So You Think I Can Blog?

The number of things I want to blog about continues to mount. They include my last Gay Bash, my Sirius radio debut, the HX Awards, my mother's 66th birthday on Long Island and NYC Gay Pride -- most of which I can illustrate with copious photos. I think what I'll do is post one big photoblog encompassing all of these, because my readers seem to like it when I show pictures. I'd love to blog in depth about each topic but, alas, there are just so many hours in the day and I have to, you know, make a living and stuff.

So a photoblog to come soon, I promise.

Here's a quick taste:


Jeff Hardy, Me and Pat Healy at the Pride Pier Dance.
Doesn't it look like I've had a double mastectomy?
I should NEVER pose like that.

In the meantime, it's been a while since I've done a TV blog, and there's a lot of tube-related stuff on my mind.

First off, a few words about the finale of "The Sopranos": If, like me, you were a devoted fan of the series who felt horribly cheated by that apparent non-ending, I direct you to a fascinating (if overlong) analysis by blogger Bob Harris. He points to clues and symbols up the wazoo that clearly explain what happened to Tony in those final moments. I don't necessarily buy all of it -- especially the orange cat meshugas -- but it's hard to dispute that Tony, Carmela and A.J. all ate their onion rings as if they were taking communion. As Harris points out, that's either an overt reference on the part of David Chase to their impending deaths or a very strange choice for all three actors to have made. Interesting stuff.


With this ring, I be dead.

Speaking of TV death, NBC is in the process of burning off the final episodes of "Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip." For some reason, I'm still watching. I had such high hopes for this show when it first aired. I thought the premise -- a peek behind the scenes at a late-night, SNL-type sketch show -- was awesome; who wouldn't want to know what goes on backstage at SNL? Add to that the fact that the show was created by Aaron Sorkin, the genius behind "The West Wing" (one of my favorite shows of all time).

Unfortunately, that turned out to be the problem: Sorkin apparently though he was still doing "The West Wing" (and with all the same actors). Aside from a few brief glimpses of the show-within-a-show, "Studio 60" ended up focusing on politics, America's culture war, religious fundamentalism, terrorism, and, toward the end, high-risk pregnancy. In other words, it had nothing at all to do with late-night television. Which sucks.



There's a reason these people aren't smiling.

I feel the same about Tina Fey's far more successful "30 Rock." Whether or not you find it funny (I don't), it has nothing at all to do with producing a comedy show. It's just another wacky workplace sitcom; it might as well take place in a real estate office.

What do I mean? Well, for one thing, we're supposed to believe that the name of the show-within-a-show on "30 Rock" is "The Girlie Show." Yet it stars a man -- Tracy Morgan playing a character named Tracy Jordan -- and apparently has only one female cast member (the horribly wasted Jane Krakowski.) So what the F?

On neither "Studio 60" nor "30 Rock" do we get to see people actually producing television, which I can tell you from experience provides enough drama and comedy for 50 TV series. Ironically, the best TV show about TV shows that ever aired was "Sports Night" -- which was also produced by Aaron Sorkin. Hmm.

One show with which I have an ongoing love-hate relationship is "So You Think You Can Dance." Not to be confused with that other show "Dancing With The Has Beens," "So You Think" is sort of like "American Idol" for dancers. Actually, it's more like "Last Comic Standing" for dancers, in that the contestants are all professionals (or at least semi-professionals). But here's the thing: They are all amazing dancers. And the show has a few other things going for it as well:

1) The judges are all dance experts. Listen to snooty Brit Nigel Lythgoe praising a contestant for her tightly controlled demi-plié, and you'll realize how retarded "It's a little pitchy, dog," truly sounds. The guest judges are all well-established choreographers as well. (Last night they had Debbie Allen, for Christ's sake!)

2) Speaking of the choreographers, they include some of the country's best: Wade Robeson, Mia Michaels and Shane Sparks are all regulars. And they put together some truly spectacular routines. Last night Wade Robeson choreographed this hummingbird-meets-flower jazz routine for contestants Hok and Jamie that was as good as anything you'd see at Lincoln Center.

3) The boy dancers are hot. I mean REALLY hot. My favorites are Russian ballroom dancer Pasha, contemporary dancer Kameron and huge-lipped lyrical dancer Ricky who, alas, got voted off two weeks ago. I'd post photos of all, but the stupid Fox web site won't let me copy any. It's a homophobic conspiracy.

