Ode to Therapy

So as I mentioned below, Ted Kennedy's brain tumor preempted one of my scenes on "All My Children." (And yeah, it's bad news for Ted and all that, too...)

Fortunately, I still made air later in the original broadcast, and the entire episode was rerun later that night on SoapNet. I took some screen grabs of my most prominent moments:

Look! It's me! Only a couple feet behind the beautiful Greenlee, as she tries to contact her fiancé, Aidan.

Don't I look extra-special?

And there I am in the corner, with my head cut off, pretending to flirt with that hot blonde chick as Amanda, Kendall, Babe and Greenlee discuss the challenges of dating men.

Amen, sisters.

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I must say, my coworkers were far more excited about my extra work on AMC than about the fact that I'm about to be featured on a primetime network show. It seems there are A LOT of rabid AMC fans out there. I, myself, have always been a "General Hospital" devotee. But I do love La Lucci.

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Speaking of my impending fame (insert irony here), Robin Fox, my comedy mama, is convinced that all the attention I'm getting will earn me the "evil eye" from jealous, spiteful people. To ward this off, she made me promise -- PROMISE!! -- that I would wear something red every day this week.

Cuckoo!

This has to be one of the most absurd superstitions I've ever heard. And it's so typically Jewish: "Don't let anyone see your success! Everyone's out to get us! Remember the Nazis!" Nevertheless, I made a solemn vow to Ms. Fox that I wouldn't leave the house without something red on. So for the last two days, I walked around the city (and my office) with a red bandana hanging from my belt loop. I'm sure everyone now assumes I'm following the gay hanky code, but better kinky than cursed, I guess.

You don't even want to know what this means.

Today I decided on red sneakers instead. I hope they're sufficient.

This past Sunday, I emceed a brief show in honor of Therapy's 5-Year Anniversary. To mark this milestone, and since I'm just a couple months away from ending my three-year run as host of the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour, I wanted to say a few words about what Therapy has meant to me.

It was 2005, and I had been doing comedy less than two years when Tom Johnson, the owner of Barrage, a bar where I had recently worked as a waiter, approached me about possibly hosting a show at his other Hell's Kitchen bar, Therapy. I'm not sure Tom had even seen me perform at that point. At most, he'd seen me do seven minutes at a bringer showcase.

In any case, I had no business hosting my own show. Yeah, I could do my standard 7-minute set, but I knew nothing of hosting or crowd work, and I certainly didn't know how to make other gay men laugh. I was, to be blunt, awful. The crowd agreed.

Failing miserably, March 26, 2006.

Fabulous jacket, though. I wonder whose it was?

And while I was a slightly better producer than I was a host, I didn't really know much about putting together a comedy show, either. I look now at my early lineups, and I shudder. I'd put up just two comics, and often I'd open with the headliner. Ridiculous.

And my jokes. OH, MY JOKES! Predictable. Smarmy. Hack. And incredibly long. I have jokes I wrote during this period that take up an entire page. Type-written. Single-spaced. It's a wonder I didn't get carpal tunnel.

The numbers bore out the poor quality of these shows. If we had 20 people show up, that was a good night.

And yet, Tom didn't fire me, nor did Chad Ryan, who took over as general manager around the same time my show began. Instead, they waited -- ever so patiently -- for me to get better. Eventually I did. And somehow, miraculously, Therapy became known for having one of the best weekly comedy shows in the city.

Socarates, manager of Barrage, Brandon, assistant manager

of Therapy, Tom Johnson and me at Therapy's 5-Year Anniversary party.

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Me and Chad Ryan at Therapy's 5-Year Anniversary party.

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But it wasn't just patience that distinguished Tom and Chad. They were and are uncommonly decent, kind, fair-minded people. That's not only unusual in the comedy world; it unusual in the world of bar and restaurant management, period.

To put it plainly, Therapy treats its workers well. As a result, it's a happy place to work. Some of the bartenders and waiters have been there since opening night, which is sort of astounding. And unlike so many bars and clubs where I've performed, Therapy's management views performers -- even guest performers -- as valuable employees. They recognize that we bring something of value to the place, and that we should be thanked and rewarded accordingly, rather than kicked, scorned and humiliated. Why this eludes so many club-owners is a mystery to me. But I can tell you without doubt that the crowd senses what's going on behind the scenes of an establishment, and that Therapy's success as one of the most popular bars in the city is no accident.

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And then there's Luke.

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Performing at Therapy's 5-Year Anniversary.

Betcha didn't know he could sing.

