This past weekend, I did a little cabaret show at a restaurant called VYNL in the Chelsea area of New York City, and in the opening act, as a joke, I sang a bit of "It Sucks to Be Me," the song from the Broadway musical, Avenue Q. The lyrics go like this:

When I was little,
I thought I would be
A big comedian
On late night TV.
But now I'm thirty-two
And, as you can see,
I'm not.
Oh well,
It sucks to be me.

It was hilarious and all, but it got me to thinking. The fact is, in the last couple of years, I have embarked on a new career as an artist, which is one of the most difficult careers I can think of, and I am in my mid-thirties—the exact age at which so many of my friends and peers, it seems, are hitting their respective strides in their respective careers.

For example, I was out just last night having a drink with a friend who is a pretty well-known Canadian journalist. His most recent career challenge? Figuring out how best to justify his hefty 2010 salary increase. (Don’t worry; it worked out just fine. His lawyer did the negotiating.)

Then there is my friend Russ who feels—as he has put it himself—“work just really isn’t for me.” I recently heard from a mutual friend that Russ has been working for a multinational IT company on projects that required him to travel to Tokyo, Paris, and Budapest. Sigh.

And then today, I was watching the Canadian cable news (I’m spending the holidays at my parents’ house in my hometown of Montreal, so give me a break). And who should I see, going on ever so articulately about the trial of Charles Taylor, the former president of Liberia, currently taking place in the Hague? None other than my old buddy Jeremy, who is evidently a big muckety-muck on the international legal scene now. This is him doing important things somewhere international.



Meanwhile, I just did a show at a restaurant.

I suppose the difference between these friends and me is that, unlike me, they have all been working at their chosen professions for years, whereas I really am starting from scratch, at least as an actor. (As some of you may know, I walked away from a seven-year career as a lawyer last year and enrolled in a full-time acting training program in New York.)  And, no doubt about it, I'm having the time of my life in school right now, getting to live through all of these incredible artistic experiences I thought I never would.  But no matter how you slice it, not knowing where your next pay check is going to come from is kind of scary.

I mean, what if all of this effort leads absolutely nowhere? What if I just don’t have what it takes? What if my hairline recedes before my big break?

But you just can’t think that way. I recently learned that Wassily Kandinsky walked away from a burgeoning and very lucrative career as a law professor in Russia at the age of 30 to study painting in Germany. And look how that turned out.



I bet Wassily had his moments of self-doubt too. Right? But he stuck with it, even when everyone around him thought he was nuts. And he enjoyed a full head of hair well into his later years.



OK, that does it—enough navel-gazing for today. It’s time to do my vocalization exercises.

And then maybe I’ll gorge myself on more holiday food.

You know, come to think of it, I really should get to the gym. But I don’t even have a gym membership where I am staying...

Maybe I’ll just in stay in bed today.

(You see? This is what happens when I have a break from school and nothing to do.)

But isn't this the Baldwin that used to be really hot?



Billy Baldwin--the hot one, right?

Yeah, not so much anymore.  I mean, check out the paunch!

(Which reminds, I better hit the gym soon.  But first, more Chardonnay.)

In this interview, Stephen Colbert discusses Carl Wilson's book Let's Talk About Love: A Journey to the End of Taste.  While the title of the book may seem a little negative as regards Celine, the book, it turns out, is actually quite measured and objective.  Of course, in the interview, Colbert is as eloquent and biting as ever, whereas Wilson looks like he just a did some meth in the green room to calm his nerves, and it didn't work.

To settle it, I think Colbert should have Celine on his show so that she can explain the mystery of her greatness.

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Carl Wilson
comedycentral.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor NASA Name Contest

With the revival of Speed-the-Plow by Pulitzer-Prize winning playwright David Mamet about to hit the boards of the Barrymore Theater 20 years after its original Broadway production, I thought you might be interested to learn (or be reminded of) who originated the role of the ambitious secretary Karen in the play those oh-so-many moons ago.




Also, I'm not sure which is scarier--Leeza Gibbons's 1988 hair or Jennifer Beals's 1988 glasses.

Oh.... my .... God.

I just found out that the CBC (the "Canadian Broadcasting Corporation" for those non-Canadians out there) produced an unauthorized bio-pic about Céline Dion's life last year.  Here is the trailer:



I don't even know where to begin.

Watching this film is even more cringe-inducing than watching the real Céline Dion (which I sincerely did not think was possible). Seeing Enrico Colantoni (star of the NBC series "Just Shoot Me" and a graduate of the Yale Drama School, no less) playing René, Céline's grandfather-like manager/husband, made me feel sorry for the world.  And the woman playing Céline looks like her delicate, slightly prettier second-cousin. If that cousin were from Lebanon. (Not even close, people.)

I have already started growing my hair out so that I can play Céline's son, René-Charles, in the sequel. 

Yesterday, like most Sundays, I went to my Beginner's Jazz Dance class at the Broadway Dance Center because, in a nut shell, I like to keep it "butch."


(The guy on the right is not me.  Although he's close.)

So, anyway, after my class, I've developed this sort of routine where I go straight to the Juice Generation on 9th Avenue, just north of West 45th, where I have a "Protein Buzz" shake with raspberries and an "Antioxidant" boost.  (How's that for healthy?) 

Now, in case you're not familiar with it (and you should be!), Juice Generation is kind of like an independent, mom-and-pop version of Jamba Juice, except much smaller and grittier.  (The entire store is about 16 square feet, and it smells a lot like wheat grass.)


(This is not the Juice Generation on 9th and 45th.  But it's similar.)

Anyhoo, I went about my little routine yesterday, as I do most Sundays, except this time, just as I was leaving the Juice Generation with my shake in hand, who should I see entering the 16-square-foot space, but none other than Frasier alumnus and Broadway divo, Mr. David Hyde Pierce!


(DHP headshot, circa 1987.)

Now, this is not as huge and cosmic a coincidence as it may appear at first glance.  As much as I like to think there is such a thing as serendipity and fate, one can help these things along.  And I did so, in this case, by sticking to the same routine every Sunday. 

You see, DHP is currently starring as Lieutenant Frank Cioffi in what is (as far as I am concerned) an instant Broadway classic--Curtains, a fine show and, sadly, one of the final collaborations of the legendary musical theater writing team of Kander and Ebb.


"There's a special kind of people known as...  Show People!"

Now, it just so happens that Curtains is playing at the Al Hirschfeld Theatre, on West 45th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues--basically around the corner from Juice Generation (and literally next door to my dance school).  In fact, it's so close that I had already seen two other members of the cast in recent weeks, not to mention tons of stage crew, either at the Juice Generation or on my 1-minute stroll back to the subway on 8th Avenue after class. 

As it turns out, my dance class happens to let out just as everyone in the show is arriving for their Sunday matinée.  This obviously heightens, to a significant degree, the probability of bumping into a cast member of Curtains on any given Sunday, as they say, including Mr. Pierce, who is himself a member of that cast.

Nevertheless, I was pretty excited about the fact that I found myself buying a protein shake in the same little joint, and at the very same time, as a bona fide star of Broadway!  (Not to mention TV and movies.  Remember his supporting roles in Down With Love and Nixon?  'Nuff said.) 

So I couldn't resist.  I looked right at him and I said, "You know, I think I've seen just about every member of the cast of Curtains come in here at some point!"  He smiled and said, "Well, we do have to fortify ourselves!"  That's when I noticed he was wearing a blue denim jacket with a little Curtains logo on the front and a humongous Curtains logo on the back.    So I said, "You know, I really loved the show.  I even have the song Show People downloaded to my MP3 player, and I listen to it whenever I need to get motivated."

(Now, just as background, if you're not familiar with the show--and you should be!--the song Show People is a big show-stopper in which the entire ensemble, dressed to the nines, gets into line formation, while dancing and belting out a musical homage to the world of show business and, more specifically, to the sheer awesomeness of living the life of a performer.  Ahhh!  I get chills every time I hear it.  AND it's funny!  So suck it, Ben Brantley.) 


Actual photo of Ben Brantley, New York Times theater critic and professional spreader-of-darkness.

Anyway, there I was, just letting DHP know that I often listened to the music from his show to get inspired, and that's when he made my day.  He said, "Oh really?  Are you in one of the shows, then?"

Beg your pardon?  Was he asking if I was in one of the shows--one of the Broadway shows?  Was he asking if... I was a Broadway actor?  It took me a moment to process what he meant by that question...  And I finally realized, yes, YES!  David Hyde Pierce was asking me if I was in a Broadway show! 

