As most of you know, I perform lengthy shows that are a good deal longer than most comics. I lay it all out there every single show and hope that the audience is exhausted and laughed out. 

Usually after the show I hang out and meet the people who stop by to see me. I enjoy the face to face time with the audience and I have been posting all the photos we take together.

For some odd reason, even after all the hour and a half of laughs, people are compelled to tell me jokes. It’s like going into a restaurant kitchen and telling the chef you will make dessert. 

First of all, I have heard most of the jokes. I started telling jokes in fourth grade to get attention, since the athletic prowess wasn’t scoring with the girls. One of my first jokes: “What is brown and steamy and lies in the street?” “Gomer’s Pyle.”

 It was topical and racy stuff for an 8 year old…

 We told a lot of jokes and made countless other attempts at getting laughs in my neighborhood. If we heard a joke that was “old,” we always said: “The last time I heard that one, I fell off my dinosaur.” If it was a dirty joke, using a curse word like “crap,” we told in only in male company, but of course the male company was the norm anyway, because the girls wanted nothing to do with the immature boys and the bathroom humor. 

We used to play a joke on our peers that made the rounds for a few years. It took cooperation from everyone in the room and some bad acting to complete the prank. 

If one of the kids left the room, I would quickly gather the remaining group into a huddle to call the play. 

“Ok..when Ricky comes back, I am going to tell a joke that makes no sense at all. The joke is not even close to funny, but when I give you the punch line, you laugh hysterically as if it is the funniest joke ever! Let’s see if he pretends to understand it and blends in by laughing when everyone else does. The place you laugh is when I say “no soap, radio.”

(Rick enters the room)

 “Hey guys. I have a great joke. You gotta hear this. This kid is in the bathtub taking a bath. He looks around for his washcloth and can’t find it. He calls out to his mom, who comes in to help. He says, mom, I said no soap, radio!”

Sure enough, Ricky would laugh along with the crowd as if what he heard was absolutely hysterical. Suddenly, we would all stop and turn to him for his trip down Humiliation Lane.

“Ricky, what are you laughing at? What’s funny about “no soap, radio?” It doesn’t make any sense, you idiot. Did you all see him?”

 This was the kind of mean spirited stuff we would pull on each other. And the older we got, the more vicious the prank.

One classic was a two man con we played at the restaurant where I worked as a dish washer. I worked it out with one of the bus boys and our mark was a really sweet waitress names Nina.

 Unlike Ricky, Nina did not deserve to be teased, but her naiveté made her the perfect foil for our plan.

 She and I always had a fun and loose relationship through the little hole where the staff in nice clothes passed the dirty dishes into my fishy, sweaty and stinky hands. The stainless steel area I worked was a breeding ground for acne, so when a cute waitress leans in and speaks to your pimpled face, it is pretty powerful.

 Typical for me, I couldn’t just let her enjoy my little witticisms and allow her to give me attention with an affirming chuckle. No, even though I wasn’t dating her (or close to it), the flirtation was plenty for a 14 year old trying to blend in with adults.

 Looking back, the “adults” were probably 22…

 Anywho…I got my busboy buddy to be Butch Cassidy to my No Chance Kid. Earl was had worked there a long time and was tight with all the staff. He also knew Nina to be a little innocent, and developed a playful relationship with her.

 When Nina poked her head in my hole, she mentioned her joining a dance class. I said: “Do you know Earl’s brother Johnny is an amazing dancer? He won the Pennsylvania state competition for Jazz dance. He danced at the White House. You should ask Earl about it.”

 Nina was pleasantly surprised about this bit of employee trivia, and went off to talk to Earl about his brother’s hoofing skills.

 Minutes later, as I was spraying off some beet juice from a dinner plate; I hear a scream of horror come from the dining room. It was Nina, who apparently found out that Earl’s brother was not a dancer at all. When she innocently inquired about the jazz dancing, Earl, as we had set up, pretended to be deeply offended by Nina’s question. He acted miffed, as anyone would be if any facts were true.

 He told her he was angry because his brother was not a dancer, but had his legs blown off in Vietnam, and how dare she bring this up like it’s a joke.

 The ruse worked, but only in fooling her and not making anyone laugh.

 I don’t know why I got off on a tangent, but the point I was making is that if you have a joke for me, email it or “old school” it and write me a letter. To lean in to me after a show with stale wine breath and tell me a racist joke will not endear me to you or entertain me. It’s even worse when you preface it by saying: “You can use this in your skit.”

 And I certainly do not want to be forced to say: “Last time I heard that I fell off my dinosaur!”

I keep reading articles about what is hot and what is not. So called journalists choose who belongs on the hot looking list.

Let me tell you what (or who) I think is hot…

If I mention a man, don’t be homophobic and say I am gay. To be honest, there are plenty of heterosexual men who have feelings about a man whom they deem to be good looking. It’s not about a rise in the loins. It’s not that kind of a hot, but the males do have these thoughts. They are just afraid to express it out loud, so it usually comes out as “I’ll bet HE gets laid a lot.”

Actually, when I get together with some of my less insecure friends, we will actually use the boring time between innings in a baseball game to give our list of top five good looking players. But to balance it out, we list the top ugliest players too, and make jokes about their “best” features.

