Even If She’s The Last Doctor On Earth And I’m Dying, Don’t Call Dr. Laura – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

There are really so many reasons not to like Dr. Laura that the list would be endless if we tried to assemble it here so I won’t but she was on Larry King tonight and let me just tell you, she’s not aging well in mind or body. I’m sure she has a degree from some university but even if she’s the last doctor on earth and I’m dying, don’t call Dr. Laura – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

 

First of all, with all her right wing money, you’d think she could do something with the way she looks. She claims to have had botox at some point (and quite a bit of it) but she’s “off the hooch” as it were and I’m telling you, she looks like a “pooch” and needs to get back on it! Her face is so leathery that they’ll be making handbags out of the skin on her neck before long meanwhile what the fuck was that she was wearing? Some sort of farkatke hot pink jacket that had so much trim, it looked a little like the playschool girl version of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” jacket. Whenever she smiled, I swear to God (my God, not hers) that she looked just like the Grinch from the cartoon. You know, a little scary and sad all at the same time. The only difference is that I don’t see her heart growing three sizes larger any time soon.

 

Besides the fact that I’m convinced Larry King is completely animatronic at this point, more mechanical than The Borg and that Anderson Cooper is in another studio throwing his voice like Edgar Bergen, tonight he was on it and not letting her off the hook about much…until…he’s about to go to commercial and he leads to commercial saying that she’s going to talk about gays and gay marriage when we come back. (I must admit, I was watching Judge Judy on an alternate channel so the Tivo went on so I wouldn’t miss a minute) well, when I went back to watch the rest of the show, guess what? When Larry came back from commercial he mumbled something about the fact that Dr. Laura has chosen not to discuss gay issues as she’s not an expert in that area. Oh really? Did you think she was an expert before the commercial? Do you really think the producers didn’t tell her she was going to be talking about this as well as hyping her new book – 10 Stupid Reasons To Buy Into Dr. Laura’s Brand Of Hate? No, I have a feeling that Dr. Loser just saw how things were going with Larry King nailing her to the wall on divorce and women who get pregnant when they’re raped and knew she wasn’t up to talking about, “the gays.”

 

Oh, that was a good one. So she claims she’s a “recovering feminist” which basically means that somewhere along the way she decided to stop getting a “pearl necklace” and wear one (if you know what I mean). So now she’s against abortion and when Larry asked about a case where the woman gets pregnant from a rape, Dr. Loose Screw actually said that she gets more calls from women who have had the child and want to know the proper age to tell the child that they were conceived by a rape. Do you know what her answer was? “Never, Never, Never.” Good advice there, Dr. Lobotomy better the kid learns it on the street, like no one’s ever gonna tell that kid?

 

The thing here is, that I’m sure in her mind her logic makes perfect sense but she’s a moron. She makes Dolly Parton as Dr. Shirley in the movie “Straight Talk” seem more like a real doctor than she could ever be. I also adored it when Larry asked her if she ever saw patients and she was like, “Oh no, not for years.” Trust me when I say that she does this for self-preservation because on or off meds, who could blame a patient for losing their patience and just smacking her, trying to get some sense into her?

 

She’d better stay on the radio where she can be heard and not seen. Mostly because she’s kind of taking on the look of what I would imagine Polly Purebread from Underdog might look like today (had she aged) and yet she’s all Snidely Whiplash whenever she opens her mouth.

 

She’s just a bitter woman who makes Anita Bryant look like the Grand Marshall of a Gay Pride Parade. And we all saw what happened to her, she couldn’t sell orange juice anymore so she went into oblivion (or as a dear friend of the family, who is a teacher told us another teacher came up to him at the start of the school year and said she had eaten herself into Bolivia!) oblivion or Bolivia she can go either place until she shrivels up three sizes and goes to meet her God, who I suspect will be waiting for her with his eyes rolled back so far into his head they’ll be at the base of his neck when he sees her and can’t even begin to think what to say to her then struggling for something to say, says to her, “Oh, so that’s where the Murphy Brown wardrobe went.” So please remember that no matter what kind of a doctor she says she is, even if she’s the last doctor on earth and I’m dying, don’t call Dr. Laura – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Who are these people that sit at Starbucks all day? – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I know there are a lot of “envies” out there, people want to be thinner, richer, taller, shorter, more this or more that and when they see people that possess the particular quality that they think they want, it can get ugly. As I always say when I see it happening anywhere, “Jealousy is an ugly emotion and you’re not very pretty right now.” Well, sure there are plenty of things I’d like to be when I grow up but lately as I stop in for my morning cup of coffee on my way to work I’ve seen a new breed of people that I would like to be - the person who sits all day at Starbucks on their computer. But I also have to know, who are these people that sit at Starbucks all day? – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I used to cringe when I would go to my parents’ various “breakfast places” they’ve had over the years. Now don’t get me wrong, they don’t eat out every meal but as a family let’s just say we spent a lot of time sliding into a booth for a meal (and we didn’t have a booth at home). Just like the old show, Cheers, when my parents would walk in, the entire staff at the diner or restaurant would know them, greet them by name, come over for a chat and what made me really cringe was that the staff knew me, even before meeting me. When the server would come over to our table, a typical exchange would go something like this, “Are you the married one or the actor? Where do you act? What are you doing in town? You’re parents are pretty proud of you but sure do wish you could land a sitcom.” Needless to say this inquisition, especially in the morning was the last thing I desired but grew to expect. My point here is that on my continuing quest to break out into new territory and not become my parents, I have failed miserably. The entire staff at my Starbucks calls my name the minute I go through the door, start making my drink before I order it and although I hate to admit it, they know about the cat being bitten, my website and just about everything besides the size of my underwear. As I once said to Michael, “I have this fear I’m becoming my mother.” His response, “Becoming?!?” Okay, I’ll admit it, destiny, destiny, no escaping that’s for me! (That was for you Young Frankenstein fans out there)

 

But I digress. What gets me is that there are always I’ll say three or more people who have “staked out” their table, usually have the laptop open and are sitting there in their sweats and a t-shirt from the Molly Hatchett concert in 1982 complete with holes and funk. And I just have to wonder who these people are and what they do for hours on end at Starbucks? I’ve talked to what I call my “Coffee Angels”, the staff, about it and the stories they have told me are outrageous. One guy insists that they turn the music off completely as it disturbs his reading. (And the team there has actually been instructed to accommodate this guy!) Never mind the fact he’s nursing his same tall latte for hours on end like a drunk at a bar with only two bucks waiting for someone to say, “The drinks are on me!” And then there is the guy in the suit who supposedly works at the building next door but seems to have all his meetings at Starbucks. He sits there and watches us, the cast of regulars who stop to get our coffee on our way someplace else, and says stuff like, “Whoa, just a grande today, huh?” or “You’re a little late this morning.” It’s all too personal and I just know that at some point he’s going to ask me to sit at “his” table and try to sell me insurance or something. And then you have the people with the laptop out, the files they’re pouring over (which are pouring off the table) and on their cell phone, “I don’t care what he says, we’re holding out for a better offer and you can tell him if he tries to fuck me on this deal I’m coming after his kids.”

