Friday, December 02, 2005

Let Them Have Christmas - Don't Get Me Started

Okay, growing up as a Jewish kid you had two things on your side at Christmastime. The first was that you knew there was no Santa and the second was that you had 8 nights of presents and the Christian kids had one. These were powerful tools when you were being beaten up on the playground. It was a sense of power in a world that was decking the halls and singing, "Here comes Santa Claus" you had the inside track because you knew Santa was never coming. But now, it's not Christmas, it's "holiday" time. It's not a Christmas tree it's a "holiday" tree. Who are these over zealous politically correct people doing this for, the Jews? I think not! So let them have Christmas and Don't Get Me Started!

Christmas stopped being about Christ a long time ago. It's really a chance to boost the economy (get into debt) and put tinsel on a tree in your house. And don't start with me about the people who make a birthday cake for Jesus and eat it while they're assembling their kid's Easy Bake Oven. Christmas has become a well produced event and so what?

Michael, my beloved of 17 years is Catholic. We're the poster children for hate crimes with him being a 6 foot black Catholic man who was an altar boy and me a 5'4" Jew who was a Bar Mitzvah. Think of the fabulous KKK posters with us on them. But I digress. Michael is a big one for being thoroughly appalled at the whole lack of being able to call Christmas, Christmas! And I don't blame him, come on people...who is it really hurting. I think if you asked most Jews they'd tell you it isn't a big deal.

A long time ago, the Jews did their own whammy on the Christians by taking a so so holiday (Hanukkah) and turning it into eight nights of sheer enchantment. Ya gotta give it to us, we're good at throwing a party and even better about passive agressively passing the competition. In our own way, arming our children with the two big anti-Christmas weapons of the No Santa knowledge and eight nights, no one could touch us. So let the Christians have the twenty-fifth of December and everyone else just shut up about it.

And if you think for one minute by trying to rename the season or not mention the "C" word, will make things fair for everyone in America, you must be on the crack which is what America should be worrying about instead of some god-damned holiday.

The bottom line here is that every Jew makes money off of Christmas the same as the Christians, Muslims, Atheists and everyone else with a piece of crap to sell that maybe Aunt Matilda will like in her stocking. It's a win win situation people so don't complicate it.

Being a gay Jew I like to look at a nice decorated house and tree the same as everyone else and after being called every derogatory name in the book, you're going to have to go a little further than some foliage to make me feel slighted. I'm much more offended by many other things, read the rest of the blog entries!

So I implore everyone...let them have Christmas. I remember when I was performing every year we'd do the Christmas Show. Every year the theater would start the show a little earlier to try and make more money off of the show. It was always the Christians complaining about singing, "Christ is Lord" in October. To the Jews, what did we care - it was a paycheck. I'd be the little drummer boy in June if it was a paying gig. So I beg of all of you worried civil liberties people, worry about people on drugs, without health care, of a goverment that is run by old white men who have no sense of reality in representing the population of America or even how you can get on Oprah's favorite things show but for Christ sake people, let them have Christmas and Don't Get Me Started!

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Don't Blame The Barista, Blame Your Parents Like Everyone Else - Don't Get Me Started!!

Okay, I admit it, I'm a Starbucks junkie. Yes, I go every morning for my grande soy latte. It's comforting that they all know me and all they ask is if it's going to be hot or iced today. It's as close as I'll ever feel as if I'm going to the diner and having Alice wait on me each morning. So what fucks it up? It's these god-damned idiots with their farkachata orders designed only for attention that are making me crazy. You know who you are - you Venti, quad shot, half decaf, three Splenda, sugar free vanilla freaks! And then they have the nerve to be pissed off that it's taking too long and then within one sip they're tapping their foot, leaning over the bar with it's tiny window asking for it to be remade because they're sure it only has two Splenda in it. Stop blaming the barista for your lack of attention in your life and blame your parents like everyone else - Don't Get Me Started!

Now I'll admit, sometimes when I'm feeling like I need a little extra lift I go for a peppermint mocha. Much like the most perfect food ever invented by God, the Junior Mint, you have the rich chocolate with the refreshing mint and it's a beautiful thing. I also will admit that I don't like it as mochay as the standard mix so I ask for three pumps of mint and mocha instead of the usual four. I find it's less sugary and more enjoyable to my tastebuds. BUT I don't go crazy with the special orders.

First of all, for the most part you have someone writing in code on a paper cup with a Sharpie which is too thick to be clearly understood so the more complicated you get the more likely you're setting yourself up for big trouble. I love to see my name, one of the more simple ones being spelled like Scoot, Scot and various other bastardizations that only show that the world needs to learn how to spell and also stop naming children with apostrophes in their names. But these people aren't designed to spell they're designed to make that nectar of the Gods, coffee - period.

And when did coffee stop being good to the last drop? It's coffee, not a gingerbread fantasy or an egg nog nectar. It should still, at some level taste like coffee. I'll admit the peppermint mocha is pushing it but I can still taste the coffee and it's more like hot chocolate with peppermint and coffee (yes, in that order). Of course what that sludge is in the bottom of my cup, I'll never know. It's not like it's the grounds from the coffee because "Cookie's" coffee pot has been dented from being on the trail and over the open flame of the campfire.

And I won't even begin to discuss the whole frozen, blended crapalicious drinks being handed over the counter. This is like the smoothie craze meets the coffee craze and it's ridiculous. IT'S NOT COFFEE!!

Meanwhile, when did Starbucks replace Cocca Puffs? Do you know how many parents I see with their kids in their school uniforms getting a Vanilla Bean (vanilla milkshake without coffee) and a muffin as their breakfast before their parents drop them off for another day of school? Is this the breakfast of champions? Now I understand that the parents are working and it's better than McDonald's but it's just strange to see these kids getting their "quality time" with their parents in a place where the jazz music plays and the adults look like crack addicts waiting for a fix. And don't even get me started on the teenage kids getting their morning sugar/caffeine hit. With their Venti frozen 12,000 calorie treats. From the look of those stomachs coming from underneath the too tight and short t-shirts they're wearing, those exposed abdomens really don't need these empty calories.