Here's what I don't like about "So You Think..."

1) The host, Cat Deeley. Described on the show's web site as "one of the foremost television presenters in the U.K.," this retarded giraffe of a woman makes Ryan Seacrest look like Walter Cronkite. Her pronunciation is incomprehensible -- the word "judges" ends up sounding like "gigis" -- and she serves absolutely no function on the show, other than to ask brilliant questions such as, "Was that as fun as it looked?"


'I don't even know how to wipe myself.'

Just once, I'd love to see a reality show with no host. Or better yet, how about a robot host that just rolls on and off the stage, R2D2-like, and makes occasional beeping noises? They'd probably save money that way, and it would be far more entertaining.


'Thank you! You've been a fabulous audience!'

2) One of the two permanent judges, Mary Murphy. I can't even begin to explain how painful this woman's voice. Her incessant screaming, coupled with the fact the she constantly makes ridiculously corny, nonsensical statements like, "You two just stepped off the hot tamale train!," makes me want to commit murder.


Also she looks like Dean Cain in drag.

Despite the presence of these two voids, I have truly enjoyed watching "So You Think You Can Dance." That is, I did up until the end of last night's episode -- when the show completely jumped the shark.

Allow me to set the scene: Pasha and his partner, Jessi, are the last couple of the night to perform. We see footage of them learning their routine for the week -- the cha cha -- with the choreographer, Tony Meredith. Cut to Cat Deeley, live, who says something insipid like, "But in television, anything can happen! So here's what happened earlier today!"

Now we see Jessi, strapped to a stretcher, being loaded onto an ambulance. It turns out she collapsed after the run-through and was rushed to the hospital. Now back to Cat Deeley, live.

"Jessi is still in hospital at this time. But the show must go on. So right now we're going to see Pasha, dancing the cha cha with Tony Meredith's assistant. But only Pasha will be judged on his performance."

The music starts, and out comes Pasha (who, remember, is a beautiful, wiry, 27-year-old man), with a 200-lb , middle-aged woman with frizzy red hair, wearing a miniskirt. What follows is like something you'd see on SNL. Remember when Chris Farley figure-skated with Nancy Kerrigan? It was like that -- but with the genders reversed.


Oh, pump up the jam!

God bless Debbie Allen, who, after she finally stops laughing, says to Pasha: "Oo, child, you looked like you were dancing with Bette Midler out there!" He really did.

Everyone praises Pasha for managing to keep his dignity while cha-cha-ing around the stage with the old hippo. But then Nigel says:

"Now just so everyone knows, Jessi is still in the hospital undergoing tests at this time. It turns out there is an irregularity with her heart."

(Um, patient confidentiality, anyone?)

"So whether or not she's available tomorrow..."

("Available?" As in "Alive?")

"...she'll automatically be in the bottom three couples of the competition. And if she is available, she'll be dancing for her life. If she's not available, she'll be out of the competition for good."

In other words, Jessi, you better get your damn abnormal heart fixed in the next 24 hours or it's curtains for you, missy!

Holy shit! How totally unfair is this? The woman has a medical emergency, and so they're threatening her with possible disqualification?! Why don't they just call the show "So You Think You Can Live?!"

Ohmigod, it's 6:15, and I've been writing this blog for two hours now. Gotta go.

Next time: An all-encompassing photo-blog, and a major announcement that will be of potential interest to some other Comedy Soapbox bloggers.

Homo out. ♥

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, July 1st, when my special guests will be Robin Fox, Rob Driemeyer and Dan Curry! Details on my web site!

Gay Bash on the Web

An actual blog coming soon... later today or tomorrow, I promise.

But first, clips from my last Gay Bash are now up on ComedyNet, which sent a crew to tape the show.

Click here for my intro set. (I did another -- better -- set after the first comic, but they didn't put that one up.)

Is there tons of laughter? Not so much. This is because:

(pick one)

A) We had a smaller-than-average crowd.

B) The crowd wasn't mic'ed.

C) I suck.

Enjoy. ♥

Me Talk Pretty on Sirius!

(NOT A REAL BLOG... SORRY.)

Hey, Everyone.

