The Second Greatest Showbiz Story Ever Told

And I say second because Tonight Show veteran, American Comedy Award winner, and hilarious friend Cathy Ladman told the greatest one about Mike Nichols on her blog recently. I jacked the concept from her because since I've started blogging five days a week, ideas are now a luxury I can no longer afford.

So, I was living in New York but visiting L.A. twice a year because my sister lived out here. A year after I began doing standup she started dating Johnny Carson.

The back story here is that my mother was the Carson fan. She was a teacher with chronic insomnia and a bad marriage so she spent her evenings watching Johnny and grading papers. I too had insomnia and would join her every night. When I tell you that my parents yelled at me for much less, it was amazing that I was allowed to stay up and watch The Tonight Show. And trust me, I had the grades to prove it.

So fast forward to 1984, when my sister was dating Carson. He had a beach house on Pacific Coast Highway and was also dating Alex, the woman who would become his wife. My sister knew about Alex but I'm not sure Alex knew about my sister.

I arrived in L.A. and my sister told me we were going to have dinner with Johnny at Chasen's. Any goal I had in life went right out the window because at that point in time, I had achieved the ultimate one. Dinner with the Sensei. And. He laughed at everything I said.

My sister and I went down to Malibu another day to meet him at his house. Again, he laughed at anything I said because I was knocking myself out at this point. My head could have flown off and blood could have been spewing everywhere but if Johnny laughed at that, mission accomplished. But I was making him laugh without jokes or punch lines, just unstructured riffs off of what he said or what I saw out the window. And that's where I got into trouble.

After an entire afternoon of watching people on the beach and listening to Johnny play the drums, he turned to me and said, "Call this number and tell Jim M. that I want you to be seen for the show." And I froze. Solid. I'd been doing standup for about 8 months. Standup takes a million years to get 5 perfect minutes and even with the little knowledge I had at the time, I knew I would never make the cut. The God of standups wanted me to audition and I had about 32 seconds of television-ready material. Maybe less.

Timing really is everything.

I never called the booker. I didn't want to embarrass myself and in my mind, make Johnny look like he had made the wrong choice.

I finally moved to L.A. in the 90's. I'd been doing standup for about 9 years at that point. My agent got me an audition for the same Tonight Show booker, Jim M., who knew nothing of my previous relationship with Johnny. And I didn't mention it. When you do standup, you worry about the guy in the third row with the crossed arms and a scowl on his face. The entire room could give you a standing O but if Scowly McThirdrow didn't, it would haunt you for weeks. What would I do if I didn't get the show after saying I knew Johnny and that he had wanted to help me all those years ago? Probably kill myself is a good guess. So I kept quiet.

I was auditioning along with two male standups from my agency. The night went very well and we all had terrific sets and my agent said to me, "Of all the comics I've auditioned over the years, you're the only one Jim M. ever applauded." I thought the gig was a lock.

Days went by. I heard nothing. Finally I called my agent and asked him what was going on and he said that the Tonight Show had picked one of the two guys from our agency. I asked him if they said anything about me and he said no. I asked him if he at least mentioned me to Jim M. and he said no. When I asked him why he said, "I didn't want to rock the boat."

I hear those words in the middle of my nightmares where I'm naked in front of strangers and running down an unfamiliar street trying to get to the math test I never studied for.

Many, many months later I auditioned for The Dennis Miller Show and the new booker for the Tonight Show, Jim B., was in the room. At this point The Tonight Show had been considering me every 6 months for about two years and I couldn't wait any longer for my agent to "not rock the boat." I asked Jim B. if I had any chance at all and he said I was too edgy for the show. I told him I had just booked Starsearch and he blanched. Starsearch didn't do edgy but I had changed my persona to get the gig. There's this little thing called rent that apparently you have to deal with every month.

So I got Starsearch but never got The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. It's one of my biggest regrets and I'm sure I speak for thousands of comedians when I say that. But I made one of my comedy idols laugh. And I can live with that.

End of chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #28

When Bad Purses Happen To Good People

These are what today's purse designers think their customers will buy:What woman doesn't want to walk around saying she's cheap? And honey, if you're cheap, ain't no way you're chic, especially if you've got brown plastic accoutrements on that bag. For God's sake, the cow is already dead and been eaten in restaurants all over the world so at least put the hide to good use.