But all of this doesn't piss me off as much as the complicated crap addicts that hunger more for attention than a cup of coffee. With their difficult to understand or make beverages, they need to get their attention from somewhere else. And when they decide that they can't live with an extra Splenda in their beverage, they need to look inside and see what the hell is really wrong with them...they're Jan Brady - not so attractive and dying for any attention any passer by will give them well make up a boyfriend like George Glass but don't blame the barista for your hunger for attention, blame your parents like everyone else and Don't Get Me Started!!

Sunday, October 30, 2005

The De-Heterosexualization Of The Heterosexual Man - Don't Get Me Started!

I can not take it - I can not look at one more heterosexual man wearing square toed shoes, plain front pants and a faux hawk for hair. We, the homosexuals have made them this way and we need to cut it the fuck out. Effective immediately, all heterosexuals are allowed to go back to shoes made by Nike, pleated pants by Dockers and hair from Super Cuts. You're not a metrosexual, you're just a victim of an emaciated gay sales representative at Banana Republic trying to dress you like the Ken doll they always wanted. The de-heterosexualization of the heterosexual man makes me gag - don't get me started!

I don't want to see any man (gay or straight) in espadrilles or capri pants or slip on Kenneth Cole thick strap sandals that look like a women's mule. But for some reason, we've sold the idea to the straight men and they've bit like a fish dying to be taken out of the game. Yes, everyone is swimming downstream and things are getting mighty dull.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a big believer in the whole, "live and let live" life philosophy but these men don't look comfortable done up this way. They might as well be in drag.

Let's start at the top. No one looks good in the faux hawk. I'm convinced this happened one morning while Brad Pitt was playing in the bathtub with his Mr. Bubbles foam and decided it would make him look edgier if he did it with his hair instead of bubbles. Immediately every man in American covered his hands in gel and in the movement usually accompanied by the words, "here's the church and here's the steeple" pushed their hair together until it was all fucked up looking.

Next it's about skin care, all of the men's lines of skin care have gotten out of hand to the point where even Oil Of Olay is butching things up for the guys. I don't want to hear any man talking about the size of his pores but listening to a straight man talk about it makes it seem even worse. Stick to the Mennen speed stick and stop letting your girlfriend talk you into the latest Ralph Lauren scent when every drug store is dying to sell you a can of Axe and be done with it. Axe will also deodorize your car and can be used instead of pepper spray in case of a Queer Eye for the Straight Guy attack!

Clothes are supposed to make the man but in this case it just makes them look silly. I kind of bought the whole, here's my dress shirt untucked outside my jeans as a way for all of us to hide our bulging bellies but now with the tight shirts and the whole $700 jeans that they're all wearing it's too damn much. Fashion is really just whatever was popular 20 years ago so why not strike out on your own heterosexual guys and wear what you like. Sure we're going to see a lot of football jerseys but that's okay, as I always say, "Do what you know."

Finally the shoes, stop it first of all with the women's ped socks with your tennis shoes. Wear the crew or tube sock and everyone will applaud. The tiny ped sock is really just seconds away from missing a pom pom on the back of it. Also to those who insist on the whole dress shoes without socks, basically whether you're gay or straight the bottom line here is that you're gross. Stop with all of the Steve Madden retro shoes and the Kenneth Cole square toes - go back to what you know, boat shoes, tennis shoes and for dressy occasions the boat shoes again with white socks.

In an increasingly androgenous world, we need to reidentify the players. So I say, forget the flouncy Queer Eye guys - they aren't teaching anyone anything they really need to know, they're just doing their job to continue the sexless, fop stereotype of gay men everywhere. In essence, they're doing what they know.

Now to all you women who love straight men, you women are just as responsible as the gays so suck it up and get over it. You are with a man, not your girlfriend and not the Ken doll you played with as a child that didn't even have a penis!

Now I'm not saying that straight men can't look great or fashionable, I'm just begging gay sales people and the women in men's lives to stop already, selling these very moldable/contrable men in an area they aren't comfortable in, into the looks that are so wrong for them but happen to be in the window at Abercrombie. Frankly no guy should be spending $400 for a pair of jeans that are so ripped up they barely resemble jeans - those are called chaps and usually come in leather but that's for another blog.

Finally it's all about acceptance. I want everyone to wear what they're comfortable wearing and what they feel shows off their own sense of style. (The exception to that is very large women in capri tights and the large sweater over them trying to hide what you've just put in bright purple sausage casing on your legs!) Go to a dare to be different seminar, be you because that's the best thing most of us have going for us; that there's no one else like us! (Thank God, in most cases.)

Don't give in to what the celebrities are wearing, they have stylists that are just as out of touch putting stupid stuff on them too. I'll let you in on a little known seacrest (this was a typo but in re-reading it made me laugh so I let it stay in - consider it a sneak peek at the bloopers reel for the DVD), there's a conspiracy behind these gay stylists - they're seeing how stupid they can make their client look (while getting paid too much money) and then they all buy squares just like you straight guys do with football to see how long it will take the straight guys to start wearing the stupid look they created.

So do it, go to your mirror and look at yourself, straight man. Do you have highlights and low lights? Is your clean hair looking like it has axel grease on it because your "stylist" said that it makes you look hot? Tip to remember, they get paid to tell you that you look hot and most of the time they're doing it to distract you from seeing the way they fucked up your hair cut. Do your eye brows look like the marshmallow moons in Lucky Charms because someone convinced you to "shape" them? Do your clothes reflect you or the mannequin in Express for Men? Fashion is what looks good on you and what you like wearing so go for it - use your own common sense, you'll be surprised how good you can look.

