Friday, August 31, 2007

Pokin' in the Boy's Room

The other night as I lay in bed around midnight, I was seized with a sudden and explicable craving for Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. It's been years since I've kept any breakfast cereals in my apartment, as they're all more or less empty calories and sugar. But the dangerous thing about living in New York City is that if and when a craving strikes, whether it be for drugs, sex or Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch, chances are you can usually obtain what you're after in a matter of minutes.

Take Your Pick.

Sure enough, I found myself moments later at the corner deli in my pajamas and flip-flips, handing over $5.49 (!) for what I craved.

A few words on my longstanding relationship with Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch (henceforth referred to as PBCC). As a child, it was always my favorite cereal. I'm not even going to entertain the notion that regular Cap'n Crunch or those vile Crunch Berries even compare to the delicacy that is PBCC. They are simply heaven in a box. I have fond memories of my father and I watching late-night television together as we chomped away at those sumptuous yellow orbs, passing the box back and forth as one would a crack pipe. It's actually one of the only things we ever had in common.

The only problem with PBCC, then as now, is that they are murder on your tongue and gums. No matter how long you soak them in milk, you always wind up feeling as if you've given head to a rhino.

'Thank you!'

Nevertheless, it's worth it. And needless to say, I wound up eating three giant bowls of the stuff before passing out. Now what's left of the box is sitting in my refrigerator (safe from the ravenous mice), and I find that I can no longer get to sleep without eating at least one bowl. I can also no longer feel the roof of my mouth. I actually think I've developed callouses, as a guitar player does on his fingertips. I truly hope when this box runs out, I'll quit. Otherwise, I'll soon end up toothless and 40 lbs overweight.

By the way: According to a site called, a 3/4 cup serving of PBCC contains 112 calories, 9 grams of sugar and 21.3 grams of carbs. And let me assure you, I'm eating a helluva lot more than 3/4 cup in one sitting.

None of which has anything to do with what I really want to talk about which is the G.O.P. And by that I mean the Gay Old Party.

Yes, kids, it's been quite a summer for conservative Republicans who secretly crave cock. And by that I mean all of them.

To wit:

On July 11, Republican State Representative Bob Allen of Titusville, FL (and I couldn't make that place name up if I tried) was arrested when he offered $20 to a black undercover police officer in the men's room of a public park. In return, he wanted to blow the officer.

There are so many things to love about this story, not the least of which is that Allen, who is married with kids, had signed onto Gov. Jeb Bush's friend-of-the-court brief supporting the state's ban on gays adopting children and once co-sponsored a bill that would have raised penalties for "offenses involving unnatural and lascivious acts," such as indecent exposure.

No, most delicious is that after his arrest, Allen told police the only reason he solicited the officer was because he was virtually surrounded by menacing looking black guys at this park, and he was afraid he was about to become "another statistic."

Which makes total sense to me. I know that whenever I'm surrounded by menacing looking black guys, offering to blow them almost always defuses the violence.

Now, of course, the local NAACP chapter is taking umbrage with Allen's racist defense, and his political future doesn't look so bright.

Meanwhile, my feeling has always been that if you have to pay for bathroom sex, it's time to get back to the gym. Seriously.

Wanted: By Absolutely No One

We move now to Glenn Murphy, Jr., age 33, who until recently was chairman of Indiana's Clark County Republican Party and president of the Young Republican National Federation. He's another looker, by the way.

'Do I make you horny, baby?'

You've heard of sleepwalkers? Well apparently Murphy's a sleepcocker. On July 29, he was sharing a room with a 22-year-old dude after the two had attended a rockin' Young Republicans party. The 22-year-old awoke in the middle of the night to find his G.O.Penis in Murphy's mouth. Needless to say, he lost his head.

Now, I personally feel there are worse ways to be woken up. But I guess the 22-year-old didn't see it that way because he's pressing criminal sexual assault charges against this somnambulist sucker.

Who, by the way, seems to have a thing for late-night snacks -- and I don't mean Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. In 1998, he did the exact same thing to a 21-year-old dude while he was sleeping. (The 21-year-old filed a police report, but charges were never brought.)

'Now I lay me down to bed.
I pray no fat Republican gives me head.'

Incidentally, all this talk about having sex with a guy who's asleep reminds me of my last serious relationship. But I digress.

And finally we come to the story that's getting round-the-clock coverage, Idaho Senator Larry Craig's adventures in Toiletland.

