Let me begin by saying that I adore my parents. We are your typical Jewish family. My parents, my brother and I are all the same height and are up one another's asses on a daily basis. Why? Because quite frankly we really love one another, spending time together and being a part of each other's lives. That said, we're bound to drive one another crazy. One of the things that makes me absolutely insane is the fact that my Mother gets everyone's name wrong as well as a few other things. If it's not Liza Minnelli or Frank Sinatra the celebrity's name will be slaughtered. It was a couple of months ago that my parents went in for a check up - they do everything together to the point where I will be going to prison one day because when one goes (it should only be a million years from now) I WILL have to kill the other one. So after the check up we're immediately on the phone at which point my Mother drops the bomb that my parents are going to rehab - Don't Get Me Started!
After I was able to get my car back on the road (when my Mother reads this she will roll her eyes and say, "He's so overdramatic. What he makes from me no Mother should have to endure.") she explained to me that due to her weight and having never had any physical exercise that the doctor was sending her for some physical therapy to assist her with not only her back and a few other ailments but it would also be a great way for her to start a work out regimen and get in shape. I guess that it's called, "Rehabilitative Therapy" but leave it to my Mother to say she's in rehab and now that I've corrected her a thousand times, I'm convinced she still says it to make my head explode. Soon after my Father joined her and now they're both in rehab. No, it's not like having Robert Downey, Jr. and Courtney Love for your parents.
I think that my Mother actually likes the shock value of saying they're in rehab. Hell, I like saying it too - thus the title for this posting. There was a time I said to Michael, "I have this fear that I'm becoming my Mother." His response was, "Becoming?!? You ARE your mother!" The good news is that they're both doing really well and will hopefully start feeling great but now I need to go to rehab because I've become my Mother.
What is it that makes you insane when your parents do something that if anyone else in the world did you would find it funny, charming or even delighftful? I'm sure I don't know the answer to that but I'm sure you've all experienced it.
Take my blog, the other day I posted the blog before this one and sent it to my Mother. Her response, "Okay it's enough already with the gay thing, we get it, can't you write about something else?" And now that I've written about her she'll say, "I don't like attention, you shouldn't write about me." So in order to be able to leave this post on I'll end it here to be safe to not draw too much attention to her although once the papparazzi get ahold of this news you can forget about them following Britney Spears dropping her baby because the Enquirer cover will read, "My Parents Are In Rehab - Don't Get Me Started!"
Friday, May 19, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Once Again, My Gay Membership Is In Danger Of Being Revoked - Don't Get Me Started!
Let me say that although I live in Las Vegas, I consider myself a country gay compared to my LA gay friends. They all seem so more "with it", "about it" and certainly more knowing of what is new in the gay world. I've been with the same man for almost eighteen years in a monogamous relationship so how would I know? Well, one weekend with my two gay pals from high school and I soon found out that once again my gay membership is in danger of being revoked - Don't Get Me Started!
We all traveled back to our stomping grounds of Arizona for a weekend because our old high school was about to implode the auditorium we acted, sang and danced such classics as "There Is Nothing Like A Dame" and "Lucky Be A Lady" - remember that we started out as actors! Now I adore Greg and Dave and when the three of us are together I think of us as "The Three Muskequeers!" Except our names are Aramis, Vetiver and Paco Rabanne!
So we went to a lovely five star resort where we layed by the pool, refused to use our "spa" voices as we laughed and howled over how witty we were and are and even the other people at the spa pool seemed to be generally amused by us. I've often held the feeling that when other people see us they want to be us because we really do have so much fun together. We talked about life, old times, recent times and future times when we would be laughing as hard as we are now.
One of our topics of conversation was that recently I had discovered craigslist. Now I know many of you reading this right now are saying he just "discovered" this site. Well, as I said, I'm a country gay who doesn't get out much. Now for those of you not of the knowing, craigslist is a site where you can find someone to take your old couch off your hands, find a roommate, find someone to take your old roommate off of your hands or just find someone's hands to touch you all over. You go to the site and then click your city to see what opportunities and goodies are available in your area.
