Friday, October 26, 2007

Bye Bye, Bash

It is with a heavy heart that I announce I am ending the run of my Gay Bash at Comix, after a happy and successful eight months.

This was an extremely difficult decision for me. I have put tremendous time and energy into the show, and I am very proud of what I've been able to achieve, with the help of Comix and all the wonderful performers who have appeared in the Bash.

Unfortunately, given the weekly Therapy show, my full-time day job and an ever-increasing performance schedule, something had to give.

I want to make clear that I have nothing but good things to say about Comix. It remains the best comedy club in New York City, and I am so grateful for all the support they gave me and my show. This decision was mine and mine alone, and I look forward to a continued relationship with them.

I also want to thank the many people who came out to support the show.

It was a blast while it lasted.


Mina Hartong (Front), Jackie Monahan, Me,
Karith Foster and Frank DeCaro at last night's
final show.

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Oct. 28, when my headliner will be Soapbox founder and major comedy star Steve Hofstetter! Details on my web site.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

The Marigolds Hate Me

"College gigs can be daunting; they are usually under-attended, "framed" wrong (no lights, bad sound, no advertising) and the kids running the show have no idea what they're doing."

Ralph Tetta
Seasoned Road Comic

Amen, brother.

Now let me make this clear: The UVM people treated me like a king. They picked me up from the airport, booked me to stay at a very nice Holiday Inn, gave me a tour of campus, bought me dinner, and paid me handsomely for my efforts.
I really did enjoy myself, both on-stage and off, and I am supremely grateful for the gig.

But the venue was not exactly suited to a stand-up show. It was, essentially, a cafeteria -- a long, narrow cafeteria lit with fluorescents that stayed on throughout the show. The walls were adorned with giant plasma television sets, on which the audience could watch the baseball playoffs in case my material failed to engage them.


By the way: I remembered to bring my
camera but forgot the battery, so
all photos will be generic.
Sorry.


My opening act was a student band called the Marigolds. They weren't terrible -- just very loud. As their set went on, the room began to empty. Finally, at about five minutes to 8, the flippy-haired lead singer said: "OK, guys. We're going to do one more song for you before we bring on the funny stuff." They proceeded to perform a 15-minute-long freestyle jam that seemed to be played in two different keys. By the time they wrapped up, there were exactly six people in the crowd, three of whom were from the UVM Programming Board.

I took the stage. "Let's give it up for the Marigolds!," I said and then added, "I thought 'Stairway to Heaven' was the longest rock 'n' roll song ever, but apparently that was."

The Marigolds glared at me from the wings and promptly marched off.


"Adam Sank is a total dick."

"So it's great to be here!" I said, trying to detach the mic from the stand. It wouldn't budge. I realized to my horror that the mic cord was actually tethered to the stand with some sort of reinforced brackets. I had never in my life encountered anything like it.

(Sidebar: When I signed the contract with UVM, under "Special Requests" I had specifically asked for a cordless mic to avoid this very nightmare. I have an irrational fear of mic stands. They make me feel like I'm in a cage. The first thing I do whenever I begin a set is to remove the mic and position the stand as far away from me as possible.)

"Um, listen guys, I'm sorry, but can anyone get the mic off the stand for me? I can't do the show without being able to move around."

Miraculously, one of the six people in the crowd was some sort of techie, and he lept up on-stage and instantly freed the cord from its shackles.

"Great, thanks," I said. "So how are you guys..."

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEAL!

(Hideous microphone feedback.)

"Uh, how..."

SQUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!

"Um, does anyone know how to stop this feedba..."

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK!

The techie spoke up: "You can't walk that far forward on the stage, or you'll get feedback."

I tried to digest this.

"So basically, I'm trapped behind this invisible line for the whole hour?"

"Yes."

"OK. Let's try this again..."

I knew from previous road gigs that I would have to act as my own host, spending at least 10 or 15 minutes warming up the crowd before launching into material. Thank God I did, because during that time the audience doubled, then quadrupled, then octupled, until the room was essentially full.

Crowd in place, technical problems more or less solved, I went into my material.

It went well, I think. Not amazing, but well. They laughed. There was sporadic applause. I maintained the same level of energy for the entire hour, and only one table left before the show ended. Surprisingly, the stuff they liked best was gay and dirty.

"You guys really want me to get dirty?" I asked at one point.

"YES!" they yelled.

"OK," I said, "but I warn you: Once you let kitty out of the bag, she ain't going back in."

This got big applause.