Unless you live under a rock, you know by now that in June, the married Craig, a vocal supporter of anti-gay legislation on both the state and federal levels, pleaded guilty to "lewd conduct" in a men's room at Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. Once again, the case involved an undercover police officer, whom Craig solicited for some action while seated in the adjacent stall. The officer said Craig tapped his foot repeatedly, a known signal meant to convey: "I want dick!"

Cue the theme from "My Three Sons."

Craig also "waved his hand" under the stall (which is always sexy), and had reportedly been "peering through the crack in the stall" at the officer for a while before taking his seat on the john.

As I write this, it looks inevitable that Craig will be forced to resign, despite his announcement yesterday that he "did nothing wrong!" and is "not gay!"

If I can be serious for a moment, I agree with him on both counts. Sen. Craig's not gay, nor is State Rep. Allen nor Glenn Murphy, Jr. "Gay" is an identity one embraces when one accepts the truth about himself. Doing so isn't easy. It requires honesty, integrity and courage -- qualities these men utterly lack. Gay is not what they are. What they are are miserable, hypocritical cowards who, because they hate themselves, devote their energies to trying to destroy the very people they wish they could be.

That's not hyperbole. In 2002, Sen. Craig voted against adding sexual orientation to federal hate crime laws. He would have us literally beaten.

So I feel nothing but joy and satisfaction at these men's reversal of fortune. I hope they feel every ounce of public scorn and humiliation. And then I hope they come out of the closet and renounce their former ways. It's their only hope for happiness.

On the other hand, as an American citizen in this age of terrorism, I can't help but wonder if conducting sex stings in public toilets is really the best allocation of our resources. (I'm excluding Murphy here, because his alleged acts took place in private and were with non-consenting partners, thus being immoral as well as criminal.)

It's sad that some men are so lonely and desperate that they have to turn to such places for human contact, but honestly -- are they really hurting anyone? The media and cops would have you believe that these guys are predators waiting to pounce on the first penis they see. In reality, bathroom cruising (as it's known in the gay community) is an extremely furtive and subtle business. Unless you're a cruiser yourself, you'll almost never be aware that you're a cruisee.

In other words, if an oblivious straight guy wants to take a piss or a No. 2 in a public restroom without being hit on, he's almost always able to do so. It's only the dudes who linger at the urinals or in the stalls for inordinate amounts of time, or who purposefully make eye contact with other dudes who become the recipients of such attention.

Somehow, then, sending hot, young undercover officers -- and they are invariably hot and young -- into bathrooms to entrap these poor souls seems not only unnecessary, but cruel.

Seriously: Who WOULDN'T want to blow that?

All right, I'm off my soapbox and outta here. I won't be hosting the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday because I have to be in New Jersey for Mom and Dad's 45th wedding anniversary. But the hilarious Brad Loekle will be filling in, and Laurie Kilmartin headlines. So check it out!

And don't forget:

Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch will be served.

Homo out.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Worst Blog Ever

There's a guy at my gym who, for the purpose of this blog, I'll call Andy Rexic.

Andy used to be slightly overweight. He was never actually fat -- just a little soft around the middle. Anytime I saw him going to or from the showers, he had his towel hiked way up over his entire midsection, completely covering his navel, a la Barbara Eden in "I Dream of Jeannie." His little love handles were obviously a source of great shame to him.

Anyway, in the past year, Andy has lost a ton of weight -- too much, in my opinion. He's constantly using the elliptical cardio machine. His face is all angles now, his love handles gone. He has the waist of a teenage girl.

And yet, he STILL hikes his towel way up in the locker room. It pisses me off to no end. I want to be like, "Andy, you've worked your ass off -- literally! You don't have to wear a big baggy tennis skirt anymore; you can show off your tiny little tummy with pride now!"

Of course, it could be that he simply hikes his towel up to avoid exposing himself to the creepy gay guy who stares at everyone in the shower area.

One never knows.

Not an attractive look.

You can tell how boring my life must be at the moment if this is what I'm leading the blog with. I've got serious summer burnout. The weather sucks, I hate my day job, and my apartment smells like mouse piss. I need a break from my life. Calgon, take me away!

Anyone else remember that commercial?

Speaking of the mouse problem, I'm taking drastic action. Today during my lunch hour I brought home a coworker who does contracting work on the side. I'm going to hire him to rip out all my counters and plug up any visible mouse holes in the kitchen wall. If that doesn't work, I'm simply going to torch the place. I can't live like this anymore.

