Friday, November 30, 2007

Stripping and Watching Kid Nation. (Not Simultaneously)


Great news: Hunter has finally won a gold star on "Kid Nation!"

Hunter: King of the Cowlicks

For those of you not watching this epic reality show, every week one of the kids wins a gold star worth $20,000. (We're constantly told the two-lb. gold star is actually made of solid gold, but I highly doubt this.)

Anyway, the star is usually awarded to the kid the who's working the hardest in Bonanza City. But 10 episodes in, Hunter still hadn't won one.

Until now.

No one deserves it more than 12-year-old Hunter. He is a total mensch, if one can so describe a born-again Christian child from Georgia. Not only does he work tirelessly, but he also leads the kids in Sunday religious services and (we found out last night) fires a mean slingshot as well. Plus, he's just generally even-tempered, fair-minded and cool. Last night when he won the star, he announced he was going to give most of the money to his father, who's been out of work for a year. I am totally in love with this kid -- in a non-pedophiliac kind of way.

I wish I could say the same of that little bitch, Taylor.

Taylor: The Face of Evil

Taylor is the Omarosa of "Kid Nation" -- the person you love to hate. This 10-year-old pageant queen (also from Georgia) refuses to do any work whatsoever. She also proved herself to be downright diabolical on Wednesday night's episode when she decreed that the town should only kill the ugly chickens (as opposed to the pretty ones) because, quote, "Ugly chickens deserve to die!"

It is my sincere hope that when Taylor gets home, her parents beat her senseless for revealing herself to be such a pissy little terror on national television, but I'm sure they won't, because they're probably even more obnoxious than she is.

What I really hope is that they do a "Kid Nation" reunion special in 15 years. My predictions for the kids are as follows:

1) Taylor will be unemployed, unmarried and pregnant.

2) Hunter will be graduating medical school and engaged to a supermodel.

3) Sophia will be a professional chef and radical lesbian activist. Her lover will be Laurel, who will make her living singing in subway stations.

4) Greg will be in prison.

5) Blaine will be a competitive surfer.

6) Zach will be a rabbi at a liberal reform congregation.

7) DK will be a talk-show host.

8) Jared will be a homeless person who walks around muttering to himself.

9) And the little Asian kid with one tooth will getting his master's philosophy at Harvard.
He will still have only one tooth.

As for the other kids on the show, well, they might as well be extras. Seriously, when was the last time we heard from the unfortunately-named Markelle? And who the hell is Migle, who popped up for the first time Wednesday night in the slingshot competition? These bit players may as well go home now; they ain't never winning the gold star.

I've yet to mention anything about the current season of "Biggest Loser," which is actually the best one yet. The big twist this year was the return of Jillian, the scary bull-dyke trainer who was replaced after season two by the more congenial (but apparently less effective) Kim Lyons. Jillian surprised everyone this season when she suddenly appeared, appropriately in black leather on a motorcycle, in the first episode to train her own "black team" of outcast fatties.

Jillian: Long Lost Daughter of Kirstie Alley and Mr. Ed.

The black team has proved a force to be reckoned with, unlike poor Kim's red team, which became extinct last week after "D" was voted off.

But none of that matters much to me. What I like most about season four is that they finally got rid of humorless "comedian" Caroline Rhea as the host, replacing her with Alison Sweeney of "Days of Our Lives."

This is a wonderful change. Unlike Rhea, who seemed borderline-hostile toward the contestants and who refused to acknowledge her own weight problems (despite getting progressively fatter each season), Sweeney is warm, reassuring and real. She's attractive without being too attractive; in-shape without being too in-shape; and unlike Rhea, she speaks openly about her struggles with weight. Plus, she's occasionally funny, which Rhea never was. And she doesn't have an annoying Canadian accent. My only complaint is with Alison's hair, which looks like it's been fried and dyed to within an inch of its life. If I were her, I'd pull a Britney and start all over again.

I'll fry away.

And now, time to get caught up on Therapy shows past. By the way, I hate to toot my own horn -- oh, who am I kidding, I love it -- but the show has been REALLY REALLY good lately. I'd happily hold it up to just about any other show in the city these days, despite the fact that Blaine Whoreden, comedy editor at Rhyme Pout Jew Pork, refuses to recommend it in her pages.

This thing still makes me laugh every time.

OK, here goes:

Chad Ryan, Therapy's sexy, sultry general manager,
pouts in the DJ booth. Nov. 11, 2007.

Whatchoo talkin' about, Willis?

Gabe Leidman, looking like a possessed turtle.

