yonkey | blog


	10 SEP 08 I admit it…I didn't go so much to see Equus as to see Daniel Radcliffe's "Harry Potter" <wink, wink…nudge, nude>. In fact, I didn't even know the plot and was a little leary of the minimalist set design, but a little dick goes a long way with me and a lotta dick goes even further. As it happens, though, the play does have a plot and it's not half bad. So that you can experience the performance in the way that I did, I'll shorthand the story so that we can get to the nudity as soon as possible. Allan is a troubled—possibly schizophrenic—seventeen year-old who is committed to a mental clinic after he blinds six horses. I could tell you why he does it and get into more detail about the specifics of his particular brand of crazy, but the slow reveal, while annoying when it comes to Radclyffe's cock, is half the fun(?) of the play. Suffice to say that, in the process of uncovering the truth about that night, the sorcerer's stones are also revealed. As somebody who has performed nude (stand-up comedy) myself, I could relate to the freedom Radcliffe must have experienced, being nude on stage for about fifteen minutes, and was jealous of the fact that he got to do it on such a grand scale. While I am relatively stationary, when I'm naked on stage, Radcliffe had a very active scene, running all over the stage and literally bouncing off the walls. That seemed liked good fun. Sigh…I can tell you're kind of bored about my waxing philosophical about performing nude and really just wanna see some dick—and I can hardly blame you—so here it is. And even though I'm pretty much giving up Harry Potter's goods for free, I do strongly encourage you to go see the play because it'd be good even without schlong.


	09 SEP 08 Tonight I had my graduation performance from my Level I Improv class, at the Magnet Theater. I was encouraged to take improv classes by my comic friend, Emily Bryan, who has all but abandoned stand-up in favour of improv. She assured me it would help my stand-up, she seemed to be having such a good time and I knew, as a comic, that it pays to expand one's repetoire, so I did as I was told. Still, I had reservations. In every stand-up class I've ever taken—in fact, pretty much every class I've ever taken, comedy or not—there always seems to be one fuh-REAK whom I cannot stand. My fear was that improv class would be no different, except that now I'd have to share a stage with this person. Nothing could have been further from the truth! In fact, I found everybody in my class quite charming, very bright and extremely talented. Jean, for lack of a better pun, is a jeanius and can garner more laughs with a single look than most people can with a watermelon and a sledgehammer. Andrew and Tony can pull faces that would make Jim Carey green with envy. Aaron, mark my words, will one day be one of the most recognized character actors of film and television. Our gentle giant, Matt, had a knack for physical comedy. Alexis' combination of beauty and goofiness recalls Lucille Ball. Austin shared his experience generously. MaiKhoi exhibited unparalleled bravery. Dove was more versatile than a Swiss Army knife. The twins, Juliana and Alexandra—they're not really twins, but I have face blindness, so they might as well be—brought subtlety to each and every scene. And our instructor, Mark, was knowledgable, patient and kinda sexy. Taking improv class was not free of sacrifice, of course. Most notably, I had to change laundry day from Sundays to Saturdays for the two months of classes, which means that, rather than the two lovely Nepalese women who work the former, I had to deal with the two nut jobs who run the place on the the later. The one talks to herself constantly—"okay, where did I put the keys…I need to put that load in the washer, then I'm gonna fold the stuff that just come out of the dryer…crap, I forgot to put the fabric softner in #12—causing me to repeatedly remove my iPod because I assume she's speaking to me and I was raised that it's rude to not respond when one, especially an elder, is speaking to me. The other, having never seen me, keeps telling me how to do laundry. If it's not enough that I've been doing my laundry at that very laundromat, albeit on a different day, for the past seven years, I've been doing laundry, in general, for nineteen years. I know when to add the fucking bleach, thanks. For the most part, though, it was like having recess for two hours every week. Needless to say, I have to maintain a somewhat professional persona, at my day job, so it was nice to have an environment in which to act the fool, on a regular basis. And the graudation show went much better than I anticipated. As a stand-up, I've been trained to be my authentic (funny) self, so I had no confidence in my ability to assume other personas. If I do say so myself, though, I didn't half embarrass myself.

