoint. I may actually have spent less time in the sun than I do at home. Why? It’s hot outside in the Philippines, and I do my best to stay inside as much as possible unless sitting next to a pool under an umbrella. With my shirt on.

To generalize, the people of the Philippines are with me on this. It’s not like the Filipinos were urging me to get into the sun, but for very different reasons.

I’d love to get a tan. Back in high school, when I spent summers outdoors, I had a great looking tan. Those were the days when I’d start in the spring with a good, solid, full-body sunburn to establish my “base tan.” After that, I could stay outside for hours without getting burnt, and often did.

Now, I stay out of the sun because I think ahead. I'm an adult. I plan for my future. Avoiding age spots, deep facial creases and perhaps even more importantly, melanoma, means no tan is a healthy tan.

In the body conscious gay community, this has meant endless snide comments and scornful leers at summer pool parties and Atlantis cruises. But just you wait, bronzed hotties. Wait until we're all 60 and you look like Abe Vigoda. It'll be revenge of the palefaces.

I’ve been using a facial moisturizer with an SPF of 30+ for at least a decade. Though it’s hard to appreciate when I hang around so many Asians, I actually look quite a bit younger than I am. I was tickled to be told this week by a casting director that I was too young looking to play the parent of a high schooler. And I recently had an audition where I was to play a high school guidance counselor. Even I thought I looked too young for the role. And when the part called for me to call a student “son,” I knew I couldn’t pull it off.

The short-term cost is I’m too pale for American standards of male beauty, and certainly gay standards of beauty, but that may be changing too. That dude from Twilight, Robert Pattinson, seems to be giving pale white guys new life, but we’re not there yet. As a woman, Nicole Kidman is admired for her milky white complexion, but as a pale guy, I feel like I should be auditioning for a crystal meth PSA--if only I had fewer teeth.

I knew I might have been overdoing my sun aversion when my doctor ordered a Vitamin D test, and then sent me a coldly worded e-mail that with the results, saying I’d have to start taking a Vitamin D supplement once a day as long as I live. Here I thought I was doing something good for my health, and it turns out I’ve sentenced myself to a daily pill to keep my bones from turning into potato chips. Somehow, I sensed in her e-mail that she relished giving me this news. I imagined a cackling, witchy voice when she scrawled “as long as you live.”

Standards of beauty are entirely cultural, and they can be reversed. For reasons that surely date back to Magellan, many Filipinos are obsessed with looking lighter. I never saw any Filipino news media after the results of Sammy Sosa’s skin lightening treatments came to “light,” but I imagine that he was seen as a role model and Google searches for “Sammy Sosa whitening treatment” must have spiked in the Philippines.

You’d be hard pressed to find a tanning bed or a skin bronzer in Manila, but drug stores and cosmetic counters are teeming with products to lighten skin.

One line of whitening creams is marketed under the name “Placenta” and actually contains bovine placenta. I suppose the theory is that babies come out with such light skin because they’ve been mixing it up with placenta for nine months.

But why use a cream when you can enjoy lighter skin by drinking a healthy lemon drink? Sold in the Philippines is a powdered drink called “Slim n’ White” which contains glutathione which “surely whitens.” Not only does the drink promote “whiter, healthier skin,” it’ll give you youthfulness and stabilize your red blood cells. And I didn’t even know my red blood cells were suffering from instability.

My Filipino partner, Robert, lamentably, fell for the marketing ploy and bought one of the whitening skin creams. There’s no subtlety in the packaging. The front of the package features no fewer than eight words alluding to whiteness or lightness: 1) Whitening + Cream + Powder, 2) SkinWhite, 3) POWERWHITENING, 4) Light beige, 5) Whitens in as fast as 7 days, 6) Whitens continuously, 7) and my favorite, Reveals your Whitest White (a two-fer).

This particular product contains a sunscreen, even though there’s no mention of its sun blocking properties. I had heard on some TV news show that most of these skin whiteners are just sunscreens, so I guess there’s nothing stopping me from using this stuff. At 55 pesos (about $1.20), it’s a heck of a lot cheaper than the Olay Regenerist moisturizer I use daily. (Who is more guilty of falling for slick marketing claims?) I should have brought back a case of the stuff.

The World According to CBS Morning News

2009-11-25T23:32:00.000-08:00

Bravo to CBS Morning News for having Adam Lambert on after a queasy ABC cancelled his scheduled appearance on Good Morning America.

But just as Adam was pointing out that the media has a double standard when it comes to sexuality, CBS chose to blur out Adam's smooch with what was apparently another man, while showing Madonna and Britney's tongue action in all its glory.

Apparently, this is the world according to CBS Morning News:

But everyone loves a lesbian lip lock. Right Harry?

Levi Johnston Playgirl photos revealed

2009-11-21T13:59:00.000-08:00

Finally, Playgirl has released some Levi Johnston photos that show a little skin. Levi said it would be done tastefully and people would not be disappointed. Well, I don't know how you accomplish both of those goals. So far, I'm disappointed. I don't want "tasteful." I want Levi measuring his erect penis against a hockey stick. I want Levi straddling Todd Palin's snowmobile, hollering, "This is how I rode your daughter!" I want a shot of Levi squatting over a toilet, wiping himself with pages from "Going Rogue." Tasteful? I was hoping for a pictorial directed by John Waters. A Coppertone ad may be as racy as we can hope for.

Levi is my hero. Only he could tweak the sensibilities of the Palins so deftly. I love that he's dishing the Palin dirt little by little. Keep us wanting more. As he reveals that Sarah Palin calls Trig her "retarded baby" he maintains that there's a lot more where that came from. Fifteen minutes extended.

Our man Levi was in New York City last week with Jon Gosselin. The media reported that the elder Jon was giving Levi advice. About what? How to make America hate you? Levi's doing pretty well for himself. If nothing else, it's totally hot that a Alaskan guy who was wrapped up in a fancy suit and forced onstage at the Republican National Convention is now cool with gay men gawking at his nude body, and hangs with our girl, Kathy Griffin.

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

2009-04-30T20:03:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-03-14T17:34:00.001-07:00

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

2009-02-04T00:39:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-07T22:39:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-12-31T11:46:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-27T09:54:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-23T21:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Comedy Marathon at the Purple Onion

2008-09-06T19:47:00.000-07:00

Come see me Saturday night at midnight at the legendary Purple Onion in San Francisco.

CLICK HERE for reservations.

Sarah Palin -- for Enjoli perfume

2008-08-30T13:09:00.000-07:00

When I saw this photo of Sarah Palin, I was reminded of the Enjoli "I'm a woman" TV commercial from the 70's. Dedicated wife and mother, ambitious career woman, or MILF. You decide.

Kathy Lee's commentary on falling baseball boy

2008-08-29T17:43:00.001-07:00

I've been meaning to catch Kathy Lee Gifford on the Today Show. Today was finally the day. Obama gave a monumental acceptance speech, McCain's VP pick was pending, yet a story of a 10-year-old boy who fell 15 feet after trying to catch a fly ball at the Met's stadium. Watch Kathy Lee's insightful analysis.

Sex and the Orchard City

2008-05-30T23:10:00.000-07:00

My manfriend, Robert, and three of his buddies have been calling themselves by Sex and the City names for years. Robert is "Carrie." Then there's a Miranda, a Charlotte and a Samantha. I know. It's the gayest thing ever.

Since I have never watched even one entire episode of the show, I never could remember who was who. Apparently, I'm called Mr. Big when I'm not around, but until he dragged me to see the movie tonight, I had no idea of this was a good thing or a bad thing.

When I noticed today that no less than seven of my Facebook friends (two women, five gays) had announced on their updates their excitement to see Sex and the City tonight, I began to realize this was going to be a big deal. I considered not telling Robert that we should pre-purchase our tickets, secretly hoping we'd be unable to see it, so we could then settle for some activity a little more becoming of a man, like perhaps a tea party in matching pink sun dresses.

But I remembered that I dragged him to see Indiana Jones last week, so I did the right thing and pre-purchased the tickets. He had been a good sport, and neither of us was thrilled with Indiana Jones. It's more of a reunion special than a sequel. Too much time has passed. I was reminded of many a crappy Gilligan's Island TV movie. OK, it's no Harlem Globetrotters on Gilligan's Island with its cameo appearance by a nearly dead Jim Backus, but during the action sequences, all I could think was, "That's not Harrison Ford. And neither is that. No way. I don't believe it."

By contrast, the timing of Sex and the City, the movie, is perfect. They waited long enough for fans to miss them, but not so long that a Samantha sex scene would be as distasteful as watching a present-day hook-up between The Professor and Mary Ann. Or Indiana Jones and Marion Ravenswood.

Three of my female co-workers sneaked out early to catch an early show. Some theaters, reportedly, were going to be handing out Cosmopolitans. A long line of women, a few befuddled husbands, and a handful of gay guys snaked around the corner at our local Campbell movie theater as we arrived. The mood was electric, or maybe that was the sparks of estrogen flying in every direction.

A chubby bald guy walked by the theater, accompanied by his wife. He asked me what movie we were all waiting for. "The one she wants to drag you to, but you'll hear nothing of it," I responded. He grabbed his wife's arm and quickly scuttled away as if to say, "Thanks for the warning, bud."

Inside the theater, the excitement continued to build. Several groups of women were posing for group pictures. We sat two rows from the top, beside two chatty women pushing 60 years old. They appeared happy to see two men coming to the chick flick of the millennium, but seemed to think we may be lost. In my case, they were right.

Yes, I'm a gay man, but really, for me it begins and ends with my actual sexual orientation. Everything else that a typical gay man is supposed to do is completely learned, and somewhat forced, behavior for me. Many a metrosexual can out-gay this gay. Robert is the shopper, the label queen, the fastidious neatnik. He and the other boyfriends before him have taught me to moisturize, to hang up my clothes, to care how my hair looks. Being gay, I have adapted over time to the gay culture that surrounds me, developing an appreciation for musical theater, fruity cocktails and the custom of calling other grown men "girlfriend." But left to my own devices, I'd just be a simple guy from the country, leaving smelly sweat socks at the foot of the bed, chewing my fingernails and spitting them into an empty can of Bud.

I won't spoil the movie for anyone, but I have a suggestion for any guy who gets unwillingly dragged out to see it. Bring a Thermos full of tequila and take a shot every time the ladies scream with glee when Samantha arrives from California. You'll be sauced by the third reel.

Robert ate this stuff up. He laughed and cried at all the right places. He's a movie producer's wet dream. I think he cried at Deuce Bigalow. I couldn't quite let myself go like that. The problem guys have with "chick flicks" is that all the car chases are replaced with discussions of emotions and insecurities that we tend to believe are better left not felt, much less discussed. Commitment, cold feet, infidelity, trust, intimacy, ego, body image--this movie is a veritable potpourri of issues that lead most men to make a mad dash for the remote.

Upon arriving home, I felt a tremendous urge to kick my feet up on the couch, find a NASCAR race on the tube, slurp down a couple of beers and pee on the toilet seat. Meanwhile, Robert's organizing his shoe collection and looking for our sushi-making kit.

The White Party

2008-04-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

I'm a gay, native Californian who loves to travel, so it's beyond me why I'd never gone down to experience Palm Springs. Last weekend, the time finally came.

Even in April, the town is as sizzling as a 24 Hour Fitness sauna, and just as queer. From what I could see, Palm Springs is far gayer than San Francisco. The mayor is gay, as is much of the city council. Dozens of gay resorts dot the city, most of them clothing optional, which you hardly hear of in San Francisco, but that's surely a function of the cold fog and the associated shrinkage factor.

For the record, we stayed with our good friends Max and Jeff who recently bought a vacation condo there. A clothing optional facility would have been intriguing, but then we would have missed out on the hospitality of our wonderful hosts. We spent some time lounging at the pool among other gay men, a cute lesbian couple and their queer-friendly parents visiting from Sarasota, Florida (which caused me to be thankful for the clothing-strictly-encouraged policy).

But this was no ordinary weekend in Palm Springs. This was the biggest, fiercest weekend of the year. This was the annual explosion of reckless abandon, hedonism and body glitter. This was the weekend that convinces Larry Craig he can't possibly be gay (because he merely blows other men in bathroom stalls, not all that naughty stuff). If we were going to experience Palm Springs after all these years, we were going to do it right. We went to the infamous White Party.

The White Party is actually a constant series of parties that starts on Friday morning and goes on pretty much continuously until Sunday evening. On Friday night, an underwear party. Pool parties every day. T-dances every afternoon. One can get a VIP pass for $450 to get into all the parties. Yes, $450. But you get to go into the very special VIP lounge at the Saturday night party, so how can you argue with that?

It's the ultimate "circuit" party. Many guys save up all their money and throw their weekday suit, tie and caution to the wind, traveling all over the country, only to drag their strung-out asses back to the grind come Monday morning (if they're lucky, without a new sexually transmitted infection or meth addiction in tow). I've always been led to believe that just about everyone at these parties is high on something. You'd have to be to make it to every one of these parties. My partner, Robert, and I aren't into any of that, so we planned on going to just one of the big parties and spend the rest of the weekend exploring and hanging out with Max and Jeff.

We chose the biggest party, the Saturday night party, held at the Palm Springs Convention Center. The advertising claimed that the space would be transformed into a Studio 54 type club as the DJ's took us through the evolution of disco from the 70's to present day. All that for a mere $110 cash each.

When we entered the convention center ballroom, I'm afraid I had trouble feeling transformed. Yes, there were massive lighting contraptions, three huge disco balls and more lasers than a Beverly Hills skin clinic, but ultimately, it was still a convention center ballroom. The dance floor was that same parquet flooring that was probably last pieced together for the Rosenberg-Chan wedding two days earlier. It's hard to feel like you're in a magical time warp to 1978 Greenwich Village when you're standing right where a thousand actuaries just heard a plenary session on mortality tables and 417(e) (3) interest rates.

Yes, the ballroom is large, but the number and size of the speakers pointing into the dance floor area was at least equal to the number and size of the set-up we had at the Barry Manilow concert at HP Pavilion. (While that's a much larger venue, it too failed to transport me to the disco era despite a rousing rendition of "Copacabana.")

Hence, entering the dance floor area was torturous. Even Condoleezza Rice would have no trouble acknowledging that this was torture. Water boarding, she's not ready to judge, but the White Party? Yes. Permanent ear damage, long lines for the bathroom, $5 for a 12-ounce bottle of water. No doubt, torture. And the crowds of people packed together. Before long, I was smothered in sweat, none of it my own.

Robert and I took a break and made our way toward the bathrooms when we noticed a roped off area. We sauntered in, unaware that this was the aforementioned VIP zone. In this exclusive area was a few cushioned chairs and sofas, several pitchers of ice water with lemon wedges and stacks of plastic cups. We poured ourselves cups of water, not yet realizing that our $110 entrance fee was not enough to elevate us beyond second-class status. $110 is insufficient to get you complimentary water, silly. But it is enough to allow you to stand in a line of 30 people to wait for the privilege of buying a mixed drink for $10. Fortunately, we made it out of VIP-land undetected.

Later, we made our way to the front of the ballroom to wait for the live performances. One of our goals for the evening was to see scheduled performer, RuPaul. I had noticed there were a couple of other performers slated, but I had never heard of them. We waited for about an hour up front, as there was nothing to indicate when the show was to start. Every time a song ended, everyone around us focused on the stage. People held up their cameras and snapped photos of what ended up being a stage hand. Then they did the same thing five minutes later. And again five minutes after that.

Finally, the show began and a highly decorated black guy came out with a slew of back-up dancers. He lip-synced two songs. OK, that was nice. Later, I found out that Robert, Jeff and Max thought that was RuPaul. It turns out it was something called Flava.

Next was a large-breasted woman in a tight white outfit and lots of fur and feathers who moved very little while the back-up dancers gyrated in a fairly impressive choreography. She sort of looked like Aretha, but she was certainly not Aretha. There had been a rumor that Janet Jackson was going to be a surprise performer, but I didn't buy that either.

At least this singer was actually singing. I'm sure she must be well known in the "circuit" for some dance hit or another. I don't think she penned this, but she threw out the worn-out line, "Put your hands up in the air, and wave them around like you just don't care." This was perfect. At $110 (and no Manilow or Jacksons in sight), this evening did feel a little like armed robbery, and now they have us putting our hands up in the air.

At about 2:30 a.m., we realized all four of us had had enough, even without RuPaul. Now, don't get me wrong. I had a fun time. I can think of many things I could spend $110 on that would have produced a funner time, but it's a once in a lifetime thing. Now we know.

The odd thing is I never sensed any of the debauchery I had expected. The atmosphere didn't feel particularly sexually charged. They didn't even have any go-go dancers in thongs or porn showing on video screens like many a gay night club. I have no idea who or what proportion of the crowd was high. I never saw any of that.

But that's typical for me. I tend to miss out on things. It could have been right there in front of my face, and I didn't see it. Ultimately, I'm a square. I'm too pure for even Pat Robertson to blame me for causing a hurricane.

If I had been in Sodom, I would have been over in some corner playing Scrabble the whole time. God would be coming down to smite us, and I would have no idea why. "I'm not cheating. QAT is a legitimate word!"

The next day we had the obligatory gay Sunday brunch and lounged around until our flight brought us back to reality. I'd certainly like to go back to Palm Springs, but maybe instead of White Party Weekend, I'll go when there's something more my style going on. Like a bowling tournament. Perhaps a clothing-optional bowling tournament.

An Audition

2008-04-10T22:13:00.000-07:00

I went to an audition in San Francisco last week. It's for a movie trailer that is being made for the Frameline gay film festival. They'll show this clip before all of the movies. They're doing a take-off on Jeopardy, and what with all my game show experience, in a Merv Griffin game show, no less, I figured I was perfect for the role (that, and the fact that I'm a 'mo). The trailer will be seen by all the fancy gays in town, so I thought it might be good exposure. But here's the rub. I don't know how to audition. And worse, I don't really know how to act. I know," I told myself, "I'll just act like I'm an actor."

The first problem was that the announcement said they were looking for people with improv skills. I figured that since I love "The Office" and have watched a lot of "Whose line is it anyway?" I could fake it. But then I checked out a website about improv skills, and I realized I was running the risk of making a real ass out of myself. The whole audition could have been someone barking out random improv games that would mean nothing to me. "Ready? OK, Bippety Bop. Go!"

The fact that I recently enrolled in a beginning improv class at ComedySportz in San Jose was not going to help me--especially since the first class wasn't until this Monday.

I went into the audition in an industrial area of San Francisco, and they handed me a script. I went in with two other people who would be the other two would-be contestants.

One of the producers was reading for Alex Trebek. But first, the casting lady asked us to all give her a profile. And she started with me. And I had no idea what she meant by "profile." As I was ready to launch into an extemporaneous autobiographical profile (I was born in Walnut Creek, the third son...), she saw my hesitation and said, "Just turn to your right for the camera. Good. And now to your left. Good."

One of the auditioning guys then said, "I guess this might be a good time to tell you I was actually on Wheel of Fortune and won a trip to Aruba and a bunch of cash." The producers all reacted with interest. So naturally, I interjected, "And I was on Merv Griffin's Crosswords." "What did YOU win?" "This tacky watch" which I had decided to wear for this occasion, just in case this topic came up. So, that guy could have been blowing smoke, but I had evidence that I lost spectacularly on a Merv Griffin game show.

And then we start with the script. I nailed my first line. "Rubber for $200, Alex." But then, my next line was on the second page, and I missed it. Awkward pause. I apologized and said my line. After the scene, I explained that, "you see, Alex always says the person's name after they buzz in. You might want to add that." So, now I'm not only clueless, I'm an asshole.

Then they go into the improv part of the audition, which lucky for me, wasn't anything that required any specific improv knowledge. "Alex" just asked us each a get-to-know you question, and we were supposed to come up with something witty on the spot. My intro question was something like this, "I understand you and your partner are into natural foods and when you met it was something like a Reeses peanut butter connection, but you were carrying a jar of organic, hypoallergenic, macademia nut butter , and he was carrying a carob bar grown on a sustainable, free-trade cooperative farm." What my answer was: "That's right, Alex. On our first date, we went to the natural foods store and had a organic food orgy. It was fantastic!" What my answer would have been if I were little faster on my feet: "That's right, Alex. And then it was back to my place where we had an all-night session of multiple organics."

Unless they're still deliberating, I didn't get the part.

Rooster T. Feathers competition results

2008-04-10T07:22:00.000-07:00

Here's the latest--I am advancing to the semi-final round of the Rooster T. Feathers Comedy Competition. Thank you to everyone who came to the show last night. I hope you had a good time. And I hope you tipped your server.

I will be back on Wednesday, May 7. If you would like to go that night, call early for your reservations at 408-736-0921. I'll try to work in some new material for that night so you won't be tempted to shout out the punchlines you've heard a dozen times.

I got Milk

2008-03-09T22:13:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night, I got a call from a casting company inviting me to be an extra on the set of Milk, the Harvey Milk Story, starring Sean Penn. I jumped at the chance to be a part of what will be an enormously important movie for the gay community.

I was told I'd be in the role of an usher, but the casting person had no further information. He verified my clothing size, made me promise to not complain if I'm around people who are smoking, and told me to bring my passport to verify my ID.

I fretted that I had just had my hair cut on Saturday. Maybe I'd get all the way up to San Francisco, and they'd turn me away because my hair was too short. I'd been reading casting notices about the movie over the last few weeks, but they've always required a weekday commitment, so I had given up on getting to be an extra. In those notices, they encouraged men to keep growing their hair and sideburns. I certainly had not been heeding that call.

My call time was 2 p.m. when I was to report to the extras holding area at San Francisco City Hall. I timed my BART ride to give me plenty of time to find the place, so when I approached City Hall, I had a moment to observe the scene outside. Clearly, they were already filming a rally scene. A crowd of several hundred people were gathered on the steps of City Hall. I could see some shirtless men in jeans and a few guys in leather. Then, I saw Sean Penn at the podium, shouting to the crowd. Periodically, they'd erupt in wild cheers.

The street was lined with 70's vintage cars. Since I was quite alive during the late 70's, I was surprised how dated cars from that era looked.

Then it was time for me to check in. The extras holding area was in a large room in City Hall, just off the rotunda. Though the room was nearly empty, rows and rows of tables were filled with backpacks, books, magazines, newspapers, and Scrabble games. Later, the owners of all of these time killers came in from the rally scene I had witnessed earlier. Suddenly, it really felt like the 70's--lots of mustaches, side burns, long hair, Farrah hair, short shorts, tight t-shirts and tank tops, knee socks, Converse sneakers, tie dye, drag queens, and black leather chaps. I would have felt like I'd entered a time warp except that all the cell phones, Blackberries, iPods and Gameboys didn't quite seal the deal.