What they didn't like as much was my "safe" material -- the stuff I do about pop culture, politics and other current events. I guess this makes sense; college students tend to exist in their own bubble. They don't watch a lot of television, and they're not particularly interested in what's happening outside of their campus (political activism notwithstanding).

I ended strong, reading aloud an article I had found in their campus newspaper with the headline:

"Moose Killed After Invading Yard, Meat Goes to Charity"


Actual photo of the moose, shortly before death.

The story is so absurd and the article so poorly written that I didn't even have to inject any jokes. I simply read the story, doing different voices for the various characters. (I effected a terrible Bullwinkle impression for the voice of the Fish and Wildlife officer.)

It worked. I was done.

Back in New York Sunday night, I arrived at Therapy to find the New York Gay Football League having a party at the back bar. I knew it was going to be a rough show, and it was. Some of the football players wandered into the performance area when the show began, and one of them, a large, drunk black guy, kept screaming, "Gurl!" after every three words I said.

"Hi, what's your name, Sweetie?" I asked.

"Greg!" he shouted back.

"Hi, Greg. Can you please shut the fuck up?"

"Gurl!"

And so it went.

The footballers eventually petered out, and we actually ended the show on a high note, with bang-up sets from Brad Loekle and Rachel Feinstein.


Trying to gain the upper hand.


Pit-stained Brad Loekle, me and Rachel Feinstein.
In the background is Tevye from "Fiddler on the Roof."


Finally, if you're bored at work, type your name into this anagram site.

The best ones for Adam Jacob Sank are:

A Bad Man As Jock

A Damask Con Job

and

A Banjo Smack Ad.

Homo out.


Buy your tickets now for Adam Sank's Gay Bash, special "Gays Gone Wild" edition, this Thursday, Oct. 25, with Frank DeCaro, Brad Loekle, Mina Hartong, Jackie Monahan, Mimi Imfurst, token straight boy Daniel Siegel and special guest Karith Foster. Click here for tickets.


And come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Oct. 28, when my headliner will be Soapbox founder Steve Hofstetter, along with special guests Maggie Farris and Dave Rubin. Details on
my web site.


Thursday, October 18, 2007

Verklempt over Vermont

Tomorrow I fly to Vermont to headline at UVM. It's my first college gig, and I'm totally freaking.

For the past three nights, I have been jolted awake at exactly 3:00 a.m., unable to sleep for the rest of the night. As I toss and turn, read magazines, watch TV and do various other things to try and get myself back down, my mind races. I think about comedy; not about my material, necessarily, just about comedy in general. I'll recall a funny comedian I once saw on HBO years ago; a particularly well-built audience member I spotted at Therapy on Sunday; or the fact that my favorite comedy jeans are starting to fray in the back pocket.


Is this comic strip EVER funny?

Throughout this ordeal, my brain is literally pounding. It feels like I've drunk a gallon of coffee and chased it with a bump of crystal meth. I'm not consciously thinking about the Vermont gig; it just lies there in the back of my mind quietly taunting: "You're gonna suuuuuuu-uuuuck. They're gonna haaaaa-aaaaate you..."

When I think rationally about it, I don't actually expect that they'll hate me. On the contrary, I have found that young straight women are my target audience. When I perform in front of them, they tend to mob me afterwards. They seem to find me sexy in a non-threatening way, like Lance Bass or Adam Brody from "The O.C." So if that trend holds, at least half the crowd should dig me.

It's the other half I'm worried about. Will straight college dudes -- even straight college dudes at liberal, hippie, granola-loving UVM -- really want to hear a 30-something gay guy talk about his sex life and the minutia of "Project Runway?" Will they be able to handle it if I hit on them from the stage?

And moreover, will I, a guy who graduated college 14 years ago, be able to relate to these youngsters?

We shall see. This time tomorrow, I'll be landing in Burlington.


School Daze...

In less uncertain news, "Friday Night Lights," has returned to the airwaves for a second season. I was worried after the first episode that the show had lost its footing. But after seeing the second one, I'm more convinced than ever that this is simply the best television show. Ever.

Consider a scene, from episode two, in which Jason Street, the wheelchair-bound former quarterback played by Scott Porter, runs into Coach Taylor's wife, played by the brilliant Connie Britton.

Jason tells Mrs. Taylor he's been having a recurring dream about her. Her expression immediately constricts; you can see she's worried he's about to share something inappropriate. But he goes right on talking, explaining that in the dream, she tells him: "Come on, Jason! Get up and walk!," and that lately he's been able to make a fist with one hand, something he hadn't been able to do since his spinal cord injury, and that he's been feeling like he will, indeed, walk again someday.

