Sanktastic

Guest Blogger: Walt from Little Rock

2009-12-01T09:20:00.000-08:00

First, a tour update. I now have confirmed bookings in Yuma, Little Rock, the Poconos (PA) and NYC and a near-confirmed one in Albuquerque. Still looking for gigs in the following cities and dates. Hook me up, bitches!

Sun. Jan. 3: Tucson, AZ
Monday, Jan. 4: El Paso, TX
Wed. Jan. 6: Santa Fe, NM
Thu. Jan. 7: Amarillo, TX
Fri. Jan. 8: Oklahoma City, OK
Mon. Jan. 11: Memphis, TN
Tue. Jan. 12: Nashville, TN
Wed. Jan. 13: Louisville, KY/Columbus, OH
Thu. Jan. 14: Pittsburgh, PA/Morgantown, WV

Moving on...

Since I'm barely blogging lately, what with dealing with a relationship-breakup, an impending move across the country and trying to plan the aforementioned tour, all while continuing to work my insufferable day job (which seems to be getting worse every day), I figured I would turn this space over today to a dear friend, Walt from Little Rock.

Like Nellie Forbush, Walt is both a cockeyed optimist and a nurse.

And he has a more-than-passing resemblance to her.

Anyway, about two years ago, Walt had a horrific experience on Manhunt, the gay online sex site with which many of you are all too familiar. It was such a not-to-be-believed story that he wrote it up and shared it with his closest friends.

Cut to last week, when Elizabeth, a reporter-friend of mine from the Wall Street Journal, emailed me for help on a column she was writing. She asked if I knew anyone who had ever taken revenge against someone through online means. (Why she thought of me for this assignment is a question for another blog, but there you have it.)

I told Elizabeth that though I didn't personally know any such vengeful sociopath, I did have a friend named Walt from Little Rock who had a story that might lend itself to her column. Walt shared his story with Elizabeth, and she, too, was thrilled by its hideousness. She was all set to use it in her column, and then, at the last minute, it was cut by her editor.

With that in mind, I now give you, in his own words, Walt From Little Rock's Manhunt Story, entitled, "Seriously."

Take it away, Walt.

_____________________________
Like many guys, I am often on manhunt.net, sometimes for a hook up, sometimes out of boredom and sometimes to perhaps meet a real person (I know, manhunt is not the place to meet real people). A few weeks ago, I came across a profile of someone I thought looked interesting, “Sammy64” (the actual screen name, check it out, but the pictures are different now).

So I sent him a message and he replied. Quickly we started chatting back and forth, sharing pictures and then we started using Yahoo Messenger to talk. He told me about a previous marriage he had and previous boyfriends etc. One of the pictures he had shown me was him lying almost nude on a brown leather couch. Well, something about the couch looked familiar, that’s when I realized it was a picture from Tom Bianchi’s book, “On The Couch”.

I asked him about it and he said yes, he was in the book and that he knew Tom. I explained that I had recently met Tom on an Atlantis Vacation and also had met Mike and Billy. They were the boot camp trainers on the vacation. He said that yeah, he knew them. He had lived in San Francisco and that’s when Tom had found him and asked him to pose on the couch. Yes, I will admit, this was a bit of a red flag that he actually had posed for Tom Bianchi and was in this particular book, especially when I asked him if he had any of the other pictures he could share with me, he basically said that he didn’t have them saved on the laptop he was currently using, ok, I guess that could be true.

We continued to talk online and on the phone a few times. I shared various aspects of my life with him, likes/dislikes. Also explained in detail about my job and what organ donation was all about. He seemed genuinely interested in knowing more about me and my life and he shared more about himself. At one point he told me he was going back to college and was currently taking a night class on Mondays.

Time goes by and we continue to chat often, then he tells me a couple of weeks ago that he is planning a trip to Little Rock for work. I asked what type of work he did and he explained that he dealt with some type of family business, electrical retail type stuff?!?! OK, whatever. He said he dealt with several stores in the northwest Arkansas and Oklahoma area but he comes to Little Rock occasionally to deal with a supplier. Sounds reasonable I guess.

We had talked about where we might like to meet up on a Thursday evening after he gets checked into his hotel, Italian perhaps, or one of the places downtown in the River Market District, where he would be staying. We had talked on Wednesday evening and he agreed that he would give me a call when he got into central AR and was heading to the hotel, probably around 6pm. He stated again how excited he was to get to finally meet me face to face. This was the second or third time he had mentioned that he really was excited about getting to meet up face to face after so much talk back and forth.

Thursday comes and I sent him a text message mid afternoon, “Have a safe drive down”, he quickly replied with “Thanks, see you soon”. I left work a bit early that afternoon, got home and decided to take a little nap before he called me to let me know he was in town. I even turned down plans with my cousin for a home cooked meal, since I already had plans with David Cowan (yes, that’s his name).

I woke up around 6pm and no phone call yet. Around 7:30 pm, I sent a text message and asked “U here”, no response. Hummmmm, I guess my suspicions were correct, from the beginning I had thought, this guy seems too good to be true, but at the same time, seems very genuine, friendly and interested in meeting me. This is why I have stopped getting any hopes up when meeting someone new in any way (online, in person etc.) Again, later in the evening, around 11 pm, I sent another text message (after having left him 2 voice mails) saying “hello? What happened?"... Nothing, no response, at all.

The next evening, I sent one final message saying “Can u text me back to at least let me know U are alive?”, then I was about to head out the door to mow the yard, when the phone rings, the caller ID showed “David Cowan”. I was already over all this and didn’t want to deal with listening to excuses on the phone. A few seconds later, the phone dinged that I had a voice mail. The message was something to the effect of:

Hello, Mr. Walt, this is Michael Mays, I’m David’s cousin. I’m not sure if you are a friend or someone he works with, but I’m trying to contact people he was supposed to meet with in Little Rock and I don’t know if that’s how you know him, but anyway, I’m rambling, what I need to tell you is that David was in a serious car accident on his way to Little Rock yesterday and was air lifted back to Rogers.

I quickly grabbed the phone and called back, but it went to the voice mail. Now, this is where things start to not seem right. For some reason, at least to me, the voice on his outgoing message sounded similar to Michael Mays (David’s cousin), but then again, if they are family, they may actually sound similar, so, I can deal with that.

I sent a text message asking him to please call me back. He did and I began to ask questions about what happened. He said that David was on his way to Little Rock, on I-40 and there was either some road construction or mowers and that David had ran off the road into a ravine and was not found until the next morning (Friday).

Now, here are a couple more issues with this story. I-40 is a very busy interstate, the entire route that he would have traveled. If someone had ran off the road, SOMEONE would have seen this happen, especially since this would have been the middle of the afternoon. Secondly, he never really could tell me exactly what had happened to cause this accident. He said David was in the hospital with all sorts of tubes and wires hooked up to him.

I asked if he was on a breathing machine with a tube down his throat and he said, yes, he had that and a big bandage around his head. Well, yeah, this makes sense, if someone had a wreck and then had a severe head injury, he would be on the ventilator and might very well have his head wrapped.

I asked Michael, what hospital was he at, he was not totally sure of a name other than Mercy Hospital and that they were in Rogers, AR. I thanked him for calling me and asked him to let me know if there are any changes. I told him I would stay in contact with him to follow David’s condition. He mentioned he would have to find a charger for David’s fancy phone and try to learn how to use it better. Several people had called and he was trying to respond to everyone. Again, I told him if he needed anything to let me know.

Then I had to call my friend Ter and explain this to him. I think I had already mentioned to Ter that I was stood up by this guy but that I was not 100% sure about this story of being in a car wreck. Ter really thought this had to be legit and to give him the benefit of the doubt. Would someone seriously take the time and effort to make up such a story?

I mentioned that David knew what I did for a living and that I honestly could find out if he really was in the hospital and just how sick he was. Ter and I both agreed I should not use my work connections to find out information about a hospital patient. I decided yeah, maybe Ter was right and I would just check to see how David was doing over the next couple of days.

But another friend of mine did remind me that a hospital can at least tell you if a person is or is not listed as a patient within that facility. I then started to call 2-3 of the hospitals in that area; there was not a patient anywhere to be found with the name of David Cowan. I also stared searching the AR State Police website for accident reports along with the state newspaper for any stories about a car wreck in the area. I was not finding anything. I also was able to find out that “David Cowan” does exist and has an address in Bella Vista, AR and was born on 11/5/1964

(I can’t share how I was able to find out this information, but believe me when I know its accurate). So, basically, I had a few reason to seem to think this was for real and a few reasons to think, something is up. But then, as Ter had said, why would someone make up such a story...

On Sunday, I called again, same out going message and I was unable to leave a message, as it said he voice mail was full and no longer able to take messages. Again, the outgoing message sounded a lot like this cousin, but I just let it go and sent a text message to “Michael” asking him to call me when he could to give me an update. In the mean time, I still found no story in the paper about a car wreck etc. and this is Arkansas, just about any significant wreck on the interstate is a newspaper story waiting to happen.

Next day, Monday, I was sitting at Backyard Burger with a co-worker grabbing some lunch before we started working on a case, suddenly the phone rings and caller ID shows “David Cowan”. I answered and it was “Cousin Michael” again, I asked him how things were going and he said, not well, David had died around 4 am that morning and now the family was at the funeral home making arrangements.

I said I was very sorry to hear and asked what funeral home. He gave me a name that I didn’t recognize and I didn’t write it down at that time. In the back of my mind, I knew something was up right then. Earlier that morning, I had checked our computer referral system for work (all hospital deaths are to be reported to the organization that I work for). I had not seen his name anywhere and none of the other listings came close to matching anything that might have been him. I looked again as soon as I was back at a computer, still he was not listed. This was when I really believed this just couldn’t be true.

Later that evening, I went back onto manhunt.net when Ter had told me that the “last logged on” time is listed on everyone’s profile. When I tried to locate “Sammy64” the profile was gone.

Wait, does manhunt know when people die and immediately delete them, oh, wait, I’m sure his family would quickly want to make sure no one else tried to hook up with him now that he is dead. Ter was then able to find his profile and sure enough, he had logged on that day…

YUP, this person had faked their own death, to avoid meeting me in person?!?!? I mean seriously! Ignore me, tell me to go to hell, tell me you have changed your mind, tell me you are to busy, just about anything I would get over it, but FAKING YOUR OWN DEATH!! How fucked up is this person that they have to fake their own death online?

The next morning, Tuesday, I checked manhunt again; I was unable to view his profile, under MY screen name, but what would happen if I created a new screen name, that’s when “CountryDude1968” was born. I even pulled a fake picture from a vast collection of sexy man pictures. This particular picture was just a naked back picture, no face, nothing to give away the identity of who is in the actual picture. Sure enough, as soon as the new profile was created, I was able to view Sammy64 again and he had logged on that day also. Wow, who knew you could log onto manhunt while dead.

I sent “Sammy64” a quick message from “CountryDude1968” saying something about how much I liked his profile and wondering if he ever came to the Little Rock area. Today, I got a reply along with unlocked pictures. Sure enough, he said that he does make his way to Little Rock occasionally... what is my next step... hummmm.

So, a couple of weeks later, I see our friend Sammy64 online again and asked him when was he going to be in Little Rock, guess what, he said he was in Little Rock now. Naturally I suggested that we hook up now and he was all for it. At the same time, I saw one of the other guys who I knew had been trying to chat him up a bit, I asked him to see what type of response Sammy64 would give him if he asked if he was in Little Rock, he said he would be in Little Rock in a couple of days. Then I asked for Sammy64’s phone number so I could call him and set something up for sure, I called, from my home phone, and after 4 rings, it went to voice mail. Asked him again online, what was up, he said he had left his phone in the car and he would go to the parking lot and get his phone.

An hour passed by and nothing from him, so after one last non response, I finally busted him out and told him who I really was and that this CountryDude68 profile was really a fake and that I knew everything he had told me was a huge lie. Within about 10 minutes, my profile had been blocked from him and I was unable to see him once again.

Well, I decided to use the fake profile to share the news about Sammy64 to the rest of the world. Here is what the profile looks like:

DANGER: Sammy64 is a Liar and a Fake!

FYI - Sammy64 here on manhunt is a liar. He actually went through the process of faking his death after we had planned to meet in person. (this was after several weeks of talking on line and on the phone.) If you would like to know more information, please contact me here, I can share the entire sad, pathetic story with you. Just don't let yourself get involved with him in any way!

So, I have made sure everyone I know has seen this, and some of them had forwarded this information on to others, Sammy64 may be getting “hate mail” from all over the place. Also, it’s been rather interesting to hear from other people who have had some type of similar experience with Sammy64, from the fact that he doesn’t look like his picture to lying about meeting up with people.

The End.

_____________________

Thanks for sharing, Walt!

Homo guested. ♥

Roadside Assistance

2009-11-24T14:44:00.000-08:00

To My Faithful Family Members, Fans, Friends and Fiends:

I beseech your help.

Beginning Jan. 2, I will be hitting the road for my drive back across the U.S., otherwise known as "Breakup Comedy Tour 2010."

That's right; I'm taking lemons and making lemonade. If I have to end a relationship and drive 3,000 miles, I might as well spread my comedy throughout the land and make a few bucks (if not yucks) along the way.

The goal is to perform as many gigs as possible and never have to pay for a motel room. And that's where you guys come in...

