My Life Since Grad School

OK, this is such a bull-shit non-post. But recently, a flurry of emails were exchanged among people with whom I attended Columbia J-School in '96. Someone posed the question: What has everyone been doing since graduation? My entry was as follows. Enjoy:

OK, I'll bite, given that I probably have the strangest (and perhaps saddest) career trajectory:

After Columbia graduation, I was one of the first production assistants hired at the brand new Fox News Channel. At the time, I thought, "Hey, it's Fox! 'Married With Children!' 'Melrose Place!' 'The Simpsons!' This will be fun!"

Yeah, not so much.

For reasons that continue to baffle to this day, I remained at FNC for more than five years, eventually becoming a senior producer. One day, after telling the executive producer of Daytime to go f-ck himself (and after finally coming to the realization that I was literally and figuratively a Jew working for the Nazis), I decided I badly needed a change of scene. So I moved to WABC as line producer of the nightly 11 o'clock newscast.

That lasted six months. It became painfully clear to me almost immediately that I just didn't want to produce news anymore -- not at FNC, not at WABC, not anywhere. What I really wanted was to be a stand-up comic.

(Cue the crickets.)

So I quit WABC, took the summer off, wrote a bunch of jokes and began cocktail-waiting at a gay bar. And on Sept. 5, 2003, I made my comedy debut at a new talent night at Gotham Comedy Club. It went surprisingly well, and I kept doing it, eventually getting to host and produce my own shows at Carolines*, Comix, and and Midtown's Therapy lounge. (Always a producer, never a bride.) I made brief appearances on Vh-1's "Best Week Ever," tru-TV's "Smoking Gun Presents: World's Dumbest Criminals" and NBC's "Last Comic Standing," on which I made the Season Six NYC finals.

Around the time I had begun doing stand-up, a friend of mine working in IT at The New York Times said he could probably get me a freelance gig as a clerk for the paper. It was exactly what I wanted: A ridiculously easy day job I could do four or five days a week while I pursued comedy at night. I ended up staying at The Times for six years, ultimately rising (?) to the position of administrative manager of the Culture desk. Truly the world's greatest day job -- or at least it was before the newspaper began to crumble.

Then, on New Year's Eve 2007, the unexpected happened: I fell in love. With a sailor. Who was just about to be stationed in San Diego for two and half years.

I leapt.

Goodbye, Times; Goodbye, New York comedy scene; Hello, San Diego and unemployment.

So here I am nearly two years later, still in San Diego, still with my sailor (he's a keeper), trying to keep my feet in comedy in this culturally retarded city and working at what may be the worst day job I've ever had: [THIS PART REDACTED.] Still, it's work, and health benefits, too. In California these days, that's what passes for a glamour position.

All of which is to say, if any of you has a lead on a job -- ANY JOB -- in the San Diego area for which I might be qualified, speak up.

And if you'd like to see what my comedy is like (NSFW unless you work for a gay porn distributor), click here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8obPLSgiwY

And here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQCHQZ3_p0E

Love and good wishes to you all,
Adam

Homo faked posted. ♥

Coming Up For Air

Whew -- that was a long blog break. I am slowly coming back to life after a fun-filled but excruciatingly tiring week-long cruise to Mexico (through a hurricane, natch). I hope to return to blogging soon. In the meantime, if you're in the San Diego area, come see me tonight at a really really big shew at the Mad House Comedy Club.

Click here for details.

And here's one quick pic of me from the cruise, in costume for the 70s Tea Dance:


As gay as it gets.

Much love to all.

Homo in recovery. ♥

3:10 to Yuma: A Photoblog (Part 2)

I should mention that when we arrived in Yuma, at 6:30 p.m., it was 105 degrees outside. My eyes actually stung from the heat. And from the ugliness:

The entire city resembles a giant ashtray.

Seriously -- it's desolate.

9:00 p.m.
We arrive at the Closet, where I'm performing, and meet up with BW's sister and mother, Sister Wonder and Mama Wonder, who have driven in from Phoenix. I love these ladies!

Jeremiah, the Closet's owner and bartender, along with the other bartender, whose name, sadly, I cannot recall. They couldn't have been sweeter.

The poster for the show. This was the Closet's first ever comedy evemt, and they really did a great job getting the word out.

Me and J. Saldaña, a local comic who opened for me. Really good guy.

Lesbian comic Kass McPherson, who had driven in from Phoenix. Hilarious, and not nearly as scary as she appears in this photo.

10:30 p.m.

At last! It's me -- onstage and kickin' it Yuma style. My opening line: "This is my first time ever performing comedy... ON THE SUN!"

Whatjoo talkin about, Willis?

BW can do many things well; taking pictures is not one of them.

