Sanktastic

Best Craig's List Job Posting Ever

2008-08-20T09:59:00.000-07:00

Book Reviewer Wanted (Internet)

Reply to: gigs-799431750@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-08-16, 10:14AM PDT

Book Reviewer Wanted

I need a reviewer for a booklet available on Amazon.com titled "Initiation into the Vampiric Arts". It's about 100 pages long. It's about vapir shamanism, which is a form of shamanism that spread from Mesopotamia to the Ukraine. The book is about returning vampirism to its vapir shamanism roots, and breaking away from both Hollywood-style and "empathic" vampirism.

I would prefer someone with knowledge of the vampire community, or an interest in the subject. Anyone with vampiric ties would be appreciated, as I do not wish to offend vampires with long standing in the community by making assumptions or referrals that are incorrect about modern vampires.

I am mainly looking for a review and honest opinion of the booklet that can be posted for others to read. Blog/message board discussions would be greatly appreciated as well.

Note: I do not need this book to be known in non-vampire circles, as it won't be accepted there anyway. What I DO want is for the vampire community to be aware of it.

If interested, please provide the following information:
(This information is all optional, but it will help me understand the feedback I get.)

1. Have you already read the book?
2. A short description of your standing, if any, in the vampire community.
3. If you have a website, where it is.
4. If you have a blog/journal, where it is.
5. If you have written any reviews, where they may be read. Payment is negotiable, depending on what services you wish to provide.

Location: Internet

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Compensation: Negotiable depending on which part of the services desired you wish to do.

PostingID: 799431750

I Love Hamlet

2008-08-18T17:46:00.000-07:00

First an update on Carmen, since many of you have asked.

She's almost good as new, thanks to Ron and his fabulous Auto Clinic. Ron replaced a number of parts, including the serpentine belt, which sounds like something one would wear to the Black Party but which is actually, according to Wikipedia, "a single, continuous belt used to drive multiple peripheral devices in an automotive engine, such as an alternator, power steering pump, water pump, A/C compressor, air pump, etc..."

Ron also vastly improved Carmen's air conditioning system, though he wants her back tomorrow to replace an additional part -- something called a cooling module -- so that the air conditioner doesn't turn itself off whenever the car idles. (Too complicated to explain in this space.)

Almost cool.

The one thing Ron couldn't do was get the radio to work. Since buying the car, I have learned more than I ever wanted to about Volkswagens and their infamous anti-theft radios. Why a factory-issue stock radio (with a cassette deck, no less) would require a security code worthy of a nuclear warhead is beyond me, but whatever the reason, until today the only thing that happened when I turned on the radio was that the word "SAFE" would appear. No music, no numbers, just "SAFE." Kris at Adams Autos had told me all I needed was a four-digit code, which I could easily get from any Volkswagen dealer.

LIES!

First of all, the VW dealer I called wanted $27 to look up the code -- with no guarantee that the radio was even functional.

Secondly, I learned after hours of Internet research that before you can even enter the code, you have to make the "SAFE" go away and turn into a blinking "1000." (Don't ask why -- there's no explanation that satisfies.)

Ron warned me that the radio was probably broken anyway, and I'd be better off just going to BestBuy and spending the $150 on a new one.

He obviously didn't know who he was dealing with.

I continued my Internet research, stumbling upon a site called justanswer.com. For a mere $9 I could get a so-called "Volkswagen Expert" to look up my code. If I were satisfied with the answer to my query, I would authorize the payment. (The catch is, if I'm not satisfied with the answer, the site keeps the $9 in my account, to be used toward a future query.)

I entered the radio's serial number and the car's VIN, and lo and behold, within 30 minutes, a VW expert named Christopher logged on and answered my question -- supplying me with what he said was my four-digit code. Of course, I had no idea whether it was the right code because I hadn't yet made the dreaded "SAFE" go away and the magic "1000" appear.

Back on the 'net, I found a consumer electronics site called forum.ecoustics.com on which thousands of aggrieved VW owners compared notes on the best ways to get to the "1000."

My salvation came in the form of a '97 Jetta owner named Tucker Wynn, who posted thusly:

I don't know who has what but this is a picture of my stereo on my stereo.

I got it to work for now.