This year’s Phillies team, whom I heavily rooted for, has three players who have the looks that could land them in GQ. Cole Hamels, Jason Werth and Pat Burrell. All that fame, money and they get to play professional sports, AND they get to be tall and handsome…there should be a law.

OK…off of my jealous list and on to my hot list…

In no particular order….

1) Ellen DeGeneres dancing. I tune in just to see her shaking her money maker. I find it sexy that she doesn’t try too hard, and wears clothes she could find in the Salvation Army.

2) A father holding hands with his child and slowly walking with them. I think it’s great when a dad offers that security to his little boy or girl.

3) A smart woman who exudes quiet confidence. It’s hard to come up with someone famous, because if they are in the public eye, chances are they have to be talkative to promote their business. There is no one you will see on TV who sits there and just listens. “The View” will not have a spin off called “The Ear.”

4) The entire LPGA. I love watching a woman swing a club, as long as it’s not aimed at me. Women golfers have more finesse and grace than the men.

5) Amanda Peet in a full frontal nude scene from the movie “Whole Nine Yards.” What some women don’t seem to comprehend, is that guys don’t just like naked female bodies or watch porn. What is really sexy about the Peet scene is that there was no sex being acted out, seduction or come on. She stood there completely nude and casually said her lines as if she were fully clothed, and wasn’t trying to hit us up for a lap dance or provoke arousal. Because she is not an “adult” actress, it makes it so much sexier.

6) Yoga bodies. This goes for men and women. It’s a body that has tone and doesn’t look like they are free basing testosterone.

7) Paul Newman and JoAnn Woodward. Being in show business and not seeing a lot of successful couples, it is gratifying and inspiring to see their love and commitment lasted so many years. Now that Paul Newman has passed away, I will have to find another couple with longevity to strive for. Any ideas? Ringo Starr and Barbara Bach? Ashton and Demi are at around five years, which is a golden anniversary in Hollywood!

Julie Luis Dreyfuss and Viveca Fox. These are really good looking women, but what puts them over the top is for their comedic performances on two of my favorite all time shows, “Seinfeld” and “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” Fox was so sexy when she slow danced with Larry David in the season’s last episode.

9) Waitresses, flight attendants and hotel receptionists. Okay, I know this is common to be attracted to people in service positions, but I like it when woman are forced to speak to me. I don’t have to come up with stupid come on lines either. “Can I get a refill?” is so much less stressful than “Is your name Windex? Cause I can see my face in your panties.”

10) Morgan Freeman. His look is not one that will land him a modeling contract, but his voice is very comforting. Whether he is talking about penguins or Andy Duframe, Morgan has a resonant vocal quality that can calm down Bill O’Reilly on Red Bull.

Do you have anything to add to the hot list? What does it for you?

My buddy Tom Williams just turned 60. I want to wish him a happy birthday and acknowledge him for over 25 years of friendship, as well as the support he gave so many stand up comics like me.

 Tommy owned one of the true original comedy clubs in the country, Charlie Goodnights, in Raleigh North Carolina, and he gave me an opportunity back in 1984 to headline his (new) club. His room quickly developed a reputation as the place to play, with energetic and packed crowds practically every night of the week. Goodnights featured virtually every major act in the country, from Seinfeld to Leno. I was a young neophyte and Tommy gave me a shot to close the shows with my 35 minute set of shticky and sometimes unoriginal routines. And he asked me back again and again and again two or three times a year.

 Through the years, OTW (Old Tom Williams) and I have palled around together a lot, mostly on a golf course at his home club of Northridge Country Club. I have been there so many years, it’s as if I am a long time member (or as they say in the south, “mumba”).  As soon as I walk into the little play area for all the men who don’t want to grow up, I hear the welcoming sounds of “Hey Shoe!”  Or “Hey Prick…you still doin that dumb ass act of yours?”

 Mostly middle aged guys in ugly golf attire, they hang out in this bunker-like area of the country club called the “Nineteenth Hole.” They affectionately call it “the hole” and are found there almost every day of the week playing cards, drinking and making bets. No indoor smoking bans for this crew.

Mostly, they rip, rank and bag on one another…and I fit right in!

 Bustin balls, ribbing, or giving a hard time is a lost art, but these old school dinosaurs are a blast from the past of thick skinned evisceraters, who tear the flesh off of your body if you show any sign of weakness.  They are the anti P.C. crowd and are proud of it.

 It’s amazing to me how men can sit around and destroy character and make fun of every conceivable physical flaw they can find, and yet still consider one another great friends. It’s like going to a doctor and he tells you that you have the most infected and hideous growth he has ever seen and you in turn ask him to be the best man for your wedding.

 The “Holers” seem to highlight your lowlights, and focus on the worst moments of your life. This is not a place to share your stories of triumph or success. You would have better luck going to Guantanamo Bay and say you are a corporal for Al Quieda. You are looking to be tortured. Come in from a round of gold and say you are playing your career best and prepare to be water boarded!

 The other day we were driving along in our golf cart and one of Tom’s buddies points to a house that once was a home of a family who apparently was once wealthy, healthy and happy. But that part was skimmed over.