Ah, yes. Luke Jones -- so much more than a tech manager, so much more than a man with a giant penis. (That was his crotch shot in the last blog.) Since day one, Luke has overseen the lighting, the amplification and the music for all Therapy shows. I didn't choose him; he came with the gig.

And how lucky I was, because his technical skills are unparalleled. But more than that, Luke has functioned as my sidekick and security blanket, feeding me lines from the DJ booth and playing hilarious sound effects (including crickets and car crashes) at just the right moments.

And, most of the time, not laughing. He's like the anti-Robin Quivers. No matter how hard I'm killing, Luke remains stone-faced. And even though I can't see his face most of the time, I know he's not laughing, and that makes me work even harder. It's a sick relationship, but it works.

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And so, to Luke, to Chad and Brandon, to Tom, to all the waiters and bartenders and busboys and kitchen staff, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and on behalf of all the comics I've invited onto Therapy's stage. You have provided us all with a wonderful place to do what we love.

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Happy 5th birthday, and many more.

The view from the stage, Dec. 7, 2007.

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Homo out. ♥

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Watch me on "Last Comic Standing" this Thursday, May 22 at 9:30 p.m. ET on NBC!

And don't miss a major announcement when I host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, May 25 at 10 p.m. My special guests will be Steve Hofstetter, Leighann Lord, Brad Loekle and Joanna Ross. Details on my web site.

All My Extras

UPDATE: ABC News just broke in to "All My Children" to announce that Sen. Ted Kennedy has a brain tumor. So much for my big soap opera moment.

I am reporting this way too late, but in just about 20 minutes, I will make my network TV debut. No, not on "Last Comic Standing" -- that happens Thursday. Instead, you can see me as Man in Nightclub on ABC's "All My Children" (check local listings).

Honey, they ain't mine.

Yes, in a scene at the apporopriately named Confusion nightclub, featuring Kendall, Greenlee and a couple other very skinny soap stars, I can clearly be seen in the background, convincingly flirting with a beautiful young female extra while sipping blue liquid from a martini glass.

Incidentally, if you watch closely, you'll notice that we extras never actually drink the colored water. That's because the prop glasses are filthy, and the drinks are therefore contaminated with loads of dust and floaty things. (Oddly, the liquid is chilled before it's served to us. Perhaps that's to preserve the color.)

Feh.

Anyway, despite the fact that I didn't get to meet my idol, Susan Lucci, I had a blast. The other extras were very friendly (though about 15 years younger than me), and I got a close-up look at how a soap gets shot.

That's it for now. In the next blog, how the world reacts (or doesn't) to my LCS appearance, and Therapy turns five. Here's a sneak peek of the latter event:

Name that crotch.

Extra out. ♥

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Watch me on "Last Comic Standing" this Thursday, May 22 at 9:30 p.m. ET on NBC!

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And don't miss a major announcement when I host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, May 25 at 10 p.m. My special guests will be Steve Hofstetter, Leighann Lord, Brad Loekle and Joanna Ross. Details on my web site.

New York State of Mind

"I think there's a time to come to New York. And a time to leave."

--"Company" (Stephen Sondheim and George Furth)

I grow increasingly anxious as the premiere of "Last Comic Standing" draws near. I'm amazed by the number of people who have already emailed me to say they saw three seconds of me on the promo. The promo! That's friggin' crazy!

Actually, the first person I heard that from was my ex-boyfriend, Phillip. There was a sweet irony to this as he's the one who, when I told him seven years ago that my secret dream was to do stand-up, said: "I'm afraid no one would laugh."

Well, who's laughing now, bee-YATCH?!

I have no illusions that my appearance on the show is going to change my life in any appreciable way. I know enough comics who have done bigger things than this, only to find that they're still hustling and struggling for years and years afterwards.

But I do know that in exactly one week, millions of people will see my face and hear my name -- if only momentarily -- on their television sets. That's something I've fantasized about for as long as I can remember. It's surreal.

I'm not exaggerating, by the way, when I say "as long as I can remember." I grew up in the TV generation, during the golden age of sitcoms (not to mention game shows, talk shows and soap operas). When I was 11, I wrote a letter to a child actor named Christian Jacobs, who was almost the same age as me. Christian played Joey on the short-lived "All in the Family" spin-off, "Gloria," starring a pre-obesity Sally Struthers.

Sally had some big jugs, no?

I wasn't so much a fan of Christian's as a would-be protégé; I wanted to know how he got the part. Specifically, I was curious as to whether he had played the original infant Joey on "All in the Family." (I know now he didn't; that was someone named Cory R. Miller.)

Christian never answered my questions. Instead, I got a form letter from his management company (who probably suspected I was some creepy old pedophile), along with an autographed picture of Christian. Which meant very little to me as I already had an autographed picture of my true idol, Joan Rivers.

