In L.A. just about everyone came from somewhere else. A growing number are from Central America and haven’t learned English yet. Many of them never want to learn. Others are from Russia, Armenia and all across Europe. The rest of us drove here from other states. I came from Wisconsin. The one thing we all have in common is that we experience homesickness. We miss not only our home land but also the culture and traditions we grew up with. L.A. becomes our home but in our heart home will always be another land. That land for me is Wisconsin. At least it was until I set foot on the Sunshine Coast.

Although I didn’t grow up on the Sunshine Coast it’s home to me now. That's because no place on the planet makes me happier. There is a joy I get from walking down Wharf Road or any other street in Sechelt that I just don't get anywhere else. Most of us live where we want to live. That’s the beauty of living in a free country. If I was allowed to work in Canada I would be packing immediately. I was born an American but I am in love with Canada. It's hard to explain. It's like being married to a woman you'll never divorce but you're passionately in love with a really hot mistress. The Sunshine Coast is my hot mistress. The scenery from Langdale north is absolutely stunning. The people of the highest caliber. It is the closest I’ll ever get to Heaven.

I am comedy writer/improv comic but my day job is giving tours of stars homes. Most people in Hollywood can't make a living in show business. That's reality. Hey, we've got to pay the bills too. The following blogs chronicle my memories of growing up in a small Wisconsin farm town as compared to my life chasing fame in Hollywood. As compared to my time on the Sunshine Coast. More importantly these blogs give me a chance to rave about your part of the world. The best part. I hope you enjoy them.

Feel free to contact me with feedback or any questions. If you're planning a trip to L.A. and am curious about tours of stars homes I can offer you some free advice. It's the least I can do. After all, I might get lost on the Sunshine Coast someday. We can toss back a few Canadian beers down at the Lighthouse Pub. You can't beat their food and the view is to die for.

There was a time if you wanted to be a writer you lead the Jack Kerouac lifestyle, hitchhiking and hopping freight trains across country. At least that’s what I did for years. A comic has a different path to success. If you’re going to follow in the footsteps of Bill Cosby, Lenny Bruce, Robin Williams, Jim Carey or Dave Chappelle you work open mic nights at the clubs. The problem I have with most comics is that they’re onstage 24/7. Comics are worse than actors and that’s saying a lot.

In my standup comedy days I was working open mic nights at the Comedy Store, The Improv on Melrose, the Ice House in Pasadena and a few nights at the Holy City Zoo in San Francisco where Robin Williams got his start. You want the best time slot. Before everyone is too drunk but late enough so you’re working a full house. My gimmick was arriving in my ambulance and telling the MC I had just gotten a Code 3 and needed to go up next. I'd do my routine and race out of the parking lot with lights and siren blaring.

The big disadvantage of open mic night is you don't know when you're going onstage. It could be in four minutes or four hours. All the time I would be pacing, my guts wrenching. You hoped the comic ahead of you would bomb so you looked good in comparison. I once had to follow Freddie Prinze high on cocaine. I've never seen anyone funnier. Every comic’s nightmare. Following a star. After his act Freddie sat down by the bar, surrounded by people but not one of them talking to him. I thought I knew all about loneliness until I saw Freddie Prinze in a crowd.

I do miss being young and naive enough to dream of fame. When you're young you've got eternity to become famous. Then as you approach 40 you keep reminding yourself that Rodney Dangerfield was a paint salesman until he was 42. Once you're past 50 the doors are all closed. If fame hasn't knocked on your door by 50 it's not even in your neighborhood.

To this day I still have problems watch comics perform. Most of them aren’t funny. Even though they try so hard. Too hard. As they bomb my guts are in knots, memories freshened with that sinking feeling. If my first couple of jokes went over I would be fine. But if there was silence in the beginning of my act it would throw my timing off. Panic sets in. You feel like you’re naked at a high school reunion and can’t wait to run out of the room.

I mentioned my improv act, "Fortune Man" before but I’ll say a bit more about it now just in case you didn’t catch me at Chatelech Theatre in Sechelt last year. Fortune Man is a parody of the psychic hotlines. One of our props is a speakerphone to the After World so anyone in the audience could talk to a dead uncle or JFK. Anyone deceased. Comic backstage would play those roles. While improv is working without a net I find it’s so much more fun than standup.