Holy crap.

I was speechless.  And my heart was beating so hard, I thought it might explode.

After what seemed like ages, I finally managed to pull myself together, and I mumbled, "Well, uhm, no... not yet!  But I'm trying!" 

He smiled and wished me luck, and I wished him a broken leg for that day's matinée. 

And with that, I dashed out the door with a Raspberry-Protein-Buzzed shake in my hand, and a major buzz in my head.  (And it wasn't the antioxidants!)

Just another example of why I can't seem to give up my addiction to this crazy town we call New York.

Elizabeth: "Excuse me, miss, but I believe the other stewardess forgot my carry-on bag."
Carla: "Je m'excuse, your Majesty, but I am not a stewardess.  I am the First Lady of France."
Elizabeth: "Oh, I see.  Well, could you fetch my carry-on bag anyway?"

In this third, and final, installment, Darren and I present Fisherman's Wharf and Alcatraz prison (as well as demonstrate the importance of knowing at least a little actual information about the landmarks that you are supposed to be presenting).

The San Francisco adventure continues in this video log.  Darren and I got brunch in the Castro, but we could not have prepared ourselves for what was in store.  I'll let the video speak for itself.  Enjoy.

Last weekend, I visited San Francisco for the first time.  I flew out to L.A. on a Thursday night, where I met up with Darren (a boy from out there I'm seeing), and the next morning, we drove up the 101 from L.A. in his New Beetle convertible (nice!) to spend the weekend in San Fran.  

It was a LOOOONG drive, but worth it in the end.  It was my first time in Central California, and it was just gorgeous.  We stopped for lunch in Wine Country, in a little town called Solvang, which is Danish for "Forest Hills, Queens, But Cuter, and with Mountains."


Darren and me, in front of a Danish bakery in Solvang, California.  (Great coffee, Solvang!)


Look at those mountains!  (But what's with me and the coffee?)

We finally got to San Francisco late Friday night.  We had dinner in the Castro (aka, "Gayville") and didn't really start exploring the city until the next morning.  But, oh, what a city it is--really steep hills, with a lot of Victorian-style, low-rise (or as I like to put it, non-"sky-rise") buildings, and evidently, very, very cold, damp weather in February, as you will see from this video log.  (You will also see that, for some reason, I styled my hair that day like Gordon Gekko in the movie "Wall Street.")

For those of you who think I made up or might have exaggerated the whole inappropriate "soul sister" thing that Celine does, check out this video.  She actually turns to Sherri Shepherd (the young black woman on The View) at 1:08 and sings "Ooh-woo, girlfriend!"  Then, at 7:01, in response to a question from Whoopi Goldberg (the older black woman on The View), Celine prefaces her answer by saying, "Well, listen, girl!"  

I'm cringing.  Big time, girlfriend.

I had to take a moment from my day to acknowledge the sheer immensity of Celine Dion's hair on her new CD cover:



Looks like that daily Pantene treatment is really paying off!

   
                         BEFORE                              AFTER

As you may know, I have a slight obsession with the French-Canadian chanteuse.  And I must admit, her latest CD has not let me down.  My two favorites, so far, are the first-released (and eponymous) single, "Taking Chances," whose video is another classic Celine trainwreck (check out the police cap and the heavy mascara, and then brace yourself for the "surprise" twist at the end--eat your heart out, Hitchcock!) and her cheese-tastic cover of Heart's "Alone."  (The music box intro music kills me!  And I especially love it when, in the making-of video, she says her "family grew up with Heart--dat kinda' music."  Really, Celine?  You and your sister Manon listened to Heart in 1980's Charlemagne, Quebec?)

And if you haven't seen this You Tube video that someone created by cleverly editing clips of Celine's recent "behind-the-scenes" DVD--you're welcome.  (It's happens to be a great example of what I mean when I say that Celine writes my material herself!)

This year, I spent Christmas (aka "Tuesday" to us Jews) in Los Angeles.  Here is a picture of the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel--the hotel in Beverly Hills where Julia Roberts stayed in "Pretty Woman"--as I whiz past it:



This is me ordering breakfast at the "counter" downstairs at yet another iconic L.A. location--the Beverly Hills Hotel:



(You can't see them in this picture, but just off to my right, there were these two middle-aged guys with thick Eastern European accents and unwieldy hair doing a movie deal.  I swear.  Here is an idea of what they looked like.)



And this is my date, Darren, behind the wheel of his convertible, just as we are driving past Rodeo Drive on a perfectly sunny, Beverly Hills afternoon.



Told you it was a hot Christmas.

Yesterday, I woke up feeling very "Martha Stewart," so I decided to spend all afternoon making a batch of four dozen oatmeal-raisin cookies from scratch.



Do you think straight guys ever do things like that?

I rest my case.

So you may have heard this morning that Charles O. Prince III was ousted as Chairman of Citigroup yesterday.  Here is a picture of Prince, with his queen, Skadden, Arps attorney Peggy Wolff, at some black-tie event in New York City, back in the happier days of 2006.



So blah.

Now here is a picture of Prince Charles and his queen, Elizabeth II, circa 1969.  



I mean, look at those fabrics!  Those hair-dos!  That weird, pointy thing sticking out of Prince Charles's breast pocket!

When it comes to style, there's just no comparison—1969 rules.

Tonight, my journalist friend Neil invited me to a special event at the Apple Store in Soho, where Stephen Colbert (one of my real-life idols) was appearing live to read from his new book, "I Am America! (And So Can You!)."

 

The book is available in "book" format, but since it is the year 2007 and we were at the Apple Store, it's also available in "audio-book" format as a downloadable track from iTunes.  (You can't get Stephen to autograph a downloadable audio file, however--I found that out the hard way.)

After reading several (hi-LAR-ious!) excerpts from his book, the Colb-inator actually broke character and became plain old Stephen C., the humble comedian.  It was riveting, as I had never seen him out of character before.  He was then interviewed by some dude named Jesse in a tweed jacket.   (Apparently Jesse hosts some Apple podcast or something--I wouldn't really know, as I don't speak "computer-geek-ese.")  After the interview, there was a Q&A session, and I got to ask Stephen a question (the last question of the night, actually--lucky me).  I prefaced my question by noting that Stephen had come to prominence as a performer relatively late in life ("Not that you're old," I added, which got a laugh from the crowd, and a faux-rebuke from Stephen to "Watch it!"); I then asked, "How did you stay motivated during the lean years?"  He paused for a split second, and then said "Fear. It's a great motivator. And medications help too."  He got a HUGE laugh, naturally.  

Take that, bears.

 

The Canadian dollar just hit parity with the U.S. dollar today.



In other news, large flocks of pigs were observed flying over the icy snow banks of Hell.



P.S. I think the world is coming to an end.

This video made my day.  It also made me think, "Why didn't I think of this first?" 

I know this is about 6 months late, but I wanted to give all of you a flavor of what it was like living through the experience of auditioning for, and then being a part of The Second City's Next Comedy Legend.

The craziness began back in March, when I went up to Toronto for a weekend.  I had been planning a trip up there for many months because I wanted to really check out the city and its comedy scene.  I ended up going that particular weekend in early March because my friend Stephanie (who is Canadian, but lives in El Salvador--but then again, who hasn't?) was flying up to Toronto to celebrate her engagement there because her fiancé was in Canada, as were most of their friends and family.  One of the many really cool people I met during the course of that weekend was Stephanie's sister, Heather.  (Evidently, Heather, is a big fan of the 'mos, and we're big fans of her too!)  

One of the things I mentioned several times while I was up there was that I was very interested in taking classes at the Second City theater and, perhaps one day, auditioning for them.  It was all about "putting it out there," just like they say you're supposed to in The Secret. 

A few days later, after I had returned to New York, I received an e-mail from Heather.  She was forwarding me a link to an article about a new reality show being co-produced by the Second City and the CBC.   (For my non-Canadian readers, that's the "Canadian Broadcasting Corporation," which is just like regular TV, only Canadian.)   The show was sort of a cross between "American Idol" and "SCTV"  (but with a smaller budget, and no Martin Short).  They were holding open auditions in four different cities across Canada--Vancouver, Calgary, Toronto, and Halifax--and you had to prepare 3 "original" characters for the first round of the audition.

I thought, "That is so me!"  After all, I love doing characters, and voices, and accents.  Plus I'm Canadian.  And I have been obsessed with the Second City since I was about 14!  (Which is a long, long time ago.)  It seemed almost as if the whole thing had been tailored-made just for me.  (Was I being a tad self-absorbed?  Well, cut me some slack; I am one of them queers, after all.  We're supposed to be self-absorbed.) 

