Monday, February 26, 2007

My Annual Oscar Recap

An oddly dull and anticlimactic evening, I thought, from Ellen's lesbian-casual couture to the endless movie montages -- did we really need a montage showing people writing and typing? -- to paint-by-numbers acceptance speeches and lackluster musical performances.

At first I thought, "What a great idea for them to put all the technical categories no one cares about up front and save the big ones for last!"

Two hours later, fighting to stay awake, I had changed my mind. So bored was I with the ceremony that I found myself supremely grateful when Jodi Foster finally came up to introduce the "Look Who's Dead" montage (even though Anna Nicole Smith and James Brown were both shamefully omitted).

Don't forget: She was in "Naked Gun 33 and 1/3"

The only real gasp-inducing surprise was Alan Arkin's win over Eddie Murphy for Best Supporting Actor, and even that category was the least sure of the Sure Things.

As for Ellen, she had a very rough start. (First joke: "This year we're going to focus on the nominees. Unlike in years past, when we mainly focused on the winners." Ohmigod, what biting satire! My sides hurt!) But she definitely warmed up as the monologue progressed, and she had a couple nice moments later in the show, particularly when she made Steven Spielberg take a picture of her and Clint Eastwood for her MySpace page.

For my money, the show's highlights, few and far between as they were, all came from the Parabolas dance troupe, whose members periodically formed incredible shapes with their bodies -- most memorably "Snakes on a Plane," -- behind a lit white screen. (Sadly, they're not even listed among the telecast's performers on the Oscar Home Page.)

And now... without further doo-doo... my annual Oscar Wrap-Up Awards (affectionately known as the Addies):

Best Dressed, Female: Cate Blanchett, looking almost frighteningly perfect in Armani.

Cate Blanchett
Unfortunately, her publicist (left) had her
hair done by Cuisinart.

Best Dressed, Male: Mark Wahlberg, seen here with a woman who didn't have time to finish sewing her dress, so she used surgical tape.

Mark Wahlberg, Rhea Durham
Bet he's the best UNdressed male, too...

Funniest Moment (Intentional)
: Al Gore's getting played off by the orchestra as he began to announce his candidacy for president.

Funniest Moment (Unintentional): Ellen DeGeneres's referring to the Spanish Penelope Cruz as Mexican... and then having to apologize for it.

The "I Wore a Dress with Two Necks, and All I Got Was This Stupid Yellow Midget" Award:
Nicole Kidman.

Nicole Kidman, Naomi Watts
Why am I suddenly hungry for clams?

Most Unexpectedly Hilarious Monologue: Jerry Seinfeld, riffing on movie snacks. Who knew he was still funny -- or that there was any more humor to be mined out of movie snacks?

Most Frightening Tribute to Britney Spears: A chrome-domed Jack Nicholson, looking like Peter Boyle in "Young Frankenstein."

The Pink Flamingo Massacre Award: Penelope Cruz, for that hideous Versace disaster. I don't care what the fashionistas say; it was muy feo.

Penelope Cruz
At least they didn't have to dust the floors afterwards.

Worst Idea For an Oscar Telecast: A performance by the Sound Effects Orchestra, during which all subtitles suddenly vanished. Deaf people around the world were heard exclaiming, "Wha?!"

Best Impersonation of a Grand Piano With the White Keys Painted Over: Queen Latifah.

Queen Latifah
But she could still kick my ass.

The "Help! A Giant Moth is Attacking My Tits!" Award: Anne Hathaway.

Anne Hathaway
After the show, it ate the rest of her dress.

Best Garment Built by General Motors: Jennifer Hudson's bolero jacket.

Jennifer Hudson
But her breasts looked luscious!

Best Impersonation of a Las Vegas Hooker: Kirsten Dunst.

Kirsten Dunst
And get some sun, honey.

Most Surprising Couple: Clay Aiken with that chick from "Popular."

Melissa Etheridge, Tammy Lynn Michaels
Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The "How on Earth Did Ellen DeGeneres Land You" Award: Portia de Rossi.

Portia Di Rossi
Although she should really eat something.

Best Acceptance Speech: Forest Whitaker. A stunning turnabout after his fumbling and mumbling at the Golden Globe and SAG Awards.