11:15 p.m.

I'm done! Get me a drink immediately!

Outside with my biggest Yuma fans. I told the dude his tattoo looked like a scrotum.


And that's really it. We were all a bit too hot, drunk and tired to take more pictures. But this really was a blast -- one of my favorite road gigs ever. The place was packed, and the crowd was delightful. When I asked a straight couple in the front row why they had come to a gay club that night, the guy said, "To see you."


Yuma. Gotta love it.

Homo razing Arizona. ♥

3:10 to Yuma: A Photoblog

OK, haven't posted in two weeks. Facebook is ruining my creative output, because it's so much easier for me to just post silly little comments and status updates than to craft an actual story in this space. Also, BW and I are preparing for a week-long cruise to Mexico, and so every free moment has been taken up doing important things like skimpy bathing suit shopping (and working out obsessively so that I can wear said skimpy bathing suit without inducing vomit).

I actually have a lot I want to tell you about, including my big day in Traffic Court and the fact that my life has become overtaken by kittens.


Yes, kittens.

But since I'm at work and don't want to bite off more than I can chew, I'll start with something simple, namely a long overdue photo-blog of my comedy road trip to Yuma:

Sept. 25, 2009, 4:00 p.m.

With BW at the wheel (Thank God), we begin on our journey to Yuma, aka "Road to Nowhere."

4:01 p.m.

Already over the drive.

4:02 p.m.

Beaucoup Traffic on the 8...

...and only 159 more miles to go.

5:21 p.m.
BW insists I take a picture of the giant wind turbines at the top of McCain Valley Ridge. He's obsessed with windmills for some reason. My own little Don Quixote.

6:45 p.m.

We arrive at the Fairfield Inn by Marriott, and BW immediately hits the sheets...

...and is asleep in seconds, with a pillow on his head as always.

Shit -- I can't even finish this photoblog now. More to come...

Homo rushed. ♥

License to Drive (Final Chapter/Cop-Out)

I gotta stop posting these multi-part stories. They're exhausting for me, and they hang around my neck like an albatross until I finally get my ass in gear and finish them. Plus, I've gotten very few comments on this latest one, so I sense no one's really interested.

So let me cut to the chase here: I failed my written driver's exam. That's right, failed it. I'm a DMV reject.

Before you all laugh your asses off at me, let me say in my defense that it was a REALLY difficult exam. Here are some actual sample questions; try them yourself and tell me how many YOU get right:

1) You are approaching a railroad crossing with no warning devices and are unable to see 400 feet down the tracks in one direction. The speed limit is:

A) 15 mph

B) 20 mph

C) 25 mph

2) A white painted curb means:

A) Loading zone for freight or passengers.
B) Loading zone for passengers or mail only.
C) Loading zone for freight only.

3) You just sold your vehicle. You must notify the DMV within ___ days.

A) 5
B) 10
C) 15

4) With a Class C drivers license a person may drive:

A) A 3-axle vehicle if the Gross Vehicle Weight is less than 6,000 pounds.
B) Any 3-axle vehicle regardless of the weight.
C) A vehicle pulling two trailers.

5) If you are involved in a traffic collision, you are required to complete and submit a written report (SR1) to the DMV:

A) Only if you or the other driver is injured.
B) If there is property damage in excess of $750 or if there are any injuries.
C) Only if you are at fault.

Answers: 1)A 2)B 3)A 4)A 5)B

NOT SO EASY, ARE THEY?!?!

There were 36 questions in all, and in order to pass, I needed to get at least 30 correct. I got 28.

Luckily, the DMV lets you take the test two more times. On the second try, I got 32 out of 36. At last, I had my California license.

And it only took me three hours!

I'm off to Yuma, AZ tomorrow for my first road gig in ages. I'll be appearing at Yuma's only gay bar, The Closet. The forecast calls for temperatures around 103 degrees. BW is coming with me, and his mom and sister are driving up (down? over?) from Phoenix.

Photo-blog to follow.

Homo licensed. ♥

Banana Bread: A Heartwarming Story

I promise to finish the driver's license story before week's end. But first, a quick tale to warm the cockles of your cynical hearts: (Ha ha... he said "cockles.")

Sunday morning, I baked banana bread for my cousin, Stacey. Stacey is one of my first cousins on my mother's side and one of my favorite people on earth, along with her sister and brother. They're roughly the same ages as my sisters and I, and some of my happiest memories of childhood involve vacations spent with our family and their family together -- in Miami, where they lived, in New Jersey and Long Island, where we lived, or in Aspen, CO where we all skied together one glorious winter.

All the cousins together for Granny's 90th birthday.

Stacey is second from right.