So far, no one seemed to grimace at my short hair, so I was not too anxious about being sent to the hair and makeup area. When they saw me, they debated for a bit, and decided to slap some fake sideburns on me. I was playing an usher, after all, so the short hair wasn't going to be a problem, apparently.

While they were gluing my sideburns on, I noticed a poster board of old photos to guide the hairstylists. A bunch of quintessential 70's celebs were there--Farrah, David Cassidy, Leif Garrett. Suddenly, I realized that I could end up looking like my dad did in 1978. And then I realized that I'm actually older than my dad was in 1978. Eek! I can't get my head around my dad ever being younger than I am right now.

Then, it was off to wardrobe, which was a trailer parked outside in the back of City Hall. I was fitted with a polyester brown suit, yellow shirt and brown tie. It was then that I finally heard about the scene I was going to be in. It's apparently one of the last scenes in the movie. Hmm. I'm right now wondering if I signed anything that says I'm not supposed to talk about the movie. Well, I don't remember signing anything like that, so what the hell. I think everyone knows how the movie ends, right?

So, this is a scene of Harvey Milk's memorial service in the rotunda of City Hall. It's sparcely attended--only a few politicos have shown up. Harvey's ex-lover, Scott Smith, played by James Franco, and Anne Kronenberg, played by Alison Pill, show up and are disgusted that so few people have shown up for the service. I'll be one of two ushers at the service.

As I expected, the next couple of hours were spent waiting around. As they were preparing to serve dinner, I saw Tom Ammiano, who is quite a legend of gay history himself. I couldn't recall what his role was back in those days, but it wasn't surprising to see him on the set. I thought about going up to him and telling him that make-up has done a terrific job, you look just like Tom Ammiano. Now that I'm at home, I see that Tom is playing himself in the movie. That explains why we was all over the set like he owned the place. I thought he was up at his office working and just decided to check things out.

But playing yourself 30 years ago? That's quite a stretch, and I'm not implying he's had a face lift.

During dinner, Sean Penn came in. I had figured he had someone bring him his food, but for some reason, he was at the buffet table. That's all I saw of him. He obviously wasn't going to be in my scene. For the record, he's short.

Shortly after dinner, the politicos, the other usher and I were called to the set. The crew doesn't do a very good job introducing themselves, so I had to just guess who was who. Initially, someone who acted like a director told all the politicos where to sit at the memorial service and placed me and the other usher in the back behind all of the chairs. When he was done placing everyone, he said it was good, but he knows it'll all get changed anyway. Later, another guy came in who really acted like a director and changed up all of the politicos in the audience again and took two of them out completely. He ended up directing the scene, but he definitely wasn't Gus Van Sant.

Before the scene was shot, we waited around--we think it was to wait for the sun to go down since it's supposed to be an evening scene. As we waited, Tom Ammiano again walked through the set, clearly enjoying this whole experience.

The actual scene, if it makes it in the movie, is probably only about 20 seconds long. They filmed three takes. I don't know if I'll actually be seen. If I am, it'll certainly be a split-second shot. But no matter. I'm just glad I got to be a part of this experience.

As I left, they were again filming outside. The scene is what Scott and Anne encounter after they leave the "lame" memorial service. Outside of City Hall, they see that dozens of lesbians, gay men and hippie types are arriving at City Hall and placing candles at the steps. This is the scene they were filming tonight. The rest of the scene was filmed a few weeks ago, when Scott and Anne see that not just a few dozen people had brought candles, but thousands were lighting up Market Street with a spontaneous march towards City Hall. That image already gives me goosebumps.

Merv Griffin is dead to me

2008-01-24T22:52:00.000-08:00

My episode of Merv Griffin's Crosswords aired today, so now, I am no longer contractually obligated to keep the results a secret.

SPOILER ALERT!
I was the biggest loser. All I got out of this show was the promise of a cheap looking Croton watch with the Merv Griffin's Crosswords logo on it. Oh, wait. It's a custom Croton watch that I'll never wear. I don't wear watches. I wear a cell phone. It hasn't even arrived yet, ten weeks later. Yet, after I and the three other contestants lost to "Steve," we all immediately started focusing on the watch. When do we get our watch? How much are they selling for on eBay?

But I was excited to be on TV. You know, my 22 minutes of Hollywood fame. I checked and double checked my TiVo to make sure it was all set to record while I was at work. I told everyone what day and time it was airing. I fiendishly kept my friends in the dark about the outcome. To my glee, TiVo did not fail me. But as I watched the show, imagine the horror when I saw that I'd been covered up by a news crawl. I've been upstaged by a dang weather report. I don't mean to be vain, but a news crawl on my face is just not my best look. And look closely. I'm the only contestant who got covered up. It's a conspiracy, I tell you! And it's not even a major storm. Come on, Bay Area. So it's going to rain tomorrow. Big deal. Is that really worth putting a weather crawl right over my face? Aren't news crawls supposed to be at the bottom of the screen?

I didn't win squat, but I also didn't make a total idiot of myself. From the clues I flubbed, it's now forever established that I don't know anything about golf clubs, military formations (wedge) or French pirates (Jean Lefitte). But dammit, I was the only one on the stage that knew of the Hanna Barbera cartoon character, the Grape Ape. I can live with that.

If you were watching at home, you should notice that I did buzz in quickly all through the third round, but the guy who won didn't give us any chance. Steve was on fire. I even started buzzing in when I had no clue what the answer was, just so it would look like I knew. Why am I admitting that?

I knew Steve was going to win. Moments before we went on the set, someone asked him if he'd been on any game shows before. He'd been coy all day, but now admitted he'd been on Jeopardy, Win Ben Stein's Money and some other show I can't remember. Getting on Jeopardy is hardcore. I knew I was a goner.

That's why I bet all my money, $1,750, when I did get to the front row and got one of the Crossword Extras. That's a clue where only I got to answer and I had to choose my bet. I figured I wouldn't be up there for long, so I might as well try to double the pot so someone would get more winnings. But I lost it all on Jean Lefitte. Who knows that? People who read?

And I didn't appreciate how host Ty Treadway then explained how Lefitte was a pirate who fought in the Battle of New Orleans like he really knew that. When Trebek smugly explains an answer, I believe he actually knew it. Treadway? I'm not buying it, pretty boy.

And another thing, what kind of cheap game show only gives an average of about $6000 to the one winner in every show? Everyone else gets the watch. Oh, and the winner might get a trip, but only to destinations like Cancún and Palm Springs. And they never say "you and your guest will travel to..." I have a hunch it's really a trip for only one person.

But I'm not bitter. It was a fun experience. The lunch buffet was good. I got to be on TV. Well, at least my torso got to be on TV. And might I say, my torso looked fantastic. Maybe my torso will get an agent.

Oil change

2008-01-18T17:32:00.000-08:00

I had the day off today, and to make myself feel like I actually accomplished something of value, other than catching up on my Tivo'd Sarah Silverman shows (and let's be honest, porn), I went out and got my oil changed. Don't ask me how many miles it's been since my last oil change. Don't ask me, because I don't know. I pulled that dang sticker off my windshield a few months ago, because I was already embarrassed some passenger would see it.

And I certainly wasn't going to keep that sticker on my car when I actually got my oil changed. I don't need any disapproving look from some 22-year-old Jiffy Lube "mechanic." They are mechanics like dental hygienists are dentists. Like chiropractors are real doctors. Like Dane Cook is a comedian. Like Omorosa is a celebrity. Celebrity Apprentice, my foot.

So I drove into the neighborhood Jiffy Lube and Henry--at least that's the name embroidered on his shirt--asked me if I'm here for the Jiffy Lube Signature Service. Now, it's been a long time, so I don't know what that means. That sounded like a whole bunch of expensive extras like no oil dripped on the engine or no oily footprints left on my floor mats.

"No, Henry, you're not going to trick me. I'm just here for the basic oil change."

"That's what the Signature Service is, sir." I hate when they "sir" me.

"Can you pop your hood real quick?"

Apparently, no, I can't. Maybe it was the "real quick" that put the pressure on. Or the fact that the last time I popped my own hood, Brad and Jennifer were still married, but I couldn't find the hood release latch. I fumbled for a good 15 seconds until Henry, with his fancy G.E.D., came to the rescue.

To get out of it, I was going to tell him this wasn't my car. It's my stupid wife's car. And to kill two birds with one stone, I could have told him that's why there's only one pint of oil left in there.

But I didn't. I decided it's better not to weave a tangled web just to gain Henry's respect. Hell, there's no way to gain Henry's respect, even on my best day. I'm sure the Henry's of the world are disdainful of any able-bodied man who even shows up to their shop, unwilling or unable to change his own oil.

I could change my oil. I have done it before, but not in this car. I assume it has a oil filter just like the Chevy Chevette I learned to drive on, but I couldn't tell you where it is. I used to have an oil filter wrench and a bucket, but it's long gone or at the bottom of some box in the garage.

The truth is even the emasculation is well worth the $39 I forked out today.

As I paid, Henry explained that they've put a little sticker on my windshield to remind me when it's time for my next oil change. Good, I needed something to wrap my gum in.

By the way, TiVo Merv Griffin's Crosswords on Thursday, Jan. 24. I'm a contestant. See if I win, and let me know.

Sand Dollars "R" Us

2007-12-06T22:51:00.000-08:00

I went to Oakridge Mall today and was taken aback by the number of kiosks that have rolled in of late. These mall kiosks seem to be the bottom of the retail barrel, one step above garage sale. To own a mall kiosk is to say, "I have stuff to sell, buy my stuff isn't worthy enough for walls and a door."

There is one type of mall kiosk that I actually seek out: the $10 sunglasses kiosk, supposedly modeled after hip brands like Dolce & Gabanna and Calvin Klein. Ten bucks is about right, because if I don't lose them, I break them. After the first expensive pair of sunglasses I ever purchased demonstrated that they cannot survive a spin cycle, I began buying these kiosk sunglasses by the half-dozen.

And I once got suckered into buying a $12 nail care kit that has this little buffer that makes your fingernails all shiny and smooth. Only later did I realize that you can get the same kind of buffer for $1.99 at Walgreens, and also that I can probably live just fine without shiny and smooth fingernails.

But today, I saw the most ardent display of the entrepreneurial spirit, a kiosk that sells nothing but sand dollar merchandise. Most of the display area was dedicated to the 2008 sand dollar calendar. January is sand dollars. February, more sand dollars, and so on.

Oh sure, they're cute and cuddly, but this is quite a niche market they're going after here. There may be plenty of sand dollar enthusiasts out there, but how many are likely to happen upon this little kiosk at the Oakridge Mall on an average day? Or do Christmas shoppers come into a mall thinking, "What for Grandma? What for Grandma? Well, you know how much she loves echinoids. If only we could find...over there! Eureka!"

I wonder how the owner came up with this idea. She must have thought people are just sick and tired of puppies and covered bridges and the hunks of the NYC firefighters and Ansel Adams and babies swaddled in pea pods. What people are clamoring for is pictures of sand dollars.

Perhaps the owner has a quirky aunt that's been collecting sand dollars for years and has been bitching that you just can't find a good quality sand dollar calendar these days. "Forget plastics--the future is sand dollars."

Or maybe there's a whole sand dollar community out there that I'm not aware of. Maybe it's a closet obsession shared by millions. If that's the case, then the sand dollar community really needs to elect a PR chair, because you're flying under the radar, sand dollar people.

But I have to be fair. They did have other merchandise at the booth: sand dollar post cards, sand dollar pencils, sand dollar book marks (because who doesn't need a bookmark this Christmas?) and actual sand dollars. Smart strategy--cross-selling will make them big money. Surely, the guy who buys the calendar will hardly be able to resist a few sand dollar post cards.

So, if I happen to be on your Christmas list, you can skip the sand dollar kiosk, because while I am not in the market for photos of babies stuffed into flower pots, I haven't yet tired of the NYC firefighters. And by the way, I'm running low on sunglasses.

My Own Private Matt Damon Fantasy

2007-11-19T18:46:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday, Robert and I drove up to the Castro to go to the open auditions for the Harvey Milk movie. The producers are casting some local people in a few small speaking roles. I thought it'd be fun to give it a shot.

At long last, the movie about the murdered gay rights hero is going into production. Gus Van Sant is directing. Years ago, Robin Williams was supposed to play the lead role. I guess he's grown too old to play Harvey. Now, they've cast Sean Penn.

I can't really picture Sean Penn as Harvey Milk, but he's a good actor, so I guess he'll pull it off. I thought he might be too young for the role, but he's 47, just one year shy of how old Milk was when he was killed. I just hope he doesn't play the role as Sam of I am Sam. Or worse yet, as Jeff Spicoli.

"More people have been slaughtered in the name of religion than for any other single reason. That, my friends, is totally bogus!"

Also rumored to be cast in the film was Sexiest Man Alive, Matt Damon. So, I had fantasies that I'd be cast as Matt's love interest and we'd get to film a steamy sex scene. But alas, he was all set to play the murderous Dan White, so all hopes of steam sex scenes were quickly extinguished. And now I just read that Damon pulled out, er, prematurely, because of a scheduling conflict. He swore that that had never happened to him before.

Damon doesn't look anything like White either, though I think I see a little cleft chin on both of them.

They never did tell us anything about what roles they were casting, so we can't feel bad that we didn't make it to the callbacks. Maybe they were looking for massive bears or brutal looking leather men. Or gym bunnies. Or nelly queens. Or someone with a cleft chin.

They may call us back to be extras. It'd be great to be a part of the production in some way. You take the opportunity to be a part of something important and historic, right? Like if I'd been offered a chance to play a sheep in Brokeback Mountain, I'd have done it, even if wasn't a bleating part.

San Jose Improv on THURSDAY, Oct. 4

2007-09-28T22:06:00.000-07:00

I just was invited today to perform in a pro comedy showcase at the San Jose Improv on Thursday, Oct. 4 at 8 p.m. So, that means I won't be performing at the Open Mic on Tuesday (as previously reported here).

My goal is to bring 30 people. You'll never see a pro comedy showcase at the Improv for any cheaper.

I'm currently in our nation's capital for a conference. On the way here, I realized that comedy has allowed me to appreciate people more--especially stupid people. Previously, if was at the airport, I would find a seat as far away from the other passengers as possible. I especially loathed the thought of having to interact with idiots. No more. The stupid among us are nuggets of comedy gold.

We were going through security when a woman was grumbling loudly about the Filipina TSA agent who checked her ID. "She wasn't even born here!" Everyone around gave her the stink eye. She comes back with , "What?! I heard there were a lot of Muslims in the Philippines." Oh, no she didn't.

Please, Allah, let her be assigned to sit next to me on the plane. I made my partner, Robert--who happens to be Filipino--to promise me that if we did get to sit near her, he would hit the call button and ask the flight attendant, in a thick Filipino accent, "Excuse me. It is nearing prayer time. Can you tell me which way it is toward Mecca?"

Allah didn't hear our prayers. I guess we weren't facing the right direction.

Jim David this week at Rooster T. Feathers...and me!

2007-09-14T08:09:00.000-07:00

I've been invited to perform a guest set at Rooster T. Feathers with headliner Jim David. You've seen him on Comedy Central and Logo. I saw him on my Atlantis cruise last summer. He's got shows all weekend long if you can't go on Sunday.

It's THIS Sunday, September 16 at 8 p.m. Go to roostertfeathers.com for directions, tickets, reservations, show times.

Why I'm Not Afraid of the Chinese or Their Lead-Tainted Barbies

2007-08-25T11:57:00.000-07:00

Comedy show this Saturday night!

2007-08-09T22:41:00.000-07:00

I'll be performing at The Clubhouse in San Francisco this Saturday night at 9 p.m. with a really great line-up.

Headliner Justin McClure! Last Comic Standing, regular at the Improv in San Jose
Debbie Campo, America 's Funniest Mom Finalist
Marty Grimes, 2nd place Winner of Rooster T. Feathers Contest
Joe Nguyen, Host of Scantily Clad Comedy
Karen Smyth, Women Who Kick Comedy Butt Tour
Kurtis Matthews, Comedy Addiction Tour (and my comedy teacher!)

I'd love to see you there (unless you're my mother, in which case, I'd be horrified to see you there).

Buy tickets now!
$10, no drink minimum. In fact, it's BYOB!

Why I Love the Philippines

2007-08-02T19:54:00.000-07:00

.
Another Thrilla in Manila? Close--it's a Thrilla in Cebu. Only in the Philippines will you see 1500 prisoners dancing in unison to Michael Jackson's Thriller.

I've got a trip planned to the Philippines in October, and I'm tempted to take a side trip to the Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center to see the show. With four million views on YouTube, and counting, I'm sure the prisoners' shows would become an instant tourist sensation. Watch your back, Jersey Boys.

I'm not sure if they have any public viewings, but I'm willing to commit a misdemeanor or two just to get in on the action.

Sure, the lead playing Michael Jackson looks as hideous as Jackson's zombie character in the original video, without the aid of any makeup. But he's far better looking than the real Michael Jackson of today.

1500 prisoners dancing to "Radio Ga Ga" might lead one to conclude that the environment can indeed influence one's sexual orientation. But no, they're not all gay. They just lack all the hangups American men have about masculinity. Remember, we're talking about a country where karaoke machines far outnumber Xboxes and the Miss Universe Pageant is must-see TV.

While gay men and transgenders are relegated to separate cell blocks in American prisons "for their own protection," the Filipino dancer playing Michael Jackson's girl is portrayed by someone who appears to be transgender. Pretty progressive. But then again, we've got John Travolta in drag in Hairspray.

But you'll never see Travolta at San Quintin in a nun's habit singing "I Will Follow Him" from Sister Act. Or the Kinsey Sicks version, "I Will Swallow Him." No, you won't see that.

American prison wardens may be tempted to learn a few lessons from the CPDRC. They might learn something about the concept of rehabilitation, but it's going to be a few decades before they're staging Mamma Mia at Pelican Bay.

A Marty Party

2007-07-23T01:04:00.000-07:00

I’m thinking I should finally grow up and start calling myself Martin and insisting that others do the same. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that “Marty” is a slacker name, and if I ever want to make something of myself, “Marty” has got to go.

“Marty” is too casual. You can’t take a Marty seriously. There’s no dignity in “Marty.”

In the movies, the only interesting Marty I can think of is Marty McFly. Typically, “Marty” is a name you choose for the loser, lackey guy. “Hey Marty, go get me a ham sandwich.” It has the same ring as a “Joey” or a “Mookie.” If they ever want to go anywhere in life, they grow up and become Joseph, and I don’t know, Mookeph, I guess.

I just looked it up. Four Nobel Prize winners have been named “Martin.” Zero Martys. But I’ll bet if I could get my hand on the official Howard Stern Fan Club mailing list, I’d find dozens of Martys. (And a few zealous diehards named “Bukkake.”)

Among the Nobel Prize winners is, of course, Martin Luther King Jr. He was always Martin, never Marty. I believe that had he been a Marty, he never would have had a dream of consequence. It would have been, “I have a dream…that one day, I will learn to play the ukulele.” I just don’t think a Marty Luther King Jr. would have been thinking that big.

People named Marty can be a needy, dismal lot. I hate to call them out, but I’ve now received three MySpace “friend requests” from guys named Marty. Apparently, there’s a sad little Marty club. And they’re actually planning a sad little get together in San Antonio in 2008, a Marty Day. The organizer envisions a few hundred Martys walking from bar to bar with “Hello, my name is Marty” nametags. What a hoot, huh?

I, on the other hand, envision a few dozen bartenders along the Riverwalk coming to the conclusion that Martys are total losers.

I don’t want to be discouraging, but geez, why would I fly all the way to Texas to spend a weekend with people who have nothing in common except perhaps that we all endured that horrible rhyme as a child? “Marty Farty had a party. All the farts were there. Tutti-Frutti let a beauty, and they all went out for air.”

Maybe that’s why we’re so wretched. We were traumatized by that infernal song, and we’re still clawing for a kernel of self-worth.

Hey Marty, you let me know when Scorcese signs up, and then I’ll book my flight. Oh, wait! There is something I have in common with Scorcese and Sheen: all three of us think you Marty club guys are bunch of douchbags.

To dissociate myself, I may start going by Martin, but I’ll still let my inner circle call me Marty, like Scorcese and Sheen do. And that’s still an “if.” I’ve got to think some more about this. If I’m going to continue my comedy pursuits, I’m not sure I want to be “taken seriously” anyway.

Etna High School Reunion

2007-07-06T15:22:00.001-07:00

Here I am at my high school reunion last week.I really did have a great time, but at times, that expression summed up how I felt. Of course, everyone feels a little strange about going to their high school reunion. Will I recognize everyone? Have I accomplished anything since then? Am I going to get gay bashed?

When I moved to Etna when I was in third grade, I was an outsider, a flatlander, a city slicker. After 10 years in the town, I ultimately felt at home. But now, 20 years later, I realize only about a quarter of my life was spent there. I am again an outsider, a flatlander and a city slicker. Oh, and a homo. That too.

But many in that photo are in the same boat--not fitting in anymore, that is (not the homo part). Many of us moved out and into the big city. Kathi's now in Dallas. Jeff's in Alameda. Suzanne is in San Francisco. Jarrod's in Austin. Frankie's in Brooklyn, for Pete's sake. Others still live in the valley or close to it, which meant that collectively, we were again a group of insiders and outsiders.

Conversations focused on life in the city versus in the country. I'm sure my classmate, Jon, has as hard a time understanding why I'd choose to live among all this Bay Area traffic as I have understanding how he can live in the same house he grew up in.

I trip to realize that some of my classmates now have grown children. To see people who used to chuck spit wads on the ceiling in geometry class express paternal instincts is just kooky. I recognized a few of the kids before I recognized my classmates. To me, Bryan's boy looks more like Bryan than Bryan.

I let it spill that I've been doing stand-up comedy, so the organizers cajoled me into doing a little comedy set after dinner. I managed to find a few minutes worth of clean material, but it still managed to be very gay material.

In an area that looks a lot like the fields where Matthew Shepherd was murdered, this could have been scary. A gay comedy show in Etna is as out of place as a strip show at the Vatican. But, I had to take Kathy Griffin's advice--never refuse a gig. Though I'm sure she'd have refused this one had she been asked.

I'm sure I made a few people squirm, but for the most part, the Etna crowd seemed OK with it--better than some of the open mike crowds here in the Bay Area, actually. I even poked fun at country music. A few guys surprised me with compliments. "Nice jokes, Marty!" I wasn't expecting a lot of hugs and kisses from these guys, but I do want to believe that ultimately, the guys I played dodge ball with are generally good people who I don't need to fear. Yes, a couple of chairs were thrown and a beer bottle smashed, but none of that was directed at me.