 

The deal here is that individually, I don’t really want to be any of these people but I would like to be able to sit in Starbucks all day on my laptop and phone and watch the parade of caffeine addicted people walk by. The problem is, I would be too self-conscious I mean, when I look at these people I think, “What the hell, do these people not have homes or jobs to go to today?” I couldn’t take the pressure of what people would think of me just sitting there. So in retrospect, I guess it’s true what they say, the grass isn’t always greener, even though the straws are at Starbucks. So, I’ll continue to take my coffee to go but someday, someday maybe I’ll be able to sit there for a day, becoming part of the landscape and wondering if the people coming in are looking at me wondering, who are these people that sit at Starbucks all day? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Advocate Magazine – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

The following are two letters I wrote to the editors of Advocate magazine. For those of you who don’t know, Advocate has been one of the leading magazines covering Gay, Lesbian, Bi-sexual and Transgender (GLBT) issues for what seems like forever. Having just received my recent issue, I’m bummed to tell you that neither of my letters appears in their publication and therefore I decided I would share them with all of you. I just need you to know that even though I tend to “go off” I can also admit when I’m wrong and at least I write a great letter! Advocate Magazine – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Dear Advocate Editor,

I’ve never written into a magazine in my life but here goes. I’ve been a longtime member of the HRC and when they sent an incentive offer to get a subscription to your magazine, I took the offer because I had always held The Advocate in high esteem as the reigning GLBT magazine. Well, I just received my first issue and boy has your tiara slipped!

 

Am I wrong in remembering that at one time your magazine was the frontrunner in telling us about issues and important things? Maybe things the government and others were trying to cover up, take away from our community or just plain stories of other GLBT people making a difference in the world? What happened?

 

First of all, the “magazine” is a pamphlet it’s so thin on content and has the depth of Tiger Beat. I’m not saying it all has to be about disease and social consciousness but come on, give us a little something to think about. Your free website is far more interesting than your magazine ever aspires to be and at least online you have some people of color represented!

 

Most regrettable is the story of Greg Paz, who can’t walk the streets of WeHo without taunts about his weight so he got a gastric bypass. As someone who was called, “fag” every day in high school, slammed into lockers and tried to act like it didn’t matter, I still carry the scars though I’m in my forties and it never ceases to amaze me that the GLBT community that craves acceptance can’t accept one another. Or at least play a little nicer. I’m not overweight but I’ll never be “gay thin” and you know what? I still managed to find someone and be in a monogamous relationship for eighteen years now. I know, 18 years and monogamous, in the gay world it’s like dog years and so I guess we’ve now been together for 89 years or something. Add the fact that I’m a short Jewish guy and my partner is a six foot black man who was an altar boy, let’s face it, we’re the poster children for hate crimes! So Greg, I hope you do feel better but losing weight isn’t going to make the queens treat you any differently I’m afraid because no matter how thin you get it will never be “gay thin” enough. Accept yourself and when you figure out that you matter you’ll find someone that matters to you.

 

Now Advocate, I like the silly, fluffy pieces as much as anyone else but it can’t all be Twinkies and Ding Dongs. I ask you to consider, just consider that maybe you, like Greg Paz, have gotten a little soft in the middle because of too many empty calories. I know this was the Fall Entertainment Issue but to use entertainment terms, this issue was two thumbs down.

 

Here’s hoping you find a few good reporters who will enlighten us as opposed to giving us a glossy, slick magazine that we tell our friends the reverse of the old cliché when explaining why your magazine is on our coffee table, “Oh I don’t subscribe to it for the stories, I really only get it for the pictures!”

Here’s Hoping,

Scott R.

www.somelikeitscott.com

Las Vegas, Nevada

 

And then my second issue arrived and I had ranter’s guilt!

 

What can I say dear, after I say, “I’m sorry?”

 

The subject of my email is from an old Doris Day song from Love Me Or Leave Me but it’s how I feel. I recently wrote my first letter to an editor (ever) after receiving my first issue of The Advocate. (I am attaching the original so you can see how much I have to apologize for now that I’ve received my second issue.)

 

Not only did I get the second issue and raise a jaded eyebrow, I let it sit for a couple of days wondering if I was even going to open it or just let the Nip/Tuck cover become a coaster on my coffee table. Well, open it I did and boy am I glad. I read every page, cover to cover (almost not putting it down) and have even re-read some of the articles. My expectations in choosing The Advocate as my one magazine subscription have definitely been validated now that I’ve received my second issue.

 

I apologize for a quick judgment based on one issue and I’m writing to say, I was wrong.

 

Again, I’m sorry about the rash judgment when it came to your magazine and the nasty-gram via email. I will proudly display your magazine in my home, talk about the articles with others and renew the subscription when the time comes.

 

Sincerely,

Scott Rosenzweig

 

And so I’ll keep getting Advocate magazine but I have to tell you having my letters essentially “turned down” though I know they must get a million of them and also having had some of you tell me you nominated my blog for their search of favorite GLBT blogs and not heard from them, I have to say, Advocate Magazine – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

 

I Was Thrown Out Of The Cub Scouts – A Vintage Don’t Get Me Started!

 

No, I wasn’t thrown out of the cub scouts as a 42 year-old, although we all know that even if I possessed the skills to create a fire using my teeth and bark, could find my way through a forest by catching the scent of a raccoon, and pitch a tent using only popsicle sticks and a ziplock baggy, the scouts have made it very clear that they don’t want “The Gays.”

 

Occasionally I’ll share with you some of the more horrific, I mean, molding experiences in my life that had me saying, “Don’t Get Me Started” from an early age. I may not be the only person that these things happen to but come on, thrown out of cub scouts, the DMV saying you’re a woman on your driver’s license, being left on a stationary bike for forty-five minutes your first day at the gym because the trainer they assigned you went to lunch, give me a little credit for having some original experiences and managing to laugh about them.