Now let me say this is not a gay site at all but they do have the "personals" section where "men seeking men" can click. And so I clicked, I couldn't help myself. Of course I'm still gay enough to know to only click on the posts that have a "pic" listed but then I was even more shocked by what I saw. Now I know I live in Vegas so maybe ours are a little raunchier than most cities as we are Sin City but imagine my surprise to see not only people looking for sex but some within minutes of when they posted on the site - I mean these people are like, "It's 10pm and I need to get off by 10:20pm don't expect a reply if you don't send a pic." I have this image of some lonely guy trying to figure out how to use the timer on his camera and trying to take the perfect picture of himself only to find out he's missed the 10:20 deadline by five minutes. Explain to me how someone posts a photo of their ass with their hands spreading the cheeks can then list themselves as "discreet". I think if you post your colon on a web site you don't have the right to consider yourself discreet. Now the LA gays tell me that some guys make up stories to add to the mystique of the whole experience but there were several that stated, "My wife is asleep, if you're at my hotel (name withheld to protect the hotel) tell me what room you're in and I'll come to your room for some hot times now." I have these horrible images of Betty from Dubuque laying in bed dreaming after seeing a Barry Manilow concert while her husband Mike is down the hall doing Peter from Peoria! Some of the people on the site aren't even in Vegas yet but list themselves as wanting to come to Vegas if a "generous" man will help them with all expenses while they show a photo of themselves holding a quarter in their ass! It was all pretty shocking to me and the LA gays loved my shock at it all. And so it occured to me, could the "men seeking women" part of the site be as, for lack of a better term, graphic? I clicked again and was not all that surprised that no one really was asking for sex in 20 minutes and the most shocking photo was of a guy in a bathing suit on his boat. Yet another gay stereotype confirmed to anyone who can click - the gays are all about sex and sex is all about the gays - not true of course, but to the untrained eye it would appear this is the case. Oh how Aramis and Vetiver laughed as I told them of the different posts and how shocked I was that people really use this as a means to find Mr. Right In The Next Twenty Minutes.
Later we went to a gay dance club. In almost eight years of living in Vegas I've only been to one gay club, twice and both times was with the Muskequeers. This should tell you about my gay club experience. I swear it had to be Teen Steam night at this club. Now we all look good for our age, I mean really good - I'm Peter Pan and the other two look like my lost boys (another blog for another day) but these kids looked as though all fifty of them had piled into Jimmy's car because he was the only one among them that had a real license and not just a learner's permit. Not only did I used to dance in shows (yes, after high school) I even taught dance. I love dancing and was excited to "shake my groove thing" - imagine my surprise when some of the boys started looking at me as though I was Elaine from Seinfeld. Vetiver looked at me and politely said, "No one claps anymore, you snap now." Well, you can imagine my fucking surprise - so no one claps, eh? The gays have just become too cool for a little clapping, eh? How can they show they're a part of the show when the Village People shout, "We want you, we want you, we want you as a new recruit?" Have I really been away this long or is it that I never did and never will belong to this part of gay life?
Oh I'm gay alright (I've got the man, Broadway albums and cats to prove it) and even though I don't have a membership card, once again I fear my gay membership is in danger of being revoked because I clapped when I should have snapped - Don't Get Me Started!!
We all traveled back to our stomping grounds of Arizona for a weekend because our old high school was about to implode the auditorium we acted, sang and danced such classics as "There Is Nothing Like A Dame" and "Lucky Be A Lady" - remember that we started out as actors! Now I adore Greg and Dave and when the three of us are together I think of us as "The Three Muskequeers!" Except our names are Aramis, Vetiver and Paco Rabanne!
So we went to a lovely five star resort where we layed by the pool, refused to use our "spa" voices as we laughed and howled over how witty we were and are and even the other people at the spa pool seemed to be generally amused by us. I've often held the feeling that when other people see us they want to be us because we really do have so much fun together. We talked about life, old times, recent times and future times when we would be laughing as hard as we are now.