	30 MAY 08 It's a typical Monday night, chez moi—naked xtreme ironing in front of the tele with a glass (read: bottle) of white wine and I almost can't believe what I'm seeing on Nashville Star's "pop goes country" night. I knew this one was going to be a doosey, from the moment I heard the words "here are your final ten with Madonna's 'Like a Prayer!'" Now, I was around when Madonna released that song and let me tell you, it made quite an impact. In fact, one kid in my AP English class (read: me) even brought the video in and we spent the entire hour discussing it. It was filled with religious imagery and, at one point, Madonna even kisses a Black Jesus! The fact that now, nineteen years later, we're so nonplussed by it, as a culture, that the producers of a country music reality program think of it as nothing more than a gospel-infused dance ditty gives me hope that, in another couple of decades, the middle states will begin to think of same-sex couples as quaint and/or passé. I mean, even if you separate the song from the video, eliminating the threat of theological offense, it's still, at heart, a sex song in the vein of "Like a Virgin." "I'm down on my knees/I want to take you there/In the midnight hour/I can feel your power…" No, Madge is speaking of a different kind of rapture, that's for damn sure. So how in the hell did a bunch of yokels on NBC wind up singing it…and badly?!? Okay, Melissa Lawson started things off well but, let's face it, she's a sequined gown away from being a fag-lovin', dance diva, herself; she's probably the only one who really gets the song. Then there's Tommy Stanley…poor, awkward, USS Kitty Hawk closet case Tommy Stanley. He's got another two or three years before he figures it out. Gabe Garcia, who has the best voice of the men, seems to have figured it out, within the first measure, and stumbles, realizing that this may be leading to a countrified cover of the Weather Girls' "It's Raining Men." Next is Laura & Sophie who, quite literally, scare the crap out of me, looking (and singing!) like a Hee Haw version of those spooky twin girls from the Godzilla films. Then, of course, a Black Gospel choir streams down the aisles, supporting the notion that the producers think of this as a gospel song. So, now we've got a bunch of country singers performing a cover of a Madonna song, arguably the biggest gay diva ever, surrounded by a Black choir. Is this the "new South" I've heard tell of? If so, I'm rather liking it…at least until Just Gaston opens his mouth. Honestly, they should have invited Madonna on the show—she'd know what to do with him. She's have him stripped down to a jockstrap and griding on a pole (with his mouth shut…or at least wrapped around the tongue of another male dancer) faster'n you can say "blonde ambition." Oh, it was a catastrophe, I'm telling you. Really, the only country singers I'd trust a Madonna song to are Dolly Parton—because she understands the 'mos—or Janis Joplin, God rest her soul—because she went around the block as many times as Madonna has. Sorry, Reba, you didn't make list.