But then I thought, what are the chances of making it through the auditions?  There were probably going to be hundreds and hundreds of people showing up.  What was I going to do, fly up to Nova Scotia on a wing and prayer, charm their (thermally-insulated) pants off, and then take the prize?  The whole thing seemed a little insane.

I looked at the audition dates for the 4 cities; Toronto, which would have been my first choice, was happening on a date when I just couldn't get away.  Meanwhile, Vancouver and Calgary were just too far and expensive to go for only 48 hours.  That left Halifax.  It turned out I could get out of work on the Halifax audition day, it was only an hour and a half away by plane, and I even managed to find a flight for around $300. 

I called my dad for advice.  The first thing he said was, "Well, I hope you know, you're not gonna' get picked!"  (Way to support me there, Dad!  My father really knows how to keep it real.  Word.)  So I said, "Well, I suppose you're right--the probabilities of my getting picked are very slim.  But do you think it's worth just doing it anyway, you know, for the experience?"  He paused; then he asked what I had to lose.  I said just the cost of flying up there and staying at a hotel for one or two nights.  He asked if I could afford it; I said that it was a considerable sum to plunk down, but that it wouldn't cause me to be homeless, or anything.  Then he said, "Well, then, I would just do it if I were you."  And so I did.

Here's a pic of the hotel where I stayed.  (It was also a train station and a comedy club.  Very efficient.)



And here is a pic of the harbor view from right behind my hotel.



Check back soon for a video log of my first 24 hours in Halifax.  (Still trying to figure out how to use Windows Movie Maker properly.  It's a real bitch.)

I made myself an omelet this morning, with celery, white onion, and tomato.  And just as I was finishing up the chopping, it occurred to me that the ingredients had morphed into a beautiful Italian flag.



Eat your heart out Christo.

I know I'm about 3 months late on breaking this story, but have you seen the clip of Jane Fonda on The Colbert Report? I was Googling Jane Fonda (which is a totally normal thing to be doing at the office, right?), and I stumbled upon what is bound to become a classic moment in television history.
 
Apparenly Ms. Fonda was on the show to promote that random movie she was in with Lindsay Lohan earlier this year, "Georgia Rules" (which, basically, went straight to DVD). But instead of promoting the movie--or having any serious conservation whatsoever, for that matter--she just walked over to Colbert, sat on his lap, and started making out with him! And she wouldn't let up.

I started wondering if she might have been high, but after watching the whole thing, I think she just has huge cojones and wanted to give Stephen a little taste of his own medicine. 

I have never, ever seen Stephen Colbert embarrassed and flustered before. God bless Jane Fonda. Here's the clip. Enjoy. 

I'm a huge Chipotle fan.  But it turns out, if I continue eating there, I will soon just be huge, period.

Someone I know told me to Google the nutritional content of a regular Chipotle shredded beef burrito.  So I did, and I came across a website called chipotlefan.com.  They have a "Nutrition Calculator" where you just click on the items in your burrito.  I selected one 13" soft tortilla shell, one serving of shredded or "Barbacoa" beef, beans, rice, salsa, corn, cheese, sour cream, guacamole, and I added lettuce, just for good measure.  (How many calories could the lettuce have have, right? )

Here is what popped up on my screen:

Chipotle Nutrition Facts Serving Size: 1 Burrito Amount Per Serving Calories 1515 Calories from Fat 612 % DV* Total Fat 68g   Saturated Fat 22.5g   Cholesterol 144mg   Sodium 4148mg   Total Carbohydrate 156g   Dietary Fiber 18.5g   Sugars 10g   Protein 71g   Vitamin A 162% Vitamin C 85% Calcium 55% Iron 36%

Chipotle Nutrition Results provided by:
Chipotle Fan.com
Say WHAT?!  1,515 calories, with 68 GRAMS OF FAT!  Why not just eat a tub of Crisco, while you're at it!

And that's exactly what I'm doing for lunch today.  

Mmmmmm.  Crisco.

 

My friend Ian came into town today and wanted to do something different.  So the two of us got together and did something that I had never, ever done before.

No, not THAT--I've done THAT before, you silly goose!  (In fact, I did it twice last night with the guy who delivered my Chinese take-out.)  

[Ba-dum-BUM.]

No, no, what Ian and I did was go up to the 86th Floor Observation Deck of the Empire State Building.  

Wow, what a view.


Ahoy--I see the promised land ahead!  Oh wait, no, that's just New Jersey.

Ian has only been to New York a handful of times, so one would expect him never to have been to the Empire State Building.  I, on the other hand, have lived in the City for almost six years and must have visited the City dozens of times before I moved here.  And yet I had never been to the classic Art Deco structure that adorns our fair City's magical skyline like a trusted, gracious old friend.  (Unless you count watching that scene in Sleepless in Seattle where Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan meet up at the Empire State Building as "being" there.  Or, wait a minute, didn't they actually miss each other?  Oh, whatever.  I hated that movie.)

Anyhoo, being up there felt like flying over Manhattan.  The light was so bright and, on a clear day like today, you really can see for miles in every direction!  It was breathtaking.


The endless views obviously make me very, very happy.  Almost catatonically happy.

Given how beautiful it was, I wondered why I had waited all this time to have the experience.  I suspect it's for the same reason I've never done so many of the things in New York that are the iconic experiences that everyone who doesn't live here wants to experience when they come, like taking a horse-drawn carriage ride in Central Park, or ice-skating in Rockefeller Center, or having a meal at The Russian Tea Room--the fear that it just won't live up to expectations.  

Oh, and also, I hate foreigners.  

Had a fantastic July 4th yesterday.  I hung out with the lusciously adorable Michelle Buteau, comedienne and professional enchantress.


Yeah, I said it--she's luscious!

She invited me to a kick-ass, "patriotic" comedy show in Long Island City, hosted by the very wild, very Jack-Black-esque John F. O'Donnell.  Wendy Ho sang the Star Spangled Banner, as only Ms. Ho could.  Hilarious.  After the show, we all hiked up four flights of stairs to watch the fireworks from the roof of the tenement building next door.  So "urban"!

Now for those of you who are not familiar with the outer-boroughs of New York, Long Island City is in Queens, just over the East River from Manhattan, flush with where the Empire State Building is located (in latitudinal terms).  I had never actually seen Manhattan from that perspective before, let alone Manhattan lit up with such a glorious light show from that perspective.


(This is just a generic fireworks shot--not the breathtaking views of the Manhattan skyline I had last night.  I forgot to bring my camera.  Whatevs.)

After the fireworks, Michelle, such is her beauty and charm, somehow convinced me and another friend of hers to go dancing at Sin Sin, even though I had to get up really early for work today.  I got home just before 1:00 AM and didn't get to bed until almost 2:00 AM.

Long story short, I had a blast, but I'm very tired today.


Check out the bags!  Not so luscious.

Luckily, I had some Sheer Cover® foundation, which I applied generously.  And just look at the results.


Wow--I look amazing!

Hope everyone out there had a happy, safe, and fun 4th of July.

Dear David,

My ex-boyfriend loved your books. I think he had read every single one of them, probably several times. He used to go on and on about how "David Sedaris is a comic genius," "David Sedaris makes my heart sing with joy," "David Sedaris can bend a metal bar with his mind," etc., etc.

So, anyway, after he dumped me, anything he loved, I hated.  Like pork, and the color orange.  Then again, maybe I hated pork because I'm Jewish.  I'm not sure.  But the point is, for years I simply refused to try anything that he liked.  A sort of "rejection by association," if you will.  And that included anything written by David Sedaris. 

However, after letting a number of years go by and working through a lot of the baggage (thank you therapy!), I recently let my friend Shawn persuade me to give up my David Sedaris boycott.  He suggested I read Me Talk Pretty One Day because I was looking for an unusual monologue for an audition I was doing. The show I was auditioning for was a quirky little one-act play about a gay writer, and Shawn had cleverly figured out that the first-person narrative and biting tone of Me Talk Pretty One Day would be perfect for the role that I was trying out for. I ended up choosing an excerpt from "Twelve Moments in the Life of the Artist" as my monologue, and I got some big laughs--all of the credit for which must go to you.

Which brings me to the reason for this letter.  I just wanted to say, David Sedaris--you truly are a comic genius. While reading Me Talk Pretty One Day, I have caught myself laughing out loud many a time, even in the subway. Out LOUD, I tell you!  And, believe me, that does not happen often.  Mainly because, up until now, I usually just read old Learning Annex catalogues in the subway.