Please direct your attention to the following route schedule:

Sat. Jan 2: Yuma, AZ
Sun. Jan. 3: Tucson, AZ
Mon. Jan. 4: El Paso, TX
Tue. Jan. 5: Albuquerque, NM
Wed. Jan. 6: Santa Fe, NM
Thu. Jan. 7: Amarillo, TX
Fri. Jan. 8: Oklahoma City, OK
Sat-Sun. Jan. 9-10: Little Rock , AR
Mon. Jan. 11: Memphis, TN
Tue. Jan. 12: Nashville, TN
Wed. Jan. 13: Louisville, KY/Columbus, OH
Thu. Jan. 14: Pittsburgh, PA/Morgantown, WV
Fri. Jan. 15: Philadelphia, PA/Poconos
Sat. Jan. 16: Home

Before I continue with my plea, can I just point out how truly difficult it is to map a trip across the country? Particularly for someone like me, who has the sense of direction of a mentally deficient flea? Originally, I had planned to go from Yuma to Phoenix to Flagstaff, before heading on to Albuqerque.

It was subsequently pointed out to me that driving a Toyota Yaris through the snow-covered mountains between Phoenix and Flagstaff in January is maybe not the best idea.

Also... who knew that in order to go in a straight line, one must drive from Texas to New Mexico and back to Texas again?! Or that Pittsburgh was so close to West Virginia?! Not me!!!!!

ANYWAY: I already have confirmed bookings in Yuma (The Closet) and Little Rock (Star Bar), along with a near-confirmed one in Albuquerque.

But if you or someone you know lives in one of the other cities listed above, particularly if you or he has a contact at a bar, club or lounge where comedy is or could be performed, please hook me up. I hereby deputize you to be my road manager/publicist. All you have to do is forward the following pitch:
_____
Hilarious Comedian Adam Sank is coming to your town the night of Jan. ____!

Adam Sank is one of the most popular openly gay standup comics in the country, having been featured on Season Six of NBC's "Last Comic Standing." He has also appeared on truTV's "Smoking Gun Presents: World's Dumbest Criminals," Vh-1's "Best Week Ever," Here-TV's "Hot Gay Comics" and Sirius-XM OutQ Radio.

On the West Coast, Adam's comedy has been featured at "Thank Gays It's Friday" at West Hollywood's Laugh Factory, "Gays R Us" at the Hollywood Improv and "Rainbow Comedy Night" at Ventura Harbor Comedy Club.

Before moving out West, Adam spent six years performing comedy in and around New York City, with headlining spots on Fire Island (The Ice Palace at Cherry Grove) the Poconos (Rainbow Mountain Resort) and Rehoboth Beach (The Blue Moon). Adam also hosted "Adam Sank's Gay Bash," a monthly showcase at New York's Comix comedy club. And for three years, he was the host and producer of the wildly popular "Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour" at New York's Therapy lounge.

A prolific writer, Adam has written articles for "The New York Times," "The San Francisco Sentinel,""Southern Voice" (Atlanta) and "Watermark" (Orlando, FL). He is a co-author of the Esquire Magazine Book, "Things a Man Should Never Do Past 30."

To book Adam, please email him by clicking here.
# # #

_________

If it's a gay venue, you can direct the booker's attention to the following set from Therapy this past June:

Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-uQLOJnrbY

Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82V8pkd-MOI&feature=related

If it's a straight venue, they can watch this set from Comix from December, 2008:

Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8obPLSgiwY

Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQCHQZ3_p0E&feature=related

I have already been shown immense kindness by friends and strangers alike in recent days; I am supremely grateful for yours as well.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for any assistance, and may the games begin.

Homo hitting the road. ♥

Things Fall Apart

2009-11-20T14:20:00.000-08:00

This is the blog post I never wanted to write.

I am very sorry to announce that BW and I have decided it's best that we separate at this time, and that I move back to the East Coast.

There was no big blowout. No fighting. No ugliness. No one is a villain here. We love each other very much. But after nearly two years, we finally accepted that we just can't make it work... at least not now and not in San Diego.

This is obviously an excruciating time for both of us. While I am looking forward to being reuinted with all the friends and family I dearly miss (not to mentioning restarting an all-but-dead comedy career), it feels like there's a gaping wound in my chest.

I know this news may come as a great shock to those of you who know us personally. We're not ones to air our dirty laundry. But it's something we've been dealing with on our own for many weeks and months. We both appreciate your support and understanding as we move forward.

As for a timeline: I plan on remaining in San Diego through year's end. Immediately after the new year arrives, I'll be packing up my things and driving Rhoda across country... possibly hitting some comedy gigs along the way. Once back East, I'll likely spend a few months with my family in the Jersey 'burbs before moving back to NYC fulltime.

Stay tuned.

I wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving.

Homo sad. ♥

My favorite photo of us.

2009-11-12T17:15:00.001-08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I have now connected my Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, Blogger and Linkedin pages. I think I am experiencing my first technology high.

2009-11-12T17:07:00.001-08:00

This is a test to see whether I have successfully pinged all my social networks together. And whether I succesfully used "ping" as a verb.

That's Showbiz

2009-11-10T15:39:00.000-08:00

(Deep breath.)

The Mad House Comedy Club is closed until further notice, and won't be opening again until they find a new location.

Obviously, this means my shows this Nov. 13 and 14 are canceled.

My apologies to all, especially weekly press who ran notices this week. This is the first time in my seven years of doing comedy that a club has ever closed on me. I truly appreciate your support and coverage.

TO REPEAT: NO SHOWS AT THE MAD HOUSE COMEDY CLUB THIS COMING WEEKEND.

A Tale of Two Kitties

2009-11-08T14:33:00.000-08:00

I'm back, y'all -- for reals -- no bullshit. With an actual story to tell. But first: A wee bit of self-promotion to get out of the way:

This coming Wednesday, Nov. 11, I will be live on the "Frank DeCaro Show" on Sirius-XM OutQ Radio (Channel 109), at 9:40 AM Pacific Time (12:40 PM Eastern Time -- and who the hell can figure out Central and Mountain Time?). So if you're a Sirius-XM subscriber, tune in! And call the show at 866-305-6887 if you want to chat with me!

I'll be on Frank's show to promote my appearances at San Diego's Mad House Comedy Club Friday and Saturday, Nov. 13 and 14, at 8 and 10 p.m. This will be my first time headlining weekend shows at a major club in San Diego, so I'm WAY excited and sort of petrified. For tickets or information, call 858-638-9000 or visit the club's web site.

OK -- promotion over. Story time.

Cast of Characters:
Me (Adam Sank, obscure gay comedian and tireless self-promoter)

Boy Wonder (My boyfriend, extremely petty officer in the U.S. Navy)

Catwoman (Our roommate, an even more petty officer in said navy)

Moto (An adorable, white, fluffy calico cat)

Diablo (A demented, smelly tabby kitten with poor bladder control)

First came Moto, who moved in with us about two months ago after Catwoman split with his ex-boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend kept their puppy; we got Moto.

I would have preferred it the other way around, having always been a dog person. When I was growing up, my family lavished embarrassing amounts of love and attention on Trixie, our half-cocker spaniel, half-wire-hair terrier mutt. Trixie was something of a local celebrity in our town. She spent most of her days hanging out in my father's pediatric office and her nights snuggling with my sister, Anna, who had a borderline-unhealthy attachment to her. Trixie lived to be 17 and wound up in a New Jersey landfill, but that's a story for another time.

It's shocking to me that I don't have a single picture of Trixie to post here, but I guess it makes sense, given that she died 15 years ago, before the advent of digital photography. If anyone has such a picture, please email it to me so I can pay due tribute to this beloved family pet.

Suffice it to say, I love dogs. Cats, on the other hand, generally piss me off. Living with a cat is like living with a severely hostile, obsessive-compulsive roommate who leaves fur everywhere and pays no rent. Plus, cats shit in a box which resides inside your home and which you have to clean out on a regular basis. Who needs that? Feh, I say!

I told CW as much when he announced Moto's imminent arrival. "Let me just tell you right now," I said. "I am not cleaning out that shit box EVER." CW walked past me without saying anything, as is his custom.

But I must admit, Moto won me over. She really is just about the sweetest cat ever. Calm... gentle... affectionate without being needy. She's kind of like a dog in that she'll let you do anything you want to her. BW likes to kiss her on the nose repeatedly, and she just sits there and lets him do it. And you can pick her up like a stuffed animal and move her anywhere in the house; the most she'll do is meow.

And she likes to nap in our drawers. HOW CUTE IS THAT?!

Plus, Moto is one of the cleanest animals I've ever met. She bathes herself obsessively and smells like a brand new fur coat. Even her litter box is inoffensive. And though I do hate coming home at the end of the day to find our black granite counter-tops covered by a layer of white cat hair, I accepted Moto as part of the family.

About a month after Moto's arrival, BW and I were hanging out in our bedroom when CW walked in, carrying what appeared to be a sewer rat in his arms. "Look who I brought home!," he exclaimed.

Enter Diablo.

Spawn of Satan.

BW and I were in shock. "What the hell is that, and why is it here?" I demanded to know.

"It's my new kitty," CW replied. "I stopped by the pet store, and he was all alone in his cage. I just had to have him." And with that, he walked out.

From the beginning, it was clear the Diablo was no Moto. For one thing, he stank. His fur was constantly matted and nappy. He never bathed himself, and when Moto would try, he would attack her. His meow was an ungodly, high-pitched squeal, like a cross between an autistic baby and a piglet. And when he relieved himself, which happened about 10 times a day, the rancid smell emanating from his litter box was overpowering.

After a visit to the vet, it was confirmed that Diablo had parasites, and CW began feeding him medicine via an eye-dropper every day. We thought maybe this would rid Diablo's shit of its toxic odor, but if anything, it only made it worse. In the meantime, Diablo began shredding all of BW's leather dining room chairs, the set of which had cost $3,000.

And then the pissing began.

At first, Diablo only peed on CW's stuff -- his sofa, his bed, his carpet. This seemed like just rewards to BW and me, so we were somewhat pleased. But before long,the kitten had found his way into our bedroom and settled on our bed as his favorite target.

After about the fifth time Diablo had completely soiled our blanket, sheets and brand new mattress, I lost it on CW. It was bad. I essentially became my mother at her scariest. My eyes bulged out of my head. My neck veins throbbed. A stream of bitter, angry invective flew from my mouth. CW actually got up from the sofa, came into our room and went about silently cleaning up the mess. If you knew him, you'd know how abnormal this is.

The next day, CW told BW he simply couldn't live with me anymore, given how I had spoken to him. Because clearly, I'm the one at fault here -- not the person who brought Rosemary's baby home to live with us without so much as a word of warning.

It's all for the best. BW and I had been talking for some time about moving into a one-bedroom apartment where we can have our privacy. We think we found the perfect place, and it couldn't be closer to where we are now. In the meantime, CW will continue living in the old place with Moto and Diablo and however many more cats he adopts until the lease runs out. BW and I plan to move out at the end of this month.

Right now I'm thinking how easy it would be to snap his neck.

Saturday night, with CW and the rest of our friends in Palm Springs, BW and I went out dancing until very late. It was such a beautiful night out that after we got home, we decided to have a nightcap on the balcony. I noted how healthy and lush my yellow rosebush was looking these days after a hot summer that had withered most of its leaves to dust.

At that moment, Diablo slunk out onto the balcony, climbed up onto the rosebush, and released a torrent of diarrhea. The best part was the expression on his face as he did it. It was like, "How do you like me now, bitch?"

You do NOT want to wake up and smell these roses.

That's it for now. Belated Mexico cruise pictures coming soon.

Homo shat upon. ♥

My Life Since Grad School

2009-10-30T14:55:00.001-07:00

OK, this is such a bullshit non-post. But recently, a flurry of emails were exchanged among people with whom I attended Columbia J-School in '96. Someone posed the question: What has everyone been doing since graduation? My entry was as follows. Enjoy:
______________
OK, I'll bite, given that I probably have the strangest (and perhaps saddest) career trajectory:

After Columbia graduation, I was one of the first production assistants hired at the brand new Fox News Channel. At the time, I thought, "Hey, it's Fox! 'Married With Children!' 'Melrose Place!' 'The Simpsons!' This will be fun!"

Yeah, not so much.

For reasons that continue to baffle to this day, I remained at FNC for more than five years, eventually becoming a senior producer. One day, after telling the executive producer of Daytime to go f-ck himself (and after finally coming to the realization that I was literally and figuratively a Jew working for the Nazis), I decided I badly needed a change of scene. So I moved to WABC as line producer of the nightly 11 o'clock newscast.

That lasted six months. It became painfully clear to me almost immediately that I just didn't want to produce news anymore -- not at FNC, not at WABC, not anywhere. What I really wanted was to be a stand-up comic.

(Cue the crickets.)

So I quit WABC, took the summer off, wrote a bunch of jokes and began cocktail-waiting at a gay bar. And on Sept. 5, 2003, I made my comedy debut at a new talent night at Gotham Comedy Club. It went surprisingly well, and I kept doing it, eventually getting to host and produce my own shows at Carolines, Comix, and and Midtown's Therapy lounge. (Always a producer, never a bride.) I made brief appearances on Vh-1's "Best Week Ever," tru-TV's "Smoking Gun Presents: World's Dumbest Criminals" and NBC's "Last Comic Standing," on which I made the Season Six NYC finals.

Around the time I had begun doing stand-up, a friend of mine working in IT at The New York Times said he could probably get me a freelance gig as a clerk for the paper. It was exactly what I wanted: A ridiculously easy day job I could do four or five days a week while I pursued comedy at night. I ended up staying at The Times for six years, ultimately rising (?) to the position of administrative manager of the Culture desk. Truly the world's greatest day job -- or at least it was before the newspaper began to crumble.

Then, on New Year's Eve, at the dawn of 2008, the unexpected happened: I fell in love. With a sailor. Who was just about to be stationed in San Diego for two and half years.

I leapt.

