SNR's Don't Get Me Started

Some Like It Scott!

2006-09-05T16:33:00.000-07:00

To all of you who have faithfully read my blogs here on Blogger.com, a big THANK YOU!

At the urging of many of you and others, I have now created my own web site - please visit me at:
www.somelikeitscott.com

You can read all the latest "Don't Get Me Started" blogs as well as come on along and listen to...my world on the various pages of my site.

Thanks again for reading. Please re-direct your browsers now...this message will self-destruct in five seconds....okay, no it won't but I always thought that was so cool at the start of the Mission Impossible TV series.

Thanks again for your support,
Scott

I'm Not A Woman, Hear Me Roar - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-08-23T13:30:00.000-07:00

Much the opposite of the Helen Reddy tune, I am not a woman however as many of you have read in my earlier post, the Nevada DMV was convinced otherwise. If you haven't read that entry you may want to before you continue this saga with me and the others reading...
http://dontstartscott.blogspot.com/2005/04/dmv-is-convinced-im-woman-dont-get-me.html
And so it came to pass that over the course of a year and a half, I HAD lost some weight (more toning than actual weight loss) and I had a haircut good enough to go on the dreaded driver's license. And so I went to the DMV, waited in line and then proudly proclaimed, "I am not a woman, here me roar!" - Don't Get Me Started!

There I was with my birth certificate in hand and a smirk on my face knowing that this could either go down easily or might need a spoon full of sugar for all parties involved. First up, the information counter where they figure out who you need to see, how long you need to wait and what number you get. Unlike waiting with a number at a bakery, there is no sweet treat in store for you at the end of this adventure. "Next" was the cry I heard accompanied by a less than enthusiastic gesture as I moved to the counter to be assisted by a large black man in his seventies. I thought, "This is probably not going to go so well." I had already decided on my approach, it was going to be one of those, already laughing as I explained it kind of things so as to disarm any negative thoughts on the issue itself. I figured if I sounded amused by it, he might be too. He fell right into it, saying, "Wow, I guess that was our mistake there, fella." First of all I don't know that I've ever been called, "fella" (kind of liked that) and here was John Amos' third cousin on his mother's side saying it to me. I loved it even more when he told me there would be no charge and that he was going to give me a number that would expedite the whole thing. Once again, everything your mother told you is true - don't judge a book by it's cover.

And so I waited and stared down at this license I had kept for six years saying that I was a woman. Wow, what would it be like to be a man again in the eyes of the DMV? Well that thought didn't last long because I was like, "What the fuck does the DMV know anyway?" And soon thereafter my number was called and I was headed for cubicle 19.

At cubicle 19 sat a large Hispanic woman who looked as though she was having less than a great day. "Perfect" I thought to myself, the big black man was cool and this woman no doubt is going to be where the fiasco begins (or continues in this case). And so I worked up my self-deprecating laugh as I sat down, doing the, "You are not going to believe this one." Now granted, I don't think everyone has to be enamored by the whole story but all this woman asked was if I had filled out a form for the new license. I mean, not a flinch, not a blink, hardly a glance at the scarlet "F" under "sex" on the license just, "Well, fill out this form and let me know if anything has changed since this one" as she's holding the old license. Of course my mind began racing a mile a minute...changes you say? Hmmmm....how about I've never been nor intend to be a woman?? But I just remained calm and let her know the only thing that had changed was my weight. (Yes, I was going to make the number larger because I had lied on the first one anyway but figured with my current appearance, unless I told people I had to get on some Predisone and ballooned up, no one was going to understand the 135 pounds on the license when in person I was pushing the 150 mark. Oh make no mistake, I wasn't going to list 150 but I was willing to go as high as say 145 which coincidentally is all that you should pay at an auction for someone's license that has the wrong sex listed on it!) Much to my surprise she said, "Dat's okay, we no need to changes that. Heres you go...now take this over dere to get your pictures."

She opened the right hand drawer of her desk and put the license in it, closing it and the story of me being a woman in the DMV's eyes. I did wonder if Maria Conquita was going to take it home and pass it around the table because I would think it would need to be destroyed or stapled to something but instead, she put it in the drawer without any expression. Maybe she was being polite and waiting for me to leave before she showed it to all the other DMV staff or maybe it was going to become February in the DMV calendar for next year. We'll never know because Maria had a poker face the likes of which you rarely see. Oh she was good, she could give Clint Eastwood a run for his money.

So within a matter of half an hour, I was a man. Now that doesn't mean that when I pick up the phone people don't still call me, "Miss" or when I'm in a store with a female friend the clerk doesn't say, "Are you ladies finding everything you need?" But in the eyes of the law, the state of Nevada, I had become a man and as I began my triumphant walk to the door I held up my new license to John Amos' third cousin on his mother's side and gave a knowing wink. He gave me the thumbs up sign and I began to really believe I was someone that could be called, "fella". The strains of the electronic music from the 70's began to play and I did my best Helen Reddy, singing to the music in my head - "I'm not a woman, here me roar. In numbers too big too ignore. And I know too much to go on pretending." Don't Get Me Started!

If You're Gellin', You're A Felon - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-08-18T20:18:00.000-07:00

'Twas the day after Heathrow and all through the port, no liquids were carried I'm glad to report. Travelers smelled worse than ever for no perfume was allowed and as luck would have it, I was seated next to a cow. The toothpaste was packed in the cases with care in hopes that the TSA would not go there! Enough of the ryhmes, those damned terrorists have hit us where we live - our toiletries and so If You're Gellin', You're A Felon - Don't Get Me Started!!

