Like most shallow, self centered knuckleheads in show business, I place an inordinate importance on talent. I love talent! It’s the one thing I wish dearly I had more of (and, on many nights, comedy club audiences throughout the tri-state area have wished the same…)

I’m a great audience member. I laugh easily, I applaud heartily. I’m always impressed with performers who can do things I can’t (which is why I’m impressed with most performers). Show me the hackiest ventriloquist act in the business, and I’m just amazed they can talk with their mouth closed. I once sang and danced in a Broadway musical (I played Vince Fontaine, the libidinous deejay, in the 90’s revival of Grease – ramma lamma lamma ka dingidy ding da dong…). I can’t sing or dance. I love people who can, even those who can’t do it very well.

So, I was always amazed by Michael Jackson. Pound for pound, who had more sheer talent? If you could quantify talent, give it a numerical metric, Jackson’s number was probably in the high three hundreds (to give you an idea of how high that is on my imaginary scale, my talent number is 17, Charo’s is 32, okay?. No one was even close. Not even the very versatile Tony Danza.

Of course, sadly, the following is also intrinsic to the story of the most talented man on Earth: 

• 1) Michael Jackson was pushed into show business. Kids shouldn’t be in show business, show business ruins kids. All child roles in theater, TV and movies should be cast with adult midgets dressed as children.
• 2) Michael’s dad beat him up.
• 3) Kids who are knocked around often grow up to mistreat other children.
• 4) Michael was accused of mistreating children.
• 5) There is no excuse for abusing children. 

So, even though my inordinate admiration for talent made me the last rational person in America to defend him (“No, you don’t understand, it’s because he had no childhood that blah blah blahbity blah…”), somewhere in the mid nineties even I gave up the ghost. I came to believe that poor, sad, incredibly talented Michael Jackson was probably succumbing to forbidden urges at his imaginary- sleep- away- camp- slash- lair.

So, when I heard the news last night on the radio (driving to a gig with the terrific comic Cory Kahaney – loads of talent!) I was…a little sad. Relieved? Less interested than I thought I would be?

What can you say? He can’t hurt himself or anyone else anymore. That’s about it.

I react differently to celebrity deaths these days. There was a time when the death of a beloved celebrity would be my own personal melodrama. When I was a young man, and John Lennon was shot, I was in the mass of mourners outside the Dakota honoring the memory of the slain Beatle by drunkenly wailing, sobbing and – with a few other loaded mourners – publicly urinating in the alley a few feet from where he was shot. (This was…um…my personal homage to…uh…Lennon’s lost weekend in L.A. days…)

Now, at the mature age of, ahem, 39ish, I’ve been through a few losses that actual were mine. Unlike Farrah Fawcett, or Ed McMahon, or Michael Jackson, these were people I’d actually met: my father, my mother, my father in law, a couple of very close friends (one died of AIDS, the other diabetes, both ridiculously young), people very close to my wife:  a close childhood friend who was in Windows on the World on 9/11, friends, relatives…

This is life. People die, families grieve, babies are born, the Phillies drop nine of their last ten so the Mets, even with all their injuries, are just a game out of first…

In the end, God sorts it all out, so I don’t. He’s better at it than me, anyway. After all, when it comes to talent, God’s number is off the charts.

I was in the Friars Club gym yesterday pretending to work out. The Friars Club gym is great for the ego because no matter what time of day or night you’re in there, you’re always the youngest guy by 30 years.

As I reclined on the stationary bike, my feet up on the handle bars, watching TV  (the preferred Friars Club method of exercising) I saw something on FOX News that got my blood pumping harder than anything I would be doing in my workout.  Shephard Smith was doing a report on the Octogenarian Neo Nazi (OctoNazi?) who opened fire at the Holocaust Museum. In a breathtakingly oddball blizzard of profundity Shephard:

1) Cited the OctoNazi attack as yet another example of “intolerance and bigotry” by “a certain segment of the population” who simply cannot “accept that a black man has been elected president”!

2) Held this bizarro incident up as proof that – I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP! – Homeland Defense Secretary Napolitano was right when she issued the report that claimed returning veterans posed a threat of right-wing terrorism in our country. Because OctoNazi was a returning veteran (granted, he returned six and a half decades ago…).

Maybe Shephard is right? OctoNazi was a World War Two vet, so he had over sixty years to stew over his craziness. Lurking out there somewhere there’s got to be a 130 year old veteran of the Spanish American War, filled with over a century of brooding and plotting, ready to launch a domestic terrorist attack to proove that Napolitano and Shephard are on to something!

As usual, Dick Cheney is right and Barack Obama is wrong.

It’s time to wave the pink flag and drop opposition to gay marriage.