	30 MAY 08 This year, I decided to sit down and watch the Scripp's National Spelling Bee. I've never watched a spelling be before, having suffered a tragic defeat in third grade on the word "ladder." See, this was before the practice of contestants being allowed to ask the meaning and for the word to be used in a sentence, so I mistook it for "later," as in "the later of two options." Personally, I think I ought to have been lauded for knowing the word "later," in third grade, but my mother was an English professor, so I can't take all the credit. Speaking of the practice of being able to ask the definition and for it to be used in a sentence…what a crock of bull! It's all a ploy to buy time, while the contestant tries to figure out how to spell it. I mean, c'mon…if you don't know how to spell "cryptarithm," having it heard in a sentence isn't going to clear it up for you unless the sentence is "'cryptarithm' is spelled c-r-y-p-t-a-r-i-t-h-m," which it never is. And it drags the whole affair out so terribly that it reminds one of elimination night on American Idol. For instance, when San Diego's Justin Song was asked to spell "aurelian," the following exchange ensued: Commentator: Aurelian. Song: Aurelian. May I have the definition? Commentator: A collector of moths and butterflies. Song: Aurelian. Can I have the language of origin? Commentator: Consists of Latin, with an English combining form. Song: Orelian. Can you use it in a sentence? Commentator: Sarah admired the beautiful butterflies in the book edited by Mr. Jacobson, a well-known aurelian. Song: Aurleian. Aurelian. Does it come from the Latin root aurelis that means butterly? Commentator: I don't see that in here. Song: Aurelian. Aurelian. Commentator: A little closer to the mic. Song: Aurelian. Commentator: Aurelian. Song: Um…can I have the definition, again? Commentator: A collector or breeder of moths and butterflies. Song: Aurelian. Aurelian. So it's a collector of butterflies? Commentator: Yeah›butterflies or moths. Song: A-u-r-e-l-i-a-n. Seriously?!? Seriously?!? Spell the goddamn word, already!!! And the contestant beginning every sentence with the word is such a cock-tease. You think they're actually going to spell it, but no…they just want to ask another stupid question. I kept expecting one of them to ask, "Would you spell that, please?" Or "could you repeat the word with a German accent, please?" Or "could you please sing the bridge of Mary J. Blige's "Fine" replacing the word 'mirror' with the word you would like me to spell?" Or "could you repeat the word as if you were Mushmouth of Fat Albert & the Cosby Kids?" Sometimes, the definition of the word is even more ridiculous than the word's spelling, as was the case with Tia Thomas' first word, "shamateurism". If, like me, you guessed that "shamateurism" is when Native American folk healers take a holiday, you'd be quite wrong. Instead, it's "the practice of treating certain athletes as if they are eligible for non-professional competition while subsidizing them with illegal payments or with excessive expense money." Seriously, with a definition like that, I'd be more impressed if they have her the spelling and made her use it in a sentence. As an aside, as I was writing this posting, in MS Word, the spell-checker was freaking out, completely unsure what to do with "shamateurism." I guess Bill Gates would not have made it to round two. Ditto for "basengi: any dog of African breed of small, compact, curly-tailed, chestnut-brown dogs that rarely bark." I mean, shit…who knew Bantu got that specific with their words? While it's not my style to pick on kids, I do have to talk about contestant Sidharth Chand, for a moment, because I think to do so will raise a medical issue that needs to be brought to light. The kid is twelve years old and has a full mustache and soulpatch. Sure, it's one of those whispy, angel hair mustaches that L.A. baby gang-bangers sport, but seriously…twelve years old?!? I'm Greek-American and have hair pretty much everywhere except my teeth, but even I didn't have a moustache worth mentioning until high school. There seems to be so much press given to all the hormones we put in food and how it's resulting in girls getting their periods at a much younger age, but can we just pay some attention to the fellas who are having to learn how to shave in elementary school, for chrissake? Alright, since I've already broken the seal on Pandora's box, what the hell with Rose Sloan (13), having an grand mal orgasm, right there on the stage, when she was given the word alcarraza?!? She threw her head back, sucked her lower lip in and started hyperventilating with a big, old, shit-eating smile on her face. It was a little uncomfortable to watch, like the Liza Minelli/David Gest wedding kiss. Even more entertaining than that, though, was when poor Sameer Mishra—and, in fact, the entire audience—thought he'd been given the word "numbnut." In reality, he'd been given "numnah: a felt or sheepskin pad, placed between a horse's back and saddle to prevent chaffing."