Brad Loekle, fagging it up as usual.
Brad wasn't scheduled to perform that night. At the last minute,
I had a sudden premonition that one of the comics was going to flake.
Sure enough, a comic I'll call "Mason Bad" was a no-show.
Brad got up in his place and tore Therapy a new hole.
Truly the set of the night.

And Bernie Pauley was the icing on the cake.
How cool is her psychedelic shirt?

Me with my seldom-seen, often heard technical manager
and sidekick, Luke Jones. Nov. 18, 2007.

Studly Sebastian Evans nurses a beer after his set.

When my opening set didn't go as well as I had hoped,
I decided to remove one article of clothing every time I retook the stage.
I also decided, after seeing the photos, that I'm off carbs again.

Danny Siegel, angrily tweaking my nipples.
I'm pretty sure that's the first time a straight guy has ever done that to me.

Speaking of Danny, he rocked it hard.
Cool photo, too.

Brad Loekle, who cannot bear not being the center of attention,
hopped on-stage to join me in my nakedness.
It looks like I'm interviewing his penis.

Headliner Jaffe Cohen shows me some love.
By this time, I was clad only in skivvies and boots.

Of course I stuffed first.
Coiled up inside is a Therapy T-shirt...

...which I whipped out and tossed into the crowd as my grand finale.
Ah, showbiz.

Traumatized straight comics Hilary Schwartz and Danny Siegel after the show.
By the way, in case you haven't figured it out,
my theme for the night's lineup was "Mad About Jews."

My loyal friends, Jeff and Seth.
They come to almost every show but are usually behind the camera.
Nov. 25, 2007.

No clever caption here; I just think I look good.

But not as good as hunky Jeff Lawrence, making his Therapy debut.

Meanwhile, lovely Laura Nikifortchuk entertains mightily
while sporting some sort of Stevie-Nicks-meets-Pocahontas ensemble.

Jackie Monahan, having her best set to date at Therapy.
The crowd couldn't get enough of her.

Meanwhile, Seth couldn't get enough of this hot British couple sitting in the corner.
He took like a dozen pictures of them during the show.

Headliner Robin Fox, resplendent in a paisley cardigan, brought it home.
They ate her up.

Mama Fox with Baby Jackie, basking in their post-show glow.

Holy crap, this has been a long blog! My fingers are exhausted! Homo out!

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Dec. 2, when my special guests will be Rick Crom, Colin Kane, Veronica Quinn and Skip & Sparkle! Details on my web site.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

I Spent the Night With Sarah Silverman

As you all know, I google myself every day to see if I've gotten famous yet. The other day, I came across two of my all-time favorite hits thus far for "Adam Sank." The first was as follows:

Choking and gurgling, Adam sank to his knees, bright blood spouting from his neck, while Goat stood frozen in horror. Adam fell prone, he kicked and threshed convulsively like a beheaded chicken, then twitched and lay still in a spreading pool of blood.

-From "Rebels of the Red Planet," by Charles Louis Fontenay

Heartwarming, no?

The other was an eBay auction item:

LEA DE LARIA Super GAY Comedy Show Autographed Poster

This gorgeous 11" x 17" glossy theater poster is in perfect condition and ready for framing!

It's from infamous lesbian comic Lea De Laria's Super Gay Comedy Show at Comix in NYC, a benefit for the NYC Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Community Center. It's signed by Lea De Laria (on her own face) as well as Scott Thompson, Greg Wallach, Meow Meow, Glenn Marla, Mimi Gonzalez, Adam Sank, and one other person whose signature I can't make out.

To photograph it, I attached it to my refrigerator with magnets, so ignore them on the photo and note that it is indeed in spotless condition.

The perfect gift for any fan of gay or queer comedy, particularly of Ms. De Laria.

See, kids? Penmanship counts.
You can clearly read my signature, in orange,
3/4 of the way down the page, left-hand side.

The winning bid, to someone named bjwsf, was for $25. (I can only imagine that bjwsf stands for Blow Job With Strong Force or something equally perverse.)

Someday, when I write my memoirs, I'll reveal what went on the night of the Lea DeLaria show -- one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life.

Butt I digress, and it's time to get to the point of this blog: My Night With Sarah Silverman.

The title is misleading; I didn't actually spend the night with her. But I did have another surreal experience involving her, and I'm beginning to think we're destined to be best friends some day.

Readers of this blog will recall the time I ate dinner next to a woman I was positive was Sarah -- only to confront her after the meal and have her tell me, "I'm not Sarah."