 

And so this is part of what I’m calling my “Vintage” Don’t Get Me Started blog series that will appear from time to time and yes, I was thrown out of the cub scouts – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

So I had to have been about ten or something and my brother, who is twenty-two months older than me was joining so of course I joined. Now understand that my brother and I have always been opposites so why we thought it would be a good idea for me to join the scouts or have my brother join my singing and dancing group (We did over 200 performances, everywhere from nursing homes to a performance for President Nixon – when he was still in office) seems a bit stupid in retrospect. But I was going to try to fit in with the other kids (a lifelong struggle) dammit and besides, I liked the costume, I mean uniform.

 

So the school year began and every Thursday afternoon we would wear our uniforms to school. Instead of putting our hands on our hearts to say the Pledge of Allegiance we would do our scout salute. After school we would walk over to our Den mother’s house – Mrs. Areola (I kid you not, that was her name). Mrs. Areola had two boys, the same age as my brother and me, so the four of us would walk from school to their house wild with anticipation about today’s scout project. Okay, now I can admit it, I was an actor from an early age, I didn’t give a shit about the projects but I always seemed very interested for the sake of fitting in and not humiliating my brother – two things I was never very successful in achieving.

 

Every week we would learn something from our scout bible and we would do some art project or something to take home with us. It was all pretty standard stuff…that is until the holidays started to roll around. Now I’m a rule follower like you would not believe but if I see an injustice (or I’m bored and want attention) I can become a real soap-box-speech-delivering pain in the ass. Everything was going fine during the fall, I had done some chores without being asked so my “cub” pin could be turned right side up, we went to the carved pumpkin competition that was held in our school cafeteria one night, I was really scouting, baby. But as with much of my life, fitting in and being a part of the whole was soon to come to an end.

 

The first ugliness came around November. And so it came to pass that the project of the week was to cut out (with an Exacto knife) a balsa wood Christmas ornament and paint it. Now I can’t draw a straight line with a ruler or can’t cut anything straight (avoid the pitfall of a gay stereotype not so funny comment in your mind, I’m rising above it – at least for the moment). So already I was at a disadvantage and as I like to say, “When you’re at a disadvantage, kvetch about it…to anyone and everyone.” I can’t remember exactly what words were exchanged, I bitched about not wanting to do this because where the hell was I going to put a Christmas ornament? And I’m sure I went on about how offensive it would be to my parents (which it wouldn’t be) that there was no accommodation (much like a Kosher meal) for Jewish scouts and I think I finished it up with a big, “And no, we don’t have a Hanukkah bush to put it on – that’s dumb, no self-respecting Jew has a Hanukkah bush!” Mrs. Areola handled it like a champ and I believe I left there that day with a toy soldier ornament (that someone else had cut out for me) being reconciled in my own mind that at least he looked like the Prince in The Nutcracker!

 

We had a few decent months but then we started getting ready for the Scout-o-rama! Now what this really was I don’t remember or know but I know that we were busy every week making our wallets from wallet kits, threading the leatherette cord through the almost leather panels to create something no one could possibly ever use let alone want to buy (typical that I only remember the shopping aspect of this event). Each “pack” would have a booth to sell their wares and we each had to sell a certain amount of tickets for the event. So we were working like Kathie Lee’s sweatshop kids to get our stuff together and I don’t know when it happened but somewhere along the way I lost my tickets (probably printed on a “ditto” machine). Mrs. Areola was outraged and told me that I had to pay for the tickets I had lost. I was shocked and appalled (yes, all at the same time), here I was making my fake Louis Vuittons from cardboard basically and they were going to hold me over the coals for some lousy tickets? “Look at this workmanship! Look at his, why he didn’t even choose the proper coordinating color leatherette cord for his wallet, no one will buy that shlock.” I’m not sure if Mrs. Areola removed me from the room or what happened, it’s all a blur, but when the dust settled, it was decided that it was probably best for me not to continue on in my scoutly duties. I’m sure my brother was horrified. I think he stayed in scouts for like two more months.

 

But like a true Scorpio, it didn’t end with that scene. I went to that Scout-o-rama rising above the petty ugliness that had taken place (I may have even found one of my missing tickets to get in). I also got back at Mrs. Areola and scouting too. You see, there’s a golden braid that goes under the epaulette on your uniform that was passed from scout to scout, you only got to wear it one week and then it passed to the next guy. I think that made you the main scout that week or something. Well, it just so happens that I had the braid the week that I was tossed out and it went with me. That’s right, Mrs. Areola had to buy a new braid and that made me happy. And so my scout shirt (with the golden braid) would remain in my closet well into high school and not to get too Brokeback Mountain on you but much like the last scene in the movie I would take the shirt out from time to time, hold it and reminisce about a season with the scouts, saying, “I swear, scouts…” I was thrown out of the cub scouts – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

The Only Hummer I Want Around Me Is Someone Humming A Show Tune – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I don’t know why but it seems as though Las Vegas has more Hummers per capita than any other state in the US. No, I don’t have any “real” numbers to put behind this claim but as I drive my Mini Cooper on the streets of Las Vegas, I’m always pulling up to a Hummer and I’m amazed as to why these things are even on the road, let alone in the mass that they are here. The only “Hummer” I want around me is someone humming a show tune – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

So these Hummers (these tanks done in cheerier colors) really are just gas guzzling, sixteen hundred feet long, high and wide monstrosities that go rolling around the streets making us look like we have a cleaner, brighter colored Iraq going on here. And the amazing thing is, for all of their supposed, off-road splendor, you never seen even one with a spot of mud on them. Even funnier to me is seeing who gets out (and how they get out) of these things. Usually it’s a blonde bimbo with her rhinestone cell phone and tight jeans sliding down from “Mount Hummer” that she was no doubt given because of her abilities to “mount” and “hum” for her supper.

 

Again I cry, “Why the fuck do you need these things?” If you’re a man, we get it, you have a small penis and you need to compensate by driving a big tank around because somehow driving in a big piece of steel makes your think your steel rod is that big (by the way, that sensation of it feeling bigger is only happening to you) but is it also becoming the new mini-van for women? Have you ever looked inside one of these things? I’m telling you right now, my Mini has more room and is more comfortable. I don’t even get the whole statement, “When you’re sitting up high you can really see the road!” as my five foot, five parents told me at one point when they were driving a Lincoln Navigator and a Suburban – another mystery to me is why Jews need to be so high, last time we were that high I think we were putting the finishing touches on the pyramids for Pharaoh – but I digress.