And to my homosexual friends, come on fellas we've had a long run with this whole thing, had some laughs and made some great money, so let's give the straight guys a break, huh? I know, I know, I like making them look a little foolish too but these aren't the same guys (all the time) that were pushing us into lockers or saying we seduced them because they were too fucked up to know that we were a guy they were having sex with over and over again. Sure it's fun for Tommy Hilfiger to see the butchest of butch men paying obscene prices for clothes made by a screaming queen but we've had our laugh and our revenge by making them wear pink, green and purple all in the same shirt - we need to evolve. We need to come up with new ways to take ourselves beyond their level without bringing them down. Think of them as our fathers, sure we want them to look their best but we don't really want to see them layered in tight tees with phrases like, "Bill's Grease and Lube - Lube it us to grease you up right!" Let's accept one another and stop the insanity. The de-heterosexualization of the heterosexual man - "Just say No!" and don't get me started!

Monday, October 24, 2005

Back That Chevy Nova's Ass Out Bitch - Don't Get Me Started

Can someone please explain to me the country's latest obsession with backing into parking spaces? I lived on the east coast for years so in the event of snow (or possible snow) and a front wheel drive car, I get it but why in the hell is everyone backing in their Chevy Novas in Las Vegas where it never snows? I say, "Back that Chevy Nova's ass OUT, Bitch!" - Don't Get Me Started!

I began to notice that everywhere I parked, I was the only one "nose in" if you will. What is it? Why do these people need to have their cars parked this way? Are they expecting to have to make a fast getaway? Could it be like cell phones and microwaves we now don't even have the patience for the time it would take to back out? Or are these people paranoid that someone might try to get to the dead body in their trunk?

I get it if you have a Bentley or a Silver Shadow Rolls Royce - I mean those grills are fabulous and if I owned one I'd want to show it off as much as possible. But come on, is the grill on the Volkswagen Passat as stunning or regal? I think not.

And then there are the people who are doing all this backing in. They are subcreatures from another land. So I'm at the bank, walking toward my "nose in" car and there he is, an Asian man in his 70's behind the wheel of his 1994 Ford Taurus with the peeling paint job and he's pulling his piece of shit parallel to all the other cars, reversing, swinging wide, looking in the mirror, now over his right shoulder and he's backing into his space without noticing anyone or anything around him. He's in the "zone". Now he came as close to being in the lines as a two year old when they're coloring. He's taken two spaces, he's so close to my car that I need lubricant and a crowbar to get in and yet there he sits with this shit-eating grin on his face and sense of acomplishment. What the fuck? As I see the front license plate hanging at a jaunty angle I can't help but wonder what he could have hit it on? If all he's doing is backing in everywhere, how could the front license plate have ever sustained such damage? And still the larger question is WHY the backing in? I look to his wife who is exiting the car, is she going to rob the bank? Is this some elderly crime syndicate from Asia knocking off banks in Las Vegas? Of course not, it's just another two-space taking mother fucker who thinks he's cool for backing into the parking space.

And as my grandmother used to say about gays, "They're everywhere!" I see beat up cars, the cars with just a lovely gray primer on them but the spinning hub caps, all cars of shapes and sizes but none worthy to be backed in. And the people are so diverse, teenagers, older people, mid-life crisis men with their hair club for men on and the music blaring some 80's tune as they back in their red Saturn Ion. WHY are the doing this? We'll never know, it's like some cosmic secret never to be known, it won't even be represented on the Trivial Pursuit driving edition if they make one. So I can only assume that there is no reason for this behavior.

And so I'm asking nicely, for the sake of everyone - please, you're not Batman or an expectant father waiting for his wife to say, "honey it's time" or even emergency personnel having to get to that fire, you're just an asshole who feels backing in shows you've got mad parking skills. AND YOU'RE WRONG because look around and you'll see you're not even between the lines of one space! So, back that Chevy Nova's ass out bitch and don't get me started.

I detest cheap sentiment - Don't Get Me Started!

In the words of the character Margo Channing played by Bette Davis in All About Eve, "I detest cheap sentiment." Then why oh why do I cry at every sappy thing on television? I try to tell myself that it's just my body releasing toxins that I will be strong, but let that kid come home from college at the holidays and make the family their morning's Folgers and I'm a weeping mess! I detest cheap sentiment but I'm always falling victim to it - Don't Get Me Started!!

At first it was the occasional Sally Jesse Raphael when she would years later reunite a mother with the child that she had to give up because she was only 12 when she got pregnant by a boyfriend who beat her and held her hostage for 8 months of the pregnancy that I would lose it. No matter how fantastic or mundane the story, when the 35 year old "child" came from backstage, arms outstretched, tears in her eyes, my eyes were moist too. Never mind that these were two complete strangers that probably wouldn't get along or develop any sort of relationship, there I was with a disintegrating Puffs plus filled with tears and snot slipping through my hands as I reached for another one. Michael would walk in the room and just look at me and say, "What? Reunion show again? Haven't you had enough?" The reunion shows were killer enough but then it happened during the breaks in the shows...

Commercials...there were a glut of holiday commercials one year that were designed to rip your heart out. It was the Folgers college student that really started the whole thing and a million years later they're still playing it and I'm still crying. Never mind that Folger's take on Billy coming home was something so foreign to me (I had tried college three times but never stayed longer than it took to get my ID because of the great discounts you get with a student ID!) - that waspy family with their home in Cape Cod as Billy comes home from some Ivy League school without a zit or the freshman 15 pounds that everyone but white, white, white Billy puts on. No, Billy was working out all semester, eating right, studying, saving himself for the right girl whom someday he'd marry and they'd make love for the first time on their honeymoon and she would be disappointed and he'd end up gay but that's okay because he never knew she came from a long line of alcoholics and soon would have made it with everyone from the Fuller Brush man to the guard who helped Billy Jr. cross the street on the way to school while being high on some rubbing alcohol she strained through a piece of white Wonder bread. But for now, Billy with the perfectly touseled hair was just wanting to make a fresh cup of coffee for his family. Breaks your heart, doesn't it? And Folgers wasn't the only one in the game, Hallmark had a couple that could make you put your therapist on speed dial.