'And I'm also not wearing a bra.'

Fast-forward 10 months, and my friend and fellow comic Peter K. asks me if I'd like a free ticket to see Sarah Silverman at Carnegie Hall.

Boy, wooden eye! (Extra credit if anyone knows the set-up to that old chestnut.)

So Peter and I arrive at Carnegie Hall for the sold-out show, and we are shown to our seats... IN THE FRONT ROW! I couldn't believe it.

Sarah's openers, Doug Benson and Todd Barry, come out and do their sets. They are both excellent, though I can't help but think I would have dressed a lot nicer for Carnegie Hall. (In fact, I was dressed a lot nicer -- and I was just sitting in the audience.)

Anyway, Sarah comes out, and the place goes ape-shit, and she launches into her set. She's really funny. At one point, she brings out two classical violinists in formal wear and introduces them as "Hoity and Toity."

Meanwhile I do what I always do when I'm within spitting distance of a celebrity I truly admire.

I grin.

I grin like a cartoon character. I grin like Jimmy Carter at a peace rally. I grin like a Special Olympian crossing the finish line. I can't help it; it's an involuntary reaction.

Actual photo of me watching Sarah Silverman.

Anyway, about half-way through her set, Sarah glances down and notices me staring up at her with my shit-eating grin. She pauses for a second and then makes the exact face that I'm making, mocking me, which of course makes me grin even wider.

Then she chuckles, shakes her head and says, "I'm seeing some familiar faces here tonight."

Whereupon my head explodes.

MY FACE IS FAMILIAR TO SARAH SILVERMAN? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?! I have never met Sarah (unless of course it was her sitting next to me at Eatery back in January, and even then, she's not about to remember some schlub who interrupted her dinner 10 months ago). We have never performed in the same lineup. There's no way she knows me as a comedian. So WTF?!

The only possibilities are as follows:

1) She read my blog about having dinner next to a woman I thought was her. This is not out of the realm of possibility; Sarah's actually a member of Soapbox. Plus, that blog was linked by gawker, so a lot of people read it. It's entirely possible someone who knows her emailed her and said, "Hey, read this." Or, if she visits Soapbox from time to time, maybe she recognizes my picture from my being the most viewed comic.

2) She was simply being kind with the "familiar faces" remark, perhaps thinking that anyone gazing at her with such a beatific expression on his face must be a true fan.


3) She was referring to the person sitting behind me. Also entirely possible.

Anyway, it was a cool moment.

I had wanted to blog further today, including photos from my most recent Therapy show, where I wound up on-stage wearing nothing but boots and underpants. But my computer is about 10 seconds away from a major crash, and I know better than to push my luck.

So until next time, I'll simply say, "Happy Belated Thanksgiving to You All!"

Turkey out.

Come see most the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour tomorrow (Sunday) night... Nov. 25, at 10 p.m., when my headliner will be the mother of all stand-up comics, ROBIN FOX! Also appearing will be Jackie Monahan, Laura Nikifortchuk and Jeff Lawrence! Details on my web site.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Comedy is Crazy (Part II)

Part II) No! Jew?

Sunday, Nov. 4, 2007, 10:00 p.m.

I knew it would be a rocky Therapy show before it even began. For one thing, we had another private party happening at the back bar -- a cast party for some pilot called "Mr. Bones." I understand why the management at Therapy likes private parties; they drive up drink sales. But I hate them. They are loud and comprised of people who A) Don't know there's a comedy show going on across the room, and B) Don't give a shit.

I try to acknowledge the party whenever I can during my set: "Hey, give it up for the cast and crew of 'Mr. Bones!' All those folks back there, they just taped a pilot called, 'Mr Bones!'"

But I know from experience that all those people hear is, "Blah blah blah Mr. Bones! Blah blah blah Mr. Bones!," like that famous Far Side cartoon with the dog that only understands her own name.

Wow! I actually found it!

Anyway, the "Mr. Bones" people were not the problem. The problem were two queens seated at the third table from the front, stage right. From the get-go, they were completely distracted and distracting -- talking, texting and being generally annoying. I never learned their names, so for the purpose of this blog I shall call them Seymour and Yitzhak.

I mildly called out Seymour (who was closer to the stage) during my opening, but he was so completely self-absorbed he didn't realize I was talking to him. I decided not to push it and brought up Tom "The Big Ragu" Ragu, who had a good set in spite of the noise level in the room.

Tom's red shirt and eyes make him look a bit like
Satan here, but he's actually a total sweetie.