Goodbye, Times; Goodbye, New York comedy scene; Hello, San Diego and unemployment.

So here I am nearly two years later, still in San Diego, still with my sailor (he's a keeper), trying to keep my feet in comedy in this culturally retarded city and working at what may be the worst day job I've ever had: [THIS PART REDACTED.] Still, it's work, and health benefits, too. In California these days, that's what passes for a glamour position.

All of which is to say, if any of you has a lead on a job -- ANY JOB -- in the San Diego area for which I might be qualified, speak up.

And if you'd like to see what my comedy is like (NSFW unless you work for a gay porn distributor), click here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8obPLSgiwY

And here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQCHQZ3_p0E

Love and good wishes to you all,
Adam
_________________
Homo faked posted. ♥

Coming Up For Air

2009-10-28T11:03:00.000-07:00

Whew -- that was a long blog break. I am slowly coming back to life after a fun-filled but excruciatingly tiring week-long cruise to Mexico (through a hurricane, natch). I hope to return to blogging soon. In the meantime, if you're in the San Diego area, come see me tonight at a really really big shew at the Mad House Comedy Club.

Click here for details.

And here's one quick pic of me from the cruise, in costume for the 70s Tea Dance:

As gay as it gets.

Much love to all.

Homo in recovery. ♥

3:10 to Yuma: A Photoblog (Part 2)

2009-10-10T10:44:00.000-07:00

I should mention that when we arrived in Yuma, at 6:30 p.m., it was 105 degrees outside. My eyes actually stung from the heat. And from the ugliness:

The entire city resembles a giant ashtray.

Seriously -- it's desolate.

9:00 p.m.
We arrive at the Closet, where I'm performing, and meet up with BW's sister and mother, Sister Wonder and Mama Wonder, who have driven in from Phoenix. I love these ladies!

Jeremiah, the Closet's owner and bartender, along with the other bartender, whose name, sadly, I cannot recall. They couldn't have been sweeter.

The poster for the show. This was the Closet's first ever comedy evemt, and they really did a great job getting the word out.

Me and J. Saldaña, a local comic who opened for me. Really good guy.

Lesbian comic Kass McPherson, who had driven in from Phoenix. Hilarious, and not nearly as scary as she appears in this photo.

10:30 p.m.

At last! It's me -- onstage and kickin' it Yuma style. My opening line: "This is my first time ever performing comedy... ON THE SUN!"

Whatjoo talkin about, Willis?

BW can do many things well; taking pictures is not one of them.

11:15 p.m.

I'm done! Get me a drink immediately!

Outside with my biggest Yuma fans. I told the dude his tattoo looked like a scrotum.

And that's really it. We were all a bit too hot, drunk and tired to take more pictures. But this really was a blast -- one of my favorite road gigs ever. The place was packed, and the crowd was delightful. When I asked a straight couple in the front row why they had come to a gay club that night, the guy said, "To see you."

Yuma. Gotta love it.

Homo razing Arizona. ♥

3:10 to Yuma: A Photoblog

2009-10-09T11:15:00.000-07:00

OK, haven't posted in two weeks. Facebook is ruining my creative output, because it's so much easier for me to just post silly little comments and status updates than to craft an actual story in this space. Also, BW and I are preparing for a week-long cruise to Mexico, and so every free moment has been taken up doing important things like skimpy bathing suit shopping (and working out obsessively so that I can wear said skimpy bathing suit without inducing vomit).

I actually have a lot I want to tell you about, including my big day in Traffic Court and the fact that my life has become overtaken by kittens.

Yes, kittens.

But since I'm at work and don't want to bite off more than I can chew, I'll start with something simple, namely a long overdue photo-blog of my comedy road trip to Yuma:

Sept. 25, 2009, 4:00 p.m.

With BW at the wheel (Thank God), we begin on our journey to Yuma, aka "Road to Nowhere."

4:01 p.m.

Already over the drive.

4:02 p.m.

Beaucoup Traffic on the 8...

...and only 159 more miles to go.

5:21 p.m.
BW insists I take a picture of the giant wind turbines at the top of McCain Valley Ridge. He's obsessed with windmills for some reason. My own little Don Quixote.

6:45 p.m.

We arrive at the Fairfield Inn by Marriott, and BW immediately hits the sheets...

...and is asleep in seconds, with a pillow on his head as always.

Shit -- I can't even finish this photoblog now. More to come...

Homo rushed. ♥

License to Drive (Final Chapter/Cop-Out)

2009-09-24T09:22:00.001-07:00

I gotta stop posting these multi-part stories. They're exhausting for me, and they hang around my neck like an albatross until I finally get my ass in gear and finish them. Plus, I've gotten very few comments on this latest one, so I sense no one's really interested.

So let me cut to the chase here: I failed my written driver's exam. That's right, failed it. I'm a DMV reject.

Before you all laugh your asses off at me, let me say in my defense that it was a REALLY difficult exam. Here are some actual sample questions; try them yourself and tell me how many YOU get right:

1) You are approaching a railroad crossing with no warning devices and are unable to see 400 feet down the tracks in one direction. The speed limit is:

A) 15 mph

B) 20 mph

C) 25 mph

2) A white painted curb means:

A) Loading zone for freight or passengers.
B) Loading zone for passengers or mail only.
C) Loading zone for freight only.

3) You just sold your vehicle. You must notify the DMV within ___ days.

A) 5
B) 10
C) 15

4) With a Class C drivers license a person may drive:

A) A 3-axle vehicle if the Gross Vehicle Weight is less than 6,000 pounds.
B) Any 3-axle vehicle regardless of the weight.
C) A vehicle pulling two trailers.

5) If you are involved in a traffic collision, you are required to complete and submit a written report (SR1) to the DMV:

A) Only if you or the other driver is injured.
B) If there is property damage in excess of $750 or if there are any injuries.
C) Only if you are at fault.

Answers: 1)A 2)B 3)A 4)A 5)B

NOT SO EASY, ARE THEY?!?!

There were 36 questions in all, and in order to pass, I needed to get at least 30 correct. I got 28.

Luckily, the DMV lets you take the test two more times. On the second try, I got 32 out of 36. At last, I had my California license.

And it only took me three hours!

I'm off to Yuma, AZ tomorrow for my first road gig in ages. I'll be appearing at Yuma's only gay bar, The Closet. The forecast calls for temperatures around 103 degrees. BW is coming with me, and his mom and sister are driving up (down? over?) from Phoenix.

Photo-blog to follow.

Homo licensed. ♥

Banana Bread: A Heartwarming Story

2009-09-22T08:51:00.000-07:00

I promise to finish the driver's license story before week's end. But first, a quick tale to warm the cockles of your cynical hearts: (Ha ha... he said "cockles.")

Sunday morning, I baked banana bread for my cousin, Stacey. Stacey is one of my first cousins on my mother's side and one of my favorite people on earth, along with her sister and brother. They're roughly the same ages as my sisters and I, and some of my happiest memories of childhood involve vacations spent with our family and their family together -- in Miami, where they lived, in New Jersey and Long Island, where we lived, or in Aspen, CO where we all skied together one glorious winter.

All the cousins together for Granny's 90th birthday.

Stacey is second from right.

For most of this summer, Stacey has been battling breast cancer with incredible bravery and fortitude. She is currently recovering from surgery and continues to handle whatever comes her way with tremendous grace and good humor, as do her kids, Alexa and Max.

Anyway, she mentioned in one of her recent mass emails to all of us who love her that she appreciated all the cooking and baking people have been doing for her. It hit me then that I should send her some of my famous (at least in my mind) banana bread.

It's a simple recipe, made extra-moist and delicious by a giant quantity of sour cream:

6 Ripe Bananas, Peeled and Mashed

4 1/2 Cups of Whole Wheat Flour
3 Cups of Sugar

3 Eggs

3/4 Cup of Butter
3 Teaspoons Baking Soda

1 Teaspoon Cinnamon

1 Teaspoon Vanilla Extract

1/2 Teaspoon Salt

1 24-Oz Container of Sour Cream

Beginning with the sugar, butter and eggs, combine all ingredients in a large bowl and mix thoroughly. Pour into four small greased loaf pans and bake at 300 degrees for one hour. Done.

I mentioned to Stacey via email that my banana bread was in the works. She replied that she and the kids would be eagerly awaiting it, and could I please add chocolate chips? Personally, I think the chocolate chips overpower the flavor of the bananas, but who am I to argue with a cancer patient, right? So chocolate chips it was.

Not a photo of the actual banana bread I baked, but mine looked exactly like this, I swear.

BW and I kept one of the four loaves for ourselves and gave one to a neighbor. That left me with the challenge of shipping two loaves from San Diego to South Florida overnight without their becoming stale or getting pulverized en route.

Cut to later that day, as BW and I were walking through the parking lot of Blockbuster Video in our neighborhood. I spotted a California driver's license on the ground and stopped to pick it up.

"Oh, look," I said, scrutinizing the photo of a handsome, short-haired woman. "Some lesbian lost her driver's license." For the sake of this blog, I'll call her Christina Crawford, because she looked a bit like the actress Diana Scarwid, who portrayed the daughter in "Mommie Dearest."

Wow: That's two "Mommie Dearest" references in the last two blogs. I'm getting gayer by the minute.

"What are you going to do with it?," BW asked me.

"I'm going to try and find this woman," I said. "God knows if someone found my license, I'd want them to do anything they could to find me."

When we got home, I googled "Christina Crawford" and "San Diego." I had considered simply mailing the license to the address printed on it, but BW pointed out that Christina could have moved since then. There were no google hits as far as a phone number, address or place of employment. But I did find a Christina Crawford in San Diego on Facebook, although there was no face photo on her public profile. I gave it a shot and sent her a message:

Hi, my name is Adam, and I live in Hillcrest. I just found a driver's license on the ground with the name Christina Crawford. If this is you, reply to this message or call me at 917-xxx-xxxx so I can get it back to you.

Best, Adam

Two hours later, I got a reply:

yes. i was looking every where for it. If you want u could bring it to the ups store I work at in Hillcrest. Thank you so much and if you do not have time, u could mail it to me. Thanx again

Christina

UPS store? It was fate. (Though not terribly surprising, given that she's a lesbian.)

The next morning, before work, I pulled into the UPS parking lot, banana bread in hand, to return Christina's driver's license. I spotted her immediately, loading a cart outside the store.

Christina thanked me profusely for returning her license to her. I explained that I was also there to send banana bread to my cousin who was fighting breast cancer. We chatted a bit, and she told me about her sister, who also survived breast cancer some years ago. As we talked, Christina boxed up the banana loaves for me all nice and secure and had me fill out the paperwork to ship them to Stacey. When I pulled out my credit card, she shook her head.

"This is on me," she said.

I spoke with Stacey moments ago, just before posting this blog. I wanted to make sure she was OK with my writing about her illness, and to make sure the banana bread arrived safe and sound. Yes on both counts. She's feeling much better this week. And she was also very happy about the chocolate chips.

Stacey's daughter, Alexa, has started her own page on the American Cancer Society's web site, which you should visit and donate to by clicking here.

I love you, Stacey -- keep staying strong.

Homo heartwarmed. ♥

License to Drive (Part 2)

2009-09-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

For most of the 80s, My mother worked as Director of Development at St. Barnabas Medical Center in Livingston. I don't know what the job entailed, exactly. I just know that she used to come home most nights filled with rage. Calling her at work for any reason was never a great idea; calling her to ask that she leave work to immediately drive ten miles to Springfield so I could take the driving test in her car was soul suicide.

"Oh, no. NOOOOO! THIS IS FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE!"

"Mom, please!," I whimpered. "If I can't take the test right now, they're going to make me come back another day. I have to get my driver's license today!"

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH THIS IS GOING TO FUCK UP MY DAY!"

Click.

Exactly eight minutes later, a candy-apple red Ford Taurus came screeching into the DMV parking lot. Behind the wheel was a rather crazed, tall, late-40s Jewish woman. Anna and I cowered in fear as she stormed in to the lobby.

"HERE!," she said, flinging the car keys at me. "NOW GIVE ME DAD'S KEYS! I'M ALREADY LATE FOR MY NEXT MEETING!"

"Tina! Bring me the axe!"

Moments later, she was gone, her last words ringing in my ear: "THIS IS A TOTAL FUCK-UP!"

The Ford Taurus wasn't even her car. It was a rental car she was using that week while her massive station wagon sat in the shop for repairs. As a result I had never before gotten behind the wheel of the Taurus. And here I was about to take my driver's test in it.

Fortunately, it was an easy car to drive -- certainly easier than the Jeep and 280-ZX, though I probably used my left foot for the brake once or twice, accustomed as I was to driving a stick shift. The only part of the test I flunked was parallel parking, and that's a Sank family tradition. In the end, I had my driver's license.

"You're driving back to Summit," said Anna, as she slumped down in the passenger seat to resume her nap.

"OK, how do I get there from here?"

"Figure it out yourself."

Ours was a loving home.

I was flooded with these memories as I drove last week to the DMV in Clairemont, not far from where I work. While I wouldn't have to take a behind-the-wheel test this time around, I was required to take California's written exam. I wasn't worried; how difficult could it be?

The DMV office was so packed when I got there that I could barely find a parking spot. The line was at least 100 people deep. Fortunately, I had made an appointment three weeks prior, and went straight to the appointment desk. In front of me was a man who looked to be about 97.

"It's my birthday!" he announced to the woman behind the counter. "I'm here to get my license renewed! And how'd you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

The woman chuckled politely and turned down his offer before handing him his waitlist ticket. Now it was my turn.

"Hi, I'm Adam Sank. I'm here to get a California driver's license, and..."