I'm not sure what the moral to this little story is. But in doing research for this blog, I discovered that Christian is still performing today! He's the lead singer for some punk band called the Aquabats. Also, he played Boy in Record Store in "Pretty in Pink."



Also, he's no longer cute.

The point is, I really, really wanted to be on TV. And even though I always dreamed it would be on a sitcom, this is still pretty fucking cool.

Here's a promo from the LCS web site that features me, along with two other comics, including my dear friend Michelle Buteau. I pop up last.

http://www.nbc.com/Last_Comic_Standing/video/#mea=245003

I find it funny that NBC considers this "blue material." Good thing I didn't do my Dick Cheney joke.

Since my last blog, I've been inundated with emails about my impending move to San Diego (including more than a few "What the hell's?"). I truly appreciate everyone's well wishes. I particularly enjoyed talking with the guy from Los Angeles who came to my Therapy show this past Sunday. "San Diego's gorgeous!" he told me. "Of course, you do know there are no jobs there." Thanks, dude!

Aside from all the people I'll miss in New York (yes -- even you, Mom!), I think I'm going to miss the New York attitude. People stereotype New Yorkers as being rude, pushy, aggressive and so forth. And they are. But more than that, New Yorkers are hilariously funny. Not just funny, but witty. I mean like the average homeless person on the corner could kill at a comedy club.


`Thank you! I'll be here all year!'

This was illustrated perfectly last Thursday night, as I was heading to Hoboken to do a spot at one of my favorite rooms, Danny's Upstairs. Arriving at the 33rd Street PATH station, I found that because of a signal problem, there were no trains running to Hoboken. Hundreds of hot, frustrated commuters milled about. As luck would have it, among them I spotted my dear friend Seth Gilmore, who lives in Hoboken.

"Come on," he directed me. "We'll walk to Port Authority and hop on a bus."

The bus was, of course, completely packed. Everyone was annoyed and checking their watches and shaking their heads. Then, one guy's cell phone rang, and he started talking into it.

Loudly.

"HEY, I'M ON A BUS! WHAT? WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN? NO WAY, REALLY? IS THE HOUSE MESSED UP?"

This went on for several more minutes.

"SO WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT? WHEN ARE YOU GETTING HOME TONIGHT?"

From the back of the bus, someone replied, "Two a.m."

"WHEN?!"

"Two a.m.!" the guy in the back repeated, this time louder.

"Nah, 2:15! 2:15," shouted someone else.

The guy on the phone covered his ears with his hands and continued his loud conversation.

"SO IS THE FLOOR REALLY DIRTY OR WHAT?!"

"Sweep it!" cried a woman to my left.

"Yeah, sweep that bitch!," yelled the guy next to her.

"WHAT ABOUT THE HOME ENTERTAINMENT CENTER? WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH THE HOME ENTERTAINMENT CENTER?"

"Throw it out!" we all screamed, practically in unison.

"Shove it up your ass!," suggested an elderly man in a suit.

I cannot explain to you how funny this was. By the time we got to 2nd Street, the guy on the phone was crouched on the floor, determined to continue his conversation at any cost. I was laughing so hard there were tears running down my cheeks. Only in New York (or nearby Hoboken) would an entire busload of people spontaneously conspire to fuck with someone for no good reason.

These are the moment I'll miss in San Diego.

Homo Out. ♥

No Therapy show this week, but come see me host it Sunday, May 25, when my special guests will be Steve Hofstetter, Leighann Lord, Brad Loekle and Joanna Ross. Details on my web site.

And don't forget to watch me on "Last Comic Standing" Thursday, May 22 at 9:30 p.m. on NBC!

My Big Reveal

At last, I'm ready to let you all in on the worst-kept secret of the decade:

I'm leaving New York City.

Buh-Bye.

Yes, I'm getting the hell out of Dodge, I'm blowing this pop stand, I'm leaving on that midnight train to Georgia, I'm shuffling off to Buffalo, I'm getting my act together and taking it on the road.

Actually I'm moving to San Diego.

Hello.

I will be living with my military boyfriend, the aforementioned Boy Wonder, continuing to pursue performing opportunities on the West Coast and, I hope, finding a way to make enough money during the day to live on.

And now, some answers to Frequently Asked Questions:

1) Why the hell are you doing this?

Because I've fallen in love with someone wonderful, and San Diego is where he lives. Plus, it's one of the most beautiful places on earth. And finally because after 13 years in New York City, it's time for a fresh start.

