It took me much longer than three months to appreciate how unique and bizarre this lower east side theatre world was. On one of the first weekends, as I left PS 122 in the early morning hours after a late night show, I was accosted by a short, chubby little gay dude in khakis and a blue button down.

"Hey Bill."

Great, I thought, another creepy dude with money who thinks I'm some insatiable Chelsea bottom.

'Hey, DUDE,' I responded.

I probably made the 'Dude' a little more staccato and sharp than it had to be. I had gotten in the habit of appending a 'dude' or 'man' to my same-sex Manhattan greetings as a not-so-subtle way of spiking the Village gaydar with a 'HETERO' blast. Since I looked...well...gay, it was all I had.

"Uh, listen," Gay George Costanza stammered, "I'm doing this play 'Tartuffe' in a couple of months and I think you'd be great to play the Prince."

Really? The Prince?

That's what my career needed as a jump start - the opportunity to play a piss-ant part for no money in some black box theatre on the 4th floor of a walk-up in Greenwich Village. The amount of classical off-off Broadway shows in the city was astounding. It wouldn't surprise me if this show was being put on in... shiver... Brooklyn. The only thing that makes my skin crawl more than Brooklyn is the idea of doing theatre in Brooklyn. You mean I can have all the filth and danger of a big city with all the inconvenience of a shitty suburb!? Yay!

Luckily, I had an out...

"Well, I'm still in school right now so I can't really do anything else. This show is an exception because it plays so late."

"Okay, well my name is David Saint, and I'm a fan of your work. Maybe some day in the future we can work together. Good luck."

And then he walked away.

Very polite, very professional, I thought. Hmmmm, I guess he DIDN'T want to sleep with me... am I losing my looks?

The singing teacher hated me because I was an awful singer, which happened to coincide with HER being an awful cunt. The voice teacher hated me because, try as I might, I could not get much past the third row of a theatre. The Shakespeare diction coach hated me because... let's be honest - it's 'Shakespeare diction' - it was painfully pointless and my only joy in the class derived from my ability to mock it at every turn. I was as close as you can get to being persona non grata in the NYU MFA program. As a result, I got cast in a lot of roles with "#1" or "#2" as their suffixes. The types with lots of standing around but only one line and it was always something like, 'My liege, dost thou desire thy sword?' For most aspiring actors, this kind of experience would have destroyed their spirit, Luckily, part of me knew the whole concept of a school for acting was fucking retarded and silly, so I was able to enjoy the best part of NYU every day, and that was the NY.

Still, it was clear to at least one other classmate that I was sort of unhappy there. Or at least that I didn't fit in. So one day, this classmate, Flo, came up to me and said, "You know Bill, my boyfriend did a show with this actor in Seattle and he's got some crazy late-night serial show in the East Village. It's pretty weird shit, but this guy is supposed to be pretty interesting. He's holding auditions tomorrow if you wanna go."

Fuck it. I went. Why not?

SO VOTE FOR IT NOW over at the Atom.com Showdown! I'll be your best friend!

As part of the deal, if you print out this page you and every person in your party will receive $5 off admission. Additionally, college students get in for $10 since this is...ya know...fucking College Night.

All you have to do is call the reservations number at (323) 656-1336 to get your tickets, then come armed with this page printed out and/or your student ID for the discount and/or reduced price. You don't have to call ahead to get the discount on tickets for my College Night if you don't want. You can just come to the club and wait in line, but waiting in line to buy tickets is like buying porn. No one does that anymore. So come one, come all to the Bill Dawes Thursday Callidge Nyte @ The Hollywood Laugh Factory every Thursday night at 10pm.

If you is smart like I is, you be coming there much times.

"It's like you--no matter how much I blow you off, you always come back."

The burst of adrenaline her comment elicited sent a concussive wave of chemicals through my brain and pasted a look on my face that, I'm sure, was hard to disguise. If I had the ability to TiVo my life, I'd probably wear out the remote in amused Golem-esque self-loathing watching the expression develop. My eyes popped, my jaw dropped, my face reddened. On stage, I shoot hecklers down with the ease of a seasoned crowd sniper, but in my real life I'm not as nearly adept. Her sentence rendered me utterly speechless.

She - let's call her G - stared me down with her entitled smile; the same stamp of smile that has challenged and weakened my spirit throughout my life. Smiling dark eyes, full lips, at least one unique quirk. With her, it was the beguiling way the tip of her tongue nestled, wet and coquettishly, between her upper and lower set of teeth; poised to say something scandalous.