This is a class that chose Bon Jovi's "Never Say Goodbye" as class song, barely beating out the Beastie Boys "You've Got to Fight for your Right to Party." Some of us in the class were rowdy--some of us still are, even after most of our rowdy friends have rowdied on down. I used to think my classmates' obsession with drunkenness was a result of the prohibition on underage drinking and that they'd all grow out of it. But, apparently, getting drunk is still quite enjoyable for many of my classmates.

At the end of the weekend, I left with a pocket full of email addresses, some rekindled memories and a feeling that I can and should make an effort to keep my childhood friendships alive. Never say goodbye.

I placed second!

2007-05-30T23:46:00.000-07:00

The final round of competition was tonight at Rooster T. Feathers. I'm very excited that I placed second place out of 13! All 13 comedians had the crowd laughing, so I can only say thank you to everyone who supported me. Kudos to Rooster T. Feathers for putting on a great competition that was a lot of fun every night.

I don't know what's next. I don't have any performances planned. I want to continue writing material, so my friends don't get bored coming to future shows. I don't want them changing their e-mail addresses on me.

Performing comedy is a kick in the pants, especially when there's a friendly crowd out there. I've been working out my material at a lot of small open mike nights. Those are not always fun. Performing in front of five people kind of sucks. And it's usually not my crowd. It's tought to win over a crowd of mostly straight guys, but that's who comes to most comedy clubs. So, they're just going to have to get used to hearing me talk about penises.

Doing five good minutes in an amateur competition is a world away from getting hired as a feature or headliner act. I am still amazed by comedians that can keep a crowd laughing for 45 minutes. Even if I had 45 minutes of material, I can't imagine committing it all to memory. But then, I was able to memorize all those Steve Martin records when I was 13. There's hope, because the public has a short memory. Remember when, a couple of years ago, the earth blew up? No? Never mind.

All's Whale that Ends Whale

2007-05-25T09:10:00.000-07:00

When three of the Republican presidential candidates admitted they don't believe in evolution, I thought they were far outside of the mainstream. But then these two humpback whales get lost on the Sacramento River, and people suddenly reveal that they have no faith in evolution at all.

I'm all for saving the whales, but let's impose some criteria here. Let's save the smart whales. These are stupid whales, people. I say give natural selection a chance. These whales think they are salmon.

Lt. Gov. John Garamendi is behind the save-the-whales-at-all-costs effort. To make sure school kids all over would cry in hysterics if/when they die, he named them Delta and Dawn.

Garamendi also helped herd another dumbass whale, "Humphrey" back to the sea 22 years ago. Humphrey was sent back to the ocean where he probably made more baby whales. In fact, I wonder if Humphrey is Delta's demented father. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I do feel bad for Dawn. Her mother is an irresponsible parent. They shouldn't call her Dawn. They should call her Britney.

And now, we're trying to get Delta and Dawn out to sea where they can continue to pass on their mutant, stupid-whale gene to new generations. Pretty soon, we're going to have dozens of Delta's progeny heading to Sacramento.

These dumb-whale-huggers are out of ideas on how to cajole Delta and Dawn to swim back to the bay. They've tried banging on pipes and playing sounds of orca whales, because killer whales are a predator of humpbacks.

I have an idea. How about actual killer whales. We can end this thing right now. And that would be some compelling visuals to boot. For that, I'd trek up to Rio Vista myself.

I made it to the finals!

2007-05-10T00:43:00.000-07:00

I'm in the FINAL ROUND!
Root for me Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Rooster T. Feathers Comedy Club
157 W. El Camino Real, Sunnyvale, CA
8:00 pm showtime
Call (408) 736-0921 to reserve your seat!

Tonight was my semifinal comedy competition at Rooster T. Feathers. The audience voted, and I'm moving on to the final round on May 30, 2007! I was up against some experienced, funny, comedians, so I was really fortunate to place second of the 11 performers.

The May 30 show will no doubt sell out and the audience will determine who is the winner. If you have any desire to attend this show, you should call 408-736-0921 and reserve your space ASAP.

Thank you to all my friends who showed up to see the show! I feel loved. *sniff*

Meanwhile, I'm also signed up for San Jose Improv's comedy competition as well. My night is May 29. Yes, one day before the Rooster's show. Call it a warm-up.

Here's the video:

Why I'm through with clubbing

2007-04-22T12:45:00.000-07:00

The nightclub industry seems to spend a lot of effort dissuading people of my demographic from participating in their institution and the industry has been largely successful. The music's too loud, the drinks are weak and overpriced, and I've seen cleaner bathrooms at train stations in developing countries. And ultimately, I get bored of dancing after about five minutes. I am so over it.

Last night was an exception. I was cajoled to go to the Club Papi event which doubled as a fundraiser for ProLatino on its 15th anniversary.

The rest of the week, we are cued by the television networks to understand that prime time is from 8 to 11. Not so in the nightclub world where the party doesn't really get going until after 11. I believe this is a deliberate effort to exclude sensible people like me who understand that the body is meant to go to bed at that hour. Why can't the three hours I intended to spend at the nightclub begin at a reasonable hour, say 8 p.m. and end at 11? Then, we could all make it home and be in bed in time for Saturday Night Live, drifting off to sleep shortly after Weekend Update when the sucky skits ensue.

My body brilliantly has a circadian rhythm that signals me to fall asleep around 11:30 p.m. and to wake at 6:57, after precisely three snooze cycles. Yet, on the weekend, I'm supposed to throw all that natural equilibrium out the window and pull a near all-nighter. Am I supposed to feel like a wuss for this?

What does one do between the hours of 8 and 11, waiting for the action to start? In my case, I took a nap.

We headed to the club at 11, ignoring my body's protests. As we drove past the club, we saw a lengthy line snaking outside in the rain, waiting to get in. Few other businesses treat their patrons like this. Even Denny's has a few benches inside the building for people waiting to be seated.

Nightclub owners view these lines of patrons waiting outside as good advertising. Whatever is going on inside must be great if these poor saps are willing to wait outside in the rain for it. Other businesses don't use their customers as drenched billboards.

After we paid our $15 to get in, the next step is to wait in the coat check line. Under normal circumstances, I don't find hanging up my jacket a task for which I require the services of an assistant. Nor do I consider the temporary use of a plastic hanger worthy of a $2 rental fee. I believe you can get 10 of those hangers at the dollar store--for a dollar. Next time, I'll bring my own and demand a discount.

Maybe I'm off-based here, but after I just dropped $15 to get in the door, I think that the nearly effortless task of hanging up my jacket should be included in the entrance fee. Like toilet paper, I just expect certain things to be part of the deal. We don't pay an extra fee for the security guy to stare blankly at my driver's license. We don't pay an extra fee for the cashier to take my money and hand me a ticket or for the superfluous guy two steps ahead who takes said ticket.

Anticipating this shakedown, we all left our jackets in the car, despite the rain, because we are all cheapskates. We were not alone. About half of the drenched saps were also jacketless.

Everyone once in awhile, you hear that they find a homeless guy on the street who froze to death in the cold. I have a hunch that many of those guys aren't homeless at all--they're club kids who were waiting coatless in the cold.

At the end of the night, about 200 people had to line up to retrieve their jackets from the coat check. We, on the other hand, gleefully bypassed the line and made a dash through the pouring rain back to the car. Ha ha! You didn't get my $2, Mr. Unscrupulous Nightclub Owner. I'll need that money to buy some cold medicine.

See my first performance at the San Jose Improv

2007-04-11T18:26:00.000-07:00

This just in! I'll be competing in the 2007 San Jose Improv Comedy Competition. My night to perform is Tuesday, May 29 at 8 p.m. I've been advised, straight out, that the surest way to move on to the next round is to have friends in the audience. By audience vote, the top three comedians move on to the semifinals. The finals, should I be fortunate enough to move on, are in July and the prizes include the opportunity to be an emcee with a nationally known headliner for a week.

So put it in your calendar today or go ahead and buy your ticket now.

Meanwhile, I'm also excited to be moving on to the semifinal round in the Rooster T. Feathers comedy competition on May 9. The show is sure to sell out, so you have to call the club (listen to the lengthy message) and leave your name to reserve your seat.

If Mom and Dad are reading this, don't even think about showing up to "surprise" me.

A trip to Etna is a trip

2007-03-28T21:06:00.000-07:00

My sister, Stacy, and I drove up to our hometown, Etna, today. We're visiting our sick grandma for a few days.

It's about a seven hour drive from the Bay Area to Etna and it's mostly through rural Northern California. When you get outside the Bay Area, of course, you soon lose your pre-set radio stations. I forgot to bring any CD's, so we were at the mercy of the airwaves.

When you head into rural California, you have three basic choices: Spanish-language, Christian or Western. There may even be a few Spanish-language stations playing Western music with a Christian twist. I'm not sure.

So, as our Bay Area rock station faded beyond recognition, I was forced to hit the seek button. Stacy, who is, inexplicably, a country music fan, announced that she thought 95.7 out of Red Bluff is a country station. "Thanks for the warning," I responded.

But before I could hit the seek button a second time, we got stuck on a country station. The first thing we hear is a lovely little melody with the lyrics--I shit you not--"All I want to do is pick a tick off you."

Now, I don't care who you are, that's romantic. We just had to listen on to see if the song would go on with "All I want to do is rub salve on you saddle sores all night long," or "All I want to do is suck the armadillo meat out between your teeth."

My dad suggested someone should invent a car stereo that automatically skips country stations, like so much static. So there you go--another invention for someone (still waiting for someone to take on my TV remote/Clapper combo invention).

We "made good time" and Grandma was really happy to see us. We may be trimming her juniper shrubs tomorrow and visiting with my aunt and uncle who are here from Florida.

For now, we're home. Dad set up his wireless router, so now Stacy and I are both pecking away at our laptops while his guitar gently weeps in the other room.

We'll all sleep well tonight knowing that our dear Sanjaya is safe for another week.

Wanted: personal assistant with strong calendar skills

2007-03-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

Is it me? It might be me. How can I screw up two parties in two weeks?

Last Saturday, Robert and I went to a birthday party for our friend, Theral, at his house in the Santa Cruz mountains. We had it all planned out: (1) training run at the Stanford dish, (2) lunch on campus, (3) drive to San Francisco to see an Asian Filmfest movie at 3:30, (4) get to Theral's birthday in plenty of time. So, we show up at the party at about 6:30, right when it was to start. Or so we thought. When we walked around the back, we saw they were already cutting the birthday cake. Only a few cold hamburgers were left lying on a paper plate. We ended up having a great time, but after I checked my e-mail, I realized the party had started at 3 p.m. No excuse. The e-mail was crystal clear. Showing up 3 1/2 hours late is a level of tardiness that is hardly a fashion statement.

Fast forward to yesterday. Big plans: (1) training run at the Stanford dish (2) lunch at Stanford Shopping Center (3) see the same movie we planned to see the week before but had got stuck in traffic and (4) go to my friend Lynda's retirement party at 7 p.m. at the Drying Shed.

I still don't really know what happened. I realized when we got in the car that we were going to be an hour late because my Blackberry chose not join the rest of us with the early Daylight Savings Time. But an hour is still fashionable, arguably. We got to the restaurant (where I've been before) and walked in the banquet room. Whew! They hadn't started eating yet. People were still milling around, getting drinks from the bar.

I swiftly placed our gift on the gift table with dozens of other packages and cards. We thought we lucked out. We were even pleased to find we'd dressed appropriately. We'd both stressed out whether we should go really casual or get dressed up for Lynda. As I was scanning the dress of the crowd, I suddenly realized I couldn't find even one person I recognized. Lynda knows a lot of people, but this was really odd.

I beelined it back to the gift table. A big yellow bag had the words "Happy Birthday" printed all over it. An envelope sat in front of it with "Debbie" written on it. I grabbed Robert and jammed out the door. Perhaps we're just in the wrong banquet room. We check with a hostess at the front. No, no retirement party for Lynda, just a birthday party for Debbie.

As delightful as Debbie's friends seemed to be, we opted to leave. Our hunch was that the party was moved to a larger venue and somehow I didn't get the message. We could have traipsed across town looking in the ballrooms at the Hilton, the Hyatt or the Marriott, but we're too kind to the planet to be spewing greenhouse gasses on a wild goose chase. We ended up eating mediocre Filipino food at Chow King in our slacks and sports coats.

I still haven't figured out what happened. I found the invitation and I was right about time, date and place (except for the DST snafu).

If you invite us to anything in the future, please plan on giving us a reminder call. We're a mess.

I'm in the semi-finals!

2007-03-21T23:38:00.000-07:00

Good news! I'm moving on to the semifinals in the Rooster T. Feathers Amateur Comedy Competition. Thank you to everyone who showed up to see my show. I really appreciate the support. The field was really strong tonight--a lot of funny comics.

My next night to perform is May 9th. The show will sell out again, so if you can come support me, you have to make a reservation by calling 408-736-0921.

Robert took some video of the show, but apparently, had some trouble with the technology. I'll see what's salvaged and see if I can put up another video clip.

The May 9th show will again be at 157 W. El Camino Real in Sunnyvale. Tickets are $12 for this show and there is a two drink minimum.

About 12 comedians will perform. By audience vote, three will move on to the finals. All 12 have all been through the preliminary round so you're in for a good show. There is also a headliner who will perform while they tally the votes.

Remember: You have to call 408-736-0921 to make your reservation!

Top ten ways to move down a notch on the Respect-o-Meter

2007-02-22T07:54:00.000-08:00

10. Invite me to the Holiday Inn to hear an inspiring presentation from your new "friend."

9. When I decline, try to sell me your "friend's" water purification system anyway.

8. Forward me an email that says I'm a total ass if I don't send it to 20 of my friends.

7. Don't tip.

6. Own a Hummer.

5. Send me an email about a missing child, Bill Gates and AOL giving away money, lead in lipstick, or a terminally ill young poet before checking its veracity on snopes.com.

4. Ask me if I "know" Jesus.

3. Litter.

2. Don't vote.

1. Start a sentence with "I heard on Fox News that..."

Have you seen me?

2007-02-14T21:23:00.000-08:00

Attention would-be inventors: I've got an invention for you. Just take it. Patent it. Make a bazillion dollars. Just get it to market soon. The world needs a TV remote that beeps when you call it. More importantly, I need it...stat. It could be a clap-on, clap-off deal, or just a button on the TV that you push when the damn thing is lost and the remote beeps. Cordless phones already have it. What kind of cruel sadist in the home electronics world is keeping this technology from reaching the market? If it's already there, somebody, please, throw me a line!

Why don't I just patent the idea myself? Because I'm too busy looking for my damn remote. I don't know how this happens time and time again. It crawls deep underneath the bed. It hides between two pillows. It sneaks to the bottom of a box of Cheerios. A few days ago, I shit you not, I was looking for my remote for five minutes before I realized it was actually in my hand. In my hand!

And when our TiVo remote is lost, it means we literally can't change the channel. We're stuck watching the last channel we had it on, or one of the shows TiVo chooses to record for us. TiVo and I have been together for three years now, but sometimes I think TiVo just doesn't know me at all. Really, TiVo, Dora the Explorer? The Spanish version? What on earth did I watch to lead you believe I'd want to watch that show?

Alas, Robert did find the TiVo remote today. In a bizarre twist, it was actually in the remote control caddy, that tacky plastic contraption that spins around, holds up to six remotes and sports a picture frame on each of the four sides--because who doesn't want to see cherished family portraits as they're spinning around their remote caddy, trying to remember which one works the DVD player?

Happy Birthday, President Lincoln

2007-02-12T12:01:00.000-08:00

Like all good Americans, I'm at home today, celebrating the birthday of, perhaps, our greatest president. What? You're a good American and you don't have the day off?

Okay, so my employer is the only one I know of that still closes shop on Lincoln's birthday and Presidents Day. Even the descendants of Lincoln himself are toiling away today.

And fine, I'm not really celebrating--I'm watching, perhaps, one of our greatest American movies on AMC, The Three Amigos, of course. But now I'm feeling a little guilty about that. So, I think I'll pick up my copy of Sarah Vowell's Assasination Vacation, which I never finished, and learn a little something about Lincoln. Vowell, a history buff, chronicled her tour of all the key sites related to Lincoln's assassination.

I don't see a thing about Lincoln's birthday in the newspaper or CNN.com. Regis and Kelly were apparently too busy yammering on about a weekend trek to The Hamptons to honor the man today.

But, as I sit here, the three amigos are now realizing their calling is to free the villagers of Santo Poco from the infamous El Guapo, and I see that watching this movie is, in a very weak sense, an homage to Honest Abe. The battle to liberate an oppressed people.

Barack Obama invoked Lincoln liberally as he threw his stovepipe hat into the presidential ring over the weekend: "He had his doubts. He had his defeats. He had his setbacks, but through his will and his words, he moved a nation and helped free a people." Just like the three amigos, I'd have added.

As for Obama, he's my top choice so far. For a presidential candidate, he's great on gay issues. The one sticking point is marriage equality. While he supports civil unions and a state's right to make their own decision, he allows his personal religious beliefs to define his policy position: "I'm a Christian. And so, although I try not to have my religious beliefs dominate or determine my political views on this issue, I do believe that tradition, and my religious beliefs say that marriage is something sanctified between a man and a woman."

If a candidate said something like that in a local race in California, my vote would likely go to someone else. In fact, newly elected San Jose mayor Chuck Reed said almost exactly that in a candidate forum at the DeFrank LGBT Community Center.

But I am a realist. I understand that our puritanical country is far from ready to elect a presidential candidate who advocates marriage equality.

Furthermore, I am far more interested in how a candidate views the war and America's standing in the world. On Iraq, Obama took a politically risky, but wise position way before it was popular to do so.

Here are Obama's prescient words from 2002:

But I also know that Saddam poses no imminent and direct threat to the United States, or to his neighbors...and that in concert with the international community he can be contained until, in the way of all petty dictators, he falls away into the dustbin of history.

I know that even a successful war against Iraq will require a U.S. occupation of undetermined length, at undetermined cost, with undetermined consequences.

I know that an invasion of Iraq without a clear rationale and without strong international support will only fan the flames of the Middle East, and encourage the worst, rather than best, impulses of the Arab world, and strengthen the recruitment arm of al-Qaeda.

I am not opposed to all wars. I'm opposed to dumb wars. So for those of us who seek a more just and secure world for our children, let us send a clear message to the president.

That's the way I was thinking in 2002 as well. And it's why I can't get excited about Hillary Clinton. She was wrong on what was probably the most important decision of her life. Yes, she got really bad information from the Administration. But like other Clintons, she has a tendency to take the politically expedient route. Now she has finally acknowledged that if she knew then what she knows now, she would not have voted to give the president the authority to invade Iraq.

If she wins the primary, I'll decide how she measures up against her Republican opponent. I may even work hard to help her get elected (like many of us did in 2004 for Kerry).

Sarah Vowell got a kick out of a zinger from Lincoln's second inaugural address. After the bloodshed of the Civil War, Lincoln said, "It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces; but let us judge not that we be not judged."

Great orators from Illinois who hate war. Today, I salute you.

Video, at long last

2007-02-10T17:36:00.000-08:00

Blurry video, but video nonetheless. Here's a clip from my comedy set last Tuesday at Rooster T. Feathers in Sunnyvale. Thanks again to everyone who showed up!

Well, that went well

2007-02-08T19:07:00.000-08:00

My gig at Rooster T. Feathers last night was all that I could have hoped for. I count exactly 50 people who came to the show just to see me. Co-workers, my partner's co-workers, lots of our gay friends. Pretty damn good. Somewhere in the South Bay, there was an empty gay bar. Well, actually, all the gay bars in the South Bay are pretty much empty on a Wednesday night.

Thank you to everyone who showed up!

Because I had packed the house, I got to go up right before the headliner, a great place to be. My peeps were ready to laugh. I had a great set, partly thanks to the cutie straight guy, Danny, sitting in the front row. He was a great sport when I offered to introduce him to my gay world. Danny, if you're listening, call me.

If you missed it, you have another chance coming up. I'll be back at Rooster T. Feathers on March 21 for the club's annual comedy competition. If you go, you get to vote for your favorite comic to go on to the next round (that would be me). The show starts promptly at 8 p.m. Don't be late. The order of comedians will be randomly selected that night. And this is important: reserve your tickets now by calling 408-736-0921. The show will likely sell out--hopefully by my fans. Yes, it's all about me. But I've seen the lineup and there are some funny comedians scheduled.

Wrong way, Georgie!

2007-01-10T19:52:00.000-08:00

I'm outraged, but not terribly surprised, that Bush has decided to send another 21,500 American troops in Iraq. Bush said he consulted members of Congress from both parties, our ally abroad, and distinguished outside experts before completely ignoring them.

I wish someone in the White House would sit him down and say, "Mr. President, you see, you just lost Congress because of your Iraq policy, and now you're proposing to do the opposite of what everyone (but a loopy Joe Lieberman), thinks you should do. I mean everyone! Your staff, all the Democrats, a lot of Republicans (the smarter ones), your generals, your dad. So, would you reconsider?"

"Yes, I will...OK, I've made a re-decision. You're fired."

I think Bush was one of those kids in Pop Warner football who caught the interception and then ran the wrong way down the field. His coach would chase him down the field yelling, "No, Georgie! The goal is that way!"

"No, it's not!" Georgie would holler back. "And you're fired!"

Upcoming gig: Rooster T. Feathers, Feb. 7

2007-01-05T14:57:00.000-08:00

I'll be performing at Rooster T. Feathers in Sunnyvale on Feb. 7 at 8 p.m. as part of the New Talent Showcase. I get more time if I bring people, so come along, and bring your juke box money.

I'm working on some new material. I might talk about this new obesity drug for dogs, just approved by the FDA. "Slentrol" will be prescribed by veterinarians for fat American dogs. I hope these pooches at least are really fat, and not just subject to that infernal Body Mass Index that screwed with my mind last year. "Yeah, Benji, see, for your height, 2 feet, you should really weigh about 20 pounds. You're pushing 40. Better get you on Slentrol."

But a pharmaceutical to help control a dog's weight? Are you serious? Is it that hard to control a dog's diet? Is Fido really busting into the refrigerator when you're not home and getting into your Chinese take-out? Is he ordering his own pizza or stopping by the Taco Smell drive-through on his way home from digging in the neighbors' petunias?