 

The bottom line here is that these things are not good for the environment, they take up way too much space on the road and unless we’re going to be running into Tina Turner at “The Thunderdome” any time soon, I think we should be able to get along just fine with normal sized cars. I get that as our society gets fatter we may need wider cars (or to lose weight) but these things are like the muscle guys you see at the gym – all built up and with so little inside their brains that when you check under their “hoods” and find the cupboard bare you roll your eyes all the way back to your medulla oblongata, wondering how they tie their own shoes by themselves or get through a door! They may be big and nice to look at but do you really want to have to spend the money to feed it? So be warned, the only “Hummer” I want around me is someone humming a show tune – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Men, Have You Ever Been In A Women’s Public Restroom? – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

As we all know, there are many things that separate the girls from the boys but there is one thing that I don’t think too many men know about and they need to know in order to make the playing field level. Men, have you ever been in a women’s public restroom? – Don’t Get Me Started!!

 

Now I know that immediately every woman reading this is going to get defensive (mainly because their dirty little secret is about to be revealed) but know that I don’t care, it’s time to tear the barricade down like they do in Les Miz. I’m aware that not every public restroom in the world may be like the ones I’m going to describe but for the most part, you’re all getting Ethan Allen while we men are getting the clearance stuff from Ikea.

 

I don’t know if it’s because of the old, “men can’t keep anything nice.” But I was shocked the first time I walked into a women’s restroom. Before I go on I need to clarify that even though for six years my driver’s license stated that I was female, I did not use nor do I make a habit of going in women’s restrooms (other than constantly being thrown in one as a child by many a bully during my educational and formative years).  I happen to work for a company that has restaurants and when we were building one of the new sites and they were working on the men’s room, I really needed to go so I went in the women’s room. Even before completion (and I admit I went back and visited it after completion) there’s a huge difference.

 

Most men’s public restrooms have a line of urinals, a couple stalls and maybe a mirror over some of the sinks. They’re mostly done in gray or some other non-descript what I’m sure some designer somewhere felt was masculine color but more importantly was cheap because, you know, “men don’t keep things nice.”  Well gentlemen, walk into a ladies room and you may not believe your eyes. The first thing that you notice is that they actually have good lighting, not just one bare bulb swinging on its cord like an interrogation room in Nazi Germany like we have, they actually have lighting fixtures. Next up, their walls are covered with tile that is usually a bright, cheerful color or covered in nice patterned wallpaper (not to be mistaken for the gray or exposed brick walls we get). The mirrors are over every sink and sometimes they’re beveled to make the whole place look more upscale and homey. And here’s where it’s really going to kill you, some of them…dare I share this…have a God Damned sofa and/or occasional chairs!! Now what occasion you would have that would make you want to sit where people are doing their dirty business and just “hang” out, I’m sure I don’t know. I have a feeling these started back in the day when women were more delicate and had the “vapors” and needed a lie down for a few (but the vapors coming from a restroom can’t be all that conducive to making someone feel better). The thing here is that they’ve got actual FURNITURE, they’ve got their choice of a Jennifer convertible sofa or a Queen Anne chair and we usually don’t even have a stall that locks or a toilet seat that is in its entirety! And you want to know something guys? Guess what? Their restroom is just as towel on the floor strewn and nasty as ours, they just don’t want us to find out that “women don’t keep things nice.” But now the secret is out!

 

Now I’ve been in some nice restaurants and the men’s room isn’t as bleak as I describe but on the whole ladies you have a much nicer restroom then we do and I have to ask, nay, demand some restroom reform. I propose a change in restrooms across the country, screw the “family” restrooms that feature a changing table and other “family” oriented stuff (what that could be, I’m sure I don’t know, maybe a photo booth to take a family photo or something?) I’ve never been in one of these family restrooms. But I say, let’s have a restroom for “Men” one for “Women” and one for “Gays”! Let’s face it, they don’t want us to marry, they’re afraid we’ll “convert” their children (usually in a restroom because that’s where gays spend most of their time and do most of their converting work) and they also always want to know who we are and “out” us - this third restroom would take care of all of the concerns from above and as everyone knows, The Gays know “how to keep things nice.” I admit we may need security or some sort of a detector you walk through like the Egg-dictator from the original Willy Wonka movie that will detect “good eggs” from “bad eggs” because there are sloppy gays too but it will all be worth it in the end.

 

Now I know what you’re saying, this is like the “colored” restrooms of the 50’s but the difference here is that you have a choice and they didn’t. If you are closeted and want to use the appropriate gender restroom instead of the one for “Gays”, go for it! I can guarantee you Lena Horne didn’t have that luxury afforded her. What we really have to worry about are those damned “straights” that will try to infiltrate the “Gays” restroom out of curiosity or just to use a nicer restroom. But maybe the government can come up with some way to keep us safe as they’ve done so successfully with the airport security (yes that was sarcasm). And while I know we’ll never really get a “Gays” restroom, it’s fun for me to think about it but what I really want to do is get you thinking and men, have you ever been in a women’s public restroom? – Don’t Get Me Started!!

  

Your Fifteen Minutes Of Fame Have Been Reduced To 3.5 Minutes – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

A friend sent me some clips from an old television extravaganza (see My Favorite Things page for the YouTube link), The Night of 100 Stars, it was done in the 80’s. One clip shows a number done to the song, “One” from A Chorus Line and after a Rockette-style number the chorus gals begin to escort tuxedoed “star” men down the stairs and they all end up swaying and/or kicking to the music. As I watched this clip it struck me just how much things have changed in the star world, the men in this number were everyone from Charles Bronson to Marvin Hamlisch. Some of the others were Bob Fosse, Lloyd Bridges and the Bert/Burts – Convey and Reynolds. What I noticed was that whether the person was from movies, TV, Broadway, a poet, I knew everyone. I don’t think I’m being nostalgic when I say that I also liked everyone more back then. I began thinking that with only three networks, it afforded you the opportunity to really know everyone there was to know, no question about it. If you didn’t know a star back then you had either been in a coma or Europe. These people meant something and you had an emotional response seeing them, they were and will always be Hollywood. Today your fifteen minutes of fame have been reduced to 3.5 minutes – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Today it’s just not the same. I don’t really think that the fame and fortune of the kids on Will and Grace is even remotely deserved when watching one episode of say an I Love Lucy. And yet, we pay them more, we pay more to see them and we’re only getting about half the entertainment value. It’s a little like the country being obese, maybe we all need to cut our intake a bit. There are dare I say it, too many choices out there and amazingly enough I can still be sitting home flipping through my hundreds of channels and not be able to find anything to watch!

