Thursday, November 23, 2006

The Eyes Have It

Well, it's done; I have new eyes. First, let's get the obvious questions out of the way:

1) Can you see without glasses or contacts now?

Yes. As well as I ever could with them, and perhaps better.

2) Was it scary, and did it hurt?

Kind of, and yes -- more than I expected it to. But it was certainly better than most visits to the dentist. Also, it was over in minutes.


3) Does the world look different to you?

Yes, actually, especially when I walked through Times Square the first morning. Now I know what all those stupid tourists are standing around gaping at. Also, it's easier to view computer porn now.

4) Do your eyes appear different?

Yeah, a bit. There's a red dot in the white area of my right eye, and both eyes look slightly bloodshot. I'm told all of this is normal and will go away soon.

And now... the photos:



Tuesday, Nov. 21, 2006, 11:34 a.m.:
The last photo of me in glasses at work.
And yes, that's a candy jar on my desk.
I am needy and want coworkers to like me.



5:10 p.m., at the Eye Surgery Place:
The last picture of me with glasses, period.
I had just taken two Xanax and a Vicodin.
Shortly afterwards, a gay Latino med tech
came over to ask me if I was feeling my
"party favors" yet. Not yet, I told him.

"Oh," he said, "well, you should start to feel
like you do when you come home from a club."

And why, I asked him, would you assume I know
what that feels like?

"Yoost a guess," he replied.

By the way, if you think I look ridiculous in
that surgical hat...



5:10 p.m.
...check out what happens when they add the
ear pads. I look like I could play Snoopy in
a road production of "You're a Good Man,
Charlie Brown."

Still not feeling my party favors, by the way.



5:30 p.m.
The procedure begins. That's Dr. Joseph Eviatar
of Chelsea Eye Clinic. He's kind of hot, no?



5:32 p.m.:
That's my eye, muthafuckas! This is where the
whole thing starts to look like a horror
movie. In fact, if you're squeamish, I'd skip
this next part...



5:32 p.m.:
Aughh! I warned you! That's doctor Joe poking around
under a flap in my cornea, which he just created.



5:34 p.m.:
Uh oh... Dr. Joe looks a bit concerned.
Still hot, though.




5:36 p.m.:
This is a teddy bear the nurse offers
you to squeeze during the procedure.
If you'd prefer, you can squeeze
a pair of foam rubber balls.

I chose the balls.
______________________________________________________________
I had wanted to the post the rest of these now, but something's wrong with my file server, and I need to start getting ready for Thanksgiving with the Sanks, anyway.

So coming soon: The finale! (And special thanks to Jeff Hardy for being my guide dog, and for taking all these amazing photos.)

Happy Thanksgiving to you all, and make sure you come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Nov. 26 at 10 p.m., when my special guests will be Sherry Davey, Mike Weiss and Shannon Sutherland! Details on my web site!

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Don't Drink Everglo

First, a public service announcement to all who blog on Soapbox: STOP POSTING YOUTUBE CLIPS ON THIS PAGE. For one thing, it crashes the page for anyone who uses Internet Explorer. (If you want to see what I'm talking about, scroll down to the blog of a brainless douche named "Macio" who refuses to remove his clip, despite repeated requests.) And secondly, NOBODY WANTS TO WATCH YOUR STUPID-ASSED YOUTUBE CLIP. Posting such a clip does not a blog make. And if you must use this space to promote your video, posting a link to the video, rather than the video itself, will suffice. End of PSA.

Last night marked the debut and finale of my modeling career in Robert Monegan's "Glam Divas" fashion show. As previously mentioned, I walked the runway as a scantily clad Christmas elf. Here's what I was supposed to look like:





Here's what I actually looked like:



Thank Goodness for Socks...

It was, overall, a successful event, marred only slightly by the fact that the show's sponsor, Everglo, failed to show up. For those of you not in the know, Everglo bills itself as "the perfect balance of vodka and tequila with a blast of caffeine and ginseng." Which sounds positively gag-inducing to me, but as they were supplying all the night's booze gratis, I was willing to keep an open mind (and throat).