"Letter?" she interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"WHERE IS THE LETTER WE SENT YOU?!"

"Um, I didn't get a letter."

"Well, do you have an appointment?"

"Yes. For 2:40 p.m."

She flipped wildly through a list on her desk before finally spotting my name. "You should have received a letter," she said, handing me my ticket. It read "C210."

I sat down to wait for my number to be called. Every 30 seconds or so, an automated woman's voice would announce: "Number A362. Please proceed to Window 23... Number G287. Please proceed to Window 18..." and so forth. But as the minutes ticked by, not a single "C number was called.

Finally, after 15 minutes or so, the voice said, "Number C140. Please proceed to Window 6."

I looked down at my ticket: C210. I glanced back up at the monitor: C140. It was then that I noticed the 97-year-old man taking an eye test at Window 23.

I marched back up to the appointment desk. The original woman had vanished, replaced by a co-worker.

"Excuse me," I said. "But I had a 2:40 appointment, and it's been 20 minutes, and the old man who came in right before me -- see, that guy over there moving closer to the eye chart -- he got to go to his window right away...."

"Let me see your ticket," she said. I handed it over. "OK, this is a non-appointment ticket. She should have given you an appointment ticket. Here you go." She handed me a new ticket. This one read I347.

I resumed my seat in the waiting area. It was now 3:05 p.m.

By 3:20, I had yet to hear a single "I" number called. Through the window to the parking lot I could see the 97-year-old man get into his beat-up old Chevy and turn the wrong way onto a one-way street.

I decided it was time to return to the appointment desk. The original woman, the one who had given me the wrong ticket, had returned.

"Excuse me," I said. "But you gave me a non-appointment ticket before, and I had an appointment, so while you were gone, I got a new ticket from the other lady. But I've been here 40 minutes now, and..."

"It hasn't been 40 minutes," she interrupted.

"Actually, it has. My appointment was for 2:40, and it's now 3:21."

"Well, I'm sorry, sir."

"It's OK, I just want to know if there's some way I could move up in the line, because they're not calling any 'I' numbers, and..."

"No, I'm sorry, sir. You'll have to wait your turn."

"But that's the problem," I explained. "My turn should have been 40 minutes ago, but you gave me the wrong ticket..."

"Yes, and I apologized, sir."

"And I accept your apology. But isn't there something you can do now to expedite my position in the line so that..."

"No, I'm sorry, sir."

We stared at each other for a few more seconds, our eyes locked like those of angry housecats, and then I returned to my seat.

A few moments later, the female automated voice sounded again: "Number I335. Please proceed to Window 32."

I checked the number again on my ticket: I347. Inside my head, I could hear a familiar voice screaming:

"THIS IS A TOTAL FUCK-UP!"

To be continued.

Homo pissed. ♥

License to Drive (Part 1)

2009-09-17T15:07:00.000-07:00

I know, I know. It's been forever. My lack of blogging hasn't been only due to sheer laziness and writer's block, though that's part of it. In truth, my day job got really crazy-busy at summer's end, and I didn't want to try and write something only to be interrupted every 30 seconds. Plus I've been doing a lot more comedy of late, which is a good thing... but means less time for everything else.

Speaking of which, I just got booked for my first road gig in ages. It's at a gay bar located in... wait for it... Yuma, Arizona! How does one get from San Diego to Yuma, I wondered. "It's easy," said fellow San Diego comic Joe Robinson, "go east on the 8.... then when you don't see any signs of civilization, you're there."

Some Wikipedia research has informed me that Yuma is one of the hottest places on earth, with an average July temperature of 107 degrees. I'll be sure to pack deodorant. Stay tuned.

Cue the Roadrunner and Wyle E.

As regular readers know, I was recently ticketed for failing to possess a California driver's license. I am now the proud owner of such a license, though barely so. Details to follow.

But first, apropos of nothing, and at no popular request, a recipe for making the world's most delicious low-carb confection: Adam's Hot Dog Omelet.

(WHAT?! That sounds positively disgusting! You're right -- and even more so when you hear the ingredients. But trust me: It's absolutely wonderful and totally satisfying.)

2 Extra Large Eggs

1 Frozen Hot Dog (Preferable High Quality Beef)

1/4 Cup Shredded Cheddar and/or Jack Cheese

1 Tablespoon Thick Teryaki Sauce (Preferably Kikoman Baste & Glaze)

2 Tablesppons Ranch Dressing

1 Pat of Butter

Cooking Spray

Combine eggs, teryaki and ranch dressing in a small bowl and beat until completely blended.

Spray a light coating of cooking spray onto a medium skillet, add butter and heat on medium-low just until butter is melted.

Add egg mixture to skillet and cover.

While egg cooks, microwave hot dog for two minutes or until it's sizzling hot and medium-brown. Remove from microwave and cut into tiny slices.

Check under lid periodically. After about four minutes, when egg begins to pucker on all sides, flip over using a large spatula. Sprinkle cheese and hot dog evenly over egg, replace lid, and turn heat off. (Skillet will remain hot.) After one more minute, when cheese is completely melted, remove lid, fold omelet in half, and voila!

You won't need to add any salt or pepper to this -- and I promise you you've never had a fluffier, tastier omelet. Let me know if and when you try it...

Leggo my Eggo!

OK, on to the driver's license story, beginning with a little adolescent flashback (because I know how you people love those):

The last time I took a driver's test was on my 17th birthday... more than 21 years ago. I don't remember the written part at all; I assume I breezed through it.

The behind-the-wheel test was a different thing altogether.

My family lived in Summit, but the closest DMV was in Springfield -- only about four miles away, but at the time, a different universe altogether. I had traveled to Springfield that day with my learner's permit and my over-21 sister, Anna, in our father's Datsun 280 ZX.

I wasn't accustomed to driving that car; the power of it sort of frightened me, as did the automated, female, Japanese-sounding voice that would suddenly yell things like, "Lights are on!" and "Right door is open!" (Remember those talking cars of the 80's? Talk about a useless innovation.)

The reason I was in the Z-car was that it had a hand brake. And Jersey DMV regulations stipulated that new drivers had to take their test in a vehicle that either had a hand brake or a brake pedal that was reachable by the instructor. My Jeep had neither.

Anna was in one of her famously foul moods. I had wanted to get some last-minute driving practice in on the way to Springfield, but she quickly vetoed that: "I'm driving. You drive like shit."

Talk about the pot calling the kettle shit!!!!

Isn't she lovely?

So there I was, behind the wheel of the Z-car, instructor beside me, ready for the moment I had been waiting for my entire teenage life: My driver's license... my freedom.

"Please start the car slowly," said the instructor.

I did so.

After rolling about five feet, he suddenly yanked the hand-brake. The car did not react one bit. Even the Japanese lady was silent.

"Stop the car," he said.

I did so.

"You cannot continue the driver's test in this car. The hand brake doesn't work."

I was horrified. "What happens now?" I asked.

"Now you find another car to take the test in within the next 15 minutes. Otherwise, you'll have to make an appointment for another day.

!!!

Panicked, tearful, I got out of the car and went to find Anna, who had fallen asleep on one of the benches in the DMV waiting area. "I don't know what the hell to do," she barked, angry that I had awoken her. "Call Mom."

No two word ever filled me such dread.

To be continued.

Homo hand-broken. ♥

I, Rock Star

2009-09-08T09:31:00.000-07:00

Curtain Call at the Dirtbag, Aug. 29, 2009.

Photo by Dawn Egan.

Homo grabbing crotch. ♥

40,000 Hits and Counting

2009-09-04T08:34:00.000-07:00

Thanks, readers!

Homo grateful. ♥

Enter Rhoda (Part 5 - The Finale - I Hope!)

2009-09-03T09:06:00.001-07:00

There's a little device on the right-hand side of my blog page that lets me know how many readers are viewing it at any given moment. The number usually ranges anywhere from one to six, depending on how recently I've posted. At the moment, there are nine(!) people reading my blog, which is a rather high number given that I've posted no new material in over a week.

Who are you people, and where did you find me? I wish everyone would leave a comment now and then. It's hard to describe the satisfaction I derive from such feedback -- not unlike an old dog feels when you scratch him behind the ears. I just finished reading Julie Powell's "Julie & Julia" (as well as watching the excellent film adaptation this weekend). Powell is the first blogger I've read who really captures what it means to have strangers giving you their approval. It's kind of sad and narcissistic, but that's me, I guess (and Julie).

Marvelous Meryl.

Anyhoo, back to the car story. As usual, I hadn't intended it to drag on so long. And things actually got way more complicated after I bought the car, so I'm going to try and bullet-point it for you as best I can:

You'll recall we last left off with my storming out of the Lemon Grove Honda dealership in a huff, on my way to Bob Baker Toyota. I don't know who Bob Baker is -- I picture him as a doughy Evangelical type -- but he sure owns a lot of car dealerships. In the San Diego area alone, there's a Bob Baker Toyota, a Bob Baker Subaru, a Bob Baker Volkswagen and a Bob Baker Lexus, not to mention a Bob Baker Scion and a Bob Baker Chrysler. Bob is big. And on his Toyota lot that day were three '08 Yarises (Yarisae?), just as pretty as could be.

One had over 60,000 miles on it and smelled like stale syrup. Another was a beautiful sea-foam green color, had very low mileage and was by far the cheapest of the three -- but it was a stick shift.

I can drive a stick, a fact that seems to surprise people. I'm actually quite adept on the stick (insert joke here), and Rick, the salesman with whom I test-drove the green Yaris, actually complimented me on my down-shifting skills. But in the end (and after a phone call to my father, who offered advice based on his 60-odd years of driving), I decided a manual transmission is just not practical on the freeways of California.

That left Rhoda.

She was bright red -- Toyota calls it Barcelona Red Metallic -- and had 42,000 miles on her. This seemed like an awful lot of miles for an '08 car, and I pointedly asked Rick if the car had ever been a rental vehicle in her previous life. "Oh no," he assured me. "In fact, we'd have to post that on the car if it were." (And they do -- by law.)

¡Ay, que bonita!

I'll skip ahead, because you already know where this story is going: I bought Rhoda. The final out-the-door price, including the trade-in value for Carmen, was $12,500. A week later, Bob Baker Toyota mailed me my extended warranty, along with Rhoda's CarFax report, which I stupidly, stupidly, stupidly neglected to demand to see BEFORE driving off the lot. And of course, the report listed Rhoda's previous owner as rental car company in Nevada.

I think the Nevada part bothered me the most. I immediately pictured Rhoda gasping her way back and forth through Death Valley at the hands of countless reckless rental drivers. In any case, I was livid.

Not surprisingly, Salesman Rick had no recollection of my asking him about whether Rhoda had been a rental car. "Maybe we talked about it, maybe we didn't," was the most he would cop to. Shithead.

I took computer and hand and banged out one of my famous customer dissatisfaction letters. (Seriously, I'm great at writing these. I've gotten lots of after-the-fact hefty discounts over the years due to the strength of my pissy pen. Once, a Pottery Barn representative called me an asshole when she thought I was on hold. You can bet I got free delivery on my home entertainment cabinet that time.)

Marwan, the used car manager at Bob Baker, called me upon receipt of my letter. He sheepishly admitted that they had neglected to inform me of Rhoda's rental car past -- even on the vehicle disclosure history form -- but claimed it was an honest mistake. Yeah. Because used car salesmen are famous for their honest mistakes.

"What do you want us to do?" Marwan asked.

"I want $2,000 back on the car," I replied simply.

This brought a sinister chuckle from Marwan. "That's not going to happen. You might as well bring the car back. We'll give you your money back."

Then he added, as an extra kick in my stomach: "And your Passat, too."

Aw, hell no.

Marwan and I spoke on the phone about half a dozen times over the next two weeks. Some of these conversations bordered on pleasant; others ended in screaming and tears. Mine. Finally, when we had both exhausted each other, we agreed the only solution was for me to bring the car back for a full refund. And the Passat.

So this past Monday, I drove Rhoda back to Lemon Grove, the temperature hovering at a lovely 97, and met with Mario Lupinacci, General Sales Manager at Bob Baker Toyota.

To describe Mario as "smooth as custard" would be doing a disservice to custard; Mario was far smoother. He practically purred. He asked me about my move from New York, my comedy career , my day job, my family back home. By the end of our meeting, he was promising me he could get me booked to perform at his friend's restaurants in San Diego's Little Italy.

He also handed me a check for $1,200, and we parted the closest of friends.

And so, $1,200 richer and none the wiser, I climbed back into Rhoda -- my car at last -- and drove out of Lemon Grove for what I sincerely hoped would be the last time.

Homo loving Bob Baker Toyota. ♥

The Petition (Parts 1 through 10)

2009-08-30T08:34:00.001-07:00

Blogger's note: A number of you -- including Granny -- have asked that I combine all 10 parts of my Petition story into one seamless entry, so that it's easier to read and print out. For those of you who have already read it, skip this entry -- there's nothing new here. For the rest of you, enjoy this tragic but true tale from my high school days. I'll get back to the car story -- which continues to develop -- soon.

Part 1:

Blogger's Note: My 20-year high school class reunion happens next week. I won't be attending -- not to make any grand statement but simply because doing so would be logistically impossible. But the occasion has stirred up a lot of recollections for me, some of which I would like to share with you.

The events I describe are as true as my memory allows. And while in some cases I've used only first names, I haven't altered any names entirely save for one, for reasons I'll explain at the end.

Brace yourselves; this is going to be a long one.