	11 FEB 08 My sister, Daniela, couldn't stay up to watch the entire telecast of the Grammys, last night, because she works her nalgas off taking care of twin infants, so she asked me to fill her in, once I'd watched it. Here it goes… Last night, the fiftieth anniversary of the Grammy awards was celebrated in grand style with a three and one half hours tribute to music and the people who make it. The show opened with a posthumous duet of "Learning the Blues" by Alicia Keys and the late Frank Sinatra, à la Natalie Cole and Nat "King" Cole, on the former's 1991 album Unforgettable…with Love. Unfortunately, unlike that of the junior and senior Coles, this one was entirely forgettable. Though Keys looked stunning and was in excellent voice, one can't help but to think that we—or, perhaps, she—continually attempt to portray her as having even more knowledge of those artists of yesteryear who have so obviously influenced her work than she actually has. My concern is this: while she's off tying to prove she can hang with the rat pack, Emily King is going to sneak up and steal her real schtick, which is being a contemporary artist who just happens to have an "old soul." Fortunately, Keys returned at the end of the evening and did what she does best, laying down a redition of "No One" that was not only one of the best performances of the night, but possibly her best performance ever. Kudos to American Idol Carrie Underwood for her Bring on Da Noize, Bring on Da Funk retelling of her smash hit single, "Before He Cheats." Frankly, nobody's really buying her as the bad girl of country—even with the thigh-high black boots and vinyl-accented outfit—and yet, somehow, her attempts at it come off more playful than annoying. Less successful was Rihanna's "Jungle Love" remake of "Umbrella." I think Rihanna's got a lot going for her terms of talent and showmanship, but I look forward to the day when, like iconoclasts before her such as Madonna, Gwen Stefani and Mary J. Blige, she proves herself to be as clever as she is beautiful, wresting control of her career from those who currently possess it and says, "Hey, guys…I don't know if this duet with the Time is such a good idea." The ingenue did redeem herself, however, when left to her own devices on "Please Don't Stop the Music." Still, I've never quite liked when an artist—especially a relatively new one—does a medley on an awards show. Somehow, unless one has a rather extensive repetoire, it all just reeks of some backroom deal that was struck. "Okay, okay…she'll perform her hit, if she can do her new single, too." At this juncture, it's important that you know I'm not a fan of the Beetles. Hate me, vilify me, call me un-American—which would be odd, since they're British—but I'm confident enough in my knowledge of music to say maybe they did some great stuff, but I just don't get the hype; as an aside, I feel the same way about Elvis Presley and Liza Minelli. In fact, I even found Cirque du Soleil, whom I adore, annoying, when set to their music in a mid-show tribute. Detroit belter, Carol Woods, however, put a shine on my shoes with her gut-wrenching performance of "Let It Be. I went straight to iTunes to download it and suggest that you do the same. While you're at it, why not pick up her "Ooh Baby," with The Executives? The young man, Timothy T. Mitchum, did a fine job, too, but I could have done with out him—and it seems like we almost did, at one point, when the opening note of Woods' second verse practically blew him off the stage; fortunately, he was able to grab onto a mic stand and finish the number. Okay, I have to admit that the Kanye West—that was Kanye West in the Tron-inspired shades and Captain Kangaroo jacket, right?—song was hella catchy, but he kind of lost me, like, three lines in, when he started getting all cocky and self-indulgent. I mean, I know boasting is a feature of rap, but…yawn…so were assymetrical 'dos and door knocker earrings, and they are far more deserving of a comeback. He did become far more endearing, however, when he ditched the Starlight Express motif and sang an ode to his mother. Though I still think Fergie is funnier looking than a Shar-Pei, I have to say that I preferred last night's elegant performance of "Finally" to any I've seen of her do of "London Bridge," "My Humps" or "Clumsy." And, while she's still vocally out-matched by the likes of Christina Aguilera, Mary J. Blige and Chrisette Michelle, she did a very smart thing by showing everybody there's a bit more to her than her lovely lady lumps. Not to mention, in an age when most people seem to not even know where they are, she did quite a good job of presenting the award for Best Compilation Soundtrack Album for Motion Picture, Televison or Other Visual Medium. As for the other presenters, pop icon and always under-rated singer/songwriter Cyndi Lauper looked absolutely stunning, if a little bit out of a Tim Burton film, as did a very slimmed-down and regal Patti Austin. I think having the likes of Lauper, Cher and Bonnie Raitt present, rather than the likes of Carmen Electra, Lil' <instert generic rapper name here> or Avril Lavigne, lent a sense of credibility to the whole affair. Like, these are the elder statepeople of music, who actually earned the right to be handing out awards to the up-and-comers. Of course, no presenter was more elegant or poised than Miss Natalie Cole, who stood by gracefully as the highly overrated Tony Bennett—c'mon, now…I bashed the Beetles, for Christ sake; you think I'm skerred to take on Bennet?!?