Okay, I've had just about enough with these terrorists, for a group of people who give the appearance of knowing nothing about hygiene, they certainly got all of us who shower, shave and FDS every day! Now they've caused something truly terrifying - travel without toothpaste, lip balm or SmartWater!!

I am glad that Mildred from Des Moines will no longer sit next to me spraying her rose water she got at the 1939's World Fair but I also don't want to have to smell Bruno who was so drunk last night that the alcohol has no place to go but out his pores and up my nose. Please give Bruno back his Old Spice and Axe!

However, the amazing thing about us Americans is that it was only day two of the war on liquids and everyone was so well behaved. Remember when you were a kid in a store and your mother had had enough of you touching things so she gritted her teeth and told you not to touch another thing? (Unlike today where "parents" feel free to yell, kick and belittle their kids at less than hushed tones in public) Well, that's what it was like at the airport. Everyone was sort of walking around with their head down a little, hands behind their back and being overly polite as if there might be a pack of gum in it for them, like when we were kids. Well, let me tell you, there was no gum or prize in it for any of us, except you had less people trying to cram their entire lives in overhead bins.

You could kind of see the flight attendants trying to hide their glee that people brought less onto the planes to go in those bins. Traveling Southwest Airlines, you see people try to shove their entire family into overhead bins usually but most only brought one carry on as their dangerous liquids like Scope had to go into a checked bag and do you know what? It made the whole process so much more bearable, dare I say it, nicer.

So there you big bully terrorists, take that - you actually made life better for us! No longer do we have to race to get on the plane to take up as much overhead room as the bins will allow. We can each put something up there AND have the full six inches of leg room they give us. That's right, you thought you were making our life more miserable...well, nah, nah, nah, nah nah - you made it so we can better get along with the rest of the people in the human race. Can you say, backfired?

Unfortunately, there is still a reason to bitch. Now we are at the mercy of a people that are much more dangerous, evil and just wrong than the terrorists...bag handlers! That's right, now that we're checking more, they are destroying more. The first casualty, my suitcase that I've been using for three years on numerous trips. Now let me say, it wasn't Samsonite so perhaps when they gave it to the gorilla it didn't pass the test but come on monkeys - how could you completely crunch up a hardsided suitcase like the beer can you smashed on your forehead the night before? Well, somehow they managed and I have to buy a new suitcase. Do I blame the terrorists, I could as they are the popular ones to attack but no, at the risk of never having my luggage arrive when I do again, it's you damn baggage handlers that I curse like Snoopy cursed the Red Baron!! Some day I'll get you bag handlers!!

I can live without liquids on a plane, let's face it, we all can and if that's the worst thing that happens to us, then we've lived a good life. All ready, the bitching has made a difference and although we can't have Carmex in a tube, you can have your favorite hard lipstick shade by Revlon. So ladies, you can look nice and if you're smart you'll pull out those solid perfumes from Avon in the 70's that were in a bear pin you could wear and apply it if you want to smell nice. But for us guys, we're stuck smelling up the place without cologne or tootpaste because if you're gellin', you're a felon - Don't Get Me Started!

Aquaman coming to the big screen - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-08-04T18:44:00.000-07:00

We all know that recently there have been plenty of big budget superhero movies. We also know that they've been doing just okay at the box office. So why for the love of the Justice League would they be talking about creating a new movie featuring one of the extras from Saturday morning super hero shows, Aquaman? Aquaman coming to the big screen - Don't Get Me Started!

I admit, with his boyish good looks and hair that we know his boyfriend (presumably Green Lantern) did on a lark and through some super power has managed to keep Aqua's blonde locks from turning green though he's in the water for hours on end, he's a hunk. But let's talk for a moment about his powers, okay? What can he really do? He can talk to fish. By Triton, he can get all the guppies and even the whales to swim in a synchronized pattern worthy of the Olympics but if an elevated train comes off its tracks or a building is on fire, I think I'd be wanting one of the landlubber heroes coming to my rescue and not the Aqua dude.

In my opinion we're getting a bit oversaturated with the super hero movies. Spiderman for me leads the pack because it actually has great scripts. I'm sure the seven people who saw the X Men movies enjoyed them, I wasn't one of the seven that saw the last two installments. Batman Begins was great acting but isn't Gotham City supposed to be New York and not Bulgaria? Between the Eurpoean sets and the cast from England the most American thing about the movie was Michael Caine (and he's British). The new Superman was so dull that I was busier watching my watch than the movie. Someone please explain to the production team that it's a comic book, not a slice of life drama and kick someone in the kryptonite for the bad casting of the least appealing Lois Lane in recorded history.

I get it, I like the idea Aquaman is no Chicken of the Sea but honestly other than those telepathic waves telling the mackerol where to get off, what can he really do for me? I think I'd prefer a movie of Patrick Duffy reprising his brillance as The Man From Atlantis and honestly, do any of us really want to see that?

No, I say the movie industry has got it wrong this time (and box office receipts would agree with me). But recently I've come across one of the most delicious bits of guilty pleasure that will surely satisfy your super hero needs. Don't miss the SciFi channel's, Who Wants To Be A Superhero? This show not only features Stan Lee, the father of all the really important super heroes, as the host, judge and jury but the cast will slay you. Eleven people were chosen (from I'm sure a million freaks) to compete in a competition where they don't win money but immortality as the winner receives a comic book created with their hero and a SciFi movie. That's right, these people have come up with their own ideas of what a super hero is (and the costumes too). Each week they compete in a super challenge but you find that Mr. Lee is looking more for the pure of heart than if they have x-ray vision. Imagine if you will Aquaman going up against Fat Momma - a super hero who gets her super powers through the doughnuts she eats from her utility belt! Or even Cell Phone Girl, recently eliminated from the show when Mr. Lee informed her that she was out of minutes. While the show does and doesn't take itself too seriously (I know I want my super heroes to have a sense of humor) in its own way it teaches you about human nature, valor and something we're all in need of, more goodwill toward our fellow man.