For most of this summer, Stacey has been battling breast cancer with incredible bravery and fortitude. She is currently recovering from surgery and continues to handle whatever comes her way with tremendous grace and good humor, as do her kids, Alexa and Max.

Anyway, she mentioned in one of her recent mass emails to all of us who love her that she appreciated all the cooking and baking people have been doing for her. It hit me then that I should send her some of my famous (at least in my mind) banana bread.

It's a simple recipe, made extra-moist and delicious by a giant quantity of sour cream:

6 Ripe Bananas, Peeled and Mashed

4 1/2 Cups of Whole Wheat Flour
3 Cups of Sugar

3 Eggs

3/4 Cup of Butter
3 Teaspoons Baking Soda

1 Teaspoon Cinnamon

1 Teaspoon Vanilla Extract

1/2 Teaspoon Salt

1 24-Oz Container of Sour Cream

Beginning with the sugar, butter and eggs, combine all ingredients in a large bowl and mix thoroughly. Pour into four small greased loaf pans and bake at 300 degrees for one hour. Done.

I mentioned to Stacey via email that my banana bread was in the works. She replied that she and the kids would be eagerly awaiting it, and could I please add chocolate chips? Personally, I think the chocolate chips overpower the flavor of the bananas, but who am I to argue with a cancer patient, right? So chocolate chips it was.

Not a photo of the actual banana bread I baked, but mine looked exactly like this, I swear.

BW and I kept one of the four loaves for ourselves and gave one to a neighbor. That left me with the challenge of shipping two loaves from San Diego to South Florida overnight without their becoming stale or getting pulverized en route.

Cut to later that day, as BW and I were walking through the parking lot of Blockbuster Video in our neighborhood. I spotted a California driver's license on the ground and stopped to pick it up.

"Oh, look," I said, scrutinizing the photo of a handsome, short-haired woman. "Some lesbian lost her driver's license." For the sake of this blog, I'll call her Christina Crawford, because she looked a bit like the actress Diana Scarwid, who portrayed the daughter in "Mommie Dearest."

Wow: That's two "Mommie Dearest" references in the last two blogs. I'm getting gayer by the minute.

"What are you going to do with it?," BW asked me.

"I'm going to try and find this woman," I said. "God knows if someone found my license, I'd want them to do anything they could to find me."

When we got home, I googled "Christina Crawford" and "San Diego." I had considered simply mailing the license to the address printed on it, but BW pointed out that Christina could have moved since then. There were no google hits as far as a phone number, address or place of employment. But I did find a Christina Crawford in San Diego on Facebook, although there was no face photo on her public profile. I gave it a shot and sent her a message:

Hi, my name is Adam, and I live in Hillcrest. I just found a driver's license on the ground with the name Christina Crawford. If this is you, reply to this message or call me at 917-xxx-xxxx so I can get it back to you.

Best, Adam

Two hours later, I got a reply:

yes. i was looking every where for it. If you want u could bring it to the ups store I work at in Hillcrest. Thank you so much and if you do not have time, u could mail it to me. Thanx again

Christina

UPS store? It was fate. (Though not terribly surprising, given that she's a lesbian.)

The next morning, before work, I pulled into the UPS parking lot, banana bread in hand, to return Christina's driver's license. I spotted her immediately, loading a cart outside the store.

Christina thanked me profusely for returning her license to her. I explained that I was also there to send banana bread to my cousin who was fighting breast cancer. We chatted a bit, and she told me about her sister, who also survived breast cancer some years ago. As we talked, Christina boxed up the banana loaves for me all nice and secure and had me fill out the paperwork to ship them to Stacey. When I pulled out my credit card, she shook her head.

"This is on me," she said.

I spoke with Stacey moments ago, just before posting this blog. I wanted to make sure she was OK with my writing about her illness, and to make sure the banana bread arrived safe and sound. Yes on both counts. She's feeling much better this week. And she was also very happy about the chocolate chips.

Stacey's daughter, Alexa, has started her own page on the American Cancer Society's web site, which you should visit and donate to by clicking here.

I love you, Stacey -- keep staying strong.

Homo heartwarmed. ♥

License to Drive (Part 2)

For most of the 80s, My mother worked as Director of Development at St. Barnabas Medical Center in Livingston. I don't know what the job entailed, exactly. I just know that she used to come home most nights filled with rage. Calling her at work for any reason was never a great idea; calling her to ask that she leave work to immediately drive ten miles to Springfield so I could take the driving test in her car was soul suicide.

"Oh, no. NOOOOO! THIS IS FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE!"

"Mom, please!," I whimpered. "If I can't take the test right now, they're going to make me come back another day. I have to get my driver's license today!"

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH THIS IS GOING TO FUCK UP MY DAY!"