Best Joke by Ellen DeGeneres: "Earlier in the broadcast I told you Dame Judi Dench was having her eyes done. I apologize. It's her boobs she's having done."

Best Supporting Actress Award: Isla Fisher, and whatever magical force was keeping those massive jugs in place.

They sort of look like a giant pair of eyes.

Cutest Couple: Will Smith and his son, Jaden, seen here with a pygmy they adopted from Malawi.

Jada Pinkett Smith, Will Smith, Jayden Smith
Where can I get one?

Finally, I know you're all dying to see my costume from the Oscar party last night. Well, here it is... and it won me first prize:

Was there ever any doubt?

By the way -- if you've never waited for a bus on 8th Avenue in a snowstorm while wearing granny drag... well, you haven't lived.

And now, the actual winners:

Best Picture:
The Departed

Best Actor:
Forest Whitaker, The Last King of Scotland

Best Actress:
Dame Helen Mirren, The Queen

Best Supporting Actor:
Alan Arkin, Little Miss Sunshine

Best Supporting Actress:
Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls

Best Director:
Martin Scorsese, The Departed

Best Original Screenplay:
Little Miss Sunshine

Best Adapted Screenplay:
The Departed

Foreign Language Film:
The Lives of Others

Animated Feature:
Happy Feet

Music (Score):

Music (Song):
I Need to Wake Up - Melissa Etheridge (from An Inconvenient Truth)

Best Art Direction:
Eugenio Caballero & Pilar Revuelta, Pan's Labyrinth

Best Makeup:
David Marti And Montse Ribe, Pan's Labyrinth

Best Animated Short Film:
The Danish Poet

Best Live Action Film Short:
West Bank Story

Best Sound Editing:
lan Robert Murray & Bub Asman, Flags Of Our Fathers

Best Sound Mixing:
Willie Burton, Bob Beemer & Michael Minkler, Dreamgirls

Best Costume Design:
Milena Canonero, Marie Antoinette

Best Cinematography:
Guillermo Navarro, Pan's Labyrinth

Best Visual Effects:
John Knoll, Allen Hall, Charles Gibson & Hal Hickel, Pirates Of The Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest

Best Documentary Short:
The Blood Of Yingzhou District

Best Documentary Feature:
An Inconvenient Truth

Best Film Editing:
Thelma Schoonmaker, The Departed

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour next Sunday, March 4 -- when my special guests will be Ophira Eisenberg, Yamaneika and Amy Patrick. Details on my web site.

Sunday, February 25, 2007

On Bashes, Birthdays and Bobby Trendy

So here I sit, 3:18 p.m. on Sunday, watching the Oscar pre-show coverage on E!, which I'm finding particularly insipid this year. I am completely exhausted after a long, crazy, difficult, exhilarating week in which I debuted my "Gay Bash" at Comix, appeared on ClearChannel Pride Radio, lost (and found) my cell phone and turned 36. All I want to do is lie down and nap for a while, but the blogosphere calls...

First Comix: It was a wonderful night. We had a great turnout, and the comics in my lineup were all in top form. Honestly, I don't know that I've ever been part of a better showcase. Will McKinley did a very nice writeup for "Chelsea Now" that you can read here. My favorite line from it reads as follows:

...[M]ost gay comics latch on to their sexual preference as a way to stand out (pun intended) from the crowd. But far too many dont go beyond the obvious stereotypes. Sank does, and he seems to prefer comics with unique voices.


As for Comix itself, there's no better comedy club in New York City -- period. The place is beautiful and run like a well-oiled machine, from the wait staff to the technical equipment (those acoustics!) to the bathroom attendant. The staff could not have taken better care of us, which as comics, is a shocking change from the norm. I knew this was not your typical comedy club when a waiter came back to greet me in the enormous, luxurious green room. "Hi," he said. "My name is Nick, and I'll be your waiter tonight."

"Oh, hi," I said. "So you're the waiter on the floor?"

"No," he replied. "I'm your waiter -- I'll be taking care of you and the other comics. What can I get you?"

Dorothy, I don't think we're at Carolines anymore.

Best of all, the management liked my show and wants us to come back. So look for future Gay Bashes at Comix. Woo hoo!

Sidebar: How perfect was my hair?

Curtain Call (From Left): Jim David, Karith Foster, Brad Loekle, Me, Robin Fox, William Mullin, Jackie Monahan.