The coin purse outside? I'm sure someone thought this would make it easier to get to your money. Coincidentally, it makes it easier for everyone to get to your money.

And this designer, who clearly thinks women will buy anything, decided to make the entire thing into a coin purse. I'm thinking he's one pissed-off divorced guy trying to get even. If you buy this purse, he wins.

I really wanted to make fun of this one because of the mink balls. Until I remembered I have a sweater with mink balls on it. I love fur. I loathe PETA because the last time I looked I was in A M E R I C A and not wearing a dead Irish Setter around my neck. Somebody please throw paint on PETA. And if you give me the address, I'll meet you there.

Suzy's mink balls. Shut up. I bought it at Neiman's.

This one was handmade in Italy. By blind people. It's made out of pony and then dyed puce. On purpose. And if you don't know what pony is, try Google because I'm tired of explaining (bad)fashion in this post.

If you have bought any of these purses, please don't write me. I will only mock you. Because if I can make fun of my own mink balls, you know I'm fearless.

End of chat.

Notes From Outside The Fire Zone

Due to the fire we haven't had regular daytime television in a few days so I've seen some coverage that has made me laugh. I know, it's wrong.

But Tragedy+Time=Comedy. I've just eliminated the middle man.

This morning at Quaalcom Stadium in San Diego, where the Chargers have been temporarily displaced and emergency stations have been set up in their place, a reporter was having trouble finding people to interview. The number of evacuees had diminished and she kept mistakenly talking to volunteers. She couldn't even get a kid on a tricycle to stop and talk to her which was probably just as well because what were they going to discuss, how she has no more sidewalk to play hop scotch? Finally the reporter happened upon a man and his son. She asked him what he needed and he said, "A shirt."

You were under mandatory evacuation, had to leave your home, didn't even have time to grab a toothbrush but you're there for a shirt? And why do you keep putting your arm across your face so the camera can't see you? Are you just shopping? Do you even live down there? See, now that's wrong.

As many times as reporters have said the words "Super Scoopers" not one has slipped and said "Pooper Scoopers." How is that even possible?

And this note on the President of the United States. It's one job I would never want. The stress, the pressure, the blow jobs.

But I noticed that the split second Bush got into his helicopter in San Diego, that sucker lifted off. He's the first one off Air Force One and then his helicopter lifts off the moment the doors are closed. I'm pretty convinced this is why people run for office.

End of a fireside chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #27

The Pets Of Christmas Contest

UPDATE: Please send your pics to me as a jpg. See my profile for my email address.

Last December I ran the 12 cards of Christmas, cards from comedians that I'd received over the years. I got so many emails on that series that I decided to do it again only this time it's the 12 pets of Christmas and it's a contest for the readers. And there's a prize. I come to your house and steal your pet. Remember Fun Bobby from Friends? I'm Fun Suzy.

It doesn't have to be your own pet and it doesn't have to be a real pet. It can be virtual, stuffed or dead; as long as it's dressed for Christmas and makes me laugh.

HOWEVER, you can not steal a jpg or a bmp from someone else's site. I didn't make this clear before because one side of my brain is on permanent hold with the DMV.

It has to be an original image, illustration or picture. UNLESS you have a friend who has a cool pic and he says you can use it and then I will need a name to credit said friend. Make sure that you tell this friend there is a prize and they will not get it because you're selfish. I mean smart.

You can enter as many times as you want but submit them before the first of December. You can submit them anonymously but I'll need an email addy from you in case you win. I will post reminders for this contest every week since if you're as lazy as I am, you'll forget and go to Starbucks instead. And when I say every week I mean any time I remember to do it.

The prize is a Where Hot Comes To Die baseball cap OR a set of six Where Hot Comes To Die cards with white envelopes.

I know a lot of you have pets like amphibians, reptiles and other icky phylums but don't think you can't win just because your iguana doesn't fit into a Santa suit. And disguising your husband as a pet does not offend me. I'm all about the genius behind the concept.

End of chat.

SCORPIO

© Clayboys 2006

Best with: Virgo, Pisces, Cancer, Capricorn, Scorpio

Fair with: Libra, Taurus, Aries, Sagittarius

Difficult with: Aquarius, Gemini, Leo

Happy Birthday John Gotti, Yanni and Hello Kitty

The Sexiest Reporter On TV Is.....