1. "SAFE" appears on the display.
2. Press & hold "MODE" button.
3. Press & hold "SCAN" button.
4. "1000" appears on the display.
5. Release both buttons immediately.
6. There should be a number to the left of the "1000" This should represent how many times you have tried to enter the code.
7. Enter your 3 or 4 digit code with the following. If you have a 3 digit code, assume that the first digit is a zero or blank.
8. Press button 1 until your first digit is changed to the correct number. (zero or blank)
9. Press button 2 until your 2nd digit is correct.
10. Do the same with the 3rd and 4th digit.
11. When the digits are correct, press & hold the "MODE" button.
12. Press & hold the "SCAN" }button.
13. The word "SAFE" should show up again.
14. Release the buttons immediately and your radio should work.

I followed Tucker Wynn's initial instructions to the letter. Nothing happened. Still just that fucking "SAFE" word. Then it occurred to me that unlike the radio pictured above, my radio had two scan buttons -- a scan left and a scan right. Maybe I needed to press both of them, along with the mode button. I did so.

Suddenly the following appeared:

1000

I began to weep softly. I continued with Tucker's instructions, entering the four numbers Christopher from justanswer.com had given me. Then I completed the sequence, pressing both scan buttons and the mode button once again.

At top volume, Kanye West began to sing:

N- n- now th- that don't kill me
Can only make me stronger
I need you to hurry up now
Cause i can't wait much longer

Sweeter words my ears have never heard.

***

Last night I auditioned for the sixth annual North Park Playwright Festival. Actually a festival of short plays (each no longer than 10 minutes), the festival is run by and presented in the North Park Vaudeville & Candy Shop. It's exactly what the name implies -- an actual candy shop connected to a tiny, 35-seat black box theater.

How cute is that?

The auditions were two-fold. First, we actors got up and delivered prepared monologues. Then, the directors present called certain people back up to read from the plays they were casting.

I was nervous as hell. I grew up doing theater, but the last time I had done a play was 1993. And though I've performed stand-up about a thousand times since then, it's not the same.

For one thing, there was the monologue. I had chosen a comic monologue from Paul Rudnick's "I Hate Hamlet." And while I was confident I could deliver it well -- the character is a neurotic actor kvetching about he bombed on-stage the night before -- memorizing it was another story.

I have a very good memory for words, especially song lyrics. But performing my own material all this time has made my mind lazy. I don't ever worry about delivering a bit the same way twice; in fact, I'm constantly changing it, adapting it.

You're not supposed to do that when you're performing someone else's words. You're supposed to "honor the work," as they say.

And try as I did, I just couldn't remember it verbatim.

I was most concerned about getting the Shakespeare soliloquy down:

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.

Five lines from the most famous speech in all of literature; you'd think I could learn them. But no, each time I practiced, I said, "Or take arms" instead of "Or to take arms."

I almost considered taking the script up on-stage with me, but I discarded that idea when I saw that none of the other actors were doing so.

Taking a deep breath, I went up. "Hi, my name is Adam Sank. And I'm going to be performing a monologue that I've almost memorized..."

This got big laughs, and I relaxed.

It went well, though I did leave out entirely this section:

And I thought, okay, all my questions are answered -- I'm not Hamlet, I'm no actor, what am I doing here?

But at least I nailed the soliloquy. I was taken aback when the monologue's biggest laugh came from this line:

I just wanted to say, hey kid, I'm with you

Instead of the line immediately following it, which I had considered the punchline:

I can't stand this either!

It just goes to show you that play-acting can be as unpredictable as comedy.

Anyway, from there the night was a cake-walk. I was called up to read for virtually every director, and it was thrilling for me, after all these years, to be performing theatrical roles again. In the course of the four-hour audition, I got to play a zonked-out club kid, a British museum-goer, a diabolical spin doctor and, improbably, a lesbian named Samantha.

The feedback and energy I got from everyone was incredibly positive. One director pulled me aside and said, "I know you're going to get offered a lot of parts in this festival, but I want to tell you why mine is perfect for you..."

We find out tomorrow which play(s) we were cast in, and the festival takes place throughout the month of October.

Stay tuned.

Homo out on-stage. ♥

No Smoking!

2008-08-15T17:48:00.000-07:00

Partial transcript of phone conversation with my mother today:

Adam: Hey, Mom.

Phy: Adam! We were wondering when we were going to hear from you. Do you know you haven't called us once since you moved to San Diego?

Adam: That's absolutely not true. I called you last week when I bought the car.

Phy: Oh. Well, it feels like you haven't called once. So how's everything going?

Adam: Great! You know, I don't have much to do right now other than search for jobs online, but...

Phy: You know, I've been meaning to tell you something for a long time. And now that you're out in California, I feel it's very important that I do.

Adam: OK. What?

Phy: I hate that picture of you smoking on your blog. You know, people hate smokers. And I think it's really going to hurt you, especially in a place as health-conscious as California.