No. He's fat because YOU feed him too much! And YOU don't take him out for exercise. This is YOUR fault and if you think you're going to fix it by hiding a pill in a chunk of cheese, YOU should think twice about your capacity to care for a dog.

My doggy diet plan is no different than my secret people diet plan: eat less, exercise more. Yet, the doggy plan is infinitely easier to carry out. Just stop overfeeding the damn dog. And what dog doesn't like to run around? If the dog isn't getting enough exercise, chances are that's your fault too. I hope the FDA collects data on the BMI of those pet guardians who come in asking for Slentrol. My bet is that at least half of them pay for two seats when they get on a Southwest Airlines flight.

Letting your dog get obese is twice as bad as these people you see on Discovery Health who live with someone who is bed-ridden with morbid obesity and can't even get up to greet the pizza guy at the door. Somebody is bringing the fat and calories in the door. "She's the only one left who cares for me," the near-death person sobs. Oh yeah, she's just a Mother Teresa of compassion.

So, they have to build a special ambulance and remove the side of your house to take you in for extremely dangerous gastric-bypass surgery which may save your life only because keeps you from having the ability to overeat. Well, the caretaker who kept popping those Hot Pockets in the microwave for you all those years could have done that too.

Only in America. The rest of the world (save, perhaps, Tonga) sighs in disbelief.

I remember Mapa...but Mapa don't remember me

2006-12-31T12:11:00.001-08:00

We had a surreal experience yesterday. Robert and I met up with a couple we befriended on our Atlantis cruise, Jeff and Marty. Like Robert, Jeff is Filipino. Like me, Marty is a big white guy who is also named Marty. It turns out we have a lot of other things in common. Par exemple, we are both fans of Alec Mapa. If you don't know who he is, you're watching the wrong television shows. With a touch of irony, he describes himself on his MySpace page thusly: "I'M A GLAMOROUS AND EXCITING TELEVISION STAR." But only a touch, because he is indeed a glamorous and exciting television star to some of us.

I first saw Alec in his one-man show, I Remember Mapa, in San Francisco, several years ago. Then, a couple of years ago, we met him at an event in San Francisco for GAPA, a gay Asian group. At that event, I stood behind him in a buffet line and gushed how I enjoy reading his column in The Advocate. And since I've been dabbling in stand-up comedy and Alec is one of the best gay comedians out there, I've been following his career more closely.

So, back to the surreality. With another couple (Edgar and Mark, also a Filipino+white guy gay pair), we drove up to Muir Woods for a hike. As we were walking among the redwoods, I brought up Alec Mapa to Marty and found out he was also a fan. The reason Alec was on my mind was we just saw Dreamgirls the night before, and one of the reasons I wanted to see it was because I'd just read Alec's review of the movie on his MySpace page. And there was another reason I'll get to in a second.

Not five minutes later, Marty and I see coming down the trail none other than Alec Mapa. We both immediately recognize him. When Alec sees us (two big white guys, both with Filipino partners trailing behind) looking at him, he looks like he just saw two grizzly bears in the trail, and he's not sure what to do. OK, for bears, do you stay still, or do you raise your hands and try to look big, or do you turn around and run like hell?

He opts to continue walking down the path toward us and to be gracious to what I'm sure he immediately estimated as adoring rice queens. Marty told him he was a fan of his comedy. Someone asked if we could take a picture with him. He obliged. As we posed together, I again gushed that we met him at GAPA and that I'm his MySpace friend. In fact, he's in my top four.

Wow, how sad I am, that one of my four best friends is someone I don't really know. And with that, I refrain from telling him that I was just talking about him five minutes ago with Marty and Mark. And I refrain from telling him that I actually had a dream about him just two nights ago, after I had read his Dreamgirls review. And I refrain from telling him that in said dream, we were totally, um, enjoying each other's company, let's say. Hey, I know he and I are both partnered, but I can't control my dreams! Besides, I think Robert was in the dream anyway and he was totally OK with it. I can't remember the details. We're deep in the woods, so I rightfully figured Alec did not need to know all of this at this particular moment.

As he left, I blurted out my last inane comment of the day, "See you with the housewives!" Desperate Housewives, that is. Funny that I should drop the "desperate" since that's pretty much how I was coming across.

Happy New Year.

I never inhaled...really!

2006-12-11T22:45:00.000-08:00

You're not going to believe this about me. You may have known that I'm a square, but you won't believe the extent of my squareness. Here it is. I have never shot heroin. OK, that's probably fairly believable. I have never snorted cocaine or smoked crack. OK, still believable. I have never done E, or K, or any of the other letters of the alphabet. Getting harder? Speaking of harder, I've never even done Viagra. But here it is: I have never smoked pot.

Really. In high school, while you were going through your rebellious stage, I was actually at home reading Moby Dick. And I was kind of a dick about it too. People would just stop telling me stuff because I was so judgmental. A classmate would say, "Yeah, me and Freddie got stoned on Saturday and listened to Pink Floyd." And I'd tell him gloomily, "Only dopes use dope." It's amazing I had any friends at all.

Eventually, I just went so long holding out, never trying pot, that I felt like I had a streak going. Like a kid who keeps a wad of bubble gum going for five years, I just couldn't bring myself to break my streak. College came and went. No pot for me. My denial of marijuana had become something of an obsession. I just couldn't give it up. It was almost like an addiction. I was addicted to not smoking pot.

And then, somewhere deep in the back of my head, I was thinking about my future. You never know. Maybe someday, I might want to run for president of the United States of America. And if I smoked pot, forget about it. Then Bill Clinton came along. And proved my point. If not for the fortunate fact that he never inhaled, he would have lost his chance to be president.

And then came Bush. The guy not only inhaled, he snorted, he shot up, he freebased--he did it all. And then he nearly earned enough votes to be elected president.

So the presidential ambition isn't keeping me from smoking pot anymore. Plus, I actually don't think I've got much of a chance at becoming president...now that this Barack Obama guy is in the picture. Fuckin' pothead.

But after all this time, I can't just unceremoniously go smoke a joint now. I'm not in my youthful indiscretion phase. And I'm so naïve, I don't know where to get it. I don't know how to roll a joint. I'm so naïve, I was the last guy in the world to know what 420 meant. I kept seeing it in people's online profiles: 420 friendly. I thought that was an area code.

There's this store nearby called 420 Lifestyles. I presume it's a head shop, of course. Again, I'm so naïve, I didn't know what a head shop was until recently. Being gay, I thought it was something entirely different.

I figure they name this shop 420 Lifestyles to obscure the fact that they're selling marijuana paraphernalia. Like the police don't know what 420 means. I think this theory was developed by someone whose been smoking a lot of weed. Sorry guys, our law enforcement agencies are not filled with people as dense as I am on these things. (Oh lookie, they sell bubble blowing pipes!)

So, now, with my presidential ambitions behind me, there's really nothing keeping me from trying it, but there's never been the right moment. Subconsciously I've been waiting for someone to award me some sort of prize for holding out this long. Like Willy Wonka at the end of the movie-not the new one with creepy Johnny Depp channeling Michael Jackson, but the old one with creepy Gene Wilder--when he gives Charlie the keys to the chocolate factory. "You did it, Charlie! I knew you could do it!" After being such a good boy for so long, he's awarded the ability to gorge on candy the rest of his life. I would need a moment like that. Like losing your virginity, you want it to be special.

If I'm at a party where someone is smoking pot, I never feel it's the right time or place. But I am curious to feel that sensation. "Whoa, do you smell that? Someone's smoking one of those funny cigarettes." I sniff deeply, thinking I could get a contact high without ever touching a joint to my lips. "Oh, there they are, on the patio. Hi guys! Whatcha' doing?" I say, because I'm a dweeb. Sure enough, one of them will offer me a puff, and I get all nervous, like I'm suddenly in an after school special. "No thanks. Nope. Never smoke. Thanks though. You go ahead. I'm not judging," I over explain. But I'm sucking in air like I just finished running a 10K. Pretty soon I feel lightheaded and tell everyone I think I'm getting stoned from the secondary smoke, until I realize that I've merely hyperventilated.

Yes, even wunderkind, Barack Obama, smoked pot. Al Gore admits he smoked in his day. As did John Denver, Jennifer Aniston, Bob "Gilligan" Denver, and New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg.

Now I'm having this nightmare where I'm at a party and Barack Obama, Al Gore and Jennifer Aniston are all out on the patio toking up, and they're offering me a puff. Al Gore's saying, "Really Marty, you need to loosen up." But I just say no. And then John Denver and Gilligan stumble in, munching on a jumbo sized bag of Doritos and laughing hysterically about their realization they have the same last name but aren't really related. And I'm thinking, wait, you guys are dead! Then I wake up and feel the munchies for no logical reason.

So if you're at an Eric Clapton concert and you see someone sniffing around like a bloodhound, have pity. Come on over and say hi. Even if you're high. I'm not judging.

My Spanish lesson

2006-12-08T23:17:00.000-08:00

Hey, I'm learning Spanish! It's muy coolo!

A Taste of Hong Kong

2006-12-02T12:10:00.000-08:00

Robert and I just returned from a vacation to the Philippines. On our way, we had a layover in Hong Kong and opted to take a later flight so we could go into the city for some shopping and sightseeing.

That sounded like a good plan, but we should have thought about how we’d look and feel after a 14-hour flight from San Francisco. My five o’clock shadow was by then a five-a.m.-the-next-day shadow. We didn’t think to pack an extra set of clothes in our carry-on bags. In fact, we were both wearing the long-sleeved shirts we needed when we left the relatively chilly Bay Area.

Eating in Hong Kong is always a treat, so our first order of business was to find a good dim-sum restaurant. When we passed by “Very Good Restaurant,” we figured we’d hit pay dirt. Eschewing “Pretty Good Restaurant” and sneering at “Somewhat Overrated Restaurant,” we walked right in and were shown a table.

We assumed that a restaurant with such an appropriate choice of an English name would have a waiter or two that spoke some English. Wrong. We’d hoped to see carts of dim-sum so we could point to our choices, but instead, we were given a menu without a word of English and no pictures. After about 10 minutes, a waitress finally figured out Robert wasn’t Chinese (and neither was I) and brought us a photo album with a few of their most popular selections and we were able to order one of each. We filled our tummies for about $14 US.

Rather than taking the underground, we decided to walk a few blocks down Nathan Road to the Ladies Market. Wow. Kowloon has a huge Chinatown! It goes on for blocks and blocks.

Now, I don’t watch any of the CSI shows, but through a little sleuthing, I had a hunch that there may just be some questionable items on sale at this market. We were barraged with offers for phony Rolexes, Louis Vuitton bags, Diesel and Hilfiger clothing and pirated DVDs. I don't know if it was scruples or the fact that none of the clothing was even close to my size, but I passed.

After just a few vendor stalls, the merchandise began repeating itself. We began to feel we’d passed through a worm hole into a new circular dimension like in the old cartoons where Yogi and Boo-Boo are running from the ranger and the background images repeat every two seconds.

If you show any interest in a product whatsoever, the merchants hound you relentlessly. We checked out a bamboo place mat and chopstick set and the vendor wouldn’t let us leave. Now, we fancy ourselves pretty good at bargaining and stayed firm on a final price and left the stall no less than three times. She kept chasing us down like a dog that keeps dropping the slobbery tennis ball at your feet until we finally bought the damn thing. We said “thank you” at the close of the deal and she angrily snapped, “Don’t thank me. You cheap. You bad luck.” So, we clearly got screwed.

After our shopping, all we wanted was a shower and a nap, so we found what appeared to be a clean, upscale spa nearby. After a dip in the hot tub, Robert took a nap while I opted for a 90-minute massage.

The massage itself was less relaxing than, say, barbaric. In my mind I was kicking myself for not taking the time to learn a few simple phrases such as "I think you've snapped another rib," or "You've nearly severed my spinal chord, you sadistic brute!" My masseuse only knew about seven English words. When she said, "I am toilet," I understood she was merely indicating she needed to visit the restroom. When she repeatedly told me "You beautiful," I knew she was just repeating the adjective numerous Western tourists had used to describe her. And angling for a big tip.

And then, toward the end of my allotted massage time, my masseuse begins to offer me what I'll call the "Would you like fries with that?" sales pitch. So it finally dawns on me that I'm being massaged by a Chinese prostitute. I begin to think it may have been foolish to disrobe and stash my passport, cash and credit cards in a locker that looks no more secure than the one at my gym where I'm constantly admonished to leave valuables at home. Why would I assume that legitimate commerce had established a foothold just meters away from the market that was hocking Air Bud 6 DVDs, a movie which hasn't even been filmed yet.

Now, I'm not being judgmental or prudish. There's quite a fine line between rubbing one body part for pleasure and rubbing another for quite a lot of pleasure. I just could not imagine how I would explain to Robert that I needed him to spot me HK$200 (about $28) for an extra service from a masseuse who looks way too much like my sister. Just leaving without any internal bleeding was a happy enough ending for me.

I repeatedly said "No thank you." Like the chopstick vendor, she just wouldn't let go. Figuratively. Eventually, she switched to negotiating her tip. As awkward as it was to negotiate a tip during the actual massage, her lack of English vocabulary now gave me an upper hand. I just repeated "Huh? Sorry, I don't understand," until she gave up.

Anybody have a traveler's Cantonese phrase book I can borrow for our next visit?

Clark misses the runoff by 49 votes

2006-12-02T00:18:00.000-08:00

While the result was disappointing, it was an honor to volunteer for Clark Williams in his race for San Jose City Council. Working on the campaign was at times inspiring, tiring, frustrating, and eye-opening.

District 6 council seat race is set

FINAL TALLIES MAKE RUNOFF OFFICIAL

By Connie Skipitares

Mercury News

The Santa Clara County Registrar of Voters has released its final election night tally, making it official -- non-profit executive director Steve Tedesco will go up against environmental software executive Pierluigi Oliverio in a March runoff for San Jose's District 6 city council seat.

Oliverio on Nov. 7 garnered 6,984 votes, about 30.57 percent of the vote, and not enough to avoid a runoff for the seat that covers the Rose Garden, Willow Glen and a small part of downtown.

Tedesco had been in second place all along, collecting about 21 percent of the vote, followed closely by social worker Clark Williams. The final tally showed Tedesco edged out Williams by 49 votes. Some 22,848 votes were cast for six candidates in the District 6 race.

Outgoing District 6 Councilman Ken Yeager had endorsed Williams. Yeager won a seat on the Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors in June, creating a vacancy for the District 6 seat.

Trading Places

2006-10-03T22:36:00.000-07:00

My sweetie sent me this today (My reaction below):

A man was sick and tired of going to work every day while his wife stayed home.

He wanted her to see what he went through so he prayed:

"Dear Lord: I go to work every day and put in 8 hours while my wife merely stays at home. I want her to know what I go through, so please allow her body to switch with mine for a day. Amen."

God, in his infinite wisdom, granted the man's wish.

The next morning, sure enough, the man awoke as a woman.

He arose, cooked breakfast for his mate, awakened the kids, set out their school clothes, fed them breakfast, packed their lunches, drove them to school, came home and picked up the dry cleaning, took it to the cleaners and stopped at the bank to make a deposit, went grocery shopping, then drove home to put away the groceries, paid the bills and balanced the checkbook. He cleaned the cat's litter box and bathed the dog. Then it was already 1 P.M. and he hurried to make the beds, do the laundry, vacuum, dust, and sweep and mop the kitchen floor.

Ran to the school to pick up the kids and got into an argument with them on the way home. Set out milk and cookies and got the kids organized to do their homework, then set up the ironing board and watched TV while he did the ironing.

At 4:30 he began peeling potatoes and washing vegetables for salad, breaded the pork chops and snapped fresh beans for supper.

After supper, he cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, folded laundry, bathed the kids, and put them to bed.

At 9 P.M. he was exhausted and, though his daily chores weren't finished, he went to bed where he was expected to make love, which he managed to get through without complaint.

The next morning, he awoke and immediately knelt by the bed and said: Lord , I don't know what I was thinking. I was so wrong to envy my wife's being able to stay home all day. Please, oh please, let us trade back."

The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, replied: "My son, I feel you have learned your lesson and I will be happy to change things back to the way they were. You'll just have to wait nine months, though. You got pregnant last night."

My reaction:
Funny, but I think Mrs. Cleaver is dead. It's 2006. Let the kids take the bus. Schools have cheap hot lunches—use them. No one should have to stop at the bank these days. If you’re grocery shopping every day, you need a larger refrigerator. If you’re doing dry cleaning every day, you need a larger laundry basket. If you’re dusting daily, someone needs to see a dermatologist. Get a kitty door and let the cat poop outside. Kill the dog. Kids make their own beds...or they don't—life goes on. Shut their bedroom door. Buy a Roomba. I never met a kid who couldn’t raid the kitchen him/herself for cookies and milk.

My Graduation Show and Chicago!

2006-09-02T23:15:00.000-07:00

Today was my graduation show from my comedy class with San Francisco Comedy College. Seventeen of my closest friends and family showed up at Rooster T. Feathers to cheer me on--thank you all!

The show went great, I must say. I remembered everything I wanted to say, except for one thing. When I was mimicking my right-wing friend's Bill O'Reilly action figure, I think I forgot to say, "We've all heard quite enough about your dead son, Mrs. Sheehan." But no harm done.

After the show, we rushed off to see Chicago, the band, in concert. We had invited our friend, David. He wasn't quite sure what to expect. He was disappointed to learn that Renee Zellweger would not be in the production.

We enjoyed ourselves at the concert, but I must say, Chicago isn't the same without Peter Cetera. There's a youngish stand-in singer for his signature songs. He does a fine job, but you just know that if Cetera ever offered to come back to the band, the newbie would be out like yesterday's dryer lint.

But Cetera's not coming back, and I think I know why. This is the first rock concert I've been to where there's a trombonist on stage the entire time and playing in nearly every song. At other rock concerts, maybe you see a trombone on one song, sort of as a fluke. I vaguely remember a trombone riff during a Guns and Roses concert. I'm not sure.

Now, I used to play trombone when I was a kid, so I like the instrument. I was impressed with the trombone guy's mad skills. But let's be honest, nothing screams 1970's leisure suit, dentist office waiting room Muzak like trombone accompaniment. So, until this trombonist takes a hike, Peter Cetera is likely to stay away.

The partially original Chicago opted to regale us with a few too many songs from their newest album. Um, yeah, you know what, Chicago? Didn't come to hear any of your new crap. Give me the classics. You've got about a dozen greatest hits albums. Hey, I know. Lose the warm up band, and you all can play your groovy new material at the beginning of the show while most of us are still finding a parking space and buying an outrageously priced pint of pale ale.

Saturday, in the park, I think it was the Fourth of July.

Technorati tags: O'Reilly, Comedy, Chicago, Cetera

JonBenet Ramsey Suspect

2006-08-25T07:29:00.000-07:00

I swear that's the same pencil-necked dude I saw working at Geek Squad in San Jose. They should look into that.

His mugshot with the Boulder County Sheriff's Department was just released. You have to love their up-lighting effect to make the suspect look as creepy as possible. Nice job! "Enjoy your chardonnay on the plane ride, Mr. Kerr? Good. Smile!" Time magazine won't even have to Photoshop it! Maybe they can add an audio clip to it with a sinister laugh--"Huah, huah, huah!"

You think you're some sort of comedian?

2006-08-22T22:06:00.000-07:00

I took the leap. A crazy, nutty leap. For the past few weeks, I've been a fully matriculated student of the San Francisco Comedy College. Having fulfilled all of the admissions requirements--the check cleared--I began learning the art and science of funny under the tutelage of longtime comedian Kurtis Matthews, in July.

And now, I'm preparing for my graduation show at Rooster T. Feathers at 156 W. El Camino Real in Sunnyvale on Saturday, Sept. 2 at 4 p.m. I'll be one of about a dozen graduates, each given seven minutes to perform. I've learned that I get a lot more laughs when there are actually other people in the room, so I encourage my friends to show up and plan to have a good time.

What's my act about? Well, I can only tell you what it's not about. You can rest assured there'll be no watermelon smashing, no Jack Nicholson impressions, no confetti throwing and most importantly, no trans fats.

That's my time. You've been a great audience. Tip the wait staff, and drive safely.

Where the heck have I been?

2006-08-22T21:56:00.000-07:00

My apologies, dear readers. I have been busy helping a close friend, Clark Williams, with his campaign for San Jose City Council. Clark is going to be a hard-working, effective, ethical representative for the neighborhoods of his district. Until election day on Nov. 7, I probably won't have much time to write here. If you would like to help Clark's campaign in any way, please let me know.

Hop on the "Mel Gibson's an Ass" Bandwagon!

2006-08-01T21:31:00.000-07:00

Here, let me give you a hand. Just push that clarinet player over a bit. Welcome to the bandwagon! It's about time you realized Mel Gibson is an obnoxious, bigoted ass and unworthy of your entertainment dollar.

I've known that since 1992. Here's why (and I apologize that quoting Mel Gibson will result in the most profane language that has ever appeared in this blog):

In 1992, Gibson was interviewed by the Spanish newspaper, El Pais.

Asked about the stereotype that actors are usually gay, Gibson stood up, grasped his buttocks, and declared, "This is only for taking a shit...They [gays] take it up the ass." He then asserted his heterosexuality in a curiously defensive tone. "Do I look like a homosexual?" he demanded of the reporter. "Do I talk like them? Do I move like them?"

I may be the only guy you know who never saw Braveheart, The Man Without a Face, or What Women Want. I never saw the last two Lethal Weapon movies. Passion of the Christ? Need you even ask?

That's because, unlike this recent anti-Semitic incident, Gibson did not apologize, did not claim it was "the booze talking," and did not appeal to the gay community for help. He did not ask to meet with leaders of the gay community with whom he "can have a one-on-one discussion to discern the appropriate path for healing."

If this is the end of Mel Gibson's career, that's a good thing. That his blatant anti-gay remarks 14 years ago weren't enough to do the job is a real shame.

Camping it up in Russian River

2006-07-03T20:49:00.000-07:00

This weekend, we went camping in Guerneville with some good friends. Now, I do like camping. I'm not one of these wusses that needs running water and electricity to survive through the weekend. My favorite kind of trip is isolation camping--hiking into the woods far enough that there's not only no other humans with you, but there's no sign that any other human has been there before. You pack everything in that you need, and you pack it all out save what you buried in a hole a few dozen yards from your tent.

The trip we experienced had all the discomforts of camping without any of the joys of getting away from it all. Isolation was not the name of the game. Our tent was situated approximately 8 inches away from one of several tents belonging to a four-family contingent from an unidentified eastern European country. About a dozen children ran amok all day long. I now know what it would be like to be held captive for two days at the Moscow Chuck E. Cheeslowski. We didn't share a common tongue, except for the universal language of the plaintive scream. Imagine all the guests at your average Circus Circus hotel separated not by two layers of drywall but by a thin layer of nylon fabric.