 

But back to the “stars” – guess what? There aren’t any! I don’t care if you give Jeff Probst a star on the Hollywood walk of fame, he can’t even hold a microphone compared to an Allen Ludden. Plus you don’t know if someone’s famous from a reality show where they kind of play themselves or if maybe they’re from a sitcom on some odd network that seven people watch. Even the “personalities” from years gone by were more fun and entertaining to watch. Example, I don’t have any idea what Charro’s real talent was but she was a personality and that personality was enough. Omoarosa isn’t worth one coochie coo from Charro!  Anymore when I watch even a part of a red carpet show I get so frustrated because six out of ten of the “celebrities” are people I’ve never even seen before or care about. They need to wear, “Hello My Name Is…And You May Know Me From…” nametags or at least give me one of those annoying scrolls at the bottom of the screen that says, “Confused? This person is supposed to be someone because they ate dung beetles on a Fear Factor episode in 2002.” 

 

Can you even imagine what a Battle of the Network Stars would look like today? Would you care as much as we all cared about seeing Ann (It’s A Living) Jillian take on Linda Big Valley/Dynasty) Evans? I know I need to face the facts that I’m getting older and the older I get the more I sound like someone from the depression-era, “Back in my day, our stars were real stars and I walked twenty miles uphill in the snow after saving my paper route money to see the Grease, dammit!”

 

I make no apologies, I liked knowing less about my stars, so I could complete the fantasy that they were who I wanted and needed them to be. And no amount of ratings or money generating is going to make me believe that watching Being Bobby Brown or Seinfeld will ever compare to watching Mary Tyler Moore or The Carol Burnett Show for entertainment or true star quality. I don’t care that I don’t know who someone is because they appeared on the eighteenth season of Real World or the twentieth edition of Survivor. I need me some stars that survived the studio system and didn’t show us their real world. Did we really need to know that Mel Gibson is an anti-Semitic, drunk? Back in the old days, we would never have known and we could have gone on loving him for his charm in What Women Want and the Lethal Weapon movies as an entertainer, not knowing or caring what he thought. When Katherine Hepburn was labeled “box office poison” she went to Broadway to re-establish herself, had Howard Hughes buy her the film rights to The Philadelphia Story and got the film made to turn her career around and make her public love her again. Do you think Mr. Gibson gives a shit about his public loving him or is it more about turning his image around to make a few more bazillion dollars to make more children, movies pushing his agenda and creating the Church Of Mel? Today’s stars don’t have to fight to get their own deal, they’ve already got it and we see how successful that’s translated into box office hits, don’t we? Where are even the Sylvester Stallone’s to suffer for their belief in their work and themselves to make a good Rocky movie?

 

Don’t get me wrong, I like the reality shows as much as everyone else but these people aren’t stars or even personalities based on the old criteria. They’re just people who managed to get on television or movies. So it’s time to face the facts, these people may entertain us a little but none of them are truly, “Stars.” The old MGM studio used to boast, “More Stars Than There Are In The Heavens” but today there are just a lot more people with a deal in Hollywood. So to all of you “stars” and “personalities” of today, be warned in order to accommodate everyone, your fifteen minutes of fame have been reduced to 3.5 minutes – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

And The Champeen Is Old Hollywood, By The Credits, In A Knockout As New Hollywood Lies On The Canvas Panting – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

This past week I went to see both of the current “old” Hollywood made by “new” Hollywood movies playing in theaters, Hollywoodland and The Black Dahlia. We’ve all heard about Hollywood box office receipts falling off and let me tell you, as long as they keep putting out crap like this, I’ll join the crowd that says, “I’ll wait until it comes on cable” and pop my not $14 popcorn at home! More on why I think these films are crap later. The reel deal is that it makes you wonder about Hollywood today and “back in the day” and when forced to make a decision of which does a better job in entertaining, informing and generally exciting the public, I have to go with old Hollywood every time in a fight that almost seems unfair, like a lightweight fighting a heavyweight. And the champeen is old Hollywood by the credits in a knockout as new Hollywood lies on the canvas panting – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Hollywoodland – Oy Veyismere did they get this one wrong. Just a little problem, you know like poor casting, script and acting (I know what you’re saying, “Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?”). Now I adore Adrien Brody but it was like putting Leslie Howard (Ashley from Gone With The Wind for those who don’t know) in a Humphrey Bogart role. His hardened private eye “act” didn’t get my privates hard at all, if you know what I mean, I think that you do. Ben Affleck gives a complete wooden performance so much so that you’re wondering if this Pinocchio will ever become a real boy. The good news for him is that he’s playing a second rate actor from the 50’s and he’s second rate so it’s really an authentic casting job not an authentic acting job – does it mean that he deserved some acting award that they gave him in Vienna for this performance? Unless it’s “Best Vienna Sausage In A Superman Suit”, I’d say, “no.” The performances to watch here are Bob Hoskins and the winner in my opinion who does get it right in every frame, Diane Lane. True, I’ve loved her since A Little Romance but here she is as close to old Hollywood as you’re going to get, in appearance, acting and certainly in what they used to call, “delivering the goods.” She delivers in spades and is the reason to get anywhere near this movie, even on cable.