The Marlboro Man's Worst Nightmare.

Adam: Well, Mom, you know, I don't think most people look at the picture and think, "Oh, he's a smoker." I think they get that it's a head shot, and it's meant to be ironic...

Phy: I don't think so. And there are so many other wonderful pictures of you. I want people to look at your picture and think, "Oh, what a healthy person."

Adam: OK. Well, I'll definitely take it under advisement.

Phy: Good. Now let me tell you who's having open heart surgery...

[FADE OUT. END SCENE.]

I seriously considered substituting the smoking picture with one of me mooning, but since I am job-searching at the moment, I figured I might as well play it safe and make Mom happy, too.

Speaking of the job search, nothing to report yet. I always forget how tedious it is to look for a new job. It kind of sucks the life out of you.

This morning, desperate for a break from my computer, I decided to go roller-blading. BW and I live within walking distance of Balboa Park, and I figured it would be a great place to skate.

The first thing I discovered is that the streets of San Diego are not paved with gold. In fact, they're barely paved at all. Very very rough and bumpy -- not good for blading. I opted instead to stay on the sidewalks, which are beautifully paved -- until they're not and one goes flying ass over tea kettle.

The second thing I discovered is that I can't find Balboa Park. I mean, I can see it at times in the distance, but I can't figure out how the hell to get there on foot/skate. At one point I found myself swiftly gliding over something called "Switzer Canyon." Later I arrived at a large golf course. All of these seem to somehow be affiliated with Balboa Park, but they're not the park itself.

I kept heading back to the residential streets, hoping to find some sort of sign indicating, "Balboa Park: This Way." I didn't. But I did realize at one point that I was no longer in North Park.

I was in South Park.

Yes, Virginia, there is a South Park.

The homes in South Park, at the least the ones I passed, were absolutely beautiful. And I'm bummed now that I can't tell people I live in South Park, because that would be endlessly amusing to me.

But it mystifies me to this moment that I went from North Park to South Park without ever hitting the park itself.

Oh well; tomorrow is another day.

One of my blog readers, my childhood friend Rebecca Landwehr Olgeirson, requested the chicken parmesan recipe I mentioned recently. Incidentally, a growing percentage of my readership consists of people with whom I went to elementary school. Rebe, Keith Johnson, Mike Bultman, Kasey Anderson... they all read the blog. Yet I am not in touch with a single person I went to college with. This says something about me, but I'm not sure what.

In any case, here, per Rebe's request, is the recipe:

2 large boneless chicken breasts or 4 fillets

1 egg, beaten

1 1/2 cup whole wheat flour

1 cup seasoned bread crumbs

1 24-oz jar of Bertolli marinara sauce

2 cups shredded part-skim mozzarella cheese

1 cup grated parmesan cheese

1 large yred, orange or yellow bell pepper

1 head of broccoli

2 tbsp olive oil

1 tbsp butter

Salt, pepper, garlic powder to taste

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Rinse chicken with cold water and shake off excess water.

Coat each chicken breast or fillet in flour.

Dip each breast in egg, then coat thoroughly in bread crumbs.

Shake salt, pepper and garlic powder over each breast to taste.

Medium-heat butter and oil in large skillet or chicken fryer.

Add chicken and let cook for three minutes on each side (for breasts) or two minutes each side (for fillets).

Remove chicken and place in center of large rectangular Pyrex dish.

Chop pepper into large pieces.

Chop the stems off the broccoli and separate the florets.

Arrange the broccoli and pepper pieces around the chicken in the Pyrex.

Pour 3/4 of the marinara sauce over the entire dish.

Sprinkle mozzarella and parmesan cheeses over sauce as evenly as possible.

Place in oven uncovered and cook for 35 minutes.

Enjoy!

Homo out. ♥

I'm a Comic Again

2008-08-13T21:37:00.000-07:00

This just in:

I have been booked for my first San Diego comedy show.

It's called "Hillcrest Comedy," and it's a monthly show at the swank Bamboo Lounge in the city's fabulously gay district of Hillcrest.

Thank God.

Homo out of total West Coast obscurity. ♥

Kiddie Photos

2008-08-13T12:36:00.000-07:00

Apropos of absolutely nothing, one my best childhood friends and all-around favorite people, Keith Johnson, recently posted some Brayton School class photos to his Facebook page.

The response was overwhelming; fellow Brayon alumni came crawling out of the woodwork, facebooking one another like wildfire and reminiscing about those happy early '80s memories.

Just because I think they're really cute, I'm reposting them here. See if you can spot me in each.

(Click to enlarge.)