I’ve changed my thinking on this one. Personally, I admit my opposition to gay marriage has always been on the same level as my opposition to the death penalty: I understand and appreciate the arguments against both intellectually – but in actual practice, I simply don’t lose any sleep over either. With the death penalty, I sympathize with moral opposition – but when a Ted Bundy takes that final ride on “Old Sparky” (or that final big sleep on “Old Lethal Injectiony”), my only real objection is that it isn’t televised.

Similarly, with gay marriage, I understand those who have a religious objection to the concept (unlike, say, every single liberal true-believer I’ve ever met in my life, I tend to err on the side of respecting other people’s religious beliefs…that’s how my mother raised me), but in actual practice, my reaction is, well, kind of Zen. It’s like the old philosophy question: if two gay men get married in Vermont, and I’m not invited to the ceremony, are they really making any noise that affects my life one way or the other?

Like most of my deeply held convictions, this one grew out of developments in my show business career (like, say, every single other actor I’ve ever met in my life, I am a remarkably shallow, self-centered individual). Recently, the NY Friars Club had a roasting competition – a series of celebrity roasts held at the club with a bunch of us comics competing for valuable cash and prizes (or a free chicken dinner with Mickey Freeman). The comics’ names were all thrown into a hat and matched up with various celebrity roastees. I got lucky. I could have been roasting Vincent Pastore (Big Pussy – how many more Lisa Lampanelli jokes does the world really need?), Gary Dell’abate from the Howard Stern show (since my own show on Sirius ended I don’t have my free subscription, so I’m not up on the latest Ba Ba Booey in-jokes), or Omarosa (apparently Puck from the 2003 season of MTV’s Real World wasn’t available). I got paired up with George Takei.

Are you kidding? Jackpot! Everybody loves George Takei! And talk about some easy targets for comedy: Japanese, gay, “Star Trek”… If you can’t write a few roast jokes for a gay Japanese Star Fleet navigator, you’re in the wrong business.

The show went great. Very funny stuff from Tom Cotter, Jim David, Cory Kahaney, and Gilbert Gottfried. My contribution to the festivities went well, and all had a good time.

George Takei was funny, charming, and gracious. His longtime companion, (now his, well, husband? Married partner? Mr. Takei?) Brad Altman, was equally charming and gracious.

Watching George and Brad together that night, it was hard to see how they were a threat to the institution of marriage. Oh, the institution is in trouble alright. Welfare policies that give young, poor women a financial incentive not to marry the father of their children (and, in turn, give the fathers an excuse to not take responsibility for their children) have destroyed marriage in the inner cities. The societal acceptance of middle-aged upper-middle class women adopting (or having, or surrogating, or whatevering) babies without bothering to include a father/husband in the picture has been a fiasco for marriage.

The glorification of knucklehead celebrities who use marriage as just another publicity stunt for their new movie/CD/reality show (host “Saturday Night Live,” get married, drop by “The View,” get divorced…) hasn’t helped. Neither has no-fault divorce, the all-purpose ripcord for the terminally lazy (because it’s easier to get divorced than to apologize for being such a shmuck).

Our mainstream pop culture doesn’t help. Like reruns of “Friends.” I loved the show, but I’d never let my teenage daughter watch it. Not primarily because of the sex jokes – but because of the way marriage is thrown away as a punch line (everybody on that show was either getting married by mistake, or getting pregnant without getting married, or getting divorced so they could get pregnant with somebody else’s babies, or marrying a baby, or…).

I think a large part of opposition to gay marriage is rooted in a mathematical fallacy: the “fact” that ten percent of the population is gay. There are 300 million Americans. So the concern is that you might be looking at thirty million gays getting married. That’s a lot of gay marriage! The ten percent figure comes from the Kinsey report. But Kinsey was a nut who based a lot of his data on studies of prison populations. The hoosegow in Kinsey’s time, an era of criminalizing homosexuality, by its very nature had a higher percentage of homosexuals than the rest of the world. I’ve lived in New York City my whole life. Even here I’ve always thought that the ten percent number was way high (except when I played Vince Fontaine in the 90’s revival of “Grease” on Broadway – percentage of homosexuals in your average Broadway musical? Ninety two percent. Rama lama lama!).

So let’s say the more accurate figure is five percent. That’s 15 million, as Jim McGreevy would call them, gay Americans. Subtract the very young and the very old. Narrow it down to the gays in their 30s and early 40s – your big marrying years. That’s probably one quarter of our 15, so three or four million. Now, subtract one quarter that isn’t even dating, another quarter that are dating but not seriously involved. Now we’re down to two million. Okay, we’ve got two million gays in committed relationships. How many of them want to actually get married? Maybe half. Now we’re down to one million gays who want to get married. George and Brad are already married, so you can subtract them. That’s just fewer than one million gays who might want to actually get married.

Out of those one million gays, 25 percent will break up over arguments about the wedding plans (The band! The centerpieces!). So it’s really only 750,000 gays. That’s 375,000 gay couples. Mostly in LA and NY. And Provincetown. In a nation of 300 million.