That is, until they completely flaked. Can you imagine? I mean it's one thing for a flaky comic to blow off a commitment, but an entire sponsor? Poor Robert had to have his friends run out to the liquor store at the last minute and buy a few dozen bottles of wine for the crowd. I was furious on his behalf, and offered to make the following announcement before the show:

Ladies and gentlemen, we've just discovered that Everglo causes cancer. Therefore, we won't be serving any tonight.

Robert declined my offer, but did make some last minute costume changes, particularly for the models who had planned to march down the runway wearing Everglo T-shirts.

In all seriousness, this is unforgivable. Robert left the Everglo people six voicemails, and they never even called to explain their absence. I therefore call on all consumers who read this blog: BOYCOTT EVERGLO -- if, for no other reason, than one should never mix vodka with tequila.


Everglo = Death

A General Hospital update, as I finally think I have the details of Laura's breakdown straight:

When she was a teenager, Laura happened upon her stepfather, Rick Webber, schtupping Theresa, one of his nurses, in the attic. Laura did what every normal teenage girl would do in this situation: she killed the nurse-whore. Rick injected Laura with a sedative that also made her forget killing Theresa, and then he and Scotty Baldwin, Laura's then-husband, buried the body. Decades later, as Laura was preparing to marry Luke for the second time, she began having flashbacks about the murder. But somehow she got it in her crazy head that it was Rick who had killed the nurse-whore, and she started to lose her shit. When Rick approached her with a syringe (filled with the same unnamed memory-blitzing sedative), she thought he was going to hurt her, so she bludgeoned him to death with a candlestick.

Laura is supposed to be GH's sweetheart, but it seems to me she's just a dangerous bitch who keeps killing people for no reason. In fact, I just read Laura's entire history on soapcentral.com, and it seems the nurse-whore wasn't even her first victim! As a teenager, Laura also "accidentally" killed David Hamilton, after he told her he was in love with her mother, Lesley. That's two murders before she even turned 21. Why Luke would want to keep remarrying this demented psycho is beyond me.

The good news is, Laura won't be a danger to society much longer. It was revealed yesterday that the drug Dr. Robin Scorpio gave her -- the one that brought Laura out of her catatonic state -- is only temporary, and soon she will return to psychological oblivion (presumably after the big wedding, which is supposed to happen today). Good riddance.


The Face of Evil

I still don't understand the whole Cassadine thing, nor can I fathom how 110-year-old Edward Quatermaine can possibly still be alive. But frankly, I don't give a shit anymore. There's a reason I stopped watching this show when I was 10.

Finally, in five days I get LASIK surgery. I am absolutely terrified, especially after having to sign a 40-page waiver that includes statements like, "I understand the procedure may result in vision problems up to and including permanent blindness." But I'm also really excited to throw away my glasses and contact lenses for good. I've always hated wearing them, and it seems the benefits outweigh the potential risks. I've also talked to a number of people who have gone to my LASIK doctor, and they were all thrilled with the results. So wish me luck.


My Last Time Performing in Glasses (I Hope)

No Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, because the bar's having a special event entitled "Therapy's Got Talent." (Since they didn't ask me to take part, I guess I have none.)

But come see me host the show Sunday, Nov. 26th at 10 p.m., when my special guests will be Sherry Davey, Mike Weiss and Shannon Sutherland! Details on my web site.

Thursday, November 9, 2006

Lend Me a Cantor

Hooray -- a Democratic House and Senate! Even if a number of these new Dems are gun-toting, anti-choice homo-haters, it's got to be better than that cesspool of lunatics we've had running the country for the last 12 years. Let's hope they don't screw things up and ruin the chance for a Democrat in the White House in '08.

Before I forget, I want to mention I'll be appearing in a fashion show, dressed as a scantily clad Christmas elf, on next Wednesday night. Somewhere, Jesus is frowning.

The show is to promote "Glam Divas," a line of greeting cards designed by my friend Robert Monegan. Just another way to publicly humiliate myself. Here's the info:



Speaking of divas, if you haven't heard DJ Revolucian's Barbra Streisand "Shut the Fuck Up" dance mix, click here. (I think you have to be on MySpace to access it.) Truly ingenious, and danceable to boot.