"So I just wanted to thank you, Mrs. Taylor," he says, before wheeling himself away.

The camera lingers on Britton's face for a moment. And in that moment, she goes through more emotions than most actors do in an entire film. She is delighted, moved, angry, anguished and finally, despite her better instincts, hopeful. It's amazing.


Give this woman an Emmy.

I'd like to give my take on the current season of "The Hills," too, but I've recently discovered a blog that renders anything I could say about the show superfluous. Check out Songs About Buildings and Food, in which a 21-year-old kid from Florida critiques this most vacuous of all reality shows with a level of sophistication and wit such that it suggests Pauline Kael crossed with Bret Easton Ellis. Amazing.

(Sidebar: It's 100 degrees inside my office today, and there has been a never-ending procession of people at my desk to complain about it, as if the heat were somehow my fault and there were something I could do about it. If I had a gun right now, a Columbine-type situation would transpire. Which is a pretty good argument for gun control laws.)


Happening in my head as we speak.

And now, some random photos I've been meaning to post for a while.


A shot from my Hawaii trip back in April,
compliments of fellow travelers Kyle and Alvin.
Totally staged, but the background's pretty cool, no?
(This was in Maui.)


Drag queen RV Beaumont and Super-Fag Brad Loekle
lounging in my bed at the Ice Palace in Cherry Grove
after my performance there in July.
Highly disturbing.


Adrienne Iapalucci, Vanessa Hollingshead, me
and Danny Leary at Therapy, Oct. 7, 2007.


Yonah Ward Grossman, Sherry Davey and me at
Therapy, Oct. 14, 2007.

That's it! I gotta pack! And write an hour's worth of material! And not sleep!

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Oct. 21, when my special guests will be Rachel Feinstein, Brad Loekle, Joe Narveaz and Ben Lerman. Details on my web site.

And buy your tickets now for Adam Sank's Gay Bash, special "Gays Gone Wild" edition, on Thursday, Oct. 25 with Frank DeCaro, Brad Loekle, Mina Hartong, Jackie Monahan, Mimi Imfurst, token straight boy Daniel Siegel and special guest Karith Foster. Click here for tickets.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Where's the Hole?

Something is rotten in the state of "Kid Nation."

It's the outhouses. They're not real; they can't be.

Anyone who's ever used an outhouse knows that it essentially consists of a cylindrical pit dug into the ground, on top of which is built a toilet, walls and a roof. Eventually, the pit fills up with shit, and you have to dig a new pit and move the outhouse.


Paging Senator Craig.

Not so with the outhouses on "Kid Nation." Although much is made of how gross they are, how bad they smell, how much the kids hate cleaning them and so forth, they are not real outhouses. How do I know? Because several times now, we've seen what's underneath them: NOTHING. No hole, no shit, just flat ground.

On the most recent episode, a dust storm blew through Bonanza City, the fictional ghost town where the kids live. So violent were the winds that they caused some of the outhouses to tip over. The older kids were dispatched to right them, and there were several clear shots of what lay beneath the outhouses: NOTHING.

Now, it's not as though I expect CBS to show us a shit-filled hole during family hour. I'd totally understand if they blurred such sights or avoided them altogether. Instead, they've made it all too clear that something here is not as it appears.


Are These Kids Full of Shit?

I've scoured the Internet to see if anyone else has picked up on this and found only one citation, on a web site called fansofrealitytv.com. In a forum on "Kid Nation," a poster named Veejer writes:
After winning the prize of seven more "outhouses", they now have a total of eight. Are they really outhouses or porta-potties decorated to look like old-fashioned outhouses? I sure didn't see any of those laborers digging the deep pits needed for seven real outhouse. I think they'd still be digging.

Veejer goes on to raise another valid point:

Has anyone noticed a bath or shower house? One of the kids using the pump to get water for cooking their first meal mentioned that they'd have pump all of their water for cooking and washing up. These kids won't be looking so cute without their Saturday night baths. The older ones will be getting very greasy.

Clearly, something smells here, and it's not the outhouses.

Regardless, I'm still fascinated with the show, particularly by how effectively the children resolve conflict. When someone acts like a little bitch, as 10-year-old Republican pageant queen Taylor often does, the other kids are like, "Hey, stop acting like a little bitch." Taylor cries. They all stare at her, unmoved. Finally she says, "I'm sorry. I'll stop acting like a little bitch." Everyone cheers. Taylor smiles. They move on to the next issue.