What will happen to those gay married couples? Let’s face it, half of them will get divorced just like everybody else. After the initial novelty wears off, the numbers of new gay marriages will probably drop. The whole thing will eventually (you’ll pardon the expression) blow over.

Conservatives: go libertarian on this one! Let the states decide, call it something else: union, partnership, really really going steady. And to George and Brad, much happiness and a belated “mazel tov” from Dick Cheney and me.

On the same day we were being told the Gitmo must go, that we can just absorb all those unfortunate Al Queda types into our regular prison system, guess where our Bronx Bombers were introduced to, and indoctrinated into, radical Islamic terrorism? Our regular prison system. 

Timing is everything, aint it? 

As a Jew from the Bronx, I gotta admit I took a little umbrage at these guys. Jews from the Bronx generally frown upon people who want to blow up synagogues in the Bronx. 

As for their other plan – to blow some Army aircraft out of the Newburgh skies over Stewart, I kind of take that personally too. As a soldier in the New York Guard I have deployed out of the aforementioned Stewart in the aforementioned Army aircraft. In 2004 my State Guard unit was activated to augment National Guard troops on duty before, during, and after the ‘04 Republican National Convention. During the two week activation we made a couple of trips out of Stewart in Blackhawks and Chinooks. The Chinook is like a large airborne bus, you get a smooth ride. I fell asleep in one. The Blackhawk, on the other hand, is nerve wracking. Here’s a tip: if it’s your first time in a Blackhawk, and your pilot is a NY Air National Guardsman, don’t tell him it’s your first time. My guy took great pleasure in taking me on a joyride – with the hatch open – swooping all over the Hudson valley, laughing hysterically as I screamed like a little girl. These guys are from New York – they know how to break in a rookie. 

Today, I still I have many friends in the New York Guard who regularly augment National Guard training at Stewart. So, I get a little irritated when I hear about plots to blow up military aircraft from this particular base. 

In my old neighborhood (Parkchester, east Bronx) we’d save the President a lot of trouble deciding where to put these bums. Forget Gitmo, water boarding, rendition: just send them to the bleachers at Yankee Stadium on bat giveaway day. If the beer vendors do their job properly, by the third inning our Bronx Osama-lovers wouldn’t pose much of a problem for anyone!

Reagan, Judy Garland, Henry Fonda, Boris Karloff, Gene Kelly

This rare date night out without the various Spawn of Konig, naturally coincided with a gig for me: as my wife was settling into the Director’s Guild Screening Room on W. 57th. 72nd street performing a comedy sketch with TV host extraordinaire Bill Boggs in his live show Talk Show Confidential. The cue for my sketch with Bill is the end of his Richard Nixon anecdote. Boggs tells a very funny story of being a teen-aged intern in the 1960s on a talk show, and the guest is Richard Nixon. Boggs is assigned to Nixon, to make sure Nixon gets to the set on time. En route, Nixon makes a pit stop. Young Boggs is then confronted with his first major, television talk show crisis: how to tell the imposing former Vice President that he’s not only about to go on camera with his fly open, but it’s a “Grand Mal Unzipping,” the kind where your shirt tail is hanging out of the fly.

It’s a funny story, and Boggs tells it well. So, Nixon unzipped, we do our sketch, I hop a cab to the screening – just in time to hear emcee Monica Crowley tell the second funny Nixon anecdote of the evening.

It’s now thirty years post Grand Mal Unzipping. Young Monica Crowley is an intern for former President Nixon at his Saddle River, NJ home / office. Former President Ronald Reagan pays a visit. Monica gets the rare opportunity to be photographed standing in between two presidents. Just before the cameraman shoots, our impetuous young Monica seizes both the opportunity and the aging presidential buttocks, and gooses Nixon and Reagan! The result: a photo of a young, grinning Monica and two very surprised old presidents (or, as Reagan inscribed the photo: “To Monica, a rose between two thorns”).

After the screening, we had a great time hanging out with an actress friend who I’ve known twenty years – but never knew anything about her politics. Turns out she’s a big Reagan fan, and a lifelong Republican. I asked her if she talked politics at auditions or on the set. “Well, I don’t avoid it…But, if I’m in a room full of true believers, what’s the point? I was doing a voice over job last year that had to be rescheduled because I was out of town on the first date they wanted to use me. I was in Minneapolis at the Republican National Convention. The next week at the job, the director was incredulous: ‘Why were you at the Republican Convention? What were you doing there? You mean you’re supporting McCain??’ I said: ‘Okay, let’s just do the work…’”

The documentary, by the way, was very good. I particularly enjoyed the emphasis on how Reagan’s experience negotiating contracts with the studios as president of the Screen Actors Guild directly influenced his negotiating tactics years later with the Soviet Union and the Democratic congress. A couple of things Reagan learned as SAG president: “The purpose of negotiating is to get a deal” and “I’d rather get 80% of what I want then to go off a cliff with my flag flying”.