I'll be making my Sirius Satellite Radio debut tomorrow (Thursday, 6/21) on the Frank DeCaro show, on the OutQ channel (Stream 109) at 1:15 p.m. ET, to promote my Gay Bash at Comix later that night.

If you're a Sirius subscriber, make sure to tune in!

xo
Adam ♥

Somewhere, Over the Rainbow

So here's the singing telegram story:

A woman I work with was involved with a fundraiser for her kid's school -- a silent auction of goods and services. She approached me and asked if I could somehow donate my "talent" for this cause. The idea of showing up at some random location and telling jokes terrified me. So instead I suggested I donate a singing telegram. (Because that's much less terrifying.)

A word about me and singing: Long before I ever did comedy, I was a musical theater fag. I grew up singing and dancing my way through community theater productions (most famously as Young Patrick in Overlook Community Theater's production of "Mame" when I was 10). I sang constantly -- in choir, in my bedroom, in the hallways at school and, most disastrously, in gym class. Bashing ensued.

Anyway, truth be told, I enjoy singing a lot more than I enjoy doing stand-up. I talked about this with Allison Castillo recently, and she said something very interesting, which is that all comedians wish they were rock stars. I think there's great truth to that. There's no question that many comics are musical, that many musicians are funny and that there's some connection between the two arts, in terms of timing and rhythm and vocal projection.

Nowadays, the only place I get an opportunity to sing regularly is at Rose's Turn on Friday or Saturday nights. And also when I do my bit about the difference between reform and conservative cantors.


Me at age 13... a budding musical theater fag and a Bar Mitzvah.
Rabbi Bial, RIP, is the old dude squinting to my left.
He looked a bit like Dr. Bunson Honeydew.

Anyway, I secretly hoped that no one would bid on my singing telegram. But the day after the auction, my work extension rang, and a male Israeli voice said: "Hello, Adam. My name is Oz, and I bought you."

For a moment, my mind raced with possibilities. Then I remembered the auction.

Oz (rhymes with "rose") wanted me to show up for his 40th birthday party, where I would surprise his guests and his wife, Gali (rhymes with "dolly) with my singing telegram. The party was only about two weeks away, so I would have to work fast, especially since I wanted to compose original song parodies.

Immediately I decided to do some sort of "Wizard of Oz" theme because... well, the dude's name was "Oz."


And because who doesn't love "The Wizard of Oz?!"

After interviewing Oz for about a half hour on the phone, I felt like I had enough material to write two song parodies. I worked on them over the course of two weeks and pulled together a munchkin costume. I mean, I wasn't about to dress up as Dorothy. (Although the thought did cross my mind.)

Oz's song was done to the tune of "We're Off to See the Wizard." It went as follows:

We're here for Oz's birthday... the 40th birthday of Oz.
We hear he is a haimisher mensch*, if ever a mensch there was...

And so forth.

Gali's song was set to the tune of "Hello Dolly." (I know that has nothing to do with "The Wizard of Oz," but the woman's name rhymes perfectly. It was a no-brainer.)


Again, what an amazing costume this would have made...

Gali's song began:

Shalom, Gali...
Well, Shalom, Gali...
It's so nice to meet you, Gali, mah shlomech?*

Can I just point out how lucky I am that the people who bought my telegram were Israeli? I don't know what the hell I would have done had they been Ukranian or Chinese or something.

Anyway, I put on my munchkin costume and, on the most humid day of the year, boarded the subway, traveling about 75 blocks north to Oz and Gali's apartment. By the time I got there, I was drenched in sweat. Oz announced to his guests that they were about to get a surprise, and in I slid, holding my little bell and my proclamation "By Order of the Great Oz."


Note the look of terror on the older son's face.

I opened with an ad-lib, always a mistake:

"Wow, it's so hot out there, I'm sweating like a whore in shul*."

Uncomfortable silence. I'm bombing.

"Ok, let's get started!..." and off I went with the telegram.

So how'd it go? It went OK, I guess. Oz seemed to enjoy it. Gali seemed a bit traumatized, though. (She actually started crying at one point.) My biggest laugh came before I delivered my song to her:

"Gali, you're even lovelier than Oz described you. Strangely, though, the rest of you are less attractive than he described you."

The Jews love insult humor.

Anyway, I finished, they clapped, I hugged Oz and Gali -- she hugged me the way one might hug a homeless person -- and got the hell out of there.