Amy Murphy! She is part of the morning phenom Good Day L.A. For years their show, on from 7-10 a.m., has consistently beaten the three networks in the morning ratings. Steve Edwards, Dorothy Lucey and Jillian Reynolds are hilarious but please, someone put Amy, a field reporter, on the desk as a replacement when the anchors take off or I will do something really mean. And anyone who reads this blog knows I can do that. With no hands. While I sleep.

The beautiful and funny Amy talking to our waiter. What in the hell is the guy in the middle of the frame looking at? I mean, if you see someone take out their camera and then focus it, do you think to yourself, "Maybe I should turn away and not ruin the shot" or do you say, "I hope that waiter and girl aren't blocking me in the picture."

Doesn't it take just the tiniest thing to set me off? So WATCH OUT Good Day L.A.

Amy and I had dinner on Thursday night at Dan Tana's, a famous Hollywood restaurant that has been around for over 40 years. It's a hangout for celebrities and the rich but honestly, they treat everyone like a celebrity and they have amazing Italian food.

Amy was the girlfriend of Richard Jeni, a brilliant comedian who ended his life this year. His 3 DVD's have just been released and if you're looking for great comedy, go to the link. I'm a comedian and he's the guy we all admired. His comedy is streaming off the website and you'll understand why I get so frustrated with bloggers who think they're funny.

© richardjeni.com

Mariette Hartley is recognizable to many through her work on television and in the movies and I still miss the Polaroid commercials with her and James Garner. To me, she is one of the funniest people on the planet and yet she suffered through three family suicides and an attempted one by another family member. She is the co-founder of AFSP and I urge ANYONE who has thought about suicide or knows someone who has survived another person's suicide to please take a look at their website. There is help out there. Amy and Mariette at a charity walk for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. There are chapters in most major cities.

Back to Dan Tana's. This guy kept staring at me. He was a flutter winker, a man who thinks you might be a hooker and will respond to facial and or hand signals. He started making this clicking noise with his mouth as he winked at me. I looked behind me to see if there was another woman to whom he could be OBSESSIVELY winking at but no, I was the Winkee. Shut up.

End of chat.

What Kind Of Lingerie I Would Buy

Hmmm, what to get, what to get. Red, fur trim, diamonds? No, not Hugh Hefner.

Maybe some tight black leather with long dark fringe on the sides? No, not Hugh Jackman.

Ah, here we go. "Excuse me miss, do you have Hugh Laurie in a medium?"

This is the worst advertising copy ever. None of the fonts match. Look at the discrepancies in the two phone number layouts. Nothing lines up on the card because they were clearly using heroin cupcakes as they designed the copy.

And oh yes, THEY MISSPELLED HUGE. I actually called the Beverly Hills location because a certain friend of mine was convinced that the typo was on purpose and I might not have 'gotten it.' I asked the girl who answered the phone if there was a typo on the card and she started to laugh. "Yes, there is."

Do you know how many people had to okay this before it got printed? A lot. A lot of DUMB people. Because I almost forgot, THEY MISSPELLED HUGE.

End of chat.

Why We Stare At Hot People

I took this off AOL. Why didn't I link it? Too lazy. See you at the bottom of the quote. I'll be the one lying on the couch doing nothing.

"If we're interested in finding a mate, our attention gets automatically stuck on attractive members of the opposite sex, but if we're jealous and worried about our partner cheating on us, attention gets automatically stuck on attractive people of our own sex because they are our competitors."

\_______________/<----That's my couch without me on it because I can't photoshop. Okay, the rest of the story. I was dating The Impotentate, a tall, handsome Marlboro Man Look-A-Like. I wasted seven years of my life with him because there is apparently something wrong with me. I had met his ex-wife and she was very pretty. I also knew he had dated a Miss World and a Miss Hawaiian Tropic but I never felt threatened in any way. Then one day we went to Marina Del Rey to spend the day on one of his friends' boat. I showed up late and as I was being introduced around, a tall, drop-dead gorgeous blonde named Charlotte caught my eye. No I'm not gay in case you think that's what is wrong with me. Please don't comment that being gay is wrong. Gay is fine. Not understanding humor is wrong. Anyway, Charlotte was stunning in the way that only home-grown California girls are stunning. Beautiful tan, perfectly toned body and sun-kissed hair. I started stuttering in Japanese or maybe I started puking. All I could think about was that if this chick was coming on the boat with us, I would have to throw her, or myself, off the port bow. And she was wearing a bikini. What kind of psycho wears a bikini to go boating? In California? In the summer? An area rug and rubber boots would have been perfectly acceptable but nooooooo, someone wanted to show off her little whore's body.