I love New York; it's the greatest city on earth, my family lives nearby and I'm sure I'll come back here someday. But New York kicks the shit out of you after a while, particularly if you're not incredibly wealthy. It's an exhausting place, filled with stress and noise and filth and mice living under your sink. I've had enough for now.

2) What about your comedy career?

What comedy career?

Seriously, I've had some very nice things happen over the past five years. I'm particularly happy with how the Therapy show has grown into such a successful franchise. And it was thrilling to get on "Last Comic Standing," (which, by the way, premieres May 22). Plus I've met some wonderful people, both on-stage and behind the scenes.

But I've also become increasingly discouraged with the comedy scene in New York. It seems to be more about politics than about talent, or hard work or integrity. It's a big game, and one I suck at playing. Somewhere along the way, I've pissed off the wrong people, or failed to kiss the ass of the right ones, or both. I'm not getting into specifics; those of you who are close to me know the insanity with which I've dealt. Suffice it to say, there are people out there who seem bound and determined to keep me down. They know who they are, and some of them are reading these words right now.

Why do they despise me so? I don't know. Why did all those people on the school bus pelt me with snowballs in 7th grade? I've always been someone who inspires intense feelings in others. You either love me or hate me; there's no in-between.

My high school chorus teacher, a dear woman named Mrs. Lehrman, once told me that the higher you climb the ladder of success, the more your butt sticks out, and the more people will want to take pot-shots at you. (I'm sure I'm mangling her metaphor, but you get the point.)

I would hardly say I've attained any significant level of success in the New York comedy world. But I have, for whatever reasons, garnered a lot of attention, particularly in the first couple years, perhaps before I deserved it. I think this might have bred resentment among other performers. "What's so great about this guy?!," etc.

And yes, I have a big fucking mouth. I've said things and written things I shouldn't have. No doubt I've brought some of this on myself. But I have also, I believe, acted with integrity, generosity and fairness and, in the end, helped a helluva lot more comedians than ever helped me.

Bottom line is, I think I've gone as far as I'm going to get in New York City comedy. And while San Diego isn't exactly a first-tier comedy town, I'm confident that there will be new and exciting opportunities both there and in nearby L.A. And the truth is, there a lot of other things besides comedy I'm interested in pursuing, including acting, writing, surfing, etc.

We'll see.

I, Beach Bum.

3) What will happen to your Therapy show?

I'll continue hosting it until mid-July. After that, it's up to the owner and managers of Therapy. I hope very much that they continue doing a comedy show there Sunday nights, and I hope it's hosted by someone terrific.

4) Are you selling your condo?

No. I'm subletting it. Through a realtor. For a lot of money. You can't afford it.

5) What will you do for money out there?

No idea! Seriously! If anyone has connections in San Diego and wants to hook me up, please email me! I'd like to find something part-time and/or freelance to start before committing myself to another full-time day job.

6) Speaking of day jobs, what's this mysterious day job you've had all these years that you've never blogged about?

For the past six years, I've worked at The New York Times, first as a news assistant and then as an administrative manager. I actually did discuss it a couple times in some early blogs but then stopped doing so for reasons of professional discretion. I love The Times very much, and I'll miss working for them tremendously.

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I'm sure there are other questions, but finally writing all this down has exhausted me, and I'm going to take a pause for now. Needless to say, this is an exciting, terrifying time for me, and I'm taking it day by day.

Stay tuned. ♥

Come see me host The Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, May 11, when my special guests will be Michelle Buteau, Eric Alexander, Lexi Cullen-Baker and Scott Ryan. Details on my web site.

And don't miss seeing me on the season premiere of Last Comic Standing, Thursday, May 22 at 9:30 p.m.!

Outta Site

My last blog seemed to strike a chord with a lot of people. Apparently I'm not the only one who had a miserable middle school existence. I want to thank everyone for the outpouring of heartfelt comments, emails and phone calls I received, especially from my childhood friend Jilleyen, and another person from whom I was shocked to receive a truly lovely email. She knows who she is.

Characteristically, my family's reaction was quite different: Their chief concern was that I used the real names of my middle school cohorts, and that this could come back to haunt me. After much reflection, I was persuaded to change one name -- that of the ski-trip blow-job guy. Rest assured, everything I wrote was true. But I don't want to be responsible for breaking up someone's marriage.

The reaction to writing about my middle school misadventures was so strong that I've decided to share some additional memories in an upcoming blog. Also coming soon, a major blog posting in which my big plans for the future will be revealed.

But first, I am in the process of moving this blog from Comedy Soapbox and my MySpace page to my own unique blog page. There are a number of reasons for doing this, but chief among them is: Money.