One of our topics of conversation was that recently I had discovered craigslist. Now I know many of you reading this right now are saying he just "discovered" this site. Well, as I said, I'm a country gay who doesn't get out much. Now for those of you not of the knowing, craigslist is a site where you can find someone to take your old couch off your hands, find a roommate, find someone to take your old roommate off of your hands or just find someone's hands to touch you all over. You go to the site and then click your city to see what opportunities and goodies are available in your area.
Now let me say this is not a gay site at all but they do have the "personals" section where "men seeking men" can click. And so I clicked, I couldn't help myself. Of course I'm still gay enough to know to only click on the posts that have a "pic" listed but then I was even more shocked by what I saw. Now I know I live in Vegas so maybe ours are a little raunchier than most cities as we are Sin City but imagine my surprise to see not only people looking for sex but some within minutes of when they posted on the site - I mean these people are like, "It's 10pm and I need to get off by 10:20pm don't expect a reply if you don't send a pic." I have this image of some lonely guy trying to figure out how to use the timer on his camera and trying to take the perfect picture of himself only to find out he's missed the 10:20 deadline by five minutes. Explain to me how someone posts a photo of their ass with their hands spreading the cheeks can then list themselves as "discreet". I think if you post your colon on a web site you don't have the right to consider yourself discreet. Now the LA gays tell me that some guys make up stories to add to the mystique of the whole experience but there were several that stated, "My wife is asleep, if you're at my hotel (name withheld to protect the hotel) tell me what room you're in and I'll come to your room for some hot times now." I have these horrible images of Betty from Dubuque laying in bed dreaming after seeing a Barry Manilow concert while her husband Mike is down the hall doing Peter from Peoria! Some of the people on the site aren't even in Vegas yet but list themselves as wanting to come to Vegas if a "generous" man will help them with all expenses while they show a photo of themselves holding a quarter in their ass! It was all pretty shocking to me and the LA gays loved my shock at it all. And so it occured to me, could the "men seeking women" part of the site be as, for lack of a better term, graphic? I clicked again and was not all that surprised that no one really was asking for sex in 20 minutes and the most shocking photo was of a guy in a bathing suit on his boat. Yet another gay stereotype confirmed to anyone who can click - the gays are all about sex and sex is all about the gays - not true of course, but to the untrained eye it would appear this is the case. Oh how Aramis and Vetiver laughed as I told them of the different posts and how shocked I was that people really use this as a means to find Mr. Right In The Next Twenty Minutes.
Later we went to a gay dance club. In almost eight years of living in Vegas I've only been to one gay club, twice and both times was with the Muskequeers. This should tell you about my gay club experience. I swear it had to be Teen Steam night at this club. Now we all look good for our age, I mean really good - I'm Peter Pan and the other two look like my lost boys (another blog for another day) but these kids looked as though all fifty of them had piled into Jimmy's car because he was the only one among them that had a real license and not just a learner's permit. Not only did I used to dance in shows (yes, after high school) I even taught dance. I love dancing and was excited to "shake my groove thing" - imagine my surprise when some of the boys started looking at me as though I was Elaine from Seinfeld. Vetiver looked at me and politely said, "No one claps anymore, you snap now." Well, you can imagine my fucking surprise - so no one claps, eh? The gays have just become too cool for a little clapping, eh? How can they show they're a part of the show when the Village People shout, "We want you, we want you, we want you as a new recruit?" Have I really been away this long or is it that I never did and never will belong to this part of gay life?
Oh I'm gay alright (I've got the man, Broadway albums and cats to prove it) and even though I don't have a membership card, once again I fear my gay membership is in danger of being revoked because I clapped when I should have snapped - Don't Get Me Started!!
Thursday, May 11, 2006
It Has Happened, I've Become One Of Those Animal People I Hate - Don't Get Me Started!