—completely massacred her introduction. Also deserving of a nod for presentation skills was Miss Beyoncé Knowles, for her introduction of Celestial Diva Tina Turner. But am I the only one who, for a split second, thought B may just have been talking about herself, when she said "[there is one legend who has] the the beat of Donna Summer, the spirit of Mahalia Jackson, the jazz of Ella or Nancy…and the beautiful melodies of Whitney?" And God bless the Academy for coaxing the original rock goddess out of "retirement" to perform "What's Love Got to Do With It" for absolutely no good reason! With all due respect, I'd take one of those over any three Rihanna medleys. And how about that Tina, holding her own like that?!? Every time I see her, I can't help but to think, "That woman is old enough to be my mother, but I ain't never seen my mother do that!" Still one of the sexiest women in Entertainment, at age sixty-nine, one can't help but to wonder, "is there any reason why she hasn't been tapped for a guest spot on The L Word?" And, in spite of the obvious lack of lip lock, I found her passing of the torch to Beyoncé as they dueted on "Proud Mary" every bit as touching as that of Madonna's to Britney, at the VMAs. Now, for those of you thinking how nice it was to see Destiny's Child reunite to do a gospel medley with the Pointer Sisters, I'm here to tell you that was Trin-i-tee 5:7 and the Clarke Sisters. Also, the sista in the audience—y'know…the one you didn't recognize, but who was nominated for Best New Artist and Best R&B Album—that's Bay Area soulstress Ledisi, whose act my ex, older sister and I used to catch when she fronted the house band at Café du Nord in San Francisco's Castro district. The fact that such a talented artist is finally getting her due is a sign that all is not wrong with the Music industry. Relative newcomer Feist performed, but she may as well not have. She's the type of artist whose CD one feels good about owning, because it identifies him as being urbane, but she's not really a performance artist, is she? Also, with her song being used so much in that insipid commercial—I can't even remember which one—it's likely we'd have heard it, even if she hadn't. I've haven't seen anything as uncomfortable as the exchange between Keely Smith and Kid Rock—I mean, really, they couldn't have found two people with less idea who the other was?—since Liza Minelli and David Guest's post-nuptial kiss. And I swear to God if that performance results in an album of American Songbook jazz standards from Kid Rock, I'm doing it…I'm moving to Canada. It's odd, isn't it, that Amy Winehouse can be, simultaneously, such an original and such a cross between Fran Drescher and Elvira? Still, her talent is undeniable and she is nothing if not spellbinding to watch perform. Unfortunately, like M.I.A. before her, the vanward Brit was unable to secure a visa in time to attend the Grammys in person proving, once again, that post-9/11 security measures have gotten just a little too strict. I mean, really…if it's not nursing mothers, it's vanward British divas. In the TSA's defense, a sista could hide a buttload of weapons in a 'hive that high. As for the awards, themselves, I have to admit that I was a little a little disappointed that my girl, Fantasia, did not take Best Female R&B Vocal Performance for "When I See You," but I ain't mad at the Academy because that was some pretty stiff competition and I don't think there was a single woman nominated who didn't thoroughly deserve the honor. I'm more adamant, however, in my assertion that Corinne Bailey Rae deserved the Song of the Year award for her "Like a Star" over Amy Winehouse's "Rehab." All in all, I found the Grammys highly entertaining, this year. The fact that they dusted off Celestial Divas, Tina Turner and Aretha Franklin, and that fellow Celestial Diva, Chaka Khan, took home Best R&B Album and honorary Celestial Diva, Natalie Cole, was a presenter, made it worth my while and lent the evening an air of inclusiveness, the likes of which has been absent from previous ceremonies. As an aside, I've decided that, should I ever win a Grammy—or, as is more likely, in my case, an Emmy, Tony or Oscar—I'm going to address all of my friend by their nicknames, in my thank-yous, because "Chile Sauce, Mop de Ceiling, DBASR–the Red Menace, Xtreme Phine, Slammistress T, the Goils, Achtung, Meilani, Sweet 'n' Lo, Louie, Bizarre and X" sounds so much more gangsta than "Antonio, Helen, Sharilyn, Delphine, Tammy, Peri, Liliana, Angela, Melanie, Lori, Louis, Daniela and Alex."

