The DMV Thinks I'm A Woman - Don't Get Me Started!

Sorry kids, I'm in the corporate world doing corporate things this week so please enjoy a vintage Some Like It Scott blog. You can read the finish to this story in tomorrow's vintage blog and then new material on Friday.

The DMV Is Convinced I'm A Woman - Don't Get Me Started!

The $30 Omelet – Welcome To The World Of Room Service – Don’t Get Me Started! 

We all know that room service is more expensive than if you took your lazy ass down to the overpriced restaurant in your hotel but today (as I’m staying in one of the nicer hotels) I decided I was going to “treat” myself to the whole hotel experience and order room service. Having a Jewish mother, I come from a long line of room service orderers and eaters. But even so the $30 omelet – welcome to the world of room service – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

So you order it on the phone with the person who has such a thick accent that you’re almost assured it will not be right when it arrives. You keep repeating yourself and he keeps repeating it back and although you’re both saying the same thing, you’re saying omelet and for some reason it sounds like he’s saying antelope. Not to mention the fact that the system they use brings up your room number and your name so I immediately get suspicious that if they know this information what else do they know about me? Do they have cameras installed and they’re watching me scratch my balls right now while I’m talking to Alejandro, captain of the service du room? Paranoia begins to set in. He assures you that you’ll see the food in thirty minutes and you can’t help yourself, you synchronize your watch.

 

Much like a legal document, make sure that you read the fine print on the menu. What you will find is that the charges are worse than the most high interest credit card. That’s right, there’s something like a 21% charge for Alejandro to pick up the phone and call you an antelope, there’s a $2.50 charge because you’re eating in your room and then they let you know that a portion goes to the server as a gratuity. They don’t tell you how much goes to the server so there’s no way you’re getting out of this without giving the guy an additional tip. It feels like those “charities” where they get all this money from people and really only $1 out of every $100 goes to the people who need it, the rest pays for the fundraisers and to give huge paychecks to the organizers of the fundraisers. So you ultimately feel that Jimmy the server gets little to nothing and Alejandro and the hotel are sitting around counting their money in their counting rooms while Jimmy can’t pay his electric bill at home. Well, let’s just say this is where my head goes with all of this stuff.

 

So what started out seeming like not too huge of an extravagance when you look at the menu causes you to have to take out a second mortgage. The worse part for me right at this moment is that the money I just overpaid for this breakfast is somewhere somehow going into the pocket of a too thin, little dog carrying nobody to continue her ridiculous lifestyle and “that’s NOT hot.” To say I resent it is an understatement.

 

Of course the food is less than great and only remotely warm. You would think (as my grandmother would say) that if they can put a man on the moon then they can figure out a way to make the room service food that costs twenty million dollars warm when it gets to your room. But I know, that’s just crazy talk right?

 

And so, as I sit here in my California hotel, imagining I’m a movie star who is having breakfast and then waiting for my entourage to arrive and get me ready for the Oscars this afternoon, I will pour myself another cup of coffee, stand at my window overlooking Los Angeles and when I put the tray in the hall, I will make sure that I have taken every miniature ketchup, jam, jelly, Tabasco and even the salt and pepper shakers go into my suitcase and go home with me. I deserve it, I paid for it. The $30 omelet – welcome to the world of room service – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

The Oscars – Is That All There Is? – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

One would think it would be more fun to be in LA for Oscars but really, it was just the same as watching it from home. I didn’t get to watch the whole thing (missed the start of the show) but of course it will not stop me from rendering my opinion on the part that I did see. For those of us who love the movies and love a good Oscar show this one was like a movie that has the perfect cast, a good script and yet for some reason it just doesn’t end up meeting the expectations of our anticipation. The Oscars – is that all there is? – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

For those that know the old Peggy Lee song, that’s exactly how I felt at the end of the show. Oddly enough, I didn’t really feel that way when I started watching. I got back to the hotel in time to see Jennifer Hudson win. No surprise here and yes, I was delighted to see that she won. I hope for her sake that this is the start of something big for her and that she is not visited by the Oscar curse that others like Marisa Tomei and Adrien Brody have experienced after winning, moving from Oscar to smaller and smaller roles and films. I loved her in Dreamgirls and it is the part of a lifetime (just ask Jennifer Holiday) but you also have to ask where she (as my mother would say) is she going to take an act like that?

 

Can anyone believe just how bizarre it was that there were three songs nominated from Dreamgirls and yet none of them won? The presentation of these numbers (staged by the film’s writer and director, Bill Condon) was pitch perfect except for Beyonce trying to out “Effie” Jennifer Hudson in her singing style, something that she could never do. According to a lot of people; similar to when it’s two people nominated from the same movie in the same category they tend to “cancel” one another out. Well, maybe it’s because they couldn’t or wouldn’t (I don’t know) nominate something like “And I’m Telling You” which I think we can all agree would have won. Well, the songs from Dreamgirls didn’t win and Melissa Etheridge did so I guess we have to say that although “the gays” who love a good Broadway turned Hollywood musical didn’t win, at least a lesbian won.   

 

I’m a little surprised that Eddie Murphy didn’t win but now all the people that thought Norbit would kill his chances can say that they were right. I was also a little surprised to see that Peter O’Toole didn’t win as I thought that he was a definite winner considering his feeble appearance. However, Helen Mirren won and the big emotional win this year was that Martin Scorsese finally won an Oscar. Although they tell you that no one knows who the winner is going to be, you have to think that they somehow thought it was a good chance he would win due to the fact they had Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg present the award. That was the feeling good moment.

 

As far as the speeches went, there was no “you like me, you really like me” moment and there was none like the Halle Berry speech from a few years ago that moved us beyond words as she represented not only herself but so many before her. But there was a Mummenshantz-like group that did an amazing job of taking shadow puppets and turning it into high art depicting the best picture nominees. For those of us who suffered for years watching those horrible Debbie Allen numbers, it was a great relief to actually see something that was dance oriented but not Debbie Allen’s awful choreography.

 

Ellen did a fine job of vacuuming and keeping the show moving. Yes, I was disappointed that she didn’t wear any dresses (that I saw) and instead chose to do the dreaded lesbian vest and blouse number at one point. Her hair, the cute tousled look on her show, gave way to an over sprayed style that made her look like those older women who cut their hair short and try to give the appearance of a tousled hair style but every hair has been put exactly in place and frightened into not moving a bit. Her makeup looked as though she was a little girl putting makeup on for the first time. A miss in her look but she did do a good job.