Third Grade, 1980

Fourth Grade, 1981.

Fifth Grade, 1982

Homo out of school. ♥

The Job Search Beginneth

2008-08-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

Just a quick update today:

Carmen is now visiting Ron's Auto Clinic -- a gay-owned and -operated North Park shop recommended to me by Matthew, a MySpace friend. I love that it's called a "clinic." I picture Carmen getting a facial, pedicure and deep tissue massage.

In any case, I'm expecting a call from Ron's around noon today with an update on what, if anything, Carmen needs in the way of repairs, other than the obvious -- the air conditioning system (which only seems to blow air on your feet), and the inside front passenger door handle, which threatens to snap off every time one pulls on it.

Incidentally, BW and I drove Carmen to Black's Beach yesterday, about 15 miles from where we live. Carmen handled beautifully on the freeway, but I fear she's got a bit of a drinking problem: We left with a full tank of gas -- 18 gallons. By the time we got home, she was at 15. That's an MPG of 10.

Stay tuned.

In the meantime, I'm sitting here in a truly charming coffee shop about half a block from my home drinking iced green tea and marveling at the wonder that is wireless Internet. Today is dedicated to getting my resume in shape and researching any and all work opportunities, along with San Diego's admittedly meager comedy scene.

If anyone reading this has any contacts or suggestions out here, now's the time. (And by suggestions, I mean something a bit more specific than "You should start your own comedy show!")

Here are the things I'm qualified to do:

• Write and produce television news.

• Write, produce and perform comedy.

• Balance the budget of The New York Times Culture section.

• Tend Bar

• Blog

• Make an amazing Chicken Parmesan.

Recipe available upon request.

Come to think of it, I may as well post my resume here. It can't hurt.

Adam Sank

Contact: Click here to email.

EXPERIENCE

Administrative Manager, The New York Times
2004-2008

• Handled all administrative functions including budget planning and maintenance, daily scheduling, freelance payroll, employee expenses and general office management for the Culture department.

• Wrote and edited capsule reviews of feature films for the paper’s daily television grid.

• Compiled and edited extensive weekly arts calendars for the New Jersey and Westchester sections.

Producer, WABC-TV
2002-2003

• Line produced “Eyewitness News at 11” with Diana Williams and Bill Ritter.

• Oversaw live primetime programming during the invasion of Iraq.

Senior Producer, Fox News Channel
1996-2002

• Senior and line produced “Fox News Live” and “Fox and Friends,” as well as other daytime shows.

• Wrote and produced breaking new specials and wall-to-wall programming during such events as the Sept. 11 attacks, the war in Afghanistan, the Florida recount, Columbine, and the death of Princess Diana.

Freelance Publicist, Miramax Films
1995-2003

• Authored press kits for the films “Duplex,” “I’m Not Scared,” “Emma,” “Trainspotting” and “Flirting With Disaster.”

Freelance Journalist

• Publications include The New York Times, Southern Voice (Atlanta), the San Francisco Sentinel , Watermark (Orlando, FL), Out in Jersey magazine and the Esquire magazine book “Things a Man Should Never Do Past 30.”

Stand-up Comic
2003-Present

• Featured on NBC’s “Last Comic Standing” Vh-1’s “Best Week Ever,” truTV’s “Smoking Gun Presents: World’s Dumbest,” Here-TV’s “Busted,” Sirius Satellite Radio and ClearChannel Pride Radio.

• Performed in, hosted and produced shows at venues throughout the New York City area and beyond. Tape and club list available upon request.

EDUCATION

Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism
1996
• Master of Science with Honors

University of Michigan, Ann Arbor
1993
• Bachelor of Arts with High Honors, Psychology

Homo out of work. ♥

A Whale's Vagina, Part 2: Car Trouble

2008-08-09T20:12:00.005-07:00

Allow me, Dear Reader, to introduce a new and very special addition to my life.

Meet Carmen.

Carmen San Diego, that is.

Carmen is a 1997 Volkswagon Passat with 112,000 miles on her. She is also my new baby.

Don't we look cute together?

I bought Carmen for $3,000 -- including tax, tag and title -- on Thursday, after a week-long car search that left me physically, emotionally and spiritually broken.

My odyssey began the day BW and I ventured to National City, a truly grim shithole five miles Southwest of San Diego and famous for its appropriately named "Mile of Cars." The entire city consists of an an endless strip of used car dealerships.

BW tried to warn me what I'd be in for:

"This is not going to be fun," he said, as we pulled into the first lot, our eyes on a shiny blue VW Beetle parked out front.