Sites generate advertising revenue based on the number of hits they receive and the number of people who click on the ads that appear on those sites. And as much as I love Soapbox and Myspace, I'd rather make money for myself than for them. Granted, we're not talking big bucks here; a fellow Soapboxer who moved his blog off this page informs me that it generates about a buck a month for him. Still, that'll be a buck more a month than I was making before.

Plus, I must say, I find the blog page here a bid unwieldy, technically speaking, and the end result is aesthetically displeasing. It's easier to post photos and links, play with fonts and so forth using the blogger.com host site.

So...

What I'm doing now is transferring over each and every blog I've posted over the past four years. This is a gargantuan task, as there are literally hundreds of posts, and I have to transfer them one at a time. So far, I've only moved blogs from my earliest two months, August and September, 2004. If any of my die-hard readers would like to take a trip down memory lane, I encourage you to reread them. And actually, I'd love to hear what the rest of you think of the format, user-friendliness and overall look of the new blog.

You can check it out here.

You're welcome to leave your comments either here or on the new blog. Once I've finished moving all the archives and am up to date, new posts will appear ONLY on the new blog.

That's all for now. Stay tuned for some REALLY big news.

Homo out. ♥

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, April 27 when my special guests will be Bernadette Pauley, Giulia Rozzi, Brian Barry and Veronica Quinn. Details on my web site.

My Least Favorite Year

Here's what I love about stand-up comedy:

Getting on-stage and making people laugh.

Here's what I hate:

Everything else.

Honestly, I'm beginning to wonder if this isn't the worst thing I could possibly be doing with my life, and if I'm just not cut out for it at all. Because lately, it's all feeling like 7th grade all over again.


Me at 13, with Dr. Bunson Honeydew.

Seventh grade was the worst year of my adolescence. That was the year I left the comfort and camaraderie of Brayton School, the local elementary where I had spent the past seven years, where everyone knew me, and where my father was everyone's pediatrician, and began a three-year stint at Newark Academy, a private school in Livingston, NJ.

NA was a horrible place. At least for me it was. The school itself was beautifully appointed, and the education was decent. (I particularly recall Ms. Galvin's English class and Mr. Ball's World Cultures class with fondness.) But the kids at NA were fucking evil. A mix of mostly Jewish and Italian children of wealthy North Jersey families -- including the son and daughter of Sen. Frank Lautenberg, and Steven Polaner, scion of the famous jam-making family -- they were caricatures of the sort of malicious types we've come to know in teen flicks like "Heathers" and "Mean Girls." (I should point out here that neither the Lautenbergs nor Polaner ever did anything mean to me. They just exemplified the level of hoity-toityness of the school.)

This was 1984. Reagan was president, Bill Cosby's new sitcom was premiering, and MTV was all the rage. Everyone was wearing day-glo and parachute pants and spiky hair. And here I was, in alligator shirts, cuffed khakis and penny-loafers with pennies in them. "The Preppy Handbook" was my bible, and my favorite music was Broadway, soft rock and oldies. (I particularly enjoyed Christopher Cross's hit song, "Sailing.") I was very gay and very loud; and I loved to sing.

A recipe for disaster, indeed.

The trouble really started in gym class (surprise, surprise), when I was standing around one day getting ready to play basketball, at which I was absolutely terrible. Amit Mehta, a tiny wise-ass of Indian descent who was inexplicably the most popular kid in class that year, asked me what I liked to do for fun.

"I like to sing!" I proclaimed, like some retarded kid in an after-school special.

"Oh yeah," said Amit, his eyes glowing. "Why don't you sing something for us?"

A small crowd had gathered.

"What do you want me to sing?"

He thought for a brief moment. "How about you sing, 'Rock of Ages?'"

Now remember, I was clueless when it came to pop music. For all I knew, Def Leppard was some unfortunate feline, growling off-key in the jungles of Africa. But I knew a song called "Rock of Ages;" we sang it every Chanukkah at Temple Sinai.

So I began to sing, in my pitch-perfect castrato soprano voice:

Rock of Ages, Let our song
Praise your saving power
You amid the raging foes
Were our sheltering tower
Furious they assailed us
But your arm availed us
And your word broke their sword
When our own strength failed us
And your word broke their sword
When our own strength failed us


Even today, this record makes me cry.

At this point, every person in the gymnasium had stopped to listen to my performance, including the gym teacher, Mr. Sweet. And every one of them was rolling with laughter.

Things went downhill from there.

But as awful as that and subsequent gym classes were, they didn't compare to the single biggest horror I faced every morning:

The Bus.