 

I think the most anti-climactic moment was the award for best picture. Usually you see the producers and the entire cast goes onstage creating one of those filled stage moments to end the show. That did not happen this year. The producer for the film was onstage (and he wasn’t the most exciting person to listen to) and when he was over, Ellen ran in, said goodbye and it was all over. Sort of like this blog. The Oscars – is that all there is? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Oscar Fever, I’ve Got It…How About You? – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Years ago when I lived in LA (one of the two or three times I lived here, who can remember?) I became very aware of the fact that all of LA goes absolutely nuts during Oscar week. Local morning shows spend the entire week before the show handicapping the event before it happens and in their desperation to fill out an entire hour of programming they’ll use even the smallest Oscar nugget to keep with their theme. They’ll even spend time speculating on what designer a star is going to wear based on her other Oscar or award appearances. I was watching one of these morning shows and when it came back from a commercial break, one of the swishiest hosts in recorded history was wearing a gold jacket and had a cardboard cut out of the Oscar in his mouth. As the camera came in on him, he took the “Oscar” out of his mouth, looked at it and then looked at the camera screaming, “Oscar fever, I’ve got…how about you?” – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

At the time and even now I think it is one of the queerest things I’ve ever seen but as I’m writing about this minor moment that happened about twenty years ago it suddenly occurs to me that whether or not this was a stupid bit, it has lasting power (At least in my mind).

I happen to be in LA this weekend and all of this coming week. I’d like to be telling you that I’m here to cover the Oscars or do the red carpet for E! but if you haven’t read how I lost that job, click here…No Ryan Seacrest For Me No, I’m here doing my corporate thing, having planned a conference for around 50 people so as tragic as it is, I won’t even see the Oscars until next weekend when I’m home and I can watch it on my Tivo.

As time has marched on the Oscars have become less and less magical for me. Part of it is that I think in most cases there are no surprises here. We used to always say that if someone was close to death then they would definitely win (oh hello, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Peter O’Toole) and the rest go to the favorite in the category. But the biggest reason I find myself caring less and less about this award show is the method that seems to be prevalent in putting out a best picture for the win anymore. Step one: Release the movie seconds before it’s too late to be considered for this year. Step two: Release it in only one or two cities so that the only people who can possibly see it are the Oscar voters. Step three: Have it make little to no sense so that everyone will be intimidated by not going along with the three people who say it’s brilliant so with no one wanting to say the emperor has no clothes, they all vote for it. This seems to be the way they do it in recent years and it’s ri-damn-diculous. Don’t they get that their ratings might actually be better if the television viewing public had actually had a chance to see all the movies?

 

Another reason I’m not all fired up to watch the show this year and (I know this is going to set a lot of people off so send your nasty-grams to scott@somelikeitscott.com ) but if it’s not going to be a man in a tux hosting, I want some glamour, not a whoa-man in a pants suit. I don’t care if it was designed by Valentino or Jaclyn Smith I don’t want to see it. When it comes to a female host, I need me someone who is going to change their dress at least five times and do at least one hair change. As much as I love Ellen and I know that as “a gay” I should be fully supporting her hosting this show, I think we’re looking at a night of slacks, blouses and fitted jackets from her, which frankly I can see on a rack in Macy’s.

 

And can we discuss the horrible “banter” they write for these people on these shows? It’s never funny and never works – save last year’s brilliance by Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep in their tribute to Robert Altman which was oh, guess what, largely improvised by two very talented performers. Once again, we can thank the inventors of Tivo for creating a machine that will allow us to zip through these poorly written and executed bits, go directly to the winner and listen to them ramble, thanking a million people that only they care about.

 

I may seem more than a little bit jaded but it doesn’t stop me from hoping Helen Mirren wins for The Queen, that Jennifer Hudson and Eddie Murphy win for Dreamgirls and since I’ve only seen one out of the five movies up for Best Picture, I hope Scorsese finally wins one so he can stop being the Susan Lucci of the Oscars. Oh hell, let’s face it, Oscar fever, I’ve got it…how about you? – Don’t Get Me Started!

Are There Any Television Shows That Are Only An Hour Anymore? – Don’t Get Me Started! 

I can’t take it I tell you. Even with Tivo to speed through the commercials I can’t take it. It seems that every show on television has to be a two hour extravaganza. They’re either “extended” or it’s last week’s episode and then the new episode but regardless the reason, it seems as though they all have to be two hours long and it’s sucking the life out of me. I now dread looking to see what is on my Tivo because I know that I’m going to have to make a commitment longer than some of my relationships if I want to stay caught up. Are there any television shows that are only an hour anymore? – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I get the concept, if one hour of people living in a house with mold getting an extreme makeover is good then two hours is better (supposedly). Not to mention the fact that most of these shows are reality shows so they are cheaper to produce than a Columbo movie of the week. But here’s the thing, what the network executives don’t seem to realize is that we’re all ready busy people and if you want us to make this time commitment to your programming you need to make it an acceptable length that won’t require me calling in sick to keep up.  

 

What used to be an enjoyable thing is now a chore and requires more planning than bombing an embassy. I find myself stressing out, thinking, “Well, I can watch all the shows I haven’t had time this week to watch this coming weekend before next week so that I’m caught up but if I can’t watch everything then I’m going to have to prioritize. I’ll start with the Monday shows on Saturday afternoon and not leave the sofa until I get through at least up to Wednesday so that when the week starts I’ll at least be able to feel as though I don’t have two two-hour episodes to watch of everything.” It is so freaking exhausting and I’ve put on five pounds.

 

I find that I start making deals with myself. “There’s a new character on Heroes, hmmm, do I really need to know this person? It will probably all be repeated and/or revealed next week so in order to save time I’ll fast forward through this character’s stuff this week and catch up on them next week.”

 

Much like the “back stories” on the Olympics, I find myself becoming someone who hates the human element of reality shows that are based on the human element. I don’t need to see what high school the American Idol contestant went to or that they were raised on a farm by a single mother who is blind and raises pigs but lost everything in the big pork pogrom of 1995. Just sing, I’ll fast forward through the applause, listen to the judges comments and then fast forward right through Seacrest trying to be funny, charming or effective to the next contestant.

 

I have fond memories of watching the half hour sitcoms, Mary Tyler Moore or Julia. I also remember loving watching an hour of Carol Burnett or even the hour and a half of Saturday Night Live (the original cast when it was funny). But when every show is two hours, the life is being sucked out of me. Quick see if you can catch it because I sure as hell can’t anymore due to the fact that my muscles have all atrophied from sitting on the couch for long hours trying to catch up on my television shows. AHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

At this point I have carpal tunnel syndrome from holding the remote to fast forward, my stomach is getting large enough to actually catch the crumbs instead of them rolling off and I’m starting to hope I get in a big car accident so that I can pick my lawyer off of one of the commercials that continuously go whizzing by as I’m trying to get to the next contestant who could, “be the one that I want”. I can’t help myself, I can’t stop the cycle and can’t stop watching, I’m addicted okay? There I’ve said it. I’m getting ready to shave my head, go into rehab, check out of rehab and back into rehab. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable here all I want is my life back, television executives. I’m begging you; please return it now. I’m not being unreasonable here; I’m just asking that your programming be a normal length instead of Roots length. Are there any television shows that are only an hour anymore? – Don’t Get Me Started!