I wanted to say something quick and smart like, "Pfft! Nigga please!" but this bitch had my number and she knew it. It could not have been more obvious. I couldn't have been more submissive if I had been a Korean in a leather harness licking dried dog poo off the sole of her shoe.

My brain continued to buzz from the cocktail of adrenaline and fear. I ransacked the relationship archives of my brain and mustered quite possibly the most pathetic and feeble response of my life... and that's saying something.

"You shouldn't SAY that." I spurted back.

"Oh come on, it's true, we both know it." G laughed.

"Yes, but it's not something you should say out loud." I had a yuk-yuk-isn't-the-war-of-the-sexes-funny smile on my face, but my attempt at levity was betrayed by the fact that my normally beady eyes had enlarged to the size of saucers like some Japanese anime character. "AKIRAAAAAA!"

Silence followed, mostly. It was peppered by a one-sided argument between our Pakistani cab driver and whoever was on the other side of his blue tooth. I looked at the cabbie through his rearview mirror and could have sworn I saw a smirk on his face. Busy with driving through Manhattan traffic and arguing with the leader of his sleeper cell, even Ahmed could tell I was pitiful and pussy-whipped.

A few hours earlier, I was on stage at the Laugh Factory in front of 200-plus USC fraternity brothers. They were rich, young, handsome trust fundish kids with Greek lettered t-shirts and the type of tooth whiteness that, until ten years ago, was only available to people with meth addictions and a bottle of 409 tile cleaner. Tan, young, fucking bastards. They probably still smelled each other's fingers.

Driving home at the peak of DUI hours, I found myself in the familiar and unenviable position of rolling logic algorithms around in my mind in an attempt to systematically break down the 'what the fuck?'-edness of yet another sentence set forth from a woman's mouth. The exercise was par for the course with women in Los Angeles.

I stopped myself short - both physically and emotionally. Deep breath, Bill. Use the tried and true Scientific Method. You have a theory about what's happening, so experiment and find evidence to prove your thesis. Drill down on the problem.

"What... are... you.. talking... about?" Right to the heart of the matter. I suppressed the urge to hurl every curse word I knew at her.

"The joker joke. It's just rude," she snorted back.

What a downer. While I'd adapted well to single life in Manhattan, the isolation and general sense of disconnect I've experienced in LA - my new home - has begun subtly rewiring my brain to want, and need, a companion. Sure, we'd only been seeing each other for a short time, but I liked Alison. I was looking forward to dating her.

Alison was beautiful and sexy with soft yogi skin and vocal tones. She was a booze hound, which juxtaposed nicely with her daily Buddhist chanting. Ironies in female behavior more and more seem to be what gets me out of bed in the morning. Plus, I took some comfort in the fact that it made it easier to get her naked. That being said, sex wasn't the point. It was more about having a new best friend who just happened to be gorgeous. We'd just had lunch that afternoon and spent two solid hours talking about books, movies, philosophy... and of course, spirituality.

I had to remind myself that it was 'okay'. It was okay that I found myself, once again, attracted to an archetypical 'spiritual actress.' I reminded myself that I am, at times, a spiritual actor. Come to think of it, at times I'm a spiritual actress.

If you don't know WHAT a spiritual actress is, let me explain it as succinctly as possible:

A 'spiritual actress' is an actress who doesn't work as an actress.

Because this 'actress' doesn't really work, period, she has hundreds upon thousands of hours to read 'The Secret' and Eckhart Tolle and every other self-help/new age/personal development book in the clearance bin at Borders. While I think self-improvement is a valid and worthwhile goal, I find it odd that NONE of the spiritual actresses I've dated (I'm drawn like moths to a flame) have ever found hilarious irony in the fact that they continually justify their needy, selfish, actress insecurities with the eternal, selfless, gentle platitudes of generosity and worth.

The image of two actresses in a casting office trying to out-Secret each other for a role before either has even auditioned would be funny if it weren't 100 percent accurate and observable on a daily basis. 'Spiritual actresses' have become one of those Hollywood clichés where the truth is always stranger than fiction. Go to any yoga class in LA and watch how many women immediately check their iphone to see if they got that call from their agent. No? Okay, I'll hang out at Coffee Bean and set up a small business for 4 hours.

But I digress.

I guess the point is that sometimes I felt like young Kobe when less-than-old Shaq was still with the Lakers. I just want to do MY thing.