A bathroom with indoor plumbing was located 200 yards away, while we had two Porto-potties 50 yards from our campsite. Apparently, portable toilets have a capacity equal to what 12 families (including four of eastern European descent) can produce in 36 hours. Tragically, we were there for 48 hours.

Somehow, the children actually slept through most of the night--perhaps their parents spiked their sippy cups with Stoli--but the adults jabbered into the night. I kept dreaming over and over that I was an extra in a sequel to The Hunt for Red October. But then, I kept dreaming of going to the bathroom. When going to the bathroom involves squirming out of a sleeping bag, rolling off the air mattress (inevitably waking up your boyfriend), feeling around for a flashlight, unzipping the tent, only to stumble through a makeshift Chechnyan village to get to a maxed-out fiberglass shitter, one tries his hardest to sleep through the night even with a full bladder.

So, I kept dreaming about peeing, over and over again. I dreamt this morning that I was back in high school and could barely make it to the bathroom and then I was having a terrible time aiming for the urinal. Fortunately, I woke up before I started dreaming about sitting in a warm hot tub.

This was all particularly disappointing because we had believed we were staying at a gay camping resort. That's what The Willows used to be, but now has, as the owner told us upon check in, a very diverse crowd. It's a sad thing that they've gone mainstream. It was equally distressing to see that the once-famous Fife's Resort had become a shadow of its formal self, now catering to an upscale clientele, its legendary T-parties a faint memory. To give you an idea of how it would feel, imagine that you took a family trip to Disneyland, only to find out that it had been bought out by Wal-Mart. You go in and you're greeted by an old man in mouse ears huffing "Welcome to the happiest retail space on Earth!" Your kid groans when you insist on braving the line for the "Haunted Housewares" ride.

Outside of the "accommodations," we had a great time. Our friend Keith whipped up a gourmet dinner of capellini with prawns sauteed in a garlic lime sauce. Jack brought homemade cheesecake. We saw one of the comedians from our Atlantis cruise, Shann Carr, perform on Saturday night at Triple R Resort. We bypassed the $10 cover charge without even realizing it. On Sunday, we canoed up the Russian River with a picnic lunch, followed by some fun in the pool at the Triple R. One of our other companions, Greg, helped us appreciate all the birds (and bats) in the area--ospreys, sparrows, blue jays, killdeers, turkey vultures, herons, king fishers and a bunch of others I can't remember.

Guerneville, as a well-known gay getaway, still has its appeal. But The Willows campsites are for the birds.

San Francisco Gay Pride Recap

2006-06-25T20:29:00.000-07:00

We started out the day with a marvelous brunch with friends who live in a beautiful house with great views of downtown San Francisco.

The company and food were fabulous which saved us from (1) actually bothering to go to the parade and (2) having to eat overpriced booth food.

Yes, we travelled all that way to the City and didn't even go watch the parade. We decided that the parade is merely the route most people take to get to the festival. We did have it on the television while we ate quiche and drank mimosas. Or maybe it was a re-run of last year's parade. It's hard to tell.

We did head down to the festival after the brunch. As expected, everything was pretty much set up exactly how we left it last year and the year before.

Without any expectations of a memorable moment, I actually had one. NFL football player, Esera Tuaolo, belted out a beautiful song at the Asian/Pacific Islander stage. And then, Robert and I caught him as he was leaving to take this photograph.

Esera is an inspiration. After a successful football career, he came out of the closet and he's been a vocal advocate for equality since then. He and his partner have two adopted children. Their family is so adorable. I even joined Esera's fan club, so I was very pleased to get the chance to meet him today.

To San Francisco Gay Pride We Will Go

2006-06-25T00:33:00.000-07:00

Once again we are going to San Francisco Pride. I've probably been to Pride 10 times out of the 15 years I've been out. I should be invigorated and inspired to join hundreds of thousands of people to celebrate our freedom and rally for equality, but I find myself dreading it.

We're going to a brunch at our friends' house (the good part) and then heading to the parade and festival (the part I'm dreading). After waiting in a 20-minute line to pee in a Fiberglas hut, eating a $6 teriyaki chicken thigh on a stick, I'll shoulder through a boisterous crowd of hundreds of thousands for several hours, returning home exhausted and sunburnt, leaving any feelings of invigoration and inspiration way back on Market Street. Staying home, working the Sunday Times crossword sounds much more appealing.

Not all "the gays" go to San Francisco Pride every year. Someone has got to keep the rest of the Bay Area fabulous today. Contrary to popular belief, it's not an obligatory annual pilgrimage. No one's taking attendance, anyway, so they can't confiscate anyone's gay card for missing the event.

I'm one of those people who tries to keep expectations low, so if we see something truly fascinating, it'll be doubly rewarding. If, as I suspect, the parade and festival will be surprisingly similar to every other San Francisco gay pride parade I've been to, I won't be terribly disappointed.

Last year, we made the effort to squeeze ourselves over to the main stage to see one of the headliners. A free concert with a band I've heard of is kind of a treat. But now I can't even remember what band it was, but I do remember that they only played two songs I'd ever heard of, and the acoustics at the Civic Center were atrocious. At least it was something to look forward to.

I checked the billing to see what I could anticipate for tomorrow. Well, it's slim pickings. Danny Glover is one of the bigger names. He'll be on the main stage, but I have no idea what kind of act he has. Will he narrate a documentary film?

Jennifer Beals is one of the grand marshals, but unless she gets out of her convertible and pulls me over the barrier to teach me how to flashdance, I can't get myself excited about that.

Other grand marshals include a friend, Robert Bernardo, announced as "the first openly-gay Jewish, Filipino commissioner in the City of South San Francisco." Really? The first? Well, it's about bloody time. Thank you, Robert, for breaking down the walls for all the rest of the openly-gay, Jewish Filipinos aspiring to serve as commissioner in the City of South San Francisco.

We'll go around the festival and probably run into some old friends we haven't seen since, well, we bumped into them at last year's festival.

There. I think I've sufficiently lowered my expectations.

A Triumph at Bay to Breakers

2006-06-20T23:12:00.000-07:00

I have neglected to write about our experience running in the Bay to Breakers in May. If you haven't heard of it, Bay to Breakers is a quintessential San Francisco institution, a 7.46 mile race from the Embarcadero to Ocean Beach.

The race is famous for the centipede teams and outrageous costumes (and lack thereof). I think I saw about three dozen naked runners. Fortunately, the majority of them were in pretty good shape. The most surreal moment of the day came right at the beginning of the race when I saw a naked guy with a disposable camera taking pictures of other people.

If you know me well, you may have heard me say that I run "only when chased." Running hurts. That high feeling runners describe? That's never happened to me. In high school, when the football coach made us all run one mile after a long, hot practice, I finished dead last.

When I exercise, I typically need to have the duration and intensity of the regimen imposed upon me to some degree. That is, I'll walk 30 minutes on the stair climber because I only have to make the decision once, as I enter my preferred program. I can finish an hour long yoga class, because once I've started, I feel committed to finishing.

Running outside or on a track is a different story. I am constantly fighting the urge to stop. Every step is a new decision. While some people hum or breath to the rhythm of their pace, I am chanting, "I must stop. I must stop. I must stop." And I usually do.

But for some reason, I got motivated to train for this race. After two three-mile runs in the hills at Stanford, I felt I could actually run the majority of the 12 kilometers. As it turned out, I ran most of it, and only walked when pains started shooting through my knees.

Another tradition, for some unknown reason, is to throw corn tortillas at the beginning of the race. As we made our way to the starting line, we walked on top of a huge blanket of corn tortillas. Quirky, but a clear falling hazard.

After the grueling Hayes Street hill, the rest of the race is a steady decline which works for me. Once we entered Golden Gate Park, every crappy garage band in the greater Bay Area had set up a street performance every few hundred yards. The urge to get out of earshot provided a good motivation to keep on running, but I don't think that was their intention.

To motivate myself, I tried to keep up with an Austin Powers guy (one of three I spotted). I figured I should at least be able to beat a guy in a crushed velvet leisure suit. And then I determined that I would not be outpaced by a guy who was pulling two kids in a Radio Flyer wagon. Later, I set my eyes on the red-pajama-clad Thing One and Thing Two (and a superfluous Thing Three and Thing Four). To my delight, I beat all four of those little house-trashing creeps.

My time was 1 hour, 30 minutes, exactly. It may not sound impressive that I finished in 13418th place, but that doesn't account for the fact that we didn't cross the starting line until 25 minutes into the race. To put it another way, about 47,000 people finished behind me, and that ain't bad.

The trippy part was watching a replay of the race on television later and seeing the Kenyan guy who won. While he finished in under 35 minutes, he and I were in the same race. We ran the exact same course. You don't get that in any other sport. I can't plop down 25 bucks and play in a baseball game with the New York Yankees or race a car with an Andretti.

After the race, a number of people were promoting future runs. I actually feel like I want to do this again. Yesterday, I just bought some better running shoes. Am I a convert? I don't know about that. But next year, I want to beat that Harry Potter and all those Elvises.

The U.S. military still thinks gays are crazy

2006-06-19T22:28:00.001-07:00

The Associated Press reported today that a Pentagon document classifies homosexuality as a mental disorder, decades after mental health experts abandoned that position. While the rest of us have moved on to debates about gay marriage, the Defense Department still thinks we're sick in the head.

Next, they'll discover a document that reveals that the Pentagon believes that masturbation causes blindness, that Milli Vanilli sang their own songs, and that drinking Pepsi after eating Pop Rocks will make your stomach explode.

I was never in the military, but after talking to a few people who have served and after watching the HBO special, Baghdad E.R., it's beyond me how this old chestnut (as Dick Cheney called the military ban in 1991) survives. When you see doctors, nurses, and orderlies working in the green zone hospital, you can see that it's a job, albeit a very dangerous and stressful one. It's a workplace, and I can't understand why anyone would care if there was an out gay man or lesbian working there.

Dear ol' Dad

2006-06-17T23:42:00.000-07:00

Hey Pop,

One time, when I was about 12, I got so mad at you I swore that I would never, ever speak to you again. It had something to do with a sibling squabble where you, rather uncharacteristically, blamed me without due process. As has been evident, my pledge didn't last long, and I've got to tell you, I don't regret that a bit.

You know the quote from Mark Twain: "When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."

Well, I never thought you were ignorant, but it did take me awhile to realize how fortunate I am to have such a stand up guy for a father. I've been thinking about some of those things you have done that annually put you in the running for a "World's Best Dad" trophy. Like when you came to Dad's Day at my nursery school (I love that picture of me cutting our pancakes while you looked on, sitting in a chair intended for a four year old). And when you carved my pinewood derby race car when I was a Cub Scout, guaranteeing victory in the competition and my first trophy. And all the family camping trips we went on. And all the goofy jokes you told us. And all the fishing lures you tied for me, knowing they'd soon be stuck to a log a the bottom of the lake. And when you took me hiking to Horseshoe Lake, just the two of us. And when you chaperoned my junior high school Valentine's Day dance and performed fake wedding ceremonies. Though you made me cringe, my friends always thought you were so cool. And when you took me to see The Blue Lagoon, my first rated R movie. And when you helped me with my physics project which involved dropping a bowling ball and a softball at precisely the same time to see which falls faster. And for coming to all of my football games, band and choir concerts, school plays, speghetti feeds and talent shows. And the way you accepted me when I came out and how you've welcomed each of my partners into our family.

And a thousand other things you did to make me into the person I am today. But for the record, my brother had no right to change that channel. I was watching that.

Happy Father's Day.

Hometown Buffet of the Seas

2006-06-15T21:10:00.001-07:00

One of the reasons I had never gone on a big cruise before is the very fact that people rave about all the food. Some boast that they will order two entrees at a time, or if all the desserts look good, they'll order all of them.

Here on land, buffets are bad news for me. I'm so cheap, I feel like I have to get my money's worth. And if there's something really tasty looking, I have the urge to try it. My best strategy is to stay away completely. Once last year, a gourmand friend invited us to celebrate his birthday at the Super Buffet. I showed up to greet the celebrant, but immediately left without eating.

But once we decided to take the Atlantis cruise, I resolved that I would enjoy myself, try to get some exercise, and make healthier choices.

We did okay. It could have been worse. We did make it to the gym, but when we realized there was no buffet line in there, it lost it's luster.

We discovered the "Aquaspa Cafe" that served healthy, light entrees and desserts. One late afternoon, we enjoyed a couple of these entree plates and a healthy dessert or two. We found that these plates served as a delightful appetizer to preface our five course meal at the main restaurant.

By about Wednesday, I started to ask myself whose idea it was to pack all these tight jeans that barely fit me before the cruise. I feared that by the end of the week, I'd be wearing my gym sweatpants to the buffet line. My stomach seemed to be expanding to the size of a Mylar balloon. Five course dinners no longer left me feeling bloated. By midnight, we had enough room to stop by the late night buffet. I had completely reverted to old eating habits.

It was with great trepidation that I stepped on the scale when we got back at home (on an empty stomach and bladder, stark naked, of course) to assess the damages. To my delight, I hadn't gained any weight.

Which left me thinking, if I can eat like that and not gain weight, why have I been denying myself five course dinners and chocolaty desserts?

But alas, I have to factor in the fact that on the ship, we were on the go all day long and went to at least six dance parties. We canoed and went on a couple of nature walks. That's quite a bit more active than my typical routine of sitting on my rear for nine hours a day in front of a computer screen.

As soon as we boarded, we even signed up for a yoga class scheduled for Saturday morning at 9 a.m. It sounded like a good idea at the time. After dancing 'til dawn on Friday night (We're not as wild as that sounds--sunrise was at 2:30 a.m.), we ended up waking up at 11:30. Even if we hadn't lost an hour from moving back to Pacific Daylight Time, we never had a chance.

Float plane adventure in Juneau

2006-06-11T16:13:00.000-07:00

We were in Juneau at the dock getting ready to board a sea plane and this guy from our ship said, "The air here is so much thinner than back home in Texas. We're from Dallas where it's only about 500 feet above sea level. Here, it's like 5000 feet."

Yes, he really said that.

We're in Alaska, but I think most people have no idea where that is. I think most people on this ship think Alaska is a big island down and just to the left of California and bordered by a thick red line. And that Hawaii lies right beside it, which begs the question, why don't we just take the ship for a little day trip to Waikiki and get some mai tais. Goodness, it's only a half an inch away. Well, I'll tell you why we can't do that. It's because of that red line.

There was a straight couple getting on our plane with us. They were from another cruise ship. They were telling us that the weather for them has been terrific. I asked them if they've been having all of their T-dances on the pool deck, but she didn't quite understand the concept. She said her ship is mostly older folks and that she is old enough to be my mother. She thought I was young. Let's just bask in that for a moment, shall we?

We got in the plane and the pilot was pretty casual. He said one of the passengers could sit in the co-pilot's seat. I was not comforted by this. This ship has people on it who think the sea plane is taking off from 5000 feet above sea level. I do not want them to be my co-pilot.

The pilot quickly went through some safety precautions, told us where the exits were and, importantly, where the barf bags are. Another passenger asked if we were supposed to turn off our cell phones. He said, "Sure." Sure. Hmm. What does that mean? He asked again: "So we're supposed to turn them off?" "Sure." OK, then. I guess I'll turn it off. I don't want my cell phone to trip up that altimeter into saying we're at 5000 feet above sea level. We've got that guy from Dallas for that.

We're back!

2006-06-11T14:24:00.000-07:00

Our Alaska adventure was grand. I'll post some photos and musings in installments to avoid overwhelming you and me.

The highlight of the cruise was flying over the Juneau snow field and some glaciers. Here are a few of those photos:

Going up to Alaska

2006-06-01T22:01:00.000-07:00

In an unusual move, I've been packing for a trip a full 18 hours before the departure time. That's only because we're leaving for Vancouver tomorrow right after work. On Sunday, we'll be aboard the Celebrity Infinity for a cruise to Alaska. A gay cruise, no less.

The cruise company announced that there will be a special guest on board. We've made some guesses: Megan Mullally (promoting her new talk show), Margaret Cho (because she's a party animal), or Sean Hayes (has nothing better to do; vying for permanent gig in cabaret lounge).

As we're packing, we're watching these young whippersnappers in the National Spelling Bee. I've concluded that I'd only be a decent speller in Hawaii. And that there are quite a few words out there I've never heard. And that advanced spelling is a fairly useless skill. Perhaps, I'm suffering from weltschmerz. I suppose there ought to be a least a few living humans able to spell these words.

Sorry, loyal blog readers, for such a lapse in entries. I've been busy, and my laptop had a major malfunction. I have a little bit of advice for my friends: back up your hard disk. Recovering data from a hard drive is expensive. Now I've got a fancy new external hard disk to sync to.

And more good news. My laptop, which used to take at least five minutes to boot, now is ready to roll in about one minute.

Grizabella and her pet guardians/owners

2006-05-02T06:38:00.000-07:00

The Santa Clara County Board of Supervisors passed an ordinance last week calling for the word "guardian" to be added to any reference to pet owner in county documents.

I protest. I am not my cat's guardian. I am her 24-hour on-call masseur.

Grizabella knows all she has to do is meow and nudge my arm with her wet nose to get the massage machine to kick in. Sometimes, I think that's the only reason she sticks around.

And that we feed her, groom her and clean up her litter. And serve as a heating pad in the winter. She's got a good thing going here.

Last night she was particularly lovey-dovey, still high from playing with a new catnip toy Robert got for her. If she were a drinker, I think she'd be one of those affectionate "I love you man!" kind of drunks.

Next week is Be Kind to Animals Week, but I doubt our little princess will notice the difference.

Curb my enthusiasm

2006-04-29T13:50:00.000-07:00

Isn't this just lovely? Not the Japanese maple, silly. The curb! We're finally done painting the fire lane. When I volunteered to check into the cost of having someone come out to repaint our townhouse complex curbs, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. And I was getting into it myself. I could have gone with the painting company that wanted something like $1,500 to paint a couple of hundred feet of curb, but instead, I volunteered to do it myself, thinking it might be fun way to spend a pleasant Saturday morning. Oh, and I volunteered Robert to help.

Our complex has just 12 units, so when things have to get done, one of us has to step up and coordinate. Normally, it involves calling a company out to take care of the job--cleaning the gutters, repairing a fence, hiring a new landscaper. Rarely does anyone actually do the work themselves. I figure that such a visible job as painting these curbs and saving my neighbors some dough would score me at least two years until it's my turn to take on another project.

Having inherited a bit of my dad's perfectionism, I decided to scrape off as much of the old paint as possible. This, I found, was most effectively done by hand with a metal scraping tool and a wire brush. Once I started, I couldn't stop. Well, I could stop. I got tired frequently and stopped. It rained for 40 days and 40 nights and I stopped. But I couldn't stop what I had started and admit that I had made this harder than it needed to be.

Neighbors walked by and saw me hunched over, scraping, dripping with sweat and proposed various methods that might be easier. One neighbor brought his electric sander out and tried it out on about 50 feet of curb. While a few flakes flung off, I'd describe it as more of a buffing than paint removal. At best, he created smooth, shiny, flaking paint. I thanked him for his contribution to the job, and later scraped his section again when he wasn't looking. Another neighbor pitched in, using a razor blade. His method was fairly effective, but after about two hours, he remembered he had somewhere to go.

The job was left half done for weeks because it rained nearly every day in April. If we had hired a company to do it, no doubt my neighbors would have been up in arms to see scraped curbs left unpainted for weeks. Yesterday, I had the day off, so I put in another four hours and today we finished the job. I have a whole new appreciation for the term "curb appeal."

I've been noticing how poorly maintained many fire lane curbs are. Even in our local swanky mall, the curbs are blackened with tire marks, chipped and flaky. The required 3-inch-high markings of "FIRE LANE" and "NO PARKING" in white lettering which are to be placed at intervals of no less than 50 feet are faded and illegible.

Last night, I dreamt of paint scraping. Paint was flaking off in large strips. I peeled and peeled until an entire wall of paint came off in one piece, giving me the kind of pleasure one gets in peeling an orange and ending up with one solitary piece of orange peel. You don't get pleasure from that? Oh. Maybe it's just me.

While I scraped, I tried to remember the last time I'd really had a hard day of back-breaking work. We don't have much of a backyard and what we have is really Robert's baby. It's been awhile. A masseuse recently commented on how smooth my feet and hands are, completely free of calluses. I recall as a kid that hands like that would be hidden in one's pocket for fear of being ridiculed by classmates who were up with the cows every day. I took pride in having summer jobs that gave me blisters, a farmer's tan, and a reason to wear cowboy boots without looking like a poser. Those days are long gone. I have a masseuse, for Pete's sake.

I also thought about going down to the local Home Depot and hiring one of the dozens of day workers who loiter in the parking lot, waiting for a job. I probably could have had the job done in one day. Unlike me, whoever I had hired probably would not have taken 30 minute breaks every 45 minutes. I'd probably have to pay less than $100. What a strange world we have created where I can pay a guy $100 to work under the hot sun for hours, while I made more than that sitting in a climate-controlled conference room on Thursday afternoon for a quarterly business review meeting where my primary responsibility was to sit and listen.

And I thought about the people who think that it is those willing workers outside of Home Depot who are ruining our economy. And all the people--including me--who take for granted all the hard working immigrants who mow our lawns, clean our dishes, mop our floors and paint our fire lane curbs. We have forgotten how hard a hard day's work really is, if we ever knew at all.

This most recent wave of anti-immigrant sentiment seems to have popped up out of nowhere. All of the sudden, "illegal immigration" has lurched into the top position of social concerns. With the president's ratings down and the Republicans fearing they'll lose one of the three branches of government they dominate, they're pulling out all the stops to create another wedge issue. No surprise. It's worked for them before (Look for the anti-gay marriage amendment to rear its ugly head again soon in a big way).

On May 1, an unknown number of immigrants are planning to skip work to protest proposed federal immigration policies. One of our local business owners is worried that he'll be left bussing tables at his restaurant, A.P. Stump's Chop House in San Jose. In the Mercury News, Mr. Stump said, "I told them I'd terminate them. If they strike, they'll shut me down. I'm loyal to them, giving them two weeks off if they have a baby or something, and that's not showing loyalty if I've got $30,000 in lost business.''