On my way home, along 8th Avenue, my munchkin tie and bonnet stuffed into my backpack, I passed a young, blonde woman. She stopped in her tracks upon seeing me.

"Are you who I think you are?," she asked.

"Um, who do you think I am?," I replied.

"Are you Adam Sank? I'm April Brucker!"

How's that for coincidence? April was very sweet. I would never have recognized her, though. People always look so different to me in real life than they do in their head shots, particularly because I suffer from an oft-mentioned facial recognition disorder. Her voice was also not what I expected. It's funny: You get a real sense of a person's voice after you read her writing, but it's often way off base. In my head, April always sounded like Shannon Doherty. In real life, she sounds a bit like a young Edith Bunker.

Anyway, that's my singing telegram/meeting April Brucker story.

Coming soon: Adam winds up unexpectedly as a presenter at the HX Magazine Awards (and gets to meet the original cowboy from the Village People).

Homo out. ♥

*Yiddish for "A Guy with whom you feel comfortable."

*Hebrew for "How's it going (feminine form)?"

*Yiddish for "synagogue."

Don't wait! Tickets are selling out for Adam Sank's Gay Bash starring Julie Goldman (from Logo's "Big Gay Sketch Show") and featuring Frank DeCaro and Peppermint, this coming Thursday, June 21 at 8:00 p.m.! Tickets and information here.

How To Kill Your Career Before It Even Starts

Oy, vey. I'm in a funk. Feeling disconnected... discombobulated... and bad even.



Heavens to Mergatroid!

Sidebar: You know what's weird about Snagglepuss? I recall his being a rather anxious, bitchy little character, but in every picture of him on the Internet, he's smiling. Hmm.

Anyway, I'm just all out of sorts. My day job is empty and tedious. My social life is banal and boring. The comedy thing is a constant struggle filled with endless humiliation, none of which has anything to do with actually standing on-stage and telling jokes. Every time I think I'm getting a a leg up, the other leg becomes ensnared in a bear trap. Bright shiny things keep being dangled in front of my face and then snatched away.

If the universe is trying to teach me a lesson right now, that lesson is, "Go fuck yourself."


And I'm all, "Right back at ya, bee-yatch!"

It's almost summertime, and I feel I should be frolicking half-naked through fields of green, swigging wine from a burlap sack. Instead, I'm crunching budget numbers in a sterile office building, sipping tap water from a cardboard cup.

The worst part is, I can't really get into the specifics of what's been getting me down or I could wind up burning bridges, shooting myself in the foot, or otherwise shoving a lit stick of dynamite up my ass. (And I'm really not supposed to blog about my day job at all... particularly not when I'm sitting here at work.)

Then again, you only live once.

OK, here's just one little story, and I'll be as discrete as possible.

I got an email Monday from the comedy editor of a major weekly magazine. I'll call it "Rhyme Pout Jew Pork."

I have a long and tortured history with RPJP. I very carefully and consistently send them information about my Therapy and Comix shows, always at least two weeks in advance. My press releases are witty, frothy, spell-checked, and filled with colorful, often salacious images.

Yet RPJP often leaves me out of the comedy listings. Which I can totally understand, given the enormous number of stand-up shows that occur on any given week in New York City. What I can't understand is why RPJP often chooses instead to list shows... that no longer exist. I'm not kidding. It's like, five years ago someone emailed them a release that said, "Chuckle Patch! Every Tuesday at midnight!" And so RPJP still lists the show ever week because it's never occurred to them that perhaps Chuckle Patch has since gone under. Whereas I, who takes the time to compose an original, unique press release for every single one of my shows, gets shafted. It makes no sense.

Anyway, this past Monday I was delighted to receive an email from the comedy editor at RPJP. I'll call her Blaine Whoreden.

Blaine told me she'd like to feature my upcoming Gay Bash at Comix in the magazine's "Joke of the Week" box, and would I send her high-rez photos of myself along with some short jokes from my set. Would I ever! I was beyond thrilled! This would be the greatest publicity the show's ever gotten! Throngs of people would come to the show! All was forgiven! Now I LOVED Rhyme Pout Jew Pork!


My hero!

