The iPhone Chronicles

There's a kind of a sort of cost
There's a couple of things get lost
There are bridges you cross
You didn't know you crossed until you've crossed...


--"Wicked"


We start with the good news: The first installment of "Dirty Laundry," my all-naked comedy show (produced by my dear friend and sleaze-meister extraordinaire Daniel Nardicio) was an unqualified success. We packed the space at 30 Lexington, and the evening was truly one-of-a-kind, high-quality entertainment. I think everyone there would agree. Here's an interview Next Magazine did with me previewing the event.

I'm not sure why nudity and comedy would go well together. But if you really think about it, stand-up is all about stripping away artifice and getting to the real and the true underneath. The best comics -- particularly the comics I most enjoy, like Louis CK -- will get on-stage and expose their true selves to the audience. Appearing on-stage naked is perhaps the logical extension of that. I know for me, being naked while telling stories doesn't make me feel embarrassed or sexual or any of the other things we associate with nudity. But it does make me feel exposed and vulnerable, and that actually enhances my ability to connect to the audience in an authentic way.

In any case, and it'll be hard to understand this if you weren't there, the vibe of the show felt like nothing so much as a bonfire at sleepaway camp, at which people are lounging contentedly around a warm center, exchanging funny stories and laughing. It felt cozy.

Just like this. Only nakeder.

30 Lex is not a bar or a club. It's essentially an empty duplex apartment that's used for various parties and functions. I was hopping around the space busily throughout the show, as I always am when I'm hosting. And at some point, I took some of my stuff -- a pair of socks, a Chapstick, my MAC Medium Dark Blot Pressed Powder (which keeps me from looking shiny on stage) and my iPhone -- and set them on the kitchen stove, which was next to the stage platform. 

This is where the bad news happens.

Immediately after the show, I wrapped a towel around my waist and was engulfed in a flurry of activity. People came up to hug me, thank me, shake my hand, etc. The photographer from Next Magazine took pictures of me and the other comics. And then I sat down for a very long, very thoughtful interview with a reporter from Edge on the Net. I'm looking forward to seeing how it turns out.

When the interview ended, I went to put my clothes back on and gather my belongings. Everything was exactly where I had left it: Socks, Chapstick, MAC powder and even my backpack (inside of which were my wallet and keys). 

But no iPhone.

Adios.

I knew instantly it had been taken, even as Daniel and everyone else tried to convince me it would turn up. It shocked me -- and still shocks me -- that anyone who had been part of such a warm, intimate experience would then turn around and steal something so valuable, but to paraphrase Faye Dunaway in "Mommie Dearest, this ain't my first time at the stolen iPhone rodeo.

My first iPhone was was stolen just one month after I bought it. The circumstances were almost identical, except I was clothed at the time. I was hosting "That Sank Show" at Bar-Tini and set the phone down on the edge of DJ booth for a few minutes, and poof! It was gone. The replacement cost me $700. And now, less than six months later, I've got to replace it again.

If I'm being honest, I really do have a troubled past with Apple products. Regular readers of this blog will recall my missing iPod saga from when I lived in San Diego. That story actually had a happy ending, as I got my iPod back, and the fat bitch who stole it lost her job. And this past year has been an especially trying one for me in terms of lost and stolen items of all kinds. In June, I had my wallet stolen out of my pocket at the Eagle (don't even ask the circumstances of that transaction), and then three months later my new wallet fell out of my gym shorts while getting off a cross-town bus, only to be returned the next day (sans cash) by a bicyclist. So this latest theft is just one more giant headache and financial lost to add to my long, sad list.

What can I tell you? As anal retentive and organized and Type-A as I pride myself in being, mine is a scattered artist's brain. And also, I was naked Friday night, so there weren't a lot of obvious places to stow the phone, other than up my ass. 

I've been chronicling the loss of my phone on Facebook all weekend, and a number of well-meaning people have reached out to me to try and offer advice on getting the phone back or replacing it without having to pay an arm and a leg. While I truly appreciate everyone's suggestions, none have been useful to me. So in a preemptive strike against one more person's telling me my insurance will pay for it (and as a sort of primer to anyone out there who may be going through this), allow me to summarize:

1) I didn't have insurance. After I lost the first phone, I inquired about insurance and was informed that Verizon's insurance plan only covers damage, not loss or theft. So I didn't get it, and it wouldn't have made a difference if I did.

2) I did have a passcode on the phone, so theoretically, it should be useless to whoever nabbed it -- at least until they wipe the phone and restore it to its factory settings. More on that later.

3) I did download and launch the "Find-My-iPhone" application before the phone was stolen. Apple trumpets this app as a sort of LoJack for phones -- a way to track your phone's location, send messages to it, or lock/wipe it completely from a remote location. I'm here to tell you that Find-My-iPhone is fucking useless. Unless the phone is kept charged and turned on, the app won't work. And whoever has my phone turned it off within an hour of acquiring it and has kept it off ever since. I know this from my Verizon usage reports, and from the fact that I've tried using Find-My-iPhone about two-dozen times, day and night, over the last 48 hours. All it tells me is that my phone is "offline." At this point, I've done everything the app allows -- including sending a sound and a "Return to me!" message to the phone, locking it and wiping it. All the site tells me is that my commands will be granted if and when someone turns the phone on.

4) Apple will not replace my phone. In fact, they don't even have any more iPhone 4 32G's left. I could purchase an iPhone 4 8G -- essentially a downgrade -- for about $500. Or I could reserve the new iPhone 4S and pay $700 whenever it arrives. Nor does Apple keep track of lost or stolen phones by serial number. In other words, if the thief takes my phone(s), plugs it into his Mac or takes it to the Apple store, he can simply wipe out my settings and data and start over again with his "new"phone. This is another reason why Find-My-iPhone and passcodes are bullshit security.

5) Verizon, however, does keep a list of lost/stolen phones by serial number. I spoke with Monica, a truly exceptional customer service agent at Verizon, today, and she actually looked up both the serial numbers of my first and second iPhone and confirmed that nobody has tried to activate them using a different phone number. And now they can't, because I've reported them stolen. This won't necessarily help me get my phones back, but at least I know the evil cunts who took them won't get to use them either. (The poor saps they sell them to are another story.) In addition, I registered with a site called iTrack, which is essentially a national lost-and-found directory for Apple products. Supposedly, iTrack works with pawn shops and law enforcement to prevent the resale of stolen devices. And I've offered a reward of $100 via the site to anyone who turns in the newer of the two phones. We shall see.