 Apparently, this Barbie and Ken couple on the outside had some hidden demons. The husband was having an affair and the wife was drinking herself into a daily stupor and the kids ran away to a cult. The wife lost all she had and became destitute.

 All I know of this woman’s life (whom I have never met) was summed up in a simple sentence: “She slept with the delivery guy for a free pizza.”

 The story didn’t stop there as we all laughed up a storm at a stranger’s expense. “I guess she ordered the 12 inch!” “Sausage please!” “She wanted the thick crust!”

 It made me think about legacy and what we are most known for while on this planet. I began to reflect on some of my tougher times and hoped there was not a group of dudes sitting around discussing my worst moments. I had the runs during a night out in downtown Philadelphia, and my friend Steve holds that memory more clearly than the birth of his children!

 Then it hit me. Good stuff is remembered and honored when you die. Bad stuff is the fodder that feeds us while we are alive.

 Damn it! It’s a disturbing thought to think that any humanitarian work, honorable deeds or good parenting I have done will be invalidated as long as I draw a breath. I guess no one will come up to me and say: “I heard a rumor you do anonymous volunteer work for people with debilitating diseases.” Instead, I am sure to get: “Is it true you are twice divorced? What a loser!”

 I think we should begin a tradition of taking the time to validate friendships and loved ones. We can start by having a holiday where we take a day off to toast someone and acknowledge their accomplishments. I know birthdays are kinda like that, but there is nothing special about a birthday. I mean, there is noting unique. “We are gathered here today to pay homage to someone who was…well…they were BORN. On this day they left the friendly confines of their mom’s womb and became a name for themselves by being the name their parents gave them.

 Gee…that is so special.

 I say we start a ceremonial tradition that does not wait for someone to pass away to let them know how we feel about them. Why wait to speak so kindly at their wake? Why not do it while they are A-WAKE!?

 I’m sure this idea will go over in the nineteenth hole like a Buddhist at an NRA rally.

 Ok Northridge guys…if you are reading this, what I really meant to say is: “Tommy Williams is a grumpy, gray haired, no golfin, ugly ass, card cheatin, Dodger cap wearin, redneck, hair trigger tempered jack ass!  And he can’t chip a golf ball if his life depended on it.

 Remember the time he was in the playoff and had to put a three foot chip on to the green and he duffed it…

 Yes…Tommy will forever be immortalized for that bad chip he made on the second hole of a playoff. It happened about twelve years ago, but no chippin Tommy still can’t make those shots, probably because he is reminded about his worst golf moments and not commended for his great ones, and that thought causes him great anguish as he steps up to a similar shot.

 But hell…at least he didn’t spread his legs for a free pizza….

 I wonder if she got extra toppings?

Yes! The Phillies won the World Series!

Philadelphia has not had a winner in 25 years, the last being the Philadelphia ‘76ers in 1983.

When we won our only series in 100 years, I was there in 1980 and celebrated along with the millions of long suffering Philly fans. I went to a playoff game against the Astros with my old friend Dave Cerami, where we got piss drunk, had a fist fight with each other and then proudly walked around Veteran’s Stadium with a big cloth sign saying, “Hey ABC (figuring that would get us on TV) the Phillies are going to kick some ASStros!”

After the final out in Houston, Cerami and I had the bright idea to rush down to the stadium and be there for when they opened the ticket window for the World Series.

Apparently, we had the same “unique” idea as about 20 thousand other drunks. We celebrated along with the thousands of other revelers and at about 4am found a spot on the pavement to camp out and wait for the windows to open.

People stomped on our heads and screamed in our ears as we tried to get a few hours sleep.

Our stadium, “The Vet” was a big ole ‘70s monolith and the ticket office had 6 windows for 20 thousand drunks with no sleep. Cerami and I woke up, discarded our sleeping bags and got in the far left line, fully intending on making it to that particular window.

It’s funny how circumstances can get in the way of good planning. We stood up and took a position about 40 feet from the 6 windows. Basically, it was a mosh pit / rugby scrum, as the bodies jammed up against one another. It was like a horde of drowning rats trying to get to one hole to escape drowning.

We spent about six hours standing and shoving our way to those elusive tickets. Luckily, we were still young and half drunk, because only the strong and dumb survived this riot.

One of the ways we made it further towards our goal was when people would pass out, literally, the crowd would lift up their limp body and pass them to the end of the line and out of the running for tickets.

Finally, we reached our goal, but after succumbing to the flow of pushing and shoving, we ended up on the far right booth. We had a gang of guys called the “dungeon gang” back then, so Dave and I fronted the money to buy them tickets too.

We went to see our Phils for the first home game and were overwhelmed with excitement. That is, until we climbed and climbed and climbed to our seats in the 700 level, where the Goodyear Blimp practically scraped our oily teen heads. In that section, there are not even vendors, unless they trained on the mountain of K2.

We won that game and the World Series, and we celebrated at the post parade with all the players at JFK stadium.

Now, the Vet and JFK are gone, but my memories will never fade. I am so happy that my son Justin, who although raised in LA, got to enjoy a victory for his team of choice, the Philadelphia Phillies!