Wow. Two weeks off if they have a baby or something. What a prince. Never mind that the Family and Medical Leave Act requires larger employers to give 12 weeks of unpaid leave for having a baby or something. And how's their medical plan, Mr. Stump? They do get dental and vision, don't they? Do you contribute to their 401(K)? I didn't think so. But you are loyal, not firing them for having a baby and all.

While I plan to be at work on Monday, I'm glad I spend my day off doing some hard work, reminding myself how it is mostly luck that I have the opportunity to choose whether I ever want to work that hard again. Most of the people who will skip work on Monday are doing the best they can with the cards that they've been dealt. While I cringe at the way our economy exploits them, I am awfully glad they are here. In a couple of years, the curb is going to been to be painted again.

Tony Snow was not Bush's first choice

2006-04-27T22:39:00.000-07:00

Tony Snow from Fox News will soon take the place of Scott McClellan as the White House press secretary. Snow was not the president’s first choice however. Three other candidates turned down the offer.

The president’s top choice was the silver-tongued, former spokeswoman for the Bartlet Administration, CJ Cregg. When informed that Ms. Cregg is a fictional character on the television show The West Wing, the president was undeterred: “Living in a fictional world for nearly eight years can only be an asset to Ms. Cregg in this position.” After considering the offer, the character responded that she would turn down the offer to spend more time with her fake boyfriend from Thirtysomething.

Second on the list was perky, former Survivor contestant, Elisabeth Hasselbeck, who now sits on the sofa at The View. Turning down the offer, she said she would find the position stifling. “I prefer to keep doing what I’m doing, robotically echoing right-wing talking points every morning here on The View. Many more people listen to our ‘Hot Topics’ chats than ever watch those stale White House briefings."

“Plus,” she said, “We just lost Meredith to The Today Show. If were to leave, Ms. Walters would get really mad, and you don’t want to make Ms. Walters mad.”

Next on the list was Teller, the speechless half of the duo Penn & Teller. The Mute Community praised the offer as an encouraging gesture of inclusion. Teller had no comment on the job offer. Upon hearing of Teller’s non-reaction, the president offered to triple the salary. “He’s our man!”

An Epitaph for George W. Bush

2006-04-22T16:09:00.000-07:00

First the peaceniks said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a peacenik.

Then the liberals said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a liberal.

Then the international community said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was an American.

Then the traditional conservatives said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a traditional conservative.

Then the families of fallen soldiers said I was wrong, and I did not listen because there are no soldiers in my family.

Then the soldiers themselves said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a soldier.

Then the centrists said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a centrist.

Then the generals said I was wrong, and I did not listen because I was not a general.

Eventually, there was no one left to tell me I was right but myself.

-------------------------
"Unsuccessful in every effort to find a plausible pretext to attack Iraq, Bush has now conveniently redefined terrorism, and thus his next target, by alleging that selected nations produce 'weapons of mass destruction.' "
--Act Now to Stop War & Erase Racism (A.N.S.W.E.R.) in March, 2002.

"There is clearly a threat from Iraq, and there is clearly a danger, but the Administration has not made a convincing case that we face such an imminent threat to our national security that a unilateral, pre-emptive American strike and an immediate war are necessary. Nor has the Administration laid out the cost in blood and treasure of this operation."
--Senator Ted Kennedy, September, 27 2002.

"A military attack on Iraq is obviously criminal; completely inconsistent with urgent needs of the Peoples of the United Nations; unjustifiable on any legal or moral ground; irrational in light of the known facts; out of proportion to other existing threats of war and violence; and a dangerous adventure risking continuing conflict throughout the region and far beyond for years to come."
--Former U.S. Attorney General Ramsey Clark in a letter to the United Nations on Sept. 20, 2002.

"France will vote 'no' because she considers tonight that there is no reason to wage a war to reach the goal we set ourselves, that is the disarmament of Iraq."
--French President Jacque Chirac, March 10, 2003.

"The price of U.S. occupation of Iraq, the price of U.S. empire in the Muslim world, is terror. The Islamic terrorists of 9/11 were over here because we were over there. We were attacked by suicide bombers in New York for the same reason that our Marines were attacked by a suicide bomber in Beirut. We took sides in a religious civil war, their war, and they want us out of that war. The fifteen hijackers from Saudi Arabia did not fly into the World Trade Center to protest the Bill of Rights. They want us off sacred Saudi soil and out of the Middle East. Is there anything over there--oil, bases, empire--worth risking an atomic bomb on U.S. soil?"
--Patrick Buchanan in Where the Right Went Wrong, Sept. 1, 2004.

ÂThe reasons for war were wrong. They were lies. There were no WMDs. Al Qaeda was not there. And it was evident we couldnÂt force democracy on people by force of arms.Â
--Mike Hoffman, of Iraq Veterans Against the War, as quoted in Mother Jones, Oct. 11, 2004.

"We are losing our best and our brightest in a country that we are destroying, that was no threat to the United States of America. Iraq was and still is no danger to our safety and security, or to our way of life. The weapons of mass destruction and mass deception reside in this town: they are the neocons who pull the strings and the members of Congress who have loosened the purse strings with reckless abandon and have practically given George and company a blank check to run our country into monetary and moral bankruptcy."
--Cindy Sheehan, Sept. 15, 2005

"The argument for going to war with Iraq was based on intelligence that we now know was inaccurate. The information the American people were hearing from the president -- and that I was being given by our intelligence community -- wasn't the whole story. Had I known this at the time, I never would have voted for this war."
--Senator John Edwards, Nov. 13, 2005 in The Washington Post.
"I now regret that I did not more openly challenge those who were determined to invade a country whose actions were peripheral to the real threat--Al-Qaeda."
--Lieut. General Greg Newbold in Newsweek, April 17, 2006.

"...In the lead-up to the Iraq war and its later conduct, I saw, at a minimum, true dereliction, negligence and irresponsibility; at worst, lying, incompetence and corruption.
--Gen. Tony Zinni, former commander in chief of United States Central Command in The Battle For Peace.

What’s not to like about Senator Russ Feingold?

2006-04-16T23:17:00.000-07:00

Like most Americans, I hadn’t given much thought to Wisconsin Senator Russ Feingold. After he was first out of the gate to censure the president, he caught my attention—not because that was such a bold move, but because so few Democratic leaders joined his effort. I can’t fathom voting for a presidential candidate that wouldn’t support censuring Bush for ordering illegal wiretaps. Then on April 4, he came out in favor of marriage equality for gay and lesbian couples.

Who is this guy? A Democrat with conviction and the guts? That sounds like just what we’ve been looking for. A Democrat who doesn’t have the albatross of supporting the Iraq war before he opposed it hanging around his neck. A Democrat who didn’t have to write an op-ed piece to say that he was wrong to support the war on Iraq, because he wasn’t wrong. Hillary Clinton, Joe Lieberman, Tom Daschle, John Kerry and John Edwards were wrong, but Feingold was right all along. We ought to reward that kind of wisdom and discernment.

John Kerry must cry himself to sleep that he wasn’t the one who spoke these words in October 2002:

We are about to make one of the weightiest decisions of our time within a context of confused justifications and vague proposals. We are urged, Mr. President, to get on board and bring the American people with us, but we don't know where the ship is sailing.

Feingold spends a lot of time listening to Wisconsinites on the issues. He’s held nearly 1,000 “listening sessions.” With all that listening, he may be more in tune with Americans than all those Democratic senators who let him hang out to dry on the censure resolution would have us believe.

Here are some other reasons to like this guy:

After we got into the mess in Iraq, Feingold was the first Senator to call for a flexible timetable to get our military out of Iraq, a notion that has been building steam.
He’s long supported the Employment Non-Discrimination Act, which will finally prohibit discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity. Believe it or not, it’s still legal to discriminate against gays and lesbians in employment in 34 states.
My man Feingold helped balance the budget in the 90’s and now fights for a return to a budget discipline.
Feingold has fought for increased funding to combat AIDS, tuberculosis and malaria around the world.
What little the U.S. has done to address the genocide in Sudan has been largely due to Senator Feingold’s initiative.
Feingold cast the Senate's lone vote against the USA Patriot Act. Many of the concerns he had about infringing on precious liberties are now widely shared. Again, the man had the guts to go against the tide, standing on principle, even when it was unpopular at the time. He’s consistently ahead of the curve.

Bonuses:

Good hair
Good teeth
Doesn’t scream at rallies

And now a reality check.

Reasons our sorry electorate won’t elect Senator Russ Feingold in 2008:

He opposed the USA Patriot ACT.
He’s a Rhodes Scholar and Harvard-educated lawyer.
He opposes the death penalty.
He’s been divorced—twice.
He’s not Christian.

In God Many Of Us Trust

2006-04-13T00:55:00.000-07:00

Sure, it sounds innocuous enough. A plaque, funded entirely from donations, is placed at the Hawthorne, California city hall to commemorate the 50th anniversary of our nation's motto. How could anyone object?

Our national motto, though adopted only 50 years ago, has been printed on various U.S. coins since 1866. This motto is inscribed prominently on the dais of the U.S. House of Representatives. A simple resolution and a plaque sounds like a great way to commemorate an event of historical significance. It's a no brainer, right?

That motto, which you'll find now on every U.S. coin in your pocket, every bill in your wallet, is "In God We Trust." Those five words are so ubiquitous, they could hardly offend. To no surprise, the city council of Hawthorne, home of The Beach Boys, passed the resolution unanimously.

Examine the history of the motto may give one pause. Take 2006 and subtract 50 years and you can guess what was going on when Congress and Eisenhower decided to make "In God We Trust" the national motto. In the midst of the McCarthy communist witch hunt, atheism was equated with communism. That was the same decade "under God" was added to the Pledge of Allegiance and "so help me God" was tacked onto oaths of office.

Our original motto, E Pluribus Unum, is still on the Great Seal of the United States. That motto communicates unity--Out of many, one--and was chosen by Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and Benjamin Franklin. Remember that next time you hear a justification of the encroachment of religion in government with the claim that our forefathers would want it that way. Joseph McCarthy and Roy Cohn are not our nation's forefathers.

No, our forefathers did not put "In God We Trust" on our coins. The idea resulted from a request from Baptist minister Mark R. Watkinson, who in 1861 wrote to the Secretary of the Treasury to suggest that a religious motto be put on coins to "relieve us from the ignominy of heathenism." From the beginning, the motto had a clear religious meaning and purpose. Are you concerned yet?

Certainly, the fine members of the Hawthorne City Council aren't part of a vast conspiracy to theocratize our nation. Or, are they? The American Family Association is behind a campaign to get "In God We Trust" posters in every school as "a reminder of the historical centrality of God in the life of our republic." Yes, the AFA. The same AFA that rails against gay rights and boycotts Target for greeting shoppers with "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas." Now are you bothered?

Posters promoting religion in public schools is one thing, but how did this campaign jump to the Hawthorne City Council? For that, give credit to religious conservative Bakersfield Councilwoman, Jacquie Sullivan. It was Sullivan, founder of "In God We Trust America" who sent an e-mail to every city clerk in California about her goal to exhibit the motto in city buildings all over California. In the newspaper, The Record, she's said "God has always had an important place in our country. We are basically a country of believers, and this is something that's good for the future of our country."

Yes, basically a country of believers...except for those who aren't.

The idea for the motto originated during the Civil War with Baptist minister Mark R. Watkinson, who wrote to U.S. Secretary of the Treasury Salmon P. Chase on Nov. 13, 1861, suggesting the religious motto. Watkinson argued that a religious phrase on coins would "relieve us from the ignominy of heathenism."

The motto has passed legal muster because it does not promote a particular religion. But it does promote religion. With federal funding for faith-based service providers, "intelligent design" lessons in biology classes and a thousand other examples of the promotion of religion in the public square, we've lost the notion that the First Amendment protects Americans right to not express a religion.

It's not just the fact that not everyone believes in God. A lot of people may believe in a divine force behind the universe without believing that we all should "trust" that force to guide our puny lives. If President Bush hadn't trusted that God was guiding him, maybe he wouldn't have been so cocksure about invading Iraq. If he trusted in reason, maybe he wouldn't have stalled progress on stem cell research. If our fearless leader trusted in science more than a belief that the end times are near, maybe he would take global warming seriously.

We atheists and agnostics are not a popular bunch. Never mind the Buddhists, Hindus and various others whose ideas of deity do not fit the Judeo-Christian mold. But we have one of our founding fathers on our side. James Madison championed the separation church and state and warned of the tyranny of the majority oppressing the rights of minorities. The father of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights is with me on this. If Madison were sitting on the Hawthorne City Council, the Honorable Councilwoman Ginny Lambert's resolution would have had at least one quite eloquent dissenter.

"The purpose of separation of church and state is to keep forever from these shores the ceaseless strife that has soaked the soil of Europe with blood for centuries."

And,

"I believe there are more instances of the abridgement of freedom of the people by gradual and silent encroachments by those in power than by violent and sudden usurpations."

Be bothered.

My Chevy Tahoe Ad

2006-04-03T23:33:00.000-07:00

Lots of folks are having a ball creating their own Chevy Tahoe ad. As part of a promotion with The Apprentice, you (yes, you!) can create your own Chevy Tahoe ad using a collection of video clips. The fun part is you can add your own snarky text.

Well, I don't think my entry is in the running.

SoCo and WaMu? WhaTheHe!

2006-03-28T20:59:00.000-08:00

Giving yourself a hip nickname and hoping it catches on strikes me as a desperate act. What would you think if I went around calling myself Flash or El Guapo? When people started calling Ben Affleck BenLo and Bennifer, it was cute. If he had started calling himself BenLo, that would have been sort of sad.

These things are supposed happen organically. Only after "FedEx" had become a common verb did Federal Express change its name. Sure, KFC was eager to drop "fried" from its name, but everyone called it that by the time they changed their logo. Target has enough dignity not to play along with the French pronunciation (Tar-zhay) despite its popular usage.

So I reject Southern Comfort's attempt to re-brand itself as SoCo. I suppose they think drunks are struggling with the two extra syllables and they are losing market share to Jim Beam. Or maybe they're trying to make inroads in Yankee states. Did they even stop to check what soco means in Portuguese? (I did. It means punch as in blow, jab).

Their new ad must have aired six times during last week's SNL re-run. Ah, there's another one. We all call it SNL, but NBC generally uses the full name. Can you imagine? "L, from New York, it's SN!"

Even more hokey, Washington Mutual Bank now wants us to call it WaMu. Its new headquarters in Seattle is called the WaMu Center. As hip and now as WaMu might sound (see San Francisco's SoMa and New York City's SoHo), I'm not moving my accounts there.
I'll stick with BofA. And that's not "Bee of Aye" like most people call Bank of America. I pronounce it "BOE-FA." And if that catches on, I won't even mind if the bank starts using it too.

Newsflash: Live-in Nanny Was a Man

2006-03-23T22:33:00.000-08:00

The Today Show covered a story yesterday about a kidnapping in Tennessee. Erika Sadowski was arrested on Saturday after she was found with the two children, 15 hours after they were reported missing. Sadowski has lived with the family for the last five years, caring for the children.

About 800,000 children are reported missing in the United States every year. So why would The Today Show find this so newsworthy? The story is not newsworthy, but it is sensational. Ms. Sadowski, it turns out, is biologically male, but has lived as a woman for the past 20 years, which was news to the children's mother.

Like their staple scare stories about the next epidemic or unsafe cars, NBC seemed to be sending out a public service warning that she-males may be walking among us where we least suspect it. Watch out!

Unfortunately, making fun of transgender people is still fair game on network news, Felicity Huffman's Transamerica notwithstanding. The report likened Sadowski to Mrs. Doubtfire, showing clips from the 1993 comedy which has Robin Williams dressing in drag to land a nanny job caring for his own children. The local sheriff quipped, "Let's just say Robin Williams had a much better makeup artist."

The look on Katie Couric's face after the story finished seemed to say, "Screw this garbage. CBS Evening News, here I come." I may be giving her too much credit, but I just want to believe that she was disgusted at the insensitivity of the story.

The Knoxville NBC station seems to have zero understanding of transgender issues. "Edward Sadowski was arrested in Dyersburg over the weekend and was listed as Erika Sadowski at the time," the station reports, even though Sadowski legally changed her name to Erika 20 years ago. There's no evidence that Sadowski was out to deceive anyone or that she lived as a woman just to get a babysitting job. She's a transsexual, not a transvestite.

The Associated Press apparently has yet to distribute its new edition of the AP Stylebook to its own journalists. The 2006 edition has this new entry:

transgender Use the pronoun preferred by the individuals who have acquired the physical characteristics of the opposite sex or present themselves in a way that does not correspond with their sex at birth. If there preference is not expressed, use the pronoun consistent with the way the individuals live publicly.

Yet the AP story published in the Knoxville News Sentinel included this: "Sadowski apparently changed his name sometime around 1986 after being discharged from the U.S. Air Force after a 20-year career, according to a background check."

When someone is arrested for a heinous crime or discovered doing something stupid, few people rush to defend them against ridicule. There are a lot of idiots who are playing for my team that I would just as soon trade to other side. I could do without any association with conservative White House "reporter" and gay prostitute Jeff Gannon. Matt Lauer would have had to call him a limp-wristed sissy to get a rise from the gay community. Serial killers like Andrew Cunanan and "Monster" Aileen Wuornos did nothing to advance gay and lesbian acceptance. Maybe this is why I have yet to find any response to the Sadowski story from the transgender community.

Without defending the alleged crime, why is it so scandalous that Sadowski was not born a woman? The implication seems to be twofold: that transsexuals are unfit to care for children and that transsexuals are obligated to disclose their gender history lest they be deemed deceitful.

It's too bad so few people will ever see Transamerica. In it, Felicity Huffman's character, Bree, makes the point that, "Just because a person doesn't go around blabbing her entire biological history doesn't make her a liar." Throughout the film, we understand that Bree is just trying to live her life with dignity and authenticity.

Though it's none of anyone's business, Sadowski apparently has not undergone sexual reassignment surgery, though through hormone therapy, she has some feminine characteristics. Prison guards discovered this during a strip search. Given that she's been working as a nanny, I would conclude that she has never had the money to complete a gender reassignment surgery.

Nevertheless, she clearly identifies as a woman. The media should respect how she identifies her gender and leave the sensationalism to Jerry Springer. NBC owes the transgender community an apology.

Denial denied

2006-03-17T16:17:00.000-08:00

It's over. I can't fake it any longer. I'm amazed that I've been able to keep myself in the dark as long as I have. My ability to deny the obvious was stunning. The facts were right there blaring their ugly truth right at me.

Here's the ugly truth: my favorite burrito at ¡Una Más!, the Gallito, is killing me softly. Focusing on the tasty grilled chicken breast and the fresh tomato salsa, I had convinced myself that this little piece of heaven was an acceptable part of a healthy diet. Never mind the huge flour tortilla, the handful of jack cheese and the half-cup of guacamole.

Hey, it's not McDonalds or Taco Bell. Now that's junk food, I reasoned. There's no drive thru at ¡Una Más! No plastic toys to lure children. No meal deals or super-sizes. I perceive ¡Una Más! as wholesome, fresh, quasi-Mexican food.

The thing is I've been going down to my local ¡Una Más! Mexican Grill about once a week before heading to the gym where, as it turns out, I'm only burning enough calories to cover the first three bites of my precious Gallito.

After looking at the nutritional information, I found out that all this time I'd have been better off skipping the gym entirely and grabbing an 8-piece Chicken Tender from the BK.

As it turns out, if I'd chosen TWO cheeseburgers from In-N-Out Burgers, I'd still consume fewer calories. I could have the six-piece boneless spicy chicken wings from KFC and have fewer grams of fat.

990 calories.

Just under 1000, as if the restaurant cut ten calories in an attempt to enable my denial even further. No, the party is over. My Gallito is packing 60 grams of fat! More than the huge Costco muffins I've been avoiding for years. More than three slices of the Pizza Hut Meat Lovers pizza.

I know--everthing in moderation. But, the only way my Gallito can fit into a balance diet is if I take up marathon running or bulimia. That ain't going to happen.

Adios, dear, dear Gallito. I'll miss you.

More Abu Ghraib Atrocities Revealed

2006-03-16T00:16:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Salon.com posted the most complete yet of photos and videos documenting abuses at the Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq. Along with the now-familiar images are dozens of newly released ones taken over just a few weeks in 2003, illustrating just how sadistic conditions were. Salon.com concludes that the only thing unique about this collection may be that a trail of photographic evidence exists.

After they followed the trail of an odd liquid seeping under the locked door of a shower room, Corporal Charles Graner and Spc. Sabrina Harman found recently deceased Iraqi detainee, Manadel al-Jamadi, who died during a CIA interrogation hours before. Forget claims that these photos were used to intimidate other prisoners--these sick puppies snapped 30 photos of the dead guy on ice.

Their weirdness tends to obscure the disturbing questions about the prisoner's death. In the morning, the CIA stuck an IV in the corpse and wheeled him out to avoid calling the attention of Iraqi detainees and guards. As Salon.com reports, no one at the CIA has been prosecuted, even though al-Jamadi's death was ruled a homicide. Furthermore, to date no high-level U.S. officials have been brought to justice in a court of law for what went on at Abu Ghraib.

Just three days after her necrophilial photo session, Spc. Harman was forcing naked prisoners to form human pyramids. She only got a six month prison sentence while the infamous Pfc. Lynndie England got three years for her thumbs-up antics.

Meanwhile, Condoleezza Rice praised the budding democracy of Indonesia on Tuesday for its new commitment to human rights and stated, "Great democracies, like Indonesia and like the United States, cannot turn a blind eye to those who still live under oppression." I wonder how that talking point plays in Darfur and Chad these days given our country's tepid response to the genocide there.

The U.S. has a long way to go before regaining the moral authority to point out the human rights abuses of others. With an administration that refuses to rule out torture, that long journey isn't likely to begin any time soon.

Da Vinci Code: Truth or Fiction?

2006-03-08T23:45:00.000-08:00

If you're confused, just ask the Catholic League.

On Monday, the arch-conservative Catholic League, placed an ad in the New York Times, urging Ron Howard to put a disclaimer at the beginning of The Da Vinci Code noting that the movie is a fictional account. As a reward, the organization's far-right president, William A. Donohue got to appear on the Today Show on Wednesday.

After Donohue appeared on the Today Show last November and claimed that the Catholic Church's pedophilia problem could be resolved by routing out all the gay priests, I was surprised he'd get another invitation. I would have thought Mr. Donohue would be relegated to Fox News and The 700 Club where inflammatory, malicious rhetoric has found a cozy home.

For the movie's producers, the Times ad is nothing less than great publicity. Hell, Sony Pictures might just slap a "Coming This May" banner on top and run the ad a few more times themselves. Keep talking, Mr. Donohue, and we might be looking at a record opening weekend.

