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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year.

I never inhaled...really!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Spanish lesson

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

A Taste of Hong Kong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark misses the runoff by 49 votes

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

District 6 council seat race is set

FINAL TALLIES MAKE RUNOFF OFFICIAL

By Connie Skipitares

Mercury News

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

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

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

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

Trading Places

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

My Graduation Show and Chicago!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JonBenet Ramsey Suspect

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

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

You think you're some sort of comedian?

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

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

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

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

Where the heck have I been?

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