He and I got to have a wonderful dad and son moment when we attended the NLCS championship against the Dodgers.

I have new and incredible memories from my favorite sports team, but will never forget the Cerami times from 1980.

I want to take the time to honor a great friend and business partner for celebrating 25 years of a successful business.

 Most of you don’t know this, but three guys from Springfield High School, which was our home long before Bart Simpson, invented and developed the concept of messages blended with music while you are put on hold.

 Instead of hearing MUSAC’s Ray Coniff orchestra playing soft melodies of former top 20 hits while you await a live person to get to your call, we figured our well crafted messages could make callers aware of various information and specific aspects of the business they were contacting.

 With a captive audience already phoning with an intention of finding out more about products and services, it seemed like a viable and useful tool for a company to utilize, and would compliment their current forms of advertising. Plus, it could be more cost effective as well, if the time occupied by an hourly employee answering questions of the callers, were answered by one of the informational recordings.

 We started “The Hold Company” in 1983 in the bedroom of Rob Horner’s rental house with a reel to reel tape recorder and a set of head phones we got on sale at Radio Shack. Rob handled the finances, I took care of the creative and Ken Gelhaus was the technical department, with the basic expertise being a guy who knew how to put a matchbook in to an 8track to stop it from skipping.

We trudged along with one whole client (Rob’s dad) for the first year and eventually built up to thousands. Since all of us had other jobs, we needed to get someone to run the company who could give full time attention to the blossoming business.

 In 1987, we brought in our old friend Anthony Stagliano to push the Hold Company to new heights. We needed a boost from a guy who has the drive of a Donald Trump on Red Bull.

 We call him “Stag” for short. Knowing how compulsive he is, like Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets,” you could say his nickname is an acronym for SERIOUS, TRAGICALLY ANAL GUY.

 This is a boss who will not let different types of coffee co-mingle with others on the office Lazy Susan, throws out paper clips that don’t have ridges and draws a line around the stapler as if it is a crime scene and a piece of equipment was murdered.

 Although I am much larger now, he and I used to wrestle the same weight in high school, and were one of few kids in wrestling history who had to GAIN pounds to qualify for the lightest weight class.

 I can sum up our careers very simply: They used to ask me how many lights were burnt out on the gymnasium ceiling, since I was on my back so often getting pinned. Anthony became one of the top wrestlers in the state of Pennsylvania.

 I like to think I had something to do with his success. You need someone to learn the moves on, right? He couldn’t have learned how to put a cross face on an actual face if he hadn’t bloodied my pimpled nose in high school. I taught him the meaning of pain! He now knows a grunt of hurt and when to go for the kill of a weakened animal.

 Without my twisting, turning moves of defense, how would he know all the counter moves for someone on the run? Hell, anybody can wrestle a great wrestler because they learn the same stuff from the best coaches who study the same books.

 No one teaches what I showed him – pure terror and flight! For my opponent, he was not aware that I had no intention to beat him, but instead was just trying to NOT get pinned! I was Anthony’s greatest teacher if he wanted to nail a decisive victory over crafty opponents. Wrestling me was like trying to get a Jack Russell Terrier lie on his back for a teeth brushing. And with my Cro-Magnon like head size, it eliminated the option of a head lock.

 I recall Anthony, me and Dave McElroy grappling on those stinky mats that caused outbreaks of cauliflower ear, as the three smallest boys pursued various goals. They strived to utilize their intense practice discipline for all their future endeavors. I used my daily humiliation to gather more resentment and used it to propel me into a life of comedy and revenge. My jokes are now my greatest weapon. I tossed away the “Fireman’s Carry,” Half Nelson” and “Double Chicken Wing” and replaced them with moves of parody, sarcasm and sharp wit.

 Anthony and Dave had a bunch of fun using me as a human Gumby. As I was having my face smushed into the mat, I recall thinking how I would some day get back at those who caused more acne than I already had.

 The other day, Anthony held a reunion to celebrate our 25 years of the Hold Company (now re named “Audiomax”). Of course, the anal one planned this night down to the Purell sanitizer in the men’s room, table cards with perfect calligraphy and a slide show that could have been produced by Russell Simmons.

 Stag threw a helluva party.

 He asked me to say a few words. Oh yes…he gave a comedian a microphone and a room full of people, after he had supplied decades of inspiration for payback.

 Karma, baby. I was not going to allow for a ref’s decision. I went for the pin!

 They might as well have raised my arm at the end. It was a little delayed, but victory was finally mine! Carpe Diem, even if I waited thousands of days to seize the day.

 Although I did poke fun at Anthony (he’s so short, his wedding song was “The Lolipop Guild”), but I must say there is so much more beneath my teasing.

 I admire, respect and have great admiration for this man. He is a true friend, and I count him as one of the greatest people I know. Although Ken, Rob and I have no financial interest in the company any more, we are so proud of how far it has gone. Audiomax has now gone beyond our original plans of catering to the people on hold, but has expanded to other initiatives and technologies. Anthony is still winning, long after he hung up the ear guards….

 By the way…if you are a young boy or girl and are concerned with peers picking on you, just remember they will (eventually) get their just rewards!