I'm becoming increasingly bored with "General Hospital." Either the show was better back when I was 10, or I had a longer attention span then. And I still don't really understand the back story. From what I've been able to piece together, when Laura was a teenager, she witnessed her stepfather, Rick Webber, accidentally kill a nurse up in the attic. I don't know what he was doing up there with a nurse in the first place. Anyway, she repressed the memory. Decades later, as she was about to marry Luke for the second time, she had flashbacks of the incident and confronted Rick (who had returned to give her away) up in the attic. He tried to sedate her, and for some reason she beat him to death with a blunt object (possibly a golf club). This was what sent her into a catatonic state for four years.


The Way They Were... Man, Was Luke Hideous.

None of this makes much sense to me. Also, I can't figure out how Tracy Quartermaine, the evil shrew Luke married during Laura's catatonia, is related to Alan and Monica Quartermaine (whom they never show anymore, which is sad; I remember when the whole show was about Alan and Monica). And what happened to Bobbie's husband, Tony? And where do the Cassadines fit into all this? Oh, well: I guess I'll keep watching until Luke and Laura get remarried, which is supposed to happen later this month. (And how they're going to pull that off when he's still married to Tracy is beyond me.)

Finally, Saturday night I performed in a Robin Fox-hosted show at a B'Nai Israel, conservative synagogue in New Jersey. I was terrified -- worried that I wouldn't have enough clean, Jew-centric material, and mindful of the fact that the last time I performed for Jews (at another Fox-hosted event), I sucked matzot balls.

I decided before leaving my apartment to google the synagogue and see if I could learn anything about the congregation that I could use in my set. I discovered their cantor's name was Eddie. Cantor Eddie. As in Eddie Cantor. That struck me as sort of funny. As I headed down to Penn Station, I started thinking about my childhood cantor, who's name was Cantor Gropper (pronounced as in "one who gropes"). That seemed pretty funny, too. Then I thought about how conservative Jewish music is so much darker and more traditional than reform Jewish music, which can often sound like Christmas carols.

By the time my train rolled through South Orange, I had written an entire 3-minute bit about cantors, including a part where I chanted in Hebrew. But wait, I thought, do you really want to do a long, brand-new, untested bit for a crowd that might hate you? All my instincts said no, but by then, the bit was running over and over again in my head. I actually couldn't keep myself from chanting out loud during the rest of the train ride, much to the distress of my fellow New Jersey transit passengers. Whenever this happens -- when I become absolutely consumed with a new bit -- I figure it's divine intervention, and I go with it.

On my way into the synagogue, I passed a sign that said, "Bat Mitzvah of Jodi Hope Sherman." Now I didn't just have a new bit; I had a new opening.

The place was literally sold-out; over 100 comedy-loving Jews had shown up. Robin introduced me. I took the bima. "I'm a little nervous," I told the crowd. "The last time I stood on a bima, in front of this many Jews, was at my Bar Mitzvah. And I totally bombed. Speaking of which, mazel tov to Jodi Hope Sherman on becoming a Bat Mitzvah! Were any of you at the Sherman Bat Mitzvah? Who was she wearing?"

They roared. I had 'em.

I did the cantor bit about midway through my set. They went ape-shit. I went into new stuff about the Ted Haggard sex scandal, making up jokes on the spot: "Listen, as Jews, I know we don't put down other people's religion. Only the way they dress."

I left after a 17-minute set to thunderous applause. It was amazing -- truly one of the best times I've had on stage.

The next night, at my Therapy show, I had the sudden urge to do the cantor bit again. "Are there any Jews here tonight besides me?" I asked hopefully. A lone guy nodded. You can't possibly do this bit here, I told myself. Nobody will know what the hell you're talking about. It's completely the wrong room.

Oh, fuck it.

I did it.

They loved it.

A new bit is born.

It's like a gift from a gay Christmas elf.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Nov. 12, at 10 p.m., when my special guests will be Allison Castillo, William Mullin and Jackie Monahan! Details on my web site.