I couldn't stop staring at her and I forgot all about The Impotentate. When I finally looked his way, planning to catch him OBVIOUSLY staring at her and mentally fondling her breasts, I was surprised to see that he was looking at me instead. Probably because my head was on fire and he was trying to decide how to put it out.

Then he said these magic words. Words that only the man you're dating and temporarily in love with could say. Words that would change that day for all time.

"Charlotte's not coming."

"Oh really? Charlotte, you can't come? Gee, that's too bad."
"Welllllll, I might be able to get out of this thing and then....."
"Well, if you can't, you can't. Off you go."

End of chat.

When You Don't Want To Have Sex

Oprah had a doctor on yesterday who was talking about why women don't have time for sex. Having been in many long term relationships over my lifetime, I can tell you that the reason women don't have time for sex is because they're not turned on by their man.

There was only one man I dated, Elvis, who constantly turned me on. I spent years in other relationships not wanting to fuck the guy. Ever. One dumped me because of it, although I never told him that I didn't want to have sex with him, it just became evident when I came up with twenty million excuses. I spent 3 years with him. WHAT THE FUCK?

Women have other issues at play in relationships. It's safe, you're not alone, he can mow the lawn. I sold out because he could use power tools? God help me.

Yeah, this is all about sex. For him.

If someone isn't looking at you this way, get the hell out.

After I was with Elvis I realized I never wanted to have sex with any of the men I'd been with before him. The problem with finding that kind of chemistry is that it's hard to find it again. If any guy out there is reading this and believes the I Have A Headache Line, run for the exit. She's really not into you. At all. And it ain't gonna change back. Ever. And for all those people who say that relationships aren't ALL about sex, psychologists tell us it isn't all there is but if you're not having regular sex, that's a telltale sign that something is wrong.

Women are too lazy to leave, don't want to lose his paycheck, feel bad because of the kids? Trust me, these women will find it somewhere else. My mother was not happy in her marriage and eventually the excuses gave way to sleeping in another room and back aches and other lies. She and my father never had one argument. NEVER a good sign. My sister and I urged her to leave the marriage since she was so unhappy. She always said, "Well, you girls....." like we were the reason she stayed even though we begged her to leave. She eventually moved to our apartment in Paris and still my parents didn't divorce. If only they'd known how unhappy they made their children.

This does not look good.

All that time Mom was having an emotional affair with a man she met in France when my sister and I were teenagers. It was only when my dad went to a high school reunion and met another woman that he finally asked for a divorce. Why waste your life like that? Is it better to settle or is it better to get out and try and find some happiness with someone you are attracted to? Mom eventually married the French man but Jesus, take your time why don't you?

So cheating on her.

End of chat.

The Doctor Howard

Howard was the second boyfriend I had after I moved to NY from Paris. He was much older than me and he was my first, and last, father figure. He gave me my first vibrator and made me write my name on it so it wouldn’t get mixed up with all the other sex toys he brought to my house. I've still got it.

He was in town on Saturday and we had dinner at La Poubelle in the Hollywood Hills. He made me nostalgic for the days when I dated guys who were smart and interesting. He’s been around the world a few times, invented a heart monitor for children and is a plastic surgeon by trade. Five weeks ago he was in Tanzania performing reconstructive surgery on cancer patients. At dinner he explained the relationship between Kosovo and the Soviet Union to me because I didn't fucking know where Kosovo was but knew which rehab Lindsay Lohan had been in. I'm not bragging, just so we're clear.

The last man I went out with in LA took me to a doctor’s appointment and as I was admiring the art work in the hallway he walked up and called it “faggot art.” After he used that word a few more times, I dumped him. His ignorance embarrassed me. There are a lot of men in LA who fall into this category. Just dumber than a box of hair. And not as interesting.