Click.

Exactly eight minutes later, a candy-apple red Ford Taurus came screeching into the DMV parking lot. Behind the wheel was a rather crazed, tall, late-40s Jewish woman. Anna and I cowered in fear as she stormed in to the lobby.

"HERE!," she said, flinging the car keys at me. "NOW GIVE ME DAD'S KEYS! I'M ALREADY LATE FOR MY NEXT MEETING!"

"Tina! Bring me the axe!"

Moments later, she was gone, her last words ringing in my ear: "THIS IS A TOTAL FUCK-UP!"

The Ford Taurus wasn't even her car. It was a rental car she was using that week while her massive station wagon sat in the shop for repairs. As a result I had never before gotten behind the wheel of the Taurus. And here I was about to take my driver's test in it.

Fortunately, it was an easy car to drive -- certainly easier than the Jeep and 280-ZX, though I probably used my left foot for the brake once or twice, accustomed as I was to driving a stick shift. The only part of the test I flunked was parallel parking, and that's a Sank family tradition. In the end, I had my driver's license.

"You're driving back to Summit," said Anna, as she slumped down in the passenger seat to resume her nap.

"OK, how do I get there from here?"

"Figure it out yourself."

Ours was a loving home.

I was flooded with these memories as I drove last week to the DMV in Clairemont, not far from where I work. While I wouldn't have to take a behind-the-wheel test this time around, I was required to take California's written exam. I wasn't worried; how difficult could it be?

The DMV office was so packed when I got there that I could barely find a parking spot. The line was at least 100 people deep. Fortunately, I had made an appointment three weeks prior, and went straight to the appointment desk. In front of me was a man who looked to be about 97.

"It's my birthday!" he announced to the woman behind the counter. "I'm here to get my license renewed! And how'd you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

The woman chuckled politely and turned down his offer before handing him his waitlist ticket. Now it was my turn.

"Hi, I'm Adam Sank. I'm here to get a California driver's license, and..."

"Letter?" she interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"WHERE IS THE LETTER WE SENT YOU?!"

"Um, I didn't get a letter."

"Well, do you have an appointment?"

"Yes. For 2:40 p.m."

She flipped wildly through a list on her desk before finally spotting my name. "You should have received a letter," she said, handing me my ticket. It read "C210."

I sat down to wait for my number to be called. Every 30 seconds or so, an automated woman's voice would announce: "Number A362. Please proceed to Window 23... Number G287. Please proceed to Window 18..." and so forth. But as the minutes ticked by, not a single "C number was called.

Finally, after 15 minutes or so, the voice said, "Number C140. Please proceed to Window 6."

I looked down at my ticket: C210. I glanced back up at the monitor: C140. It was then that I noticed the 97-year-old man taking an eye test at Window 23.

I marched back up to the appointment desk. The original woman had vanished, replaced by a co-worker.

"Excuse me," I said. "But I had a 2:40 appointment, and it's been 20 minutes, and the old man who came in right before me -- see, that guy over there moving closer to the eye chart -- he got to go to his window right away...."

"Let me see your ticket," she said. I handed it over. "OK, this is a non-appointment ticket. She should have given you an appointment ticket. Here you go." She handed me a new ticket. This one read I347.

I resumed my seat in the waiting area. It was now 3:05 p.m.

By 3:20, I had yet to hear a single "I" number called. Through the window to the parking lot I could see the 97-year-old man get into his beat-up old Chevy and turn the wrong way onto a one-way street.

I decided it was time to return to the appointment desk. The original woman, the one who had given me the wrong ticket, had returned.

"Excuse me," I said. "But you gave me a non-appointment ticket before, and I had an appointment, so while you were gone, I got a new ticket from the other lady. But I've been here 40 minutes now, and..."

"It hasn't been 40 minutes," she interrupted.

"Actually, it has. My appointment was for 2:40, and it's now 3:21."

"Well, I'm sorry, sir."

"It's OK, I just want to know if there's some way I could move up in the line, because they're not calling any 'I' numbers, and..."

"No, I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to wait your turn."

"But that's the problem," I explained. "My turn should have been 40 minutes ago, but you gave me the wrong ticket..."

"Yes, and I apologized, sir."

"And I accept your apology. But isn't there something you can do now to expedite my position in the line so that..."

"No, I'm sorry, sir."

We stared at each other for a few more seconds, our eyes locked like those of angry housecats, and then I returned to my seat.

A few moments later, the female automated voice sounded again: "Number I335. Please proceed to Window 32."

I checked the number again on my ticket: I347. Inside my head, I could hear a familiar voice screaming:

"THIS IS A TOTAL FUCK-UP!"

To be continued.

Homo pissed. ♥