6) I don't have renter's insurance. I don't rent.

7) My homeowner's insurance doesn't cover items that weren't stolen from my home.

8) I am not eligible for a free upgrade (to the 4S) until October of 2012. Monica told me she could bend that by a month or two, but not an entire year.

9) For the time being, I'm back to using my ancient, teeny-tiny Verizon LG VX920V03 phone. It's like using an Etch a Sketch to talk, text and email.

I Love the 90s.

And that's basically where it's at now. I'm thinking what I'll do is try and find an iPhone 3 or 4 that someone's not using anymore -- my beloved cousin Stacy said I might be able to have her old 3 -- or purchase a used one online. Then, when next October rolls around, I'll upgrade to the 4S for free. If anyone reading this happens to have an iPhone they're no longer using and wants to donate it to me, please email me. I'll be eternally grateful. I am also accepting monetary donations to the Adam Sank Sad Foundation for iPhone Loss (ASSFIL). You can donate by clicking here:

Actually, if every reader of this blog gave just $5.00, I could probably buy myself a brand new 4S. (I'm assuming I have at least 140 unique readers.) Any leftover funds will be donated to AmFAR. How 'bout it?

 

 

Oh, and one last thing. When I got back from the Apple store and the gym today, I walked into my apartment and smelled a strange and sickly mildew odor. I followed the smell into the bathroom, which I found covered in dirty water. Apparently the old French man who lives upstairs had left his bathtub running indefinitely, and the water seeped through my ceiling and light fixtures. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Homo phone home. ♥

Come see me tomorrow night at Rock Bar! Details here.

Fun With Scanner

Look at this photograph

Every time I do it makes me laugh

How did our eyes get so red?

And what the hell is on Joey's head?

--Nickelback

I know my recent extended trips down Memory Lane have bordered on the pathologically narcissistic, even for a blog titled "Sanktastic." But since so many people from my past have reached out to me in the last few weeks -- and since I recently rediscovered a trove of old photos and figured out how to use my sexy Canon MP495 Pixma to scan them online (no easy feat, by the way) -- I decided to do one last nostalgic photo-blog. If you didn't find my Frat Life series entertaining, you might as well skip the rest of this post. But if you're at all curious about seeing some of the people I described (along with myself as a fresh young thing) read on.

The photos are from a big grey album I made and kept all through college. It's really one of the gayest things you've ever seen. Each page is organized chronologically and by theme, and I had cut out funny little pictures and phrases from magazines and glued them into the album to accompany the pictures. If you've ever seen one of those collages 13-year-olds make to commemorate a bar or bat mitzvah, it's that sort of thing. (At least that's what we did back when I was on the bar mitzvah circuit. Kids these days are probably far more high-tech.)

The album also serves to demonstrate just how abruptly and completely I came out. Sophomore year ends with a number of romantic, kissy-face photos of Jane and me. Turn the page, and there's me and Will shirtless at the Ann Arbor public pool, looking like we just came from a Pride parade. A few more pages, and there's me with my first boyfriend, Tony. From Jane to Tony in one year. I wish I could rebound from relationships now as quickly I did then. 

I found the album at my sister Laura's house in Summit. Laura and her family own a large barn in their back yard. At one time long before they owned it, it was an actual barn, with horse stables and a chicken coop and so forth. Now it's just a dark, drafty place where they store stuff. When I moved to San Diego in '08, I stashed about six boxes of my belongings, mostly old files, in the chicken coop. In the ensuing years, a number of creatures -- perhaps raccoons -- have made a comfortable home for themselves in my boxes, and a lot of the stuff I left behind is shredded beyond recognition.

Fortunately, the album survived. And now, on with the slide show. (You can enlarge each picture by clicking on it.)

Painfully hung over in my freshman room in East Quad.

I was REALLY skinny -- 5'10'' and about 140 lbs.

And I could eat whatever I wanted.

Little bitch.

This is not Jane. 
Her name is Heather, and she was my first college girlfriend.

Despite that terrible late-80s Michigan hair, she was actually rather beautiful.

The cast of "Best LIttle Whorehouse in Texas."

Future Tony nominee Hunter Foster is in the front row with his hands in the air.

Jules is diagonally up and to his right, wearing glasses and a pink top.

I am dead center at the top of the picture. 

No idea why I'm wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

My first picture as a frat guy. My big brother, Steve, is far left.

Jules is to his right.

On the other side is Becky, who was one of closest friends and roommates through most of college.

Surrounded by chicks at one of my first Chi Psi parties.

Lodge president Bill Lewis has his arm around me.

(At least, I think that's him.)

Jane and me soon after we started dating.

Faces have been blurred to protect the innocent.

Yes, that is a dangly earring hanging from my left lobe.

And check out my hairy chest. 

I hadn't yet discovered man-scaping.

With Colin at a lodge halloween party.

I went as Pat from "Saturday Night Live." 

I had removed the wig and pillow by that point in the night.

Colin is -- I think -- Billy Idol.

With Steve and an unidentified Alpha Chi at the lodge's "Great Gatsby" party.

This is why I loved Chi Psi. 

What other fraternity would have had a "Great Gatsby" party?!

At the Chi Psi formal in Windsor, Ontario, with Jane.

I refer to this picture as the last straight one ever taken.

Told ya -- it gets gay really fast.

With Will at the pool. 

There was another Chi Psi with us that day whom we were both convinced was gay . 

But he's now married with kids. 

I cut him out of the picture so as not to incriminate.

All gussied up with Elizabeth,

Sh was an older woman who played a big role in my coming-out summer.

And a mighty mysterious character, indeed.

Someday I'll write a whole blog about her.

With Colin at the lodge formal in Chicago in '92. 

I had come out to him and my other close friends --  including my date -- by then.

I don't know why it looks like our shirts are glowing.

Dipping Colin on the dance floor.

With Tony in Saugatuck, about three weeks after we started dating.

I had never been so in love and rarely have been since.

The final evolution in my becoming a homo.

It's not what you think.

I had the lead in a campus production of "Torch Song Trilogy."

So actually, it kind of is what you think.

And that's it, kids! Hope you enjoyed these.

Homo in pictures. ♥

Going Once, Going Twice...

I've got the brain, you've got the looks
Let's make lots of money
You've got the brawn, I've got the brains
Let's make lots of money
--Pet Shop Boys

I'm baaaa-aaaack. And trying to get back on the healthy living track, although the official Life Cleanse has ended. Since many of you have asked, here was my final cleansing tally, as it were:

30 days without alcohol, drugs, or cigarettes.