"Hello. I live in Adam's kitchen with all my friends and family!
We piss and shit 1000 times a day. Come join us!"

I continue to receive mail list requests on my web site from anonymous people. Either someone's doing it to fuck with me, or I have some really stupid fans. Once again: IF YOU WANT TO JOIN MY MAIL LIST, YOU HAVE TO FILL OUT THE FIELDS THAT SAY "NAME" AND "EMAIL." MY WEB SITE IS NOT PSYCHIC. IT DOESN'T KNOW WHO YOU ARE UNLESS YOU TELL IT.

While I'm ranting, can I just reiterate how much I hate text messages? Particularly text messages that say things like, "How was the party last night?" Am I really supposed to type the answer to an essay question on that microscopic keyboard? Michael Musto, one of my idols, took up this topic one of his recent "Dolce Musto" columns:

Can I just say how much I detest texting? It's a technological travesty and a logistical nightmare that's wearing down my will to live. A simple call would resolve all pertinent issues—what are we doing, where, why, etc.—in a matter of seconds, but instead you're forced to engage in an Olympic typing battle that takes giant chunks out of your day while making your knuckles sore, just to eke out a simple "going out tonight." What's worse, you meant that as a query, but since you have no idea how to type a question mark, it's a wasted exchange; your friend promptly responds "that's nice" and powers off (as you marvel that he knew how to do an apostrophe).

Clicking on each key several times just to get the letter you want—and then going back to try it again when you overshoot—is an absolute torture, and when your phone bill ends up three times the normal rate because you sent casual acquaintances indispensable messages like "how r u," you want to do a NAOMI CAMPBELL and hit someone over the head with the cell. Is it any wonder that the horrors of texting may have led to the death of five cheerleaders in that fiery car crash? And yet . . . there is something sexy and exciting about hearing that jingle that says someone cared enough to do all that typing and backspacing just to tell you something inane. I say let's keep texting, but only when we're in a club where you can't actually call over the music. Alas, that's always where I am anyway. Waa. Why me question mark.

Amen, sister.

This past Sunday's Therapy show was one of the most bizarre ever. Not just because we had a table of Soapboxers in the audience...

Al Wagner, Robin Fox, Sam Garrett, and Sam's hot girlfriend.

...Not just because of who we had on the show...

Myself (with a beard), Mina Hartong, Shecky Beagleman, and
Gerald McCoullouch, who plays Bobby Dawson on TV's "C.S.I."..

...But because AFTER the show, we had a full-on Hasidic Jew wander into Therapy. (A wandering Jew, if you will.) He immediately joined all the comics at our table, ordered a Heineken, and proceeded to try to feel up Shecky and Robin. He provided no explanation for being in a gay bar with a bunch of comics on a Sunday night and, unfortunately, wouldn't allow me to take a photo.

But he basically looked like this:

Only older and fatter.

I can't begin to explain to you how surreal this was.

What else? I don't know. I gotta go. Still at work and have to go home and get ready for a show I'm hosting tonight at the Limerick Ale House. I'll leave you with one of the photos my friend Jeff took last weekend during my big head shot photo shoot.

Kinda cute, no?

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Aug. 26, when my special guests will be Christian Finnegan, Vicki Ferentinos, Ben Lerman, and Soapbox's own Jill Twiss! Details on my web site!

And don't miss Adam Sank's Gay Bash at Comix starring Judy Gold and featuring Rick Crom, Robin Fox and others, on Thursday, Sept. 20 at 8 p.m. Buy your tickets here!

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Bad Behavior (Mine)

Recent email from a special events director in Los Angeles:


Hello! I was referred to you for possible assistance. The [name redacted] is hosting its annual fundraiser on September 24th at The Comedy Store.

I am looking for gay-friendly straight comics to come out to do one set for us. The show is a mix for both gay and straight comics.

Would you have any names to suggest that I might reach out to?

Thank you!!

In other words, "We don't want you, but won't you please help us book our show?" It's things like this that make me cry myself to sleep at night.

I shouldn't bitch; bookings have been picking up considerably lately, and I feel like I'm turning a bit of a corner as I enter my fifth year (yikes) pursuing comedy stardom. It's barely perceptible, but I feel like bookers and other comics have been treating me differently as of late. For years, it was like, "Who the hell are you?" Now there's at least some name/face recognition and the acknowledgment (often grudging) that I can generally hold my own in a lineup. Which is nice.