So I shunned them all. Much like a song that I could name on the radio in two notes like on Name That Tune, when I would hear the commercial start, I left the room or changed the channel. What amazing power it was to be able to stop emotion like a car - by simply applying a little pressure on the remote.

And so I thought that I was cured. Sure I would occasionally get sucked into a 60 Minutes featuring children with fatal diseases and be a mess but on the whole I was okay. And then it happened - I was watching reality television, completely safe because who cares about these morons who want to share their entire life with us because sharing their life is more exciting than their life. Then came Ty Pennington!!! There it was - Extreme Home Makeover, what threat could there be in a show like that, right?

Wrong - that son of a bitch! First it starts with some family who has had everything go wrong but their dog being killed by a random act of violence. I mean, these people have diseases, missing parents, arms and legs that don't work - you name it, they've got it wrong with them. So you meet the family (that is close to death, had a death in the family, smells like death or just love one another to death) through a video at the start of the show. Now all the carpenters and designers are already a mess in their RV watching the video. They're crying their Max Factor off and checking to make sure that their key light is hitting them right all at the same time. They're crying so of course, I'm crying. Then you actually meet the family and as they come out of their hovel (soon to be a mansion that they won't even be able to afford the upkeep on the asinine foutain with the fish in it that the designers call a "water feature" in the backyard next to the cabana and Olympic sized pool) the family is crying, designers and carpenters crying and I'm crying again. There's more crying on the damn show than there is on a Spanish Novella on Telemundo! (At least on a Novella, I don't know what they're saying so it makes me a little less likely to cry.) The family goes on vacation while the designers preen for the camera and give you several angles to watch them cry in good light and every room of the house during the hour long show. I don't know how anything gets measured straight for all the crying. There's so much God damned crying that you need a gallon of water to replenish yourself from the dehydration!! So, I was in - it's on Tivo and I'm watching it every week and Michael is shaking his head at me every week.

And then they do it - they make the show two hours instead of one hour. That was it! I had to draw the line - two hours of women crying, men crying, babies crying, animals crying and me crying - it's enough already. It had finally gotten to the point of being cheap sentiment - they film, edit and re-edit the show with one purpose in mind, a weekly cryapalooza!!

I don't care that Jimmy's going to finally be able to work out in his new endless pool after his debilitating injury from serving in the war while feeding people at a homeless shelter in Iraq and giving mouth to mouth to several stray dogs. I appreciate people wanting to help people, what I do not appreciate is Ty Fucking Pennington in his fucked up (even though a stylist spent 14 hours making sure it looked messy but not a mess) hair and his band of merry mashuggahs that have to prick themselves with a pin to cry at this point, exploiting the situation. Oh they help the people but only if the people who can barely stand are standing on the right side of them so Ty can look his best on camera. I've become almost numb to human suffering at the hands of the cast, director and editors of this show and so they've been removed from my Sunday night line up on my Tivo.

And let me just say tear ducts will be a little drier this season...I detest cheap sentiment and Ty and his gang are as cheap as they come - Don't Get Me Started!!

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Trainers are prostitutes at the gym - Don't Get Me Started

Okay, so I joined the gym and signed on for the five training sessions at an enormously high rate to show myself and the world I could create a body I wasn't ashamed of before turning 41 next month. I've never paid for sex but it would be my luck that if I did, they would be a clock watcher like this trainer except he behaved as though he was charging by the second. Trainers are prostitutes at the gym - Don't get me started.

So day one is basically the, "this is how out of shape and crappy you look, aren't you glad you came to me to help you reclaim a portion of your self esteem." It began with the testing. So I'm sitting there with my nose plugged and blowing in a tube hooked to an electronic device that is going to tell me how many calories a day my body would burn if I spent my entire life on the couch watching old black and white movie musicals. As nothing can be simple for me the machine malfunctions and after ten minutes it has no reading so I must start again. Let me just say that now I know how dogs feel when you close their mouths and they can't breathe. I've never been claustrophobic but this thing had me going to that dark place. So finally the trainer gives me the number and so I ask, "Well, is that a good number?" The response you never want to hear, "There are no bad or good numbers it's just an indicator for us." Fuck that - the only indicator I want is when I read the manual on my Mini Cooper and they try to be fancy by calling the turn signals "indicator lights". But okay, I'm out of my element so I play along. Next up it's the Special K pinch an inch body fat test. Well, of course I have the same amount of fat as a large block of cheese. Next up, the scale - it's like walking down the stairs of self esteem until you reach the Prosac level!

So the testing is done and it's time for the work out to "see what I can do." Well, I know (even if Phillip the trainer doesn't) that I can't do anything. But here we go from machines to free weights to a mat on the floor to build my "core" which is the current word that replaces, "your fat disgusting stomach". The terms and exercises are floating over my head like Mike TeeVee in the original movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. But remember, I'm a strict rule follower so I follow Phillip to the ends of the gym in search of a body that I would want to photoshop my head on.

The next couple of days to say I was sore is an understatement. And yes, in a weird way it does feel good but in a "wow, I didn't know I had something that could be considered muscle there" kind of way.

And so it began - me at the gym every day listening to classic disco on my MP3 player as I fast walked the treadmill then onto a few machines to get myself ready for my next visit with Phillip. Phillip had now been added to the list of parents, mate, brother, relatives, friends, cats, employer, employees, anyone I encounter on the street and anyone I ever knew that I could not disappoint.

Let me just say that Phillip was like an Amway salesman, first he tried to sell me supplements. When I asked what was in them and why I needed them he had no clue. Then it was the classic real estate sell - "The price is going up on training sessions in two days and there are a few people we're letting know about this and I wanted to make sure you knew. So if you sign up today you can get 6 training sessions for the price of five" (which means you only have to give your first male born and you get to keep your left testicle). "Or you can call me before tomorrow and I'll lock in the price for you." Then he gives me his business card. What the fuck are these people doing with business cards when all it lists is the gym's main number? I don't understand why they need these but they seem very important in the grand scheme of things and if Phillip is happy about it, I'm happy about it.