Ahem. Maybe the current SAG president could learn a thing or two from the old conservative?

And so, with our stomachs bloated with delicious hors d’oeuvres, clutching our gift bags with free Ronald Reagan coffee mugs, our big date night completed, the lovely Bride of Konig and I returned to the Palatial Konig Estates, relieved our brilliant teen-aged daughter of her duties babysitting for her younger brothers, watched the Mets drop another one to the Dodgers, and went to sleep.

The truth is though: acting isn’t rocket science. And most actors, myself very much included, are not, as the saying goes, rocket scientists.

Rocket scientists, on the other hand, are very, very smart. Ever talk to one? I have. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.  He was all “aeroelasticity” this and “avionics” that, and I just stood there for twenty minutes nodding my head as if I knew what he was talking about. Which I didn’t because, as I’ve stated above, I’m an actor.  Which means I’m no rocket scientist.

Now, take every single interview with every single actor you have ever heard on radio, saw on television, or read in the learned journals of People or Us or Tiger Beat. How many times in your life have you ever walked away saying (for example): “Wow, I knew Tony Danza was a delightful and engaging television personality, but I had no idea he was so smart! Clearly, much smarter than I could ever hope to be! Who’s the boss? You, super smart Tony Danza, that’s who!”

No offense to Tony Danza (who I’ve interviewed, and he is a very nice man, and no dummy either), but my guess would be that hasn’t happened too many times in your life.

Maybe that’s why when people in show business say outrageous, stupid things, other people in show business don’t get as outraged as people who aren’t in show business do. Because people in show business know, deep down in our hearts, we’re no rocket scientists. When the rest of the country is outraged because of something Bill Maher said last night on TV, we sharp show business types are just rolling our eyes thinking: didn’t he use that very same dumb crack last week at Carolines as a pick up line with the cocktail waitress?

Yes, words matter. When Ahmadinejad calls Israel a “racist nation,” that matters. It’s an outrage. Because Ahmadinejad is plotting to build a nuclear bomb which he will detonate over Israel. When some actress calls conservatives “racist” it’s not outrageous, it’s just dumb. Unless she has a nuclear bomb.

When Janet Napolitano says returning American veterans are a potential threat to the United States, that’s an outrage. Because Janet Napolitano is the Secretary for Homeland Defense.  When some comedian calls the Commander in Chief of the US Armed Forces a “dictator” while our soldiers are bogged down in a sandstorm two weeks into Operation Iraqi Freedom, it’s not an outrage – it’s just lame. (The comedian shall remain nameless because since that crack he’s made several USO tours of the war zone to entertain our troops, thus proving himself to be a great guy, despite his politics.)

When Barack Obama runs our country down overseas, it’s dangerous. Because he’s the President of the United States. When Sean Penn does it, it’s irritating, but not dangerous. Because he’s Jeff Spicoli.

Actors and comedians say stupid, uninformed, outrageous things all the time. Michael Richards went nuts in a comedy club (because he was trying to stretch 5 minutes of material into a 45 minute spot). Don Imus did what Don Imus did (because he’s an old man who was trying to be hip – always a risky endeavor). Did any of that really matter, other than to Michael Richards and Don Imus’s careers?

I did talk radio for a couple of years, my lovely Bride, the author Susan Konig, and I did a husband and wife morning show on a Catholic radio channel (I’m a Jew, it’s a long story, my life is fascinating).  We did three hours a day, every day, live. We had all kinds of wonderful comedians and actors on who cracked wise, talked about their families, talked about their faith and prayer (if they wanted to), talked a little politics, and talked show business. We had great Jewish comedians like David Brenner, David Steinberg, Jackie Mason. We had great goyim comedians like Bobby Collins, Colin Quinn, Lisa Lampanelli and (ahem) Tom Shillue. We even had a Scientologist comedian (God help him!). This was a show where we (literally) had Cardinals scrutinizing our every on air move. In the almost two years we were on the air we never had a problem of any kind with any of our guests. They were all fascinating, funny, and respectful.

Every morning we would get a press release from a Catholic watchdog organization. The press release would usually be about the latest outrageous wisecrack made last night by (round up the usual suspects): Bill Maher, Madonna, some comic or other on some late night show, etc. The press release would always have several exclamation points. When you have three hours to kill every day on the radio, it’s the easiest thing in the world to kill it with this kind of “low hanging fruit.” Did you hear the latest outrageous thing said by Bill Maher? Are you offended? Or just outraged? Give us a call!

Then the radio host can sit back, put his feet up on the console, and let the phone screener do all the heavy lifting.

Guess what? Once everyone’s outrage is exhausted over Bill Maher’s latest, it’s time to crank up the outrage again over Madonna’s latest. Or Sean Penn’s. Or Janeanne Garofalo’s. You can kill a lot of airtime this way!