How awesome would it be if we could all deal with the obnoxious people in our lives this way?

Another reality show I recently caught the tail end of is Vh-1's "The Pick-up Artist." I resisted this show for a while because the host seemed like such a douche. For one thing, his name is Mystery. For another, he looks like this:


Mystery, seen here with an anonymous dumb slut.

The conceit of the show is this: Mystery is a master pick-up artist; he can seduce any woman in a matter of minutes. Eight of the world's biggest nerds compete to see who can best learn and apply Mystery's techniques and successfully mack on women. Each week one nerd is eliminated, and the last one standing is crowned The Pick-up Artist.

It's pretty much standard reality fare. To no one's surprise, the best-looking and most in-shape of all the nerds, Kosmo, ends up winning the competition.

But in spite of myself, I found myself taken with Mystery's pick-up techniques, because they weren't all that different from the very things stand-up comics do to win over an audience. There is much talk on the show about the "set" used to draw a woman in, including the "opener." (For some reason, the most popular opener used by these guys is, "Hey, did you see the fight outside?" If a stranger came up to me and asked me this, I'd say, "No," and walk away. But apparently, this line is catnip for drunk chicks in straight bars.)

Body language and eye contact are emphasized, as are "negs," which are backhanded compliments or flat-out insults meant to slightly lower an attractive woman's self-esteem and thus make her more vulnerable for seduction. Crowd work, anyone?


In short, coming off as confident, witty, cocky and a bit disinterested are supposedly effective tools in making women love you. One could argue it's a good way to get audiences to love you, too.

It got me thinking about comics. Some of the best ones I know are also charming and seductive in person. But other great ones I know are awkward, cold or downright creepy in person. It's the latter group that intrigues me. How do people who are so winning on-stage come off like such losers off-stage, and vice versa? It's like those chronic stutterers who never stutter when they sing, or when they're acting in a role. There must be some switch that goes off in the brain. Weird.

In any case, I'm going to do some experimenting to see if Mystery's techniques, when strictly applied, work on-stage. And to see if they work on getting guys into bed.

And now, some long-overdue photos from my two-year anniversary at Therapy (Sept. 23, 2007), courtesy of Jeff Hardy:


Me in front of my fabulous new sign. I LOVE IT!


Brian Barry as Britney Spears. He did a perfect
recreation of her VMA performance. It was genius.


Bob Smith says: "Don't eat anything cooked by
someone who uses this oven mitt."


Who said it? Michelle Buteau said it!


Brad Loekle, assuming the position.


Lisa Landry: The Mouth from the South


The Not-so-Yellow Rose of Texas, Karith Foster.


Crazy Jackie Monahan, hottest lesbian ever.


Mama Fox gives the finger.


Here's to two crazy years... and many (?) more.

And one helpful hint before I sign off. If, like I did, you find yourself inundated with fake profile adds on MySpace -- "Click here to see my sexy new pics!," etc -- do what I did: Go to your home page. Click on Account Settings, then on Spam. Check the box next to Require last name or email address under Friend Requests. And poof! No more bullshit profiles.

It's changed my life.

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Oct. 14, when my special guests will be Sherry Davey, Colin Kane and Yonah Ward Grossman. Details on my web site.

And buy your tickets now for Adam Sank's Gay Bash, special "Gays Gone Wild" edition, on Thursday, Oct. 25 with Frank DeCaro, Brad Loekle, Mina Hartong, Jackie Monahan, Mimi Imfurst, token straight boy Daniel Siegel and special guest Karith Foster. Click here for tickets.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Roseanne and Me

Chapter I: Preparation

My plan was to leave work around 3:30, pick up a new camera at BestBuy, head home, come up with a set list, soak in my tub for a while, nibble a bit, and leisurely make my way down to Comix around 6:15.

At around 3, I got an email from the club booker:

Hi, Adam. We need you at the club at 5 p.m. for a sound check.

Fuck!

I bolted over to BestBuy on 5th Avenue, pointed to the first digital camera I spotted, and said, "I'll take that one." (You have to know how out of character this was for me; I comparison-shop for butter.)


Hotel Bar is far cheaper than Breakstone's.

Rode a crosstown bus back to 10th, on which I tried to teach myself how to use the camera. Loose electronic parts flew everywhere, and fellow bus-riders eyed me nervously, as though I were constructing a bomb.