It all began so innocently, a small kitten walks into your open door one day and then two years later you're trying to get off the phone with people because you'd rather play with your cats. As much as I loathe to admit it, I have become one of those animal people I hate - don't get me started!
It was a nice day and we had the doors and windows open when Michael says, "Honey, look over there by the kitchen." And there she was, this tiny little black and white kitten that had no idea where she was or why she was there. (Only later would I find out that she had actually been in our home before.) Now everyone in the neighborhood knows all the animals in the neighborhood and no one knew where this kitten came from much less the larger kitten that was almost identical to her that was wandering our streets. So we all created the story that this was a kitten and the other larger cat must be its mother and they had been abandoned.
At this point it's probably a good thing to let you know that we only had one pet, a dog, while I was growing up - a small Cockapoo that was named Apollo Skylab due to my brother's love of the space program. I know nothing about cats, hamsters, birds or iguanas.
The plan was simple, round them up, find a no kill shelter and do a good deed for the kitties and humanity. Well after two days of coaxing and many visits from the tiny kitten, the larger one finally came in from the outside. Now Michael had many cats and dogs in his day so he was the expert. What the expert immediately found out was that the larger kitten was a boy so that killed the mom and baby theory. What it appeared was that this was a brother and sister act and that the female kitten was the runt of the litter, her older brother taking care of her on the mean streets of Las Vegas. Except now they were in the comfort of our home.
Michael, who is the living breathing version of Doctor Doolittle, immediately began "fixing" things for the cats including meals, sleeping areas and structured play. I sat back in amazement at his abilities, knowing I didn't possess any of them. And yet, something was telling me, in the back of my mind, that these cats were never going to make it to that shelter we had researched. It was when Michael declared that we should give them a week of living in luxury before we sent them to the shelter that I started knowing I was in trouble. And then, the heart breaker...I walked in to see them sleeping one day and they were literally hugging one another in their sleep. Oh God, I defy a serial killer not to have their heart melted on that one. How could we take them to a shelter where they would be adopted out separately? How would they sleep without the other to hug on? And so it came to pass that these were going to become our - ugh, as I'm writing this the urge to write "children" came too easily and I've made myself a little sick to the stomach, they became our cats.
While Michael was concerned with them getting their shots, I concerned myself with I guess what you would call creature comforts such as the electronic kitty litter pan and my brother and sister-in-law sent the automatic water fountain for them as my brother is an executive with a pet supply company. They had all the comforts in the world and I became acquainted with a roller that has tape on it to get the fur off of everything. Wherever they went I went behind them rolling their existence away. No way was I going to become more of the stereotype of a cat person by walking around with clothes covered in cat fur.
And so Michael went out of town for a month and I was left as both father and father to the cats with no real knowledge. The cats still went in and out of the house because we didn't feel we could make them house cats when they had been enjoying outdoor exploits for about six months of their life already. I freaked at the first partially dead bird they brought me but was more disgusted by what Michael called "canning it" which was the male cat's ability to bring everything from a half eaten pork chop to a roasted pepper home from some garbage can in the area.
I emailed our friends with a picture of the cats assuring them they wouldn't see holiday cards with one lighting the menorrah and the other decorating the Christmas tree. We would not, I proudly announced, become the people we knew who left their car running with the air on while eating dinner out because their dog wanted to come along. In these people's case, if they all went to get in the car and the dog jumped into the "shotgun" position, the spouse sat in the back of the car - seriously, this went on. We would also not be the people who cook all organic now and create special meals out of the "cat cuisine" cookbook. We would be a normal gay couple who just happened to own a couple cats, not the stereotypical gay couple with cats. Except we named them after characters from Wicked, the Broadway Musical based on the life of the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz. They were given the romantic leads' names, Elpahaba (the wicked witch) for the girl and Fiyero (the Winkie the witch falls in love with) for the boy. Okay, just reading that make me say, "Hello Gay Stereotype!"