We never did. It would have been too easy. Besides, why further promote the actors who were annoying and insulting? Why not use the same energy to promote the actors and comedians who were funny and entertaining and respectful of others beliefs? That’s what we did on our radio show, and I’ll tell you – we had a great time, and so did our listeners.

Playing the perpetual outrage game with actors and comedians is a waste of everyone’s energies. No, there aren’t great numbers of Americans sitting on the fence anxiously waiting for actors to tell them how to think. No one in Iowa or Kansas or Michigan is really being persuaded by the loony tunes ramblings of their favorite actors on late night talk shows. Bill Maher’s documentary bombed. No one on Earth listens to Air America. MSNBC is a tremendous ratings failure.

There is one actor who, out of all the actors I ever heard talk politics, always impressed me. He had a firm grasp on the issues, a great sense of history, a strong intellectual grounding in his ideas, and a tremendous capacity to communicate. At the most crucial moment of his political career, in front of a vast audience, live, with everything at stake he was confronted with an arrogant, irritating liberal who insulted him and told lies about him. The actor would have been well within his rights to leap across the stage and throttle the irritant. Instead, the actor smiled, nodded, and just said “There you go again.”

And at that moment he was elected President of the United States.

I like him. And yes, he is funny. If you’re irritated with him for his most recent column defending Janeane Garofalo, you’re going to have to take my word for it. 

Tom posted a column the other day about Garofalo. It was shocking, controversial, outrageous – and maybe a little misunderstood. Tom’s point was essentially this: why get mad at Janeane Garofalo for saying on TV what every liberal already thinks, that anyone who opposes Barack Obama’s policies is only doing so because they are – wait for it! – racist? Getting outraged at liberals who think Republicans are racist is pretty much the equivalent of (God help me as I reach for the most tired, over-used, movie metaphor in the columnist’s bag o’ tricks…) Captain Renault being – wait for it! – shocked, shocked that there was gambling going on in the back of Rick’s Café. 

Of course Janeane Garofalo thinks we are all racists! So does every other liberal politico, pundit, thinker, speaker – and your liberal next door neighbor, sister-in-law, and the liberal guy who works at the grocery store and puts your conservative loaf of bread at the bottom of your bag underneath all your conservative canned goods. 

Forget redistribution of wealth. Forget expansion of government. Forget appeasement and capitulation to our enemies. Believe it or not, forget even abortion. All those are optional for the average liberal. Ideally, they want ‘em all, but depending on prevailing political conditions, they can live with getting some, not getting others for the time being. 

But the one, constant, over-riding, fact of liberalism always and forever is this: you are a racist. And they’re not. 

Trust me. You’re liberal sister-in-law may love you, she may thing you’re the greatest thing to ever happen to her sister (by the way, I’m talking metaphorically about your liberal sister-in-law, not mine – I’m pretty sure my liberal sister-in-law thinks I’m a putz), she may secretly wish she had gotten to you first (again, this is a metaphor, no basis whatsoever in reality in my life) – BUT. She thinks, deep down, you are a racist. And she ain’t. 

She might not think you are a racist consciously. But, she knows darn well you are simply just not sensitive to the plight of (fill in the blank, anything but white men) the way she is. 

There are no exceptions to this rule. This is, in essence, what it means to be a liberal. James Carville thinks Mary Matalin is a racist. Oh, he loves her. He’s glad he married her. He’s probably a wonderful and supportive husband to her. He does the dishes, he remembers their anniversary, he sends her the occasional playful, romantic text message. But in his heart he knows: my poor wife, she just doesn’t understand the plight of the (fill in the blank) like I do! 

Here’s the difference between liberals and everyone else in a nutshell. My wife and I have a good, liberal friend. Let’s call her “Myrtle.” Myrtle is not her real name. (Actually, Myrtle is not anyone’s real name anymore, but I digress.) Myrtle is a good Upper West Side, Sunday Times, Zabar’s coffee, H & H Bagels liberal. (Those of you outside of New York won’t get these references, but you get the idea.) 

Myrtle never fails to teach her children, at every conceivable opportunity, that we must be inclusive of our fellow Earthlings, regardless of race, disability, weight.  She is constantly reminding them that racism exists, racism is wrong, racism is pervasive, racism is bad. She constantly reminds her children that this country still has a long, long way to go to deliver on Dr. King’s dream. Myrtle is a good liberal. Her children are growing up believing that men with hooded sheets are burning crosses around every corner. 

Then, there’s my wife and I. We’ve had a few discussions with the kids over the years about the history of racism in America. Most of these discussions tend to center around Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey. All of these discussions have addressed the issues of slavery, Jim Crow, voter’s rights, bigotry head on – but always with the acknowledgement that “that was, sadly, the way it was – but that’s not the way it is now.” 