Next went Susan Alexander. In the middle of her set, she did a bit about two gay Jewish friends of hers wanting her to carry their baby. At some point in the bit, she refers to one of them as "Irving Auschwitz."


Now, I adore Susan. But to be perfectly honest, I didn't think the joke was very funny. Not because it was offensive -- I find lots of offensive stuff funny -- but simply because it seemed like a misplaced punchline to me, i.e. one that didn't really fit the premise of the joke. But perhaps I missed the point because I was running around hosting.

In any case, the joke didn't appear to get much of a reaction from the crowd one way or the other. She finished her set and I brought up Jill Twiss.

It was during Jill's set that I noticed Seymour getting progressively more agitated. He was still talking and texting wildly, but now he seemed also to be trying to rile up the people at the next table, who were actually focused on the show.

Jill apparently noticed it, too. A few minutes into her set, she said to him, in that baby-doll voice of hers: "Excuse me -- you in the white T-shirt? Excuse me! Excuse me -- you talking on the phone -- can someone get his attention, please? Yes, you. Hi! You're cute as a button! Can you do me a big favor? Can you shut the fuck up during my set? Thank you!"

Twiss attacks.

Jill's crowd work seemed to enrage Seymour even more, especially after it was met with thunderous applause. I figured it was time to intervene. I approached the table and said, "Listen, guys. I understand you may not be into watching the show. And that's fine. You're welcome to go to the back bar or downstairs if you want to talk, but if you're going to stay here, I need you to quiet down."

Suddenly Yitzhak, who had been relatively quiet up til now, sprang into action.

"Who are you?!" he demanded in a thick European accent. "You are nothing to me! Who are you to me?!"

"I'm the host of the show," I replied. "And I'll have you thrown out of here in 10 seconds if you don't shut the fuck up right now."

"Fine!" said Yitzhak.

But it didn't seem fine. It seemed like a volatile situation, and I was afraid it was only going to get worse. So I walked over to Luke in the DJ booth and told him it might be a good idea to get the manager and John, the doorman.

As Jill finished up her set, Luke and John asked Seymour and Yitzhak to pay their tab and leave. They stood up and began to do so, but then stopped at the top of the stairs. An argument ensued. And the next thing I knew, John and Luke each had an arm around Yitzhak and were dragging him down the stairs as he yelled, "Wait! Wait! Wait!" every step of the way. It was pure slapstick comedy.

"Listen everyone," I said when I retook the stage. "I need to update you on the drama that just happened." The crowd roared. They had all been watching the events unfold and were way more interested in that than any jokes they were going to hear from us. So I told them everything I knew about the situation.

Figuring the storm had passed, I called Yamaneika up to do her headline set and then ducked out to have a smoke.

"The lights are so hot up here,
I feel like a rotisserie chicken!" she complained.

I was surprised when I got outside to find Seymour and Yitzhak standing in front of the bar.

Seymour was shouting into his phone:

"I don't care! I want you to send a cruiser over now so I can file a report! I'm a patent attorney, goddammit! I'm going to file a lawsuit against this place, but I need you to send over a cruiser so I can file a police report! Yes! Now! Because they're telling anti-Semitic jokes in there! And my grandparents died at Auschwitz! And she said I was cute as a button! CUTE AS A BUTTON!"

The following questions immediately came to my mind:

1) He's a patent attorney? What sort of lawsuit is he going to file? Susan may have told an anti-Semitic joke, but she didn't steal anyone's invention.

2) What sort of crime are the police being called to investigate? Is telling an offensive joke a crime?

3) Does Seymour not realize that Susan Alexander and Jill Twiss are NOT THE SAME PERSON? That the one who made the Auschwitz remark isn't the one who called him "cute as a button?"

4) What's so offensive about calling Seymour cute as a button? It's not like she said, "You're as cute as a lampshade."

The police -- five cops in all -- arrived about five minutes later. Yamaneika was still doing her set when John came up and told me they wanted to interview me. I went outside and gave them my version of the events of the night.

The cop had one question for me: "Did you witness any kind of excessive force in throwing these guys out?"


"OK, thanks. Good night." And with that they were gone.

Yamaneika wrapped. I got up one last time.

"OK, guys, another update. I was just outside talking to the police."

The crowd went ape-shit.

"Those two queens claim they were thrown out of here for being Jewish. Which might have worked except for one thing: I'm Jewish."

Double ape-shit.

"But I say, more power to them. Because anyone who brings five hot cops to Therapy is OK in my book. Thank you and good night!"

Thunderous applause.