I won't bore you with all the details of the next four training sessions but let me just say Phillip tried his damnedest to make a muscle out of me. He thought I was hysterical when on one machine I couldn't do any more and I said, "Phillip, how can you do this to a pregnant woman?" Or after spending time on the chest press machine at an obscene weight and him making me do push ups - I could only do three before I felt as though my arms were going to buckle and I would destroy my dental work so I simply laid on the bad carpet wimpering loudly. Yes, Phillip and I laughed and pumped our way through the gym. But all good things must come to an end.

And here's the deal, after changing my diet and my exercise routine I lost a whopping five pounds. How fucking depressing is that? But I will continue on in hopes of finding a way back into my Kenneth Cole pants that are sneering at me from their hanger in the closet. I will find a way to try to look at what's going on below my neck and work toward being able to look at it without throwing up a little bit in my mouth each time. And once I lose another ten or so pounds I vow, as God as my witness I will never be blobby again!

I think I've learned the basics enough to be successful in my pursuit of a better, healthier me but only time will tell and who has time for that? The one thing I have promised myself is no more blogs on this issue as it's boring me and I can't imagine it's doing anything for any of you. And you are now officially on the list of people I don't want to disappoint.

But think of me, listening to Got To Be Real as I watch Phillip train other fatties, skinnies and generally out of shape people from my hamster wheel - the treadmill. Does he really care about me anymore? Does a prostitute care about you after you pay? Trainers at the gym and prostitutes are the same thing - don't get me started!

Friday, September 23, 2005

Just how heavy could those shoes be - Don't Get Me Started

Due to my recent fattitude, drastic times cause for drastic measures and I've gone to the gym. Now every time I go, I start by "checking in" on the scale. I stand on the scale and read the bad news to inspire me. What gets me are the other people who get on the scale. It's a whole process, they take off the sweatshirt, the shoes, they lay down the bottle of water, they remove the Ipod, they do everything but stand there nude. These conservative-read the bible on the treadmill-scream with horror over Janet's boob coming out people are now standing practically naked in the most harsh lighting imaginable in public! And trust me that in most cases, it's nothing ANYONE wants to see. So I have to ask, "How heavy could those shoes be?" Don't Get Me Started!

It was years ago but it still haunts me. I was finally goining to join a gym. Me, the one never chosen for anyone's team. Me, the one that the gym teacher in seventh grade told me that if I stayed away from his class for the year he'd give me an "A". Me, who has NEVER had his endorphins kick in; was joining a gym. So after dealing with the sales person who makes a used car salesman look like Jesus, they sign me up for a "fitness evaluation" with a certified trainer.

I walk in and sign in at the counter - not at all like What's My Line? from the 60's and 70's. Here I am in my Dolphin shorts (remember, we're talking mid-80's here) and a matching t-shirt. Although I'll admit it was a bit Richard Simmons of me, I have to be proud of the fact that it wasn't one of the three times in my life when I had allowed a hairdresser to talk me into what ended up being a very ill-advised perm on my head. But that's a blog for another day.

I'm at the counter and here he comes, Dutch, Butch or something "utch" lurching toward me. He was to be my certified trainer. His appearance was so typical it seemed like a put on. He was the ex high school football player with arms as big as my thighs and a gut to match. He had reached his life's goal by being able to be around clinking weights and the smell of Mennen Speed Stick every day for the rest of his life. I could read the thoughts that were running around in that Neanderthal head of his, "What? A fag? How did I get stuck with a fag? He'll be checking me out all the time. Shit, a fag!" And yet the words that came grunting out of his mouth were only, "go there" and he pointed to the line of stationary bikes.

So I moved toward the stationary bikes where he told me to pedal until he came back. As fast as he could, walking sideways to make sure I wouldn't check out his ass, he disappeared among the Nautilus equipment. Now would be the time to tell you that I am a COMPLETE rule follower. This is no doubt linked to my need to please everyone so that I might become popular some day. Still waiting for that day to arrive. So I'm pedaling for five minutes, then ten, suddenly it's been forty-five minutes , finally at an hour and five minutes I'm done. I get off the bike and walking like I just got off a six day trail ride, I manage to get to the counter.

Behind the counter is a blonde girl whose hair is almost as real as her breasts. I ask for "utch" and she replies, "He totally went to lunch, like did he know he was like training you today?" Leaning on the counter for support I say, "He put me on the bike an hour ago, I'm sure he knew he was training me." Bimbo, "Wow, do you want me to get you another trainer?" Me, "Look at my legs, they're like over cooked spaghetti! I don't want another trainer you stupid fuck, I'm out of here!" And as I limped out of sight I heard her exclaim, "Like there's someone whose endorphins haven't kicked in!"

I never went back to that gym again. They threatened to sue me over non-payment and we eventually settled for an undisclosed amount but let me just say that hour on that bike cost me more than my dignity, it cost around $500!

But that was twenty years ago when there used to be a show, now it's a disco but not for Lola or me and now I'm back, not at the same gym or even in the same city but I've joined the rest of the rats on the treadmill who will never get to eat cheese again (unless they're on Atkins). And to fully Mederma my previous emotional scars I begin with a trainer on Monday so stay tuned, as if you've been reading my blogs you know that NOTHING is ever simple or normal in my life - I'm sure there will be lots to tell.

And as my heart rate rises on the treadmill so does my temper when I see all those people prepare to get on the scale. Leave the damned shoes on - it isn't as if they're the ones that are in the back of your closet from that one time you got wild in college and dressed like Frankenfurter at Rocky Horror. I mean, just how heavy could those Pumas be? Don't get me started!