Through the years I've told stories of my 7th grade morning bus ride to Newark Academy, and people always assume I'm exaggerating, misremembering, or making up tales out of whole cloth. I assure you, these things happened exactly as I describe them. Prisoners of war don't forget the details of their captivity, and neither will I forget the atrocities that took place on that little yellow torture chamber on wheels.


Wheels on fire...

Over the course of that year, on my way to school, I was

Kicked.

Punched.

Shoved.

Repeatedly called a "faggot."

The recipient of gum stuck in my hair and rubber bands shot at my face.

And, on one memorable occasion, pelted with snowballs.

Wait a minute, you say; how in the world does one get pelted with snowballs inside a bus? To comprehend that scenario, you first have to understand that it wasn't only the kids on the bus -- among them Eddie Case and his demented older brother Dan, Chuck Spinner, Andrew Hazen and Ned Zimmerman, who looked exactly as I imagined the humanized pigs we read about in "Animal Farm" in Ms. Galvin's class did -- who hated me. No, it was also the bus driver, a giant black man named William who, when he wasn't driving a bus, worked as a minister.

That's right, a minister. It's no wonder I have such warm feelings toward organized religion.



Anyway, Rev. William was hardly a responsible adult figure. He often led the taunting that was aimed at me. Once, during a relatively peaceful moment, the discussion turned to what everyone was going to be when they grew up.

"What about Sank?" Eddie Case wondered.

"He'll be a gay writer," came the booming reply from the driver's seat.

Look, I'm not saying the man was imperceptive; I'm just saying he was a dick.

One unlucky aspect of my morning bus ride was that I was one of the last kids picked up. This meant having to make something of a grand entrance each day, with my tormentors already seated. (To this day, the walk onto a stage is the most terrifying part of performing for me. I always expect someone in the crowd is going to hurl a projectile at my head.)

Then, it happened: A major snowstorm of the kind we used to get fairly regularly in Jersey in the days before global warming. Eight or 10 inches fell, and we got a snow day from school, which was heaven on earth. The next morning, with school back in session, the bus pulled up to my house. Wearily, with my head slumped in its customary bus-boarding fashion, I took my seat... and was suddenly struck simultaneously with multiple sensations of pain, wetness and cold.

For little did I know that moments before, the good reverend had stopped the bus around the corner and ordered everyone off to build snowballs, all of which were to be used on me.


Do you have any idea how much snowballs hurt when launched at close range?

It didn't end after the initial attack. William stopped the bus repeatedly on the way to school so that my assailants could refuel. By the time I got to school, I was completely soaked and bleeding from the face.

It was then -- and only then -- that the school decided to act. William was fired, and I was moved to another bus, one that ferried kids to and from nearby Chatham. Curiously, despite my notoriety, the Chatham riders showed little interest in me, and for the rest of the year I rode to school in blissful silence.

Meanwhile, things at school remained tough for me. I had no friends, except for Kelley Wade, a homely fellow outcast with whom I did theater. The taunting and teasing continued. One day, Will Clossey and Mark Browin decided to imitate the way I walked down the hall. This entailed their swinging their asses wildly from side to side. Which I find interesting, given that Mark and I ended up blowing each other on a ski trip a year later. I hope Mark is married now, and I hope he and his wife are reading this together.

Despite the constant slings and arrows, I remained determined to win people over, and, in my overly dramatic, narcissistic super-gay way, I decided the best way to do it:

I was going to sing "Corner of the Sky" from "Pippin" in front of the entire school at morning meeting.


Did you know William Katt from "The Greatest American Hero"
starred in "Pippin" on Broadway? Now you do.

Look, I'm not going to deny I was a fucked up little kid. I had absolutely no social skills. I sat in my room all night listening to the cast albums of "Evita" and "Sweeney Todd," for God's sake.

But there was method to my madness. Students often got up at morning meeting to play an instrument, recite a poem or act out a skit. I knew I could sing well, and I knew that on some level, even in a shark tank like Newark Academy, people had respect for those with talent.

Plus, I thought (and this is the really sad part), if they would just listen to these lyrics come out of my mouth, they'd understand everything about me:

Everything has its season
Everything has its time
Show me a reason, and I'll soon show you a rhyme
Cats fit on the window sill
Children fit in the snow
Why do I feel I don't fit in anywhere I go?
Rivers belong where they can ramble
Eagles belong where they can fly
I've got to be... where my spirit can run free
Gotta find my corner of the sky

Word soon got out about my morning meeting plans. The entire grade was abuzz, fueled by my infamous "Rock of Ages" performance in gym class. "You're going to make a huge ass of yourself, Sank" became a familiar refrain. The anticipation grew to such a fevered pitch that the night before my big day, my advisor, Miss Belyea, called my parents.