	05 NOV 07 Saturday, November 3rd, marked my debut in Andy Olfeish's Naked Stand-Up Comedy at the People's Improv Theater. I'd seen the show twice, so I knew what to expect, but that's not to say there weren't some surprises! It started with not being able to find my cassette recorder—odd because I'm mildly OCD and always put things in their place—which turned out to be a blessing because I wound up buying a new, digital voice recorder, which means I'll be able to post an MP3 of my set, shortly. Eventually, I'd like to post the video, but I have to figure out a way to pixelate my man bits because my co-workers and clients visit my site, occasionally. Second surprise came when I was given ten, instead of five to seven, minutes of stage time. Because I didn't have time to time out the additional material, I still wound up running a little short, but that's inspired me to time out individual jokes in my repetoire so that I can more easily estimate how long a given set is going to take, even in the absence of a stopwatch. So, the last-minute addition of material caused me to a fumble a bit, but that's just a reminder that I need to work harder to become more polished. Surprise number three was the way I felt on stage. People keep assumming that I was nervous because I was naked, but that really wasn't the case. There was, however, a strange sensation that I had not anticipated, which was related to my nudity. Normally, when I perform, I'm only nervous about forgetting my material. I know that I'm funny and am likely to be able to make people laugh, but that's impossible if I forget what I'm meant to say. At the P.I.T., however, I felt like it was a bunch of straight people in the audience—not necessarily the case, but that's how it felt—so I felt like it was a bunch of guys who really didn't want to be seeing naked yonkey and a bunch of women who…well, let's face it, straight women aren't exactly renowned for their appreciation of the naked, male form. So, basically, even though people had come to see Naked Stand-Up Comedy, I felt as if they were all thinking, "Dude, why is this guy naked; we don't want to see that!" And the final surprise were my fellow performers. I was kind of, vainly, hoping that I'd be "the hot one," but that was not the case. There was this cute, cute, cute stocky, Italian-looking guy who performed as part of an improv troupe, who was just adorable—I didn't get his name—and Lamar Williams who, quite frankly, was crazysexycool (and hysterical, to boot). Aside from having some stiff competition in the "hot" department, I was super disappointed I didn't get to oogle…er, I mean "appreciate"…their (as)sets from the audience.

	05 SEP 07 Last Saturday, Angela and I went to see Andy Olfeish's Naked Comedy Showcase, at the People's Improv Theater. I was secretly casing the joint out to see if it was sleazy or not because I'm interested in performing there, and am please to report that it wasn't the least bit prurient. In fact, with the physique of the performers differing markedly from those of the average nude entertainer, comedy was the only thing on my mind. The line-up was varied, with regard to age, sex and life experience, though all performers were caucasian. All in all, it was a great night out and I encourage everybody to go out to support a group of folks who are servning up a little something different. As for my performing there, I'm planning to email the organizer to night, to see how to get on the line-up.