Something strange occurred last week. I actually had a response to a blog I wrote.

 They say don’t talk about politics or religion. Well, it turns out that talking about politics has caused some readers to offer much more feedback than usual.

 I guess my intentions panned out. My desire in all I do is to inspire some sort of action or reaction. Obviously, laughter is the most common reaction to something I put forth, but in this case the laughs, giggles and guffaws were replaced with everything from moral outrage, to kudos, to complete banishment from their lives. I didn’t gain any fans, but it appears I lost some. Some folks actually took the time and effort to write to me about their feelings. Looking at the bright side, I must be a real motivator!

 Even though I did not endorse a political party or candidate, I assume from the feedback that there are those who did not read it that way. I was pretty clear in my agenda to poke fun at our electoral process and the way we get behind people we don’t even know, but there are some who seem to construe my words as being mean spirited or bashing a person’s character.

 Contrarily, I’d like to take this opportunity to point my flamed arrow where it is really intended – to the lemmings and blind followers of parties and platforms. I shoot this spear into the wide target of Americans who choose to accept whatever you are being sold and do not have the temerity to question motives or open your minds to contrary thought.

 Let’s take this away from the apparently off limits place of running for office, to another arena we are even less educated on – drugs. Drugs have a party of a different kind.

 If a drug company convinces you that your particular symptoms means they have a prescription for you, then get numerous opinions from various sources before you make the leap to regularly ingest something in which you don’t know the contents. I challenge anyone to tell me an eighth of the ingredients of any drug, and I’ll give extra points if you can pronounce it.

 Our commercials are now in the business of telling us what is wrong with us. America’s life expectancy is actually a tad lower than ten years ago, when we never heard a word about swollen prostates or erectile dysfunction. Our quality of life is actually being diminished with all the pitchmen putting out the idea that we are not that well.

 There comes a time where it slips into our consciousness and we indeed become ill. It’s the “Law Of Attraction,” but in this case they are more like DIStracting you from wellness and pointing you to a grim picture. If you are told you are an idiot enough times, sooner or later you will become the moron your dad says you are. I think my SAT scores reflect that.

 I choose not to take this stuff in. I mute commercials. I zone out when people start listing their ailments and suffer from another chronic disease – “complaining-itis.” And I stay open minded that maybe, just maybe,  our country’s leaders, whether they be Democrat, Republican or Independent do not always have our best interest at heart, and maybe, just maybe, might know a lobbyist from Merck or Phizer, who line their pockets with money that will help them get legislation approved for their particular needs.

 Even though I am approaching middle age, no, I take that back, I am on the tarmac ready to take off, I have never been so healthy in my entire life. The only bad news is I am becoming more isolated since my teen-like health condition. No one wants to sit around and talk about how good it feels to be alive. Our nation’s preference is to grouse about anything and everything, keeping us in line with the folks who have the cures for whatever ails ya.  

 I now suffer from SDD. Symptom Deficit Disorder and I have very few supporters or fellow patients. It’s lonely to be well.

 Quite simply, doctors would be out of a job if you did not go to them on a regular basis. They have bills to pay; many times those bills are not commensurate with what a “normal” person spends their money on, meaning that they must have many sick people and a lot of return business to keep up with their extravagant lifestyle. And if you are offended by that, then I don’t mean you. I am talking about your other doctor and dentist friends, who tell me I need a new tooth, and that they will need to perform an emergency procedure on Tuesday.

 They show me Xrays with shadows and spots. They know I have no idea whether the negative with the Florida-shaped shady area means I am in need of a root canal or a good brushing. They have me exactly in the vulnerable position they need me to be, and I fork up the few thousand bucks to sit back in their chair and drill into my gums.

 The same patterns exist with this latest financial crisis. The government and the banks are fully aware that most citizens do not have a clue about the circumstances surrounding this bank collapse. I thought “Fannie Mae” was a character in the Beverly Hillbillies. For all I know, Freddie Mac could be an Irish gang leader in Rhode Island. And “Wa Mu” sounds like a call from a whale in “Finding Nemo.”

 Then, when the fear-based media get a hold of the information, they put us into a frenzy, and we look to leaders to rescue us. We listen to people who have compromised our trust over and over again and then look to them to lead us into solution and happiness. It’s like your drunken uncle coming to you for money (for the thousandth time) and saying he would remain sober this go round and not spend your hard earned dough on booze. And then you get the call to come bail him out.

 No wonder we escape reality by following characters like Batman. The caped crusader is a hero we do not see in our society, since he forgoes guns at all costs, gives back to the disenfranchised and doesn’t get paid for being of service. If he really did exist in this society, Batman would be demonized, dismissed and disgraced by all the money mongers who run this land. And if he showed up in Washington in those tights, well I think there would be quick abolishment of the “Bat Pole” by the folks who give us morals and values.

 Perhaps we need a new super hero who specifically deals with corporate crime? I think we should solve this financial crisis the old fashioned way – call “Bank Man!”

 Lara Croft can have a sister called “Vault Raider.” The world’s fastest human? “The Cash!”