"I don't think he should do it," she told my mom. "I think it's only going to make things harder for him."

My mom agreed and tried to get me to change my mind. But it was too late. If I backed out now, everyone would know I was chicken. And in any situation, I've always chosen the riskier option.

Dr. Strand, the headmaster (a dear man who I hope is still alive and well), finished his morning announcements and then introduced me.

"We have a special treat this morning," he said. "One of our youngest students, Adam Sank, is going to sing for us."

With legs shaking, I took the stage. It hadn't occurred to me to ask anyone to accompany me on the piano, so it was just me up there, singing a capella, facing about 800 students and faculty.

I began about three keys too high:

Everything has its season
Everything has its time
Show me a reason...

My voice had cracked, horribly.

Show me a reason...

Nope, too high.

"Excuse me," I said. I could hear people twittering.

Then I began again, in a more comfortable key.

Everything has its season
Everything has its time...

This time I got through it. I hit all the notes. My voice swelled on the last chorus, and I went up the octave on the final note, just as William Katt had done on the record.

People clapped and cheered. I bowed. It was over.

If this were a young adult's novel or an episode of "The Brady Bunch," the story would end with my being carried on the shoulders of throngs of adoring kids, chanting, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."

Well, that didn't happen. But there was, after my big song, a perceptible shift in the way I was treated at NA. People still thought I was a faggy lunatic, and I still didn't have a lot of friends. But there was a grudging respect for me, if not for the fact that I could sing, then for the fact that I had had the balls to get up in front of the entire school and sing a Broadway show tune.

I learned that day that no matter how hard it is being me sometimes, it's easier than not being me.

It's been 24 years since then, and I still try to remember that every day.

Homo out. ♥

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, April 20, when my special guests will be Laurie Kilmartin, Mike Gaffney, Vicki Ferentinos and Tom Ragu.
Details on my web site.

Leggo My Preggo

First thing's first:

I got a mohawk.


Or perhaps it's a faux hawk. You decide.

I know it's ridiculous and that I'm way too old for such a thing, but I have to say: I'm kind of loving it.


Pee Wee Herman meets Satan.

Ever since I got it last Saturday, I've been noticing countless others walking down the street with mohawks, faux hawks and other bizarre follicular creations. It's as if everyone decided at once to go hair-crazy.

My favorite comment so far came from one of the editors I work with, who sent me the following email when I got into work on Monday:

What's up, Tintin?



In case you don't know Tintin, he's a Belgian cartoon character known for his shock of hair and his little dog, Snowy. My parents actually once got me an English-language-version Tintin comic book when I was little. I don't know if something was lost in translation, but that was the most boring goddamn comic I've ever read. I actually used to read it whenever I couldn't sleep, and it would knock me out like a tab of Seconal.

Speaking of doing strange things to one's appearance, I want to comment on the whole "pregnant man" story making headlines lately.


I could do without the bushy armpits. Manscape, dude!

I get that it's sensational. I get that it captures people's interest. But -- and maybe I'm just a jaded, bleeding-heart liberal Manhattan 'mo -- I honestly don't understand what the big deal is. And I'm frankly shocked by the level of ignorance I've been seeing with regard to the story, even among members of the gay community.

Let me break it down for you people, for what it's worth:

He was born a woman.

He became a man but kept his female reproductive organs.

He was artificially inseminated and is now pregnant.

End of story.

Is this really so difficult to grasp? Stranger reproductive things happen all the time. Women take fertility drugs and have sextuplets, for God's sake. SIX BABIES COME OUT OF ONE WOMAN!! DOGS ARE SUPPOSED TO HAVE SIX BABIES, NOT WOMEN!! And yet people are shocked -- SHOCKED! -- that a transgender man can have a baby.

This morning I accidentally tuned in to "The Morning Show With Mike and Juliet" on Fox. If there's ever been a more pointless show, I haven't seen it. All morning chat shows are insipid by nature, but "Mike and Juliet" makes "Regis and Kelly" look like "The McLaughlin Group."


Could we be more pointless?

In fairness, it's not Mike and Juliet's fault. I worked with them at Fox News and liked them both quite a bit. Juliet Huddy's a sweetie -- friendly and unpretentious -- and Mike Jerrick can be genuinely funny, given the right format. (I actually think he'd make a decent late-night host.)

But their morning show is the pits. It's horribly produced and jumps from topic to topic with such aimless abandon that the result is viewer seasickness.

Anyway, this morning their guests were Geraldo Rivera and Jeanine Pirro, who discussed the pregnant man story with the seriousness and maturity level of a couple of 5th graders.