Monday, November 6, 2006

MySpaced Out

So my latest Gay Bash with Judy Gold was a blast. We had a terrific turnout (including my seldom seen parents), and a very strong series of sets, particularly from Greg Walloch and Rick Crom (and, if I must say so myself, myself).

When Judy arrived, I told her my parents were in the crowd, that they were huge fans of hers, and that they had, in fact, come to see her, rather than me. True story. The moment she took the stage, she asked them to identify themselves, and for the rest of her 35-minute set, she came back to them again and again: "So my kid had lice. Adam's parents, did Adam ever have lice? I mean on his head?" They were delighted. It was really cool.


A Golden Performance...


...Draws Thanks from the Sanks.

Unfortunately, after the show, I pulled another Hoopachoo. Among the many friends who had come to the show were Tommy, a great guy from New Jersey I've gotten to know via email and through his interviewing me for "Out in Jersey" magazine, and his teenage son, Andy. I knew they were coming -- in fact they were on my comp list -- but when a blond 30-something-looking guy stopped me on the way out of the showroom and said, "Hey, Adam!," and then pointed to his younger, baseball-capped companion and said "This is Andy, and we both really enjoyed the show," I nodded politely, thanked them, and moved on to greet some work friends. I truly had no idea who they were. I actually assumed (creepily!) that they were just a nice couple who had come to see a gay comedy show.

When it dawned on me the next morning who they actually were, I was horrified and emailed apologies immediately. Tommy was very understanding (apparently it's not the first time they've been mistaken for a couple! Gross!) but said he and Andy did feel a bit snubbed at the time. So again, as a public service message to anyone I've ever met or will ever meet:

I AM NOT SNUBBING YOU! I AM NOT ALOOF! I SIMPLY HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHO YOU ARE! I AM BRAIN-DAMAGED! I HAVE A FACIAL RECOGNITION DISORDER! SO PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE -- WHEN YOU APPROACH ME -- EVEN IF WE'VE MET A HUNDRED TIMES -- EVEN IF WE'VE SLEPT TOGETHER, FOR GOD'S SAKE -- START THE CONVERSATION BY SAYING, "IT'S ME, BLANKITY-BLANK." I'LL PROBABLY SAY, "OH, OF COURSE I RECOGNIZE YOU," BUT IN REALITY, I PROBABLY DIDN'T, AND IT WILL SAVE US BOTH TREMENDOUS PAIN AND EMBARRASSMENT!

And while we're on the topic of poor social etiquette (mine), can I please say a few words about MySpace? OK: I'm on MySpace. You're on MySpace. We're all on MySpace, and we all know what a wonderful and revolutionary invention it is. But for God's sake, why must we only communicate with one another via MySpace? Why must I get an email notifying me that someone I know -- someone who's had my email address for 10 years -- has just sent me a message on MySpace? So that I then must log onto MySpace and wait 10 minutes while my page loads so I can read my friend's message?

What ever happened to good ol' email? It's really quite simple: You enter someone's email address, type your message, hit send, and Presto! The message goes directly to them! Why are we suddenly using the technological equivalent of a carrier pigeon to talk to each other? It's INSANE!

"But Adam," you say. "I don't know your email address." Really? Well, here's a clue: It's my first and last name at aol dot com. Too hard to remember? Then go to my web site and email me through there. HOW FRIGGIN HARD IS THIS TO GRASP?!

And while we're at it (and don't ask me why I'm on such a rant tonight), can we all stop with the mass text messages? It's bad enough I get endless texts from fellow comics telling me to "Come to the Comedy Crapfest Tonight!" and so forth. Now people are sending out mass holiday greeting texts. I actually got a text message from someone -- someone I barely know -- on Oct. 31 saying, "Happy Halloween, Everybody!"

Not only is such a greeting utterly meaningless, it also costs me money. TEXT MESSAGES COST MONEY! I PAY FOR EACH ONE I RECEIVE! WHY AM I PAYING FOR YOU TO MARKET YOUR COMEDY SHOW OR WISH ME GENERIC HOLIDAY GREETINGS?! YOU MIGHT AS WELL CALL ME COLLECT, YELL "HAPPY KWANZAA!" INTO THE PHONE AND HANG UP! AGAIN: EMAIL EMAIL EMAIL. IT'S FREE, IT'S EASY, AND IT DOESN'T USE UP MY CELL PHONE BATTERY!