That's it. That's what I accomplished. Which is nice, but on the flip side, I failed to meet my goals in terms of eating, working out, television, writing and casual sex. I was unable to stick to a program for even 30 days in those areas. Which, if nothing else, clarifies for me where my challenges lie going forward.

A number of friends in various recovery programs tell me it was a mistake for me to try giving up everything at once. Recovering alcoholics, for instance, are instructed not to try and quit smoking during their first phase of sobriety. But honestly, for me all of these vices are equivalent, in terms of the purpose they serve. I use each of them (to varying degrees) to numb, soothe and distract myself from the business of living life. And each of them keeps me from having to do any mental and emotional heavy lifting. They keep me stuck. So avoiding one while continuing to partake in another feels like switching from Big Macs to Whoppers. Either way, you wind up feeling like shit. (For the record, I prefer the Whopper.)

Hold the onions.

Anyway.

Here's the best thing to come out of the Life Cleanse: I'm still not smoking. And I'm not going to start again. There's just no reason for me to pick this habit back up and a million reasons not to. I've always been a freakishly light smoker -- a pack would typically last me two weeks -- but I've been smoking more or less continuously since I was 14, when one of the older kids at Newark Academy let me take a puff of her cig in the smoking section of the school cafeteria. (Yes, we actually had one, available in the mornings to students 16 and older. Ah, the 80s.) I switched from Marlboro Lights to American Spirits about 10 years ago, and though I remain convinced that the latter brand is far less harmful, the whole enterprise is horrible and deadly and stupid. Twenty-six years of smoking is more than enough for me, and since I clearly didn't miss it during this 30-day period, I might as well make a clean break.

Farewell, old friends.

Beyond that, my goal moving forward is to live as cleansily, if not perfectly, as possible. Only good can come from less TV, less casual sex, less partying, etc. With one exception:

I am a better comic after a few drinks.

I know, I know, that sounds like classic addict rationalization, and I can hear the collective heads of my AA friends exploding in unison. But it's simply the truth.

Look, I've never been a big drinker. Two drinks, and I've got a nice buzz going. Three drinks, I'm sleepy and slurry. Four drinks, I'm dizzy and unable to speak. Five drinks, I'm throwing up. End of story. I've never been able to understand people who just keep drinking and drinking -- people who start with a bloody Mary at breakfast and are still pounding shots late into the night. I would die. Literally.

But just as alcohol works as a lubricant in social situations (pervy readers, please refrain from the obvious jokes here), having a cocktail or two loosens me up just enough before I get on stage. The jokes flow more easily. My timing improves. I am more spontaneous and more able to engage in crowd work. It feels more like I'm at a party talking to friends, which is how I always want to feel on stage.

This became clear to me this past Saturday night. It was my first night off the Cleanse, and it was also the night I was acting as MC and auctioneer for 125th Anniversary gala of the YMCA in my hometown of Summit, NJ. The auction was co-organized by my eldest sister, Laura, and she had roped me into hosting it several months ago.

"We can't pay you anything," she said, "but it's for charity"

Although I am always hungry for cash, I was genuinely happy to do the gig in this case. The Y raises a ton of money for disadvantaged children and families. And the truth is, my life is sorely lacking in community service. I could stand to do a whole helluva lot more for the less fortunate, and it's one of the areas in which I hope to improve.

Still: This was A LOT of work. First there was the monologue. It had to be both clean and YMCA-related and had to appeal to the wealthy, largely conservative crowd that would be in attendance. I had performed thrice before in Summit at the Elks lodge, each time to great acclaim. (Seriously.) But the Elks are a very laid-back bunch, and I could be as nasty as I wanted to be with them.

Part 1 of my first Elks show opening set on May 1, 2010...

And Part 2.

The Y crowd, as I said, was going to be a whole different animal.

Then there was the auction. After my monologue, I was to auction off about a dozen items that had been donated by various individuals in the community, plus some community sponsorships. The hard items weren't the usual material things you see in auctions, like high-end appliances or works of art. One, for example, was a pool-and-pizza party at the Y. Another was a catered brunch for 12 at the town's Reeves-Reed arboretum. They were all really creative and interesting, but that made the details of each item incredibly difficult to remember, especially since I had written specific jokes about each one. And I don't like to ever read off notes. To me, there's just an instant turn-off factor when a performer reads from a sheet of paper. In the end, I did wind up using note-cards with bullet-points on them for the auction section, but most of it I did from memory.

My first panic attack came when I saw the room. My sister and her co-organizer, Carolyn, had done an incredible job transforming the Y's gym into a ballroom, along with the caterer and florist. But it was still a gym -- with the incredibly high ceiling and echoic acoustics that go along with it. And standing atop the stage, I could see I'd be performing in front of a long, narrow room of round tables. This is perhaps the worst set-up possible for stand-up. A comic wants to play to as wide and as shallow a room as possible, and he certainly doesn't want any backs to him.

The second panic attack came with the cooler-scooter.

A cooler-scooter, for those who don't know, is a little motorized beer cooler. It was one of the items being auctioned off -- part of the "Tailgater's Dream Package" -- and the plan was for me to make my big entrance riding the cooler-scooter up through the crowd to the strains of the Village People's "YMCA." I have no dignity.

Well, for one thing, there was no "up through the crowd." The tables were spread out all over the place, and there was no discernible center aisle. Moreover, I soon found during tech rehearsal that I was not very good at piloting the cooler-scooter. I could drive in a straight line without difficulty, but whenever I tried to turn, even at a slow speed, I tipped over.

Carolyn tried to convince me I could still enter from the back of the room, but I put my foot down and said "No." I'm game for a lot of things, but crashing head-on into a table full of wealthy conservatives is not one of them. Unless Roger Ailes is at the table.

It was therefore decided that I would make my entrance from the side of the stage, where the caterer had set up a staging area, drive around (slowly) in circles, park the scooter and begin my monologue.

Then it was time to go home, shower, change into my tux and stress.

The event began at 7:30. I huddled with my family, devouring the amazing hors d'oeuvres being passed by the even more amazing waiters and tried not to talk to anyone. It's hard to explain this without sounding like a complete asshole, but I really don't like talking to anyone before a show -- especially a show for which I have a lot of new stuff to remember. There's a great documentary about Phyllis Diller's final performance in which she talks about this. People would always come up to her before a show wanting to chat, and they didn't understand how much concentration it took for her to do what she did on stage. Any energy she gave someone during a chat was energy that would be lost during her show. Without ever wanting to compare myself to the legendary Phyllis, this is exactly how I feel. If you see me before a show, please leave me the fuck alone. We'll talk afterwards, I promise.

