Thursday, July 31, 2008

Adam Has Left the Building

Well, not really.

I don't actually take off from JFK until 9:30 tomorrow (Friday 8/1). But I am returning my Time Warner Cable boxes and modem later today and will be offline from that point until I reconnect in San Diego.

Wacky, wild, all-new, California adventures to be posted here soon. Sort of like when Laverne and Shirley left Milwaukee and moved to Los Angeles, and they skipped ahead 10 years. Come to think of it, the show stopped being funny then, so hopefully that won't be the model for this blog.

Fare well to all my beloved New York family, friends, fans and fiends; I'll catch you on the flip-side.

And Happy Birthday to Boy Wonder, who turns 31 tomorrow.

Homo out (of NYC).

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Rambling Recap

Six Days Until I Move to San Diego

I am so behind in keeping up with this blog it's terrifying. And given your overwhelming reaction (or complete lack thereof) to the last few I've posted, it beginning to feel like masturbation at this point -- except blogging takes much longer and there's no reward at the end.

So rather than spend hours trying to construct a thoughtful, witty, trenchant recap of what's been going on with me the last couple weeks, instead I give you the following frenetic hodgepodge. It's all you deserve right now.

First, I've taped not one but TWO television spots in the last week. And by television spots, I mean local-cable and/or web-based shows that have a viewing audience smaller than the one that reads this blog regularly. Nevertheless, it's TV, and I'm grateful for it.

The first was as host of "Out at the Center," a monthly show highlighting the good work of New York's Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Community Center.

This is the third or fourth time I've hosted the show, and though I love doing it, it's always a challenge. The show is taped in a room at the Center, and they can't run the air conditioner during taping because it'll ruin the sound. Coincidentally, I am only asked to host the show during the hottest months of the year. And as frequently mentioned on this blog, I tend to sweat like Louie Anderson at an all-you-can-eat Mexican buffet, even in the most temperate of circumstances.

¡Buenos Dias!

Also, the Center's "TelePromTer" consists of a Stove Top stuffing can, on which large-size printouts of the script are taped. As I read, a production assistant slowly turns the can. And since the can is underneath the camera's lens, I have to try and keep my eyes up, above the words, so it appears as though I'm looking directly into the camera instead of reading a stuffing can below it. But at the same time I have to keep my chin down so I don't look as though I've had a stroke. And I have to smile. And all this is happening as rivers of sweat are running down the sides of my stomach.

As I said, it's a challenge.

And it makes me nostalgic for Thanksgivings past.

Anyway, the finished result actually came out well. You can watch it here. (It starts with Lisa Fernandes from "Top Chef," and then I pop up.)

In a very different vein, I also taped a quick segment for Shawn Hollenbach's "Busted" show on Here-TV. The theme of this week's show was ancient Rome, so Shawn asked if I would write and perform something about bathhouses. He also asked that I be shirtless for it. I am in less than peak shape at the moment and was afraid I'd come across as a tubby load of goo. Which I did. Watch it here.
(I come on about four minutes in.)

Mosied out to Fire Island yesterday for my last East Coast gig before my move to SD. Seated in front of me on the train to Sayville were two adorable fox terriers and their enormously gay owner, who spoke to them in baby talk for the entire length of the trip.

'Hello. We have a better life than 99.9% of the world's population.'

Arrived at the Ice Palace to find it completely deserted. It was gray and rainy, and I had about 10 hours to kill before the show. Luckily, since last year the hotel has installed plasma TVs in every room. I was in Heaven.

RoastFireIsland010.jpg picture by adsank
My salvation.

Finally, around 5 p.m., Brad Loekle showed up...

RoastFireIsland011.jpg picture by adsank

... and quickly got to work...

RoastFireIsland013.jpg picture by adsank
Note the omnipresent pit stains.

Along for the ride were DC funny-man Zach Toczynski, left, and his cute boyfriend.