One of the show's highpoints for me was when all the comics came out and led the crowd in a chorus of "Happy Birthday," accompanied by some sort of flaming chocolate delicacy. I was truly touched, but commented that I would have rather had strippers. (And speaking of strippers, a special thank you to Brad Loekle for the amazing Godiva chocolates!)

Afterwards we celebrated in Comix's bar, and then a select few performers and audience members came back to my apartment for yet more boozy revelry. Most memorable line from the after-party came from Jackie Monahan, who, after one guest spent a particularly long time in my bathroom, leaned over to him and gently said, "Why don't you just admit you pooped?"

My sincere thanks to everyone who came out to support the show, including Amy, Henry, Seth, Jeff, George, Steven, Regan, Joey, Jake, Hank, Chase, Julie, Stephanie and all the people from my day job. I love you guys (and anyone else I may have missed)!

The following night my good friend Isaac Steven Vaughan took me to the Cornell Club for an early birthday dinner and then to "Spring Awakening," which I had been dying to see for months. It was incredible. The music, by Duncan Sheik, is haunting and beautiful, and the actors all give memorable performances (particularly Jon
athan B. Wright as the lugubriously gay Hanschen). The coolest part was that Isaac and I got to be part of the small on-stage audience. I've never seen a Broadway show from that vantage point, and I loved it, especially during curtain call, when I gazed out at the cheering throngs and fantasized that I was actually part of the cast. (Because, of course, it's all about me.)

Speaking of all about me, the next day was all about me in that it was my birthday. First of all, thanks to all the folks on MySpace for your comments and messages; there's nothing like having 500 people you've never met wish you "Happy Birthday." My parents, vacationing in the South American wilderness, called to send their best, as did my sisters and assorted members of my "other" family, the Johnsons of Raleigh-Durham. (And a happy belated birthday to Ms. Susan, too!) My sister, Laura, also sent me six pints of gourmet ice cream -- the perfect gift for someone on a no-carb diet! Thanks, Babe! My friends will enjoy it while I inhale the aroma...

That night, I was taken to dinner at Elmo by Seth, Jeff and Pat, my three favorite men on the planet. That was followed by a trip to Rose's Turn, my hallowed haunt. As usual, I got up and did my little song 'n' dance and snappy patter.

The Boys at Elmo (From Left): Jeff, Seth, Me and Pat

Michael Isaacs accompanies me at Rose's while most of the room ignores me and
one lone lesbian takes a photo.

Saturday night found me at the Lantern for Colin Kane's show, doing a pretty good set in front of a deranged crowd that included a loud group of drunk bitches from Cornell University, a non-stop heckling wanna-be rapper, and a guy wearing a gigantic pink coat. So rushed was I to get the hell out of there that I left my cell phone behind. When I discovered this an hour later, I was way the hell on 1st Avenue at a party. Panicked, I jumped in a cab and hauled ass back to the Lantern to find the show winding up. It was around 1:15 a.m. by this time, and Corwin Moore spotted me desperately searching the premises.

"Hey," he said. "Colin has your phone."

"Thank God! Where's Colin?"

"I dunno."

After borrowing Corwin's phone, I located Colin. He was at Penn Station, waiting to board the last train to Long Island. It was leaving in 25 minutes. Fuck!

I ran to the subway on West 4th, only to wait for 20 MINUTES FOR A TRAIN TO COME. We pulled into 34th Street at exactly 1:40 a.m., and I ran as fast as I have ever run to the Long Island Railroad waiting area, which was deserted. I seriously thought I was going to have a heart attack. I was about to collapse in a sobbing heap when suddenly, Colin appeared like a beacon of light. "Here, dude," he said, handing me the phone. "You OK? You look like you're going to pass out."

I thanked him profusely and trudged back to the subway... only to wait ANOTHER 20 MINUTES FOR A TRAIN TO COME. (Seriously, MTA: You're fucking retarded.)

After riding the train one whole stop to 42nd, I made the final trek home on foot.... and passed out.

Now it's 4:36 p.m., and I guess I do have time for a quick nap before I have to start getting dressed for tonight, when I'll be going to my friends Julie and AJ's annual Oscar costume bash. I can't reveal my costume, but here's a hint: I'll be wearing pearls.