Plus, there were practical considerations. I had done one auction before -- a bachelor's auction at Splash several years ago -- and had gone home at the end of it unable to emit a sound. An auction is the vocal equivalent of a marathon.

So, as I said, I stayed close to the family, stuffed my face with food, ogled hot waiters (one of whom I recognized from the steam room of my gym) and drank Pinot Grigio. Two glasses, to be exact.

The Sanks, all decked out.

Phy, Laura, Me, Anna and Lew.

The evening continued. Dinner was served. Speeches were made. I felt a growing sense of dread. "This is not going to go well," began to repeat in my head. I took my position on the cooler-scooter and waited. Hot cater-waiters bumped into me every few seconds, confused as to what the hell I was doing, sitting on some strange little vehicle directly in their path. "YMCA" began to play. Laura made my introduction. And out I scooted.

I went for it. Completely blinded by a giant spotlight which followed me everywhere I rode, I scooted around the gym as fast as I could, weaving my way around tables and praying I wouldn't crash. I waved my arms and pulled faces and lifted both my legs straight out in front of me and generally behaved like a lunatic.

The crowd went wild.

Ditching the scooter by the stage, I grabbed the wireless mic and dove into my monologue:

"Hello, Summit! How are you guys tonight? I hear you've had a tough week after that freak snowstorm. No power. No heat. No hot water. Now you know how the other 99 percent feel. I heard even Governor Chris Christie lost power. Which is awful! How is he going to microwave his Lean Cuisine?"

Applause. I had 'em.

As I continued, I began to walk around the room, circling tables like an old-style lounge comic. Anytime I passed one of the giant centerpieces, the spotlight momentarily lost me, which became a running joke as I dodged to and fro to stay lit.

"We're here tonight to celebrate the Y's 125th Anniversary. And who better to host a gala for the Young Men's Christian Association than a gay Jew who hates sports? This would be like having Herman Cain host a party for Ms. Magazine."

Thunderous laughter, extended applause break.

The auction began. First up was the Tailgater's Dream Package.

"Now, I must tell you," I said, "when I first saw the name of this in the program, I though it said the 'Taliban's Dream Package.' And I was surprised that the Taliban would be donating so generously to the Young Men's Christian Association. And also, I was thinking I'd be a little nervous to open that package."

They ate it up. It was truly exhilarating. And we ended up raising $90,000 during the auction -- far surpassing expectations.

I was overwhelmed by the reaction I got after the show. A seemingly endless procession of people came up to me to tell me how much they had enjoyed what I did -- that it was so much more entertaining than any auction they had been to in the past. (And these are people who go to a lot of auctions.) A number of people asked for my card, and there was talk of my doing other upcoming events. Stay tuned.

A few minutes ago, Laura texted me. The board of directors of the Y wants to thank me. They're sending me a check.

Guess I'll have to come up with some other form of community service.

Homo going, going gone. ♥

To see me perform in a VERY different kind of show next week, click here.

Falling Off the Wagon

And now someone's on the telephone, desperate in his pain

And someone's on the bathroom floor doing her cocaine

Someone's got his finger on the button in some room

And no one can convince me we aren't gluttons for our doom

But I tried to make this place my place

I asked for Providence to smile upon me with his sweet face

--Indigo Girls


Happy Halloween.

I continue be surprised and delighted by the various and sundry people from my past who have reached out to me since I began posting the Frat Life series, including Paula -- one of Jane's sorority sisters who was on that same Cancun trip with us -- and Bill, the president of Chi Psi during the brief time I was an active member. The writing I do in this blog is so personal to me, I often forget there are actually people out there who read it. It's awesome, but it's also somewhat frightening, because I start to go back and look at what I wrote, worrying that maybe I've hurt someone's feelings along the way. For whatever it's worth, that is never my intent, and I am truly sorry if it's ever the result.

I'm not sure why my focus lately has been so much on the distant past. I guess since I started the Life Cleanse, I've felt a need to clear out all the cobwebs and create a clean space. Which is great, but I don't want to get stuck there. I was in therapy from 1999 to around 2005. And while Joseph, my therapist, was great for me in many ways, he was also a die-hard Freudian. In hindsight, I think we spent entirely too much time focusing on my early childhood. I remember one session where he actually tried to get me to remember having a dirty diaper.

Talk about full of shit!

It's important to understand the early causes of one's behavior, but that in and of itself doesn't change the behavior. I wish Joseph had been more practical. I wish every once in a while, he would have just said, "Just stop doing this. Just quit it. It's hurting you." But he never did.

Speaking of the LC... I fell off the wagon big-time this weekend. Not with everything -- I still haven't touched booze, drugs or cigarettes since Oct. 6 -- but with TV, food and sex. Which is half the battle. So I'm kind of bummed. I'm not getting into details of the sex right now. I'll only say that I may or may not have hooked up with a guy dressed as Hermes, the Messenger God, after passing him on my block Saturday night. And he may or may not have left his costume on the whole time.

His costume wasn't this cool. It looked more like pajamas.

I was on my way home from a photo shoot at the time. The photo shoot was for an upcoming naked comedy show I'm doing for one of Daniel Nardicio's naughty parties, along with Brad Loekle, Chad Stringfellow and Jason Barker.

Jason, me and Brad in a promotional photo by Jeff Eason.

Fun fact: Jason was actually nude under the blanket. 

If you want to know more, you'll have to come to the show.

This all happened during that biblical freak Nor'easter snowstorm we were hit with, and something about the weather just made me want to pig out. So Brad and I stopped at Schnipper's after the shoot, and I ate a cheeseburger with sweet potato fries, while Brad nibbled daintily at a chicken Caesar salad. Then came the thing that may or may not have happened with Hermes. Then I left my apartment again and bought a pint of Ben 'n Jerry Chubby Hubby, of which I ate about a third.

Sidebar: Did you guys know that Ben 'n Jerry temporarily changed the name of that flavor to "Hubby Hubby" in 2009 in support of marriage equality?! How fucking cool! This makes me feel a little better about eating it. Not much, but a little.