Howard preparing to race his Formula Atlantic car at Lime Rock, Connecticut. Other drivers called him the most dangerous man on the course because he only wanted to win. He didn't care about crashing because he really didn't think he would. And he never did.

Howard was the first wealthy man I dated in the US. And just like his European counterparts, rich has a downside. Rich can get anything and anyone he wants and they usually do. I was once in the back seat of a Jeep that Howard and his friend Larry were driving in the Hamptons. They were talking about all the women who flocked to them which was surely a testimony to how incredibly hot Howard and Larry were. I finally leaned over and said, “It’s cuz you guys have an unlimited supply of coke.” They burst out laughing because they knew that was the real reason they got women. And since when are the names Howard and Larry associated with anything hotter than a shawl?

Did Howard cheat on me? Mais bien sur, mes enfants. We went out for 3 years and he was married the whole time. Sometimes we would double date with his wife and her boyfriend. Howard and his wife would sit up front in their stretch Mercedes and the boyfriend and I would sit in the back rolling our eyes at them. Howard had so many girlfriends that I could never keep up. The good news was that after him? I knew all the signals of a serial cheater and never dated one again.

We used to go to Xenon in NY and Howard’s largess was so well known that people would always sit at our table because they knew that he would automatically pick up the tab. Once, a very annoying couple waited until the bill was dropped and then just took off. I told Howard that he couldn't let those people get away with that and he just shrugged. And of course, because he doesn’t really care about money, it always finds its way to him. He is the living embodiment of The Secret.

It's impossible to be bored around Howard. There aren't many people I can say that about. Howard in China. Do you know anyone besides Jack Hanna who has held a panda cub?

He owns an entire brownstone in NY and told me that one of his staff just ripped him off to the tune of $30,000 and took a diamond heirloom that belonged to his father.

“I don’t give a shit about the money, but my father’s pin? Broke my heart.”

I don't ever foresee the day that I'll say, "Wow, it's only $30,000, who gives a shit?"

Howard hired people to give his staff lie detector tests. Five of them did not do well so now he’s having them pass the lie detector test that the police administer. It's just so typical Howard.

End of chat.

Standing Up On Friday Night

I did a gig for the Lady Shriners of Long Beach on Friday. Long Beach is where the Queen Mary is permanently docked and the Shriners are part of the Masonic Family.

Leaving L.A. on a Friday night is a nightmare. A trip that should take anywhere from 35 to 45 minutes took an hour and 45 minutes. I turned down the Shriners' invitation for a free meal because of the traffic and left late to avoid the real L.A. rush hour. Halfway there I remembered that these events usually never start on time and when I arrived they were only on their main course. A lot of these gigs will sacrifice the comics and serve food during the show but the Lady Shriners waited until dessert was finished. It may seem like a small thing to those of you reading this, but trust me, in our business, that's a big thing.

The theme was the 1950's to commemorate their 50th Western area meet. There were probably around 200 people there. I did a gig the previous Wednesday and there were maybe 30 people in the audience. Believe it or not, the more people there are, the easier it is. When you've only got 30 people and some don't laugh, it's really Q U I E T in the room. In a big crowd, somebody is always laughing. It's what comics refer to as The President of the Audience theory. In a small crowd, the person who doesn't laugh or laughs the loudest is subconsciously elected President and the drones around him or her will follow suit. In a big crowd, there are Presidents all over the damn place so you're always doing well in some part of the room.

This is Bobby Soxer commitment ladies and gentlemen, commitment. Ruth, who is on the far right, was my contact person and took great care of me.

The three women in this photo did not want to have their picture taken. After I begged them, they finally dragged themselves to the middle of the dance floor and then at the last minute, the guy on the far left rushed up to be included. I didn't ask them to pose like that but it made me laugh that the 3 people who did not want to be photographed morphed instantly into America's Next Top Greaser.

These women in the Poodle skirts were completely... ...insane. I asked for all the Poodles to come forward and they just kept coming and coming until they took up most of the dance floor. It took me 3 photos to get them all in.

After I had finished taking their picture and told them they could return to their seats, they all started screaming and rushed the stage. Do I look like Little Richard? Don't answer that.