So instantly I dropped everything I was doing and began selecting my best short jokes. I wound up choosing four of them: Homosexual Lobby, Lindsay Lohan as Janis Joplin, JonBenet's killer and Mom's Birthday. I whittled them down to their essentials, making them as short as possible and typed them into an email, onto which I attached three high-rez photos of myself.

Within seconds, I got one of those scary MAILER DAEMONS informing me that the email was rejected because the file size was too large.

I tried again. MAILER DAEMON!

I tried sending the jokes and each of the photos separately.

Two of them got through, but one came back with a MAILER DAEMON! And it didn't tell me which one was rejected.

So I called Blaine (she had given me her phone number) to ask her what I should do. No answer. I left a voicemail. It was now around 5 p.m. Monday, and Blaine had told me her absolute deadline was Wednesday afternoon.

No reply from her by noon the following day, so I emailed her again: "Blaine, I sent you the jokes and tried sending you the photos, but they kept getting bounced back, so I'm not sure which ones you got. Please let me know if you can use what you have," etc.

No reply.

Finally, on Wednesday afternoon, I got the following email from her:

I had to go with someone else for this week just because it was getting so down to the wire, but I'll hold on to your jokes (I like the one below) and photo for future shows. I know you have one on Jul 1; I already have someone lined up for that week, but it might fall through. Otherwise, I'll hold on to this for another week beyond that.

Also -- go ahead and send me the other photos you have so I'll have options (the one that actually got through was of you wearing the tie----coy, Adam).

Thanks and best of luck with the Comix show!!

OK, I must admit: Reading it over again now, it's a pretty nice email. And it was nice of her to consider my show in the first place. I have no legitimate reason to be upset with Blaine Whoreden. I should be grateful and humble and should not be discussing any of this on my blog.

BUT GODDAMMIT, I AM PISSED!!! WHY CAN'T ANYTHING EVER WORK OUT RIGHT? WHY AM I ALWAYS A LOSER IN THE END? WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THIS ENTIRE EXERCISE? TO ONCE AGAIN LET ME THINK SOMETHING GOOD WAS GOING TO HAPPEN WHEN IN FACT I AM LEFT WITH POO DRIPPING OFF MY FACE?


Can you believe the things one can find on Google Images?
I literally typed in "Poo Face" and this came up.

It just runs a person down after a while. You work and work and work, and you try to stay positive and not be a victim and keep the faith and count your blessings and blah blah blah. But what do you do when it dawns on you that everything in this world comes down to luck and timing, and you have neither?

Oh, well. Time to get back to my soul-sucking day job. I know I promised last time to talk about Zach Galifianakis and "So You Think You Can Dance," but I just don't care enough about either one of them at this point.

I do promise in the next blog entry, whenever that is, to tell you about my chance encounter with April Brucker, as well as the story of why I dressed up as a munchkin last Sunday and delivered a singing telegram to a room full of strangers.

Until then, this picture will have to hold you:


It's a wonder I still don't have an agent.

Homo out. ♥

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, June 17, at 10 o'clock, when my special guests will be Bernadette Pauley, Susan Alexander and D'yan Forest! Complete details on my web site.

And don't forget to buy your tickets now for Adam Sank's Gay Bash starring Julie Goldman (from Logo's "Big Gay Sketch Show") and featuring Frank DeCaro and Peppermint, this coming Thursday, June 21 at 8:00 p.m.! Tickets and information here. (It's the show you won't see featured in next week's Rhyme Pout Jew Pork!)

Gay, Bashed

And the douche is... Sven Wechsler!


"Why are my forearms bigger than my biceps?"

So here's the story: I was booked to do Grandma's Candy Box at Bar None last Thursday. I had done the show once before, and found it to be basically a very talented group of comics (including excellent host Victor Varnado) performing in front of five audience members at a dive bar.

This time around, I got an email earlier in the day from one of the show's producers, explaining that this would in fact be the last Grandma's Candy Box, as the bar's management had decided to kill the show.

What the email didn't mention was that they were throwing away the lineup and inviting every comic who had ever done the show to do a set that night. Had I known this, I wouldn't have bothered schlepping all the way down to East 12th Street to take part in what was essentially an open mic.

I loathe open mics. They serve no purpose for me. If I want to work out new material in front of a room full of bitter, angry people staring back at me in silent contempt, I can host my Therapy show any given Sunday. (And at least I get paid for it there.)