RoastFireIsland017.jpg picture by adsank

The Ice Palace is always a scary room for me. This is my third (or possibly fourth) time headlining there, and I still haven't quite figured out the crowd. They tend to be old and gay and cranky and very Long Island, and if they don't love you immediately, they have no problem just staring silently at you for 20 minutes like a pack of sullen house cats. It's like Therapy... but worse.

Fortunately I opened and closed very strong. As for what came in the middle... well, it wasn't too awful.

RoastFireIsland015.jpg picture by adsank
Fake Photo Alert! I had Brad take this picture of me before the show began.
Doesn't it look like I'm actually killing, though?

Ugh. There's a lot more I want to tell you, especially about the Therapy roast, but as usual I'm out of time. Stay tuned, and I'll try to blog again tomorrow.

Homo out.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Letter From Spain

17 Days Until I Move to San Diego

As I continue packing and going through old papers, I keep coming across stories and letters I wrote -- in some cases decades ago -- and saved.

Among these are a series of letters I wrote my parents from Salamanca, Spain, when I was 17 years old. I spent six weeks living and studying there with a group run by Phillips Academy, Andover.

Though I learned a lot of Spanish, it was not a particularly good time. Our group was led by a shrewish Guatemalan teacher from Andover named Señora Piana. She saw to it that every moment of our time was spent either in class, on a bus, or touring ancient cathedrals, which is not really how you want to spend your summer vacation when you're a teenager, away from your parents, in a fabulous European city.

Piana was such an overbearing bitch that even the Spanish families with whom we lived made fun of her. One family nicknamed her "La Tecla," which translates as "the piano key." It's hard to explain why that was funny, but it was.

Beyond Piana, I just wasn't that crazy about the other kids in my group, and the feeling was mutual. It was a long, lonely summer for me, made worse by the fact that the previous summer I had gone on a teen bike trip through New England with American Youth Hostels with some of the greatest people I had ever met.

Coincidentally, I was just Facebooked the day before yesterday by three fellow bike trippers, one of whom posted a photo of us from the trip:

That's me at 16, in the front row, center.
(In front of us is Mike, our college-age leader. Who I now realize was a total hottie.)
We had bought the jackets and ties at a church rummage sale, and wore them constantly, even when riding our bikes.

Finally, I was unfortunate enough on the Spain trip to have been placed in a less-than-ideal living situation, with the Gutierrez family of La Avenida Portugal.

Even given all that background, I'm not sure any of you will find the following letter at all interesting. But here goes:

7/18/88 9:34 a.m.

¡Hola, mi familia!

Right now it's 4:34 a.m. in Amagansett, and while you're sleeping soundly, I'm sitting in grammar class. I just had to write and update you on a few things:

First of all, on Friday, after I mailed the letter I had written you, I finally got Mom's first letter with Laura's enclosed. Thanks -- glad to know you're all enjoying an exciting summer in Ama. Since I couldn't get my mail on Saturday, I expect quite a few letters. (Oops -- Sr. Perdrero just called on me and I had no idea what he was asking.)

The bad news is that I'm living with a crazy man. The son, Luis, who's 25, is an absolute ogre. I never really liked him before, right? I mean, I always thought it a bit strange that he chases his mother around the house, trying to kiss her, screaming, "Mami!," and that after 15 days of living here, he asked me, "¿Cómo te llamas?" (What's your name?)

Last night he totally blew up, though. It seems he wants to move out of his parents house (at the tender age of 25) and, as far as I could translate, they'll be damned if they're going to pay for his apartment -- it's not like he has a job or anything -- he's just a perpetual student.

So he starts screaming at his parents at the top of his lungs, throwing things around the house, and calling his mother such lovely names as "puta" -- probably the worst word in the Spanish language -- literally means "whore." And then calling his father "cabrón," an even worse word which literally means "goat" but is used as an insult to mean "a man who is being cuckolded." Meanwhile, I was sitting in my room pretending to do my homework and actually looking up words in my Spanish-English dictionary.