Also, the Therapy show is more popular than ever, which has boosted my credibility considerably. Summer is generally our slowest time, yet we've been packing 'em in week after week, and the quality of shows has been consistently high. It's hard to believe that on Sept. 23, I'll celebrate my two-year anniversary as host and producer. Time flies when you're killing yourself.

I'm even wearing clothing in my new headshots...

At the same time, I continue to marvel at the mental illness that predominates our industry. I'm dying to relay the details of a story that happened at Therapy this past Sunday night, in which a comic (not booked for my show) yelled "Get off the stage, douche bag!" at one of my performers during his set. This prompted me to publicly denounce the heckler as "the worst comedian in New York City," after which he stormed over to me at the DJ booth, finger in my face, and screamed his lungs out at me. (Even Luke, our mild-mannered tech manager, was alarmed. "My hands were shaking," he told me later. "I was trying to decide what I was going to hit him with if he physically attacked you." You go, Luke!)

Chad, our illustrious manager, ended up throwing this mental case out of the bar. The next day he (the mental case) called me to apologize for his behavior. And the day after that, he booked me for an upcoming show he's producing. Just another week in comedy, folks.

Tom RagĂș, Michelle Buteau and Me, after the fireworks.

Apropos of none of this, the Utne Reader had an interesting piece on joke-stealing a while back in which our own Steve Hofstetter was quoted. It's worth a read, particularly given the ongoing Joe Rogan vs Carlos Mencia joke-stealing feud.

I simply can't imagine consciously stealing another comic's joke. I hate myself even when I accidentally repeat a line or phrase similar to that of another comedian's. This happened the other night at Vicki Ferentinos's "Let the Laughs Out" show at Time Out NY Lounge this past Saturday. I was doing a fairly new bit about spotting what appeared to be an extremely well-endowed guy on the subway. After the punchline (which is apparently my own), I do a throwaway tag about the guy moving away from me and walking to another subway car.

So then the wonderful Greg Walloch gets up and does his set, including his hilarious joke about spotting Adrien Brody on the subway. His tag is virtually the same. And it's only then that I realize I had been repeating something I heard before... a number of times. I felt like a total retard. Now I want to just trash the whole bit.

Greg Walloch: The Original Subway Jokester.

Oh, so to recap my appearance at Rainbow Mountain. It was one of the most uncomfortable sets of my life. Not because it didn't go well; it went fine. But because moments before my set, I was hit with an attack of violent, explosive diarrhea. I was literally on the toilet crying when I heard the guy start my intro. It was hideous.

I wasn't sure I could make it through a 45-minute set, so I figured I'd better level with the crowd. I came out all sweaty and disheveled and simply laid it on them: "Before I begin, you should know that I am suffering from severe gastric distress. This is what happens when you have a quarter pounder with cheese followed by a bump of coke. So if I suddenly run off the stage without warning, talk amongst yourselves; I'll be back as soon as I can."

They seemed to appreciate my honesty.

Note the tranny with the mullet in the foreground;
Now THAT'S not something you see every day.
(Photos by Jeff Hardy.)

Isn't this a cool picture? I love that you can see
the table of laughing guys reflected in the mirror.

Last time I was at Rainbow Mountain, I ended my set with an impromptu strip-tease. Not feeling particularly sexy given my violent pre-show bowel syndrome, I kept my clothes on this time.

That is, I did until I got up to karaoke downstairs, four Tanqueray & tonics later.

Strangely enough, this is exactly the same
expression I was making on the toilet.

Rainbow Mountain has an odd karaoke selection. It doesn't include any of my standards -- neither Dream Academy's "Life in a Northern Town" nor Roxette's "The Look" nor Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street." So I chose "Plush" by Stone Temple Pilots. And while I can sort of hit the notes in that song, I'm not nearly rock 'n' roll enough to pull it off. So it came across, I fear, like one of those awful "American Idol" auditions.

Needless to say, I continued to drink. Gradually, my behavior began to regress to gay frat-boy levels.

Getting to know my fans, whether they want me to or not.

Before heading up to my cabin to pass out, I treated the crowd to one final mortification: Copacabana Karaoke. This time, I kept my shirt on, but inexplicably dropped my pants.

This may just be the ugliest photo ever.