 

The Black Dahlia – I’m sorry, I started nodding off even writing the title. For such an interesting story and a director with an amazing track record boy was I amazed at what a yawn this one was. From the start of the credits when they show four different studios that were involved bringing this movie into being you should be worried. I love that they all get to show their logos and then the movie really starts and over the opening frames you see their names again, “Schmucky productions presents in conjunction with Schlomo films a Kreplach studios film by Wisenheimer” Remember when it was just one name like MGM? Columbia? RKO? Universal? United Artists? Warner Brothers? It’s like watching the seven hundred previews they show except you’re watching the movie but they have to lengthen the opening sequence so all fourteen of the studios involved get their names on it twice before the movie even begins. This to me is always a sign of “too many cooks” and we’re in trouble. Once again, all it’s missing is a good script, good casting and good actors – other than that, it’s golden. In this old Hollywood send up, apparently all anyone bothered to research was that everyone smoked a lot. I mean these people smoke even when they’re smoking and excuse me Josh Hartnett, doing the old Paul Henreid from Now, Voyager of lighting two cigarettes at once, as George Sanders says to Anne Baxter in All About Eve, “You’re too short for that gesture.” Too short in your acting chops, really, in this movie you get to see all three expressions of which Mr. Harnett is capable. The only fun thing for me in his performance was noticing that his profile looks exactly like that of the old comic book Dick Tracy character, unfortunately his performance wasn’t as colorful as the old comics. When he finally starts to “break down” in this movie, you notice that they always come to him after he’s already been crying – in other words, he can’t produce the goods. The other misses in this movie are too many to mention. Never mind that you’ve solved the crime as soon as you’ve met all the characters you don’t care about any of these characters. While Fiona Shaw fares better than any of the other females, she’s also the only one physically right for this movie. Now not every female was zoftig back then but they weren’t the thin, undernourished looking specimens of Hillary Swank and Scarlett Johannson either to which you just wish they would put their clothes back on already (even if I was straight, I’m sure I’d be saying the same thing). If Deniro will put on weight for a role and even Renee Zellweger, I say, you’re making all those millions so beef up a bit ladies so that you can at least look the part.

 

All this to say, were some of the old movies melodramatic or bad, absolutely. But I have to think that when you sat in the dark watching Clark Gable walk out on Vivien Leigh you felt more than I’ve felt in a theater in a long time. And the champeen is old Hollywood by the credits in a knockout as new Hollywood lies on the canvas panting – Don’t Get Me Started!

  

I’m Afraid It’s Going To Be The Grizzly Adams Look For Me Soon – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I get it; I’m a personal hygiene product whore! That’s right, I said it and I don’t care who knows. If the packaging is good and the marketing is halfway decent, I’ll buy it. Hell, if the name was better and the commercial was more appealing or if I wanted to Jazzercise, I’d probably even buy Pamprin! So let me just say, when I open the cabinet in my bathroom, it is a veritable product graveyard in there. I’ve got hair stuff (gels, paste, mudd, gloss, thickening spray, you name it), stuff to make my breath better, my teeth whiter, let’s face it, if someone sold it to make me look better or think I look better, I tried it and then it quickly found it’s place in the graveyard. Every once in awhile I clean it out, convinced I’ll never go back to say, that pomade on my hair that made it so soupy by the end of the day I felt like I had a Jerri Curl? And then two days later I say, “Dammit, if only I had that pomade my hair would look like something!” But here’s the deal, I have to shave my face everyday. Why? Because I was not blessed with a great beard line or a full one that would actually grow in everywhere nor do I look okay with the George Michael one-day growth. I’m sure my idol Peter Pan has the same problem as our “pans” just need to be clean-shaven. So you can imagine how many razors I have, you know, the kind that come with two cartridges and then I decide there’s something new out that I have to have so it’s onward and upward. But here’s the problem, I can’t stop cutting myself (no, not that kind of cutting, like the subject of an Afterschool Special) I mean I bleed like there is no tomorrow. So I’m afraid it’s going to be the Grizzly Adams look for me soon – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

The razor purchasing used to be so easy, there were like three brands and the blades went to just about everything. Not anymore. First of all, you have to take out a loan just to buy a razor or the blades, what are they making that a thin metal strip is so freaking costly? (What is this like those government contracts where you find out they’re charging us $12,000.00 for a toilet seat?) Remember the single blade days? Why must there be eighteen now? I happen to be a small person, so the amount of space between my lip and my nose (the most difficult place to shave) just isn’t big or wide enough to have the, “quad blade, vibrating action, with “glide” strip technology” between the lip and nose. I end up using a corner of the blades just to try to get in there at those pesky hairs. A recent razor I bought has the vibrating feature. Now I like some good vibrations like everyone else but when I’m shaving it’s like watching Jackie Chan throw those ninja star things at my face. Thanks to my on again off again hypochondria I don’t know if I’m developing the Katherine Hepburn shake or if it’s the razor. Meanwhile, whoever the genius was that designed this contraption put the button for the vibrating right where you hold it so I keep shutting it off, not knowing if I’m supposed to act like it’s still vibrating, stop again and again and turn it back on or simply break the mirror and try to shave with a shard from there. In complete disgust and dismay (yes, I can show both emotions at the same time) I have now finally gone back to a simpler time with a non-vibrating, two blade razor and let me tell you, these are as hard to find as a Velvet Doll (for those of you who don’t know, she’s the blonde version of the Crissy Doll who’s hair you could pull to make longer or use the crank in the back to make it shorter who wore a purple velvet dress - not that I’m looking for one of those), and now I’ve exposed just what kind of vital information runs through my mind – as Auntie Mame says, “Knowledge Is Power!”

 

Now I know some of you know-it-alls are going to say, “It’s in the shaving cream. You need to put hot towels on your face before you shave. You need to shave in the shower. You need to shave while hopping on one foot.” Let me say, I’ve used every shave cream known to man, some that cost as much as my car and some that cost as little as a pack of gum (you know I loves me some travel sized products) and guess what? It doesn’t make a difference.

 

I’m also not ashamed to say that I wear the tiny piece of toilet paper look when cuts that won’t stop bleeding happen. Get away from me with that fucking styptic pencil. Have you ever tried one of these things? It’s like putting lemon juice in a cut or taking it up the ass without lubricant! Your eyes water and you roll around on the floor in agony screaming, “AHHHHHHHHHH…Oh My God, someone please, kill me.” And then you notice the the cabinet is open and say, “When did I buy a new deodorant that fights bad breath?”

 

And so after a huge cut on my upper lip last week, you know, the kind that when it creates the scab looks like a complete cold sore, I thought going to the more simple two blade razor would be the answer but no, I cut myself on my lower lip this morning and bled so much I thought I was being attended to by a doctor in the middle ages performing blood letting. At this point I really don’t know what else to do so I’m afraid it’s going to be the Grizzly Adams look for me soon – Don’t Get Me Started! 