Now remember that I know nothing about cats and Michael is away working for a month. So the first round of shots was a breeze except no matter how much of a good deed you've done by taking in two stray cats, you still have to pay double for everything. Little did I know that there was another round of shots needed in a month and that we couldn't spay or neuter them until the second round of shots - whatever the hell that means. Well, what that means is Michael said to me, "You know while I'm away, you're going to have to watch them in case she goes into heat." The only heat I know about is growing up in Arizona and I think it's an NBA team. And so it began, me staring at the cat for hours on end, waiting, waiting, for any sign of "the heat" that I knew nothing about. When Michael filled in the details and said, "Oh if she goes into heat, you'll know." I became a crazed human being. What if "the heat" happened when I was at work? What happened if "the heat" happened when they were roaming through our neighbor's yards? (We already had the white trash kitties of the neighborhood because while they were getting used to the idea of their new home, owners and that we were going to be feeding them, it didn't stop them from still begging at every door other than ours) But now I begin to think of the possibilities. What if Elphaba went into "the heat" and Fiyero couldn't contain himself? To have the white trash kitties of the neighborhood is one thing but a brother that gets his sister pregnant and we'd immediately be scheduled for an appearance on Jerry Springer for cats! Thank God, "the heat" didn't happen before Michael came home and we were able to take them to be spay and neutered but it was a long month, I'll tell you that much. During the month at one point Fiyero came in and was scratching. Only after I had spent the $200 in flea and tick medicine, house bomb, etc. did Michael make me aware that he was scratching because it was getting hot outside not because of fleas or ticks.
The good news is that I've gotten more educated about the cats. I had no idea that they slept so much and was ready to sign them up for B-12 shots and an exercise program when Michael informed me that this is what they do. And while they're more than comfortable in our home, including sleeping in bed with us, they still exhibit what Michael calls, "adopted" behavior when someone raises their voice or strangers come into the house.
The bad news is that I defend their behavior, allow them to wake me in the middle of the night when they want to be petted, and I stop my friends mid-sentence if they are visiting me and in the middle of telling me about their recent life crisis because the cats do something cute. Unfortnuately for me and those around me, it has happened, I have become one of those animal people I hate - Don't Get Me Started!
It was a nice day and we had the doors and windows open when Michael says, "Honey, look over there by the kitchen." And there she was, this tiny little black and white kitten that had no idea where she was or why she was there. (Only later would I find out that she had actually been in our home before.) Now everyone in the neighborhood knows all the animals in the neighborhood and no one knew where this kitten came from much less the larger kitten that was almost identical to her that was wandering our streets. So we all created the story that this was a kitten and the other larger cat must be its mother and they had been abandoned.
At this point it's probably a good thing to let you know that we only had one pet, a dog, while I was growing up - a small Cockapoo that was named Apollo Skylab due to my brother's love of the space program. I know nothing about cats, hamsters, birds or iguanas.
The plan was simple, round them up, find a no kill shelter and do a good deed for the kitties and humanity. Well after two days of coaxing and many visits from the tiny kitten, the larger one finally came in from the outside. Now Michael had many cats and dogs in his day so he was the expert. What the expert immediately found out was that the larger kitten was a boy so that killed the mom and baby theory. What it appeared was that this was a brother and sister act and that the female kitten was the runt of the litter, her older brother taking care of her on the mean streets of Las Vegas. Except now they were in the comfort of our home.
Michael, who is the living breathing version of Doctor Doolittle, immediately began "fixing" things for the cats including meals, sleeping areas and structured play. I sat back in amazement at his abilities, knowing I didn't possess any of them. And yet, something was telling me, in the back of my mind, that these cats were never going to make it to that shelter we had researched. It was when Michael declared that we should give them a week of living in luxury before we sent them to the shelter that I started knowing I was in trouble. And then, the heart breaker...I walked in to see them sleeping one day and they were literally hugging one another in their sleep. Oh God, I defy a serial killer not to have their heart melted on that one. How could we take them to a shelter where they would be adopted out separately? How would they sleep without the other to hug on? And so it came to pass that these were going to become our - ugh, as I'm writing this the urge to write "children" came too easily and I've made myself a little sick to the stomach, they became our cats.