So yeah. Fell of the wagon. I'm trying not to beat myself up about it. My many friends in AA tell me the goal is progress, not perfection. Still, I feel rather weak that I couldn't stick to my program -- rigorous though it was -- for even 30 days. It's not even the sex I feel particularly bad about. That only lasted a few moments, anyway. (Hermes is, after all, winged.) No, where I really fell into the trap this weekend was with the television. I watched hours of it, retreating into my old sofa-coma. And yes, the weather was shit. And yes, I had no bookings this past weekend. And yes, nobody called me to make plans, and everyone I called was busy.

But that's the ultimate goal: To find something constructive, creative and healthy to do with myself even when I'm completely alone.

Progress, not perfection.

Ironically, one of the shows I stumbled across Sunday was Oprah's Lifeclass. (Get it? Lifeclass? LifeCleanse?) So many people in my life have been telling me I should be watching this show, so it's probably no accident. Especially since in the first five minutes I watched, Oprah put up a quotation by Iyanla Vanzant.

Iyanla is a relationship expert and one of Oprah's disciples. She is certifiably batshit crazy, and incredibly entertaining to watch. She was on the Oprah show dozens of times during the late 90s, and often Oprah would cede the entire hour to Iyanla. Then the two of them had a bitter falling out, and they never spoke again... until this year.

If you didn't get to see their reunion, I beg you to watch this clip, with Iyanla screaming "I didn't even know what it was!," and Oprah just being as cold and cunty as she's ever been. It's genius.

Anyway, Iyanla is apparently back in O's good graces, because girlfriend is all OVER Oprah's Lifeclass. And as I tuned in to the program, for the very first time, in the first 30 seconds I'm watching, Oprah puts the following Iyanla quote on the screen:

You can accept or reject the way you are treated by other people, but until you heal the wounds of your past, you will continue to bleed. 

You can bandage the bleeding with food, with alcohol, with drugs, with work, with cigarettes, with sex, but eventually, it will all ooze through and stain your life. 

You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the core of the pain that is holding you in your past, the memories, and make peace with them."       

Did you just get goosebumps? Because I sure did. It's like she wrote that shit for me.

So without even being aware of what I was doing, that's what all these blogged flashbacks have been: An attempt to open the pain that's been holding me in my past and make peace with it.

I love you, you crazy bitch!

One last thing: In doing a bit of research about Hermes -- the mythological Hermes, not my trick from Saturday night -- I learned that he "protects and takes care of all the travelers, miscreants, harlots, old crones and thieves that pray to him or cross his path. He is athletic and is always looking out for runners, or any athletes with injuries who need his help."

So here's hoping Hermes is watching over me and helping me heal my injuries.

Homo cleansing again. ♥


P.S. Thanks, Paul, for always pushing me to blog. You're a creepy perv, but I like you.

Frat Life (Part 5 - Finale)

You talk too much
Homeboy, you never shut up.
--Run DMC

Every so often, I begin telling a story that I believe will be interesting and entertaining to my readers -- a twisted, turbulent tale that will conclude with some meaningful, satisfying take-away. But once the story gets underway, it becomes rambling and veers off track, and I find myself at a loss as to how to end it.

This is one of those times.

I'm sorry. I honestly don't know what the point of all this was, and I fear there will be no "ta-da!" moment when you reach the end. Also, my memory of these events is proving to be unusually spotty. For instance, I know Jane was a big pain in the ass, but I can't remember many specific examples to illustrate this. I think perhaps my coming out -- to myself and others -- was so monumental that it overshadows all the events that immediately preceded it.

In any case, if you've traveled this far with me, I feel I owe it to you to at least try and tie it all up in a neat little bow. If nothing else, I do have a cute little anecdote -- courtesy of my big brother, Steve -- to serve as a kind of punchline to this whole mess.

But first, a correction. Moments ago, Colin Scantlebury messaged me the following with regard to my last chapter:

Again, I loved it. I howled at it. I have a few facts for you though:
I am not a Republican Protestant, nor have I ever been! I am a practicing Catholic and a registered Independent (who has yet to vote for a Republican president, btw).

So there you go, and I apologize to Colin for the misrepresentation. This makes me love you even more.

OK, on we go. Apologies again for the lack of clear narrative.

Eventually, Mike P.'s behavior became so obnoxious -- the shit on the cook's car being the proverbial icing on the cake -- that an official campaign was launched to de-activate him from the fraternity. This was highly unusual and a very big deal. The lodge elders called a meeting  at which Mike P. was present where we all discussed in depth his misdeeds, arguing for and against his expulsion. At the end of the meeting, a vote was taken.

As luck would have it, I was the only neophyte eligible to vote. Actually, it wasn't luck; it was the fact that I was an anal-retentive little goody-goody who studied diligently for my Chi Psi history exam and was the first and only neophyte to have passed it in time. (As part of the exam, we had to memorize the Greek alphabet. I'm sad to say that all I remember now is Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Epsilon... and that's it.)

The meeting was emotionally wrenching. Men wept. Not Mike P.; I don't think he was capable of human emotion. But some of his supporters cried openly. Tempers flared. Personal attacks were lobbed.

As for me, I stood up and gave a little speech that I had prepared, explaining my vote to expel. My recollection is that the writing was first-rate, but the delivery was crap. I was nervous as fuck and stared at the ground while mumbling my words. It turns out it's not easy to tell someone to his face that you want him to disappear, especially with an audience of peers watching.

I remember the last two lines verbatim:

Throughout my time pledging Chi Psi, I never knew where I stood with Mike Putridio. At the very least, now he knows where he stands with me.

Ooooh! Burn!

Whatever. The vote was overwhelmingly in favor of keeping him in the fraternity. So the only real result of my speech was that Mike P. hated me even more than he had before, making things between Jane and me all the more fraught. Actually, the vote to boot him did seem to have something of a neutering effect. There were no further major incidents involving him that I recall.

Another emotional meeting that sticks with me now happened during my last semester as a Chi Psi. It was during the rush process. One of the rushees that semester was the younger brother of Chi Psi's president at the time, a hard-headed guy named Bill. The younger brother was a little blond twink named Michael. To avoid confusion with Michael P., I'll call the little brother Mikey.

For some reason, Mikey rubbed just about all the brothers the wrong way. It was an unwritten law that if you were a legacy, you were a shoe-in, especially if your brother was the current president. Not so with Mikey. People just couldn't stand him. "This kid's a major tool," was the oft-repeated refrain. I didn't feel that strongly about him one way or the other, but he seemed nice enough, in addition to being a kindred spirit (i.e. flaming).