Occasionally in my stand-up, I'll make reference to how hellish my high school experience was. But when I talk about this, it's solely for laughs' sake and not factual. In fact, I have mostly positive memories of Summit High, which I attended from 1985 to 1989. Yes, I had some dark times, as all adolescents do. I was teased and taunted and bullied a bit. My senior year, someone -- I never found out who -- repeatedly shot nails into the tires of my Jeep while it was parked in the student lot. And it goes without saying that I struggled mightily with my sexuality and the fact that I was different.

But I also had a hell of a lot of fun in high school. When I think back to those years, it's play rehearsals and late-night parties and cruising through the Watchung Reservation on warm spring nights with the top down that I recall most. It's singing with the New Jersey All-State Chorus in Atlantic City and ballroom dancing through the school hallways with my friend Rebecca and road tripping to the Jersey shore in someone's old station wagon. It's phone calls with friends that would last up to five hours because, it seemed, no matter how long we talked we never ran out of things to say.

My senior yearbook photo, circa August, 1988.

As I said, there were dark times. I have a particularly high number of negative associations with a bug-eyed classmate named Josh who was neither friend nor enemy but frenemy. Josh and I ran with the same social circle. We did theater and choir together and shared a close friend, Matt. Also, we were among the only Jewish kids in town.

But despite all that (or more likely because of all that), Josh seemed determined to humiliate me on a regular basis. The worst example of this occurred after a sleepover at his house senior year in which Josh and Matt slept in Josh's bed while I slept on the floor.

According to what Josh told a number of people after the fact, I arose in the middle of the night, walked over to the bed and grabbed Josh's crotch through the blankets.

This was an incredibly hurtful rumor to spread because I was, of course, a gay kid, and surely Josh was aware of that on some level. But it was also complete and total bullshit.

In the first place, if I were going to make a pass at a guy in high school (and make no mistake: I did make passes from time to time), I certainly wouldn't have done it in front of a witness, sleeping or not.

Second of all, I wouldn't have just grabbed an unconscious boy's crotch. I may have been a horny teenager, but I wasn't a fucking rapist. My approach at the time was far more subtle. A little wine, a little pot, maybe a game of Truth or Dare. "Hey, how big is it? Let's see..." and so forth. If I met with the slightest resistance, I ceased all efforts immediately.

And finally, even if I had been some sort of creeping midnight molester, given the choice of crotches I would have chosen the one belonging to Matt, who was extremely hot, and not that of ugly-assed, bug-eyed Josh.

But that unpleasantness aside, there is only one high school event that sticks with me these two decades later as traumatic and life-changing: The events surrounding my petition against the school newspaper's advisor, Mr. Stubick.

Many of the details of my war with Mr. Stubick are fuzzy to me now. Even more fuzzy is why I chose to go to war with him in the first place. Maybe it was because he was a pretentious asshole. Maybe it was because I was a narcissistic teenager who had to have things my own way. Or maybe it was because he was a closeted gay man, and I was a closeted gay boy, and the year was 1988 -- a perfect recipe for mutually assured fear and loathing.

In any case, what transpired between us has haunted me for 20 years, and I truly don't understand why. In finally writing about this, I seek that understanding.

To be continued.

Homo in flashback. ♥

Part 2:

My relationship with Mr. Stubick began auspiciously. I was a sophomore in my first year at Summit High , and he had recently taken over as advisor for the essentially moribund school newspaper, "The Tempest." Mr. Stubick did a radical redesign of the paper, renaming it "The Tower" (which had been the paper's original name) and turning it into a handsome-looking tabloid.

I didn't have Mr. Stubick as a teacher that year or any year, but I was familiar with him. My sister Anna had taken sophomore English with him half a decade before and loathed him, which should have served as a warning to me, as Anna and I tend to share the same opinions of others.

But he seemed harmless enough -- a very thin, boyish-looking schlub given to wearing suspenders and oversized pants. He had written several novels of the "young adult" genre and was known to assign them to his classes, which struck me as odd at the time given that other 10th graders in Summit were reading "Jane Eyre" and "Romeo & Juliet."

It was clear he fashioned himself one of those hip, young teachers who could really relate to his students -- like Robin Williams in "Dead Poets Society." Except unlike Williams's ebullient optimist, Mr. Stubick was a misanthrope who seemed to view everyone but a select few with thinly veiled contempt. If I had had the vernacular back then, I would have called him a bitchy queen.

God, this was a great flick.

But as I said, things began auspiciously between us. I approached Mr. Stubick about writing for the newly launched "Tower," and he was receptive. In fact, he handed me what may have been the most plum assignment ever: I was to review all of Summit's pizzerias and judge which was the best. Not exactly Woodward and Bernstein material, but fun, right? And it was.

"The Tower" caused a stir, and not just because of its new packaging. Alongside the usual student and faculty news and features (and my pizza review, in which I named Rosa & Sal's the winner) were some provocative columns.

The most notorious of these was called "The Unknown Sophomore." It purported to be the rantings of a disaffected, highly sarcastic juvenile who took shots at just about everyone. The teachers had bad breath. The athletes were dim-witted bullies. The cheerleaders were vapid ditzes. And so forth.

This was a good 10 years before the horrors at Columbine, and it's hard to imagine a school newspaper intentionally dispensing such vitriol nowadays. But at the time, I guess our principal -- a dim-witted bully himself named Dr. Geddes -- viewed it as harmless free expression.

I cannot overstate the furor that "The Unknown Sophomore" caused among the student body. For many weeks, it was all anyone could talk about. Angry letters poured in to the newspaper office. Death threats were made against the anonymous writer, should he or she ever be unmasked. Several teachers told me in confidence that they found the column's publication disgraceful.

As for me, I didn't like "The Unknown Sophomore" either, but not because I felt personally slighted by anything he or she had written. What bothered me was, I was certain the writer was not a student. The words rang trite and phony and seemed intended solely to provoke a reaction. The piece read like the bad fictions of an adult trying to impersonate a young person after watching "The Breakfast Club" too many times, replete with predictable angst and adolescent stereotyping. "The Unknown Sophomore" offended me on an intellectual level.

And though I had absolutely no evidence to prove it, I knew in my heart that the Unknown Sophomore was Mr. Stubick.

To be continued.

Homo in flashback. ♥

Part 3

Bloggers Note: One of my readers, an SHS alumna, left a comment yesterday in which she correctly named the teacher I'm calling "Mr. Stubick" in this story. As mentioned in my initial note, I've chosen to change his name for several reasons I'll go into at the very end. I hate deleting ANY comments, but in this case I had no choice. I ask all Summit readers to please refrain from giving away Mr. Stubick's real name, either on this site or on my Facebook page.

Incidentally, I've been quite surprised by the interest generated by these postings -- not only from Summit people but also those completely unfamiliar with the people and events described here. I wish I didn't have to post in such short installments, but I'm writing this from my day job and am interrupted an average of once every 30 seconds. It's the literary equivalent of waterboarding.

As a result of these constant interruptions, I may have mangled the chronology. I'm almost certain now that the story actually begins during my junior -- and not sophomore -- year. And that's going to become somewhat important later on. So for comprehension's sake, let's assume I've been a junior and am still a junior at this point of the narrative.

Without further ado, on with Part 3:

My next piece for "The Tower" was an editorial about people cutting in the cafeteria line, something about which I was passionate. Stubick loved it, because it gelled with his worldview of teenagers as either hapless victims or sinister victimizers. But I felt a bit silly having made a big deal about such a relatively inconsequential topic.

Also, the editorial had zero effect. Bigger kids continued to cut smaller kids in the line, as I'm sure they still do today. (Although I will say now as then, where the fuck are the adults who are charged with keeping schools from turning into "Lord of the Flies?" Would it have been so hard to post a gym teacher at the front of the line to make sure everyone waits his turn?)

In any case, my next topic would be far more serious. It came to me in Chem Study class, after I had a minor altercation with a kid named Dwight. I don't remember what the argument was about. Perhaps he didn't properly clean my beaker, or vice versa. All I know is that after our disagreement I left class briefly to go the boy's room.

And when I returned, I discovered a penny had been carefully laid on top of the schoolbooks on my desk.

It wasn't my penny, and it hadn't been there when I left the classroom; of that I was certain. But there it was, staring up at me, like some kind of dark talisman.

This was shocking to me on a number of levels. First, because Dwight wasn't a bad kid. He was just a mild-mannered dork with whom I had a number of honor's level classes. And second, because this was New Jersey, not Mississippi. I was aware that mine was one of the only Jewish families in town, but I had never felt targeted because of it. Yes, Summit was overwhelmingly WASPy and Republican, but it was also affluent, educated and somewhat socially progressive.

Yet at that moment, my mind began to connect some dots. Earlier in the year, I suddenly recalled, while changing classes in a crowded hallway, I had dropped my pencil and bent over to pick it up. "Find a penny?" asked an older boy strolling past me.

I recalled smiling back at him, bewildered, knowing he had made a joke but not getting the punchline.

Then I flashed back to an evening spent months before with my friend Matt in which I had flipped through his Summit Junior High School yearbook. I had attended a private school during those years and was curious about the junior high experience. As I perused the yearbook, I was stopped cold by a page showing a large candid photo of Adam Pechter, an obstreperous boy with whom I had grown up and attended Hebrew school. (He had left for boarding school at the same time I switched back to public school.)

In the photo, Adam stood at a classroom lectern delivering some sort of oral assignment, his index finger extended.

Underneath the photo, someone had scrawled, "Is that a penny I see in the back of the room?"

Somehow, the penny on my desk brought all of these events into clear focus, as if I were putting on new eyeglasses. That night, I wrote an essay which began: "To the person in my Chem Study class who put a penny on my desk: Thank you." It detailed the casual anti-Semitism I had encountered and my subsequent epiphany that while I never thought my religious background registered one whit among my non-Jewish classmates, it apparently did.

My tone wasn't angry but deadly serious: This penny-pinching stereotype, something with which I in my sheltered upbringing had been only vaguely aware, had roots in Nazi Germany, where it had been used in part to justify the genocide of 6 million Jews.

I submitted my penny essay to Mr. Stubick the next day. He read it with great approbation but offered some constructive criticism, specifically with regard to the Germany bit. Yes, the Nazis regarded the Jews as greedy, he pointed out, but the stereotype was much older than the Third Reich, dating back at least to Shakespeare's Shylock.

Contrary to what some may believe about me, I am very receptive when someone offers me thoughtful feedback, especially when it makes my writing stronger. So I immediately went back to work on the piece, revising the section about the history of the Stingy Jew and making other changes suggested by Stubick before resubmitting it to him for publication.

But when the piece ran a month later in "The Tower" it was my first draft that appeared. Stubick had somehow misplaced my revised version or forgotten that I had made revisions in the first place. Or something. He offered me a shrugging apology but no real explanation.

The piece made a big impact. A number of students approached me with apologies for things they had said or done of which I hadn't even been aware. A local synagogue reprinted the essay in their newsletter and asked me to speak about it. And Miss Johnson, my Chem Study teacher and one of the dearest people at our school or any school, expressed her horror to me that such a thing would happen in her classroom, as if she could have somehow prevented it.

But I still felt wronged by Stubick's carelessness. I couldn't fathom how he could have mishandled a piece that was obviously so personal and important to me.

Our war was brewing.

To be continued.

Homo in flashback. ♥

Part 4

Blogger's Note: Having both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett -- two icons from my youth -- die on the same day, as I'm already in the midst of intense high school flashback, is beyond surreal. I certainly hope Henry Winkler is not planning on swimming with sharks (as opposed to jumping them) anytime soon.

The longer I write this, the more new flashes from the past keep popping in my head. Maybe instead of spending seven years in psychotherapy during the late 90s and early 00s, I should have been blogging. Except that blogs didn't exist then.

I truly hope to wrap this up today, as BW and I are flying tonight to NYC for Pride Weekend and then a visit to my parents on Long Island, and I likely won't be able to do any blogging until next week. Plus, as cathartic as this exercise is for me, it's also incredibly draining. Sort of like... well, psychotherapy.

On with Part 4:

Junior year came to an end. Mr. Stubick threw a little pizza party for the "Tower" staff and its regular contributors at which he handed out personalized certificates of merit to each of us. Mine read: "To Adam Sank.... for confronting anti-Semitism, eating lots of pizza and wearing an earring." I suppose it was a nice gesture, but it felt patronizing to me, fuming as I still was over Stubick's editorial bungling of my penny piece.

(A side note about that earring. Like every other boy my age that year, I had gotten my left ear pierced in attempt to display rugged individualism. My mother's reaction? "Everyone's going to think you're a fag!" As if singing and dancing in all the school musicals were shining badges of heterosexuality.)

My senior year began. "The Tower" resumed publication. I don't remember writing anything for the paper the first several months of that school year, probably because I was busy flunking AP Calculus and writing out my college applications.

Then, in February, I was accepted to join a group of SHS students on a trip to Washington for the annual Close Up program. It consisted of a week-long stay at a hotel in the nation's capital, with daily trips to all the federal buildings and monuments and brief meetings with our elected representatives.

I had a blast. Staying at the hotel with us Summit kids were students from Nevada as well as from Glassboro, NJ, and every night was a party. One night the Close Up organizers threw us a banquet, and I decided to organize a little talent show (with me as the star, of course). Flanked by five other guys in sunglasses, dark blazers and white t-shirts, I sang a parody of "Stand by Me," inspired by our grueling program schedule.

And if this historical monument... that we look upon
Should crumble and fall.
And the White House should tumble to the Sea.
I won't sleep... I won't sleep.
No IIIIIIIII won't.... sleep a wink.
Just as long... as we roll... through DC.

So please don't, please don't sleep... in DC...
Noooooo don't sleep... in DC

etc.

It was a hit.