While Michael was concerned with them getting their shots, I concerned myself with I guess what you would call creature comforts such as the electronic kitty litter pan and my brother and sister-in-law sent the automatic water fountain for them as my brother is an executive with a pet supply company. They had all the comforts in the world and I became acquainted with a roller that has tape on it to get the fur off of everything. Wherever they went I went behind them rolling their existence away. No way was I going to become more of the stereotype of a cat person by walking around with clothes covered in cat fur.
And so Michael went out of town for a month and I was left as both father and father to the cats with no real knowledge. The cats still went in and out of the house because we didn't feel we could make them house cats when they had been enjoying outdoor exploits for about six months of their life already. I freaked at the first partially dead bird they brought me but was more disgusted by what Michael called "canning it" which was the male cat's ability to bring everything from a half eaten pork chop to a roasted pepper home from some garbage can in the area.
I emailed our friends with a picture of the cats assuring them they wouldn't see holiday cards with one lighting the menorrah and the other decorating the Christmas tree. We would not, I proudly announced, become the people we knew who left their car running with the air on while eating dinner out because their dog wanted to come along. In these people's case, if they all went to get in the car and the dog jumped into the "shotgun" position, the spouse sat in the back of the car - seriously, this went on. We would also not be the people who cook all organic now and create special meals out of the "cat cuisine" cookbook. We would be a normal gay couple who just happened to own a couple cats, not the stereotypical gay couple with cats. Except we named them after characters from Wicked, the Broadway Musical based on the life of the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz. They were given the romantic leads' names, Elpahaba (the wicked witch) for the girl and Fiyero (the Winkie the witch falls in love with) for the boy. Okay, just reading that make me say, "Hello Gay Stereotype!"
Now remember that I know nothing about cats and Michael is away working for a month. So the first round of shots was a breeze except no matter how much of a good deed you've done by taking in two stray cats, you still have to pay double for everything. Little did I know that there was another round of shots needed in a month and that we couldn't spay or neuter them until the second round of shots - whatever the hell that means. Well, what that means is Michael said to me, "You know while I'm away, you're going to have to watch them in case she goes into heat." The only heat I know about is growing up in Arizona and I think it's an NBA team. And so it began, me staring at the cat for hours on end, waiting, waiting, for any sign of "the heat" that I knew nothing about. When Michael filled in the details and said, "Oh if she goes into heat, you'll know." I became a crazed human being. What if "the heat" happened when I was at work? What happened if "the heat" happened when they were roaming through our neighbor's yards? (We already had the white trash kitties of the neighborhood because while they were getting used to the idea of their new home, owners and that we were going to be feeding them, it didn't stop them from still begging at every door other than ours) But now I begin to think of the possibilities. What if Elphaba went into "the heat" and Fiyero couldn't contain himself? To have the white trash kitties of the neighborhood is one thing but a brother that gets his sister pregnant and we'd immediately be scheduled for an appearance on Jerry Springer for cats! Thank God, "the heat" didn't happen before Michael came home and we were able to take them to be spay and neutered but it was a long month, I'll tell you that much. During the month at one point Fiyero came in and was scratching. Only after I had spent the $200 in flea and tick medicine, house bomb, etc. did Michael make me aware that he was scratching because it was getting hot outside not because of fleas or ticks.
The good news is that I've gotten more educated about the cats. I had no idea that they slept so much and was ready to sign them up for B-12 shots and an exercise program when Michael informed me that this is what they do. And while they're more than comfortable in our home, including sleeping in bed with us, they still exhibit what Michael calls, "adopted" behavior when someone raises their voice or strangers come into the house.
The bad news is that I defend their behavior, allow them to wake me in the middle of the night when they want to be petted, and I stop my friends mid-sentence if they are visiting me and in the middle of telling me about their recent life crisis because the cats do something cute. Unfortnuately for me and those around me, it has happened, I have become one of those animal people I hate - Don't Get Me Started!
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