Bill held his tongue while the other brothers expressed their unwillingness to consider Mikey. I was one of the few, it should be mentioned, who spoke in his favor. It should also be mentioned that during the course of the rush meeting, I consumed an entire bottle of white wine. I mean one of those big-ass 1.5 liter bottles. My tolerance to alcohol was probably somewhat higher in those days than it is now, but that's a helluva lot of booze in any case.

Finally, Bill got up to speak on his brother's behalf. He gave an impassioned and deeply personal speech about he and Mikey's relationship with one another, and how much it meant to Mikey to become a Chi Psi. And at some point in the speech, much to the surprise of my fraternity brothers and myself, I began to sob. Not cry -- sob. A loud, ugly, painful, primal sob that went on and on. Everyone, including Bill, glanced nervously at me, wondering when this mentally unstable woman was going to quit her caterwauling.

Actual photo of me from that night.

To this day, I have no idea what moved me so, other than the wine. I'm sure I was crying for all sorts of things that had nothing to do with Mikey. But whatever the case, my tears in combination with Bill's speech did the trick, and Mikey was voted in by a tiny margin. When we delivered the news to him, he immediately informed me he wanted me as his big brother as soon as he became a neophyte.

That never happened. A couple of months into his pledge period, Mikey announced that he was dropping out of Michigan to become a fashion designer and was thus de-pledging from Chi Psi. I have no idea what became of him.

OK, let's try to wrap up the Jane thing.

Jane and I basically played our respective roles as the perfect fraternity-sorority couple. We never went as far as getting pinned or lavaliered (yes, people actually still do this), but we did accompany each other to all major events. I also accompanied her -- along with most of her Alpha Chi Omega sisters -- on a week-long spring break in Cancun.

Here's what I remember from that trip:

1) We had no refrigerator in the room, so we kept our drinks on ice in the bidet.

2) Jane's best friend and her boyfriend shared the room with us. Her boyfriend looked like a young Matthew Morrison. I lusted after him non-stop.

3) It was virtually impossible to get Jane out of bed each morning, what with the combination of hypoglycemia, irregular eating and heavy drinking. So I spent nearly every breakfast as the other couple's third wheel. Which was fine with me.

4) I smuggled a cheap bottle of vodka out of Mexico, and it broke in my suitcase, soaking everything.

5) Cancun was where Jane and I had intercourse for the first time, in between her comas. It was nothing to write home about for either one of us, I'm quite certain.

So not my type now, but at the time... woof!

We broke up shortly afterwards. I don't recall the details, but I know it was I who broke up with her. And that I never told her I was gay. Which I sort of regret.

Once single, and having finally admitted to myself that I was a big ol' fruit (and after having bumped into Will at the gay bar in Saugatuck,) I realized it didn't make much sense for me to stay in Chi Psi. My social life had changed dramatically. I was now spending every Friday night at Ann Arbor's one and only gay dance club, the Nectarine Ballroom, where "DJ Roger" spun the latest hits from five years prior, and one could buy a well drink for a quarter until 10PM. And since I didn't actually live in the lodge and was no longer attending most of the parties, I couldn't justify paying the monthly dues.

So I simply de-activated, giving a little farewell speech at one of our monthly meetings. There was only one thing left to do: Come out to the two people responsible for my joining Chi Psi in the first place, Jules and Steve.

Here's how Steve remembers it:

You and Will knocked on the suite door essentially right after your Sawgituck (sp?) visit, and we told you it was alright to come in (despite being undressed under the covers). You both came in, sat down in separate chairs, closed the door, and told us you had something serious to discuss.

"That's fine, go ahead."

"No, it's REALLY serious." (I can't remember if it was you or Will who said this line.)

 Jules: "That's fine. It's not like you are going to tell us you're gay or something."

Loooooooong pause. Excruciating uncomfortableness. In those ten seconds, it was clear to EVERYONE that it was EXACTLY what you were going to tell us, and then all four of us started laughing. You both eventually told us the story of running into each other on the west side of the state and, yes, you had come out. It was one of those few moments that I've gotten to enjoy someone else inserting his/her foot in his/her mouth.

Incredibly, I don't remember this episode at all. But it seems crazy to me now that Will and I would have decided to come out to them simultaneously. A double-outing! And by two guys to whom they were both very close! It must have been incredibly surreal for Steve and Jules, but they handled it with uncommon grace and kindness. When I told Colin, a short time later, he also took the news with total acceptance and great humor.

I cannot overstate the magnitude of magnanimity and open-mindedness exhibited by these folks -- and the select few others to whom I came out at that time. You have to remember that this was 1992, an entirely different era in LGBT history. There were no gay television characters, and the only gay celebrities we knew about were the ones who had died of AIDS (and Elton John). And while the University of Michigan may have had a progressive tradition, it was still in the Midwest. I can promise you not too many Michigan frat guys would have dealt with my news the way Steve, Jules and Colin did.

I made a lot of mistakes during my time in Chi Psi, but choosing these people as my closest friends wasn't one of them.

I guess that's my "ta-da!" moment.

Homo de-activated. ♥

Frat Life (Part 4)

People talk and people stare, tell them I don't really care

This is the place I should be

And if they think it's really strange for a girl like you

To be in love with someone like me

I wanna tell them all to go to hell, that we're doing very well

Without them, you see

That's just the way it is and they will see

I am yours and you are mine

The way it should be

--"A Girl Like You" 
The Smithereens

It's not like me to post twice on the same day, but I was sitting in my apartment watching "The Sing Off," and I found myself writing the next chapter in my head. Whenever that happens, it's like spitting into the wind if I don't sit down and try to get it all out. So here goes.

The odds were stacked against Jane and I from the beginning, what with my being gay and her being hypoglycemic. But there were other, more sinister forces at work against us. I mentioned previously that Chi Psis at Michigan were uncommonly nice, well-mannered guys. But there was one group of boys in the Lodge who did not fit the bill. This was Mike's group.

I wish I could tell you Mike's real last name, because it's one of those perfectly onomatopoetic character names, like Nurse Ratched or Pussy Galore. But I have a policy of not using full names when trashing people -- even villains -- in this blog. For now, let's call him Mike Putridio.

Mike P. was a singularly polarizing character in my fraternity. People either loved him or hated him. I belonged to the latter group. I regarded him as a piece of shit. In fact, he once left a piece of shit -- his own -- on the windshield of our beloved cook, Jerry. As a joke. Because, you know, shit's funny.