Result? Our neighbors down the block, Tom and Bridget are white. They have two adopted sons, Tim and Joe, who are black. Our eldest son has played with their boys for years. Once, when our eldest was ten, he was talking with my wife about Tim. My wife made some reference to Tim being adopted. Our son was stunned. “Tim’s adopted?” 

No, our son is not a dumb kid! It’s just that, like most conservatives, he judges people by the content of their character, not the color of their skin. He’s not obsessed with race, racism, dividing people up by race, the way liberals are. Like Janeane Garofalo. 

So don’t let Janeane Garofalo rock your world. As Tom Shillue pointed out, she’s only saying what every single liberal in America believes. The best response is to pat her on the head, say something soothing like “There, there, that’s nice, you put all those words together into a complete sentence” and go about the rest of your day. Because when it comes to liberals thinking conservatives are all racist, Janeane has plenty of company.

For both the comedy club audience and myself, the latter was a hell of a lot more fun than the former.

Since 9/11, I have been a volunteer citizen-soldier in the New York Guard , the State’s official state defense force. The New York Guard is made up of hundreds of great guys and gals, about half military veterans and half – like myself – getting the opportunity to serve in the military for the first time a little late in life.  We drill once a month and a week in the summer, training to assist the National Guard in stateside, non-combat missions.  We are a “force multiplier,” trained and ready to respond to augment NY National Guard units on the chemical / biological / nuclear decontamination team, military emergency radio network communications, search and rescue teams (for lost campers in the Adirondacks, for example), medical and legal services, and a whole host of other missions. It’s a great way to serve and help the National Guard, and it accepts all kinds or people – rabbis, dentists, truck drivers, school teachers – even Emmy Award winning comedians.

Just like in the regular Army, some missions are more exciting than others. Sometimes you’re sitting in a cold (or oddly over-heated) armory risking paper cuts for God and country, shuffling personnel files and requisition forms in triplicate, and sometimes you’re out there in the field with your fellow soldiers, working as a team, getting muddy and  exercising muscles (both physical and mental) you almost forgot you had.

Last weekend was one of the fun ones. A unit from the Fighting 69th, one of the Army’s best and most historic fighting units, was training up for woodland tactical maneuvers. As their platoon sergeant, Sergeant 1st Class Steve Swiderski, explained it: “These guys have been used to Iraq for so long, and in Iraq you’re in the cities, or in convoys, or in farmland. It’s been a while since they’ve navigated through forests.” It was an OPFOR (opposition force) field exercise. Ordinarily, the National Guard would have to split up the company, with half the soldiers in the field on maneuvers, training to be the good guys, and the other half taking up defensive positions as the simulated bad guys. Then, the two elements would have to flip-flop and do it all over again. With our guys – the New York Guard – acting as the opposition forces, the 69th was able to have their full team on maneuvers all at once.

A beautiful mission for my fellow New York Guardsmen and me, and for the National Guard. By having us augment their training, the 69th was able to accomplish their objectives in half the normal time. At the same time, we got the satisfaction of knowing we were helping to give these great young soldiers a realistic training simulation to keep their tactical skills sharp. Plus, we had a heck of a great time!

If I could figure out a way to make a living doing that, you’d never see me on stage again. Which, judging bythe reaction of the audience in the check spot the night before the field exercise, might be a good thing.

You want combat? Let’s talk about the check spot. The check spot is that time towards the end of the show at a stand up comedy club when the waitresses lay down the checks for the audience. The audience then, quite naturally, becomes consumed with signing their credit card slips, counting their cash, calculating their tips, ordering one last drink, splitting up the bill – anything but what the comic on stage is doing.

Like Charlie Brown running to kick the football and Lucy pulling it away, somehow I never learn. The check spot is my comedy Achilles heel. I’m in check spot denial. Somehow, every time, I never realize I’m doing the check spot until I’m actually in it. The fact that the emcee has segued from the last comic to me with a frenzied “Hey, let’s keep this show moving, I’m going to bring this next guy right up-” and then he runs off the stage, fleeing the check spot like a thief in the night – somehow I never get the hint. Here’s the torture of the check spot: you’re on stage, you’re getting big laughs, and all of a sudden – poof – the audience is gone. Well, they’re still there, but they’re talking to each other and you’ve gone instantly from hero to shmuck. And you’ve still got ten minutes to kill. Ten….slow….minutes.

Trust me, after ten minutes of that, running through the forest being chased by a National Guard soldier half your age who’s armed to the teeth ain’t scary at all. It’s a relief!

Being a comedian might not make me a better citizen-soldier, but serving in the New York Guard has made me a better comedian. I still stink at the check spot, but I don’t worry about it anymore. Twenty six states – including California (which includes Hollywood!) have official state defense forces performing similar augmentation missions for the National Guard. It’s a great way for people – even people in show business, even comedians (some of whom are people, too) – to serve.