"That kid's gonna be born, and he's gonna be like, 'Ahhhhhh!,'" quipped Geraldo, whose recent career has been distinguished by his giving away troop movements in Iraq and shoving a rescue worker after Hurricane Katrina. (And by the way, I also worked with him at Fox, line producing his live shots from the control room, and I can tell you unequivocally: He is a complete and total buffoon.)

"What I want to know is," kept insisting harpie Pirro, who is currently under federal criminal investigation for allegedly hiring New York's former police commissioner to illegally eavesdrop on her philandering husband, "Is this is a man or a woman?! Is this a man or a woman? If she has female productive organs, she's a woman!"

"Yeah," agreed Geraldo. "She's like, expanding her... whatever. Next thing you know she'll have giant earlobes."

The studio audience found this hilarious. I didn't get it.


'Hello, I'm Geraldo Rivera. And my mustache smells like cheese.'

I think a large part of the problem stems from people's general confusion about gender and sexuality (which, by the way, are two completely different things). So here, as a public service message, is a little glossary:

Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual: Having a sexual and/or romantic attraction to people of the same gender, some or all of the time. I fall into this category. I'm a man. I like my penis. If it were bigger, I'd like it even more. I do not and have not ever wanted to be a woman. (Though I did at times enjoy dressing up as one as a child. See Transvestite, below.)

Transgender: A person whose biological gender does not match their gender identity. (Also called "transsexual," but most prefer "transgender" or simply "trans.") A male-to-female transgender, for example, is born with male sex organs but chooses to live as a woman. These people may or may not elect surgery or hormone therapy to physically alter their gender. Trans people may identify as straight, gay or bi. If female-to-male transgender dates women, for example, he'd probably consider himself straight. (Note: "Tranny" or "Trannie," a gay slang word popularized by fashion designer Christian Siriano on the latest season of "Project Runway," can refer either to a Transgender Person or a Drag Queen, see below. As in, "She's a hot tranny mess!")

Intersex: Those born without a fixed gender. These people used to be called hermaphrodites, but that is WAY politically incorrect these days. Intersex people may be born with both male and female external genitals, or they may have genitals that don't match their sex chromosomes (i.e., an XX man or an XY woman). In the old days, the prevailing medical protocol was to have the parents choose a gender (!) for the child at birth, and then surgically alter the genitals (!!) accordingly. The child would then be raised as either a girl or boy. Nowadays there's a strong belief that intersex people have a right to choose their own gender (or no gender) as they see fit, and that their genitals should be left alone. Again, their sexual orientation can be all over the map. They may like men, women, other intersex folks or all of the above. Incidentally, there's a long-standing rumor that Jamie Lee Curtis is an XY woman, though it's never been proven.


She does sort of look like Dennis Quaid in drag. Speaking of drag...

Drag Queen: A man, usually gay (but not always! Look at Milton Berle and Dame Edna!), who dresses in over-the-top, hyper-stereotypical female clothing, hair and makeup, usually for entertainment purposes. Ru Paul is probably the most famous and successful drag queen ever. (I don't count Berle, who was more famous as an overall TV personality.) Most drag queens don't dress in drag in their everyday life. It's a costume -- something that's done for laughs and/or career. A woman who dresses in drag as a man is called a Drag King.

Transvestite/Cross-Dresser: A person, usually a man, who derives thrills (often sexual) from dressing in clothing of the opposite sex. These people are not drag queens; you're more likely to see them in the grocery story than on a stage. And they're usually not gay. In fact, many men who dress in women's clothes do so because the clothing reminds them of women. It's a turn-on for them. Though not so much for me.

Queer: A catch-all term that can be applied to all of the above (except transvestites). I'm not fond of the word, being of the last generation for whom it was always considered derogatory. But the gay kids today seem to like it. "Queer Theory" is an accepted academic discipline at many colleges and universities.

The Bottom Line: Not everyone fits into neat categories of male or female, straight or gay.

Deal with it.

Thus ends my public service announcement for the day.

Hey, if you happen to be in the South Jersey area this weekend, come check me out at the following event, which I'm hosting:

Saturday, April 5th at 8:30pm
Diversity Weekend at Carney's On the Beach
401 Beach Avenue
Cape May, NJ
www.gablescapemay.com

Or come see me host...

THE ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY COMEDY HOUR!
Sunday, April 6th at 10:00pm
Special Guests: Rachel Feinstein, Jay Nog, Adrienne Iapalucci, Reese Waters, Chris Doucette
348 West 52nd Street
No Cover Charge, No Drink Minimum.
www.therapy-nyc.com

Non-Tranny Homo Out. ♥