The Centerpieces were all these little 1950 era cars sitting on 45s. I took this picture because I have a joke about Davy Crockett in my act because I'm really up on current events.
I committed a performance no-no and used Elvis' mic. There was another mic sitting off to the side on a podium but once I saw his and that it had a person named Brian attached to its sound board I was not about to use the other one. I had to lower the mic stand for my height and then FORGOT TO RAISE IT BACK UP WHEN I LEFT THE STAGE. When Elvis impersonator Steve Roth took the stage he looked at the mic level and shrugged and then raised it. So Steve, I apologize. Please don't hate me because I can spot a good mic a mile away and am so self-absorbed that I didn't remember to raise it back up.

After the show I hung around the parking lot and took this picture of a plane landing at Long Beach Airport, which is behind the hotel. Yeah, I know, I have no idea where the plane is either but it's purrrrrdy.

End of chat.

Shriners Lady Shriners Elvis Impersonator
Queen Mary Long Beach, California

You So Funny

Last night I had a gig in Burbank. I usually don't perform locally because there's no money in it. I had to do 20 minutes when I'm used to doing 45 on the road and when all was said and done, I did 16.

Just when you think blogging is kicking your ass, try doing standup.

End of chat.

Can You Buy A Benz On A Benz?

I once owed a lot of money on my credit cards. I missed some payment deadlines and totally bailed on one card that ripped me off with a bait and switch APR scam that should be illegal but is only usurious.

I paid off the money I owed 7 years ago but knew my credit score was shot. I closed most of the accounts and only kept the essential ones like my ATM, department store and gas cards. When my career went into free fall I spent one entire year eating out of the stores that were attached to the Mobil and Chevron stations. If I'm ever about to expire on a desert island and a chopper drops me a crate of pre-packaged bear claws, Dr. Pepper and coffee mate I'd just as soon walk into the ocean with rocks in my pockets.

Thinking it would require the 7 years they always tell us it takes to restore credit, I was surprised when I started getting offers for more cards an hour after they were all paid off. Mastercards, Visas, and the ubiquitous and highly annoying Capital One. What's in your wallet? I only wish I could say the balls of the guy who came up with their commercials.

I eventually took the AMEX that was tied to my Costco; no annual fee and bonus points all over the place. I started with a $2000 limit but two months later they raised my line of credit to $10,000. Clearly they'd been through my closets.

I continued to shred the other offers but they kept coming in, at least one a month for the last 7 years. I didn't apply for any of them because each time you apply for a card, it's points against your total credit score. Why lower something that may already be in the double digits? And why does that not make sense and why does no one complain about it and why don't I have a butler who brings me lattes every morning?

So I've had no idea what my credit score is. I ordered all the free credit reports but you still have to pay to get the score, which they conveniently leave out of their promos. And why should I pay all three companies to tell me that I'm fucked? My friends tell me that shit for free, thank you very much.
Then yesterday I got an offer for the Mercedes-Benz credit card. I'm guessing my credit score is just fine.

End of chat.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #26

I Brake For People Who Call Me 'Miss'

I rarely get angry in the moment. I think of the perfect thing to say later, when I’ve calmed down and obsessed about it for 17 weeks. It’s because growing up, if I got mad I got punished and someone named Dad wouldn’t speak to me. I learned to hold my tongue. So of course the first time I get angry in the moment is with a celebrity. On the street. In front of a crowd of people eating at an outdoor terrace. In my neighborhood. Four days ago.

I was walking to the supermarket and saw five girls up ahead, talking loudly and blocking all but four inches of the sidewalk. Three of the girls could see me coming but the other two had their backs to me. As I got closer I noticed there was a guy filming them. There wasn’t any room for him or his crew to stand so they were in the street, that’s how much space these girls covered.

They looked like touristy types, maybe on a school trip? I guess they didn’t have a place to walk where they came from. Maybe they lived in a pasture or a Dairy Queen or just drove their cars straight into stores. Here in a city of 10 million people, we have this little thing we like to call a “sidewalk.” As I approached I waited for someone to signal to them that they were blocking the foot traffic but no one did. So I gave the one that took up the most room the hand on the back touch and said, “Excuse me,” and kept on going. She whirled around and shouted, “Did you just PUSH me?”

Definitely tourists. In LA people apologize for blocking you and in New York that’s the only way to walk down a street. The hand on the back, minus the ‘excuse me’ of course.

I walked back to her as all the people eating on the terrace stared at us. Quietly.