Friday, August 26, 2005

I'm gay, you're gay but I'm not okay with you kissing me on the lips - Don't Get Me Started

Okay, what is it that makes gays, even newly met gays want to kiss you on the lips? Thing is I don't know where you've been but I've a pretty good idea of where you've been and I don't want to go there or even contemplate that you've been there yourself so just don't go in for a smooch on the lips, okay? This happened to me recently and I thought what ever happened to the glamour kiss? You know the cheeks (facial) touching and a "smooch" sound in the air now that's a kiss - Don't Get Me Started.

My own mother has never kissed me on the lips, I was educated in the cheek to cheek kiss before I could crawl. A kiss is an intimate thing and who wants to be intimate with their mother? Oedipus be damned!

I get it, it's a sign of affection, acceptance, emotional availability but can also be the sign of an asshole.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a kisser. I like kissing my guy, close friends and my cats but when we've just met, keep your lips off of mine. I'll even accept a kiss on the cheek as a sign of affection for a new acquaintance but in the words of the GoGo's, "My lips are sealed." What's wrong with a nice hug? You can even grind me a bit and I won't be as offended. It's when I see it...those puckered up lips coming at me like a homing missle toward my lips that my fear becomes elevated like the country's terror alert, I think it elevates me from coral to hot pink or something. Suddenly lips are coming my way and I feel like the 6 Million Dollar Man, "chchchchchch" is all I hear and there they are the lips headed my way. Do I turn to try and have it land on the cheek? Is that offensive? Do I try to get all the way to a cheek to cheek? Won't make it, not enough time to make it happen. No time for a McGuyver, "If I only had three packs of chewing gum, a monkey and a salad fork I could..." And then suddenly the lips are on mine. Yuck.

So to all you gays that I most likely will meet - because don't all gays know one another? Please just don't mistake my puckered lips as anything other than a noise maker for when we touch cheeks, they are not seeking your lips. You want my lips we'll have to do more negotiations and you'll have to at least buy me a soy latte. I appreciate you've been through the struggles of coming out to family, friends and society at large but don't get me started on your pain when I'm a short femine Jewish gay man who has been with a 6 foot black man who was once an altar boy for seventeen years - we ARE the poster children for hate crimes! I feel your pain and will gladly listen to your struggles, hug you and be your friend but stay off my lips and don't get me started!

Sunday, August 07, 2005

But My Pants Fit From The Neck Up - Don't Get Me Started

I never thought that it would happen to me, that I would become one of those know, the ones that lie to themselves? But suddenly one day it had hit me - I was blaming the dry cleaner for my pants being too tight, the dryer for my shirts being too tight, the cow that made my leather belt that was now too tight. I had become one of those people that lie to themselves so they won't have to admit they're fat - Don't Get Me Started.

Once I discovered that I was lying to myself it occured to me that I hadn't looked at myself naked from the neck down in months. In fact, my entire body below the neck could be completely gangrene and I'd never know. Each morning I would shower, shave, moisturize and look at myself in the mirror - was that another gray hair? Was it a bit puffy under my eyes? Did I shave well enough? And once I had asked myself these questions, I told myself that I was looking as good as I was going to get and went to dress and face the day.

First the underwear, gosh I must have left it in the dryer too long, they're really getting tighter. Next the socks - safe, they stretch and always fit. Now the pants and shirt...tougher, if I go straight to the pants that I know are always loose I'm bound to feel better. No tucked in shirt - go for the hanging shirt tail, it's all the rage and if it's not, it's going to be. The shirt out also alleviates the belt. All I need are shoes and I'm safe for another day.

But more and more it became clear to me that I wasn't just troublehooting my wardrobe, I was actually asking myself to believe that the fault was in the dryer, dry cleaner and not in the amount of Oreos I was eating. How did I become this person and did I really believe that leather belts just shrink on their own?

So one brave day, I did it. I got out of the shower and before wrapping the towel around me, I looked. There I was, naked - ouch. I had a couple gray chest hairs, who knew? And then I did the sucking in, the kind that pinches your nose so yours looks a bit like Michael Jackson's nose. Moving down my body I was more than shocked and appalled. I was standing there with my mouth hanging open in disbelief. There, right there they were, the remnants of some actual definition on the outer edges of what had now become my father's stomach on my body. Crying to be seen and sadly barely even visible, the years of chocolate cookies had wiped away all traces of my abs on the plentiful sandy beach that was now my stomach. And as I tilted my head back to curse the gods above, I felt it..."bloop" one of those neck pillows riders on planes use, a roll of skin had "blooped" out on the back of my neck. ARGHHHH!!!

They say admitting you have a problem is the first step. How could I NOT admit it when it was staring me in the face. So I've joined the gym and I'm limiting my intake of all things caloric but when I look in the closet those pairs of evil Kenneth Cole pants look at me as if to say, "Come on, like you'll ever fit into us again?" I walk the lonely streets looking at mens asses, not getting a cheap thrill but to see what size waist is listed on the back of their jeans. I'm depressed to see someone who looks larger than me in the same waist size or worse, smaller.

So, instead of sewing smaller labels on the pants I own, shirts will be worn out this season, I'll keep the really baggy jeans on for most of my life and someday, just maybe I'll be able to get the courage together to have another look at myself naked. Until that time I'll continue to camouflage without ending up wearing caftans.

It reminds me of a story from when I was sitting in a production meeting for a Christmas show years ago. We were going over notes and said that the Drummer Boy's pants were too short. Without missing a beat, the costumer said, "Well, it gets a hat." As if the hat was going to make the pants longer - I guess they thought the hat would distract the audience from seeing the boy's pants were too short. Gotta go get a hat - Don't Get Me Started!

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Homeopathy for this homosexual - Don't Get Me Started

For years I've told myself that I was open to the world around me, feeling its vibrating core and filling myself with its life source but when all of that life source started giving me horrible bloating that the general medical profession could not diagnose, I went to a homeopathic healer - Don't Get Me Started.