One afternoon, on a bus tour, the topic of apartheid came up. This was 1989, the height of the "Free Nelson Mandela" movement, and there were news reports out of South Africa every day of the week. Yet one of the Glassboro students, a girl named Lori, had no idea what we were talking about. "What's apartheid?," she asked.

"It's a system of government in South Africa where white people have all the power and black people are kept down," I started to explain.

Lori interrupted: "But I thought Africa was a nigger country?"

No one believes me when I tell them that I was almost 18 years old before I ever heard someone use that word in person. But it's the truth. Years later, I would live in Atlanta and hear it on an almost daily basis. But at 18, having been raised by my parents, in the town where I grew up, that word was worse than any swear. It was unutterable.

The force of it literally knocked the wind out of me. And somehow, it was even more shocking when coupled with the ignorance that would lead a high schooler to regard the whole of Africa as a single country.

When I got back to Summit, I felt compelled to write about the apartheid exchange for "The Tower." Having already done a piece on anti-Semitism, it seemed like my obligation as well as my beat. But whereas the penny piece had been an indictment of Summit's own occasional smallmindedness, my new essay, entitled "Lori in Wonderland," was intended as a sort of pat on our back. For of all the things I had learned on my trip to Washington, none were more eye-opening than a fellow Jersey high schooler's assertion that "Africa was a nigger country." It made me both proud of and grateful for my school and my town to realize how far we were from that level of ignorance.

In retrospect, it was a rather arrogant tack to take. "Oh, look how much more enlightened we in Summit are than you wretched souls in Glassboro." Without knowing it then, I was criticizing the sin of racism while simultaneously committing the sin of classism.

But Stubick had no such quarrel with "Lori in Wonderland." Or if he did, he never said so. The piece was slated to run in the next issue.

Except it didn't.

Ever.

To be continued. I'm sorry -- honestly. If you knew what I'm dealing with today at this hideous job, you'd be amazed I was able to type out this much. More later today if I can.

Homo in flashback. ♥

Part 5:

Blogger's Note: A rather long break from the story, as I had feared, but it was for good reason: BW and I extended our vacation at the last minute and stayed with my family in the Hamptons through Friday before flying back to San Diego Saturday. We had beautiful sunny weather and terrific times out there, and I'll be posting photos of our trip once I finish this rambling epic once and for all.

I will also recount my public humiliation by a lunatic U.S. Airways flight crew.

And finally, I'll soon be posting new video of my Gay Pride set at Therapy last Sunday night, which was a blast and a half.

That's a hell of a lot to promise on my first Monday morning back from vacation (and one in which I'm flying solo at the front desk of my office) but I'll do my very best.

At the very least, Part 5 is when the titular petition finally appears.

On with the show.

It wasn't just that Mr. Stubick killed my "Lori in Wonderland" piece which led to my writing the petition against him and his newspaper; it was what he ran instead.

For in the year since its redesign, "The Tower" had grown increasingly insipid. The erstwhile Unknown Sophomore, now calling himself the Unknown Junior, still employed his poison pen monthly. Fluffy profiles of Mr. Stubick's favorite students abounded, as did a Walter Winchell-esque gossip column filled with breathless details of who in the school was dating whom. And while there was absolutely no mention of any legitimate student activities -- sporting events, drama club productions, community service projects or what have you -- "The Tower" did find the time and space to review Mr. Stubick's latest teen romance novel, "Darlene at 14.*"

Shockingly, the review was a rave.

In retrospect, it would have been mighty strange for a hard-hitting piece on racism and the state of modern education to appear amid such twaddle, but that was small consolation to me at the time. I went to confront Stubick after class on the afternoon of the new issue's publication.

"Where" I demanded, "is 'Lori in Wonderland?'"

Stubick reacted in his usual mild, passive-aggressive way. "Oh, yeah, sorry, we just couldn't fit it in this month. It'll run next month."

"But Close Up happened last month," I protested, my anger starting to build. "It'll be old news by then. It'll be too late!"

He gave me a thin smile. "No, it'll be fine."

Our conversation was over for good.

What happened next may have transpired over several days or even weeks. But that's not how I recall it. My memory is of marching out of Stubick's classroom and into an empty adjacent one and putting pen to paper that very moment, without hesitation or reflection.

First I wrote a note:

Dear Mr. Stubick:

Please do not run my "Lori in Wonderland" article next month or at any time. I no longer wish to be associated with "The Tower" in any way.

Sincerely,
Adam Sank

Then I wrote the petition:

We, the undersigned, are concerned students at Summit High School. Our concern is with the state of the school newspaper, "The Tower," and with the newspaper's advisor, who seems unable or unwilling to meet the needs and concerns of the students.

We note that in the current issue of "The Tower" there is no mention of organized student activities or upcoming events of any student clubs or organizations -- including the student government -- or of any school sporting events. In fact, there is not even a sports editor.

Instead, we are given numerous student profiles, a gossip column, a review of the newspaper advisor's new novel, and a column by The Unknown Junior (who is most certainly not a student at all).

We ask that the newspaper immediately be improved to reflect the interests of SHS students, and not simply of its advisor.

There were 600 students at Summit High School during the 1988-89 academic year. Within a week of writing my petition, more than a third of them had signed it.

To be continued.

Homo finally getting to the point. ♥

*Not the actual title, but a damn fine one, if I may say so myself.

Part 6:

Blogger's Note: What?! Two chapters posted on the same day? Shut up!! What can I tell you folks, other than that I want more than anything to be done with the telling of this tale. So while it's slow for a moment at my desk, I'll add what I can:

Among the 233 signatures at the bottom of my newspaper petition were those of the president and vice-president of the student government (known as the General Organization or G.O.), a number of prominent athletes and a veritable smorgasbord of brains, geeks, drama fags, musicians, socially conscious hippies and other high-achieving types.

I didn't work particularly hard to get people to sign; I just attached the petition to a clipboard and passed it around the cafeteria and gymnasium and in the classes I attended. Few students were overly passionate about the substance of what I had written, but everyone seemed to agree with it.

"Oh, yeah, I hate that fucking Unknown Junior" was the most common reaction as people reached for their pen.

It had only been a week since I began my crusade, but I felt like 233 names was more than sufficient to make my point. So I produced three photocopies of the petition, signatures and all, along with a cover letter and delivered the complete packet to the principal, the vice-principal, and the school superintendent.

At first, not much happened. A few teachers pulled me aside and told me they applauded my actions. But the vice-principal, Mr. Akey, a man much beloved by me and my older sisters before me who happened also to be Mr. Stubick's closest friend, had a slightly different take: "I admire your activism," he said after spotting me in the cafeteria one day, "but not the way you've gone about this."

Yet there was no immediate reaction from either the principal or superintendent. Nor was there any from Stubick himself. That is, until the next issue of "The Tower" came out the following month.

There appeared on page three a large photo of three students with the caption, "SHS Students Tour the Capitol as Part of the National Close Up Program in February," followed by the names of the students pictured. The shoulder of a fourth student was also visible, but his face had been cropped out.

Guess who.

It was Mr. Stubick's first attempt at retribution. It would hardly be his last.

To be continued.

Homo really and truly done for today. ♥

Part 7:

Blogger's Note: Stay with me; the finish line is in sight.

About six weeks passed before I was finally summoned to the office of Dr. Geddes, our school principal. I don't know if Geddes had played football in college, but he had that look about him -- broad and blockheaded with menacing eyes that didn't match his forced smile. When I picture him now, he looks like someone who might have served in George W. Bush's administration. Tom Ridge, perhaps.

On second though, Ridge has a kinder face.

I never had many dealings with Dr. Geddes; I wasn't the sort of kid who gets sent to the principal's office, at least not in high school. Ironically, the only other time I recall Dr. Geddes approaching me was after my pizza survey had been published in "The Tower" the previous year.

"Mr. Sank," he had said as I passed him in the hallway after a drama club meeting. "I read your pizza article. What about Luigi's?"

I explained to him that I had tried to survey Luigi's but they were closed.

"Mm hm," he said, staring at me with those cold, dead eyes.

Now here I was sitting across from him in his office, my petition in his hand.

"Now what, exactly, is your problem with the newspaper?" he asked.

I've never understood when somebody poses a question to which he already knows the answer.

"Well," I said, "as it's clearly spelled out in my petition, I have a number of problems with it." I went on to basically detail the points outlined on the photocopied pages in front of him. "And if you notice," I added, "there are about 20 names highlighted of students who are leaders in this school and who share my feelings."

"Yeah," he replied. "As far as I'm concerned, those are the only names that matter."

Silence here as we stared at each other. Then I said, "I'm sorry?"

"The rest of these kids don't count. They probably didn't even know what they were signing."

More silence. "I think maybe you're underestimating your student body."

"Trust me, they didn't know. Now, how would you make the newspaper better?"

I began to offer him a number of suggestions, but he soon interrupted.

"Tell me this," he queried, "what did you think of the Awards of Excellence issue last year?"

The Awards of Excellence were Summit High's version of the Golden Globes. Each year they were handed out in a dozen or so categories to seniors who were deemed to exemplify various skills or talents -- in mathematics, visual arts, instrumental music, etc. A dinner ceremony was held, and "The Tower" had come out with an issue solely profiling the winners the previous year.

"Well, I don't know that I would have done an entire issue with nothing but profiles, but at least it drew attention to student achievements, and not just gossip or..."

He interrupted again: "What grade would you give that issue?"

"Um," I thought for a moment. "I guess I'd give it a C+."

He smiled menacingly. "That issue was my idea. I was the one who told Mr. Stubick to do it."

I assume Dr. Geddes intended this to be a checkmate moment, one in which I would crumple to the floor and slink out of his office, defeated, my tail between my legs. But the only thing I felt was baffled. I frankly didn't understand what the Awards of Excellence issue from a year ago had to do with my petition, which specifically criticized not what "The Tower" had been but what it had become.

And that's exactly what I told Dr. Geddes.

"Look," he said, waving his hand in front of him as if to slap a mosquito that just wouldn't die, "why don't I set up a meeting with you and Mr. Stubick? You can give him your ideas in person, and maybe you can work together on making it a better paper."

I shook my head. "I'd be happy to do that, Dr. Geddes, but I don't think Mr. Stubick wants to meet with me. I'm pretty sure he hates me now."

"Oh, I don't think he hates you," he said.

"Really?" I said. "Because he cut me out of a photo in the last issue."

He leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes glowing. "But he had to do that," he explained. "You told him you didn't want to be associated with the paper anymore."

It was at that moment that I realized maybe I was in over my head. But I also realized that there was no turning back.

"You tell Mr. Stubick I'd be happy to meet with him anytime," I said, shaking hands with Dr. Geddes. "And thanks for all your time and consideration."

It wasn't until the next day that I learned Mr. Stubick had started his own petition as well.

To be continued.

Homo coming down the home stretch. ♥

Part 8:

My best friend throughout my high school years was Rebecca Landwehr. Rebecca and I were Will and Grace long before Will and Grace ever existed, the primary difference being that unlike Will, I was Jewish, and unlike Grace, Rebecca was not. We were incredibly loud and rambunctious and dramatic, and each thought the other was just about the most hilarious person on earth.

A couple quick stories about Rebecca and me:

There was a shy, very pretty girl in our school named Eleanor Guild (rhymes with "mild"). Every single time Rebecca and I saw her, we would start singing at the top of our lungs, "Born to be Eleanor Guiiiiiiiiiiiiiiild!"

We had songs for other people as well. For Kim Ward, we sang a little ditty to the tune of "Mahna Mahna" from "The Muppet Show." It went as follows:

I am Kim Ward
(Do doo do doo doo)
I am Kim Ward
(Do doo do doo)
I am Kim Ward
(Do doo do doo doo, do doo doo, do doo do doo do doo doo doo doo doo!)

Ever notice how highly disturbing-looking Mahna Mahna's backup singers are?

For Heather Golm, we sang a rendition of Tiffany's "I Think We're Alone Now," retitled "I Think We're Heather Golm Now."

You get the point.

Rebecca and I appeared in every Summit high school musical, usually in lead roles. We both sang in the school choir, and Rebecca played trumpet in SHS's orchestra, marching band and stage band. We were both the products of liberal Democratic households in an overwhelmingly Republican town, and we both thought we were right about everything.

Basically, we were the quintessential late 80s drama fags, right down to the bad hair experiments. So it was of little surprise when the administration -- perhaps Dr. Geddes himself, though I don't remember -- asked us to do the daily morning announcements. This was a simple, five-minute intercom broadcast aired throughout the school: "The G.O. bake sale takes place this afternoon in the hallway outside the cafeteria at 3 o' clock... Cheerleader try-outs are set for next Monday in the gym..." and so forth.

There wasn't much Rebecca and I could do to spice these ho-hum messages up, but we did add our own spin now and then. Mostly, these took the form of quick, barely audible asides:

Adam: The annual Summit High holiday concert is tomorrow night, so don't forget to get your tickets now!

Rebecca: Yes, they are selling like hotcakes.

Adam: (Hotcakes that nobody wants.)

Rebecca: (Exactly.)

Adam: (stifling a giggle) And don't forget the deadline for the Service Club's canned food drive for the homeless is this Tuesday...!

It occurs to me now that I still employ this "quick aside tag" style in my stand-up. There's something about the rhythm of it that just appeals to my ear.

Me and Rebecca before the senior prom, spring of 1989.

In order to read the morning announcements, Rebecca and I had to leave our respective homeroom classes at 11:00 a.m. and make our way down the administration's office, where a little sound booth was set up. My homeroom was Ms. Papio's Spanish class, during which I would eat my homemade lunch of ham and cheese on whole wheat with honey mustard. One morning while I was doing the announcements, Josh -- yes, the same Josh from the false crotch-grabbing accusation incident -- inserted a folded up piece of notebook paper into my sandwich, so that when I later bit into it I'd be chewing on paper. I'm telling you, he was a diabolical little shit.