“I said Excuse Me.”
“No, after you pushed me you said that.”
“I didn’t push you; I put my hand on your back and said Excuse Me, and you moved.” I now gave her a shocked look and spread my arms out to the side which we all know is the universal sign for Capiche Dumbfuck?
“NO, after.”
“No one could get by you!” I yelled. I was actually yelling.

Now one of the blondes shot me the stink eye and said “Go away” in the same tone a 6th grader uses to ward off her annoying younger sibling.

I probably said something really mean like “whatever” and took off but did the old New York trick of looking in the shop windows to see if The Bully was going to come after me. As I walked away a man came out of the restaurant and told them all to beat it.

I walked on and heard someone running behind me.
“Miss… oh Miss.” It was a male voice, so I thought The Bully had sent her boyfriend after me. I stepped up my pace. But he kept yelling ‘Miss’ so I finally stopped. I brake for anyone who doesn’t call me Ma’am.

“Listen, we caught that on camera and would like you to sign a release form so we can use it.” In Hollywood, where everyone here is in show business and knows the drill, I noticed he left out a few details.

“Why do I have to sign it?”
“Uhhhh…so you won’t sue us.” Now see, I knew that, but I had to force him to say it.

“What’s it for?” I asked, knowing he should have told me that in his opening salvo.
“A reality show.”
“WHAT reality show?”

They give you as little detail as possible in the hopes that you’ll sign because you’re desperate to be on TV.

“Bad Girls Club.” Jesus. Not even real celebrities. Technically not even real TV.

“Oh, so that explains those bitches.”
“Well, it’s not called Good Girls Club.” He laughed nervously.
“Do they have to use my name?” Because now I was thinking this could be funny, me yelling at these bimbos and them yelling back, and I was wearing my sunglasses so you couldn’t tell it was me. My first breakthrough in anger and it would be televised for all of my future therapists.

He consulted the release form and said they had to use my name.

“I’m in Screen Actors Guild so I can’t do it.” Unless of course they paid me. I didn’t mention this because then he might offer me $100. But if he asked how much I wanted then I would ask for $500, which would almost cover my New York Bloomingdale’s bill.

He looked over the release again.

“Oh, yeah, right here, it says we can’t use SAG members.”

“Sorry.” I said and walked away. I’ve still got 16 weeks to think of the perfect thing to say.

End of chat.

Why My Dog Hated Me

Three pictures of my Yorkie, Kiko.

Lazy Dog

French Dog

Christmas Dog and I'm not talking about the guy, although he qualified in the finals

The 12 Pets Of Christmas

Last December I ran the 12 cards of Christmas, cards from mostly demented comedians that I'd received over the years. This year it's the 12 pets of Christmas but it's a contest for the readers and there's a prize. (Maybe two, if there's a tie). It doesn't have to be your own pets. It doesn't even have to be a real pet. It can be virtual, stuffed or dead; as long as it's dressed for Christmas and makes me laugh.

You can enter as many times as you want but submit them before the first of December. I have no idea when the 12 days of Christmas are and I'm too tired to look it up because I'd have to go all the way to my archives and man, we're talking Sherpa at that point. I will post them all after the first of December, either with your name or anonymously. I will also post reminders for this contest every few weeks. Or when I don't have anything significant to blog about. I can hear you from here saying, "Oh God, she thinks her blog is significant?" Shut up.

The prize is this lovely Where Hot Comes To Die baseball cap, made out of mink.

Seriously, if I had mink hats, why would I bother to blog? OR a set of six Where Hot Comes To Die cards with white envelopes and free valium inside.Most bloggers ask their readers to vote but I'm a comedian and if I don't know what's funny then who does? And that's what being a standup is all about, risking This Is The Funniest One every minute I'm on a stage. So I have the only vote. I'm sure I'll change my mind as the months go by. That's also what being a comedian is all about. And alcohol consumption, can't leave that out.

End of chat.

Seriously, I Might Be Losing It

Over the weekend I was in bed channel surfing and got fixated on those televangelical shows. I like to listen to the preachers' timing, better than most comedians', and the way they try and explain the Bible, which I'm not sure is possible since it was written over the course of 200 years and, according to one of my college professors, by many people, a lot of whom smoked the poppies that grew in that region. I don't know, maybe he was there at the time.