A comic's brain works differently. I was over at my son’s recently waiting for the cable guy to show up. While doing dishes I spilled water on my groin. Immediately I could picture a young cable installer trying not to look at the wet spot but not able to take his eyes off it. All the time thinking, “That poor old man. He doesn’t even know he’s wet his pants.” Comics are funny because we're not good at anything else.

If you or anyone you know dreams of fame as a comic I would make the following suggestions:
1) Don't think you're funny just because your parents always laughed at your jokes. They’re your parents. They’d laugh if you were shaving a yam.
2) Don't think fame as a comic will score big with the ladies. A Zomboni driver gets laids more.
3) Don't use your real name. A stage name make it’s easier denying everything later.

4) Don't write your standup routine with your clothes on. Everyone is funnier naked. At least that’s what my ex-wife always told me.

There was a time a hundred years ago or more when I believed whatever anyone said in a chat room. If we all wore name tags mine would read, "Village Idiot".

My life might have turned out differently if I was born good-looking, rich, or smart. Instead I was the funny one that nobody invited to their birthday parties. I was the class clown always shy in front of the girls. While I had no problems cracking up everyone in class I would get extremely shy in front of anyone with a uterus. Do you think George Clooney is shy in front of anyone? Did Brad Pitt clam up in front of Angelina when he first met her? Is it normal to be somewhat of a clod in front of beautiful women? It is for me.

Life would be so much easier if I could just read a woman's mind. That would take all that annoying mystery out of the game. I would know whether she likes me or is just tolerating me because she can’t stand seeing a grown man cry. Maybe it's better I never know. What is a Village Idiot to do? I suppose if God meant for me to have an active sex life He would have blessed me with both testicles.

There's no question I'm a slow learner. No matter how many times I am spurned I continue to give out my business cards like they were hits of Ecstasy. Then when she doesn't call I convince myself that it's a waste of time to even flirt and vow never to hand out my card again. Never to even strike up a conversation with a beautiful woman. The first time I run into another gorgeous nymph I make an ass out of myself again. I think it’s in men’s DNA for to continue flirting despite making fools out of ourselves again and again. We’re junkies for humiliation.

Men and women play the same games. The only difference is women are much smarter than us. It's like comparing Anna Kornikova to a chimp with a racket. Getting rejected by a beautiful woman is disheartening but understandable. That doesn't make it any less painful. Just easier to cope with. It's a wonder women have put up with us this long. If genetic scientists ever create a penis in a Petri dish we men are in serious trouble.

My name is Tom. I am the Village Idiot.

I wrote this blog for those readers who have never visited Vancouver, B.C. People who haven’t heard of the biggest nude beach in North America. It's located right on the campus of the University of British Columbia. I know because I took every opportunity to spend time down there, enjoying the sun, conversing with other students, meditating...oh, who I am kidding? I went down there to stare at naked women.

Nude beaches in Canada are different than clothing optional beaches in California. If you can find a nude beach in Southern California there's a good chance that it's either littered with needles, used condoms or a dead body. In Canada, as in Europe, nudity isn’t considered taboo or even risque. Whole families spend a day, naked in the sun. We Americans feel nudity is better left to the privacy of your own home where people are less likely to laugh at you.

Growing up in conservative Wisconsin left me with some hang ups as to public nudity. The only time you're naked outdoors in Wisconsin is when a bear is attacking your tent and you don't have time to put on underwear. My son, Tyson, was about six or seven years old when he came to live with me at UBC. Wreck Beach is on the other end of campus from family housing. As we walked he would pick flowers to give to the prettiest girls on the beach. Let me tell you a kid with flowers beats a puppy hands down when it comes to meeting women. No matter how cute the puppy might be.

Some of the locals make a living on the beach selling everything from margaritas to hashish. You could always tell if someone was a cop because they would be wearing underwear. Technically it's illegal to be nude in public but that hasn't stopped thousands from descending on Wreck Beach every summer. Some of them live down there all through the summer. It’s like Woodstock without the acid. Although I can’t swear to the acid.

It's not easy getting down to the beach. You've got to crawl down this incredibly steep, winding path for about a quarter of a mile before you hit sand. Walking back up is a fine workout for anyone. (Especially if you're carrying cameras around your neck) Wreck Beach lives on and always will. The arch conservative elements of Vancouver politics have always threatened to bulldoze a road down to the beach so the cops can easily patrol it but that has never happened. I hope it never will. Where else can you be naked without getting laughed at?