I read The Da Vinci Code just recently. I found it fascinating that there were many more than four gospels, more than four accounts of the life of Jesus. Mortal human beings ultimately decided which ones would make it into the New Testament. The novel says that some of those gospels portrayed Jesus as a wise, noble, but mortal man.

I don't know how much of Dan Brown's story is true--the fictional narrative is interspersed with some measure of historic truth--but it did inspire me to learn more about the historical Jesus and the early Church, beyond what has ended up in the Bible. Alas, the juicy proposition that Jesus and Mary Magdalene had a thing going on doesn't seem to hold water.

Donohue's gripe is that fable is mixed in with story lines that could be confused as fact. I understand his concern. Donohue is correct that "the consequences are real" when people are led to believe that a fable is incontrovertible fact. Indeed, graveyards around the world are filled with the fallen victims of zealotry rooted in fable. It follows that Donohue would agree that the Book of Genesis warrants a similar disclaimer, knowing all we know now.

The missing disclaimer may be why a majority of Americans believe that "God created man exactly how the Bible describes it" according to a Gallup report released Wednesday. How this majority explains away dinosaurs, carbon dating and fossil records is beyond me. Evolution needs its own set of evangelists. But those of us in the minority have better things to do with our time than to argue with people who start and end every philosophical argument with "I believe it because the Bible says it's so."

The pollster concludes that "several characteristics correlate with belief in the biblical explanation for the origin of humans. Those with lower levels of education, those who attend church regularly, those who are 65 and older, and those who identify with the Republican Party are more likely to believe that God created humans 'as is,' than are those who do not share these characteristics."

I have no doubt that humans have evolved, but it looks like the process has come to an abrupt halt.

New poll: Bush's Job Approval at All-Time Low

2006-02-27T23:21:00.000-08:00

Cheney only slightly more popular than bird flu

We thought it couldn't happen. We thought Bush could count on 37 percent of Americans supporting him no matter how miserably he performed. But with the UAE port deal and more bad news coming out of Iraq, even conservatives are turning on the president. This week, his approval rating slipped to 34 percent.

The CBS headline writers' biggest challenge is finding a new way to announce that Bush's ratings are continuing to sink.

Today: "Bush Ratings At All-Time Low"
Jan 26, 2006: "Poll: Bush's Approval Remains Low"
Nov. 3, 2005: "Bush's Job Approval Hits New Low"
Oct. 6, 2005: "Poll: Bush Ratings Hit New Low
June 16, 2005: "Bush's Approval Ratings Stay Low"
April 18, 2005: "Poor Marks For Bush, Congress"
May 24, 2004: "Worst Poll Numbers Ever For Bush"
May 12, 2004: "Bush Ratings Fall Amid Iraq Woes"
Jan, 17, 2004: "Poll: Bush's Approval Sinking"
Oct. 2, 2003: "Poll: Bush Ratings Fall Further"
Sept. 17, 2003: "Poll: Bush Iraq Rating At New Low"

Bush's only consolation is that only 18 percent of Americans have a favorable opinion of his sidekick, Dick Cheney. I figured the vice president would enjoy 20 percent support no matter what he did, short of getting drunk and shooting Republican septuagenarian lawyers.

For some perspective on how miserable those ratings are, consider that 17 percent of blacks had a favorable opinion of Michael "heckuva job" Brown a week after Katrina hit. And when President Richard Nixon resigned, his approval rating stood at 24 percent.

Let me repeat that: Nixon was more popular when he resigned than Dick Cheney is today.

It's raining cats and blogs

2006-02-26T11:07:00.000-08:00

Trevor Butterworth in the Financial Times:

The vast wasteland of verbiage produced by the relentless nature of blogging is the single greatest impediment to its seriousness as a medium. . . It renders the word even more evanescent than journalism; yoked, as bloggers are, to the unending cycle of news and the need to post four or five times a day, five days a week, 50 weeks of the year, blogging is the closest literary culture has come to instant obsolescence. . . a virtual tomb for a billion posts.

Ouch. That dude is NOT going on my blogroll.

A happy birthday greeting from eHarmony

2006-02-26T09:07:00.000-08:00

Date:	Sun, 26 Feb 2006 09:08:30 -0800 (PST)
From:	"marty grimes"
Subject:	Re: Birthday Greeting from eHarmony.com
To:	usersupport@eHarmony.com

Dear Dr. Warren,

Thank you for the birthday greeting. However, I
question the sincerity of your sentiment given that
you do not offer your matching services to gay and
lesbian people.

But that's OK. You have every right to exclude people
seeking a same sex relationship. After I read that you
have had strong ties to James Dobson and Focus on the
Family, I shudder to think how you would mangle the
lives of any gay or lesbian single that did sign up
for your service.

Though I doubt that you care, I do have love and
companionship to celebrate, no thanks to you.

Truly,

Marty

--- userservices@eharmony.com wrote:

> Dear Marty,
>
> All of us at eHarmony want to wish you a HAPPY
> BIRTHDAY!  We think it is important, on your special
> day, to reach out and tell you how proud we are to
> be involved with you.  It's exciting to contemplate
> the strong likelihood that in the coming months
> you'll have even more love and companionship to
> celebrate.
>
> Thanks for being a part of eHarmony and for taking
> so many positive steps toward finding your soul
> mate.  If you have any questions or comments, please
> contact us at usersupport@eHarmony.com.
>
> In the meantime, I hope this birthday is your best
> one yet.
>
> Neil Clark Warren
> eHarmony Founder

In Search for an Analogy for Iraq's Pending Civil War

2006-02-23T23:19:00.000-08:00

When I try to make sense of the world I often turn to analogies. Law, psychology, science and the blogosphere all rely heavily on the use of analogy. I'm constantly grasping for an good visual analogy to illustrate a point. For example, to help illustrate his character, I liken Karl Rove to the nearly indestructible, evil Agent Smith in the Matrix films.

So, I naturally look for an analogy to grasp the continuing debacle in Iraq. Now that Sunnis are blowing up sacred Shi'ite shrines and Shi'ites are responding by blowing up Sunni shrines, I think this might just be a really good time to call it a day and go home. The country is on the brink of civil war, and it's rarely a good move to get caught in the middle of somebody else's civil war. The analogy is this: It's like when you go to a couple's house for dinner, and before you can even hand over your bottle of merlot, you sense that they were fighting before you got there.

At first you notice the somber moods and then some icy stares between the two. They start saying snide things to each other over dinner. You compliment the new leather sofa and one of them says, "Thank you. I'm glad somebody likes it." And the other one says, "Well, somebody forgot that we have a cat so enjoy the couch now because within the week, it'll look like it'd been on a quail hunting trip with Dick Cheney." (Note the bonus analogy within an analogy.)

Then after awhile, things go from bad to worse. "Fred" explodes and screams that "Alice" can go to Hell. Alice responds by throwing her wine glass across the table, pegging Fred in the cheekbone and splattering your shirt with merlot.

What do you do? You stand up, stretch your arms, look at your watch and exclaim, "Gee, it's getting awfully late. We better get going. Thanks so much for having us." And you're out the door.

Iraq is just like that. OK, maybe not exactly like that.

We weren't exactly invited guests to Iraq. Despite continuing violence and unrest, most Iraqis are eager for the U.S. military to go away: Almost a quarter of Shi'ites want the U.S. military out in six months, another half want a gradual withdrawal over the next two years. A whopping 83% of Sunnis favor withdrawal within six months. Adjusting my analogy, Shi'ite Fred protests little when you announce it's time to go. Sunni Alice has been standing by the door holding up your coats for you since before the bruschetta was served.

To further alter my analogy, Fred and Alice might be arguing, but they are united in their disdain for you. Among Shi'ites, 41% approve of attacks on U.S.-led forces on Iraq. Almost nine of every 10 Sunnis support such attacks. Alice may chuck a wine glass at Fred, but she's got a hefty bucket full of wine glass shards by her side with your name on them.

But, who are we kidding? Fred and Alice aren't married. They despise each other and always have. They are like Richard Dreyfuss and Marsha Mason in The Goodbye Girl. (I know it's an obscure old movie, but my TiVo just recorded it for me over the weekend, so work with me.) Elliot and Paula are forced to live together in New York City after Paula's boyfriend dumps her and sublets the apartment to Elliot without her knowledge.

So the Sunnis and Shi'ites are like Elliot and Paula. If you found yourself in their midst during one of their shouting matches, and if Paula were to stomp a hole into Elliot's guitar, your instinct would be to leave post haste, but you might also try to help restore peace by offering to pay for Elliot to get a new guitar, especially if you were responsible for much of their woes. In all-too-rare positive gesture, this is, in effect, what the U.S. has done in offering to help restore the holy sites.

But unlike the predictable ending to The Goodbye Girl, these two will never break down and fall in love. Ultimately, that analogy blows.

OK, I've got it. The Shi'ites and the Sunnis are like bitter prison cell mates, forced to live within inches of one another in squalid quarters. Their tempers are short and if the other so much as sneezes the wrong way, fists will fly. And this is no Kiss of the Spider Woman prison story where the two end up falling in love.

When the inevitable battle ensues, the last place you want to be is in the cell with them. You might stand outside the cell and intervene if things get really ugly, provided you can do so without getting yourself maimed in the process. That's the Congressman John Murtha strategy--get out of Iraq now and stage a small force in Kuwait.

Alas, my analogy is still far-fetched, disregarding the fact that the ill-conceived U.S. invasion is responsible for most of the chaos. Instead, I think I'll go with Murtha's, as he laid it out on 60 Minutes in January:

"That election of course is being trumpeted as being so important to democracy. When I came back from Vietnam in 1967, they had an election. It was supposed to set the stage. It was supposed to legitimize the government, if you remember. And we lost 38,000 people after that. Now, I don't say that this has the same intensity and that we're gonna lose 38,000 people. But I'm just saying there's a lot more things have to be done if you're going to have a democratic government," says Murtha.

Vietnam is not a perfect analogy, but as we find ourselves in the middle of a potential civil war, it seems more relevant, and cautionary, than ever.

Sarah Vowell's pessimism deficit

2006-02-19T14:04:00.000-08:00

Now, I've got to figure the New York Times is serious about getting people to pay to read the excellent writing of Sarah Vowell, since it's locked up in a section of their website dubbed TimesSelect. I'm not one to scoff at copyright laws, so I couldn't bring myself to reprint it here without permission.

Fortunately, fbihop op-eds holds no such scruples. Enjoy.

Let's Make a Deal or No Deal!

2006-02-17T22:24:00.001-08:00

NBC has a new hit with the game show "Deal or No Deal" with host Howie Mandel. When it returns on Feb. 27, the show will air five days a week.

Modeled after "Let's Make a Deal" without any goofy costumes and purse scavenger hunts, "Deal or No Deal" distills the game show format to the core attraction, pure chance.

Contestants choose one of 26 briefcases. As each round progresses, the contestants choose whether to stick with their suitcase, which contains a hidden amount of money, or a cash prize offered by the "bank."

"There's no skill," Mandel said. "You can be a rock and move into another cash bracket."

Contestants are encouraged to ask friends or family in the audience for advice as they play. I suppose the dialogue goes like this:

Contestant: Howie, I'd like to consult my Aunt Ramona.

Howie (in a little kid's voice): OK, Aunt Ramona, what say you?

Aunt Ramona: Billy, I think you should choose briefcase number 12. I feel really strongly that that's the one with the million dollars.

Contestant: How sure are you, Aunt Ramona?

Aunt Ramona: I'm 85 percent sure that it's briefcase number 12.

No more tedious trivia questions, pricing games or word puzzles. Finally, a game show that gives prizes as randomly as a slot machine. Add in a comic who used to be funny and 26 female models holding briefcases and America is sold! Honey, pop us some corn, cancel the gym membership--we've got us some Must See TV.

Emboldened by the show's success, NBC has cleared away queued up mid-season replacement shows for a new slate of intriguing game shows.

On Tuesdays, watch for the debut of "Flip A Coin" with host Joe Piscopo.

Wednesdays at 9, don't miss Suzanne Somers hosting "Eenie Meanie Miney Moe."

On Thursdays, ER has been abruptly cancelled to make room for an exciting new show with Daisy Fuentes called "Pick a hand."

Finally, your Friday nights won't be complete without an hour of "Win, Lose, or Draw a Straw" with your host, Nick Lachey.

John Kerry's Greatest Asset: Millions of E-mail Addresses

2006-02-16T10:28:00.000-08:00

Every few weeks, an e-mail from John Kerry pops up in my inbox. They're always the same. He rants about the Bush Administration and touts his own initiatives in the Senate. Every letter ends with a handy "Make a Contribution" button. I haven't hit that button since the 2004 election.

Sure, I donated to the Kerry campaign in 2004 and spent the last four days of the campaign in Vegas helping to get out the vote. But that was then. Kerry does a lot of things I like, but he wasn't my first choice. He was what we were stuck with, and I would have campaigned for a lawn chair, if that was the only chance we had to beat Bush/Cheney.

After the 2000 election, Al Gore wisely took a long vacation, grew a scraggly beard, gorged on Haagen Dazs, and sank into relative oblivion for a few years. As he emerged from whatever banyan tree he'd been sitting under, Gore found his voice, ripping into the Bush Administration on MLK Day, to broad acclaim.

Kerry hardly took a nap before he started campaigning for 2008. He's now far from my first choice, and I don't want to do anything to encourage the guy. The sad thing is he still thinks we're buddies.

So this morning, he IM'd me, and I finally laid it all out for him.

kerry2008: you there?
etnaboy: Yeah, what's up?
kerry2008: have you been getting my e-mails?
etnaboy: Sure have.
kerry2008: you've never responded.
etnaboy: Well, it's not like they're just to me.
kerry2008: i know! i've got 3 million email addresses. isn't that great?
etnaboy: Yes, John, that's super.
kerry2008: how come you never donate? we used to be so close.
etnaboy: Yeah, about that.
kerry2008: whatever happened to us?
etnaboy: Remember Million Dollar Baby?
kerry2008: yeah.
etnaboy: Remember how Clint Eastwood was all excited about training a promising boxer until the boxer dumped him? And Clint was left with no one to train? And then Hilary Swank came along, and begrudgingly, Clint eventually agrees to train her and gives her his all?
kerry2008: yeah?
etnaboy: Well, you and I are like that. Except that Hilary Swank actually won some fights.
kerry2008: and that promising boxer, was that Howard Dean?
etnaboy: Bingo.
kerry2008: but then she got smacked up and Clint had to help her end her life.
etnaboy: You've got it.
kerry2008: so you're saying i should just pull the plug on this campaign?
etnaboy: I do support euthanasia.
kerry2008: oh, ic.
kerry2008: can't you just give me one more chance.
etnaboy: Dude, I've gotta go.
kerry2008: Pleeeeeze???
etnaboy: John, don't beg. It's pathetic.

-kerry2008 has logged off.-

Tags: John Kerry, Democrats, 2008 election.

Welcome "Best Gay Blogs" readers

2006-02-15T20:06:00.000-08:00

Best Gay Blogs linked to here today, so while you're here, let me point you to some older posts you might like better than some of the drivel I've written lately.

I'm a bit obsessed with Brokeback Mountain, but I'm not alone in this:

A Brokeback moment at 35,000 feet

Y'all might appreciate how I would have changed Ennis and Jack's awkward sex scene (my one and only attempt at erotica):

"Jesus Christ, quit hammerin and get over here. Bedroll's big enough," said Jack in an irritable sleep-clogged voice. It was big enough, warm enough, and in a little while they deepened their intimacy considerably. Ennis lumbered into the tent and plopped on the bedroll and finally dozed off, grateful for the warmth emanating from Jack's body. Unable to find a fitful sleep with Ennis lying so close to him, Jack was groggily aware that Ennis's leg had entwined between his own. With sleepiness and the haze of whiskey still clouding his judgment, Jack seized Ennis's hand and brought it to his erect cock. Ennis jerked his hand away as though he'd touched fire and pulled his leg out from between Jack's calves. Jack, fully awake now, fretted silently that he'd committed an unforgivable trespass that would ruin everything. But the fire in Ennis's own loin had been ignited. Moments passed, and Ennis, shaking with nerves, took Jack's hand to the bulge in his jeans. Jack held his hand still there, astonished to sense Ennis fumbling with his own belt buckle and pulling his pants down. Freed from the terror that his earlier overture had been unwelcome, Jack worked Ennis like he'd done to himself many a night up on the mountainside alone, peering down at Ennis's campfire below. Ennis reciprocated, albeit in a frantic manner, as if in a rush to finish the deed before he could come to his senses. They went at it in silence except for a few sharp gasps, then out, asleep.

You should know, I'm not a size queen, but small things bug me.

And finally, something about my insecurities:

Weight just a second!

Trigger Happy Cheney's Friendly Fire Incident

2006-02-13T10:48:00.000-08:00

Vice President Dick Cheney accidently shot and wounded a companion, Harry Wittington, during a quail hunting trip in Texas Saturday. The owner of the ranch hosting the quail shoot reported that Cheney was not aware his companion was approaching when he swung around to take a shot at a quail.

"The vice president didn't see him," said Katherine Armstrong, an owner of the property, in an interview. "The covey flushed and the vice president picked out a bird and was following it and shot. And by god, Harry was in the line of fire and got peppered pretty good."

The White House said nothing about the incident until Sunday, after it was reported by the local newspaper, leaving the spin duties to an appropriately distanced, but clearly prepped, Katherine Armstrong (interview video) whose talking points included the following (counter points in parentheses):

It's not Cheney's fault. Mr. Whittington approached Cheney from behind without announcing himself. (Anyone who has been through a hunter safety course knows that the guy shooting is responsible for making sure there's nothing in the way--I don't recall hearing that it's OK to swing around to shoot something that has flown behind you.)
Mr. Whittington is doing fine. 'Tis but a scratch. Just a flesh wound. (Then why was he in intensive care and is still in the hospital?)
This kind of thing happens all the time. Armstrong herself says she's been "pretty well peppered" herself. (The Houston Chronicle reports that there were only 24 hunting related accidents in Texas in 2004. "Peppering" sounds so innocuous and innocent. Peppering is what you do to a mound of potatoes. You won't hear anyone under the White House's spell refer to this as a "shotgun blast into the chest and face.")
The vice president is a safe, conscientious hunter. (Apparently, not so much.)
Turn on the folksy. Preferred interjections: Gee Willikers. Gosh Whiz. Oopsy daisy. By God.

Since I have a totally inexplicable bonus holiday today and you are at work, I thought the least I could do was compile the funniest observations so far:

From Almost Infamous: "It broke the skin," she said of the shotgun pellets. "It knocked him silly. But he was fine. He was talking. His eyes were open. It didn't get in his eyes or anything like that." WTF, lady??? it's a shotgun blast, not a medicated shampoo.

From Gislebertus: You know, Dick Cheney is the first sitting Vice President to shoot another person since Aaron Burr shot Alexander Hamilton. Harry Whittington is in pretty good company, but I doubt he's going to make the ten dollar bill.

The Apiary came to Cheney's defense: Pump one elderly man with a chestful of lead and suddenly everyone's on your case. Lay off, America!

Dania Audix has a top ten excuse list for why Cheney shot that guy. I like number 9: Warrantless domestic spying revealed he was getting phone calls from al Qaeda.

MovieDan82 says: Vice President Dick Cheney almost killed a man on Saturday when he sprayed an elderly hunting partner in the face with birdshot. I'm telling you, Cheney is a loped out gangsta set trippin' banger, and his homies is down so don't arouse his anger...fool.

Another top ten list includes: 4. Was trying to impress Jodie Foster.

No More Mr. Nice Blog managed five additional reasons including: 2. Documents published in an Italian newspaper claimed that Whittington had once attempted to obtain edible seeds from Niger.

Tags: Dick Cheney, shotgun, Armstrong, quail

Prospects for the next gay blockbuster movie

2006-02-09T23:02:00.000-08:00

Now that mainstream movie audiences have finally begun to acquire a taste for intriguing gay love stories, what will be the next film to ride the coattails of Brokeback Mountain? We can look forward to a future of decent gay themed films--not like some of those crappy low-budget art house films that I used to feel obligated to see just because they were gay themed.

Unfortunately, it's going to take awhile before any make it to the local megaplex. Few, if any, gay-themed movies are currently in the pipeline.

As Brokeback Mountain approaches the $100 million mark in worldwide box office returns, screenplays long sitting on the shelf now have a chance of getting produced.

The best prospect seems to be Peter Lefcourt's The Dreyfus Affair, a story of two major league baseball players who fall in love and the scandal that ensues when their affair is discovered. The Advocate optimistically reported--way back in 1998--that the popular novel was bound to become a feature film. Now the project may actually get the long-awaited green light.

Thanks to the fact that attitudes in pro sports have hardly progressed, the story is just as plausible today as it was more than a decade ago when the novel was written. Lefcourt's website offers the following synopsis:

Very loosely based on "The Dreyfus Affair" in France, this is the story of the love affair between the star shortstop and second baseman of a major league baseball team and how organized baseball deals with this public relations Chernobyl.

Randy Dreyfus is a blond, blue eyed, six-foot-four-inch future Hall of Famer with The Los Angeles Valley Vikings, an expansion team in, at the time the book was written, the near future. He is married to a former Miss California, Susie Dreyfus, has two twin-eight-year old daughters, a hyperactive Dalmatian named Calvin, whom he puts a contract out on in a fit of madness, and a 5600 square foot house in the San Fernando Valley.

Everything is wonderful in Randy's life until he falls in love with his second baseman, D.J. Pickett, an African American gay man, who has spent his life in the closet. Randy does his best to deny his feelings, secretly consulting an Egyptian psychiatrist, who counsels him to just go with the pitch. Eventually he does, and manages to live a dangerous life trying to hide his affair with D.J. while staying married to Susie and hit over 300.

Randy and D.J. eventually get caught by a hidden surveillance camera kissing in a Neiman-Marcus changing booth in Dallas. When this picture is made public, America is shaken with a scandal that rivals the real Dreyfus Affair a hundred years ago in France.

The affair is the biggest story in America -- cluttering the tabloids and the talk shows. Its worst nightmare come true, Organized Baseball goes into extreme damage control mode by trying to explain Randy and D.J.'s love affair as a substance abuse problem. The media circus continues, reaching its climax when a hard-boiled reporter named Milt Zola, smelling a hoax, exposes baseball by writing the present day version of Emile Zola's J'Accuse!.

While this sounds like a great story, the close parallels to Brokeback Mountain might brand the project as simply a copycat. But rather than a heartbreaking story, this would be a romantic comedy. I'll pick up the book soon and promise to post a review.