So I say, "Screw Aquaman" - if we want to see a movie in the water filled with self-indulgence we'll rent Waterworld. Bring on Major Victory who has the catch phrase, "Be a winner, not a weiner!" or Monkey Woman because at least I get what these super heroes are going to do for me. But Aquaman coming to the big screen - Don't Get Me Started!

I'm A Project Runway Blog Finalist - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-08-02T18:16:00.000-07:00

At the urging of some friends, I decided to enter a competition to become a featured blog writer for season 3 of Bravo TV's critically aclaimed series (Yes, I'm sucking up) Project Runway!!!

Well, guess what lovers of my blog and me? I'm one of the 10 finalists and you have until Monday, August 7, 2006 to go to the Bravo web site and vote for me - Don't Get Me Started.

So if you're reading this, open a new window in your web browser and vote for little ol' me as the blogger of choice for Project Runway!!

The name of the blog is Mishigas with Scott by Scott R.

Thank you in advance for your support and please keep reading the blog below.

New updates coming soon including the exciting fact that I've finally convinced the Nevada DMV that I'm a man - please scroll down to read The DMV is convinced I'm a woman - Don't Get Me Started

Thanks again for reading now get off your ass and vote for something important - ME and Don't Get Me Started!!

Note: Thanks everyone for making me the winner of the Ultimate Fan Blog competition for Project Runway. You can read my blogs for the show at http://www.bravotv.com/blog/runwayfanblog

Thanks again for your help and for reading!!!

Lance, I was wrong - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-07-30T23:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know when I've been licked. I also know when I've gone too far. As many friends, relatives and people out there in blogland have told me, I'm wrong about Lance Bass. And so I will concede this once, Lance, I was wrong - Don't Get Me Started!

I guess it's really another small step in acceptance that the generation that put N*Sync posters on their walls (and can now vote) may possibly accept gay people more because they loved Lance when he was in the boy band and can't imagine not loving him over a small thing like being gay. My friend/co-worker Kim was shocked to find that Lance Bass was gay and she was less than pleased that I was shocked that she was shocked...all too shocking, all the way around.

And when you stop to think about it, perhaps Lance's female fans will understand a little better what it's like to be a pal to a gay man, I could use the common term, "fag hag" but I'm being apologetic and don't feel that's appropriate - oops, too late. This just might save them the trouble of trying to "save" a gay man by sleeping with him, trying to make him straight. Allowing them a way to avoid the common mistake and heartache of falling for a gay man.

I can't lie, I did have to laugh about Lance's "boyfriend" stating that he just so happens to have a book coming out soon about his life and that although Lance didn't encourage him to write it (they haven't known each other that long and the book was already in the works) Lance was very supportive of him having written it. What does that exactly mean? Two orders of 15 minutes of fame being doled out at the same time? I can see the two of them now on Tyra's couch. (It's a little low brow for Oprah and doesn't have enough to do with saving the world or losing weight to make it on Oprah). Here's a tip for you Lance, don't expect the book to be dedicated to you.

But we should be pleased that supermarkets will allow the cover of People to be in the front of all the magazines with the title "I'm Gay" on the front of it. Not some tabloid telling you that some celebrity is gay that probably isn't (come on the Enquirer has to sell papers too) but an honest to goodness celeb saying he's gay and okay. Wasn't that a book? I'm so gay, it's okay! Well, it should be one.

And when you think about it, what's worse anyway, Lance Bass saying he's gay or a drunken Mel Gibson behind the wheel of a car swerving and swearing against Jewish people? Things may just be worse for Mel than Lance because as we know, us Jews and gays own Hollywood.

So Lance Bass, although you probably don't care and we'll most likely never meet, I say, "I'm sorry. I'm glad you've accepted your membership card and all I can do it hope that you'll put it to good use. And thanks to you Justin and Joey for making statements in support of your pal and Lance, I was wrong - Don't Get Me Started!"

Lance Bass is gay...and? - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-07-26T16:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, is it wrong of me to not understand how "shocked" everyone is about Lance Bass announcing he's gay or is it more wrong of me not to care what Mr. Bass does with his 15 seconds of fame, period. So, Lance Bass is gay...and? Don't Get Me Started.

The reasons you should have already know Lance Bass was gay are overwhelming but a few are...first - just look at him, second - he's a big Kathy Griffin friend (guess he can "officially" be counted as another one of her "gays" now) and finally - he was all fired up about paying the Russian boys to take him to space - if I had the money, I'd send him.

Not only is there no reason to care about him being gay, it's almost comical the way he worded his big "coming out" in People magazine. He states he is in a "stable relationship" - what the hell is that supposed to mean? STABLE??? What, is he dating Mr. Ed? I mean come on, I've been with the same person for 18 years this August and I've never called it a "stable relationship". Oh it's a wonderful, loving relationship but what is that word, stable, all about? I mean, are we in the ICU? Can relationships also be in serious but stable condition? And don't even get me on my soap box about not being able to get into a hospital room of my guy because the wackos representing Jesus don't like the idea. What makes the use of the words stable relationship even more yummy is that he's dating some guy from a reality show. Don't you just love that? Need some publicity old boy banders? Well, come out but don't just come out, find a hot gay guy from a reality show and you just extended your fame for another several seconds!