Just like George Carlin (US Air Force), Lenny Bruce (Army), Drew Carey (USMC), Peter Sellers (RAF – UK), Leslie Nielson (RCAF – Canada), Zero Mostel (Army), Mel Brooks (Army), Don Knotts (Army), Sid Caesar (Coast Guard)…..

It’s been two years since Fidel Castro retired, and not much has been heard from him. What exactly does an all-powerful, all-knowing, great and glorious communist revolutionary leader do in retirement? Like most things in communist Cuba, Fidel’s retirement has been shrouded in secrecy. Until now. As a Breitbart columnist it is my responsibility to bring you, the reader, the truth as uncovered by my world-wide network of investigative reporters, spies, finks and stoolies.

So, on the eve of this dramatic breakthrough in US – Communist Cuba relations, this report, from my man in Havana, exposes the shocking truth behind Fidel’s retirement:

Within a few days of Fidel’s retirement, he had already started to drive Mrs. Castro crazy. “He just follows me around, while I’m trying to do housework, asking me if I need any help and nattering on about the war mongering bourgeoisie,” she told a neighbor. “Last week, he spent the whole day “fixing” the garage door. Every fifteen minutes he’d poke his head in to give me an update. ‘I’m running to the store to buy oil to fix the squeak, can you come and test the door for me, have you seen my Phillips head screwdriver, can you make me lunch…’ On and on, all day long!  I told him, Fidel – get out of the house! Go torture some political prisoners or brainwash some helpless children. He needs a hobby. And, guess what? The stupid door still squeaks!”

Since then, apparently Fidel has attempted several ways to fill his time:

1.  Last month he joined the “Retired Evil Communist Dictators” group on Facebook. He spends several hours a day checking his inbox for new messages, “pokes” and “hug requests,” and changing his status updates: “Fidel is napping,” “Fidel is fixing the garage door,” “Fidel is watching the season premier of ‘The Bachelor’”….

2.  He is planning a family vacation to  Disney World – in an inflatable inner tube.

3.  He unsuccessfully pitched  a monthly romance advice column to Women’s Day magazine entitled, “Ask A Retired Evil Communist Dictator.”

4.  His agent is waiting to hear back from the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theater in Jupiter, Florida about a possible production of “On Golden Pond” with Fidel and Janet Reno. Fidel told friends, “I felt good about the audition, I really think they liked me. I screwed up one of the lines in the monologue, but I don’t think anyone noticed. I guess I was a little nervous!”

5.  Every afternoon Fidel goes to the park to feed the squirrels. Then, he makes the squirrels sit through an interminably long tirade against the West. Then, he lines the squirrels against a wall, blindfolds them, and shoots them in the head.

6.  Every week he writes long, cranky letters to the editor of the local paper complaining about brother Raoul Castro’s new regime and how Raoul isn’t nearly as good a leader as Fidel was, signing each letter: “Shmidel Shmastro, A Concerned Citizen.”

7.  He is practicing his time step, hoping to get an audition for the new show: “So, You’re A Retired Evil Communist  Dictator And You Think You Can Dance?”

8.  He is spending more time pursuing celebrity stalker hobby, obsessively writing hundreds of emails a day to Katie Couric.

9.  Reportedly, Fidel is enthusiastic about finally having enough time to really give Amway a go. “I can really focus on it now,” he told friends. “I’m pumped! I’ve got my list of goals and contacts. Today I’m calling Kim Jong Il, Ahmadinejad, and Hugo Chavez to remind them it’s not a pyramid scheme – and the products are really good. Ahmadinejad expressed some interest in the skin care line last time I spoke to him, so I’m thinking he could be my first big sale. Keep your fingers crossed!”

10.  Now that he’s retired and no longer living under the repressive regime of Fidel Castro – he is planning on defecting to the United States.

With the ongoing struggle within SAG between the strike faction and the anti-strike faction, and with the upcoming commercial actor’s contract negotiations looming, it is time to address the big issue behind the union’s difficulties. No, it’s not the economy, new technology, or the explosion of reality television. Those are just  messy details. The big picture reason why the Screen Actors Guild is a mess? It’s run by actors. Actors shouldn’t be running unions. Because actors are dumb. I know – I’ve been an actor all my life, I’ve been around actors all my life. Let’s face it – if life is one big SAT test, we actors are still in the hallway tying our shoes.

(Case in point: that last metaphor. What does that even mean? Just dumb.)

I’ve been through a few actors strikes over the years. I’ve been a card carrying member of SAG since 1975, having begun my show business career as an obnoxious young child actor (are their any other kind?).

By the way, for those of you thinking of pulling your adorable moppet off the Little League field and on to the big stage (or little screen), here’s a fun drinking game: take one shot of hard liquor for every child star (aside from Ron Howard) you can name that successfully made it to adulthood without a drug problem, arrest record, or failed teenage marriage (that last one eliminates Shirley Temple). It’s the only drinking game guaranteed to leave you cold stone sober (thus differentiating you from 99.9 percent of all former, and several current, child stars….