There's really nothing else I can say at this point, so I might as well end this installment.

Homo out (of his mind).

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Aug. 19, when my special guests will be Shecky Beagleman, Mina Hartong, Joe Narvaez, and a special appearance by Gerald McCullouch from CBS's "CSI!" Details on my web site.

And don't miss "Adam Sank's Gay Bash" on Thursday, Sept. 20 at Comix, starring Judy Gold and featuring Rick Crom! Details and tickets on the comix web site.

Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Jesus Wept (From Laughter!)

I am so behind on blogging I'm actually having nightmares about it. Which is odd, considering not a single soul seems to give a shit. It's not as though people are banging on my door: "Please, Adam! Please talk more about yourself, including photos of you alongside people we don't know, accompanied by overly clever captions! We're desperate!"

And yet... the longer I wait, the more my brain and stomach churn. So for my sake, if not for anyone else's, here's the latest:

First, some exciting news: I just got booked for my first ever college gig. On Oct. 18, I'll be headlining at the University of Vermont. You may be wondering how the University of Vermont knows who I am or why they would want to fly me to Burlington for an hour(!) of stand-up. I, too, am wondering that. But I shan't look a gift horse in the mouth. I shall simply say a prayer of thanks and look forward to big creamy spoonfuls of fresh Ben & Jerry's and college boys dressed up in fuzzy wool sweaters. (These are a few of my favorite things.)

I LVERMONT! (But will it lve me?)

Quite pleased with how the Soapbox show at Therapy went the Sunday before last. For you MySpace blog readers who don't know what I'm talking about, for the second year in a row I invited nine comics who blog regularly on Comedy Soapbox, along with headliner Robin Fox, to perform in a competition at my Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour.

This year's winner, by overwhelming applause, was Jill Twiss. Really, there was no contest; my audience practically ripped her clothes off.

The Twiss-ter gets love from Therapy's gays.

Congratulations to Jill, who next performs at Therapy on Aug. 26.

The whole night was a bit of a love-in. Once again, my normally pissy, jaded crowd was on their best behavior in front the 10 straight Soapboxers I invited to the stage. It was as if their parents had come for Sunday dinner.

A Soapbox Jamboree (from left): Jeanne Noll,
Jill Twiss, Shaun Eli, Mindy Matejasevic,
Chris Quimby, Hoopachoo, Pat Breslin, Moi,
Robin Fox, Harris Bloom and Al Wagner.
Kudos to Shaun, Pat and Harris for facing the
right camera.
(By the way, Pat: All my gay friends want to do you.)

I was very proud of everyone, including Robin, who delivered a balls-to-the-wall headline set. But the highlight of the night for me was Chris Quimby's set. To understand the context, it's best to just watch it yourself, including my intro. Click here to do so. (And special thanks to Al Wagner for taping the entire show and uploading clips.)

There was something very magical about that moment when Chris and I embraced while Luke blasted Handel's "Messiah" from the DJ booth and the crowd went wild. Yes, the irony of the whole thing made it funny. But our bear-hug transcended mere comedy. In that instant, more than just two individuals, Chris and I represented a joyous union of two segments of American culture that are almost always locked in a hostile, bitter stalemate. It was incredibly cathartic, I felt, for everyone in the room. As Robin later said to me, "It was like watching peace break out in the Middle East."

The fact that Chris went on to have a strong, funny set only heightened it.

Heaven & Hell: Together at Last.
By the way, contrary to the way it looks,
Chris did NOT fondle my genitals.
At least not in this picture.

It was also really nice hosting the Quimbys at my condo for an all-too-brief 36 hours. True, at times we all walked on eggshells a bit. But the overall feeling was one of mutual respect and admiration. They are both sweet and cool and funny and welcome back anytime.

The Maine Event: Heather & Chris Quimby.
They put the "fun" in "fundamentalist."

So much more to say... about that night, as well as my gig at Rainbow Mountain this past Friday. But that'll have to wait until next time.

Here's a sneak peak from the next blogisode:

Friends don't let friends karaoke naked.
Thanks, Jeff.

Oh, and one last thing: I am two friends away from hitting the 900 mark on my MySpace page. For some reason, this is incredibly important to me. So if you haven't already friended me, do it NOW!

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Aug. 12, when my special guests will be Michelle Buteau, Colin Kane, and Tom "The Big Ragu" RagĂș! Details on my web site.