 In this week’s episode “Captain Financial” figures out a plan to thwart his evil nemesis, “Foreclosure,” who has recently teamed up with long time rival “Bankruptcy.” Our hero conquers the wrong doers and executes a plan where ordinary citizens join forces to actually empower themselves to carry out their mission of financial freedom.

 “Freeeedommmmm!”

 I will back that candidate. Oops, I got political. Guess I’ll now say goodbye to more fans of Comic Book commerce heroes.

 Next week – I am taking down people with hair, so watch out!

Hello everyone, it’s been a while since my last e-blast so I wanted to updated you on some exciting things that have been happening.

If you haven’t already seen it, I recently made a music video spoof of Snoop Dogg’s “Sexual Seduction” entitled “Penis Reduction.” You can check it out on YouTube, leave a comment and pass it on to friends. I’m hoping it will be available to download from iTunes but you can assist me in making that happen by increasing my YouTube hits.

Here are a couple of new dates that I’ve just added but please check out my calendar to see if I’m performing in a venue near you.

NEW DATES

Ventura Harbor Comedy Club

November 21-22

805-644-1500

http://www.venturaharborcomedyclub.com

Tommy T’s

December 11-14

925-227-1800

http://www.tommyts.com

I’ve just returned from a weekend in Raleigh, North Carolina. Although it was hot and steamy (I sweated so much they had to call FEMA), we had an absolute blast. I was pleasantly surprised, considering the financial crisis we are facing, that so many people showed up to the performances. I really do respect all of you who have the courage to face this difficult economic time with such a positive attitude. Not because I am a comedian but I truly believe that one way to get past adversity is to lift our spirits and attending a comedy show is certainly a good way to do that. It’s like an investment in our soul, which I think is more valuable than a new pair a shoes or a pedicure. Besides, it’s autumn now, with the open-toed shoes in the closet so who’s going to see your feet anyway?

I’m looking forward to returning to Philadelphia next week. I hope to be there while my Phillies are heading towards the World Series! Actually, we added a second show to the Sellersville Theater date which means if you are planning to attend you had better contact them for tickets soon.

Thanks to all of you who take photos after the show and send them to be posted on Craigshoemaker.com. I should start doing them before I perform because the post-show sweat under my breasts is not so attractive. It looks like I’m lactating.

One more thing, I hope you all vote on Nov. 4^th. In music they have Rock the Vote so I guess in comedy I’ll say “Knock Knock” the Vote.

Hope to see you all soon.

Laugh on!

Shoe

I realize we see a lot of material from comedians about airline travel. Well, you write what you know, so fasten your seat belt as I vent some more about the world of sky commuting….

I just had one of those days in the airport where it seemed like I was on board the “Frustration Ride” at Disneyland. For a few dollars I got to experience one hurdle after another as I attempted to navigate to my departure gate on time.

 It started off pretty inauspiciously. My assistant Misa drove me to the LA airport in her car. The last time we went together, the security people stopped us and even put a mirror under the car for the bomb check. This time, we breezed through without a peek from an armed official. Must have been “Casual Terrorist Day.”

 I got out of the car at departures and even found a free cart to bring my luggage as far as allowed, so I figured this is my lucky travel day.

 Nope. My easy day ended with the finding of the stray wheels. I guess it’s my karma, since technically you are supposed to bring the carts back to the rack and pay. It’s kinda like taking the soap and shampoo in a hotel home with you. You won’t pay a fine, but you do lose points to the spiritual police.

 I am obsessed with picking the fastest line when I am given a choice. Whether it’s at the toll booth or the grocery store, I have personal challenges with anonymous opponents to get through first. And the victory is even sweeter when they have a slight head start. I have practically spiked the lettuce like I hit the goal line when I beat somebody by a few body lengths.

 I always feel like I have home court advantage when it comes to the airport security line competition. I fly so often with my job; the neophyte travelers don’t stand a chance against the veteran.  

 As I approach the winding road to x-rays and magnetic wands, I size up the situation like a special ops leader. Who looks like a threat to impede my smooth transition to the gate? Who appears to be a mouth breather, clueless and slow moving and only able to focus on numbing out to their nagging wife of 37 years? Where are the stroller people, who don’t know they are supposed to put all their family’s liquids in a clear plastic baggy?

 As if I am the lead dog in guarding the president, my skills are sharp at spotting the trouble makers before it’s too late.

 Today, I must have been off my game or distracted by a personal issue. I am ashamed at myself and lost one TSA racing heat after another.

 First, the line down below, which was divided into three different choices. But guess what? At the last second, I noticed another line upstairs that was flowing like an Obama speech, where a few experts had taken the elevator. How could I miss the elevator entrance??!!

 As I am observing the upper passengers in full stride to their destination, I lost focus on my objective. I picked the line with the security guy who checks credentials like he works in the US forgery department. He pulled out a mini magnifying glass he got in spy school and looked at each and every boarding pass and ID as if he was on Ellis Island in 1897. I kept waiting for him to put an immigration stamp on it and cart someone off to a holding cell.

 Then, just as the person ahead of me hands in her appropriate documents, he stops our line without explanation. I saw him gesture upstairs to the place I coveted, to indicate the line was too great and we had to stop until it dissipated.