But I was undaunted. True, I hadn't owned a car in 15 years and never actually shopped for one, but how hard could it be?

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here.

"Hi," I said to that salesman as he slithered over to us under the roasting sun, a greasy trail behind him, "I'd like to see whatever you've got for under $4,000."

Without a word, he pointed to a large dumpster in the corner.

"Well, um, how about this blue Beetle here," I asked hopefully.

"Eighty-nine hundred," he grunted, picking his teeth with a rusty toothpick.

BW pulled me to the side. "That's not his final price," he said sotto voce. "Ask him for a test drive."

Ten minutes later, BW and the salesman were both holding on for dear life as I attempted to drive the Beetle -- which turned out to be a stick shift -- at 60 mph down Interstate 5. You may be surprised to learn, Dear Reader, that I'm no stranger to the stick. (Insert dirty joke here.) My first car was actually a manual Jeep Wrangler, and there was a time in my life when I was quite skilled at shifting gears.

Sadly, that time has passed.

Back at the dealership, as BW tried not to vomit, he told me I should make the salesman a low offer -- just to see if he'd bite.

"How about $5,500?" I asked.

This time, the salesman didn't even bother to point at the dumpster. He simply slithered away.

And so it went. Over the course of eight hours, we stopped at more than a dozen dealerships, test-driving some of the most decrepit automobiles I've ever seen. At one point, I was within inches of buying a 2001 White Chevy Lumina that sounded like a lawnmower and smelled like a dead body. For $6,500.

Towards the end of the day, we stopped by a dealership under a giant Saturn sign. (We had quickly learned that the signs in no way indicated the brand of cars found on the lot.) At first, a hugely overweight Mexican man named Paco was our guide, showing us, among other beauties, a shit-brown 1999 Chevy Monte Carlo with no air conditioning. For $5,999.

"Not really what I'm looking for," I told him.

Suddenly, the lot's boss stepped out from inside the dealership and, with a single motion of his hand, yanked Paco away. They disappeared for about 30 seconds, and then a new salesman walked out. This one was also Mexican, but in no way obese. In fact, he was lean and muscular with golden highlights and extremely tight jeans.

"Hello," he said, flashing us a gleaming white smile. "My name is Fernando. What can I put you in today?"

BW and I looked at each other. We knew immediately what was up: They were sending out the gay equivalent of a blonde, big-titted saleswoman to close the deal. Still, we appreciated the effort, especially because Fernando was the nicest thing we'd seen in National City all day.

Fernando really gave it his all -- at one point nearly selling me a 2005 Ford Focus which was actually in fantastic shape. For $8,999. After the day we had had, the Focus looked like a Lamborghini, and I was about ready to hand over my life savings if it meant getting the hell out of National City.

But at the last second, common sense prevailed: I can't spend $9 thousand bucks on car. I don't have a job.

Much to Fernando's chagrin, BW and I left National City Saturn without a tag or a title.

Thank God.

We ended our day as we had begun it: In a Beetle. This one was a '98 in multiple shades of yellow with 177,000 miles on it. But it ran well, and the bug-eyed salesman -- who looked a bit like cult leader Jim Jones and smelled strongly of urine -- seemed to think I could have it for under $5,000. He then got word from his manager that the car had no title and was probably stolen.

"OK," I said. "So how about "$4,000?"

Kool-Aid, anyone?

Jim Jones explained that the car was no longer, in fact, for sale. BW and I had to admit defeat and, after dining in National City's finest restaurant, Popeye's Chicken, we limped back to San Diego.

The next morning, after a healing night's sleep, I rethought my game plan. There was simply no way I could go back to National City. I'd ride around on a donkey before I'd return to the Mile of Cars. It then occurred to me that Craig's List, which had been such a valuable tool in selling my furniture, might just be the answer here.

Yes, I would find a car on Craig's List. And not just any car: I would find a Beetle -- one with automatic transmission.

BW was supportive, though he cautioned me that only women and flamingly gay men drive Beetles, and that if he were ever to borrow my car to drive into base, he'd have to tell his fellow officers that it was his girlfriend's car. Whatever -- close enough.

After 30 minutes of searching, I found a blue 2003 Beetle for $5999 (or best offer) almost identical to the one I had test-driven in National City. It belonged to a guy named Lalo in Chula Vista, and we became quick email pals. Lalo informed me that this car was fully loaded and well worth the price. He also agreed to drive it to North Park so I could test-drive it.

My Dream Car.

The next night, I did indeed drive Lalo's Beetle -- only to discover that the "check engine" light remained on at all times.

"Not a problem," said Lalo. "I'll take care of that."