This weekend, I get to do MY thing. I'm headlining at The Comedy Palace in San Diego for Valentine's Day Weekend. Although I have headlined some colleges before, it's really my first legitimate headlining gig at a club. I'm on the website and everything. So I think it's time I stretch my legs and push some boundaries.

Since Rudius has been good to me, ANYONE who goes to the show and says they are with RUDIUS MEDIA gets in absolutely FREE and anyone who orders tickets online and makes their reservation as "Rudius Family" gets in free as well.

There's a buffet and free champagne, but you really should buy lots of booze. I'm not worried though, I told the owner that's what Rudius readers do. As a further enticement, there will be ONE room at a nearby hotel for any derelicts to stay if they traveled and need a crash pad that night.

-- --- --

Who: ME, you sonuvabitch!
Where: The Comedy Palace , 8878 Clairemont Mesa Blvd., San Diego, 92123
When: Friday, February 13th, 8pm and 10pm
Saturday, February 14th, 8pm and 10pm

Also, if anyone has a quality video camera who is willing to film it... I'll get you free booze all night and a cash prize to be disclosed to the interested party....

Thanks for the support over the years and maybe I'll see you a couple of you in San Diego!

First, I have a new video up on Funny Or Die. It's called Netchix. It's pretty funny for only having taken a couple hours to shoot.

Vote Funny. OR DIE!! Get it? See what I did there?

Second, I am at Cobb's Comedy Club in San Francisco this weekend with Jamie Kennedy. Email me at bill@billdawes.com for free Rudius tickets and come support some stand-up comedy. I don't say that like some charity case, don't get me wrong. I'm fucking awesome on stage. Hope to see you there. Here are the details.

'What?' I said.

'Wait until she has to go to the bathroom. After about a minute, go by the entrance. When she comes out, just maul her.'

He went back to eating. He said it like he was explaining where the frozen food section in the grocery store was located. I got the feeling my interaction with Rob was going to be short - i.e,. he didn't seem like he was dying to talk to me about something he considered obvious - so I lasered in and demanded he proffer more information.

'What do you mean?'

'She comes out, grab her by the back of the head and kiss her. Push her up against a wall if there's one. Just maul her.'

I laughed. This was sexual assault. He was fucking with me. Right?

'What if she freaks out?'

'There's a fifty-fifty chance she'll smack you. But anybody would play those odds in Vegas.'

Then he winked and went back to work on his penne.

-- --- -- --- --

When I did "Burning Blue" - the play from which I was fired for being patriotic and having a large penis - I worked with Chad Lowe. At first I bristled at the prospect of this once-upon-a-time TV star coming in as the lead. I'd been doing theater professionally for six or seven years by that point and not only had he never done a play but, judging by the first few rehearsals, he'd never learned how to memorize lines. A few weeks into the process, however, my tune began to change. Chad, I discovered, possessed the one personality trait I find most endearing in the people I encounter in my daily life:

Chad Lowe was fucked up.

Don't get me wrong, he struck me as a good man, always tryng to live right and do the right thing; but when I knew him, he was tortured, confused and drowning in a vexing marital quagmire that quickly dissolved into divorce. On top of that, and despite growing up with all the trappings of an upper-class lifestyle, Chad is the quintessential recessive gene sibling. Even before I knew him, I felt bad for him. Sure, he is an exceedingly charming, funny, intelligent guy, but it's not hard to notice that his DNA's spiral staircase is missing a few more steps than his brother's. I always imagined his would be difficult shoes to walk in. I have two older brothers who were "valedictorians" and "certified geniuses" and "loved by my parents", but they aren't fuckin' Rob Lowe. I never had to see MY brothers bang two hot underprime girls on primetime TV.

Once we got comfortable enough with each other to talk about personal things, I asked Chad the obvious question: "Hey, was it tough growing up with a brother like that?"

Chad chuckled and replied, "Wait until you meet my dad."

I got fired from 'Burning Blue,' ostensibly, for calling a woman a 'cunt.' But that's not all the calculus in the equation.

Let's three-arrow-bloop-bloop-bloop TiVo rewind from the dropping of the cuntomic bomb to the previous night, where I got another anonymous and petty note, this time about my underwear.

The costume designer had quit the show several weeks ago, so we actors, for the most part, were left to our own devices in terms of wardrobe decisions. Considering I'm naked and/or half naked throughout, I bought a pair of goofy American flag boxers to wear in the second act as a comedy call-back to silly Smiley-Face boxers I sported in the first act. "Shit, I'm stripping and naked and wet in November, the least these fuckers could do is let me have a little fun with my underpants," I reasoned. Again, the bookended boxers got a big laugh plus they completely worked with the irreverent mischievousness of my character. However, it wasn't written in the play, hence the note that Thursday - despite the fact that I had been wearing them the whole week.