I've always had a "sensitive" stomach. Could it be all those years of feelings bottled up with my, "let me please everyone else at the expense of my own identity?" Another story for another time.

It was a not so dark or stormy night when I went to bed and soon after felt as though I was about to give birth. I was so bloated that I was sure the men were on their way to attach strings to me so that they could walk me down Broadway as a part of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. The next moring I was at the doctor. It was diagnosed as an intestinal infection, I was put on antibiotics and the dreaded colonoscopy was scheduled.

As everyone will tell you, it's not the colonoscopy it's the humidity - the sweating and chills during the day before preparations. The procedure is nothing, as they put you out, it's the drinking of Satan's juices to "clean you out" and running non-stop to the bathroom for the jet propelled expulsions that eminate from your deepest bowels the day before that could kill a person. Bottom line (excuse the pun) was that they found nothing which was good and bad news.

And so it began, my quest to have a normal stomach. The medical professional had failed me so it was on to what I lovingly call, the Zoom Gali Gali world. It was time for the homeopaths!!

Now I lived with Betsy for several years and she always swore by the crystals, the chakras and the nayonaise (mayonaise substitute made from bark or something). I had poo poo'd it to say the least. I mean, I take vitamins but the whole, let me hang a crystal over your body and it will tell me if you have cancer or a hang nail has always felt about as accurate to me as a Quija board. You know where you're always asking, "Are you moving that?"

Well desperate times call for desperate measures. So there I was at the nutritional homeopath, letting her take blood from my finger, put it on a slide and then telling me what she sees in her crystal microscope. Then all the testing begins. For those of you have never had an opportunity to do this, they put various supplements on your body and then ask your body if you need it by touching a part of your body, asking and then as you resist they proceed to try to lower your raised arm. As far as I can make out, if your arm lowers, you need the supplement. It's a bit like an old fashioned cash register or slot machine. They pull the handle (your arm) and you pay!
The really hysterical part is when they "ask" your body how many you should be taking every day. As they push on your arm they count until the arm lowers - this may also correlate to the amount you'll have to buy in order for the "practitioner" to pay this month's rent on the office.

Now let me say that part of what they tell you is that you have to "believe" in order for all of this to work. Now I clapped to save Tinkerbell, I believe in fairies but some woman who looks as though she was a librarian who took a trip to Sedona and found she was a healer at a Native American ceremonial dance she paid $200 to attend and then took the course online? To be fair, some of the drops for stress I must admit have worked great. But it all comes with the whole, change your diet, don't drink caffeine, spend your life looking for all things organic. Who has time for this other than the people who work at Whole Foods, secretly grabbing the organic papayas off the truck before anyone else can get to them?

Side story have you ever noticed that everyone who is into the whole Zoom Gali Gali organic thing look as though they already have one of their overgrown toenailed, Birkenstock feet in the grave? What is up with that - do they not see themselves? I aspire to be gaunt too but would it kill them to, as my grandmother used to say, "get a little color?"

So I bought the twelve hundred dollars (exaggerated figure - don't want you to think I'm THAT stupid) worth of supplements, I've been on them for three weeks and guess what? Every day at 5am I hear the Macy's Parade people coming in my dreams. That's right, I'm still bloated.

Now perhaps I'm just not humming correctly for the convergence or my Chi is at Starbucks instead of running through me but whatever it is, it hasn't quite worked. Of course I'm still on the supplements - I am a complete rule follower and also I don't want the supplements to become like the product graveyard I have in my bathroom of all the hair products that didn't give me more "volume", "lift", "shine" or hair like the Abercrombie Fitch boys.

Okay so a change in diet, exercise and not letting things bother me is what I would prescribe. I'm becoming like my mother who is an A.A.D. = Almost A Doctor. This is what one of her doctor's called her once when she was ill and came in with a medical journal to share her diagnosis, which was correct.

It's just the doing it that is the problem. But I'll try, I'll try...and if you all clap your hands really hard to show that you do believe in this fairy, maybe he won't end up dressed like Tinkerbell, floating above that famous parade route and his stomach will finally unbloat!!

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

The DMV is convinced I'm a woman - Don't Get Me Started

I've always been effeminate, not by choosing, just who I am. I never aspired to wear high heels shoes and lip sync to Barbra Streisand records...well, I DID do that but I was six does it still count? However, I have always been called, "Miss" on the phone, been asked to verify all my information time and time again because the person on the other end of the phone is convinced that I'm a woman and when I've been out to lunch with my friend Betsy (unshaven even) too many times the server has come to the table and asked, "Have you ladies decided on what you'd like to order?" Sometimes they never even correct themselves and I'm a "Miss" for the entire meal. Michael (my guy) doesn't believe it happens but trust me, it happens however the DMV took it to a new level when they put an "F" above the word, "sex" on my drivers license and not an "M". I've been gender-fucked by the DMV - Don't get me started!!

No one likes to go to the DMV so when I noticed 2 years after getting the license that the gender was female on my driver's license I just laughed and shrugged it off. When renewal came, I did it online and didn't even think about going down to the DMV to correct the error. So when Michael had to go to the DMV, I saw opportunity knocking and after five years the time was now to get this corrected.

I mean, how simple can you get? This was going to be easy - stand in line, explain the situation and get the new license - thank God I was having a great hair day!! The information woman listened as I told my story and she was a bit shocked at what she saw on the license. She informed me that IF they found that the DMV was at fault, they would issue a new drivers license. Come on, who the hell else's fault would it be? She gave me an express ticket to get served faster and sent me on my way, explaining that they would have to look it up on the Microfilm system and see what the records had to say about my sex.