So I get to Bar None at 9:30 p.m. as instructed, and the place is deserted, save for a few straight guys drinking beer and watching some sporting event on TV. I order myself a Jack and Diet Coke (my new drink since I discovered how many carbs there are in tonic water.) I sit. I drink. I pretend to watch the sports.

Eventually, I see Myka Fox, who is sweet and friendly as always. She explains to me that they might cancel the show altogether, since there are only four actual audience members there. Meanwhile, comics are beginning to filter in. I don't recognize any of them except for Al Wagner, who I'm beginning to think may be stalking me. It's now around 10:30. The room is filled with comics and those same original four audience members. Finally, Myka announces the show WILL go on. She also gives me a ticket for a free drink.

I head back to the bar and order another Jack and Diet. The bartendress makes it, and I hand her the ticket, along with a $2 tip.

"You can't get Jack Daniels with a ticket!," she barks at me. "You can only get well drinks!"


Forbidden Pleasure.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know that," I calmly respond. "In that case, may I have a rum and diet?"

"I'VE ALREADY MADE THIS DRINK!," she screams, on the verge of total hysteria. "SOMEONE'S GOTTA DRINK IT!"

"Well," I say, still calm, "I'm not paying for it, so I guess I'm not drinking it. I already bought one at full price and gave you a nice tip. So you can either pour that one out and waste it, or you can give it to me in return for this ticket."

"FINE!," she says, foam now appearing at the corners of her mouth. "JUST GIVE ME A DOLLAR TO PAY FOR THE DIFFERENCE!"

"Great," I say, taking back one of the dollars with which I had planned to tip her. "Here ya go."

Myka goes up to host. The "crowd" is behaving like typical open mic-ers, i.e. they are barely civil. She intros the first comic, whose name escapes me now, and he tells a funny story about going to Thailand and almost having sex with two hookers. A few people in the hostile crowd actually laugh. Next guy goes up. Can't remember his name, either. Beyond terrible.Crowd is silent throughout. Painful.

I am getting restless and ask Myka if I can go up next so I can basically get the hell out of there. She brings me up.

I do my standard five-minute set: I used to work for Fox News, I'm gay, isn't that ironic, here's what happened when I came out to my parents, Bush sucks, Cheney shot a guy in the face, I once had a guy shoot in my face, and one time I had to perform comedy at an all-black poetry slam on Long Island. End scene.

Granted, I phoned it in a bit. And granted, the set I do in front of straight crowds does tend to veer more towards the "here's how being gay makes my experiences different from yours" theme than when I perform for gay crowds, because that's what the straights tend to like. But I'm not a minstrel. I don't get up there and flame around and surrender my dignity to get cheap laughs.

Moreover, I got genuine laughs from that bitter little room. Which is more than I can say for Sven Wechsler, who immediately followed me.

I had never heard of Sven. For a moment, When Myka said his name, I thought maybe it was Vh-1 staple and erstwhile Soapboxer Evan Wecksell. But no such luck.

So Sven gets up, and he goes: "How 'bout that Adam Sank?"

A few people applaud.

He continues: "Apparently he's gay. Yeah, he mentioned that a few times during his set."

Silence.

"You know when a gay man sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of winter."

Louder silence.

He continues to bomb for a few minutes, and then I leave.

Analysis: I'm probably making way too big a deal about this, but I can't help but feel his first remark was a cheap shot. It wasn't homophobic. But it was an attempt to wink at the other comics in the room -- as if to say, "We're all better than this hack, aren't we?" And even if that had been the case -- and the room seemed not to agree it was -- why try to score points at the expense of another performer? If you're as funny as you think you are, you shouldn't have to resort to that.

Furthermore (and this is where homophobia does come into play), I bet Sven wouldn't dare get up after an African-American comic and say, "Apparently he's black..." etc. But somehow, it's OK to try and humiliate a homo.

So I'm here to say, Fuck you, Sven Wechsler. You're not funny, and you tried to throw me under the bus for no reason. (P.S. Your second joke might have worked had you said something like, "...six more weeks of Gay Pride," or "...six more weeks of One Day Sales," or "...six more weeks of blowjobs," if you wanted to take it there. But "...six more weeks of winter?" That makes no sense. You suck.)