The bottom line here - sorry Lance, is that it's what I like to call a "Jimmy Cracked Corn" issue - "And I don't care!!" I care that things are crazy in the Middle East, that people are dying fighting a war that will not really make things better for anyone, and I especially care that everyone is running scared because gay people want rights. Hunger, homelessness, US health care and AIDS far outweigh the Lance Bass news.

Supposedly the "bloggers" outed Lance Bass, the people they should be outing (that we should all be "outing") are the parents of kids who when they discover their kids are gay at 14, throw them into the streets. These are the kids that are going to need some help recovering from coming out and being thrown out. All this means for Lance is that the gay boy at Starbucks will only charge him for a grande and give him a venti. I'm not blaming Lance in the least because he didn't start this firestorm but honestly, think for a minute about all the horror stories of coming out and I think even Lance would agree that his was pretty stable. I'm one of the fortunate ones who never had trauma or doubt that my family and friends loved me when I came out but I know enough people who did and I wonder what it would mean to them to see People or the bloggers cover that story?

So good for Lance but until he cures cancer will I be saying, "One small step for gays, one giant step for mankind." As my grandmother used to say, "There's a lid for every pot." And I hope that Lance has found his in his stable relationship. As for the project he announced in his coming out article about him and Joey Fatone hoping to do an "Odd Couple-like" sitcom, if I were him I would try to get more mileage out of the gay angle and try to swing a deal with MTV to let him and his reality hunk be the first wacked gay couple to get their own series like Nick and Jessica and the rest of them. And to those of you who were shocked by this news...Lance Bass is gay...and? Don't Get Me Started!

The gay, gay, gayer than gay weekend - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-07-24T17:14:00.000-07:00

My Friend's Birthday Weekend In Palm Springs

The Anticipation

Oh dear God, is the only phrase that comes to mind at the moment. My dear friend from LA is throwing a weekend birthday bash this weekend in Palm Springs. I'll know about 6 of the 1200 guests, not a problem as I'm a social delight but that isn't what has me worried... What has me worried is that they are going to be LA GAYS...all of them...and here I'll be, feeling like the country gay among the city gays. Where do I live? Vegas of course. That's not what makes me the country gay obviously, what makes me the country gay is that I've been with the same man monogamously for 16 years. I haven't been to one gay bar in all my time in Vegas. I'm the straightest, effeminate gay in all history!!! My guy is out of town so I'm flying solo on this one, which is probably better as my guy has no time for the put on swish talking that sounds as though everyone's tire has air leaking. There's no chance of me fitting in - none. I'm not thin enough, buff enough, I'm not tan enough, my teeth aren't white enough, I haven't had enough surgery or movie deals. Oh God, why didn't I stick to that work out plan? Maybe when I go to the tanning salon this week they can give me a stencil for my abs...oh dear Lord, I don't care that it's going to be over 80 degrees, I can't and won't take my shirt off. I can't do it. I can't get the 8 inches onto my biceps and off my waist before Thursday. Maybe I can Karen Carpenter it and throw up from now until Thursday...then I'd have extra skin...perhaps an ACE bandage?? Too crazy...stick to a plan...as my mother always says, "Plan your work and work your plan." What does that even mean?? These are successful upwardly mobile gays, you know the kind you see in the Range Rover gay ads and the ones with the sunken cheeks in the gay magazines. I'm about to walk into an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog looking as though I came out of the Field and Stream!!! HELP!!! I refuse to be the Charles Nelson Riley among the Robbie Williamses...no caftan and large glasses...maybe Truman Capote...a nice linen look with hat...oh God, I'm too short too!!! I AM Truman Capote without an interesting novel or touch of brillance to make me seem eccentric! Breathe...I must breath and do Yoga non-stop for the next four days. Maybe I can have people pledge me like a marathon. Stop coming up with fund raising ideas and figure a way to raise your metabolism. It's all too much...I can't take it, I can't possibly take it...okay, well maybe I can. I adore my friend and he came to my 40th so there's no way out. Where's Roy's tiger when I need him...that's the only way out. Being mauled by a tiger...okay, I live in Vegas but still, no chance of that really happening. Must think, I'm a wonderful liar but there's no way out of this one. I must resign myself to the situation. I haven't bought shorts in three years - I'll have to go to the mall tonight...all those long shorts making me look even dumpier than I am...and then I'll tan, there's no hope, I may as well buy the God Damned green wig and accept the fact that I will be the Oompa Loompah of the party. Imagine how droll I'll sound, "What? You mean it isn't a costume party? I had no idea...gee, do I feel silly. Change? Oh...umm...well...this is all that I brought...wear something of yours? That's so sweet but I'm sure I can't imagine doing that 22 inch waist speedo it's true justice." It's a bit like seeing the accident in your rear view mirror...all you can do is brace yourself and take it. (Sounds like the first time I had sex but that's a story for another day, I'm too upset.)

Coming Soon...The Weekend...

Well, I'm on the other side of the weekend now and here's the report. They say it takes a big man to admit when he is wrong, in this case it's just a short Jewish boy saying, "I was wrong." Not only was it one of the more relaxing weekends I've spent in my life, I believe I met some really swell people that will be in my life for awhile. Here's the thing, there were a few gay couples who had been together for awhile so that was my crowd that I hung out with mostly which I believe made it easier. Had I been there with just the swinging singles, it may have been a different story. Now some of these revelations are going to sound obvious or even ridiculous but I must say them none the less. I guess that without knowing it, I've been a bit of a gay snob. "I'm not jumping from bed to bed and I don't need to spend a weekend with everyone hubba hubbaing one another." that would be a typical response from me. Thing is...there really IS a sense of community, a sense of warmth that I believe comes from the common bond, not of sleeping with the same sex but the struggles one faces in growing up homosexual in America. There was plenty of laughter but there were also hugs on goodbyes, even people you barely knew. And not hugs to feel one another's asses as the religious right would have you believe but a caring, it was great spending time with you, you matter type of hug.