Anyway, I always stop and watch for a minute or 26. Sometimes I'll look for them if the morning news is boring. These Pulpit Thumpers do not suffer from that affliction. Well, except for this one guy who is like a million years old, sits in a chair and just reads to the camera out of what looks like a thirty pound Bible. His pages are so thin from all the thumbing that sometimes you can see through them all the way to his Hanes undershirt. He's so dull that I wonder who listens to him. And then I realize that I am.

Then there's Benny Hinn, who wears Indian Hindu clothes and is a Christian. Just leave the trousers at home and come as the big girl that you are, Hinn. And he keeps pushing people backwards. Am I the only one who wants to see one of them hit the stage and then not be able to get up and walk? Who watches a man knocking people out and it's not on Pay Per View? And then I realize that I am.

But I have always jumped the 700 Club. Until this weekend. There were two hosts, a man and a woman, and the man was talking about people having a lot of pain out there in TV Land and that got my attention. He and this woman were going to pray for those that were suffering. All you had to do was grab hold of the area that hurt and then they would pray over the entire United States of America. Awwwwww.

And I'm thinking, who the hell is doing this at home?

That would be me. I reached down and wrapped my hand around the part of my ankle that hurts. Only that forced me into such an awkward position that now I looked like half of a position from the Kama Sutra. The kind that you look at upside down and think "How did they do that?"

And then, after rattling off a laundry list of various diseases that they magically healed through the power of charlatanism, the male host said, "And there is someone out there who is having problems with an ankle (OMG), with the tendons and muscles (OMG Squared) and now that is being healed."

I haven't had the MRI yet but if it is a muscle or tendon problem....? But then I thought, wait a minute, who the hell is sitting at home believing their pain has been healed on television by Captain and Mrs. McCrazy? And then I realized that I did. Anyone know any shamans or want to sell me some magical beads?

And no it didn't fucking work.

End of chat.

The Ankle Bone Connects To The Wallet Bone

I need an MRI for my right ankle.

My doctor recommended the place where he sends all his patients but I don't like my doctor. He's smarmy, like Charlie Sheen on Two and A Half Men. And since I love to shop I like to look around for the best deal. Turns out they do not have imaging machines anywhere on Rodeo Drive, which I found annoying, but I did get a look at the Fall collections and they are spectacular.

So I called imaging centers elsewhere, places outside of LA that might be cheaper, like Egg Whites, Idaho, and I was quoted a price of $585.

I asked if that's the best they could do they said, "Well, if you had insurance it would be $1,750."

So doctors charge the insurance companies three times what the procedure actually costs? A friend of mine knows someone who was pregnant with twins and had to be hospitalized for months before the birth. That cost her insurance company 3 million dollars. Or, based on my MRI experience, it really only cost 1 million dollars?

On Oprah last Thursday, Michael Moore was a guest and so was the President of People Screwing, an insurance conglomerate that oversees the insurance business. As this woman tried to explain that the Armed Forces have socialized medicine, ditto the fire and police departments, she had a difficult time explaining why we, the rest of the country, are not able to get it. It's because insurance companies would not be entitled to make the huge profits they are making off that twin birth, not to mention my beautifully turned out ankle.

Oprah highlighted some of the worst cases, people with and without insurance. One person with insurance contracted leukemia. The total cost was $400,000 but his insurance only covered $150,000. Turns out there's this little thing in his policy called Fine Print that most people don't read because let's face it, none of us have ever read Fine Print since they invented it. Fine Print is just Spanish for Ways We Will Fuck You Over Eventually.

My favorite part was when the President of People Screwing urged all Americans to call their reps in Congress and ask President Bush to NOT veto the bill on child care insurance he's promised to veto. Michael Moore turned to her and said, "Uh...shouldn't you be making that call? In that you ARE the insurance industry and your call might help more than ours?" She did not reply.

But this quote from USA Today should piss off all people with insurance. Bush’s ‘Affordable Choice’ grants will not involve any new federal money. It will instead “redirect some of the $30 billion the government spends annually to care for people without health insurance who show up at hospitals and emergency rooms."

30 billion for those of us who do not have insurance. Annually. 30 billion dollars. If you're reading this and you don't have insurance, you have this information. Use it.

End of People Screwing chat.

Sicko Michael Moore Health Insurance MRI

L.A. Sign Of The Times #25