After about 20 minutes, I decided it was time for me to leave. I quickly mumbled something to Sra. Gutierrez about meeting an amiga -- she looked all too glad that I was exiting the madhouse. As I was getting on the elevator, I heard Luis bellow louder than ever -- it seems he was waiting for me to leave so he could cut out the Mr. Nice Guy Act.

I walked to my friend Nicole's house -- the same house where Dana Cimiluca stayed. The parents there love me simply because I know Dana -- he is the cat's pajamas to them. They're giving me letters and presents to bring back to him.

Anyway I stayed there chatting with them and Nicole until about 12 a.m. They are so nice. They asked me to move out of "La Casa del Hombre Malo" (The House of the Bad Man") and move in with them. I'd love it, but Piana would never go with it -- we can't live in a house with another American (especially not one of the opposite sex!).

I'm not sure what I'm going to do now. I know if I told Ms. Piana, she'd move me to another house. But it's not like I'm miserable -- the parents treat me OK -- (not anywhere as nice as Nicole's parents, but what can you do?). She's a good cook -- I have my own room -- I have a great view, etc. But then again, the thought of two more weeks with Charles Manson does not exactly thrill me. I think if Luis's antics continue, I will get myself moved. I just don't want to make any premature decisions.

Right now I'm sitting in culture class -- this week's lecturer is an expert in politics and is almost as stimulating as the first week's guy. But not to worry. I was informed by Sr. Perdrero, my professor, that there will be no culture questions on the final. (This is contrary to what Piana keeps telling us -- but Sr. Perdrero insists that it is the teacher's option whether to put culture on the exam or not. He deems the lecture useless to students who aren't fluent, and therefore opts for no questions.) This pleases me quite a bit.

Speaking of Perdrero, he's turned out to be a really great guy. I think he sees himself as a really hip dude -- he's always inviting us to have a drink with him, and on Friday he treated the entire class to coffee at a nearby cafe in between classes. He's also written a book of short stories -- the other day he handed out a paperback copy of it to each of us. We thought it was free, but when he wrote "1.000 pts" on the board (about $8.00), it became clear that he expected payment.

Now, as much as I like him, I'm not about to pay $8.00 for his book. So, when he wasn't looking, I casually returned it to his desk. I guess I started a chain reaction because soon, there was a stack of books on his desk. Oh well -- I hope he still likes us.

During the break, I went to get mail -- only to find there was none. What's with this family, anyway? You think one letter is enough? WRONG! I want more.

I better wrap this up. I'll write letters until about the 24th, and then I think it will be useless. Remember -- I leave here in 12 days, but then I have four days in Madrid.

Hope everything is well with you all.

I love you and miss you.


P.S. I hope you've appreciated all these long letters.

Not bad for a 17-year-old, no? It strikes me now that a blog is really just a substitute for letter-writing, a pursuit that disappeared for most of us with the advent of the Internet.
And as with my family, I never hear back from most of you.
Homo out.


Sunday, July 20 at 10 p.m.


Come watch as an A-List group of Therapy's favorite comics roast me to a pile of burnt embers and toast Electro Shock's new host, Brad Loekle.

Scheduled to appear:
Adam Sank (NBC's "Last Comic Standing," Vh-1's "Best Week Ever")
Brad Loekle (truTV's "World's Dumbest," Sirius OutQ's "Larry Flick Show)
Michelle Buteau (HBO's "U.S. Arts Comedy Festival," NBC's "Last Comic Standing")
Robin Fox (Comcast TV's "Comedy Hour," WOR-Radio's "Joey Reynolds Show")
Jackie Monahan (Lesbians of Laughter Tour, Dykes on Mics)
Brian Barry (soon to be seen in the Broadway revival of "Pal Joey")
Tom Ragu (Rainbow Mountain Resort, Tom Ragu Comedy Revue)
Shecky Beagleman ("The Howard Stern Show," USA Network's "Up All Night")

No cover charge, no drink minimum, $5 cosmos all night. For more information, visit Therapy's web site.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

At The Ballet

19 Days Until I Move to San Diego.

The apartment is rented. Thank God and Michael Pennock, my realtor extraordinaire. Michael was quite miffed that I referred to him on my last blog post as simply "my realtor," so allow me now to give full credit and accolades: Please contact Michael Pennock at the Corcoran Group for all your real estate needs. He's the best.