Is it disappointing to not have outrageous stories to tell, "then they came out naked, except wearing feather boas and did Ain't No Moutain High Enough, ala the Supremes." Or is it just that when you make fun of something, even self-depricating, you on occasion have to look inward. Was it my own fears of not being accepted? Attractive enough? Special enough? That made me feel the way I did before and the way that I feel now that it has passed?

All I know is that there is comfort in walking with people who have walked in your shoes. And just because the people are gay, doesn't mean that they are stiletto heels, by the way.

Oh sure there was hilarity abounding and it would make a nice 90 minute play, God knows, the dialogue was brilliant but when it was over, I was left with clarity - I enjoy being a gay (sorry about that, Flower Drum Song) and being around these people enriched my own soul - who knew?

No Miss America Networks But A Spelling Bee - Don't Get Me Started

2006-06-02T20:03:00.000-07:00

Now I'm not someone who sits around with a tiara on holding my souvenir program from Miss America while I just "absolutely die" who gets into the top ten, but I do like watching the pageant. I even did shows with a Miss Delaware and went to Atlantic City to see her compete in her talent prelminary (which she won). So you can imagine my surprise this year when all the networks shunned this tradition and allowed the Cable Country Network to pick it up. Okay, so maybe they didn't think it was entertaining enough, even after they put the talent portion back in, but imagine my horror when I turned on network TV last night to discover that there was two hours of a spelling bee? That's right, no Miss America networks but a spelling bee? - Don't Get Me Started.

No one can deny that Miss America over the years has taken some wrong steps. As the before mentioned situation with the removal of talent for a year or how about when they made all the girls (fuck it, Gloria Steinam, that's what they are - girls - even though some look so old you could swear you saw them on a commercial for Polident) when the girls went bare foot in the bathing suit competition? Horrible, bad ideas. What we need is a cheesy singer that comes on, then the girls parade about culminating in a minimally choreographed opening number that makes you wonder if any of the girls can really dance and who it was that took money under false pretenses as a choreograph to create
the number. We need some talent, some evening gown, swimwear and a single question - winner picked among tears and good night. I think the pageant ran into trouble when it started with all the high tech crap showing scores like they were batters for the Yankees. Another bad move was the, "let's meet the family segments" where they would show the girls actually bowling with disabled kids - I'm sure she hangs with every weekend. What we want is a smiling, good looking girl who can speak and clog dance a little. Is that so much to ask for, huh?

But no, you networks executives demand more, you need the excitement of let's say, poker? We all know how amazingly interesting that can be to watch but now you've done it. You've really done it. Before, with the network's help, little Asian girls could dream of playing their violin or piano in a gorgeous evening gown but now what do they have to look forward to? They can finally be on television spelling words that I don't even think should be allowed. Knadeil? A German/Yiddish to English word meaning dumpling? You're going to tell me that's a bigger accomplishment than playing The Devil Went Down To Georgia on violin in sequins? I think not.

And yet, the similarities of the two events are shocking. They had the "let's meet the family" segments, they had the "dun dun dun" suspense music, they had the commentary spoken so low you thought you were watching golf and yes, there were even tears. Now I'm not saying it's not great to encourage kids to know how to spell or to have spelling bees but for God sake, I don't want to see them on network television. I'm not sitting on the edge of my seat waiting to see if they'll make it through spelling a word of latin origin meaning to skin a cat. But you put a gal in a sequined leotard up there trying to catch a flaming baton and my blood pressure goes through the roof!!

Maybe I just miss the glitz and glamor. I mean, they couldn't even dress these kids up. They were wearing their school uniforms or khakis. Maybe if they had dressed them up and given them a rap-like opening number where they're all spelling at the same time like a great Opera piece or something. See, that's all we're really asking for, a little entertainment with the learning and maybe just maybe at the end of the whole thing they could have them walk the stage as letter shaped confetti fell from the heavens. It just needs a better director and producer but as I'm writing this I do see its potential.

What did the networks see? Some executives were sitting around banking on Akeelah and the Bee, the movie Starbucks got behind without realizing that a bunch of caffeined up people who can't even spell "latte" don't give a shit about some spelling bee movie. Starbucks has moved on (to a stupid ass tropical theme that makes you long for Harry Belafonte, not his daughter, or the stupid decor pieces they've put up) but the network was stuck, they had already signed the bee and had to air it. I can only imagine how great the ratings were and I'm doubtful they've signed the bee up for another year but maybe a cable network like the Food Network can pick it up next year and theme the words so that they spell words like, "oregano". Networks be ashamed of yourselves, no Miss America networks but a spelling bee - Don't Get Me Started!

My Parents Are In Rehab - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-05-19T19:57:00.000-07:00

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!"

Once Again, My Gay Membership Is In Danger Of Being Revoked - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-05-16T17:04:00.000-07:00

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!!

It Has Happened, I've Become One Of Those Animal People I Hate - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-05-11T11:29:00.000-07:00

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!

Lesbians, We All Get It...Take The Rainbow Off Your Car - Don't Get Me Started

2006-04-20T20:16:00.000-07:00

Now first let me say that I have never understood the rainbow as the international gay symbol. I don't know why but it's always seemed a little sad to me that the rainbow is being used to represent one group of people. Come on fellow gays, do we really need a symbol? No! We need it like the people with the Jesus Fish on their car. But why, amazingly enough is it that whenever you see a car with the rainbow on it, 9 times out of 10 it's a lesbian? We all get it...take the rainbow off your car and Don't Get Me Started.