After waiting almost 35 minutes finally my number came up. I walked the length of the DMV to arrive at station number 8. Sitting at station number 8 was an older woman, very nordic looking but my Jewy sense (much like Spidey sense by Spiderman) told me this woman was pure German. There was the name, Helenka and then the thick accent. Yes, no doubt this woman's ancestors had put some of mine to death. I again explained the situation with a sense of humor, even encouraging her to laugh at the situation. She didn't laugh, she just kept looking at me from across the table...looking me up and down, trying to undress me with her eyes to see if she could sense a clitoris!! She wasn't hearing me, she just kept looking me up and down. "Oh, zees iss vary strange. Neffer have I seen such thing." I tell her what the other woman told me, explaining she needed to go look in the Microfilm library. She types in my numbers and then writes some numbers down and pointedly looks at me one more time before she leaves for the Microfilm room. "You will wait. I go see vhat is vhat."

At this point I'm still carefree and thinking how funny this is and how Helenka will have a hell of a story to tell her husband Adolph tonight over schnitzel. I don't see Helenka for at least a half hour. When she returns she is flustered and typing away at the computer but not looking at me except every once in a while stealing a glance to see if I'm like the old Skipper doll whose boobs would grow. A supervisor stops by half disgusted with Helenka and tells her to just print the screen that she most likely got the numbers wrong. Helenka does as she is told, looks at the license again and then to me. "Ve vill find record now."

Another 30 minutes and Helenka is coming back to me. "Ve haff no record. You bring birth certificate." So now I'm starting to get a little heated. I know how to handle these situations. I ask for a supervisor. Helenka says, "You vill follow me" with a look of great disdain.

The supervisor, all four feet of her, no doubt had every Holly Hobby item imaginable. Her hair was short and all fucked up (no doubt from having just taken off the signature Holly Hobby bonnet) and her matching denim skirt and vest had appliques all over it. She was so unhappy with her own gender, how could she help me with mine? She was curt and unamused by the whole situation, explaining that Helenka and DMV policy was firm, a birth certifcate must be produced before a new license could be issued. Helenka stood in triumph once again looking to see if I'd grown boobs in the last three minutes.

I'd had enough, I said, "Look Ms. Hobby, I'd be more than happy to go in the back room with a male officer and drop my pants if this would solve the problem!" Remember that I was having a good hair day and I wanted to have that photo taken that day at any cost. Her curt manner became disdain as she spit out the words, "we need a birth certificate." I stopped myself from issuing the stream of obscenities that were running in my mind from coming out of my mouth and began to walk away. At this point she said to Michael, "What do you want?" His response was, "I'm with him...shocking!"

So, me who never called my male friends, "Girlfriend" or said, "Get her" about one of them was gender fucked by the DMV - Don't Get Me Started.

And if you don't believe me see the photo!!

Note: It was brought to my attention that I never said whether or not I got the new license. At this point I have not. I now have my birth certificate and am waiting for a good hair may stay this way until it expires in 2007...stay tuned!!!

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Sure, I'll be a hostage if it gets me a book and movie of the week deal - Don't Get Me Started

Okay, I admit, it might be uncomfortable to be held hostage, be it for 4 hours or 11 years but think of the benefits, a book deal, a movie deal, sitting on the couch next to Katie and Matt - come on, sign me up and don't get me started on this issue.

I'm sure it's stressful to be held hostage or stuck in a elevator for three days but look what you come out to - all the benefits of the famous Andy Warhol 15 minutes of fame cliche which comes with limos, money and lots of televison appearances.

Hey, I'm Amber, I got involved with a married man who killed his wife - quick, where's my agent, my stylist, my lawyer? Come on - for fucking a married man you get a movie of the week and a book deal. Where do I sign up?

Is the problem that I'm just not stupid enough. It's a bit like the aliens never landing at Harvard. The people who end up in these situations are, let's face it, as dumb as dumb can be. They'll spend all their money on a new Ford Taurus and buying their parents teeth. I'd at least give a token amount to charities!!

Now I understand that these people were put into situations not of their own design but how long do you think it will take before people will start designing their own crisis to riches stories?? As a relative of mine used to say about anything, "if they can put a man on the moon..."

I can just see it on the playgrounds of America, "NO, I want to be the boy in the shower and you be Michael Jackson this time. Because I think I can sign a bigger deal than you did with Random House and HBO if I agree to show my naked butt and curse!"

So, yes, I feel badly when I hear that someone was taken hostage or fondled but do I feel as-much-money-as-a-steroid-juiced-athlete-money-bad about it? NO! Earn your living like everyone else, if you want a bigger part of the pie and television appearances then you're just going to have to buy lottery tickets like everyone else. Don't get me started on the loons who win the lottery.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

People With THE FISH On Their Car - Don't Get Me Started

So I'm driving to work on a major freeway. I'm merging, or should I say, I'm trying to merge. I glance behind me and then to my left. To my left, I notice that the person in the car I'm trying to get past has a wooden cross hanging from their rear view mirror. So, I figure, of course, I'm in - they'll definitely let me in, yes? NO!! DON'T GET ME STARTED!!

That's right - as I tried three times (using my turn signal, thank you) the driver carrying their wooden cross, refused to let me in. And as they finally passed me, I saw that on the back of their car they had THE FISH prominently displayed. That's right folks, the sign of the Jewish fisherman, the WWJD symbol that says, we are Christians and wonderful to all of humankind, would not let me the mother-fucking-in!!! Can you believe it? I know I couldn't.

Okay, so here's what I think. If you display THE FISH you better be able to back it up. These people should go to work hours early as all they should do is "let people in" am I right? I mean here they are preaching from their car with their crosses and fish, they should be so God-Damned pleasant and wonderful. They should let you in with a freakin' smile.

So to all those people with THE FISH on your car or my favorite, on your checks, as if Jesus is waiting to make a deposit to keep you from being overdrawn, you better damn well be able to back it up with how you behave and what you do. Because not only Jesus is watching, I'm watching. You need to let people in on freeways and show that rapture on your face 24/7. So do everything it says in the bible, turn the other cheek, treat others as you would have yourself treated and for God's sake - let me the FUCK IN!! Otherwise, time to get rid of THE FISH and join the rest of us heathens!! See you in hell!!