Plus, he's a real red-head. Or so I've heard...

Even more miffed at my blog portrayal of him was my dear friend George, he of the mutilated fingers.

"So I slave away for 12 hours on that goddammned floor and nearly lose my fingers, and Michael Curry ends up the hero of the story?!" he complained bitterly. He felt I made Curry look like Captain America to George's Sad Sack.

And let's face it; nobody wants to fondle a Sad Sack.

And so in the interest of fairness, gratitude and love, I hereby offer this tribute to George:

The man, the myth, the tiler.

Born at the turn of the century, the son of Greek immigrants, George Smyros came to New York from his native Chicago with nothing more than three dollars, a dance belt and a dream. Standing only five-foot-two in heels, George quickly took Broadway by storm, appearing as a featured dancer in such seminal 80s shows as "Cats," the Tyne Daly revival of "Gypsy," "Starlight Express" and the Nathan Lane revival of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum."

He also made a name for himself as a female impersonator, taking on some of the most legendary ladies of our time.

George as Barbra in "The Owl & The Pussycat."
Simply breathtaking.

His interpretation of Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time" is still being talked about decades after the fact in New York's faggier circles. He even went so far as to wear the same costume Cher wore in the video, though it had be taken in first.

Actual photo of George in mid-performance.
He's clearly a master of tucking.

In George's later years, he has turned his considerable talents toward pottery, sculpting gorgeous creations that have sold to major retailers and and private collectors. You can view and order some of his works here. He also makes a mean guacamole and can perfectly reenact the scene from "What Ever Happened to Baby Jane" in which Bette Davis's Jane impersonates Joan Crawford's Blanche while ordering liquor:

Hello, is this Johnson's? I want to order some liquor. It's Jane Hudson. Waddaya mean you can't fill any more orders for me? My sister did? Well, wait a minute, I'll put 'er on.

Blanche, would you speak to this man from Johnson's?

Hello, who is this, please? Oh, yes, Mr. Carlston. Yes, this is Blanche Hudson. What seems to be the trouble? I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding. I certainly didn't mean to suggest that you shouldn't fill any orders for her. After all, we do pay our bills, don't we? Yes, fine. Would you please? I'll put her on.

Okay, then? Good. I'd like to order six bottles of Scotch and three bottles of gin. The same brands, and as soon as possible.

George currently lives in Manhattan with his life partner, Simon.

(Oh, man, I just found the actual "Baby Jane" clip on YouTube! Click here and cue it 44 seconds in. It's fucking classic.)

Last night I accompanied Alastair Macaulay, chief dance critic for "The New York Times," to the American Ballet Theater's production of "Giselle" at the Met. Totally thrilling. I must say, it has been an incredible privilege to have worked for the Culture desk of The Times. In the past two years, I've dined with Frank Bruni, gone to theater with Charles Isherwood and now watched ballet with Alastair. It's a gross understatement to say these people are the best in their fields, and to watch them experience a performance is an experience in itself.

At intermission, as Alastair was filling me in on the particularities of what we had just seen, a rather graceful older woman approached us. "Alastair!," she exclaimed. "Lovely to see you."

"You as well, Allegra," he said, before introducing me. "Adam Sank, this is Allegra Kent."

Those of you who know dance -- and I do not -- know that Balanchine created many of his roles for Allegra Kent. So I had met a legend.

Kent with Jacques D'ambroise in "Afternoon of a Faun."

