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.

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.