Mike P. ran with two sidekicks who encouraged and emulated his barbaric behavior. One of them was nicknamed D-Gon, which was, I think, some sort of nerdy engineering play on his last name. (If any nerdy engineers know what a d-gon is, please leave a comment.) D-Gon had a recurring bit in which he would run up to you and ask, "You wanna see puss?" And then before you could answer, he would drop his pants to reveal his genitals. Only his penis would be tucked back between his thighs, so that all you could see was public hair. It was exactly like that scene from "Silence of the Lambs" where the killer is admiring himself in the mirror going, "Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me."

This was not regarded as acceptable behavior in Chi Psi.

The movie came out right around the time I joined Chi Psi, so it was probably D-Gon's inspiration.

The other sidekick was a raging alcoholic named Donohue. I don't remember his first name.

D-Gon and Donohue were not shitty to me from the get-go. In fact, I remember in the beginning thinking D-Gon and I might become good friends, puss exhibitions notwithstanding. But Mike P. was another story. Aside from being an overall hooligan, he seemed to loathe me from the moment he first laid eyes on me. Certainly, I don't recall ever having a single conversation with him during rush. He possessed one of those cocky, too-cool-for-the-room attitudes that had always pissed me off in high school. He refused to ever acknowledge my presence.

I don't know what it was about me he so disliked. Officially, the reason that got back to me was that as a pledge, I had pilfered an older brother's girl -- i.e. Jane, who had gone to the hayride as someone else's date. (Jesus, this all sounds so Rodgers and Hammerstein.) But that didn't make sense; before asking Jane out the first time, I had gone to the brother in question and made sure I had his blessing. And Mike P. was not the kind of person who cared much about the rules of conduct.

Looking back, I suspect three possible motivations for his enmity: 

1) He was a homophobe who (correctly) suspected that I was A) a homo and B) a fraud. 

2) He wanted Jane for himself.

3) He wanted me for himself.

As titillating and psychologically satisfying as 3) might be, in my heart of hearts, I believe it was some combination of 1) and 2).

Oh, and one more thing: He was one of Jane's best friends.

This made for some tense interactions among the three of us. For one thing, I could never understand why Jane would want to be friends with such an asshole in the first place. But more importantly, I couldn't understand why, if she and Mike P. were such good friends, she wouldn't just say to him, "Stop being an asshole to my boyfriend." Loyalty has been a recurring theme throughout my life. It seems to me that if you care about someone, you don't stand by while they're being abused, and you certainly don't befriend their abuser. I would have made a good mafioso.

[UPDATE: Following is the paragraphh that mysteriously disappeared before publishing. Blogger keps doing this to my posts, and it's infuriating. If, in reading Sanktastic, you ever notice something apparently missing or otherwise odd, please contact me at once.]

Things came to a head late one night about a month after Jane I began dating. We were in bed together in my East Quad dorm. I lived that sophomore year in a four-person suite, which was designed such that there would be two bedrooms on either side, each containing a top and bottom bunk, with a kitchen and bathroom in the center of the apartment. Well, what my roommates and I did was to move both bunkbeds into one of the bedrooms, creating a dark, crowded man-cave that we used for sleeping only. This left the other bedroom available for use as a TV room, party room, or makeout room. Jane and I were using it for the latter. It was well past midnight, when suddenly there was a loud banging on the door.


I sprang from the double-futon clad only in my underwear to answer the door. And there, much to my surprise, were Mike P., D-Gon and Donohue.

It was one of life's truly awkward moments. Because they had no explanation for why they were there. If Colin or Steve or just about anyone else from Chi Psi had been standing outside my door unexpectedly one night, I would have been happy to see them. But these people had already made it clear they were not my friends. So we all just kind of stared at one another for what seemed like an eternity. They looked as weirded out to see me as I was to see them

Finally I remember Donohue mumbling, "Oh, you have a nice body," which made it even more awkward. Then Mike P. strode right past me into the hook-up room, where Jane was still under the covers. 

"Oh, look who's here!," he said, his tone making it obvious that he wasn't at all surprised to see her there. Jane looked embarrassed, but she still lay there chatting with him amiably for about ten minutes while my blood boiled. Finally they left.

It was then that I decided I would have my revenge on Mike P.

Meanwhile, I bonded with my other fraternity brothers. One of my happiest memories from those days was fronting the in-house rock band, which consisted of me on lead vocals, Alex Guiso on guitar, Darren Lane on bass, Shawn Johnston on drums and some Asian guy from another fraternity named, I think, Derek on keyboards. Collectively, we were Fat Natalie and the Tooties, a name of which I remain proud to this day.

Love her.

Fat Nat, as we would come to be known, only played one real concert, but it was a doozy. At one of Chi Psi's biggest parties, we performed a five-song set in front of a truly adoring throng. If memory serves, our set list was as follows:

1) A Girl Like You - The Smithereens
2) Dancing With Myself - David Bowie
3) I'll Stop the World and Melt With You - Modern English
4) Need You Tonight - INXS
5) Mediate - INXS

RIP, Michael Hutchence.

For the last one, we even made up dozens of big white cards like they do in the video. I still remember those cards flying all over the place while we played. I also remember looking into Jane's eyes when I sang the lyrics, "Your moves are so raw. I've got to let you know... you're one of my kind."

In truth, her moves weren't all that raw. And she wasn't one of my kind.

To be continued. (I know-- this was a short one. But I gave you two in one day!)

Homo in his underwear.  ♥ 

Frat Life (Part 3)

Lots of things in life are beautiful, but -- brother
There is one particular thing that is nothing whatsoever
In any way, shape or form like any other
There is nothing like a dame, nothin' in the world
There is nothing you can name that is anything like a dame

-- South Pacific

OK, I'm back. Apologies for my absence. As I mentioned in the last post, I had to go to San Francisco -- or more accurately to Stinson Beach -- for a wedding. It's absolutely beautiful there, especially this time of year. The temperatures were in the upper 70s during the day, with brilliant blue skies, and in the lower 50s at night. Just perfect.

Getting married were Ellen Dunne and Blair Bradshaw. The Dunne family and mine have been friends for 50 years, ever since our mothers met in graduate school. She and Blair have two adorable children together, and both the bride and groom are incredibly creative, artistic, all-around awesome people. They got married on the beach -- with the mountains in front of them and the ocean behind. It was pretty friggin' amazing.

 Ellen and Blair, exchanging vows.

I had a great time at the reception afterwards, though I must say, not drinking at a wedding is extremely challenging. It's not so much that I was tempted, although there was booze everywhere, from start to finish, or that I actually had to go out of my way to get a club soda and cranberry. It's that people at a wedding make a really big deal out of the fact that someone else isn't drinking.

