Sand Dollars "R" Us

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

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

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!

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

Comedy show this Saturday night!

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

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

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

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!

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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?

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

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

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

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!

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

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.