  

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

So I go to the gas station this morning and when I get out of my car I notice that the pumps states that it's on "stand-by" suddenly like the voice at a fast food drive in, I hear, "Ma'am, we're changing shifts but that pump will be ready for you in a minute, Miss." That's right, gender fucked twice in a matter of seconds.

I began washing the windows of my car when I heard, "Ma'am, you can go ahead and start..." I turned to the small booth that housed the man behind the voice and he stopped dead and then said, "Oh sir? Um, the pump is ready."

I could write yet another blog about this but why should I when I've written it before...click here to read
I've Been "WOMANIZED" AGAIN! 

How Do I Get Hollywood? Rehab, Rehab, Rehab – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Britney has joined a long line of celebs that are in, have been in or are scheduled to be in rehab. It’s not only the new “get out of jail” card when you drive drunk or beat someone up (physically, emotionally or racially), if you’ve been acting crazy (and they don’t ask you to do a reality show) and you just need some time away, sign up for rehab. I don’t care if you’re addicted to booze, pills, sex or your blackberry whatever it is, if you want to keep your celebrity status, you’ll go to rehab. There’s an old joke that says, “How do I get to Carnegie Hall?” and the response is, “Practice, practice, practice!” Now the joke is sadder and goes how do I get to Hollywood? Rehab, rehab, rehab – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I guess what makes me so crazy is that I would like to go to rehab too but unfortunately, I have to actually deal with my own life. Sure there are people who aren’t famous who have been to rehab and I’m not discounting what it can do for those in need but today’s celebrities are using it like the “sanitariums of the 1940s and 1950s, the “spas” of the 1970s and the fat farms of the 1980s. I’ve no doubt that these celebrities have a lot of pressure on them but let’s face it, they also have people to do everything but wipe their butts for them so you would think that they would have plenty of time to just go into therapy like a normal person.

 

Now I’m not talking about celebs like Mel Gibson and Isaiah Washington who go to rehab to get away from their comments or actions. Here’s my thought on the ones who go to rehab for acting just a little crazy, you’ll notice that most of these celebs are post climax of their career. Like good sex, after a really great climax all you want to do is sleep and the last thing you want to do is think of is how to have another climax. Well rehab does it for you. See while your career is floundering, it still gives you an opportunity to be in the press without really doing anything. It’s sort of like treading water. Eventually you have to swim, drown or have a Mai Tai. In the case of celebrities they’ve chosen the Mai Tai. They don’t want to go away from the public eye but they have no idea what to do next to keep their career going so they choose to just sit this dance out (in the middle of the dance floor). Let’s face it they can’t all be Madonna who continually gets it right reinventing herself enough for her and her public to keep her busy and interesting.

 

Notice too that the ones going to rehab are not the smartest or well read. Come on, what do you think the last book was that Britney read? And do you think for a minute her lips weren’t moving as she was reading the words on the page? And I’m sure it was a pop up book or at least had a lot of pictures. The smartest thing any of these people have done is to get a smart manager and/or press agent.

 

What makes it all worse is that the press has created an unquenchable thirst of celebrity tragedy for the public. A thirst that much like an alcoholic, though you know you’ll never get enough you keep drinking in hopes that you will get enough or pass out (preferably not in your own vomit). Before you actually had to get off your ass and go to the coliseum to see the lion eat the man. Now you can drink a soda, eat some chips and watch the debauchery unfold on your television or computer. (All while you’re in your underwear with your hands down your pants.) No more the need to climb stairs, be out in the elements or sit on concrete for hours on end (unless you’re auditioning for American Idol). The press does all that for you. They take all the work out of it for us. That’s why we think we no longer have to practice, practice, practice to get ahead. How how do I get to Hollywood? Rehab, rehab, rehab – Don’t Get Me Started!

Comments, thoughts or rants? Email me at scott@somelikeitscott.com  

Update: AND NOW BRITNEY HAS LEFT REHAB AGAIN TODAY. (Obviously she keeps thinking Promises is just a day spa! - Whatever!)

Now I’ll Never Be Ryan Seacrest – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Yet another chapter of my memoir, The Greatest Never Was Been There’s Ever Been, wrote itself yesterday when I botched an opportunity to work for the E! Network. I admit it was all my fault for being honest but it’s times like these I wish I was a little less honest and a little more evil. Problem is, I’m not Satan, I just play him on the Internet. Oh well, I still have my pride. Wait a minute, I lost my pride years ago; I don’t even have that! I have nothing but you people out there in the dark (Dear God, I’m becoming Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard, I’m ready for my close up Mr. Spielberg). You would think that me of all people would be able to lie, scratch and claw his way to the top or at least the low middle, wouldn’t you? But it all went horribly wrong in a five minute conversation with a casting person from E! And now I’ll never be Ryan Seacrest – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

E! has a portion of their website known as Planet Gossip where they broadcast shows. There are two hosts and sometimes they go to their correspondents from around the world. Well, I was being considered for the Las Vegas correspondent position but here’s the problem, and I know this will shock all of you; I’m not in the social circle that would be invited when Paris Hilton comes to town. I’ve lived in Vegas for almost eight years now and the only people I’m connected with are my guy, my cats and my parents. I know, I know that I’m letting most of you down and you may never want to read my blog again but there I’ve said it, I’ve purged myself of my guilt over being a never was been and I’m a better person for it, well, sort of.  

 

My favorite part of the interview was when I dropped the bombshell that finding out the latest gossip was something I just wasn’t connected to nor could I be considered to be included with the “in” crowd. I tried to explain that I’m in the business of commentating on celebrities not breaking the news after dressing up like a busboy or paying one off to find out whether Mike Tyson had a rare or medium rare steak last night at a swanky eatery. The exec from E! said, “Well, I appreciate your candor.” Let me break this down for you, the word “candor” when used in Hollywood means you didn’t get the job and I can’t believe you didn’t lie to me and let us figure out that you only know the baristas at Starbucks after you were working for us. I supposed I should have lied but I just couldn’t do it. Why? I’m a really good liar, why couldn’t I lie when I needed to?

 

I’d like to think it’s because I didn’t want to have any parts in killing Princess Diana. I know what you’re thinking, how could a taped segment with a web cam appearing on a web site be even remotely linked to the death of a princess from over ten years ago? Well, that’s how my mind works. You see as much as I would love to work for E! or any other network in almost any capacity (offers? Contact me at scott@somelikeitscott.com immediately) I just don’t think I can be one of those people lurking around in the dark hoping that I spot Naomi Campbell throwing a cell phone at someone. Would I love to interview people, sure, but it’s all that “Here’s a scoop you’ve all been waiting for, I got into the club and got closer to see what Lindsay Lohan was drinking when all of a sudden she threw up all over my shoes. Yes, the shoes with her vomit still staining them are on EBay right now for sale. I also took the shoes to a lab and they confirmed that she had eaten a Three Musketeers bar earlier in the day.”  

 

Regrets? I’ve had a few but then again too many to mention. And losing this opportunity with the E! channel will be another one for the list, I suppose. I know I would be great on their “rant” section or commenting on the craziness that is current day Hollywood and celebrities but I guess I’ll be waiting a little longer for my big break. Now I’ll never be Ryan Seacrest – Don’t Get Me Started!

Comments, suggestions, sympathy? Write to scott@somelikeitscott.com

Another Gay Myth Exposed, Locker Rooms Aren’t Always Hot – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I was the one who had his gym teacher promise him an “A” if he stayed away all seventh grade year (true story). I would clean up the auditorium three days a week when the rest of my class was running around the track or learning the nuances of tetherball. I loved not having to go to PE (physical education), I would go through the bits of costumes left over in the auditorium and I would perform for myself in what I was sure rehearsal for my future Broadway performances. When I went into high school there was no avoiding gym class but to me it was just a set of different lockers to be thrown into during the day. These lockers were accompanied with the smell of Mennen Speed Stick and sweaty shorts left in lockers unwashed until they could run the track by themselves. (As I write this I’m acutely aware that someone somewhere might find what I just wrote, “hot” but let me assure you it was not hot, well, it was hot like hell is no doubt going to be for me.) So when I joined the gym it took me months just to be able to walk into the locker room. I was sure from gay porn that the locker room was one big macho romp filled with sights and sounds from a mysterious planet I had never been a part of before, a club I could never belong to, so you can imagine my disappointment when I went in there the first time. Another gay myth exposed, locker rooms aren’t always hot – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Now I want to go on record as saying that I’m sure if you live in LA or somewhere that people do little else but workout I’m sure that the locker room for a gay man is similar to a great buffet here in Vegas for someone who loves to eat. But here in Vegas, in the gym that I go to that is filled with mostly out of shape people it’s like a bad buffet. My gym does have young people but normally I’m there during the senior hour. All the women who have outlived their husbands are on the treadmills while Morty and Albert try unsuccessfully to maintain their bodies from being in the army fifty years ago. God love them for staying active but when I went into the locker room recently I was so disgusted that I think I may have a new emotional scar to keep me out of locker rooms for at least a little while.

 

I walk in and there is a man probably in his late sixties who is shorter than me, weighing in over 200 pounds and he’s naked just walking around as if there’s nothing wrong with just strutting around naked in a semi-public place. As I’m trying to not have this image burned into my retinas, here comes another one but he’s hocking, coughing and eventually spits in a sink. Where were these people raised and didn’t it include a towel? It was apparently disgusting old man day in the gym and no one had warned me. There were no Chippendale dancers soaping themselves up like all the porn movies promise. No there were just some out of shape men who obviously didn’t care anymore about how they looked or who saw how they looked. The smell of bleach was so strong it stung my eyes (although the smell of too much cheap cologne being put on didn’t help either).

 

Now I’m glad that there are people out there without body image problems and I guess good for them for being carefree enough to just let it all hang out but please remember that you’re not the only one in the world, you’re not in a nudist colony and there’s a reason they are called, “personal habits” because some things no one else needs to see.

 

I would never even venture into the showers at the gym because being raised Jewish, you know that germs are like anti-Semitics, they’re everywhere. There has got to be so much bacteria in a gym locker room that I’m sure if you got Dateline or 20/20 to go in with a black light you’d never go in again. This is also why I never take a blanket or pillow in a plane and the minute I get to a hotel room that comforter is coming off the bed immediately. Lest you think I’m a germaphobic I’m not but some things are, let’s face it, just gross.

 

But my point is that while all of the straight and gay world would have everyone believing that locker rooms are the hottest places on earth, I’m here to tell you that my experience is that they are anything but hot. Humid, yes but hot, no. I know, I know some of my pals and gay members everywhere are outraged by these comments. They want the legend that is the locker room to live on forever and who knows, maybe locker rooms are like they are in the movies somewhere. I have plenty of friends who claim to have had sex in every place in the world and the locker room is one that comes up time and time again. So good for all of you, I guess. I just think that I have way to much emotional baggage when it comes to locker rooms so they’ll never be the fantasy that they are for other people. I can’t even imagine fantasizing about a locker room without a guest appearance by five foot sweaty Morty at over 200 pounds hocking a lugee in the sink. As far as I’m concerned it’s just another gay myth exposed, locker rooms aren’t always hot – Don’t Get Me Started!

Send your questions or comments to scott@somelikeitscott.com

Britney’s Finally Done It; I Have No Idea Why She Is Famous Anymore – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I suppose it was only a matter of time before it happened but it is upon us people. The latest crazy stunt by Britney Spears is to shave her head. Now normally I wouldn’t care just who shaves their head and who doesn’t but it would seem to me that she has now crossed that invisible line into celebrity instead of singer. Oh I know that some of you will say that she has been a celebrity for a long time but for me, it is now official. You see, a celebrity (my definition) is someone who is famous for the sake of being famous but has done nothing of importance to be famous. I think there was a time when Britney was more than a non-panty wearing, white trash, trainwreck but now I just don’t recall. Britney has finally done it; I have no idea why she is famous anymore – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I vaguely remember some over studio sweetened singing and some dancing but all those images have left my mind (even the one of her in the school girl costume – okay, well maybe not that one). The new image in the image file in my head is a bald, ugly and no talent somebody who just happens to get on websites, television programs tracking celebrity activity and newspapers like The Star. Britney where have you gone and why don’t we care if you come back?

 

You see, Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie led the way (dropping diuretics, not bread crumbs all the way because like as we all know, bread crumbs are carbs) for the likes of the new Britney. Apparently you can still be famous, followed around by paparazzi and not have to produce a thing. I have to admit that even to an outsider like me it would seem way easier to just act a little crazy to get your picture taken instead of having to rehearse, sing in a studio and go on tour. Why go on tour? When you’re a crazy person the parade comes to you and so it is in the case of Britney Steers (Is that not her name? Who can remember or care?)

 

Plus with Anna Nicole gone there’s a crazy quota that will need to be filled and apparently Britney is all over it. All she has to do is slur her words, get back in shape physically and go right for the methadone that no doubt the celebrity doctors are waiting to prescribe for her. Or, what if she makes Howard K. Stern her new confidant? God knows he’s not doing anything but sweating a DNA test and since he does have the baby and Britney seems to not even notice when she has one herself it seems perfect. You know how white trash are…what’s one more bowl of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese? The more the merrier. Britney may never even notice there’s another baby around unless she’s driving her car with all three babies on her lap. (Better to let the babies drive than any of her pals Lohan or Richie, the babies no doubt make better drivers).

 

So on this day, let’s all take a moment to remember Britney when we were dazzled by her moves and sunny recordings because I doubt very much we’ll see this side of her ever again. No, she’s destined to join her celeb pals who are famous though we have no idea why and leave an actual career behind. The good news about all of this is that we can all revel as I’m sure he is, in the fact that our once dumped Justin, Mr. JT, who brought the sexy back, does have a career and Britney is just a blemish that can be easily removed by using ProActive (according to Jessica Simpson and who doesn’t trust her?). The other good news is for our gal, Christina Aguilera, once the dirty step sister of Britney (we always knew Christina had a better voice but when you watched Britney you didn’t have the urge to scrub her like Meryl Streep in Silkwood as you did with Christina back in the day) who is getting so classy we almost forget that she used to always looked like a prostitute that hadn’t bathed in weeks. It’s time for Britney to accept that she isn’t a performer anymore other than to balance a ball of crazy on her nose for photographers like a seal at Sea World. Britney has finally done it; I have no idea why she is famous anymore – Don’t Get Me Started!

  

In Stylist I Trust – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

There’s an old joke that is credited to either Groucho Marx or Woody Allen that is, “I would never want to be a member of a club that would have me as a member.” I feel the same way about more than just clubs. I’m sure it’s something for my therapist to deal with but as today I’m getting my hair cut and I’m completely intimidated by the guy who cuts my hair it’s on my mind. In stylist I trust – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

The guy who is currently cutting my hair is about 6’3”, looks good enough to have a closed cropped hair cut himself and an accent from somewhere. It’s one of those accents that you’re not sure where it came from and to ask would be kind of rude so you just nod when you don’t understand his adorable broken English and hope that he didn’t just ask you to kill someone. “Oh my goshes” and “Seriously” are the phrases that can be understood and he repeats often.

 

The first time I had my hair cut by Gustav (name changed because I don’t want him to ever read this and start giving me bad haircuts) was completely by accident. I had seen him at the salon but he seemed a little too good looking and generally too good for me. Yes, he intimidated me. Much like the rest of my life (my guitar teacher leaving town without telling me, gym trainers leaving me on a bike for an hour as a “warm-up” my first training session, because he didn’t really want to train a gay guy and decided to go to lunch, etc.) when I first went to this salon I had found this one woman and she was good but she would always tell me about how she and her very good looking gay roommate would go out and get anyone they wanted. She had cut it about three times and on the fourth appointment, I show up at the salon and they inform me that she had been “let go” earlier in the day. That’s right, no call to let me know but they ushered me into another stylist’s chair, a guy named Tony or something, an Italian guy who had just moved here from New York and was waiting for his wife to arrive. He didn’t belong in this salon, with his tattoos and his calzone of a gut hanging over his Sansabelt pants, I was not surprised when for appointment two he was no longer there, having moved back to New York. As I was standing at the desk they told me Gustav had an opening and as our eyes locked across the salon, he looked at me as if to say, “Oh my goshes, you’ve been coming here for months and should have been coming to me all along but now, you will be dazzled by the world of Gustav! Seriously!”

 

The first haircut I said nothing the entire time. Anyone who has read even one of my blog entries knows that I am never at a loss for words. But Gustav seemed so intense and wasn’t saying anything so I figured when in chair, do as the stylist does and say nothing. The haircut was of course amazing and I was completely won over but still no real words were exchanged, I left a big tip with the receptionist figuring money speaks louder than words and also hoping it would make him like me.

 

The next time I went in I brought along a picture because I was going to try to go for something a little different. Now I’ve watched all the makeover shows and I knew that this is what you were supposed to do. I had learned early on that bringing in pictures of models I wanted to look like in face, body and salary range was not smart. I knew my hair was straight and thin and that if I brought in any pictures it would need to be something achievable instead of unbelievable. In the past, several stylists have appreciated my reality based photos that I’ve brought in and the results have been half way decent. I showed Gustav the photo and making a face as if he was smelling something awful said, “Seriously, I can no see this, too dark. No picture, I know what do. You see.” This was all he said to me and then he proceeded to cut my hair. Another great cut and probably better than what would have happened if he had used the picture as a guide so I vowed to never bring in another photo.

 

The third time I went in I decided this was ridiculous, I’m fun, funny and gosh darn it, people like me. So I made some reference to the fact that I was wondering if he knew how dangerous it was to cut my hair as he was the third person I’d gone through at the salon. He almost smiled and said, “Oh my goshes, they were flakes. I see you from start. You should have come to Gustav.” And then it happened, he actually laughed a little. Whether it was an evil laugh or genuine I didn’t care it was the break that I was looking for and from there I would go on to learn about him, his boyfriend and I would end up with a great haircut every time. Even the styles I wasn’t sure I should or could pull off he managed to convince me were right for me.

 

There are times when I beg him if we can not leave it longer (sounding like Maria in West Side Story, “Could we not make it an inch lower?”) but he just says, “Seriously? I know what best. You like when I done.” And that’s why when you find a stylist that is good you should stay with them forever. I know Gustav and I will be together for a very long time. Seriously. In stylist I trust – Don’t Get Me Started!

Valentine’s Gay - A Holiday Massacre – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

The thing about gays is that we can make a holiday over anything (I guess we’re a lot like Hallmark in that sense) or an un-holiday about anything. Last night while my guy and I went to see Dreamgirls (you know, had to see it one more time before it left the big screen) and had a burger to celebrate, a pal on the other side of the map (from what they tell me as I’m really bad with geography – only know left and right and never won the blue “piece of pie” in Trivial Pursuit due to my lack of knowledge of where any land mass is or how to get to it) attended an event at a local club for singles to meet and uncelebrate the day of coupling. You know, sort of like the Mad Hatter’s Very Merry Unbirthday party and song. Well, as Maureen McGovern would say (in her really short white shorts that are filthy from the ship capsizing) there’s got to be a morning after. And as my pal and I compared notes this morning, I decided to share with you Valentine’s gay - a holiday massacre – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Diana Ross said of the sweetest hangover, “If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it, don’t want it. If there’s a remedy, I’ll avoid it, avoid it. Think about it all the time and I never let it out of my mind, ‘cause I love you.”  (Obviously this was before people knew about good penicillin, methadone and/or Paxil) Well, here’s the deal. I was very content to share cute greeting cards, candy and a smooch before it was off to the movies and a burger. I didn’t hand pick flowers and arrange them, I didn’t put red heart shaped doilies on the walls with silhouettes of cupids like when we were in grade school. And there was certainly no Kay Jewelers moment like they show on the commercials of a small box coming out containing that diamond something or other of which the woman in the commercial can only be thinking, “If I were to melt this down, how much could I get for it or what can I make from it? Can I pull off going to the window to see my reflection wearing this God awful thing and try to cut the glass with this at the same time to make sure it’s real without him noticing?) No, it was a quiet sort of night with my guy and that was just fine with me. We shared all of the essential silliness that comes with this holiday and once again, the old-can’t-be-married-by-law-even-though-they-have-been-together-eighteen-years-couple had a happy holiday.

 

Meanwhile, in the southern states (I think) the holiday that shares its day in history with one of the most notorious mob massacres was about to take down another casualty. At least I think that was a chalk outline on the floor. At the un-Valentine celebration, the person my pal got hit on by was a guy whose boyfriend was out of town. They’re in one of those “open” (Both sluts – oh My GOD, did I write that with my outside voice?) relationships which apparently made him still feel as though he could go to a “singles” event. I think we need to start redefining the word, “single” as so many people don’t seem to get it. Unlike the ones made by Kraft, it does not mean a bunch of cheesy men on top of one another with just a thin layer of plastic in between them. No, just so we’re all clear, single means that you are not involved with anyone else, period. Even if you’ve just had sex in the alley with someone but didn’t know their last name, then you’re still single but if you have at any time had sex with the same person more than say six times and asked them to take out the garbage then my friends, you are not single. You are also not single just because you are in the front of the club and they are in the back of the club (doing God knows what). Distance doesn’t make you single, only being neurotic and driving any suitable mate out of your bed and home can do that for you. If your CDs are lined up next to one another in your house (yes, even the his and his copies of the Olivia Newton-John movie Xanadu soundtrack) then you are involved, a couple and therefore in my mind you should classify yourselves as not single. On the other hand, you can be dating someone (translation, sex only and one dinner but only because you were really hungry after having so much sex) and be partially single I suppose. Your line would read, “Well, I’ve had a couple dates with this guy but I don’t feel the connection, you know, like I do with you <head down to one side, sip of drink, eyes rise to see reaction>”  However, the minute you use the word, boyfriend, you are no longer considered single. The only way that this can happen is if you are in fact eight years old, over a friend’s house and he’s your best boy friend. Let me clarify that last statement for you gays who were overachievers even at eight. I’m talking a friend who is a boy who you aren’t having any physical contact or feelings of having physical contact about – you’re just there to play with his Nintendo (stop with that gutter thinking) and get a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without the crust after school – no innuendo there, I know, I can hardly believe it myself!

 

If you have a boyfriend, a lover, a husband or any of the other “terms of endearment” (and we all know how well that ended for Debra Winger) than just do everyone a favor and stay away from the singles scene. Do your trolling on the Intranet on Craig’sList or something but don’t go out in public for a night of fun, frolic and “could you please wipe the bathtub down really good so that there’s not even DNA evidence you were here because he’s coming home tomorrow and I spent all day scrubbing the house and can’t do it again. Thanks, you’re really sweet…um…Mark?” I’m not saying monogamy is for everyone but they can’t really be your boyfriend and you can’t be in a “committed” relationship when you’re bumper sticker reads, “Bangs Well With Others”. So in the words of Kiki Dee, “Don’t go breaking my heart” or the heart of any of my friends you pseudo single people because I’ll hunt you down like the dogs you are, for an event that will most definitely go down in history. Valentine’s Gay - a holiday massacre – Don’t Get Me Started!

Send your comments to scott@somelikeitscott.com  

Love Means Never Having To Say You Farted – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I know that those of you who read the blog every day are expecting a jaded and sarcastic blog on today, the day of St. Valentine’s (and it could still happen). But really today I’m thinking about the fact that I have been with the same man for over 18 years now and I still love him like crazy. It’s true what they say about love changing through the years; what once started out with you getting up earlier than him to brush your teeth and futz with your hair to look perfect when he awoke has definitely changed now love means never having to say you farted – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Still I consider myself more than lucky that I found someone to love who loves me too. As I was in Starbuck’s this morning there were two separate women standing there waiting for their coffee. They looked as though they hadn’t had sex with anyone since the late 80’s and standing among the wall-to-wall valentine’s merchandising was just kind of sad to watch. I wondered what they might be feeling and then it was my turn at the counter. One of the baristas who knows my name (and she says it continually) yet I don’t know hers (Starbucks needs to put nametags on their people) wishes me a good Valentine’s Day and when I return the sentiment, she rolls her eyes and goes on a mini tirade about how much the holiday sucks because she doesn’t have anyone.

 

Here’s the deal, between the Internet and daily life everyone should at least be able to find a date. True, if I’m really honest with myself, the only men I attracted when I was “on the market” were the men in their sixties who wore big red Sally Jesse glasses and used the starting line, “Say there.” I cringe even now thinking about it. Yes, there are some real losers and bastards out there but unless you sleep with them (I mean date them) you’ll never find out. It’s not that I’m saying everyone should be promiscuous (especially with all the diseases out there) but let’s face it, even if you never slept with another person you might end up with restless leg syndrome or bird flu because the world is obsessed with creating new diseases to kill you and medicate you for every ten seconds. If there is a point to be made (and I admit I confused myself there too) it is that you should never lose the hope of the possibility that there is someone out there for you. You also need to make it happen. Let me give you two quotes from two very important women in my life. As my grandmother would say about finding someone, “There’s a lid for every pot.” And as my mother says continually, “You have to plan your work and work your plan.”

 

And for those of you not “dated up” for tonight; let’s take a look at who is available for you in the celebrity singles scene:

• Howard K. Stern – slimy but a lawyer, someone to consider if you don’t mind a leech and need someone to get you some prescription medicine
• Lance Bass and Reichen Lehmkuhl – one prettier than the other but both available currently (one in paperback)
• Anne Heche – men, women, crazies all welcome and she’s currently available
• Michael Jackson – but let’s face it, would you even want to come close to him?
• Britney Spears – you’d need to boil her before you did anything with her but she is available (choose the panties option)
• Kevin Federline – if you date him you don’t have to feel bad about not accomplishing anything in your life
• Paula Abdul – has a hit show even though she’s not aware of it due to whatever medication she appears to be on. You could date her for months without her ever knowing

 

There are many more celebrities available (just look in every rehab) but I say, get your ass up, go over to that co-worker or complete stranger today and say, “I’m lonely as hell and I really just want to find out how much worse you are than me at having interpersonal relationships so that I can feel better about myself. Wanna grab a coffee?” This could be the start of a beautiful friendship or a court order of protection. So the message today is go for it. Sex you can always pay for but when it comes to love, love is established by being included in the will and love means never having to say you farted. – Don’t Get Me Started!

One Insider’s Opinion Of Why Howard K. Stern Is Not Entertainment Tonight – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Anyone who watched the Anna Nicole show has hated Howard K. Stern for longer than he has been in the media for the last week. He was the poster child for celebrity hanger oners. Never providing more than a record number of “suck ups” per episode, he was always the part of Anna Nicole’s entourage that just made you feel dirty. Well now he’s all that’s left and here’s one insider’s opinion of why Howard K. Stern is not entertainment tonight – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Shame, shame, shame is all that anyone can say to both The Insider and Entertainment Tonight. Last night they began their all encompassing coverage of one of the slimiest slime balls in recorded history. From the moment Mark Steines got on the private jet with Stern I was disgusted beyond belief. While Steines is doing his best Geraldo from Al Capone’s vault (by the way, there’s nothing here either), whispering and trying to act serious, Stern is pushing his face into the camera doing the worst acting job ever seen (except for Julia Roberts on Broadway, apparently). The look of the filming is like Blair Witch Project meets Real World. Stern contorts his face and yet it seems more like when a child that is crying for attention and keeps looking around to make sure that someone is watching them. No real boo hoos here just a lot of second rate acting. You know the kind, where you sort of shrug your shoulders up and down rapidly to give the illusion you’re crying. Steines is acting like he’s covering the Princess Diana death and is sitting there with Prince Charles which just goes to show that television can really make something out of nothing.

 

When they finally get off the jet and make their way to the home (that has supposedly been ransacked but you get the feeling Stern manufactured this too) there’s more bad acting. This would be act two people (without the intermission to get another drink to make it all more palatable). Perhaps the best moments occur when Steines gets as close to the vault, sorry, I mean baby in the “safe house” where Danielynn is being kept. Steines uses his “spa voice” even though I’m not really sure why as it isn’t as if he’s outside of a Taliban meeting and he needs to sneak up on them. Although I can’t lie, you sort of are wishing there was someone who would just rough up Stern and Steines a bit as they both continue to get more and more annoying as the show continues. (And I use the word, “show” because that’s what this all was, a big show)

 In the supporting cast we get some moments of Anna’s mother trying to see the baby and listening to the baby cry through the intercom at the gate of the house but this woman is as disingenuous as Stern or Steines so you end up wondering what is the lesser of the evils for this child. (Big Idea: Give the baby to a gay couple, they’ll raise her properly and since her mother was as close as you can come to being a woman and a drag queen it’s a perfect fit!)  

Back to Steines in the “war zone” as he acts like Anderson Cooper on assignment in Iraq but falls very short in looks, ability and taste. Meanwhile Mary Hart has the good sense to stay in the studio in her wrap dress just doing the intros to all the segments with her head slightly down I guess out of respect but really showing us that she has no roots due to a great color job (Kudos to Hart’s colorist). Meanwhile Pat O’Brien is to Steines what Stern was to Anna, a hanger oner. O’Brien stands next to Steines in their taped segments between segments looking extremely awkward and just thankful to have any part of a story that isn’t about his drunken ravings. O’Brien’s jealousy over Steines having just interviewed Anna and Stern a few months ago and the fact that Stern obviously hand picked Steines for this “exclusive” interview is palpable. O’Brien has “wish it were me” written all over him like a “tagged” wall in the Bronx. O’Brien adds nothing to the whole deal but he got a trip to the Bahamas and obviously the make up person used the same color bronzer on both O’Brien and Steines so it’s like watching the Oompah Loompahs of mock journalism.

 

When the shows finally get back to the studio they bring in people like John Travolta to try and clean up their image a bit. What do you think Travolta is going to say when they tell him they found a picture of him and Anna in the Bahamas home (funny that according to Stern all the photos were taken yet they have this photo and go to a close up of it).

 

That’s it, I’m done. I don’t care about Stern and I don’t care about this whole mess anymore. If they really want to get an insider’s view they would have found and interviewed Kimmy (Anna’s assistant on the Anna Nicole Show) by now. Because when you watched the Anna Nicole Show you always got the feeling that the only one who really loved Anna was Kimmy (yes, in a lesbian, wow, that kind of makes me feel uncomfortable that she has a tattoo of Anna’s face on her tit kind of way). Steines should be ashamed, O’Brien should be ashamed, Hart should be ashamed and Stern should be shot. And that’s one insider’s opinion of why Howard K. Stern is not entertainment tonight – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Anna Nicole Was Not Marilyn Monroe – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

I was as saddened and shocked as everyone else last week to learn that Anna Nicole had died because God knows, I love me some crazy and she was working crazy overtime, all the time. I also knew that it wouldn’t be long before all the talk shows and media would piss me off. I don’t care about the whole four possible fathers for her newborn child (I’m sure Fox is pitching the series, Four Men and Anna Nicole’s Baby where we see her grown up on TV with shared custody by the three men alive and the dead one talking to her through video clips); what made me crazy was how many people on television were using a comparison that is completely inaccurate. Anna Nicole was not Marilyn Monroe – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

How was Anna not like Marilyn? Let me count the ways. First of all, Marilyn Monroe ended up as a movie star while Anna Nicole ended up a spokeswoman for Trimspa. Do you get the difference? I don’t care that they both posed for Playboy or that they were blonde and probably dumb as a brick at least in Marilyn’s case she had the sense to surround herself with smart people, husbands and for all we know, was as dumb as a fox whereas Anna Nicole (God love her) was just dumb. For the record, Madonna is Madonna, Anna Nicole is Anna Nicole and there was only one and will be only one Marilyn Monroe.

 

Meanwhile all the “outrage” by Anna’s supposed “inner circle” is hysterical. It’s like a bad movie from the 80’s where everyone remotely related to her is willing to talk for a few dollars and a chance to see the will behind curtain number one. Her sister (who hasn’t spoken to Anna in ten years) has a book coming out about Anna even though in every interview she has given she hasn’t been able to get out a complete sentence. Gee, I wonder if there was a ghost writer on this book? Hmmm. And now all her sister wants is to see and get her hands on Anna Nicole’s baby claiming, “the baby should be with her family.” Could it be that Anna’s baby is the only heir to her and her dead billionaire’s money now so her sister is suddenly interested? I mean come on, they didn’t even speak when Anna Nicole’s son died but now she wants a Dr. Phil moment? Anna’s mother has been on television too with little to say except that she thinks it was the drugs. Meanwhile, with all the reported abuse Anna Nicole had growing up would this be a fit environment for the child? No, better to sell the child to television now.

 

One of the slimiest slimes, claiming to be the father to Anna’s child, Howard K. Stern (we Jews do not want him as part of our tribe, even though he is a lawyer) was apparently paid a fortune to go on Entertainment Tonight in an exclusive interview that will play during television’s famed “sweeps” week. He’s gross and always has been but just how will Mary Hart wash her hands clean on this one? Everyone at Entertainment Tonight should hang their heads in shame for this one along with paying any money to Stern.

 

In the saddest turn of events, it’s Zsa Zsa Gabor that I feel bad for the most in this whole situation. Here she is probably lying in bed barely alive with one of her sister’s wigs on askew and she has to learn that Mr. Prince Zsa Zsa was banging Anna Nicole too and could be the possible father of her child?

 

I get why the media is all over this one but I’m already bored. I say, let them all go on Maury and have him say (in his over-rehearsed voice), “You are NOT the father” and let’s move on.

 

Meanwhile I’m sure her daughter will end up growing up with all the money that Anna tried so hard to accumulate and most likely will end up with her own reality show, “Anna Nicole Was My Momma” but everyone needs to remember that while Anna Nicole did a really good job of entertaining us during her life through her exploits maybe just maybe we had better all stop and take a look at our own voyeur obsession of wanting to watch Celebrities Gone Wild. If a celebrity goes crazy and there’s no reality television to record it, does it make a noise?