Then we turned to go in... and I found myself staring into the face of Chelsea Clinton. I was dumbfounded and continued to stare long past the point appropriateness. Chelsea stared back at me, a worried look on her face, until I finally regained composure and moved on. Why do I always act like such an ass when I meet the hugely famous?

Anyway, Chelsea looked BEAUTIFUL. It's hard to believe she's the same person as that homely little girl mocked on "Saturday Night Live" during her father's first term as president. She was with her boyfriend, investment banker Marc Mezvinsky, who's cute in an intellectual sort of way.

They were more dressed up than this last night.

Also at the ballet were my fellow New York "Last Comic Standing Finalists" Stone & Stone, who made it all the way through to Vegas. They were there with their parents and were very sweet to me. Rather random assortment of people, though, no? Allegra Kent, Chelsea Clinton and Stone & Stone.

Double your pleasure.

I'd like to write more, but this fekakte blog post has taken over two hours, and I've got stuff to do.

If you see my friend Robin Fox anytime soon, give her a big hug; she needs it and deserves it.

Homo out.

Only two more Therapy shows with me as host! Visit my web site for full details!

P.S. You know how Google assigns ads to this page based on content? Well here are two ads that have appeared at the bottom of the page all week:

Bathroom Floor Tile
Buy Direct & Get Wholesale Prices On Bathroom Floor Tile. Save Now!

Grout Sealing
Grout Sealer Dries To The Touch Within One Hour. Have Your Say!


Funny, no?

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Blood, Sweat & Tiles

A rather surreal day, kids -- one that began with a trip to Home Depot and ended with a visit to the emergency room of Roosevelt Hospital.

From a Lesbians' Lair...

...To Hospital Care.

It all started around 11:30 this morning, when George showed up to grout the tile floor he had so loving laid on Sunday. He was in a hurry, because he had just picked up a last-minute bartending gig, which was set to begin at 3:30.

He grabbed a bucket and ordered me to fetch a measuring cup. "We need to mix three pints of water for each box of grout." (We had bought two boxes.)

"OK," I said, handing him the cup. "Two cups, one pint." As opposed to two girls, one cup.

I assumed George would understand that I meant that this particular measuring cup held two cups --or one pint -- of water. He didn't. As a result, he poured twice as much water into the bucket as was called for in the grout recipe.

"I don't understand why it's still so drippy," he exclaimed, before we both realized what had happened.

Uh oh.

Now we had to go back to Home Depot to buy two more boxes of Polyblend® snow white non-sanded grout to soak up all the excess water.

It begs explaning here that I live in the West 40s between 9th and 10th Avenues. Home Depot is all the way down in East Chelsea, on 23rd between 5th and 6th. A cab each way costs around $10 with tip and takes about 15 minutes. It was already 12:15 at this point, and George's bartending gig loomed. Plus, the weather here has been unendingly hot and muggy, so doing any sort of chore is a major discomfort.

Undaunted, we hopped in a cab and raced down to Chelsea. Bought the grout - got back in a cab -- and poured the new grout into the bucket. George kneeded it with gloved hands until it was the right consistency. We now had enough grout to cover the Taj Mahal, but George's gloves were ruined, so he threw them out and got to work.

Just then, my realtor called: The guy's going to take the apartment. Sweet! But barely a moment into my celebration, a blood-curdling scream rang out from the bathroom. "I'll have to call you back," I told the realtor and ran into the bathroom, only to find George, doubled over, in tears.

He had sliced open two of his fingers on a tiny, jagged piece of broken tile that had somehow lodged itself between two other tile squares. He had been smoothing out some grout over the corner of the floor when his hand went over it.

There was quite a lot of blood.

I handed him a clean towel to use as a wrap, and we headed out to St. Clare's Hospital on 51st Street. Only St. Clare's isn't there anymore; it closed last August.