I have to say I loved the rainbow when Judy Garland sang about it (see, I am really gay) and I loved my Mork from Ork rainbow suspenders back in the day but somehow the rainbow has been tainted and I'm not sure there are too many happy little bluebirds that don't want to fly over the rainbow and puke from the rainbow/gay mania.

What you need to understand is that my grandfather sold Cadillacs and my father always told us, "Don't put any bumper stickers on your car or the resale value will be shot to hell." This is the same man who would never let us put anything in the garbage disposal because it might break it. To this day, I don't put bumper stickers on my car and I don't use the garbage disposal!

In fact I've grown to despise bumper stickers and the people who put them on their car. Once a day, at least, I want to ram the back of someone that has the W04 bumper sticker on their car. It took me forever to figure out what it meant when they started popping up everywhere. I'm ashamed to say I thought it was about the hotel originally! And when I pass these people on the road, I give them nasty looks as I pass. That's right, I do! Of course they can't see me because they're twelve miles higher than me in their Dodge Ram pick up and I'm in my Mini Cooper but stare I must.

Worse than the one tasteful bumper sticker people are the people who feel the need for a thousand. The people who have the stick figures on their back window with the same amount of "boys" and "girls", "cats" and "dogs" as their family make me want to wretch. These are people who have finally found a way to take their dumb ass scrap booking skills and put it on their mini vans. Or the "My child..." people. Come on, if your child was that smart he'd be cracking codes for the government somewhere...is he doing that?? Then don't tell me he's so smart. Or the new ones which have sunk to a new low..."My Child is a good citizen at Monroe Elementary." What's next? "My Child can wipe his own ass!" What they should be saying is, "My Child is doing as well as can be expected with drugs, Ipods and Britany Spears around, all I can hope is that he becomes a useful member of society and doesn't move back home when he drops out of college. " To say we're lowering our expectations of what we're shouting about on our cars is an understatement.

But I digress, it's the rainbow people we need to go after. Much like the people who come to my door to let me know Jesus died for my sins or the people who put signs in their lawn stating, "Say No To Gay Marriage". Can't you just keep your God Damned opinions to yourself? I'm delighted you have an opinion, I just don't want to see it on a sign, a bumper sticker or in the recent Jesus Cliff's notes pamphlet that was mailed to me by some odd organization in the wooded areas of California. Still trying to figure out how I got on that mailing list!

And riddle me this, Batman, why oh why when you see the rainbow stickers is it almost always on some beat up piece of shit car and as you drive past, the person driving is almost always someone who looks like the dictionary definition picture for lesbian? Look closer and you're bound to see the "Hate is not a family value" sticker somewhere on this car and a rainbow air freshner hanging from the rear-view mirror that is hanging on by a thread.

Now don't get me wrong, I want everyone to feel good about themselves but lesbians, please, take the money you spent on that sticker and go back to Super Cuts to remove that long piece of hair that put you in the mullet hall of fame. Having long hair in the back doesn't make you look more feminine it makes you look like you have no taste. Or as my grandmother used to say, "the only taste that person has is in their mouth."

I'm not attacking only lesbians, there's usually a few men you'll see who have the rainbow on their Volkswagen Passat but it's usually done more tastefully like a Nike swoosh that's rainbow colored. I hate these guys just as much.

I guess in the end I'm really just upset that we need a symbol - call it a carry over from my Jewish ancestory. If I had been in Poland during the Nazi period there wouldn't be enough room on my coat between the yellow stars and pink triangle. Hell, I'd look like a bowl of Lucky Charms! At the root of it all I just wish that we didn't have to push who we were into everyone's face.

(Prepare yourself for me to be serious)

I guess what I really want is for people to see me for me and judge me for who I am as a person. Love me for my merits and flaws or hate me if you don't think I'm all that great. I can respect that but I don't want you to judge me based on some symbol that a bunch of people figured out could make them a lot of money from the overzealous.

I'm not one of the fortunate gays who "pass", as the light skin blacks did in the day. I'm effeminate. I don't purposely try to put it on, it's just who I've always been. And much like the discrimination in the black culture (which I've learned from loving a black man for 17 years) the gays don't much like us, the feminine ones, because we keep the stereotype alive. Funny to me are the big muscle gays who could rip your head off but when they open their mouth it sounds like gas is escaping somewhere. But God love 'em, that's where they are in their own head.

(And we're back)

So why put the rainbow on your car people? Don't you know it will shoot your resale value to hell? I don't care that they have Goo Gone now. It may do what you think it does, makes you just like the straights. But in the end, is that what you want? Isn't it diversity we're supposed to be celebrating by who we are and how we live our lives? Do we really need a rainbow? Much less on our cars? Well, I guess that's where your head is and I should respect it but you should know, when we drive past you lesbians, we all get it - take the rainbow off your car and Don't Get Me Started!

Even "The Gays" don't like to be rear-ended (always) - Don't Get Me Started!

2006-02-04T11:28:00.000-08:00

It was a sunny Saturday and I was off to the gym. There I was parked at a light when from behind me I saw it, a 70 year old man in a 1980whatever Ford station wagon going way too fast to stop. As described by most who have lived through it, time went remarkably fast considering all the emotion and thoughts I was able to have in what seemed like a slow motion sequence from the 6 Million Dollar Man. With no where to go, I braced myself and then I felt my Mini Cooper becoming a little more Mini than it had been previously. And so you see, even "The Gays" don't like being rear-ended (always) - Don't Get Me Started.