Anyway, the day after my meeting with Dr. Geddes, as I made my way from Spanish class to the cafeteria for lunch hour, a sophomore stopped me in the hallway.

"Hey," she said. "You should know that Mr. Stubick started a petition against you and Rebecca. He wants you to be fired from the morning announcements."

I remember actually laughing out loud. "No way!" I said.

"Yes. He passed it around our English class today."

"On what grounds does he say we should be fired?" I wondered.

"Because you made fun of the homeless."

"When did we ever make fun of the homeless?!"

"When you were making announcement about a canned food drive, you were laughing. So he says you're insensitive to the homeless and should be fired."

The war was escalating.

T0 be continued.

Homo wishing he could continue now, but his assistant manager literally just dumped a pile of work on his desk. ♥

Part 9:

Mr. Stubick's petition to have Rebecca and me ousted from morning announcements duty went nowhere. I'm not sure it ever even made it out of the classroom in which it originated. Mr. Akey, our one mutual ally, later confided to me: "I told him he had to stop this."

In any case, Rebecca and I continued our daily chirpings, and Mr. Stubick continued putting out "The Tower."

But as the early spring season progressed, I had other things on my mind. I was busy with rehearsals for the school musical, "The Boyfriend," in which I played the romantic lead. I had taken a part-time job at the nearby Short Hills Mall, in a tiny store called The Tie Table. There I peddled 100% silk, hand-made, authentic Italian, truly hideous ties. I still have some.

More than anything, I was consumed with the question of where I'd be going to college. November had brought a wait-list letter from Brown, my first choice, where I'd applied early admission. In the meantime, I had been accepted at Boston University and was still waiting to hear from Tufts, Northwestern and the University of Michigan.

When I look back now, it's almost laughable how little I knew about any of these schools when I applied to them. I imagine teenagers these days must sit at their computers for days on end, googling countless facts and figures and browsing blogs about the colleges that interest them.

But in 1989, my computer was little more than a glorified typewriter. I had a three-foot high stack of catalogues in my bedroom representing every school from Arizona State to Washington and Lee, and I had barely glanced at them beyond the pictures on their covers.

When it came time to choose where my five applications would go, I essentially picked from a hat: Boston was a cool city, so I figured I would apply to one school there I knew I could get into --B.U. -- and one that was a bit of a reach --Tufts. Northwestern had a first-rate journalism school, so that made sense given my particular skill set. And Michigan was a sentimental favorite, beloved by our family friends, the Reinhardts, as well as a slew of other former Summit High grads.

But Brown, with its quirky, brainy, everyone-is-gay-or-may-as-well-be, Ivy League status, was hands-down where I most wanted to be. It felt like where I belonged.

Plus, I liked the pictures in the catalogue.

Ah, Sweet Providence.

"The Boyfriend" opened to thunderous acclaim. Which is to say the parents, siblings and friends of all the players attended under duress and dutifully told us how great we were afterwards. Now it was time for the cast party which, as tradition dictated, would take place at the home of my grandmother, Granny Lipton. Granny lived -- and still lives -- a short half-block from the school, and she was much cherished by me and my fellow thespians for her support for the arts, her warmth and her cream-cheese brownies.

'Have another! You're too skinny!'

As I marched with a throng of castmates toward Granny's, we passed Mr. Akey and Mr. Stubick on the edge of the school parking lot.

"Congratulations!," said Mr. Akey. "Outstanding job."

Stubick said nothing; just smiled meekly.

Maybe it was the immediate afterglow of my stage theatrics, but for whatever reason, I suddenly felt magnanimous and decided to bury the hatchet.

"Listen," I said, "you should come with us to my Granny's for the after-party. It's right there on Montrose." I looked directly at Stubick. "Both of you should come."

Silence.

Then Mr. Akey finally said, "We'll stop by in a bit."

Twenty minutes later, as we wolfed down cream-cheese brownies, there was a knock at Granny's door.

It was Mr. Akey.

Alone.

"I tried," he said. "I begged him. But he said he just couldn't go."

The Awards of Excellence were announced the following week. I didn't win any. Not for English, not for Vocal Music, not for World Language, not for Drama.

I don't entirely recall now who won in each of those categories. English may have gone to John Dunning. If so, it was well deserved. John had been in Honors English classes with me every year, and I knew him to be an amazing writer (as well as incredibly sexy). Mike Bultman probably won vocal music. He was a musical virtuoso and all-Eastern soloist who certainly deserved the award more than I.

But to lose out on both Drama and World Language as well felt like a huge slap in the face. I excelled at Spanish, never earning less than an A in that subject my entire high school career. I had spent the previous summer in a six-week language immersion program in Salamanca, Spain with Phillips Academy, Andover, from which I returned with total fluency. I used to help explain complicated rules of grammar to the kids in my class who spoke Spanish at home. My Spanish teachers adored me.

And Drama... well, come on. I was the fucking Drama department. The only other worthy recipient for that award would have been Rebecca, and she didn't win either. Instead, the award went to a girl named Liz who had appeared in one musical junior year and built some sets for another.

So who won the World Language award? That would be Josh -- yes, that Josh -- he of the false crotch-grabbing accusations and ham-sandwich tampering; my nemesis, and a B+ student in Spanish at best.

In the winner's profile of Josh that later ran in the "The Tower," he said he practiced speaking Spanish with his housekeeper.

I remember approaching Ms. Papio, the Spanish teacher, after the awards were announced to ask how Josh could have beaten me. I remember her sad, cow-like eyes staring back at me as I interrogated her.

"I get higher grades in Spanish than Josh."

"Yes," she said.

"And I spent a summer studying in Spain."

"Yes," she said.

"And I'm fluent."

"Yes," she said.

"So you'd think I'd win the award over him."

"You'd think so," she said.

One month later, I finally heard from Brown.

I had been rejected.

Tomorrow: Epilogue & Life Lessons.

Homo out. ♥

Part 10: Epilogue and Life Lessons:

Blogger's Note: And so it ends. I've decided to finish this tale once and for all tonight, rather than waiting until tomorrow; I fear my work day will get too busy, and I won't be able to wrap it all up in a neat little Friday bow. And wrap it up I must. It's time.

I have been touched and amazed by the number of people who have reached out to me in blog comments, emails and Facebook messages since I began writing this series. It seems to have hit close to home for many of you. Thank you for your feedback, which makes the grueling exercise of unearthing decades-old memories all the more worthwhile.

Some have suggested I turn this into something bigger -- a novel, a screenplay, or what have you. To that I say, bring it on. You're more than welcome to forward my story to any agent/producer types who may want to help me develop it. Lord knows I could use the career advancement, and I'll even give you a cut.

Apropos of that, I must give a special shout-out to my boss, Lisa. It's not every boss who would read this blog -- a blog I've been writing during work hours and on which I regularly rant about my "hideous day job" -- and tell me she can't wait to find out what happens next. Thank you, girl.

And now, finally, the conclusion:

Mr. Stubick and I ultimately did have our face-to-face sit-down to discuss the newspaper, though face-to-face would be an inaccurate way to describe it. It took place in his classroom during one of the last weeks of school. There was absolutely no point to the meeting, as I'd be graduating before any more issues of "The Tower" came out. But I think neither I nor Stubick felt we could back out.

I brought Rebecca with me for moral support. In Stubick's corner was Brian Kettenring, a very sweet junior who had become the paper's editor.

"OK, guys," said Brian after the four of us had taken our seats. "Why don't you give us your suggestions for how we can make the paper stronger?"

We rattled off some ideas. Brian nodded cheerfully. As for Stubick, he didn't say a word for the entire meeting. Instead, he kept his face buried in a notebook, scribbling furiously. I wouldn't be surprised if all he wrote was "Die, you little piece of shit!," or something to that effect, over and over again.

And that was that. I never saw or spoke to Mr. Stubick again.

Nearly a decade later, when I was living in Brooklyn, I ran into Juliet Martin inside the F Subway station. Juliet had been "The Tower's" first editor and had graduated the year before me, before any of the petition business began. We rode the subway into Manhattan together, reminiscing and catching up on each other's post-high school lives. But I couldn't let her go without asking her a question.

"Just tell me this," I said. "Was Stubick the Unknown Sophomore?"

"Of course he was," she replied.

So that was one question answered.

Here are some that never were:

Was there an actual edict issued against my winning those Awards of Excellence? And if so, was Mr. Stubick behind it? Or was it Dr. Geddes? Or some combination of the two? Or somebody else altogether? Or did I simply not win because I didn't win? Because other students were honestly and sincerely deemed more worthy? Or were? Or because the very nature of awards is that they are subjective and arbitrary?

Did my not winning those awards have any impact on my not getting into Brown? Could there have been even darker forces at work, say a well-placed call to the right person that this kid's a bad egg and you don't want him at your school? Or was it simply the fact that I was not a particularly extraordinary candidate in the eyes of Brown's admissions officers? That I was one of thousands of white, Jewish males from North Jersey with a high class ranking, a lot of extracurriculars and respectable -- but not spectacular -- SAT scores who applied to Brown that year? And that that just wasn't enough to put me over the top at one of the most competitive universities in the country?

Does it even matter? Really? Given that I did get accepted to Northwestern and Michigan, ultimately choosing Michigan and enjoying four of the most exciting, enriching, rewarding years of my life in Ann Arbor?

No. None of it matters. Shit happens. Or it doesn't. You can't live your life wondering what might have been.

And the fact that I eventually learned that is what does matter. That, and a few other things:

1) When two sides go to war, the one with more power will usually win.

2) Choose your battles very carefully. (See No. 1.)

3) Revenge is never a noble objective.

And in the final analysis, that's what I was after with my petition: Revenge. I may have dressed it up as righteous indignation and a desire to benefit the greater good; but at the core, everything I did was meant to shame and embarrass Mr. Stubick after I felt he had wronged me. And if I suffered because of my actions, I deserved to suffer.

"I admire your activism," Mr. Akey had told me, "but not the way you've gone about this."

Indeed.

I never told anyone this story after high school. But I did once attempt a poem about it for a college writing class. I can recall the opening lines:

"If a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, then what are the implications of a little power/Especially when coupled with a little mind?"

My instructor hated it. He said it was whiny and self-serving.

Indeed.

Before I began this series of recollections, I did a little Internet research on Mr. Stubick. He has written several more novels in the last 20 years, one of which was recently made into a film starring two of Hollywood's biggest young stars. And he is still teaching public school in New Jersey.

That's one reason I chose not to use his real name: I don't believe in outing public school teachers, either as closeted gays or as assholes. (Condoleezza Rice , she deserves to be outed, having toiled faithfully for that homophobic piece of shit over eight years. And I hereby out her. For real. I met her flamingly gay assistant in New York several years ago, and he confirmed it for me. Condi may as well be swinging a golf club and driving a UPS truck.)

But there's a bigger reason I chose not to name Mr. Stubick:

It's because 20 years after the fact, I no longer mean to shame and embarrass him.

Oprah says we must forgive the people in our lives -- not for their sake, but for our own. Otherwise we become bogged down by our own anger, bitterness and regret. And as usual Oprah is right.

So I forgive you, Mr. Stubick. I forgive you, Dr. Geddes. And I forgive everyone else from my days back in Summit High School for any wrongs you committed against me, real or imagined. I also apologize for the wrongs I did you. It's high time I let all of this go and look forward in my life... not as the 18-year-old boy I was but as the 38-year-old man I have become -- one who understands the power of forgiveness.

I am even able to forgive Josh.

Well, not really.

But I'm working on it.

Homo out for good. ♥

Enter Rhoda (Part 4)

2009-08-26T08:49:00.000-07:00

I decided to look for my new car in Lemon Grove, just east of Downtown San Diego. You needn't point out the irony in car-shopping in a place called Lemon Grove, though I'm ashamed to admit, it took a few hours for the joke to hit me. Needless to say, I saw neither lemons nor groves in Lemon Grove -- only dry, brown brush sizzling under the oppressively hot sun. (For the uninitiated among you, the temperature soars as soon as you step one toe outside of San Diego proper. It's like walking onto the sun.)

But Lemon Grove is home to both a certified Honda dealership and a Toyota one, so I could kill multiple stones in one trip.

After doing extensive research online, I had narrowed my search to three of the highest rated subcompacts: The Toyta Yaris, the Nissan Versa and the Honda Fit. Of these, the Fit was definitely my top choice. US News and World Report ranked it first among its list of affordable small cars (though I differ with USNWR in my interpretation of the word "affordable"). Though the Versa scored lower, at No. 13, and the Yaris way down at No. 30, all three were incredibly fuel efficient, dependable, safe, Japanese cuties.

But the Fit was by far the coolest looking.

"You know you want me."

So my first stop was the mysteriously named DCH Honda of Lemon Grove. (What could DCH stand for, I wondered. Devil Cars in Hell? Dog Cat Hamster? Don't Come Here?) I had seen on Craig's List that DCH was selling a lightly used '08 Fit, in what Honda gaily calls "Vivid Blue Pearl." It was stunning and drove like a dream. But there were issues, chief among them price -- that which they were asking for the Fit, and that which they were offering for Carmen.