By now George was wimpering and feeling faint. We considered going to Roosevelt's on 59th, but then I remembered there was a really nice health clinic on 10th Ave. at 46th. Maybe he'd be able to see a doctor there sooner than at an E.R.? We figured we'd give it a try.

As we headed wearily down 10th, it occurred to me that with every passing moment, a giant bucket of grout was quickly hardening in my apartment, and that my floor remained unfinished.

"Hey George," I said gently. "You think we should call Michael Curry?"

Michael, like George, is a former Broadway performer-turned-artisan. He's something of a tile expert. In fact, he's known for creating gorgeous works of art out of mosaic tile, examples of which you can look at on his web site.

I reached Michael at home, explaining that George was bleeding and in a lot of pain. I also mentioned that, um, my bathroom floor needed to be grouted, and might he be available to do it... IMMEDIATELY?

Look, I'm nothing if not practical.

Incredibly, Michael said he'd meet me in front of the Ryan Chelsea-Clinton Community Health Center in 10 minutes. "I can't promise anything," he warned. "But I'll do what I can."

Curry: Not a Chicken.

Moments later, I handed Michael my keys and ran inside to join George in an examining room. By this time he was feeling faint and had been hooked up to an oxygen tank.

A few words about the people at the aforementioned Ryan Chelsea-Clinton Community Health Center: They are AWESOME. George was seen immediately. He was attended to by a team of lovely people, including three nurses and a doctor. Even the kid in charge of processing the insurance was sweet and charming.

The doctor treated one of the fingers immediately with dermabond, which is basically skin glue. But he was concerned that the other one was lacerated so deeply there could be nerve damage. He advised that we go straight up to Roosevelt's to consult with a hand surgeon. (Did you know there are surgeons who specialize in hands? We didn't.)

He also injected George's fingers with an anasthetic, after which George felt considerably better.

Now we were in a cab on our way to the E.R. at Roosevelt's. There was no word from Michael Curry, which I took as a good sign.

We got to Roosevelt's. I ran out to get us Subway subs. The bread was incredibly stale.

About an hour later, George was finally brought into a room to see a doctor. We were all set to hear a dire prognosis, but the doctor and her nurse seemed rather bored by us. "I was hoping it would be more interesting," said the nurse. "I like interesting wounds."

Who doesn't?

The doctor didn't think surgery was necessary. Instead, she sewed up the finger with seven stitches -- with is a lot for a finger-tip, but apparently not that interesting.

They dressed George's fingers and discharged him, and we walked back to my apartment.

Here's what we found upon entering:

It was Michael Curry, putting the finishing touches on a perfectly grouted tile floor! A more beautiful sight I have never seen.

Poor George, giving me the finger.

Best Tiling Team Ever!

The Finished Product.

I cannot express enough gratitude to Michael, George, Ryan Chelsea-Clinton and Roosevelt's for everything they did today to turn a near-tragedy into a relatively happy ending (give or take a few stitches, a lost bartending gig, and a lot of pain. Poor George.). It is people and places like this I will miss dearly.

Moral of story: Make sure you wear gloves if you're ever working with tile. And don't eat at the Subway on 56th and 9th.

Homo out.

Monday, July 7, 2008

I Am Alive

24 days until I move to San Diego.

OK, I know I've fallen off the grid. I apologize to the five people who actually read this thing on a regular basis. (And no, Stoph, I didn't die.) But I have been dealing with move-related stress on a level I have never experienced. Most of it is in my head; I am borderline autistic and thrown by even minor changes to my environment, so trying to relocate myself across the country has the same impact as shaking a baby until his head rattles.

But a lot of it is practical. I still need a renter for my apartment. (This could be resolved by tomorrow morning -- fingers crossed.) I need to get the entire place painted. I need to sell all my stuff. (Anyone looking for furniture?) I need to figure out how to pack and ship multiple closets full of crap. And for the last five days, my dear friend George has been completely redoing my bathroom, which means I haven't even been able to pee in my own home, to say nothing of more elaborate bathroom activities.