Got home, stuffed a gym bag with my stage outfit and everything else I could possibly need for the night (makeup, hair goop, blow dryer, notebook, pens, and, at the last minute, the camera I had just bought). Drew a bath, got in, and tried to breathe for five minutes while listening to atonal hip-hop coming from my bathroom radio, which is always set to Z-100.

(Side bar: How irritating is that new Kanye West song? "Th-th-th-th-that don't kill me... will only make me stronger..." Oy, vey.)

Hopped out, threw on jeans, a t-shirt and baseball cap, grabbed the bag, dashed out to 10th Avenue and waited for a cab. And waited. And waited. It was now 4:50 p.m.

Finally got a cab, sat in tunnel traffic on 11th for what seemed like an interminable amount of time, and pulled up to the club at exactly 5:00.


For those who have ever wondered:
"What's the ugliest Adam can possibly look?"

Chapter I: Meeting Roseanne
Upon arrival, I met Sherri Sutton, the other opener. Sherri's a doll. Roseanne had discovered her online and instantly wanted to work with her. It turned out Sherri was a lesbian, and that we were both good friends with comedian Mina Hartong. We bonded immediately.


The lovely Sherri, partially obscured because I hadn't yet
figured out how to remove the lens attachment.

Sherri and I sat chatting in the show room with Gina, the Comix booker, for about 10 minutes. Then suddenly, a small, dark-haired woman strode quickly into the room, accompanied by a small entourage. Gina rose to meet her.

"Hi, Roseanne," she said, and then indicated toward Sherri. "This is Sherri Sutton!"

"Sherri!" said Roseanne. "It's so nice to meet you in person."

I waited for an introduction. When none came, I stood up and skulked over to the woman I had watched on television thousands of times since the age of 17. "Hi, Roseanne. I'm Adam Sank. And I'm your MC for tonight."

"Oh," she said, looking as if she had smelled a fart. "There's an MC?"

"Um, yeah."

"Oh. How much time are you doing?"

"Uh, 10 minutes."

"OK. Nice to meet you."

Chapter III: The Early Show

At first, Roseanne's handlers had asked that Sherri and I vacate the green room while Roseanne got her hair and makeup done. But at around 6:45, when Comix started letting people into the house, Sherri I gingerly poked our heads in.

"Would you mind if we hung out here until the show starts?" I asked.

"Nah," she said. "I'm just watchin' TV."

So in we went, both nervous as hell. At first, there was little conversation. But after a while we all loosened up a bit, and before long she was showing us pictures of her kids and grandkids.

She told me she loved my jeans. She asked us if we were nervous about going on-stage. ("I am, she confided.")


The Legend and the Lowly MC.
Right now I'm thinking: "Roseanne's boob is touching me."


The conversation veered toward Britney Spears's losing custody of her kids. Roseanne said she felt sorry for Britney. I asked her something I've always wanted to ask an icon:

"When you're in the middle of a tabloid shit-storm like Britney is right now, do you read all the stuff that's being written about you?"

She stared at me for a second with a grave expression and then replied: "Every word."

Then she added: "But mostly 'cuz you want to know who gave them the story -- who sold them the story."

The show began. I walked out to face an almost completely full house. The entry applause was overwhelming. I have never been as nervous on-stage. Every part of me was shaking, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

I launched into the opener I had written for the occasion:

"Just to make it clear to you guys, I'm not Roseanne Barr. I know it's confusing -- we're practically twins. But actually, Roseanne and I have a lot in common. She starred in the greatest television show in history. And I... used to watch that show. It's an eerie coincidence, isn't it?"

They laughed. Politely, I would say. I did some crowd work, which went well. Then I panicked and launched quickly -- too quickly -- into my set.

A lot of it worked well. Some of it faltered. I came back strong at the end and then brought Sherri on. Overall, I'd say it was a competent set. Not my best, but nothing to be ashamed of. (Later, John, the GM at Comix pointed out the challenges inherent in opening for a superstar. "They're not here to see you," he said. "The fact that you got laughs throughout your set should make you feel very proud.")

"You're funny," Roseanne said in the green room. "I love the line about the covenant between gay men and obese black women who can sing."

Sweet!

After Sheri's set, I came on, made a quick announcement about the comment cards, and then said: "And now, without further ado, Roseanne."

As I walked off the stage to what was literally deafening applause, all I could think was: "She goes by 'Roseanne Barr' now -- not 'Roseanne.' You just fucked up her name."