After popping the hood, I also smelled burnt rubber. I don't know a lot about cars, but I know the engine isn't supposed to smell that way.

Lalo promised to have repairs made before turning the car over to me, but I was dubious. We parted ways, both of us disappointed.

The next morning, I again logged onto Craig's List. This time I refined my search, using "North Park" as one of the search terms. Instantly, I found four cars all under $5,000 and apparently in decent shape. I began copying down the phone numbers and email addresses for each. Suddenly, it hit me that they were all the same. This was a dealership. In North Park. Less than a mile from my home.

I walked. Nobody walks anywhere out here, but I figured I might as well get some exercise and explore my neighborhood a bit.

North Park is an interesting place. It reminds me of Hell's Kitchen when I first moved there 10 years ago. Parts of it are sketchy and run down; other parts are charming. A typical commercial street has a pawn shop next to a barber shop next to a thrift store next to a vegan restaurant next to a beauty supply place where hookers and trannies buy their wigs. It's up-and-coming and funky and artsy, and I kind of love it.

As I headed North on 30th Street, I spotted the dealership. In big blue letters, it read:

Adams Imports

I took this to be a good omen.

Adams Imports in no way resembled any of the places we had been to in National City. It was barely the size of a 7-11, and only two salesman were present: Kris, the owner, a paunchy 50-something Polish guy and Conrad, his long-suffering surfer-boy son. (I assumed he was long-suffering, given that he moved at a snail's pace while his father barked "Conrad!" every 30 seconds, followed by an angry Polish tirade.)

Kris and Conrad showed me two cars in the $5 thousand price range: A 2003 Hyundai Elantra, and a 2001 Mitsubishi Galant. I test-drove them both with Conrad.

"So what do you like to do for fun?," I asked him at one point.

"Get away from here," he replied, twisting a lock of bleached-blond hair.

The cars were all right, especially the Hyundai. But I didn't love them, and they still cost more than I wanted to spend.

Then I spotted Carmen. She was parked in the far rear corner and covered with bird shit.

It was love at first sight.

"How much for that one?" I asked.

"The Passat?," Kris snorted. "I give you that for $2,500, plus tax and title."

Upon closer inspection, I saw that Carmen had black leather seats. Yes, they were worn and discolored. But they looked luxurious nonetheless.

"Conrad!," I barked, jolting him from his daydream. "We're taking her out!"

She drove like a dream.

Thirty minutes later, as I waited at North Park Car Wash for a freshly scrubbed Carmen to emerge, I called my mother.

"You bought WHAT?" she screamed. "Why the hell would you spend $3,000 on an 11-year-old car with 112,000 miles on it?!" But then my mother has never understood any of my life choices.

A post-script to this seemingly interminable little story: I called Smitty's, a local garage with high marks on the Internet, yesterday. I wanted to bring Carmen in for a check-up and tune-up. "Hi," I said. "I just bought a 1997 Volkswagon Passat."

This was greeted by a slide whistle on the other end of the line. "Dude, I hope you're ready for a lifetime of throwing away money. The Passat is the single worst car there is."

Shock! Horror! How dare he speak this way about my Carmen! Surely he was lying. Still, I made arrangements to drop the car off there Sunday night.

In the meantime, I went back to the Internet. And found this.

It's a page from the Consumer Affairs web site devoted entirely to the Passat. If you have a spare five hours, I urge you to read it from beginning to end.

Here are some of my favorite highlights:

KG from New Jersey writes:

Last week I found myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The traffic let up momentarily and everyone zoomed ahead, only to stop suddenly. My Passat's brakes failed me, causing a 3 car accident. I am now charged with careless driving. I won't even get into the economic damage as it upsets me greatly and the matter is unresolved. Thanks a lot VW.

Not to be outdone, Sharon of Silver Springs, MD writes:

Last fall the window on my 1999 VW Passat fell into the door. A regulator needed replacing. Just this week the same thing happened on another window. After internet research it seems clear this is a problem in VWs.

OK, so the brakes OCCASIONALLY fail, and the windows OCCASIONALLY fall in. It's not like Passats are prone to explode or anything, is it?

Loretta of Kalona, IA writes:

I am the owner of a 2000 VW Passat. On Sunday, January 28, 2007, I watched my car go up in flames. I was at a friends house for lunch and we were preparing to take another friend to the airport. As we walked out to my car, which was parked in the driveway, we noticed smoke coming off of the hood and immediately knew something was wrong. In a matter of seconds, I noticed flames beginning to come out of the hood. The entire front half of my car is destroyed, as well as the interior.