Needless to say, we never heard from Seymour and Yitzhak again.

Homo out.

Ironically, come see me host a special "Mad About Jews" edition of the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Nov. 18, when my special guests will be Jaffe Cohen, Daniel Siegel, Hilary Schwartz and Sebi Evans! Details on my web site.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Comedy is Crazy (Part I)

Part I) Nightmare in Nyack

Saturday, Nov. 3, 2007, 11:35 a.m.

On the grayest day of the year, I took a train from the city to Ridgewood, NJ, transferring at Secaucus Junction -- which, by the way, is the most massive station I've ever seen. When I asked the information clerk for directions, she said, "Go to Track H."

That's a lot of tracks for a city no one wants to visit.

Come Back to Secaucus...

Once in Ridgewood, Robin Fox picked me up in her mom-mobile and we headed 20 miles north to Nyack, NY for a private gig organized by none other than Hoopachoo, who was also the MC.

The gig was at a restaurant called Vertigo. It was a 60th birthday party for a woman named Judy, whose husband, Marty, is Hoopachoo's employer. Marty thought it would be a good idea to surprise Judy with a comedy show in the middle of her birthday luncheon.

Marty must hate Judy. At the very least, he doesn't know her very well. Because if there's one thing Judy doesn't enjoy, it's comedy. And her post-menopausal friends enjoy it even less. This would become apparent very soon.

Robin and Hoop before the show, when they were still smiling.

I don't know why I am crouching down in this photo.
It makes me look constipated.

It's very hard to fully explain just how wrong a venue this was for comedy. The ladies were lunching upstairs, and the mic was set up behind a railing that overlooked the downstairs. Picture Evita standing on the balcony of the Casa Rosada.

Don't Cry for Me, Rockland County...

Except our subjects weren't downstairs looking up at us; they were on the same level, on the other side of the room, behind a second railing.

In other words, except for one table behind us (at which sat the humorless Judy and her entourage), the nearest table to the "stage" was 50 yards away.

Robin and I walked upstairs and took seats at the bar. Nearby was a tray of cheese and crackers, and we both helped ourselves. A waitress suddenly appeared out of nowhere and literally grabbed the tray out of our hands. "I'm sorry, this is for the party," she spat.

"Yeah," said Robin. "We're here for the party."

"Oh?," said the waitress, eyeing Robin like she was some sort of crazed cracker thief. "What table are you at?"

"We're comedians," I explained. "We're performing."

"Oh," she said and briskly walked off without an apology.

The horror had only just begun.

As I mentioned, Judy and friends had no idea they were about to watch a comedy show. They were simply talking and eating their roast chicken. Judy's daughter, the only person at the party who was hip to what was happening, got up to the mic and made the following announcement in a faint, small voice:

"OK, everyone, time for some comedy. Here's Hoopachoo."

I heard one of the women mutter "Gesundheit" as Hoop took the mic.

Judy apparently thought Hoop was simply making
a toast, so she remained standing for most of his set.

I don't think Hoop will mind my telling you: It did not go well. The ladies listened for about 15 seconds and then went right back to their conversations. Hoop plodded gamely through his set, but these women weren't having it. One of them kept going "Ha ha ha" every time he hit a punchline. I don't mean she was laughing; I mean she was actually saying the words, "Ha ha ha," like a mother reacting to her three-year-old child when she thinks he's getting sassy. Another woman in a red plaid jacket kept her back to him the entire time. It was surreal.

Robin and I watched wide-eyed, knowing we were next to slaughter. "I'll get these bitches," she whispered to me. And knowing Robin, I really thought she would.

Robin tries to out-Fox the crowd. Note the reflection of
Hoop in the mirror sadly nursing his Diet Coke.

But they didn't treat her much better. The constant talking continued, as did the chicken-eating and the "Ha ha ha"-ing. Judy at this point was simply looking down at her plate.

As I watched and waited for my time, a strange Zen-like calm overtook me. This often happens to me at terrible gigs. Rather than getting nervous, I get fearless: How, after all, could this get any worse? What did I have to lose? One thing was certain: I was going to make these old crones look up from their chicken if I had to jump off the balcony to do it.

Hoop brought me up. I grabbed the mic and, in my most stentorian tone, screamed, "What's up, ladies!"

They all startled. I honestly think most of them hadn't been aware the show was still going on.

"What a fabulous place to be doing comedy!," I continued. "Now I know why they call this place 'Vertigo.' I feel like Jimmy Stewart up here!"

A chuckle or two.