The new directive confused and frustrated me, so I asked the stage manager why I couldn't wear them. He didn't answer; he simply smiled sarcastically and left in a spritz of gay smugness. When I went to my dressing room, I was further chagrined by the fact that my underwear had literally been HIDDEN from me.

I don't want to go TOO DEEP into the specifics of the firing, but let me just say this: apparently, some women get offended when you call them 'cunts'. I seem to find, In particular, that cunts think it especially offensive. Although I understand the catastrophic power of the 'c' word, I think when used appropriately it can accurately describe the heinous behavior of a woman (or man) better than anything else in Webster's. Now there are some people who liken it to the 'n' word, and those people are 'STUPID cunts.' The 'n' word is a racial epithet, while the 'c' word strictly connotes behavior. In order for someone to get the label of a 'c', their behavior has to be 'c' - worthy, and it has nothing to do with color of skin or type of genitalia the person possesses.

This woman was 'c' - worthy, to say the least.

Without instructions about WHAT drawers to don and not having any other options provided by the production, I retrieved my funny boxers and wore them onstage the following night. As I came offstage for a quick change in the dressing room, the assistant stage manager - let's call her Twatty McStinkybox -- barged in and verbally accosted me in front of the entire cast for wearing the aforementioned boxers... loudly... during a show. Did I mention it was during a show?

I quietly told her to address it "after the show." She said, "Fuck you." I told her not to speak to me "like that in the middle of a performance." She repeated, "Fuck you." Target activated, C bomb dropped. Tada! Simple math.

For a change, I got cast as one of the few straight characters in the play (straight? Was I losing my looks?) and got the feeling, early on, that THIS was the role that was going to launch my career. It seemed custom fit for me. My character, Boner, was a hayseed from Arkansas who never took shit too seriously, and loved, loved, loved swinging his hickory stick and romancing the ladies. It was Matthew McConaghey with a flysuit, a buzz cut, and deeper drawl.

In the midst of the hurly-burly of the tortured gayness within the play, I played the much-needed comic relief and, in turn, got some of the most glowing reviews of the Off-Broadway season.

However, and not surprisingly, the play got hammered in the press. The predominant grievance of the critics was the overly dramatic writing and the hackneyed subject matter. When the play was written in 1994, the controversial 'don't ask, don't tell' policy instituted by William Jefferson Clinton was (probably) a great centrifuge for the debate spinning this drama into action. But in Fall 2002, just a year after the attack on the Towers, the issue seemed quaint. "Oh, how cute, gays and their rights. Remember that?"

The feeling amongst the arguably deluded director and producers was 'Hey, this gem worked in London, it must be the cast's fault.' Subsequentially, everyone got micromanaging notes about their performances, because GOD FORBID it was the fault of a mediocre play or an emotionally unstable director going through a divorce... nah, couldn't be. So, despite getting my peestick sucked by every reviewer in town for my work, I was similarly henpecked and hampered by insubstantial and often pointless notes.

The flap of the butterfly wing that started me off as a comic was the following:

During the run of the play, I noticed that there was a line that never seemed to work. When a military investigator asks my Arkansas hayseed character if one of his shipmates is gay, my character's ostensibly funny retort is "Well, he never copped my knob."

I've always been pretty thorough as an actor, so my accent was spot-on. It wasn't southern, it was Arkansan. One of the things Arkansans DON'T do is aspirate, or 'pop,' the 'T' sound in a word like 'copped.' For example, a British guy or, I don't know, an asshole, would pronounce it 'cop't,' which is technically the correct pronunciation. Trailer trash from Arkansan Ozarks would never hit that 't' sound. Furthermore, the line seemed like a mixed metaphor. Whatever the case, it just never really got the laugh the playwright clearly wanted, 't' sound or no 't' sound, and I never felt comfortable with the consonant conundrum. In short, 'copped my knob' sucked donkey dick.

Immediately after saying that line (which got feeble chuckles), the investigator asks my character if he has 'ever had sexual relations with a member of the communist party, the same sex, or a small animal?' Boner, a consummate sensualist and self-avowed cow fucker, takes a lengthy beat and says, "Define small?"

Huge laugh. Aaaaaaaand end of scene. The lights quickly go black, which serves to redouble the laugh - almost like a theatrical rimshot.