Oh, Wah, Loretta! So your car is all burnt up. So what? It's not like your HOUSE burned down, or anything!

Greg of Colorado Springs writes:

Our house caught on fire. The garage was structurally damaged and the whole house incurred smoke damage and water damage. The cause of the fire, from the fire report, was the Passat. I was never compensated a dime from VW.

Oh, well. At least Carmen has a sun roof.

Homo out of $3,000. ♥

A Whale's Vagina, Part 1

2008-08-06T17:20:00.004-07:00

So here I am in San Diego. It's been nearly a week since I landed, and I'm only just now getting a moment to blog. Boy Wonder took leave this entire week, and he and I have been moving at breakneck speed to try and get us completely moved in and settled. This has included furnishing an entire bedroom from scratch, the contents of which were bought at Ikea and painstakingly put together piece by piece.

BW in our new bed, with face and nuts strategically covered.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My last week in NYC was one of the most excruciating experiences of my life. Never again, as God is my witness, will I accumulate so much stuff. After selling just about everything of value on Craig's List -- including my sofa sectionals, media cabinet, leather storage chest (that's a storage chest made of leather --not a chest made for storing leather, you kinky freaks), framed art posters, stemware and more -- and donating about 10 bags of clothing and assorted crap to the Salvation Army (and a large wooden coffee table/storage bench to Angela, my cleaning woman), I still had to make about 100 trips to the curb with countless assorted bric-a-brac, all of which which were immediately seized by hungry passers-by. Seriously, there is nothing New Yorkers won't take from the street given 10 seconds and a clean getaway.

Actual photo of the scene in front of my apartment.

Speaking of Angela, a note of clarification: She's wasn't my cleaning lady. She belongs to Rob and Robbie, a gay couple who lived three floors down from me. (Side note: At one point, there were two gay couples living across the hall from each other on that floor: Rob and Robbie, and Ron and Rodney. It was like a gay Mother Goose story.)

Anyway, I needed a professional to clear away the eight years of filth that had accumulated in my dwelling, particularly inside the refrigerator and cabinets. Angela came highly recommended, and so I put her to work the day before my departure.

I should have taken before and after photos; you'll have to do with the "afters":

So clean, you can practically eat off it!

Cue the tumbleweeds.

So thrilled was I with Angela's work that in addition to a big tip, I gave her the aforementioned wooden storage bench, which hadn't yet sold on Craig's List. She was way psyched!

By my final night, all I had left were a mattress, a reading light, a drinking glass, and my toothbrush and soap holders. It was like being in prison, but without the hot sex.

I dragged said remaining stuff to the curb at 6:30 Friday morning, along with my three giant suitcases and "carry-on" bag (which was actually just another giant suitcase). The last thing I saw as my Dial-6 Limo car drove off was my building superindentant, Rafael, smashing all my household goods to bits with a large mallet. I'm guessing he won't miss me.

During my long ride to JFK, my Sikh driver kept demanding I explain to him just how I plan to make a living in San Diego. I strongly suspect he might have been my mother in a turban.

And he was wearing the same blouse, too.

I got to the airport and grabbed a skycap. After sizing up my sizable luggage, he said: "We go to special line."

And what a special line it was! In fact, most of the people on the line seemed to have serious disabilities. There were wheelchairs and seeing eye dogs and all sorts of other freaky shit. "You wait here," instructed my skycap, after taking my driver's license from me. A few minutes later, he told me to go up to the front of the line and pay the woman $20 for my extra luggage. I still don't know how he pulled it off; all of the other disabled people had to have their bags weighed, and I didn't. And I know it costs a helluva lot more than $20 for even one extra bag these days. But not one to look a gift skycap in the mouth, I thanked him profusely, tipped him handsomely, and sped off to the gate.

The JetBlue flight was uneventful, except for the fact that my row was located on the wing, and I was therefore unable to put my seat back. Not great for a six-hour flight with a giant suitcase between my legs. Also, who knew JetBlue no longer served meals of any kind? All I got was a bag of Doritos. I had recently had a Dorito-related accident while taping a segment for Here-TV, in which I stabbed myself between the front teeth with the edge of a jagged Dorito. If you've ever done this, you know the pain is excruciating. Why must Doritos be so sharp? It seems to me they could be nice and smooth and still retain their nacho cheesy goodness.

Needless to say, I was terrified at the thought of another Dorito, but hunger got the better of me and I wound up gumming each one carefully while watching back-to-back episodes of Bravo's "Shear Genius" on my little JetBlue TV.