After hours of stalling and haggling and "let me talk to my manager again" and all the usual car-buying bullshit which, by the way, Congress should fucking outlaw, the best they could offer me was $15,500 out the door, trade-in included. It was simply too rich for my blood. Plus it was a total rip-off, given that a new Honda Fit starts at $16,200

When the Honda people realized they truly weren't going to get me to budge on the Fit, they began showing me older, shittier, non-compact, non-Japanese cars. It was when they led me over to an '04 Passat that I lost it. "Why would I... WHY WOULD I...," I demanded, sounding like Shirley MacLaine in "Terms of Endearment," "WANT TO BUY ANOTHER GODDAMNED VOLKSWAGEN PASSAT?!?!"

Coincidentally, I was wearing the same dress.

I left DCH Honda in a sweaty huff, never to return again.

Next stop on the Lemon Grove Express: Bob Baker Toyota.

To be continued. Sorry these entries are so short... The writing is coming very slowly right now.

Homo unFit. ♥

P.S. A bunch of comedy performances coming up here in San Diego. Please check out my web site at www.adamsank.com.

Enter Rhoda (Part 3)

2009-08-20T09:25:00.000-07:00

September 28, 2006

California Passes Cell Phone Law

California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger has signed legislation that prohibits the use of handheld mobile phones while driving in the state.

Effective July 1, 2008, the legislation prohibits drivers from using a wireless telephone while operating a motor vehicle unless the driver uses a hands-free device. Drivers who violate the law will face a base fine of $20 for a first offense and $50 for each subsequent offense.

The irony is, I never talk on my cell phone while driving, which is why I don't own a blue tooth. I'm a terribly nervous driver, and aside from the radio, which soothes me, I don't allow anything in the car to distract me.

But there I was, phone in hand, other hand on wheel, asking Malou for directions, right in front of a motorcycle cop who looked strangely like Officer Jon Baker from CHiPs. Ponch was nowhere to be found.

Wilcox. Good porn name.

Officer Baker began following me, and before he could even switch on his flashing light, I turned right onto a side street and stopped the car. As he dismounted his motorcycle and walked toward me, my balls began to sweat profusely. For I knew the cell phone infraction wasn't the only problem he was going to have with me.

"License and registration, please," he said. I silently handed them over. Officer Baker peered intently at my driver's license. My New York state driver's license. My New York state driver's license with the hideous photo of me taken five years ago when I still wore glasses and my Jew-fro was particularly acting up.

"How long have you lived in California?" he asked, looking at the address on my registration.

"Um, just over a year."

"And how long did you think you could live here without obtaining a California driver's license?"

I batted my eyelashes and intoned, in my best airhead voice, "Um, forever?"

"Wrong. Ten days."

"No way!"

"Way."

He asked me to wait while he went back to his motorcycle with my information. My testicles now felt like day-old, brine-soaked matzot balls. Sometimes, under stress, I fantasize about what it would feel like to do something totally insane. It's kind of an OCD-Tourette's thing I have had my whole life. When I was younger, I would sometimes act on these impulses. Like when I called my fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Robinson, a bitch. Or when, at the age of 13, I had the following exchange with my mother:

Mom: You know, lately you've been acting like a perfect prick.

Me: Really? Well, you've been acting like a perfect cunt.

That hadn't ended well.

So in that moment, as I waited for Officer Baker to mete out my punishment, I fantasized about what would happen if I suddenly fled the scene. True, I was driving a car that was gasping its last breath, but maybe I could outrun him. Would he shoot at me? Would I be brought straight to jail? And if so, could I justifiably miss work the next day?

As these thoughts bounced around my sweaty brain, Officer Baker returned. "I'm writing you two tickets," he said. "One is for talking on the cell phone while driving, which you're going to have to pay or argue in court. The other will be forgiven if you obtain a California driver's license before your court date, which is Oct. 6."

"Thanks, Officer," I said meekly. As I started Carmen's emphysemic engine again, I looked up and saw a gigantic sign reading "Northside Imports." I had been right in front of it the whole time.

Penalty for talking on a cell phone while driving in California? $76.

Cost of a new heater pump for a '97 VW Passat? $135.

Avoiding all this by not buying a shitty old German car in the first place? Priceless.

Later that day, after I had finally returned to work, a crazy woman burst into my office and called me a faggot. I know this is a bit of a red herring in the story, and I'm sure it would make a far more interesting story than this whole car saga. But I can't get into it without revealing what I do for a living, which would reveal the company I work for, which I can't do. Suffice it to say, it was not a fun day. (And rest assured Miss Faggot-Caller got hers in the end.)

Israel managed to fix Carmen up to a reasonable degree, and I brought her to a high-end car wash for a complete cleaning and detailing. Now it was time to get rid of that bitch once and for all.

To be continued.

Homo ticketed. ♥

Enter Rhoda (Part 2)

2009-08-15T10:47:00.000-07:00

So back to the car:

Carmen had overheated once again, and I decided enough was enough -- I was going to bite the bullet, dig into my meager savings and actually purchase a car built after Bill Clinton's presidency.

But in the meantime, I needed to get home from work that day. Plus, if I wanted to get any money for Carmen at trade-in, I would have to fix her up a bit. So, like my Jewish ancestors before me, I turned to Israel for salvation.

Israel is a Mexican-American maintenance technician who works for my company. He's a sweet, lovable, handsome young man who fixes cars in his spare time. After burying his face in Carmen's dusky interior for five minutes, he diagnosed the problem: My water hoses were completely corroded, I was leaking coolant,and I needed a new heater pump.

I had long suspected as much.

Israel did some quick cutting and pasting under the hood and then sent me off to Kragen Auto Parts for the required materials, a chore that filled me with dread. Spending any time in an automotive shop, hardware store or other venue in which men are supposed to enjoy shopping brings up awful childhood memories of being dragged along by my father -- an extremely handy man -- on hot summer Sundays to pick up some part or tool that he needed.

Unlike the brightly colored, heavily perfumed, perfectly organized department stores I favored, hardware stores were dusty, cluttered, ugly places that smelled like chemicals. And they still are. They are bleak and charmless, and the gruff, condescending men who work there always make me feel like I should be wearing a pink tutu and flapping my fairy wings.

Feh.

"It's going to be easy," Israel promised me. "Just tell them you need a 3/4 inch water hose and a heater pump. Oh, and some clamps."

All I heard was, "Blah blah blah hose blah blah blah pump blah blah blah clamps." I insisted he write everything down, which he did. And off I went.

Of course when I got to Kragen and told them what I needed, the guy behind the counter was like, "How long a hose? What kind of pump? How many clamps?"

THIS IS WHY I FUCKING HATE THIS SHIT!

Mutely, on the verge of tears, I beckoned the man to follow me out to the parking lot so he could see for himself what I needed. He was actually very nice and, after figuring out exactly what was required, told me he could sell me the hose and the clamps. "But we don't have the heater pump for a 97 Volkswagen. For that, you maybe want to try Northside Imports."

Again, this is why you should never buy a German car.

"How do I get to Northside Imports from here?" I wondered out loud.

"Oh, just get back on Clairemont-Mesa and head East toward the 52. You'll see it when you get to Convoy."

This presented another Herculean challenge for me. I have no sense of direction. Even in NYC, where I lived for 13 years and where every street is on a numbed grid, I was forever getting lost. Here in San Diego, I may as well be trying to find my way around Jupiter. When I ask for directions, I want someone to say, "Head out of the parking lot and turn left. Go straight until the first traffic light. Then make a right..." and so forth. Those talking GPS devices were made for idiots like me. As God is my witness I'm going to get one soon.

Anyway, I was too embarrassed to request such specificity from the nice auto parts guy, so I just nodded and went about my merry way. Miraculously, I found my way to Clairemont-Mesa Blvd. and then Convoy Street. But the only business I could see where the two met was a massive adult book store. I briefly considered ditching the task at hand and checking out the book store, but my lunch hour was almost over, and Israel awaited.

I drove up Convoy for a distance. Still no Northside Imports. I made a U-turn and began to drive back down Convoy. At the traffic light, I flipped open my cell phone and dialed Malou.

Malou is the Filippina woman who is my office counterpart. She teaches me helpful Tagalog expressions such as "Putang ina mo!" and "Sipsipin mo ang titi ko!" (I won't translate, but somewhere my Filippino readers are giggling.)

"Malou!," I screamed into the phone over the roar of Carmen's dying transmission. "Can you google Northside Imports and tell me where the fuck it is? I'm in my car, and I can't find it!"

It was at that moment that I turned my head and saw the motorcycle cop watching me from the next lane.

Putang ina mo.

To be continued.

Homo busted. ♥

Tattoo You (Or Actually Me)

2009-08-14T09:16:00.000-07:00

I'll get back to the new car story in a bit. (Or maybe I won't, given the whopping one reader comment I received.) Bur first, I am seeking help from those of you artistic types out there. Your challenge, should you choose to accept it: Design my new tattoo.

About 12 years ago, I got a tattoo on my left shoulder. It depicts an Egyptian ankh with a small sun shining behind it. Or at least, it used to... before the colors faded. Now it just looks like a dark smudge, and I kind of hate it. Aside from the diminished clarity, it's too small, and it's in the wrong place, my shoulders being perhaps the least impressive part of my body.

And for the hundredth time: It's not a cross.

What I'd like to do is add some sort of arm band around my left bicep, arm band tattoos being my favorite kind.

I would also like this bicep.

What I'm thinking, in my total visual illiteracy, is that maybe there's some way to connect the two. Like, what if the ankh were a charm on a chain, and the chain came down from my shoulder and then wrapped around my arm like a band? So that it looked like I was wearing a charm necklace around my arm? Would that look totally gay and/or stupid?

BW is frightened by this notion. He wants to see a sketch of any such design before I proceed. But I don't have the skills to draw it, especially when I'm not even sure it's artistically possible. So again, you clever designer types, I beseech you. If you are so inspired, come up with a design for my new tattoo and email it to me.

All designs will be featured on this blog, and the winning design will receive sexual favors from me. Unless, of course, you're a woman, in which case you will receive a back rub. (Those who have experienced both from me would take the back rub.)

Oh, and to those of you who are going to say, "My vote is that you don't get any more tattoos! I hate tattoos!" I say: "I value your opinion, but please suck it."

Let the games begin!

Homo inked. ♥

Enter Rhoda (Part 1)

2009-08-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

I bought a new car. Well, she's almost new. Technically, she's a 2008 certified pre-owned Toyota Yaris with 42,000 miles under her belt. But she looks new, she feels new, she smells new and she's certainly the newest car I've ever owned. So now... without further ado... meet my sweet new ride, Rhoda, The Toyota:

Yeah yeah... all up in her grill and shit...

...All shiny and whatnot.

Faithful readers will wonder, what ever became of Carmen, my '97 VW Passat? I'm sad to say that while Carmen had her charms, she turned out to be an unreliable, gas-guzzling, money-sucking whore. She kept breaking down and overheating and just generally acting like a little bitch, and I finally had to kick her to the curb.

"Say, Adam," you ask, "did you take advantage of the government's Cash for Clunkers program and get $4,500 for trading Carmen in for Rhoda?"

The answer, as always, is: No, because God hates me. In order to be eligible for that program, Carmen would have needed a combined MPG of 18 or less. And according to all the official sources, a '97 VW Passat gets a combined MPG of... wait for it... 19. That's right: I was one MPG away. Story of my life. (And I don't care what the government says: I drove that cantankerous c-nt every day for a year, and I'm telling you, she never got more than 16 miles to the gallon.)

Rest in peace. And by peace, I mean Hell.

Before I tell you the story of Carmen's last stand and how I came to acquire Rhoda, a public service announcement. Is everyone paying close attention? OK, here goes:

NEVER BUY A GERMAN CAR. And not just because of the whole Holocaust thing. German cars have big, thick, powerful engines (as do most German guys, I have found), and they are a wicked fun ride (ditto the German guys), but they are famously impossible to fix when they break down (not sure about the German guys here). Don't take my word for it; ask your mechanic. German cars are designed to confound mechanics and make them charge you enormous amounts of money for what should be simple maintenance.

In the year I owned Carmen, I had to replace virtually every piece of her... from the brake pads to the radiator to the erotically named serpentine belt. I easily put as much money in maintenance and repair as I did into buying her.

This is what's actually under the hood of a Passsat.

Seriously, isn't that some Alien vs Predator meets Transformers shit?

I knew Carmen wasn't long for this world. But my plan was to drive her until my one year anniversary of ownership had passed so that I'd be eligible for Cash for Clunkers. (This was before I learned of my one MPG deficit.) So I was driving to work on the 163 one day about three weeks ago, and my car began to overheat. The temperature gauge shot up to 400 degrees, and thick white smoke started billowing out of the engine. I of course was freaking out. I made it to work, but the car smelled like burnt toast.

To be continued. Sorry... too much going on at work to finish now.

Homo driven to distraction. ♥

An Open Letter to All Birthers

2009-08-04T08:34:00.001-07:00

Let me try and spell this out for you:

When Bill Clinton got his dick sucked... HIS DICK SUCKED, FOR GOD'S SAKE... by a woman who was not his wife, every news organization in the country -- including the so-called "liberal media" -- covered the story from top to bottom for days and weeks and months on end. Every Republican -- and more than a few Democrats -- in Congress were up in arms. They held impeachment hearings, and the House of Representatives did, in fact, impeach him. OVER GETTING HIS DICK SUCKED.

So if there were a shred of evidence to support the story that our current president was not eligible for his office and tried to cover that fact up -- even the tiniest SHRED -- do you HONESTLY believe that the entire media establishment and all the Republicans in Congress -- including those who would run against him in 2012 -- would fail to pursue that story to the fullest extent? That it would not be the No. 1, front-page, gavel-to-gavel, lead-story, ONLY thing we'd be reading and watching during this slow-news summer?

Because if so, you are not only batshit crazy, but also very, very stupid.

He won. Get over it.

Homo done. ♥