You Haven’t Lived Until You’ve Had A Cat With A Cone On Its Head – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Okay, okay, let me first say that when we decided to adopt the stray brother and sister kittens that literally walked through our doors three years ago, I knew nothing of pets, their training, care or anything else for that matter. Let me also say three years later, I know probably even less. What I do know, from my partner (who is like Doctor Doolittle – Rex Harrison version – the only version worth watching), is that I spoil them, I make them crazy hugging and kissing them and I worry when they do anything, that they are either sick, dying or hungry (maybe even all three, remember I’m Jewish!). Well, Fiyero was out of sorts for a few days and I kept staring at him as if he was going to somehow tell me he was depressed because the other cats were making fun of him outside or something but my Dr. Doolittle was, of course, the one who found out the cat’s front leg was swollen three times its normal size. Happy Labor Day, off to the vet’s we go and let me say that what we came home with, let’s just say you haven’t lived until you’ve had a cat with a cone on its head – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

It turns out that there was some sort of “cat bashing” going on because our sweet Fiyero had a bite on his leg that got infected, causing the swelling. God love him, he was so good at the vet’s office and I was a wreck, filled with guilt that I hadn’t noticed the bite myself sooner and it didn’t help that the vet was admonishing us for letting him go outside, telling me now that he was bit the other cat could have given him feline leukemia (Do they make a rubber bracelet for feline leukemia and a magnetic ribbon for your car?) and when he finally put the cone on his head, my head was reeling to the point that I almost took the pain medication myself. Not to mention the bill…outrageous…I had no idea.

 

So we get him home and here’s something that for those of you who have never experienced it need to know. Cats walk with their heads kind of down, so when you put a cone on their head, the cone gets stuck on the carpet and suddenly they feel like they’re in the cone of silence from Get Smart and that there is no outside world. They stop dead in their tracks when this happens and I like to think this happens because much like holding a shell to your ear, they hear the ocean. The other thing Fiyero repeatedly did was to try to “back out” of the cone. So here you are sitting in your living room when you see this coneheaded creature reversing through the room. You want to laugh, you do laugh and then you feel enormously guilty for laughing and laugh again in spite of yourself.

 

Elphaba, his sister, got one look at the conehead and ran for the hills. I suspect she thought that somehow this deformity would happen to her if she got too close to “it.” Yes, Fiyero was even being ostracized by his own family!

 

Well it’s been ten days and I’m pleased to report that the cone is off, the swelling is completely gone and tomorrow he’ll go back to the vet for what I’m sure will cost me in cash and guilt. Besides having to administer the pills twice a day (thank God for the Internet as I got a great technique down for giving him his pill), dealing with his kvetching about having to stay inside and me doing my Jewish mother, checking him every three minutes to make sure nothing new has happened to the point where he was practically rolling his eyes at me, we’ve managed to come through to the other side of a very dark time. And I again I say, you haven’t lived until you’ve had a cat with a cone on its head – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I may be bi-techual but when my cell phone rings, I’m gay, gay, gayer than gay – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I love technical gadgets, got the Blackberry, the slider cell phone, video Ipod, etc. If it beeps or lights up, I’m attracted to it. (Probably the reason I live in Las Vegas.) Anyway, I was standing on line at the grocery store the other day when my phone began to ring. My sense of good etiquette gives me the sense that others don’t seem to posses to not answer my phone in a situation like this (a blog for another day) but as I was rummaging for my phone in my side cargo pant pocket, Kristin Chenoweth’s voice sang, “Popular, I’ll help you be popular…” from the Broadway musical, Wicked, I looked around to find everyone else staring at me as if to say, “fag”. So although I may be bi-techual, when my cell phone rings, I’m gay, gay, gayer than gay – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

And so I began to look for a song that was a little less obvious or something maybe a little more “normal” on my phone. As I walked to the parking lot I started scrolling through my ringtones I had downloaded into my phone, I found “Canned Heat” by Jamiroqua (a classic club tune), next up some classic TV themes – Batman and The Avengers, “One Short Day” (also from Broadway’s Wicked), "September" by Earth, Wind and Fire and finally, “Everlasting Love” by Gloria Estefan. Unless I was willing to go with "Bossa Nova" or one of the other undistinguishable ringtones preloaded on the phone, I was going to have to accept that every time my phone rang it was having its own coming out party.

 

And then I thought, “Why should I change my cell phone ringer to make some people I don’t even know happy? I love hearing Ms. Chenoweth as Glinda singing to me. How dare these people stare at me? Who are these people? They probably don’t even know what the word Broadway means! I’ll be damned if they’re going to make me feel unpopular by not hearing Popular when my phone rings!”  Geez, that should give you a small idea of what it’s like being in my head – absolutely exhausting. The shame quickly turned to anger and the anger becomes a blog – that’s normally how it works around here.

 

And so I began to wonder, what songs do other people have on their cell phones that would cause them to stare at me when my phone rings? Remember when cell phones came out and your choices were like “Ringer1” or some unknown piece just titled, “Jazzy”?  Of course the kids are the ones with the latest song on the radio on their phone and there’s no keeping up with them. My mother has “Daybreak” by Barry Manilow and “Theme from The Godfather” I know this because I downloaded them for her. A lot of people just go with the tone preinstalled on their phones so you hear the T-Mobile theme going off and everyone in the room is rummaging through their purses and pockets like they’re on Let’s Make A Deal seeing if they have a postage stamp, a corkscrew and a half dollar coin for Monty Hall. But I say, get with it or over it people. We are all individuals (cue background song or just hum to yourself, "Everything Is Beautiful") and why not let our phone ringers be an extension of our individuality?

 

I’ll never be one of those people at the checkout with the phone up to my ear ignoring the person trying to ring me up or talking on my Bluetooth headset as I’m walking through a store like Jimmy Stewart in the movie Harvey (talking to an invisible eight foot rabbit) so when I really get down to it I have decided having a little Broadway on your phone isn’t hurting anyone. To quote from the Broadway musical La Cage Aux Folles, “And so what if I love each feather and each spangle, why not try to see things from a different angle? Your life is a sham ‘til you can shout out loud, I am what I am!” So I may be bi-techual but when my cell phone rings, I’m gay, gay, gayer than gay – Don’t Get Me Started!