"When Hoopachoo called me up and asked me if I wanted to perform at Vertigo for Judy's birthday, I said, 'Who's Judy, and where the hell is Vertigo?'"

At this point, Judy started to interrupted me, mumbling something about how I didn't know her.

"That's right, Judy," I said, effectively shutting her up. "Happy birthday, doll."

From there I started ripping into the women individually.

"You, in the red plaid jacket. You've had your back to us the entire time. You're my favorite. Usually someone will at least turn their head six inches to get a look at who's bombing. But not you, babe. You're committed, and I respect that."

Judy interrupted again: "Now, wait a minute, that's my best friend..."

"That's right, Judy. Happy birthday, doll."

And on I went. I was like a pit bull.

"So I'm gay. Anyone here have a gay son? No one? That's what you think."

And the weird thing is, they sort of liked it. They kept their eyes on me for the whole of my set. They laughed from time to time. Every once in a while I would look down into the eyes of a bewildered three-year-old girl staring up at me from where she was having lunch with her family. And I'd think, "I'm right there with ya, girl."

We wrapped up, bade Hoop goodbye, and got the hell out of Nyack.

Little did I know that wouldn't be the weirdest gig of my weekend.

Not by a long shot.

(To be continued...)

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Nov. 11, when my special guests will be Bernadette Pauley, Jason Good and Gabe Liedman! Details on
my web site.

Thursday, November 1, 2007


Received at work today via email:

hallo whats up! sank

wait a minute, you have a little dick and want to make it bigger?

Meighan Patton

Nice way to start the day.

While we're on the subject of SPAM, can everyone who knows me stop forwarding me absurd paranoid Internet hoaxes with subject headings like "This Is Real! Do Not Delete!"

Let me break it down for you:

Bill Gates is not going to share his fortune with you if you forward an email to all your contacts. (And your friend did not see it verified on "The Today Show.")

Barack Obama is not a Muslim and did not attend a madrassa as a child.

The University of Kentucky has not removed teaching the Holocaust from its curriculum so as not to offend Muslim students.

Tommy Hilfiger did not go on "Oprah" to declare that he doesn't want black people wearing his clothing line. Nor did Liz Claiborne.

You do not have to register your cell phone number with a national Do Not Call directory to prevent telemarketers from flooding your cell phone with calls.

So the next time someone forwards one of these lies to you (or something equally ludicrous), please do the following:

Go to this highly regarded urban legend web site:

Type a few key words (like "Muslim" and "Kentucky") into the search field. Find the link that debunks the hoax in question and send it back to the fucking moron who emailed you in the first place with a little note that says, "You're a fucking moron, and you're wasting everyone's time."

If the person also failed to blind cc his recipients (and they always do) so that your private email address is now being forwarded to millions of other fucking morons all over the Internet, drive to his house and leave a flaming bag of poo on his front porch.

End of rant.

Flaming Bag Of Shit Intended For Apartment 314
Much harder to find on Google Images than you might think.

Speaking of flaming bags of poo, another Halloween has come and gone. I love Halloween in theory, but it always ends up stressing me out. It's the whole costume thing: I want so badly to wear some ingenious original costume, but I have zero creativity when it comes to such things, and even less ability to construct things with my hands.

I happened to catch the CW-11 News one morning last week (with the gorgeous John Muller), and they were doing a segment on cheap, last-minute Halloween costumes. One of them was Clark Kent. All you had to do for this costume was wear a suit and glasses with a Superman T-shirt underneath.

Cut to me Sunday night hosting the Therapy show...

What a douche.

...and then to Wednesday night, before joining friends for dinner...

Even douchier.

Apparently, I'm not the only queen who watches the CW-11 news, as I discovered upon arriving at Elmo restaurant in Chelsea.

I'm a way better Clark Kent than this dude.

But I wouldn't mind going flying with this one,
if you know what I'm sayin'...

For the record, going out on Halloween in New York isn't nearly as fun as you think it's going to be. Next year I plan to order in Chinese and watch "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown."

I'm desperate to talk at length about the latest episode of "Kid Nation," which continues to be the most intriguing show on the air. But work calls, so it'll have to wait until next time.

I'll leave you with a photo of Steve Hofstetter headlining Therapy this past Sunday night.
No ass-kissing here; he was simply amazing. The dude does more material in 20 minutes than most comics do in an hour. The crowd loved him.

And check out the nimble mic-holding technique.

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Nov. 4, when my special guests will be Yamaneika, Jill Twiss, Susan Alexander and Tom Ragu! Details on
my web site.