 It was one of those frustrating moments where you want to act childish and whine: “but there line isn’t stopping!”

 The other guards were not as nerdy as ours and practically high-fived the passengers passing by their stand.

 Now I am way behind the guy I was tied with when we entered the downstairs choices. Frankly, he was out of sight, so I picked another unassuming competitor for the next leg of the gate race.

 I chose these two guys who were chatty and coughing to take me to the next level of Super Hurry-O Brothers. Plus, they were speaking French, another advantage! If I lose the silver to the French…

 They went right and I went left, going with the shorter line to the conveyor belt. They had a newborn baby with new mom and dad looking like it was their first time in the air with little Trevor. They had full gear too, and dad was not winning his battle with folding the stroller.

Victory was surely mine!

No! I did not see the middle-aged (but looking much older) couple with their breathing apparatus and fanny pack! Will she remember to remove it before going through the screener?! She did not possess the presence of confidence that spoke of a seasoned air traveler. Actually, she had the look of someone whose idea of vacation is loading up the wagon they bought new in the late seventies and heading to her cousin’s mountain home to share bedrooms with other relatives. There was not a stitch of natural fabric in her body. Her tampon was polyester!

 And there is no way this hefty couple resembling two boulders is going to bend down and take off their shoes.

 I thought, “Do I yell out to them and give them a friendly reminder to take off the butt bag, not only now but permanently??!”

 I glanced over to Pepe Lepew and he and his fellow Frenchy were skating through as if their portion of the floor was freshly Zambonied. Now, I might not only lose my second personal challenge of the day, but I might be late for my flight.

 Suddenly, and I don’t believe I missed this, I realized why our line appeared to be a short one upon first perusal. It was the line where the airline crew and wheelchairs get to butt in!

 NO!!!!!!

 I came up lame again and my two competitors left me in a cloud of dust.

 As for the baby I figured to be my key blocker…he’s right across the aisle from me on the plane and screaming incessantly with colic and ear pain.

 I am wedged into a middle seat with a guy who has laid claim to the arm rest like Ponce De Leon in the New World. Plant a flag already!

 At least I am on board and approaching Detroit. I have my eyes on the dude in 9C for the impending race to baggage claim!

I normally don’t get much into politics. If I speak about it, it’s because I feel strongly about some sort or injustice, hypocrisy or foul play.

 I could care less about personalities. It’s character, which is built on actions, that moves me one way or another.

 I am over the rhetoric. I am exhausted from the pundits and experts who tell me their interpretation (which is based on their own personal agenda) of what is happening in the world of politics. I feel the same way about athletic competition that is based on judges. Who are they to decide the fate of others? If they knew what they were doing, wouldn’t they be on the balance beam themselves?

 If Bill O’Reilly were so brilliant, why is he not seeking political office? How about Bill for Supreme Court Justice? He certainly boasts about knowing everything. By the way, in the fairness of full disclosure, he did not pay me on a basketball bet I made with him four years ago, and I am apparently not over the bitterness.

 Back to the judges…

 I was always taught that if you point a finger at someone, you have three spare fingers pointing right back at you. This must mean that Simon Cowell has seven extra thumbs or something, because no one offers such severe criticism whose body is host to an entire evacuation of any modicum of talent. I guess his talent is being condescending and nasty, which would make half my family qualified for his job.

 But Simon appears to be doing something right. His show inspires millions of Americans to vote for young singers performing (what amounts to be) karaoke. Countless people vote on style and appearance, rather than substance. I don’t even watch the show, but I can tell you more about Sanjaya and his ever changing look than I can about the one who won in his year.

 And I think that is what is at play here in this presidential election. Many are voting because of what the candidates are selling you, not what they represent as human beings.

 Look, I am not telling you who I am voting for, but I must say that the reaction to Sarah Palin’s nomination is truly astonishing.

 When I first heard the news, I reacted like most people – I thought McCain had lost his marbles or dipped into his wife’s Budweiser stash too often. They tease Obama about being the “Chosen One.” This move appeared to make the 72 year old “The Frozen One.”

 But I was shown the door on my thought process and quickly evicted from my home of righteous opinion. As of today, McCain is a teenaged genius! He’s the guy I copied off of in high school, knowing more than I know, and when all the students are raising their hands with incorrect answers, he confidently waits to the last second to offer the perfect solution to the problem at hand.

 But here is the difficulty I have…I think this choice plays into the reality show mentality that has us devolving as human beings. Sarah Palin was not “vetted,” but picked by a casting director!

 She was on no one’s list. She met John McCain only one time prior to the announcement. She has very little track record and comes from a state that we know very little about. Mexico City and Montreal are closer to us than Anchorage! She bases her foreign affairs experience on being able to “see Russia” from her state. As if some Siberians have anything to do with invasions of little countries.

 What I could not believe though are the throngs of people who rallied around her instantly, as if they were life long fans. They told the cameras how she is the best for this job, and how her background is perfect for being a Vice President.

 What were they basing this on? Why are they behind this person whom they nothing about? It’s like proposing to a woman you met on eHarmony because you liked her photo and profile!

 Apparently, it’s not political savvy we are looking for in a candidate; it seems we need someone to be just like us to be the leader of the free world.