	29 AUG 07 I've been following Last Comic Standing religiously, this season—and by "religiously," I mean "whenever it doesn't conflict with better programming," and I have to say that I don't think the final five are the five funniest to have made the finals. I'm very glad that Amy Schumer is still on, because I think she's done an outstanding job, but I mourn the loss of Doug Benson and Matt Kirshen; I feel that they have far out-performed Ralph Harris and Lavell Crawford. When I first started out, in stand-up, I happened by the New York auditions of last season's—or was it the season before?—show and was tempted to audition, because it seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but I definitely wasn't ready for the show, with only a couple of jokes and two stage appearances under my belt. Since then, I've heard some bad things about how the contestants are treated, which have given me pause, but even with rumours notwithstanding, I don't know if I'd ever audition for it. Most of my material is pretty raunchy and wouldn't even make it on television, so what's the point? Just today, I was speaking with New York performance artist Thoth, who recently appeared on the reality talent competition America's Got Talent. Thoth is a gifted musician who has created an entire opera about another world in a language he invented, himself. He sings and plays all of the instruments himself, but it should come as no surprise that his particular brand of artistry was not readily understood or appreciated by such a large audience. Sharon, of course, was sufficiently polite—she's the "Paula" of the show—but Piers and David were rather crass. I can just see myself going on Last Comic Standing and having a similar experience. "Did that skinny homo just make a joke about having been raped by his father? That's not right." But I never say never. Y'all may just see my faggoty ass up there, one day.

	26 AUG 07 Last night, I went to see a taping of Comedy Central Presents. Actually, they film two episodes at once, so I got to see both Brian Posehn and Nick Thune. I have to say, going into it, I was really more excited to seeing Brian Posehn, because I'm a big fan of his work on The Sarah Silverman Show and in Jesus is Magic, but it was Nick Thune who stole the show. He reminds me a lot of Demetri Martin, strumming his guitar and firing off the type of quit-witted observations that makes one—me, at least—think, "I wish I'd thought of that!" Thune is definitely a representative of Gen X—er, wait, no…what "Gen" are we on, right now?—as his material made frequent references to the Internet, Craigslist.org, emoticons and other cultural touchstones the comics of only a decade ago had not, yet, begun to integrate into their routines. Of course, all this is not to say that Posehn wasn't funny; it's just that he was a little outshined by his younger, hipper counterpart. It could be that Posehn's greatest strength is playing the hilarious "straight man" to Silverman and others, which is nothing to shake a stick at.

	19 AUG 07 I've been awful about keeping up-to-date with my blog, which only means that I have more to write about! If you've been checking the site regularly or are on the mailing list, you already know that the Media/Videos section now features gigs of past performances, including 19 June 07's gig at Caroline's. Big thanks to Dan Gintis for helping me to get this up and running. Check back soon for video of 20 August 07's show. Which leads me to my next hot topic…last Monday's Caroline's gig! It was a fantastic crowd, made even more so by the presence of long-time friend, Tammy Crawford, who changed her flight back to San Diego in order to attend the show. Tammy is a former college roommate, a school teacher and one of "the goils," an elite cadre of wicked women that also includes Dr. Peri Klemm (aka, Pear), Ms. Delphine Cherewick (aka, 'phine), Ms. Liliana Collins (aka, Diamond Lil) and Ms. Maria Gonzalez (aka, Mistress Maria). Also representing were my AA\|RF co-workers, friends from past jobs, fellow comedians Maureen Foyle and Niki Wenger, and a whole bunch of strangers—don't know who invited them, but they were good laughers, so we got along famously. I have to admit that I was a little worried about this set—I just wasn't sure the material was as strong as previous sets—but it turned out to be a really good show. I attribute that, in part, to the fact that, due to Tammy's visit, I started preparing a week earlier than I otherwise would have and, in part, to the flow of the material, which was more organic than other sets. All in all, it was a very positive experience that makes me want to get out there and perform even more. Though I didn't get to enjoy the rest of the show, I hear that the other comics were also very funny and professional.

	20 JUN 07 Thanks to everybody who attended last night's gig! It was great to get back on stage, after all this time, and better still to see all the familiar faces—twenty-five in total!—who turned out to support me and get their laugh on. I think my nerves may have gotten the best of me, as I opened—you'll be able to judge for yourself, soon, in the Media/Videos section—but after I got my bearings I felt right at home. As I always try to do, I performed entirely new material— there was one set-up that I'd used before, but I completely retooled the punch and it worked much better—and it was very well-received. When I think of all the comics, all over the world, who would beg, steal or borrow for the opportunity to perform at Caroline's, I feel very fortunate to have just completed my fourth gig, there.