"Oh, come on!," they kept exhorting. "You can have one glass of wine!"

When I explained I was on a Life Cleanse, they teased me. "Should you really be drinking that coffee? Is that allowed in your Life Cleanse? Is wedding cake part of your Life Cleanse?," etc. 

I should have just said, "I'm an alcoholic," which would have probably shut everyone up. Though perhaps not. I spoke to a good friend of mine who's in AA, and he said weddings are the single toughest events for people struggling to stay sober. Now I understand why.

Despite the peer pressure, I stuck to the LC all weekend, as least as far as booze goes. I wish I could say the same thing of diet and exercise. Despite my best efforts, I ended up pigging out and gained three (!) lbs. in four days. Also, I watched about 20 hours of television (including the plane ride both ways) and didn't write at all. So basically, I totally fell off the wagon, except for alcohol, drugs, cigarettes and sex. But in my defense, I was with my parents every single second of my trip.

You try spending four days with them and staying sober.

I also got some serious quality beach time, even taking a dip in the Pacific, which felt like ice water. 

Bliss.

OK, so back to the fraternity story. First I must tell you I've been thrilled to hear back from several of my former fraternity brothers about this story, including Colin Scantlebury. (Awesome frat name, isn't it?)

Colin and I were the same age, but he rushed one semester after I did. I have no idea why we clicked so completely -- he being a straight, basketball-loving, Midwestern, Republican WASP, and I... well, by now you know all the things I was. But we just got each other from the start. In fact, I remember vividly the moment we gave Colin his Chi Psi bid.

We had a little tradition -- and we weren't the only ones, I'm sure -- of pulling a switcheroo. We would bullshit the rushee into thinking he hadn't gotten a bid and then, after he was all upset, surprising him with the good news. This involved an elaborate skit, and in Colin's case, it happened thusly:

I knocked on Colin's dorm-room door very late one night. When he opened it, he found me alone, with tears in my eyes, explaining that he hadn't gotten a bid, and that I was furious at some of my fellow Chi Psis for not voting for him. He threw his arms around me, and as we stood there, hugging in the doorway, a group of other Chi Psis suddenly appeared from down the hall.

"Sank, this is bullshit!," the chastised. "You know you're not supposed talk about the process to rushees."

"Fuck that!," I screamed at them. "Colin is fucking awesome, and you guys are fucking dicks not to vote him in!"

We went on like this for a while. Finally, Colin got so upset that he simply went back into his room and closed the door. We had to knock again and let him know that, surprise! He was in.

Anyway, here's an email I got from Colin last Thursday:

Fair Chi Psi, Can We 'Ere Leave thee?

Dude, I just loved your blog. I didn't even know you did that but I found it brilliant. I love the story about coming full circle with Will (and I mean that in the PG, Disney version of full circle, not whatever you crazy kids call it these days).

I wanted to email you regardless as you have been on my mind for the last few days. I was doing some housecleaning this past weekend and I found some files of papers that had been around since..well, awhile. I file this under the heading of, "How on earth did either one of us not know you were gay?"

This is what was in my file:

Ode to Colin

By A. Jacob Sank, with apologies to Emily Dickinson

I think that I shall never see

A stud so hung as Colin Scantlebury

Whose pelvic thrusts can rock the sea

Who's earned that proud nickname 'JB'*

Who's trunk is long, like an oak tree

Who's free to be, like you and me

If ever such a stud you see,

It is most certainly Colin Scantlebury.

*For the record, I have no idea what JB meant but I'm glad I don't remember. There is enough of my time in Ann Arbor that is filled only with shame.

But thank you for making me laugh in 1991 and in 2011. There are many memories I have from that time, and many people that I cherish. You, my friend, have a pretty singular place. Certainly your memories are about the most vivid.

Be well.

Funny shit, right? Apparently I didn't know at the time that it was Joyce Kilmer -- and not Dickinson --who wrote "Trees." All I can say is, these were the days long before google. I don't even know how I managed to graduate without it. Also, I don't remember what "JB" referred to, either. Jumbo Balls, perhaps?

Good ol' Colin. He's now a commercial airline pilot, married, with kids.

When I last left off in my little tale, I had met my final girlfriend (whom I'll call Jane) at an Alphi Chi Omega serenade. But that's not actually true, as my big brother, Steve, reminded me. (I'll post his email later, as I'm trying to tell the story chronologically.)

In truth, I met Jane at my first Chi Psi social event: An autumn hayride. Jane was the date of another fraternity brother. My date was a Vietnamese student named Chau (pronounced "Chow," which lent itself to all sorts of crude puns).

I have absolutely no memory of where and how I met Chau. All I remember is that she was very pretty, very quiet and that we had unsafe sex together. I know this, because a couple months after we had stopped seeing each other, she called me out of the blue and said she had to see me urgently. I was freaking out -- sure that I was going to become a father at age 19. Instead, when I met her at a coffee shop, all she said was:

"I miss you. I miss your touch."

This became a catchphrase among my roommates at the time. I'd often come back to the dorm to find, "Adam, where are you? I miss you. I miss your touch," scrawled on my door's blackboard.

Speaking of my touch, many people have expressed shock and amazement over the years that I, a gay guy, could have had sex with a number of women before I came out. (Probably about ten, all told.)  I never understand why. It's not like women repulse me. Women are beautiful. Moreover, when your options are limited (and you're trying to convince yourself you're straight), you make the best of it. And I had some pleasant experiences with women. I liken it to a back massage. A back massage feels nice, but it doesn't get you all hot and bothered. Unless, of course, you're paying extra.

Another brief side-note: I don't think it was incidental that Chau was Asian. As any gay man will tell you, the last stop before Homoville is Chinatown. I cannot tell you why; nobody seems to know. It's just the way it is. I explained this once to my Asian coworker, and she was not amused.  

In my case, though, I had one more detour between Chinatown and Homoville.

Jane was the all-American girl. Blonde, blue-eyed and big-titted. (I always liked my women that way. Tits are fun.) She also seemed way out of my league -- like one of those popular cheerleaders from high school who would sometimes chat me up in the halls but would never consider going out with me. 

Jane was also hypoglycemic. This last detail is important because she was supposed to eat small meals throughout the day to keep her blood sugar regulated. Instead, she'd starve herself all day and then, when she began feeling weak and seeing black spots, she'd chug down a couple packets of sugar, all of which resulted in wild and unpredictable moodswings.

Needless to day, dating her was a lot of fun.

To be continued.

Homo dating chicks. ♥