 Look, I love my old friends Dave, Anthony and Pete, as they have many of the same qualities I have, but I do not want ANY of us being a heart beat away from being the U.S. President! They also have awesome wives, but balancing checkbooks, work and taking care of their children is an exhausting and daunting task. They can hardly find time to meet up for dinner and a movie with all the responsibilities they have… now, add 310 million people to the mix! Try herding THAT bunch!

I watched Sarah Palin’s acceptance speech and was in awe how this woman was thrust upon our nation’s eyes so quickly, but had the confidence of a seasoned pro. I was amazed at her composure and style and how she got all those strangers to chant for her and give their full support to this perfect stranger.

Then I realized what it took to be McCain’s choice. He needed someone who could read a teleprompter and look good in woman’s clothing. Rudy Giluliani has the women’s clothes thing down, but is a boring orator, but that’s a different story.

 McCain did not need a candidate who could WRITE speeches, but merely read what a room full of old white guys wrote for her and stand firm in their…I mean HER convictions.

 She has that sexy librarian look that men love, yet doesn’t intimidate women by being too hot. Her background includes being a beauty queen and a news caster, which means you young girls studying political science should drop out, get some tooth veneers, buy some designer glasses and work on your speaking ability. But you can keep your accent. It scores with Middle America. An accent keeps you from being labeled “elite.”

 This woman should be on “Big Brother,” not running for the second highest office in the land. I can envision her in the private booth, dissing her competitors, just as she did with the Democratic ticket, trying to convince everyone that she should be the winner and how Barack Obama is unqualified to be a Big Brother finalist.

 And I swear that entire Palin family was chosen by a team of reality show field producers.

 She has a newborn baby with down syndrome (whom they hand off like they’re in a rugby scrum), a husky white husband member of the NRA, a boy who is a soldier being deployed to Iraq, a 17 yr old daughter who is pregnant out of wedlock with a redneck boyfriend who blogs he doesn’t ever want kids.

 It seems to be so incongruous. On one hand you have “Family Values” and the other is “Value City Discounters.” It’s like watching the Lohans on the Christian Broadcast Network.” It makes no sense!

 How can people judge others for their sex lives and turn their heads to the fact that this young daughter had pre marital sex? I saw an 18 yr old black kid in Georgia be sent to prison for having sex with a minor classmate of his. Under these criteria, shouldn’t Levi be sent away for statutory rape instead of being on the Republican Convention stage?

 How can we condemn the inner city minorities, whom whites claim destroy our nation’s fabric from having illegitimate kids, and then watch this young girl give birth to a child without a father who has any desire to be a parent? Do these folks drop their standards when it’s convenient?

 And how are we supposed to expect Sarah Palin to protect our country against our foes, when she can’t even get her own child to use protection?

 Look, I am not saying I object nor have judgment against her daughter or that kids should be a part of the political process. What I am saying is – be consistent with your moral outrage! If you are going to hold the position of calling people sinners, then do so with EVERYONE, not just the ones who don’t meet with your agenda, religious beliefs or pathology.

 I will vote on the deeds of the candidate, not the political maneuvering. I will vote on character, not what the media tells me.

 And I will not allow the media or a party to try to scare me and who will be the best person to deal with the boogy man. I am not afraid of some “terrorists” coming to get me. Yes, there are people who don’t like the US, but when Timothy Mcveigh put a bomb into a building in Oklahoma City, I didn’t see our government waging war against guys with crew cuts.

 What I am deathly afraid of is our reaction to the game of fear promotion that gets folks elected, and the ignoring of true issues that will shape our futures.

I do not get into the furor over celebrity chefs. I do not understand the whole cooking on a TV show anyway. They make one dish, pop it in the oven and a baked dish comes out within thirty seconds. Then a co-host puts a fork in the hot food and takes a large bite of the chef’s creation.

Has anyone ever seen someone gag from that bite? I am asking you, have you even witnessed the taste tester spontaneously spit out a mouthful of freshly prepared food? Wouldn’t you just love to see that take place? Just one time I’d like to replace that response of (while still chewing) “mmmmm…wow…that is delicious…” with a horrified spit take where a hunk of food lands right on Emeril’s cheek.

 While Oprah tries the latest low fat and low carb chili, how much would you pay to see her scream in pain as she bites a piping hot pepper? “Help me Gayle! Get the friggin fire extinguisher sister!!! I just burnt a molar!”

 How about a projectile vomit on Rachel Ray? Not just on her show – on HER! That would be fabulous.

 I’d like to see someone like my grandmother, who never had a silent thought or feeling, taste something she didn’t like and tell them she’d rather eat rat poison.

 We should issue Academy Awards for the acting performances by the morning talk show hosts, where they feign delight over whatever they put in their mouth. I’d like to see a prank where the chef intentionally makes a putrid dish and watch Diane Sawyer pretend to love it.

 The other thing is, I have no idea how or why they become celebrity chefs. I can see the chef OF a celebrity, but I have no clue as to how someone becomes famous from wielding a whisk.

 My mom or your mom is our celebrity cook. They are consistent, know what you like and you always have a good seat at the table.