But, I digress. The last time I was involved with an actors strike was in 2000, when SAG struck against the producers of TV commercials. For a decent chunk of my career I made a decent chunk of my living saying things like “may cause oily discharge.” Though admittedly pithy, it’s not quite Shakespeare, but it pays the bills. Actors who sell floss and dish detergent, and super absorbent magic towels that can wash, dry, and polish any surface, easily remove cola, wine and pet stains, and is guaranteed to last ten years and will have you saying “wow” every time (God help me, I love that guy) have working condition and minimal salary requirements just like any other labor pool. So, despite the fact that actors are pursuing one of the most individual, least collective, professions on Earth, every three years collective bargaining is called for. Goals are pursued, compromises are made, deals are struck, all the individual contractors shake hands and go back to their individual pursuits.

Except in the year 2000. Fiery, strike-happy (mostly non-working)  actors led the union (basically the same cats that are there today) and were determined to take the commercial actors out on strike. As part of the anti-strike faction in New York, a group of us met with the union leadership (then president William Daniels and others) to try and avert the strike. The SAG leadership listened carefully to our well-reasoned arguments, considered our point of view thoughtfully – and then took the union out on strike for half a year.

Despite the fact that I was vehemently against the strike, I felt it was the patriotic thing to do to support the strike once it began in the hopes of ending it quickly (see first paragraph re: me dumb).  I was a “strike captain,” so I have the experience and knowledge to give readers some expert analysis of what can be expected should SAG go on strike again

First of all, actors can be pretty tough. Now, you wouldn’t think commercial spokesmen would be tough strikers like pipe fitters and iron workers, but things got a little hairy. There was the day the Pillsbury Dough Boy tried to cross the picket line. The Pep Boys beat the crap out of him. There was yeast everywhere.

One day on the line we got into a shoving match with the cops. It all happened so quickly, I don’t really know how it went down, but Mrs. Butterworth got cracked over the head with a billy club. The streets flowed with syrup that day, my friend.

Of course, strikes can be romantic, even passionate, and actors are passionate people. We had our share of “strike romances.” Everyone knew the Michelin Man was going around with Aunt Jemima. Of course, in the industry the Michelin Man has always been known as a “player” – guy carries rubbers with him wherever he goes (the kind with “all weather tread” – you know, “for her pleasure”). Naturally, with Aunt Jemima all caught up in strike frenzy and running around like that, Uncle Ben was heartbroken. We all told him: you got a woman as fine as Aunt Jemima you got to keep her bottled up, or else she’ll spread her sweet stuff all over town.

As the weeks turned into months a lot of the commercial spokesmen couldn’t take the stress. The Snuggle Fabric Softener Teddy Bear started hitting the bottle. You know, the kind with the “easy pour spout.” He stopped caring, started mixing in his colors with his whites. His clothes were no longer soft and supple like a baby’s bottom. They were coarse and rough like an old man’s ass! Yes, it was sad…

Well, I hope these memories of the last big actors strike helped to give you some insight into the issues. Once the strike was finally over, most of the non-working actors who had pushed heavily for the strike went back to not working. Unfortunately, a good deal of the working actors ended up joining them on the unemployment lines. Six months is a long time. Plenty of time for producers to figure out how to make commercials with non-union actors, or in Canada, or how to make commercials without actors at all – or how to stop making commercials because all the technology changed and no one watches commercials anymore anyway.

Dumb.

My dad was an immigrant house painter (or, as he described it, “a shmearer”) with virtually no formal education. He was a tough Jew – from the streets. Once every few years the painters union would go out on strike and my dad would have to walk a picket line. He was at a strike meeting once and some big slob of a house painter took the seat my dad had saved for my mom. “My wife is sitting there,” my dad said. “Not anymore she ain’t,” the guy said. So my dad – who was five foot two and one hundred twenty five pounds – picked the slob up and decked him, cold. The president of the painter’s union witnessed this disorderly event – and promptly hired my dad to be his personal bodyguard. Years later, long after my dad had ceased being his bodyguard, the president of the painters union was gunned down in a labor dispute with some representatives of the Gambinos. Now that’s a strike authorization!

So, this time  if the Screen Actors Guild goes out on strike I  won’t be a strike captain, I won’t be out on the streets playing “Norma Rae” with the rest of the kids. I will be concentrating all my efforts towards making a buck, focusing on supporting the DKG: the Dave Konig Guild (six active members: me, the Bride of Konig, the four Spawn of Konig).  Maybe I’ll follow in my father’s footsteps and I’ll show up for a strike meeting or two at the union hall. Unlike my dad, however, I’ll be sitting in the back making wisecracks not sitting in the front throwing punches, and if any big, mean actors want to take my wife’s seat… they’re welcome to it. And no offense to the president of SAG, but the Konig family has long since retired from the personal-bodyguard-to-union-presidents game.