(Deep breath.)

And now, more pics from the Gay Bash:


Makin' the People Laugh -- and the Curly-Haired Dude's even Applauding!


Greg Walloch Packs a Wallop.


Rick Crom Drives it Home.


Me and Judy. I Feel so Small.

Finally, here's a link to my latest TV appearance as host of "Out at the Center" on Manhattan Neighborhood Network. This is the one where I was sweating through my clothes. I also seem to have sort of lock-jaw. Be kind.

Next t
ime: "General Hospital," update, a link to the best dance remix ever, and why I suddenly love Conservative Jews.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Nov. 12, at 10 p.m., when my special guests will be Allison Castillo, William Mullin and Jackie Monahan! (And notice: I'm NOT texting you this.) Details on my web site.

Friday, November 3, 2006

Sins of the Flesh

I am loving every minute of this Ted Haggard story. For those of you living in a cave, Haggard is the president of the 30-million member National Association of Evangelicals. Yesterday, a 49-year-old hooker named Michael Jones went public with a story that Haggard had repeatedly paid him for sex over a three-year period. Jones also says the two did crystal meth together.

Haggard, who's been working hard all election season for the passage of a ban on gay marriage in Colorado, immediately took to the airwaves to deny the story. Then he stepped down pending an investigation. Today senior officials at Haggard's New Life Church said the pastor had admitted to "some of the claims" made by Jones. And just moments ago, Haggard apparently told reporters that he did indeed buy meth from Jones and get a massage from him, but denied having sex and claims he threw the meth away. Sure he did. It's the old, "I was just getting a massage from a gay hooker from whom I had just bought crystal meth which I later threw away," defense.

Where to begin.

Well, first, I guess, the obvious question: Who the hell buys a 49-year-old hooker? I mean, Jones is in great shape for an older guy, but still -- why pay for an old wrinkly leisure suit when you can you get a brand new Armani for the same price?

Secondly, it is patently offensive to say that someone looks gay. But this guy really does:


As a goose.

Butt in all seriousness, when are the followers of these hypocrites going to wake up and smell the KY? History has shown us time and again that individuals who devote their lives to telling other people how to behave and denying them their civil rights tend to have, well, "issues." Hitler was a part-Jewish drug addict. J. Edgar Hoover was a gay cross-dresser. Roy Cohn died of AIDS. Jim Bakker was an embezzler and Jessica Hahn-diddler. Jimmy Swaggart enjoyed hotel ho's. Dick Cheney's daughter likes muff. Rush Limbaugh is an Oxycontin freak. Mark Foley is an Internet predator. And on and on and on. (Nathaniel Frank writes an essay which nicely capsulizes all this on today's Huffington Post.)

And don't accuse me of Christian-bashing or Republican-bashing here. Hypocrites are hypocrites, and they come in many stripes and flavors. (Though as Frank points out, conservatives do seem to have a special talent for this, more often than not.) It's bad enough these people use their positions of power to spread hatred, bigotry and fear. That they simultaneously engage in (or tolerate in their own families) the very behavior they publicly rail against is despicable.

There are those in the gay community who strongly oppose "outing," which they see as a threat to our safety and privacy. I draw a distinction between outing gay celebrities who simply live their lives the way they choose and allow others to do the same -- Lance Bass before he came out, for example -- versus those whose words or actions promote homophobia and intolerance -- Condoleezza Rice, anyone?

I say, if you've got proof of a Haggard-type situation, it's your duty to step up. As Harvey Fierstein wrote in his play "Safe Sex": "Now, when they tell lies about us, we answer back."

Coming soon: My thoughts on MySpace etiquette, and Judy Gold makes my parents swoon.

Watch me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Nov. 5 at 10 PM, when my special guests will be Karith Foster, Josh Spear and Alexis Rehrmann! Details on my web site.