I had wanted to talk about other things, like Britney Spears's going insane and the endless Anna Nicole coverage -- about which I will only say this for now: If I see that deranged faggot Bobby Trendy pop up one more time on cable news to weigh in on his "good friend" Anna Nicole, I'm going to kill myself. Seriously -- Bobby Trendy is the worst thing to happen to gay men since AIDS -- but I'm truly tapped out.

Plus, tomorrow I'll have to start working on my Oscar Wrap, which, as my regular readers know, is extremely labor-intensive. So I have to bid you adieu for now. Thanks, one last time, for all the well wishes this week. It made entering my late 30s a lot easier to take.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour next Sunday, March 4 -- when my special guests will be Ophira Eisenberg, Yamaneika and Amy Patrick. Details on my web site.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Stop Emailing Me!

Seriously -- stop. I know: You want to perform at my Therapy show and/or my Gay Bash. Or you need help writing a press release. Or you want advice on how to break into comedy (like I would know). Or you want a job with the company I work for during the day. Or you saw my picture on MySpace and you want to hump me.

Well you know what? I HAVE NOTHING FOR YOU RIGHT NOW! I am desperately trying to finish prepping my show for tomorrow night... a show I'm hosting at a very important club where I've never performed and where it's vital I make a good impression. I am choosing walk-up songs for my performers and writing their introductions and trying to figure out whether the Anna Nicole Smith joke is strong enough to open with and where I want to do the Gay Pride bit and answering the 100th question about where and when the show is because God forbid anyone go to the Internet for information. SO THE KITCHEN IS CLOSED! MAMA NEEDS TO WORK! Make your own damned dinner and clean up your dishes when you're done.

Plus, Friday is my 36th birthday -- a fact that fills me with horror. But does anyone think to do anything for Adam? Does anyone give Adam a fabulous new Prada shirt or a car or a foot massage? Of course not. It's just "Gimme Gimme Gimme!"

Well, I have needs, too, people!! So unless you've come bearing any of the aforementioned gifts, leave me the hell alone!

And don't forget:

Purchase tickets here.

P.S. No Therapy show this Sunday. I'll be watching the Oscars. You should, too.

Thursday, February 15, 2007

The Hills Have Eyes (Mine)

I cannot take the cold anymore. It's killing me. I am constantly exhausted. My apartment has inadequate heat, and when I step into the living room I can see my breath. All I want to do is stay in bed all day watching back-to-back episodes of MTV's "The Hills" until spring comes.

"The Hills" is a spinoff of "Laguna Beach," a reality show that follows a bunch of interchangeable, vapid, unspeakably rich teenage girls who plot against one another and cry a lot. It's hard to imagine a more pointless show than that, but "The Hills" makes "Laguna Beach" seem like "Schindler's List."

Check out Audrina (far left): Her "hills" are about to pop out.

"The Hills" follows Lauren (also known as L.C.), a Marcia Brady-esque alumna of "Laguna Beach" as she struggles to make her way in the real world, which in this case means studying fashion and interning at "Teen Vogue" while living in a plush Hollywood Hills condo with her unspeakably cunty best friend, Heidi. (Forgive my vulgarity, but there's no other word to describe her.)

As cunty as she is -- and bear in mind this is a girl who falsely
tells her boyfriend she's pregnant just so she can see his reaction -- Heidi is not nearly as diabolical as her aforementioned boyfriend, Spencer.

She also wears too much eyeliner.

Spencer is the prototypical L.A. asshole. Utterly without charm, he looks like a ferret and speaks in that phony West Coast surfer baritone employed by so many radio DJs these days. He cheats constantly on Heidi, most often with Audrina, who I'm pretty sure is functionally retarded.

When a dude in the office where Heidi interns suggests she might want to dress a bit more appropriately for work (i.e., not in a bikini), Spencer confronts him on the street and nearly beats the shit out of him.

'Dude! My girlfriend can dress like a whore if she wants to!'

It's painfully obvious to anyone watching that Spencer is a volatile, oily snake who only continues to date Heidi so he can be on TV. Yet everytime she catches him with his hand up some other chick's skirt, she freaks out, storms out, and cries on L.C.'s shoulder.