One time, I was reading your book in the subway, and I laughed so hard that everyone else in the subway car started staring at me.  They just stared and stared, and made surly frowns. Can you believe that?  Just because I was enjoying your book!  

Or maybe they were staring because I was eating these garlicky fried noodles that stank to high heaven. Can't say for sure.  



But one thing I can say for sure--Me Talk Pretty is brilliant!  I can't wait to read your other books.  And I'm thrilled that you are writing for the New Yorker now.  I'm actually considering signing up for a subscription.  (I'll just be sure to skip over the really serious, long-winded fiction pieces.)

So thank you for creating such funny, insightful, and inspiring stories.

All my best,

Robert 

P.S. It turns out, I also really like bacon, so screw my ex-boyfriend.

I had to relay this comment about Gwen Stefani, which my friend Rafaele made in an e-mail today and which made me burst out laughing.

"I am going to see Gwen Stefani tonight.... So if you never hear from me again, just know that I've probably been trampled on by hysterical tweens dressed as tiny whores. Oh joy."



Now that's a funny thought. Check out the eccentric Japanese girls who hang out in the background while Gwen performs--even they're laughing.

This weekend, I went to New Haven, Connecticut for the first time.  I was invited for a visit by new friend, David (aka, my “new man-person,” as my friend Christian put it, since we don’t quite yet have a term that appropriately describes the status of my relationship with David).

David and I spent Saturday afternoon exploring Yale’s gorgeous campus. I spent all of my undergraduate and law school years at McGill University in Montreal, and I always wondered how differently my life might have turned out had I applied and been accepted to Yale.  As I stood there, in the shade of the neo-gothic spires rising before me, admiring the beauty of the ivy slinking up the intricately detailed murals, I couldn’t help but think, “Gosh, if only I had gotten in here and taken on about $180,000 or so in debt, I too could have been thrown into a snake pit of hyper-competitive, type-A, over-achieving shills of ambition—also known as law students—who would have made me feel intellectually inadequate, but in such a classic and beautiful setting!" 


Look Ma, no law school debt! 

On Saturday night, David took me to a Spanish restaurant. Since, I had never been to New Haven and wasn’t familiar with the quality of the city’s gastronomy, I didn’t quite know what to expect. But I was pleasantly surprised.

As we were about to enter the restaurant, we caught a glimpse of Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalist and author of the New York Times best-selling non-fiction tome, The World is Flat: A Brief History of the 21st Century, Thomas L. Friedman, exiting with his lovely wife on his arm.


Hello, I have a Pulitzer Prize. Also, I love tapas.

By the way, have you ever noticed that there are certain prizes that, once someone has received one, for the rest of his life, that person is no longer just “John Q. Smith,” but rather, “John Q. Smith, Blah-Bah-Di-Bah-prize-winning massage therapist,” or whatever? But it only seems to work with prizes of a certain prestige level. Like, you’ll never hear “And now, Quebec-regional-intermediate-level-Japanese-speaking-contest-prize-winner, Robert Keller, demonstrates the proper use of Okatsune shears for traditional Ikebana.” 


Okatsune 6 3/4" World Class Ikebana Shears

Anyhoo, back to Connecticut.  We took the presence of Tommy Friedman (as I refer to him, since I like to keep it REAL) as a good omen. And we were not disappointed. Everything about the restaurant was impressive—from the décor, to the service, to the food. Even the cocktails! (I had three drinks with dinner, whereas David—notwithstanding the fact that (1) we were in Connecticut and (2) David is a WASP—had only one drink. So take that, WASP-stereotype propagators!)  To be specific, I sampled a sangria as a pre-dinner cocktail (potent!), moved on to a caipirinha with my appetizer (knock-me-on-my-ass good!), and, as an accompaniment to my main course, topped things off with a refreshing glass of white Rioja (outstanding!). (Clearly, I was not the designated driver.)  As for David’s mojito, it was strong and delicious.  (Just like David—hey-OH!)

The food itself was also extraordinary, albeit not really Spanish.  More like “Spanish-ish.” David had an appetizer of shrimp and scallop ceviche, which, technically, is Mexican. But this was Connecticut, so to them, the main thing was that the dish came from a country where people have “darker skin.”  Or so I'm told.  My starter, meanwhile, was lamb cannelloni.  Not even close to Spanish, but very tasty, so who cares?  After all, Italy is on the same continent as Spain.  Also, they were both fascist dictatorships back at one point, so lighten up, nit-pickers!

The main courses were also out of this world.  I had the cod, or as it’s called in Spanish, “bacalao,” which is a strange, Portuguese-sounding word that I love saying over and over again, very loudly.  To me, it sounds like a Brazilian person shouting for help. “BACALAO! BACALAO! Deese a woman at Copa Cabana—she need a lipo, right away!” 


"Just keep walking and pretend like you didn't see that.  BACALAO!"

Where was I?  Oh yeah, the main courses.  David had the red snapper, which was very firm and moist.  (Just like David—hey-OH!)

(OK, I’ll stop now.)

But I think my favorite part of the meal was the pre-appetizer, which came “compliments of the chef,” as our waiter informed us.


The pre-appetizer of choice for tiny, tiny people in New Haven.

I’m not sure what the correct Spanish term for this dish was, so I will just refer to it as “mini-bolas de queso fritas,” which translates as “mini-fried-cheese balls.”

Sounds much better in Spanish, right Tommy?


Si Señor.  Me gustan las mini-bolas, y la tierra es plata!

The Queen was in Washington this week, and over 7,000 people turned up yesterday morning to get a glimpse of her during the "formal arrival ceremony" on the White House's South Lawn.  In this excerpt from today's New York Times, we get an explanation of why some Americans are so fascinated by the British monarchy:
 
Joy Green, whose daughter had tickets by virtue of her job at the Justice Department, flew in from Selma, Ala., for the occasion. “I think we love it that they have a queen,” she said, explaining the American fascination, “and we’re glad that we don’t.” 



So let me get this straight, Joy.  You purchased air fare from Alabama and flew to D.C. to stand in line with 7,000 other putzim at 7 in the morning, just so you could see the Queen for about 30 seconds--why?--because you love the fact that the British have her, and you're glad that Americans don't.

In other news, Ms. Green plans to drive about 900 miles this summer to attend this year's Gay Pride in Key West because, quote, "I hate gays, and their parades are a hoot 'n a holler!"

 
"Those gays sure know how to have a good time, and they're despicable! By the way, did I mention that I just LOVE logic?"
--Joy Green, Selma, Ala.

This is the photo they are using today on MSN.com to promote the new Spiderman movie.



Is it just me, or is that image sort of, well...  inappropriately phallic?

So Ricky Martin evidently got into some trouble the other day for making an "obscene gesture" regarding President Bush at a concert in Puerto Rico.  In a written statement to the Associated Press, Mr. Martin attempted to explain his crude gesture by saying: "I will always condemn war and those who promulgate it."

This seems to raise questions about freedom of speech and the degree to which it is appropriate for celebrities to use their power and influence to advance their own political agendas.

But I have more pressing question:  What the hell happened to Ricky Martin's body?



I mean, didn't he used to have waist?



And isn't black supposed to be SLIMMING?!  Dude, seriously, way to let yourself go.

Tragic, really.

Dear Cold Weather,

Thanks for stopping by!  It had really been a long while, there.  In fact, I had almost forgotten what you were like!  Having you around for a couple of days was really nice--I mean what's winter without you?  Spring, that's what!  And spring in January, well, that's just downright weird.  So, really, thank you for coming. 

That said, I don't want be rude or anything, but I really have to say, now that you've spent a good week or two hanging out here in New York, I think it's time you start making your way back where you belong, like Alberta or Greenland.  You see, coming by unannounced and just hanging around like this is really disruptive to me.  In fact, it's down right annoying.  When you're around, I need to wear a hat, which makes my hair look like a really flat, brown pancake.  That's not good.  Also, you make it difficult for me to do things with my other friends, like go out for dinner or see a show.  In fact, I am so overwhelmed by you these days, I can't even get to the store to buy groceries, so for the last 2 nights, I have been eating rice pudding and trail mix for dinner (alone)!  Not fun.

I hope you have safe travels back north.  If you need anything to break up the monotony during your travels--like a light mist or a low pressure system--just give a ring!  But try not to come back for a while.  I just don't think it would be healthy for us at this point in our relationship.

All the best,

Robert

This is a photo taken of me and my friend Rafaele last Monday at her surprise 30th birthday.