Upon landing and activating my cell phone, I got a strange voicemail from some delivery company, the name of which I couldn't make out. When I called back, the woman was confused: "Why are you calling us?"

"Because you called me. Something about a delivery."

"What are you expecting to be delivered?"

"Um, I don't know. Nothing, really."

"Are you sure? Are you sure you didn't order something large, like a car or a motorcycle?"

My mind raced: Could it be? Could my parents have possibly surprised me with a new car? Would that not be the most incredible, wonderful, fabulous thing EVER?

The woman interrupted my orgasmic reverie: "Oh here it is; we have your new mattress from 1-800-MATTRESS."

I'm going to look very silly driving this on the freeway.

I was so happy to see BW at the airport I nearly cried. It had been more than two months since we last saw each other, and I confess there have been moments when I've wondered, "Exactly who is it I'm dropping everything and moving across the country for?" In the instant I saw him, all doubts vanished. We just go together; it's that simple.

BW drove me back to our North Park apartment, which we are sharing with his best friend, another military guy to whom I'll refer from this point forward as Catwoman.

Meow!

Catwoman has a boyfriend whose initials, coincidentally, are AJS. They were very sweet and welcoming toward me, as were all BW's other friends, whom I met Friday night when we went out to celebrate BW's birthday. (He turned 31).
But the next morning, it was down to business, the first order of which was unpacking my clothes and trying to fit them into our single walk-in closet. Now granted, this closet is larger than many NYC bedrooms. But still, it's not a whole lot of space for two people to store their entire wardrobes, even when one of them is in the military and wears the same outfit to work every day.

And so, after shopping all over Mission Valley for storage containers, we bought six sets of plastic drawers from Lowes and spent about eight hours unpacking, folding hanging and organizing. The result was something of which Ty Pennington would have been proud.

And I hear he knows a lot about closets, if you know what I'm saying.

That afternoon we were also delighted by a visit from my dear friend Patrick, who had been in L.A. on personal business. Saturday night we all went to a birthday party in Talmadge for some German guy named Joerg. I tried to impress him by saying, "Gluklich zu sehen" ("Nice to see you"), which I remember the MC in "Cabaret" singing during the "Wilkommen" number, but apparently I said it wrong, because Joerg simply shook his head and walked away.

Jews should never attempt German.

In the next installment: Ikea insanity, and Adam goes car shopping.

Homo out West . ♥

Adam Has Left the Building

2008-07-31T06:30:00.002-07:00

Well, not really.

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

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

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

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

Homo out (of NYC). ♥

Rambling Recap

2008-07-26T08:25:00.004-07:00

Six Days Until I Move to San Diego

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

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

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

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

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

¡Buenos Dias!

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

As I said, it's a challenge.

And it makes me nostalgic for Thanksgivings past.

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

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

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

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

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

My salvation.

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

Girl!

... and quickly got to work...

Note the omnipresent pit stains.

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

Awww....

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

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

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

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

Homo out. ♥

Letter From Spain

2008-07-14T18:04:00.006-07:00

17 Days Until I Move to San Diego

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's me at 16, in the front row, center.

(In front of us is Mike, our college-age leader. Who I now realize was a total hottie.)

We had bought the jackets and ties at a church rummage sale, and wore them constantly, even when riding our bikes.

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

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

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

¡Hola, mi familia!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope everything is well with you all.

I love you and miss you.

Adam

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

Not bad for a 17-year-old, no? It strikes me now that a blog is really just a substitute for letter-writing, a pursuit that disappeared for most of us with the advent of the Internet.

And as with my family, I never hear back from most of you.

Homo out. ♥

DON'T MISS MY LAST EVER ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY COMEDY HOUR!

Sunday, July 20 at 10 p.m.

SPECIAL "END OF AN ERA ROAST & TOAST" EDITION!

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

Scheduled to appear:

Adam Sank (NBC's "Last Comic Standing," Vh-1's "Best Week Ever")

Brad Loekle (truTV's "World's Dumbest," Sirius OutQ's "Larry Flick Show)

Michelle Buteau (HBO's "U.S. Arts Comedy Festival," NBC's "Last Comic Standing")

Robin Fox (Comcast TV's "Comedy Hour," WOR-Radio's "Joey Reynolds Show")

Jackie Monahan (Lesbians of Laughter Tour, Dykes on Mics)

Brian Barry (soon to be seen in the Broadway revival of "Pal Joey")

Tom Ragu (Rainbow Mountain Resort, Tom Ragu Comedy Revue)

Shecky Beagleman ("The Howard Stern Show," USA Network's "Up All Night")

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