You know who doesn't suck? Steve Hofstetter. Did my Therapy show Sunday night. Rocked it as usual. The crowd loved him so much they bought a bunch of CDs from him afterwards. Classy guy, too. Wish I had taken photos, but I still haven't replaced my broken camera. Oh, and Al Wagner, my new stalker, showed up, too.

I did find the following picture online. It's from my April 22 Therapy show, when I hosted the cast of Logo's "Big Gay Sketch Show." They were cool.

For a larger version, go to this link and click on the pic.

Had a really fun set at Comix Tuesday night in their "Hot Comix" showcase. Greg Giraldo was the headliner. All I can say about Greg is, his off-the-cuff rant in the green room was funnier than any bit I've ever done onstage. A true talent.

After the show, I was mobbed by a gang of barely post-pubescent girls. This is not the first time it's happened to me. For some reason I can't fathom, this is my target audience. They kept trying to get me to go to some after-party they were throwing at the W Hotel, but I had to work the next morning, so that was not going to happen.

I was also approached by a very cute young dude, who told me he had enjoyed my set. He looked a bit like a younger Seann William Scott.

You know... Stifler from "American Pie."

So he tells me: "When you asked if anyone in the audience was gay, I wanted to clap... but I was with my mom."

"Oh," I say. "Are you not out to her?"

"I am," he says, "But I just came out to her this year. I don't think she would have liked it if I had clapped."

It suddenly strikes me that this guy is REALLY young. Like too young for me to even be thinking he's cute.

"How old are you?" I finally ask him.

"Sixteen."

!!

To paraphrase Robin Fox, I felt older than dirt. More to the point, I am shocked that 16-year-olds are out of the closet these days, and I told him as much.

"Oh, yeah, it's fine," he tells me. "Actually, I've become a lot more popular since people found out I was gay."

Times do indeed change.

What else? Oh, people have been asking me for an update on my mice situation. Ever since the weather's warmed up, I've seen neither hide nor hair of these vile creatures. My friend Dan, a restauranteur, tells me this is typical mouse behavior. They like going where it's warmest. So I guess I'll be turd-free for the next several months. Which is nice.

Gone, but not forgotten.

Oh, and I'm going to be on Sirius OutQ Radio for the first time on Thursday, June 21st, on "The Frank DeCaro Show," to promote our mutual appearance at my Gay Bash that night. Can't wait!

I had wanted to talk about Zach Galifiankis's new comedy DVD, but that'll have to wait until next time. Also next time, why "So You Think You Can Dance" is the most horribly produced reality show ever.

No Therapy show this Sunday night. It's the Tony Awards, and I can't compete with that. But I'll be back there June 17th with Bernadette Pauley, Susan Alexander and D'yan Forest.

Homo out. ♥

The Hof Does Therapy

Tonight (Sunday, 6/3/07) at Therapy:

Steve Hofstetter!


from Showtime's "White Boyz in Da Hood"
and "Sports Illustrated."

featuring:

Denis Donohue

from "The Howard Stern Show"

and

Anne Neczypor

MAC Award Nominee for
Outstanding Female Comic

and hosted by Yours Truly...

Adam Sank

from the apartment infested by mice.

Therapy is located at 348 West 52nd Street, between 8th and 9th Avenues. Showtime is 10:00 p.m. sharp. No cover charge, no drink minimum.

OK, I know this isn't a real blog. I had hoped to be able to write one this week, and in fact, I have a couple good stories to tell. Including the one about the straight male comic who went up after me during the last night of "Grandma's Candy Box" and decided to open with a joke implying that I'm a gay minstrel whose only punchlines is "I'm gay." And then proceeded to bomb miserably. And that comic's name is... well, you'll just have to wait until next time.


Name that Douche.

You'll also have to wait to hear me rant and rave about the new DVD from Zach Galifianakis, who is now officially my favorite comic.

But the important thing is, Hofstetter's making a rare appearance at Therapy tonight, and you really don't want to miss it. It may be the only venue in the United States where you can see him without paying a cover. So come on down, bee-yatches!

Oh, and while I'm shamelessly using this space to self-promote:


Ah yes, the infamous nipple shot that always freaks the Soapbox out.

Homo out. ♥

P.S. Spellcheck thinks Galifianakis should be "Californians." And that bee-yatches should be "yachts." Tee hee.