But Adam, you say, didn't you JUST HAVE your bathroom redone a few weeks ago?

Yes, and no. You'll recall that I posted a photo of the bathroom after my friend Karl replaced the vanity, removed the scummy old wallpaper from the bottom half of the walls and painted them white:

Extra points to anyone who can name the four colognes I use.

Well, George has stepped it up several notches. First, he painted the top half gray...

Bathroom001.jpg picture by adsank
Pretty, right?

Then he began re-tiling the original floor, which had basically been scotch taped down the first time around...

GeorgeTiling001.jpg picture by adsank
Nice plumber's butt, no?

How George can spend hours doing this painstaking, tedious work is a mystery for the ages. It has been exhausting for me to simply watch him doing it. And he's still not done! Tomorrow begins the grouting -- MY GOD, THE GROUTING!

The worst part of all these home improvements is that I don't even get to enjoy them. They're all for a stranger... a stranger who, if it turns out to be the guy I think it's going to be, is insisting I paint the entire place white. WHITE! Who the fuck wants to be surrounded by white walls? Why not just move into a hospital?

So basically, the reason I haven't blogged in so long is that I have nothing to blog about other than these exceedingly boring household renovations. There is nothing else going on in my life. I am in complete and total limbo. It's a horrible feeling.

I did get some relief in the form of my Therapy show last night, which went rather well. The city was dead all weekend due to the three-day July 4th weekend, but we managed to scare up a full house nonetheless.

I did 15 minutes of all-new material up top. Most of it's not easily reproduced here -- I find that stuff can be funny either on-stage or on paper, but rarely both -- but topics included Madonna's alleged affair with A-Rod
(how bizarre is that?!) Oprah's slavish devotion to "The Secret" (in which anything you ask the Universe for gets delivered to you, rendering the Universe essentially a pushover Santa Claus) and the fact that Boy Wonder may try and get me a civilian job in the military. ("The enlisted personnel will address you as 'Sir.'" Really? What do I call them -- 'Pig?'")

It all went over well, and Giulia Rozzi delivered a bang-up headliner set. But the highlight of the show came after Nkosi Brown's set. He had brought a glass of white wine on stage with him, and he accidentally left it there after he finished.

"Hey, Nkosi!," I bellowed, holding up the wine glass. "Come get your damn wine!"

I'm not sure what happened next because it all went down in seconds. But Nkosi apparently dove back onto the stage to retrieve his glass -- and slipped. The rest was captured in photos.

MoreTherapy7-6-08003.jpg picture by adsank

MoreTherapy7-6-08004.jpg picture by adsank

Somehow, he managed to simultaneously soak his entire face, my entire crotch and my right eye. I've never before had wine in my eye. Who knew it stung?

Oh, well; at least it wasn't red.

What else can I tell you before signing off to use my neighbor's bathroom?


Oh, I saw "WALL-E." Cute. But not as amazing as Tony Scott's review in The Times had led me to believe. I just got kind of bored with it after a while.


Still devoted to my favorite summer show, "So You Think You Can Dance." My money's on any of the three black guys -- Will, Joshua or the unfortunately named Twitch. All three are versatile, charismatic and, well, hot. Still wishing that Mary Murphy would fall into a well, her blood-curdling scream and nonsensical expressions (e.g. "Hot Tamale Train!") never to be heard again.

I'll end with a new feature to my blog, entitled "Useless Bit of Trivia du Jour." This one's belatedly themed to New York Gay Pride week (which ended a week ago yesterday).

Here goes: Judy Garland stood only 4 feet and 11.5 inches tall. That's really tiny, no?

But every inch a star.

Homo out.

Come see me host the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour next Sunday, July 13, when my special guests will be Rachel Feinstein, Vicky Kuperman, Paul Case, Zach Rhinier and Guy Brannum.

And don't forget to come see my last show as host -- a wild roast -- on Sunday, July 20.

Details about both shows on my
web site.