But no one mentioned it to me afterwards, so I guess it was no biggie.

Chapter IV: The Late Show

After the first show, I schmoozed with the public outside and was surprised by the enthusiasm with which they greeted me. About a dozen people shook my hand and asked me where else they could see me perform. Three gay guys had their picture taken with me. And best of all, I ran into Robin Fox, Karith Foster, and my friends Seth, Jeff and Pat -- all of whom were coming to see the second show.

I headed back to the green room. Roseanne was there with a few other folks, and she looked up at me: "Can you please give me a few minutes here?"

Of course I could. Sherri joined me, and we stood together in the little backstage passageway outside the green room. The door had now been closed.

"Is this a referendum on how annoying we were during the first show?" I wondered aloud.

"I hope not," said Sherri.

It was now about 20 minutes until the next show. Sherri and I were sitting quietly. The green room door remained shut. Suddenly, a tall figure started walking towards us in the darkness. As she approached, I heard Sherri whisper, "Ohmigod." I looked up and saw the face of Rosie O'Donnell staring down at me.

"Hi," I squeaked like a cartoon mouse. "I'm Adam."

"Hi," she said, giving my hand a quick pump. "I'm Rosie." And with that she walked into the green room, closing the door behind her.

Needless to say, we never made it into the green room before the second show. About 10 seconds before showtime, Rosie emerged. And literally the second before I stepped out onstage, she passed by me, giving me a little pat on the back. It was like: "And now your MC for the evening, Adam Sank!," thunderous applause, my hands on the curtains, pat on the back from Rosie O'Donnell.

Surreal isn't the word.

Maybe there was something lucky in that back pat. I killed. I literally killed. I've never had a better set. I had multiple applause breaks. They laughed at my set-ups and exploded at the punches. I went completely into the zone. I heard myself twisting my jokes in completely new ways -- adding things that popped into my head on the spot. At one point, I mentioned my Uncle Frank. I don't have an Uncle Frank. I have no idea where that came from.

Normally when you're doing well onstage, time flies. A half hour feels like a minute. But just the opposite happened to me. I felt like I had been up there for at least 15 minutes, and still there was no light. Every time I hit a punchline, I searched for it. It wouldn't go on. I began to panic: What if they forgot to light me and I'm going on way too long? What if I'm on such a comedy high right now that I just can't see the light? So, feeling like I had done enough and wanting to quit while I was still on top, I finished and brought our Sherri.


Don't go into the light, Carol Ann...

I floated back into the green room (which was now open). The live show was on the plasma TV, but someone in Roseanne's entourage had turned the sound completely down.

"How was it?" Roseanne asked.

"It was amazing," I said. "They didn't light me, but it felt like 10 minutes, so I wrapped."

"Oh, they didn't like you? That's too bad," she said, walking into the bathroom.

"NO! They didn't light me!
Light! Not Like! They liked me a lot!"

But it was too late; she had shut the door.

Oh well; nothing was going to kill my buzz. I went back out, introduced Roseanne (using her full name this time) and went back to the green room to grab my stuff. Her piano player stopped me. "Hey," he said, shaking my hand. "Keep doing this. You belong up there."

I went out into the crowd and joined Robin and Karith at their table to watch the show. I have to say, Roseanne was excellent. I had seen her stand-up live a couple years ago and had also watched her recent HBO special. She was way better at Comix. Loose, fun, off-the-cuff; she seemed to really enjoy herself.

Midway through her set, she brought Rosie O'Donnell up from the audience. The crowd went ape-shit. Rosie did a 25-minute set, which was truly hilarious, while Roseanne sat next to her on a stool, occasionally interjecting funny comments. Watching them together live was an indescribable experience. Robin turned to me at one point and said, "I think I'm going to cry."


Dueling Rosies.


Chapter V: The Denouement

What can I say? If nothing ever happens again in my comedy career, I'll still get to say I opened for Rosanne Barr and Rosie O'Donnell on the same night.


Homo out.


Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour this Sunday, Oct. 7, when my special guests will be Vanessa Hollingshead, Clayton Fletcher, Adrienne Iapalucci and Danny Leary. Details on my web site.

And buy your tickets now for Adam Sank's Gay Bash, special "Gays Gone Wild" edition, on Thursday, Oct. 25 with Frank DeCaro, Brad Loekle, Mina Hartong, Jackie Monahan, Mimi Imfurst, token straight boy Daniel Siegel and special guest Karith Foster. Click here for tickets.