L.C., meanwhile, is dating Spencer's friend, Brody, who is not only much hotter and more charming than Spencer but also the son of Bruce Jenner and model/actress Linda Thompson, and thus filthy rich. He's also a Guess model who starred in his own reality show, "The Princes of Malibu." Of course none of this -- his wealth, his famous parents, or his own Z-List celebrity status -- is ever mentioned on "The Hills." He's simply Spencer's friend, Brody, who has a thing for L.C. It's preposterous.

(Incidentally, if you want to add yourself to Brody Jenner's MySpace page, on which he's seen blowing really lame smoke rings and lists his occupation as "Hustler," click here. I just did.)

'I deserve none of my success.'

It's hard to figure why I work so hard at comedy when there is obviously no justice in the world. That these soulless morons are rich and famous and basically set for life... well, forget sour grapes; these grapes are poison.

Speaking of working hard at comedy, this past Sunday's show at Therapy was one of the longest nights of my life. I should first tell you that Saturday night I did Erik Rivera's "Latino Laughter" show at NY Comedy Club. As usual, I had a blast. It's somewhat paradoxical that a room full of straight, mostly male, Latino and black people would find anything a gay white Jew has to say entertaining, but I always seem to kill there. As I walked back to my seat, guys stood up to high-five me. One large guy with long dreadlocks hugged me. Another guy started yelling "Blowin' up! He's blowin' up!" At first I thought he was referring to my sexual proclivities, but then I realized he meant "blowin' up" in the Brody Jenner kind of way.

In all seriousness, this is what I love most about comedy: When it works, it brings together people who might otherwise have little to do with one another. There's something really beautiful about that.

What wasn't beautiful was Therapy Sunday night. In fact, it was downright ugly. The problem was that the Grammy Awards were on. I had mistakenly thought our crowd wouldn't give a shit about the Grammys. The Tonys, sure. The Oscars, of course. But the Grammys? With their endless rock and hip-hop (read: not gay) performances and appearances by people in trashy outfits who have been famous for about five minutes? I didn't think anyone would care if we turned off the widescreen at 10 and started the show as usual.

But when I got there, the place was packed, and everyone was upstairs glued to the TV. As we approached the 10 o'clock hour, I began to panic. We could hold the show until 11, but would the comics be willing to stick around?

At 9:50, I grabbed the mic. "Um, hi, everyone, it's Adam Sank. And we're going to take a little poll, so please listen up and vote according to your preference. Who wants us to turn off the Grammys and start the comedy show?"

A smattering of claps and a lone catcall.

"And who wants us to wait until the Grammys are over before we start the comedy show?"

Thunderous, deafening applause.

I had no choice; you can't force people to watch live comedy if they don't want to. And I was afraid that by turning off the Grammys a slew of paying customers would leave, which would piss off my always accommodating manager, Chad.

So we waited. Shannon Sutherland said she'd be happy to stick around, God bless her. But neither Allison Castillo nor Jeff Mac could stay. (And for the record, I COMPLETELY understand. They showed up on time on a frigid Sunday night only to be told they'd have to sit around for an extra hour. Plus Allison had the flu and Jeff had an early audition the following morning. And they both seemed truly sorry for having to leave.)

Frantic, I worked my cell phone. With some help from Shannon, I got Josh Spear and Rob Driemeyer there within 30 minutes, God bless them both. Now we waited... and waited and waited for the goddamned Grammys to end. As we inched toward the 11 o'clock hour, audience members began to trickle out.

I entertained myself by making snarky comments into the mic. "Is it me, or is Jennifer Hudson's right breast bigger than the left one?," etc.


By 11, about 60% of the original crowd remained. And they still hadn't presented the awards for Best Rock Album or Album of the Year.

Fuck it.

I grabbed the mic: "OK, everyone, we're starting. No more Grammys. Deal with it."

There were a few plaintive moans, but most people, including my regulars, seemed psyched that we were finally starting.

So -- after all that -- how did it go? It went OK. Not great. The crowd by that time was drunk and tired, and they had trouble staying focused. We had some hecklers at the back bar who kept yelling stupid shit at us until I finally went ballistic on their ass. I felt bad for Shannon, Rob and Josh because they're all terrific comics who stuck around 'til the bitter end and were treated less than lovingly by some of our patrons.

I thanked them and went home to my frigid apartment exhausted beyond belief... only to awaken at 8:00 a.m. for my day job.