I’m Sorry But The Celebrities Will Have To “Duet” Without Me – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Okay, I’ll admit somewhere along the way I’ve become a bit of a reality TV junkie. I don’t know how it started actually, I’ve avoided the hard stuff like Survivor, Great Race and The Bachelor but somewhere along the way I had a taste of insipid TV that now has me hooked. Much like they tout marijuana as a “gateway” drug that you barely remember doing once you’re addicted to heroin, I’m unclear how it all started but now my Tivo is full of America’s Next Top Model, American Idol (obviously I’m very patriotic), Project Runway (Well I have to watch this, I’m the Ultimate Fan Blogger for Season 3 for Chrissakes!) and Dancing With The Stars (to name a few) but now, I can’t do it, I won’t do it, even though I’ve now watched the 2-hour premier and the second episode, this time I’m sorry but the celebrities will have to “duet” without me – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Celebrity Duets, I get the premise who wouldn’t, right? And how they managed it, I don’t know, but this show is a big stinkeroo! First the host, Wayne <yawn> Brady, who seems like he’s at teleprompter school, constantly looking in the camera as if to say, “I know, sorry, I’m not Seacrest.” Next up, the judges, Maria (I didn’t really try to kill myself a couple weeks ago because I have bears to sell on QVC) Osmond, Little (If you saw the first episode you saw a real treat, now I love him but this man’s medication did not start working until the second hour and then Good Golly Miss Molly, he sure liked to ball!) Richard and David (Brilliant music producer hopelessly trying to have a reality TV career – remember his take on The Simple Life where he was going to put his step-sons to work, don’t feel bad no one else cared about it or remembers it either) Foster. So already you have people that are far below Kathy Griffin’s famed D-List involved and the supposed celebrities are of the same caliber.

 

The amazing thing here is that, I’m sure this happens more than we know, the deck is stacked as they used to say here in Vegas. Now Dancing With The Stars features celebs that obviously have not really danced ballroom before so you would think that’s the same case here. Well, I’m here to tell you that at least a few of these celebs have sung for their supper before. Don’t mean to “smear the queer” here but Jai Rodriguez has been in Rent on Broadway, um, last time I checked it was a musical – hello! And Alfonso Ribeiro started his career on Broadway as the Tap Dance Kid…yet another musical. And am I wrong that Lea Thompson was a Sally Bowles replacement (Yes, the Liza Minnelli Oscar winning role) for the recent revival of Cabaret? Hmmm, maybe it’s that we’re supposed to think it’s different if you’ve sung on Broadway as opposed to singing with Anita Pointer – what’s your point, Scott? My point is that we’re being duped and so are the little gymnast girl (who is not so little anymore), Cheech Marin and the gay wrestler they threw off in week one. Yes, I get it, singing for Broadway is different than singing pop songs but come on, it’s still singing, right?

 

The other amazing thing are all the enormously talented singers they got to sing with these people. You know when say, Gladys Knight or even Brian McKnight signed up they thought this was going to be the next American Idol. Thing is, the real singers don’t stay out for the “judging” and they don’t seem to have been told that so you have clumsy Wayne Brady doing the whole host of a party trying to get rid of a guest that stayed too long, “Okay, um…well, gee…thank you Clint Black…there you go…right that way there…thanks again…” Worse than a train wreck and I’m very proud to say that although I watched the first three (I know I only said two before but you know how we addicts lie) episodes I did miss who got voted off this week Cheech or Lea, I don’t know and I almost don’t care. Okay, so it’s because I was watching Duets live and my Tivo switched over to start recording the new Cover Model show on TLC and was already getting some other show at the same time so I missed the last few seconds of Duets to see who got booted but I think my Tivo actually intervened, it helped me to understand that I’ve been wrapped up in too much reality TV and I need to step back. Let’s face it, I can’t go “cold turkey” (not with Dancing With The Stars starting again next week) but I can limit myself like someone only smoking half a pack instead of six packs. My Tivo will now be like a hot nightclub, I’m going to pick the number that is healthy to be inside (like the fire marshal) and no one (in this case no new show) gets added until one leaves. And so, I’m sorry but the celebrities will have to “duet” without me – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Unless You’ve Got A Bag To Match, Leave The “Crocs” At Home – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Alright, I stood by and watched in horror as people went to Starbucks in the morning with their pajama pants on, I watched as they wore their fuzzy slippers, making them look like a maid from some movie in the 1930’s but I always thought they were just getting a start on their day and ran over to get their morning pick-me-up. Now they’ve done it, they’ve gone to a new low, not just to get coffee in the morning but to walk around in public and dare I say to work too – men, women, children and everyone else now find it a trendy thing to wear their “crocs”. Remember how bad we thought the Ugg boot craze was, these are worse…much worse! What is the croc? It’s a croc of shit – it’s a rubber clog with cut-outs that I believe originated as an idea for gardeners (though I know nothing about gardening myself, I get the catalogs!). There was a time when the only “croc” on your feet were crocodile leather shoes and unless you have a bag to match, leave the “crocs” at home – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

These “crocs” are done in a variety of colors (Much like the classic flip-flop) except there’s nothing classic about these clogs. They come in mostly pastel colors and have an ankle strap – if you’re one of the cool kids, you push the strap over the top of the shoe instead of wearing it around your ankle. All this to say, they’re ugly, they’re stupid and already there are knockoffs. I’m not sure what they call them, probably, “cracs”. You know the knockoff industry has a passion for only changing one letter as if we won’t notice it’s a Panasoonic or a Fandi purse!

 

Oh I could go on and on about how we’ve gone from casual to crappy in they way we dress as a society and I will admit that I have my pair of ripped jeans I wear everywhere. Mind you, I don’t wear them because their “cool” – I wear them because they are old jeans three waist sizes too big for me, they’re the first jeans I grew out of by becoming smaller instead of larger so wearing them makes me feel the thinnest of thin and I’ll wear those bad boys until they drop off my form all together!

 

But come on people. I can forgive the nurses who walk around in scrubs. Frankly, they should wear “crocs” because you can just hose them down after some bodily fluid spills on you. But I don’t want to see the burly male soccer coaches of America or Moms on their way to pick up Junior wearing them. Or worse still putting them on a five year old’s feet who need a real shoe to develop and not something you bought in aisle nine of your local grocery store. Come on people; let’s smarten up – by wearing smarter looking shoes and by not being sucked into another fashion trend that has no fashion to it at all.

 

Remember when people used to dress up to get on a plane? Or for dinner? Or to go see a show? Am I getting old that I miss these nicer times when people actually wanted to look nice instead of purposely looking like crap? Now we buy ripped jeans for $400, we wear stuff in our hair to make it look as though we haven’t washed it in a week and we’re wearing rubber clogs. I’m not saying we have to go back to a completely formal look to go about our lives but at the very least for God sakes, people – unless you’ve got a bag to match, leave the “crocs” at home and Don’t Get Me Started!