As usual, she looks like a goddess.  (She's very photogenic, as you can plainly see.)  Meanwhile, I look like a far-sighted Mick Jagger.  And what's with the bowl cut?  Wow.  Not my finest moment, folks.

And one of them is apparently interviewer of celebrities.  See how good he is at interviewing my favorite celebrity of all time--Ms. Celine Dion.  Watch how he skillfully captures each of Celine's subtle emotions, her clownish facial expressions, and some of her just plain off-the-wall bizarre statements.

 
Weird Al Interviews Celine Dion - video powered by Metacafe

So yesterday, I was jogging near my apartment in the Financial District, and something down on the ground caught my eye. It looked like a folded-up bill. I reached down to pick it up and realized it was in fact money. My lucky day, I thought.  But what surprised me even more when I unfolded it was that it was a $2 bill. 




Now, if you're like me, you’re probably wondering, but are $2 bills even real? And, more importantly, why is Two and a Half Men still on the air?

 
(It looks like even they know the show sucks.)

Well, I can’t answer the latter question. I'm not sure anyone can.  But I do know, having done some research, that $2 bills are very real, indeed. 

Turns out, the $2 bill has been in circulation a long, long time.  And the last time the $2 bill was updated wasn't all that long ago.  According to the U.S Treasury’s FAQs: "On September 12, 1996, Robert E. Rubin, the 70th Secretary of the Treasury, was presented with a new series $2 bill. The Series 1995 notes were printed at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing’s (BEP) Western Currency Facility and bear the seal of the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta."

I know.  Fascinating.

Oh, and another thing—the $2 bill is not queer.  (That’s the $3 bill, which is not a real denomination, but is a punk band in Chicago, in case you were wondering.)

Speaking of fascinating and not queer, I also yesterday had the pleasure of appearing on Single Talk, a web-based radio show about dating on World Talk Radio. My segment was about getting over an ex. I am told the segment was “fun” and “informative.” (But you can’t believe everything you hear.)

Judge for yourself by clicking here and scrolling down to the October 8, 2006 entry.

Why is that lady in the ads for CVS so damn happy?


I mean, have you ever been that happy to be pharmacy shopping?  What exactly is she buying in there that would cause her to erupt with such arms-in-the-air, total-release, ethereal joy? Because I want some.  

Also, why was the woman who was in charge of the Governor's mansion on Benson (you know, that show from the early 80's in which Robert Guillaume played the butler-turned-lieutenant-governor) German?  I mean, isn't it strange that a wealthy state governor would employ a German immigrant in such a sensitive, protocol-related position?  And what was with that accent of hers?  The actress who played the character of Miss Gretchen Wilomena Kraus (her real name was Inga Swensen--thanks IMDB!) was constantly drifting in and out the most put-on Teutonic accent I have heard since Kyle McLachlan was a guest on Sprockets.



(If you're wondering, Kyle is on the left, playing Karl-Marx-Stadt, the man who compiles all the videos for Germany’s Most Disturbing Home Videos.)

By the way, I tried unsuccessfully to find a picture of Inga Swensen, but I did stumble upon this disturbingly bizarre "bloopers" video from the early 80's featuring Steve Allen and Réné Auberjonois (of Benson fame and, later, the shape-shifting alien on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, who is now apparently on Boston Legal--again, thanks IMDB!) introducing hilarious out-takes from Benson.  Check out the hair on Auberjonois and enjoy the Arabic subtitles.



P.S.  I just went back to You Tube to search for "Benson" and "Kraus," just for fun. To my absolute astonishment, there is one video that fits the bill.  (You Tube is nothing short of miraculous.)  

This clip, a commercial for an episode of Benson, is hilarious in ways that it isn't meant to be. It provides a telling illustration of Inga's struggle to pull off a credible German accent, while it also serves as a vivid reminder of the tragedy of hair styles in the early 80's. Enjoy.

So I was invited to do a segment this past Monday on French-language radio in Montreal again.  The show is hosted by a lovely and charming woman who sort of reminds you of a white, French-speaking Oprah, except without the God-complex.



(No, this is not Roseanne--it really is Quebecois media legend, Christiane Charette.)

I was supposed to talk about what's hot and happening here in New York.  Instead, the host and the other two guests--one was a slightly-faded Quebecois rock star and the other a television host who is a former VJ from the Quebec equivalent of MTV--ended up making this whole big thing about how they couldn't figure out how I could practice law as a day job, and yet perform comedy at the same time.  (Well, obviously, it isn't exactly at the same time, since it's not like I'll ever be drafting a summons and, all of a sudden, break into a monologue about how taking a taxi in L.A. is insane because they have these little computers on their dashboards and...  OK, I'm digressing.)  The point is, these people just couldn't get over the lawyer-slash-comedian thing.

Now I didn't want to seem rude, so I just kept trying to subtly bring the discussion back to my prepared topics.  Like, "You know, that whole 'It's so weird that you're a lawyer and a comedian' thing?  It totally reminds me of this really cool restaurant I went to Friday night...."  But it was no use.  They just kept going on and on about how it didn't make sense to them that you could be a lawyer and a performer at the same time.  Then one of them, the slightly-faded Quebecois rock star, started calling me "Rob," which was even more disconcerting.  (Imagine John Cougar Mellencamp calling you by an unfamilar nickname.  It's weird, people.)   

So, to change the topic slightly, I mentioned that I had been on a show called Can't Get A Date (which, naturally, got a laugh).  At that point, they start talking about this picture that they're looking at.  Now, you have to understand, I have no idea what picture they're referring to, seeing as how I'm sitting, all alone, in a tiny studio on the corner of Third and 47th, and they're in Montreal, in some hipsterish, high-ceilinged loft with huge plasma screens and martinis, where everyone speaks French (at least that's what I was picturing in my head).   

I learned after the fact that this was the picture that they were looking at:



(Now, keep in mind, this picture comes from my website and carries a caption that actually says, "Listen, Carole Anne, if this 'homo' thing doesn't work out for me, can we hook up?"  Somehow, this was lost on my French radio counterparts.)

So they're all, "Well, it looks like you did get a date--and she's pretty hot!" And I was all, "What?" And slightly-faded-rockstar guy was all, "Dude, seriously, she is totally hot!  You totally scored."  And I was all, "OK, what picture are you looking at?" And then the host was like, "That's all the time we have.  Thanks for joining us, Robert!"  And then there was silence. 

So now I'm officially back in the closet in French-speaking Canada. 

Parlez-vous... "ironique"?

I just saw this on the web and almost gagged.

It's Alan Cumming's personal contribution to the burgeoning celebrity fragrance industry:




Reportedly it's the fragrance the New York Times calls "A manly, tasty blend of black pepper and bergamot with just a hint of Scotch pine, whiskey and-could it be?...rubber."

And he wonders why he gets type-cast.

Towards the end of my long weekend in Montreal last week, I was walking in "le Vieux-Montréal" (aka "Old Montreal") and noticed this doozie of a sign:



"Forget" is actually a relatively common French-Canadian name.  But when paired up with the words "Cafe-Bistro" in English, it can lead to some great "Who's-on-first" fun.  As in:

- Honey, where are we having dinner tonight?
- Forget Cafe-Bistro.
- I've never even heard of Cafe-Bistro.
- No--Forget Cafe-Bistro.
- OK, OK, I've forgotten it.  So where are we going?
- No, no.  We're going to Forget Cafe-Bistro.
- For chrissake!  How can we forget it when you keep bringing it up?  Look, let's just go to the Usine du Gateau de Fromage.*

(*While there is currently no Cheesecake Factory in Montreal, if they ever opened one, that might very well be its name, if the awkwardly-monikered "Usine du Spaghetti" is any indication.)

So last night, I was chillin' with my homies (and by homies, I mean my best friend in Montreal, Dave, and his girlfriend, Ana-Luiza), at Suite 701, which appears to be Montreal's answer to Cipriani, when whom should I bump into?  Yes, that's right, the very same Canadian celebrity I can't seem to stop obsessing over lately.  (No, not Celine.  My feelings for her run much deeper than mere obsession.)  I'm referring, of course, to Mr. Ben Mulroney.  

(If you have no idea who Ben Mulroney is, please see the next blog entry below for details.  And if you ARE Ben Mulroney, please stop reading here.  Trust me, it's for your own good.)

I couldn't help but tell him that I'm a comedian and that I've written a whole bit about him.   Which, naturally, led him to ask the question, "So what do you say about me?"  Suddenly at a loss for words, I mumbled, "Oh, it's too mean.  I can't say."  (The fact is, I think mean is O.K. in comedy, as long as it's mean AND funny.  Unfortunately, judging from the reaction I got at Yuk-Yuk's a few weeks ago--more on that in the blog entry below--most of the bit about him was just mean.)  Of course, Ben and his female companion insisted, so I gave them a little sampling of the material that could legitimately be described as funny (e.g., "Folks, I just want you to know, that whole tall, slender, brown-haired thing he does?  Yeah, I invented that.") 



Hi!  I'm Ben, and I'm still a handsome man!  (Yeah, I totally stole this look from Robert.  What's your point?)

We all had a laugh, and, as I was leaving, I handed him my card and mentioned I had a website.  Of course, it then occurred to me that there was some rather unflattering stuff in my last blog entry about him.  So, as soon as I got back to my parents' house where I'm staying this weekend, I immediately logged-on to excise anything that might be construed as both mean and unfunny from said-blog entry.  (This was at 2:15 A.M. , no less.)  Which taught me a valuable lesson--if you're going to skewer celebrities with really mean, bitter crap, at least make sure it's funny.  Unless you're Kathy Griffin.

(Oh my GOD!  Did I just say that?  I'm totally kidding!  If you're reading this, Kathy, I think you're anti-Ryan Seacrest diatribes are hilarious!  No, seriously!  O.K., I'm going to stop talking now.)



We are not amused.

Of course, now that I've fulfilled my dream of chatting up Ben Mulroney in a crowded Montreal bar at 2 in the morning, it's time to move on to more important and meaningful projects.  Like doing Tequila shots in a backroom at Caeser's Palace with Celine Dion.  

On August 5, 2006, I made my debut at Canada’s premier comedy club—Yuk Yuk’s in downtown Toronto, Canada. It was an incredible night.  Not only was it a great show, but it turns out that it was Caribana weekend, which had even us Caucasians excited! 



"As a Jew from Montreal, let me just say--I adore Caribbean music. I find it to be rather, uhm, how you do say?  Irie."

I also got to try out some new material about Ben Mulroney. Now for those of you who have never heard of him, Ben is the son of Canada's most infamous prime minister (one Brian Mulroney), and he went from mild-mannered, Quebec City law school graduate to hunky, hysteria-inducing host of Canadian Idol (which is exactly what you think it is).  (Personally, I'm still working on turning my Canadian law degree into a lucrative television contract on a national network, so I'll keep you all posted on how that turns out.)  Ben is also the host of another pillar of Canadian culture—CTV’s "eTalk" (a.k.a. "Access Hollywood" without the "Hollywood").  What's next--a recurring role on CSI: Mississauga? (And if you’ve never heard of Mississauga, think Newark, except less sophisticated.)



Hey, there--I'm Ben Mulroney, and I'm a handsome man!

On Sunday, I attended the wedding of my cousin Adam to his beautiful bride, Jennifer. It was a great time—we sang, we ate, we danced, we ate, we heard speeches, we ate; and when it was all done, we had dessert. And THEN there was a sweet table. (Now that’s what I call fress-ing.) 



Adam, darling, would you please stop singing "Hava Nagila" for one second?



This fall on NBC, catch the new must-see comedy--"Two Jews, Two Tuxes, and a Pizza Place!"

After Toronto, it was off to L.A. for the day job. It was a pretty amazing week—palm trees have a way of making even the most excruciating work day seem just a little sweeter. And, in the evenings, I managed to find time to reconnect with a couple of old friends who have moved out to the West Coast from New York in the past year. I even got to take a dip in the Pacific Ocean on Saturday, when I drove up to Malibu for the afternoon. Truly glorious.

 

The wild thing about L.A. is that it’s crawling with celebrities.  In just 6 days, I managed to bump into the guy from that movie Chuck and Buck (he’s not nearly as strange in real life), Wanda Sykes (she’s a doll) and Pauly Shore (he’s…well, let’s just say, he looks the same in person). 

           

Now that's what I call celebrities!

Of course, in L.A., it’s not just the celebrities who work in show business. In fact, pretty much everyone I met out there was in “the biz”—the bartender at the Abbey, the girl who swiped my card at the Equinox gym, the dude behind the Hertz counter. I met this one guy from the Hollywood Hills who writes sitcoms for a living—even his cleaning lady has a three-picture deal.

Sometimes I think I’m on the wrong coast people.

I wanted to let all my friends, fans, and rag-tag supporters know that my last Comedy Infusion show at Vlada was on June 27. It was a great two-month run—we had some amazing performers and some truly unforgettable moments—but, as with everything in life, there comes a time to move on. And there are some really exciting projects in the works, including a possible radio show, so keep checking in for updates.

I did want to share one thing about the June 27 show, though, even if it is a little belatedly. We had a wonderful surprise guest show up from Miami Beach—an old broad with some major spunk, named Bernice Bernstein.


D’j’wanna see a picture of my grand-daw-ter? She’s bee-YOO-tiful!

Bernice was quite a treat—she’s got a lot of opinions on everything, from sexually-active seniors (“WON-duh-ful!” she said), to the gay community in Miami (“They’re in great shape, but I don’t care for the parades,” she duly noted). Here’s hoping Bernice will be making another appearance at one of my upcoming shows soon.

Last night, at the Gotham Comedy Club, we celebrated my television debut, as my episode of the new VH-1/Logo reality series Can't Get A Date got its network premiere.





Does this look like the face of an "uptight" lawyer?  (OK, maybe a little.)

Leading up to the show, I invited the cream of the crop of the New York comedy scene to perform--Ophira Eisenberg, QUASI, Amy Stiller, and Jessica Kirson.  Ophira and Amy did some clever roasting of yours truly.  (And no, Mom, I have never taken cocaine in my life, notwithstanding what Ophira said! But, yes, I do use a shoehorn to put on my shoes every morning, as Amy pointed out.  Does that make me uptight--or just respectful of my shoes?)  QUASI cracked us up with their director/audition routine.  And the crowd went absolutely wild when Jessica Kirson threatened to eat them if they didn't laugh--"You're protein," she said, "And I can eat protein."  When my television show finally came on at 10:30 pm, there was a little glitch with the sound, so I did a running DVD-style commentary for the first 10 minutes or so.  But I think it was actually kind of amusing, and it ended up being a really fun night.  If you missed the show, it is going to be rebroadcast several times in the next few weeks on Logo; and, in the meantime, you can see clips, photos, and other tidbits from my episode of Can't Get A Date by going to the Logo website.

Last night’s Comedy Infusion marked the inauguration of our “live commercial” series. In honor of the wave that’s sweeping the City—with Stomp doing live commercials for London tourism—the Comedy Infusion show had its own live commercials for its corporate sponsors: Levitra® and Manhunt.net. (Although I kept calling it “Manhunt.com,” as one of my audience members helpfully pointed out to me. Sorry Manhunt.net—my bad!) Kudos to Allen Warnock and Katina Corrao for their hilarious sketch work. (And catch them doing stand up on the VLADA stage in a few weeks’ time! Just check the show listings on this website in the coming weeks for details.)

Last night’s line-up was stellar. Jane Condon trekked all the way in from Connecticut just to make us drunken homos laugh—and she succeeded! Her bit about Missy Elliott was (dare I say it?) “da bomb”! 


Jane--so funny (and so fuzzy in the picture--thanks drunken picture-taker who shall remain nameless!).

Joe DeVito, the lone (truly) straight dude on the roster kept us in stitches with his dry, yet slightly nerdy shtick. (That guy is funny—look for him on Comedy Central this summer!) 


Me and Joe DeVito making love to the camera!  (And what is going on with the girl above us?  It looks like she is sprinkling us with pixie dust.  Trying to make Joe gay perhaps?  Well, trust me, honey, it's not going to happen--not on my watch!)

Dave Rubin, who recently came out, was as hilarious and as adorable as ever. (But is he really gay? I offered to take one for the team and let Dave prove his sexuality once and for all in the men's room after the show, but he graciously declined. I guess his boyfriend thought it wouldn’t be such a great idea.) And a surprise guest stopped by to finish off the show—Amy Stiller of King of Queens! She was unstoppable, with her tales of surviving show business and a really bad break-up, and the gays were eating out of the palm of her well-manicured hands. (She’s coming back to Comedy Infusion on June 27, so in case you missed her last night, you’ll get another chance to catch her doing her thing on the VLADA stage. And she is also going to be a part of my special event to celebrate the premiere of my episode of Can’t Get A Date on Logo on Wednesday, June 28—check the show listings on this website for details in the coming days.) 


Me, Amy Stiller, Allen Warnock, Katina Corrao, and Dave Rubin, just chillin' after the show.  (Is Katina signing autographs?)

After the show, DJ Brenda Black kept the jams pumping, and a few of us hung out at the bar with sexy bartender Kenny for some kick-ass peach-infused vodka martinis (those puppies were strong!). There was an incredible buzz in the air—sort of like being at an updated, gay Studio 54. (Wait a minute, “gay Studio 54”—isn’t that sort of redundant?) I don’t know what kind of sexy voodoo magic Ms. Vlada Von Shatts has up her sleeve, but whatever it is—it’s working! (The place was packed with some seriously hot boys.) I can’t wait until next Tuesday, when we’ll be presenting our special “Gay Pride” edition of Comedy Infusion. Hope to see you there!

The house was packed for the first ever Comedy Infusion as part of “Tickle,” a new Tuesday-evening event co-hosted by DJ Brenda Black and myself at Vlada. Brenda’s def jams started at 8 pm, and the show began at about 20 after 9 (which is 9 pm in “gay” time).

We had an amazing line-up. Jayson Cross (one hot black dude!) tore up the stage with riffs on his family and dating. Brad Loekle kept us in stitches with sordid tales of Fire Island and his innate talent for figuring out if animals are gay. And Jaffe Cohen, one of the original Funny Gay Males, showed us how stand-up comedy is done. (Look out for his new novel, Tush, on bookstore shelves in July--or order it right now on Amazon.com or by visiting Jaffe's website.)

And then, the pièce de résistance, our surprise “celebrity guest”—Celine Dion—burst onto the stage and regaled us with stories about growing up in Charlemagne, Québec.  I know what you're wondering:  was that the real Celine Dion on the Vlada stage last night? I think the photographic evidence speaks for itself. But, dear reader, I’ll let you be the judge.

   
Will the real Slim Celine please stand up? 

And Celine shared a little secret with us—it's always been her dream to have her own talk show.  Well, guess what?  Her dream actually came true last night, when she debuted Big Time With Celine Dion.  She was supposed to interview Barbara Streisand, but Babs cancelled at the last minute because it was 2-for-1 Tuesday at the movies in L.A. (long story).  So instead, like a true pro, Celine improvised and ended up interviewing a HUGE celebrity who just happened to be in the audience. (I think his name was Abe, and I am not too sure what his claim to fame is exactly, but he was very cute.) 


Hey, Abe--you go girl!

Later on, I dropped by another gay lounge in midtown (which shall remain nameless), and I bumped into a true celebrity (who shall also remain nameless—for now!) who was promoting her new television show. She and I had actually met once before, so I grabbed her and said, “Hey, [Unnamed Celebrity Lady], I’m Robert Keller. We actually met last fall at an Alzheimer’s fundraiser. Do you remember?” Just at that moment, her handsome male friend chimed in and said, “Dude, do you realize the irony of the question you just asked?” And Unnamed Celebrity Lady, without skipping a beat, added, “Of course I don’t remember you, I have Alzheimer's!” We were all laughing pretty hard at this point.  But I did manage to regain my composure long enough to invite Unnamed Celebrity Lady to do my show some time. So stay tuned!

Last night, I went to see Kathy Griffin at the Nokia Theater. It was an AMAZING show. 


You can’t really see much, but take it from me—this is Kathy doing her stand-up thing.  (Look, I wasn't even supposed to take this picture, OK?  Shoot.)

Kathy’s reputation is built on her ability to cut down pompous, self-absorbed celebrities to size—and making us pee in our pants while she does it. And there was plenty of the signature celebrity-mocking in this show: the Seacrest bitchiness continues; Oprah and Gail get their just desserts; and even little Gaiken gets another licking (pun intended).

But towards the end of the show, Kathy showed us a side of hers that I had never seen before, when she launched into some very clever and subtle political humor. Mainly she used her platform to point out the hypocrisy of so many of our right-wing pundits and politicians in this country. For example, when was the last time Oxycontin-poppin Rush Limbaugh went to Iraq? Never. (But interestingly, Kathy has been there to entertain the troops.) And will we ever forget Bill O’Reilly’s loofah/falafel incident? (I certainly hope not—and Kathy’s doing everything she can so that we don’t forget.)

She reminded me of a funny, little red-headed Socrates—challenging the accepted collective wisdom, exposing herself to punishment by the collective for doing so, but charging ahead with her mission anyway, comforted by the knowledge that her intentions are indeed probably a good deal purer and more patriotic than any of those people who wrap themselves in the flag would like to claim theirs are.

There’s nothing like having four hot straight guys trapped in a roomful of drunken gays to get the party started right. And this past Tuesday’s Comedy Infusion was no exception to that rule.

First up was Baron Vaughn, who stopped in for a surprise guest spot—and he brought the house down. (Thank goodness he didn’t get that job at Shoegasm.)


Me and Baron Vaughn—striking a pose. (“What’re you lookin’ at? Vogue, vogue, vogue…”)

Next up was Jeremy Waiser, performing in front of a gay audience for the first time ever. (Not too shabby for a “vaginahead,” as Jeremy might say.) Dan Allen then wowed us with his witty, wry observations on writing for US Weekly’s Fashion Police (“Wonder Woman called—she wants her belt back.”) And the delicious Bill Dawes took it home with a rather wild set that left both the girls and the boys in the audience desperately wanting more. 


Oh look, it's a promo shot for that new ABC sitcom--"Three White Guys, A Black, and a Gay... and a Pizza Place!"  (By the way, Baron, just a heads-up--it's clearly not a good idea to mix alcohol with those meds!)

After the show, some of the comedians retired to the famous Renaissance Diner for a late bite and a few laughs, and we were soon joined by other comedians who had just finished their sets at the nearby Improv or at Gotham. It was one of those classic New York nights when you just feel so lucky to be a part of this crazy, beautiful City that never sleeps.

The man in question is Gabriel Aubry.  He's an international male model who got his big break doing a high-profile campaign for Hugo Boss a few years back.  And now he's Miss Halle Berry's permanent companion. 


Yes, I am Donatella, and dese arah my "amici"--Gabriel, Halle, and... How do you say?--Oh yes, Halle's boobies.  Buona sera!


Bonjour--I am Gabriel, and I'm a handsome man.

Here's the kicker--Monsieur Aubry is originally from Montreal, and my best friend from my high school, Kim, actually knew him.  In fact, HE HAD A CRUSH ON HER when we were about 17, but she TURNED HIM DOWN!  (Yes, dear reader, you read that correctly.)  Why, you ask?  Oh, that's simple--it was because Kim had just broken up with her first "real boyfriend" and "didn't really want to date much" at the time.  

I wish I were kidding, but I am not. 

One word, Kim--wowzers.

There's really no joke here--I just find this picture to be priceless.  Enjoy.



P.S.  Notice how Barbara's name is first, even though she is on the right side of the picture.  Nice work, Babs's publicist.

Last night, Hell’s Kitchen saw what three strong women of comedy are made of—and I went along for the ride. The show at Vlada was amazing—Karith Foster wowed the audience with her sweet, sassy Texas charm. Jackie Monahan made the boys—and the girls!—swoon with her sexy lesbian humor. And Ophira Eisenberg closed out the show with some hysterically sarcastic tidbits about her sister and mom. (Oh, and I made with the jokes too.  My favorite story was about the BBC snafu involving two "Guys" and the Apple trademark law suit.  Click here to find out more about it.) 



Karith Foster--taking no prisoners.



Jackie Monahan, me, and Ophira Eisenberg, just chillin' after the show.  (P.S. The Goth-black lipstick on Ophira is just an optical illusion--silly Canon digital camera!)

After the show, I hung out with some really cool people who were in the audience, including the owner of Vlada herself—Ms. Vlada Von Shatts. (Yes folks, that is her real name.) Vlada is a total character. She thinks she doesn’t photograph well, but I disagree wholeheartedly. (In fact, what with her recent return from Miami, she looked pretty damn hot last night, if you ask me.) 



South Beach clearly agrees with one of us.

My parents were also in the audience last night, which made me so proud. They easily could have gone to see Mamma Mia, but instead, there they were, sitting in a room full of drunken homosexuals, watching me do penis jokes. I guess they just really love me. (Also, as my dad informed me, TKTS had no cheap seats for Mamma Mia, and last night’s show at Vlada was free. Apparently, that really tipped the balance.) 



(My mom:  "Oh, Bill, this really is a gay bar, isn't it?"  My dad:  "Yes, Florence."  My mom: "Is it too late to leave?"  My dad:  "Yes, Florence.")

By the way, I announced last night that my episode of Can’t Get A Date now has an official broadcast date, so check my website for news in the coming days, because I have a little something special in the works.

And don’t forget, next week is the “Straight Guys Gone Wild” edition of Comedy Infusion at Vlada at 10 pm. And then, starting on Tuesday, June 6, Comedy Infusion moves up to 9 pm, as part of a brand new, total-evening experience at Vlada, which promises to be really hot. Check the website soon for more details.  Also, that night, a special celebrity guest is expected to make an appearance. (I can’t really say too much more at this point, but the June 6 show is definitely one you don’t want to miss!) 

This article about the new Abercrombie & Fitch store on Fifth Avenue made me laugh.  Enjoy.

So last night was another rockin’ good show at VLADA, although I sensed I was coming down with something, which I am feeling the full effects of only today. In fact, the doctor sent me home from the office this afternoon and recommended Tylenol™ for my fever, Claritin™ for what appears to be severe seasonal allergies, and lots of rest and fluids (which exclude infused vodkas, I’m afraid) for what seems to be some sort of viral infection. On top of all that, just in case the bug is bacterial, she also prescribed Azithromycin, a “convenient oral antibiotic,” also known under its brand names “Zithromax®” and the more edgy “Z-Pak®.” (I know there’s a joke in there somewhere about Tupac Shakur and something "oral," but I am just too feverish and hopped on medications right now to think of it; so I leave it to you, dear reader, to articulate the joke and leave it for me in a comment to this blog entry.) 

(P.S. How’d you like my use of the “™” and “®” symbols? Don’t thank me—thank HTML.)

Needless to say, I felt a little on the low-energy side last night. But despite (let’s be frank) a slightly rocky start, I managed to “tickle” the crowd (shall we say) with my take on a little item from last week’s New York Daily News about the infamous “Foot Fiend.”  (You can find an audio clip of it by clicking here.) Susan Prekel then came on strong (who knew bitter rage could be so sexy?), and the queers in the audience ate it up (myself included). Lisa Kaplan followed and made the pointed observation that, with the lack of sex in her life lately, her qualification as a lesbian is more or less “theoretical” at this point. Celine Dion then made a very brief appearance—we were fortunate enough to get a live feed of her from Las Vegas. (And we wired it through my head, so it looked like I was speaking when, in fact, it was all Celine.) Danny McWilliams closed the show with some classic stuff, including his riveting portrayal of Norma Desmond, Office Temp. (“I can telex, I can mimeograph—I’m back!”) 

  
Lisa Kaplan, getting "jiggy wit' it." (And by "it," I mean that slab of Plexiglas on the left.)

 
Me and Danny McWilliams (both a little shvitzzy, but pleased overall with the show).

I’m also thrilled to report that there was yet more “constructive criticism” from the audience this week. For example, when asked if last night’s show was as good as the Coming Out show (produced by my good buddies Shawn Hollenbach and Allen Warnock) that I did back in March, my friend T. opined simply, “No, not really.” (Thanks, T.—you just wrote me another punchline for next week’s show!) And a very cute, slender young man who pulled me aside as I was leaving encouraged me to find a “niche” for the show, helpfully suggesting that I book “drag queens, or comedians—you know, good comedians—or something.” (He did admit that he was slightly drunk.) Well, again, thank you, Cute Slender Guy, for that idea, especially the part about booking good comedians; and rest assured, I am working on it as we speak. (Notwithstanding the side effects of the Tylenol-Claritin-Zithromax cocktail I just swallowed.)

Last night marked the second edition of Comedy Infusion at VLADA.  To everyone’s surprise, Anna Nicole Smith and Sarah Jessica Parker made appearances!  (But only via jokes--not literally.)  Anna Nicole won her Supreme Court case last week, which I found to be so inspiring and deserving of a mention; and SJP was in the Post just because she was photographed crossing a street with her husband. (Isn’t that news-worthy enough?)

       

After the show, one of the audience members asked me why I didn’t make fun of Star Jones.  All I can say is—so many divas, so little time!

The crowd was discriminating, but I think the we won them over by the end of the show.  Miro (no relation to the surrealist Spanish painter), a nice young, Japanese man who happened to be sitting in the front row, told me that my impression of Mikio (my Japanese hairstylist) was good enough that I could “totally blend in” in Japan.  (Not bad for a pale, Jew-boy from Montreal.)

One audience member (let’s call him “Tall Hot Guy”) was not as charitable.  As an architect (and, thus, an expert in all things comedy), he had many pieces of “constructive criticism” for the show and for me personally, e.g., “The volume is way too loud.  I don’t like Hell’s Kitchen—you’re lucky I’m even here!”  And so on.  But I think my favorite comment was, “You know, you really should read the New York Times, not the Post—that’s why you’re ignorant.” All I can say is, thank you for helping me reach my true potential, Tall Hot Guy, and please come again!  (He did have a nice ass, after all.) 

Anne Neczypor, P.J. Mehaffey, and Adam Lehman each did a hot set. Anne explained why her ex-girlfriend adores Michael Bolton.  Adam shared his love for Teddy Ruxpin—and one female audience member echoed that love—over and over again.  And I had the privilege of introducing “Teen Tawny” (aka P.J. Mehaffey), using the occasion to reminisce about our hanging out together way back in 1993 in Tampa, Florida on the set of the Lifetime, made-for-TV movie A Shark Attacked My Daughter: The Mary Jean and Tiffany Williams Story, starring Miss Judith Light and Miss Candace Cameron.  (All fabrications, but the audience enjoyed them nonetheless.)  And of course, P.J. rocked the house with his lovable, yet oblivious teen-pop “sensation” alter ego. (“I love performing at food courts and malls, y’all!”)

All that, and flavored-infused vodkas!  It was almost too much fun.  Can’t wait until next week.

So this past Tuesday, May 2, was the big debut of my new show, Comedy Infusion, at VLADA.  Wowzers.  The experience was completely surreal.  It almost feels like a dream, looking back on it.  And I am so happy and grateful to be able to say that, despite a few minor opening-night glitches (we're working on those, right Joel?), overall, it was a phenomenal start to what I hope will become a long-running event.  The room was packed (thanks to everyone who came out to see the debut--you guys rock!), the performers were AMAZING (Shawn Hollenbach, Jessica Kirson, and Bob Smith showed Hell's Kitchen how it's done), and, most importantly, Cyndi Lauper did not freeze her face to the bar again.  A successful evening, indeed.

That's what my best friend Kim and I used to say in high school when we heard or saw something that blew us away.

So get this. I just had the most incredible, mind-expanding weekend. I saw [title of show] at the Vineyard Theater on Friday; it was like a raucous, hyper-intelligent, hysterically funny wake-up call that was specifically intended for me. And it was set to kick-ass music. (See the show, then kill the vampire; trust me, it'll all make sense.)  Then Saturday night, I had an incredible set (despite the rocky start!) at the Gay and Lesbian Comedy Fest at Don't Tell Mama, after which I caught the truly incomparable, show-stopping performance of Tommy Femia, who was literally channeling Miss Garland's restless spirit. He also seemed (to me anyway!) to be channeling my late grandmother, who was an accomplished pianist in her own right and, as I suddenly realized last night, sort of reminded me of Judy Garland--they had a strikingly similar style. And that prompted a very long, emotional conversation with my dad today about his late mom, which led to a discussion of my father's own brush with show business. While I knew that he had been a singer and songwriter years before I was born (he hunkered down and went to law school before starting his family, and never really looked back), I never knew until today that he had written songs for a Canadian singer in the 1960's (a certain Tom Swift). And that led to a Google search, which led me to an article from 2002 republished on the website of the son of the aforementioned 1960's Canadian singer, from which I learned that my father had suggested to said singer that he translate and record an English version of a French song entitled "Comme d'habitude," but that, as fate would have it, the project never came to pass; instead, the rights to the song were purchased by a certain Paul Anka (a fellow Canadian), who wrote English lyrics for it and brought it to a certain well-known singer friend of his, who recorded it and made it... well, let's just say, something rather unique. (I won't say who the singer was or what the title of the song was, but just click here to read the article for yourself on the website of Todd Swift, a Canadian poet now based in the U.K. My father is mentioned under his pseudonym--William "Billy" Lewis Dell.)

I am sitting here plohtzing right now.