That's life, folks. Unless, of course, you're on "The Hills."

Come see me host "Adam Sank's Gay Bash" on Wednesday, Feb. 21 at 8 p.m. at Comix, when my headliner will be Jim David! Also appearing: my special guest Karith Foster, and the mother of all standup comics, Robin Fox! Get details and tickets here.

Sunday, February 4, 2007

Daytime Television

I was flat on my back with the flu for most of this week so I ended up watching obscene amounts of television, even by my standards. I'm a member of the Writer's Guild, so I get lots of Academy screeners sent to me. In one week I watched "Babel," "United 93" and "World Trade Center." Then I tried to kill myself. Seriously -- these are heavy movies to watch back-to-back, especially when your chest is filled with phlegm.

I also watched -- and found strangely compelling -- the CW Morning News on Channel 11. I pretty much loathe all local news (particularly having produced it for six months), but as far as locals go, Channel 11 gets my vote. This is mostly due to their male anchor, John Muller.

Um... yum.

For some strange reason, I find myself insanely attracted to this man. And I know you're thinking he looks like every other gay, blow-dried pretty boy on local news, but the thing is, he's not. He's actually very masculine. He's got a Long Island accent and a sort of "Who-Gives-a-Shit?" attitude that are completely at odds with his Ken-Doll looks. John, if you're out there, somewhere, reading this, I just want to say: Thanks for helping me through a tough week. And I love you.

I also watched the Greg Behrendt Show, which was recently canceled. Greg Behrendt is a stand-up comic who made a fortune off a book he wrote called "He's Just Not That Into You" (which began as a "Sex in the City" episode) and parlayed that success into his own talk show. Anyway, the episode I saw was entitled, "I have to Find My Family Before I Die!" It was basically a reunion show for long lost family members, though the "Before I Die" part remains a mystery to me, as none of the guests were in dire health.

In the first segment, Jeannie longs to be reunited with her long lost niece, Tammy. Tammy was put up for adoption when her mother (Jeannie's identical twin) died. The last time they saw each other, Tammy was only nine months old. So Greg reunites them, and they're sobbing and hugging each other and the audience is going ape-shit. Greg waits until everyone settles down and then asks Jeannie, "What was your last memory of Tammy?"

And Jeannie sobs and says, "When she took her first steps."

Now, excuse me, isn't that kind of young to be walking? I don't know about you, but I think if I saw a nine-month-old infant walking towards me I would run screaming from the room. Even Greg comments, "Wow, she was walking before she was one? Rock on," but of course, since it's a stupid daytime talk show, no one thinks to question whether Aunt Jeannie maybe lost her marbles over the years.

I also had bizarre dreams all week, probably due in part to my 101-degree temperature. The weirdest one involved Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. In my dream, they wanted to pay me $10,000 to take care of their dog for one year. I didn't actually get to meet them in my dream, but I did meet the dog. He looked a bit like this:

'Hello, I'm a border terrier.'

The dog was very sweet and affectionate and I was totally psyched at thought of making big bucks to babysit Brangelina's dog. But by the end of the dream, I began to worry: Who would look after the dog while I was at work? I'd have to hire a dog-walker, which in New York City can easily cost $10,000 a year. And when I thought about it, $10,000 was peanuts for Brad and Angelina. They can afford way more than that!

Cheap bitches.

But the deal really fell through when someone in the dream told me that the dog was not house-trained and would shit all over my apartment. I was like, "Fuck this!"

I don't even want to begin to analyze what this dream says about my current level of self-esteem.

Finally, I'm way behind in posting photos from my Therapy shows, and I know some comics get their noses bent out of shape if they don't see their faces on this stupid blog. So here's a quick recap from recent weeks:

Scott Sussman, Michelle Buteau, and a Goateed Moi -- Jan. 14, 2007

Josh Spear, Best-Dressed Man in America. Seriously. -- Jan. 14, 2007

Greg Walloch, Shecky Beagleman, and Me, Sans Goatee --Jan. 21, 2007

We Do Pack 'Em In, Don't We? --Jan. 28, 2007

Karith Foster, Me, Hilary Schwartz, Rob Driemeyer --Jan. 28, 2007

OK, I'm all caught up. With that, I head off into this frigid night for yet another night of Therapy. Wish me luck.

And don't forget: