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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Milk scene

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

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

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

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

Comedy is a funny thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comedy Marathon at the Purple Onion

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

CLICK HERE for reservations.

Sarah Palin -- for Enjoli perfume

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.