My early casting choices are Brad Pitt (since he's suddenly apparently itching to play gay, though he'll need to wear elevator cleats) opposite Taye Diggs. You heard it here first.

Don't look at this filthy smut! Right here. Don't look!

2006-02-08T23:53:00.000-08:00

Donald Wildmon and his American Family Association are so disgusted at a stripper scene on NBC's show, Las Vegas, that they urge followers to file complaints with the FCC.

And then they helpfully offer a direct link to see the highly offensive smut. I wonder how many times Wildmon had to watch the loop to become sufficiently offended.

NBC Does It Again! Vulgar, Tasteless, Indecent Scene Part Of Network Program

We Urge You To File A Formal Complaint With The FCC

The February 6 episode of NBC's Las Vegas contained a scene inside a strip club. The content of that scene was extremely graphic. We have provided a video of the scene below.

NBC aired this scene during prime-time hours when they knew millions of children would likely be watching. But NBC didn't care if they exposed children to this kind of material. Please take action below and help us help our children.

The FCC has several new commissioners who have spoken out about the content of some television programs. They have invited the public to send them their complaints.

Rather than trying to describe it to you, I would rather you watch it yourself. After watching the video, please follow the instructions to file your official complaint with the FCC. It will only take a couple of minutes to file the complaint. Do it for your children and grandchildren. After you file your complaint, please forward this to friends and family.

WARNING: This scene taken from the NBC program Las Vegas is highly offensive.

Click here to watch the scene.

Click Here To File Your Complaint Now!
If you think our efforts are worthy of support, would you make a small contribution to AFA by clicking here .

Thanks for caring enough to get involved.
Sincerely,
Don
Donald E. Wildmon, Founder and Chairman
American Family Association

More good times in Kauai

2006-02-06T00:33:00.001-08:00

This is the view of Waimea Canyon, the "Grand Canyon of the Pacific." Can you tell we were regretting that we forgot our windbreakers? It's 3,500 feet above sea level here.

If you've seen a Kauai wall calendar, you've seen this view of the Na Pali coast from the Kalalau Lookout.

We saw no one else along the poorly maintained Honopu Trail, but saw and heard helicopters all day. We almost got lost for a bit there. We could have used some additional clothing too.

The view of the Na Pali Coast from the end of the Honopu Trail, a 3,000 foot drop to the Honopu Beach below:

Yesterday, we took a boating trip that was supposed to go around the Na Pali Coast. Unfortuantely, the ocean was too rough, but the captain had a great time putting the sails up in the catamaran and sailing us almost to Ni'ihau, the forbidden island. We saw plenty of humpback whales, bottlenosed dolphins, spinner dolphins, sea turtles and seasick passengers (Thankfully, I took Dramamine).

Today we went Kayaking on the Wailua River:

And hiked about a mile up (those leaves are really almost as big as Robert)...

...to the Secret Falls.

Aloha from Kauai

2006-02-02T21:30:00.000-08:00

Here we are at the bottom of Opeaka'a Falls. We'd never have tried it without the guidance of the Ultimate Kauai Guidebook. We were alone there the whole time.

Today we snorkeled at Po'ipu Beach and we're off to the Beach House Restaurant for dinner.

It's Robert's birthday.

On our first full day, we hiked the Na Pali Coast from Ke'e Beach four miles up and down to Hanakapi'ai Falls. Though it was a great hike, I think Robert may have already had his fill of long hikes.

We saw many of these wild orchids along the way.

A Brokeback moment at 35,000 feet

2006-01-30T15:02:00.000-08:00

I am writing this 35,000 feet above the Pacific, listening to my new Brokeback Mountain soundtrack with my POG (Passionfruit-Orange-Guava juice). Those striking guitar chords slay me, but I'm disappointed they left out "QuizÃ¡s," the song playing when Jack goes to JuÃ¡rez for a quickie.

Two rows ahead of us is a gay couple, one black, one white. I pegged them as gay when they stuffed their matching blue backpacks in the overhead compartment. Both are pushing 275 pounds. I see that the black guy has flung his meaty arm around his partner's shoulder, a somewhat startling public display of affection in such a mixed crowd. But no one is going to mess with these two guys. Besides, it's unlikely that anyone has smuggled a tire iron on board.

I don't know where I've been, but since when is same-sex affection so acceptable in public? It's the third time in a week I've seen it in the most mainstream of places. On Saturday, as I was entering Oakridge Mall on my way to see Brokeback Mountain with two straight women who hadn't seen it yet (my third time), I saw two young women confidently holding hands. And last week, I saw two guys at Santana Row, one with his hand in the back pocket of the other. That's something I often see in the gay ghetto, but not in San Jose.

I wonder if Brokeback Mountain is behind all of this or have I just been oblivious. Feeling the lifelong anguish of Ennis Del Mar, one leaves the theater determined to never let societal bigotries strip one of the ability to love and be loved. Tracy and Shirley were both sniffing throughout the movie, regretting that they only had the with harsh napkins from the concession stand to dab their tears with. Both came out of the theater saying they were choking back the urge to bawl out loud. Tracy said she hadn't cried like that since Beaches. She couldn't imagine what life would be like if she couldn't be with her husband, Rock.

Looking back at my first review of BBM, I have half a mind to delete it. I missed so much. Now I get it. For someone who was bored with The English Patient and thought the best thing about Titanic was the digital graphics, not the love story, it takes me awhile. Ennis's love for Jack seems more tender now. The wrenching pain Jack feels when he can't be with Ennis now hits home. It's gone from a one- to a four-tissue movie.

As Ang Lee collected another big trophy from the directors guild (and again, neglected to thank his long-time fishing buddy), and newspapers report that the big story about the SAG awards is that BBM didn't win it all, I am feeling we're in the vortex of a significant, beautiful, revolutionary cultural shift. "I wish I knew how to quit you" it's been said, is the "You had me at hello" phrase of the decade.

Straight women, as I admonished them, are struggling to drag their boyfriends and husbands to see the movie. Small town newspaper critics are reviewing the movie, and from what I can tell, most of them like it, even in the red states. Are we, as a culture, beginning to grow up? Before the movie came out, I lowered my expectations that a movie could change the world. Over the last few weeks, my optimism has crept up again. With so many interesting stories to tell, many more good movies are bound to be made after this.

Each time I've seen the movie, I've been encouraged by audience reactions. During the intimate moments with Ennis and Jack, the theater has been silent, not a groan--not like the squirming I remember when Tom Hanks danced with Antonio Banderas in Philadelphia, and none of the fidgeting and guffawing when Tom Selleck kissed Kevin Kline in In and Out.

I can't count how many times I've held back, even subconsciously, in expressing affection for Robert. It's programmed into my psyche. I've been coming out for 14 years now, but I still act as though my love still needs to be hidden, even in the progressive San Francisco Bay Area. From a colleague's wedding where we danced together, but were quick to wander off for a drink during any slow songs, afraid we'd make a scene, to the uneasiness I still feel when going to the chekcout counter with a "To the Man I Love" Valentine's Day card, I realize there's still a little Ennis left in me.

Well, this trip is Robert's first in Hawaii. He's been waiting for the right person to go with. Finally, it is the right time, and damn, if were not going to walk hand-in-hand along the beach and watch some sunsets together.

I swear.

Ancient Chinese Secret

2006-01-29T20:51:00.000-08:00

My mom is here tonight with some of her nursing colleagues. They're going to a training tomorrow here in town. Right now they're talking about some patient's anus and something about a colostomy. I'm trying desperately to tune it out.

We went out to PF Chang's for dinner. When the group said they wanted Chinese food, I figured they would all prefer one that serves Chinese food intended for the non-Chinese gourmand. We've got plenty of authentic Chinese restaurants around here. Although the Americanized version really does appeal to my non-Chinese palate, I tend to choose restaurants that have specials scrawled in Chinese on pink paper taped to the walls and actual Chinese diners.

Last night, Robert and I went to another "Chinese" restaurant, the Mandarin Gourmet. We craved Chinese food and weren't in a part of town where we could actually get some of the real stuff. I've eaten there before with work colleagues, and warned Robert, who is Filipino, that patrons might mistake him for a waiter since I rarely see any Asians eating there. I doubt you could find a chicken claw or a baby bok choi anywhere in that building outside of some waiter's own lunch bag.

But the non-Asian folks eat it up. The lobby has several awards from mainstream newspapers hanging from the wall in the foyer. Readers of the San Jose Mercury News voted it the best Chinese Restaurant in Silicon Valley in 2002.

This kind of award usually scares me off. That people voted for this restaurant more than any other only means that a majority of Merc readers like Americanized, sugary, deep-fried quasi-Chinese food. I'm sure this readers' poll also chose the Olive Garden for best Italian food and Chevy's for the best Mexican food.

It's the same kind of mass appeal that gave us the likes of John Kerry: safe, but as bland as plain yogurt. I look out for more of a "Dennis Kucinich" type of restaurant, a joint that appeals only to a select, discerning few.

I wonder how many Mandarin Gourmet patrons think they're oh-so-cosmopolitan and hip to enjoy this authentic Chinese experience and can even pick up a honey walnut prawn with chopsticks, not realizing that it's all a toned-down show, like an Epcot Center re-creation, designed for people who probably would turn their nose at what Chinese folks actually eat.

Mandarin Gourmet carries the charade so far as to include the Chinese characters next to each menu item. Or at least, that's what they'd like us to think. I have a feeling these characters are actually secret messages for the few Chinese folks who wander in unaware. The characters next to "Sweet and Sour Pork" probably mean "Avoid this Sticky, Gooey Mess" and the translation for "Cashew Chicken" is "If your non-Chinese friends brought you here to show how eclectic they are, just try to choke this dish down smile. It'll be over soon." I hear they can get a lot into those little characters.

Mom brought birthday gifts for Robert and me. Robert got his very own Westinghouse SweepEze Vacuuming Dustpan. I'm thrilled.

Note: I probably won't be updating the blog this week. Robert and I are heading for Kauai on Monday. And then later in February, there's a good chance I'll be spending three weeks in New Orleans to provide communications assistance for a coalition of several California water agencies that will help the local water agency restore service.

Transbahrain?

2006-01-25T22:58:00.000-08:00

Michael Jackson was spotted in Bahrain, kids in tow, wearing a veil and the black robe traditionally worn by women in the Persian Gulf. We're all weary of Michael Jackson's strangeness, but before you judge, consider that Jackson might be taking healthy steps to complete his transition to womanhood. Was it just a convenient disguise or has he finally come to terms with the fact that his gender identity does not match the body he was born with?

Most of us have known Jackson is transgender for years. Back when he made that video statement where he talked about the humiliation of the police taking photos of his penis, I think we all had the same reaction--Jackson has a penis? And if he does, it just doesn't seem that it belongs there. Despite the permanent makeup, the feminine hairdos, the frilly wardrobe and extensive "Make me look like Janet" surgeries, it seems like he is the last person to figure this out.

Before undergoing a sex change, I understand that a person has to live full time in their new gender for a year or more. I would think Bahrain would be one of the least accepting places for a man would to live as a woman. But when you're also the world's most famous pedophiles, your options are limited.

Many will roll their eyes that Jackson has once again managed to surprise us with his weirdness. But, I think living authentically in his true gender identity is one of the healthiest things he could do to put his life back together.

Gay actor stars in End of the Spear

2006-01-24T22:08:00.000-08:00

Sure, gay actors can play straight, but can they play Christian?

A new movie that came out last weekend, End of the Spear, co-stars Chad Allen who used to be a cute kid on the TV show Our House with Wilford Brimley and Diedre Hall in the 1980s. Now he's all grown up and openly gay. And that has some Christians withholding their support of the film, which chronicles the true story of Mincayani, a Waorani tribesman from Ecuador and what happens after five Christian missionaries are speared to death.

From the San Francisco Chronicle:

The Rev. Jason Janz, an assistant pastor with Red Rocks Baptist Church in Colorado, is circulating an online petition expressing "deep disappointment" in Allen's casting and saying, "We have been asked over the last several months to aggressively promote this film to our congregations; however, we cannot do so because of this issue."

[Producer Mart] Green said he hadn't known Allen was gay before casting him but doesn't think any backlash "is affecting the box office in any significant way. I'm sure some people are staying home, but I don't think it's that many."

Really? Green didn't know Allen was gay? Is he serious? He didn't think to Google "Chad Allen" before casting him? He didn't catch the October 2001 cover story in the Advocate? He missed Allen in the VH-1 special "Totally Gay!"? Someone needs to recalibrate his gaydar.

But the Reverand Janz documented that the filmmakers and the real-life family portrayed in the film were well aware of Allen's sexual orientation and advocacy for gay equality. Janz is simply outraged that they didn't choose to discriminate against him. I imagine Janz professes to believe in the Bible, so it would seem he would be aware of the whole "let he who is without sin cast the first stone" lesson. But clearly, these folks believe it is their role to judge and that all sins are not created equal.

I hear that one of the key grips smokes weed, the second assistant director uses the "F" word, and Chad wasn't the only homo on the set--that wardrobe guy has a very limp handshake. All the more reason to stay away.

One thing is certain. This little controversy is only having the effect of drawing more attention to this little indie movie. I certainly never would have heard of it otherwise. In fact, it looks like an interesting story, and I may even go see it. Nah, I think I'll go see Brokeback Mountain for a third time instead.

A Gay, Gay, Gay Golden Globes

2006-01-17T00:28:00.000-08:00

"I'm no queer," insists Ennis Del Mar. "But the 63rd Annual Golden Globes sure were."

Indeed, these were the queerest Golden Globes in recent memory, despite the lack of elaborate production numbers and the fact that no actual gay people (by my count) actually held any trophies on stage. But let's review the queer moments:

Catherine Deneuve enters the stage, mutters something I can't recall, and leaves.
Desperate Housewives wins, but gay creator Marc Cherry leaves the thanking and trophy-clutching to some other guy.
The Will & Grace cast explains that to make a great sitcom, you need gay people. Sean Hayes does his best to not look like a flaming queen--he'll be looking for work next year.
Leonardo diCaprio announces the winner for best actress in a drama. OK, he's not gay, but he's played gay, and he's still dreamy.
Felicity Huffman wins for playing a transexual in Transamerica.
Philip Seymour Hoffman wins for playing the gay author, Truman Capote, in Capote.
Brokeback Mountain wins four awards, including the big prize. Dennis Quaid bombs with his quip that this is a movie that can be described as somethign that rhymes with "chick flick."

Earlier in the day, I made my Golden Globe guesses for the movie categories. I picked 8 of 13. Not bad.

Here are some other awards that I'd like to give:

The "Most Embarrassing Omission in an Acceptance Speech" goes to Ang Lee. Not for forgetting Randy Quaid who was in the room. No, Lee remembered to thank his wife, but neglected to acknowledge his long-time fishing buddy, Wei-Tung.

The "So Tell Me Again Why She Gets to Present an Award" award goes to Pamela Anderson. And whose baby is that she's swaddling in her top?

The award for "The Acceptance Speech that Best Proves that the Hollywood Foreign Press Made the Right Pick" goes to Steve Carell and his wife. If you aren't watching The Office, you're missing out.

The runner up to the "So Tell Me Again Why She Gets to Present an Award" award goes to Drew Barrymore.

And I can't find a photo of her. They must have mercifully whisked her in and out before the cameras could get a shot of that atrocity she was wearing. She is undoubtedly regretting her decision to allow the contestants from Project Runway to dress her for the evening. Sure, they're creative, but the restriction that they use nothing but the upholstery from the couch they last sat on was just too much of a challenge, even for winner Santino, who regrettably had last sat on a couch in the Very Green Room.

Hey, I'm gay. I have a license to be catty about fashion.

Lip Sync

2006-01-16T14:43:00.000-08:00

The Golden Globe Awards doesn't yet include a Best Internet Short Film Lip Sync category, so I had to pick my own. And the nominees are:

Something about the Backstreet Boys invites lip syncs:

Not to be outdone:

Suddenly Seymour:

This could have been me if there were webcams back when I was this age:

My Golden Globe Guesses

2006-01-16T12:08:00.000-08:00

Just for fun, here are the nominees and my guesses for tonight's 63rd annual Golden Globe Awards in the motion picture categories:

Picture, Drama: "Brokeback Mountain," "The Constant Gardener," "Good Night, and Good Luck," "A History of Violence," "Match Point."

My Guess: "Brokeback Mountain"

Actress, Drama: Maria Bello, "A History of Violence"; Felicity Huffman, "Transamerica"; Gwyneth Paltrow, "Proof"; Charlize Theron, "North Country"; Ziyi Zhang, "Memoirs of a Geisha."

My Guess: Felicity Huffman, "Transamerica"

Actor, Drama: Russell Crowe, "Cinderella Man"; Philip Seymour Hoffman, "Capote"; Terrence Howard, "Hustle & Flow"; Heath Ledger, "Brokeback Mountain"; David Strathairn, "Good Night, and Good Luck."

My Guess: Philip Seymour Hoffman, "Capote"

Picture, Musical or Comedy: "Mrs. Henderson Presents," "Pride & Prejudice," "The Producers," "The Squid and the Whale," "Walk the Line."

My Guess: Walk the Line

Actress, Musical or Comedy: Judi Dench, "Mrs. Henderson Presents"; Keira Knightley, "Pride & Prejudice"; Laura Linney, "The Squid and the Whale"; Sarah Jessica Parker, "The Family Stone"; Reese Witherspoon, "Walk the Line."

My Guess: Reese Witherspoon, "Walk the Line"

Actor, Musical or Comedy: Pierce Brosnan, "The Matador"; Jeff Daniels, "The Squid and the Whale"; Johnny Depp, "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"; Nathan Lane, "The Producers"; Cillian Murphy, "Breakfast on Pluto"; Joaquin Phoenix, "Walk the Line."

My Guess: Joaquin Phoenix, "Walk the Line"

Supporting Actress: Scarlett Johansson, "Match Point"; Shirley MacLaine, "In Her Shoes"; Frances McDormand, "North Country"; Rachel Weisz, "The Constant Gardener"; Michelle Williams, "Brokeback Mountain."

My Guess: Michelle Williams, "Brokeback Mountain"

Supporting Actor: George Clooney, "Syriana"; Matt Dillon, "Crash"; Will Ferrell, "The Producers"; Paul Giamatti, "Cinderella Man"; Bob Hoskins, "Mrs. Henderson Presents."

My Guess: Matt Dillon, "Crash"

Director: Woody Allen, "Match Point"; George Clooney, "Good Night, and Good Luck"; Peter Jackson, "King Kong"; Ang Lee, "Brokeback Mountain"; Fernando Meirelles, "The Constant Gardener"; Steven Spielberg, "Munich."

My Guess: Ang Lee, "Brokeback Mountain"

Screenplay: Woody Allen, "Match Point"; George Clooney and Grant Heslov, "Good Night, and Good Luck"; Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco, "Crash"; Tony Kushner and Eric Roth, "Munich"; Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, "Brokeback Mountain."

My Guess: George Clooney and Grant Heslov, "Good Night and Good Luck"

Foreign Language: "Kung Fu Hustle," China; "Master of the Crimson Armor aka The Promise," China; "Merry Christmas (Joyeux Noel)," France; "Paradise Now," Palestinian territories; "Tsotsi," South Africa.

My (totally randome) Guess: "Tsotsi"

Original Score: Alexandre Desplat, "Syriana"; James Newton Howard, "King Kong"; Gustavo Santaolalla, "Brokeback Mountain"; Harry Gregson-Williams, "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe"; John Williams, "Memoirs of a Geisha";

My Guess: Gustavo Santaolalla, "Brokeback Mountain"

Original Song: "A Love That Will Never Grow Old" from "Brokeback Mountain"; "Christmas in Love" from "Christmas in Love"; "There's Nothing Like a Show on Broadway" from "The Producers"; "Travelin' Thru" from "Transamerica"; "Wunderkind" from "The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe."

My Guess: "A Love That Will Never Grow Old" from "Brokeback Mountain"

So, there are my guesses. They certainly aren't my "picks" since I've only seen three of the movies mentioned above. I'll try to be more informed for the Oscars.

Beware of this sign!

2006-01-15T19:17:00.000-08:00

I showed this self-referential warning sign to Robert, and he immediately understood its purpose. Maybe because he grew up in Manila, where this sign resided at Greenbelt Mall in Makati until recently, he saw the logic rather than the paradox.

Still wondering why this sign was made? Here's why.

Stop! BANG! Or I'll Shoot!

2006-01-12T23:13:00.000-08:00

I caught the last piece of testimony in the Alito hearings today. The last witness of the day was U.C. Berkeley law professor Goodwin Liu.

Side note: Though I didn't know him personally, Goodwin graduated from Stanford the same year I did, which is humbling. Next year is our 15 year reunion. I can hear it now: What did you do this year, Goodwin? I testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee to point out that Judge Alito's record indicates a tendency to defer to government power. How about you, Marty? I made broccoli casserole a lot, and I flossed regularly.

But that's Goodwin. He was Big Man On Campus and certainly would have been voted Most Likely to Testify Against A Conservative Nominee to the Supreme Court if we had ever voted for such a thing.

Goodwin (I feel like I should still be able to call him that) talked about a case on police use of force:

The first is a memo he wrote in 1984 as assistant to the solicitor general, analyzing a case where police saw a burglary suspect running across a backyard. The suspect reached a fence, and an officer called out: "Police! Halt!" When the suspect tried to climb the fence, the officer shot him in the back of the head, killing him. The suspect, Edward Garner, was an eighth grader with a stolen purse and $10 on his body. He was not armed, and the officer did not think he was. The sole reason for his killing was to prevent his escape.
Judge Alito's memo, speaking for no one but himself, said, "I think the shooting can be justified as reasonable within the meaning of the Fourth Amendment." In a remarkable passage, he argued that using deadly force to stop a fleeing suspect rests on, and I quote, "the general principle that the state is justified in using whatever force is necessary to enforce its laws." In 1985, the Supreme Court rejected this view.

As a kid, I remember playing cops and robbers and indeed, that was the rule: "Stop, or I'll shoot!" But we were just kids. Our sense of morality evolved. Now the idea seems ludicrous. Our society is not prepared to give a police officer the authority to act as judge, jury and executioner right on the spot. The sentence for running from the police should not be immediate death.

Since Alito's view was rightly rejected by the Supreme Court in 1985, I wonder if kids today yell "Stop, or I'll post an APB and we'll pick you up later tonight at your girlfriend's apartment where you'll inevitably be wearing no shirt!"

Tags: Alito, Goodwin Liu, Supreme Court