And in the end analysis, Anna Nicole doesn’t need to be compared to anyone else because she brought her own brand of crazy to our lives. But if you need yet another reason why Anna is not Marilyn, you don’t have to look much further than the bedroom. Marilyn banged baseball legends, award-winning authors and presidents while Anna’s roster is lawyers, photographers and rednecks, oh my. Anna Nicole was not Marilyn Monroe – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Queer Jew Eye For The Straight KKK Guys – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

According to an online interview I watched with a CNN reporter and the Grand Wizard (or whatever he calls himself) of the KKK, their newest tactic for recruiting members is using the whole illegal immigration issue and apparently it is working. They’re choosing to not really talk so much about gays, blacks and Jews (I am a short Jewish boy and my guy of eighteen years is a six foot black man who was an altar boy, can you see how we are THE poster children for hate crimes?). Instead it’s all about those immigrants. And while I’m sure many new organizations will discuss the political and social ramifications of the KKK and their recent surge in membership, I’d like to focus on something far more important. If they really want to add members, it’s time to update their look or as I like to say, time for some Queer Jew Eye for the KKK – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

In the same interview they spoke with an ex-hater and he was talking about how mostly the membership is comprised of white males under the age of twenty-five. He stated that they feel disenfranchised because according to him, politicians never speak to them and they basically are just looking to belong. Well, here’s a thought, since we gays can’t be in the military, whaddya say we pack up all these obviously straight boys under 25 who want to belong and let them fight the ridiculous war for the one politician who only talks to white people, George W. Bush?! But once again I must remind myself that I’m not here to talk about the political or social issues associated with the KKK.

 

Here’s the deal. The Grand Wiseass or whoever he is, was wearing this all satiny kind of purple and green number that was just hideous. He looked as though he was in a community theater production of Harry Potter – The Musical. Sure it hides all his bulges but that satin was catching the light like crazy, making him look as big as a house. Imagine a housecoat gone wrong. And what is the deal with the whole long housecoat, and then there’s Maude look? I mean can you really comfortably hold a cross, lighter fluid, matches and run across a lawn with that thing on?   

 

While the Grand Whippet has problems with his outfit, the underlings have it much worse off. I mean don’t their slaves; I’m sorry I mean wives and girlfriends know how to put a lining into those gowns? I mean, they’re see-through and not in a good way. You’re sure to see some of the plaid flannel underneath and it just distracts from the clean look. The belts are another story; they seem so last minute and not well thought out at all. I mean imagine if you will, you’ve just lit a cross on fire, you’re shimmying under a fence to get away and your loosely tied belt gets caught. Is there anything more embarrassing? Sure it’s fun to sit around the clubhouse and make fun of the new guy whose belt caught on fire at last week’s cross burning but there are some better solutions.

 

Distracting from both the Queen Bee and his Drones’ outfits are the patches all over and the stripes on the sleeves. The patches remind me of Girl Scouts but the KKK misses the mark again by not going with a sash like the cookie girls. I don’t know what you get the patches for, probably for doing deeds like clubbing black gay baby seals. I imagine the Grand Goober pulling the patches out of his black bag much like the Wizard of Oz (Much like Dorothy, there’s nothing in that black bag for us). The stripes on the sleeve are reminiscent of those Trekkie people (Yes, sue me, you’re Trekkie and not Tekkers – besides it’s the same damn thing crazies!) who create their own starship and give themselves stripes for being captains, commanders and other “c” words.

 

We all know that shoes make the man and while many people will tell you they need to match your little cap I say be daring and don’t match your shoes to your pointy little head. White shoes are so hard to keep clean and if the Grand Wuss had to wear purple satin shoes to go with his outfit he’d either have to go for “dyeables” pumps or elf shoes with the little curl up in the front action which wouldn’t really be all that practical. Lord knows you need something with some good traction as you do have to do a lot of running away in the middle of the night but at the same time you may want to have steel toes because if a cross falls on your foot you’re out of commission longer than an NBA player with a groin pull. Take a tip from the lesbians and make them comfortable but definitely not Birkenstocks because then you have to try to match socks too.

 

When it comes to grooming, let me just shake my head at all the goatees. Goatees are perhaps the gayest thing in the history of male facial hair and we were done with them years ago (well, most of us, you know who you are). Plus, take a look at the little devil on the Underwood Deviled Ham can…um, hello, I think there’s a goatee there. Try to remember that we gays, Jews and blacks are the devil (according to you) so you should probably try to look a little less like the devil, don’t ya think? Meanwhile, you need to go immediately to Wal-Mart and buy the whole gang Crest White Strips. I mean, the ones that do have teeth have some of the worst teeth in the world so at least whiten those bad boys up because we all know that when you wear true white it’s going to make your teeth look more yellow. 

 

And now for the makeover…I have to say, based on all your activities, I would suggest jumpsuits. Now I know some of you are thinking that they will bind in the crotch but it’s all in the fabric choice. For those that are self-conscious (we don’t want this to become like the models, killing themselves to be thin so that they can be one) think of them more as coveralls. They’ll go over all two pants and three shirts you own and the belt is attached so no worries there either. A simple zip of the zipper; you’re ready for your rally and when you unzip it, simply arch your back and it will slide right down like the moonshine you drank before the rally! I’m thinking time for a color change so let’s make the regular members red with a black stripe running down the arm and leg. You know like Nascar. You can pretend you’re one of the other rednecks you idolize who have no talent but are on the Cheese Nips box! And for the higher ups we’ll reverse the colors and add an inset in the pant leg of the contrasting color ala an Elvis jumpsuit. Badges will be added to the belts and for hats, oh what the hell, just go ahead and wear your trucker hat or your Orange County Chopper beanie with the flames on it. Polished black shoes will complete the ensemble. And voila! There you have it, a new look for all the old and many new members you’re taking on. And that’s what I call, Queer Jew Eye for the KKK – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

(Disclaimer - All product and group placement was done strictly for humor purposes and should not suggest the author is remotely suggesting any connection between anyone mentioned.)

 

Questions or comments, write to scott@somelikeitscott.com

Gay Means “Happy” Again Now That Haggard Isn’t! – Don’t Get Me Started!

 

Evangelical Ted Haggard has apparently come through his own brand of Jesus rehab and feeling as new and revitalized as Joan Rivers after her last face lift, his captors, excuse me, prayer therapists have declared that although he was caught doing meth and a male prostitute he is not gay. Whew, I know that we’re all relieved. Because whether at his holiest or most disgraced, I have to say, us gays weren’t exactly screaming, “Red Rover, Red Rover, Send Closet Ted Right over!” We don’t want him, you can have him, he’s too freak for us! I’m glad that he’s not gay (wink, wink, nudge, nu