I knew that my car was in bad shape from the look on the face of the driver of the other car in my rear view mirror and the fact that my neck was already feeling warm from the knot that had been created. I saw that he was okay and as I closely watched him pulling over behind me I was already on the phone with 911. Being in business, a little anal and knowing I was leaving for Miami for a week on business that Monday, I knew, though I'd never been in an accident like this, that the process needed to start immediately.

By the time I got out of my car, the police were on the way. The old man apologized and I asked for his insurance card. No time for pleasantries, what was done was done - I just wanted to start putting Humpty together again as soon as possible. I had already spoken to his insurance company and he was talking to them when the police arrived.

The officer was your standard, "Oh, another car accident, why couldn't this be a drug bust with naked whores" kind of guy. I don't blame him, I truly believe that if you have lost your license in another state or been thrown out for lousy driving that there's a "Welcome to Las Vegas kit" that arrives soon after at your door. No one knows how to drive here in fact, the first year we were here the anchor of the evening local news said in all seriousness around Thanksgiving, "And I know that some of you will be driving to other states this holiday season so please remember that you need to stop at red lights and you should use your turn signals." No joke, you always need to wait a couple of seconds after the light turns green here as some Elvis impersonator is zooming through his red light so that he can get to the Elvis-themed wedding chapel to marry someone for much less than one payment on his pink Cadillac from 1971. (He tells people that Elvis gave it to him put actually his mother earned it selling Mary Kay cosmetics. It took him days in 1984 to scrape Mary's insignia off the back!)

At any rate the officer proceeded to ask all the usual questions and suggested that we move our cars out of traffic and go to a parking lot for everyone's saftey. What happened next was your typical dream come true, reports, tow trucks and a trip to the body shop.

Now here's the thing, I guess you could chalk it up to inexperience or having lived my entire life to please everyone else but I was shocked to find out just how much no one wants to really help you in these situations. Not the passer-bys who in some odd way are pleased to see a little red sporty car get its due so as they walk past sipping on their Starbucks are smiling to themselves. I'm talking about everyone involved that is supposed to help you. The police - bored, wishing it were really a much worse accident so he could break out the chalk for an outline. My doctor, "Oh he couldn't possibly see you, this is an accident case, you need to go to an urgent care facility or hospital or something." My insurance, "Act like you don't have the same insurance as the guy who hit you because that will make it easier for you in the long run. Then just make them handle everything, I can't help you, he hit you." His insurance, "Well, I guess go to the doctor if you feel you want to and everything and when you're completely done let me know and we can talk but consider yourself lucky this really wasn't a bad accident (translation, don't expect more than $2 as far as settlement goes). The rental car place, "Look this was paid for by the insurance and this is what you get, I know you're supposed to get something similar to what you drive but all we have is a Dodge Neon with manual windows. What? I don't care that you've hurt your shoulder and will have to lean over the passenger seat to unlock the passenger door or crank the window, this is what they paid for so what do you want to do?"

And so it went for seven weeks of no car, bad rental car, doctor visits and finally the day arrived when I could pick up my car. There it was, all clean and cute. Except for the glob of glue that was oozing from under the Mini logo on the back and the fact that the back door was sitting about 4 inches from the rest of the car. But they took it in the back and when they brought it back it looked like my car again - what I could remember of it. It's strange the fact that suddenly you see things that were probably there all the time but never noticed when you get it back from a body shop. All that was left was to settle with the insurance company.

Now let me say that I know this is going to make me sound like a snob but I don't care. When the insurance woman said to me, "I seen worser cases than this." I just lost all hope. I mean the woman didn't even know how to speak correct English what chance would I have to getting her to understand me when it came to settlement time? And so I rolled over once again and took what they gave me and moved on.

Because in the end, no one's really going to help you because they don't care, so all you can do is move on with some lessons learned. And so it came to pass that I learned the biggest lesson of all...even "the gays" don't like to be rear-ended (always) - Don't Get Me Started!!

All Cast Changes Must Be Cleared Through Me - Don't Get Me Started

2006-01-21T15:55:00.000-08:00

I know that I haven't written in awhile but I was considering showing the softer side of me for 2006, thank God I've come to my senses. And speaking of resolutions for a new year, I said I wouldn't write about the gym again but here we go. Due to everyone's new year's resolutions, everyone has seemed to dust off their memberships and pack the gym when I want to work out. I usually go early afternoon each day but due to the large crowds I decided to go on a Saturday at noon. Well, let me just say there's a different cast on Saturdays and from now on, all cast changes must be cleared through me - Don't Get Me Started.

Let's begin with the usual weekday cast of characters. Keep in mind that the following will be just as my life, heightened for my own and hopefully your amusement. While the description of the people's looks will be accurate, their life stories are what I imagine as I watch their shapeless bodies pass my eliptical machine. What I love about my gym is that it's very low maintenance, not a lot of preening incredible hulks running around lifting weights the same weight as their primer gray El Caminos. There are lots of older people and a few younger people but they basically all keep to themselves. On any given weekday, the characters include:

Harriet and Bob - they're slight of build and have been married for 45 years. They joined the gym when Bob retired from his job as an insurance man.
Greta - yes, her parents named her after the Swedish film star that took silent film and then talkie Hollywood by storm. In her early seventies in complete face make-up, after a few minutes on a treadmill, she dons her Esther Williams worthy bathing cap and readies herself for water aerobics.
Jenny - she was never popular in high school and now after having her four children she decided to do something about her physical health. Wearing her mom-styled sweat pants pulled too far up her body, showing every ounce of cellulite and the flatest, longest butt in recorded history the pilling of the polyester fabric is noticable from a mile away.
Sue - an Asian thirty-something climbing the corporate and the mechanical ladder. She weighs all of 80 pounds at 4'11" in her crop top and tights she's adorable but hasn't dated in two years. As she climbs the stairs that keep coming in perfect succession, she sweats and turns the pages to Who Moved My Cheese, the book she's reading as she works out.
John - A sixty-something huge black man who probably was a coach of something once. He seems at complete ease as he struts around the gym with his hooded sweatshirt on with a towel around the neck ready to sweat at any moment. He's kind of the mayor of the gym and has a jovial smile and wave for all that pass.
Mike - His salt and pepper hair and slight build are made to look even more slight with his over sized t-shirt tucked into his nylon hot pink shorts pulled up to his nipples. I've never seen him actually work out but he always seems very busy.
There are various other characters there, the high school boys, the high school girls, the tri-athelete who looks like he's about to pass out on the treadmill but on the whole they're a harmless bunch of people that I'm sure are nice as can be.

Now due to the fact the above characters are the norm for my gym there's no need to have my hair look right or worry about my appearance in general. As shocking as it may seem, it actually means that I can use the gym to work out without worrying about approval from passerbys - something I don't enjoy in any other aspect of my life.

January hits and suddenly every day there are all the people who have made resolutions, have watched the Biggest Loser or had a relative buried in a piano box after passing from a heart attack due to their weight at the gym when I want to work out. There are moms with overweight kids, men preparing for their mid-life crisis by trying to get the body they had when they ran track in high school 25 years ago and some people who I think are just there to be drinking out of the water fountain when I need a drink or clinking weights for no apparent reason. It's basically wall to wall neurosis. They'll all be gone by February, having given up on their resolutions but for now, they're in my gym and I'm not happy.

So I decided to go to the gym on Saturday afternoon to make up for the loss of a couple days in the middle of the week beacuse there was nowhere to work out due to the throngs. Sure my hair is all fucked up from sleeping and I'm wearing a ripped t-shirt but who's going to be there to care or impress, right? Well, somewhere along the way, the cast changed and no one told me.

I walked in and the mood was immediatley different, as I mounted my eliptical machine I looked to my right, my left, in front of me and as far as the eye could see, it was like watching the gay march of the penguins:

Bobby and John - The Kennedy boys - they look almost identical in their Ivy league look and demeanor. No one would ever suspect under their matching work out outfits that they had the LaCoste alligator tattooed over their left nipples. It was a crazy thing they did in South Beach last season during a drunken night to symbolize their love for one another and mens better sportswear.
Alex and Terry - the tiniest Asian boys you've ever seen. Slight in stature, saving a ton of money because they buy their clothes in the boys department, although they're in their mid-twenties they're a size 16 slim in boys pants. They weigh all of 70 pounds and are so feminine, that I suspect the reason they're here working out is to audition to be in the chorus of The Crying Game - The Musical!
Steve and Tim - they're the captain and co-captain for their high school's LaCrosse team. Tim has no idea that Steve is gay and in love with him, it will all come out after they win the division championships, get drunk and Steve kisses Tim but for now, Steve spots Tim as he lifts large weights. Steve steals glances at the other penguin couples and dreams he could tell Tim his inner feelings when they stop for coffee at Starbuck's after their workout like they do every Saturday but for now only Steve thinks that this weekly workout tradition is actually dating.

There are a couple of gay singles at the gym but much like the sheep in Brokeback Mountain, they're needed for the plot but no one's paying them any rabbit ass mind.

Bazooka Joe - he looks exactly like the cartoon character wrapped around a hunk of pink sugar. He's got the baseball cap facing to the side, freckles and seems awkward and out of place with the gay boys.
Luiz - he was a gang member at the age of 12 before he realized that he was more interested in the bandanas and boys than the gang activities. So while he has his name tattooed on his neck, he's softened his looks with a pierced nose and creating a waif-like appearance. You still wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley but all of those thoughts go out of your head when someone drops a weight near him, he squeals and clutches his pearls. Between every set he applies his chapstick like a professional drag queen.
David - He's not too muscular but gives that Abercrombie athletic appearance. He's oblivious to the other boys working out and the sun tattooed to his right shoulder can be seen perfectly due to the sleeveless shirt he spent an hour picking out before he came to the gym.

There I was in the middle of all these couples and all I could think of was this was way too much pressure for me. So I may go back on the weekend to work out again but I'll be sure to have my hair done and at least one designer article of clothing on.

And as I left the gym to the strains of Ce Ce Penniston's, "Finally" playing on my Ipod I thought someone really needs to do a Showtime series based on the cast of the gym. Forget daytime television - these peope are MUCH more interesting however all future cast changes at the gym must be cleared through me - Don't Get Me Started!

Let Them Have Christmas - Don't Get Me Started

2005-12-02T19:51:00.000-08:00

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!

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

2005-11-24T13:58:00.000-08:00

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!!

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

2005-10-30T13:02:00.000-08:00

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!

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

2005-10-24T18:09:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-10-24T13:15:00.000-07:00

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!!

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

2005-10-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

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!

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

2005-09-23T12:05:00.000-07:00

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!

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

2005-08-26T16:20:00.000-07:00

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!

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

2005-08-07T19:13:00.000-07:00

I never thought that it would happen to me, that I would become one of those people...you 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"...like 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!

Homeopathy for this homosexual - Don't Get Me Started

2005-05-28T20:12:00.000-07:00

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!!

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

2005-04-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

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 day...it may stay this way until it expires in 2007...stay tuned!!!

2005-04-18T11:53:00.000-07:00

The License!!!

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

2005-04-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2005-03-08T14:03:00.000-08:00

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!!